Fluff to kick off the weekend
Ron let out a cavernous-and, Harry knew, entirely exaggerated-yawn before he stood up, stretching. And then took advantage of his new position with his back to Hermione-not that she was even looking at him-for his features to fall into a series of contortions that Harry would have found funny-had found funny for the first couple nights, until he’d moved past humor into irritation instead. Ron jerked his head slightly in Hermione’s direction, wiggled his eyebrows, rolled his eyes in Hermione’s direction, and then gave an exaggerated leer.
Come on. Just kiss her already. You know you want to.
Harry shot Ron a rather narrow-eyed glare in response. Piss off.
Entirely unfazed by Harry’s reaction, Ron finished with a last significant raising of his eyebrows before announcing, entirely unnecessarily, “I’m off to bed. Good night, you two.”
Hermione glanced up to give Ron a rather vague smile. “G’night, Ron.”
“Night,” Harry said rather curtly.
He knew Ron meant well but in the 11 days since Ron had, quite effectively, tilted Harry’s world on end by suggesting that Harry kiss Hermione, he’d also become annoyingly persistent in his efforts to try to make it happen. Harry was only thankful that for now, Ron was limiting his efforts to leaving Harry and Hermione alone as often as he reasonably could. He hadn’t eaten dinner at the flat for three nights out of the past week, on two of those nights, he’d stayed out for drinks after dinner and come home late enough that he’d gone straight to bed, and he’d taken to going to bed earlier than he usually did-as he had tonight-and always made a point of announcing his departure, as if to emphasize that there would be no chance that Harry and Hermione would be interrupted by him.
Well, limiting his efforts to leaving Harry and Hermione alone and to constantly finding some way to remind Harry of their conversation, through making faces (as he had just now) or by making seemingly casual but pointed comments underscoring how close Harry and Hermione were. He probably thought he was being subtle-and by Ron’s standards, he was-but Harry had caught Hermione glancing at Ron curiously after some of these comments, since it was not Ron’s usual practice to refer to the past quite so much or to talk about relationships, of any sort.
At first Harry had just found it amusing.
Now, after nearly two weeks of it, Harry had crossed the line from amusement into irritation. Ron seemed to think it would be the easiest, most straightforward thing in the world, as if Harry could just randomly walk over to Hermione and kiss her sometime and everything would go on just fine from there.
Harry inwardly snorted. Not bloody likely.
For one thing, he couldn’t just go over to Hermione and kiss her.
For another, he had no real assurance that Hermione thought of him as anything other than just her best friend, never mind what Ron had said. He couldn’t place much weight on Ron’s insistence that Harry had always come first for Hermione-not because Ron was wrong but because it was just the type of person Hermione was. Hermione had always been the type of person to drop everything to help a person out, even for people she barely knew but especially for friends. He didn’t know the exact circumstances but he would bet anything he had that even on that first day on the Hogwarts Express that Hermione had just heard that Neville had lost his frog and had then taken it upon herself to visit the different cars on the train to try to find it. To help, because that was what Hermione did. And he did know that in all their years of friendship, Hermione had always, always done everything she could to help him. She’d broken rules, stolen supplies, braved dangers, risked her very life, to help him. From their First Year, she’d done that. Hermione doing whatever she could to help him was probably the one constant of his entire life since the day they’d met.
It was just one of the things that made Hermione Hermione.
With Ron gone, his gaze automatically settled on Hermione-he generally tried not to stare at Hermione when anyone else was around-but whenever it was just the two of them, well, she drew his eyes like a magnet. As if she was true north on his internal compass.
“What’s wrong?” he found himself blurting out, even before his conscious mind had registered that something was wrong, let alone how he knew that.
Hermione started a little as she looked up at him, a faint smile flickering over her lips. “Merlin, Harry, can you read minds now?”
He smiled slightly at this sally. “No, but you haven’t turned a page in almost ten minutes and you’re frowning at your desk so something’s obviously bothering you. What is it?”
She sighed and put the pamphlet she’d been ostensibly reading down on her desk. “I had a… row with Margo.”
Harry sobered, frowning a little. “A row? You never row with Margo.” Margo was Hermione’s direct supervisor and she’d also acted as Hermione’s mentor from the day Hermione had started at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Hermione both liked and respected Margo immensely and, to the best of Harry’s knowledge, Hermione and Margo had not had a difference of opinion even once in the more than 5 years they’d been working together.
Her lips twisted into a grimace that made a mockery of a smile. “There’s a first time for everything, I guess.”
“What happened?”
“She thought the Department should take a different position on an issue and I disagreed with her. We… uh… talked about it for a while and then when it became obvious neither of us was about to be persuaded, she tried to pull rank but then I insisted that we take it to the Division Director.”
“Oh.” Harry knew enough about the organizational structure within the Department to realize that the Director would be the person with the authority to overrule Margo’s opinion. “How did Margo take it?”
“She agreed but I know she was annoyed and now-oh, Harry, what if I was wrong? What if I’ve just complicated a really great working relationship because I was too stubborn or too blind or whatever to admit that I might be wrong about something? I mean, I know I’m a know-it-all and I know I hate to make mistakes or admit that I was wrong or that I don’t know something. Maybe I let my ego blind me to Margo’s reasoning. I mean, I know how clever she is and-”
“Hermione!” he interrupted her flood of words, the speed at which that had all spilled out revealing more about Hermione’s state of mind than her tone or the words themselves had. “Stop it,” he said, more gently. “For one thing, worrying about it like this can’t do any good now. You’ll meet with the Director and he’ll decide.” He paused and then added, “Anyway, I’m the one who broods about things I can’t change. Stop trying to usurp my role.”
He was rewarded for this with a small laugh, her frown clearing for the moment, her expression lightening-and his heart lifted, feeling buoyant, as he found himself thinking, not for the first time, that he would do anything to see her smile, make her laugh.
“And as for your relationship with Margo going forward, I really can’t imagine that this will cause any lasting harm. Part of the reason you and Margo get along so well is because you both respect each other. She’ll understand and she’s not the sort to expect you to agree with her just because she’s your supervisor.”
“Maybe I just didn’t want to admit that I might have been wrong.”
“You weren’t.”
She gave him a look. “Harry, you can’t possibly know that for sure.”
“No, not on the merits of whatever you were disagreeing about but I do know that you weren’t just being stubborn. Yes, you hate being wrong but you also respect Margo too much not to have really listened to her and you’re too fair-minded to insist on going to the Director if Margo had managed to convince you, even if it would have meant admitting you were wrong.”
“How can you sound so sure of that? You weren’t even there.”
Harry felt a spurt of affection in his chest. It was so typical of Hermione that even when being reassured, she still insisted on the assurances being reasonable. Not for Hermione to want to hear comforting lies. “I can be sure of it because I know you.” Which he did. He knew how fair-minded she generally was. It was both disconcerting, a trifle annoying at times, and yet somehow endearing at the same time. He remembered, in the few times that he and Hermione had disagreed and he had presented a valid argument, the way Hermione had opened her mouth to respond before she’d stopped, blinked, and then said something like “You’re right,” or “that’s a good point.” She was probably the only person he’d ever met who could do that, admit in the middle of an argument that the other person was right. Certainly Ron never did; when Ron got annoyed, he developed a contrarian streak that would have had him denying that the grass was green if the other person had said so.
“I know you,” he said again, his tone softening, filling with all the emotion he couldn’t help but feel, “so when I tell you that you weren’t just being stubborn, you can believe me.
“You know me,” she repeated and then gave him a faint smile. “I guess you really do, don’t you, Harry?”
He returned her smile, forcing his voice to sound just friendly again. “You guess? I’ve been your best friend for almost 15 years. I’d better know you by now.”
“You don’t have to sound so smug about it. I know you too, remember?” She gave him a teasing look.
“Well, you are a know-it-all.”
She laughed and then sobered. “Thanks, Harry.”
“For what?”
“For making me feel better.”
He gave a little shrug. “Anytime. It’s what friends do.”
“What would I do without you?”
She meant it and said it lightly but he stilled, looking at her, and answered her seriously, automatically even. “You’d be fine.”
She frowned slightly. “Harry… why would you say that?”
“It’s true. You’d be fine without me.” He lifted one shoulder into a half-shrug and managed a slight smile. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
She straightened up in her chair, frowning more definitely now. “Don’t be-Harry, you know you’re my best friend.”
“I know.”
“Then you ought to know by now that I need you too.”
She needed him. He stared at her. She needed him? Part of him-a large part of him-couldn’t really believe it, wanted to ask if it was true-but he knew she meant it. He could see her sincerity in her eyes, knew her honesty.
She needed him.
And he loved her.
Oddly, it was the first time he’d thought it in so many words. He’d known he cared about Hermione as much more than just his best friend, knew how much he needed her, needed her friendship. But somehow, even in his thoughts, he’d shied away from using the word, “love.” It was too… big… a word, somehow. It had seemed too much, too… sacred… a word to use freely.
Now, looking at her, he knew it was the only word he could use. The only word that… fit… He loved her. And she needed him.
It was… humbling… Miraculous, even.
She was, he thought rather fuzzily, probably the first person who really needed him.
He knew that everyone else, the wizarding world, believed they needed him in that general Boy-Who-Lived, He-Who-Defeated-Voldemort sort of way. And while he understood, had even come to appreciate it in a sense, it didn’t mean much to him. It had nothing to do with him personally; it was just the destiny he’d been born to. Hermione, on the other hand, needed him for who he was, not what he was. She needed him just for him, just for being Harry, her best friend.
He suddenly thought of Ron urging him to kiss Hermione-and yes, of course, he wanted to kiss Hermione but at that moment, he knew he didn’t need to.
He was her best friend and she needed him-and that was all he really needed.
He wanted to kiss her-but he needed her as his best friend more. Needed to be her best friend more.
He blinked, swallowed the lump of emotion in his throat, and managed a grin. “Careful, you’re going to make me vain.”
She laughed. “I think it’s too late for that, Mr. Winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile and Most Eligible Bachelor of the Year.”
He rolled his eyes and made an exaggerated face at her, the grimace he usually gave whenever anyone mentioned those particular awards.
She laughed again and he was unable to do anything other than grin back at her, noting in that idle way he noticed everything about her these days that her eyes were bright, dancing with amusement, and she looked cheerful, restored to her usual confident self. His heart lifted and something like triumph flared in his chest as he thought that he had done that. He had comforted her, brought her out of her uncharacteristic bout of self-doubt and given her back her confidence. The same way she always managed to do for him.
They settled into an easy, comfortable, and rather desultory conversation, idly talking about nothing in particular. He relaxed further on the couch, letting a silence fall. It was probably one of the things he valued most about his friendship with Hermione, that they didn’t need to talk and he still enjoyed spending time with her.
He glanced over at Hermione to see that she was gazing absently at one of the pictures on the wall, her eyes unfocused, her thoughts clearly far away. He might have been concerned but her expression made it clear that whatever she was thinking about, it was nothing bad, nothing that troubled her.
Safe, for the moment, from her noticing, he let his eyes linger on her, visually tracing her familiar features-her straight nose, her mouth, her determined chin, before returning automatically to her lips. He supposed she wasn’t conventionally pretty-he suddenly remembered saying to her, “I don’t think you’re ugly,” the long-buried memory resurfacing. “Not ugly,” as if that could possibly do justice to the way Hermione looked. He spared a moment to wonder, not for the first time, how on earth he could possibly have been so blind to Hermione’s appeal for so many years. How could he not have seen her as she was-how could he not have noticed that there was something mesmerizing in the play of expressions across her face, that there was an ineffable grace in the brisk, capable movements of her hands as she performed every-day tasks, that the curve of her lips when she smiled had the power to render him completely incapable of coherent thought?
He blinked, looking away from her for a moment to try to regain his usual ability to treat Hermione as only his best friend, mentally shaking himself as he did so. Cataloguing all the things that made Hermione beautiful was not helpful.
His gaze returned to Hermione to see that she was beginning to get the heavy-lidded look which he knew presaged her getting sleepy. “You look tired,” he spoke up on the thought.
She blinked and then gave him a faint smile. “Yeah, I think I’ll go to bed. It was a long day.”
“Sleep well.”
She organized the papers on her desk, straightening out the piles, as she always did before going to bed. Ron thought her habit of doing this was obsessive and unnecessary; he thought it was rather… adorable. And even though he’d never have expected to associate the word, adorable, with Hermione, in this case, well, it was the only word he could think of. He made a mental note never to mention this to Hermione; he had no wish to have her turn her wrath on him.
She paused by his side on her way to her room, resting one hand lightly on his shoulder. “Thanks again, Harry, for talking me out of my fretting.”
He turned his head to look at her, meaning to make some light response about how making her feel better was just part of his job as her best friend but whatever he’d been about to say was lost forever. He turned his head just as she bent to brush her lips against his cheek and-
For one fleeting, endless second, they both froze with her lips lightly touching his. Just for a moment and then she moved, drawing back just a few inches. There was a beat, another moment of silence, stillness, in which their eyes met-and his heart, that he could swear had stopped beating entirely-for that matter, he felt as if his very blood had stopped flowing in his veins-started up again, much faster than before.
And then-
And then he saw her eyes close before she pressed her lips against his again, more definitely this time, and lingering for a couple seconds. Just enough time for his brain to belatedly catch up to what was happening-Hermione was kissing him!
And then it was over, a moment after he’d realized that it was happening at all-Hermione was kissing him!-it was over. Hermione had kissed him!
She drew back, straightening up. Her hand patted his shoulder once, lightly, and then she stepped away, heading towards her own room.
Hermione had kissed him.
For what felt like an hour but was in reality just a few seconds-thank Merlin-he stayed frozen, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think except for those four words that had quite possibly ended his life as he knew it. Hermione had kissed him!
She had kissed him!
“Hermione.” Her name escaped him even before he’d realized he was going to call her, before he’d realized that he’d regained the ability to speak.
He finally managed to make himself move, almost leaping off the couch as if it had suddenly developed spikes and crossing the few steps between him and Hermione in a single bound.
She met his eyes with her usual directness, but he saw the sudden deepening of color in her cheeks, the twitch of her fingers at her side, that indicated she wasn’t as calm as she appeared.
“I-you-” he stammered and then gave up the attempt to marshal coherent words. He couldn’t think of anything to say. And so he just kissed her instead.
Kissed her for real, kissed her not like the friend she’d always been until now but like the woman he loved, kissed her as he’d wanted to kiss her for months now.
He was vaguely aware-in the small portion of his senses not completely focused on the softness of her lips, the flick of her tongue against his, the taste of her-of her hands coming up to cup his cheeks and then sliding back to tangle in his hair as she shifted closer to him. His arms automatically slid around her waist, tugging her body just that slightest bit closer to him until she was resting full-length against him.
He could have kissed her forever. As it was, he had no idea how long the kiss had gone on before it gentled, softened, became a thing of tenderness.
He moved just enough to brush his lips against the little hollow just above her lips, the corner of her mouth, her cheek, the soft skin just before her ear, the little spot just behind her earlobe. He felt her shaky breath against his skin, somehow sensed the slight shiver that went through her.
He drew back slowly, half-reluctantly but wanting to see her face, her eyes.
She blinked, looking… adorably blank for a fleeting second before full awareness returned to her eyes. And he could swear his heart, already clattering in his chest, actually leaped at this sign that he could have this effect on her, that his kiss had stopped Hermione-Hermione of all people-from thinking.
He saw the beginnings of a smile spark in her eyes, the corners of her lips just curve upwards. She looked… he couldn’t think of a word that could possibly do justice to it. And looking at her, he somehow knew all he needed to know about how she felt. She cared about him, not just as her best friend but as something more…
“Hermione…” he breathed, as softly as if he was afraid that speaking normally might somehow shatter the moment, “you… really?” It was, incoherent as it was, somehow the only thing he could say.
Oh Harry…” she half-sighed. “It’s always been you.”
He kissed her again. It was quite literally the only thing he could do in response. He couldn’t think of any other way to tell her just what the words meant to him, what she meant to him, couldn’t think of any words to do justice to the flood of emotion.
So he only kissed her and his last coherent thought before he stopped thinking altogether was that Ron had been right.
~The End~