Disclaimer: See Act 1.
Author's Note: Apologies for how long it's taken to post this chapter but RL got really busy and then my muses deserted me. I hope this is worth the wait. Just one more chapter to go after this!
Playing a Part
Act 5: Life's a Show You Don't Get to Rehearse
By the next morning, Harry had decided exactly what he was going to do about his new physical reaction to Hermione.
Nothing.
So what if his body had apparently decided that this act of theirs should become easier?
It didn't matter. It was only physical and maybe would go away naturally.
Making the decision was easy but ignoring the attraction wasn't going to be so easy, Harry found, perhaps because he really had gotten too used to really acting as if he were dating Hermione.
But whatever it was, he realized the next morning that it wasn't going to be easy.
He saw a drop of pumpkin juice lingering on her lip after she'd taken a drink and he found himself wanting to lick it off, wanting to taste her…
She had her hair up in a ponytail to keep her hair out of her face as she pored over some books she'd brought home for her training at St. Mungo's and he couldn't keep his eyes away from the smooth bare skin of her neck.
There were other times when he would just watch her for the sheer pleasure of looking at her-how had he never before recognized the beauty of her, the natural grace of her? He would find himself staring at her, as if to memorize every feature of her face, the exact curve of her lips and the shape of her mouth when she smiled and laughed and talked and bit her lip in concentration… And sometimes he would come back to the present to see Ron studying him with an odd expression on his face and Harry would feel his cheeks heat with a tell-tale flush at being caught staring at Hermione. Again.
But he simply couldn't help it. His eyes seemed to have developed a will of their own.
One day when it was particularly hot, she wore shorts. He'd seen her wear shorts before of course but now he saw nothing but the long, smooth length of her legs. She crossed her legs and tucked them underneath her in a more comfortable position, causing her shorts to ride up and his mouth went dry, his attention positively riveted on her thighs. He wanted to slide his hand up her thighs, wanted to touch her, explore her, discover what color her knickers were and then the secret part of her body covered by her knickers… He wanted…
At this point in his unruly thoughts, he always leaped up and busied himself with nonsensical tasks ranging from mentally alphabetizing all the books on their bookshelf to re-arranging his clothes in his dresser and his closet by color and then again alphabetically by their makers. (His clothes had never been so organized before.)
It was insane.
He was only thankful that, for the most part, the insanity wasn't continuous. They came in flashes, moments, and at other times, he could act normally around her without this new madness intruding. And he got very good at shoving this inconvenient, impossible attraction to the back of his mind.
Because the fact remained that he hadn't seen any indication that Hermione felt anything other than the utterly platonic affection which she'd always felt for him.
Her behavior was much the same as it had ever been.
He spent what seemed like hours reliving the kiss and trying to understand the look on her face afterwards-there had been surprise, even shock, that had been clear. But that wasn't all-and he didn't know what to make of the other mix of emotions. Except it hadn't been- well, happiness. Whatever she'd thought and felt about his kissing her, her first reaction hadn't been happiness. Or desire or anything that might indicate some reciprocal feeling.
And if his madness-this madness that threatened the friendship on which his entire life was based-was only him (and it did seem like it was) then he would do nothing. He could do nothing. He knew that. He would rather have Hermione as a friend; he needed Hermione as his friend, the friend she'd always been. No amount of physical attraction or lust could make up for it if his being stupid jeopardized their friendship. He simply couldn't risk it.
Not because of desire.
"I kissed Hermione."
His words fell into the comfortable silence, disturbing it, like a stone would disturb a surface of water, leaving ripples in its wake. Harry swallowed. He hadn't meant to say it, had decided days ago never to mention it to Ron because it hadn't really meant anything (really!) and had changed nothing and there was no need to mention it when there was no real meaning to it.
But he still found himself thinking about that kiss almost constantly and apparently, his loss of control over his own eyes extended to his tongue as well. Bugger. He didn't want to talk about it but it was too late now-and maybe, just maybe, Ron could help him in some way out of his own confusion.
Ron stilled, his bottle of butter-beer halfway to his mouth, and stared at him. "On the mouth?"
"Erm- yeah."
"And not just a friendly peck?"
"No."
There was a pause and Harry couldn't stand it and found himself blurting out, "It was an accident!"
Ron lifted one eyebrow giving him a skeptical look. "An accident? What, did you just trip and fall onto her lips?" His voice was sarcastic in the extreme.
Harry squirmed. "No. I- it just happened. She- she was just smiling at me and- and I couldn't help it!"
Ron didn't respond immediately and Harry got the distinct impression that he was delaying having to respond by taking a long drink of his butter-beer.
"Harry, are you and Hermione actually together?"
"No! Of course not! You know that. It's only pretend, an act we're putting on to keep my fans away. It's not real." Harry hastened to explain.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure," Harry answered positively, throwing Ron an irritated look. What kind of question was that? Of course he would know if he and Hermione were dating and they weren't. Absolutely not. It was only an act. Only an act and it was never going to be anything more than that. He had to keep reminding himself of that.
"If you say so," Ron said dubiously. "I'm just saying because, lately, you've been- different… There have been lots of times that it really did look like you were dating, even to me. It doesn't seem like it's much of an act anymore."
"You're mad," Harry said rather crossly. So much for Ron providing any help. "I told you it's only pretend for these next few weeks."
"Only pretend," Ron repeated, not as if he believed it but as if Harry had just told him that he was planning to swim across the Atlantic and he was humoring the lunatic. "You're sure you don't fancy Hermione, then?"
"She's my best friend! I told you it's only an act; she's doing me a favor to keep those bloody girls away from me," he answered, telling himself it wasn't a lie. She was doing him a favor. She was helping him, much as she'd always helped him. It wasn't her fault his body (and his libido) wasn't listening to his mind and persisted in thinking this act gave it license to think about Hermione in all sorts of highly unplatonic ways.
"If you say so, mate," was all Ron said before he changed the subject to the upcoming Chudley Cannons tryouts.
Harry threw Ron a disgruntled look. Really! So what if he'd found it much easier than he might have expected to act like Hermione's boyfriend in public? So what if he found he was enjoying himself more than he would have thought? So what if he did find himself staring at Hermione's mouth and wondering what she would taste like? So what if he wanted her?
She was doing him a favor. His body was just being stupid and complicating the plan by believing it was real or something. He needed to get over this physical awareness of Hermione, just push it out of his mind.
That was all.
~*~
Everything fell apart two weeks later at the Victory Ball hosted by all the European Ministries of Magic together.
The Ball was held, not at any of the European Embassies (as no country wanted another country to have the honor of actually hosting the event), but on the neutral territory of the finest hotel in London's wizarding world, the Hotel Atlantis. The entire top floor, consisting of three very large ballrooms, had been given over for the event and everyone who was anyone in the wizarding world was invited.
Now that their pretended romantic relationship was generally accepted and had even become, amazingly, rather old news, they didn't have to spend the entire evening together, Harry realized.
Hermione's presence at the Ball provided enough protection from his fans, who now generally limited their attentions to him to flirtatious looks and more subtle gestures meant to be seductive, in the way they held their wine glasses or the way they would trace their tongues along the rims. Which was a combination of irritating and amusing, in an odd way, because of how intensely indifferent he found he was to all those ploys.
Their act had succeeded enough so he didn't have to really pretend that much.
He could mingle and socialize at will and only occasionally, did he really have to make sure to look over at Hermione or make a point of watching her or go over to her and play the part of attentive boyfriend. (Not that doing any of those things required any thought or extra effort. It was harder to remind himself not to look at her too much.)
Really, he told himself, he should be feeling relieved. He should be feeling triumphant, smug even, at just how successful his impulsive plan had turned out to be. He should be feeling pleasure that, if he wanted to and if any witch happened to catch his eye, he could try to chat her up and get to know her, free from his entourage of fan-girls.
He wasn't.
What he was feeling was more like disappointment and irritation than anything else.
He wanted to spend the evening with Hermione; he'd grown accustomed to it.
He'd grown accustomed to the times when their eyes would meet in shared amusement over something or when he'd have a thought and be able to share it with her immediately. He'd grown accustomed to the comfort of it.
And Merlin knew he'd grown accustomed to watching her, to seeing her smile and hearing her laugh. He'd grown accustomed to being able to touch her, had gotten used to the warmth of her body and the feel of her hand in his, the subtle scent of her that seemed to linger around her like an unseen benediction.
And he had gotten accustomed to the desire. To seeing her lips curve and wanting to kiss those lips, to wanting to taste her…
He had no interest in any other witch or in really socializing with anyone else at the Ball, unless Hermione was with him; every other witch only paled in comparison to Hermione anyway.
The only woman he was interested in, the only one who attracted him-whom the very sight of could send a jolt of desire through his body-was Hermione.
He stopped short in his idle wandering along the side-lines of the ballroom as that realization pounded through his brain and his body.
All he wanted was Hermione.
And not just physically. He'd been able to push aside, to rationalize and ignore his physical attraction to her (it was a fluke, a natural response of a red-blooded male to having to feign desire for a pretty girl). But this wasn't about simple lust. It was more complicated than that.
It was about wanting to spend time with her. It was about liking to talk to her, liking to see her smile and hear her laugh. It was about liking to make her smile and laugh.
It was about the comfort of her company, about loyalty and knowing that he would risk his life for her and that she would do the same for him-she already had and how many girls could he say that about?
It was about… love.
He didn't want to stop being Hermione's boyfriend. He never wanted that to end-but he wanted it to be real.
It was real for him, now. He didn't have to act like he was in love with Hermione; he was in love with her. (No wonder it had been such an easy role to play, he thought with a mental shake of his head at his own blindness.)
But how did she feel about him?
She had agreed to play the part out of friendship-was it at all possible that it had stopped being an act for her too? He knew she cared about him but could she love him?
And did he dare risk their friendship by confessing how he really felt?
At that thought, he found he was looking at Hermione again (as he had been, almost constantly, for most of the ball since the moment they'd arrived. He couldn't help it.) She was talking to Seamus and Dean, he noted, his gaze, as always, unerringly finding her in the crowded ballroom.
And at that moment, she glanced up and their eyes met and held.
He didn't know what, if anything, she saw in his expression-could she have seen his new understanding of his feelings?-but whatever it was, she was the first to look away, her eyes faltering and a flush staining her cheeks.
He tried to remember if she'd ever blushed like that from a look of his before, but it didn't matter. He felt a tremor of hope and his decision was made.
As if he'd really ever had much of a choice.
He needed to tell her.
He needed to be with her and talk to her and tell her the truth he'd just realized. He needed to tell her that he loved her, that this had stopped being an act for him, that it was all real. That he'd kissed her because he wanted to and not from any pretense.
And he needed to tell her immediately. It was, he thought fuzzily in some small detached corner of his mind, the moment of truth.
Thoughts and emotions and words were bubbling up in his mind, crowding out any other thoughts he might have had, and he simply needed to tell her.
Needed it like he needed water. Wanted it more than he wanted his next breath.
And before he'd even made the conscious decision to move, he found his feet propelling him towards her.
He found himself at her side before all these thoughts had finished running through his mind and long before he had the slightest idea of just what he was going to say to her. (On second thought, just rushing headlong into confessing his feelings may not have been the smart thing to do but it was too late now.)
He barely retained enough presence of mind to greet Seamus and Dean with a friendly, "Hi."
They grinned at him easily and he automatically slid his arm around Hermione's waist, pausing for a moment to note just how natural, how right, it felt to do so. As if he'd been putting his arm around Hermione all his life and not just in these last few weeks.
"You guys don't mind if I steal Hermione back for a bit, do you?" he asked with forced lightness, tamping down on his mad impulse to ignore the civilities and simply drag Hermione away. "I wanted to talk to her about something."
Dean grinned, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "Oh, of course, you just want to talk."
Seamus guffawed. "Naturally, I'm sure talking is all he has in mind."
Harry sensed Hermione's blush and automatically responded to take the edge off her embarrassment. "I refuse to dignify that with an answer," he said with mock hauteur, though his twitching lips gave him away.
"Yeah, right." Seamus snorted.
"Well, go on then," Dean waved them off with a grin.
He made a quick decision and led Hermione out to the hallway just outside the front entrance to the hotel ballroom, deserted now that everyone had long since arrived at the Ball.
"What is it, Harry?" Hermione smiled up at him. "Did you really need to make such a scene with Seamus and Dean?" she teased.
God, she positively glowed when she smiled. For a moment, he simply stared. She did look absolutely gorgeous tonight but now, at this moment, when she was smiling so brightly, she was lit up as if illuminated from within, and he knew that he'd never see anything quite as beautiful as she was right then. She was so beautiful-how could he ever not have seen that? How could he ever not have known that she was the most beautiful woman in the world?
He swallowed, licking his suddenly-dry lips and wondered why his heart was clattering in his chest like a mad thing. He knew he loved her-but what if she didn't feel the same way about him? What if this had only been an act, a favor she'd done for her best friend, and meant nothing more than that?
"I- I wanted to tell you something," he began rather lamely.
She tilted her head slightly, giving him a curious look. "What is it? Come on, Harry, it can't be that terrible, can it?"
"I don't know. I think it's a good thing but I'm not sure what you'll think about it. You might think it's bad or strange or I'm being an idiot or something," he went on, in a rush of flustered words.
A slight frown flickered across her face.
"I-er…" he began and then stopped, his mind going blank as to what to say. He couldn't just blurt out that he loved her. He should explain, he should tell her how he'd realized it. He needed to tell her it was real.
"I- I want to stop this," he blurted out the first words that came to mind. "I want to stop pretending."
Her reaction was nothing he'd ever expected. The slight smile lingering on her lips vanished with startling suddenness, looking as if it had been cut off, and that inner light, that happiness, she'd been glowing with was extinguished, her eyes no longer sparkling but dark with some emotion he couldn't read.
And then, just as suddenly, it was gone, replaced with a mask. He could almost see the walls coming down around her, closing her off from him.
She managed a brittle smile and he frowned, feeling his dismay escalate rapidly into panic. This wasn't going at all like he'd expected. Was she that upset that this was real and he'd stopped acting?
She didn't move, didn't step back physically, but the distance between their bodies seemed to widen until a chasm may as well have separated them. "That's fine, Harry. I understand. Of course, I understand and I have no problems with it."
His confusion deepened. If her slight smile had been brittle, her tone sounded remarkably calm and cheerful-too calm and cheerful. She sounded stiff, as if she were reading from a script or something, so far removed from her normal open-ness that it almost seemed like this was a separate person entirely, another Hermione whom he'd never met, a complete stranger.
"I'll see you later, then," she said and was gone before he could blink or even realize just what had gone so colossally wrong.
He could only stare blankly at the spot where she had been for a full minute.
"Well, bugger," he muttered to himself. "That went well."
For about the first time in his life, he had absolutely no idea what Hermione had been thinking.
His heart clenched in sudden fear. God, had she been so distraught at the mere suspicion that he loved her?
That made some sense, come to think of it, he reflected, his heart pinching with anticipated hurt. If she knew but didn't feel that way about him, it would make things really awkward for them, especially since they shared a flat. And he knew she wouldn't want to hurt him; she cared too much about him as a friend, to say nothing of the fact that Hermione's kindness meant that she'd never want to hurt anyone. Maybe that was why she'd fled. To avoid hearing him say the final words, I love you, so she wouldn't have to reject him outright.
He winced at that thought.
He needed to talk to her again, needed to know for sure just why she'd been so upset and why she'd fled.
She must have left the Ball and he didn't want to have this sort of personal conversation here anyway. He would wait until that night, when he'd had more time to plan out what he wanted to say.
After all, they did share a flat; he could find some time alone with her.
It was impossible to avoid each other, with just the three of them in a flat, and never had Harry been so grateful for that fact as now.
His certainty lasted until late the next morning.
Her door had been closed when he and Ron returned to the flat after the Ball last night and he had decided to wait until morning.
But now, it was hours after Hermione usually woke up and she had still not appeared.
He frowned and finally gave in and knocked on her door. "Hermione? It's me. Can we talk?"
There was no response.
He knocked again. "Hermione! Come on, let me in."
Still no response. He exchanged slightly concerned glances with Ron before he simply grasped the knob and opened the door.
Her room was empty.
Her dress robes from last night were flung across her bed, lying where she'd thrown them off, the hurry-and the distress-she'd been in, attested to in that fact alone since Hermione was usually obsessive about hanging everything up.
She was gone.
For one long moment, he simply stared blankly and then his dazed mind recovered enough to feel worry.
"Where is she?" Ron asked.
"I don't know," he responded stupidly.
"Well, she can't have disappeared. Where could she have gone?"
"I have to find her," was all he said in response.
But that, he realized soon after, was rather easier said than done.
~To be continued…
*ducks flying objects* *hides* Sorry about the cliffie, but it had to be done! The next part is half-written but can't promise when it'll be done-sorry-but hopefully, it won't be too long.