Unofficial Portkey Archive

God, it's been ages since I last posted something here… Was supposed to be a 100word drabble using that lj comm harry100's prompt - ten. But it kind of grew on its own, I just couldn't stop typing.

Anyway, this is me taking a shot at the tent scenario, those wonderful and frustrating weeks Harry and Hermione spent alone but did nothing (or so JKR says). It has a unique twist, I think `cause I haven't seen it done before. In this fic, Harry is too overwhelmed when visiting his parents graves that Hermione takes him back to the tent, thus not seeing the creepy old woman staring at them. Which leads us to Hermione not breaking Harry's wand on Christmas, but that's irrelevant to this oneshot.

SMUT, pointless smut without a plot. You know we all love those.

.

.

.

"put 1 and 0 together"

(dh au // He always does better in practice than in theory.)

~

~

~

Hermione drifts in and out of sleep while basking in the afterglow of their sweet lovemaking. Her body shivers with every light touch from him, be it his fingers or his lips or-oh. Her back arches as a soft whimper escapes her mouth, she soon succumbs to the magic he likes to perform on her body. She feels his lips graze her inner left thigh, then moving upwards to repeat the process under each breast and up again until he reaches her face and kisses across her cheeks.

"Ten," he mutters next to her ear, lips grazing the skin and sending shivers through her body.

Her gaze moves away from the roof of the tent to lock on his green, piercing stare.

He grins mischievously and she trembles from something completely unrelated to the cold. She likes the fact that, even now inside this old tent, he can still grin so carelessly. But Hermione loves it more knowing that it's she the one responsible for it. His wicked fingers are relentlessly stripping her of all rational thought while he tries to make her understand his previous statement, but she's beyond even trying to pay attention to words other than the sweet nothings he likes to whisper in the throes of passion.

"Ten," he repeats, his hand finding a comfortable place between her legs.

Wicked, wicked fingers, his are, for Hermione doesn't think she's ever put so much effort at trying to focus her mind to listen to what Harry has to say, least of all understand it-it's always come naturally to her. But here she is now, struggling beyond reason to comprehend Harry's three-letter-word and when she does, it leaves her just as confused.

Still, stubbornly, she tries to grasp its meaning. "Ten…?"

Her voice trails off as she feels his fingers enter her, deliciously stroking her most inner places. Mischievous grin in place, he performs a whole new kind of magic that has nothing to do with spells or incantations and everything to do with intent and talent.

Wonderful and incredibly raw talent.

Oh, Harry-

Of course, she's always known Harry possesses an innate talent when it comes to magic. Once he set his mind on it, every spell comes easy. Theory eludes him, as he's no genius, never excelling in classes where he needed to put his understanding of the subject into words. Practice, however, he's had that one covered from the very beginning; he's only ever needed to want to achieve success hard enough and then everything falls into place.

Yes, he's always done better in practice and this matter is no different. He's naturally talented, astoundingly so; he has no experience at all, but acting on instinct alone he's doing wonders to her body.

Such beautiful wonders.

Hermione remembers when this began, early in the morning on Christmas day, about a week ago.

The night before they'd been visiting his parents' graves and Harry had been so shaken that she's decided to bring him back to the tent right away, thinking that their quest could wait for a little while. He'd been so distraught that Hermione feared she might lose him too, although to different circumstances. A distraction was what she'd needed, but nothing inside the flimsy tent would be good enough, shocking enough to fully achieve what she wanted.

An overachiever, she's always been an overachiever-hence why she took it upon herself to get the job done.

And when the sun rose on the 25^th, Hermione presented her idea to her best friend. After all, who'd be better than her to pull his mind off depressing thoughts? Who better than she to pose as a distraction?

Only, it wasn't just a distraction, not for either of them, and upon seen Harry turn into a fumbling, stuttering, blushing mess Hermione acknowledged this fact. But they'd needed it, badly; the relief, the comfort and the opportunity it presented to finally let go of all the tension and frustration that'd been mounting over the past months.

Badly, they'd needed it badly.

Harry had tried to protest, of course ("It isn't right, Hermione, you and I-we're not… where does this leave…?"), but she'd cut his speech short before he said something that would break their bond beyond repair. She doesn't need a reminder of what is supposed to be. She's never lived her life following suppositions, only hard and known facts.

She choosing to stay is a hard, indubitable fact. Because, in the end, Harry will always come first. In the end, she chose (will always choose) Harry. So she'd kissed him, and three seconds later Harry had kissed her back and let his instinct take charge. And who cares if her first time was in the middle of a wild hunt while trying to survive within limited means and fighting the odds to save her best friend from a psychotic monster. It was with Harry and that alone made that first night perfect.

And the second and the third and the fourth…

Her plan had worked marvellously; by now, a week later, they're positively distracted and relieved and comforted and free of all the tension and frustration that used to envelop them a couple of days ago. One would think they'd be ready to keep on with their quest, but even feeling so thoroughly sated and happy, Hermione doesn't think she's ready to leave the sanctuary that has become this flimsy tent.

"…adorably distributed…"

A voice breaks through the haze of her memories and she feels her body humming in anticipation. Moving her unfocused gaze down to look at him, Hermione sees him taking turns to nip at each of her breasts before he stops briefly to give her a crooked (and wicked, wicked) smile, his eyes glinting with joy, and then proceed to suck on her left nipple. He's being just the right amount of forceful, but Hermione is way beyond caring right now as she feels his tongue brush and rub the sensitive flesh encased in his mouth. Then he leaves a wet trail to kisses as he moves to her unattended nipple. Down past her waist, his fingers find that bundle of nerves that's sure to send her over the edge and he alternates from flicking it quickly to grazing it lightly to rubbing it roughly.

His actions are quickly and surely working her into a frenzy.

His mouth releases her nipple with a soft pop and starts to travel south, mumbling along the way as he reaches the place where his fingers are pushing steadily in and out of her. He takes a little bundle of nerves between his lips, prompting her to buck her hips suddenly, and then white-hot pleasure explodes within her unexpectedly as she the sensation of thousands of light touches grace her clit.

The last thing she's aware of before surrendering to absolute mindless bliss is Harry's hissing voice.

When her mind finally takes over again, and with great difficulty at that, Hermione realizes she'd been screaming her orgasm the whole time and if Harry pleased look says anything, it'd been probably his name the sound coming out of her mouth among other words of praise. But really, she feels so good that she doesn't really care if her scream was heard all over England (which, if her spell work is as good as Harry claims it to be, the Silencio Charm she put around the tent prevented it for going further than that).

"Oh… Harry…"

Her voice sounds raspy and foreign and Hermione can't help but moan some more when Harry's face swims into focus before her eyes, looking incredibly smug and satisfied. Her body hums with delight, tiny aftershocks of her orgasm racking through every cell, and though she can see his lips moving Hermione cannot hear over the rush of blood in her ears. Yet, she's highly aware of his skin sliding against her own as he positions himself between her legs once again. Anticipation sends shivers down her spine and she can hardly contain herself from grabbing his face and ensuing a hot and passionate kiss.

He tastes different-

Her thoughts trail off abruptly as Harry thrust and suddenly she's been filled to the very core, her muscles stretching pleasantly to accommodate him and yet it feels they don't stretch enough. Seriously, it's been a week already, and it still feels like Harry is shagging her for the first time (because they are shagging, they were making love before but now they're shagging). He thrusts again and she's forced to break the kiss, barely catching a glimpse of his smirk before she's suddenly catching her breath. The third thrust, harder and deeper than the last, makes her wrap her legs around his hips and grab hold of his shoulder for dear life. The fourth thrust comes accompanied with more hissing sounds from Harry right next to her ear and soon, Hermione is spiralling straight into another earth-shattering orgasm.

How the bloody hell can he be this good…?

But Hermione knows the answer, Merlin, she knows. Practice makes perfect. And Harry… Harry is so bloody stellar when it comes to practice.

He's gripping her hips tightly, so much so, that she's sure she'll find small bruises later, but that's okay because it will, at the very least, be the kind of bruise she'll be able look at and think only of pleasant and relatively happy times. His thrusts become wilder, harder and faster, with each passing second. His cock hitting that delicious spot each time it drives deep into her, harder and harder, faster and faster. Harry rarely moans, but he's obviously not capable of restraining himself anymore and soon, his moans create a harmonious symphony when they mingle with hers. Then, he's moving his mouth towards her chest and latches onto a nipple, his moaning turns to hissing and Hermione is shocked when, like before, thousands of light flickers graze the surrounded nipple, a rapid and delicious caress.

And she reaches her orgasm.

One of her hands is digging her nails into his shoulder blade and the other clutches his hair so tight to prevent him from releasing her nipple Hermione fears she might tear it off his scalp, but Harry keeps thrusting into her, fasterharderohHarry, hitting that godforsaken spot over and over and she angles her hips upward to take him deeper and deeper and her orgasm keeps prolonging and he's going into a frenzied state and her blood hums in utter bliss as wave after wave of pleasure hits her relentlessly and then he hits his climax and he keeps thrusting and it feels great and wonderful and life-changing because it's Harry-HarryHarryHarry.

And as a warm sensation washes over her, overwhelming her senses, Hermione feels like she's falling and Harry's right there with her, looking into her eyes and gifting her with a tender smile. They remain lying there, on the rackety bed, legs tangled and sweat mingling and both just trying to catch their breath but feeling so bloody happy that neither wants to move just yet.

Harry starts trailing his hands over her body again, hissing tiredly, but sounding seductive nonetheless, something in Parseltongue. She shivers but feels too exhausted to react accordingly, so Hermione settles for kissing his sweaty temple lightly and tries to sleep. Something about the pattern his fingers are following catches her attentions though and her curious mind demands she pays attention.

And she does.

Harry moves his finger, ghosting over a spot on her inner left thigh, going over her hips and up her abdomen, repeating the caress under each breast, then resumes his ministrations until he reaches her face. It is as he's moving his index finger over her cheeks and nose tenderly that she understands what he's doing.

He talks.

"Ten," says Harry, smiling into her neck, as he's been resting his head on her shoulder. "Ten…"

Hermione smiles at last, feeling somewhat silly for not catching his meaning earlier… but then, she'd been thoroughly distracted. "…Freckles."

His chuckle is muffled, but the vibration coming from his ribcage passes along quite effortlessly into her chest and she's soon grinning with him.

"Yes, Harry, I have ten freckles."

"Ten adorable freckles. Three of which are placed in just the right spots to take your breath away."

"Is that what you were saying before? In Parseltongue, I mean," asks Hermione, adding the last part to clarify to which before she means.

"Yeah… that and your name."

"Oh…"

Several minutes later they slip into a deep slumber, both highly aware that this would be their last night of Christmas Holidays, their last night of freedom to do as they pleased, but, hopefully, not the last where they can enjoy this new intimacy they've achieved.

Unknown to Hermione though, it would be this last week that, when encountering Ron for the first time in months three days later, would give Harry enough courage to do the right thing and face his best friend with a truth he's been keeping under locks since Bill and Fleur's Wedding-a truth that would rock the foundations of their friendship but will ultimately make it stronger.

That truth that says… Harry is in love with Hermione.

~

~

~

End.

.

.

.

Yadda, yadda, was it to your liking? Yes, no? =) Tell me what you think‼ And thank you for reading.

[Type text] Page 1

Document created with wvWare/wvWare version 1.2.7

-->