Beneath the Surface

Amethyst

Rating: R
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 18/01/2006
Last Updated: 18/01/2006
Status: completed

A cautionary tale of what may happen when you leave your drunken girlfriend alone with her attractive drunken male best friend in a dance club.

Chapters

1. Beneath the Surface

1. Beneath the Surface

Title: Beneath the Surface

Category: Drama, Romance

Rating: Somewhere between R and NC-17…it’s not very explicit, but…well, it just sounds too sexual to be R, if you ask me.

Summary: Ron makes the mistake of leaving Harry and Hermione alone together when they’re smashed. …The rest, my friends, is history.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or things like Firewhiskey and wands and whatnot – although JKR doesn’t own wands, either. I’m not making any money off this (although I do write at work sometimes, so technically, I am getting paid…but anyway), and I shall not snark this time.

A/N: I’m almost afraid to post anything that isn’t Kissing Lessons at this point, you obsessive people. :P But I shall take it as a compliment that you refuse to leave me alone about it, and I swear, I at least attempt to work on it every day, even if writer’s block or bunnies like this one get in the way. You’ll get your bloody ending, I promise.

~

The music pulsed all around them, through the floor and the tangle of bodies crowding them in, throbbing out the beat of the bass in a sensual rhythm. Watching her, seeing her gyrate her hips in time to the song, swaying in such a way that she looked like she’d never felt better in her life, how could he resist pulling her closer to feel that wonderful movement against him?

She wasn’t his to feel that way. He knew it, and he didn’t care. Her oh-so-considerate boyfriend had abandoned her, probably off dancing with some half-dressed harlot. He didn’t deserve her, or her fidelity.

She wound her arms around his neck, pressing her body closer. He could feel her plump breasts through her tight black dress, the very dress that was riding up her thighs as one of her legs came between his own. His hands didn’t have to travel very far down to reach that creamy bare skin. He wanted to see it wrapped around him.

They were both completely pissed. That went without saying. Firewhisky was potent stuff, especially when added to a few shots of tequila. Perhaps neither of them were quite aware of the consequences of what they were doing, but the consequences might not have mattered then, even if they hadn’t been drunk. They’d wandered into foreign territory, a land where for the first time, he truly wanted to shag her senseless – and where she evidently felt the same way.

He’d never dreamed that his bookish best friend could make him feel the most sexually charged he’d ever felt in his life – and certainly the most turned on – but then, she’d always been full of surprises, that one. If it had been something less of an attraction, he might have been able to stop at one dance. This…this, though, was monumental…once-in-a-lifetime… Not even a saint could pull away from this.

A new song began to play, perhaps even more erotic than the last, but slower, so that she decided to lean closer and rest her head on his shoulder. Swaying to the music, they stayed that way awhile, until she turned her head just slightly and pressed her lips to his neck, just beneath his jaw.

Her name escaped his mouth on the breath he exhaled at the feel of those lips, soft and slightly damp, against his sensitized skin.

“Tell me you feel it too,” she said huskily, her lips still brushing against him. He clutched her more tightly to him, wanting to feel all of her against him, wanting to strip off that dress right there on the dance floor. Instead, he settled for two words that said everything.

“I do.”

Her fingers clutched at his shirt, as though afraid he’d run off – as if he could. She brought her head up, just so, and, her mouth at his ear, said, “Can we go somewhere?”

Harry’s mouth went dry with anticipation. “My place?”

“Okay,” Hermione agreed.

~

Even when drunk, Hermione was an amazing lover – so amazing that he quite forgot that what they were doing was very, very wrong. Perhaps the wrongness had been blended in with the pleasure just so, to make it an irresistible mix…Harry didn’t know, but he knew Hermione would have been irresistible even without it.

He’d never seen anything quite as beautiful as her stretched out beneath him, so much skin taut across her body, around her breasts, leaving her figure clearly defined, and what a figure it was. Harry’d never been so aroused simply by looking at a woman’s body before; he felt he might come just staring at her…but he had a feeling that wasn’t quite what she had in mind, and besides, he was quite happy to touch her and see that full lower lip of hers tremble when he did it just right.

And speaking of her lip, he liked to suckle it, too, and feel her arch against him in silent approval. He loved suckling other things, too, like a particular spot on her collar bone that drove her wild and her rosy pink nipples and the bud between her legs that could have her gasping and crying out.

And dear Merlin, how he loved sinking into her hot, wet core, and the way she cried out the first time, and the last time, and how she clenched around him as though her body couldn’t bear to let him go…. If her body was feeling anything like his, then perhaps that was the truth.

When she came, it was like watching a river bursting through a dam or a wild animal tearing lose from its cage. Watching her, he knew he was seeing the most basic, primal part of her, freed from all restraint and inhibition. She was absolutely beautiful.

As they lay together afterward, utterly spent, soaked in sweat, Harry realized he’d never been quite so content before in his life…and that he was just drunk enough tonight to admit he was in love with her.

As she fell asleep, curled up in his arms like a vulnerable child, Harry resolved that tomorrow morning, he would tell her how he felt, consequences be damned.

~

She woke feeling heavy and happy, thoroughly shagged and thoroughly satisfied. When she snuggled closer to her lover, she realized, however, that he was not the man that was supposed to make her feel that way. Rather, he was the man that was never supposed to even think of her that way, and vice versa…but evidently, what was ‘supposed’ to be wasn’t necessarily what was.

But what was a supposition, anyway? It was an assumption, something presumed to be true…but not fact. Not solid, not unshakeable.

After the things Harry had done to her last night, she thought perhaps they’d all supposed wrong.

Hermione looked up at him, studying his face, tracing the line of his jaw with her finger. Harry really was very handsome. She’d always known that, of course, but admitting it to herself would have complicated things too much…but now, it was pretty much out in the open that she was attracted to him. Dancing with him last night had been…intoxicating, even more so than the alcohol in her system. She couldn’t have walked away from him if she’d wanted to.

And goodness, what a wonderful lover he’d been…even drunk. He touched her as if he’d done it a thousand times before and knew exactly how best to please her.

Although she knew in her mind that what they’d done was wrong, that they’d both betrayed Ron – she worst of all, because she was supposed to belong to Ron alone. Her heart, however, was filled with somebody else entirely, and she felt a sense of righteousness about what she’d done. Ron had left her alone with Harry to go be with another woman – he had only gotten what he deserved.

Harry began to stir, and Hermione watched as his eyes fluttered open and focused instantly on her.

“Good morning,” he said huskily, his voice heavy with sleep. Hermione’s heartbeat accelerated at the sound, and she knew she could never go back to the way things were.

“Good morning,” she replied, making no attempt to move away from him. His arm remained wound around her waist as if it was made to be there.

“Last night…it wasn’t just a drunken one-night-stand to me, you know,” Harry said.

Hermione nodded. “It wasn’t for me either.”

Harry kissed her then, and when he pulled away he rested his forehead against hers and left his fingers tangled in her hair.

“He doesn’t deserve you, Hermione. And you…you deserve so much better than what he’s giving you.”

Hermione smiled ruefully. “That’s a terrible thing to say about your best friend.”

“Even if it’s true?” Harry was calm under the surface, but Hermione could feel the anger he held against Ron within, and much as it pained her that she’d come between them, she appreciated it. “Hermione, what you have with him isn’t right. You deserve to be loved.”

The heat of his skin was overwhelming against hers. It brought the guilt in her stomach to an uncomfortable boil. “What makes you so sure he doesn’t love me?”

“I know because it’s too easy for him to walk away from you. He shouldn’t need anyone else – he shouldn’t want anyone else.”

“Maybe that’s just not the way Ron loves…”

Harry’s anger was rising to the surface now in waves that swelled and crashed against each other in his eyes. “Well, that’s the way I love, Hermione, and it’s not exactly difficult for me to keep my eyes on you.”

Hermione felt tears welling in her eyes. “You love me?”

“Yeah, I do. I told you last night wasn’t just a one-night-stand. That was so much more than lust, Hermione, and you know it. It’s been hiding under the surface for years, but it’s out in the open now, and I can’t ignore it anymore – and neither should you.”

The tears began to spill in fat droplets, sliding down her cheeks and onto his chest. He reached to her face to wipe them away.

“You should go home,” he said. “See if Ron’s actually been to your bed tonight and decide what you want to do about this.”

“Harry –“

He silenced her with a finger over her lips. “Don’t worry about me and don’t worry about him. Choose for your own sake. Do what you truly want. Because if it’s him, I love you too much to do anything but live with it, and if it’s me, he’ll get over it. Promise me – promise me you’ll choose for you.”

Hermione nodded her agreement and kissed him one last time, knowing that she’d never be able to forget the feel of his lips, no matter how long she lived, and slid out of his arms, away from his warmth, away from the safety she felt there.

Hermione dressed quickly and only looked back at Harry once before she left.

~

When she reached her flat, she found it empty. The bed was still made and Ron was nowhere to be seen. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised.

In a kind of trance, she stripped off her clothes and got into the shower. She washed the smoke of the bar out of her hair, reluctantly scrubbed all traces of Harry off her body, dried off, and threw on jeans and a sweater.

Looking around the room they shared, the desolate, unused bed, and thinking back on the events of the night before, and that morning, waking up next to Harry…her mind was made up.

She had a surreal feeling about her as she packed up her things, shrinking them all to fit in one suitcase. It made leaving almost too easy.

Ron returned home about half an hour later, and he blanched at the sight of her sitting on the couch, reading a book, the suitcase beside her on the floor.

For some reason, she didn’t feel angry at the sight of him, walking in at nine in the morning, utterly unkempt. It hurt a little that he didn’t want her, but knowing that there was someone in the world who did took the edge off her pain.

“Hermione, I’m so sorry –“

She shook her head and closed her book. “Don’t bother, Ron. I’m not mad.”

Ron’s looked puzzled. “You’re…what?”

“I’m not mad,” she repeated, calmly as you please. “Because I know you don’t love me.”

“Wait a minute, Hermione –“

Hermione stood and silenced him. “No, Ron, just listen. I know you don’t love me, because if you did, you wouldn’t want or need to stay out all night with another woman. And if I really loved you, I would care more than I do. I ought to be heartbroken…but I’m not. Let’s just face that it’s over, Ron, and…that it’s all right.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little hasty, Hermione?” Ron said, flabbergasted. “I know I’ve messed up, but that doesn’t mean –“

“Yes, it does!” Hermione said with half a laugh. “Ron, I know you think you love me because you thought that was what you were supposed to feel. That doesn’t mean it’s the truth.”

“And you…don’t love me?”

Hermione trained her eyes on the ground. She had to tell him.

“I went home with someone else last night, too,” she confessed. “And I felt something for him that I’d never felt before…not even for you –“

Ron began to look angry. “Hermione, something you feel for a complete stranger isn’t love.”

Hermione met his eyes hesitantly, the guilt returning. “But he wasn’t a stranger.”

She watched the cogs turn behind his eyes, slowly connecting the dots.

“You…you went home with Harry, didn’t you?” In his voice, she heard the calm before the storm, the rage preparing to unleash itself.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “And don’t you dare be angry at him. After you took another woman home last night, you had no right to any claim on me anymore.”

Ron stared agape and furious at her. “So you’re telling me you’re leaving me for Harry, is that it?”

Hermione struggled to retain her composure. “No, I’m leaving you because this relationship isn’t right and it isn’t going to work. I may very well be going to Harry when I leave here, Ron, but you have no right to play the victim. You preferred some stranger you met in a bar to me last night, and that says to me that I’m not breaking any hearts by leaving.”

“I thought you said you weren’t angry,” Ron said, in such an immature fashion that she rather wanted to beat him over the head with her full suitcase.

“I’m not – not that you’ve been unfaithful. But I am angry as hell that you act like I did something worse than you did last night. I’m not like you, Ron – I wouldn’t cheat on you with just anyone, only for the sake of being with someone else. It took me loving someone else to cross that line. I never would have betrayed you for nothing.”

She sighed. She’d hoped to avoid a fight like this. “I’m leaving, Ron. That’s all there is to it. There’s no sense placing blame. This was wrong from the start.”

Ron crossed his arms and looked upon her in a terribly cold way. She’d never seen him look at anyone like that before.

“Then go. Go off to Harry. I don’t want to look at you anymore.”

His words stung, but she knew that they were out of jealousy and pain, both feelings that would pass with time, so she said nothing, merely picked up her suitcase and walked out the door.

~

Harry’d been out of sorts ever since Hermione had left that morning. He’d said he could cope if she chose Ron, but he’d been lying to himself as well as her. If she decided to put the night before out of her mind and continue on with Ron as if nothing had happened, he was certain the pain would be more than he could bear.

As he sat moping that evening before the television, nursing a beer and not paying any attention to the inane show before him, he heard a knock at the door. His heart pounded as he set down his drink and turned on the light, unable to get to the door quickly enough. It had to be her…it had to be.

Indeed, he found her on the other side of the door, an over-stuffed suitcase in hand and her hair dampened from the rain that was falling outside. She smiled an unreadable smile.

“Do you have room for one more here?” she asked simply, and that was all he needed to hear.

He pulled her inside and, before she could say another word, kissed her soundly. She dropped her suitcase and he pushed the door shut behind her without breaking contact, needing to feel her again and to know that she was really there, really his.

Hermione was the first to pull away, but he never stopped kissing her cheeks and her forehead and her jaw and her neck as she explained how she’d broken things off with Ron and spent the day with her mother, sorting things out, before returning to him…for good, she’d said, and that was precisely what he’d been longing to hear.

That night, as he led her back to his room for the second time, he felt no guilt nor shame, only a sense of rightness, that what was meant to be had finally bubbled up to the surface.