Title: Escape From Oblivion
Disclaimer: All characters of J.K Rowling belong to her…obviously. I own nothin'.
Rating: NC17, just to be on the safe side. There's sex and swearing scattered throughout, not to mention drugs and alcohol…not that it's explicit or anything, just mentioned. Sort of. Nothing that should be too offensive anyway.
Summary:Harry Potter is completely oblivious and Hermione Granger is sick of hiding her love for him. So adorning a sinfully seductive dress she decides to do something about it.
Author's Note: Here's something I had rumbling around in my head for the past few days now, delving into the relationship of Harry and Hermione. It's probably out of character and not exactly to the books; it's a bit angsty, a bit humour…rey and basically just a small romantic story. There'll be one other chapter, probably from Harry's point of view and that's it. If it seems hurried…well, that's because it is. So anyway, see if you like it.
Harry Potter was oblivious. At first, Hermione admitted, it was rather adorable. When he was oblivious to how incredibly good-looking he had become, that was kind of cute. He didn't realize that the dark locks constantly continuing to be unkempt and disheveled, brought to mind the looks he must have when rolling out of bed, which thus brought to mind being in bed with him and his messy hair. His eyes were intensely green, a burning emerald withholding the power to melt anybody within his gaze. The baby fat around his cheeks moulded into what seemed like hard chiseled rock, carving strong cheekbones, creating a path to two pouting lips that had all girls dying to kiss them. And that was just his face. Add the rock hard, muscle toned body implemented through years of Quidditch, and graced genes, that the beautiful head sat upon; you had one gorgeous specimen of a male.
But he was of course, oblivious to all that. The girls in Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft, however, were not. Many a female lined up in hopes of being with him. Whether it be one date, one kiss, one night or day of mind-blowing sex, they did not care. They all just wanted him, by any means necessary.
Hermione found it all just a little too ridiculous. She laughed and scorned and teased and was entirely insulted from being the same gender as these blubbering excuses for females. She found it even more insulting when Harry actually started accepting the offers, vacating the common room with a simpering hussy on his arm and returned with a grin on his face and loads of information to share with the awaiting boys.
Who was the best kisser? Who was the best shag? Who had biggest breasts? Who gave the best head?
It was insulting and degrading and Hermione missed the charming, clueless innocence of the boy who she'd grown up with. Harry became a walking ego with way too much testosterone and all too eager to share it. Girls became an activity to him. And what was worse, the girls did not mind in the least. They were all too happy to be included in his ever-increasing harem.
Not including Hermione of course. She was always one of the guys. Harry's other best friend. His little know-it-all, goody-two-shoes 'Mione who helped him with his homework, helped him with his battles, helped him mentally and emotionally and was basically, the best little sister anybody could ever want.
Which was fine, she supposed because it was true. She too saw him and Ron as her best friends, whom she would protect and defend and argue with and despise and love to the end no matter what. Even if they treated girls like the little puppy dogs that they were. Not that it was cruelly or anything. They specified their desires, they stated they were not looking for a relationship and if the girls didn't mind being mere sex objects, then jump on and enjoy the ride. He was arrogant and obnoxious and a huge egomaniac, but yet, he carried it off with such flawless charm; you couldn't help but love him. He was labeled the notorious playboy of Hogwarts and he all too gladly accepted the title.
Hermione tried to ignore all of this as much as possible. She stuck to her studies and grades and avoided all distractions like boys and alcohol and drugs and fun, anything that might demean her ambitions of excelled academic status. So after Viktor Krum had granted her, her first kiss, she felt the burgeoning thrills of arousal and discovered the beginnings of what Lavender and Parvati and Ginny all described and the sexual explorations they'd ventured on after the kisses, so it only went according to her nature when she promptly broke up with him.
She couldn't have him distracting her from her schoolwork and any other dealings of importance, such as matters from the Order. He would demand time and sex and things she just didn't have a need for back then when she already had too much on her plate as it was. But once they had conquered Voldemort and his minions and once they'd endured and absolved their despairs over their lost ones, they eventually, fortunately, all found the means to go on with every day life.
Although there was one minor addition.
Along with this reversion to a life of socially accepted normalcy, came the shocking revelation of her deep, undoubting, unintended, unrelenting love for Harry. When in the final battle she saw that she could have very well lost him, she discovered the strength of her friendship with him. It was not anymore, just a friendly, familial love but a heart rendering, soul taking love that hit her in the gut and stole the very breath out of her. The realization shocked her into a hopeless stupor that she could not delve out of. She was in love with Harry Potter, and for the life of her, she could not escape it. It just…was.
He was of course, oblivious to it all.
She decided to keep her feelings hidden. She never told him. In fact, she never told anybody. It would only ruin things. She wanted to keep this secret under lock and key, buried deep within her heart, hoping it just may one day dissolve as quickly as it appeared, into a foolish girl's fantasy - pleasant to think about, preposterous to hope for.
Almost a whole year out of Hogwarts, her and Harry had moved into an apartment together. Harry was a professional Quidditch player and she was furthering her studies in another institute. Ron moved in with his long-time girlfriend Luna, not too far from where they lived, so fortunately, they were all still relatively together. Things were going rather well. They had their lives and they lived them separately, yet, there was never a moment where they did not, at least once a day, encounter each other. Whether it be a quick 'good morning' and 'goodbye' or an evening together at dinner, their bonds did not break, no matter how busy life kept them.
The lifestyle worked for a while. Harry would bring home numerous girls; Hermione would scowl and grudgingly accept the fact. But one girl in their house, in his room, in his bed became one too many in time, and Hermione's compelled acceptance turned into an aching envy. She envied these drooling, leggy women that traipsed in and out of Harry's bedroom and she hated that. So with a daring that emerged from derision and longing, she worked up enough courage to finally do something about it.
Adorning the sexiest dress she owned, a crimson, body hugging piece of material, moulding itself to her curves as intended - good to look at, even better to feel. She shaped her hair into a sleek, sensual style, spraying on perfume that was bound to make men worship her, physically, mentally, emotionally bracing herself for the risky possibility of rejection, she went in for the kill. She was going to strike him at his weak spot and seduce Harry Potter into loving her. With newfound confidence in her stride, she found Harry sitting at the kitchen table and strut passed him, making sure he caught a whiff of her perfume, determined to entice his hormones.
"Hey, Mione." He looked up, staring at her in astonishment. "Wow. You look good."
"Thanks." Perfect. She thought with a smile. Arousal flaring to life when he stood up and started circling her, studying her new look.
"Who're you looking all spiffed up for?"
You, you clueless buffoon!"Nobody special."
He came to a stop behind her and gently nuzzled his nose into the crook or her neck, causing a riot of lust to flutter down her spine, creating a damp heat in the depths of her stomach. Lower. "Mmm…you smell good too." He exhaled on a groan.
This was going better than I expected.Now all she needed to do was slowly turn her head, look him in the eye and say…
"What is that perfume? I should get some for Rebecca."
Eh?"You...you what?" Was her stuttering response. That was not what he was supposed to say. That was not what she was supposed to say. Perhaps she had misheard him.
"Rebecca Stratford. I've been trying to get in her pants all week now. She's the longest challenge I've had yet. And tonight, I'm finally going to have her." He stated quite bluntly, unaware of her frantically bewildered expression. "In fact, I'm about to take off now."
No, no, no, no! This was going all wrong.Her mouth gaped open, spluttering like a fish out of water at his total obliviousness. She had once found it adorable, now she just found it frustratingly infuriating. Could he not see her? Did he not notice her breasts practically popping out of her dress while it remained to literally squeeze the living breath out of her? This was not in the plan at all. They were supposed to make love, express their love…verbally…and then live happily ever after. What was wrong with this picture?
"Do you think I should take Rebecca to dinner and a movie? Or just dinner at the bar?"
"I can't think of anything I care less about." Oops, had that been out loud?
Harry gave her a strange look, off put by her snarkiness, but not affected enough to stray his mind from the fact that he was finally boning Rebecca Stratford, Quidditch's hottest female player. Seemed appropriate really, to get together when he was their hottest male. A sharp gust of lustful triumph swept through his body, thrilled with his latest victory.
"Well, I better get going. Don't wait up." He said with a sexy wink, kissing her on the cheek and apparating away.
It was around this time, Hermione decided to get piss-pouring drunk.
She stood outside the bar, leaning against the cold, brick wall, her vision blurring from the wind swept tears, trickling from her eyes, splattering across the skin of her cheeks. What had she been thinking? Go inside, get drunk on some pathetically low percentage alcoholic drink, watch through drunken eyes as a desperate, sleazy male hit on her and hope, just hope to somehow, through some means of sluttish stupidity feel good about herself?
She didn't even know why she was so depressed. Years and years had passed without Harry having one iota of an emotion that reciprocated her own. He loved her, sure. Like any brother loves his sister. And like any other deranged sibling, she prayed for the day when he took a liking to incest.
She laughed her tears away, swiping at the foolish moisture tainting her skin. How ridiculous. She was about to get sloshed over something that remained constant throughout her entire adolescence, through to her burgeoning adulthood: Hermione Granger loved Harry Potter. And he hadn't a clue.
Tonight just happened to be the bursting point. Time and time again she would watch beautiful woman, waltz in and out of their apartment, with a delighted grin matching their ruffled clothing and tousled hair. They would float on air, past Hermione as if she were a mere piece of furniture and Harry would come trailing after with a self-satisfied smirk gracing his beautiful face, smelling of sex and smoke and alcohol and an alluring essence of grass and spring that was entirely his. She decided to do something about it, putting her dignity, her heart on the line… only to have it obliterate to dust at his oblivious departure.
And despite his selfishness, despite his damned cluelessness, his chauvinistic stereotypical maleness, she still loved him. And by no means whatsoever, she could not stop. But that didn't mean she wouldn't try. Tonight she wanted to drown him out. Dilute her sorrows with the bitter-sweet taste of some powerful alcohol, letting it seep through her body in a puddle of foolish sadness, flooding to her stomach with enough force to let her vomit out all the unpleasant contents, enlightening herself in a type of morbid rebirth. But once she'd reached the bar, she could not make herself go in. This wasn't her scene. This wasn't her style. She didn't even like alcohol. So she turned away from the door, walked to a wall and leaned against it, withering in self-deluded pity.
It was then she smelt it. The sweet, musky scent drifting as smoke through the humid night air, flowing to her nostrils, freezing her intoxication intentions, transforming it into another desire for a different type of high. She followed the ghostly trails of smoke, dancing in the air like toxic mist, enticing her to something unearthly forbidden. Her path ended at a man dressed completely in black - black shoes, pants, shirt, hair, eyes. Smoke floated out of his mouth, like fleeing ghouls hidden in the dark valley of his soul, searching for another victim to claim. Just like they'd successfully claimed her.
He looked like a dark panther stalking through a deserted alleyway, hunting for its prey - waiting, watching, wanting. He was everything she was taught not to ever go near, danger leaking from his every pore. He was everything she wasn't. He was everything 'he' wasn't.
He was exactly what she needed.
She walked to stand in front of him, only inches away. She had lost her head. Her normal, rational, logical thinking self, knowing this was entirely not her and relishing in its wrongness. Their gazes locked. Hers a curious longing - his a knowing glint. Close up, she realized he wasn't too bad looking. He was actually quite handsome. In a cold elusive type of way. His features chiseled from granite; hard, unyielding, and ruthless. He looked to be several years older than her too. His arctic presence momentarily replacing the burning inferno of Harry's existence. Trading fire for ice, if only for a short while.
"May I have some?" She asked quietly, gesturing to the joint he held between his fingers.
'I sold my soul to the devil last night'
Without a smug smirk, without an arch of the eyebrow, as if thinking she were some foolish little girl escaping demons that were pathetically miniscule in comparison to real life, he flicked off the faltering ash and handed it to her. Doing what she'd only ever seen on television, what she'd read in books, what she'd seen from a distance, she put it to her mouth and inhaled. Holding her breath for several seconds, as she'd watched him do, she finally released the smoke on a sputtering cough.
He observed in amusement as she repeated the action, eyes glazing from its immediate effects. Satisfied with her initiation to the 'dark side', she stared back into his glassy eyes, handing it back to him. Not breaking their gaze, he took in another drag, inhaling and exhaling professionally. Her eyes watched the smoke float from his mouth, into the air, flying, dancing in the soft puff of a breeze, hypnotized by the sight. She wished away all her worries, all her insecurities, all her problems that were a complete minority to the real world and the trouble it held. She almost felt selfish for wanting some type of sympathy, some grasp of appeasement when there was so much worse in the world, needing help so much more than she could ever come to know.
But for the first time, she didn't care. She refused to think about all that led her here, that held her here. She resolutely staunched the angst and unrequited love against a dam of pot and lust and coldness, choosing to prolong the pain, deal with it later rather than conquer it now. All her previous feeble inadequacies evaporated into the night, just like the burning weed soaking itself into her system. She retrieved the joint from him, dragging more of its poison into her lungs, exhaling on a contented sigh. O true Apothecary, she quoted to herself from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, thy drugs are quick.
She felt a cloud sweep over her mind, capturing the first layer of unhappiness and obscuring it in its web. She didn't even protest, didn't even flinch when the panther's head bent down to touch its mouth to hers. Didn't pull away, didn't attack in retaliation when his tongue made its entrance, devouring his prey with lustful abandon.
The door that was slowly closing on her wanton desires was immediately shoved open with a thrust of his tongue, of his hips, lodging his erection into the notch of her thighs, pushing insistently, leisurely, trying to unlock secrets that she was saving for only one man. The wrong man had opened a door and she didn't know how to close it. At this point, she didn't even know if she wanted to.
She was incapable of thought, of emotion, of rationality as she pushed back, plundering his mouth with equal fervor, climbing him, grinding him, yearning for the feel of his skin, pressing, sinking, forcing a joining, trying to meld herself into him, to congeal herself into his body, seeking refuge, praying for an escape, searching for a way out, hoping he'd absorb her troubles, if only she pressed hard enough.
She licked the length of his throat, she sank her teeth into his neck, she dug her hands beneath his shirt, curling her fingers, digging her nails into his back, sipping at the wounds she'd made, the blood mingling with her tears upon her lips. He tasted like weed and alcohol and cinnamon and ice, a flavour so sweet, bursting upon her taste buds, drinking in everything he had to offer. Anything he had to offer.
The drugs had dulled her logic, her morals, her self, exchanging them for a primal passion, sensation, a feeling she'd only ever disillusioned herself into saving for Harry. She wouldn't care if he stripped her of her dress right now, a dress she'd never worn because it was far too tight, far too revealing, sensual and sexual and so un…her. It was completely perfect for this moment. She wouldn't care if he parted her legs, thrusting his way through any existing barriers; sinking himself into the oblivion of release, pulling her along with him in this thrilling ride.
She refused to see this as a regrettable mistake. She preferred to see this as a wonderful mistake. She refused to see the probable consequences that would pound into her when she woke in the morning with a clear head and a broken hymen. She preferred to hug the experience to herself and pin it down as the reckless, spontaneous moment it was. She refused to see the common sense in any of this and gave herself completely over to the pure sensation of sexual arousal. Something she had never felt before. Not really. Something she had not essentially intended tonight, not with him, but was so very grateful for it.
Her hands greedily ravished the skin of his chest, back, stomach, ass, corresponding with the rhythm her tongue made, tangoing to the beats of their hearts. His hands swept up the length of her thighs, brushing away the silky material of her dress, clawing at her panties, pushing it down to her knees with his hands, then with his foot, pushing so it landed on the ground, exploring the naked skin it hid. Picking her up so her long legs wrapped around his waist, her arms embracing his head, shoving her against the wall in a position of imminent carnality.
Who was this girl, melting her pain into the flesh of another? Who was this girl, escaping an unrequited love she did not have the courage to explore? Who was this girl, riding on a herbal high, a sexual high, a fleeting high offering her body to a complete stranger?
Who was this girl?
Her head tilted back and she gazed up at the night sky, staring at the stars, shining so bright, wishing they held answers instead of prayers, moaning as he sucked at the joining of her shoulder and neck. She loved Harry? Would she really be doing this if she did? And if so, how was it exactly that she knew what love was? Perhaps she had just been with him too long that her friendship with him had overwhelmed her heart, her soul that it transformed itself into another emotion altogether, and what else was there to call it, but love? Maybe it was just friendship, multiplied. And what was love anyway, but the human mind's justification for sexual intensity and perpetual instances of understanding.
Her love was just a fleeting feeling, intensified by a boundless friendship. That was all. The sensations she felt when she stared in his eyes, was just a pleasant hopelessness, knowing he was everything she wanted and everything she could never have. It wasn't love. Whatever that was. It was just a powerful desire, a yearning to conquer the challenge and he was on the receiving end because… who else was there?
Was she falling apart right now, or was she finally coming together? She didn't know anymore. And as long as her mouth was joined to this panther's, as long as their chests pressed together, as long as she could feel him between her legs, his hands on her body, his scent on her skin, his taste in on her tongue, she just didn't give a damn.
Fuck Harry Potter. He didn't deserve her. She didn't love him. How ridiculous. She was just in desperate lust with him. She was just a woman, craving basic, primitive, feminine urges that were bound to attack her system sooner or later. And thus, being of her gender, she decided to romanticize it, typecasting it as love and throwing it all upon the nicest, most wonderful, dangerously gorgeous male she knew. Because that was what she was taught to do. She was a girl, secretly reading most smutty books she could get her hands on, absorbing the unbelievable plotlines, and foolishly hoping that one day, just one day, it may happen to her.
With that in mind her left hand flew to the buckle of his belt, clawing at it in demand of its release, while the other gripped his hair in a clenched fist, sucking his tongue into her mouth, drawing in his taste, creating a rumble deep within his chest, the ripple working itself out of his throat in a groan of arousal. The final effect of the drug worked its way into her head, clouding her thoughts making everything a hazy bliss. She felt every sensation increasing ten fold. Her intent was to get laid, right now, right here, to this nameless man, while stoned and half naked against the cold brick wall of a random bar.
It was a shame she did not realize that they were perilously close to the back entrance of said bar, because then she would have seen the door and she may have been more prepared when it suddenly flew open and two male bodies were forcibly pushed out, followed by the wailing of two blubbering females, startling her and her panther from their sensual haze. Her eyes took in the scene and focused upon the situation, discovering that the bouncers had obviously decided that these particular customers had worn out their welcome.
Strangely, one of them looked familiar. The one with black hair and broad shoulders, a smug grin gracing those beautiful lips and emerald eyes filled with daring. And mischief. And she remembered why it was she loved him when she looked at Harry Potter's face.
Who had she been kidding? One look at him and the love she felt slammed into her like a tidal wave, drowning her all over again. She slowly unwrapped her legs and put her two feet back on the ground, where they were meant to be. The door slammed shut and the moment was broken. The fierceness in those black eyes that once scorched her under its ice-cold heat, froze back over once again, the knowing glint returned with it. His grip on her loosened, and he knew also the moment was lost.
"Hermione?" Harry stared at her in confusion, his gaze shooting from her face to the face of some man he didn't know, but immediately disliked, when he saw her so wantonly pressed up against him, her dress riding halfway up her thighs, very nearly exposing her butt. The look on her face of total ravishment. The pose they both held of imminent undress. The scandalous stance of lovers caught in the moment. A fire burned within his belly as he took in the sight, triggering an emotion he was not ready to question. "What the hell?"
And with a mixture of amusement and bemusement, Hermione began to giggle. Giggling was so not a thing she did, but here she was, hiding her face into the chest of a panther, gasping in his scent on melodic giggles issuing from her mouth. Tears started building in her eyes and she didn't know whether they were from happiness or sadness.
Her hushed hysterics died down and she pulled away, staring up into those black eyes with a look of helpless bereavement. As if she had just lost something she may never know again. She stared into those cold, fierce, deliciously sexy eyes and gave him a wistful smile. "I have to go."
She stepped completely away from him, not breaking their stare. "Thanks."
For everything, for nothing, for not rejecting her, for returning her self-confidence, for unquestioningly responding to her, for being who he was and being in the right place in exactly the right time.
And turning, she walked away.
She was in the bathroom when she heard Harry's arrival. Ten minutes. Not bad, considering he would have had to participate in a pissing contest against the man whose name she didn't know, didn't ask, but dry humped anyway. Considering he would have had to make appropriate excuses to his date, rescheduling a different night for dinner and sex, which she would pitifully accept. Considering he would have had to do all this to come chasing after her within the realm of ten minutes was quite impressive indeed.
She stood in front of the mirror for a few mindless minutes, staring at her eyes that were glassy and slightly tinged red. Staring at her kiss swollen, lipstick smudged lips. Staring at her ravaged hair, his hands having destroyed the carefully crafted style she took so long to create. She realized around this time that she was quite well naked beneath her dress. He'd managed to keep her knickers. A fair exchange?
She stared at herself in the mirror and smiled.
Tonight, the last hour or so, had unleashed something wild and wanton inside her and she reveled in the discovery. She opened her arms and embraced it welcomingly. It made her feel sexy and wanted and utterly desirable. It revealed the might of her own femininity, showing a side she had never seen before, never knew existed in her and she felt powerful in its possession. She was woman, hear her roar. Perhaps it was the marijuana muddling her senses, making her think so oddly, maybe not. Whatever it was, at the moment she just did not care. She walked out only to be met with the solid frame of Harry. A fuming Harry it seemed.
"What the hell was that?" His voice was a rumbling purr in the night. She had encountered a panther, sleek and sexy, now she was ready to face the compelling power, the predatory force of a lion. Go, go, Gryffindor!
"Where's Rowena?" She asked nonchalantly, ignoring his question.
"Oh right. Sorry." Not sorry actually.
"What the hell was that, Hermione?" Hermione. He really was mad. Excellent.
"What was what?"
"You, with that man." He expressed loudly, exasperated at her avoidance.
"Sorry, I would have introduced you, but I didn't know his name." She walked passed him, chuckling to herself. He reached out and yanked her back, the inertia of his pull making her land against him, his eyes searching her face.
"Are you drunk?"
"No. I'm not drunk." I'm stoned, but he didn't necessarily need to know that.
"Then what's gotten into you tonight?"
Nothing, that's the problem."What do you mean?" She purposely played the role of coy and demure, stirring any feral, possessive instincts, flaring hints of jealousy he may, somewhere in that thick skull, have for her. Provoking the lion to pounce. If she were able to incite a smidgeon of what she felt every time she saw him with another girl, she'd convulse with glee. She'd made him angry, that was a start. Now if they could only explore the reasons as to why he was so mad, they might just come upon a mutually satisfying conclusion.
"What do I mean?" His eyes were blazing violently, containing the force to melt her on the spot. "The dress, the hair, the make-up, the 'fuck-me' heels. Are you going for 'Slut of the Year' or something?" He spat cruelly.
"Well, with you being the defending champion, do you think I have a chance?" She retorted sarcastically, enraged with him for calling her a slut. Ok, so perhaps she was dressed like one, but…ok, and maybe she jumped random men in dark alleyways, but… well, that wasn't the point!
"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" He hissed into her face.
"Oh, I don't know Harry, do you even have a bed head left? What with all the notches carved into your bedposts lately it must be reduced to a nice pile of woodchips by now."
"You don't know what you're talking about." He stated dismissively, turning his back on her in attempt to stalk away.
He didn't get very far however when she seized his arm and spun him around so they were once more facing each other. "Oh I don't? We may as well open this apartment to the female public as a theme park - 'Come ride Harry Potter. Two for the price of one'. You know, if you'd charged for services rendered, you'd have a sizeable profit under your belt."
Whoa, where had that come from? No more drugs for her. His jaw was clenched tight and his eyes were fierce. She knew she was pushing it, but once she started, she couldn't stop. It was finally time to lay everything on the line. For years she'd been dishonest to him and to herself and she hated it. Now that she had finally gained his attention, she wasn't going to waste the opportunity. She was determined to get the truth out tonight. Every day they had both ignored her love for him, was another day closer to death. It was a torturous journey she had to end. It was hurting too much. So whether the conclusion of this night brought pain or pleasure, she was going through with it.
"Well at least I had the decency to learn their names first. At least I don't jump random women on the street." He hissed callously. "You know, that could be considered rape in some countries."
She stood her ground and glared up at him, bringing her face close to his so he could feel the breath of her words against his lips. "He seemed consenting enough."
His hands came up to grip her arms, hard enough to bruise, confusion mixed with an intense anger, rolling off him in waves, staring at her as if he didn't know who she was, but wanted to crush her regardless. "Who are you? You don't do that." He shook her for emphasis. "You, Hermione Granger, don't do that."
"Exactly." She said in a low, vibrating voice. "Which was why it felt so good." The sudden silence in the hallway was louder than their words could ever be. The intensity within their stances, the heat within their gazes, the unexpected hunger in their bodies; they were like two fierce animals in heat, locked in a cage, pacing and snarling, desperate to sate the urge to mate. The sensation made their hair rise on the back of their necks in anticipation.
"Since when did you care anyway?" She continued after a moment, pushing the cage door open just a little, provoking him to come and play. "When exactly did morals and decency co-exist with sex in your realm of ethics? Come to think of it, at what time did you acquire any ethics when it came to sex? I thought the 'Wham-Bam-Thank-You-Ma'am' was a standard policy in your daily life. My experiences with any man shouldn't even blip on your radar. After all, you are the great Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived." She scoffed sardonically. "More like the Boy Who Lived to Shag."
If he were indeed a lion right now, he would have taken a swipe at her, drawing blood. He was boiling with rage. He was shocked at this unexpected show down with his supposed best friend that apparently came out of nowhere. He didn't know she'd held this deep resentment for him. He didn't know he'd felt a burning jealousy when considering her coupling with any man. He didn't know a lot of things tonight. "Fuck you."
He turned away, attempting to escape before they did any thing more they may just regret, but was prevented when she stormed in front of him, bodily blocking his way. "Fuck me? Fuck me, Harry?" She repeated viciously. "Why are you so angry? Why is this affecting you like it is? Ask yourself why. Then, once you've done that, ask me why I'm dressed like this and how you feel when you look at me. Ask me why I was with him and what you felt when you saw us together. Think about it, long and hard, and when you reach a plausible solution, come and find me." She swept around and stalked to the vicinity of her room, as he stood there staring at her back in a bemused confusion.
A few seconds later, she came stalking back in. "In fact, let me give you a hint."
Sinking her hands into his hair, cupping his head, bringing her body flush up against his, rising to the tips of her toes, she kissed him. She kissed him hard, with a passionate force like no other. A kiss that was sure to leave him breathless. A kiss that if nothing else ever happened after this moment would brand itself into his memory and never be forgotten. A kiss that at least for a minute or two, wiped his mind of any other girls lingering in his head. A kiss that would shock him, shake him, break him and make him. A kiss that hopefully would have him begging for more.
He put up no struggle, no sounds of protest. She caught him so totally unaware, so entirely off-guard he was helpless to resist. He stood there as pliant as putty in her willing hands, and she was determined to show him exactly what she felt. The sweet torture she had been undergoing for years, punishing him for his obliviousness - praising him for his irresistibility, this kiss: the reward.
Her tongue swept forth, passed the surprised barriers of his lips, stroking her way into his mouth, seeking out his tongue. Once she found the hidden treasure, she wrapped her own mouth around it and sucked. Sucking it into her mouth, making him groan, enticing the reaction she desired. She grinded her body into his, rubbing, pressing, withdrawing an overwhelming need he could not withstand. And when she felt the first flickers of response, as soon as his body hardened against the pressing softness of her own, as soon as his tongue accepted the invitation to dance, she stopped. She pulled herself completely out of his arms, out of his mouth and away from his body before turning and walking out of the hallway.
Harry Potter was left standing there, bewildered, confused, enraged and irrevocably, achingly hard.