Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

A/N: This isn't properly British.


It's supposed to be a secret, really. Private and special. They're supposed to be alone on the water's edge, with not a soul around. They met clear on the other side, just for this purpose. Hermione's got her chocolate hair swept up in a high-ponytail and her favourite sweater hugging all her curves, with her best jeans too tight around her legs. He doesn't look like he tried as hard, simply because he doesn't look like he needs to. His red sweater is stretched across his broad shoulders, his toned muscles showing off just in the mere silhouette of his form. He's shaved, for her, probably because she said his stubble tickled, last time. He looks right out of a classic fantasy, standing here on the rocks of the lakebed, both his strong hands in hers.

Hermione had something she was going to tell him, earlier. A funny anecdote or whatever. But it's fizzled out in the headiness of his presence, and instead she just mumbles, "I'm glad we got away."

"You look beautiful," He tells her, in his thick, oddly-sensual accent. It makes her blush almost as much as the words, and she leans up when he leans down. Her toes are itching to lift her.

The girls that burst out of the trees come with a clamour of giggles, flashing cameras and requests for autographs. Hermione turns a delicate shade of red and looks at the lake while he deals with it.

He doesn't. He ignores them all, and holds out the broom tucked under his arm, asking, "Perhaps ve should try another spot. Vill you ride with me?" Hermione says yes by way of a smile.