A/N: Written for the HP Potions Competition over at HPFC. My second ever piece of Harmony fluff, heehee. Potion: Kissing Concoction
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Hermione lied when Ron told her that he was her first kiss. How could she tell him the truth? He'd have one of his fits, go on about how she'd always preferred Harry- it wasn't exactly untrue, sure, but that didn't change the fact that Hermione preferred Ron now. And Harry preferred Ginny, anyways.
If you asked Ron, Hermione's first kiss was when she was eighteen years old, in the middle of the battle betwixt good and evil, shortly after he defended the House Elves and shortly before she slapped him for attempting to grab her arse. It was rather dramatic and poetic, like an ancient epic (until the arse-grabbery), but it wasn't anywhere near the truth.
No, if you wanted the truth, you couldn't even ask Hermione, especially if you were Ron- no, she'd tell that same lie every day of the week, every week of the year. If you wanted the truth, you'd have to dig past the falsifications which she and Harry had agreed to.
If you wanted the truth, Hermione Granger had her first kiss when she was fifteen years old. Ron had been tormenting her at the Yule Ball, and Harry had been turned down by his crush in favor of an older, stronger, more powerful, more attractive boy. Each was feeling miserable about themselves, and as they commiserated after the ball outside the Great Hall, they met eyes.
"You look beautiful, you know," Harry said. "Ron's being a prat." He was being earnest, too- she had learned eventually to tell when he was lying; it wasn't really that hard, if you knew what to look for. Tonight, he was being truthful.
Hermione blushed. "Th- thank you. You clean up nicely yourself."
The corridor was chilly, and they had shuffled towards each other, as sitting on the cold stone steps had not particularly helped to warm either of the students. As each fully recognized the tone of the moment and the attire of the other, their cheeks warmed. They were sitting so closely. Neither had realized- Harry didn't remember putting his arm around her like that, but he couldn't very well remove it, that would be rude. She was clearly chilly; at some point during the night she had lost her shawl- he'd noticed it on her way in, but it was gone.
He rubbed his arm over her back, hoping the friction would help to warm her. This drew Hermione out of her apparent reverie, and she gave him a small smile. "We should go back to the Tower; curfew has to be soon."
Harry stood and stretched, arching his back and buckling his knees, before helping Hermione to her feet. She stumbled a bit as she stood, and he just barely caught her (after all, in the heels she had donned for the night, she was as tall as he was). Her arm was pressed against his shoulder, her torso against his, and their faces only inches apart. If either had spoken of it after that night, neither could have told why they did what they did, or who led into the action first.
Breaking eye contact to watch each other's lips, the duo's mouths met gently. Hermione was astonished- he was a boy, but his mouth felt soft under hers. Soft, moist, gentle. His lips weren't stiff or rough as she'd expected. They stayed just that way, connected by mouths, for a moment, before seemingly coming to their senses and realizing what they had done.
They pulled away simultaneously, each laughing nervously.
"I, er-"
"I'm..."
Neither was sure of what to say. It had been the first kiss for each of them, and it wasn't a particularly regrettable one. They walked to Gryffindor Tower in a companionable silence, and when they arrived neither much felt like participating in the large party taking place in the Common Room. They bid quiet adieus at the bottom of the stairs separating the dormitories, and they went to their respective dorms, pondering what had happened.
Hermione, stripping herself of her dress, caught her own eye in the mirror. She felt alive, her eyes looked like they were sparkling- was it the dress, the dancing, or that kiss? The dancing, she remembered, wide-eyed, as she slipped into her pajamas. She had danced with Viktor. She had attended the ball with Viktor Krum, not with Harry. It wasn't proper to kiss the boy you weren't even attending the event with- that was entirely improper! And yet she had felt so good afterwards, so calmed and so energized at the same time.
She could do anything with that energy, but she was content to fall against her bed, close her eyes, and sigh in remembrance. She knew that she wouldn't be able to bring it up anytime soon- she'd hate to embarrass Harry, not to mention that Viktor couldn't ever know what she had done. Content, indeed, was Hermione Granger. Content to remember.
Harry was stuck removing his tie. As soon as he'd gotten it out from around his neck, he felt himself freeze. It wasn't a spell; it was as though his mind had decided to pause his body's movements for a moment so that he could have a good long think about what he'd done. He knew Hermione had gone to that ball with Viktor Krum. He could tell that Ron was crazy about her, even if Ron didn't realize it. But kissing her had felt good.
She had never looked so soft before- her hair, her dress, her skin, her lips. But of course, he couldn't tell Ron. He was his best friend, but Ron would still kill him. He doesn't want to claim her. Harry knew that was a large part of it all. Ron was attracted to Hermione, but he didn't want to be. And Harry wasn't attracted to Hermione- at least, he hadn't ever been before- but his mind and body seemed to have conspired to make him want to be attracted to her.
It didn't matter. He wouldn't tell Ron if she wouldn't. And she clearly hadn't planned on telling him, either, judging by the look on her face when they rushed past him, unnoticed, in the Common Room. And so Harry Potter was left to ponder, to ponder both what had happened to him that night and what would come of it the next day.
The answer, of course, was nothing.
Three, five, ten years later, if anyone asked Hermione Granger who his first kiss was, she would tell her it was Ronald Weasley in the heat of battle; if anyone asked Harry Potter who he first kissed, the answer would be Cho Chang in his fifth year.
Their kiss was pushed to the wayside, all but forgotten. Of course, they'd never truly forget. Sometimes they saw it in each other when they made eye contact; one or the other would remember, and suddenly both were remembering, eyes glittering, smiles hidden. And if Ron or Ginny were to ask what their spouse was thinking about? "Oh, that first kiss."