Chapter 7: In which Hermione is in denial.
.oOo. It Isn't .oOo.
She can stare at him all day, she thinks, in a particularly uneventful Potions class.
Later, she assures herself it's nothing more than an appreciation for beauty.
She can kiss those lips for hours—hours, her inner voice croons—she thinks in a slow department meeting.
Later, she assures herself that it's kind of like wanderlust but for people, you know?
(Subconsciously, she takes out the word 'wander')
She assures herself it's an experiment when she calls him toward her with a sultry, half sober gaze.
Is it love? She wonders, when the sun kisses his face the next day.