hp fic: Every Drop of Water

[xylodemon]

Title: Every Drop of Water
Author: xylodemon
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Hermione/Ron
Genre: Romance
Word Count: ~3000
Summary: She studies too much, she doesn't always remember to eat, and she's tired all the time from not getting enough sleep.
A/N: Written for the erotic_elves Fantasy Fest. Thanks to darkasphodel, happiestwhen and thysanotus for everything.

Every Drop of Water

::

Harry stretches, yawning, and scratches irritably at his belly. The Cooling Charm is no match for the heavy August swelter, and the air inside the flat is warm and thick. Harry's down to his y-fronts, has been since noon, but he can't seem to get comfortable.

The telly is set to the Muggle news, and a weatherman is on now, talking about weekend highs and gesturing to a map of Britain that's covered in bright yellow suns and numbers in the thirties. Harry fishes the remote out of the couch cushions and flips idly through the channels.

A miniature grandfather clock ticks away on top of the telly. Ron made it shortly after they moved into this flat, and it works just like the one at the Burrow. Harry's hand is pointed to 'Home', where it has been for several days, and Hermione's is pointed to 'School', where it will probably be for another hour.

Ron's is creeping from 'Work' to 'Home'. Just as it slides into place, Ron comes tumbling through the Floo.

"How was work?" Harry asks.

"The usual," Ron replies. He sheds his Ministry robes and tosses them over a chair. "Mindless paperwork and bollocks reports. People who can't sort elbows from asshats in and out of my office all day." He runs a hand through his bright red hair and smiles. "You?"

"The Magpies owled," Harry says, handing Ron a scroll. "First practice is next Friday, if I like."

"That's great, mate," Ron says, reading it over. "You gonna take it?"

"I don't know." Harry shrugs, and stretches out on the couch, his head propped on the armrest. "Maybe."

"Harry, I've told you," Ron says. "Don't hold out for the Cannons just for me."

"I'm not," Harry says quickly. Ron raises an eyebrow; it's a lie and they both know it. "The Cannons are closer, is all."

"Yeah, all right, but Montrose is a better team," Ron says. He drops the letter on the table and pulls his shirt over his head.

"I'm sorry," Harry says, sitting up a bit. "I must not have heard you right. I think you said there's a team better than the Cannons."

"Yes, and I'll never say it again," Ron replies, smiling. "But it's true. Montrose has won a game in recent memory. They'd probably pay you better."

"Maybe," Harry says, shrugging again. Money is not the issue, and it never has been. He'd rather play for Ron's favourite team, even if it costs him a couple of Galleons a year.

Ron steps out of his trousers, leaving them puddled on the floor with his shirt. He joins Harry on the couch, settling between his legs with his head pillowed on Harry's chest.

"Had lunch with Shacklebolt today," Ron says.

"Oh?" Harry asks. The war left Shacklebolt with a limp, and he was transferred to a desk job when the Ministry reopened. According to Ron, he enjoys it, but Harry feels bad for him. "How is he?"

"The list of recruits for the next wave of Auror training went up today," Ron replies. "He said Mad-Eye went spare 'cause you weren't on it."

"I've told him," Harry grumbles. He fought for almost half his life, and now that it's no longer necessary, now that Voldemort is dead, he has no desire to do it for a living. "It's not going to happen."

"I know," Ron says. He shifts up, pressing a kiss to Harry's neck, and Harry connects the freckles on his shoulder with the tip of his finger. "Moody's just... Moody."

"Yeah, I know," Harry replies. He strokes his hand down Ron's back, which is warm, already sweaty, and Ron melts against him, curling his arm around Harry's neck. "What do you want for dinner?"

Ron pauses, chewing at his lip. "Pizza," he says finally. "Or curry."

"We had curry last night," Harry reminds.

"There's no such thing as too much curry," Ron says simply. An advert comes on the telly -- soda pop cans dancing to a loud, bouncy song. Ron gropes around on the table for Harry's wand, then points it at the telly and casts a Silencio.

"That's what this is for," Harry says, hefting the remote.

"I don't trust that thing," Ron replies. He watches the remote warily, like he thinks Harry is going to point it at him. "You bought its brains at a Muggle store."

"Those were batteries," Harry corrects. "And they don't think for it. They just..." he trails off, shaking his head. Ron doesn't have quite the fascination with Muggle objects that his father has, and there are some things he just cannot wrap his head around. "Curry, then?"

"Yeah," Ron replies.

He tips his head up, tongue flicking over Harry's earlobe, mouth moving wetly over Harry's jaw. He kisses Harry, his lips soft and warm, his hands sliding up Harry's chest, and Harry moans quietly, pulling Ron closer, letting his mouth fall open under the slick press of Ron's tongue.

"Oh, honestly. You two never quit."

Hermione's standing in front of the Floo, with a smudge of soot on her nose and a bulging rucksack slung over her shoulder. Harry's tempted to tell her she's a fine one to talk -- he's had to pry her and Ron apart on more than one occasion -- but her eyes are narrowed and her hands are on her hips. He decides, for his own safety, to keep his mouth shut.

"Have you two managed to sort out dinner, at least?" she asks. She frowns at Ron's shirt and trousers, then drops her rucksack on the floor next to them.

"We were just talking about that," Ron says.

"Talking," Hermione repeats, snorting. "Did you even go to work today, or did you Floo in sick so you could lie about, snogging Harry on the couch?"

"I went to work!" Ron protests, blushing red to the ears. "I only just got here! Ask Harry!"

"Well, what about you, then?" Hermione asks Harry. "Another long day ignoring perfectly good offers from Quidditch teams?"

Harry grunts. "I'm not ignoring anything," he says. He's careful to keep his tone neutral, because he doesn't want to argue. She's like this sometimes, when she first comes home from school. "I'm just waiting for--"

"You're waiting for the Cannons, and it's not going to happen," Hermione cuts in. "I was talking to Nigel at lunch today, and he said--"

"Who the bloody Hell is Nigel?" Ron demands.

"Nigel Windsor. He's my partner in Potions and Draughts," Hermione says simply. "He's also in my study group for Runelore." She sighs and flops down on the chair, right on top of Ron's robes. "And he was saying the Cannons don't need a Seeker. According to him, Jared Johnson is quite good."

"Harry's better," Ron grumbles.

"That may be," Hermione concedes, waving him off. "But they've got Johnson on a five-year contract."

"They'd break it if someone Confunded him a few games running," Harry quips.

Hermione lifts an eyebrow, and she almost smiles, but it disappears quickly. "It's awfully hot in here," she says, fanning herself. "Harry, didn't you refresh the Cooling Charm?"

"I was going to, but I couldn't remember what you used," Harry replies. "I figured I should leave it until you got back."

"Well, it'll have to wait a little longer, then," Hermione says loftily. She stands and toes off her shoes. "I'm having a shower before I do anything."

She heads for the bathroom, and Harry watches her go, sighing. Ron watches her as well, grumbling the kind of imprecations that would have him sleeping on the couch for a week if she could hear him.

"What's eating her?" he asks, as soon as the bathroom door clicks shut.

"School," Harry replies. The courses at the Aberdeen Institute are very difficult, and it's made Hermione as tetchy as she was during third year. She studies too much, she doesn't always remember to eat, and she's tired all the time from not getting enough sleep. "They're working her pretty hard."

"It was her bloody idea to go," Ron snaps. "I told her not to. No one goes to more school after Hogwarts."

"I know," Harry agrees, "but I think she felt like she was supposed to. Hogwarts was like high school, for her, and Muggles usually go to university after high school." Harry pauses, listening to the pipes bang and knock as the water starts to run, then sits up, pushing Ron off of him. "We'd better have dinner sorted before she gets out."

"Right," Ron says. He heaves himself off the couch with a sigh, and retrieves his trousers from the floor. "Curry or pizza?"

"Either," Harry replies. Ron pulls on his shirt, and Harry watches him -- watches tanned, freckled skin disappear as he buttons it. "Maybe that fish and chips place she likes. I don't care, really."

"I'll be right back," Ron says. He drops a quick kiss on Harry's lips before stepping into the Floo.

After he leaves, Harry wanders into the kitchen to set out plates and flatware. He considers throwing together a salad to go with whatever Ron brings home, but he only gets as far as transferring the lettuce from the refrigerator to the sideboard before abandoning it as a lost cause.

He's hard, has been since Ron came home, and he can't concentrate. His cock is straining against his y-fronts, aching for his hand around it, reminding him that Hermione is in the shower, wet and naked.

The bathroom is hotter than the rest of the flat, and humid, steam hanging heavy in the air. The shower door is misted, the glass fogged translucent white, and through it, Harry can just make out the curves of Hermione's body. He watches her for a moment, his cock throbbing as he imagines his hands following the path of the water sluicing over her skin.

Harry feels a nervous flutter low in his stomach, dangerous and exciting. The three of them moved in together to solve a problem that didn't seem to have any other answer -- they both wanted Ron, and Ron has unwilling or unable to choose between them -- and the whole relationship hinged on Ron so long Harry is still unsure when it's just he and Hermione. He loves her, but they've only recently begun to touch and taste each other without Ron around, and having her alone is still new and different.

He eases his y-fronts over his hips, dropping them to the floor, and sets his glasses on the sink. He opens the door slowly, the soft click lost under the hissing spray of water, and steps inside. The mauve tiles are muted and fuzzy, but this close, Hermione's just within his field of vision. Her hair hangs heavy over her shoulder, and water runs down her body in tiny rivulets he wants to catch with his tongue.

His hands dart out, catching her by the hips, his fingers slipping over heated, soapy skin. He presses close behind her, smoothing away her hair to mouth at her neck and shoulder, and his cock slided wet and slick against the curve of her arse. She stills for a moment, her breath catching, then leans into him, her head falling back onto his shoulder.

"How was school?" he asks, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"Long," she replies.

"That's it?" he asks. He runs his hands up her back and massages her shoulders, his thumbs working out knots made from carrying around too many books, from being hunched over a desk ten hours a day. "Just long?"

"I had a test in Charms," she says. His thumbs stroke up the side of her neck, and she makes a low sound in the back of her throat. "I don't think I did very well."

"I'm sure you did fine," Harry says, hiding a kiss behind her ear. "You always do fine."

Harry smoothes his hands over Hermione's shoulders, chasing the water raining down her arms, reaching around to cup her breasts. He teases her nipples, flicking his thumbs over them again and again, and she moans quietly, relaxing into him, rubbing her arse against his cock.

"Go on," he says, nipping at her neck.

"My heartease -- oh -- for Herbology." His hand strokes down her belly, fingers dancing around her navel, and she gasps, her muscles jumping. "It -- Harry -- it died, and I've been growing it for weeks."

"You'll just grow another one, then," he says.

He buries his hand in the coarse hair at the juncture of her thighs, and slips a finger between her lips, brushing lightly over her clit. She shudders in his arms, her breath hitched and quick, and heat pulses through him as her arse grinds against his cock.

"Started without me, did you?"

The steam paints Ron white, muting his freckles and fading his hair to orange. He moves in front of Hermione and wraps his arms around them both, his hands settling on Harry's hips, fingers digging into Harry's skin as he pulls both Harry and Hermione close.

Ron kisses her, soft and slow, tongues slipping together under the hot spray of the water, his fingers tangling in her hair. Harry nips at her neck, brushing over her skin with lips and teeth, and he circles her clit with the tip of his finger, light, teasing touches that make her pant into Ron's mouth.

Harry turns her face toward him, pulling her away from Ron for a kiss, tasting water and soap and Ron as his tongue flicks over his lips. Ron kisses down her body, lips sliding over her breasts and belly, then sinks to his knees, his tongue darting out to wet his lips before disappearing between her folds.

She gasps, rocking her hips and arching into Ron's mouth, one hand tangling in Ron's hair, the other flying back to curl around Harry's neck. Harry holds her against his body tightly, his fingers dancing over her nipples, his tongue tracing the curve of her ear.

Harry loves the way she sounds, desperate and needy, like she's one breath away from falling apart, loves the way she feels, wet from the shower spray and straining in his arms. He glances over her shoulder, watching Ron's red curls mingle with the brown ones between her thighs, and he wishes he could see Ron's tongue, pushing inside her, darting up her slick, pink folds to swirl over her clit.

He feels her come in her shaking knees and her body snapping taut against his, hears her come in the low moan he swallows with kisses. He tastes it on Ron's lips, in kisses shared over her shoulder, and on Ron's tongue as it slides hot and rough against his own.

Ron turns Hermione toward Harry, pressing her close between them, guiding Harry back against the wet shower wall. He helps Harry lift her, their fingers twined together at her hips, and she goes easily, her legs winding around Harry's waist, moaning softly against Harry's neck as he slides inside her.

Harry loves the way she feels around him, tight and slick and hot, loves the idea of her surrounding him, of her body holding him, drawing him in. He wants to move, wants to thrust hard and fast until she breaks apart and comes again, but he waits, holds himself perfectly stil as Ron murmurs a spell and slips his fingers inside her arse.

She makes noise against Harry's neck as Ron's fingers work in and out of her body, quiet and desperate, and she shifts restlessly, rocking between Ron's hand and Harry's cock. Her teeth graze Harry's neck as Ron slides his cock inside her, her fingernails biting into Harry's arms, and Harry feels a rush of heat under his skin, liquid fire coiling tightly, ready to explode.

Ron moves, long slow thrusts that push Hermione onto Harry's cock, and Harry matches his rhythm, snapping his hips into Hermione's every time Ron pulls back. She shakes between them, her body quivering under Harry's mouth and Ron's hands, around their cocks, and she kisses Harry hard and fast, whispering their names against his lips.

Harry feels himself cresting, white hot pleasure buidling low in his belly, curling up his spine as his body strains toward release. He brings her hand between their bodies, wanting to see her fall apart again, wanting to see Ron come inside her before he loses control himself.

She comes as soon as she touches herself, shuddering hard against him, her body tightening around his cock. Ron moans, thrusting into her hard, then stills, his face buried in the curve of her neck, and that's all it takes to tip Harry over the edge, his vision flashing white as he spills himself inside Hermione's body.

Harry leans heavily against the wall, unable to move, unable to breath, enjoying the slow ache in his muscles and the lazy pleasure thrumming through his body. Ron breaks the spell first, pulling out of Hermione and helping her to her feet, and he wraps his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Feeling better?" Ron asks her. He turns off the water, which is starting to run cold.

"That depends," she says slowly. Her tone is light, and a smile is tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Is there dinner?"

"Of course," Ron says. He laces their fingers together, and wraps their arms around Harry. "It's in the kitchen."

"What did you end up getting?" Harry asks.

"Curry."

Harry snorts, and Hermione makes a squawking sound.

"Curry for me," Ron continues, "and pizza for Harry. For you," he adds, kissing her cheek, "there's fish and chips."

FIN