Between the Lines
Tinsadisaster
Summary: Harry and Hermione travel alone now, unaccompanied by Ron. Sparks fly, words are said, and friends become ... more than friends. HPHG
Disclaimer: I rented the characters from J.K. Rowling. The horrible sex scene belongs to me, though. Yeah, awkward!
Author's Note:
I
was debating whether to actually write this, or be cruel and make it
all a flashback for a later chapter or something, but I decided to be
nice (I think). I am not an expert on this sort of material. Repeat.
I am TERRIBLE at this sort of scene. Don't get mad at me if you hate it. And there are no religious connotations regarding the last line of this chapter.
WARNING: This chapter is Rated M. If you cannot buy a lotto ticket, a pack of cigs, or get into a 18 and older night club, stop reading now. Honestly, I want you innocent people to stay innocent.
The true feeling of sex is that of
a deep intimacy, but above all
of a deep complicity
James Dickey
Part VII
As he watched more and more articles of clothing fly over his shoulder, and slowly more skin being exposed, a sudden mixture of adrenaline and fear rushed through his bloodstream, sending him over the edge. He remembered the day he peeped on Hermione bathing, how interested he was, how quickly he turned away so that she would not see his physical reactions. Just like Hermione, everything was on the table now. There would be no more hiding.
However, the moment he had stepped beyond that line of friendship, into the dark waters of something more, he felt the fear disappear. It was strange, seeing as he'd been thinking something horrible would happen at their initial touch, such as lightning striking down onto his disheveled head of hair or the outbreak of a horrible rash.
He guided his member into her, both gasping at the sudden sensation. Her big, brown eyes stared at him, glazed and dazed, and her mouth opened in pleasure, and a broken sigh escaped her thoroughly-kissed lips, spelling out the situation at hand.
He'd heard from other boys at Hogwarts about this moment, this mind-blowing sensation of being in a woman, of penetrating and claiming her, but he blew it off as false talk fabricated by bravado and limitless, dirty imaginations. He was always too busy trying not dying to even dream of having such illicit affairs with girls. Besides, all the girls he took interest in were either taken by other boys, dead and alive, or generally not available.
"Oh," he said, staring down at his friend, not thinking, but not knowing what to do next. He knew what he was supposed to do, of course. Thrust. Withdraw. Repeat. It was human nature, but his guy friends never said anything about the connection, the exhilarating feeling of bonding with someone on such an intimate level. He snapped out of his mental rant and returned to the woman before him. Her eyes were closed, and a smile danced across her face, but he shook with need, and asked her if she was comfortable.
"Move, Harry, move." That was all he needed. His calloused hands grabbed the soft curves of Hermione's hips, and trailed down her pale thighs, reaching her ankles, guiding her legs to wrap around his own hips, bringing her closer in more ways than one. This was only the beginning, he reminded himself.
"Merlin, Hermione," he gasped, slowly building a momentum, his thrusts hesitant and soft, as he forced himself to watch her reactions, so that he knew how he was doing. He really wanted to close his own eyes and relish the feeling, but he needed to stay observant. Harry Potter was not a virgin, but he wasn't exactly a sex god, though many girls at Hogwarts probably imagined him to be. Just as he was in everyday situations, except Quidditch of course, he was clumsy, not untalented but lacking certain skills, and working on a whim of chance and luck. If she looked happy, he must have been doing something right. Right?
Hermione's mind was a jumble of phrases, images, and thoughts flashing and disappearing, as she gave into the new sensations of the pleasure of the flesh. She was a virgin, as most of her friends predicted, but she wasn't a prude. She had experienced some things with certain boys, one being the foreign Quidditch star and the other a ginger-haired kid who took too long to notice how she felt. At the moment, she could not focus on what their names exactly were -- because, she was, in fact, a little preoccupied with a certain de-spectacled, green-eyed familiar character in her life.
She listened to her girlfriends talk about their experiences, whether she desired to or not, and most stories involved discomfort, miscommunication, and a lot of pain. However, as she was held, in such an intimate manner, by her best friend, she did not feel any of that, at all. Sure, there was the initial pain as her maidenhood, the thing that others valued her for, as well as both the Muggle and Magical societies she existed in, was torn down, but this was Harry. He might have participated in dangerous sports, gone on nail-biting adventures, and exuded manliness from the bothered, ruffled hair that sat atop his handsome head, to the shoulders that held their world's burdens, to the legs that ran so that others would live another day, to the toes that chilled her own when they found each other in comprising situations on cold nights, but really, he was a gentle, not-so-giant, soul.
She imagined she would have experienced this with Ron, but as she watched Harry's face as he continued his energetic effort, she did not think at all. For the first time in her life, she allowed the barriers she put up so that she was protected from the cruelties of both of her worlds, to fall, so she could really feel and really know what it meant to live for the moment. There was no shadow looming at the back of her mind, shaking his head in disappointment, yelling in rage, and degrading her for her decision. She held onto Harry, never wanting him to stop.
"Yes," she whispered, smiling a smile of physical and emotional completion, as she closed her eyes, and felt. Just felt.
Her toes were curling at the pleasure.
For an amateur, Harry made up the expertise he lacked, with eagerness and energy, that sent her into the throes of passion, or whatever it was that was continually described in the romance novels she allowed herself to read from time to time.
His hands had left her hip, and he leaned forward, taking ahold the edge of the table above Hermione's mass of hair, with both hands. He felt her breasts rise and fall with her breaths at the sudden closeness, and nearly growled in relief at the new sensation given by the different angle of their connection.
His Quidditch teammates described this like a Quidditch game. He distinctly remembered Oliver Wood's linguistically distorted advice to take it slow at first, but gain momentum, and to always go big at the end, and to end in victory. Sure, maybe sex couldn't be linked to Quidditch in all comparisons, but it was nearly the same thing. Or maybe Wood really was just talking about Quidditch -- no matter, there were better things to think of at the moment.
He leaned down, and left a trail of kisses down Hermione's face, capturing her lips in a desperate kiss, letting his tongue battle with hers. His mouth muffled her moans, as loosened the grip of one of his hands on the table to allow it to hold her neck gently, and slowly move downwards, only to land surprisingly, or not, on another region of her skin. He squeezed a breast softly, and literally feeling the moan that rose in her, he became more adventurous, detaching his lips from hers, only to replace where his hand was. He let his tongue flicker across her nipple, noticing how she whimpered at his sudden change of plans, and lightly bit.
Her body rose off the table, curving in a delicious manner, as she felt the knot that had been forming all the while in her stomach to slowly untwine itself, as stars blinded her vision, and felt a release she had never experienced before, not even with her own personal adventures at night. Harry, feeling her warmth, sped up his movement, and followed her, letting himself come apart after a few hard thrusts.
They both gasped for air, as their bodies cooled down from their sexual activity. Harry's arms burned with the effort of holding himself up for so long, so he allowed himself to collapse gently onto Hermione, his head curving into the nook of her shoulder. Hermione stared at the ceiling, feeling her best friend's breath on her neck, and wondered what to say now that their irrationality had passed, and logic had to return. One of her hands grazed the curve of his unclothed hip as the other played with his even more unruly hair.
"I don't regret a single moment of what just happened, and so shouldn't you," Harry whispered, knowing that the machine inside her giant brain was probably formulating a debate, rebuttal, or speech about how everything they just did was wrong. Though he was a male, he certainly knew the inner-workings of her mind, which saved his life on several occasions. It was time to finally his turn to save her from the anguish she could possibly put herself through. "But I must say... why didn't we do this earlier?"
Hermione laughed, and everything was right again. Contrary to popular belief, they didn't need a ginger-headed class clown to lighten up the mood. Even Harry Potter had a sense of humor that would, and did, lift the tension off a very tense situation.
Nothing major changed. They still worked together to think of clues. Hermione still thought of Ron. Harry still though of Ginny, as well as Ron, but not as often as before. Hermione thought of Harry, and Harry thought of Hermione much more.
But the footsteps of a familiar red-headed boy slowly caught up to them. His only thought was to find his friends and make up for lost time. He wondered if they would ever forgive him for the things he'd done.
Would he forgive them, their trespasses?
