Strangers in the Night

A Harry Potter Fanfic

by Nox

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Overview: H/Hr. PWP, Romance. Post-Hogwarts by a year or two. Harry, the perpetually-on-the-road Quidditch star, returns to the London flat shared with his best friends for a much-needed post-season break. He meets up with his old schoolmates in more ways than one.

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and other related trademarks and copyrighted materials are property of their respective owners. Use of such properties is for entertainment purposes only and does not constitute a claim on such properties.

Chapter Notes: Denouement.

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Ron's Sleepless Night

A shift on the bed nudged Harry from unconsciousness. He blinked, less from the sunlight, which had slipped into the room and filled it with early morning warmth and brightness, but more because he was breathing in floral-scented tresses of bushy brown hair. As the rest of his senses came awake, he noticed that he was spooning Hermione with an arm draped over her body, cupping a modest, but nonetheless exquisite, breast.

Harry gasped as he remembered it had been Hermione he had been with all night; Hermione he had shagged nine ways sideways (all right, it was only two or three) before collapsing from sheer exhaustion. Frantically, he glanced towards the door, measuring his chances of making an escape.

Reluctantly, he released his hold on Hermione's breast and slipped it out from underneath her arm. This movement, and the cool air replacing the warmth from his hand, stirred Hermione into wakefulness. A low, throaty groan, followed by a yawn, were her first actions. Not yet turning around, she grabbed Harry's hand and tugged it back to her chest.

Bugger! Harry thought. I am so in the shit.

'Mmm. I think I'm going to be sore all day,' said Hermione with a semi-groggy giggle and a wriggle to press her bare back against Harry's warm chest. Then with a sigh, she continued with a measure of hesitancy in her voice.

'I have a confession to make, luv,' said Hermione. 'I know you like hearing about kinks, and I have to tell you . . . there were a couple of times last night when I thought I was making love to someone else.'

Harry just remained silent. So Harold is the one bringing all this burgeoning sexuality out of Hermione!

Hermione continued. 'Well, you know I had a little thing for Harry– Harry Potter. When I was screaming your name, at least once . . . or twice . . . . I pretended I was with him.'

A stunned Harry did some more of the silence routine; his lower regions, however, began to enlarge and thump lightly against Hermione's rump. Traitor! he cursed, directing the thought to his erection. But it didn't answer back. It rarely did.

'You don't think it was too . . . weird, do you?' said Hermione, a touch of concern creeping into her voice when no answer was forthcoming. 'Harry?'

Randomly, Harry reminded himself to kill Ron for not telling him that Hermione's boyfriend was called Harry as well, not 'Harold'. At any rate, when he eventually found his voice. Clearing his throat, he answered:

'I have a confession to make, too, Hermione. I'm not Harold.'

Now it was Hermione's turn to seize up. One, two, three quick breaths and she spun around and met Harry's eyes. Those emerald eyes that were a far cry from Harold's brown; a scar that every wizard and witch in the world could recognize; the unkempt black hair she had known since she was eleven. (Though it was even messier than usual at the moment.) She blinked, feverishly wondering how it was she could be rogered so thoroughly and not realize who it was doing it to her.

'And, it's a little weird,' Harry offered in the silence, offering a small, awkward smile to Hermione's last question.

For the rest of his life, Harry was unable to fully explain how Hermione's facial expression faded from shock, to horror, then to one of dumbstruck realization that she had made the assumption of him being her Harold, and initiated the sequence of events that led to their unseen activities in the dark.

Several times, her mouth opened and closed, attempting to say something. Despite himself, Harry eyed those lips which he had gotten to know quite intimately last night, recalling how delectable and soft they were.

'My God. Harry. You were . . . here all night?' Hermione finally asked at last, weakly.


With her face and neck flushing with horrible embarrassment, she flopped back to the bed, grabbing a pillow and covering her face. It didn't so much to cover the rest of her, though. Harry fought to keep his attention where it needed to be: diffusing the situation.

'Oh Merlin!' gasped Hermione. 'Oh my God. I thought you were Harry . . . erm, my Harry!'

'Yeah. I– I kinda figured that.'

'Harry, why on Earth didn't you say anything?!'

'Hermione,' Harry began in his most reasonable tones, gently stroking her hip, 'You woke me up; I was already asleep, so it– it took me a moment to figure out where I was. I tried not to respond to you when I figured out what was going on, hoping I could stop you. But then you sort of – er – sat on my face and . . . well, I'm only human, Hermione. I couldn't help myself after that.'

Hermione peeked out from one corner of the pillow to see Harry biting his lower lip with an anxious expression on his face.

'Um. Your boyfriend is a really lucky man,' Harry offered.

'Not last night,' Hermione answered with a sheepish laugh, emerging from the pillow. A wave of relief filled Harry as it seemed Hermione wasn't going to go spare and place the blame of the whole incident on him.

'Yeah,' said Harry, equally sheepish as he scratched his head. 'I, um. I guess not.'

Propping herself upon an elbow, Hermione levelled an appraising look at Harry. Those intelligent, sharp eyes skimmed his lean form, taking in the toned musculature of a professional sportsman, widening when they saw his 'morning wood' (or was that morning broom?). 'You were . . . fantastic, Harry,' she said at last. 'I was more satisfied last night than a week with Harry– Harold.

Harry flushed lightly, a little embarrassed at his morning state, now that both knew exactly who it was they were dealing with. Despite his lack of glasses, the closeness made it easy to discern her more salient features in the morning light. Features he drank in furtively; or, as furtively as he could be, just inches away from his best friend's nude form.

It was Hermione who slid forward, reaching for his morning erection, squeezing and fondling it appreciatively. 'And, I've never had such an . . . enthusiastic morning greeting,' she purred.

'Herm– Hermione, this is– wouldn't this be a mistake if we were to do this, now that we know?' stammered Harry. His breath sped up as she closed the distance until their noses were touching.

'Shush,' she whispered before pressing those lips to his and rolling him onto his back . . . .

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Ron was in a right foul mood.


Tugging on a dressing gown, Ron padded out into the hallway, glaring harshly at Hermione's door. She had interrupted his night yet again with her cat-in-heat wailing as she and her wretched boyfriend shagged. All. Damned. Night.

'Bloody Hermione. Bloody Harold. Figures they'd get home early,' muttered Ron bitterly. As he passed their door, he could hear the bed creaking and Hermione's breathless cries that could only mean one thing. Disgusted, Ron pounded on the door. 'Oy! It's too damn early for that!' It was barely 9:00 in the morning!

Of course, they didn't stop. Muttering imprecations, he headed for the kitchen to brew some coffee, thinking up suitable revenge tactics. Maybe a shrinking spell, he thought savagely. Yeah, that's got to be in one of the spellbooks in Hermione's study.

A fleeting thought crossed Ron's mind as he sipped on his coffee. There was something he was forgetting. Something important. He should talk about it with Harry–

Where was Harry? Ron wandered around the flat, hoping Harry wasn't too angry about being kicked out of Hermione's room. But he was nowhere to be found: not in the loo, his old room, the attic, nor on the couch where Crookshanks purred loudly. He wandered back to the kitchen, wondering if Harry had gone out early when a horrific thought dawned on him.

Harry had never left Hermione's room.

Just then, the kitchen's fireplace flared up and a red-headed face appeared among green flames. 'Ron!' said Ginny. 'Ah, you're up, good. Mum wanted me to remind you to bring Harry around this afterno– Ron, are you all right? You look like you've seen a boggart.'

'They're shagging in Hermione's room!' Ron said weakly, mostly answering his own thoughts than Ginny's question.

'What, again?' Ginny answered with a wry laugh. 'I'd figure you'd be used to Hermione and Harry going at it by now.'

'No!' cried Ron, desperately. 'You don't understand, Gin. That's Harry in there with her!'

As if to underscore the point, one of Hermione's pitched, 'Oh, Harreee!' climax cries echoed from down the hallway to Ginny's ears. Ron winced.

Blood drained from Ginny's already pale features. 'Harry?!' she exclaimed, jaw dropping. A moment later, she burst out into peals of silvery laughter. 'I knew it! I didn't think she'd have the guts to go through with it, though.'

A stunned look from Ron met Ginny's eyes which danced with mirth. 'What do you mean you knew?!' he demanded.

'Oh, Hermione's fancied Harry for a little while now. I mean, really fancied him.'

'But I thought you fancied him?'

'Well, a little, but really, what red-blooded witch doesn't?'

'It's bloody news to me! How come I didn't know?' Ron demanded.

'Oh, Ron,' said Ginny, shaking her head. 'You really think Hermione's going to admit she's got an urge to violently shag her best friend? Anyway. Lunch is at one o'clock; we're expecting Bill, so tell Fred and George to be there.' And with that, she vanished, leaving Ron staring at a normal fire again.

The action seemed to have died down back in Hermione's room, but to Ron's reluctantly trained ears, he knew they weren't finished in there.

'I have a feeling we might be late for lunch,' he said mournfully.