Right Under Religion

Disclaimer: The characters belong to J.K. Rowling and her Harry Potter universe. Any profits made from this are being donating to the Church of Sexology. Only kidding. There is no such church.


You like the way he smells. It’s always the first thing you notice when he sneaks up on you, wrapping his arms around you, kissing you neck lightly. He smells like
vanilla and tobacco, an aphrodisiac to your senses. You smile and look away
from the book -- How to Tell Your Father You’re Dating a Man His Age --
you were browsing. You picked it up on pure curiosity, and now you flush when
he looks at it.

 

“Interesting choice, Hermione,” he whispers into your ear. You know he’s smiling, and you can’t help smiling back. He’s addictive. Like chocolate.

 

But healthier, you think, remembering last night’s… that’s not something to
think about at the moment.

 

“Remus, let’s go for a cup of coffee,” you say, pulling him away from the bookshelf. You want to get away from the crowds. You want to have him to yourself. You know the girl pretending to read Anne Rice is eyeing him like a dog eyes a bone.

 

Remus wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you to him. You’re awfully close, and you start blushing. He’s flushed as well, probably from the heat, and he looks younger. He’s grinning conspiratorially, and you briefly wonder if he used to share those smiles with Sirius, and James Potter, and Peter Pettigrew when they were at Hogwarts. But your thoughts go off like a rocket, when he hurries you to the religion section.

 

Oh, is God going to send you to Hell, you think, when he capture your mouth with his, and his hands start travelling under your shirt. You let out a soft moan, and he smirks, making you want to ask him if those stories that he was the best behaved of James’s group is really true. If it is, Sirius and James must have been very, very bad boys.

 

“Remus,” you hiss, your mind numb, your brain no longer working properly, “we’re going to get caught!”

 

“Have we ever?” he asks you, and you remember the museum, the art centre, and – oh, gods – the Burrow. You’ve never been able to go back into Percy’s room without flushing. Poor Molly thought you were comdowndown with a cold.

 

You still remember the first time you and Remus made love, when he took your virginity. You had known sex was about inserting object A into slot B, but you had no idea the fun part was getting here. And Remus knows how to have fun.

 

He has unbuttoned your shirt, and his hands are setting you body on fire. Oooh, yes, a little to the right, you think, not daring yourself to actually speak. You know someone’s going to spot you two going at it like rabbits, but somehow the idea just turns you on even more. Remus is a cruel, cruel man.

 

“Hermione,” he whispers, his right hand playing with the zipper on your skirt, “have you ever wondered why there are rugs in this section?”

 

You stare at him, your eyes wide, you face flushed, shaking your head violently. You absolutely refuse to let him take you here. Children might wander in. What if a nun came? A nun your mother might know from her book club! “Remus, let’s go home,” you plead. “We can Apparate, if you want. Just not here!”

 

He gives a throaty laugh, and your skirt has suddenly slid down to your feet, leaving you just in your knickers. Your shirt? Well, technically it should be on the floor as well, but somehow it’s dangling on that statue of…. Hrm, it might be either Napoleon or just someone really ugly.

 

Right, that’s it, you think, as a book presses into your spine. You start unbuttoning his shirt, ignoring his smug smile. The smile that says, “See, I knew you’re as horny as I am, you silly wench.”

 

He moans loudly as you kiss his chest, and you stop briefly before continuing. No one could have heard that. He’s rubbing your thighs, sending chills up and down your spine, causing that book to press into your back everderrder. You unzip his trousers (they’re very nice looking today), revealing boxers that look one size too big for him. No matter, he won’t need them, you reason.

 

His hands run up your thighs, past your stomach and chest, to the bra straps on your shoulders. He looks you in the eye, and you smile back at him. You hear Ron singing A Little Help From My Friends in your head for some odd reason, and suddenly your bra is gone. Not on the floor, not daggling from a hideous statue, gone! It has completely disappeared from the face of the earth.

 

You look around a bit for it (can’t be that hard, it’s the only white bra within the perimeter), but give up when your right nipple has found Remus’s mouth. Well, the other way around, but who cares to think about the details? You moan and press your hips to his. You are a total tart. Oh, well, Remus surely isn’t objecting.

 

If you could carry a tune, you’d be hitting high notes right about now. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, as his mouth finds your other nipple (ha, you got it right this time!). The pressure of the book on your back has left. But that could be because during a moment of surprise, you knocked it off the shelf. Someone must have heard that. Or not. Never mind, moving on.

 

“You’re beautiful,” Remus tells you, kissing you on the mouth, pushing a stray curl out of your face. He then squeezes your waist, and you gasp a bit, rubbing your pelvis against his. Purely instinct, of course.

 

Oh, Hermione, what language!

 

He growls deep down in his throat, and you giggle. He carefully makes sure that his body and the bookshelf keep you from falling, then he proceeds to play with your knickers, brushing his fingers against your skin and teasing you.

 

You want them off your body. You want them gone, like your bra, like Voldemort. You don’t care what he does with them, you just want them off. They weren’t your favourite pair anyway. And you can always buy another if you run short.

 

“Mrrfh,” he murmurs, and you just nod stupidly. Whee, off go your panties to la-la land. You are completely naked, and so is he except for those boxers. They’re annoying, you think, the boxers. They are very much in the way. Your hands meet his to pull them off, when both of you hear footsteps. Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, you think, and then blush at your choice of words. Right, high on lust, it has happened. Hogwarts: A History has a paragraph on it, even though it’s not every informative.

 

“Here,” Remus whispers to you, a grin on his face as his hands you back your skirt.

 

“What for?” you want to ask, but quickly recover your brain, and pull your shirt back from Napoleon. Slipping it on and fumbling with the buttons, you look around for your bra and panties. No, no, eh, not yours, no, no. Oh, bugger.

 

Remus has successfully gotten into all his clothing in less than a minute, and hurries to pick up the book you knocked down. You vaguely see the title (Why Religion Should Not Stop Your Sex Life), before you spot your underwear and pounce on it.

 

“No time, love,” Remus says, shoving your bra and knickers into a drawer where book copies are kept. Oh, dear, you think.

 

Remus is pretending to scan through a book on Buddhism, and you’re trying your best to not look like you were seconds from reaching the place of happiness and singing daffodils.

 

And then, whistling to some nursery rhyme, is the girl you had seen earlier. The one that had been looking through Anne Rice while eyeing Remus. Perfect timing, you think sarcastically, before grabbing of of your werewolf, and dragging him away.

 

If he thinks this is it, he’s awfully wrong.