Chapter Seven - A Lesson in Love
"Honestly, Harry! I can't believe you thought Adam was interested in me," Hermione chastised.
"What else was I to think? It's not difficult to tell he has feelings for you."
"But it is difficult to tell he's gay?!"
"Well," Harry blustered. "Yes! It is!"
Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed herself along the baskets of produce. She stopped at a bushel of oranges and began inspecting a large Valencia. "Men," she muttered under her breath. "Must they all be stolid?"
"What did you say?" Harry asked.
"Stolid," Hermione responded, tossing the orange into a bag. "Indolent…obtuse…daft," she continued as she turned around to face him.
"Obtuse?" Harry questioned.
"Yes, 'obtuse.' Shall I spell it for you?"
"No," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "But I find it interesting that you used the same word Morgenstern did. Do you spend your therapy sessions reading from the dictionary of obscure words?"
"It's not obscure."
"Fine."
Hermione was grabbing for an orange just beyond her reach. Harry plucked it from the basket and handed it to her. "If I'm so obtuse, what great flashing signal did I miss?"
Hermione dropped the orange in a bag and handed it to Harry. "You say that like there's only one." She pushed herself toward the baked goods and pointed to the top shelf where the Walker's Shortbread was stacked. Harry took one from the shelf and dropped it into the basket hanging on his arm.
"So?"
"Well, for one thing he's attractive." Harry's brows furrowed. "He's a healer and he's not married. His wardrobe is meticulously well-appointed and he owns more shoes than Imelda Marcos."
"Who?"
"Honestly, Harry, would it kill you to pick up a book once in a while?" She plucked a box of Taylors of Harrogate tea bags from the shelf and handed it to Harry. He cut his eyes toward her and snapped the box from her hand.
"So he's attractive, although I have no idea how that qualifies you for the other team, and dresses well. Hell, Hermione, you could be describing Draco Malfoy for all I know."
She looked at him over her shoulder and cocked an eyebrow.
"What?! I've only been gone a year, what the bloody hell has been going on around here?!"
Hermione failed to suppress her laughter. "Obtuse, Harry. Malfoy is not switch-hitting. He doesn't meet any of the remaining criteria."
"Which is?"
"Well," Hermione gave Harry a thoughtful look. "Malfoy's not sensitive. He's not perceptive to a woman's feelings. Nothing about his personality encourages you to bear your soul to a complete stranger. He doesn't laugh at your jokes, remember your birthday, or make you feel like you're the only person in the room when he's with you."
Harry couldn't argue the point about bearing one's soul. He didn't realize he'd told Morgenstern the story of Hermione's injury until after he'd finished. However, not wishing to appear swayed by her description, he replied, "Might I mention that most men don't notice any of the criteria you just mentioned."
"Not the straight ones."
"So, we're all obtuse?"
She answered with a consoling smile. "In short. He's perfect. He's handsome, intelligent, well-financed, he's sensitive and charming, he's approaching thirty years old…and he never talks about women, nor is he involved with one."
"And that makes a man gay?"
"It does if you're Adam Morgenstern."
"Hermione," Harry said. "I'd like to be the first to announce from the rooftops that you are wrong."
"How do you mean?"
"I managed my share of N.E.W.Ts, so by someone's standard I am intelligent. My Gringotts vault qualifies me as well-financed and I'm not involved with anyone. Unless I fail to be either charming or sensitive," he glanced at her with raised eyebrows, "then I should've pounced on his offer for dinner."
Hermione found interest in her change purse.
"Hermione!" Harry yelped.
She snapped it closed and rolled herself to the counter where a frazzled clerk appeared less than amused by their distracted conversation. Harry emptied the basket on the counter as Hermione rummaged for the proper denominations. "It's not that you aren't sensitive or charming," she recanted.
"But?"
Hermione growled as she dug for the remaining coins the clerk's open palm demanded. Harry slipped a hand into his pocket and exchanged the money in the clerk's hand for a galleon. Dropping the coins back into Hermione's change purse, he hooked the bag on the back of her chair and pushed her through the door into the gleaming sunlight.
"But," she began, appearing to lose her train of thought.
"But what?" he reiterated.
"I don't know," she sighed. "It's just different…it's obvious."
"I'm not going to win this argument, am I?"
"Sadly, no. But if it's any consolation, I think you and Morgenstern would make a smashing couple."
Surrendering to defeat, he replied, "If you're a good girl, I'll invite you to the wedding."
Harry smiled as he pushed her back to her flat.
I've missed that laugh.
***
Hermione flipped through the two rolls of parchment unfurled on her desk. She'd sat at this desk for three hours and had little to show for the effort. She glanced at the tome that lay open on the desk for twenty minutes. She read the same paragraph for the fourth time.
Her self-imposed deadline for this project passed days ago. The accident cost valuable time. While the head charms wizard from the University would not notice her research was just on time, rather than a week early, Hermione would; and it unsettled her.
Truth be told, she spent her days that way…unsettled.
She grabbed another book from the bottom of the stack and turned it to the first of several flagged pages. As she focused on the theory of refracted spell light she heard a page flip behind her.
Her train of thought derailed again.
She wanted to be angry but couldn't muster the energy. After all, Harry had been the perfect gentleman. Upon their return home, he put away the groceries whilst she settled herself at the desk. He never asked the question, seeming to know her intent. He grabbed a book from her private library and flopped on the sofa to read. He'd been there ever since.
He never interrupted her. He never bothered her with chuckles, snorts, or thoughtful reflections of the book he'd perused. He left her to her work without the slightest intrusion.
Flip.
Hermione buried her hands in her hair and grabbed it by the roots. Harry made it a point to be so thoroughly invisible that she couldn't think of anything else. Without daring to look at him, she noticed everything. He'd moved from resting on his left hip to his right. He'd fluffed the pillow under his arm seven times and distractedly covered himself with her favorite knitted throw. Twice he'd pulled it under his chin and smiled at the passage he read and not once had she managed a complete sentence without noticing the tang of his airy cologne wafting through the flat.
"Why don't you call it a night?" Harry's voice erupted in her ears as his hands suddenly massaged her shoulders.
Startled by the contact, she wondered when he'd crossed the room. The fragrance of his cologne, once muted by the distance between them, invaded her senses as he worked a knot from her shoulder blade. "I should finish this," she replied, letting her eyes droop closed.
Harry chuckled. "Hermione, I don't claim to know what you're working on, but you don't appear to be breaking any records getting there."
"Harry, I have a deadline to complete this report."
"One I'm sure is still two weeks away."
She couldn't fault his intuition. However, his estimation was off by 22 hours and 12 minutes. She dropped her chin to her chest and relished in the feel of his hands on her shoulders. She'd missed the feel of a man's hands on her body and missed Harry's company even more. Just as she began to chastise herself for the thought, she realized he'd stopped.
Her eyes popped open as he scooped her from the chair and carried her to the sofa. He laid her down in the place he'd occupied and draped the throw across her. "Rest," he ordered. "I'll make tea."
He walked toward the kitchen as she settled into the pillows that radiated his warmth. She drew a deep breath and realized the familiar vanilla scent she adored about this throw had been eclipsed by another scent…one she dared to admit she loved more…Harry's.
When did that happen?
She watched him from the sofa as he rattled around in the kitchen. For the first time, the necessity of having her pots and pans in the lower cupboards wasn't a bad thing. She buried her face behind the throw, peeked through the knitting like a child who'd just happened upon the Christmas gifts a month early and watched Harry bend over to fetch a saucepan.
"Hermione?" he questioned, turning around to face her. She straightened up on the sofa, cleared her throat, and busied herself picking invisible lint balls from the throw.
"Yes?" she replied with manufactured nonchalance.
"Er," he began. "Where is…"
"What?" she replied, regaining her composure and meeting his eyes.
"Er," he fumbled again. "I…"
"You what?"
"I can't remember."
They stared at each other across the room, neither finding the appropriate words to ease the companionable silence. Harry's face broke into a lopsided grin and he turned back to the cooker, humming a tune she might have recognized if Harry hadn't been singing it.
She dropped her head along the sofa and closed her eyes fisting the blanket in her fingers and reliving the clandestine fantasy of Harry's hands roaming her body in the bath.
"What are you thinking about?" Harry's voice interrupted as she felt her legs rise into the air.
"Er," she said, clearing her throat. "Nothing."
He settled onto the sofa and draped her legs across his lap. He twisted toward her and raised an eyebrow. "I was just thinking about getting cleaned up a bit before dinner," she continued.
"Oh." For reasons she didn't understand, Harry's cheeks flushed and he looked away.
"I mean," she countered, listing the logical reasons for his reaction in her head. "I could wait until after dinner."
"No, no. I'll wait. It's no problem," he replied. Hermione couldn't help but notice the tension that filled the air. What she couldn't understand was the reason behind it.
***
Splash.
Harry slapped the book closed and tossed it on the table. His eyes found the sliver of light streaming under the door to Hermione's bedroom. He followed it as far as he could see, knowing where it led, and what it cast its warm glow upon.
Hermione. In. The. Bath.
When he brought her home from St. Mungo's, he hated the time she spent in the bathtub. Whilst she stayed behind the door, his mind raced through any number of manufactured crises that threatened her well-being. His hands grew sweaty and his heart raced with the memory of what he'd found the first time he opened the door.
Now they were sweaty for a different reason.
After her last appointment with Morgenstern, the logical barriers his conscience erected crumbled. She received a clean bill of health and all doubt about Morgenstern disintegrated. From that point on, Harry couldn't turn off his imagination. He couldn't stop the images that erupted in his mind. The nightmares of finding her drowning in the bath evaporated and he found himself remembering the smooth texture of her skin, the firm curve of her breast, the way his lips felt upon hers.
You've got to pull yourself together!
He draped his arm over his eyes and let his head fall back on the sofa. He rubbed his palms over his trousers in an attempt to replace the memory of her skin with something else…anything else. It didn't work. The more he ran his hands over his thighs, the more his subconscious replaced his palms with hers.
Realizing what a bad idea it was to imagine her hands anywhere near his trousers, he leapt from the sofa and paced the floor. Her handwriting caught his attention. He stopped in front of her desk and picked up the parchment lying on the topmost book.
The vade mecum regarding this spell is the equanimity with which the caster must enchant the object. In order to produce a substantive aegis, the spell must be cast with the proper symmetry of dictum and composure.
Harry read the sentence four times before he gave up.
At least she was productive.
Harry flopped into the chair and rubbed the burgeoning headache from his temples. Although he spent the last few hours tucked under a blanket on the sofa, he hadn't relaxed. Not wishing to disturb her, he had pulled a book from her shelf and sat down to read while she worked through her research.
He had no idea what he read.
In fact, he was certain he hadn't read anything. Sure, he flipped the pages at regular intervals; he had to or she'd get wise to his real endeavor - watching her. It seemed every time he tried to focus on a paragraph, she'd cock her head to the side or twirl a lock of hair around her finger. She chewed on her quill. She pulled at her hair. She buried her eyes in her palms. She released sighs of frustration when she couldn't find the answer and he'd watched every gesture from the corner of his eye. He couldn't remember the title of the book he'd been "reading" and hoped she wouldn't engage him in a literary discussion over dinner. He couldn't tell her a single detail of the text, but he could describe the intersection of her neck and left shoulder blade in explicit detail.
If he wasn't such a coward, he could tell her how he felt about her as well.
"Harry?" her voice interrupted. He jumped from the chair, heart pounding, and spun around. Her eyes went wide with shock. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
Harry willed his heart to stop hammering against his ribcage and caught his breath. "It's okay," he assured her. "I didn't hear the door open." He tried to look nonchalant, but it was difficult as he couldn't take his eyes off her.
Her hair, still damp from the bath, was gathered at the top of her head. Swirling tendrils fell from the butterfly clip and grazed her shoulders. She wore a silken burgundy tank with a plunging neckline and matching lace trimmed shorts. The light reflected along the length of her smooth legs and his senses were overcome with the vanilla extract from her bath lotion.
If his jaw dangled at the floor, she didn't seem to notice. Drawing a deep breath, her eyes fluttered closed only to open again. "Dinner smells wonderful, Harry. What are we having?"
His eyes wandered along the v-neck of her lacy blouse. Where the fabric joined together he could see the crease between her breasts diving southward under the material.
"Harry?"
He snapped himself to his senses. He knew she'd said something; he only wished he'd heard what it was. "Er…"
"Are you feeling all right, Harry?" she asked.
"Of course!" his voice cracked. "Fine."
She studied his expression and he felt the heat climbing under his collar.
Change the subject, Potter!
"Are you ready to eat?" he asked, hoping she hadn't realized what he'd been looking at.
"Yes, I'm starving!"
"Great!" he exclaimed, grateful she'd taken the bait. "I made lamb chops." He rubbed his hands together and started to move behind her. As he grabbed the handle of her chair, her fingers grazed the back of his hand. He froze.
"If you don't mind," she whispered. "I'd like to sit at the table with you." She turned her head and looked toward the chairs around the table.
Harry's insides fluttered. "I don't mind," he replied.
Hermione's face brightened with a warm smile and she extended both her arms toward him. He stepped to her side and slipped one arm under her knees while the other snaked around her back. She looped her arms around his neck and he lifted her from her chair.
He couldn't take his eyes off her. Her skin felt like silk against his arm. The fragrance of her perfume eclipsed the seasoned lamb chops she'd complimented earlier. She was so close…close enough to…
"Harry?" Hermione interrupted. Harry's eyes rose from her lips to her laughing eyes. "Your arms are going to give out if you keep standing here."
"I could stand here all night."
Hermione looked away.
"No," Harry responded, dipping his head to catch her eye again.
"You don't know what you're saying," she whispered.
"I know exactly what I'm saying, Hermione."
"And what is that?"
He turned to the sofa and sat down, settling her onto his lap. He caught her arms before she could cross them over her chest. Her eyes, already glistening with tears, met his. The words…paragraphs…soliloquies that he'd practiced ad nauseum for weeks were as far from his reach as the stars peppering the night sky. His mouth bobbed open and closed in search of the words he couldn't speak.
Shaking her head, Hermione looked away. "Don't do this to yourself, Harry."
"Do what?" he croaked.
She laced her fingers through his and drew a breath. "Harry, you have your whole life ahead of you. You can do anything."
"You can do anything!" he interrupted as she shook her head in protest.
"Maybe that was true before," she began. "But…"
She continued to prattle on with the same excuses Harry heard since his return. She'd discounted her worth as a woman, a witch and a human being all because she could not walk from one room to the next. It boiled the blood in Harry's veins. He didn't care that she couldn't walk. He wasn't in love with her ability to stand on her own two feet.
He loved her for her perseverance and strength of character. He loved her for the determination she refused to abandon. He loved her infernal logic and dogged quest for knowledge. He loved the girl he'd met on the train and the woman he'd come to know in the years that followed.
He loved her. And of those practiced speeches, those were the only words that remained the same throughout every attempt and the only words he could remember now.
"Hermione, I'm in love with you."
Her diatribe fell silent at his interruption. Her eyes widened and her jaw fell open as she stared at him in disbelief.
"I," he launched his explanation.
"Haven't you heard a word I've said?" Hermione interrupted with an indignant fire flashing behind her eyes.
"No, I haven't."
"Accio chair!" she growled, throwing her hand toward the chair that sat only a few feet away. It twitched at her command.
"Immobulus!" Harry responded, stopping the chair in its tracks. Hermione snapped her head around and glared at him. Before she could open her mouth to curse him, he did the only thing he could think of…the one thing he'd wanted to do for weeks.
He kissed her.
He could tell she was not willing to let go of the argument she'd expressed so pointlessly. Her lips were tense against his and she struggled to push away from him. He curled one hand behind her head, snaked the other around her back and pulled her body toward his.
She continued to fight his advance, now pushing her palms against his chest. Harry was overcome with the dreadful realization that no matter his love for her, it might not be enough. Just as he resigned himself to letting her go, he noticed her palm against his chest was no longer pushing him away. It was fisted in his shirt and her lips softened against his. Emboldened by the endless possibilities that flooded his mind, he tilted her head to the side and opened his mouth against hers.
She did the same.
It was all Harry could do to maintain his composure. She wrapped her arms around him and moaned as their tongues met. Her deep tone of voice, shrouded with the same desire racking his body, sent a chill up his spine. His heart pounded against his chest and he felt light-headed. Before he knew it, he'd leaned her back onto the pillows and slid down beside her. Gasping for breath, he pulled away and propped himself on his left elbow.
Her lips glistened with his kiss and her chest heaved in harmony with his. "Harry," she whispered.
"No," he replied, pressing his finger to her moist lips. He didn't want to hear the objection. He didn't want to think about what would happen next with their friendship. He didn't want to apologize for not letting her go when she fought against him. All he wanted was to lie here, pressed against her side, and relish in the throbbing of his lips and the remembrance of hers.
As he closed his eyes, he felt her hand clasp around his. With resignation he allowed her to move his finger from her swollen lips. He'd run out of time. "Hermione," he began. "I know what you're going to say."
"No, you don't."
His eyes popped open and he looked down on her. "Yes, I do. I know you better than I know myself. I know you have a hundred questions and I probably can't answer half of them…"
"I only have one question," she interrupted.
Harry's jaw, still open from his argument, snapped shut and his eyebrows knitted together. "One?"
Hermione ignited a fire in Harry's chest as she ran her index finger along the buttons of his shirt. "Would you be terribly disappointed if we used a reheating charm on those lamb chops?"
Harry slipped his hand under her silk tank and watched her eyes flutter closed as he replied, "What lamb chops?"