DISCLAIMER: None of this is mine.
A/N: Short, unbetaed—posted on a whim. This is an excerpt from Indiscretion, a forthcoming Hermione-centric fic—whether or not it will make it into the final draft, I'm not sure, and this segment can basically stand alone. Enjoy.
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When she was eleven, she met Harry Potter.
She had held out her hand and he had taken it. He had a firm handshake even though she knew he was as nervous as she, only he showed it in his reticence and she through her prattle, going on and on about spellbooks and wizards and Neville's poor frog, even though she didn't care about the frog at all, it was just one more thing to talk about.
In spite of his handshake, Harry looked white and pale and rather queasy, which made her feel a bit better because if Harry Potter was nervous about Hogwarts then it had to be alright.
When she was twelve, she scolded Harry Potter.
It was her twelfth birthday and she was upset. A flying lesson seemed the worst possible way to celebrate a new year and Neville's fall only cemented her terror. When Harry climbed onto his broom and kicked off into idiocy she couldn't help shouting, "You'll get us all into trouble!" He hadn't listened to her, of course, and he wouldn't get them into trouble until much later.
When she was fifteen, she fell for Harry Potter.
It was the little things, really: his smile, his hair, the way he bit his nails whenever he was thinking hard or how he took his tea with milk and three sugars.
But it was the big things too. There was Ron, of course, but Ron was so much work while Harry was earnest and quiet and unassuming. Harry would never make her do anything she didn't want or be anyone she wasn't. Ron was nerve-racking and Harry was natural and she couldn't see herself with anyone but the two of them, so in a way, falling for Harry was almost inevitable.
She kissed him on the cheek when they left the Hogwarts Express and he didn't really notice, but she hadn't expected him to. Nor did she mind. She was only fifteen, and she knew that she wasn't in love.
When she was sixteen, she kissed Harry Potter.
He came home with her the summer after fifth year because the Durselys were monstrous and the Weasleys were wizards and Harry needed rest from talk of Voldemort and rumors about a coming war. She had been amazed to learn that he had never seen the seashore, although once she thought about it, it wasn't too surprising. So as soon as they drove in from London, she had biked with him the few blocks from her house to the Channel. They stripped down to their skivvies and went into the water, even though it was only June and much too cold for swimming.
They did it the next day, and the next. On the fifth day, he kissed her—just a peck, but it was short and sweet and all that she wanted and it sustained her the two full weeks it took him to drum up his courage to kiss her again. That time, she plucked up enough nerve to kiss him back.
When she was seventeen, their world exploded.