Maybe Love

Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 22/07/2007
Last Updated: 22/07/2007
Status: completed

Harry was going insane-- but he couldn't seem to stop looking at Hermione's breasts, being distracted by her... One-shot fluffy smut.

Chapters

1. Maybe Love

1. Maybe Love

Disclaimer: Since all this is officially AU now, is it really necessary to state again that I am not JKR—and right now, I don’t want to be?

Author’s Note: Written what feels like an eternity ago, before I’d even heard the DH spoilers that broke my heart. For hpnic06 and everyone else on the H/Hr chats the weeks leading up to OotP and DH, who encouraged me to write this fic. Based on all those pictures of Dan sneaking a look down Emma’s dress. (Like a sister, hmm?) ;-)

And for my dear Amethyst, who kindly helped jump-start my muses by adding in her own little part (between the *’s).

Enjoy!

Maybe Love

The first time it happened, it was an accident.

He was sitting on the arm of the couch where Hermione had been sitting and she stood up when he wasn’t expecting it.

And he found himself almost eye-level with her chest.

Hermione had breasts, he thought dumbly. Of course, he’d known she had breasts; she was a girl, but somehow, he’d never really thought about it before. She was simply Hermione, his best friend; why would he ever think about Hermione’s breasts or any other parts of her body? Best friends didn’t do that.

But he was doing it now.

He couldn’t help it!

He was going crazy. His eyes had somehow developed a mind of their own. An evil mind of their own. (Really, it might all be part of Voldemort’s master plan! Have Hermione catch him looking at her chest and hex him or, more probably, simply stop speaking to him so he’d never figure out the horcruxes—or have Ron catch him looking at Hermione’s chest and have Ron kill him—or more simply, distract him from thinking about horcruxes or anything else by having him be distracted by Hermione and her chest and—and everything else about her too.)

He couldn’t help it.

He didn’t know how he’d managed to go through six years of friendship with Hermione without noticing that she had very nice-looking breasts, not too big but she wasn’t flat-chested either. She looked—perfectly proportional to her slim figure and… and… And he really should not be thinking about this.

He was beginning to think that blindfolds might not be a bad idea.

He tried, once, to take off his glasses and go around that way in the hope that having blurry vision would obviously keep him from eyeing Hermione’s breasts, but Hermione (naturally) immediately noticed and assumed he had a headache and promptly tried to start rubbing his temples—which brought her chest entirely too close to him for comfort.

And it wasn’t only her breasts that distracted him now. Once he got started, it was other things—it was everything about her. The way her eyes shone when she was excited, the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating intensely. Her lips—had they always been so—so—kissable? The curve of her waist and her hips… the length of her legs…

He was going mad.

Was he imagining it—or was Hermione wearing tops that focused attention on her chest more by being lower-cut and somewhat tighter?

She couldn’t be… She wasn’t… Why would she?

He was going mad; that was the only explanation.

~~

Hermione suppressed a sigh and a smirk.

He was doing it again.

Harry was eyeing her breasts from where he was sitting. Oh, he was being relatively subtle about it—but she knew him too well and watched him too closely on her part, to miss his distraction.

To say nothing of the fact that her sixth sense that always seemed to tell her when Harry was near had developed another facet so she could sense Harry’s eyes on her. Sense the heat of his gaze before it was quickly withdrawn to some other part of the room.

She’d gone through her repertory of clothing charms to lower necklines and tighten the fit; she’d begun brushing against him more frequently, making excuses to touch him more often…

Subtlety was over-rated.

“Harry,” she spoke up, before she’d completely decided what she was going to say.

He started, looking up at her with slightly widened eyes. “Hmm, what?”

“You can touch too and not just look.” Hermione felt her cheeks blush hotly at the boldness of her words—but she didn’t want to wait any longer before Harry made a move. She couldn’t believe she’d said the words—but this was Harry and she trusted him… and wanted him…

Harry stared, convinced he’d heard wrong. His madness had clearly spread to make him imagine things too. She could not have just said—

And then he saw the look in her eyes, the blush on her cheeks…

She had…

“Hermione!” he choked out.

She smiled slightly. “Oh Harry… Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

He gaped at her, feeling himself blush. “Erm… I thought you’d hex me if you noticed.”

Her smile softened. “Oh Harry…”

She crossed the room and deliberately sat down on his lap.

“Hermione!”

She smiled as she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him…

**

Harry’s hands automatically moved to grip her hips as their lips and tongues melded, tangled, and Hermione ground into him, delighted by the reactions she could produce in this boy who had been so oblivious to her for so long. He groaned pitifully as she pulled away.

“You’re a tease,” he pointed out, without malice, and she grinned.

“I’m only a tease if I back out now, and I don’t intend to do that,” Hermione retorted, illustrating her point by pulling her shirt over her head and tossing it somewhere behind her.

Harry almost died as his eyes dropped instantly to her lace- and satin-covered breasts.** His lungs forgot to function; he could have sworn his heart stopped beating (and then it started up again, beating much faster) and he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink, couldn’t move, couldn’t think. “Oh my God, Hermione…” he managed to get out.

And even without thought, his hands moved of their own volition (it seemed they’d developed a mind of their own—smart hands, he thought fuzzily), sliding up her stomach to cup her breasts.

His eyes nearly rolled back in his head from the sheer pleasure of it—just touching her, through her bra, not doing anything more, just touching her…

She made a breathy sound of pleasure and arched her back, pressing her breasts more firmly into his hands.

He couldn’t believe this was happening. He’d died and gone to heaven—he must have. He could not possibly be alive with Hermione sitting on his lap, pressing her body into his in all sorts of interesting places. He could not be touching Hermione’s breasts—her beautiful breasts which had been distracting him and driving him crazy for weeks now.

He cupped her breasts, squeezing them experimentally (she moaned) and with a burst of daring he could hardly believe (or he could, since he was clearly not thinking at all clearly) his hands slipped round to her back to unclasp her bra that sagged immediately, the straps falling down her arms and baring her entire upper body to his gaze.

My God…

Her breasts really were perfect—even more perfect than he’d imagined from looking at them through the covering of her bra and tops. Her skin was perfectly white and smooth, her nipples darkened and budded into hard points—and positively begging for his touch.

Tentatively, almost nervously, he cupped her bare breasts, caressed them, flattened his palms over her nipples, fascinated, encouraged, and aroused by the sounds she made, the small gasps and breathless moans escaping her… God, just the sounds she made were delicious, sending white-hot streaks of fire through his body to pool in his groin and the straining hardness in his trousers.

Her arms tightened around his neck as she leaned forward to kiss him, deep and open-mouthed, her tongue in his mouth completing the job and effectively scattering any lingering coherent thoughts he might have had. She shifted in his lap, brushing against his aching body until he groaned as she pressed her breasts to his chest, her lips leaving his to scatter kisses across his face until she reached his ear and whispered in a breathy whisper, “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

For the space of a heartbeat, he honestly had no idea what she meant. With the blood leaving his head so fast he was nearly dizzy and all his attention focused on the feel of her, the warmth of her, the weight of her, comprehending her words seemed quite beyond him.

Hermione felt a shiver go through her at the dazed look in his eyes, loving that she had done this to him, loving that she could make him want her so much… And oh God, how she wanted him… Maybe she had always wanted him, she thought fuzzily, but then the thought dissipated, replaced solely by need and desire.

Impatiently, she tugged at his shirt, her hands hard, greedy, as they caressed the skin of his stomach and his chest as he grasped his shirt and lifted it off over his head, tossing it carelessly to the floor.

Oh yesyesyesyes… this was what she wanted…

Her hands returned to touch, explore the bare expanse of his chest and his flat stomach, loving the way his muscles contracted at her touch, before she lowered her lips to his skin, scattering kisses from his neck down his throat to his chest.

Harry closed his eyes, a strangled groan fighting its way from his throat as she touched him, her hands and her lips spreading fire from every spot they touched. And then just when he thought she couldn’t possibly arouse him any more, one of her wonderful, delightful, wicked hands slid down to touch the straining bulge of his erection—and he died.

“Oh God,” he groaned, his eyes flying open to see the smile on her face, the teasing gleam in her eyes.

She was evil, torturing him like this—and he loved it.

Deliberately, she shifted her weight in his lap, her body moving sinuously as she brushed against his bulging arousal—and then she stood up.

His protest died on his lips as he saw that she’d only stood up to unbutton her jeans. She wasn’t evil; she was wonderful, making good on her promise not to be a tease.

Quickly, his hands clumsy with haste and lust, he unfastened his own trousers and shoved them down his legs, fighting to push them off over his feet, taking his boxers with them until, finally, his erection was free.

Naked, he glanced at her to see that she had somehow managed to transfigure a mattress onto the floor and for a split second, he stared, amazed at her spellwork at a time like this—or more accurately, amazed that she could think to perform it given that he was barely capable of remembering his own name let alone how to perform any spells, no matter how simple.

She was naked, revealing what he could swear were miles and miles of bare skin and a figure that was… was… was just perfect… He floundered mentally for words as he could swear every coherent thought in his brain had just drained out of his head and flopped onto the ground at his feet.

He’d known she was pretty; Merlin knew she’d been distracting him for weeks now—but he’d never dreamed, never imagined, never could have imagined how utterly hot she would look like this.

He stilled, his lust momentarily doused as if by a splash of cold water, as he belatedly noticed the scar stretching across her stomach. She had a scar, he thought dumbly as he stared. She had a scar.

And the sight of it—and the realization of what it must have come from—slammed into him with the force of a tidal wave. He reeled from the power of it, reeled from the significance of it all.

And he blurted out what was possibly the most inane thing he’d ever said. “My God, Hermione, it’s you.”

It was stupid but it was as if up until now, he’d only been thinking of Hermione as a pretty girl, a sexy girl, a girl he wanted, whose breasts and skin and hands and mouth were all driving him crazy with need—and she was all that. But she was also still Hermione, his best friend, the person he trusted more than anyone else, the one who’d been with him for everything. The sight of the scar—and the meaning of it, the memory of how she’d gotten it—jarred at him, the two Hermiones (the sexy one and the best friend one) melding and becoming one—just her…

This wasn’t just lust, couldn’t be just lust, not with her, never with her… The vague realization flitted through his head but then she stepped closer to him, closing the distance between them.

“It’s only me,” she breathed against his lips before she kissed him, her arms going around his neck, pressing her delightfully naked body against his.

And he forgot to think, all thoughts of the significance of this forgotten in the rush of sheer lust. His arms closed around her, bringing her in flush against him until he nearly groaned at the feel of her warm body against his. God, how he wanted her…

And then she was falling, lowering herself onto the mattress and tugging him down with her. He went willingly—as long as she kissed him like that, touched him like that, he would have followed her into hell…

His hands wandered at will all over her body, stroking her, caressing her, learning her body, touching her breasts until she was moaning and squirming and straining to get closer to him.

His hands slid further down until one hand slid between her legs to cup that most secret part of her, finally feeling the wet heat of her. She cried out, arching into him, as her own hands slid down his body to grasp the aching length of him.

He stopped, his hands falling from her body as he gave himself over to the delightful, torturous sensations of her hand on his body as her hand reduced him to a mass of want and need and lust, until he was burning for her, dying for her…

He groaned, his mouth finding hers again, kissing her deeply with all the passion roaring through his body, in a kiss that seemed to go on forever.

He could feel the world beginning to splinter around him, any rationality leaving him, and with a monumental effort, he paused, tearing himself away. “Erm, Hermione, is it—is it safe?” he managed to gasp with what little breath and thought were left in him.

She blinked for a moment as slow awareness returned to her somewhat dazed eyes and he thought he’d never seen anything so lovely in his life as the way she looked then.

Impatiently, she reached for her wand, murmuring a quick charm and closing her eyes as warmth flooded through her, before she turned back to him, kissing him, loving him, thanking him silently for remembering—and caring enough to remind her.

He made a soft sound deep in his throat as he gave in to the passion of her kiss, of her touch, and he forgot everything except the heat of her, the softness of her, her panting breath hot against his skin, the sound of her soft gasps, the way her hands clutched at him, held him to her, encouraged him…

And somehow, his body moved, shifted over hers, until the tip of him just slid into the wet heat of her—finding the position, fitting against her as if he’d always been meant to be there—and he lost his mind, his hips surging forward into her.

She stiffened, her cry of pain swallowed by his lips, her nails digging into his skin.

He stopped, her cry tearing at him, ripping through the fog of mindless lust in his brain. “Oh God, Hermione, I’m sorry,” he gasped, holding himself rigidly still inside her, even as he thought he might die if he didn’t move, if he didn’t do something…

She gasped for breath, trying to adjust to the sudden fullness of her body, the sensation of being stretched, and turned to him automatically, her lips finding his in an odd, instinctive search for comfort (and it should have been crazy given that his body had been the one to cause the pain but somehow, it wasn’t). And as she kissed him, feeling the tenderness of his kiss in return, the fire and the heat returned, flooding through her body, and she felt herself soften, ease around him.

She tightened her muscles around him instinctively, experimentally, and he groaned, his hips finally beginning to move, finding and settling into a rhythm, unconsciously echoing the thrust of his tongue inside her mouth as his hands tangled in her hair.

The entire universe narrowed down to him and her and her wet warmth surrounding him, clasping him in intimate bliss, claiming him, possessing him, body and mind… She was the only thing that existed in the world, the only thing that mattered, the only thing he cared about…

And then she was tightening around him, her muscles contracting, her hands clutching him convulsively as she shattered, came with a cry of his name.

And the feel of her, the sound of her, drove him over the edge as he exploded inside of her, a blaze of sheer ecstasy tearing through him—until he collapsed on top of her, boneless.

He had no idea how much time passed as he lay on his back beside her, her body tucked into the curve of his.

Hermione studied him rather dreamily as she floated on a sea of warm contentment, a small smile curving her lips as she reflected vaguely that when she’d first noticed Harry looking at her breasts and started out to attract him, she could never have imagined, never have dreamed this, all that he could make her feel… On the heels of that thought came another one, and on an impulse of mischief which she couldn’t resist, she shifted closer to him so she could whisper in his ear, “I told you I wasn’t a tease.”

Her words tore a laugh from him, surprising him as laughter had been the furthest thing from his mind a moment ago. He felt a sudden rush of affection for her, thinking that, after all, it was fitting that she could make him laugh too, just moments after giving him the best experience of his life. This was Hermione after all…

Hermione—and he’d just shagged her.

He turned to look at her, tugged out of his peace at the stark thought of what had happened, the enormity of it, suddenly needing to know, to understand, the whys and wherefores of it. “Hermione,” he began and then blurted out, “that was your first time. Why?” Why me, why now?

She blushed hotly under his gaze and from his blunt question, suddenly embarrassed at her own boldness, as reality—her usual self—returned, the madness of the moment over. His simple question rang in her mind. Why? It was a valid question; certainly as of a few weeks ago, she could never have imagined doing what she had, deliberately enticing, inciting his lust the way she had. It had been an impulse, an almost instinctive compulsion—and it was only now, when it was all over, that she was left to ponder why.

Harry studied her, seeing the flush on her cheeks, the way her lips were swollen from his kiss, the lingering remnants of some new knowledge, some new confidence, in her eyes. (Knowledge of how to arouse him, confidence of her power over him…) This was Hermione and he’d thought he knew her so well, thought he knew everything there was to know about her—but he’d never dreamed, could never have imagined, the boldness of her, the way she could have kissed him and touched him and reduced him to a mindless mass of arousal and need. He could never have imagined the responsiveness of her, the wonderful passion of her…

In any other girl, he could have dismissed the boldness and blatant encouragement bordering on seduction, as being indicative of a rather indiscriminating sensuality—but not with Hermione, never with Hermione. He knew Hermione—and this had been her first time too. She wasn’t a tease, was as far from a tease as it was possible to be.

And he remembered what he’d first realized when he saw her scar—that this could not just be lust for him. Whatever this was he felt for Hermione, it wasn’t only lust for her as a beautiful, incredibly sexy girl…

He waited, suddenly incredibly sure that his entire future life rested on her answer.

She finally met his eyes—and he saw and recognized all the honesty in her expression—as she said quietly, “It’s because I love you.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding as the words settled into his mind and heart. It’s because I love you…

And maybe, after all, that was it. Maybe, that was how to reconcile the two Hermiones, the one he wanted and lusted for and the one he cared about as his best friend, the girl he trusted and relied on…

He felt himself smile. “I think I love you too.”

Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening as she stared at him, a smile beginning in her eyes and spreading to her face as she smiled at him with a smile of so much love and so much happiness, it made him catch his breath in turn at how unutterably beautiful she looked.

And then she moved, shifting towards him, as she kissed him, pressing all sorts of deliciously naked skin against him again.

And his last thought as he gave himself up to the wonderful heat and passion of her, was that he’d been wrong. There was no maybe about it; this was definitely love…

~The End~