Fantasy

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 2^nd 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…

Disclaimer: See the first part.

Fantasy

Part 2

~

It took just over a week for everything to be put into place for Operation Living Fantasy (as she’d taken to mentally calling it).

Ron was going to be away for a Quidditch conference, of sorts, an annual event that allowed the players from all of Britain’s Quidditch teams to meet and socialize and play practice games together. She and Harry would have the flat to themselves.

She asked for the day off from work and, for once, deliberately forgot to mention it to either Harry or Ron.

She awoke that morning at her usual time, about an hour before Harry usually awoke, and then proceeded to get ready.

She felt a slight shiver of anticipation go through her. Finally… After more than a week of fine sexual tension running through her every time she so much as looked at Harry, more than a week of nights of increasingly heated dreams, she was ready.

She felt different, bolder, more daring. She felt seductive, for the first time in her life. (It was, she thought idly, something every woman should feel like at least once in their lifetimes and she’d never expected she ever would.) She’d never thought of herself as being much more than passably pretty at the best of times and certainly never thought she would ever actively set out to seduce anyone—but seeing Harry, knowing that he, somehow, miraculously, wanted her and wanted her enough to wank off to the thought of her, filled her with a confidence she’d never before felt. Maybe she wasn’t beautiful or particularly sexy—but Harry wanted her and that made her feel beautiful and sexy. It was a powerful thing, a knowledge that thrilled her, emboldened her, gave her courage, just as knowing he wouldn’t reject her gave her confidence.

She threw on her normal cotton bathrobe as she crossed the silent flat in the gray light of early morning. (She might be feeling bolder but it didn’t quite extend to walking around the flat essentially undressed.)

She opened Harry’s door quietly, careful not to make the slightest noise so as not to wake him (although she’d discovered that he wasn’t naturally a very light sleeper; it was a measure of how very conscious he’d been of the danger that had made him such a light sleeper in the last year of the War).

He was sleeping soundly, one arm flung above his head, dressed in the t-shirt he used as a pyjama top and his boxers, the covers haphazardly pulled up to just over his waist.

For a fleeting moment, she paused to look at him as he slept, let her gaze wander over that body which she’d seen naked just once before. The shirt was thin enough that, in his current position, she could see the muscles of his chest and stomach and even clothed, the sight was enough to make her mouth go dry, a shiver going through her.

And if she’d even known a moment of doubt about her plan (which she hadn’t), that moment would have erased it. She wanted him, wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anyone or anything, wanted to kiss him and touch him, wanted to learn the feel of his bare skin under her hands… She wanted it all…

She shrugged out of her robe, letting it fall to the floor, and felt another shiver of mingled anticipation and arousal go through her. She didn’t know how it was but there was something titillating, something arousing, just from being dressed (or not) the way she was. The silk of the new lingerie she’d bought seemed to almost caress her skin with every movement she made, the consciousness of how much skin was revealed by the lingerie along with the consciousness of the lacy matching bra and knickers she was wearing underneath it, all combined to tease her senses, subtly arousing, making her skin tingle…

She slid slowly onto the bed, moving softly, trying not to disturb him, and then she bent and brushed her lips against his, once, twice…

“Harry… wake up…” she breathed softly against his lips.

Harry awoke to a dream.

He awoke to a fantasy, tugged into semi-consciousness, by the feeling of lips against his, a warm body nudging his side.

He smiled, his eyes closed, even as he reached for her. He knew her from his dreams…

Oh yes, he knew this dream… And in his dreams, he knew this woman, his dream woman, his Hermione…

Soft lips trailed a series of fleeting, butterfly kisses from his lips down his cheek until his ear. “Harry, I want you,” she whispered.

Mmm… In his dreams, she always wanted him… A deliciously sensual shiver passed through him from the husky tone of her voice that was quite as seductive as her kiss, the voice of a siren, a temptress—a fantasy…

She licked his ear.

Wha—that was no dream!

He jerked away, his eyes flying open and focusing with a quickness born of shock, on the familiar face of the woman leaning over him.

Holy hell!

“H-hermione!” he gasped out, almost shoving himself backwards further away from her, his still-half-asleep mind scrambling frantically to separate reality from his dream. Bloody sodding… What had he done—how long had she been here—what was she doing here-- what had been real?

He suddenly realized that his arm was still half-around her from his sleepy embrace and pulled it back before he realized, belatedly, that though he hadn’t been touching skin, his hand certainly hadn’t been touching any normal pyjama fabric either.

His eyes, which had been focused on her face, dropped down—

Oh hell!

He wondered if it were possible that he’d died and woken up in heaven. That had to be it—right? It didn’t feel any different from life but it had to be heaven—he didn’t wake up to see this in real life.

He felt the blood rush out of his head, rushing straight to his lower body that suddenly made itself very noticeable—and very demanding-- very quickly—in the space of that split second as he stared.

And stared.

At her. At her skin and at her—whatever she was wearing and all it did—and did not—cover. He’d never seen (even in some of those explicit wizard magazines which he’d flipped through, surreptitiously, at various times) or imagined (even in his wildest fantasies) anything as utterly—hot—as she was right then. The picture of her, half-sitting, half-reclining, on his bed was… was… He didn’t have words to do justice to the way she looked. Sexy as all hell… seductive… irresistible… amazing…

She was wearing… something, that was undoubtedly the sexiest piece of clothing ever invented to drive a man insane. It was a deep, dark red that made her skin seem almost impossibly white and smooth in contrast, silk that flowed, clung, and caressed her body in all the right places until it ended at her thighs. The neckline wasn’t terribly low—as lingerie went—but the bodice portion of it was mostly lace through which he could see tantalizing—maddening—bits of skin.

And that was all she was wearing—except for a bra and possibly knickers—though from the glimpses of her bra which he could see through the lace, neither was designed to do anything to help him regain any sanity. (Not that anything would have; he’d been utterly lost from the moment he’d seen her, or even before that.)

“Hermione…” her name was almost a moan. “I- what are you doing?”

She smiled, a very slow, very seductive smile, a smile which she hadn’t even known she’d been capable of until that moment, but now, now she felt sexy, and confident enough in her own appearance, after the way Harry had stared at her, his gaze devouring, no, undressing her with his eyes… She felt like an entirely different version of herself, a version of herself that was beautiful and seductive and could entice a man—Harry-- with just a smile. “Doing? Nothing… yet.” She wasn’t quite sure how she did it but she managed to infuse the word with all the sensual promise she could muster, all the sexual intent she had.

His eyes widened a moment before she reached for him, her arms going around his neck, tugging him closer to her as she kissed him, lightly, almost teasingly, at first, until he half-gasped, half-groaned her name, his lips parting, softening, as he deepened the kiss. And she tasted him for the first time. She might have gasped but that would have required breaking the kiss and she never wanted to stop kissing him. Her arms tightened almost unconsciously around him as she leaned further forward, pressing herself against him.

He felt himself falling back, giving way to her, as she kissed him senseless, her breasts flattened against his chest, almost burning him even through the thin layers between them.

She moved to straddle him and he cried out involuntarily, as she nudged the hardness straining in his boxers and sensed her slight smile before she rocked back against him, making him groan again.

Harry’s brain was in something like a state of catatonic shock. He couldn’t believe this was happening, couldn’t believe this was real (and it felt too real for him to doubt it), couldn’t believe that she was here, on his bed, straddling him… He didn’t know what had started this or what was happening beyond the obvious but—he moaned as her hands moved down to caress his chest—he was too lost, too bloody hard, to care. He wanted her, was desperate for her, was so hard it hurt—and he would wonder about all the rest later.

Her hands pushed up his shirt to bare his chest to her questing touch, her fingers dancing over the hot skin of his chest and the muscles of his stomach that clenched under her touch.

His eyes flew open on a sudden need to see her and he groaned again at the look on her face, the look of concentration which was so familiar to him—and the way her eyes were dark and dilated with her own arousal as she drove him mad, exploring his body, finding every sensitive spot.

She leaned down until the silk of her lingerie whispered over his sensitized skin and he moaned, his eyes closing, at the eroticism of it and then he nearly died as he felt the first touch of her lips on his skin.

She scattered kisses over his chest, pausing to kiss and then lick his throat and the little hollow just below his Adam’s apple and he cried out.

“God, Hermione!”

He’d never known how sensitive that spot could be—but he wasn’t likely to ever forget it again.

Her lips moved lower until her tongue darted out to flick against one flat, male nipple and then the other, sending jolts of sensation streaking through his body to tingle in his erection. God, God, God… He was going to die before this was over. She was bolder, more inventive, infinitely hotter than he’d imagined in his most heated fantasies—was his every dream come true and more…

Hermione smiled to herself, feeling a powerful thrill of triumph and pleasure and, yes, lust, at the sight of him now. How was it she’d never imagined just how much pleasure it would give her to give him pleasure? How had she never known just how seductive it would be to seduce him?

She’d never seen him like this, his expression stripped utterly bare, an almost primitive, stark need etched on his face. At that moment, she knew, even if it was only for these fleeting moments, he was hers, entirely and completely hers. (She already knew that she was his, had, perhaps in some strange way, always been his.)

She bent to kiss him again, her tongue sliding into his mouth to caress his, tangling with his in a half-provocative, wholly-arousing duel as his hands slid into her hair to hold her in place, as he kissed her back with ravenous hunger.

Her senses whirled, spun in dizzying pleasure, as he kissed her and she only managed to break the kiss when a need for oxygen became a necessity.

“I think,” she gasped against his ear, “we should get out of these clothes.”

“God, yes,” he groaned fervently.

She moved off him, her hands moving to the waistband of his boxers and pushed them down as he tore his shirt up over his head with one impatient movement and then lifted his hips so she could finish the job, freeing his arousal.

Lord, yes, this was what she wanted… She wanted to feel him inside her, filling her…

But first…

She lifted her hand to touch him but he stopped her by tugging on the hem of her slip.

“Can I--”

She answered him by lifting her arms and he swallowed before he gently grasped the silk in his hands and pulled it slowly up her body—surprising her with how slowly he moved, in spite of the strain in his face. Inch by inch, she was revealed to him and he was clearly enjoying every moment and something inside her melted at the tinge of something like awe in his expression, mingling with, softening the lust. She’d dreamed of him looking at her like this for months, maybe even years now…

Harry’s breath strangled in his throat as he pulled her slip up over her body. His hands were trembling slightly—and he didn’t know if it was because of his increasingly painful arousal or his amazement or some lingering nervousness or a combination of all those things. His mind—his heart—everything inside him simultaneously seemed to clench and swoon at the sight of her beautiful body, so much more beautiful than he’d imagined—somehow. In his fantasies, she’d been the sexiest, most beautiful woman in the world—and maybe it was because now, she was no fantasy but was very real that made her more perfect… His eyes slid from her perfect breasts down the slim curves of her waist and her hips and drawn, inexorably, to the juncture of her thighs, just barely covered with a lacy bit of cloth masquerading as knickers.

Oh holy hell…

He wasn’t given nearly enough time to look at her, just a second although it was enough for the picture of her to sear itself permanently on his memory. But almost immediately, she flattened her hands on his chest, pushing him flat onto his back and then straddling his thighs again.

And then she set out to explore.

Her fingers feathered along the length of his erection ever-so-lightly stroking, caressing, learning. And then her hand abruptly left him. He opened his eyes at the deprivation and it took every bit of strength he had to lift his head just enough to look down at her. (If she stopped there, he was going to die.)

She touched her tongue delicately to the very tip of his aching arousal and then paused, glancing up at him through her lashes. It was the look of a temptress, a siren, a look that would have had him surrendering his soul if she’d asked for it.

Hermione felt a shiver go through her of mingled excitement and anticipation and power—heady, thrilling, potent.

And then she proceeded to bring her fantasies to life, obliterating even his most erotic dreams from his memory and replacing it with stark, searing reality—infinitely hotter than any fantasy could be.

She licked the entire length of him, tasting him, savoring his strangled groans, the involuntary movements of his hips. Her tongue explored him much as her fingers had earlier, lightly, delicately, even playfully.

He forgot how to breathe.

Then finally, finally she took him fully into her mouth.

He lost his mind, learned what it felt like to die of too much pleasure.

“God!” His groan was fervent and she smiled to herself as she learned just how to give him pleasure, learned, too, how much pleasure it gave her to give him this.

With a last lick, she released him, leaning over instead to kiss him lingeringly, leisurely—or at least, she intended for it to be a leisurely kiss but he had other ideas, one hand tangling in her hair, cupping the back of her neck, as he returned her kiss heatedly, turning it into a much more passionate, desperate melding of lips and tongues.

His other hand strayed to her back, finding the clasp of her bra and undoing it. She let it fall, thrilled to the feel of his chest against her breasts. On a mindless impulse, she shifted so her breasts, her over-sensitized nipples, rubbed against his chest, and she was the one to break the kiss on a gasp at the jolt of sensation that tingled through her body, somehow making her very aware of the liquid heat pooling between her legs, the emptiness in her which cried out for him.

She hurriedly tore off the flimsy little scrap of silk and lace which comprised her knickers so she was (finally) naked and bent to kiss him, a long, slow kiss which she infused with all the sensual allure she could muster.

The kiss ended slowly and she opened her eyes to look down at him, delighting in the dazed, unfocused look on his face before he blinked, once, twice, some form of awareness returning to his gaze. His eyes held hers, burned into hers, as she settled herself again on top of him.

She lowered herself onto him slowly—very slowly, maddeningly slowly—inch by inch (he groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head, his hips shifting, his hands scrabbling on the sheets for something to grip until he grasped her hips) until finally he was completely inside her, stretching her with his heat and his hardness.

Oh God!

She lost her breath and her wits at the sensation of it and though she’d planned to draw this out even longer, she gave up that idea. She’d never survive it, must have been crazy to think she could do it when she needed him now, was so close to coming at that second before she’d done anything more.

She rose up and down, her hips rocking on him, with quick movements, taking him deep within her body and he met her motions with his own, his hips thrusting, his back arching.

His hands came up to cup her breasts, palming her over-sensitized nipples, and she threw her head back on a cry, her movements accelerating.

Oh God… oh…oh… oh…

In spite of everything, it was almost a shock when she came, hitting the peak with a swiftness and an intensity she’d never known before and she was flying, dying, and simultaneously, conversely, more alive than she’d ever been before, her every nerve and every pore bursting with the torrent of sensation.

His hips thrust upwards sharply, his back arching, with a cry that sounded like it was torn from the depths of his body as he exploded, his fingers tightening almost convulsively (entirely unconsciously) on her breasts and triggering another spasm of white-hot delight rippling through her body, even as she was still trembling, tingling, from that first, initial eruption of feeling.

She collapsed on top of him, breathless, boneless, mindless. Her very soul seemed to be sighing with pleasure as she lay there, the rhythmic pounding of his heartbeat seeming to mingle and meld with her own. She closed her eyes with a slight, dreamy smile, feeling as if she were floating, adrift from reality—and her only anchor to the world was him, the solid warmth of his body beneath hers.

A lifetime, or two, could have passed—may have passed for all she knew before the silence was finally broken.

“Hermione?” His tone was gravelly, as if he had to fight to regain the power of speech, a soft question.

For a fleeting second, she almost had to struggle to recognize her own name and even then, speech was beyond her. “Mmm…” Her answering murmur was her only response.

He didn’t say anything more, was silent for so long she might have begun to wonder if he’d fallen asleep (if she had been coherent enough to wonder at all) but then, he let out a soft breath. “Good. Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t imagining this.”

She smiled slightly. “You’re not.”

His fingers tightened slightly on her bare back in a lazy caress.

If she’d been a cat, she would have purred; as it was, she let out a soft sigh of pleasure, her body softening even more, if that was possible.

After a few more minutes of luxurious silence, his hand moved to cup the back of her head, gently turning it until she rested her chin on his shoulder and could meet his eyes.

“What was this?” he asked, so softly it was almost a whisper.

She knew what he meant, what he was really asking, but something inside her shied away from the truth; the truth strayed too close to her most carefully-hidden secret, her most precious dream which she hardly dared admit even to herself and so she took refuge in humor. “I think it’s called having sex.”

He let out a brief laugh, his eyes lightening.

She continued on. “Or shagging, making the beast with two backs…” She broke off on a gasp as he trailed one finger very lightly up her side, until she squirmed away from him.

“That wasn’t what I meant and you know it,” he said with mock severity, belied by the twitch at the corner of his lips.

She opened her mouth to retort but whatever she might have said died on her lips as he lifted one of her hands to his lips, kissing her palm. And she could swear she felt that small caress in tiny ripples through her entire body; she’d never known her palm could be so sensitive before…

But it was the gentleness, the tenderness, she could feel in the caress that affected her more than her physical reaction to it. It was the way his eyes softened, something in them making her heart fill with tremulous hope.

“It’s also called,” she finally said, very softly, “making love.”

“Is that what this was—making love?”

It had been for her—but for him?

“I don’t know. Was it?”

He let out his breath. “It was for me.”

They were the four most beautiful words she’d ever heard in her life, her heart swelling inside her.

And then he finished the job, almost guaranteeing that if she hadn’t known the real truth before, she would certainly know it now in her reaction to his words.

“I think I’m in love with y--”

She cut his words off with a kiss.

She couldn’t help it. She cupped his face with her hands and kissed him with all the joy and all the love she felt.

His fingers tangled in her hair, his other hand tightening around her body, as he returned her kiss, his lips softening, his tongue flicking against hers, as her body molded to his, feeling the return of heat, of arousal.

She finally drew back with a soft sigh to meet his eyes. “I think I’m in love with you too,” she gave him his words back—although she more than thought it; she knew it.

His eyes widened a little. “Really?”

She loved that he was surprised. Anyone else in Harry’s position—the wealth, the fame, the looks (in her admittedly biased opinion)—might be excused some arrogance but not Harry; Harry didn’t have an arrogant bone in his body. She knew part of it was his childhood (she hated his relatives for it) but it was also just him—and even after everything, in spite of where they were, he could still be surprised.

“Why else do you think I set out to seduce you?”

“I didn’t know why. I just thought I’d died and gone to heaven,” he admitted.

She smiled, softly at first, before a teasing gleam entered her eyes giving him a second’s warning before she moved her hand to cup him intimately, delighting in his immediate, unmistakable reaction.

He sucked in his breath sharply, his entire body stiffening as every muscle locked.

“Hmm,” she murmured, “You certainly feel alive to me.” She let her hand stray in a light, deliberate caress.

He let out a hiss of breath and then rolled over so she was lying on her back beneath him. “You’re incredible, you know that,” he breathed huskily.

Her eyes grinned at him. “I didn’t think you’d ever notice,” she quipped, the lightness of her words and tone belied by her breathlessness.

“And so modest too,” he added teasingly. He lifted one hand to touch her cheek lightly, sobering a little. “It may have taken me a while but I hope I’m not completely daft or blind,” he said, only half-humorously.

He was just a little daft, half-blind, he thought as he looked down at her, the face he’d thought he’d known so well, or he would have noticed, realized, just how amazing she was sooner—and not only amazingly sexy either.

She slid her arms around his neck, bringing his head down until his lips hovered just above hers. “Oh well. Better late than never,” she breathed.

And when he kissed her, he was smiling.

His kiss was almost amazingly tender at first and if she’d doubted the truth of his words, she couldn’t anymore after feeling his kiss, the gentleness of his hands as he cupped her cheeks. She melted into him, her arms tightening around him, and he deepened the kiss with a soft sound in the back of his throat that may have been a groan if it had been allowed to grow up.

She could feel him hardening against her thigh, the evidence of his increasing arousal becoming very apparent, and she shifted, her legs parting, bending one leg so her foot was flat on the bed, bringing her in closer to him, pressing herself more intimately against him.

He broke their kiss on a groan but then he moved, his lips and hands beginning to slide down.

He kissed his way down her chin, the line of her jaw, flicking his tongue against the hollow of her throat and making her gasp. His hands—oh his hands—seemed to be everywhere at once, trailing fire over every inch of her, as he caressed her breasts, her waist, her hips, her butt, her thighs…

His lips found her nipple and she cried out, arching closer to him. His tongue flicked teasingly against the hardened bud and her hands flew to tangle her fingers in his hair, holding him in place. He licked her nipple, lightly, too lightly—he was going to drive her mad—moving on to scatter kisses over her breast until she was moaning and straining against him. More—she wanted more—his fleeting little kisses, little touches, weren’t nearly enough. She wanted more of his lips and his tongue, wanted more of him…

Finally, he gave in, swirling his tongue around her nipple before he sucked the nipple into his mouth, the wet gentle tugging of his lips on her pulling a cry from her throat. “Harry! Oh!”

He moved on to her other breast, repeating the motions, until she felt as if her entire body were going up in flames.

“Harry!” This time, his name was a protest as he stopped his ministrations, lifting his head to stare down at her.

“You’re beautiful,” he half-breathed, half-groaned before he lowered his lips to her skin, kissing his way down her body. “Beautiful,” he murmured against her skin. “I’ve wanted to do this for weeks now, you know that?” She didn’t know how it was but she could feel the words, spilling across her skin, leaving her tingling.

And then his lips found the center of her, kissed her right there and she forgot to wonder, forgot to think, forgot everything except the touch of his lips, the amazing, mind-blowing sensations streaking through her, all centered on where his lips and tongue were touching her, tasting her…

Her hips were shifting restlessly, arching towards him, small cries tripping from her lips as she offered herself up to him in wanton abandon, giving herself up to the madness that had taken possession of her.

She wasn’t aware of whimpering his name, wasn’t aware of her hands moving restlessly over his shoulders before tangling her fingers in his hair, wasn’t aware of—oh God! With a sharp cry, the tension inside her exploded, sparks flew, her body clenching, shuddering, quivering all over in the torrent of pure physical bliss.

She sagged back onto the mattress, limp with pleasure, eyes closed, until she felt him drop a light kiss onto her lips.

“That was amazing,” he breathed.

For a moment, she didn’t react, her pleasure-sated mind dazed and sluggish before some coherence returned and she realized.

She opened her eyes to look at him. “I think that’s my line.”

Laughter gleamed in his eyes, curved his lips. “It was amazing to see you like that,” he clarified.

“My pleasure.”

Then he did laugh but his laugh was cut off on a hiss of breath as her hand reached, found his straining arousal, curled around it, guiding him to where she wanted him, where he belonged.

He gave in with a groan, surging inside her with one thrust, making her gasp at the suddenness of it.

“Harry!”

He stopped, resting his forehead against her shoulder. “Hermione,” he groaned. “I’m sor--”

She cut the word off with her lips, as her body softened, adjusted around his.

She kissed him, her legs lifting to wrap around his, and he understood, began moving inside her, slowly and then faster.

She wrapped her arms around him and welcomed him, met his movements, her body echoing, imitating his, returning his passion with her own…

Until she was gasping, burning, shattering around him with a cry as he shuddered, groaned, his fingers digging into her skin almost convulsively.

He collapsed on top of her, exhausted, breathless, sated, for a moment before he managed to roll over onto his back, his arms keeping her tucked against him.

And they both slept—utterly satiated, utterly happy…

He drifted awake slowly to the consciousness of a warm, soft body pressed against him—to the memory of her, his fantasy come to life.

He opened his eyes to see her sleeping face, her body nestled against him, and felt his heart warm. His entire soul seemed to let out a lazy sigh of contentment and he could only think that he wanted to wake up like this, with her beside him, every day for the rest of his life. (And, oddly enough—or not—he felt no surprise, no sense that anything very momentous had just occurred at the thought that he wanted this for the rest of his life; there was only a sense of rightness, of peace.)

He let his eyes close again, luxuriating in the feel of her against him, reliving the memories in his mind, before he opened his eyes again, a sudden thought occurring to him.

Sunlight was pouring in through his curtains, illuminating the room brightly—too brightly, and he moved his head to look at the clock to see that it was past ten.

And it was a measure of how slowly his mind was still working that it took him a moment before he realized what was wrong.

He stiffened and was reluctantly resigning himself to having to wake her when she began to stir, sparing him.

He could almost track the progress of her return to awareness in her body, pressed against him as closely as she was, before her eyes opened and she shifted, turned her head to meet his eyes.

“Mm, good morning,” she murmured, a little drowsily.

His heart clenched—God, he wanted to savor this moment forever, never wanted to get up again. But he couldn’t do that. “Er- Hermione,” he began.

“Hmm?”

Her soft purr was almost his undoing—again—but he resisted. For her sake, he had to. “What about work?” he asked, expecting her eyes to fly open in horror at how late she’d slept, at how late she would be.

She didn’t.

He blinked, confused, as she didn’t react with dismay or any other reaction he would have expected, knowing how diligent she was, how hard she worked.

She opened her eyes again and smiled up at him. “I took the day off today.”

“You did? Why?” he asked, rather dumbly. Hermione hardly ever took a day off and certainly never without something important planned.

“Well, I certainly didn’t want to have to rush off to work and leave you behind earlier. I hope I’m a better planner than that.”

His eyes widened as the implications of that sunk in fully. “You really planned this?” His seduction that morning and everything afterwards…

She nodded. “I wanted you and I rather thought you wanted me too, because I saw the way you looked at me sometimes.” Which was true enough, as far as it went. After watching him had opened her eyes to his desire, she’d noticed it, wondered how she’d never seen it before, never seen the way he looked at her sometimes—or, more importantly, the way he tried so hard not to look at her at others… As for the other, what had really started it, how she’d watched him, she couldn’t tell him that, would keep it as her own little secret—and how it began hardly mattered now.

“So you planned this—this morning, what you were wearing, everything,” he realized.

She nodded again, sobering, suddenly looking, as she felt, a little apprehensive.

She’d planned this, down to taking the day off so she could linger in his bed…

His smile began deep in his eyes, grew into a grin. “Have I told you lately that you’re absolutely brilliant?”

She smiled. “Well, you know I can never hear that often enough.”

He brushed his lips against hers, his hands returning to cup her cheeks again. “And I love you for it,” he added softly, seriously.

A smile glowed in her eyes, illuminated her entire expression until his breath caught in his chest at how utterly… beautiful… she was right then.

“Oh Harry…” she breathed and her tone made the words eloquent, were all he needed to hear.

He kissed her again, softly, leisurely, and then drew back to ask, “So, what do you have planned for the rest of the day?”

“Oh, you know, the usual… sleeping, eating, reading… Shagging…”

“Hmm…” A slight shiver went through him at the sensual promise infused into the last word, even as he pretended to have to ponder it for a moment. “I’m not sure…”

She poked him in the chest.

He captured her hand with his so she couldn’t free it. “I love your plan,” he assured her in as solemn a tone as he could muster, in spite of his dancing eyes and twitching lips.

“Good,” she purred huskily, her tone sending a fresh wave of heat skittering through his body. (Not even in his fantasies had she been so alluring, so sensual…) She rose up on one elbow to look down at him, trailing her fingers lightly, teasingly down his chest and lower still, as she bent until her lips hovered just above his. “Because,” she breathed, “I’m hungry.”

So was he—for her.

She brushed her lips lightly against his, so lightly it was more of a tease than a kiss. “I want breakfast.”

With that, she sat up, moving away from him.

He closed his eyes, his head dropping back onto the pillow with a fervent groan. “You’re evil.” He opened his eyes again just in time to see the mischief in her smile before she leaned over to brush her lips lightly against his again.

“We can have dessert later.”

He didn’t know how she managed to make the word, dessert, sound so sexy but manage it, she did.

He tried to pout but couldn’t manage it, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips instead. “Witch,” he accused her but his tone made the word sound like an endearment.

She threw him a quick smile over her shoulder as she bent, slipping back into her bra and her almost nonexistent knickers before shrugging into her robe.

And he had to smile as he pulled on his boxers and shirt and followed her out of the room, suddenly feeling a rush of pure happiness.

He’d never seen this side of her, this teasing, openly sensual side of her, and he was finding it utterly beguiling, delightful. She was utterly delightful.

His fantasies of her had been arousing, seductive; the reality of her was infinitely better than any fantasy had ever been, could ever be. Infinitely hotter, more sensual, more beautiful, more endearing… He’d lusted after the fantasy of her but he loved, was in love with, the reality of her…

And he knew, as he caught her around the waist with one arm and dropped a kiss on her temple before releasing her so she could pour the pumpkin juice, that he always would be. Would always be delighted by her, would always be amused by her, would always be aroused by her, would always love her…

~The End~