Author's Note: Hey, sorry for the delay. There have been several diversions that kept me from submitting this chapter sooner. Anyway, and I must apologize because for the next month or so I will be immersed in some frivolous summer course and will not be around to update. Anyway…and I'm please that this turned out to be considerably longer than the other chapters – it just happened to come out that way!

Just to warn you, don't blame me if the characters (namely Hermione) become a little too flamboyant. Just remember that all these years of being top of the class and excelling in every aspect of academia and especially obtaining the position of Head Girl HAS to inevitably gone to her head. Well, that said and done, you have permission to READ ON, folks!

- Chapter 3: Thawing the Ice Queen -

It was two days later and Hermione had already begun to doubt her rash actions. In retrospect, maybe she and Harry were meant for each other and she was just too ignorant and naive at the time to know it. What if he would never be able to recover after she had so callously broken his heart and run away? Hermione trudged dejectedly into the Great Hall, hoping that she could corner Harry for a heart-to-heart talk.

Since the incident, the two hadn't spoken to, or even acknowledged, one another. Hermione wanted to give him room to grieve, and assumed that Harry's soul was too weighed down from rejection that he didn't dare approach her. Ron noticed the increase in tension between the trio, but knew little about what had actually taken place. He had unknowingly assumed the role of middleman for the suddenly disunited couple, acting as the glue that would hold them shakily together for now. You have to agree, that is a very undesirable position to be in.

Today, however, Ron was not present during lunch, signifying to Hermione that it was high time to act. Maybe mistakes could be fixed. She wanted to apologize to him, tell him that he meant more to him than she had shown that night on the banister. That she could learn to love him, if they both worked hard enough at it.

She spotted Harry amidst the Gryffindor table, appearing a bit red in the face. Aw, thought Hermione to herself, he's utterly ashamed at being alone. But as she approached the poor, lonely Harry, she noticed that he was actually not at all poor or lonely at all! Hermione felt her blood boil as Cho Chang's flirtatious trill of a voice floated tauntingly by her ears. The two sat together over a stack of pancakes, licking the syrup off each other's fingers.

Harry had obviously moved on.

Hermione felt the room spin around her, and had to hold on to the table ledge to keep from fainting. This was not happening to her. Being with a Head Girl should not be an experience to so easily get over. Hermione Granger was the one who dumped, not the other way around! Wasn't she the world to Harry? – Whatever happened to not being able to survive without each other? Whatever happened to him willing to die for her!

Bewildered thoughts like these gouged Hermione's mind as she stumbled out of the Hall, dangerously disconcerted. How could this have happened? What unintended clue did Hermione insinuate that so happened to have given Harry the thumbs up to roam freely in the pastures of singlehood?

The deadening memory of that night all came flooding back yet again. "I don't deserve you," she had said. So I guess his actions weren't totally unprecedented then, thought Hermione with reluctant resignation. "But as of now, he is the one who doesn't deserve me."

The life-changing epiphany came fast and hard. Harry was a thing of the past, kaput: he had run for the hills and fell off a cliff. Hermione wouldn't lock herself up in her dorm pining away while depleting the entire world's stock of Bertie Botts' chocolate boxes and reading smutty Harlequin novels. Instead, the Head Girl would reinvent her ambitions and devote herself to her schoolwork and duties. No more dallying around with the Boy Who Lived, or any other male for that matter. She would just be much too busy and important to bother with any extraneous activities, namely dating.

It was a sure-fire way to heighten her spirits, and let all the gossip-hungry students out there know who really the one suffering from the breakup was. Hermione scoffed at the word – already things like that seemed trivial and immature to her enlightened mind. How could she have survived living like that before she did not know.

-

Oliver shifted uncomfortably in front of the Ravenclaw-Slytherin charms class as he read off the daily bulletin. Flitwick was nursing an unfortunate case of the mumps, and Oliver was the only available member of the Hogwarts staff to fill in for that particular class. He glanced nervously at the lesson plan: Freezing and Thawing charms? He didn't remember learning that in his sixth year!

"Erm...Attention please, clasp – I mean class...Open up your blocks – I mean books to page seventy-four and we can stat...start," he stuttered, flipping frantically at his teacher's manual. How in hell do you cast a Freezing charm?

"So Professor Wood," drawled a platinum blonde Slytherin whose dark roots were showing on her head and wore too much eye shadow, "How big is your broomstick?"

"Big enough, thank you," he snapped, suddenly feeling like an antelope surrounded by several vicious lions.

"Do you like to play rough?" asked a sly-looking Ravenclaw, her seemingly innocent tone veined with innuendo. He doubted she was referring to the Quidditch aspect of life.

Oliver was lost for words, a sign for everybody else to attack.

"Do you often ride your broomstick alone at night?"

"How fast can you go, Professor Wood?"

"Do you fondle your Quaffles?"

"That's it!" shouted Oliver, dismayed to see the satisfied looks on his class's faces. "I will not tolerate any more of this insubordination. Girls, detention tonight in my office."

"Ooo...Are you going to punish us, Professor?"

Oliver's gaze hardened. "The trophy case desperately needs polishing," he answered gravely. "Now will you please open your books?"

The recollection of how to conduct the charms in the lesson plan thankfully returned to his memory as Wood cast the freezing charm on a glass of water.

"Wow, it must be really cold up there," remarked the "blonde" Slytherin, her voice dripping with malice as she eyed Oliver's pectorals.

"Oh god," he muttered, stalking out of the classroom in humiliation and rage.

"Aw, Professor, you don't have to always be so STIFF all the time!" they shouted at his retreating back, not even trying to stifle their laughter.

-

Hermione was on a roll. So far she had deducted a total of fifteen points and awarded twenty to various ill-/well-behaved students, confiscated eleven dung bombs, received perfect on three consecutive quizzes, and avoided human interaction whenever possible.

However, as she walked into the Great Hall during dinner, the newly-inducted singleton noticed that she was garnering more than her fair share of sympathetic looks. Hermione had no idea what was going on, not even when whispers cascaded down the table and all eyes were suddenly focused upon her while she obliviously buttered her roll.

But it all came crashing down on her when Parvati Patil asked, "So, hon, how are you taking being dumped?"

Hermione was aghast. She got up faster than you could say "flobberworm" and bolted outside, suddenly not able to breathe. Everybody thought that she was the one suffering from the separation, not the other way around! All those eyes staring at her were filled with pity, and there was really nothing about her to pity! Her plan had gone to ruins – she felt much worse than this morning at that moment, stumbling blindly around the school grounds.

She fell upon the bleachers surrounding the Quidditch pitch, sobbing bitterly and wishing that everybody would just sod off and leave her to die. She mourned the tragic passing of her supremacy, her prestige, and her integrity. Seven years of work aspiring to the top swirled down the proverbial toilet as of today, and it was improbable that it could ever be restored.

It's all Cho's doing, realized Hermione suddenly. That rotten skank. She manipulated the entire school to think I'm some mourning, desperate tramp who happened to fall victim to Harry Potter's "heroic charms". They were all wrong, she insisted to nobody, banging her fist on the wood. They all had no idea. Stupid disillusioned prats.

And as if things couldn't get any worse, the rain started to pour fast and hard, each drop impacting like a spiteful reminder of every aspect of her life that would suffer from this.

Oh how the tides have turned, she mused bitterly, too consumed by her sorrows to notice a most unconventional angel circling above.

-

Oliver had been flying for close to an hour now, magicking a Quaffle to torpedo towards the three hoops for him to block. And he did, with the adept accuracy only found in professional Quidditch. Tonight, however, his moves were a little more unrestrained, as he vented the frustration that had accumulated since acquiring his position at Hogwarts.

THWACK The Quaffle spun madly away, having come in contact with the hilt of his broom. Everything seemed to have gone wrong from day one.

THWACK The ball, now wheezing slightly, made another arc into the black curtains of the night. Why don't they respect me? I'm a grown man for god's sakes!

THWACK The Quaffle gave up after one last whollop, the spell knocked completely out of it. The ball spiraled to the ground, while the rain ceased to miss a cue and began to plummet in sheets from the sky. Oliver was drenched almost instantly, and frankly didn't have the energy to care. He tipped his head back, letting the rain wash away the sweat and the anxiety from his body, from his mind. The descent down to earth felt like he was slowly being cradled down by the wind, until the faint cry of a certain damsel in distress brought the serenity to a screeching halt.

"Who the fuck...?" Oliver surveyed the surroundings, wondering who else would be bonkers enough to be out in this weather. He almost wasn't surprised when he spied Hermione Granger curled up on the side of the pitch, contributing her tears to the torrents of rain already drowning the school grounds.

"Granger! What in hell are you doing out here?" he exclaimed, fighting to be heard over the downpour. He ran towards her, hoping that the silly girl hadn't caught pneumonia already or something.

Oliver could barely discern the yammering of the limp pile of robes that was Hermione, but he could somewhat make out: "Grades...Harry fucking Potter with fucking Cho's fucking perfect slutty ears...hair's ruined now...as sad as Longbottom..."

"Oh god." How could he reach her? The girl was unquestionably delirious for reasons (thankfully) unknown. "Come on, let's get inside," he coaxed, as if she was a dangerous animal.

Oliver tried to scoop up the shivering bundle in his arms, but Hermione only retaliated furiously, just like he expected that she would. "Geroff!" she slurred, her former state of crying having induced hiccups. "I may have lost my dignity but I'll be damned if you take away my pride..."

Did that even make sense?

Oliver shook his head in a bewildered manner, and walked close by to the staggering Hermione as they stumbled the long trek back to the school.

"My office is this way," he said in a futilely low voice. Upon entering through the grand doorway, their position was given away by squeaking of their shoes echoing conspicuously off all the walls of the building while leaving a trail of water and mud behind them. Many unfortunate souls had happened to come across the trail not long after it had been laid, ending up slipping every which way, crashing into walls and whatnot – you know, doing every possible thing that made Argus Filch's job a living hell in the fall.

"Oi, Woody Two-Shoes! Bedding the broomhead?"

Oh no. Peeves.

"Well, how would ya' like it if I went and told Dumbie-dore that the oh-so-glamourous Quidditch player was fraternizing with the students?" cackled the poltergeist, hanging by his toes onto the chandelier above them.

"Sod off, Peeves, or I'll sic the Baron on you," threatened Oliver, trying to put on his most intimidating no-nonsense face. He breathed a sigh of relief as the interfering specter zoomed away with only a nervous twitter and no more.

Hermione was still sniffing softly as they reached Madame Hooch's office, now currently occupied by Oliver. The door shut behind them as he rushed around to start a fire and calm the girl down.

"Come, now let's get out of these wet clothes," said Oliver, not waiting for Hermione to reply before he stripped out of his own soaked robes.

"You're going to have to try a lot harder than that to get me naked," Hermione managed to snarl before convulsing in a sequence of sneezes.

Oliver shot her a sceptical look as he handed her a towel. "You're going to get sick if you insist on sitting there miserably all night." Bare except for a loose pair of slacks, Oliver felt quite cozy in the toasty office. It seemed like the quintessential setup to a very romantic night indeed – drinking wine and rolling around wildly on the carpet included. However, he seriously doubted that this night would end up that way as Hermione glared darkly at the man until he turned away, rolling his eyes.

"You know, being so high-strung all the time is just going to give you ulcers," reasoned Oliver, noticing with guilty amusement that the window reflected what Hermione didn't want him to see. Even when her hair was reminiscent of a drowned rat's pelt and her lips were practically blue from the cold, the girl exuded her own charming portrayal of sensuality – the way she walked so confidently and with pride, how she scolded just about every student who crossed her path. Inwardly he wished she would tell him off for being bad, and then shag wildly on his desk afterwards. Her soaked robes clung revealingly to her curves, leaving Oliver hard-pressed to fight back his arousal.

"Ohh, it's so c-cold," chattered Hermione, collapsing onto a chair nearby a fire and hugging the towel close around her shoulders. Oliver turned, genuinely concerned. Hermione was wrapped tightly in the fluffy white garb, emulating a huge human burrito. Her breath stopped suddenly, causing Oliver's heart to skip a beat in anxiety and rush towards her, only to be sprayed in the face by a whooping sneeze.

Oliver tumbled backwards from the shock, his back colliding painfully with the edge of his desk while Hermione snuffled miserably in her chair. Recovering quickly, the brazen wizard wiped his face off and marched back into battle.

"Here, let me check you over," he offered, reaching for her wrist.

Hermione recoiled instantly. "I think you've done enough checking over already. Look, I'm just going to Madame Pomfrey and she'll take care of me."

"What, and explain why you're soaking wet and on the brink of an emotional meltdown?"

Reluctantly, she settled back down onto the chair, but continued to watch him apprehensively.

"Here, I've been trained to evaluate physical conditions --"

"I'm sure you have," Hermione retorted, her voice dripping with sardonicism.

"I'm an athlete for a living," Oliver said more forcefully. He was becoming annoyed at her agonizingly shrewd disposition. "Injuries happen, and Madame Pomfrey isn't always around to heal us."

Hermione wordlessly conceded, but retained an untrusting look on her face. Oliver took her wrist and checked her pulse. He then stood and propped one knee on the chair as he leaned towards her face.

"W-What are you doing?" exclaimed Hermione, shrinking into the back of the seat.

"Calm down, I'm just examining your pupils."

He brushed her hair away delicately and cupped her cheek with his hand. He looked into her copper-tinged orbs, as they stared back, wavering slightly. Oliver acknowledged that she was still very cold, her skin like ice against his fingers.

"Do you trust me?"

-

"Do you trust me?" he had said, his sharp hazel eyes never leaving hers. Hermione shuddered, this time from the tension between them, the pulsing electricity binding them together. Her senses felt suddenly heightened as she fell victim to a rush of several sensations every time his fingers grazed her skin. They were so close that for neither of them to react felt like an infringement of Mother Nature's intentions.

"I have to get you warm somehow," he said in a low voice, his eyes searching her body. The magnitude what was happening that moment never really got to sink in: Hermione was sheltered beneath the shadow of a famous athlete, their bodies almost touching – a position that many other girls would likely kill for. Hermione gasped as her cocoon of a towel fell away, exposing her to the elements and to the man. She was so very cold.

Oliver ushered her out of the chair, pressing the girl close against her. "You're freezing," he remarked, his arms entangling behind her back. He wrapped the towel around them both, Hermione's blanched skin burning against his, glad he couldn't see her blushing face.

She felt Oliver smirk into the dampened tangles of her hair. "I'm surprised you haven't gone mental on me already."

"Just wait," murmured Hermione into his chest, finally feeling the tingle of warmth creep back into her fingers. The memory of a revival exercise like this from her first aid classes in primary school re-entered her mind, though she didn't remember it being quite so erotic. "And don't try anything funny!"

-

Oliver kept his hands determinedly clasped around her back, start. "You have no idea the amount of self-control I'm exerting right now," he thought, gritting his teeth.

Hermione adjusted her head, allowing it to rest soundly at the crook of his collarbone. "You know, most boys would probably have tried to get into my knickers by know."

Oliver just locked his jaw, the perspiration collecting on his temples.

The young girl then disentwined herself from around his neck, holding him an arm's length apart. Oliver noticed that her lips were severely red now, the warmth back in her face. She cocked her head to one side and asked inquisitively, "Professor, are you gay?"

"Fuck it." Something snapped inside the man at her words, all remnants of self-constraint obliterated. He slammed Hermione against the wall, delving voraciously into a kiss that left both of them breathless. She gasped upon impact, allowing her attacker to invade her mouth with much zeal. The clash of their bodies and his heated growls subjugated Hermione's lame protests.

"Professor, stop... No, please...Oh god, don't stop, don't stop!"

Oliver vaguely registered the taste of her lips, the feel of her flesh against his tongue, amidst all the fervent desperation. He wanted to savour every facet of her, wanted it all now – but as swiftly as his hands roamed her body or his mouth caress hers, he couldn't have it nearly fast enough.

"Guess you're not one to beat around the bush," breathed Hermione, writhing against his own restless form.

"Depends which bush you're talking about," Oliver replied in a slurred voice, his fingers running suggestively over the thin fabric of her underwear, though every time he tried to pull them down Hermione slapped his hands away.

"Scared Granger?" he growled, her agreeable moans music to his ears.

"Sex has many disagreeable consequences," retorted Hermione, her fingernails digging into his back, leaving red streaks across his tan skin – battle scars, if you will.

"Sworn yourself to celibacy already? Pity," said Oliver, more than a little bit distracted by the more urgent matter at hand.

"Why is that a pity?" Hermione was growing flirtatious – well, as flirtatious as an uptight bookworm could get. She was returning his advances, getting bolder by the second. Her build was slight compared to his height, causing her to stretch to meet his kisses, her toes barely grazing the floor as she hung tightly onto his sturdy physique.

Hermione and Oliver had become so immersed in their tryst that the patter of footsteps and giggling went undetected until they were almost at the door.

"Shit, I forgot about detention." In one swift motion Oliver stuffed Hermione into the wardrobe beside his desk and grabbed the first jacket he could see – incidentally one of Madame Hooch's floral nightgowns. He watched helplessly as various Slytherin and Ravenclaw girls flooded into his office without knocking, and listened to them erupt in audible whispers concerning his bare torso. Oliver could only hold the flowery dress in front of his pants to conceal any bulge that had arouse from his previous appointment and brace himself for the worst.

"Were you expecting us, Professor?" piped a beady-eyed Slytherin, her gaze conspicuously fixated below his belt.

Oliver cleared his throat, feinting a flimsy mask of confidence. If he showed any sign of weakness at all, the vultures would swoop down and eat him alive. "You know why you're here, girls. I was extremely disappointed in your...behaviour...this afternoon –"

"Really? You looked like you were rather enjoying it."

"Mr. Filch is going to enjoy your assistance in polishing the trophy case tonight."

"Oh, but we'd much rather polish your broomstick."

Oliver flinched, a ridiculous-looking floral nightgown his only defense now.

-

Hermione peered curiously through the crack in the wardrobe at the pack of sixth-years, noticing that their blouses were buttoned down much too low for this chilly autumn night. Then again, it was mighty hypocritical of her to talk at the moment, seeing as she was barely clad in lacey knickers and a bra.

She was quite surprised as well as amused when the girls started to corner the poor man, probing him with one invasive question after the next, bravely and daringly testing his nerve. Hermione almost admired their unabashed method of interaction, but was instantly horrified as one of them actually made a grab for his ass.

A stifled hiccough of indignation ran got caught in her throat as the Head Girl had the impulse to stop this insubordinate attitude. She searched the wardrobe as discreetly as she could, finally finding a robe that would best suit – though it was still considerably larger than what she was used to. She took one last peek out through her clandestine hiding spot: They were all over Oliver now. Hermione wondered why he didn't do something – charm them into a stupor or something.

Probably because they were underage witches. But then why was he so debonair with her?

Her contemplations were interrupted as a Ravenclaw girl got close enough to run her hands along his face. Ugh, now it was just vexing her how skanky some of them could get.

Bursting out of the wardrobe like a troublemaker's worst Boggart apparition, Hermione confidently stood on her tiptoes so as to disguise the ill-fitting robe, and proceeded to bear over the entire company.

"Excuse me, young ladies! Check your impertinent behaviour before the lot of you get knocked up by some Knockturn Alley underachiever and end up pregnant and domesticated for the rest of your lives! Now file off to Filch's office before Professor Wood here is forced to deduct points from your Houses."

The girls were speechless as one by one they retreated from the stuffy office, hissing loudly about a certain bushy-haired prick ruining their fun. Oliver promptly slammed the door behind the last one, garnering a miffed squawk, and sagged against it, relieved.

"I'm so grateful I could kiss you," he said, running his hands through his hair - a very provocative gesture, even if he knew it or not.

"I think once tonight is quite sufficient, Professor Wood," replied Hermione curtly, picking up her sopping robes from the floor and turning to leave the room.

"Call me Oliver."

"Oliver it is, then," she said, not meeting his eye as she walked past.

"Goodnight, Hermione," he called after her as she stalked down the hall, his robes dragging on the floor in her small build.

"It's Granger to you," she shot over her shoulder, turning the corner.

Little did either know, while out of each other's sight, Hermione and Oliver simultaneously collapsing against their respective walls, spent.

- The End -

Okay, that's it for now. I'll try to get another chapter up by Labour Day. In the meanwhile, have a fantastic summer everybody!