Head Girl Hermione Granger looked about at the near deserted common room, reflecting on the start of her seventh year at Hogwarts and was satisfied. She was sat with her legs curled underneath her, tome in her lap, on a comfortable sofa, with Harry ensconced in a nearby armchair in the Gryffindor Tower common room.
By freak coincidence Wormtail had been caught by Aurors trying to leave Britain after third year, which stopped the causal chain of events that could have led to so much heartbreak and disaster. Though she was unaware of fates twin, her Harry was a Harry who had lived summers with Sirius, had not experienced a Tri-Wizard tournament and Voldemort's resurrection, or been made to endure watching Sirius and Dumbledore die. Although he had still been in his fair share of scrapes and advanced much mischief, the rest of his Hogwarts career had been surprisingly gentle.
She had dusted off an old favourite, intending to settle down to enjoy the familiar passages of Hogwarts: A History and warm herself in front of the fire in companionable silence with her best friend. However, her hard-won tranquillity was rudely interrupted by Ron and Lavender as they practically fell through the portrait door together.
The two of them giggled, tangled in each other's arms and apparently oblivious to the other two occupants of the room quietly enjoying the fire. Lavender's hair was messy, and Ron was sporting some very interesting marks on his neck that he would undoubtedly try to cover up come breakfast time.
She looked up from her book and gave an exasperated glance towards Harry. Did something always have to interrupt her relaxation? And why these days was it nearly always some couple, joined at the hip, or worse, the lips? She certainly harboured no ill feeling or secret attraction toward either Ron or Lavender in specific, but it seemed like everywhere she looked these days were happy couples. Or, at least, busy couples.
Harry's silent shrug was reply enough, apparently in his opinion they weren't a big problem. She internally conceded it would be very awkward for the Head Girl to have to discipline her friend, a Gryffindor Prefect, for being out after hours in the scandalous company of a woman, so she merely rolled her eyes at Harry's too understanding attitude.
The fire crackled, splaying the wild moving shadows of Ron and Lavender across the common room as they scurried towards the dormitories. Harry and Hermione averted their gaze while the pair enthusiastically bade each other goodnight before retreating to their respective dorms.
Giving a pause long enough for the pair to be out of earshot, Hermione remarked "Honestly, it's past curfew, a Prefect should know better."
"Oh, I think he knows better alright; he's making a conscious decision to be worse," Harry grinned, "besides, I'm not sure there's anything either of us could say that would make Ron stop running after her."
She frowns, "You know, I was honestly surprised when they made it through all of sixth year and last summer without splitting up."
Harry tilted he head to one side, silently asking her to elaborate.
"I assumed he or she would just get bored of the other eventually, and the three of us would go back to being friends the way it used to be." She tried to be happy for Ron, and even managed it most of the time … but sometimes she couldn't stand being in his company while Lavender was around.
"Have you seen the look she gives him going through the portrait? The one right before he gets up drooling and rushes after her? He doesn't even bother trying to come up with an excuse these days," Harry laughs, and says "not much chance of him getting bored at this rate."
There follow a few minutes of quiet, as she tries to pull herself back into her book. She struggles to concentrate, needing to read the same paragraph over twice, before her inner frustration gets the better of her and she looks up again to ask in annoyance "Do they have to be quite so obvious about it, though?"
He smiles back gently, "They're not harming anyone, and while I'll admit they can be a bit much at times … if anything I'm happy for them. Let them enjoy themselves, we're only young once."
She frowns slightly again, struggling to convey that the problem isn't really with them and their behaviour (even though there technically was a problem with it, at least according to school rules), it might actually be a problem with her. Instead, she chooses the easy way out and deflects her introspection with humour, "Yes, well, they're not harming anyone until Lavender forgets to apply her contraceptive charm and then Ron will wish he'd paid more attention in class."
Harry snorts, and waits a beat before asking "Think they're having sex then?"
"Well, not right now, no," she replies primly, "considering they're in different dorms."
"Har har, very funny."
"Really Harry, I don't want to consider what they're up to when they're alone."
"Oh? You seem to have been giving it some thought just a moment ago."
She pulls a sarcastic 'very funny, very clever' face, and tries again to get back into her book. Burying her emotional needs under a pile of literature. Again.
"It's just," she starts, not even really understanding herself quite why this bothers her so much, it has never been an issue for her until recently, "these days everyone seems to be absolutely obsessed with each other, or with who is making out with who. Ron and Lavender, Ginny and Dean, and the things I overhear Lavender and Parvati say … and those are just some of our friends, in this house alone."
Harry quietly contemplates this, "I suppose it's only natural, at this age. What with everyone living in close quarters for so long … and teenagers will be teenagers."
The seconds pass by, before he asks in an innocent tone that is not matched by the mischievous gleam in his eyes, "Do you mean to tell me that you don't spend any of your time thinking about sex then?"
Hermione blushes deeply, and splutters in indignation, "Harry! What a question to ask a lady!"
He laughs heartily, and she smiles knowing she's being teased, though she remains red in the face. Apparently satisfied with her state of embarrassment, he turns to silently contemplate the fire again.
She joins him staring into the flames for a moment, grappling with herself. Squashing her embarrassment, (because if she can't even admit this to her best friend, then when can she?) and proving herself to be a true Gryffindor, she quietly says "Do you know what, Harry? Actually, yes, I do. Sometimes at least."
His head whips around to look at her, wide eyed and open mouthed, shocked by her honesty. Shocked and, she lets herself hope for just a moment, maybe, in some private recess at the back of his mind, intrigued.
Seeing his flummoxed attention remaining on her, she looks down demurely, sits up a little straighter and says "Is that so surprising? I know what people whisper about me – that I'm some sort of prude. Or a robot if they're not too pureblood to have no idea what a robot is. I suppose in some ways I've earned that reputation… but I'm more than Hermione Granger, the perfect Prefect. Point in case, I break rules with you and Ron every year. I've probably lost as many points traipsing after you as I've earned in class. It's not my fault they only ever see me as the stuffy, boring bookworm."
Harry's face softens, as perhaps he understands a little bit about why Ron and Lavender bother her. Harry can be oblivious yes, but he can also be empathetic and surprisingly insightful.
She shakes her head a little, "I'm just a private person, that's all. So, I suppose when I consider that no one has ever asked me to Hogsmeade, or sent me terrible Valentine's poetry, or now they've stopped inviting me to join in discussing their dreams or crushes or fantasies in the dorms at night …perhaps I am a little bit jealous. So, maybe I do react a little harshly toward other people just … living their lives. Living their lives with fewer inhibitions than me."
"I guess," she carries on, "That I maintained for so long I would never let myself be drawn into Lavender or Parvati's constant salacious discussions about boys or sex, that by the time I actually wanted to join in, the girls had given up asking."
Harry is silent for a moment; she can't tell if he's lost for words or if he's just so mortified and wants an escape from the topic. It takes so long for him to say anything that she starts to think that maybe her admission was a mistake after all, "Well, I'm sorry you've been left out. For what little good it might be, we're friends, aren't we? You could always talk to me."
She laughs, not derisive or bitter, but in genuine amusement, "You're my best friend Harry, but you're just saying that to be kind, I'm sure. I can't imagine you want to chat about boys and such."
"Well, I'm not exactly super comfortable talking about sex or feelings, but if it helps you, I can manage it. It would probably at least be a refreshing change from the usual locker room bollocks I have to listen to, or from being painfully aware of what Seamus is doing with the drapes on his bed closed and a silencing charm on."
Laughing, she puts aside her book and exclaims, "Ew, Harry!"
"What? You wanted to talk about these things," he laughs back, "Do you know, I think I saw more of his closed drapes in fifth year than I saw of him!"
"Well, some days it's not much different in our dorm. I swear, the other day, Parvati was telling Lavender in minute detail the fantasy she had about the bassist from the Weird Sisters. You know, Donaghan Tremlett?"
"Isn't he married?" Harry asked, and then thought for a moment, "and quite … hairy?"
"Apparently both of those things are a plus for Parvati," she remarked wryly, "trust me, I had to listen to about 40 minutes of it. She was as thorough and detailed as my transfiguration notes."
The two of them laugh to themselves, before their conversation lapses once more. An awareness settles on her how alone they are down here, with only the great fireplace for company.
"So," he asks with faux carelessness, "if Parvati is into married bassists, what's your fantasy then?"
"Harry! Again, what a question! I suppose I was just complaining no one wanted to talk to me about gossip or sex, but this isn't quite what I was thinking of when I said that." For all her protests, she is smiling and enjoying the conversation. Though it is a little embarrassing, it turns out it's nice to be asked. Refreshing to have her opinion sought and valued. There's also something exciting about discussing what, for her, is normally such a taboo topic. She finds Harry is, despite being a man, surprisingly easy to talk to.
He's quiet for a moment, understanding that perhaps he has overstepped his bounds, even as best friends, and says "Sorry, you're right. You don't have to tell me anything."
There is another moment of silence as she weighs up her complicated feelings. On the one hand, she has never felt very comfortable sharing … all too happy to take on and discuss the feelings of other people, yes, but still so afraid to articulate her own … but on the other hand she's not ready for this secretly thrilling topic of conversation to end just yet.
Having made her decision, she whispers, "I never said I wouldn't tell you", staunchly not looking at him. To her, the seconds seem to stretch out to infinity, her lips feel suddenly dry. Committing to revealing some secret want is unexpectedly exhilarating.
"I'll tell you, but you tell me your fantasy first."
"Waa, um, ah" he panics "I don't think you really want to hear that…"
"Oh?" She arches an eyebrow, internally deflated. Apparently, he isn't as enamoured with this conversation as she is. She is a little saddened, and a little worried that perhaps now it's her making things uncomfortable. "You don't want to know?"
He quickly says "That's not what I said. Yeah, of course, I'm intrigued. Just…" he gestures lamely.
"You don't have to name names, then," she replies, "if you're worried about me running off and telling Ginny or Luna whatever sordid thoughts you're having about them." She says this with a huge grin, buoyed again by his affirmation of interest and her amusement magnified by his spluttering denials. It's also convenient for her, because she absolutely doesn't want to tell him the subject of so many of her fantasies. Just because she set aside her hopeless crush on him in fifth year doesn't mean he stopped featuring in her idle daydreams.
"But considering you asked me first; I think it only right you should go first." She twists her hands together, voicing the complicated duality of sharing something intimate – she wants to share, but she fears to share. "After all, what's to stop you hearing my secrets and then refusing to share yours? I hardly want to have my desires be the subject of ridicule at breakfast."
"Come off it, Hermione, you know I wouldn't do that."
"True," she smiles in a way she hopes is disarming, realising that her next words are fundamentally and irrevocably true "We wouldn't be having this conversation at all if I didn't trust you. All the same, you asked a very personal question – you can show me you deserve an answer by going first."
"So, come on, Harry Potter." She looks him dead in the eye and tries for levity and a cheeky smile, "If you want to hear what does it for me, I want to hear a Parvati level of detail."
He looks up at the ceiling, and closes his eyes, before letting out a long, shaky breath, "So, uh, we're in my dorm and … are you sure you want to hear this? I don't … well, I don't want you to think less of me because of the things I think about when I'm alone."
She can understand that all too well, so she carefully, lightly reaches her hand out to his, "I could never think less of you, Harry. You saved my life, remember? Out there by the lake. After everything we've done together, how could I think less of you?"
She hesitates, before voicing the vulnerable worry at the heart of her, "If anything, it might be a relief to me to discover that … well, that other, normal people have thoughts the way I do in the middle of the night."
Parvati and Lavender obviously have thoughts like that, but they always seem to find sex so … funny, so flippant, and Hermione has never felt like she can relate to that.
He lets out another long breath, "Alright, well, remember you asked. And stop me when you've heard enough or get grossed out."
She removes her hand and listens to him patently; she can't remember the last time she wanted to hear something this much. She's never been this focused on a speaker, not even during lectures.
"I'm sat on the edge of one of the four poster beds. She's stood in front of me with her back to me, in a long dress. Her hips sway from one side to the other, as she slowly pulls down the zip on the dress."
Hermione begins to feel her pulse start to quicken; despite the late hour she feels a slow suffusion of restless energy well up within her.
"She drops the dress, like a fabric waterfall, which pools at her feet, and it's obvious she's not wearing anything else. Her hair cascades down her naked back, and she turns her head to look at me over her shoulder."
Though Harry knows where the story is headed, Hermione finds herself filled with forbidden anticipation. Some days she feels overwhelmed by the things she desires, wondering how other people can be so casual about their own wants. Wondering how come she constantly feels the need to repress, desperately grappling with whether it's okay when she fails to and mostly feeling like there's something wrong with her. It is so liberating to hear someone like Harry, someone who she trusts and respects, describe their desires. Desires like hers.
"She turns around, the moonlight through the window cutting across her body, and she stalks towards me. I can't stop looking at her, her beautiful eyes and delicate face, the curve of her breasts, her hips I long to put my hands on …and in a moment she reaches me, straddles me. Her hot mouth is on mine, our tongues gently clashing. Her hands are busy with the buttons on my shirt …"
Hermione half closes her eyes, her mouth opens slightly to let her tongue unconsciously wet her lips, as she lets her imagination paint the scene Harry is describing. Her mind fills in the details he misses, like his hand rising to caress a breast, to pinch a nipple gently but firmly, or to imagine the restrained, unthinking thrust of his hips, as he longs to grind himself against her. Her mind, completely unbidden, provides a vivid picture of Harry laid on his bed and the imagined sound of this woman moaning into his mouth.
She feels her face burn and warmth spreads down her neck, into the rest of her body, such heat that makes the fireplace an irrelevance, as he continues, "She pulls my shirt off me, her mouth moves in a trail from my jaw to my neck, down my chest, until she climbs off me."
"She kneels on the floor in front of me, smiles this … glorious but," his voice is strained, as if by the effort of getting her to understand the sensuality of this smile, "incredibly dirty smile, and pushes me backwards onto the bed. Her hands go to the waistband of my jeans, she undoes the button and …"
He falters, and she is jarred from her mental picture, suddenly aware of how superlatively sensitive her skin is. How did they get here, she wonders, and is this what they're really discussing? And why did he stop? Can't he tell she needs him to carry on?
And, most pressingly, how can softly spoken Harry, his words soft yet so intense, have such an effect on her? She hadn't anticipated …she shifts her hips in her seat and is very aware how much listening to him has turned her on. She opens her eyes slightly, in time to see Harry strategically move an armchair cushion to cover his crotch.
She has always thought that Harry was handsome, has honestly tried to avoid finding him handsome to preserve the first real friendship she ever had, but her eyes and heart won't listen to her this time. She can't stop herself from taking in every little detail of his face, the curve of his leg and arm muscle, how his shirt is stretched taut across his strong stomach and chest…
Re-evaluating him in this light she finds him so very attractive, so sexy, almost irresistible. Since denying her crush, she has actively avoided appreciating the line of his jaw, how he's a perfect head taller than her, and those eyes … She wonders what it would be like to run a finger across his skin, following the trial he just described, from his jaw down to his waistband…
His hesitation continues and she knows he'll need prompting. "Go on Harry," she whispers, a small miracle she keeps her voice even, aware this has gone far past the point she had anticipated. She wants, needs, to hear what happens next. Her stomach lurches, knowing that once he's finished it will be her turn to talk. Unexpectedly, she flushes deeper, realising that she desperately wants to share with him.
He is quiet, still resolutely looking at the ceiling, "She takes me into her hand and my whole-body sort of stretches, arches, in anticipation. Her soft hand is wrapped firmly around me, and I'm practically writhing into the mattress … desperate for her to do more. The whole time she's looking at me, keeping this intense eye contact … she starts to lower her head towards me, agonisingly slowly, knowing full well what I'm desperate for, and she makes me wait for it. Her right hand begins to slowly pump up and down … I can see her left hand has slid down her chest, down her stomach and out of view, but the muscles working in her arm tell me that she's touching herself too."
Hermione is so aware of her heavy breathing, so aware of his deep and careful inhalation and exhalation between sentences, and as he describes this woman's hand pleasuring herself she has to bite down to supress a small groan. For some reason, she wasn't expecting his fantasy to focus in any way on his partner's pleasure. That it seems to be as much of an integral part of his fantasy as everything else is unexpectedly arousing. She squeezes her thighs together and her hips move slightly, hoping he won't notice that subtle motion, feeling her wet lace underwear rub against her sensitive skin in response to the motion. It's a completely inadequate motion, and just fuels her need for friction further, but she doesn't dare do anything else with Harry sat so close.
Fortunately for her, Harry is lost in his recollection, "Her mouth meets the side of my cock," she suppresses a gasp, because hearing him boldly say this, at least to her, coarse word sends something like lightening through her, "and I buck under her. Her lips move further up my shaft, her hands continue to work, until she's taking me fully into her mouth."
She hears him shift uncomfortably in his armchair, "The entire time she keeps that bewitching eye contact…and before too long the combination of her mouth, her tongue, her hands …"
He trails off again, and she bites her bottom lip gently, hoping she doesn't have to encourage him again. But knowing full well that she will if she has to.
"I gasp and my whole body goes rigid, she dips her head down one more time, deeper than any of the times before, and my vision practically goes white. I collapse breathless, twitching on the bed, as she continues to work long past when I've … well. You know. The last thing I think about, still making eye contact, is her letting me go and running two fingers along her bottom lip, before she softly puts them just inside her mouth and licks them clean."
There is another moment of quiet, broken only by the pop of the wood fire, but where the previous silences were awkward this one is charged and heavy.
"Wow," Hermione eventually manages to say, sounding much huskier than she intended, "that was really something Harry."
He eventually looks over at her, and even if there had been no other clues in his body language, it is obvious to her that he is aroused too. There's this look in his eyes she's never seen on him, or on anyone, before. She knows that he's been thinking of this mystery woman, but even so it causes some involuntary twitch, some hidden contraction, that she is relieved he can't perceive. For once, her head, her heart and her libido are all in agreement - they would all much rather that look was for her instead.
"Yeah? Honestly," he swallows, "I was sure you'd stop me ages ago. I, uh, never told anyone that before. The lads don't really want to know specifics. It's more of a 'nice, high five' and that's the end of it kind of vibe."
"Harry," she says, each word of his fantasy burnt indelibly into her brain by now, "from the moment you started talking there was no way I was going to stop you."
There's another pause, before she hesitantly says, "So … do you want to hear mine?"
She can still feel her face is flushed, her exposed skin tormented by the very the air passing over it, and above all the unprecedented warmth in her core … she wants him to say yes. Some scary, new part of her wants to affect him as much as he has her.
"Only if you're happy to share it with me," he says quietly, with a small laugh "though since I have revealed something intensely personal it would be good to find I didn't do it needlessly."
She summons her Gryffindor courage and begins, "I'm at my usual table, in the library…"
"Hermione," he deadpans, "If I've just told you all that and you just describe a trip to the library, I think I might be mortified enough to throw myself off the Astronomy tower."
She laughs, and throws a cushion at him, "Don't interrupt, I'll get there, okay? So, my table, in the library … I can hear the voices of other students quietly studying elsewhere, out of view."
She turns to look at the fire, by now starting to go out, understanding now how hard it is to talk with him watching her so intently.
"He comes up behind me and places his hands on my shoulders, and I lean my head to the side so he can leave a trail of kisses along my neck. One of my hands goes up into his hair, and I just …melt under his lips. Each time he kisses my skin he leaves an electric spot behind and just the barest suggestion of saliva, moving up my neck. He gently bites my ear lobe; his teeth carefully graze the skin as he pulls away."
Harry is still watching her, with an expression of amazement and disbelief. She wonders what she looks like to him.
"The other students can't see, they don't notice, when he gets down under the table, and…" and suddenly she comprehends the power inherent in the overarching theme of his fantasy, feels herself literally throb when she understands what she can do. What she can do to arouse him to the same exhilarating new heights that he did to her.
With a deep breath, she turns her head to face him, and looks him dead in those stunning, vivid eyes. She can hear his breath hitch, seeing the fire of desire in his eyes causes her to throb beneath her skirt even harder. It is a supreme act of willpower on her part that she doesn't start to rock back and forth, to give in to what her aching body is demanding of her.
"His hands caress my inner thighs, and as I part my legs wide for him, I look around to make sure no one has heard the little gasp that escapes my mouth. I shuffle forward on the chair, as he silently vanishes my underwear. I … " she steels herself to make the next admission, no going back from here, "I'm already so wet with anticipation and the sudden rush of cool air makes me moan, quietly."
He doesn't break the electric eye contact (and she can see now why it was such a major part of his fantasy, because it's sending signals coursing through her body she wishes she could respond to), but he does quietly and hungrily whisper, "Oh, fuck."
"His strong hands carefully lift my thigh high skirt even higher, and I lean back in the chair, desperate to get closer to him… and then his mouth descends on me, slowly, torturously, taking his time, driving me wild. But of course, I can't react too much otherwise we'll get caught. Instead, the best I can do is whimper and groan and hope no one comes over here."
She lifts her hand up and mimes as she speaks, "I've got one hand, fingers spread out, pushing down on the top of the table, the other is still limply holding onto my quill. He's doing such exquisite things to me, all without even touching my clit."
Harry, apparently having less self-control than she did, audibly lets out a deep groan. She smiles, still looking deeply into his emerald eyes, feeling so … naughty, so unrestrained, so sexual, so powerful and also so vulnerable, and so exposed. She can't believe she's talking to Harry so candidly about her clit.
Leaning forward slightly, she says "But all of that isn't enough. The position of the chair and table is awkward, I can't get his mouth to meet me enough, can't get enough of what he's doing, so… I make him come out from under the table, sit him with his back against my chair, his head leaning back on the seat."
She burns hotter than she ever has before, nearly so hot that she almost involuntarily closes her eyes but her desire to keep meeting his gaze is so strong, strong enough to overcome the intense embarrassment she feels in admitting, "I gather my skirt up to my waist, and lower myself down onto his face. I've got one hand in his hair and one hand clutched tightly to the back of the chair."
"His tongue plays with me in long, slow strokes, and though it feels incredible it isn't enough for me. I lower myself further still, and start to move my hips back and forth, forcing him to pay attention to my clit. Inexplicably, no one comes over to investigate and before long, I'm grinding against him, and I can feel my orgasm start to build inside me, just out of reach for now but getting close and closer by the second."
Embellishing slightly, given newfound confidence by his smouldering, incessant eye contact and a new understanding of how incredibly hot they both seem to find it, she changes her fantasy just a little.
"I look down, over my breasts still hidden within my shirt, over the bunched-up skirt, and see the top of his face emerging from between my thighs, from underneath my soaking wet cunt," Harry practically growls and sits up straight, her throbbing intensifying as she says words she would never say under normal circumstances.
"And I look deeply into his eyes." She takes a breath, meaningfully still looking into Harry's eyes, leaving her next words unspoken, 'Like this.' His reaction leads her to believe he got the message.
"Merlin, Hermione," he groans, shifting in his seat, but she doesn't give him time to say anything more.
"It washes over me, my whole body is tingling, and then I'm coming, trying hard to keep the moans, the whispered 'oh fucks' quiet, as my legs start to shake ever so slightly, my hips no longer moving against his face in the smooth controlled motion of before, now I'm wild and haphazard."
Never has she been so aroused. Telling him this story was supposed to be torture for him, not her, but it seems to have been counterproductive because all she wants to do right now is slide her hand under the waistband of her skirt, to eagerly touch herself and finish, gasping and moaning just like in her fantasy… maybe even still looking into those damned eyes of his.
She doesn't, of course, and instead she concludes by saying, "I start to lose the ability to hold myself up, and he gathers me into his arms, puts me on his lap, and gently kisses the top of my forehead."
More silence, but still, they do not look away. It must be fully an entire minute before she blinks, her confidence receding now she is no longer talking, and finally she diverts her gaze.
"Um. There you have it. I hope you didn't find that disgusting … I've heard Lavender and Parvati say some guys aren't into…"
He cuts her off, his voice thick, hoarse, "I'm not disgusted at all. I think that might be the most erotic thing I've ever heard."
"Really?"
And then, suddenly, the spell is broken. Somewhere upstairs, a dormitory door is opened and closed. They jump at the noise, startled, spooked, appreciating their surroundings again for the first time in ages. The fire has burnt down, just leaving guttering embers in the white ash. They're both startled from whatever moment was passing between them, how could they have forgotten that anyone could come downstairs at any time and find them here, together, clearly aroused?
"Ah! Well. This has been - enlightening," she stands quickly, the full force of her embarrassment returning, "but it's really very late now. I should. I should go. To bed. Alone."
Harry blinks, dumbfounded, "I think I'll, ah, need to stay here for a minute longer."
She raises her eyebrow, and he delicately adjusts the cushion in his lap. She smirks, a ray of triumph cutting through her utter mortification, knowing that at least she wasn't the only one struggling to hold it together after all. She is grateful her arousal isn't quite as obvious as his, very glad he can't know how wet the inside of her thighs are right now. In one last moment of bravery, she whispers "Well then … sweet dreams, Harry."
She gets halfway to the staircase, before turning back. She thinks, or rather she hopes, he was watching her go.
"Can we agree this stays between us?" she asks, again feeling a surge of excitement at the idea of having shared this intimate, clandestine encounter with him, that tomorrow he'll live out a normal day, the same as any other, except he and she will enjoy this new shared confidence. "Our secret?"
He nods softly, "Yeah. Safe with me."
Walking upstairs, she thinks that yes, actually, she is.