Dressmaking by Anne U

Rating: NC17
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 25/12/2003
Last Updated: 25/12/2003
Status: Completed

Hermione is making a dress the Muggle Way. She doesn't know that Harry has been watching her
work on the dress and much, much more. A one-shot featuring angst, more angst and sex in several
flavors.




1. untitled
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**Dressmaking**

By Anne U

Rated NC-17

Inspired by the painting near the bottom of this webpage, http://msnbc.msn.com/id/3705225/, so please look at this
first:

The usual Harry Potter disclaimers apply, of course. J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers own these
wonderful characters. This story takes place in 2003, when the characters are 23 years old.

~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

Part 1 - Harry

She’s making a dress the Muggle way. I don’t know why she feels the need to do this. She and I
and everyone in our world know that she was the cleverest witch of her age at Hogwarts. It would be
much easier for her to conjure a dress out of a silk purse, or a sow’s ear, or a pair of ice tongs.
But she wants to make a dress for herself, and so she’s doing it the Muggle way. Occasionally she
charms the needle and thread to sew the pieces of fabric together on their own while she does
something else. And sometimes while she does something else, I watch. But she doesn’t know I know
about the dress, and she doesn’t know that I watch.

Watching her makes me feel guilty. And randy. And guilty about feeling randy. I shouldn’t watch
her. It’s wrong, I know it. She’s my best friend, has been for over twelve years. Actually, she’s
one of my best friends. Our other best friend lives with us too, but he’s the reserve keeper for
the Chudley Cannons, his favorite Quidditch team since the first day he flew on a broom, so he
travels a lot and is home maybe one week out of four during the season. During the week he’s home,
he can’t keep his hands off her, and her hands and mouth roam all over him. Of course they don’t do
this in front of me. That would be very rude, and they’ve always been careful to keep their
displays of affection to a minimum in front of me. Don’t want me to feel left out, I suppose.
They’re a bloody bit late on that, actually. I’ve been left out since the first minute he touched
her, the first minute he put his mouth on hers. It should be my mouth kissing hers, my mouth making
her moan, my mouth making her arch her back and scream my name, not his name dammit, my name.

But he’s the one snogging her and shagging her and doing all the things I’ve wanted to do with
her for at least the past five years. He’s the one whose tongue laps against those breasts, whose
fingers pinch her nipples and slide inside her and make her pant and howl like she’s going to
explode. And he’s the one who explodes inside her. Him, not me. I don’t explode inside anything
except my own hand. Sometimes I don’t even get that far, if I can’t pull it out of my pants in
time. Depends on how long I’ve been watching them and how loud they are. I know they put silencing
charms all over the room before they start pawing each other. But I know what they’re doing anyway.
You see, they don’t know about the hole. That wonderful, tiny hole in the wall between my bedroom
and hers. I discovered it four years ago when we first moved into this flat together. I should have
told her about it, or else fixed it and forgotten about it. But I couldn’t. A chink of light caught
my eye one evening and I looked toward the chink and I was hooked. She was standing there in
nothing but her bra and her knickers. I’d never seen her in her underwear before, and since she was
with him and not with me, I reckoned this was the only way I’d ever see her outside of her
clothes.

Like I said, I shouldn’t have looked. I should stop looking. It’s wrong. I know it’s wrong.
She’s his girlfriend, not mine. I’m her other best friend, but just a friend, and I’ll never be
anything more. And when I see him shagging her brains out I bite my lip until it bleeds to keep
from yelling through the hole, "Me, Hermione! You should be doing that with me!" And I
bite it to keep from yelling out while my hand does its job. And during the weeks that he’s gone,
it’s even worse, because she clams up and goes into her room and works on that dress. She’s got
some odd work habits, though, because lately she’s been walking around her room in her underwear a
lot of the time. She’ll work on the dress for half an hour or so, then stand back and look at her
handiwork (critically, of course; she’s never satisfied with what she’s just done). Sometimes she
rips up the part she just worked on and starts it over. Sometimes she sits on the edge of the bed
and stares at the dress. And sometimes she leans back and slides her hands over her breasts and her
back arches and her hand slips up in between her legs and her head falls back and she makes
panting, gurgling sounds. And while I watch her I’m making gurgling sounds too and my hand is
moving a hundred miles an hour. And afterwards I smile, but not as much as I’d smile if I were the
one distracting her from her dressmaking. And I can’t stop watching her, not even when she turns
her head on the bed and looks me straight in the eye.

~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

Part 2 – Hermione

I’m making a dress the Muggle way. I suppose that sounds like an odd thing for me to do. After
all, I do work for the Committee on Experimental Charms at the Ministry of Magic, and as Hagrid
used to say, "There inn’t a charm our Hermione can’ do." Be that as it may, in my spare
time I’m making a dress, and I’m either the slowest or the worst seamstress in Britain. I could
very easily charm some fabric into a dress or transfigure something else into a dress, but where’s
the challenge in that? I’m not a Gryffindor for nothing. So I’m very slowly making a dress for
myself the Muggle way, using just fabric, ribbons and thread – and just a few charms now and
then.

Actually I’m making the dress because of Harry. Dressmaking gives me something to do during the
many nights when Ron is gone and Harry is off in his own little world, a world he hasn’t let me
into since our sixth year in school. Night after night I try to keep myself occupied so that I
won’t have to think too hard about how I got to this point in my life and made the mistakes I’ve
made, or about why Harry is sitting alone in his room, when I’d rather he was sitting in my room
with me. Or maybe doing more than sitting.

So I’m doing something that will take me a long time to do without using a lot of magic. The act
of threading a needle and pulling it through the fabric is very cathartic somehow, and the
push/pull motion is very sensual. In, out, in, out, in, out... I like to get a rhythm going. Then
the rhythm takes over and I start thinking about other rhythms, other movements, other things that
get my body going. Thinking about that usually makes me randy, and I strip down to my bra and
knickers and charm the needle to move on its own. Then I watch the needle fly in and out of the
fabric. In and out, in and out. Well, you can see where this is leading, where it seems to lead
almost every time I go into my room intending to work on that dress. As often as not I find myself
lying in a heap on the bed, touching myself where I wish someone else were touching me. And feeling
in my bones that I’m not the only person who knows what I’ve been doing. Somehow, Harry knows.
Somehow, he’s been watching me.

Actually Harry’s been watching me for years. It’s always been very sweet and flattering and
adorable, the way he tucks his chin down and averts his eyes a bit, as if he hopes I can’t tell
he’s been stealing glances at me. That shyness is one of the many things I’ve always loved about
him. But now I can’t help feeling he’s crossed some kind of line when it comes to watching me. He
and Ron and I have shared a flat in London for several years, and Harry just seems to know a lot
about things we haven’t discussed with him. The hints have been dribbling out of him for at least a
year – a word here, a comment there, a look that would burn a hole in the carpet. And I wonder what
he really knows.

Not that I’m surprised he’d want to know. Like everyone else, he thinks Ron and I are still a
couple. We were a couple for about a year, starting right after our NEWTs when I found myself lying
under the bushes outside Gryffindor Tower with my knickers around my ankles. Looking up into Ron’s
sweaty face that night, I realized I enjoyed doing what I’d just done and I really enjoyed doing it
with Ron. But for the past two years or so, Ron and I have really just been shag buddies. Ron is a
professional Quidditch player and he’s on the road about three weeks of each month. When he comes
home, he and I often end up in each other’s bedrooms, shagging each other senseless. Mostly we do
it because we’re comfortable being randy toward each other, and because neither of us has anyone
else to shag senseless. Not that I haven’t considered someone else. But I know that someone
wouldn’t want me. That someone spent our last two years at Hogwarts pushing me away as hard as he
could. Back then I believed it was because he couldn’t stand his bossy, bushy-haired little friend
anymore. By the time I found out he’d done it to protect me, I’d been with Ron awhile and wasn’t
sure how I felt anymore.

So here I am yet again, sitting on the edge of my bed in my bra and knickers, watching that
needle and thread twist in and out of the fabric draped over the dressmaker’s dummy. Slowly the
needle dips into one piece of fabric, then ever so slowly it emerges from the other piece. In and
out, in and out. I swing my legs to the rhythm and start rocking back and forth on the corner of
the mattress. In and out, rocking and rolling. I mutter a charm and the needle flies faster. I’m
rocking and rolling faster on the corner of the mattress and shock waves are traveling up my body.
It feels better than dancing but not as good as shagging. Not yet, anyway.

It’s getting awfully hot in here. My breasts are getting sweaty. I must wipe the sweat off them.
I slide my hands down until I’ve pushed my bra down off my breasts. I rub my fingertips across the
rosy little mounds and feel more shocks travel south to meet the shocks traveling north. Little
shocks aren’t enough now. I lie back on the bed, stroking a breast with one hand while the other
hand moves south under my knickers. I find my center quickly with one finger and the palm of my
hand. I can’t be quiet anymore, not with these waves crashing over me. I’ll drown if I don’t
scream. I mutter a silencing charm before the screams escape me. Ron Ron Ron Ron Viktor Ron Ron
Harry Ron Ron Harry Harry Harry oh Harry oh oh oh Harry... Harry. I’m moaning Harry’s name.
Harryharryharryharryharry I wish you were doing this to me, Harry, I wish you were doing a lot more
than this to me. Why aren’t you doing this to me, with me, Harry? The waves stop, my body goes limp
on the bed and my head rolls to the side.

And then I see his green eye, bright with lust, staring at me through a tiny hole in the
wall.

In a heartbeat the waves of pleasure turn into a tidal wave of revulsion and titillation. The
bastard has been watching me the whole time. I won’t let him get away with this. I won’t let him
watch me and not know what he could have had years ago.

I stand up and take a guess about his exact location. I Apparate into his room and nearly knock
him over. He’s kneeling next to the wall, his left eye staring through the hole, face twisted in
confusion, pants around his ankles, boxers down at his knees. I’ve caught him red-handed. Very
red-handed.

Harry’s face goes beet red, then paper white. His body shakes like a leaf in the wind. He looks
like he’s going to vomit. "Hermione, I –"

"Harry James Potter, you slimy git, you pervert, you --! What gives you the right?!"
I’m screaming at him and shaking almost as hard as he’s shaking, and I remember my breasts are
bare. He turns his face and stares right at them and then looks up at me. The longing in his eyes
takes my breath away and I realize he’s beautiful and sad and completely clueless. All this time
wasted, all this time perverting himself because he couldn’t ask for what he wanted. And neither
could I.

I close the short distance between us and lean down toward him, cradling his face. I tilt his
head up and cover his lips with mine. He kisses back immediately, hungrily, like a starving man
finding nourishment for the first time in months. He nibbles my lower lip and cups my breasts in
his hands. I thrust my tongue into his mouth, exploring this territory that seemed forbidden to me
for so long. Our tongues dance and mate and soon I’m kneeling in front of him, still kissing him,
but my hands are unbuttoning his shirt. Then my palms flit across the flat planes of his chest,
then his stomach, until I find what I’m looking for. I take him in my hand and stroke him slowly.
He grabs my hair with his fists and shudders under my touch. When I break the kiss, his face
darkens with sadness.

"Tell me you want me," I rasp into his ear, quickening my stroke.

"Hermione, please don’t taunt me," he moans with tears in his eyes. "You don’t
have to do this. I don’t want your pity."

My hand moves faster while I lick one of his nipples then trail kisses up to his other ear.
"There’s no pity involved here, Harry. Do you want me or not?"

He crushes his mouth against mine. I swirl my thumb around his tip and he moans into my mouth
and strains against my hand. "I’ve wanted you forever," he groans. I stop and pull my
hand away and take his face in my hands again.

"So have I," I breathe and shower his face with kisses. I remove his glasses and he
unhooks my bra, wraps his arm around my waist and rolls me onto the floor beneath him. Now I start
to shudder as his fingers graze my nipples and his tongue laps my breasts, then my stomach.

"I’ve never done this before with anyone I loved," he moans, his voice almost an
octave lower than usual.

"Neither have I," I rasp, straining to met his mouth. He raises his head and gives me
a long look.

"Not even Ron? But.... but..." -- his face twists in dismay – "I thought you two
were—"

"No, never," I pant as he resumes licking me. "I’ve never been in love with Ron.
I love Ron. I enjoy shagging him. But I’ve never been **in love** with him. And he’s not in love
with me."

A grin like sunrise spreads across Harry’s face. "**I** love you, Hermione," he
whispers, almost pleading. "I’m **in love** with you. Please let me make love to you. I’ll
never ask you for anything else as long as I live."

I’m speechless for about two seconds. Then I know. "I love you too, Harry. I guess I always
have. And if you don’t make love to me this second, I might have to hurt you."

He smiles that lopsided smile I’ve always loved and Apparates us onto his bed. He pulls my
knickers past my knees and puts a finger near my entrance to test the waters. I’ve never been so
ready for anyone or anything in my life.

"Yes ma’am," he smiles and slides into me in one thrust and sweet Merlin, we fit
together like a hand in a glove. I wish I could stay like this forever, with Harry moaning and
thrusting, raining kisses on my face, my eyelids, my throat, my fingertips, kneading my breasts,
pushing my knees up toward my chest so I can take him even deeper. He rolls and thrusts and I meet
him measure for measure and my brain starts spinning from the fire he’s ignited inside me. We’re
both sweating and panting and I can tell he’s as close to the edge as I am.

"Ohhhhhhhh Harry," I scream, pleasure overtaking me completely, "ohohohohoh
Harryharryharryharry," and the waves wash over me again and again.

"Hermione... I... you... this... heaven," he pants as he spends himself inside me. I
push the sweaty fringe off his brow and lightly kiss his scar. He is right. He is home. This is
heaven.

~~~*~~~*~~~

Many hours later we awake, still tangled up in each other’s limbs. He kisses me again, sweetly
this time, and pushes a tangled lock of hair away from my face. Then he rests his forehead against
mine and his long black eyelashes brush against my eyelids and I realize I’d been lost but now I’m
found.

"Hermione," he begins hesitantly, "that was...I’m so sorry. I’ve been a stupid,
pathetic git for a long time. I never thought you’d ever want me. All these years, ever since I met
you, all I’ve done is cause you pain," he finishes, eyes brimming with tears.

"Harry," I gulp back my own tears, "the only pain you ever caused me was pushing
me away. You pushed and pushed and finally I gave up. I didn’t know why you’d pushed me away until
after Ron and I got together. If only I’d known, I wouldn’t have given up." I entwine my
fingers with his and kiss the back of his hand. "So much time lost. I could’ve been with you
all that time."

His eyes darken and he looks broken, defeated. "I couldn’t take that chance. I couldn’t let
you be a target for Voldemort. I had to protect you. I couldn’t have gone on living if you’d
died." His eyes are swimming with tears again, and I gently close his eyelids with my
fingertips and kiss the tears away.

"It’s all in the past now, love," I say, cradling his head against my breast.
"We’ve lost so much time together, let’s not lose any more. I love you and you love me. Just
don’t push me away again; I couldn’t bear it."

He looks up and says what I don’t want to hear. "What happens when Ron gets home?"

I pause for what feels like an hour, gathering my thoughts. "Ron knows I’m not in love with
him. He knows I never have been. But he **is** used to shagging me whenever, and I can’t do that
again. I know he’ll be jealous at first, and he might even hate us both for awhile."

"Well, that makes me feel a lot better," Harry chuckles mirthlessly. I stroke his hair
and tilt his head up so I can kiss him again. He deepens the kiss and we lie there clutching each
other for dear life, almost afraid to let each other go. I feel him harden against my leg and my
blood starts to boil again. Unfortunately the clock on his bedside table reads 8:40 a.m. and I need
to be at work at the Ministry by 9:00 and thanks to Harry I really, really need a shower.

"Hold that thought till tonight," I smile, stroking him lightly as I extricate myself
from his bed. "I need to clean up and go to work. I’ll see you this evening. We’ll have
dinner, just you and I."

He kisses my palm as I pull away. "I want to make up for lost time with you. Starting
tonight. Please."

"Yes, starting tonight, but now I **must** get ready for work," I insist as I
collect my errant undergarments from his bedroom floor. I blow him a kiss over my shoulder.
"Have a good day, Harry. I love you."

As I close his bedroom door behind me, I see him blowing kisses back at me, a beatific smile on
his face. I smile too, amazed at the difference a few hours has made. Ten hours ago I was
embarrassed and infuriated; now I’m in love with him. I walk into my own room, put on my dressing
gown, and collect some clothes to take into the bathroom. A glance at the dressmaker’s dummy stops
me in my tracks.

The dress is done. It’s completed, finished, and more beautiful than I could have imagined, and
now I wonder if I am imagining it. But I touch it and it’s very real. All the various parts I’d
ripped out and started over have been neatly sewn on, and new pieces of fabric I’d never touched
have been added. I remember that in my haste to catch Harry last night, I’d not ended the sewing
charm. Some say magic is intention made real. Right now I’m not inclined to argue with that. The
bodice is the same pale yellow I’d originally sewn, but something has been embroidered on the left
side, right over the heart. It’s a pair of ovals the size and color of Harry’s eyes.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3



