Chapter 4: Ignorance is Bliss.
After the golfing incident Harry had the feeling that the summer with Hermione would be slightly different than he'd first imagined. He wasn't quite sure what he wanted; his feelings up to this point had been pretty confused on the matter. He knew, without doubt, that he definitely liked Hermione; the events they had shared together, particularly over the last few months, had formed a bond between them that was both strong and intimate. It was only now, back in her company, that Harry realised what had been missing at Privet Drive during his sleepless nights.
But there was something else; something that Harry would have liked to deny was there before. But the truth was, it had been there for quite some time, not so much bubbling under the surface but floating around, almost waiting for him to make his mistakes and open his eyes. Harry noticed that his gaze, quite outside his own conscious control, had developed a tendency to rest on Hermione and he found these moments quite enjoyable. They provided a rare occasion when Sirius was off his mind…when Voldemort hadn't really come back at all…
As it was sweltering hot over most of the British Isles the fashion for the day was to wear as little as was decent as often as possible. This had a profound effect on Harry in several ways. Firstly, since he didn't own a wide variety of Muggle clothes he was forced to wear jeans all the time, making him very sweaty and uncomfortable, especially since Hermione was fond of taking Harry on long, winding walks. He did, thankfully, own several t-shirts so he wasn't totally overdressed for a heat wave.
It was, however, the change in Hermione's dress that had the most impact on Harry. Having spent very little time with Hermione outside of Hogwarts, he was used to seeing her only in her school robes. He did have several particularly vivid memories of her in a floaty, periwinkle blue dress, worn on a night when he remembered being particularly captivated with her. He kept these memories, however, so deep that even Snape's Occlumency attacks last year couldn't find them. Harry did let these memories surface every so often, but always when he was on his own.
He had seen her outside school at Christmas, but then it was winter and wouldn't have prepared him for what was going on now. Why he had never considered it before was a mystery to him, especially since it seemed a pretty obvious piece of information to overlook. Hermione, it transpired, owned a full, and regularly updated, set of Muggle clothing, catering for ever occasion and season. The most interesting of these garments (although Harry had by no means been rifling through Hermione's drawers to see all her clothes) were a set of skirts in different colours, materials and, most intriguingly for Harry, lengths. As it was summertime, Hermione had taken to wearing skirts on most days, a trend that Harry tried hopelessly not to find as distracting as it was.
The effect of the skirts was marked in Harry's behaviour. He and Hermione tended to spend as much time sitting down as they did walking, and the close proximity of the skirts to Harry at these times made him freeze with nerves. They did, however, serve to distract him from all the negative thoughts that had plagued him during the summer, but often tended to come up at rather inappropriate times.
'Have you thought any more about Sirius?' Hermione asked as they sat on the grass in a local play park. She seemed keen to bring up this subject as much as she could, thinking that talking about the incident would somehow make it easier for Harry to deal with. Although he found it difficult to put into words exactly what he was thinking, he couldn't deny that talking about it did ease the weight of guilt; Hermione had a way of soothing his fears that it was his entire fault, assuring him that he wasn't at all to blame.
'Yeah, a little,' Harry replied vaguely, his mind distracted, 'It skirt really bad at first, but talking about it…I dunno, made it a bit easier I s'pose.'
'It skirt really bad?' Hermione smirked, 'What's that supposed to mean?'
She had a shrewd look on her face, mingled with a sort of innocent curiosity. Harry considered the contrast on her face; a sly, cunning, almost vampish look mixed with a shimmering innocence that had him bewitched. Harry thought she was the perfect contradiction.
'I didn't mean that,' Harry said as he felt the colour betray him in his cheeks, 'my mind was, well, elsewhere.'
'Clearly,' Hermione laughed, but Harry was warmed; if she knew where his mind had been, which she certainly seemed to, then it didn't look like she minded. Was she trying to tell him something? Did he really want to hear it? He was fidgety now, aware only too acutely of the flushing in his cheeks, thinking how stupid his arms looked flopped limply at his side, and his hair…he didn't even want to get started on that.
'C'mon,' Hermione beckoned, 'let's go. We'll be late for tea if we don't get a move on. She offered him her hand and helped him up; he couldn't quite meet her eye, having the overpowering sensation that if he did she would burst into peels of giggles. He didn't really want that.
Two days later and Harry had been with the Granger's for almost a week. He didn't want to leave. Hermione kept mentioning the Burrow with as much subtlety as she could manage but Harry was telling the truth when he said he had no interest in the place. It wasn't so much not wanting to see Ron and the Weasleys that generated this feeling, more a growing dislike of all the moments his spent out of Hermione's company.
This whole developing sensation was starting to affect Harry's state of mind. He was getting used to waking up in the morning and having Hermione sitting next to him on his bed. Although not quite a double bed it could easily have squeezed two people onto it fairly reasonably, allowing Hermione to clamber on in the mornings without disturbing Harry's sleep. Yesterday, he had woken to find Hermione snuggled up to him, fast asleep, with the Daily Prophet hanging precariously from the side of the mattress. She had obviously dozed off whilst reading, but it had left Harry paralysed with a tension he had never experienced before. Despite this fact, he felt happier having Hermione there, in that position, than he would openly admit.
That day, Hermione decided, would be an Advance S.P.E.W day. She sat around for most of it making elf clothes, though Harry had to agree with her when she said she wasn't quite as good at knitting without magic. Harry's job was merely to aid and observe, a task he found more than suited him, thanks in no small part to Hermione's choice of garment for the day. It had the effect of making Harry at least think about elf clothes, mostly speculating as to whether house-elves ever wore hemlines as high as Hermione's. Harry accepted that it probably wasn't the kind of thought that Hermione would want regarding house-elf liberation, but maybe it was a start.
She was finding one particularly bobbly bobble-hat a tricky customer. The ball that sat on the top of the hat simply refused to stay there and fell off every time Hermione thought she had fastened it properly. She was getting quite frustrated, deciding eventually to sew it on with a needle and thread.
'Work time, Harry,' she chirped merrily.
'Oh, yeah, right,' Harry said breaking out of his seventeenth hypnotic trance; Hermione hadn't yet turned back to her normal colour after flushing bright red after trance number one.
'Hold this for me, would you?' she said handing him a small needle, 'Hold it steady while I run the thread through it.'
Hermione used one hand to keep Harry's steady, while at the same time using the other one to try and thread the cotton through the needle. It was a fruitless task; Hermione had come over in such a tremble that the cotton thread was not even close to the needle.
'Are you cold?' Harry asked softly, 'I could close the window if you'd like.'
'No, I'm fine,' Hermione said, her voice slightly squeaky, 'just need to be a little closer,' she shifted in so her face was inches from the needle, Harry felt his face involuntarily tilt in as well, 'just need to push it…try and get it…almost there…maybe…'
It was little wonder to Harry that she was missing the needle. She spent half her time sending little glances up at him, taking her focus off the needle at the time when she needed to concentrate the most. Her eyes were shining, her expression soft. She had stopped talking now, though her mouth was opening and closing despite the fact that no words were coming out. Harry could see the corners of her mouth trembling; why were they doing that? Her neck seemed to vibrate slightly every time she breathed, which Harry now saw was quite often, much more than was normal. To his surprise, he found his breath was quick too, every time it wasn't caught in his lungs, that is.
Hermione's head edged in closer; maybe she wanted a closer look at the needle. Her hand holding the thread had dropped and Harry felt it as it groped around beneath him, eventually coming to rest on top of his own. His own head inclined in too; the needle was falling away in his hand, whether through Hermione's prompting or not. A rather unpleasant lump had lodged itself in his throat, he noticed his mouth was painfully dry and something wriggly and squirmy wanted to burst out of his chest. Then a voice cracked the air.
'Hermione, honey, I'm back. Help me with these bags would you?'
It was Mrs Granger. Hermione snapped back, her eyes wide and bright, her face and body shuddering as she got to her feet. She went into the hall leaving Harry to catch his breath and wonder what exactly was happening inside his chest whenever Hermione left his sight.
At the start of the second week Harry was starting, in his mind at least, to call Hermione's house home. Even though it wasn't, Harry couldn't imagine a place to which he would rather attach that name. It was cosy, friendly and safe; he ate well, slept well and relaxed here more than at any other place. The only problem place was his bedroom where, particularly at night, he was plagued with his own questions about the awakening feelings he was trying so hard to suppress.
After all, this was Hermione he was talking about. He couldn't possibly feel these things for her, he just couldn't. She was his best friend (he had noticed that Ron and subconsciously abdicated from this role a long time ago) and although he wasn't sure what he was feeling right now it certainly didn't match up with that title. It was more, a lot more, and try as he might he couldn't restrain it. He knew she probably didn't return the sentiment; she wouldn't after all, would she? She was Hermione, people like her didn't notice little people like him.
It was hard for him. Her presence was becoming an addiction, an obsession, but also a hindrance. Sometimes he would see her and feel such a strong surge of…something…from deep inside that he would tense up, unable to speak and barely able to move. On these occasions he experienced what he had come to term as a 'Ginny Moment' realising for the first time why Ginny used to find it so hard to share the same floor space with him during the times of her crush. He, however, felt he must have grown out of the running-desperately-for-solace phase as he had discovered an anti-dote to the tense freezing. All it involved was as little as a smile from Hermione, or even better some light physical contact, and he was mobile again, allowing him to run into hiding and bury his shameful, silly, scarred face…
During the second week Harry found Hermione in the garden, idly plucking away the petals of a pretty flower. She was chanting some kind of rhyme and seemed oblivious to Harry as her approached and flopped down beside her.
'He loves me…he loves me not…he loves me…he loves me not…' Hermione sang dreamily.
'Who you on about?' Harry asked.
'Oh, Harry, hi!' she said breathlessly, a little too exaggeratedly for Harry's liking, 'this? It's, um, er…a, er…teacher I had once. I had a bit of a crush actually.'
'Who? Lockhart?' Harry asked pointedly.
'Yeah!' said Hermione gleefully, 'that'll be it! Yeah. Lockhart…'
Her words trailed off and she looked away, Harry could have sworn she looked slightly scandalised.
'You should find a flower that rules out the possibilities,' Harry said.
'Well,' Hermione said lightly, 'If I knew the answer to the question I wouldn't need to kill pretty flowers in speculation…would I Harry?'
She fixed him with a piercing stare that went right through him. He felt like an Arithmancy question that Hermione was contemplating, her eyes boring into him as if desperate to work him out and move on. She smiled brightly soon afterwards; had she figured him out? Did she know the things that beat against his skull every night, and what happened inside his chest every time she entered a room?
The whole two weeks had taken the same pattern; cosy, delicate intimacy followed by short bursts of awkwardness, then more intimacy. Harry knew which bit he liked the best. The most poignant of these moments came two days before they were due back at school. Most of the day had been spent discussing school but Harry did manage, with surprisingly little effort, to persuade Hermione to hand out more golf lessons; he just couldn't master that grip…
After dinner that night, they all settled down to watch a movie on television. Harry sat on the couch again, with Hermione sat next to him on his left. It became clear after twenty minutes that the exploits of John Rambo weren't of interest to Hermione. She was fidgety, shifting all over the place, each time inching closer to Harry. Harry soon lost interest in the film, captivated by Hermione's thigh as it edged towards his own. His breath was caught frequently in his lungs, his heart pounding against his ribs and a strange feeling of sickness churned in his stomach.
Then she did it; her hand fell casually from her leg and into the miniscule space between them on the couch. Harry heard a familiar voice in his mind.
Go on, Harry, do it…remember, its just a snitch…reach out…no, no, no…don't edge, REACH…go for it, Harry…where's that daring Gryffindor spirit, eh?
Apparently, it was in Hermione. Without even looking at Harry, she reached out and took his hand in her own. Waves and waves of tingling electricity shot through Harry's hand and up into his body. His brain was overloading, his skin tingling, his heart hamering so hard against his chest he thought it might spring forth at any second. Maybe she could hear it. She squeezed his hand gently, as if for confirmation that it was OK. He squeezed back, smoothing the back of her hand with his thumb, and she smiled, lost all pretence and scooted up right next to him. She placed her head on his shoulder and it was too much. The dizziness was almost unbearable.
They stayed like that for the rest of the film, moving only when Mrs Granger stirred and declared she was turning in. Harry said the same; his body and mind were falling apart too much. He had to escape before he exploded.
'Goodnight, Harry,' Hermione beamed, 'See you in the morning.'
Harry stared at her and grinned so wide he thought it might fall off the end of his face. He didn't say anything; the look in Hermione's eyes said that she, too, was feeling all the things that were, at that moment, turning his world upside down.
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