The Virtues of Patience

Summary: A story where Hermione realizes that her patience is not infinite, that one must act decisively if they want something done, and Harry gets a very pleasant surprise. H/HR, Romance, one-shot, based in OoTP. Slightly AU.

Disclaimer: Did I single-handedly become the world's first billionaire author, after being rejected by twelve individual publishing companies? If not, I don't own Harry Potter. Nor do I make any money whatsoever from this story.

Author's Note: A little musing that had wormed itself into my head when I was planning for CHASM, and my first attempt at writing romance. Don't worry, the next chapter of that is almost ready – just a few more tweaks here and there and it will be out. A few lines of this story were influenced by the canon series – if you spot a line, point it out in a review! Kudos to those that do. Alrighty, I've said enough – on with the story!

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It was a well-known fact that one Hermione Granger had near-infinite levels of patience.

She was renowned to be one of the very few prefects possessing the admirable ability of dealing with pranks and practical jokes – courtesy of Messrs. Fred and George Weasley – without experiencing a fit of overwhelming hysteria and stress.

The Smartest-Witch-Of-Her-Age was also the literal embodiment of 'charge forward first, ask questions later' when it came to deeply personal matters, a trait not usually present in those with logic-oriented minds.

The young Gryffindor could handle both of their mischievous machinations and amusing antics with an almost serene disposition; never once growing exasperated with the droll duo and managing to weather the chaotic cyclone they whipped up by their mere presence with an incredibly easy-going expression.

She had been praised multiple times by her professors for her near-permanent calm composure, a fact in which Hermione took great pride. Her mother had always said that patience was a virtue well earned.

All of that vaunted patience, however, went right out the window when it came to matters of the heart.

Specifically, her's. And Harry's.

Her endearingly —and infuriatingly – clueless best friend had not responded to the many, many hints she had sent; be them an increased amount of physical affection, or – dare she say it – flirting. Hermione had been attempting to communicate her interest in the black-haired teen, but it seemed that he was almost as oblivious as her other best friend, Ronald.

And that was saying something.

She reminisced back to the Christmas of last year – to the first Yule Ball she had ever attended. At one point of the night, she had sat with Harry to one side of the exquisitely decorated Great Hall, nursing ice-cold butterbeers and attempting to regain feeling in her feet, aching from hours of energetic dancing.

They had made idle conversation for quite some time, jumping from idle chit chat to deeper topics with the ease of incredibly long-term friends. Both had had a right old laugh about the ridiculousness of Ron's outfit, their errant friend having worn 'extravagant and high-class dress robes' – his words, not theirs – that were better described as scraps of clothing that should not ever see the light of day, and the pitiful attempt at intimidation Malfoy had performed early in the evening.

Trying to 'inform' someone of their 'inferior' social and cultural status while performing a rather complicated two-step waltz – and this someone not being the individual the Malfoy heir was dancing with – was quite frankly pathetic and not effective at all.

Conversation between the two fourth years had then moved to how everyone had dressed for the rare occasion. There were many different styles of clothing with various origins, ranging from Padma and Parvarti's – now dancing with the wayward third part of the Golden Trio and Cedric Diggory respectively, though much less reluctantly in the second case – delicately embroidered, matching, red-and-gold saris; to Malfoy's admittedly opulent black-and-white dress robes.

In her honestly biased opinion, Harry had looked far more dashing than the bratty Slytherin, boasting a classic Muggle suit with a forest-green waistcoat that matched his eyes perfectly – not that she'd ever say that aloud – accompanied by a dark over-robe of cobalt blue wool, trimmed with a maroon red and gold.

She'd had to hold herself back from snogging the living daylights out of him right then and there by pure force of will, once she'd fully taken in his outfit.

Hermione herself had worn a beautiful, periwinkle blue gown, zipped up at the back and featuring cushioning and air-ventilating charms custom-installed by Madame Malkin herself, to ensure the wearer had the best experience possible while wearing the dress.

It had cost quite a pretty penny – she didn't think she'd be able to buy any books from the Hogsmeade branch of Flourish and Blotts for the next three Hogsmeade weekends – but the young witch had thoroughly and smugly enjoyed watching Harry's chin slackly fall to the vicinity of his feet and remain there for quite some time, when he had glimpsed her descending the steps to the Entrance Hall.

The extravagant cost was, in her opinion, entirely justifiable by Harry's reaction alone.

Her date to the Ball, Viktor Krum was in another corner of the Hall, laughing with his friends about some story regarding him getting Transfigured into a duck. She would have greatly preferred taking her "secret" crush to the event, but the Bulgarian Seeker had asked her before she could muster up the courage to 'suggest' that she and the youngest Tri-Wizard competitor go together, "as 'friends'", when it became apparent that said individual wasn't going to ask her.

Watching the crowd of students that had gathered to hang onto Viktor's every word, Hermione knew she had quite some alone time to spend with her male best friend.

She sent a sly look towards him.

"So, Harry, have you had your dance with Cho yet?" she enquired, a teasing smile on her lips.

His ears burned red.

"No, not yet," he mumbled, taking a rather large sip of butterbeer to mask the fact that his face was redder than a tomato.

She felt her smile drop for an instant.

He still harboured feelings for the Ravenclaw Seeker.

Nevertheless, she plastered on a grin, determined not to ruin such a good night with her sullenness.

"Oh! That reminds me. You, Mr. Harry Potter,–" she stood up suddenly, placing her nearly-empty butterbeer on a nearby, Levitating tray and grabbing his arm, – "–owe me a dance. You did promise, after all."

Hermione dragged a reluctant Harry to an unoccupied area of the dance floor. He chuckled briefly, rolling his eyes.

"That was over three weeks ago," he faux-complained, ears no longer fire-engine red, a mischievous quirk to his smile.

"And you tricked me into agreeing! If only I had seen through your evil scheme in time–"

Hermione laughed merrily, a tinkly, melodic sound echoing around the two students of Hogwarts.

"–then I would have avoided such an embarrassment! You know I can't dance, Hermione."

She placed her hands around his neck, his arms naturally sliding around her waist, and the two best friends easily began to sway in time with the slow-paced music.

"Well, I can't either, so I guess we'll both get embarrassed," she said consolingly, absently playing with a strand of his hair between her fingers. "Though, you're looking very dashing tonight, Harry, so I don't think many would mind if you messed up your footwork."

His ears became that fire-engine red again. "Oh, shush," he said, smiling, abashedly breaking eye contact with her. "You look very fine tonight as well, Hermione."

Hermione felt her face warm up.

"Thank you," she whispered shyly, suddenly very interested in the melting ice sculpture just over his shoulder.

A few minutes of silence passed, the two content to let it rest between them, swaying in time to the adagio-timed musical piece being sung by guest-performer Celestina Warbeck.

"Although, I don't know why you would want to be seen dancing with me." She broke the silence quietly, incorrectly assuming that he did not hear what she just said. "After all, there are plenty of other, more attractive options–"

"Stop it, Hermione."

Harry's face held a slight frown, clearly not approving of what Hermione was saying. Had she noticed, she probably would have melted into a puddle of goo at his concern.

"–and when you think about how ugly I am, too, that factors in–"

"Hermione. Stop it."

Harry had stilled in his swaying. She jumped a little, having become accustomed to the slight movement.

"Stop what, Harry?" she asked, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"Undervaluing and undermining yourself," he explained. They were suddenly a lot closer; Hermione could see the individual flecks of malachite in his eyes, surrounded by a deep, forest green. "I don't like to see you do that, especially when I know what you say isn't true."

"But it is. You think I'm ugly," she stated simply, as if the fact had already been established. The rest of the Great Hall faded into the background around them, her entire world centred on the wizard before her. Her eyes unconsciously dropped to his lips, watching them move as they formulated words.

"I don't think you're ugly," Harry countered instantly, a bemused smile replacing his previously stern expression. She felt something in her breastbone jump at that heartfelt confession.

"You don't?" she half-whispered, staring up into his deep, green eyes. "But I've had bucked teeth for practically all the time we've known each other and my hair is always so bushy–"

Harry started rocking in time to the music again, Hermione following along a second later.

"No, I don't, Hermione," he asserted, a glimmer of mischief entering his eyes again. "In fact, if it came down to it, I think you'd quite easily be the belle of the ball."

Hermione sighed in faux pain, dropping her head to rest on his shoulder. He chuckled, careful not to jostle her, amused at her antics.

"Gods above, Harry, that was so bad," she said, raising her head and pretending to shudder with disgust. Her eyes, unconsciously, slid to his lips again. "Next time you try to use a pick-up line, please use one that's a little smoother."

Harry looked a little confused at her request, as if he hadn't properly registered what he'd just said. "Pick-up line?" he asked, completely nonplussed. "Why would I use–"

He was interrupted by a tap on his left shoulder.

Viktor stood behind him, a half-empty drink held in his left hand. He nodded politely to the youngest Tri-Wizard competitor.

"Ex-cuse me, Harry Potter," the Bulgarian's accent was thick and he rolled the R's off his tongue, "but may I haff a private vord with Hermy-own-ninny? I need to speak vith her briefly."

'Hermy-own-ninny', however, was mentally cursing the world-class Seeker's existence in the four individual languages she was fluent in. Damn him, she had been this close to kissing Harry!

"Of course, Viktor," Harry replied, reluctantly letting go of his best friend and taking a step back. Hermione instantly missed his warm proximity.

"See you later, Hermione," he said, giving her a little wave.

The young witch waved back a goodbye, quickly hiding her frustration behind a small smile.

With a final nod to both her and Viktor, Harry turned away, wandering in the direction of Neville and Luna's table. Judging by his slightly blank expression, the Longbottom heir had been subject to one of Lovegood's fabled talks about Blibbering Humdingers, the Rotfang Conspiracy and the 'possibly explicit' relationship between the Great Squid and the Whomping Willow.

Hermione sighed, staring into the fire of Gryffindor Common Room, pushing the memory of the night to the back of her mind.

At the exact moment that Viktor had interrupted, she had only just managed to muster up the courage to close the tiny distance between her and her best friend. Unfortunately for her, no such similar chance had presented itself for the rest of the night. Harry had enjoyed his dance with Cho – a fact that still resulted in Hermione repressing the urge to commit a rather violent act towards a certain, black-haired female, whenever she thought about it – and the Bulgarian Tri-Wizard competitor had gallantly walked her back to the entrance of Gryffindor Common Room.

Curiously, he had done nothing more than peck her on the cheek – despite the bushy-haired Gryffindor knowing he had wanted to do more – thanking her for the wonderful night and then heading back to the Durmstrang ship currently floating in the middle of the Black Lake.

The next day, he had only answered her inquisitive stare with a sly wink, as if he knew something significant that Hermione was hiding. She didn't have the slightest clue as to what he had figured out, though.

The young witch determinedly ignored the little voice in the corner of her mind, which was screaming out the rather obvious answer.

Another incident rose from the depths of her memory; a training session for Dumbledore's Army, about two weeks ago, when club membership had swelled to an all-time high.

She and Harry had taken positions near the front of the Room of Requirement, a recently discovered feature of Hogwarts that neither student had fully figured out how to use. They were observing the third DA meeting of the year, this one including the first Slytherins to ever join the student-run organisation.

"I just don't get it, Hermione," he said quietly, eyebrows furrowed, watching a rather intense duel between a fifth-year Ravenclaw and a fourth-year Slytherin. Judging by his sudden wince and quickly hidden grimace, the younger combatant had scored a rather nasty hit on their opponent.

Hermione glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Get what, Harry?"

He made a vague gesture in the direction of the rest of the Room of Requirement, the members of the Dumbledore's Army diligently practising their magical duelling ability.

"Them looking to me for leadership," the young wizard explained. "I mean, there are plenty of people present with much more experience and knowledge than me, so why don't they listen to them?"

She stared at him. "Isn't it obvious?" Hermione asked rhetorically. "You're the best at Defence Against the Dark Arts in our year by quite a large margin, Harry. You are better than most sixth-years, and maybe even some seventh-years, too."

The Boy-Who-Lived blushed crimson, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I'm not that good, Hermione," he denied modestly.

Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Alright, then, Mr. I'm-not-that-good. Who was it who duelled six Auror-grade training dummies simultaneously, and won with minimal injuries? And who was it who conjured up a Contego Maxima – a post Seventh-year shielding spell, by the way – strong enough to withstand not one but three consecutive, full-strength Bombarda's? Oh, and how about that time, when this 'imaginary person' bested–"

"Okay, okay, perhaps, maybe, I'm decent at DADA," he reluctantly amended, face still a maroon red. "But that doesn't mean the new members should look at me like I'm Dumbledore or something ridiculous like that."

Hermione regarded her best friend with a shrewd eye for a few moments, her head cocked to one side. Harry noticed her undivided attention and quickly attempted to change the subject, uncomfortable with the intense scrutiny.

"So, who do you think will win the duel?" he asked, nodding towards a skirmish between Susan Bones of Hufflepuff and Terry Boot of Ravenclaw. A small crowd had gathered around the two combatants, who were both ferociously flinging spells at one another. "Personally, I'm putting my galleons on Susan, but who knows. Maybe Terry will surprise us?"

The bushy-haired witch did not reply, nibbling on her bottom lip with eyes slightly unfocused.

"You truly don't know why?" she finally asked, ignoring the cheers of the crowd to her left. Susan had landed a rather good hit on her Ravenclaw opponent, and was presumably winning the impromptu duel.

Harry sent a baffled look in her direction. "No...?"

"Well, Harry, it's because you're…well, you," Hermione explained simply.

He looked at her confusedly again.

She expressed herself more clearly. "You're charismatic, and you're nice to hang out with. You also have this admirable ability to instill confidence in anyone, no matter what they think of their own abilities, and you're a wonderful teacher. I simply could not understand what I was doing wrong with the Protego charm – until you showed me that mentally visualizing the shield was necessary for the spell to work."

Harry's face took on the shade of a ripe tomato, his ears looking so hot that they would burn anyone who touched them. It was incredibly cute and such a 'Harry' reaction that Hermione had to actively resist the urge to take him into her arms and kiss him senseless.

The unofficial leader of the DA uncomfortably shifted his weight from one foot to another. "Well, when you put it like that…" he abashedly trailed off.

"You've never been more interesting, and frankly, you've never been more fanciable. It doesn't hurt that you grew like a foot over the summer, too," she added, seemingly as an afterthought.

Hermione saw the young wizard start to fidget uncomfortably, as if he found the Room of Requirement unbearably hot all of a sudden, despite the fact that it could be colder than the Arctic itself with a mere concentrated burst of will and a single thought.

Harry coughed, pulling on his collar slightly. "Well, alright, then, Hermione," he concurred at last. "I guess one could see why everyone views me as their leader."

Hermione stared at him for a second longer than what was probably necessary, an unreadable expression on her face. Harry quickly surmised that it was an expectant look, as if she was waiting for something to happen.

Before he could wonder at what she could possibly be expecting, the look was gone, replaced with an impish spark rarely seen in her eyes and a challenging smirk on her lips.

"I think I need a little more practice with my Protego shield, Harry," she informed him quietly, slowly drawing her wand and backing up a few steps. Harry immediately copied her movements. "After all, one can never practice enough. Are you up to the task?"

Harry felt an answering smirk grow upon his features.

"But of course, my dear," he replied lightly, circling to his right. His wand was also drawn and ready to jump into action. "The real question, however, is how long you would last before I beat you."

"That would be a redundant question to ask, then," Hermione reposted, circling in the opposite direction, noting in the corner of her mind that a large crowd of whispering DA members had formed around her and Harry. "Because I'll be the one beating you, Potter, and you'll forever have to bear the shame of being beaten by a girl."

Harry chuckled heartily, the sound reverberating throughout the Room of Requirement.

"Oh, you're so going down, Granger. I can promise you that."

Her smirk widened; one could interpret that statement in many different ways.

Hermione lifted her chin, winking cheekily at him. Harry only understood half of the meaning behind it, though. "Only in your dreams, Potter."

Their wands rose in a synchronized motion, and the duel between the two best friends began.

Hermione winced slightly, remembering the soreness that couldn't be spelled away when she had woken up the next day, after her intense duel with Harry.

Despite her confident bantering, the young Gryffindor knew her best friend easily outclassed her in terms of magical combat, and consequently hadn't remained standing for much longer than two minutes.

She had put her all into the skirmish – there was no use in holding back, after all – and she was proud to note that she'd landed a couple of glancing blows against the fabled DADA prodigy before being defeated.

It was a testament to her combative ability that she had lasted that long against Harry. Most seventh years who had the misfortune of duelling the young Potter heir barely lasted forty-five seconds.

Hermione felt a smug smirk worm its way onto her features.

The Gryffindor bookworm, however, had been slightly disappointed by the fact that Harry had not reciprocated or responded to her flirtations. At all.

She thought that she had been quite obvious in her intentions, so much so that even the most oblivious individual would have noticed them.

Apparently not, for Harry was still happily unaware of her feelings.

Thus, she was forced to conclude two things.

Either Harry was uninterested in dating his female best friend – and, consequently, was politely ignoring her coquetrial advances - or was entirely and blissfully incognizant of said advances. Which was understandable when one factored in his less-than-favourable childhood.

She hoped it was the second option.

Hermione, therefore, decided that it was she to take the initiative; putting her feelings on display in such a blatant way that her best friend would be utterly incapable of misinterpreting or not recognizing them.

Hopefully.

She reasoned that if one wanted something to happen, one would have to act decisively and get it done themselves.

Taking a deep breath and stamping down on the anxiety boiling in her gut – and ignoring the little, sceptical voice in her head asking why in Merlin's name she was doing something so asininely stupid as this – Hermione stood up from her seat in front of the fireplace, navigating around various pieces of furniture and other Gryffindors to a little, out-of-the-way alcove in a corner of the Common Room.

Due to its slightly hidden nature, the nook was highly valued for use when one wanted to have a private chat, or to have a peaceful and quiet atmosphere for studying.

It was in said alcove that Harry was situated.

She plopped herself down next to him on the rich sofa, covered with various quilts and cushions. Other than a slight movement of his eyes, he didn't react in any other way.

"Hey, Harry," she eventually said, having stared at the carpeted floor for a few silent moments. It held less interesting information than she had been expecting. "What are you reading?"

"Uh…hi, Hermione," he absently replied, nose still buried in this week's edition of the Quidditch Times. His eyes briefly darted up to hers before returning to the magazine. "Oh, nothing much…just the Quidditch numbers of this week. Can you believe that the Chudley Cannons actually scored a win?"

She blinked. It was a well-known fact that the orange-themed Chudley Cannons – the Quidditch team ardently supported by their friend, Ron – had not won a single game of Quidditch for the fourteen years it had been under the control of its new manager, Roger Malone.

"Did they? How did they do it?" she asked. Normally, the bookworm wouldn't pay a single whit of attention to Quidditch-related discussions – she had an avid avoidance for sports that had its players not in constant proximity with the ground – but her thoroughly thought-out plan required it of her.

So, she suckered up her reticence, settling down to listen to Harry passionately speak about how the ridiculously bad team had miraculously won themselves a victory.

Hermione lasted – at best – five minutes before her patience fully ran out.

"…perfectly executed Wronksi Feint by the Cannons' new Seeker – something Wheatfoot, I think he was called – resulted in the Arrows' Seeker, Runcorn, crashing into the ground rather spectacularly, and the Cannons winning their first game in fourteen years. Though, I think if Runcorn hadn't fallen for the tactic, the score would have been a lot closer–"

Hermione grimaced slightly. "Okay, Harry, I think I've had enough talk about Quidditch for the next few days," she said, reluctantly cutting off her best friend.

Surprisingly, Harry wasn't upset in the slightest. No, he straight-up smirked. "About time, Hermione," he replied, leaning back into the sofa with a self-satisfied aspect to his smirk. "I'm surprised that your 'attention' to my little monologue lasted a whole four minutes and forty-two seconds. I was beginning to run out of things to ramble about."

Hermione felt her eyebrows shoot up her forehead. "You timed how long I lasted?" she asked incredulously, now not so sure that the raven-haired teen hadn't seen right through her 'cleverly thought-out' scheme. "How did you even know I wasn't paying full attention to what you were saying?"

"Your eyes had glossed over pretty early into my speech, and I know that you'd rather read some trashy romance novel than listen to me ramble on about Quidditch." Hermione felt her cheeks pinken in response. She slapped him on the shoulder.

"You prat! I didn't know you were that sneaky, Harry."

The smirk on his face only widened. "Oh, my naïve, favourite little bookworm; you forget which house the Hat originally wanted to put me in."

"It wanted to put you in Slytherin?" she guessed. He nodded ever-so-slightly, confirming her suspicions.

"Well, I haven't told anyone this before, but…it wanted to put me in Slytherin, too," Hermione quietly confided. It was Harry's turn to be surprised, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. "It had seen my ambition and drive to succeed, and I probably would have gone to the house of snakes, had I not specifically pleaded not to be Sorted there." Harry slowly nodded his understanding.

"All..right, then. Do you know why I chose to come to Gryffindor, too, and not get Sorted with Malfoy and his ilk?"

Hermione shook her head.

"It was because you and Ron were the first people to ever pay proper attention to me," Harry confessed, after a few moments of heavy silence. He didn't notice Hermione's aghast expression, as he was currently tracing patterns into the carpet with his foot. "Before that, my relatives would treat me as you would treat an unwanted pet – not giving it the proper attention it deserves, shunning it to the fringes of your attention, occasionally forgetting to feed it, et cetera, et cetera."

"Surely your primary school teachers gave you some attention?" she asked in a horrified whisper, stunned at the incredibly harsh treatment Harry had endured during his childhood. She found herself scooting closer to him, until their thighs were touching. She placed a comforting hand on his arm. "They would've done so, right?"

Harry chuckled sourly. "Oh, they 'paid attention', alright. Unmistakably," he said, glancing up to gaze into her eyes, concerned brown meeting bitter green. "If by 'attention' you mean ignoring the many sessions of 'Harry Hunting', then they definitely paid attention to me."

Hermione covered her mouth with her free hand, her empathy for her best friend reaching unprecedented levels. Judging by the stiffness to his posture, Harry hadn't ever confided his experiences to another person, and had been carrying it around with him for all of his teenage life.

She could also tell that her poor friend would not elaborate any further on what 'Harry Hunting' was.

So, she took it upon herself to lighten the mood. "You know, I nearly had you in our duel, a couple of weeks back," she said slyly, bumping his shoulder with hers. "I saw you fudge up many spells in an attempt to keep up with my awesome magical prowess."

Harry rolled his eyes, recognizing the act for what it was yet not commenting on it.

He appreciated the attempt, though.

"Whatever do you mean, Hermione? Me, fudge up a spell? Perish the thought!"

The Boy-Who-Lived arrogantly stuck his nose into the air, emulating a certain, blond-haired Slytherin that Hermione easily recognized. "Cease your blasphemy, scoundrel, or my father will learn about this!"

The bushy-haired bookworm snorted with laughter, thoroughly amused at Harry's antics. A quickly performed Silencing spell prevented the rest of the Gryffindor Common Room from hearing the sudden burst of sound.

"I shall also rely on my father to fight my battles for me, so you'd better be scared!" Hermione similarly threatened, a stern expression on her face. However, the twitching of her lips ruined the visage.

The two Gryffindors shared a good chuckle, eventually falling into a comfortable silence. Harry leaned his head back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling not far above them, and Hermione looked blankly into the wall of the alcove.

She was currently having a rather intense argument with herself.

The more impulsive, emotional side of her brain encouraged her to take Harry into her arms, squeezing him tight and never letting go. It also subtly hinted at just what could occur from the increased proximity, a fact which Hermione's admittedly hormonal mind had fixated rather strongly on. The logic-oriented side of her psyche vehemently disagreed with the suggested course of action, pointing out in no uncertain terms the stupidity of such an act and all its possible complications and consequences.

Hermione listened to both parties put forward their recommended courses of action as if observing a debate. She weighed the pros and cons of each, attempting to make an informed and intelligent decision based off of the best example. In her own opinion, of course.

She decided to throw caution to the wind, doing it in a way that would've made her ostentatious great-aunt proud.

"Harry?" the young witch asked, heart pounding a staccato rhythm; taking a deep breath and steeling herself for what she was about to do.

"Mm?" he replied absently, still engrossed with the artfully designed roof of the alcove above him.

"You've got something on your mouth."

"I do?" he confusedly enquired, moving his gaze from the ceiling to stare at his best friend. He wiped a hand against his mouth.

Glancing at the back of it, his eyebrows furrowed.

"I don't see anything on i– mmph!"

Hermione had seized Harry by his scruffy, maroon-red collar, pulling him towards her and closing the distance between their faces.

The Boy-Who-Lived had initially frozen, completely blindsided by Hermione's seemingly impulsive action. Within a few moments, however, instinct and pure emotion had taken over. The tension disappeared from his frame as Harry settled down to enjoy the impromptu snogging session with his best friend.

She slid her fingers into his hair, thoroughly relishing the long, long-awaited mouth-to-mouth contact. His hands danced across the small of her back, pulling her closer and reducing the space between them even further.

Hermione moaned slightly, opening her mouth and allowing his tongue entry.

Harry found himself responding quite eagerly to the sound she had just made; his trousers suddenly feeling uncomfortably tight. He was very glad that the Silencing spell was still active.

Their tongues duelled for dominance over the other, meshing this way and that; a tricky, complicated dance that neither had ever been taught yet both instinctively knew how to perform.

The ensuing minutes of kissing were sloppy and quite clumsy – the two Gryffindors bumped noses multiple times when they disengaged for air; chuckling under their breath before diving in for more – showing inexperience on both parties' sides. Nevertheless, the two thoroughly enjoyed their little tryst, tentatively exploring previously unknown parts of one another.

Eventually, though, they had to stop, for fear of blacking out as a result of hypoxia.

Hermione had somehow ended up straddling Harry's lap, his hands on her waist and creeping towards the hemline of her shirt; her hands resting on her shoulders. The two stared at each other for a single moment that stretched into infinity, silently communicating their thoughts and feelings. Only now were they properly registering just what had happened.

"So," Harry whispered, breathing heavily, "T-that was..interesting."

"Y-yeah," Hermione whispered back, similarly breathing heavily, "Yeah. It was, wasn't it?"

A few seconds of silence passed, the young wizard and witch wordlessly staring at the other, and then–

"So…what happens now?" Harry asked tentatively, hands still upon Hermione's waist. She looked quite comfortable where she was, seated atop his lap, so he didn't think she would be moving any time soon.

"We do it again?" she hopefully replied, a look of what Harry now recognized as lust returning to her eyes. "I most certainly enjoyed it. Did you?"

It was not even a question for Harry. "Yes, I did, Hermione. In fact, I enjoyed it so much that I'd like it to happen again. Sooner rather than later would be preferable, actually."

Hermione smirked coyly in response.

It was a smirk Harry had never seen before on her features, yet loved instantly.

She leaned forward, chest pressing into his, breath hot against his ear. The realization that they were still in the Common Room briefly floated through her mind, but she pushed it away. The alcove they were in was hidden enough. "Well then, Harry, I think the next few minutes will be quite pleasurable."

Harry shivered. He positioned his head next to his best friend's, a flurry of previously contained feelings running rampant throughout his brain. His fingers inched dangerously close to the hemline of her shirt. "That sound you made – I bet I could make you produce it again, only louder and much more frequently," he challenged in a low, breathy whisper; briefly nipping at the fleshy part of her ear.

He could feel her entire form shudder with delight. "You're on, Potter," she responded, and cupped his face in her hands, directing their lips back together.

Hermione pushed any thoughts about what this little event would mean for their relationship out of her mind, deciding instead to focus on the here-and-now.

After all, patience was a virtue well-earned, her mother had once said; and as Harry repositioned them so that Hermione had her back against the couch floor, her best friend lying on top of her and his hands finally slipping underneath her shirt, a single phrase echoed heavily within her mind.

That was one hell of a wait, but it sure had been worth it…

~oOoOoOOOoOoOo~

Author's Note:

24/07/20: And there you go! My very first attempt at writing romance, I really hope you enjoyed it. I may or may not attempt to write more in the future, depending on if my muses run wild enough. Alrighty! Be sure to check out the other story (soon to become plural!) on my profile, and I'll see y'all around. Thanks for reading!

Cheers,

Avaxius