Author's Note: Spoilers/references to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows. My second Potter fic.Written to the lovely music of Frou Frou and Imogen Heap. Unbeta-ed.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: H/Hr, book 7 spoilers. Because a love affair never looked this good.
Headlock
Sunbeam, stop tugging me
Pull that door shut quietly
Darling, what are you doing?
We don't have time for this
frou frou, shh
Hermione wakes to the cry of a rooster. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she sits up in her cot. The sun is just peeking over the horizon, and from Ginny's bedroom window the sky is a watercolor blend of pink and orange. Pushing the covers to the foot of the cot, Hermione raises her arms above her head in a stretch, her mouth forming a silent 'o'.
On the other side of the small room, Ginny stirs in her bed, but does not wake. Above her sleeping form, the poster of Gwenog Jones goes into a spectacular dive as Hermione sheds her nightgown for light pink shorts and a plain black t-shirt. As quietly as she can, she slips on her faded blue shoes. Exiting Ginny's room, Hermione makes sure to cast a silencing charm on the door's hinges.
Hermione takes her time in making her way towards the kitchen. As she pushes the door open, she can see Mrs. Weasley bustling about. Eggs fry and flip themselves on the stove, and long strips of sizzling bacon dance their way towards a plate on the table. Invisible hands are making fresh orange juice, and there's a ding from the oven, followed quickly by muffins zooming to rest on the counter for cooling off.
"Just sit down, dear," Molly says, using her wand to direct a stack of pancakes to the head of the table.
A chair towards the center of the table pushes itself out, and Hermione sits down in it. As she scoots forwards, a plate and utensils fly over from the china cabinet to rest in front of her. She piles her plate with pancakes and fresh fruit. A few she doesn't recognize, and she pokes curiously at a prickly purple fruit that emits a soft whine at the fork's prodding.
"Morning, Love," Mr. Weasley greets, placing a soft kiss on Molly's cheek. "Hermione."
"Sir."
It isn't till Hermione's halfway done with breakfast that Harry and Ron stumble into the kitchen, their hair sticking up every which way and eyes still full of sleep. Harry takes the seat beside her, and Ron the seat opposite her. They're followed closely by the twins, who are whispering conspiringly to one another, Ginny, who's pulling her hair into a ponytail, and Bill and Fleur, who are holding hands and sharing loving smiles. Bill sits to the right of his father, and informs Mrs. Weasley that Chalie's chosen to sleep in. The Delacours and Gabrielle are the last to arrive.
Breakfast passes by quickly, and soon Mrs. Weasley has handed out the daily chores in preparation for the wedding. Hermione, Harry, and Ron have all been given tasks that keep them separated. By the time noon rolls around, Hermione has finished her task and is lying in the shade of the chicken coop.
The constant clucking from the chickens is beginning to lull Hermione to sleep, and she turns onto her back and stares out at the trees lining the Weasley's property. She can faintly make out the blurred shapes of garden gnomes running from tree trunk to tree trunk, sometimes stopping to throw a rock at their fellow companions. She's not sure how long she lies there, but soon her thoughts drift to the day before.
A dull ache starts in her chest as she remembers Ginny's late night confession. How hard it had been to sit there and pretend everything was okay, as the younger girl described the bubbling warmth that had filled her while kissing Harry. Hermione had gone to bed with a broken heart, and her dreams had left her hollow.
Now, lying in the cool, dark shade of the chicken coop, Hermione allows herself to fantasize about her bespectacled best friend. In her minds eye, he is leaning forward, nose brushing lightly against hers. She imagines his breath warm, and smelling of peppermint, on her cheek. A soft kiss to the corner of her mouth, a sweep of tongue tracing the curve of her earlobe. A delightful shiver works it's way up Hermione's spine, and she opens her eyes to the overgrown thicket of The Burrow.
Hermione heaves a large sigh as wound up nerves slowly unwind. Her body relaxes into the dusty earth, and the chickens begin a frantic clucking as someone turns the corner of their housing. Hermione squints up at the intruder, and finds Harry looking down at her. He gives her one of his lopsided smiles, but it falters quickly.
Hermione's heart thuds nervously against her chest as Harry's eyes wander away from hers. She can feel her body tense as green eyes work their way down her body. Harry's mouth parts, and Hermione's eyes flutter closed as he crouches down beside her. Her body aches to be closer to him, and, when he reaches forward to touch her ankle, she lets out a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding.
His fingers are calloused--from years of Quidditch--and warm, as they trail up her calf, tickling her skin and leaving a roaring trail in their wake. Harry traces a circle over her knee, and Hermione's body begins to loosen itself up. She's sure she's turned to putty as Harry's fingers walk up her thigh. Halfway up, an electric zing shoots forward from his touch to explode at Hermione's center. She lets out a breathy noise, and Harry's hand stills just inches from the hem of her shorts.
At the abrupt stop, Hermione opens her eyes to find Harry looking at her, pupils big and black. He waits a beat, then continues his hand's ascent towards the folded pink hem of her shorts. Hermione's got her eyes locked firmly on Harry's as one, then two fingers disappear under the pink fabric of her shorts. A strangled kind of noise escapes Harry as his fingertips brush against the damp cotton of Hermione's underwear. Her eyelids become heavy, and she shuts them as Harry begins to push the cotton aside.
Her heart is thudding wildly about her chest now, bouncing furiously against her rib cage. Faintly she can hear Harry's heavy breathing, a low growl that sends a thrill through her entire body. This is beyond anything she's ever pictured, lying awake in the girl's dorm late at night, listening in on Lavender and Pavarti's talks with the curtains drawn so they didn't see her blush.
"Oy! Harry, mate, where are you?"
Harry's hand pulls back instantly, and Hermione's eyes snap open to find him staring down at her, breath labored. His face is incredibly pale, and he opens his mouth, to apologize she's sure, but nothing comes out. Ron's footfalls grow closer, and Harry scoots away from Hermione to lean against the wood slats of the chicken coop.
"There you are," Ron grins as he spots the two of them in the square of shade. He and Harry quickly strike up a conversation about Quidditch, and Hermione's left lying there on the hard ground wondering exactly what transpired between her and the black haired boy only a few feet away. It takes awhile for Hermione to notices how Harry's hands shake as he and Ron discuss the starting line up of the Ballycastle Bats. As Ron makes a joke about Barny the Fruitbat, Hermione takes comfort in the fact that she's not the only one shaken and confused over what just happened.
&
It's been roughly two weeks since Bill and Fleur's wedding, and Hermione still wakes in a blind panic. Her heart races, and her blood goes cold as it speeds through her veins. It takes her a good five minutes to gather her wits about her, to remind herself that she's safe--that Harry hasn't disappeared into the night in a fit of misplaced gallantry. Some nights she wakes up crying. Crying for her parents, for Harry, for herself. Those mornings, she makes sure to be more supportive of Harry, kinder to Ron.
On this particular morning, the house wrapped in a cool gray mist, Hermione jerks awake with her heart secured tightly in an iron fist. She's lying on her stomach, face turned towards an open window, and her eyes flicker about the room. Nothing's been disturbed since last night, and she reaches beneath her pillow for her wand. The smooth vine wood is soothing against her clammy palm.
Sitting fully upright now, Hermione shoves the bed covers off her body, and slips her feet into a pair of house slippers. The wood floor creaks in the early stillness as Hermione makes her way towards her beaded bag, resting atop a heavily decorated dresser.
An hour later, freshly showered, Hermione makes her way towards the kitchen. Kreacher is hopping about, the fake Horcrux bouncing off his chest, as he kneads dough on the counter. Last night he promised the trio jam filled croissants, and he'll be damned if he doesn't follow through.
Hermione takes a seat at the table's end, and rests her head on her folded arms. Shutting her eyes, she let's Kreacher's humming lull her into a sense of calm. A few moments of concentrating on her breathing, and Hermione's taken back to the dusty ground behind the chicken coop at The Burrow. Her spine tingles at the memory of Harry's fingers sliding up her leg. How they traveled higher, and higher, until he'd almost--
Hermione's body tenses as she senses a presence behind her. The person doesn't enter, and instead stands quietly in the doorway, and Hermione knows. How can she not, Harry has been avoiding her like the plague, and Ron would have just bounded in--all smiles and a jovial laugh. Slowly, she opens her eyes and turns to look at the boy behind her. His hands are shoved deep into his jean pockets, and his eyes are fixed firmly on a spot just above Hermione's head.
"Morning," he says, and every letter is laced with guilt.