This story is rated M for a reason...

Fourth Year... A few days AFTER the announcement of the Yule Ball

She was crying. Again. This madness simply had to stop. For the umpteenth time she was cursing her hormones for this new, undesired, sensitivity. In the last quarter of an hour, Hermione had overheard Ron telling someone he'd never be able to see her as an actual female, then watched Harry rush off to meet with a gorgeous Cho, and finally had been cornered by Malfoy who'd gravely insulted her looks... again.

All she'd planned to do that evening was get to the empty Potions lab and go over the next day's work. Was it too much to ask that her travels between her common room and the dungeons remain drama free? She was making the journey for Neville, who, if truth be told, held a very special place in her heart, though, she never really examined what exactly she felt for him. It simply never seemed important to think about his place in her life because he was simply there. Always. Besides which, she was forever trying to help him out of fixes and jams and she never did quite forgive herself for throwing the body-bind curse on him their first year.

Anyway, just that afternoon Neville had approached her, terrified he wouldn't be able to produce the correct potion for Snape's class the following day and had desperately asked Hermione for some tutoring assistance. She'd agreed without a second thought. She always enjoyed her time with Neville. No matter what anyone said, she knew, having spent so much study time with him, that he was far brighter than her best mates, rivaling Theo Nott's smarts, and certainly far more academic than the likes of Malfoy. It was just that he lacked confidence in his magical abilities. It wasn't his fault he was this way. Clearly, his grandmother had implanted the ridiculous idea in his head that he wasn't worthy to walk the halls of Hogwarts, Hermione had thought scornfully.

Sniffling and drying her still teary eyes, she knocked on the Potions door to give Neville fair warning it was her. She pushed open the door and caught sight of him, his back to her, his dark vest pulled across his broadening shoulders. Hermione watched his fingers move nimbly as he cut into some of the ingredients on the table. He was doing this so capably, she wondered at his inability to do the same in class.

"Neville?" she'd whispered.

She noticed him startle and his hands turned suddenly clumsy on the knife. Hastily he tossed the last of the ingredients into the steaming cauldron. Hermione took an unconscious step back, waiting for an explosion that surprisingly doesn't come.

"H-hey, H-Hermione," he stuttered, thankfully placing the knife on the table. "I didn't hear you." She smiled softly, though the joy didn't quite reach her eyes. He noticed and moved quickly to her side. "What's wrong, Hermione?"

"Nothing, Neville," she answered bravely. "Nothing I haven't dealt with before, anyway."

"Can I help?" She gazed at his earnest expression and when her eyes lingered, he colored and she smiled quietly at his bashfulness. "...Y-you deal with it. H-help you deal with it, I mean," he clarified.

"Sure," she said, ready to throw off the depression for the attention of the clearly infatuated male standing right in front of her. "Distract me, Neville. Tell me how I can help you!"

"I heard from the Hufflepuffs that we're to make Felix Felicis tomorrow and I need to get it right. I won't be able to handle Snape shouting at me again." He shuddered at the thought and Hermione patted the crook of his arm comfortingly. He stilled at her touch, recovered and placed a hand atop her own.

"I don't think your sources are right, Neville," she cautioned, moving away when she felt his hand had lingered too long. "Felix Felicis is an advanced potion and we're only Fourth Year."

"Oh," he'd said, seemingly confused. "But I think I've already got it done, Hermione. I just needed you here so I could check with a partner... You know, in case I'd gotten it wrong."

Looking curiously into the warming cauldron, Hermione discovered the contents were the colour of molten gold. Large drops of the golden liquid leaped like goldfish above the surface. She cast a wondrous eye at Neville who refused to meet her gaze. This seemed nearly impossible a feat. Hermione knew that this particular potion was desperately tricky to make and disastrous when it was brewed wrong. The fact that Neville, of all wizards, had managed to concoct it all on his own seemed highly unlikely.

"Who helped you?" she demanded, not realizing the question was quite, quite rude. Neville frowned, holding up a battered text.

"No one! I told you, Hermione. I did it myself."

"Okaaay," she said incredulously. "Let me look at your book." With head lowered, she read the characteristics of the potion, confirming each point. "Well, Neville, it appears as though you've done it!" she announced, excitedly, eyes gleaming. Proud of him. He smiled at the sight of her happy animation. He'd meant for this to happen, exactly this way.

"Shall I try it, then?" he asked, moving his fingers toward a handy spoon that just happened to be next to the cauldron.

"Yes!" she urged, pushing aside her earlier distress. Eager to watch, she pulled up a stool, placing her elbows on the edge of the table and her chin in her upturned hands. "Go on!"

He dipped the tablespoon into the cauldron, allowing the golden liquid to coat the spoon. Watching him bring the spoon to his lips did curious things to her insides. He was quite good looking, now, having lost his baby fat in favor of his new lithe form. His features were still a bit rounded, pleasantly so, though, and he always looked at her so sweetly. She sighed inwardly.

"Mmmmm," he rumbled. "Delicious, Hermione."

"Really?" she breathed, mesmerized. There was a new look in his eye now, one that she didn't recognize.

Maybe if it had come from Malfoy she'd know it better... but from Neville?

"C'mere, Hermione," he said, holding out a hand, "Fancy a taste?"

She'd nodded and without thinking, she placed her hands in his. He gently pulled her against him. She hadn't realized how much bigger Neville was than she. He'd dipped his head down to hers, hesitated momentarily, his lips hovering millimeters above hers. An unspoken request.

After months of being cast aside for prettier girls, being insulted for what other boys had deemed her less than attractive physical attributes, Hermione seized this inexplicably breathless moment for herself.

Neville was looking at her like she was the most desirable, most gorgeous girl in the world and she needed this feeling. No, she wanted this wondrous, giddy feeling so very, very desperately. So, Hermione threaded her fingers through the softness of the dark waves at Neville's nape, drawing his mouth closer to hers. The feel of her fingers urging him forward was enough of a yes for Neville to gently place his lips, still wet from the golden elixir, atop hers. A shiver of rightness streaked through her at the meeting of mouths. And there it was, the ambrosial taste of the potion on her tongue. Yesss, her mind cried. And she tightened her hold on him.

"It's not Amortentia, Hermione," he whispered, his lips moving against hers. She'd long hopped off the stool to plaster herself against him.

She nodded, understanding what he wanted her to know.

"I've wanted this a long time. Only with you," he'd said confidently, in a voice almost demanding. She nodded again. She'd known this truth about him and she all at once realized that this was something she'd been wanting from him, too. Her fingers moved to his jaw, where stubble she hadn't realized he'd regularly magicked off, had started to grow again.

His hands moved against her, stirring up exciting, confusing sensations... wonderful sensations. How did Neville know where to touch her to make her wish to squirm closer to him? He seemed to guess her silent question.

"Book learning, same as you," he whispered against her neck, his newly stubbled chin, raking some red there. "And a wizard's magazine or two," he admitted naughtily against her ear.

A picture of this suddenly assertive Neville wanking to one of those forbidden periodicals unleashed itself in Hermione's very healthy imagination. She moaned at the vivid image her mind created. He seemed to have learned quite a bit from them, she mused, as his teeth nipped at her exposed collarbone. She whimpered. More, she thinks greedily.

"Grandmother always said to be wary of the humdrum wizards. Didn't anyone ever tell you that, Hermione? You never know what milk toast wizards like me might be focusing our energies on learning. Do you honestly think those other boys, any one of those preening peacocks, care for anything else but themselves? Highly doubtful," he said softly, nuzzling against her ear.

"I, myself, have made a complete study of the female anatomy. Care to test me on my discoveries?" his teasing smile was sensual and his journeying fingers convinced Hermione that he might just deserve an "O" before he'd even started to display his knowledge.

Beneath lowered lashes, Hermione watches his hand move beneath her shirt whites. The touch of his fingertips against her tummy threw her thoughts into a tailspin. She is unable to comprehend exactly how she'd found herself in this particular male's arms. Not that she didn't want to be there, but certainly this authoritative version of Neville was far more intriguing a specimen than the one she'd always known. And where had all her own inhibitions flitted off to?

Momentarily, he touched his nose to hers. His dark gaze captured her look of wanton abandon, forever etching the sight of her this way, wanting only him, into his memory. With a finger, he traced the outline of her lush lips. Her eyes glazed over, unable to comprehend anymore of his speech as his hands roamed and paid homage to places on her body yet untouched by anyone but herself.

"Nev—" she gasped when he tweaked her tight bud, the very one that had been seeking his attention against his chest. Merlin, he was causing all sorts of embarrassing responses from her untutored body and she didn't care a whit. She felt him smile against her neck. "Like that do you, witch?" he inquired a bit gruffly, a little playful taunt in his tone.

She nodded, her curls entangling with the heavy weight of his dark locks. She threw her head backwards, her wavy mane drawing his fringe against his brow.

"I've been dreaming about you for months, Hermione. To be able to touch you this way, draw out those needy sounds from your mouth. I want you to feel how much I adore you... just the way you are. Those other buffoons are idiots for being blind to your beauty. They don't deserve your tears."

She hadn't known, hadn't given a second thought to the more frequent glances he'd been sending her. She hadn't registered the accidental touch of his body against hers whenever the opportunity arose. She never imagined he could even feel this way about a girl, never mind that girl being her.

How insulting for her never to have thought of it, she scolded herself. How lucky she had allowed herself to open her mind and heart to such the possibility that this reality with him might even exist. Hermione decided, as she felt his warm hand sweep against her bare thigh, that she was certainly one lucky witch to discover this secret, sensuous Neville hiding beneath his baggy plaid jumpers and clumsy mannerisms.

"You are lovely to watch," he continued, his hands now toying against the sides of her plain cotton knickers. He looks to her, eyebrow raised, seeking consent. She nods and triumphantly, with one sweep, he draws them down her legs. With slightly impatient hands, he steered her back toward the stool and guided her to sit.

"What will it feel like to have these long limbs wrapped around my waist, I wonder?" he murmured sensually, before catching her lips with his hungry mouth once again. He used his clever hands to guide her legs around him so his curiosity might be satisfied.

"Have you ever done this, Hermione?" he asked, daring to touch her most intimate place beneath her uniform skirt. She cries out when his fingertip grazes the bundle of nerves she'd never quite been able to make feel this good under her own hand. She whispered her no and he softened his caresses. "Me neither, Hermione. I'd always wanted my first time to be with you."

Her eyelids drift shut as his mouth closes over one of her breasts. Reverently he laves its tip and she sighs.

Heavenly.

She craves more friction... everywhere... and is dismayed to discover he's still clothed. She stops his movement, with a tug to his hair and impatiently tears away his tie. He offers her a lopsided grin as he watches her rip at his garments. She reaches beneath his vest to pull his shirt from his trousers. Her greedy fingers find their way to his abdomen and she stops suddenly, surprised to feel the contours of some well- formed muscles beneath her open palm.

"Surprised?" he chuckled, flexing his abs against her touch. "I suppose that's reasonable. Care to touch some of my other muscles?"

Hermione smirked at his bawdy suggestion, but can't quite make herself reach for the fastening of his trousers. So, her needy gaze turned back to his.

"What do you want, Hermione?" His voice is throaty, sexy. Hermione almost laughed at the adjective. Not once before this moment had she thought Neville Longbottom the least bit sexy. Suddenly, he made to pull away. She grabbed at him, voicing her protest. "What do you want, Hermione?" he repeated bossily. His tone told her he wouldn't allow her to remain silent any longer.

"I want you, Nev—" she gasped when he drags her hand to touch him, curling her fingers around that mysterious, pulsing part of him, letting go only when he was sure her curiosity wouldn't allow her hand to retreat. "Merlin, you're hot," she breathed wondrously, her fingers tentatively mapping his length and girth. He moaned deep in his throat and she thrilled at the sound. "I want all of you," she dared to admit, "But, how —?" the worry in her voice was clear. Despite her concern, she gently tugged him closer, allowing the tip of him to graze against her moist folds. He expelled a muttered oath.

"The books say we're meant to fit," he groaned this as her hands continued their movements, memorizing him and continuing the breath-stealing friction. He was afraid he might not last long enough to feel all of her around him. "Please, Hermione," he pleaded. "I promise to be careful. Please."

Biting the inside of her lip, she nodded, just as desperate to be filled with him as he was to feel her wet softness wrap around him. He pushed forward, her hand guiding him. She gasped at the sensation of total completion. He stares deeply into her eyes and she knows this means as much to him, perhaps even more, than it does to her. A tear falls to trail down her cheek and he kisses it away.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't want to hurt you."

"It doesn't hurt" she assured quietly, feeling the curious fullness of him inside her. "This is just so beautiful, Neville. How could I not have known how much..." her voice hitched as his movements drew him in deeper. "How much... I love you?"

And with those words spoken, her arms and legs pulled him further forward until he was fully seated within. A thrill of energy coursed through their joined bodies and though there was a twinge of pain for her and exquisite torture for him, they realized how momentous this was for both of them as their breathing turned ragged.

They moved together, following an organic, sensual rhythm all their own. He'd know this position would grant him the most access, as well as, offer her the stimulation she needed to fly over the edge. What he hadn't realized was how quickly they would both reach that point of ecstasy. He shouted in triumph and she shrieked her pleasure with strokes that seemed to simultaneously last a lifetime, while also being far too short-lived.

Surely, it was dumb luck, he thought, that Snape's glass vials were somewhat protected from her high-pitched scream of ultimate satisfaction. Quite lucky, that he'd placed a silencing charm on the entire room before she'd entered. Luckier, indeed, that he'd thought to point his wand at the door to lock it as she examined his text and potion. Even luckier that he taken a taste of the potion before her arrival and listened to its confusing suggestion to place a contraception charm on himself while he was still alone in the lab.

It was only as she hung limply in his arms, nuzzling her face against his neck, that Neville unwisely chose to go against the potion's guidance.

"I love you, too," he'd whispered into the mussed mess of her hair. "Will you let me take you to the Ball?" He'd felt her go still around him, then, felt her awkward retreat from his embrace as he slipped soundlessly out of her.

"Nev–" she'd started to say. But he couldn't bear to hear her refusal, so he'd tried, as a desperate young man might, to draw her back into a thought-clearing kiss. She'd averted her face at the exact moment his lips would have fused to hers and it was in that moment of her obvious regret that his heart was torn asunder.

Reluctantly, he lifted himself away from her. Silently, with his wand, he cast a cleaning spell on the both of them, then paused to ensure each of their buttons and ties were meticulously replaced and knotted. If she wondered at his efficient and effective use of his wand, he didn't notice. He was too busy pushing against the horrifying swelling in his chest that threatened an onslaught of tears at her silent, but clearly felt rejection. When he'd finished with what he'd started to think of as his ablutions, he paused. Eyes downcast, he watched her nervously wring her fingers.

"When you want what I have to offer you, which is far more than only this, come find me," he'd whispered, his heart breaking as he swept out of the room without a backwards glance.

Yule Ball, 1994

He hadn't been able to stay away.

Though he tried to give her a wide berth, with the absence of Felix Felicis in his bloodstream, Neville reverted back to the comfort of his well-practiced clumsy mannerisms. Hermione had mercifully remained steadfastly at his side, supportive through his self-inflicted torment in the classrooms. She'd whispered once, that above all, she wanted his friendship, but it had been lovely, she'd assured, to be his one-time lover. Beyond that one mention, they hadn't spoken of their intimate night in the Potions lab.

He'd almost thought it had been some sort of brilliant dream, but the lingering looks she'd occasionally cast his way told him it had indeed been real, a fantastic moment in time that they'd both enjoyed and shared up until the earth-shattering end.

So, when he saw her descend the staircase that night of the Yule Ball to proudly claim the arm of one Viktor Krum, though his heart broke anew, Neville had done the gentlemanly thing and withdrawn. Focusing, instead on showering his attention on Ginny, his own date for the dance.

Later, after he'd seen Ginny back to the Tower to meet Third Year curfew, he'd returned, stag, to the party and dared to approach Hermione to request a dance. She smiled, and held onto his offered hand, their bodies meeting in a familiarity that their friends would have wondered at, had anyone been paying attention. But it wasn't their friends who were watching.

As the evening waned, Neville, had frowned, silently witnessing the heated exchange between the trio which left Hermione dissolving in tears... again, and her Bulgarian date nowhere to be found. Gathering up some legendary Gryffindor courage, Neville made his way to her side to kneel beside her. By then, the party goers had mostly wandered back to their dormitories and the weepy witch had picked a secluded part of the stairway to fall to pieces.

She would have had her privacy if he hadn't already been watching her. Neville gently tapped her chin with a curled finger, offering her a supportive smile, and a wink when he gestured above them. Her eyes widened, then twinkled, amused, and to his delight, quite pleased to catch herself under the mistletoe with him. She lifted her lips to his. And for a breathtaking moment, they were both transported back to their magical experience in the Potions classroom.

"Happy Christmas, Hermione," he'd whispered against the petal-soft skin at crook of her fragrant neck when they'd at last broken from their heart-stopping kiss. "I'll always love you," he'd added on a barely audible breath.

She stilled for a moment, ripping his heart out once more. He hadn't moved until he felt her gently place a kiss against his temple. He looked up in time to catch the wistful glance she sent him before departing.

And with that, a new tradition was born. Each year, on Christmas, he'd met her beneath the mistletoe to share one single, heart-rendering kiss.