Nightflowering

Musca

Rating: PG
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 16/03/2006
Last Updated: 16/03/2006
Status: completed

"She regards him for a moment longer with an inscrutable look in her eyes, a foggy dawn determined to keep the sun a secret."

Chapters

1. Nightflowering

1. Nightflowering

A/N: Wow. I haven’t posted here for a looong time, have I?

This one’s a shortie that came out of nowhere and is unbetaed. Enjoy, and do say Hi on your way out; I haven’t seen many of you for a while. *smiles*

Ama.

Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, I’m only playing.

**

Nightflowering.

A creaking stair makes him look up. Firelight stretches her thin like a rubber band about to snap. Her hair’s dishevelled.

He twists in the couch to get a better look. “Hi.”

She wraps her arms across her chest and walks down the stairs.

“Hi.”

“Can’t sleep?”

She gives a small shrug and yawns.

“It’s cold.”

He quirks an eyebrow.

“You are a witch, Hermione.”

“Oh, shut up.” She tightens her arms around her chest and sits down at his feet on the couch. Crookshanks appears from nowhere and strokes a greeting against her leg with his tail.

“What’re you doing up?” She eyes the pile of parchment taking up half the couch, spilling down to the floor.

“I have to finish reviewing these reports.” He runs a hand through his hair.

“Hm.” She yawns again.

He looks at her for a moment, then sweeps all the scrolls off the couch.

“Come here.” He pats the space next to him. Suddenly, he feels chilly himself, his heart picking up speed.

She looks at him.

“You said you’re cold.” He shrugs.

How can an ordinary statement suddenly sound so unbearably potent? Like a switch, a tiny motion making it all move, setting it all alight.

She regards him for a moment longer with an inscrutable look in her eyes, a foggy dawn determined to keep the sun a secret. He’s seen that look a few times lately but doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Come on.” He says again, summoning a throw rug from the arm of another chair.

She sighs and relents. The sound of a late train from far away ripples the silence, a sound heard only at night. Wings rustle in the oak outside and settle with a squawk.

For a moment they’re unsure how to arrange their bodies. But then something else kicks in, their limbs deciding to negotiate the situation with grace. Her cheek finds that it’s rather nice to be pressed into the hollow of his shoulder. He finds that his arm quite likes the weight of her head and the texture of her hair. He mutters a spell to make the couch big enough for both of them, but her legs realise they don’t need all that space; hooked over his is just fine. He warms at the touch of her breasts against his side with the rhythm of her heart nearby. Her skin settles into the warmth of his.

“All good?”

“Yeah.”

There, that’s nice too; the way her lips feel against his skin when she whispers.

She sighs and grows still. His eyes return to the piece of parchment. His mind stays in the warm hollows and curves pressed to him. Firelight fingers the room, its touch light but warm. A chocolate frog escaped from Ron’s clutches melts on a picture frame, its charm worn off.

Then she snores.

He can’t help it; the idea of Hermione doing something so unguarded and unladylike is utterly preposterous. The laughter starts deep in his belly and he’s unable to hide it. She wakes up with a start.

“What?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

She opens one eye blearily. “I snored, didn’t I?”

He gives up trying to hide his laughter. “Yeah, just a little.”

“Hmm.”

She makes a sleepy face at him and burrows back into his arm, shifting the leg that lies over his to settle more comfortably. Something shivers inside him, something arches and responds. Like a spring ready to snap, a wound-up toy, a poised bow. As if all their time together has been coiled tightly, gaining momentum, ready to launch the two of them into something he barely understands.

“Don’t tell Ron.” She mumbles.

“Don’t tell Ron what?”

“That I snore.”

Right beneath her hairline, nestled against tiny whorls of brown hair, is a birthmark. He has an insane urge to touch it with his lips.

“I’m sure he’d know by now.”

He doesn’t mean anything by it. His mind is elsewhere, but the moment the words leave his mouth he knows it’s the wrong thing to say.

She pushes back to look at him. Her arm, lightly wrapped around his body before, presses at his skin defiantly.

“What exactly do you mean, Harry?”

Her words are slow and careful. Sleep dissipates fast from her eyes, firelight settling in them instead.

“Nothing. I didn’t mean anything.”

“Go on. Say it. Something about Ron and I.”

Crookshanks paws at the fire. A spray of embers flares and dies.

“Come on, Hermione. It just came out. I didn’t mean anything.”

She continues to look at him for a moment. Then she slides off the couch.

“Hermione!” He groans and sits up, wondering whether to follow or not. He hears the front door open. That settles it; the night is cold.

The front porch is a summary of the three of them living together. Harry’s neat, Hermione’s obsessive. Ron hasn’t even mastered the knack of keeping both his shoes in one place. The porch alternates between days of utter disarray when every vertical surface supports a broom or some other Quidditch gear, and days like this when the floor is swept clean, the mass of wild clematis along the railing trimmed and all stray objects cursed off the floor.

She sits on the steps, hugging her knees. He sits down next to her with a sigh.

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I didn’t mean it that way.”

She looks at him as if she wants to ask ‘what way’, but changes her mind. Games are for Ron.

He glances at her profile and wonders if he’s feeling brave enough. The sky’s clouded over, ruched up like a voluminous skirt with the moon caught in it.

“But—I mean, you and Ron, you have--”

She cuts him off. “If you mean whether Ron and I have shagged, Harry, the answer is no.”

“Oh. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. “But that’s not what—never mind.” Why did he suddenly feel drained, as if some great, terrifying event he’d taken for granted had bypassed him?

“But you’ve liked each other for ages.” He says after a moment.

She looks at him quizzically. “And that’s a good enough reason to jump into bed together?”

He makes an impatient noise. “That’s not what I meant.” After the war he disappeared from the wizarding world for nearly eight months. Ron and Hermione knew where he was, but heeded him when he said he wanted to be alone. Drifting through the country like a ghost, he missed them every moment of the day. But he had to go, he had to leave things to settle, to fall into place, and to find where he fit in, in a world that no longer seemed to need a saviour. And along with other things, he hoped that Ron and Hermione too would fall into place.

But he returned to find things unchanged where his best friends were concerned. Hermione was enrolled to qualify for St Mungo’s, Ron was discovering that he had a knack for sales strategy with the twins. Apart, they were more confident and more comfortable in their skins than he’d ever seen them. But together, Ron and Hermione were still the bickering teenagers they were when he’d left them.

He never had the courage to ask either of them. He doesn’t have it now. But the night seems to have a mind of its own, determined and unrelenting.

“Have you two talked about it?”

She grins at him, and he rolls his eyes; the Agony Aunt routine isn’t his best. But he wants to know, he wants to follow where this strange night’s heading. She leans against him, becoming thoughtful again.

“I don’t think either of us want to get all that rational about it, Harry.” She twists a strand of hair round her finger, trying pull out a knot. “If we sat down and really talked about it, we’d come to the conclusion that really, we’re all wrong for each other.”

He ponders this for a moment.

“But you like him, don’t you? And he likes you.”

“No. I love him. But I don’t think I can live with him--that way. And I don’t think he can live with me. We’d drive each other insane. We’d drive you insane.”

He snorts. “As if you don’t already.”

She punches him in the arm. “Ah, but you love it.”

He shoots her an eloquent look. She giggles.

A spider scuttles over his toes. Crookshanks pounces on it. Hermione stretches and yawns.

“Come on, let’s get to bed. You have an early day tomorrow, don’t you?”

She stands up, pulling his arm gently. He obeys. He flicks the dead spider off the porch with a toe. Crookshanks flashes him a dirty look and stalks out into the dark garden.

“Hermione?”

“Yeah?”

His mouth is dry. “Is there…someone else?”

She turns to look at him. In the gloom the only source of light are her eyes. They’re blinding, obscuring his view of what lies beyond. There’s not a lot that Hermione can hide from him, but now all he can see is sadness, and something heavy and indomitable, something like patience.

“I--I don’t know.” Her gaze falters a little. “Maybe.” Then she turns and walks inside, leaving the door ajar for him.

He leans against the railing, the leaves of the wild climber immediately tangling over his fingers. Maybe, she said. Maybe. Something smells sweet but he can’t place it. He thinks that Crookshanks must be digging up some nightflowering plant. Strange, those plants; plain and unremarkable by day, but heavenly at night, flowering when darkness forces other blossoms to yield. Thriving where others surrender, unseen but all-pervading. He hears the floorboards creak above him: she’s in her room. A soft thump signals her door being closed. He hopes she’s not cold.

On second thoughts he hopes that she is.

*