It was the quill that did it in the end.
Harry had, up until then, been resigned to forever suffering in silence. What need was there, he had reasoned, to shatter the calm that had cost them so much to achieve? Everything was so much better now. The War was over: Voldemort gone, the Death Eaters either killed, in Azkaban or fled from the country, the castle rebuilt. Hermione had insisted they return to Hogwarts to finish their NEWT's, even though the spells and knowledge they had attained over the last year meant 'O's were pretty much guaranteed. Harry had agreed, happy to return to some sense of normalcy, and Ron had naturally followed his decision (although Harry was certain that a blonde Ravenclaw had something to do with it as well). And so they had found themselves, in between Quidditch matches and Common Room laughter, bored senseless in classrooms where their Professors droned on about spellwork they had already surpassed.
And that was where Harry's troubles had begun.
Well, the troubles had begun long before then, if he was completely honest. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment that Hermione had stopped being just his best friend and became his best friend who was also the most desirable witch he'd ever seen, but it had happened somewhere. And now, as his eyes roved the Charms classroom for the dozenth time, passing over quills scratching on parchment and wands being flicked and swished, they settled invariably on her.
Any wizard could see that Hermione was attractive. Her thick robes and school uniform no longer hid the fact that her body had filled out in certain places and tapered in and lengthened in others. Her hair was soft and now fell almost to her waist, and her pretty face held a pair of intense brown eyes that often sparkled in the wandlight. But those things, as appealing as they were, were the obvious things. No, it was the small things that were driving Harry slowly mad. Her small gestures and movements, things that were the very epitome of normal, were things that Harry found intensely alluring. And, as he found himself gritting his teeth again, she did them all of the bloody time.
It was almost as if she knew, and was doing it to torment him.
He had noticed the leg-crossing first. A perfectly natural thing to do, only when she did it her skirt would slide up slightly, exposing more of those legs. Most days she wore tights, but in Transfiguration last week there had been bare skin and Harry had found himself crossing his own legs. Often, crossing her legs would lead to smoothing her skirt back down, again something any girl might do; only she would lift herself up off the stool slightly and then there was her bum. Why Harry had not drawn his attention to Hermione's bum years before he did not know, but if there was a more perfectly-shaped arse in the Wizarding World he would eat every haggis flavoured Bertie Botts Bean in existence. Then there were the yawns and stretches, things that he himself did every day, but when Hermione did them it made him very aware she had breasts. Dear Merlin, when had she got those?
A grey woollen jumper had never looked better.
There was the hair as well. Her mane was as unruly and bushy as it had ever been, but her frequent movements to pick at a tangle here or a tangle there caused the whole lot to ripple. Sometimes she would lean on her desk, her chin cupped in one hand and her head tilted to the side, and that hair would curl down around her slender neck. She had done that in Defence Against The Dark Arts, and Harry had actually drooled onto his wand.
Despite all of these things, Harry had been resolved not to act on his feelings. As much as he found himself wanting her and as often as he found his thoughts drifting to her, he was not prepared to take the risk. Their friendship was too important, this return to a normal, peaceful existence at Hogwarts too good to risk ruining everything by telling her what he felt. And so he had resolved to suffer in silence. He was not prepared to potentially scare away one of the most important people in his life by revealing his less-than-friendly (and often quite filthy) thoughts.
Until that bloody quill came along.
It wasn't a particularly special quill. He had been with her when she had bought it in Hogsmeade that weekend. But now, as Flitwick had begun talking about a charm that had actually captured Hermione's interest, she had taken out the quill and begun taking notes.
And she was nibbling on it.
Perhaps it was a subconscious gesture, but the top of the quill had gone to her mouth and her teeth were on the end of it, chewing on the tip gently. Harry's hands were gripping his desk very tightly. And then, as she was deep in thought, she licked the end.
That was too much for him. He saw it all in perfect clarity: the moisture on her lips, the whiteness of the feather, the delicate way that her tongue caressed the tip. With a loud crash, Harry fell off his stool.
With the laughter of his classmates ringing in his ears and a bemused look from Hermione herself, Harry decided at that point that he could no longer hold his peace. Not if she was going to keep doing that. That was far too exquisite a torture. There was no way he was going to hold on to his sanity if there was going to be quill-chewing as well.
His daze lingered until the end of the lesson, and he was the last to leave. She was waiting for him outside, her book bag slung over one shoulder and her head slightly to one side as she asked him if he was all right. As a reply, he blurted out that he fancied her and she was driving him bloody crazy.
For a few moments he regretted saying it. But then she smiled at him in a way she had never done before, and he didn't regret it a tiny bit.
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