Swallowed in the Sea
Notes: Just a little oneshot; a bit angsty but also a bit fluffy? I dunno. Also AU.
Disclaimer: the hp universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.
One thing that Hermione can say she now knows about camping is that it is cold. She's been shivering for a few hours now and is fully ready to call it quits and return to the nice, warm car. Sure, it's an awful car (and it's Ron's) but it would definitely be an improvement to the frozen, bumpy sod on which her sleeping bag is placed.
Another thing she can say she knows about camping now is that Ron is not good at it, and, well, Harry really isn't much good at it either. Her ears are still ringing from the very loud argument that just ensued between the two boys an hour before. She imagines Harry's are as well at this point; she's known him long enough to know that he's probably lying awake, staring at the ceiling. That, and his breathing is giving him away. It's too even. Normally when he's asleep, his breathing is irregular, because he often has nightmares.
Ron is conspicuously absent; he has run back to the car in a hissyfit. Hermione does not regret siding with Harry, but she does wish Ron didn't always take it so personally every single time she disagrees with him. She would blame it on that one night in college where they essentially proved that all of their 'chemistry' had been nothing more than friction, but things were always like this. Ron has always had self-esteem issues in relation to Harry, and even though Hermione has suggested several times (kindly, she thinks) that he see a therapist, Ron continues to bottle up all of his angst—the angst which Hermione privately thinks he should have let go of years ago.
"Harry." She waits. He doesn't answer. "I know you're awake," she adds in a bossier voice than intended. She hears Harry's dry chuckle.
"Hermione. I know you're awake too," he says sardonically. He shifts in his sleeping bag and she feels his bag move near hers. It strikes her, as it usually does at times like these, how close they are. And for the nth time, Hermione wonders if maybe everyone is right about her and Harry—maybe Ron is right that they're the only ones fooled by their routine of friendship.
Sometimes she is not fooled.
Tonight is one of those times. It happens a lot lately. She found herself crying in the bathroom one night at the twin's and Lee's when she saw Harry and Ginny snogging. Usually when she is upset, Harry is there to awkwardly pat her on the shoulder and grimly offer words of false cheer, which always does the trick for cheering her up. But that night, he was not there (being the cause of the problem and all) and it made the situation ten times worse than it would have been with any other boy. She doesn't begrudge Ginny her happiness; everyone knows Ginny's adored Harry since grade school.
But Hermione's adored him since grade school too.
And sometimes, she thinks Harry isn't fooled either. And sometimes she wonders about that night that she and Ron fell into bed together, because when they were leaving the Halloween party together and Harry spotted them, there was a moment...
Being ridiculous. It's just because he's male and you see him regularly, she tells herself.
She's close enough to breathe in the scent of his skin, and she wonders if he can smell her shampoo from here.
"Sorry. About earlier," he says with a sigh. She turns her head and sees him rubbing his face tiredly. "Dunno why Ron's such a prat about that stuff. Honestly, I've been camping thousands of times—I know how to set up a bloody tent."
"I know, Harry," Hermione agrees as she stares at him, with his trademark untidy black hair and his bright green eyes, so peculiarly bright and perfectly almond-shaped. He stands out, and she does not, and she thinks now that that is why they have never gotten together. Harry and Ginny are two people who stand out; Hermione and Ron are the perpetual sidekicks who can commiserate with each other.
But this close, with nothing but the sounds of the woods at night around them and the green glow of the gelstick over their heads, it doesn't seem to matter, and all that is left for Hermione is the fact that she may be madly in love with her best friend. It makes her heart hurt because she knows it can't work out.
"It's stuffy in here, isn't it? Let's go sit outside for a bit."
This is obviously complete bullshit, because it is freezing, but Hermione joins Harry outside anyway. They both sit in their sleeping bags, staring at the winking stars above. "Think Ron'll ever get over all of...that?"
"Doubtful," Hermione sighs, gazing up at the very round moon. "It's always been like that."
"I just wish he could get over it!" Harry explodes. "I don't think I'm...better... or something. I mean, for years I was jealous of Ron, and I felt like he had everything!"
This is a new development, though it's not particularly surprising. Hermione glances at Harry cautiously. Upsetting Harry when he is in this mood is like poking an angry bear; it is best to tread carefully.
"I suppose because he has always had a big, happy family?" Hermione suggests tentatively. Harry scoffs.
"Not just that," he mutters. Something tightens in Hermione's chest.
"What else?"
"Forget it," he snaps at her, then he falters. She sees his shoulders slump a bit under the sleeping bag and she reflects on how she knows what they look like, what they feel like, even though she and Harry are not lovers. She wishes she could have an excuse to touch him now. "Sorry," he adds quietly. He's grinning at her and she always weakens at this particular grin. "I know, I always bite your head off when I'm mad at Ron, and you don't deserve it."
"Exactly. You're nearly there. Now we just need to train you to not do it in the first place," she teases him gently. It is probably her imagination, but Harry's eyes linger at her mouth before he looks away quickly.
"It's fucking cold," he laughs, and then Hermione's laughing too. It seems like this is forever them: laughing to stave off the bitterness, waiting up for Ron to come home like a delinquent child. "Come on," he says suddenly, and he stumbles out of his sleeping bag. He's bundled up in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, just like Hermione. He holds out a hand for her, his breath clouding in the air before him. "Come on; you have to teach me to dance. You took ballroom dance lessons, right?"
Hermione gets out of her sleeping bag, curling her toes inside her thick socks at the rush of bitterly cold air.
"Is this for Ginny?" she asks shrewdly, eying Harry as she accepts his cold hand. The skin is chapped and calloused; it's dark so he can't see her blushing.
"No. It's for me; but if saying it's for Ginny will get you to do it, then yes," he says slyly with a grin, and Hermione laughs loudly. Pleasure shoots through her. It isn't for Ginny. Is it petty to be happy about that?
"Okay, here. You're going to twirl," she says bossily, raising his hand as she uses her free hand to push on his shoulder, directing him to twirl.
"Boys don't twirl; girls do," he says knowingly and attempts to twirl her. They stumble together along the frozen ground, laughing breathlessly, their ears and toes and noses hurting from the cold. "Besides, why would it be for Ginny?"
Hermione directs him to place his hand on her waist as their fingers twine together. It feels much too close for it to be friendly, but she's being a terrible friend and urging them closer together, until they're pressed close together. She can see the very beginnings of stubble along his jawline.
"You're in love with her, obviously, Harry," Hermione chides him, though her voice catches on certain words. Harry looks unconvinced.
"Not in love. We've—" he stops suddenly.
"You've?" Hermione prompts tentatively, though she's sure she doesn't want to hear the answer. To hide her face in case of what he says, she directs them in a basic box step around the ground, their knees bumping accidentally.
"Alright, we've snogged," he admits a bit grumpily. He twirls her again suddenly. "But it was awkward. I do like her, but..."
"But...?"
Quite suddenly, Harry dips her.
"Ah, forget it," he says sheepishly. His lips twitch and suddenly he drops her and they tumble to the ground together, laughing again. "Okay, so perhaps I'm hopeless," he says grimly as they pull away, still gasping from laughing. They each sort of stumble back to the sleeping bags.
"Perhaps," Hermione agrees, shaking her head. "For someone so athletic, you'd think dancing would be easy!"
"It's cold," Harry says crossly as he carries their sleeping bags back inside the tent. "And for someone so completely uncoordinated, I can't believe you can do it at all—"
"Ha. Ha." Hermione rolls her eyes as they settle their bags down on the ground; Ron's is conspicuously not there so they technically have plenty of room, yet they still place their bags directly next to each other's. They settle inside their bags, which are now cold again, and they're shivering. "You know," Hermione begins, hoping she sounds like she's nothing more than joking, and knowing she'll regret saying it at all later, "This is usually the part in the movies where the two characters crawl into one sleeping bag and the sexual tension that's been building becomes evident."
"Wonder where they got that inspiration," Harry jokes through chattering teeth. "Though if you want to crawl into my sleeping bag, I promise I won't kick you out of bed."
This, naturally, earns him a slap.
"Don't make me take you up on that," Hermione warns, though she's already shimmying out of her bag and preparing to crawl over to his. Harry rolls his eyes.
"At least you're wearing socks so your feet won't be horribly cold," he says grudgingly as he unzips the bag and helps her slide into it. The laughing disappears as they realized how firmly pressed together they are now, and how there is no room to move. The only way they can be situated is facing each other, with Hermione's face buried against Harry's chest.
"Well. This is cosy," Hermione tries to joke. To his credit, Harry laughs.
"I think if Ron came back now, he'd really kill me then," he replies. They're so close that Hermione can feel his chest rumbling with his speech.
"Yeah, and telling him it was just for warmth wouldn't work," she sighs knowingly, trying to pretend that she does not find this situation incredibly arousing. Her palms are flat against his chest.
"...Yeah. It wouldn't," he agrees in such a quiet voice that Hermione nearly misses it.
For several long, strained moments, there is silence. It suddenly feels quite warm; Hermione tries to retract her hands so they aren't placed so cloyingly on his chest, but there's nowhere less awkward to put them.
"...Is it just for warmth?" she finally voices the question that is on both of their minds. She sees Harry swallow; the skin over his adam's apple looks tantalizing.
"Dunno. Doubtful," Harry replies quietly, echoing Hermione's words from earlier in the evening. There is a strange fluttering in Hermione's chest. "I don't reckon it ever was."
"What are we doing then?"
The silence is ringing in their ears.
"Doing what we always do?" Harry offers after a moment. The revelation that they are on the same page and always have been is like a slap in the face; all this time they've lost.
"Do we keep doing what we always do?"
"It'd be easy to do that, yeah."
They're silent again.
"When Ron and I..." Hermione begins, because this is one of the things that has bugged her the most over the years.
"Hated it," says Harry immediately. Somehow Hermione knows their future now. "What about a few weeks ago at Fred and George's?"
"Horrible. Cried," Hermione admits ruefully. "Wanted her dead."
"I picked on Ron for every stupid little thing after that Halloween. Sirius told me I needed to get help," Harry laughs. Hermione sighs. It's so like Harry to try and laugh about it, to try and make it nothing. He never wants to open any cans of worms. The only thing he is afraid of is opening up to others. Perhaps it's because of his childhood, or perhaps it's simply his nature.
In one fluid movement, he has turned them over and she has shifted upwards, so that she is pinned rather satisfyingly beneath him. They can't go back from this; it's too late. But she knows they can't really go forward, either. It's the nature of their friendship, to be caught in this catch-22.
But when his lips are on hers she forgets about the past and future. She knows they'll work through it together. It will always hurt a little bit—probably often a lot—but it goes without saying that this is not a path on which they can continue. They simply cannot.
His body is lean and hard. Hermione feels self-conscious, comparing herself to Harry's past conquests, who have always been her complete polar opposite: very outgoing, stunningly pretty, confident, and generally, quite athletic. Maybe it's wrong, but it quiets her fears to know that his past girlfriends have always ended things because of Harry's refusal to omit Hermione from his life. Harry's presence has always ruined her past relationships as well; deep down she knows that it's a fact that pleases him as well. Ultimately they belong to each other; they will always choose each other first and foremost in every way.
When Harry's hand grips her hip, she does not notice the cold at all. She winds her legs around his hips, relishing the way they fit together perfectly. It is so much more satisfying than she could have ever imagined, to slide her tongue in his mouth, to make him sigh in pleasure, to darken his bright eyes with desire. It's not just lust between them; it's so much more. Her name on his lips is the most erotic thing she has ever heard. Normally she does not believe in giving in quickly, but they have waited nearly a lifetime for this moment and they will never have it again.
"I'm sorry, mate. I was a total prat last night," Ron groans as Harry and Hermione approach the parking lot the next morning. Ron does not look like he has slept a wink. "But I went to look for you again and I couldn't find the tent. So I figured I'd stay in the car overnight. Bloody creepy—kept hearing things." He shudders.
For a moment, Harry and Hermione both freeze. Harry is the first to recover.
"Forget it," he says amiably, and grins at Ron to let him know everything's alright. They chuck their rolled-up gear into the back of Ron's car and as usual, everything goes back to being friendly as they pull away from the remote campsite, all three of them crammed into the front seat of Ron's car. Ron is driving, Hermione is in the middle, and Harry is in the passenger seat. Ron never suspects that anything has changed. Perhaps nothing has changed.
But the whole way home, their hands are secretly entwined.