Taking the Leap

by TLM8

Summary:

One disastrous breakup was all it took to convince Hermione dating your best friend was a terrible idea. So why is she having such a hard time staying out of her other best friend's bed? Her mind already knows its a mistake. If only she could get her heart on board too.

This piece was written for The Harmony Shag-A-Thon, hosted by the Facebook group, Harmony & Co. All canon characters, plots, dialogue, and situations from the Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this work.

Chapter 1

The first time was a mistake.

A cliché.

A typical too-much-to-drink-off-their-heads-what-the-hell-are-we-thinking mistake.

One minute, they were sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, finishing off a second bottle of wine.  

The next minute, they were stumbling through his bedroom door (it was closer), snogging like mad, and wrestling each other out of their clothes.

Her hands raced over the exposed planes of his lean body, while he nibbled and licked each new patch of skin revealed to him as he tore her clothing off of her.  Harry pushed her onto his bed, then crawled up after her, staring at her like he was about to devour her whole. His hands were everywhere, touching her in ways she'd never been touched before, not even by her three ex-boyfriends.  They swept over her breasts, her hips, her belly, her legs, filling his palms with the heat and softness of her, his expression equal parts adoration and wonder.  And when he parted her legs and put his warm mouth on her for the first time, Hermione--who wasn't a screamer by nature--couldn't keep herself from arching half off the bed and shrieking his name.

She hadn’t even caught her breath before he reared up and thrust into her, a choked "Oh God" stuttering out of him once he'd buried himself inside her. He only gave her a moment to adjust to the feel of him before he began to move.  His hands cupped her hips, lifting her slightly at the height of each thrust, silently encouraging her to move with him. She did—tentatively at first and then with more confidence.

It felt so good—so incredibly good—that soon Hermione forgot herself completely.  She began whispering things she never thought she'd say to him.  Things like "Oh, Harry, yes," and "Mmm. That feels so good " and "There. Right there.  Don't stop."  But when she wrapped both legs around him and breathed in his ear " Oh, fuck ," he lost it.  Harry began driving into her like a man possessed, until she was once again screaming his name and shattering around him like broken glass.  A moment later, his entire body stiffened as every last drop of his pleasure poured into her.

 

It was a mistake.  A terrible mistake. The sort of mistake that could ruin a lifelong friendship and turn devoted friends into strangers.  Hermione knew that. Everyone knew that.  It was one of her greatest fears and the number 1 reason why she'd never acted on a single one of the romantic stirrings she may have felt for her best friend before tonight.  She couldn't bear the thought of losing him. One drunken shag later, she may have done exactly that.

"Hermione?"

His voice was soft, hesitant. Was he thinking what she was thinking?  Was his mind now plagued with all of the same fears swirling around her own brain? She was staring up at the ceiling, but felt his head move on the pillow beside her.  She could feel him watching her, waiting for her to respond.  With some surprise, she realized he wanted to talk about this.  Harry, who never wanted to talk about anything, actually wanted to talk about this.  

 

“Well, of course he does, ” she thought to herself, “ And we should talk about it.  How else are we supposed to fix it? ”

But before he could say another word, Hermione turned her head towards him and kissed him.  Deeply. Passionately.  Her tongue slipping past his lips and twining around his own.  Harry responded right away. His hands came up and framed her face as he kissed her back with just as much enthusiasm.  Her hand slid down his chest and stomach, wrapping around his length and stroking him into hardness once again.  When he was stiff and hot in the palm of hand, she coaxed him onto his back and slid over him, her legs straddling his narrow hips.  Harry stared up at her, his pupils blown wide with a combination of lust and disbelief.

"What the hell am I doing ?" she thought, as she pressed her hips down, taking him inside her a second time, "This is only going to make things worse. "

Then his mouth found her breast and she quit thinking anything after that.

*********************************************************************************************************

"Are we ever going to talk about it?"  

Harry was angry.  She knew he would be.  She'd managed to avoid him for nearly three weeks, despite a valiant effort on his part to pin her down.   This morning he'd finally managed to corner her in her office to ask a question that deserved an honest answer.  

Were they ever going to talk about it?  Not if she could help it, they weren't.

"We don't need to discuss it," she said.

"We don't?" he repeated, incredulous, "Hermione, we slept together!"

"Keep it down!" she hissed, bolting across the room and slamming her office door shut. "God, Harry!  Take out an advert in the Daily Prophet and tell everyone, why don't you?"

"If that's what it takes to get you to stand still long enough to have a conversation with me, I will," he hissed back, "I'm tired of you avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you."  (Yes, she was.) "I've just been busy."  (On purpose.) "It's not like I asked to be sent out of town at the beginning of the month."  Only that was exactly what it was like. When her boss announced to her team that Teller's wife had gone into labor the night before and he needed a volunteer to go to Germany to take a series of depositions in his place, Hermione had all but knocked three of her co-workers to the ground in her haste to claim the assignment.  She'd managed to avoid a confrontation with Harry for two weeks by getting the hell out of the country, and another week after that by sneaking off to work early in the morning and leaving late every night. It was cowardly of her (she knew that) but she also knew what it was he wanted to say, and she didn't think she could stand it.  Plastering some big phony smile on her face and listening to him fumble through an apology for shagging her and calling it an awful, horrible, regrettable mistake.  Even if it was, she wasn't ready to hear him say so, not then and not now either.  But it seemed her time had run out.  Sighing inwardly, she walked over to her desk and leaned against it. "We haven't talked about it because there's nothing to say."

He scowled at her.  We're going to act like it never happened, is that it?"

"No.  We're just not going to make a big thing out of it."  She sounded so cool, so practical, she almost believed it herself.  "Things like this happen, right? Two people have too much to drink, one thing leads to another, and they have sex.  It's not a big deal."

Harry blinked, some of his frustration waning.  "That’s really how you feel about it?"

"Of course,” she said, “We're consenting adults.  Neither one of us is in a relationship right now. What happened is our business. Besides, I don’t believe for one second it was the first time you’ve woken up next to someone you didn't intend to sleep with."

His face turned pink.  "It's not."

"Well, then," she said, one eyebrow lifting, "Did you hunt those girls down and demand a big morning-after talk from them too?"

"No," he admitted, "But you're not just some girl I picked up at a pub.  You've been my best friend since I was 11—"

"I am still your best friend," she cut in sharply, "That hasn't changed, Harry, understand?   Nothing has changed."  She forced herself to quell the surge of panic rising up inside her.  Nearly losing Ron after their terrible break up had been traumatic enough. She refused to go through the same thing with Harry.  She'd pull her wand out and obliviate the both of them first. "We'll just put the whole thing behind us and not mention it anymore, okay?"

"In other words, you do want to act like it never happened."

Was it her imagination or did he sound disappointed? She looked at him a little more closely then.  Hermione would have to have been blinder than an entire cave full of bats to miss the hurt parading right out of his green eyes. "That’s not what I'm saying."

"What are you saying then?"

"Just that it happened.  We had sex—" she couldn't keep her mouth from turning up into a coy half smile at the memory of it, the heady passion, "—it was fantastic--”  she watched as his expression morphed from hurt to surprise in a flash, "—and that's the end of it. There's no need to bring it up anymore because it’s not an issue.  It's something we did and now it's over."

Harry tilted his head to the side, considering her more closely than she was used to.  She could feel a slow red flush creeping up her chest and neck. When did Harry's gaze become so piercing, she wondered? It wasn't a bad look on him, though she did find it a little difficult to keep from squirming under his probing stare.    When he finally spoke, his voice was a familiar blend of shyness and pride. "So you…um…you thought it was fantastic?"

Hermione burst into laughter.  "Is that all you heard?" she asked, "Honestly, Harry, sometimes you are such a man!"

There was a brief knock on the door before it opened and a head of long auburn hair poked in.

"Hermione?  Oh, excuse me.  I didn't know you were busy.  Hi, Harry. How are you?" Hermione's associate, Lyssa Adams, offered him a brief smile, but didn't wait for a response. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but we need to go over those timelines."

"Yes, of course.  Come in. Harry was just on his way out." Hermione slanted an apologetic look his way. "I'll see you later?"

"Yeah, all right.  Have a good day, then.  You too, Lyssa."

He left and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.  Disaster averted, thank goodness. They could just put it behind them now and move on.

Chapter 2

The second time was more like an accident.

Harry and Ron wanted to have a party and invite all their mates from school over and most of their colleagues from work too. Grimmauld Place was packed to the rafters with people laughing, drinking, and having a good time. Except for Hermione, who was trying to avoid it all by holing up in her bedroom with the door locked.  Unfortunately, her friend and former flatmate, Hannah Abbott, was having none of it. She forced her way into the room, dragged Hermione away from her desk, and hustled her down the stairs nearly at wand point.  

"You can't spend the entire night hiding away in your room when everyone else is out here having a good time," Hannah said as she frog-marched her into the kitchen, "You need to loosen up a bit.  Have a drink.  Hang around with your friends."

Hermione didn't want to hang around with her friends.  Not if it meant being forced to watch Harry chat up whatever pretty witch caught his eye tonight. They'd agreed not to let what had happened between them be an issue, but she didn’t fancy torturing herself just to prove how indifferent she was either.

"I brought some of that French wine you love so much," Hannah was saying, "I'll get you some."

"No!" Hermione shouted, "No wine!"  She hadn't meant to yell, but her words went thundering through the relatively quiet room at full voice.  Hannah paused, her hand already stretched towards the cupboard overhead for a glass.  She, along with everyone else nearby, looked at Hermione quizzically.

"I have an early morning tomorrow," she mumbled, "I don't want to be hungover."

"That's why hangover potion was invented," Hannah told her.

"It's also why bottled water was invented." Hermione stalked over to the refrigerator and pulled one out.  She unscrewed the top off of it and took a big drink. As she did, she noticed Harry leaning against the counter across the room, watching her with unreadable eyes.  Standing beside him was a curvy blond Hermione vaguely recognized as one of his coworkers. Rebecca? Rachel? Something with an R.

Red with embarrassment, she turned and made her way back to Hannah.  "Come on, then," she muttered, "Let's get this over with." 

"You're going to be loads of fun tonight, aren't you?" Hannah said, following her out of the kitchen.

But it turned out the evening wasn't a total misery after all.  Hermione wasn't as reserved as she'd once been at Hogwarts and enough of her former classmates were there to talk to and laugh with and keep her mind from lingering too long on her dark-haired best friend and…whatever it was he might be getting up to.  By the time the party was wrapping up, Harry was nowhere to be found.  She tried not to dwell on that as she made her way up the stairs.  At least she could finally hide away in peace.  Her relief was short-lived, though, when she entered her room and discovered to her immense displeasure that Hannah was already in it. Naked and passed out on top of her boyfriend. In Hermione's bed.

"Are you kidding me?" she snarled, as she stormed back out and slammed the door.  Now what was she supposed to do?

She wandered back downstairs intent on finding an unclaimed sofa or armchair somewhere.  Grimmauld Place had plenty of bedrooms, but since it was so late—and so many of their guests were too intoxicated to travel safely—she knew a good many of them would already be occupied.  She had zero inclination to go sticking her head into room after room in the hopes of finding a free one. All the bare body parts she might have to see?  Gross.  No, thank you.  Hannah and Neville were bad enough as it was.

“Oh! The library is probably free,” she thought suddenly.  Harry kept it locked when they had parties because Hermione got so anxious about people going in there and accidentally spilling their drinks or vomiting (or worse) all over the books.  It had a soft (enough) sofa and a big, lovely fireplace too, so even without blankets she'd stay nice and warm. That sounded better than the alternative, which was looking more and more like an empty corner in the hallway.  But when she opened the library door, she was disappointed a second time when she didn't find solitude in a toasty warm refuge after all.  It was freezing cold, despite the fire burning brightly in the fireplace. It wasn't empty either.  Harry was standing in front of the window, his hands resting lightly on the sill.

He turned when he heard the door open, his gaze drifting over her.

"Hi."  Hermione felt her cheeks grow warm and immediately berated herself for it.  What was she doing, feeling all flustered in front of him?  It was just Harry, for god sakes.

"Hi."

"Why is it so cold in here?" she asked.

Harry gestured towards the window.  "Someone got in here and opened it.  There's about 2 feet of snow outside."

"Oh."  Well, that certainly complicated things.  In just jeans and a tank top, she felt as if there was about 2 feet of snow inside too.  The fire and a good warming charm would help, but it could take hours before the chill was finally gone.  She wrapped her arms around herself.  Maybe Harry would loan her a blanket. She was just about to ask when he spoke first.

"What are you still doing up?  I thought you'd gone to bed ages ago."

"I tried to, but Hannah and Neville got to my bed first."  His eyebrows lifted and she laughed. "I know. Ick. But they’re sound asleep.  I can hardly kick them out now."

Harry took a step closer to her.  Hermione forced herself not to take an answering step back.  "Where are you going to sleep then?"

"Down here," she said, gesturing to the sofa.

"You can't sleep in here, Hermione. It's too cold."

"It'll be fine if I just build up the fire a bit and grab an extra blanket.

He shook his head.  "You'll freeze, even with warming charms. And that sofa isn’t comfortable to sleep on at all."

"I'm a bit short on options tonight, Harry,” she said with a shrug, “All the other rooms are taken."

"Mine's free.  You can sleep with me."

Hermione's heart leapt into her throat.  She knew perfectly well he didn't mean anything by it, but still…to hear him say it like that.  She couldn't help the mind movies it provoked. She blushed so hard she felt certain her face must be glowing.  "That's okay. I don’t want to put you out."

"It's no trouble.  I have a big bed."

God, was he doing it on purpose?  She knew all about his big bed, thanks.   

"No, really.  I can just—"

"Hermione, what is the big deal?" he cut in with a small smile, "It's not like we haven't slept in the same bed before."

"Well, won't Renee mind having a third person join the party?"  It was said with just enough archness to disguise the sudden rush of jealousy that seized her at the thought of another girl in Harry’s room.

"Who?" he asked.

"The blonde I saw you talking to in the kitchen earlier."   The chesty one who looked like she wanted to breastfeed you, her mind supplied cattily.  

"You mean Richelle," he said, "She left a long time ago with Derek Lemonne."

"Who's that?"

"Another coworker of mine," he said, "and her fiance."

"Oh."  The word “fiance” left her feeling relieved, then sheepish, then annoyed because she had no right to feel anything other than platonic affection where Harry was concerned and who he might be hooking up with was certainly not her business.  

"Come on," he said, putting his hand on her waist and turning her, "It's late.  I'm exhausted. Let's get some sleep."

She should have put up more of a fight, but the feel of his hand on the small of her back temporarily robbed her of speech.  She let herself be guided out of the room and up the stairs.  As they made their way through the hall, she could hear the sounds of several people who were either too off their heads or too eager to put up silencing charms.

Lovely.  

That was all she needed right now.

Neither of them spoke until they were in his room and he’d closed the door behind them.  

"I'll…erm…be right back."  She disappeared into his bathroom without waiting for a response.  Hermione kept all of the bathrooms in the house well stocked with extra toothbrushes for overnight guests.  She opened a new one and began cleaning her teeth. Vigorously.

"What's the big deal ?" she chided herself, " You've slept next to Harry too many times to count.  Every night for almost a year, in fact, remember? Stop being so stupid. "

But she stayed at that sink, brushing until she simply couldn't put off going back into the room anymore.  With her teeth cleaner than they'd ever been before in her life, she turned off the faucet and opened the door.  Harry was sitting on his bed, dressed in a pair of loose black pajama pants and a white t-shirt. He gave her a wry half smile.  "You took your time."

"Sorry."

"If you want to borrow some pajamas, help yourself," he said, gesturing towards his dresser.

"Thanks."

Once the bathroom door closed, she walked over to the dresser and pulled it open.  The top drawer was full of t-shirts, all of them carefully folded and tucked neatly inside.  She picked up the one on top. It was a plain grey crew-neck cotton t-shirt with short sleeves.  Thoroughly unremarkable. The sort of shirt she'd seen Harry wear at least a thousand times before. After one quick, furtive look towards the door, she lifted it to her nose and inhaled.

Thoroughly unremarkable except for the way it smelled.  Like him—that unique combination of cool air and fresh cut grass in the Springtime.  Hermione dropped it as though it was poison and slammed the drawer shut. There was no way she was going to tempt fate further by wrapping her body up in something that smelled like Harry. She’d sleep in her tank top.

Jerking open the bottom drawer, she reached for the oldest, rattiest, unsexiest pair of sweats she could find and pulled them on.  She debated leaving her bra on, but knew she wouldn't be able to sleep if she didn't take it off.  After quickly discarding it, she jumped into bed and pulled the covers all the way up to her chin. She even turned her back to the bathroom door for good measure.

Harry took his time cleaning his teeth too.  So long, in fact, that she was half asleep when she finally felt the mattress dip under the weight of him joining her in bed.  There was a short pause, as Harry seemed to consider her, then a snort of suppressed laughter.

"All comfy then?"  He sounded irritatingly amused.  

"Yes, thank you."  A bald-faced lie. She was clinging to the edge of the mattress like a bur stuck to a sock.

"Are you sure you don't want to spread out a little?  There's plenty of room."

"I'm quite happy where I am," she said, tucking in even tighter.

There was another pause.  Hermione could practically feel him grinning down at her, "Look, I know we have that incident from a few weeks ago between us now, but I promise you, I’m more than capable of keeping my hands to myself for one night."

"Who said you couldn’t?" she snapped, "This is how I sleep, okay?  Whatever. Get over it. Good night."

"All right, then.  Good night." He could barely get the words out in a steady voice.  The whole bed shook from his attempts to stifle his laughter.  Hermione wanted to bash him over the head with her pillow. Instead, she buried her face even deeper in it.  "For the love of God, just go to sleep ," she told herself sternly.

Thankfully, she did.

 

Hermione was cocooned in warmth, every part of her enveloped in it.  But it wasn't a static warmth. It whispered over the curve of her hip and the dip of her waist, stroking softly over the nape of her neck and down her spine.  Up and down, back and forth, it swept gently over every part of her.  She'd never felt so caressed before. She found herself chasing it, pressing herself further into it…and to her surprise, it pressed itself back into her as well.  It was enough to rouse her just a bit, her eyes slitting open.

At some point in the night, she'd released her death grip on the stiff piping that edged the mattress and had reached for Harry instead.  She was now wrapped in his arms, her head tucked beneath his chin, his chest flush against hers, and their legs tangled together. She was dimly aware of his hands slipping beneath her tank top and gliding up and down her bare back, but instead of pushing him away, she leaned in to it, tacitly asking for more.  It felt so much like a dream, her mind was unable to grasp the danger she was in. By the time her better sense was sufficiently roused and screaming at her to get the hell out of the bed , Harry (still half asleep himself, surely) had already slid one hand into her hair, angled her head back, and kissed her.

It was the kiss that shredded her resolve.  Hermione's mouth practically fell open in her eagerness to reacquaint herself with best friend's taste.  He kissed her greedily, his tongue dipping in and out of her mouth in a deliberate rhythm. Hermione's arms wound around his neck and pulled him closer.  Teasing at first, the kiss quickly gained in heat and intensity until the two of them were devouring each other. The voice in the back of her head that was trying so hard to remind her that this was a bad, bad idea grew fainter and less urgent with each press of his tongue.  It gave up entirely when her teeth sank into his lower lip and he moaned. The hungry sound obliterated whatever may have remained of her logic. She didn't resist when he pushed her onto her back, nor did she attempt to stop him when he began peeling off her tank top and his sweats.  She welcomed him with open arms when he parted her legs and settled himself between them.

Only once did Harry try to slow things down by pulling back from their frantic kiss.  "Hermione…?" His green eyes bored into her own. Please don’t make me beg.

 

"Yes," she answered the unspoken question,

 

Hermione slid her hand around the back of his neck and drew him back down to her willing mouth.  She didn't want to say anything more than that one word. If either one of them tried to say more, her brain might start working again, and she didn't want it to.  She just wanted to feel—his mouth on her mouth, his hands on her skin, his body writhing above her own. She wanted this. She wanted him.  Sod the bloody consequences.

 

"Yes."

 He shifted his hips forward and sank into the hot depths of her body.

"Yes ."

 He began an achingly slow, steady rhythm, giving her his full length before drawing back out.

"Oh, yes ."

 His hands slid up and around her thighs, lifting them and drawing them around his hips.  His pace began to increase--harder, faster, deeper.

"Yes, Harry," she groaned.  

 

He caught her mouth with his own again in another feverish kiss.  She wanted him closer. She lifted her hips against him, urging him even deeper.  Harry braced himself on his forearms and began pounding her into the mattress. She wrapped both arms around him and held on tight.  “Yes, Harry...Yes, Harry!...Yes, yes-- !”

 

Yesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyes.

 

Hermione crept out of Harry’s bed the following morning, wriggled back into her clothes, and tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen. This early in the morning, she was expecting to find solitude.  Instead she found Ron and a brunette witch whose name she couldn’t recall hunched over the table, nursing cups of strong, black coffee.

 

The two of them looked up at her with matching expressions of misery.

 

"Hangover?” she asked.

 

Ron nodded.  “And no potion.  I don’t suppose you could--”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes and headed to the cupboard.  She’d made an entire cauldron of hangover potion only last month.  If it was already gone, there was entirely too much partying going on in this house.  She briskly assembled the necessary ingredients and divided the liquid between two large glasses.

 

Ron’s eyes were full of gratitude when she set the first glass down in front of him.  “Oh, Hermione,” he said in that reverent tone he only used when he was really impressed or really grateful. “I love you so much.”

 

“Right.” He always loved her when he wanted something. “Here you are...uh...”

 

“Amanda,” the girl supplied, accepting the offered glass, “It’s a pleasure meeting you.”

 

“Very nice to meet you too.”

 

Ron and Amanda sipped their potion in silence while Hermione set about making herself a pot of tea.  By the time she was pouring herself a cup, the two of them had finished the last of their remedy and were looking much better.  

 

“I should probably be on my way,” Amanda said as Hermione slid into the chair opposite them.

 

“No need to rush off,” Ron told her.

 

“I have a busy day,” she said, “I’ll just have a shower first if that’s all right?”

 

“Of course.  Extra towels are in the hall closet.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

She sauntered off, the hem of Ron’s old quidditch jersey swirling around her legs.  He tilted his head to the side, watching with obvious appreciation, until she disappeared through the doorway.  

 

Hermione shook her head.  “Had a good party then, Ron?” she asked before lifting her mug to her lips.

 

“Pretty good, yeah,” he said with a grin, “But from the sound of it, not half as good as Harry.”

 

It took every last ounce of Hermione’s willpower to keep from spraying her tea directly into Ron’s face.  “What?” she choked.

 

“I don’t know who he had in his room last night, but she was a bit of a screamer, wasn’t she?” He pitched his voice high and breathy, “Yes, Harry! Yes Harry!  Yes! Yes! Yes! All bloody night long.”

 

Hermione’s heart dropped into her stomach.  Had she been screaming? She didn’t think she so, but she’d been too overwhelmed by a hundred different sensations coursing through her at the time to notice.  Harry had been so intense last night, so thoroughly focused on her, she felt as though he’d branded himself into her skin.

 

Obviously misreading her look of horror for one of disapproval, Ron shook his head.  “Geez, Hermione. Don’t look like that. Harry’s a grown man. He can do what he likes.”

 

“Who said he couldn’t?” she sniped back, “But it wasn’t Harry.  It was someone else.”

 

“I think I know what I heard.”

 

“I think between all the alcohol you consumed and the private party you were hosting in your own bedroom, you can’t be entirely sure about anything you think you heard.  I’m telling you, it wasn’t Harry.”

 

Ron snickered.  “You just don’t like the idea of your best friend having sex, that’s all.  Don’t be such a prude.”

 

A snarky retort was about to burst from her lips when Neville and Hannah padded into the kitchen as well.  She turned her ire on them instead.

 

“Hey, Hannah, I’m glad you’re here because I want to ask you a question.   Don’t you have your own flat ?!  Why are using my bedroom to shag your boyfriend?”

 

Hannah held up her hands as though in surrender as Neville dropped into a chair at the table.  “You’re right. I’m sorry. We were very drunk. Why didn’t you wake us up and throw us out?”

 

“Hmmm.  That’s a good question.  Maybe because I’d rather dig my eyes out with my own wand than see the two of you wrapped in a naked embrace.”  She glared at Neville who gave her an apologetic smile in return. “You aren’t leaving this house until I personally see you load every last stitch of my bedding into the washing machine, Hannah Abbott.”

 

“Fine.” She poured herself a glass of orange juice, then slid into Neville’s lap, his arm winding around her waist.  “So Harry still sleeping it off, then?” she asked the room in general.

 

This time, Hermione’s heart dropped into her toes.  “What?”

 

“His shag fest last night.  I could hear his headboard slamming into the wall from all the way down the hall.”  She too pitched her voice high and breathy. “Yes, Harry! Yes, Harry!  Yes! Yes! Yes!   You’d think the Chosen One could remember a simple silencing charm.  Some people are so bloody rude.”

 

Ron’s smile was triumphant as he turned to Hermione.  “I told you!”

 

“You’re wrong, the both of you.”

 

“You just can’t stand it that your ickle best friend is all grown up now,” Ron taunted.

 

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Ron she knew exactly how grown up her best friend was, thanks very much, but bit it back at the last second.  It wasn't worth raising anyone’s suspicions.  “That’s not it at all,” she said instead, “I just happen to know that Harry wasn’t with anyone last night.”

 

“And how, precisely, would you know that?” Hannah asked.

 

Hermione returned her friend’s intrigued look with a highly-annoyed one of her own.  “As it happens, since my room wasn’t available last night, I was forced to seek accommodations elsewhere.”

 

“Yeah, so?” 

 

“So I slept with him.”

 

Hannah’s mouth curled upwards in the maddening way of hers.

 

“Oh, for god sakes, you know perfectly well what I mean!” Hermione yelled, “We slept in the same bed.  And since I was the one there, I guess I would know if a shag fest was going on in it or not, wouldn’t I?”  

 

“Good morning.”

 

The four of them turned in surprise.  They were so engrossed in their conversation, they’d missed Harry’s approach.  He was leaning against the door frame, watching her, his face blank. Hermione tried hard not to flush, but she couldn’t help it.  Harry was shirtless and his black pajama pants were sitting low on his lips. He looked tousled and relaxed and rather sexy...and also thoroughly, inarguably shagged.  She hoped to God the others couldn’t tell, but she had no intention of sticking around to find out. Hermione shot to her feet. “Morning, Harry. We were just discussing your sex life.  This lot seems to think you got laid last night. Loudly. I was just telling them they have no idea what they’re talking about.” She took her mug to the sink and poured her now lukewarm tea down the drain.  “I’m going to have a shower. Hannah, don’t you even think of sneaking off until you’ve cleaned all my bedding, understand?”

 

“I said I would, didn’t I?  Keep your knickers on.”

 

“Sound advice that I could have used last night.”

 

Hermione didn’t breathe again properly until she was safely enclosed in the upstairs bathroom.  She leaned back against the door, both hands bracketing her forehead. What the bloody hell was the matter with her? Was she trying to ruin her friendship with Harry?  This time she didn’t even have the flimsy excuse of too much to drink to hide behind.  Last night was stupid, stupid, stupid!

 

Damn, effing hormones.  

 

And speaking of hormones, just what in the hell was he about, kissing her in the first place?  Granted, he was probably just as disoriented as she was at first--he must have forgotten who was in bed with him--but eventually he put it together, just like she did.  So why hadn’t he put a stop to it before things got out of hand?

 

“Or at least thrown up a decent silencio?” she grumbled.  

 

Hermione couldn’t put the blame solely on him for that, though.  If it was ridiculous that the Chosen One forgot to cast such a routine spell, how much more so that the Brightest Witch of Her Age forgot as well?

 

A soft, but determined rapping on the door brought her out of her spinning thoughts.  "Fucking hell!" she mouthed to herself, already knowing who was on the other side. Harry would want to talk about this, and he wasn’t going to let her put him off for nearly a month this time either.  Hermione’s inner debate of whether or not to pretend she couldn’t hear him ended abruptly when she heard his voice coming through the door.

 

“I know you can hear me, Hermione. Either open the door and let me in or I’ll blast it off its hinges and come in anyway.”

 

Hermione opened the door and gestured him inside.  She thought he'd look as embarrassed as she felt, but was surprised to find him stone-faced instead.  “What?”

 

“I see we’re well on our way to pretending last night never happened either.”  The coldness in his voice caught her off guard.

 

“That is not what I’m doing.  I’m just trying to ensure us some semblance of privacy.  Do you want the whole world to know what happened?”

 

“Ron, Neville, and Hannah are hardly the whole world.  It’s not as though they’re going to owl Rita Skeeter for the exclusive.”

 

“That is so not my point.  You can’t possibly want them knowing about this.”  

 

Harry glared at her.  “Of course I don’t want them knowing about it.  But if they did, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to ever happen to me.”

 

“I never said it was.”

 

“You didn’t have to.  I’d say bolting from the room like I’m a disease was indication enough.  I didn’t realize having sex with me was so revolting, you’d feel compelled to lie about it.”

 

Hermione grit her teeth.  Was he intentionally being obtuse?  “What was I supposed to do, Harry? Better yet, what would you have done in my place?  Do you honestly think you could say to Ron, of all people, “I shagged Hermione last night” and he’s just going to let that pass?  Are you ready to answer questions about us?”

 

Harry’s mouth thinned.  “So this is about Ron?”

 

“No, this is not about Ron!” she half shouted, “This is about me. My private life.  Forgive me if I would prefer not to open it up to public scrutiny.”

 

Harry folded his arms over his chest.  It was a defensive posture, but Hermione recognized it was a protective one too.  With a start, she realized he wasn’t simply angry at her for lying or trying to avoid him again.  He was bracing himself against some potential hurt.  “Tell me the truth,” he said, “Are you ashamed of sleeping with me?”

 

“No!”  She should feel ashamed of herself and her utter loss of self control, but she didn’t.  The only thing she felt right now was heart-stopping fear.  She was scared to death that one (now two, she corrected herself glumly) impetuous acts were going to cost her the most important relationship of her life.  But she couldn't let him think that she was ashamed of being with him.  Especially not when she'd relished every second of it. Her voice gentled.  “I am not ashamed," she said, "I just hate people getting into my personal life, even people I know and trust, if I’m not ready to share things yet.  You know how much I hate it, Harry.”

 

He didn’t look entirely convinced, but some of the hardness in his jaw seemed to relax a little.  “I hate it too,” he admitted grudgingly.

 

Hermione gave him a commiserating smile, which he eventually returned.  On impulse, she held her arms out to him.  Without a moment's hesitation, Harry moved into them and held her tight.  A frission of pleasure ran through her at the feel of his skin on hers, provoking an almost unbearable yearning for more. Ruthlessly, she stamped it back.  

 

“So what do we do now?” His nose was buried in her hair, his lips hovering just above her ear.  The yearning intensified. She quickly disentangled herself and stepped out of his reach.  

 

“I don’t think we need to do anything,” she said, “Except perhaps ease off on the alcohol a bit.”  Hermione ignored the taunting voice in her head trying to point out she hadn’t been remotely drunk last night and neither had he. ”Anyway, I should...” she gestured towards the shower.

 

“Right.” But he didn’t move away from her.  He stayed where he was, his eyes still pinned on her face.  

 

The air thickened between them.  Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat.  “Harry--”

 

“Yeah, I know.  I’m going. Before I do, though, one more question?”

 

Hermione shook her head and laughed.  Boys were nothing, if not predictable.  “Yes, Harry.” she said before he could ask, “It was fantastic.”

 

He laughed too, nodding to himself.  “Good to know.”

 

When the door closed behind him, Hermione pressed her fist against her mouth.  The yearning was stronger than ever.  The tingling beneath her skin had not abated one bit.  For one mad moment, she actually considered calling him back and inviting him to join her in the shower.

 

Instead, she grabbed the faucet and with one determined wrench of her wrist, turned it on full blast.  Maybe if she stayed in the spray of water long enough, she’d get lucky and drown.

 

Chapter 3

Notes:

This chapter is a nod to one of my favorite Harmony fics, Head Over Feet by MmeFleiss. It's one of many stories I read that first made me fall in love with this pairing.

The third time was entirely her fault.

After several days of trying to manage her fears on the one hand and ignore her steadily increasing desire on the other, Hermione was exhausted. Exhaustion always made her restless.  It lowered her guard and made her more likely to say and do things she might regret later.  It wasn’t helping things any that she felt Harry’s eyes on her all the time either. Per their agreement, they didn’t speak of those 2 nights again, but their memory lived in the unspoken spaces between them all the same. All the promises she made to herself to just forget them were a waste of time.  No matter what she did, Hermione couldn’t get her best friend out of her head.  The way he kissed her and touched her until every part of her came alive.

Despite Harry’s natural modesty, he had always carried a certain intensity inside him, born from both his instincts and his innate power. It was what made him so good at his job.  His relentlessness, his determination, his laser focus on the task at hand. Hermione had no idea just how compelling that intensity could be until it was focused fully and exclusively on her.

Good hell, no wonder it took poor Ginny nearly two whole years to get over him.

And no wonder Hermione couldn’t seem to get the images of those nights together stuffed neatly into the box labeled “Things I Shouldn't Think About Ever Again” that she kept tucked away in the furthest corner of her mind. She found herself reliving them constantly.  Daydreaming about his hands. And his mouth. And his tongue. And his--

“Are you okay, Hermione?”

She turned and saw her coworker, Jared, watching her with concern.

“Fine. Why?”

“You just made a funny noise. Kind of like a moan.”

She had? Hermione’s face exploded into flames. She fought to keep her expression neutral, as she grasped at the first thing she could think of. “Did I? Sorry about that. It’s this chair, I think. It hurts my back.”

“I could hunt down a painkiller for you if you like,” he offered.

“No, thanks." She pushed away from her desk and stood up. "I’ll just go for a quick walk. Stretch it out a little. I've been sitting for too long anyway.”

She took herself straight to the loo, where she splashed handfuls of cold water on her face until her lips went numb. “Get yourself together, Granger,” she hissed at her dripping reflection, “You’re not a cat in heat, for god sakes!”

Except that she kind of was, as evidenced by all her failed attempts to get a grip on her desperate craving for more of her best friend.  She found herself fantasizing about him at the most inopportune times and in the most inconvenient places.  Meetings with her colleagues.  Tea with her parents on the weekends.  Nights she went out for drinks with her girlfriends.  Even dinners at the Burrow surrounded by all the Weasleys.  A girl like her could only endure so much before she had to take action.  Waiting for it to simply go away obviously wasn't working and it was making her freaking insane!  That was why she began to push the envelope. After all, she reasoned, if it took the both of them to get here, why should she be the only one suffering?

It was little things at first, like brushing her fingers along the back of his neck when she walked past him or resting her hand on his thigh when he was sitting next to her on the sofa. Soon it escalated to unbuttoning an extra button on her blouse when she knew he was watching, dandling her fingers along the hem of a skirt pulled just a titch higher than normal, or pressing into his personal space anytime he was close by. The gestures were innocent enough that both she and Harry could pass them off as coincidence or friendly affection, when in reality she knew she was flirting with danger. But Hermione liked it too much to stop. She liked the banked fire she glimpsed in his eyes and the way the blood rushed to his cheeks. She liked the tension that stiffened his shoulders anytime her skin touched his. She liked knowing she had this effect on him, knowing she was turning him on.  It lessened the pressure somewhat, made it more bearable. 

So when a golden opportunity presented itself, she just could not resist.

After a week or so of toying with him, one morning she found herself standing at the back of the same lift as the green-eyed wizard, the two of them being forced closer and closer together as more and more people piled in. But instead of moving to a spot next to him, Hermione slid directly in front of him. When the crowded lift began to rise, she took a deliberate step back, nudging her bum into his crotch. “Sorry, Harry,” she said when she heard his sharp intake of breath. Then she pressed even closer.

“Hermione?” Her name hissed out from between gritted teeth.

“I said I’m sorry,” she whispered, as she arched her back slightly, grinding against him, “There’s hardly room to breathe in here, let alone move.” 

She smiled, invigorated when she felt him instantly grow hard.

At first, Harry did nothing as Hermione continued to tease him, but after they cleared the 10th floor, she felt his hands settle on her hips, pulling her flush against him.  

She stole a furtive look around. She was prepared to cast a notice-me-not charm if she had to, but no one was paying them the slightest bit of attention, too lost in their own thoughts to even make eye contact with anyone else.  Slowly, she began to roll her hips against him, which elicited a muffled groan. She looked over her shoulder and saw him tip his head back against the wall. His eyes were closed and his jaw was clenched tight. 

Hermione suppressed a snicker.

There was something wickedly delicious about being surrounded by people like this and silently working Harry into a frenzy. His pleasure was intoxicating. She felt dangerous. Powerful. Exciting.  Nothing at all like the serious, steady bookworm most of her friends believed her to be.  When he began panting in her ear, she placed her hand over one of his and laced their fingers together, a rather sweet gesture in the midst of all this bad behavior. His grip tightened in response.  Hermione continued her little game all the way to the 75th floor. By then, Harry was so hard she was amazed he could still stand upright. The second the doors opened and people began filing out, she wrenched herself away from him.

“Have a good day, Harry!” she chirped as she sailed out the door.

She only caught a glimpse of his face as she darted away.  His expression was priceless. A rare blend of confusion, disbelief, and rampaging lust. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes, wide with outrage, were the greenest she’d ever seen.

“Hermione, wait a sec--” he called, his voice hoarse.

“I have a meeting in 5 minutes. Bye now!”

It wasn’t until she was safely shut behind her office door that the foolishness of her actions descended on her.

Oh, God, what had she just done?

Recent events notwithstanding, Hermione had never been a friends-with-benefits type of witch. Her conduct on the lift was so entirely out of her character for her, it defied all sense and reason.  Not to mention how unfair it was to Harry. He was too much of a gentleman to risk humiliating her in front of their colleagues, so he’d had no choice but to submit to her publicly molesting him. He was probably furious with her.

The shame that washed over her left her feeling sick. She’d have to apologize to him for this--of course she would. But, God!  What could she possibly say? “Hey, Harry. About my feeling you up in the lift this morning? I don’t know what came over me. So sorry.” Or better yet “I know we said we’d put what happened behind us, but I can’t seem to stop fantasizing about you. So I thought, what the hell, yeah? Apologies.”

That should go over well.

Hermione slumped forward, her head falling into her hands. How was she supposed to fix this?  What could she even do?  Maybe she should switch jobs. Go into research or spell crafting. Something--anything--that would take her as far away from the Ministry as she could get. And she should definitely plan on moving out. After what just happened, she wouldn’t be surprised if on her return home tonight she found her things packed and sitting on the front porch.

She muddled through the next few hours, her mind only half on her work, as she tried to cobble together an apology and a plausible explanation for her behavior. Each one sounded more inane than the one before it. Drowning in self recrimination, she barely heard the perfunctory tap on her door just before Lyssa opened it. 

“Coming down to the canteen with us, Hermione?”

To the canteen? Where Harry was no doubt right this second eating his lunch? Was Lyssa crazy?

“No, thanks. I brought something from home.” She hadn’t brought anything from home, and she was starving, but she would eat an entire ream of parchment before she’d risk running into Harry right now. At what point in her life, she wondered miserably, had she turned into such a shameless coward? “I really need to get this brief finished up before the end of the day.”

“All right, then. See you soon.”

The moment the door closed, Hermione shoved the paperwork in front of her to the side and slumped over her desk. The least she could do was spare Harry the awkwardness of asking her to leave. Maybe Hannah would let her move in with her again. Granted, the flat was roughly the size of a hatbox and the blonde witch had a particular fondness for sex with her boyfriend on her kitchen floor (eww), but maybe if Hermione left for the office very early in the morning and didn’t return until very late, she could avoid the worst of Hannah’s exhibitionism. At least until she could find a place of her own.

Hermione was just placing the floo call when her door opened again and Harry came strolling into her office. Her mind went blank. She opened her mouth to say something, but her throat closed over her voice. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think. All she could do was stare at her best friend of 13 years as he pushed the door closed behind him and locked it. His gaze flitted almost lazily around the room until zeroing in on her. To her immense relief, he didn’t look angry. In fact, his mouth was slanted upwards in a knowing half smile and behind his glasses, his eyes were sparkling with amusement. Those eyes traveled up and down the length of her so brazenly, Hermione wanted to cover her face with her hands. 

“Hermione?” Hannah’s smiling countenance appeared in the center of the green flames. “This is a surprise. I don’t normally hear from you in the middle of the day. What’s up?”

“Oh...erm...well...I...” she stammered.

Harry was suddenly right at her shoulder, peering into the flames. “Hannah, she’ll call you back.”

“Hi, Harry. Is everything all--”

He reached around her and closed the floo, cutting Hannah off mid-sentence.

“Harry!” Hermione spun around to glare at him, “That wasn’t very polite!”

“No, I suppose it wasn’t.”

When he advanced on her, she went scrabbling backwards like a frightened sand crab. “Look, I know you’re probably angry about this morning--”

“I’m not angry.”

“--and I know that I owe you some sort of an explanation.”

“You think I’m here for an explanation?”

She was forced to stop when she collided with her desk. “I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have--”

She was abruptly cut off when he gripped her by the waist and lifted her easily onto her desk.

“Harry!” she squeaked, “Wh-what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” His hands slid up her legs as he nudged her thighs apart. “I’m finishing what you started.”

Without giving her a chance to respond, he leaned forward and kissed her. This kiss was nothing like the ones they’d shared in the past. No matter how savagely he kissed her before, there had always been a subtle cautiousness to it--an implied “Is this okay?” He left it to Hermione to set the tone and the pace, responding in kind to whatever it was she wanted. This time, there was no doubt or hesitation in him. Harry was determined to take the lead. His mouth was hot, possessive, kissing her like she was everything he'd ever wanted and he’d never get enough of her.  The desire she’d been trying so hard to reign in roared through her, so wild and fierce, surrendering to it was her only option. Her hands dove into his hair, tangling in the dark strands at the nape of his neck.  God, he tasted so good.

When she began whimpering into his mouth, Harry grabbed one of her hands and pressed it to his groin. Her eyes widened in surprise. He was every bit as hard as he’d been in the lift. A second rush of heat shot through her.

“Yeah. You feel that? I’ve been like this all bloody morning, thanks to you,” he muttered just before biting her earlobe, “So what are you going to do about it, witch?”

Before she could say anything, he slid his hand up her inner thigh and touched her. Hermione gasped, both shocked and incredibly aroused. A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. “I see I’m not the only one,” he said, “You’ve soaked them right through, haven’t you?” His fingers moved the lacy fabric aside and slid inside her. Hermione groaned as her head dropped backwards. She felt his other hand fumbling at the buttons on her blouse and instinctively arched her back. Cool air tickled across her skin when the fabric opened beneath his questing fingers. Fingers that were soon stroking lightly over the slopes of her breasts before dragging down the cups of her demi bra so she was bared to him.

“God, you are so hot,” he breathed, "So fucking sexy.” She felt a moment’s astonishment that Harry would say such a thing about her, but it quickly gave way to another rush of arousal when she felt the wet heat of his mouth on her.

Hermione’s teeth sank deeply into her lower lip to keep from crying out. Her grip on his hair tightened as she held him to her. “Oh! Oh, Harry!” she gasped. His hand was doing wicked, wonderful things to her, but it wasn’t nearly enough. She needed him. All of him. Right now.

Her free hand flew to the button on his trousers. One moment more, and she was holding him in the palm of her hand.

Harry raised his head, his mouth red and wet.  “Fuck,” he groaned, “Hermione, please. I need you. I’ll go bloody mad if I can't have you.”

Like a wanton, Hermione lifted her legs and wound them around his hips. One rough thrust and he was buried inside her.

Her eyes rolled back in her head at the thrilling sensation. She could hardly believe this. It was the middle of the day and she was having sex. with Harry. on her desk.

“God, Hermione...you’re like...heaven...so good.” He was whispering--panting, really--into her ear as they took pleasure from one another’s bodies. It was fast, hard, and hot. Not a sweet gentle coupling, but the frantic slide of flesh on flesh. She was moaning loud enough that if any of her coworkers had decided to eat lunch at their desks, they’d be able to hear her, but she couldn’t stop herself. Every thrust was like a small explosion of her senses. She was helpless against it. She wanted to be helpless against it, to give herself over to the delicious feel of Harry’s body deep inside her own. Her legs tightened around his hips, her fingers sinking into his broad shoulders.  She was going to scream. She was going to scream so loud the entire Ministry was going to hear her. She couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it. Her blood raced like quicksilver through her veins, starting at the place where she and Harry were joined and spreading throughout the rest of her body. The cry ripping itself free from her throat was abruptly cut off when Harry’s hand slid behind her neck and he tilted her face up to his.  His mouth was on hers again, kissing her hard, as she fell apart in his arms. She was still at the crest of her high when he moaned against her lips, pushing into her hard one more time, then stilling as he emptied himself into her.

They stayed like that, slumped against each other, for a long time as they both tried to catch their breath. With her body no longer demanding release, logic was already trying to force its way back in. She knew what was coming next.  He’d ask questions; he’d want answers. Answers Hermione still didn’t have.

But Harry didn’t say anything as he pulled away and set himself to rights. He even politely turned his back so Hermione could do the same thing without scrutiny. Once they were both decent again, he turned back around to face her.

Hermione could feel herself turning scarlet with shame. This wasn’t like the other 2 times, where they didn’t have to face each other immediately afterwards and she had a little time to pull herself together. How was she supposed to handle this? “Harry--”

His finger pressing gently on her lips stopped her. “We’ll talk later, yeah?” He leaned forward, replacing his finger with his mouth and kissed her softly.

And then he was gone, leaving her staring after him.

 

**********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Hermione eased through the front door on feet as silent as silk. Since Harry had left her office that afternoon, she found herself growing more and more anxious.

Talk, he’d said. They’d talk later. She’d repeated those same words over to herself at least 1000 times, and every time she did, she grew a little more afraid.  He wasn’t going to let her get away with weak excuses this time. The conversation looming ahead of them was going to change everything.

This...this...thing with Harry was so completely out of her realm of experience, she didn’t know which end was up anymore. And she didn’t mean the sex itself; she meant the complete and total absence of her usual self-control. Hermione always had and always would be a creature of logic. As long as she could reason a problem out in her mind, she knew could rely on herself to do the right thing, no matter how hard that was or how much she didn’t like it. She knew all the reasons why having a fling with her best friend was a bad idea--not just knew them, but agreed with them to the point of accepting that the only rational thing to be done here was put all this nonsense behind them and never speak of it again.  

And yet all the logic in the world clearly meant nothing when it came to Harry.  Her resolve flew right out the window the moment an opportunity presented itself. Hermione wasn’t in the habit of lying to herself. She knew perfectly well (especially in light of this afternoon’s illicit activities) that she couldn’t trust herself around her best friend anymore. Even if she managed to white knuckle her way through a few weeks, or even a few months, it was only a matter of time before it happened again. She wanted it to happen again, she realized.  Sod all the reasons it shouldn’t and couldn’t. Tears filled her eyes as the memory of Harry’s hands on her skin sent chills racing down her spine. She was going to lose her best friend for good if she didn’t do something drastic. But what was she supposed to do?

She might have stayed there by the front door the rest of the night had Hannah not suddenly appeared in the entry way. Her hair was bundled up in a messy bun and she was wearing a white apron with the logo Because It’s Hotter in the Kitchen printed in swirly red letters across the front. “There you are. We were wondering what was taking you so long. Come on, then. The food’s ready.”

Steeling her resolve, Hermione followed her into the dining room where a group of her friends were already seated around the table. Any hope that Harry might still be at the Ministry died when she glimpsed his telltale black hair seated at the far end of the table. It didn’t help matters any when she saw Ginny’s equally familiar crimson-colored tresses at his side.

Fortunately the only spot left was at the opposite end of the table, as far away from him as she could get, right next to Hannah. “Go on, then, everyone. Tuck in,” Hannah said.  Even though she was nauseous with dread, Hermione grabbed the dish of new potatoes and added some to her plate.

“So listen,” Hannah said, taking the potatoes from her and exchanging it for the platter of fresh bread, “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Oh, good hell, Hermione recognized that tone. The bright, over-eager one that meant Hannah was about to suggest something Hermione wasn’t going to like.

“I have this friend--”

Hermione’s fork hit the edge of her plate with a loud ting. From across the table, Ron glanced at her in askance. She pretended not to see him.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Hannah said, lowering her voice, “At least hear me out. His name is Cole Reading. He’s a liaison with the spell regulation department. He read your brief on equal rights for non-wizarding magical persons, and he thought it was very compelling.”

Hermione doubted it. Not even her superiors, who’d requested she draft the brief in the first place, thought it was very compelling. Though the research was stellar and the arguments indisputable, even if she did say so herself.

“He’s been begging me to introduce him for weeks.”

Hermione doubted that too. Hannah was forever trying to set her up with anyone who so much as glanced her general direction. There was no way she would have waited "for weeks" to bring this Cole person up.

“So anyway I was thinking we could go on a double date. We’ll keep it easy. Just some dinner at The Garden. Maybe go to a club after. What do you think?”

What Hermione thought must have been written all over her face because some of Hannah’s chirpiness fell away, her mouth thinning into a flat line. “Hermione, come on. It’s just dinner. I’m not asking you to marry the man.” She grabbed Hermione’s goblet and added more wine to it, even though she had yet to drink any of it.

She took the proffered glass from her friend.  She’d sworn off any and all alcohol in Harry’s presence after their second night together, but after the day she'd just had, Hermione figured she was due.  As soon as the refreshing, fruity blend hit her tongue, she knew the wine had been a deliberate choice. Her favorite, but so expensive, she only drank it on very special occasions. Hannah was bringing out the big guns to get her to agree to this. “You know how I feel about setups.”

“This isn’t exactly a setup, though,” Hannah said, “He’s a friend of mine, you’re a friend of mine. We’re all getting together for a friendly dinner, that's it. He’s a really nice bloke, Hermione. I promise. I would never set you up with a psychopath.”

“That’s very reassuring, but I think I’ll pass. These potatoes are delicious, by the way. Your best yet. What did you add to them? Dill?”

“Rosemary, and don’t try to distract me with cheap flattery.”

Hermione sighed. Usually cheap flattery did the trick.

Hannah watched as Hermione cut a small piece from her chicken and take a bite. The perfect complement to her favorite wine and the rosemary potatoes. “This is really good too,” she said.

“Thanks,” Hannah said shortly, “What’s going on with you lately? Have you taken some vow of celibacy that I don’t know about?”

Hermione’s eyes went wide as she shot a quick look around the table. Fortunately, no one seemed to be paying them any attention. “Geez, Hannah, stand up on the table and shout what’s on your mind to all of us, why don’t you?”

“So you have?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why do you keep putting me off?” she asked, “The last 5 times I tried to set you up with someone, you’ve come up with some reason to say no.”

“Some might consider that a hint.”

“Hints are wasted on me. You know that. If you don’t want to go out with Cole, just say so.”

“I don’t want to go out with Cole.”

“Okay.” A pause. “Why not?”

“Hannah!”

“I’m serious,” she persisted, “Why not? He’s smart, he’s good-looking, he’s gainfully employed, and--most importantly--he really wants to go out with you.”

“So I should go out with any old bloke who expresses an interest?”

“No, but you should go out with this bloke.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m giving him my personal stamp of approval,” she said, exasperated, “I’m telling you, I couldn’t handcraft a better date for you if I mixed him up in a cauldron myself.”

Hermione reached up, rubbing the center of her of forehead with the palm of her hand.  There was a dull throbbing starting just behind her right eye, which meant she had a searing headache to look forward to later. Today was so not the day for this. Why did Hannah have to choose tonight to turn relentless? “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

“Not good enough,” Hannah said, “I know what “I’ll think about it” means. It means you’ll avoid me for however many weeks you think it’ll take to get me to drop it.”

To be fair to Hannah, that’s exactly what it meant. “For god sakes, why do you even care?” Hermione asked.

“Because I want you to be happy,” Hannah cried.

“I am happy!”

“No, you’re not. You may not be miserable, but you’re not happy either. You’re tired, you’re edgy, you’re isolated. I’ve known agoraphobes with more active social lives than you.”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but what could she say? She was tired, edgy, and isolated. She’d just been hoping no one else had noticed.

“You haven’t been on a real date since you finished with Seamus," Hannah went on, "That was over a year ago, do you realize that? A year. I know everyone needs a little recovery time after a breakup, but come on! You only dated 3 months. And you’re the one who said all the rampant hot sex was wearing you out. You had to break things off or you’d never get any sleep.”

A strangled sort of choking sound burst out from down the table. It was then Hermione realized how unnaturally quiet the rest of the room had become.  Neville was trying his best to keep a conversation about quidditch going with Ron, Dean, and Luna, but it was clear they weren't paying him any attention. From the corner of her eye, she saw Seamus grinning to himself and Padma glaring daggers at her. Thank goodness Harry and Ginny were too far away for her to see their faces. Hermione's whole body went red.

“You’ve rejected every single invitation I’ve lined up since then, with the most insultingly asinine excuses I’ve ever heard in my life,” Hannah said heatedly, “And now, here I am, spoon-feeding you the perfect date, and you’re putting me off again. For the life of me, I can’t figure out--!”

Hannah stopped so suddenly, Hermione glanced up at her in alarm. She was staring at her as though seeing clearly Hermione for the first time, eyes wide and her mouth forming a perfectly round O. It was such a shocked, knowing look that for one awful moment, she thought Hannah was going to leap to her feet, shove her finger in her face, and shout, “You’ve been shagging Harry, haven’t you?!”

Fortunately, that didn’t happen.

But what did was almost as bad.

“You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”

Panic made her light headed.  “What?” she squeaked, “No!”

“Don’t deny it,” Hannah said, “I should have recognized the signs.”

Had there been signs? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re off in another world all the time these days.  Sitting right in front of me, but not hearing a single word I say,” Hannah said, “I thought it was because you were pushing yourself too hard or not getting enough sleep. But you've been thinking about someone, weren’t you?”

“No!”

“That’s not even the half of it. You’re distracted, you’re indecisive, you’re jumpy. Exactly the way I am when I’m hiding something.”

“I’m not hiding anything.” She tried to keep her voice bland, even though her stomach was twisting itself into knots, “I wish my life was that interesting, Hannah, but it’s not.”

“I don’t believe you,” her friend sing-songed, equal parts humor and mischief. “So who is he?”

“You tell me since you’re the only one who seems to know anything about it.” From the other end of the room, she could feel Harry’s eyes incinerating the side of her face, but she refused to look at him. She couldn’t look at him. Who knew what she might give away if she did? “I need some water.”

Once in the kitchen, she filled up a glass and drank it all in one long gulp. As soon as she finished it, she filled the glass again.

“Is it anyone I know?”

“Whoa!” The glass slipped from her grasp and landed in the sink with a loud thunk. Water splashed up, soaking the bottom half of her blouse. “Hannah!”

“See what I mean?” she said, smirking, “Jumpy.”

“I’m not jumpy,” Hermione griped, “I’m annoyed. And now thanks to you, I’m soaking wet. I have to go change.”

As usual, hints were utterly wasted on the former Hufflepuff, who, rather than returning to the dining room like Hermione had hoped, followed her up to her room instead.

“Can I at least know his name?” she asked as Hermione unbuttoned her blouse.

“Hannah, I’m telling you, you’ve got this all wrong. I’m not seeing anyone right now.” She picked up a dark blue t-shirt and slid it over her head. “While we’re at it, I’m also not off in another world, tense, indecisive, or jumpy either. Okay--maybe I’ve been a bit distracted lately. But that’s only because I’m working on a very big case right now, and it’s occupying all my time and attention.”

Hannah didn’t look at all convinced.

“It’s the truth!” No doubt Hermione would sound a lot more believable if her voice wasn’t doing that high-pitched, plaintive thing that turned a firm declaration into something more like a whine. “Like you said, I haven’t been on a proper date in over a year!”

“Okay, fine. You’re not secretly dating anyone. It’s work that’s got you all stressed out and I’m making the whole thing up in my head.” Her eyes brightened. “That means there’s no reason in the world you can’t have dinner with Cole.”

“Hannah,” Hermione groaned.

“One dinner, that’s all I’m asking for. One quick dinner. Three courses; salad, entree, dessert. That’s it. If you don’t like him, I’ll never mention him again. I swear.”

Hermione sat down heavily on her bed. Would it be so bad, one dinner? It’s not like she didn’t need to eat. And saying yes came with the added bonus of getting Hannah off her back for at least the next 3 months. What did she have to lose?

Harry’s face flashed before her mind’s eye.  Hermione pushed it away.  He certainly wasn’t any reason for her to turn down dates. If anything, he was incentive to say yes and put an end to all this back and forth nonsense going on between them before one of them got hurt.

Besides, it’s not like he would care. Not really. It wasn’t as though they were dating. They were hooking up. Shag buddies. Friends with benefits—or any other distasteful euphemism one defaulted to when having no-strings attached sex with someone you weren’t going out with.

And hey, hadn’t she just been agonizing over what to say to Harry about this afternoon? This would definitely send a message.

“Okay, fine,” Hermione said, “I’ll go out with your friend. Just dinner, though, okay?”

She wasn’t sure Hannah heard the “just dinner” comment, what with all the squealing and applauding and leaping around like a fool that followed.

“You seem pleased,” she said, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips.

“Oh, Hermione! You’re going to love him, I swear,” Hannah gushed, “He’s sweet, he’s funny, he’s intelligent. And between you and me, he is positively wet-your-knickers-hot.”

“Hannah!” Hermione cried, aghast.

“What? I’m dating, not dead.” She headed for the doorway, “Anyway, I’ll take care of everything. Just promise me you’ll dress up a little, wear some lip gloss, and be on time.”

She was out the door and down the hall long before the pillow Hermione had picked up and flung at her friend's head hit the door frame. Hermione fell back on her bed. She'd hoped to feel some relief after agreeing to the date, but instead she felt more uncertain than ever. Hollow. And maybe a little guilty. Was Harry going to be mad at her for this?  Or, even worse, hurt? The thought of hurting him opened a hole in her stomach so raw and gaping, she had to fold both arms across her middle and curl up in a ball to contain it.

How the hell had her well-ordered life managed to spin so far out of control in just a matter of weeks?

“Hermione!” Hannah yelled, “What’s taking you so long? Your food is getting cold!”

As much as Hermione wanted to lock the door, burrow under blankets, and stun herself, she knew she’d get no peace if she didn’t go back. “Coming!” she called.

The rest of dinner passed in something of a blur. No doubt worried that she might change her mind, Hannah maneuvered the conversation away from her friend's love life with such pointed determination, no one else dared bring it back up again. Hermione barely registered the occasional question or comment tossed her direction, but she must have done a passable job answering because no one seemed to notice anything was amiss. She still couldn’t bring herself to look at Harry, though she was certain he was staring at her.

She was so drained by the time dinner was finally over, she didn’t even have to feign tiredness to beg off going to the cinema with her friends.

“Okay, well if you’re sure,” Hannah said, throwing everyone’s jackets at them and shoving them towards the door, “Let’s go! We don’t want to miss the previews.”

Hermione knew perfectly well Hannah didn’t give a damn about previews. She was hauling ass out of there to cut off any chance Hermione might back out on the date after all.

She blushed when Seamus winked at her as he followed everyone else out of the dining room and blushed even harder when Padma gave her a stiff nod good-bye. To keep from having to make eye contact with anyone else, Hermione began gathering up the dishes and disappeared into the kitchen.

She didn’t breathe again until she heard the front door close and the house was finally quiet. Unsure of what else to do, she began filling the sink with hot, soapy water. Kreacher, who was only marginally less hostile towards her these days, would be along soon to shoo her away, but she needed to keep her hands busy in the meantime. Her options were either start washing up or bury her face in them and start crying.

“So you’re going.” The sound of Harry's voice startled her so badly, she dropped the plate she’d just picked up. It hit the floor with a loud crash, splintering into a hundred pieces.

“Dammit,” she mumbled.

“I’ve got it,” he said, pulling his wand from his pocket and flicking it at the mess. Bit by bit, the plate began reassembling itself.

Neither one of them said a word until it was whole again and she leaned down to pick it up. “I thought you’d left with the others.”

“I forgot my wallet.”

“Oh, right. “Well, you should probably hurry if you’re going to catch them up.” Did she sound as idiotic to him as she did to herself, she wondered, “Thanks for…” she gestured to the plate.

“You’re welcome,” he said, his voice flat.

Inwardly, Hermione cringed.  “I’m really tired, so I’m--”

“You’re having dinner with Hannah’s friend.” It was a statement, not a question. “She was just telling everyone she finally got you to say yes. So you’re going to go.”

Hermione nodded.

“I see.” Though his voice was calm, his face was not. Harry had never been especially good at masking strong emotions.  At this moment, his feelings were all but  falling right out of his eyes. She could stand the anger, and even the hurt, she saw in them.  But not the betrayal.

“Harry--” she took a step towards him.

“It’s fine. Have a good time.” He turned his back on her, heading for the entry way.

“Harry, wait. Please.”

To her surprise, he stopped, though he didn’t turn back around. “What?”

And for one of the first times in her life, Hermione found herself speechless. What could she say to fix this? What could she say to make it right? I’m sorry? I didn’t mean it? Please don’t be mad at me?

“Y-you’re my best friend.” It was so weak and inadequate, Hermione wanted to bite her tongue in half. But it was also true. The most important truth between them, really, and she hoped he could somehow hear all the things she wanted to say even if she didn’t have the right words.

“Thanks,” he mumbled as he strode across the room and out the front door.

Chapter 4

It wasn’t especially late when Hermione arrived home, but all the lights were off in Grimmauld Place. She knew she had no right to expect it, but a small part of her had hoped she might find Harry waiting for her, even if it was only to tell her off. Anything would be better than the silence and blank looks he’d been directing her way the rare times they were in a room together. Until this week, Hermione thought she’d done a pretty good job of avoiding her best friend after their 2 encounters.  These last few days, though, she’d come to realize she had absolutely nothing on an auror. Ninjas wished they had Harry Potter’s stealth and sense of timing. She was living in his house, their rooms were right down the hall from each other, they both worked at the ministry, and they had all the same friends--and she still hadn’t seen him more than 3 minutes total in the last 96 hours.

Just like every night since that fateful dinner, the house was steeped in silence so thick, Hermione might as well have been living here alone.  She crossed the room, her heels clicking loudly on the tile, and made her way up the stairs to her room. Once inside, she set her bag down on her desk and dropped into her chair with a weary sigh.

Cole Reading was everything Hannah promised he’d be. Intelligent, charismatic, articulate, and so good-looking, if Hermione didn’t know better, she’d have wondered if he was part Veela. He had dark blond hair swept off his forehead, gray-blue eyes set above his strong nose and full mouth, and a jawline so firm, he could use it to chisel granite.  Miserable as she was over Harry’s coldness, even she couldn’t help the, “Oh, my!” that slipped from her mouth when Cole stood up and smiled at her from across the room.

“Told you,” Hannah said, barely able to contain her glee, “Isn’t he gorgeous? And he’s really nice too. You’ll see.”

The restaurant Hannah chose was beautiful, illuminated by fairy lights and real blooming flowers on every table, and (even better) far enough out of the way that Hermione didn’t have to worry about any of the leeches from the Daily Prophet showing up unexpectedly to take pictures. The food was delicious, the service impeccable, and Hermione’s date was attentive and engaging. She’d thought Hannah was stretching the truth when she'd told her that Cole was interested in her work, but it turned out he really had read her brief and was eager to discuss it in more depth with her. They spent most of dinner talking about the possibility of drafting a bill to present to the Wizengamot when they convened again in the summer, bouncing ideas off of each other and making suggestions on who's support they might be able to get. So as first dates went, Hermione had to admit this one was pretty close to perfect.  Three months ago, it would have been perfect. 

Now? Well...

As lovely as it all was, she wasn’t really enjoying herself.  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the memory of the look on Harry’s face four nights ago when she’d confessed she was going on a date with someone else. The longer it went on, the worse she felt. All the arguments she’d used to convince herself going out was a good idea now sounded like hollow excuses. She needed to apologize to her best friend before it was too late. Because she knew without a shred of doubt that if their positions were reversed--if Harry had slept with her in the afternoon, then made a date with another girl that same evening--her heart would have been shattered, possibly beyond repair.  Her need to make this right propelled her home the second she finished her one obligatory glass of wine back at Hannah's flat, even though Cole made it clear he really wanted her to stay. 

She was just debating whether or not waking Harry up and asking him to talk was a good idea or a bad one when a tap on her door brought her head around. It was so light, Hermione thought she might have imagined it, but after a moment, it came again, this time slightly louder. So he’d been waiting for her after all.

Hermione crossed the room and opened the door. Harry was standing on the other side, his fist raised as though prepared to knock a third time. His hand dropped to his side.

“Hi,” she said softly, "I was just about to...I wanted to...to..." she stuttered to a halt. For a long moment, the two of them simply stood there, looking at each other, Harry’s eyes burning a slow path down the length of her, then up again until he met her eyes. Without thought or intent, her hand shot forward, catching him behind his neck, and she pulled him into a deep, hungry kiss. In response, his arms slid around her, crushing her body against his.  They stumbled back into her room, Harry reaching blindly behind him to slam the door shut.  

"This was what I've really really been waiting for tonight," she thought as he devoured her mouth. This was why she’d let Hannah talk her into this tiny black dress--because date or not, she knew the only one who’d be taking it off of her was Harry. This was exactly what she wanted--his hands bunching in the silky fabric on their way to the zipper and his touch hot against her bare skin.  His fingers were rough, but gentle as he eased her dress and her lacy knickers down her legs. Hermione grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and in one fluid tug, pulled it up and over his head.  As he guided her back towards her bed, her hands flew to the waistband of his trousers, clawing at the button and zip.  She'd just managed to get them open when he lifted her suddenly and laid her out before him on her bed. He took off the rest of his clothes himself, but his gaze remained on her.  His stare was so blatant, so unapologetic, Hermione began to feel self conscious. Before she could shrink away, though, he raised his eyes to hers again.

“Look at you, ” he said as he laid down beside her. “You’re so beautiful, do you know that? Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?”

It was different this time. Sex with Harry before had been hot, heady, urgent--a mad rush to get the other undressed as quickly as possible because the need to come together was so overpowering, it was driving them both insane.  This time was slower, more deliberate, though no less passionate, with his hands tracing every line and curve of her and his mouth pressing adorations into her skin. Her head was spinning as he nipped her shoulder, her breast, her hip bone, then her thigh before urging her legs apart. When he finally pressed his mouth against the apex of her thighs, her back bowed off the bed and her hands dove into his hair.

“Harry!” His name shuddered out of her. He’d done this before, that first time they were together, but Hermione had been half off her head and unable to really appreciate his skill. The feel of of his tongue lapping against her, then darting inside was so incredible it took all of her self control not to smash herself into his face. Both hands were gripping her hips, holding her in place, but one released her to trail down her belly and over her thigh to the hot core of her body. Then his fingers were inside her, as his mouth continued working her into a frenzy.  It was too much.  The sensations he was creating from deep within her were making her crazy.  Chills scissored up her legs, heat pooled in her belly, the feeling ratcheting higher and higher with every press of his fingers and stroke of his tongue.  And then she was arching off the bed a second time, her teeth biting hard into her lower lip to keep from crying aloud. She was still gasping when he crawled back up her body, his darkened eyes intent on her face.

“Holy God, Harry,” she panted.

His smile gleamed in the darkness before his face descended towards her, catching her lips in another deep kiss.  “Beautiful,” he murmured, "Should have told you before. Should have always told you.”

Her hands slid over the expanse of his toned back and shoulders, his skin burning beneath her palms.  He settled himself between her parted legs, and Hermione lifted her hips eagerly to meet him. "Oh, God," she groaned at the renewed assault on all her senses.  Their bodies slotted together like they were made for each other. Was there anything better than this, she wondered.  Was there a single thing in the world that felt more amazing, more right, than being with Harry like this?  Her legs twined up and around his hips in an effort to draw him even closer.  Each thrust made her whine with pleasure, made her dig her fingers into the firm muscles of his back.  The tingling in her lower abdomen was building a second time, hotter and stronger than before. His hands were cupping and rubbing her breasts, but when she began whimpering against his mouth, one hand snaked between them again and he began rubbing tight, firm circles against her wet heat, intent on drawing out every ounce of pleasure from her. Hermione had no choice but to give herself over to it completely.  Her whimpers turned to groans and then to screams as a second wave of pure sensation shuddered through her.  With a hoarse cry, Harry soon followed her.

They were both out of breath when he moved to her side and gathered her against him.  For several minutes, their harsh panting was the only sound in the room.  Gradually, her heartbeat slowed and quiet descended over them like a blanket.  His arm was a pleasant weight draped over her waist--comforting, familiar.  She threaded her fingers through his and pressed both of their hands to her heart.  She felt his lips push through her disheveled curls, pressing a kiss against the nape of her neck.  Now was the perfect time to curl up and drift off to sleep together. In fact, she thought he already had until she felt his hand begin to trace a slow path up the side of her body, lingering over the curve of her breast, then back down again.

“Harry?” she whispered, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder.

Instead of answering, he leaned forward to kiss her again. She turned over, slid her arms around his neck, and pulled herself flush against him.  In a matter of minutes, he was urging her up and over him until she was sitting astride his lap.

“Again?” she asked with a smile.  

He looked up at her with lazy, contented eyes, his hands lifting her slightly, shifting her, until she was positioned exactly where he wanted her. “Ride me, love," he said, his voice so rough with desire, her whole body quivered in response.

Hermione braced her hands against her chest as she pressed down, taking him fully into her body once more.  Harry’s eyes fluttered shut, his hands tightening on hips. "Yeah, that's it.  Just like that."

“Well,” she thought as she began rocking against him, “I suppose it’s the least I can do.”

After all, she still hadn’t apologized yet. And Harry had always been more a man of action than words.

 

A feather light touch on her skin roused her from the sleep she’d fallen into. Harry was slowly trailing his fingertips up and down her arm, the other hand splayed out on her hip. She got the feeling he’d been awake for some time now. She snuck a quick look around the room. They were still shrouded in darkness, but it was the smoky grey that preceded the sunrise. She knew it was time to send Harry back to his room before anyone caught them like this, but she didn't want to.  The only thing she wanted to do, maybe for the rest of her life, was stay right here, cradled in Harry’s arms  with her head pillowed against his bare chest, and listen to him breathe.

Last night had been a revelation. They'd gone at it for hours.  Over and over again, Harry reached for her during the night. Every time she thought they were done, he would initiate another series of drugging kisses, whisper in her ear “I need just one more taste”, and play with her body until she was mindless with need and begging him to fuck her.  She was exhausted down to her very bones, but more sated than she’d ever been in her life. Obviously, Harry had been holding back the other times they’d been together. There wasn't a single part of her that didn’t feel worshipped.  She knew it was only a matter of time before all the old doubts and hesitations crept back in, but for now, all she wanted to do was revel in the feel of her best friend’s body pressed warmly beneath her own.

She was ready to drift back to sleep when his fingers paused on her forearm, his breath catching in his chest and holding for a moment before stuttering back out. She hadn’t moved a muscle, but that didn’t matter. Somehow he knew she was awake.

“This is the last time we’ll do this,” he said.

It was like a bucket of cold water flung in her face. Hermione pushed herself into a sitting position and turned to face him. He looked younger without his glasses. More open, more vulnerable. But his face was as solemn as she’d ever seen it. “I won’t come back again until you tell me you want me here.  Not until you actually say the words--to me, to yourself, to anyone who asks.  You can’t have it both ways.  You either want me or you don’t.”

She shook her head. “”Oh, Harry, it’s not like that, I promise. There’s no one in the world who means more to me than you do. You must know that.”

He cupped her face, stilling her movements. “I do know that. But you’re not being fair. I’m not saying this is all on you. It’s partly my fault too. I should have made you talk things out with me after the first time we slept together. I shouldn’t have let you hide. I thought it would be better if I gave you some time to sort things out for yourself. I just didn’t expect it to take 2 bloody months and counting. I should have known better. You’re so damn stubborn." His hands dropped from her face to her shoulders and he gently shifted her to his side “You’re not ready to talk yet? Fine. I’ll talk, you listen. I know you’re scared. I know why you’re scared too. I was there when you and Ron broke it off for good, remember?”

Hermione ducked her head, staring down at the pale green and cream-colored quilt that covered her bed, as tears pricked her eyes. So he knew then. Of course he did. He was her best friend. He'd probably known the truth all along . It was foolish of her to ever think otherwise.

“I know how much Ron hurt you,” he said, his voice gruff, but not unkind, “Do you honestly believe I would take this kind of a risk with our friendship if I wasn't sure about it, Hermione? That I would be that careless with your heart?”

“The only reason you slept with me that first time is because we were drunk,” Hermione mumbled, still not looking at him, “We made a mistake.”

She heard him inhale sharply. A moment later he was shoving back the blankets and climbing out of her bed.  "We weren’t that drunk,” he retorted as he began pulling on his clothes from the night before, “And the only mistake I made that night was not telling you how I feel about you right then and there. I'm in love with you, Hermione.  I have been since I was 16.  I thought you’d figure that out on your own if I just gave you some space. That day at the Ministry...I thought you were finally coming around. Then you went and made a date with someone else right in front of me.”

“I didn’t--” she began weakly.

“Whatever. You let Hannah make a date for you right in front of me. Same difference.” He yanked his shirt over his head. “I know you’re trying to protect yourself, but-- God! After everything we've been through together, haven’t I earned your trust by now?”

“I do trust you,” she protested.

“Do you?” he said, “Because from where I’m standing, this doesn't look like trust.  It looks like you don't mind fucking me, as long as no one else knows about it, but actually being with me is out of the question.”

“That’s not true.” She reached for his hand. “You’ve got this all wrong, Harry. You’re my best friend. I just...I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you. You say that nothing’s going to change, but how do you know that? How do I know that you’re not going to wake up one day and decide that you don’t…that you’ve changed your mind and I...I'm not...” The tears she’d been fighting back spilled down her face. With her free hand, she brushed them away angrily. Now was not the time to turn into a total girl. She took a deep breath, forced her voice to remain steady, “I’m strong, Harry, but I’m not indestructible. Ending things with Ron was...it was...I was so hurt, I could barely--” She could hear her voice turn pleading, “--and then everything that came after it. The Weasleys and the media frenzy and you having to divide your time between the both of us for months. Even after Ron and I were okay again, it wasn't the same anymore. It never will be the same again.  But as hard as it was going through it with him, I don’t know how I’d survive it if the same thing happened with you. Please try to understand.”

Some of his anger fell away as he looked down at her. He reached forward and gently brushed her tears away with one hand and tucked loose curls off her face with the other. “I’m not Ron, Hermione. I'm not going to hurt you.  I love you more than he ever did, more than he ever could.  That's not an attack on him, it's just the truth.  I don’t know what else I can do to convince you of that," he said, "It's time to make a decision about where we go from here. I'm not sneaking around anymore.  It’s called a leap of faith, love. Either I'm worth it or I’m not.”

Hermione started to respond, but his mouth on hers in one last desperate-tasting kiss silenced her before could get any words out. And then he was up and across the room, pulling the door closed silently behind him.

 

She spent the rest of the day in her room, lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling.  After weeks of doing everything she could not to really think about what she was doing with Harry, she had no choice but to really think about it now.  Hour slipped by as the pale sunlight that filled her room in the morning turned richer and denser in the afternoon, then bit by bit dwindled away at evening's approach.  Twice Kreacher apparated directly into her room with a tea tray and sandwiches.  Twice he took them away, barely touched. Hermione didn't know what to do.  She wasn't stupid.  She knew there was no going back, no matter how much she'd pretended otherwise. She just didn't know how to go forward either.  The last time she'd taken a chance--a real chance--it had all blown up in her face. 

The thing was, Ron loved her.  He really did.  And she loved him too.  She had no doubt at all that if she were to walk into his room right now and tell him she wanted the moon, he'd get on his broom and fly himself to the moon for her.  She would do the same for him too, without question.  So if they loved each other so much, and they wanted so badly to make the other one happy, why hadn't they been able to make a relationship work? 

The petty bickering from their school days didn't lessen after the war.  Within two months, their rows became so intense and happened with such frequency that nearly all their friends except for Harry began avoiding them.  Jabs, snipes, and taunts turned vicious as long-held resentments and old grudges were dragged back out into the postwar light of day.  They both found themselves lashing out at each other at the smallest provocation, tearing into each other with insults and accusations until she was hunched over the bathroom sink in tears of rage and he'd slammed his way out the door.  It all came to a head about a year after they'd officially started dating. After three weeks of barely speaking to each other, they'd agreed to have dinner to try to resolve their most recent argument.  It was a bitter failure.  They weren't five minutes into their meal before they were fighting again.  Worn out from days, weeks, months of their animosity-driven dynamic, Hermione had finally snapped, screaming in his face that whatever else he may accuse her of, at least she'd never abandon her friends because she couldn't go another day without her bed and her mummy's cooking.  Ron's face, already red, darkened to a deep shade of purple.  "Yeah, we both know I'm never gonna be The bloody Chosen One.  Just like you're never going to be Cho or Ginny .  Why else do you think I'm with you?  We both have to take what we can get."

They were the ugliest things either one of them had ever hurled at the other, chosen specifically to inflict the most pain and cause the most damage.  This is what they'd sunk to--weaponizing his greatest shame and her worst insecurity in their ongoing battle to one-up the other. In that moment, they both knew it was over. 

They'd been through too much together to not forgive each other eventually, but it was months before they were on speaking terms again.  Their friendship, though, was irrevocably changed.  The fracture still lived there between them, even to this day.  He was never going to be able to forget her disdain, just as she was never going to be able to set aside his contempt.

Ron certainly had his part in what happened between them, but when it was all said and done, Hermione really blamed herself.  If she'd been honest with herself about how tenuous her and Ron's connection was--how fragile it had always been and likely always would be--she never would have attempted dating him in the first place. Deep down, she'd always known better, she just had too much pride to admit it.

And now here she was in the exact same place with Harry.  Well, not the exact same place.  But close enough.  

As far as she was concerned, she had an impossible to choice to make. Say no and lose Harry now. Say yes and lose Harry eventually.  (Say yes and don't lose Harry at all was too far-fetched to wrap her head around.)

Restless and achy from lying in bed all day, Hermione finally rose and drifted over to her desk. There was a framed photograph of the three of them next to the lamp.  She didn't know who took it--Molly maybe--of the three of them lounging on the front porch at the Burrow, laughing at something one of them must have said.  She thought it might have been taken the night before Bill and Fleur's wedding because they still looked mostly untouched by the war.  She picked the photo up and examined it more closely. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it. It was just the three of them together, the way they so often were when they were in school.  She looked at her younger self sitting between her two boys, her gaze slipping back and forth between the two of them.  The looks she sent Ron were half exasperated/half intrigued--a perfect reflection of her feelings for her red-haired best friend back then.  The looks she sent Harry, though, were far more complicated.  Concern, of course, because of the burden he carried. Fear because a madman was so determined to take him away from her.  Defiance because the Dark Wank-Stain (as George and Fred often called him) and his masked minions would have to go through her before she'd ever let them get to Harry.  Affection because she loved her dark-haired friend more than anyone else in the world.  Admiration because he really was more fanciable than ever these days and it was just so like him to not even know it. There was one final thing too--perfect unwavering trust.  Even during that terrifying time in their lives, when she didn't bother asking for promises or reassurances because she knew there were no guarantees, she trusted Harry with her whole heart.  He wouldn't hurt her.  He wouldn't lie to her.  He would do everything in his power to make her happy and keep her safe.  The boy in the photo seemed to look up at her just then, his eyes catching her own.  He smiled, the same endearing smile he'd been aiming her way since they were children.  Much had changed between the two of them over the years, but this one thing had not.

Hermione still knew that she could trust him.  

Whatever questions she had, that was her answer.

 

*************************************************************************************************************************************************

 

Hermione was just coming down the stairs when Ron appeared at the foot of them.

“Hey,” he said, “the door’s for you.”

She didn’t miss the way he avoided looking directly at her or the slight chill in his voice. It could only mean one thing. Harry must have told their other best friend what was going on between them. Her secret was finally out.  

She walked through the living room, past Harry (who also wouldn’t look at her), Hannah, and Neville who were group in front of the fire, to find Cole waiting for her in the entryway. He had one hand shoved deep in his trousers' pocket, the other holding what looked like half a dozen French blue tulips. He broke into a wide smile the second he saw her.

“Hi,” he said, “I hope it’s okay that I dropped by like this. I wanted to bring you these.”

Hermione couldn’t help smiling back at him as he handed her the bouquet of flowers wrapped in dark green tissue paper. “That is so nice of you. Thank you, Cole.”

“Your welcome,” he said, “Hannah said they’re your favorite.” He waited for a moment--that customary pause where a good hostess invites her guest inside, asks him to sit down, and offers him a cup of tea. She could even feel Hannah willing her to do so from the other room. But Hermione couldn’t. Keeping this pretense up even a moment longer was unfair to Cole and hurtful to Harry. If she hadn’t been such a coward, things never would have gotten this far in the first place. The least she could do was stop being a coward now.

“So, anyway, I wanted to tell you again what a great time I had last night,” Cole said after a short silence, “and I wanted to see if you’d have dinner with me again sometime later this week.”

He must have seen the answer in her eyes before she could say anything because his expression fell just a bit. “Thank you for asking me,” she said, “You’re great, Cole. Amazing, really. I mean that. But I’m afraid I’m not available. I’m dating someone.”

“Oh,” Cole said, frowning. It was obvious he knew the "no" was coming, but her reason was unexpected. “Hannah said you weren’t seeing anyone right now.”

“Hannah didn’t know.” She considered offering more of an explanation, then decided against it. She rather doubted he wanted to hang around to hear all about her feelings for another man. “I’m sorry. I should have told her before she set us up. It’s a bit complicated.”

“Right.” He scrubbed one hand through his dark blond hair, looking rueful. “Is it serious?”

“Very,” she said.

“Of course it is. My timing has always been shite,” he said, shaking his head and reaching for the door knob, “Well, then. It was lovely meeting you anyway. If anything changes on that front, feel free to owl me.”

“It was lovely meeting you too, Cole,” she said, “Bye.” 

Hannah was already on her feet when she walked back into the room. “Where’s Cole?” she asked.

“He left.”

“You didn’t invite him to stay?”

“No.” Hermione set the flowers on an end table and folded her arms across her chest, unsure how to begin. Harry still wasn’t looking at her, but his face was turned in profile towards her and his shoulders were slightly less tense.

“Why ever not?” Hannah said, “I thought you had a good time with him.”

“I did,” Hermione said, “He asked me to have dinner with him again.”

“Oh, Hermione, that’s great!  Didn’t I tell you the two of you--"

“I said no.”

Now Harry was turned fully towards her. The light from the chandelier overhead was glinting off his glasses, turning them opaque. She couldn’t see his eyes, but hope radiated off of him in waves.  

“What'd you go and do that for?” Hannah asked, “I thought you liked him.”

Once it was out there, there would be no taking it back, and that still terrified her. But Harry was right. He loved more than anyone.  And if he said she could trust him with her heart, how could she not believe him? “I’m seeing someone. I have been for a couple of months now.”

Hannah gaped at her. While her friend was clearly stunned, it did not escape Hermione’s notice that Ron and Neville most definitely were not. The reproach in their eyes was unmistakable, but she was pleased to see relief there too. It made her wonder what exactly Harry had told them.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I should have said so when you brought it up last week, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.”

“You're ready now?” Hannah asked.

Hermione smiled. "I am," she said. Time to take the leap. “Because I’m not just dating him. I’m in love with him.”

Hannah’s eyes went wide with astonishment. “After two months?” she exclaimed, “Aren’t you being a bit--” But whatever she was going to say died on her lips when Harry stood up from the armchair he’d been hunkered down in. He was smiling now too.

Hannah's head swiveled from him to Hermione and back again.  “Oh,” she said, “Of course. I should have known.” Then her eyes snagged on her boyfriend’s face and narrowed, “Or maybe someone should have told me.”

Neville shot a helpless look at Harry and a disgruntled one at Hermione. She barely saw him. The room could have emptied for all she cared.  The only thing that mattered was Harry, standing across from her, smiling at her so brilliantly, it was like being reborn. She crossed the room, took his outstretched hand, and let him enfold her in his arms.

“I love you, Harry,” she murmured against his neck, “I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”

“I love you too, Hermione,” he said, “I always, always will.”

She leaned back, looked up into his face.  "Show me."

Taking her by the hand, he led her out of the living room, ignoring the catcalls and whistles now coming from behind them.  Up the stairs, down the hall to his room (it was closer), where they may as well have been the only two people on earth.  

He was kissing her before he got the door shut.

This time felt like forever.