Something Like Love

Disclaimer: Just borrowing JKR’s world for fun…

Author’s Note: In which I over-use the dream as my favorite plot-device… Pure fluff. Enjoy!

Written for the brilliant and wonderful Goldy’s birthday.

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Something Like Love

Part 1

Romance, Harry decided, was decidedly unhealthy for him.

When he didn’t dream about Voldemort and what might happen when he faced him again, he dreamed about her. Neither of which was conducive to a good night’s sleep.

It all started with a dream, really.

He dreamed he was back with Cho in the Room of Requirement only this time she wasn’t crying. She was smiling at him, laughing at something he had said, and he felt his stomach flutter with pride and pleasure that he had made her laugh.

“I really like you, Harry,” she said quietly and moved closer to him, so close he could feel the heat of her body and the only thing he could think to do was put his hands on her waist- partly because if she came any closer she’d be pressed against him and he didn’t think he could handle that. He swallowed hard. She was so close; her face was so close… Her eyes were closing, her lips suddenly seeming even closer than they had been a second ago…

So he kissed her again.

It was very different now that she wasn’t crying, he thought fuzzily. It felt good.

Unconsciously, instinctively, his hands tightened on her waist, bringing her just that tiniest little bit closer to him. Tentatively, his tongue moved to touch her closed lips. Her lips softened and then parted on a slight sigh and the kiss deepened from there… Now this was what it meant to kiss, he thought…

The kiss finally ended and he opened his eyes and saw her.

Hermione. He’d been kissing Hermione.

He jerked awake at the shock of seeing her. His heart was still racing; his body still warm from the effects of the dream.

He’d dreamed of kissing Hermione. Cho had turned into Hermione. But why? Surely he didn’t-- he couldn’t like Hermione in that way. She was- she was just Hermione, his best friend…

He couldn’t fancy her like that.

Could he?

No of course he didn’t fancy Hermione, he told himself. It had just been a dream, a silly, ridiculous dream that meant nothing.

Just a dream.

And then breakfast happened.

He was sitting across from Ron eating a muffin when Cho walked in, and his stomach clenched a little.

He nearly sighed in relief, even though Cho still steadfastly refused to look at him, smiling and flirting with Roger Davies.

Of course. He could only react that way if he still fancied Cho in some little part of him, no matter what had happened the last year.

He relaxed. It had only been a stupid dream…

“Morning, Harry, Ron,” Hermione said, sitting down next to him with her usual bookbag bulging with books.

His hand jerked so much he nearly spilled his pumpkin juice and then to make it worse, he looked at her. He only meant to glance at her as he half-muttered a greeting but found himself unable to look away and stared instead.

Because this time, he really looked at her as if he’d never seen her before in his life. (Maybe he hadn’t, not really.) Saw her smooth skin, the faintest tinge of color in her cheeks, her hair (his hands positively itched to brush a strand of it away from her face and he clenched them into fists under the table to keep from acting on his impulse), her slight smile, and finally, her eyes. But more than all that, he saw the spirit in her, the way she carried herself, the confidence in her along with the kindness, the caring… He remembered all the ways she’d helped him, all the loyalty she’d shown. And he remembered how he’d felt on seeing her lying unconscious on the floor of the Department of Mysteries last year.

And oh God, he did want to kiss her.

He wanted to touch his lips to hers, to find out how it would feel, to taste her, to smell her, to feel her breath against his cheek. He wanted to see her smile at him…

The fluttering in his stomach increased and he wondered, a little wildly, how he’d somehow managed to swallow a million butterflies without realizing it.

Her leg brushed his under the table and the warmth emanating from that spot nearly made him gasp. He edged surreptitiously away from her, trying to concentrate on his muffin.

His no-longer-appetizing muffin.

He grimaced unconsciously.

“Oi, Harry, you feeling okay?” Ron’s voice broke through his stunned thoughts and he started, looking up.

“Huh, what?”

“You looked like you felt a little sick for a minute there,” Ron said, frowning a little at him.

“I’m fine,” he answered quickly. “Just not hungry, I guess.”

He felt Hermione’s concerned gaze on him and kept his eyes steadily averted. He didn’t dare meet her eyes now. She was usually able to read his thoughts and he didn’t even want to think about how she’d react if she saw that right now, all he really wished he could do was kiss her.

This was insane. He couldn’t kiss Hermione! He shouldn’t even want to kiss her! He certainly shouldn’t dream about kissing her!

This was insane. She was his best friend, only his best friend. You don’t kiss your best friends, he reminded himself sternly.

He just needed to forget about his dream, ignore the funny feeling he got in his stomach when he looked at her, just ignore it all.

It would go away.

He was just tired today, tired and obviously not thinking straight.

It would go away if he just ignored it. It had to.

It didn’t.

If anything, it seemed to get worse.

They had Potions that morning and Potions was hell. Or to be more accurate, more hellish than usual.

He and Hermione were partners since Ron wasn’t in Potions and so he didn’t even have the distraction of Ron. There was only Hermione—and the potion they were working on. He tried to keep his attention completely on what he was doing for the Sleeping potion they were brewing that day, cutting up the materials for it with near-obsessive precision in an attempt to keep his eyes and his mind from wandering to Hermione, sitting next to him, quietly murmuring beneath her breath as she read aloud the instructions for how to make the potion.

He wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t think about the fact that she was sitting so close to him he could feel the warmth of her body against his side or that if he shifted just a little and turned his head, he could probably smell her shampoo… He refused to notice the tiny wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows in her concentration or the way she bit her lip as she worked. (She’d had those little mannerisms for years; since when did he suddenly find them so endearing? Since when did he suddenly think that she looked- cute- when she frowned like that? Hermione—cute?)

He returned his attention to his cauldron, glowering at his textbook since he couldn’t exactly glare at his wandering thoughts, determined not to look at her again. He would make the best bloody Sleeping Potion in the history of Hogwarts! Not the best; you know Hermione’s potion will probably turn out better than yours, a small voice in his head reminded him and he grimaced as he added in the lacewing and stirred his potion which was now a disgusting color of greenish-brown and very thick.

“I assure you, Mr. Potter, glaring at your potion is not going to make it ready any sooner, your faith in the power of your displeasure notwithstanding,” Snape drawled sarcastically as he paused by Harry’s cauldron.

And for once he almost welcomed the sound of the Slytherins’ sniggering and Malfoy’s loud laughter; it served as a distraction from Hermione, who he knew, even though he wasn’t looking at her, had glanced at him in concern and sympathy before throwing Snape a look of dislike. (When had he developed this sixth sense that told him what Hermione was doing even though he wasn’t looking at her?)

It was the longest hour of his life.

Not looking at Hermione, not thinking about Hermione, had suddenly become an impossible task.

He had never been so glad to leave the Potions dungeon, helped by a sense of triumph at having made a good Sleeping potion. He knew it was good because even Snape hadn’t been able to criticize it, only glared at Harry and stayed silent although he took the rest of his wrath out on the hapless Seamus.

He rushed out of the dungeon, for once not waiting for her until he heard her call his name.

“Harry!”

He stopped automatically and turned to face her, trying to keep his eyes on her eyes or her forehead or her nose or her eyebrows—anything rather than her lips where they were irresistibly drawn.

“You did really well in Potions today,” she said, smiling approvingly, and the funny feeling in his stomach increased at the sight of her smile. She was smiling because he’d done well; she was pleased for him. He restrained the urge to grin like an idiot at that thought, as sternly as he quashed the impulse to brush his finger across her smiling lips—or, worse, brushed his lips across them.

Then it was Charms but with Ron there, it was easier to focus on Ron rather than Hermione on his other side. Easier but not easy.

His stomach persisted in fluttering in the oddest and most annoying manner every time he looked at her.

Maybe he was getting sick, he thought desperately. He was getting sick and light-headed and that was why he’d suddenly become obsessed with the idea of kissing Hermione. And that would explain the queer feeling in his stomach as he watched her surreptitiously.

They were practicing the Invisibility Charm in class that day, trying to make objects invisible, and he again tried to force all thoughts of Hermione out of his mind and think only of the subject at hand.

He failed—but the increased concentration he gave to the class meant he still managed to master the Charm quicker than anyone else except for Hermione.

And she smiled delightedly at him again as they were leaving, her eyes shining, and he swallowed hard. Not even Cho’s smile had affected him this much. Why was it that just seeing Hermione smile—and smile because of something he had done—made him want to smile too? What was it about her smile that suddenly made him feel as if he could defeat a Hungarian Horntail with his bare hands…

Or defeat Voldemort and survive the battle…

He had lost his mind.

That was all there was to it.

All the Occlumency lessons and his different near-death experiences had addled his brain.

Yes, that was it. That was why he couldn’t even look at Hermione anymore without wanting to kiss her, when he’d been friends with her for more than five years without ever having thought of kissing her.

He was hungry, he knew that, after having had only half a muffin and some pumpkin juice for breakfast.

But of course he couldn’t eat at lunch either.

He sat down across from her, hoping that would make things easier but instead it turned out to be worse because he had a much better view of her now.

He’d piled food on his plate and begun to eat his shepherd’s pie but then he heard her laugh and glanced up at her and again, his stomach felt funny.

She wiped her mouth with a napkin and his gaze narrowed down to her lips. Her pink and wonderfully soft-looking lips. She took a sip of pumpkin juice and he found himself wishing he could kiss her just to taste the pumpkin juice lingering in her mouth.

He dragged his gaze away from her, fixing them on his plate as if he’d never seen food before in his life and made a half-hearted attempt at eating.

“Harry, are you sure you’re alright?” Ron asked again. “You’re not eating a thing.”

“I guess I’m just not hungry again,” he said rather lamely.

Ron gave him a skeptical look but then returned his attention to his dessert.

He breathed a silent sigh of relief that was short-lived as Hermione now kept up the concern.

“You really should eat some more, Harry. Starving yourself isn’t going to do anything and if you don’t, you’ll be really hungry by dinner time.”

She was so sweet. Why hadn’t he appreciated that fact before? She was so sweet, the best friend ever. She’d saved his life so many times, helped him so much, even when she thought he was wrong… She’d rescued him from the Cruciatus… What would he have done without her, he wondered.

He remembered the way he’d panicked, his mind going completely blank, at the sight of her lying unconscious after being hit with Dolohov’s curse and suddenly realized he hadn’t even reacted that strongly to Ron being attacked by brains.

And for the first time he wondered if this- whatever this was he felt for Hermione that made him want to kiss her- was more than just a fancy.

Was it—could it be—something else? Something deeper?

Something that just combined the way he already cared about her as his best friend, with this insane desire to kiss her, to touch her…

Something that was rather frighteningly like- love…

Oh noooo… No, no, no…

His brain stuttered to a halt on just thinking the word. He couldn’t love Hermione, not like that, not really. How could he--

This was ridiculous.

He was making a mountain out of a molehill. He’d exaggerated the significance of one silly dream in his mind until he practically drove himself to feel this way when he was around Hermione. That was all it was.

He just needed to get another good night’s sleep, dream-free, and he’d be fine. He was sure of it. He’d never felt anything for Hermione beyond friendship before; the only reason he was doing so now was because of that bloody, stupid dream.

He excused himself as early as he possibly could from the Common Room that night after having spent the rest of the day trying to avoid looking at Hermione, and for once was thankful for his Occlumency lessons from Dumbledore that made it easier, thanks to practice, to empty his mind before he fell asleep.

It didn’t work.

He dreamed about her again. Only this time, his mind didn’t even bother including Cho; it was only Hermione… Only Hermione and kissing her… Feeling the softness of her hair in his hands, the smoothness of her cheeks, tasting her…

Oh God…

He wrenched himself out of his dream, forcibly awakening himself- somehow- because even in the middle of his dream, some small part of him knew it was a dream because he’d never kissed Hermione in real life before…

He lay awake, staring blindly up at the curtains around his bed, trying to ignore the lingering warmth he still felt, trying to forget the feel of her, the taste of her.

He really did want to kiss Hermione.

Somehow, for some reason, after more than five years of never thinking of Hermione in anything other than a platonic fashion, he wanted to kiss her now.

He did.

This second dream had been too vivid, had felt too good, for him to deny it anymore.

He wanted to kiss Hermione, wanted to touch her, wanted to taste her (would she taste as good in reality as she had in his dreams?)

And the very idea of it made something very like panic well up inside him.

Author’s Note: Again, for Goldy, because this is her birthday fic.

Part 2 of 2.

Something Like Love

Part 2

He was going to starve to death at this rate.

He poked his fork half-heartedly at the noodles on his plate, forcing himself to take a small bite.

He glanced at Ron who was talking to Seamus and wondered how he could manage to eat so heartily.

He glanced at Hermione who had her nose buried in a book, as usual, and fought the by-now-familiar wish to tuck a strand of errant hair behind her ears and then kiss the frown from her forehead.

The sound of Ron’s laugh made him glance at Ron again and he felt the butterflies in his stomach which the sight of Hermione caused be replaced by a stone.

Ron.

Ron who also fancied Hermione, had fancied her for a while now, he suspected. Ron, his first real friend…

The stone that had taken up residence in his stomach expanded and grew at the thought.

And for a moment, he wished desperately, irrationally, that he’d never tried to keep from staring at Hermione during breakfast that morning by keeping up a forced stream of conversation with Ron.

If he hadn’t been looking at Ron, he wouldn’t have seen the way Ron looked at Hermione as she buttered a muffin.

But he had and he did see the look and worse, he recognized it too. Recognized it because it was much the same as what he felt.

Ron fancied Hermione.

And why wouldn’t he?

Hermione was pretty (he’d been blind not to have seen before just how pretty), and nice and smart and caring…

Oh God, he had to stop thinking like this. Reciting all the reasons why he liked her, entirely aside from this new-found obsession he seemed to have developed with her lips, was doing nothing.

Not when he knew he couldn’t possibly act on his obsession. (His sudden insanity?)

Not when Ron liked her too.

He couldn’t do that to Ron, couldn’t do that to the friendship between the three of them.

It would complicate things too much- and whatever else he needed, he knew he needed Ron and Hermione as his friends.

Besides, she was his best friend and she didn’t think of him in that way. She couldn’t. He was only Harry to her.

He would just have to learn to ignore the strange fluttering of his stomach, the tingle whenever she touched him, the way her smile made his entire heart lift.

He could learn to ignore it. He had to.

And surely—he thought desperately as Hermione absently took a drink of pumpkin juice from her goblet leaving a drop of it lingering on her upper lip so he nearly died from keeping himself from leaning over and kissing it off—ignoring the way he felt around her would get easier with time and practice. Surely it had to…

Or this wanting to kiss her and not doing so was going to kill him. If he didn’t starve first.

It didn’t get easier. But he got better at ignoring the strange feelings which assailed him whenever he was around her.

He couldn’t believe how much just being near her could affect him. Cho had never affected him nearly as much, not even at the height of his fancying her when he’d been so jealous of Cedric. But then, Cho wasn’t Hermione. Hermione was- different. She was more— more something— more- important, than Cho had ever been. And Cho hadn’t been his friend, not really; he didn’t see her that often or spend time with her or even know her all that well. Not like Hermione.

Of course he supposed Cho was actually, in conventional terms, prettier than Hermione. He couldn’t quite see it like that now but he knew he would have thought so even up until last year. Oh he’d never thought Hermione was ugly but now- now she was the biggest distraction ever.

A boy would have to be dead to not notice the curve of her pink lips when she smiled or the way her skin looked so smooth and soft… (And much as he wished he could simply stop looking at her like that and go back to only seeing her as his friend, dying wasn’t exactly an option.)

But it was more than just that. He knew so much more about her than what she looked like. He knew what made her happy and what made her sad; he knew the way her eyes flashed when she was angry, knew the way she bit her lip sometimes when she was unsure of something she read. He knew how much she cared about people. He knew how much she worried about him and that she read and studied even more than usual this year (which was saying a lot) to be able to help him. He knew how loyal a friend she was and how brave she was.

He knew her—and all this, combined with the attraction of her pink lips, her smooth skin, her warm eyes, added up to something much more than just a fancy. He cared about her…

He wanted to kiss her, to see if she could possibly taste half as good in reality as she did in his dreams, see if she felt half as good as she did in his dreams—but aside from that, he felt so much more than just attraction. He felt—he felt—something… He didn’t dare call it love (he couldn’t) but it was something…

And it complicated this entire mess just that much more.

That might have been it.

He liked Hermione- more than as just his best friend but in that he-couldn’t-seem-to-look-at-her-without-wanting-to-kiss-her way, that way that made his mind go blank and the only thing he could think was how cute she looked, or how good she smelled, or how he just wanted to touch her…

But he wasn’t going to do anything about it.

He was getting better at hiding the funny feelings he felt around her, getting better at not staring at her lips when she was talking to him and Ron, getting better at still being able to eat when she was around, despite his fluttering stomach.

So that should have been it.

Except apparently that blasted bloody stupid thing called Fate had other ideas…

Antonin Dolohov was sneering and had pointed his wand at Hermione to curse her again. He couldn’t move, could only watch in horror. He tried to shout, to yell at Hermione to watch out, but his tongue seemed frozen in his mouth. A jet of red light passed through her and she fell—and suddenly they weren’t in the little office where they’d run anymore; they were in the stone room where the Veil was. She was still falling backwards in what seemed like agonizingly slow motion, falling, falling… He tried desperately to wrench his feet from where they seemed nailed to the floor. If he could only move a few steps, he could still grab her before she fell through; he could… He finally managed to move and leaped forward, his hands reaching out for hers. He saw the look of pained surprise on her face; her eyes met his; his hands reached, stretched. Just a little more and he could grab onto her hand, just a little more…

His hands grabbed only air. She was gone, through the Veil.

She was gone. He’d lost her…

He jerked awake, his breath coming in harsh gasps, his hands sore from having twisted his blankets so much.

It had just been another dream, another nightmare.

And to think he’d been wishing he could sleep without dreaming of kissing Hermione.

Be careful what you wish for…

He fell back on his bed and tried to fall asleep again but every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was her falling through the Veil and he opened his eyes again. No, no, no, no, no… It had only been a nightmare; Hermione was fine…

He was going to drive himself barking mad at this rate.

He gave up on sleep and slid out of bed quietly, hearing the sounds of Seamus, Dean, Neville and Ron’s steady breathing. Ron turned over, muttering something about the Quaffle it sounded like, and he stopped, but Ron slept on and he continued, creeping out of their room and down the stairs to the Common Room.

He threw himself into the sofa facing the fireplace, staring at the wood which was still glowing with the last dying remnants of last night’s fire, staring and trying not to think about the image of Hermione falling through the Veil.

She was fine; she would be fine… She had to be—because, even as only his best friend and not the girl whose presence seemed to suck every last remaining brain cell out of his head, he needed her… He cared about her too much to lose her. Losing her would kill him…

He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew someone was shaking him gently on the shoulder.

“Harry. Harry, wake up.” It was her voice.

He opened his eyes and saw her face next to his. She had crouched down so she was on his level, crouched down until there were only a scant few inches of space between their faces. Until he thought he could feel the faintest tickle of her breath on his cheek and he could definitely feel the warmth of her body. One hand was resting on his chest and the heat of it seemed to burn through the fabric of his t-shirt.

She was so close, so very close; had she ever been so close to him before, he wondered fuzzily.

“Harry, what are you doing down here so early?” she asked softly.

He didn’t answer her question, distracted (as had become usual these past couple days) by the movement of her lips shaping the words. And she was so close to him, too close to him…

She was so close to him and while part of him told him he should sit up and increase the distance between them fast before anything else could happen, at that moment he could no more have moved than he could stop himself from breathing or his heart from beating.

His hand moved automatically to cup the nape of her neck, bringing her even closer to him. He saw her eyes widen slightly and then flutter closed and he only just had time to think that he was actually initiating a kiss for the first time in his life before his lips touched hers.

And he kissed her, gently, his lips just brushing hers really. He kissed her because he couldn’t not kiss her- not now when he’d been thinking of nothing else practically for the last few days, not now when he’d dozed off thinking of her and how much she meant to him, not now when her face had already been so close to his…

And it was a little awkward and a little uncertain—but for all that, it was perfect. Perfect because it was him and it was her and he cared about her so much and had been wanting to do this for what seemed like forever, had dreamed about this…

Her lips softened and parted ever so slightly and he deepened the kiss instinctively, his tongue tentatively touching her lips and finally sliding past to taste her. And she did taste as good—no, better—than she had in his dreams…

He kissed her until some remaining part of his rational mind broke free of the haze that had come over the rest of his brain and yelled at him, Stop! You’re kissing Hermione, you dolt! You’re kissing your best friend- the one thing you were not supposed to do…

He could have ignored it too except for the other thought that intruded at that moment. What if- what if she didn’t like him that way?

And then he did break off the kiss, his hand dropping from where it had been tangled in her hair, dismay and apprehension taking the place of the mindless pleasure.

Oh God. He’d kissed her. Kissed her as he had told himself he never would kiss her…

“I- I’m sorry,” he managed to say in a somewhat strangled voice. Oh lord, now he’d done it…

The softness lingering in her eyes abruptly vanished and she drew back. “Sorry for what?”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he blurted out desperately, wondering frantically how he could get up and leave quickly. He couldn’t stand being this close to her, seeing the look in her eyes, confused and not at all what he was used to seeing in her eyes.

No, he really shouldn’t have done that. She’d become a target for Voldemort; Ron fancied her too; he depended on her friendship, couldn’t risk anything happening to upset their comfortable relationship… all the reasons he knew he shouldn’t have acted on his attraction to her, all the reasons he really, really should not have kissed her the way he just had…

“Why not? I-” she hesitated and then met his gaze directly as she continued, “I liked it.”

His breath left him in a rush as did every rational, coherent thought in his mind, leaving only the words, She’d liked it, repeating in his head. She’d liked it… Surely that meant she- she fancied him…

He opened his mouth intending to say something to dismiss the kiss, to try to return their relationship back to its normal footing, anything to undo what he’d done but instead he heard his voice say, “I liked it too.”

He shut his mouth. Bugger. Sodding, bloody hell… Since when had his mouth stopped listening to the commands of his brain?

But she was smiling and he reacted helplessly to her smile, his lips curving upwards as well, his mood lightening.

“I- I really care about you,” he heard himself confess and he just had time to see the way her smile brightened and her eyes shone (Merlin, how could he not have noticed years ago how pretty she looked when she smiled like this?) before her arms were around him and she was hugging him. A little awkwardly as he was still lying on the sofa but hugging him, her face half-buried in his shoulder and her hair spilling over his face smelling like- like some kind of flowers.

When she spoke, her voice was somewhat muffled by his shirt. “Oh Harry, I care about you too.”

Who knew that 7 words could change a life and fill his heart so completely? His arms closed around her and he hugged her back, knowing he was probably grinning like an idiot and not caring. She cared about him. She fancied him too.

She lifted her head to smile at him and for just a moment, her gaze dropped to his mouth.

And he did the only thing he could think to do and kissed her again, one hand sliding into her hair, his other arm tightening around her. Her lips parted; the kiss deepened. Heat spread through his body. This was better, even more perfect, than the first kiss had been because now there was no uncertainty.

And he knew that what he felt for her was love. Really and truly, love; not just fancying her, not just friendship, not just caring about her… He loved her. (And most surprisingly, she cared about him—loved him?—too.) And even though he knew he was complicating things and probably going to make things difficult for both of them (and for Ron) because of who he was, he couldn’t stop this. Couldn’t stop kissing her, couldn’t stop touching her, couldn’t stop their relationship from becoming much more than friendship…

This was love and he could no more deny it or run from it than he could leave the magical world forever and go back to living with the Dursleys for the rest of his life. This was love—and now that he had it, he was going to hold on to it. He was going to hold on to her…

Because if anything could make the coming battles against Voldemort somehow not as terrible, if anything could save him in the end, surely it was love… Love and Hermione…

The End…

Note: Expect a sequel to this though…