DISCLAIMER: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

BETA READER: silverbluewords

CHALLENGE: 1) Write a scene between two people in love who are so attuned to each other they can, in a sense, read each other's minds. 2) In a short scene, have one character teach another character something that changes the teacher. 700-900 words.

SHORT STORY #3: INTIMACY & TEACHER

This was officially the worst weekend ever. When he first put the words "holiday," "no class," and "alone time with Hermione" together, camping out in the godforsaken wilderness like a pair of troglodytes was the last thing he expected.

Over the past few weeks, Hermione had been unnervingly tolerant of his (what she deemed to be) "beastly behaviour." Every time he'd pinched her arse in lecture, doodled on her notes, or made snide remarks about anything and everything around them, she'd done nothing but simper at how excited she was for the weekend.

He was certain that she was going to make him suffer in the most barbaric way possible, and he was right.

"You didn't hear a word I just said," Hermione flatly observed, narrowing her eyes in accusation.

"You're brilliant, I'm pathetic, and I better not fuck this up or you won't speak to me again for the next twenty-four hours," he recited, rolling his eyes.

"That was not what I said—"

"No, but it's what you meant," he countered.

"Very well," she huffed, "if you're such an expert on building fires, then I'll just leave you to it, shall I?"

Wait, what?

"Hermione," he stammered, "you can't possibly expect me to—"

"I'm off to get more wood," she announced, bounding to her feet. She promptly turned and rummaged through her bag for several sinister seconds before whirling back with a cheerful "Here you are!" and tossing a small box into his pleading hands. "Be back in a tick!" She spared him a single, chillingly innocent smile before skipping off into the forest, giggling to herself.

The message was clear. If he didn't get the job done by the time she returned, he would forever be branded as a complete and utter failure of a man.

He tugged anxiously at his collar. Blast, it was so cold! And dark! And filthy! His hands were all frozen and sweaty, and he could barely get a grip on this flimsy little stick… What did she call this again? A hatch? He flipped the box over and identified the black strip that Hermione had mentioned at some point during her blathering. He peered suspiciously at the band and poked it with the bulbous head of the stick.

Nothing happened.

He prodded it harder and gave it a little rub.

Still nothing happened.

"FUCKETY BOLLOCKS!" he roared.

Shitting hell, what he wouldn't give to use his—

Don't even think about it, he could practically hear her shrilling from afar. If she were here, she'd still be lecturing him in that bossy, condescending tone of hers before finally dismissing him as a hopeless case and crying herself dry from her own mirth.

NO! Sod you, Granger, and your stupid Muggle contraptions! THIS ISN'T OVER! He gritted his teeth and took a vicious slice at his target, only to topple backwards, squawking in terror as the wanking little stick flew into the pit and burst into flames.

He did it. He actually did it! HE HAD SUMMONED FIRE! HE WAS MASTER OF THE ELEMENTS! He was—

Cripes, was that a stain?

He quickly peeled his shirt off and draped it over a nearby log, mournfully swatting the dirt away with leaves.

"Gods above, you actually did it!" gasped Hermione, who had emerged from the trees with an almost comical expression of shock upon her face. He thought he should feel insulted by the implication that she'd expected him to fail, but the unmistakable pride that shone in her smile—her real smile—easily dispelled him of the notion.

She flung an armful of branches onto the ground and raced towards him with a squeal of delight, only to come screeching to a halt. "Ruddy hell!" she shrieked. "What happened to your—?"

He blinked at her for a moment before finally registering her flustered gestures and spastic attempts to avert her eyes. "No, I refuse to put my shirt back on," he leered in response to her unspoken plea. "I'm sweating cobs out here. You wanted a raging fire? You got it."

She blushed furiously, putting both hands on her hips and retorted, "Unlike you, you ignorant prat, I was thinking along the lines of starvation and hypothermia—"

He groaned. "Merlin, woman, you know I like it when you talk dirty to me—"

"Go bugger yourself!" she snapped, tearing her eyes away from their roaming descent.

"Honestly, I don't see why you're getting your knickers all in a twist. You've seen me shirtless before. Several times, in fact," he grinned, flexing his chest muscles.

"But it's—you—immodesty!" she spluttered incoherently.

"'Immodesty'?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I'm afraid that after our little incident last week, I've quite forgotten what that word means."

He didn't even need to see her face to know that she knew exactly which incident he was referring to. She flushed positively maroon, even as her eyes darkened and stalked his every movement.

"So," he began, unbuckling his trousers and sliding them to the ground, "I reckon you've discovered a few new uses for campfires now, eh? Efficiency and not letting valuable resources go to waste, or some other shite—"

"Shut it! I hate you," she hissed, even as her hands flew back to unclasp her skirt.

"Love you too, Granger," he smirked against her lips.

TO BE CONTINUED