Author's Note: Sorry this chapter took, like, forever! I had the worst case of writer's block in the history of the world. Okay, maybe not that bad, but bad. Anyway, I am back on track now – the next chapter is already in the works! The fate of Harry, Hermione and Quinn should be complete by the time the Hogwarts train leaves on September 1. (big grin) Love to you all – please please review!

Chapter 8

The next two weeks passed quite pleasantly for Harry. It became routine for he and Hermione to show up at Quinn's around mid-morning – they all enjoyed sleeping in – and for the three of them to spend the afternoon and evening swimming, going to a movie, browsing the record store, playing soccer, eating ice cream or hanging out in Quinn's air-conditioned living room listening to music. Harry was always surprised that none of them ever seemed bored or tired of one another.

Hermione never showed any emotion when Quinn slipped her fingers into Harry's or snuggled close to him in the theater. The girls seemed to be becoming good friends; if Hermione had any reservations about Quinn, or if she harbored any jealousy over the situation, she hid it well.

Harry couldn't decide if he was relieved or disappointed by her acceptance.

Every night, usually around ten-thirty or eleven, Hermione would make some excuse – being tired, wanting a shower, needing to read for school – to return to the Dursleys'. That left Harry and Quinn alone for an hour (sometimes more). Harry always left with his lips slightly chapped from kissing and his body tingling from Quinn's touch. After that first night in her kitchen, they were both careful to keep their hormones in check, but Harry couldn't deny that as the days passed he was caring less and less about taking things slow.

He supposed what stopped him from asking Quinn to go "all the way" – he really hated that phrase, but everything else seemed either mushy or crass – was Hermione. He had in his mind an image of her lying awake in his bed all night, knowing why he hadn't returned from Quinn's. Aside from the natural embarrassment of facing her the day after he lost his virginity, Harry wasn't sure why that image bothered him so much.

Or – and this felt closer to the truth when he allowed himself to think it – he wasn't ready to admit to himself why it bothered him so much.

Because as the days passed, despite how wonderful being with Quinn was, Harry couldn't help that his feelings for Hermione were shifting steadily from a harmless, ignorable friendship-crush to a deep-seeded, ever-present longing that felt like much more than simple infatuation. He tried not to let himself think about, mostly because Hermione didn't seem to notice the change in him or to experience any change in her feelings toward him. But in the moments when it caught him off-guard, like when she laughed at one of his jokes in his dark bedroom while the rest of Number Four Privet Drive was sound asleep, he could almost believe he was falling in love with her.

The next moment he would tell himself to stop being a ninny. Falling in love with Hermione didn't make any sense when she apparently saw him as nothing other than her best friend (and really, his inner voice would lecture him, wasn't that quite enough in itself?) and he had a gorgeous, clever, fun-loving girlfriend who adored him.

And so the summer continued with little to distinguish one day from the next – except, perhaps, that Harry's pile of holiday schoolwork never seemed to diminish no matter how much he worked on it. After returning from Quinn's each night he would join Hermione in plodding through their homework; she seemed to be making much more progress than he was, but then, Hermione always had been a better student and she did get a nightly head-start while he was, well, preoccupied with his girlfriend.

Their sixth year promised to be the hardest one yet, if the holiday assignments were any indication. Truthfully, Harry was relieved Hermione was staying the summer, because otherwise he might never have struggled through the complicated essays Snape and McGonagall had assigned. Ron certainly didn't seem to be fairing too well on his own; every few days brought another owl from him, and each letter contained a desperate plea for help understanding some passage or spell.

Although Harry and Hermione each wrote to him regularly (Harry let her handle the homework questions), neither mentioned Quinn. Harry knew this because he always sent the letters back with Pig, Ron's owl, in the mornings while Hermione showered. Even though he knew it wasn't right, he skimmed her letters to see if she had mentioned his new girlfriend. He couldn't decide why he wasn't telling Ron himself – normally, he would have been thrilled to report that a gorgeous girl had fallen head-over-heels for him – but he knew he didn't want Ron to hear about Quinn from anyone else.

He also noted that neither her nor Hermione mentioned their sleeping arrangements to Ron. It was as if they had an unspoken pact that these last few weeks of sleeping side-by side, drifting off listening to one another's breathing and waking up with their legs tangled together under the covers, would be their secret. Harry hadn't mentioned it to Quinn, either, for obvious reasons. He sometimes wondered how he would go back to sleeping alone after Hermione left – her presence was oddly comforting and undeniably exciting at the same time.

Waking up beside Hermione every morning continually drove home the point that whatever was going on with Quinn, Harry couldn't deny that he had strong feelings for Hermione. What she felt remained a mystery, however, and he couldn't bring himself to tell her that he cared for her as long as she gave no indication that she felt the same.

And so the summer moved along in a string of hot, mostly happy days and muggy, passion-tense nights, until one Tuesday morning – a week before his sixteenth birthday – Harry woke up to find Pig and one of the Hogwarts owls perched outside his window.

Hedwig grudgingly made room for Pig at her water dish (the Hogwarts owl, as usual, took its payment and flew away) while Harry opened his letters. As expected, the Hogwarts letter listed his school books and materials for the coming year; one had also come for Hermione. The other letter was from Mrs. Weasley, and it read:

Harry and Hermione –

I hope you're both having a wonderful holiday. You should be getting your Hogwarts letters today or tomorrow. Arthur and I would very much like to pick you up the second week of August and take you to London for your school things, and then have you stay here at the Burrow with us until the start of term.

Hermione, your parents have already said this is fine. (I'm so glad to hear your grandmother is doing better, dear. Ron took Arthur into the city and showed him how to use one of the paying phones, and he said your mother sounded very relieved about her condition.)

Harry, if it's all right with your aunt and uncle, we'll be by to pick the both of you up on August 8 around 4. Fudge has said we can use a Ministry car so we'll come the Muggle way. Send us your answer with Pig.

Love,

Molly Weasley

Harry's first thought as he folded the letter over was, August 8? But that's so soon! What about Quinn…?

His second thought was, Hermione and I won't get to see each other that much at the Burrow – I'll be sleeping in Ron's room, she'll be in Ginny's…

He didn't have time to dwell on either concern because just then Aunt Petunia knocked on his door. Hermione was in the shower; Harry felt strangely nervous being alone with his aunt, something he'd managed to avoid most of the summer, but he motioned for her to come in. He needed to ask about the Weasleys' invitation anyway.

"Is that from your school?" Aunt Petunia asked before he could speak. She jerked her chin toward the Hogwarts envelope on his desk.

"Yes. It's my list of school supplies." Harry hesitated. He'd avoided discussing his return to Hogwarts all summer, but now, it seemed inescapable. "I, uh, I was just about to come down and ask if it's all right if my friend Ron's parents pick Hermione and me up on August 8. In their car," he added hastily, remembering the last time the Weasleys visited the Dursleys and blew the wall of their living room apart.

Aunt Petunia looked even more tense than usual. Wrapping her bony arms around her chest, she asked tightly, "So you want to go back, then?"

Harry instantly knew she was referring to the letter the Hogwarts' Board of Governors had sent all Muggle parents – the letter about Voldemort's return and the possible dangers at the school. "Yeah," he said quietly, hardly daring to breathe. "Yeah, I want to go back. I…I need to."

The silence stretched on interminably. Harry's whole life seemed to hang in the balance. What would he do if Aunt Petunia said no? How could he function in the Muggle world again, knowing that Hogwarts existed?

Who was he if he wasn't a wizard?

Yet at the same time, a small voice inside his heart whispered, You could be with Quinn. You wouldn't have to hide anymore, no more lying, no more pretending. You could just be you, and you could be together.

Even as he thought it, though, he knew it wasn't true. Whether he returned to Hogwarts or not, Voldemort would never stop looking for him. Until Voldemort was gone, once and for all, Harry and everyone he loved would always be in danger.

Finally, Aunt Petunia released a long, slow breath and nodded. "I suspected as much. All right, tell your friends' parents they can pick you up on the eighth – but please, ask them to look normal."

She paused, as if she wasn't sure anymore needed to be said. Harry fidgeted nervously, hoping she wasn't about to change her mind. Then, to his great surprise, she closed his bedroom door, walked over to him and clasped him by the shoulders. Looking directly into his eyes, she declared fiercely, "But when you get there, if you need to come home, you can."

In sixteen years, Harry had never once received a kind or tender word from his aunt. He wasn't entirely certain how to react. He might not have even believed she was sincere if it wasn't for the tears brimming, unshed, in her eyes.

"Okay," he managed awkwardly. "Thanks."

His aunt looked at him for another long moment, almost as if she were searching his eyes for some sign – but of what, he couldn't decide. Under her penetrating gaze, he became acutely aware of how much he looked like his father and how much Aunt Petunia despised James Potter; however, for that one moment he saw no distaste in his aunt's eyes, no loathing of her dead sister and brother-in-law and their crazy wizarding world.

For one second, she seemed to just be looking at Harry, her nephew.

She released him quickly and walked out of the room without a word. Harry slumped down onto his desk, as tired as if he'd just run a marathon.

He jumped up hurriedly and busied himself writing a response to Mrs. Weasley when Hermione bustled in, skin still damp from the shower. "Everything okay?" she asked, fishing a comb out of her bag and dragging it through her long, thick hair.

"Oh yeah." Harry forced a smile he didn't feel as he held out her Hogwarts letter. "Looks like our vacation is almost over."

They spent the day with Quinn. Hermione seemed to sense that Harry wasn't ready to bring up their imminent departure yet; he was glad she didn't mention that within two weeks they would be miles and miles away, at a magical house Quinn, as a Muggle, couldn't possibly visit.

The odd encounter with Aunt Petunia and the heavy secret of leaving weighed down on Harry until he felt melancholy and distant all day. Quinn noticed, he knew she did, but she didn't ask what was wrong. Even when Hermione went home for the evening, she didn't press him for an explanation. It was one of the things Harry liked most about her – her ability to read his moods, to know when he did or didn't want to talk about something.

And that only served to make him feel guiltier about his secret feelings for Hermione.

As they often did, Quinn and Harry curled up on her couch together and talked about her father and Sirius. Not about their deaths; they talked about the men they had been, the memories they had of them, the things they would do if they could have them back again. Talking to Quinn about his godfather was like soaking his aching heart in a warm, soothing bath. As the days passed, Harry found himself able to think of Sirius without a knot of grief growing in his stomach until it seemed he might burst.

She didn't seem to mind that he wasn't in the mood for kissing. When the clock in her hallway struck midnight, he stood to go, and she kissed him once, softly, on the lips.

"When are your mom and Aaron coming back?" Harry asked, really just stalling. He always hated leaving Quinn, especially when she was all alone.

"Probably this weekend. Who knows how long they'll be home, though." Quinn smiled cattily at him. "Not that I'm eager to have them back. I like having the place to ourselves."

"Me, too." Harry kissed her again and suddenly wished he hadn't been so down all evening. Kissing Quinn was one of the brightest spots in his day. Reluctantly, he backed away and said, "Tomorrow, then?"

"It's a date." She squeezed his hand tightly before letting go. "Sweet dreams, Harry. Everything will look better in the morning."

He waited for her to lock the door and then strolled slowly toward the Dursleys. Two weeks. Two weeks and he wouldn't be able to hear her voice, smell her hair, kiss her lips. Could he handle that?

Two weeks and you won't be able to fall asleep next to Hermione, wake up beside her, spend all day with her – can you handle that?

Harry squashed the nagging voice that seemed to come from the region of his heart. The shadows looked longer than usual along Privet Drive this night. Instinctively, Harry quickened his pace. Several times he had wondered if he was being foolish staying away from the Dursleys' so long; just one year ago he and Dudley had been set upon by dementors within blocks of his aunt and uncle's house. But, as every time before, he reminded himself that he wasn't going to live like a prisoner, unable to go anywhere without worrying that Voldemort might attack him. That was no life.

Once inside Number Four, though, he double-checked that he'd locked the door before quietly ascending the stairs to bed.

Hermione was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, books spread around her, her head cocked to one side so that her long hair spilled over one shoulder. Harry lingered in the doorway for a moment watching her. She was so pretty – he couldn't believe he'd once thought she had big teeth (well, Madam Pomfrey's shrinking charm had solved that problem) and bushy hair. Even in plain black yoga pants and a gray tee-shirt, she was prettier than most girls when dressed for a ball.

Not prettier than Quinn, though, right?

C'mon, Harry, don't even go there, his inner voice warned. That way lies madness, remember?

"Hey," he said by way of greeting, closing the bedroom door.

"Hey yourself," Hermione said back, obviously absorbed in her reading. Harry kept his back to her as he changed into his pajamas – this had become a comfortable nightly ritual, since his boxers hid as much as his swim trunks – and then stretched out on the bed alongside her. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something felt different between them tonight. The room was charged, somehow.

Or maybe it was only his imagination, because Hermione barely glanced at him. Not in the mood to do homework – he really didn't want to think about what he was in the mood to do – Harry picked up the book Hermione had brought with her, "Keeping Your Magic Sharp On School Holidays: A Guide for the Underage Wizard," and thumbed through it.

After a few minutes, his attention was captured by the heading "The Metamorphico Charm." He scanned down the page and read:

The Metamorphico Charm, a kind of Glamour, can only be performed by a very skilled witch or wizard. This charm, which can be performed on oneself or on another, allows a person to take a different form for an extended period of time. Unlike the Polyjuice Potion, this charm cannot be detected by most traditional magical means. In fact, it takes a witch or wizard of equal skill to the one performing the charm to detect its existence in most cases.

The most infamous instance of the Metamorphico Charm being used was in 1486, when the dark wizard Azrael transformed Helga the Hag into a beautiful faerie. Helga, a notorious murderer wanted for crimes against children all over Europe, was able to evade Aurors for more than a decade in this form. When she died of natural causes, her body reverted to its true form. Azrael was sentenced to life in Azkaban for his role in her escape from justice.

Harry's heart had grown steadily colder as he read. He knew that after Barty Crouch, Jr., had managed to fool Dumbledore (and everyone else) into believing he was Mad-Eye Moody by taking Polyjuice Potion, Dumbledore would have found some way to prevent the same trick being used on them again. But the Metamorphico Charm made it sound as if Voldemort could transform his Death Eaters into anyone he chose at will, making it impossible to know who was who, and therefore impossible to guard against them.

Stop it, his inner voice ordered sternly. You just decided you weren't going to live in fear, right? Not more than twenty minutes ago, walking home, you were determined not to be afraid of Voldemort!

Strengthening his resolve once more, Harry started to read on about how the charm was cast. But Hermione suddenly closed her book, straightened up and announced, "I think you should tell Quinn tomorrow that you're leaving."

It took a second for Harry to recover from her unexpected pronouncement. "Why?"

He knew it was the wrong response as soon as he said it. Hermione's face darkened. Remarkably, she looked even prettier than usual.

"Why?" she demanded hotly. "Harry, you can't play around with someone's emotions like that! Don't you think she deserves the truth?"

Probably because he felt guilty for not telling Quinn straight off about Mrs. Weasleys' invitation, Harry snapped with more venom than he intended, "Okay, and don't you think Ron deserves to know that you've been sleeping in my bed all summer?"

Hermione flushed. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Good question.

Shaky ground, Potter, shaky ground – do you really want to go here?

Wishing he'd kept his mouth shut, Harry muttered, "Nothing." He slammed the book closed and tossed it onto his nightstand. "Nothing, forget about it, let's just go to sleep."

"I don't think so." Hermione, he knew from experience, could be very tenacious when angered, and she was certainly pissed off at him right now. "How is telling your girlfriend that you're leaving in two weeks related to my telling my friend that you and I have slept in the same bed?"

Nice one, Potter. Smooth. Couldn't have put a silencing spell on yourself, could ya?

Well, he was in it now, there was no escaping. Harry couldn't deny that he was almost eager for this – for everything he'd been holding inside about his feelings for Hermione to finally be said. The tension he'd sensed when he first walked in was mounting, and not all of it came from anger.

At least, he hoped he wasn't the only one who felt that way.

"You know Ron has a crush on you. Don't you feel dishonest not telling him that we're, you know, we fall asleep and wake up together, side by side?"

"We're sharing a bed, Harry, we're not having sex." Hermione spit the word out brutally, although she colored scarlet when she said it. "Excuse me for not wanting to cause a problem between the two of you unnecessarily."

"Well, maybe I don't want to tell Quinn about leaving because it seems unnecessary. Maybe I want to be able to enjoy being around her for a while longer without that ruining everything."

"Are you in love with her?"

Harry's jaw dropped. He felt his cheeks turn a shade of red to match Hermione's. "I…Am I what?"

"In love with her." Eyes blazing, Hermione fixed him with a relentless stare. "Because I don't think you are, Harry Potter. I think you're using her. I think you like having a summer fling with a beautiful girl, and you couldn't care less if I – if she gets hurt!"

Despite her swift recovery, what Hermione had nearly said – "if I get hurt" – hung between them in the ensuing silence. Harry's heart was hammering so loudly he wondered if she could hear it. She looked away; he pushed up into a sitting position to face her, scared to death but trembling with excitement.

This is what I've wanted. She cares about me – she wants to be with me.

And Quinn? his inner voice demanded coolly. Weren't you just agonizing over leaving her?

Well, did Quinn even matter anymore? Of course she mattered, he told himself hastily, it wasn't as if he felt nothing for her. Quite the opposite. But did it matter since he couldn't be with her? Since he was leaving in two weeks and might never see her again, or even if he did, he couldn't really be himself around her? Since if he was able to tell her the truth someday, he would be putting her in mortal danger from an enemy she couldn't possibly understand?

Hermione he could be with. Hermione already knew who he was, in the truest sense of knowing someone. Hermione already knew the score with Voldemort and had proven more than capable of handling the danger.

Hermione he had cared about for a long while, if he was honest with himself. And now, he was confident that he knew what she wanted.

"I don't want anyone to get hurt." Harry chose his words carefully. Hermione glanced up sideways at him, unconvinced, still angry. He shifted closer to her and reached for her hand, cradling her fingers in his. "But it seems like somebody's going to get hurt here, doesn't it?"

She drew in a deep, shaky breath. "Harry." Her eyes came slowly up to his. "Harry, I don't think this is a good idea. You have a girlfriend. And we're…we're friends. And Ron…"

"Should have spoken up by now," Harry finished for her, surprising himself. He hadn't realized until this second that he felt that way, but he did. "Hermione, if you…if this is what you want, I mean, with me, then…"

"Oh, Harry, it's too complicated! Let's just stop this, okay?" She tried to pull her hand out of his, but Harry held on, determined to see this through. "Harry, really, let's just pretend we never had this conversation."

"Why?"

"Why? Because you're my best friend! Because we've saved each other's lives and we're probably going to have to keep saving each other's lives for a long time now! Because-because-because if you kiss me right now, you can't take it back!"

She was practically yelling. Harry hoped the Dursleys – especially Dudley – were sound asleep; he didn't know if he could live down the humiliation of Hermione's rejection.

Dropping her hand, he turned away. "Okay. Whatever. Have it your way."

"Don't do that. Don't act like I've done something wrong." Hermione lowered her voice, yet she still sounded furious. "You're the one who's paraded your girlfriend around in front of me ever since I got here. Maybe Ron isn't the only one who should have said something before now, did you ever think about that? Did you ever think that maybe I don't fancy being your next shag?"

Next shag? Bloody hell!

"Is that what you think?" Harry rolled over to face her. Not that it mattered much; she was too busy furiously unloading books off the bed to look at him. "That I'm 'shagging' Quinn?"

"Look, girls talk, okay? So you don't have to spare my feelings by lying."

"Girls talk?" The earlier coldness slipped back into Harry's blood. He shivered as he watched Hermione flip off the bedside lamp and flounce down beside him, careful not to let one inch of her skin touch his. He propped himself up on one elbow and stared at her darkness-obscured form. "Is that what Quinn told you? That we're…I mean, you know…"

He barely saw her nod in the darkness. The coldness turned to a lead weight around his heart. Why would Quinn lie about that? Was she just playing dirty with Hermione, being sure she kept her hold on her man?

She did say she'd fight for me, he recalled. I don't know whether to be furious or flattered by it.

In any case, he wanted Hermione to know the truth. He didn't want it to be a lie that kept her from being with him.

"If that's what she said, she lied," he declared simply. He watched Hermione go rigid with disbelief. "I'm serious, Hermione. I haven't slept with Quinn. I swear it. I'd swear it on Sirius's life."

Slowly, Hermione rolled onto her side to face him. "Why would she tell me that?"

"I don't know. Maybe…maybe to make you jealous?"

"Or maybe because she's not everything she seems?" Hermione sighed. "Harry, look, I haven't said anything because, well, you know why, and maybe now it just sounds like I want you to break up with her or something…"

"Do you?" Harry surprised himself again by being so blunt.

She responded with equal bluntness. "Would you?"

He instantly knew that the answer was yes. If Hermione wanted him, he wanted her. He tried to say that, tried to explain that he'd wanted nothing more than for her to be with him for a long time, but his mouth was suddenly too dry, because Hermione was moving toward him. He slipped one arm beneath her waist and slid his other hand behind her neck as she scooted closer and eased onto his chest; her hair spilled across him in a sleek curtain.

In the dim light cast by the streetlamps outside, Harry saw the uncertainty in her eyes. But that didn't stop her from dipping her head and bringing her lips to his; her eyelids fluttered closed at once, and so did his. He felt like he was floating up near the ceiling. Her warm palms moved up his chest. He suddenly very much wanted to pull his tee-shirt off and feel her skin on his, but he didn't want to break their kiss. When she pressed the length of her body more firmly into his, Harry's breath caught in his throat. His whole body was on fire, burning in a way he'd never burned for Quinn.

Hermione kissed deeply. She didn't resist when he pushed his tongue between her lips. She made a small, welcoming sound at the back of her throat when he slipped his hands inside her shirt in the back, exploring the feel of her thin wing-bones, the curve of her shoulders, the flat plane of her stomach. She made a low growl when he ever so lightly ran his fingers over her bare breasts – she wore nothing under her tee-shirt – and Harry almost came undone when he felt her nipples harden under his touch.

Her mouth left his and drifted down onto his neck. He caught her hips and rolled her underneath him; she responded by tugging his shirt off over his head in one fluid move. A small voice in the back of his head shouted that if he intended to stop, it was now or never – he was already almost too far gone to think clearly.

"Are you sure?" he managed to rasp out, a little embarrassed by how ragged his breathing was.

To his surprise, Hermione didn't falter. "Yes." She pulled him back down into a bruising kiss, and the last of his reservations vanished.

He was nervous, yes – he suspected she was, too – but not blundering, which came as an immense relief to him. He kissed down her neck, trying to pace himself despite the almost painful desire he felt. Hermione tangled her fingers in his hair and giggled when his lips brushed a ticklish spot above her collarbone. Harry smiled against her skin. He should have known how this would be – sweet, loving, amazing. Perfect.

Because she's perfect for me…

The thought had no more than crossed his mind when an explosion of pain erupted in Harry's head. He screamed, caught off-guard, and toppled sideways; his whole body had gone limp, his muscles prisoner to the agony breaking over his brain in white-hot waves. Distantly, he heard Hermione yelling for help, and footsteps pounding down the hall toward his room.

The world tilted. He realized he was passing out, and still the pain continued, merciless and unrelenting. From far away – or was it from very close, like inside his own mind? – he heard Voldemort's high-pitched, eerie laughter.

You're too late, Harry, he heard Voldemort saying, in his cold, cruel voice. It has already begun. By the time I'm finished with you, you'll be begging for death.

And then came the merciful blackness.