Maybe, Definitely

Okay, so, obviously, I got my author license. Gee, I'm still feeling giddy just thinking about it. And, well, I couldn't wait any longer to post something. I tried to contact my beta, but I haven't been able to, so I apologize beforehand if you see any mistakes here. Please, do tell me, so I can fix them. English is not my native language, btw, Spanish is.

This story is sort of an AU to DH, though it is placed after the books end (of course, I'm ignoring the Epilogue completely here), because there are some character's deaths I'm overlooking, such as Dumbledore's and Lupin's. It was necessary to the plot (which was nonexistent when I began writing this fic), you'll see why in the next part, as well as the next instalments I've yet to write (`cause I've decided to do a small series of oneshots, or twoshots, following this plotline, and it's going to be called the Everlasting series.)

Yeah, I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter (c) JKR. Plot (c) Me.

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“Maybe, Definitely”

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Part I

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Being Head Girl had many benefits. Like being able to take points from Slytherin students when they misbehaved —despite the temptation, she was way too righteous to take advantage of that— or wander around the school corridors past curfew —she could be, after all, making sure all student were on their respective houses— without fear of getting in trouble. And Hermione took advantage of that, the wandering, the possibility of being alone with her thoughts, finally.

Ever since The War ended, three months ago, she'd been feeling off. She knew she should be happy, should be relaxing somewhere, even celebrating, as the rest of Wizarding World still did. She should be up in the Common Room of Gryffindor Tower snogging Ron silly. But no. She was wandering the first floor corridors, feeling anxious and jumpy, as though waiting for something to happen; moping around, and avoiding Ron as if he had the plague.

Now, it wasn't like she hated him at the moment or anything, no; she loved the guy, only not like she thought she did. Not like everybody thought she did. And when she tried to explain that to him last week, he had gotten all stubborn saying she only needed time to adjust to their new life and that she'll come around. To top it off, he said they should probably give themselves some time apart —where they even together anyway?— before trying to go steady. She tried to make him see reason, but Ron had simply brushed the matter off, and walked away from her.

“Come looking for me when you're ready, he says,” Hermione muttered, sighing tiredly. “Why can't he accept it's not going to work?”

It was all too complicated, but she supposed it began —or rather ended— with the kiss she had shared with Ron before the final battle. There she'd realized that all they could ever be were friends, nothing more. The moment their lips had touched there was none of what she thought there'd be when she decided to kiss him. No fireworks behind her eyelids, no butterflies in her stomach, no nothing. (Nothing of what she felt when she kissed Harry, back when they were alone in the tent, shortly after Ron left, both in desperate need of comfort, of some sort of release for the growing tension, of a way to escape reality if only for a little while.) And then, when Voldemort was finally gone, when she ran pass everyone and straight into Harry's arms, hugging him tightly to her, she thought —briefly but oh so very clearly— this is it, this is what my relationship with Ron lacks; this devotion, this comfort, this sense of fulfilment, this, this…

She understood everything then; the constant bickering, the awkwardness, and those spurs of jealousy that were really of frustration. She had proven herself, and everyone else though they didn't know yet, that once again she'd been right all along. She and Ron didn't fight like an old married couple because they fancied each other and didn't want to admit it, they fought because that was who they were, that was how their friendship worked; a simple clash of personalities, not unresolved sexual tension (UST) as everyone so eloquently called it.

She had been a fool for allowing herself to believe what everyone else thought they saw. She wasn't in love with Ron, she just loved him, period. And she had been a bigger fool for letting that fact divert her attention from Harry.

Harry, the boy she had (for lack of a better word) fancied ever since the end of third year, her best friend that she now knew was so much more than that, for whom she'd risk her life in a heartbeat; the one who'd once thought himself to be a bad kisser but she now knew was certainly not. Harry, whom she wouldn't mind to have a bickering match with if it meant there'd be a heavy round of snogging later to make-up. Harry, who was ever present in her life, even when he wasn't there in body. Harry, Harry, Harry. Happily enjoying his life post-Voldemort, with Ginny.

Harry, the boy she loved with her whole being, but wasn't in love with, yet. Harry, her Harry, and yet not.

So, in conclusion, she had been right, but so had Ron when he said it'd always been Harry. And it took her four years, one kiss, and a bunch of constant near-death experiences to figure that out.

Hermione stepped into the Entrance Hall just in time to see the main doors to the castle open and then close quietly. She frowned, tilting her head to the side, deep in thought. If it weren't for the fact that she didn't see anyone enter (or leave) the castle, she would've ignored the unlikely thought that popped into her head. But, since ghosts didn't need to open a door to go through it, what else could it be if not what she thought it was?

Before she could dwell long enough in her decision, Hermione looked around to make sure there weren't unwanted witnesses and exited the castle. It was only once she was standing outside, alone, with no clue of where to go and what to look for, that she doubted her rushed reaction. Because, really, she wasn't even certain of her suspicions; it could have all been a trick of her tired and stressed mind. But no, her instinct told her she was right, again, and with renewed resolve, she headed for the only place there was to look for.

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Hermione reached the Quidditch Pitch within minutes, heading towards the Gryffindor stands right away. Something told her that the student she'd seen —or not seen— sneaking out was there, and she was fairly certain she knew who it was. Just as she reached the stairs, a thunderous noise coming from above forced her to duck and hide. Before she even had time to scold herself for doing it —she was, after all, Head Girl, and the one responsible for making sure nobody was out of bed after curfew— the noise got louder and louder, and soon, Hermione saw a flash of red, black and gold rush by her hiding place and out of the stands.

Is that…?

She stood and looked after the retreating form of none other than Ginny Weasley. Frowning, Hermione turned towards the stairs, her eyes darting up. She felt rather smug at the knowledge of being right, once again, but then felt worry settle over her like a dark cloud as she climbed the stairs. Whatever it was that had happened to make Ginny run away like that could not be pretty.

One step after another, Hermione made her way silently to the top, and just when she touched the final step, it groaned under her foot. The sudden sound, echoing louder than it should due to the night's stillness, alerted the person who was there of her presence. And a moment later, a body slammed into her and Hermione found herself with half her body hanging off the railings, her only support being the hand around her neck, and a wand pressed against her forehead rather roughly.

“Harry!” she gasped, grabbing his arm.

The boy in question snapped back to reality, loosening his hold on the girl's neck —and seemed to ignore completely the nails digging painfully into his forearm— as he lowered his wand. He looked at her, not really seeing her at all, and stepped back a few inches.

“Hermione?”

Hermione pushed herself off the railings, one hand gripping it for support, and the other hand rubbing her somewhat abused neck. Under normal circumstances, she knew she should've been afraid, but she also knew Harry well enough to know his reaction was only a product of everything they have been through this past year—this paranoia was only a part of what the War left behind. She raised her eyes and saw a flash of recognition in his troubled gaze as he looked from her neck to her eyes and back. Then, with a newfound fascination, Hermione watched as his eyes widened, eyebrows shooting up, horror taking over his expression once the full realization of what he'd done came to him.

“Oh, Merlin…” Harry said, “Merlin… Hermione, I'm so sorry!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, she was yanked away from the railings and into his arms to be secured in a tight embrace. The air was knocked out of her lungs the moment she collided with his chest and, coupled with the desperate force of his hug, Hermione was having a difficult time breathing properly.

“Harry… cannot… breathe!” she gasped again.

He pulled away again, but didn't let go of her this time, instead he bent his knees a bit until his eyes were levelled with her neck. Hermione watched how the shame and guilt marred his features, mingling with the horror he still felt. She took several deep breathes, trying to calm her erratic breathing, only to have it get caught in her throat again as Harry —oh, ever so lightly— moved his hands from her arms to her neck, inspecting it carefully. She willed herself to fight back a shiver when his calloused hands touched her now sensitive skin softly. Hermione knew she ought to say something —anything— to ease his guilt that, by the look on his face, was most likely eating him up. However, her focus was solely on the way his hands moved along her neck and the sensations such action aroused in her.

“I'm so sorry, Hermione…” Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The tenderness and concern lacing his voice, plus his fingers caressing the exposed skin of her neck, sent her mind reeling out of control and hundreds of jolts of pleasure ran through her body. Harry probably didn't realized what his touch was doing to her, he was only making sure his rough actions hadn't bruised her, but Hermione knew that if he kept up with his ministrations, she'll end up doing something they'll both regret later.

She closed her eyes and bit into her lower lip, summoning all her will power to grasp his hand and keep them locked at each side of her neck. And only when she managed to get her logical mind take over her emotions did she open her eyes, finding Harry looking intently at her, waiting. She smiled at him, giving his hands a little squeeze.

“It's alright, Harry,” she said, “It's alright…”

Harry searched her eyes for the reassurance that, yes, it was all right, before sighing and pulling her into a much gentler embrace. And something about this embrace caught her off guard. It felt different somehow, not like the ones they used to share in the past, nor like the ones friends share to comfort each other; this was definitely different. And maybe it was only the fact that this time he initiated it, but Hermione was sure it felt more… intimate, in a way she couldn't quite identify.

Still, she embraced him back, glad to know that they hadn't lost their especial connection—that amazing ability to know what the other was thinking just by looking at each other when it mattered the most. She squeezed his waist a little, telling him with that simple gesture that she was there, with him, and she wasn't going to leave, no matter what. And a few seconds later, his chest rose and fell under her cheek as Harry let out a heavy sigh, and then he talked.

“I realized I might never have the normal life I always wanted, Hermione,” he began, “No matter where I go, no matter what I do, I'll always be Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, or as the Daily Prophet so eloquently put it, The Boy Who Freed The World From He Who Must Not Be Bloody Named.”

Hermione smiled a little, amused, knowing well that this new nickname was the less ludicrous among the ones the Daily Prophet liked to use nowadays. She didn't need to see to know that Harry, too, had an amused smile on his face, however small it might be.

“And that's probably all I'll ever be to most of the Wizarding World; always The Harry Potter, and never just Harry,” he paused, breathing deeply before continuing, “I found that normalcy with Ginny, you know… When we were together, I could forget about the world—about Voldemort, the prophecy, everything. There was only Ginny, and the way her hair shined, or the way her eyes sparkled in the firelight, or the way she felt in my arms… or the way she kissed. Everything seemed to narrow down to her whenever we were together, and it felt good… For a while, it felt good.”

Harry paused again, resting his chin on top of her head. When the pause prolonged more than necessary, Hermione gave his waist another little squeeze, reminding him of her presence.

I'm here, Harry, don't forget that… Never forget that…

He squeezed back, and proceeded, “Contrary to what I thought, this last months apart from each other made more bad than good to us. I thought that by pushing her away, leaving her in the dark of what was happening around me, I would protect her somehow… I didn't want to taint her innocence and ruin our chances of a normal relationship, but… I guess I was a little bit too successful.”

“So that's why you broke up with her,” she said, pulling away from his arms and fighting back the sudden urge to shiver at the sudden loss of warmth.

The look he gave her then was all the confirmation she needed to know she'd been right, just then and earlier when she'd seen Ginny run off to who knows where. She watched silently as Harry sat on one of the benches looking stressed and dejected. For once, she didn't know what to say make him feel better.

“In a way, yes. Our relationship was too shallow, only skin deep, I guess,” he said, “There was never a real connection between us, only physical attraction; at least on my part. I can't talk to her the way I talk to you, Hermione. I can't share with her the things I share with you. She doesn't know what I've been through. She doesn't understand me. I—I want to talk to her, but I can't…”

“Oh, Harry…” she sighed, and quickly sat down next to him, grasping his hand.

“The thing is, apparently, what I felt for Ginny was only a fleeting fancy. And now I probably blew up any chance of being friends again by hurting her feelings.”

“No, Harry, I'm sure Ginny won't stop being your friend just because of that,” Hermione said, “She'll be upset for a while, but it'll pass and everything will be okay.”

Harry gave her a grateful smile, but it still wouldn't reach his eyes. She bit her lower lip and couldn't prevent the worry from showing on her face, because right then Harry grasped her free hand, trying to put up a strong facade. That was enough to set off alarm bells inside her head; something was certainly amiss.

As if reading her train of thought, he tried to reassure her, “Hermione, I'm fine—”

“No, you aren't… Harry, don't try to shut us down, please, don't try to shut me down… tell me what is wrong…”

He dropped his gaze to their joined hands for a brief moment before meeting her eyes again, “It's just… Do you want to know what else makes me think I'll never have a normal life?” he asked, but didn't give her a chance to answer, “Because of this…” he said, lifting one of his hands and touching her neck lightly. “This paranoia that seems to follow me everywhere I go now, this sensation that I can't let my guard down in fear that someone might sneak up on me, because then I'll react harshly and hex this person into oblivion only to realize a second too late that it was someone I cared about… I almost hexed you! This is driving me insane, I—I can't stand it.”

The wind blew around them, ruffling their hair gently. Hermione laid her head on his shoulder, trying hard to ignore the way his fingers ran up her hand and pass her wrist to her forearm and back, as she listened to him.

“And I'm tired of it, of everything, Hermione, so tired…” Harry closed his eyes, taking several long breathes, “I thought… once the war was over and Voldemort were gone from our lives, that everything would be back to the way it used to be, but—”

Hermione glanced at him briefly, before she, too, looked at their joined hands —which seemed to fit so perfectly together, like they belonged— and said out loud what he couldn't seem to say, “It still feels like he's haunting us.”

The silence that fell next was an odd one, not comfortable, but neither uncomfortable, just odd. The atmosphere around them shifted slightly, tension building up rather quickly. It almost felt like that night all over again. Only this time there was no one hunting them down and no tent for a hiding place; there was the safety of Hogwarts and a Voldemort-free world. Hermione wondered idly, while Harry kept caressing her arm, who'd be the one to initiate things this time—if something were to happen that is.

That night we both needed it to relieve some tension, for comfort… Would it happen for the same reasons tonight? Certainly, it seems like it could…

“Do you… think about it —that night— sometimes?” Harry asked suddenly, startling her.

She glanced up at him and found him looking right into her eyes, a serious expression on his face.

Oh… Oh… So he decided to initiate it this time…

“Is it wrong of me to want you all for myself?” he blurted out, not giving her a chance to answer. “Would it be wrong of me to say that… all I wish right now is to be a selfish bastard and not give a damn about anything or anybody and—and just kiss you senseless?” he paused briefly to face her properly, cupping her cheeks with his hands, before continuing, “Because I really want to kiss you right now, Hermione, I've wanted to kiss you again ever since… I'm really starting to consider about being selfish here…”

Hermione was too shocked to respond to his confession. All she could do was wonder where was the shy, introverted, insecure, don't-know-how-to-express-my-feelings Harry she'd know for the last seven or so years. But that Harry was right there, she noted, only he was struggling to control the whirlwind of emotions raging inside him, and while he had been very good at that before, there seemed to be too much pent up emotions for him to handle them.

“It seems that I'm not capable of getting you out of my head, and I think… you might be the main reason for my breaking up with Ginny.”

Hermione couldn't help it, she gasped, and felt a tinge of horror at the realization that she was the reason of Ginny's pain, but then the horror turned into excitement and a torrent of what if and could it be clouded her mind; she froze. Her eyes widened and some of that horror must had have showed on her face before disappearing, because Harry stood up abruptly and turned away from her, but not quickly enough for her not to see the hurt clouding his green eyes. And she knew what he was thinking, but couldn't —for the life of her— move to respond.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that… I forgot—I probably betrayed your trust, and his,” Harry said, passing his hands through his hair.

That last statement made her react, and she breathed deeply, “Harry…”

“No, Hermione, it's okay, I—I was wrong. It was wrong of me to say that and… and you… and, and I made a fool of myself—”

She stood up as well, and grabbed his arm, spinning him around to face her. He looked troubled, and kept running his fingers through his wild, dark locks.

“Harry—”

“No, really, that kiss—you are with Ron now… I understand—”

“Silencio!”

Harry's eyes widened at her, his mouth opened and closed repeatedly; then he frowned. But before he could do something, anything at all, Hermione grabbed his shoulders and forced him to sit back on the bench. She was angry and scared and agitated and—and just desperate that her mind failed to register the fact that she just performed wandless magic. And who could blame her? Her mind was in override and her emotions were getting out of control, and all that was due to Harry, or rather, the thought of Harry believing she and Ron were together.

“Harry, listen, I—”

I what?, she thought. I love you? Yes, of course she loved him, they were best friends, but she wasn't in love with him, not yet anyway, although she didn't really know. She might love him, but that was just it, she wasn't sure, therefore she wasn't about to give a confession of such magnitude without being certain. Did she care about him, that way? Yes, of course, how couldn't she? After all these years of happiness, of sadness, of constant danger, of wonderful friendship, it was impossible not to. And maybe she cared a bit too much—okay, a lot too much, enough to make her want to kiss him right now, and tomorrow and the day after, and next week, and so on.

So, she fancied him (she didn't think fancy expressed well enough what she felt for Harry, but if it wasn't Love, not yet, she couldn't think of a better word at the moment), and she ought to tell him that, and do something about it.

“I think about it all the time…”

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To be continued…

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Don't hate me! I'll try to update as soon as I can (or as soon as I get a hold of my beta). Yes? Until next time.

Edit: Fixed some typos, and added a missing word. Please, if anyone else sees something that needs to be fixed, just let me know =)

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Yay, part 2 up! And this is the end, of Hermione's POV. This chapter is why I rated it R.

Now, before you go on, I must say that the main reason I kept Dumbledore alive is, well, he says one sentence (bet you can't guess which one) that I just can't see McGonagall saying. As for Lupin, you'll soon see why.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter (c) JKR. Plot (c) Me.

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“Maybe, Definitely”

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Part II

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“I think about it all the time…”

She pulled out her wand, waving it in his direction, and muttered Finite Incantatem. Not wanting to give him a chance to speak, Hermione dipped her head and kissed him. An innocent and tender kiss, nothing like their first kiss. And she vaguely thought that this is how their first kiss was supposed to be; tentative, tender and innocent, not rushed, heated and desperate.

She drew back from him and stared into his eyes, wide with wonder. And she saw he was as confused about his feelings for her as she was about her feelings for him, but that was okay because it meant he returned her feelings, that were deeper than those of friendship but not enough to be love. Yet.

“What about—?”

“—Forget it.”

The next thing she knew, he grabbed the back of her head and her waist, pulled her into his lap, and crashed his mouth to hers in a kiss that was rushed, heated, and desperate. Just like their first kiss. Everything was just like that night. Only this time instead of the tent's floor there was a bench on the Gryffindor's Quidditch stands and instead of the danger of dying there was the danger of getting detentions were they to get caught. And it still felt good, perfect even, and so right it was hard to believe—because this feeling of right shouldn't be something that happened between them.

They drew in gasps of air when they could, never pulling apart long enough to feel the lack of contact. Holding onto each other like there was no tomorrow. Lips parting, teeth clashing, tongues exploring, and moans already rumbling on their throats. His hands finally caught up to him, moving from their stationary spot (one going up, caressing her back, and the other going down, moving to one side of her neck) and meeting on her shoulders to push her robe open and down her arms and onto the floor rather roughly, revealing her uniform, minus jumper. His hands wandered up again, passing over her bum —grabbing it firmly to shift her position on his lap until she was straddling him properly, their bodies flushed together— towards her hips, caressing up her sides and moving just so to cup her breasts, squeezing lightly to test the waters.

Thoughts of this is wrong and something's not right with this picture drifted in and out of her mind, not one staying long enough for her to comprehend it. She was, however, aware of her body responding to his ministrations rather enthusiastically; her hips grounding into his, rubbing against the growing bulge on his trousers, and her hands roaming clumsily, pulling off his jumper and sliding under his shirt to feel his skin. The muscles of his abdomen clenched every time her fingertips touched him, making her shudder.

She felt his hands fumbling with her tie, and then the buttons of her shirt. Only one button had been undone before she felt the cool air hit her skin rather suddenly. She gasped, pulling away abruptly from his mouth, and then moaned loudly, her fingernails running down his chest, when Harry's mouth touched the oversensitive skin of her chest. His mouth left a wet trail from her collarbone down the valley of her breast, backtracking all the way up to her neck where he sucked at the skin there a little too eagerly.

That's going to leave a—

Her train of thought halted, brain shutting down, the moment his mouth moved south and sucked one of her nipples through the fabric of her bra, fingers pinching the other. And she was all sensations and feelings after that. She squirmed on top of him, trying to ease the tension building up inside her, but stopped her movements at the feel of Harry's hands on the bare skin her tights. Hermione groaned in protest, withdrawing her hands from under his shirt; she moved them up to pull at his hair and bring his mouth to hers again.

Harry grunted against her mouth and, suddenly, her world spun around and she had the edge of a bench digging into her back roughly and Harry rubbing against her desperately—and kissing her and groping her. She responded with equal desperation, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him closer, closer, until all she could feel was his mouth on hers and his well-toned body pressing into her own and his cock thrusting into her crotch as if trying to break through his trousers and her knickers.

And this was it, this moment, this feeling, when they were reduced to grunts and groans and moans and whimpers and gasps of HarryHarryHarry and HermioneHermioneHermione. And even if she thought this was too rushed and too rough and too desperate —and where was the tenderness and the sweet passion and the Love?— it felt perfect and right and she wished for their clothes to disappear and for her to just stop thinking. And then there were the feelings, that came hand in hand with their sounds, and Fawkes chirps and—

Wait, Fawkes?

Hermione started, pushing urgently at Harry and urging him to move, her eyes snapping open just in time to see Fawkes descend on Harry's shoulder and hit his head with its beak, making him jump away from her. She didn't know if she wanted to laugh or cry in frustration at their predicament; whatever reason had Fawkes to interrupt them, he certainly succeeded in killing the mood. Harry looked at her a moment, and the turned to the phoenix, and she suddenly felt very self-conscious, moving her arms to cover her almost naked chest before reaching for her robes.

What a major turn off…

“What is it, Fawkes?” she heard Harry say, followed by the bird's mighty cry and the flapping of wings.

And then she heard it.

Oh, God.

Voices. Voices she knew well—not as well as Harry's or Ron's, but well enough. Coming from their staircase, and getting nearer with every second. And while in any other situation she'd have been delighted to see the owners of these voices, right now they were the last persons she wished to see, especially under her current state of dress—or is it undress?

“Albus, was it really necessary to ask us to come with you? Certainly, this is not the first time Fawkes leaves like that.”

Hermione, frozen on the spot, and with her mind racing in search of a immediate solution —which would be to find her shirt and tie and get dressed before the Professors reached the top of the stairs— for their predicament, dared a glance at Harry, whose eyes were fixated on the stairs before glancing at her, and was looking as panicked as her. She started again as Fawkes let out another cry, alerting the unexpected visitors of its presence.

“Ah, you hear, Minerva? Fawkes is here. I knew he wanted to show us something.”

“But, Professor Dumbledore, how do you know it's us, and not just you?”

“Ah, well, he did wait until you were in my office to take off, did he not, Remus?”

Suddenly, something soft hit Hermione in the face, and she heard Harry moving quietly around her as he hissed a soft “Put that on, hurry!”. Only after she slipped the clothe on did she realized what it was, but before she could protest, Harry shoved quickly the robes she had dropped and her discarded tie into her arms, throwing a cloak over her —his Invisibility Cloak— just in time for him to turn around and face the arriving figure of the Headmaster. Fawkes now was sitting happily on the railings.

“Ah! There you are Fawkes—oh, hello Harry,” said Professor Dumbledore.

Hermione put on her robes as quietly as possible, pocketing her tie, and watched nervously as Professor McGonagall and Professor Lupin, who had come back to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts again, stepped into view. They both halted their movement when they saw Harry standing there, fidgeting uncomfortably.

“Mister Potter, what are you doing here?” asked Professor McGonagall, looking slightly alarmed. And Hermione wondered briefly if she was considering about taking points from Gryffindor.

Professor Lupin, on the other hand, looked merely curious and slightly amused, probably thinking it was about time Harry regained his habit of getting in trouble at the beginning of each term, as they were nearing Halloween now.

“Um, hello, Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Remus—I mean, Professor Lupin,” Harry said a bit tensely.

“Are you alright, Harry?” said Professor Lupin, looking concerned now.

Just as Hermione thought things couldn't get any worse, Professor Dumbledore looked straight at her, and smiled.

“And hello to you too, Ms. Granger,” he said.

Harry tensed considerably, and she sighed in defeat. Stepping next to her friend, she pulled off the cloak and folded it in her arms. The blush rose to her cheeks as her eyes found an interesting spot on the floor, purposely avoiding everyone's gaze.

“Um, hi…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Things couldn't have gotten worse than they did after Professor Dumbledore revealed her presence back in the Quidditch stands, but somehow, the situation ended up being downright horrible.

Hermione couldn't remember a time where she'd been so embarrassed in her life.

Shortly after she had pulled the Invisibility Cloak off, Professor McGonagall had bombarded her with questions; what was she doing there, and why hadn't she escorted Harry back to the Gryffindor Tower and (“Ms. Granger, it is your duty as Head Girl to make sure no students go around breaking rules! Just because Mr. Potter is your friend—”) some others questions she couldn't find answers to. And she soon had found herself growing steadily more nervous under the curious glance of Professor Lupin, and the knowing look of Professor Dumbledore.

And then, it happened.

Professor Lupin had spotted something under the benches and knelt to pick it up as Professor McGonagall kept on interrogating her, but her attention —and Harry's, she remembered— had been drawn to the object on Professor Lupin's hand, watching with growing horror as he examined the object closely. She felt Harry tense, if it was possible, even more and they locked gazes for a short moment before looking ahead once more. Hermione had been sure her expression mirrored his own.

The object was her shirt; her torn shirt.

“What is that, Remus?”

Professor McGonagall's voice cut through their shocked state, but before she or Harry could say something in their defence, Professor Lupin had handed her the garment. They looked at her, and then at Harry, and then back at her, and so on, taking in their state of dress.

Harry's messy hair was even messier than normal; his shirt was half tucked in, some of the top buttons undone, no jumper, and no robes. His flushed cheeks hadn't helped either, nor had his fidgeting. She, on the other hand, hadn't looked any better; hair all wild, cheeks flushed, and doing her best to hide the oversized jumper under her robes, but failing miserably as it only attracted attention to her shirt-less neck.

Hermione had watched as realization dawned upon the adults, and under other circumstances she might have laughed (though, not out loud) at how alarmed Professor McGonagall looked, but the mere thought of detention, and the points she and Harry may have lost to their House, at the beginning of the year no less, killed it before it reached her throat. It hadn't passed long for the Professors to put two and two together; their reaction had been immediate.

“Harry!/Hermione!”

“I don't believe this—!/—Not from you!”

“And out in the open—!/—In the Quidditch Pitch!”

“How could you—!/—You are Head Girl, for Merlin's sake!”

That had been the only words she understood, because after that both professors began to pace back and forth, muttering under their breath. When they had stopped pacing, looking ready to start yelling at them again, Professor Dumbledore —kind, kind Dumbledore— spoke gently, but clearly. He had been frowning slightly, but she hadn't been able to tell if it was disappointment, or amusement, what she saw in his eyes.

“Now, now, professors, there is no need to rush into any conclusion. I'm sure Harry and Miss Granger have a good explanation for this.”

Hermione thought that moment to be the only moment in her life where she hadn't had a clue of what to say. She'd tried to think of anything to salvage their predicament, but nothing seemed to explain their state of clothing, still, she couldn't had just stayed quiet.

“I—that is… I was—we were… I—” she remembered stammering, but Harry had interrupted her.

“It's all my fault.”

Hermione suppressed a sigh as her eyes took in the wonder that was Dumbledore's office.

After those four words from Harry, Professor Dumbledore had dismissed Professor McGonagall and Professor Lupin, saying he would take care of the matter, and beckoned them to follow him to his office. And here they were now, waiting for the Headmaster to say something—anything.

Professor Dumbledore levelled them with a steady gaze and clasped his hands under his chin. Her torn shirt lay on the desk, a constant reminder of what happened—or what could have happened had the Professors not interrupted them just then.

“Well, I am waiting.”

Of all the things Hermione thought he would say, that was not one of them. Dumbledore looked the image of patience.

She sighed, knowing well what she had to say. The revised truth. Revised, because she wasn't about to tell Hogwarts' beloved Headmaster all the naughty details of what transpired back in the Quidditch Pitch. God forbid, she'd rather fail her N.E.W.T.s than tell the world she almost shagged Harry Potter in the Quidditch Pitch, which was saying something. Harry, however, beat her to it, again.

“I told you, Professor, it's my fault.”

“Harry—” she said, grabbing his arm to catch his attention, determined to not let him blame himself for something in which both were as guilty as the other. Sometimes, she really disliked his saving-people-thing.

“Are you implying, Harry,” said Dumbledore, drawing their attention to him, “that you forced yourself on Miss Granger?”

Harry reacted immediately at this suggestion. He leaped off his chair, looking angry and ready to lash out on the Headmaster; thus surprising her greatly on the process.

“What—No!! I'd never—especially Hermione!! How can you—?!”

Harry was fuming. She instinctively grasped his hand, attempting to calm him down and succeeding enough to force him back into his seat.

Professor Dumbledore didn't even look surprised, “Then how, I ask, is the matter your fault, Harry?”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but closed it again once he realized he didn't have an answer this time. She squeezed his hand slightly, locking eyes with him a moment, and turned to face Dumbledore.

“Actually, Professor, it's my fault.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Unlike earlier that night —or yesterday, but who's keeping track of time now?— things had gone rather smoothly for them back in Dumbledore's office. She was sure the Headmaster had knew already what had happened, though maybe without many details she hoped, but he'd still made them explain. And explain she had, in a very rushed way, and trying to be as vague as possible (“We were talking, and then I kissed him and one thing led to another and…”), but assuring Dumbledore that they got only as far as snogging; deep, serious snogging.

Hermione knew they should've gotten more than an indefinite detention (helping Madam Prince reorganize the library, replacing the destroyed books for some new volumes, until everything was back in place) given what they almost did, but she supposed Professor Dumbledore must know something to have been this lenient with them, especially after his parting comment.

“I will tell Madam Pince about your punishment,” he had said to them as they had crossed the door, adding quietly, “Ah, to be young and in love.”

What is that supposed to mean?

Her thoughts drifted to Harry, who had been unusually quiet since they left Dumbledore's office. She kept glancing at him, noticing his serious expression. He seemed to be deep in thought.

Once they reached the seventh floor, Harry stopped and turned to face her, a determined look on his face. After a heavy sigh, he spoke.

“Hermione, about earlier—about what I said back in the Quidditch Pitch… you know, about wanting you all for myself, I…” he trailed off, biting his bottom lip before continuing, “I meant it, all of it. I do want you, Hermione, in every way I can think of, I—I need you, badly… I don't even think I can put a name to what I'm feeling right now, but I'm sure it's been there always, growing gradually from the very beginning at least and… it's just part of me now.”

She smiled tenderly at him, grabbing his hands in reassurance. “I know, Harry, I need you too, badly. You've been part of my life for so long now, and I've grown so used to be with you, that I don't think I'll… And I want you, too, all for myself; however selfish that sounds, it's true.”

Harry smiled then, and squeezed her hand a little. That simple gesture said everything there was left to say, and, as always, they understood each other perfectly. They stood like that for a few moments more. Harry opened his mouth to say something else, but no sound came out of it. Instead, his gaze fell from her face and his eyes widened. She followed his gaze and her own eyes widened at what she saw too.

The incessant, gentle brush of Harry's jumper on her skin, plus his unique scent, ever present in the back of her mind, and the cool temperature of the castle had caused havoc in her body; someone needed only to see her hardened nipples through the fabric of both, her bra and the jumper, to realize that.

And Harry was realizing it too much at the moment, if his hungry look was any indication of what was running through his head.

Her face flushed hot and she tightened her grip on his hands. “Harry…”

His gaze snapped up to meet hers and he blushed too, releasing one of his hands, he scratched the back of his head nervously. “I—I'm sorry, I…”

She shook her head and smiled at him. Harry shut up instantly, and fidgeted a bit, averting his eyes and looking at everything but her. After what seemed like hours, his eyes came to rest on hers, and with apparently great effort of not looking at anything under her neck, he spoke again.

“So, does that…?” a pause, a deep breath, “Does that meant that you and I—that we're like… together now? As a couple?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but Harry couldn't seem to stop talking—more like babbling, actually.

“But I'll understand if you don't want.”

“Harry…”

“And I don't want you to feel obligated to accept just because you don't want to hurt my feelings.”

“Harry…”

“I'll really understand. The least I'd want is for our relationship to become awkward just—”

“Harry!”

He clamped his mouth shut and stared.

“Slow down, please. Don't make me cast the Silencing charm on you again.”

Harry took one deep breath and proceeded. “What I'm trying to say is… I was wondering if you —you know— would like to go out with me, sometime, just the two of us?”

“As… a date?” she prompted gently, wanting him to say it.

“Maybe?”

She should've known, Harry was still too insecure about some things for his own good. But, oddly enough, she was finding that utterly endearing—perhaps she had always found it endearing.

Hermione smiled, “Definitely.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The End.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, that's it, the end. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Anyway, next instalment gonna be from Harry's POV, which I haven't even started it yet.

Just so you know, if I take too long in posting new stories, that's because I like to have them finished before uploading them, that way I can update once or twice within the month. Otherwise, I take forever updating, and I mean forever (I'm a procrastinator to the extreme). And please, if you see typos, some other mistake, just tell me so I can fix it.

Oh, and before I forget, would you like me to add Harry's POV for this twoshot, or is it just fine with Hermione's?

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