Chapter 4
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own nothing. I'm just an oppressed proletariat.
There are not many things in life that you're sure about. But when you're sure about something, you're just so absolutely sure that you're willing to kill yourself in the process of proving that you're right. Or maybe it's just the `hero-complex' everyone seems to attach to you. Either way, when you're sure, you're sure. Period.
You're damned sure you're a man.
You're damned sure you love Hermione.
And since you're so damned sure about this, you're ape-shit. Again.
You are a man.
You love Hermione.
It's late at night.
She's in the room with you.
A-P-E. S-H-I-T.
But before you can process any more information that will lead to your untimely death (Daily Prophet Exclusive: Harry Potter Jumps Off To Death), she decides to take charge. She gives a huff. So you look at her and she looks at you. She has her arms in a fold, and she's tapping one foot on the floor. You give an innocent smile. She gives a sarcastic smile.
Not exactly the start of something romantic you tell yourself.
Finally, she stops tapping her foot, and asks you, with a hint of both annoyance and amusement,
"What the hell are you doing, Harry Potter?"
You give a sheepish little smile. She's not buying it.
"Knocking on the wall, I suppose?" you answer, not too surely. You feel like a kid caught blaspheming by mother superior. You're mind takes a brief detour. Mother superior? Blaspheming? You ask yourself where the hell you get these things.
But she gives that little sarcastic smile again, and she starts to question you with that little sarcastic tone of hers.
"At midnight? When both you and I have work tomorrow?"
"Well I guess that slipped off my mind..."
You tell yourself you're turning into Ron. She reserves this mother superior act of hers to Ron and Ron alone. The Hermione you know is not a frigid nun. The Hermione you know is the one that makes you see sunshine and daisies and all the pretty things in the world.
The Hermione in front of you, however, is not.
You decide to take control. You say the two magical words.
"I'm sorry."
And with these two words she breaks into a smile. The one that reminds you of all the pretty things in the world. The one that makes your heart pitter-patter and makes you conjure cheesy images of anything symbolically attached to the word `love'. Halfway through thinking about daisies and rainbows, she cuts in,
"You're well aware that I'm not buying that `I'm sorry' line of yours, aren't you?"
For a brief second, the daisies, and the rainbows, and Mr. Sunshine all go into a standstill with a look of shock on their faces, but then she erupts in a smile, and in a self-deprecating tone she says,
"I can never stay mad at you though!"
And with that, she gives a little huff, and she plops down on the bed beside you.
Ape-shit.
Actually, not ape-shit, you tell yourself, but APE-SHIT.
You're a boy and she's a girl and you're all alone in a bed and it's dark and it's quiet and it's just you and her and your bare chest and her nightie and your ultra-sensitive little Harry.
That, you tell yourself, is not a good combination. Especially when the girl you're fantasizing about is your best friend. One small mistake and it's probably over for the both of you - or maybe just for you and your ego.
Daily Prophet Exclusive: Harry Potter Jumps Off To Death.
You shake your head. You wonder why you just have to get into these situations. You wonder if the powers that be hate you. Hate you so much that they sadistically punish you instead of killing you right there and then.
You sneak a look at her. She has her body in a huddle and she's pulling your sheets.
You pull back. Not because you want to play another game with her but because you're hiding the biggest indicator of your feelings for her.
But she mistakes the pulling for the former. She pulls it even harder.
"What's with you, selfish?"
You pull back, and you reply,
"Get your own blanket, besides you have your own bed!"
She pulls back again, and this time, she succeeds. You immediately lie on your front. There goes little Harry.
Squished to oblivion.
That immediately kills your passion.
"Are you OK?" she asks in confusion.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," you reply in a pitch higher than usual. She turns you over. You can just see the worry in her eyes.
This, you tell yourself, is another reason why you love her.
"I'm fine, really," you say again, in a much normal tone. You really are fine now. No more little pricks. You shudder at your corny little puns.
She accepts this. And with that, she gets off the bed, and folds the blanket so neatly before giving it back to you.
"You didn't have to fold it," you tell her.
"Well I never knew you had a thing with blankets," she replies, teasingly.
"I do not!" you retort.
"It's ok, everyone has their little secrets! Ron sucks his thumb!" she says with a giggle. That, as of the past 10 seconds, is the biggest shock in your life.
"He does not!" you exclaim.
"Gee, I was kidding!"
"Besides, how do you know he sucks his thumb? Hmm?"
Suddenly, you realize that you're just big glutton for punishment. You regret asking the question.
"That is none of your business!" she answers, flustered.
There goes your heart.
"Oh dear God," you mutter to yourself. She hears you.
"Ok, just to clarify things, I didn't sleep with him, if that's what your thinking. I'm little miss prude, remember?"
There goes your heart again. This time, you tell yourself it's bright and shiny. You also tell yourself you're pathetic.
"I didn't say that you slept with him you little prude!" You emphasize the last word and she blushes.
"Har-de-har, very funny."
"Gee, whose the sourpuss now? I make a little joke and you get all affected! Besides, you're not prude, you tart. Look at what you're doing now!"
And with that, you both burst out laughing, much to the chagrin of Ron. He knocks on your wall.
"Looks like where not the only ones playing that little game,"
"Go to sleep Ron, Hermione and I are sharing some little loving!" you shout, fully aware that it's probably your first and last time to say that. She immediately slaps you on your arm.
"What? Aren't we?" you ask her, innocently.
"We're not sharing some loving, Ron! Harry's being a big prat!" she shouts.
"Go to sleep you crazy weirdos before you wake the neighbors up! You don't want Mr. Heckles at the door in his man-bloomers!" Ron shouts back.
The image of your deranged neighbor in bloomers both sends you into hysterics. Suddenly, you're sniggering uncontrollably. Suddenly, she's giggling uncontrollably. Suddenly, you find yourselves getting closer inch-by-inch. Suddenly, she's holding unto you for support.
Suddenly you both realize it's not even that funny and it sends you into greater laughter.
And then you both stop. You turn cold fish and you stop.
You stare at each other for the briefest second, and then she asks you,
"We're both turning crazy, aren't we?"
You shake your head, and you answer,
"Just you."
She gives her sarcastic little smile and she squeezes your nose.
"Very funny," she whispers.
Then everything turns quiet.
You become self-conscious.
She becomes self-conscious.
You wonder if it's for the same reason.
But then she pulls back a little, and bids you,
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight," you answer back.
She immediately leans, and you immediately lean, and you both try to kiss each other in the cheek.
Only, you both miss each other's cheeks.
You kiss each other's lips instead.
-->