Masquerade by Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 29/03/2010
Last Updated: 05/05/2010
Status: Completed

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Hermione makes a quick decision in a last attempt
to get what she wants: Harry. But will one night of passion be all she gets?




1. Part 1
---------

Disclaimer: HP and everyone you recognize belongs to JKR; all I own is the plot and, well,
Meredith Lungren—and a lot of debt.

Author’s Note: This fic started out as a very insistent plot bunny, even if it did seem a little
OOC on Hermione’s part. I’ve tried to make it as in-character as possible, though, and leave it to
you for how successful I was. Part 1 of 4. Enjoy!

**Masquerade**

*Part 1*

It was a very familiar scene.

Hermione had lost count of how many times she’d seen it happen in the past seven months.

The very pretty girl sauntered over to Harry, an inviting smile curving her lips, and struck up
a conversation. Harry smiled and responded politely. Always politely—Harry was nothing if not
polite, for the most part. The girl talked and laughed and, yes, flirted, with varying levels of
obviousness. But then before too long—how long depended on how determined the girl was or how
oblivious—the girl realized that Harry was not responding, was determinedly and firmly
uninterested, no matter how courteous he was. And then the girl left, leaving Harry alone.

At least until the next girl came along to repeat the scene.

This particular girl—who was very pretty indeed, with the sort of blonde hair and perfect figure
that people tended to associate with actresses or models—was lasting a little longer than Hermione
had expected. (It was not exactly admirable of her but Hermione had begun playing a game of sorts,
trying to predict how long it would be before each girl realized that Harry simply wasn’t
interested.) For this girl, Hermione had mentally expected it would take 20 minutes, a generous
assessment but then Hermione had surmised that, judging from the way the girl looked and moved, she
would find the idea that any red-blooded male wouldn’t fall for her to be utterly
incomprehensible.

So far, the girl had lasted and lingered more than 25 minutes and showed no signs of giving up
yet.

She was persistent. Even dedicated. Hermione could almost feel a flicker of sympathy for the
girl. Almost, but not quite.

It may have been hopeless—she’d (almost) resigned herself to that—but she couldn’t help but view
all these girls who paraded in front of Harry as rivals. Rivals for that oh-so-coveted position of
being Harry Potter’s girlfriend, Harry Potter’s lover. Not that she really was a rival; to call her
that would imply that she had some chance of becoming Harry Potter’s girlfriend and she knew it was
hopeless. She knew what she was; she was Harry Potter’s best friend, no more and no less, and
always would be. Harry would no more think of kissing her or dating her than he would think of
dating Ron. She knew that perfectly well.

But it didn’t keep her from watching all these girls as they approached Harry, flirted with
Harry—and even if, until now, he hadn’t yet responded to any of these flirtations, there was always
the knowledge that one day, he *would*. One day, some girl would catch Harry’s eye and his
interest. One day, some girl would succeed where all the others had failed and *she* would be
the girl that Harry kissed and touched and loved...

It hadn’t happened yet but it would happen someday, sooner rather than later, she expected,
since Harry had already been without a girlfriend for more than eight months (having broken up with
Ginny in September) and it could hardly be expected that Harry, who had just about every female in
the country between the ages of 15 and 40 throwing herself at him, could be single for much longer.
It would happen—and Hermione lived in fear of it happening.

Hermione tried not to frown, feeling a small flicker of... some emotion she didn’t care to name,
as she realized that the girl had now been talking to Harry for more than 30 minutes now and showed
no signs of leaving. Worse, Harry was smiling and talking with rather more animation than he
usually showed these girls who threw themselves at him and then—Hermione tried not to wince—he
laughed at something the girl said. He laughed and then grinned at the girl in that way that
Hermione knew would make his eyes bright, that way that never failed to make Hermione’s heart
flutter a little, no matter how many times she’d seen it.

She really should look away; this was bordering on masochism, this stupid, morbid inability to
stop watching Harry.

But just as she’d almost managed to tear her gaze away, he looked up and his eyes met hers
and... And Harry proved why, in spite of everything, she couldn’t stop loving him.

His eyes brightened as he smiled and then he excused himself from the girl, as if he was utterly
blind to the fact that she was one of the prettiest girls in the room, and made his way across the
crowded pub to her. Leaving the girl to blink after him as if she couldn’t believe the evidence of
her own eyes.

“Hermione! I didn’t think you were coming tonight.” Harry slung his arm around her shoulder in a
quick, half-hug of greeting. It was a companionable gesture, a friendly gesture.

“I wasn’t going to but I finished up my work a little early and figured I might as well stop
by,” Hermione said and then added, with a teasing smile, “Someone has to make sure you and Ron
don’t get into too much trouble.”

Harry laughed. “Of course. Whatever would Ron and I do without our Little Miss Prefect to keep
us on the straight and narrow?”

“I shudder to think,” Hermione quipped.

“So do I. You don’t have a drink,” he added. “Come on, we can’t have that.” So saying, he put
his hand on her back and led her towards the bar, giving her the benefit of that unique way that
people naturally tended to give way to him (one of the consequences of being the hero of the
wizarding world) so they made their way to the bar in no time at all.

They found Ron at the bar, ordering another Firewhiskey. Ron greeted her with an exuberance that
spoke volumes for how much he’d drunk, giving her a bear-hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek.
“Hermione, you came! I told you, you should get out more. Let’s get you a drink, eh. A
firewhiskey?”

“No, just a butterbeer,” Hermione corrected him hastily.

Ron made a comically-exaggerated face of dismay. “Aww, Hermione, don’t be like that. We’re at a
pub; what else are we supposed to do but drink, on a Friday night at that?” Not waiting for her
response, he raised his voice a little to be heard over the noise. “Another firewhiskey,” he
ordered.

“Ron, no. I promised to get into work early tomorrow morning.” Hermione protested but her
protest was rather lame as she knew she’d be wasting her breath. Ron could never quite understand
that working at St. Mungo’s didn’t give her the luxury of the weekends. It was simply his way and
she’d given up on trying to change that, and part of her loved him for it, knew that he was a good
way of making sure she didn’t over-work herself, as she might otherwise have done.

The fire-whiskey arrived but before Ron could hand it to her, Harry smoothly stepped in and took
possession of the bottle. “A butterbeer for my friend here,” he ordered quickly.

Harry being who he was, the butterbeer arrived almost immediately and Hermione accepted it with
a quick smile for Harry, who acknowledged it with a quick grin before he drank the Firewhiskey he’d
appropriated.

Ron rolled his eyes a little but subsided—this being a recurring theme between them—and then he
was hailed by the group of rowdy, laughing fellows he’d been talking with, his teammates on the
Chudley Cannons. He returned to them with a last grin at Hermione and a “glad you could come,
Hermione,” leaving Harry and Hermione alone.

Hermione looked after Ron with an indulgent smile before she turned to look at Harry, who
returned her smile and began to steer her back through the crowd to a quieter corner. “Come on,
let’s go where we can actually hear ourselves think.”

“You don’t need to stay with me, you know,” she blurted out, not letting herself think about it.
“When I came in, it looked like you’d just made a new friend.”

He threw her a half-sheepish, half-laughing look, as he usually did whenever she referred to one
of those many girls who threw themselves at him. “Have some mercy, Hermione. You can’t mean to
throw me to the wolves so soon after you arrived.”

“She was certainly a very pretty wolf, though.”

Harry shrugged a little. “Yeah, pretty enough,” he agreed indifferently. “Too blonde for my
taste, though.”

Hermione had to fight against the renegade flare of happiness at his obvious lack of interest in
the girl, pretty as she might have been. Instead, she settled for a light laugh. “How can someone
be *too* blonde? It’s not really a characteristic that goes by degrees.”

Harry shot her a mock-irritated glance but the look was belied by his tone and the smile tugging
at the corners of his lips. “Thank you, Professor Granger, for pointing out the imprecision of that
statement. I meant that I don’t really like blondes.”

“Well, she made you laugh so she can’t have been all bad,” Hermione observed.

“No, she wasn’t. That was unfair of me. After she stopped gushing over my so-called bravery for
about ten minutes, she became a lot more pleasant to talk to. Her name’s Annabel and she’s a
reporter for the Daily Prophet. It’s her job to go to the Quidditch matches so she can write about
them. I told her that didn’t sound like a job so much as it sounded like fun.” He threw her a
laughing glance. “Merlin knows I’d love it if someone would pay me to go to Quidditch games.”

She shook her head in mock disapproval. “Harry, you go to every Quidditch game you possibly can.
Don’t you think that doing nothing but watching Quidditch might get a little tiresome after a
while?”

Harry gave her a look of exaggerated shock. “Too much Quidditch? Impossible! Haven’t you learned
yet, Hermione, that you can never go to too many Quidditch matches? Just ask Ron.”

“No thanks,” Hermione said drily, a smile tugging at her lips. “I make it a point to never ask
Ron about Quidditch since he’s not exactly sane where Quidditch is concerned.”

Harry laughed. “Ouch, poor Ron! But you may be right. There is more to life than Quidditch.” He
paused and gave her a look of mock severity. “Now, remember that I said that because you’ll never
hear me say it again and if you tell Ron I said so, I’ll deny it.”

It was Hermione’s turn to laugh, meeting Harry’s eyes as he grinned at her. And as always, she
had to tamp down her flutter of reaction to the sight of his smile and his eyes, sparkling with
humor.

Harry reached across the small table between them to give her arm a brief, friendly squeeze.
“I’m glad you came, Hermione. Our nights out are always more fun when you come.”

Hermione only smiled at him as she drank her butterbeer and suppressed a small sigh. After all,
it was worth a lot to be Harry’s best friend. And yet... Harry’s friendship would never be enough
for her—not when she wanted his love.

~

It really was Ron’s fault.

He was the one that brought up the subject and he was the one who made the careless remark that
really led to such an impulsive, reckless decision. Reckless, her! Really, it had to be Ron’s
fault; only Ron could possibly say something so stupid that it would make her act so recklessly.
Not that he would have dreamed of his words having such an effect, even in his wildest dreams. But
then, she would never have expected it of herself either.

It all started at one of their weekly dinners just with the three of them and Hermione had just
asked Harry what he wanted to do for his birthday that was coming up in a week.

Harry wrinkled his nose a little. “I don’t really want to make a big deal of it, was just
thinking of the three of us going out somewhere but Mrs. Weasley’s insisted we all come over to the
Burrow for a celebration. I think if she had her way, she’d have invited half the Ministry but I
told her not to.”

Ron jumped in. “Anyway, I know one thing we’re definitely doing, on the day before that, since
it’s a Friday. We’re going out to a bar and *you*, old chap, are going to find some girl to
bring over for the night.”

“Ron,” Harry protested, not heatedly but mildly, since this wasn’t, by any means, the first time
Ron had suggested such a thing.

Ron went on as if Harry hadn’t even spoken. “I’m serious, Harry, mate. You’ve been living like a
bloody monk for almost nine months now and I’m tired of it. I mean, Merlin, Harry, if I had even
half the girls that you do, throwing themselves at me, I’d shag a new girl every week!”

“So chivalrous of you, Ron,” Hermione said drily.

Ron blinked, looked at Hermione as if just remembering her presence, and then colored up until
even his ears turned red, as he realized that it may not have been the most tactful thing to say in
the hearing of his female best friend, who also happened to be his ex-girlfriend. “Sorry, Hermione,
I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

Hermione waved off the apology. She knew Ron had only spoken thoughtlessly; Ron didn’t, she
knew, consider her to be a girl, in spite of—or perhaps because of—their short-lived and
un-regretted dating relationship. “Don’t worry about it, Ron. I’ve given up on being offended at
anything you say. If I got offended every time you said something stupid, I’d spend my entire life
offended.”

“Hey!” Ron almost yelped half-indignantly at the same time as Harry laughed.

“She’s got a point there, Ron,” Harry told Ron with a teasing grin.

“Nice friends you are,” Ron huffed in mock hurt. “But seriously, Harry, it’s getting bloody
tiresome living with a monk or a saint. You need a shag, even if it’s just a one-night stand.”

“Leave me alone, Ron. I can take care of my own love life, thank you,” Harry responded a little
tiredly.

“Clearly, you can’t or we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Ron shot back.

“Can I help it if I don’t choose to shag girls who are just interested in being with the Boy Who
Lived?”

There was a touch of bitter cynicism in Harry’s rather sharp question that had Hermione inwardly
flinching. She hadn’t realized just how much Harry minded all the attention he got from girls who
knew nothing about him except his name and his status.

“No,” Ron’s answer was mild, tempered with his own understanding. “But does that really matter
for a one-night stand? C’mon, mate, live a little.”

Harry threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, fine, I’ll think about it. I won’t
make any promises but I’ll consider it. Satisfied?”

Ron rolled his eyes a little, even as he looked rather smug. “You’re a freak, you know that,
Potter? Only you would make shagging some hot girl sound like a chore. You have the pick of all the
sexiest girls in town. Lighten up and enjoy yourself; you’ll thank me for it later.”

Harry snorted a little. “If you say so.”

“Seriously, Harry, it doesn’t have to be a one-night stand, though. I mean, you can’t tell me
that *all* the girls you’ve met are only interested in a shag with the Boy Who Lived. It’s
about time you started dating again, you know. What about that Meredith Lungren? I know I’ve seen
you talking to her several times and you seem to get along well. She’s pretty too.”

“I like Meredith; she’s a lot of fun. And,” Harry added with a teasing glance at Hermione,
“aside from Hermione here, she might be the only girl I’ve met who has yet to say anything silly to
me.”

Hermione forced a smile. She’d met Meredith a few times and had to agree with Harry’s assessment
of her. If she were totally honest, she had to admit that if it hadn’t been for the fact that
Meredith had, in her own quite subtle way, made it clear she liked Harry a lot, Hermione herself
would have thought they could end up friends. As it was… Hermione pasted a smile on her face and
tried not to hope that something would happen to prevent Meredith Lungren from going out on the
Friday night before Harry’s birthday. Surely it wasn’t too mean-spirited and petty of her to wish
that Meredith would be taken mildly ill on Thursday, maybe just enough to make her nose red and
sniffly and her eyes watery and, in general, render her thoroughly unattractive…

“So you should just shag Meredith then. She’s made it obvious enough that she’s willing,” Ron
said with the air of one having settled an issue.

“So maybe I will,” Harry exclaimed, not in excitement or in determination but in burgeoning
irritation. “Now, will you leave me alone?”

Ron sat back, looking smug. “You’ll thank me for it, Potter,” he predicted.

Harry’s only response was to shoot him a decidedly skeptical look.

Ron shrugged a little as if to indicate the end of the matter, before he looked over at
Hermione. “Say, Hermione, will you come with us next week?”

Hermione had to force a smile. Come with them to watch Harry look actively for a new girlfriend?
“Come with you while you two bachelors are partying it up? Not likely. Anyway, I think I’ll have to
work late that night. I’ll see you guys at the Burrow the next day.”

Ron shrugged. “Suit yourself. Not like you couldn’t try to hook up with some fellow too.”

Hermione forced a calmly indifferent smile.

The only fellow she wanted to “hook up with” was Harry—and he was out of her reach.

~

Hermione threw down the treatise she’d been trying to read in disgust. She hadn’t managed to
read more than a page in the last 2 hours. She kept on being distracted wondering what Harry was
doing, if Meredith Lungren was there, if Harry had met some other girl he found attractive,
picturing Harry smiling at another girl, kissing another girl...

She gave up. Clearly, there was no way she was going to be at all productive tonight.

Hermione sighed and gave herself up to a rare bout of self-pity. Harry would, apparently, rather
shag some random, nameless, faceless girl—and Hermione included Meredith Lungren in that group
since, really, it wasn’t like Meredith knew Harry all that well either-- than ever consider looking
at her as anything other than his platonic best friend. Any one of those girls who knew nothing
about Harry except for his name and his status and cared even less... Any one of those girls who’d
never seen Harry in his despondent moments or in his outbursts of anger... Who knew nothing of the
nightmares he still occasionally had—and wouldn’t know what to make of them if they ever did find
out about them... Those girls who didn’t really know or care about Harry at all...

It began as a slow flicker of rebellion inside her and grew into a flame, a positive bonfire, of
emotion rioting inside her.

It simply wasn’t *right* that Harry should feel he had to shag one of those girls when
*she*, who knew him and loved him, was there...

No, it wasn’t right. And she, Hermione Jane Granger, was going to do something about it.

She wasn’t going to wait passively for Harry to notice her (and she suspected that if she did
wait passively, she’d be waiting for the rest of her life.)

A last, desperate—and possibly reckless—plan to try to get Harry’s attention, if only for once
in her life.

If Harry wanted a one-night stand with a stranger, then that was what he would get. But if—oh,
precious *if*—if the attraction she felt for him was mutual, if she could make him want her
too, then maybe—just maybe—this could be what finally made Harry notice her like *that*...

She glanced at the clock to see that it was nearly 9, which meant that, most likely, Harry and
Ron would have been at the club for just over a half-hour. (She knew that they’d decided to have a
guys dinner out with George, Bill, Charlie and probably Neville as well, since Neville was usually
included now in all the Weasley gatherings, since he’d started dating Ginny.)

She had just enough time to change her clothes and her appearance and then head to the club.

For once, she didn’t stop to consider the complications or the ramifications of her
hastily-conceived idea; she only acted on it.

She grabbed a bottle of the Firewhiskey which she kept a supply of for when Ron and Harry came
over to her flat (for the liquid courage) and then broke one of her own rules by bringing the
bottle into her bedroom with her as she threw open her closet doors to decide on what to wear for
this masquerade of hers.

What to wear. It obviously couldn’t be anything that either Harry or Ron would
recognize—although that should be easy enough as most of her usual attire could not be more removed
from anything that would be remotely appropriate for going to a bar in.

She suddenly remembered a pair of black trousers which she’d bought for a party and had only
worn once. They were formal enough to pass muster at a party (and had the benefit of being more
comfortable and practical than a skirt); plus, there was a strip of shiny, black satin down each
side of the trouser leg, that had the effect of making her legs look longer.

Hermione quickly stripped and then changed into the pants, not forgetting at the same time to
also change into one of the very few pairs of lacy knickers she owned.

And then for the top...

It was easy to discard the majority of her collection of shirts and blouses as being much too
prim and practical, which left a rather small selection to choose from. Hmph. Hermione made a
mental note to purchase a few more dressy tops. In the meantime, however...

Hermione dug into the back of her closet and emerged in a moment with what she’d just
remembered. It was one of her latest purchases and was as feminine in style as anything she owned,
thanks to the pattern of stylized flowers on it. It was the matter of a moment—and a few charms—to
altar the style of the shirt into a form-fitting, dressy tank top. After a moment’s thought,
Hermione used another charm to add trimming along the hems of both neck-line and the straps.

Hermione surveyed herself in her mirror with a degree of cautious satisfaction. The top was cut
in such a way as to subtly emphasize her figure without being too tight or too blatant. (She hadn’t
been watching Harry for so many months, didn’t know him so well, without learning that he disliked
girls who wore clothing that left nothing to the imagination; that sort of boldness tended to make
him shrink into himself, all his lingering shyness around girls coming to the fore.) The neckline
was lower than what she usually wore but still quite modest compared to some that Hermione had seen
on other girls.

She didn’t have a perfect figure by any means but this outfit was flattering and seemed to
subtly showcase what she did have.

Of course the clothing was the easy part.

Hermione grabbed her wand, considering her face for a moment, before she made a decision,
casting a glamour to change her appearance just enough so she looked like a different person
entirely. Her hair she made a lighter shade of brown, the shade of honey, and straightened it
completely, leaving it to fall freely past her shoulders (another element of her disguise because
she hardly ever wore her hair loose); her eyes became hazel; the shape of her nose subtly
altered.

Hermione nodded to her own reflection; she doubted her own parents would recognize her at that
moment, which meant that Harry and Ron certainly shouldn’t.

The last touch was to subtly alter the tone of her voice, one other thing that Harry would be
sure to recognize, making her voice a shade lower, huskier, the way she sometimes sounded just
after she awoke, when her throat was dry.

The changes finished, Hermione assessed herself one last time. No, she didn’t think she needed
to fear that Harry or Ron would recognize her.

God, was she really about to do this? Go to a club disguised as someone else in order to attract
Harry’s attention for a night?

An image flashed into her mind of some nameless, faceless girl who knew little about Harry and
cared about him as a person even less, twined around Harry—and she felt her resolve firm.

This was her chance to find out if she had a chance at all, if Harry would find her attractive
if he could, just once, stop viewing her as just best-friend-Hermione.

Even if it was just for this one night, she wanted Harry to want *her*… Wanted to know what
it was like to be desired by Harry.

*~To be continued…~*



2. Part 2
---------

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed Part 1. I hope this part is worth the
wait. Enjoy!

**Masquerade**

*Part 2*

Hermione spotted Harry almost immediately once she entered the club, in spite of how crowded it
was. (It was almost like a sixth sense, how she could find Harry so easily, no matter how crowded
the room.) Ron hadn’t spared his energies in spreading the word about Harry being present, judging
from the number of young people—particularly girls—milling around. There was some music playing but
it was easily drowned out by the sound of voices. (Another glance around told her that Meredith
Lungren wasn’t present—or, at least, not that Hermione could see. Which meant, most importantly,
that Meredith wasn’t talking to Harry.)

As she walked in, she saw a girl flounce away from Harry with disgruntlement clear in every line
of her figure as she left. Clearly, Harry hadn’t spared much time or subtlety in dismissing her and
Hermione wondered briefly just what Harry had found so disagreeable.

For a fleeting moment, Harry’s expression was unguarded, open, and Hermione felt her heart give
an almost painful throb of sympathy at the world-weariness of his expression in that one second
before he quickly covered it up with his usual, polite mask. That girl who had just left must have
really pricked at Harry somehow, to bring that jaded look to his eyes. And for that one moment,
Harry looked very alone and very lonely, aloof and solitary, apart from the throng of people.

It was a look he didn’t have often, one which she hated to see and usually tried to dispel
immediately with a joke or a quip of some kind.

And this was the person Ron had decided should deliberately seek out a one-night stand? There
were times Hermione wondered if Ron understood Harry at all, in spite of having known him for so
long. Harry didn’t do one-night stands, not so much out of any moral or chivalrous considerations
(although there was a touch of that, as well) but for the much simpler reason that Harry knew all
the girls who threw themselves at him did so only for his fame and his status—and if there was one
thing Harry detested, it was being viewed and treated as only the Boy Who Lived.

On the thought, the vague beginnings of a plan stirred in Hermione’s mind.

She fought her way through the crowd until she reached the bar where she ordered a cocktail and
then made her way, along an indirect route, towards where Harry was.

He was still standing alone, she saw, nursing his Firewhiskey.

Hermione maneuvered her way through the crowd until she was just behind him and deliberately
transferred her drink to the hand closest to him. And sure enough, in another moment, someone
jostled her from behind and some of her drink splashed Harry’s shirt, making him turn to see
her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. “Someone bumped into me.”

Harry gave her a small, impersonal smile—and Hermione had to tamp down the utterly irrational
flicker of mingled surprise and hurt, since she had never, ever been the recipient of one of
Harry’s coolly polite smiles and somehow hadn’t stopped to wonder how it would feel. “Don’t worry
about it. No harm done.” He pulled out his wand and cleaned his shirt with one quick flick before
pocketing his wand again. “It is awfully crowded in here tonight.”

“Still, I should have been more careful. I really am sorry.” Hermione gave Harry a small,
embarrassed smile and made as if to turn away.

“It was really nothing,” Harry hastened to add and she glanced back to him with another
smile.

“I should have known something like this would happen when I saw how crowded it was in here. It
makes moving around a positive hazard,” Hermione smiled, making something of a show of looking
around the room, her eyes finding Ron who was currently smiling flirtatiously down at a blond girl
she didn’t recognize.

“Yes, that’s one way of putting it,” Harry agreed. He paused and then, after a slightly awkward
moment, added, as he offered his hand, “I’m Harry.”

Hermione slipped her hand into Harry’s to shake it briskly—and then had to squash down the flare
of reaction she felt just at the touch of his palm against hers. Their hands fit with the ease of
years—except of course Harry wouldn’t know that. Hermione released Harry’s hand so quickly it made
the handshake seem rather abrupt as she gave him a small, purposely calm smile. “Of course you are.
I’m Helena… Watson,” she added quickly. She’d always heard that it’s easier to remember a lie when
it was close to the truth and she didn’t dare use her middle name since Harry was perfectly aware
of what it was. As for Watson, it was her mother’s maiden name but not something Harry would ever
associate with her, Hermione. “Nice to meet you.” She smiled into Harry’s eyes.

“Yes, it’s good to meet you, Helena,” Harry answered, rather absently—and something like
confusion flickered across his face as he stared at her for a moment before he blinked.

Hermione said nothing more and finally Harry asked, a little abruptly, “Sorry, but have we
met?”

Hermione blinked, surprised and felt the first flicker of doubt—could Harry possibly have
recognized—but no, if he had, he would have simply said so. “No, I’m sure we haven’t,” she
lied.

“No, of course not, silly question,” Harry apologized. “But you… er- remind me of someone, I
think.”

“Oh, who?” Hermione gave Harry a curious, if impersonal, smile.

“I—I can’t seem to remember,” Harry said with a little, self-deprecating laugh. “I told you it
was silly.”

“Well, they say everyone has a double somewhere in the world.”

“I guess.” Harry grinned at her and this time, it was a real smile, open and honest.

One of those smiles of his that always made Hermione want to smile back, one of those smiles
that never failed to make her heart give a little, foolish flutter. And for once, Hermione didn’t
bother to hide her reaction to his slightly crooked grin, let it show in her eyes and in her
responding smile.

And she knew he saw it too when something flickered across his face before he asked, with the
touch of abruptness that told her, who knew him so well, that he must have just decided he wanted
to get to know her, “So, what do you do, Helena?”

Hermione’s heart leaped. It seemed her crazy plan was succeeding, at least so far. “I work at
St. Mungo’s.”

Harry’s smile softened a little, his expression brightening, warming. “Oh, my best friend
Hermione Granger works there too. Do you know Hermione?”

Hermione’s heart clenched at the sound of her own name, the realization that the softening of
Harry’s expression was for *her*. But she couldn’t let it show and quickly answered, as
casually as possible, “Yes, I think we’ve met a couple times but then we’re also in different
departments so there aren’t many chances for interacting.”

Harry nodded. “Of course. Do you like the work?”

“Oh, yes. It’s nice to feel useful, you know. Nice to do something that we know we’re
well-suited for. I always wanted to be useful.” Hermione paused. “But of course,” she added
matter-of-factly, “you must feel something of the same with what you do.” Hermione stopped
abruptly, cutting herself off as she realized she’d forgotten her role but had answered Harry’s
question with the sincerity and something of the openness with which she would have answered him if
he’d ever asked her, as Hermione, the same question.

Harry blinked. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, it is nice to be needed.” He gifted her with a smile
that spoke of shared understanding, a smile that bordered on the intimate, a smile that was almost
like the one he gave *her*, as Hermione, in those moments when he knew she was thinking the
same thing as he was. “I never really thought of it in exactly those terms before but you’re quite
right.”

Of course she was; she knew Harry, had spoken with such confidence from her knowledge of him.
Had entirely forgotten the role she was playing, Hermione mentally scolded herself. She needed to
be more alert. Because if she knew Harry, Harry also knew her very well and she couldn’t have him
figuring out her identity now. She just hadn’t reckoned for how hard it was for her to lie to
Harry; aside from concealing her real feelings for him (and there, she rather suspected she failed
except that Harry was, fortunately—or not— oblivious), she’d never hidden anything from him. It was
as if her trust in him, her habit of telling him the truth, was ingrained into her and anything
else was unnatural.

She needed to be more careful. She *wasn’t* Harry’s best friend, Hermione, right now. She
was Helena Watson, the girl Harry had just met.

“Have you been enjoying yourself, Harry?” She gave Harry a deliberately calm smile to make up
for her earlier lapse.

“Not that much, no,” Harry admitted bluntly before he softened it with a smile. “Until now, of
course. Honestly, I don’t generally like coming to places like this,” he continued on with a candor
that gave Hermione a small thrill of triumph as she realized that she’d gotten past the barriers
Harry tended to put up with people he’d just met. “When I go out, I prefer quieter pubs where it’s
easier to carry on a conversation and it’s less crowded.”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” Hermione agreed. “Places like this are fun every once in a while
but as a general rule, I prefer quieter pubs myself.”

“Places where it isn’t so crowded that people end up spilling their drinks on each other,” Harry
agreed with a teasing grin.

Hermione laughed. “It’s not very nice of you to remind me of that.”

“Well, it was too good a response to pass up,” Harry said unapologetically.

Hermione returned his smile, trying not to grin like an idiot. The fact that Harry was teasing
her revealed a lot about how comfortable he was beginning to feel with her.

Hermione gave Harry a small smile. “Do you know when the Victory Monument will be completed at
Hogwarts? I thought I heard that the completion date had been pushed back again.”

“It was pushed back because it’s not going to be a Victory Monument,” Harry corrected.

This time, Hermione didn’t need to feign her surprise. “Really? I thought the Ministry was set
on this Monument.” (This was an understatement as the Ministry and Harry had been butting heads
over this issue for the last year without much change.)

“They were set on it,” Harry affirmed. “I, er, persuaded them to change their minds.”

“I know you’re very influential but I wouldn’t have thought even you could make the Ministry
give way on that; they’ve been touting this Monument for a year now.”

Harry gave a half-sheepish smile. “I, erm, rather blackmailed them. I got fed up and so, today,
I told them flatly that if they didn’t make the Monument into a Memorial commemorating those who
fell rather than honoring me, I would simply not come to the Dedication ceremony. They... saw
things my way remarkably quickly after that.”

*Oh Harry...* Harry didn’t take advantage of his influence very often but when he did...
“That was very good of you.” Hermione entirely forgot the role she was playing, forgot to moderate
her expression, as she gifted him with a soft, radiant smile that entirely betrayed, had she but
known it, all she felt for him—approval and love and, yes, desire as well.

“Not really. I...” Harry blinked and trailed off, staring at her, his eyes suddenly dark.

And Hermione felt a small rush of heat and excitement and joy go through her as she realized
that it was *desire* darkening his eyes. He had just completely lost his train of thought as
he looked at her. It was the first time that had ever happened to her—and the fact that it was
Harry so affected by her...

His gaze flickered down to focus on her lips.

Hermione swallowed, suddenly feeling flushed and wondering how much longer she needed to wait
before she could kiss him. *Dear Merlin...* Had she thought she wanted him before now? His
attraction was ten, no, a hundred times more potent when he wanted her too.

Her mouth was dry and she unthinkingly licked her lips only to hear his very soft, almost
imperceptible intake of breath in reaction.

She frantically cast about in her mind for some neutral topic of conversation, something utterly
unromantic. Anything, so she wouldn’t blurt out something utterly stupid like, “Kiss me,
Harry.”

“Ah... it looks like the Cannons are having a good season so far,” she blurted out.

There, Quidditch should be safe.

Harry blinked again and she could almost see him having to scramble to respond coherently.
“You’re lucky my best friend, Ron Weasley, isn’t around to hear you. He’s terrified that someone
will say something like that and jinx the rest of their season. He’s a die-hard Cannons fan, you
see.”

“Doesn’t he also play for the Cannons?” Hermione asked, relaxing very slightly.

“Yeah, he’s the Keeper. I sometimes think he lives, breathes and eats Quidditch while the season
is going on.” Harry’s voice was light and bantering but his expression revealed all his affection
and loyalty for Ron.

“I thought I heard that their Seeker, Drakesmith, did a Wronski Feint at a match last week. Is
it true?” Hermione mentally thanked Ron for his unceasing efforts to teach her Quidditch
appreciation; she still didn’t particularly enjoy going to matches or know all that much about the
game but she had, at least, learned enough to keep up a fairly basic conversation about it. And in
this instance, she, Harry, and the Weasleys had been at that match and Harry had been as enthralled
with the Wronski Feint this time around as he had been the first time he’d seen it performed by
Viktor five years ago. Hermione herself could still not quite understand the wonder of it but, for
Harry’s sake, she’d learned to show at least some level of appreciation.

Harry’s face promptly lit up with enthusiasm and Hermione hid her smile. Ah, Harry. He was so
predictable at times.

“Yes, it was amazing! I’ve only seen the Wronski Feint done a couple times before and every
time, it still takes my breath away! That trick is the most stunning bit of flying I’ve ever
seen.”

“I’ve heard you’re pretty good at flying yourself, Harry,” Hermione said, unable to keep a touch
of dryness out of her tone.

Harry shrugged one shoulder dismissively. “I’m okay but I’ve never tried to do a Wronski
Feint.”

“Don’t you think you could if you tried?”

Harry shrugged again. “I suppose so, but I’d be afraid of smashing my face into the ground.”

Hermione rather doubted that. She may not care much about Quidditch but even she could
appreciate how good a flyer Harry was. He always looked as if he’d been born on a broom, was as
comfortable in the air as he was with two feet on the ground—and he always had been. She didn’t
doubt that, if he wanted to, he would master the Wronski Feint as easily as he had mastered flying
itself. But she loved his modesty. It was endearing; she couldn’t think of another fellow who would
admit to being afraid of smashing his face into the ground while talking to a girl. Even Ron had
been liable to puffing himself up—even with her, who knew perfectly well the truth of his
abilities—and he knew she knew.

But not Harry. She sometimes wondered if it wasn’t part of Harry’s discomfort with being the
most famous boy in the wizarding world, a status that gave people an overly-inflated view of his
abilities, but Harry didn’t have a boastful bone in his body. And she loved him for it.

Hermione returned from her brief reverie to see Harry eyeing her with a small, crooked smile on
his face. “I think that was your cue to assure me that you’re sure I could do a Wronski Feint with
no problem.”

Hermione deliberately widened her eyes in an innocent look. “Well, I’m sure you’re a much better
judge of your own abilities than I am so if you say you’d smash your face into the ground, who am I
to contradict you?”

For a split second, Harry just stared at her and she wondered, uneasily, if she might have just
gone a little too far in her role (or acted too much like her true self, more accurately) but then
Harry burst out laughing and Hermione relaxed, grinning.

“I can see I’m going to have to be careful around you,” Harry said with mock severity.

Hermione feigned innocence again. “I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean.”

“I’ll bet you don’t.” Harry grinned—and Hermione felt her heart flutter. As usual.

His smiling eyes met and held hers for a long moment and slowly, their smiles faded as, for a
moment, all the noise and all the people around them faded away and it was only the two of them,
staring at each other, as attraction arced and flashed between them.

Hermione didn’t dare to breathe—no, she forgot how to breathe in that moment. Forgot how to
breathe, forgot how to blink, forgot that she was playing a role. All she remembered in that moment
was that this was Harry, whom she’d wanted for longer than she cared to remember, and... And,
finally—*finally*—he was looking at her with desire in his eyes... He wanted her...

“Ah...” Harry’s voice was slightly hoarse and he cleared his throat a little before he blurted
out, “Do you want to dance?”

Hermione blinked, a little surprised, and had to lick her lips—Harry’s gaze flickered down to
her lips and then back again—before she could find her voice to answer. “Sure.”

He held out his hand for hers and she slipped her hand into his—and wondered if she was
imagining the flare of heat from the one simple touch sizzling through her body. His palm was
smooth, his fingers slightly callused, and her hand fit into his with as much ease as if it
belonged there.

She tore her gaze from their joined hands and met his eyes again—and saw that he’d had much the
same reaction as she’d had from their hands touching. And abruptly, his fingers tightened slightly
around hers.

“Come on,” he said softly.

He half-led her to the corner of the club that had been deemed the makeshift dance floor,
although it was too crowded for people to really dance and so people were moving to the music as
much as they could in the limited space.

They reached the dance floor just as a new song started playing, a somewhat slower song.
Hermione met Harry’s eyes before she stepped closer to him as his other hand found her waist. He
wasn’t holding her tightly as they swayed to the music and Hermione kept her gaze fixed at some
point on his shoulder. She was very aware of the warmth of his hand at her waist, of his breath
against her hair, and of the few inches separating their bodies.

She looked up to meet Harry’s eyes and something about his expression made her suddenly feel a
need to break the tension—perhaps a throwback to the past year of having to constantly hide her
real feelings for him that made it almost instinctive—and she found herself giving him a teasing
smile. “You’re a better dancer than I thought you would be.”

“I know it’s amazing but I am actually capable of stepping in place without tripping over my own
two feet,” he responded dryly but his eyes and his expression had softened with humor and something
more.

“I’m very impressed,” she said in a tone of mock awe.

He laughed and she smiled, as his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around hers.

The music changed to a slower song, smooth and sensual, a song for lovers.

Her eyes met his and her breath tangled in her throat as, slowly, he tightened his arm around
her, bringing her in closer to him, until she could feel the heat of his body against hers.
Hermione swallowed, as she slid her arms around his neck, her body fitting against his, moving with
his, as if it belonged there.

Hermione closed her eyes, resting her head on Harry’s shoulder, and breathed in the familiar
scent of him. This was what she’d wanted, dreamed of for so long, being in Harry’s arms...

Harry paused for a moment and she opened her eyes to see that Ron had caught sight of them and
was giving Harry a thumbs up gesture and an exaggerated leer followed by a wink. Hermione closed
her eyes again, hiding a smile. Little did Ron know; if he’d known who she really was, he would
really have had reason to stare.

Harry smoothly turned them so their backs were to Ron and then Hermione forgot all about
Ron—forgot all about everyone else in the club, to be honest, because Harry had tightened his arms
around her to bring her in just that slightest bit closer and now she really could feel every inch
of him pressed against her. They were so close she fancied she could feel his heart beating against
hers, so close it felt as if their bodies were moving as one.

She felt him swallow and then felt, as well as heard, his husky whisper. “Helena?”

The name jerked her back into reality, to the realization that she was still playing a role. She
looked up to meet his eyes, the movement bringing their mouths within inches of each other with how
close they were standing. Their breaths mingled—and then didn’t because she’d forgotten how to
breathe. “Yes?”

He stared at her, swallowed again, and then asked, “Do you—d’you want to go outside, get some
fresh air?”

Her heart was suddenly clattering in her chest. What he meant—what he was really telling her,
she knew—was that he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her but there was no way that Harry was
going to kiss her while surrounded by other people, many—if not all—of whom would be fascinated by
the sight of Harry Potter kissing a woman in a club.

*Oh God...* This was *it*. This was exactly what she’d hoped for, what she’d wanted
when she’d come up with this insane idea. Her mouth was dry, her mind a blank, and it took every
ounce of coherence she had to answer him, just one word slipping from her lips. “Yes.”

Heat flared in his eyes, stealing her breath, and before she could even hope to regain some of
her composure, they were outside.

It was a warm night but the air still felt cool to her over-heated skin.

Harry stopped, turning to face her, just where the light overhead slanted across his face,
illuminating one of his eyes, his nose, and his lips. His lips...

She was suddenly mesmerized by the shape of his lips—ridiculously since it wasn’t as if she
hadn’t seen his lips innumerable times before but now she allowed herself to focus on them. It took
a concerted effort to drag her eyes back up to his eyes only to realize that his eyes had been
fixed on her lips, in turn.

She had thought she would wait until he kissed her but in that moment, Hermione tossed that idea
aside. In one quick motion, she rose up on her toes, cupping his cheeks between her hands, and
kissed him.

His reaction was immediate and powerful. One hand slid into her hair to keep her head in place
while the other arm wrapped around her waist, bringing her body in snugly against his, as his lips
parted. His tongue met and tangled with hers; he tasted faintly of Firewhiskey and something else
that she realized with a thrill was just him. Something about the thought and the feel of his body
against hers sent a fresh wave of heat and arousal skittering through her body and she would have
moaned except any sound was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed her and kissed her and kissed
her... She slid her arms around his neck, her body arching into his, pressing herself even closer
to him, until she could feel the burgeoning hardness of him pressing against her and she
shivered.

Acting on some blind instinct, she shifted slightly, deliberately rubbing against his growing
arousal until it was pressed snugly against the apex of her thighs and...

And Harry broke the kiss with a gasp.

She opened her eyes to see him staring at her, his breath coming fast and harsh, his eyes darker
than she’d ever seen them. “I- I don’t normally...” he began and then stopped and then blurted out,
“D’you want to come to my flat?”

He didn’t normally have one-night stands—but that was exactly what she’d planned for tonight,
wasn’t it? And she hastily strangled the tiny corner of her mind that retained some rational
thought that warned her that one night would never be enough, would only make it harder for
her.

She answered him with another kiss, brief and intense—or at least, she intended for it to be
brief but he had other ideas, as did her own body to be honest, and what followed was another
minute—or two—or ten—of their lips and tongues tangling.

Hermione tightened her arms around his neck, letting her tongue explore the depths of his mouth,
the ridge of his teeth, stroking his tongue with her own. She forgot where they were, who she was,
forgot everything except that he was kissing her and wanting her and—dear God, she’d wanted him,
wanted this, for so long now...

She was only vaguely aware of feeling a strange sensation go through her but when she finally,
reluctantly, ended the kiss because the need for oxygen had become too pressing, she realized that
they were no longer outside and the tingling sensation had been from him Apparating them both until
they were just outside the familiar door of Harry and Ron’s flat.

“I Apparated us to my flat,” Harry explained hastily—and unnecessarily, as he finally released
her to wave his hand impatiently at the doorknob, opening the door quickly.

He closed the door behind her and as if the click of the door closing was a signal of some kind,
she flattened herself against him, her lips finding his again. She felt as if she couldn’t possibly
live another minute without kissing him, touching him, felt crazed, impatient as she’d never felt
before, greedy for more of his lips and his tongue and his hands. She stumbled backwards, blindly,
in the direction of his bedroom—utterly forgetting that she was supposed to be pretending she’d
never been there before—and he followed willingly, his hands hard and impassioned as he caressed
her back and her shoulders and down to her butt, slipping his hand under her tank top to caress the
bare skin of her back until she gasped.

It was a minor miracle that they didn’t crash into something in their blind stumble across the
living room of the flat but they didn’t until her back hit the edge of his door frame, making them
break off the kiss briefly but only until they were fully inside his room and he’d slammed the door
behind them with another impatient wave of his hand that Hermione noted, somewhere in her dazed
mind, and knew he’d just cast a Silencing Charm on his room.

She might have wondered if there would be a moment of awkwardness but she was too aroused,
impatient with lust, to have any room to be conscious of anything else, let alone to feel awkward.
She pulled off her tank top in one quick move, as Harry hastily tore off his own shirt and then his
trousers and she froze, in the act of shimmying out of her own trousers to stare at him, to stare
at the evidence of his arousal through his boxers and then just at him.

She’d seen Harry without a shirt a handful of times and now... now she was seeing *all* of
him, including the one part of him she’d hardly dared to hope she ever would see.

Hermione felt every thought she’d ever had—and a few she hadn’t managed to think yet—drain from
her head and flop onto the ground at her feet.

*Oh dear God... Yes...*

She finished pushing off her trousers and tore off her knickers with hands that were trembling
slightly from the force of her own lust.

She straightened and it was his turn to stare at her for a moment and she felt a fresh wave of
heat surge up inside her, pool between her thighs, at the look on his face.

And then looking was no longer enough and she could never tell whether he reached for her first
or she reached for him but it didn’t matter because they were falling backwards onto his bed in a
tangle of arms and legs and greedy, caressing hands, as he landed half on top of her.

His hands found her breasts, cupped them, kneaded them, his fingers flicking against her
already-hardened nipples that tightened even more at his touch. His lips scattered a trail of
kisses down her neck, finding a sensitive hollow on her throat that she hadn’t even known she had,
until she gasped and then moaned, and he flicked his tongue to the spot before continuing on until
his lips closed around her nipple.

The wet tugging of his lips and tongue were sending floods of arousal through her, centering
between her thighs, until she cried out, her hands flying into his hair and then down. She explored
the muscles of his shoulders, the smooth skin of his back, cupping his butt until he groaned, his
hips jerking until she could feel his erection pressed almost exactly where she wanted, needed him
to be.

He groaned again, his lips briefly leaving off their ministrations, and on an impulse she
couldn’t deny, she flattened her hands on his chest, rolling them over until she was on top,
straddling him. In some corner of her mind and heart, she knew that if this was the only night she
would ever have with him, she wanted to learn everything, experience everything, with him.

It was her turn to take the initiative. She caressed, learned, explored every inch of his chest
and stomach—and then lower still—with first her hands and then her lips. Learning what he liked and
how he wanted to be touched. Learning that he groaned, his hips twitching, when she flicked her
tongue against his flat, male nipples. That the muscles of his stomach tensed at her touch. That
there was a spot on his hip that was incredibly sensitive to the touch.

Until finally, she reached the part of his body she was most curious about. She trailed one
finger lightly along the length of him and his entire body jerked.

“God!” he choked out.

She felt her lips curve into a smile she knew she’d never smiled before, a seductive smile, a
confident smile, the age-old smile of a woman who knows her own power—before she wrapped her hand
around him, stroking him once, twice...

He cried out, his hips jerking, as his hands fisted on his sheets.

And then she licked him lightly just before taking him fully in her mouth, a little tentatively,
since she’d certainly never done this before and wasn’t entirely sure of what she was doing. From
the sound of his sharp cry, that was half a groan, whatever she was doing was right.

Experimentally, she curled her tongue around him and then sucked, gently—and his entire body
jerked as he choked out, “Enough!”

She just had time to look up at him when his hands closed around her shoulders, gently enough
but firmly, and then he was tugging her up to him so he could close his arms around her, his lips
finding hers with explosive passion. And she was hardly aware of him turning until she was below
him, was only aware of his lips and his hands that seemed to be touching her everywhere at once,
leaving fire in their wake.

And then—and then she felt his jutting erection slip between her thighs, sliding against the
part of her that was wet and swollen for him and she groaned, her body writhing, arching, in a
frantic, desperate attempt to get closer to him, until she felt the length of him push into her,
stretch her, fill her.

Her hands clutched him tightly to her as his lips found hers, his tongue thrusting into her
mouth in imitation of the movements of his hips. She met and matched his movements with her own,
her arms and legs wrapping around him, urging him on, deeper inside her, until she could almost
swear he was touching her heart.

His hands found her breasts, fondling them, shaping them, before his fingers tightened on her
nipples, and she tore her lips from his with a gasp at the added sensation.

It was too much—surely she would go mad—but it would be worth it...

This was it, this was everything, this was all she’d ever wanted—and so much more... She could
never have imagined this.

Her breath was coming in short, harsh gasps, her fingers digging into his shoulders, as the
conflagration inside her built, and built...

And then she wasn’t sure what he did but the conflagration exploded, her senses disintegrating
into pure ecstasy and she was only vaguely aware of the sound of a scream (hers) followed by a
guttural groan as he thrust one last time, his body stiffening, and then he collapsed on top of
her.

Leaving her to slide into the golden bliss of the aftermath, savoring the stunning pleasure of
it, savoring every detail of it, cataloging the moment in a purely sensual, physical way that was
entirely divorced from conscious thought. The warm puff of his breath against her ear. His body on
top of hers. The warmth and strength of his arms around her. His heartbeat pounding against her
breasts. The delicious intimacy of his body still inside her.

Just when she started to become aware of how heavy he was, he stirred, rolling over onto his
back with a long sigh of satiation. He kept his arm around her, bringing him with her, until she
found herself pressed firmly against his side.

He turned his head a little to brush his lips against her forehead in a light kiss, the motion
so small, she almost wondered if he’d been conscious of it at all, but conscious or not, she
thrilled at this one evidence of some tenderness for her. And for one fleeting, foolish moment, she
let herself imagine that this had meant something to him, that this hadn’t just been a one-night
stand for him...

It wasn’t long before the deep, even sound of his breathing and something in the feel of his
body against her told her that he’d fallen asleep. She waited for a few more minutes until she
could be sure he was sleeping soundly before she shifted slowly, cautiously, away from him.

And then she paused again, just watching him sleep, letting her gaze wander down the length of
his body and then up again. He looked so... utterly relaxed, sated.... his face, as always, looking
much younger, somehow, without his glasses on.

She glanced at the clock beside his bed. The glamour would last a few more hours but she knew
she had to leave now. If she lingered, she might not be able to make herself leave, might fall
asleep without meaning to—and that would mean disaster. No, she needed to leave now.

She slid off the bed, her every movement excruciatingly slow so as not to disturb Harry in any
way and then pulling up the sheets and the bed covers that had been pushed to the very foot of the
bed, so that they covered him.

She dressed quickly, putting on the clothes she suspected she’d never be able to wear again
because of the memories attached to it.

She quickly transfigured a tissue into a piece of paper and thought for a minute before quickly
writing a brief note for Harry to find in the morning, not forgetting to cast the spell afterwards
to disguise her handwriting.

But at the last moment, she lingered, could not bring herself to leave quite yet. Her gaze
flitted over the familiar untidiness of Harry’s room (he wasn’t nearly as messy as Ron was but he
was still not what anyone would call neat) before returning, inexorably, to Harry’s sleeping form
on his bed.

Moving carefully, she made her way over to his side of the bed and hesitated for just a second
before she bent to brush a last, feather-light kiss against his lips, so lightly it was almost more
a touch of air than a kiss, but she didn’t dare kiss him more fully.

And then she crept back across the room, grasping the door knob in her hand.

And didn’t turn it. Couldn’t turn it.

She looked back at Harry one last time—looked back at all she would never know again.

She wasn’t going to cry. It would be ridiculous and stupid of her to cry. This was how she’d
always known the night would end, if she succeeded, with her leaving Harry’s room like this. She
had gotten what she’d wanted, after all. For this one night, Harry had wanted *her*.

For this one night, she’d known his kiss and his touch, his passion and his lust. For this one
night, he’d been *hers*...

And that was enough. It would *have* to be enough.

She lifted her chin, her jaw firming, in an expression that both Harry and Ron would have
recognized if they’d seen it (and Ron would have been made nervous by). She would be just fine.
She’d had one night with him and that would be enough.

But at the last moment, she found herself whispering, so softly she could hardly hear it
herself, “I love you, Harry,” saying the words she’d never be able to say aloud to him.

And then she left, slipping out of his room with almost painful care, and then out of the flat,
noting, in passing, that Ron had apparently still not returned.

And it wasn’t until she was safely back in her own flat that she allowed herself to cry.

*~To be continued… (And we find out what Harry was thinking…)~*



3. Part 3
---------

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: Thanks, everyone, who read and reviewed the last part. I hope this next part
satisfies.

**Masquerade**

*Part 3*

Harry drifted awake slowly, reaching out one lazy arm for Helena—to find just his bed.

Half-reluctantly, he cracked open one eye and then in another moment, opened both eyes as he
realized she was gone. He paused, half-hoping that she might have just gone to the loo, but the
utter silence in the flat disproved that and he pushed himself up, the last remnants of sleep
leaving his mind to be replaced with something like depression.

She was gone.

She must have just crept out in the night. Just as if... just as if... it had only been a
meaningless one-night stand.

His gaze fell on his glasses on the nightstand by the bed—or, more accurately, the piece of
paper beneath it and he almost scrambled over to grab it, slipping on his glasses hastily.

And then stared at the note, feeling the vague beginnings of something like hurt inside his
chest.

*Harry, thank you for a wonderful night.* *I’ll never forget it.*

*Helena**.*

Only those two brief sentences and nothing more.

He let the note fall from suddenly nerve-less fingers as he fell back onto his bed. Was that all
their night together had meant to her, then? He’d thought there had been a connection, that it had
been the start of something special.

He’d been wrong. It really must have just been a one-night stand to her. And if he hadn’t been
thinking in those terms, well... he’d been wrong. That was all. He’d made a mistake. It had just
been one night of sex—great, fantastic, mind-blowing sex—but nothing more. And there was absolutely
no reason to feel so disappointed or oddly hurt.

Or so he told himself bracingly.

Harry sighed and shut his eyes, and then took off his glasses so he could turn over and bury his
face in the pillow, wishing he could just fall back asleep, wishing he hadn’t woken up yet in the
first place.

He pushed himself up again. He could still smell the scent of her on his pillow, and the scent
of her brought back the memories of everything else, too—the feel of her, the taste of her, the
softness of her skin...

Damn it. Just the scent of her on his pillow was arousing him again.

He had the niggling sense that the scent was somehow familiar to him—but of course it was
familiar. He’d smelled it just the night before while dancing with Helena and afterwards...

Harry stood up abruptly. A shower was what he needed, to clear his mind—and his heart?—from
these futile memories and thoughts about Helena.

He glanced down at himself ruefully. A *cold* shower was what he needed.

Harry was eating a piece of toast and staring moodily into his cup of pumpkin juice when Ron
finally stumbled out of his room, yawning. “Morning, Ron.”

“Morning, mate.” Ron paused and then added, belatedly, “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.” Harry managed a somewhat wan smile. Thanks to Helena’s sneaking out in the middle of
the night, he wasn’t feeling particularly happy, but that was his own problem.

It was evidence of how groggy Ron still was that it was another minute or two before Ron
blinked, looked around, and then asked, with a grin that bordered on a smirk, “Say, where’s the
girl you left the club with?”

“She left,” Harry answered briefly, his tone curt enough that anyone else would have taken the
hint and abandoned the subject. Anyone but Ron, that was.

Ron’s answer was a hoot of laughter. “Which means she was here to begin with.” Ron wiggled his
brows at Harry in an exaggerated leer. “See, I told you a shag would do you good. So, how was she?
I only got a glimpse of her in the club but it looked like she had some nice curves.”

Harry slanted a glare at Ron. “Shut up, Ron.” Normally, he could shrug off Ron’s occasionally
crude humor but this morning, for some reason, he found he’d lost most of his tolerance.

Ron gave Harry a curious but still mostly teasing glance. “Y’know, for someone who just had a
shag, you’re awfully touchy. What, was she not a good shag?”

Harry abruptly put down his cup with enough force it was a minor miracle it didn’t break (or
would have been a minor miracle if Hermione had not placed Unbreakable Charms on all their dishes
and cups when he and Ron had first moved in to the flat.) “That’s enough, Ron!”

His voice didn’t rise much but there was enough suppressed intensity in it that Ron was
momentarily subdued.

There were a few moments of rather strained silence which Ron broke by saying, mildly, “Mum said
we should get to the Burrow around noon, if that works for you.”

Harry was immediately ashamed of himself. It wasn’t as if Ron had really said anything
offensive; he was over-reacting to the morning’s disappointment of waking up to find Helena gone.
He’d only just met her, he reminded himself. And so what if they had had sex?

*Really great, life-altering sex*, an irritating little voice in his head spoke up and he
promptly squelched the thought—only to have another voice pipe up that it hadn’t *felt* as if
he’d just met Helena. No, after those first few minutes, he’d had the odd sense that he’d known her
for years...

If he’d been more given to sentimental fancy, he supposed he might even have thought that it had
seemed as if he’d been waiting his entire life to meet her—except that couldn’t possibly be the
case.

He’d imagined it. It had been pure, wishful thinking on his part, he told himself firmly.
Wishful thinking to try to convince himself that what he’d felt for her hadn’t only been physical
lust—to convince himself that their night together had been the start of something good, something
real and lasting, and not just a one-night stand.

Whatever the case, it was over and done with. He *would* put Helena from his mind, he told
himself.

With that resolution in mind—and in the spirit of conciliation since Ron hadn’t deserved his
snapping at him—Harry grinned at Ron. “Maybe we should show up closer to 1 rather than noon so we
can avoid having to help getting things set up.”

Ron returned the grin. “Now *that’s* a brilliant idea.” He paused and then added, “But when
Mum asks why we’re late, I’m going to tell her it was all your idea. She won’t yell at you.”

Harry made a face at Ron and threw a few crumbs from his toast at Ron. Ron ducked, laughing, and
Harry knew that his bad temper had been forgotten.

If only he could forget about Helena so easily, he thought, half-wistfully and
half-gloomily.

~

Hermione was late.

That was almost the first thing he noticed when he walked into the yard of the Burrow that
afternoon.

Hermione was late. In anyone else, he wouldn’t have thought anything of it but in Hermione—well,
Hermione was never late except in extreme circumstances. He certainly couldn’t remember the last
time Hermione had been late to one of their get-togethers.

He accepted Mrs. Weasley’s hug and kiss on his cheek before he asked, “Hermione’s not here yet?
Did she mention any reason for it?”

Mrs. Weasley shook her head. “No, we haven’t heard from her. I assumed a patient got rushed in
as she was about to leave.”

Which would, normally, have been a plausible explanation but Harry remembered that Hermione had
said she had all day off today, for his birthday, so she shouldn’t have even gone in to St.
Mungo’s, let alone been delayed by work.

It was odd and a little unsettling. He knew, in some corner of his mind, that he was
over-reacting but after the long months of the War, he’d acquired a healthy dislike of anything out
of the ordinary because, for him, anything out of the ordinary usually meant something dangerous,
if not actually life-threatening.

Hermione being late—even for his birthday party—was not the sort of event that should trigger
worry—and yet... Harry couldn’t help the flicker of unease, the beginnings of concern. He knew
Hermione and he knew, too, that she would not be late for his birthday party unless something
extraordinary had happened. And in his experience, anything extraordinary was almost inevitably
bad.

He managed to smile and finish greeting the rest of the Weasleys and everyone else that Mrs.
Weasley had gathered together, was pleasantly surprised to see Professors McGonagall and Sprout, as
well as Hagrid. But even as he smiled and laughed, one part of his mind remained on Hermione and
her inexplicable absence.

Finally, just when he’d decided that if Hermione didn’t show up within the next five minutes, he
was going to Floo call her flat and, if she wasn’t there, was going to go to St. Mungo’s himself to
find her and make sure all was well, Hermione arrived.

His back was to her as he talked to Mr. Weasley and Bill but he knew she was there, somehow
sensed her arrival even before he heard the familiar sound of her voice. He excused himself from
Mr. Weasley and Bill so he could greet her, catching up with her as she turned away from Mrs.
Weasley.

“Hermione, you made it. I was just wondering where you were,” he said, as casually as if he
hadn’t spent the time since he’d arrived worrying about her.

“Oh, Harry, hi. Happy birthday! You’ve got perfect weather for a party today, too!”

Harry blinked, a little taken aback. There was something... not quite right... about Hermione.
Her smile seemed a shade too bright and she wasn’t meeting his eyes, was making a show of looking
around.

He drew nearer, putting a hand on her arm. “Why were you late? I was a little worried,” he
admitted. Whatever it was, he expected Hermione would be herself again, quick to reassure him that
all was well; it was her way, in the few times he ever admitted aloud to worrying.

Hermione stilled, stiffening almost imperceptibly at his touch. “Oh, some work just came up. It
was nothing, really, Harry. Oh, I should go say hello to Neville. I wanted to ask him
something.”

So saying, she left him quickly, leaving Harry feeling decidedly confused and not at all
reassured. No, there was something wrong, he decided, something preoccupying Hermione. He could
tell.

In the course of the next half hour or so, Harry quickly revised his thinking. It wasn’t only
that something was wrong; that ‘something’ clearly had to do with *him*. Hermione was behaving
oddly around him.

She went from chatting with Neville and Ginny to exchanging a few laughing words with Ron and
then, went on to talk to Mr. Weasley, Bill and Fleur, Charlie, George, Luna, Ginny and Neville,
Dean, Seamus, Oliver Wood, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hestia Jones, Professor Sprout, Hagrid, and
Professor McGonagall—or, in other words, every other person present at the party except for
him.

Harry smiled and laughed as he talked with Ron but he kept half an eye and half his attention on
Hermione. Yes, it was definitely something to do with him.

It wasn’t that Hermione had not spent much time with him; that, in and of itself, wasn’t so
unusual. What was odd was the fact that she had never even glanced in his direction. Usually, he
realized, even when they were both speaking with other people, Hermione had a way of glancing
around and catching his eyes and they would exchange fleeting smiles or looks of shared amusement
or understanding. It was just their way and not something he’d ever really thought about before.
Now, today, Hermione had yet to glance his way even once. And he felt suddenly, strangely
bereft—lonely-- without those shared glances with Hermione.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione reach up to push her hair back a little
impatiently and, for no reason he could identify, his eyes were caught and held by the curve of her
jaw as she faced away from him as she talked to Professor McGonagall. And for one crazy second, he
could only stare, suddenly mesmerized by the line of her jaw where it met her neck. His mouth was
abruptly dry and he could only think—stupidly—that he wanted to bury his lips in that spot, that
lovely curve where her jaw met her neck.

He had a sudden flash of bittersweet—and arousing—memory, of kissing that same spot on Helena’s
neck, of the taste of her skin, of the way she’d gasped and reached for him...

He abruptly hauled his thoughts back from where they’d wandered, appalled at his own
insanity—his *stupidity*. Helena had been a one-night stand; she’d made that perfectly clear
by her own actions. So he wasn’t likely to ever see Helena again—and Hermione was *Hermione*,
his best friend Hermione. He wasn’t even attracted to Hermione in that way—not really. He wasn’t.
He couldn’t be.

It was only that he hadn’t had a shag in a long while until Helena and then she’d been so....
hot... and his body was missing that, missing her.

That was all. It had to be all.

And Hermione was still not looking at him. It was as if he wasn’t really there at all, for all
the attention Hermione had paid him after her quick, even perfunctory greeting.

So much for having a happy birthday, he reflected half-wryly, half-glumly. First, Helena had
made her lack of interest in any sort of real relationship with him clear by leaving the way she
had. And now Hermione—his best friend—was acting as if he was a stranger.

And it *hurt*. He’d been disappointed to wake up and find Helena gone, yes, but for
*Hermione* to ignore him… that hurt him on a much more fundamental level. This was
*Hermione*, after all, and he wasn’t sure he knew how to function without her as his friend.
She was the one constant in his life since the moment he’d met her, even more than Ron.

And he couldn’t stand to have her ignoring him.

On the thought, he found himself crossing the lawn to where Hermione was talking to Professor
McGonagall, almost before he’d consciously decided to do so.

Professor McGonagall unbent enough to give him a quick smile of greeting, as she continued
telling Hermione about some research that was being conducted.

Hermione glanced over at him as he approached and he could almost see her entire body still,
tense, as he stopped beside her. Harry inwardly flinched—what had he *done*?

He waited until Professor McGonagall stopped speaking before he interrupted, “Sorry, Professor,
but I wanted to ask Hermione something important.”

“Of course, Harry. We can continue our discussion later, Hermione,” Professor McGonagall
added.

Harry put his hand automatically on Hermione’s back to lead her away, somewhat removed from
everyone else, and tried very hard not to wince at how Hermione seemed to stiffen at his touch. She
didn’t quite flinch away from him but she was certainly not at ease.

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” The question was blunt, although he kept his voice quiet, mindful of
the people around them.

Hermione gave a little laugh that sounded almost natural and would probably have fooled almost
anyone else—but not him. “Nothing’s wrong. Why do you ask?”

“Hermione.” He invested a wealth of meaning in her name.

“Really, Harry, it’s nothing,” she insisted, her eyes flashing up to his and then just as
quickly looking away.

Harry sighed. “Are you mad at me?” He didn’t even try to hide the hurt he felt, knew it was
clear in his tone. With anyone else, he might not have been so obvious—but then with anyone else,
he wouldn’t have felt so hurt either.

That got a reaction. Hermione’s eyes flew up to meet his and remained. “Of course not, Harry!
Why would you think that?”

“Hermione, you barely spoke ten words to me when you arrived and you haven’t looked at me at all
this entire afternoon.”

“I’m not mad at you, Harry. I- I’m just a little preoccupied today but I’m not mad at you.
Honestly, Harry, I’m not.”

“What’s preoccupying you? Can I help?”

Hermione’s expression seemed to freeze for a moment and Harry mentally frowned, but then
Hermione shook her head, giving him a fleeting ghost of a smile. “No, thanks, Harry. I’ll be okay.
I- I’m sorry you thought I was mad at you.”

Harry lifted one shoulder into a shrug and gave her a slight smile. “It’s okay. I just don’t
like thinking you’re mad at me, that’s all.”

Hermione’s expression softened and she gave him a quick, soft smile, one of the affectionate
smiles she occasionally gave him. “Well, I’m not mad at you, I promise.”

He was never sure why but something about her smile, something about the honest affection in it,
caught at his heart and his mind.

And then in one quick, impulsive movement, she went up on her toes and brushed her lips against
his cheek.

And he froze. He was somehow very aware of the warmth from her body, the touch of her breath
against his cheek and then the soft brush of her lips—and, fleeting as it was, he reacted, feeling
a flare of heat.

He dragged in a quick breath—

*That scent.* He caught the scent of her hair in a fleeting whiff as she drew back and
left, moving away from him to return to Professor McGonagall.

He stared.

It was impossible.

It couldn’t be.

For one finite moment, his mind flatly rejected what his senses, his body, were telling him.

Then reality fractured.

It was her.

Impossible. Unbelievable. Shocking. But true.

It was Hermione.

*Hermione* had been Helena.

Same height. Same figure—now that he looked, he could see that. Same scent.

In the chaotic tumult of his mind (and heart), one thought—one inane thought—stood out in his
mind: *well, now he knew why he’d felt so comfortable with Helena from the first.*

He suddenly realized who it was that Helena had reminded him of—and why. Helena had reminded him
of Hermione.

It was Hermione.

Harry’s entire body froze; he could swear his heart stopped.

He’d had sex with *Hermione*. It had been *Hermione* that had kissed him like that,
touched him like that… His mind flashed back to the way she’d pleasured him, how she’d licked him
and—

He shoved the thought away, trying (with less success) to squelch the flare of arousal at the
memory.

It was her.

Hermione had been Helena—but *why*? He could guess that she must have used a small glamour
to disguise herself—but why? Had she wanted to trick him—had she been laughing at him all along for
not recognizing her—but *no*. No no no! Almost before the thought had fully formed in his
mind, he rejected it. He didn’t understand why but he *knew* she hadn’t set out to deceive him
out of any malice. He might be confused about her reasons—he’d never felt so utterly at a loss in
his life—but he knew Hermione hadn’t only meant to trick him. She wouldn’t. She would never. He
might not know anything else but he did know that. He knew it the way he knew his own name, the way
he knew how to fly. Even if nothing else in his life made any sense—and at the moment, he rather
felt that way—he knew he trusted her, trusted that she would never deliberately deceive him.

His mind circled back helplessly to the one stark fact, the searing memories, from the night
before. He’d had sex with Hermione…

He- she— his thoughts stuttered.

“Harry!”

Harry started and turned to see Ron, giving him an odd look.

“What’s up, mate? And why are you staring at Hermione like she just sprouted another head?”

Harry bit back a burst of hysterical laughter. If Ron only knew…

“I- it’s- uh- I was just… thinking… about something…” he stammered.

Ron gave him one last, curious look before he shrugged a little. “Okay, whatever you say. Mum’s
about to bring out the cake.”

The cake. Oh, right. It was his birthday, Harry reminded himself, trying to regain some sense
of… of… reality.

He felt as if the world had tilted on its axis, as if the sky had suddenly turned green and the
grass had turned blue.

He’d had sex with Hermione!

He shoved the thought away. He couldn’t think of that now. Later. He would think about it all
later. He would try to understand this strange, new reality later.

But for all his efforts to push it out of his mind, the rest of his birthday party was a loss,
at least as far as Harry himself was concerned. It was an exercise in endurance and (im)patience
since no matter how he tried, he could not entirely shake off his preoccupation. He managed—just
barely—to keep from staring at Hermione, from trying to recognize Helena’s features in
Hermione’s—but keeping his thoughts away from Hermione was completely impossible. And it was not
helped by the fact that he was incredibly *aware* of Hermione. Even without looking at her, he
knew when she smiled, when she laughed, knew where she was and who she was talking to at any given
moment. His usual awareness of Hermione had been magnified until he could almost swear he could
sense her, could feel her breathing even from across the lawn, as if the air was somehow different
just because she was there.

Really, given the complete confusion of his thoughts and emotions, he actually thought he did
rather well at hiding it and acting like his usual self. But by the end of the afternoon—the party
being somewhat truncated since Harry was not, for once, at all inclined to linger at the
Burrow—he’d had to be jolted out of his thoughts several times, Ron had given him several odd
looks, Mrs. Weasley had asked him, twice, if he was feeling well, Mr. Weasley had asked him if
everything was alright, and he’d almost been knocked to his knees by a pat on his shoulder from
Hagrid, coming when he hadn’t been prepared for it.

All told, Harry had never been so thankful in his life to leave the Burrow and return to the
privacy of his flat. And for the first time, he could not concentrate on a Quidditch match that Ron
watched via Remote Apparition after dinner. He stayed to watch it (because he knew if he didn’t,
Ron would probably have sent him to St. Mungo’s to make sure he wasn’t ill) but he could not
concentrate on it.

He suddenly remembered how Helena—Hermione—had mentioned Drakesmith’s Wronski Feint and
suppressed a sudden laugh. She’d heard of it all right; she had, after all, been right beside him
and Ron when it had happened and heard all of his exclamations over it.

And how Helena had claimed only to have met Hermione a few times…

Helena. Hermione.

He could think of nothing else, memories of the evening and their one night together playing
through his mind. He wavered between feeling a little annoyed—at Hermione for whatever had made her
pretend to be Helena but mostly at himself for not realizing who Helena really was, when, in
hindsight, it was so obvious—and amusement at the irony of some of what Helena had said and arousal
at the memory of how hot Helena—Hermione!—had been and, overshadowing it all, was utter confusion.
He was confused about why Hermione would have done such a thing and even more confused about what
he was supposed to do now.

He’d had sex with Hermione. He’d been aroused by Hermione—still was aroused by Hermione, by the
memory of her body. He wanted Hermione.

And he didn’t know what he was going to do about it.

He couldn’t simply act on his desires—that would only risk a friendship he could not risk. He
knew that without even having to think about it; now that he knew, he could never have ‘just sex’
with Hermione.

But he didn’t know if he could have—if he wanted to have—anything more than ‘just sex’ with
Hermione either. Which brought him back to his original questions—*why* had Hermione pretended
to be Helena and just *what* was he supposed to do about it?

*~To be continued…~*



4. Part 4
---------

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

A/N: Thanks, everyone, for reading and reviewing! I hope this happy ending satisfies!

**Masquerade**

*Part 4*

Hermione always remembered that week as being one of the longest ones of her life. She spent the
week distracted at work, preoccupied at home and having to try very hard to keep from falling into
depression.

Hermione sighed a little as she sat down at the desk in the corner of her sitting room that
served as her office. At least the week was over now and she’d arranged it so she wouldn’t need to
go into St. Mungo’s over the weekend at all, barring any emergencies.

It had been a week. She glanced at the clock—exactly a week ago at this time, she’d been at the
club, about to go “meet” Harry.

It had been one week since Harry had kissed her and touched her and let her touch him… She felt
the familiar flush of heat in her body just from the memory of that one night, the memories that
had haunted her for the past week.

Oh! She threw down her quill in some frustration, for once not caring that she left a blot of
ink on her otherwise pristine parchment. She had to stop thinking about that night, had to stop
reliving every moment. Had to stop regretting it. She’d had her one night of passion and that was
enough.

She picked up her quill again, bending her head over the treatise she was making notes on with a
grim determination to keep her mind at her task.

She could get over it and she would. She’d had years of practice at concealing her real feelings
for Harry, at being only his best friend. It would get easier, she was sure of it.

And in the meantime, she had plenty of work to keep her busy.

Hermione worked steadily, her parchment filling up rapidly with her neat annotations. She
frowned slightly, chewing the end of her quill absently. The treatise’s conclusions were
intriguing, especially if combined with another article she’d read recently—she put her quill down,
turning to her drawer and sorting through the neatly organized pap—

The knock on the door shattered all her hard-won concentration like glass and she started,
pushing herself away from her desk with a brief sigh. She didn’t know who would be here at this
hour on a Friday evening but the person had to be someone who’d visited before or the wards she’d
set up would have gone off. She guessed it was probably Adelaide, one of her co-workers at St.
Mungo’s and one of her best friends from work, as Addy lived nearby and had been known to call
without any warning before.

She opened the door with an easy smile that froze on her lips.

It was Harry. Surprise set her breath to coming irregularly and the sight of his familiar,
slightly crooked little half-smile made her heart react, as always.

“Oh. Hi, Harry.” She managed in as casual a tone as possible. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Hey, Hermione. You busy or can I come in?” He stepped forward with the confidence in her
invitation that he generally showed since she would never not let him in.

She stepped backwards, keeping her distance and retreating from him as rapidly as she could
without making it blatantly obvious. “I was just reading some things for work, that’s all,” she
said with a slight smile. When would she stop reacting like this to just the sight of him? It was
ridiculous! It wasn’t as if he had done or said anything out of the ordinary—it was the same Harry,
the same smile, the same eyes, that she’d seen nearly every day for years now—and she still
reacted, couldn’t seem to help it, the slight flutter of her heart or the warmth in her chest. Or
the urge to return his smile with her own, to make him smile and see his eyes crinkle with
amusement. The same urge that had made her kiss his cheek so quickly at his birthday party at the
Burrow, even when she’d sworn she wouldn’t touch him at all if she could help it—except she’d seen
the flicker of vulnerability, of uncertainty, in his eyes when he asked if she was mad at him and
she hadn’t been able to help it, had needed to reassure him more than she’d needed to take her next
breath.

“Butterbeer, Harry?” she offered, turning to escape to the kitchen, but he stopped her with a
word.

“No thanks, Hermione. I’m not thirsty.”

“I’m a little surprised to see you tonight. Why aren’t you out with Ron? Don’t you know Ron’s
likely to get into even more trouble than usual if you’re not there to keep an eye on him?” She
tried to sound joking.

Harry gave a brief laugh in acknowledgment of her humor but only shrugged one shoulder into a
half shrug. “I told Ron he’d have to go without me for tonight because I had a date.”

A date. He’d had a date. Hermione fought back a wince, trying not to feel hurt. Of course Harry
had a perfect right to go on dates and it was none of her business. Really.

The fact that Harry could go on a date with someone else in the very next week after he’d slept
with *her*—Helena-- only emphasized that he really had thought of it as a one-night stand and
nothing else.

Of course he had; she’d known he had all along, Hermione told herself bracingly. But for all
that, she couldn’t bring herself to look at him, busied herself instead with the papers on her
desk, pretending to be looking for something as she systematically disarranged all the
neatly-organized piles of papers as a way of keeping her hands and her eyes busy.

“Oh, really? Your date must have ended early if you’re already done.” Hermione was proud of
herself for how indifferent she managed to sound. But she kept her gaze turned away.

“Mm.” Harry made a noncommittal sound.

“Was it Meredith or someone else?”

“It wasn’t Meredith. I’ve told you Meredith and I are just friends.”

“Oh, well, anyway, do you really like this girl?” She didn’t know how exactly she did it but she
rather thought she’d achieved just the right amount of friendly curiosity and nothing more in her
tone.

She expected a rather noncommittal answer since Harry had never been the type to wax eloquent
about his current fancy—with Cho or Ginny, he’d never expressed his thoughts about them aloud and
his feelings had only been evident from the way he looked at them—unlike Ron, who was much more
likely to ramble on about some girl or another who’d caught his eye (although most of Ron’s rambles
had involved a girl’s physical attributes). But Harry surprised her.

“I like her a lot,” Harry declared. But as if that wasn’t enough, he continued, not entirely
fluently but it was still amazing—amazing and painful-- as Hermione had never heard Harry talk
about anyone in such terms before, let alone any girl. “I feel… comfortable with her; I feel like
I’ve known her for years. I felt like I could trust her almost from the moment we met.”

“Oh,” Hermione said flatly, her fingers tightening unconsciously on the parchment she was
holding, crumpling it, and then she busied herself with smoothing out the parchment and hastily
creating haphazard piles of paper on her desk in an attempt to make it look as neat as it usually
did, although she had no idea what she was doing and knew she would only have to completely
reorganize the contents of her desk later. But it was something to occupy her hands and her eyes so
she could seem perfectly calm. She wouldn’t cry. Could not cry.

“And she makes me laugh.”

“Oh,” Hermione said again, lamely. For the first time, she wished that Harry would leave, would
just go away. She didn’t want to be here listening to this any longer, didn’t want to know anything
more about this girl who’d apparently captured Harry’s interest so thoroughly.

Harry studied Hermione and her apparent calm. Anyone else would have thought that Hermione was
almost entirely indifferent to what she was hearing, was preoccupied with the papers on her
desk—anyone else, that is, but him. He knew Hermione too well, could see the lack of precision in
her supposed organization of the papers on her desk, could hear the touch of brittleness in her
tone—and more than that, he knew it from the way she kept her face turned away from him, knew it
from her very calm.

And he gave up the idea of teasing Hermione any longer—he couldn’t—he should have known he
couldn’t do it. His vague plan to get a sort of revenge for her little masquerade suddenly seemed
petty and mean; this was Hermione and after all she’d done for him, all he owed her, he couldn’t
possibly hurt her, not even for so short a time.

“Don’t you want to know what her name is?” he asked more quietly.

At that, Hermione’s head came up, her eyes flashing up to his face—although he noted that she
didn’t meet his eyes so much as focus fleetingly at the spot between his eyebrows before she
lowered her gaze again. “Of course I do, Harry. What is her name?”

He took one step closer to her and then stopped. “There’s actually a kind of funny story about
her name.” He tried to sound amused. And took another step closer. “See, she told me her name was
Helena Watson.”

He heard her sharp gasp and then her gaze flew up to meet his, for real this time, and he let
his smile soften as he closed the rest of the distance between them. He kept his eyes on hers as he
lifted one hand to touch her cheek very lightly with his fingers. “But her real name,” he finished
very softly, tenderly, “is Hermione Granger.”

“Harry, I—how—when—I--” she stumbled uncharacteristically and he stopped her stammering by
brushing his thumb against her lips, making her gasp and then still.

“I figured it out at the Burrow last weekend.”

Her eyes widened. “The *Burrow*?! But how—*why* didn’t you say something?”

“I might have realized that you were Helena but that didn’t mean I knew what to do about it. I
was so stunned I couldn’t think straight for days. But you know I’ve always been dense that way,”
he said lightly.

That got a smile from her. “I know,” she said with a glimpse of her usual manner.

He gave her a look of mock offense. “Dense I might be but I did figure out who Helena was
eventually.”

“How did you figure it out?”

He gave her a teasingly-exaggerated leer. “I recognized your body, of course.”

She mock-hit him on the arm, his humor helping to restore her composure, even as she blushed
hotly at his words. “Honestly, Harry!”

He grinned, loving her smile and the teasing light in her eyes and delighting in her blush,
since he couldn’t remember really making her blush like this before. “Honestly, I recognized your
scent, from your shampoo and your soap and stuff. Your scent was on my pillow in the morning and I
thought it smelled familiar but I didn’t place it until you kissed my cheek at the party and then I
knew—and it just seemed obvious to me after that.” His smile softened as he sobered. “When I looked
closely, I recognized your ear,” he said softly, touching his fingers to her ear lobe in a light
caress, “and the curve of your neck,” he added, suiting his action to the words again, “and, of
course, the shape of your mouth.”

Her eyes darkened at every light touch and he felt a swift surge of lust at this sign of her
responsiveness, her burgeoning arousal, but tamped it down—temporarily. “And then I remembered that
your grandmother’s last name is Watson and it really did seem obvious.”

“You know what my grandmother’s name is? You’ve never met her and I don’t remember talking about
her much.”

“You mentioned it to me that time when you went to visit them for a week, something about how
you didn’t get to see your grandmother Watson often enough.”

“I said that? I don’t even remember that.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Well, I remembered you mentioning it. I should have figured out who
you were sooner, too. You remember how I told Helena that she reminded me of someone?”

Hermione nodded. “Mm hmm.”

“I was talking about *you*. Helena reminded me of you even though I couldn’t figure out why
at the time and then I forgot to think about it while we talked and…” He paused half-suggestively
and she blushed, her gaze faltering for a moment before she looked back up at him.

“It was because Helena didn’t look at my scar first; she looked at *me*.” His smile faded,
his expression becoming tender, as he moved his hand to brush a strand of hair away from her cheek
in an unmistakable caress. “*You’re* the only person I’ve ever met who didn’t pay any
attention to my scar from the beginning, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” she said softly. “That never even occurred to me.”

There was a brief silence before she asked, “But Harry, if you figured it out last weekend, why
did you wait so long to tell me? Are you—aren’t you mad at me?”

“I was annoyed,” he admitted, “but that didn’t last long. At first, I was really too confused to
feel angry but once I started to think about it, I couldn’t be angry at you. I knew you wouldn’t
have done it to trick me and then laugh about it or because you wanted to have sex with the Boy Who
Lived or anything. And as for why I waited so long, it was because I knew I wanted you to be able
to linger in bed the next morning.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows slightly. “So you assumed you’d still be here in the morning?”

Harry felt himself color—he was blushing, damn it!—and he hastily dropped his hand. “I, well-
er—I mean—we don’t have to—you--” And then he finally saw the glint of amusement in her eyes, the
grin tugging at the corners of her lips. He expelled his breath in a huff that was almost a laugh
but not quite. “Witch.” He lifted his hand to chuck her chin lightly, teasingly, with his knuckle
in an automatic, almost habitual motion as he had gotten accustomed to doing when she teased
him—but then she looked up at him and his hand stilled, lingering on her skin. And he abruptly
realized, to the full, just what this meant, that Hermione was no longer just
his-best-friend-Hermione, would never be just-his-best-friend-Hermione again.

He wondered fuzzily if she’d always been so beautiful when she smiled, if her lips had always
had that kissable curve to them when she smiled, if the upturned corners of her lips had always
seemed like they were just asking to be kissed. And if so, wondered how it was possible he could
have been so blind for so long?

Her smile faded slowly as the air seemed to thicken around them. Her breathing hitched and then
fluttered past her slightly parted lips and desire slammed into him, hard. Physical desire—God,
yes, his desire was physical—but this had an added element beyond the purely physical. He wanted to
kiss her—all over—wanted to caress her, wanted to taste her skin. He wanted to see her face flushed
with passion, wanted to see her eyes darken with arousal and know that it was because of him. He
wanted to see *her*—*Hermione*—at the peak of physical sensation.

He knew her so well, had seen her in sadness and in anger, in joy and in peace, in pain and in
confusion; he’d even seen her in sleep. But he’d never seen her in ecstasy and he wanted that.
Wanted it with an intensity that he’d never felt before, for anything, ever.

And even though he knew there was more he should tell her—he couldn’t remember what exactly, his
mind gone blank with desire but there was more—he cupped her face with his hands and kissed her,
hard, with enough passion to bruise their mouths and she made a soft sound in the back of her
throat as she arched against him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. Lust and something like
joy exploded inside him as his tongue explored the depths of her mouth—the *familiar* depths
of her mouth—tasted the familiar taste of her, felt all her remembered passion. Memory and reality
meshed and melded in his mind; he couldn’t even recall Helena’s features, could only see her as
Hermione now—all the attraction of that night, all the intense desire, all the eroticism and
passion of that night, it was all *Hermione*. He’d known it but now he *felt* it. It was
Hermione he’d wanted, Hermione he’d touched, Hermione he’d loved…

He only broke the kiss to scatter kisses across her face, learning her familiar features with
his lips, finding the little hollow just before her ear and vaguely hearing her soft gasp in
response.

“Harry…” The sound of her breathy moan sent a jolt of lightning searing through his body.

She brought his mouth back to hers to kiss him, her tongue venturing into his mouth, engaging in
a half-playful, wholly-arousing duel with his tongue. She arched her body against him, making him
aware of the growing hardness in his trousers. And then he groaned, his mind exploding as she
lifted one leg to twine around his to rub her body deliberately against his arousal.

He wasn’t sure who took the first steps but it didn’t matter as they both stumbled blindly
across her sitting room towards her bedroom, still kissing with almost frantic passion. They
scattered items of clothing as they went like so much flotsam—her slippers, his shoes, her blouse,
his shirt, his belt, her bra—he stopped short to stare for one endless moment. But before he’d even
come close to looking his fill, she flattened herself against him and he forgot, at least for the
moment, the pleasure of seeing her to the pleasure of feeling her bare breasts against his chest.
He stepped backwards only to have his back hit a wall as she arched against him. He turned them so
he could press her against the wall but instead found themselves stumbling into her room as she hit
her door, making it swing open, giving way behind her, so that instead of finding her lips, his
kiss landed off center on her cheek.

Their eyes met in shared humor as they both laughed, the spell of their urgency broken for
now.

“Smooth move, wasn’t it?” he quipped, although his humorous tone was belied by his husky
voice.

“Very,” she agreed, her eyes alight with amusement, before her gaze lowered to focus on his bare
chest, all amusement fading to be replaced with heat. “I think you’re over-dressed,” she murmured
just before her hands went to the waistband of his trousers, undoing the button and the zipper, so
she could slide her warm, clever hands into the waistband of both his boxers and his trousers,
pushing them both down at once. And he couldn’t help a small groan of relief as his arousal was
freed from its confines as he hastily tore off his boxers and trousers the rest of the way, taking
his socks with them.

He’d barely straightened when her hand was on him, wrapping around him, and he groaned, his eyes
falling shut. He let her stroke him for a moment before he grasped her wrist lightly, pulling her
hand away. “Wait. It’s my turn now.”

And suiting his actions to his words, he moved to unfasten her trousers, letting his hands
caress her waist and her hips as he pushed her trousers and her knickers down past the curve of her
hips and down her legs until she was completely bared to his avid gaze.

His mouth went dry as he stared. *Merlin, she was gorgeous.* He didn’t know how he’d never
realized what a lovely figure she had but he suddenly thought he must have been blind or stupid or
delusional—or all of the above.

He flattened himself against her, his arms wrapping around her and bringing her in against him,
full-length, as his lips found hers again. She stumbled backwards blindly and he followed, still
kissing, until her knees hit her bed and they fell onto her bed, landing with a bounce that had
them both laughing softly for no particular reason before their eyes met and the laughter fled to
be replaced by a gaze of pure passion and something deeper than that.

*He was in bed with Hermione.* He didn’t know why that thought floated through his mind and
seemed invested with so much significance; it was irrational, given everything—and yet, somehow, it
*did* seem significant. It seemed like a moment that all the previous moments of his life had
been leading up to.

“Hermione…” he breathed and her name was a prayer and an endearment and a caress, all at
once.

The softest of smiles just grazed her lips, the corners of her lips lifting slightly, almost
imperceptibly. “Harry.”

He cupped her cheek with one hand and kissed her, softly, with all the tenderness that hadn’t
been in their kisses thus far, almost frantic with passion as they had been.

The kiss began softly but then she parted her lips and tightened her arms around his neck and
deepened the kiss with the same uninhibited passion he remembered so well, the same honest ardor
he’d fallen in love with.

He shifted until he was lying more fully on top of her, pressing her deeper into the pillows, as
he slid his hand down her neck and her shoulders and then her arm before reversing direction and
sweeping upwards, touching her stomach and her breast in one long, exploratory caress. She stirred
slightly beneath his touch, her skin heating yet further. He cupped her breast with his hand,
moving his thumb to rasp across her hard nipple, once, twice, until she broke off their kiss with a
gasp, her head falling back, as she arched into his touch, her body mutely asking for more. And he
gave it to her, flattening his palm against her breast, as he slid down her body, leaving a trail
of soft, slightly damp kisses down the line of her jaw, her neck, pausing as his tongue found the
hollow of her throat.

She didn’t passively accept his caresses but encouraged them, with the way she moved, the sounds
she made, the way she touched him, her hands moving restlessly, greedily, over his shoulders and
down his back and then up again.

She tangled her fingers in his hair as he finally reached his destination, his lips closing
around one taut nipple, savoring her throaty moan in response. He tasted, licked, suckled her,
loving every sound she made, every gasp, the way she arched into his mouth, the way her fingers
tightened in his hair, holding him in place.

He moved on, trailing his lips across her chest until he could lavish the same attention on her
other breast, until her breath was coming yet more quickly and her skin felt hot enough to burn. He
felt and reacted to her responsiveness as if it were a drug, intoxicating him. She had so much
passion, so much natural sensuality.

Pure lust closed like a fist around his gut, shutting off his brain. He needed to know all of
her, needed to learn her body the way he already knew her mind and her character.

He slid further down, his hands skating down her body, caressing her waist, stomach, hips, and
thighs, before his mouth followed the path his hands had taken, exploring her body yet more
intimately.

He swirled his tongue around her navel before dipping his tongue into it, tasting her skin,
breathing deep of the musky scent of arousal mingled in with the scent of her, that scent he knew
and recognized.

“Harry.” His name was a moan as she stirred restlessly beneath his hands and his lips.

He grasped her hips lightly and glanced up at her to meet her eyes across the length of her
upper body and the sight of her at that moment hit him in the chest with the force of a blow,
robbing him of breath. *God but she was so lovely…* All soft hills and valleys and beautiful
curves, her skin that he knew was just as soft as it looked, now flushed and slightly damp with
arousal and heat…

He wanted to smile, would have smiled but it felt as if the muscles of his face had forgotten
how with everything in him focused on her, just her. “You did this for me,” he managed to say,
huskily, and then delighted in the fact that she blushed. After all this, in spite of, or perhaps
because of, all her uninhibited passion, she still blushed and he loved that, would never have
expected it of Hermione but it was endearing, precious.

He lowered his head again, resuming his trail of light kisses down past her navel and along the
curve of her thighs before moving lower still, kissing his way down her inner thigh. He was vaguely
aware of hearing her gasp and moan again, her hips twitching in his hands as she arched towards
him. And finally, finally, he kissed that most intimate part of her. He licked, suckled, worshipped
her with his lips and tongue, learning and savoring her taste and her pleasure until she was
trembling and writhing against him, her breath coming in quick gasps. He kissed her one last time
and then she shuddered and cried out, her hips arching sharply.

And the sight of her at that moment of ecstasy robbed him of breath, of thought. He could only
stare, wanting to memorize forever the sight of her—the most erotic sight he could even imagine.
Her skin was flushed and she was panting as her body relaxed into the mattress.

Slowly, he moved back up the bed, until he was lying beside her, propping himself up on one
elbow as he watched her. Her eyes were closed as she lay there, looking as if she’d been
transported to some paradise apart from the world. He could feel small tremors of reaction going
through her as he rested his hand on her stomach, letting his fingers stray over her skin in a
soft, almost soothing caress. He could be almost entirely content just to lie there and watch her
like this, in the aftermath of bliss. Almost. Except he couldn’t ignore the increasingly urgent
demands of his aching body.

Her eyes fluttered open, dark and a little slumberous with desire, and a somewhat dreamy smile
curved her lips as her eyes met his. It was a look, an expression, he’d never have dreamed of
seeing on Hermione—*his* Hermione, as clever and determined and strong-willed as she was—and
yet, here it was and it was because of *him*. That thought, that knowledge, flooded his mind
and heart with an odd mixture of male triumph mingled in with tenderness and something like
awe.

She reached out and curled one hand around his erection as she urged him closer with the other
and he gave in with a groan, already breathless with the anticipation of finally sinking into her
wet warmth. His arousal nudged her, sliding along her wet flesh, until his eyes nearly crossed at
the pure eroticism of it, before he entered her with one quick thrust of his hips.

They both cried out at the searing intimacy of it, of the way her body took him in, fit around
him.

“Hermione,” he managed to gasp with what little breath he had left before he kissed her, deeply,
his tongue plunging into her mouth in unconscious imitation of the movement of his hips as he began
to move.

Her arms went around his shoulders, her hands clutching at him, her legs wrapping around his
hips as she arched up against him, encouraging him, pulling him in yet deeper, yet closer, meeting
and matching his every thrust. Her gasps for breath, his own harsh breathing, the sound of his
heart pounding, all blended together into an orchestral background of lust.

And then she tore her lips from his with a sharp cry, almost a scream, as her muscles convulsed
around him and the feel of her clenching around him pulled him over the edge with her and he
exploded inside her with one final thrust. His vision grayed around him, his mouth opened on a
hoarse shout, as he spilled himself inside her, feeling as if he gave all he had, his life, his
very soul, into her keeping.

He collapsed on top of her, breathless, boneless, mindless. He could not think, could barely
breathe, could only lie there on top of her. She was the bounds of his reality, the only thing that
existed for him in those few moments, the warmth of her body against him, the sound and the feel of
her gasps for breath against his ear.

Gradually, though, enough coherence returned to his brain for him to realize that he was
probably crushing her and he rolled heavily over onto his back, mustering just enough strength,
minimal as it was, to curve his arm around her, keeping her against him. He wasn’t, he thought
fuzzily, about to let her go, ever again. He was disinclined ever to move again, for that
matter.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift, relaxing yet further into the bed. He was—not quite
asleep but not entirely awake either, his mind floating in a half-conscious state, when she
stirred, distracting him.

“Harry?”

It took an almost ridiculous amount of effort to open his eyes and focus them on her face.
“Hmm?”

“What was this?”

He blinked, a little confused and a lot amused. “I think it’s called having a damn good
shag.”

She didn’t laugh but thumped his chest lightly. “Honestly, Harry, that wasn’t what I meant and
you know it.”

He sobered. “What did you mean?”

“I- I’m not some exotic stranger you meet in a pub and have a one night stand with,” she blurted
out.

He laughed. In spite of everything, in spite of the seriousness of her tone and her expression,
he couldn’t help it. But then choked the rest of his amusement back at the look in her eyes,
although he couldn’t entirely erase his smile from his face. “Do you think I don’t know that? This
is you and me, Hermione; we don’t do one-night stands.”

“We did last week.”

“What?” That surprised him out of any lingering lethargy and he pushed himself up onto his
elbow, turning onto his side so he could stare down at her. “Last week *wasn’t* a one-night
stand; it was… something else,” he finished a little lamely, since he couldn’t think of a way to
describe it.

She frowned slightly. “But- but, Harry, you said—after Ron said—I thought you--”

He cut her uncharacteristic stammering off with a quick kiss. “I *said* I would think about
it and that was only to get Ron to leave me alone.” He quirked a slight smile. “I generally find it
better *not* to do what Ron says I should.”

That got a small smile from her.

“As for last week, I wasn’t thinking of it—of Helena—as being a one-night stand; I thought it
was… a beginning. It happened faster than things usually do but I really liked Helena. I liked that
I felt comfortable with her, I liked that she didn’t flatter me, I liked that I could actually talk
to her. And I was incredibly disappointed to wake up the next morning and find you were gone.”

“Oh, Harry, really? I- I didn’t know. I thought…”

He moved one hand to cup her cheek lightly. “Hermione, if I’d been thinking of Helena as being
only a one-night stand, I wouldn’t have let you go down on me.”

She blushed hotly and he allowed himself a smile that may have been tinged with just a smidgen
of male smugness at making her blush, before he sobered.

“I liked Helena but it wasn’t until later that I realized the reason I liked her was because she
reminded me of you. It was *you*, Hermione, all along. I wanted you, loved *you*. I just
didn’t realize it until Helena hit me over the head with it. Luckily for me, you’ve always been a
lot smarter than I am.”

She choked on a laugh as she almost threw herself at him, her arms going around his neck as she
pressed all sorts of delightfully bare skin against him. “Oh, Harry, I love you too! But I thought
you could never think of me like *that*.”

He let himself fall back, sliding his own arms around her and enjoying the feel of her breasts
flattened against his chest, as she lay half on top of him. “I know. That was why you decided to
play Helena, wasn’t it?”

She lifted her head just enough to look at him, suddenly looking rather shy—incongruously so,
given where they were and what they were wearing, or not wearing more accurately. “You
guessed?”

He flattened his hands on her bare back. “I figured that was it because it was the only thing
that made sense.” He let his fingers stray in a light caress as he met her eyes. “I’m rather glad
you pretended to be Helena, or who knows how much longer it would have taken me to realize that the
reason I could never really fancy any of the girls I met was because I kept comparing them to
you?”

And he was rewarded for his candor when she smiled, a soft smile that glowed in her eyes and
softened her expression, a smile that was very like the affectionate smile she used to give him
when he’d done something she approved of, a smile that reminded him of the smile Helena had given
him that had caught at his heart and made him realize he was falling for her—except this time, he
realized, she wasn’t hiding anything. This smile showed all her love and all her loyalty and all
the depth of feeling which he knew she had. It was a smile that would have made him realize, if he
hadn’t already, that he really was in love with his best friend, in love with his Hermione.

And then she kissed him, with slow, deliberate heat and rubbed herself against him in a way that
effectively distracted his mind from everything else except her. And his last coherent thought as
he returned her kiss and her caresses was, *this was it*. *This was forever.*

This—this desire, this love— was forever. *She* was his forever.

*~The End~*



