IN THE SEX

It's in the sex that I see every aspect of her being.

Everyone calls her a know-it-all, and that's true, but for her to 'know it all', she had to learn somewhere. She spends every second of her time learning, even times like this. I watch her; she runs her fingers over my skin like she's committing the feeling to memory, and she absently brushes her never-under-control hair away from her face so she can see what she's doing.

The lighting in this corridor is dim; we have a free period before advanced potions, not far down the main hallway that this corridor shoots off from, and we meet here once in a while because we are young, sexually frustrated, and single. We both have needs, and we can satiate those with each other.

Her eyes watch the surface of my skin as her fingertips gently trail down my chest, and when my skin breaks out in goosebumps, she gets this delighted little smile on her face that actually makes me want to grin. I shiver a little, because it's cold here and because her touch is warm and because now I am most definitely turned on and she's barely just gotten my robe and shirt off. She's leaning in, partly to see better and partly so I can feel her breath tickling over the left side of my chest. Not quite cool, but not quite warm either.

Brilliant.

One hand slides down my side and grabs my hip, one hand sways back and forth across my stomach. It's like everytime we do this, she allows herself to forget my body just so she can learn it all over again the next time. Except she knows what happens as she teases lower and lower, and what happens when she nibbles and worries at my nipple, and then her hand brushes over the bulge in the front of my trousers—I sigh, and my knees start to buckle. That's why her hand has strayed to my hip. It might be funny when I fall down, but it really does interrupt the proceedings.

We sink slowly to the floor, she straddles my lap, and I tuck a hand under her jaw and pull her head up so I can kiss her. Her lips are soft and press gently against mine. I'm always afraid to press any harder; she might be a know-it-all, but she's learning, too, and what if I broke something by pushing too hard? Like her will to learn and explore in favor of simply doing what she's told?

She's peeling her school robe back from her shoulders, undoing the school issue tie and oxford, giving me the opportunity to explore a little for myself while she undoes the button on my trousers. I'm pleased with myself; I, too, have learned from these experiences, and I trace across her stomach, squeeze gently at her breasts through the pale pink bra she's wearing—made all the more feminine by a cute pink bow between the cups; it's almost too cute to be sexy—then reach around the back and undo the clasp with a flick of my fingers.

She smiles, a little flushed as I tug the bra down her arms and away from her breasts. “You've got it,” she whispers, jubilating quietly with me; I made it a personal goal to be able to do that. Then she's suppressing a moan as I squeeze her breasts in my hands, brushing the tips of my thumbs over her areolae. I feel her hands pull my manhood out of my boxers in retaliation, then she's massaging smoothly up and down the length.

She's a know-it-all. She's a learn-it-all, too. But first and foremost, as I've recently discovered, Hermione Granger is a young woman. She rests a hand o my shoulder, leans in to bite my neck, strategically picking a spot that my shirt will cover later. It's a spot she has learned will make me groan, but her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are looking hazy. She enjoys pushing my buttons, and knowing what buttons to push, but she wants more now.

I release her breasts and rest my hands on her knees, then slide up her thighs and beneath her skirt.

I realize, with a twitch of excitement, that she's not wearing knickers.

I hear her inhale sharply, then it sounds like she's forgotten to breathe; she holds her breath expectantly as my hands move closer to her heat. Then she remembers with a gasp as I press a finger into her, and she digs her fingernails into my shoulder as she tries to remember herself.

Her other hand, the one that stayed at my groin, has gone to the robe she cast aside, fumbling for her wand. She finds it, points the tip at her abdomen and mutters the contraceptive charm that I taught her and my (well-meaning) mother taught me. Then she raises her hips up, leaning her weight onto the hand at my shoulder while her other hand returns to my groin and angles my glans upward. For a brief moment, part of me panics like I've lost control; from the position I'm sitting in, I can't thrust or even pull away. I'm pinned into place by her knees and steadying hand. My hands unconciously reach for her rump, and I sink my fingers into the soft flesh as if this will give me a grip on the situation as a whole.

She takes this as an 'okay', and lowers herself onto me.

She's incredible to watch when she's like this. Her breasts bounce, and the hand that isn't lodged in my shoulder unconsciously goes to one of her breasts and begins to massage it—a job I leave her to so I can help keep rhythm with her hips. Her breathing gets lighter and lighter because she's concentrating so hard on the sensation of sex that she's forgetting even the simplest things.

And oh God, she is tight and wet and pulsing and warm and moving around my shaft with such a force, like this is the only thing on her mind and the only thing she cares about. I've become one of her books, and all the world outside of me has stopped while she studies. I'm the focus of her world, and as she tightens in orgasm around me, the expression of concentration on her face—of devotion to the task at hand—sends me spinning over the edge.

Now, here is Hermione Granger as a woman. She's shiny with sweat in the light of the single torch still a ways down the hall. Her ordinarily bushy hair is fluffed with sex. Her breathing hasn't even started to even out yet, and her eyes are dizzily trying to find an object of focus. Her eyes find my face, and she smiles weakly and falls forward, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and chest. I encircle her in my arms, and—not for the first time—I marvel at how tiny she is. Her presence is always so much bigger.

As stand-offish as she usually is, she loves to be held like this. Like any woman, she wants to be treated as a woman, as something treasured and loved and adored.

She nuzzles against my neck, purring my name in my ear.

“Mmm... Draco...”

I tighten my hold on her posessively, carefully. I don't want to break her.