Theory and Practice
Disclaimer: I am not now, nor have I ever been owner of Harry Potter.
Summary: In the build up to the final battle, Hermione realises the difference between theory and practice. HGSS. Not exactly angsty, only a little melancholy.
It hadn't been what she was expecting, not really.
The assignment had been an honour, and even with the disappointment that came from knowing that she would be cooped up in a laboratory with Professor Snape, of all people, while Harry and Ron were devising strategies with Dumbledore and Lupin and Kingsley in the warm glow of shared machismo, she still felt a glow of pride. Wasn't she the brightest witch of her generation? Well, she would put her brains to good use then. Courage and valour would have their place later.
She had found herself enjoying the work, though. She'd always had an aptitude for Potions, she knew, but working in the experimental field had captured her interest; each step took logic and reasoning, and she let herself stay awake into the early hours of the morning, working through problems. Even Professor Snape began to become something other than the sarcastic git who had haunted her steps for the last seven years. Alone, the criticisms became less cruel, his manner less condescending. While hardly friends – she couldn't imagine confiding in this man – she let herself relax in his presence, discussing the project with him, sharing revelations and disappointments as the weeks progressed. He began to assign her solo work, rather than keeping her as a glorified assistant, and she realised that while the praise she'd coveted since childhood was never going to come, this grudging acknowledgement of her competence felt like a triumph. As they worked and ate together, she felt a mutual respect grow between them, a shared love for discovery and knowledge. She almost felt the beginnings of an equal partnership.
And then, the touch. An accidental brush of hands as they both reached for the same beaker. She had felt a shiver pass through both of them, and realised with the same clarity that accompanied her studies, that eventually they would find themselves here. With the part of her mind that still wished for romance, she wished that the cause of this realisation had been a little less prosaic than a mutual need for yak bile. Nevertheless, remembering her mother's words the summer before she turned fifteen "Just be sure you're ready, darling", she'd accepted the inevitable, and begun to try and work out how it would be.
Romantic, possibly, his hands pressing warm caresses to her skin, lips whispering a benediction against her closed eyes while she gasped and swayed against him.
Rough, a desperate grasp of pleasure, teeth and nails leaving marks that she would wear as a brand beneath her clothing even as they marched to war.
Either scenario seemed possible, at night she closed her eyes and let her hands and mind wander. Preparation, after all, was the key to success.
In the end, though, it had seemed a little anticlimactic. Another experiment had led them down a blind alley, and she'd found herself weeping with frustration. This was to be her contribution, her part in bringing down Voldemort, and victory had never seemed so far away. She felt him place a hand on her shoulder, and he said her name, just once. The first time.
"Hermione."
Yes. She'd never know if she'd spoken out loud, but it was there anyway, the air between them heavy with mutual knowledge of what was about to come. And then the kiss, warm and salt tasting from her tears. Neither of them spoke as they took the stumbling steps into his bedroom. His touch was gentle, more comforting than passioned as he stroked her back and smoothed her hair from her face before kissing her again. She felt a hot flood of shame remembering her ridiculous daydreams and clasped his hips to feel the movement of his muscles under her hands, desperate for every moment of ungainly reality.
This was real, after all, and even as she whimpered her pleasure into his shoulder she felt another moment of cold realisation, an ache that tugged at her heart. This was merely a moment of respite, a need for comfort while the darkness grew outside the door.
This would not happen again.
And they had changed everything.
Disclaimer: I am not now, nor have I ever been owner of Harry Potter.
Summary: In the build up to the final battle, Hermione realises the difference between theory and practice. HGSS. Not exactly angsty, only a little melancholy.
It hadn't been what she was expecting, not really.
The assignment had been an honour, and even with the disappointment that came from knowing that she would be cooped up in a laboratory with Professor Snape, of all people, while Harry and Ron were devising strategies with Dumbledore and Lupin and Kingsley in the warm glow of shared machismo, she still felt a glow of pride. Wasn't she the brightest witch of her generation? Well, she would put her brains to good use then. Courage and valour would have their place later.
She had found herself enjoying the work, though. She'd always had an aptitude for Potions, she knew, but working in the experimental field had captured her interest; each step took logic and reasoning, and she let herself stay awake into the early hours of the morning, working through problems. Even Professor Snape began to become something other than the sarcastic git who had haunted her steps for the last seven years. Alone, the criticisms became less cruel, his manner less condescending. While hardly friends – she couldn't imagine confiding in this man – she let herself relax in his presence, discussing the project with him, sharing revelations and disappointments as the weeks progressed. He began to assign her solo work, rather than keeping her as a glorified assistant, and she realised that while the praise she'd coveted since childhood was never going to come, this grudging acknowledgement of her competence felt like a triumph. As they worked and ate together, she felt a mutual respect grow between them, a shared love for discovery and knowledge. She almost felt the beginnings of an equal partnership.
And then, the touch. An accidental brush of hands as they both reached for the same beaker. She had felt a shiver pass through both of them, and realised with the same clarity that accompanied her studies, that eventually they would find themselves here. With the part of her mind that still wished for romance, she wished that the cause of this realisation had been a little less prosaic than a mutual need for yak bile. Nevertheless, remembering her mother's words the summer before she turned fifteen "Just be sure you're ready, darling", she'd accepted the inevitable, and begun to try and work out how it would be.
Romantic, possibly, his hands pressing warm caresses to her skin, lips whispering a benediction against her closed eyes while she gasped and swayed against him.
Rough, a desperate grasp of pleasure, teeth and nails leaving marks that she would wear as a brand beneath her clothing even as they marched to war.
Either scenario seemed possible, at night she closed her eyes and let her hands and mind wander. Preparation, after all, was the key to success.
In the end, though, it had seemed a little anticlimactic. Another experiment had led them down a blind alley, and she'd found herself weeping with frustration. This was to be her contribution, her part in bringing down Voldemort, and victory had never seemed so far away. She felt him place a hand on her shoulder, and he said her name, just once. The first time.
"Hermione."
Yes. She'd never know if she'd spoken out loud, but it was there anyway, the air between them heavy with mutual knowledge of what was about to come. And then the kiss, warm and salt tasting from her tears. Neither of them spoke as they took the stumbling steps into his bedroom. His touch was gentle, more comforting than passioned as he stroked her back and smoothed her hair from her face before kissing her again. She felt a hot flood of shame remembering her ridiculous daydreams and clasped his hips to feel the movement of his muscles under her hands, desperate for every moment of ungainly reality.
This was real, after all, and even as she whimpered her pleasure into his shoulder she felt another moment of cold realisation, an ache that tugged at her heart. This was merely a moment of respite, a need for comfort while the darkness grew outside the door.
This would not happen again.
And they had changed everything.