# Island Girl

DeliverMeFromEve

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 30/07/2006
Last Updated: 30/07/2006
Status: Completed

Just her own little piece of paradise.

## 1. untitled

Author’s note: This ficlet is dedicated to Tome Raider. It’s been a while since her birthday, so maybe this one’s too late for that, but she is one of the kindest, sweetest women I’ve ever known, and that’s reason enough to dedicate a fic to her. She mentioned that she loved the Pirates of the Caribbean, so I thought maybe a tropical theme would be fitting!

Forgive me for mistakes, as this is unbetaed. Hope you understand. Lol.

Island Girl

The wind was warm. It was humidity in motion, pushing through the tangled strands of her hair.

The tropical weather was murder on her curls, crimping and poofing it. It was a nightmare to high-tech hair products everywhere.

Hermione pushed back stray strands from her forehead just before gathering all of her hair up in a ponytail and tying it with a simple Muggle elastic band. She knew she hadn’t done it as neatly as what was usually expected of her, but she figured the best thing about “getting away” was that she didn’t have to care about what other people thought because there was no one around that she knew. There wouldn’t be friends or family asking, “What happened to your hair?” or “What are you wearing?” and “Scuba diving? You?”

The island, filled with pleasant strangers and laid-back locals, were the best company, because, in an ironic sort of way, they left her alone. In the last four days, her social life had centered around brunch and dinner, chatting up hotel guests at the buffet and having one or two of them join her table. The rest of her hours were spent in solitude at the beach, reading, sleeping, and tanning. Occasionally, she would hole up in her room, lazily alternating between sleep and Muggle television. It was a dream, a very pleasant one, at that, and was—as Hermione often surmised—much better than the nightmare.

Voldemort’s dead, she often had to remind herself these last few days, mostly because he hadn’t been dead for long. One week and four days… has it only been that long since the beginning of the end?

The story had felt like it had gone on for eons.

The last year had stretched her thin, each day harder than the last. That her sanity survived was some kind of personal achievement. Often, she had gone to bed, thinking that she couldn’t take any more of it; that she was going to snap in her sleep, and that when next she wakened, her mind would be trapped in some kind of delusion while in reality she was a drooling, weeping mess.

She owed her sanity to Harry. She felt that she owed Harry many things.

And the world owes him some peace and quiet.

She sighed, wishing that her thoughts didn’t always drift to Harry. She always ended up feeling a bit sorry for herself, which was pathetic, even to her.

Let the boy lead a normal life, with his normal Quidditch career, and his normal girlfriend. Don’t give him any more drama. He’s had enough of that.

Hermione could see him trying out for Puddlemere United, while Ginny sat on the stands, cheering him on.

She eyed the bottle of rum sitting on the coffee table. She’d bought the rum on impulse at the hotel’s thrift store, first day of her island stay. It hadn’t been touched, and she wasn’t quite sure if she had been planning to drink it alone. She figured it might be her innate sense of “planning ahead” for everything, even if she was trying to make some kind of conscious decision to put everything, even the habits that defined her, on indefinite leave.

Like the eventuality that I’d want to drown my thoughts in mind-numbing liquor.

She resisted the urge to toss the bottle over her balcony railing, mostly because she was on the third floor of the low-rise hotel she was staying in, and that she was in great danger of hitting someone below.

Tucking the edges of her skirt around her legs, she curled up one leg on her oversized and cushioned wicker chair and toed the bottle of rum with her other foot. She wondered if she could ever be miserable enough to actually break the seal off the cap.

Remembering the scene that was Harry and Ginny kissing at the Burrow’s picturesque backyard, she figured she could be that miserable, because she couldn’t exactly be angry, could she?

Not like Harry and I were together or anything. And really, what does one or two kisses with your best friend mean these days, anyway? In a day and age where sex seems such a random act, kissing is nothing… right?

She bit her lip, willing herself not to cry. She was not going to cry alone.

Harry needed comfort that day. We both did. That’s all it was. He needed someone to touch and so he kissed me, and I kissed back, and it felt wonderful, but it…

Sniffing, she hardened her heart. It wasn’t really for me, was it?

Hermione reached for the rum, twisted the cap off, and practically choked on the smell of the alcohol. “Ugh.”

She put the cap back on and set the bottle back down.

Maybe tomorrow.

“I was always more of a wine drinker, myself.”

Hermione gave a yelp of surprise, banging her foot on the coffee table edge. The impact of it shook the rum to toppling, making it roll over the surface.

She swore shamelessly, both from the stabbing pain that emanated from her foot and the inevitable demise of the rum. She anticipated the sound of shattering glass and rum spilling everywhere, but the crash never came as the bottle hung suspended in the air, a few inches off the floor.

She watched, drop-jawed, as the bottle was slowly set, right side up, unharmed.

Finally, she looked up and saw Harry staring worriedly down at her. “Alright there, Hermione?”

She stared for several more seconds before she finally found her voice. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

His eyebrow arched before a ghost of a smile threatened to form on his lips. His green eyes danced as he slanted a look at her, mildly chastising her for asking such questions just before he turned his gaze to the view beyond her balcony.

“Nice view. The hotel staff seemed really nice, too,” he said.

She wasn’t about to get sidetracked. Her foot screamed to be treated, but she decided it could wait. She was more intent on running off at the mouth, which she did. “I specifically told mother not to tell anyone where I’ve gone, and didn’t she tell you I was alright? I’ve emailed her twice since I left London and she had no reason to suppose I needed company. And you! You didn’t have to follow! If I wanted anyone with me, I’d have said so!”

He chuckled. “Bit of the tropical temper seeping in, eh?”

She frowned. Did he think this was funny? “How did you even get into my room?”

“This from the woman who taught me how to break into locked doors at the tender age of eleven.”

“Twelve. I was twelve! And you ought to know by now that when a door is locked and you’re outside of it, it means you’re not invited to go in!”

“Now that’s one lesson you never taught me, not in the nine years we’ve known each other Ms. Granger.”

She made a sound of disgust and finally turned away from him. With gritted teeth, she checked her foot. The blood around the area of the small gash had thickened, but it was nothing to be particularly alarmed about. Still, her foot ached, the way small wounds were apt to do.

“You’re hurt.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” and she didn’t just mean her foot. She wasn’t going to tell him that, though.

He sat himself on the coffee table in front of her and gently took her by the ankle.

“H-Hey!” she cried, scrambling to preserve her modesty with awkward maneuvers of her skirt. It wasn’t easy.

He grinned, though he did not pull his gaze from the examination of her foot. “I’ve seen you in your knickers, Hermione.”

“That was an accident!”

“Oh, you think so, eh?”

She blushed hotly. “You should’ve knocked!”

“Well, yes, but where’s the fun in that?”

“Harry Potter!”

“Do you have a first-aid kit handy?” He looked up at her, all business.

Never mind that he was rubbing her foot rather soothingly.

Her stomach flopped around a bit and she wondered if he knew what he was doing to her. “Erm… um, in my suitcase, there’s a small satchel…”

He grinned a grin that said, of course she had a first-aid kit with her. She scowled, but it didn’t reduce his amusement in the least. He stroked the arch of her foot and her scowl instantly disappeared amidst the blossoming blush.

Perhaps satisfied that he had appeased her, he set her foot gently aside and got to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

She took the moment to breathe in and out of the fresh air, focusing on the slight scent of salt and water; taking in the green and red colors against the golden sand and bright blue sky.

When she had properly convinced herself that she was aware of her surroundings, she began to gather her bearings.

It was perfectly natural for her to be shocked by Harry’s sudden appearance. This was supposed to be her post-Voldemort-drama getaway. Her time away from hurtful realities.

She had counted on being alone on this trip, but shit happened, yes? She’d learned that having known Harry these past nine years.

But that wasn’t what really got to her. What bothered her most was that he seemed to be taking everything—her disappearance, his discovery of her, her annoyance bordering on antagonism—so calmly. If Harry had gone and disappeared on them all, telling no one but—say, Remus of his whereabouts, she’d be hopping mad. She’d twist arms, find him, and scold and lecture until she was blue in the face.

Harry, on the contrary, was the picture of serenity and poise, absolutely at peace with the so-called world. Sure, Harry had been her firm, unshakable anchor many times in their once Voldemort-ridden lives, but they had, on every instance one or the other had disappeared without notice—first—freaked-out about it, and—second—gone ballistic when said abscondee came back relatively unharmed.

Right now, Harry was rummaging softly through her things and humming—humming!—something. What in the world was he so happy about?

Erm, that he survived Voldemort?

Other than that!

She urged herself to calm down, reminding herself that the only reason she was so flustered right now was because of all the people she had wanted to get away from, it had been Harry, and the fact that he was the one who had gone looking for her, and had found her, to boot, was understandably discombobulating.

He returned, carrying the first-aid kit with him. He set it on the coffee table, sat, and gestured for her foot.

She considered being stubborn and resisting, but the mischievous smile that threatened to break from his lips, waiting for her to do just that, was insufferable. She stretched out her leg, thumping the heel of her foot on his lap.

Without a word, Harry took out a cotton pad and applied alcohol on it. Gently, he wiped the cloth on the wound.

She flinched and hissed upon feeling the sting, but he blew on it. The feel of his breath on her skin turned the flip-flopping of her stomach into a full-blown circus trapeze.

He looked up and smiled. “Better?”

She pursed her lips. She didn’t trust herself to speak. “Umm-hmm.”

He dug out some Muggle antibiotic, swabbed a thin film of it on the wound, and covered the wound with one of her ocean-theme band-aids. He charmed the images to move, and the flounder began to bob up and down, catching the bubbles sprouting from the sea anemone’s mouth.

Hermione couldn’t help a small giggle, wiggling her toes and forgetting that she was supposed to be grouchy.

“Well,” said Harry, cocking a smirk. “Now that you appear to be in a better mood, may I ask you why you felt the need to disappear from London without telling your two best friends?”

At that her laughter dwindled. She took a moment to blush at the answer that cropped up in her head before she frowned and gave him a safe reply. “I just had to get away, Harry. You know how the press has been. All those silly questions and inane interviews… and those gossip columns, too. They’re treating us like movie stars because they’ve completely forgotten the fact that we were fighting to live, and that so many people have died because of… well, you know why.”

He nodded, a hint of grief creeping through the placid look in his eyes. “I know why, but Hermione, Ron and I were going through that too. If you wanted to get away from the fanfare, you could have asked me and Ron to go with you.”

She shrugged nonchalantly, swerving her eyes to the view of the beach. “Oh, you and Ron were properly preoccupied. Ron has Lavender and you…” She paused, wondering if she could say it without seeming too obviously devastated.

“And I…?”

“You have Ginny,” she said in the most nonchalant tone she could muster. She continued to stare out to the beach, but she could feel Harry’s gaze on her.

The silence stretched for a moment that felt far too long.

Finally, Harry spoke. “I see.”

He did not add anything more. He fell silent again, turning a bit for his own view of the beach. They took several minutes not looking at one another, though her foot still rested on his lap, and he was still stroking it, his fingers idly avoiding the band-aid.

She tried not to let it affect her so much, though it had her full attention, even while she pretended to stare thoughtlessly at the view.

“And you? You felt you had no one?” he suddenly asked, mildly starling her.

She took a moment to compose her thoughts. “I was stuck with my mother,” she blurted. “I think she’s lovely, you understand, but she’s my mother, hence she cannot help but mother me, hence it drove me insane. I thought a little getaway was just the thing.”

“And when were you planning on coming back?”

She shrugged. She actually hadn’t thought that far ahead. The part of her that “planned” things had been put on “vacation” too, and while it nagged her on occasion, four days wasn’t long enough for it to fester.

“I see,” he said again. “Well, good thing I found you, then. If I never knew where you’d gone off to and if you never came back… well, that would make me very upset, I reckon.”

She looked guiltily at the mosaic-patterned floor, but she decided she wasn’t going to apologize for what she had done, not when Harry didn’t completely understand why, and not when she couldn’t explain it all without looking like a complete fool.

“I knew you were gone that first day you left, you know,” he said.

This surprised her. “Oh? And how so?”

“I’d had a book sent to your mum’s house.”

“A book?” She wasn’t following.

He nodded. “Intermediate Thaumaturgy and Muggle Physics.”

She kept her cool, though she wanted to gush with appreciation and delight. She wanted to clap her hands and say, “Oh, Harry, thank you!” But she was supposed to be aloof, wasn’t she? Though she’d partially forgotten why.

Because he chose someone else, she reminded herself.

Still, he must have seen the sparkle in her eyes at the mention of the book, because he cocked a brief smile, smug at the confirmation that he knew what books she liked. “When you didn’t floo me about it, I went to your mum’s and she said the package arrived, but you weren’t there. She tried to lie about your whereabouts but… well, your mum’s an awful liar.”

“Ordinarily, I’d say that’s a good thing,” she muttered.

“Didn’t take a lot to get her to crack. A smile here, a wink there…”

She was her mother’s child, it seemed. The pair of them fools for Harry Potter. “Humph. My own flesh and blood betrayed me.”

“She told me where you were that first day you were gone. I could’ve followed you immediately.”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

“Woman like you, leaving secretly, telling no one, not even her best friends… I can take a hint, Granger.”

She reddened and nonsensically examined her nails.

“Didn’t mean I was going to wait around until you got back, though,” he continued. “The last thing I wanted you to think was that no one cared if you were gone.”

She gave a mild scoff. “Don’t be silly, Harry. I wouldn’t think that. I know you and Ron would miss me.”

His eyebrow arched as she stifled a mischievous smile. He tried to glare at her but he failed, and he ended up shaking his head and chuckling.

He stood and nudged her gently with his leg. “Move aside. That chair looks terribly comfortable.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “Harry! We wouldn’t fit!”

“Yes, we will. Like so.” He squeezed in, adjusting her so that she was half draped on him and they were sitting shoulder to shoulder.

Hermione tensed momentarily, wondering if supposed best friends who happened to be of the opposite sex were ever meant to sit this way. Perhaps they were. “Harry…”

He didn’t seem the least bit tense about it at all. In fact, he looked extremely comfortable, his finger making idle circles on the back of her shoulder. The laughter had gone from his eyes and he was looking at her with a mixture of hurt and acceptance. When he spoke, he spoke softly. “For real now, Hermione. Why did you leave London without telling me?”

She was completely conscious of the fact that he hadn’t said, “without telling me and Ron.” He was asking for him, and him alone. That had her flustered.

Hermione blinked several times as she chose her words. She thought about lying again, but it was difficult within such close proximity of his gaze. “I… I had to get away…” It was the truth, just not the whole of it. It was all she could manage at the moment.

“From me?” he asked quietly.

Her eyes widened momentarily, a denial poised on her lips, but she realized it was true. Essentially, she needed to get away from him; from the idea that he was happy with Ginny, and that she, Hermione, had only been some fling amidst the madness. It had hurt her terribly to think that he had no deep feelings for her, when she had fallen so painfully in love with her best friend. Worse of all, she couldn’t find it in her heart to be mad at him, because in a way, she felt that he had suffered enough, that he had lost so many of the people he loved, so she wasn’t going to be another one of his casualties. He wasn’t going to lose her, just because she had lost him.

She smiled plaintively. “It doesn’t matter. The point is I would’ve gone back for you. You’re my best friend, you know.”

A split-second frown marred the serenity of his expression, and then the displeasure was gone, washed away by better thoughts. “I wouldn’t have waited around, obviously. Especially since I’ve been pretty much dealing with everything by myself since you left… I missed you.”

His fingers were tangling themselves in her poofy strands of hair and she swallowed nervously.

“Harry, does Ginny know you’re here?” she asked, hoping he would get the hint.

He seemed completely unfazed. He nodded. “Um hmm.”

Her brows knitted. “And what did she have to say about it?”

“I don’t know. Was she supposed to have a say in it?”

“She’s your girlfriend,” she said through gritted teeth. It was very frustrating to have to spell it out.

Now he really did frown. “Since when?”

“Harry!”

“Seriously, Hermione. The last time Ginny and I got together was my sixth year! That hardly gives her authority over me these days.”

“But—“

He sighed. “I’ve found myself having to explain this over and over again… where did everyone get the notion that Ginny and I were destined to be together after all the fuss with Dark Wizards was done? Because I didn’t get the memo!”

She scowled, her resentment clamping on to her emotions like steel claws. “Oh, didn’t you? It sure seemed like you knew all about the memo at the Burrow!”

He stared at her, confused and surprised at the venom in her tone.

She was shocked at herself, and she thought maybe her face would explode from sheer humiliation. She wanted to hit herself over the head again and again, maybe then her brain-mouth coordination would right itself.

“Oh, Harry…” she breathed. “I’m sorry. I had no right to go off on you like that. I—“

“She kissed me,” he said all of a sudden, a hint of desperation in his tone. “I didn’t kiss her back. And she and I… we aren’t going to work. Not after all the things I’ve gone through and all the things she hasn’t.”

Hermione felt something catch in her throat. It might have been her heart, what with it leaping so high. She struggled for a response. “That’s—that’s too bad, Harry.”

“Is it?” he asked. It almost sounded like a whisper. “Is that what you really think?”

“I—“ The automatic lie, that creature of rationale and logic that had urged her to hide her feelings for Harry threatened to rear its ugly head, but the beautiful gleam in his green eyes, the very ones that had her loving him in the last year because they kissed that one time, or because he turned to her when he was troubled, or because he looked to her when they laughed, or held her hand because he saw she was afraid, or held her close for what might be the last time… it washed her fear away, bringing it with the tide of her emotions.

He had been brave for her so many times, so maybe it was time to be brave for herself.

“No,” she replied. “Not really.”

She left London because she thought Ginny was all he ever wanted, and that everything he did from the moment they left Hogwarts behind forever was for her. Hermione left London because she didn’t want to hate him for loving someone else, because she still wanted to be his best friend, even if that was all he was willing to give her.

He smiled and turned his gaze to the sound of laughing children below. The children carried shovels and pails. They were going to build castles in the sand with seashells for windows and little Hermit Crabs to walk the crude parapets.

“I’d been hoping we could talk,” he said. “You’re right about how crazy it has been. We haven’t had a moment’s peace since You-Know-Who was destroyed.”

She studied his face as he said “You-Know-Who.” He’d been doing that since he woke up in St. Mungo’s, and many, not just her, had wondered why he was doing that. At first she thought it was because Voldemort had finally frightened him. But now, seeing the serenity on his face undisturbed, she realized that he simply wasn’t saying Voldemort’s name because he just—well, he didn’t want to say it, much like calling an ex-flame a You-Know-Who because saying her name left a bad taste in one’s mouth.

“Everyone was buzzing around me,” he continued. “Everyone wanted to know if I was alright, or if I wanted company, or if I needed this or that… it was exhausting, and all I wanted was to speak to you. Alone. You were there, but you weren’t—I was hoping you’d boss all of them to go away.”

She laughed at this before pondering it a moment. “There were people… who cared. They were watching out for you, the Weasleys. I—I think maybe I felt out of place. They were family. Your family.”

“Did they make you feel out of place?”

“Well, I… it’s nothing like that. I suppose I just wasn’t sure then if you still needed me.”

“Of course I needed you,” he said softly. “You were the only one I needed then, and you were standing at some corner I couldn’t reach. I just wanted to know, you know…?”

“Know what?”

“If it meant anything. Kissing me the way you did back then; before I went off to fight You-Know-Who.”

It baffled her that he even had to ask that. “Of course it meant something, Harry. It meant everything to me. But you were—I didn’t know if it was something you needed, or something you wanted. There’s a difference, see. When you need something, you’d—you’d take it from anyone willing to give it. But when you want something, there are specifics involved, I suppose. Like you might need a kiss, but perhaps—maybe you’d want it from… me?”

He leaned his head back on the great whicker chair, tilting his gaze at her and smiling fondly. He was back to making idle circles on her shoulder, just before he pulled her closer in his embrace. Their lips were upon each other, touching and tasting, hot and humid, like tropical heat.

A flush of warmth pooled within her, an intoxicating shot of lips upon tongue.

And then she was breathing again, gasping for air. Him too. They could have gone on, submerged in their little glimpse of paradise.

“Bon bini!” cried the distant sound of the Macao. “Welcome,” it had said.

Hermione laughed, her upturned lips brushing against his.

He was laughing, too. Softly. He wrapped his arms more firmly around her, shifting her on his lap and riding her skirt higher so she could wrap herself around him.

She kissed him, drunk and perhaps drowning in all that was him; having him in her arms and feeling him kiss her back.

A gust of wind blew with the loud crashing of waves. Shrieks of delight from the beach broke through her consciousness. It was distant. In the background. And when she pulled back to look at him, he was smiling, running her fingers through her frizzling hair.

His lips were red and inviting.

Doors could make the sounds even quieter, she thought.

“Nice place you have here,” he said in a tone that suggested something boiled beneath the surface. “Cozy.”

“If we go inside, it’s private,” she breathed.

“Hmm. Very private,” he whispered. “So you don’t mind then? Having me here in your little island getaway?”

“Well, it’s not just mine anymore, is it? It’s our island getaway, now.”

He smiled, the scorching heat in his gaze casting soothing warmth. “But it’s not just a getaway anymore, is it? At least I hope not…”

She thought about what he was saying and of course, she understood. “It isn’t. I love you, Harry. The only thing I wanted to get away from was the idea that you didn’t love me back.”

He looked up at her, pushing some of her hair from her face. “Well, then… there’s absolutely nothing you need to get away from.”

She smiled at him with imploring eyes. Say it. Please?

He did, because he understood, too. “I love you.”

The sound of island music wafted from beyond them, bursting amidst the cheers of locals and guests alike. It was finally happy hour, two drinks for the price of one.

The melody of steel drums, clinking glass, and singing voices faded into the background. Hermione’s thoughts scattered like sand caught in the swirling current of Harry’s kiss. There were no oceans between them anymore, just that touch of breeze on her back and shoulders, the soft and hard feel of him as his hands shifted the straps of her dress aside, and the warmth of the late island sun on her tanned-golden skin as he lifted her, her legs wrapped around him, and brought her back into her plush tropical-themed room.