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Potter 7

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Hermione Granger was dancing. It was her eighteenth birthday and all she wanted to do was dance the night away. The band was playing nothing but Rolling Stones covers all night long, and she never wanted to leave the dance floor. She was wearing her favorite pair of jeans, the ones that had been worn in by a summer of motorbike riding, and a slinky orange tank top that, thanks to Lavender had a charm that kept its straps on her shoulders and covering her bra. Her hair, which had been in some semblance of a style earlier, had grown wild after a half hour of dancing.

Harry, of course, wasn't much of one for clubs, so except for a bit of jumping around with Sirius she hadn't danced since the spring. She had nearly forgotten how connected to her body she felt when she was dancing, how she forgot to think and just moved to the music, and what a relief that was. Harry had been moving on and off the floor all evening, and other friends would take his place—Seamus, Parvati, Neville; there was quite a crowd of them that night. Of course, when she danced with Harry, or when she knew he was watching, her movements became that much more suggestive. She simply couldn't help herself.

Some time into the evening, the band was playing "Miss You" and she and Harry were dancing very close, when she grabbed him and thrust her hips against his. He leaned forward and whispered, "Tease."

She pulled away and looked at him for a long moment, thinking, and then she said, "Not tonight I'm not."

Harry blinked, then grinned widely. "D'ya mean that?"

She nodded.

"But this summer—"

She leaned into his ear and said, "You never took me dancing."

"If only I'd known. Well, why are we still here?" he asked. Before she knew it they'd slipped on their jackets and slipped out of the club, and were walking back to the school. It was well before the time that students needed to return so the path back to Hogwarts was quite empty. They walked hand in hand through the lamp lit quiet.

Then Harry turned to her and said, "So you know what I think?"

"No, what?" Hermione asked, dreamily.

"I think what the Cannons need is an entirely new chaser strategy. Ron says they need better keeping, but it isn't the defense, it's the offense, and the trade is exactly the wrong thing for the team."

Hermione stared. This was not the romantic moment of her dreams. Why on earth was he talking about professional Quidditch at a time like this? "Oh really?" she asked.

He nodded. "I was thinking about this earlier today, that to look at the Chasers as a three pronged unit is really the wrong way to go. Giving them each an area of coverage makes much more sense, particularly given that the three starting Cannon Chasers are all about the same ability." His voice cracked a little, but he cleared his throat, steadied it, and went on. "Where that works is on a team like the Kestrals, where you have one very strong Chaser and two that are a bit weaker, and they can flank him as he goes for the goals."

"Right," Hermione replied. They were now about half way back to the castle and it was very clear that Harry intended to go on like this for the entire walk. She had rarely seen him talk so fast, or so much, all at once. He had certainly never used Quidditch as an aphrodisiac before. Well, the robes perhaps, but not the sport itself. The way he was going on was making her nervous.

Ah! she thought. Well, of course. She was nervous too, and now that she was off the dance floor she could feel the whirr-click of her mind start to take over, which would not do. So as they walked, she concentrated on the hard ground beneath her feet (heel-toe, heel-toe), the way the light breeze pushed her hair, the scent of the asters and other autumn blooms, the musty smell of the lake, and the salt she could still taste on her lips. Harry's deep voice was like a comforting hum in the background, and she squeezed his hand a little, feeling herself sinking down out of her head and into her body once again.

By the time they reached the Fat Lady, Harry's soliloquy on the Cannons' depth of team had run down. They made their way through the common room silently but just before they parted to climb up their own stairs Harry gave her a quick kiss and whispered, "I'll see you in a few minutes then." He turned and ran up the stairs two at a time in his usual way.

She walked up to her own room. The other girls were still in Hogsmeade, and would likely be there for another hour at least. She looked in the mirror and wondered briefly if she should change before deciding that it would be rather silly. She simply kicked off her boots and socks, and sprayed herself with just a bit more fragrance. She found the tiny manual from Madam Pomfrey and did the simple incantation, and also had the presence of mind to remove the charm holding up the straps of her top before she heard a tap at her window.

She unhooked the latch. "Oh, you changed. That was fast."

Harry sat astride his broom just outside the window wearing his Quidditch robes sans guards and shoes. "Well, I know you like them," he replied. Hermione could have sworn he was preening.

"Get in here," she said, stepping back from the window, and he ducked his head and flew into her room. She watched as he carefully set his broom in the corner and had to bite her lip to keep from gasping at the bulge between his legs, so prominent in the tight Quidditch trousers with their accompanying robe and jumper that hid precisely nothing.

He looked up and caught her eye. "Don't you look predatory," he said.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" she asked.

He grinned, then reached out and pulled her into a kiss. She crushed her body against his, letting herself melt in his arms as they kissed, her fingers buried in his hair. She was not surprised to feel him hard against her—he had been half way there in the bar, after all—but there were far too many layers of clothing between them. She pushed back a little, just enough to get her two feet on the ground again, and ran her hands along the front of his robe. But just as she was untying the laces, she could feel his hands moving from her back to her front. "Hey," she whispered, "I can't do this if you're doing that."

"Take turns?"

"Yes, but I'm first," she replied. He took a step back and looked into her eyes as she unfastened the robes and slipped them from his shoulders. They worked quickly, saying nothing, as he took off her tank top and then her jeans, and she removed his jumper, corduroys and socks. She pulled off his undershirt, and they were just about to move to the bed when there was a knock at the door.

Hermione almost jumped out of her skin. At first she thought she could remain silent, but then remembered that half of her housemates had seen her in the common room some minutes before. She cleared her throat. "Yes?"

"Miss Granger?" called out Professor McGonagall.

Harry and Hermione stared at each other in complete panic. "Er, one moment, please," Hermione said, and reached down to scoop up all of Harry's discarded clothing—how glad she was that she hadn't been dramatic and strewn it all about the room—and threw it onto the bed. Harry grabbed his broom, sat down on her bed, and closed the curtains. Hermione put on her robe and was about to answer the door when she saw his undershirt still on the floor. She jammed it into her pocket, then poked her head out into the hallway. "Yes, Professor?"

"One of the students noticed something flapping outside the window," she explained. "I wonder if it isn't just one of those large crows, but one can never be too careful."

Hermione stepped back enough to allow McGonagall to be able to see her window, but not enough to actually come into the room. "I'm afraid Lavender left the window open this evening, and I just closed it when I returned," Hermione said. "I'm sure it was our curtain that they could see."

McGonagall's eyes swept across the room. "Yes, well, while love of fresh air is admirable, please remind Miss Brown how quickly autumnal storms can appear, especially in this part of the country."

"I will do that," Hermione replied.

"That's all right then. Good night," she said, moving back down the hall.

"Good night," Hermione said, closing the door as Harry cautiously peeked out of the curtains. Then she felt the door push again.

"Oh, and Miss Granger?"

The curtain slammed shut, and Hermione opened the door. "Yes?"

"We are still meeting for tea tomorrow?" she asked.

"Oh! Yes, definitely," she replied.

"Then I will see you at 4 in my quarters. Good night."

Hermione stood at the door watching McGonagall had walked down the hallway and around the corner. She closed the door again and locked it, adding a silencing charm for good measure. She sank against it, sighing with relief.

Harry peeked out again. "Is it safe?" he asked.

Hermione answered by walking slowly toward the bed, slipping her robe off as she went. Harry pushed his clothing off the bed and lay his broom safely beneath it, then slid back as she sat down in front of him and closed the curtains behind her. "So, where were we?" she asked.

He reached out for her, pulling her on top of him as they kissed. So far it had really been no different than any number of days messing about in the fields over the summer, only this time, she supposed, the ending would be a bit different. His hands had already unclasped her bra; she slipped her arms out of it and threw it onto the floor. She loved the soft scratch of his hair against her bare skin, of the stubble on his chin against her cheek, and she pressed her body against his, feeling him hard muscle and bone beneath her. His hands had moved from her back to her arse, his fingertips sliding under the waist of her knickers and she lifted her hips so he could slide down her legs.

She knew that there would be other nights where she would need more preparation, but this was not one of them. She slid off him, rolling onto her side. He followed her lead, moving them so that he was on top of her. Then it was his turn to lift up his hips as she removed the briefs he wore only under his Quidditch gear.

Harry's cock, even hard as it definitely was now, was not a new sight for her. On more than one occasion she had been eye to eye with it, in a sense. But taking him into her mouth and taking him inside of her were two different things, and she didn't remember it being quite so large a few days ago. Could it have grown? He was still young, after all . . .

"Hermione? Where are you?" he whispered.

"I was just thinking. You remembered to do the—"

"Yes, Hermione." He put a finger under her chin. "Are you very sure you want to do this?"

She nodded. "Very sure."

"Then no more thinking," he said, and kissed her in that way that was supposed to shut down her mind, which worked remarkably well. He slipped his hand between their bodies, reaching for her, and she arched her back just so and spread her legs and his hand slid into her wetness. Harry was a very good practical student, more sure now of where and how he needed to move thanks to nine months of practice. He quickly had her flushed, breathless, and thinking of something other than how this was all going to work, if she was indeed thinking at all.

Then he pulled his hand away and nestled between her legs. He used his hand to be sure of his aim, and then slid into her just the smallest bit. "Okay?" he asked.

She nodded. "Keep going."

His used his arms to push his torso up and away from her, and slid in another inch, waited, then a bit more, easing himself in at a speed that felt excruciatingly slow, but he didn't want to hurt her, or she might not let him do it again. He tried to keep his breathing slow, but he was nearly panting with the effort. And then something entirely unexpected happened.

Hermione mumbled, "Oh, honestly," reached up, grabbed his arse, and pulled him into her.

Harry yelped, and was very glad of the silencing charm. "What?"

"It's like tearing off a bandage," she said. "Best done all at once." She moved a bit, and he could feel her muscles tighten around him.

"Don't—do—that," he muttered through clenched teeth. She was so warm, so soft, so very tight, and so absolutely better than anything had ever been, ever, that it took all he had to stay still but not orgasm.

"Sorry," she said. There was a pause, and then she said, "Aren't we supposed to be moving?"

Harry hung his head in frustration. "I'm trying not to hurt you."

"Oh. OH!" Hermione exclaimed suddenly. "Just go ahead."

"You're sure you're all right?"

"Harry! DO IT!"

And so he pulled back a bit and began thrusting. He let his arms relax and collapsed atop her, and she held onto him with her arms and her legs, and he rested his head against her shoulder and thought about being inside her, and her breasts, pressed against his chest, and the way her hair smelled, and then she moved that way again, and he was coming, and he kissed her to keep himself from shouting.

After a moment, he rolled his head to the side and looked at her. "So?"

She smiled. "I liked. But I think we need practice."

"Oh yes," he agreed. "A great deal of practice."


Harry woke the next morning with a start. He felt fuzzy and disoriented, even though he was in his own bed. Leaving Hermione, bare-skinned and beautiful, the night before had been nearly impossible, but it would not have done to have still been in the room when Lavender and Parvati returned. Somehow he didn't think they would react with the same relatively good humor with which he, Ron and Neville had to Seamus and Dean. Even if they had, it likely would have been with some sort of romantic cooing that would have been even more embarrassing.

But he couldn't find his team t-shirt. Even as captain, it would be difficult to get another one without some explanation to Madam Hooch. He hoped he hadn't left it in Hermione's room, or that at least she'd noticed it and put it somewhere safe, where no one would see it, until he could get it back. He made his way out of the tower for breakfast, wondering how to handle this "morning after" business.

As soon as he walked into the Great Hall, he saw that yes, Hermione had found the t-shirt.

She was already at the table, talking and laughing with some of their other housemates. The words "Property of Hogwarts School Gryffindor House Quidditch" stretched with the crimson fabric over her breasts. He didn't know whether to feel annoyed that every boy at school was sure to be staring at her chest for the rest of the day, or embarrassed that anyone with half a brain would guess what they'd been doing the night before. Though, to be honest, he thought her wearing his shirt was pretty fucking cool. It certainly looked better on her than it did on him.

As he sat down next to her he said, "Nice shirt."

She shrugged. "When I woke up this morning, I was so groggy, I just put on the first thing that came to hand. Look familiar?" She turned in her seat and lifted her hair so he could see the "Potter - 7" emblazoned on the back.

"I think I can recognize what's mine," he replied.

"Don't you sound possessive," she said

"Isn't that what you wanted?" he replied. He squeezed her hand, resting on her knee under the table. "I can't remember if I said this last night, but I love you."

"I can't remember if you said it, but I felt it. I love you too."

"Are you all right?"

She nodded. "A little achy, but I'll get used to it."

"Well, I hope so." He leered at her, and she laughed and shook her head. "But I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to return the shirt."


"Not that you don't look lovely in it. You look—" he eyed her up and down "—very lovely in it, but I will need it for practice on Tuesday, and . . ."


He leaned in closer and whispered, "And I don't think you want to wear it to have tea with McGonagall."

Hermione's eyes flew open, and then she threw her head back and laughed at the thought of it.

From the head table, Minerva McGonagall observed the new Head Girl and sighed in spite of herself. "Xiomara?" she asked.

Madam Hooch, seated next to her, answered, "Hmm?"

"When you were a student, did any of your paramours ever wear your Quidditch t-shirt?"

"No, why?" she asked, and then looked up. "Ah, I see. Minerva, why didn't you ask? I'm sure I have some shirts from my professional days. You can wear one to tea with Miss Granger. She can be Gryffindor Potter 7 and you can be Portree Hooch 38."

McGonagall looked at Hooch. "Could you imagine the look on that girl's face?" They both burst into laughter.

"What on earth could they be laughing about?" Hermione asked.

Harry looked up at the Head Table and shook his head. "I don't know, and I don't want to know."