Adapted from an original story. Written 18-9 October 2004
Hermione and Blaise are sitting, lost in thought, in what is her bedroom. Hermione is lying back on her bed. Blaise is sitting next to her, legs heavy upon hers. His fingers indolently playing with her hair fanned out behind her. Her fingers are playing with the hem of her t-shirt: every few minutes slipping higher a couple of millimetres.
She is staring at the many posters on her ceiling, which would normally hold her attention, but today unseeing, lost in thought, expressions playing on her face.
Her best friends Harry and Ron have only just left, they'd had fun but they'd had to go back to Gryffindor tower. Blaise of course was staying. The two of them have their own quarters, separate from the rest of the school. Harry, of course, had embarrassed her by trying not to smirk and saying, in an airy tone, "oh I'm sure you'll find something to occupy your time" and her Ron had winked dramatically at the pair and clapped Blaise on the back, muttering in his ear "have fun", before shooing them off to the confines of her room.
Which was how they came to be, sitting, well lounging, on her bed, her curtains closed, the lights dimmed and some music playing in the background.
She is started out of her reverie by his gentle touch on her hand, dangerously close to the bared skin. Their eyes meet, his instantly on hers, an element hesitant. He smiles warmly at her, his skin creasing at the corner of the grin.
He tugs at her hand, pulling her up off the bed. She's sitting there on the floor, watching him amused, and suddenly finds the nonexistent lint on her floor fascinating. He's watching her, bemused, and falls dramatically back onto her bed, legs stretched out, and jeans a tad too short.
She pouts, until he leans over the edge of the bed, playing with her hair. She soon grows impatient; cramp is creeping over her immobile limbs. She gets up and smoothes down her t-shirt, hiding that sliver of bared skin, missing the annoyed look in his hidden eyes. His eyes flash to the hem of the t-shirt, where her hands are now and glare jealously at it, wishing his hands were encircling her waist, caressing her skin as that scrap of material is doing so now.
She however is oblivious, and for lack of anything to do, stalks off to the bathroom. Finding nothing to do there either, she removes her watch, glad at the removed weight and fiddles with the items in the cupboard before finding herself drawn irrevocably once again to him.
She pouts once more, as Blaise lounges, snuggling deeper into her bed linen, inhaling the freshly laundered smell.
She starts to tie up her hair in a spare scrunchie, and is surprised when he reaches out as if to touch her and draws back before saying softly, so she has to strain to hear it, "don't". It is the first thing they've said since the boys departed, leaving them alone, in her room, together.
She shrugs, tucking the offending strands behind her ears. She walks over to him, feet padding softly on the floor. Legs encased in black and white knee high socks to his consternation. Soft grey trousers furthermore cover them, the zip down one leg, open to the knee, boldly showing the monochrome lines. It isn't like Hermione to wear this sort of thing, but it was comfy, and he wasn't to know that Harry and Ron had dared her to wear some of Ginny's clothes.
She languidly sits down on the bed and pushes at him, a frown marring her features. He smirks, not unkindly, and makes a grab at her wrist; starting at how thin it is and wrapping his fingers more strongly round.
He seizes her waist and starts to tickle her mercilessly. He chuckles as she giggles and squirms. That is, until she is somehow beneath him, writhing on the bed, gasping for air, giggling as wave after wave of tickling continues.
He stops, thumbs brushing the bare skin at her waist. His breath hitches and hers is still irregular, her heart pounding. He looks at her; she holds his gaze for a split second and then turns away. They are both too aware of the fact that she is lying back on the bed, his legs straddling her, his weight pleasant upon her body. He carefully brushes a tress of her hair out of her eyes, her pupils big and black in the half-light.
There is a pause as they are both staring at each other and then she stills, the giggling a past memory. He's stroking her collarbone now, lightly. He leans down.
There's a knock at the door.
"Miss Granger, Mister Zabini," squeaks a house elf, "Professor Dumbledore is here."
"Oh?"
"He said to tell you to make your way to the kitchens. We house elves have some Hallowe'en food to show you."
"Don't worry, we heard. We'll be down in a minute Dobby."
He's about to go out the door. He turns around slowly and hugs her.
"What was that for?" Hermione asks confused. She never gets her answer. He's kissing her, softly. And then he's going.
"See you in a minute?" She whispers hopefully, unsure if he wants to go alone, to think. He nods, she smiles. He's gone.
Later she's sitting on her bed, glancing at the door hopefully. It doesn't make a sound. He's probably doing something more important than say goodnight, even though he's done it every other night. She's getting into bed; the door creeks open. She turns and blushes when she sees him, he walks in, unsure, and closes the door behind him. She sits up and her arms go round his neck as he sits down on the bed, the mattress sinking slightly. She shifts over. He crawls up the bed and settles down next to her, arms sliding round her waist, head in the juncture of her shoulder, eyes closed.
She likes these goodnights. She won't ever tell anyone that he's scared of the dark.
It's not always rainbows and butterflies
its compromise that moves us along
my heart is full and my door's always open
you can come anytime you want