Never Say Never (in case, for some reason, you forgot what you were reading)
Part 3/5
Never Give Up
"When this is over, your life is worthless, do you hear me, Harry?" Hermione hissed, preparing the dueling corridor for a match between two of the world's most powerful wizards. One who was in love with one woman and one who wasn't but wanted to marry her anyway.
Snape looked just as furious, talking in agitated whispers-and a bit of arm-waving-to Dumbledore who seemed not to pay attention.
McGonagall looked shocked and awed that two men were going to duel over her. She reckoned that if it hadn't happened in the first fifty years of her life, why should it be an issue afterwards?
"Yes, Hermione, I hear you. Could you help out Ro? I can't figure out the counterspell."
The cat was skulking beneath the dueling corridor, curled near Harry's legs, but came out warily when she saw Hermione's friendly hand. Hermione pet her gently, but noticed the pink residue left on her hand afterwards.
"Sorry, Harry, but someone used dye."
Furious, he yelled down the corridor to Dumbledore's side. "You dyed my cat pink?"
Dumbledore smiled innocently. "Had to bleach her first."
"I'll show you pink, you-" Hermione had to grab him before he did something illegal before the duel. Funny how he showed more anger regarding his cat than the woman he was wooing.
"I can charm her fur back to its normal tortoise-shell, but it'll take weeks for the dye to come out," Hermione said soothingly. "The things I do in the name of friendship..."
"Ready?" Snape called out.
"As we'll ever be," Hermione replied. Harry had already stripped down to his black jeans and red knit sweater, while Dumbledore wore an old-fashioned costume beneath his robes that had probably seen their heyday when Victoria lived.
Snape stepped forward. "We can conclude this duel without consequence if the challenged party will offer an apology-"
"If he will," Harry gritted out and scratched his thigh. Dumbledore shook his head.
"-or we can continue until one of the duelists is unable to continue," he finished.
Both Dumbledore and Harry ascended the corridor's steps and walked until they met in the middle.
"Why are you doing this Harry?" Dumbledore asked quietly. Those damn pale blue eyes were twinkling at Harry, so he snarled.
"At first it was to escape my demented students. I probably would've given up if you hadn't started trying to kill me."
"Oh yes, the infamous Evans stubbornness."
"And now I'm just crazy enough to continue with this. I'm still pissed about the ants and the cat."
"Bow!" Snape commanded. Hermione looked like she'd rather be anywhere else.
Harry gave a jaunty little bow to Dumbledore's more formal one, and both walked their ten paces before assuming their poses.
Neither began. Both waited for the other to throw the proverbial first punch.
Rowena let loose a loud caterwaul and Harry remembered that he was the injured party in all of this.
"Confundo!" he shouted.
"Tantallegra!" came Dumbledore's spell after he'd dodged.
"Protego!"
"Congelo!"
"Expelliarmus!"
Dumbledore put up a shield before waving his left hand without murmuring an incantation. A geyser of water shot from the floor at Harry's feet, drenching him.
"Oh, so we're playing it like that, eh?" As Harry spoke, the enchanted ceiling started raining only on Dumbledore.
_____________
"This is taking forever," Hermione muttered to Snape.
"Duh."
"Kind of makes you wish they could start pulling Unforgivables out of a hat."
"Might be the only thing that would tire either of them."
"Could I start pulling Unforgivables out of my hat? We're the ones catching the backlash over here," Hermione complained. The duel had lasted over an hour already and the two hadn't done much more than demonstrate that they were equally adept at dueling rapidly and defensively. Still, Snape and Hermione had been zinged a couple of times by dodged spells when trying to protect the student body from the mayhem. When a stray Incendio didn't completely miss Hermione and singed a curl, she'd finally had enough.
"Expelliarmus!" She disarmed Harry first, the spell sending him to the floor. But she didn't see the lightning bolt headed towards him until his wand was in her hand and she'd started pointing at Dumbledore. "Harry!"
It didn't occur to her to conjure a wooden block to absorb the energy. It didn't occur to her to use magic to push him out of the way. All she knew was that Harry was about to be electrocuted, and he was wet, and Dumbledore was going to kill Harry, and she'd disarmed him, and she was going to be an accomplice in the murder of her very best, if rather annoying, friend.
So she ran and pushed him out of the way.
Sort of. He grabbed her and they ended up rolling, but out of danger, and wasn't that a good thing, because she really didn't fancy being electrocuted, not even for Harry.
They did, however, roll off of the corridor. Thankfully-for her, at least-she landed on Harry.
"Oomph!"
Harry was surprisingly comfortable. Not really squishy, but not overly hard either. Like a rather firm mattress. "I could stay here for a while."
"Please don't," he squeaked.
Her eyes narrowed until they were tiny slits. "Excuse me? Is this from the man who tonight decided that he needed to duel the most powerful wizard on the planet? Which wouldn't have been altogether too bad if he hadn't-against my expressed wishes-dragged me into it with him?"
"I was itchy and my cat's pink. Actually, I'm still itchy. Would you mind scratching-" Hermione glared at him. "Never mind."
"Be grateful that's all you are." She looked at the char mark on the floor and gave a shudder. "You could be dead! And for what? So that you could avenge a pink cat?"
Harry winced. "It was a matter of honor."
She propped her elbows up on his chest. "It was a matter of stupidity."
"I never said the two were mutually exclusive."
Somewhat satisfied, she got up. If she used his body for unnecessary leverage, he was too much of a gentleman-or too injured-to complain.
One student piped up, "Who won?"
Harry's lips twisted into a pained smile. "Hermione."
_________
"Why I'm helping you when your 'loving maiden' is scolding your rival-"
"Which he completely deserves. Dishonorable old scoundrel," Harry muttered.
"-Needless to say, why am I here when she should be kissing your boo-boos?"
He stared at her, disbelieving. "I dunno, maybe because first you hit me with a disarming spell, then you jumped on me, and then you pushed me off a four-foot high platform? I think you owe me."
"I was trying to save you," Hermione spat.
"'With friends like these...'" he quoted.
She helped him limp back to his chambers, her body tucked under his left arm. Madam Pomfrey had staunchly refused to treat any wounds either he or Dumbledore received in their pissing contest. Okay, so Poppy hadn't said pissing per say...
he said tiredly, and his portrait of a dragon cowering before a veela swung open. Hermione rolled her eyes. She seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
"That password is completely inappropriate. I don't know what your problem is with him," she said primly as she maneuvered him over to an overstuffed sofa that had seen better days.
After he collapsed on the sofa, Harry shrugged. "It's more of a habit now than anything else. It's not so much that I have a problem with him as I don't like him." He sighed wistfully. "I think it's a universal truth. I hate Malfoy, and he hates me; this works for us."
"I wonder about you, Harry Potter."
He just grinned infuriatingly and pulled her down onto the sofa next to him. "Stop complaining, Hermione. What would you do without me?"
Even as she leaned into him, she started ticking off reasons on her fingers. "I wouldn't be famous, wouldn't have faced down a Dark wizard at seventeen, wouldn't have to coach my dearest friend in the pursuit of our former teacher and Head of House, wouldn't have lately lost a few curls to 'friendly fire' incurred during a pointless duel, wouldn't spend my dinners commiserating with Snape, for Merlin's sake, wouldn't-"
His hand darted out to cover her mouth. "I get the point."
Hermione-only for a moment, mind you-enjoyed the feeling of his warm, callused hand on her lips. Occasionally, when he managed to get free of the castle, he did a bit of Quidditch training with Oliver Wood's team, Puddlemere United. It helped keep his long, lean body toned and roped with muscles.
So-again, only for a moment-she savored the spicy flavor of his cologne and the not-so-subtle under-scents of sweat, milk, dyed cat, and skunk? Hastily, she batted away his hand and gagged.
"Is it just me or are you wearing eau de Peppy?"
"Peppy?"
"Le Pew," she explained.
"Who?"
Hermione sighed. "Right. Deprived youth and all. He's a cartoon skunk. Ring any bells?"
He flushed under her scrutiny. "Not really. But I understand the implication. Dumbledore was still on his siege."
She cleared her throat delicately. "As I understand it, you were quote 'poaching on his preserves' unquote."
The amused grin he gave her set her back teeth on edge. "Ah, I see Snape spoke to you."
"Shut it, Potter. Anyway, why are you on this 'Dumbledore is evil' kick?"
He leaned his head back against the sofa and gave a pained smile. "You've never woken up to fire ants, have you?"
She winced. "That bad, eh?"
"I started this whole thing to avoid being trapped in an untenable situation. But in the process, I made a teacher who was really wonderful to me happy. I'll never say that McGonagall was a sweetheart or a pushover, but she always reminded me of the velvet fist in the iron glove." His eyes softened when he ruffled her hair and earned a glare. "A little bit like you."
Hermione frowned. "Let me see if I understand this: you want to marry McGonagall because she's prickly, a trait you associate with me?" She shook her head ruefully. "I'm telling you Harry, you've got this Oedipal thing down pat."
He smoothed down Hermione's frazzled curls, one in particular that looked slightly burnt. "Thank you, Dr. Freud."
Even though he smelled of hair dye, skunk, sweat, and milk, she leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulders.
"Life with you is never boring, Harry. First there was Voldemort, last year was a chimaera, not to mention that rather demented witch bent on world domination who wanted you for a consort..."
The gentle hand on her head became a mocking vise around her neck. "You know you love the adventure. If you were just a know-it-all, you'd have been placed in Ravenclaw. But, deep down, you love the uncertainty, the danger."
"Yeah, Mum says Dad dropped me on the head when I was a baby."
He laughed and squeezed her until she squealed. "Sorry, Hermy you're a Gryffindor through and through."
Every so often, Harry needed to be transfigured into a small, obnoxious dog to stop calling her by that god-awful nickname. "Canis incommode exis-"
"Accio wand!" He glared at her. "Cute."
"I told you to stop."
"So strike two involves turning me to Yorkie?"
She smiled evilly. "And strike three involves turning you into a Yorkie then letting Crooky play with his brand new toy."
"Maybe you should have been in Slytherin."
Hermione only shook her head. "I dunno, Harry. You keep telling me that I'm a true Gryffindor. If so, then what are you? Because there's Gryffindor me and there's Gryffindor you and let me tell you, Potter, you're scary."
"I'll be the first to admit that my 'Gryffindor bravery' occasionally transmits itself into supreme idiocy."
She snuggled into him more deeply. "So long as you know it."
____________
She'd fallen asleep on him.
Curled up innocently against him and slept in spite of his rather malodorous self. One stray honey brown curl tickled his chin while the rest flew haphazardly in disarray down her back, along the couch, and on his chest. And even though he smelled like and itched like crazy, he couldn't help smiling.
He liked seeing her hair in disarray. In their days at Hogwarts, her hair was the one thing about her that never quite conformed, a wildfire banked, but waiting to rage. As it got longer and heavier though, the bushiness dissipated, replaced with long waves that obeyed her commands.
But on nights like this one, with her hair turned a burnished gold in the firelight, she became the fire. He imagined her as a pagan goddess of fire, burning mortal men with a single glance. Occasionally, he'd catch himself watching her like this, and he'd want to seize the flame. It wasn't until he felt his fingers sifting through her hair that he realized that this time he'd tried.
She stirred and lifted her sleep-flushed face from his shoulder. Their noses were only inches apart, but her eyes were still dazed and confused with sleep. "Harry?"
If she were anyone else, even one of his hormonally-possessed students, he might have found himself making his fantasy reality by kissing her. It would have been romantic and impulsive, not to mention easily forgotten.
But she wasn't anyone else, so he smiled and kissed her gently on the forehead. "Go back to sleep, darling."
______________
The next morning, she woke up in a bed not hers. As it had happened on any number of occasions since Harry had begun at Hogwarts, she wasn't overly concerned. What did concern her, however, was the large pink fuzzball sitting on her lungs.
Intelligent green eyes surveyed her warily, deciding whether Hermione was a threat or not. Ordinarily, Hermione would have subjected herself to Rowena's scrutiny while keeping a straight face, but it was nearly impossible to do while said cat was pink.
Somehow she managed a, "Felis Reversus" in between laughs. Rowena stalked off into the bathroom, where another cat sounded like it was drowning in water.
The sounds finally stopped, along with the shower. "Are you making fun of my cat?"
"Gods, Harry, was that you?" Maybe it wasn't the nicest early morning hello she'd ever given him, but sweet Saint Ninian, it certainly wasn't the nicest early morning wake-up call he'd ever given her.
"What?" he shouted back.
"The racket."
"What racket?"
She paused meaningfully. "Did you kill Crooky? Was that what I heard?"
Harry popped his wet head out of the door, blinking owlishly without his glasses or contacts. "I'll have you know that was a pretty accurate rendition of La Donna e Mobile."
"Pavarotti is rolling over in his grave," she smirked.
Disregarding that he was only wearing a towel, Harry stepped out into his bedroom, hands on his hips. "He's not dead, you loon, and I wasn't that bad."
She knew that she should have made some sort of witty retort. But that was before her brain shut down and the only thing working was her saliva glands. She hoped-dearly hoped-that she wasn't drooling.
Certainly she'd seen him before without a shirt on. And if she was completely honest, she'd even caught a glimpse of his while trying to wish him good luck in the Quidditch locker room.
However, during those times, he wasn't dripping wet and looking as nicely muscled as all the empty-headed men in her Under Gear catalog. Nor was his towel slipping ever-so-slightly off his narrow hips.
"Hermione?" He walked towards her, confusion warring with concern on his face.
Forcibly, she snapped herself out of it and brought her gaze up to his face. "Sorry about that. Just thinking about some weird dreams I had."
He smiled, then readjusted his towel, much to her disappointment. "Good, because you started to look a little funny there."
She forced a chuckle. "They were, um, very strange dreams."
BTW: Under Gear is a cute little magazine filled with mostly-dressed empty-headed-looking absolutely beautiful men trying to sell rather ridiculous clothing. All the important bits are quite covered, but I discovered the mag after a friend ordered a tank-top and thought his purple shirt inspired "Girl" and not "Big Strong Manly Ultimate Frisbee Player".
To Be Continued...