Hermione on Strike!

Author's Notes: This is my response to the `Hermione on Strike!' challenge posed by Harrys Mistress on the forums. I am considering writing a sequel of sorts to this, although I'm not yet sure that'll happen. Hope you all enjoy it, and reviews are always appreciated.

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Hermione on Strike!

“Hermione, what did Binns say about the first set of negotiations?” Ron asks, staring intently at his History of Magic essay as he waits for her answer. Hermione sighs and rolls her eyes before glaring at the back of his head while replying from her seat by the blazing fire.

“The negotiations failed, Ron. Honestly, do you not remember one single thing from today's lesson?” She sounds exasperated, Harry absently notes as he racks his brain for details on the goblins' discussions with wizards.

“Of course I don't, and I'm not the only one. Right, Harry?” He gives him a `please save me' look and Harry reluctantly nods his agreement, much to Hermione's distaste. She huffs impatiently and returns to her knitting, a hobby she hasn't lost from the previous year. Ron returns to his essay and Harry glances about the crowded Common Room, hoping to spot anything that'll remind him of the day's History of Magic lesson.

Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas are sitting at a table not far from theirs, writing what appears to be an essay and occasionally chatting. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown both have looks of intense concentration upon their faces as they study the bottoms of a pair of tea cups, and Neville Longbottom is looking on with mild interest. Harry's eyes land on Hermione and he watches her stare into the fire as the knitting needles continue to work in mid-air by her side. Her gaze is concentrated and her posture tense; she's deep in thought, Harry notes before dragging his focus back onto the blank parchment on the table in front of him.

He's had trouble focusing in all of his classes lately, and the sepulchral tone of Professor Binns as he lectures without a break does nothing to help his efforts. His grades have been steadily declining since the start of the year, but in his mind his lack of focus is more than justified. The war is raging all around them; not a day goes by without owls bringing news of death and destruction at the hand of Voldemort and his followers. He knows Hermione finds his work ethic less than adequate, and every time he receives a D in Potions or a P in Transfiguration it's her disapproving voice he hears in his mind. It doesn't stop him from angrily glaring at her whenever she mentions their “upcoming N.E.W.Ts” or the “important test that counts for a quarter of their grade!” though. He's continually thankful for Ron's presence and comments (“N.E.W.Ts are over a year away, Hermione!”) that often enough distract Hermione from himself.

“Wasn't there some sort of bloody massacre after one of the negotiations?” What must be Ron's twentieth question brings Harry back into the present. Hermione is looking at Ron with an incredulous expression and Harry senses danger in the air as she opens her mouth to reply.

“You have to be joking,” she begins slowly, as if speaking to a child. “A `bloody massacre' after the negotiations? Ronald Weasley, if you're joking with me, I suggest you stop; if you're completely serious, I have no idea what class you attended today in place of History of Magic,” she scathingly finishes. Harry glances at Ron and sees his ears redden, whether out of anger or embarrassment he isn't sure.

“For your information, Hermione Granger,” he says mockingly, “I'm completely serious. Just because you're a human sponge that somehow absorbs everything the old loon says doesn't mean we all are.”

Hermione suddenly stands, the flashing needles dropping to the floor with a soft thud as she hotly replies, “You spend an hour continually asking me for help on your essay and the one time I don't give you a straight answer you insult me? What do you expect me to say to that? Am I just supposed to sit there quietly, accept your - your rudeness and answer all of your inane questions?” She pauses only to take a breath, and Harry notices the complete silence that fills the packed room. “I'm tired of being the one everyone comes to for help with their homework, and it's not only you, Ron! I am not a walking encyclopaedia, contrary to popular belief! Perhaps if you two,” she shoots Harry a death glare similar to the one previously aimed at Ron alone, “spent more time focusing and taking notes in class rather than playing hangman on spare bits of parchment you wouldn't need to ask me to practically write your essays! I am through with being taken for granted; if you want my help again, you'll have to admit you need me and think of me as more than just `the smart one' of the group. Consider me on strike!” And with that she storms out into the corridor, leaving a room full of shocked Gryffindors.

“I - well,” Ron splutters, clearly at a loss for words. “She just -”

“Got angry?” Harry weakly interjects. Hermione's heated words echo in his mind amongst the sudden whispering and busy chatting of the students; he feels oddly ill knowing Hermione's irritation is directed at him as well.

“She's absolutely mental,” Ron says weakly. “Finally cracked, that one has. And,” he adds as an afterthought, his voice becoming stronger, “if she thinks I'm going to hunt her down and apologise for her insanity, she had better think again.” Harry merely stands silently, staring at Ron's ridiculously red ears as he prattles on about Hermione's apparent madness.

“I'm going to bed,” Harry says finally, interrupting a rather derogatory remark on Ron's part. “Night, Ron.”

“Yeah…night, Harry,” he absently replies before turning to Seamus and saying loudly, “What d'you reckon has gotten into her, mate?” Harry slowly makes his way up to the dormitory and collapses onto his bed fully-clothed, wondering why he's suddenly feeling irrationally guilty about one spat, if it could even be classified as such, with Hermione. He rolls over and shuts his eyes tightly, instead focusing on clearing his mind of all emotion as instructed.

*

“You have twenty minutes remaining; your potion should now be forest green in colour.”

Snape's cold voice rings throughout the dungeon classroom as well as the scuffling of the Gryffindors and Slytherins as they check on their brewing potions.

“I don't reckon Snape could've set a harder task,” Ron grumbles from Harry's left as he stirs his bright blue potion. Harry hears a derisive snort from Hermione on his right and chances a glance at her potion to find it a perfect green. He looks into his own cauldron and finds, with disappointment, that his concoction is closer in colour to Ron's than hers.

“It doesn't look right,” he says, frowning at Ron. “This blue isn't even slightly green.”

Ron nods fervently and leans across Harry towards Hermione and says, “What've we done wrong, Hermione?” Neville and Seamus look up from their own cauldrons in interest at Ron's first spoken words to Hermione since last night's incident; she doesn't even spare him a glance as she continually stirs her potion. Ron scowls at her and asks, “Is it the powdered unicorn horn? The crushed dung beetles? The pickled toad?” She remains silent, and Harry is aware of most of the class' amusement as they watch the scene unfold. “Come on, Hermione,” Ron whines, “you have to help us! You're the only person in here whose potion is perfect!” Hermione bites her lip and Harry has the distinct impression that it's to hold her laughter in; however, she does not look up from her cauldron. Ron is silent for a moment before -

“Hermione!”

“That's enough, Mr Weasley,” Snape drawls. “Ten points from Gryffindor for disrupting my class and another five for being a pathetic whiner.” Snickers are heard throughout the dungeon as the students return to their own work and Snape sweeps up and down the aisles in his usual manner.

“You ask her for help, Harry,” Ron whispers, “she'll listen to you for sure; she always does.”

“What? No, Ron, I'm not bothering -”

“It's never bothering to her when you ask,” he sharply cuts in, rolling his eyes. “Ask her or else we're definitely failing today's lesson,” he hisses and adds some more crushed beetles to his potion, causing it to emit a small amount of sparks and turn a violent shade of red. “No!”

Harry looks to Hermione on his right and sees her with a hint of a smile on her face as she watches Ron's attempts to tame his potion. Her eyes are lit up in amusement, her cheeks slightly flushed and her lips pursed as she struggles to contain her enjoyment of the situation. His stomach lurches pleasantly as her eyes lock onto his and he quickly looks away, blushing furiously for reasons unknown to himself.

“Er - Hermione,” he mutters, more to his cauldron than to her, “Can you - er - can you maybe tell me what to do with - with this,” he finishes and gestures at the now purple potion simmering in front of him. He meets her eyes and his stomach leaps again as she smiles.

“It's very easy, Harry, really,” she begins, surprising Harry, “All you have to do,” she leans in closer and he feels light-headed as the distinctly Hermione smell of books and ink pleasurably invades his senses, “is read the instructions, follow them carefully, and make the potion on your own because I am not helping you at all.” She gracefully steps back, the smile still upon her face and her aroma wafting around him as he gapes wordlessly, feeling confused and worried for his sanity. Since when has he noticed the way Hermione smells?

*

“I need those potatoes, Harry,” Ron moans, looking longingly across the table at the bowl that rests directly in front of Hermione.

“Then ask her for them,” Harry replies, watching Hermione as she chats animatedly to Neville.

“Pass the potatoes, Hermione,” Ron's says. “Please,” he quickly adds. She doesn't show any signs of hearing his request and continues her conversation. “Hermione,” Ron says louder, “pass the potatoes.” Still no response or sign of recognition from her side of the table. “You ask her, Harry.”

“She didn't help me in Potions, Ron,” Harry mumbles, beginning to feel agitation at the whole situation. This, he thinks, is ridiculous; he's not used to having Hermione all but ignore him, and it's beginning to affect his mood.

“At least she talked to you!” Ron pushes.

“She told me to do it myself, that hardly counts,” he counters.

“Of course it counts, Harry, she didn't even spare me a glance!”

“Do you want her to be upset with me?” he angrily asks.

“She already is upset with us. I want the bloody potatoes; I'm hungry,” Ron answers, back to staring at the bowl.

“Fine. Hermione, can you please pass the bowl of potatoes over here?” Harry grits out through his clenched teeth. Hermione lays down her fork, stops talking to Neville, and turns to him with a clearly bothered expression.

“Need I remind you that I am on strike? You both know the deal,” she loudly intones.

Ron physically dives across the table for the potatoes, and Harry is left staring at the side of Hermione's face with an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach as she returns to her conversation.

*

“Homework is a right pain without Hermione's help, isn't it?” asks Ron from his armchair. They're back in the Common Room, Ron working on his Transfiguration essay and Harry silently watching as Seamus engages Hermione in conversation. He realises with a start that he's been studying Hermione more than anything throughout the day; how she walks, how her mouth moves as she speaks, the way her eyes light up in amusement or annoyance, how she always bites her lip in concentration when -

“Harry? I said isn't homework -”

“Yeah…pain without Hermione,” Harry vaguely replies without taking his eyes off of her. “What d'you reckon she's talking to Seamus about?”

“Huh? Oh, I dunno…probably spew or something,” Ron says, scribbling a few lines onto his essay.

“They're laughing,” Harry states. “What are they laughing about?” He sees Seamus playfully poke Hermione in the ribs; his jaw tightens and his fists clench. He feels an unexplainable surge of jealously as he watches the two of them, laughing and - and playing around together.

“I'd say she's laughing because he's tickling her,” Ron unnecessarily explains.

“It's probably because the git's tickling her,” Harry says, not paying any attention to Ron.

Seamus drags Hermione to a table that's covered in parchment and books and pulls out a chair, gesturing for her to sit. He grins as she does and flops down into the seat next to her, pushing a scroll of parchment toward her and holding out a quill. She smiles briefly before taking the quill and writing while she explains something to him.

“Of course she'll help anyone but us with homework,” Ron gripes as he too watches the display.

Five minutes later, Hermione puts down the quill, pushing the parchment towards Seamus with a small smile. His eyes scan it and he grins, standing and pulling her into a tight hug as he does so. Harry leaps out of his chair as though scalded and marches straight over to the pair of them, grabs hold of Hermione's wrist, and pulls her away toward the stairs to the dormitories.

“Just what do you think you're doing, Harry?” she demands, voice laced with indignation as she attempts to pull her wrist out of his grasp.

“I should be asking you the same question,” he grounds out in a low voice, now leading her past the doors to the lower years' dorms. He wrenches open the door to the sixth year boys' room, pulls Hermione in after him, and noisily slams the door shut as he loosens his grip on her wrist and feels her move away. He paces around the room, desperately attempting to collect his thoughts and understand why he's reacting so strongly to everything she does. “You,” he begins, unable to think of anything else. “You just -”

“What's going on, Harry?” she asks in a weary tone, crossing her arms and staring pointedly at him.

“I just - I don't know, Hermione,” he moans and runs a hand through his hair. “Everything that's happened today - and last night - has driven me absolutely mad. It's like I can't even go a full day without cracking up if I can't talk to you,” he explains. “Can't talk to you without you getting angry or ignoring me, I mean,” he adds. She's just standing there with an expectant yet soft expression and he knows what he has to say. He takes a deep breath and says evenly, “I need you, Hermione, and I don't just mean I need your brains. I just, well, need you, you know?” He's blushing and he feels as though there are butterflies in his stomach as he voices for the first time what he's always taken for granted.

“I know. I really know, Harry.” Hermione beams before rapidly crossing the room and nearly tackling him to the ground as she captures him in a hug that knocks the wind out of him. He feels light-headed again and his stomach is doing back flips as he wraps his arms around her, but he attributes it to the lack of air, afraid of what it could really mean.

She eventually pulls away slightly, still grinning, and leads him out of the dormitory and back into the Common Room, where they collapse onto a couch nearby Ron.

“I knew you'd crack first, Harry,” Ron says, unable to hide his forming smirk.

“Yeah, well…”

“You don't have to explain anything,” Hermione haughtily states. Ron merely shakes his head and returns to his essay, but not before giving Harry a very pointed look. Harry and Hermione exchange a worried glance before -

“Damn.” Ron throws down his quill and walks straight over to Hermione. “You're not just `the smart one,' Hermione, I really do need you and so does Harry,” he says earnestly. “And I don't understand what we're even meant to write about for McGonagall,” he sheepishly adds.

Hermione laughs and hugs him before telling him to get back to work. Ron gapes at her in shock, but she shakes her head and says, “Yes, Ron, I'll help you with your essay.” He grins and pulls her off of the couch and over to his armchair by the fire. She leans down to read his essay, but not before giving Harry one last lingering smile that leaves his stomach in knots and his heart racing.

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Real

He now knows he loves her; he's never been surer of anything in his life. It had taken him six months to realise what the strange new feelings meant, but he'd figured it out on his own in the end. He just hasn't done anything about it yet, although he's decided to at least tell her tonight.

He's the talking and walking definition of stressed at the moment as he hastily makes his way back to the Gryffindor Common Room, having just completed another draining lesson in Occlumency. The image of Snape's smirking face after successfully penetrating his mind and viewing even more private memories than usual is still fresh in his memory. He simply could not focus tonight, or any other night for that matter. She's on his mind all day, every day; he's a lovesick fool and it drives him mad.

It's funny, in a strange way, how it had taken an action as drastic as her going on strike to help him grasp just how much he needs her in his life. He no longer takes her for granted or ignores the voice inside his head that speaks in her tone. Well, except for when it tells him to confess to her. He's not exactly sure why he hasn't come clean; he knows how difficult it is to keep anything a secret from her and figures she probably has a good idea of what's going on in his frustrated mind. He's a bit scared of the possibility of rejection, although he has more than enough faith that their friendship would not sever purely because of that. It's the idea of her loving him back that frightens him more than anything; he doesn't know how to handle love, he's never had any experience to know any better.

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to say the password?”

The Fat Lady's rude tone surprises him; he didn't even notice he'd reached the Common Room so quickly. He stands quietly for a moment before answering, fully aware of her presence just through the portrait hole. His stomach lurches and he feels the palms of his hands begin to sweat as he firmly clenches them and mutters, “Gillyweed.” The painting swings open and he climbs through the hole only to come face to face with -

“Hermione!” he exclaims, not expecting to meet her right at the entrance. He usually prepares before speaking to her these days; he convinces himself that she's still his best friend despite the attraction he feels. “Where are you going?” Half of him wants her to leave the room and allow his heart rate to even out once again, but the other half desperately craves her presence and loves the adrenaline rush he feels whenever she's nearby.

“I was going out to look for you, Harry. You haven't returned this late in quite a while,” Hermione replies, peering worriedly up at him.

“How was Snape?” Ron asks, walking over from one of the armchairs by the fire.

“Same as always,” Harry answers quickly, happy for the chance to direct his attention onto someone other than Hermione.

Ron nods and says, “Thought as much. She,” he gestures absently toward Hermione, “seems to believe he's been treating you differently lately. Says you come back looking even more distressed than usual.” Harry's eyes widen in surprise and his gaze snaps back to a slightly blushing Hermione.

“It is true,” she says, not quite meeting Harry's eyes. “You've been acting differently around me - us - lately, and, well, I figured it might be something about your Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape or if there's a different reason…” Her voice trails off as her gaze meets his, and Harry panics in the few seconds of silence, wondering if she's finally figured it out.

“He just said Snape is the same as he's always been, Hermione; there's no need to read into things so much,” Ron says with a roll of his eyes. Hermione shoots him an angry glare and opens her mouth to reply but Ron addresses Harry before she has the chance. “You look as though you need some fun, mate. Up for a game of Exploding Snap?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replies gratefully and follows Ron over to a group of chairs. To both his pleasure and dismay, Hermione sits in the seat next to him and watches as he and Ron play; although watching as Ron plays Exploding Snap and Harry stares at her out of the corner of his eye is a more accurate description of the situation.

After receiving six burns in differing degrees of severity, Harry decides he's had more than enough Exploding Snap for one evening. He stands without speaking and moves over to the empty couch, from where he watches Ron attempt to goad Hermione into a game. It takes him several minutes of vehement arguing, to Harry's slight amusement, but she eventually rolls her eyes and occupies Harry's abandoned armchair.

As Harry turns from watching her laughing and concentrating demeanour and focuses on the raging fire instead, he realises he has absolutely no idea how he's going to tell her. He doesn't want to scare her by professing undying love right away, yet he doesn't want her thinking it's just another meaningless and fleeting crush that he'll get over in time. He does not allow himself to contemplate her possible responses in this moment; it's hard enough working up the courage to tell her without thinking of potential rejection. Just as he's considering forgetting about the whole thing for another night, he hears a loud bang from Ron and Hermione's general vicinity and twists around to see an extremely miffed looking Hermione examining her newly-scorched left forearm as Ron attempts to stifle his laughter.

“I just knew I shouldn't have agreed to play this game!” she harshly spits. “And stop laughing, Ron! How would you like me to give you a burn on your arm?”

“Hermione, I've been playing this game for at least ten years now,” he manages to reply through his mirth. “I've already burnt everything there is to burn!”

Hermione scowls at Ron and mutters something Harry can't hear before making her way over to the couch and crossly sitting uncomfortably close to him. Ron, still chuckling, picks up the deck of cards and wanders over to where Seamus and Dean are sitting. Harry's leg is shaking uncontrollably and he feels physically ill to his stomach with sheer anxiety as Hermione shifts closer to him.

“You would think,” she begins, not facing Harry but staring into the fire, “that he'd be a bit more mature at sixteen than he was at eleven.” Harry merely nods in response, unable to formulate a decent or coherent reply when she's just crossed her legs in his direction. “What kind of person laughs when their best friend's just burnt herself?” She turns her head and he suddenly finds his face mere centimetres away from hers and their hot breath mingling in the warm Common Room air before she quickly turns away again, blushing.

“Ron?” Harry supplies in a voice most unlike his own. He clears his throat shifts his weight around on the couch.

“What?” she asks, completely nonplussed.

Harry clears his throat again and repeats, “Ron would laugh. You asked what kind of person would-”

“Oh, right,” she interrupts. “Ron. Yes.” She sounds extremely flustered, Harry notices, and it gives him heart. He allows himself, for the first time in ages, to hope that she could possibly feel the same attraction he's felt. Stealing a quick glance, he sees her lower lip is caught between her teeth and her brow is furrowed, creating a small crease in her forehead that he can't help but find endearing. He groans and puts his head in his hands, silently berating himself for becoming such a sap. A hand comes into contact with his shoulder causing him to jump to his feet as though he'd been burnt again by the exploding cards.

“What's wrong, Harry?” Hermione asks, taken aback by his jumpiness.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, backing away as she stands and steps toward him. “Well - something is wrong - no, not wrong. Something is - is not really right. Actually, it is right; at least I think it's right if you think-”

“Harry!” she cuts his rambling off and stares incredulously at him as he furiously reddens under her intense gaze. “What's going on with you? You've been acting so strangely lately, and I have absolutely no clue as to why-”

“Let's take a walk. Now.”

“I - okay,” she replies, still watching him with that questioning look upon her face. He casts a quick look in Ron's direction before turning and leading the way out of the Common Room, Hermione right behind him.

The walk through the corridors is the most awkward time he's ever had with Hermione; the silence only broken by the echoing sound of their footsteps as they stride in time with one another. The sight of the giant entrance doors to the castle is nothing short of immensely welcoming and they hastily slip into the cool April air.

The setting sun casts long shadows onto the lawn from their bodies as they swiftly make their way down the grassy slopes of the grounds towards the lake. Harry attributes their speed to the amount of nerves he's feeling, he is meant to be leading her after all. They reach the smooth surface of the lake in record time and stop as one to catch their breath. It was more of a jog than a walk, Harry thinks as he wills his breathing to even out and his heart to stay inside of his chest instead of attempting to escape through his throat. He stares out into the distance, considering all of the possible ways to let her know how he feels.

As a decent idea finally comes to mind, she says his name and the sound of her voice distracts him enough to lose the thought.

“Harry?” she says again, a hint of worry in her tone. “You're making me nervous; can you please just speak to me?” He takes a good look at her, and for the first time in six months knows what to say.

“I'm confused, Hermione.” It's the complete and honest truth, he knows, although her expression suggests he's succeeded in confusing her as well. “And you're the one who's confusing me.”

“What have I done to confuse you?” she asks, eyebrows raised and mouth open in surprise.

“Well, you're just - er - making things strange for me. In a good way, though,” he hastily adds seeing the hurt look she's sporting.

“I'm strange in a good way?” Hermione questions and places her hands on her hips.

“No! You make things strange. For me. Wait, no, don't get upset.” He's messing this up even more than he thought was possible and feels as though his insides are ready to shrivel up in shame.

“I don't know what you're playing at, Harry, but I don't very much appreciate-”

“I think I love you,” he desperately says. She silently stares at him and he continues speaking, figuring it's all out on the table now. “I've felt this way for - well, for months now.” He digs his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers and takes a deep, steadying breath. “I sort of expected you to know, but I'm pretty sure you're surprised right now,” he says, letting out a nervous sort of laugh. “I didn't mean to scare you or anything and I don't expect you to tell me you love me but-”

He's cut off as she leans into him and presses her lips to his in a quick, tentative kiss. She pulls away, eyes wide and face flushed, bottom lip held between her teeth again.

“it'd be nice if you did,” Harry finishes weakly and raises a disbelieving hand to trace his lips.

She beams up at him and he smiles hesitantly, a mixed feeling of hope and extreme pleasure coursing through his body.

“Harry,” she whispers as her arms slowly encircle his neck and she takes a tiny step closer until her lips are a fraction of a centimetre away from his, “I do.”

He presses his mouth to hers this time, and as he revels in the first kiss he's ever initiated, he's no longer afraid of what it's like to be loved by someone.

--- --- ---

Author's notes: So, there you have it; this story is now complete. I hope you enjoyed the sequel as much as the first part; please leave a review!

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