Harry Potter Imagines

[Best Bloody Idea]

By the time classes were finally over, all you wanted was to collapse on your bed and never move again. The day had dragged on endlessly — double Potions with Snape's constant sneering, a dreary Charms essay due by morning, and a Defence Against the Dark Arts practical that left your wand arm aching. Your brain felt like mush. Your body, heavier than lead.

Apparently, Harry felt the same way. Except his idea of "resting" didn't exactly involve much resting at all.

The common room had been loud when you first came in — chatter, laughter, the crackle of the fire — but by the time you and Harry slipped upstairs to the dormitory, most of the noise had faded into a muffled hum below. The girls' room was quiet, dimly lit by the late golden light spilling through the windows, painting soft shadows across the floorboards and the edges of your four-poster bed.

Now, you were tangled together on top of your duvet, shoes kicked off, cloaks thrown in a heap on the floor beside discarded textbooks. Your tie hung loose around your neck, your blouse rumpled from the day. His hair was an absolute mess — worse than usual — sticking up in every direction from your fingers running through it.

You lay sprawled flat on your back, your head pressed into the pillow, hair fanned around you in a wild halo. Harry was half draped over you, one arm propping himself up, the other resting low at your waist. His hand was warm, steady, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the fabric of your shirt as though even that tiny movement was enough to keep him grounded. Every so often, his fingers flexed, a soft, indecisive motion — like he couldn't quite decide whether to pull you closer or let go before he lost all control.

Your own hands had found their familiar place — one resting on his shoulder, the other sliding up into his hair, curling lightly at the nape of his neck. The air between you was heavy with the faint scent of parchment, grass from Quidditch practice, and the lingering sweetness of the treacle tart you'd shared at dinner.

Then he kissed you — slow, deliberate, like every second mattered. His mouth brushed yours in a rhythm that was both lazy and desperate, every touch sending a delicious warmth curling through your chest. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your ribs, the subtle tremor in his arm as he leaned just a little closer.

It wasn't a rushed, frantic kind of kiss. It was something deeper — softer, more certain. The kind of kiss that said he'd been waiting all day for this moment.

When he finally broke away, just barely, his lips hovered a breath away from yours. You could feel the ghost of his smile against your skin, his nose brushing lightly against yours as he whispered your name like it was both a question and an answer.

He kissed you again before you could respond — slow, unhurried — like he had nowhere else in the world to be, and no intention of stopping anytime soon.

You gasped softly when his hand slipped from your waist, trailing lower, fingertips brushing your hip before sliding down the curve of your thigh. For a moment, he squeezed there, possessive and teasing, before daring to slip his hand higher, fingers grazing under your skirt.

"Um—" you caught his wrist, breathless. "I'm still on my period."

Harry stilled, then gave you that stubborn little grin of his. "So?"

You snorted. "So I can't exactly do much. But—I can help you out." Your fingers toyed with his belt buckle meaningfully.

He chuckled but shook his head, eyes darting away like he was embarrassed. "Uh—it's okay."

You blinked, confused.

"No, no—it's not that I don't want to, it's just... I'd feel guilty you're not having a good time too."