Wishing to Be the Friction in Your Jeans

Wishing to Be the Friction in Your Jeans

Her hand’s warm, a bit sweaty where their palms meet, but he doesn’t mind. He wonders briefly if a normal teenage boy should be thinking of her hand on his in this situation. She’s leading him down a dimly lit hallway that seems longer than it should be, but maybe that’s just because she’s moving slowly, as she keeps turning – stumbling, really, since she’s apparently consumed one too many firewhiskeys in the past hour – to throw him a sly smile that brightens her feminine features or to press a clumsily-executed kiss to his flushed cheek.

He fights down the impulse to pin her to the wall with his hips just long enough to question his own sobriety. Five, maybe six shots of near-black liquid that burned like pure fire on the way down but immediately sent his head into a spin, the common room turning on its axis. Fred and George had assured him it was the foremost sign of a good drink before they dissolved into a fit of alcohol-induced giggles. Maybe staying at school for the holidays wasn’t the best idea, especially since being the only Gryffindors left in the dorms seems to have awoken a new rebellious streak in the six of them.

“Harry,” she whispers, whirling around recklessly before colliding with his sweater-clad chest with a solid “thud.” Her free hand flies up to cover her mouth before she lets a girly, high-pitched laugh float from between her slender fingers. “Oops.”

“Where’re we going?” he asks through a grin that he hopes isn’t just a side effect of the liquor.

“Shh,” she warns as she places a single finger on top of his smile. “Don’t wake Filchy.”

“Hermione,” it’s laden with equal parts insecurity and want, and it sounds pitifully desperate even to his ears. He’s sure she didn’t even think about the simple motion of her finger to his lips, but he’s grateful for it, nonetheless.

She’s suddenly very still, no drunken fidgeting or unstable swaying like moments before. Her dark, vivid eyes watch him intently as her fingertips trace the contours of his mouth, now void of any trace of a smirk. Abruptly, she lurches forward and he considers grabbing her before she hits the marble floor, until her lips are on his. She’s soft and sweet and more than everything he’s ever wanted. His heart pounds so hard against his ribcage that he’s positive she can feel it, especially since her body’s molding against his so perfectly he can barely tell where he ends and she begins. He knows it’s crazy to think it now, but she can’t get close enough, even as his hands take to wandering aimlessly over her figure as if he’s trying to commit every curve to memory.

Until she pulls away, breathless but brown eyes wide, “Did you hear that?”

“No,” he says, placing a hand to his head as the hallway’s dancing before his eyes. He’s dizzy and he’s not purely convinced it’s because of the drink in his system. “What?”

As soon as the word leaves his mouth, a “meow” echoes off of the blank expanse of wall in the corridor as a skeletal gray cat rounds the nearby corner. It’s yellow eyes judge the pair silently, yet accurately, like the creature knows exactly what they were doing before it got here and it certainly doesn’t approve.

“Come on!” he gasps, seizing her hand and breaking into an instinctive run. Filch would be happy just to find them out of bed at this hour, but to find them drunk and groping each other would be his idea of heaven.

Hermione lets out a squeak of protest before involuntarily following the pull of Harry’s hand. He’s leading her – dragging, really, as she’s unstable on her feet once again, whether from the firewhiskey or the kiss, he’s unsure – turning the opposite corner, as fading hurried footsteps reach his straining ears. He thinks he can even make out the faint sound of Filch’s wheezy breathing as his foggy mind grasps desperately for a way out of this nightmare. An image of Filch tying them upside down by their ankles flutters into his head, among other thoughts swimming in an abundance of potent alcohol.

They scurry past paintings with mostly asleep inhabitants, busts that seem to follow their movements with blank hollowed eyes, and an empty suit of armor that’s bewitched to salute anyone who – wait! Harry suddenly realizes where they are, their location on the Marauder’s Map coming into focus when he briefly closes his eyes. He’s certain, even in his current compromised situation, that behind the gesturing statue is a secret shortcut that leads to the main stairway of the dorms.

He skids to a halt, an abrupt stop she obviously doesn’t see coming as she again barrels into him and stumbles backward a bit, but quickly rights herself. Raising the arm that isn’t still connected to her deliciously dainty hand – did he really just think that right now? – he quickly salutes the armor. The otherwise unmoving statue jumps aside, allowing access to a cobweb-infested dirt tunnel within the stone wall. Thrusting their joined hands forward, he inclines his head, signaling for her to go ahead.

“Ladies first,” he mumbles, convinced his face is now a brilliant shade of red that seems to accompany his newly discovered valiant side.

“That’s, um,” she stutters, clearly distraught over the outward appearance of his chosen path, “quite chivalrous of you, really, but I don’t think –”

“Gotcha!” Filch pants, his ragged figure emerging around the bend the pair had turned seconds earlier. Placing his spidery, veined hands to his knobby knees to catch his breath, Filch continues to mutter something incoherent that sounds faintly like “little maggots.”

Hermione emits a surprised yelp, closes her eyes, and leaps feet-first into the pitch-black passageway before her, forgoing letting loose the hand that now felt right at home in hers. Their feet never touch the ground, though, instead they’re sliding unexpectedly at a rapid pace along a trail that neither can see nor predict. Harry braces to hit a wall at any minute as the channel twists and turns, the enveloping darkness still foreign to his eyes. He ponders the very real possibility that maybe this isn’t the right conduit – what if this doesn’t lead to the dorms? As her hoarse screams pierce his senses, he closes his eyes against the penetrating ebony around him and hopes they get out of this intact.

And, just as suddenly as it started, the couple is descending through a vanishing stone in the wall, their momentum carrying them across the hard, unforgiving floor and to the foot of a currently moving staircase that will conveniently guide them straight to the Fat Lady once it settles. Silently thanking Merlin and anyone else who’ll listen, Harry slowly gets to his feet, brushing the dust, webs, and a few accompanying spiders from his robes and hair.

“Are you okay?” he asks, offering Hermione a hand to help her from the ground. He finds himself questioning when he let go in the first place and why, especially now that her oh-so-perfect hand slips comfortably into his.

“Fine, thanks,” she replies with a wide grin. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” he answers as he carefully plucks thick cobwebs from her mass of unruly hair. He adds with a chuckle, “Now you know what it feels like when Ron and I try to sneak into the girls’ dorms.”

She laughs with abandon, throwing her head back instinctively, and the blissful sound gives him goosebumps. “Do you two try to do that often, then?”

For the second time tonight, he can feel his cheeks flush. “Well, I mean, only when we really need to talk to you … or, ya know … something like that.”

She’s still giggling helplessly as they begin up the stairs, again hand-in-hand.

The Fat Lady’s leaning against her elaborate golden frame, snoring loudly, when they reach the landing and Hermione turns to face Harry, gently squeezing his hand, says sincerely, “I had fun tonight. Thank you.” With those simple words, she plants a chaste kiss to his still-rosy cheek, frees her hand, and says the password, “Saint Nick.”

The portrait swings open, Hermione steps through and heads directly to the girls’ dorms without any outward hesitation. Harry stands at the entrance, his shaking fingers tracing her lips’ pattern on his burning skin.

“Well, go on!” the Fat Lady exasperates, “I’m waiting!”

He gestures rudely, knowing she can’t see it, and walks into the ember-lit common room. It’s quiet, though whispers can barely be heard over the obnoxious snoring of – not the Fat Lady this time – but Ron, who’s sleeping soundly, his torso haphazardly draped across a table laden with a chessboard and askew pieces. Ginny’s curled into a nearby chair, also napping, her head flopping forward at every regular inhale. Fred and George, however, are wide-awake and are obviously the sources of the conspiratorially hushed voices in a dim corner. They’re bent low over what appears to be a rather large portion of parchment.

As Harry draws closer, the twins acknowledge him with a unified, “Hiya Harry.” Fred smiles mischievously and inquires in mock innocence, “Where’ve you

been?”

“Hermione and I went for a walk.”

“We know,” the twins snigger in harmony, pointing to the parchment beneath their noses.

It’s the Marauder’s Map. Harry’s heart momentarily skips a beat as he wonders how long they’ve been watching.

“Once Gin and Ron passed out,” George explains, nodding to the resting siblings.

“We got bored,” Fred finishes, feigning a yawn.

“So we nicked this from your trunk.”

“Hope you don’t mind.”

“But, we don’t think you will.”

“Seeing as how your and Hermione’s dots became one big dot for a minute there.”

“Not to mention the fact that you two were heading to the Astronomy Tower.”

“And, well, Harry, we’re sure you know what goes on there.” The twins wink as if a well-practiced cue.

Oh, so that’s where Hermione was taking him. Harry gulps at the sudden realization. Oh! That makes three times that his face glows pink – though, unfortunately, Harry didn’t get to find out what goes on in the Astronomy Tower. This time, anyway.