Everything you recognise belongs to JKR and Ure's 'You win some, you lose some'. You have been duly warned.
A.N. Thanks to the wonderful and 'a-real-pain-in-the-neck' (or substituting it with the colourful alternative phrase) simonsays who 'butchered' the poor pretentious drafts and 'ridiculed' the (luckily) thick-skinned author, this chapter is finally shaped up for your consumption. If you like it, kiss him, if you don't, shoot him. That is to say, I meekly surrender this chapter to simonsays. (again?!)
Chapter 14 It's a curious paradox, isn't it?
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?
Hermione was sitting Japanese fashion (had she a passion for kneeling?) on the floor picking over the pile of CDs. She had her back to the door; didn't she hear him thumping up the stairs? He stopped at the doorway (if a bedsit could ever have a doorway): under the glimmering candlelight, she looked somewhat otherworldly in the pale coloured dress. Her outline was mysteriously shimmering (was he astigmatic? at his eighteen year of age?).
For a moment he couldn't think what he was doing, or what to do next. He wanted to be near her but his feet weren't able to move. He was seized by a sudden bashfulness as he was when he first saw her wearing French plait. He was never a shrinking violet - reserved or even secretive at times maybe - that's for sure. Why did he have to suffer a super-duper 'Hermione-shy' every time he caught sight of her under a new light? Just minutes ago, he had been right in the throes of passion. Hadn't he rather boldly held her in some 'scandalous' manner? He should be better able just to stride forward a few feet up to her. If only he could command his own body alone, never mind what he might do with it!
Upon his ridiculous immobility, she turned and looked him over. The corners of her mouth (his favourite spots) curved up a straight and yet shy smile: her cheeks soft pink. She stretched out her sylphlike arm invitingly (at least he hoped that's what she meant). Sylphlike? Skinny was the word he had used. Um, skinny or not, it worked like a charm with him. The painful shyness was gone within one flicker of the candle flame (the gods smiled on him), and he was unfrozen miraculously (It was Hero who smiled on him, he knew).
He returned her smile with equal warmth and a bit of an additional eagerness (which he couldn't help). Breathing a little easier, he trotted up for her hand. He was very pleased to hold her responsive fingers: he was reassured; and he was wanted. He knelt down beside her, hardly noticing the discomfort of his position.
They simply continued looking tenderly at each other (tenderly? was that how he smiled?). If they were not careful, they would appear a little foolish: grinning non-stop for no apparent reason! (If the twins saw them now…). He'd better say something. It came to his attention that Hermione spoke but very little tonight apart from the veggie-talk. She usually had enough to assert on every subject (what with a nickname as know-it-all and such!) Was she stunned by their first kiss? Or was it his 'corny' way of a confession of love? It seemed that he had worked a small 'miracle' on her. If she lost her power of speech and thought, he'd better think of something.
He said the first thing that came into his mind:
'Hermione?' (To no one's surprise, least of all his.)
'Hmm?' she said absentmindedly, watching his fingers following the intricate lines on her palm.
Suddenly she closed her hand around his fingers and burst out triumphantly with:
'Caught you!'
Her joyous laugh made him relax and a funny peculiar devil-may-care attitude coming over him. So what if they were lovey-dovey? So what if everyone else in the world had to play gooseberry? He could not care less, not when she was smiling at him, her eyes glinting with mischief.
Wasn't she childlike? She never was since he had known her. Wait, wait a moment, that's not true. The image of the twelve-year-old Hermione doing a sort of jig danced in his mind: she had wanted to sing, too, at Molfoy's detention the night they sent off Norbert. And at the twins' firework havoc she had been so bright and happy admiring the hullabaloo that she had generously let them off their homework for the night. He should know she had an impulsive merry child inside her (not literally, he was not thinking about babies, or the making of them). Even if she were childish, he would still find her childishness fascinating (hadn't he said that he was Hermione-minded? Keeping him rational about her was quite a bother). It was little wonder that he felt warm all over (was it love?) at the sally of her playfulness towards him.
He tried to imagine if any game could be dull when she took part in it. Her game actually looked amusing. He wanted to do more with her (the game). He pried her fingers open,
'OK, first to three wins. May the best man win!'
'Best woman you mean!'
'As you wish!'
He dropped his fingertips on top of her open palm and tickled around deliberately. He watched every tiny twitch of her hand like a hawk, unnerved by her simple glances and her direct smile. She feinted to snatch his fingers a few times that made him jump and her giggle. They were engrossed with it for quite a while and managed to lose counts of the scores, laughing and wrestling each other (hands only).
He was too quick for her. Although she grazed his fingers often, she couldn't get a proper grip. She was getting more and more frustrated but she was never petulant: she was still laughing with him (wasn't he lucky?). In the end he took pity on her, let himself be caught several times in a row. Although she knew what he was doing (a clever clogs, maybe no need for her smartness, anyone could make that out), still, she whooped at her victories (wasn't she a good sport?).
He never thought playing so simple (or silly?) a game with Hermione could mean such good fun and he thoroughly enjoyed it. They grew hot (in more than one sense of the word) and sweaty that they had to take a break to catch their breaths. While they sat, slumped against each other all muck of sweat and all (She did not seem to mind). He decided that he felt rather bold. He looked at her with a small grin as he called, for the first time,
'Hero?'
'Only my families call me Hero.' she caught up fast, smiling a little cheekily as Hebe once did.
'I thought I was granted to be part of the family,' he squeezed her fingertips, not looking at her.
'You are, only, you are neither my brother, nor my cousin.'
'It would be a blast if I were.' He pressed the pressure point between her thumb and her forefinger. (Dared he pinch it harder? She just might yelp).
'I'd be a better cousin than Dudley, wouldn't I? We would've been playmates before Hogwarts…' She smiled with her guileless eyes (playmate!).
He released her fingers. Rubbing them did things to him, and seeing an element of innuendo in every other word she said was no help either. He'd have to let off some of his steam:
'There's certainly something to be said for being bossed around by a raving little know-it-all instead of being a punching bag.' He grinned under the full glare of her dirty look. 'But, not when I do things that neither a brother nor a cousin should.'
For an instant, she was stock-still; her eyes looked down that he could see her tangled eyelashes clearly against her pink skin. If they were not already so hot, he would say her cheeks were warming up even more. He may be exasperated by his own bashfulness, but he could not say the same for hers. He was rather enjoying the view before him.
To relieve her from her shyness or embarrassment (if she really was embarrassed by his words, he was not sure) he took her hands in his, (actually, he found it difficult to keep away from them. Her fingers might do things but without them he felt lost). She looked up at him, smiled and said quietly:
'All right, you can call me whatever you like.'
'Hermy?'
She snatched away her hands and made for his shoulder, he fell back instinctively, chuckling. Half-annoyed, she hit his lap hard with both of her fists:
'Don't call me that, you cheeky!'
'You said whatever I liked,' still grinning he caught her wrists and pinioned them on his lap with mischief in his eyes.
'Aren't you too clever by half? I meant Hero!' She was struggling to free her hands.
'I love Hermy just fine, thank you very much!' he beamed at her.
There was a lot to be said for tussling with Hermione. It was more exciting than the palm game and it definitely did things to him. He was addicted to touching her forcefully as much as sappily. If they kept tackling each other, he couldn't guarantee things would not get out of hand. Did he want to try some dirty plots? It's not so much what he wanted as what she wanted. He'd rather her come on to him of her own accord. He could wait, couldn't he? He released her wrists, but hugged her in order to prevent her from attacking him again (For a 'skinny' girl like her, she did produce hearty punches). He kissed her pink cheek in an attempt to placate her. He smirked against her hot skin: he was still tempted to tease - provoked Hero was a sight for his sore eyes.)
'Don't push your luck, brother.' she warned as if she read his mind.
'Bad luck on you that I am not your brother.' (Why was she fixed on the subject of a brother?)
'Who are you, then?'
'I'm your … You are determined to be difficult, Um, what would you like me to be?'
'Leander?' she said it with such ease and good articulation, lo and behold, you'd think she used that word every day.
What was it with all these lover talks? First Hebe, now Hero herself, they were obsessed with that myth. To be sure, her families (with an exception of the prick, perhaps) all had a liberal turn of mind, and Hermione certainly was not afraid to speak her mind. He adored her for that. It was not that he minded being the one for her, in fact, it was what he wanted to be (he was dying to be, more accurately), but actually saying it! He'd thought more along the lines of boy friend or boyfriend.
His heart beat faster than the moment he was catching the snitch to win the Quidditch cup for Gryffindor. For a time, he was utterly unable to know what to say. He held her waist tight against him and rubbed her back gently to convey some of what he was feeling. But clearly, she was ahead in a different frame of mind (too many 'minds' around here):
'Harry, what about the girls?' she asked quietly.
'Who?' It was hard to keep up with her sometimes (was it? Or was he stalling? Heaven forbid that she was talking about what he was afraid she was).
'Don't you like that child Sally-Ann, chatterbox Mandy, Lady Muck Cho, or the playgirl Daphne?'
She dove straight in and pinned him down to the stickiest places. (The 'subtle' Hero was not for beating around the bush. He should've known there was a snag with his glaring omission of his ill-advised and ill-fated blundering. And, how did she know the girls so well? Just because the girls had gone to Hogwarts with them? Hermione had been quite the expert on Cho's tear-jerking campaign back in their fifth year.)
Her words shot out so briskly that he doubted if she was soft-pedalling it by any chance. There was distinctly a hint of pain (jealousy or bitterness?) in her tone. That made him uncomfortable and sombre. How he wished he had had the courage to ask her out first (think how much trouble it would've saved him, let alone what they might have done by now. Stop daydreaming and get on with the dire straits!).
He didn't care for the prospect of wrangling, especially with an ever so logical Hermione. Heaven knows she's reading for the bar! (What was he thinking pursuing a would-be-barrister?) He gazed at her vivid eyes. She looked endearingly Hermione-like even when she was upset with him. (No, he was not mad. If she would be a barrister, so be it.) He sat up straight, took both of her hands, which were no longer warm though still soft. He looked directly into her brown eyes, and said quietly,
'Hermione, I am not in love with any of them, I never was.' She opened her mouth but he forestalled her with, 'Listen, Hero. Listen to me: I want to be Leander.' (Fingers crossed that his simple dog peddling would be enough to cross the 'straits'.)
She carried herself nearer to him; she extended one cool finger to soothe his eyebrows, and he couldn't help responding to her touches. He kissed her. Her arms rounded his neck. She was so very soft. He murmured to her lips,
'I had been wanting to…' (was he addled by kissing her?)
'Before all those girls?' (She wasn't a cleverest witch for show.)
'Yeah, probably…' (where was this going?)
'Even when you were with them?'
'Hermione!' (Why did she have to ask difficult questions, one after another?)
'Why can't you tell me?' (Why was she so persistent?)
'It's embarrassing. And you won't like what you'll hear.' (This would only further excite her curiosity.)
'Isn't that my choice? I'd like to know.' (Demands, demands.)
'Hermione-, isn't that I am in love with you and only you enough?' he said in a quiet voice imploringly and yet accusingly, clutching her hands tight in his own. His heart missed a beat when he thought that he might lose her over his quest for experience (one could always pray and hope).
'Yes, but I need to know: Why did you mess around with other girls?' her eyes were glistening (were there tears? but, she did say yes).
But, how could she accuse him messing around? He hadn't got her, had he? He looked at her ruefully:
'It's not fair to call it messing around, I wasn't with you either, remember?'
Her chin was up again, and she let loose a torrent:
'Why weren't you? You loved me, didn't you? You were closer to me than a friend should. Can you honestly say you have been strictly platonic to me? And yet, your eyes still wandered to other girls.' she cried, piqued 'What made you go after them? What did they have that I hadn't?' (So much for the thought that she was never petulant, it looked like he got what he wished for: his spoiled rotten Hero).
He pulled her back into his arms, holding her there (he was not spoiling her, was he? It was just that he couldn't leave her in distress for any length of time, really). He said gently:
'Didn't you know? I didn't think I was good enough for you. I couldn't believe you could like me. Yes, I was dense and blind to it. But, you seemed not interested in the least. You were off-limits with a one-track mind on your study…' (Oops, hadn't he been one-track minded on the One Thing?)
'Not good enough! Don't mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness. And you made it worse by going-a-chasing the others.'
How could she feel unworthy? It would be him if there were anyone unworthy in their relationship. But he reckoned this was not the time for self-deprecating competition. There was still hurt in her voice. Had someone said honesty was the best policy? OK, he'd made his bed and now he must lie in it. He tried again:
'I am not proud of myself. I wanted to have some experience: since I couldn't have you, I went for the rest. But, even when you were out of my sight, I couldn't get you out of my mind - my head even speaks in your voice since the summer before our third year. You haunted me.' (Was it a fine heart-to-heart? Wasn't it a girl sort of thing? Or was he sweet-talking her? But he meant it, and most importantly, it was true.)
'Are you telling me, you put me down as a nun, and you had so much unresolved urge of losing your virginity that you went trapping the girls?' she scolded but there was a touch of a smile, too. (Yes!)
'Aren't you ingenious? Wasn't it obvious?'
He touched her lips tentatively. They upturned to form a perfect bow shape (she was smiling) for him; he nudged at her lower lip to reshape the bow into a circle. Then he sucked her soft lower lip into his mouth and suckled on the pink flesh. The inside of her lower lip was silkily slippery that he had to hold on to the little dent under her lower lip to stop it slipping away. She was giggling now. He nipped her lip with his teeth. She emitted a string of laughter and her lip escaped from his clutch. Unannounced, a cat and mouse chase was commenced: he would capture one or both of her lips and would try all his might to hold on to it; she would smile, giggle or laugh to pull it free. He had his right hand on the back of her head, his left round her waist to hold her against him.
They played about for some time. Their breaths grew shorter; their hearts beat louder, they became more and more daring, less and less playful. At some points, they had both tremblingly lost in what they were doing. Her arms were under his T-shirt, tightly round his waist; his hands found their ways to her hips on top of her little dress (What handfuls of the softness! He loved them). They had worked their mouths together with a zeal until their lips were painfully tired and their cheeks were hurt.
'Harry,' she whispered, after awhile 'Had you any success with the girls?'
'Hermione!' (Had she a habit of rendering him uttering but her name?)
'What?' she looked at him sheepishly and yet defiantly.
'You'll just have to be content with your own imagination because I won't talk about it any more.' He smiled coolly (Who said he couldn't stand up to her?).
'Well, I guess you haven't done it, then.' (Serve him right for being too friendly and too close to Hermione! As if being fiercely logical was not enough she was also maddeningly intuitive.)
'Wouldn't you like to know.' (Clutching at straws!)
'Very well, that means I don't have to tell you about Viktor or Neville, doesn't it?'
'What?! Viktor? Neville! What do you mean?' he was startled.
No matter what he tried, she wouldn't tell him a word about them. He was sorely tempted to tell her every detail of his diabolical misadventures and be done with it! Before long, he'd have to, because her wretched secrets were gnawing at him. They were eating at him. He tried to console himself that he had her now and he was the one she loved. But, the more he dwelled on it, the more he was lashed into a pang of fierce jealousy. What he wouldn't have given up to have her all to himself from the very beginning (what? from eleven?). Then why not tell her about his abysmal attempts?
He was a little frustrated (a little frustration every now and then was good for him, wasn't it?), more puzzled and most of all jealous. He kissed her harder, he held her tighter, he loved her, he was mad at her, and he was truly hopelessly, helplessly in lust for her. Now he understood what pain she had endured when he went off with other girls. He didn't half admire her courage and the level of control over her emotions. He couldn't imagine how he would be if he had been her. He was conscious that he had never been so irritable in all his life. He felt an urge to chase Neville down and beat the truth out of him. He would probably beat the hell out of him if Neville were not already prone to be scared off his pants. How could Neville think he was good enough for her? And she had been very protective of Neville. Harry was in agony. He couldn't understand why he was so possessive about her, about her past, no less.
'Harry?' her voice seemed to come from far away.
'Hmm?'
She turned his face towards her and kissed him softly on his cheek. He was humbled; his ego was bruised. He wanted to know, please tell him (he didn't give a toss about standing up to her at this very moment in time).
'Viktor had kissed me once.' (Ouch!)
'On the cheek?' he looked at her hopefully (on the hand would be OK).
'On the lips.' He shut his eyes and then snapped them open quickly upon catching a fleeting glimpse of an awful image involving a large bird of pray and …
'It was a close mouthed kiss. He wanted more, but I couldn't… That's not so bad, was it?' She consoled him, stroking his arms.
He was relieved at once: it was only a peck! It could have been worse. (What with a full-grown eighteen-year-old raging boy panting after his fifteen-year-old Hero, he would've had a mind to call him a paedophile if he had tried more than that dry peck!).
'And Neville?' he asked tentatively, he was preparing himself.
'Oh, that could hardly be called anything: he wrote to me to confess his little-more-than-friendly feelings the summer before the sixth year, and I told him that I didn't share his sentiment, that's all.'
'So, that's why he was so down at the beginning of the sixth year?'
'Maybe, I wouldn't know. He never mentioned it again.'
What a relief! But Harry found himself very conflicted: he felt for Neville too, for his ill-conceived attempt at winning Hermione (his Hero. How possessive he still was!). He argued with himself: it was two years ago; Neville should be able to forget it now, shouldn't he? Besides, for all he cared, Neville could have any other girl: say, Ginny, for a start.
He kissed his Hero protectively. She smiled,
'Satisfied? Now, it's your turn. Spill the beans!'
He sat her on his lap, messing her long lustrous hair up as he told her his fiascos with the girls, much to her not-so-delighted amusement. Just as he thought he had successfully done another heart to heart and earned the right to snog her, she surprised him with,
'So, I am your last resort?' (Yes, threw him into a state of panic, why not?!)
'You are not. Didn't you listen to me?' he reasoned with difficulty, 'I loved you from the start, before the girls.'
'Be that as it may, it still doesn't change a thing that you tried it in vain with every girl in sight, and then you invited me over,' she frowned, 'It still looked suspiciously like I am your last resort.'
'What do you really want, Hero? You'd rather me have succeed with one of the girls?' (Damned if he did and damned if he didn't!)
Silence.
'It's a curious paradox, isn't it? ' she said ruefully.
He knew she's the first for everything. It's only a matter of how to put it into words to make her see it.
'No, it's not. Think carefully, Hero. I asked you to let me love you. You are the first I asked. I didn't ask the girls for this.'
'You asked them for a bit of sex.' (No, he's not surprised she was quick.)
'See? You are the first and foremost.'
'But, I am still the last resort for a bit of sex.'
'You can't be, because I am not asking you for a bit of it.'
She stared, 'why?'
'Why? What do you think? I don't want just it. I want much more, all of you. Would you rather me ask you just for the sake of doing it?'
'It's only that I couldn't shake off the miserable feeling because you never asked me for it.' His heart leapt (Was it a come-on? Didn't he wish?!).
'How clever of you going full circle like that! First or last! What matters is' he pulled her nearer to him, and whispered to her ear: 'that I am asking you now. If you don't stop wrangling about the dratted first or last, I'll demand it, a lot of it, my Hero.'