Title: Infatuation
Author: sdk
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Harry/his hand, Draco/Hermione, unrequited Harry/Hermione, hints of possible future pairings between all three
Rating: NC-17 for sexual situations
Genre: PWP/Smut, Angst
Length/Word Count: One-shot, 2,635
Warnings: Voyeurism, pre-slash, lots of wanking, EWE
Summary: Written for the prompt: Harry in the Quidditch locker room at Hogwarts with a pair of knickers
Notes: Written for hp_wankfest 2008. Special thanks to my beta, quite_grey. I'm an American writer, so please feel free to correct me if I've used Americanisms. Comments and concrit are most welcome!
Disclaimer: The following is based on fictional characters that I don't own doing fictional things in a fictional world that I didn't create. No copyright infringement intended, no money's being made.

Originally posted here.

Infatuation


The knickers are simple white cotton. No flower print. No lace or tiny silk ribbons. Just white, plain, seemingly innocent.

But Harry knows better.

He brings the groin to his nose and inhales deeply. He can smell her then, sweet and musky all at once. Her arousal, her scent, trapped in the fabric forever by a spell. She'll always be here for him, whenever he needs her.

Hermione.

Harry leans back against the lockers and opens his robes.

--

Malfoy barged into Harry's office without bothering to shut the door behind him. "She needs to get you out of her system."

Harry didn't bother to look up from marking essays.

"I'm busy."

"Too busy to help out a mate?"

"You're not my mate."

"I'm not talking about me," Malfoy said, speaking slowly. He enunciated every syllable to make it clear he thought Harry was a moron. "I'm referring to Hermione. Your best friend?"

Harry sighed and looked up at Malfoy. "She hasn't been my best friend since you married her."

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. "And that's my fault?"

"Get out, Malfoy."

"I'm offering you a chance to fuck my wife."

"You-" The insult died on Harry's lips as Malfoy's words caught up with his brain, and his face drained of colour.

Malfoy smirked. "I thought that would get your attention."

"You're disgusting," Harry said.

"Maybe." Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "But I'm serious. Think about it."

Harry gripped his quill, his knuckles going white. "I don't have time for whatever game you're playing."

"Yes, classes, what a bore. I have my own first years to torment. We'll talk later."

"No, Malfoy, we won't—just leave."

Malfoy arched his eyebrow again and stared at Harry for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he turned toward the door. But as soon as he reached the threshold, he glanced over his shoulder at Harry, his smirk firmly back in place.

"Yes, we will. You want her. I have her."

Before Harry could think of a retort, Malfoy was gone.

--

He dangles the white knickers in front of his cock, teasing the head with a brush of cotton. It's always so hard for Harry to choose. Should he bring himself off with the knickers against his mouth so he can smell her, pretend he's licking her, tasting her? Or should he wrap the cotton around his cock and plunge inside her, let the elastic chafe his shaft as if they didn't have enough time to get their clothes off? As if he had to push aside her underwear to thrust inside her, because he needed to, because they both couldn't wait?

He doesn't have a lot of time tonight, so he decides on the latter. He's in the locker room just off the Quidditch Pitch, his favourite place, and though it's after curfew and technically all the students should be safely tucked away in their beds, he's not too old to forget his own nightly explorations of the castle when he was still in school. Students could still be up and about; he could be caught at any moment, expelled from Hogwarts for being a dirty old professor. That thought doesn't thrill him, but if Hermione were here he'd be too distracted to care.

So Harry wraps the knickers around his cock and pretends.

--

She needs to get you out of her system.

Those words haunted Harry for the rest of the day. He set his fifth years into pairs and made them practise the disarming spell, then walked around the classroom correcting techniques, offering suggestions. It didn't require a lot of thought, wasn't much different than the DA, really. That was how Hermione had managed to convince him to take the position in the first place. She was always convincing him of something.

But the words stayed with him, no matter how much he tried to push them away. He dismissed his class a half-hour early, much to his students' delight, then waited until curfew to head out to the Quidditch Pitch.

He needed to clear his head. He needed to fly.

"It'll be just like when we were at Hogwarts before," she'd exclaimed after they'd both been offered teaching positions at the newly reopened school. She for Ancient Runes and Harry for Defense. She'd failed to mention who the new Potions Professor would be. Maybe she hadn't known, but Harry could still feel bitter about it if he wanted to.

Harry mounted his broom and took off into the sky, telling himself again that he wouldn't be at Hogwarts had he known about Malfoy, but deep down he knew that wasn't true. Hermione would have convinced him anyway, like always.

But if Harry had known then that he would have had to witness Malfoy and Hermione's bizarre whirlwind of a courtship, he would have found the strength to deny her.

Harry respected Hermione. He'd wanted to give her time to get over Ron, and maybe slowly figure out if their own relationship wasn't so brotherly and sisterly after all, but Malfoy had swooped in and ruined everything, and worse, stuck his tongue out at Harry while doing it.

She needs to get you out of her system.

Malfoy's voice was in the breeze. His presence dominated the air like he was up on a broom, too, breathing down Harry's neck as they chased after the snitch. But Malfoy had already won, and he held the glittering ball before Harry like a tantalizing prize.

I'm offering you a chance to fuck my wife.

His imaginary Malfoy laughed and laughed, his eyes sparkled, mocking, and Harry flew so hard at the ground that he nearly crashed when he landed. Flying wasn't even a refuge anymore. There was no escape.

He headed into the Quidditch locker room intent on a shower and maybe a nice long wank to wear him out before bed, but he had barely put his broom down when he heard a noise.

Rushing footsteps trampled the grass outside, and someone giggled. Harry froze. A girl—no—a woman just outside the locker room. It wasn't a student; the voice was muffled and Harry couldn't make out the words, but he recognised it. He'd know her voice anywhere.

Hermione, and from the deep tones that answered her, it was obvious she wasn't alone.

Harry crept toward the door and opened it a crack, just enough to peek out.

"I thought we were going under the stands," she said. She giggled like a blushing school girl again, but was quickly cut off by someone pushing her against the building only a couple meters away from the door. Then all Harry could see was a head full of blond hair tucked beneath her jaw, doing something that made Hermione's already pink cheeks flush dark red.

Malfoy. Her husband. Harry's jaw clenched.

"I changed my mind," Malfoy said after he finished with her neck. Then he parted her robes, moving down, dipping his head between her breasts. His hand snaked below and pushed her hem up to her waist, revealing her naked thigh.

Harry pressed his eye to the crack, holding his breath. He'd never thought about Hermione when they'd been in school—not like this—until one day he'd seen her curled up with a book on the sofa in the common room. Her skirt had slid up just enough that he'd gotten a glimpse of her thigh. He hadn't been able to look away; he'd kept glancing at her covertly, wanting her skirt to slip up just a bit more, the hint of her curves more than enough to set his teenage heart racing. That one shameful moment had changed the way he saw Hermione forever, like after the Yule Ball when he'd realised she was a girl. After a glimpse of Hermione's thigh, he'd known she was a woman.

And here she was now, her leg completely bared to him, like Malfoy knew Harry was there, watching from the shadows, and he was giving Harry a taste. You could have had this, he was saying, but I got here first.

I'm offering you a chance to fuck my wife.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, but he only lasted a moment before he had to look again.

Hermione wrapped her leg around Malfoy's waist, and Malfoy was inside her then. Harry could tell by the way she gasped and clutched at his shoulders, the way their hips moved together, and her arse hit the wall with each thrust. She still had her knickers on; they were white, plain, hugging her arse, but Malfoy was inside her even so, and Harry felt sick to his stomach.

His cock didn't seem to care about that. And his hand cared even less, already dipping into his robes, rubbing himself through his trousers. There was no fighting it; he was hard and throbbing and if he didn't wank then, he'd have to wank later. He couldn't leave until they were done anyhow.

Harry shoved his hand into his trousers and stifled a groan—not that they would have noticed him. Draco grunted and weak breathy moans escaped Hermione's lips like she was trying to hold back, but couldn't help it. Any sound that Harry made would be lost to both of them, but still he was careful, clamping his teeth down hard on his lower lip as he pulled himself off with quick tight strokes, trapped within the confines of his pants.

"Somebody will see," Hermione rasped, and it became her chant as Malfoy drove himself into her over and over, their rhythm growing faster, catching up to the speed of Harry's fist. Hermione was right. Harry saw everything through the slit at the door. He tried to concentrate on her, the way her eyes fluttered closed and the arch of her neck and her bare leg flexing over and over again, but he couldn't block out Malfoy; he was there, invading her, claiming her, stealing her away from Harry again, just because he could.

Hermione gave a sharp gasp, and Malfoy's hips began to jerk until suddenly they both went still, limp against the wall. Harry twisted his wrist and came moments later, trembling with the effort to keep his moan in his throat. His eyes had fallen closed at some point, but that was fine with him. He didn't want to see the soft touches between them, Malfoy carefully letting down her robes, Hermione brushing gentle fingers through his hair.

At least he'd lasted longer than Malfoy.

Harry eased away from the door, and headed for the showers, tiptoeing as to not make a sound. He took a long hot shower, scrubbing his skin as if he could scrub the memory away, and only when he was sure they had to be gone did he emerge from locker room and head back to the castle.

When he reached his quarters, there was a package waiting for him on his bed. A simple brown box with a dainty red ribbon tied in a bow on top. A present. There was no indication of who it was from or how they had gotten into his room, but somehow Harry had a sinking suspicion.

He opened the box. Wrapped in delicate tissue paper was a pair of white knickers and a note.

A souvenir from the show.

The note was unsigned, but it was obvious who this little gift was from, even without the elegant script that Harry would know anywhere.

Malfoy.

Somehow Harry expected Malfoy to jump out of a corner or to be waiting for him outside his door when he headed down for breakfast the next morning. But a week went by, and Harry barely got a glimpse of him. Malfoy wasn't eating in the Great Hall, and Harry had no reason to go down into the dungeons, not that he was looking for any particular reason, not that he wanted to run into Malfoy so Malfoy could rub it in his face that he knew. He knew Harry had watched him fuck his wife.

Harry could barely look at Hermione without blushing furiously and thinking of that night.

I'm offering you a chance to fuck my wife.

It seemed the offer was off the table. Harry gritted his teeth and vowed to push it out of his mind.

But he kept the knickers.

--

The locker is cool against his back as Harry tightens his hold on his cock and pulls. The knickers knot up beneath his knuckles, teasing his shaft, and he thumbs the slit, smearing a drop of pre-come over the head. Arousal drifts into the air, her scent and his mingling together, and reality begins to give way to fantasy. Harry slides the crotch of the knickers over his cock and groans.

He's inside her now, thrusting into the tight circle of cotton, driving deep into that warm safe heat. He presses her against the wall, grunting in time with each roll of his hips, hearing her breathy moans in return when Malfoy shows up.

Malfoy always shows up, now.

His grey eyes pierce the darkness as he watches them, watches Harry fuck his wife, but there's no amusement in his gaze. That's new. Harry's used to Malfoy mocking him silently, his eyes glittering in delight, telling Harry that this is his one chance, his only chance, and he only has it at Malfoy's pleasure.

But tonight, there's lust in Malfoy's eyes.

Harry squeezes his cock tightly at the base and lets out a forceful breath. His fantasy is running away from him—there is no Malfoy—and it doesn't matter, because this is about Harry. Harry and Hermione. Harry retaking his chance he should have had the courage to take long ago.

He rubs the cotton slowly against his cock, presses the fabric against the large vein running beneath his shaft, reclaims the groin with another drop of pre-come, smearing his arousal into hers. And she's there again, with him, inviting him inside.

He grips his cock and the knickers are firmly in place, surrounding his shaft, the edge of the elastic leg grazing the crown. The head slides through, and he thrusts into his fist, and he's fucking her again, hard and fast against the wall, her leg wrapped around his waist, her body arching into his. He hears her breathy moans once more and he's grunting in return, and he's close, he's so close…

But Malfoy's there again, and he's not watching this time. He's behind Harry; Harry feels Malfoy's breath against his neck, hot puffs of air sending shivers down his spine; he's whispering something that Harry can't understand, but Harry can't stop—it's too late—he can feel his orgasm rising inside, pulling his centre into a tight knot, and he comes hard, shooting himself all over the knickers.

Harry sags against the lockers, the cold steel bringing reality back in a rush.

I'm alone, he reminds himself. That was nothing, he says. Just his imagination playing tricks on him. Messing with him. It doesn't mean anything.

His lips even form the words as if to better convince himself, but it doesn't work.

Harry exhales a shaky breath and opens his eyes.

He half expects to see Malfoy there, but he's alone, just as he'd told himself, and he sighs in relief. Harry straightens up and slides the sodden knickers into his pocket when a piece of parchment catches his eye, sticking out of a locker not too far from where he's standing. His hand trembles when he reaches for it—he knows it wasn't here when he arrived—and he slowly unfolds the paper.

Harry stares at the same elegant script from the note that came with his gift.

Enjoyed the show. Care for a repeat performance?

-Fin-







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