Everything you recognise belongs to JKR and Ure. This is a rip-off or an adaptation, to please myself, of Ure's gentle bawdy frolic 'You win some, you lose some'. You have been duly warned.
A.N. This belated chapter has simonsays to thank for the enriched content you may enjoy. (Not for the lateness! Or maybe he is the one to be blamed for the tardiness if you must. No! I am joking). Without him it would've been a crappy lame one without any fluff or enough humour. So, I am 'forced' to dedicate it to simonsays. I am blowing the trumpet for his kindly "brutal and nasty" criticism and generous help.
Chapter 13 positively lost his mind
'D'you want to come and sit on the bed?' he said. 'It's more comfortable there.' (Wasn't he bold? Was he plotting? It was a simple remark, part of the conversation. Was it? )
Or he would have to go and kneel along side her. How snug that would be; how fatuous he would look: genuflecting the pile of CDs (or Hermione, more likely), on the floor, goo-goo eyed, and doing nothing. No one could do much in that position, could they? No, he wasn't a dolt yet, even though he wouldn't mind if she insisted on turning him into one. But Hermione wouldn't like a dolt, would she? No, his Hermione-addled brain still could tell that the bed was more preferable (to sit on!).
'All right,' said Hermione. Wasn't she obliging? (he hoped she won't be so with anybody else.) He liked the agreeable Hermione. (He enjoyed everything Hermione, really. But He's not sure he'd tell her that).
They sat together on the bed, (his bed) on the edge of his bed, side by side, bolt upright, feet on the floor, carefully not touching. They faced forward, looking ahead, (not seeing anything, in his case), still and all sensitive, very sensitive, to every minute movement of each other. Harry was acutely aware of Hermione's hand, on the bed, fingertips towards him, within centimetres of his own. He felt or imagined the warmth radiating from it. Candlelight was flickering from her fingertips. For a brief moment, he was distracted: he'd never taken notice how tempting her fingers looked, pinkish pale, slender and tapering, like… like spring onions (that's a bad figure of speech, stop, he was turning sappy). But, if he just stretched out a finger …
It took him a while to nerve himself. It had to be admitted that the kicking rhythms of flamenco or fandango, or something of that sort, helped. (He was thankful they had not reached the sad part yet). Stretching out a finger had become, all of a sudden, an act of the deepest significance. If she moved away, he would know that Terry was wrong. On the contrary, if she moved closer -
Um, she didn't move closer, but neither, on the other hand, did she move away (he liked the unpredictable Hermione). All the same, he still got a real kick out of the fact that she left her hand there with his, she trusted him with it. And he was making good use of it; he was touching it, feeling it, sensing it, with fingertips, at least. They had clasped hands together in the past when they were in danger. But this was different, this was new, this was unfamiliar, this was unprecedented, this was titillating, this was exquisite (he's going sappy again) and to think that he's not even holding it yet, but only touching.
They sat rigid, through the whole of the first movement (he wished it had been them doing some sorts of movement); the tips of their fingers just barely touching (yes, with every one of his fingertips he could find on that hand. He was getting bolder). Her fingertips felt cool, soft and yet firm. If anyone had told him, before this, that simply touching the tips of Hermione's fingers could do things to him he'd have said they must be kinky (as if she didn't do things already without using her fingertips). Or, perhaps he himself was kinky, after all.
In normal circumstances he would have been appalled at the thought of having to sit in silence through movements of someone's concerto. This evening, the bright first movement seemed scarcely long enough (actually it was short in the first place, her fingertips muddled his sense of duration already). The quieter Spanish guitar was briskly strumming against the full orchestra, with the strings quickly bowing, sounding for all the world like a giant guitar. He found he had been enjoying it in spite of himself (did she know he'd love it?).
Hermione, in the quiet ending of the first piece, kicked off her shoes and clambered up to sit curled up against the wall, her feet tucked beneath her. (He liked the proactive Hermione, too!). He was buoyed up by her move (at last, someone made a 'movement'). He got a surge of thrill when he thought that might mean that she'd want the same thing as he would. He humped himself across to sit with her. This time they sat with not only the tips of their fingers touching but with their actual bodies glued together, all the way down from shoulders to the hips (he made sure of that. He's not bad, either, as far as boldness was concerned). He was tinglingly aware of the closeness of every bit of her. His skin, encased in its statutory layers of clothing, had acquired a new sensitivity, to which even the coarseness of blue denim was no bar: the pressure of Hermione's knee against his set off a series of sparks that went shooting in a chain reaction throughout his body like a myriad of tiny jets of flame (Did she know?)
The second movement was indeed affecting. The guitar was slowly, quietly strumming, the English horn was plaintively lamenting, and he was gradually overcome by the slight sadness that he had felt at the Granger's summer honeysuckle garden. The sound was heartfelt, it was languishingly yearning for something wonderful and yet it could not reach. The melancholy atmosphere touched something inside him. The longing sound drew out his uncontrollable tenderness towards the one and only girl next to him. He turned his head to look at her, her eyes were sparkling with tears, and she was 'dying to it'. The sight captured his entire being, body and soul: candlelight was shimmering on the quantity of her bushy hair; on the smooth ivory tips of her shoulders; the fizzy spirals of her glimmering hair framed her pale, clear defined face, her soft brown eyes were gleaming with sadness. The emotional girl in front of his eyes, whom he cared for so much for so long, moved the something inside him, which he could tell was not his stomach (that had reacted to the prettiness of the old Cho when he first met her). He couldn't turn his head back, he couldn't take his eyes away, and he didn't care. (Didn't the sad movement turn them both on?).
Unable to contain his overwhelmingly 'sappy' feelings, he experimentally slipped an arm about her. For a second she stiffened, and he thought she was going to move; but then awkwardly, with none of the grace or fluidity she normally showed, she leaned her head against his shoulder. She was lightly shaking (and wasn't he, too?), he was caught in whiffs of her light honeysuckle scent (Why had he never noticed it before?).
They sat for a few moments, poised and unyielding, like a piece of ornamental figurines. The guitar and the English horn conversed their longing back and forth; eventually the entire orchestra took it up, joining the keening. This was most uncomfortable, not the music, or the girl, but their rigid postures. His arm was going dead, his neck was getting a crick, and he must do something. … And he wanted to.
After a brief quiet moment, the guitar started to lead the piece towards the ending climax. When the first sound of a passionate climax came (the musical climax), with his free hand, he tipped her face up towards him and pressed his lips firmly against hers. The cathartic sound was soaring, long and hard (no, he wasn't thinking about suggestive lines, not at the moment), he was overwhelmed with his own abiding feelings for her.
This was it: the moment of truth. By the law of average, everyone had to have a lucky break sooner or later.
Or perhaps it wasn't so much a lucky break as managing at last to find the flesh and blood in the right person. - with a little help from Terry and the concerto, it had to be admitted. All right, so he didn't mind admitting it. He wasn't proud. So he had Terry and the Spaniard to thank. So what? He could afford to be generous - now.
At long last, he had his favourite girl whom he had excruciatingly wanted gathered in his arms. He couldn't tell if he pulled her in or she pushed herself into his embrace (he had been enthralled by the pair of desiring lips between his eager ones, hadn't he?). Her soft lips were affectionately touching his, coquettishly squishing his, diligently pressing his, blazingly grazing his, her breaths broken, her body tremulous upon his (wasn't she a little bundle of nerves?).
He was properly exhilarated to discover that he was not the only party that was breathlessly 'intoxicated' by their first lip kissing- the girl he enfolded in his arms was made of flesh and blood indeed (not that he was ignorant that she also had other brilliant stuff in her). The Harry-eager Hermione thrilled him so much (how smug he was about making her so!) that he didn't mind himself being lovey-dovey towards her any more, now that he knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her (at least she was greedy for his kisses).
Her lips were vivid red, gleaming in the dim light from the candles. He kept them his captives and kissed them ravenously, they were soft and warm, they were supple and bewitching. He studied them for a moment, then he started to worry at them: he pulled them with his teeth, he pushed them with his lips, he licked them with his sentient tongue and he suckled on them noisily (manners, Harry! He was not at the table, was he?). She was holding on to him. 'Harry -' she quiveringly said, her mouth opened slightly. He blundered into it to take a taste, it was wet and spicy, he took another thirsty sip, and it was delicious (didn't he care about his image?). His boyish bumbling made her blush; she hid her mouth from him to his shoulder. He cuddled her gently back to him, he rubbed her neck softly and flitting one finger over her throat coaxingly, and he cradled her in his arms. She turned her face back, glowing pink as a rose. (He made bossy Hero bashful!).
He grazed her rosy cheeks with his thumbs, her cheeks were tender and warm as he always thought, he couldn't help setting about ravishing them: he tested them with small pinches, he lightly nipped them with his teeth, he brushed his stubble over them, they were turning bright red and angry hot, and she was gasping and gulping. 'Harry!-' she spread both her hands between his mouth and her face. He pulled her on to his lap, he soothed her against him (He was sorry. He was remorseful. No, he wasn't!). He petted her, he babied her: he blew cool air over her cheeks, he kissed them tenderly to make them better. He flicked his tongue over the tip of her nose, it was cold and springy; he nibbled at the delicate groove of her upper lip; and he flipped his tongue at the small dent under her lower lip (wasn't he officially a dolt? definitely). He made her giggle, he made her tinkle; she squeezed him back tight and lovingly. He sucked at the little nubs of flesh at the corners of her mouth; he decided they were his favourite spots (kinky dolt, to boot! Didn't he mind?).
He had positively lost his mind; he was blithely drunk in his glass of Hermione. He savoured her mouth, he devoured her lips, and he bit his favourite spots (not hard enough in his opinion). He made her quaver, he made her shiver, and he made her shudder. He clutched her closer to let her straddle his lap, he squeezed her to him. He couldn't get enough of kissing her, he wanted her, he -
The music quieted down. From somewhere or other he heard a voice.
His voice.
It seemed to be speaking of its own volition.
'I love you,' it was saying. 'I love you.' (What did he say? He couldn't help saying it.)
It sounded incredibly corny; like something out of some junk TV soap opera Aunt Petunia had been following. But still it kept on saying it.
'I love you, I love you …'
Hermione wrapped both arms round his neck, tightly.
'I love you too,' she whispered. (She loved him! Did she know what she had said? Did she mean it? Of course, she did, or she wouldn't snog him, would she? Would she?)
Somehow, it didn't sound quite so corny coming from her. In fact, it didn't sound corny at all. He would have liked to hear more of it, but instead, to his indignation and disgust, what he heard were the unmistakable sound of footsteps creaking on the floorboards outside, followed by the equally unmistakable sounds of a key being inserted in the lock. Hermione raised her head from his chest.
'What's that?'
'Don't worry.' Grim-faced, Harry swung him-self off the bed. 'Whatever it is, it's not coming in.'
He yanked open the door mere seconds ahead of Terry. Terry looked surprised.
'Oh! - Great. Thanks.'
'Don't thank me,' said Harry.
'What?'
'I said, don't thank me.'
'Why? What are you --'
'Down,' said Harry.
'Down?'
'Down!' He pointed, in a fury, at the stairs.
Terry, after a momentary hesitation, began slowly and protestingly to descend. He went down backwards, one step at a time, keeping a wary eye upon Harry as he did so.
'What are you playing at?'
'I might ask you the same question! What are you doing here?'
'What do you mean, what am I doing here? I live here!'
'Don't try being smart with me! I thought you said you were going to be out?'
'Well, I've been out, haven't I? Now I've come back.'
'At half past nine at night?'
'Yes. Well --' Terry reached the first landing and carefully negotiated the curve. He was still going backwards, still keeping one eye fixed nervously on Harry. 'Things didn't work out.'
'Too bad!'
'So what am I supposed to do? Tramp the streets for the next two hours?'
'Why not?'
'Come off it!' said Terry. 'It's raining cats and dogs out there.'
'So go and sit in the Leaky Cauldron. See what trade you can pick up.'
'Look --' Terry missed the last step, snatched too late at the banister rail and ricocheted backwards into the hall. 'This is my room you're turning me out of.'
'Our room,' said Harry. 'And I happen to be in possession of it, so you can just shove off … go on!' He took the last few stairs at a bound, grabbed Terry by the collar and forcibly manhandled him to the front door. 'Shove!'
'But look at it!' said Terry.
Harry looked. It was, indeed, coming down in buckets.
'You can't do this to me!'
At any other time, he probably couldn't. Tonight, he could. He held open the door.
'You can find a quiet corner to apparate. Out!'
Terry whimpered. He turned up his coat collar.
'Have you no heart?'
'Yes, but just at this moment it happens to be otherwise engaged. … go on!' He gave him a push. 'Get going!'
'I'll remember this,' said Terry. 'I'll get even with you, don't you worry!'
'Tell us about it later,' said Harry.
'OK, OK, take your little tumble! How stupid of me to tip you off to the fleshiness-n'-bloodiness of your littly precious, angely Hermioneous!' mocked Terry, laughing.
He closed the door and turned back, into the hall. From the second floor, the strains of the concerto's breezy third movement could be heard. He set off, three at a time, up the stairs. He couldn't waste precious minutes bandying words with Terry, he has other matters on his mind.
He had just made an important discovery: he was in love… and so was she. Were they?