Past the Point of No Return

Disclaimer: I own nothing. And that's just the way it's going to be.

Rating: Er…PG-13, I suppose. In case I happen to get creative in later chapters. (Don't get your hopes up.)

A/N: So. This is a somewhat (alright, alright, completely) delayed response to a challenge at the CastleHogwarts community on LJ. Pretty simple. Pick a pairing (Check!). Use an `ancient magical reference' (Ancient Egyptians, Mayans, etc.). Create references to currently `uncharted' classes/clubs. Mention a banana, pink quill ink, and harpsichord for extra points. Write about it (Em…yeah. Got that bit, too). Score.

Now for the part where I pretend as though I'm accepting an Oscar, and take the chance to thank all the `little people.' Erm…except I've only got one person on the list (details, details). Point: a big `Mucho Gracias' to Amethyst for beta-ing and supplying a number of amusing headlines. Basically, you're amazing. *jumps you*

Anyway. I expect this'll be about three chapters long, aaaaaand…woo hoo. There you are. Moving on…

~*~*~

There are moments when a life can take unexpected turns. Moments when one is lured into a false sense of security. Moments when, blinded by an unfounded feeling of comfort, a person is caught completely and utterly unaware by unforeseen developments. Such occasions, while rare, can have a vast impact on one's ability to produce rational thought or make logical decisions, thereby seizing any and all control over his or her actions.

In Harry Potter's case, that moment arrived on a day that was…rather ordinary, really.

The morning began quite like any other - Ron's final, gasping snore of the night jerking him out of sleep, eyes blearily taking in familiar surroundings, blinking against the sunlight streaming in through open windows, falling in bright patches on thickly carpeted floor.

He stretched a bit. Groped blindly for the round-rimmed glasses on the nightstand. Swung both legs over one side of the bed; first left, then right, landing lightly on the floor. Shuffled to the loo and washed up. Snatched a pair of trousers from the wardrobe. Knotted his tie. Shook Ron awake. Pulled his school robes from their place on the back of an armchair in the corner. Shoved his feet into trainers. Ran fingers through wet, tangled hair. Walked out the door.

Much the same as he'd done yesterday. And the day before, and the day before that…

For some, such a routine may have been considered boring, monotonous, dull. For Harry, it was a peace that had been a long time in the making. Only now, after seven years of waiting, worrying, and preparing had come to an end, could he relax. He'd waited. He'd worried. He'd prepared like there was no tomorrow, and it had paid off. Voldemort was gone. For good.

So he was collecting his dues - rest, and quiet, and normalcy.

He'd settled into the routine unintentionally in the beginning, comforted by its presence and security. Schedules were predictable. Schedules were safe. There was nothing menacing or uncertain about them.

And Harry liked that. Subconsciously, perhaps, he'd been intrigued by their simplicity; by the way life could be controlled so easily when a set time-frame was involved.

…He was turning into a bloody Ravenclaw.

Not that it was necessarily a bad thing - Hermione was practically one of them herself, after all, and he certainly had nothing against her - but really. What had happened to that Gryffindor courage? Gryffindor bravery? Gryffindor spontaneity? Procrastination? Disregard-for-deadlines?

Er…perhaps that was just he and Ron.

Still. If things took a turn for the worst - if he began writing lists on parchment or completing assignments more than three days before their due-dates - he'd draw the line. Do something drastic.

He would.

And anyhow, this wasn't entirely his fault. By the time the realization that he'd brushed his teeth at the same time every morning for nearly an entire semester had struck, new habits were `new' no longer - they had become ingrained and instinctual, trapping him in their repetitiveness. Going back was futile.

So it continued. Something inside woke him unfailingly each morning, and he'd roll out of bed. Stretch. Reach for his glasses. Wash up. Dress. Cut across the common room and climb through the portrait hole.

Much as he was now.

Make his way to the Great Hall.

Much as he was now.

Sit at the empty Gryffindor table, in the seventh seat on the far side, completing unfinished schoolwork or working at Quidditch plays while waiting for Ron and Hermione. Much as he was -

-Not.

Hermione.

She was sitting in his seat. Sitting. Reading a library book. In his seat. His seat. Just…sitting. There. In his-

Well. That wasn't important. The point was that she belonged on the bench across from his, where she always sat. This…this…game of musical chairs was certainly not part of The Plan. And The Plan was set. The Plan was meant to be followed. The Plan was practically law, for Merlin's sake.

She looked up. Grinned at him, holding out a section of the Daily Prophet and gesturing to the seat beside her. “Morning, Harry.”

His resolve weakened and he accepted.

Gryffindor forgiveness, and all that.

“Morning.”

Even if she had stolen his place.

She took a sip of pumpkin juice and pushed a plate of toast toward him absently, brow furrowing as she flipped through pages.

It may have been that she was sitting to the right of him instead of across. It may have been in the way the light was playing at her features. It may simply have been the earliness of the hour and fatigue. Whatever the reason, he was thrown off, which was rather odd, considering the fact that they spent nearly every day like this - in classes, at lunch, dinner, studying in the common room… Each and every moment - save those when they were sleeping and (generally) these before breakfast - spent in one another's company, yet there was a niggling at the back of his mind, signaling that something was…off. Different. Awkward, maybe. He couldn't quite place it, but whatever it was, he knew that he, personally, felt uncomfortable.

He glanced at Hermione, searching for any sign of unease on her part. Naturally, she seemed to be perfectly calm; immersed in her reading, somehow managing to slice a banana and let pieces fall into a bowl of porridge to the side of the book without losing a finger. An eyebrow quirked and she shook her head almost imperceptibly, hair swaying ever-so-slightly.

Harry turned back to his toast, scooting a bit farther from where she sat, not quite knowing why.

Five minutes passed…ten…and he slid further down. The way she kept moving about was rather unnerving, not to mention distracting. He willed himself to pay attention to his reading. The news was important, after all. Surely he couldn't become a completely well-rounded person if he didn't finish this bit on…what was it, again? A human-interest piece, by the looks of it.

Well. Those were awfully important, weren't they? No use participating in the Wizarding community at all if one wasn't willing to take an interest in the latest issues.

He adjusted his glasses. Local -

Rustle, rustle. He caught her movement out of the corner of his eye.

Ignore it. Local Poti -

She shifted in her seat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Right. Focus. Local Potions Regulations Department Prohibits Brewing of Fluxweed - Hags Outraged.

Oh, for Merlin's sake. What was this rubbish? There had to be something better.

Goblins Protest Government Influence in Banking.

Value of the Galleon on the Decline.

Weasley Makes Waves in Cauldron-Bottom Safety?!

He snorted in disgust and dropped the paper to the table, spearing a link of sausage with his fork and shoving it into his mouth. Students were trickling in through the doors to their seats and he took to watching them.

A Slytherin muttering to a classmate two tables away…

Three Hufflepuff fourth years chatting far too animatedly for 7:00 in the morning…

Hermione adjusting her tie.

A Ravenclaw copying passages from a dusty tome…

A Gryffindor first year farther on down the table…

Hermione absently twirling a quill between fingers.

A Prefect.

Hermione.

The Head Boy.

Hermione.

Her hair had grown rather long over the years, he noticed idly, but remained wild as ever. He could hardly even see the small clip she'd used to secure the top portion - lost as it was in a seemingly endless sea of waves and curls.

At the moment, she was attempting to keep a loose wisp in place behind her ear. She'd tuck it back, and it would fall forward. She'd tuck it back again, eyes never straying from the book in front of her, and forward it would come, once more.

He could fix it; he could remove the clasp and pull the strand back and out of the way, perhaps allowing his fingers to skim over her shoulder in the meantime, and -

“Oi! Harry!”

He blinked, startled to find a familiar red-headed blur directly in front of him.

“What?”

Ron regarded him with an odd, puzzled look, and Harry wondered vaguely how many times he'd called his name.

“-the mash?”

“Sorry?”

Ron snorted, shaking his head and enunciating slowly, “Will. You. Pass. The. Mash? Honestly mate, what's gotten into you? …And why's your hand hanging in the air like that?”

“My wha-?” The sentence trailed into nothingness as he glanced over and found his arm dangling uselessly in the air, fingers seemingly reaching for…

Hermione. And her hair.

A cough. A nervous laugh. A sheepish grin and a hand dropped into his lap.

Ron was looking at him as though he were mad. He was beginning to agree.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“The bacon, too.” He pushed a plate across the table, carefully avoiding eye contact.

Hermione, meanwhile, was ostensibly oblivious to it all.

“And the kippers…”

She sat there, reading her bloody…whatever it was, completely ignoring the fact that something very strange was taking shape.

“…the eggs…”

Didn't she notice?

“…the toast…”

How could she not?

“…the salt and pepper…”

If he could sense it, and she, of all people, couldn't, what did that mean? That it wasn't important? That it didn't matter? Maybe `it' wasn't anything at all; maybe he was wrong. Maybe -

“And, Harry?”

“What?”

“The, er…pumpkin juice, too?”

“Honestly, Ron,” Hermione said, snapping her book shut and passing a jug in his direction, “I don't know where you put it all.”

Ron shrugged, gesturing with toast in hand. “Mmph gumph mmph -”

Bits of half-chewed bread flew across the table and Hermione wrinkled her nose, flicking crumbs from the cover of her book.

“You know very well that I can't understand a word you're saying.”

He swallowed, managed an “It's nice, isn't it?” and promptly shoved a forkful of egg into his mouth.

Hermione turned to Harry, rolled her eyes and made a face.

And it was then that he knew. In that moment, sitting in the Great Hall, spoon halfway to his mouth, he understood. The stilted conversation, the awkwardness, the feeling in the pit of his stomach that refused to go away…it all became painfully clear.

He, Harry James Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, Boy Who Lived (Boy Who Was Too Thick to Sort Out His Own Emotions, more like)…fancied Hermione Granger.

And there was no going back.

~*~*~

A/N: This is the part where I refrain from adding another insanely long comment, and instead sink to my knees and beg you to review.

Body language is so much more effective, don't you think?

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This was wrong. So very, very wrong.

These thoughts he'd been having were…far from best-friendly, to say the least.

Harry certainly wasn't an expert in the `Girl' department - he was hardly a beginner - but he wasn't a complete idiot, either. He knew, for example, that offering to carry a friend's books was perfectly normal; especially if said friend had a tendency to pack her bag so full of texts that her back was hunching prematurely. He knew that lending a friend a spare quill was acceptable, as well. That was all well and good.

It worried him, though, that the only reason he wanted to let her borrow the quill in the first place was so that he might touch her hand when she gave it back. That the only thoughts he had while holding her extra supplies were of how much he wished he could throw them to the ground and drag her to some deserted corner, where he could snog her senseless.

It was a bad sign. He could tell.

And the dreams. They were terrible, in themselves.

Though…perhaps terrible wasn't the best way to put it.

If he had to be perfectly truthful, they were actually rather enjoyable. Maybe uncomfortable was more fitting.

Yes. That was it. Because honestly, how much more `uncomfortable' could a person get than to see his best friend across the breakfast table each morning and only remember how it felt to -

Well. Thank Merlin that mate wasn't Ron.

He understood that he fancied her. He'd come to terms with it, gotten used to the idea, even, no matter how it may have confused him. But…it wasn't fair.

Why wouldn't she leave him the bloody hell alone?

Was it such a hard thing to ask? Really, he could do without the `Good morning, Harry's, and the `Goodnight, Harry's, and all the `Harry, would you pass the sugar's in between. She'd sit there, crossing and uncrossing her legs, nibbling on the end of her quill, smiling that same blasted smile as though nothing were the matter. As if she didn't notice. As if his entire bleeding world wasn't crumbling at his feet. Again.

Merlin, he needed a holiday. She was driving him absolutely insane.

…As Easter was a good two months away, he'd have to settle for the brief passing period between Charms and History of Magic. Ten minutes from now, and he'd be doomed. Fifteen, if he dawdled.

Ron, for whatever reason, didn't seem to find it odd in the slightest when Harry insisted on going back up to the dorm for his `favorite quill.' He stood in the doorway while Harry rummaged through the drawers of the desk, blathering on about Quidditch statistics Harry was sure he would have found interesting otherwise, had he not been brainstorming various ways to avoid talking to, or even looking at, Hermione for the next hour.

“They say Belgium's got a real chance this year-”

Blindfolding charms wouldn't work; he wouldn't be able to see where he was walking…

“…I honestly don't understand how anyone could think that Kent, of all players, would make an acceptable Seeker-”

If he sat on the opposite end of the room from her, then… No, that'd be too obvious.

“And their Keeper - no talent whatsoever…” Ron pushed himself from the wall and strode across the room, moving spare bits of parchment and empty ink bottles around.

Or perhaps…just maybe…if he took notes and concentrated, Binns' droning would distract him.

…Not bloody likely.

“Hey, is this it?”

Ron was holding a crumpled purple feather between two fingers, what may have been used to write with years ago. Had he ever bought something like that? Why would he buy something like that?

“Er…no.”

“Oh. Well. Anyway, can you believe that?”

“Believe…what?”

“Harry! Belgium. Kent. Crap Seeker. Have you been listening to anything I've said?”

“Eh… Yeah. Of course. Kisslinger was the only real choice.”

Ron frowned and Harry caught his breath, hoping he hadn't said something completely off the subject. “…D'you really think so? Because after last season-”

It took seven minutes to get to Binns' room from the Tower, stairs willing, and only five before class started. He made for the door, and Ron followed, breaking off in the middle of a sentence. “Did you find it?”

Right. The quill. “I just remembered I…left it in my bag.”

Ron shrugged. “Whatever you say, mate.”

~*~*~

Naturally, Binns took no notice of their late entrance, and continued another monotonous lesson on the Goblin Rebellion of the 1600s as Harry and Ron crept towards a table in back. Harry dropped his bag to the floor and slid into his chair, breathing a sigh of relief. He'd managed to avoid Hermione thus far, so -

Bloody hell. She was sitting in the seat directly in front of his. Glaring at him.

“You're late. Where were you?!” she hissed.

He couldn't very well answer, `Avoiding you,' could he? “I…quill. Lost it.”

Now, if he looked just a little to the left of her face, didn't focus, didn't think, everything would be fine.

She rolled her eyes, muttered “You could have used one of mine,” and turned round again.

“In 1652, Vincent the Voracious set off on a journey through-”

Why was he taking this class, again? Places, dates, dead people; they didn't matter. Well, he supposed they mattered to someone, but…he didn't care was probably the more `appropriate' phrasing. It was the only class the three of them all had together, though, and, in Hermione's words, “An easy O, if you'd apply yourself, Harry.” Easy O, his arse - he still wasn't quite sure why he'd listened.

`Applying himself' became rather dull after the first day or so, anyway. Ferdinand the Fat, Percival the Portly…they were all the same, weren't they?

“In the autumn of 1653…”

He glanced at the second-hand on his watch. 58…59…60.

One minute had passed, already, and he'd managed to put off as much as a peek in her direction. He could do this, no doubt -

She shifted to the side a bit, giving him a clear view of her profile. Shook her hair back, exposing a rather large portion of her neck and causing him to grip his quill more tightly in his fist.

Eyes straight ahead, at the board. Binns' beard. What was growing in Binns' beard today? Could anything grow in Binns' beard ever, if he was a ghost? What was -

She bit her lip, the very tip of her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrated on what she was writing.

The quill snapped in two. He jumped, cursing under his breath.

Stupid shoddy quills. Stupid heart - why did it have to beat so loudly? Stupid classroom; he couldn't even groan properly amidst all of the…er…silence.

As much as he fancied Hermione, he hated her for doing this to him.

Well, perhaps hate was too strong a word, but it was moving toward a great dislike at this point. Here he was, approaching insanity at the age of seventeen, and why? For what reason? Because she couldn't manage to sit still for two bloody seconds.

He didn't understand. This hadn't happened when he'd fancied Cho…or `dated' Cho…or broken up with Cho, either, come to think of it. So why were things so different now? With Hermione, of all people?

It was one question he didn't know how to answer.

~*~*~

The rest of the day passed fairly uneventfully, save a rather inconveniencing incident between classes when she appeared at the other end of the corridor he was passing through, causing him to redirect his path in order to avoid her. To make a long story extremely short, a staircase moved, he found himself trapped on the sixth floor, and was late for Care of Magical Creatures.

So really, not only was she making it increasingly difficult for him to think clearly, but she was ruining his entire school career, as well.

Though he most likely would've failed all prior classes, without her. The two together must've reached some level of equilibrium, he supposed.

He'd spent dinner `reorganizing his trunk' so as to preempt any further `Breakfast of Doom' realizations, and had taken a trip to the kitchens while most everyone else was still in the Great Hall, instead. Dobby had loaded him down with more food than even Ron could manage in one sitting and, as much as he didn't want to eat in the presence of one hundred house-elves and two hundred giant, eager eyes, the alternative was meeting up with Hermione on his way back to the dorm, and she surely couldn't have accepted such a poor excuse for his absence.

Dobby and the others won out.

At the time, it'd seemed a brilliant plan for evasion. Now that the halls were teeming with students returning to their common rooms, and spotting Hermione before she saw him was ten times harder?

Not so much.

Managing to make it to the tower was a feat, in itself. He'd ducked behind a pair of unnaturally burly Hufflepuff third years most of the way, walking as normally as was humanly possible while hunched over.

And now he was standing in front of the portrait hole. Staring at the Fat Lady. Who was staring right back.

“Well,” she finally barked, causing him to jump five feet in the air, “are you going to go in, or aren't you?”

He flushed. “Er…yeah. I suppose so.”

He stood, waiting. She sat, in that too-small gilded chair of hers, looking…fat, really. They regarded one another silently, unblinkingly.

“Am I…missing something?” he ventured after what seemed like an eternity, his eyes starting to burn. She rolled her own and heaved an impatient sort of sigh; a look that was all too familiar… “Password?”

“Oh. Right. Fortitudo.” The frame swung out of the way and he stepped inside tentatively, sweeping the room for any sign of her, prepared to run in the opposite direction.

She wasn't here.

Thank Merlin. Now. If he could just make it up the stairs before she came back down, he'd be home free.

Except…what was that sitting on her regular table? Books, of course, but something…shiny, too, by the looks of it. She had to be somewhere nearby; that was her cloak on the back of the chair, her neat handwriting filling the scraps of parchment strewn across the smooth wooden surface. He crept closer, one eye on the girls' staircase. Books were lying open and marked in various places, a slew of quills (always prepared, that one), extra scrolls of parchment, and the reflective object, which appeared to be a…silver ink pot.

Well. That wasn't nearly as exciting as he'd expected it to be. Though the color was rather puzzling. Hermione had never struck him as a particularly pink sort of person, but then, there it was. Pale pink ink. Shimmering across pages in all its girlish glory.

Someone laughed loudly behind him and he jumped, eyes darting back to the stairs. He was still in the clear; if he went to the dorm now, everything would be alright -

A picture in the book at the top of the pile caught his attention and he paused, taking a furtive glance toward the girls' dorms before stepping closer to the table. The book was thick and leather-bound - the very same one she'd been reading at breakfast That Day. And the photo was of…a ring? Why would Hermione be doing research on a ring? The other texts had similar illustrations, and further inspection of her notes wielded the same; she'd done a small sketch in the top right corner.

He leaned in, the smell of musty pages enveloping him. There was some form of inscription on its surface, but the language was unfamiliar, and he couldn't make out exactly what it meant.

The fire flared in the background, illuminating the parchment, ink glittering blithely.

`Ancient Egypt…'

`…magic…'

`…spiritual powers…'

`…opposite sex…'

Well that was - wait…what?!

He backtracked, frantically trying to read and process the page, his mind screaming to back away - there simply wasn't enough time…

`Spiritual powers introduced during era of Ancient Egypt (i.e.: talismans, spells). Magical rings - engraved w/ magic words; combined with incantation yields powerful, attractive force for wearer. Wearer lures any person desired. Will be center of attention wherever he or she may go. Improves love relation, revives lost love, betters overall love life.

`…Engravings force opposite sex to pursue…'

But he…but…she…was this why -

He sensed, rather than heard, her enter the room, and froze. Whirled, knocking into the ink pot and sending a river of pink across the table.

Shit.

She paused to correct the wand movements a third year was using to perform a Cheering Charm, and he spun around, scrambling to clean the mess. Towel…towel…he needed a towel. Something to get this ink from her papers before she noticed.

There were no towels. Why, in the name of Merlin, were there no towels?! Did the house-elves do nothing all day? Towels were useful, anyone could use a towel, he could use a towel, what was he supposed to do without a -

“Harry?”

Dammit.

He turned, willing his voice to stay calm. “Yes?”

“What're you doing?” she asked curiously, peeking around him.

“Er…” Might as well tell the truth. “A first year knocked your ink well over.”

Alright, well, perhaps that wasn't entirely accurate - he wasn't necessarily a first year, but if she bought it…

“Oh, honestly.” She huffed, and he bit his lip. She hadn't seen him, had she? “I've asked them time and again to leave my things alone… Scourgify!” The stains disappeared.

Now why hadn't he thought of that?

“So,” she continued, stepping around him and stacking pieces of parchment into a pile, “how'd it go?”

He took a step back. “How'd…what, go?”

She frowned. “Ron said you'd skipped dinner to reorganize your…bunk, was it? I couldn't quite hear.”

“Trunk,” he muttered.

“Right. Anyway, good for you. It's always best to keep things neat, you know.”

He pushed a hand through his hair and shrugged, feeling intensely lucky that, for Merlin knew what reason, he wouldn't have to deal with any pressure to `open up' or `share his feelings,' today. “Er…yeah.”

She smiled and stuffed her notes between pages of the book, moving it to the bottom of the stack. Was she trying to hide them from him?

“How'd you go about it?”

“Pardon?”

“Clearing your trunk out, Harry, really.”

Did it matter? “I…er…well…”

She was looking at him expectantly and he could hardly manage a completely coherent sentence, much less a probable story. Think, Harry, think. “I…haven't finished, yet?”

It wasn't his best moment by far, but at least it provided an out.

“Anyway,” he attempted a semi-convincing yawn, “I think I'll be going up to bed.”

She raised an eyebrow. “At 8:30?”

“Um…yes. I'm tired, I guess. What with, you know…waking up…and all.” Absolutely brilliant, Potter.

She gave him a scrutinizing look, perhaps to discern whether he was serious or not, before apparently giving up. “Alright, then. See you tomorrow, Harry.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow. Right.” He turned toward the stairs, glancing at the load in her arms. The book at the bottom had come out a bit, and a corner of her notes poked out enough for him to see the drawing before she looked at him and pushed it back in.

She had one of those rings. He knew she did.

And he was going to find it.

~*~*~

A/N: Yay - a slight hint at a plot! Let's all find a meadow to frolic in, shall we?

Question of the Day: Just how many times was the word `quill' used in this bit?

Answer: A lot. Ten, to be exact.

Number One Item on my Christmas List: A bigger vocabulary.

Anyway. Many thanks to Amethyst for beta-ing, and to all of you who've reviewed. It makes my day, really it does and I want to snog each and every one of you.

Now. Time to start thinking up ways of working a harpsichord into the next chapter…

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A/N: Here you are - the last portion. It hasn't been beta-ed (which is a completely odd word to try and spell, by the bye) because honestly, I'm in a rush to get everything up by Friday.

So. It may not be perfect, but I've tried. Really. Stop looking at me like that. :)

~*~*~

Five days. One hundred twenty hours. Seven thousand, two hundred minutes. Four hundred, thirty-two thousand seconds since he'd uncovered Hermione's secret, and he was no further ahead than before.

She wasn't making things any easier for him, that was for certain. Really, he wasn't asking for much. A simple “Harry, I've been taking advantage of you, will you ever be able to forgive me?” would do, but no - that was, apparently, too difficult. Instead, it was “Harry, have you finished your Transfiguration essay?” or “Harry, have you seen my library book?” Never an apology, never a confession.

He'd given up trying to avoid her. Mostly. Certain situations, he'd come to learn, were impossible to escape - meals and classes being the primary. Others, however, were completely out of the ordinary, and should have been easy enough to get out of.

It was February. Nearly Valentine's Day. And that meant a Hogsmeade weekend.

Which was fine. The castle would be as good as empty, so he could stay behind and…read a book, or…something.

He'd been planning on it, anyway. Hermione would be out, and there'd be less risk of distraction. Maybe he'd even get next week's Potions essay finished.

That had been the general idea, and it could have proceeded without flaw…if Ron had kept his mouth shut.

But, Ron was Ron and (as a general rule) that meant that rarely, if ever, did he think through what he wanted to say before blurting it out. If he had, perhaps the issue of Harry's attendance on the trip would have been sidestepped completely.

“You're not telling me you'd rather stay here with a pile of library books - thinking about Snape - than come to Hogsmeade, are you?” he'd asked the night before over the chessboard.

“Actually…yeah.” Harry'd answered.

“Hermione's taken your mind over completely.” Ron had muttered, furrowing his brown and sliding a rook forward.

He had absolutely no idea.

“I…er…no she hasn't. I'm just…behind. You know. And McGonagall'll have a kneazle if I fail Potions after she practically hexed Snape to get me in…”

Ron had shrugged. “Better you than me, mate. Voluntarily subjecting yourself to two extra years - I'd say you've gone nutters.” If he only knew how close that statement came to the truth.

Ron's knight had crushed Harry's last pawn, throwing the remains across the table. “Besides, this is our seventh year; no-one but Hermione ever actually does anything. They want us to go to the village and fill up on sweets. Check.”

Only Hermione does anything… She'd likely stay behind to study, wouldn't she? And if he was the only one left in the tower, and he was doing schoolwork, then she'd undoubtedly talk to him, and try to get him to prep for N.E.W.T.s, and they'd be alone, and -

“I'll go, Ron.”

Ron had looked up and grinned. “Excellent.”

There. He'd taken care of that.

“Hey, Hermione!” Harry's head had snapped to attention. Wha -?

She was in the far corner, poring over notes. “Hmm?”

“You going to Hogsmeade with us, tomorrow?”

She'd glanced up and met his eye.

No, no, no, please say no…

“I suppose so.”

Ron had turned back to the game and smirked.

The bloody git.

“Checkmate.”

Indeed.

~*~*~

So now the three of them were about the head for the village. Hermione was upstairs doing who knew what, and he was slumped in a corner of the sofa wishing he could become invisible.

…He had an invisibility cloak. Hunh. Now that was an idea.

But, no. He couldn't. She was expecting him to be there, and if he wasn't she'd be suspicious, and that was the last thing he needed. He could use the chance to look for the ring, couldn't he?

Maybe all wasn't lost.

That was what he would concentrate on. If he found the ring, he could confront her.

Or…perhaps he could skip the awkwardness and sneak it away somehow. It'd stop working if she didn't have it…wouldn't it?

The portrait hole swung open and Ron stepped into the room. “Is she not finished yet?” He stood at the bottom of the stairwell, careful not to touch it. “Hermione! Chivvy along! Honeydukes is waiting!”

There were muffled footsteps before her voice came floating down the stairs. “Your stomach can wait for once, Ron.”

“Chocolate isn't something you leave off.” He muttered.

“It's an absolute nightmare for your teeth, anyway,” she called, the tapping drawing nearer. “I'm surprised they haven't fallen out, already.” She appeared in the doorway, wrapping a scarf round her neck. Harry tried focusing on her hands, but they were moving too fast, and she was too far away, and he couldn't quite see…

She pulled a pair of gloves from the pocket of her robes and slipped them on.

Oh, honestly. That was going just a bit overboard, wasn't it? The weather wasn't so bad; there was only snow on the ground, a few icicles hanging from the roof…

…And the odd student in the Hospital Wing for frostbite. But really. If they were too thick to remember simple warming charms, they didn't belong outdoors in the first place.

“C'mon, Harry,” Ron called from across the room, “Hermione wants to get to Honeydukes as soon as possible.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Just go, Ron.”

~*~*~

The chill in the air was rather biting, he noticed as they stepped through the front doors and onto the grounds. And perhaps the snow was a bit deeper than a `thin layer' usually was. But the icicles weren't great in number or size.

Er…save the occasional one thicker than his arm. But those were few and far between, anyway. He had to have taken at least five steps since passing the last one.

They made it to the village relatively unscathed, Ron and Hermione bickering about something no-one cared about and Harry avoiding eye contact with the latter of the two. Ron dragged them into Honeydukes the moment they stepped through the gates (Harry wasn't complaining) and proceeded to fill his pockets with sweets within the first minute.

Hermione left with only a bag of Sugar Quills, one of which Ron nicked before she'd had a chance to walk out the door.

“Gnah! Hermione, these are repulsive! They don't taste like sugar at all!”

“They're sugarless, Ron. Of course.” She said simply, striding ahead.

Sugar Quills. Without sugar. Only Hermione would find something like that in Honeydukes.

“Sugarle -” he gaped at her. “You're mad.”

She ignored him, stepping into Scrivenshaft's, instead. “I need ink, and Harry, you should get a new quill.”

But then what would be his excuse for coming into classes late?

~*~*~

They spent twice as much time in Scrivenshaft's as they had in Honeydukes.

“Where to, next?” Ron asked as they stepped back onto the street nearly an hour later. “Madame Puddifoot's, Harry? I hear they have brilliant decorations this time of year.”

Ha. Ha. That hadn't even been his fault.

He muttered something of the like and Ron shrugged, shoving a handful of Bertie Bott's into his mouth. “That's what they all say. Regardless, I'm starving,” - was there any occasion that he wasn't? - “let's go somewhere, at least. Looking at parchment for years works up an appetite.”

Hermione suggested the Three Broomsticks, and Harry couldn't help feeling relieved. The atmosphere was familiar and comforting. Not to mention inexorably absent of cherubs and fairies.

It was warm and inviting inside; a huge fire going in the hearth, the sound of voices and laughter reverberating off the walls. Surely it was far too warm for a person - say, Hermione, for lack of a better example - to wear various overgarments including, but certainly not limited to, gloves.

They ambled in, passing an ancient warlock in the corner plucking at…some sort of musical contraption.

“It's a harpsichord,” Hermione announced as they headed toward a table in the back. “Invented in the 1300s. They're a sort of keyboard instrument, but with strings to change the pitch of the notes. Originally there were two types, a larger one that takes a winged form, and a smaller, square or pentagonal shape.”

Ron shook his head. “And how do you know this?”

“I read.” She stated simply.

That was the understatement of the century.

She sat in the closest chair and Harry all but ran to the spot opposite. There was absolutely no way he was sitting next to her. Ever again.

Except…he had a clear view from this angle. If she made the slightest movement - any movement, at all - he'd see it. That could prove distracting. If he traded seats with Ron he'd be closer in proximity to her, and though it'd take more of an effort for him to see her chewing on the fourth fingernail of her right hand, it'd be harder to ignore the nearness. Merlin knew if her leg accidentally brushed his under the table…

Perhaps he'd be better off moving to that empty stool across the way…

She unwound the scarf, shrugged off her cloak, and hung them on the back of her chair, but left the gloves on.

What the bloody hell was that about? There was no logic in it; absolutely no logic whatsoever. Come into a room, take off your gloves. Leave a room, put them back on. Honestly. Where was the confusing bit?

She toyed with the tip of a finger on one, loosening it before pulling it back on. Slid a finger under the elastic band of the glove on the other hand, tugging gently as if to take it off…and stopped.

They ordered when Madame Rosmerta stopped by and Harry stalled, grateful for an opportunity to put his mind on something else for a moment, before settling for butterbeer as the other two had.

They made small talk, Ron and Hermione getting into a brief argument over the importance of libraries, or something equally insignificant, until their drinks came. Harry unscrewed the top from his and looked up to find Hermione having trouble with hers. The gloves made her fingers thick and uncoordinated, and she couldn't get a proper grip on the lid.

Under normal circumstances, he would have offered to open it for her.

Nothing was normal, anymore.

Ron was inattentive, lost as he was in muttered conversation with himself. (The phrase “precious Hogwarts, a History” seemed to occur multiple times.)

So Harry watched her out of the corner of his eye, instead, as she grew more and more impatient, finally taking the gloves off and throwing them to the table in frustration, exposing -

Where was it?!

There had to be a ring; he could feel it as clearly as ever, if not more so. Why else would his heart be racing? Why else would his face grow hot whenever she tossed two words in his direction? Why else was she still so damned unnerving?!

“Hermione?”

A rather familiar-looking bloke was standing at the edge of their table. Probably some Ravenclaw pansy she'd met in the library.

She looked over. “Oh. Hello, Kenneth.”

He was looking at her expectantly, almost as though he were about to ask her something… “Would you like to -”

The pub was suddenly far too warm for Harry's liking.

“We were just leaving.”

Hermione's head snapped up and Kenneth blinked in surprise, appearing as though he'd only just noticed Harry's presence. “Oh. Well. All right, then -”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “But we just got -”

Harry scooted his chair back and stood, flinging a handful of Sickles and Knuts onto the table. An odd sort of sensation was stirring in his chest and he charged for the door, dragging Hermione along. Heads were turning in their direction, eyes tracking their progress, more than a few puzzled looks thrown their way.

Tomorrow's edition of the Daily Prophet would certainly prove interesting. There'd likely be a picture, perhaps with the caption `Boy Who Lived' Becomes `Jealous Best Friend'.

Because that's what it was, wasn't it? Jealousy.

Brilliant. Precisely what he needed.

Embarrassing headlines were the least of his worries, he realized as they stumbled out into the snow, door slamming behind them. Hermione whirled about, glaring daggers at him. If looks could kill…hers rivaled a bloody Basilisk`s.

“What. Do you think. You're. Doing?!” She hissed.

Harry cowered instinctively. “But - he was -”

“Stop,” she broke in. “I don't want to hear it.”

Well that made absolutely no sense. She'd asked him a question, for Merlin's sake, and he was trying to answer it, just as she did everyday in Potions, and Transfiguration, and Charms, and History of Ma -

“I'm going back to Hogwarts.” She spat, turning on her heel. “Don't you dare try to follow me.” She stalked off in the direction of the castle, muttering to herself.

Harry turned slowly, chancing a glimpse at Ron. He stood, dumbstruck, jaw nearly scraping the ground.

A few moments of shocked silence passed before he recovered, biting a Chocolate Frog to occupy the time. “So…erm…you want to stop in at Zonko's?”

~*~*~

Things hadn't gone very well.

Judging from the way she hadn't so much as glanced at him for the remainder of the day, Hermione was probably rather angry with him. She'd eaten dinner at Lavender and Parvati's end of the table, as well, a place she generally avoided, too mature for their `meaningless quibble.'

The outlook was bleak.

Ron was observing from afar - an unusual action on his part - perhaps enjoying the fact that Hermione was frustrated with someone else for a change, and Harry was in the proverbial doghouse, a sheet of parchment spread across the table in front of him. Hopefully it would transform itself into his Charms essay before midnight. He dipped a quill into his inkwell, letting it hover over the blank expanse.

She was on the opposite end of the common room, reading and ignoring his overall existence.

Well. That was nice for her, wasn't it? Really, he didn't even know why he was taking any notice of it; he wasn't supposed to want to talk to her, anyway.

He was supposed to be doing the avoiding. She was supposed to try to get him to open up, anyway, and…

Dean came bounding down from their dorm, taking the seat next to her on the sofa.

Harry was inwardly pleased. It was common knowledge that whenever Hermione was within twenty feet of anything with words printed on it, conversation was strictly limited.

He waited for her to move to one of the squashy armchairs. To tell Dean to leave her alone like she usually did with Ron. To scoot down a bit - he was nearly touching her!

She smiled, gesturing to the book in her lap.

Well that would teach him a lesson. Sitting there like th -

Wait. Smiled?! She'd smiled?! What would come next? Giggling?

Dean was grinning back, pointing at a page and making some comment.

An odd sort of heat rushed through his veins. His face was flushed. His mind was racing, but at the same time, oddly blank. There were so many thoughts - too many thoughts - flitting about his head, that he couldn't grasp any one in particular.

He scrawled furiously at the parchment in front of him, ink coming out in bursts as he pressed down harder and harder, blotting the page. He didn't know what he was writing; didn't care.

The last time he'd talked to Hermione about a book had been when she'd said that he and Ron needed to read them more often, and that had been more of a scolding than a conversation, really.

And Dean didn't like reading anyway, did he? So why was he over there, laughing? And why was Hermione buying it?

Wearer lures any person desired…

But she couldn't desire him. He…his eyes were too close together. And…his shoe was untied. He preferred football to Quidditch, for Merlin's sake! And Hermione adored Quidditch, no matter how much she pretended to be enthralled in those books of hers during games.

Besides, he snored almost as loudly as Ron in his sleep. (Though Harry supposed Hermione wouldn't know that - or care, for that matter.)

And why would Dean want her? He must've been under a spell.

She was…too smart. Always thinking she knew what was best.

Which was entirely wrong. She didn't always know what was right for him. Like the time that… no, he'd taken her advice then, and everything had gone all right. Or when - no, she'd stopped him, and he would've died if she hadn't.

But what about that time she'd promised him he'd love tripe? He'd hated it, hadn't he?

Exactly.

Then she had that habit of twirling strands of hair around her index finger when she was thinking, which was incredibly distracting when someone was trying to pay attention in Transfiguration.

And there was the annoying way she wrinkled her nose whenever she couldn't figure out an answer on her Arithmancy assignments, and -

Always caught him when he stared.

Dean was still talking, and she had the hint of a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, but she kept glancing at him from across the room, catching his eye briefly before turning away. He wouldn't look up until this essay was finished, he wouldn't look up until this essay was finished, he wouldn't -

There was writing on it.

Hmm. There were a few words strewn at random across the parchment. Had he managed to pen something coherent?

Ring.

Book.

Ink.

Bloke.

Dean.

There were rather a lot of ink splatters near the last one, and…he'd snapped off the tip of his quill. (Again.)

…It was a list.

But…he'd sworn off lists. Said he'd do something drastic if he found himself composing one.

He hadn't actually meant it, though; he knew that.

So why was he standing? And why were his feet carrying him across the room?

Back, back, go back. Please go back…

They weren't listening to him.

He was standing in front of Hermione. And she was regarding him oddly. And he didn't know what to do. His mouth was open, but no sound was coming out.

Say something. Anything. For Merlin's sake!

“Er…”

Something else.

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you all right?”

So now she cared? Now she wasn't angry? Now she wanted to know how he was feeling?!

Well. Maybe he didn't feel like talking.

“…Never mind.”

So there.

Except she was looking extremely confused, and Dean appeared as though he were fighting back a laugh, and he was just standing there…

He left through the portrait hole.

Which was completely Gryffindor-esque and not to be considered fleeing in the slightest.

Now if he could only find somewhere to hide…

Tap, tap, tap.

There were footsteps.

He stopped. They stopped.

It was really rather dark in the corridors this time of night, wasn't it? There were faint patches of moonlight falling across the floor every few yards, but the torches that were usually lit had gone out.

Luckily, he wasn't afraid of the dark. Not at all.

The footsteps started again. But…that wasn't right. He was supposed to walk, and they were supposed to start up. Then he would stop, and they would stop. Then he'd start again -

Whoever was attached to the feet cleared her throat from behind and he froze. Of all people to be following him…

“Did you have something you wanted to say, Harry?”

Yes, in fact. When someone leaves a room and says `never mind,' they'd probably like to be left alone…

“I thought you were mad at me.”

Hermione sniffed, suddenly defensive. “Kenneth's a perfectly nice boy; he only wanted to say hello -”

“He wanted to dance with you!” Harry screeched.

She looked thoughtful. “Well, that's just silly - I don't dance. How can you be so sure?”

“He…er…” It would've been nice if he'd prepared an answer for this ahead of time. “He - he had the dancing sort of look in his eye.”

“Oh, really?” Her mouth twitched. “And what, exactly, does that look like?”

Right. She wasn't going to get him to show her The Look. “It's just…you know. There. And it doesn't matter, anyway.”

She frowned. “Doesn't it?”

“No.” Stop talking, walk away. Stop talking, walk away. Stop talk-

She shifted, the moonlight reflecting off of her neck.

“Harry, I don't understand why -”

Off her neck?! That wasn't normal…

“And you just -”

It was a gold chain.

“-he isn't-”

…With a ring attached?!

“-and I -”

Granted, the ring wasn't necessarily visible - the chain scooped below the collar of her robes - but… Could it be? Was it even possible?

He leaned forward a bit (not too much, but a bit) peering down at the necklace. Just a little closer…he could almost see it…

“What`re you doing?!”

He jumped, head snapping up. Wow. Okay. Too close. Much too close.

“Ring,” was the muttered reply as he moved hastily backward.

For a person who was keeping secrets, she seemed awfully confused. “Ring?”

So she was going to play it that way, was she?

“The one on your necklace.”

And there was the nose-wrinkle. “I don't…” she tugged at the chain and showed him the small sapphire pendant attached. “My parents bought it for my birthday. I've been wearing it since September…”

“But…but…” he sputtered. “Where is it, then?”

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Where's what?”

“THE RING!” He all but yelled, causing her to flinch in surprise. “I know you have it; you must have it - I don't know why else -”

“Harry.”

“What?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.”

All right, Potter. Take it down a few notches. Deep breaths. One, two. Inhale, exhale…

“The ring -”

“-What ring?”

“The one you were taking notes on. I…er…happened to glance at them…by chance…accidentally…”

Her expression cleared slightly. “Oh. That ring.”

“Yes, that ring.” As if she didn't know.

“Well, you don't have to get so stroppy with me,” she huffed.

“Well, you didn't have to lie to me, but you did, didn't you?” he snapped.

And again with the nose. “Lie to you? I haven't lied to you once in the entire time I've known you, Harry Potter.”

He opened his mouth. She cut him off, waving a hand dismissively. “Except for that incident with the Time Turner, and that didn't count, anyway. McGonagall made me swear.”

“But I saw it in the book -” he floundered.

“We're doing a unit on Ancient Egypt in my Magical Cultures class. I've got a ten foot essay due next month.”

Next month? Could she never wait for - No, that wasn't the point.

“But…er…the ink! Since when do you use pink quill ink?”

“Since mine ran out last week and I had to borrow Parvati's,” she countered. “I hate the color pink; I bought plain black in Hogsmeade, today, remember?”

Oh, yeah.

“And what about that bloke in the Three Broomsticks, hmm? Kenneth? He was `drawn to you', wasn't he?”

It was dark, but was that a blush that tinged her cheeks?

“If you must know, he's my Arithmancy partner. We sit at the same table in the library, every so often.” - Aha! - “He's rather clingy, actually.”

“…And Dean?”

“De…” she trailed off, looking puzzled. “Dean?!”

And now she was laughing. Honestly. He didn't see anything remotely funny about the situation.

“Oh, Harry, you can't be serious. Dean and me? He's having trouble with History of Magic - I've been helping him study.”

“How can History of Magic be so funny?”

“He's been confusing Quinton the Quiet with Boris the Boisterous, which is rather amusing when you consider how completely different they were, and take into account that Quinton's wife -”

“So you don't have the ring?” he interrupted.

“No, of course not,” she said, startled. “Harry, we had to research the process for transfiguring a human into a hippopotamus last month; it doesn't mean I came back to the common room and did it.”

“Right.”

But what did that mean? There wasn't a ring, there never had been, so how was he supposed to explain this `fancying' bit?

“Why are you so interested?” she asked curiously.

“Because I…you -” he clamped his mouth shut. No-one ever had to know if he kept it to himself. “Nothing.”

“Harry.”

“What?”

“Spit it out.”

“Maybe I don't want to.” He said stubbornly.

Brilliant. Now he was Harry, the Belligerent Two-Year-Old.

“You do.” Quite sure of herself, wasn't she?

“I don't.” All right, this was getting ridiculous. He was one step away from crossing his arms and sticking out his lower lip in a pout.

“Harry…” Her tone was warning.

“Fine!” Why couldn't she give up once in awhile? “Merlin, Hermione, you'll never leave me alone, will you? You're…everywhere.”

There. Just leave it at that. No details.

“And…” she prompted.

`And,' nothing. She wouldn't get anything else out of him. He was Harry Potter, The Brick Wall. He-Who-Would-Not-Crack-Under-Pressure. Yes, that was good.

“I -”

Harry “The Rock” Potter.

“I can't -”

The Unbreakable…er…dammit…

“I can't concentrate when I'm around you!”

Well, so much for that.

“Gods, Hermione, you don't understand. You sit there and I stare. You ask a question and I can't even pay attention to what you're saying - much less formulate an answer - because I'm too distracted by the way your hair's curling, or the flecks of gold in your eyes! I avoid places I know you'll be so I can control my thoughts for one minute; I do my work ahead of time just to have something else to focus on… It's driving me insane. You're always there, and I thought it was the ring's fault, but now there isn't one, and I can't stop it - I don't know how to stop it - and I don't know why -”

He broke off, breathing hard. Hermione was gaping at him. Perhaps if he wasn't drowning in regret he'd be able to better appreciate the fact that he'd finally rendered her speechless.

“I - I don't…” she stuttered.

Well this was exactly what he'd hoped for. To make a fool of himself and then be rejected on top of it.

Excellent.

He needed a way to get out of it; a way to go back. Some way…any way…

“April Fools!”

Er…

She seemed to come back to herself, a bit. “Harry, it's February.”

Why couldn't his mouth keep shut in matters like these?

“Is it really?”

“Mm-hmm.” she nodded, smirking slightly.

Wait - where'd the shocked expression gone? He`d liked that look - it made him feel safer, somehow, less vulnerable.

“Well… I suppose we'll just leave this conversation for a few more months then, shall we?”

“Or we could have it now,” she said, stepping into the shadows. But this way it was too dark; he couldn't see clearly enough to judge her reactions.

“Er…listen, Hermione…” he stammered, searching for an escape. Blast it all; thinking fast wasn't his strong suit. “I didn't mean it.” …Much.

“I think you did.” Her voice came from somewhere in front of him.

“Nuh-uh,” he protested feebly. “You can't read my mind. I took Legilimency by myself, remember? Me. Not. You.”

“Well, then, by all means, tell me what I'm thinking. You can, can't you?”

“Of course I can. You're thinking…er…that is to say…treacle tart?”

He felt her shift somewhere nearby. “Not even close.”

Where was she? One minute the voice came from his right, the next from the left…

He reached into the pocket of his robes for his wand. “Lum -”

No light appeared. Because he'd never gotten a chance to finish the spell. Because…because…there was something covering his mouth. And it wasn't a hand, and it certainly wasn't a bite of treacle tart. It was…another mouth?!

But why would - who would - he'd been sure Hermione was the only one around…

That couldn't mean…

And yet, it did. She was gripping his arms, pressing her lips to his, and he stood there, like an idiot.

It wasn't wet at all; in fact, it was rather nice. So why couldn't he move?

Hermione was kissing him. Hermione was kissing him. And the only thought passing through his mind was that this must be how it felt to be Petrified.

Do something. Do. Something, his mind shrieked. Funny how that voice always seemed to sound like hers. Bit kinky, actually.

She pulled away. All right, well. You've botched that one up. Say something, then.

“What was that for?”

Oh, honestly.

Her tone was businesslike. “It's obvious, isn't it?”

“Er…”

He could picture the eye roll that inevitably followed. “You fancy me.”

“No I don't!” was the indignant reply. Why, exactly, he was so taken aback that she`d said it aloud, he didn't know.

“You always were a terrible liar…” she mused.

Was he? “I…”

“Stop.”

“Why?”

“You're making excuses.”

No he wasn't. “No I'm not-”

“You are.”

“But… I…” he faltered.

“Harry.”

“What?”

“It's okay.”

“How can it be -”

“Because I…er…” she paused, sounding, for the first time, the slightest bit unsure. “I…Ifancyyoutoo.”

Oh, how the tables had turned. “I'm sorry, what? You'll have to say that again - I couldn't quite understand.”

She sighed exasperatedly. “I. Fancy. You. Too. There - are you happy?”

Wait just one moment. He'd been beating himself up for fancying Hermione for how long, now? And the entire time - the entire bleeding time - she'd fancied him back. He'd felt awkward. He'd fumbled over his words. He'd let her distract him; let her take over his thoughts - his entire mind - and what had she been putting up with?

Absolutely. Nothing.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, at all.

And furthermore - furthermore - she'd taken his chance to kiss her. She'd done it first, caught him completely off-guard, and rendered him helpless. His first kiss with Hermione, and he…hadn't kissed Hermione.

Which made him rather angry. For the past fortnight, thoughts of doing just that had consumed him.

But she was standing in front of him. Having just admitted to fancying him. Having kissed him. And he was doing nothing about it.

She'd always given him second chances, before. Could this situation really be so different?

“I don't - you don't - you can't -”

“I do.”

“You do?” It'd be nice if a bit of the shock would stay out of his voice. Honestly; did he need to make it any clearer that it was unusual for girls to fancy him?

“I do.”

“Why?”

She laughed lightly, and he was instantly reminded just who he was talking to. Of course Hermione already knew that things like this rarely occurred where he was concerned. “For a lot of reasons. Because I knew you'd be embarrassed if I told you; that you'd find it hard to believe that someone - anyone - could ever have feelings for you. Because when you say what you're thinking, I know you're telling the truth. Because - for Merlin knows what reason - you see something other than a bookworm when you look at me. Because you're so much more than `The Famous Harry Potter…'”

He groped blindly in the dark, hand finally coming in contact with her arm. She gasped in surprise. Making a sudden decision, he leaned forward, using the soft sound as a reference point, and hoping to find a place in the general vicinity of her mouth.

His lips landed on her cheek.

She tilted her chin, turning towards him.

And this time, when he kissed her, he didn't feel Petrified in the least.

~*~*~

There are moments when a life can take unexpected turns. Moments when one is lured into a false sense of security. Moments when, blinded by an unfounded feeling of comfort, a person is caught completely and utterly unaware by unforeseen developments.

Developments that change the way a person thinks. That change the way a person feels. Developments that, if that person is Harry Potter, can change a life forever.

Because really, who wants to live by a schedule? Who wants to go through the same routine every morning, in the same way, over and over again?

Not Harry.

No, he'd rather wake up with everyone else. Participate in the usual mad dash to breakfast. Sit next to a certain someone.

He'd rather complete his schoolwork on time if he wishes, and leave it off if he doesn't. Go to Hogsmeade without worrying who he might run into. Sneak out of the common room under the cover of his invisibility cloak for the Room of Requirement when he so desires…

That's all to say, he'd much rather have Hermione.

Because sometimes, it's the little things - the small surprises - that bring out the best in life.

~*~*~

A/N: `Yay,' you say, `it's finally over!'

Which is really rather rude. *sniffs*

Honestly, I'm bothered by the fact that although I managed to draw a chapter out to fourteen pages over the standard five…it still feels as though I've rushed.

…Anyone have a wall I can bang my head against? I'll only use it for a second (or ten).

Meanwhile…about that Harry “The Rock” Potter bit? *blushes* It came out. What can I say? And I mean, yeah, I had that `What the [blank] have I written?!' moment, but…it passed. And the nickname stayed. Shoot me if you will…

Thank you all again for the lovely reviews. I've nothing interesting going on in my life as of…ever, really, and they add a bright spot in my day.

And people say cheesy lines don't work. *scoffs*

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