Playing a Part

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR, lucky woman. I just borrow, for fun and not for profit.

Author’s Note: A fluffy fic, inspired in part by listening to the song, “Make Believe” from the musical, “Show Boat”. I’m not sure how many chapters this will end up being but at least five. Enjoy!

Playing a Part

Act 1: Setting the Stage

He blamed it on the alcohol.

Alcohol and pent-up irritation and frustration combined to make him suggest what he did, even if it was an insane suggestion he’d never have made if he’d been thinking straight.

But he wasn’t thinking straight and that was where it all started.

He let out a sigh of relief as he opened the door to the flat he shared with Ron and Hermione. “Free at last and home sweet home,” he muttered as he walked in and hung up his cloak.

“Poor baby. Was it that bad?” Hermione’s laughing voice asked from behind him as she too hung up her cloak.

They’d left Ron behind at the Victory Ball they’d just been to since he’d been having a wonderful time flirting with a very well-endowed and exotic-looking beauty. Harry had only let Ron know with a look and a slight jerk of his head towards the entrance that he and Hermione were leaving, knowing Ron would understand.

And then, he and Hermione had escaped.

He flung himself onto the sofa with a sigh, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, as he let himself relax, feeling the tension that had been holding him captive for the past couple hours since the moment they’d set foot inside the ballroom at the French Wizarding Embassy begin to unwind. “It’s really sad that leaving a ball feels like an emancipation from slavery to me,” he commented, without opening his eyes.

He heard Hermione’s soft laugh and then a soft clink of a glass bottle.

“Here, Harry, have some butterbeer. You know you’ve had rather too much to drink.”

“It was the only way I was going to survive the night with my sanity intact and without committing murder,” he protested, reacting instinctively to the reproof he heard in her tone, in spite of how mild it had been and laced with amusement.

Hermione laughed again and he opened one eye in a mock glare at her. “It’s not funny. Some best friend you are, to laugh at my pain like that,” he pretended to gripe.

She sobered, although her eyes still shone with mirth. “Oh, of course. So sorry. Mustn’t offend the Savior of the Wizarding World.”

He winced. “Don’t call me that!”

“What? I think it has a nice ring to it. Savior. Savior,” she repeated, drawing the word out to several more syllables than it originally possessed.

He threw a pillow at her but her teasing repetition of the title he’d heard said so many times tonight brought to mind his main grievance.

“Ugh! All those bloody girls!”

From the moment he’d set foot in the ballroom, he’d been surrounded, mobbed really, with girls who were all eager to meet him and dance with him and even more than that. The two who’d been first had attached themselves to him with the persistence of leeches and the rest had formed a veritable entourage, all vying for his attention and all somehow managing to introduce themselves at some point.

It had been absolutely terrible. Even worse than it had been at the Ministry of Magic’s Victory celebration two weeks ago.

“Well, think of it this way, Harry. You have plenty of candidates to become your next girlfriend.”

“No, I don’t,” he contradicted her. “I’d rather like to date a girl whom I don’t have to peel off me every time I want to go to the loo or something. Dating any of the girls I’ve met would be something like going undercover because I’d need to sneak around to do anything on my own.” The face he made was eloquent of his horror at that prospect. “No, thank you.”

There was a brief silence as she seemed to consider his words and he mentally shuddered away from the prospect of the four other balls scheduled in the next two months. He hated the publicity and these formal celebrations but considering that the Minister of Magic had personally requested he attend them all (and, more importantly, the importance of his attendance had been stressed by Professor McGonagall and Remus and Mr. Weasley) he hadn’t been able to refuse. So he’d already been to the Ministry of Magic’s official celebration which had begun this season of celebrations, followed by tonight’s ball hosted by the Ambassador from the French Ministry. There was another ball for next weekend hosted by the Russian Ambassador, followed by one for the American Ambassador and then the largest Celebration ball of them all, one which was being hosted by the European Ministries of Magic as a whole. Lastly was the only Ball he would have wanted to attend if he’d had any choice, the Hogwarts Victory Ball, which was going to be held the last week of August to officially signal the re-opening of the first school year after the war.

In short, he could look forward to another two months of sheer hell.

And the thought prompted another one. If only he already had a girlfriend, it would make things so much easier because then the blasted girls would have to keep their distance.

It wasn’t, in retrospect, the most sane idea in the world. But in his current state of mind, after having drunk more champagne and Firewhisky than he normally would have, it struck him as an eminently sane and clever thought.

“Say, Hermione, how’d you like to be my girlfriend?”

She choked on air. “What?”

He sat up and met her horrified and shocked gaze. “Not for real,” he hastily assured her. “Only pretend. I just thought of it. See, if I already had a girlfriend, then those other silly twits would have to give up and leave me alone. So what if, for these next four balls, you pretended to be my girlfriend-- we pretended to be dating? It would solve so many of my problems. It’d only be for the next couple months while we have these bloody celebrations to go to.”

Somehow, he didn’t think she looked much less horrified and he hurried to try to add more reasons. “It’ll be easy enough, I think; we just have to act like ourselves with a little more touching and longer looks. That should be enough. We wouldn’t have to snog or anything. And I can’t ask anyone else ‘cause the only other girls I know that I could ask are Ginny—and I can’t ask her because it’d be all awkward—and Luna and she’s, well, Luna so she wouldn’t understand and I can’t see myself being able to pretend I’m dating her. Please, Hermione,” he added, attempting to give her a pleading look.

And Hermione knew she was lost.

She never had been able to adequately resist Harry when he was giving her that look, especially not with that smile tugging at his lips and that sparkle in his eyes.

In the two months since the final battle, it had taken so long for Harry to recover his humor, when he could smile and laugh and joke without shadows clouding his eyes. And now when he could simply have fun, she found it harder than ever to deny him anything because she’d missed that light-heartedness in Harry so much. She’d missed seeing him smile and hearing him laugh and after a year where both smiles and laughter had been rather scarce, she valued each one all the more now.

It had taken weeks but now, finally, Harry was himself again, joking again, teasing again. And she loved it.

He still had his moments of brooding, moments where he’d fall silent and she’d look at him and see his distracted gaze and the shadows darkening his eyes and she knew he was remembering, thinking, of all they’d gone through in the last year. But those moments were becoming more infrequent and when they did happen, they were lasting a shorter time.

But they happened often enough still that she treasured every smile, every laugh, every time he teased her, more than she otherwise would.

And now, with that mischievous, teasing sparkle in his eyes so she could see that, somehow, the notion of fooling the wizarding world and obtaining some freedom from his fangirls at the same time tickled him, she knew she couldn’t possibly resist.

Part of her mind was warning her to be careful, that she was blithely leaping before she looked into a pretense that could end up dangerous to her and her peace of mind.

And another part of her mind was telling her that this might be her only chance, might be as close as she ever got to knowing what it’d be like to have Harry act like he was romantically interested in her. It might just be her only chance to experience her most secret dream, the dreams that were so secret she hardly dared admit them to herself.

She’d been silent too long and he was getting nervous. “Well, what do you say? Do it for me,” he wheedled, giving her a quick, slightly lop-sided smile of entreaty.

And Hermione Granger, in an uncharacteristic (or not-so-uncharacteristic) moment of yielding against her better judgment to the charm of the boy she loved, set caution aside.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” she agreed.

And felt she was almost amply rewarded right then and there with the brightness of the grin he gave her. Oh, yes, to see the way his eyes and his entire expression lit up, she would do a lot more, risk a lot more…

“Thank you, Hermione! You just saved my sanity for these next few weeks. This is going to be rather fun, I think. Test our acting abilities.”

She smiled at him but couldn’t help but think that her problem might actually be the reverse, that it would be only too easy to act like she loved Harry.

Dangerously easy. And dangerously tempting.

Oh she was in for it now…

Only make believe I love you

Only make believe that you love me.

Others find peace of mind in pretending,

Couldn’t you?

Couldn’t I?

Couldn’t we?...

~”Make Believe” from the musical, “Show Boat”

~To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Act 1.

Author’s Note: Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing! I’m somewhat amazed at how popular this first Act has started out to be. I hope the second Act lives up to your expectations.

Playing a Part

Act 2: The Play Begins

A week later, Hermione had come to the conclusion that she must have been temporarily insane.

What had she been thinking to agree to this sort of madcap scheme?

It was insane. Absolute madness.

Rather like Ron had said when Harry had told him about their plan. Ron had given them both looks as if they’d just sprouted another head and then said, in response to Harry’s, “So what do you think?”, “I think you’re both barmy.”

Harry had shrugged. “Maybe I am, but I’d be even more barmy if I had to go through another night of being surrounded by all those bloody girls.”

She stared at herself in the mirror. She’d gone to rather more trouble than she otherwise would have for this particular ball, had spent more than an hour trying out different hair-styles before settling on one and had then, on an impulse, used a discreet charm on the bodice of her dress robes to make the neckline lower than it had been.

She wondered if Harry would notice.

“Hermione? You ready?”

“Coming.” She gave herself one last look in the mirror and tried to fortify herself.

Harry smiled when he saw her. Really, Hermione was quite pretty. He never really thought about her looks normally but when she made an effort and was dressed up, she really was pretty. “You look great,” he said sincerely and handed her cloak to her.

“Thanks, so do you.” And she tried to comfort herself with the thought that, after all, Harry’s sincere compliments meant something, at least— and so what if she wasn’t the type to ever strike a man—that is, strike Harry—dumb with admiration? He thought she looked great and that would have to be enough.

He grinned at her. “Are you ready for this?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see.”

“Yes, we will.”

By the time they arrived at the Russian Magical Embassy, the ball was well under-way. They had specifically planned to arrive a little later than usual in an attempt to make their entrance together at once both more subtle and more pointed without the usual fanfare.

Harry realized the moment he and Hermione reached the door that they’d failed in that calculation.

There was a man in uniform waiting at the door who, Harry suspected, had been placed there for the sole purpose of being able to announce his arrival.

He was right.

Harry grimaced. “Oh no, not this,” he muttered.

She threw him a resigned look and a smile. “Smile, Harry. You look like you’re being led to the guillotine or something.”

That earned her a crack of surprised laughter as he grinned at her and so, when the man announced, “Harry Potter and his date,” in a voice enhanced by the Sonorus Charm, the first sight of them that the ballroom full of people had was of him smiling down at Hermione.

He glanced at her to see that her smile was looking a little forced now, no doubt at having been reduced to the status of ‘his date’ with no name mentioned. He slipped his hand into hers, giving it an encouraging squeeze. “It doesn’t matter. Everyone with half a brain knows that if it weren’t for you, I’d never have survived to be here tonight anyway.” He paused and added teasingly, “I haven’t decided yet if I’ll forgive you for condemning me to this.”

“Harry!” Her reproof at his joke (which he’d expected, since he knew she disliked it when he made light of his near-death experiences) was belied by the mildness of her tone and the smile she couldn’t help.

“Sorry,” he grinned unrepentantly. “Here begins our acting career,” he added, under his breath, as they continued into the ballroom.

And, as had happened at the other two balls he’d been to, he was accosted almost before he finished looking around the room for familiar faces.

“Harry!”

Harry barely had time to blink before a blonde witch whom he vaguely remembered meeting at one of the previous balls (he couldn’t remember which one) rushed towards him and stopped just short of practically flinging herself at him.

“Oh, Harry, it’s so good to see you again,” she greeted him enthusiastically, her voice warm and her expression inviting. “I was looking forward to continuing our conversation,” she purred, managing to make it sound like they’d been having a very intense, personal talk. (Harry seemed to remember that they’d talked about the weather.) She had attached herself to Harry’s arm and was gripping it possessively, smiling up at him what was clearly supposed to be an alluring smile.

(For a moment, Harry wondered fleetingly if there weren’t something wrong with him that seeing her rather blatantly flirtatious smile didn’t engender any sort of reaction in him, at least not that she would like. She was certainly pretty, would probably even be considered beautiful, with her bright blue eyes and blonde hair and perfect features, to say nothing of her figure that was beautifully revealed by her dress robes—but he felt nothing. Surely any normal fellow would be attracted, would enjoy the attention of such a pretty witch; he was clearly not normal because all he felt was distaste and a desire to flee.)

After a moment in which Harry forced a polite smile and a “hello,” she continued on, sparing Hermione a cool glance and a patently false smile. “Oh, Hermione, I didn’t see you at first. You don’t mind if I borrow Harry for a while, do you?”

Harry tried to surreptitiously twitch his arm out of the girl’s grasp—he couldn’t even remember her name, Diedre or maybe it was Daphne or was it April?—but failed. He stiffened at the not-quite-veiled disparagement in her tone (as if Hermione was invisible, of all things, when in reality, she was always very visible to him at least and he’d realized she tended to catch his eye even without meaning to because of the open-ness of all her expressions and the un-self-conscious sincerity of everything she said and did). He opened his mouth, keeping his role of Hermione’s boyfriend in mind, but Hermione spoke first.

Harry found himself staring in some surprise as Hermione gifted the girl with a bright smile. “Actually, I do mind. You’ll have to talk to Harry some other time.” Her tone was so sugary that for a split second, the girl assumed Hermione had given way and even began to smile before she realized what Hermione had said.

Harry swallowed back a laugh and the impulse to cheer Hermione—who would have guessed she could be so good at playing the role of possessive girlfriend?

The girl gave a forced little laugh that grated on Harry’s ears. “Oh but really you can’t expect to monopolize Harry, now can you?”

Harry’s limited patience had run out and he deemed it high time he supported Hermione in this scheme of his, so he jerked his arm free from the persistent witch’s grip with a little more force than was strictly polite. “Well, I was hoping to monopolize Hermione this evening, which is why I asked her to be my date.”

“Your- your date? Her?” The girl gaped at him.

“Well, she is the only witch I really want to spend the evening with, so it only made sense, don’t you think?”

With that, Harry turned away, towards where he’d last glimpsed Ron, and smiled inwardly as he noted that Hermione was, as always, on the same page with him and so had matched his movements without his even having to tell her.

They had only walked a few steps before they glanced at each other and found themselves grinning and then laughing.

“I never thought I’d say this but I’m having fun at this ball,” he grinned, relishing both the truth of it and also the freedom of being able to simply be himself, now that he was, at least for now, away from his fans.

“Yeah, that was rather amusing,” Hermione agreed. “Are all your love-struck fans quite so… so obvious?”

“Thankfully, no, but they are very- erm- enthusiastic.”

“Nice diplomatic answer,” Hermione noted teasingly. “So, if I dare ask, what were you talking about in that conversation she was so eager to continue? Some intensely emotional topic?”

“Oh, very,” Harry deadpanned. “I can get teary-eyed just thinking about the terrible spate of sunny days we’ve had lately.”

Hermione made a noise suspiciously like a snort. “The weather?”

“Oh, not only the weather. If I remember correctly, we also mentioned the extremely philosophical subject of the Weird Sisters’ new album.”

“Really?” Hermione managed to say in a passably serious tone, as if he’d mentioned that they’d also talked about the nature of good and evil.

“Yes. She asked if I’d listened to it; I said no and she said I should listen to it sometime.”

Hermione lost the battle with amusement and burst out laughing.

Harry grinned at her and couldn’t help but think how very—pretty—Hermione looked like this, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling. Unconsciously, his hand reached out for hers again, giving it another quick squeeze.

Her smile could brighten up a cloudy day. The vague thought flitted through his mind but dissipated in the next moment and he forgot it.

“Really, saying you’re my date has had a wonderful effect. I’m not being nearly smothered by girls anymore,” he changed the subject, lowering his voice a little in case anyone was near enough to overhear.

“No,” Hermione agreed with a quick glance around. “Instead, though, everyone’s looking at us, watching us.”

Harry cast a quick glance around as well, seeing the quickly-withdrawn gazes and the more openly-curious stares. “So they are. Well, what do you say we reprise our performance and give them something more to stare at?” he suggested, on impulse.

Hermione hesitated. “Harry—what…” she began.

Buoyed by his amusement and the success of his little plan so far, Harry entered fully into the spirit of it and grinned at her briefly. Then, sobering, he lifted the hand he still held to his lips, brushing his mouth against the back of her hand, his eyes holding hers for a long moment.

Hermione forgot how to breathe. She felt her cheeks flush hotly under his gaze, almost mesmerized in spite of herself at the way he was looking at her. It was almost—almost like the way he’d used to look at Cho or Ginny… It was almost as if it were real and he really did think she was beautiful… Almost as if he were kissing her hand as a substitute for the more intimate caress he couldn’t give her while they were in public…

Almost—but not quite.

She could see, even though she knew no one else could, the humorous glint in his eye. And the sight restored her to herself.

For just a fleeting moment, she’d allowed herself to forget this was just an act, but that glint in his eye brought her back to reality.

After all, it was only pretend, just an act.

He was only pretending to fancy her in that way, only playing the part of a besotted lover.

And since that was the case, according to the plan, she was only pretending to be charmed by him—in love with him… She was only pretending to care about him so much, pretending the flush in her cheeks when he gave her one of his intense looks… Only pretending…

And if she thought it often enough, maybe it would turn out to be true.

We only pretend

You do not offend

In playing a lover’s part.

The game of just supposing

Is the sweetest game I know.

Our dreams are more romantic

Than the world we see…

~ “Make Believe” from the musical, “Show Boat”

~To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Act 1.

Author’s Note: Thank you, everyone, who’s read and reviewed this fic so far! I appreciate all the feedback, even if I don’t have time to respond to everyone’s comments. I hope you all enjoy this next part and the beginning of Denial!Harry. ;-) Act 3 of 6.

Playing a Part

Act 3: The Show Must Go On?

Harry’s first indication that his plan had developed an unforeseen complication was when he opened the Daily Prophet the next morning to see a picture of himself and Hermione on the front page.

The rest of the ball yesterday evening had continued on in much the same fashion. He’d been accosted by several more of his fangirls, each of whom had tried to insinuate themselves between him and Hermione and imply somewhat less-than-subtly that Harry arriving with Hermione was purely out of friendship. He had entered into the spirit of his little plot and enjoyed himself surprisingly. It helped that his instinct to defend Hermione from the veiled insults of his fans was quite natural and hardly needed any acting and, in the other times, when he and Hermione were walking and talking together, it had been easy to fall into the usual rhythm of their friendship and camaraderie.

Really, all he’d needed to do was make a point of touching her, little platonic touches on her arm or her shoulder or her back more often than he normally would and he’d also kissed her cheek once. All things he’d done before and none of them requiring all that much thought or effort.

The evening had really been very pleasant. He’d spent most of it with Hermione and talking to Ron and other people whom he would have wanted to talk to anyway, like Mr. Weasley and Bill and Fleur.

He had thought that his plan, insane as it might sound, was actually working out to be quite a success.

Until he opened the Daily Prophet.

He choked on his pumpkin juice at the headline that trumpeted, Romance for Harry Potter?

The picture was, rather surprisingly, not of one of the more overtly-romantic gestures from the evening of him kissing Hermione’s hand or of him kissing her cheek, but was, simply of him looking at Hermione and them laughing together over something. But on looking at it, he could see why they had chosen that picture and that moment. He couldn’t identify exactly when in the evening the picture had been taken because he and Hermione had spent what seemed like the better part of the evening smiling and laughing together. He couldn’t help but think, as he studied the picture, that if he didn’t know better, if the picture had been of any other two people, he would have thought they were romantically involved too. He wasn’t even sure exactly what it was about the picture that struck him that way; maybe it was the atmosphere of intimacy, of understanding, that was somehow exuded from the snapshot of shared humor. Hermione’s smile was bright and her expression one of unselfconscious and completely sincere enjoyment in his company while his was much the same.

Of course it was just a sign of how close they were as friends and how well they got along together. Hermione was his best friend; of course he would enjoy her company and naturally, he’d rather spend the evening with her than fending off his persistent fangirls, none of whom, he was willing to bet, really cared about him as a person but cared more about his fame and his wealth and his status as the so-called Savior of the Wizarding World.

He turned his attention to the article beneath the picture.

It looks like Harry Potter has found love with his long-time best friend Hermione Granger.

It appears that Harry Potter is not as available as every young witch would like him to be. He was accompanied to the Victory Ball held at the Russian Embassy last evening by none other than Hermione Granger, who has long been known as one of his best friends, along with Ron Weasley.

Mr. Potter spent the entire evening with Miss Granger and from all appearances, they are definitely a couple, from the obvious enjoyment they took in each other’s company. Mr. Potter was seen holding her hand and kissing it and he also kissed her cheek.

It is sad news for all those young witches who have been eagerly anticipating the chance to meet and dance with Mr. Potter, who was named the Most Eligible Bachelor in the latest issue of Witch Weekly, as well as winning the Most Charming Smile award.

One is left to wonder just when the romantic relationship between Mr. Potter and Miss Granger began but we, at the Daily Prophet, can only imagine it has been some time, as Mr. Potter and Miss Granger’s obvious close-ness over the years would suggest.

The article went on to relate his previous relationships with Cho and with Ginny (clearly, the Daily Prophet had spoken to someone from Hogwarts) as well as mentioning Hermione’s relationship with Viktor Krum and mentioning the rumors about her and Ron.

Harry grimaced a little as he pushed the paper away from him and then started, looking up as Hermione came out of her bedroom.

“Morning, Harry,” she greeted him with a smile.

“You should probably take a look at this,” he said instead, forgoing a more traditional greeting.

“What is it?”

He heard her make a small sound in her throat as she skimmed the article and looked at the picture and he hastened to speak. “I’m sorry about this.” He knew she disliked being mentioned in the papers as much as he did, all the more because she hadn’t had enough time to become inured to it as he had. It had only been in the past few months since the final battle that she and Ron had become nearly as famous as he was for their roles in helping him defeat Voldemort. And this article was worse than usual because it was entirely focused on their private lives. “I forgot the endless fascination people seem to have with my private life,” he continued apologetically. “If you want, we can just forget this whole plot and make a public denial that we’re anything more than friends. I’ll survive the next two balls on my own,” he added, trying to keep his instinctive dread at the thought out of his voice.

He knew he hadn’t succeeded when she threw him a brief, rather doubtful look. He supposed he should have known better than to think he could lie to her; she had always had that ability (the rather inconvenient ability, at this moment) to see through any pretenses and she had heard him grumble about his fans and his fame often enough to know just how much he detested the spotlight.

Her gaze lowered to look at the picture again and in a motion so natural he was almost sure it was unconscious, she reached out with one finger to brush it against the picture, the pad of her finger brushing over his pictured face with a touch as light as a butterfly’s wing.

And that was when it happened.

He was never sure afterwards exactly why it happened or what caused it but somehow, something about seeing her finger move over that picture of himself in such a light caress, something about how his gaze and his attention had suddenly been riveted to her hand and the unconscious grace of her fingers, made him react. For a fleeting moment- to his own horror- he couldn’t help but wonder what her fingers would feel like moving in such a delicate caress over—his skin or, more specifically, something else—that part of his body that was suddenly making itself known—and he felt a stab of desire, the muscles in his body tensing.

Good God.

He automatically recoiled, slamming a mental door on the wayward thoughts and shut his eyes for a minute as he fought to regain control of his own renegade body.

It hadn’t happened. It hadn’t happened. It couldn’t have happened. He had not just experienced a moment of- of lust—for Hermione. He had not. It hadn’t happened, could not happen, should not happen.

It would never happen. Could not happen. Again, that is.

He made a face of instinctive dismay—and then in the next moment, he nearly leaped out of his own skin when he felt a gentle touch on his hand. It took every ounce of control he possessed not to flinch away from her touch and he was immensely thankful when she took her hand away.

His eyes flew open to see the half-amused, half-sympathetic smile on Hermione’s face. “Don’t look like that, Harry. It’s okay; I won’t abandon you to your fan-girls.”

For a fleeting moment, he just stared at her, having completely lost track of what she was talking about and then realized. She must have thought that the face he’d made had been at the thought of having to face his fan-girls without the help of his little scheme and she’d agreed to continue it.

“Are you sure?” he blurted out, suddenly not at all sure that going on with his plan was the smart thing to do. “You know the press isn’t going to leave you alone.”

For a moment, doubt flickered across her face but then she smiled. “And what kind of best friend would I be if I just left you to fend off your crazy fans alone?”

“Maybe a sane one,” he couldn’t help but mutter.

She laughed and something about the very familiarity of it helped him relax.

After all, that insane moment earlier had just been a fluke. It must have been a fluke. He’d been upset and not thinking clearly. That was all it was. A fluke. And it wouldn’t happen again.

This was Hermione after all; he’d never felt that way about Hermione. It was partly why he’d felt able to suggest they pretend to be dating; it would have been too awkward, too odd, to play a role if he’d ever imagined that the act might become real. (Although, a small part of his mind reminded him, this sort of rational thought had had nothing to do with his asking Hermione to play this part; really, it had been the combination of alcohol and frustration and irritation and tiredness.)

But he managed to return her smile and pushed that one odd moment away, slamming a mental door on it.

It was going to be fine.

~

He should have known better than to feel complacent about his plan once the media got involved.

He should also have guessed, somehow, that the press and the public would never be satisfied to leave him alone, especially not with something as important as his first (supposed) adult relationship and with both him, Hermione and Ron maintaining a discreet silence about it, refusing to comment. He should have guessed that a lack of news would drive them to inventing some by feeding speculation and rumors.

After all, Rita Skeeter wasn’t exactly unique.

He ignored the stories indulging in speculation and gossip about him, had even grown accustomed to ignoring most things that were said about him, so he shrugged off the suggestion that he might have pressured Hermione into dating him—and more than that—through using his status and his magical power to intimidate her. (The very idea of it made him laugh, although Hermione had been quite irate. Him intimidate Hermione-- as if he really could! When Hermione was the only person he’d ever met who seemed completely uncaring of the fact that he was famous and had never let it stop her from telling him when she thought he was being a prat or making a mistake! When Hermione was just as powerful, magically, as he was, if not more so, simply because of how clever she was! Half the time, he rather suspected that if it ever came down to it, she could probably defeat him in a real duel and Merlin knew that she could be downright intimidating herself when she was truly angry about something—although fortunately, he had yet to experience having that rather awesome anger of hers directed at him. Never mind the fact that he’d sooner cut off his own hand than frighten or hurt Hermione in any way.)

He laughed off that story (and appeased Hermione’s automatic, defensive anger on his behalf in doing so) and he ignored the other stories. That was easier because the stories attacking him weren’t picked up by any of the more reputable newspapers. He was protected, at the moment, because of how fresh his defeat of Voldemort was in people’s minds. No one was about to believe anything bad about him. As far as the wizarding world, at large, was concerned (from what he could tell) he had all the wisdom and power of Dumbledore and more, the nobility and purity of character of a saint, and more charm than Gilderoy Lockhart without the vanity.

But then the stories started in on Hermione.

At first, it was a somewhat innocent editorial speculating on what Hermione had done to attract him—it was only the underlying insinuations that had really been mean-spirited but one couldn’t exactly disagree with what had only been implied. Then it escalated into interviews from various people—some of whom Harry could swear had never even met Hermione—all talking about how Hermione was really known for being unscrupulous when it came to what she wanted and how she was quite plain and she must have used a Love Potion to trick him into fancying her and wanting to date her.

And it was Hermione’s turn to shrug off the stories with a cool laugh and his to feel a violent urge to hex anyone involved in those stories into the next century.

But the real problem, when it happened, was entirely his fault.

He’d been way-laid outside their flat, the reporters cornering him until the only way to really break free would have been to hex them all and he didn’t relish that idea.

“Mr. Potter—Harry—how can you explain why you’ve passed over so many beautiful girls in favor of Hermione Granger?”

“Harry, do you have any comment on the accusations that Hermione made a Love Potion to attract you?”

“Mr. Potter! How can you trust Miss Granger when she’s said to have used a Love Potion or a spell of some kind to trap you?”

“Mr. Potter, do you really feel safe sharing a flat with Miss Granger after everything she’s done?”

And that question was what really pushed him over the edge.

Pure, simple, unmitigated fury rose up inside his mind, clouding his thoughts and making him forget everything about his plan or that he’d sworn never to comment or that anything he said would only feed the fire and all he could think of was that these vultures were attacking Hermione, insinuating terrible things about her and making her out to be the most cold-blooded witch in the history of the wizarding world. Hermione, of all people!

“Shut up!” he burst out, glaring at the reporter who’d asked that last question.

Immediately, they all quieted, watching him with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness and surprise.

“Hermione has never done anything that would make me not trust her. As if she’d even need Love Potions or spells to make any fellow fancy her! She’s beautiful and kind and clever and I count myself lucky just to know her and be able to call her my friend. And that’s final.”

He pushed his way through the crowd and, now that they’d finally gotten some actual material, they let him go.

His sense of satisfaction at having so effectively shut them up lasted until the next morning.

His little outburst had put him back on the front page of the Daily Prophet and this time the headline read, Harry Potter Confirms Romantic Relationship with Hermione Granger.

He choked on air. What? He hadn’t! He hadn’t said a word about their supposed relationship and he certainly hadn’t lied outright.

Yesterday afternoon, Harry Potter finally spoke about his relationship with his long-time best friend and current love interest, Hermione Granger, confirming the news of their relationship.

When questioned with the latest speculation about Miss Granger’s dabbling in Love Potions, he defended Miss Granger with a passion that clearly revealed the strength of their relationship.

According to Mr. Potter, Miss Granger would never need any unnatural magical methods of attraction. As he said, “She’s beautiful and kind and clever and I count myself lucky just to know her and be able to call her my friend.”

Mr. Potter has never spoken so openly about his feelings and that he did so now only proves just how strong his attachment to Miss Granger is.

It appears that anyone who criticizes Miss Granger does so at the risk of angering Mr. Potter. And never did any witch have a more able champion.

Harry stared. Had he really said all that? He had hardly been aware of what he was saying, so angry had he been at the time, and he didn’t remember all his words, only knew that he’d blurted out his thoughts without pretense.

She’s beautiful and kind and clever…

Well, of course, she was. He never really bothered to put it into words; after all, why would he list all the ways he would describe Hermione when she was always there? He had barely even realized he thought all those things, that he did think he was lucky—the luckiest—to have her as a friend. But there it was, all he’d ever thought about Hermione, laid out on paper.

But really, how did that constitute a confirmation of a romantic relationship?

Hermione was his best friend. Of course he would defend her; of course he would be angry at anyone spreading lies about her like that. So what if he’d broken his own rule about never commenting on his personal life, if he could help it? It was Hermione—what else could he do but defend her?

He read that quote from him again, trying to consider it objectively. He supposed that to anyone else, his fervor would sound very much like a man defending the woman he loved but really, that was ridiculous.

She was his best friend and the person he cared about the most, along with Ron. That was all it was.

He waited rather tensely as Hermione skimmed through the article that morning.

“I’m sorry. I know we agreed not to comment on any of the stories but I- er- lost my temper at the questions those blasted reporters were asking.” He studied her but couldn’t read her expression as she stared down at the paper. “Are you mad at me?”

Now she looked up at him and he let out his breath when he saw her smile. “Mad? Don’t be silly, Harry. How could I possibly be mad at you when you were defending me and for saying such sweet things?”

He shrugged it off. “I know this is just complicating this whole plan even more but I just got angry at them. And I only told the truth. They just twisted it, as usual.”

She looked back down at the newspaper, seeming to study it, and then asked, quietly, not looking up at him, “You really think I’m beautiful? You meant all of what you said?”

For a moment, he wanted to make some sort of light remark, tease away the hint of vulnerability in her voice, but somehow he couldn’t do that. For the first time, he wondered if she was really as indifferent to all the hurtful rumors that had been going around about her as she’d seemed to be. He felt a stab of renewed anger at all those who’d dared print such lies about Hermione. If they had even caused her one moment of self-doubt… “I meant every word,” he said quietly with utter sincerity.

She looked up at him with a smile that could have lit up the entire room. “Oh, Harry…”

And before he even realized what she was going to do, she gave him a quick hug and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Thank you,” she said softly, her breath warm against his ear.

“It was nothing,” he managed to get out in spite of the fact that every nerve in his body suddenly seemed to be supremely conscious of the warmth of hers and the light, subtle scent of her.

But then the moment—if it had really been a moment signifying anything—passed as Hermione busied herself with making toast and tea for herself.

And he was left to wonder why he could still feel the tingling on that spot of his cheek which she’d kissed.

~To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Act 1.

Author’s Note: I wasn’t planning on including any Ginny!snark in this fic, but it just ended up writing itself. And I know you’ll all catch my use of our new favorite word. ;-) Enjoy!

Playing a Part

Act 4: The Play’s the Thing

Harry was nervous.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he waited for Ron and Hermione to be ready to leave for the Victory Celebration at the American Embassy tonight.

Tonight was going to be the real test of this whole scheme of his. Last time had been the opening act, setting up the idea that he and Hermione were a couple. That had been the easy part. Now—especially with that Daily Prophet article yesterday claiming he’d confirmed the rumors of their relationship—he knew that every eye would be on them, watching and waiting to see more tangible proof that he and Hermione were very definitely more than just platonic friends.

And he was nervous. He hadn’t admitted as much to Hermione or to Ron but he was suddenly unsure of himself. Was he going to fool everyone and act, convincingly, as if Hermione was really the one witch he was interested in like that?

He thought of Cho and, with rather more uncertainty, thought of Ginny. He remembered how pretty he’d thought Cho from the first time he saw her, remembered how his gaze had sought her automatically just for the pleasure of looking at her. He remembered the intensity (and the sudden-ness) of his feelings for Ginny, how one day he simply hadn’t been able to look away from her, seeing all the brightness of her eyes and the vivid beauty of her hair and, even, the charm in her freckles. He remembered how Ginny had taken over his thoughts almost to the exclusion of anything else, remembered looking at her and wanting nothing so much as to snog her, touch her, just be with her…

Could he really feign that same feeling for Hermione, who, for all that he did think she was pretty—even beautiful—and certainly the nicest girl he’d ever met, was still his best friend? Or would it be strange, awkward, stiff—as if he were playing an elaborate joke by trying to pretend Ron was really a pretty girl or something? He grimaced at that thought. Good God, if that was what this evening would be like, he may as well give up this entire plan right now. If only because he’d never be able to act it without bursting out laughing.

“Hermione’s not ready yet?”

He glanced at Ron and had to stifle a bark of laughter at the thought of trying to pretend Ron, with his tall, gangly figure, was a girl. “No, she’s not,” he managed to say.

Ron shifted. “Well, at least this is the last one of these we have to go to for a while.”

“I’ll say,” Harry agreed. While these last couple balls had been on consecutive weekends, the next one hosted by all the European Ministries of Magic wasn’t for another two weeks.

He heard Hermione’s door open and turned—and stopped breathing. He felt his eyes widen and was peripherally aware that his jaw had dropped slightly before he forcibly closed it again.

Great ghost—was that really Hermione? What had Hermione done?

He didn’t know—could still hardly believe that this—vision—was Hermione but of course, it was. It was just Hermione as he’d never really thought she could look. He’d seen her when she was exhausted, had seen her when she was happy, had seen her look pretty and look downright beautiful. He’d never seen her look like this.

Beside him, he heard Ron make an appreciative noise. “Wow, Hermione, you look good tonight!”

Good?! Harry wondered what was wrong with Ron’s eye-sight. Good was not the word to describe how Hermione looked.

He didn’t even know exactly what was so different about her tonight that made the sight of her knock all the breath from his body or all the coherent thoughts from his brain—but whatever it was, it did—she did.

Her hair was different than the way she usually wore it—completely up, except for one solitary curl that had been left to dangle, whether intentionally or not, where it was just brushing her otherwise bare neck, calling attention to the smooth expanse of skin. (He had the absolutely crazy impulse to kiss that spot on her neck, suddenly envying that single curl just for being able to lightly caress her neck like that.) Her dress robes were dark royal blue with hints of some kind of shimmer or sparkle or something when she moved. The neckline was, admittedly, lower than she usually wore but not excessively so (Hermione wasn’t the type). It was a pretty gown and was simple in style and more elegant than fashionable, which was typical of Hermione’s dress robes from what he’d seen of them. But what pushed this one from the realm of simply pretty and into the realm of every-male’s-dream-personified was more what it did to Hermione’s figure. The material didn’t cling to her body; it caressed it, every line of her slim figure until it flared out gently at her hips to fall in loose folds to the floor which were both graceful and somehow sensuous at the same time.

Hermione walked forward to join them and Harry nearly swallowed his own tongue. Good God!! Just seeing Hermione walk was an experience in seduction.

How had he never really suspected just how long her legs were? How had he never really noticed just how graceful her movements could be?

He yanked himself back to the present and tried to marshal his wits together into some sense of normalcy. This was Hermione, for Merlin’s sake.

“Hermione,” he managed to say, amazed at how surprisingly normal his voice sounded given how dry his mouth was, “you look--” Sexy as hell, his mind inserted and he swallowed back the words since he could hardly say that and finished instead, in a voice that was not quite steady, “you look beautiful.” And she did—just beautiful in a different way.

She smiled at him, treasuring that rather shell-shocked look in his eyes when he’d first seen her. She’d had her doubts as to whether or not to wear the dress, even though she’d been unable to resist buying it when she’d tried it on, but all doubts had been erased the moment she’d seen Harry’s reaction. “Thanks, Harry.”

Harry swallowed hard and turned away from her as he concentrated on shoving this new and inconvenient reaction to Hermione back into a corner of his mind and keeping it there. It took some effort but he managed so that when he glanced back to respond to some remark Ron made, he was back to normal enough that his gaze didn’t linger over-long on Hermione and he sounded completely himself again.

It was, he reflected sardonically, the only thing he could probably be grateful to Voldemort for. If there was one thing he had learned in this past year, it was the art of self-control and of how to push any unwanted and excessive emotions aside, at least temporarily. It hadn’t come naturally (he was still pants at Occlumency and Legilimency, for one thing, although he’d improved marginally) but it had improved. And it served him in good stead now.

He was going to get through this evening, pretending to be Hermione’s boyfriend (a task made both much easier and at the same time, infinitely more difficult as well, by his unprecedented reaction to seeing Hermione in her gown tonight) and he would not think about- about—well, anything that involved beds or bare skin or any of the other things constantly evoked by the way Hermione looked tonight.

And, at first, he was remarkably successful.

He managed to talk normally with both Ron and Hermione. (He was immensely grateful to note that the American Magical Ambassador had decided against announcing his arrival formally, which made things easier and made the atmosphere seem decidedly more casual.)

He, Ron and Hermione were all presented to the American Minister of Magic, who was the other honorary guest. And then he was drawn into a separate conversation with the American Minister while the Ambassador smoothly engaged Ron and Hermione into another conversation, edging away.

And for once, Harry was almost grateful for the distinction made between him and Ron and Hermione, since it meant he could relax somewhat and concentrate on his conversation with Minister Sandra O’Connell, who was a remarkably intelligent and well-spoken woman.

Only to find that, as a way of distracting him from his unwanted reaction to seeing Hermione tonight, Minister O’Connell was not at all effective since she rather reminded him of Hermione. He had already heard of Minister O’Connell as being a formidable politician and one who had dared to take unpopular positions on issues such as equal rights for magical creatures like centaurs and house elves.

He really needed to ensure that Hermione had the chance to talk to Minister O’Connell at more length, he thought, and so he deliberately called Hermione over to answer a question so as to include Hermione in the conversation.

Harry suppressed a smile as he watched Hermione talk to Minister O’Connell. Both women were talking and gesturing animatedly about the need to give house elves more rights and how to go about achieving such change when most of wizarding society was still so much set in the old ways.

Hermione’s expression was as bright as he’d ever seen it, her eyes shining. She looked absolutely beautiful, he couldn’t help thinking. And a small voice from somewhere in his mind inserted that he loved how enthusiastic, how—passionate—Hermione got over these issues—before he hastily cut off that thought. He should not be thinking about Hermione and passion of any kind. That way lay trouble.

He headed towards where he saw Mr. Weasley and tried not to think about Hermione anymore, at least for the moment. Tried not to keep watching her as she talked to Minister O’Connell.

Tried but did not quite succeed. So he knew when she shook Minister O’Connell’s hand, in spite of the fact that he kept his eyes scrupulously turned in another direction, and he knew when she glanced around to look for him and knew that she was returning to his side, in keeping with her role as his date.

And he gave up his attempt to not look for Hermione as Mr. Weasley drifted back towards Mrs. Weasley where she was standing with Bill and Fleur, only to see that Hermione had been way-laid by Terry Boot, who was currently talking to her with admiration in every line of his eager expression and in every gesture he made.

Harry mentally grimaced. Bloody Terry Boot. Always so obvious in his crush on Hermione—well, he could just go chat up some other bloke’s girl. Hermione was his—that is, he mentally backtracked hastily, she had to act as if she were for this whole plan to go on working. Not that he didn’t trust Hermione; he did. He knew Hermione wouldn’t encourage Boot or anything. Hermione wouldn’t do that—and besides, she couldn’t fancy Terry Boot. Could she?

He suppressed a pang of doubt and the sudden souring of his mood.

He wasn’t even aware of Ginny’s having come up to him until he felt an arm slip through his and heard her voice.

He looked down at her, rather surprised at her almost possessive taking of his arm and suppressing the instinctive reaction to draw his arm away. “Hi, Ginny.”

She pouted prettily. “Just a hello? Don’t I even get a kiss?”

He bent and kissed her quickly on the cheek in a brotherly fashion. “There,” he said, forcing a smile. She was acting oddly and he knew a flicker of apprehension that she might still hope for there to be something more between them, never mind that their relationship had ended more than a year ago. Automatically, his gaze wandered over to Hermione, wondering if she was watching but, no, she was still talking to Terry Boot. He forced himself not to frown.

“So tell me the truth,” he heard Ginny say softly, so close to him he could feel her breath tickling his neck. He suppressed the urge to move away, feeling uncomfortable. (How was it possible, he wondered, that somehow feeling Hermione’s breath on his cheek was pleasant, to say the least, but having Ginny so close to him only felt a little cloying? Ginny, whom he’d once wished was always close to him.)

The truth? He frowned at her in unfeigned confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“This whole thing with Hermione. Everyone seems to be talking about how you and Hermione are together but it’s not really true, is it? It’s only some scheme you’ve both decided on, to save you from your fans or something,” she guessed. “Come on, Harry, you can tell me.”

He paused to be surprised at the accuracy of Ginny’s guess into his reasoning. Since when did she have that much insight into his thoughts?, he wondered, even as he stiffened at her surmise.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said with equal parts calm and mendacity.

“Oh, come on, Harry, can’t you trust me, after all we are to each other? I know you don’t really fancy Hermione. I mean, Hermione’s a great person but she’s so—Hermione, you know. How could you really fancy her? She’s so… plain, boring in some ways.”

Harry had gotten progressively stiffer as Ginny’s words seeped into his consciousness. He’d been getting rather irritated from her first assumption of intimacy but then what she said about Hermione—he could hardly believe her words! And Hermione plain? Hermione boring?

He stared at her, feeling rather as if he’d never seen her before. Even now, when anything between him and Ginny had been over long ago, he would never have thought Ginny capable of being so openly disparaging of a supposed friend of hers, especially not one whom she’d known as long as she’d known Hermione and one who, he suddenly remembered, had helped her catch his attention when she wanted it. He felt suddenly rather chilled.

He freed his arm from Ginny’s, stepping a little away from her. “I think you’re delusional,” he said rather tersely, using the somewhat softer word, instead of saying he thought she was either crazy or being deliberately mean. “Hermione’s probably the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and she’s the only girl I know who’s never bored me.”

He caught the flicker of hurt in her eyes at the implication that she had once bored him but for once, he didn’t care. “I’ll see you later,” and with that rather curt farewell, he turned and left her standing alone.

And headed, automatically, towards Hermione, wanting the ease he found with her especially after this latest ruffling of his spirit. To think that Ginny, of all people, could have said such things… It was disillusioning and so he headed, instinctively, for the one person whom he knew would never let him down.

He slid his arm around Hermione’s waist deliberately, more because he felt the inexplicable need to show Ginny how far from the truth her (mean-spirited but not entirely untrue) words had been than because of the need to keep up his role for the rest of their audience, and managed a friendly smile for Terry. “Hello, Terry. I didn’t see you earlier,” he lied.

“Oh, hi, Harry. I was just talking to Hermione about this new spell I’ve heard about. It’s supposed to be really advanced so only the most powerful wizards can do it but I’m sure Hermione could manage. I still think the Sorting Hat got it wrong when he put her in Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw,” Terry remarked, addressing Harry but looking—and smiling—at Hermione.

“I don’t think the Sorting Hat makes any mistakes,” Harry responded coolly. “Now, you don’t mind if I steal Hermione away, do you? I just thought of something I wanted to talk to her about.”

From Terry’s expression, he minded very much but he gave in with somewhat ill-concealed reluctance. “Oh, of course not. It was good talking to you, Hermione. We’ll have to talk some more another time. And, Harry,” he added as Harry and Hermione were turning away, “I hope you know what a lucky chap you are.”

Harry smiled. “I do know that.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione said under her breath as they walked away. “How did you know I needed rescuing?”

He glanced at her, feeling a glow of satisfaction and just barely managing to keep from smirking. “Was Terry boring you?”

Hermione looked a bit guilty. “Oh, Terry’s really nice and very friendly. It’s just that he has a tendency to go on for some time. I couldn’t get away from him without being rude and I didn’t want to be mean.” She glanced at him. “You didn’t really want to talk to me about anything, did you? You just made that up.”

“Well, yes,” he admitted.

“Oh, Harry…” she shook her head as if in reproof but it was belied by the smile tugging at her lips and after a minute, she laughed. “Well, thank you for rescuing me.”

He grinned at her. “Anytime.”

“I’m getting stuffy in here. Do you mind if we go outside to the balcony for a while?”

“No, you’re right. It is getting stuffy. They probably invited twice as many people as this ballroom was originally meant to hold.”

“I think I heard that they put a charm on the ballroom so it will expand to as large as necessary, rather like a magical tent.”

“So, I noticed you enjoyed your talk with Minister O’Connell,” he began, changing the subject.

Hermione turned to him with a smile so bright it could probably have illuminated the entire ballroom on its own. “Oh, Harry, she’s wonderful! I’m so glad I got the opportunity to meet her and it’s such an honor that she came all this way to pay her respects to you.”

“To us,” he corrected her. “This whole victory is as much due to you and Ron as it is to me and you know it.”

“To us,” Hermione amended, her smile softening as she gave his arm a quick, affectionate squeeze. “She was talking to me about her efforts to increase centaur rights and freedom for house elves.”

“Yes, she mentioned her house-elves campaign to me. She wanted to thank me for what I did for Dobby all those years ago. I can’t believe all the stories about me have spread to America.” He made a disbelieving face. “But apparently, even there, they know all about me.”

“I know. She told me it helped her immensely to be able to say that she was following in the footsteps of Harry Potter, in some way.”

He gave her a slight grimace. “If I’d known that doing that for Dobby was going to add to my fame so much, I’d never have done it. It was a crazy impulse, anyway.”

“It was not, Harry, and you know it. And you needn’t try to disclaim it now. Even if you’d thought it was going to make people form a religion around you, you’d have done the same thing for Dobby. I know you.”

He felt his cheeks flush, his heart lifting inside his chest, at the warm approval in her tone, but changed the subject. “Anyway, I liked Minister O’Connell. She was perfectly charming and very articulate and witty. I can see why she’s such a popular figure, in spite of her sometimes unpopular opinions.” He glanced at her. “Actually, she reminded me of you with how clever she is.”

Hermione smiled up at him. “Why, thank you kindly, Mr. Potter,” she answered lightly, teasingly, but he could see her sincere pleasure in his words in her eyes.

He became aware that a few people were edging closer in an attempt to hear what he and Hermione were saying and gave Hermione a warm smile and added, in a tone slightly louder than usual and intended to carry, “Of course, you’re much prettier than she is.”

The would-be eavesdroppers paused and then retreated, having heard something that would, they were sure, delight the gossips.

Harry reflected with a rush of affection that only Hermione would look more pleased to be called clever and compared to a figure like Minister O’Connell than called pretty.

“They’re gone for now so you don’t have to pretend anymore,” Hermione said, a faint, almost imperceptible edge to her voice, as they stepped out onto the balcony.

He opened his mouth to say that he had meant it—which he had—but stopped, suddenly uncomfortable at making such a confession. “Drat and here I was planning to recite a sonnet I composed about your eyes,” he quipped with mock disappointment.

And, as he’d hoped, she laughed and he was suddenly struck with how her skin seemed to positively glow in the moonlight and how her eyes—he cut off his wayward thoughts ruthlessly.

“Actually, I was hoping for an epic poem about my eyebrows,” she informed him with mock seriousness.

“That was going to come after the sonnet,” he deadpanned.

There was a beat of silence and then they both gave in to their laughter.

He grinned at her and felt a sudden rush of warmth in his chest. It wasn’t desire but rather something more based on friendship than anything else. Dear Hermione, he thought, after so many years and everything they’d been through, she was still his best friend, helping him, laughing with him…

The atmosphere abruptly shifted, changing from one of shared humor to—to something else entirely, something new and thrilling and somehow rather frightening as well.

On a sudden impulse, he lifted one hand and brushed her cheek with his fingertips in a quick, light caress.

She flushed, color appearing in her cheeks, still smiling but rather as if her smile had been arrested in the process of fading than from any real amusement.

And it was a moment of madness. (Or was it, perhaps, a moment of utter truth?)

He looked at her and then, in a gesture he could never fully explain afterwards, he slid his hand behind her neck and kissed her.

He kissed her. His lips touched hers, lingered on hers, long enough to send heat spiraling through his body, and his tongue tentatively touched her lips…

For one seemingly endless moment (though it was, in reality, little more than a few seconds), the world vanished and nothing else existed but him and her and his lips touching hers…

And then he belatedly realized what he was doing—he was kissing Hermione—and pulled away, his hand falling from her neck as if scalded.

He stared at her, seeing her flushed cheeks and her eyes, wide with shock and—and something else he couldn’t quite read—was it nervousness? Maybe even dismay?

Good God, what had he done?

“I’m sorry!” he blurted out, panic edging his voice. “I didn’t mean to; I just—it was, um, an accident and won’t happen again, I promise,” he babbled, knowing even as the words rushed out of him in a confused jumble that they weren’t strictly true. He had meant to kiss her—had wanted to kiss her, in a moment of irrationality overcoming sanity. But it had been an accident in the sense that he hadn’t made a conscious decision but it had happened and he could still feel the warmth and the softness of her lips, even imagined he could taste her… He felt their friendship wobbling around him, their friendship that was the stable rock on which his entire life rested, and reacted automatically, instinctively, with panic and the urge to make it seem as if the madness of the past few moments had not happened.

He belatedly became aware of a rustling sound of whispers and glanced over at the door to see the hurriedly-departing backs of several people who must have seen the kiss and were now going off to spread the word that Harry Potter had been kissing Hermione Granger on the balcony. And he grabbed for the excuse their presence gave him. “It was part of the act because I saw that those people were watching us and we needed a reason to be out here alone,” he hastily added, hoping that for once Hermione wouldn’t recognize the bare-faced lie. “Forgive me?” he asked.

There was a pause that seemed to last forever before she answered. “There’s nothing to forgive; it was only a kiss, after all. And it was all part of the act. It’s fine, Harry. Don’t worry about it.”

He couldn’t see the expression in her eyes in the dim light and if her tone sounded rather odd, a little- brittle?- he ignored it for the moment, too relieved to do otherwise.

They still continued their act for the rest of the evening but he, at least, was conscious of a slight constraint as he scrupulously made sure that for all his pretenses, he never quite strayed so close to crossing the line of platonic friendship. So even as he kept his arm around her shoulders, he was careful not to hold her too closely and even as he smiled into her eyes occasionally, he was careful never to linger too long.

And it almost worked. By the end of the evening, he had almost managed to push the whole thing to the corner of his mind and their relationship, at least outwardly, remained much the same. Almost.

The problem was when he found himself lying flat on his back in bed that night, staring blindly up at the ceiling and thinking of nothing but those brief moments on the balcony—and reliving, almost in spite of himself, the feeling of her lips against his, her skin warming his hand, the heat of her body so close to his…

And that was when he realized what the real problem was.

The problem wasn’t that he had kissed Hermione. (Although that had been a mistake that he should never have made.) The problem was that he still wanted to kiss her.

And just what was he supposed to do about that?

Make believe our lips are blending

In a phantom kiss, or two, or three.

~ “Make Believe” from “Show Boat”

~To be continued…

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.

Disclaimer: See Act 1.

Author’s Note: Apologies for how long it’s taken to post this!

(Also, I must confess to shamelessly attributing to Hermione some of my personal favorite places in England, although I have to say, in my own defense, that it does make a lot of sense to me that Hermione would find companionship and comfort in places like Hatchard's and Blackwell's where she'd be surrounded by books. And I did put some thought into why Hermione would find those places comforting.)

Thank you, everyone, who’s read and reviewed this fic so far; I hope this last Act is worth the wait.

Playing a Part

Act 6: The Play’s End

Stupid, stupid, stupid, Hermione berated herself.

God, how could she have been so stupid?

She’d set herself up for this. She’d been asking for it, really, from the moment she agreed to this insane plan.

She knew she’d over-reacted when Harry had said he wanted to stop pretending, stop this whole act. She knew she’d startled him, had seen it in his expression as he stared at her and she knew that she’d probably given away her real feelings for him in doing so—more fool she.

But she just hadn’t been able to help it. At almost any other time, she might have been able to better mask her feelings, might have been more prepared for it, but not then. She had thought she had a few more weeks of this pretense, a few more weeks of allowing herself to dream, allowing herself to pretend even if only for a while, that Harry loved her, desired her—a few more weeks…

She hadn’t been prepared for him to end it so soon and so suddenly yesterday evening.

She’d thought it was going so well. Everyone seemed to believe that she and Harry were really a couple; she had had to fend off a few teasing words and sly hints, had caught a few envious glances and heard a few jealous whispers about how lucky she was. And she had found herself enjoying it. Not the jealousy or the innuendos as much as the hint of deferral to her opinion; she had found herself enjoying the assumption of her intimacy with Harry, not only physical (the physical part of it she found rather embarrassing) but emotionally. It was… nice, to have people know that Harry trusted her, that he cared about her. And perhaps, after all, she had enjoyed that part because it was the only part of this act that really wasn’t a pretense. She did know Harry well and he did trust her more than anyone else but it was really only now when she was thought to be Harry’s girlfriend that people seemed to really believe her closeness to him.

She had been so happy, enjoying herself so much. She had been prepared for this plan to be a combination of enjoyment and pain; she’d thought she was prepared for what it would be like…

But not even she could have predicted just how—how wonderful—it would be. She’d known she would have no difficulty in acting like she loved Harry, had even enjoyed finally being able to show all her deepest, most secret feelings in her expression as she looked at him.

But she hadn’t quite imagined just how- how good- Harry would be at the act. Nor had she bargained for what it would be like.

She hadn’t known that he could look at her and make her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. She hadn’t known all the sweetness he was capable of. She hadn’t known the power of his gaze to turn all her bones to water.

She hadn’t counted on the strength and the warmth of his arm around her, hadn’t fully expected the safety of it, the utter comfort of it.

And she hadn’t expected how fun it would be, hadn’t expected all the shared laughter and the shared moments of amusement.

Falling in love with Harry had been easy, had happened naturally. But it was only in these past few weeks that she’d learned that loving Harry would be just as easy.

But most of all, she hadn’t quite understood just how much she would grow to treasure the intimacy of it, manufactured as it was. She hadn’t quite understood just how powerful the temptation was to believe in the act, how powerful the wish to hope that it might all be real…

It wasn’t entirely rational—part of her mind was scorning how easily she’d deceived herself—but then when was anything to do with Harry completely rational?

She had allowed herself to forget that it was just an act, had allowed herself to pretend that it was all real…

Until he’d looked at her, with that nervousness in his eyes and his manner, as if he was afraid of letting her down, as if he knew just how she really felt, and told her that it was over.

The play had ended.

Her fantasy tumbled down in ruins around her and took her hope with it.

She knew her reaction had startled him with its intensity and its falsity but she hadn’t been able to help it. She could only be thankful for the pride that had refused to let her show him any more, the pride that had come to her rescue and allowed her to stay calm.

And now the cowardice of hiding from him.

She knew this couldn’t last. She lived in the same flat as him and she couldn’t just disappear. She would have to face him and go back to only being his friend and nothing more.

And she would.

But not quite yet. She would give herself a little while longer to mourn and get her emotions back in order again.

And she would try to forget these past few weeks, how he’d looked at her and how he’d touched her, that one kiss he’d given her…

She would give herself a little more time to bury all the feelings and all the memories of these past few weeks deep inside her heart where she could (almost) forget they existed at all.

Just a little more time…

~

She wasn’t given that time.

She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that he came to find her, given how precipitate her departure from the Ball had been and her equally hasty escape from the confines of their flat. She wasn’t surprised.

But for the first time ever, she found herself wishing that he didn’t know her quite so well, found herself wishing that he didn’t know her well enough to know all the places she was likely to go to when she wanted to think. No one else, she knew, knew her well enough to find her. No one else—but he did.

She sensed his presence behind her before he spoke and before she could hear his footsteps, muffled as they were on the grass.

“Hermione.”

She didn’t turn around, couldn’t quite bring herself to look at him yet. “You managed to find me,” she said inanely. And part of her wanted to cry why he had to come find her, why he couldn’t simply leave her alone but she didn’t say it. She knew why he’d had to find her; she knew that he must have been worried from her over-reaction to his ending their act and then from her subsequent disappearance. She knew it; she’d expected it, even, but for once in her life, she wished he cared less.

“It wasn’t easy,” he responded, a thread of self-deprecating humor in his voice. “I’ve been searching for the better part of six hours.”

And he had been. He’d thought of all the places she was likely to go to, discarded the idea of her parents’ house because he knew she wouldn’t want to worry them or to have to answer their questions, and for the same reason, discarded the fleeting idea of anywhere in Diagon Alley where she was likely to run into people who knew her. And he’d remembered what she’d told him once, years ago, at the beginning of the horcrux hunt, during one of their late night conversations about anything and everything when he’d been unable to sleep. They’d been talking about hide-outs and places to retreat to and she’d mentioned the places where she liked to go sometimes when she wanted to think and be alone. Muggle tourist places, for the most part, she’d admitted. They were familiar to her and comfortable because of their very busy-ness, the anonymity and the solitude that came with being among so many other people, none of whom would pay much attention to one lone girl. So he’d been to the National Gallery (made easier to search through the surreptitious use of a spell that allowed him to enchant one of the guide maps to show if Hermione was within the premises or not—she hadn’t been) and to Westminster Abbey, and then St. Paul’s Cathedral and then the Tower of London. He’d gone to Hatchard’s, which he knew was one of her favorite places in London, which made sense because he knew how much companionship she received from books; he’d gone to the Victoria and Albert Museum, another of her favorite places. From there he’d Apparated to Oxford, to the Christ Church Commons, to the wilderness area in New College which he knew she liked, to Blackwell’s that provided the same comfort as Hatchard’s did of surrounding her with books, to the Ashmolean Museum. Her childhood haunts, for the most part, which she knew and loved from having grown up on the outskirts of Oxford.

She hadn’t been at any of those places and it was only then when he finally realized that there was one other place she loved that would provide solitude at this time of year. Hogwarts itself. He hadn’t thought of it at first because he always thought of Hogwarts as being busy and filled with students but it would be quiet and empty now, weeks before the start of the term.

And somehow, in that way a person sometimes senses things, he’d known she was here at Hogwarts the moment he’d set foot on the grounds. And sure enough, he had found her, staring out over the placid surface of the Lake, sitting under the big oak tree, in a position and a place that sent a pang of recognition through his mind from all the times he’d seen her in this place before.

She didn’t turn around and he studied her back, suddenly at a loss. While he’d been looking for her, he hadn’t stopped to think about what he would say when and if he did find her. It was only now that he was assailed with doubts and questions and fears. He felt insanely uncomfortable and ill-at-ease around her now and for a moment, he wished desperately that he could just go back to the old, uncomplicated friendship of the past seven years. But these past weeks and, more than that, his newfound knowledge of himself had ruined that.

For lack of anything better to do, he moved to sit beside her on the grass, also staring out over the lake as he tried (and failed) to formulate some coherent words.

After a moment, he heard himself blurting out, “Has it been so bad?”

Hermione frowned slightly. “What?”

“Has it been so bad,” he repeated, although now that he’d asked it, he suddenly didn’t want to know the answer but it was too late now and he finished doggedly, “pretending to be my girlfriend?”

Hermione knew a moment of surprise. Hadn’t she made it obvious—painfully so—how much she’d treasured every moment of his pretending to love her, of this entire, mad scheme of his? “Of course not!” She calmed her voice down and added, almost in spite of herself, “It’s been—it’s been rather fun pretending.”

“That’s the problem! I’m not pretending anymore.”

Hermione’s breath seized in her chest, her lungs ceasing to work—but even if they had been working, she wouldn’t have dared to breathe anyway. She didn’t dare to breathe, didn’t dare to move, hardly dared to blink, for fear that something- anything- would make her wake up from whatever dream she must have fallen into. “You—you’re not?”

He turned to look at her for the first time since he’d found her. “No, I’m not,” he said softly. “I want it to be real. I want you…”

“Oh Harry… I want you too.”

His eyes widened fractionally and then a smile slowly brightened his eyes before spreading to his lips. “You do?”

She nodded, smiling into his eyes.

After a moment, a slight frown crossed his face. “Then why did you run away?”

They had both been blind, Hermione suddenly thought; they’d both been interpreting the other’s words through the lens of their own fears and doubts, rather than their hopes. “I thought you meant that you wanted to stop pretending because you were tired of it or something.”

A small smile curved his lips as he looked at her. “Silly, how could I ever get tired of you?” he asked and the tone of his voice made the epithet, silly, sound like the most touching endearment in the English language.

He didn’t say anything more, just lifted one hand to touch her face, his fingertips brushing her cheek gently, in what was unmistakably a caress, his touch filled with as much wonder as if she were the most fragile, most beautiful, most valuable thing in the world. And it was amazing how just that light touch of his hand to her skin could make heat go through her body, seeming to radiate outward from where he touched her, how she could feel her bones dissolving.

His eyes lowered to focus on her lips. She stopped breathing, her body leaning towards him, drawn inexorably closer to him by the desire she saw flaring in his eyes, mesmerized at the warmth in them.

And then he kissed her and it was everything she’d ever dreamed of. The kiss itself began gently, his lips lightly brushing hers, but it was enough to set her heart beating faster, it was enough to make her entire body flush with warmth—because it was him, it was Harry, and she’d been wanting him to kiss her for longer than she would ever care to admit.

Her lips softened, parted, as she shifted closer to him, kissing him back with all the pent-up passion of months- years?- of loving him. She was vaguely aware of his hands sliding into her hair to hold her mouth in place as the kiss deepened, became a harder melding of lips and tongues. The desire that had begun to unfold inside her like a butterfly opening its wings to fly at the first touch of his lips exploded inside her as her body came alive, all her senses heightened and focused on him and her and the touch of his mouth, the taste of him, to the exclusion of all else. She was no longer conscious of the hardness of the ground beneath her or the slight stiffness in her legs from having been sitting in the same position for so long.

She was no longer conscious of time passing and it could have been hours, days, months, before the kiss finally ended when they both needed to catch their breaths and stare at each other with the surprise of discovering the intensity of the passion between them and discovering, too, what happens so rarely in real life, that the reality was much better, much hotter, than any fantasy they’d ever had.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you like that for weeks now,” Harry admitted softly.

Her lips curved in a smile that was equal parts pleasure and wistfulness. “You should have. I wanted you to.”

“Really?”

The surprise in his expression and his tone wrung a small laugh from her. “Oh, Harry, I’ve wanted you to kiss me long before we ever started pretending.”

He stared at her for a moment. “I didn’t know,” he finally said. His lips twisted into a slightly wry smile. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an idiot.”

She smiled. “It doesn’t matter now,” she said and kissed him again and that was the last thing they said for quite some time.

~*~

Harry smiled to himself as he waited, aware of a pleasant sense of—he couldn’t believe he was feeling this way but he was-- eagerness. He was looking forward to the evening, to this last celebratory ball at Hogwarts, looking forward to going back to Hogwarts. But most of all, he was looking forward to this first ball when he didn’t have to worry about anything, could treat Hermione with as much tenderness as he wanted to, with all the freedom which honesty allowed between them.

Now, after kissing Hermione countless times, touching her, he felt a flicker of anticipation as he waited to see her. He had specifically requested that she wear the same gown she'd worn to the American Victory Ball when she had first taken his breath away, so he could, finally, act on some of the desires and impulses that dress aroused in him.
He knew her kisses now, knew the taste of her, and the feel of her skin-- he also knew the torment she could cause. She'd asked that they wait before taking the final step, to give themselves some time to adjust to the reality of their relationship, and he'd agreed. And in spite of kisses that had gotten deeper and longer and caresses that had become increasingly heated and immoderate, they'd both somehow managed to stop. It had become a delicious torment, the tension between them ratcheting up higher every day, imbuing every look, every smile, every word with added significance.

He heard a faint noise and turned to look at Hermione—and his breath stalled in his chest.

She looked amazing. She had performed a clever Color-changing Charm on the gown so now it was purple. The top bodice part was a bright shade of amethyst that gradually darkened until the hem of the dress was a deep, dark purple.

She smiled at him and he knew a moment of sheer wonder at how he could ever be so lucky to know that Hermione was his…

He slid his hands around her waist to tug her gently closer to him, as he smiled into her eyes.

“You look beautiful,” he said simply and with utter sincerity.

“So do you. I always did like the way you looked in dress robes,” she smiled and deliberately skimmed one hand across his chest in a light caress, and he caught his breath at the flare of heat, his body responding to her touch as it always did.

He bent his head to kiss her—but then he heard a choking sound. They hurriedly separated to look over at Ron, who pulled an exaggerated grimace. “You two are sickening. Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”

Harry threw Ron a mock glare before he joined in Ron’s laugh. This had become something of a running joke between the three of them, Ron’s teasing masking what Harry and Hermione both knew was Ron’s sincere happiness for them. But that was Ron’s way.

And as they left their flat, Harry knew another moment of gratitude that his new relationship with Hermione hadn't changed their friendship with Ron.

He had missed Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, Harry realized, when he and Hermione and Ron Apparated there.

The town, too, looked to be in a celebratory mood with lanterns lighting up the path to Hogwarts. And for those guests who did not want to walk the way to the castle, the thestral-drawn carriages had been called into duty.

In a grim reminder of just how much they had to be thankful for, Harry realized that nearly everyone there, with the exception of a few very small children whose parents were clearly Hogwarts alumni, could see the thestrals.

Hermione looked at him and took a small instinctive step closer to him, her grip on his hand tightening fractionally. “I don’t know what it is but I can’t get used to seeing the thestrals.”

He met her eyes. “I don’t think we’re supposed to get used to them really. I think we’re always supposed to look at them and wish we couldn’t see them.”

“You’re right,” Hermione conceded.

“Can we stop with the gloomy talk?” Ron interrupted mildly. “This is a celebration, after all, of victory and heroism and all that.”

“—to celebrate the living and remember the dead,” a new voice added in a rather dreamy fashion.

They all turned to look at Luna in some surprise, who had somehow materialized next to Ron, appearing in her startlingly silent fashion.

“Hi, Luna,” Harry greeted her.

“How are you, Luna?” Hermione smiled.

“Hullo, Luna,” Ron said, rather slowly, as he stared at her. “Er—you look nice tonight,” he added awkwardly, reddening a little.

She did look nice, Harry noticed. Her robes were green with accents of a burnt orange sort of color that would probably have looked terrible on anyone else but it suited Luna with her pale coloring. The only odd thing was that Ron had noticed and had complimented her.

“Thank you, Ronald. You look very nice too.”

Harry stared for a moment in surprise. Was Luna—she was blushing and there was an odd note of self-consciousness and pleasure mixed in with her usual rather dreamy voice.

He blinked and then met Hermione’s glance and knowing smile. Hermione had known that Luna fancied Ron? Of course Hermione had known, he answered his own question.

She gave him a slight nod as if to confirm his thought and Harry had to smile. Well, good for Ron. Luna was certainly nice and he suspected Ron found her oddities amusing.

The castle was lit up brilliantly and looked stunning.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” he heard Hermione murmur beside him and he glanced at her, seeing the way her eyes shone, her lips slightly parted, and the way her face almost seemed to glow in the light spilling forth from the castle and the moonlight.

Yes, Hogwarts was beautiful but not half as beautiful as she was right then…

McGonagall had not arranged for any sort of announcement of their arrival, Harry was glad to note. So they entered the Great Hall almost as naturally as they had when they were students coming in to eat.

“Last one of these bloody things, thank Merlin,” Ron said, sotto voce, beside them.

Hermione smiled a little. “Oh, I don’t know. They haven’t all been bad.”

Harry smiled into her eyes. “No, not all bad,” he agreed. “Some parts of them have been very nice.”

“Maybe for you but not all of us are as lucky as you two,” Ron retorted mildly. “Say, I wanted to ask Fred and George something. I’ll see you later,” he added and headed off towards where his family was grouped, followed by Luna.

As if on cue, Harry saw something that he definitely would not miss from these balls. One of his fans—the most persistent one who had somehow managed to corner him at every one of these events, was headed straight towards them with a single-mindedness of purpose which he found distinctly frightening. And to make it worse, she had apparently decided to abandon what little subtlety she’d had before, so her gown was a marvel in immodesty without being outright indecent. The bodice was cut low enough that it would probably be impossible for her to bend over and the rest of the gown clung to her body like a second skin. Was that supposed to be attractive?

“Oh no,” he muttered to Hermione. “It’s her.” He didn’t need to specify who he meant.

Hermione glanced over, paused, and then he heard a smothered sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh before she turned back to him. “Should I leave you alone so you can get the full benefit of that rather remarkable dress?” she teased.

He threw her a look of so much horror she stifled another laugh.

“Okay, then, I’ll be nice,” she relented.

“Thank you,” he breathed with utter sincerity. And then found himself adding, “Dance with me.”

She blinked and stared at him in some surprise and he realized that he really did want to dance with Hermione. “I really want to,” he added.

“But, Harry, you don’t like to dance,” she objected.

He shrugged a little. “True, but then again, I’ve never danced with you.”

“Fair point,” she smiled as she followed him to the center of the floor where people were dancing and moved into his arms.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noted the decidedly displeased look on his irritating fan’s face as she watched him and Hermione, but then dismissed her from his mind in favor of more pleasant thoughts like having Hermione in his arms, even if he couldn’t hold her quite as closely as he’d like, in public as they were.

They didn’t speak as they danced, slowly revolving around the dance floor, Harry watching the way the candlelight would occasionally catch the sparkle in her eyes, studying the shape of her lips which he already knew so well.

“I was right,” he murmured softly. “Dancing with you is much better than dancing with anyone else.” And it was more true than he’d thought, not only because he enjoyed being able to hold Hermione and be close to her without fear of interruption, but because, he realized now, the connection they’d always had that allowed them to somehow understand each other’s thoughts extended to their movements. He remembered the excruciating awkwardness of dancing with Parvati years ago—it felt like a lifetime ago, before the War, before all the darkness and danger of the past few years—and constantly needing to worry about his feet. With Hermione, it seemed, he didn’t need to do that; it was as if his body was attuned to his, knew where to step and how to move—and then he felt a flicker of arousal at the thought he couldn’t help—if this was how they moved when on the dance floor, how incredible would it be in bed with her?

And then as if she had somehow sensed his thought and his desire, he saw her eyes darken, her lips parting slightly, her cheeks flushing—and he felt another wave of heat in his body at how utterly lovely she looked at that moment.

God, how could he ever have thought his feelings for Hermione were platonic? In moments like this, when all he had to do was look at her and feel a wave of lust, he could only be amazed at his own blindness.

But this wasn’t the time or the place to think about that.

He tore his gaze from hers, glancing around in search of some distraction at least enough to take his mind off the desires of his body—and saw a flash of red hair and noted that Ginny was watching him and Hermione with slightly narrowed eyes.

Ginny—who had implied that Hermione couldn’t really have captured his attention… And he felt the usual flare of irritation which he always felt whenever he remembered her words.

And even though it was probably not the smartest thing to do, given the lingering heat he still felt from the past few moments—to say nothing of not being the nicest thing to do--he couldn’t help but react, wanting to show Ginny just how wrong she had been.

Deliberately, he slid his hand up from where it had been resting on Hermione’s back, up behind her hair until his hand was touching the bare skin of her neck in a gesture of clear possessiveness and intimacy. (God, he loved the softness of her skin.)

He only peripherally noted the disgruntled expression cross Ginny’s face, but then he was utterly distracted with the way he could feel the slight shiver that went through Hermione’s body at his touch, the way her eyes darkened. (After all, what did they matter? What did any girl besides Hermione matter? At that moment, he was hard-pressed to remember there were any girls beside Hermione in existence…)

Desire twisted inside his gut, tugging at him. Good lord, how he wanted her…

She moved fractionally closer to him to breathe just one word in a low whisper. “Tonight.”

For a split second, he simply stared at her before the full ramifications of that one word hit him and he was suddenly lost in a tidal wave of lust that swept over him in response.

“Can’t we just go home now?” he blurted out.

She laughed softly—and he didn’t know how it was but even her laugh aroused him now. “You know we can’t—but we can leave early.”

He deliberately pretended to pout, taking refuge in humor to try to defuse some of the coiled tension in his body. And he couldn’t help but think, the evening wouldn’t be so bad. He would spend it with her—and while lust was definitely part of what he felt for her, it wasn’t all. He just loved to be with her, loved to talk to her, loved to laugh with her… (Not that any of this admittedly-true philosophy prevented him from willing the rest of the evening to pass very, very quickly…)

But after all, his misguided idea for the initial pretense aside, he knew it wasn’t only the desire that had blindsided him. It was love—and that was what made this real, what made it right, what made it forever…

Make believe our lips are blending

In a phantom kiss, or two, or three.

Might as well make believe I love you,

For to tell the truth, I do.

~ “Make Believe” from “Show Boat”

~The End~