Merlin. Hermione was in trouble, though it took her some time to realise it.
She didn't realise it when she awoke, fresh from her excruciatingly detailed dream. If anything, she relished the dream – even thinking about it laid in bed after the fact lit a dull flame in her … thinking about how the hard floor would feel on her knees … how Harry's cock would feel in her hands, in her mouth … how it would feel to swallow his hot release as she stared into his eyes …
She didn't realise it when she became conscious that she was drenched in sweat, with her legs twisted around the covers. The Head Boy and Girl were each entitled to private bedrooms in their respective house dormitories, so even though she couldn't be sure what sounds she might have unleashed in her sleep at least there had been no one there to notice.
It was only at breakfast that she understood her predicament.
Typically, she was first of the trio to breakfast. She had always been an early riser, and while she knew Harry was the same, he would almost always wait for Ron. A seven-year ritual, stretching back to their very first morning at Hogwarts.
She was buttering toast, such a mundane thing, when she looked up to see the pair of them approaching the table. Or rather, she saw Harry. Her breath hitched, appreciating his handsome face, his athletic build, and his strange confidence. Everywhere he went people looked at him, but he always seemed immune their glances, their scrutiny apparently nothing to him. She had always envied him his ability to shrug off attention.
That was the moment she suddenly knew. The problem was that just listening to his candid description or dreaming sensual dreams wasn't enough. Not anymore.
There, at breakfast in the middle of the Great Hall, she realised she wanted to replicate with exactitude her dream. To make his fantasy a reality.
She had guiltily enjoyed idle fantasies for some time now, but this was the first time she really wanted to follow through. A rich, alluring compulsion rose in her that turned experiencing a private thought into a serious desire to act.
How on earth can she be expected to see him, talk to him, like normal now?
Panicked, she slakes her sudden thirst and grabs the half-buttered toast, then rises from the benches before they can even sit down. She knows she can't make it through breakfast with him, not without making a serious fool of herself. She blurts out, "Sorry, got to dash, I've got to go to the l-" No! She thinks, Not the library! Oh god, don't make him think about the library. "- the owlery. Yes, and then I need to see Professor McGonagall. I'll see you in class."
She rushes out of the hall as fast as she can, before he can speak and trip her up. She completely avoids his gaze, because she's not sure what she'll do or say if she gets trapped by his eyes.
She manages to get through Ancient Runes and double Arithmancy before lunch with only a few tempting thoughts about the sensual, forbidden things she and Harry could do with each other bodies, and she skips lunch entirely because he is bound to be there.
Transfiguration is the problem. He's there, and she's there, and it turns out Hermione is as much as a hypocrite as anyone because she spends more than half of her time stealing glances at him. When he's within sight she can't stop looking at him, and when he's out of sight she has trouble not thinking about him.
She is carelessly watching the way his fingers hold his wand, and though she is in theory trying to concentrate on the lecture McGonagall is giving, she instead finds herself considering what else his assertive hands could do…
McGonagall is talking about the transfiguration of disparate sized objects (why something small can become large, why something large can become small) when she poses a question to the class. There is a moment of silence, and there are no volunteers.
"No one? No one at all?" McGonagall asks in exasperation, turning to her as she so often does when the rest of the students let her down, "Ms. Granger, can you help explain to this hopeless lot?"
She freezes, suddenly terrified. She hadn't been listening. Merlin, instead of paying attention in class she had been wondering what it would be like to be sat on his lap, kissing ardently, biting his lower lip, her hips rocking against his...
"Um. Conservation of energy?" She hadn't been paying enough attention to know exactly what the question was, so she does what she never does; she guesses. An educated guess, of course, but all the same.
"Almost, that's a part of it, but…" McGonagall resumes her lecture, and no one seems to notice that anything is amiss. But she knows. She had gotten a question wrong. Well, not wrong wrong, but she hadn't gotten it fully correct either.
No one seems to notice, that is, except for Harry. The worst possible person to notice. He silently mouths 'are you okay?' at her, and she has to quickly nod and look away before she risks noticeably turning a colour usually synonymous with the Weasleys.
The rest of the class moves torturously slowly, and when given leave to go she intends to hurry from the room, impatient to be anywhere else but there. How can she so fervently want to be so close to him, and yet so anxiously need to hide herself from his sight?
He tries to catch her attention, but she slips out of the room before he can reach her. She darts quickly behind a tapestry and then away down a secret corridor. Now all she needs to do is avoid him for another, she checks her watch, six hours until it's socially acceptable for her to hide in her bedroom.
For the rest of the day, she throws herself into her Head Girl duties; organising patrol schedules, checking on the first years, sorting out the timetables for booking the Quidditch pitch, and other meaningless busy work… until finally, curfew is here.
She and Ron are on patrol tonight, where they spend an hour checking the various classrooms, corridors, and broom closets students out of bed are likely to congregate in. Or rather, they are supposed to but instead Ron begs off halfway through to go and meet with Lavender (presumably in a broom closet he knows has already been searched).
He thanks her for covering for him, and she watches him go in amused exasperation. Tonight, as an olive branch, she doesn't harass him about it – like Harry said, he's not harming anyone.
He is gone for only a minute, she barely gets down the corridor, before she hears a whispered "Hermione!"
A swish of fabric reveals Harry, dressed in shirt and trousers, clearly having ditched his robes and tie after classes finished. She stands there like a deer in headlights, "Harry? What are you doing?!" she exclaims, "Have you been following me under the invisibility cloak?!"
He scuffs the floor with one of his battered old muggle trainers, cloak screwed up in one hand, "Well, yeah. Sorry. Just while you were doing the patrol …I knew Ron would disappear at some point, and I've been trying to talk to you all day, but you kept avoiding me."
"Perhaps, then," she says with no malice intended, "if you realised I was avoiding you, you should have stayed away?" She wants to both run away from him and to run to him. To embrace him, kiss him, but she fears she isn't brave enough, and most of all she fears that he won't feel the same way.
"How could I do that? Not when I've clearly upset you," the seconds stretch out before he says, "…Is this about what we talked about last night?"
When she doesn't answer immediately, he puts a hand over his face, "This is what I was afraid of, that in the light of day you'd … have regrets. See me differently. And worse, that it would make things weird between us, and I don't want that."
"Harry … wait, no, I don't want to talk about this out here. Not when Ron or another prefect might come back." She takes him gently by the hand and leads him, ironically, into one of the broom closets she's supposed to be keeping students out of.
With a flick of her wand, the room is silenced, and the door is locked behind them. She conjures a cloud of miniature pinpricks of light that float just below the ceiling, like tiny stars, that dimly illuminate the cupboard. The room is small, but not so small that they can't stand a foot apart.
She turns her back to him, too ashamed and uncomfortable to even look at him right now, "Harry, that's not what the problem is."
"Then talk to me, we've never had a problem we couldn't solve before now. You and me."
She would speak, but her throat is dry, her own body seeming to conspire against her, rebelling at even the mere thought of coming clean. She would tell him that everything was fine, but she's not sure she can spend another day pretending like today …and she has always hated lying to Harry.
"The problem is what we talked about," and in the darkness she can sense his shoulders slumping, "but not the way you think. The problem is …I can't stop thinking about your fantasy."
She pauses. "Can't stop thinking about …doing it myself."
He lets out a breath, clearly relieved, "Is that it? Hermione, you know …there's nothing wrong with having a fantasy. There's nothing wrong about wanting to act on it, either. It's okay. I'm not going to tell anyone, and I'm certainly not going to think any less of you for it."
He doesn't get it, and even though her anxiety driven heart is beating fast, she screws her up her courage. Now she has started, she intends to leave him with no uncertainty "No, Harry. I mean, I can't stop thinking about making your fantasy real. I can't stop thinking…wanting…to do that with you."
"Oh," he says, stunned, and even in the semi-darkness she still can't bring herself to look at him. She knows that she is red with embarrassment, her foot taps nervously waiting for him to say something. Say anything.
She feels his strong hands on her hips as she steps into her, as he mumbles into her ear, "Would it help you to know I had been thinking of you the whole time?"
Now it's her turn to be dazed. He wants her? He wants her? She twists her body so that she can look up at him, struck by how beautiful he is, and how much of a mess she must be. Red in the face, mouth open in astonishment…
His arms are wrapped around her, and she relaxes into him, tilting her face up towards his, they close their eyes, and their lips slowly meet. He is gentle, warm, the kiss is tantalisingly light. They break apart for a moment, just long enough to meet each other's gaze.
Gone is the hesitation, now their mouths crash together, needy and desperate. His tongue darts out to clash with hers and they both moan slightly. Breathing is secondary, kissing is all that matters to them. Hermione is lost in a haze, she doesn't know or care how much time has passed, all she cares about are his soft lips and his irresistible tongue.
She presses her body back into him, needing to be closer to him, feeling his arousal dig into the small of her back. She groans and wiggles, eliciting a growl from the back of his throat. She smiles, wild and giddy, as their tongues continue to dance.
One finger on his right-hand dips just into the waistband of her skirt, and she is instantly hot. There is a moment where, understanding the implicit promise of his action, she knows that he is giving her the chance to stop him.
But Merlin, she doesn't want him to stop.
He gently moves his hand from her side to her stomach, one finger tracing a scorching trail against her bare skin beneath her skirt. She inhales deeply in expectation as he waits again, giving her one last chance for her to interrupt the downward motion of his hand. The chance comes and goes, completely ignored. She does not care to stop him. She wants this.
His hand lifts her waistband and slides beneath her skirt, beneath her lace underwear which pull his hand tightly against her skin. His fingers gently run through her soft, short curls and she breaks the kiss, groaning in anticipation. Deprived of her mouth, he kisses her neck, stopping only to nibble occasionally on her ear.
Her breathing is fast and deep, and she moans profoundly as his fingers delicately trace over her. His hands are slick with her now, gliding smoothly over her, sending shivers through her body unlike anything she has ever felt before.
She lets her head fall back against his chest, panting, "This isn't the fantasy you described last night, Harry…"
"Oh?" he mutters, still kissing her neck, gently rocking his hips against her back every time she gasps, "Sorry, you've been in so many fantasies it's hard to keep track."
The skirt is hampering his ability to touch her, pinning his wrist against her stomach. She undoes the button at the side, releasing him, the skirt hangs loosely from her hips, her shirt untucked. It's still not enough, so she somehow manages to wriggle her underwear down her legs without breaking from his teasing grip.
With his hand free to wander, he deftly touches her in ways that make her squirm and moan in ecstasy against him. His other hand reaches down to pick up one leg, holding her beneath the knee, holding it out to one side, spreading her legs for his hand. She leans back, letting him completely take her weight.
The build-up has been intense, but nothing compared to the bolt that runs through her when his fingertips finally graze against her clit.
She moans from the back of her throat, breathily saying his name, and from here he does not relent. At first he caresses, content to make her gasp and writhe with each slow stroke of his finger, but soon his tempo increases and it is all she can do to hold on. She feels so hot, both physically and sexually, one hand going up to run through his soft hair, she breathes in deep breaths, her body overriding all higher control.
When the crescendo hits her, she cries out his name, trusting him not to drop her, and hangs in his arms while he gently strokes her down from her climax. Her head is lent back against him, tossing from side to side, as she rides out her orgasm. A shiver runs through her, thinking if this is what her first orgasm with a partner is like then what will it be like when they are practiced, familiar with each other's bodies and desires...
He tenderly lets her leg down, removes his hand, and though her entire body is softly suffused with pleasure, she is struck again with embarrassment. "Oh, god, Harry. I'm all over your hand…"
"Yeah," he says hoarsely, "and I think that's incredibly hot. You're embarrassed by it?"
"Well, maybe a little… I didn't know what you would think…"
"This is what I think," he says, raising his fingers up to his lips. She watches, stars in her eyes, as he carefully puts each finger in his mouth and cleans her from his hand.
She turns her body into him, leaning up to kiss him. She can taste just a hint of herself on his lips.
Having tortured herself with the thought of going down on him all day, once her breathing steadies a little she wastes no time. Her hands fumble with his belt, unfamiliar with unbuckling one from this direction, as he stammers "Hermione, you don't have to."
She puts one finger against his lips, kisses him gently, and whispers "Stop protesting, Harry. I want to."
Finally unbuckled, she undoes his trousers slowly. She can feel him straining against the fabric, his wandering hands tracing delicate, tingling lines across her back. Reaching inside his clothing, she wraps her hand around him. His hard cock jerks in her hand as he groans in response. She marvels how something so hard can also feel so soft, so smooth and silky.
Kissing him one more time, he leans back against the closet wall to steady himself, she sinks down to her knees and deftly pulls him free. The floor is hard underneath her, her skirt still loosely hanging from her hips. Her legs are parted just wide enough for her to slip one hand between them, her still wet pussy aching for more attention.
Getting her first look at him, her eyes widen. His cock is beautiful and, if she is being honest, a little intimidating. A nervous apprehension fills her at the thought of her being filled by it, but nowhere near nervous enough to put her off the idea. If anything, between the sight of him and the effort of her elegant hand, she relishes the opportunity. Hermione Granger has never met a challenge she couldn't handle, and she likes the look of this challenge very much.
She deliberately looks up; her gorgeous brown eyes meet his startling green ones. They are both very firmly on the same page, sporting matching expressions of unrestrained desire, and she reaches out to touch him again, making him hiss through his teeth. With each experimental jerk, he makes a little groan, each one lengthening as she repeats the action.
He has to fight to keep his eyes open, half lidded in pleasure. As her fingers trace across her clit, she moans, licks and parts her full lips, still making blazing eye contact, and runs her tongue along the underside of his head making him cry out her name. The sound of her name on his lips like that causes a fresh wave of arousal to burn through her like a wildfire. He tastes … exciting. Not unpleasant, like she had been half expecting, and as she passes more of his thick cock through her lips, she thinks it's something she could come to enjoy.
He gasps and moans, one of his hands comes up to gently rest in her hair. He doesn't pull, just runs his twitching fingers through her hair and against her scalp. It tingles pleasantly, though nothing compared to the sensation her hand is producing between her legs.
She bobs her head in rhythm, sliding him in and out of her mouth, and he responds enthusiastically. Taking him in deeper and deeper with each repetition, he fills her mouth and her throat, so much so that she must stop touching herself briefly to loosen her tie and undo the top button of her shirt.
Settling into a pace he particularly seems to appreciate; she is struck by the knowledge that almost everyone else is in bed, completely unaware, and here she is, with Harry Potter's, her best friend's, hard cock between her lips.
The idea of being discovered, or of any of them finding out how she spent her evening, is not appealing to her, but like their conversation the night before the idea that she and he have this secret, explicit, intimate knowledge of each other is extraordinarily stimulating. She wants him, and only him, wants him to know how much she loves his cock … to know how hard he made her come … and that tomorrow they will walk around, the others unaware, but together they will know.
Harry begins to tense, he calls out a warning of his impending release, and she thinks she is prepared. Only, as it turns out, she is surprised by how hot his cum swiftly filling her mouth is, and by just how much there is. It escapes for a moment, onto her lips and down the side of his throbbing cock, before she adjusts to take him deeper in her mouth, desperate to swallow all of it.
He cries her name again, gasping, as she continues to suck and swallow until she has every drop. She feels … powerful, seeing the sublime ecstasy on his face, watching, feeling him come and knowing that she did this. That she can have this affect on him, in theory whenever she wants.
She releases him, taking in the deep breaths she had been unable to make while eagerly swallowing, wiping his cum from her mouth and doing the same as he had done, carefully licking him from her fingers. She thinks about stopping the movements of her hand on her clit, momentarily and incongruously embarrassed about pleasuring herself on her knees in front of him, but ultimately his exhilarated face convinces her she doesn't have to.
Falling to his knees, he kisses along her jaw and down her neck, his hand resting gently atop of her hand through her skirt. "You're beautiful, Hermione," he murmurs, "I could watch you do this for hours…but…"
Suddenly he is lifting her up and laying her down on the cold closet floor. She looks up at him, softly biting her bottom lip, and she scares herself for a second. Not because she is afraid of him –no, if he asks her to fuck him, she is ready, willing, eager. No, she scares herself because looking up at him she doesn't know where she draws the line anymore, she is so utterly in his power … she is drunk on him, intoxicated, and in this moment, she isn't sure there's anything he could ask of her that she wouldn't willingly, gladly give to him. She isn't used to feeling this out of control … but, with him, she feels safe enough to let go of her need to constantly regulate herself and allows herself to just enjoy, to just experience.
He looks down at her, lying there, tie loose, shirt untucked and he delicately raises her skirt. His eyes burn with an implacable passion, with an unrelenting lust. She doesn't know whether to feel embarrassed or empowered by his reaction, knowing that he is staring in wonder at her damp curls and her utterly soaking cunt. In the end, she splits the difference between the two emotions and half covers her face with one hand, peering at him between her fingers, and opens her legs wider to him, angling her hips up.
"Fuck, Hermione, you are incredible" he says, as he takes her wet hand and worships each finger with his mouth. When he finishes, he moves on to kiss her inside her right knee and her back arches in anticipation. She knows, or at least she hopes, what he is going to do, and it will literally be a dream come true.
His leaves a trail of hot kisses down the inside of her thigh, lifting her other leg up, lifting it over his shoulder. His hand moves up her other thigh as his mouth leaves on its upward journey, applying a light but heady pressure that causes her to spread her legs underneath him. His mouth spends a blistering minute at the top of her thigh, where it meets her pelvis, kissing the join, slowing moving down…
Kissing through the small patch of damp hair, and then … his tongue is on her, moving gracefully across her wet folds. Arching her hips up towards him, she moans, and whispers dirty things. She is barely conscious of the things she is saying, only that she needs him and will say anything to get him. He holds her thigh down with one hand, the other gently teasing at her opening, rubbing circles around her. Teasing, promising, but never quite delivering …
Soon, his tongue is making long flat strokes across her clit and she is left a wreck, gasping his name over and over again. His thumb still teases her, never quite venturing inside. As one particularly strong wave rushes through her she bucks her hips, ever seeking more pressure, more speed, more Harry, and his thumb slips lower, accidentally caressing down into the shallow rosebud of her arsehole.
He moves his hand away quickly, but she groans in an octave lower than before, the sensation is new to her, intrinsically forbidden, but suddenly she finds a whole new realm of pleasure. How could she have not noticed how sensitive she is there before? "No, put it back…" and then when he hesitates, she isn't above begging, "Please, Harry. Please."
Continuing to lick and suck at her clit, he hesitantly places his thumb against her arsehole. She is wet here too, spilled over from her soaked cunt, or maybe it's just that his thumb is still wet from touching her, but regardless he still glides against the tight knot of muscle and her legs shake, moaning.
"I've never," she gasps, "never touched myself there before. How, why, does it feel so good?"
He is too busy to answer but emboldened by her clear arousal and desire he gladly gives her what she wants. As before, he teases and circles her with his thumb in concert with his assault on her clit. She continues to move her hips in response, driven by forbidden desire, each time pushing harder and harder on his thumb, until she softly gives way and he is inside her.
She closes her eyes, her face screwed up in intense pleasure, the crimson red band of arousal or embarrassment, or both, across her face intensifies. She moans, breathes his name, and it becomes too much. She is so tight around his thumb, even though she knows it can't be inside her more than half an inch she still feels so full, and his tongue is driving her wild, her clit throbbing from his unceasing attention.
Her orgasm crashes through her, screaming his name and arching her back on the cold floor. She can feel her arsehole repeatedly and unconsciously contract around his thumb.
Utterly spent, her legs and arms go limp. She has never been so out of breath in her life, though she gives one last little moan as he removes his thumb. He continues to lick and kiss between her thighs until her orgasm has fully run its course, then he sits up to cradle her in his arms.
"Wow," he says, eventually, "that's a brand-new fantasy," and the best she can do is nod in desperate agreement and continue to take quick breaths, her hair a complete mess.
He holds her for a while, kissing the top of her forehead, until she gets her breath back.
"We should get back to the tower," she says reluctantly, "before anyone notices we're missing."
He agrees, but not before he cheekily summons her underwear, and stuffs it into his pocket, "Alright, but I don't think you need these for the trip back."
She lightly smacks him on the arm but doesn't disagree.
The trip back under the invisibility cloak is made all the more difficult by their desire to stop and kiss every other corridor, by how close they have to stand next to each other. Hermione thinks that if her last orgasm hadn't been so intense and so exhausting she would have demanded to fuck him in one of those corridors with the cloak covering them.
All too soon, they are stood in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, aware that they are at some liminal moment.
"So," he says, awkwardly, "where do we go from here?"
"Well, I for one want to do that again. With you." She giggles and looks down coquettishly, in a manner entirely unlike Hermione Granger. Alone here with Harry, she doesn't mind being a little bit foolish.
"Merlin, me too, but … I mean, what do we tell the others? Do you want to say anything at all? Are we together, or is this just something … casual, for you?" He is earnest, and sweet, and by way of reply she kisses him gently.
"I could never just be casual with you, Harry. That is, if you'll have me. But… just for a little while … can we be each other's little secret? I want to revel in having you, having this, to myself."
"Alright, I can manage that for a while" he says, "but don't expect me to call you Head Girl without smirking."
She laughs, and they stumble together through the portrait door, giddy, with eyes only for each other.
There is no one in the common room to catch them together, but even if there had been they would not have noticed.