Masquerade

Disclaimer: HP and everyone you recognize belongs to JKR; all I own is the plot and, well, Meredith Lungren—and a lot of debt.

Author’s Note: This fic started out as a very insistent plot bunny, even if it did seem a little OOC on Hermione’s part. I’ve tried to make it as in-character as possible, though, and leave it to you for how successful I was. Part 1 of 4. Enjoy!

Masquerade

Part 1

It was a very familiar scene.

Hermione had lost count of how many times she’d seen it happen in the past seven months.

The very pretty girl sauntered over to Harry, an inviting smile curving her lips, and struck up a conversation. Harry smiled and responded politely. Always politely—Harry was nothing if not polite, for the most part. The girl talked and laughed and, yes, flirted, with varying levels of obviousness. But then before too long—how long depended on how determined the girl was or how oblivious—the girl realized that Harry was not responding, was determinedly and firmly uninterested, no matter how courteous he was. And then the girl left, leaving Harry alone.

At least until the next girl came along to repeat the scene.

This particular girl—who was very pretty indeed, with the sort of blonde hair and perfect figure that people tended to associate with actresses or models—was lasting a little longer than Hermione had expected. (It was not exactly admirable of her but Hermione had begun playing a game of sorts, trying to predict how long it would be before each girl realized that Harry simply wasn’t interested.) For this girl, Hermione had mentally expected it would take 20 minutes, a generous assessment but then Hermione had surmised that, judging from the way the girl looked and moved, she would find the idea that any red-blooded male wouldn’t fall for her to be utterly incomprehensible.

So far, the girl had lasted and lingered more than 25 minutes and showed no signs of giving up yet.

She was persistent. Even dedicated. Hermione could almost feel a flicker of sympathy for the girl. Almost, but not quite.

It may have been hopeless—she’d (almost) resigned herself to that—but she couldn’t help but view all these girls who paraded in front of Harry as rivals. Rivals for that oh-so-coveted position of being Harry Potter’s girlfriend, Harry Potter’s lover. Not that she really was a rival; to call her that would imply that she had some chance of becoming Harry Potter’s girlfriend and she knew it was hopeless. She knew what she was; she was Harry Potter’s best friend, no more and no less, and always would be. Harry would no more think of kissing her or dating her than he would think of dating Ron. She knew that perfectly well.

But it didn’t keep her from watching all these girls as they approached Harry, flirted with Harry—and even if, until now, he hadn’t yet responded to any of these flirtations, there was always the knowledge that one day, he would. One day, some girl would catch Harry’s eye and his interest. One day, some girl would succeed where all the others had failed and she would be the girl that Harry kissed and touched and loved...

It hadn’t happened yet but it would happen someday, sooner rather than later, she expected, since Harry had already been without a girlfriend for more than eight months (having broken up with Ginny in September) and it could hardly be expected that Harry, who had just about every female in the country between the ages of 15 and 40 throwing herself at him, could be single for much longer. It would happen—and Hermione lived in fear of it happening.

Hermione tried not to frown, feeling a small flicker of... some emotion she didn’t care to name, as she realized that the girl had now been talking to Harry for more than 30 minutes now and showed no signs of leaving. Worse, Harry was smiling and talking with rather more animation than he usually showed these girls who threw themselves at him and then—Hermione tried not to wince—he laughed at something the girl said. He laughed and then grinned at the girl in that way that Hermione knew would make his eyes bright, that way that never failed to make Hermione’s heart flutter a little, no matter how many times she’d seen it.

She really should look away; this was bordering on masochism, this stupid, morbid inability to stop watching Harry.

But just as she’d almost managed to tear her gaze away, he looked up and his eyes met hers and... And Harry proved why, in spite of everything, she couldn’t stop loving him.

His eyes brightened as he smiled and then he excused himself from the girl, as if he was utterly blind to the fact that she was one of the prettiest girls in the room, and made his way across the crowded pub to her. Leaving the girl to blink after him as if she couldn’t believe the evidence of her own eyes.

“Hermione! I didn’t think you were coming tonight.” Harry slung his arm around her shoulder in a quick, half-hug of greeting. It was a companionable gesture, a friendly gesture.

“I wasn’t going to but I finished up my work a little early and figured I might as well stop by,” Hermione said and then added, with a teasing smile, “Someone has to make sure you and Ron don’t get into too much trouble.”

Harry laughed. “Of course. Whatever would Ron and I do without our Little Miss Prefect to keep us on the straight and narrow?”

“I shudder to think,” Hermione quipped.

“So do I. You don’t have a drink,” he added. “Come on, we can’t have that.” So saying, he put his hand on her back and led her towards the bar, giving her the benefit of that unique way that people naturally tended to give way to him (one of the consequences of being the hero of the wizarding world) so they made their way to the bar in no time at all.

They found Ron at the bar, ordering another Firewhiskey. Ron greeted her with an exuberance that spoke volumes for how much he’d drunk, giving her a bear-hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Hermione, you came! I told you, you should get out more. Let’s get you a drink, eh. A firewhiskey?”

“No, just a butterbeer,” Hermione corrected him hastily.

Ron made a comically-exaggerated face of dismay. “Aww, Hermione, don’t be like that. We’re at a pub; what else are we supposed to do but drink, on a Friday night at that?” Not waiting for her response, he raised his voice a little to be heard over the noise. “Another firewhiskey,” he ordered.

“Ron, no. I promised to get into work early tomorrow morning.” Hermione protested but her protest was rather lame as she knew she’d be wasting her breath. Ron could never quite understand that working at St. Mungo’s didn’t give her the luxury of the weekends. It was simply his way and she’d given up on trying to change that, and part of her loved him for it, knew that he was a good way of making sure she didn’t over-work herself, as she might otherwise have done.

The fire-whiskey arrived but before Ron could hand it to her, Harry smoothly stepped in and took possession of the bottle. “A butterbeer for my friend here,” he ordered quickly.

Harry being who he was, the butterbeer arrived almost immediately and Hermione accepted it with a quick smile for Harry, who acknowledged it with a quick grin before he drank the Firewhiskey he’d appropriated.

Ron rolled his eyes a little but subsided—this being a recurring theme between them—and then he was hailed by the group of rowdy, laughing fellows he’d been talking with, his teammates on the Chudley Cannons. He returned to them with a last grin at Hermione and a “glad you could come, Hermione,” leaving Harry and Hermione alone.

Hermione looked after Ron with an indulgent smile before she turned to look at Harry, who returned her smile and began to steer her back through the crowd to a quieter corner. “Come on, let’s go where we can actually hear ourselves think.”

“You don’t need to stay with me, you know,” she blurted out, not letting herself think about it. “When I came in, it looked like you’d just made a new friend.”

He threw her a half-sheepish, half-laughing look, as he usually did whenever she referred to one of those many girls who threw themselves at him. “Have some mercy, Hermione. You can’t mean to throw me to the wolves so soon after you arrived.”

“She was certainly a very pretty wolf, though.”

Harry shrugged a little. “Yeah, pretty enough,” he agreed indifferently. “Too blonde for my taste, though.”

Hermione had to fight against the renegade flare of happiness at his obvious lack of interest in the girl, pretty as she might have been. Instead, she settled for a light laugh. “How can someone be too blonde? It’s not really a characteristic that goes by degrees.”

Harry shot her a mock-irritated glance but the look was belied by his tone and the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Thank you, Professor Granger, for pointing out the imprecision of that statement. I meant that I don’t really like blondes.”

“Well, she made you laugh so she can’t have been all bad,” Hermione observed.

“No, she wasn’t. That was unfair of me. After she stopped gushing over my so-called bravery for about ten minutes, she became a lot more pleasant to talk to. Her name’s Annabel and she’s a reporter for the Daily Prophet. It’s her job to go to the Quidditch matches so she can write about them. I told her that didn’t sound like a job so much as it sounded like fun.” He threw her a laughing glance. “Merlin knows I’d love it if someone would pay me to go to Quidditch games.”

She shook her head in mock disapproval. “Harry, you go to every Quidditch game you possibly can. Don’t you think that doing nothing but watching Quidditch might get a little tiresome after a while?”

Harry gave her a look of exaggerated shock. “Too much Quidditch? Impossible! Haven’t you learned yet, Hermione, that you can never go to too many Quidditch matches? Just ask Ron.”

“No thanks,” Hermione said drily, a smile tugging at her lips. “I make it a point to never ask Ron about Quidditch since he’s not exactly sane where Quidditch is concerned.”

Harry laughed. “Ouch, poor Ron! But you may be right. There is more to life than Quidditch.” He paused and gave her a look of mock severity. “Now, remember that I said that because you’ll never hear me say it again and if you tell Ron I said so, I’ll deny it.”

It was Hermione’s turn to laugh, meeting Harry’s eyes as he grinned at her. And as always, she had to tamp down her flutter of reaction to the sight of his smile and his eyes, sparkling with humor.

Harry reached across the small table between them to give her arm a brief, friendly squeeze. “I’m glad you came, Hermione. Our nights out are always more fun when you come.”

Hermione only smiled at him as she drank her butterbeer and suppressed a small sigh. After all, it was worth a lot to be Harry’s best friend. And yet... Harry’s friendship would never be enough for her—not when she wanted his love.

~

It really was Ron’s fault.

He was the one that brought up the subject and he was the one who made the careless remark that really led to such an impulsive, reckless decision. Reckless, her! Really, it had to be Ron’s fault; only Ron could possibly say something so stupid that it would make her act so recklessly. Not that he would have dreamed of his words having such an effect, even in his wildest dreams. But then, she would never have expected it of herself either.

It all started at one of their weekly dinners just with the three of them and Hermione had just asked Harry what he wanted to do for his birthday that was coming up in a week.

Harry wrinkled his nose a little. “I don’t really want to make a big deal of it, was just thinking of the three of us going out somewhere but Mrs. Weasley’s insisted we all come over to the Burrow for a celebration. I think if she had her way, she’d have invited half the Ministry but I told her not to.”

Ron jumped in. “Anyway, I know one thing we’re definitely doing, on the day before that, since it’s a Friday. We’re going out to a bar and you, old chap, are going to find some girl to bring over for the night.”

“Ron,” Harry protested, not heatedly but mildly, since this wasn’t, by any means, the first time Ron had suggested such a thing.

Ron went on as if Harry hadn’t even spoken. “I’m serious, Harry, mate. You’ve been living like a bloody monk for almost nine months now and I’m tired of it. I mean, Merlin, Harry, if I had even half the girls that you do, throwing themselves at me, I’d shag a new girl every week!”

“So chivalrous of you, Ron,” Hermione said drily.

Ron blinked, looked at Hermione as if just remembering her presence, and then colored up until even his ears turned red, as he realized that it may not have been the most tactful thing to say in the hearing of his female best friend, who also happened to be his ex-girlfriend. “Sorry, Hermione, I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

Hermione waved off the apology. She knew Ron had only spoken thoughtlessly; Ron didn’t, she knew, consider her to be a girl, in spite of—or perhaps because of—their short-lived and un-regretted dating relationship. “Don’t worry about it, Ron. I’ve given up on being offended at anything you say. If I got offended every time you said something stupid, I’d spend my entire life offended.”

“Hey!” Ron almost yelped half-indignantly at the same time as Harry laughed.

“She’s got a point there, Ron,” Harry told Ron with a teasing grin.

“Nice friends you are,” Ron huffed in mock hurt. “But seriously, Harry, it’s getting bloody tiresome living with a monk or a saint. You need a shag, even if it’s just a one-night stand.”

“Leave me alone, Ron. I can take care of my own love life, thank you,” Harry responded a little tiredly.

“Clearly, you can’t or we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Ron shot back.

“Can I help it if I don’t choose to shag girls who are just interested in being with the Boy Who Lived?”

There was a touch of bitter cynicism in Harry’s rather sharp question that had Hermione inwardly flinching. She hadn’t realized just how much Harry minded all the attention he got from girls who knew nothing about him except his name and his status.

“No,” Ron’s answer was mild, tempered with his own understanding. “But does that really matter for a one-night stand? C’mon, mate, live a little.”

Harry threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, fine, I’ll think about it. I won’t make any promises but I’ll consider it. Satisfied?”

Ron rolled his eyes a little, even as he looked rather smug. “You’re a freak, you know that, Potter? Only you would make shagging some hot girl sound like a chore. You have the pick of all the sexiest girls in town. Lighten up and enjoy yourself; you’ll thank me for it later.”

Harry snorted a little. “If you say so.”

“Seriously, Harry, it doesn’t have to be a one-night stand, though. I mean, you can’t tell me that all the girls you’ve met are only interested in a shag with the Boy Who Lived. It’s about time you started dating again, you know. What about that Meredith Lungren? I know I’ve seen you talking to her several times and you seem to get along well. She’s pretty too.”

“I like Meredith; she’s a lot of fun. And,” Harry added with a teasing glance at Hermione, “aside from Hermione here, she might be the only girl I’ve met who has yet to say anything silly to me.”

Hermione forced a smile. She’d met Meredith a few times and had to agree with Harry’s assessment of her. If she were totally honest, she had to admit that if it hadn’t been for the fact that Meredith had, in her own quite subtle way, made it clear she liked Harry a lot, Hermione herself would have thought they could end up friends. As it was… Hermione pasted a smile on her face and tried not to hope that something would happen to prevent Meredith Lungren from going out on the Friday night before Harry’s birthday. Surely it wasn’t too mean-spirited and petty of her to wish that Meredith would be taken mildly ill on Thursday, maybe just enough to make her nose red and sniffly and her eyes watery and, in general, render her thoroughly unattractive…

“So you should just shag Meredith then. She’s made it obvious enough that she’s willing,” Ron said with the air of one having settled an issue.

“So maybe I will,” Harry exclaimed, not in excitement or in determination but in burgeoning irritation. “Now, will you leave me alone?”

Ron sat back, looking smug. “You’ll thank me for it, Potter,” he predicted.

Harry’s only response was to shoot him a decidedly skeptical look.

Ron shrugged a little as if to indicate the end of the matter, before he looked over at Hermione. “Say, Hermione, will you come with us next week?”

Hermione had to force a smile. Come with them to watch Harry look actively for a new girlfriend? “Come with you while you two bachelors are partying it up? Not likely. Anyway, I think I’ll have to work late that night. I’ll see you guys at the Burrow the next day.”

Ron shrugged. “Suit yourself. Not like you couldn’t try to hook up with some fellow too.”

Hermione forced a calmly indifferent smile.

The only fellow she wanted to “hook up with” was Harry—and he was out of her reach.

~

Hermione threw down the treatise she’d been trying to read in disgust. She hadn’t managed to read more than a page in the last 2 hours. She kept on being distracted wondering what Harry was doing, if Meredith Lungren was there, if Harry had met some other girl he found attractive, picturing Harry smiling at another girl, kissing another girl...

She gave up. Clearly, there was no way she was going to be at all productive tonight.

Hermione sighed and gave herself up to a rare bout of self-pity. Harry would, apparently, rather shag some random, nameless, faceless girl—and Hermione included Meredith Lungren in that group since, really, it wasn’t like Meredith knew Harry all that well either-- than ever consider looking at her as anything other than his platonic best friend. Any one of those girls who knew nothing about Harry except for his name and his status and cared even less... Any one of those girls who’d never seen Harry in his despondent moments or in his outbursts of anger... Who knew nothing of the nightmares he still occasionally had—and wouldn’t know what to make of them if they ever did find out about them... Those girls who didn’t really know or care about Harry at all...

It began as a slow flicker of rebellion inside her and grew into a flame, a positive bonfire, of emotion rioting inside her.

It simply wasn’t right that Harry should feel he had to shag one of those girls when she, who knew him and loved him, was there...

No, it wasn’t right. And she, Hermione Jane Granger, was going to do something about it.

She wasn’t going to wait passively for Harry to notice her (and she suspected that if she did wait passively, she’d be waiting for the rest of her life.)

A last, desperate—and possibly reckless—plan to try to get Harry’s attention, if only for once in her life.

If Harry wanted a one-night stand with a stranger, then that was what he would get. But if—oh, precious if—if the attraction she felt for him was mutual, if she could make him want her too, then maybe—just maybe—this could be what finally made Harry notice her like that...

She glanced at the clock to see that it was nearly 9, which meant that, most likely, Harry and Ron would have been at the club for just over a half-hour. (She knew that they’d decided to have a guys dinner out with George, Bill, Charlie and probably Neville as well, since Neville was usually included now in all the Weasley gatherings, since he’d started dating Ginny.)

She had just enough time to change her clothes and her appearance and then head to the club.

For once, she didn’t stop to consider the complications or the ramifications of her hastily-conceived idea; she only acted on it.

She grabbed a bottle of the Firewhiskey which she kept a supply of for when Ron and Harry came over to her flat (for the liquid courage) and then broke one of her own rules by bringing the bottle into her bedroom with her as she threw open her closet doors to decide on what to wear for this masquerade of hers.

What to wear. It obviously couldn’t be anything that either Harry or Ron would recognize—although that should be easy enough as most of her usual attire could not be more removed from anything that would be remotely appropriate for going to a bar in.

She suddenly remembered a pair of black trousers which she’d bought for a party and had only worn once. They were formal enough to pass muster at a party (and had the benefit of being more comfortable and practical than a skirt); plus, there was a strip of shiny, black satin down each side of the trouser leg, that had the effect of making her legs look longer.

Hermione quickly stripped and then changed into the pants, not forgetting at the same time to also change into one of the very few pairs of lacy knickers she owned.

And then for the top...

It was easy to discard the majority of her collection of shirts and blouses as being much too prim and practical, which left a rather small selection to choose from. Hmph. Hermione made a mental note to purchase a few more dressy tops. In the meantime, however...

Hermione dug into the back of her closet and emerged in a moment with what she’d just remembered. It was one of her latest purchases and was as feminine in style as anything she owned, thanks to the pattern of stylized flowers on it. It was the matter of a moment—and a few charms—to altar the style of the shirt into a form-fitting, dressy tank top. After a moment’s thought, Hermione used another charm to add trimming along the hems of both neck-line and the straps.

Hermione surveyed herself in her mirror with a degree of cautious satisfaction. The top was cut in such a way as to subtly emphasize her figure without being too tight or too blatant. (She hadn’t been watching Harry for so many months, didn’t know him so well, without learning that he disliked girls who wore clothing that left nothing to the imagination; that sort of boldness tended to make him shrink into himself, all his lingering shyness around girls coming to the fore.) The neckline was lower than what she usually wore but still quite modest compared to some that Hermione had seen on other girls.

She didn’t have a perfect figure by any means but this outfit was flattering and seemed to subtly showcase what she did have.

Of course the clothing was the easy part.

Hermione grabbed her wand, considering her face for a moment, before she made a decision, casting a glamour to change her appearance just enough so she looked like a different person entirely. Her hair she made a lighter shade of brown, the shade of honey, and straightened it completely, leaving it to fall freely past her shoulders (another element of her disguise because she hardly ever wore her hair loose); her eyes became hazel; the shape of her nose subtly altered.

Hermione nodded to her own reflection; she doubted her own parents would recognize her at that moment, which meant that Harry and Ron certainly shouldn’t.

The last touch was to subtly alter the tone of her voice, one other thing that Harry would be sure to recognize, making her voice a shade lower, huskier, the way she sometimes sounded just after she awoke, when her throat was dry.

The changes finished, Hermione assessed herself one last time. No, she didn’t think she needed to fear that Harry or Ron would recognize her.

God, was she really about to do this? Go to a club disguised as someone else in order to attract Harry’s attention for a night?

An image flashed into her mind of some nameless, faceless girl who knew little about Harry and cared about him as a person even less, twined around Harry—and she felt her resolve firm.

This was her chance to find out if she had a chance at all, if Harry would find her attractive if he could, just once, stop viewing her as just best-friend-Hermione.

Even if it was just for this one night, she wanted Harry to want her… Wanted to know what it was like to be desired by Harry.

~To be continued…~

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed Part 1. I hope this part is worth the wait. Enjoy!

Masquerade

Part 2

Hermione spotted Harry almost immediately once she entered the club, in spite of how crowded it was. (It was almost like a sixth sense, how she could find Harry so easily, no matter how crowded the room.) Ron hadn’t spared his energies in spreading the word about Harry being present, judging from the number of young people—particularly girls—milling around. There was some music playing but it was easily drowned out by the sound of voices. (Another glance around told her that Meredith Lungren wasn’t present—or, at least, not that Hermione could see. Which meant, most importantly, that Meredith wasn’t talking to Harry.)

As she walked in, she saw a girl flounce away from Harry with disgruntlement clear in every line of her figure as she left. Clearly, Harry hadn’t spared much time or subtlety in dismissing her and Hermione wondered briefly just what Harry had found so disagreeable.

For a fleeting moment, Harry’s expression was unguarded, open, and Hermione felt her heart give an almost painful throb of sympathy at the world-weariness of his expression in that one second before he quickly covered it up with his usual, polite mask. That girl who had just left must have really pricked at Harry somehow, to bring that jaded look to his eyes. And for that one moment, Harry looked very alone and very lonely, aloof and solitary, apart from the throng of people.

It was a look he didn’t have often, one which she hated to see and usually tried to dispel immediately with a joke or a quip of some kind.

And this was the person Ron had decided should deliberately seek out a one-night stand? There were times Hermione wondered if Ron understood Harry at all, in spite of having known him for so long. Harry didn’t do one-night stands, not so much out of any moral or chivalrous considerations (although there was a touch of that, as well) but for the much simpler reason that Harry knew all the girls who threw themselves at him did so only for his fame and his status—and if there was one thing Harry detested, it was being viewed and treated as only the Boy Who Lived.

On the thought, the vague beginnings of a plan stirred in Hermione’s mind.

She fought her way through the crowd until she reached the bar where she ordered a cocktail and then made her way, along an indirect route, towards where Harry was.

He was still standing alone, she saw, nursing his Firewhiskey.

Hermione maneuvered her way through the crowd until she was just behind him and deliberately transferred her drink to the hand closest to him. And sure enough, in another moment, someone jostled her from behind and some of her drink splashed Harry’s shirt, making him turn to see her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. “Someone bumped into me.”

Harry gave her a small, impersonal smile—and Hermione had to tamp down the utterly irrational flicker of mingled surprise and hurt, since she had never, ever been the recipient of one of Harry’s coolly polite smiles and somehow hadn’t stopped to wonder how it would feel. “Don’t worry about it. No harm done.” He pulled out his wand and cleaned his shirt with one quick flick before pocketing his wand again. “It is awfully crowded in here tonight.”

“Still, I should have been more careful. I really am sorry.” Hermione gave Harry a small, embarrassed smile and made as if to turn away.

“It was really nothing,” Harry hastened to add and she glanced back to him with another smile.

“I should have known something like this would happen when I saw how crowded it was in here. It makes moving around a positive hazard,” Hermione smiled, making something of a show of looking around the room, her eyes finding Ron who was currently smiling flirtatiously down at a blond girl she didn’t recognize.

“Yes, that’s one way of putting it,” Harry agreed. He paused and then, after a slightly awkward moment, added, as he offered his hand, “I’m Harry.”

Hermione slipped her hand into Harry’s to shake it briskly—and then had to squash down the flare of reaction she felt just at the touch of his palm against hers. Their hands fit with the ease of years—except of course Harry wouldn’t know that. Hermione released Harry’s hand so quickly it made the handshake seem rather abrupt as she gave him a small, purposely calm smile. “Of course you are. I’m Helena… Watson,” she added quickly. She’d always heard that it’s easier to remember a lie when it was close to the truth and she didn’t dare use her middle name since Harry was perfectly aware of what it was. As for Watson, it was her mother’s maiden name but not something Harry would ever associate with her, Hermione. “Nice to meet you.” She smiled into Harry’s eyes.

“Yes, it’s good to meet you, Helena,” Harry answered, rather absently—and something like confusion flickered across his face as he stared at her for a moment before he blinked.

Hermione said nothing more and finally Harry asked, a little abruptly, “Sorry, but have we met?”

Hermione blinked, surprised and felt the first flicker of doubt—could Harry possibly have recognized—but no, if he had, he would have simply said so. “No, I’m sure we haven’t,” she lied.

“No, of course not, silly question,” Harry apologized. “But you… er- remind me of someone, I think.”

“Oh, who?” Hermione gave Harry a curious, if impersonal, smile.

“I—I can’t seem to remember,” Harry said with a little, self-deprecating laugh. “I told you it was silly.”

“Well, they say everyone has a double somewhere in the world.”

“I guess.” Harry grinned at her and this time, it was a real smile, open and honest.

One of those smiles of his that always made Hermione want to smile back, one of those smiles that never failed to make her heart give a little, foolish flutter. And for once, Hermione didn’t bother to hide her reaction to his slightly crooked grin, let it show in her eyes and in her responding smile.

And she knew he saw it too when something flickered across his face before he asked, with the touch of abruptness that told her, who knew him so well, that he must have just decided he wanted to get to know her, “So, what do you do, Helena?”

Hermione’s heart leaped. It seemed her crazy plan was succeeding, at least so far. “I work at St. Mungo’s.”

Harry’s smile softened a little, his expression brightening, warming. “Oh, my best friend Hermione Granger works there too. Do you know Hermione?”

Hermione’s heart clenched at the sound of her own name, the realization that the softening of Harry’s expression was for her. But she couldn’t let it show and quickly answered, as casually as possible, “Yes, I think we’ve met a couple times but then we’re also in different departments so there aren’t many chances for interacting.”

Harry nodded. “Of course. Do you like the work?”

“Oh, yes. It’s nice to feel useful, you know. Nice to do something that we know we’re well-suited for. I always wanted to be useful.” Hermione paused. “But of course,” she added matter-of-factly, “you must feel something of the same with what you do.” Hermione stopped abruptly, cutting herself off as she realized she’d forgotten her role but had answered Harry’s question with the sincerity and something of the openness with which she would have answered him if he’d ever asked her, as Hermione, the same question.

Harry blinked. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, it is nice to be needed.” He gifted her with a smile that spoke of shared understanding, a smile that bordered on the intimate, a smile that was almost like the one he gave her, as Hermione, in those moments when he knew she was thinking the same thing as he was. “I never really thought of it in exactly those terms before but you’re quite right.”

Of course she was; she knew Harry, had spoken with such confidence from her knowledge of him. Had entirely forgotten the role she was playing, Hermione mentally scolded herself. She needed to be more alert. Because if she knew Harry, Harry also knew her very well and she couldn’t have him figuring out her identity now. She just hadn’t reckoned for how hard it was for her to lie to Harry; aside from concealing her real feelings for him (and there, she rather suspected she failed except that Harry was, fortunately—or not— oblivious), she’d never hidden anything from him. It was as if her trust in him, her habit of telling him the truth, was ingrained into her and anything else was unnatural.

She needed to be more careful. She wasn’t Harry’s best friend, Hermione, right now. She was Helena Watson, the girl Harry had just met.

“Have you been enjoying yourself, Harry?” She gave Harry a deliberately calm smile to make up for her earlier lapse.

“Not that much, no,” Harry admitted bluntly before he softened it with a smile. “Until now, of course. Honestly, I don’t generally like coming to places like this,” he continued on with a candor that gave Hermione a small thrill of triumph as she realized that she’d gotten past the barriers Harry tended to put up with people he’d just met. “When I go out, I prefer quieter pubs where it’s easier to carry on a conversation and it’s less crowded.”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” Hermione agreed. “Places like this are fun every once in a while but as a general rule, I prefer quieter pubs myself.”

“Places where it isn’t so crowded that people end up spilling their drinks on each other,” Harry agreed with a teasing grin.

Hermione laughed. “It’s not very nice of you to remind me of that.”

“Well, it was too good a response to pass up,” Harry said unapologetically.

Hermione returned his smile, trying not to grin like an idiot. The fact that Harry was teasing her revealed a lot about how comfortable he was beginning to feel with her.

Hermione gave Harry a small smile. “Do you know when the Victory Monument will be completed at Hogwarts? I thought I heard that the completion date had been pushed back again.”

“It was pushed back because it’s not going to be a Victory Monument,” Harry corrected.

This time, Hermione didn’t need to feign her surprise. “Really? I thought the Ministry was set on this Monument.” (This was an understatement as the Ministry and Harry had been butting heads over this issue for the last year without much change.)

“They were set on it,” Harry affirmed. “I, er, persuaded them to change their minds.”

“I know you’re very influential but I wouldn’t have thought even you could make the Ministry give way on that; they’ve been touting this Monument for a year now.”

Harry gave a half-sheepish smile. “I, erm, rather blackmailed them. I got fed up and so, today, I told them flatly that if they didn’t make the Monument into a Memorial commemorating those who fell rather than honoring me, I would simply not come to the Dedication ceremony. They... saw things my way remarkably quickly after that.”

Oh Harry... Harry didn’t take advantage of his influence very often but when he did... “That was very good of you.” Hermione entirely forgot the role she was playing, forgot to moderate her expression, as she gifted him with a soft, radiant smile that entirely betrayed, had she but known it, all she felt for him—approval and love and, yes, desire as well.

“Not really. I...” Harry blinked and trailed off, staring at her, his eyes suddenly dark.

And Hermione felt a small rush of heat and excitement and joy go through her as she realized that it was desire darkening his eyes. He had just completely lost his train of thought as he looked at her. It was the first time that had ever happened to her—and the fact that it was Harry so affected by her...

His gaze flickered down to focus on her lips.

Hermione swallowed, suddenly feeling flushed and wondering how much longer she needed to wait before she could kiss him. Dear Merlin... Had she thought she wanted him before now? His attraction was ten, no, a hundred times more potent when he wanted her too.

Her mouth was dry and she unthinkingly licked her lips only to hear his very soft, almost imperceptible intake of breath in reaction.

She frantically cast about in her mind for some neutral topic of conversation, something utterly unromantic. Anything, so she wouldn’t blurt out something utterly stupid like, “Kiss me, Harry.”

“Ah... it looks like the Cannons are having a good season so far,” she blurted out.

There, Quidditch should be safe.

Harry blinked again and she could almost see him having to scramble to respond coherently. “You’re lucky my best friend, Ron Weasley, isn’t around to hear you. He’s terrified that someone will say something like that and jinx the rest of their season. He’s a die-hard Cannons fan, you see.”

“Doesn’t he also play for the Cannons?” Hermione asked, relaxing very slightly.

“Yeah, he’s the Keeper. I sometimes think he lives, breathes and eats Quidditch while the season is going on.” Harry’s voice was light and bantering but his expression revealed all his affection and loyalty for Ron.

“I thought I heard that their Seeker, Drakesmith, did a Wronski Feint at a match last week. Is it true?” Hermione mentally thanked Ron for his unceasing efforts to teach her Quidditch appreciation; she still didn’t particularly enjoy going to matches or know all that much about the game but she had, at least, learned enough to keep up a fairly basic conversation about it. And in this instance, she, Harry, and the Weasleys had been at that match and Harry had been as enthralled with the Wronski Feint this time around as he had been the first time he’d seen it performed by Viktor five years ago. Hermione herself could still not quite understand the wonder of it but, for Harry’s sake, she’d learned to show at least some level of appreciation.

Harry’s face promptly lit up with enthusiasm and Hermione hid her smile. Ah, Harry. He was so predictable at times.

“Yes, it was amazing! I’ve only seen the Wronski Feint done a couple times before and every time, it still takes my breath away! That trick is the most stunning bit of flying I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve heard you’re pretty good at flying yourself, Harry,” Hermione said, unable to keep a touch of dryness out of her tone.

Harry shrugged one shoulder dismissively. “I’m okay but I’ve never tried to do a Wronski Feint.”

“Don’t you think you could if you tried?”

Harry shrugged again. “I suppose so, but I’d be afraid of smashing my face into the ground.”

Hermione rather doubted that. She may not care much about Quidditch but even she could appreciate how good a flyer Harry was. He always looked as if he’d been born on a broom, was as comfortable in the air as he was with two feet on the ground—and he always had been. She didn’t doubt that, if he wanted to, he would master the Wronski Feint as easily as he had mastered flying itself. But she loved his modesty. It was endearing; she couldn’t think of another fellow who would admit to being afraid of smashing his face into the ground while talking to a girl. Even Ron had been liable to puffing himself up—even with her, who knew perfectly well the truth of his abilities—and he knew she knew.

But not Harry. She sometimes wondered if it wasn’t part of Harry’s discomfort with being the most famous boy in the wizarding world, a status that gave people an overly-inflated view of his abilities, but Harry didn’t have a boastful bone in his body. And she loved him for it.

Hermione returned from her brief reverie to see Harry eyeing her with a small, crooked smile on his face. “I think that was your cue to assure me that you’re sure I could do a Wronski Feint with no problem.”

Hermione deliberately widened her eyes in an innocent look. “Well, I’m sure you’re a much better judge of your own abilities than I am so if you say you’d smash your face into the ground, who am I to contradict you?”

For a split second, Harry just stared at her and she wondered, uneasily, if she might have just gone a little too far in her role (or acted too much like her true self, more accurately) but then Harry burst out laughing and Hermione relaxed, grinning.

“I can see I’m going to have to be careful around you,” Harry said with mock severity.

Hermione feigned innocence again. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean.”

“I’ll bet you don’t.” Harry grinned—and Hermione felt her heart flutter. As usual.

His smiling eyes met and held hers for a long moment and slowly, their smiles faded as, for a moment, all the noise and all the people around them faded away and it was only the two of them, staring at each other, as attraction arced and flashed between them.

Hermione didn’t dare to breathe—no, she forgot how to breathe in that moment. Forgot how to breathe, forgot how to blink, forgot that she was playing a role. All she remembered in that moment was that this was Harry, whom she’d wanted for longer than she cared to remember, and... And, finally—finally—he was looking at her with desire in his eyes... He wanted her...

“Ah...” Harry’s voice was slightly hoarse and he cleared his throat a little before he blurted out, “Do you want to dance?”

Hermione blinked, a little surprised, and had to lick her lips—Harry’s gaze flickered down to her lips and then back again—before she could find her voice to answer. “Sure.”

He held out his hand for hers and she slipped her hand into his—and wondered if she was imagining the flare of heat from the one simple touch sizzling through her body. His palm was smooth, his fingers slightly callused, and her hand fit into his with as much ease as if it belonged there.

She tore her gaze from their joined hands and met his eyes again—and saw that he’d had much the same reaction as she’d had from their hands touching. And abruptly, his fingers tightened slightly around hers.

“Come on,” he said softly.

He half-led her to the corner of the club that had been deemed the makeshift dance floor, although it was too crowded for people to really dance and so people were moving to the music as much as they could in the limited space.

They reached the dance floor just as a new song started playing, a somewhat slower song. Hermione met Harry’s eyes before she stepped closer to him as his other hand found her waist. He wasn’t holding her tightly as they swayed to the music and Hermione kept her gaze fixed at some point on his shoulder. She was very aware of the warmth of his hand at her waist, of his breath against her hair, and of the few inches separating their bodies.

She looked up to meet Harry’s eyes and something about his expression made her suddenly feel a need to break the tension—perhaps a throwback to the past year of having to constantly hide her real feelings for him that made it almost instinctive—and she found herself giving him a teasing smile. “You’re a better dancer than I thought you would be.”

“I know it’s amazing but I am actually capable of stepping in place without tripping over my own two feet,” he responded dryly but his eyes and his expression had softened with humor and something more.

“I’m very impressed,” she said in a tone of mock awe.

He laughed and she smiled, as his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around hers.

The music changed to a slower song, smooth and sensual, a song for lovers.

Her eyes met his and her breath tangled in her throat as, slowly, he tightened his arm around her, bringing her in closer to him, until she could feel the heat of his body against hers. Hermione swallowed, as she slid her arms around his neck, her body fitting against his, moving with his, as if it belonged there.

Hermione closed her eyes, resting her head on Harry’s shoulder, and breathed in the familiar scent of him. This was what she’d wanted, dreamed of for so long, being in Harry’s arms...

Harry paused for a moment and she opened her eyes to see that Ron had caught sight of them and was giving Harry a thumbs up gesture and an exaggerated leer followed by a wink. Hermione closed her eyes again, hiding a smile. Little did Ron know; if he’d known who she really was, he would really have had reason to stare.

Harry smoothly turned them so their backs were to Ron and then Hermione forgot all about Ron—forgot all about everyone else in the club, to be honest, because Harry had tightened his arms around her to bring her in just that slightest bit closer and now she really could feel every inch of him pressed against her. They were so close she fancied she could feel his heart beating against hers, so close it felt as if their bodies were moving as one.

She felt him swallow and then felt, as well as heard, his husky whisper. “Helena?”

The name jerked her back into reality, to the realization that she was still playing a role. She looked up to meet his eyes, the movement bringing their mouths within inches of each other with how close they were standing. Their breaths mingled—and then didn’t because she’d forgotten how to breathe. “Yes?”

He stared at her, swallowed again, and then asked, “Do you—d’you want to go outside, get some fresh air?”

Her heart was suddenly clattering in her chest. What he meant—what he was really telling her, she knew—was that he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her but there was no way that Harry was going to kiss her while surrounded by other people, many—if not all—of whom would be fascinated by the sight of Harry Potter kissing a woman in a club.

Oh God... This was it. This was exactly what she’d hoped for, what she’d wanted when she’d come up with this insane idea. Her mouth was dry, her mind a blank, and it took every ounce of coherence she had to answer him, just one word slipping from her lips. “Yes.”

Heat flared in his eyes, stealing her breath, and before she could even hope to regain some of her composure, they were outside.

It was a warm night but the air still felt cool to her over-heated skin.

Harry stopped, turning to face her, just where the light overhead slanted across his face, illuminating one of his eyes, his nose, and his lips. His lips...

She was suddenly mesmerized by the shape of his lips—ridiculously since it wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen his lips innumerable times before but now she allowed herself to focus on them. It took a concerted effort to drag her eyes back up to his eyes only to realize that his eyes had been fixed on her lips, in turn.

She had thought she would wait until he kissed her but in that moment, Hermione tossed that idea aside. In one quick motion, she rose up on her toes, cupping his cheeks between her hands, and kissed him.

His reaction was immediate and powerful. One hand slid into her hair to keep her head in place while the other arm wrapped around her waist, bringing her body in snugly against his, as his lips parted. His tongue met and tangled with hers; he tasted faintly of Firewhiskey and something else that she realized with a thrill was just him. Something about the thought and the feel of his body against hers sent a fresh wave of heat and arousal skittering through her body and she would have moaned except any sound was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her... She slid her arms around his neck, her body arching into his, pressing herself even closer to him, until she could feel the burgeoning hardness of him pressing against her and she shivered.

Acting on some blind instinct, she shifted slightly, deliberately rubbing against his growing arousal until it was pressed snugly against the apex of her thighs and...

And Harry broke the kiss with a gasp.

She opened her eyes to see him staring at her, his breath coming fast and harsh, his eyes darker than she’d ever seen them. “I- I don’t normally...” he began and then stopped and then blurted out, “D’you want to come to my flat?”

He didn’t normally have one-night stands—but that was exactly what she’d planned for tonight, wasn’t it? And she hastily strangled the tiny corner of her mind that retained some rational thought that warned her that one night would never be enough, would only make it harder for her.

She answered him with another kiss, brief and intense—or at least, she intended for it to be brief but he had other ideas, as did her own body to be honest, and what followed was another minute—or two—or ten—of their lips and tongues tangling.

Hermione tightened her arms around his neck, letting her tongue explore the depths of his mouth, the ridge of his teeth, stroking his tongue with her own. She forgot where they were, who she was, forgot everything except that he was kissing her and wanting her and—dear God, she’d wanted him, wanted this, for so long now...

She was only vaguely aware of feeling a strange sensation go through her but when she finally, reluctantly, ended the kiss because the need for oxygen had become too pressing, she realized that they were no longer outside and the tingling sensation had been from him Apparating them both until they were just outside the familiar door of Harry and Ron’s flat.

“I Apparated us to my flat,” Harry explained hastily—and unnecessarily, as he finally released her to wave his hand impatiently at the doorknob, opening the door quickly.

He closed the door behind her and as if the click of the door closing was a signal of some kind, she flattened herself against him, her lips finding his again. She felt as if she couldn’t possibly live another minute without kissing him, touching him, felt crazed, impatient as she’d never felt before, greedy for more of his lips and his tongue and his hands. She stumbled backwards, blindly, in the direction of his bedroom—utterly forgetting that she was supposed to be pretending she’d never been there before—and he followed willingly, his hands hard and impassioned as he caressed her back and her shoulders and down to her butt, slipping his hand under her tank top to caress the bare skin of her back until she gasped.

It was a minor miracle that they didn’t crash into something in their blind stumble across the living room of the flat but they didn’t until her back hit the edge of his door frame, making them break off the kiss briefly but only until they were fully inside his room and he’d slammed the door behind them with another impatient wave of his hand that Hermione noted, somewhere in her dazed mind, and knew he’d just cast a Silencing Charm on his room.

She might have wondered if there would be a moment of awkwardness but she was too aroused, impatient with lust, to have any room to be conscious of anything else, let alone to feel awkward. She pulled off her tank top in one quick move, as Harry hastily tore off his own shirt and then his trousers and she froze, in the act of shimmying out of her own trousers to stare at him, to stare at the evidence of his arousal through his boxers and then just at him.

She’d seen Harry without a shirt a handful of times and now... now she was seeing all of him, including the one part of him she’d hardly dared to hope she ever would see.

Hermione felt every thought she’d ever had—and a few she hadn’t managed to think yet—drain from her head and flop onto the ground at her feet.

Oh dear God... Yes...

She finished pushing off her trousers and tore off her knickers with hands that were trembling slightly from the force of her own lust.

She straightened and it was his turn to stare at her for a moment and she felt a fresh wave of heat surge up inside her, pool between her thighs, at the look on his face.

And then looking was no longer enough and she could never tell whether he reached for her first or she reached for him but it didn’t matter because they were falling backwards onto his bed in a tangle of arms and legs and greedy, caressing hands, as he landed half on top of her.

His hands found her breasts, cupped them, kneaded them, his fingers flicking against her already-hardened nipples that tightened even more at his touch. His lips scattered a trail of kisses down her neck, finding a sensitive hollow on her throat that she hadn’t even known she had, until she gasped and then moaned, and he flicked his tongue to the spot before continuing on until his lips closed around her nipple.

The wet tugging of his lips and tongue were sending floods of arousal through her, centering between her thighs, until she cried out, her hands flying into his hair and then down. She explored the muscles of his shoulders, the smooth skin of his back, cupping his butt until he groaned, his hips jerking until she could feel his erection pressed almost exactly where she wanted, needed him to be.

He groaned again, his lips briefly leaving off their ministrations, and on an impulse she couldn’t deny, she flattened her hands on his chest, rolling them over until she was on top, straddling him. In some corner of her mind and heart, she knew that if this was the only night she would ever have with him, she wanted to learn everything, experience everything, with him.

It was her turn to take the initiative. She caressed, learned, explored every inch of his chest and stomach—and then lower still—with first her hands and then her lips. Learning what he liked and how he wanted to be touched. Learning that he groaned, his hips twitching, when she flicked her tongue against his flat, male nipples. That the muscles of his stomach tensed at her touch. That there was a spot on his hip that was incredibly sensitive to the touch.

Until finally, she reached the part of his body she was most curious about. She trailed one finger lightly along the length of him and his entire body jerked.

“God!” he choked out.

She felt her lips curve into a smile she knew she’d never smiled before, a seductive smile, a confident smile, the age-old smile of a woman who knows her own power—before she wrapped her hand around him, stroking him once, twice...

He cried out, his hips jerking, as his hands fisted on his sheets.

And then she licked him lightly just before taking him fully in her mouth, a little tentatively, since she’d certainly never done this before and wasn’t entirely sure of what she was doing. From the sound of his sharp cry, that was half a groan, whatever she was doing was right.

Experimentally, she curled her tongue around him and then sucked, gently—and his entire body jerked as he choked out, “Enough!”

She just had time to look up at him when his hands closed around her shoulders, gently enough but firmly, and then he was tugging her up to him so he could close his arms around her, his lips finding hers with explosive passion. And she was hardly aware of him turning until she was below him, was only aware of his lips and his hands that seemed to be touching her everywhere at once, leaving fire in their wake.

And then—and then she felt his jutting erection slip between her thighs, sliding against the part of her that was wet and swollen for him and she groaned, her body writhing, arching, in a frantic, desperate attempt to get closer to him, until she felt the length of him push into her, stretch her, fill her.

Her hands clutched him tightly to her as his lips found hers, his tongue thrusting into her mouth in imitation of the movements of his hips. She met and matched his movements with her own, her arms and legs wrapping around him, urging him on, deeper inside her, until she could almost swear he was touching her heart.

His hands found her breasts, fondling them, shaping them, before his fingers tightened on her nipples, and she tore her lips from his with a gasp at the added sensation.

It was too much—surely she would go mad—but it would be worth it...

This was it, this was everything, this was all she’d ever wanted—and so much more... She could never have imagined this.

Her breath was coming in short, harsh gasps, her fingers digging into his shoulders, as the conflagration inside her built, and built...

And then she wasn’t sure what he did but the conflagration exploded, her senses disintegrating into pure ecstasy and she was only vaguely aware of the sound of a scream (hers) followed by a guttural groan as he thrust one last time, his body stiffening, and then he collapsed on top of her.

Leaving her to slide into the golden bliss of the aftermath, savoring the stunning pleasure of it, savoring every detail of it, cataloging the moment in a purely sensual, physical way that was entirely divorced from conscious thought. The warm puff of his breath against her ear. His body on top of hers. The warmth and strength of his arms around her. His heartbeat pounding against her breasts. The delicious intimacy of his body still inside her.

Just when she started to become aware of how heavy he was, he stirred, rolling over onto his back with a long sigh of satiation. He kept his arm around her, bringing him with her, until she found herself pressed firmly against his side.

He turned his head a little to brush his lips against her forehead in a light kiss, the motion so small, she almost wondered if he’d been conscious of it at all, but conscious or not, she thrilled at this one evidence of some tenderness for her. And for one fleeting, foolish moment, she let herself imagine that this had meant something to him, that this hadn’t just been a one-night stand for him...

It wasn’t long before the deep, even sound of his breathing and something in the feel of his body against her told her that he’d fallen asleep. She waited for a few more minutes until she could be sure he was sleeping soundly before she shifted slowly, cautiously, away from him.

And then she paused again, just watching him sleep, letting her gaze wander down the length of his body and then up again. He looked so... utterly relaxed, sated.... his face, as always, looking much younger, somehow, without his glasses on.

She glanced at the clock beside his bed. The glamour would last a few more hours but she knew she had to leave now. If she lingered, she might not be able to make herself leave, might fall asleep without meaning to—and that would mean disaster. No, she needed to leave now.

She slid off the bed, her every movement excruciatingly slow so as not to disturb Harry in any way and then pulling up the sheets and the bed covers that had been pushed to the very foot of the bed, so that they covered him.

She dressed quickly, putting on the clothes she suspected she’d never be able to wear again because of the memories attached to it.

She quickly transfigured a tissue into a piece of paper and thought for a minute before quickly writing a brief note for Harry to find in the morning, not forgetting to cast the spell afterwards to disguise her handwriting.

But at the last moment, she lingered, could not bring herself to leave quite yet. Her gaze flitted over the familiar untidiness of Harry’s room (he wasn’t nearly as messy as Ron was but he was still not what anyone would call neat) before returning, inexorably, to Harry’s sleeping form on his bed.

Moving carefully, she made her way over to his side of the bed and hesitated for just a second before she bent to brush a last, feather-light kiss against his lips, so lightly it was almost more a touch of air than a kiss, but she didn’t dare kiss him more fully.

And then she crept back across the room, grasping the door knob in her hand.

And didn’t turn it. Couldn’t turn it.

She looked back at Harry one last time—looked back at all she would never know again.

She wasn’t going to cry. It would be ridiculous and stupid of her to cry. This was how she’d always known the night would end, if she succeeded, with her leaving Harry’s room like this. She had gotten what she’d wanted, after all. For this one night, Harry had wanted her.

For this one night, she’d known his kiss and his touch, his passion and his lust. For this one night, he’d been hers...

And that was enough. It would have to be enough.

She lifted her chin, her jaw firming, in an expression that both Harry and Ron would have recognized if they’d seen it (and Ron would have been made nervous by). She would be just fine. She’d had one night with him and that would be enough.

But at the last moment, she found herself whispering, so softly she could hardly hear it herself, “I love you, Harry,” saying the words she’d never be able to say aloud to him.

And then she left, slipping out of his room with almost painful care, and then out of the flat, noting, in passing, that Ron had apparently still not returned.

And it wasn’t until she was safely back in her own flat that she allowed herself to cry.

~To be continued… (And we find out what Harry was thinking…)~

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: Thanks, everyone, who read and reviewed the last part. I hope this next part satisfies.

Masquerade

Part 3

Harry drifted awake slowly, reaching out one lazy arm for Helena—to find just his bed.

Half-reluctantly, he cracked open one eye and then in another moment, opened both eyes as he realized she was gone. He paused, half-hoping that she might have just gone to the loo, but the utter silence in the flat disproved that and he pushed himself up, the last remnants of sleep leaving his mind to be replaced with something like depression.

She was gone.

She must have just crept out in the night. Just as if... just as if... it had only been a meaningless one-night stand.

His gaze fell on his glasses on the nightstand by the bed—or, more accurately, the piece of paper beneath it and he almost scrambled over to grab it, slipping on his glasses hastily.

And then stared at the note, feeling the vague beginnings of something like hurt inside his chest.

Harry, thank you for a wonderful night. I’ll never forget it.

Helena.

Only those two brief sentences and nothing more.

He let the note fall from suddenly nerve-less fingers as he fell back onto his bed. Was that all their night together had meant to her, then? He’d thought there had been a connection, that it had been the start of something special.

He’d been wrong. It really must have just been a one-night stand to her. And if he hadn’t been thinking in those terms, well... he’d been wrong. That was all. He’d made a mistake. It had just been one night of sex—great, fantastic, mind-blowing sex—but nothing more. And there was absolutely no reason to feel so disappointed or oddly hurt.

Or so he told himself bracingly.

Harry sighed and shut his eyes, and then took off his glasses so he could turn over and bury his face in the pillow, wishing he could just fall back asleep, wishing he hadn’t woken up yet in the first place.

He pushed himself up again. He could still smell the scent of her on his pillow, and the scent of her brought back the memories of everything else, too—the feel of her, the taste of her, the softness of her skin...

Damn it. Just the scent of her on his pillow was arousing him again.

He had the niggling sense that the scent was somehow familiar to him—but of course it was familiar. He’d smelled it just the night before while dancing with Helena and afterwards...

Harry stood up abruptly. A shower was what he needed, to clear his mind—and his heart?—from these futile memories and thoughts about Helena.

He glanced down at himself ruefully. A cold shower was what he needed.

Harry was eating a piece of toast and staring moodily into his cup of pumpkin juice when Ron finally stumbled out of his room, yawning. “Morning, Ron.”

“Morning, mate.” Ron paused and then added, belatedly, “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” Harry managed a somewhat wan smile. Thanks to Helena’s sneaking out in the middle of the night, he wasn’t feeling particularly happy, but that was his own problem.

It was evidence of how groggy Ron still was that it was another minute or two before Ron blinked, looked around, and then asked, with a grin that bordered on a smirk, “Say, where’s the girl you left the club with?”

“She left,” Harry answered briefly, his tone curt enough that anyone else would have taken the hint and abandoned the subject. Anyone but Ron, that was.

Ron’s answer was a hoot of laughter. “Which means she was here to begin with.” Ron wiggled his brows at Harry in an exaggerated leer. “See, I told you a shag would do you good. So, how was she? I only got a glimpse of her in the club but it looked like she had some nice curves.”

Harry slanted a glare at Ron. “Shut up, Ron.” Normally, he could shrug off Ron’s occasionally crude humor but this morning, for some reason, he found he’d lost most of his tolerance.

Ron gave Harry a curious but still mostly teasing glance. “Y’know, for someone who just had a shag, you’re awfully touchy. What, was she not a good shag?”

Harry abruptly put down his cup with enough force it was a minor miracle it didn’t break (or would have been a minor miracle if Hermione had not placed Unbreakable Charms on all their dishes and cups when he and Ron had first moved in to the flat.) “That’s enough, Ron!”

His voice didn’t rise much but there was enough suppressed intensity in it that Ron was momentarily subdued.

There were a few moments of rather strained silence which Ron broke by saying, mildly, “Mum said we should get to the Burrow around noon, if that works for you.”

Harry was immediately ashamed of himself. It wasn’t as if Ron had really said anything offensive; he was over-reacting to the morning’s disappointment of waking up to find Helena gone. He’d only just met her, he reminded himself. And so what if they had had sex?

Really great, life-altering sex, an irritating little voice in his head spoke up and he promptly squelched the thought—only to have another voice pipe up that it hadn’t felt as if he’d just met Helena. No, after those first few minutes, he’d had the odd sense that he’d known her for years...

If he’d been more given to sentimental fancy, he supposed he might even have thought that it had seemed as if he’d been waiting his entire life to meet her—except that couldn’t possibly be the case.

He’d imagined it. It had been pure, wishful thinking on his part, he told himself firmly. Wishful thinking to try to convince himself that what he’d felt for her hadn’t only been physical lust—to convince himself that their night together had been the start of something good, something real and lasting, and not just a one-night stand.

Whatever the case, it was over and done with. He would put Helena from his mind, he told himself.

With that resolution in mind—and in the spirit of conciliation since Ron hadn’t deserved his snapping at him—Harry grinned at Ron. “Maybe we should show up closer to 1 rather than noon so we can avoid having to help getting things set up.”

Ron returned the grin. “Now that’s a brilliant idea.” He paused and then added, “But when Mum asks why we’re late, I’m going to tell her it was all your idea. She won’t yell at you.”

Harry made a face at Ron and threw a few crumbs from his toast at Ron. Ron ducked, laughing, and Harry knew that his bad temper had been forgotten.

If only he could forget about Helena so easily, he thought, half-wistfully and half-gloomily.

~

Hermione was late.

That was almost the first thing he noticed when he walked into the yard of the Burrow that afternoon.

Hermione was late. In anyone else, he wouldn’t have thought anything of it but in Hermione—well, Hermione was never late except in extreme circumstances. He certainly couldn’t remember the last time Hermione had been late to one of their get-togethers.

He accepted Mrs. Weasley’s hug and kiss on his cheek before he asked, “Hermione’s not here yet? Did she mention any reason for it?”

Mrs. Weasley shook her head. “No, we haven’t heard from her. I assumed a patient got rushed in as she was about to leave.”

Which would, normally, have been a plausible explanation but Harry remembered that Hermione had said she had all day off today, for his birthday, so she shouldn’t have even gone in to St. Mungo’s, let alone been delayed by work.

It was odd and a little unsettling. He knew, in some corner of his mind, that he was over-reacting but after the long months of the War, he’d acquired a healthy dislike of anything out of the ordinary because, for him, anything out of the ordinary usually meant something dangerous, if not actually life-threatening.

Hermione being late—even for his birthday party—was not the sort of event that should trigger worry—and yet... Harry couldn’t help the flicker of unease, the beginnings of concern. He knew Hermione and he knew, too, that she would not be late for his birthday party unless something extraordinary had happened. And in his experience, anything extraordinary was almost inevitably bad.

He managed to smile and finish greeting the rest of the Weasleys and everyone else that Mrs. Weasley had gathered together, was pleasantly surprised to see Professors McGonagall and Sprout, as well as Hagrid. But even as he smiled and laughed, one part of his mind remained on Hermione and her inexplicable absence.

Finally, just when he’d decided that if Hermione didn’t show up within the next five minutes, he was going to Floo call her flat and, if she wasn’t there, was going to go to St. Mungo’s himself to find her and make sure all was well, Hermione arrived.

His back was to her as he talked to Mr. Weasley and Bill but he knew she was there, somehow sensed her arrival even before he heard the familiar sound of her voice. He excused himself from Mr. Weasley and Bill so he could greet her, catching up with her as she turned away from Mrs. Weasley.

“Hermione, you made it. I was just wondering where you were,” he said, as casually as if he hadn’t spent the time since he’d arrived worrying about her.

“Oh, Harry, hi. Happy birthday! You’ve got perfect weather for a party today, too!”

Harry blinked, a little taken aback. There was something... not quite right... about Hermione. Her smile seemed a shade too bright and she wasn’t meeting his eyes, was making a show of looking around.

He drew nearer, putting a hand on her arm. “Why were you late? I was a little worried,” he admitted. Whatever it was, he expected Hermione would be herself again, quick to reassure him that all was well; it was her way, in the few times he ever admitted aloud to worrying.

Hermione stilled, stiffening almost imperceptibly at his touch. “Oh, some work just came up. It was nothing, really, Harry. Oh, I should go say hello to Neville. I wanted to ask him something.”

So saying, she left him quickly, leaving Harry feeling decidedly confused and not at all reassured. No, there was something wrong, he decided, something preoccupying Hermione. He could tell.

In the course of the next half hour or so, Harry quickly revised his thinking. It wasn’t only that something was wrong; that ‘something’ clearly had to do with him. Hermione was behaving oddly around him.

She went from chatting with Neville and Ginny to exchanging a few laughing words with Ron and then, went on to talk to Mr. Weasley, Bill and Fleur, Charlie, George, Luna, Ginny and Neville, Dean, Seamus, Oliver Wood, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hestia Jones, Professor Sprout, Hagrid, and Professor McGonagall—or, in other words, every other person present at the party except for him.

Harry smiled and laughed as he talked with Ron but he kept half an eye and half his attention on Hermione. Yes, it was definitely something to do with him.

It wasn’t that Hermione had not spent much time with him; that, in and of itself, wasn’t so unusual. What was odd was the fact that she had never even glanced in his direction. Usually, he realized, even when they were both speaking with other people, Hermione had a way of glancing around and catching his eyes and they would exchange fleeting smiles or looks of shared amusement or understanding. It was just their way and not something he’d ever really thought about before. Now, today, Hermione had yet to glance his way even once. And he felt suddenly, strangely bereft—lonely-- without those shared glances with Hermione.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione reach up to push her hair back a little impatiently and, for no reason he could identify, his eyes were caught and held by the curve of her jaw as she faced away from him as she talked to Professor McGonagall. And for one crazy second, he could only stare, suddenly mesmerized by the line of her jaw where it met her neck. His mouth was abruptly dry and he could only think—stupidly—that he wanted to bury his lips in that spot, that lovely curve where her jaw met her neck.

He had a sudden flash of bittersweet—and arousing—memory, of kissing that same spot on Helena’s neck, of the taste of her skin, of the way she’d gasped and reached for him...

He abruptly hauled his thoughts back from where they’d wandered, appalled at his own insanity—his stupidity. Helena had been a one-night stand; she’d made that perfectly clear by her own actions. So he wasn’t likely to ever see Helena again—and Hermione was Hermione, his best friend Hermione. He wasn’t even attracted to Hermione in that way—not really. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

It was only that he hadn’t had a shag in a long while until Helena and then she’d been so.... hot... and his body was missing that, missing her.

That was all. It had to be all.

And Hermione was still not looking at him. It was as if he wasn’t really there at all, for all the attention Hermione had paid him after her quick, even perfunctory greeting.

So much for having a happy birthday, he reflected half-wryly, half-glumly. First, Helena had made her lack of interest in any sort of real relationship with him clear by leaving the way she had. And now Hermione—his best friend—was acting as if he was a stranger.

And it hurt. He’d been disappointed to wake up and find Helena gone, yes, but for Hermione to ignore him… that hurt him on a much more fundamental level. This was Hermione, after all, and he wasn’t sure he knew how to function without her as his friend. She was the one constant in his life since the moment he’d met her, even more than Ron.

And he couldn’t stand to have her ignoring him.

On the thought, he found himself crossing the lawn to where Hermione was talking to Professor McGonagall, almost before he’d consciously decided to do so.

Professor McGonagall unbent enough to give him a quick smile of greeting, as she continued telling Hermione about some research that was being conducted.

Hermione glanced over at him as he approached and he could almost see her entire body still, tense, as he stopped beside her. Harry inwardly flinched—what had he done?

He waited until Professor McGonagall stopped speaking before he interrupted, “Sorry, Professor, but I wanted to ask Hermione something important.”

“Of course, Harry. We can continue our discussion later, Hermione,” Professor McGonagall added.

Harry put his hand automatically on Hermione’s back to lead her away, somewhat removed from everyone else, and tried very hard not to wince at how Hermione seemed to stiffen at his touch. She didn’t quite flinch away from him but she was certainly not at ease.

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” The question was blunt, although he kept his voice quiet, mindful of the people around them.

Hermione gave a little laugh that sounded almost natural and would probably have fooled almost anyone else—but not him. “Nothing’s wrong. Why do you ask?”

“Hermione.” He invested a wealth of meaning in her name.

“Really, Harry, it’s nothing,” she insisted, her eyes flashing up to his and then just as quickly looking away.

Harry sighed. “Are you mad at me?” He didn’t even try to hide the hurt he felt, knew it was clear in his tone. With anyone else, he might not have been so obvious—but then with anyone else, he wouldn’t have felt so hurt either.

That got a reaction. Hermione’s eyes flew up to meet his and remained. “Of course not, Harry! Why would you think that?”

“Hermione, you barely spoke ten words to me when you arrived and you haven’t looked at me at all this entire afternoon.”

“I’m not mad at you, Harry. I- I’m just a little preoccupied today but I’m not mad at you. Honestly, Harry, I’m not.”

“What’s preoccupying you? Can I help?”

Hermione’s expression seemed to freeze for a moment and Harry mentally frowned, but then Hermione shook her head, giving him a fleeting ghost of a smile. “No, thanks, Harry. I’ll be okay. I- I’m sorry you thought I was mad at you.”

Harry lifted one shoulder into a shrug and gave her a slight smile. “It’s okay. I just don’t like thinking you’re mad at me, that’s all.”

Hermione’s expression softened and she gave him a quick, soft smile, one of the affectionate smiles she occasionally gave him. “Well, I’m not mad at you, I promise.”

He was never sure why but something about her smile, something about the honest affection in it, caught at his heart and his mind.

And then in one quick, impulsive movement, she went up on her toes and brushed her lips against his cheek.

And he froze. He was somehow very aware of the warmth from her body, the touch of her breath against his cheek and then the soft brush of her lips—and, fleeting as it was, he reacted, feeling a flare of heat.

He dragged in a quick breath—

That scent. He caught the scent of her hair in a fleeting whiff as she drew back and left, moving away from him to return to Professor McGonagall.

He stared.

It was impossible.

It couldn’t be.

For one finite moment, his mind flatly rejected what his senses, his body, were telling him.

Then reality fractured.

It was her.

Impossible. Unbelievable. Shocking. But true.

It was Hermione.

Hermione had been Helena.

Same height. Same figure—now that he looked, he could see that. Same scent.

In the chaotic tumult of his mind (and heart), one thought—one inane thought—stood out in his mind: well, now he knew why he’d felt so comfortable with Helena from the first.

He suddenly realized who it was that Helena had reminded him of—and why. Helena had reminded him of Hermione.

It was Hermione.

Harry’s entire body froze; he could swear his heart stopped.

He’d had sex with Hermione. It had been Hermione that had kissed him like that, touched him like that… His mind flashed back to the way she’d pleasured him, how she’d licked him and—

He shoved the thought away, trying (with less success) to squelch the flare of arousal at the memory.

It was her.

Hermione had been Helena—but why? He could guess that she must have used a small glamour to disguise herself—but why? Had she wanted to trick him—had she been laughing at him all along for not recognizing her—but no. No no no! Almost before the thought had fully formed in his mind, he rejected it. He didn’t understand why but he knew she hadn’t set out to deceive him out of any malice. He might be confused about her reasons—he’d never felt so utterly at a loss in his life—but he knew Hermione hadn’t only meant to trick him. She wouldn’t. She would never. He might not know anything else but he did know that. He knew it the way he knew his own name, the way he knew how to fly. Even if nothing else in his life made any sense—and at the moment, he rather felt that way—he knew he trusted her, trusted that she would never deliberately deceive him.

His mind circled back helplessly to the one stark fact, the searing memories, from the night before. He’d had sex with Hermione…

He- she— his thoughts stuttered.

“Harry!”

Harry started and turned to see Ron, giving him an odd look.

“What’s up, mate? And why are you staring at Hermione like she just sprouted another head?”

Harry bit back a burst of hysterical laughter. If Ron only knew…

“I- it’s- uh- I was just… thinking… about something…” he stammered.

Ron gave him one last, curious look before he shrugged a little. “Okay, whatever you say. Mum’s about to bring out the cake.”

The cake. Oh, right. It was his birthday, Harry reminded himself, trying to regain some sense of… of… reality.

He felt as if the world had tilted on its axis, as if the sky had suddenly turned green and the grass had turned blue.

He’d had sex with Hermione!

He shoved the thought away. He couldn’t think of that now. Later. He would think about it all later. He would try to understand this strange, new reality later.

But for all his efforts to push it out of his mind, the rest of his birthday party was a loss, at least as far as Harry himself was concerned. It was an exercise in endurance and (im)patience since no matter how he tried, he could not entirely shake off his preoccupation. He managed—just barely—to keep from staring at Hermione, from trying to recognize Helena’s features in Hermione’s—but keeping his thoughts away from Hermione was completely impossible. And it was not helped by the fact that he was incredibly aware of Hermione. Even without looking at her, he knew when she smiled, when she laughed, knew where she was and who she was talking to at any given moment. His usual awareness of Hermione had been magnified until he could almost swear he could sense her, could feel her breathing even from across the lawn, as if the air was somehow different just because she was there.

Really, given the complete confusion of his thoughts and emotions, he actually thought he did rather well at hiding it and acting like his usual self. But by the end of the afternoon—the party being somewhat truncated since Harry was not, for once, at all inclined to linger at the Burrow—he’d had to be jolted out of his thoughts several times, Ron had given him several odd looks, Mrs. Weasley had asked him, twice, if he was feeling well, Mr. Weasley had asked him if everything was alright, and he’d almost been knocked to his knees by a pat on his shoulder from Hagrid, coming when he hadn’t been prepared for it.

All told, Harry had never been so thankful in his life to leave the Burrow and return to the privacy of his flat. And for the first time, he could not concentrate on a Quidditch match that Ron watched via Remote Apparition after dinner. He stayed to watch it (because he knew if he didn’t, Ron would probably have sent him to St. Mungo’s to make sure he wasn’t ill) but he could not concentrate on it.

He suddenly remembered how Helena—Hermione—had mentioned Drakesmith’s Wronski Feint and suppressed a sudden laugh. She’d heard of it all right; she had, after all, been right beside him and Ron when it had happened and heard all of his exclamations over it.

And how Helena had claimed only to have met Hermione a few times…

Helena. Hermione.

He could think of nothing else, memories of the evening and their one night together playing through his mind. He wavered between feeling a little annoyed—at Hermione for whatever had made her pretend to be Helena but mostly at himself for not realizing who Helena really was, when, in hindsight, it was so obvious—and amusement at the irony of some of what Helena had said and arousal at the memory of how hot Helena—Hermione!—had been and, overshadowing it all, was utter confusion. He was confused about why Hermione would have done such a thing and even more confused about what he was supposed to do now.

He’d had sex with Hermione. He’d been aroused by Hermione—still was aroused by Hermione, by the memory of her body. He wanted Hermione.

And he didn’t know what he was going to do about it.

He couldn’t simply act on his desires—that would only risk a friendship he could not risk. He knew that without even having to think about it; now that he knew, he could never have ‘just sex’ with Hermione.

But he didn’t know if he could have—if he wanted to have—anything more than ‘just sex’ with Hermione either. Which brought him back to his original questions—why had Hermione pretended to be Helena and just what was he supposed to do about it?

~To be continued…~

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

A/N: Thanks, everyone, for reading and reviewing! I hope this happy ending satisfies!

Masquerade

Part 4

Hermione always remembered that week as being one of the longest ones of her life. She spent the week distracted at work, preoccupied at home and having to try very hard to keep from falling into depression.

Hermione sighed a little as she sat down at the desk in the corner of her sitting room that served as her office. At least the week was over now and she’d arranged it so she wouldn’t need to go into St. Mungo’s over the weekend at all, barring any emergencies.

It had been a week. She glanced at the clock—exactly a week ago at this time, she’d been at the club, about to go “meet” Harry.

It had been one week since Harry had kissed her and touched her and let her touch him… She felt the familiar flush of heat in her body just from the memory of that one night, the memories that had haunted her for the past week.

Oh! She threw down her quill in some frustration, for once not caring that she left a blot of ink on her otherwise pristine parchment. She had to stop thinking about that night, had to stop reliving every moment. Had to stop regretting it. She’d had her one night of passion and that was enough.

She picked up her quill again, bending her head over the treatise she was making notes on with a grim determination to keep her mind at her task.

She could get over it and she would. She’d had years of practice at concealing her real feelings for Harry, at being only his best friend. It would get easier, she was sure of it.

And in the meantime, she had plenty of work to keep her busy.

Hermione worked steadily, her parchment filling up rapidly with her neat annotations. She frowned slightly, chewing the end of her quill absently. The treatise’s conclusions were intriguing, especially if combined with another article she’d read recently—she put her quill down, turning to her drawer and sorting through the neatly organized pap—

The knock on the door shattered all her hard-won concentration like glass and she started, pushing herself away from her desk with a brief sigh. She didn’t know who would be here at this hour on a Friday evening but the person had to be someone who’d visited before or the wards she’d set up would have gone off. She guessed it was probably Adelaide, one of her co-workers at St. Mungo’s and one of her best friends from work, as Addy lived nearby and had been known to call without any warning before.

She opened the door with an easy smile that froze on her lips.

It was Harry. Surprise set her breath to coming irregularly and the sight of his familiar, slightly crooked little half-smile made her heart react, as always.

“Oh. Hi, Harry.” She managed in as casual a tone as possible. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Hey, Hermione. You busy or can I come in?” He stepped forward with the confidence in her invitation that he generally showed since she would never not let him in.

She stepped backwards, keeping her distance and retreating from him as rapidly as she could without making it blatantly obvious. “I was just reading some things for work, that’s all,” she said with a slight smile. When would she stop reacting like this to just the sight of him? It was ridiculous! It wasn’t as if he had done or said anything out of the ordinary—it was the same Harry, the same smile, the same eyes, that she’d seen nearly every day for years now—and she still reacted, couldn’t seem to help it, the slight flutter of her heart or the warmth in her chest. Or the urge to return his smile with her own, to make him smile and see his eyes crinkle with amusement. The same urge that had made her kiss his cheek so quickly at his birthday party at the Burrow, even when she’d sworn she wouldn’t touch him at all if she could help it—except she’d seen the flicker of vulnerability, of uncertainty, in his eyes when he asked if she was mad at him and she hadn’t been able to help it, had needed to reassure him more than she’d needed to take her next breath.

“Butterbeer, Harry?” she offered, turning to escape to the kitchen, but he stopped her with a word.

“No thanks, Hermione. I’m not thirsty.”

“I’m a little surprised to see you tonight. Why aren’t you out with Ron? Don’t you know Ron’s likely to get into even more trouble than usual if you’re not there to keep an eye on him?” She tried to sound joking.

Harry gave a brief laugh in acknowledgment of her humor but only shrugged one shoulder into a half shrug. “I told Ron he’d have to go without me for tonight because I had a date.”

A date. He’d had a date. Hermione fought back a wince, trying not to feel hurt. Of course Harry had a perfect right to go on dates and it was none of her business. Really.

The fact that Harry could go on a date with someone else in the very next week after he’d slept with her—Helena-- only emphasized that he really had thought of it as a one-night stand and nothing else.

Of course he had; she’d known he had all along, Hermione told herself bracingly. But for all that, she couldn’t bring herself to look at him, busied herself instead with the papers on her desk, pretending to be looking for something as she systematically disarranged all the neatly-organized piles of papers as a way of keeping her hands and her eyes busy.

“Oh, really? Your date must have ended early if you’re already done.” Hermione was proud of herself for how indifferent she managed to sound. But she kept her gaze turned away.

“Mm.” Harry made a noncommittal sound.

“Was it Meredith or someone else?”

“It wasn’t Meredith. I’ve told you Meredith and I are just friends.”

“Oh, well, anyway, do you really like this girl?” She didn’t know how exactly she did it but she rather thought she’d achieved just the right amount of friendly curiosity and nothing more in her tone.

She expected a rather noncommittal answer since Harry had never been the type to wax eloquent about his current fancy—with Cho or Ginny, he’d never expressed his thoughts about them aloud and his feelings had only been evident from the way he looked at them—unlike Ron, who was much more likely to ramble on about some girl or another who’d caught his eye (although most of Ron’s rambles had involved a girl’s physical attributes). But Harry surprised her.

“I like her a lot,” Harry declared. But as if that wasn’t enough, he continued, not entirely fluently but it was still amazing—amazing and painful-- as Hermione had never heard Harry talk about anyone in such terms before, let alone any girl. “I feel… comfortable with her; I feel like I’ve known her for years. I felt like I could trust her almost from the moment we met.”

“Oh,” Hermione said flatly, her fingers tightening unconsciously on the parchment she was holding, crumpling it, and then she busied herself with smoothing out the parchment and hastily creating haphazard piles of paper on her desk in an attempt to make it look as neat as it usually did, although she had no idea what she was doing and knew she would only have to completely reorganize the contents of her desk later. But it was something to occupy her hands and her eyes so she could seem perfectly calm. She wouldn’t cry. Could not cry.

“And she makes me laugh.”

“Oh,” Hermione said again, lamely. For the first time, she wished that Harry would leave, would just go away. She didn’t want to be here listening to this any longer, didn’t want to know anything more about this girl who’d apparently captured Harry’s interest so thoroughly.

Harry studied Hermione and her apparent calm. Anyone else would have thought that Hermione was almost entirely indifferent to what she was hearing, was preoccupied with the papers on her desk—anyone else, that is, but him. He knew Hermione too well, could see the lack of precision in her supposed organization of the papers on her desk, could hear the touch of brittleness in her tone—and more than that, he knew it from the way she kept her face turned away from him, knew it from her very calm.

And he gave up the idea of teasing Hermione any longer—he couldn’t—he should have known he couldn’t do it. His vague plan to get a sort of revenge for her little masquerade suddenly seemed petty and mean; this was Hermione and after all she’d done for him, all he owed her, he couldn’t possibly hurt her, not even for so short a time.

“Don’t you want to know what her name is?” he asked more quietly.

At that, Hermione’s head came up, her eyes flashing up to his face—although he noted that she didn’t meet his eyes so much as focus fleetingly at the spot between his eyebrows before she lowered her gaze again. “Of course I do, Harry. What is her name?”

He took one step closer to her and then stopped. “There’s actually a kind of funny story about her name.” He tried to sound amused. And took another step closer. “See, she told me her name was Helena Watson.”

He heard her sharp gasp and then her gaze flew up to meet his, for real this time, and he let his smile soften as he closed the rest of the distance between them. He kept his eyes on hers as he lifted one hand to touch her cheek very lightly with his fingers. “But her real name,” he finished very softly, tenderly, “is Hermione Granger.”

“Harry, I—how—when—I--” she stumbled uncharacteristically and he stopped her stammering by brushing his thumb against her lips, making her gasp and then still.

“I figured it out at the Burrow last weekend.”

Her eyes widened. “The Burrow?! But how—why didn’t you say something?”

“I might have realized that you were Helena but that didn’t mean I knew what to do about it. I was so stunned I couldn’t think straight for days. But you know I’ve always been dense that way,” he said lightly.

That got a smile from her. “I know,” she said with a glimpse of her usual manner.

He gave her a look of mock offense. “Dense I might be but I did figure out who Helena was eventually.”

“How did you figure it out?”

He gave her a teasingly-exaggerated leer. “I recognized your body, of course.”

She mock-hit him on the arm, his humor helping to restore her composure, even as she blushed hotly at his words. “Honestly, Harry!”

He grinned, loving her smile and the teasing light in her eyes and delighting in her blush, since he couldn’t remember really making her blush like this before. “Honestly, I recognized your scent, from your shampoo and your soap and stuff. Your scent was on my pillow in the morning and I thought it smelled familiar but I didn’t place it until you kissed my cheek at the party and then I knew—and it just seemed obvious to me after that.” His smile softened as he sobered. “When I looked closely, I recognized your ear,” he said softly, touching his fingers to her ear lobe in a light caress, “and the curve of your neck,” he added, suiting his action to the words again, “and, of course, the shape of your mouth.”

Her eyes darkened at every light touch and he felt a swift surge of lust at this sign of her responsiveness, her burgeoning arousal, but tamped it down—temporarily. “And then I remembered that your grandmother’s last name is Watson and it really did seem obvious.”

“You know what my grandmother’s name is? You’ve never met her and I don’t remember talking about her much.”

“You mentioned it to me that time when you went to visit them for a week, something about how you didn’t get to see your grandmother Watson often enough.”

“I said that? I don’t even remember that.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Well, I remembered you mentioning it. I should have figured out who you were sooner, too. You remember how I told Helena that she reminded me of someone?”

Hermione nodded. “Mm hmm.”

“I was talking about you. Helena reminded me of you even though I couldn’t figure out why at the time and then I forgot to think about it while we talked and…” He paused half-suggestively and she blushed, her gaze faltering for a moment before she looked back up at him.

“It was because Helena didn’t look at my scar first; she looked at me.” His smile faded, his expression becoming tender, as he moved his hand to brush a strand of hair away from her cheek in an unmistakable caress. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who didn’t pay any attention to my scar from the beginning, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” she said softly. “That never even occurred to me.”

There was a brief silence before she asked, “But Harry, if you figured it out last weekend, why did you wait so long to tell me? Are you—aren’t you mad at me?”

“I was annoyed,” he admitted, “but that didn’t last long. At first, I was really too confused to feel angry but once I started to think about it, I couldn’t be angry at you. I knew you wouldn’t have done it to trick me and then laugh about it or because you wanted to have sex with the Boy Who Lived or anything. And as for why I waited so long, it was because I knew I wanted you to be able to linger in bed the next morning.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows slightly. “So you assumed you’d still be here in the morning?”

Harry felt himself color—he was blushing, damn it!—and he hastily dropped his hand. “I, well- er—I mean—we don’t have to—you--” And then he finally saw the glint of amusement in her eyes, the grin tugging at the corners of her lips. He expelled his breath in a huff that was almost a laugh but not quite. “Witch.” He lifted his hand to chuck her chin lightly, teasingly, with his knuckle in an automatic, almost habitual motion as he had gotten accustomed to doing when she teased him—but then she looked up at him and his hand stilled, lingering on her skin. And he abruptly realized, to the full, just what this meant, that Hermione was no longer just his-best-friend-Hermione, would never be just-his-best-friend-Hermione again.

He wondered fuzzily if she’d always been so beautiful when she smiled, if her lips had always had that kissable curve to them when she smiled, if the upturned corners of her lips had always seemed like they were just asking to be kissed. And if so, wondered how it was possible he could have been so blind for so long?

Her smile faded slowly as the air seemed to thicken around them. Her breathing hitched and then fluttered past her slightly parted lips and desire slammed into him, hard. Physical desire—God, yes, his desire was physical—but this had an added element beyond the purely physical. He wanted to kiss her—all over—wanted to caress her, wanted to taste her skin. He wanted to see her face flushed with passion, wanted to see her eyes darken with arousal and know that it was because of him. He wanted to see her—Hermione—at the peak of physical sensation.

He knew her so well, had seen her in sadness and in anger, in joy and in peace, in pain and in confusion; he’d even seen her in sleep. But he’d never seen her in ecstasy and he wanted that. Wanted it with an intensity that he’d never felt before, for anything, ever.

And even though he knew there was more he should tell her—he couldn’t remember what exactly, his mind gone blank with desire but there was more—he cupped her face with his hands and kissed her, hard, with enough passion to bruise their mouths and she made a soft sound in the back of her throat as she arched against him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. Lust and something like joy exploded inside him as his tongue explored the depths of her mouth—the familiar depths of her mouth—tasted the familiar taste of her, felt all her remembered passion. Memory and reality meshed and melded in his mind; he couldn’t even recall Helena’s features, could only see her as Hermione now—all the attraction of that night, all the intense desire, all the eroticism and passion of that night, it was all Hermione. He’d known it but now he felt it. It was Hermione he’d wanted, Hermione he’d touched, Hermione he’d loved…

He only broke the kiss to scatter kisses across her face, learning her familiar features with his lips, finding the little hollow just before her ear and vaguely hearing her soft gasp in response.

“Harry…” The sound of her breathy moan sent a jolt of lightning searing through his body.

She brought his mouth back to hers to kiss him, her tongue venturing into his mouth, engaging in a half-playful, wholly-arousing duel with his tongue. She arched her body against him, making him aware of the growing hardness in his trousers. And then he groaned, his mind exploding as she lifted one leg to twine around his to rub her body deliberately against his arousal.

He wasn’t sure who took the first steps but it didn’t matter as they both stumbled blindly across her sitting room towards her bedroom, still kissing with almost frantic passion. They scattered items of clothing as they went like so much flotsam—her slippers, his shoes, her blouse, his shirt, his belt, her bra—he stopped short to stare for one endless moment. But before he’d even come close to looking his fill, she flattened herself against him and he forgot, at least for the moment, the pleasure of seeing her to the pleasure of feeling her bare breasts against his chest. He stepped backwards only to have his back hit a wall as she arched against him. He turned them so he could press her against the wall but instead found themselves stumbling into her room as she hit her door, making it swing open, giving way behind her, so that instead of finding her lips, his kiss landed off center on her cheek.

Their eyes met in shared humor as they both laughed, the spell of their urgency broken for now.

“Smooth move, wasn’t it?” he quipped, although his humorous tone was belied by his husky voice.

“Very,” she agreed, her eyes alight with amusement, before her gaze lowered to focus on his bare chest, all amusement fading to be replaced with heat. “I think you’re over-dressed,” she murmured just before her hands went to the waistband of his trousers, undoing the button and the zipper, so she could slide her warm, clever hands into the waistband of both his boxers and his trousers, pushing them both down at once. And he couldn’t help a small groan of relief as his arousal was freed from its confines as he hastily tore off his boxers and trousers the rest of the way, taking his socks with them.

He’d barely straightened when her hand was on him, wrapping around him, and he groaned, his eyes falling shut. He let her stroke him for a moment before he grasped her wrist lightly, pulling her hand away. “Wait. It’s my turn now.”

And suiting his actions to his words, he moved to unfasten her trousers, letting his hands caress her waist and her hips as he pushed her trousers and her knickers down past the curve of her hips and down her legs until she was completely bared to his avid gaze.

His mouth went dry as he stared. Merlin, she was gorgeous. He didn’t know how he’d never realized what a lovely figure she had but he suddenly thought he must have been blind or stupid or delusional—or all of the above.

He flattened himself against her, his arms wrapping around her and bringing her in against him, full-length, as his lips found hers again. She stumbled backwards blindly and he followed, still kissing, until her knees hit her bed and they fell onto her bed, landing with a bounce that had them both laughing softly for no particular reason before their eyes met and the laughter fled to be replaced by a gaze of pure passion and something deeper than that.

He was in bed with Hermione. He didn’t know why that thought floated through his mind and seemed invested with so much significance; it was irrational, given everything—and yet, somehow, it did seem significant. It seemed like a moment that all the previous moments of his life had been leading up to.

“Hermione…” he breathed and her name was a prayer and an endearment and a caress, all at once.

The softest of smiles just grazed her lips, the corners of her lips lifting slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Harry.”

He cupped her cheek with one hand and kissed her, softly, with all the tenderness that hadn’t been in their kisses thus far, almost frantic with passion as they had been.

The kiss began softly but then she parted her lips and tightened her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss with the same uninhibited passion he remembered so well, the same honest ardor he’d fallen in love with.

He shifted until he was lying more fully on top of her, pressing her deeper into the pillows, as he slid his hand down her neck and her shoulders and then her arm before reversing direction and sweeping upwards, touching her stomach and her breast in one long, exploratory caress. She stirred slightly beneath his touch, her skin heating yet further. He cupped her breast with his hand, moving his thumb to rasp across her hard nipple, once, twice, until she broke off their kiss with a gasp, her head falling back, as she arched into his touch, her body mutely asking for more. And he gave it to her, flattening his palm against her breast, as he slid down her body, leaving a trail of soft, slightly damp kisses down the line of her jaw, her neck, pausing as his tongue found the hollow of her throat.

She didn’t passively accept his caresses but encouraged them, with the way she moved, the sounds she made, the way she touched him, her hands moving restlessly, greedily, over his shoulders and down his back and then up again.

She tangled her fingers in his hair as he finally reached his destination, his lips closing around one taut nipple, savoring her throaty moan in response. He tasted, licked, suckled her, loving every sound she made, every gasp, the way she arched into his mouth, the way her fingers tightened in his hair, holding him in place.

He moved on, trailing his lips across her chest until he could lavish the same attention on her other breast, until her breath was coming yet more quickly and her skin felt hot enough to burn. He felt and reacted to her responsiveness as if it were a drug, intoxicating him. She had so much passion, so much natural sensuality.

Pure lust closed like a fist around his gut, shutting off his brain. He needed to know all of her, needed to learn her body the way he already knew her mind and her character.

He slid further down, his hands skating down her body, caressing her waist, stomach, hips, and thighs, before his mouth followed the path his hands had taken, exploring her body yet more intimately.

He swirled his tongue around her navel before dipping his tongue into it, tasting her skin, breathing deep of the musky scent of arousal mingled in with the scent of her, that scent he knew and recognized.

“Harry.” His name was a moan as she stirred restlessly beneath his hands and his lips.

He grasped her hips lightly and glanced up at her to meet her eyes across the length of her upper body and the sight of her at that moment hit him in the chest with the force of a blow, robbing him of breath. God but she was so lovely… All soft hills and valleys and beautiful curves, her skin that he knew was just as soft as it looked, now flushed and slightly damp with arousal and heat…

He wanted to smile, would have smiled but it felt as if the muscles of his face had forgotten how with everything in him focused on her, just her. “You did this for me,” he managed to say, huskily, and then delighted in the fact that she blushed. After all this, in spite of, or perhaps because of, all her uninhibited passion, she still blushed and he loved that, would never have expected it of Hermione but it was endearing, precious.

He lowered his head again, resuming his trail of light kisses down past her navel and along the curve of her thighs before moving lower still, kissing his way down her inner thigh. He was vaguely aware of hearing her gasp and moan again, her hips twitching in his hands as she arched towards him. And finally, finally, he kissed that most intimate part of her. He licked, suckled, worshipped her with his lips and tongue, learning and savoring her taste and her pleasure until she was trembling and writhing against him, her breath coming in quick gasps. He kissed her one last time and then she shuddered and cried out, her hips arching sharply.

And the sight of her at that moment of ecstasy robbed him of breath, of thought. He could only stare, wanting to memorize forever the sight of her—the most erotic sight he could even imagine. Her skin was flushed and she was panting as her body relaxed into the mattress.

Slowly, he moved back up the bed, until he was lying beside her, propping himself up on one elbow as he watched her. Her eyes were closed as she lay there, looking as if she’d been transported to some paradise apart from the world. He could feel small tremors of reaction going through her as he rested his hand on her stomach, letting his fingers stray over her skin in a soft, almost soothing caress. He could be almost entirely content just to lie there and watch her like this, in the aftermath of bliss. Almost. Except he couldn’t ignore the increasingly urgent demands of his aching body.

Her eyes fluttered open, dark and a little slumberous with desire, and a somewhat dreamy smile curved her lips as her eyes met his. It was a look, an expression, he’d never have dreamed of seeing on Hermione—his Hermione, as clever and determined and strong-willed as she was—and yet, here it was and it was because of him. That thought, that knowledge, flooded his mind and heart with an odd mixture of male triumph mingled in with tenderness and something like awe.

She reached out and curled one hand around his erection as she urged him closer with the other and he gave in with a groan, already breathless with the anticipation of finally sinking into her wet warmth. His arousal nudged her, sliding along her wet flesh, until his eyes nearly crossed at the pure eroticism of it, before he entered her with one quick thrust of his hips.

They both cried out at the searing intimacy of it, of the way her body took him in, fit around him.

“Hermione,” he managed to gasp with what little breath he had left before he kissed her, deeply, his tongue plunging into her mouth in unconscious imitation of the movement of his hips as he began to move.

Her arms went around his shoulders, her hands clutching at him, her legs wrapping around his hips as she arched up against him, encouraging him, pulling him in yet deeper, yet closer, meeting and matching his every thrust. Her gasps for breath, his own harsh breathing, the sound of his heart pounding, all blended together into an orchestral background of lust.

And then she tore her lips from his with a sharp cry, almost a scream, as her muscles convulsed around him and the feel of her clenching around him pulled him over the edge with her and he exploded inside her with one final thrust. His vision grayed around him, his mouth opened on a hoarse shout, as he spilled himself inside her, feeling as if he gave all he had, his life, his very soul, into her keeping.

He collapsed on top of her, breathless, boneless, mindless. He could not think, could barely breathe, could only lie there on top of her. She was the bounds of his reality, the only thing that existed for him in those few moments, the warmth of her body against him, the sound and the feel of her gasps for breath against his ear.

Gradually, though, enough coherence returned to his brain for him to realize that he was probably crushing her and he rolled heavily over onto his back, mustering just enough strength, minimal as it was, to curve his arm around her, keeping her against him. He wasn’t, he thought fuzzily, about to let her go, ever again. He was disinclined ever to move again, for that matter.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift, relaxing yet further into the bed. He was—not quite asleep but not entirely awake either, his mind floating in a half-conscious state, when she stirred, distracting him.

“Harry?”

It took an almost ridiculous amount of effort to open his eyes and focus them on her face. “Hmm?”

“What was this?”

He blinked, a little confused and a lot amused. “I think it’s called having a damn good shag.”

She didn’t laugh but thumped his chest lightly. “Honestly, Harry, that wasn’t what I meant and you know it.”

He sobered. “What did you mean?”

“I- I’m not some exotic stranger you meet in a pub and have a one night stand with,” she blurted out.

He laughed. In spite of everything, in spite of the seriousness of her tone and her expression, he couldn’t help it. But then choked the rest of his amusement back at the look in her eyes, although he couldn’t entirely erase his smile from his face. “Do you think I don’t know that? This is you and me, Hermione; we don’t do one-night stands.”

“We did last week.”

“What?” That surprised him out of any lingering lethargy and he pushed himself up onto his elbow, turning onto his side so he could stare down at her. “Last week wasn’t a one-night stand; it was… something else,” he finished a little lamely, since he couldn’t think of a way to describe it.

She frowned slightly. “But- but, Harry, you said—after Ron said—I thought you--”

He cut her uncharacteristic stammering off with a quick kiss. “I said I would think about it and that was only to get Ron to leave me alone.” He quirked a slight smile. “I generally find it better not to do what Ron says I should.”

That got a small smile from her.

“As for last week, I wasn’t thinking of it—of Helena—as being a one-night stand; I thought it was… a beginning. It happened faster than things usually do but I really liked Helena. I liked that I felt comfortable with her, I liked that she didn’t flatter me, I liked that I could actually talk to her. And I was incredibly disappointed to wake up the next morning and find you were gone.”

“Oh, Harry, really? I- I didn’t know. I thought…”

He moved one hand to cup her cheek lightly. “Hermione, if I’d been thinking of Helena as being only a one-night stand, I wouldn’t have let you go down on me.”

She blushed hotly and he allowed himself a smile that may have been tinged with just a smidgen of male smugness at making her blush, before he sobered.

“I liked Helena but it wasn’t until later that I realized the reason I liked her was because she reminded me of you. It was you, Hermione, all along. I wanted you, loved you. I just didn’t realize it until Helena hit me over the head with it. Luckily for me, you’ve always been a lot smarter than I am.”

She choked on a laugh as she almost threw herself at him, her arms going around his neck as she pressed all sorts of delightfully bare skin against him. “Oh, Harry, I love you too! But I thought you could never think of me like that.”

He let himself fall back, sliding his own arms around her and enjoying the feel of her breasts flattened against his chest, as she lay half on top of him. “I know. That was why you decided to play Helena, wasn’t it?”

She lifted her head just enough to look at him, suddenly looking rather shy—incongruously so, given where they were and what they were wearing, or not wearing more accurately. “You guessed?”

He flattened his hands on her bare back. “I figured that was it because it was the only thing that made sense.” He let his fingers stray in a light caress as he met her eyes. “I’m rather glad you pretended to be Helena, or who knows how much longer it would have taken me to realize that the reason I could never really fancy any of the girls I met was because I kept comparing them to you?”

And he was rewarded for his candor when she smiled, a soft smile that glowed in her eyes and softened her expression, a smile that was very like the affectionate smile she used to give him when he’d done something she approved of, a smile that reminded him of the smile Helena had given him that had caught at his heart and made him realize he was falling for her—except this time, he realized, she wasn’t hiding anything. This smile showed all her love and all her loyalty and all the depth of feeling which he knew she had. It was a smile that would have made him realize, if he hadn’t already, that he really was in love with his best friend, in love with his Hermione.

And then she kissed him, with slow, deliberate heat and rubbed herself against him in a way that effectively distracted his mind from everything else except her. And his last coherent thought as he returned her kiss and her caresses was, this was it. This was forever.

This—this desire, this love— was forever. She was his forever.

~The End~