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Day two, folks! Today's prompt is 'What are your character's most prominent physical features?' I envision this one taking place in an alternate reality HBP, one where Ron's still an idiot but Harry's a little bit less of one. Enjoy!
Why can't I stop looking at her?
It's a little ridiculous, really. I'm Harry freaking Potter: I've stared down trolls, giant spiders, giant snakes, dementors, werewolves, dragons, murderers, and Dark Lords; I've been hit with every jinx, hex, and curse that magical minds have devised; I've been injured so many times that there's a bed in the Hospital Wing that literally has my name on it.
But I can't stop looking at Her. I feel like I've got it under control, and then I look up to ask her a question and she's doing that thing where she nibbles on the end of her quill. And then I have to keep watching, I can't turn away. Her eyes are moving at lightning speed, like she's copying the book into her memory. Every so often she pauses, hitting on some fact that doesn't quite fit, and her right eye narrows minutely, and she reaches over to the parchment beside her and scribbles down a note. Then she's back, eyes whizzing over the pages almost faster than I can follow.
And she can do all of this without once looking away from the book in front of her. And I sit and watch, in awe of the perfect equilibrium of Her.
I've got to agree with Ron on this one: She's brilliant. Scary, absolutely fucking terrifying, but brilliant.
Of course, even the great Hermione Granger can't sustain herself on books alone; every so often she has to reach for the goblet of water beside her. This is where her perfect poise breaks down, but I can't help but find it adorable the way she fumbles blindly with one hand while refusing to take her eyes off her book for even one second. I don't know how long I watch before I reach over and push the goblet into her hand. That's when she looks up, when she gives me that bright, wonderful smile that makes my stomach do things Cho could only dream of causing. And she takes a drink, and when she puts the goblet back down she sets it half-off the spine of a book so I lunge to keep it from falling, and we both laugh.
And then she goes back to reading, and I try to do the same.
But I've forgotten my question, so I have to look back up to ask her.
And she's doing that thing with her quill.
***
It isn't fair how attractive she's gotten.
I mean, she was never ugly; even when she was so much younger, with her hair that refused to be tamed and her unnaturally large front teeth, she was still pretty cute. In retrospect, anyway; at the time I was clearly less than interested.
But now she's something else. Can I help it if I stare a little bit too long when she bends down to pick up a fallen quill? Or when she arches her back to work out the kinks? A cynic might say I could, but that cynic has clearly never been exposed to the magnetic force of Hermione Granger's ass, or Hermione Granger's breasts. Good thing, too - if they had, then I'd have to kill them and that's just uncomfortable for everyone.
Everything about her is perfect: her hair, once bushier than even I could believe, has straightened out, and when it catches the right light it turns from its normal - and already-fantastic - honey-brown into something that looks like wisps of gold, and tiny strands of it escape from the loose ponytail she's pulled it into, and I want to reach over; I want to brush my fingertips across her skin, trace the line of her jaw, and tuck those golden strands behind the shell of her ear.
And her face would turn to mine, and she'd look at me with those eyes. And if I could avoid getting lost in them, in their gold-flecked brown, my eyes would trace the lines of her face past her nose with the sudden rounding-off, and down to her lips. Oh, her lips; thin, but aristocratically thin, not obscured with makeup, and it always seems like they're parted just enough for me to see them glisten. And I would wonder if they tasted as good, and felt as soft, as they looked like they would. But I wouldn't test my theory, because she's pining for Ron and I'm a coward.
That cowardice is the same reason I sneak glances when she bends, or stretches, or otherwise does anything that might accentuate her behind or her be-front; things like lifting books, bending to pick things up, or even just walking in front of me. I'm not a pervert, honestly - my best friend is just hot.
Of course I could never do any more than that. I care about her too much, and so does Ron. The boundaries are clear: I can look - as long as I'm discreet - but I can't touch.
But damn, do I want to touch.