A Summer Fling

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR and not me. I’m just borrowing her world for some nonprofit fun (and smut.) ;-)

Author’s Note: Written for the harmony_summer ficathon on Livejournal and originally posted there. Part 1 of 4.

For tome_raider and my very dear Amethyst_J.

A Summer Fling

Part 1: On bikinis and scars

“I think this is the best idea you’ve ever had, mate,” Ron enthused as he shaded his eyes with one hand and looked around with a wide grin.

Harry had to smile and nodded, as he too looked around.

They were at a beach in the South of France, a mostly Muggle resort. Harry had dipped into his Gringotts account in order to reserve a small house not far from the shore for them to share and refused to allow either Ron or Hermione to make any protests about his paying for their entire trip. He had wanted to travel, to leave England on his first vacation, now that Voldemort was defeated and he finally felt he could live without looking over his shoulder every other minute.

They had all three spent a week sequestered in one of St. Mungo’s private wards, recovering from the final battle and the exhaustion that had set in after the long year they had had of hunting down the horcruxes and destroying them. After they had been released, they had been called on to attend the large mass funeral held to honor the memory of all those who had died in the past few years of the Second Voldemort War, from Dumbledore onwards. So many familiar names—Hestia Jones, Elphias Doge, Sturgis Podmore, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Emmeline Vance, Snape, Hagrid, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Anthony Goldstein, Charlie Weasley and others whom they had not known… The ceremony had been held at Hogwarts, in the same location by the lake where Dumbledore’s funeral had been held, fittingly, and Fawkes had provided a fitting accompaniment with his phoenix song as he soared over the subdued crowd before alighting on Harry’s shoulder when Harry had stood up for his brief speech.

Afterwards, they had all been incredibly drained, had retreated to Grimmauld Place where they steadfastly avoided all the bothersome owls from the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly (who had basically posted one reporter to stake out Grimmauld Place and keep a watch on whoever went in or out, since Harry himself refused to comment).

But he had needed to get away, out of England entirely. It had taken him a week to stop starting for his wand at the slightest noise, taken him longer than a week to stop having nightmares reliving the horrors of the final battle every night.

He had finally told Ron and Hermione that he wanted to just get away, go on his first real vacation, he’d added with a slight, sort of serious, smile.

And it had been Ron who asked, a little hesitantly, “Can we come with you? Or is this something you want to do alone?”

He had smiled, wanting to laugh for what felt like the first time in months. “I was planning on you both coming with me. A vacation alone doesn’t sound like any fun.”

And so, a month later, here they were, on vacation, ostensibly to celebrate Harry’s 18^th birthday (as they had told everyone else) but more to celebrate the war being over and their being alive.

Already, even after less than one full day, Harry felt lighter, somehow, freer, happier. Now, finally, for the first time in his life, he planned to just enjoy himself with his best friends in the world—and, from the looks of it, they had come to the perfect place for it.

“Harry, mate, I think we should make this a tradition from now on. Every year for your birthday, we should come down here,” Ron suggested.

Hermione laughed indulgently, exchanging an amused glance with Harry. “You mean, so you can ogle all the girls in their bathing costumes?”

Ron shrugged a little, a sheepish smile on his face, but then he was quickly distracted as one very shapely girl in a red and particularly skimpy bathing costume jogged past them. “Cor…” Ron breathed. “They don’t make girls like that in England.”

Harry smiled at Ron’s tone of awe, throwing a passing glance at the girl that had prompted Ron’s admiring statement before he glanced fleetingly at Hermione, who looked, he thought, refreshingly pretty in her cover-up-- as he helped her set up their beach chairs and the umbrella which she had insisted they buy. “They make them okay in England too,” he said a little absently.

Hermione just shook her head a little at Ron with an indulgent smile. “Come on, let’s go for a swim.”

“Okay!” Ron agreed enthusiastically, shrugging out of his t-shirt and dropping it carelessly onto one of the beach chairs.

Harry suppressed a laugh at Ron’s transparent eagerness and then glanced at Hermione for her reaction.

And he died.

His heart stopped, his lungs forgot how to function, his brain simply ceased to work—and he just stared.

And stared and stared. As every thought he had ever had—and a few he hadn’t yet managed to think—drained out of his head and flopped onto the ground by his feet—where he was relatively sure his jaw also was.

Hermione had shrugged out of her cover-up, folding it semi-neatly and leaving it hanging on the back of one of the chairs. Leaving her standing there in- in- something.

Holy Merlin, what was she wearing?

He supposed it was a bathing costume—yes, of course, it was called a bikini, he thought, struggling to form a coherent thought with all his brain cells suddenly struck dumb, or so it seemed. It wasn’t that skimpy as bikinis went—thank Merlin for that. If it had been a skimpy bikini, he had no doubt he would be dead at this moment, a victim of his own throat closing up and choking him. As it was, he wasn’t sure how exactly he stayed on his feet and could only stare at what he could swear was the miles and miles of smooth, pale skin revealed by the bikini.

There was miles of bare skin, really there was! He could see- he could see everything- every inch of her body!

And holy God, but what a body… he couldn’t help the thought that ran through his mind as he stared. He’d never thought Hermione was ugly, even thought that she was really quite pretty… But he had never even dreamed that Hermione would look like- like this!

Hermione was—she was—sexy. There was no other word for it. Pretty didn’t work; beautiful fit but it wasn’t enough; attractive was too tame; alluring, better but not quite.

She was just— sexy. The sexiest girl he had ever seen.

The deep purple color of her bikini set off the paleness of her skin, making it look incredibly smooth, creamy—making him want to do nothing so much as touch her to discover whether her skin could possibly look as soft and smooth as it looked. Her breasts—Harry felt himself color hotly even as he thought the word, having never allowed himself to even think of Hermione’s breasts before—weren’t particularly large, would probably have been considered relatively small—but they were perfect, he thought, with helpless admiration. She had a nice figure, slim but still curvy. Her legs seemed to go on forever—good God, had Hermione always had such nice legs? And if she had, how had he never noticed them before?

He stilled, his fascinated, half-lustful daze momentarily broken at the sight of the faint scar, vaguely shaped like a flame, stretching across her slightly rounded stomach. It was, he realized, a memento from the battle in the Department of Mysteries their 5^th year, from that mystery curse which Dolohov had hit her with. He hadn’t realized that she still bore a scar from that battle and for a moment, he remembered with shocking clarity, those minutes of absolute panic when he had thought she might be dead.

And yet, here she was, alive and well and looking like the living embodiment of every sane man’s fantasy, with just that one scar to give evidence of her courage and her loyalty.

From some corner of his mind, he remembered something he had read somewhere, that a scar was proof of a wound that had not healed perfectly, a proof of past pain—but it was also proof of survival.

She had survived.

He felt a surge of pure emotion at the thought, part gratitude, part affection, part relief and other vague feelings he couldn’t put a name to. She had survived; she was still here with him.

As he stared, though, her hand moved in an almost instinctive gesture to cover the scar and he looked up to meet her eyes, feeling embarrassed at having been caught staring at her bare skin.

She gave him a slight, self-conscious smile, a little blush coloring her cheeks. “I thought the scar would have faded enough now for me to wear something like this.”

“I- I didn’t know you had a scar,” he rasped out, his voice slightly gruff from embarrassment and the tingle of- of lust which he couldn’t help but feel at the sight of her.

Good God, he was lusting after Hermione. After Hermione, of all people! Now what was he supposed to do?

She colored. “I- I don’t like to think of it and I try to forget it’s there.”

Of their own volition, his eyes flicked down to where Hermione’s hand was still blocking the scar from his view. “You don’t have to hide it,” he finally said, relieved he could sound so normal. “It doesn’t look bad.”

She smiled then. “It doesn’t?” Her hand dropped hesitantly down to her side.

He managed a smile. “Hey, it’s hardly fair for you to be so self-conscious about that when I’m the one with a bloody lightning bolt on my forehead for the entire world to see.”

She laughed a little. “You have a point there.”

“Seriously, you look- you look-” Gorgeous. Amazing. Sexy. “Nice,” he finished lamely and wondered if he was imagining the flicker of disappointment in her eyes at the lackluster compliment.

But he couldn’t tell her that he thought she looked like the sexiest thing he had ever seen or that she looked like the embodiment of every erotic fantasy he had ever had or that just looking at her made him want to explore every inch of her bared skin with his hands and his mouth… He stopped his thoughts abruptly, feeling a familiar (and absolutely inappropriate) stirring in his groin as heat jolted through his body at the direction of his thoughts. He forced his gaze away from her and tried to focus instead on any one of the many other girls in their bathing costumes and bikinis, many of them much skimpier than Hermione’s, on the beach in front of them—only to find to his shock and dismay that there was no girl who could hold his attention and attract him like Hermione could and did. One girl was too skinny (she looked like a Holocaust victim); one girl was too, well, too well-endowed (she looked top-heavy); another was too plump (and she was wearing a bikini?!); another was too- too blond; another reminded him too much of Ginny with her red hair and thin figure… And so it went.

Oh God. Since when had Hermione become the one girl who really attracted him?

He was thankfully distracted at this point by the sound of Ron’s voice.

“Oy, Harry, you coming or did your feet get stuck to the sand?”

He started. “Oh- uh- yeah, I’m coming. Sorry, got distracted.”

Ron smirked and waggled his eyebrows teasingly. “I’ll just bet you were distracted.”

Harry cursed the blush he couldn’t help at Ron’s words, even though he knew that Ron was referring to the other girls on the beach and not to Hermione, little guessing that Hermione was the one distracting him.

He hurriedly stripped off his t-shirt, taking off his glasses and putting them on top of his discarded shirt on the beach chair, until he was just in his swim trunks as well, and set off to where Ron was waiting, keeping his gaze firmly fixed anywhere but at Hermione at his side.

Ron grinned teasingly at Hermione as she neared, eyeing her. “Well, would you look at that; little Miss Prefect is wearing a bikini and she doesn’t look half-bad.”

Hermione rolled her eyes a little at Ron. “Oh, sod off,” she said but her tone was indulgent and there was a slight smile playing on her lips that belied her words.

“You know you love me,” Ron declared smugly, winking at Harry as he did so.

Hermione snorted. “You just keep on believing that, then, if your delusions make you happy.”

“Well, come on, then, you two! The ocean awaits!” And with those words, Ron set off at a loping jog across the sand, leaving Harry and Hermione to exchange half-rueful smiles and run after him.

Ron splashed into the water first, letting out an odd sound, halfway between a cry and a laugh at the chill of the water compared to the warmth of the sun and then turned to playfully splash Harry and Hermione as they came up.

“Ron, you prat!” Hermione gave a little shriek as Ron managed to splash water on her, wetting her from the shoulders down.

“That’s it, Weasley, you’re going down,” Harry threatened with mock anger while Ron pretended to cower.

“Oh, no, I’ve got the powerful Harry Potter, Defeater of Dark Lords, after me,” Ron pretended to cringe with a gesture of melodramatic fear. “Save me, Hermione.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Hermione grinned, laughing as she sent a wave of water splashing over Ron, leaving him spluttering.

With that, the battle was joined, as all three of them set out splashing each other and, in general, behaving like the children which they hadn’t been for more than a year now.

And amid all the laughter and teasing, Harry could almost forget about the way Hermione looked in her bikini—and the way he had reacted to the way she looked.

Almost.

To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: I hope you all enjoy this part as much as you did the first.

A Summer Fling

Part 2: On Falling—Into Love, and Other Things

“Race you to the water,” Ron yelled over his shoulder and set off at a run across the beach, while Harry and Hermione looked at each other and mutually decided to walk.

“Oof!” Ron tripped over a stray piece of seaweed and landed face-down in the sand.

A pretty blond who had been walking nearby hurried over and bent over Ron as he rolled over, sitting up. “Well, that wasn’t at all impressive,” Ron muttered sardonically to himself.

“Est-ce que vous allez bien?” She asked.

Ron blinked. “What? Yeah, I’m fine,” he assured her, scrambling to his feet, guessing from her tone and expression what she’d asked. “Merci,” he added awkwardly.

“Ah, vous êtes anglais!” the girl exclaimed.

At that moment, Harry and Hermione came hurrying over. “Ron, you okay?” Harry asked.

The girl glanced at Harry and Hermione, paused, looked again and then exclaimed in slightly-accented English, “You are Harry Potter!”

Harry shifted, a flash of discomfort crossing his face as always happened when a stranger knew who he was, one hand automatically going up in a futile attempt to flatten his fringe to cover his scar. He supposed it was just his luck that they run into a witch at this mostly Muggle beach.

“Er, yeah,” Harry confirmed.

The girl looked back at Ron. “Then you must be Ron Weasley!”

Ron beamed, looking thrilled that she had heard of him. “Yeah. Yeah, I am,” he answered quickly.

The girl turned to Hermione. “And you are Hermione Granger, yes?”

Hermione nodded with a slight, polite smile.

“I am Monique de Beauharnaise. I went to Beauxbatons with Fleur, who is married to your brother, Bill,” she added, turning to Ron. “My sister is close friends with Gabrielle, Fleur’s little sister, and Gabrielle has mentioned you several times,” she continued, addressing Harry now. “Gabrielle has never forgotten what you did in the lake.”

Harry colored, remembering his silliness at the 2^nd Task with some embarrassment. “It was nothing,” he said quickly.

Monique smiled. “Fleur and Gabrielle did not think so.” She turned to Ron. “How is your brother? We heard he was badly hurt a while ago. Is he better now?”

Ron sobered a little at the mention of Bill, who, although he had fortunately not been turned into a werewolf, still bore the disfiguring scars, although Bill managed to be quite cheerful still, all things considered. “Yes, he is better,” Ron answered truthfully.

“Oh, good,” Monique smiled. “We knew Fleur must have been very worried. She loves him very much.”

“Yeah, we know,” Ron said, managing a smile. All of the Weasleys had grown very fond of Fleur in the last year, with the exception of Ginny who still persisted in calling Fleur “Phlegm” when Fleur was not around, although she was careful to be very friendly to Fleur when Fleur was present.

“And you are here on vacation?”

“Yes,” Ron answered and was going to continue by mentioning Harry’s birthday but Harry caught his eye and shook his head ever so slightly and Ron understood. “We all decided a trip to the beach was a good idea and so here we are,” he finished instead.

Harry relaxed slightly. He was sure Monique was very nice; she was certainly pretty and he could see in the way Ron was smiling at her that Ron, at least, was eager to further the acquaintance, but he would rather that people not know about his birthday. His idea of a perfect birthday, at this point, was spending the day with only the people he cared about most, that is, with Ron and Hermione.

“I have come here often so if you ever need help finding anything, come ask. I must return to my friends. They will be wondering where I have gone. It was very nice to meet you.”

“I’ll walk you back to where your friends are,” Ron offered impulsively.

Monique looked pleasantly surprised. “Oh, you do not need to.”

“I want to,” Ron insisted, smiling at her. He glanced at Harry and Hermione. “If it’s okay with you two,” he added belatedly.

“It’s fine. We’ll stay around here,” Harry grinned, having caught Ron’s glance that told him Ron wanted to have the chance to get to know Monique better. “Good to meet you, Monique. Say hi to Gabrielle when you next talk to her.”

“I will. Have fun today,” she nodded and smiled at Harry and Hermione before turning to Ron. “My friends are down that way,” she said, pointing.

With a small wave, Ron set off walking beside Monique in the direction in which she had pointed.

Hermione laughed softly. “If all of Monique’s friends look like she does, Ron isn’t going to want to leave them.” She cast a sideways glance at Harry. “Wouldn’t you like to meet her friends too? They’re probably all beautiful, I’d imagine.”

Harry threw her a quick smile, thinking of the way she looked in her bikini, and found himself blurting out unthinkingly, “I’m already with the prettiest girl on the beach.”

Hermione blushed. “Oh, Harry, really! That’s sweet of you to say but you and I both know it’s not true. I’m nowhere near as pretty as most of the girls here.”

No, you’re—perfect, Harry thought but didn’t say. “I don’t know where you get the idea that you’re not pretty, Hermione,” he said instead, and then changed the subject by adding, “Anyway, I’d rather spend time with my best friend than go meet a whole lot of strangers.”

She smiled at him and they continued walking, their feet sinking into the warm sand, while Harry fought to keep his gaze from studying the lines of her body. Her cover-up was loose and flowed around her but he remembered all too well, the image burned into his brain, the way she looked in her bikini.

He steadfastly kept his gaze fixed away from her, using every ounce of will-power in his body, when she shrugged out of her cover-up and he took off his t-shirt and his glasses.

“Oh, for some Gillyweed,” he joked lightly and half-seriously, trying to distract himself. “It must be fun to swim like a fish in the ocean.”

“I’m sure. When my parents took me to swimming pools when I was little, I always used to pretend it was the ocean instead, that I was diving for deep-sea treasure or something like that.”

He smiled, fascinated at this glimpse into Hermione’s childhood before Hogwarts. Somehow, he had never thought that Hermione would have played pretend—and yet, he was somehow not surprised. After all, she must have read so much about things like deep-sea treasures from sunken ships; it was no wonder that Hermione, as curious as she was, would want to see such things for herself. “Is that why you learned to swim?” he asked.

“Yes.” She paused and then asked, “Harry, how did you learn to swim? I can’t imagine that your aunt and uncle would have ever given you swimming lessons.”

His smile faded somewhat at the mention of the Dursleys, a shadow crossing his face for a fleeting moment. “No, they didn’t. I went with them to the public pools when they took Dudley, though, when they couldn’t find someone to watch me. But I basically taught myself to swim, after Dudley and his friends nearly drowned me one day.”

Her sharp intake of breath punctuated his succinct explanation. “They tried to drown you? Why didn’t anyone stop them?”

He glanced at her, feeling his heart warm at the indignation and the sympathy in her voice and her expression. “Oh, it wasn’t on purpose, not really; they just thought it was really funny to push me under water and hold me down but they usually let me up before too long because people would notice. But one time, the pool wasn’t that busy and they decided to keep me under water longer… I thought I was going to die but then next thing I knew, I found myself free and gulping in air while Dudley and his friends howled in pain. I- er- I had lost control of magic and apparently, that time, it made my skin feel really burning hot all of a sudden so they let me go. They didn’t try again after that, but I taught myself to swim anyway, just in case.” He didn’t mention the fact that Dudley had, of course, told the story to his parents and Harry had been promptly shoved into the closet under the stairs and kept there with no food for the next day as a punishment for “more funny stuff happening.”

Hermione slipped her hand into his. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

And, looking at her, he felt the bleakness of his mood from thinking about those years with the Dursleys dissipate. He managed a smile, wanting to banish the sad look in her eyes. “It’s okay and, anyway, it was a long time ago and there was no real harm done,” he shrugged dismissively.

“It’s not okay,” Hermione contradicted sharply, her eyes flashing with anger. “I can’t believe—your own cousin and your aunt and uncle! They deserve to be thrown into Azkaban for the way they treated you!”

Her face was slightly flushed with emotion, her expression so indignant that, for a moment, Harry could even feel a brief moment of pity for the Dursleys if Hermione ever had her way, even as he felt his heart warm from her anger on his behalf. And, oddly enough, it was that moment of seeing her so angry on his behalf, for his sake, her eyes warm with concern and with sympathy for something that had happened a decade ago, that broke through all his denial. His brain captured the moment like a snapshot—and he knew. I want her. I love her.

Wait. He—he—what?

He was in love with her.

For a fleeting second, his entire body- no, the entire universe- stilled, as he tried to absorb the stunning truth.

He was in love with Hermione.

Yes. Certainty—and an odd sense of peace, of rightness—settled over him like a blanket. Of course… This was Hermione, his best friend, the person who had been with him for everything, who had never let him down, who understood him even without words… The girl he felt he could happily look at forever, the girl he wanted with everything in him…

“Harry?”

The sound of her voice brought him back to reality to see a slight frown furrowing her brow.

“Is something wrong? You just… stopped and got this odd expression on your face.”

I just realized I love you, he thought, but instead he managed a smile, mentally shaking off this new preoccupation with his recognition of his feelings for Hermione. “Let’s go swim,” he suggested instead.

She smiled, her face lighting up and chasing away the frown of concern. “Okay.”

His throat was dry, his mind stripped clear of anything even approaching a coherent thought.

My God…

He had thought that seeing Hermione simply standing in her bikini was the sexiest thing he had ever seen.

He’d been wrong.

He was looking at the sexiest thing he had ever seen now.

Hermione when she was wet and in her bikini was ten- no, a hundred- times sexier than anything he had ever seen before.

He didn’t know what it was about seeing the droplets of water on her skin. Or no, he did. It was that they seemed to taunt him, making him wish desperately that he could lick every drop off her skin…

To say nothing of the fact that the sunlight was striking some of the drops of water, making them glisten and sparkle like diamonds—and they seemed strategically placed to ensure that he lost what little remained of his brain cells, drawing all his attention down to the curves of her breasts, the indent of her waist, the flare of her hips, and that spot where her legs began…

And her bikini when it was wet… He hadn’t thought it could possibly reveal more but he’d been wrong about that too. When the fabric was wet, it seemed to cling to her body until it looked as if it had been painted on, emphasizing even more every line of her figure…

He was no longer aware of the slight chill of the water or of the sound of the waves crashing into the shore or of the sound of people’s voices and laughter around them. He wasn’t aware of anything except this need, this compulsion, to touch her, to feel her skin…

He wanted to touch her so badly… Needed to touch her… Needed her like she was food, water, and oxygen all rolled into one.

Without his having made a conscious decision, he found himself walking towards her, closing the distance between them, wading through the thigh-high water.

He saw the way her laughing smile of enjoyment faded, the way her lips parted, the way her eyes widened slightly, and saw, too, with a flare of excitement, the flicker of awareness in her eyes. And for the first time, in some small part of his mind, it registered that she wasn’t looking at him like he was her best friend; she was looking at him like a man…

He stumbled slightly, his hands finding their way to her waist, holding her, and he couldn’t help the flare of heat inside him on touching her bared skin for the first time, even in such a simple, relatively platonic way.

“Harry…” she breathed, her eyes wide with some surprise and dilated with the beginnings of attraction, of arousal.

And he knew he should say something, anything, to try to tell her why he was suddenly doing this, looking at her like this, touching her… He should say something to tell her that this was only the start of what he wanted to do with her and to her…

But what could he say? His mind floundered, casting around for some words, any words, he could say… “You’re… so beautiful…” he finally settled for saying, his voice husky.

Two spots of color appeared in her cheeks.

“You’re… the sexiest woman in the world…” he continued on, finally blurting out what he’d wanted to tell her since that moment yesterday when he had first seen her in her bikini.

Her flush deepened but she shook her head slightly, in automatic, instinctive denial. “No…” she protested, but the breathlessness of her voice almost belied the word.

“Yes, you are.” He found himself moving slowly, deeper into the water, until it came up above his waist, and gently tugged, bringing her with him, until he could press his hips against hers, knowing she could feel the hardness of his burgeoning arousal against her.

He felt dazed, as if he were in some sort of dream- or a fantasy—and some part of him couldn’t believe he was doing this, didn’t know how he was managing to do this, didn’t know where he got the courage or the nerve or the recklessness to do this. He just knew he had to; he had to touch her, had to tell her she was beautiful, had to do this…

She gasped slightly at the feeling of him pressed against her under the water, unmistakable desire flaring in her eyes and her expression, and she touched him for the first time, rather tentatively, her hands just resting on his chest. And he knew she could feel the way his heart was pounding, saw the slight smile in her eyes and the increased confidence of her touch as she slowly slid her arms around his neck.

“Should I show you just how beautiful I think you are?” he rasped out—and it was almost as if there was someone else, something else, inside him, encouraging him to blurt out these things and act like- well, act like he knew what he was doing and there wasn’t a large part of him quaking with apprehension and nervousness and uncertainty.

“Yes,” she breathed—and it was, he decided, the most beautiful word he had ever heard.

His heart promptly started hammering even faster in his chest.

She wanted him too. She wanted him. He supposed that there might be a more beautiful three words in the English language but he couldn’t for the life of him imagine what they could be. She wanted him.

He bent his head to kiss her when a wave abruptly crashed into them, splashing their faces, making them break apart from surprise, the spell that had held them both broken. And then he saw Ron’s familiar figure approaching from the beach.

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to will away his arousal and mentally resolving not to move out of the water until he had succeeded.

He looked at Hermione, seeing her blush, and felt another flash of heat inside him and reached out to lace his fingers with hers, squeezing them quickly, hoping the meager caress would convey just how much he wanted her. “Later,” he promised softly, his voice husky.

Her blush deepened and he couldn’t miss the desire in her eyes. “Later…”

God, he had no idea how he was going to survive the rest of the day…

To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: Thank you, everyone, who’s read and reviewed this story so far. Part 3 of 4; Enjoy!

A Summer Fling

Part 3: Touch Me, Touch my Heart

She had no idea how she survived the rest of the day.

Hermione excused herself for the night early, while Ron was still lingering over his bottle of butterbeer and chatting idly with Harry about the upcoming Quidditch season.

She stood up, pretending to yawn. “I think I’m going to bed now. Good night, you two.”

She caught Harry’s eye and saw, with a now-familiar flare of heat in the pit of her stomach, that he would be joining her soon in the intensity of his gaze burning her.

She felt keyed-up, almost jittery, all her senses on alert and sensitized, as they had been for most of the day since that moment in the water.

Even now, hours later, she only had to close her eyes and she could see his expression as it had been then when he’d stared at her, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes dark with an expression that had made her skin heat and tingle and then set her heart to beating rapidly in her chest. She knew the look, recognized it, even though she had never seen it before in Harry’s face, had hardly even hoped to see it—but it was there now, clear and unmistakable. Desire.

And then, to her amazement, he had come closer, his hands settling on her waist and she didn’t know how it was possible that such a simple touch could make her entire body seem to go up in flames but it did…

And she knew she would remember for the rest of her life the sound of Harry’s voice when he said she was beautiful and the sexiest woman in the world, that husky tone, combined with the look in his eyes that made her feel as if she really might be beautiful and sexy and all those things she had never thought she was…

He hadn’t touched her after Ron had joined them, avoiding even the most platonic of touches—but every once in a while, she would catch him looking at her, his eyes dark with unmistakable desire—and for a moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist and she stopped breathing, could only stare back at him and will the day to go by faster.

And now the day was finally over.

Later had become now.

In her room, faced with the bed that symbolized everything she expected- hoped- was going to happen tonight, she was suddenly filled with nervousness.

She looked down at herself, at the t-shirt and shorts she had changed into when they returned from the beach before going out to dinner, and suddenly she couldn’t quite believe that Harry could really intend to come here, could really want her in that way…

But if he did… she should be preparing—doing something to get ready—shouldn’t she? God, she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if she’d ever done this before, wasn’t as if she was prepared.

She put up a Sound-proofing Charm—just in case—and said a mental prayer of thanks for the contraceptive spell she had found that regulated her courses and only needed to be cast once every six months.

That done, she felt another wave of nervousness swamp her. She didn’t have anything approaching sexy underwear. Wouldn’t he want that, like that? All her underwear was very plain, practical.

Should she undress, she wondered, and felt herself blush just at the thought. She couldn’t possibly… maybe another girl, more confident than she was—Ginny probably could undress and wait for a boy in just her underwear, she thought—but not her. Not that she had sexy underwear to wait in. She was still wearing her bikini underneath her t-shirt and shorts, not having bothered to change into normal underwear earlier because Ron had claimed to be starving and so she’d simply hurried out of her cover-up and into the easiest clothes she had at hand, when they had gotten back from the beach.

For a fleeting moment, she wished her bikini was scantier, more like some of the other bikinis she had seen other girls wearing at the beach today, more string and less actual cloth. But then she mentally shook herself. Who has she kidding? If she’d even bought such a skimpy bikini, she would never have managed to bring herself to wear it in public.

What was she supposed to wear?

She made a mental note to invest in some more seductive knickers and bras once they got back home—that is, if this wasn’t just a summer fling. Maybe it had just been a fluke, an automatic reaction to seeing her for the first time in a bikini and nothing more. Maybe it had just been the natural reaction of a healthy, teenage boy seeing a girl in a bikini and meant nothing… Maybe it wasn’t really her he wanted, so much as it had been a fleeting effect from her bikini—and she’d been imagining the look in his eyes just now because she wanted it, hoped for it, so much…

~~~

Harry stopped outside of Hermione’s door, Ron finally having gone to his room, and hesitated. He couldn’t believe he was here, about to knock on Hermione’s door and do… what he thought they were about to do.

God, what was he doing? He loved her; he wanted her—but what if she didn’t love him too? What if it was just desire for her and all she wanted was some sort of summer fling? (Would she—could she—just want a fling? He didn’t think she was like that—but then again, how would he know?) What if—what if this ruined their friendship and made things really awkward? Could he live without Hermione as his best friend?

Before, he hadn’t allowed himself to think about what he was doing—hadn’t really been able to think clearly anyway, his brain turned to mush at the sight of Hermione standing there, wet, in her bikini. Now, he could think—and he was suddenly filled with trepidation.

He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Was he mad? He must have lost his mind, had too much sun, his brain addled by the sight of Hermione’s bare skin…

But he wanted her—could still see clearly the way she’d looked earlier, water gleaming on her body and that flicker of desire in her eyes…

At the thought, his hand lifted almost of its own accord and knocked.

“Hermione?”

Then he heard her voice saying, “Come in,” and he swallowed hard, his heart already pounding madly in his chest, and opened the door and stepped inside, shutting the door carefully behind him, before he looked at her.

She hadn’t changed, he noted, was still in her t-shirt and shorts—and he wondered how it was possible for her to still look so alluring, even seductive, in such a casual outfit. He’d seen her in shorts before and not particularly noticed—but now… Now that he knew just what the shirt and shorts disguised, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to look at her again and not see the beautiful figure he knew she had.

She had stood up when he entered, was still standing there, staring at him and he finally noticed that she looked… nervous, uncertain.

And strangely enough, knowing that she was nervous too took the edge off of his own nervousness and he somehow managed to move, closing the distance between them in a few slow steps.

“I- er- I don’t know…” she faltered and then trailed off.

He felt a small smile curve his lips, even though just a few minutes ago, he wasn’t sure he’d been able to smile. This was Hermione, his best friend, the girl he wanted, the girl he loved—and even if he still didn’t quite know what he was doing, he knew her…

Slowly, he lifted one hand to first cup her cheek, seeing her slight intake of breath at the first touch, and then he slid his hand around to cup the back of her neck, his fingers tangling into her hair. And slowly, very slowly, he bent his head until his lips touched hers, kissing her gently at first, just learning the feel of her, the taste of her…

He hadn’t kissed any girl since Ginny, whom he’d last kissed months ago, the last time he had seen her before the final battle when she had startled him by throwing herself at him and kissing him fiercely—and he’d started back, recoiling a little. And he’d told her it couldn’t work, even if they survived the final battle. He’d changed too much, seen too much, grown too much—and she was part of his past; he associated her always with those last carefree (or so they seemed in retrospect) days of his sixth year before Dumbledore had died. And he had moved on since then, knew he couldn’t go back to her. She hadn’t been happy, had even been a little angry at him, he knew, along with being hurt—but by the time he saw her again after the final battle, he could see she was over it.

Kissing Hermione was… was different… Ginny had been like cinnamon, he had always thought, a little spicy, exciting—and always passionate. Hermione was- was sweeter, softer, gentler…

She gasped slightly against his mouth and slid her arms around his neck, deepening the kiss, her tongue lightly caressing his, teasing his, until he groaned deep in his throat and kissed her harder, wrapping his arms around her until she was pressed against his body from shoulder down.

Kissing Hermione was, he thought fuzzily, like coming home… She tasted like… she tasted like forever…

He finally ended the kiss, tearing his mouth from hers with a gasp, when he was beginning to feel a little dizzy from lack of oxygen (and from her kiss). “Hermione…”

Her lips were slightly swollen from his kiss, her face flushed, her eyes dark—and he thought that the sight of her like this, aroused because of him, was worth the entire universe and more…

He hesitated and then his hands went to the hem of her shirt, untucking them from her shorts. “Can I- I want to see you,” he rasped out.

She nodded. “Yes.”

Quickly, he lifted her shirt over her head and discarded it on the floor, his breath catching in his throat when he saw that she was still wearing her bikini underneath.

Slowly, a little tentatively, he lifted one hand to cup her breast through the cloth of her bikini. Her head fell back with a soft gasp and he took advantage of the position to kiss the little hollow of her throat, his tongue darting out experimentally to taste her skin and thrilling at the shiver that went through her and the gasp she gave. His lips moved down to feather kisses along her collar bone and up to her shoulder and along the line of her chin, learning her familiar features with his mouth. And all the while, he kept his hand on her breast, cupping, squeezing lightly, caressing, delighting in the fact that he could feel her nipples harden through the fabric, loving all the little gasps and tiny moans of pleasure coming from her mouth.

His other hand dropped down to the fastening of her shorts, undoing it and then pushing it past her hips until they slid down to pool at her ankles.

And then he paused to stare at her, his eyes drinking in the sight of her in just her bikini again, the sight that had tormented him since he’d first seen it.

“God, you’re gorgeous…” he breathed.

The color in her cheeks deepened as she blushed hotly, one hand moving instinctively to try to shield her scar from his gaze but he caught her wrist lightly, preventing her.

“No, don’t,” he said softly and then he did something she had never expected, never even dreamed he might do, and fell on his knees in front of her, pressing his lips to her scar.

Harry wasn’t sure what drove him to do it but something about seeing the scar and the self-consciousness in her move to try to cover it sent a wave of tenderness through him, momentarily nudging aside the lust fogging his brain. And so he kissed the scar that marred the otherwise perfect skin of her stomach, tracing the length of it with his lips and then his tongue.

And though she wouldn’t have thought it possible, Hermione thought she had never loved him more than she did at that moment, seeing him kiss her scar so tenderly. At first, she could tell, he didn’t mean the kiss to be particularly sensual; it was only later when he allowed his tongue to touch her skin that the gesture became arousing, sending heat shooting through her stomach to pool in the wet spot between her legs.

He heard a small mewling sound come from her lips and smiled slightly as he slowly stood up again, his lips leaving a trail of slightly damp kisses up her stomach and between her breasts before they veered off to the side so he could take one nipple into his mouth through the cloth of her bikini and then moving over to do the same to the other side.

Her hands found their way to the hem of his shirt and tugged upwards until he helped her and quickly pulled it over his head, taking off his glasses as he did so and dropping them blindly onto the floor on top of his shirt. He quickly stepped out of his shorts but kept his boxers on for the moment, suddenly unsure.

And it was her turn to explore his body with her hands, as she first flattened them on his chest and then ran them down lower, feeling the way his muscles leaped and tensed at her touch, and then up again to his shoulders and down his back. She touched her lips to his chest and he shuddered; then she deliberately flicked her tongue against his flat nipple and he groaned.

Her hand paused where she could feel his heart beating madly inside his chest and for a fleeting moment, remembered those endless hours in St. Mungo’s after the final battle when she hadn’t known if Harry would live or die, had watched his chest rise and fall with every breath and simply prayed, please… And he had lived, was here now, and she could feel the palpable evidence of his life against her fingers. She was suddenly filled with a wave of sheer gratitude and impulsively she pressed her lips to the spot above his heart, her lips lingering there as she closed her eyes. There was only one word that repeated in her mind and heart: thank you… And she wasn’t sure if she was thanking the Fates or the healers at St. Mungo’s or him for surviving.

His mouth found hers again and this time there was no initial gentleness or uncertainty; it was a hard melding of lips and tongues as he sucked her lower lip into his mouth, nibbling ever-so-lightly before plunging his tongue deep into her mouth, tasting her, savoring her.

His hands skimmed lightly over her body, keeping his touch gentle, before he found the clasp of the bikini top and undid it, letting it fall off her until he could feel her bare breasts pressed against his chest.

And, holy God, but that was the sexiest thing he had ever felt, the hardened points of her nipples against his skin… He was on fire, burning, dying… He had thought he wanted her before—now, he realized, that that desire had only been a pale shadow compared to the lust raging through him now.

He released her mouth only to feather light kisses along her cheek, to the little hollow just before her ear, her eyes, her eyebrows, the tip of her nose (making her smile).

And he had no clear recollection of sliding her bikini bottom off of her and down her legs or of taking off his boxers; he just knew that one moment they were suddenly both completely naked and she had lifted one leg to wind around his hip to bring herself even closer to him, so he could feel the hot, wet warmth of her against him…

And he thought he was going to die.

His heart was pounding so fast he was quite sure it would pound its way out of his chest; his breath was coming in quick, short gasps and he was so aroused, he could hardly breathe and it almost hurt… He was going to die, he thought—but oh, this death would be a beautiful thing…

Then she was stumbling backwards, tugging him with her, her lips still on his as she kissed him, her fingers tangling in his hair, as he followed her blindly until they both tumbled onto her waiting bed.

He stared at her as she lay there, looking up at him, her eyes wide, dark and dilated with desire and need, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming in shallow pants—and he thought she really was the living embodiment of every erotic fantasy he had ever had and then some.

God, he wanted her…

His hands reached for her, then he hesitated, a sudden thought occurring to him. “I-er- do we need to do some sort of charm to protect you?”

Her eyes softened, her lips curving as she shook her head slowly. “It’s okay.” And then she reached for him, her hands winding into his hair and tugging him down to her.

He kissed her, his tongue sliding along her lips caressing them before moving inside to rub against her tongue.

His hand slid down from her breast—her perfect, beautiful breast—down her stomach until he touched that most secret part of her body, exploring, learning, the heat of it, the wetness of it, with his fingers until she was moving her head back and forth on the pillow, small cries escaping from her lips. “I… want… I need…” she half-whimpered and the sounds of her aroused him even more.

He moved his hand until he was pressed against her, until the tip of him just slid into the tight hotness of her—and though in some small part of his mind, he was very vaguely aware that this was probably her first time and he should—shouldn’t he?—move slowly or do something—but God, the feel of her… And just then she clutched at his shoulders, her hips writhing a little under his, and any thought of it being her first time or of gentleness evaporated and he plunged inside her, until he was fully buried.

She stiffened, crying out in pain this time and not arousal—and the pain in her voice broke through his fog of mindless lust and he stopped.

“Hermione, I—are you okay?” he managed to croak and thought that he might die if she said she wasn’t.

She opened her eyes and he felt a pang of guilt arrow through him at the sight of the tears sparkling in them.

“Oh, God, Hermione, I’m sorry; I--” he croaked out.

But she cut his apology off with a quick kiss and managed a slight smile, even through the tears he could still see lingering on her lashes. “It’s okay,” she said softly, and then, amazingly, he felt her muscles tighten around him as she encouraged him to move.

And with a strangled groan, he did, his jaw clenched as he tried to go as slowly as possible.

Until she slid her hands down from his shoulders to cup his butt, wrapping her legs around his to push him deeper…

He caught her face between his hands, kissing her hard, with every ounce of feeling in him—until she tore her mouth from his with a cry, her muscles clenching around him.

And the feel of her tightening around him pushed him over the edge which he’d been hovering at and he exploded inside her, as the entire world grayed out around him and all he was aware of in the world was of the tight, hot wetness of her surrounding him, tightening around him…

He was unaware of her name being ripped from his throat in a groan, unaware of the fact that her nails were digging into his back, unaware of her own cry of release, unaware of collapsing on top of her, as if every bone in his body had turned to water…

Awareness seeped into his mind slowly, gradually, to hear her gasp and feel her try to shift and he realized he must be crushing her and pushed himself off of her and onto his side.

He was filled with lassitude, feeling too sated and content to even contemplate moving as he lay there, studying her familiar features in profile.

She was still flushed, her eyes closed although he knew she was awake. His gaze rested on her face for a few moments before moving down, irresistibly, to her body which he had only just gotten to know. Her breasts topped with rosy nipples, the curve of her side down to her hips, the triangle of chestnut curls covering that most secret part of her body…

He stiffened sharply as he saw… blood on the inside of her thighs.

Oh God…

“Did I- did I hurt you?” he managed to croak, trying to speak past the sudden lump in his throat.

She opened her eyes to meet his. Slowly, she shook her head as the ghost of a smile curved her lips. “No. It was—it was… perfect.”

He relaxed slightly, his gaze drawn automatically down to the stretch of roughened skin that was her scar and felt a fresh wave of tenderness and affection well up inside him. He lifted one hand to touch her face, skimming lightly over her nose, her eyelids as they fluttered closed, her eyebrows, her temple in a caress as light as a butterfly’s, before cupping her cheek gently.

He didn’t say anything, wasn’t sure what he could say, so he simply looked at her, until he saw the color deepen in her cheeks and for a moment, her eyes faltered before his.

“I- um- what was this?” she finally began, her voice barely above a whisper. “Was it- was it only a summer fling because you’d never seen me in a bikini before, or—or something?” She hesitated, her blush deepening even more, as she rushed on, the words now spilling out of her, her eyes avoiding his. “I mean, it’s okay if it is; it was- it was wonderful. I- I just want to know what happens now; will this change everything… Is this just a summer vacation thing?”

A summer fling?

Amazingly, and he wasn’t sure where it came from, he found himself smiling and then laughing a little, quietly, as her eyes shot up to stare at him, completely nonplussed at this response to her questions.

He promptly forced himself to sober—and the flicker of hurt in her eyes made it easy as it ensured his amusement died as quickly as it had arisen. “Do you really think that I’d risk our friendship if it was just a summer thing?” he asked softly.

“No?” She didn’t sound very certain and his heart pinched a little at the uncharacteristic vulnerability in her voice and her eyes. Hermione, who he always thought of as knowing everything and who was so smart and generally sure of herself, was, he realized, entirely out of her depths with this, something that was completely out of her experience and could not be picked up from any book.

“If it had just been seeing you in your bikini—you did, you do, look amazing—I don’t know if I would have done anything, no matter how much I wanted you. I’d have been too afraid of risking our friendship to do anything. But this isn’t that; it isn’t just a summer fling. It’s…” he hesitated for a moment and then met her eyes once again as he said, simply, “I want this to be– more than that. I want us to be more than that.” I want us to be forever…

Her smile was like the sun breaking through a bank of clouds. “I want us to be more than that too.”

He lifted his head to kiss her, his lips lingering on hers gently, savoring her response.

The kiss ended on a breathy sigh and afterwards, she shifted closer to him to rest her head on his shoulder as he put his arm around her.

And he drifted into sleep, a slight smile on his lips, and knew that he would, as perhaps in some odd way he always had, dream of her…

To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Part 1

Author’s Note: And this is the end! Thank you, everyone, who’s read and reviewed this fic so far. I’m amazed at how much everyone’s enjoyed this fic!

A Summer Fling

Part 4: A Gift of Forever

“Happy birthday, Harry!” Ron and Hermione chorused, grinning at him.

He smiled back, feeling wonderfully relaxed and content after the day they had had and now after having what had been a delicious dinner. Just the three of them, with no worries about Dark Lords or danger or of anything else in the world—the first truly care-free birthday he’d had in his life. Ron had even foregone Monique’s invitation to visit a nearby city with her and some friends that afternoon, even though Harry had clear seen that Ron had been tempted—but, in the end, Ron had decided to stay around and Harry was grateful. “Thanks.”

“Well, come on, then, open up your gifts,” Ron urged after a moment, looking as if he’d been bursting to say those words all day now since the first package had arrived by owl that morning (which was probably the case.)

Harry laughed and agreed, pulling the first envelope toward him.

It was from Remus, contained a very brief but sincere message that made Harry smile slightly, softly—and a gift certificate for 200 Galleons at Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Ron let out a long low whistle. “Two hundred Galleons! Remus doesn’t skimp, does he?”

“He said I should consider it as being partly from Sirius too,” Harry said quietly, as he slipped the card back into its envelope.

Hermione slid her hand onto his arm, giving it a brief squeeze. “That’s nice,” she smiled softly at him.

He returned the smile, his fingers lacing with hers, as for a fleeting moment, he forgot Ron’s presence.

The spell was broken when Ron let out a mock groan. “Oh, no. Not again. I’ve had to put up with you two being so sweet and mushy for days now; can I please just have a break? You’re making me sick, the pair of you.”

Hermione laughed as Harry shot Ron a pretend glare and then stuck his tongue out at him.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Boys,” she muttered but the slight smile playing on her lips belied her tone.

Mrs. Weasley had sent a cake and… Harry sucked in his breath in shock as he opened the box to find a brand-new broom. It had been shrunk down to fit into the box but even so, he could see that it was the best. Carefully, he lifted it out of the box and restored it to its original size.

Ron’s jaw dropped. “Wicked!” he breathed. “My family got you that?! Harry, that- that’s the…”

“I know. It’s the Firebolt Excel,” Harry said, his voice low and slightly awed as he stared at the broom, his eyes running admiringly over the perfectly aerodynamic shape of the bristles and the smooth and yet sturdy handle, made from the finest ash, with a perfect diamond-hard polish.

It was the latest of its kind, having just been released less than a month ago. And already, there were rumors that all the professional Quidditch teams were clamoring that all their players must have one somehow, never mind that it cost nearly twice as much as some of the cheaper brooms. The original Firebolt, its predecessor, had been amazing in its day. This broom—this broom made the original Firebolt look like a positive antique. It had an acceleration speed of 200 mph in 5 seconds (the very thought made Harry’s breath come fast and short with anticipation), an unbreakable Braking Charm; could stop on a split second’s notice, and was reputed to be so sensitive to the rider’s slightest movements that it almost seemed as if the broom could read the rider’s mind. Harry had heard of it and felt a sharp pang of longing but not even he could justify spending the amount of money it cost on a broom, especially when he didn’t know when he’d next be playing Quidditch.

And now the Weasleys had bought him it.

With slightly shaking hands, he reached for the envelope and pulled out the card, that promptly burst into song.

They all started and then burst into hysterical laughter.

Fred and George had written (and sung) the song; there was no mistaking it in the mischievous lyrics to say nothing of the exaggerated mimicry of voices.

Harry blinked, feeling warmth spread in his chest, as he read the card once the serenade had ended. “All of them chipped in to buy it, your mother says.” Fred and George had added on one note that said simply, “Your prize money,” and Harry smiled slightly at the memory of forcing them to take the Thousand Galleons of prize money after the Tri-wizard Tournament. Well, Fred and George had repaid that debt now—and with interest, Harry thought.

Ginny’s note had been equally brief but poignant for all its briefness. It said only, “Happy birthday to my only non-redhead brother. Love, Gin.”

He smiled. She’d called him her brother—and that was truly how he felt about her now. He had never had siblings but he had watched the Weasleys, the way they interacted—and he wanted that sort of comfort, that sort of easy affection and familiarity. He had achieved it with Ron and to an extent with Fred and George, and now with Ginny.

Sister.

It was nice to have a family, Harry thought.

“Now mine,” Ron announced and placed another envelope in front of Harry.

Harry glanced at Ron. “I hope you didn’t decide that only a card would be enough,” he teased. “I might have to reconsider my paying for your vacation.”

Ron pretended to be offended. “Me? Give you only a card? I would have you know that I would never do that,” he pontificated and then dissolved into laughter. “Oh Merlin, I was trying to imitate the way Percy used to talk and I just can’t.”

“Best not try, then,” Hermione advised with a smile.

“Wow, Ron!” Harry’s exclamation cut short whatever Ron had been about to say in response as he had opened the card.

In it were four tickets to the England vs. the Netherlands semi-finals qualifying match for the Quidditch World Cup (which was happening again this summer) and four tickets to the final game of the Quidditch World Cup, which was to be held in Prague this year, between whichever two countries made it through the semi-finals.

(The semi-finals would normally have been long over by now, Harry knew, but they had been postponed because of the war and had recently been announced as taking place beginning in the last week of August, with the final game of the World Cup scheduled to take place in the first week of October.)

Harry gaped at Ron. “How did you—you got tickets? I heard they were sold out!”

Ron grinned smugly. “It turns out it’s amazing what you can do when you’re a war-hero. I just dropped a hint—or two—into the right ears at the Ministry Department of Magical Games and they were only too eager to provide me with anything I wanted.”

Harry laughed. “Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying the fame then.”

For Ron and Hermione had become nearly as famous as Harry after the last battle; indeed, almost half the requests for interviews had been for Ron and Hermione—but they had both, mindful of Harry’s wishes, refused them all categorically.

It was, Harry sometimes thought, possibly the only unmitigated blessing of fame; finally, Ron was nearly blissfully happy, basking in being in the spotlight.

He grinned at Ron. “Thanks. I was really hoping to be able to go to at least one of the matches; I didn’t even dream of getting to go to the final match.”

Ron shrugged dismissively, though he looked pleased. “Well, it’s hardly an unselfish gesture. I was desperate to go to the matches myself so I leaped at the chance.”

Harry turned to Hermione. “You’ll come with us, won’t you? Even though I know you don’t like Quidditch that much?”

Hermione smiled and nodded. “I’ll come. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” And she meant it too. Nothing could make her want to miss out on something that made Harry so happy, his eyes positively dancing and a bright, brilliant green with excitement. She loved him—and to see him so happy, she would willingly go to the ends of the earth and sit through the longest game in the history of Quidditch, for his sake.

He just smiled at her, but she could see his silent thanks and his understanding that she was coming for his sake, because he wanted her to, and not from any real expectation of enjoyment. And she was more than repaid by the warmth in his eyes and smile, that made a small tingle of anticipation go through her body.

Harry opened the box from Hermione with a sense of hope which he hadn’t felt for any of the others. He knew Hermione, knew how she knew him so well; he hadn’t forgotten that one of the best gifts he had ever received had been that Broomstick Servicing Kit which she’d given him for his 13^th birthday. And now, when they were so much more than friends, when he not only knew her but knew every inch of her body as well, when they had spent the last five nights in each other’s arms, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope.

That died swiftly as he stared.

It was a book.

Hermione had gotten him a book.

On Quidditch, to be sure; it was called To Seek the Snitch: The Greatest Stories from Quidditch Through the Ages. He was sure it would be a fascinating read, really he was.

But it was a book. It seemed such an... impersonal sort of gift. A gift one would give to one’s best friend and nothing more. As if they hadn’t touched each other’s naked skin, hadn’t explored every inch of each other’s bodies with passion and with tenderness… As if what they’d done together had really meant very little beyond physical lust after all…

He fought to keep his disappointment and his renegade flare of hurt from showing as he promptly manufactured a wide smile and put it on for her benefit as he looked up. “Thanks, Hermione. This looks great; I can’t wait to read it!” he said, infusing as much enthusiasm as he could muster into his tone.

Ron snorted, making a disbelieving and rather disdainful sound. “I say, Hermione, you realize that Harry isn’t really- well, crazy, like you are—and his idea of a perfect gift isn’t a book?”

“No, no,” Harry jumped in. “It’s great, really it is. I’m sure it’ll be fascinating and it’ll be a perfect thing to read on the beach,” he asserted enthusiastically and then inwardly winced at how patently false he sounded even to his own ears.

Hermione ignored Ron and simply hugged Harry tightly.

He hugged her back, breathing in the now-familiar scent of her shampoo and her lotion and enjoying the warmth of her against him—and felt the flicker of hurt begin to fade.

So what if Hermione had given him a book? This was Hermione and she loved books—and even if he didn’t entirely share that love, he couldn’t deny that, to Hermione, a book probably was the best gift.

He was being ungrateful, he thought with a pang of self-reproach, after all that she had done for him, all the ways she’d saved his life. He was pouting because she hadn’t gotten him some sort of immensely meaningful gift?

He was all kinds of a prat, he thought remorsefully. He didn’t deserve to have her for a friend, let alone for… for more than that.

She drew back slowly, her lips lingering briefly on his cheek—and then he stiffened as the impact of her very softly whispered words hit him. “I’ll give you the rest of your gift later. When we’re alone…”

There was just the hint of a seductive promise in her tone, which inflamed him and, oddly, soothed his momentary doubts at the same time.

When we’re alone…

He decided he liked the sound of those three words, liked them a lot.

~~~

They were alone now.

Harry sat on the edge of Hermione’s bed, wondering what the next part of his gift was. Hermione had disappeared into the closet saying she needed to get his gift and hadn’t yet come out.

And then she did and he saw her.

His first thought was that he was going to die.

He was going to die and she was killing him.

Hermione stood rather shyly in front of Harry, wearing—or not wearing, as the word ‘wear’ rather implied there being some actual cloth involved—a tiny, red, lacy bra (that revealed more than it hid) and matching knickers that were really just a scrap of red lace.

Hermione just knew that her cheeks- her entire face- was turning the same color as her underwear as Harry simply stared at her, his eyes so wide they looked on the verge of falling out of his head.

She had specifically snuck away from Ron and Harry one afternoon and found a store that sold sexy underwear and lingerie. The lace was rather itchy and she was feeling incredibly exposed and embarrassed—but the look on Harry’s face as his gaze positively devoured her made any discomfort she felt well worth it.

She managed a small, rather seductive smile and walked toward him on legs that felt weak simply from the heat of his gaze burning her.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” she said softly.

His only response was a strangled noise in which she thought she could decipher her name but wasn’t sure.

“This is the second part of your gift,” she added unnecessarily, her voice low and a little husky from embarrassment and self-consciousness and some arousal. “Me.”

Moving slowly and deliberately, she reached for his glasses, taking them off, and then with equal precision, lifted his t-shirt up and over his head before her hands went to the fastening of his shorts and undid them, pushing them down.

As she did this, he simply stood there, unmoving except when he lifted his arms to let her take off his shirt and for the quick rise and fall of his chest from his breath, seeming to have fallen into some sort of aroused stupor from the sight of her.

He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t have spoken if his life depended on it. His throat had closed up and he could swear he had lost all control over his muscles.

My God… Hermione…

She was… she was… everything he had ever wanted in his life…

“I love you, Harry,” she breathed softly, punctuating every soft word with a kiss.

He stiffened and jerked his head back, startled out of his stupor and causing her to stare at him in surprise.

“You… what?”

And she suddenly realized what she’d said. Oh God, she’d meant to say that she wanted him; instead the words she hadn’t yet wanted to risk saying had simply slipped out.

She dared a glance into his eyes and something she saw there gave her the courage to meet his gaze directly, concealing nothing, and repeat, “I love you, Harry.”

His arms closed around her with enough force to knock the breath from her body until every inch of her was pressed against him and he buried his face in her hair. “I love you, Hermione,” he half-groaned, the sound rather muffled by her hair, before he moved his head back, capturing her face between gentle hands as he met her eyes. “I love you,” he said again, his voice low, intense, and the words were as much a promise as they were a declaration.

She smiled, feeling her heart swell with warmth on hearing the words she’d only recently begun to hope she would ever hear him say. And she wasn’t sure whether she made the first move or whether he did but it didn’t matter because his lips were on hers and they were kissing, at first tenderly but then with growing passion as they were both swept away by the now-familiar tidal wave of desire, lust and love.

He loved kissing Hermione, Harry thought fuzzily, loved kissing her more every time. Loved the familiarity of her lips, her taste…

He loved that he knew her so well now.

He knew the way she felt against him, knew the way she tasted, the way her tongue caressed his.

He knew the smooth, seductive softness of her bare skin, knew where to touch her and how.

He knew the way she shivered when he caressed her a certain way, knew the way she would let out a breathy sigh when he kissed and licked the little hollow of her throat and the spot where her neck met her shoulder.

He knew the absolutely breathtaking beauty of her body when she was completely naked and lying on her bed, looking up at him with her eyes dilated and dark with passion, a sight that never failed to send a jolt of pure lust and possessiveness through his body.

He knew the responsiveness of her, knew the fire of her.

She slipped her hands between them to skim her fingers lightly, arousingly, over his chest and then down to wrap her hand around him, squeezing gently, almost teasingly, and his breath caught in his throat on a strangled groan.

Oh yes, he knew her so well and he knew that she could still surprise him sometimes with her boldness and how uninhibited she could be with him. He loved that she could still surprise him…

He opened his eyes that had fallen shut as he slid inside the hot, wet, tight warmth of her, feeling her clench around him in that way that he knew she knew drove him mad with want and sent a shudder of tormented arousal through him. He knew the seductive, half-amused glint in her eye when she did something like that, when all he could do in response was kiss her, his tongue thrusting deep inside her mouth, claiming her, possessing her…

He knew the feel of her under him, surrounding him, the feel of her hands bringing him in even closer, deeper, encouraging him to begin to move.

And he knew the tell-tale signs that signaled the beginning of rapture, knew the quick, short pants of her breath and the deepened flush on her cheeks and the way her muscles clenched around him. He knew the sounds of her, the way she gasped and cried out, the sound of her voice as she came with her name on his lips.

And he knew how the sight and sound of her hardly ever failed to push him over the edge until he was falling, flying, dying, tumbling into the mind-blowing, amazing ecstasy that he somehow knew he could only find with her followed by the oblivion of absolute satiation as he collapsed on top of her, rolling over, his arms keeping her close to him.

He knew the warmth and the weight of her lying on top of him and knew that these were really the moments he loved best, more than all the passion and joy of their love-making, the quiet moments of closeness and tenderness afterwards. When she rested on top of him, her head fitting onto his shoulder as if it had been made to rest there; when it seemed as if their hearts were beating in unison and he could no longer distinguish between where his heart and soul ended and where hers began; when he knew that there was absolutely nothing and no one else in the world he wanted…

He felt rather than heard her sigh slightly as she brushed her lips on the bare skin of his shoulder in a fleeting caress and almost sensed her breathe his name, so softly it was just barely audible. “My Harry…” and the tone and the words made his name an endearment.

He would have smiled but the moment was too poignant, too precious, for smiles and only let his eyes drift closed as a lingering warmth filled his chest.

He was hers, he thought, and she was his… And he knew with a knowledge that touched his mind and his heart and his soul, that this, he and Hermione being together, would last beyond just a summer, last beyond even their lifetimes… Would last forever…

~The End~