Waking Up Harry

Summary: Hermione Granger has been in love with Harry Potter since the middle of fifth year—she thinks the feeling is mutual and she’s tired of waiting. Now Hermione is a very smart witch; when she sets out to achieve a goal, the realization of said goal is generally in the bag. A tale about what happens when Hermione gets fed up and Harry gets woken up.

Rating: PG13 for some intense snogging (eventually dear reader—be patient!) and occasional innuendo.

Disclaimer: Nope. I’m not JK Rowling. This will become fairly obvious as the story progresses and my lack of brilliance shines through. Therefore, all recognisable characters belong to her and her alone. Only the plot is mine.

Waking Up Harry

Chapter One: The Plan

There are limits to a girl’s patience, and Hermione had reached hers.

A change in strategy was called for—something more daring, perhaps? A full-on all-holds-barred snog? Jump him, grab him, and kiss the living daylights out of him? No. Far too risky (not to mention terrifying. True, she was a Gryffindor, but even Gryffindor courage has its boundaries). Well, considering Harry’s advanced state of cluelessness, maybe something utterly obvious and impossible to miss. Along the lines of a bludger to the head? No. Too painful. Hmmmm. What to do? What to do?

How about subtle but relentless? Break down his barriers one by one, leaving him weak, defenseless, and begging her to put them both out of their misery and . . . ? Yes, that was it! That had definite possibilities—certainly worth a try. Now she only needed to work out the details, and Hermione was very good at working out the details. One could say that she was truly detail-oriented; known for it throughout the school in fact.

Hermione Granger was in her sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Almost assured the position of Head Girl next year and the brightest student to come along in well over a hundred years, Hermione’s academic life was spot-on track. And she loved her studies; she really did. Parts of her social life were not bad either—in fact she’d been best friends for over five years with two of the most eligible bachelors in the wizarding world: Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. And therein lay the problem.

Harry James Potter: AKA The-Boy-Who-Lived, emerald-eyed, raven-haired, Seeker extraordinaire, best friend, sometimes giant prat, and Hermione’s secret love. For the past couple of months or so, she and Harry had been engaged in a subtle dance of “how-far-can-I-go-and-still-be-your-best-friend.” A glance here, a touch there, a hug before and after a Quidditch game . . . the odd kiss on the cheek. This was all very well, but Hermione was tired. She wanted more—quite a bit more actually. And being the smart witch that she was, she was pretty sure Harry did too. Only perhaps he didn’t know it yet.

Helping him realise his feelings would be her job. Her mission if you will.

The previous year had been a difficult one for the trio. Fourth year had ended with the return of Voldemort, Harry’s narrow escape, and Cedric’s death. The summer hadn’t been much better. First there had been the terrible dementor attack in Little Whinging, Surrey. Harry had to perform underage magic and work the Patronus Charm in order to save his own life and the life of his fat cousin, Dudley. That episode had almost gotten Harry expelled. Then there was Harry’s anger when he arrived at number twelve, Grimmauld Place only to find that Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Fred, and George had been there for weeks already. His rage at Dumbledore and the other members of The Order of the Phoenix for excluding him had been something to behold. Hermione vividly recalled his reaction:

‘SO YOU HAVEN’T BEEN IN THE MEETINGS, BIG DEAL! YOU’VE STILL BEEN HERE, HAVEN’T YOU? YOU’VE STILL BEEN TOGETHER! ME, I’VE BEEN STUCK AT THE DURSLEYS’ FOR A MONTH! AND I’VE HANDLED MORE THAN YOU TWO’VE EVER MANAGED AND DUMBLEDORE KNOWS IT—WHO SAVED THE SORCERER’S STONE? WHO GOT RID OF RIDDLE? WHO SAVED BOTH YOUR SKINS FROM THE DEMENTORS?’

Poor Harry, she sighed to herself—even his relief at being exonerated by the Wizengamot and returning to Hogwarts was marred when Dumbledore passed Harry over and made Ron a prefect. Cornelius Fudge refused to accept that Voldemort was back and the Daily Prophet made no bones about the fact that the majority of the magical community saw Harry as slightly mad at best and a deranged glory-hound at worst. None of that, however, compared to the horror that was Professor Umbridge.

Foul, loathsome woman! Hermione shuddered as she pictured Umbridge’s squat figure with its wide, toad-like grin, bulging eyes, nasty hair-band, fluffy cardigans and dreadful punishments. Harry still carried the scars from his detentions with her. She had made him write, ‘I must not tell lies’ with a magical quill which cut the words into the skin on the back of his hands. Umbridge had made almost everyone’s life a misery, about killed Professor McGonagall while trying to get rid of Hagrid, gave Harry, George, and Fred a lifetime ban on playing Quidditch, and even managed to replace Dumbledore as Head of Hogwarts.

Finally, to top off a spectacularly appalling year, Sirius was murdered by Bellatrix Lestrange. Naturally Harry, being the noble git he was, blamed himself for Sirius’ death and the injuries they all sustained while fighting the Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries. If anyone deserved a little happiness, it was Harry Potter, and Hermione was determined to do everything possible to make sure she would be the witch to give it to him.

Shaking off those unpleasant memories, Hermione noticed that on this beautiful day in early September the library was deserted and likely to stay that way, with most of the students either out enjoying the sunshine or taking advantage of the weekend to sleep in. It was a perfect time to draw up the preliminary outline of The Plan.

Hermione pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and nibbled thoughtfully on her quill as she considered her strategy. Dipping her quill into the inkwell, she titled her list:

Subtle ways to drive him slowly mad

No, she mused, crossing that out. Not quite right. Perhaps:

Clues for the clueless

Too obvious. No style. Definitely not, although true, she chuckled to herself. Quill posed over the parchment, she pondered for a moment longer. Then—inspiration.

Waking up Harry

Perfect!

Soon she was scribbling furiously, and within thirty minutes the parchment was tightly packed with her small, neat script. She put down her quill in relief and took a moment to flex her aching fingers and admire her handiwork. Hermione was so intent on what she was doing that she didn’t hear the footsteps stealthily approaching the library table.

“Arghhhhhhhhhhh!” she shrieked, jumping about a foot into the air as Harry tickled the side of her waist. “Harry!”

“Gotcha,” he laughed. “You were really into it there, Hermione. What’s so important that you have to be in the library at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning?”

As he bent down to look, Hermione whipped the parchment off the table and briskly rolled it up into a tight tube, shoving it haphazardly into her bulging book bag.

“Nothing, just an Arithmancy essay. It’s not due for a fortnight but I wanted to get a head start,” she lied, fussing with her book bag to hide her hot cheeks.

“MISS GRANGER! MR POTTER!” Madame Pince hissed angrily. “This is a library! Kindly keep your voices down or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“Sorry,” Hermione said breathlessly.

Harry smirked. “Yeah, sorry.” But he didn’t sound at all sorry.

He dropped into the chair next to her, propping up his head with one hand and grinning at her, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. Hermione heart gave a thump; her knees felt weak and she was glad she was sitting down. When Harry flashed her that special grin, it was all she could do not to run her fingers through that adorable messy black hair of his and grab him, pulling him towards her and . . .

“I couldn’t resist, you know. The library is so quiet and you really looked like you were off in space. Dreaming about SPEW were you? Or maybe about N.E.W.T.s? Less than two years to go you know.”

“Haha, very funny.” Hermione gave a dry laugh. “It’s not SPEW, it’s S.P.E.W., as you very well know. And for your information, I don’t dream about N.E.W.T.s; I have nightmares about N.E.W.T.s.”

At the mention of nightmares, Harry’s grin faded, a rather fixed smile taking its place. He sat up and looked intently at his hands.

Hermione clapped one hand over her mouth in dismay. “Oh Harry, I’m sorry.” Joking about nightmares to Harry was not in the best of taste, especially right now, with Voldemort out there and the second war already started. She knew from conversations with Ron and Neville that Harry had been dealing with constant nightmares once again. She put a hand gently over one of his.

He gave her a small smile. “It’s OK, Hermione. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.” With his free hand, he began absent-mindedly playing with her fingers. “I don’t want everyone feeling like they have to walk on eggshells around me. Especially you.”

She gulped. What did he mean, “especially” her? Now he was stroking her fingertips and a thousand hippogriffs flew wildly around in her stomach.

“I know Harry. But the last thing I want to do is remind you. I know you’ve been having trouble sleeping lately.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sick of hearing myself moan about it, and I’m sure you and everyone else are tired of it too.” He dropped her hand. “So, you’re coming to Hogsmeade with us after lunch today, right?” he inquired, not-so-subtly changing the subject.

“Us?” she asked, staring at him with a blank expression.

“With Ron, me, and Luna?” She continued to stare. Harry waved a hand in front of her eyes. “Remember, Ron? Ginger hair, eats a lot?”

“Harry, did you forget? Luna asked Ron to go with her.”

“Right,” he frowned. “I know that.” Then his eyes widened slightly. “Oh, you mean, she wants to go with him alone?”

“That’s the general idea,” Hermione said, smiling slightly. She did love Harry, so much, but he was not all that quick on the uptake, especially where girls were concerned. His lack of sophistication regarding the opposite sex was infuriating at times, but also one of the qualities she found most endearing about him.

“Right,” he said again. “Well, I guess we’ll have to make do with each other then.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Please don’t feel as if you have to make do, Harry. If there’s someone else you’d rather go to Hogsmeade with, do so. Don’t let me stop you.”

Harry looked puzzled. “Why would I want to go with someone else?”

“I mean,” she explained patiently, “if there’s a girl you’d like to ask out . . .”

“No. There’s no one I’d rather go to Hogsmeade with than my best friend,” he smiled. “I just want to relax and have fun; if I were to go with a girl, then . . .”

“I’m a girl,” Hermione snapped, frowning.

“Erm . . . uh, yeah, I know that you’re a girl,” Harry said nervously. “But, you know what I mean . . .” his voice trailed off uncertainly.

“No. Pray do enlighten me,” she said icily, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, of course you’re a girl, Hermione. Everyone knows that you’re a girl. You’re just not . . .”

“Not what?”

“Uhhh.”

“Not giggly, not pretty? Just swotty old Hermione!” She pushed her chair back with a sudden jerk.

“No! I mean, yes! I mean . . . Are you mad at me, Hermione?” he stammered.

“Why would I be mad at you?” she asked, gathering up her belongings and deliberately avoiding his eyes.

“I don’t know. But you seem kind of upset. Did I say something wrong?”

“No, Harry,” she sighed. “Shall we go to breakfast?”

“Uh, okay,” he said slowly, getting to his feet, still confused. What had he done now?

They headed to the Great Hall in silence. In his mind Harry was going over what had happened in the library, while Hermione walked sedately at his side. Her face was carefully blank, but Harry could tell that she wasn’t happy. They had been talking about Hogsmeade when Hermione asked him if he wouldn’t rather ask some girl to go with him. He had said no, he wouldn’t, and then she went and cut up all stiff on him. It was obvious he had somehow unwittingly hurt her feelings. What had he said? Then a light clicked on in his churning brain.

“Um, Hermione, you know you’re um . . . well, you don’t think that I don’t think . . .”

“That you don’t think what?”

“Well—you’re not giggly, but most chaps aren’t that keen on giggling. Makes us feel rather uneasy to tell you the truth. A-and you are pretty, you know,” he burst out somewhat desperately.

Her face softened. “It’s all right, Harry. You don’t have to say that. I’m very well aware of what I look like and actually, I’m usually resigned to being plain. It’s difficult not to be aware when I look in the mirror every morning and see a bush of boring brown hair, boring brown eyes, boring . . .”

“Hey,” he protesting, stopping so suddenly that she banged into him. “What are you on about? I meant what I said. You’re not plain! You are pretty, Hermione, and nothing about you is boring.”

She let out a self-depreciating laugh. “It’s all right, Harry. I accepted my looks a long time ago.”

He turned to face her. “No, it’s not all right.” He raised a hand to touch her hair, hesitated, and then dropped it back down. “I don’t want you to ever say things like that about yourself. You’re smart, you’re loyal, you’re trustworthy, you’re . . .”

“Harry, you make me sound like a dog,” she laughed.

Harry let out a frustrated sound. “Hermione,” he grabbed her by the shoulders. “What I meant to say was, you’re not like the other girls, and I wouldn’t want you to be. You’re better than all of them. You’re real, Hermione. Don’t . . . just don’t ever change,” he said blushing. “You’re perfect just the way you are.” Hermione could feel the hot colour rushing to her face as she met his brilliant green gaze.

“Perfect,” came a hated drawling voice. “Bookworm Granger, perfect?” They turned to see Draco Malfoy smirking at them. “Tut, tut, Potter. You shouldn’t tell lies.”

“Sod off, Malfoy,” Harry snapped, clenching his fists.

“Ignore him,” Hermione said wearily, pulling on Harry’s arm. “Let’s go have breakfast.”

“Yes Potty. Obey the wife and run along like a good little boy.”

“Harry! Please just ignore him. He’s trying to pick a fight.” Her face scarlet, Hermione tugged forcefully on an equally crimson-faced Harry to stop him from lunging at Malfoy’s throat. After a brief hesitation Harry went, Draco’s mocking laugh echoing through the corridor behind them.

Disclaimer: Nope. I’m not JK Rowling. This will become fairly obvious as the story progresses and my lack of brilliance shines through. Therefore, all recognizable characters belong to her and her alone. Only the plot is mine.

Author’s note: First of all, let me thank everyone who has reviewed—I appreciate it SO much! *beams happily*

At this point, I’m not sure if this is going to be a short or a long story. I’ve got five chapters written, but I’m a somewhat obsessive editor/reviser. However, I will post as quickly as possible. Guess we’ll just see what happens!

Waking Up Harry

Chapter Two: The Plan in Action

The sun was shining brightly, the air crisp and fresh as Harry and Hermione, with Ron and Luna just ahead, made their way towards Hogsmeade.

At breakfast, Ron had begged them not to leave him alone with Luna. He seemed panicked at the thought. After giving him a stern lecture about taking care not to hurt Luna’s feelings and admonishing him to remember that he was going to be on a date (Ron turned so pale at this that his freckles stood out starkly against his pale skin), Hermione relented and agreed that they could all go together, at least at first. She had also launched into a very Hermione-like sermon, reminding Ron that if he were going to be so reckless as to take a full day off from schoolwork, he had better make it worth their while.

Both Harry and Ron wondered exactly what she meant by that, but were not foolish enough to ask.

Harry was very quiet as they walked, while Hermione was going over The Plan in her head. Hmmmmm. Maybe this was a good time for Stage One: ‘non-threatening’ physical contact. She could help the Ron/Luna situation and initiate The Plan at the same time. Excellent. Hermione reached out and grabbed Harry’s arm, hauling him back.

“What . . .?” he asked, startled.

‘Note to self,’ thought Hermione, ‘make that gentle non-threatening physical contact.’

“Shhhh,” she said, keeping her eyes on the tall figure of Ron Weasley. “Slow down.”

“Why?” Harry questioned. “We’re already kind of late.”

“Because, Harry. Ron and Luna are right in front of us. We need to give them time to get ahead.”

“Why would we want them to do that?” he asked, looking somewhat confused.

“Harry, do you really have to ask that?” Hermione asked in frustration. “Luna likes Ron a great deal.”

“Okay. . .” He still didn’t understand what she was getting at.

“Luna really likes Ron,” Hermione repeated patiently, “and she wants to be alone with him.”

“But Ron doesn’t want to be alone with her,” Harry pointed out. “He’s scared of her.” Made perfect sense to Harry.

“Rubbish!” Hermione scoffed. “So what if he’s scared! Protecting him by letting him hide behind us will do him absolutely no good in the end, and it certainly won’t help him get over his fear. Of course he wants to be with Luna; unfortunately, he just doesn’t know it yet. He needs time alone with her in order to realise his true feelings.”

“What, you don’t think he knows how he feels?” Harry asked incredulously. “How could he not know?”

Hermione gave him a long, considering look, but didn’t say a word. Under her steady gaze, Harry flushed and eventually glanced away.

They continued on towards Hogsmeade in silence, deliberately walking at a snail’s pace, until Ron and Luna were lost to view. A couple of times Ron turned around, staring back at them reproachfully. In each instance Luna tugged at his arm and pulled him forward.

Harry felt like the worst kind of traitor. Hermione, on the other hand, had already dismissed all thought of Ron and Luna. Her mind was working at top speed, calculating every possible situation she and Harry might find themselves in while at Hogsmeade and examining every possible way she might use The Plan in each situation. Harry glanced over at her once or twice, wondering what on earth she was thinking about. Eyes downcast, twirling a loose curl with one hand, other hand in her pocket-- he knew that look! She was deep in thought.

‘Probably planning some horrendous new colour-coded study schedule for Ron and me,’ he thought fondly, smiling to himself. Just that morning, she had spent over twenty minutes at breakfast haranguing the both of them over their poor study habits and threatening dire consequences if they didn’t buckle down and take things more seriously. Ron’s mouth had been too full of food to argue; Harry of course knew arguing was useless when their Hermione was in full throttle.

By the time they arrived at the village, Hogsmeade was as crowded as ever. Luna and Ron were nowhere in sight. Harry suggested starting off with a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, but Hermione pointed out that at this time of day the place would be crawling with Hogwarts students and finding a seat would be next to impossible. She mentioned her desperate need to acquire a newly-published book on the history of elves for her extensive collection, so Harry reluctantly agreed to go with her to Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop. The shop had recently added a rather large book annex and Hermione was anxious to check it out.

On the way to Scrivenshaft’s, they passed Madam Puddifoot’s tea shop, where the pair caught a glimpse of a rather stunned-looking Ron and a dreamy-eyed Luna. Harry raised a hand to knock on the window; Hermione quickly seized his arm and yanked it away rather vigorously.

“Ow, Hermione,” protested Harry. “What was that for?”

‘Oops!’ she reminded herself guiltily. ‘I do need to remember the gentle part of that physical contact.’

“Harry!” she scolded. “Don’t! You’ll embarrass him. We don’t want him to know that we saw them.”

“Oh,” said Harry in a small voice. “Right.” Once again Hermione’s eyes bored into his. “Uhh, why is that exactly?” Bother! Once again he had somehow said the wrong thing.

Hermione rolled her eyes and prayed for patience. Could anyone be that clueless? Yes, she admitted to herself, someone certainly could. Harry could. She found it rather adorable, actually, but then everything about Harry was adorable!

“Harry, remember when you went to Madam Puddifoot’s with Cho?”

“Yes,” Harry responded, rather shortly. That was definitely not one of his favourite memories.

“Did you enjoy it? Being there with Cho I mean?”

“Uhh--,” Harry floundered. What did she expect him to say? You had to be so careful around girls; they seemed to find deep, hidden meaning in the most innocent of words. It was bloody confusing.

“What I mean is, would you have liked it if Ron and I had walked by and seen you and Cho together?”

Harry uttered a strangled sound. Why was she bringing this up?

He thought back to the previous Valentine’s Day and that dreadful “date” with Cho Chang. Those stupid little golden cupids hovering overhead, throwing their pink confetti; the overheated room decorated with bows and frills, jammed full of tiny round tables meant for two; snogging couples right and left; Cho obviously expecting him to do . . . something! And Roger Davies with his girlfriend, glued together at the lips, kissing over the sugar bowl; knowing Cho was probably wishing that she was with Roger, being heartily kissed, instead of with silly, stammering Harry; Cho crying . . . crying! . . .everyone staring at him accusingly, probably wondering what Cho was doing with a loser like Harry Potter when she could have had any wizard at Hogwarts . . . ” he shuddered visibly, remembering how completely useless and humiliated he had felt. Wanting to do the right thing; wanting Cho to like him, but not quite knowing how to go about it.

Hermione gave a satisfied nod. “Exactly. That’s how Ron would feel if he caught us looking at them right now.”

“But, Hermione . . .” She fixed him with a beady eye and Harry subsided, defeated.

Poor Harry looked so miserable and confused, it seemed a perfect time for additional implementation of Stage One. She patted him consolingly on the shoulder and, softly this time, steered him once again towards Scrivenshaft’s.

Forty-five minutes later, Hermione was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shop in front of the Magical Creatures section, nose buried in a thick book. As usual, she was enthralled by every word and showed no sign of wanting to budge in the foreseeable future.

After several futile attempts and broad hints, Harry snatched “Elves: A History” out of her hands, put both hands around her waist, and forcibly hauled her to her feet.

Ignoring her “Harry, what are you doing?” he placed an arm around her shoulders and marched her to the checkout counter.

“Harry,” Hermione protested, secretly enjoying the weight of Harry’s arm around her. “Are you bored?”

“No,” he stated, deadpan. “I would like nothing better than to spend hours and hours inside a quill and book shop on a beautiful, sunny, Saturday. Can’t imagine anything that would give me more joy. Or, no, wait! Maybe spending hours and hours at the library with Madam Pince glaring at me would be equally thrilling. Better than Christmas Day. Better even than Quidditch.”

“Prat,” she said, poking him gently on the arm, and brushing her head against his shoulder. Her quick smile took any sting out of the word. Harry grinned down at her. That grin! There went her knees again.

“All right,” she sighed, smiling slightly and handing her money to the cashier. “I guess I’ve tortured you enough. Although—wait!” she joked, “Perhaps while we’re here we could take a peek at those new neon-coloured quills they just got in.”

“Her-mi-o-neeee,” Harry whined, giving her the puppy-dog eyes. “Pleeeease?”

“Very well,” she laughed again and gave him a small hug. Hermione was in fact beginning to enjoy Stage One of The Plan very much. Touching Harry this often was pleasant, very pleasant, yet didn’t require her to dig too deeply into her reserves of Gryffindor courage.

“You’re been very good,” she continued. “Let’s go get a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks and then head over to Honeydukes. I’d like to pick up a couple of chocolate frogs and some Fudge Flies for Ron; a large infusion of sweets should help him recover from any trauma he might have incurred from spending time with Luna.”

Harry snorted.

Or,” she teased, “Would you rather join Ron and Luna for a hot chocolate at Madam Puddifoot’s? I hear the chocolate there is delicious and she’s got these adorable little pink cupids serving this week,” she added, chuckling at his look of horror.

“Hermione, you are just evil!”

“Only kidding, Harry.” And with Stage One resolutely in mind, she took hold of his arm and they made their way to their favourite pub, Harry with a bemused expression on his face.

They had walked only a few meters when Hermione felt Harry stiffen beside her. Seeing a frozen expression cross his face, she followed his eyes and saw Cho Chang heading towards them. She was beaming and holding hands with Terry Boot; evidently she hadn’t noticed them yet.

Hermione dropped Harry’s arm.

‘Well I guess he isn’t over her yet,’ she sighed to herself. ‘Look at him! He’s probably wishing he was the one holding her hand and wondering how he got stuck with me. He was just being kind earlier when he said I was pretty. Really, what else could he say when I was going on and on in that ridiculous way—didn’t want me to feel bad about myself. That’s Harry for you: always the kind and considerate friend. Friend! I’m sure he wishes he could patch things up with Cho and have a nice snog to look forward to. She’s so beautiful. Honestly! What was I thinking? Stupid plan!’

Harry, meanwhile, was thinking wistfully that he had rather liked having Hermione hold his arm and wished she would grab at him again. His eyes met Cho’s.

“Hello Harry,” she said condescendingly. Then, coldly, “Hermione.”

“Er, hi,” managed Harry. ‘Brilliant! Potter gives yet another sparkling response!’

“Hello Cho. Hello Terry,” Hermione’s voice was calm. “How are you?” ‘Horrible girl! She is deliberately flaunting herself. Clinging to Terry’s hand and throwing Harry’s lack of experience in his face! Look at Harry—he’s mortified! Ohhhh, what I wouldn’t do to get her alone in a dark alley. Ravenclaw indeed! She wouldn’t stand a chance.’

“Wonderful, thanks,” Cho tossed her head, gave a haughty smile, and held even more tightly to her date’s hand. Terry, who was in Ravenclaw but only a sixth-year like Harry and Hermione, seemed dazed by his good fortune in landing a date with the lovely Cho.

“Poor bloke probably doesn’t know what hit him,’ thought Harry.

“Well,” Cho said in a brittle voice. “You two kids enjoy yourselves then.”

‘Hummmfff,’ Hermione growled to herself. ‘I’ll “kids” her!’

Harry gave Terry a sympathetic nod as they passed each other and wondered if Cho had cried all over him yet. He glimpsed at Hermione and was surprised to see that she was looking a bit red. Her jaw was firmly set, she was clenching her teeth, and her arms were held tight at her sides.

“You all right then, Hermione?” he asked, concerned.

“Perfectly fine,” was the reply. “Why?”

“You look upset,” he said bluntly.

“Why on earth would I be upset?”

Harry thought for a moment. Once again, a scene from last year sprang into his mind. He and Hermione were at dinner, Ron was still at Quidditch practice, and Cho Chang had walked into the Great Hall with her friend, Marietta. They both ignored him.

‘Oh, I forgot to ask you,’ Hermione had said brightly, glancing over at the Ravenclaw table, ‘What happened on your date with Cho? How come you were back so early?’

He had told her the date was a “complete fiasco,” which was certainly the truth. Then he had gone on to tell her everything that had happened. She had chastised him for being a bit tactless.

‘Me, tactless,’ he remembered feeling outraged. ‘One minute we were getting on fine, next minute she was telling me that Roger Davies asked her out, and how she used to go and snog Cedric in that stupid tea shop—how was I supposed to feel about that?’

Hermione had then proceeded to tell him, explaining things to him as if he were a two-year-old, exactly what he should have said to Cho.

‘You should have told her differently. You should have said it was really annoying, but I’d made you promise to come along to the Three Broomsticks, and you really didn’t want to go, you’d much rather spend the whole day with her, but unfortunately you thought you really ought to meet me and would she please, please come along with you, and hopefully you’d be able to get away more quickly? And it might have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think I am too.’

‘But I don’t think you’re ugly,’ Harry recalled saying. Hermione had told him Cho had been upset that Harry was going to meet Hermione and had been trying to make him jealous. Now how was he supposed to know all this? Women! How could any man be expected to understand them? Why couldn’t they just say what they meant?

Hermione was still looking upset and he didn’t want to make matters worse by saying the wrong thing. Then he realized that maybe Hermione was thinking that he was thinking he wished he were with Cho right now! She couldn’t be thinking that, could she? Well, better safe than sorry.

“Poor bloke,” Harry mused aloud, peeking surreptitiously at Hermione. “Probably has no idea what he’s in for. Hope he thinks twice before saying anything to that one, unless he fancies getting himself cried on.” He was relieved to see a smile lurking at the corner of Hermione’s mouth.

“You’re terrible,” she said, elbowing him softly in the ribs. But Harry could not help noticing that she looked rather pleased.

Disclaimer: Nope. I’m not JK Rowling. This will become fairly obvious as the story progresses and my lack of brilliance shines through. Therefore, all recognizable characters belong to her and her alone. Only the plot is mine.

Author’s note:

Please don’t hate me! Remember that patience is a virtue. *smile* The promise of snogging still holds, but when dealing with someone like Harry, slow and steady is the only way to go—besides, it’s the best way to torture your readers *laughs* Seriously, though, I do believe in building the tension and setting the stage for what is to come.

I going to try very hard and update this story every Friday—even during the holidays.

Waking Up Harry

Chapter Three: Plan of Attack

Hermione was frustrated. No, make that very frustrated. For a full two weeks now she had grabbed, patted, hugged, and tugged Harry at every possible opportunity. Nothing. Harry was still acting like the sweet, gentle boy she knew so well: utterly without a clue. More desperate measures were called for—it was time for Stage Two of The Plan: ambiguous physical contact.

When Hermione had drawn up her list, she had described every possible type of physical contact in excruciating detail. Hermione was nothing if not thorough. Contact that could be described as ‘innocent’ included the following: a. patting (any part of Harry above the waist); b. rubbing (on or above Harry’s neck only); c. tugging, yanking, or grabbing (Harry’s arm[s] and any appendages attached thereon); and d. (Hermione’s absolute favourite, but to be used sparingly) kisses on Harry’s cheek.

Stage Two, ambiguous physical contact, required much more of that famous Gryffindor courage. Stage Two included everything listed under Stage One, plus these measures: a. patting (Harry’s knee or thigh); b. rubbing (Harry’s back or chest); c. stroking (Harry’s cheek or hair—she was looking forward nervously to that one); d. tugging, yanking, or grabbing (Harry’s arm[s] and any appendages attached thereon and then (gulp) holding on to said arm[s] or appendages); and e. kisses on Harry’s cheek near the vicinity of his mouth (double gulp).

Considering Harry’s current oblivious state, implementing measures “a” through “e” under the category of “ambiguous physical contact” might not be enough to wake him up, but Hermione was willing to give it a go. Besides, she truly would need to be desperate to commence Stage Three of The Plan, not to mention Stage Four! She sincerely hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Right then, she told herself. No time like the present. Unconsciously straightening her shoulders to muster up a fresh shot of courage, she darted a quick glance at Harry, who was immersed in taking notes from his Transfiguration textbook. The library was gradually emptying out, as students sought the greater comfort of their respective common rooms.

“Ummmmm,” Hermione sighed dramatically. “Getting a bit late for the library, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Harry answered absently, still absorbed in his note-taking.

“You seen tired,” she continued, stroking the back of her hand along Harry’s cheek. ‘That’s Stage Two, Part C accomplished,’ she thought, placing a mental checkmark beside 2c. ‘Oooo, his cheek feels so good; soft in places, with little bristly hairs in parts. I wonder how often he shaves?’

“Huh,” he said, looking up somewhat nervously. “What?”

He had been feeling slightly uneasy the entire evening. Hermione was sitting close to him; so close that he could smell the sweet scent of peaches radiating from her hair. He wondered if her skin would smell like peaches too. And if it smelt like peaches, how would it taste?

‘Stop it!’ he told himself angrily. ‘What’s the matter with you? This is Hermione. You’re sitting beside Hermione—whom you’ve known since you were eleven.

‘Yeah, but she didn’t look like this when she was eleven,’ his traitorous subconscious piped up. ‘I wonder if she smelled this good back then? Were her hands this soft--kind of silky? I never really got much of a chance to find out.’ Her hand sure felt soft now, though, as it stroked his cheek. ‘Wait a minute! She’s stroking my cheek.’

“I said that you seem tired,” she repeated patiently, still stroking his cheek. At his surprised look she pulled her hand away, flushing. “Shall we finish up on the couch?”

“Umm, finish what up?” Harry asked uncertainly.

“Our homework, Harry,” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Er, right.” ‘That was bloody brilliant! What did you think she was talking about? You sound like a blithering idiot. Get a grip. What is wrong with you tonight, Potter?’

“What did you think I was talking about?” Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow. She appeared as composed as ever; inside, however, she was anything but, her stomach churning madly.

‘You should have gone in order,’ she chastised herself mentally. ‘You should have stuck to The Plan and done A and B before moving to C.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t go in order before, when implementing A through D of “innocent physical contact.” Why should I worry about going in order now?’ The mental argument continued as her subconscious sarcastically reminded her that the whole ‘innocent physical contact’ bit had not exactly been a smashing success.

“Umm, nothing,” Harry responded. He jumped to his feet so quickly that his chair fell and crashed to the floor, startling them both.

Hermione smiled to herself and helped Harry pick up the chair. If nothing else, at least she had rattled him. They gathered up their belongings and headed for Gryffindor tower.

“Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“Why were you stroking my cheek back there?”

“Uh,” Hermione could feel her face turning red. Stupid fair skin. “What do you mean?” she asked, stalling for time.

“Back in the library,” Harry persisted. “You were . . . erm . . . you . . . uh, stroked my cheek.”

‘Yes, and I enjoyed it too,’ piped up that pesky subconscious.

“Oh, well, I thought you looked flushed and I was checking to see if you had a fever,” she burst out. “You see,” she continued, “when my mother thinks I’m coming down with something, she always checks my forehead to see if it feels hot. Doesn’t your Aunt Petunia do that to Dudley?” she asked. She knew very well that Harry could be dying before his aunt would care enough to check him.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed.

“Well then.”

“Aunt Petunia does do that. But she puts her hand on his forehead. You stroked my--”

“Honestly,” Hermione interrupted, speaking rather loudly, “it doesn’t matter which part of a person’s face you touch. What possible difference could it make? It’s all the same really.

“Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed, glancing at her watch and beginning to walk very quickly, “just look at the time! We only have ten minutes until curfew! Hurry up!” she snapped, seizing Harry’s arm (the heck with gentle, she thought, harried) and dragging him down the corridor and into Gryffindor tower.

The common room was packed with Gryffindors talking, laughing, flirting, snogging, and (a minority) studying, but as luck would have it their favourite couch by the fire was unoccupied. An agitated Hermione made a beeline for it and sank down into its voluminous cushions with a sigh of relief. She tossed down her bulging book bag, hauled out an enormous book, and threw it open. Two bright spots of colour on her cheeks were the only hint of her inner turmoil. Harry followed more slowly, still puzzling over his friend’s odd behaviour.

For the next hour, as students gradually headed up to their dormitories, the pair concentrated on their studies, Harry darting occasional anxious glances at Hermione. Hermione appeared to be focused on the thick Charms textbook in her lap, but she was actually engaged in a furious mental battle between Sensible Hermione and Hermione-in-Love.

‘You idiot,’ scolded Sensible Hermione. ‘You went too fast! You scared him. He suspects!’

‘So what if he suspects,’ protested Hermione-in-Love. ‘That’s the whole point of The Plan, isn’t it? To wake him up?’

‘Well, really!’ Sensible Hermione responded condescendingly. ‘The whole point of The Plan, of any plan, is to succeed. Scaring the poor boy out of his wits is certainly not the way to go about that. We’re trying to wake him up, not shake him up and chase him away! Any fool knows that.’

‘Hmmmmf,’ Hermione-in-love was feeling very put-upon. ‘If he’s that skittish, how on earth are we supposed to implement Stage Two Part E without scaring him then? The silly git!’

‘You might try thinking before acting,’ said Sensible Hermione loftily. ‘Stroking his cheek like that. Honestly, how obvious can you be?’

‘I suppose you would have done everything just flawlessly,’ Hermione-in-Love retorted angrily. ‘Miss Perfect would never be too obvious, would she? I suppose, she would know exactly how to behave in every situation!’

‘No need to get snippy,’ Sensible Hermione huffed. ‘I’m only trying to help.’

‘Well then, what brilliant idea do you have for our next move?’

Unfortunately, Sensible Hermione had no answer.

“Hermione?”

“Huh. What?”

“What’s the matter?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you all right? You look like you’re in pain. Your face is all screwed up like something hurts.”

“I’m fine. Just concentrating,” she said abruptly.

“On what?”

“What do you mean? ” she asked crossly. ‘Honestly! Mister “Harry-the-Clueless-Wonder” Potter goes through five years at Hogwarts, completely oblivious to anything he’s not hit over the head with. Now he’s suddenly Sherlock Holmes, looking for clues and alert to every nuance, word, and facial expression.’

Harry was getting a little tired of being asked what he meant, when his questions seemed perfectly clear to him.

“What are you concentrating on? You’ve been staring at the same page for the past hour.”

‘Oh, yeah. That he notices,’ she thought bitterly. Then out loud: “This particular transfiguration is exceptionally difficult. Not everyone gallops along, zooming through their lessons so quickly that nothing sinks in. Some of us care enough to concentrate on our lessons,” she noted irritably.

“But you’re studying charms, not transfiguration,” he pointed out reasonably, puzzled.

“Argh,” she bit out, standing up abruptly and savagely shoving books, quills, and parchment willy-nilly into her already-bulging bag. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight!” And she stormed upstairs.

Harry sat there, mouth agape.

“What’s with her?” Ron plopped down into Hermione’s vacated spot on the couch.

Harry gave him a sour look. “Where’ve you been all night?”

“Quidditch pitch with Ginny,” said Ron glumly. “We play Slytherin next Saturday, remember? Got to practice my keeping skills or else we’ll be hearing that bloody song again.”

“Right.”

Ron tried again. “So really, what was Hermione on about? Seemed right chuffed, if you ask me.”

“She’s been acting weird all night,” Harry confessed. “Something must be bothering her. And she’s stroking my cheek,” he mumbled to himself.

“Stroking your cheek—what?” Ron’s asked, startled.

“Ummm,” Harry stammered. He hadn’t meant for Ron to hear that part. “Like I said, she’s been acting really weird. We were in the library earlier, you know--studying--and all of a sudden she starts rubbing my cheek and going on about fevers. Then she races us back to the common room so she can spend the next hour staring at one single page in her charms book. A charms book! I ask you!”

“O-okay. So she was reading her charms book.” Ron repeated, confused. “Nothing unusual about Hermione reading a charms book . . . does it all the time.”

“WHEN STUDYING TRANSFIGURATION?”

“Er . . .”

“Then when I asked her what she was doing,” Harry ground out, making a visible effort to calm himself, “she said she was working on a difficult transfiguration. ‘This particular transfiguration is exceptionally difficult. Not everyone gallops along, zooming through their lessons so quickly that nothing sinks in. Some of us care enough to concentrate on our lessons,’ ” he mimicked in a fake high-pitched voice, “BUT STILL STARING AT THE SAME BLOODY CHARMS PAGE!” he finished, almost shouting in frustration.

“All right mate,” Ron said, glancing uneasily around the common room. “Calm down. People are staring.”

“Calm down? You’re telling me to calm down?” Harry leapt to his feet and began pacing in front of the couch. “Then, when I point out that she’s studying charms, not transfiguration, she goes off in a huff. In a bloody huff! As if I was to bloody blame. As if I was the bloody one acting like a bleeding mental case,” he snarled, waving his arms about wildly, wand in hand. “Made no sense whatsoever.”

“Might want to watch it there, mate,” said Ron apprehensively. “Take someone’s eye out with that thing.” Harry’s pacing was making him dizzy.

“Can’t expect girls to make sense,” Ron pointed out reasonably. “They never do. Only thing they’re good for is driving a man mad. Well, that and snogging,” he added fairly with a small, secret smile.

“Ron, this is Hermione we’re talking about. She doesn’t act like other girls. I think maybe there’s something very wrong with her. Maybe she’s getting sick, or--”

“Maybe all that studying has finally cracked her brain,” Ron snorted. “Come on, Harry. Hermione might be brilliant, but she’s also a girl. A scarily brilliant girl, granted. But still a girl. And girls have moods. Weird moods that no one can understand. Scary moods. Maybe it’s that time?”

“Huh?”

“You know—that time.”

Harry was obviously totally at sea.

“That time. Of. The. Month.” Ron said crossly. “Blimey Harry, do I have to spell it out?”

Harry stopped pacing to look intently at Ron. “Do you think that’s it?”

“Would make sense, wouldn’t it? Moody and emotional; cuddling you one minute, storming off the next?”

“Ron!” Harry sounded scandalised, blushing furiously. “She didn’t cuddle me.”

“Oh, whatever,” Ron waved him off. “She rubbed your cheek, didn’t she?”

“She stroked it actually.” Harry said, still staring.

“Rubbed, stroked—what’s the difference?”

“She was checking to see if I had a fever,” Harry said in agitation, resuming his pacing. “A fever, Ron. A fever!”

Ron raised both eyebrows.

“WHAT?”

“Don’t you think you’re getting a bit wound up over nothing? Bloody hell, Harry, will you sit down? You’re making me giddy with all the bloody pacing and waving!”

“Doesn’t it bother you that m--. . .our Hermione, our best friend Hermione, sensible Hermione, may be having a . . . a . . . a nervous breakdown or something?” Harry asked frantically.

“Harry, she’s not having a nervous breakdown. Studying a bit too much, maybe. Emotions out of control, definitely. But that’s normal for girls.”

“HERMIONE ISN’T A NORMAL GIRL!” Harry bellowed.

Ron sank further down into the couch, gazing uncertainly around. The common room was deathly quiet, every Gryffindor present eavesdropping unabashedly.

“Er, Harry? You might not want to yell that out for the whole common room to hear. Might get back to Hermione that you don’t think she’s a real girl. Wouldn’t be a good thing, that.”

“I didn’t say she’s not a real girl. Of course she’s a real bloody girl. That’s the problem,” Harry said fiercely, lowering his voice and collapsing onto the couch, scowling horribly.

“Then what do you mean?” asked Ron in confusion.

“The problem is that she is a real girl. But she doesn’t usually act like one—like a real girl. I mean a regular girl. A normal girl. I mean like other girls. I mean, sometimes she does, but not really. I mean . . . oh, sod it!” Harry growled.

“Starting to wonder if you’re not the one I should be worrying about,” mumbled Ron, raising a hand to his aching head.

Summary: Hermione Granger has been in love with Harry Potter since the middle of fifth year—she thinks the feeling is mutual and she’s tired of waiting. Now Hermione is a very smart witch; when she sets out to achieve a goal, the realization of said goal is generally in the bag. A tale about what happens when Hermione gets fed up and Harry gets woken up.

Rating: PG13 for some intense snogging (eventually dear reader—be patient!) and occasional innuendo.

Disclaimer: Nope. I’m not JK Rowling. This will become fairly obvious as the story progresses and my lack of brilliance shines through. Therefore, all recognizable characters belong to her and her alone. Only the plot is mine.

Author’s note: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far—I read and appreciate each review more than you can know! A slight fluff warning is in order for this chapter. Hope you like!

Waking Up Harry

Chapter Four: The Best-Laid Plans

The only member of the trio who managed any decent sleep that night was Ron, who decided that if his two best friends were going to crack up, his losing sleep would be of no earthly use to either of them.

Meanwhile, Hermione had retreated to her dormitory in such a state of agitation that she simply couldn’t settle down. She was also quite angry with herself for her entirely unplanned show of emotion and was convinced that Harry must think her completely mad. Sensible Hermione and Hermione-in-Love were at it again.

‘Well you’ve done it now, Granger,’ Sensible Hermione snorted. ‘That was a right lovely temper tantrum you threw down there.’

‘I know!’ wailed Hermione-in-Love, ‘I know! What was I thinking? I just felt so embarrassed about the whole charms-transfiguration fiasco; I made a complete fool out of myself.’

‘That you did,’ agreed Sensible Hermione, a trace of pity in her tone. ‘You behaved like a total ass. Poor Harry.’

‘Hey, whose side are you on, anyway?’ protested Hermione-in-Love.

‘Ours, of course. But honestly! Storming off in a temper like the heroine of a Grade B movie was hardly a part of The Plan. I warned you about scaring him away.’ Sensible Hermione sounded just a bit smug.

‘I don’t remember you having any brilliant ideas the last time I asked!’ Hermione-in-Love snapped. ‘Besides, he’s my best friend. One wonky mood-swing will not scare him away.’

‘Won’t help any either,’ Sensible Hermione noted dryly.

Huffing and grumping, Hermione tossed and turned, making so much noise that her unfortunate roommates finally advised her to either shut up and let them sleep or take herself somewhere far away. This of course improved her mood considerably. She muttered a quick “Silencio,” and spent the next two hours behind her bed-curtains, grumbling and mumbling to herself.

By 1 a.m. she had given up the idea of sleep entirely. Throwing open her bed-curtains, she grabbed a worn book from her bedside table and flounced down to the deserted common room, dragging a fluffy blanket behind her. The fire was still lit and gave off a soft glow of warmth and light. Plunking herself down into the depths of the cushy couch, she threw open her favourite comfort book (“Hogwarts: A History”) and immersed herself in its pages, eventually lulled to sleep by the soothing, familiar story.

In the interim, in his dormitory, Harry was flinging sheets and tossing blankets, trying to get comfortable. His anger was gradually turning to worry. What on earth had he done to make Hermione so upset? And if it wasn’t something he did, then who or what was to blame? No doubt about it—something was bothering her, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what it was. It just wasn’t like her to flare up over nothing; his Hermione was usually so sensible.

Maybe Ron was right; maybe it was “that time” of the month. That would explain the whole screwing-up-her-face-in-pain earlier. But then the other things: the cheek-stroking . . . the delicious peachy-fresh scent of Hermione. . . her unnatural obsession with her charms book (transfiguration, eh? Ha!) . . . Hermione’s soft hair (and hands) . . . Argh!

Either way, Harry thought, it was obviously one of those female things that a man could simply not be expected to fully understand. Eventually, his exhausted mind sank into slumber.

Tendrils of thought wove their way through his sleeping mind. Luna helping a terrified Hermione onto the thestral . . . Hermione seizing his arm, “You can’t hurt a baby!” . . . Hermione praising him, “Well done, Ha--” before being hit by a purple flame from a Death Eater’s wand and crumpling motionless on the floor . . . Harry panicking . . . “Don’t let her be dead, don’t let her be dead, it’s my fault if she’s dead . . .” over and over and over. Paralyzed with fear . . . unable to think, unable to help her . . . Then, Neville, nose broken and bleeding, carrying a limp Hermione . . . Ginny injured . . . Ron fighting the brain . . . Luna thrown . . . the veil . . . Sirius falling . . .

“Noooo!” Harry yelled. He sat up abruptly, cold sweat trickling down his back, hands shaking.

“Ahhhh!” yelped Seamus. “What the . . .”

Neville groaned.

“Urmffff,” from the direction of Ron’s bed.

“Harry?” whispered Neville. “You all right?”

“Yeah, just a dream,” Harry said hoarsely. “Go back to sleep, Nev.”

Harry waited until he heard the familiar symphony of snores and heavy breathing then, as quietly as possible, put on his glasses and got out of bed. Pulling on an old T-shirt of Dudley’s and wearing a pair of tartan flannel pyjama bottoms, he padded barefoot down to the common room, and headed for the couch. There he was greeted by the sight of Hermione, fast asleep with her face buried in a book and snuggled up in a large fluffy blue blanket

Tiptoeing over to her, careful not to disturb her, Harry smiled at the trickle of drool soaking into the pages of the text. Hesitantly, he reached out and brushed a stray curl from the corner of her mouth. He really should wake her up, he thought. She’d have a sore neck in the morning. But the sweetness of the sight touched him and, slowly, tenderly, he eased himself down beside her. Her very presence was comforting and he concentrated on slowing his ragged breathing and quieting the trembling in his hands.

“Haaarrry?” Hermione’s voice came out husky with sleep. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she slowly raised her head and turned to him.

Harry noticed that Hermione was wearing a rather voluminous flannel nightgown and a pair of silly beagle slippers with floppy ears. Her hair was in disarray from sleep and messy, fuzzy tendrils curled around her face, lit to gold by the dying fire. A pink imprint on her cheek still showed an impression from the material of the couch. He had never seen anything quite as lovely.

“Harry!” she said, more urgently. “What’s wrong? What are you doing down here?” She put a hand over his. “Harry, you’re shaking!”

Not thinking about Stage Two or any phase of The Plan, only worried about her Harry, she reached out and put her arm around him. “Harry, what is it?”

Harry leaned his head against hers and sighed. “Just the same old thing, Hermione. The same dream as always.” Her hair, her skin, felt soft and warm against his.

“Sirius,” she said sympathetically. It was not a question. “Oh Harry.” With one arm she tugged at her blanket and brought it around to cover both of them. Her other arm came up and engulfed him in a gentle hug. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

It felt so good; being with Hermione felt so good that Harry let his head drop down to her shoulder. Then he paused for a moment, waiting, almost afraid to breath.

This was the closest Harry had ever been to his best female friend in such an intimate setting and he wondered fuzzily how she felt about this. About him. About him like . . . this.

Cautiously, he allowed his head to sink down deeper still, until the side of his forehead was tucked into the grove at Hermione’s neck. The nightmare which just minutes ago had such a strong grip was rapidly fading into oblivion, pushed away by even more powerful emotions.

Hermione gave a muted sigh and continued to hug him. Her curly hair tickled his jaw, the blanket was squashy and cozy, and he could smell the warm, familiar scent of peaches. Harry had never before felt so aware that Hermione was his female best friend.

Hesitating, marvelling, he reached out and wove both hands around Hermione’s waist.

‘He’s holding me. Harry’s holding me and I’m holding him! He’s . . . we’re . . .’

Hermione was experiencing the most unbelievable sensation; what felt like warm honey was trickling down ever so slowly from her abdomen to her toes. The rhythm of her heart-beat pounded in her ears, pounded loudly, and she wondered if Harry could hear. Breathing was becoming tricky. In an attempt to compose herself, she began stroking his hair, weaving her fingers in and out of the messy black strands.

Harry had never felt so content, so happy, so . . . well . . . so downright blissful.

The two stayed like that, neither saying a word, for a long while, until Harry noticed that the proximity to Hermione was having a peculiar effect on him. Even though the terror of his nightmare had worn off, his heart-rate was speeding up again, he felt dizzy, and he had to fight to control his trembling.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked himself, mystified. ‘What’s wrong with me? This is Hermione. Hermione! The same Hermione who squabbles with Ron over every little thing. The same Hermione who nags and lectures Ron and me about homework.’

Then, ‘This is also the same Hermione who’s been my best friend for over five years. The same Hermione who spent hours teaching me the summoning charm in fourth year. The same Hermione who has given up sleep more times than I can count, searching for spells and charms to help me and keep me safe. When did she get this much smaller than me?’ he wondered. ‘When did she stop being Hermione, one of my two best friends, and become Hermione, my best female friend? And yet, she’s more than that. All this horrible stuff I’m going through. Without her, without Hermione, I don’t think I could take it. I couldn’t keep going . . . She’s . . .she’s just . . . more.’

Harry’s mind stalled; he was aware of Hermione, of her warm, soft, peachy presence, with every fiber of his being.

Hermione was experiencing the same phenomena: thumping heart, incoherent thoughts, and quivering limbs. She felt as if she might faint. She, however, did not think this strange at all. Hermione knew precisely why she was melting into a quivering puddle of goo.

Both teens pulled away at the same time and peeked hesitantly at each other; Harry’s eyes wide and startled.

“Hermione, I . . .”

Their eyes locked. Hermione’s heart was beating so fast she was afraid that now he would hear it. Harry’s eyes were a deep, glowing emerald and she could drown in them.

“Harry, I’m sorry I was such a prat earlier tonight. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean--”

“Shhhh. It’s okay, Hermione,” Harry whispered, putting a hand over her mouth to stop her flow of words.

Silence.

Harry’s heart throbbed in his throat, threatening to cut off his oxygen supply. His cheeks burned, and he felt light-headed, as if all the blood was rushing away from his brain. Her eyes were so dark—like pools of rich chocolate syrup. Without conscious thought, he found himself leaning forward, falling closer and closer into those chocolate pools; his hand moving unconsciously from her mouth to the side of her cheek.

‘Oooh! Harry’s skipping over Stage 2 part E. Each stage was supposed to take at least two weeks, but he’s going straight towards . . . ‘

Hermione’s eyes started to drift shut, her body relaxing towards him, while her internal babble died away.

‘. . . straight towards Stage . . .’

“ZZZZZ!” A loud snore blasted through the open doorway of the boys’ dorm, followed by a crash and the sound of frenzied swearing.

“RON!” they said in unison.

Snapping out of his daze, Harry hauled himself up. “I . . . I g-guess I’d better go ch-check on him.” He fought to regain command of his voice. “Sometimes he snores so loudly he wakes himself up and falls out of bed. He’ll go right back to sleep and won’t even remember it in the morning, but unless I shut him up he’ll wake up the whole tower.”

‘Darn it! Why couldn’t he stay in the bloody bed or at least fall out of bed quietly, just this once. Why didn’t I shut that blasted door?’ Then, ‘Wait a minute. What was I doing? What were we doing? What was I thinking? If Ron hadn’t made that racket, I would have kissed Hermione! I would have kissed Hermione! HERMIONE!’ he finished with a mental shout.

“Yeah. Sounded like he fell pretty hard,” Hermione said, laughing. But inside, ‘Darn you, Ronald Weasley! WHY couldn’t you have waited just one more minute!’

“Well, you go see if he’s okay. I guess I’ll head up to bed. Goodnight, Harry,” she said a little shyly.

“G’night, Hermione.” But she had already started up the stairs and didn’t catch his bemused stare.

Disclaimer: Nope. I’m not JK Rowling. This will become fairly obvious as the story progresses and my lack of brilliance shines through. Therefore, all recognizable characters belong to her and her alone. Only the plot is mine.

Author’s note: For those of you who think Harry is being a little bit too dense, remember that girls and boys generally do not think in the same way or pick up on the same signals. Also, the poor guy is just a tad distracted by Hermione’s – um – tactics; this makes everything even more difficult for him to understand.

*I promised to have this chapter up by today (December 24); however, please excuse any errors, since I’ve been very busy and couldn’t edit as carefully as I would have liked.

Waking Up Harry

Chapter Five: The Plan Takes a Brief Detour

Breakfast the following day was a quiet affair, punctuated only by the sounds of gulping and smacking while Ron attacked his food. Completely unaware of the previous evening’s late-night encounter, he sensed the tension between Harry and Hermione but saw no reason for that to inhibit his enjoyment of a perfectly good breakfast. Besides, he thought reasonably, a man whose two best friends are going mad needs to keep his strength up.

“Hey, Harry.”

“Ummm?”

“Are you going to eat those sausages?” Ron asked, eyeing them hungrily.

“No,” Harry said absently. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks, mate. Oi, Hermione . . .”

“Here,” she sighed, pushing her untouched plate of scrambled eggs and bacon over to him. “Knock yourself out.”

“Thanks,” responded Ron cheerily, shoveling away. “Hate to see good food go to waste.”

Hermione snorted.

Harry grunted.

“Well,” said Ron, “aren’t we both just two little rays of sunshine today! Come on mate,” he nudged Harry, “what’s there to be glum about? It’s the weekend, the rain has stopped, and we have the whole day to enjoy ourselves.”

Hermione went on immediate alert. “The whole day! Ron, are you insane? Your Herbology project is due in just one week, and the final draft of the Transfiguration essay needs to be ready by Tuesday! Not to mention the two feet of parchment for Potions on . . .”

Ron grinned.

“Ron!” she said sharply.

“Done,” Ron crowed triumphantly. “All done—every last bloody bit!”

“DONE?!” Harry and Hermione chorused incredulously.

“How can everything possibly be done?” Hermione asked suspiciously. “We’ve hardly seen hide or hair of you for the past week and haven’t seen you in the library for even longer than that.”

“Yeah, well,” Ron’s ears slowly turned pink.

“Ron?” Hermione asked sternly.

“Well, uhh, you,” Ron cleared his throat, “you, uhh, didn’t see me in the library because I was doing my studying somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else? Where then? The common room? We’ve barely seen you there either lately,” Harry said doubtfully.

“Not exactly,” Ron answered shortly.

Harry looked puzzled for a moment and then, whispering, “If you’re trying to put one over on her,” motioning to Hermione, “you know it won’t work. She’ll get it out of you eventually and it’ll be the worse for you.”

“I’m not trying to put anything over on anyone,” Ron protested. “I did it, I tell you!”

Hermione fixed him with a beady eye. “We haven’t seen you in the library. We’ve hardly even seen you in the common room. For the past few weeks you’ve been running out the minute class is over and have resisted all my attempts to help you. Now you’re saying that you have not only started, but completed, everything. Everything?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Ron questioned with an injured air.

“YES!” came the refrain.

“Well . . .” the pink stain had now spread from his ears to the rest of his face. “I did have just a little bit of h-help.” And he renewed the assault on his breakfast, cheeks bulging and mouth working furiously.

“Help? From whom?” inquired Hermione.

“Ubb, um,” Ron sputtered. “Candtalkdow. I’beating.”

Hermione raised a brow. “That’s never stopped you before,” she noted dryly.

Ron choked, turning an alarming shade of crimson. Pounding on his chest, he grabbed his tumbler of pumpkin juice. After several enormous gulps, he slammed the juice back on the table and jumped to his feet.

“Well, gotta run. Nice day—outside.” And with that cryptic remark, Ron practically bolted for the door.

Harry and Hermione stared after his retreating figure.

“What on earth . . .?” Harry asked, stunned.

Hermione’s gaze narrowed, her razor-sharp mind racing over the events of the past two weeks. Hmmmm. Since the inception of The Plan, she had been so focused on herself and Harry that she had neglected the other boy in their trio.

“Harry,” she said, slowly turning to look at him, “have you noticed that Ron’s been acting differently lately?”

‘No,’ Harry thought bluntly, ‘I’ve been too busy trying to figure out what’s up with you, Hermione.’ Then, out loud, “Er, no. I haven’t noticed actually. Why?”

Hermione didn’t answer for a moment. Her gaze became unfocused as she concentrated on the problem at hand. Harry knew well enough to leave her alone and was content just to watch her.

He loved the way Hermione looked when she was deep in thought. First she would take hold of one particular piece of hair at the side of her right temple, smoothing it back and forth between her fingers. Always the same piece of hair. As her concentration grew deeper, she would twist it round and round her right index finger until her thought process found a focus. When the problem was particularly perplexing, she would screw up her face and a little crease would form in the centre of her brow. It was really rather adorable.

There! The crease!

Harry always knew when she had come to a solution because she would release the curl with a quick movement, reach out with her left hand, and grab hold of his wrist.

“Harry!” Hermione gasped, let go of the curl she had been worrying, reached out with her left hand, and grabbed his wrist.

“I can’t believe we didn’t notice before. How could we have been so blind?” she said excitedly.

“Notice what?”

“Ron! The way he’s been acting over the past two weeks. Do you realize that we never asked him? How do you think it went?

“Ask him what? How what went?” Harry asked. He wanted very much to follow her train of thought, but was failing miserably.

“Honestly,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Harry, where have you been? Think now.”

“Oookay.” Harry was willing. He really was. The only problem was that he had absolutely no clue what she was talking about. In addition, she was still holding his wrist (‘That’s Stage Two, Item D accomplished,’ she realized, startled), bouncing it up and down on her skirt-covered thigh in her enthusiasm.

‘Wow, her hand feels soft,” he thought, bemused. ‘And when did her hands get so much smaller than mine?’ He was fully aware, of course, that girls were, in general, not as large as boys. But he’d never actually linked this concept with Hermione.

“Harry?” ‘He’s staring at our hands. I wonder if he’s noticed that I haven’t let go yet.’

“Well . . .” he managed.

She looked at him expectantly.

“Er, I dunno,” he said, eyes still focused intently on his bouncing wrist—and the thigh it was being bounced on.

“Let me give you a hint,” Hermione sounded a little frustrated. He glanced up and they locked eyes. “Hogsmeade.”

“Hogsmeade? What kind of a hint is that?”

Another eye roll from Hermione. “Think!” she ordered.

Harry was thinking, desperately trying to come up with something. He looked at her blankly, baffled at first; then his eyes widened.

“Of course,” he said eagerly. “The Hogsmeade trip with Luna! Hermione, you’re brilliant! I bet Ron made her cry! When they were at Madam Puddifoots! She probably wanted him to snog her, but of course being a girl she’d never come out and say she wanted a snog. She hinted at it and because he’s not a girl, he’s not a bloody mind-reader,” he added a bit bitterly, “he didn’t get it. Or he didn’t want to snog her. And so he didn’t do it and she got mad!

“Now what have I said that’s got you in stitches?” he asked in annoyance. For Hermione had let go of his wrist and was giggling almost hysterically, hands clamped over her mouth.

“Oh, oh,” she gasped, tears of mirth leaking out of the corners of her eyes.

“What? What’s so funny?” he asked irritably.

“It’s just . . . it’s just,” she managed, making a valiant attempt to control her giggles, “you’re just so . . . just so . . . Harry!”

“I’m just so Harry?” he repeated incredulously. “What on earth is that supposed to mean? Hermione, you’re not making any sense.”

Harry didn’t know whether to be cross or worried. Talk about Ron! Hermione had been acting very oddly over the past few weeks: stroking his cheek, smelling like peaches, soft hair brushing against his arm, soft hands grabbing his wrist, soft . . . everything about her lately seemed to be soft. ‘Well, not everything,’ he thought fairly. As far as character was concerned, she wasn’t soft at all. And when it came to loyalty and bravery, well Hermione wasn’t soft there either. She just felt soft . . . or to be more precise, she was soft physically . . . .

‘NO! Stop it,’ he chastised himself. Thinking about how Hermione felt (literally) or about any other physical aspects of Hermione did not seem to be wise at this point in time.

Hermione was vastly entertained by the myriad emotions flashing across Harry’s face. It occurred to her that now might be a good time to give Stage Two another go. Removing her hands from her mouth, she put one hand on Harry’s shoulder and the other on his cheek. Then she tilted her head forward and leaned her forehead on Harry’s chin.

Controlling her laughter, she let out a watery chuckle and raised her head.

Harry’s expression was priceless. He somehow managed to look indignant, baffled, and terrified—all at the same time.

“Harry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s just that I thought I was being so very clear, and when you obviously didn’t pick up on my meaning, I . . . I,” an additional small gurgle of laughter escaped, “well, I lost it there for a moment.”

“Sure did,” was the gruff reply.

‘She’s doing it again! She’s stroking my cheek—well not exactly stroking, more like touching . . . and her hair was tickling my chin a minute ago. . . she still smells like peaches. I wonder if she uses some kind of peach-scented shampoo? Or maybe peach-scented soap?’

Harry wanted to stay annoyed and focused but had become somewhat distracted by the mental image of Hermione in the bath with that peach-scented soap . . . Hermione with peach-scented soap bubbles all over her soft peach-scented hands; lathering her thick hair with peach-scented shampoo and then that same peach-scented shampoo dripping down over her shoulders, foaming all over her peach-scented . . .

With a start he realized that Hermione was speaking again—had perhaps been speaking for a while.

“. . . and the only possible conclusion we can come to, based on all these factors, is that Ron has been seeing Luna.”

“What?” Harry wished he had been listening more carefully.

“Well, all the factors I just mentioned. Everything points to Luna. Think about it, Harry: Ron is never in the library, but his homework is all done; not only is it done, it’s done early. He hasn’t asked me to help him, now has he? He hasn’t asked me to help him or asked to copy my notes or any of my answers since we got back from Hogsmeade two weeks ago. He’s hardly been in the common room at all and races away each day when class is over. Neither one of us has done anything to make him upset, and he doesn’t seem to be angry with us. In fact, Ron has been extraordinarily cheerful of late—even at breakfast. And you know how he usually is first thing in the morning.”

“You’re right,” Harry said in wonder.

“Well of course I am,” Hermione smiled. “Aren’t I always?”

“Haha Miss Smarty. What I mean is that you’re right about Ron being all jolly in the mornings and finishing his homework without our, I mean your, help. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s spending time with Luna. Maybe he decided to take his lessons more seriously and crack the books.”

“And just where has he been cracking them?” asked Hermione with raised brow. “Not in the library. Not in the common room. When we have to study but don’t want to go to the library, where do we go?”

“The common room,” Harry responded, still not seeing her point.

“Exactly. We go to the common room - more specifically to the Gryffindor common room. What if Ron has been studying in the Ravenclaw common room? With Luna! Luna might be a bit vague and rather odd at times, but no one can deny that she is also smart.”

“Ron in the Ravenclaw common room. With Luna. Wow!”

“It’s the only explanation that makes any sense,” Hermione said, nodding emphatically.

“Why do you think he hasn’t said anything to us about it?” Harry wondered.

“Oh Harry, he’s probably embarrassed. After all, remember the fuss he put up about going with her to Hogsmeade alone in the first place?”

“Ummmm,” Harry pondered. He still seemed shocked to think of Ron with a girlfriend.

“Well, I need to run and get my books for class,” Hermione smiled. Leaning over, she planted a quick kiss on his cheek, only a couple of centimeters away from the corner of his mouth.

Harry almost fell off his chair.

Author’s Note: All right, I understand that some of you are getting frustrated with how long it is taking Harry to “wake up.” Please remember that I warned you in the “rating” section—it’s going to take a while. Unlike JKR, however, I won’t make you wait for over 2,000 pages (since I don’t have her genius, I can’t use her tactics). Hang in there, because things are going to “heat up” in the next chapter or two.

Also, I appreciate all of the reviews—you have no idea how much! I will eventually answer all of them.

Disclaimer: Nope. I’m not JK Rowling. This will become fairly obvious as the story progresses and my lack of brilliance shines through. Therefore, all recognizable characters belong to her and her alone. Only the plot is mine.

Author’s note: If you don’t like innuendo, stop now! Hermione advances to Stage Three and our hapless hero knows for sure that something is up. But Harry’s not gonna take this sitting down. In this chapter, the worm turns!

Waking Up Harry

Chapter Five: A Twist in the Tale (er, “the Plan”), or Harry Fights Back

This was really too much. A fellow could not be expected to take this kind of thing sitting down.

The day had started off well enough; Harry had managed a full night’s sleep without any Voldemort-haunted dreams and he’d finished his Charms essay three full days before it was due. In fact today was Saturday and looked to be gloriously free of Snape, potions, or Snape’s dungeon. Life was good.

Then everything was ruined. Ruined!

Only five minutes ago, Hermione had waltzed down the stairs from the girls dormitory and pranced (pranced!) through the Gryffindor common room as bold as you please, wearing nothing but a thin strip of cloth around her hips and the most revealing top Harry had ever seen. And she’d been completely brazen about it—no shame whatsoever! Then, to make matter worse, she had sat down beside him on the couch and crossed her legs!

Well, all right, so maybe the skirt wasn’t all that skimpy; but still! That hem stopped a full two inches short of her knees, and when said knees were crossed . . . ! Harry shot a furtive sideways glance at Hermione and immediately blushed at the ocean of creamy flesh that greeted him.

‘Have her legs always been that long? No, it’s definitely the skirt. Too short for decency. Bad for the health, too; she’ll catch her death of cold in that thing. So what if it’s wool? Wool can only help so much. She can’t possibly stay warm with all that leg exposed,’ he thought critically.

The skirt, however, was nothing when weighed against that devilish knit top she’d squeezed herself into. Top? Ha! No decent top hugged a girl’s curves the way that one did. And wow, did Hermione have curves! That’s why Hogwarts students wore robes—how could a man concentrate that all that, that skin staring him in the eye? Stupid idea, really, allowing students to go robe-free on the weekends.

‘What on earth has gotten into her? She’s been driving me mental for weeks with the stroking, and the patting, and the grabbing, and the really-close-to-the-mouth cheek-kissing. Now this!’

Hermione, on the other hand, was having a wonderful time. Ostensibly reading a thick text, she was doing her own share of surreptitious peeking at Harry. Judging by the expressions running across his all-too-transparent face, Stage Three of the Plan was a rousing success so far. Time to take it a little bit further.

Putting down her book, she stretched languidly, reaching up with both arms and giving Harry a lovely view of two inches worth of bare stomach.

‘Just kill me now,’ he thought in resignation.

“Hey, Harry?”

“Huh?”

“I’m starving,” she said, lowering her arms and patting her now covered stomach. “Shall we go down to breakfast?” Slowly and gracefully she uncrossed those beautiful long legs and stood up, pausing to pick a piece of lint off her pale pink shirt.

Harry closed his eyes and wondered what he had ever done to deserve this . . . this torment.

“Harry, aren’t you coming?” Hermione linked one of her fingers in his and tugged gently.

“Uhh . . .” he managed. “Er . . . right. Sure.”

“Hey Hermione!” said Seamus for the top of the stairs. “You’re looking really good today.”

“Thanks,” she answered with a smile, tossing her head. “You look very nice yourself. That sweater matches your eyes perfectly.”

Seamus was stunned; was Hermione flirting? Then he beamed.

Harry scowled; was Hermione flirting with Seamus? Hermione never flirted!

Harry wanted to kill him.

And it was right then, right there in the Gryffindor common room, that Harry Potter finally woke up.

* * * * *

Harry sat in the Great Hall, face screwed up in concentration. How long had this been going on? Harry could pinpoint, almost to the minute, when Hermione had started behaving in a way guaranteed to drive a man mad: it was that Hogsmeade weekend four weeks ago.

At first, he had thought it was just his imagination, but no! She was definitely up to something. All that touching: patting his knee, rubbing his cheek with her (soft, peach-scented) cheek, bouncing his hand on her (glorious) thigh, grabbing at him constantly. Then, most recently, she had given him that kiss on his cheek, darn near nailing him right on the mouth. And now the clothes. Yes, he thought bitterly, that bloody provocative skirt and that bleeding shirt, clinging to her oh-so-gorgeous curves. Hermione was definitely up to something. But what?

Then, when Seamus had made that uncalled-for crack about how good Hermione looked, Harry had wanted to punch him. In fact, he’d wanted to do a lot more than that—he had wanted to hex the randy Irishman into the next dimension. But thinking about it again, he hadn’t felt too happy with Hermione either. She had definitely been flirting—with Seamus!

Just a few minutes ago, Harry had woken up to something very important; something that shocked him to the core. He didn’t like the thought of Hermione flirting with Seamus . . . or with Dean . . . or with Justin . . . or with . . . well, with anyone really. Except with him. Yes, if Hermione Granger was going to be doing any flirting at all, he wanted it to be with him—and only him! In fact, several ideas were now running through Harry’s mind, several plans. And each plan involved Hermione, Harry Potter, and no one else. Harry gave a small smile as he pictured those plans.

“Harry?” Neville’s voice interrupted Harry’s ruminations. “What’s the matter with you? Are you all right?”

Harry realised he had been just sitting there, staring and smiling at the same piece of toast for several minutes.

“Uh, nothing’s the matter Neville. Just a little tired,” and he quickly crammed the toast into his mouth to keep any other questions at bay.

‘Could this have all been coincidence? Hermione has always given great hugs—has she been behaving this way with everyone, or just with me? I want it to be just with me, but maybe she wants to let her hair down a little, perhaps change how people see her? I know that deep-down it’s always worried her that the guys think of her as Hermione, the smartest witch at Hogwarts, and not as Hermione, an eminently dateable girl.’ Harry ruminated on this idea for a moment. Absently plucking a rasher of bacon from the plate in front of him, Harry chewed thoughtfully.

Just then, Seamus plunked down into the seat directly across from them and “accidentally” placed his hand over Hermione’s as she reached to get a muffin from the basket in the middle of the table. Harry glared at the offending hand, wanting nothing more than to rip it from the Irish boy’s wrist.

“Whoops,” Hermione said lightly. Deliberately, she took hold of Seamus’ hand and placed the muffin into his open palm, closing his fingers over it. “Here, you take it,” she laughed, and plucked another one out of the basket for herself. Blithely ignoring the open-mouthed stares of Seamus, Neville, and Ginny, Hermione slowly (and sensuously, thought Harry) peeled the paper off the muffin and took a dainty bite, shooting a quick glance at Harry from under her lashes. This little display did not go unnoticed by Harry, who was watching her from behind his thick bangs. Nor did Harry miss her quasi-flirtation with a very flustered Neville a couple of minutes later, also accompanied by a peek at Harry.

‘She’s doing this deliberately,’ he thought in amazement. ‘That little devil! What is she up to? Could she be trying to make me jealous? No, she can’t be! And yet . . . the way she’s acting. Hmmmm. All this time I thought it was Ron she liked . . . maybe she’s jealous of Luna? But no, that can’t be it either. Hermione’s the one who pushed Ron to take Luna seriously that day at Hogsmeade and seemed pretty pleased that the two of them were together. And then two weeks ago in the common room, after that little tantrum of hers over the charms/transfiguration business . . .’

That night in the common room Hermione had thought Harry was going to kiss her; Harry had known he was. However, the following day it had been as if nothing had happened, and for the next couple of weeks things had returned to normal—well, more or less. There had still been the touching, and the grabbing, and the . . . Harry’s eyes narrowed. None of Hermione’s behaviour of late had been in character.

Knowing Hermione like he did, Harry knew that if she had decided to make him jealous, all her actions would be part of some grand scheme. Once she set her mind to something, his Hermione could plan strategies that would make Napoleon seem like a little boy playing with his toy soldiers. Much as the idea scared him, Harry knew there was only one way to find out if his hunch was correct.

‘Okay Miss Granger, turnabout’s fair play. I do believe a taste of your own medicine is in order here,’ Harry thought, smiling to himself.

Since today was Saturday and another Hogsmeade weekend, Harry decided to give Hermione a day to remember.

* * * * *

Hermione was confused. Harry was not acting like himself; no, not at all like himself. This was all very puzzling.

Harry and Hermione were having a butterbeer at their usual table in the Three Broomsticks, surrounded by laughing groups of Hogwarts students enjoying a day away from studying and lessons. Harry was having a wonderful time watching Hermione go through her usual grab-the-piece-of-hair, smooth-it-back-and-forth-between-her-fingers, twist-it-round-and-round-her-right-index-finger, and screw-up-her-face-in-concentration routine. The crease between her brows had been in evidence for quite some time as Hermione reviewed the day’s events so far.

First of all, when they left to go to Hogsmeade, Harry had put his hand on her lower back while they were climbing through the portrait hole. This in itself was not completely out of character; he had taken to doing this on occasion as a gentlemanly gesture. But this time things had felt different somehow. Then, after they had reached the corridor, rather than removing his hand right away, Harry had moved it to the side of her waist and lightly squeezed, following up on the squeeze with a light comment on how excited he was to be getting away from school for a while.

‘Honestly,’ Hermione chastised herself, ‘stop making a mountain out of a molehill! Harry’s just been under a lot of pressure lately; we all have. None of these bits and pieces means anything by themselves. This is just so typically Granger of you! Analysing the situation to death—picking every little action apart. Harry has not woken up yet. He’s a boy after all and incapable of subtlety. If he did realise what you were trying to do with The Plan, he’d act in one of two ways: if he liked you back he’d find some way to show you; if he didn’t like you as more than a friend, he’d probably start avoiding you. After all, my dear, you have been just a tad obvious over the last few weeks.’ This was definitely Sensible Hermione, who at that point let out a rather unladylike snort of laughter.

“Hermione?”

“Huh, what?” was the intelligent response.

“What’s so funny?”

“Funny?”

“Yeah, funny. You just snorted. You know, the kind of loud, laughing-type of snort,” Harry grinned.

“Rubbish, Harry. I don’t snort,” replied Hermione indignantly.

Harry smiled into his butterbeer and fell silent.

Hermione regarded him askance for a moment, lapsing back into thought when he didn’t offer any further argument. The crease was back as bickering broke out once again between Sensible Hermione and Hermione-in-Love.

‘All right, I suppose the whole portrait hole-helping and corridor waist-squeezing could be a coincidence,’ Hermione-in-Love pointed out reasonably. ‘But what about all that stuff at Honeydukes? Explain that away, Missy!’

‘Uh . . . well, uh . . .’ Sensible Hermione had to admit that the entire Honeydukes episode was very suspicious--very suspicious indeed.

Hermione remembered the entire episode in detail.

After the waist-squeezing in the corridor of Hogwarts, nothing untoward had happened until the two friends reached the village. As they strolled down the main street of Hogsmeade, Harry suggested starting off their visit with a quick nip into Honeydukes sweet shop. Hermione was agreeable; the day was chilly and she was eager to warm up.

The streets of Hogsmeade bustled with students, making walking difficult. As Harry and Hermione waited for the group ahead of them to move, Harry put his hand on the back of her neck and began absently playing with her hair, running his fingers through the long strands. Hermione froze, but then the group ahead moved and Harry dropped his hand.

After a few minutes, they finally managed to get inside Honeydukes. Harry made a beeline for the chocolate section—Hermione at his heels. A small saucer with a sign saying “free samples” was placed in front of a large display of chocolate. Harry selected one and bit it in half.

“Ummmmm, delicious,” he said, rolling the chocolate around his mouth and closing his eyes in ecstasy. “Here, Hermione. You’ve got to try this.”

And before Hermione could react, he was pressing the chocolate against her mouth. Without thinking, she obediently opened up and Harry popped the chocolate in, withdrawing so slowly that Hermione’s lips inadvertently closed around his fingers.

Hermione gave a started squeak; Harry smiled, his green eyes brilliant. “Isn’t it amazing?” he asked, pulling his hand away.

“Yes,” she squeaked again, wide-eyed. “Amazing.”

Coming back to the present, Hermione finally dropped the piece of hair she had been worrying and looked directly at Harry. He met her eyes innocently.

“So, what do you want to do next?” he inquired with a grin. “I’d like to stop off at Dervish and Banges, or maybe Zonkos, for a bit.”

“There’s a surprise,” Hermione noted dryly. That grin!

“Right then, shall we go?” Draining the last few drops from his mug, Harry pulled his chair back, brushing against her as he stood up, still grinning at her in that disconcerting way.

Flustered, Hermione fumbled with the heavy parcels she was attempting to gather up, dropping several on the floor.

“Oh bother!” she said in irritation.

Harry chuckled and bent to help her. When Hermione reached for the last parcel, Harry’s hand closed over hers. She looked up, startled, into his emerald gaze.

Time stood still. Harry’s face was so close to hers that Hermione could feel his warm breath and smell the scent that was so distinctly Harry. A mixture of grass, fresh air, and citrus—probably the soap he used—it was intoxicating. Once again her heart was pounding in her ears.

Harry was experiencing the same sensation of utter bliss he had felt that night in the common room. However, this time they were not alone, and with a start he recalled their surroundings. Clearing his throat, he managed a hoarse, “here, let me,” and gently extracted the parcel from Hermione’s limp fingers.

Bemused, the two teens left. Utterly absorbed in their own thoughts, they were unaware of the excited chatter that broke out in the pub after their rather interesting “display.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent quietly browsing the shops of Hogsmeade until the looming twilight signaled that it was time to go.

Making their way back to the castle, both Harry and Hermione were too preoccupied to notice the black clouds rolling in until a large clap of thunder, quickly followed by a flash of lightening, made them jump.

“Oh wow,” said Harry with a quick look at the sky. “We’re not going to make it back to Hogwarts in time.”

“We just passed the Shrieking Shack a minute ago,” Hermione noted. “Maybe we should . . . Ahhh,” she squealed as the first cold drops of rain splashed on her exposed head.

“C’mon, let’s get inside before we get soaked,” Harry said. Clutching his parcels tightly to his body with one hand, he snatched up Hermione’s with the other and began pulling her back towards the Shrieking Shack.

By the time they made the door, the skies had opened and the rain was coming down in frozen sheets.

“Alohamora,” gasped out Hermione. The door flew open and they scurried inside. Walking over to the dirty table in the corner of the room, Harry deposited his parcels on the surface and then quickly turned to take Hermione’s burden from her just as she reached forward to heave them onto the table. He ended up getting a load of parcels (containing several thick books) rammed forcefully into his stomach, almost knocking him over.

“Offfff,” he grunted.

“Oh, Harry. I’m so sorry,” Hermione burst out apologetically, grabbing the offending packages and throwing them hurriedly aside. “Are you all right?” she asked, putting one hand around his waist and rubbing his stomach with the other.

Harry stared down at the small gloved hand circling his tummy. “Uhh . . . erm . . .”

“I really hit you hard,” she exclaimed. “Let me see.” With that, she pushed him onto a nearby chair, knelt at his feet, and began tugging at his shirt.

“Oh, really, Hermione . . . it’s fine . . . um . . .” he stuttered, embarrassed and reaching out to stop her.

“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “Don’t be silly, Harry. It’s just me,” she chastised him, slapping his hands out of the way.

Harry watched in fascination as two small, determined hands yanked his shirt out of his pants.

“Look how red that is,” Hermione exclaimed in horror, pointing to his bare abdomen.

Harry looked. His stomach was a bit red but no worse that he’d experienced before. Being Seeker on the Griffindor quidditch team had resulted in far worse injuries. Frankly he was far more concerned with the effect that close proximity to Hermione was having on his ability to breath.

“Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry!” she repeated. She ripped off her gloves and pressed one hand to the injured skin, rubbing it gently. Harry gasped and jumped.

“Ooooo, that hurt, didn’t it?” she asked with concern; her hand remained frozen on his bare flesh as she peered intently at his stomach.

Silence.

Harry could feel Hermione’s skin burning into his. They were so close that her hair brushed his chin and her warm breath tickled his chest.

“Harry?” Worried chocolate-brown eyes rose up to meet his. “Are you all ri. . . ?” Hermione’s voice faded away when she saw the expression on Harry’s face. He looked—Hermione didn’t know how to describe what she saw there.

“H . . . Harry?” She asked uncertainly.

Author’s Note: All right, all right, I know! *ducks rocks and blows from angry readers* I REALLY did not want to leave you with a cliffie, but time is running out and I promised to update by Friday, so . . .

I’m going on a long-overdue holiday with my family next week, and there will probably not be an update until we get back. However, the next chapter may or may not be the last, but it WILL contain some of the, er, “good stuff” that you’ve all been waiting for! *winks*

In the meantime, Happy New Year everyone! This should be a wonderful year—HBP comes out in July and then the new movie in November! Hurray for 2005!

Once again, thank you so much to all of you who have reviewed thus far! I appreciate it immensely!

Disclaimer: Nope. I’m not JK Rowling. This will become fairly obvious as the story progresses and my lack of brilliance shines through. Therefore, all recognizable characters belong to her and her alone. Only the plot is mine.

Author’s note: I’m SO sorry to have taken such a long time to update. When I mentioned that this chapter might be longer in coming than were previous chapters, I truly did not anticipate taking this long! First we went on holiday for a week and a half. Then my kids got sick. Then I got sick. Yuck. Next year I’m going to make sure that our whole family gets that wretched flu shot!

Anyway, I hope that all of you out in Harry Potter land had a lovely New Year and that this chapter was worth waiting for. Please review *wrings hands and begs and pleads and hopes she is forgiven for taking so long* and let me know what you think. Thanks! And for those who have not yet received a response to their review, I’m trying to catch up. Just know that I do very much appreciate all of you.

Now, enough with the author’s notes. Enjoy the chapter and I hope it was worth the wait!

RECAP FROM CHAPTER 6

“Alohamora,” gasped out Hermione. The door flew open and they scurried inside. Walking over to the dirty table in the corner of the room, Harry deposited his parcels on the surface and then quickly turned to take Hermione’s burden from her just as she reached forward to heave it onto the table. He ended up getting a heavy load of parcels (containing several thick books) rammed forcefully into his stomach, almost knocking him over.

“Offfff,” he grunted.

“Oh, Harry. I’m so sorry,” Hermione burst out apologetically, grabbing the offending packages and throwing them hurriedly aside. “Are you all right?” she asked, putting one hand around his waist and rubbing his stomach with the other.

Harry stared down at the small gloved hand circling his tummy. “Uhh . . . erm . . .”

“I really hit you hard,” she exclaimed. “Let me see.” With that, she pushed him onto a nearby chair, knelt at his feet, and began tugging at his shirt.

“Oh, really, Hermione . . . it’s fine . . . um . . .” he stuttered, embarrassed and reaching out to stop her.

“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “Don’t be silly, Harry. It’s just me,” she chastised him, slapping his hands out of the way.

Harry watched in fascination as two small, determined hands yanked his shirt out of his pants.

“Look how red that is,” Hermione exclaimed in horror, pointing to his bare abdomen.

Harry looked. His stomach was a bit red but no worse that he’d experienced before. Being Seeker on the Griffindor Quidditch team had resulted in far worse injuries. Frankly he was far more concerned with the effect that close proximity to Hermione was having on his ability to breath.

“Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry!” she repeated. She ripped off her gloves and pressed one hand to the injured skin, rubbing it gently. Harry gasped and jumped.

“Ooooo, that hurt, didn’t it?” she asked with concern; her hand remained frozen on his bare flesh as she peered intently at his stomach.

Silence.

Harry could feel Hermione’s skin burning into his. They were so close that her hair brushed his chin and her warm breath tickled his chest.

“Harry?” Worried chocolate-brown eyes rose up to meet his. “Are you all ri. . . ?” Hermione’s voice faded away when she saw the expression on Harry’s face. He looked—Hermione didn’t know how to describe what she saw there. “H . . . Harry?” She asked uncertainly.

Waking Up Harry

Chapter Seven: Plan? What Plan?

Breathing was difficult right now. As that small warm hand rubbed against his bare abdomen, Harry felt his stomach muscles contract painfully, and once again he was drowning in those liquid chocolate pools.

‘Answer her, you idiot! Answer her!’ he thought savagely. But no words came. Everything in the room had vanished into a black hole of darkness from which no word or movement could escape. He existed in a vacuum. The only thing he could see was Hermione; the only thing he could feel—Hermione, and that soft, soft little hand burning into his stomach. Then she pulled her hand away and the room came back into focus once more. Cold. The air was so cold.

“Harry,” she repeated in a small voice. “Please . . .”

“Er . . .” he cleared his throat and jumped at the sound. “I’m . . . I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine,” she said dubiously. “You don’t sound like yourself at all.”

“No, really,” he said again, managing to speak over the enormous lump lodged in his esophagus. Then he looked back into her eyes. Big mistake. The lump got bigger.

Hermione was becoming quite worried. Harry was always so brave. No matter how badly hurt he was, whether it was a Quidditch injury or an attack by a troll, a Basilisk, or an evil lord, he never whined. She just knew that he was in pain and didn’t want her to feel badly. Typical Harry; he was worried about how she might feel.

Giving a small sigh of exasperation at this stubborn refusal to admit he was hurting, Hermione seized hold of his arm, knelt down in front of him and gave him her most severe “McGonagall” look.

“All right, Harry. I’m going to probe your stomach. I want you to tell me, truthfully, how you feel!” And with that rather strict command, Hermione began a relentless but gentle poking and prodding in the area of Harry’s abdomen.

“How does that feel?” Poke, prod. “How about that?” Poke, prod. “And that?” Poke, poke.

“Uhhhh.”

‘You want to know the truth about what I’m feeling, Hermione?’ Harry thought desperately. ‘All right then, how’s this for the truth? The truth is I want nothing more than to grab your elbows, haul you up, pull you onto my lap, hold you tight, and kiss you until you’re as incoherent as I am! I want to kiss you until you can’t hear or see straight! I want to feel your beautiful mouth against mine; I want your tongue tangled up with mine. I want to plunge my hands into that wild cinnamon-brown hair and then find out if that peach-scented neck of yours is as soft as it looks. That’s what I want! But I’m too much of a bloody coward to do anything about it. What a Gryffindor I’ve turned out to be.’ He groaned out loud and lowered his head, clapping his hands to his forehead in frustration.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione pleaded, “I’m so sorry.”

Harry looked at her and was shocked to see tears sparkling in her big brown eyes.

“NO,” he said vehemently. “Hermione, it’s okay. I’m okay. Really.” Reaching down, he gathered her hands in his and pressed them gently. “Please don’t cry.”

Cradling her face with one hand, he ran a thumb over an escaping tear. “I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I was just . . . I don’t know . . . off in space there for a minute. You really didn’t hurt me. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said unsteadily, giving him a tremulous smile.

Harry smiled back, and for a minute they stayed that way, gazing at each other and smiling a bit shakily. Harry was spellbound by Hermione’s eyelashes, spiked together into little sparkling clusters from the dampness of her tears.

Then,

“Harry?”

“Hmmm?”

“You’re . . . um . . . you’re still . . .”

“Hmmmm?” he murmured absently. Hermione’s smile widened. She let out a small laugh and nodded at their still joined hands.

The sound wrenched Harry back into the present.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He made to pull his hand away but was met with resistance as Hermione lapsed into deep reflection.

‘Not so fast, Potter!’ thought Sensible Hermione. ‘All right now. Let’s analyze this situation. One of two things is happening right now. Either Harry has noticed me as something other than an honorary boy, or else I really did hurt him with my ever-graceful assault on his abdomen.’

‘His gorgeous, well-toned abdomen you mean,’ inserted Hermione-in-Love with a smirk. ‘Ooooo, what I wouldn’t love to do to that . . .’

‘That will be quite enough of that,’ interrupted Sensible Hermione crossly. ‘Can we focus on the issue at hand here please?’

‘Hmmmfff!’

‘Yes, well,’ Sensible Hermione continued, ‘which is it then? Do you think he has finally woken up? And how do we know if he has? What if his stomach does hurt and he’s trying to be all brave and Gryffindor-like and we’re taking it the wrong way and thinking that he has woken up and that he likes us in that way or maybe that he has woken up and doesn’t like us in that way but knows that we like him in that way and. . .’

‘Stop!’ said Hermione-in-Love with a mental shout. ‘Will you pleeease stop analyzing the situation to death here? You’re giving me a headache. And what was with the whole pointing-out-that-he-was-still-holding-our-hands-bit back there? That was smooth going, Granger! Way to make him feel self-conscious and ruin the moment. And by the way,’ she added, ‘that last sentence of yours? It was one of the worst run-on sentences I’ve ever been forced to endure.’

‘HONESTLY,’ said Sensible Hermione furiously, ‘this is hardly the time for a grammar critique! We have more important things to worry about. And what “moment” are you referring to exactly? There was hardly any “moment” going on. He was still holding our hands and I was merely trying to draw his attention to that fact; thus, of course, giving us the opportunity to study his reaction to our noticing the joined-hands-incident and . . .’

“Hermione?”

“Huh?” Both Hermione’s were rudely snapped back into the present. Uh oh! Harry was looking puzzled. Better distract him.

Hermione let out a peel of laughter and released Harry’s hands so abruptly that he almost toppled over backwards.

“Oh, sorry,” Hermione said blushing. Distraction. How to cause a distraction? She chuckled feebly, jumped to her feet, and slapped him heartily on the back. “Ha, ha, you certainly had me fooled there for a moment, Harry. I thought I’d really injured you. Heh, heh.”

Harry was looking at her as if she had suddenly grown an extra head or two.

For some reason, she was desperate to get things back to normal. Forget the bloody plan for a minute and get your act together, woman!

“Well,” she said nervously, eyes darting around the room, “looks like that rain won’t be stopping anytime soon, right?” She clapped her hands together in agitation. “Let’s see here, what can we do to warm this place up?” And she began to pace around the small area, peering into corners as if expecting a fire to burst forth from the stone walls. Then she flung off her cloak and collapsed into a chair beside a very mystified Harry who was staring at her with his mouth half open.

“What?” she asked sharply. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Hermione,” said Harry slowly and patiently, as if speaking to a not-very-bright toddler, “you’re acting a bit . . . strange.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Hermione asked with a frown.

“Well, for one thing, you’re worrying about this room being too cold, but you’ve just taken off your cloak,” he pointed out reasonably.

“Oh that!” she exclaimed, thinking feverishly. “I just thought I’d let myself get cold and then I could put my cloak back on again and then I’d be warm. You know . . .” her voice trailed away.

“Riiiiight,” said Harry dubiously.

“It’s obvious,” she responded with an uneasy chortle, “that the contrast between the cold without the cloak and then the warmth with the cloak would make me feel warmer.”

“Okay Hermione. Although you wouldn’t be feeling the cold quite so much if you weren’t wearing that particular . . . those particular . . . clothes,” he said critically, indicating her fitted and stomach-revealing-if-she-raised-her-arms top and showing-two-inches-of-leg (three if she crossed said legs!) skirt.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” she inquired in a dangerously sweet voice.

“Nothing’s wrong with it exactly,” Harry said hastily. Poor Harry. He’d been through a lot over the past couple of weeks, what with the arm-grabbing, the cheek patting, and the almost-kissing; having to deal with an angry Hermione while cooped up in a small room together did not seem like the best strategy for a peaceful life.

“Exactly?”

‘Oh man. Now I’ve done it. How do I get out of this one? Easy enough,’ Harry thought to himself. ‘Just tell her that girls’ clothing, although lovely to look at, isn’t necessarily as warm as what guys wear sometimes. Tell her the shorter skirt shows off her lovely legs to perfection. Wait a minute! “. . . shows off her lovely legs to perfection?” Oh man, that sounds so gay!’

“That skirt could be longer.” ‘Bollocks!’

“Reeeaaally. Any other suggestions Potter?”

‘All right. She called me Potter. Not a good sign. How about pointing out that no skirt could be short enough for me? Haha. Right! That’d get me the business end of her wand for sure! Okay, forget the skirt for now. Talk about the top. That bloody top that makes me want to . . .’

“Yeah. While you’re at it, you might want to reconsider switching that top for a nice warm loose-fitting turtleneck.”

“Are you implying that the top I’m wearing right now is too tight?” she ground out through clenched teeth.

“Are you mental, Hermione. Too tight? Tight is good. Tight is very good. Don’t think there’s any such thing as too tight. In fact . . .”

“Yes,” he stated baldly.

“Oooooo,” Hermione jumped to her feet, eyes flashing and fists clenched. “So my clothes are slutty, are they?”

‘Uh, oh. I’m dead.’

“Yes. I mean no. I mean . . . NO!” Harry burst out in desperation. “That’s not what I meant at all! You’re the opposite of slutty! You are so far from slutty! You’re . . . you are . . .”

“Yes? I’m what? Prim, priggish, boring?” Hermione’s face had gone very red and she was breathing in short rapid pants.

“NO! You’re not . . . You’re putting words into my mouth . . . You’re . . . I DON”T KNOW!” Harry roared, jumping to his feet and turning equally red. “I don’t know what you are any more! You’re driving me absolutely--MAD!”

Complete. Absolute. Silence.

The two teens stood staring at each other, eyes widened in shock.

‘Bloody hell,’ Harry swore to himself. ‘I’m turning into Ron. I just shouted at Hermione. I never shout at Hermione. Ron does that, not me. Look at her! She’s angry enough to punch me. Or worse, hex me. She’s beautiful when she’s angry—all flushed cheeks and wild unkempt hair. Oh wow—she makes me want to . . . to . . . She’s so livid she can’t speak. She’s . . . Oh my great. . . Oh Merlin. She’s crying! I’ve made Hermione CRY!’

Indeed, Hermione was crying. And it broke Harry’s heart to watch her. A tear seeped slowly out of her eyes, slid down her cheek, and plopped to the floor. Then another. Plop. Then another. And another. Plop. Plop. And all the while she kept looking at him with those large, reproachful brown eyes.

Harry decided he would rather fight a hundred Voldemorts than see that look on his Hermione’s face; see those tears running unimpeded down his Hermione’s face. With a loud groan he reached out and hauled her against his chest, arms encircling her waist.

At the feel of Harry’s arms around her, Hermione lost all control. The dam burst and she sobbed hysterically into his shoulder.

In a panic, Harry moved one hand up to the back of her head and began anxiously stroking her long hair. His other hand stayed at her waist, moving in small circular motions as he tried to comfort her.

“Hermione, please . . .” Harry murmured into her hair. “Please . . .” I didn’t mean to . . . please,” he whispered softly and desperately. “I’m so sorry.” Her hair smelled wonderful—like peaches.

Hermione continued to sob as all the emotions raging through her for the past year bubbled to the surface.

“Oh Harry, I’m so sorry.” Sob. “So sorry.” Sob. “I’m such an idiot.” Sob.

“No, I’m sorry,” Harry said remorsefully, continuing to stroke her hair. “I’m the idiot.” Stroke. “You’re not an idiot.” Stroke.

Gradually Hermione’s sobs diminished and she let out a rather loud sniff. “Your cloak,” she said in a small voice. “It’s all wet.”

“Yeah, well, it was already wet from the rain. A bit more won’t hurt,” said Harry with a smile.

A watery chuckle greeted this comment. “It’s certainly soaked through now,” said Hermione ruefully to his shoulder.

The room had suddenly got very close, very warm. Hermione was aware, oh so very aware, of being held by Harry. Harry was equally conscious of the fact that he was the one doing the holding. And that he liked holding Hermione. He liked it a lot.

“Hermione, I really am sorry.”

“I know Harry. It’s all right,” she said, still speaking to his shoulder. The plan! The plan! She needed to do something, to say something. This was the perfect moment! But an unexpected shyness prevented her. When she felt Harry’s thumb on her cheek as he gently wiped some of the tears away, Hermione closed her eyes. His touch filled her with a quiet contentment and she thought that she could stay this way forever--just standing here in the circle of his arms. Then his other hand came up and tugged at her chin.

“Hermione, what’s going on?”

“Erm . . .”

The hand tugging at her chin became more insistent, forcing Hermione to lift her head up.

“I don’t have to pull on your eyelids too, do I?” asked Harry.

Hermione giggled softly. Slowly, face aflame, she raised her eyes to meet his.

And saw something she had been waiting to see all this time. Harry was awake. Oh yes he was. He was awake and on his face was the most tender, loving, compassionate expression she had ever seen.

Wait a minute—compassionate? Hermione went into a panic. He knew! He knew how she felt and he didn’t feel the same! He was trying to figure out how to let her down easily! He loved her all right; there was no doubt about that. But it was the love of a brother for a sister. The love of a friend for a . . .

“Hermione?”

“Y-yes, Harry?”

“You think too much.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you do. Now for once just stop thinking.”

“Stop thinking?” she repeated indignantly. “Well, really! I don’t think that . . .”

“Well I do,” interrupted Harry. “I do think that you think too much and analyse too much and scrutinise every detail way too much. In fact, Miss Granger,” Harry stated, “I think that what you should do right now is . . .” his voice trailed off as he searched for the right words.

“Yes? Is what?”

“Oh bugger,” said Harry. And on that romantic note, he pressed his lips to hers.

To Be Continued

Disclaimer: Surprise! I’m still not JK Rowling. Therefore I don’t own Harry Potter or any of the characters in the Hogwarts world.

Warning: Severe fluff ahead! Do not read if you have a known sensitivity to sugar—this much sweetness may be dangerous to your health!

Author’s Note: What was I thinking? Now I have two stories to update—“Helping Neville” and “Waking Up Harry”—at the same time. *Bangs head on computer * Evil plot bunnies, LOL!

That being said, I seem to recall more or less promising to update this particular fic by Friday (February 4). Usually the words flow freely and the majority of my time is spent editing and compulsively revising. This time the writing itself has been a struggle, and it wasn’t until the last long writing session that everything came together and the words poured out. Hope you are not too disappointed! So, without further ado, the eighth (and final) chapter of “Waking Up Harry.”

Waking Up Harry

Chapter Eight: All’s Well That Ends Well

Hermione had pictured this moment during countless sleepless nights and endless hours spent analysing and fine-tuning every detail of “The Plan.” In one recurrent daydream, Harry would clasp her to his chest, declare his undying love for her, and sweep her off her feet with a burning, passionate kiss. In another, he would kiss her shyly, then overwhelmed by love and desire, proceed to snog the living daylights out of her.

But this was a first kiss. A first kiss between best friends--best friends who both wanted . . . something more. This kiss was a little awkward, a little desperate (on Harry’s part), and very, very brief; the merest brush of lip on lip.

And yet, the moment she felt his mouth touch hers, Hermione had no problem following Harry’s suggestion to stop thinking. She could not have kept a thought in her head at that point if her life depended on it. Sensible Hermione and Hermione-in-Love were temporarily silenced. Then as quickly as it began, the kiss ended and Harry pulled away.

Hermione could feel his warm breath against her forehead. Slowly, she raised her head, immediately recognising the uncertainty in his beautiful eyes. Mixed in with the uncertainty was wonder, and . . . fear, and—joy?

Harry’s mind was reeling with the boldness of his action. In the brief time since he and Hermione had taken refuge in the Shrieking Shack, they had run the gamut of behaviours and emotions: from worry (hers) to confusion (his) to anxiety (hers) to anger (also hers) to sadness (ditto) to tenderness (both of them) to worry (hers again), until he couldn’t take it anymore and just had to kiss her. She had looked so cute and worried that he had not been able to help himself.

And now? Now he was having a hard time shutting down the voices in his head which were screaming at him to ‘slow down! Don’t terrify the poor girl. What if she doesn’t want this? What if she pulls out her wand and hexes me? What if I’ve been reading her “signals” all wrong? After all, my previous experiences with women have hardly been smashing. In fact, Cho was my ONLY experience and that was a total disaster.

But on the other hand,’ he argued with himself, his thoughts sporadic and disjointed, ‘there has been that whole patting, stroking, almost-mouth kissing thing going on. And those clothes—that skirt and that top. Then that kiss . . . the way her lips felt . . .what is she thinking? Was this . . . is this, what she wants?’

“Hermione, I . . .”

“Harry. . .”

They both laughed nervously.

“You first,” said Hermione.

‘She’s smiling! If she’s smiling, then maybe this is what she wants. I know her so well; in fact, we can almost read each other’s minds. So why is it that I can’t be sure now? Should I kiss her again? What will this do to our friendship? Or have I already messed that up by kissing her? And yet she doesn’t seem upset—she looks . . . she looks happy.’

While Harry’s internal debate had been going on, his hands, as of their own accord, were slowly making their way around Hermione’s waist. All his senses were on full alert. The skin of her cheek felt so soft against his; the peachy-fragrance of her hair smelt even more delicious close up; the glow in her beautiful brown eyes was—for him? Could it be? Could it really be?

Hermione’s hands, for their part, had managed to wind themselves in Harry’s messy ink-black hair, something she had been dying to do for ages. And his mouth! Hermione had always been fascinated by Harry’s mouth—his well-defined lips looked smooth and inviting, especially now when they were tilted up in a soft smile. Held this close to him, she could see the little bristles on his cheeks and chin and a tiny spot of dried blood from where his razor had nicked him. She untangled one hand and caressed the spot with a gentle finger.

“Do I have something on my face?” Harry asked worriedly.

“Just a bit of dried blood.”

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckled. “Cut myself shaving this morning. The ever-graceful Potter, eh?”

Hermione smiled and rubbed at the spot. “Does it hurt?”

“Yeah. I think you need to kiss it better.” ‘Hey! Where did that come from?’ Harry blushed furiously, feeling as if the connection between his brain and his mouth had become completely severed.

Hermione smiled again. Leaning forward, she laid a butterfly-soft kiss on his cheek.

“All better?” she asked. “Any other ‘owies’ you need me to fix?”

Harry’s eyes had darkened to a forest-green and his expression was unreadable.

“Ummm,” he managed. ‘She looks incredibly beautiful right now. Who knew that my bossy little Hermione could be so . . . playful. Brilliant, yes; concerned, sure; intuitive, certainly; loyal, absolutely--but playful? That’s a side I’ve never seen before. I like it though. I like it a lot.’

“Harry?” her voice held a tinge of uncertainty at his long silence.

“Ummm? Uh . . . oh right!” he grinned mischievously. “I do have one. It’s a big one though. Do you think you’re up for it?” he asked, pressing a finger to his mouth and indicating his lips.

“Harry Potter!” Hermione blushed and smacked his hand teasingly. She pretended to think for a moment. “Hmmmmm. I don’t know. If it’s a big enough ‘owie,’ maybe you need Madame Pomphrey to fix it for you.”

“Eeeww, Hermione!” Harry said, giving her a horrified glance. “Do you know what kind of an image you just put into my brain? I’ll never be able to look her in the eye again!”

“Gross, Harry,” she giggled with another smack, this time to his shoulder. “That’s not what I meant!”

He laughed again and then looked down, his arms falling to his sides.

A brief silence and then--

“Hermione, what are we doing?” Harry asked with a somber look.

Hermione chuckled a bit nervously. “Well. . . ummmm . . . you just---er—you just kissed me.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Harry, turning a dull red. “What I mean is . . . what does this do to our friendship?”

“To our friendship?” Hermione repeated.

Harry nodded seriously. “Yeah. You are the most important person in the world to me, Hermione—you and Ron, of course,” he added hastily, his face becoming an even deeper shade of scarlet. “I wouldn’t want anything to get in the way of our friendship. My track record with girls, and with kissing, has not exactly been stellar,” he added with a self-depreciating laugh. “Actually, it’s been bloody awful. I probably don’t have it in me to be good at either; at girls or at . . . kissing.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione interjected sympathetically. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. Your one experience with kissing, with girls really, was with Cho, right?”

He nodded. “Don’t forget the fiasco in fourth year. I doubt Parvati will ever forget,” he noted with a dismal laugh. “I must have been the worst date in Hogwarts’ history!”

“No, that would be Ron,” Hermione said, earning a small chuckle from Harry. “Poor Padma! Anyway,” she added, more seriously, “you can’t condemn yourself based on two unfortunate dating experiences and one, um . . . kissing experience.” Now it was Hermione’s turn to blush.

Harry picked up one of her hands and laced it with his.

“I dunno,” he said doubtfully, absently playing with her fingers. “I’m afraid I probably really am a bad kisser.”

“Harry, you’re a brilliant kisser,” Hermione said earnestly. “And kissing your best friend doesn’t mean you will lose her as a friend.”

“It could though. . .” he paused as the meaning of her words finally sunk in. “Really? You thought I was b-brilliant . . . that the kiss was . . .” he stammered, flushing. “So, uh, so, you liked it? I mean, it was . . . I mean . . . it was . . . er . . . good?”

Hermione pretended to consider for a moment. Then, seeing Harry’s worried expression, melted.

“Yes, Harry.” She reached up to trace his jaw with her free hand. “It was very good, although it could have been more . . . ummmm . . . extensive,” she whispered, raising her eyes to his somewhat shyly.

“Extensive,” he whispered back, pulling her hands behind her back and then holding them there in one of his. “Yeah, I think I’d like that too.” Dipping his head down, he caught up her chin with his free hand and looked at her tenderly. “Do you think . . . ?”

In response, Hermione gave a tiny smile and reached up to touch his lips to hers.

At the first touch of Hermione’s mouth on his, Harry’s thoughts vanished into oblivion. She was soft and inviting, and this time he pressed harder, his lips tingling at her touch. His hands began moving--from her chin to her shoulders to her waist to her back, until he had virtually eliminated all space from between them. Hermione made a soft sound deep in her throat and Harry felt the blood rush from his head. Suddenly he was desperate to taste her.

Hermione’s heart thumped louder and louder, until she was sure he must be able to hear it. Waves of pleasure washed over her as Harry deepened the kiss. She had wanted this for so long and now that it was happening she abandoned all thought, all plans, and just felt—his warmth, his tenderness, his scent—citrusy soap, grass, and something else, something indefinable—something that was just . . . Harry.

She wanted to . . . needed to . . . get even closer. Releasing her hold on his jaw, she shifted down to his shoulders and then slid her arms under his and around to his back. Urgently grasping fistfuls of his shirt, she pressed herself tightly against him. She felt rather than heard him groan, as his tongue ran along the seam of her lips, seeking entrance. She opened her mouth and soon they were both intoxicated by the touch and taste of each other. She could feel him trembling and she was herself experiencing such an uncontrollable shaking in her legs that she was in danger of collapsing. Her stomach quivered also, as a thousand butterflies ricocheted off in every direction.

Harry had never felt anything like this before. The closest he had come was when he soared high above the grounds of Hogwarts on his Firebolt—or plunged to the earth chasing after the snitch—or back in third year during that impromptu ride on Buckbeak. But this! This was . . . exhilarating . . . unbelievable! He could kiss her forever and never get tired!

He did, however, require oxygen; after an additional minute or two of passionate kissing, he broke away, gasping.

Hermione, too, was breathless, her chest heaving as she took in great gulps of air. For several moments, the only sound in the room was of two people desperately attempting to fill their lungs with oxygen.

Then,

“Wow,” managed Hermione.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. His voice sounded oddly husky and he cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

They both leaned forward at the same time, hands linked and foreheads touching as they continued to regain control of their breathing. Despite the rather intense snogging that had just taken place, both Harry and Hermione found themselves strangely shy, overwhelmed by the experience they had just shared.

Harry cleared his throat again.

“H-Hermione?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” she responded.

“This is a little bit embarrassing,” he said with a small laugh.

Hermione pulled back and looked at him earnestly. “Harry, you know you can tell me anything! I know you so well; you shouldn’t ever be embarrassed in front of me.”

“Umm, especially now, right?” Harry answered with a twinkle, pulling on her hands.

“Prat,” Hermione responded affectionately. She chuckled and blushed, then gave him his arm a swat. “Now, what is it you wanted to ask me?”

“It’s about this past week; well, this whole month actually,” he said.

“Oh?” she said, a smile beginning to tug at the corners of her mouth. ‘Here goes, Granger. Confession time!’

“Where you trying . . . I mean did you deliberately . . . I mean . . .”

“Spit it out, Harry,” she chuckled.

He glared at her in mock exasperation. “You aren’t going to help me out here, are you?”

“Why, Harry,” she answered with an innocent smirk, “whatever do you mean? Help you out with what?”

“I think you know very well what I mean, Miss-Fake-Innocence. If you won’t willingly help me out, maybe a little encouragement is in order,” he said, letting go of her hands and wiggling his fingers threateningly. “Don’t forget, how well I know you, too, including the location of all your ticklish spots!”

Before Hermione could get away, he grabbed her and began tickling her in her most vulnerable spot—the sides of her waist.

“No . . . don’t . . . stop . . . Harry!” she managed to gasp out in between shrieks of laughter. “You are . . . you are so going to get it, Potter . . .” shriek, shriek. “Just wait . . .”

“Tell me, Hermione! Tell me and I’ll stop,” he said, laughing.

“All right! . . . okay, enough!”

“You’ll tell me?”

“YES!” Hermione was doubled over, laughing so hard that tears had begun to stream down her face.

“All right, then, Miss Granger. Spill! And this better be good, or I’m going for the next spot!” he threatened, smiling and pulling his hands away.

Hermione glared at him and swiped at her eyes. She stabbed a finger into his chest. “Feeling pretty sure of ourselves, aren’t we Potter!”

Harry just grinned and wiggled his fingers.

“Fine!” she snapped. ‘That grin of his should be illegal!’ she thought. Hermione was only pretending to be angry, however. Secretly she was rather pleased with herself. Obviously the plan had worked to perfection!

“Well, Hermione, I’m waiting,” said Harry still grinning.

“Fine!” she said again. “What exactly is it that you want to know?”

“For starters, I want you to tell me what was up with the way you’ve been acting lately. The . . . er . . . the patting, and the stroking, and the grabbing . . .”

“Grabbing?” exclaimed Hermione indignantly. “Harry, I don’t grab!”

“Call it whatever you want. You know what I mean,” Harry said. “I just want to know if I’ve been imagining things or if you’ve been behaving . . . differently . . . with me lately. And knowing you that way I do,” he continued, “things like that are usually part of some grand scheme. Was I part of some grand scheme, Hermione?”

“Scheme sounds so cold and calculating,” Hermione protested. “I don’t scheme. I do, however, plan; and rather brilliantly at times, I might add,” she said, looking down at her feet with a small smile.

“Hmmm, yes. You do have a well-deserved reputation for being the smartest witch of our time,” Harry agreed, grinning broadly. “So,” he added softly, “you were driving me mad deliberately, were you?”

“I had to, Harry,” she said in that bossy tone he knew so well; she was still, however, not looking at him. “You were being incredibly dense about your feelings for me, and I decided to . . . um . . . help you with that.”

“Hmmmmm.”

“You’re not . . . angry, are you . . . with me?” she asked in a small voice.

“Considering the torture you’ve put me through, I should be,” he said, trying desperately to sound stern.

Hermione raised her head, somewhat alarmed.

“However,” he continued, “considering that it was for a good cause . . .” one hand began stroking her curly hair “. . . and that we’ve been the best of friends for so many years . . .” the other snuck around her waist “. . . and that you helped me wake up . . .” he pulled her closer and caressed the strip of bare skin at her midriff “. . . I think I’d rather not waste any time being angry when I’d rather do this . . .” he nibbled softly on her neck “. . . and this . . .” he moved up to her ear “. . . and this . . .”

Suffice it to say that Harry was no longer asleep. He was, in fact, awake, and more than happy to spend the next while showing Hermione how very awake he really was.

Fin

A/N: Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed the story! An update on “Helping Neville” will be up either next week or shortly after, depending on how much real life interferes.

Adieu for now!

KirstiR