A/N: This is just pure smut. A fantasy and nothing more. There are mentions of rather rough sex and one might consider parts of it dubious consensually speaking. Please remember this is just a fantasy and nothing more. Enjoy it, don't do it.
Alone Time?
There was silence in the tent. Harry could hear Hermione's breathing in the next room soft sighs. She had, he thought, probably cried herself to sleep again. If he could Harry would have punched Ron in the face for leaving. He kept revisiting the scene, imagining cracking his fist into the redhead's long nose. On the other hand, Harry was now alone with Hermione, and for that he was quickly coming to thank Merlin. It was true that she was still heartbroken over Ron, but Harry was gradually realising that without Ron around to make him, even unintentionally, feel guilty, he had begun to accept he had a number of ... feelings for Hermione. He couldn't pretend that felt romantically attracted to her, but he had to admit that he was acutely aware that she was female and that no-one should have the sort of thoughts about their 'sister' that he was entertaining towards Hermione.
Harry sighed and turned over, there was no way he could act on it, particularly not now. She might leave and then he'd be alone. The desire for a good hard fuck really wasn't equal to the desire for a friend. On the other hand, there were parts of him which didn't agree. He gave an exhausted grown and reached down. He was already semi-hard and he had to bite his lip. A few thin sheets of canvas away Hermione shifted in her sleep. He wrapped his hand around himself slowly, holding the blanket up with his left hand to avoid rustling. He pulled at the head of his shaft, running his hand down over the soft, delicate skin and palming his balls. He paused, shifting and took a shallow, trembling breath.
Images flashed before his mind's eye and he tried to focus. The white curve of Ginny's breasts, the pale pink nipples hardening under his touch; Cho's lips, sweet and soft; Pavarti, in her sari, sinking to her knees with a wicked grin, and then Hermione. She was not have expected his imagination to depict her, normally he thought of her at times like this, in the blue ballgown from years before, albeit with a rather more revealing cut. In this instance, he saw her in jeans and a jumper. His mind locked onto the image and in the half daze between sleep and fantasy he tried to urge it along. He curled his fingers tighter around his member. The swollen flesh pulsed under his fingers. One long stroke, two, three. He lost patience, his hand blurred up and down the shaft.
He pulled up short as a noise penetrated the darkness. From Hermione's bunk there had been a low moan. Harry's breath hitched. He had to have imagined it. It came again.
Harry bit back a groan. How was she doing it? He wondered. Would she start by rubbing her nipples? Pinching them between finger and thumb, before trailing her fingers down her smooth stomach to her knickers? What then, over or under? He hoped the latter. What he would give to be able to see her slender fingers sliding beneath the soft cotton. Was she shaven, trimmed, or natural? He began to pump his fist up and down again around his cock as he listened to the gradually quickening sighs from the other bunk.
Her fingers would be testing how wet she was, slipping between the slick folds. A breathless gasp as she brushed her clit. Her body would tremble with aching desire. Curling a finger round to penetrate herself. The covers of the bed would tangle around her. What would happen if he stood now, cock hard and glistening with pre-cum? If he entered her room. Was she so drugged on sex that she would fuck anything, anyone? Was she hoping he would hear? Hoping he would come to her and push her thighs apart, drop to his knees and bury his tongue in her folds, tasting her? Slip his tongue into her, probing, flick it up and over her clit, swipe backwards and forwards until she was mewling with need, begging him to make her cum or enter her?
It was wrong, it was cruel, but there was a spark of desire in him which wanted to strip Hermione, the brightest witch of her age, of her defining characteristics. To turn her into a pleading, sex-crazed creature, desperate for relief. He barely held back his orgasm as he imagined Ginny making Hermione crawl to her; mocking her for being a bookworm. Pushing the bushy brunette's head between her legs, forcing her to lap at her in the vain hope of reward.
He could feel the orgasm building. He flung back the covers and wrapped his left hand around his testicles. They were tightening under his left hand. He imagined he could feel the cum forcing its way up his shaft before it erupted out. It splattered over his chest, a droplet even hitting his cheek. He clenched his teeth, almost screaming as the orgasm tore itself out of him.
He lay there, panting quietly, too exhausted to clean the cum off. His eyes drifted closed. When he awoke he was clean, dry and the duvet had been pulled over him, neatly. His heart skipped a beat.