Viktor wakes Hermione by pressing his fingers to her lips. "Shh."
Obediently--Viktor usually has a reason for his requests--she narrows her eyes in a clearly nonverbal, "Why?"
He smiles, but doesn't enlighten her. Nonetheless when he pulls her from bed by her hands, she follows. He bends down and puts her shoes on her feet. It's sweet; he could use magic, but it's better to have him carefully fit a foot in each shoe. She smiles and rests a hand gently atop his head.
He stands, pulls her to him, and a second later she feels the familiar squeeze-push of Apparition. The wind where they arrive is bitterly, fiercely, dangerously cold until Viktor's heating charm sets in, and then it is merely a nuisance, pushing her hair into her face.
Ahead, Hogwarts looms. Viktor takes her hand and they make their way stealthily past the gates, over the grounds, and into the school. It lets her in without question. It accepts him because they are still attached, their hands still clasped and the warding is quite sensitive. She is an ex-student, immediately acceptable. He is with her, hers, and familiar enough with the time he spent there her fourth year.
He leads her in a direction she knows intimately and her heart beats just a bit faster without comprehending why he would want to sneak her into the Hogwarts library at three sixteen on a Wednesday morning when it's perfectly accessible to them at any chosen time.
He takes her straight to the Restricted Section and whispers, "Can you undo the wards?"
Hermione could undo these wards when she was eleven. Now she can undo them without speaking, which is what she knows he wants. When they are inside he puts his mouth to her ear and says, "Sh," again, even though she hasn't made a sound since the first semi-command. Then he's pressing her to the books--she knows without having to look that her back is forming itself to the thousand-year-old spines of tomes on forced inanimate transfigurations.
Viktor brings her pajama top over her head, lifting her arms as he does. He secures her hands on one of the shelves and tells her, "No letting go."
Hermione's eyes roll into the back of her and she lets them droop closed for just a moment before opening them. She doesn't really want to miss watching Viktor. He is already bare-chested and she wants to let one hand slip free, toy with the ring at his nipple, something he gave her when she mentioned the possibility once, tongue cresting over the peak, just, "That would be nice."
Just like that, and he had done it.
She keeps her hands where they are.
His hands are sliding her pants off, shoes away, performing the same service for his own. That accomplished, they rise up, each cupping one of her breasts, the thumbs brushing at the nipples, light--too light. His hands stay where they are even as he folds to his knees, indecently graceful for so large, so awkward a man.
When his tongue finds the inside of her thigh she has to bite her lips, throw her neck taut so as to keep herself silent. Obviously pleased, he drags his tongue up, carving a thick, wet path to her clitoris.
His fingers sink into her breasts, push her further into the shelving and it should be painful but there's too much heat, too much sensation at the core of her for her to care.
When he flows to his feet she almost can't help but gasp. She manages at the very last second to abort it and then the effort unravels completely as he pushes himself into her with one long, smooth slide. He takes her mouth with his own and swallows the disallowed audible breath.
His hands let go of her breasts in favor of wrapping over her thighs, bringing her legs up over his hips so that the only anchor she has is a shelf supporting books on the brewing of complex transmogrification potions. That, and him.
She is not, for a moment, worried.
His thrusts are slow and regular and she wants to drive herself into him, but she is effectively trapped, at his mercy. He holds onto her, keeps her up with one arm, the other disappearing between them, his thumb swiping over her clitoris in time with each stroke.
She whimpers into his mouth and it's, "please," it's, "you bastard," it's, "justjustjust."
He takes it as his due, and continues to take his time.
By the time he pushes so far into her that she thinks she might break through the shelving, land in a book that will eat her, or simply use her blood for ink, she is beyond the ability to care, to breath, to do anything but arch up against him and ride the pleasure--his, hers, it doesn't matter, it's indistinguishable.
When they are both finished, he whispers, "Let go, let go, love."
It takes her a moment to remember how to uncurl her fingers, let her arms droop. She wraps them around him tightly in a declaration of sorts.
He laughs softly. "Happy Valentine's Day."
She laughs then as well, the sound catching in his shoulder, where she has her mouth tightly pressed.
Another boy, she thinks, would have gotten her a book. He brought her a library.
She brings her head up so that she can look at him as she asks, "How long have you wanted to do this?"
He grins, flushing palely, beautifully, in the moonlit dark of the Restricted Section. "You really don't want me to answer that."
Hermione thinks of all those days--every single day--when he would come and watch her study. The smile she gives him is at once naughty and flattered and heartfelt. It is, for the moment, a present of her own. She says, "Happy Valentine's Day to you."