Christmas in JulyPairing:
This is a leftover Kinky Kristmas prompt. The request, by inell
, was fluffy Harry/Hermione, with mistletoe. Also, the 7th is my day and it is now technically the 8th; IJ has been arguing with me as to whether it would like to accept a post for the last two and a half hours. >:|
Christmas in July
This is completely ridiculous. There has to be a counter-spell, doesn't there? But she doesn't know it, so its theoretical existence is unhelpful, and also a little exasperating because knowledge out of reach is just unfair. And she can't look it up from here. Hermione tries again, which is also
ridiculous, but it's not like standing here in the middle of the bloody doorway all bloody night is going to do her any good.
As happened the first dozen times she tried, she can take a couple of steps, but each one is more difficult than the one before, and by the time she's managed four, her stockinged feet are sliding back on the glossy old wood of the floor.
At least all their hard work rebuilding the place is paying off; the floor is smooth with no snags, and the doorframe, when she hits is with a thump, is solid against her shoulder. She reaches for the opposite side to prevent sliding straight through and rebounding back; the stupid spell must be getting stronger
, because it's pulling her back faster and sooner each time she tries.
It occurs to her maybe there is
a way to research the counter-spell from right where she is; much of the Black library is here now--her fault--and even if it is
in boxes and trunks up there, Summoning charms don't care about that. After all, Harry called his broom to him during the first task, and he was barely fourteen.
Her wand is already in her hand from her previous startled efforts to free herself, so she stops struggling and centers herself directly in the middle of the frame and says "Accio
counter-spell for the magical mistletoe."
For a moment, nothing happens, but then a slender volume zips toward her from the stairwell, careening at a crazy angle around the banister, pages fluttering in the breeze. She puts her hand up to catch it, but grasps air.
The book explodes in a shower of purple sparks that arrange themselves in the air before her face: Nice Try
Damn, damn, damn. It's a Wheeze, which means there probably is
no written counter-spell. Anywhere. She hasn't seen this one before, but George is a bloody maniac
with the new products these days. Angelina is good for him.
And bad for her, though she can't really regret their relationship because George smiles again now, and that's worth being stuck in a doorway alone for… She cranes around the corner to see the clock. For twenty minutes, plus however much longer she's here.
Finally, with a huff, she blows her fringe out of her eyes and sits down there in the doorway, legs crossed in front of her, chin on one fist, to wait. Harry will be along eventually, right? He's supposed to be home early because they're working on the cabinet doors, and keeping them level for hanging on her own is a pain in the arse.
And surely the mistletoe will let her go, once she's met its requirement, which she assumes is the usual one.
She turns sideways, props her back against one side and her toes against the other, and Summons a quill and parchment. As long as she's here, she might as well start making up the list(s) she'll need for the party. They're not quite
as finished with everything as she'd like--for instance, the landing still needs stripped and refinished, and the guest bath has a frustrating plumbing issue that she doesn't quite understand, which, that reminds her: she draws a line across the page and notes that on Tuesday she should go see if the local lending library has anything on plumbing repair, because she doesn't like how thin her understanding of the subject is, and it doesn't seem like it should be really difficult. In any case, if they aren't as ready as she'd prefer, it isn't every day Harry turns 25 and (mostly) finishes renovating the remains of the home his father grew up in, so there's an external deadline. So there it is; they'll have the party before they've had time to repair the eaves at the south end of the wing or install nicer hardware on the linen cabinet.
Though, purchasing hardware should go on the list somewhere, in case they do have time. Or in case one of Ron's brothers drops in to help again; it turns out they're all rather good with home maintenance, except for Charlie, who seems to think Muggle duct tape is the solution to every repair need and almost sounds like Arthur in rhapsodizing about it.
As she writes, columns and lists, she fans her face with her left hand, then shrugs off her thin hoodie. It's warm in here.Ice
, she writes on the list for the market. They'll need plenty, for punch and just for general cooling people off; Harry's birthday is fairly inconvenient for people who aren't fond of sweating.
Which she is. Sweating.
She glances toward the window to be sure the curtains are closed, then contemplates whether there's any chance the Muggle heating in this house has kicked on without her say-so. But she doesn't hear it.
She hopes she's not ill. This would be a particularly poor time to work through a fever.
Finally, with a groan, she stands up, tossing her parchment to one side and, grimacing. Being naked in the living room--well, half in the living room, half in the study, to be precise--isn't really her usual style, especially home alone in the middle of the afternoon, but it's too bloody hot in here, and it isn't as though the neighbors will see. She peels off the yoga pants that she felt silly buying because yoga is probably only slightly more likely for her as a pastime than juggling flaming swords blindfolded on a unicycle.
Cool air hits her thighs, and she can hardly move fast enough to tear her sleeveless top up over her head. Oh, better.
She doesn't even realize she's shoving down her knickers until she's done that and has one bra strap shoved off her shoulder, and that, she only notices because the front door opens and Harry stops, dark silhouette against the bright light, and stares.
The teen-aged boy across the road, thankfully, does not look up before he comes to his senses and closes the door.
"Uh, Hermione? Not that I object to you being naked, um, ever, except possibly at Christmas dinner at the Burrow, but why are you stripping in the living room?"
"Oh. Well in that case, could you? Because I like all of your skin, but it hardly seems right for you to cover up some of my favorite parts only."
Hermione glances down, then represses the urge to Summon her hoodie and cover herself. She settles for glaring. "I opened a box, and there was an unexpected and badly-timed surprise."
"You're not hurt, are you?"
"Do I look hurt?"
"No, you look naked. Almost."
"Yes, and very warm. Well, no, actually, I stopped being too warm when I took my clothes off."
"Shut it, Potter."
"Well, honestly, Hermione, it was a little
ridiculous of a thing to say. But, so why are you stripping, then?"
"I don't know, but it was hot, and the bloody mistletoe
--this would be the badly-timed bit--won't let me out from under it." She points up.
Harry's eyes follow, and then he groans. "It's a Wheeze, isn't it?"
"Um. I forget. Do I have some sort of right not to incriminate myself?"
"You watch too many dramas on the telly. Why do you have mistletoe, in July, that binds a person in place?"
"Because I forgot to use it at Christmas?"
"Oh. Well, of course, that's all fine, then." She feels a little snappish, but he's looking at her hungrily, so she pauses. "You're staring at me."
"I always stare when you're naked. Only, usually you aren't so caught up noticing because we're otherwise engaged."
"Excellent, but since generally mistletoe leads to kissing, and since I'd like not to remain in this doorway until a new threat rises in the east, could you come over here already?"
Harry licks his lips and pulls his shirt over his head.
"You don't have to get naked, too. Just--"
"Yes, I do. It's warm in here."
"Not really. I'm perfectly comfortable."
"We've been over this; you're naked." Harry keeps shedding clothing, sighing in relief just as she did, and Hermione frowns.
"I think it wants us naked," she says. "Which isn't strictly necessary for kissing, which is usually what mistletoe expects."
"Um, no, not strictly
necessary." He steps forward wearing nothing but his socks, which she notices have a hole in one heel and how that doesn't drive him mad is beyond her.
"You have a hole in your sock."
"Couldn’t possibly care less." He's right there against her, the swelling bulk of his half-hard cock pressing against her hip as he bends his neck to nuzzle against her ear.
"You're not kissing," she points out. "Which, if that's what it takes to get me out of this doorway--"
"Well, it may take slightly
more than kissing. Or, uh, actually, just…" He sucks at the skin above her collarbone, and she groans. The air around them feels tight and puckered, and she realized with a gasp that it's because the mistletoe is pushing them further.
"Is that a request or a question?" His lips brush her ear as he asks, and then he's rubbing his hands down her sides and around her arse, gripping her tightly.
"Question." She pushes at his chest lightly, though the crackling air probably wouldn’t really allow
her to really shove him away.
"Uh, it wants 'involved' kissing." He's demonstrating, working his way down her chest at a snail's pace, which is maddening.
"Involved how? And what if I don't want to do any involved kissing? What if I want to finish realigning the cabinet doors?"
"Do you?" He straightens and steps back, obviously just as affected by the ridiculous thing as she is. His eyes are glazed over, his cheeks flushed, but he's obviously going to stop if she says so.
"Yes, but it's not giving us much choice, is it?" She's stepping forward again, backing him toward the jamb, licking her lips, but he puts up a hand and stops her.
"I can always send George a Patronus," he reminds her.
"I didn't think of that."
"So there's--I mean, you know I'd never--"
She shakes off his hand and closes the distance between them, sucking a heated bruise on his chest before she answers. "I know, Harry."
It's only fair that since his lips on her breast a moment ago have her thrumming and buzzing with need, she should do the same to him, so she kisses her way down as he gasps and gulps. She stops at his navel, her chin pressing against the damp head of his cock as she nibbles, then looks up. "Do you suppose this is going to count as involved kissing?"
"If it doesn't, then whatever it wants might kill me," he says between clenched teeth, hands in her hair, glasses askew on his nose. The air is still tight and warm, and she feels as though she could do any impossible amount of magic with her body alone, like some science-fiction teledrama, rising into the air crackling green power and cackling at the hapless mortals below.
She drops into her knees from the crouch she's fallen into, and looks up at him for a moment, pink and panting, eyes closed beneath the tilted lenses, marks darkening on his chest and hip from her teeth and tongue, then licks her lips and slides them over the head of his cock.
He jolts, his full body arching toward her as though somehow this is a surprise, but she's almost ready for that, leaning back enough not to choke and then reaching for her wand, loose on the floor where she dropped it a few minutes ago. She wordlessly casts a silky-slick puddle into her free hand and wraps it around the base of his cock, pressing with her tongue until his fingers tighten in her hair, then squeezing her eyes shut and taking him deeper into her throat. She can never keep it up for long, but it pretty much renders him incoherent when she does, so it's worth the sore raspy voice in the morning.
He locks his knees and flings out one hand for purchase, and then there is
a literal crackle, a shower of sparks in the air as he comes, making sounds in his nose and throat, fingers scrabbling against the wall and against her scalp with each pulsing thrust.
She pulls away after a moment, and he glances down, still breathing heavily. "All right?"
"That was involved enough kissing, evidently," she says, swallowing and rubbing at her throat. The pressure in the air has changed, and she's pretty sure she can leave the doorway if she wants.
"I don't think so," he argues, sliding down the smooth door frame until he's level with her and leaning forward until she has to turn and sit on the floor. He follows her, his lips on her again, kissing his way down further than he had before and ripping off the bra she's still wearing.
"Harry! We're on the floor
," she can't help but point out as he nuzzles her belly and hooks an elbow under one knee, even as she realizes the tension in the air has left her more than a little desperate. "Which I haven't swept decently since--"
area immediately beneath Hermione," he mutters. She does feel magic, though that has to have been too muffled to have been actually effective. She decides it will do, and also, as he squares his shoulders between her thighs, opening her wide, she decides that actually, she doesn't care that
As his tongue presses flat and firm against her clit, she whacks her knee on the doorway, but she doesn't care about that, either, especially when he presses two fingers into her easily and tightens his tongue into a point and swirls it around. She's well beyond ready, and she clenches around his fingers, whining for more until he adds a third finger, pumping in as fast and deep as he can, given the position.
When he changes his approach again, sucking at her clit and twisting his fingers quickly inside her, she makes a sound she doesn't think she's ever made before and arches her arse off the floor as she comes star-seeing hard.
He looks up. "Am I forgiven?"
"For the mistletoe I forgot we had ruining your day?"
She stares at him for a moment, then blinks. "Oh! Um, I forgot to be annoyed. So, I guess that must mean yes."
"Oh, good." He pauses a moment, then grins and straightens his glasses. "So, I propose we align cabinets after supper, and delay supper until after a brief detour to the bedroom. Yeah?"
She finds no flaw in this plan, and nods.