Harry Potter didn't want to move.
It was one of those August days where even the fields around Remus's house were no relief from the sticky heat that had settled into the valley. He lay on his back in the tall grass, shirt and jeans and boots next to him, taken off in a futile attempt to get cooler. He'd taken the motorbike out here, as if sandwiches eaten in a field would be better than those eaten in the kitchen, but he was sick of the house, sick of the heat, sick of everything. Funny, no one prepares you for the weird letdown you feel after you've killed your mortal enemy.
But he had two things going for him still: Quidditch and Hermione. If he could just hang on to both of them, he could get through this part. It couldn't possibly last for ever. He couldn't actually have fulfilled his purpose in life at the age of 17. That would be pathetic. Harry Potter was a lot of things, some of them not particularly nice, but pathetic wasn't one of them.
Hermione stirred next to him. "Damn it's hot," she said, sitting up to take her top off. She was wearing her orange two-piece swimsuit under her clothes, the bra of which covered entirely too much of her breasts in Harry's opinion. She'd said that he wouldn't like her showing that much skin to other people, but she was wrong about that. Everyone knew she was the smartest witch in like, ever but they didn't know she had great tits and Harry thought they should. He wasn't worried about other blokes—or girls for that matter—wanting her for themselves. He wasn't going anywhere.
She shimmied out of her jeans and boots, her suit bottom slipping a little in the process, and Harry got a peek at the untanned skin underneath. Hermione grabbed her wand out of her clothing and cast a sunscreen charm on herself, then turned to Harry and raised an eyebrow.
"Wait," he said, and whipped off his t-shirt. "Okay."
She performed the charm then lay back down, flipping her hair up off her neck as she did, and it fanned out around her head. She closed her eyes and let out her breath slowly through barely parted lips. Harry watched as a trickle of sweat ran from her temple behind her ear.
Harry felt lazy, but not lazy enough to fall asleep. He stared at Hermione, at her chest rising and falling, the glistening skin and fine downy hairs on her stomach, her painted toenails. "Hermione?" he asked.
"Put the boots back on."
She turned to him, opening one eye. "What? Harry, it's too hot."
He stroked her shoulder with a fingertip. "C'mon," he said.
She scowled, so he lifted his eyebrows. "Fine," she said, and sat up to put them on. Then, bless her, she stood up without his even asking her to. "Happy now?"
Hermione managed to fit a lot of curves on a small body, and the way her brown boots hugged her calves should probably be criminal. She stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, her hands on her hips, her hair sticking out every which way, and a little frown on her face—in other words, sexy as all hell. "Yes I am," he replied, folding his arms behind his head.
He grinned. "Sorry. Come here," he said, holding out his hand to her.
"Don't you think about anything other than sex?" she asked.
"Not if I can help it," he replied. "Do you?"
"You know I do!" she said, tapping her foot, which only served to make her thigh jiggle in a most enticing way. "I think about—" and she stopped short.
Harry sighed. He knew the next words she would have said were "our future" and that would just have led to another argument, though it was a good sign that she didn't want to argue, either. Hermione wasn't exactly in agreement with Harry's decision to play Quidditch, but he knew she'd come around. She always did—she made her suggestions, Harry thought about them and then did what he thought was right, and Hermione understood eventually. Sure, sometimes the eventually took longer than other times, but it always arrived.
"Come on," he said, shaking his outstretched hand. "The reluctant thing really isn't that much of a turn on."
She took his hand and sat back down, straddling him. "What if I don't want to have sex?" she asked.
"If you didn't want to have sex you wouldn't have put the boots on."
"Good point," she replied.
He pulled her down into a kiss, soft and wet, and gently rolled them over. She clutched at his shoulders, then moved her hands slowly down his back to slide his pants down, helping them off with a rub of her knees until he could kick them off. Her hands settled on his arse, as they usually did. He found her fascination with his behind a little weird but then he stared at her tits half the time and she rarely mentioned it so he reckoned they were even.
He released her lips and began to move down her body, kissing her neck, her stomach, and pulling down her bottoms as he went. She spread her legs, obligingly, and yeah, this part he'd want to keep private, the soft curly brown hair surrounding the glistening pink folds of skin. He wrapped a hand around each thigh and reached out with his tongue to her soft flesh. A wonderful thing about Hermione was that she never started from zero, was always a little wet, though the sweat from a hot day mixed in, making her skin just a little saltier than usual. There hadn't been time for this before, but over this summer he'd become rather addicted to going down on his girlfriend, to the way she felt and smelled and tasted, the way she moaned, the way her skin flushed pink. He teased her a little—more than that and she'd squash his head with her thighs—by avoiding her clit and working on other areas, but before long he gave her what she wanted. He could feel the tension in her muscles as she tried to stay still, and then the shuddering as she came. Her muscles relaxed again, and she pushed his head away.
He looked up at her. "Good?" he asked.
She nodded, blissed out and gorgeous, one hand thrown over her eyes.
Harry slid back up and kissed her, because she was too pretty not to kiss like this. He was hard, of course, his erection between her legs, but it was hot and he was in no particular hurry. They snogged for some time, Harry working Hermione's top off and fondling her breasts as they kissed.
"I need," Hermione muttered.
"What?" he asked, pushing himself up a little with his hands.
She felt around, got her wand and performed the birth control charm that had become so familiar to him. She thought for a moment, then cushioned the ground beneath them.
"Comfortable?" he asked.
"Lying on the ground is one thing," she said, "but it's too hard to have you fucking me into it."
He chuckled. "I love you."
"I love you too," she said, setting her wand down. "Now get going."
She smiled at him, smug, and it was all he could do to go slow, or at least slow enough for decency. He was still getting used to this whole fucking thing, to feeling her wet and warm all around him, her hands back on his arse, her lips kissing whatever was nearby. She was moaning and so was he, little sex noises that turned them both on even more. The idea that he was fucking her in the middle of a field, that she wanted him to fuck her in the middle of a field, was hot enough, never mind actually getting to do it. His hands were on her waist, his head pushing into her shoulder as he thrust into her, more erratically the closer he got. Then he was coming and it was all sort of hazy for a minute before he collapsed on top of her.
"Harry, get off," Hermione said, pushing at him. "You're hot and heavy and sticky. Ugh!"
He rolled onto his back. "Swim?" The pond was only fifty feet or so down the road.
"God, yes," she said. "But I'm Apparating there. I'm not getting on that bike with no clothes on, not even just to the pond."
"Aww Hermione," he said, reaching out to possessively tweak a nipple, "you're no fun."
She let out a huff of disapproval and batted his hand away.
"Fine," he said, but strangely, he was in no hurry to move. He sank further into the cushioned ground. "Damn it's hot," he said.