Chapter Two
To love is to risk not being loved in return. To hope is to risk pain. To try is to risk failure, but risk must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing - Anonymous
~*~*~*~
Harry is missing.
It doesn't seem right. How can three little words make her feel as though someone is sticking hot pins into her stomach? After all, she's said them to herself a hundred times - at least - since the Order lost contact with Harry and Moody two days ago. One would think that those words would have lost some of their power by now. She says them aloud, wondering if perhaps this time she will actually believe them. "Harry is missing," she whispers unsteadily, and something inside her splinters in two.
Opening her eyes, she stares unseeingly at the peeling ceiling. She is sprawled on one of the twin beds in Fred and George's old room at The Burrow. Last night, as she lay awake for the second night in a row, she found herself vaguely wondering whether her temporary bed had belonged to Fred or George, but it had been hard to make herself care about the answer. It's hard to care about anything for the last two days except the very real and very frightening fact that she has no idea if Harry is dead or alive.
Kicking the sheets off her legs, she glances at the wristwatch lying on the bedside table. It's early, not yet seven a.m., and already uncomfortably warm. The windows are wide open, but there is no breeze to stir the heavy summer air. The pillow clings to the back of her damp neck as she rolls over onto her side, and she can't help wishing that Mr.Weasley's love of Muggle appliances ran as far as air-conditioning. The thought of casting her own Cooling Charm is tempting, but it's not usually something one does when one is a guest in someone else's house, particularly when she knows Mrs. Weasley will attend to it after breakfast, just as she does every morning. Besides, when Hermione thinks of Harry and what might be happening to him right now, the heat doesn't seem to matter that much.
She had arrived at The Burrow early Thursday morning, leaving home as soon as she'd received the owl from Ginny, something her parents had gently tried to dissuade her from doing. Her father had suggested that perhaps it would be better to wait for a proper invitation from Mr and Mrs Weasley before landing on their doorstep. Stricken with fear and desperately trying not to let it show, Hermione had just looked at her mother and said that she needed to be at The Burrow. Thankfully, her mother had understood. She'd taken one look at her daughter's face, quietly shushed her husband when he would have protested further, then offered to help pack an overnight bag.
Hermione shifts restlessly on the slightly lumpy mattress. She had the feeling that her mother had understood a little too well. Her hug of farewell had been accompanied by a whispered, "I'm sure he will be all right," a soft reassurance that had left Hermione both blushing and close to tears.
She sighs heavily, knowing that she really should get up, get dressed and get herself downstairs. Mrs.Weasley will already be in the kitchen, no doubt creating yet another breakfast huge enough to feed them all ten times over, despite the fact that healthy appetites are in short supply. But as soon as she goes downstairs, Hermione thinks, she will be forced to begin yet another day of not knowing if Harry and Moody are alive. Another day of seeing her own fear mirrored in everyone else's eyes. Perhaps if I just stay in bed, the waiting won't hurt so much. Mulling over this rather unGriffyndor-like thought, she rolls onto her back and gazes around her temporary bedroom. It's more of an attempt to distract herself than anything else, but the visible remnants - teenage posters and comic books and battered furniture - of the room's previous occupants are simply more reminders of just how much has changed in their lives, and a hot scratchiness tightens her throat.
Being at The Burrow has always reminded her of summer holidays and the lazy sound of buzzing bees. Watching the boys play Quidditch until it was too dark to see. Eating strawberries until she felt as though she would burst. Being at The Burrow has always made her feel happy and safe. But not this time. This time, all she feels is afraid.
And snappish too, she admits unhappily. The house seems unbearably overpopulated, even with Fred and George now living in the flat above their shop. The stifling heat has only made everything worse - voices are shriller, tempers are shorter, the waiting harder. And the waiting is indeed the hardest part of all. This feeling of utter helplessness is more painful than anything she could have ever imagined. She feels sluggish and heavy - as though the weight of her grief is pushing her to the ground - and a thousand years older than almost nineteen.
Her eyes fill with tears and she dashes them away. Her throat still aches after yesterday's crying. She's not sure she's got the strength for any more tears. Hermione puts one hand over her eyes, her fingertips trembling against her damp eyelids. This can't be happening. This can't be how it ends. It just can't. Not after everything we've been through, not before I can tell him how much - She can't finish the thought. It feels as though the walls of her chest are closing in on her heart, squeezing it painfully.
Three years ago, she and Harry had shared a brief but memorable kiss, then made an optimistically adolescent pact not to let it change their lives or distract them from the 'bigger picture'. For the most part - the occasional weakening of resolve notwithstanding - that pact had held fast. Somehow, she had managed to get through the last two years of Hogwarts without embarrassing herself by doing anything foolish such as telling Harry she'd decided she'd made a mistake by saying they needed to wait and would he mind kissing her again? She had buried herself in her books and her exams and the Order and the daunting task of keeping Harry alive, and that had almost been distraction enough. Almost, she muses sadly, thinking of all the times she felt as though her heart had been sliced in two, as though half of her had somehow gone missing without her noticing.
Her heart leaps into her throat at the sound of footsteps pounding along the corridor, and she barely has time to sit up in bed and throw back the covers before there is a frantic burst of hammering on the bedroom door. Her voice doesn't seem to want to work, but that doesn't matter. Ginny erupts into the room without waiting for an answer to her knock, flinging the door open so hard that it smacks with a resounding bang against the wall behind it. "They're alive."
Alive. Hermione opens her mouth to speak, but she is suddenly, horribly afraid. Ginny's eyes are puffy, her face pale, and Hermione is afraid that she has simply imagined the word she wants so desperately to hear. But Ginny is smiling and her eyes are glittering with tears of relief, not sorrow. The hard shell of fear around Hermione's heart begins to crack, helping her find her voice. "How do you -"
Ginny beams at her. She looks as though she might break into a spirited jig at any moment, and Hermione feels her own feet begin to twitch with the same urge. "Fawkes arrived a few minutes ago with a message from Dumbledore."
"Oh!" Hermione's sigh is a whispery sound that seems to come up from the soles of her feet. She feels as though she's been holding her breath for days. Never before has she appreciated the truth in the Muggle cliché of a weight being lifted from one's shoulders as she does at this moment in time. She suddenly feels a hundred pounds lighter, as though she might just float right up to the ceiling she has spent so many hours studying. The scratchy feeling at the back of her throat turns into a tickle, a tickle that immediately threatens to become a shout of joy. However, mindful of Ginny's shrewd gaze, she hastily swallows the impulse and instead clambers quickly out of bed to stand on legs that aren't quite steady.
As she begins to look for her clothes, she tosses one question after the other at Ginny. "Are any members of the Order downstairs? Has anyone talked to Harry? How are we going to get to Grimmauld Place?"
Suddenly Ginny is standing beside her, close enough to put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "They're not at Grimmauld Place."
"Where are they?" Hermione asks automatically, her blood icing over as she realises the all-too-likely answer. Please, not that. I couldn't bear it. Not again. "Not St. Mungo's?"
Ginny squeezes her shoulder, a reassuring gesture from a close friend who - like Hermione's mother - seems to understand a little too well. "They're at the Ministry. Apparently Madame Bones has requested a full debrief from both of them." She makes a face, instantly looking more fourteen than almost eighteen. "They could be there for hours, Dad said. He's just left for the Ministry himself."
Torn between heady relief and bitter frustration, Hermione bites back a weary sigh. Once again, it seems as though there is nothing to do but wait.
~*~*~
Arriving at The Burrow just after two o'clock that afternoon, Mr. Weasley is promptly set upon by his wife, his two youngest children and their houseguest. Reeling under the onslaught, he pleads for clemency, at least until 'a man's had the chance to have a cup of tea and a sit down'. His wife promptly begins to bustle - Hermione knows she will forever equate that particular word with Molly Weasley - about the kitchen, her wand little more than a blur as she starts the kettle boiling and flings several crumpets underneath the griller.
"Sit down, Arthur," she says briskly, "and take off those silly boots. How you can walk in those things, I have no idea."
Despite her anxiety to hear about Harry, Hermione finds herself sneaking a peek beneath the table at Mr. Weasley's feet. He is wearing a pair of steel-capped Muggle boots, the kind usually worn by construction workers, and the sight makes her smile. "They're called Blunderstuns, I think," Mr. Weasley confides in a conspiratorial whisper, catching her eye. "Excellent support for the arches," he adds with a weary grin.
Hermione returns his smile, then glances at Molly Weasley, who is busily setting out several brightly coloured mugs on the kitchen bench. Darting a look at Ron and Ginny, she sees her own frustration in their eyes. They won't be able to get anything worth knowing out of Mr. Weasley while Mrs. Weasley is within earshot.
After half an hour spent drinking tea she doesn't want and making small talk she knows she won't remember, Hermione feels like smashing her brightly coloured mug to the ground. She likes Molly Weasley very much - her smothering tendencies notwithstanding - but she's never wanted to see the back of someone so badly. To her great relief, Mr. Weasley, finally picking up their increasingly desperate sign language, comes to their rescue.
"I think I may have seen a few of the chickens outside the coop on my way in, my dear," he says casually to his wife, who immediately slips off her apron, shaking her head at him.
"For goodness sake, why didn't you say something earlier? They're probably halfway to the Cleary's house by now." Muttering something under her breath about 'those wretched birds are more trouble than they're worth', Molly leaves the kitchen at a brisk pace.
"Works every time," Ginny chuckles. "It's a good thing those bloody feather dusters won't come to anyone else."
"Language, Ginny," her father says absentmindedly, watching the still-swinging kitchen door. After a few seconds, apparently satisfied his wife has left the house, he turns to Hermione. "They're both fine. They're at the Ministry now, but will probably make their way to Grimmauld Place later this evening."
The knots in the pit of Hermione's stomach loosen slightly, but it's not enough. "Please, Mr. Weasley," she pleads softly, "what happened?"
He hesitates, his kindly gaze sliding sideways to his daughter, then back to Hermione. "I'm not sure I should -"
"Come on, Dad," Ron interjects cajolingly, "you know we'll make Harry tell us everything as soon as we see him." He gives his father a bright smile. "You'd actually be helping him out by telling us now, you know, so he doesn't have to do so much talking tonight."
Ginny's hand goes to her mouth as if to smother a giggle, and Hermione makes a mental note to buy Ron a box of chocolate frogs as soon as possible. That was a piece of smooth-talking worthy of the great Fred and George Weasley.
Mr. Weasley's lips twitch with a hint of a smile and then, after another glance toward the kitchen door, he pushes aside his empty plate and leans his elbows on the table. "They were just about to leave Romania," he begins in a hushed tone, "when they encountered a particularly nasty group of Death Eaters. I don't have all the details as such, but our boys were under strict orders to keep a low profile, so they tried to beat a hasty retreat." Mr. Weasley shrugs. "Best laid plans, as they say."
Despite the heat of the day, a cold finger of dread trailing down Hermione's spine, making her shiver. Mr. Weasley leans across the table, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "The Death Eaters had other ideas, as they usually do, and eventually Harry and Moody found themselves pinned down in an old steel factory. They had their invisibility cloaks, of course, but the building had been charmed in such a way that they couldn't get out while wearing them. Devilishly clever idea, I have to admit," he adds, almost as an afterthought. "Anyway, they managed to give the Death Easters the slip, but they were stuck in there for almost two days before they were able to reverse the charm. The Death Eaters had posted a watch outside, you see. It was a pretty hairy ordeal, from what I can gather."
Ron glances at Hermione and his sister, then ventures a puzzled, "Why didn't they just blast their way out? Harry and Moody could take on a dozen Death Eaters with their eyes closed."
Mr. Weasley smiles indulgently at his youngest son. "I'm sure they considered it, Ron, but that wouldn't have exactly been low profile, would it?"
"I guess not." Ron drums his fingers on the tabletop, then looks at his father. "Still, they got out of it okay, didn't they?"
"They're both fine now."
Something about the way Mr. Weasley says 'now' makes Hermione's heart do an odd little jig. "What do you mean now? Were they hurt?"
Mr. Weasley hesitates and Hermione feels her hands curl into tight little fists, her fingernails digging into her palms. "Please tell us, Mr. Weasley," she whispers pleadingly. "It can't be any worse than we've been imagining."
Arthur Weasley sighs heavily. "I guess you'll find out soon enough." He glances at them each in turn as he speaks, his tone gently reassuring. "Harry took a rather nasty curse to the shoulder, and Moody's lucky he's still got his one good eye."
Hermione tries to speak, but there's an egg sized lump in her throat. She hopes she doesn't look as horrified as she feels. Ginny looks stricken, and Ron's complexion is alternating between bright pink and pale grey.
Mr. Weasley looks around the table. "Cheer up, you lot. The healers at St Mungo's took good care of them and they were both back on their feet within an hour or so. As I said, they're both perfectly fine now."
Deep in thought, Hermione gnaws at her bottom lip as she considers Mr. Weasley's last words. She knows that healers would have done their best to banish the physical pain, but she also knows that sometimes the deepest scar a curse leaves behind is the ones you cannot see.
The slamming of the front door makes her jump and she gives Mr. Weasley a hasty, smile. "Thanks, Mr. Weasley," she says quickly. "We were just so worried…"
Reaching across the table, Arthur Weasley gives her hand an awkward pat. "Think nothing of it," he says soothingly. "I know what it's like to have to sit and wait for news of a loved one."
His choice of words makes Hermione's face grows warm, and she is absurdly grateful to Mrs. Weasley for choosing that moment to fling open the kitchen door. "Only four eggs between the lot of them," she complains cheerily to the room at large. "Bloody hens. More trouble than they're worth."
~*~*~
It's four o'clock in the afternoon before they receive another message from Dumbledore, but it's finally the message Hermione has been waiting to hear. If they wished to travel to Grimmauld Place this afternoon, Harry and Moody would join them there in a few hours.
"Ginny, dear, send an owl to your brothers. They'll probably want to join us."
Ginny grins. "Which brothers did you have in mind?"
"What?" Momentarily flustered, her mother shakes a finger at her. "Don't give me any cheek today, it's far too hot. You know perfectly well that I mean Fred and George." She waves Ginny away, then turns to Hermione. "Your parents won't mind if you come along, will they?"
"They'll be fine with it, I'm sure," Hermione smiles politely, not bothering to remind Mrs. Weasley that she is almost nineteen years old and therefore responsible for her own decisions. She knows that to Mrs. Weasley, she - along with Harry and the Weasley children - would always be a child to be protected and guided. That's just the way it was at The Burrow, and it was oddly reassuring - when it wasn't incredibly irritating, of course.
Mrs. Weasley nods and smiles, her gaze quickly sweeping Hermione from head to toe. "You may want to change then, dear, if we're going into the city." She looks over Hermione's shoulder, then frowns. "You're not wearing that old thing, Ronald Weasley," she says briskly, moving away to presumably badger Ron into a more suitable outfit. Looking down at her faded t-shirt, denim shorts and well-worn trainers, Hermione sighs. Grimmauld Place is hardly the cultural centre of London, but perhaps Mrs. Weasley has a point. She doesn't really fancy the prospect of meeting Harry - and Moody, she adds hastily - looking like she'd gotten dressed in the dark.
Speaking of which…She frowns, running an experimental hand through her hair as she climbs the stairs to her temporary bedroom. After two sleepless nights combined with several days' relentless humidity, she knows without looking that her hairstyle rivals that worn by the infamous Medusa. Her stomach filling with butterflies whose existence she doesn't want to acknowledge, let alone analyze, she pays a quick visit to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face and dampening her hair until it's more curls than frizz. Pulling her hair back into a loose ponytail, she hurries back to her room to study her meager supply of clothes with an unhappy eye. It's far too hot for jeans, and yet wearing a girlish summer dress might make it look as though she's dressed up especially for the occasion. Oh, this is absurd, she finally tells herself, exasperated. He's seen you a thousand times, what does it matter what you're wearing?
Doing her best to ignore the fact that her hands are shaking, she dresses quickly in a flaring knee-length skirt and a short-sleeved knitted top, an outfit she usually wears when she goes to the cinema with her parents. After slipping her feet into a pair of flat sandals, she looks at herself in the mirror. Her face looks pale and pinched, her eyes still slightly puffy, her hair its usual nondescript self. This is absurd, she thinks again. Why on earth am I worrying about these things? It's just Harry.
Hermione turns away from the mirror, knowing that it's not 'just Harry', and it hasn't been 'just Harry' for a very long time. One would think she'd be used to this by now, but something has happened to her over the last two days. She knows it's ridiculous, but she can't shake the feeling that when she sees Harry this evening, everything will have changed. That he will look at her and somehow he'll know exactly what she was thinking and feeling about him while he was missing. That her face will somehow be as good as a signed confession.
"Come on, Hermione," Ginny calls from the other side of the closed door. "Mum's waiting in the kitchen. Dumbledore's cleared us to travel by Floo, but only if we make it snappy."
"Sorry." Picking up her leather backpack from the floor, she crosses the room to open the door. "I just needed to - uh -" Ginny quirks a dark red eyebrow at her, and Hermione feels her face grow hot. "I just wanted to do something about my wretched hair," she finishes hurriedly. "I didn't want to go to Grimmauld Place looking like a banshee."
Ginny's answering smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, and Hermione feels an unwelcome and all-familiar pang of guilt. The spectre of Ginny's long-term crush on Harry never completely leaves her thoughts, and she suspects it is the same for Ginny. She opens her mouth to speak, to explain - how or what, she doesn't know - but Ginny is already turning away. "You look nice," she replies lightly, hooking her own knapsack over her shoulder. "Let's go downstairs before Mum sends out a search party."
~*~*~
When I die, Hermione thinks darkly, I shall leave instructions for, "Here lies Hermione Jane Granger, who wasted most of her life waiting for Harry Potter" to be engraved on my tombstone.
It's just after eight o'clock and the last remnants of daylight grasp at the sky like long, pale fingers. Hermione shifts restlessly, trying to ease the tension in her arms and shoulders. Her elbows are pressed against the rough wood of the windowsill, her nose inches from the smudged glass. I really should clean this room, she thinks vaguely, then shrugs. After all, what difference does it make? She's the only person who uses this room - a makeshift study that was once Buckbeak's room - and her visits to Grimmauld Place are sporadic at best.
When the doorbell finally rings, Hermione holds her breath, waiting - she realises with a start - for Mrs Black to begin her usual shrieking. But Mrs Black's portrait is long gone, her loyal servant Kreacher long since in the service of Narcissa Malfoy, and there is nothing to hear but the violent pounding of her own heart.
She makes her way slowly down the stairs, noticing everything and nothing all at once. The wood of the balustrade is smooth and cool beneath her fingertips, unlike the peeling windowsill upstairs. The stairs creak beneath her every step, a ragged, high-pitched wheeze of age and decay. The sound of voices grows louder as she descends the stairs and she quickly traces the source of the noise to the kitchen. She walks quickly along the hallway, the soles of her sandals rasping on the well-worn carpet runner, then reaches out a faintly trembling hand to push open the kitchen door.
The room is filled with people and noise. Too many Weasleys in the way, she thinks uncharitably, then is quietly ashamed of herself. Her stomach churning, she gazes about the room, looking for the person who has occupied her every thought - sleeping and waking - for the last two days. For a few seconds, all she can see is the back of Moody's grizzled head, and she wonders if she will have to resort to standing on tiptoes. Suddenly Moody steps aside to greet Kingsley, and she finds herself staring at Harry.
Just looking at him makes her heart ache. Exhaustion is etched on his face. He looks more tired than she's ever seen him, and over the years she has seen him look as though he's gone weeks without sleep. Dark stubble roughens his usually smooth jaw and she knows she's never seen those circles beneath his eyes.
She watches as he lets Mrs. Weasley hugs him tightly, then shakes Mr. Weasley's hand. Ron and Ginny are standing a few feet away, chatting happily with Tonks, and Hermione can only assume they managed to say their hellos before the senior Weasleys took their places. Wiping her suddenly damp palms on the front of her skirt, she pushes her way into the room, her gaze trained on Harry.
"Hermione!" His eyes lit up when he sees her, and the sight of his smile does very strange things to the pit of her stomach. More butterflies? Oh, dear God.
"Harry!" His grin widens and she suddenly doesn't care that they are surrounding by Weasleys and the rest of the Order. Closing the distance between them in record time, she flings her arms around his neck and hugs him tightly. "I'm so glad to see you." Pressing her check against his, she closes her eyes and inhales the scent of soap and night air and warm male skin. "Everybody's been so worried." I've been so worried, she wants to say, but the words get caught in her throat.
Harry chuckles wearily, and she feels the echo of his laughter rumble through her own chest. "I was rather worried myself."
She pulls back, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the hard warmth of his body against hers and the fact that his hands are on her hips. "You look terrible," she says teasingly, hoping to diffuse the sudden tension she can feel swimming around them. He didn't, of course. Dressed in a dark green t-shirt and faded black jeans, he's the best thing she's seen in a very long time, but her self-preservation instincts are far too ingrained to resist such an easy target.
"Really? I thought I was looking better." He gives her a bright green wink that does nothing to distract her from the hollow exhaustion in his eyes. "You should have seen me before the Ministry let me have a shower."
Over her laughter, Hermione hears the sound of Fred and George arriving - deliberately late for greater dramatic effect, of course - and being greeted by the growing crowd of visitors. Mr and Mrs Weasley move away, obviously wanting to welcome their sons. The press of people ebbs and flows, and Hermione suddenly feels penned in. "This place is a madhouse!" she exclaims as a nudge from Kingsley Shacklebolt's right shoulder almost knocks her sideways.
Dipping his head, Harry puts his lips close to her ear. "So what else is new?"
Later, Hermione can't decide exactly how it happens. Certainly, it's due to yet another accidental shove in the back from a fellow member of the Order, but perhaps it's also deliberate on her part - her subconscious finally winning out over her self-control. However it happens, one minute she is laughing with Harry, a decent foot of empty air between them, then the next minute she literally lurches back into his arms. Still laughing, she lifts her chin as Harry leans down to speak to her, and her mouth brushes against his in a feathery, accidental kiss that almost stops her heart.
His bottom lip catches on hers, giving her a lightening quick taste of his mouth. Heat floods her veins, bubbling under her skin, burning her from the inside out. Her heart pounding, she jerks her head backwards, horrified that everyone in the room will have seen them, terrified that Harry will be looking at her with disappointment.
But no one else seems to have noticed, thanks to the crush of people surrounding them, and Harry is not looking at her with disappointment. But he isn't looking at her as though he's just been zapped by Muggle electricity, either. He's just smiling at her the same way he's smiled at everybody else in the room tonight, then someone - Fred, she thinks - reaches through the crowd and grabs his arm, drawing him away. Her mouth still tingling, Hermione stands and watches Harry jokingly wince as George and Fred slap him hard on the back, then as he laughs with Ron and Ginny at something Ron is saying. Her heart pounding and her pulse racing, she stands and watches as Harry doesn't spare her another glance, and then Hermione Granger does what no Gryffindor should ever do.
She runs away.
~*~*~
Hermione has always liked this room. She liked it when it was Buckbeak's hideout, and she liked it even more when Buckbeak had returned to Hagrid's care at Hogwarts. Harry had had the room cleaned, then dragged in an antique desk and chair, a bookcase and two ancient but comfortable settees. "This is yours to use whenever you need it," he'd told her, his eyes dark and serious, and the unspoken invitation in his words had made her heart soar.
Yes, she's always liked this room. Tonight, however, she feels as though the four walls are closing in on her. "Idiot." She glares at herself in the oval mirror hanging on the wall above the desk, then turns to glare out the window, just as she did during her vigil that afternoon. "That's what you are, a complete and utter idiot."
"Is that directed at you or at me?"
She slowly turns, already embarrassed by her impulsive flight from the kitchen. "I didn't see you there."
Harry gives her a look that quite plainly says 'obviously', then shoves his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, as though he doesn't quite know what to do with them. "May I come in?" he asks finally, breaking a silence that is well beyond the danger of becoming awkward.
She leans against the windowsill, her palms pressed hard against the rough wood. "Of course. It's your house." As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she wishes she could take them back. What is wrong with me? "How's your shoulder?" she asks hastily.
He steps into the room, his movements as graceful and economical as always. "It stings a bit, but it'll be fine."
"Is it still a mad crush downstairs?" she asks, carefully keeping her tone light.
"Not so much. Ron and the twins have just gone out to buy some Butterbeer." Closing the door behind him, he studies her for a few seemingly endless seconds, then asks the question she least wants to hear. "What's wrong?"
Knowing there's no answer she can give him that will make this situation any less awkward, she retreats behind a simple, "Nothing's wrong."
"I've been talking to Ginny," he says pleasantly, the casual tone of his voice decidedly at odds with the determined gleam in his eyes.
Hermione forces herself to give him a cheery smile. "That's nice."
Harry's eyes never leave hers. "She told me that you've hardly eaten or slept for the last two days because you were so worried," he takes a few slow steps toward her, and Hermione's pulse flutters, "which makes me wonder why you're up here when Moody and I are downstairs."
Making a mental note to give Ginny a short, sharp slap on the backside the next time she sees her, Hermione shakes her head and forces another smile. "Oh, don't mind Ginny. She's exaggerating - you know how she is."
He doesn't return her smile. "Yes, I know," he says quietly, taking another step toward her, "but that doesn't explain why you're hiding up here."
"I'm not hiding," she shoots back with more force than she intends, then takes a deep breath. "Look, I'm fine. Perfectly fine."
She can see the frustration in Harry's eyes. "Tell me what's wrong."
They stare at each other, and Hermione is struck by the painful irony of the situation. Three years ago, she had cornered Harry in this very house, in that very same kitchen, and forced him to have this very same conversation. The only difference is this time, she is the one looking for a quick escape. "I just had a weird moment." She waves a dismissive hand. "Forget about it."
Harry's lips firm in a stubborn line she recognizes all too well, and she realizes with dismay that he is not going to let this go. "What kind of weird moment?"
The windowsill is digging into the small of her back, heightening the sense of being trapped. She doesn't want to talk about this, not here, not now. "Forget about it," she says, pushing herself away from the window. "Let's go downstairs."
Harry shakes his head. "Not until we've sorted this out."
Feeling more than a little besieged, Hermione's temper begins to fray. "It is sorted. You and Moody are back, safe and sound, and I'm very happy to see both of you."
Harry raises his eyebrows, looking utterly unconvinced, and Hermione's temper frays even further. She thinks of his complete non-reaction to their accidental kiss and her patience suddenly snaps. "Look, if you can't work it out for yourself, Harry," she retorts, "then there's really no point in telling you."
His gaze narrows and she instantly regrets her brief lapse into the cold, hard truth. Smoothing one hand down the front of her shirt, she takes a few steps around him, edging toward the door. "Come on - everyone will be wondering where you are."
"Is it because of what happened downstairs?"
The softly spoken question stops her in her tracks and the hesitancy in his voice reaches deep into her heart, stripping away what remains of her resolve. "In a way." Hermione closes her eyes for an instant, feeling like a tightrope walker about to take that first step into thin air, then half-turns to face him. "Do you ever think about it, Harry?" The words feel heavy on her tongue. Awkward. "The last time, I mean."
He looks at her for a long moment and she is once again filled with the urge to flee, to run away before he can answer and she is forced to face the unpleasant fact that he doesn't…
"Yes." His answer slices through her insecurities like a hot knife through butter, his voice filled with a quiet conviction that quickens her pulse. "Do you?"
Her heart hammering against her ribs, Hermione takes a second step out into thin air. "Yes, I do." And while we're being painfully honest…"More than I would like, actually."
Harry frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"
God save me from wounded male pride. "It means that our …" her face grows hot, but she forces herself to go on, "…that it obviously meant - means - more to me than it did to you and I'm an complete and utter idiot for letting it affect my -"
Closing the distance between then with one long stride, he wraps his hand around her upper arm and turns her around to face him, his fingers digging slightly into her skin. "Is that what you really think?"
"I don't know what I really think, not anymore." She stares at him for a long moment, all her feelings and hopes and fears bubbling up inside her, then shakes her head almost helplessly. "I thought you were dead," she finally whispers, the last word a half-sob that snags in the back of her throat.
Something dark flickers in his eyes. "I almost was." She opens her mouth to speak, then suddenly his hands are on her shoulders, pulling her closer, and he is kissing her, kissing her so hard that her knees actually buckle.
For a few seconds, she freezes. She can't think, can't move. All she knows is that his mouth is on hers and her hands are pressed flat against his chest and she can feel the frantic beat of his heart beneath her palm. When his tongue brushes against her bottom lip she pulls away, her heart keeping the same frantic beat as her thoughts.
"This could be a bad idea," she whispers, but her objection sounds weak even to her own ears and she knows that she hasn't convinced herself, let alone Harry.
"Actually, I think it's a bloody brilliant idea," he mutters, his voice roughened by the same desire that is making her toes curl. He kisses her again, hesitantly at first, then with a fierceness that chases every coherent thought from her head. He tastes of tea and mint and a dark, spicy warmth that has haunted her dreams for three long years, and she wants nothing more than to sink into him, lose herself in the heat of his mouth. When his tongue curls around hers, a fluttering, almost nauseous sensation unfurls low in her belly. For the first time in her life, Hermione feels a rush of pure lust burst through her veins, and it's as terrifying as it is intoxicating.
Pulling her mouth away from his, she buries her face in the crook of his shoulder. "Harry," she whispers unsteadily, unsure if she's pleading for mercy or asking for more. Turning her head, she presses her lips against the warm, smooth skin of his throat. Her whole body begins to hum with a delicate hunger, her senses filling with the lemon-soap scent of his hair, the salty taste of his skin.
A shudder goes through him, then his hands slide down the length of her back, pulling her closer. She feels him - hard and urgent - pressing against her belly, unfamiliar and almost shocking, and her mouth goes dry, her blood roaring in her ears. The gentle kiss they shared on the night of Harry's sixteenth birthday party has done little to prepare her for this onslaught on her senses. This is something entirely different. It's okay. It's Harry. It's just Harry, she tells herself once more, this time in desperation. But there is nothing 'just' about the way he is making her feel, or the effect she is obviously having on him. This is serious and adult and something they shouldn't be doing, not now, not here. But then his hands are cupping her face, lifting her mouth to his, his kiss hot and deep and desperate, and she is lost. Pushing aside all thought of decorum or appearances or willpower, she curls her arms around his neck and kisses him in the way she has never truly dared to let herself imagine.
His hands tighten on her hips as another shudder ripples through him, then she feels her feet leave the floor. The room blurs around her and, before she can even blink, they're sitting on one of the old couches, then Harry is kissing her again and everything's in slow motion but happening so fast that her head is spinning. They tumble backwards together onto the couch, her feet tangling awkwardly with his, his jeans brushing against her bare legs. They end up half-sitting, half-lying on the settee, the worn upholstery hard against her back, her suddenly aching breasts pressing against Harry's chest, her flimsy summer skirt riding up dangerously high on her thighs.
We shouldn't be doing this, she tells herself, then frantically tries to remember exactly why they shouldn't as Harry curls his hand around the nape of her neck to gently tilt her head backward, his mouth literally devouring hers in a kiss that she feels everywhere. All her clothes suddenly feel two sizes too small, as though the heat of her body has caused them to shrink, and her lungs don't seem to want to work properly. Kicking off her sandals, she instinctively lifts her hands to Harry's chest, but any thought of pushing him away flees when she feels the heat of him beneath her palms. Her fingertips begin to itch with the urge to slip beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt, tingle with the need to feel his skin.
Their legs tangle briefly as Harry shifts his weight, then his knee suddenly presses between her thighs. A glorious sensation - hot, liquid pleasure - washes over her, pooling low in her belly, and she tears her mouth away from his with a ragged gasp. Her pulse is pounding everywhere - in her fingertips, her breasts, between her legs - the thrum of desire in her blood growing heavier and faster with every beat of her heart.
"Harry, this is insane, everybody's downstairs, we can't…" Even as she whispers the words against his lips, she knows she doesn't want to leave this room.
Harry lifts his head, his mouth faintly reddened, his breathing just as ragged as hers. "I…" He stares at her for a few seconds, then shakes his head, looking as though he's just been on the receiving end of a rogue Bludger. "I'm sorry," he mutters unsteadily, his eyes glittering behind his glasses. "I shouldn't have…"
"Don't," she whispers, not wanting to hear an apology. For two whole days she has faced the very real fear that he could be dead. In the last forty-eight hours, she has lived a whole lifetime of her very worst nightmare, and now he is here and safe and breathing and warm and very much alive. Her heart feels as though it has only just started beating again after two days spent packed in ice, and she simply can't bear for him to regret anything that has just happened between them. "Don't you dare be sorry."
She watches the smooth column of his throat work as he swallows hard, then he bows his head and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I'm not sorry," he murmurs, his lips grazing hers, his words are little more than a whispered sigh fluttering across her mouth, "but maybe we should stop."
Lifting one hand to his face, she brushes a few strands of jet-black hair back from his damp forehead with her fingertips, knowing she is about to take that last step out into thin air. Holding her breath, she gently slides his glasses down his nose, her fingers trembling against the thin metal. Her gaze locks with his as she drops her hand over the side of the couch and carefully places his glasses on the floor. "I don't want you to stop," she hears herself say, her voice that of a breathless stranger, "I want you to lock the door."
Harry's eyes darken, a kaleidoscope of emotions flickering across his face. "Are you sure?" His voice is low and rough, the words pronounced a little too carefully, as though it is an effort to speak.
"Yes," she whispers, slowly sliding her hands up his arms to smooth her palms over the curve of his shoulders. Despite the solid warmth of the muscles beneath her hands, she can't believe that this is happening. Perhaps she is still lying on Fred's - or was it George's - old bed, and this is all a dream. "Quite sure, actually."
He closes his eyes for a moment as though he, too, is having trouble believing this is real, then he waves his hand toward the door. She feels the soft whisper of magic rustling through the air, hears the click of the lock. Harry turns back to her, takes her face in his hands, gives her a tiny smile, then his mouth covers hers in a kiss that steals the breath from her lungs.
Hermione is almost nineteen years old. She knows how her body reacts to sexual stimulus. She has read books and magazines, both Wizard and Muggle, on the subject in question. More importantly, she has also read about the very human need to reaffirm life after a near-death experience. She is under no illusions about the circumstances that have led Harry and herself to this room. She knows all this, but when Harry cups her breast, his fingertips brushing lightly over her nipple through the soft material of her knitted top and bra, she also knows that books and cleverness and knowledge count for nothing. Not when it comes to this.
She hadn't known that the feel of Harry's tongue in her mouth could make her insides turn to liquid heat. She'd never realised that the hesitant touch of his hand on her breast could make her want to laugh and cry at the same time. When he slides one hand slowly up her calf, his Quidditch-roughened fingertips stroking the back of her knee, she grabs two handfuls of his t-shirt and buries her face against his shoulder. "Harry…"
For a few seconds, all she hears is the harsh sound of their breathing, then the low rasp of his voice washes over her, making her shiver. "Are you still sure?"
Hermione closes her eyes. Despite her earlier assertion, she's suddenly not sure at all, but she slips her hands beneath his t-shirt and slides her hands over smooth skin and hard, lean muscle. The feel of him under her hands - solid and warm and enticing - is strangely reassuring. It's just Harry. She trails her fingertips down his stomach and he inhales a sharp breath, making her smother a smile as well as her answer in the softness of his t-shirt. "Yes, I'm sure," she whispers, sliding her hands around his waist. Feeling emboldened and ridiculously shy at the same time, she strokes her hands up his back, lightly scraping her fingernails across his shoulder blades before trailing them down the hollow of his spine.
Muttering something that sounds very much like her name under his breath, Harry slips one hand beneath her bottom and pulls her against him, his mouth seeking and finding hers once more. When she wriggles restlessly beneath him, he shifts his weight once more, then he's lying in the cradle of her thighs. His body is hard and urgent against hers, that mysterious ridge of hard male flesh rubbing and teasing exactly where she is soft and aching, and a quiet moan rises up in the back of her throat.
They twist together on the battered couch - a slow yet desperate dance - until Hermione feels as though she is drowning, her body awash with a dark, sweet hunger, every kiss and touch pulling her deeper and deeper. Kissing her fiercely, Harry rocks his hips against hers, once, twice, then again, and again, and the hard little knot of heat between her thighs grows heavier and hotter and tighter and she can't believe she can be feeling like this when they're still wearing all their clothes, and she wants to tell him to hurry, to go slow, anything but stop making her feel what she's feeling. Her skin starts to prickle everywhere, starting at the soles of her feet and traveling up the backs of her legs. "Kiss me again," she whispers. "Please kiss me again." Harry's mouth covers hers in an urgent, almost desperate, kiss. His hand is underneath her shirt, cupping her breast, his palm rubbing the soft cotton of her bra against her nipple, sending arrows of sensation outward and downward and everywhere.
Winding her arms around his neck, she arches up against him in wordless supplication, her body instinctively seeking, demanding. His mouth hot as he kisses her neck, Harry runs his hand up the back of her thigh, making her skin quiver. His fingertips stroke the curve of her bottom just beneath the lace of her underwear and Hermione wriggles beneath him once more, tightening her thighs around him. Harry inhales sharply, then begins to move against her once more, rolling his hips in slow, deliberate thrusts. The ache between her legs tightens almost unbearably, and she clutches at him, her fingers digging into his shoulders. For a few glorious yet agonising seconds, her whole body teeters on the edge of something wonderful and a little frightening, then a strangled gasp slips from her throat as everything swells and flutters and unravels in a soft flurry of pulsing heat.
"Oh!" She arches her back and lifts up against him, frantically trying - needing - to prolong the sensation. But the pleasure soon becomes a tingling kind of pain and she finds herself slumping backwards, her heart pounding, her skin damp beneath her clothes.
What seems like an eternity later, she hears Harry say her name. "Hermione?"
She knows she should answer him, but speaking seems to require more energy than she has to spare at this point in time.
"Hermione?" he says again, one hand brushing the hair back from her damp forehead just as she had earlier done to him. The tender gesture draws her out of her languor, and she slowly opens her eyes to find him gazing at her with an expression that can only be described as quiet awe. "Are you okay?"
She smiles at him lazily. "I'm absolutely fine." It's perfectly true. She feels very different, but she also feels more like herself than she has for weeks, perhaps for months.
Harry drops his hand to her shoulder, then traces her collarbone with his thumb, his gaze following the movement rather than meeting her eyes. "Was that, uh, did you -" He breaks off, his face flushed, and Hermione feels her heart stumble and fall even further. Curling one hand around the back of his neck, she draws his face down to hers and kisses him softly.
"Yes, it was," she whispers against his lips, "and I did." She bites her bottom lip, not quite able to believe she's saying such things. A small measure of embarrassment comes flooding back, reminding her that she is lying on a couch with her best friend and he has just given the most intense physical pleasure she's ever experienced in her life.
"Oh." Harry closes his eyes, his throat working as he swallows hard. "We don't have to do anything else," he finally says softly, darting her a quick glance, his thumb now toying with the exposed strap of her bra. "Did you want to go downstairs?" It's obvious what he wants, but Hermione knows that he will do whatever she decides, and she knows that she has never loved him more.
"I want to stay here," she says softly, trailing her fingertips along the waistband of his jeans. One last step into the unknown.
His eyes grow dark as he gazes at her, and she suddenly feels as though he is looking right into her soul. For a few seconds, there is an utter stillness about him that sends a heated shiver down her spine, then he bows his head to hers. She opens her mouth to his kiss, running her hands over his hips, under his shirt, stroking his sides and the finely sculptured muscles of his chest and stomach, knowing that she will never grow tired of touching him. When she presses her thumbnail experimentally against his nipple, he groans into her mouth then lifts his head, abruptly breaking their kiss.
They look at each other for a long moment - a question asked, an answer given - then he traces the curve of her breast with his fingertips, the light touch burning through the thin knit of her shirt. "Your skin is so soft," he whispers, his mouth warm as he kisses the side of her throat, his hands slipping beneath her shirt to stroke her stomach. Hermione closes her eyes as pure sensation overwhelms her, conscious only of Harry's hands on her and the overpowering urge to feel his skin against hers. She tugs at his t-shirt, literally peeling it up over his stomach, willing him to get the hint and take matters out of her hands.
He does. She hears the faint whoosh of fabric against skin and opens her eyes, her mouth drying at the sight of him. She has been swimming with Harry and Ron several times over the years, and has seen Harry dressed in little more than baggy shorts many a time. But this isn't the same. This is very, very different, because just looking at him makes her stomach quiver and her breasts tingle.
Holding his gaze with hers, she touches his chest, tracing her finger over every ridge and hollow, amazed at the subtle strength of his finely etched muscles, fascinated by the contrast between the silky, dark hair and boyishly soft skin. Smoothing her hand over the curve of his right shoulder, her eyes are drawn to his newly acquired curse scar, a thin but vivid line running from his collarbone to his top of his bicep. "How's your shoulder really?" she says softly, brushing it lightly with her thumb.
"It stings a bit," he murmurs, his lips twitching with the hint of a smile as he offers her the same answer he gave earlier.
She nods slowly, staring at the thin, still-pink scar, hating the sight of it but knowing that it could have been so much worse. Her throat aching with the unshed tears she thought she'd banished hours earlier, she lifts her head and brushes her lips over the scar, wishing it was really possible to kiss pain away.
Harry lets out his breath in a shaky sigh. "Feels better already."
"Good," she whispers, sliding her hand across his flat belly, her fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of his jeans. Harry's breath catches in his throat, his stomach muscles trembling under her touch. Her heart hammering so loudly she's positive the whole household can hear it, she skims her fingertips over his belt buckle, then finally touches him where he is hard and urgent, marveling at the heat of him through the demin of his jeans.
Harry closes his eyes, his hand tightening almost painfully on her thigh, her name on his lips a ragged plea. "Hermione…"
"I know," she says shakily, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone, letting her teeth scrape his warm skin, tasting him with her tongue. Suddenly Harry's hands are little more than a pale blur in the dimly lit room, and she feels the warm evening air brushing against the bare skin of her belly. She closes her eyes again as Harry tugs her shirt up and over her head, her heart once more beginning its mad contradictory dance of apprehension and excitement. It seems foolish, given what they've already done, but she feels as though she is about to bare so much more than just her body. She trusts Harry more than she trusts anyone, but her hands still shake as she slides her hands behind her to unclasp her bra, wishing she'd had the foresight to choose a prettier one, wishing that she wasn't blushing, wishing that Harry would take pity on her and stop looking at her breasts or say something or kiss her, anything to distract her from the fact that she has just tossed her bra onto the floor and is lying half-naked in his arms.
As though hearing her thoughts, Harry slowly lifts his eyes to hers. He doesn't say anything, but his expression clearly betrays his unspoken thoughts, and Hermione feels her face grow even hotter. Giving her a lightening-quick, faintly nervous grin, he pulls her into his arms, and the feel of his bare chest against hers does very odd things to the pit of her stomach. It seems to have a similar effect on Harry - she feels a shudder go through him, then he kisses her hungrily, tasting her mouth with his lips and his tongue until they're both breathless. When she feels his hand sliding up her thigh and underneath the hem of her skirt, she closes her eyes, wondering if it is possible to expire from nervous anticipation. Then he hesitantly touches the damp heat between her legs, his fingers stroking her through the thin cotton of her underpants, sending a jolt of pure sensation zinging through the still-tender flesh, and she knows there are other, more pleasurable, ways to die. "My God, Harry…"
"I know," he mutters, echoing her words, then he kisses her again, gently this time, his fingers hooking over elastic and tugging downward, sliding soft cotton over heated skin. Hermione automatically lifts her hips, then feels the brush of warm air over her bottom and other places and she still can't believe they're doing this, then her hands reach for Harry's belt buckle, her trembling fingers fumbling with the button fly of his jeans. Burying her face against Harry's smooth shoulder, she slips her hand under the elastic of his boxers. The silky line of hair from his navel to his groin fleetingly teases her palm, then her fingers curl around the rigid length of his erection, finding smooth skin stretched tight over stiff, pulsing flesh. Oh, my goodness, she thinks dazedly, momentarily rendered incapable of a more original thought.
Harry murmurs something under his breath, the words sounding more like an invocation than a curse. "Hermione, please…" he whispers harshly as he arches into her touch, and the feel of him in her hand snaps her back to one of life's more unavoidable realities.
"Wait, we have to - "
"I know. Can you - "
"Harry, I need my wand," she cuts him off as she gives him a despairing look and gently eases her hand out of his jeans, "and it's in my backpack."
He closes his eyes, his chest shuddering as he exhales heavily. "Where's your backpack?" His voice sounds slightly strangled.
"It's downstairs," she says unhappily.
Harry kisses her damp forehead, then lifts his head to gaze down at her, his gaze sweeping over her face, lingering on her lips. "Tell me the charm," he murmurs, laying his hand flat on her stomach.
Feeling inexplicably shy, Hermione puts her lips to his ear and whispers the incantation taught to every female Seventh Year student at Hogwarts. Harry repeats the words, his brow furrowed in concentration, and she feels a brief glow of warmth flare deep inside her. Her pulse fluttering like the proverbial Snitch's wings, she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of both his jeans and boxers. Vaguely wondering just what has happened to the prim and proper Hermione Granger she knows so well, she slowly slides the bothersome items down and out of the way. "You'd better kiss me again, I think," she says unsteadily as she gives him a tremulous smile, not quite knowing where to look.
An answering smile tugs at his lips, then he does as she asks, kissing her fiercely, his lips demanding, his tongue
deep in her mouth. Her skirt bunches up around her waist but she barely notices. Her world has narrowed to the feel of
Harry's body against hers, the taste of his mouth and the rigid length of his arousal pushing against her thigh.
When the sleek tip of his erection nudges the aching flesh between her legs, she instinctively arches up, her whole
body tensing with anticipation and no small measure of fear, the blood pounding through her veins. Now, Harry,
please, now.
She bites back a gasp as he enters her, slowly filling her. Oh, my God. She feels her inner muscles clench around him, as if in shock at such a sudden, complete intrusion. He presses deeper, and a brief, sharp twist of pain makes her want to jerk away, but she lies still, trying to focus on the harsh sound of their ragged breathing. Harry kisses her forehead once more, then he begins to move, very slowly, the muscles in his arms straining, and the pain is gradually replaced by a slow, tender feeling of invasion that has her digging her fingertips into his shoulders. He bows his head, putting his mouth to her ear, the brush of his lips making her shiver. "I'm sorry," he mutters thickly. "Did I hurt - "
"Don't you dare be sorry," she tells him for the second time that night, and she means it. On the rare occasions she allowed herself to imagine anything approaching this particular moment, it was always sweet and tender and romantic. The reality may be awkward and slippery and painful, but it's also a hundred times better than she could have ever imagined. Harry gives her a crooked smile and her throat tightens, a wave of longing that has nothing to do with sexual desire washing over her. You love him too much, a tiny voice whispers, and Hermione curls her arms around Harry's neck, raising her mouth to his kiss, banishing the tiny voice to a far corner of her mind.
Clinging to him in a stolen world of hands and lips and breathless discovery, she soon realises that one doesn't need magic in order to lose time. Neither of them knows what they're doing, but somehow that doesn't seem to matter. They began to move together, hands stroking and clutching, their ragged breaths the only sound in the room. She grips his shoulders tightly, hooking one leg around him as he moves against her, each thrust of his hips burying the thick length of him deeper inside her. Ignoring the lingering discomfort, she tentatively lifts her hips, trying to match his body's rhythm, and she knows she's done something right when Harry sucks in a hissing breath and mutters something that sounds like 'you are bloody amazing'.
He bends his head to kiss her breast and his mouth is gentle on her skin, and she wants him to stop being gentle but she's too embarrassed to say the words. Then he kisses her breast again, his mouth closing over her aching nipple and he is no longer gentle, tasting her with his tongue and his teeth and she has to bite her lip to stop herself from crying out. Closing her eyes, she wraps her arms around his neck and lifts herself up to him once, then twice, taking him deep inside her, discomfort slowly turning to a slowly burgeoning warmth that tickles the hollow of her womb.
Suddenly Harry buries his face in the crook of her neck, his words a gasp wrung from his throat. "Hermione, I can't…"
"It's okay," she whispers, running her hands down his sweat-dampened back, holding him close. His whole body grows still, his spine rigid with tension, then he shudders against her, a broken groan rumbling deep in his chest. Hermione tightens her arms around him, one hand cradling the back of his head, amazed at the feeling of his flesh pulsing inside hers, at the wet warmth that fills her.
He lets out a long, shaky breath, then slumps into her arms, the weight of his body pressing her into the couch. She can feel his heart pounding violently, and it seems to take an eternity for his breathing to return to normal. Finally, just when her embarrassment threatens to return at full strength, he kisses the top of her head and eases his body away from hers slightly. Giving her a faintly sheepish smile, he leans across her, one long arm reaching down to the floor, coming up a few seconds later with her knitted top and his glasses in hand. After slipping on his glasses, he drapes her shirt across her bare breasts in an awkward but endearingly chivalrous gesture that makes her heart do a funny little jig, then props himself up on one elbow to gaze down at her.
Hermione doesn't speak. She recognises the look on his face all too well - he wants to say something but he is choosing his words carefully. Finally, he swallows hard, then threads one hand through her hair, slowly pulling it free of its ponytail. "On the second day, I began to believe that we might actually die," he says in a quiet, almost conversational tone, twirling a strand of her hair idly around his finger. "I started thinking about everything that I would miss, everything that I would regret leaving undone and unsaid." His eyes meet hers. "You would have been my biggest regret."
Speechless, she can only stare at him.
"I mean everything, not just this," he continues slowly, his hand skimming over the curve of her bare shoulder, "even though this was - " he stops, apparently momentarily lost for words, a faint tinge of colour reddening his face. "That didn't feel wrong to me, Hermione," he finishes with a rush, his bright green eyes glittering behind his glasses.
His words send a shock of recognition through her. Three years ago, after they'd shared an unexpected kiss, he'd said exactly the same thing to her. Feeling foolishly close to tears, Hermione gives him a shaky smile and the same answer she'd given him three years ago. "Me neither."
Harry strokes one long finger along her jaw, then lifts her chin, not letting her look away. "So what happens now?"
She gazes at him, seeing her own uncertainly reflected in his eyes. They both know what seems very simple inside this room will probably be very complicated outside it. "I don't know."
~*~*~*~*~
Two years later, sitting alone in her kitchen, Hermione's eyes fill with tears. They'd barely had time to catch their breath before they'd heard Ron and the twins' noisy return, then hardly enough time to dress - with fumbling fingers and shaking hands - and hurry downstairs before Dumbledore had unexpectedly arrived. He'd announced that three veteran Aurors had just been killed on yet another supposedly routine mission, then whisked Harry and Moody away to places unknown, at least to Hermione.
Two weeks later, when Voldemort began to target the families of Hogwarts' Muggle students, Hermione's parents had been convinced to make Dumbledore their Secret Keeper and go into hiding. A month after that, when the killings began in earnest, Dumbledore had once more spoken to Harry about that damned Prophecy. Hermione doubted she would ever know everything that had been said between them, but the day after that conversation, Harry had sought her out in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, stealing a rare moment alone with her. "I can't do this to you," Harry had told her, his eyes begging her to understand, to argue with him, to tell him that he was wrong. "They've told me that they don't know where I'm going to be on any given day and that I can't let anything or anyone distract me from my training." His voice had cracked with anger. "I refuse to hide the way I feel about you, but you deserve more than sneaking around and hiding in bloody corners." Despite being swamped by an unhappy feeling of inevitability, Hermione had simply kissed him and said she understood. There had been no tears - she had kept them until later that night, when she was alone and had no idea where Harry had been taken by the Ministry Powers That Be.
And so it had begun - their great relationship amnesty - but every hour of every day, the heat between them was there, simmering just below the surface, and most of the time it was enough to know it was there. And other times - only every other day - it broke her heart in a dozen different ways.
Hermione rubs her hand across her wet eyes. During the last two years, there has been many times when Harry has grown careless and let her see the raw hunger in his eyes, when all it would have taken would have been one word or touch from her to bring him to his knees and to her bed. But stubbornly, stupidly, she had wanted to be more than a pleasurable distraction. She had wanted to be more than comfort, more than just an escape. She had wanted him to be sure. So now here they are, two years later, stuck in a holding pattern of desire and denial, a situation that is becoming increasingly ridiculous and emotionally draining with every passing day. A situation for which she would dearly love to blame Harry - it would make things so much easier - but she knows it's not as simple as that.
When she hears a soft pop of Apparition, she doesn't bother to look up. She already knows who her visitor will be. "So much for knocking first," she mutters quietly under her breath, then finally lifts her head to give Harry a wan smile. "Hi. Fancy a cup of tea?"
~*~*~*~*~