Paint

Paint

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Summary: A senseless little something, with lots of fluff, and lots of paint.

Author's notes: I got into the spirit of writing H/Hr yesterday, so here's another one to torture you with :P Much thanks and huggles go to Bec, for beta-ing this! Also, this was inspired by me painting my room, and Nielle's opinions on furniture.

He could not believe his eyes. Here, he, Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world for far too many times, the boy who lived and feared nothing, was kind of afraid for the first time in his life. He had never seen anything like this in his life.

He had known that it had probably been one of the most dangerous decisions he had ever made in his life, but Harry had not expected it to turn out like it had. He could have never imagined this.

He was not sure what the scariest thing about the whole situation was. The nightgown and the music were competing for first place here. He was vaguely aware that the band must be famous, for Hermione had almost had a fit when he said that he didn’t know them. But he wasn’t really surprised, since the Dursley’s were not the kind of people who listened to music from a band whose lead singer had apparently died in a bathtub from an overdose of heroin, and who had long hair, to boot.

The music wasn’t bad per se. It was just the way that she was singing to it that made him wonder whether she’d had a little too much coffee this morning. She was cranky when she didn’t have it every couple of hours, but she sometimes tended to react strangely if confronted with too much of the diabolic substance too.

He wasn’t quite sure where the singer wanted to break through, although he suspected that it had something to do with drugs. It always had, back then. That didn’t change the fact that Hermione had to be the worst singer in the world. The way she was bouncing around the room in that thing, wailing to the lyrics made him reconsider whether asking her to move in together had been such a good idea. He quickly dismissed that thought though. He would just suffer a few more hours of this, and then they would move to the next room, and the next, and the – at this point he groaned, and sank to the floor in desperation.

Hermione seemed to have noticed this, because she sank down beside him, giving him a curious look. “What is it?” she asked, making swimming motions with her hands to the music.

“It’s nothing,” Harry said, taking one of her hands in his. “This is just a lot of work, and you look positively silly,” he added, grinning.

At this, Hermione took a look at her clothing, and nodded smiling. She was wearing a pair of cornflower blue socks, pyjama bottoms that didn’t even reach her ankles, and had quite a lot of holes in them, a white undershirt that looked like it was out of fashion in the 1960’s already, and her grandmother’s favourite nightgown – which was see-through, of a pale pink colour, and quite frilly.

“Well, would you rather have me wearing that nightgown I bought last week for painting the room?” she asked mischievously. “The one that reaches just above my knees and has that-”

“I get the point” Harry interrupted her, before he got entirely inappropriate thoughts of said nightgown, which was really just barely more than a few scraps of fabric.

“Good... shall we continue then?” Hermione suggested, getting up, and holding out her hand for Harry to get up too.

They had finally found a flat that was not too far away from Diagon Alley in Muggle London, and that they liked a few weeks ago, and were now trying to turn it into something you could live in.

Harry had never been so bored in his life when Hermione had dragged him from shop to shop, deciding on colour’s they could paint the rooms in, and then looking for furniture that would go nicely with said colour’s. After they had found a colour for their bedroom (it was called 6.06.2. He had just barely managed to convince Hermione that he didn’t want Comet Haze) he had stayed long enough to decide on the bed they would buy, because that was something that mattered to him. But when Hermione had started to talk to the clerk about whether that mahogany closet would look good with 6.06.2 he had sneaked off to take a nice at some nice, shiny brooms, and came back just in time for both his girlfriend and the clerk to reach the conclusion that the closet would look weird.

And now she was standing their future bedroom, waiting for the ceiling, which they had just painted white to dry. The other walls were still the horrible turquoise-greenish colour that they had been when they had bought the flat, although the wall that faced the windows had the name Hermione written on it in big, white letters.

Harry, after finally getting his lazy bum off the floor, made an irritated noise as a droplet of paint fell from the ceiling on his nose.

Hermione giggled, and took the cloth they had used to clean the windowsill, which had gotten some sprinkles of paint on it. She gently ran it over Harry’s nose, effectively cleaning the white spot away.

“That’s just disgusting,” he whined, drawing back a little.

Hermione laughed again, and put the cloth away again. “No, that’s not disgusting,” she corrected him. “That’s disgusting,” she added, and kissed him on the nose. When she tried to do it again, Harry quickly grabbed her and moved a little, so that her mouth would land on his this time. Much better, he thought, smirking a little into her mouth, and then nibbling at her lower lip.

Hermione sighed and opened her mouth a little to deepen the kiss. Harry eagerly took the invitation to run his tongue along her teeth, teasing her a little. Things were just starting to get interesting when Hermione leaned back a little, and hit her head on the ladder that was standing behind her.

“Damn,” she swore under her breath, making Harry gasp. Had she just cursed?

“I guess this snogging session was not meant to be,” she grumbled, leaving the security of his arms and rubbing her head gingerly.

Harry sighed. He had actually hoped that they might give their bedroom a little initiation ceremony, but Hermione had already grabbed the pail with 6.06.2, moving it to the nearest wall.

“I just wonder how somebody could get the idea to paint a room in such an ugly colour,” Hermione said, giving the walls a critical look.

“Well, Mrs. Nielle did say that the woman who lived here, what was her name- Szaranea or something, was a little on the strange side,” Harry answered, silently adding that he also thought that Mrs. Nielle, who had sold the flat to them was not somebody he’d call exactly sane either. She would always give him these really weird looks whenever they would talk.

But he guessed that it didn’t matter, he’d most probably never see her again anyway. Her and her strange co-workers.

It was still a little hard to believe, but from now on, all the letters that would be sent to them would be sent to

Harry Potter and Hermione Granger

Wonk Street 54

London