The Quiet 7th Year

Disclaimer- I do not own or Prophet from Harry Potter.

Chapter 1 Dreams and Aunt Petunia

The great hall was dimly lit by the sparkle of fairy light as Harry Potter danced at the Yule Ball. He had the most warm, contented feeling inside of him as he and Parvati swayed slowly to the strangely distant music. At the very edge of his vision he could make out other couples there on the dance floor with them, but they seemed to be covered in some kind of haze; a thick, almost magical fog. He wondered if he were obscured in their eyes the way they were in his.

It was a little strange to be that close to Parvati and feel so comfortable. He had never properly warmed up to her. In fact, he thought, hadn't he only asked her as a sort of last resort? But as he considered this he couldn't help but succumb to the soothing, perfect embrace in which they held each other.

With a peaceful sigh, she put her head on his shoulder so he could feel her breathing gently against his neck. He managed to somehow loosen his grip and moved his head back to have a look at her. Maybe a glimpse of her would explain away the reservations he'd had about asking her in the first place.

But as he glanced down he noticed smooth brown hair in a neat bun atop her head installed of Parvati's raven locks. Light blue robes where pink should have been.

It was Hermione.

As he looked down at her, she lifted her head and met his gaze with a visage that Harry could honestly say he had never seen before. In all of their adventures together, all their defeats and victories and the wide range of emotions that had accompanied them all, he had never been witness to this expression.

There was concern there, but he was used to that. She was always worried for him--about him. There was confusion too. As if she was going to ask him to repeat what he had just said so she might think it through again. But he hadn't said anything, had he?

What made Harry take long notice of her expression however, was the last bit of emotion mixed in with the rest. It was almost… desire.

He suddenly realized how close they were. Part of him wanted to step back and try to say something, but that funny warmth was still there; like his arms would have instantly frozen solid and fallen off if he let go of her.

Before he could do anything, she parted her lips the smallest fraction and whispered, “Harry…I”

He felt her breath touch his lips as she spoke.

He tasted the sweet honeysuckle from her hair in his nostrils.

He wanted her.

CRASH!!

Thunder outside his window woke him. He was sitting upright in bed, his arms outstretched as if still holding Hermione. He looked around his room at number 4 Privet Drive wondering if he could have possibly just Apparated back from the ball.

It was so real.

“What the hell was that all about?” he whispered to himself.

His whole life he had been dreaming very vividly. The lighting bolt scar on his forehead would ache and burn when the dream was about Voldemort. Tonight however, he felt no pain, at least not physically.

The warm feeling the dream had brought was fading slowly away, leaving him with an odd numbness. He lay back down in bed and pulled the bedspread tight around him, trying to feel warm again. Picking up his glasses from the nightstand, he squinted at the clock.

3:17AM.

Thunder boomed outside again. It was going to be a long night. He put his glasses back and tried to slow his heartbeat.

Relax, he thought to himself. Finally a dream in which no one is being killed or tortured. But was that true? If Ron were at the dance in his dream, he certainly wouldn't have been happy with what he was seeing.

Good thing everything else was so blurry, Harry thought slyly, his face twisting in an involuntary smile.

But that wasn't right. Hermione should have been with Ron at that dance. If she had been, maybe the two of them would have figured things out by now…

Still, whatever he was having before the rain woke him--it wasn't a nightmare.

A pang of guilt came over him concerning Ron, then an intense feeling of bewilderment as to why he was happy about wanting to kiss Hermione in the first place.

She's more off limits than Ginny ever was…

Still, she had looked lovely that night at the Yule Ball. Everyone saw her. Harry had been so preoccupied with the Tri Wizard Tournament and everything else going on that year that he hadn't even managed to tell her how stunning she'd looked.

As he considered this, he felt a small whole in the very deepest place in his guts open up and make its self known. Had he missed an opportunity that night? It wasn't very nice of him, of that he was certain. He and Hermione were the best of friends, had been since first year. He could have at least told her how amazing she looked. Would it have mattered to her?

Probably not, he reconsidered. She'd had Krum's full attention that night.

Ron's too, he thought, laughing to himself. Of course, Ron had never said anything about how she looked either. What is that lad's problem? How many chances does he need?

All at once, Harry found himself very frustrated with the whole situation. Ron and Hermione with their ridiculous `will-they-won't-they' nonsense. His weird but wonderful dream. Krum, Parvati, Lavender, Cho, Ginny.

All of it.

He forced it from his head and tried to think about other things. Unfortunately the last few weeks at Privet drive had not given him much else to ponder.

As it was poring rain now, so had it been for a fortnight. It was very unusual weather for summertime, even in Britain, but Harry had carefully checked both the Muggle news and the Daily Prophet and they both agreed that there was no sinister plot regarding the weather. It was just a naturally occurring weather pattern that had decided to ruin any chance of his having at least one good holiday with the Dursleys.

When he had first arrived back from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he told his aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon that this would be his last time staying with them. As soon as his seventeenth birthday arrived, he would darken their doorstep no longer. Uncle Vernon actually did a little jig at the news. Petunia and Dudley seemed indifferent.

Ever since he had taken summer work with his father and the drill company, Dudley seemed to have matured. Harry no longer feared any abuse from him. When they would pass in the house during their comings and goings Dudley would simply remark, “Potter.” To which Harry replied, “Dursley.”

At least there were no more beatings.

Aunt Petunia also seemed to look at Harry in a new light. Ever since he had told them that Voldemort was back, she seemed to have a new appreciation for Harry's situation. Whenever Uncle Vernon was home, she would do what was required to make him happy and comfortable. She would even go so far as to agree with him when the discussion concerned `THE BOY” and his complete lack of normalness. That all important quality that Uncle Vernon appreciated above all others.

During the daytime when Uncle Vernon and Dudley were at work, the house was very quiet. Aunt Petunia rarely disturbed Harry with anything and that was the way Harry liked it. He'd been studying the many books and parchments he brought home with him from Hogwarts regarding the dark arts.

Unfortunately there was not much on Horcruxes (Hermione scoured the library before they left, looking for anything she might have missed.) The books he did have were more about counter spells and anti-jinxes; things that Harry always thought he was a bit weak in.

He had also broken wizard law during the first week back from Hogwarts and cast a simple Lumos while reading late one night. He had forgotten that he wasn't allowed. He'd used that spell so much at school that it became second nature. When he realized what he'd done he Nox'd the light and waited for the owl to arrive, telling him of his violation of code.

But it never came. Did they not realize? Was he above the law? Whatever the reason, Harry got bolder as the days past.

He remembered his battle with Snape after Dumbledore had been killed and he wanted to be ready for him. Snape had been able to counter any curse that Harry threw at him because Harry had to speak the incantation to get it to work.

So Harry's goal, appropriately, was to learn to cast a spell without speaking.

One thing about rainy days; you had loads of time to practice. Harry sat on his bed for hours looking at his wand on the desktop across the room.

`Accio. Accio. ACCIO!!' He'd said in his mind, over and over again, concentrating on the spell. Finally, the wand inched off the edge of the desk and fell to the ground. After a few days he'd figured it out. He needed to visualize the wand in his hand, and it would come. It was much more important to see the spell working in his mind than it was to speak the words in his head.

He could now call objects to his hand from across the room at will, even without his wand in hand. He was sure Hermione and Ron would find this impressive, but that seemed like a secondary reason to have learned to do it.

At least, it did until tonight.

Now, he could clearly see Hermione's face beaming at him when he pulled the red and gold Gryffindor scarf from around her neck. Or her book bag off her arm. But then Harry remembered he wasn't planning on going back to Hogwarts next term and his momentary happiness faded.

He felt very alone lying there in bed. The war was raging back in the magical world. A war that he had started and he had to end. Yet, here he sat in some kind of limbo at Privet Drive waiting for his owl from Professor McGonagall, telling him the time and place he was to meet her for `a discussion about his future' as she put it. Harry could only assume that this would be a sort of tell all meeting about the Order of the Phoenix now that Dumbledore was gone. More importantly, he hoped to find out about Hogwarts and what would happen next year at the school. There was little doubt in Harry's mind that McGonagall would be the Headmistress now, but Headmistress of what was the question.

Would any wizarding family send their children there after last year? After Dumbledore was killed by a member of his own staff?

Harry felt a heat building inside of him as he recalled the night when Snape had killed Dumbledore. He had tried all summer to keep that thought from his mind. He knew if he dwelled on it to long, he might just pack up his things and leave then and there, not caring about who or what found him.

He couldn't help but think about Sirius; trapped at Grimauld for months while things developed before his eyes that he could do nothing about. But then he remembered that Sirius had been rash and foolish in the end.

Harry had promised Dumbledore he would stay with the Dursley's until he was 17. He only had to wait two more days to fulfill that promise.

If only he could get some kind of information on what was going on. He sat up and reached under his bed for the loose floorboard where he always hid his private belongings. Pulling out a tin of cookies and a small stack of post cards he had received, he sat cross-legged on his bed and thumbed through them. All were from Hermione. She and her parents were still on a cruise of the Mediterranean, at least they were to the best of his knowledge.

His last postcard had been sent from the South of France nearly a week ago. The picture on the front featured a beach scene with a multitude of sunbathers in the background. Centered in the scene was a long legged blond in a very small bikini over which Hermione had written `THAT ONE'S ME!!' and drawn an arrow pointing down, indicating the girl. Harry still smirked at it a week later.

The back of the card read:

4 Eyes, (She thought it best not to use real names as even Muggle post might be intercepted.)

What a horrid vacation! I should be having the time of my life… my parents certainly are. All I can think about is you and what's going on back at home. I've tried to contact Ginger (Ron), but he's not replied to my letters. None have been returned, but I'm not certain he's getting them.

I really hate this, 4 Eyes. I feel so guilty about being out here while you are there, alone and under lock and key with your Aunt and Uncle. I want to leave, but my parents are still upset about the ski trip from a few holidays back and I can't disappoint them again. For all I know, I may not see them again after this year.

Stiff upper lip! You, Ginger and I will be together again soon!!

Always,

Bushy

Harry had read the card about fifty times, but he was still struck by the sentence about not seeing her parents again. Hermione's mother and father always seemed like they were very far removed from the things that were happening to him and Hermione and Ron. As he thought about Hermione's words over the last week though, he realized how vulnerable they were to Voldemort. No one was safe.

When she and Ron had approached him after Dumbledore's funeral and promised to be with him till the end, he had taken for granted all the other people they were involving. Weeks later, all those souls were weighing heavy on his mind.

He had broken up with Ginny for just that reason. The thought of her getting hurt, or ending up broken hearted like Cho after Cedric was killed… He shuddered as an image of a tearful Ginny standing over his gravestone flashed through his mind.

Then suddenly Hermione pushed her way back into his head. Why was it ok for Hermione to go with him to kill Voldemort but not Ginny? Did he care for Ginny more? Differently? Would he hate himself less if Hermione died and not Ginny? But then, since when had Ginny and Hermione had the same place in his mind? In his heart?

He lay still for a long time, thinking this over and over until he heard stirring from the other rooms in the house. He looked at his clock again. 7:11.

Time to get going then, he thought. Want to beat the morning breakfast rush.

He showered, (but did not shave, the stubbly look was growing on him) dressed and was downstairs twenty minutes later to find Aunt Petunia cooking eggs and bacon. She looked over her shoulder and asked, “Can you pour the coffee, Harry?”

The times of Harry's servitude had long since passed. He was now asked politely to help around the house. In all honesty, he still preferred to be alone in his room. He poured two cups for the Mr. Dursleys, still upstairs dressing for the day and one for himself, then asked Aunt Petunia if she would like one.

“No thank you, dear,” was her response.

Harry stared at her for a moment. Polite was one thing, but she almost sounded like Mrs. Weasley when she last spoke. She had her back turned to him, leaning over the range while turning Dudley's sunny side up.

Harry moved next to her at the stove and said, “You feeling all right Aunt Petunia?”

She looked over at him with a peculiar, hapless look in her eye. “Yes Harry, fine.”

He stared a moment longer, no quite knowing what to say. Then the memories of the hard times between them over the years came flooding back to him and he closed his heart to her, grabbed two slices of buttered toast from the counter and retreated out of the kitchen without another word.

If she thinks being nice to me the last 2 days I'm here, after sixteen years of hell…

As he was ascending the stairs, Uncle Vernon and Dudley, looking quite hilarious to Harry in suits and ties, were descending toward the smell of bacon and eggs.

“Potter,” mumbled Dudley as they past. Harry didn't reply as he had a mouth full of toast. Then Uncle Vernon said, ”Back to your room already? You need a job, you worthless...” he trailed off from there as he disappeared into the kitchen.

If only you knew, thought Harry.

He finished the toast as he reentered his room and opened the box of cookies that Hermione had sent him. The tin had arrived full of chocolate chip covered goodness. Each had a number on it in frosting that counted down the days until he turned seventeen and could leave.

There were only three cookies left. One for that day, one for the next, and then the last cookie, which was much larger than the rest, and read `HAPPY BIRTHDAY' across it. The cookies were a nice gesture from Hermione, but what really made Harry appreciate them was the mental image of Hermione and her mother cooking them together in the kitchen. Harry had never been to Hermione's house, but he knew both of her parents where Dentists--professional, well to do people. He pictured their kitchen, perhaps not spotlessly clean like Aunt Petunia's, but at the same time certainly not cluttered and busy like Mrs. Weasley's either.

Somewhere in the middle, somewhere normal and right. He found himself longing for the feeling that the image of the kitchen gave him more and more lately. Longing for something commonplace, run-of-the-mill. Somewhere the words `boy who lived' or `chosen one' had never been spoken.

Harry took out the cookie for that day and lay back in his bed again. His dream about Hermione still lurked at the edge of his thoughts no matter how hard he pushed it away. He sighed heavily and ate the cookie in a few large bites.

She could have put a love potion in these, he joked to himself. It made as much sense as any other explanation for the dream. Hermione had appeared in his subconscious before last night, but never smelling of honeysuckle.

No, just a stupid dream, he reasoned, swallowing the last bite and opening up his copy of “The Death Eaters; Men Behind the Masks.” He shifted his pillow beneath him and set about trying very hard to lose himself in it for the rest of the day.

Hours later, he looked up from the book and rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. The Death Eaters were not as gruesomely engrossing in print as they were in person. Laying the book aside, he glanced again at his clock. 4:21.

Roughly 56 hours till he could leave. May as well spend some of them asleep. It will make the time go by faster, he reasoned.

He closed his eyes and tried to keep his thoughts on anything but the Yule Ball and Periwinkle dress robes as he drifted away to slumber.

It was strange--he didn't remember getting up to go to the bathroom. Then again, he wasn't supposed to use the girl's loo anyway. And, when did the Dursleys install a girl's only restroom? Seems a waste of space for only Aunt Petunia…

From behind the door he heard a familiar voice give a terrified scream. He forced his way into the room and found Hermione cowering behind a sink as a huge, grey-skinned mountain troll towered over her, his club raised to strike.

“Harry!” yelled Hermione, her head turning as he came through the door. Without thinking he took a step forward to rush at the troll, but as he moved, he felt his wand poke at him through his pant leg pocket. An instant later, he pointed the wand at the troll and yelled, “STUPIFY!”

The stunning spell hit the troll square in the back just as the club came rushing to meet the porcelain sink and the girl beneath it, but with a quiet `POP' the troll vanished.

Harry stood slack jawed. That spell was supposed to stun not vanish. Where had the troll gone too, then?

As he pondered this, Hermione came rushing from beneath the sink into his arms. He held her as tightly as she did him, feeling the same warmth and comfort from the Yule Ball, and then, he knew with certainty, that there was something peculiar going on here.

Wasn't Ron supposed to be here too? Hermione had never hugged him when they saved her from the troll. Where were McGonagall and Snape and Quirrel?

As all of these objections came rushing into his mind, Hermione pulled away slightly and stood face to face with him. She was not the 11-year-old Hermione, nor was he the 11-year-old Harry. Her eyes were glistening with tears but strangely devoid of the redness or swelling that Hermione's face always took on when she cried.

She looked lovely, Harry thought, suddenly very happy he had rescued her. All thoughts of where Ron was, or was supposed to be, slipped out of his head like sand from an hourglass. His peripheral vision faded into a hazy grey as he noted that familiar concerned, confused, lusty expression on her face and realized they were only inches apart. Then his eyes were draw down to the soft pink line of her mouth as she parted her lips to speak.

“Harry…I,”

Honeysuckle and warmth and perfection were on her breath and in his nose the next moment and before he could form a thought in his mind to object, he was moving to kiss her.

Knock Knock Knock.

“Harry dear, would you like any supper?”

The dream was over before Harry could even open his eyes. He squeezed his eyelids shut, harder and harder, like he was trying to squeeze the last bit of juice from a stubborn orange, but there was nothing there. He was awake now.

“Be down in a moment, Aunt Petunia”, he muttered, never disliking her more. Sitting up, the full weight of the situation came pressing down on him.

He had dreamed of her again. His subconscious had taken a real event, stripped it of logic and reality and left only he and Hermione. Ron, the Professors, all the actual details of the event were gone.

Only Hermione remained.

This is madness, he thought, swinging his legs off the bed and holding his head in his hands. They'd been friends for nearly half of their lives now and he had never known her to show any kind of romantic affection towards him, none that he had seen anyway. Had he missed something somewhere? Could his subconscious be rooting through his memories trying to tell him something? Maybe he had some feelings for her that he never realized! He certainly seemed to be dwelling on her quite a bit since she'd sent that tin of cookies.

His mind began dissecting the many experiences he and Hermione had shared over the last six years. Walks around the lake, hours in the library, moments in a classroom. Had he missed something?

Supporting her in his arms as she shook with fear and struggled to stay standing, squeezing her in a tight embrace as they shouted in joyous celebration, gently touching her shoulder as he looked down on her motionless form and pleaded with God, Merlin and anyone else listening for her to be alive and unharmed. Perhaps, after all, there was something there…

Or am I just taking things out of context? he thought, as he felt the familiar cloud of confusion descending on him again. He ran his fingers through the black mop atop his head and stopped every few inches to pull at a fistful in frustration. It was strange and perhaps a little disconcerting that he enjoyed each pinprick of pain as a hair separated from its follicle.

“She's more off limits than Ginny ever was,” he whispered, remembering his prior dream and the way it had made him mull over the exact same phrase in his head. He felt like skipping supper and just laying alone in his bed for the rest of the night, but before he could even start to lean back and pull his sheets around him, there was tapping at the rain spotted window that made him look up.

“Hedwig!”

Harry leapt to the window and threw it open so violently that Hedwig had to hop from the ledge and circle the opening of his room a few times before finally flying inside. She perched on the edge of his desk and extended her right leg and the rolled parchment attached to it with a very formal look in her eyes.

“Business as usual, is it?” muttered Harry as he reached out, untying the parchment and running his hand down her damp, feathered back. She hopped into her cage and took a long drink from her water dish as Harry unrolled the scroll, the feeling of anticipation building inside of him and his dinner long forgotten.

To his surprise however, there was no time and date from Professor McGonagall on the paper. In fact, there was no message at all save for a small box, maybe an inch in diameter with a black dot drawn in it's center, and the words, “ Harry Potter, touch your wand here.”

“Hedwig, are you sure this is from Professor McGonagall?” he said absently, feeling very stupid the next moment as he realized Hedwig was unable to answer his question. She had her back turned to him now anyway, her eyes already weary amber slits.

He hadn't corresponded by owl with anyone but Sirus and the Weasleys, so he didn't really know what to expect, but he certainly wasn't ready for this. Still, Hedwig looked all right, didn't she? She didn't look harmed or tampered with in any way.

Looking back down at the paper, Harry wasn't sure whether it was logic or impatience that made his resolve solidify, but either way, he took his wand from the desk top and touched it to the parchment, just as it instructed.

Instantly, the box vanished, sinking into the parchment like a submarine slips beneath the waves. The black dot shattered into a hundred lesser lines that spider-webbed their way across the page in a strangely familiar way. They fanned out to its edges before heading back towards its center, criss-crossing and changing in shape to form the words--

From the desk of Professor Minerva McGonagall - Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Dear Harry,

If you are reading this, then the enchantment that Remus Lupin has placed of the parchment to encode it for your eyes only has worked as planned. I cannot stress to you the importance of security in these troubled times, and I pray that this letter finds you safe and sound in your uncle's house. At least, I realize, as safe and sound as you can be in your uncle's house.

As you can see from the header on this note, I have decided to accept the position of Headmistress of Hogwarts, for better of for worse. I believe it's what Albus would have wanted. I can only hope to try and fill the enormous shoes he left behind.

But enough of all these niceties, to business.

Tomorrow, at exactly twelve o' clock noon, I will have a ministry car with two security wizards sent to Number 4 Privet Drive to remove you from that residence, never to return. I know you are looking forward to this Harry. That you've been sitting idle, feeling useless and bored for the last few weeks and that you must have had to endure untold trials at the hands of your Uncle and Aunt, but I must ask that you endure for a few more hours!

Harry felt his heart pounding in his chest as he read the letter. He'd be rid of this house, these people, this life in mere hours!

Forever.

What exactly the Dark Lord knows of the magic that protects you at your Uncle's house is open to debate and speculation. So I've decided to be proactive in regards to this subject, and retrieve you a day before your seventeenth birthday.

Please, be ready by noon tomorrow. From your Uncle's house you will be transported to the Ministry of Magic for a meeting with myself, the Weasleys, the Minister and a few of the more pertinent members of the Order of the Phoenix. I believe you will find the meeting most informative.

Please Harry, be patient for a few more hours. Relief will arrive soon.

Sincerely,

Minvera McGonagall

Headmistress—Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Harry sat hunkered over the note as he read through it one more time. He looked up at his nightstand clock and saw 5:35. Less than eighteen hours and he was a free man.

It was too good to be true. Surely there was something more to this. There would be an attack on his Uncle's house. The car from the ministry would break down. Something.

It was like he couldn't convince himself that nothing bad would happen. There had to be something he was overlooking. Something that McGonagall hadn't thought of. Would he really be sitting across a table from the Minister of Magic at this time tomorrow? Would he get to see Hermione again soon?

Hermione. The thought of came crashing over his train of thought like tidal wave, washing everything else away like it was so much sea weed and sand.

He started to berate himself over this; over the fact that the mere thought of her now was enough to put everything else -- dark lords, new headmistresses, his leaving the Dursley's, -- on the back burner, when there was again a knock at his door. Before he could say anything, or even stow the note Hedwig had delivered, the door pushed slowly open and revealed Aunt Petunia carrying a tray of chicken potpie and mashed potatoes.

“Harry dear,” she began as she entered, “I've brought up a plate for you if you're—oh!” She caught sight of the note in his hand, the white owl, still wet from the downpour outside and the open window and her mind quickly did the calculation. “Is that from… from them, then?” she asked, nodding her head at the note clutched in Harry's hand.

Her face fell as she spoke, taking on the same dreary expression Harry had seen earlier that day in the kitchen, but Harry was too distracted to notice. He simply nodded at her words and stood up to take the tray from her, tucking the note into his pocket.

“Yes, I'm to leave a day early. Profes—the Headmaster at Hogwarts sent the message.”

When he reached her there in the doorway, she held tightly to the tray so that he looked up at her to see why she wouldn't let it go. Only then did he notice the melancholy expression on her face.

“Aunt Petunia?”

She opened her mouth to say something, her lips parting to form some word, but nothing came out. She ducked her head down low; looking, Harry thought, almost too ashamed to look him in the eye.

“Aunt Petunia, what's the matter with you?”

Finally, after what Harry considered a long, awkward moment in which they both had hold of the tray of food and stood across from each other in silence, she finally said, “Harry, I have to go back downstairs and get dessert for Dudders and your Uncle, but--,” she looked up then and locked her eyes on Harry in a way that he didn't think she ever could, “I have something I need to give you before you go.”

She turned quickly and descended the stairs, leaving him at the threshold of his room with the tray. He shut the door behind him and sat at his desk, absently picking at the meal as he wondered what she could have to give him. The look on her face—Harry had never seen her look at him like that before.

Almost like an actual blood relative and not… the familiar heat of hatred was rekindled inside him as he once again remembered the many years of abuse he'd suffered at her hands. Relative or not, he'd made up his mind about her a long time ago and it would take a lot more than a sad face and a last minute present to change it. Besides, in a few short hours he'd never have to deal with her or any of the Dursleys ever again.

He could hear Uncle Vernon's voice bellowing from downstairs as dessert was served, the sound causing his mind to form an image of Dudley and his Uncle, like pigs at a trough, eating mound after mound of puddings and jellies. He felt his stomach turn and pushed his food away, deciding his time would be best spent packing.

Less than eighteen hours, he reassured himself.

By nine o' clock, the voices and sounds of the TV had died away downstairs. Harry looked over his now empty room with a feeling of achievement as he closed the lid on his trunk and shut the door to Hedwig's cage.

It again looked like a spare bedroom, like no one lived there permanently and, he reasoned, that was true. Since his earliest memories, he'd never been at home in this house. His Aunt and Uncle had made sure of that, but there was a deeper, more abstract reason as well. It was the feeling that he remembered as he finally opened his acceptance letter from Hogwarts on that island off the coast. The feeling like he was meant for more than this life. More than the life of servitude and monotony he had endured up until that point. Deep down inside himself, in a place that he found he went to when things were especially hard, when he needed to be exceptionally brave or endure something no child should ever have to endure, that feeling was always there for him. It wasn't until he got to Hogwarts that he realized exactly what it was.

“Harry?”

She'd opened his door without him hearing as he sat at his desk, lost in thought. Pulling her housecoat tight around her, she crossed the room and looked down at him in his seat.

“So, you're sure you have to go so soon?” she said, clutching a small thin box to her chest as she spoke.

“Yes,” he replied simply, shortly, turning away to look back at Hedwig's cage.

Aunt Petunia rang her hands nervously around the slender box, her dark expression unnoticed behind Harry. He could tell she wanted to say something. What, he didn't know, but from her behavior recently he couldn't help but wonder if she was having some last minute guilt issues.

“Why are you here, Aunt Petunia?” he said as the silent moment stretched on. His temper began to flare as he remembered her knocking at his door a few hours earlier, taking him away from his dream of Hermione.

He shot up from his seat at the desk and took a step towards her, realizing how much taller he was than her now. “Is there something you want me to do? Something you want me to say? `Cause if there is I'll say it just so you'll get out and I can have one last night of peace in this bloody--,”

“No,” she interrupted, shaking her head slowly. “No, no,” she repeated, as if convincing herself. “I just came to give you this, before you leave.” She held out the box, her hand shaking slightly as she waited for Harry to take it from her. He looked down, seeing a simple green velvet box that might have at one time held an expensive pen or watch. Perhaps, when Uncle Vernon reached his five-year anniversary with the drill company, his gift had arrived in this container. He cast an unconvinced glance at the box before taking it from her hand.

“He gave it too me,” she said softly, “The man that took you away to school last year—Dumbledore.”

Harry prized open the small box and dumped its contents into his open hand. A moment later, he found he was still holding his breath as the realization of exactly what he was holding hit him.

It was a wand. At least, it was the remains of a wand.

A willow switch, now only five or six inches long, torn and singed at one end lay in his palm. He closed his hand around the good end of it, holding it tight to take a look at the broken end when he felt a strange feeling well up inside of him. It tickled gently at his insides, making him release the breath he'd been holding and curl his lips in a strange smile.

“This was,” he looked up at his Aunt, “this was my Mum's wasn't it?”

Her face seemed to tighten as tears filled her eyes, but strangely, Harry noticed, she was smiling.

“Yes Harry. I've had it since—well for a long time now. It's the only thing I've kept of hers, but I want you to have it. She was your mother after all.”

He tried very hard, at that moment, to continue hating her. To go on for just a few more hours with his heart and mind closed so that he could leave Privet Drive and never return, but he couldn't.

Right then, in the room she'd locked him in countless times, in the house where she'd swung a soapy frying pan at his head, he realized that she was his Aunt; his mother's sister, his blood relative. He didn't have it in him to hate her for the rest of his life, no matter what she'd done to him because he understood that by giving him the remains of his mother's wand, she was in fact, giving away the last piece of her sister.

Worse, thought Harry, she's giving it to me when I'm leaving her. Me, the last link between them.

Harry had no siblings. He couldn't really appreciate what it meant to be someone's brother, but he had spent plenty of time with the Weasleys, and he knew that even at his worst, in his darkest hour, that Percy was still Ron's brother. That he would never be completely abandoned. Once a Weasley, always a Weasley, excommunication was not an option.

So too was it with the last members of the Evans clan.

“No, Aunt Petunia,” he said, putting the wand back into the box and shutting the lid with a slow, delicate motion. “Dumbledore gave this to you. He must have had his reasons.”

“Oh, but Harry, I'm sure he'd have wanted you to have it. When he comes to fetch you tomorrow we'll ask him. He would have just given it to me to hold on to--,”

“He's dead.” The words came from his lips with no hesitation or effort, like he'd just told her the time or the date. Aunt Petunia took a step forward, her hands shaking as she laid them on Harry's shoulders.

“Dead, but Harry, he's—Lilly said he's…”

“Yes, he was, but now he's dead. I'm leaving tomorrow by car.”

He felt her nails grip his shoulders tightly. “Was he murdered? Was it Volde--,”

“Yes,” he cut her off, not wanting to hear her say the name. For some reason, he couldn't bear to think of the Death Eaters knocking at the door of Number 4 Privet drive, and to have her say Voldemort's name—it made the possibility suddenly seem all too likely.

“But where will you go? What will you do? Will he come after you?” She was becoming frantic. Her nails in his shoulders where painful now and Harry was worried that she might suss out that Voldemort could come there looking for him once he turned seventeen and the protections on the house were dissolved.

“Don't worry about me,” he said in the same aloof voice, “There's a new Headmaster at Hogwarts, a Ministry of Magic, a secret society of wizards on my side of the fight. I'll keep my head down. Things will turn out alright.” It might have been the biggest lie he'd ever told. The Ministry was in shambles, the Order of the Phoenix; a flailing, headless entity now that Dumbledore was dead, and while McGonagall was trustworthy and competent, she was no Dumbledore.

“Harry, you're—you can't go off like this! If they got to Dumbledore, how can you hope to--,”

But Harry pressed the slender box back into her hands, a movement that stopped her speaking as she looked down at it. He took a step back and pulled his wand off his desk. “I have my own wand Aunt Petunia, and I can't stay here any longer. It's time to leave. I have to take my chances and make my own way.”

“Oh, Harry.” She took a half step towards him to embrace him but Harry stopped her with a wave of his hand.

“No. Like I said, it's time for me to go. You don't need to apologize or--anything like that. What's done is done. Maybe after—if I'm still--available, I can come back and we can talk things over.”

“I'd like that,” she whispered, choking on a small sob. “Harry, I'm sorry, for everything. If I could do it all over again…”

But Harry just nodded and turned back to his empty desk, not acknowledging her as she mournfully turned and descended the stairs towards his Uncle and the waiting television.

The next morning, Harry slept as late as he could, simultaneously relieved and disappointed by his lack of dreams. He arrived in the kitchen to find a plate waiting for him, Aunt Petunia scrubbing the pots and pans clean and Uncle Vernon reading the paper.

Business as usual.

He ate quickly and returned to his room, anticipation building in him as he now had minutes, not hours to wait until the Ministry car arrived.

Nervously, he paced his room, Hedwig watching him with huge golden eyes. He found himself wishing, as he often did, that she could respond to him when he spoke to her. At least there would be someone from the Magical world that he could talk to.

But then, with out incident or circumstance, the time had past. 11:45 showed on his alarm clock and after shooing Hedwig out the window, he was descending the stairs for the last time, his trunk in tow.

“Good luck Potter,” said Dudley coolly. “I'm sure you'll get along. If nothing else, you can certainly take a pounding…” He brandished is giant fist and smiled knowingly at Harry who wanted very badly to complete the transfiguration that Hagrid had started all those years ago on the Island off the coast when he gave Dudley a pigs tail.

“Right, thanks Dudley. I think.”

He pushed past to the entryway of the house where Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon waited.

“Now then, you're absolutely sure this is the last time you'll be in this house, boy?” grunted Uncle Vernon as he narrowed his eyes on Harry. He wasn't nearly as substantial as he used to be. In fact, thought Harry, despite his girth, he suddenly seemed insignificant indeed.

“Yes Uncle Vernon, I can guarantee this is the last time you'll see me here.” He glanced at his Aunt who seemed to remember their conversation from the night before as she flashed him a hesitant look.

“Well then,” said his Uncle as he reached behind him and pushed open the front door. “Best be on you're way. You're ride is right on time--for a change.”

A nondescript car, four doors and a motor, was waiting for him at the kerb. Harry stepped off the porch and felt the sunlight on his head, and unfamiliar feeling after the last two weeks of wet weather.

“Ah, see! A good omen!” said Uncle Vernon as he stepped through the threshold and shielded his eyes while sweeping his gaze across the sky. “Things are looking up.”

Perhaps they are, thought Harry. They really only could go up from here, couldn't they?”

He turned around and gave a final glance at Number 4 Privet Drive as Dudley gave a small nod and disappeared back inside to finish his lunch. As Uncle Vernon's smile grew wider with each step he took towards the car. As Aunt Petunia wrung her hands around the box with his mothers wand in it and tried to put on an impassive expression.

It was over. He'd survived it, and yet, he knew that this was a very small step on a very long journey.

The driver and passenger doors opened simultaneously as he approached and ejected two wizards in neat suits and sunglasses. The driver took a step forward and reached into his lapel for something. Harry stopped mid-stride, suddenly aware of how vulnerable he was out in the open.

“Mr. Potter,” said the wizard as he looked over Harry's shoulder at his Aunt and Uncle. “The Headmistress told me to authenticate my identity with this.” He pulled his hand from his jacket and presented a small slip of parchment that read identically to the one Harry had recieved the previous day by owl.

Harry reached into his own pocket, holding the identical notes side by side and saying, “Looks good to me…” with a nervous glance up at the wizard.

“Right.” He said firmly, sweeping his eyes over the quiet street with a hunters conduct from behind his dark glasses. He led Harry to the rear passenger door of the car as Harry noticed the other wizard standing with his hand inside his coat, his fist undoubtedly clenched tight around his wand. Waiting for the smallest sign of trouble.

The bright sunlight caught the tinted rear window of the car as Harry approached, rendering it translucent for a short moment in which he saw the outline of a woman's head, her hair piled atop her head in a prim, tight bun.

“Professor McGonagall needed to speak to me right away?” he asked, reasoning that the Headmistress waited for him in the back seat and wondering what could be so important as to not wait until the meeting that afternoon. But the wizard either didn't hear him or was too busy with security to take the time to respond because he was already swinging the door open and ushering Harry inside.

What waited for Harry inside stopped him short, however. He had been wrong about who was inside the car, very wrong indeed.

His eyes trained up the stocking clad leg, past the hem of the skirt resting just above the knee, along the slender arm and graceful fingers, (currently gripping the edge of the Daily Prophet) and came to rest of the face of Hermione Granger.

AN- Harry and Hermione alone in the back of the car with plenty to talk about, next time in - The Long Car Ride.

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Disclaimer- No, I still do not own or Prophet from Harry Potter.

Chapter 2 The Long Car Ride

“Harry!”

With a quick, fluid motion, she tossed her copy of the Daily Prophet aside and grabbed Harry tight around the neck, pulling him off his feet into the car with her.

“Woa! Hermione!” he yelped, falling headfirst, his trunk left outside. The door shut behind him with a muffled thud as the interior of the car went strangely quiet, the only sound, of course, coming from Hermione.

“Oh Harry! I've been so worried about you! That horrible vacation! I couldn't stop thinking about you, all alone at your Uncle's house!” She squeezed him tighter around the neck, his face pressing against hers cheek-to-cheek as she went on and Harry heard the boot shut somewhere behind him, his trunk now safely stowed.

“Oh, and my parents! The whole time I've been a wreck inside while they lived it up, completely oblivious,” she released him finally, holding him at arms length to have a look at him. “But how could I say anything to them? I don't know if they would have let me come back if they knew--,” she glanced at the tinted divider that separated them from their security in the front seats for a moment, her expression cynical as she said, “I don't know if they can hear us or not up there, perhaps we'd better not talk about anything too important, hmm?” The look she gave Harry then told him that she meant Horcruxes and Voldemort when she said too important, both subjects he suddenly had the desire to put off indefinitely.

Especially now that he had a proper look at her.

He'd seen her with her hair up before, of course. The Yule Ball had been an eye opening experience for him when it came to how he saw Hermione, but the way she simply returned to normal the next day, like it had never happened, seemed to deaden the lasting effects. In fact, he realized, until his dream a few nights prior, he'd never really considered how she looked that night.

“Mr. Potter, Mrs. Granger,” came the driver's voice from the front seat. Without a sound, he'd lowered the partition and was glancing back at them in the rear view mirror. “We're off to London now. Trip won't be more than a an hour or so… traffic and the enchantments on the car permitting—was there anything either of you needed?”

“No—thank you,” replied Hermione nonchalantly, as the divider returned to its upright position at the edge of Harry's vision and the car began to move forward.

“It's strange,” she said, turning her attention back to him, “The enchantments on this car; it very cocoon-like in here. I didn't even realize I'd stopped outside your Uncle's house until the door came open!”

Harry was barely listening. He couldn't get over how different she looked, sitting across from him in the back seat of the car. She'd been a child of fourteen back in their forth year at the ball, just playing dress up for a special occasion. Now however, she was the lovely young woman in the neat olive suit that offset her tanned complexion and chestnut hair wonderfully.

“Hermione, your clothes…”

“Yes… my clothes,” she sighed apathetically, extending her arms in front of her and looking herself over. “Mum took me to the shops when we were in France. She said I needed some proper travel clothes. I suppose she was right, you can't sport trainers and denim everywhere--,”

Harry smirked as he realized that he, as usual, was wearing trainers, jeans and his hooded sweatshirt.

“Oh, I didn't mean--,” she said quickly, putting her hand on his arm, “Sorry.”

“No, it's all right,” he murmured, realizing he was having trouble formulating a proper thought as she unbuttoned her jacket and leaned forward in her seat to remove it. The seats where deep, leather clad affairs, and to get the jacket off, she had to contort in an awkward position with her chest thrust forward and her shoulders pulled back.

Good lord, he thought, has she always been so…

His eyes followed along the shape of her form as she peeled the jacket away and revealed a silk top that hung off her shoulders by thin, delicate lengths of material. Harry had never seen her in anything like this before, and he found he was gritting his teeth as she casually adjusted one of the strips, moving it and the strap of her brazier beneath it aside for a moment to expose the tan-line that was hidden by it.

It might have been the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.

“Are you all right Harry?”

He was staring. Blantanly. He fought the urge to shake his head and thus physically shake off the affects of her managing, “Yeah, fine… sorry.”

This is all too much, he thought, his mind racing. What had happened to little, innocent Hermione in her school robes and bucked teeth? Where had the infuriating know-it-all with the frizzy hair and goofy grin disappeared too? And had the back of the car gotten smaller? Hadn't he been a foot or so farther away when he was first dragged inside?

Hair, wait--that was it! If he could just get her talking about something normal, like her change in hairstyle, and keep her from removing any more articles of clothing… maybe he could get his head straight and not make too much of an arse of himself along the way.

“So, have you invested in Sleekeazy's now?” he managed hoarsely, reaching out his hand timidly and spinning a loose tendril that lay curled in front of her left ear with his finger before he realized exactly what he was doing and quickly retracted it, cursing himself silently.

She smiled at him, apparently impressed that he had noticed anything different at all and said, “Actually, I've worked something out that could bankrupt them if I let enough people know about it.” She smiled slyly and went fishing in the bag at her feet, procuring her vinewood switch and holding it at the ready

“Observe,” she ran the wand over his head, slowly at first, then ending in a firm, almost abrupt motion that made his scalp tingle like the top of his head had fallen asleep.

“There, what do you think?”

The image that stared back at him in the reflection off the ebony divider was smooth, angular--almost sinister. His hair was slicked back and flat against his head as if held down by a large amount of an industrial strength styling gel. He turned from side to side, looking the reflection over from all angles and watched as his face curled in a peculiar smile.

Is she playing games with me?

A moment later however, he realized who the smiling visage in the divider reminded him of, but it was Hermione who spoke first.

“Hmmm, perhaps not. A bit Malfoy-esque, isn't it?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said, smirking at his reflection and wanting to muss his hair back to the way it was before when Hermione's hand entered the reflected view. She ran the back of her hand slowly down the side of his face, testing the dark stubble along his jaw line.

“I do like the whiskers though,” she said happily. Harry turned his head to face her, enjoying the contact of her skin against his. He wanted to grab for her hand, but she pulled it away before he could.

“Oh, thanks,” he said, trying not to sound disappointed, “I thought I'd skip the razor for a few days and see what grew.”

“Well, it's very becoming. You look much older, more mature.”

Harry felt his face flush and his mouth water in anticipation of what she might say or do next, but frustratingly, Hermione leaned back into her seat, crossing her legs and glancing out the window with her hand under her chin. It was possibly the worst thing she could have done. In one motion, she turned away from him, her attention now on the passing scenery, unknowingly thrusting her nylon-clad legs into full view.

Harry's eyes were drawn down to the soft, tanned shape of Hermione's legs as she absently twirled her ankle round and round, watching the world pass outside her window. It was most disturbing, Harry realized, that the same legs that only last year, while presented in a similar manner at Professor Slughorn's holiday party had gone all but unnoticed, now were the focal point of his entire attention.

His insides seemed to have lost all form or function as he just sat there and watched her. It was like he could actually feel his lungs melting, his heart congealing into something pudding-like and feckless; no matter how hard or fast it tried to pump, no matter how vigorously he tried to pull a breath, they where simply no use while she sat across from him, looking, smelling, acting like this.

“Harry, are you sure you're feeling quite well?” she asked, her attention turning back to him.

He tried to answer her; some wishy-washy, Charlie Brown non-admission of guilt. Maybe he could say how hot it suddenly was and how he needed some air. Hermione had just removed her jacket for the same reason, right?

Oh God, her jacket. The image of her taking it off crushed his psyche for a moment, making him wish he'd never remembered it.

As all this happened behind the scenes, Hermione watched his face flush as he shook his head quickly, no words coming from his slack jaw. She raised a confused eyebrow at him, scooting across the leather seat to place her hands around his arm and finding the muscle there straining and shaking with nervous energy.

“Goodness, Harry! Are you all right? You're very tense, is it you're scar?”

She reached out and touched her finger to his forehead, her hand cool and soft. Harry closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the contact, but she moved her other hand to his cheek, holding his face in front of hers and saying, “Harry, I'm getting worried. What's going on?”

I've been dreaming about kissing you and now you're here in front of me, in a skirt that's too short with legs that are too long and shoulders so brown and soft that I can't think straight, he thought to himself as he opened his eyes and found confusion and concern on her face. He realized that he hadn't been this close to her, seen her face so clearly, since his last dream about her when he'd saved her from the troll in the bathroom. Even her expression was familiar. Concern, confusion—but there was something missing.

“Hermione, I've been thinking a lot about someone—someone I shouldn't be thinking about.”

“Oh, Harry,” she said moving her finger from his scar and cradling his face with both hands now. He waited for her to speak again, their eyes locked together as his anticipation was doubled, then squared, then cubed.

But she said, “I'm sure Ginny is thinking about you too! When this is all over, you'll suss things out between you, don't worry.”

It was agony.

Her hands fell down to his and held them in the most platonic way, like she was trying to comfort an old friend, which he supposed, he was.

It made his stomach turn.

Was he really doing this? Throwing away six years of friendship and loyalty over some ludicrous dreams he'd had? So she looked amazing, so what? She was a woman, he was a man, he couldn't help but notice. Hadn't she said he was `fanciable' only last year? Surely she felt the same way abut him. Respect, admiration--but nothing more.

Of course she thought he was talking about Ginny! Hadn't she been there in the common room, a beaming smile on her face as he'd kissed Ginny after the Quidditch match? He and Ginny were perfect together, everyone saw it, even Hermione.

His eyes sank down to their joined hands, Hermione's gripped tightly around his, exposing only the back of his right hand. That was enough though, because there, written in his own blood one hundred times over, he saw it.

I must not tell lies.

To let this pass, without so much as a word about what he'd dreamed, what he'd seen, what he'd felt, it would be a lie. Something had changed inside of him. Something about the way he saw her, about the way he felt about her. It had been torn down and rebuilt and he couldn't undo it.

Besides, there was a war on. What if the car was attacked right now, on the way to the ministry? What if he was killed and never told her what had happened to him. If he never at least put his cards on the table and waited to see how things played out?

Worse, what if it was Hermione that was killed? He would try and protect her, like he always did, but there where things out of his control. If she was killed and never knew how he was feeling…

His mind filled with the memory of her being struck down by Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries and the terror he felt, watching her hit the floor. It broke something open inside of him to watch her like that, he realized. For months his subconscious had stowed the feeling away, deep down into a place the he wouldn't find, at least not while he was awake. But there is only so much room in your dark corners of your mind, and when they're full up, you start to have the strangest dreams…

“No, Hermione,” he said with newfound conviction and clarity. “I haven't been thinking about Ginny.” He moved his hands over hers and squeezed gently, I must not tell lies now standing out like a beacon from the back of his hand.

“But then--,” her eyebrow shot upward again, perplexity on her face.

Harry took a deep breath, held it tightly in his lungs for a moment and then said, “It's you Hermione. I've been thinking about you.” He couldn't tell her about the dreams; they somehow seemed to mitigate his feelings. Like if it was just a dream and nothing else, then somehow it wasn't as important.

“Me?”

Harry waited for a sign. Something to tell him that he hadn't just made a huge mistake. It seemed like hours to him, but mere seconds slipped by as she sat across from him, her hands still in his (which he regarded as a good thing), the edges of her lips curling in a peculiar smile.

“Me?” she said again, and then finally, she turned her head away and said under her breath, though still loud enough for Harry to hear, “Goodness, I should have had Mum take me shopping ages ago…”

Harry's nervous energy erupted in a loud laugh, “No, no! It's not your clothes, although, you do look, quite nice.” He grimaced as he realized that now, at the moment he was professing his feelings for her, “quite nice” was the best compliment he could come up with. “You've been stuck in my head for the last few days, well, truthfully, for the last few months. I've realized how important you are to me Hermione, how I couldn't do without you, and--,”

He paused as he watched her face color so darkly, he worried she might pass out. Was she happy to be hearing this, or terrified?

“Hermione,” he said, as the moment stretched on, “Say something, please. Even if you tell me I'm a fool and I should tuck this back away where it came from… Just say something.”

“What can I say to all this?” She ducked her head down, avoiding his gaze, her hands still locked with his. “Oh, why did you have to do this now, Harry?” she growled, her voice suddenly sharp and frustrated.

Harry gripped her hands tighter still, willing her to stay there physically connected to him as he said, “I know, my timing is impeccable as always, but what should I have done? Not said anything? Just let it go and hope it passed?”

“Yes—no—I don't know, Harry! This—this just can't be, alright? You and I are…”

“Just friends?” he finished for her. She looked up at him then, her expression more collected and lucid than before, though she seemed surprised that he knew what she was thinking. “Now, you know that isn't true, Hermione. Friendship takes you so far, but you and I…”

“Yes,” she replied, waiting for him to tell her exactly what they were.

“Well, you and I,” he looked her deep in the eyes, realizing that there was part of her warming to the situation, like she was over the initial shock and interested in what he had to say.

“You and I,” he sighed, collecting himself. Finding the right words for someone with a vocabulary like Hermione's was a daunting task. “I can't tell you exactly what we are Hermione, but I know what I'd be without you.”

“And what is that, exactly?” she asked, meeting his gaze now as he realized that the back seat of the car seemed like it had shrunk again. When she spoke, he could almost feel her breath on his face.

“I'd be lost, Hermione. Do you remember in the Department of Mysteries a few years back, when you where hit by the purple flame?”

As if involuntarily, she clenched her hands tight in his. He knew that she had the urge to touch the area across her chest where she'd been hit by Dolohov's curse. Even now, months later, there was still some fear in the memory of that day.

“Yes, I won't forget that anytime soon,” she said.

“Neither will I,” he swallowed hard, realizing exactly what he was about to do. “Hermione, when I watched you fall that day, something happened to me. I've tried to forget it, tried to ignore it, but all I did was build a dam that shored up what was going on inside me, and now…”

“It broke?” she said softly, now very close to him. The back of the car seemed like the rear seat of a hatchback now.

“Yes, it broke. It's good that it broke though, what if I never said anything about it and something happened to me, or worse to you? I know a lot's gone on since then, what with Ginny and all that nonsense, but I would hate myself if I never told you anything about this.”

“I don't know,” she said, her voice a whisper in his ears, “But Harry, we can't—we've got so much to do…” but as she spoke, her hands left his and spider-walked up his arms, coming to rest on his shoulders.

“Yes,” he whispered back to her, every one of his senses now overrun with her, “We can't…” He put his hands in her lap, his fingers gripping the outsides of her thighs as he leaned in close to her.

Her lips were soft and warm, like he'd imagined they would be over the last few days. He turned his head to the side as the kiss went on, opening her mouth slightly and finding her tongue waiting for his, luring him just inside where she tasted better than anything he'd ever know.

They broke apart a moment later, both of them taking a deep breath and opening their eyes.

“Damn,” she said suddenly. Harry's face contorted in surprise, he'd never heard her swear before. “My last hope was that you'd be a really horrible kisser, but…”

She attacked him this time, her fingers gripping his shoulders tightly and pulling his body against hers. Her mouth was hard on his, kissing furiously as her fingers ran down his back, nails clawing roughly as they went.

Harry didn't miss a beat. His left hand slid along the hem of her skirt as his right ran up under the back of her blouse, caressing the soft flesh he found there and then starting towards the clasp of her brazier. Her mouth was almost carnivorous against his; he never imagined she could be like this.

He pressed her tight against him, enjoying the swell of her breasts against his chest as his left hand moved father up her stocking clad leg until suddenly the nylon ran out and there was only soft flesh. He'd expected she was wearing panty hose but…

“We were in the lingerie department,” she panted, answering the question he asked when his attention shifted to her bare thigh and he stopped kissing her, “but they didn't have any panty hose, so Mum bought these. I suppose it's a French thing.”

He glanced down and saw her leg, tanned like the rest of her, covered in a dark stocking up until just below the black panties she was wearing. The amount of exposed flesh was only a few square inches, but the effect was unreal… He laughed to himself when he remembered how sexy he'd thought the tan-line under her bra strap was and how very insignificant it seemed now.

“Vive la France,” he muttered, smiling boyishly and pushing her gently down onto her back. She gripped the back of his head and pulled him down on top of her, wrapping a leg around him and moaning softly as his weight came pressing against her.

He moved his lips to a spot where her neck and shoulder met and slowly thrust his pelvis against her, feeling her push back and wondering if she could feel his hardness throbbing against his zipper. Unfortunately, in the next moment, he knew he'd never have that question answered because the door Hermione's head was pressed against opened and flooded the space with sunlight and the sound of someone gasping loudly

“Good heavens! What are you two doing in there?” said a mortified Professor McGonagall.

Tease, tease, tease! Yes I know, I'm horrible. Next time, Chapter 3 The Meeting.

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