Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger and associated characters and events do not belong to me. They belong to the marvellously talented JK Rowling (published under Bloomsbury Press). They are being used solely for entertainment purposes and no money is being made from this work (trust me on this one). No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: Right, I've decided to continue this. Nothing large, just three chapters.

Wandless Magic

Chapter Two

He's done it again.

When he looks at me with those brilliant green eyes, widened slightly behind those ridiculously attractive glasses, I can't say no. Even if it is to a game of poker.

"Oh, alright."

Goodbye well-earned money. Well, I can't say that it is that particularly well earned. Kirsten, mum and dad's receptionist, had taken an extended vacation last year, and they'd offered me a temporary position. While being a receptionist isn't overly taxing, you do come across the occasional odd person. Mum and dad seemed to attract them by the dozens. Perhaps it's a dentist thing.

Anyway, strange people with dental problems aside, Harry is exceptionally good at poker. Despite his boyish qualities, he can keep a perfectly straight face most of the time.

Then again, is there anything he isn't good at?

Oh, he's certainly not perfect. Even in my current state I can still see his faults. That indeterminable streak of pride being one of them.

Would it kill him to ask for help every once in a while? Honestly.

"Hermione? Are you in?" Ron is peering at me across the top of his cards.

Oops. Got a little sidetracked, didn't I?

"Call," I say as I drop a couple of Knuts on the table. Alright, so we're not playing for particularly high stakes here, but that's really not the point. I look up at Harry and he raises an eyebrow. I can feel the flush creeping up my neck. I bury my face back into my cards. And what a dismal hand it is. I have one of a kind five times over. If I lose – I'll rephrase that: when I lose – I'm certainly blaming it on Harry. Although I don't think I'll mention why.

The next time around, I remember to fold.

That leaves me with time to just let my mind wander. Like it hasn't been wandering enough today. I can only hope that my situation improves by the time the NEWTs come around, or I'll be a complete basket case. I do have a reputation to uphold, after all.

It's been three minutes and only Harry and Ginny are left. From the air of excitement, I gather that the stakes are the highest they've been all evening – one whole Sickle and fifteen Knuts. The spectators are all holding their breath. Harry and Ginny are eyeing each other across the table.

A few years ago I would have been worried about this blatant display. But now I know better (especially since Ginny is happily dating a rather cute Hufflepuff by the name of Jason Carmichael) and think little of it. He doesn't think of her that way, she's just Ron's little sister.

Still, does he have to look at her so closely?

Ginny glances down at her cards and tosses in a handful of bronze. "Nine Knuts."

There's a protracted silence and all eyes are on Harry. He waits, running a long finger across the small pile of Knuts in front of him. His eyes meet mine across the table.

For a moment, I'm completely stunned. I don't even know why. He's looked at me plenty of times before. Hell, we've been friends for almost seven years, so no looking would have been somewhat impossible.

But this time …

Whoa.

We stay like that for countless moments, eyes locked.

Suddenly I find myself falling. Quite literally.

Ron and I were sitting side by side on the couch. One second he'd been leaning against me, snoozing, and then the next second, he wasn't and I was so very close to becoming intimately acquainted with the carpet. If Harry had been the one beside me, he might have done the chivalrous thing and caught me before I hit the floor. Actually, come to think of it, he probably wouldn't have knocked me down in the first place. As it was, Ron, having just awoken, had no idea what was going on and so did nothing.

Ouch. That's gonna leave a mark.

Harry's laughing. Ron's looking around, completely at odds; the poor boy hasn't got a clue what's going on.

"Ooh," I can't help glaring at Ron.

"Sorry, Hermione," Ron mumbles sleepily. Then he leans back against a couch cushion and falls asleep. How does he do that?

"Are you alright, Hermione?" Harry says, peering at me over his cards.

"Bloody brilliant."

"Come here. Don't want Ron to knock you over again, do we?"

I can't help it. For a moment I know that I must look confused and slightly anxious. And then the confusion goes flying out the window as Harry smiles at me again. Hey, if the boy wants me to sit next to him, who am I to argue? I am nothing if not agreeable.

He shifts slightly to the side and, to my incredible surprise, wraps an arm around my shoulder and hands me his cards. Actually, I think the bigger surprise is that I haven't yet fallen off the damn chair. It's only the fact that I'm completely frozen in place that makes that a particularly difficult action to undertake.

Ginny gives me a sly look over her cards.

I feel my face flush as I look down at Harry's cards.

"What do you think?" he whispers softly, his mouth very close to my ear. "Should I risk it?"

He's got a pair of sevens and three aces. I turn my face, intent on giving my acquiescence, and suddenly we're nose to nose. "I think you should go for it. What have you got to lose?"

Admittedly, my voice does come out rather shakily, but it's not as bad as it could be, so I congratulated myself on that as I turned back to Ginny.

"What indeed," he murmurs, so quietly that I almost didn't catch it.

Almost.

I wonder what he means? Are we still talking about the cards? It's ridiculously confusing, dealing with emotions. It's the one thing that I honestly believe logic cannot resolve. In fact, logical thinking usually makes it worse or alternatively, sends you off in the direction completely opposite that which you want to be going in.

" – me, Hermione?"

"Huh?"

Alright, so it's not the most eloquent answer I could have given, but still. What is –

Oh, the game's finished. Ginny's sweeping an admirable collection of bronze off the table and into the pockets of her robes.

"Thank you very much, Harry," Ginny grins. "I'll be off then, shall I? Try not to stay up too late, you two."

She hurries up to the stairs to the girl's dormitory.

"So, what happened?"

Harry smiles ruefully. "Ginny won. A Royal Flush. I believe she made off with three Sickles and five Knuts."

"Lucky girl. I hear Honeydukes has some new sweets out."

Harry laughs. "Ah yes, Honeydukes. That's definitely money well spent. I imagine you'd be more interested in something from Flourish and Blotts?"

He knows me too well. So I have a bit of an obsession with books. We all have our vices, I suppose. "Of course," I say with a slow smile. "An excessively hefty volume on the 1001 uses of Bubotuber Pus would suit me nicely."

"I'll try to remember that," Harry says, completely straight faced. There's a twinkle in his eyes. "Christmas is coming up in a couple of months, isn't it?"

"Don't you dare!"

But I know he wouldn't. Although he does have the unfortunate (or rather fortunate depending on the circumstances) tendency toward male obliviousness, he does have the occasional brilliant insight in the gift phenomena. Last year for my birthday, he'd given me the newest edition of Hogwarts, A History [Unabridged and Uncut]. It was leather bound and the pages were of the most delicate parchment ever to grace the book market. I was quite touched.

" – alright, Hermione?"

A hand waves across my face and Harry's looking at me rather concerned. I should probably stop this incessant daydreaming. I'm sure people are beginning to think that I've completely lost the plot.

"Sorry, Harry. I'm not really here at the moment."

"I know what you mean," Harry runs a hand across his face. "Sometimes I wish I really weren't here, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," I reply softly. He doesn't talk about … well, anything, really. I know he keeps a fair deal of it inside, just bottling it all up until it all becomes too much and he just explodes in a fit of yelling and whatnot. (And one time last year, exploding crockery.) I do wish he'd talk about it a bit more, but I can understand why he doesn't. It's hard to talk to someone else about something that you don't truly understand yourself.

Oh dear, now he's fallen into a daydream (well, technically a night dream since it is almost one o'clock in the morning, but that doesn't make much sense, does it?).

I am a bad influence, aren't I?

"Harry? Are you alright?"

He looks at me with those dazzling green eyes. I could drown in those eyes. As sappy as it sounds, they're deep, liquid pools of brilliant green. And they change depending on his mood. When he's happy, they're bright with almost invisible flecks of blue in them. When he's angry, they darken to a dark green flecked with icy green sparks. I've spent so much time looking at those eyes, I could probably write a book.

Damn thing would probably be a bestseller, too.

"Hermione?"

This time I'm actually paying attention.

"Harry?"

"Lets go for a walk."

"It's twelve fifty seven, Harry."

"I know. Lets go."

Who am I to argue with that?

tbc …