Current mood:	thirsty
Current music:	eminem, lose yourself (on 96X...wtf?)

you own it, you better never let it go
So, what the hell is Eminem doing on 96X? 96X is the 'alternative rock' station. Last time I checked a) Eminem was a rapper and b) on what planet is he alternative?

He's taken over every music/movie/entertainment chart there is; even (or should I say especially?) the suburbs have embraced him. He's not alternative. Like the lemming I am, I do enjoy the song. It makes me want to dance. However, I'm still amazed that it's on 96X.

Can a get a Woot! for the brother? Boy pulled an A in Quantitative Analysis, the hardest class in his major! I'm so proud.

And, in order to use my spanking new icon, and for it to make sense, I'm posting up another one of my smutlets. This is my favourite thus far.



[Potter, 'Habit']

habit (noun) – an acquired mode of behaviour that has become nearly or completely involuntary


This is how it happens.

They’ve been sleeping together for years, off and on, ever since the war. More off than on, he thinks, and sometimes tries to figure out why. But most of the time he doesn’t.

They’ve been off and on for years, sleeping together and then falling off, like a plot end left dangling, like a hand stretched into space, waiting for another to grab hold of it. But no one ever does. It’s like gravity, he thinks; resistance futile, they’ll always end up back in bed, covers twisted, duvet on the floor, skin sliding against each other, hearts pounding, whispering heated, dirty things that he never thought he’d hear come out of her mouth. When he was younger, if he ever imagined her in bed, they were whispering sweet nothings to each other, things about love and forever and always, instead it’s just fuck and harder and right there. Resistance futile, like trying to fight gravity, he thinks.

They’ve been off and on for years, sleeping together, and he’s not sure if anyone else knows it. He thinks they probably do and he wonders what they think about it. He doesn’t really care, he doesn’t think, but he wonders. But even when they’re on they’re never sappy and even when they’re off they’re never bitchy, so no one ever says anything. Sometimes he wishes someone would.

The first time was almost a fluke.

It was near the end of the war, he thinks, but can’t really be sure. That whole final year was one long sleepless night, chased by wild dogs and things that go bump in the night. He doesn’t know if either of them had one full night of rest that year. He remembers dreaming about sleep, daydreams about sleep, knowing that even if he did sleep, it wouldn’t be restful, that his subconscious would just dream up new horrors to leave him gasping, as if the things he was seeing everyday weren’t enough.

Sometime during that near-hallucinogenic sleepless year, the two of them had found themselves alone for an entire night, no classes or lessons, no research and no plans. Intending to take full advantage of the night off, they had made an appointment with one of the Common Room couches, intent on lounging about. They had and he’ll never remember how, he can never remember the exact comment or moment that propelled them up the steps and into her bed. Sometimes, most times, he wants to remember. He wants to know what he said, or what she said, or if either of them did anything that turned simple conversation into pounding pulses and sweaty limbs and tongues and hips. As if remembering the exact moment will somehow explain their entire relationship to him.

He doesn’t remember much from that first time either, it’s as if all the nights and years have bled together, seeping onto the canvas a streak of red, a heated blur of flesh and tight and sweat and hot and wet. That’s what he remembers most from that first night, thinking that she was going to very well burn him up, set him on fire, his brain moaning ‘ wet, tight, hot, *so* hot’ while she moaned into his ear.

Then the next morning they got up, went to the Great Hall, and acted as if nothing had happened.

This is how it happens the first time; this is how it happens every time.

He’s never sure what triggers it, what splinters their world from the world of best friends into the world of lovers. It’s like trying to catch the exact moment when someone drops off to sleep, he thinks; it’s only later that you realize you’ve been gazing at them, asleep, for several minutes. All he knows is something fundamental shifts and tips them into bed, it’s inevitable and he’s powerless to stop it.

And he doesn’t really want to.

She’s like gravity, he thinks, the centre of gravity. If he let himself, he would just fall towards her; he would just fall and fall and land with a splat and stay there forever, forever and ever, amen. Sometimes he wants to do this, he feels like he’s held out his hand and waited, waited for her to grab hold so they can fall together. He held out his hand and waited, waited; she is his eternal beginning, he thinks. He knows that no matter how or when or how badly it ends, it will always begin again. A habit, he thinks, but then he thinks that doesn’t sound very nice, and thinks, a miracle.

A miracle with sweat blooming on its throat and legs that wrap around him and peaks that tighten and shiver and hollows that envelope him, wet, tight, hot, so hot, still, and heated words slipping past bitten, swollen, slick lips. Not a miracle of white satin and vanilla-scented candles, but a miracle all the same. A real miracle. A miracle that drives him crazy, he thinks, drives him round the twist, causes him to lose the plot. A miracle that sometimes feels like it will burn him; scorch him. If that’s the case, he thinks, let me burn; I’ll walk into the fingers of her fire willingly.

This is how it happens every time.

This is how it happens the important time.

They’ve been sleeping together for years, off and on, ever since the war. More off than on, he thinks and sometimes tries to figure out why, but most of the time he doesn’t. But this time, the important time he thinks, he’s going to find out why. He’s going to get his answers; answers that he’s not sure he’s ready for; answers to questions that he doesn’t even know. He’s going to get his answers, he’s going to fall with a splat, he thinks, and find out what forever feels like.

It’s starts out like every time; the moment has already come and gone, and like every time, he didn’t catch it exactly, he doesn’t know what triggered it, what happened, what comment, but he knows nonetheless.

He’s sitting beside her at one of their weekly dinners, watching their friends talk and laugh and pour wine around them, but he’s not listening to any of the chatter. He’s watching and smiling, but the only thing he can feel right now, the thing that his entire world has narrowed down to, is her hand on his thigh. Her hand on his thigh, that is steadily creeping upward. This time, the important time, he wants to get his answers, and he knows that if her hand moves anymore, they’ll end up in bed, not talking. And now, now that the earth has tilted and tipped them towards bed, he’s determined to get his answers. Taking a sip of wine, he closes his legs and smiles, her hand trapped, immobile between his thighs. He can see her biting her lip out of the corner of his eye, but doesn’t do anything except press his legs tighter.

They stay that way for a moment until he feels her fingers flexing, opening and closing minutely, until she feels the seam on the pants he’s wearing. The seams on his fabulous new jeans, the ones he just bought. He can feel her fingers inching, slowly, agonizingly slowly, up the inside of his leg along the seam. All roads lead to Rome, he thinks, and all seams lead to my crotch. How convenient, he can almost hear her thinking.

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, and she’s talking to Ginny about something, not looking at all like she’s trying to grope him. She doesn’t even look affected, but he can feel his legs start to shake with the effort of keeping them pressed around her hand and then he thinks that’s a really bad metaphor for their entire relationship, especially when he really just wants to let her go to it; magic fingers, he thinks, magic hands. He can feel his face flush and a sheen of sweat start to form on his upper lip and forehead.

‘Harry?’ he hears Ron say, looking concerned. ‘You all right, mate?’

At Ron’s comment everyone looks around at him and he feels like it’s the first day of Potions again, with Snape saying, ‘Our new celebrity.’ Only this time, Hermione isn’t waving her hand in the air, but, he thinks, she’s still got the answers. He wants to squirm in his chair, but he refuses.

‘I’m fine,’ he tells everyone, trying to grin. He’s sure that it comes out as more of a grimace though.

Ron furrows his brow, but before he can say anything Hermione pipes up, sounding concerned, ‘He’s right, Harry. You do look a little peaked.’

He turns to look at her, shaking his head. ‘I’m fine,’ he says, stressing the words. ‘Really.’

She cocks an eyebrow and says, ‘Well. If you’re sure.’

He smiles and clenches his thighs tighter and assures her, ‘I’m sure.’

She winks at him and says, ‘Okay,’ at the exact same moment her pinkie finds it mark.

Sucking in a breath, he stands up, so abruptly that his chair topples to the ground behind him. ‘Actually,’ he says, looking around at everyone’s stunned faces. Well, everyone except Draco, who’s smirking at him. ‘Actually,’ he repeats, ‘I just remembered something for work. Hermione,’ he says, grabbing her arm and pulling her up, ‘I need to talk to you.’

Without waiting for a reply, he turns around and marches Hermione out of the room in front of him, hearing George’s faint, ‘But they don’t work together, do they?’ and Malfoy’s answering chuckle. Ignoring both of them, he steers Hermione up the stairs and into the first door he finds, which happens to be Malfoy’s bedroom. Malfoy’s bedroom, with its fabulous view of the city and his equally fabulous bed. Ignoring that as well, he finally lets go of Hermione’s arm, before turning to lock the door behind him.

Before he even turns around though, he feels Hermione sidle up behind him, her arms wrapping around his waist and her breasts pressed against his back. ‘I like your new jeans,’ she says, her deft fingers finding those traitorous seams once again. ‘Convenient,’ she says, licking his ear.

He can hardly remember his own name, much less why he was so determined to talk to her before, so the only thing that comes out of his mouth as she turns him around is a moan. All her fingers have hit their mark now, he thinks, leaning back against the door and she makes short work of the buttons on his fly. There’s no need for preamble or preparation, he’s already hard and in her mouth as soon as she hits her knees. His knees almost buckle at the sensation; no matter how many times she does this, it always reduces him to monosyllabic grunting. He doesn’t remember her being that good when they first started this; the first time she went down on him had been more an exploratory mission, more teasing and tentative than anything else, much like his first attempts on her, he imagines. But since then, she’s gotten much better, much better, he thinks, putting a fist to his mouth to keep from yelping; much better, he thinks, with the hot and the wet and her tongue on that vein and the little bit of teeth and, dear Merlin, she’s humming and the sound is vibrating, wrapping its way up his spine.

He makes the mistake of looking down, and that, that image, the image he still can’t quite believe, no matter how many times he sees it, disappearing in her mouth, that is what pushes him over the edge. He comes with a grunt, flattening his palms against the door to remain upright. The next thing he knows, she’s doing up the last button on his jeans and licking at his lips.

When he kisses her, he can taste himself and just that, just like that, he’s ready to go again. Refractory time with her is always short, he thinks, holding her head between his hands and plundering her mouth. She pulls away with a gasp and whispers, ‘Yours or mine?’

He stares at her for a second, so close that her eyes take up his entire world, so hot that he feels like his glasses should be steamed up, and says, ‘Mine.’ She says nothing, but grabs his hand and not even a second later, they’re in his living room, not exchanging a word as they grab each other; Hermione trying to climb him like a tree. It almost knocks him off his feet every time, knocks his socks off, blows his head off. He gets one taste of her and it seems that it will never be enough. It’ll never be enough, no matter how many times it begins and ends. It’ll never be enough and maybe that’s why it will always begin again.

It’ll never be enough, but it might have to be enough for tonight, he thinks several hours later, sprawled across his bed. He’s lying on his stomach, still on top of the duvet, his head pillowed on one arm as he watches the snow fall outside. His glasses had been discarded sometime earlier and he has no idea where they are, nor the inclination to get up and find them, so it’s almost like watching static on a television. He can hear the shower in the background; some time earlier Hermione had dragged herself off the bed, making ‘yeuch’ noises. He thinks vaguely about joining her, he’s feeling pretty gruesome himself, but he barely has the energy to breathe in and out, much less move.

He feels the bed dipping and suddenly Hermione’s climbing on top of him. He almost makes a noise of protest, but she simply lays down; he guesses she’s not ready for another go either. Her warm, damp weight feels nice on his back, her toes tickling the arches of his feet, her pubic bones pressing just slightly into his ass, her breasts pillowed on his back, her head resting at the curve of his neck.

They lay there for several minutes, one of her fingers tracing the ridges of his ear, both watching the snow.

He thinks this is really nice, very cozy, something that he could probably definitely get used to. And then, before his brain can process what he’s doing, he’s spoken.

‘This is nice.’

Hermione makes a sound halfway between a chuckle and what he swears could be classified as a purr. ‘It is.’

‘This could be nice all the time.’

And with that, that one simple sentence, that one seemingly inconsequential sentence, he knows he’s changed everything forever. He’s held out his hand and waited, waited but she never grabbed hold, so he had to do it on his own. All or nothing, he thinks, he’s in freefall, now all he wonders is whether she’s going to be holding his hand on impact. Forever, he thinks.

These seven words seem to hang in the air between them for a split second before Harry actually *feels* Hermione tense up. Her body goes rigid and her finger abruptly stops on his ear. Harry feels his own body tense up, waiting for some other response from her. The moment seems to stretch out forever, expanding, growing questions and things remembered and moments better off forgotten; it’s their whole past right there, the giant pink elephant they’ve been having tea with for nine years; the eight-hundred pound monkey on their backs.

It’s only a split-second later that Hermione sighs and rolls off his back, moaning. ‘Harry…’ she says and if he didn’t know better, he might be tempted to say she was whinging.

He turns his head to face her, not moving any of the rest of his body, probably, he thinks, because one of his feet is still touching hers and that gives him some hope. ‘What?’ he says, plaintatively. He’s said it now, he no longer has to beat around the bush, he can ask that damn elephant if it likes Earl Grey or English Breakfast. ‘It would be.’ He can now be honest with himself, too. He thinks he probably didn’t say anything before because there’s too much riding on it. It’s everything, right here in this bed, right there, contained in that body and the way their feet still touch. It’s everything. And it could so easily be nothing that he’s settled for something for too long now.

She’s lying there, one arm clenched in a fist by her side, and the other arm thrown across her eyes. Like she’s trying to block out sunlight, only there is no sunlight, so maybe it’s this conversation, or the truth, or something. The silence stretches out between them again, and again, she’s the one that breaks it.

‘What do you want me to say, Harry?’

She doesn’t sound happy, but she’s not rushing off or out just yet; she shrugs as she says it, her hand unclenching. She sounds resigned and her arm is still covering her eyes.

Nice try, he thinks. He lifts himself up on his elbows, but drops his head so that it touches the mattress again. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, thinking that he’s the one that started this; he has to continue it.

He raises his head and peers down at her. Everything’s fuzzy without his glasses, but she’s so close that he can see her fairly clearly; she’s just kind of blurred, like a vision or a portrait.

‘First,’ he says, running a hand along her collarbone. She’s not shying away either; she’s just lying there. So maybe she wants to have this conversation too. Or maybe she knows he’s determined to have it. Either way, he’s taking advantage. ‘First, I’d like you to look at me.’ He pauses after he says this, his hand halting its movements as well. His hand is resting on her collarbone, his arm lying along her sternum.

Slowly, she lowers her arm, her hand drifting down and holding on to his elbow, her eyes still closed. His arm rises and falls slowly as she takes a deep breath and exhales, her eyes blinking open. She stares at the ceiling for a moment, then turns her head to look at him.

Splat, he thinks.

And that all it takes, he thinks, it’s that simple. Nine years of indecision and torture and that’s all it takes, that look in her eyes. He moves his hand down to grab hers, opens his mouth and starts talking, never looking away from her.

‘I always used to think…well, whenever I thought about it, that you were a…habit, for lack of a better word. That we were, this, this thing that I couldn’t control, that I didn’t want to control; that I’d always come back to,’ he says. She doesn’t say anything or make any movements, not even blinking. ‘And…then, I don’t know what happened, but…damn, Hermione, it got hard to watch you walk out the door in the morning.’

She interjects, quietly, ‘You’ve walked out of my door too.’ She says it with no inflection.

He nods, closing his eyes. ‘I know…but…I…I don’t know…’ He exhales mightily. He realizes that it’s partly his fault too, he thinks; he’s under no delusions that he’s the man wronged or anything. ‘So, you’re right but, but whoever was walking out of whatever door, it got harder. And whenever I wanted to say something, I would just think…eternal beginning. She’s my eternal beginning,’ he says, smiling faintly.

Hermione’s eyes widen and her grip tightens on his hand, but other than that, she makes no move.

‘I *knew* that no matter what happened or how it ended or how badly, that we’d always end up back here. But,’ here he pauses, swallowing. ‘But…then I realized that it always begins again because it never starts. We’ve never let it *begin.*’

He has to stop here, closing his eyes and squeezing her hand. He’s still terrified; it’s like his greatest fear and greatest wish, all at once, all right here, all in her, he thinks. She’s it. He opens his eyes and looks down into hers again. They’re shining now, tears standing in the corners. ‘So,’ he says, his voice raspy, ‘I’m terrified, but…I, I can’t, I can’t keep doing…I really want this to work. For real, this time. I want *us* to work. I want there to finally *be* an us, I guess is what I’m trying to say.’

Hermione nods, tears escaping but smiling and practically laughing at the same time. ‘Harry Potter, are you asking me out?’

Harry looks at her and thinks, yes. And no. He’s asking for everything, he thinks. That’s why this is so bloody terrifying. He’s not sure what to say, his heart still hammering in his chest; he doesn’t think he can say ‘I’m asking for you,’ or ‘I’m asking for everything,’ or ‘I’m asking for a lifetime,’ but those are all things he’s asking for. He’s not sure what to say because that’s really not an answer he doesn’t think.

Before he can say anything, she arches up to kiss him. A sweet kiss, a kiss that promises, a kiss that answers; a kiss that tastes like everything he’s ever wanted, like her, like them. She pulls back, rubbing her nose briefly against his on the way down; Eskimo kiss, he thinks. She pulls back, smiling, tears still leaking out the corners of her eyes, but they’re shining more from the look in them than the tears now and says, ‘I’m in love with you.’

The ‘too’ is unspoken and the relief is so great that he feels like he may float away; that her hand holding his and his foot touching hers are the only things tethering him to earth. She’s no longer his eternal beginning, he doesn’t think; this is their beginning, a beginning, he thinks, of something with no end.

He thinks they still have a lot to talk about and a lot to figure out. A lot of things that he still doesn’t understand and things he probably never will. But this is the first time they’ve really talked in nine years, he thinks. He can practically see the elephant and that eight-hundred pound monkey dancing in the corner of the room. They’re not fighting it anymore. They’re not fighting each other anymore. And that, he thinks, is the most important thing.

He can’t think of anything to say, nothing that would convey what he’s feeling anyway. He has a feeling she knows though; she’s feeling it too. She’s so close that her eyes take up his entire world and he can’t ever imagine wanting to look away, to look at anything else. No words seem adequate, so he just leans in to kiss her.

This kiss is sweet, too, like hers, but it grows and expands, becomes open-mouthed, grows tongues and hot panting breath and when Harry reaches for her, she’s already there, arching up, melting into him.

Like gravity, he thinks, still, like trying to fight gravity on a planet that insists that love is like falling and falling, he thinks, falling is like this.

This time is slower, different from ever before, more than ever before, he thinks, he feels. It’s just as hot, and he still feels that she may very well burn him up, but as he looks into her eyes, he thinks, this is the beginning. Not just of the night, like before, worried about all the things they’d have to fit in before the sun rose and one of them walked out the door with a laugh and a wave and a ‘see you at lunch on Friday.’ A beginning, he thinks, of lots of nights with words like harder and fuck and right there, but days too, and words like love and forever, and his boxers and her bras drying over radiators and fighting over the washing up. Their beginning, he thinks, seeing sweat bloom on her throat and feeling her legs wrap around his waist, and smiles.

This is how it happens the important time.

This is how it happens every day.

They’ve been together for years and they always wake up together. Sometimes sprawled across the duvet and sometimes cocooned in it, but they’re almost always touching. When it’s their feet, he can feel a smile cross his face before he even opens his eyes.

They’ve been together for years after that beginning and they’ve had lots of nights together. None quite so frantic as their original nights together he doesn’t think, but then he thinks that’s probably because they’ll each be there in the morning. And they always walk out the door together. His boxers and her severely washed bras are hanging over their radiator, and they exchange words like love and forever on a daily basis. Even if it’s just a smile or a brush of hands, or her swatting his ass when he’s doing the washing up. It’s the look in her eyes and his raspy voice. It’s the taste of them never being enough.

They’ve been together for years and she’s still like gravity, he thinks. And falling for her was the hardest thing he’s ever let himself do. They have tea alone now, and the only things on their backs are the Weasleys and her parents asking for a date. They just smile when they ask, fingering the small, discreet silver bands on their fingers. He thinks only Draco and Ginny have caught on. They’ll tell them some time, but not for right now. Right now, only they know about their new beginning, started lying in the same positions that their original beginning started from, only they were watching the rain, not snow. Her damp weight was still welcome on his back and this time she was the one that spoke without thinking.

They’ve been together for years, five from their beginning and fourteen if he counts the nine before. But he doesn’t. So five years together and every night when he’s inside her, his brain moaning, wet, tight, hot, *so* hot, still, he thinks five more please. And five after that. And five more until forever. Forever.

This is how it happens.

END



Harry/Hermione - And it could so easily be nothing that he’s settled for something for too long now.

Enjoy!