Something to Hold On To

Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 18/07/2007
Last Updated: 18/07/2007
Status: completed

Some part of him was telling him he shouldn't be here-- but another part of him told him that this was Hermione and she was hurt and so the only place he needed to be was with her, trying to comfort her... AU of the canary scene from HBP. One-shot smut.

Chapters

1. The Upside of Stupidity

1. The Upside of Stupidity

Disclaimer: Given that this is an AU of HBP—and smut, to boot—is it really necessary to say that I’m not JKR and am making no money off of this?

Author’s Note: Written for the harmonic_erotic LJ community’s Smutify Canon Challenge for July. The canary scene as it should have been—that is, sans canaries, sans Lavender and Won-won’s interruption, sans, well, most of that scene period. And in my world, Harry’s chest-monster was strangled at birth so Ginny!Sue never happened either. The first, italicized part is, of course, from HBP—at which point this fic goes (very obviously) completely off the canon!rails. Enjoy!

Something to Hold On To

(Or ‘The Upside of Stupidity’)

~~

Harry turned away from Ron, who did not look like he would be surfacing soon, just as the portrait hole was closing. With a sinking feeling, he thought he saw a mane of bushy brown hair whipping out of sight.

He darted forward, sidestepped Romilda Vane again, and pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady. The corridor outside seemed to be deserted.

"Hermione?"

He found her in the first unlocked classroom he tried. She was sitting on the teacher's desk, alone except for a small ring of twittering yellow birds circling her head, which she had clearly just conjured out of midair. Harry could not help admiring her spellwork at a time like this.

"Oh, hello, Harry," she said in a brittle voice. "I was just practicing."

"Yeah . . . they're — er — really good. ..." said Harry.

He had no idea what to say to her. He was just wondering whether there was any chance that she had not noticed Ron, that she had merely left the room because the party was a little too rowdy, when she said, in an unnaturally high-pitched voice, "Ron seems to be enjoying the celebrations."

"Er . . . does he?" said Harry.

"Don't pretend you didn't see him," said Hermione. "He wasn't exactly hiding it, was he?”

~

Part of him wished fervently that he’d never thought to follow Hermione. Part of him—his cautious side (ironically, the one that spoke in Hermione’s voice in his head) was telling him that he really should not be here, that this was one of those times where Hermione was best left alone—but that was over-ridden by the rest of him, the part of him insisting that Hermione was his best friend and she was hurt and upset, so the only place he needed to be right now was with her, trying, somehow, to comfort her.

“Erm… I don’t know,” he said dumbly.

She hesitated and then said, in a voice so eerily calm and yet so brittle Harry half expected it to shatter midway through, “I suppose you’re here to tell me that Ron’s got a perfect right to snog whomever he pleases.”

He blinked and stared. “What? No, of course not.” Aside from the fact that saying any such thing would be an act of positively suicidal stupidity, he’d never thought such a thing.

“But you always take Ron’s side.”

He felt a flicker of shame. “I don’t—do I?” He didn’t—did he? He couldn’t—would he be so unfair to Hermione? As if Ron was his real best friend and Hermione only the friend he let hang around with them on sufferance? No! Everything inside him rejected that notion. She was his best friend, just as much as Ron was. (Sometimes, a small voice inside him inserted, she was more his best friend than Ron was. Remember the First Task…)

She sighed, feeling a tug of remorse break through her hurt and her anger at the stricken look in Harry’s eyes. “No, you don’t. I’m sorry I said that, Harry. I’m just—I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“No, it’s all right.” He paused, hesitated again, and then added, “I’m sorry about Ron and Lavender.”

She let out a sound that he could almost have sworn was—a growl? “Lavender!” With an angry flick of her wand, she made the canaries disappear. “I mean, really!” She glowered in silence at the floor for a minute before, somehow, her anger ebbed away and she suddenly just looked tired. Discouraged.

He took an involuntary step closer to her, not sure what he planned to do but not able to help it either.

“What’s wrong with me, Harry?” There was a world of vulnerability, of incipient hurt, in her tone, her eyes, as she looked up at him. “I mean, I know I’m not pretty but I’m not that ugly, am I? How could Ron fancy Lavender—Lavender, of all girls!—and not me? Why doesn’t anyone fancy me?”

“That’s not true,” Harry responded automatically. “What about Krum?”

A fleeting smile crossed her face. “Oh, Viktor… I think he just liked me because I was different and I didn’t care about his fame, because I didn’t like Quidditch all that much, and he was tired of all the fan-girls following him around. I don’t think he ever really knew me, though. How could he? We never even talked before he asked me to go to the Yule Ball with him and we didn’t really talk much even after that.” She paused again and then added, glumly, “Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe it’s just getting to know me that makes fellows not fancy me and only boys who don’t really know me can fancy me.”

“Hermione!” Harry protested, at a loss for words. He’d never imagined that Hermione—whom he always thought of as being so strong, so confident, the know-it-all—could be so vulnerable—but after all, he supposed, he should have known it too. Maybe, after all, her confidence was just a cover-up for her vulnerability? He remembered how upset she’d gotten at Trelawney saying she had no skill at Divination, remembered thinking, even then, that her reaction had been somewhat disproportionate to her professed disdain for the subject. Admittedly, Trelawney was a bit of a fraud—but still, maybe that was really it. Hermione did lack confidence and that was why she tried so hard to know everything, why she studied harder than everyone else, why she always had to prove she knew as much as she did… He blinked at her, feeling oddly as if he were finally getting to know Hermione.

“That’s not true,” he blurted out, not sure what he could say but knowing he needed to say something, to assure her that none of her fears were true. “You’re not ugly; you’re pretty. And—and don’t mind Ron. He’s just—an idiot,” he added hastily, mentally wincing at this blatant disloyalty to Ron. And yet—he couldn’t help but think—in this way, it was true. Ron really was being an idiot, to fancy Lavender over Hermione. He looked at Hermione as if for the first time, seeing the familiar features, the bushy hair, though somewhat tamer now, her eyes, dark now with hurt and vulnerability—her lips…

He blinked. What was he doing, staring at Hermione’s lips? What was he doing, wondering what her lips would taste like, feel like?

He pictured Lavender—and shuddered almost in spite of himself. Who would fancy Lavender over Hermione? Lavender, who aside from all else, was so patently silly? Harry had never talked to her much, didn’t know her that well, but even he knew enough to know that he’d find Lavender distinctly irritating if he had to spend any amount of time in her presence.

And Hermione? Hermione, who aside from being pretty, was the smartest, most loyal girl he knew? Hermione, who was also kind? He knew perfectly well that Hermione was probably the only person who’d never been mean to Neville; even Ron could be mean to Neville, in that thoughtless way of his. Harry knew that he himself didn’t have a perfect record where Neville was concerned—but Hermione? He tried to remember a time when Hermione had been mean to anyone—tried and failed. Oh, Hermione wasn’t nice to people like Malfoy but then again, Malfoy deserved it and much worse, for being the slimy git that he was—and even then, it wasn’t as if Hermione was really mean to Malfoy. He didn’t think Hermione had a cruel bone in her body.

“Hermione, don’t mind Ron, really. He’s being an idiot,” Harry blurted out thoughtlessly. “Any bloke who doesn’t fancy you is a daft git.”

He stopped, hearing his own words in his head—and realized two things that hit him with all the force of a tree falling on his head. It was true—and he did fancy Hermione himself.

Who could fancy any girl over Hermione? He had a fleeting mental image of Romilda Vane, who was honestly beginning to frighten him with her persistence—and mentally recoiled. There was no girl who could compare to Hermione—not even Cho, not Ginny, not anyone… Not because Hermione was necessarily prettier than they were but simply because, with her, he knew so much more than just her prettiness… He knew her loyalty and her kindness, knew how she could make him smile, knew how much she cared—enough to tell him when she thought he was being reckless (and she’d been right, a small voice in his head inserted.) And he knew, too, just how he’d feel if anything ever happened to her. He knew he needed her.

Hermione was staring at him, all traces of vulnerability lost in sheer surprise. But then, the light that had begun to shine in her eyes was extinguished. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” she said flatly.

And Harry was surprised to feel a surge of hot anger at Ron for so blithely trampling on Hermione’s feelings. Especially when he was so lucky as to have Hermione fancy him… (Harry was conscious of being, suddenly, fiercely jealous of Ron as well.) How could Ron do that to Hermione? Even if he didn’t fancy Hermione in return (although at the moment, Harry couldn’t imagine how any boy, let alone Ron who’d given every indication of fancying Hermione, could not fancy Hermione), how could he be so cruel as to flaunt Lavender the way he did, snogging in the Common Room like that? Ron was his best friend—he didn’t think anything could really change that now—but at the moment, Harry really didn’t like Ron all that much.

“No, I’m not!” he denied emphatically. “It’s true. Honestly, Hermione, you’re pretty and you’re smart and you’re nice—how could any boy not fancy you?” He stopped short, suddenly almost terrified at how he’d blurted out so much, feeling uncomfortably laid bare before her. Even if this was Hermione and he trusted her more than anyone else he knew—he was still reeling from his revelation that he fancied Hermione himself. He didn’t know if he could—if he wanted to tell her now. But in his desperation to comfort her, to erase that bruised look from her eyes, none of that mattered anymore.

“Do- do you really mean that?” she finally asked in a whisper.

He almost squirmed. “Erm—yes,” he admitted rather reluctantly—but after all, what could he say? He couldn’t lie to her and it was true…

A small smile curved her lips. “Thanks, Harry. You’re sweet but you know it’s not true. You don’t even fancy me.”

The small, resigned-looking smile still lingered on her lips. There was no reproach, no hurt, in her tone, only acceptance. As if boys not fancying her—as if him not fancying her—was an immutable fact, like the sun rising in the east or something, and not something to really mourn.

And it would have been easy—so easy—for him to make light of it, to quip, “Well, I never said I wasn’t a daft git,” or something like that.

He should say that. He knew she wasn’t ready to hear that he fancied her—he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear that he fancied her…

He opened his mouth—but somehow, his throat closed up on the words. And instead, he heard his own voice blurt out, “Yes, I do.”

The silence that followed positively deafened him; he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears and was only surprised that no one else could hear it since, to him, it sounded loud enough to make the castle shake.

She stared at him—rather as if he’d just sprouted a second head, or just announced that he was planning to become a Death Eater, or something.

He swallowed hard, painfully. This was why he hadn’t wanted to tell her, partly because he still needed time to assimilate the newfound knowledge that somehow, some way, he fancied Hermione, but mostly because he knew this was absolutely the wrong time to tell her. She was still upset over Ron, still jealous of Lavender—still fancied Ron.

He’d only wanted to comfort her, to make sure she wasn’t too upset, to be her friend (since, at the moment, it looked like Ron and Hermione were on the verge of one of their silent periods)—instead his stupid words might just have ensured that Hermione wasn’t speaking to either of her best friends in future.

He mentally flinched at the thought—and then he fled.

There was no other word for it—and at any other time, he might have been ashamed of it, his abject cowardice (it was cowardice, he knew that)-- but right then, at that moment, it was the only thing he could think to do. It was just too excruciatingly awkward to be there in that room with Hermione after he’d just blurted out that he fancied her and knowing that she fancied Ron.

He managed to make it all of 10 feet away from the door.

“Harry!”

He stopped. Turned to look at her.

“Did you mean it?” she asked softly.

Slowly, he moved closer to her. “Yes.”

And then to his horror, her face seemed to crumple and she abruptly spun away from him, covering her face with her hands.

Now he closed the distance between them in a few long steps, stopping just in front of her. He put a tentative hand on her shoulder. “Don’t cry,” he pleaded. “God, Hermione, please don’t cry.” In a lame attempt to make her laugh, he added, “I didn’t realize that the idea of being fancied by me was so scary.”

She let out a small choked laugh and finally turned to face him, her hands falling from her face. And he realized that she hadn’t really been crying. In spite of a few tears that still lingered on her lashes, she was smiling, smiling a brilliant smile that illuminated her entire face and made her look so beautiful his breath caught in his throat. (Had he ever thought Hermione was simply pretty? She was so much more than that; she was beautiful…)

“Oh, Harry, do you have any idea how long I waited to hear you say that?”

He stared at her, completely stunned. With anyone else, he might have wondered if they were lying or wonder at how shallow their feelings were to be so easily transferable—but this was Hermione and he knew how honest she was and he knew, too, that she was as far from shallow or fickle as possible. “But—but Ron--” he began.

She shook her head, blushing even more. “That was because I gave up on you,” she admitted. “I fancied you first; it was always you—but I gave up because I didn’t think you’d ever see me that way. It just seemed so clear after last year, the whole Cho thing, that you didn’t really see me as a girl at all; I was just your best mate, Hermione. So I gave up and thought that I could learn to fancy Ron who, at least, fancied me, or so I thought. And Ron was just—simpler, somehow, easier… And then Lavender--” she paused, hesitated, and then continued rather sheepishly, “—I was jealous but it’s more because I’d somehow gotten to think of Ron as being, well, mine, if I wanted him and it did make me angry to think that Ron would choose someone like Lavender over me.”

“Ron’s an idiot,” Harry repeated but his voice was gentle, almost affectionate—and really, at that moment, Harry decided he was thankful to Ron for being an idiot, for not seeing what he could have had in Hermione. Thankful to Ron for the convenient blindness that had somehow managed to make Harry realize just what Hermione was—or what she could be—to him. “And I was an idiot too,” he added frankly.

She smiled into his eyes. “Luckily for me, you’re a faster learner than Ron is.”

He stared, almost mesmerized by her, by the little things he’d never really noticed before but saw now, the flecks of amber and gold in her eyes, the smooth, flushed softness of her cheek, the curve of her upper lip and the way her lower lip was just a tiny fraction fuller than her upper one…

He sensed rather than heard the slight hitch in her breath as her gaze flickered down to his lips.

On his part, he hardly needed this extra push to focus on her mouth—had her mouth always been so kissable? He wondered if he could be imagining it but somehow, he could swear that in the candlelight of the room, her lips were positively glistening.

The air between them was suddenly electric, the atmosphere charged and heavy with pure physical attraction.

All this flitted through his mind in the space of a second, a second in which his breath grew short as did hers.

And then he kissed her. With infinite gentleness at first, his lips touched hers, felt the warmth and softness of her lips. (He was kissing Hermione! Part of him still couldn’t believe he wanted to kiss her but he did—and somehow, it was perfect.) He was aware on some level that was almost instinctive of the slight puff of her breath against his cheek, of the softness of her lips, of the warmth he could feel radiating from her body…

Tentatively, he parted his lips to trace his tongue across the seam of her lips—her lips that parted for him almost immediately, welcoming him inside to taste her, savor her. At the same moment, she stepped fractionally closer to him, closing the scant distance between their bodies until she was pressed full-length against him. His arms closed around her automatically, bringing her in even closer.

He had hugged her before, her full-length hugs where she’d almost thrown herself at him. He might have thought—if he’d bothered to think about it—that holding her now would be similar—but it wasn’t. Oh, it wasn’t. Now, he was supremely conscious of every inch of her warm body pressed against his, the feeling of her breasts flattened against his chest (even through the layers of their clothing, it was the most erotic thing he’d ever felt), the length of her legs, and more than that, he was excruciatingly conscious of the growing hardness in his trousers nudging her body…

His lips slanted across hers, parting even more to allow his tongue more freedom in exploring the depths of her mouth, tracing the line of her teeth and engaging in a half-playful, wholly arousing duel with hers.

His hands which had been flat on her back seemed to develop a mind of their own and made their way under her shirt, tugging it out from where it was tucked into her jeans, so they could touch the smooth, bare skin of her back. God, her skin felt so good, so perfect… he could feel himself rapidly becoming addicted to the feel of her skin against his hands. His hands wandered in a pleasurable exploration of her back, brushing against the strap of her bra but not daring to do anything more. He just wanted to touch her skin…

She gasped, breaking the heated kiss for the first time, her head falling back, and he knew a fleeting moment of disappointment before he realized that his lips could still be very happily occupied elsewhere. Acting on instinct more than any sort of knowledge—since he didn’t have any knowledge of this—his lips brushed soft, fleeting kisses along the line of her jaw, up to the slight hollow before her ear, kissing her earlobe, before resuming its path of feathering kisses along her cheek to her nose and then across to her other ear, learning with his lips the features of her face—the face he already knew so well. And if the soft sighs and breathless little whimpers she gave were any indication, she was enjoying it almost as much as he was.

Encouraged and emboldened, his lips continued on downwards to her neck as her head fell back even more granting him further access. He pressed a kiss to the delicate skin in the hollow of her throat and then, on impulse, touched his tongue to it as well.

She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair as she brought his mouth back to hers and kissed him hard. And this time, she was the one to take the initiative in the kiss, her tongue making its way into his mouth until he could almost feel his thoughts (what few thoughts he had left) scattering, disintegrating.

She arched slightly against him, pressing herself more firmly against his erect body and he groaned. Oh God… He wrenched his mouth away from hers with a gasp, struggling for some coherence. “Um, we’d better stop,” he managed to get out.

He deserved to be sainted for saying this, for suggesting they stop, he thought vaguely—except for the fact that his thoughts and what he really wanted to do were so profoundly unsaint-like.

“What if I don’t want to stop?” she whispered, her breath hot against his already-heated skin and his mouth, sending a slight, reactive shiver through him. “I want this.”

“Hermione,” he half-groaned. “Are you sure?”

Part of him—the part of his body that was hard and aching—was shrieking that he was being an idiot. What was he doing giving her another chance to back out?

Her lips curved into a slow smile that could only be described as sensual. He could only stare at her, seeing the flush of arousal on her cheeks, her lips swollen from his kisses—and his brain captured that image of her like a snapshot, to remember and treasure. He’d never seen anything or anyone quite as lovely as she was right then—and he wanted her. God, how he wanted her…

“I want you,” she said softly, and then one hand deliberately wandered down his body in a light caress before pressing against the bulge in his trousers. He flinched in spite of himself at the exquisite torment of it. “Hermione!”

For a split second, he couldn’t decide which he found more arousing, her words or her touch—but then she leaned forward to press her lips to his neck, flicking her tongue teasingly against the spot where his pulse was beating madly. Her touch. Definitely her touch.

His mind was reeling from how quickly this could happen, how she could go from simply being his best friend to being the girl he fancied, the girl he wanted to kiss so much he thought he might die if he didn’t kiss her—and now to being this girl, deliberately inciting, inviting, all sorts of highly un-platonic, delightfully wicked things…

And then she moved her hand—and what little remained of his hesitation vanished just like that, as he groaned.

She was going to be the death of him. He was going to die—but oh, what a way to go…

He cupped her face between his hands, his fingers sliding to tangle in her hair, as he kissed her. And something about the decision being made, knowing that this wasn’t going to end with kissing, made the kiss seem even hotter than anything that had come before.

Her hands were busy pushing his robes off his shoulders and then tugging his shirt out of his trousers so she could touch him, her hands hot and curious as they explored his chest and his stomach. Her touch burned him—and in some corner of his mind, he registered a flicker of surprise. She had touched him before, on the shoulder, on the arm, on his hand, even fleetingly against his leg (one time after Quidditch when he’d been hit on the leg by a Bludger) or his face and he’d never reacted, had hardly noticed other than sometimes registering the comfort or the concern expressed in the gesture. Maybe it was something about her touching him underneath his clothing that made this so different but his every nerve ending felt seared by her touch, by every movement of her fingers.

His own hands left off from where they’d been tangling in her hair (her hair was surprisingly soft and slipped through his fingers like silk—he didn’t know what he’d been expecting if he’d expected anything but somehow, with the bushiness of her hair, he hadn’t counted on how soft it would feel) and returned to slide under the hem of her shirt, untucked from his earlier forays into exploring her bare skin.

Hesitantly, with a daring that rather surprised him, he slid his hands slowly up the smooth skin of her stomach until he was cupping her breasts through her bra. And even if she’d said she wanted this, even if he’d given in and knew that this wasn’t going to stop with simple kissing or simple touching either (was touching simple?)—he half expected her to stop him, to push him away, maybe even hex him. She didn’t. Instead she made a soft, sort of mewling sound in the back of her throat and arched her back, pushing herself more firmly into his hands. And even through the cloth of her bra, it was quite possibly the best thing he’d ever felt.

He cupped her breasts gently, moved his hands in a sort of exploratory caress, before lightly squeezing them. They were, perhaps, rather small but they felt perfect, fit his hands perfectly…

My God, he was touching Hermione’s breasts! He’d never thought—well, he’d known Hermione had them, of course, but he’d never actually thought about them as such—well, ok, so that wasn’t entirely true. There had been fleeting times in the past year or so when he’d accidentally looked down at her or idly noticed the curve of them in her shirt—he was a guy, after all, and those moments happened—but never had he imagined touching them. And he’d never dreamed that they could feel so good, that just touching them could send so much fire racing through his body to settle in his already painfully hard arousal.

And the sounds she was making, the soft gasps, little whimpers, were almost as arousing as touching her was.

He opened his eyes to stare at her, momentarily breaking off the kiss to stare at her—and God, she took his breath away, looking as aroused as she was. He couldn’t help but think that it might be lucky he’d never realized Hermione could be this hot or he’d never have survived being platonic friends with her for so many years—and he knew he’d never be able to look at her again without seeing her as she was now, her face flushed with arousal, her eyes dark and dilated with passion, her lips swollen.

Her hands had succeeded in pushing his robe off his shoulders and now were tugging at his shirt with more than a hint of impatience, which he found thrilling. It was the best evidence that she felt the same fire licking at her, burning her from the inside out, as he did. And he loved knowing that she felt the same way.

He obliged, tugging off his shirt.

His hands went to her shirt, wanting to see her, but she gasped, “Harry, door.”

For a split second, he was utterly confused before the realization of what she meant broke through his hazy thoughts. He glanced behind him to see that the door was still ajar and with a wave of his wand, he shut it and locked it. (It took an inordinate amount of effort just to recall those simple spells.)

He turned back to her—to have his heart stutter in his chest. She had shrugged out of her robes and her shirt and now only her bra remained. And he forgot how to breathe.

This was really happening. He was really going to see Hermione, touch Hermione… In an empty, unused classroom. The reminder of where they were jarred at him. Because this was Hermione and she deserved more than a shag in a classroom; she deserved a bed and- and flowers—and all that girly stuff. He couldn’t give her all that, not now. (For one thing, he couldn’t remember the spells which might conjure them; at the moment, he was hard-pressed to remember his own name.)

He struggled for some coherence and then with a flick of his wand, transfigured his robes, haphazardly discarded on the floor, into a mattress. And when he looked back at her, she gave him a glowing look of affection and approval and gratitude that went straight to his heart. He felt as if he’d single-handedly defeated a dragon without his wand and with one hand tied behind his back, felt as if he was the most powerful wizard ever and had achieved some great feat of magical prowess (and not the rather basic transfiguration it really was). A fleeting thought passed through his brain: how much would he do to see her smile like that… He would do almost anything to see her smile at him…

But then she became the girl he’d known for six years. “Nice spellwork,” she said, giving him a half-teasing little smile.

“I learned from the best,” he quipped and then added more seriously, “You.”

“Oh, Harry…” she sighed and stepping forward, flattened herself against him, her arms going around his neck as she brought his head down to kiss him again.

He shivered and rapidly lost whatever coherence he might have regained in the past few seconds as he felt her bare skin and her breasts, even through the thin barrier of her bra, flattened against his bare chest.

And in his fog of arousal, he forgot all hesitation as his fingers moved up her back to unclasp her bra and then swept around to the front so he could (finally) cup and touch and explore her breasts with no barrier between them.

She broke their kiss on a gasp, her head falling back, her eyes closed as she abandoned herself to sensation and the sight of her was almost more erotic than touching her. But then he forgot to watch the play of arousal and desire and need flickering across her face, distracted by his own need to see her body as her bra slid down her arms to fall onto the heap of their discarded clothing.

God, she really was so lovely… She looked perfect, he thought with an odd combination of awe that was almost reverence and arousal and tenderness. Her breasts were small, as he’d noted, but they were absolutely perfect, full and round, her skin smooth and flawless, and peaked with nipples that were already hardened and budded even more at his touch.

He paused for a long moment just to stare at her, admire her, before he bent to take one nipple into his mouth, loving the way she cried out, her hands fluttering restlessly over his shoulders and into his hair and then back down again, as if she couldn’t decide where she wanted to touch most (and somehow, he found this uncharacteristic indecisiveness on her part so very endearing). He suckled lightly on her nipple and then, purely by accident, grazed it lightly with his teeth, only to find that she transparently liked it from the way she arched further into his mouth and the cry of pleasure that trembled on her lips. Encouraged, he turned his attention to her other breast, taking his time in the process by scattering kisses across her chest, licking here and there in random spots, before he finally reached his destination. Here, too, he repeated his actions from the other side, sucking gently and then just barely grazing her nipple with his teeth.

Her fingers tangled in his hair and brought his mouth back to hers to kiss him with a passion that scorched him, claimed him, incited him to do more… And then as if she hadn’t already managed to incinerate any coherent thoughts he had left in his brain, she set out to complete the task as she slid her hands down his shoulders and onto his chest, caressing him, stroking him. She brushed her palm over his flat nipple in a move that was oddly similar to what he had done to her and he nearly died. He’d never thought his nipples could be so sensitive but then again, he’d never imagined Hermione touching him the way she was now either.

Her hands seemed to set him on fire everywhere she touched, sending jolts of arousal sizzling through his body, the entire universe narrowing down until all that was in it, the only thing that existed was him and her and her hands touching him…

Her hand brushed against his arousal straining against his trousers and he groaned. And then he felt her hand undo the fastening of his trousers, her fingers—her wicked, clever fingers—hooking inside the waist of his boxers and pushing them down along with his trousers, freeing his erection so she could see him.

Her hot small hand closed around the aching length of him and he felt his knees buckle. God, he was going to die… Death by arousal, he just knew it.

He grasped her wrist with one hand, pulling her hand away from his body, so he could hurriedly push his trousers off the rest of the way, his hands as clumsy as if he’d suddenly lost the use of his fingers, leaving him completely naked.

She was watching him, her gaze unabashedly curious as she studied his body—and just knowing she was looking at him, seeing the curiosity warring with arousal on her face, made him harden even more (which he hadn’t thought was possible).

Slowly, his hands trembling from the control it took to move at such a slow pace when everything else inside his body was clamoring for him to move fast, to be inside her fast, he lowered her down onto the mattress and then his hands went to the fastening of her jeans.

On impulse, he dropped a quick kiss on the smooth skin of her stomach before pushing her jeans and her knickers down, baring her to his gaze inch by beautiful inch.

She gasped and squirmed, her hips arching enough for him to slide her jeans down past her hips—and then he stopped, his hands freezing, his lungs seizing. For a moment, as he stared, lust was the last thing on his mind.

There, stretched across the skin of her lower belly, was a scar, a red jagged line slashing across her skin. She had a scar…

He had a sudden flashback, the memory playing vividly across his mind like a scene from a movie, of seeing the streak of purple flame pass through her, the cruel snarl on Dolohov’s face, and worst of all, the terrible, chilling sight of how still she’d been after that. He felt a shudder go through him in reaction. He’d never known that she had a scar from that encounter in the Department of Mysteries.

Her hand moved almost instinctively to shield the scar from his gaze, her expression self-conscious now more than aroused. “I’m sorry. I forgot about that; I know it looks terrible,” she said softly

She was apologizing to him.

He was suddenly swamped with a wave of tenderness that momentarily pushed aside any desire. She looked so… small, even delicate somehow, lying on her back on the mattress, an impression only heightened by the scar on her stomach. And it floored him. He was so used to thinking of Hermione as being strong—she was strong, he of all people knew how strong she was—but right then, all he could think was that she was also vulnerable and he felt a flare of protectiveness.

He grasped her wrist gently, moving her hand away so the scar was once more visible. “No,” he said, his voice rather hoarse from emotion and passion, “you’re perfect.”

She made a small noise of protest. “I’m not.”

“You are perfect,” he breathed against her skin and in an impulse of tenderness, of caring, he pressed his lips to the slightly roughened skin of her scar. He wasn’t sure exactly how or why but somehow, it was true. She was perfect—still, in spite of the scar that marred the otherwise flawless smoothness of her skin—maybe more perfect because of the scar, because of what the scar meant, the proof of her loyalty and her friendship and her courage.

He traced his lips across her scar, even as his hands resumed their motion and slowly, gently, pushed her jeans and her knickers down the rest of the way off her legs. (Had her legs always been so long and so shapely? He’d never noticed her legs before but he was beginning to wonder if he’d been blind not to see that Hermione had such long, beautiful legs…)

His hands caressed, stroked, their way back up her legs, learning her body, until finally, his hands touched the center of her, the part of her body that was hot and wet for him… Her hips arched upwards, towards his hand, and she cried out. “Harry, please…”

The sight of her like that, the sound of her, nearly sent him over the edge and he abandoned the idea of taking it slower, the coiling tension in his body urging him on to completion.

“Are you—erm—are you protected?” he stammered, feeling himself color hotly at the question.

“It’s fine,” she gasped. “Please, Harry…”

He moved back up her body until his erection was just nudging against her wet folds and he nearly died but something—some last lingering qualm of nervousness made him hesitate and look down at her. “Hermione, I don’t--” he rasped out, not sure what he was going to say but suddenly excruciatingly aware that he hadn’t done this before and he didn’t really know what to do and he didn’t want to hurt her or do anything wrong—but if he didn’t manage to do something, he was going to spontaneously combust…

She slid one hand to the back of his neck, bringing him down to kiss her. “Just touch me. I want you inside me,” she breathed, and with her other hand, she touched his straining body, guiding him.

And he lost his mind, gave himself up to the desperate lust roaring through his body. He kissed her hard, his tongue thrusting inside her mouth at the same moment as his hips surged forward until he was buried inside her.

She stiffened, her cry swallowed by his mouth and he stopped, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against her shoulder, gritting his teeth at the exquisite agony of being inside her, feeling her hot, wet warmth surrounding him, squeezing him, and not wanting to move for fear of hurting her.

“Hermione,” he gasped—and then she put him out of his misery. She moved her head to kiss him again, her muscles tightening around him experimentally, and the last remnants of his control came crashing down.

His hips began to move, finding an instinctive rhythm, of quick, hard thrusts—and she met and matched his movements, her hands cupping his arse, her legs tangled with his.

It was heaven, absolute heaven, could not possibly get any better—and then it did, her muscles contracting, convulsing around him, as she spasmed and cried out.

And his own release exploded as he spilled himself inside her with one last thrust, as he forgot to breathe, his lungs seizing in his chest, and he was falling, flying, dying—into her, into a world where no one and nothing existed but her…

He collapsed on top of her in a boneless heap, vaguely, peripherally aware that he wished he could have seen Hermione at the point of her release. She looked so… hot when she was like this, he would have liked to watch her hit the peak… Next time, the wispy phrase flitted through his pleasure-congealed mind, next time he would watch her…

Next time—there was something significant about those two words, his brain making a haphazard, futile attempt to grasp it, before giving up. He would figure it out later; for now, he just wanted to savor the lassitude of fulfillment, the peace settling over him…

She shifted underneath him and he belatedly realized that he must be crushing her with his weight and rolled off of her, curling his body around hers, not wanting to lose this contact with her, not wanting to lose his somewhat-sleepy pleasure in feeling the warmth of her body against his.

His hand was moving in small, lazy caresses of her bare skin and he felt more than heard her tiny sigh of satiation, barely a whisper of breath against his skin.

“Well,” he finally said softly, “I didn’t expect this to happen when I followed you here.”

He sensed her slight smile as she nuzzled him and dropped a soft kiss on his chest. “Neither did I. I didn’t know you could be so good at comforting me.”

“So you’re feeling better about Ron and Lavender?” he asked teasingly.

“Ron who?” she responded, gentle self-deprecation lacing her tone. “Oh, Harry…” she sighed softly, her hand tracing light, idle patterns on his skin. “It’s always been you for me.”

He tightened his arms around her, and the thought that had escaped him earlier crept back into his mind. Next time—he didn’t question that there would be a next time, he realized, nor did he question that this new thing between him and Hermione would last. It was rather odd, perhaps, but it was one of the few things he was certain of, even now when everything else seemed to be changing around him, with Voldemort back, with Dumbledore being even more elusive and mysterious than ever. Now when it seemed like nothing in his life was the same or certain anymore, he didn’t doubt that this with Hermione would last. And he couldn’t help but think, of course. Who else could possibly mean this much to him? What other girl could he possibly care about this much, trust this much? What other girl could he possibly trust to stay with him even now when things were getting so dangerous everywhere? No one—but Hermione.

And so he gave her words back to her, slightly modified. “It’ll always be you for me.” And he didn’t doubt that it was the truth.

She brushed another kiss on his chest in response and then, after a moment, said with clear regret in her tone, “We should probably get back to the Tower.”

She was right, as usual. They shouldn’t stay out too late.

“You’re right,” he acknowledged, and finally forced himself to move.

They didn’t say much as they put their clothes back on, though he couldn’t stop himself from stealing a few more glances at her as she slipped her knickers and her bra back on (glances which she caught and returned with a knowing gleam in her eyes that led to a few minutes of rather heated kissing, before she pulled away reluctantly and they resumed getting dressed).

He transfigured the mattress back into his robes and shrugged into them and met Hermione’s eyes, glowing with that same warm expression which she’d given him earlier when he’d first transfigured them.

They left the room together and as they walked, slowly, back to Gryffindor Tower, he deliberately slipped his hand into hers.

He glanced at her, seeing the smile in her eyes, and tightened his grip on her hand slightly as he thought that this—being with Hermione—would be the one thing he could hold on to. No matter what happened, he could hold on to her…

~The End~