Brushing

Aeryn

Rating: PG
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 01/01/2003
Last Updated: 01/01/2003
Status: completed

Pure unadulterated fluff, probably the only such fic I'll ever write. Harry helps Hermione with an otherwise mundane chore.

Chapters

1. Chapter 1/1

1. Chapter 1/1

Brushing

Author: Lady Aeryn
Author Email: aeryn@thepensieve.net
Category: Romance/Fluff
Keywords: Harry, Hermione, H/H, hair brushing
Spoilers: none
Rating: PG
Summary: Fluffy plotless romantic scene somewhere in a future H/Hr relationship. Harry helps Hermione with an otherwise mundane task...
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author’s Note: This is probably the most sugary fic I will ever write; it’s certainly the most fluffy I’ve ever written. Normally I thrive on angst; I don’t know what came over me when I decided to write this one.

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“I love your hair.”

She looked up, stopping her brush in mid-stroke, smiling back at the mirror’s reflection of the person standing behind her. She knew he’d been standing there for a while—just watching as she set down to her nightly pointless routine of detangling her mad bushy hair enough so that by the time a night’s worth of sleep (or other... ‘activities’) had successfully matted it into a mass otherwise unbreakable by brushes Muggle or magical, it would still be semi-manageable in the morning.

He hadn’t spoken until now, and she’d not minded in the slightest—next to her own unremarkable reflection the messy mop of soft black hair and verdant, living eyes punctuating the shy, sweet familiar face above the undeniably attractive t-shirt and boxer-clad slender form was easily the most beautiful sight she’d hope to envision—aside from seeing the real thing, of course.

She put the brush down, still smiling. “You know, you’ve become quite a distraction for me lately.”

“Lately?” He all but leapt forward from the doorframe, grasping another chair and straddling it backwards right behind her in one motion, so his face was now hovering scant millimeters from her half-covered-by-nightgown shoulder. “You of all people know that distracting you from the mundane necessities of life is an art I’ve spent years perfecting,” he added in a mock serious tone, that combined with the very close warm breath tickling her ears and shoulder, made her giggle. “It’s only recently I’ve been able to do it on a more... personal basis.” He nuzzled his nose tantalizingly along the curve of her ear, and she fought the near-involuntary urge to drop her hairbrush.

“And a lovely bit of work you do, too.”

“Ah, I never consider that work—keeping you from what needs to be done usually means positive benefits later on for me...”

“Distracting me from the mundane,” she said with a quirked lip, tracing a finger along the smooth, soft cheek.

“Or simply help you avoid it altogether.”

She grinned. “That’s never been a problem.”

“Let me brush your hair.”

Her eyebrows went up at the sharp conversation turn.

“If simply because I love the idea of it’s not enough,” he explained, “then consider it part of my saving you from mundane tasks.”

Her face softened, lips tightening in a channeling of resulting emotion that threatened to melt her. That something so familiar could still find so many ways to so pleasantly surprise her... she nodded, pressing the brush into his hand, allowing her fingers to linger on his own delicate, Snitch-catching ones.

He started at the bottom of her past-shoulder-length mane, doing quick short strokes, working the tangles out from the base—she wondered where he’d learned such a thing; certainly his aunt hadn’t taught him. Hermione normally gave up too quickly to expend patience on something as time-consuming as this method of detangling was... but having Harry do it, she found, was a far less unpleasant (and apparently more efficient) means of executing it. She suspected a large part of his motives came from him wanting an excuse to spend an extended amount of time with his fingers in contact with her hair, and she quite fully encouraged that motive.

She’d worn her hair that day pulled back and wrestled into a large banana clip at the back of her head (a quick and easy means of getting it out of her face, which was more convenient for her and Harry said he loved seeing her face uncovered anyway). When she’d finally gotten it back out, her hair had slowly spilled down to her shoulders; she’d seen Harry emit a tiny sigh as he watched her do it and the brown waves take shape, and for the thousandth time this year she thanked whatever powers that were out there for her being able to fall for him. Him, and not some other, not as sensitive and noble and unconditionally caring as he, and that he’d done the same for her.

Though in her opinion, of the two of them, she’d gotten the better deal by far.

Sod the Mirror of Erised—everything she’d ever have wanted then she could see in this perfectly ordinary Muggle vanity mirror right in front of her. As Harry’s nimble hands—so eloquent at more things than just Quidditch—wove their way in concert with the otherwise clunky hairbrush through her hair, it felt positively silky, not ratty and bushy. She could feel his fingers slide through it as if there were no tangles in it at all. She could only think of one other task where he did that; she felt her face warm.

He was definitely brushing her hair every night from now on.

“You know,” she lied after several minutes, “you’re the one having all the fun here. When can I mess up your hair, too?”

“I am not messing it up.”

“No, but the sooner I get you annoyed the sooner we can stop and get on to something where I do get to let my fingers have a little fun with your hair.”

“Really?”

“Well, eventually. Honestly... I can’t think of another place I’d want to be right now.” Stroke, then fingers, then stroke again... Hermione found herself closing her eyes and leaning into the rhythm of his hands, the back of her head leaning against the gentle thrumming pulse in his chest. Harry didn’t stop what he was doing, but merely shifted his brush/hand movements to the sides of her head, working there... and then, placing his lips softly on her crown, right on the perfectly straight white part line... holding it there.

“I love you so much,” he murmured into her hair, resting his chin against the back of her head, holding it in place with the hair-entwined fingers that were no longer aiding the brush in its duty. (Hermione couldn’t see it, nor particularly cared, but knew the brush was lying forgotten somewhere, and definitely wouldn’t be found before tomorrow morning.) She felt her chair being turned around, then herself being lifted with feathery gentleness into Harry’s lap. She opened her eyes, looping her arms around his neck, finally getting her chance to do her own playing with his hair.

“I take it this means the hair brushing is over?” she asked, pouting her lower lip out and leaning her forehead against his, seeing nothing but a pair of green eyes that had efficiently trapped her own, as always. He lifted her from the chair and deposited them both on the bed in another fluid motion (which certainly wouldn't be his last of the evening). They spent a moment silently spooned against one another, foreheads still in contact, both fingering segments of one another’s hair.

“Always the smart girl,” Harry grinned, as Hermione removed his glasses and set them on the bedside table, and then for some time after that, hair was only a small part of a larger, more detailed issue.

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