Something More

Disclaimer: All things HP don’t belong to me; I just borrow.

Author’s Note: Inspired by the lovely and hot manip made by mmefleiss from Dan’s promo pics from ‘Equus’ (

http://community.livejournal.com/harryhermione/1715603.html). For my dear Amethyst, whose wonderful fic, “The Prefect’s Bath” provided some much-needed inspiration.

Something More

“Harry?”

Harry’s head snapped up and he grabbed frantically for the towel which he’d just put down to cover himself. “Hermione! Don’t come in! I- I’m not--”

He choked on his words and his breath as she ignored him and slipped inside the Prefect’s bathroom. She was wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe. God, I hope she’s wearing something underneath that.

His eyes wandered to her bare calves, lean and shapely, which he could see since the robe only went down to just past her knees before he managed to yank them away, moving upwards over her body before they stopped, his heart seeming to stop as well, at the patch of bare skin of her throat and upper chest revealed by the folds of the robe.

He swallowed hard, as his hand tightened convulsively on the towel that was the only thing covering him from her eyes, thankful that, at the moment, shock was keeping him from reacting in any way that might prove embarrassing.

He found his voice. “What are you doing here?”

Her eyes met his and then lowered, a delicate flush covering her cheeks. “I- er- I wanted to talk to you.”

“Here?!” He mentally winced at how his voice had gone up an octave.

“I wanted to- to say—to offer—that is—if you ever want, um, anything, I’m here for you.” She took a breath, seeming to brace herself, before she looked up at him, meeting his eyes squarely. “I’ll do anything for you.”

Given where they were, what she was wearing and, more than anything, what he was—or was not, more accurately—wearing, the real ramifications of her words were unmistakable.

He stumbled back a few steps in shock, staring at her as if she’d grown a second head—and to his horror, he realized that his body had obviously stopped listening to the demands of his brain because he was reacting, against his will, to Hermione’s presence and her state of dress and her words and- and, well, everything. He was only a boy—and she, his body had clearly recognized now, was a girl with- with parts— and he’d clearly lost his mind. He could not—he refused—to be thinking about Hermione like that.

Her eyes lowered to the evidence of his body’s insanity, making him blush hotly—before he forgot his own embarrassment as he saw her begin to loosen her bathrobe, baring her shoulders.

She had beautiful shoulders, he thought before he hastily slammed a mental door on that train of thought. No, no, no, no, no—he could not, would not, think of Hermione like that.

“Don’t!”

His voice was harsher than he’d intended it to be as it burst out of him—and successful as her hands stilled.

She seemed to be struggling for words before she finally said, “If you want me…”

He was beginning to wonder if he’d fallen and hit his head on something hard—but, no, this was beyond anything he might ever have imagined or dreamed… “I can’t!” he burst out and then hastily added, mendaciously, out of sheer desperation, “I don’t!”

That did it. She turned to the door and he was just beginning to feel relief when he heard her soft hitch of breath. Was that—was that a sob?

“Okay.” Her voice was soft, wounded—and it sent a piercing pain through his own chest. Okay?! There was nothing remotely okay about any of this! And the fact that he could hear hurt in her voice was the most wrong thing ever.

“I’m sorry. I just—I thought you might—I was worried—and- and I’m sorry. It’s okay.” And then he heard her say, more to herself than to him, the one thing that completely demolished any resistance he might have had. “I should have known you wouldn’t want me…”

Afterwards, he was never sure which part of what she’d said had done more to send all his defenses crashing to the ground. She was worried- about him—he wondered, briefly, how she’d known, somehow sensed that he was troubled. (It was why he’d snuck down here to the Prefect’s bath, despite the late hour, hoping a soak in warm water would soothe him after the nightmare he’d had and the other worries and fears that kept him up at nights lately.) She said it was okay—when it clearly wasn’t, as far as she was concerned—because she didn’t want him to feel badly. And she- she somehow thought that it was because he couldn’t want her as a- as a girl—in that way—that made him reject her when his body was clearly willing. And all those things combined to fill his chest with a dangerous warmth, a sudden need to comfort her—and be comforted by her in return.

He closed the distance between them in a few quick steps, reaching out one hand to touch her, briefly, lightly, on her bare shoulder.

She stilled, her breath catching in her throat.

“Hermione, no, it’s not—that’s not it,” he began, his voice quiet and uncertain, not knowing exactly what he was going to say, only knowing that somehow, he needed to erase this hurt. He couldn’t stand it if he’d hurt her… “I- I do want you,” he confessed, unsteadily. “I just—I can’t use you like that, Hermione. I won’t. You- you mean too much to me; I can’t do that to you, to our friendship…” he trailed off.

For a moment, she was so still that he wondered if he’d just mucked things up even worse with what he’d said, if he’d somehow managed to hurt her even more.

And then… “You wouldn’t be using me. I- I want you too.” Her last words were so quiet he could hardly hear them, even standing as close to her as he was—and for a moment, he was convinced he’d imagined them. Then again, he didn’t think his imagination right now would be that nice to him, since his imagination had lately been busy imagining all sorts of worst-case scenarios for what would happen with the horcrux hunt and with facing Voldemort and the final battle and everything.

His hand tightened almost imperceptibly on her shoulder. “You- you do?”

She nodded, her hair shifting slightly around her shoulders. Her bare shoulders. Her very smooth, very soft, very pretty bare shoulders. (He’d never known before that shoulders could be pretty—and that the sight of just a girl’s bare shoulders could make his body even harder—except it wasn’t just any girl’s shoulders; it was Hermione… And somehow, incredibly, in spite of the fact that he could have sworn he’d never thought of Hermione in that way, he was somehow not surprised that he would find just Hermione’s shoulders so arousing—because it was Hermione and she was… was just different…)

He stepped closer to her until he was close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body through her bathrobe heating his skin. “Are you sure?” he asked, his lips inches from her hair.

She caught her breath again at his nearness and he knew a flicker of pleasure at this indication that she felt some of this same, new, mesmerizing attraction that he did, before she breathed, “Yes.”

Just the one word—but somehow, in that moment, it became, he decided, the most arousing, and the most beautiful, word in the English language. The softness of her voice, the—tenderness—of it, twined around his heart, warming his chest and tugging him inexorably closer to her.

God, she was—she was so—precious to him, he thought in a moment of pure emotion before he lost all interest in his heart to the over-riding desires of his unruly body.

And in the last moment before he took that last metaphorical step and crossed the line between platonic friendship and very un-platonic, um, something-else-entirely, he decided that he was going to do his damnedest to make sure she enjoyed it.

He touched his lips to her shoulder, letting his hand slide down to rest on her arm. She sucked in a sharp breath as her head fell forward with a sort of breathy moan, exposing more of her shoulder and her neck to him. He trailed his lips along her shoulder and the back of her neck, nudging aside her hair, before moving up to find her ear and nipping lightly at her ear-lobe, making her gasp and then step back to press her body against him, his arousal nudging the small of her back just above her backside.

It was his turn to gasp and then wonder vaguely that neither his towel nor her robe had caught fire from the heat of his body, her body, their bodies touching…

His hands wandered at will over the cloth of her robe, exploring her, caressing her sides and her stomach but not yet daring to move upwards until she shifted even closer to him, one hand closing over his and placing it on her breast—and he thought he might die except he refused to die this early, refused to die without experiencing all of this wonderful thing…

Her robe might as well have been made out of lace or not been there at all for how much he could feel through it, how much she reacted, how much he reacted. He cupped her breast, squeezed it gently, palmed it feeling her nipple harden through the terrycloth (and he decided terrycloth was the most erotic material ever) before he brought his other hand up to do the same to her other breast, loving how she gave a sort of mewling moan.

And then she spun around, her arms going around his neck, and flattened herself against him as she kissed him with more force than accuracy, before the kiss gentled, became more- more- more right—and he just allowed himself to taste her, his tongue to explore the warm wetness of her mouth…

Her hands slid down his shoulders, exploring the skin of his back and then down to the towel that had been his only barrier and just like that, at her touch, his loosely-knotted towel fell away. His entire body stiffened—and not in the good way—breaking off their drugging kiss as she stared at him, her eyes wandering from his chest to the muscles of his stomach to the thin trail of hair that drew her eyes down, down to his jutting erection—and then back up to meet his eyes.

Her gaze seemed to burn him as much as her touch ever had and he fought the impulse to either cover himself or to squirm or to retreat in some panic before his lungs and his throat simply seized, stopped functioning, at the gleam in her eyes. A slight smile curved her lips and he stared, his few remaining brain cells struck dumb, as before his eyes, the girl he’d always thought of as just his best friend, the nice, clever bookworm, became a temptress, a siren, his every erotic fantasy brought to life.

Slowly, very slowly, painfully slowly, she undid the knot that held her bathrobe together, letting the folds fall apart and even her robe seemed to be in on the conspiracy to drive him stark raving mad because the folds parted slowly, revealing inch by beautiful inch of skin, first one leg, long and shapely, and then her slightly-rounded stomach and then one breast and then another and just when he thought he really was going to die, the robe slid down to her feet, leaving her standing there deliciously naked. All the blood in his body was rushing south at an alarming rate, leaving him so dizzy he wondered how he was managing to stand upright.

Another slight smile and then she turned away and headed towards the bathtub, and with a few flicks of her wand, warming the water and making bubbles appear, filling the room with a subtle, delightful smell that was something vaguely like vanilla, a smell that tantalized, enticed, seduced.

She stepped into the bathtub slowly, every inch of what seemed like endless, beautiful, soft, perfect skin being concealed in the water and underneath the bubbles and he wondered how the concealment was just as arousing as the undressing had been. “Care to join me?” she threw over her shoulder at him and he came back to life with a jolt.

The water was warm but felt cool against his over-heated skin as he slid inside the tub and before he had time to do more than let out his breath in a soft sigh, she had joined him, her arms sliding around him, her body against his, warm and slick and soft, and then she was kissing him again…

His hands seemed to have taken on a life and a mind of their own (which was good because for the life of him, his brain couldn’t seem to function) and wandered over her body, touching, caressing, every inch of the skin she’d revealed to him, noting every gasp, every moan, every shudder, every cry she gave. The sounds of her arousal made him bolder and he slid his hand to touch that one part of her body he’d never touched, that slick, secret spot between her legs. Her head fell back, her hands which had been touching him, falling away helplessly as she arched her back, silently begging for more. Experimentally, he moved his hand, sliding one finger further into her wetness and she cried out. The sight of her, her head thrown back, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen and slightly parted, the sound of her—it was all too much for him and he stopped abruptly, kissing her again, more forcefully, his tongue plunging into her mouth, his hands cupping her hips, her legs wrapping around him as he surged into her.

She stiffened and cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders—and the sudden realization that he’d hurt her sliced through his arousal and his lust quicker than anything else could have. He stilled. Ohgodohgodohgod… He was burning, dying, was going to die if he couldn’t move but he’d hurt her and he couldn’t hurt her and oh god… He tried frantically to think of something—anything—other than the tight, slick, wetness of her surrounding him, tried to think about horcruxes—god, she was so hot, so wet—Hagrid—her body molded against his, fit against him perfectly—McGonagall—so tight, so wet, so perfect… He gave up.

“Harry…” she breathed, her lips touching his throat as she shifted, rocked against him in a silent signal that he could continue.

Oh thank gods…

He kissed her again, his tongue sliding against hers, every nerve and every sense in his body completely preoccupied with the silken warmth of her flesh around him, the softness of her skin under his hands, the scent of her hair, her soft gasps as he thrust inside her, slowly—until she tightened around him, urging him on and he drove into her deeper, clenching his jaw as he fought back the incipient explosion.

Water sloshed around them, splashing out of the tub and onto the floor, but they were both past the point of caring. Everything that wasn’t sensory and directly related to the two of them, their bodies moving rhythmically against each other was only peripheral and entirely insignificant now.

He was going to die…

But then he felt her muscles clench convulsively around him, her head falling back with a cry in which his name was very vaguely recognizable, and he gave himself up to the force and the power of his own orgasm, exploding inside her with a shout and a shudder and gasps for breath.

She collapsed against him, trembling from her release, her lips brushing fleeting, caressing kisses against his neck and his throat and his collar-bone and his shoulder, as he slid out of her reluctantly but not letting go of her completely.

She let out a soft sigh, her breath tickling his neck, as she nuzzled him. His hands stroked her back in leisurely, idle caresses, his mind empty of everything except that he didn’t want to end this just yet. He wanted to hold on to her, wanted to be this close to her, wanted to touch her—more, again, forever…

He had no idea how many minutes passed by before she broke the silence but then what she said jerked him out of the pleasant peace he’d been reveling in.

“That was… wonderful. Thank you.”

Suddenly, somehow, those last two words, thank you, had a nasty sound to them. They sounded so- so final.

He stiffened again, his hands falling from her body as he pulled away from her. “I- wait,” he croaked, rather irrationally as she hadn’t yet moved to go anywhere. “Was… was this just a shag?”

She paused, flushing, her eyes closing briefly as if to gather her thoughts or her strength or something. “Wasn’t it?”

“No!” he burst out without thought. “No,” he repeated a little more calmly. “I… it was… I want it to be more than that. This- you…” he stumbled over his words, not sure how to express exactly what he was feeling (he didn’t know what he was feeling except he didn’t want to lose this, whatever-it-was he’d found with Hermione). “I… I want it to be more…” he finished lamely.

He waited tensely, not daring to breathe, hardly daring to think, just studying her, seeing her—her familiar features, her bushy hair, her eyes, her lips, all of her in a way he somehow never had before, seeing her not just as his best friend, not even as the girl he’d just shagged enthusiastically and who had just given him the best experience of his life to date, but the one person who’d always been there for him, the one person whom he couldn’t do without…

The smile began deep in her eyes and then spread to her lips, illuminating her face until she looked so beautiful his heart stuttered in his chest at the sight, clenching with an odd sort-of ache, before she flung herself at him, making the water churn even more around them.

“Oh Harry! Of course it’s more. It’s us; it’ll always be more…”

He closed his arms around her, relishing in the feel of her body once more pressed against his, breathing in her scent and felt a little knot of tension he hadn’t been aware of until then unwind and loosen, relaxing. In some part of his mind, he knew that what she’d said might not mean that much to anyone else, might even sound almost nonsensical to a stranger—but he knew, he understood. And she was right—as always. It was them, him and her, and they had shared too much, meant too much to each other, for it to ever be just a shag or just about lust…

He kissed her softly, tenderly, letting his kiss tell her what he felt, as an unfamiliar sense of calm, of peace, settled over him.

He’d come to the Prefects’ bathroom in search of some relaxation, something to help him sleep without nightmares; he’d found something more… Something new and unique and powerful, something that would last and be his anchor and his strength, come what may… Just something more—something forever…

~The End~