Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR; this was just written for fun, etc.
Author's Note: This is a fic that took me months and months to actually finish but it is finished now and so I'm starting to post it. It was meant to be a sort-of companion fic to 'Fantasy', a the-other-side-of-the-coin to that fic, if you will, but can be read separately as they are two independent fics, even if the basic idea behind them is the same (as you'll see.) Finally getting around to posting now because it's finals and I'm as much in need of a pick-me-up as anyone.
Oh and this is PWP so if you're looking for a plot or some deep meanings, you won't find it here. Just fluff and smut-enjoy!
Watching Her
Part 1
Harry almost stumbled into the flat, hanging up his cloak and noting peripherally that Ron's cloak wasn't there.
He frowned and then belatedly remembered that Ron had mentioned he would probably be away whenever Harry returned from this latest investigative mission, at the Cannons training camp.
He was exhausted, nearly every muscle in his body aching, after the past few days, and the only coherent thought he could muster in his tired mind was that he wanted to see Hermione.
At the moment, he didn't even bother to wonder why he wanted to see Hermione; he just knew he did.
He always wanted to see Hermione.
He couldn't really explain it, hadn't particularly tried to explain it, only knew that he liked seeing her every day, that seeing her smile could always brighten his mood, that no day seemed quite complete, quite right, if he didn't see her and spend some time with her.
And right then, after a few days of not seeing her and spending his time spying on scum that made him feel tainted just from listening to their schemes before he learned and heard enough to hang them, he wanted to see her with an intensity so deep it felt like it came from his soul. He'd once heard, soon after joining the Aurors, that in a job where he would spend a majority of his time thinking about and witnessing all the evil the human race was capable of, it was necessary to have some kind of haven, some place where it was possible to recharge. And he'd long ago realized that his haven was her. Her sincerity, her kindness, her integrity…
He looked over to her bedroom door, wondering-it was late but sometimes, she stayed up late if she was finishing up her work.
Her door was ajar and he thought he could see some light inside.
Maybe she was awake…
He found his feet carrying him towards her room almost without a conscious decision to do so. He wouldn't stay long; he just wanted to see her, would tell her he was home so he could see her welcoming smile and feel the warmth from her friendship and her loyalty settle over him, soothe him.
There was a light in her room, rather dim, he could see as he neared. It was probably just a few candles.
He stopped short as he got close enough to catch a glimpse inside.
Oh. My. God.
She wasn't sleeping. She was definitely not sleeping.
His mouth went dry, as an entirely different kind of warmth settled over him, heat flashing through his body as he forgot that he'd ever known the meaning of the word, tired, in his life. The temperature in the flat had suddenly skyrocketed; he felt as if he were in an oven.
He should move. He should leave. He shouldn't be here.
His feet took another step forward bringing him closer to her door so he could see inside more clearly.
He knew it was wrong; he would, no doubt, suffer pangs of conscience later-well, no, he probably wouldn't. Who was he kidding? he was a guy and he was seeing something he'd only imagined seeing. This was his fantasy, an erotic ideal, come to life and he could not have moved from that spot if his life had depended on it.
It might have been-it was wrong-but he stared, his eyes devouring, wandering over every inch of her he could see. It was wrong-but this would likely be the only chance he ever had to see Hermione like this and, wrong or not, he wasn't stupid enough to miss this.
God, she was beautiful… he felt every thought he'd ever had drain out of his brain and flop onto the ground by his feet as he stared.
She wasn't naked but her shirt was unbuttoned and falling open enough so he could see her breasts as she arched up into her own touch. He could see her nipples, hard and peaked, before her hand moved, her fingers lightly tweaking, pinching, before she flattened her palm on her breast, arching into her touch. Touching herself the way he wished he could touch her…
He closed his hand into a fist, his nails biting into his palm in a desperate attempt to keep from stepping forward and- and-acting on his desires. He couldn't. She would probably kill him-deservedly so-for invading her privacy like this. And worse than that, the show would be over.
Candlelight was flickering over her face and he could see the flush of arousal on her cheeks and spreading slowly down to her neck and chest. So that was what she looked like when she was aroused… The answer to a question he'd had for months now-what would Hermione look like when she felt like this? Beautiful… she was the most beautiful woman in the world…
And the most erotic.
She had beautiful breasts, not large, but perfect, and in the candlelight, her skin almost glowed, pale and smooth, like the most flawless porcelain-except porcelain was hard and cold and Hermione was definitely not. He wondered if it was possible her skin could feel as soft and as smooth as it looked…
He tried desperately to swallow, only to find that his mouth was too dry for even that. He was going to die before this was over, he just knew it-all the blood in his head pooling in his aching groin-but dear Merlin… what a way to go…
His eyes wandered down the curves of her waist and her stomach and her hips, every inch of her which he could see. God… he'd known she was pretty and had some lovely curves but all his imaginings could not have prepared him for the reality of her. It should be a crime for her to wear clothes to conceal that gorgeous body which he'd only dreamed might be there under her comfortable clothing-but then, no, he decided. He didn't want anyone else seeing her like this, didn't want anyone other than him to know just how beautiful she was like this… he felt something entirely different from arousal twist inside his chest. He wanted all of this, all her beauty, all her sensuality, all her passion, to be his…
He felt an almost savage burst of possessiveness flare up inside his chest, mingling with his desperate lust. He clamped his lips shut; he wanted her so much he could almost taste it, wondered if he were imagining the scent of her arousal-and stifled his groan at the very thought of it. Every inch of his body was taut with desire, wanting nothing so much as to close the distance between them and replace her hand with his. His hand was positively itching with how much he wanted to be the one touching her.
But he couldn't. He couldn't.
Her other hand slid further down her body until she was touching herself there, between her legs, soft moans and whimpers escaping her lips.
There was a world of sensuality in her movements and the sounds she made and he bit his lip, hard, to bite back his answering moan and almost welcomed the sting of pain. The slight sting in his lip was a distraction- a feeble one- from the growing ache in his groin. His trousers were becoming an instrument of torture.
God! He wanted her. Hell, he'd wanted her for months now, he admitted. He didn't know how many times he'd found himself staring, without his own volition, at the curves of her breasts and her hips, found himself distracted by the shape of her lips…
He couldn't see what her hand was doing, could only guess at exactly how she liked to be touched between her thighs, could only see her other hand resuming its play with her nipples. But he watched with a concentration he'd never given anything before. He didn't care-well, yes, he did but not at the moment-that he would never get a chance to use this knowledge but he wanted-dear Merlin, how he wanted-to know what she liked.
She was getting closer, he could tell, from the quickening of her gasps for breath, from the way her hips were moving, from the way her hand increased its movements. She gave a low cry that sent a fresh jolt of lightning sizzling through his body. It was the most erotic sound he'd ever heard in his life; she was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen, ever imagined, in his life…
He reminded himself, peripherally, to breathe before he passed out, careful not to make any noise. My God… He was so aroused it hurt and for a fleeting, insane moment, he toyed with the idea of undoing his trousers and-but he dismissed the idea. There was no way he would be able to do that without making some sound that would betray him. And he'd been waiting too long, been wondering, what Hermione looked, sounded and felt like when she came to betray himself now.
He felt a savage twist of jealousy inside his chest, that made all his lust and his longing of the past few minutes pale in comparison. Who was she thinking about as she touched herself? Whose hand was she imagining was touching her, caressing her, pushing her towards the peak of pleasure? He thought, with sudden ferocity, that he would happily hex that unknown bastard's bollocks off. The prick didn't deserve Hermione. He couldn't think of anyone who deserved Hermione. But who- who could it be? She hadn't mentioned anyone in particular. Who was she thinking about right now?
He wanted it to be him. He wanted to be the one touching her, the one she was arching towards. He wanted to be beside her, above her, inside her… he wanted to caress and explore every inch of her gorgeous body, wanted to hear those soft whimpers and know that it was because of him… He wanted to taste her, wanted to lick and suck and pleasure her until she screamed… He wanted to see her come and know it was for him; he wanted to bury himself inside her until it felt like they were no longer two separate beings but only one… He wanted to kiss every inch of her until she knew she was his and he was hers…
He bit back another groan at his own thoughts and then bit down on his lip again as the movements of her hands increased, her body arched sharply, and then--
And then she was there, coming, with a cry that seemed to splinter in the air and echoed in his head for hours. "Oh, Harry!"
He almost leaped back from the door, for one crazed moment, convinced that she must have seen him but then his rational brain (what little of it was still functioning) kicked back in and he realized that wasn't possible. That hadn't been anger; it had been… It had been…
He swallowed, his heart suddenly clattering in his chest as he fought to remember how to breathe. She had cried out his name as she came…
She'd been thinking of him.
The unknown prick he'd been so jealous of-was him.
And he didn't know why but that realization almost had him exploding in his trousers. He could hear her, see her, in his mind and to know she'd been thinking of him all the while… It was beyond erotic. It was everything in his wildest fantasies and more.
He gritted his teeth and tried to think of something-anything-else-Madam Hooch in a skirt.
He almost recoiled. That had done the trick.
At least for that moment. He no longer felt in imminent danger of embarrassing himself.
Slowly, with infinite caution now, he stepped forward again, irresistibly, wanting to see her in the aftermath.
Her breath was coming in soft pants as she lay there, her skin flushed and now lightly covered with a sheen of sweat-his mouth went dry, again. Her skin was positively glistening now in the candlelight.
One of her hands was idly moving, straying over her skin in the lightest of lazy caresses, the sort of lazy caresses he could imagine giving her afterwards-and he bit his lip again.
Lying there, her thighs still spread, her face and skin flushed, she was a picture of wanton satiation, temptation and seduction and sensuality personified. That image of her seared itself onto his mind and he knew he would never, as long as he lived, forget that sight of her.
Quietly, carefully, he crept away from her door, still reeling from what he'd seen, what he'd discovered-and still painfully aroused.
Dear Merlin.
He closed the door to his room with deliberate, almost exaggerated care, before he put up a silencing charm. There was no way he wanted her to hear this.
He needed to think, needed to wrap his brain around the implications of what he'd just seen but before he could do that, he needed to come.
He was so hard it hurt and he knew quite well there was no chance he'd be able to think coherently or do anything else until he'd found his own release.
He stripped off his clothes hastily, groaning when his erection was finally released from the prison of his trousers and his boxers.
He closed his eyes, the image of her leaping to his mind and he groaned again, as he wrapped his hand around himself.
He pictured himself stretched out beside her, above her, his hands caressing her, and then her eyes opened, dark with passion, and then she reached for him, curled her hand around his arousal…
He cried out, his hips thrusting involuntarily-and in his mind, the hand wrapped around him was hers. She was the one touching him, stroking him…
He was already beyond the need for any more stimulation and it was only seconds before his back arched, a guttural groan ripping from his throat, and he exploded into his own hand.
He fell back onto his pillow with a sigh, spent, sweating.
"God, Hermione…" he breathed.
As if in answer, he heard her voice again in his mind, her cry of his name as she came, and in spite of himself, he felt another flicker of heat.
Was there a more erotic sound in the world to a man, he wondered hazily, than that of the woman he loved crying out his name in climax?
He doubted it.
The woman he loved…
The phrase returned to his mind, lingering there, and although he'd never thought it in so many words, he felt no surprise at the thought.
Because he did love her. He suspected he'd loved her for much longer than he'd ever suspected and now he knew it for certain.
He was in love-and lust (God, yes, how he lusted for her…) with Hermione.
He'd never thought- never guessed- that she might feel that way about him; he was only her best friend, almost a brother to her, wasn't he?
But now he knew-she wanted him…
She wanted him!
He felt a rush of joy, of heady, primitively-male satisfaction. At that moment, he was quite sure he could have flown without the aid of a broom, could defeat a Hungarian Horntail with both hands tied behind his back…
There was no aphrodisiac in the world like knowing that the woman he wanted so intensely, wanted him too. It was intoxicating and he was intoxicated, positively drunk on it.
He could imagine approaching her slowly and seeing her eyes widen a little, a flush coloring her cheeks until he was close enough to feel the warmth from her body, close enough to hear her breath. He could imagine himself telling her she was beautiful, that she was the one he saw when he closed his eyes, that he dreamed about her, dreamed about touching her and caressing her, dreamed about being inside her and hearing her cry out his name… (And in his dreams, his words were beautiful, smooth, even eloquent.) He could imagine brushing his fingertips down her cheek and over her lips in a slow caress, as her lips parted and her eyes darkened with desire, until he wouldn't be able to resist her any longer and he would kiss her, taste her…
He could imagine… so much…
~To be continued…~
A/N 2: I promise this isn't over…