Oblivious

Author Note: I take no credit for the inspiration for this story. A looooong time ago (upon my entry to the fandom) I was a frequent member of the Snitch and read (and posted) my first fanfic there as a newbie. There was a story I followed there, that eventually made it to Portkey under the author name Harry’s Mistress. In reading the Four of Hearts, I never forgot her scene with the body shots and always wanted to try my hand at something similar. I’ve not read that scene of hers in years, but I never forgot how much I liked it.

A bit more credit for the things I’ve obviously stolen – aside from the obvious (this being fanfic and I own none of anything) I also borrowed the name of the Pub (The Green Irishman) from my best fandom (and one of the best real life) friends I’ve been blessed to get to know…the ever-impressive “Cheering Charm.” I’m simply not creative enough to come up with some of this stuff myself J

I did throw in a reference to one of my perennially favorite singers. Catch it if you can! I know the end of this is wide-open for sequels and more chapters and smut, but I’m out of the smut business so there will be no more from me…however, I’m tossing the idea of a sequel challenge around…I’ll keep you posted (and I certainly don’t mind READING the smut)!

As this is Valentine’s Day, I thought a little fluff might accompany my brief peep back into the HP fandom. This is unbetaed so the errors are the only things I can claim as my own.

Bottoms up!

VLeigh

Oblivious

By: Vicarious Leigh

She didn’t need to look up when the door flew open, she knew who it was. Flipping through the tattered pages of a massive volume she jotted a few more notes onto the scroll that had long since trailed over the side of her desk.

Maintaining the air of stubborn silence, Harry didn’t speak either. He turned around, closed her office door and stood in front of her desk. She knew what he was doing, and damn it if he wasn’t good at it.

Collapsing under the pressure, she spoke, “I’m not going, Harry.”

“Yes, you are.”

She tossed her quill to her desk and looked up with the most seething glare she could muster. “No. I am not.”

Although his face never broke expression, she saw the twinkle in his eye.

“Don’t give me that look,” she replied.

“What look? I didn’t give you a look.”

“Yes, you did,” she answered, returning her attention to the dusty tomb.

“Hermione,” he softened as he flopped into the chair across from her small metal desk. “You need to get out of here.”

“No, I need to suss out what I did wrong.”

“People make mistakes.”

“Not me.”

Harry leaned forward in the chair and reached across the desk to still her scribbling hand. She looked up with the intent of excusing him from her office when her eyes met his; so much for good intentions.

She felt the familiar tingle in the tip of her nose and the burning sensation at the corners of her eyes. She’d refused to let the tears fall, she certainly wouldn’t do it in the presence of her best friend. She pulled her hand away and looked back to the notes in front of her. Pretending to bat a stray hair from her face she wiped an errant tear with the back of her hand.

“Hermione,” he began.

“No. I’m not going, Harry. I need to work this out.”

“You need to relax!” Harry’s voice began to rise as he stood up. “Is it the end of the world that you missed the mark on this charm?”

“Missed the mark!” Hermione scoffed. “Andrews could’ve died!”

“But, he didn’t,” Harry retorted.

He walked around her desk and stood between her and the work she’d labored over for the last seven hours. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She knew his opinion of her and her work was steadfast as ever, but she was ashamed of herself; ashamed that she’d fought her Director to allow the Auror corps to use her charm, only to have it backfire and land one of them in St. Mungo’s. All that aside, what she couldn’t bear – even to herself – was the thought that it could’ve been Harry lying in that bed rather than Andrews.

Before she had the chance to concoct a reply, she felt his finger under her chin. Forcing her to look upward he added, “This won’t be the last time you make a mistake, Hermione.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “But, it has to be,” her voice shook. She felt his finger leave her chin and she looked down. “No one will trust me again. Not after this.”

Harry’s laughter startled her eyes open. “What are you laughing at?” she cried.

“You,” he chuckled. “You’re impossible.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefingers and continued. “I misfired a curse last week that broke two of Reynold’s ribs while Zurich Maserly skipped off through an open garden fence.”

“You were involved in the Maserly affair!”

“See, I screwed up again. I wasn’t supposed to say that either. Some Auror I turned out to be.”

Hermione looked askance at him. His eyes were still twinkling and he didn’t look in the slightest bit fussed over his breach of the secrecy code. “I was worried you were a part of that. I’m just glad you made it out of there in one piece,” she whispered.

“You know why,” Harry said as he leaned forward toward her.

“Why?”

“Because, you love me.”

That did rate a smile. Hermione rolled her eyes and smacked him in the shoulder, pushing him back toward the desk. “Almost more than I love a good double fudge banana split. Whatever will your girlfriend say?”

“Not a damn thing, given the fact we called it off Tuesday last.”

Hermione’s eyes darted upward again. “What?!” she exclaimed. “Tuesday last? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I reckoned you were a bit preoccupied,” he answered looking over his shoulder at the volumes of Charms books littering her office. “Besides, there wasn’t anything to tell. It’s the same old story.”

Hermione relaxed into her chair. “I believe you go through girlfriends faster than I go through books.”

Harry laughed again. “Not hardly, I leave such a distinction up to Seamus, the cosmopolitan barkeep.”

Hermione laughed.

“Speaking of barkeeps,” Harry said, straightening up and grabbing Hermione by both wrists.

“No, Harry I don’t want to go!” Hermione whined.

“You’re going.”

“But, they’ll pick me!”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Honestly! How will being embarrassed in front of my peers relax me after a week like this?!” she argued.

“Ask Abigail,” he replied as he pulled her toward the door.

“Abigail got a lap dance from a man only half-dressed as a utility worker!”

“And she left in a significantly better mood than she arrived in as I recall.”

Hermione dug her heels into the tattered Persian rug as she struggled against his grip. Harry’s shoulders heaved a sigh and he rounded on her. Had Hermione not been his best friend for over twelve years, his glare would’ve encouraged her to take cover beneath her desk. “Fine! Stay here and wallow in it, but don’t expect me to put you back together when you’re through!”

“Put me back together?!”

“Yes, you! You’re such a bloody perfectionist if the world doesn’t tip on it’s axis precisely as you determined it should you’re only less brutal to all of us than you are to yourself!”

“Wh-?” Hermione stammered. “I am not!”

“No?” Harry squared his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest. “Kingston Bank.”

“That was a…”

“Henry Stafford and his minions.”

“That plan was…”

“Bangladesh.”

“The support network…”

“Ron.”

Stunned, Hermione stumbled back a step and dropped into her worn leather chair. Her mouth bobbed open and closed but couldn’t form a reply for the lack of air in her lungs. As her vision glassed over, she felt him take her hands in his.

“You do blame me,” Hermione’s voice was so quiet she barely heard it herself.

“No,” Harry replied with a voice as intense as his stare. “That’s just it, Hermione. You’re not to blame for Ron anymore than you’re to blame for Bangladesh, Stafford or the bank.” He released her hands and grasped her upper arms. “You’ve no more fault in any of those than you are for Andrews’ injuries.”

“But, I could’ve done so much more,” she choked. A tear slipped down her left cheek. “I should’ve tried harder…I should’ve…”

“And I should’ve died rather than Ron.”

Hermione’s head snapped up and her jaw lodged itself on the floor. “Harry,” she whispered. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“Do you really believe that?” his voice wavered.

“You know I do.”

His hands trailed back down her arms and rested atop the hands in her lap. He drew a breath and looked up at her. “Then why can’t you believe the same thing for yourself?”

Hermione studied their hands as they threaded themselves together. “I suppose I’d rather see myself as indolent before incompetent.”

Harry brushed a tear from her cheek. “I wish I could make you see what I see.”

“What’s that?”

He chuckled. “If I knew how to describe it, I imagine I could make you see it.”

Hermione’s face broke a faint smile and she mopped her eyes with the back of her hands. They looked at each other, exchanging a modest laugh before she turned her eyes skyward and sighed. “I think I need a drink,” she joked.

“Exactly my point,” he replied, pulling her to her feet.

“Wh-? Harry! No, I was kidding!”

“Too late, you’ve acquiesced. You’re going,” he stated, throwing an arm around her shoulders and walking her through her office door.

***

Embattled, Hermione stepped through the door Harry held open for her. With one last effort to save her dignity she stopped and turned around. “Harry, seriously. I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“That’s your problem, you think too much.”

“But, Har-“

“There you are!” a voice bellowed from behind her. Crestfallen, she turned to meet her doom as Harry pushed her toward the bustling table of tipsy wizards. “We’ve been waiting for you forever! Where have you been?”

Hermione looked up to meet the eyes of Celeste Abingdon and immediately regretted the twinkle she saw sparkling back at her. “I knew you’d come,” she whispered in Hermione’s ear as she steered her toward an open chair.

“Trust me when I say I’m under duress. I cannot be held accountable for my actions,” Hermione replied.

Celeste let out a staccato laugh and hugged Hermione around the shoulders. “That’s the whole point of this Friday ritual dear; if anyone were held accountable we’d all be sacked or imprisoned by now.”

Hermione met her beaming smile with a reluctant grin as Celeste spun on her heel and bellowed across the pub as she directed Hermione to a chair. “Seamus! What kind of publican are you? There are two distressed wizards in need of refreshment over here!”

“Hold onto yer hat, star bright!” he shouted back as he set four glasses on the bar alight. With a swish and flick they flew to their respective places and Seamus, beaming, sauntered to the table.

“Really, why must you call me that?” Celeste mumbled as Seamus came within earshot.

“Because it turns yer ears a bonny shade of pink,” he replied, nibbling on the said appendage. If Celeste held any lingering annoyance it disappeared in short order. Within seconds she was giggling and pushing Seamus’s shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to stop his ministrations. Hermione realized she was staring at them and searched the room for something else to look at.

In truth, this was one of the reasons why she didn’t enjoy these outings. Invariably it consisted of work-stressed couples that either found solace in Seamus’ secret brew or in the arms of the other. Neither outlet served to relax Hermione in the slightest.

Although she wasn’t one to refuse a social drink, she despised the thought of getting pissed in the company of others. One thing Hermione openly acknowledged was her unmitigated need to be in control. As for social relations, that same need to control virtually everything ran the men as far in the other direction as their feet could carry them. Since her relationship with Ron during seventh year, she hadn’t maintained another one to speak of.

Hermione squeezed her eyes closed and tried to shake the memory away. The thought of Ron set off a string of remembered failures that ended with an owl about Andrew’s admittance to the spell damage ward at St. Mungo’s.

“Here sweetheart, you’ve gone green,” Celeste noted as she placed a glass of swirling blue and purple liquid before her. “Seamus only makes this for you, you know,” Celeste whispered as she clasped her around the shoulders.

“Why do you think I’m leery to drink it,” Hermione mumbled as she watched the colors swirl like oil in water.

“Oh, posh; bottom’s up, Hermione. If I can trust Seamus, anyone can,” Celeste admonished while she reached across the table for a bowl of pretzels.

“Famous last words,” Hermione replied as she picked up the frigid glass and tipped it to her lips. As the drink slipped down her throat she understood Seamus Finnegan’s incontestable success as a publican. She felt a knot loosen in her neck and the memory of her failures gray at the edges.

“Feeling better?” a warm voice in her ear asked. Her eyes popped open and she turned to meet the contented gaze of her best friend.

“I’d feel better with a warm bath and the next chapter of the mystery I’m reading.” His brow furrowed at her remark and she felt obliged to soften it. “But, as they’re not available, I can’t argue with the company.”

His face brightened and he leaned in to kiss her forehead. “Nor can I,” he whispered. He sat down in the chair beside her and nudged her shoulder. “Besides, I promise if you aren’t feeling better by the end of the night, I’ll make it up to you with that new Swanson novel you’ve been coveting.”

Hermione laughed before the question formed in her mind. “Hang on? How did you know I’ve been dying to read that?”

Whether it was a laugh, cough or snort that impeded his response, Hermione didn’t know. After she slapped him on the back several times and he cleared his throat of the misguided spirits, he choked out a response. “Aren’t all you women dying to read that book?”

“Harry,” she admonished. “When have I ever acted like other women?”

“Point taken,” he replied as he gulped another mouthful of ale.

“Well, it would appear that we are all assembled!” a cheery voice drew Hermione’s attention away from Harry’s reddened face. A surge of impending embarrassment coursed through her body and she had the sudden desire to run for the front door. “As is our custom on Friday evenings, we must vote, in the least democratic method possible,” Seamus winked at Harry, “to relieve the stress of whomever has experienced a most wretched and unsettling week.”

“Here, here!” the table resounded as the clinking of glasses and lively wagering drowned out the next of Seamus’ address.

He flapped his hands to quiet the assemblage and continued. “Now, we all know about Celeste’s unfortunate mishap with the director of field research.”

“Why must you always start with me? It’s not like I intended to spill my tea over his trousers!” Laughter rattled around the table.

“And, Marta…dear, Marta.” Hermione looked across the table to see her friend Marta Griswold bury her face in her arms. “How quickly we learned of your inopportune statement at the weekly press conference.”

“I promise I meant to call the Minister’s mother a chore! She is high maintenance and everyone knows it!” The table erupted into laughter again.

“Well, rest easy darling,” Seamus soothed as he patted her on the back. He turned toward Hermione and she shrunk six inches beneath the table. “Regardless of your misguided insults, I think we can all agree – Andrews included – that Hermione’s week topped us all.”

For as much as Hermione wanted to stare down Seamus with all the righteous indignation she could muster, she couldn’t do it. Her cheeks were burning and her eyes were fixed on some imagined string at the hem of her skirt her fingers refused to stop fiddling with. She would’ve run for the door had she not been glued to her chair.

“Come now, Hermione,” Seamus cooed. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. We could all tell you that the events of this week were not your fault. We could tell you that we have it on good authority that you did nothing wrong.” She felt Harry chuckle in the chair beside her. “But, you’ll not believe any of us. So the only thing to do is find a way to make you forget about it and remember the things that are really important in life.”

“Here, here!” Those huddled around the table chimed again.

“What shall it be?” Thomas Hedingham chirped. The question dragged Hermione’s eyes from her lap and upwards toward the executioner himself. She saw a brief glance between Seamus and Celeste before he nodded toward the barmaid behind him.

“An interesting question, Thomas!” Seamus bellowed. “The script in question must be one that not only relaxes the mind, but the body as well!” He began to circle the table as he continued his show. “For if we are too soft, she’ll merely be embarrassed and not relieved of her burden.”

“Well, we can’t have that!” Celeste replied with a wink toward Hermione as she sipped from her glass.

“Certainly not, and if we go too far – she’ll likely never speak to any of us again.”

“I doubt that, Seamus. It’s what she’ll say you have to beware of,” Matthew Sanders exclaimed.

“No doubt, you’d know that Matthew, having her for a boss,” another voice called out.

Hermione wanted to crawl under the table. She hadn’t seen Sanders until now. She already felt uncomfortable being twenty-two and having older people under her direction. She certainly didn’t want to have those people witness her embarrassment before the full count of the Green Irishman’s patrons.

“But, fear not!” Seamus exclaimed, finally reaching some manner of resolution. “Your publican shall not fail you, and I have just the remedy that may, in fact, work to the benefit of more than just Hermione Granger.”

“What is it?” Marta shouted as Hermione noticed the barmaid appear behind Seamus with a tray.

“Body shots.”

Hermione couldn’t hear her own argument over the din of the assembled crowd. They were frenetic with enthusiasm. Despondent, she looked to Celeste to save her from a fate worse than Hermione imagined.

No such luck.

Celeste was clearing the table for the tray and wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes. She looked up and raised her glass to Hermione. With a wink, she tossed back what remained and slammed the empty glass on the table.

Hermione decided to take matters into her own hands. She rounded on Seamus and opened her mouth to refuse, by whatever means necessary, the sentence she’d been given. She didn’t have the chance. Her heart dropped to her knees when she realized the full magnitude of what lie before her.

Harry was already arguing with Seamus. In truth, he looked about three seconds short of firing a stunner at his former schoolmate’s head. In the space of a heartbeat, Hermione’s emotions sailed from embarrassment to terror.

She stared at the tray on the table. Several shot glasses were neatly aligned with an amber liquid filled to each one’s brim. A ceramic bowl of sliced lemons sat to the right and what claimed, by inscription on the side, to be the “lost shaker of salt” flanked the left.

She wanted to think of a plausible escape. She wanted to think of a reason to run for the nearest apparition point, but she found her mind devoid of any thought but one.

I’ve got to do a body shot with Harry!

Her heart slammed against the interior of her ribs and she hazarded a look toward Harry’s valiant battle to save them both.

Seamus had Harry’s upper arm firmly in hand and led him back to the table through the parted Red Sea of overworked Ministry officials. He raised his eyes and caught hers before she could look away. The air in her lungs dissolved into the blood racing through her veins.

For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to do or what to think. She had no plan, no information and no escape. Seamus deposited Harry on the stool next to her while the masses gathered around slapping them both on the back and chortling with delight.

Seamus raised his arms into the air and the throng quieted with alarming speed. “For those of you unfamiliar with the body shot, allow me to demonstrate!” Without warning he grabbed Celeste by the wrist and dragged her to the forefront. Wrapping one arm securely around her waist he plucked the salt shaker from the table.

“Tequila is a vile drink. In order to withstand it, you must first prepare for it!” He twisted in front of Celeste as his lips descended on her neck. Celeste gasped and made a worthless effort to push him away as her eyes rolled back in her head. As quickly as her knees began to buckle, Seamus released her and continued.

“Now, you could do this on your own wrist,” he grinned at Celeste, “but where’s the fun in that?” He bobbed the salt shaker over the glistening reddened spot on her neck and dragged his tongue along the crystalline trail.

Hermione had never gone so long without breathing. She didn’t dare look at Harry, but could feel him equally as immobile next to her. She never noticed Seamus turn back toward the table.

“You’re catching flies, lass,” Seamus chuckled as he winked at Hermione and tossed back the shot of Tequila on the table before him. As his face contorted and his eyes watered, Celeste reached in front of him and plucked a slice of lemon from the tray. Holding it by the ends, Seamus’ hands closed over hers as he clamped down on the fruit and sucked the juice from the rind. He stepped back and raised the spent lemon before the crowd. The gathered masses erupted in whoops and whistles – or had they never stopped? Hermione didn’t know, she hadn’t heard a thing since Seamus’ lips descended on Celeste’s neck.

“And that, dear patrons, is how it’s done!” Seamus exclaimed in triumph.

“It certainly is,” Celeste mumbled as she dropped into the chair across from Hermione. She realized Celeste was laughing at whatever expression must’ve been etched across her face. Be it incredulity or terror, it didn’t dissuade Celeste from moving the game along. She pushed the tray back across the table toward Hermione. She saw her lips form the words, “your turn,” but never heard it through the din around her.

She could refuse. She was a grown woman after all. She could withstand a little chaff from the disappointed masses. They couldn’t force her to do something so completely against her character! She didn’t want to be here in the first place; she had no intention of coming back. Besides the fact, sucking on Harry’s neck…

…sucking on Harry’s neck…

Her face caught fire at the thought but her logic-minded conscience sallied forth. Yes, sucking on Harry’s neck would do nothing to relieve her stress or make her any the better for Andrews’ condition.

Hermione drew a breath and squared her shoulders. Her head snapped up toward Seamus’ and her mouth dropped open to tell him exactly what she thought of this entire proposition.

That was when she realized Harry’s hand was grasping hers.

Turning to face him, her mouth closed as quickly as it had opened.

“I don’t think there’s any way to get out of this without using an unforgivable curse,” Harry looked around the crowd, “or two.” Hermione couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sorry I got you into this.” His eyes dropped from hers and fixed on the shot glasses before them.

Suddenly every argument Hermione devised in her head could not be located in her heart. She’d seen that look on his face innumerable times. She could never categorize it to her satisfaction. He wasn’t lost, or afraid, or expectant, or naïve or hopeful…he was all of those things at once, and none of it at all. It was the one look she couldn’t take, the one she couldn’t forget and the one that would make her do anything to rid him of it.

She heard her own voice as if someone else had enchanted it to speak. “Well, there are too many witnesses for unforgivable curses. We’d best get on with it, don’t you think?”

Victory. A tempered grin spread across his features as he dropped her hand and pulled her chair closer to his. A violent uproar, led by the Green Irishman himself, erupted around the table as Hermione’s chair came to rest between Harry’s legs.

Her heart was pounding in her chest. The blood beat a tune against the tympani in her ears and the din died away as Harry drew closer to her. His left hand curled around the back of her neck. She felt the electric chill of the air as he pulled her unruly mane away from her neck and tangled the tresses among his fingers. Before she could blink, or think, or protest the impropriety she felt his warm breath along the column of her neck and thought no more.

His lips were firmer than she’d expected…or were those his teeth? She couldn’t tell; she didn’t care. She felt her body rise and the blood boil in her veins as he sucked at her neck, moving upward along her tingling skin. With a soft pop, his lips let go just below her left ear.

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t think. What does someone say in a situation like this?

Apparently nothing.

He was so close she could’ve listed forward and enveloped his swollen lips with her own. It should’ve scared her that she wanted to. It should’ve terrified her when she felt her body lean into his. He had to know what she was thinking…what she was doing. In the second (or was it hour) that their eyes met she was sure he knew her soul. That’s when she felt a featherweight tickle upon her neck.

His right hand crossed in front of them as he replaced the salt shaker on the table. His left hand was still tangled in the hair pulled back to the nape of her neck. She gasped as he slid off the bar stool before her and snaked his right hand around her back. She felt like a rag doll as he pulled her upward against his chest and curled down over top of her. Her hands fisted themselves in his shirtsleeves, feeling the contour of his tightened muscles underneath, as he dragged his warm tongue over the salty trail on her neck.

Fireworks exploded behind her eyelids and she felt him chuckle in her arms. She knew she’d made a noise, an exclamation, a proclamation of some kind, but had no idea what words escaped her lips. Just as quickly as he’d crushed her against him, he’d released her again. He sat back in his chair, a shot thrust into his hand, while Hermione tried to encourage the air to seek her lungs.

Mechanically, she picked a lemon slice from the bowl as Harry tossed the drink into his throat and slammed the glass onto the table. His warm hands wrapped around hers as he attacked the lemon with watering eyes, catching a bit of her finger in the assault. Hermione winced and sat back into her chair as the sounds of the room crashed into her again.

The noise was deafening. She looked across the table toward Celeste who had one hand clamped over her mouth and tears marring her smiling eyes. She looked back at Harry who was rapidly being beat to death from the entourage of back slapping well-wishers. He couldn’t disguise the heat that stained his own cheeks anymore than she could disguise what must’ve been emblazoned on her own.

A soft tap of Celeste’s shoe against her ankle snapped Hermione back to reality. It was her turn, and for the first time since this charade began, she had one tangible, clear, thought.

She’d give McGonagall back the old Head Girl badge long before being beaten by Harry Potter.

She smiled at the expression on his face. He did know her better than anyone in the world and she took it as a personal compliment that she could elicit what Voldemort could not.

He knew what she was thinking…and it scared the hell out of him.

Being shorter than Harry, she thought to take a leaf out of his spell book. She dropped off the bar stool and slid her hands over the outside of his hips. Grasping the chair she (with rather helpful patrons pushing from behind) slid his chair toward her until she was standing between his knees and a hair’s breadth from his face.

He opened his mouth and a made an effort to speak, but she silenced him directly as her lips closed over the pulsing muscle in his neck.

As her fingers played in the silky black hair at the back of his neck she wondered why the salt was necessary. Harry’s neck had a salty tang and he smelled of faded cologne and fresh linen.

“Did she forget the salt or that we’re all standing here?” a mirthful voice chided from somewhere behind her.

Her eyes popped open as she tried to estimate the time she’d spent in this endeavor. Pulling her lips from Harry’s neck, he turned his head to meet her eyes. She’d never seen such a deep shade of green before, and certainly not from him.

Shaking the thought away she found distraction in collecting the salt shaker and watching the gooseflesh prickle his skin as she sprinkled it over the wet, swollen track of her attentions. Before he could meet her eyes again, she ducked her head and began to lick the salt from his neck.

She could feel the groan from his throat as he worked her way up the straining tendon in his neck. She felt his hands on her back, conceding the game and begging her to continue. She did.

When the last grain of salt dissolved on her tongue, she stepped back from him and held her hand toward Celeste. As her eyes bored into his, she wondered if he knew her thoughts now.

She felt the cold glass against her palm and breaking the spell between them, looked away to toss the shot into her throat. If there was any part of her body that wasn’t already on fire, the liquid scorching her throat as it slid into her stomach ignited it.

Gasping for breath and mopping the water from her eyes, she heard the assemblage break into gales of laughter. Standing in a burning daze, she heard Celeste instructing her.

“The lemon Hermione!” she laughed.

She reached for the bowl of lemons through streaming eyes but felt Harry’s hand close over hers before she could reach one. Turning her attention back to him she saw the yellow fruit pinched between the fingers of his other hand. As she reached for it, he smiled, and placed the rind of the lemon between his teeth.

She froze. The palms of his hands closed over the fire in her cheeks and he pulled her toward him. She curled her hands over his wrists and sucked at the lemon between his teeth, relishing the accidental contact between their lips. When she’d sucked the lemon dry he released her, holding her close enough to ensure private conversation over the triumphant crowd.

“Just when you thought you’d won,” he whispered.

Without thought or concern for the consequences of her actions, she fell against him and pressed her lips against his. Her body exploded like the Chinese New Year and the marching dragon swirled through her fingers, her breasts, her stomach and knees. He wrapped his right arm around her back, holding her against him as his left fisted itself in her hair. His lips opened to hers and they shared the sour zest of the lemons still prickling their tongues.

They remained oblivious to the onlookers as long as they held breath in their lungs. When the necessity of respiration forced them to separate, Hermione, victorious, replied in a matching whisper, “I did win.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled as she’d never seen them before. His face erupted into a mischievous grin. “If it makes you feel better to be victorious, rather than oblivious, I’ll let you keep thinking that.”

Fin.