Glue (Harry Potter, Hermione/Cho, NC-17)
She’s the glue holding the pieces together.
She hates being the glue. She hates being depended upon like this, the solution to the problem, the shoulder to cry on, the girl to fuck so Cho can forget.
Why one of the prettiest girls in the school hasn’t been satisfied with any of the Quidditch players she’s gone out with is anyone’s guess. But Hermione thinks she knows. There was only one, after all, that made a difference, and he can’t be replaced, so matter how hard she tries. So Cho has opted for the antithesis of Cedric, a rather plain studious elf-rights-activist who offered her a few kind words of sympathy last year.
She’s good at understanding things, good at listening, but bad at doing nothing but listen. She’s used to seeing results when she puts an effort in, but in this case - words of advice are rarely heeded. She doesn’t have the words to solve this one.
And so, very often, they forget about the words. Why bother with telling Cho how much she wishes she could help when a kiss says it better? Her tongue sliding into Cho’s mouth is far more eloquent than any collection of words could be.
She hates kissing her to make her feel better. She wants to be kissing her because Cho wants to be kissed by her, not because Cho needs someone to distract her.
And yet she is being the girl who distracts her, and she does a very good job of it. She remembers the first time - an encounter in one of the girls’ bathrooms that started off with a comforting arm around Cho’s shoulder and progressed to an awkward kiss, awkward because she hadn’t ever done this before, really, because Viktor had always been so chaste, kissing her gently on the mouth with his hands planted firmly on her waist, and this was different. This was what she’d imagined kissing should be, with enthusiasm, with mouths pressed together and tongues exploring and even though it took her by surprise and Cho was holding onto her just a little too tightly, it was something she treasured for weeks afterward, smiling to herself whenever she thought about it much to the bewilderment of Harry and Ron. She replayed it in her mind, and whenever she saw Cho in the Great Hall, she alternated between sneaking glances in the direction of the Ravenclaw table and avoiding looking in that direction completely for fear someone would notice. She didn’t speak to Cho again until three weeks later, another bathroom, another kiss, but this time she was more confident, this time there were hands tugging impatiently at where white blouses were neatly tucked into skirts and button-opening charms being cast and she was daring enough to be the one to move her fingers underneath Cho’s bra, daring enough to undo it and let it fall to the floor. She was stroking soft, warm skin when they heard the door open, and both she and Cho jumped slightly and checked that their cubicle door was locked, and froze for a moment at the unexpected intrusion, the reminder of reality, and Hermione had a moment to ponder why, exactly, she was in here with Cho Chang, and what it meant, and if indeed it meant anything at all, but then she found herself kissing Cho again, and these questions seemed to fade away.
The next time they saw one another, an arranged meeting this time, late at night in the Ravenclaw common room, Cho wasn’t tearful, but she was quiet, and subdued, and Hermione tried talking to her, encouraged her to discuss whatever was on her mind. She stroked Cho’s hand in what was intended as a friendly gesture, and Cho moved closer, and they were kissing again, and somehow this felt as though it was making a difference in a way that listening couldn’t.
That was the beginning of it all, and now - now she’s not sure what to do. She hates being this and only this to Cho. But she loves - she loves that Cho sneaks into her dormitory late at night and crawls under the covers to be with her. She loves having another warm body in bed next to her, a beautiful body that’s like her own and yet not - Cho’s stomach is tauter than her own, presumably from Quidditch, and her breasts are smaller. Her hair is longer and darker and straighter and silkier and it falls in her eyes when it isn’t tied back, and strands of it have found their way into Hermione’s mouth during a kiss more than once. Not that she minds, really. It tickles her breasts as Cho kisses them, and she enjoys the sensation of the soft hair moving downwards with its owner, as Cho’s tongue licks a trail down her stomach.
Her roommates have yet to comment on these nightly visits, but she suspects that despite the attempts at discretion and the silencing charms around the bed, they know, just as they all knew when Seamus was sneaking in to see Lavender last year.
And she is grateful for the silencing charms, and the curtains drawn around the bed, so that the others can’t hear her moaning softly - she never means to, it always seems so ridiculous when she thinks about it later, but when Cho’s fingers are pushing apart her thighs and her tongue is leaving trails of moisture in an area that is rather moist already, she can’t help making some kind of noise, it seems absurd to stay silent when Cho’s tongue is teasing her clit and her fingers are sliding inside her and the combination of both is driving her crazy. She can feel something rising up inside her - no, too soon, too soon - and she is moaning again and her hips are bucking and Cho’s mouth is closer than ever, pressed so close that it almost hurts and yet she wants more closeness, more pressure, and with one shuddering gasp it’s over, all over far too soon.
Cho shifts herself so that they are face-to-face again, and they are kissing once more, though Hermione is not particularly fond of tasting herself in Cho’s mouth. The sheets beneath her are damp, and she finds herself wishing that Cho would leave so she could clean up, instead of expecting her to reciprocate.
But she can hardly ask Cho to leave now. She’ll have to give an explanation, she’ll have to do something other than be soft and gentle and sympathetic and kind and loving, and she can’t imagine how Cho would react to that.
So instead she is licking her way down Cho’s body, the beautiful body that so many have fantasised about, including one of her best friends, and tells herself that she’s lucky. Tells herself that she is fortunate to have Cho, to have someone depend on her like this and not be able to get through a day without at least one private moment.
And she is beautiful. And sweet, and funny, when she wants to be.
Hermione tells herself this, over and over, as she kisses Cho between her legs, licking her gently and then more firmly, paying attention to the small noises Cho makes, listening to the whispered instructions until Cho comes, and her fingers are entangled in Hermione’s hair at this stage and it hurts when she tightens her grasp as she arches her back, but Hermione doesn’t complain.
Two hot sweaty exhausted naked figures lie next to one another on the bed, the blankets somewhere near their knees at this stage, and as Cho’s breathing returns to normal, she turns to Hermione and smiles and says, “I love you.”
She doesn’t mean it, of course. Hermione has figured that out by now, even if the smile makes her melt and makes her ache to be touched again, even if she wants to believe it.
She will hate herself for saying this tomorrow morning, but she echoes the “I love you” anyway, and Cho smiles again.