Happy birthday, Laura!
A birthday gift for my very dear marie_j_granger, who requested a ficlet about violets. *hugs* Hope you like it.
Pure fluff.
Because of the Violets
Harry looked up with a smile as Hermione opened the door to their flat, only to have his eyes immediately drawn to the small pot of violets in her hand, vividly blooming in all their pale purple beauty.
“Hi, Harry.”
“Hi. Who are the violets from?”
“A thank you gift from one of my patients. Aren’t they lovely?”
“Yes, very pretty,” Harry agreed.
Hermione deposited her work bag by her desk and then placed the pot on the side table, pausing to touch a finger lightly to one glossy green leaf, a slight smile playing on her lips.
“Does this patient of yours fancy you?”
Hermione glanced at Harry, wondering if she was only imagining that slightly odd intonation in his voice. Surely, he wasn’t-couldn’t be-jealous. He didn’t care about her like that; she knew that.
She manufactured a light laugh. “Why do you ask that, Harry? Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. You’re my best friend so I have to check up on any fellow who fancies you.”
Hermione suppressed a sigh, even as she smiled. Of course that was all it was. Harry’s protective streak. “That’s sweet, Harry, but you know I can take care of myself.”
He lifted one shoulder. “I know, but it can’t do any harm for me to check. So, do you think he fancies you?”
Hermione paused. There it was again, that odd intonation in Harry’s voice. On a sudden, desperate hope, she made a sudden decision and pretended to think about it. “Oh, I don’t know. He might.”
“Do you like him?”
Hermione smiled. “Yes, I do. He’s handsome and very charming.”
Harry frowned. “I don’t trust handsome and very charming men. Remember Gilderoy Lockhart?”
“Harry Potter! Are you ever going to let me live that down?” she asked, trying-and failing-to sound irritated.
Harry’s expression lightened as he gave her a quick grin. “Nope. It’s too much fun to see your face whenever I bring him up.”
Hermione made a face at him before she continued on, “Anyway, I think I can trust this fellow. He has this way of making me smile,” Hermione added deliberately.
“Who is he? I’m going to talk to him.”
“Harry!”
“What? I have to make sure he deserves you, don’t I?” His voice abruptly softened. “You deserve the best, you know, and I- I just want you to have what you deserve.”
She melted. And for one moment, her only coherent thought was that, if she hadn’t loved him already, she would certainly have fallen in love with him right then. She loved him-and she couldn’t tease him. “Oh, Harry… You don’t have to worry about him. All I said about him is true; he is handsome and charming and funny- and he’s six years old.”
Harry stared. “He’s what?”
“He’s six.”
“You said he fancies you!”
“Well,” Hermione hedged, “I think he does rather fancy me, like that first fancy young boys feel for their pretty primary school teacher.”
“Hermione!”
“I’m sorry for teasing you, Harry. I just-it was a stupid thing to do.”
“Six,” Harry muttered more to himself than to her.
“Yeah, he’s only six.”
“I can’t believe I was jealous of a six year old.”
Hermione stopped breathing-forgot how to breathe, as she stared at him, for a moment convinced she was delusional and hearing things. Or that she’d suddenly lost the ability to comprehend the English language. He couldn’t have said-he hadn’t just said-he had. “You- you-you were what? Harry, I…”
Harry looked at her. Really looked at her, a look that suddenly had her insides quivering with something that wasn’t quite embarrassment and wasn’t quite nervousness and wasn’t quite hope but was something like a mixture of all three. He looked at her-and she looked at him and, for the first time in a very long time, didn’t try to hide what she felt, knew all her feelings Harry-ward were apparent on her face. Or at least, apparent to him, who already knew her so well, understood her so well.
And the look in his eyes meant more to her than the most eloquent declaration in the world.
“I was-I was jealous,” Harry finally said slowly.
Her lungs had forgotten how to function, her eyelids had forgotten how to blink, but she didn’t care. Slowly, very slowly, feeling rather as if she were trying to move through molasses, she straightened and stood up.
He did the same, moving with the same deliberate caution, as if disturbing even the smallest dust particle would somehow break the strange spell they were both under.
“You were?” Her voice sounded oddly unlike herself, as soft and breathy as it was.
And then…
And then she was there, he was there. And they had closed the distance between them until she could hear the uneven sound of his breath past his lips, could see the flecks of color in his eyes.
“I was.” The two words were hardly louder than a breath. “Hermione.”
“Harry.”
And as if the sound of their names had been some sort of signal, he finally touched her, his hands lifting to cup her face lightly, tenderly.
She’d never realized her skin could be so sensitive, as if every nerve ending in her body were focusing, centered on every place where he touched her. She felt the touch of his hands as if it were a brand and had the sudden, uncharacteristically-fanciful thought that he was touching not just her face but her soul.
Slowly, her eyes fluttered closed.
Slowly, so did his.
And then he kissed her.
The moment his lips touched hers, she lost contact with the rest of the world, aware only of the familiar scent of him, the soft pressure of his lips, the taste of him as her lips parted for his, the sound of her heart beating, the matching rhythm of his own heart beneath her hands as they rested on his chest, and then the strength of his shoulders as her hands slid up around his neck as she arched and drifted even closer to him.
The kiss lengthened, deepened, as her tongue touched and then caressed his. She could almost feel her thoughts dissolving, dissipating like so much mist in the sunlight.
And her last coherent thought was, thank God for the violets.
~The End~
Pure fluff.
Because of the Violets
Harry looked up with a smile as Hermione opened the door to their flat, only to have his eyes immediately drawn to the small pot of violets in her hand, vividly blooming in all their pale purple beauty.
“Hi, Harry.”
“Hi. Who are the violets from?”
“A thank you gift from one of my patients. Aren’t they lovely?”
“Yes, very pretty,” Harry agreed.
Hermione deposited her work bag by her desk and then placed the pot on the side table, pausing to touch a finger lightly to one glossy green leaf, a slight smile playing on her lips.
“Does this patient of yours fancy you?”
Hermione glanced at Harry, wondering if she was only imagining that slightly odd intonation in his voice. Surely, he wasn’t-couldn’t be-jealous. He didn’t care about her like that; she knew that.
She manufactured a light laugh. “Why do you ask that, Harry? Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters. You’re my best friend so I have to check up on any fellow who fancies you.”
Hermione suppressed a sigh, even as she smiled. Of course that was all it was. Harry’s protective streak. “That’s sweet, Harry, but you know I can take care of myself.”
He lifted one shoulder. “I know, but it can’t do any harm for me to check. So, do you think he fancies you?”
Hermione paused. There it was again, that odd intonation in Harry’s voice. On a sudden, desperate hope, she made a sudden decision and pretended to think about it. “Oh, I don’t know. He might.”
“Do you like him?”
Hermione smiled. “Yes, I do. He’s handsome and very charming.”
Harry frowned. “I don’t trust handsome and very charming men. Remember Gilderoy Lockhart?”
“Harry Potter! Are you ever going to let me live that down?” she asked, trying-and failing-to sound irritated.
Harry’s expression lightened as he gave her a quick grin. “Nope. It’s too much fun to see your face whenever I bring him up.”
Hermione made a face at him before she continued on, “Anyway, I think I can trust this fellow. He has this way of making me smile,” Hermione added deliberately.
“Who is he? I’m going to talk to him.”
“Harry!”
“What? I have to make sure he deserves you, don’t I?” His voice abruptly softened. “You deserve the best, you know, and I- I just want you to have what you deserve.”
She melted. And for one moment, her only coherent thought was that, if she hadn’t loved him already, she would certainly have fallen in love with him right then. She loved him-and she couldn’t tease him. “Oh, Harry… You don’t have to worry about him. All I said about him is true; he is handsome and charming and funny- and he’s six years old.”
Harry stared. “He’s what?”
“He’s six.”
“You said he fancies you!”
“Well,” Hermione hedged, “I think he does rather fancy me, like that first fancy young boys feel for their pretty primary school teacher.”
“Hermione!”
“I’m sorry for teasing you, Harry. I just-it was a stupid thing to do.”
“Six,” Harry muttered more to himself than to her.
“Yeah, he’s only six.”
“I can’t believe I was jealous of a six year old.”
Hermione stopped breathing-forgot how to breathe, as she stared at him, for a moment convinced she was delusional and hearing things. Or that she’d suddenly lost the ability to comprehend the English language. He couldn’t have said-he hadn’t just said-he had. “You- you-you were what? Harry, I…”
Harry looked at her. Really looked at her, a look that suddenly had her insides quivering with something that wasn’t quite embarrassment and wasn’t quite nervousness and wasn’t quite hope but was something like a mixture of all three. He looked at her-and she looked at him and, for the first time in a very long time, didn’t try to hide what she felt, knew all her feelings Harry-ward were apparent on her face. Or at least, apparent to him, who already knew her so well, understood her so well.
And the look in his eyes meant more to her than the most eloquent declaration in the world.
“I was-I was jealous,” Harry finally said slowly.
Her lungs had forgotten how to function, her eyelids had forgotten how to blink, but she didn’t care. Slowly, very slowly, feeling rather as if she were trying to move through molasses, she straightened and stood up.
He did the same, moving with the same deliberate caution, as if disturbing even the smallest dust particle would somehow break the strange spell they were both under.
“You were?” Her voice sounded oddly unlike herself, as soft and breathy as it was.
And then…
And then she was there, he was there. And they had closed the distance between them until she could hear the uneven sound of his breath past his lips, could see the flecks of color in his eyes.
“I was.” The two words were hardly louder than a breath. “Hermione.”
“Harry.”
And as if the sound of their names had been some sort of signal, he finally touched her, his hands lifting to cup her face lightly, tenderly.
She’d never realized her skin could be so sensitive, as if every nerve ending in her body were focusing, centered on every place where he touched her. She felt the touch of his hands as if it were a brand and had the sudden, uncharacteristically-fanciful thought that he was touching not just her face but her soul.
Slowly, her eyes fluttered closed.
Slowly, so did his.
And then he kissed her.
The moment his lips touched hers, she lost contact with the rest of the world, aware only of the familiar scent of him, the soft pressure of his lips, the taste of him as her lips parted for his, the sound of her heart beating, the matching rhythm of his own heart beneath her hands as they rested on his chest, and then the strength of his shoulders as her hands slid up around his neck as she arched and drifted even closer to him.
The kiss lengthened, deepened, as her tongue touched and then caressed his. She could almost feel her thoughts dissolving, dissipating like so much mist in the sunlight.
And her last coherent thought was, thank God for the violets.
~The End~