Fumbling Towards Ecstasy by MmeFleiss

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 31/05/2007
Last Updated: 29/06/2007
Status: Paused

Harry struggles to become more than just friends with Hermione. Too bad he's clueless.




1. untitled
-----------



“Fumbling Towards Ecstasy” (1/6)


By MmeFleiss

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling,
various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast
Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is
intended.

*~*~*~*~*

“I can't stop thinking about you.”

My best friend of fifteen years stood up with a start, the two steaming mugs of cappuccino
between us long forgotten. As if sensing the impending drama, the hum of activity around us
sputtered to a halt, leaving the faint strains of INXS' “Need You Tonight” over the airwaves to
augment my humiliation.

I licked my lips and resisted the urge to Disapparate into the Forbidden Forest somewhere to
live the rest of my life out as a hermit. You'd think all those near misses with Voldemort
would've taught me something, but it was too late to wish I had planned this all first now. “I
wake up thinking about what your lips would taste like. I think up reasons to stop by your
department in hopes of seeing you. I count down the hours until…”

Ron's face turned the same shade as his hair as he slammed his palm against the Formica
tabletop, glaring at a nearby table of giggling schoolgirls in forest green uniforms and the gaping
elderly couple sitting by the café's main window.

Okay, that wasn't quite the reaction I was going for. On the upside, he hadn't attempted
to hex me like he did the last time I decided to practice asking out our mutual best friend with
him. There's something to be said about progress.

His scowl turned towards me and deepened, his fists clenched tightly as if he wanted nothing
better than to punch my lights out. The grim set of his mouth left no doubt that only our Muggle
surroundings kept me from an untimely visit to St. Mungo's. I guess I spoke too soon.

“Mate,” he growled through gritted teeth after finding our unwanted audience suitably chastised,
“don't take this the wrong way, but I don't want to be alone with you again until you
finally get the balls to ask Hermione out.”

He then stomped off, blending in with a herd of tourists headed for Piccadilly Circus the second
he stepped out into the snowbanked sidewalk. Uncooperative git. See if I ever ask him to help me
save the world again.

I ignored the sympathetic looks from our waitress and began to stir my coffee, trying my best to
analyze what I did wrong. The fact that I managed to offend Ron's sensibilities enough that he
wanted to keep away from me didn't exactly bode well for my chances. I wish he stuck around
long enough to at least tell me which bit I needed to fix, though.

I stared at the crackling fireplace with a sigh. If only I could ask Hermione for advice on
this; she was always better at dealing with matters of the heart.

It's funny to think that less than a month ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about
asking for her opinion. Of course, until that fateful afternoon, I hadn't realized that
she'd ever be in the running to be on the receiving end of my—admittedly—pitiful advances.

It started when she missed our usual workday luncheon together a couple of weeks after Christmas
hols, the unexplained empty seat taunting Ron and me with each glance. He was stuck minding his
brothers' shop and couldn't go to satisfy his curiosity. I, however, felt no such loyalty
to The Ministry and bunked off work for the rest of the day—earning a scratch on the ankle from
Crookshanks as I stumbled off the Floo and accidentally stepped onto his tail.

I hobbled past the rows of polished bookshelves overflowing with hardcovers and scrolls with
unpronounceable titles and over towards Hermione's kitchen to rummage through her stash of
healing potions, nearly running into her while she stared blankly at the contents of her
fridge.

“I'm sorry if I made you two worry,” she said without turning around. “I developed a fever
over the weekend, and I just woke up from my potion-induced coma.”

Though I could only see the profile of her head above the gleaming white door, evidence of her
claim stood out despite the weak afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. Her bronze curls
looked wilder than usual, barely contained by the butterfly clip resting against the nape of her
neck. Faint pillow creases marked her flushed cheeks, her one hand absently running over them as if
hoping to erase them.

“Then what are you doing up? You should still be in bed! Maybe we should stop by St. Mungo's
so you can get a checkup and…”

“Harry, I'm fine,” she interrupted, left eyebrow rising as she spotted my throbbing ankle.
“It seems to me like you need to be looked after more than I do.”

I felt my own face flush as I waved her off. The last thing she needed was to worry about me,
too. “Had a run-in with your ruddy cat.”

She smirked. “Whoever would have thought that the Chosen One would someday be brought to his
knees by a mere feline.”

“Don't remind me,” I grumbled as I sat down and took a closer look at the vertical gashes on
my leg. “If only we had known about this secret weapon earlier. We could have just draped catnip
over Voldemort and had him defeated in time for tea.”

“You wish. Maybe then you'd actually meet women who aren't out to become famous by
giving a play-by-play of your skills in bed to every wizarding publication known to man, or worse,
trap you into marriage.”

“That first bit happened *once*. Aren't you ever going to let me forget that?”

“You mean considering the fact that to this day I still pick up my copy of *The Daily
Prophet* with some trepidation lest I risk finding out more about what exactly you can do with
your tongue?”

“Well, it's not like it's likely to happen again anytime soon unless my hand gains a
separate consciousness,” I muttered under my breath.

Hermione let out a rather unladylike snort before shoving a yellow jar full of ground Murtlap
Essence against my chest. “Please keep the details of your nonexistent love life to yourself. I
really don't need to know that Filch probably has more experience with women than you ever
will.”

My retort died in my throat when I looked up to find her clad in nothing more than my old
Quidditch jersey, my eyes lingering on my surname branded across her chest as if confirming
ownership. I swallowed audibly and fought the urge to give her the shirt off my back to see if
she'd look just as good with it on. Preferably with some extracurricular activities in
between.

I'd known for years that Hermione was beautiful—her appearance during the Yule Ball
fourth-year and numerous instances since ensured that. But it had been more at the intellectual
level, in the same way that I knew that aconite was the same thing as wolfsbane or that Headmaster
Dumbledore once defeated Grindelwald. The way that my trousers were suddenly constricting blood
flow assured me that those days were long gone.

I dragged my eyes back down to my wound and began to slather the slimy paste over it, paying
close attention to make sure that it covered every inch.

She let out an impatient huff. “Honestly! You're going to need a lot more than that if you
want to get cured.”

I sucked in a breath as she added another dollop and began to massage my leg in a way that I
very much wished she would do elsewhere. Her thumbs drew concentric circles around my anklebone,
leaving a trail of heat that conversely left me shivering and leaning nearer towards the warmth of
her body. It was a difference of mere inches, but with the diminished distance I could smell the
orange blossom scent of her shampoo, and only my shaking fingers clenched around the armrests kept
me from closing in on the remaining space between us to discover whether she tasted just as
sweet.

I tried to distract myself by looking away. Out of sight, out of mind and all that. A perfect
plan in theory, if only I hadn't then noticed the way the hem brushed against her thighs with
each stroke. The fact that only a small, wandless command of *Wingardium L**eviosa* kept
me from seeing more gave me motivation to master a branch of magic I've not given much thought
to since the end of the war.

I stared hard at the faded maroon and gold fabric, willing it to flutter upwards whilst I tried
to predict what she wore underneath: perhaps an innocent pair of white cotton knickers, or a scrap
of lace that left little to the imagination. *Or maybe nothing at all. Ever thought of that?*
A voice that sounded an awful lot like Sirius interjected. My mouth ran dry. If that was true,
there was nothing to stop me if I reached out and plunged my fingers into her wet heat. Nothing to
keep me from hearing her moan my name in that low timbre that promised more.

Fortunately for my continuing good health, Hermione chose that moment to press just a bit too
hard on my fading wounds, curtailing my rampaging imagination. I snapped my eyes closed with a
groan.

“Sorry,” she murmured against my ear, the warm puff of air a caress against my skin. Her hands
on my ankle became languid, almost sensual, and I shifted on my chair whilst wondering how the
simple act of tending to my wounds had become a bigger turn-on than the most practiced of
seductions. Did that make me depraved?

Eventually, the moment that had been both too short and an eternity ended as she moved away into
a more platonic distance. But by then it was too late. I found that I couldn't stop wanting her
any more than I could stop my heart from beating.

I wanted more.

*~*~*~*~*

AN: I ran out of non-angsty smutty fics to read, so I decided to write one to keep myself
amused. This started out as a oneshot (I was determined to write a fic where they both already know
that they want each other, but as you can see I failed completely, and it snowballed from
there).

Special thanks to Jenn for betaing this for me. Any mistakes left are mine. Also thanks to Dave
Barry for writing *The Complete Guide to Guys*, a resource that has proven to be invaluable,
especially when coupled with my boyfriend patiently answering my questions on specific male
behaviors.

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“Fumbling Towards Ecstasy” (2/6)

by MmeFleiss

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling,
various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast
Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is
intended.

*~*~*~*~*

Taking care of Hermione for the rest of that afternoon turned out to be an exercise in self
control. By the time I managed to rush home with some excuse or other involving unfinished
paperwork, I was half-convinced that my erection had managed to leave a permanent crease on my
trousers.

Unfortunately, the added distance did nothing to curb my inappropriate thoughts involving my
best friend, and I was so distracted that I nearly spilled the entire contents of my tea kettle all
over my lap.

I gave up all pretences of being functional after that and sat down next to my fireplace with a
groan. How was I going to look her in the eye after this? Surely, there was some kind of rule about
how one shalt not lust after one's best friend; the disaster that was Ron and Hermione's
relationship during the Horcrux hunt made that perfectly obvious.

The best course of action would be to just try and forget my new awareness of her. I managed not
to notice for over a decade, so this brief lapse of sanity ought to be easy enough to ignore.

That resolve lasted about five seconds until my eyes wandered to a photograph of the three of us
on my mantle. It had been taken during Ginny's wedding reception two years ago. We were
standing in front of the buffet with plates in hand, and every once in a while Ron would reach over
to swipe his index finger on the cake's icing and put it in his mouth, leading Hermione to swat
him on the arm while I stood on his other side laughing at their antics.

At least, that was what was *supposed* to happen.

The picture me had abandoned his role and was making an unsuccessful effort of reaching around
Ron to snog Hermione senseless. Ron looked annoyed at having his taste of the cake interrupted and
was pushing me practically off the frame, whilst Hermione stood oblivious on the opposite corner
trying to decide between an éclair and a slice of pie.

I ignored the tinny sound of their protests and flipped the photo to face the wall, doing the
same to any others that featured the witch in question for good measure. I wasn't quite sure
how to feel when I noticed that some of my replicas actually succeeded with their quest.

Crisis averted, I plunked down onto the sofa with a sigh, only to tense back up as an image of
how she'd looked earlier emerged behind my closed eyelids.

Somehow, my hand ended up resting on the insistent bulge in my lap; it just felt so fucking
brilliant that my trousers and boxers were pushed down to my knees before I could worry about the
implications of wanking to a mental picture of one of my best friends.

Like before she was leaning forward with her chest inches from my face. Her left hand was
sliding up my thigh, coming to rest on my exposed member. Just that brief contact was enough to
leave me moaning and arching my back like some virginal teenager receiving his first hand job.
Hermione didn't seem to mind, however, and simply had a faint smile on her lips identical to
whenever she found herself coming across a particularly informative book.

I twined my fingers around her curls and pulled her against me, my mouth zeroing in on the
shoulder exposed by the loose neckline. Her thumb traced a maddening pattern around the crown of my
cock that left me gasping—giving her the opportunity to fuse her lips against mine, her tongue
mimicking the tempo down below.

I bucked up against the warmth of her hand when she tightened her grip before pumping in
earnest. I had never felt so grateful in my life that Hermione never developed an interest in
actually playing Quidditch, because her hands remained soft—like fucking silk—and when her mouth
moved down to join her fingers I was convinced that all that good karma I built up from defeating
Voldemort was finally good for something.

I willed my clenched fists to loosen their hold, opting instead to throw the now-dangling clip
over my shoulder before running my fingers through her hair. She trembled all the way down to our
most intimate point of contact whenever I brushed against her ears, and even when my head fell
backwards whenever she flicked her tongue a certain way, I made sure to give those newly discovered
sensitive spots proper attention.

Just when I was beginning to think that I had a chance of not embarrassing myself spectacularly
by desperately trying to list the twelve uses of dragon's blood in my head, Hermione changed
tactics by sucking my cock hard. It felt a lot like the time Dudley tricked me into using a Chinese
finger trap when I was eight—the difference being that I never wanted this to ever stop.

I think I might have cried out my appreciation, probably more than once. She responded by
stroking her tongue against me again in that same distracting pattern without a noticeable change
in pressure.

My hips jerked towards her involuntarily, wanting nothing more than to meld with the wet warmth
of her mouth. She let out a surprised gasp that sent an unexpected current of cold air to graze my
heated member. I barely had time to pull her off before I came, her name on my lips as reality
crashed back down.

“Shit,” I muttered when I finally managed to catch my breath. Never mind being unable to look
Hermione in the eye. After that, I doubt I could look at any part of her again without sporting a
hard-on. I was *so* dead.

*~*~*~*~*

There were a few things in life that I've always taken for granted: the sun will rise from
the east, Hagrid's cakes could be counted on to inflict physical damage, and talking with
Hermione was as natural as breathing. Of course, until I ended up sitting alone with her with my
rather involved fantasy from the night before replaying in my head in lurid Technicolor, there had
been little evidence to make me doubt life as I knew it.

I could feel her watching me intently as I attempted to coordinate my vocal cords with the
flapping of my mouth. After another minute passed without progress, she put the pub's sticky
lunch menu down and reached across the table to take my hand. “Harry, what's wrong? Did
something happen at work this morning?”

I bit back a groan as I stared down at our twined fingers, toying with the idea of exploiting
that excuse as my resolve to not turn my dream into reality *right there* flagged down
exponentially with each passing second. Unfortunately, my latest case of an unregistered Animagus
going around the countryside as a bat and seducing susceptible young women in flimsy nightdresses
could *not* be turned into the next Dark Lord wannabe, no matter how many creative facts I
manage to add to the mix. “No,” I finally said after another long pause.

“Well then?” she asked, cupping my cheek with her free hand to force me to look at her. All I
had to do was tilt my head a fraction of an inch, and I could've traced my tongue on the pulse
point beneath her palm. I wondered if it would tickle or send a flash of desire through her body so
strong that it would match mine.

I noticed with a start that Hermione was waiting for me to say more, and so I began with a
rather promising, “Er…” until I realized I didn't quite know what to say afterwards. My next
attempt with, “The thing is…” died an equally painful death for the exact same reason.

I could tell that she was beginning to lose her patience by the way her fingers tightened around
mine: no doubt wishing they were around my neck. In my defense, it was a bit hard to be coherent
when she looked at me with her cheeks all flushed like that. How was a bloke supposed to not think
about other ways to bring about that sort of response? Didn't she know how much time men
devoted to thinking about that sort of thing? Honestly, it was like waving a red flag in front of a
charging bull.

No wonder Ron fought with her throughout our teen years—that sly bastard. I would try it, but I
doubt my ego could survive that sort of beating on a regular basis.

Speaking of whom, our perpetually-late best friend chose that moment to appear, saving me from
having to conjure up an actual reply.

“Sorry, we had some trouble at the shop,” he said before grabbing the seat next to Hermione.
“Fred and George decided to see who could eat the most of the wrong ends of the Puking Pastilles
before needing to get sent off to St. Mungo's.”

Her jaw dropped. “But they could have been killed!”

Ron merely shrugged and began scanning the menu. “Lee dared them to do it,” he eventually said
as if it explained everything. Which of course it did.

When he didn't seem inclined to continue, I threw a cautious look at our fuming best friend
before asking, “So who won?”

“Harry!”

The grin Ron had been trying so hard to suppress emerged as he leaned forward and said, “Fred,
but only by two pieces. Hannah looked mad enough to throw an Unforgivable at him. I reckon
he'll be sleeping on the sofa for at least a week—well, a week after they let him out of the
Potion and Plant Poisoning Ward at any rate.”

Hermione began to open her mouth with the likely intent to either berate us over our blasé
reaction to the twins' predicament or to continue our earlier discussion. Either way, I found
it in my best interest to head her off.

I nodded towards the Wireless in the corner where the announcers were discussing the Wimbourne
Wasps' Seeker trade to the Chudley Cannons. Judging from the barrage of Floo calls the program
was receiving from fans, it seemed to be a move that some found more upsetting than the news of
Voldemort's second coming. “So what do you think your team's prospects are now that
you've got Shah?”

“It's definitely looking up. I think this might be the year we get the Cup.” Ron then
continued to expound on his favorite topic, barely pausing to let anyone else get a word in
edgewise.

Unfortunately, Hermione could in no way be accused of being daft enough not to notice my rather
pitiful attempt at subterfuge, and she kept sending me glares that promised an eventual return to
our previous discussion.

I slumped down in my chair and began to furiously think of a long-term plan.

*~*~*~*~*

“You've been avoiding me.”

Okay, so perhaps citing a burgeoning caseload to avoid our lunches, ducking behind office doors
whenever she came nearby at work, and putting my flat under a Fidelius charm wasn't
particularly subtle—or apparently, effective. To be fair, though, it did work for a good three days
before she caught me unawares.

I turned around so fast that I almost knocked off a whole shelf of quills with my elbow. The
supply cupboard for Level 2 roughly contained the same square footage as my first bedroom in Privet
Drive. The rows of office paraphernalia spread out from floor to ceiling, combined with Hermione
blocking the only way out, made it downright claustrophobic.

I cursed The Ministry's Anti-Apparition wards and pressed my back closer to the shelves of
invisible ink with faint hopes of proving that they worked equally well in concealing mortified
wizards.

If the Gods had any sort of pity for what I'd endured the first eighteen years of my life,
they'd have found some way for me to keep avoiding this confrontation. I wasn't asking for
much: perhaps an irate boss finding a sudden need to speak with one of us or a sudden bout of food
poisoning that would keep me too occupied to talk. Hell, I'd have taken even the reemergence of
Voldemort by that point.

Anything was better than facing an annoyed Hermione Granger unprepared. The fact that the sole
plan my panicked brain could come up with consisted of pushing her up against the wall and shagging
her brains out wasn't helping; I happened to like my bits right where they were.

But God, she wasn't making my resolve to keep my hands to myself easy. Her usual starched
work robes had been discarded as a concession to the overworked heating charms, leaving her in a
form-fitting, ivory blouse that accentuated every enticing curve of her torso. Even the fact that
it contained the same amount of cleavage as a nun's habit did nothing to extinguish my
curiosity over what she wore beneath.

Her black skirt was equally conservative, falling just past her knees. That didn't stop me
from admiring the gentle swell of her calves, her trim ankles, and the day's pair of fuck me
stilettos adorning her feet.

Hermione's passion for sexy shoes was one of those idiosyncrasies that I'd found amusing
over the years. In fact, I'd probably done more than my share of adding to her collection,
having bought her every outrageous pair I'd ever come across.

My dreams the past four nights gave me a new appreciation for her hobby. I paid rapt attention
to how they made her breasts jut out when she stood, how they made her hips shake *just so*
with each step—but my favorite was imagining how they'd look against my shoulders while I
repeatedly pounded into her.

I somehow found myself gripping her waist. I wanted nothing more than to prop her up against one
of the shelves and make the world tilt beneath her so hard that they'd be
*R**eparo*ing the contents of the supply cupboard for weeks.

Sanity returned, however, and I snatched my hands back before temptation overtook common sense
once more. I didn't notice when the sudden movement made my head brush against the stack of
requisition forms behind me, sending a shower of parchment overhead; nor did I notice my elbow
knocking over a nearby bottle, sending black ink to bloom on the sleeve of my white dress
shirt.

The entirety of my being was focused on her harsh breathing and flushed cheeks—and a slowly
growing hope that perhaps she might want me, too.

*~*~*~*~*

**Author's Note:** The scene with them in the pub was the original beginning (with a few
major differences), but a throwaway line in its previous incarnation inspired what ended up
becoming the actual first scene of this story. The pub conversation actually got deleted during the
first rewrite, but I just liked it too much to let it go. And both the parts involving the moving
photos and the twins pretty much wrote themselves; I'm not quite sure what that says about my
thought process!

Thanks to Jenn for betaing this. Any mistakes left are mine. Also special thanks to Dave
Barry's *Complete Guide to Guys* and my bf for putting up with all my questions on typical
male behavior.

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“Fumbling Towards Ecstasy” (3/6)

by MmeFleiss

*~*~*~*~*

Times like these are when I remember exactly why Hermione is the brains of our little
operation.

Having become aware the day before that my sudden attraction towards my female best friend might
in fact be mutual, I decided—after much tossing and turning in bed—that a consultation with the one
other person who knew her best was in order.

The workday leading up to it crawled at a glacial pace, especially after I found it impossible
at lunch to carry out a private conversation with Ron that didn't make the source of my problem
suspicious. By the time five o'clock rolled around, my partner had become so nauseous from
watching me pace around the office that he threatened to spew all over my best set of work robes
unless I got out of his sight. I ran out of there before he could notice the mountain of paperwork
left in my in-tray and change his mind.

Unfortunately, my luck didn't hold, for a delay at the lift occurred in the form of one of
my more persistent admirers from Level 5 wearing a perfume that secreted more pheromones than a
Veela. The entire car actually began to tilt dangerously to one side when she became mobbed by
practically all the males within. Fortunately, overexposure had long since made me immune to love
potions, leaving me a mere spectator. It seemed like ages before someone came up with the brilliant
idea to conjure a bucketful of freezing water to drown out the effects.

I eventually found myself facing the familiar, eye-watering storefront of Weasley's Wizard
Wheezes at Diagon Alley. Ron's bright red hair was easy enough to spot despite the blinding
array of products that covered every inch of wall space. He was bent over a cage of Pygmy Puffs,
his creased and slightly dusty magenta robes a testament to his equally long workday.

With the majority of their customers off at Hogwarts, combined with the approaching hour for
dinner, I wasn't surprised to find the shop relatively empty. I didn't give him a chance to
even say hello before I dragged him by the collar towards the farthest corner away from where
Verity was helping out their lone customer.

It took a couple of false starts, but I eventually managed to relay the earth-shattering events
of the past week. After a half hour of heavy brainstorming, however, the only things Ron and I came
up with were splitting headaches and the idea that perhaps—if possible—I should do something to
make her seriously consider me as more than just her best friend.

“The most logical thing to do, of course, would be to follow Hermione's example. Maybe if
she sees you in something that women find sexy, she'll realize what she's been
missing.”

“And what exactly would that be? A woman can seduce almost any man with the right lingerie, but
what options does a man have? A pair of skimpy boxers and a prayer that she'll take pity on him
and not laugh *too* hard?”

“Who knows what sort of mad things women find attractive. If worse comes to worst, you could
just sweep her off her feet by doing that bit with your tongue that I read about on *Quidditch
Monthly* a couple of years back.”

“Yeah, if only I had some clue what… Wait, you read that *where*?” Before Ron could repeat
what he said, I blurted out, “You know what? Forget it. Not knowing is probably better for my peace
of mind.”

“I never did understand what your problem is with all that. If someone *I* shagged went
around giving me glowing recommendations to other women that I could also potentially shag in the
future, I'd sure as hell wouldn't mind.”

I threw a Ton-Tongue Toffee towards his mouth in hopes that he'd choke on it. “You're a
pig, you know that?”

“You just don't understand the pain of being an average bloke and not having women willing
to drop their knickers for you all the bloody time.”

“That's loads better than having everyone and their mother knowing the very next morning if
you ever have an off night. Talk about performance anxiety.”

Ron guffawed and gave me a friendly pat on the back that almost sent me careening towards a
rotating display of Wildfire Whiz-Bangs. Fortunately, I managed to catch myself before I set off a
conflagration that would rival the Great Fire of London. Never a dull moment around when the twins
are involved.

“Then it's a good thing you won't ever have to worry about that with our Hermione,
yeah?” he said, bringing us back to the topic that brought me `round the shop to begin with.

“I think that's the least of my worries.”

*~*~*~*~*

I found myself later that day standing under the rapidly cooling stream of my shower. It figured
that she'd choose that day of all days to be late.

Ever since her explosive breakup with Oliver Wood during her birthday, she'd begun joining
Ron and me for our weekly ritual of Friday Night Quidditch. Perhaps two years of going out with the
Montrose Magpies' Keeper had rubbed the love of the game onto her or something. I don't
know why else she'd want to subject herself to hours of listening to us ridiculing the
play-by-plays given over the WWN. Whatever the reason, I was glad to spend the time with both of my
best friends, and even more glad that Ron agreed to do the shop's inventory that particular
evening.

When my waterlogged skin began to turn an unhealthful shade of blue with no Hermione in sight, I
gave up on the harebrained scheme of testing the water by “accidentally” answering the door with
only a towel to shield my modesty and started thinking up ways of getting the feeling back on my
numbed fingers.

I ignored the mirror's dispiriting comparison of my nude body to an Inferi's as I
toweled my hair dry and opened the bathroom door—only to find her on the other side with her hand
poised up to knock.

That would have been the perfect time for those so-called Seeker reflexes to kick in.
Unfortunately, the freezing water had apparently worked its way into my brain as well, and I wasted
valuable seconds goggling in surprise.

It was only when her eyes wandered down to my exposed cock that I managed to slam the door in
her face, sputtering, “It's only like that because of the cold water, I swear!”

I stared hard at the door and tried to calculate my chances of killing myself by repeatedly
banging my head against it. Maybe she'd forget all about this if I'm dead. Only the mental
images of the sort of headlines that are likely to follow news of the fact that I'd been found
without a stitch of clothing on kept me from actually making an attempt.

“Well, nothing like humiliation to put some color back into your cheeks,” my mirror interjected
rather cheerfully. “Although still far from what the recipient of *Witch Weekly's* Most
Eligible Bachelor for eight years running should look like, I think.”

The glare I gave it appeared to be enough to set off what little self-preservation instinct it
possessed, for it didn't make another comment until the following week.

“I'm sorry for surprising you like that,” Hermione suddenly said from the other side of the
door, bringing me back to the more pressing issue at hand. “I was already running late from my
unplanned visit to the veterinary clinic, and I thought you wouldn't mind if I used the key you
gave me.”

I groaned and made a half-hearted attempt to bash my head in despite my earlier resolve. Much as
I would've liked to indulge in a bout of righteous anger, there was really no reason for her to
expect to catch me in such a compromising position. After all, we were usually fully clothed and
well into drink by this time of night.

I just prayed that my voice didn't sound as defeated as I felt when I said, “Don't worry
about it. Why don't you go and get our drinks while I get dressed?”

“All right,” she answered, followed by the sounds of clinking glassware. “I hope you have some
food as well. My plans of having dinner before coming here sort of fell through.”

“There should be a box of Chinese takeaway in the fridge,” I said as I worked up the courage to
leave the bathroom and began to hunt around my wardrobe for a clean pair of jeans. “What kept you,
anyway?”

“Crookshanks has been having territorial issues with my new neighbor's pet. I came back from
work to find most of the hair on his tail gone.”

I couldn't help but snort at that particular mental image despite the rather depressing turn
of recent events. I spent considerable time straightening out the fitted black turtleneck Fleur and
Bill had given me for Christmas and then afterwards wasted a couple more minutes trying to tame my
hair flat. It didn't take long before my long-suffering bedroom mirror finally snapped that
what I wanted would require nothing short of a miracle.

With that distraction gone, I decided to pace around for a bit before sitting down on the bed
that I made up so carefully earlier in a bout of wishful thinking. Fat chance of anything of that
sort happening on it anytime soon. When I couldn't delay any further without raising suspicion,
I inched my way towards the living room, only to stop short at the sight of Hermione bent over to
tend the dying embers.

I was hard in the split-second it took me to plop down on the sofa and cover my reaction with a
convenient throw pillow—my earlier embarrassment long forgotten. I couldn't pry my gaze from
where her green v-neck jumper had ridden up, and it took all my willpower not to splay my fingers
against the milky whiteness of her back and make her shiver with want for more.

I wanted to strip off every layer hampering my desire to worship her body—move nice and slow,
taking the time to anoint every inch of newly exposed skin with my tongue. I wanted to watch her
tremble as I partook of the sweet offering between her legs, her hips moving in rhythm with my
probing fingers. And most of all, I wanted to be inside of her, to have her pulsing heat surround
me until reason and desire blurred together.

When she had the fire going once again and sat down next to me, I had to swipe the back of my
sleeve against my mouth to ensure that I wasn't actually drooling. It didn't help that she
was so near that I could feel the heat of her body branding my skin.

The sportscast was barely discernable over the pounding of my heart, and with the ostensible
reason for our weeknight gathering not being enough to distract me, I shifted my attention to the
coffee table as if it held the secrets of Merlin himself.

She'd bypassed our usual six pack of ale in favor of her beloved merlot. Two glasses were
already half-filled with the burgundy liquid, next to a steaming plate of kung pao chicken with an
extra fork already set aside because she knew that I wouldn't be able to help appropriating
part of it for myself.

It was a setup identical to countless meals I've shared with her over the years. For the
first time, however, the level of intimacy implied by that one detail really struck me.

How did I manage to be this close to Hermione for all these years and only just realized that we
could become something more? Even Ron, whom she had once accused of having the emotional range of a
teaspoon, realized years before I did the possibilities that came with having a best friend who
also happened to be a girl. Didn't that one fact prove me to be even thicker than him? Good
Lord.

She must've noticed the direction of my rather distracted stare, because she suddenly
murmured, “I hope you're hungry,” leading me to look back at her before I could stop
myself.

In the firelight, her eyes remained shadowed—throwing the sharp planes of her cheekbones in
sharp relief. Her lips, already stained red with wine, held the promise of a different sort of
intoxication. But it was the darkened space between her breasts that held my attention.

I longed to reach down and feel every hidden curve beneath my lips, to memorize her scent, to
make her arch her back in a way that would bring her body flush against mine.

I downed the entire contents of my glass in one go while I struggled to reign in my hormones.
Getting thoroughly snogged by her best friend was probably not something she'd appreciate
without at least some sort of warning, especially right on the heels of catching an unimpressive
eyeful of the bits involved. God knows that if it was me in her place and Ron decided to
surprise…

Ugh. Let's stop that train of thought right there.

*Well, no time like the present* *to get the ball rolling*, said the Sirius-like voice
in my head that I was beginning to think came equipped with horns and a handy pitchfork. *The
mood is right, and you have alcohol. If she doesn't take well to your idea, you can blame it on
that and she'll be none the wiser!*

I refilled my glass and gulped it all down in hopes of gaining some much-needed liquid
courage.

“That bottle isn't going anywhere, you know. Perhaps you should slow down.”

My stomach lurched dangerously when I almost made the mistake of looking at her once more. I
decided to have another round for good measure.

Give me another Dark Lord over *this* any day.

*~*~*~*~*

Author's Note: I love writing Ron, but for some reason I've never felt the urge to write
a fic centering on him. I'm not quite sure why. Yet another throwaway line (this time in the
last scene) inspired a whole scene that will pop up later on in the story.

Thanks to Jenn for betaing this. Any mistakes left are mine. Also special thanks to Dave
Barry's *Complete Guide to Guys* and my bf for putting up with all my questions on typical
male behavior.

-->



4. untitled
-----------



“Fumbling Towards Ecstasy” (4/6)

by MmeFleiss

*~*~*~*~*

When I began to think coherently again, the bright sunlight streaming through my bedroom windows
was attempting to burn a hole straight through my eyelids. I rolled over to face the wall and felt
a breeze against my bare back, prompting me to blindly grope for the covers until my brain caught
up with the significance of my state of undress.

Oh. Dear. God. Please tell me that I had been—at the very least—fully functional the night
before. All the supporting medical evidence in the world wasn't enough for me to look Hermione
in the eye ever again if I hadn't.

My brain's sadistic decision to remind me of those blasted headlines from two years before
only worsened my already dwindling self-esteem. After all, there must've been a good reason all
those reports concentrated on what I could do with my tongue and almost nothing else, right?

I didn't think I was particularly vain, but I might've been more amenable to such a
complete disregard to my privacy if just *one lousy paper* had thought to include something
like, “By the way, the Chosen One's equipment is remarkable as well. That tongue bit is just a
bonus and is in no way a compensation for being lacking in another department.” It's not like I
was asking for much here.

When I finally worked up the nerve to open my eyes, I was met with the unexpected sight of
having the other side of my bed completely untouched. Not even a bout of squinting and twisting my
head about could produce a familiar strand of bushy hair left behind on the sheets; a quick pat
down my body assuring me that I was at least clad in a pair of boxers only supported my growing
suspicion.

Did that mean…

I slipped my spectacles on and sat up, ignoring what felt like a swarm of Doxies gnawing at my
brain. My stomach fluttered madly with each step, though whether they were the effects of my
unplanned drinking binge or something else, I couldn't tell.

A quick scan around my flat for other signs of life resulted in finding only Hedwig sleeping on
her usual perch. The tableware from the night before was gone, presumably cleaned and back in their
usual place. I was almost convinced that the entire night with Hermione had been nothing more than
a hypothermic hallucination when I noticed the empty bottle of merlot next to my sink. The churning
of my stomach sped up even more until I thought I was going to throw up.

It was only after I managed to calm myself down somewhat by absently folding and refolding the
emerald green jumper Hermione had left behind the night before that one of the Ministry's
distinctive tawny owls dropped a slip of parchment on my head covered in her neat penmanship. I
held it up and began to read, half-afraid of what exactly occurred after that fateful third
drink.

Was she hacked off that she had to take care of me? Amused by some embarrassing revelation I
undoubtedly made? Aroused by the sight of my nearly nude body?

Oh, sweet Jesus, please let it be that last one.

Her account of the previous evening turned out to be disappointingly clinical. Apparently, I had
made quick work of the rest of the bottle before regurgitating the contents of my stomach all over
my clothes and passing out. She cleaned up as best she could and made sure that I had enough
hangover potion left before heading home.

While that went a long way into explaining my state of undress, it left no hint on whether or
not I managed to tell her how much I fancied her—or more importantly, how she felt if I did. I
stared at the parchment as if clues on her state of mind would appear if I tried hard enough.

Unfortunately, I was no closer to deciphering Hermione's feelings when I finally got up
later that afternoon to buy my weekly ration of food, nor that evening after a pick-up game of
Quidditch at the Burrow followed by dinner.

I was in the midst of polishing my broom when the woman in question decided to reappear in my
presence, the unexpected flash of white at the crook of her arm snagging my attention before I
could fully register just who exactly stood on the other side of my front door.

I busted out laughing as my brain confirmed that it was indeed a snarling Crookshanks with a
giant plastic cone surrounding his head. I couldn't stop even as Hermione's glare deepened
and her cat decided to retaliate by sinking his teeth in my arm.

She made quick work of disentangling us and swept past me with an annoyed huff. “I see that I
had nothing to worry about after all. I do hope that you remember that you only have yourself to
blame when he decides to leave you a special present on your bed.”

My mirth disappeared as abruptly as it came. “What are you on about?”

“The Italian Ministry has been having problems with their local vampire population, and so
I've been stuck at work all day handling some of the fallout. We've just been called over
there to officially mediate the conflict—but oh, Harry, can't you just imagine the Minister and
his staff going over there equipped with garlic, silver, and wooden stakes `just to be on the safe
side?' It'll be a disaster!”

I knew that was my cue for some sort of witty reply—but with my amusement over Crookshanks'
plight long gone, my earlier nervousness multiplied tenfold.

How could she act so unaffected by what occurred the night before? Even if I hadn't managed
to actually say anything, shouldn't she at least be feeling some awkwardness after undressing
me and seeing me practically starkers not just once but *twice*?

Maybe this was confirmation that I've just been deluding myself, and she saw nothing she
found worth being embarrassed over. That would certainly explain why all my previous relationships
consisted of girls either busily crying over their dead ex-boyfriend or by those blinded by my
supposed heroics.

Did that mean that I actually had Voldemort to *thank* for giving me the necessary fame to
at least have a go at dating? Granted, I knew I wasn't much of a prize with my near-blindness
and wonky hair, but I didn't think I was as bad as all *that*.

Then a more horrifying thought occurred to me. Did those same rules apply to that noseless
lizard, meaning that somewhere out there had been groupies with bad boy complexes mad enough to try
and change him?

Oh God! *Obliviate*!

I was so distracted that I remained dumbstruck when Hermione reentered the living room with a
familiar jar of yellow paste and reached over for my wounded arm. I was barely able to comprehend
her apology for leaving Crookshanks behind with me on such short notice and could only nod in hopes
that she wouldn't notice my inattentiveness.

The feel of her cool fingers against my skin did wonders on focusing my attention back to its
rightful place. I couldn't keep a moan from escaping as her hands slid up to my bicep, causing
her to momentarily pause and bite her bottom lip. It was sexy as hell. It was also all the
reassurance I needed that she'd felt something too.

With Friday night proving that I was crap at all this talking things through business, I figured
that maybe if I just pushed her down and gave into the temptation of cataloging what every inch of
her skin tasted like, she'd figure it all out on her own. Brightest witch of her age and all
that.

I leaned forward and pretended to absently rub her knee, causing her legs to part
infinitesimally in invitation. Another moan wrenched itself away from my throat at the promise such
a move held, and I frantically tried to recall the earlier thread of our conversation before my
control slipped past saving. “I'm surprised that the Minister hadn't invited me along to
act as his glorified bodyguard this time. That's about the only assignment I ever really get
apart from those crackpot cases.”

Hermione licked her lips before replying, almost making me abandon my resolve in favor of some
instant gratification. “T-That's because the outcome is s-still so uncertain. The p-publicity
of having you…”

“…shouldn't have to be the sole deciding factor,” I concluded, moving even nearer until my
lips were brushing up against her ear.

She closed her eyes and shivered as I let my mouth linger, her breath hitching every time I
exhaled. Her grip on my arm slackened as she pulled back a little to give me easier access to the
pale skin of her neck.

I was about to move in on the remaining distance and start the chain reaction that would
irrevocably send us past that invisible line of platonic friendship we've been toeing, when a
burst of emerald flames erupted from my fireplace. I instantly formed a hatred unequaled by even
the Dark Lord himself towards the previously sweet old lady that served as the secretary for the
Department of International Magical Cooperation.

“Ms. Granger, is that you?” she inquired whilst squinting myopically towards where Hermione and
I were sitting.

I bit back a groan as she let out a squeak and practically shoved me off the sofa in her rush to
answer the Floo call. I didn't even get much of a chance to admire her bum before she went
running back towards her office over yet another emergency.

*~*~*~*~*

To say that I was grumpy over the next couple of days would've been an understatement.
Fortunately, Ron wasn't known for his perceptiveness, and he never noticed that anything was
amiss even when the bulk of my answers consisted of grunting and the occasional nod.

“Oh, I almost forgot to ask you,” he said in between heaping bites of chicken tikka masala. “Are
you free Friday night? I have tickets to the match between the Cannons and the Magpies.”

“How? That's been sold out for ages.”

“Well, do you remember that incident with the twins involving the Puking Pastilles?” At my nod,
he continued, “They decided to give me the tickets as an incentive not to tell Mum.”

I imagined Hermione catching wind of that particular confession and could practically hear her
screaming in my head, *Ronald Weasley! I can't believe you would be so morally lax as to
accept a bribe! And to willfully keep your own mother from knowing the truth—why, you should be
ashamed of yourself!*

I hid my smirk by staring down at my own plateful of nuclear orange curry before saying, “Sounds
great. I've been wanting to watch the Magpies play again.”

“Yeah, and this time there's no Hermione to distract that poor sod Oliver. Do you remember
how he kept trying to apologize to her in the middle of the match? I've never watched such an
awful game. I think half of the stadium wanted to corner him afterwards and demand a refund.”

My smile slipped off as my stomach began to protest over the contact with the tikka masala.
You'd think I'd learn to stop eating the stuff after all these years. “Do you reckon
she's still hung up on him, too?”

“Are you daft? You know full well that Hermione's the sort to go after what she wants.”

“You're right. I don't know what I was thinking.”

Ron stared at me for a bit before rolling his eyes. “Mate, you've got it bad.”

“I do *not*!”

“You know I got an owl from her on Saturday grilling me about your drinking habits? I think
she's afraid you're turning into an alcoholic or something.”

“Oh God!”

“Anyway, since she also let it slip that she caught you walking out of your bathroom starkers
right after she arrived, I told her that you were probably just feeling inadequate or something.
After all, we can't all be gifted at everything.”

“You told her *what*?” Honestly, with friends like these…

“Well, I had to think of something, didn't I? And anyway, it's not like I'm expected
to be privy to that sort of information, so she could hardly have taken me seriously.”

“We shared a communal bathroom for six years!”

“And everyone knows that there are unspoken rules about that sort of thing!” Ron's eyes
practically popped out of their sockets as he moved back as far away as possible without actually
getting up, looking far more scandalized than I've ever seen him before. “You don't mean to
tell me that you've *looked*?”

Well… “Of course not!”

That seemed to satisfy him enough to move back into his original position and continue eating,
although that didn't stop him from eyeing me with some suspicion whenever he thought I
wasn't looking.

*~*~*~*~*

By nightfall, the riotous churning in my stomach became almost unbearable. I could've sworn
that Crookshanks actually looked smug when I gave up the battle of reading *Which Broomstick*
after work in a futile attempt at normalcy and headed off to bed.

I don't know how long I laid there tossing and turning before I felt the mattress dip down
on one side, but I had my wand aimed and was in the middle of uttering the Blasting Curse before
the figure moved nearer to reveal a familiar head of bushy hair.

“Jesus, Hermione,” I muttered as my arm flopped back down onto the bed. “You might want to give
a bit more of a warning next time.”

“Sorry,” she said, stroking her chilled fingers against my cheek in a familiar gesture of
apology. “It's just that we finished early today, and I wondered why I was sitting around my
hotel room alone when I could be here with you.”

I barely had time to catch my breath before she leaned down and kissed me. She tasted of
strawberry lipgloss and mint toothpaste. Combined with her orange blossom shampoo and the faint
aroma of soap that clung to her skin, it should've been overwhelming, but somehow they all
managed to mesh together to form something so distinctly Hermione that it was nothing short of
perfection.

My eyes snapped shut as her teasing fingers skimmed over my bare chest. She traced over every
line, dip, and curve with the same sort of attention to detail that made her top of our year—but
right then all I cared about was having her on top of me.

I pulled her as close as the layers of clothing separating us would allow, the hard bulge in my
boxers leaving no room for interpretation on my intentions. My lips drifted down towards her
upturned neck as I tugged her green blouse off on one shoulder; she let out a gasp that shot
straight to my cock as I traced my tongue over her collarbone, my grip around her waist tightening
with every undulation of her hips.

"Keep those on," I said as Hermione made a move to take off her shoes: a
caramel-colored pair with three inch heels that made her legs look like they stretched out into
forever. I could hardly wait to have them propped up against my shoulders while I made her forget
her own name.

I flipped us over and lifted her matching skirt up to her midriff without preamble, taking a
second to admire the deceptive innocence of her white cotton knickers before attempting to take it
off. I got it about halfway down to her knees before I grew impatient and ripped it right off. Her
shocked gasp only spurred me on, and I eagerly buried my head between her legs.

I started off by leaving open-mouthed kisses on her inner thighs. She trembled and sighed with
every brush of my lips, her bum lifting off the bed completely whenever I paused to let my teeth
and tongue work in tandem to leave my mark on the silky softness of her skin.

When her whimpers became edged with impatience, increasing in volume with every second I denied
her the maddening pressure where she wanted it most, I smirked up at her before shifting as if to
move my attentions downward.

Hermione's grip on my shoulder became almost painful as she growled, "Don't you
dare!" before directing my mouth towards her quivering center.

The first lick up her folds had her moaning my name in a way that made me want to forget about
taking things slowly and just bury myself inside her. By the time I got to sucking her clit in
earnest, her body was twitching with every flick of my tongue.

“Please,” she gasped, writhing around so hard that she was practically off the bed. At my
confused look, she clarified by adding, “in” before I obligingly plunged two fingers into her wet
heat.

Hermione's eyes fluttered shut whilst her mouth formed a soundless “o.” It was a moment so
unguarded and full of want, that even if this never happened again, I was content in knowing that I
was able to make her feel that way—even if only for a moment.

I shook my head as I realized I was gaping down at her like some idiot and concentrated on
increasing the tempo. It took less than a minute before the normally articulate witch beneath me
was reduced to babbling incoherently, but I was too mesmerized by the answering thrust of her hips
to make a teasing comment.

And then suddenly she was shrieking. Her pelvis was pressed against my face so hard that for a
second I was afraid I might suffocate. When I finally looked up to smile up at her, however, I
found myself in bed alone—my hands grasping at empty space. A bleary look around revealed
everything to be in the exact same place I left them before I fell asleep.

It had been, altogether, an erotic dream no different from any other starring my best female
friend—but for the first time it left me feeling unsatisfied.

*~*~*~*~*

Author's Note: I was tempted to just scrap both this chapter and the next because I
wasn't sure if I wanted to end it with the fourth chapter like I had planned in my
outline's second draft or to go ahead with the plot point that required two extra chapters. I
had to finish chapter five and see how much I liked it before I could decide for certain, so I
apologize for the delay in posting this.

Thanks to Jenn for betaing this. Any mistakes left are mine. Also special thanks to Dave
Barry's Complete Guide to Guys and my bf for putting up with all my questions on typical male
behavior.

-->



5. untitled
-----------



Fumbling Towards Ecstasy (5/6)

By MmeFleiss

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling,
various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast
Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is
intended.

*~*~*~*~*

The biggest downside to tossing off before work was that it made one want to roll over and go
right back to sleep. Years of experience should've taught me this, but after my frustrating
dream the night before, I figured that I was better off tired rather than giving anyone I happened
to run into a very rude hello. Just my luck that it coincided with my division's monthly
dueling exercises.

Unfortunately, this knowledge didn't make it any easier to swallow the fact that I was
repeatedly getting knocked off my arse by a man so old that by all accounts he should've
retired right after Voldemort's *first* reign of terror. The mixture of other Aurors
either jeering at every fall or looking on as if they'd just discovered that Father Christmas
did not, in fact, exist only exacerbated my growing irritation.

“Let this be a lesson to you,” My partner of five years said as he swaggered—well, as much as a
man with a peg leg could swagger, I suppose—over to where I laid sprawled on the ground. “I
can't have you getting overconfident just because I let you win all those other times.”

Well, I suppose that was *one* way of describing his decision to start every duel with a
yawn-inducing recollection of some time or other when he managed to be victorious, followed by an
attempt to hex me while I was in the midst of something more exciting like trying to decide just
how many packets of instant noodles I needed to buy that particular week. I would've said all
that aloud, but I couldn't shake off the look of disappointment that was sure to be on
Hermione's face after finding out about it. I decided to stay still and whimper instead.

“Boy, don't tell me you're already giving up. How do you expect to learn everything I
have yet to teach you?” The howls of laughter from some of the onlookers only worsened when he
continued to blabber on about how wonderful he was to a spot above my head and to the left, serving
as a reminder that apart from the bum leg and an ego that would rival a Malfoy's, old Quintus
Hardgrave was also as blind as a bat.

“How did he ever manage to defeat You-Know-Who?” a rookie whose name I had yet to learn wondered
aloud. “He's complete rubbish!”

I turned to glare at him, once again really grateful that Hermione had forced me to learn at
least the basics of Legilimency so that I could traumatize him with the true story behind Aberforth
Dumbledore and a very surprised goat. It must've worked, because he turned pale and stepped
back to blend in with the mass of nosey parkers behind him.

“What do you lot think you're doing?” Kingsley's deep bass unexpectedly thundered across
the training room. “This isn't social hour!”

Our section chief's pronouncement was followed by a rush of saluting before everyone
scampered off to their designated areas. Quintus merely shook his head and offered me a hand, which
I politely declined considering that he was swaying enough under his own weight. Some days, just
watching him pace around our office was enough to give me a severe case of motion sickness.

I somehow managed to stand back up on unstable legs. I clung against the wall with a desperation
unbecoming of a man many considered to be the world's savior, which only prompted Quintus to
snort and mutter that, “They just don't make men like they used to.”

Kingsley stood unmoving at the edge of the mat with his arms crossed, an unreadable expression
on his face as I raised my quivering arm up to signal my willingness to continue.

“That's more like it,” my partner said with a satisfied nod as he limped back towards his
end of our practice space. “Reminds me of myself as a young man. Why, we had this one battle with
Grindelwald where we were outnumbered ten-to-one. Despite all the debilitating hexes we managed to
acquire, we still…”

“Just get on with it,” I interrupted through gritted teeth as a particularly hard muscle spasm
almost sent me falling with only my face to serve as a cushion.

He obliged by attempting to blast me with a curse that was so off the mark that it hit the
aforementioned rookie instead. I barely had time to feel righteous satisfaction over it before the
subsequent attack landed above my head, sending me skidding off the mat to avoid the wooden
crossbeam impaling the spot I previously occupied.

“Whoops,” Quintus muttered as he gave his wand a furtive look before shoving it back in its
holster. Kingsley just shook his head.

*~*~*~*~*

“What do you mean there's nothing wrong with you?” Ron demanded as he waved a newly-arrived
Luna over towards our table at the back of the pub. “I've seen how little you've been
eating the past couple of days; it's just not right.”

“That's what I told the Healer,” I replied with a grimace as our waitress took one look at
me, pulled her already low-cut shirt down to expose more of her cleavage, and leaned over to hand
us our drinks. I pointedly looked away towards the other patrons, momentarily riveted by a mass of
curly hair that disappointingly turned out to be much too blonde upon closer inspection. It was
just as well that I chose that moment to lose interest, because her boyfriend was none too pleased
to spot the scrawny bloke sitting by himself in the corner eyeing his girl and decided to let his
feelings known with a well-placed punch. The publican had both men stunned and bound with practiced
ease.

It probably said something about the sort of clientele the pub favored that most didn't find
the commotion to be worth a second glance. I continued my scan of the crowded room, marveling at
the amount of people that showed up to get pissed during Seamus' birthday celebration despite
it being only the middle of the week. Even though it was just half nine, we already had two
instances of a fellow guest trying to dance atop the tables. “I spend my whole day feeling like
I'm going to throw up. I can't sleep. I also feel cranky all the time.”

“Are you suffering from any back pain?” Luna inquired as she airily shooed our disgruntled
waitress off and took the seat next to Ron.

My body twinged in remembrance of the thorough beating it received the day before. “How did you
know?”

She shook her head and held up a palm towards me. “How about your ankles? Do they feel
swollen?”

I rotated them experimentally. “Now that you mention it…”

“And do you often find yourself developing odd food cravings?”

If only Hermione had been with us; she almost certainly would've realized by then that
something was amiss and changed topics. It would've certainly saved me a lot grief. “I
don't think so?”

Luna leaned over to pat me on the arm. “Well, it's not like you're required to have all
the symptoms.”

Ron snorted. “You're making it sound like he's going through the same thing as
Fleur.”

“Erm…”

They both ignored me completely as she turned to look at her boyfriend. “If you had taken Muggle
Studies third year, you would have learned that their technology had long ago made it possible to
transfer an embryo to a surrogate parent to complete gestation.”

“ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME THAT HARRY IS HAVING A BABY?”

Before I could demand to know if they had both been dropped on their heads as children, there
was the familiar blinding flash of a camera, followed by Rita Skeeter on the seat next to me with
her Quick Quotes Quill already scribbling madly behind her. “So, is that the *real* reason for
Ms. Granger's conspicuous absence? *Do tell*.”

*~*~*~*~*

“Harry, do you think you could take off the Invisibility Cloak now? I look like a complete
nutter talking to myself like this,” Ron said as we sat in the stands waiting for the match to
begin.

I thought that his decision to support his team by spelling his entire body bright
orange—strongly reminding me of the summer after sixth year when Dudley overdid the spray tan in an
effort to look “rugged”—was the most likely cause of the strange looks, but I was still feeling too
annoyed over what happened two nights before to tell him so.

“This is all your fault,” I said instead: simultaneously cursing everyone from the paparazzi
camped outside my flat (I was forced to undo the second rushed attempt at a Fidelius charm after I
forgot to take the proper precautions and ended up with my confused neighbors sparking a debate on
mass selective amnesia on the telly) to whoever wrote the politically correct Muggle text that was
the source of all the confusion. About the only upside to the entire ordeal was that it appeared to
have cut the number of my admirers in half. “Do you know how many Howlers I got at work after the
morning edition of the *Prophet* came out? Kingsley banned me from stepping foot inside my own
office until it all blows over.”

“Well, at least Hermione didn't take the news of her supposed pregnancy too badly.”

I couldn't help but grin at the remembrance of her hour-long rant on the Floo the day
before. I didn't even know that half the stuff she mentioned was physically possible. “Is that
what you call her threatening to come back so she could tar and feather `that nasty Skeeter
woman?'”

“Sure. She could've actually done it.”

We both sighed and shook our heads, my annoyance ebbing away at our shared disappointment. Any
further conversation was postponed by the start of the match, our cheering in tandem as the lineup
for the Cannons zoomed past one-by-one, their bright orange robes whipping around so wildly that
one of the Chasers nearly ran straight into a hoop. I usually saved the sort of enthusiasm I
displayed then for the Tornadoes—a team I developed an interest for in an attempt to impress Cho
Chang once upon a time (and retained long after any romantic feelings for the girl had faded)—but I
figured the Quidditch gods would understand my effort at best friend solidarity.

Our hisses of displeasure were easily drowned out by the rest of the crowd as the opposing team
arrived on the field, their tight v formation only broken by the two Beaters at the front doing an
impressive series of loops that left a cloud of dust in their wake to resemble a magpie.

“Show-offs,” Ron muttered under his breath.

I could only nod, unable to shift my gaze away from Oliver Wood. The witches' screams became
almost deafening when he turned to wave at the crowd. A few of the bolder ones yelled out
propositions that would've had staunch traditionalists like Fudge rolling in their graves,
though they might've been relieved to know that the Quidditch star in question made no moves to
encourage those advances.

It was clear to see the reason why once I managed to loosen my death grip on my Omnioculars
enough to place it in front of my eyes. Up close it was hard to miss how haggard he looked, the
dark rings beneath his eyes emphasized by his sickly pallor. He also appeared to weigh at least a
stone less than the last time we saw him, which combined with the unmistakable way he kept scanning
the stands for a familiar head of bushy brown hair, was identical to the figure I've been
staring at in the mirror all week.

And that's when it hit me. I wasn't suffering from something any Healer could cure; I
had a full-blown case of missing Hermione.

“I think this might be a lot more serious than I thought.”

*~*~*~*~*

AN: And here ends the plot point that made this story two chapters longer than planned (well,
what I planned after I realized it was going to be more than a oneshot). Hermione was originally
going to be gone for just a weekend, but then I decided that Harry had spent the majority of the
story thinking with his other head and needed something to prove that it's not just another
monster in his pants chest. Whether I actually managed to achieve this or not is another story.

There's going to be a bit of a delay before the final chapter gets posted because I got
distracted with writing a pwp for the erotic_elves challenge due at the end of this month rather
than the last chapter. I apologize to those of you who've really been looking forward to the
resolution.

Thanks to Jenn for betaing this. Any mistakes left are mine. Also special thanks to those who
contributed to the “Favorite `subtle' H/Hr Moment” thread over at Portkey for giving me some
ideas on how to portray Harry missing Hermione.

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