Altered Perspectives by SnarkyWench

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 17/08/2007
Last Updated: 27/08/2007
Status: Completed

Harry makes an accidental discovery that throws his world – and his hormones – into a
tailspin.




1. untitled
-----------

**Disclaimer:** Don’t own them. Trust me, you’d know it if I did! (Mutters *Litigatum*
*Nullenvoidicus* spell, just in case.)

**Spoilers:** None. This story was completed before the release of *Deathly Hallows*. As
I am unwilling to rewrite the story in order to make it canon-compliant, it must be considered AU.
***shrugs*** I prefer my universe anyway.

**Summary:** Harry makes an accidental discovery that throws his world – and his hormones –
into a tailspin.

**A/N:** This fluffy little plot bunny hopped into my creative consciousness after I beta’d
an SS/HG Exchange fic for a friend who used a charming affectation with our favorite heroine. That
charming affectation got me thinking, and this is the result. Thanks, luv!!

**Thanks:** To Bambu, who’s held my hand lo these many years and without whom I probably
wouldn’t have continued to write. She’s the vocabulary constabulary, the grammar guru and the plot
hole police all rolled into one. But more than that, she’s my very dear friend. Love and hugs!

For Harmony_Bites, who shamelessly whinged.

^O-O^ ^O-O^ ^O-O^

*Saturday, March 1*

Harry Potter was feeling no pain.

Comfortably slouched in the corner of the Victorian sofa, trainers kicked off and feet propped
up on the glass-topped coffee table, he nursed a firewhiskey and grinned as he watched his friends
and putative family raucously celebrate the occasion of Ron Weasley’s twenty-fifth birthday.

When the twins, Fred and George, had approached him regarding a party to celebrate their baby
brother hitting the quarter-century mark, Harry had been all too willing to aid in pulling off the
surprise. They’d volunteered the use of their newly acquired, overly large and ridiculously
expensive house in London’s Belgravia neighborhood and had asked Harry to not only make sure that
the birthday boy arrived safely at his own party but also to provide a guest list including
absolutely everyone Ron knew. Harry had felt a bit guilty at the lengthy list he’d presented to
them, but they’d brushed his apologies aside and added more names, including distant relatives,
people only rumored to be relatives, and as many former Gryffindors as they could locate. They’d
even invited Nearly Headless Nick, who’d declared the festivities more sporting than the Headless
Hunt.

The house itself was large: eight bedrooms, three reception rooms, a kitchen, a library and six
bathrooms, all spread over six stories. Harry couldn’t even begin to imagine what Fred and George
paid for it … at least several million Muggle pounds, in his estimation. Weasley’s Wizarding
Wheezes had prospered post-war, far better than anyone had ever dreamed, with four shops throughout
Britain and one slated to open in France in the fall. Because of their meteoric success, the
debonair duo were also the talk of the society pages, and Harry had no doubt that news of the
outrageous party would be front page fodder in the morning edition of the *Daily Prophet.*

Of course, while the twins may have grown up, the jury was still out on whether they’d actually
matured. The well-appointed reception room with its traditional furnishings was dotted with
performers and magical gadgetry which leant the room a carnival atmosphere. In one corner were
actors in period costumes performing skits that told the tale of wizarding history. One wall was
lined with games of chance designed to test both skill and luck. Strolling musicians serenaded
party guests while a fountain, from which flowed a beverage of dubious nature, sat in the courtyard
just beyond the French doors.

Harry viewed it all with a bit of the same wonder with which he’d viewed Diagon Alley the first
time he’d experienced it.

He was just contemplating whether to try his hand at a game of Hex the Gnome when he suddenly
felt the cushions shift as Seamus Finnegan flopped down beside him, bumping his elbow and sloshing
his drink out over the rim of his glass and into his lap.

“Sorry ‘bout that, ‘Arry!” The now-burly Irishman tossed him an apologetic grin as he settled
in, balancing his own mug of ale precariously on his knee. “Great party, eh?”

Harry nodded as he wiggled his fingers, vanishing the wet spot from his jeans. “Ron seems to be
enjoying himself.”

Both men turned their attention to the guest of honor, who was perched on a stool in the center
of the room, chugging a glass of something green and suspiciously smoking to a chorus of
handclapping and the chant of “Ron! Ron! Ron!”

Off to the side, Harry saw his other best friend, Hermione Granger, standing with Ron’s oldest
brother, Bill, watching the proceedings. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she was frowning
disapprovingly until Bill leaned down and whispered something in her ear which caused her to roll
her eyes, elbow him in the ribs and smile before walking away. Harry chuckled to himself. Hermione
had never been much for wild parties.

“Aye. Don’t imagine ‘e’ll remember ‘ow good a time ‘e’s ‘ad, though, not if those brothers o’
‘is keep plying ‘im with that nasty concoction of theirs.”

“No, I don’t imagine he will.” Harry had wisely passed on trying the twins’ latest venture into
brewing, having been on the receiving end of their trial inventions one too many times.

His grin widened as Hermione made her way toward him through the crowd and perched on the arm of
the sofa. She held his gaze for a moment before shaking her head. “You’re completely pissed, aren’t
you?”

“Language, Miss Granger,” Harry scolded with a smirk.

“Be glad that’s all I’ve said.”

“For your information, I am *not* drunk. I’m just not sober.”

Ron’s loud laughter made Hermione cringe. “Ron is beyond drunk, however. It’ll be fun getting
him home.” Her nose wrinkled in distaste.

“That’s right – it’s your turn, isn’t it?” Harry cooed. “Don’t look so put out. If I recall, it
was your brilliant idea to trade off drunken Ron duties.”

“It seemed fair at the time. You were always getting stuck with him.”

“Reconsidering?”

“Would it do me any good?” she asked with a quirk of an eyebrow.

“Not hardly.”

“In that case, then no … at least I have my wand.”

Seamus chuckled. “’Ermione Granger and ‘er wand – poor Ronnie doesna stand a chance!”

“Hey! I can be compassionate!” Hermione glared at her former housemate.

“Of course, you can,” soothed Harry, “when someone actually deserves your sympathy. I don’t
think Ron qualifies.” All three flinched as Ron chugged another glass of smoking brew. “Speaking of
sympathy, what happened to your … uh … *date*?”

Hermione sighed and scanned the room, craning her neck as she searched for the young wizard from
Borage and Goshawk Publishers who’d finagled an invitation to accompany her. “I have no idea. He
said he was going to get something to eat, but that was over half an hour ago. Maybe he found
someone to talk to.”

“Maybe he realized he was out of his element and went home.”

“Harry!” She reached over and smacked him lightly on the back of the head.

“Ow!” Harry rubbed the spot she’d hit. “Sorry, Hermione, but could you possibly have picked
anyone more wrong for you?” He tried to actually sound apologetic, but knew he failed
miserably.

“That’s what you always say. I’ve become immune to your criticism.”

“I always say it because it’s always true.” Harry looked into his glass. “You’re crap at picking
men,” he muttered as he lifted it to his lips and took a drink.

“Says the man whose longest relationship with a female is with his owl.”

Seamus guffawed and Harry glared daggers at him before turning back to Hermione. “Can I help it
if women want to date Harry *Potter* and not just Harry?”

“Poor baby. Being *Witch Weekly’s* Most Eligible Bachelor for the fourth year running must
be a horrible burden,” she teased.

Harry scowled darkly. “You aren’t going to let me forget that, are you?”

“Are you mad? I told you years ago that you were fanciable … you could have any witch you
want.”

“Maybe I don’t want just any witch. And we weren’t talking about me. We were talking about you …
you and *Paul*.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking this, but just what is wrong with Paul?”

“He’s boring, for starters.”

“He’s not boring,” she huffed. “He’s extremely well-educated.”

“’E’s a bit awkward, too.” Seamus added. “Doesna seem too sure of hisself.”

“He has lousy table manners,” a different voice added. Hermione and Harry both jumped as George
stuck his head between theirs from behind the sofa. “I didn’t think anyone could decimate a meal
like our dear birthday boy until I saw your young paramour tucking in.” George gave an exaggerated
shudder.

“And he spits when he talks,” added Fred, appearing on Hermione’s other side. “Got my new
jacket, he did.” He pointed to a dubious looking spot on the lapel of the lime green suit coat he
wore.

“Has anyone mentioned he’s boring?” asked George.

Harry raised his hand. “Already covered that one.”

“Good man!” George clapped him on the shoulder.

Hermione rolled her eyes and rose from her perch on the sofa. “All right … enough. I get the
point. For your information, I was planning on letting him down gently when the evening was over
anyway.”

Fred’s expression hardened, and he grabbed her shoulders, turning her from behind until she
faced toward the door. “I don’t think that will be necessary, luv.”

Harry’s eyes followed where Fred was directing, and his fist clenched when he saw the
unfortunate subject of their conversation with his lips fastened to the neck of a tall blonde in a
barely-there dress. A moment later, the two walked arm-in-arm out the door.

Hermione sank back down on the arm of the sofa. “Oh, well. He was a bit boring at that, wasn’t
he?”

While Harry was glad the git had showed his true colors early, before Hermione had invested
herself emotionally in the potential relationship, he couldn’t ignore the disappointment in her
voice. Handing his glass to Seamus, he slipped one arm under her knees and the other around her
back and pulled her onto his lap. She didn’t say a word, but instead snuggled down into his
embrace, tucking her head under his chin and sighing.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered as he rubbed soothing circles on her back.

The twins each gave her shoulder a supportive squeeze and kissed her cheek before they moved off
to play hosts. She remained silent for a few moments, then held her hand out toward Seamus in a
mute plea for Harry’s glass. She downed half the contents before she handed it back and sat up.

“It’s all right, Harry. Truth is, I’m not terribly disappointed. I only brought him because he
was very persistent and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.” She took the hand that rested in her
lap and began to play with his fingers. “I think it was more the idea of him, you know, instead of
Paul himself.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“No more than me.” She laced her fingers with his and gave his hand a squeeze before releasing
him and pushing upright off his lap. With a quirky smile, she said, “I think I’m gonna go talk to
Luna for a while. I’ll see you later.”

Harry watched her cross the room as Seamus observed, “She’s one ‘ell of a lass.”

“That she is … that she is.” Harry glanced down when Seamus bumped his arm, offering him his
glass back. “She drank half my drink, too, the wench.” Shaking his head – and immediately
regretting it when his own vision doubled – Harry looked back at Seamus and asked, “So, who do you
think will take the Quidditch Cup this year?”

Seamus smirked, instantly warming to the subject. “Oh, Puddlemere’s a shoe-in if Wood can ‘old
‘is team together. O’ course, since Ron’s taken over North’s job, the Cannons could possibly give
‘em a run for their money.”

Harry took a sip of his firewhiskey. “Ron’s been grumbling for weeks about the mess North left
behind when he quit.”

“Well ‘e should! That man was one o’ the worst managers I’ve ever seen. I’ve no idea why th’
powers that be didna scuttle ‘is arse years ago, but if anyone can pick up th’ pieces and make a
competitive team out o’ them, it’s Weasley.”

Harry smiled. Ron had taken a coveted position with his beloved Cannons on the coaching staff,
and within a week had threatened to resign over the belligerence and inefficiency that was Manager
North. After North’s own resignation, when the team owners had asked Ron what he would do
differently, Ron had outlined a major revision plan and strategic changes which convinced the
owners that it was in their best interest to give him complete control of the team, making him the
youngest manager in Quidditch history.

As a Quidditch journalist for the *Daily Prophet*, Seamus had personally reported all of it
to an enthralled wizarding world, eager for any and all tidbits pertaining to their war heroes,
dutifully embellishing it with his own Gryffindor-style spin for maximum circulation.

“I ‘ave tickets to the next Wasps match, but I’ll be off coverin’ th’ sign-ups. You want ‘em?
They’re press box, so you won’t be in th’ general admission stands.”

“Sure!” Since defeating the Dark Lord on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, Harry had done his
best to keep a low profile, emerging into the public eye only when absolutely necessary. His
friends had respected and supported his out-of-the-limelight inclinations and made every effort to
help him maintain his privacy.

“I’ll ‘ave the editor’s secretary owl ‘em to you. It should be a good match. Ellerton is finally
off th’ injury list, so it’ll be interestin’ to see if ‘is Seeker skills ‘ave suffered while ‘e’s
been layin’ about. And Brocklehurst ‘as … “

Harry had been watching Ron fall off the stool amidst wild cheering while listening to Seamus.
But as Seamus’ voice trailed off mid-sentence and no further conversation seemed to be forthcoming,
Harry focused his attention back on the man beside him. Seamus’ glassy-from-alcohol eyes were wide
and his jaw hung slack as he stared, mesmerized, across the room. Harry tried to follow his line of
vision, but all he saw was Hermione, standing with her back facing them while talking to a
surprisingly normally dressed Luna Lovegood.

Harry glanced back at Seamus again, whose jaw was working but no sound was coming out. Puzzled,
Harry looked again, trying to figure out what had stunned Seamus speechless. Still seeing nothing
but the two women engaged in conversation, he became alarmed – maybe Seamus was having some sort of
seizure. He reached over and gave the other man’s shoulder a rough shake. “Seamus? Seamus!”

“By all that’s ‘oly, ‘Arry! Did you see it?”

“What are you on about? Are you all right?”

Seamus continued to stare. “I never woulda believed it if I ‘adna seen it with me own eyes.”

“Seen what?” Harry was getting exasperated.

“Look … there it is agin.” Seamus pointed, wonder evident in his whispered command.

Harry’s gaze snapped to where Seamus was pointing, only to see Hermione with her foot propped up
on a chair, retying her shoe. He was about to make a snide remark about Seamus leering at
Hermione’s backside and putting his eyes back in their sockets before Hermione did it for him when
he saw … *it*.

What Seamus had been pointing at … the thing that had the usually talkative Irishman completely
gobsmacked.

Harry’s mouth went dry.

For there, just peeking out between the hem of her shirt, which had ridden up when she bent
over, and the waistband of her low-riding jeans, which pulled tight across the curves of her bum
and drew the waist lower to reveal a bare expanse of back, was the colorful tip of what appeared to
be a ...

Was that … was that … *a tattoo*?!

Hermione had a tattoo!

Eyes riveted to Hermione’s lower back, Harry found himself instantly sober … and straight-away
confused as something akin to sexual awareness skittered along his spine. As she stood upright and
tugged her shirt back into place, Harry did a mental double check to make sure that this was indeed
Hermione.

Uncooperative hair spelled into a neat chignon … *check*.

Sapphire ring from her parents on her right hand … *check*.

Lighthearted tinkle of laughter that Harry didn’t get to hear nearly enough of …
*check*.

He was startled from his mental inventory when Seamus finally spoke. “A blessin’ from ‘eaven,
that was, ‘Arry, me friend. Who’da thought our saintly Miss Granger would be sportin’ such a
glorious work o’ body art?” His voice held a reverential awe that hinted at his having just had a
profound spiritual experience. Harry wasn’t amused, however, and he was just about to tell Seamus
that he didn’t care for the Irishman’s tone when Seamus turned to him and asked accusingly, “’Ow is
it that you never shared that tidbit o’ information with the rest o’ your dorm mates?”

Harry paused. He hadn’t told them because he hadn’t known, but he wasn’t about to admit
that.

“Do you seriously think I’d share my best friend’s secrets with the likes of you, Finnegan?”

Seamus sighed heavily and glanced back in Hermione’s direction. “Aye, I suppose you three
wouldna, at that. Ah, well. Dunna worry, mate. Your … *her* secret’s safe wi’ me.” He then
looked morosely into his empty mug. “Ah, time for a refill.” He slapped Harry on the knee and
stood, swaying slightly as he looked back down. “Can I bring you ‘nother?”

Harry shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

With a nod, Seamus stumbled off to the bar, leaving Harry to stew in his own thoughts.

But Harry had lied … he wasn’t fine.

*Hermione* had a *tattoo*.

Questions rose unbidden. When had she gotten it? Whatever possessed her to do it? Had she been
drunk? Had it been a dare? Did she have more than one? And why hadn’t she told him? Harry forced
himself to remain seated and not charge across the room to confront her. In truth, he was more than
shocked – he was hurt that Hermione, his best friend and the one person who knew him better than he
even knew himself, would do something like *that* without telling him.

He was also inexplicably and frighteningly aroused.

The tightening of his trousers at the recollection of the oranges, yellows and reds that just
hovered at the top of her denims had him grabbing a pillow to cover his lap as he dropped his feet
to the floor and slammed his glass onto the table. Cursing, he ran his hand back through his hair
as he attempted to conjure unpleasant images to counteract the ache of desire.

He was obviously drunker than he thought.

Yes … the alcohol. That had to be it.

But even though he’d managed to momentarily justify the arousal he felt, he couldn’t shake the
hurt at being left out. Since the summer after their sixth year when they’d gone off on their own
to hunt for the Horcruxes and eventually defeat Voldemort, he and Ron and Hermione had grown closer
than they’d ever imagined possible. Living together while ‘on the run’ and learning to survive
together had forged a bond which many envied and few ever attained. The need to depend on each
other and trust each other completely had broken down all barriers between them, and there wasn’t
anything about him that Ron and Hermione didn’t know. Even to this day, years later, there were no
secrets between them.

Or so he had thought.

Loud laughter drew his attention back to the party and he watched as Hermione stepped to Ron’s
side, undoubtedly to convince him to go easy on the drink. As she put her arm around his waist,
steadying him where he stood, another even more disturbing thought occurred to him.

What if he was the only one who didn’t know?

Ron and Hermione had been close in one way that he and Hermione hadn’t – after Voldemort’s
defeat, they’d attempted to have a romantic relationship. However, they’d discovered that, once the
immediacy of defeating a Dark wizard had been eliminated, they didn’t have too much in common and
had regressed to bickering over every little thing. It hadn’t taken them long to agree that they
made better friends than lovers, yet there’d remained a certain level of intimacy between the two
that Harry and Hermione didn’t share.

What if Ron knew about the tattoo and he didn’t?

The idea bothered Harry far more than he was willing to admit, and he wasn’t in the mood to
examine his feelings on the matter too closely. He was perfectly content to wallow in his fit of
pique, feeding the hurt while watching his two best friends make their way across the room in his
direction.

Maybe Ron had gone with her when she’d had it done!

He thumped the pillow with his fist, refusing to even contemplate the twisting in his guts at
that notion.

“H-here he is! My bes-s-s-test mate, Harry, mate!”

Ron tripped over his own feet and fell out of Hermione’s grasp, landing on the sofa and Harry’s
left hip simultaneously. “Look, Hermi-*hic*-Herminny, it’s Harry! Ooooo … he looks broooooody
again.”

“Geroff me!”

Hermione reached down and grabbed Ron’s arm, trying to help him sit up. “I’m sorry, Harry. I was
just bringing him over to say goodbye.”

“Whaddya mean, g’bye? The party’s jus’ startin’!” Ron’s words were slurred, the sibilant
consonants in his speech making him sound like Nagini. “Lookee what I got,” he whispered
conspiratorially, waving a glass of something under Harry’s nose. “Te-*hic*-quila. And I got
the worm. Been tryin’ to talk to it.” He shoved the glass in Harry’s direction. “’Ere … you
try.”

“Ron …”

“Go on. Tell him I’m not gonna drink him.”

Feeling more than little ridiculous, Harry took the glass from Ron, then muttered something
quickly in Parseltongue at the worm. He looked up to find Ron grinning madly and Hermione staring
at him wide-eyed, an unreadable expression on her flushed face. Before he could ask her what was
wrong, Ron snatched the glass back from him and reached in to pet the unmoving worm.

“Thanks. I think you made ‘im happy. Shall we try to find ‘im a mate?”

It was Hermione’s turn to grab the glass. “Oh, no. The party’s over for you, birthday boy.
You’ve had quite enough. Even your brothers agree. Time to go home and sleep it off.”

“Tell her she’s nutters, ‘Arry!” Ron’s head flopped onto Harry’s thigh.

“You want some help? I know it’s your turn and all, but he can be a real handful when he gets
this bad.” Harry looked up into Hermione’s grateful brown eyes and the indignation he’d been
harboring quickly dissipated.

“Like he isn’t bad enough when he’s sober! Thanks. I’d really appreciate it.” She smiled at him,
then rolled her eyes as Ron belched, green smoke drifting out between his parted lips.

“Right. Up we go, old man.”

“Who’s old?” Ron groused. “She’s older than me.”

“Perhaps, but I’m not stupid enough to call her old, am I?”

Ron just grunted, and Harry groaned as he lifted and Hermione pulled. They finally managed to
get Ron on his feet, then Harry slipped his trainers back on and they each took an arm. The three
carefully threaded their way through the drunken, dancing crowd, calling out their goodbyes and
promises to get together again soon.

As they stepped out into the cold night air, Harry shivered. None of them had worn cloaks, each
having lost outerwear at one of the twins’ parties before. Harry could hear Hermione’s teeth
chattering, but instead of suggesting a Warming Charm, he did what he knew she would consider a
chivalrous gesture. “Tell you what, Hermione. Why don’t you just go on home and I’ll take care of
Jose Cuervo here.”

“No, Harry. That hardly seems …”

“It’s all right. You don’t need to deal with this tonight. And I have my wand.” He gave her a
wink. “Besides, I’m not really comfortable doing a Tri-Side with him so drunk. As I said before,
I’m not exactly sober myself.”

“All the more reason for me …”

“Go on. I can handle it.”

Hermione eyed him doubtfully over the top of Ron’s bowed head. “Will you at least let me follow
you to make sure you don’t splinch yourself?”

“Thanks, Mum,” Harry teased, “but I really don’t think it’ll be necessary.”

Hermione glared at him, then slid the arm that she had around Ron’s waist a little further until
she could reach the wand sticking out of Harry’s back pocket. “It’s a wonder you don’t snap this
thing when you sit down.”

Harry ignored the tingle he felt as Hermione’s hand groped at his jeans. “Indestructibility
Charms are beautiful things.”

Hermione just sniffed as she poked the point of his wand into his ribs before sliding the wood
between his body and Ron’s so that he could grab it with his free hand. She then ducked out from
underneath Ron’s arm and turned their intoxicated friend so that she could wrap his arm around
Harry’s neck. “Are you sure you’ve got him?”

“Positive. Go home. Take a warm bath, curl up with Crooks, and get some sleep.” Harry didn’t
wait for a reply. With a flick of his wrist and subtle twist of their bodies, he Apparated them to
Ron’s cottage beside the Burrow.

The cottage had been a compromise. After the threesome’s year of living dangerously, Molly had
insisted Ron move home where she could keep a maternal eye on him. But while Ron chafed at the idea
of giving up his freedom, he didn’t have the heart to deny his mother her wish. The cottage had
actually been Hermione’s idea, and Arthur had sold it to a reluctant Molly with the provision that
Ron would take his meals with them but would be allowed to come and go as he pleased. It was a
compromise well-suited to all involved.

Harry and Ron landed awkwardly, and Harry barely had time to get his bearings and gain his
footing when Ron mumbled, “’M gonna be sick.”

Harry immediately released him and tried to step out of the way, but Ron clung to him, causing
Harry to stumble and sending both of them to the ground. Harry winced as his knees met the pavement
and he fell forward onto his hands as Ron rolled clear. Then the stillness of the night was
shattered by the awful sound of Ron retching.

Cursing himself for being so damned noble and sending Hermione home, Harry haltingly crawled to
Ron’s side and held him up until the heaving subsided. A quick but thorough *Scourgify*
cleaned up all the evidence of Ron’s distress, and Harry decided that the most efficient way of
getting his friend into the house and into bed was magical.

As he levitated the semi-comatose man in the door and up the stairs, Harry wondered again how
much Ron knew about Hermione’s secret. Part of the reason he’d volunteered to bring Ron home
himself, aside from the fact that he now felt incredibly awkward in Hermione’s presence, was that
he’d been hoping to ask Ron outright if he knew about the tattoo, but given the extent of Ron’s
inebriation and the nonsense he was currently spouting, Harry decided it would be a wasted effort.
He toyed with the idea of using a Sobering Charm on the redhead, but he was tired and still a bit
drunk himself, and realized that he shouldn’t push his magical luck. Besides, he truly didn’t think
a Sobering Charm would do much good.

“My broth-*hic*-thers are evil.”

As Harry tucked Ron into bed, Ron caught his hand and brought it to his cheek. “You’re a good
fr-friend, “Arry.”

“So are you, Ron. Now go to sleep.”

“I-I love you, you know that, donchoo?”

“I know.” Harry tried to pull his hand away.

Ron was having none of it. He held on tightly, rubbing his cheek across Harry’s knuckles.
“You’re the most best-est friend a bloke could as’ for.”

“Kiss me, Weasley, and I’ll hex you.”

“’Arry! You cold-‘earted tosser!” And with that, Ron shoved his hand away, rolled over and
drifted off to sleep, snoring loudly.

Harry wiped his hand on his jeans and stared at the sleeping man. Guilt for suspecting him to be
an accomplice in keeping Hermione’s secret warred with hurt that the two people he trusted most in
the world might not trust him.

*You don’t know that, Potter. You could be over-reacting.*

Hermione’s body was Hermione’s business, after all, but that acknowledgment didn’t lessen the
shock of having found out this way. It also didn’t lessen his fear, as thinking about Hermione’s
body meant he was thinking about *Hermione’s body*, which was something he’d never, ever done
before and something he wasn’t sure he wanted to do, although his own body didn’t seem to have a
problem with it.

Sleep. He needed sleep. Then he’d figure out how to handle the situation; how to find out what
Ron knew and when he had known it.

With a nod of determination, Harry mentally wished Ron pleasant dreams and Apparated home.

*Tuesday, March 4*

“Oy, thanks again, Harry … that was a seriously wicked party!” Ron expressed his appreciation
around a mouthful of steak and kidney pie. When Harry had owled him, asking if he’d wanted to meet
for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, he knew Ron would jump at the chance to indulge in Tom’s
specialty. “I was still hung over yesterday – thought I’d been hexed! Funny thing, though … I don’t
remember how I got home.”

“No hangover potion?” Harry asked sympathetically.

Ron shook his head. “No, used that up after the last party.” That had been another of the twins’
infamous parties celebrating the opening of their beachfront shop in Brighton. “And I didn’t want
to ask Hermione to brew me any.” Ron visibly shuddered. “She’d have given me that look of hers and
I’d have ended up wishing I *had* been hexed instead.”

Harry smiled at his friend’s pained expression. “She’d have done it for you, though. And the
lecture would have been a small price to pay. You know she only does it because she cares.”

Ron looked doubtful.

“Anyway, I’m glad you had a good time, although I’m really not the one to thank. All I did was
get you there. Your brothers did all the rest.”

“Well, they did a smashing job of it, that’s for sure.” Ron stuffed another bite in his mouth.
“It’s a shame Ginny couldn’t have been there, though.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. While he and the youngest Weasley had remained amicable despite his
lack of interest in resuming their romantic relationship once the war was over, Ginny had taken to
avoiding get-togethers where she knew Harry would be present. Harry had gone so far as to insist
that he was the one who should step back and not intrude, but the rest of the Weasleys would hear
none of it, declaring that, as an honorary Weasley, he had as much right to attend family events as
she did. Ginny had recently moved to Paris, taking an internship in one of the French fashion
houses, and she’d written home that she even had a French boyfriend, but that still didn’t help
matters. Harry suspected Molly harbored a secret hope that Harry would one day come to his senses
and go after her little girl, declaring his undying devotion.

In truth, Harry felt nothing but brotherly concern for Ginny.

Ron looked up from his plate at the extended silence. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Harry. Quit
feeling guilty. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

“I can’t help it. It’s not right. It shouldn’t be her or me.”

“No, it shouldn’t. But she’s the one who made that choice, not us. Someday she’ll realize that
she’s being silly and she’ll come home. Until then, “ he shrugged, “she’s the one who’s missing
out.”

Harry found he couldn’t argue with that logic, even though it pained him to admit it.

Ron’s eyes dropped and he inclined his head towards Harry’s plate as he raised his spoon again.
“You’re not eating. Something bothering you?”

There was the opening that Harry had been waiting for. He’d asked Ron to lunch specifically to
find out if he knew anything about Hermione’s tattoo, yet after almost an hour of small talk in the
noisy tavern he hadn’t found a way to broach the subject. Now Ron had practically opened the door,
and Harry still found the questions sticking in his throat.

“Well …”

“C’mon, out with it.”

“It’s … it’s Hermione.”

“Hermione? What about her?”

“Well,” Harry hesitated. “Have you … have you noticed anything *different* about her
lately?”

The redhead seemed to consider the question carefully. “No. No, can’t say as I have. Why?”

Harry drew in a deep breath. “What I mean is … well … have you noticed … has she done …”

“Spit it out, would ya?”

“Has she been acting herself lately?”

Ron snorted. “Of course she has. Gave me a right brilliant lecture on my manners or lack thereof
just last week. Used big words and everything.” Ron put his spoon down and frowned. “Still not sure
what a Neanderthal is. Why do you ask? Is Hermione in some kind of trouble?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that. At least, I don’t think so. She’s … I mean …”

Ron leaned closer, frustration coloring his tone. “Harry! Tell me!”

Harry suddenly wished they weren’t in so public a place. Mimicking Ron, he leaned closer over
the table and whispered, “I saw something the other night at the party. Well, actually, Seamus saw
it first, the sodding pervert …”

“Harry!”

Ron’s strangled shout drew the attention of several of the other patrons who were now eyeing the
pair speculatively and whispering amongst themselves. Shaking his head, Harry threw his napkin on
the table along with way too many Galleons and pushed his chair back. “Let’s get out of here.”

“But I haven’t finished eating!” Ron’s protest went unheeded, however, as Harry, cloak in hand,
was already halfway across the tavern and heading for the door. “Bugger!” Ron muttered, tossing his
own napkin on the table and hurrying to catch up.

Once outside, Harry strode purposefully down the crowded street to a small memorial park set up
to honor the war dead. The weather was unusually warm for early March, and many people had chosen
to forego lunch indoors to walk in the bright sunshine, but the bench for which Harry made a
beeline was in a relatively secluded corner of the park and there was no one around to overhear
them.

The bench shuddered as Ron dropped down beside him, panting. “Bloody hell, a man can’t even
finish his lunch. This had better be good!”

Without a second thought, Harry blurted out, “Hermione has a tattoo!”

He mentally counted the seconds ticking by, getting to eight before Ron sputtered, “A … a
tattoo?”

Harry’s relief was almost palpable. He hadn’t been the only one not let in on the secret. While
it made him feel immensely better that Ron hadn’t known, the knowledge disappointingly did nothing
to quiet the unease he’d felt since making the discovery. “Yes, a tattoo. On her lower back. Seamus
and I both saw it when she bent over.”

Ron’s sudden burst of laughter shocked Harry and he stared at the other man in disbelief. “I’m
sorry, Harry,” he said between chuckles, “but *this* is what you’re so worked up about?”

“Doesn’t it surprise you?” Harry flushed, beginning to feel a bit foolish for overreacting.

“Yes and no.” Ron drew a calming breath, then ran his hand back through his long fringe. “I
never really considered Hermione getting a tattoo, but that’s the point, isn’t it?”

“That’s exactly the point!” Harry jumped up and began to pace in front of the bench, his cloak
snapping around his ankles. “It’s not like her at all!”

“Of course it’s not. That’s why she did it.”

Harry stopped in his tracks and turned to face Ron. “What do you mean?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Think about it. All her life, Hermione’s been praised for being smart.
‘Brightest witch of her age,’ isn’t that what people called her? Whenever anyone has a problem, who
do they turn to? Hermione. Who was the one who did all the research when we needed it? Hermione.
Who corrected our homework and got us through school in one piece? Hermione. Maybe she’s tired of
always being the brilliant one. Did it ever occur to you that, just once, she’d like to be thought
of as more than a bookworm?”

Harry resumed his pacing. “We know there’s more to her than that!”

“Of course, we do! But that’s you and me. Not the rest of the world, and certainly not Hermione
herself. And would you quit billowing … you look like Snape!” Ron sighed as Harry sat down again,
an angry frown on his face. “When we were … *together* … she often talked about how sometimes
she wanted to be a normal girl. How she envied girls like Ginny who spoke their mind and played
Quidditch, but were still *girls*. I wish I’d paid more attention when she said things like
that. I’m ashamed to admit I usually tuned her out, which probably made things worse. But if you
want my opinion, I think she just got tired of doing what was expected of her.”

Harry slouched against the back of the bench.

“We’re both guilty of it, Harry,” Ron continued. “On those rare occasions when Hermione didn’t
act like herself, when she did things we didn’t expect her to do, how did we react? Did we ever
tell her she was brilliant then, or did we stare at her like she’d sprouted another head or
something?”

Harry had no answer for that. He could certainly understand Hermione’s desire to prove to
everyone that she was more than what she appeared to be. He’d gone through that same struggle
himself many times, and continued to do so. The public perception of him as an infallible
superhuman hero kept others from seeing the real Harry – the Harry who was often afraid or who made
mistakes … or who was lonely.

Ron leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “Hermione might appreciate being
recognized for her intelligence, but that doesn’t mean she always likes being defined by it.”

“When did you get to be so smart?” Harry groused.

“I’m a late bloomer.” Ron sighed again. “What bothers you more, Harry … the fact that she got
the tattoo in the first place or the fact that she didn’t tell us about it?”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and glared defiantly. “You’re not upset that she didn’t
tell you?”

“Hermione’s a grown woman who’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She’s proven that
more than once.” Ron gazed at the nearest statue, a sculpture of Mad-Eye Moody with his wand
pointed skyward. “How many times did we do something we knew she wouldn’t approve of?”

“I … I don’t know. A few.”

“And why did we keep it a secret?” Ron answered his own question. “Because we knew she wouldn’t
approve and we didn’t want to have to listen to her lecture. Well, perhaps this is the same thing.
Maybe she knew that you’d react this way and she didn’t want to have to listen to you listing all
the reasons why she shouldn’t do it.”

Feeling unjustly chastised, Harry scowled. “I wouldn’t have criticized.”

“Are you sure about that? I can honestly say I’m not sure that I wouldn’t have tried to talk her
out of it, if for no other reason than because I thought it was silly for her to have to prove
anything to anybody.”

Harry knew Ron was right. He’d have done the same thing for exactly the same reason. Hermione
didn’t have anything to prove, at least not to him.

“I wonder if it’s magical or Muggle,” Ron pondered.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “I have no idea. What’s the difference?”

“Magical tattoos are drawn onto the skin with a quill and enchanted ink, and then spelled to
give them certain magical properties. Charlie’s dragon swishes her tail and breathes fire. It’s
wicked! But he said it took him a while to get used to the burn. Now he barely notices it.” Ron
scratched his chin thoughtfully, the scritch of the stubble telling Harry that he’d neglected to
shave. “’Course, I don’t know how Muggle tattoos are applied.”

Harry did. “Needles and ink.” He remembered the summer after his sixth year, when he’d spent a
few weeks at the Dursleys before heading to the Burrow for Bill and Fleur’s wedding, Dudley had
decided to get a tattoo. He’d gone behind his parents’ backs, against their express wishes, and had
it done with a few of his mates in some seedy shop in Soho. He’d nearly passed out. Of course, to
hear him tell it, he hadn’t felt a thing, but Harry had overheard two of his gang chuckling over
the big bully crying like a baby and begging for the torture to end soon.

Harry didn’t seriously think Hermione would put herself through that. “I’m sure it’s magical,”
he said, more to reassure himself than Ron, who’d grimaced at the description of the Muggle
technique. “Hermione’s all witch, after all.”

“I wonder if she’ll let us see it,” Ron asked, a wicked gleam in his eye. “You’d have to do the
asking, though.”

“Why me?”

“Because she’d do it for you. She’d do practically anything for you. Me she’d just hex and then
step over me where I fell on her way out the door.”

Harry flushed and laughed at Ron’s statement, not sure if he really had the stones to ask her to
bare her back for him.

Quickly changing the subject before Ron decided on a time and place for Harry to do the asking,
he said, “Oh, I almost forgot … Seamus gave me tickets to the Wasps match. Want to go with me? You
can do some professional scouting at the same time.”

“I knew Finnegan was good for something!” Ron offered to meet Harry at his place, then stretched
and gave his stomach a rub. “I think I’ll head home and see if Mum has any leftovers, seeing as how
my lunch was so rudely interrupted.”

Harry gave his friend’s shoulder an affectionate shove, then watched as the redhead Apparated
away. While he was relieved that he wasn’t the only one not sharing in Hermione’s secret, he was
still unsettled, although he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why. Everything Ron had said had
made sense, yet every time he thought of Hermione’s tattoo, a strange tightening settled in his
chest. Deciding to head back to work, Harry dismissed his thoughts as nonsense, and pushed Hermione
and her tattoo from his conscious mind.

Yet Ron’s words – *She’d do it for you. She’d do practically anything for you.* – echoed in
his head long into the afternoon.

*Wednesday, March 5*

In truth, Ron’s words played over and over in Harry’s head for the rest of the day and well into
the night. He hadn’t slept well, tossing and turning until finally he’d risen before the sun,
grabbed his trusty Firebolt and taken to the skies. He’d ignored the pre-dawn chill in the air,
focusing instead on flying as fast as he could, pushing himself higher and higher into the clouds
and then freefalling back to earth. It had been dangerous and exhilarating, yet it had given his
mind and his emotions the momentary respite needed to keep him on an even keel.

But the respite had indeed been brief. Now he sat in his office, parchments scattered across his
desk, staring out the window. He was irritated with himself, for he had little ability to
concentrate on anything except Hermione and her mysterious tattoo, even though he knew that there
were pressing matters which needed his attention. Cursing himself for his weakness, he was
seriously considering committing his memories of the party to a Pensieve when his thoughts were
interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. Before he could respond, Remus Lupin pushed the door open
and strode into the office, a huge grin on his face.

“He did it, Harry! Hagrid did it!”

Remus thrust a parchment into Harry’s hands and dropped into the guest chair across from the
desk. “He says the Bylaws for the Giant’s Council have been finalized and they’re ready to proceed
with setting up the election process.”

“That was quick,” Harry noted as he studied the report.

“The timeline’s been accelerated by almost three weeks. That means, barring any complications,
we could have a working council in place by the end of the year.”

Harry tossed the report on the desk. “As if there was any doubt.”

“You were right. Hagrid’s an excellent motivator, and the giants definitely seem to have
accepted him as an advocate for their best interests. Just imagine the precedent this is going to
set! Once the other magical races see that we’re really serious about establishing legitimate
liaisons, they’ll be eager to join.”

“It’ll also make it easier to pass the Tolerance Mandates if they can show a willingness to work
with the Ministry.”

“Exactly!” Remus leaned back in the chair and sighed. “Oh, Harry … I never thought I’d live to
see the day …”

Given his diplomatic success with the werewolves and his popularity with the influential members
of the new Ministry, along with his war hero status, Remus Lupin had been the natural choice to
head the newly created Department of Magical Integration, a by-product of the Wizarding world’s new
era of post-war cooperation. The only requirement he’d insisted on prior to accepting the post had
been that he be allowed to hand pick his staff, and his first choice for a second-in-command had
been Harry. He’d reasoned that, since the idea of being an Auror and fighting Dark wizards no
longer appealed to the war-weary Harry and he had no desire to pursue another profession, the
Department of Magical Integration would give him a purpose – something to get him out of the house
and give him a cause for which to fight.

Harry had been aware of Remus’ motivations in offering him the position, as Remus had been
fairly open and upfront with him. And honestly, Harry found that he greatly enjoyed his work. Every
day was a new challenge, and while he found it ironic that wizards were more willing to accept
magical beings and creatures than they were Muggle-borns, he considered it a step in the right
direction. Plus, he’d never forget the look on Hermione’s face, the light in her eyes, and the
huge, just-for-Harry smile when he’d told her that his employment involved a passion of hers.

She’d told him she was proud of him. Somehow, that had made it even more worthwhile.

And instead of chafing at the idea of being taken under Remus’ wing, he’d appreciated the
gesture for what it was – the desire of one solitary family member to care for another. Now, years
later, Harry was grateful that he’d been given an opportunity to make a real difference in the
world he’d come to call his own.

Harry eyed the older man speculatively. While grayer than he’d been while teaching Defense
Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, regular doses of an improved Wolfsbane potion had eased the
progressive damage the lycanthropy inflicted on his body. He’d put on some weight, too, and had a
ruddy color to his face. Even the sparkle in his eye, never dimmed but for once in the whole time
Harry had known him, seemed to have grown brighter.

Harry thought Tonks had something to do with that, however.

“I told you so,” Harry chastised him with a lopsided grin.

“Don’t gloat too much, you young whelp!” Remus crossed one leg over the other, his hand drifting
down to idly play with the hem of his trousers. “Have you heard anything out of Firenze?”

Harry shook his head. “No, but then I didn’t really expect to. He’s not exactly the type to
check in. He’ll report when he thinks it’s necessary and not before.”

“I don’t envy him his goal. He has a long road ahead of him. Centaurs are a notoriously stubborn
breed – and even more prejudiced than humans, if that’s possible.” Remus dropped his leg back to
the floor. “Has Hermione found anything in the legal codes yet?”

At the mention of Hermione’s name, Harry scowled and turned to stare out the window again. “No,
but she still has three centuries of records to search through.”

Remus’ voice softened. “Well, if there’s anything to find, Hermione will find it.” When Harry
didn’t respond, he asked, “Are you all right, Harry? I noticed you’ve been a bit preoccupied the
last couple of days.”

Harry turned back to his friend and waved his hand dismissively. “I’m fine. Nothing that time
won’t cure.”

“Are you sure? I know we’ve all been putting in long hours lately, but you’ve haven’t taken any
time off for at least a year. I think you’re long past due for a holiday.”

Harry sighed exasperatedly. “I don’t need a holiday, Remus. Besides, I have a lot to do to get
ready for the meeting with Count Vladislav next week. You know how sly vampires can be, and if I’m
not fully prepared …”

“Even so, Harry, I think you can afford at least one afternoon for yourself. It might be
beneficial for clearing your head.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. Really.”

“All right, all right.” Remus raised his hands in defeat. “But at least keep it in mind.”

“I will.”

Remus’ eyes remained on his young counterpart for a moment before he nodded and stood to leave.
“I have a meeting with Arthur in half an hour, but I’m free later, if there’s anything you want to
talk about.”

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled distractedly as he heard the door close.

Hermione.

He wished he could stop thinking about her.

*She’d do practically anything for you.*

He was so tired, although he wasn’t about to admit that to Remus. Every time he’d closed his
eyes he’d heard Ron’s words …

*Anything for you …*

He needed to concentrate, needed to focus. He had work to do.

*Anything for you …*

Maybe … if he rested for just a minute …

*She’d do practically anything for you …*

Involuntarily, Harry’s eyes drifted closed and his head sagged, his chin touching his chest.

*Anything for you …*

*“Can I see it?”*

*“Harry?” She stood before him wearing the same clothes she’d worn to Ron’s party … the same
top … the same low-riding jeans. Her head was tilted in a familiar inquisitive way, and her big
brown eyes held his questioningly.*

*He swallowed the lump in his throat and stuffed his shaking hands into his trouser pockets.
“Your … tattoo. Can I see your tattoo?”*

*She hesitated, then her brilliant smile sucked all the air out of his lungs. “I was wondering
if you were ever going to ask. Of course you can, Harry.” His heart began to pound hard enough to
break his ribs as her hands slid down her stomach. One hand paused to unbutton the button of her
jeans while the other lifted her shirt. “But only you. Anything for you.”*

The magical memo appeared with a loud chime, hovering right beside his head. His eyes flew open
and his head snapped up as his chair tilted backwards, almost sending him to the floor. He grabbed
onto the desk to steady himself, releasing the breath he’d been holding, then he glared murderously
at the intrusive memo. As his breathing slowed, rational thought kicked in and, with growing
horror, he realized what it was he’d been doing.

He’d been fantasizing about Hermione.

More than that – it had promised to be an undeniably erotic fantasy, as evidenced by the ache in
his groin.

*Oh, bugger!*

Angry at the unassuming memo for having interrupted what he suspected would have been a
brilliant fantasy, and frustrated with himself for even indulging in it to begin with, Harry
snatched the memo out of the air and crumbled it without even reading it. He then grabbed his cloak
and stormed out of his office, informing the department secretary in clipped tones that she should
tell Remus he would be gone for the rest of the morning. He then hurried to the lift, glaring
daggers at anyone who greeted him, and made his escape to the outside world and the relative
freedom that it promised.



2. untitled
-----------

**Disclaimer**: Don’t own them. Trust me, you’d know it if I did! (Mutters *Litigatum*
*Nullenvoidicus* spell, just in case.)

**Spoilers:** None. This story was completed before the release of *Deathly Hallows*. As
I am unwilling to rewrite the story in order to make it canon-compliant, it must be considered AU.
***shrugs*** I prefer my universe anyway.

**Summary**: Harry makes an accidental discovery that throws his world – and his hormones –
into a tailspin.

*Friday, March 7*

Harry was convinced he was going crazy.

In the wake of his truncated fantasy, he’d spent the rest of the morning running errands, doing
anything and everything he could possibly think of to keep himself physically occupied and mentally
distracted. But after lunch, instead of returning to his office, which he now facetiously thought
of as “the scene of the crime,” he’d opted to follow up with Hagrid, alerting Remus that he’d be
traveling north and spending time with the former Hogwarts gamekeeper. Hagrid had provided him with
an accurate, if colloquial, assessment of the giants’ needs and viewpoints, and the two had spent
the next day and a half working out a strategy that would hopefully mesh the giants’ internal
cultural hierarchy with a viable electoral process, providing an effective governmental
infrastructure.

It hadn’t been until this morning, over coffee and eggs, that Hagrid had begun to ask personal
questions, specifically about Ron’s new job, Remus and Tonks, and others from Hogwarts. But it
wasn’t until he’d asked after Hermione that Harry had decided it was time to leave. He’d wrapped up
the remaining loose ends in their strategy, made a half-hearted promise of getting together again
soon, then had beaten a hasty retreat, making a quick stop by Remus’ office to deliver his report
in person before heading home.

Unfortunately, home was the last place he really wanted to be because everywhere he looked he
was reminded of Hermione. When the war had ended and the Order of the Phoenix officially disbanded
until such a time as they may be needed again, Harry had found Grimmauld Place too large and too
depressing to continue living there.

In the first move that truly defied not only wizarding convention but wizarding law, Harry had
deeded number twelve to Remus. Hermione had been instrumental in this endeavor, working tirelessly
until she’d found a precedent whereby an exception had been made to the statute which had
prohibited magical creatures from owning real property. Once the paperwork had been filed, Hermione
and Tonks had used Harry’s status and financial backing to hire a renovator who had gutted the
house, removing all traces of its previous Dark owners, and made it livable. The only remaining
reminder of the former occupants were the photographs of Sirius which adorned several places of
honor on the walls.

With Hermione’s encouragement, Harry had moved on his desire to rebuild his parent’s house at
Godric’s Hollow. She’d also contributed to the interior design and there wasn’t a single room in
the house which hadn’t benefited from her surprisingly feminine touch. The color choices in the
lounge had been his, but it had been Hermione who’d softened his selections of furnishings with
contrasting accent pillows and ambient lighting. Hermione had been instrumental in making his
kitchen both practically efficient and aesthetically pleasing. And it had been Hermione who’d found
the exquisite brass bed which he now slept on in the master bedroom at an antique shop in Camden,
bargaining with the owner until she’d not only gotten the bed for practically a song, but had also
gotten him to throw in a night table and bureau for only two hundred quid more.

But the piece de resistance, Hermione’s crowning achievement, now hung in his study. Buried deep
in the half-ruined attic of the Potter's Godric's Hollow home, behind boxes of antique
bric-a-brac and under an old Potter family tapestry, Hermione had discovered an unfinished portrait
– one which she had vowed to have completed. In true Hermione fashion, as he’d later learned from
Tonks, Hermione had searched for weeks until she’d located the retired portrait artist, now a
fisherman on the Canary Islands. He’d remembered the portrait and the unfortunate circumstances
which had terminated the subjects’ patronage. It apparently had taken little convincing to get him
to agree to finish the portrait, and with the use of a Pensieve, he’d been able to endow it with
the magical qualities it was sorely lacking.

It had become Harry's most prized possession, this portrait of his parents: his mother
seated in a chair, his father standing beside her with his hand on her shoulder and an infant
version of himself playing at her feet.

Yes, Hermione would do anything for him.

It was the comfort of this portrait which he now sought, teacup in hand, as he entered his
study. Ron had expressed doubts when Hermione had given Harry the portrait as a housewarming gift,
wondering if it wasn’t in some way similar to having his own personal Mirror of Erised at his
disposal. But Harry had disproved that speculation. While in his first weeks of ownership, he’d
spent an inordinate amount of time in his study getting to know his parents, he’d found the newness
had eventually worn off and a comfortable familiarity had settled into their “relationship.”

Plus, Harry had also come to realize that, while it was nice to have even the smallest piece of
his parents to converse with, they were limited in their knowledge and their understanding. They
could only imagine what he’d been through since their deaths, and he found their perspective
somewhat narrow. Frozen for all time in their portrait, they would ever remain perpetual
twenty-somethings and, as a grown man, Harry was now their peer. He found himself seeking advice
more often from Remus, who had the wisdom of age and experience.

As he kicked his study door closed, his father greeted him affectionately. “Hallo, Harry.”

“Evening, Dad. Mum.”

He placed his teacup on the desk and sank into the chair, then removed his glasses and placed
his head in his hands with a sigh. Not since Voldemort had invaded his dreams had he felt this
emotionally out of control, and it unnerved him. Perhaps the most troublesome part of the whole
situation was the fact that he couldn’t get Hermione’s body out of his head -- his best friend’s
body, which had heretofore remained hidden beneath school robes, Muggle clothes and business
attire. In all the years he’d known her, he’d never once wondered what she’d looked like unclothed
– not even when they’d been on the run together day and night for months on end.

That had been Ron’s prerogative.

*Ron* had been the one who fancied her. *Ron* had been the one who’d been constantly
jealous of any attention paid her by other blokes. *Ron* had kissed her, had held her …

Ron had kissed her.

An unexpected bubble of jealousy rose in his throat.

*Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.*

“Are you all right, son?” His father’s voice was gentle in its concern.

“Long week,” he muttered, not raising his head lest his parents see the heat coloring his
cheeks.

Ron had snogged Hermione. He’d caught them in the act on several occasions. His mind dredged up
those memories, then tortured him with images of Hermione’s hand clutching Ron’s long red hair, the
plump redness of her kiss-ripened lips which parted around the soft moans she’d made as Ron had
pressed kisses to her neck, the flush of arousal on her skin …

He wondered what else they’d done … how far they’d gone … what other sounds she made …

His head dropped to the desk. He was definitely going insane. This was *Hermione!*

He heard himself fuss as his mother snatched him mid-crawl away from the edge of the portrait.
“You’re working yourself too hard,” Lily offered distractedly. “Maybe you need a holiday.”

Harry groaned. “Now you sound like Remus.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“No.” Harry lifted his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
He could feel a headache brewing behind his eyes, and he’d end up needing a potion before the
evening was over. “But there’s too much at stake right now. I can’t afford any time off.”

“Overworking yourself isn’t going to help your cause, dear,” his mother chided gently.

“I know that,” Harry snapped, “but I’m finding life out of the office not very relaxing at the
moment.” Instantly he regretted his outburst and hastened to apologize. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to
take my bad mood out on you.”

“It’s all right, son. We’re just concerned about you.”

“I know.” Sighing, he pushed away from the desk, tilting the chair back until he could prop his
crossed ankles on the corner of the desk, then leaned back until he was almost horizontal, his
forearms resting across his eyes to block out the offending candlelight. “It’s just … I wish I
could explain …”

Part of him illogically adhered to the notion that if he didn’t give his emerging inappropriate
feelings for his best friend voice – if he didn’t acknowledge them out loud – then they wouldn’t be
real. Talking about them leant them credence and he was reluctant to give his surreal thoughts a
semblance of reality.

“You know we’ll be here to listen, Harry, whenever you’re ready to talk.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he whispered. “That means a lot to me.”

He felt the telltale tickle of his outer wards dropping, and he sighed again, wondering who was
invading his privacy. Only Ron, Hermione, Remus and Tonks had immediate access to him, so it had to
be one of those four. He suspected it was Ron, fresh from the day’s practice and ready to regale
him with tales of life on the pitch. As he heard the snick of the door latch, he wasn’t expecting
the soft voice, laced with amusement, which teased, “So this is what you do with your free time,
Mister Potter.”

Harry’s feet hit the floor and he sat up with a rush. “Hermione!”

“You were expecting …?”

Harry shook his head to clear the cobwebs and grabbed for his glasses. “Ron actually. He was
teaching the team a new defensive move today, and I figured he’d be primed to share either his
success or his failure.”

“Ah. Well, I’m many things, but a Weasley isn’t one of them. Good evening, Misses Potter. Mister
Potter.”

“Hello, Hermione.”

Harry chuckled. “No, you’re definitely not a Weasley. You don’t have the hair for it.”
Attempting to appear as if everything was normal, he rose and walked around the desk, his arms
opening in invitation. Hermione’s quick smile told him that the invitation was a welcome one before
she stepped into his embrace, her cheek coming to rest on his shoulder, her nose nuzzling into his
neck where she sighed contentedly, sending a shiver up his spine.

*Just act normal.*

Suddenly she inhaled. “Why is it that you can still smell so good after a long day?”

Harry’s nose brushed through her hair, the scent of her coconut shampoo filling his nostrils.
“It’s part of the Hero Code of Conduct… I *can’t* smell bad. Says so on my membership
card.”

Hermione giggled and gave his waist a squeeze, then lifted her head, her brown eyes dancing with
mirth. “Obviously the conferring body never experienced Potter After Quidditch.”

“Obviously those who have experienced it don’t appreciate it for its rugged manliness.”

“Funny … those aren’t the words I would use to describe it.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing no one asked your opinion … not that *that* ever stopped
you before.” Harry grinned broadly, taking any sting out of his words.

Hermione tried to look indignant. “Are you implying I’m pushy?”

“Certainly not!” Harry waited a beat before adding, “I prefer ‘single-minded.’”

“Semantics, you git,” she sniffed. “Actually, I stopped by because I have a proposition for you,
but given your attitude I may change my mind.”

Harry waggled his eyebrows. “Ooooh, you’re propositioning me? This *is* turning out to be a
good day.”

“Stop,” she laughed as she smacked him lightly on the chest. “This is serious.”

“Fine!” He glanced up at the ceiling. “I’ll put on my serious face.” He looked back down at her,
his brow creased in a frown. “How’s this?”

Hermione glared at him. “You’re mocking me.”

“No, I’m not. I’m sorry … it’s been a long week.” The excuse sounded just as lame as it did the
first time.

“Apology accepted. I wanted to invite you over for dinner.”

“Dinner? When?”

“Sunday night.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “I have no plans.” Hermione flushed and she began to fidget in his
embrace. Loosening his arms, he asked, “Is there something else?”

“You won’t be the only one coming.”

Alarm bells went off in his head and he released her, then took a step back and crossed his arms
over his chest. “All right, Miss Granger, what did you do?”

“I’ll have you know, I didn’t do anything … yet.”

“Why don’t I like the sound of this?”

“It’s nothing bad … trust me.”

“I do trust you.” Harry’s voice held such sincerity that Hermione flushed again.

“Thanks, Harry,” she whispered. Drawing a deep breath and straightening her shoulders, she
began. “I had a very interesting client today.”

“Do tell.”

She frowned at him. “I will if you stop interrupting. Anyway, his name was Jean Claude
Bonaccord, and he was at the library requesting research on his ancestor, Pierre, and his attempt
to introduce legislation granting trolls Being status.”

Harry scratched his chin, trying to recall the name. “Pierre Bonaccord … he was the first
Supreme Mugwump, wasn’t he?”

“Yes!” Hermione beamed. She was always pleased when Harry displayed an admirable retention of
facts. “It’s been centuries, but he’s interested in revising the defunct legislation and trying to
push it through again. I figured since you’re the Department of Magical Integration, you might have
a vested interest in hearing what he has to say, so I invited him and his wife to dinner.”

Harry snorted. “I’m not the entire department, you know.”

“No, but you’ve accomplished a great deal since you and Remus accepted your positions. And since
you’ve had personal experience with trolls, you seemed the best choice.”

Harry nodded his head distractedly. While trolls weren’t on their immediate agenda, it would be
beneficial to include them. Not all trolls were stupid, troublesome creatures … some races of troll
could be taught skills and had been used in security fields before. “A working dinner, then? All
right,” he agreed. “It certainly couldn’t hurt to hear the man’s ideas. What time do you want me
there?”

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione launched herself at him, flinging her arms around his neck. “I knew I
could count on you!” After holding him for a moment, she stepped back, a genuine smile lighting her
face. “How’s seven o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.”

“And it isn’t just a working dinner. I want you to relax and enjoy yourself. Jean Claude is such
a pleasure to talk to! He’s very knowledgeable and tells the most wonderful anecdotes. I promise,
you won’t regret it.”

“I never do,” he teased as he rubbed his stomach. “Can I bring anything?”

“Wine?”

“Wine it is.”

“Great.”

“Are you doing anything for dinner this evening?” Harry asked, trying to hide the nervousness
that leant a note of expectancy to his voice.

“Sorry, I promised my parents I’d spend the evening with them. Would you like to come along? Mum
always makes plenty to eat.”

Harry was torn between disappointment and relief that she had a prior commitment. “Thanks, but I
know you don’t get to spend as much time with them as you’d like. I don’t want to intrude.”

“You know you’re never an intrusion. They’re always asking after you, and they’d love to see
you.”

“Thanks for the offer … maybe another time. But please tell them I said hello.”

“All right … if you’re sure.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Thanks again, Harry.
Goodbye!” she called to the portrait as she turned to walk out of the study. Harry’s eyes followed
her, his intense gaze drifting from the top of her head, where her chignon perched precariously, to
her hips, which swayed gently under her work robes with each step she took. His eyes lingered on
her lower back, at that inviting, mysterious spot where he knew her tattoo lay hidden from his
questing scrutiny.

*Stop it, Potter!*

She paused at the doorway and called over her shoulder, “See you Sunday night!” before she
disappeared and he felt his wards reset.

Harry scrubbed his forehead with his hand before running it back through his hair. He was in so
much trouble. Even a few minutes alone with Hermione had left him aching for more. How in Merlin’s
name was he going to survive an entire evening with her?

*Saturday, March 8*

*“Can I see it?”*

*“Can you see what, Harry?” she asked absently, her attention riveted to the book in her lap.
She sat curled in her favorite squashy armchair in the corner of his lounge, the one he’d placed
there along with a special reading lamp just for her.*

*“Your tattoo.” He was relieved that his voice didn’t crack or quiver.*

*Her eyes widened as her head snapped up, and she regarded him for a long moment, her
expression unreadable. He shuffled his feet nervously under her scrutiny but when she realized that
he wasn’t going to recant his request, she sighed. Carefully marking her place, he laid the book
aside on the floor.*

*His heart rate sped up as she unwound her legs from the chair and stood, then walked slowly
towards him. “Why do you want to see it?”*

*“Because … because I …” he stuttered like a schoolboy.*

*“Why, Harry?”*

*“I just need to. Please, Hermione?”*

*She shrugged and nodded. “All right.”*

*She stopped an arm’s length away from him, then smiled an enigmatic little smile as her hand
drifted down to the button on her jeans. His eyes never left her fingers as she popped the button
through the buttonhole, teasingly drawing the zip down with the other hand. He could just see the
lacy top of her plain white knickers peeping out where the two sides of her jeans opened; his
breath caught in his throat.*

*… anything for you …*

*As her thumbs hooked in the waistband and her hips shimmied in a provocative wiggle, he
licked his parched lips. The dull ache in his own jeans suddenly intensified. His eyes rose to meet
hers and she winked at him before her shimmy produced the desired results and her jeans and
knickers lowered over her hips. He found himself circling behind her, his eyes glued to her lower
body. He stopped directly behind her as her jeans and knickers slid to her knees, the hem of her
shirt just covering the crest of her bum.*

*He felt himself harden.*

*As his hand reached out to lift her shirt, she asked, “What else do you want to see,
Harry?”*

*His hand froze in midair as she slowly spun to face him, the jeans binding her knees together
vanishing with a whispered spell. Reaching out, she took his hands in hers and placed them on her
bare hips, under her shirt, making him even more painfully aware that his best friend stood before
him with no knickers on. She then slid her hands up his arms and took a step closer, allowing his
hands to slide along her smooth skin, to drift around her hips and down to rest on the cheeks of
her bum.*

*He couldn’t resist giving them a little squeeze.*

*Her hands paused briefly on his chest before they moved to her shirt buttons. She was so
close that her warm breath tickled his chin. “What else do you want to see, Harry?” she repeated as
she opened the first button.*

*“Everything,” he whispered with a gulp.*

*“Good answer,” she whispered back as the next button slipped through its buttonhole. He
glanced down to where the placket of her shirt parted – he could just see a hint of cleavage, a
peek of white lace. He swallowed his groan as his hands gave her bum another reflexive squeeze of
encouragement.*

*She made quick work of the rest of the buttons, then raised herself up on tiptoe so that her
lips were close by his ear, her lace-covered breasts pressed to his chest. With breathy puffs of
air, she said, “I want to see everything, too.”*

*He was so hard he hurt.*

*“Ooh,” he groaned as one of her hands slid into the hair at the nape of his neck and the
other dragged up his arm, then down his chest to rest over the bulge in his jeans, pressing him
gently with her fingertips. “Hermione,” he whispered on a breath as her lips just barely brushed
his, the pressure of her hand in his hair drawing him closer while the pressure of her hand on his
erection making him crazy with need.*

*“Harry,” she answered softly.*

*His eyes closed as he waited for her kiss.*

*“Harry …”*

“Harry!”

Harry’s eyes snapped open, then automatically slammed shut again as bright sunlight assaulted
his sleep-blurred vision. He ran a hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew, then cracked one
eye open again to find Ron’s freckled face hovering over him.

“Hey … wake up, you lazy arse! We have Quidditch tickets with our names on them!”

Damn! It had only been a dream!

Harry groaned and tried to roll away from Ron’s annoying cheerfulness only to find his face
smashed into a cushion. Bugger! He must have fallen asleep on the sofa last night.

“Go on,” he muttered grumpily, his voice muffled by the upholstery. “Leave me alone!”

But Ron merely took a seat in Hermione’s chair. “Rough night?”

“No more than usual.” Harry rolled onto his back again and ran a hand through his hair, mentally
hexing Ron with every disfiguring curse he could think of.

Ron waved his hand at the teacup. “I thought you had a better tolerance for Earl Grey than
that.”

“Very funny.” Harry’s voice was raspy, making him sound all the more surly. “Go bother someone
else.”

“Can’t. It’s my sworn duty, as your best mate, to give you my exclusive attention. Besides, the
Wasps match starts in a little over an hour and I know you’d never forgive me if I let you sleep
through it.”

“Wanker,” Harry grumbled.

“Tosser,” Ron threw back, grinning.

“Prat.”

“Git.” Ron settled himself in, crossing one long leg over the other. “Now, much as I’m enjoying
this little display of mutual affection, I’d much rather feel the love by having you get your
scrawny arse off that sofa and into the shower. Oh, and some clothes. There are ordinances against
public nudity.”

Harry kicked the afghan off and sat up, only to discover that he was indeed only wearing boxers.
As the cool air hit his chest, he suddenly remembered the dream and the very obvious condition it
had left him in.

Ron snorted. “Nice dream?”

“Shut it!” Harry whipped a pillow at Ron’s head, then pulled the afghan back over his lap,
leaned his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes.

“Was she pretty?”

“Gorgeous.” Harry surprised himself with his own conviction.

“Anyone I know?”

Harry didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to – the flush of his cheeks told Ron all he needed to
know.

“Woo hoo,” he cooed, rubbing his hands together, “a lovely witch of our acquaintance, then. Hmmm
…“

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and go get me some coffee?”

“Because this is more fun. Let’s see … who would Harry dream about?”

“Ron,” Harry growled in warning.

“It wouldn’t be that cute blonde secretary in International Magical Trading Standards, would
it?”

“No.”

“How about that bird in Floo Regulation … you know, the one that always purrs your name?
Harr-rrr-rrr-y.”

“No!”

“I know! It’s that new Auror … the one that Shacklebolt brought to the party! What’s her name …
Higgins? Huggins?”

“Timmons. Peony Timmons.”

“That’s it! Oh, good choice, Harry! She’s definitely got a nice set of …”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Weasley!” Harry threw the blanket off and stood, no longer caring if
his erection, still at half mast, was visible or not. “I’m up, all right? Now do me a favor and go
get me some coffee while I shower!”

He stomped up the stairs, pretending not to hear Ron as he called, “Mind the time if you decide
to take care of that now. We don’t have all day!”

Harry slammed the door to the bathroom, then carefully laid his glasses on the vanity and
lowered his boxers, kicking them behind him as he stepped into the shower. He turned the water on
cold, depending on it to finish disarming his arousal. As he soaped himself, he tried his best not
to think of Hermione or the dream his traitorous subconscious had conjured.

Yet he couldn’t help remembering her shining eyes, her lovely breasts, her red lips …

His hand drifted lower …

*No!*

What was wrong with him? This was his best friend, his staunchest supporter, the one person
who’d always, *always*, stood beside him no matter what. How could he taint the sanctity of
their friendship with lust?

How could he not?

Feeling as if he’d been Confunded, he let out a low growl worthy of Fluffy then quickly stepped
out of the shower and dried himself off before he changed his mind. Storming into the bedroom, he
selected a jumper and jeans, then dressed quickly and headed downstairs to find a humming Ron
leaning against the kitchen counter holding a steaming cup of what he hoped was coffee.

“Here, grump … have a bit of Instant Personality.”

“Oh, you’re just a riot this morning.” Harry snatched the cup out of Ron’s hand, then proceeded
to scald his tongue on the hot liquid.

“Careful … it’s hot,” Ron warned, laughing.

“Am I going to have to put up with this all day?”

“Unless you get a better offer.”

“Filch in a dress would be a better offer.”

“Here, now! That’s no way to talk to your best mate and the man who braved the intricacies of a
Muggle coffeehouse to bring you your Elixir of Life.”

“Get used to it. I doubt my mood will improve much.”

“Thanks for the warning. Are you ready to go, sunshine?”

“After you, buttercup,” Harry answered as he handed Ron his ticket.

Both men waved their wands over their tickets, activating the complimentary Portkeys hidden in
the stubs, and found themselves outside the gates of the Wasps stadium.

“Bloody hell! Look at the crowd,” Ron whispered.

“Yeah. Guess we got here none too early.”

“At least we don’t have to fight for our seats.”

The men showed their tickets to the wizard at the gate, who directed them to a magical lift
labeled “Press” at the back of one of the towers. Nodding their thanks, Harry and Ron climbed into
the lift and gawked at the people below as they rose into the air and were deposited at the top of
the tower in a glass-enclosed booth. Reporters and photographers lined the windows in an effort to
attain the best vantage point for watching the match.

Harry and Ron found a seat in the corner, away from the rest of the press, and Harry quickly
conjured a Wall of Indifference between them and the reporters before anyone noticed their
presence.

“Did you bring anything to take notes?” Harry asked.

“Nah … I’d miss too much of the action trying to write everything down. I’m going to put my
memories of the match in a Pensieve and take notes later, when I can slow the action down.”

“Good idea.”

Harry finished his coffee while the announcer heralded the arrival of the teams onto the pitch.
Wild cheering shook the stands and while Harry was grateful to be in the press box with its bird’s
eye view, he missed the thrill and the excitement of being part of the crowd.

The match itself was exciting, ending when, after being tied for an hour at three hundred
thirty-five points apiece, the Wasps’ Seeker finally caught the Snitch, giving the Wasps a huge
victory.

Ron was like a little kid. “Wicked match, eh, Harry? Did you see Ellerton? You would have never
guessed he’d been injured!”

Harry agreed that the Seeker had seemed to be in top form. He was glad of the distraction the
match had provided, realizing that he hadn’t thought of Hermione once in the six-and-a-half hours
that the match lasted.

Of course, once he’d made that realization, she came slamming into the forefront of his mind
again. He wondered what she was doing … if she was buried deep in the stacks of her research
library … or if she was at the market, shopping for dinner the next evening … or if she was home,
curled up in a chair reading ….

Hermione was fast becoming an obsession.

As they exited the lift from the press box, Ron turned to Harry and asked, “Want to stop at the
Leaky for a drink?”

Harry nodded, then followed Ron closely as they threaded their way through the crowd. He kept
his head low in hopes that he wouldn’t be recognized, for that would then require a lot of
handshaking and autograph signing and photo taking, all things which made Harry uneasy. With his
maturity came an acceptance of his fame, but he’d never developed a fondness for it. He still
preferred anonymity and the pleasure of being Plain Old Harry.

As they cleared the Anti-Apparition wards which surrounded the stadium, Harry was grateful his
luck had held out; he hadn’t been recognized. Now, if he could just stop thinking about Hermione,
his evening would be perfect. But he was finding it harder and harder to stop thinking about her,
with her long curls and her feminine curves and her special smile just for him. He could still feel
her body pressed to his in their embrace, could still feel her sigh into his neck ….

He felt the first tingle of arousal as he imagined his hands roaming down her back.

Merlin, what if he got hard the next time he hugged her??

In the blink of an eye, Harry found himself outside the Leaky Cauldron, not even aware that he’d
Apparated and grateful that he hadn’t splinched himself. With a nod to Ron, he followed his friend
into the tavern. He was relieved to see that the pub was relatively empty for a Saturday evening
and they easily found a table in a secluded corner. They waved at Tom as they passed the bar and he
sent over a bottle of firewhiskey and two glasses as they settled into their chairs.

Harry poured himself three fingers of the firewhiskey, then took a large sip and closed his eyes
as the alcohol burned an incendiary path down his throat. “Did you learn anything useful?” he
managed to ask, his voice raspy from the burn.

“Seems to me that the Wasps I saw today would beat the Cannons hands down. However, I’m
confident that with more practice and a willingness to learn from scouting reports, the Cannons
might be able to beat them by the end of the season.”

Harry nodded, then smiled a crooked smile as his eyes scanned the tavern. Little had changed in
the establishment since the first time he’d laid eyes on it at the age of eleven. Same décor, same
innkeeper, same regulars in their usual places. It seemed the only one who’d changed was him.

“Feeling any better than you were this morning?” Ron’s tone was casual, but Harry could hear the
underlying concern in his voice.

“Yeah … sorry about that. I haven’t been sleeping well lately – got a lot on my mind,
y’know?”

“Anything you care to talk about?”

Harry shrugged, brushing Ron’s offer aside. “Most of it’s work-related.”

Ron wasn’t having any of it, however. “What about the parts that aren’t?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Harry waved his hand in the air. “Besides, it’s something I have to deal
with on my own.”

As Harry looked up, he could swear he saw hurt flash across Ron’s face, but it was quickly
replaced with a smile as a shadow crossed the table and Ron stood to shake hands with Remus
Lupin.

“Remus! It’s been too long!”

“Indeed it has,” the werewolf replied. “Harry,” he greeted the raven-haired wizard with a clap
on the shoulder. “How are you gentlemen this evening?”

“Couldn’t be better,” Ron answered jovially. “Pull up a chair and join us.”

As Remus took a seat, Harry waved at Tom and another glass appeared on the table, which Ron
promptly filled. “What brings you to the Leaky tonight? Where’s Tonks?”

Remus took a sip before answering. “She and Molly went shopping … for a wedding dress.”

Two pairs of eyes stared at him for a long moment as his revelation sank in. Then there was loud
laughing and shoulder clapping and congratulations all around.

“And when were you planning on telling me?” Harry asked, pretending to be affronted.

“Hell, Harry … I only asked her last night!”

Ron’s eyes widened. “And Mum already has her out shopping for a dress today? “Cor … I think
that’s a new personal best for Mum.”

Remus shrugged. “She was the first person Tonks told. Molly’s been like a mother to her all
these years.”

“You better be careful,” -- Ron wagged his finger at the older man -- “or Mum will take charge
completely.”

“We don’t mind … if it makes her feel needed, well, then it’s the least we can do for her after
everything she’s done for us.”

Ron opened his mouth to retort but Harry backhanded him on the bicep, cutting him off. “Hey …
look over there.” Harry’s eyes narrowed as he pointed to a nattily dressed wizard at the bar
chatting up a brunette witch.

“Who’s he?” Ron asked, rubbing his arm.

“Paul … Hermione’s date from the other night.”

“Oh, right. I vaguely remember meeting him before the serious drinking started. Fred said he
left her at the party for some blonde.”

Harry’s fists clenched where they rested on the tabletop. “Yeah, he did, the bastard.” He
watched as Paul leaned close and whispered something in the woman’s ear, something which made her
blush and smile coyly. What had Hermione been thinking by agreeing to go on a date with this … this
… *slime*?

And if the stupid git hadn’t left her at the party, if he’d taken her home, would he have
wheedled and coaxed his way into her bedroom, into her *bed*, and been given the privilege of
seeing her tattoo?

Before Harry?

*Not if I’d have had anything to say about it!*

“Easy, Harry.” Ron glanced at Harry’s fists, where the latent magic building under the stress of
Harry’s barely checked anger arced blue, visible several inches above the skin of his knuckles.
“He’s out of Hermione’s life, and we all say Good Riddance.”

Ron was right, of course, but Harry was having difficulty getting the image of Paul touching
Hermione with his filthy hands out of his head.

Suddenly Ron’s eyes caught the clock on the wall. “Bloody hell!” With a start, he gulped down
the last of his drink, slammed his glass on the table and announced, “I have to go. I promised
Bonnie I’d Floo her ten minutes ago. Remus, congratulations again. Harry, I’ll talk to you later.”
He tossed a few coins on the table to cover his share of the drinks and then he hurried out the
door.

Remus watched Ron’s retreating form in amusement, then turned to Harry and asked, “Who’s
Bonnie?”

“One of the team’s sports Healers.” Harry flexed his fingers as the magic ebbed, leaving a
pins-and-needles sensation in its wake. He was grateful that, if Remus noticed his slip, he chose
to ignore it.

“I thought he was going out with Elizabeth.”

Harry chuckled. “That was last week.” He paused, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his glass.
“So … you’re finally getting married.”

“You make it sound like it’s been a long time coming.”

“Hasn’t it?” Harry asked. “I mean, I remember Molly pushing you and Tonks together right after
the attack on Hogwarts. That’s been years ago.”

Remus sighed. “For some ridiculous reason she seems to love me. So, I finally gave up trying to
hold her at arm’s length. I wasn’t happy, she wasn’t happy … and while it was great being friends
with her, I have to admit I want more.”

Harry’s face flushed at Remus’ confession – how he wished he could admit that himself.

*Oh, well … in for a penny, in for a pound*.

“Remus … I … I need some advice, and I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

The werewolf’s blue eyes held his for a moment before the corner of his mouth lifted in a
half-smile. “Of course, Harry. Ask away.”

“Well, I have this friend … a former Gryffindor housemate. He’s been having odd and somewhat
inappropriate dreams and he doesn’t know what to do about them.”

Remus twirled his glass between the palms of his hands. “You know from personal experience that
dreams can hold great importance. Are they prophetic in nature?”

Harry ran a hand back through his hair. “Merlin, I … I don’t think so. You see they’re …” He
glanced around to make sure none of the patrons at nearby tables were paying them any mind, then
lowered his voice and leaned closer over the table. “They’re more *sexual* than anything.”

“Oh!” Remus’ eyebrows shot up and he sat back in his chair. “Well, that’s certainly not unusual.
Everyone has erotic dreams.”

“Yes, but … you see, his dreams are … they involve someone he shouldn’t be having those kinds of
dreams about.”

Remus puffed out his cheeks and blew the air out with an audible whoosh, then gave Harry a
probing glance. “Are they homosexual dreams?”

Harry almost spit his firewhiskey across the table, coughing as he managed to swallow it.
“Homo-- no! No! His dreams definitely involve a woman.” He gulped as his mind conjured an image of
exactly how much of a woman Hermione was.

“Is she married? Or in a position of authority over him?”

“No, nothing like that. She’s someone he cares about a great deal – a friend –but because she’s
a friend, she’s off-limits to him.”

“Has this woman given him any indication that she might return his interest?”

“No. And he can’t tell her, either, because he doesn’t want to jeopardize his friendship with
her. He can’t risk losing her … she’s too important to him.”

Remus’ voice softened. “Harry, anytime love is involved, there’s always risk.” Harry opened his
mouth to protest that he hadn’t said anything about love, but Remus held up his hand to silence
him. “If I understand what you’re telling me, it seems to me that your friend’s recurring erotic
dreams about this woman are trying to tell him something. If he’s keeping his feelings to himself
simply because he’s afraid of her rejecting him, then perhaps you need to convince him to
reconsider. She may feel the same way but, like your friend, doesn’t want to risk the friendship.
He needs to take that risk before someone else steps in and beats him to it.”

“But what if she doesn’t feel the same way and he loses her? I honestly don’t know if he can
handle being shut out of her life … he needs her too much.”

Remus nodded. “That is the risk. But if their friendship is as strong as you imply, then it will
survive. Not taking that risk, however, means he has to live with the regret of never having said
anything for the rest of his life. He’ll always wonder, ‘What if?’ And if he has to watch her walk
down the aisle to start a new life with someone else … “

“I get it, I get it.” Harry’s shoulders slumped as he slouched in the chair, legs extended under
the table.

“Harry, let me share a little story with you that may help. When I was a sixth year, I fell in
love with a girl, one of my best friends. We’d shared most of our classes and had been friends for
years, but that year we were prefects together, therefore we spent a great deal of extra time
together and had gotten to know each other even better. She’d always been easy to talk to and fun
to be around and, before I knew it, I’d fallen head-over-heels in love with her.

“I tried to keep my feelings platonic, but she didn’t make it easy on me. I even went so far one
day as to give myself a stern lecture in front of the mirror. I figured she couldn’t possibly be
interested in someone like me, but she was a very tactile person and she always doing things that
drove me crazy, like holding my hand, or grabbing my robes, or linking her arm through mine as we
walked down the hall. She would hug me and kiss my cheek and I truly thought I was going mad.

“But the time came when I decided I couldn’t pretend any more … I wanted a real kiss … and I was
absolutely terrified. She had dozens of other boys who vied for her affections – she was probably
the most popular girl in school -- and I knew it was only a matter of time until one of them
succeeded. Anyway, one evening we were in the library, in one of the corner alcoves, studying
Ancient Runes together. Her head was bent over her book and she had her hair tucked behind her ear
like she always did, and her lips looked so pretty and pink, and her skin looked so soft in the
candlelight. Well, I decided that it was ‘now or never,’ so I took a deep breath, leaned over,
turned her face towards me and kissed her.”

“And?” Harry asked anxiously, completely engaged in the story.

“And … she started to cry.”

“What?”

Remus chuckled. “I made her cry. She was upset, you see, because she’d apparently been waiting
for me to make a move for a long time and, since I hadn’t, she figured I wasn’t interested and had
already been dating one of her other suitors without my knowledge, and no amount of persuasion
would get her to break her word to the other young man. In essence, Harry, I was too late, and
because of that, I lost my chances of having the girl I loved. Fortunately, we did remain very
close friends.” Remus stared off into space. “I never quite stopped loving her, though.”

“Have you stayed in touch with her?”

Remus scowled, then shook his head before quickly downing the rest of the drink in his glass.
“She, uh … she died a few years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“So, the moral of the story is … don’t wait! You … sorry, <i>your friend</i> may not
get another chance to let her know how he feels. Love like that is a once-in-a-lifetime thing.
Don’t let him waste the opportunity out of fear, Harry.”

“I’ll … I’ll tell him. Thanks.”

“Any time.” Remus glanced out the window and saw Tonks waving furiously. “And that, my lad, is
my cue to leave.” He reached into his pocket for coins, but Harry waved him off, jokingly telling
him it was the least he could do for a condemned man, and Remus nodded his thanks before excusing
himself to join his fiancée.

As Harry watched the older man exit the pub and wrap his arm around a beaming Tonks, he wondered
what exactly it had been about James Potter that had attracted Lily Evans enough to make her choose
him over Remus.



3. untitled
-----------

**Disclaimer**: Don’t own them. Trust me, you’d know it if I did! (Mutters *Litigatum*
*Nullenvoidicus* spell, just in case.)

**Spoilers**: None. This story was completed before the release of *Deathly Hallows*. As
I am unwilling to rewrite the story in order to make it canon-compliant, it must be considered AU.
***shrugs*** I prefer my universe anyway.

*March 9*

The fact that Remus had introduced the “L” word into Harry’s already confused thoughts only
served to drive him spare. It was bad enough that the last week had changed his perspective so that
he now saw Hermione as a desirable woman and a sexual creature instead of just his trusty ol’ best
friend. But since his conversation with Remus at the Leaky Cauldron, he’d been giving his
relationship with Hermione a great deal of thought.

It stood to reason, after all this time and after everything they’d been through together, that
he loved Hermione. Of course, he loved her. She was his best friend! She’d stuck by his side when
no one else, even Ron, would. She believed in him, she encouraged and supported him. She was
usually the first person he sought advice from or shared news with … except now.

She knew him better than anyone else, and he knew her, too: she took her tea with one sugar and
a splash of cream; she preferred her eggs poached; daisies were her favorite flowers because her
mother had once told her that daisies were scattered by fairies to cheer up parents whose children
had died; she loved to cook, even though she didn’t think she was very good at it; she never wore
perfume, but used coconut shampoo and lavender soap; she liked garlic and onions but hated peppers
of any kind; she disliked sad books and films because they made her cry; she loved the winter
because she could snuggle under blankets ….

The list went on and on.

Once he began taking stock, Harry was surprised at exactly how much he did know about her. Until
now, he’d taken possessing that vast storehouse of Hermione Facts for granted, yet he realized
that, even though he knew Ron well, he didn’t know *those* kinds of things about his male best
friend. He knew even less about Ginny, with whom he’d had an intimate relationship.

To make matters worse, he’d been studiously avoiding Hermione since Ron’s party and hadn’t seen
much of her, and he found himself missing her terribly. They usually talked or got together, or at
least owled each other, several times a week, and with only one brief visit this week, Harry
realized that he was more miserable without her than he was being with her and feeling
uncomfortable.

Of course, he was about to put that realization to the test, as he stood outside her door, wine
bottle in hand. He’d had dinner at Hermione’s flat countless times, but he’d never been so nervous.
He wiped his sweaty palm on his trouser leg, then withdrew his wand from his pocket and tickled the
protective wards to let her know he was waiting outside.

He’d taken extra care with his appearance tonight, rifling through everything in his wardrobe
before Flooing Tonks and asking her advice. He’d never wanted to look good for Hermione before,
although he had told Tonks that he wanted to make a good impression on the well-to-do Frenchman and
his wife. He wasn’t sure if traditional wizarding robes or Muggle-style clothing was in order, but
Tonks had advised him to wear whichever was most comfortable for him. She’d offered to help him
transfigure some of his wardrobe, and he had left Godric’s Hollow in a conservative but
well-fitting black pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, and deep green tie.

Tonks had said it brought out his eyes.

He wasn’t sure he’d liked the twinkle in her own eyes when she’d said that.

Harry drew in a deep breath as he felt the wards lower on Hermione’s door, then braced himself
as the door swung open of its own accord and he stepped into the softly lit foyer.

“Hermione?”

“In the kitchen, Harry! Make yourself at home … I’ll be right out!”

He closed the door behind him, then stuck his head around the corner into the lounge.

It was empty. Apparently the guests of honor hadn’t arrived yet.

“I was just putting the finishing touches on the roast lamb …. “ Hermione’s voice trailed off as
she stepped from the kitchen into the foyer, wiping her hands on a towel, and caught sight of
Harry. Her wide-eyed gaze traveled from the topmost strand of Harry’s never-to-be-tamed hair to the
toes of his Dobby-polished shoes and back again,

He held his arms out to the side. “Is this all right?”

She nodded, her mouth opening, but no sound coming out.

“I wasn’t sure if this was acceptable for the company this evening, so Tonks gave me a hand. Oh,
and I remembered the wine, too.”

A flash of annoyance crossed Hermione’s face before she reached out and took the bottle from
him. “Relax, Harry … *Tonks* dressed you well.” She then spun on her heel and headed back into
the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “The Bonaccords should be here any moment.”

Harry settled himself on the sofa, unsuccessfully willing his nervousness away. He’d always
found Hermione’s home comforting and welcoming, and tonight was no exception. But he found himself
unable to relax knowing that one embarrassingly wrong word from him could jeopardize the security
of his closely guarded secret.

Of course, it didn’t help that Hermione looked radiant. His eyes never left her as she came back
into the room, uncorked wine bottle in one hand and a tray of glasses floating along behind her.
Her hair was gathered in a long thick plait down her back. The dress she’d chosen for the evening
was straight out of one of those romantic novels she loved to read – cream-colored and decorated
with mauve cabbage roses. Tiny fluttery sleeves kissed the tops of her arms while the skirt swished
and floated around her knees. Harry’s gaze lingered on the top button, situated just at the crest
of her cleavage which made her appear demure instead of provocative. Watching her, he decided that
she belonged on a blanket in a meadow with afternoon tea in a picnic basket instead of a dinner
party with a potentially influential political figure.

“Oh, they’re here,” she said as she handed him the bottle and smoothed her skirt down over her
hips and the front of her thighs.

Harry closed his eyes and sighed, wishing she hadn’t done that.

Rising, he poured himself a glass of wine as the sounds of laughter and enthusiastic greetings
drifted in from the foyer. As if on automatic pilot, his nervousness was forgotten as he slid into
his role as Department of Magical Integration representative.

“Monsieur Bonaccord, may I present Harry Potter.” Harry could hear the undisguised pride in her
voice as she made the introduction. Her pride in him warmed him, and he felt his chest swell just a
little.

Harry extended his hand to the Frenchman, a balding wisp of a man with a graying goatee and
snapping blue eyes. “Monsieur Potter, I’m delighted to meet you!”

“Please … call me Harry.”

The older man nodded enthusiastically. “But of course. And I am Jean-Claude. My wife, Marie.” He
stepped aside to reveal a woman who reminded Harry very much of Headmistress McGonagall, only
smaller of stature.

“Madame,” Harry lifted the petite woman’s pale fingers to his lips and brushed her knuckles. “A
pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine, Monsieur,” she whispered, her cheeks tinged with pink.

Harry glanced at Hermione, hoping for a cue as to how to proceed. But she was staring at him
strangely, almost as if she was one of those star-struck fans who clustered around the entrance to
the Ministry building in hopes of catching a glimpse of him … almost as if she’d never seen him
before.

Clearing his throat, Harry gestured to the wine bottle. “Could I interest you in a drink?”

Harry’s question seemed to snap Hermione out of whatever trance had possessed her, and she
slipped back into hostess mode effortlessly. “Thank you, Harry. I’ll just check on dinner while you
pour.”

“Is this your first time to England?” Harry asked conversationally as he led Marie to a chair
and handed her a glass of wine.

“Yes. Lovely country from what we’ve seen so far, which hasn’t been much, I’m afraid.”

“A bit too rainy for my taste,” Jean-Claude added. Harry found he couldn’t disagree.

They made small talk ranging from the climate to the inconvenience of Harry’s celebrity until
Hermione emerged from the kitchen again and announced that dinner was ready. Harry rose and offered
Marie his arm, then led her into Hermione’s dining room and held her chair while she took her seat.
He was very conscious of Hermione’s eyes on him and was pleased that his pure-blooded father’s
portrait had been all too willing to teach him the intricacies of impeccable manners when he’d
accepted the Ministry position.

Hermione levitated the glasses and the remaining wine from the lounge and Harry refilled the
glasses before taking his own seat. Succulent dishes were passed and heartfelt compliments were
given before the four settled down to the business at hand.

“Hermione tells me that you’re interested in revising the proposed legislation granting trolls
Being status.”

Jean-Claude’s eyes lit up like an instant *Incendio*. “I am. I am hoping zat I can perhaps
find support here, in England, first, before I approach other countries in zee Confederation.”

“I’m curious … why here? Why not in France?”

Jean-Claude sighed. “Ah, my countrymen, zey are very opposed to change. Zey do not like to
disturb zee status quo, eh? Even if zee status quo is unhealthy. You, however, you have made such
strides. Your Ministry’s success with zee giants has indeed become newsworzy. Zose of us who work
for change take heart in your success.”

Harry smiled ruefully. “Thank you, but we’re far from finished. We’ve only taken the first step
with the giants.”

“Ah, but zat small step is a step in zee right direction, is it not? Zen it is indeed a
successful one.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that. “You said, ‘Those of us who work for change.’ Am I correct in
assuming that this campaign is more than you working alone against the tide of public opinion?”

Jean-Claude chuckled. “While it sometimes feels zat way, zere is actually a group of seven of
us, all men of some influence, who are working togezer.”

“I’ve found, in my limited experience, that in order to change public opinion, it is often more
effective to *illustrate* the validity of your point, as opposed to verbally expounding on
it.”

“And how would you propose zat I show instead of merely tell?”

Harry smiled at the other man’s quick wit. “Forest trolls are known to be less volatile and more
intelligent than other races of troll. They have been trained and employed for years as security
guards. Albus Dumbledore even used them at Hogwarts when deemed necessary. Perhaps the introduction
of that elite labor force into France would be a more productive first step. If one of your
associates would be willing to allow them to patrol their business … “ Harry let the suggestion
hang as he watched the wheels turn in Jean-Claude’s head.

“Henri might be willing … perhaps zee low-level research facility outside of Nice.”

“Something else that might prove useful from a public relations standpoint,” Harry offered, “is
that there are many witches and wizards with unique abilities that are readily accepted. Take
Veelas, for example, or Animagi, or Metamorphmagi. All human, but each possesses certain skills
that set them apart from the general wizarding population.”

“Very true,” Marie spoke up. “Many of zose zat you mentioned hold positions of power in France
and are looked up to because zey are unique.” She then smiled shyly. “You yourself have unique
powers, is zat not correct, Monsieur?”

Harry frowned for a moment, trying to figure out what she could possibly mean.

“I believe my wife is referring to your ability to speak with snakes.”

Harry’s face flushed. “Ah, yes, well … given the political situation over the last decade, I’m
not sure that being a Parselmouth invokes any degree of trust.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed, “but it is common knowledge zat, wizout it, you would not have
defeated zee Dark wizard.” She laid her fork aside, then continued softly, “I know it is asking
much, and if you refuse, I would certainly understand ….”

“Marie,” her husband cautioned, “I do not zink Monsieur Potter ….”

Harry sighed and wiped his mouth with his serviette before smiling in her direction. “You’d like
a demonstration?”

“I know it is presumptuous of me. Through a Dark accident in his youth, my father became a
Parselmouth. I remember as a child helping him to weed our garden. Whenever he encountered a snake,
he would call me over. ‘You see, Marie,’ he’d say, ‘you have nozing to fear.’ Zen he’d talk to it,
allow it to twine around his arm and over his shoulder before sending it on its way. My father died
unexpectedly when I was nine, and I have never known anyone else with his abilities. I haven’t
heard it in so many years … forgive me.”

Harry was moved by the tears glistening in her eyes. Without any hesitation he imagined a green
grass snake coiled around her forearm and said, “It’s all right, Marie, I don’t mind giving you the
gift of a memory.” The resulting hissing sounds brought a smile to older woman’s face as her
husband covered her hand with his.

Pleased with himself for being able to so readily grant the request, Harry turned to look at
Hermione, who was once again staring at him as if he had two heads. Her face was flushed, her
breathing was shallow and she was biting her lower lip, a sure sign that she was lost in thought.
“Hermione?”

At the sound of her name, Hermione’s eyes darted away from Harry and she brushed her hands
across her lap. Harry thought she seemed flustered, but before he could find out if she was all
right, she recovered her composure and, in a way-too-perky tone, she asked “Anyone for treacle
tart?”

They lingered over coffee, discussing ways Remus and Harry could offer assistance without
raising objections from those in French wizarding politics opposed to foreign intervention. Harry
kept watching Hermione, first surreptitiously, then blatantly, as she refused to look at him.
Although the Bonaccords seemed oblivious to Hermione’s odd behavior, Harry couldn’t help wondering
what had her so out of sorts, and what she was thinking.

As the evening drew to a close, they bid the Bonaccords good night over promises from Hermione
to provide as much research as she could and from Harry to inform Remus of their informal
partnership. All four agreed to get together again soon.

“I’d say that went rather well, wouldn’t you?” Harry asked Hermione as he followed her into the
kitchen, dirty dessert dishes in tow. “Far better than I anticipated, although I think the lamb
roast had something to do with it.” When she didn’t respond to his compliment, he slid his suit
coat off, hung it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and began to roll up his shirt
sleeves. “You were awfully quiet this evening,” he observed softly. “Any particular reason?”

She looked over her shoulder to answer, only to stop when she saw him unbutton his cuff. “What
are you doing?” she asked with a frown.

“What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m helping you.”

“That’s not necessary,” she told him as she turned on the tap and began to fill the sink with
water.

“Course it is. I always help.”

“Tonight’s different.”

Harry enjoyed helping her clean up the Muggle way. It was usually relaxed and playful, and one
of his favorite activities with her. Confused, he braced his hands on his hips. “And what makes
tonight different? Some special observance I don’t know about? National Men Don’t Have to Do the
Washing Up Day?”

Hermione didn’t smile. “You’re not exactly in jeans and a tee shirt, are you? I wouldn’t want to
ruin your clothes.”

Harry smirked as he grabbed a dish towel. “It’s soap and water, Hermione. And I can mange a
fairly efficient Drying Charm if I put my mind to it. Besides, you’re not dressed down, either.”
His gaze drifted the length of her body again, lingering briefly over her lower back, and before he
could stop himself, he said, “You look beautiful tonight.”

*Oh, Merlin!*

Harry wanted to cut his traitorous tongue out with a butter knife before sinking through the
floor.

No, he couldn’t say she looked *nice*, or even *very pretty* … no, he had to tell her
she looked beautiful. Why didn’t he just hang a huge sign around his neck proclaiming *I want to
see you naked* and get it over with?

Hermione’s frown deepened and then she quickly turned her attention to the dishes in the sink,
lifting one out of the soapy water and scrubbing it with a fierceness that had Harry puzzled. Of
all the reactions to his blunder that he could imagine, anger hadn’t been at the top of his
list.

“Did I say something wrong?” he ventured, already knowing the answer.

“No. You said the *perfect* thing.” Her tone was biting and she scrubbed even more
furiously at the inoffensive dinner plate.

Harry pretended to slap his forehead. “Silly me! Here I was under the mistaken impression that
saying the perfect thing would make someone *happy*.”

“You’re a git.”

“Most days. Now, want to tell me why you’re angry?”

“I’m not angry.”

“I’ll bet that poor plate would argue with you.”

Hermione threw him a glare before dropping her sponge in the sink and rinsing the plate. “Like I
said, you were perfect. As a matter of fact, this whole evening you were perfect. You charmed the
Bonaccords perfectly.”

Harry’s brow wrinkled in exasperation. “And this obviously upsets you. Why? Wasn’t that the
purpose of inviting me … to open a dialogue and establish a mutually beneficial relationship?”

Hermione let the plate drop in the sink and bowed her head, the loose tendrils at the side of
her face drifting forward to partially hide her expression. Harry took a step closer and watched as
her eyes closed. “Could you please just stop being Harry Potter, Ministry Official for a moment?”
she asked softly. “I’d really like to talk to my best friend right now.”

Harry’s heart gave a lurch as he dropped the towel on the counter and withdrew his wand from his
back pocket. With a swish, he set the dishes to washing themselves before he took her by the
shoulders, turning her to face him. “Hermione,” he whispered, “I’m right here. I always have been.”
He gave in to the urge to reach up and brush the curls back off her face. “What’s wrong?”

“You were perfect.”

Harry sighed. “You keep saying that, but I don’t understand what the problem is.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, then reached up to straighten his tie, dripping soap suds on his
shoes, all the while avoiding his gaze while she spoke. “I’m … I’m very proud of you, you know
that? You’ve come so far … you’ve done so much in the years since the war. You’re not that shy,
awkward boy I met on the train. You haven’t been for a long time, but I guess I’ve always thought
of you like that because, well … because you needed me. Even when we were fighting Voldemort, you
needed me. We needed each other.”

Harry felt his throat constrict as she tugged on his tie. “But now … you’re successful, you’re
influential. Merlin, you’re charming, you’re handsome, you can carry on an intelligent
conversation, even with an imaginary snake …”

Her voice trailed off and Harry swallowed hard before he spoke. “And you think I don’t need you
any more.”

Hermione shrugged helplessly.

Without a word, Harry wrapped his arms around her and crushed her to him, trapping her hands
between their bodies. His cheek pressed against hers as he whispered in her ear, “You are so wrong,
Hermione. I *do* need you, now more than ever. I may not need you in the same way I did when
we were eleven, but that doesn’t mean I need you any less. It just means I need you
differently.”

Hermione pulled her head back and finally looked him in the eye. “How do you need me,
Harry?”

Harry felt his world tilt as he lost himself in her brown eyes. The desire to kiss her was
practically overwhelming and it was all he could do to tamp it down. “You keep me sane,” he finally
managed to choke out.

*And drive me insane*.

She smiled a crooked smile. “Toughest job in wizardom.”

“And getting tougher every day,” he countered, trying to lighten the mood. He tore his eyes from
hers, dropping his glance to her lips and wishing he had the courage to see if they tasted as
appealing as they looked. She parted them as if in invitation and Harry became suddenly very aware
of how closely he held her, and of how little she was protesting.

*Merlin, just one taste.*

Loosening his hold on her, he suddenly narrowed his eyes as a thought occurred to him. “Is that
why you were so quiet tonight? You thought I didn’t need you?”

She had the decency to blush. “Well, you did have everything well in hand. It was like watching
a master at work.”

“Flattery isn’t going to get you out of answering the hard questions, Miss Granger.”

“Fine!” she cried exasperatedly as she retreated from his embrace. “I didn’t think I had
anything to add to the conversation, so I kept quiet and let you work your magic.”

Harry was stunned that his best friend was torn between admiration and jealousy. How could she
not understand that he’d always need her … that she was like air to him? And how could she
conceivably believe that she – one of the most intelligent, forward thinking and insightful witches
Hogwarts had ever produced – would have nothing to contribute to any conversation?

He hadn’t realized that he’d protested out loud until she laughed. “What’s so funny?”

Her smile was genuine now, and affectionate. “You, Harry. You’ve saved me many times over the
years, and now you’re trying to save me from myself.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his hip against the counter. “And she’s a
formidable foe, but I think I can take her in a duel.”

Hermione plunged her hands back into the dish water, ignoring the spelled sponge. “I’m sure you
can, Mister Potter. After all, you do know her weakness.”

“She has a weakness?” He feigned shock as he grabbed the towel out of midair and dried the plate
dancing in front of him.

“Of course she does.” Hermione hesitated, then whispered solemnly, “It’s you. It’s always been
you.”

Harry felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.

He had no idea.

They worked in silence then, the dishes magically washing themselves while Harry dried and
Hermione put away. When the last spoon had been stowed in the drawer and the spell cancelled, Harry
pointed downward. “You got my shoes wet.”

“You’re the one with the killer Drying Charm,” she countered easily.

Harry’s eyes met hers, and he was once more slammed with the urge to ravish her. Unable to trust
himself in her presence, he grabbed his coat and mumbled, “I have an early day tomorrow. I should
get home.”

“All right.” Hermione’s agreement was quiet, and Harry saw regret in her eyes. Harry had
regrets, too -- regrets that he’d ever seen that tantalizing hint of tattoo in the first place. For
now, despite his best efforts to the contrary, his relationship with Hermione was beginning to show
signs of strain. He wished he’d never found out, and that they could have continued on just the way
they were. But it was too late – their precious friendship was already changed, whether Hermione
realized it or not, and Harry didn’t know what to do to set it to rights.

He stepped close to her, then leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek, all the while
cursing himself for wanting more. “Thanks for dinner. I’ll see you later,” he said brusquely as he
headed for the door.

The tears in Hermione’s eyes went unnoticed.



4. untitled
-----------

**Disclaimer**: Don’t own them. Trust me, you’d know it if I did! (Mutters *Litigatum*
*Nullenvoidicus* spell, just in case.)

**Spoilers**: None. This story was completed before the release of *Deathly Hallows*. As
I am unwilling to rewrite the story in order to make it canon-compliant, it must be considered AU.
***shrugs*** I prefer my universe anyway.

**Summary**: Harry makes an accidental discovery that throws his world – and his hormones –
into a tailspin.

**My apologies for the delay in posting this last chapter. Real Life was less than cooperative.
Thanks so much to all of you for reading, reviewing, and for the warm welcome. I truly appreciate
it!**

*March 10*

*He sighed as eager, efficient fingers made quick work of his shirt buttons, baring his chest
to her hungry gaze. He’d found her in his desk chair, in his study, and his parents had intuitively
excused themselves from their portrait as she’d risen and glided toward him, the filmy fabric of
her nightgown flowing around her thighs as she’d walked. “You’re home late, luv.”*

*“Sorry,” he whispered as her small hands slid the fabric of his shirt over his shoulders and
down his arms. “Couldn’t be helped. Emergency session …”*

*“Sshhh,” she whispered back, placing two fingers over his lips. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here
now.”*

*He briefly sucked her fingertips into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them and causing
her to gasp before releasing them with a pop. “Kids?”*

*“With Uncle Ron for the entire weekend.”*

*He snorted. “Poor Uncle Ron.”*

*“Save your sympathy,” she said with a smirk. “It was his idea.”*

*“Hmmm … I knew I liked Uncle Ron for some reason,” he panted as her fingers moved to the zip
of his trousers.*

*As her hand slipped into his boxers and wrapped around his already straining erection, his
own hands sought her hips, gathering the delicate material of her gown and then tugging it over her
head. He groaned as she was forced to release him, then groaned again when her nude form was bared
to his predatory gaze. Her still pert breasts sent a silent invitation to taste them, and he bit
his lip in anticipation, finding it was an invitation he couldn’t refuse. He bent his head and
sucked one nipple into his mouth while his hand rose to cup her other breast, his thumb teasing the
other nipple to a peak.*

*Her head dropped back with a moan as her hands fisted in his hair, and he released her
deliciously willing flesh with a soft pop. Taking a step back, he quickly toed off his shoes, then
pushed his trousers and pants to the floor and kicked them aside as she moved to his desk and bent
over, wiggling her bum at him.*

*“It’s been a long time since you’ve taken your wife on your desk.” Her voice was low and
throaty and, combined with the sight she presented, it made him even harder than he already
was.*

*Perhaps they’d play later. After all, they had all weekend. Right now, he desperately longed
to be buried in her.*

*Fisting his erection, he moaned in satisfaction and crossed the room to stand behind her. As
he approached, he could just make out the intricate mix of colors that defined the edge of her
tattoo, that seductive bit of artwork that had changed both of them. But before he could see it
clearly, she suddenly stood upright and spun, dropping to her knees in front of him.*

*Gazing up at him through her long lashes, she purred, “I’ve really missed you, Harry.” Then
she pulled his hand away and wrapped her lips around him, the sudden wet warmth sending him reeling
unexpectedly into oblivion.*

*“I love you, Hermione!”*

He awoke and sat up with a start, momentarily disoriented, until he felt the grip of his own
hand, now slick with his release.

*Damn!*

With a grimace, he rose and peeled the sticky boxers off his body, then reached for his wand on
the bedside table, *Scourgifying* the mess he’d made.

And it was one hell of a mess, both literally and figuratively.

Knowing that he’d do nothing but toss and turn if he stayed abed, Harry stumbled downstairs and
made himself a cup of tea, then settled himself in his study in hopes that some inane conversation
with his parents would take his mind off Hermione for a while. It had become something of a ritual
that, when insomnia or residual nightmares claimed his nighttime hours, Harry would seek the
comfort of hot tea and tales of the Marauders. While the stories rarely served to lull him to
sleep, they were more often than not able to provide sufficient distraction so that eventually,
when he did succumb to slumber, he could rest peacefully for a few hours.

He wasn’t sure it would work this time. Despite his father’s best efforts, Harry found his mind
wandering. It was all he could do to keep himself from imagining Hermione sprawled across his desk
in a state of undress, begging him to make love to her.

*Wife?*

*Kids?*

*Merlin, I have it bad!*

How was it possible for him to have gone from platonic love for a best friend to sexual
obsession with her body to wanting to spend the rest of his life with her and have a family with
her, all in a little over a week’s time?

*Is that what I want? I can’t imagine my life without her, but …*

“Are you listening, son?”

“Uh, sure, Dad. Sirius had Maxwell in a bodybind.”

He remembered her anger when he’d told her she was beautiful and he involuntarily shivered. How
would she react if he told her he’d fallen in love with her?

Oh.

He was in love with her, wasn’t he? No use denying it any longer.

*He*> wanted to be the one to wake up beside her every morning and watch her fall asleep
every night. *He* wanted to be the one who noticed when she wasn’t eating properly, or tell
her when she was working too hard, or bring her chocolate when her monthly threatened to make her
irritable. *He* wanted to be the one to curl up with her on the sofa and watch the telly, or
read a book, or just watch her. *He* wanted to be the one to start a family with her, to
celebrate Christmases and New Years and birthdays with her, and hold her hand when the grandbabies
received their Hogwarts letters, giving it a squeeze to let her know that they had indeed done
something truly wonderful with their lives in creating their family.

Most of all, he wanted to be the one, *the only one*, who made her smile that
Just-for-Harry smile, *the only one*, who would make her moan or scream or cry out his name as
he took delight in pleasuring her.

Oh, yes – he wanted very much to be the most important man in Hermione’s life.

The silence in the room caught his attention and he realized that his father had stopped
speaking and was looking at him anxiously. With a resigned sigh, Harry shrugged and then grinned
sheepishly. “Sorry, Dad. Guess I drifted off.”

“It’s all right. I understand. Why don’t you go on up to bed and grab a few hours of sleep?”

Harry glanced out the window. The sky was lightening and glowed with the faintest tinge of pink,
signaling the pending dawn. He shook his head. “No, I think I’ll just get cleaned up and head on in
to work. I have a lot to do”

Lily frowned. “I know you have a very busy week ahead of you, Harry, but when it’s all over,
will you promise to take some time for yourself and relax?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Are you sure Remus isn’t coaching you? ‘Cause you sure do sound a lot
like him.” He chuckled inwardly at his mother’s flush, suspecting that, just prior to her death,
she still carried a bit of a torch for the werewolf. The thought gave him pause, as he wondered
whether portraits still retained all the human emotions of their model and whether it pained her to
know that a barely middle-aged Remus was the last of the Marauders still alive.

He was too polite to ask.

Harry took his time showering and dressing, yet he still made it to his office hours before the
first die-hard Ministry devotee arrived for work. He hadn’t bothered to pour himself a cup of
coffee – he’d spelled a whole pot to stay warm and taken it back to his desk.

He actually did an admirable job of concentrating, managing to structure an agenda for his
meeting with the vampire as well as read some background information on their ‘negotiation’ habits,
before his door opened a few minutes past ten o’clock to reveal Remus with his arms crossed and a
scowl on his face.

“Get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, Remus, or did Tonks trip you on your way out
from under the covers?”

Remus ignored the dig and strode across the office to brace his hands on Harry’s desk and lean
over it so that he was looking Harry right in the eye. “Jeanette tells me that you were here when
she got here this morning.”

“Tattletale. See if I get her a gift this Christmas.” When Remus didn’t back down, Harry sighed
and tossed the report he was reading on his desk. “Fine. I couldn’t sleep so I came in early. Now,
will you please quit hovering? You’re worse than Molly.”

“This has to stop, Harry.” Remus’ expression was grim.

“Remus …”

“I mean it. You may think you have everything under control but you don’t. You’re distracted,
you’re exhausted … and we have too much riding on this meeting with Vladislav for you to screw it
up.”

“Hey! I worked my arse off for this!”

“I know you have. Which is why I can’t have you going in there at less than one hundred percent.
Vampires are sly and cunning and geniuses at mind control. As one of their leaders, Vladislav is
the best. If you go in there less than fully prepared, you’ll not only give him concessions that
you never even dreamed of, but you may end up giving him your soul. And that is definitely not in
your best interest.”

“And just how do you expect me to prepare if I don’t study up on them?”

“Take the damned reports home with you if you must, read them in the bath for all I care. Just
take some time to physically and mentally collect yourself. Find someone to practice your
Occlumency with. You’re going to need it. But whatever you do, however you prepare, do it out of
this office!”

Harry glared up into Remus’ stern blue eyes for a long moment, then sagged back in his chair in
resignation. “I don’t think being out of the office is going to help my mental state right
now.”

Remus’ features softened and he propped his hip on the corner of the desk. “Still having those
dreams?”

Harry knew it would be a waste of time to deny it. “Yes. Only they’ve gotten worse.”

“Have you considered telling Hermione?”

Harry shook his head, wondering why he had even bothered to pretend with someone who knew him so
well. “No. How do you go about telling someone whose friendship you value above everything else in
life that you’ve fallen in love with her and want to shag her senseless?” He threw his chair back
and stood quickly, pacing over to the window. “I know, I know! Just do it and don’t wait too long.
You’ve already told me. But … what if she doesn’t feel the same way? What if I ruin the best thing
that’s ever happened to me? This isn’t like facing down an army of Death Eaters or scaring away
dementors. This takes a different kind of bravery that I’m not sure I possess.”

“You’re not alone, you know. Every man goes through this sometime in their life. They meet that
one special woman that they know they can’t get through life without and turn themselves inside out
until they get up the courage to tell her.”

Remus ran his hand back through his hair as a wistful smile ghosted across his face. “James was
absolutely pathetic where Lily was concerned. When she’d first caught his eye, he’d swagger around
and try to sound cool and aloof. Lily saw right through it, of course, and told him he was a
pompous arse. Right to his face! I thought Sirius was going to hurt himself, he was laughing so
hard. But once James realized that he really truly cared for Lily, and that she wasn’t just someone
he wanted to shag but someone he wanted to actually be with, he became far less sure of himself.
I’ve never seen him so vulnerable as the day he was planning to ask her to marry him.”

“I get your point, but this is my *best friend*. What if she says no?”

“If she says no, my lad, then you smile, and hug her, and tell her that you’re overworked and
it’s a passing whim, and that you’re sure you’ll be cured in a week or two. Then you go off on
holiday, find some beautiful witch who’ll listen to your sob story with gentle compassion, allow
her to shag you back to health, and return to your life a wiser man.”

“Bloody hell, now you sound like Sirius!”

Remus winked. “Who do you think taught me how to get over my sixth year failure?” He then stood.
“Do me a favor, Harry. Take the rest of the day off. Take the reports with you but go home and get
some rest.” He hesitated a moment, then pulled a vial out of the inside pocket of his robes and
laid it on the desk. “Here.”

“What’s that?”

“Dreamless Sleep. I thought it might come in handy.”

“Thanks.” Harry gave a half-smile of gratitude.

“What are friends for?” Remus returned the smile, then glanced at his watch. “Now, I’m off to
yet another lunch with Arthur … you’d think Molly never fed him! He wants to discuss employment
opportunities within the wizarding world for giants.” He wagged his finger at Harry. “I expect to
find you gone when I get back.”

“Yes, *sir*!” Harry rolled his eyes.

“Oooh! I like the sound of that!”

“In your dreams, Lupin! Get out of here!” Remus laughed, then ducked as Harry pretended to throw
an ink bottle at him.

As Remus’ footsteps retreated down the hall, Harry picked up the vial of Dreamless Sleep. Why
hadn’t he thought of this before? Hermione would have, of course, had he told her he was losing
sleep to troublesome dreams. But he hadn’t mentioned it for fear of telling her too much and, out
of concern for him, she’d have wanted details. Pocketing the vial, he gathered the files on his
desk and headed for the lift and the potion-induced slumber that his body craved.

As it turned out, Harry didn’t get more than a few hours of peaceful sleep. He’d only taken half
the vial when he’d gotten home, not wishing to sleep the whole afternoon away. He had way too much
to accomplish before sunset the next night, when the meeting with Vladislav was to take place. But
for a little while, at least, he was able to put aside his worries and allow his body to relax. He
awoke feeling refreshed, and sent a silent nod of thanks to Remus for his thoughtfulness.

He’d finished reading the reports over a late afternoon lunch, then arranged to meet one of the
Ministry Legilimens for an hour to hone his Occlumency skills. Thanks to a great deal of
determination after Dumbledore’s death, Harry’s mind was already a veritable fortress to any
outside intruders, but he hadn’t faced as subtle an opponent since Voldemort and he wanted to be
prepared for any contingency.

It wasn’t until the Legilimens casually mentioned protecting his dreams as well as his conscious
thoughts and memories that Harry had a moment of panic.

*Hermione*.

He had to keep his dreamscapes private at all costs. Not only were his erotic fantasies the
perfect blackmail weapon, but they also put Hermione at risk, and Harry refused to place Hermione
in any danger, regardless of the consequences.

*Damned shame I don’t have a Pensieve*.

He would just have to be very careful.

Harry returned home to find that reading reports held little appeal and even less of his
attention – Hermione occupied practically all of it. He replayed the dinner party over and over in
his head, especially the part where she told him he was her weakness, until his head was
reeling.

*It’s you. It’s always been you*.

How much of her life had she put on hold for him? How many times over the years had she felt the
need to reshuffle her priorities in order to be by his side? Guilt for being such a burden to her
practically overwhelmed him.

Frustrated to the point of screaming, Harry drew on his Quidditch gloves and pocketed a Snitch
before grabbing his Firebolt and heading for the skies over Godric’s Hollow in hopes that a bit of
altitude and a merry chase in the brisk evening air would bring some clarity.

Once clear of the Muggle village, Harry released the Snitch. The sun was just heading for the
horizon, but there was still plenty of light with which to seek the little golden ball. He hovered,
suspended in mid-air for several long moments, waiting to spy his quarry, and then a flash of gold
showed through the treetops and he was off. The exhilaration of flying at breakneck speed was
invigorating; he never felt more in control than he did when astride his broom. It was one of the
few places in his life where he truly felt he belonged.

In and out of the trees he weaved, branches slapping him as he raced after the golden prize. He
dove until he was just skimming the top of the dead forest underbrush, then drove the broom up and
cleared the treetops in hot pursuit. Finally, with a roll and a swoop, Harry stretched out his hand
and closed his fingers over his elusive prey with a whoop of triumph. In his excitement, he allowed
his grip on his broom to relax and his concentration broke. His broom gave a lurch and in the blink
of an eye, Harry found himself on his back in the partially frozen mud.

But he had the Snitch!

He rolled over onto his hands and knees then stood as the tiny wings beat furiously in the palm
of his leather-clad hand. With a cavalier grace, he wandlessly recalled the broom to his side, then
straddled the broom handle and nudged the broom skyward, closer to the denuded forest canopy.
Hovering, he released his grip and sat upright, then tossed the Snitch back and forth between his
hands while he caught his breath, a smile of self-satisfaction on his face.

How he wished “catching” Hermione was as easy as catching the Snitch.

Of course, catching the Snitch wasn’t always easy. Sometimes it was hard … and damned risky.
Flashbacks of Quidditch matches against Slytherin zipped around his conscious memories – instances
where Bludgers had a mind of their own, dementors and possessed professors had wished him harm, and
his mid-air clashes with Malfoy had become the stuff of legend. No … being a Seeker was to occupy
the riskiest position on the team.

But it was also the one which brought the greatest reward.

He stared at the fluttering ball in his hand. No great catch was without its risk, and no great
Seeker was ever labeled a coward.

*Love like that is a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Don’t let him waste the opportunity out of
fear, Harry*.

That was the crux of it, Harry realized. Fear. He’d been afraid when he’d faced Voldemort and
knew that one of them had to die. But this was a completely different kind of fear … an irrational
fear … a fear that immobilized him and tongue-tied him and left him acting like a child around his
best friend … the woman he loved.

What exactly was he afraid of? Was it Hermione? Never. He trusted her with his life – he had no
problem trusting her with his heart. Was it Ron? No. Ron and Hermione hadn’t been a couple for
years, and while Harry might have to deal with a bit of bluster on Ron’s part – threatening him
with a good hexing if he hurt her – he knew Ron and his family would eventually be happy for them.
He knew he wasn’t afraid of becoming involved in a committed relationship, and maybe even marriage.
He was actually looking forward to no longer being alone.

Rejection.

Harry sighed. The fear that Hermione didn’t love him back was what kept him silent. But he also
knew that this was Hermione. She wouldn’t lead him on, but she wouldn’t walk away from him, either.
If she truly didn’t care for him the way he cared for her, then he knew, he knew they’d find a way
to get past it, because something told him that no matter what Hermione’s feelings, she wanted to
keep Harry in her life as much as he needed her in his.

And faint heart never won fair maiden.

With a surge of adrenaline and a nod of determination, Harry grabbed the Snitch with one hand
while he landed his broom and turned his thoughts toward London and Hermione’s flat. It was now or
never, or he’d have no peace. And he needed peace, and a clear head, if he was going to be in any
way effective with the vampires.

*Damn that bloody tattoo!*

Harry Apparated, his feet hitting the pavement outside Hermione’s flat, oblivious to his
surroundings. It was good that Hermione had chosen to live in a wizarding neighborhood, for tonight
Harry had little inclination to care whether he was observed dismounting or not. As he approached
her door, he didn’t even bother tickling the wards – he just pushed forward until he could
knock.

The wards dropped and the door was thrown open to reveal a very wide-eyed Hermione, clad in
pajamas. Her eyes raked down over him and her surprise rapidly changed to shock. “Harry! What on
earth happened to you?”

“I need to see it.”

He stepped over the threshold as she reached up and plucked a broken twig from his hair.

“You look like you got into a fight with a mountain troll … and lost.” Her fingers touched his
cheek, tracing a cut from one of the whipping branches. “What happened?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

Her gaze snapped to the broom in his hand and her features softened in understanding as she shut
the door and led him into the foyer. “Ah. You’ve been flying. Run into some turbulence?”

“Turbulence is an understatement.” He leaned his broom against the wall, then cupped her hand in
his and placed the Snitch in her palm before closing her fingers over its buzzing wings. “Hermione.
I need to see it.”

“See what, Harry?”

“It’s been driving me crazy for over a week now, and if you don’t show it to me, I may not be
responsible for my actions.”

“Harry … what are you talking about? What do you need to see?”

“Your tattoo.”

Harry watched as first the color drained from her face, then her cheeks flushed a bright pink.
“How … how did you know about that?”

“I saw it … at Ron’s party. Well, not all of it … just the top. I … I want to see the whole
thing.”

“Why?” she asked so softly that Harry barely heard her.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, renewed determination firmly setting his jaw. “Because for
the last week it’s all I can dream about, all I can think about. It’s the … bloody hell … thinking
of you with it …. “ He ran his hand back through his fringe. “It’s one of the sexiest things I’ve
ever seen, and damn it all … if I’m going to fucking dream about it, then I bloody well ought to
dream about the whole bloody thing, right?”

She regarded him intently for a long moment as he panted with emotion and the strain of holding
himself in check. Her flush deepened, and he thought she was going to refuse him. But then she bit
her bottom lip in that oh, so familiar way, and her she got a wicked gleam in her eye before
tossing the Snitch in the air and spinning, planting both hands firmly on either side of her head
against the wall.

“All right, Harry.”

Harry thought he was going to die.

He retreated a step and dropped his gaze to her lower back.

*This is really happening. Hermione is letting me …*

Hardly daring to breathe, he knelt behind her, his hands coming to rest on the outside of her
flannel-covered thighs. He drew in a deep breath, then said, “Lift your shirt.” Pleased that his
voice didn’t reveal his nervousness, he watched, fascinated, as Hermione lowered one hand and
gathered her shirt until he could see the waistband of her pajama pants.

With a feather-light touch, Harry skimmed his hands up the outside of her thighs to the
waistband, then pressed his lips together to keep from groaning as he dipped his fingers beneath
the elastic that wrapped around each hip. With infinite care, he slowly lowered her pants over the
cheeks of her bum until they stopped, secured, at the tops of her thighs.

Harry was mesmerized.

Hermione’s bum.

*Hermione’s bare bum.*

Harry licked his dry lips as he stared at the softly rounded curves, the creamy white skin. How
perfectly those curves would fit his hands, he thought, as arousal quickened his breath and warmed
his groin. He watched the subtle interplay of muscle as she shifted, steadying her stance, holding
herself still for his hungry gaze.

And then his focus realigned.

Positioned between the twin dimples just above the swell of her cheeks resided the intricately
detailed rendering of …

“A phoenix,” he whispered in awe. Its head was turned to the side and its wings were spread,
meeting aloft, giving it the appearance of flight. The plumage radiated reds, oranges and yellows,
and the feathers shimmered as if they were rustling in the breeze. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s Fawkes. I wanted it to be him, so I had them use one of his feathers to draw the
tattoo.”

Harry reached a finger over and stroked the tip of one wing, and was rewarded with the brief,
gentle warble of phoenix song. “Wicked! Does he sing often?”

“He’s never done that before,” she admitted, her brow wrinkled in confusion. “He has a regular
Burning Day, but he’s never sung. He must recognize you.”

Harry glanced up. Her cheek was pressed to the wall and a faint blush still stained the crest of
her cheekbones. “Why would he recognize me?”

“Well,” --she hesitated, then drew a deep breath -- “remember when you killed Voldemort and his
wand shattered and your wand split?”

Harry nodded.

“Afterwards, when you were in hospital and recovering, I …. I went back … to where you killed
him. To find your wand.”

“What? Hermione, why?”

“I didn’t actually take the wand. The wood had split beyond repair but the feather inside was
still intact so I removed it. It seemed important to me … to keep it. When I decided to get the
tattoo, it seemed only natural to use it as the quill. And this way, not only does my tattoo have a
bit of Fawkes’ magic in it, it also has a bit of yours.”

“Mine?” Harry ran his thumb over one wing, watching as the feathers fluttered in the
non-existent breeze. “Why would you want to have it imbued with my magic?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Because that way, I’ll always have a piece of you with me.”

“Silly witch,” he whispered as he pressed a gentle kiss to her hip. “You already have a piece of
me. Didn’t you know that? Somewhere along the way you nicked my heart, too. Probably on that first
train ride,” he teased fondly. “You were such a little know-it-all then.” He brushed the tip of his
nose over the tattoo, then froze. “Wait, what about Voldemort … the connection my wand had to
his?”

“It’s all right. I asked Professor Dumbledore’s portrait about that before I actually got the
tattoo. He said that the wand was a tool crafted for you, and that if there was any latent Dark
magic associated with the wand it would have been neutralized by yours. Besides,” she confessed as
voice dropped to barely a whisper, “I happen to like that little bit of Dark in you.”

Harry felt something feral swell in his chest. His hands slid around her hips and across the
smooth expanse of her stomach as he stood, then he pulled them out from under her shirt and trailed
them up her arms until his hands covered hers where they rested on the wall. Lacing their fingers
together, he wrapped both their arms around her stomach as he pressed his chest to her back and her
head tipped back against his shoulder with a sigh.

“Oh, Harry.”

He kissed her temple before angling his head so that his lips just brushed the shell of her ear.
“I’m about to cross a line here, so if you want me to stop, if you want me to stay on this side of
the line, you need to tell me now.”

He heard the smile in her voice. “I think you crossed that line when you knocked on my door,
Mister Potter.”

“Want me to stop?”

“Don’t you dare!” she threatened as she pushed her bare bum backwards against the zip of his
denims. She slipped her arms out from under his, then took his hands and moved them back under her
shirt. “Touch me,” she pleaded, “please touch me.”

Harry’s hands skimmed upward until he cupped her breasts in his palms, and his thumbs brushed
over the already stiff peaks of her nipples. “Merlin, Hermione,” he breathed, “I want you so
badly.”

“Yesss,” she agreed as he kissed down her neck and nipped at the sensitive spot where her neck
met her shoulder. “Talk to me.”

He kissed his way back up to her ear. “Talk?”

“P-Parseltongue. Please?”

Harry’s mind raced. Suddenly her reactions, both at Ron’s party and at her dinner party, made
perfect sense. It occurred to him that in the past, when he’d spoken the unique magical language,
she hadn’t been present. Perhaps his Parseltongue affected her the way her tattoo affected him …
perhaps she found it arousing.

Perhaps she really did like him just a bit Dark and dangerous!

He didn’t even need a mental fabrication to aid him this time. With a wicked grin, he sucked her
earlobe into his mouth and gave it a tug with his teeth before hissing, “Merlin, you have to be the
sexiest, the most beautiful, the most incredible woman in the whole world.”

She shivered in his arms and it was all he could do not to crow with triumph.

“I want to take you to bed and make love to you all night long,” he continued, the sibilant
sounds making her squirm harder. She raised a hand and wove it through his hair, holding him close
as he kneaded the soft flesh of her breasts. “You’ve been mine in my dreams … now I want to make
you mine for real.”

“What did you say, Harry?” she asked breathlessly.

“Let me show you.”

With a soft groan, he dropped his hands as she spun in his embrace. His hands drifted downward
and he cupped her bum, pulling her against him as he bent his head and pressed his lips to
hers.

Harry’s heart stopped.

The kiss started gently, tenderly, but the tenuous thread of his control was strained and all it
took was for the kiss to deepen – for Hermione’s tongue to brush across his lips – for that thread
to snap. With another groan he pulled her flush against him, sinking one hand into her hair while
simultaneously plunging his tongue into the warmth of her mouth. She returned his kiss eagerly,
passionately, giving as good as she got.

Harry thought his lungs were going to explode but he didn’t want to break the kiss for something
as trivial as breathing. Suddenly Hermione’s foyer twisted as he felt the sickening whirl of
Apparition. In a heartbeat, he found himself in Hermione’s bedroom. They were standing beside her
bed and her small hands were sliding under his sweatshirt … under his t-shirt … caressing his
chest.

He released her and grabbed both shirts at the back of his neck, pulling them over his head with
vehemence and sending his glasses skittering across the floor. As he dropped the shirts to the
carpet, Hermione crossed her arms over her stomach, grabbed the hem of her pajama top and pulled it
over her head.

Harry didn’t need his glasses to see the beauty of the body in front of him. He muffled a groan,
then took a step forward and splayed his fingers along her ribs, his thumbs teasing her pebbled
nipples, which elicited the most delicious moan from her.

Harry sucked in his breath. The power that had filled him when facing Voldemort for the last
time had been magnificent, but it dimmed in comparison to the magic thrumming through his veins in
recognition of the power he had in bringing Hermione pleasure. It was heady knowledge indeed.

Without a word, he bent and scooped her up in his arms and deposited her in the middle of the
bed. Her pajama pants still clung to the tops of her thighs and his eyes sought hers, silently
asking permission as he lifted the elastic and gave a gentle tug. She nodded her assent and Harry
grinned as he slowly lowered the fabric down her legs and off her feet.

*Merlin, she’s beautiful!*

He toed his trainers off, then unfastened his jeans with trembling fingers. A moment of
uncertainty caused him to hesitate, then he shoved his jeans and pants downs his legs and stepped
out of them, taking his socks along. As he stood up, gloriously naked, he felt Hermione’s eyes on
him and he couldn’t help wondering if she liked what she saw. Nervously, he squinted, bringing her
face into slight focus, and he was relieved to see her expression was one of desire.

Harry’s heart pounded as he placed one knee on the bed. He couldn’t believe it … he was naked
with Hermione! He was about to make love with Hermione!

*Sweet mother of Merlin!*

Hermione held her arms open in invitation and Harry crawled up her body, eager to feel her soft
skin against his. He hovered over her on hands and knees, looking into her eyes, recognizing the
love she had for him shining there. How could he have missed it?

“One more line to cross. Are you sure? After this, there’s no going back.”

“I think you completely erased the rest of the lines when you crossed the first one, but, for
the record … I don’t want to go back. Cross the line, Harry.”

“I love you.” He was surprised at how easy it was to say it.

Hermione’s eyes filled with tears and she smiled. “I love you, too … so very much.”

Harry’s answering smile was so wide his cheeks hurt. But his boyish elation that Hermione
returned his affection was quickly replaced with a more primal lust as he focused on the beautiful,
welcoming woman spread beneath him. An undefined magic coursed through him, making the air around
then seem charged.

With a whispered curse, he bent his head and kissed her as he lowered his body to cover hers.
The remarkable feel of skin-on-skin banished what remained of his rational thought, and he allowed
himself to become lost in Hermione. Dream Hermione paled in comparison to the real thing, and he
reveled in her touch, in her scent, in her taste. Their kisses became passionate, devouring … he
was shocked and delighted at her responsiveness and couldn’t get enough of her. He could be content
to lay tangled with her and snog her all night – except he had other plans.

It took willpower for him to tear himself away from her lips, but he managed it. Something akin
to a growl grew in the back of his throat and he caught her eye briefly, just to make sure she was
watching, before he slid down to capture a nipple in his mouth. He was rewarded with a hiss and a
moan and an, “Oh, Harry!,” so he doubled his effort, with hard sucks and nips just the other side
of gentle.

He watched her under lowered lashes – watched as her eyes closed and her head tipped back – as
he switched sides and lavished attention on her other breast. He felt her fingers slip into his
hair, holding his head in place, as her legs parted and he settled into the cradle of her thighs.
Her fingernails scored gentle rows on his scalp and he shivered at the sensation, but refused to be
diverted.

Harry willed her to open her eyes … to watch … to see *him*. He wanted to be sure she knew
it was *him … Harry* … who was in her bed. *Witch Weekly’s* Most Eligible Bachelor, who
would settle for no less than his best friend -- the only witch for him.

“Hermione. Look at me.”

Her eyelids fluttered as his hand slid between them, seeking, exploring. Harry groaned and
dropped his forehead to rest on her collarbone as first one finger, then two, then three delved
into her wet warmth. She squirmed and writhed and groaned his name as his fingers stroked and his
thumb circled her partially hidden bundle of nerves.

“Hermione.”

She struggled to open her eyes, even as his pace increased. His erection pressed into her thigh,
ignored for now, but her hands had drifted down his back and around his hip as if on a quest of
their own. He knew, however, that if she touched him, at least this first time, it would be over in
an instant.

Suddenly he withdrew his hand and raised himself up on his elbows, his face hovering over hers.
The tip of his erection slid teasingly through her slick folds, and it was all he could do to
maintain the tenuous control he still had.

“Look at me.”

Hermione’s eyes opened, dilated and glassy with arousal, and Harry’s heart slammed into his
chest. Merlin, how he loved this woman! With infinite restraint, he lowered his head and brushed
her lips with his. “Are you sure?”

Annoyance flashed across her features and it was all Harry could do not to laugh. “I’m sure,
damn it!” she panted.

That was all he needed to hear. He reached a hand down to guide himself and, with a hard thrust,
Harry plunged home.

“Oh, yesssss,” he hissed as Hermione made a noise somewhere between a growl and a purr. Her
fingernails dug into his shoulders as he held still, panting, allowing her time to adjust to his
intrusion while he struggled to maintain control.

Finally she pleaded, “Move. Please move.” .

Her fingers kneaded his back as his hips set a driving rhythm. Overwhelmed by her heat and the
slick friction they created, Harry was unable to focus on anything save their coupling. He could
feel the tingle of magic in his limbs, along his spine … even his hair seemed to be standing on end
– but his entire world was narrowed to the place where they joined as one.

*Merlin, this feels so good!*

Hermione wrapped her legs around his hips and he knew he couldn’t last much longer. Her soft
moans and sighs filled his ears and he mentally cursed himself for not being able to hold out, but
he’d wanted this, dreamed of *this* for too long. It was just too good.

Just as he was about to give in to his body’s desire, he heard Hermione’s voice, soft and filled
with wonder. “Harry, look.”

He struggled to open his eyes and was startled to see colors surrounding them. A bright red aura
enveloped his body and Hermione’s glowed with a supernatural amber. But where they touched, the
colors mixed and blended to make a spectacular fiery orange.

Overwhelmed, Harry gave in to his need.

Waves of searing pleasure wracked his body as Hermione clenched around him, keening a soft wail.
His orgasm seemed endless, drawing power from depths he didn’t know existed, and when he finally
collapsed, he was panting and sated and exhausted.

He lay boneless, unable to move, unable to catch his breath. He’d never experienced anything so
amazing in his life and he wondered if Hermione had felt the same awe, if she had just experienced
what they’d shared with the same intensity that he had. He finally mustered enough energy to roll
to the side, sliding his arm around Hermione and rolling her with him until she was sprawled across
his chest, her legs twined with his and her head pillowed on his shoulder.

“Sweet Circe,” she whispered, panting. “That was …”

“I know.”

His hand drifted down her back, his fingers caressing lazy circles on her cooling skin. As his
hand skimmed lower, he brushed lightly over her tattoo. Soft phoenix song broke the stillness and
Harry smiled. “I think Fawkes approves of us.”

“There was never any doubt.”

Harry sighed contentedly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Harry tucked his other hand behind his head as he stared at the ceiling and debated whether to
ask the question that came to his mind. Curiosity won out over discretion. “How long?”

Hermione shifted slightly in his arms and laid a hand on his chest, distractedly tracing
unrecognizable designs on his sweaty skin, although Harry was sure they were probably ancient
runes, knowing Hermione. “How long have I loved you, or how long have I known I love you?”

“Both.”

“Well,” she sighed, her breath tickling his neck, “I’ve known it since just after the war.
That’s part of the reason Ron and I broke up, I suppose, although I’ve never told him that. I was
so used to worrying about you and caring for you that it had become part of my life. Even though
Voldemort was dead and I knew you were safe, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I’d thought it was
just because I was used to doing it – worrying about you and putting you first had become second
nature to me. But when I began to compare you and Ron, when I began to analyze things Ron said and
did, and I’d think ‘Harry wouldn’t do this,’ or ‘Harry would have handled it this way,’ then I knew
I was in trouble. The final straw ….” She hesitated, and Harry could swear she was biting her lip,
although he didn’t look to confirm it.

“Go on,” he whispered encouragingly.

“The final straw was the night of Bill and Fleur’s first anniversary party. Ron had been
drinking and he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He’d managed to get me into a quiet corner of
the Burrow garden and his kisses were a bit sloppy and his touch ... well, he was a bit rough.”
Harry stiffened, his hand stilling, and she hastened to reassure him. “Not harsh, mind you, just
not gentle. I could see you talking to Bill, laughing at something he’d said, and I wondered right
then what it would be like to kiss you, and whether you’d grope me in the garden or take me
somewhere secluded and do things properly.” She chuckled. “It was then I realized that what I felt
was more than just concern for a friend. As for how long I’ve loved you … forever, I think. At
least it seems that way.” She rubbed her cheek against his collarbone. “What about you?”

Harry’s mind was still reeling from the fact that Hermione had thought of him while snogging
Ron. “As I said before, when I look back now I think I fell in love with you on that first train
ride. But I’m ashamed to admit that, even though I’ve been dreaming some really wicked dreams about
you for a week, I didn’t realize I was in love with you until last night.”

“Oh, Harry. It doesn’t matter <i>when</i> you knew. It only matters that you know
now.”

“I’m sorry I was such a dense git.” Hermione leaned up and kissed his cheek and Harry grinned.
“I feel … Merlin, I feel incredible. Vladislav doesn’t stand a chance, now.”

Hermione lifted her head, resting her chin on her hand. “Is he anything like Sanguini?”

Harry frowned. “Sanguini? From Slughorn’s party? No. Sanguini was a leech and less than
discriminating. He’d prey on any willing victim he could find, regardless of the consequences,
which is why he ended up destroyed by the likes of Nott. Vladislav is different … he’s intelligent,
but he’s also smart, if you understand the difference. He’s not about to jeopardize anything for a
random bloodsucking. He’s crafty and cunning and more than willing to use you against yourself.”
Harry chest suddenly shook as he chuckled. “Y’know, Remus won’t recognize me tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Well, he’s gotten used to seeing a miserable, lovesick insomniac with workaholic tendencies. He
won’t know what to do with a happy Harry who’s going to go off on holiday with his lovely … his
lovely … er, what do I call you? You’re more than my best friend now, and girlfriend sounds a bit
adolescent.”

“I’ve heard my mum use the phrase ‘significant other.’”

Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste. Suddenly, the answer hit him.

*Don’t say it, Potter … it’s too soon.*

“Well …”

*What’s the point of being a Gryffindor if you aren’t foolhardy now and then?*

“… I could always call you my fiancée.”

Silence.

Then …

“Hmmm … *Witch Weekly’s* exclusive interview with Hermione Granger entitled,” – Hermione
traced the headline in the air – “‘How I Bagged the Bachelor.’ Catchy, don’t you think?”

Harry rolled her over as his fingers found her ticklish ribs, then his lips covered hers to
quiet her squeals of laughter. As his tickles became caresses and the kiss deepened, Harry silently
thanked Fawkes, wherever the phoenix was, for once again saving him.

*FIN*

*July 29, 2007*