I wrote this chapter listening to the record, "Dog and Butterfly", and I couldn't really stop, so here you are. But that's all I'm going to say on it for now, lol.
A big hearty thank you goes out to everyone who reviewed. You people are just too sweet. ^.^
* * *
Hermione awoke so suddenly her head spun. Why she had done so, she was uncertain. For a moment, she couldn't remember where she was. Then, with the power of a skillet against the side of her head, it all came hurtling back to her.
It was apparant why she had awoken - her body was spread-eagled across the bed, drenched in sweat. The sheets were left unused on the floor. It was stifling hot in the room - almost unbearably so - and Hermione was parched. Where was the water?
She hoisted herself up and made her way to an easy-access washbasin. She cupped her hands under the faucet and turned it on with her elbow. Dipping her mouth to the water, she drank greedily.
Making her way back to her bed, she spotted Harry on the couch. He was sleeping, also sweating, and the way his neck was angled must have been highly uncomfortable. She imagined he would be sore the next morning. Hermione looked at his frame through the darkness and felt horribly guilty for taking the bed. She could've at least offered to share it, for just that night ...
He never would have accepted anyway. He was too noble for that. Hermione watched his chest rise and fall, mesmerized. They could have done it, she found herself thinking - they could have slept in the same bed without doing anything inappropriate. They were adults who could make their own choices.
She found a washcloth and ran it under the cool water. She laid it across Harry's forehead.
Finally satisfied, Hermione went back to her bed.
* * *
The next few weeks went by as a wonderful, rather overwhelming blur to Hermione. Every morning, she and Harry would wake up and immediately begin work on the house. It was coming along splendidly, and Hermione was delighted.
The lawn in front and back was cut, the square of garden soil was renovated, and most of the bushes framing the property were pruned. The house itself was fixed - most of the walls no longer had cracks and crevices for unwelcome guests to crawl through, and the walls inside were painted over a creamy white. Harry told her that it would be simple to change the color accordingly.
To Hermione's delight, Harry found her a sunny, circular room that was to be her library. It seemed the previous owners had used it as a study for some time, but Hermione was convinced that a library was just what it was supposed to be.
After the unexpected bout of rain at the end of Hogwarts term, the weather turned scorchingly hot. Harry and Hermione found themselves parched in the heat, gasping for water, and nearly fainting over each other. A few times they conjured up some lemonade, but that was a rare occurance, and they made sure no unsuspecting villager was trotting by.
One good thing came from the heat, and that was their decision to finally move in. It was by no means done, but they had their essentials, and both Hermione and Harry were anxious to move out of the inn and into their house. To Hermione, the phrase 'their house' hadn't really settled in as reality for her yet. It seemed as if she were living her life in a dreamlike state, though she knew the very idea was absurd.
It was about this time that Harry became more withdrawn. He seemed to be more brooding, more silent, more melancholy. Hermione noticed the change, but didn't address him about it. She felt that he had his own battles to fight without her meddling around in them. She supposed it had something to do with Ron - they hadn't seen him for weeks and even Hermione was beginning to miss their traditional rows.
Hermione sat on the front steps, looking out over the beautiful cobblestone walkway. It was another dry, dusty, blazing hot day, and the air was tingling with static electricity. Hermione's hair was so dry it had begun to frizz again, despite the Sleekeasy she had lathered on earlier that morning. She had gotten so annoyed that she nearly used the whole bottle, but thankfully she hadn't, as it would have been such a waste.
Crookshanks was having a splendid time adjusting to a country lifestyle. He had found a nest of small mice his first day out prowling (Hermione had had proof of this on her front doorstep later that day). He especially liked roaming around the garden, searching for slugs and other nasty little critters that Hermione didn't even assume cats enjoyed eating. But if he wasn't playing lion or hunting in the backyard, he was following Harry everywhere, mewling in a plaintive little voice, trying to reach his midriff. Hermione found it postively adorable.
She looked at the shapeless sweater she was knitting, sighed, and threw it to Crookshanks, who pounced and sunk his teeth into the neckline.
'I liked that sweater,' said a voice behind her.
'Oh, please,' she said in answer, facing Harry and standing up, 'it has hardly anything to like about it.'
Harry grinned at her. 'Good afternoon.'
'Good afternoon.'
'I have a surprise for you,' he said.
Hermione smiled slightly, inwardly wondering what he could possibly give her that would improve her lifestyle even more. She already felt rather spoiled by his attentions.
'I've decided that it's time to show you as we're moving in, well, today,' he said.
'What is it?' she asked curiously.
Harry rolled his eyes. 'Well, it wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, now would it? Just follow me.'
He led her through the swinging porch door they installed just the other day, over the tiled floor of the kitchen, up the stairs, and over the landing. He pushed open Hermione's bedroom door and watched as her face turned from mingled curiosity to astonishment. Her mouth parted slightly as she took in the sight before her.
'It's -' she began weakly.
'It's yours,' said Harry, grinning broadly. 'Dumbledore said you could keep it.'
Hermione beamed at the sight of her old four-poster bed sitting smack-dab in the center of her new room. She was lost for words.
'Dumbledore said I could keep it?'
Harry gave her a look. 'You didn't think I stole it, did you?'
Hermione couldn't contain herself as she flung her arms around Harry's neck and collapsed into wracking sobs on his shoulder. 'Oh Harry, thank you! This means so much to me, you can't even imagine ...'
Harry blushed considerably when she let him go. 'It was nothing, really. Here,' He handed her a handkerchief. 'I've decided to keep one handy, living with an overemotional young lady like yourself ...'
'I am not overemotional,' said Hermione defensively.
'Not that I mind,' said Harry quickly. 'Tea? I have it iced downstairs.'
Most of the furnature they had bought was musky, old, and very comfortable. Though buying from the stores was normal for Harry and Hermione, they had found some incredibly wonderful treasures at the village rummage sales. Included was a mantel clock that Hermione insisted go in her library, a handcrafted oriental-styled lamp, a full bottle of some patchouli-scented perfume, and a beige pouf that instantly became Harry's favorite chair. It was placed by the fireplace, where, Hermione often joked, he could admire it in the firelight.
As Hermione sat on the couch in their living room, she sipped her tea thoughtfully. She hadn't realized how parched she had been watching Crookshanks play outside. The ice swirled around in her drink, clinking musically against the sides, and she felt an overwhelming feeling of gratitude towards Harry's hospitality.
'This is just what I needed,' Hermione said warmly.
Harry ran a finger around the rim of his mug. 'Hermione, listen, er ... we have to talk.'
Hermione just stared at him, mug raised halfway to her lips. All hopes of comfortable daytime chatter were crushed.
'I haven't been entirely honest with you,' said Harry quietly.
Hermione watched him, trying look unreadable. Trying to look as though she knew this already; that it wasn't going to break her heart, whatever it was.
'I feel awful and I had to tell you. It's - you know how much you mean to me, right?' asked Harry suddenly, looking desperate. 'I've been selfish. I mean, I cared, but I didn't want to be alone. I know you have your whole life to live and here I am, asking you to throw it all away for me.'
'Harry ...'
'No, you don't get it, Hermione. I'm the target. I'm the one Voldemort is after. He loathes me and the only reason he didn't attack me last year was because he was building up an army. You know how I said I wanted to be alone? It's only partly true.' Harry looked furious with himself. His voice shook. 'No matter where I am I'm endangering everyone around me.'
Slowly, Hermione began to understand. 'You're not giving me any credit, Harry. I came with you, didn't I?'
'But you hesitated,' Harry spat. 'You knew, didn't you? You knew what it would mean to live with me.'
She could only sit, heart pounding, and wish that he could understand. Ashamed, Hermione felt the tears well up. She wished she were stronger somehow, that she could hold Harry and whisper soothing words in his ear as if she wasn't afraid.
'If you don't want to stay, I understand,' said Harry dully. 'I just felt I had to tell you.'
Hermione felt incredibly weak. She wanted to confess, yell it was all a misunderstanding ... How could she have been so unfeeling?
But here it was - the opportunity to redeem herself, presented magnificently as a time where neither friends were not being teasing or joking, and she couldn't utter a single word. Was her dignity more important to her than Harry? Had her shameful feelings bested the will to tell Harry this most atrocious, embarassing secret?
Secret? she had to think amazedly. She had never thought of it as a secret. She kept it from Harry, yes, but the subject had never arisen to tell him. It was a white lie perhaps, but a secret? But if it was so, what was it that she was hiding?
Hermione felt his eyes on her and knew what an utter idiot she was being.
She was in love with Harry.
She pondered this for a moment. To her surprise, the thought that her love ran deeper than friendship wasn't completely unheard of. It had always been there, she supposed. She glanced at him and waited for the firecrackers, the explosion, the revelation. It never came. He looked exactly like he always did. She felt exactly the same when he turned to her. No butterflies or wooziness. No theatric desire to swoon.
It was clear that whatever symtoms of lovesickness she had were drawn-out. Perhaps over her whole life with him she had been in love, but the symtoms were too weak to understand and comprehend at the time.
She didn't really understand why she was pushing him away. It was probably silly, some stupid little childish fear that he would never, ever, possibly feel the same way. Well, maybe that was partly it. But she supposed it wasn't as clear as she liked to imagine it was. Maybe Harry would have to scream in her face that he loved her as well before she got the message. She didn't know.
The question was a labyrinth - did she love him? Yes, of course, how couldn't she? And her thoughts traveled down a corridor, halting at a barricade, and the same question was asked. Reasons were presented, wildcards were unearthed, and the thought that maybe he just wasn't right for her crossed her mind. She never wanted it to be so complicated. Maybe she just didn't want him to be that dear to her - maybe, just maybe, she was pushing him away for fear of losing him altogether.
It seemed unequivocally outrageous of her to do such a thing, for hadn't she already crossed that boundary? Hadn't she already admitted, outright, that she was in love with Harry? The pure ludicrousness of it made Hermione want to cry out in frustration.
Somewhere deep within the regions of her mind, she supposed she believed those strange desires to be nothing more than lust.
She came to this conclusion feeling as helpless as those silly girls who made eyes at him. Was she that alone? Was she so desperate to love that because Harry had shown her affection, she was drawn, almost obsessively, towards his doting nature?
Idiot.
She felt angry suddenly, at herself and Harry's enraging callowness; if he had just told her what was happening, explained it step-by-step, she wouldn't be here, listening to him, feeling blindfolded and lost. Couldn't he see that she was so completely in love with him that it hurt just to say his name? And she wondered, bitter: what had happened to his 'saving people thing' that she had called him on years ago? She was in need of a savior now, no doubt, but he was sitting there, acting misunderstood, and despite her infuriating instinct to console his behavior, she felt so bloody chafed about the whole thing that she stood up and glared.
For a moment Harry looked confused, maybe even hurt by the gesture, and then his rebellious instinct kicked in; but before he could even utter a single word Hermione exploded.
'Why are you always like this?' she yelled, overcome with vexation and building trepidation. 'I accepted to come with you because I love you and you're my friend! Don't you get it? I'm not going to give up on you, Harry! Why are you so intent on believing that everyone you love will desert you?'
'Because they have.'
'They died,' Hermione spat, unbelieving at her bitter change in character. 'They died protecting you.'
'Don't you think I know that, Hermione?' Harry said in a deathly quiet voice.
Hermione scowled at him. 'It doesn't sound like it to me. It sounds like you're so intent on your own feelings that you've forgotten the people who matter most. It sounds like you're so wrapped up in your own little world of misery that you're completely oblivious to the fact that others are still trying to make it in this one.'
Harry opened his mouth but Hermione cut him off: 'If I'm the only one that can put you back in your place, so be it, but Merlin help me, if I hear one more remark questioning my loyalty, I'll move right out.'
He glared at her, and she knew he thought she was crazy.
'It's not always about you, Harry,' said Hermione viciously, reading his mind swiftly and easily. 'My priorities are simple, you know, but not all my affections are lost on you. You and Ron are the only people I have in this life - and you know you've always been first, don't you Harry? But I can't stand you belitting yourself - and me - by acting so conceited and selfish!'
Hermione could tell it stung him and felt furious pleasure sweep through her, unquestioned.
'If you still don't understand ...' Hermione trailed off uncertainly and began again: 'I've always wanted to be there for you, but I can't do that if you're pushing me away. It's that simple.'
She could almost feel the anger and confusion emanating from his body. 'I expected you, of all people, to understand,' he said. His voice was barely a whisper.
'It's not about understanding,' she said.
'Then what is it?' he asked, voice raising defiantly. 'You know, I've done a lot for you, Hermione. I think you should be the one thanking me!'
Hermione quivered with rage. 'I appreciate everything you've done for me, Harry.' She paused, steadying her breaths. 'But you're completely missing the point.'
Harry looked so cross Hermione was afraid he'd storm out on her. To her relief, he didn't move.
'I don't need a beautiful house, or a garden, or a library to make me happy,' she told him. 'Harry, I just ...' She swallowed. 'I understand how angry you must feel. But I'm asking you to trust me and to throw away your pride and just listen. I don't want you to act like you're alone, because no matter what you think, you're not.'
Harry looked evenly at her. 'Then why did you hesitate?'
There was a silence in which Harry presented her a way to explain everything, but Hermione let it pass. She held her tongue and looked away.
She didn't answer.
'I'm going out,' he said shortly. He dumped his remaining tea in the sink and left.
* * *
Hours later, Hermione had seen hide nor hair of her friend.
She didn't know when he would return, and in fact, really didn't care. Deciding to leave him be was a wise choice, she believed, and if it made him churlish later, she was ready to face his wrath head-on. Besides, it gave her time to sort out her own feelings, something she had tried to ignore, but knew she had to do.
His capricious actions earlier were planned to be overlooked, as Hermione knew more bait would only fuel his waspish attitude. And as much as it frustrated her to think it, she was actually feeling a bit of pity for him. Especially after a fight like theirs, it was difficult to be the one to make amends, and she knew it. He would never - in his opinion - sink low enough to offer peace.
Her yelling and animosity were only the trivial things bothering Harry. She knew that her secret was left unguarded for a moment and he had seen, if just for a moment, what was harbored inside her. Perhaps he had misunderstood, but he had seen it all the less; and for her to ignore it like she did was enough to drive him mad.
But what to do?
Hermione's hand shook as she chopped up a red onion, scooped it with her knife, and dumped it in a heating skillet. The pieces sizzled and browned.
She had decided that even if Harry didn't return, she would make herself a nice meal, as she was hungry and it was nearly suppertime. And though she wasn't one for foreign foods, save French delicacies, she had decided to make herself a pot of her mother's special fried rice.
She made extra rice in case Harry was hungry when he came back, fed Crookshanks, tossed Hedwig an owl treat, and sat down at the kitchen table.
Eating in silence was the only advantage to eating alone, Hermione came to realize. She chewed her food deliberately, not taking her eyes off the door.
She had to ask herself if she wanted Harry to return after all, despite every angry thought that crossed her mind. She supposed she did, but it was only a want, not a wish or a yearn. She was not going to back down just because, in a couple hours without his company, she had began to miss him. Slightly.
Her food was soon devoured and Hermione felt sleep overtake her. Quietly, she tiptoed upstairs, careful not to wake Crookshanks, who was sprawled luxuriously across Harry's pouf, and changed into her nightclothes. It was hard to think of anything but mattresses and blankets as she made her way to her four-poster, and as soon as her head touched the pillow, she was asleep.
* * *
Despite the depth of her sleep - or perhaps because of it - Hermione was severely startled to find herself shaken awake in the dead of night some hours later (though how many she could not say), prodded and poked, and then rolled over onto her back.
She opened her eyes, though it didn't do much good in the pitch-blackness, and stared up into a pair of brilliant green eyes. She stifled a scream with her hand.
'What are you doing here?' whispered Hermione urgently. Her anger on his behalf seemed trivial suddenly - if he had been hurt ...
'I came to see you,' he breathed.
'In the dead of night?'
His grin was lopsided, boyish, incredibly charming.
She realized how close their bodies were, with Harry leaning over her as he was, and made a move to pull her sheets over her chest, but Harry grabbed her hand. Hermione's breath caught.
'I was thinking about what I said earlier,' Harry said in a soft, uncannily calm tone.
Hermione merely stared up at him and listened. He didn't release her hand.
He closed his eyes. 'I was so sure that you would refuse to stay.' He paused. 'I didn't know how to handle it when you said you would. In some ways, I wanted you to go.'
She could tell he was having difficulties saying these things, and despite her doubts, squeezed his hand with her own.
'You said things that made me feel guilty, Hermione,' he said. 'But I guess you were the only one who could say them to me. Maybe that's what makes us such good friends, you know, picking out the other's faults ... it makes us less big-headed.' He laughed quietly and Hermione smiled. 'The truth is, I do want you to stay, Hermione.'
Such an intimacy was meant by these words, and Hermione was touched. As she had known it all along, it was no surprise, but having him wake her up to say something as trivial (or so she believed) as that ... well, to say the least, it was pleasantly surprising.
Hermione smiled warmly at him and his face relaxed considerably.
But as if struck by a sudden thought, Harry must have realized how uncomfortable he was making her and quickly backed away from the bed.
''Night, then,' he said awkwardly.
'Goodnight, Harry,' Hermione answered.
He closed the door gently and walked to his own room, leaving Hermione feeling very confused behind him.
* * *
The weeks passed quickly, and Harry nor Hermione thought much of their fight and the aftermath. But every once and a while, when they were finished mopping or dusting or painting, their thoughts would wander and come to rest on that significant night.
It was significant, especially so, for it portrayed the depth of their relationship in such a meaningful and beautiful way. In fact, so deep had their relationship become that it was hard for Hermione to spend time alone. She had noticed Harry had become more doting in his affections towards her, and though it was surprising and slightly unbelievable at first, Hermione's approbation was obvious even in her own eyes.
Harry had begun buying the Daily Prophet, even though he refused to admit it (Hermione found some thrown-out copies in the rubbish bin). She supposed he was missing his life in the Magical World, which Hermione found quite reasonable and wondered why he kept this feeling from her. She would have understood, surely, and if he was afraid of offending her, Hermione could offer nothing but say it wouldn't have. And in her own way, Hermione missed the Magical World as well, and read the old copies that Harry threw out. Most of them, unsurprisingly, had some headline or another that dealt with the matter of the mysterious disappearance of Harry Potter.
There were some headlines, however, that won her astonishment without an eyeroll. Hermione Granger gone missing. Last seen with Harry Potter. Suspected love affair. It was all very silly (but, she had to admit, awfully close to the truth), and Hermione didn't bring up the matter with Harry. It seemed too trivial. But still ...
She suspected it had gone too far, that it was impossible to turn back, but even she had begun to feel the pangs of nostalgia when she glimpsed something Ron would have enjoyed or found amusement in, or an old school book layered with dust. She finally had to admit to herself that she longed to be a part of the Magical World again, even if it meant giving up the peacefulness of quiet seclusion.
The thought arose that she should go and see Ron, even if it was for a short while; she would explain everything, Harry's turmoil, her own loyalties, everything. Even Ron would understand her justifications, but if he didn't, there was always his sensitivity to fall back on. He would surely understand. Hermione convinced herself that he would be supportive and let it stay as so, though she still had her doubts.
Tentatively, she addressed Harry about the subject.
She knew his answer just by the way his eyes narrowed and lips tightened, and, being so angry with him that she couldn't speak, stormed out of the room.
She wanted the best for him, could he not see it? Ron was his best friend, and though Hermione would always be there, she was never going to have the exact same bond with Harry that he and Ron shared as boys and now, men. Hermione felt so incredibly annoyed by it all that she locked herself in her library and read for a full four hours until Harry sought her out.
As she saw the hurt in his eyes that she had caused by her huffy avoidance, she wondered if she wasn't the one who was in the wrong. Still, she could not bring herself to apologize. And, on this note, the subject was not brought up again.
* * *
What was most amusing about Hermione's feelings towards Harry was that she hid it so adroitly he was completely oblivious to her more-than-friendly desires.
She hid it in a way that could have been mistaken as irritability, so to the common eye Hermione was merely having a succession of bad temper and animosity for life in general. Which was fine, in Hermione's opinion, though she sometimes felt spurts of regret every now and then when she thought it least unlikely.
Her confusion at the very thought of her love for him was enough to drive anyone mad, but to Hermione, it so extremely baffling that she supposed her mind was liable to explode by Christmastime.
Even if Harry didn't quite grasp what was the real matter with Hermione's conscious, he still understood that something important was bothering her, and therefore assumed it was his fault. Rather than trying to appease her with affection, Harry sunk into one of his moods and only spoke upon being spoken to.
The whole thing made such an annoying paradox that Hermione grew even more irritable, which, to her unsurprise, completed the circle.
Finally, it seemed that Harry could not handle the tension any longer and confronted Hermione about it one night after supper. Hermione was heading upstairs to her bedroom to read when she felt Harry's hand on her arm, willing her to stop.
'It's about Ron, isn't it?'
So great was her surprise that Hermione couldn't speak properly, which Harry took as a hearty yes, and frowned so crossly his jaw muscles quivered.
Hermione briefly wondered how Harry could be so wrong in his assumption, before being disrupted in her musings by a sentence that startled her speechless:
'You're in love with him,' he stated shortly. 'You're in love with Ron. That's why you hesitated.'
Hermione realized with shame that this misunderstanding was all her fault. She felt so low, so cowardly, that all she wanted to do was crawl into a corner and pretend to be nonexistent.
Harry continued with bitter triumph. 'I'm right, aren't I?'
Hermione sucked in a lungful of air and said, 'No.'
'No?' he repeated angrily, with a fair amount of hidden astonishment. 'No? It's obvious, Hermione. All the bickering, the wishes to see each other ...' He trailed off. 'You know what? I appreciate you being here, but I don't need you to feel sorry for me!'
'I don't feel sorry for you, Harry,' she said, raising her head and putting her hands on her hips. 'In fact, I think you're being a right baby about this. And never mind the fact that it's not true!'
'Then why is it you're always talking about him, asking where he is -'
'He's my friend! For God's sake, Harry, you should know that!'
Harry and Hermione stood and faced off; glaring, each breathing heavily, and both feeling so angry and disappointed in the other they were filled with a desire to shake them into their right mind.
The tension in the room was electric, and both friends felt it. It was also incredibly hot, stifling even, and Hermione felt herself begin to sweat despite the coolness of her clothing.
'I'm not in love with Ron,' she said firmly. How could he be so misled as to see such a thing? And what of his reaction? Could he possibly have been - Hermione dared not think about it thoroughly - jealous?
Harry looked completely taken aback at her firm words and shut his mouth. Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and pointedly stared at the wall.
All the fury regarding the injustice of such a scandalous accusation calmed slightly, and Hermione found herself saying to Harry in as decided a voice as she could muster, 'It's fine.'
Harry looked at her as though he fully intended to say that it was not fine, but bit back his words and prepared himself for the mortification that was soon to follow such an outburst as his. Harry's cheeks colored and he looked caught between wanting to say something and trying to run out the back door. So he did neither; and they both stood in stagnant embarrassment over a matter too confusing to discuss, too strange to comprehend, and too misleading to address head-on.
But even Hermione had run out of excuses this time, and it was fully clear that by the way Harry's cheeks burned a most suiting crimson color he was truly abashed and humiliated by what had occurred - and what had occurred was nothing short of jealousy.
Hermione was beyond caring at this point, as it seemed their relationship had already taken a most distinctive turn and was plunged headfirst into a place between friendship and romance. So she did the unthinkable, the irrational, and said quietly,
'Do you love me?'
At first, the sentence seemed to have no effect on Harry. His eyes hardened and his body stiffened, as if bracing for an impact, and he did not utter a word. Hermione repeated the question, urging him along, and wondered if she did not silently pray for him to answer in the positive ...
She should have known not to give him leeway, to escape from her question - if she had just stated it, without margin, he could have had nothing to say. Hermione thought this furiously as she tried to read his expressionless face.
Hermione thought it ironic that even after seven plus years of undying friendship, they could not utter a single word to each other over such a subject. They had danced around it for ages, perhaps since they were fourteen; when even the slightest possibly of romance was suggested. Crudely, of course, but presented nonetheless. It was thought impossible, but Hermione knew she wasn't as indifferent to it as her manner would have had him believe. It was just too embarassing a prospect, to trip into the idea of love with no previous warning! Hermione had been absolutely mortified.
And for everyone to suspect it was true, to even consider the possibly of their affair ... The offenders were countless! Ron, with his spurts of unreasonable jealousy; Mrs. Weasley, with her knowing exchanges with Mr. Weasley; Professor McGonagall, with her sly little smiles; Madame Pomfrey, who always told her, with perfect innocence, that Harry was alright and she needn't worry so much; and Professor Dumbledore, with that crinkled smile of his that said all too clearly that he knew, and the rest of the school knew, what a perfect match they would make.
And dear, kind Viktor Krum, who told her, in as polite a way as possible, that his attentions were lost on her and that Harry would come to terms with his feelings sooner or later. She had blushed furiously after reading such a shocking letter and hid it away, horrified at anyone reading it; but she had kept it for some reason or another, rather than burning it like she supposed would have been wiser.
The silence grew thicker.
Poor Cho Chang. Hermione held a respective amount of pity for her, despite everything. Of course, Cho would never feel even the slightest bit of affection for Hermione after dating Harry. Harry had never told her what happened exactly, but Hermione had her suspicions; and they were confirmed in the icy manner in which Cho addressed her afterwards. It was all in the way she eyed Hermione from the Ravenclaw table, when Hermione looked away from Ron and Harry's idle conversation to stare across the Great Hall - it was as though Cho was constantly dreaming up schemes to sabatage Hermione's life; but of course, the very idea was insane. Thankfully, in their seventh year, Cho had already graduated, and was as good as forgotten by Harry. Though sometimes, when Hermione was deep in her musings, she imagined the horror of losing a boyfriend as Cho had, and couldn't even bear the thought.
Hermione was mortified at Harry's lack of response to her statement. 'Say something,' she pleaded softly.
The only reassurance, to Hermione, that Harry was indeed alive was the strange glinting of his eyes, and she watched them uncertainly, thinking. She almost attained the feeling of utter chaos on his part, of turmult and confusion, but she was in disarray herself, and had no room for pleasantries. Her own inability to achieve comfort was greatly humiliating, in more ways than one, and Hermione felt that had she been in a room alone, she would have screamed and screamed and screamed until her throat seized and the blood withdrew from her brain. Hermione could stand it no longer.
She closed the space between them with two steps, snaked two elegant arms around his neck, and in two seconds, did the stupidest and most rewarding thing she had ever done, and pressed her lips against his eagerly.
Her whole body responded when he pressed back and pulled her to him, now attacking her lips with a fever, unconscious and unaware of whatever mental obstacles might have been there that morning. Was she in any mind to analyze, she would have been highly amused, but as it was, her mind had completely melted down and slipped from her mental reign of control. Hermione was only aware of skin and lips, and how the former seemed suddenly very desperate for contact. Someone was breathing raggedly. Someone was moaning. She had no recollection of ever moving, but somehow, without warning, she was being lowered onto a bed - or was it the couch? - by very gentle, caressing hands.
His fingers burned against her skin as they moved even closer to one another, closer than they had ever been before, to shed themselves of the one thing separating themselves from each other. Her hair felt damp against her scalp and her lips bruised and swollen; her whole body arched in her eagerness. His hands, trembling slightly, ran down her naked shoulders and over the contours of her sides. She shivered, despite the warmth, despite everything, and relished in his touch.
She gasped as he kissed her deeply and muffled her moans with his mouth; all the while her mind racing as it sped along in search of something - something that would make them stop but keep the pleasure and the closeness. But there was no reason for him to stop. No justification. For once in her life the simplicity, the primordial instinct of human beings, was in charge. Her mind was useless.
Hands on either side of her face, supporting him, he lowered himself onto her; he felt her chest against his, her rapid breathing mingled with his own rapid breathing, and relaxed himself to hear and feel the steady heartbeat of his companion.
* * *
Is it even legal for me to write such things at my age, I wonder?
Pretty much the whole "scene" was uncomfortable for me to write, to be perfectly honest. I didn't go into too much detail, for obvious reasons. So ... if you were expecting smut ... er, sorry? (I know I'm disappointing at least you, Jen! *grins*)
You know what's funny? I haven't read this over in so long, I forgot what it was! That is, until I was refreshed. hehe.
Anyway, I'm sorry I took so long with this chapter. If you're asking why, then just look at the sheer size of it! But it's funny, really, it took me longer to post the thing than it did to write it. Don't ask me why. I'm weird that way.
Thanks, as always, for everyone's feedback!
-->