Economy of Words

Once upon a time, he hadn't caught her before she fell.

He'd only watched as she tumbled, crumbled, and hit the ground, and there was nothing that he could do.

It was the first time, and he hoped that maybe, just maybe, he could ratchet up that saving-people-thing to the point where he'd never have to watch her fall again. He'd already lost too much that way.

He said that he was sorry, even though he knew that she wouldn't listen. She’d never blame him for anything. It was a while before Harry figured out why.

The next time Hermione fell, he fell with her, a tangle of limbs and lips and other body parts that he wanted to touch all at once, and she was the one who apologized, but only for taking so long to get around to it.

As an experiment, Harry shifted his hand. It slid across smooth, warm skin, traveling from a flat stomach to the curve of a hip. Except for a small intake of breath, there was no reaction. Harry returned his attention to the movement of his lips. He waited for the familiar hands running through his perpetually mussed hair, the playful nibbling of his bottom lip, the tiny purring sounds that emanated from somewhere deep in the back of her throat. All he got was one hand gripping his forearm lightly and a slight puckering of the lips. Harry withdrew.

“You’re really not into this today are you, Hermione?” he asked, taking one of her hands into his.

She shook her head slightly.

“Are you still worried about, Ron?”

She did not have to speak for him to know her answer.

“Don’t worry,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Harry, but I can’t help it. What would he say if he knew?”

“Nothing either of us would want to hear.”

She sighed, her eyes sad, and he knew that he had won for the moment. Never taking his eyes from her, he slipped the ring off of her finger before he leaned in again.