JK Rowling owns it all. I own nothing but my imagination.
It started with the soft glide across his skin. The lightest of touches. So smooth it could have been the whisper of silk, so soft it would have been the finest cotton, so tempting as the finest chocolate. This most gentle of touches was followed by the brush of a nose up his inner thigh, tickling and hauntingly familiar all the same. Harry felt himself stiffen.
Shifting uneasily on the bed, Harry spread his legs and was rewarded with the flash of gold settling comfortably on his groin, the warmth and heat soothing, yet arousing. The soft press of a body on his, settling down as if he owned him. The soft hum of desire, a tongue licking his stomach, trailing lower, lower. This was good, very, very good.
Now, Harry could see why Hermione loved Crookshanks.