Expressions of Gratitude

Emily North

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 22/01/2006
Last Updated: 22/01/2006
Status: completed

Hermione is determined to help Harry prepare for the second task . . . even if those preparations include an egg, a bath, and an utter absence of clothes.

Chapters

1. Expressions of Gratitude

1. Expressions of Gratitude

Disclaimer: JKR invented them, Scholastic publishes them, and Warner Bros. profits off of them. I just play with them when no one’s looking.
Warning: Underage smut! They don’t go past third base, but the story does take place in the middle of Goblet of Fire, so Harry is fourteen and Hermione is fifteen. If that’s a problem for you, then stop here.
A/N: Last month, the brilliant Inell wrote a terrifyingly dark Harry/Hermione/Cedric fic entitled “Do We Have a Deal” that scared the living daylights out of me. To keep from having nightmares, I wrote a fluffy Harry/Hermione/Cedric piece. Once it was finished, I realized that I liked it as a Harry/Hermione story, so I cut out Cedric’s part, and ended up with this. The original Harry/Hermione/Cedric version is posted in my aff.net profile, if any of you are curious. This is very different from ‘The Mirror’ so if you’re looking for intense drama and a developed plot, you might want to look elsewhere. There’s a teeny bit of angst (there always is, with me) but mostly, this is PWP.

~*~*~*~

“Oh honestly, Harry, you’re being silly.”

“And you’re being barmy! I never should have told you about this in the first place; that way you wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what? Try to help you? What nonsense; of course I’m going to help you, I always help you, and this is no different from how I helped you for the first task.”

“We weren’t naked when you helped me on the first task!” Harry growled in frustration.

Really, he didn’t get why she was having so much trouble understanding this. Hermione was a smart girl. Surely she realized that there were some things that a fourteen-year-old boy simply didn’t feel comfortable doing in front of his female best friend.

Especially now that I’ve realized just how pretty that friend is . . . he thought to himself, but quickly pushed the thought aside. That wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter that ever since the Yule Ball, he had found himself shocked into awareness that Hermione was a very pretty girl; just as pretty as Cho, even; and maybe, just maybe, even better than Cho, because she was easier to talk to, and didn’t surround herself with a gaggle of giggling girls all the time, and she already liked him, maybe even liked him, and . . . But no, that wasn’t the point, either.

The point was that she had used the password he had been foolish enough to tell her, and had snuck into the prefect’s bath before he even got there so she could help him decipher the egg. When he arrived, she was wearing a bathrobe (tied loosely enough so that he was damn near positive she wasn’t wearing anything underneath) and a bright smile as she told him to hurry up and get his clothes off so they could get down to work. (A statement that should not have made that traitor between his legs perk up hopefully . . . but did, anyway. The foolish piece of flesh never listened to him, anyway. He’d been trying to tell it ever since the Yule Ball that it wasn’t supposed to respond to thoughts of Hermione that way.)

When he remembered how to breath again (which took about thirty seconds) and got through his sputtering and stammering stage (which took another minute or two) and finally managed to demand of her what exactly she thought she was doing there, she had coolly informed him that she was there to help him decipher the egg, and then she started unfastening her robe.

Not even on his Firebolt had Harry ever moved as quickly as he did in that moment as he shot across the tiled floor to Hermione side to yank Hermione’s robe closed and inform her that she was not, was most definitely not going to be taking off any more clothes, and that he wouldn’t be stripping down at all until she got dressed and left. Whether Cedric’s suggestion of taking a bath worked or not, it was a suggestion he would be trying alone, thank-you-very-much.

And then she told him he was being silly. Silly, as if he had suggested dying his hair purple, or attacking the golden egg with humus.

She was going mad; that was the only explanation for it. Really, if Ron was to be believed, she’d been halfway along that road for quite some time now, and Harry was finally inclined to agree. This was more than just ‘brilliant but scary’, this was absolute insanity. Never mind that she had a point about always being the one to help him. This was just one thing that he’d have to do without her help. There would be no naked helping. There would be no naked anything. Not with Hermione.

“Well really, Harry, climbing into a bathtub fully dressed does seem a bit excessive . . .” Hermione replied, clearly hiding a smile.

Smiling. She thought this was funny. She was amused at the way his erection was straining tighter every minute, and the way that he couldn’t quite manage to drag his eyes off of the vee of her bathrobe, and the way it parted a bit when she put her hands on her hips, revealing more of the smooth curve of an absolutely lovely pair of breasts, and the way the whole thing reminded him of the dream he’d had the previous summer after accidentally walking in on Hermione in the shower, and . . . where was he going with this? Surely there was something he was going to say, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of what it was. Fortunately, Hermione filled the silence.

“I’m not leaving until I’ve helped you figure this out, and nothing you can say is going to change my mind. This is the Tri-Wizard Tournament, Harry. People have died in this before; people who were several years older than you, and with a lot more training. If you think you can stop me from doing absolutely everything in my power to make sure that you’re prepared for this, then think again. You make think you’re stubborn, Harry, but trust me: you haven’t bloody met stubborn. Now if you don’t want to see me take my robe off, then I suggest you turn around.”

Any sensible, logical, utterly persuasive arguments Harry might have had slid right out of his head as Hermione unfastened the belt of the robe, allowing the folds to part just a few inches, revealing a bit more of those spectacular breasts, leading down to a smooth stomach, and a dark shadow . . . no, make that dark hair, visible between her . . .

Blushing scarlet, Harry spun quickly around so that his back was to her. He heard the brush of fabric against skin and knew that the robe was being discarded. He tried very hard not to picture it in his mind, not to match the sounds with mental images of Hermione completely and unashamedly nude, hanging the robe up on a hook, followed by a splashing sound that meant that she was stepping into the tub, with the water washing around her ankles, then her calves, then her knees, then . . . oh god . . . her thighs . . . and then . . . and then . . . and th—

“All right, Harry, I’m up to my neck in bubbles, and my eyes are closed. It’s your turn to come in.”

Acting purely on autopilot, Harry found himself undressed and climbing into the tub with the egg with no memory of undressing; no memory of anything, really, other than how gorgeous Hermione looked, covered in bubbles and absolutely relaxed with her eyes closed and her head leaning back against the cushioned edge of the tub.

“So . . . erm . . . what now?”

Hermione’s eyes slid open slowly as she grinned at him. It was her I’ve-solved-the-puzzle-aren’t-you-proud-of-me grin: a personal favorite of Harry’s, even though it gave him squidgy feelings somewhere between his chest and his stomach that, oddly, had nothing to do with the eager twitching of his cock in her direction.

“Well,” Hermione began eagerly, “what the difference between now and all the other times you’ve tried to open the egg?”

Somehow, Harry was fairly certain that ‘we’re naked and I’m horny’ wasn’t quite the answer she was looking for.

“Um . . . the bath?” he suggested weakly. After all, Cedric had told him that the bath would help him figure out the clue in the egg. He just neglected to mention exactly how he could use the bath.

“Yes, exactly!” Hermione beamed at him. “Water! All those other times, you opened the egg out in the open air. Put it under water,” Harry obeyed, “and open it again.” Harry flinched, not looking forward to what he was sure would be another round of ear-piercing, incomprehensible screeching, but with Hermione looking at him like that, all hopeful and expectant, there was no way on earth he could tell her no, so, bracing himself, he opened the egg.

He expected noise. He expected shrieking. He did not expect the soft strains of something like music, followed by Hermione’s voice saying “Hold your breath, Harry!” while her small but undeniably strong hand pushed his head under water. He could see Hermione’s wide open eyes on the other side of the opened egg when he finally caught the words.

“Come seek us where our voices sound,
we cannot sing above the ground,
and while you’re looking ponder this,
we have taken what you’ll sorely miss.
But pass an hour, the prospect’s black,
It’s gone, it’s lost, it won’t come back.”

Hermione started bouncing excitedly as she gestured for Harry to resurface. He obeyed eventually, but paused for just a bit first to enjoy the sight of Hermione bouncing. She should bounce more, he decided. It was . . . fun to watch.

“Merfolk!” she announced with a big grin when Harry finally resurfaced. “That must be it! You’ll have to go and get something from the merfolk in the lake; they have a community there, I read all about it in ‘Hogwarts, a History’! It all makes such perfect sense which is such a relief since I was so afraid we wouldn’t be able to figure it out, but now we have and there’s something we can do to make sure that you’re safe and that you get through the task and that everything will be all right and, oh Harry, isn’t it exciting!”

She certainly did seem excited. So excited that she hadn’t stopped bouncing and had, in fact, bounced her way right into his arms, hugging him tightly around the neck, and bouncing that lovely body of hers right against him. Her breasts were . . . wow; and he could feel them . . . yeah; and the bouncing made her nipples rub against him . . . and—

His mind seemed to turn to goo and his reflexes went the way of the dodo. He didn’t even notice when her mouth got closer to his until he felt the bump of one larger-than-usual bounce bring her lips into contact with his.

Harry jerked away in utter shock without even thinking.

It took him less than a second to regret pulling away, but by then, it was too late. His fraction-of-a-second, knee-jerk reaction to the unexpected kiss had already done its damage. Hermione stopped bouncing, stopped babbling, and stopped smiling. In fact, her face had fallen and she looked absolutely crushed.

“I-I’m sorry, Harry,” she forced out with a weak, watery attempt at a smile, inching back to put some distance between the two of them. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” she backed away some more, “I shouldn’t have done that,” and then backed away some more, “I didn’t mean to do it, of course, I was just . . .” further and further from him as if she’d like to put the whole English Channel between them, “so happy that we’d figured it out and that we finally knew what was going on, and so very grateful that Cedric’s tip paid off, and you know, now that I think of it, now would be a really excellent time for me to go and thank him for that—right away—and leave you to your privacy . . .”

With the last step she took backwards, her foot had evidently hit the stair that would lead her out of the tub, and she began raising herself slowly on the first step. Harry’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the way the way her weight shifted; she looked like a Quidditch player who had just spotted the perfect opening and was searching for just the right moment to bolt. Harry realized that if he was going to stop her, the time had come to ‘speak now or forever after hold his peace’.

If he let her bolt, things would probably be awkward between the two of them for a week or so, but then everything would go back to normal. She’d go back to being his best friend and his sidekick for whom he expressed only purely platonic feelings. She wouldn’t mention the kiss again, and neither would he.

It would never happen again, either.

He’d never again feel the brush of her lips against his, never get another chance to explore their softness, never have another opportunity to relish the feel of her soft body pressing against his, moving up and down against the length of him, rubbing, stimulating, leaving him (once the initial shock wore off) more than a little eager for more . . .

Sprinting (or rather, attempting to sprint through the resistance of the water) across the tub, Harry moved into position to block her path, cutting off her access to the stairs.

“I . . . um . . .” Harry stalled as he hoped the perfect words would miraculously just come to him. They didn’t. He had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to say. How could he tell Hermione what he was feeling when he barely understood it, himself? How could he put into words what he had barely allowed himself to think or feel, much less accept or understand? All he knew was that if Hermione left that tub, it would be the end of something that had barely had the chance the begin, and Harry didn’t want it to be over. Really, he didn’t. He just had no bloody idea what to say to stop it.

He was running out of time to make up his mind, though. From the way that Hermione avoided eye contact, shooting measuring glances to the next-nearest set of steps that would let her out of the tub, Harry knew that he wouldn’t be able to stop her for much longer just by standing there. Bugger the ‘perfect words’. He’d grab hold of whatever words were handy, and hope against hope that they’d do the trick. What was the last thing she had said? Something about going to thank Cedric? What was there that he could he say in response to that?

“I should be thanking you,” Harry finally blurted out, sighing in relief when he saw that the words had worked, mostly. He had her complete attention now; she wasn’t looking past him or around him or in the direction of the nearest available exit. But now that he had her attention, words failed him completely and utterly yet again. Sod it. He was always more of a man of action, anyway. “I should be thanking you,” he repeated, stepping forward and cupping her face in his hands before lowering his lips to hers.

He had no idea, really, how to kiss a girl properly, but brushing his lips back and forth against hers felt really nice, so he kept doing that. She seemed to like it as well, given the way she stepped in closer to him, sliding her fingers into his hair. That felt quite nice also, and Harry couldn’t quite stop a soft moan from vibrating in his throat as waves of lovely, warm pleasure washed over his body.

Alarmed at the sound of the moan, Hermione immediately pulled back (or tried to; she didn’t get very far since his arms had, at some point, wrapped themselves around her waist). “Are you all right, Harry?” she asked. “Did I . . . hurt you, or do something wrong?”

Wrong? Hurt? Was she mad? Everything she had done had felt wonderful and he opened his mouth to tell her so when an accidental movement of her body caused her leg to slide neatly between both of his and her belly to rub up against very firm proof of how much he had enjoyed their kiss.

“Oh!” Her cheeks flushed pink with an enormously becoming (Harry couldn’t help but notice) blush as she stepped back from him and her eyes dropped away from his. Harry wondered if it was possible to drown himself in the bathtub. Kissing Hermione had been so thoroughly pleasant that he hadn’t really noticed how his body had responded. Harry stared down at the water, glaring in the direction of his traitorous erection. It had ruined everything. She’d think he was some kind of pervert now, and she’d never want to speak to him again. Mentally cursing himself in every nasty way he could think of, he stumbled around for some sort of apology. Not that it would make any difference of course, since no matter what he said, she’d still think he was some sort of horrible lecher with no self-control; but common courtesy dictated that he at least try to say he was sorry.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he mumbled. “I just . . . wanted to thank you, for all that you’ve done for me and . . .” And it got out of hand, Harry continued mentally, because you’re just so pretty and feel so good, and touching you made me so happy that I couldn’t stop myself because I’m an awful, miserable, sodding, wanking, bastard of a poor excuse for a best friend, and—

There’s no telling how long Harry would have stood there, mentally berating himself, if Hermione’s voice hadn’t broken into his thoughts.

“I’m not angry, Harry.”

Shocked, but feeling hopeful, in spite of himself, Harry looked up into her eyes again. “Y-you’re not?”

“No,” she answered, slowly shaking her head. She was still blushing a bit, but she wasn’t looking way from him anymore and her eyes were bright and happy and had that sparkle in them that he recognized from adventures the two of them had had before. It was the look she got in her eye when she felt like doing something a little rebellious. He loved that sparkle.

“It occurs to me, Harry,” Hermione stated as she stepped closer to him, putting her hands on his shoulders and guiding him back to sit on the steps, “that I never properly thanked you for all those times you’ve saved my life. How remiss of me,” she continued, settling herself on his lap with a wicked grin of appreciation as she rubbed his erection between their stomachs. “It’s time for me to do something about that.”

With no further warning, her mouth was on his again. It was open this time, and wet, and warm, and positively wonderful as she coaxed him to respond. His first real kiss and holy Merlin! Nothing could ever be better than this, especially when he remembered that he had two perfectly serviceable hands, and that from the way she was kissing him, it was highly unlikely that she’d mind if more than his tongue went exploring.

One hand stayed tangled in her long hair, but the other hand . . . oh, the other hand slid up her side and across her torso and up, and around, and over until it enclosed, perfectly enclosed, one positively perfect breast. He felt her hard nipple against his palm and rubbed it, delighting in the way it made her shiver. He was just about to experiment with how she’d react if he pinched it, when the world turned upside down again.

A soft hand snaked over Harry’s hip, sliding between their bodies and grabbing hold—oh yes!—grabbing firm hold of Harry’s cock. Instantly certain that his brain had exploded, Harry’s head fell back away from Hermione’s as he tried to remember how to breathe.

“Is this all right, Harry?” Hermione asked as her thumb swirled tight circles over the head of Harry’s cock. Harry couldn’t quite manage words in response; truthfully, he couldn’t quite manage anything above a gurgle, accompanied by more than a bit of drool, but the look he gave Hermione evidently made it quite clear that she had permission to continue.

She slid off his lap to give herself more room to maneuver and snuggled up against his side, her breasts rubbing against his arm and the side of his chest as she sucked and nibbled on his neck. “Just enjoy it, Harry,” she whispered in his ear. “You’ve more than earned it.”

Mustering reserves of strength and fortitude that every hero possesses, Harry lifted his hand to cup her cheek and bring her lips back to his. Oh, how he loved kissing her. It warmed him from head to toe and filled his body with so much pleasure, he thought he would burst . . . especially with the encouragement toward bursting he was getting from Hermione’s very skilled hand.

His mind went blank, his fears disappeared, and the weight of all his troubles; the weight of his parents’ death, the weight of Voldemort, the weight of the Dursleys, and Snape, and Malfoy, and “Potter Stinks” badges, and Sirius on the run, and Pettigrew at large, and homework for Divination, and the venison stew that the elves seemed to serve once a week that Harry just didn’t like, and Cho rejecting him, and the fight with Ron, and articles in The Daily Prophet, and Rita Skeeter, and Dumbledore’s expectations, and the Tri-Wizard tournament, and dragons, and merfolk, and Dementors, and the way that Viktor Krum looked at Hermione, and—;

It all simply vanished. For once, for this single, solitary moment, Harry Potter forgot everything else, and was just . . . happy.

Orgasmically happy, as a matter of fact.

He came so hard that he cried, gasping into Hermione’s mouth and thrusting into her hand as he spasmed so hard that if the edges of the tub hadn’t been padded, he probably would have knocked himself unconscious. And while that might normally have been a gruesomely appropriate fate for The Boy Who Couldn’t Get A Lucky Break Until The End Of The School Year And Couldn’t Always Get One Even Then, Harry didn’t worry for even a second that this would end badly. Hermione was there and he knew, without even pausing to worry or question, that she’d take care of him. She always did.

When colored lights stopped exploding behind his eyes, Harry finally managed to open them again. He wondered fuzzily if the orgasm had knocked something loose in his brain, leaving the world out of focus, when he heard Hermione’s familiar voice next to him.

“Occulus reparo.” The familiar frames were settled onto his face with her gentle hands, and the world came into focus again. “Honestly Harry, we need to find you sturdier glasses. You’re far too hard on these.”

“You’re amazing,” Harry gasped out, grinning at her widely.

“It was just a simple reparo,” Hermione stammered, clearly confused.

Harry chuckled. “That wasn’t what I meant, but thanks for that, too.” Leaning forward just enough to put his face level with hers, he kissed her very gently. “You’re amazing,” he repeated, in a firm tone that bore no arguing. “Thank you.”

Hermione smiled shyly. “Of course I helped you, Harry,” she whispered. “I always help you, remember? And I always will. There’s . . .” she blushed a bit and looked away. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” She followed up her words with another soft kiss and Harry smiled against her lips as he kissed her back as thoroughly as he could without moving his hands or arms. His bones felt like they’d been magically removed, leaving him utterly limp and incapable of motion . . . in a good way.

When Hermione finally pulled back, she took in the sight of his boneless slump against the side of the bath and began to laugh. “I’ve watched you ride a broom like a bat out of hell for hours on end without wearing down,” she teased, “but a little gratitude leaves you barely conscious.” She shook her head in mock disapproval, but couldn’t hold back her grin. “I guess I’d better get you back to the dorm before you fall asleep in here.” She started to step around him to release the drain to the tub, but Harry mustered the energy to snatch her wrist from the air like a snitch and refused to let her go.

“Not so fast, Hermione,” he scolded with a teasing grin, “you’ve shown your gratitude to me, but you haven’t given me a chance to show my gratitude to you.”

“M-me?” Hermione stammered uncertainly, “But you don’t have to—I mean, I didn’t expect you to—I did this because I wanted to; you don’t owe me anything.”

She was really rather adorable when she babbled like that, Harry decided. If she didn’t sound so worried, he might have been tempted to let her continue. But she did sound worried, and Harry simply couldn’t allow that.

“I want to, also,” Harry replied with a shy smile, hoping it would help her calm down. It seemed to work. “Not just because I’m grateful, because . . . Merlin, Hermione, you know I’m—I mean, I wouldn’t have gotten this far alive if it weren’t for you, and I don’t know what I’d ever do without you, but that’s not why; I mean, I want . . . It’s not just gratitude. Really, it isn’t. Please, Hermione. I want this.” Tugging on her wrist, he pulled her down till she was seated once again beside him, pressing a soft, soothing kiss into the curve of her throat. “Let me take care of you.” Capturing her lips with his, his hands went up to her neck and shoulders, rubbing and squeezing all the tension away until she was relaxed and pliable under his touch.

Touching her felt brilliant and he loved the soft little moans and whimpers she made as he massaged away the strain, especially when she moaned his name. He was so caught up in enjoying the whole experience that he didn’t notice at first when she took hold of one of his hands, but he caught on in a hurry when she brought it down to rest between her parted thighs. He had no earthly clue what his hand was supposed to do down there, but figured that he’d play it by ear.

“Ready for more?” he asked with false confidence, gently petting the soft hair between her legs, feeling a sharp, strangely pleasurable stab low in his belly when Hermione’s eyes drifted open and she favored him with a lazy, sleepily seductive smile. He hadn’t known that pleasing someone else would make him feel so good. And he’d just gotten started! Now, if only he could figure out what to do next . . .

Hermione, as always, came to the rescue.

“Do you want me to show you what I like?” she purred, sliding her fingers over his underneath the water. Harry swallowed hard and nodded.

“Just rub it gently at first,” she murmured in a husky voice, guiding his fingers in a soft, stroking motion that made her shiver delightfully, “and then, when you can tell I’m ready,” which he was pretty sure she was; the way she kept thrusting her hips rhythmically into their joined touch was a dead give-away, “you part it, still gently, and touch inside.”

Hermione gasped in pleasure when Harry matched his actions to her words . . . and so did Harry. She was so . . . so . . . soft. There was nothing on a boy’s body that was soft like that: yielding and silky smooth and impossibly warm, making the heat of the bath water seem cold in comparison.

“Just stroke up . . . and down here for a bit,” Hermione panted, “and give . . . a little . . . attention . . .” Hermione’s voice trailed off a bit as she dragged Harry’s fingers up higher to a little bump, “to this.” The effect on Hermione was electric as she shuddered, trembling from head to toe while grinding her hips even harder into his hand. Her other hand slid down into the water, taking over the attention to her clit while her free hand folded down all but Harry’s index finger and guided it to an entrance that twitched at his touch. Slowly, carefully, with a lot of retreat and advance, retreat and advance again before another retreat, then advance, advance, and then . . . oh god, then . . . his finger was inside her, and if he thought she was soft before, and warm, and welcoming, and silky, and perfect, then that was nothing compared to how it felt when he was really inside her.

“You’re amazing, Hermione,” he whispered in her ear, softly kissing every bit of skin he could reach. “Abso-bloody-lutely amazing.”

Hermione let out a sound between a whimper as a moan as she guided his hand until he picked up on the in-and-out, back-and-forth, stroking rhythm inside Hermione’s perfect pussy. Once she was sure he’d continue on his own, she left him to continue working her, leaving her with a free hand to slide up her ribcage and latch on to one of her breasts. Wantonly, she squeezed at the soft flesh and pinched at her nipple, causing her back to arch as her breasts thrust up above the line of the bath water.

Harry was quite sure he was drooling, and was, in a distant, non-sexually-stimulated part of his brain, grateful that Hermione wasn’t quite aware enough at the moment to notice. But good lord, what male with functioning hormones wouldn’t drool? She was a living, breathing pheromone, inflaming all of his senses with lust so powerful, it felt as if the blood in his veins was vibrating. The world ceased to exist outside the confines of the bathtub as Harry lost awareness of anything but the ravishing sight of Hermione’s pleasure. Utterly without conscious thought, Harry captured her untended breast in his mouth, exploring it with his lips and tongue and teeth in every way his libido could think to suggest.

Her reactions were delicious as she simultaneously gasped, thrust her breast further into his mouth and tightened her channel around his fingers. Harry could tell she was close, and he pulled back a bit on her breast, leaving only the nipple in his mouth to be nibbled and sucked so he could see her face absolutely transformed with pleasure. He’d never dreamed anyone could look that beautiful.

She let out a little gasp as she came, freezing utterly still for a moment before shaking from head to toe. Harry kept one hand between her legs, stroking her gently to ease her through her pleasure, but his other arm wrapped around her body, holding her tightly against him as he abandoned her breast utterly to bury his face in her neck, muttering words of praise and adoration too muffled to be understood, but visibly soothing to Hermione, all the same. She wrapped herself around him in return as the shudders faded, snuggling into him as her breathing slowly returned to normal.

Their pleasant daze was broken moments later when the clock inside the bathroom chimed the hour. The tinkling sound of the bells was soft and pleasant, but it broke through the warm languor of their mood. Hermione sighed softly before beginning to detangle her body from his.

“We should probably go,” Hermione stated quietly as she rose to her feet. “It’s late.”

Harry frowned, but reluctantly followed her out of the tub. He didn’t bother averting his eyes this time, but discovered that it was a lot less fun watching her clothes go on when all he wanted was for her to leave them off.

The two of them didn’t speak as they dressed, and once they were ready to go, Harry wrapped his invisibility cloak around the pair of them silently, speaking only to activate the Marauder’s Map as they made their way through the halls.

He wanted to kiss Hermione again, wanted to tighten his arms around her, and whisper sweet words in her ear, and let her know just how much she meant to him . . . but the moment seemed lost, somehow. Away from the intimacy of the bath and the bolstering influence of their mutual gratitude, he felt unsure, and shy. Hermione was silent, as well, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she was regretting what she had done; if she was sorry that she’d let him touch her like that.

If she said she regretted it, Harry knew instinctively that it would destroy something inside him. That’s why he couldn’t bear to ask her what she was thinking, what she was feeling. Better to suspect than to know for certain that she was going to break his heart. Thus, he stayed silent as they arrived at Gryffindor tower, speaking only the password to the Fat Lady and a muttered goodnight to Hermione before rushing away from her up the steps to the dormitories. He’d had one night, one night in all of his life, when he was truly happy. If it was going to be ruined, if Hermione was going to break his heart, it could happen tomorrow. If Hermione was going to break his heart, there was no harm in waiting for it to happen another day.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that at that exact moment, the heads of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang were conferencing in Dumbledore’s office over who to choose as the hostages for the champions in the second Tri-Wizard task. He didn’t know that Karkaroff, out of sheer frustration with his closed-mouth student who never talked about his emotions, was unable to put forth any candidate for Krum’s hostage except for his Yule Ball date: Miss Hermione Granger. Harry had no way of knowing that his chances to talk to Hermione alone the next day would vanish when Ron and Hermione were mysteriously called away by Professor McGonagall, and that the next time he saw her after that, she would be unconscious, underwater, and held prisoner by the decidedly-less-attractive-than-legend-had-them merfolk.

It’s probably just as well that he didn’t know. If he’d known that they’d have to go through a life-or-death test before he’d be alone with her again, he probably would have seized the moment to talk to her then, that night in the common room. And as nervous as he was about what they had just shared, as certain as he was that she would tell him that it was all a mistake, he probably wouldn’t have gotten around to mentioning his feelings for her at all. In his fear of losing everything by asking for more than what they’d always had, he’d have pushed for things to go back to “normal” with them, and for both of them to forget what they’d just shared (as if forgetting something like that was truly possible). In short, he would most likely have made an enormous hash of it, and possibly botched things up between the two of them for quite some time.

No, it was for the best that he kept his silence. That way, he didn’t have a chance to ruin things irreparably before he saw her there at the bottom of the lake, imprisoned and helpless. At that sight, Harry the Timid, Harry the Uncertain, Harry the Unbearable Awkward When Dealing With Emotions disappeared. Harry Who Charges Forward Like A Bull In A China Shop stepped in, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to tell Hermione exactly how he felt about her, whether she smashed his heart immediately afterwards or not. There’s nothing like seeing the girl that you love looking right next door to death to put things into sparklingly clear perspective.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t in much of a state for conversation with her life on the line and all, and even when Viktor rescued her and brought her back to dry land, Harry couldn’t follow. Damned scruples. Damned moral fiber. Damned conscience that wouldn’t let him leave any of the hostages alone and unrescued. By the time he resurfaced, everyone was swarming around, and the only way he could have a conversation with Hermione was if he didn’t mind all of Hogwarts, part of the Ministry, a chunk of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons, and a reporter from The Daily Prophet hearing every word that he said. Just because he was willing to run the risk of Hermione’s rejection didn’t mean that he wanted to invite half the bloody world to watch while his heart got broken. Plus, for added annoyance, Viktor was being most annoyingly persistent in his attentions to Hermione, and couldn’t seem to take the hint that she wanted to focus on Harry, not some overgrown Bulgarian who had nearly taken her leg off with those shark teeth of his underwater. Prat.

Finally, finally, Madam Pomfrey began herding the champions and their hostages back into the castle to change into dry clothes, and Harry seized the opportunity to pull Hermione aside, ducking with her into an empty classroom where they would (hopefully) be left alone.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” he began, pushing her waterlogged hair out of her face to check for any scratches or bruises Madam Pomfrey might have missed. Sure, he knew the mediwitch was thorough, but all excuses were good excuses that ended in him touching Hermione.

“I’m fine, Harry, really!” she assured him with a smile. “A bit eager to get into dry clothes, of course . . . was there anything—anything else you wanted to ask?” Harry was sure he hadn’t imagined the hopeful note in her voice, and felt his own hope rising as well. Maybe she was nervous about this, too? Surely that was a good sign.

“Y-yes, actually,” he stammered. “I wanted to ask . . . that is, I wanted to say . . . or rather, I wanted to tell you . . .”

“Yes?” Hermione interrupted eagerly, smiling up at him with hope clearly shining in those beautiful brown eyes as she took a step closer, taking hold of his hand in hers. Her touch grounded him, as always, and he began to speak.

“When I saw you down there,” he began, more confidently this time, “I panicked. I know you’ve been in danger before; usually because of me, as a matter of fact, but I’ve never seen—I never thought—Merlin, Hermione, you looked dead for a minute there, and it made me realize—” The sentence was suppose to go ‘it made me realize just how much you mean to me’, but he didn’t get a chance to finish.

“If this is going to be a ‘maybe you’d be better off without me’ or a ‘you’d be safer if we weren’t together’ speech than you can bloody well stuff it,” Hermione spat out, dropping his hand to place both of hers on her hips, looking as angry as he’d ever seen her, even angrier than she’d been at the Yule Ball when Ron accused her of betraying Harry. “Merlin only knows what would happen to you without me around, Harry James Potter, and I for one have no intention of ever finding out! If you don’t,” her voice broke a bit here in spite of obvious efforts to keep it smooth, “want me as anything more than a friend, then that’s your choice, but I am never leaving you for as long as you need me, and anyone who thinks I am, you included can go hang!”

An angry Hermione was a dangerous thing to admire; especially when she had her wand close at hand; but Harry couldn’t help but think that she looked glorious with her eyes shining and her cheeks flushed with her resolve. Her chin stuck out mutinously, making her lips purse up in a way that made him ache to taste them. He knew he should say something comforting or soothing, something about how he’d never want to lose her friendship, or that he’d never try to send her away, but his heart was all tangled up with his hormones and his sheer happiness was downright overwhelming at her determination never to leave him, to the point where the words he said next simply flew out without any real thought or planning at all.

“I love you.”

For a moment, Harry had the rare pleasure of seeing Hermione Granger struck absolutely speechless.

“I beg your pardon?” she managed a minute later.

“I-I love you,” Harry stammered again, nervousness springing back up when she didn’t reply. She loved him too, didn’t she? That was what that whole rant was about, wasn’t it? Oh mercy, he hadn’t misunderstood the whole situation, had he? Had he just mucked up the best friendship he’d ever had, and the first real chance he’d had for more than friendship just because he couldn’t keep his stupid mouth—

Hermione’s tongue in his mouth moments later made him profoundly grateful that his mouth wasn’t shut, and he put aside thinking for several long moments just to enjoy kissing his, yes, his witch.

“I love you, too, of course,” she informed him when they pulled away for some sadly needed oxygen. “Just so you know.”

“I kind of figured, but thanks for the clarification,” Harry replied, grinning.

“And speaking of thanks,” Hermione added with a not-in-the-least-bit-innocent smile, “I haven’t had a chance to show you any gratitude for your . . . upright moral fiber.”

“Upright . . . yes,” Harry gasped as Hermione’s hand stroked a certain part of his anatomy that was rapidly becoming very upright, indeed.

“And I really could use a warm bath after being in that cold lake for so long.”

“Grab a change of clothes and meet me in the prefect’s bath in ten minutes?” Harry offered with a quick kiss.

“I’ll be there in five,” Hermione challenged.

“I love you.”

“I love you back.”

“On your mark.”

“Get set.”

“Go.”

THE END