Above Ground by Szaranea

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 02/06/2004
Last Updated: 02/06/2004
Status: Completed

When you’re floating four inches above ground, you need somebody to catch you. And if you’re
looking for a plot, then you clicked on the wrong story. What you will find here is fluffy smut.
And just to clarify things: Hermione does not want to die. Many people do obviously not get this,
but the suicide thing is meant to be ironic. She has to descend a long set of stairs in very high
heels *sighs*




1. Above Ground
---------------

**Above Ground**

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**Summary:** When you’re floating four inches above ground, you need somebody to catch you.
And if you’re looking for a plot, then you clicked on the wrong story. What you will find here is
fluffy smut.

**Author’s note:** Before you employ a mercenary lynch mob and send them after me, I have to
say something in my defense: I have never written H/Hr smut before, and am a wee bit sleepy. This
is just something I wrote after discussing high heels on the wonky thread over at the forums.

While she was walking towards the long marble staircase, Hermione silently wondered whether she
should have left suicide notes, or at least a testament. She could not willingly walk into the open
arms of death and not tell those who loved her that she was sorry. But then again, Ginny had seen
her earlier and not tried to stop her. Neither had Ron. So Hermione figured that everybody deserved
it if she died.

It wasn’t as if she wanted to die. She really hadn’t given it much thought until a few seconds
ago, when she first noticed the staircase.

She would describe descending them with her high, high, high, high, high heeled stilettos
suicide. Harry would probably call it darwinism. He who is smart shall survive.

Speaking of Harry: she hadn’t heard a word from him all day, and it was starting to worry her.
It was their routine that he’d floo her at the office when they both had their lunch breaks, and
talk about things. Nothing imporant usually, but Hermione was an animal of habit, and those daily
talks gave her a sense of comfort. After all, it meant that he was still alive.

She had never told him this, but everyday when he went off to work she felt this little
clenching pain in her heart, and a little voice in the back of her mind would tell her that it
might be the last time she’d see him.

Shoving all those somber thoughts back into the dark corner of her mind where they belonged
Hermione took a tentative step towards the staircase. Up until now she’d been leaning onto a
pillar, smiling coquettely at those who passed her by. But she couldn’t just stand there all
evening, and that’s why she started to approach the stairs of death, as she had now called
them.

Placing one elegant hand on the railing she set a foot onto the first step, very, very
carefully. Upon seeing that she had not yet lost balance and broken her neck after tumbling down a
gigantic staircase she gathered a little more courage and took another step.

The fleeting thought that if she died, she would at least do so with style did not exactly help
to comfort her, though.

She had reached the eleventh step, approximately, when it happened. She must have somehow missed
the step with the little expanse of sole her shoe provided, and slipped. Ironically enough, what
would have been her last thought had not a strong pair of arms caught her in the nick of time
revolved around milk. Lateron she would not remember what exactly it was, except for that it had
something to do with her least favourite drink in the world.

But, fortunately, all that didn’t matter, since somebody had caught her, and, judging by the
scent of his cologne, she already had a sneaking suspicion as to her saviour’s identity.

Her suspicion was confirmed when he made sure that her footage was good and then turned her
around and placed a chaste kiss on her lips, his eyes atwinkle.

“You look amazing,” he finally whispered while piercing her with his bright emerald gaze.

“Thank you,” she replied, not able to hold back the slight blush that crept up her neck. She
idly wondered what exactly was wrong with here – she was not a silly schoolgirl anymore, and this
was Harry Potter, her very own husband. But perhaps that was just it – he was Harry Potter, the
only person she ever could and would blush over.

She did not really realize that they were still tightly pressed against each other in the middle
of a publicly accessible staircase. Or rather: she did not realize that they were in a public
place. Pressing up against the most handsome man in Britain would have been rather hard to ignore,
after all.

The fact that he was now circling the small of her back with his hands and still fixing her with
his mesmerizing eyes was not helping matters either. She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks
again, but this time for an entirely different reason.

“Harry-“ she said, cursing her voice for sounding so strangled.

“Yes love? Was there something you wanted to say?” He asked, moving one of his hands to lightly
brush over her shoulder, and stretched his mouth into something that came very close to a smirk,
which made her clutch his robes so hard that her knuckles were turning white. This whole situation
was giving her thoughts about sweat, rumpled bedsheets and creaking sounds.

“Don’t you think this is a little inappropriate at the Minister’s birthday party?” she squeaked,
deciding to file a lawsuit against her own vocal chords as soon as she was able to leave Harry’s
delicious embrace, which meant that she’d probably have to fix this in her testament in order to
have it done post-mortem.

“How about we leave, then?” he whispered and flicked his tongue to brush her ear lightly while
he did so.

Even Hermione might have found some astounding reserve of resistance before this, it was gone
now. The logical part of her brain, which was usually dominating her actions suddenly seemed to
have left, and so she couldn’t find a reason to object.

“Okay,” she whispered back, and before she could say another word, Harry had apparated them into
the bedroom of their flat.

“Were you planning on doing this?” she asked, a little surprised.

He didn’t reply, but kissed her instead, gently at first, still running his hands over her back
and shoulders, while she moved hers over his arms, to his shoulders and then stopped their journey
at his neck. Soon the kiss started to be more heated though, when Harry’s tongue sought and was
granted entrance into her mouth, clashing with her own.

Harry was trying to pull her even closer, and her whole body was tingling all over by now, and
the feeling was increasing with the seconds passing. Seconds in which Harry slowly unzipped her
black spaghetti-strap dress, sending pleasurable shivers down her spine.

While he was removing the straps from her shoulders she fumbled with the buttons of of his
shirt, hastily undoing them, and then ridding him from the annoying garment as fast as she could.
She suddenly felt as if each and every scrap of fabric that separated them was one layer too much,
and his train of thoughts must have been the same, because, after the dress had glided down her
body and she had stepped out of it, he seemed rather impatient to unclasp her matching black
strapless bra.

She decided to help him a little with it, while he hastily discarded what was left of his
clothing, and all the while, they were sharing one of the most intense kisses they ever had.

When they had finally stripped down to nothing in record time, Harry’s mouth left Hermione’s for
the first time that evening, straying over her jaw to her earlobe, nipping and suckling at it
before moving on to her neck, where he payed special attention to the spot she knew he knew would
make her gasp, and they were both not disappointed.

But tonight, she didn’t really want it to be like this. She was on fire, and even though it
surprised herself, as ready as could be, and she could tell that Harry, whose erection was pressing
into her abdomen was too.

“Harry,” she gasped when she felt his lips moving lower, stopping at her breasts, slightly
taking one of her erect nipples into his mouth.

“Harry,” she repeated, pulling his head back up, pressing her lips to his again. “The bed –
now,” she commanded, and Harry was more than happy to oblige.

He picked her up and swiftly, or as swiftly as you can move with the weight of a full grown
woman in your arms, carried her over to the bed, dropping her rather unceremonously.

Hermione almost sighed with relief when he crawled onto the bed and with one fluid motion slid
into her. Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered that she still wanted to know why he
hadn’t flooed her, but right now, that was unimportant.

What counted that he was kissing her again, and that he was finally moving. She wrapped her legs
around his, digging her heels into the backs of his knees and moving her hips to complement his
rhythm, making white-hot pleasure seep through her whole body.

She dug her fingernails into his back as Harry increased the speed of his strokes, making the
pressure that was building inside of her finally reach its peak and scream his name as an intense
orgasm washed over her, her walls clenching and unclenching around his still pounding cock.

She could feel him harden even more inside of her and knew that he was nearing his climax as
well, and even through the daze she was in at the moment she was present enough to start moving
again to help him reach his goal.

After a few more strokes Harry reached his climax as well, breathing her name into her ear as he
did so. She knew that Harry never collapsed on top of her after sex contrary to what Luna said
about Ron, and therefore was not surprised when he slid off her and lay down beside her, while they
both were waiting for their laboured breathing to calm down.

“You can call me Mr. Five Minutes if I you want,” Harry chuckled after a while.

“Only if you call me Miss Four And A Half Minutes,” Hermione replied, smiling at him.

“*Mrs.* Four and a Half Minutes,” he replied, and then drew her head in for another
kiss.

“How about we try to last a little longer next time? And how about next time is right now?” she
asked, trying to give him what she hoped was a sexy smile.

He didn’t answer. At least, not in words.



