What He'd Never Done Before

Disclaimer: Does this really sound like something JKR would write? Didn’t think so. No money is being made, no copyright infringement intended, etc.

Author’s Note: Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! Some fluff to mark the day. Borrowing a line from sbeegee’s wonderful fic, “Pulp Lines” posted on her LJ and with another little tribute to Amethyst_J.

For oh_honestleigh and for abigail89.

~*~

What He’d Never Done Before

Harry couldn’t decide whether to commit suicide or murder.

He had never enjoyed balls or public events, not since the first one he’d been to, the Yule Ball in his 4^th year.

But this year’s annual Victory Ball, held by the Ministry of Magic to celebrate the 4^th anniversary of the defeat of Voldemort, was absolutely the worst one he’d ever been to. Beginning from the fanfare they insisted on playing the moment he entered the ballroom along with the ringing announcement of his name by a Ministry official, whom, Harry suspected, had been strategically placed by the door so he could announce Harry’s arrival—and Harry knew it was going to be an excruciating evening.

He simply hadn’t known then just how excruciating an evening it would be.

He couldn’t decide which was more appealing, suicide or murder. Suicide to put himself out of this misery of having to pretend he was enjoying all this celebrity-treatment (and having to watch her have what appeared to be the time of her life) or Murder to allow himself the privilege and enjoyment of getting rid of every single one of the different fellows she had danced with tonight.

He’d never felt it before. He’d never been bothered by her dancing with anyone or annoyed at seeing men look at her with admiration in their eyes but somehow, tonight he was.

His eyes followed her—his gaze inescapably drawn to her, as it had been this entire evening—as she smiled at her current partner, Terry Boot. His gaze narrowed as he felt his jaw clench with annoyance.

Damn it. Since when did she enjoy dances? Since when was she the most popular woman in the bloody ballroom? (He didn’t stop to consider the fact that he was more accustomed to feeling aggravated that so few guys noticed that she was really beautiful.) Now, when it looked like the male population finally had noticed, he found himself wishing fervently that they’d all be afflicted with blindness so they wouldn’t see—and wouldn’t ask her to dance.

He detested them all, every single one of those wizards who’d asked her to dance and whom she’d accepted. Bloody idiots, the lot of them. Who were they to suddenly notice that she was beautiful after not seeing her beauty for months and even years? Who were they to even deserve Hermione’s attention, let alone get to touch her while they were dancing?

He hated them all. Even Justin Finch-Fletchley and Ernie Macmillan and Dean Thomas and Charlie Weasley—never mind that he’d always considered them to be friends, especially Charlie whom he’d gotten to know quite well in the last year of the War against Voldemort and whose company he always enjoyed, to say nothing of Charlie’s claim on his affection just from being a Weasley.

He didn’t care that he’d always considered them friends and even, up until the moment they asked Hermione to dance and made her smile and laugh, would have been hard-pressed to name any particular thing about any of them which he specifically disliked or mistrusted.

Until each of them had asked Hermione to dance. Until they’d made her smile. Until she’d smiled at them, looking so damn beautiful that a man would have to be dead not to react.

Until that moment—and then he was suddenly convinced that they were all just one step removed from being the next incarnation of Voldemort.

He watched as she laughed at something Terry had said and felt himself frown more. Since when was Terry Boot so amusing? He was a Ravenclaw, for God’s sake, and everyone knew Ravenclaws were boring.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see her have a good time. Merlin knew he loved to see her smile, liked to know that she was happy. She worked too hard and while he knew she loved her work, he thought she should take more time to enjoy herself. Merlin knew she’d earned it after all the stress and worry and danger she’d been in, thanks to him and her loyalty to him, during all his 7 Hogwarts years.

He just wished that she wasn’t having what looked to be the most fun she’d had in months with what seemed to be every wizard between the ages of 20 and 35. He just wished she didn’t have to look so damned pretty when she smiled. He just wished that she could have as much fun with him… He just wished—

He just wished he was the one she was smiling at and laughing with.

He stiffened as the thought came into his mind and stayed there with the persistence of a fact.

He wanted to be the one Hermione smiled at—always. He wanted to be the one to make her smile and laugh; he wanted to be the one to make her happy. He wanted—he wanted… He wanted—what?

He wanted to be the most important person in Hermione’s life.

Just as she was the most important person in his life.

And when had that happened?

He’d never stopped to think about it before but now he did and he knew it was true. Hermione was the most important person in his life. She was the person whose opinion he valued the most. She was the person he usually thought of first, whenever anything happened, the first person he wanted to tell things to, from the most mundane occurrences to more important things.

Great God, he was in love with Hermione.

He was.

He didn’t know when or how it had happened—although he suspected it had probably been a while since he could hardly remember a time when she wasn’t the most important person in his life.

He loved her—of course he loved her. Who else had always been with him, for the good and the bad, since he’d been 11? Who did he care more about than her? Who had never ceased to amaze him with the depth of her loyalty and her caring and the way she somehow always understood what he was feeling and thinking without his having to say a word?

No one.

It had always been Hermione, he realized. Always been her, somehow. Even when she sometimes annoyed him with her bossy tendencies or her know-it-all attitude, it had always been her… Because he knew it was just part of who she was—and, Merlin knew, she was right more often than not anyway so he no longer minded her occasional bossiness because he knew it was generally smarter to follow her advice.

He found himself remembering, rather distantly as if he were thinking of something which had happened to someone else, breaking up with Ginny at the end of 6^th year and thinking that she truly understood him. Only she didn’t; she hadn’t. He’d only thought she had, in his determination at the time, to think only good of Ginny and to endow her with every positive trait he could think of. He had realized, though, soon after they’d started dating again after Voldemort’s defeat, that, after all, he’d really cared about the image of Ginny he’d built up in his mind rather than the real her. He had grown too much, changed too much—and Ginny hadn’t been able to understand, couldn’t know or understand just why and what he’d gone through to defeat Voldemort. She hadn’t been there; how could she?

He didn’t blame her—and he knew that Ginny had realized soon enough, too, that he wasn’t all she’d thought he was either, and so they’d broken up again, for good this time, only months after Voldemort’s defeat, and he’d done so with no regret.

Every girlfriend he’d had since then had been nice and he’d liked them—only to realize that they didn’t understand.

He could even resent Voldemort for it, for making it so difficult, for making him feel so different…

No one really understood what that last year of the War had done to him, what he’d had to do to defeat Voldemort, what he’d had to do just to destroy the horcruxes. No one—except maybe Ron and Hermione.

Hermione understood; he knew she did.

And he loved her.

He grimaced again as he practically gulped down a glass of wine. He loved her—and this watching her dancing, enjoying herself, with what seemed to be every wizard in Britain was rapidly wearing down his patience—and he was the first person to admit that he wasn’t the most patient man at the best of times.

He deliberately turned away in a futile attempt to keep his gaze from wandering to where he could sense Hermione was, forcing a smile at another of the guests who was trying to catch his eye.

Great Merlin, would this evening never end?

He caught Mr. Weasley’s eye and smiled one of the first real smiles of the evening as Arthur smiled and raised his glass in a half-teasing toast.

“Oh, Harry, there you are!”

It was her.

He turned to face her with an odd mixture of elation that she was finally talking to him and annoyance that it had taken her so long to finally acknowledge his presence.

And then promptly forgot his annoyance and everything else at the sight of her up close. She was beautiful, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, in her new dress that somehow managed to be both alluring and conservative at the same time. Her face was flushed and— His eyes narrowed. Her hair looked rather mussed, strands escaping from the pin with which she’d caught back most of her hair, almost as if—almost as if someone had tried to run his hands through her hair. Her lips, too, looked rather swollen… And there was a rather flustered air about her which she hadn’t had the last time he’d looked at her.

He opened his mouth intending to say a casual greeting, something light-hearted, but instead he heard himself ask, “What happened?”

She blushed hotly and smiled too brightly. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said quietly, stepping closer to her, as he forgot all the other emotions bothering him tonight in a wave of protectiveness. If anyone had done anything to hurt her or bother her in any way… This was Hermione and even if he wasn’t in love with her, he would do anything for her, to keep her safe and happy. Loving her only intensified his resolve.

She hesitated and then finally admitted, “It’s Terry Boot. He asked me if I wanted to get some fresh air by stepping onto the balcony and, well, he got a little over-eager.” She must have seen the flash of something in his eyes at her words because she hastened to add, “He didn’t hurt me or anything. I’m fine, really. I just wanted to get away from him. He was getting tedious,” she said, smiling as she tried to make him smile.

He didn’t smile, didn’t even feel the flare of relief that, after all, Hermione hadn’t entirely enjoyed Terry Boot’s company.

His gaze wandered over the ballroom until he found Terry, who was looking around—no doubt searching for Hermione, Harry thought with a surge of anger.

He got a little over-eager.

His hand automatically clenched into a fist. After an entire evening of wanting to hex every single one of Hermione’s partners into oblivion, that little complaint, mild as it had been, was the spark that ignited his temper.

“I’ll be right back. Wait here,” he bit out, not looking at her, as his attention was focused with less-than-friendly purpose on Terry.

He ignored her protest, “Harry, honestly, it’s nothing,” as he turned away.

He made his way across the ballroom with single-minded determination, for once thankful for his status in the wizarding world that meant that everyone moved out of his way.

“Terry,” he said flatly.

Terry Boot had become tall, even handsome Harry supposed. Terry was still not worthy to lick Hermione’s shoes, let alone touch her. Bloody prick. How dare he…

He smiled in a friendly fashion at Harry.

“Oh, hello, Harry. Actually, you’re just the person to help me. I was wondering, have you seen Hermione?”

Harry’s anger skyrocketed at the question.

“Yes,” he answered shortly and then deliberately said nothing more.

Terry looked slightly nonplussed but continued with another smile, “She’s looking great tonight, isn’t she? I’d forgotten how pretty she is. Where’d you see her? We were talking earlier and I want to continue our conversation.”

Harry stepped closer to Terry, slipping his wand out of his pocket and deliberately raising it so Terry could see it.

Terry’s eyes widened in surprise and dismay as he finally took in the positively Arctic temperature of the stare Harry was giving him.

Harry restrained the urge to simply hurt Terry Boot at that moment, some part of his mind that still retained common sense knowing he shouldn’t—and couldn’t—make a scene. Instead he did something he’d never done before: played the Fame and Power card.

“Hermione’s my best friend,” Harry began with a mockery of a smile which disappeared as he continued with quietly contained menace. “And if you so much as touch her in a more than friendly way, even shake her hand longer than what’s usual, I will make sure you become personally acquainted with the side of me that only Voldemort and his Death Eaters have seen until now.”

Terry opened his mouth to protest but then he saw the unmistakable sincerity of the threat in Harry’s eyes and shut it again.

“Understood?” Harry stepped back and gave Terry a smile that somehow contrived to be both threatening and yet bear a startling resemblance to the smile of a friendly acquaintance.

Terry nodded, for the first time recognizing how it was that Harry, who had always looked normal enough, could also be the one person to defeat Voldemort.

“Good,” Harry said curtly and then stalked away, leaving Terry feeling as if he’d just looked death in the eye.

Harry reflected with rather grim amusement that at least one good thing had come from his having to defeat Voldemort. It made threats much more effective.

He made his way back to where Hermione was still standing, her face unsmiling.

“I don’t think Terry will ever bother you again,” he informed her with rather ill-concealed satisfaction.

She didn’t look pleased and frowned instead. “I was perfectly prepared to hex him myself if he got too annoying. I can defend myself, you know.”

His expression and his voice softened almost imperceptibly. “I know you can,” he said, not bothering to hide the tinge of admiration in his tone. “I didn’t—I don’t—protect you because I think you’re helpless. I do it because I want to, because I can’t not.” Because I love you, he thought but didn’t say.

He changed tactics abruptly and grinned at her as he continued teasingly, “Plus, as you pointed out years ago, I have a ‘saving people thing’ so just indulge me in it.”

Hermione gave in and smiled back. She’d never been able to stay angry or annoyed at Harry when he grinned at her in that disarming way of his, not since the time he’d snuck into Hogsmeade using his Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder’s Map in 3^rd year and asked her if she was going to turn him in when she scolded him for it. “Oh fine,” she said with mock reluctance and then added, softly, “And thank you.”

She was grateful, too, grateful that Harry cared so much that he would immediately act even over so minor an annoyance as Terry’s persistence. At least she would always have Harry’s friendship to count on—even if he didn’t see her as a woman. She smiled and sternly quashed the flicker of hurt that he hadn’t even seemed to notice that she was wearing a new gown and one in which she thought she looked rather pretty—and a number of other men had seemed to think so too. Even Ron, when he’d greeted her earlier, had mentioned that she looked pretty. But not a word from Harry.

His grin softened into a smile as he replied, “You’re welcome,” in an equally quiet tone.

The music paused and then began again, a slower tune, and Harry surprised himself (and Hermione, too) by saying something he’d never said to her before—and had really never said to anyone else either. “Dance with me.”

And as he held out his hand, Harry’s thoughts belatedly caught up to his mouth and he realized he really did want to dance with Hermione. Wanted to be able to hold her as they danced, to talk and make her smile as she’d been smiling at other people all night. And it didn’t matter that he normally avoided dancing as he had used to avoid eating Hagrid’s rock-cakes. He wanted to dance with Hermione.

She gave him a surprised look but then put her hand in his with a smile.

“Have you been having fun?” he asked as they began dancing.

She looked up at him with a smile. “Actually, yes, I have been. I don’t think I ever quite realized before that I enjoy dancing.” She paused and then asked, “Have you had fun?”

Watching you enjoy yourself with what seemed to be every blasted wizard in Britain under the age of 40? Not bloody likely.

He didn’t say what he thought and merely grimaced slightly. “Not really.”

She smiled softly and sympathetically. “You really hate your celebrity status and the way people treat you because of it, don’t you?”

He briefly considered saying that tonight, at least, his fame was not in the least responsible for his bad mood but refrained. “Yes,” was all he said, instead.

“Poor Harry,” she said and smiled at him.

There was such affection mingled with the tinge of sympathetic amusement in her smile that he caught his breath and before he could think better of it, blurted out what he was thinking. “You’re beautiful.”

Hermione stopped dancing. She stopped breathing, too, for that matter. Stopped thinking as she just stared at Harry, for a moment convinced that she’d just imagined what he’d said. You’re beautiful. Not ‘you look pretty’ or ‘you look nice tonight’—but a simple declaration of fact. You’re beautiful.

He had stopped dancing as well, shutting his irresponsible mouth abruptly, while he mentally called himself every bad name he could think and then waited, searching her eyes, her expression, for her reaction.

And then she smiled. Smiled more brightly than he could ever remember seeing. “Thank you,” she said softly.

He caught his breath. There was—something—in her eyes, something he couldn’t quite remember seeing before—although maybe he had seen it and hadn’t recognized it because he hadn’t been ready to recognize it…

Whatever it was, he abruptly lost interest in dancing. “Come with me,” he asked her suddenly, quietly.

Anywhere, always, was what she thought. “Okay,” was what she said.

Harry made his way off the dance floor and into one of the small rooms off the main hall before turning to face Hermione.

And then stopped, hesitating, as self-doubt filled him and muted his voice. If he was wrong—if he’d only been imagining what he’d thought he’d seen in her eyes—if she didn’t—he could very well end up breaking the most important, the most precious relationship of his life.

Oh God.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t risk it. He’d risk his own life for her—but this, he couldn’t risk. He couldn’t risk her, couldn’t risk her friendship…

“I- uh-” he thought frantically for something he could say, to explain why he’d brought her here, something besides the truth, “I- er- wanted to make sure no one else had bothered you tonight,” he blurted out.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Harry mentally kicked himself. He couldn’t have come up with anything better than that?

“Oh.”

She looked—disappointed?

“No, there’s been no one,” she said with forced calm and looked away.

“Ok- er- good,” he managed to say.

She looked up at him with a false smile that was somehow worse than a frown would have been. But it was the tears he could just see beginning to well up in her eyes before she hastily looked away again that did him in.

She was already walking away and he opened his mouth to blurt out something—anything, he didn’t know what—that would make her stop and make her smile again. “Hermione!” She stopped and turned to look at him. “I- er- I-” He stared at her, looking (and feeling) like an idiot as he opened and then closed his mouth again, not knowing what to say. “I- uh- I…” The tears were gone now as she looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and concern on her expression. And he found himself blurting out, “I love you.”

He shut his mouth, deciding that suicide definitely was sounding like an option. Especially now that his mouth had decided to disconnect from his brain and say what he’d just decided minutes ago he couldn’t say.

She was staring at him and for once, he couldn’t read her expression.

Oh God, had he just ruined their friendship? He didn’t know how he’d live with himself if he had… He didn’t know how he’d live, period, without her as his best friend.

She was still just staring at him and he rushed on. He may as well make a full confession; he’d already gone too far for denial.

“I love you, Hermione. I do—more than—more than, well, anything. And the reason I haven’t had a good time tonight is because—because I’ve been jealous, jealous of every one of those fellows you danced with and smiled at… I don’t expect—you don’t have to love me but I- I wanted you to know…”

She still hadn’t said anything and he was beginning to think kicking himself was a bloody good idea when she smiled—so brilliantly, a smile that lit up her entire face and, he couldn’t help thinking, brightened the entire room as well. And then she had thrown herself at him in a hug that knocked him back a half-step, her face buried in his shoulder, and he stopped thinking, just tightened his arms around her and held her.

“Oh Harry!” she finally said after a minute, her voice half-muffled by his shoulder, “you daft git! Of course I love you! I’ve loved you for years.”

He drew back to stare at her. “You have?”

She smiled rather mistily up at him. “Of course I have. You’re the most important person in my life; you’ve always been the most important person.”

“I- I didn’t know that,” he said rather lamely, feeling something very like exultation well up inside him, as a smile curved his lips.

She laughed softly. “I didn’t think you would ever think of me as anything other than your best friend so I never said anything.”

“You should have. Maybe I’d have realized I loved you sooner—but I seem to be an idiot about things like this.”

They smiled into each other’s eyes for a long moment before his gaze dropped to focus on her lips and he closed the distance between their lips and kissed her. Kissed her as he’d realized he had wanted to kiss her since he’d seen her tonight—and possibly before then too.

Her arms slid around his neck, tugging him in closer and deepening the kiss as his arms tightened around her.

God, she tasted so good, felt so good…

He decided he could happily kiss her like this forever.

The kiss ended slowly, his lips lingering on hers, savoring the knowledge that he could kiss Hermione now.

They smiled into each other’s eyes for a long, quiet moment.

He was the first one to speak. “Will you dance with me?”

Her smile widened. “Yes.”

And so they did.

They danced and then stayed together the rest of the ball until any speculation about their relationship was quite obviously put to rest.

Harry smiled to himself as he and Hermione chatted with Ron and the twins, as Hermione unobtrusively, but quite deliberately, laced her fingers with his—and, decided that after all, balls could be quite pleasant and this particular ball had turned into one of the best nights of his life.

He tightened his grip on her hand, as one word seemed to hang in his mind. Forever…

~The End~