FIC: Anyone Could See (Harry/Hermione)
To: Simon’s Flower
From: Your Secret Santa

Title: Anyone Could See
Author: scribooty
Pairing: Harry/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Summary: They never talk about it, even though anyone could see what was going on.
Warnings: None


They never talked about it, which was strange, for them. Not that Harry was much of a talker in general, but when it came to Hermione… Well, she rarely let things go. She always wanted to discuss any and everything, ever since they were children, and she had been able to get him to talk about his feelings more than anyone else had ever been able to.

But about this... they never talked about it. Not even that silent, we-communicate-through-glances thing that both amused and exasperated their friends to no end. They would ignore it, and then it would happen again, and they wouldn't speak of it again. Over and over.

Not that he didn't think about it, even if he never spoke about it. In fact, it sometimes seemed like he couldn't stop thinking about it. Even at that moment, in the middle of a Ministry conference, all that mattered to him was her: her skin and her heat and the feeling of her hot breath against his ear as she would gasp her release.

Of course, no one would know that such a thing was occupying his thoughts, just as no one would ever guess that he had long ago used the camouflage of the cloth-covered table to creep and slide the palm of his hand along the length of her upper leg, kneading the silky flesh as she carefully scritch-scritch-scritched with her quill against the parchment, taking notes on the keynote speaker's address. Without even glancing at him, she had parted her thighs, and his strong hand had found its way under her robe and skirt to her damp knickers. He lightly stroked the thin fabric, pressing it into the soaking cleft of her pussy as he moved his long fingers carefully and methodically, up and down, over and over, the only visible clue of what he was doing being the slightly rosy flush that appeared on Hermione's studious face.

No, this was never spoken of, never referred to between them. And to even the most observant of their friends and acquaintances, nothing had changed between them, either. Harry and Hermione remained the best of friends, they would say, perhaps shaking their heads that the two of them had never moved their relationship beyond simple friendship.

As he finally worked his fingers under her knickers, feeling her slick heat as he stroked her, he couldn't help but turn his head to study her face, watching the slight flush grow across her cheeks as her breath quickened and her body tensed—just enough for him and him alone to notice. She carefully laid down her quill on the tabletop, and stared straight ahead to the podium at the front of the room, fastening her eyes onto the speaker, looking for all the world as if she were hanging on his every word. Harry couldn't help the tiny smirk that flitted across his lips as her hand disappeared under the table to join his own, her fingers twined with his, as together they rubbed, caressed and stroked her until she came, her thighs gripped tightly as she silently rode her orgasm against his hand, her eyes momentarily shut and her body tense as she bit hard on her lip to keep her keening pleasure to herself.

Harry smiled, waiting for her body to relax before removing his hand, rubbing the wetness between his fingers and resisting the urge to bring them to his face and smell her on him. He smiled because even though Hermione had resumed her careful note taking, he knew her. He knew that before the day was over, she would find a way to return the favor.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



The tiny alley was dark, but Harry was still vaguely aware of the shadows of the various people passing back and forth on the pavement. It was the holidays, and as usual, Diagon Alley was packed with shoppers, teeming in the street and stores buying Christmas presents for their loved ones. Any one of them could have ventured into the narrow, dark space between the crooked brick buildings and seen them: Hermione backed against the brick wall, her skirt bunched about her waist, her boot-encased legs wrapped around Harry's hips, as he thrust madly into her, over and over.

There were stacks of crates and a pile of rubbish blocking them from view, but both of them knew that it was a meager barrier at best. Just minutes earlier, they had been walking along, chatting and laughing as they discussed their plans for the day, and then, as suddenly as it always was, Hermione had grabbed his arm, pulled him into the shadows, and attacked his mouth with her own.

Harry had been momentarily surprised, for they rarely kissed during these strange, stolen moments of lust. In fact, they probably kissed more as innocent friends—a light and chaste peck on the cheek or lips in front of others—than they ever did when giving in to their unspoken interludes of wet heat and human friction.

So, when she threw him against the wall, ravaging him with her soft and eager lips, he was dazed at first. But then, she had slid her tongue into his mouth, and the dazed confusion was quickly replaced with blind need. He had opened his mouth to hers, let his hands roam and grope her firm curves, frustrated by the layers of winter clothing that separated him from her warm flesh.

And when she had teased and sucked his tongue into her own mouth, he had groaned loudly, for one moment giving sound to his want, heedless of the possible curiosity of the tired shoppers just yards away from them.

How long had he wanted to do this, he had briefly wondered. How long had he wanted to take her breath into his own body, to consume her heat and taste her sighs and low moans?

She had soon moved one of her hands, undoing his trousers so that she could reach down and stroke his hard and ready cock.

At the feel of her hands on him, he had thrown his head back—hard enough to hurt as it hit the wall behind him. She knew how to touch him, after all the practice she had had in cupboards, in his office, and wherever else she had dared to take him. She was grasping him with a firmer hand, harder and harder, as she lay hot kisses on his throat, her tongue stroking his fevered skin even as her hand took control of his pulsing cock.

With another groan, Harry pulled her hand away and reversed their positions so that she was against the wall, pulling up her skirt and pushing her knickers to the side before he thrust hard into her. She was as on fire for him as he was for her, her wetness smoothly enveloping him as he pushed into her again and again, his mouth buried in the crook of her neck, kissing and suckling and biting the soft skin he found there even as she tightened and clenched around him.

He never would have expected it, that day when he had first Apparated unannounced to her flat and walked in on her in her room, naked and touching herself, that it would have led to this. But it had. He could remember it clearly; her eyes had widened in alarm as she lay, frozen, on her bed. He had turned bright red and mumbled an excuse before bolting out. He had dreaded seeing her again, afterwards, and when they finally did come face to face the next day, she had surprised him by acting as though nothing had happened at all.

At the time, he had been relieved and grateful, preferring to pretend that it had never occurred. But as much as he tried, he couldn't remove the image of her flushed and naked body from his mind. He would glance at her across the room during a work meeting, and would imagine her: giving herself pleasure, allowing him to watch from the doorway as she brought herself to climax, her body shuddering as she moaned her release while staring into his eyes.

Again and again, the fantasies would intrude: during family dinners at The Burrow, nights out with the two of them and Ron, while watching a movie, or simply spending the day together. But soon, his daydreams had moved beyond him merely watching her. He imagined touching her himself, feeling her silky skin with his hands, and the wet warmth of her cunt surrounding him.

And just as she had never spoken of that first moment, he had tried hard to not let her know of his thoughts. But, somehow she had known. Perhaps the same sorts of thoughts had been filling her own mind. Or perhaps she had simply known him too well, so well that she would have figured out what the occasional flushes and covert glances and rare stammers actually meant. Perhaps both. For whatever reason, she had known. And unlike himself, she had done something about it. Something that they had never talked about or alluded to since. Just as they would never talk about this very moment, with the two of them rutting against each other in a dark alley, muffling their moans and devouring each other as their fucking increased in intensity.

As his mouth once again found hers, as his tongue stroked hers, as he sucked the very breath out of her, he wondered, once again, how this was possible. How was it possible for his body to be so alive and fevered when they were together? How was it possible for her body to react so perfectly to his own? How was any of this possible, unless their bodies were somehow meant for this, for each other?

He could feel that tightening in his balls, that pounding throb of lust pulsing through him, and he knew he was close. Tearing his mouth away from hers, he braced their bodies for his final wild thrusts, deeply burying himself within her, glorying in her body's embrace of his own, and allowed himself to look at her face, to drink in her expression of ecstasy, to lose himself in her eyes.

She looked back, her breathing labored, her lips pink and full, and she brought up a hand to stroke his face, her tender touch at odds with their primal coupling. And it was that touch that put him over the edge. He brought his mouth down once again to hers, releasing his screams of pleasure into her, allowing her to consume them even as she consumed his body. Her own convulsions from her climax throbbing around him, she milked his orgasm until his body was spent.

And they stayed like that for some time, their bodies limp and sated as the boisterous sounds of Diagon Alley floated over to them. He struggled a bit to keep them upright, but it was worth it. He gladly would have stayed there for as long as he could have, if it had meant that her body would remain wrapped around his own.

But finally, they separated. And with a rueful grin, Hermione had fixed her clothing and charmed them both clean. Quickly setting them to rights, she threaded her arm through one of his, leading him back onto the busy pavement before giving him a friendly smile, and asking him how much Christmas shopping he had left to do.

Harry fought to give a similar smile in return.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



That first time, Harry hadn't quite understood what was happening. One moment, he had been laughing with old friends at Ginny and Neville's Halloween party at the Longbottom estate, and the next, Hermione had pulled him into a tiny bathroom at the end of a hallway. Alarmed, he hadn't even had time to ask her if anything was the matter before she had pushed him onto the toilet, undone his trousers, dropped to her knees, and taken him into her hot and ready mouth.

It was something that he had certainly fantasized about often enough since walking in on her, but he nonetheless was shocked speechless that it had actually happened.

But now, of course, he realized that his being unable to talk was what Hermione had wanted. She had worked her lips and tongue over him, swirling her oh-so-wet heat around the head of his cock, until all to soon he had buried his hands in her wild hair as he came hard, emptying himself into her greedy mouth.

His head thrown back and panting, Hermione had turned to the sink and quickly rinsed her mouth and tidied herself up. After he had righted himself as best he could, she had turned back to him, a knowing, impish gleam in her eyes. Holding a finger to her lips, she had arched a brow and gave him a low "shhh" before slipping out of the room to rejoin the party.

Harry had just sat there, for how many minutes he didn't know, trying to process what had just happened. Finally, with a laugh, he too tidied himself up before joining the party. After all, what man in his twenties would argue against such apparent good fortune?

And so, what had started as a mistake, one friend accidentally walking in on another, had become something else. For Harry didn't want to call what they now did mistakes, and they certainly weren't accidents. After that encounter in the bathroom, Harry had soon followed Hermione's lead, pulling her into the Auror training room at the Ministry. And in darkened hallways, or unused rooms. Even the bathroom at The Leaky Cauldron had seen some use, as well as in between the dusty, little-used stacks dealing with magical history at Flourish and Blotts. While there was a sort of unspoken rule as to the kinds of places it had to take place—they never had complete privacy—there was no real pattern in terms of how often it would happen, or who would initiate it. But, it was inevitable that it would happen. Over and over, as the weeks—and eventually months—went by.

Months, and they were the same as when it had started. Best friends. Best friends who spoke of everything to each other, except for this.

Harry frowned as he watched Hermione laughing with the new Arithmancy professor whom McGonagall had hired that past year. The school term had just ended, and as was a bit of a tradition, Harry, Hermione, Ron, and many others of their school friends had turned up for the End Of The Year Feast. After the meal, the staff and assorted alumni would gather in a smaller hall, talking and reminiscing – sometimes with laughter and sometimes with teary eyes.

He normally enjoyed these gatherings. While he had never grown comfortable with his fame, he cherished times like this, being surrounded by his friends and surrogate family, those who had experienced so much alongside him. But this time, he found that all he could do was stare at Hermione. Follow her with his eyes as she moved about the room. Watch her as she was introduced to the handsome young man who taught what had been her favorite subject in school.

Of course, she had every right to speak with him, he knew that. But his chest tightened as he watched her smile and laugh as the man attempted to charm her. And when the professor leaned forward to brush a bit of her hair off her face, Harry felt like he had been punched in the gut.

Without even thinking about his actions, he marched over to where they were. Barking out a request to speak with her, he grabbed Hermione by the arm and briskly walked out the room, leading her down the halls, ignoring her outraged huffs.

Finally, pulling her into a dusty old lounge filled with old, cast-off sofas and chairs, he released her arm and charmed the door locked. Her face was angry, but she was silent. Harry had counted on that—her holding onto the unspoken rules of what had developed between them.

Looking at her, her eyes fiery with irritation, he reached out a hand, and mirroring the earlier gesture that had so disturbed him, brushed her hair away from her face. Her eyes softened, and Harry wished he had done that earlier, whenever the urge had struck him, no matter who was there to see it. He brought his other hand to her face, and began to lightly stroke and caress her, skimming his fingers along her nose, her forehead, her lips and her cheeks, as his other hand continued to brush through her hair.

Still she stared at him, her eyes warm and yet somehow unreadable. His mouth felt dry, though he didn't know why, they had done this before, many times and many ways. But as he continued to glide his fingers along her features, the tightening in his chest returned, this time so hard that he fought for breath. And he realized that they hadn't done this before. Not like this.

At her questioning glance, he licked his lips, and stepped even closer to her, holding her face in his hands, before lowering his lips to hers.

Their mouths were closed, and his eyelids fluttered shut as he felt the delicate softness of her lips against his. They moved their lips slowly—delicately, even—and he had to remind himself to breathe as he kissed the crease between her lips, the corners of her mouth, and her full lower lip.

When he finally pulled away, he watched her face, the way her eyes dazedly opened, and how deeply she breathed, trying to steady herself. When she was able to look into his eyes, he felt the tightening return to his chest, but it was different than before. This time, he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face.

He once again stepped up to her, but now he grabbed her to him, wrapping his arms around her before he leaned in to kiss her again. She opened her lips to him, and as his tongue tasted her mouth, he felt weak in his knees. He smiled against her lips, and felt his heart grow when he heard her give a muffled laugh in return.

Scooping her up, he carried her to one of the battered sofas, smiling as he laid her down, and after removing his glasses, stretched out above her. She practically purred, pulling his body against hers, running her legs along his as he continued to kiss her. He had rarely felt her like this, lying beneath him. They had never had never been this alone before, and their moments had normally been frenzied and rushed, standing or leaning against whatever was handy.

So he savored this, finally being able to peel away her dress, her lacy undergarments, kissing every inch of newly exposed flesh until she was finally naked beneath him. He pulled away from her, and sat back on his knees between her legs, allowing his eyes and hands to roam all over her. Even with all that they had done, he had never seen her like this since that first day he had walked in on her, never seen her completely nude before him.

He looked back into her eyes and was surprised to see that she was blushing under his examination. He smiled at her, and pulled her up so that she was kneeling in front of him. Taking her hands, he placed them on the buttons of his shirt.

Letting out a laugh that warmed his soul, she made quick work of his clothes, and soon they were both naked and twined together, his skin sliding along hers, their hands and lips everywhere as they stroked and caressed each other with a deceptive laziness.

Soon, though, their need became too great, and Harry settled between her legs. She lay back and smiled at him, bringing a hand to his face. "Harry," she whispered, the soft sound filling the empty room, and it seemed to echo in his heart. Feeling the tears welling up in his eyes, he kissed the palm of her hand. "Yes," he whispered back to her, "Hermione."

He could see the tears welling in her own eyes, even as she smiled wider and brighter than he had ever seen. Leaning down, he kissed the wetness away from the corners of her eyes. "Hermione," he whispered again, moving his body to enter hers.

She let out a deep moan as he filled her, and she wrapped her arms and legs about him, bringing him closer to her than he would have thought possible. "Harry… Harry…" she whispered again and again against his ear as he moved slowly and deeply within her. Each time she said his name, it filled his heart like nothing he had ever known before.

"Yes, Hermione, yes," he murmured over and over, each breath an affirmation as his body made love to hers. He stroked her slowly and deeply, her body gripping and releasing him again and again.

All the while, he watched her face, their eyes fastened onto each other's, and he could see how her expression changed over the time that their bodies were locked together. Heat and desire were surely there, but there was also a warmth that came not from the throbbing blood and pounding animal lust that had fueled their previous encounters. No, Harry knew that warmth in her deep brown eyes was for him, him alone, and that it came from her heart. A heart that was his. He knew this, because he knew that she could recognize his own promise to her that his gaze held as well.

"Hermione, my Hermione," he whispered as he pushed himself further and further into her, wanting to be surrounded by her, forever.

"Yes, Harry, my Harry," she whispered back as her body writhed under his, her hands gripping at the muscles of his back as she pulled him closer, always closer to her, so that their skin was as connected as possible.

He could feel the shift, the need that filled them both, the need that had to be satisfied. Lowering his mouth to hers, he kissed her deeply, let it tell her all that he felt, all that his heart wanted her to know. And when she returned it, just as passionately, just as deeply, he knew that he was home. Home was Hermione. Her laugh, her hands, her heart, her body, her soul.

Never releasing her mouth, he pulled at her hips until he was completely encased within her, pushing, thrusting, stroking, harder and harder, grinding against her until she screamed her release, his name on her lips as her throaty moans filled the room, echoing against the stone walls.

Feeling her coming around him, under him, he knew that this was an ending and a beginning. And the happiness of this realization was too much for him, her body throbbing around him was too much, her whispered endearments in his ear to come within her was too much. And with a final thrust into her willing heat, he came, shouting her name again and again until he collapsed on top of her, his body shaking, trembling as she hushed him with light kisses on his brow.

How long they lay there, he wasn't sure. But finally, feeling sorry for her bearing his weight atop her, he moved. Pulling her up with a kiss, they laughed and smiled and blushed and kissed again as they cleaned themselves up and put on their scattered clothing.

Holding her hand, they walked back to the hall where their friends were still gathered. Harry could hear their laughter through the door, and looked back at Hermione, pausing before he opened it. He hated himself for his apprehension, but he had to know. Know that she was with him.

She gave him a smile. "Oh, Harry!" she laughingly exclaimed before twining her fingers with his. He laughed as well, bringing their joined hands to his lips before opening the door, so that they could walk in together.