Chapter 3

Harry was sitting in the living room, making a show of reading when the door opened once more.

He didn't even raise his head, but that didn't mean that he didn't look. Playing the seeker for all those years taught him to leverage his peripheral vision effectively — which was nice, as Hermione's first reaction to his lack of attention was more anger.

Harry focused on her body as she walked forward. The view wasn't as striking as her earlier naked show, but that didn't discount the fact that she was a sight to behold with a tanktop that couldn't be classified as fitting, and shorts tight enough to look painted on.

She was truly a sight to behold.

A part of it was the exposed skin, the tightness pushing her breasts up, even more, enhancing her beauty. The other part went to carefully apply makeup, soft enough to be missed, but still impacting greatly.

Yet, without a doubt, the greatest part was her expression, her furious enthusiasm being tampered with frustration, but mixing with determination even as she closed in the distance. Her gaze stayed on his arms still, showing that he had made a correct choice by neglecting to wear anything to his top, just wearing his jeans.

She was incredibly hot.

Harry felt his skin crawl as she stood behind him. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice throaty enough to make his skin burn.

"Reading some magic books for distraction," he said, knowing that it was one of the things she liked to see. "I need to relax."

"You look tense," she said as she leaned against the desk from behind him, her head entering his field of view, accompanied by an amazing view of her cleavage.

Good tactics, Harry admitted even as he listened to the furious beat of his heart, glad for the desk's presence to hide his raging arousal. He wanted nothing more than to grab her hair and push her down against the desk.

Patience, he repeated, even though waiting was the worst sensation. Still, it was not the way to do it. Not properly, anyway.

It took all he had to disguise his dipping gaze, though luckily, Hermione was sufficiently distracted by her own cleverness to realize that.

"Well, what can you expect after everything that happened. It has been months, and all we do is run away, without even taking a rest. And now, Ron…" he said, deliberately cutting his statement halfway as he saw the flash of fury. "Well," he said and fall silent.

"Maybe a massage would help?" she offered, her head getting excessively close — even under the standards of their current situation.

It took Harry all he had not to lean forward and catch her pouty lips. "Well, I wouldn't say no," he said instead, hitting her with a rugged smile that worked wonders last year, when he had been tapping into the benefits of being a celebrity.

"Excellent," she said, her breath hitting her face, fresh yet alluring. Then she rose back, and her hands landed on his shoulder.

With her soft hands dancing on his back, it was hard to focus on the book. Not reading, as that was a lost cause, but even faking enough to make it look like he was reading was a great challenge.

The smell of her hair, fresh after the shower, didn't help his concentration any. "You seem distracted," Hermione commented.

Harry shrugged. "Well, you're good at massaging, and I certainly needed it," he said. "I certainly wouldn't say no to more of your hands," he added.

"Oh, really," Hermione whispered throatily as he leaned forward, close enough for her bosom to brush against his back.

"Yeah. Why, is this a weird thing to say?" Harry said, as calmly as he could manage.

"Of course not, I'm like a sister to you, after all," she said, though even without the charged resentment, Harry could see that she was not exactly honest. Not with her chest pressing against her back greatly. "It's not weird to give you a proper massage."

"Good idea," Harry answered as he stood up and started walking to her bedroom, leaving her behind.

"W-where are we going?" she asked, panicked as she followed him.

"Well, you told me that you are going to give me a proper massage, don't tell me you changed your mind," he said as he entered her bedroom recklessly.

Only for her to run past him to slam her wardrobe, only giving him a glimpse of a colorful box, though Harry wasn't able to pay attention to that, more interested in the dance of her unsupported breasts, and her tight ass straining her shorts.

The contents of the box were a question for another time, he decided as he kicked his jeans quickly and lay on her bed, only in his boxers, before she could react. "You're an angel," he said as he buried his head in her pillow, leaving her no chance to deflect.

She could either call off, or continue with the message.

And Harry was familiar with her enough not to have even the slightest concern about her ultimate choice.

Hermione let out a panicked breath as she closed her wardrobe, hiding her little box of secrets, but that hardly helped to calm down when she noticed that Harry was already on her bed, only in his boxers.

She bit her lips, trying to make a decision, before a sigh escaped her mouth and she grabbed a bottle of massage oil — another surprise she had bought for her boyfriend, but yet to be used.

Well, Ron's loss, Harry's gain, she thought as she climbed to her bed, ignoring the lengths she was going just to prove a point.

She was too angry to care properly. Instead, she climbed up to her bed even as she poured some massage oil into her hand, her knees on both sides of his body — though she made sure not to touch directly.

Even in her angry state, that was excessive.

She decided to start safe — as safe as she could manage under the circumstances — and put her hands on his shoulder, creating large, rhythmic circles, as suggestively as possible. Ironically, she did so because she hoped that he would stop once things had reached an excessive point.

She couldn't stop it, not without looking like an idiot with the way she started everything. She hated looking stupid the most.

However, as she continued caressing his back, she realized that waiting for him to react wasn't the smartest strategy. Not with the muscles, he managed to put on when she wasn't looking. The glistening massage oil only made the situation worse.

Visuals were a part of the problem, as the oil made them shine brightly, accentuating them to her gaze, though it was hard to understate the role it had on her fingers, making her sense their texture even more intensely.

She was glad that his face was buried in her pillow, making it impossible for him to see the desperate way she bit her lips to hide her reaction — a tactic that worked well to suppress her moans, but wasn't as effective when it came to restricting her other reactions.

Like the sudden warmth of her loins, followed by wetness that made her glad that she chose to wear her underwear, which kept her reaction subtle.

She wished that Death Eaters chose to attack at that moment, so that she would have an excuse to stop the massage halfway. However, absent of an external source, she found herself helpless, and let her hands climb down.

"Not bad," Harry murmured, his voice muffled.

Hermione knew that he was just being kind, but that only worked to enflame her anger once more, her hesitancy forgotten. He was receiving a massage while half-naked — not that her clothing was any better — and the best compliment he could say was it was nice.

She would show him!

Her hands, moving slowly until that moment, regained their aggression as her fingers caressed the side of his body, and resolutely moved down, her touch alternating between scratches and gentle caresses, even letting her fingers stay over his boxers for a moment before she let them move down.

When she arrived at his legs, however, she had another surprise. She decided to sit down on his back, turning back as she grabbed her leg. "You don't care if I sit, do you, Harry?" she asked.

"Of course not," he said as she focused on his calves, the serenity of his voice only fueling her frustration more.

"Good then," she said as she pulled his leg closer, and pulled his foot directly to her cleavage while she worked on his calves. More impactful, her hips started moving back and forth, replicating a riding movement.

She didn't know what she would do if that didn't work, maybe surrender.

Yet, as she moved down to his thighs, he was yet to say anything. "One last attempt," she murmured to herself.

"Did you say anything," Harry said.

"I said, we're almost about to finish, but tell me if you feel uncomfortable at any point."

"Go ahead, bestie, do whatever you want," he offered.

Hermione found herself biting her lips to hold back a nasty reply, her hands climbing upward steadily to his thigh. If he wanted to give her that permission, she would show him that it was not a good idea.

Her hands moved steadily on his legs, right at the edge of his boxers, even drenching the edges with oil. First, a finger slipped, then another one. Until she reached his … thing.

His thing, which was rock hard, showed that he might not be as unaffected as he might have been acting. Panicked, she found herself jerking up, standing right at the side of her bed.

Then, Harry turned to her. "Excellent massage, Hermione," he said as he stood up, displaying that her fingers were not mistaken, as his erection filled his boxers fully. "But you look tense as well. Why don't you lay down so I can give you a massage as well."

Hermione wanted to reject it, saying that such a thing was absurd. That was the plan as she opened her mouth, but before she said anything else, he spoke once more. "Of course, I would understand if you don't think you can handle it," he said, his smirk mocking.

"O-of course I can handle it," Hermione found herself saying as she threw herself on the bed, right at the place Harry had been laying just a moment ago. Yet, it was his warmth, still lingering, that told her that maybe, just maybe, it was not a good idea.

But, before she could take an action, she felt his hands on her back.