Chapter One:
Meeting the Man
It hadn't been long after the Final Battle before Harry and Ron settled their minds on their future career aspirations. Harry had always wanted to be an Auror, so that had been laid out for him the moment he'd made the final decision to become one, being the savior of the wizarding world and all. Ron – lighthearted and never capable of keeping a serious conversation, let alone a serious occupation – had been eager to pursue a Quidditch career for the Chudley Cannons. He wasn't the best player in the Quidditch League, surely, but he was part of the team and he was settling for it, at least temporarily.
Hermione, studious and determined as she had always been, was baffled as to where to settle in. Job offers were abundant, and owls flooded in by the day with a new proposition for the talented, intelligent witch, but she didn't know what she wanted to do. She didn't think she'd mind teaching, per say, but she didn't know that she'd enjoy it, despite Minerva's incessant begging to join her on staff at Hogwarts. There were several departments within the Ministry that wanted her, including the Department of Mysteries themselves, but Hermione wasn't terribly keen on working for that organization at all, corrupt as it was.
She had so many options available, and it irked her that she'd never come to a firm decision about what it was that she wanted. She'd given thought once or twice to writing a book, but that didn't seem to be her calling. She had no doubt that she could write one – after all, she had quite the heart for it – but she didn't really have the drive to write about anything in particular.
She forced herself into further studies at the Merlin Institute – a very prodigious school that very few students were accepted into – and, strangely enough, she found herself to be more bored than ever. She missed the adrenaline rush that she faced in battle, and the slight wonder of the unknown, despite how nerve wracking she recalled it being. She didn't want to be an Auror, she'd decided several months prior, but studying was not what she wanted to be doing, either.
She went to the administration at the university and politely notified them that she would finish the semester and then withdraw her name from the rosters. They were sorely disappointed.
"Are you quite sure, Madame?" An admissions officer by the name of Williams asked pleadingly. "You've been quite an asset to our school these past months."
Forcing a small smile, she cordially said, "I'm quite sure, sir. I'll not claim to be a genius, as there are more than a few books in your plentiful library that I've not yet read, but I think I've finally satisfied my quest for knowledge. I've learned all that I feel is necessary; now I wish to find something to do with the information."
And that, Hermione thought, was precisely what she was missing. During her Hogwarts days, she'd always had some mission to set out on with Harry and Ron. Her vast expanse of various learned things had been needed then. They had tested her capacity and she had soared through every test, but the written exams were no longer quenching her thirst for adventure.
She'd spent more time in the past few months holed up in the library than ever before. Despite the fact that it was a very impressive library, she found herself yearning to be active and participant in something where her knowledge could be applied, and she simply hadn't discovered what that was yet.
As the end of the semester approached, Hermione decided that since she had very little else to do with her time, she would go for her collegiate degree. She had but a mere few months, but that had never stopped her before. She needed a task, and as minimal as this one seemed, she thrust herself into it, heart and soul. By graduation, her counselors and the admissions offices were astonished. In her six months there, she had completed the courses and coursework that earned her a Masters in Charms, and a Minor in Potions.
The act had never before been performed, and by doing so she earned a plaque, valedictorian for the class of 1999 – which she'd never intended to be apart of, really – and several more job offers that she didn't particularly want.
"We've always known our girl was a genius," Fred sighed dramatically at her graduation.
"Now it's been proven," George chimed, "and the rest of the world is as aware of it as we are!"
"Congrats, Granger!" The boys chimed, scooping her up in a double hug.
Hermione laughed lightly and thanked them, oddly not feeling very celebratory. "Boys, put me down, please?"
"Party spoiler," they grumbled, but planted her feet firmly back on the ground as requested.
"Now for the million galleon question," Fred said in a voice that would be quite fitting of a game show host, while patting his hands in quick succession against his belly to mock a drum roll.
"What are you going to do with your life now, Granger?" George held a rolled up pamphlet against his mouth to mimic a microphone, then placed it close to Hermione's lips to wait for her answer.
Shrugging, Hermione murmured, "I haven't a clue."
"Could always work for us!" Fred chirped.
"We could always use the likes of a brilliant mind like yours," George praised.
The twins, as kind and caring as they were to her, were overcompensating. They were the only two that showed up at her graduation, as commendable as it was. Harry and Ron had slowly grown apart from her, and though it killed her, she couldn't fault them for it. They had careers and girlfriends, and they were quite busy managing their own lives. She felt neglected and lost without them, but there wasn't much that could be done for it.
The Harry and Ron of the present were not the same ones that she had known prior to the battle. The Harry and Ron that she'd known had needed her around. They had wanted her around, even. But as they strategized for the battle and made plans, they had discovered that perhaps she wasn't quite as indispensable as they had thought. They'd tried to keep up a friendship, but none of them were terribly keen on maintaining it.
Her boys had changed. Ron, although centered more on acting like a team instead of a one-man show, quite enjoyed flaunting his female fans and using them to satisfy his 'manly desires,' as he'd once called them, and Hermione didn't approve of that Ron at all. Harry, savior of the wizarding world, had closed himself off from the world – except Ron – and thrown himself into his Auror duties with rigorous force. She respected that, but in the process of doing so he shunned her, and that hurt more than she and Ron's spats about his influx of women.
Fred and George had tried to console her, and they'd become quite close in the process, but they and she were aware that there was much more going on in her mind and heart than the indifference and uncertainty that revealed itself on the surface. The two boys were good friends to her, and she wouldn't lie to them, but she didn't tell them all of what she was feeling, either.
They knew that she hid things from them, and they were alright with that. Fred and George were mainly focused on keeping her spirits lifted, and while that worked sometimes for small intervals of time, it never lasted.
"We should celebrate, Forge!"
"Most definitely, Gred!"
"Perhaps not," Hermione shied away, wrinkling her nose at the protruding camera flashes and reporters that surrounded her. This wasn't new; they'd been this way since the end of the final battle. She'd come into a rather sizeable sum of money as thanks for her services against Voldemort, and several of them were not only hoping for an interview with her about her view on the battle, but also in knowing what she planned to do with the extra money. And now, in addition, they needed her photo to write an article about her recent accomplishment in her education. "I think I'd rather stay in tonight, if neither of you mind."
"'Course not," Fred slung an arm around her shoulders.
"We'll bring the party to you, my friend," George assured.
"Just us two," Fred promised.
"Us two, plus two," George amended.
"And two more, too!" Fred grinned enthusiastically.
Sighing in resignation, she let the twins continue their game and increase the amount of guests permitted. There wasn't anything that she could do, really, to get out of the mess that they were creating, but she hoped that they wouldn't get too carried away with it. She didn't typically enjoy large crowds of people, but tonight especially she knew that she would act a very poor host.
Spotting Hermione's upset demeanor, the twins silently vowed that their celebration would involve only the three of them, plus Oliver, who they'd originally promised the evening to. They had hoped that Hermione wouldn't be as down as she was, but now that they'd noticed it, they couldn't very well leave her to mourn for the evening, but they weren't keen on calling plans off with Oliver, as well, as they hadn't seen him in several months due to busy schedules.
They walked back to her flat in almost-silence, but for the occasional quip or two that couldn't be helped in the presence of the Weasley twins. The press was barely held at bay by a small shield that she'd thought to put up just before leaving the school's property. When the boys left her, Hermione carefully removed her valedictorian sash, and then her cap and gown, carefully folding them and laying them on her bed. After staring at them for a moment, pondering over the developments of her life, Hermione banished the ensemble to her closet and changed into a pair of jeans and a comfortable pink jumper.
Hermione moved to the kitchen and deftly started throwing ingredients together to make a myriad of food assortments. She wasn't particularly hungry, but cooking had always been a relaxing hobby that she and her mother had done together to calm their nerves. There was a small pang upon the thought of her mother, and another one as she inevitably connected her mother to her father, both of whom died during the war.
Brushing thoughts of her parents away, Hermione continued cooking and baking until she had a full spread of baked potatoes, mash, roast, pasta, rolls, cooked carrots, cookies, cupcakes, a full-sized cake, a chocolate torte, and a special chocolate raspberry truffle cheesecake for George, who she knew wasn't a huge fan of vanilla icing.
She'd been taking a tray of chips from the oven when the doorbell rang, and she hurriedly placed it over the stove so as not to burn the counters before rushing to the door to admit Fred and George, plus Oliver Wood, whom she hadn't seen face-to-face since her third year in school.
She cast them all a small, polite smile, and admitted them inside.
"Merlin, Granger!" George cried.
"We only left a few hours ago!"
"How'd you manage the feast?"
"But what a lovely feast it is!" Fred snatched a chip off the newly finished tray, and bit into it before Hermione could warn him that they were likely to be very hot.
"Water!" Fred yelped.
Hermione immediately accio'd a glass over and took it to the sink to fill it with cool water. Fred snatched it from her hand before she finished filling it and gulped it down in several swallows.
"It's lovely to see how much the two of you have matured," Oliver's thick Scottish burr chuckled lowly.
"The twins?" Hermione raised a brow skeptically. "Maturing? Not likely, Wood."
Several things could be said in favor of the twins – laughter, humility, kindness, and brazenness to name a few – but maturity was not and had never been one of their positive attributes, and Hermione had given up on chastising it after admitting that they wouldn't be Fred and George without a lack of maturity.
"Well if it can't be said of them, it may at least be said of you," Wood acknowledged with a wink. "You were a scrawny little thing, last I saw of you."
Offering a small smile as she was reminded of her Hogwarts days with Harry and Ron, Hermione then shrugged.
"Ah yes," George sighed. "We remember those times!"
"All bushy hair and eager to please!" His twin contributed merrily.
"Never would've thought you'd grow into the stunning woman before us today," George whispered conspiratorially.
"Still got a bit of bushy hair, though," Fred fingered a lock of her curly, unmanageable hair and twirled it around his index finger.
Hermione rolled her eyes and smacked his hand away from her. "Apologies," she murmured, retreating back to the kitchen, slightly uncomfortable with Oliver's presence. She hadn't exactly been very social in recent months, so anyone's company would be a bit awkward, but she hadn't seen him since she was fourteen and she hardly remembered anything significant about him except his love for Quidditch, which still wasn't a topic she immensely enjoyed speaking of.
She heard Wood and the twins exchanging banter in the living room, mostly over her overloaded bookcases and her new kitten, Bowie, who prowled around their feet, sniffing at them ominously as if they were unwelcomed in his home.
Removing a bottle of wine from her liquor cabinet, Hermione thought to grab a couple flutes to fill with the red substance. She wasn't a fan of drinking, really, but she could appreciate wines and tastes, and she knew that her friends were trying to make this a good night for her, so she would put an effort into enjoying their company and offering a celebratory drink.
Stopping before she poured Oliver's wine, she called out, "Do you like red or white wine?"
"Red," the twins called out predictably.
"Whatever's handy, I suppose," Oliver followed.
She poured the last glass and levitated both the wine and the glasses out to her coffee table. She finally levitated the roast and other supper items to the dinner table and joined them in the sitting room.
"To Granger and her academic prowess!" The twins chorused, and Hermione wondered if they'd agreed upon a toast in her absence. Even for them, it was a bit too rehearsed.
A slight flush spread over her cheeks, but she raised her glass nevertheless and tapped it against those of her guests.
"You know, you're rather cute when you blush," Fred declared.
"'Course, we're both taken so we shouldn't be speaking such traitorous words," George said, nudging Oliver's side.
"But Ollie here's still single, aren't you, boy-o?" Fred grinned, mocking his mate's Scottish accent.
"Go on then, Wood," George ribbed him again. "Tell her she's pretty."
"You won't get in trouble for it, you see," Fred continued effortlessly.
"Whereas we'd have to deal with the wrath of Angelina and Katie," George faked a shiver.
"You know how terrifying they can be," Fred nodded decisively, and threw his arm around Oliver's shoulder once more, while Hermione took an unnaturally large swallow of her wine – that and her yet-to-fade blush being her only outward signs of embarrassment.
Going along with Fred and George's bit, Oliver raised his glass to Hermione and sent another wink in her direction. "To your radiant beauty, then, Granger," he tapped his glass against hers and laughed boyishly as she shyly placed her glass to her lips once more.
"Young love," Fred rubbed a fist over his heart, imitating a touching motion.
"Brings a tear to my eye," George wiped away a pretend tear from his cheek.
"Enough, boys," Hermione said finally, pinching the bridge of her nose lightly. "Finish your wine, and then we can eat."
"Dessert first?" George as good as panted as he spotted the chocolate raspberry truffle cheesecake on the table. "Pleeeeaaassseeee?" He begged.
"You'll eat first, as has been tradition since the beginning of time, George Weasley," she admonished naturally, a vague flare of her old nature prevailing through her words as she stood and set the table for them.
"The beginning of time?" Fred pouted. "But what about new traditions?"
"We'll make some later," Hermione countered. "I've made supper, and you're going to eat it if it kills you, Fred."
Dinner was, to Hermione's astonishment, rather pleasant. Fred and George teased her throughout, but that was normal and somewhat comforting. Oliver surprised her, though. She'd always known him to be a Quidditch fanatic, but she'd never really had a conversation with him. He was rather playful, but softer and less blunt than the twins were.
He offered several winks and smiles throughout dinner, which she thought to be a bit endearing. She only found it endearing because it wasn't a flirty wink, merely a part of his nature.
She was quiet for most of the dinner, as was typical of her, but she enjoyed watching them argue, and she enjoyed the extra time to study her unexpected guest.
Wood had always been handsome – strong and tall, with a to-die-for accent straight from Scotland – but beyond that, she found herself to be quite taken with his hazel-green eyes. He had several freckles smeared over his face, and a wholehearted grin. His sandy hair was splashed with lighter streaks from the sun, courtesy of his outside Quidditch play. He was overall a very attractive man.
"What about you, Granger?" Wood startled her out of her examination of his lean muscle, and she raised her brow at him questioningly. "What do you do for a living?"
She shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't do anything, yet. I've just finished school."
"Any plans for where you want to go?" He asked, leaning forward interestedly. She liked how he listened; he didn't pretend or lend an ear on occasion. When he was interested, his whole body turned to the conversation and he listened quietly until the other participant was finished speaking.
"Not especially," she admitted. "I've had offers, but nothing really strikes my fancy."
"Huh," he said intelligently, while Fred and George murmured between themselves over something, looking entirely too suspicious to be ignored.
"Is there meaning behind that?" Hermione asked carefully.
"Well, no. I mean, maybe. I just always pegged you for a woman who knows what she wants," Wood confessed. "You've always been so driven and forceful with your studies; I just thought you had a specific thing in mind to put all of those smarts toward."
"I did, at the time," Hermione mumbled, taking another sip of her refreshed wine glass.
And that was true. She'd worked terribly hard at the start in order to impress her parents, and show them that she was above the average ranks in her new school, and that she was fitting in well, even if she wasn't. And then she had worked for Harry, and his protection, and the protection of her peers. And then she had fought against Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and had given her every waking moment to learning how to defeat him.
And then it was over, and she'd had nothing. She had no motivation, no cause to fight for or against, and her two best friends had all but deserted her for their own paths, which she still struggled not to resent them for.
The conversation slowly drifted away from her, until Fred and George simultaneously 'yawned,' murmuring about how late it was getting and how tired they were becoming, quickly escaping out the door and conveniently leaving their friend and famed Quidditch player behind.
"Do you get the feeling that they did that on purpose?" Oliver said in a mock-ironic tone.
"Mmm," Hermione hummed quietly. "They're rather good at creating awkward situations."
"You feel awkward?" Wood asked thoughtfully.
Hermione shrugged. "To my surprise, not as awkward as I might have thought. Though that could, admittedly, be attributed to the wine. I had a few more glasses than what was necessary, I suppose. But really, wine's never necessary, and I think it's alright to indulge a bit. After all, tonight was supposed to be a celebration, according to Fred and George, and as I'm in my own home I don't see any reason why I shouldn't be drinking. Aside from the fact that you're here, of course, which might be reason enough, but – "
"You're rather cute when you're tipsy," Oliver said amusedly, helping her put the leftovers in the refrigerator and the dirty dishes in the bubbly sink.
"No, I'm not," Hermione laughed – a musical little sound that Oliver found he hadn't heard all evening, and he wondered if perhaps she'd been putting on a show for the twins so that they would believe her to be having more fun than she truly was. "I ramble and rant and rave," she sighed, "and apparently I alliterate."
Oliver laughed as she led him back to the sitting room, and sat beside her on the couch with yet another glass of wine. "Well, here's to alliteration, then."
"Cheers," she murmured softly in agreement, and Oliver noticed her lips envelope the rim of the glass as she took a sip. He swallowed lightly, not adapted to feeling such strong attraction to a woman he hardly knew, and not entirely willing to ruin the possible friendship that was budding between them.
As she pulled the glass away, however, he noted that the wine had reddened her lips, and they stood out brightly in contrast to her beautiful, pale skin. "Fred and George were right," he said mindlessly. "You are quite striking, Granger."
"Thanks, I suppose," she shifted anxiously. "You aren't half-bad yourself, Wood, although I'm sure you've been made aware of the fact by many a woman before me. But I'm sure, for the sake of your confidence, that it shouldn't hurt to tell you once more."
The corner of his lips lifted as he admired her adorable tirade, and suddenly Hermione asked, "Are you drunk at all? Because I'm feeling a bit silly – rambling on like I am – and I can't help but hope that you might not remember it come tomorrow. Although I think I might be the only one forgetting anything, but – "
"Can I kiss you?" He interrupted, his heart racing wildly in his chest as her also-reddened-tongue emerged to swipe across her lips in an inadvertent but nevertheless intensely seductive manner.
"I – I don't know," Hermione furrowed her brow confusedly. "I don't think I've ever been asked that question before. I mean, I've been kissed, but other men have just… done it. But I'm a bit drunk right now – as we already established – and I'm not sure that it'd be the most intelligent idea. And you know how I'm supposed to be intelligent. But… it might be nice, just once, to do something that isn't entirely intelligent – like maybe letting you kiss me. But then again, there could be consequences," she huffed, frustrated.
"Do you ever stop thinking?" Oliver asked lightly, trying to make up his mind about whether or not he should kiss her, when she so very clearly had no idea whether or not to allow him the indulgence.
"Rarely," she divulged.
"Hm…" He murmured. "Call me cocky, Granger, but I might be able to change that."
He wrapped his hand around her wrist, waiting only long enough to feel the slight thud of her pulse against his fingers before he began tugging her toward him, giving her a choice to dismiss him if she so chose. She followed rather easily, to his surprise, and crawled comfortably into his lap.
Her weight on top of him felt genuinely like the best thing in the world to Oliver, and he chose to revel in the feeling for just a moment before he interrupted it with soft words and caresses. "Answer now, with the first word that comes to mind," he instructed gently, his hand trailing up her back and cupping the base of her neck, pulling it closer until he could feel her heated breath against his lips. "Can I kiss you?"
Instead of an answer, she closed the very minimal distance between their mouths and slanted her soft, red lips over his slightly chapped ones. Oliver's eyes slipped shut as he tangled his hand in the surprisingly soft curls at the underside of her neck. Her fingers slowly trailed from his forearm around the bend of his elbow and lightly gripped his shoulder, eliciting tingles as they traveled.
He questioningly peaked his tongue out to touch her lips, and as she sighed against his mouth, he accepted the invitation and plunged his tongue inward, her light moans and soft grunts spurring him forward and encouraging the sensual motions. Their lips smoothed over one another as they spoiled themselves with light petting, until Hermione carefully maneuvered them so that he was lying down across the couch, she straddling him and her back bending low so that her lips could hover over his.
Oliver's fingers dug into the curve of her hips, memorizing the feel of her – all curves, and dips, and soft skin – as he slowly slipped his hands under her jumper, rubbing against her hot flesh. She reacted instantly and shifted toward him, so that he could remove the cumbersome piece of clothing away from her.
"Hermione," he breathed against her lips, refusing to remove the jumper just yet, "do you want me to leave?"
"I have no idea," she murmured, pressing her mouth to his a bit harder, probing, licking and nipping at his bottom lip.
"Hermione," he said seriously, gritting his teeth through the fog of pleasure that threatened to overcome him, "do you want me to leave?"
"No," she shook her head, messy curls swaying lightly, and the moment the word left her lips, Oliver rolled them over so that he was on top of her, her knees bent and his hips in between them.
He lifted the hem of her jumper tantalizingly, and finally slipped it over her head, knuckles brushing the sides of her tummy and skimming the sides of her covered breasts. She lifted her arms for him as he did it, staring him in the eye for that brief moment, brown clashing with hazel as they both sought out the mutual need and lust within the depths of the other's irises.
Oliver lowered his mouth again, this time to her neck, sucking on the smooth skin there. He felt Hermione's fingers dawdling at the top of his button up shirt, and mentally cursed himself for wearing an article of clothing with so many buttons. She made quick work of it, and with every touch of her hands to his chest, Oliver breathed a moan into her ear, bringing a shiver from her.
He moved his arms around her ribs, fishing for the clasp of her bra and, after finding it, he silently unclipped it and threw the blasted material to the side. The action provided a new canvas for his wandering, itchy fingers to work on, and he instantly walked his hands up the slope of her breasts, taking them into his grasp and tweaking them softly.
"Oliver," she gasped, tossing her head back and arching into him like a bow. He tasted her shoulder, touching his tongue to her skin lightly as he journeyed toward the rosy bud at the center of her left breast and took it into his mouth. She sighed and mewled, and slowly lowered her body back to the couch as he moved downward, wordlessly undoing the button of her jeans and pulling them off, throwing them to the ground while his mouth busily pressed against her wet heat.
His tongue eagerly slipped inside, tasting her, lapping gently as she shuddered beneath him, grasping at the ends of his hair and holding him closer to her. "My God," she groaned, hips jerking upward against his mouth, and he smirked once – a rather unusual trait for him – and bit at her nub.
Oliver looked up to her, tousled hair spread around her head and beginning to stick against the sides of her face, mouth opened in silent ecstasy, eyes clenched tightly together. His first task accomplished, Wood slid back up her body pressing soft kisses to her stomach, the underneath of her breast, her collarbone, her chin, and then her lips. Her chest rose and fell as she caught her breath, all the while trailing her soft hands down his muscled arms and structured abs, warm brown eyes looking up at him questioningly as her fingers drew nearer to the clasp of his slacks.
He deliberately drew his hands down to her hips and pulled them against his, letting her feel his arousal. She blushed again, which he found somehow adoringly sweet, and continued to pull his slacks and boxers off. She kissed him then, passion radiating off of her, hot waves pouring from one into the other as she carefully took his length in her hands and stroked him softly, to the soundtrack of his grunts of approval.
"Stop," he muttered finally, reaching his arms around her lower back and splaying his fingers across her slick skin. She melted into him, and became liquid in his hands, her muscles arching into him and her limbs loose and willing. Oliver groaned. "Please," he murmured.
Hermione nodded her head, and he positioned himself at her entrance. She moaned in distinct pleasure as he slipped into her, filling her completely. They were still for a moment, or nearly so, hardly moving at all, until Hermione lifted her hips, which Oliver translated to mean 'go.'
Her hands were everywhere, dipping from his hips to his sides, scraping up his stomach, and clasping on his arms, nails digging in as he rocked against her harder, then faster. Her legs wrapped around him, and they both cried out at what the new position did for them, allowing him to go deeper and touch more of her.
Oliver latched onto her thighs, his fingers pressing, kneading, and he scraped his teeth over her neck, or her shoulder on occasion. She pulled on his neck until his lips met hers again, and she sighed against him in contentment before lifting her hips in time to his thrusts. He groaned into her mouth before her tongue darted in to taste, occasionally playing a teasing game with his own tongue and nipping it every now and then.
They were both sweating, thrusting, yearning for their release, and when they felt it approach, they quickened their speed, words tangling in moans and whispers of one another's name, begging, pleading for more.
Hermione's world spun in a wonderful mix of colors that she would forever associate with pure and eternal bliss. She knew nothing but for Oliver and his hot touches enflaming her skin, his weight above her as he stilled, climaxing after her. When he collapsed against her, she loosely held her arms around him, one draped over his back and the other hanging from his neck.
"I don't usually do this," Oliver tried weakly.
"Shush," Hermione murmured sleepily. "We'll talk in the morning."
Nodding, Oliver slipped off of her and lay beside her, capturing her in his arms, and Hermione couldn't help but feel properly ensconced, held safe in his strong arms, his naked chest against her back, and his hand clutched almost innocently around her breast – if that could ever be an innocent act.
When morning arrived, after a night of sleep that she hardly remembered having, Hermione woke up and marveled at how comfortable she felt against him. She reluctantly, after many moments of dozing, slipped out of his grasp and took a hot shower, tossing on only a robe before traipsing to the kitchen to make breakfast for them.
Oliver slept for a half hour or so after she showered, and he, while half-asleep, wandered into the kitchen after transfiguring himself a pair of sleep pants. His hair was mussed, his eyes bleary as he rubbed against them with his whole fist like a small child. Hermione thought him to be a most welcome sight for the early morning. She eyed his chest once more, tempted to touch it again, before she met his eyes and placed a dish of food before him at the counter.
"Morning," he grinned boyishly. "And thanks," he added, lifting a piece of toast and tipping it toward her to acknowledge the food that she'd prepared.
"Sure," she murmured back, leaning against the countertop by the sink as she watched him eat the breakfast spread eagerly, sipping on a mug of coffee. "Oliver?"
"Mm?" He looked up, his mouth full of omelet, and met her eyes carefully.
She pondered over what she wanted to say, and how to say it without coming off too strongly. Fuck it, she thought finally. "I haven't a clue what I want to do with my life, I'm not a very social creature, and I absolutely hate Quidditch. The press perpetually follows me around, which I'm sure you can relate to, and I have enough emotional baggage to last for a lifetime and then some. Fred and George Weasley are very high up on my list of favorite people at the moment – probably more so after the terrific favor they did me last night – and I think I've just decided that you're a man I'd very much enjoy getting to know better. I know we might've done a bit of this relationship business backwards, but I'd like to try it the right way."
Oliver scratched the back of his neck, casting a smile her way. "You're chatty in the mornings," he mumbled. "I'll have to remember that."
"Will you?" She raised her brow, trying to suss out whether he was giving a good signal or a bad one.
"Yeah," he said, holding his hand out to her and holding hers lightly after she'd surrendered it to him, rubbing his thumb over her knuckle while she approached him. He wrapped his other arm around her waist, and she tangled hers in his hair, embracing him slowly. "It's okay that you don't know what you're doing with your life right now. I don't need you to be social; that point is neither here nor there. I love Quidditch enough to make up for your hatred of it, and the press is not unfamiliar to me, although I doubt I've had as much of it as you have. Emotional baggage is okay, as long as you're willing to share it when you're ready. Fred and George Weasley are a couple of troublemaking pranksters, who I'd happily bless from here to heaven for what they did for me last night, if I had the power to do so. I'm dying to know more about the Golden Trio's famous brain, but even more so, I'd love to know the Hermione Granger I'm looking at right now. Perhaps we screwed up the order of things, but I don't suppose that makes dating unallowable, do you?"
Hermione laughed quietly, and pulled his neck back until she could easily reach his lips. She slanted her mouth over his in a long, slow kiss, her teeth capturing his bottom lip for a moment before she pulled away and rested her forehead against his, having the advantage in height because he was still seated on a stool at the counter. "No, I don't suppose dating's unallowable."
"Good," Wood declared, Scottish brogue sending shivers up her spine as he tightened his arms around her middle, hugging her tightly, before releasing her. "Now I can eat?"
"Yes," she chuckled quietly. "Now you can eat."