Harry stared down at the floor as though it was the most interesting piece of linoleum he'd ever seen in his entire life. He was penetrating through the tile with his eyes even though his mind wasn't processing it. He gazed at something, but he didn't see it. His mind was cluttered with thoughts that yearned to burst from him like a hose pumping water. He was aware of her in front him, standing impatiently, as he groped for words. His mouth was dry; his throat full of what felt like cotton. His heart pounded so fast he was sure the whole corridor could hear it. He was visibly nervous, wringing his hands and his one eyelid twitching incessantly. He cleared his throat, for all the good it did, and his neck crept upward. He desperately attempted to clear his head, although it was useless. She was near him and she was all he could think of. He spoke only when his eyesight was parallel to hers, and he was no longer fascinated by her Adidas. "Hi." He squeaked. The noise was almost guinea pig-like, escaping very narrowly from the abyss of his vocal chords. He bit his lip fearfully, cursing himself. Why did he have to choke now? He'd known her for the better part of his life and he was having trouble getting out of a single sentence in front of her. Your twenty-five! He scolded himself. This is Hermione, remember? Your best friend? Harry knew that Hermione and him had always been able to talk before. They had a perfectly working relationship until these rogue hormones came and attacked his body. His palms began to sweat. "Hi." He repeated. Where had that come from? He sounded like an eight-year-old! 'Hi Hi'-Jesus!
"Hey." She replied, raising one elegant eyebrow at him. She regarded him like he was a young child, chalking up the blackboard for the first time hoping in vain to finish an arithmetic problem without screwing up miserably.
"I was thinking," Harry rushed, "would you like to go out to dinner sometime? Say, tomorrow at eight?" She's going to say no, she's going to say no. He thought to himself, positive the whole ordeal had been a waste of breath.
"I'd love to." The answer caught him completely off guard. She flashed him a dazzling smile, perfect, ruby-red lips framing her whiter-than-white teeth. If the first thing hadn't whipped him, the smile did. He got light-headed just thinking about her smile. He grinned back goofily. She sauntered away, sashaying her hips in that way only she could.
Harry waited eagerly for his date with Hermione. In his fourteen years of interacting closely with her, he had never thought of her romantically. He was not quite sure of why, now, he was rendered speechless by her beauty, grace, understanding, caring, truthfulness…he became dazed listing her many good qualities.
On the night of their dinner, Harry paced relentlessly. He shared a small flat with his best friend, Ron Weasley, in downtown London. Ron couldn't comprehend why Harry liked Hermione, shaking his head repeatedly at Harry's anxiety.
"Harry," Ron reasoned, "You have a Quidditch match tomorrow. You're ruining yourself, acting this way!" Harry was the number one Seeker in the world, and he played for England. Still, the thought didn't calm him. At the moment, Hermione meant more to him than Quidditch ever could. He loved Quidditch…but he reckoned he loved Hermione more.
"Ron! I'm having a crisis here!" Harry was tense, anticipating the dinner date. He may have ground tracks into the carpet; he was striding back and forth between the living room and kitchen so.
"Harry, take deep breaths. I'm going to have to give you narcotics!" Ron eyeballed his friend disapprovingly. Harry didn't notice.
"Okay, it's quarter to eight. I'd better go." Harry inhaled and exhaled deeply, thinking for a wild second where Ron would get narcotics. He walked purposefully to the '91 Volkswagen Jetta he had purchased, in pounds, from a nearby second-hand car dealer. He fumbled with his keys, tripped out the door, banged his head on the rim on the steering wheel and tangled his legs around the gas pedal before starting the beast up. It was going to be a long night.
Harry reached the restaurant Hermione and he had chosen, Bridges, in record time-considering he ran three red lights, crossed lanes illegally twice without recognition, blew off his passenger side-view mirror while skimming a bit too closely to a Lamborghini, and demolished a couple of street signs with his crazy steering. Amazingly, he hadn't received a ticket yet. The key word being yet.
"Potter, table for two." Harry told the hostess at the entrance. She scribbled down the name and dismissed him. He sat down at the bar clumsily. The bartender chuckled.
"Hot date tonight, kid?" He asked knowingly. Harry nodded.
"Hot as hell." Harry ordered a double scotch on the rocks, causing the bartender to laugh heartily.
"Got the jitters?" He inquired of Harry, who nodded again, gulping the drink. Harry had never had scotch before, and he coughed and spluttered at the taste. The bartender found this hilarious. Harry hastily gave back the scotch and reordered. Ah, Pepsi.
"Sorry I'm late." Hermione leaned over Harry's shoulder and whispered seductively in his ear. He startled slightly before regaining his composure.
"Uh, no problem." Harry shivered; Hermione was poised over him, their bodies touching slightly. She looked fit for the cover of Vogue, her hair-finally sleek and shiny-gleamed lustfully. Such work put into the supposed natural falling of hair! Her button-nose perked and her cat-like sapphire eyes smiled. Her eyelashes, long and soft, fluttered flirtatiously. Harry gaped, surveying her dress. It was a periwinkle blue, accenting her eyes perfectly. It had minimal back, neck, and length. Long legs protruded from it and flawless skin was revealed. She had the chest for a garment like that, too, full and ripe, swelling at the top of her neckline, which hung low. The whole ensemble was close fitting and dreamy. The bartender let out a small whistle. Harry shot him a 'watch it!' look. Hermione was his girl, at least in his mind.
"Potter, table for two." The voice of the hostess' voice rang out in the restaurant, where light conversations pervaded the silence. Harry led Hermione to the waitress leading them toward their table. Hermione grabbed Harry's hand, and he was not surprised to find that her own hands were silky and smooth.
They arrived at their table with no mishap; Harry's klutzy factor seemed to have evaporated once Hermione made her appearance.
Halfway through their appetizer, Hermione struck Harry with a question.
"Harry, I know we have been friends practically all our lives, so why are you so uptight with me tonight?" Her voice glided, like water coursing through the banks of a stream.
"Hermione-I never realized it before, but I like you. I think I-I might even love you." Harry admitted. Hermione fixed him with those starry night blue eyes, and he couldn't tear his gaze away.
"Harry-" Hermione never got to finish her statement. Harry, with a load of newfound courage, leaned right over the table and kissed Hermione hard on the lips. The kiss ended as quickly as it had began, and Harry sat down in his seat again self-consciously, glancing around to mark if anyone had witnessed them.
"Harry." Hermione repeated, with a harsher tone. Harry was taken aback.
"What, love?" Harry asked innocently
"Harry, I'm with Draco now. I thought you wanted to discuss business tonight." Hermione shuddered. She knew that she was killing her friend, but he had to know the truth. He had the right to know.
"Draco-Draco Malfoy?" Harry was incredulous as well as hurt. Draco had been their enemy since childhood; finally coming back to lash him again-even after they had both went down their own paths.
"Yes." Hermione's voice was grave.
"I have to go. Nice seeing you again, Hermione." Harry's words were gentle, although his expression remained cold. She betrayed him, he felt like she had switched sides.
Harry paid the bill on the little food the two of them had consumed. He drove home more distraught than ever, so damaged by emotions that he even drove politely. No red lights were passed in a fling; no side-view mirrors casually forced away, no street signs were wreaked in havoc. Harry just didn't have the strength or the willpower to drive like the lunatic he usually was.
Ron was waiting for Harry on the stoop of the apartment building when he swung into the lot. He parked as perfectly as Marilyn Monroe's chauffeur on Grammy night. With a heart burdened with the burns of rejection, Harry made his way to the four-room flat he had learned to call home.
Harry tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep. He kept guiltily thinking of Hermione, and how she had double-crossed him by seeing his double-crosser. What made him feel even worse, perhaps the thing that pushed him into states of depression was that he still loved Hermione. He forgave her graciously for lying to him, and anything else she might do to him. He saw only her becoming sides, blinded by love so that he wasn't even aware of her imperfections.
"Harry, you're a mess!" Ron cried out the next morning, upon eyeing Harry's appearance. His eyes were puffy, crust-ridden, and bloodshot. His hair was sprouting every which way and his nose was red. Ron was right, Harry was cramping the style of the bag lady. Harry didn't appear to be affected by this, however.
"Got-to-leave-game-today." He croaked, as if each syllable was a hardship. He coughed heartily.
"Harry, I've never seen you like this!" Ron was dismayed. Harry was normally so organized and on the ball. What was with this Dennis Rodman impression?
Harry shook his head indifferently and changed for the upcoming match. He wouldn't have concluded that he had his shoes on the wrong feet or his shirt backwards, if Ron hadn't pointed it out. Harry Apparated to the field lazily, and dragged his feet to locker room. His teammates, whom included good friends Katie Bell and Oliver Wood, hadn't arrived yet. Harry took his shower like a man with a nineteen whiskey shot hangover. He fumbled with the soap, missed the knobs to turn the water on and off numerous times and rebounded off the walls as he tripped over himself and shampoo bottles. Today just wasn't his day, he decided. He had no idea how much worse it would get.
Harry played one of the most horrible matches of his life that sunny afternoon. All movements went by too fast for him to catch up, let alone catch the Snitch. He was hit mercilessly because of this, and his ratings would drop in light of this manner. He was swaying with fatigue when the other team caught the walnut-sized prize it was his job to retrieve and he floated to the ground. Harry left the stadium gratefully, to the boos and jeers of the crowd. England is not fond of losing as pitifully as any team versus the Dallas Cowboys in the Super Bowl during that winning streak, or as mournfully as some two-bit swinging group against the constantly World Series-winning Yankees, he surmised. No matter.
Harry lost the point of life after he found out about Hermione and Draco. Hermione was still in his every thought, every moment. He still saw her during every breath, still marveled at her. The only difference was now he knew he couldn't have her. That crushed him, because he didn't want anyone else, didn't need anyone else, couldn't even see anyone else. He tried desperately to persuade her to him, by sending her flowers, chocolates and small gifts. It was to no avail. She replied to none of his offerings. This hardly dampened his spirits. On the contrary, he showered her with even more things, just to get the same response. He wouldn't give up.
In truth, Hermione didn't thank Harry for these things for a simple reason-she never received them. Draco was holding her prisoner in their one-bedroom flat, threatening her and abusing her. He sneered at the tokens from Harry, and discarded them quickly. Hermione had no power against him. He stole her wand, kept her tied up. Harry suspected none of this and continued sending Hermione anything he could get his hands on that he thought she would like. Draco spoke to Hermione only when yelling, and Hermione became a captive in her own home. Harry was no fool, however. He figured something was up with Hermione, and one day he resolved to find out what.
"Ron? I'm going over to Hermiones', okay?" Harry called to his roommate as he walked out the door, enthralled at seeing her lovely face once again. Harry piled into his Jetta positively writhing with excitement.
It didn't take long for Harry to reach Hermione's home. He knew the path by heart, having driven past it every day on his way home from work. With shaking hands, he made his way up to her apartment, which was small and cozy. He didn't know that Draco shared it with her. He selected the proper door and rapped sharply against it. His old archenemy greeted him, much to his surprise.
"Potter." Draco said quietly, his eyes narrowed.
"Malfoy." Harry replied his voice scathing.
"What do you want?" Draco retorted his tone just as harsh.
"I need to talk to Hermione." Harry said, his madness ebbing away in spite of himself, as he thought her.
"Too bad! She's not here!" He seemed smug, satisfied, and promptly slammed the heavy door in Harry's face.
Harry despondently dragged his feet back to his car, which he ignited slowly. On the way home he actually followed the rules of traffic, having nothing better to do. His mind became a haze, in which foggy thoughts of Hermione floated.
Harry visited Hermione's home every day after that, each time getting the same response. Of course, harsh words between him and Malfoy were expected. But Harry loved Hermione too much to let her go under the insults of such. He would not let up, would not cease his trips, and would not halt in his tracks on the way to his Jetta in order to drive over. He simply loved her too much.
It took thickheaded Harry four months to realize something wasn't right. Hermione couldn't be away all this time-though this entire conclusion was a hard one for him. He settled on sneaking into her apartment late at night, to solve this puzzle.
Now, we have already established that Harry isn't the brightest thing on the planet. However, he is deeply in love, and those in that state will do anything to have their love returned. So the plan he concocted wasn't even all that bad, all things considered. All that really matters is that he gets Hermione-right? We'll see.
Harry spent as much time as possible working on his plan. Several things were involved, including his Persian, Ronda. Why Harry wanted a cat is beyond me. So, besides that, he there was a few other necessities-items that had aided him several times in years prior.
To finish it with a finale, Harry was in need of a favor. One he wasn't exactly thrilled to ask for, but it would all fall apart without it. It was with such feelings that he piled into his Volkswagon once more on a dull, gray Wednesday morning to visit an old acquaintance.
"Swing this past me one more time. You want me to just give her to you?" The deep voice of Vincent Crabbe asked him incredulously. Harry was bargaining with Malfoy's ex-crony, whom now owned Connections Gymnastics in London.
"Not give, exactly, I just want to borrow her-it." Harry answered nervously, If Crabbe didn't give in, he was stuck, back at square one.
"For how long?" He grunted, eyes suspicious. Crabbe was even slower on the uptake than Harry.
"Just a few days." Harry assured him, trying to make the hulk feel more comfortable with the idea.
"All right-but you owe me. Big time." Harry whooped and thanked Crabbe numerous times before he was shooed away.
"Just remember," the gigantic man called after an ecstatic Harry, "she's delicate. Treat her like a lady." Harry chuckled.
"You really need a girlfriend." Harry replied, smiling evilly. Luckily, Vincent hadn't heard his remark. Not that Harry had intended him to. Good-naturedly, Harry drove home, again the driving maniac he was infamous for.
Harry chose the night to carry out his plan carefully. It was a foggy evening, with a sharp chill, and little moon. Perfect. He shoved all his allies into the trunk of the '91, humming cheerily.