Harry woke hard.
Brushing away the painfully real memory of Hermione assaulting him in her kitchen days before, he rose and also tried to brush aside his dream. As unforgettable dreams went, it wasn’t a particularly remarkable one. Or hadn’t been, until the end.
That had been remarkable, and had seemed to last for hours in Harry’s feverishly aroused head. All of the vampire lore he’d been devouring ever since his friend’s stroke of disastrously bad luck had wrapped themselves up into a smooth, barely credible representation of Hermione. A Hermione that exuded hunger; that wanted him, needed him to—
Don’t, Harry’s now rarely exercised conscience said. This is Hermione, remember?
In response, the beast in him pawed lovingly over the way she’d licked his neck back in that tension-strung kitchen. That *was* Hermione, oh yes.
Harry groaned, feeling the lust and dismay beginning to tease him to the sort of hardness that answered only to firm strokes and determined squeezes. He rolled out of bed and stumbled for the shower as quickly as possible. Once there, he turned it as cold as he could stand, and forced himself inside. However, as the water cooled, it reminded him of how cool and dry Hermione’s skin had been to the touch, and things became wretchedly critical once more.
This is the effect they have, Harry told himself sternly, angling so that his cock got the full attention of the cold spray. He’d read about it all through last week, and so had known not to present himself to Hermione like that again when she was in that state. She’d eyed him with an unfamiliar intentness when he’d explained his findings over the Floo, proving the point those books had hammered into him: hungry new vampires must be avoided at all costs.
Unfortunately, his second, stupid brain had chosen to fixate on the ‘hunger’ part of that sentence, and add it to the memory of her arms around him, restraining him even as he fought back, and come up with “Hermione wants to fuck me”.
“Then,” Harry muttered, though he’d already half given up on making his erection disappear by means other than the application of his now-shaking hand. “Then, not now.”
Some moments later, Harry came hard. Somehow, Hermione lingered in his head, that intent look on her face. The one his cock was still trying to tell him meant lust. That couldn’t be, as she’d been flushed then, looking freshly fed. It had just been…
Harry groaned. “So,” he muttered at his shower head, “so maybe she just might.” What now? He still had to be with her, to support her. She’d said she was bored, hadn’t she? He could find her something to do, maybe persuade Snape to let her help them at the dratted Ministry ball that was coming up in a few weeks. One of Scrimegeour’s second cousins had been acting odd lately, and they’d been meaning to spy on the haughty young git since they’d heard the rumours of his presence at secret meetings amongst the few purebloods that had missed out on the honors given out after the war for very solid reasons. Hermione’s bafflingly effective dark, mysterious act had drawn Dark Wannabees like Willas Scrimegeour even during the war; as a vampire, she’d probably have to remove him from her presence by main force.
Harry, finally clean, stepped gingerly out of the shower. Then again, he’d have to go to the damned ball. With Hermione. And perhaps have to ensure she got fed if she needed it.
The images that conjured made him shiver, but did not deter him from heading for his fireplace. Not because he wanted anything like that to happen, obviously. Keeping an eye on Willas was important, and she’d agree. Harry, grabbing a handful of Floo powder, did not try to justify not drying his hair or putting on a shirt. He lit the fire instead, content not to think about it at all.
“Harry!” Hermione said when she saw him. And then he saw her eyes notice his hair and bare neck and shoulder— okay, that *was* a little excessive— and could not stop himself from feeling smug. “I see someone didn’t get drunk last night— it’s almost eight.”
“Shut up, I know I didn’t wake you,” Harry said, hoping that he looked like he was just adjusting his position instead of moving his bare shoulder out of the reach of her hungry eyes. “All right?”
“Yeah.” Hermione’s eyes met his. “Very much so.”
Harry cleared his throat. “You said you were bored. Wondered if you’d want to come stake out one of Scrimegeour’s camp at the ball next Friday.”
“With you?” Hermione asked, tipping her head a bit to the side. “All right.”
Harry coughed, and felt like an idiot doing it. It was just that she wasn’t supposed to agree that easily. “Justin told me he heard Willas Scrimegeour talking to Pansy about a party and being told to shut up about it,” he went on, as if he’d not heard what she’d said. “Severus and I’ve been watching him; I thought it high time someone asked him about that party. Someone he wouldn’t say no to.”
“And you thought of me,” Hermione said thoughtfully, playing along, though the look in her eyes told him she knew what he wanted of her. “How flattering.”
“Don’t feel flattered,” Harry said, latching on to the slight sarcasm of the last words with relief. “It’ll be dead boring, I assure you. And we’ll probably have to separate a lot, so we’re clearly there as only friends.”
“That mean you won’t be picking me up?”
Harry tried not to blush. Unsure that he had succeeded, he forced himself to reply in a steady, matter-of-fact tone, “Can’t, I’m afraid. It’s got to at least look like we’re distant from each other at that point— showing up together wouldn’t help.”
Hermione sighed. “I was sort of hoping we could have a chat,” she said carefully, now not looking quite at him. “You know, about…”
“I thought I made it clear that that was mostly my fault,” Harry said, feeling suddenly ashamed of himself. Hermione didn’t look at him immediately, making him feel worse. “I knew enough even then that I should have thought twice about showing up when you were hungry, all right? Don’t feel you have to apologise for anything that happened.”
Hermione looked at him then, and the other comforting words Harry had been about to speak made themselves scarce. “Who said I was going to apologise?” she said softly. Intently.
Harry took a deep breath. “Oh. Well, we can talk about it when you like, just not— not now.”
Hermione sighed. Harry tried not to hear the regret behind it. “Bad time?”
“Yes,” Harry said, knowing he was being a coward. But god, he was half-naked and hard, and that was never a good way to talk about serious issues with anyone he fancied. Not that he fancied Hermione…except that he sort of did, with the way she was looking at him now. “I should go.”
Hermione watched him pull his head out of her fireplace in silence. Or, more truthfully, silent hunger.
Harry worked a shaking hand through his still-damp hair.
“Hard again,” he announced to the fireplace. “Now what?”