Disclaimer: Does this look like something JKR would write? Didn't think so. I'm not her-and the proof is that I'd never have written HBP or DH.
Author's Note: Written for part of my One Year After collection, commemorating the 1 year anniversary of the release of DH (and JKR breaking my heart and proving that she wouldn't know real love if it walked up and hit her on the head.) Pure plotless, pointless smut and fluff-if you want a plot of any kind, be warned, you won't find it here.
UST ahead!
Fantasy
~
Harry could never explain why he'd suddenly gone insane; he just knew he had.
He didn't know why it had happened but he did know exactly when it had happened. Would never forget it.
It started with a dream, a vivid, heated dream-the most vivid dream of his life. He'd felt it all, felt the smooth skin, the soft, yielding curves, the arms curving around his neck as his body moved over the nameless, faceless woman's body. He'd felt it, almost smelled it, the musky scent of desire and woman, had almost tasted the slightly salty sweetness of her skin…
He had captured one taut nipple between his lips, sucking lightly, his tongue swirling around it, as she'd arched under him with a soft cry of pleasure that had sent another flare of heat simmering through him. He'd moved on, up, his lips skimming over her skin to her throat, her jaw, over to kiss the soft skin directly under her ear and then along her cheek, heading for her mouth. And then he'd opened his eyes before he'd kissed her, seen her-
And he'd been yanked forcibly out of sleep with his sharp gasp of mingled horror and mortification and lingering arousal.
Hermione. He'd been dreaming of Hermione. He'd been dreaming of Hermione like that.
He'd been aroused because of Hermione.
And God help him, he still was. Not even his shocked realization of who he'd been dreaming about-his best friend, his platonic best friend-had been enough to tamp down his body's arousal.
He tried to take his mind off it, tried to start mentally listing all the ingredients for all the potions he could think of-but that didn't work.
As a technique for getting his mind off of Hermione, it failed miserably because all that came to his mind was the Polyjuice Potion and boomslang skin and that led to how Hermione had snuck into Snape's stores and stolen boomslang skin. She'd broken a rule and stolen from a professor-for him. Because he'd insisted and she'd wanted to help him find out what was going on at Hogwarts. He'd never stopped to think about it but it was a stunning piece of evidence for the depth of her loyalty. Even back then in their 2nd year. She was the most loyal friend he'd ever had; she was the one person who'd never doubted him or deserted him and…
And he wanted her.
Oh God.
He lifted one hand to cover his eyes with a half groan.
He couldn't do this, shouldn't do this. He didn't know why he was feeling like this or thinking like this but he was still tense, still aroused, his body heated and restless…
And even though he knew he would probably go to hell for this, he quickly shoved his boxers down and dropped his hand down to touch himself, curling his hand around his arousal, his mind returning to that dream-and to Hermione. He could picture her so easily, his subconscious seeming to have captured all sorts of images of her without his even realizing it, could see her smiling, laughing, see her pink lips pursing as she drank from a bottle of butterbeer-and from there, it was so easy-too easy-to picture her lips on him, trailing kisses down his chest and his stomach and further still…
His hand's movements quickened, as did his hips, and then with a last thrust, it was all over as he exploded into his hand, her face in his thoughts, her name on his lips.
God. He really was going to hell.
He'd told himself it was only a dream. Just the insanity of one stupid dream, a fluke, that didn't mean anything.
It wouldn't happen again. He wouldn't let it happen again.
He wouldn't-he couldn't-he didn't think about Hermione like that. Really, he didn't.
His body was just proving that it was healthy and male and could probably get aroused thinking about any young, reasonably attractive young woman. It wasn't that he really thought about Hermione like that.
He'd never felt that way about Hermione and he certainly wasn't starting now.
No, it had all just been a crazy dream that didn't mean anything and would never happen again.
It wouldn't.
His resolve and his certainty lasted less than one day.
At dinner the next day, they were having soup and a drop of it lingered on Hermione's upper lip and entirely unconsciously, her tongue had emerged to lick it off.
And he'd almost missed his mouth and spilled a spoonful of soup in his lap. Which, on second thought, may not have been an altogether bad thing, given the way his unruly body had reacted to the sight of her tongue licking her lip like that. His stomach had clenched, his mouth had gone dry, and suddenly all he could see was her lips-beautiful, pink, perfect lips-and all he could think was that he wanted to kiss them.
And then-and then it had gotten worse.
Because they'd had a cake for dessert and a dollop of chocolate frosting had ended up smeared on the edge of her plate and she swiped at it with her finger and then blithely sucked the frosting off her finger, with a half-sheepish, half-mischievous glance at him. (Chocolate frosting was, he'd learned, one of Hermione's little weaknesses and he'd teased her about it before; he'd just never realized how hot it could be…)
He'd been rock-hard in the space of a split second.
He'd never been so aroused so quickly before and he was amazed that it was happening because of Hermione-but he couldn't seem to help it. He couldn't not react to her anymore.
How he didn't simply end up coming right then and there at the table was an eternal mystery which he would never understand-and was eternally grateful for.
He'd escaped to the loo and hopped into a cold shower as soon as he could-but it hadn't helped enough and he hadn't been able to keep his hand from lowering to his arousal, hadn't been able to keep from curling his fingers around himself and closing his eyes as he pictured Hermione's lips-and tongue-and her lips and tongue on him… And it had barely been a minute before his hips had jerked and he had come with explosive force, forcibly biting back the cry that wanted to escape.
He was going to hell but, God help him, he couldn't stop.
It was as if once he started looking at Hermione like that, seeing her the way a man looks at a woman, everything about her aroused him. The sight of her smile made him want to kiss her, kiss the corners of her lips that curved upward. The curve of her cheek as she bent over her work, her skin almost seeming to glow in the light, made his hands positively itch to touch her, made him want to trace his lips over the curve of her cheek and jaw.
When he found himself getting hard just from the husky note in her soft laughter, he knew he really had lost his mind.
It was madness. It was craving. It was a seduction, entirely unconscious on her part. (The fantasy of what would happen if she ever deliberately tried to seduce him led to yet another interlude in the shower, to say nothing of several very heated, increasingly explicit dreams.)
The problem was that this was Hermione he was lusting after so desperately. Hermione, who was his best friend and the person he trusted the most. Hermione, who was the most important person in his life. And Hermione, whom he wanted so much he couldn't see straight.
He couldn't quite bring himself to think it, not in so many words, shied away from an outright admission. But somehow, somewhere in his subconscious mind, the knowledge grew and strengthened: this wasn't lust. Or it wasn't only lust. This combination of lust and friendship and caring and protectiveness and trust which he felt for her was so much more. This could only be love…
~*~
It all happened because of a stupid, careless mistake.
She was annoyed at herself for it.
Stupid! Of all the dumb things to do, really, and she was usually so careful too! She couldn't believe she'd done that.
Hermione grumbled to herself as she opened the door to the flat she shared with Harry and Ron.
How could she have forgotten that file at home, when she needed it? She'd brought it home for reference the night before when she'd wanted to look something up in one of her books and then she'd stupidly left it on her desk instead of putting it into her bag to bring to work with her. And so she'd had to come home during her lunch break to get it.
Hermione headed straight to the little corner of the living room which served as her office, of sorts, quickly sorting through the papers on her desk until she found the file and put it into her bag decisively.
She was just about to turn away when she heard something, a soft groan.
It sounded rather like someone in pain and she hurried over to the door of Harry's room.
She hadn't known he was back; he'd been away for the past two days looking into some disturbances in his role as a sort of adjunct Auror. He worked with the Aurors but he reported directly to the Minister of Magic and not the head of the Auror division and preferred it that way. She knew he didn't have much patience for all the bureaucracy and the paperwork involved in being an actual Auror and he was lucky that his position-being Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived-meant that he could essentially be his own agent.
She frowned to herself. She hoped he wasn't hurt. If he was, he should have come find her at St. Mungo's-but even as she thought it, she knew he wouldn't have, unless the injuries were really severe. He never went to St. Mungo's if he could help it, always wanted to avoid all the attention and the fawning which he'd receive if he went.
His door was somewhat ajar and she put her hand on the door knob, her mouth opening to ask if he was alright.
But then she saw him through the crack between the door and the jamb and her words died in her throat.
He wasn't hurt.
He was… Oh my God.
He was naked. And clearly quite… healthy…
Hermione stared, her mouth going dry at the sight of him.
She'd seen his bare chest before, usually when he was injured and she was tending to his bruises but also at other times. But she'd never seen anything below his waist, never seen that part of him and certainly never like this.
She should go, she thought vaguely, in some corner of her dazed mind. She should go. She had no right to see this, shouldn't have seen it and certainly shouldn't watch.
It wasn't right. It was a violation of his privacy. It was… It was… God help her, it was tempting.
Too tempting to stop, too titillating to resist. Too… fascinating…
And she was-almost unwillingly but undeniably-fascinated. And aroused.
Harry had definitely grown and matured; he wasn't a scrawny, little boy any longer-and she was staring at the blatant evidence of that.
His hand wandered over his chest and his stomach, teased his flat nipples, until a soft moan escaped him.
Hermione bit her lip to keep back an answering moan at the picture he made, at the sound he made. She was aware of the heat settling low in her stomach, the dampness soaking into her knickers as she looked at Harry, watched him. She'd known for months now that she was attracted to Harry, that her feelings for him were not at all platonic. She suspected she'd left simple friendship behind long ago when it came to her feelings for Harry. She knew it from the way she reacted to his smile sometimes, to the way she reacted when she saw him stretch or move sometimes. She knew it from the way she'd reacted when she'd seen him once-only once, unfortunately-with just a towel wrapped around his waist, the flare of heat in her body, the way her hands had almost itched to touch him. And she'd thought that was lust.
She knew, now, that she'd been wrong. That had only been a pale imitation of lust. This was lust. This burning, this desperate need, this wanting-this was lust.
She wanted to be the one touching him, caressing the beautifully-defined muscles of his chest and stomach, and lower still… she wanted… she wanted… She wanted him.
His hand slid down his body to touch the straining hardness of him, closing his hand around himself and beginning to move. His hips were twitching, shifting, back and forth, on the bed as he fell into a natural rhythm.
Hermione flattened her hand on her thigh to keep from moving. Her entire body was almost trembling from the force it took to keep from moving in time to his movements, to keep from just walking in and letting her hand-and mouth-replace his.
She couldn't. He would be horrified, beyond embarrassed, would probably never be able to look her in the eye again. It would ruin their friendship. He certainly didn't feel that way about her. She was, as she'd always been, only Hermione, his best friend, just like Ron.
She wondered, with a sudden sharp stab of envy, who he was thinking about right now. Who did he think about as he pleasured himself? Who was he picturing right now, seeing in his mind, as he touched himself? Whose hand was he wishing were touching him right now, the way he was touching himself?
He was getting closer to the edge now, she could tell. She knew it from the quickness of his sharp gasps for breath, knew it from the increase in the rhythm of his hand.
His other hand wandered up to caress his chest, touch his nipples. A soft groan escaped him and then a moment later, his hips and his back arched up sharply as he stiffened, spilling himself into his hand with a loud cry.
God! The pure eroticism of the sight took her breath away; it was the sexiest thing she'd ever seen or even imagined.
Hermione tasted blood on her lip and realized, belatedly, that she'd bit through her lip in her desperation to keep from crying out. Her knickers were soaked, her knees feeling decidedly wobbly, and she suspected that if it weren't for her hand on the wall, she'd have melted to the floor. Good Lord, who could have known she could react so strongly, could feel so hot and flushed and aroused just from watching him?
He was lying on his bed, unmoving, seeming too spent to move, and she wondered if she were imagining the slight tremors of reaction still going through him. She felt a sharp stab of longing, wishing desperately that she could see more of his face. She could only see a little strip of his profile and she suddenly wanted to know what he looked like in the aftermath of bliss. She wanted to know what he looked like when he came, too, but also afterwards; it was, she thought fuzzily, a supreme moment of vulnerability, of intimacy, one moment when she knew there wouldn't be any barriers for him to hide behind, no defenses left. In those moments of the ultimate pleasure and immediately afterwards, he would be stripped bare to his most primal, most basic, stage-just Harry, the boy, no, the man, and nothing else. And she wanted that, wanted to see that, wanted to have that knowledge that, in that moment, the rest of the world didn't exist. And she wanted it with him-only with him.
At that moment, it wasn't even about physical lust anymore. That wasn't all she wanted from Harry, with Harry. No, she wanted everything with him.
And she couldn't have it. She felt a swell of poignant wistfulness at the thought. This-watching him secretly from his door-was as close as she would ever get to knowing this side of Harry.
He still hadn't moved and she almost wondered if he'd fallen asleep but then he let out a soft breath, almost a sigh-and she froze, her heart pounding in her ears, as the world seemed to stop for a split second. And then the world as she knew it seemed to tumble down around her ears.
She wondered if she'd imagined it but knew even as she wondered that she hadn't.
It had really happened.
"Hermione…"
The word had been spoken on a sigh, hardly more than a breath, but it had been recognizable; she had recognized it and heard it and thrilled to it. It was her name…
And in that one mad, unforgettable, unbelievable, incredible instant, she'd known the answer to her earlier question, known who he'd been thinking about and picturing as he touched himself.
He'd been thinking of her…
And though she wouldn't have thought it possible, her arousal spiked even higher than before.
God, she wanted him so, wanted to touch him, run her hands all over every inch of his beautiful body, especially that part of him. She pictured herself touching him the way he just had, pictured herself kissing him there, taking him into her mouth-and clamped her lips shut on the moan she felt rising in her throat.
She couldn't go in. She couldn't let him know she was there, that she'd seen him, been watching him. He'd be horrified, she knew, even if the horror would be short-lived, but she didn't want the emotion anywhere near their first time.
And besides, as the tiny corner of her brain that was still functioning pointed out, she had to get back to work. Perhaps, that more than anything, was what stopped her from moving forward. She had to get back to work, didn't have time-and she wanted time with him. A quick shag over lunch would not be enough, not for their first time. She was somehow very sure of that. She rather suspected an entire day-and night-would not be enough…
She couldn't go in now.
Even so, it took every ounce of will power she had to tear herself away, backing slowly away from his door-and she may not have managed it except that he moved as well, reaching for his wand lying on his nightstand beside his bed to clean himself off, his movements slow enough that she knew he was still feeling the effects of pleasure. (She knew how quickly and decisively he usually reached for his wand, from force of habit, and this movement bore no relation to that.)
She backed quickly away and out of their flat, barely managing to remember her bag on the way out, and then had to settle for taking the Muggle subway back to St. Mungo's. With how quivery her legs were feeling from unrelieved tension and the distraction of her mind, she would probably have splinched herself if she'd tried to Apparate.
Afterwards, Hermione had no idea how she survived the rest of the day. She was distracted and preoccupied all day, decidedly jittery from her hyper-sensitized nerves.
It was noticeable enough that one of her colleagues, Molly Kendall, studied her for a minute and then asked, "Hermione, are you alright? You look flushed and a little feverish and you just tried to file Herbert Arundell under the K's."
She'd only been able to blush and insist she was fine, only a little preoccupied with some personal issues.
Hmph, personal issues, she thought wryly. Very personal. The problem was that she was suffering from unrelieved tension of a sexual nature-oh bother it, Hermione, don't get all clinical about it. She was hot and bothered, horny-and it was all Harry's fault.
But survive she did and eventually the day ended-made somewhat more interesting by her consciousness of blushing hotly every time she so much as looked at Harry for that entire evening, which made for a rather silent evening as she buried herself in a book, pretending absorption in work, although she couldn't have said afterwards what the book was about.
But when she fell asleep that night she was smiling (helped, in large part, by a distinctly pleasurable shower in which she'd relived what she'd seen earlier and added on a few modifications, and in her mind, the hand that was touching her, caressing her, teasing her to the heights of bliss, belonged to Harry… It was his hand and his lips and his tongue...)
More importantly, however, was what she'd thought of after that shower.
Hermione Granger had a plan.
~To be continued…