There She Goes

chic_geek

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 10/09/2005
Last Updated: 24/09/2005
Status: completed

*** Final Chapter *** She’s a package. You’re not immune to that. You can’t be immune to that. But she’s your best friend. You just don’t cross that boundary. But she’s all that. She’s exactly that. Precisely that. And you feel the world around you slowly crashing down.

Chapters

1. untitled

2. untitled

3. 3

4. 4

5. 5

6. 6

1. untitled

There She Goes

By chic_geek

Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own nothing. I'm just an oppressed proletariat.

Author's Note: I'm finally back from my self-imposed exile! Lol. Anyway, it took me quite some time to finally get back to my bearings and start writing again. And this is the result. So as usual, please read and review (constructively!) because I need those to keep me going. I lose motivation so easily so you better review! tee hee. Other than that, enjoy everyone, and have a nice day!

Chapter 1

There she goes. There she goes again. Exactly like that song. Clichéd and grossly overused, but that's the best way to describe her. She starts chattering about a million different things, half of which is unknown to the average mind, but she says it like it's the most common thing in the world. And then she stops. She gives the softest of all sighs. She starts to smile and then she shakes her head. She has the guilty look on her face. Like she's ashamed because she's such a chatterbox. And you can't help but smile. You can't help but get infected. You can't help but get affected. There she goes. There she goes again.

She starts to say something again. But the cherry from her sundae rolls off. She gives a little laugh. “Woops,” she says as she picks it by the stem and inspects it. She squints her eyes a little as if checking for tiny specks of bacteria. A second later she forgets about it, and she's dangling it like a pendulum with two fingers. She's quirky and you adore it. She's clever and the smartest thing ever. And she's pretty too.

She's a package. You're not immune to that. You can't be immune to that. But she's your best friend. You just don't cross that boundary. But she's all that. She's exactly that. Precisely that. And you feel the world around you slowly crashing down. Because when she starts to chew on that dirty cherry, you come undone. She does it in the most non-sexual way but you're in ecstasy. But you can't do anything. She's your best friend. But that doesn't mean you can't love her. Because you do.

You love her. And you won't risk losing her. And you'll just have to get over it. But you know you can't. You know you won't. Because you love her.

So you just do the things you do. You silently pine after her. You constantly think about her. And every night you dream about her. But you keep that poker face. Because that poker face is your saving grace. As long as you look innocent, then everything will remain innocent. Even if it's killing you.

Like that big bastard in front of you is killing you.

As is the case with all the bastards, he starts with that well used opening line: “I think you're spectacular. Bloody spectacular. That book just blew me away. I'm (name of bastard here) by the way. Would you like to go out sometime?”

Bloody bastards. Bloody idiots. Bloody wankers that don't have the capacity to remember the title of her book: The Problem With Potions (Or How They Distort Perception And Cause A Mind Revolution).

But she's smart. She knows how to handle them, unlike you: because while you're trying to control your anger, she's expertly playing coquette. The innocent coquette. Like she's flattered and she finds him greatly interesting but she's just very busy right now. So the bastard just smiles and nods his head towards you as a sign of respect (because you are the bloody Harry Potter). Then you smile. A genuine smile, a smile that says `sorry buddy, but she's just not into you'.

Thus you are triumphant.

But not for long. Because some bloody wanker is bound to appear again. And you'll be caught in that cycle once again, praying to Merlin, Christ, and Buddha to please let her say `no'. Let her say no and you'll castrate yourself and become a devoted monk. You conveniently forget about your promise soon after. But it won't matter. Because once she says no, it's all sunshine and daisies for you.

So the bastard stalks off. Hermione Granger gives him the big brush off and his ego's busted. But he'll come around after a pint. Unlike you. Hermione Granger gives you the big brush off and you're off to Hogwart's. You're off to the astronomy tower where you'll jump off to your death. That's why you don't risk it. You'd rather watch the bloody bastards.

Putting the bloody bastards aside however, you're happy for her fame. You're mighty proud that they know she's smart and she's beautiful. You're heart is beaming with delight when you read the now unbiased Daily Prophet's glowing review of her work. You're radiating when you see her in the cover of Witch's Weekly naming her this year's most beautiful person in the world. She finds it annoying but you know she likes it too.

But in spite of all that she remains the way she is. Not a hint of superiority or arrogance. But she does get bossy at times. Especially when you miss work. Or when you don't do your laundry. Or when you bum around, literally bum around, the flat. But that's just her. And you're so used to it that you actually find it charming. Hell, even Ron finds it bloody charming (at times) so you're not completely off your rocker because of your undying, but alas, all too secret love for her.

Her. With her green knitted sweater that makes her brown eyes sparkle and shine even more. Her. With her curly brown hair haphazardly sticking out in all directions. Her. With her faint smell of cinnamon and apples lingering in the air between you. Her. With her quiet little smile that just melts you.

And she notices this. She notices that you just can't stop staring and she becomes so self-conscious. Her cheeks turn pink. Her lips quiver a little. And she's looking at you with a puzzled expression. You feel like kissing her on the spot but the astronomy tower creeps into your mind and you stop yourself.

So you shrug your shoulders. And take a last sip of your beer. She scrunches up her nose. And you scrunch up your nose. She asks you,

“You ready, Harry?”

And you say,

“Yes.”

And you both stand up. She gets her coin purse. You reach for your pockets. She rushes to the waitress. You win the race.

She tells you,

“I swear, I'm paying next time,”

You just pat her on the head and say,

“Don't worry, daddy's here.”

She gives a little chuckle, and you ask,

“What?”

She gives another chuckle as she slips her arm through yours and says,

“That sounds mildly disturbing.”

You give out a snort, and you tell her,

“Kinky, eh?”

And she playfully squeezes your nose and you both erupt in laughter.

When everything turns quiet, as you slowly make your way home, you tell yourself why you can never tell her the truth. Because you'll lose this—and when you lose this, you lose a great part of your life.

So while the wind gently blows behind you, and the snow starts to fall, while she clings hard to you for warmth, and you hold her even tighter, you tell yourself to be content.

You tell yourself to be content because you have her, no matter what.

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2. untitled

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, I own nothing.

Author's Notes: Once again, thanks for your reviews. I really appreciate it. So please continue with it as it helps me. If you have any suggestions, feel free to post it. :-)

Chapter 2

The situation goes like this: you open the door, and then you close it. When you close it, it's a different world altogether. It's suddenly intimate. Especially when it's just the two of you. Just the two of you. Like tonight. You're alone because Ron's not home. And you know this because there's no dishes left to clean. So you're once again in a state of utter bewilderment and confusion.

You like it but you don't.

It's a catch-22. You're alone with her and you like it because it's just you and her, a boy and a girl, alone, but you don't like it because it's just you and her, alone, and you're most likely going to screw up.

There are a million things that can happen and you're sure that you're going to end up doing the one thing you'll regret the most.

So you're confused. And what do you do when you're confused? Head for the toilet. Detoxify yourself. And make a show of it so that she'll steer clear from the bathroom while you collect your thoughts.

And now you're in the toilet. And you're just sitting there. The beer and the pasta and the brownie and the ice cream and the calamari and the Pepsi all flushed down. But you're still there. Like a nervous schoolboy before an exam, like a nervous young man before a first date, like a nervous virgin before the first night.

And you tell yourself you're pathetic. Because you are. You really are disgrace to the male population.

And all you can do is shake your head. Because you've saved the world and you've conquered it with your mesmerizing green eyes. But you can't face the one girl who knows you inside out.

So you just sit there. And shake your head. And you tell yourself you're probably succumbing to dementia.

But you know you're not. You know you're in love. And love can sometimes be mistaken for dementia. And your train of thought leads to her again. And when you first loved her. That way. 15 odd years in the making, 10 years in brewing, 4 years in realizing, a year in going ape-shit.

Not the best word to use, but ape-shit.

When you've hit that realization a year ago, your world just took a complete 360-degree turn.

Suddenly, you're no longer with Ginny. Or Alicia. Or Parvati. Or Lavander. Or Katie. Or the whole Gryffindor entourage.

Suddenly, you're no longer getting laid every other night. Or every night. Or twice a day.

Suddenly, you're all too aware of her. And her glowing peach skin. And her long fingers. And her habit of closing the door softly.

Suddenly, you're no longer just sharing a flat with them. Suddenly you're very conscious of the whole situation.

It's you. And her. And Ron. In one flat. It's you. And the one you love. And her ex. In one flat. And you ponder on the absurdity of the whole situation. But you're best friends and that makes sense.

But you know it's dysfunctional. And you tell yourself it has to be. You're Harry Potter anyway.

So from there you go ape-shit. You love her and there's only one wall dividing you. And so you go crazy. Because you love her but you can't tell her and she's in that room next to yours and you can easily touch her and hold her in your arms but you can't easily kiss her because it just doesn't happen.

And you can sit there forever and ponder and think and wonder and sink on this plethora of thoughts, but she knocks on the door, and she calls out from the other side,

“Harry, hurry up, the movie's starting!”

And you answer,

“Two minutes, pause it first,”

And she complies, but you can hear her give a little `huff' and you find yourself smiling and delaying your every move.

You tell yourself that not wanting to watch “Love, Actually” is a sign that you're still well attached to your masculinity. You may be a coward, but you're still a man.

You give a sigh of relief as you open the door.

And then you come undone. Again.

Because she's there, in the leather sofa, with her hair tied in a bun, showing the creamy stretch of skin from her nape to her shoulders to the upper half of her back. You're ten feet away but you can be an inch away; it doesn't matter, because the way your breath hitches is the same no matter what. And then she turns her head to you, and she gives you a smile, the one that crinkles the sides of her eyes, and you can't help but gape and smile back.

She presses play on the remote, and you slowly make your way. You wonder where you should sit. Too far away and she'll notice. Too close and she'll notice. But she decides for you. She pats on the space beside her and you plop down. There is an inch between the two of you.

“Did you wash your hands?” she asks, teasingly.

You pretend to think and she erupts into a fit of giggles. She giggles. And you feel your cheeks turn red. She doesn't giggle, or maybe she does, or maybe it just your overactive imagination, but she giggles. And you giggle too. And you're horrified, but you don't show it. You're a man, Potter, you're a man.

And then the show begins. She's talking the whole time. Like she usually does. And you feel queasy when you see just how mushy the whole thing is. But you don't show it. It's her guilty pleasure and she loves it. You wonder what those cold fish academics will say when they see their golden girl getting mushy with chick-flicks. You restrain a laugh.

The show progresses and suddenly you find yourself in it. Suddenly you're the best friend. The friend who falls in love with his best friend's new wife and makes stupid flashcards declaring his love for her. And you once again you start to feel queasy. Because that's your story, and it's ending is not one that's going to make you happy. The admission came to late. She's married. And you can just see it in your future. You'll tell her you love her. But she's taken.

And you feel bad. But suddenly she leans towards you and wraps her arms around you. She rests her head on your shoulder and all you can smell is her faint cinnamon aroma. Everything around you melts away. So you put your arms around her and you hold her tight.

“Makes you want to fall in love, doesn't it?” she asks, softly.

You feel your throat tighten. You just respond with a nod.

“Oh well, at least we've got each other, we can wallow over our loneliness together,” she says with a laugh. But you detect a hint of bitterness there. Or maybe it's just you and your bitterness.

“Don't worry, I promise that I won't ever look at another woman as long as you're single,” you finally reply. You make it sound like a joke, but you're not sure if you succeeded. But it looks like you did because she gives a smirk, and says accusingly,

“Hah, I have to see that!”

And you both laugh. And you both turn quiet. And you both turn back to the telly. But you're thinking. You're preoccupied. You wonder why she doesn't date. It's puzzling you. She's got her pick. And yet she decides to stay home.

You tell yourself that she's probably too busy. You tell yourself that she's probably just wary. With the current surge of attention, you have to be discerning. Maybe that's why. Or maybe not.

And maybe she's wondering the exact same thing about you.

But she doesn't say anything. Instead, all she says is,

“Promise me you'll take care of me when I'm old and all alone,”

Your heart just breaks. Because while it's never going to happen to her, you're sure as hell that it's going to happen to you.

And you don't want that. But you don't want to lose her either.

You reach for the remote, and you press pause. She slaps you lightly on your thigh and it slightly quivers.

“Why'd you do that?” she asks with mock anger.

“Because little girl, this movie turns you into a sourpuss. And believe me, that's not good,” you manage to say, complete with a responsible adult tone and a teasing smile.

“Whatever!” she retorts as she grabs the remote back from you and presses play.

She settles back in the sofa, but this time you're not holding her. You're back to your original positions. And you suddenly feel cold. But once again you don't say anything.

So you resume watching. Watching the movie, watching her, discreetly, at the corner of your hands. She's staring at her toes. You stare at it too. She frowns a little. Suddenly, she gets up, and she mutters something about `getting nail polish'. And so you're alone, watching “Love Actually”, pitying yourself. You suddenly wish that Ron goes home soon to relieve you from your pathetic inclinations. But at the same time you wish Ron spends the night at Luna's. Where he most probably is.

Finally, she's back. She's holding a bottle of nail polish in her hand. It's the same color as the chipped ones in her toes. She plops herself down on the sofa again, but this time she has her feet on the table. You make a look of mock disgust. She punches you slightly on the shoulder.

“You are well aware that Ron's going to kill you if you spill that on his beloved table, aren't you?” you ask her with an accusatory tone. She gives a little smirk and feigns an innocent look.

“Oh well, a little whip of the wand and it's gone. Or maybe I wouldn't do that. I terribly dislike this table,” she mutters the last part guiltily.

She's not exactly wrong there. The table is hideous. Plain hideous. But then it's Ron's, and you both love him, so you all live with it. Not that you don't catch her trying to transfigure it once in awhile when you have visitors.

You start to watch again. But when two of the stars in the movie get into their `simulated act', you both burst out laughing. Unfortunately, you both find out that it's not a good idea to paint your nails while you watch two stars getting it on. The color smears all over her toes.

You give out a “tsk” and she rolls her eyes. She mutters a spell and her toes are clean again.

“Like you can do better than that!” she says in such a tone that you feel like you have to prove something. So you reply,

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do!”

She raises an eyebrow and you know that she's putting up a challenge. And you know that if you back out she'll never live it down. So you indulge her. You take up the challenge. You grab the bottle and you dip the brush. She turns to you and puts her feet on your lap. It's only then that you realize how dangerous the situation is. She's looking at you with a challenging expression. You look at her with intent. Deep inside, you're trying to muster all your self-control. But you find it terribly, terribly hard.

So you take a deep breath. And then you lean down. Your hand shakes but you're going to do it. You're going to do it for the sake of indulging her and you're going to do it because you find it just so sexy and dangerous and utterly seductive. And you won't deny yourself that. Though you feel guilty, you tell yourself that while it's just a challenge to her, it's harmless flirting on your part. And so you get on with it.

You brush the first stroke.

And then the second.

And you find that your positions are very uncomfortable.

So you push her back, a little harder than you expected, and you grab her ankles. You place one foot on your lap, and the other, the other you put in between your two legs. You realize just how provocative the situation is. But you don't stop. You don't stop because she doesn't put up any resistance.

So you brush another stroke.

You briefly glance at her and you notice that her eyes are darker than usual.

You smear some on the side of her toe. She chuckles, and says,

“Hah.”

But you won't give her the satisfaction. You give a little smirk and you wipe it off with your pinky. You let your finger linger there a little longer.

You glance up at her and she narrows her eyes. But you can see her trying to restrain a smile. So you continue.

“How am I doing?” you finally ask. Your voice is huskier than usual. You're thinking that it's probably not a good idea to have her feet between your legs. So you move it a little.

“Good, but not perfect,” she replies. You notice that her voice seems deeper than usual too. But then it's probably just your imagination.

“Oh really?” you manage to say. And she replies,

“Yes, really. You smear it quite a lot you know.”

You look up at her. And you both stare at each other. After what seems like eternity, you finally say,

“I guess we'll have to do something about it then.”

But before you can do what you want to do, the door opens, and someone screams from behind,

“Oy! What the hell are you guys doing?”

You both jump. You both turn to the door. Ron. With a bag of groceries in one hand, an envelope in another, and an expression of amusement on his face.

Suddenly, you're aware of your surroundings. Suddenly, you're back to reality. Suddenly, you're chiding yourself. You tell yourself that you've gone too far.

The whole time you avoid looking at her.

Ron looks at the both of you, one after another. Suddenly, however, an expression of disbelief creeps into his face.

“Oh bloody hell! You're paintings each other's toes on my table???” He asks, incredulously.

Finally, you turn to her and you look at each other sheepishly. And when you see that she's smiling and she's beaming at you like you're still her bestest friend in the world, you realize that maybe not all is lost.

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3. 3

Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own nothing. I'm just an oppressed proletariat.

Author's Note: Once again, thanks for the reviews! I really appreciate it! I was quiet hesitant to use this style of writing at first, but when you guys tell me that you like it (or that it starts to grow on you), then I'm happy! :-)

Anyway, while reading this, please keep in mind that these are Harry's thoughts and of course, they're very subjective (as we know from the Canon). :-P

Chapter 3

This is the story of your life. It alternates between abandonment and companionship. Sometimes, you're alone and against the world. Sometimes it's just you. Sometimes, it's just you and your name. And you don't like that. You don't like that because it invites hypocrisy, and false pretenses. You don't like that because people praise you, and honor you. You don't want that because it brings back so much of the past, which by all accounts, is not something you want to spend your days on.

And then there's the fact that you're lonely. The fact that you get so lonely that you sink into what is clinically known as `mild depression'. To hell with that you say, but you can't deny the fact that you're lonely because it's true. No matter how much you try to remedy that loneliness, still nothing happens.

You fall in `love' with Ginny but you're still lonely. You do it with Katie but you're still lonely. You take muggle antidepressants but you're still lonely. You mutter countless spells and incantations but you're still lonely.

So you think that you're always going to be lonely. But then you fall in love with Hermione, and suddenly, you don't feel that lonely anymore.

So you begin to wonder. And you realize that whenever Hermione's around a portion of that loneliness drifts away. When you're with her, you're suddenly able to immerse yourself in that great feeling of companionship. And you find it funny that you only realize this now. This is why you feel at home at Hogwarts, this is why you hate going back to the Dursleys, this is why you're still living, albeit `platonically', with her, you tell yourself.

This is the story of your life. You're still lonely, you admit, but you're not that lonely anymore. You're still lonely because although you have her by your side you don't have her the way you want to have her. But you're happy to go along with it. Everyone needs to be a little lonely sometimes. Besides, you won't change that for anything in the world. You're living with the two most important people in your life. The two people who love you and who care for you and who stood by you through time.

And that's why you don't complain.

You don't complain about not having the things you want to have.

You don't complain about having the things you don't want to have.

You do complain however when Ron starts to make a complete ass of himself. Like's he's doing right now.

“... And then she tells me, Ronny, right there, right there! So of course, I go right there! And then she just twists and turns, and that is why I'm such a bloody good -”

So you decide to cut in. You decide to cut in because you can see Hermione's eyes turning into slits. And when her eyes turn into slits, you're all too aware that what's coming is not good. So you intervene. And you tell your oversexed friend, teasingly,

“I wonder if Luna's story matches yours.”

As expected, he rolls his eyes. And he tells you that of course it's true because he's in such a good mood. He tells you that if he didn't just have that fantastic sex then he'll be lecturing you on why you shouldn't paint your toenails on his beloved table.

So you shut up. You realize that it's true. And she shuts up too. Because she'll rather have him have his play-by-play account of today's sex with Luna rather than have him pester the both of you over his table.

So everyone's happy.

Until your oversexed best friend starts questioning you on your sex life, which by all accounts, is non-existent for the past year. You scold yourself about your slow reflexes. You should have known this was coming when he starts with,

“By the way, how come you're not getting any?”

How slow, Potter, how slow.

You decide to play dumb.

“What's that?”

He takes a deep breath and looks at you like you're in kindergarten and you can't even spell the word “cat”. For a brief second, you expected him to spell “C-A-T”, but then he says,

“Sex, Harry, Sex.”

Fortunately, however, before you can answer, she stands up. She gives a little `huff' and says,

“I'm going to bed before I succumb to male idiocy.”

And with a little glare, followed by an `OK, I admit it, it's amusing' smile, she says good night, kisses you both on the cheek, and heads for her room. And when she finally closes the door, Ron says,

“I swear she's turning into an old maid. What's up with the two of you? You're just staying home, not dating, wasting away your most precious gifts. What? You two decided to take an oath of celibacy?”

All you can do is roll your eyes.

Later that night you're in bed. You have the sheets around your waist. Your chest is bare. You don't sleep with any shirt on. It never occurred to you why, but it's always been that way as far as you can remember. Except when you were at Hogwarts. Or at the Dursleys. You imagine Uncle Vernon peeking and you give a shudder. You decide to switch your train of thought to something more appealing.

Hermione.

Again.

But you can never tire of her. You can never tire thinking of her and what is and what will and what can happen because you know it will never happen. She's that big dream of yours that you hang unto desperately, even though you're well aware that it is nothing but a dream.

So you think of her.

You wonder what she's doing. You picture her with her sheets tight around her chest. You picture her scratching her leg with a toe. You picture her twirling a stand of her hair.

And then you face the wall. The wall dividing you from her. That one wall that can make all the difference in the world. The wall exists because you're not together that way. The wall exists because you're a boy and she's a girl, and boys and girls, with no special relations, don't share a room together.

So all you can do is touch that wall. Like you always do at night. You slide your hands, you glide your hands. Sometimes, when you're courageous enough, you even drum your fingers softly.

You wonder if she hears it.

And this makes you very curious. And when you're curious, nothing can stop you. So you drum your fingers against the wall a little louder.

You wait.

Nothing.

You drum your fingers again.

You wait.

Nothing.

You decide to stop.

She probably doesn't hear it, you tell yourself. Or maybe she does and she'll mention it tomorrow.

As of tonight, however, you'll just go to sleep.

And dream about her.

And her drumming her fingers softly against the wall. Like you do.

And her drumming her fingers a little louder against the wall. Like you do.

Suddenly, you realize, you're not dreaming. You're still awake. It's still dark outside. It's just a minute past eleven in your clock. You're still awake and she's still awake and she's drumming her fingers against the wall. Like you do.

So what do you do?

You knock.

You give a little smirk. You can picture her huffing.

You wait for a few seconds.

And then she knocks back.

This time, sleep is the farthest thing from your mind. So you decide to continue with your little game.

You knock twice.

She knocks back twice.

You knock thrice.

She knocks back thrice.

But when you're about to knock your next set, you suddenly hear a soft `crack'. Next thing you know she's in the room.

Hermione. In your room. At the middle of the night.

This time, you tell yourself, you're probably dreaming.

But you're not.

Because she's really there.

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4. 4

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.

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5. 5

Chapter 5

Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own nothing. I'm just an oppressed proletariat.

Author's Note: Once again, thank you for the many wonderful reviews. I really appreciate it, and as a promise, for keeping me motivated, here's the chapter you're waiting for. Enjoy! But please remember to review (constructively!).

This is how the story goes: boy meets girl, girl meets boy, boy saves girl, girl saves boy. You meet her, she meets you, you save her, she saves you. That's your story, the both of you. At first glance it signifies something very stereotypically romantic - you meet her in, where else, but the train, you play hero and save her from a troll, and then she saves you from yourself. Everything fits in with the formula, it's a box office hit, only there's a troll in your story and what you have is not exactly romantic.

Until now.

You have your lips pressed against hers, she has her lips pressed against you, and that only means one thing.

Kissing.

The last thing you ever expected to be doing.

But also the only thing you've dreamed of doing.

And now you're doing it. You're kissing her, and her lips that taste of cinnamon and apples and spice.

You're kissing her, but only for the briefest second. For a brief, explosive second that scars you for life - in a good way. Unlike that thing in your forehead.

But it all has to end. She immediately pulls back, and she has a look of shock in her face. You expect her to burst into tears, but she does not. You expect her to beam, but she does not. In fact, there is nothing in her face but shock. Pure shock.

Your heart drops.

“I'm sorry,” you finally manage to say.

She looks at you as if you're the craziest person in the world, and you're whole life just shatters there and then. But then she says,

“Don't be.”

And so you look at her. This time you're the one with the look of shock in your face. But then it immediately turns into confusion. She notices your preoccupation, and she continues,

“Don't be. I'm the one who should be sorry,” she whispers.

This time, you look at her as if she's the craziest person in the world. Immediately, you try to counter her, but then she bursts into a nervous laugh, and she says,

“Oh God, what is wrong with us? It's not like it means anything! It's an accident for God's sake!”

And so you smile too. But your heart is breaking into pieces. She's killing you, but of course she doesn't know that. All she knows is that you're her best friend and that the kiss was just an accident.

But it kills you. Kills you. Kills you. Kills you.

Daily Prophet Exclusive: Harry Potter Jumps Off To Death

So you just nod your head and pretend that everything's fine and that it's nothing to worry about. You even shrug your shoulders and you give a little `yeah, no worries', but then you know, and she knows, that everything's changed. You don't know if it's for the better or for the worst, so it kills you. The uncertainty kills you like the bittersweet innocence of that kiss.

A bittersweet kiss - you tell yourself you're turning into a bloody bawling god-forsaken weirdo. But then you feel a little pain in your heart, a little shudder, and you know that it is indeed a bittersweet kiss.

So you just stay quiet. And she stays quiet. And you know that she's assessing the situation. You know that there is an underlying current there, because if it's nothing to worry about, then why this reaction?

She probably knows the truth, and that kills you.

After a couple of seconds, or a minute, or two, hell, you don't really know, you look at her, and she looks at you.

“What is wrong with us? It's not like we had sex,” she whispers to you. This time, you can't avoid but give a laugh. She joins you.

“Well, I guess we're just too overcome with shock,” you reply, hesitantly.

“Yeah, I guess so,” she reaffirms.

And then you both turn quiet again. There's that uncomfortable silence that breaks your heart, really breaks your heart, because this doesn't happen under normal circumstances.

“So...” you begin to say, but then you stop because you don't really know what to say. You just want to break that bloody silence.

She looks at you, expectantly. After a second, she finally says,

“What were you saying?”

You look down, and you mutter,

“I don't know, I really don't know.”

She nods her head, and she gives a sigh. You notice that there's a look in her face, something unexplainable, not sadness, but close to it. You decide to close your eyes because you can't bear it. You can't bear that look on her face. You can't bear the uncertainty. You can't bear the fact that you can never go back. Everything's changed. The revelry, the harmless flirting, the bed sharing, it's all gone.

But that's nothing compared to the friendship, the 10 odd years of friendship, that could suddenly go down the drain because of that one stupid move.

“Oh well, I guess it's good night then,” she finally says.

You manage to nod your head.

“Good night,” she whispers to you.

“Good night” you're supposed to bid back, but you don't get to say it.

You don't get to say it because she kisses you.

Really kisses you.

Softly.

Gently.

As if she has all the time in the world.

And so you stand there, in shock. Your mind is a fusion of different sensations, of different images, of a time warp going back and forth from 10 seconds to the present from 100 seconds to the present from 1000 seconds to the present.

She's kissing you.

But then she begins to cry.

Tears start to fall down from her eyes.

And she immediately pulls back.

You look at her with confusion.

And this sends her to tears even more.

You plan to ask her what's wrong, you plan to hold her in her arms, you plan to kiss her - and then it occurs to you, she's crying because you just stood there, and didn't kiss her back. She's crying because she feels that you've reject her when you'll kill yourself just to taste her lips for the briefest second.

But you don't get to ask her, or to hold her, or to kiss her, because with a soft crack, she's gone.

So what do you do?

You follow her. You'll follow her to your death because you'll never let this go.

So with a soft crack, you're there with her again.

And her tear-stained face.

Her tear-stained face that looks at everything except you.

But you don't let that bother you. Because there is nothing in hell that will stop you from kissing her back.

So you grab her.

You grab her with such ferocity that surprises the both of you.

But this time, you don't think about it.

Because you kiss her.

You kiss her.

Not softly.

Not gently.

But ferociously.

You kiss her with all the desire inside you. You kiss her with all the passion you bury inside you. You kiss her. You kiss her. You kiss her.

You taste her.

You taste her lips. You taste her mouth. You taste her soul.

You taste her.

And you won't stop because you can't stop and she won't stop because she can't stop.

She's kissing you.

She's tasting you.

She's kissing you with such intensity that your mind just goes blank.

All you know is that you're kissing her and she's kissing you.

All you know is that you're holding her and she's holding you.

All you know that it's just you and her and nothing else.

So you kiss her.

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6. 6

Chapter 6

Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter. I own nothing. I'm just an oppressed proletariat.

Author's Notes: The Final Chapter guys! Thank you sooo very much for the reviews! I really appreciate it! I had a great time writing this, being able to explore Harry's emotions and all, and wallowing on the idea that Harry and Hermione will get together no matter what happens in Canon. So enjoy these guys! And if I come up with another story, please give me the pleasure by reading it! :-) Enjoy guys and thanks again!

There she goes. There she goes again. She's still chattering about a million different things, half of which is unknown to the average mind. She still stops halfway, with that guilty look on her face. She still has that faint blush on her cheeks, she still smells of cinnamon, and she's still the woman you love. In fact everything's the same, down to the tiny freckles on her nose. Everything, just about everything, is the same except for one thing.

Except for one very crucial thing.

She's in bed with you.

Not just in bed with you, but really in bed with you.

That way.

That exact way that when you turn to face her, you can count exactly how many freckles there are on the tip of her nose. That exact way that when you pull the blanket you see the soft curve of her hip. That exact way that when she pulls the blanket you see little Harry.

But this time, he's not squished to oblivion.

Rather, he's quite happy. No, actually, very happy.

Like you. Exactly like you.

But she gives a soft “tsk” and mutters something about men being “impossible”.

You give a little self-satisfied chuckle.

You're the man, Potter, you're the man.

“What are you smiling about?” she asks you.

“Nothing,” you reply.

“Har-de-har. That smile only means one thing: you're gloating.”

You burst out laughing when you see the expression on her face.

She has her nose in a crinkle, and she has her eyes in a squint. You tell yourself you're going to control yourself and not say it. You tell yourself that you're not doing a Ron. You tell yourself that she'll probably kick you out of bed and refuse to make love to you again. But then you just have to say it. So you tell her,

“You look like Crookshanks when you do that.”

Immediately, she slaps you on your arm.

And pinches you on your bum.

And you're quite content with that reaction until her fingers suddenly start treading on dangerous territory. And with that expression on her face, nose in a crinkle, eyes in a squint, evil smile on the lips, you're quite sure that it's not something that will give you pleasure.

Damage control.

Immediately, you grab her hand, and then you tackle her.

“Well, well, well, so men are impossible, huh?” you ask her teasingly.

“Oh, you're asking for it, Harry!” she replies with a little huff.

“No, darling, you're asking for it. You're insatiable, honey.” You counter back in the most seductive tone you can manage. You're quite amazed, and ashamed, by how you sound. You never knew you had it in you. Not.

But you won't give her the satisfaction. So you raise an eyebrow as you slide one hand up and down her waist.

She rolls her eyes back.

Apparently, she also knows that you're not the little Casanova you make yourself out to be.

But then that doesn't bother you.

In fact, nothing bothers you anymore.

Because you have her.

That way.

You can flirt with her without feeling guilty.

You can think of her without self-pity.

You can kiss her without the astronomy tower creeping dangerously in your mind.

And you can love her as much as you want.

And show it.

So you kiss her.

But unlike last night, there's no sense of urgency this time.

You have all the time in the world.

So you kiss her, softly and gently.

And when you stop, you look into her eyes, and you whisper,

“I love you.”

And immediately she responds,

“I love you too.”

And then she kisses you again.

And you kiss her again.

After awhile, she pushes you back.

You look at her with confusion and you ask her,

“Why?”

She gives you a little smile, and she replies,

“I just want to look at you.”

You grin, and you kiss her ear while she slides her hands up and down your back.

“God, I can't believe this,” you tell her.

“Neither can I,” she replies.

“I was going crazy you know, not being able to do this,” you tell her in between kissing her neck.

“Hmm, that feels good,” she says with a little moan, and then she continues, “I've loved you forever Harry, did you know that?”

Immediately you stop, and you turn to look at her.

Really look at her and her glistening eyes that express all the emotions going in and out of her.

“What do you mean forever?” you ask her.

“I love you since forever. Even when we were at Hogwarts,” she replies as she plays with your hair.

“But you were with Ron,”

“And you're with Ginny.”

“But I loved you even then. I've loved you always, I just didn't know it then, but I knew that I—”

But you don't get to finish what you're saying. You don't get to finish because she kisses you again.

And when she pulls back, she presses a finger to your lips, and she tells you,

“Let's not talk about that anymore, Harry. We're together now.”

And you agree. You just have to agree because the past is the past and now is the present.

And the present, this present, is much better than your past because you have her and she has you and you love her and she loves you and nothing will ever tear you apart from her.

You've waited so long and you've suffered so long that there's no point in wallowing.

So you kiss her.

And when she kisses you back, you can only thing of one thing.

There she goes. There she goes again.

She's engulfed you.

She's made love to you.

She's with you.

And she loves you.

There she goes.

There she goes again.

The End

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