Chapter 2

Harry dropped heavily into the chair across from Hermione, listening to her scratching quill on rough parchment for a few moments. Crookshanks moved slowly over to him, pawing at his pant leg as though he were asking for permission to jump on his lap. Being part feline, Crooks did not obviously consider asking permission to curl into someone's lap pertinent, but he did so nonetheless today. Perhaps Hermione had yelled at him earlier for that hairball she found in her bed and he decided to play it safe with everyone for a little while. Harry patted his thigh, the heavy orange animal jumping and curling into a tight ball.

"Do you want to play some chess?" he asked quietly, scratching Crooks behind his ears.

"I'm doing homework," she remarked.

He frowned. "But I'm so unbelievably bored."

"You have homework you should be doing as well," she said, looking up at him for a brief moment and then going back to her thought.

"That's boring."

Hermione frowned. "Will you never change?"

"Probably not, so you shouldn't try," he replied. This morning had been a rather odd one. After seeing Ron off to the Quidditch match at Hogwarts, he had settled into a breakfast with Hermione that lasted well past ten that morning. He had always found it so easy to fall into a comfortable conversation and companionship with the bushy-haired witch whether they were debating, doing homework, or just sitting around on a lazy afternoon. This morning was no different, and was even more peaceful with Molly gone and the house to themselves.

Hermione pursed her lips together into a thin, disapproving line, but thought better than to argue with him about it. In deference to him, though, she capped her ink jar and set her quill down to the side of her essay. She sat back in her chair casually, crossing her arms over her chest and considering him harshly. "You know I'm horrid at chess."

"Hence the appeal. Lets me feel I can do something better than you," he said.

Her frown deepened. "You're better than me at a lot of things, Harry. You know that."

He chuckled and leaned back in his seat. "Then how about a duel?"

Hermione raised a brow in mock consternation. "Are you entirely sure you can keep up with me, Wonder Boy?"

"Oh, I have a hunch that we might be evenly matched," he remarked with a small smile.

She gathered her things together and stood from her seat. "How's that wandless magic going?"

With that, he felt a tight compression on his chest and looked down just in time to feel the cold trickle of a Petrificus Totalis move through his body and cement him in his spot, a handful of Crookshanks caught between his fingers.

Damn her anyway.

She giggled to herself, patting his cheek affectionately. "I'm going to go put this stuff away and I'll be back in a bit." She withdrew her wand from her back pocket and waved it in front of him. "Finite Incantatem."

He felt his body warm again and let go of Crookshanks. In one bold move, though, he had reverted to his Muggle upbringing and had launched himself in Hermione's direction, tackling her to the ground and mercilessly tickling her. He knew her well enough to know she would not mind the physicality of the tackle, but would hate the tickling. For some reason she absolutely despised laughing so hard that she could not breathe. But she laughed and laughed, struggling to push him away and kicking her legs out under him, obviously trying to find some vital spot to slow him down enough to escape.

"This… isn't…" she gasped between breaths, stopping to laugh loudly as his fingers found the tickly spot on her waist. "Damn you! Stop… Don't… stop!"

"Don't stop, eh?"

Hermione growled loudly, and with some surprising strength, somehow found her opportunity to push him onto his back. He had done this tickling thing before, just to annoy her, and she nearly always was incapacitated the moment she laughed… such a lovely full laugh it was… this time, however, seemed to be different. She pushed him back forcefully when he tried to sit up, centering her weight over her arms and resting her legs on his thighs. Her long hair fell in his face and he felt for a moment that he was drowning in a sea of brown vanilla and cherry curls before she flipped her head back, causing her hair to fall back around her shoulders, a few renegade tendrils staying in her eyes.

She was not beautiful by any means, but she was striking. Especially striking in moments like this, with her cheeks pleasantly pink and her chest heaving in…

Oh, Merlin, what am I thinking like that for?

Hermione remained silent, holding him still and he found himself paralyzed by the utterly feral and feminine splendor that was Hermione Granger. He even had some little time to worry that she did remain quiet. Anyone knew, perhaps except that bastard Snape, that Hermione was much more dangerous silent than she was talking.

"You know, I have half a mind to Petrificus you again and let it wear off on its own," she threatened. However she misjudged him; even with the sheer strength she was exerting, keeping him pinned to the ground, he was still much larger and a bit more agile than she was. With a few swift movements, he had her on her back and pinned beneath him in a much more incapacitating way, though not in the least was the position conducive to changing his mind to the more neutral.

He was more than acutely aware that he was reacting as any male would with a female such as Hermione beneath him and presented in such a suggestive pose. Warning alarms started going off in his head, the little voice there niggling at him to pay attention to what was going on, warning him that it was entirely wrong to be thinking like this, especially with Hermione in context. What would Ron think if he walked in on this right now? Backing away from her as though she were a noxious substance, capable of burning him, he let out a nervous laugh.

Harry did not know what was bothering him more: the fact that tickling her and landing in such a position in the past had never created such wanton thoughts, or that he had never felt like this when he had landed with Ginny into such a position and in much more compromising a way.

He cleared his throat, looking away from her and toward anything not having to do with her.

Too bad they were in the library and there was nothing that symbolized the woman more.

She did not say anything, surprisingly, trying to dissect what was going on. As a matter of fact, she was being downright sheepish, nervously collecting her scattered work and inkwell that had landed, thankfully still corked, on the opposite side of the room. She glanced in his direction quickly, but instead of holding his gaze as she would normally, she quickly diverted her eyes to the ground and a deep pink blush covered her cheeks and neck.

"Anyway… um… I'll… um… be down in a minute," she said, making the widest berth she could around him and out the door.

A deafening silence filled the room, only broken by Hermione's footsteps on the floor above him and the sound of her shutting the door and latching it.

This was not good. Not good at all.

------

"I've got to be imagining things," Hermione said, running her hand haphazardly through the mass of curls on her head. But how could she imagine that look in his eyes? Even if she had never been the recipient of such a stimulating, needy, completely male look, even from Ron, the instinctual part of her brain—no, her body!—knew exactly what it meant. She also was definitely not loathe to note (noting) that beyond that, his body had felt good…felt right against her. More right than Ron had ever felt, even when they were giving each other friendly embraces here and there.

Oh, Merlin. What a perverse world we live in.

Not that she had never considered it before with Harry, she just had latched onto Ron more readily because he was always so apt to rise to her comments. He seemed to be paying more attention to her, even if it was not necessarily good attention, than Harry ever had. But then, Harry had always been concerned with other things, as he rightfully should have been concerned. Sure, they had always had an affinity for each other that went beyond friendship. He was always more worried for her whenever something happened; he had been a constant fixture in the hospital wing every time she had been injured or a potion or two had gone awry. She had remembered his terrified bellowing at the Department of Mysteries before she had fully blacked out from Dolohov's curse. Maybe there had always been more between them, that she had not dared notice before? Maybe he had purposely kept himself away from her because of his lot in life?

"I'm crazy," she muttered, flinging herself back on the bed. The springs squeaked in response. Flopping over onto her stomach, she found a much more comfortable spot and let out a long sigh. "Besides, Ginny would kill me."

Funny, she thought, that I'm more worried about Ginny than I am what could happen between Ron, Harry and me if I continued to entertain these thoughts.

"We won!"

The loud, excited calls from the floor below interrupted her reveries for the time being. She listened further to the calls of joy and congratulations, hearing that Gryffindor had been Slytherin by a snitch and two goals. Ron regaled Harry on how Ginny had almost gotten into a fist fight with the Slytherin seeker; how he did not let one quaffle by him. Something about Wronski whatever. Something else about a bludger to a head.

Ron was too excited for his own good. She knew, to be a good girlfriend, she should go down and celebrate with him. It was only the right thing to do, besides participating for the sake of their house, but she could not make herself leave her room. Not knowing that she would have to bear Harry's saddened expression over the fact that he could not share in the glory of winning a match of his favorite game—that he could not even go to the games to cheer his friends…his team…on.

But speaking of Slytherin…

She had completely forgotten about that black little problem perched up in the birch tree.

"Where's Hermione?"

The questioning voice came from below, followed by a screechy Harry, trying to cover… something…

Was it nerves?

"She's, erm, upstairs. I think," he replied.

Bounding towards the stairs. Leap one. Thud. Leap two. Thud. Leap three. Crack.

When would he learn to watch that top step? The one that was splintering horrible from damage and rot? It was worse than the trick stairs at Hogwarts.

Ron somehow extracted himself from whatever precarious position he found himself in, uttering a few charms to repair his damage.

Knock knock.

She rolled her eyes and slowly made her way to the door. Pulling the door back, she was met with a flash of red followed by an overly wet kiss. She staggered back haphazardly when he released her from his grasp and gave her a large, rather dashing smile. Clearly, he was overjoyed and wanted to share that fact with everyone, even if they did not much care about it. But Hermione did know one thing: on weekends that Gryffindor had won, it meant increased drinking and/or less inhibitions because of the party atmosphere. Ultimately, that would mean she would end up with Ron's hand permanently affixed to a breast, or both, while he gave her more overly wet kisses in the glow of his celebrations.

Last night, Hermione had been more than ready for Ron to make such a move. However, Hermione was not so certain she wanted him to make such a move now, neither did she know how she was going to handle telling him she did not feel right about more, when she had been egging him on repeatedly throughout the previous months.

"Come on, 'Mione," he said and snaked an arm confidently about his waist. "Mum's putting together a celebration downstairs."

Hermione had no choice but to follow, and hope that she would be able to sneak away early.