Chapter Text
The morning after, Hermione was sat in her bed. The sunlight streamed in from the castle windows of the girl’s dorms, splitting into glorious rays of light revealed only by the dust hanging in the air.
She had a late morning start on Tuesdays, thankfully, and early NEWT Divination meant she could start her morning routine and breathe in the silence of the castle without fear of being disturbed.
Her peace, of course, was troubled only by her thoughts about her boys.
She thought about Ron while brushing her teeth. She had been attracted to him until she saw him snogging Lavender in the common room, she was sure – the quiet ache in her chest she’d thought of as heartbreak was still there, pulsing with hurt as she thought about the weekend, but it was also certainly duller, more muted.
Ron was funny, sure, and always able to get her into a good mood with his ridiculousness, but he’d also been a right berk to her before, this recent episode being no exception. He was smart but unreservedly lazy, and his envy of his brothers and her and Harry had always struck out at the worst times.
Then her mind inevitably wandered towards Harry, because it wasn’t as if her feelings about the two boys weren’t utterly mixed up in her head.
She’d always been closest to the green-eyed boy, ever since she’d found out that he had been the first to think of her when the troll was discovered in the dungeons all the way back in first year. She’d crushed hard on him since that very first Halloween, but after years getting no sign of his reciprocation, she’d convinced herself to lock her first crush away into a box firmly labelled friendship.
Hermione’s two objects of affection were certainly similar in many respects: Harry was also intelligent but prone to letting his emotions control him rather than his rationality, making him utterly drawn to always impulsively doing the right thing even when it was inconvenient and frankly sometimes stupid. He made her laugh too, with his dry sarcasm and sharp wit, so it wasn’t as if he was any less pleasant to be around than Ron.
The one thing that had always been different between him and Ron, though, was that whilst Ron was often mean to her, Harry had always, always, been kind, as he’d shown last night.
Maybe that was the important thing - that while Ron might have even liked her back at some point this year, he would always see himself and his jealousy that she’d had her first kiss before him and act hurtfully without thinking about her; whilst on the other hand Harry was always considering her in some way, even when feeling at his worst.
His face whilst he’d held her hand last night, all tender and unexplainable, drifted into her consciousness and she couldn’t help but feel her face warm.
Merlin, this was all getting so jumbled up in her head.
Did she still like Ron? What in the hells did she feel for Harry?
She was absent-mindedly brushing her hair in front of the mirror and was startled when her mirror commented on her appearance for the first time in forever (it had given up on her a few weeks after the Yule Ball, when she’d made it clear that she was never putting that much effort into her looks ever again).
“Finally putting some real thought into that hair of yours again, are we? What’s happened, a new boy to impress?” The mirror’s tone was teasing.
Hermione blushed again. She had put more Sleakeazy Solution into her curls this morning than she normally did, almost subconsciously. Surely it hadn’t been because she was thinking of Harry, was it?
She ignored the ramblings of the charmed glass (“I swear, just a little eyeliner goes a long way!”) as she dragged the brush through the last few sections of her hair and quickly grabbed her bookbag before scrambling down to the common room. Hermione was so lost in her thoughts that she ran into someone at the very bottom of the stairs, almost knocking them over. Strong, familiar arms grabbed her as she stumbled.
“Woah, you alright?” She turned to face the piercing green eyes that had just been plaguing her - it was as if she had manifested Harry just by pondering him.
In the morning light, Harry looked almost pretty. Hermione had always known that Harry was objectively attractive – she’d heard no small amount of gossip in the girl’s bathrooms about who was going to ask him out next the entire year, what with his “smoldering eyes”, Quidditch captaincy, and newfound height gained over the summer – but it had never seemed to register with her. He had always just been Harry.
But her mind flashed back to last night, where the moon had set him alight so beautifully the scene should have been painted – apparently, now “Just Harry” was stealing her ability to think straight.
She struggled out of his arms whilst simultaneously trying to set her thoughts in line. “I’m fine. Breakfast?”
Be normal, she thought as she led them out of the common room. Just be normal.
“Of course.” As they neared the portrait hole, however, he said, “I like what you’ve done with your hair, by the way. It looks good on you.”
Fuck, her normal was so screwed. Thank Merlin she was in walking in front of him – at least he couldn’t see her blush.
Hermione had realized things might change after their picnic in the moonlight (that even sounded romantic in her head), but she hadn’t fully comprehended how much her dynamic with Harry might shift.
What choosing her really meant.
Over the next week, they spent nearly every free hour with each other.
Some of it was admittedly time that would normally have been spent as a trio with Ron, who was pre-occupied with other things (cough, Lavender, cough), but even accounting for that difference, Hermione could tell that things had become different.
Harry spent less time on his own or prowling around for Malfoy, opting instead to sit next to Hermione. In the evening, if he was bored or done already while she searched for her thirteenth extra reference, he’d pull out a book or start sketching in a journal instead of wandering off to bed like he normally would.
Every now and again, he’d manage to coax Hermione away from work, and they’d go off to wander the castle or sit in an alcove and chat – once, he even managed to sit her down on one of the big armchairs and coerced her into a fantastically fun if lopsided game of who-can-catch-it-first with his practice Snitch.
(She was practically on top of him, having reached over for the fluttering ball. “You’re letting me win,” she pouted after her third snatch in a row.
Maybe not on purpose, but she could tell Harry had been more focused on watching her than the Snitch, his hands running through his hair like an absent-minded tic, tousling it in a maddening way that made it look so perfect Hermione had to resist the urge to muss it up herself by running her fingers through.
His staring, intense and relentlessly green, was distracting her. “And stop doing that.”
Of course, he feigned ignorance. “Doing what?” His blink almost convinced her he was actually clueless, but Hermione could feel the amusement rolling off of him.
She merely shook her head, cheeks pink. If she let her fingers brush against his a bit unnecessarily as they passed the golden ball between them, well, she would never admit it.)
The extra time spent together was gratifying. She hadn’t realized just how much she missed his presence, given how often Harry was away doing detentions or lessons with Professor Dumbledore nowadays.
Truthfully, it was as if Hermione had become the most important person to him in the world, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel flattered, if a bit hesitant, as he slowly carved himself a place deeper into her heart.
Hell, Harry came to the library with her so much that people from other houses had noticed. Daphne Greengrass, Hermione’s only real academic rival in the year, walked up to the Gryffindor pair one evening with an air of challenge about her. “Potter. You aren’t normally the type to spend so much time in the bookstacks.”
Harry only tilted his head slightly at her. “Greengrass. There’s nothing wrong with me doing my homework with Hermione, is there?”
“Not at all, Potter, just wondering why you aren’t off gallivanting with your usual bunch of lads on the Quidditch pitch.”
His voice was curt, but not impolite. “None of your business, if you don’t mind me saying. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go find a reference for this Charms essay.” He stood up and walked past a thoughtful-looking Daphne, who seemed to consider something for a second before turning towards Hermione with a sly look in her eyes. The Slytherin girl had always been cordial to Hermione, if a bit distant, but Hermione narrowed her eyes and braced herself for an incoming barb-
“Good show, Granger. Finally picked the right one, have you?”
Hermione flushed and was at a loss for words, the implication being immediately clear to her. “Excuse me?”
Daphne was already walking away, however. “Just letting you know that it’ll be good to lock him down before long – some of the girls in the lower years are ordering a suspicious number of love potions, if you catch my drift. My sister keeps me informed.”
Hermione blinked, the ball of something in her gut snarling at the idea of Harry being ensnared in such a vile way (and maybe she felt just the slightest bit possessive over her best friend, but who would tell?)
She confiscated thirty-two items of contraband from Romilda Vane and four other girls later that night.
The next Hogsmeade weekend, Hermione and Harry were sitting in a secluded booth in the Three Broomsticks, the warm and inviting atmosphere of the pub fully drawing down any of Hermione’s defenses. Harry was sat across from her, fully laughing as he told her about how just yesterday whilst she had been in her Arithmancy class, Michael Corner had enacted a truly horrific plan to ask Ginny to take him to Slughorn’s Christmas party – in front of Dean, no less, and everybody else in the Great Hall.
While she observed the way his broad shoulders shook in his amusement, she reflected that this thing between them had grown, much as she was scared to address it.
Her best friend was pretending like this show, and the past week, was just him being funny, charming, normal Harry, but Hermione knew better. Even now, she noticed when his eyes lingered a bit too long on her lips as she sipped her butterbeer, and she could feel the heat of his body as their knees touched under the table, where he hadn’t moved his legs away.
But she hadn’t moved away either, had she?
Even unbalanced by the way her brain now unhelpfully stuttered occasionally around Harry, Hermione couldn’t help but feel swept away by his good cheer. “What, so you think enchanted poetry pages and dancing chocolate cupids aren’t a good way to ask someone out?” she giggled.
He cringed. “Well, at least it’s romantic… in a sort of creepy, Lockhartian way.”
“You just haven’t got any better ideas, you lonely miser!”
He guffawed in mock outrage. “I do too!”
“Well, I’ve seen no evidence to the contrary. Harry Potter, as fanciable as he is, cannot get a date.”
He smirked. “The lady doth find me fanciable, is that right?”
Fuck. She flushed, the pub suddenly feeling several degrees warmer than it had been before. “Possibly – no verdict yet,” she deflected, before stumbling on with her words. “Besides, how would you ask a girl out then, if you’re such a lady-killer?”
She leaned in, wanting to unbalance him, challenge him in turn, get some payback for this infuriating flirting-not-flirting he was doing.
Instead, he didn’t answer right away. He seemed to think something over, slowly but restlessly tapping his long fingers on the edge of the table. Then, his eyes focussed back on her and he leaned in just a touch, just enough that their faces were close. Warmth pooled in Hermione’s spine.
Almost easily, he said: “Slughorn’s Christmas party is coming up, and I was hoping you’d be my date?”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, refusing to show the turmoil she felt under her skin. “Asking me to be your date to an event I already have an invite too? I’m afraid that’s a failing grade, Mr. Potter.”
“But you’d be going with me, not by yourself.” He smiled faintly. “So? Want to go with me?”
Her eyes flicked to table, where a splinter was coming out of the wood, then back to his face. And suddenly, the pub felt quieter. The flicker of candlelight warmer. Her elation battled with her hesitation, and she felt herself considering his words.
He didn’t say it like it was a joke – she knew he wouldn’t joke about something like this.
They’d promised to be good to each other, after all.
Instead, there was something very soft underneath the humour of the conversation. Something that Hermione wanted.
Very badly.
Her voice dropped. “You know, for a statement like that, most girls would call you a narcissist and hex you before walking out.”
Harry only shrugged, the veneer of his casualness only betrayed by the smallest twitch of uncertainty in his smile. “Yet, you’re still here, and I’m unhexed.”
She didn’t look away, and the moment stretched just as it had before. “Why are you asking me, Harry?” Her voice came out harsher than she intended, as if a mask had slipped and something she’d been trying to hide peaked out.
The candlelight didn’t quite mask his expression – it flickered between the earnestness she’d come to crave, and some caution that she wasn’t sure she’d ever really seen on Harry’s face.
“Because I want to.” he said, quietly but without hesitation. Steady.
Hermione let out a breath she didn’t even know she’d been holding and ran her fingers around the rim of her mug. “Not because Ron’s being-”
“No.”
She blinked at the certainty in his voice.
“I’m not doing this because of him.” Harry said firmly, his gaze steady on hers. “I know I’m not a rebound, and it’s certainly not pity that’s making me ask you. I’m asking you because I want you to go with me.”
Hermione could feel the aching, confusing knot of things unravel in her chest as Harry’s words hit her in just the right ways.
She almost felt lost for words.
“I… he just made me feel so silly,” she confessed, fisting her hands on the table. “I thought he knew I liked him, and I thought he liked me back, and then he made me cry in the bathroom for half an hour.”
Harry gave her a considering look that made her feel seen. “I know, and it was wrong of him. But even after that you managed to handle your life with more grace than I would have ever imagined possible. Hell, you told him off the next morning for drooling on the armchairs after the party.”
“I did set some canaries on him,” she offered.
Another shrug. “All I saw was you improving his hair.”
She felt a reluctant laugh bubble out of her, but Harry continued on anyways.
“Trust me, Hermione, this isn’t about Ron. It’s about you. Sitting there all pretty, acting like you haven’t noticed I’ve been trying to impress you for the last week and half and not lose my mind at the same time.” He blushed, and God, his blush was pretty in the warm candlelight.
His left hand (his flower hand, she thought) came to rest closer, not quite touching hers, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of it like the promises they had made some night ago.
Something small in her, sounding suspiciously like the lonely child she used to be, yelled at her to get away, that she was just going to get hurt again, that Harry would fuck her up just like Ron.
The louder part of her told that voice to shut up.
Harry wasn’t Ron – Harry wanted to treat her right. Harry saw her.
She unclenched her hands.
“So…” he said, his smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is that a yes, or should I expect birds in my hair too?”
Slowly, Hermione deliberately let her fingers brush against his. The quietest yes, intentionality bleeding through the tension of their words.
Harry froze. Then, he turned his hand, so he could grasp her fingers in his.
“Yes, Harry. I’ll go with you.” she murmured. “But you’ll get the canaries if you’re late.”
Harry grinned, thumb brushing gently against her knuckles in a way that made her heart sing.
She could feel the ache in her chest finally fall away fully, and she let herself soak in the warmth of something terrifyingly promising.
God, parties were loud.
Gryffindor parties were exuberant, sure, but once the evening really started rolling and everyone had gotten the jitters out, events in the common room tended to slow down into different conversations and activities, each group doing their own thing.
Slughorn’s Christmas party, on the other hand, had started at maximum pace and had not let down for an instant.
She and Harry had gotten in and been tugged aside by Professor Slughorn almost immediately to be displayed to the masses.
(“My two brightest students, always together like peas in a pod!” he’d said, dragging them in front of three very official-looking individuals. One of them leered closer, as if to examine them – like specimens.
Harry’s arm settled protectively around her waist and pulled her in until her body was flush with his.
Unsure what to do with her own arms, she settled for wrapping one around his back as well, finding a belt loop to hook her thumb through.
She could hear the whispers of other students around them through the pounding of her heart – “Granger and Potter? Since when?” – and normally, it would have bothered her.
Tonight, however? Tonight, Harry’s arm was around her and she felt like she was soaring.)
Now, after a whirlwind of introductions, too-bright dance lights, ridiculous trays of canapes that matched their Potions Professor’s tastes immaculately, Harry and Hermione found themselves tucked into a small corner of the room, trying to hide from the attention.
“I swear, if one more person asks to see my scar, I’m going to lose it,” huffed Harry. He grabbed two drinks from one of the nearby tables, handing one off to her and downing the other in one go, frustration obvious on his face. She sipped the bright drink, tasting the faintest hint of alcohol.
It had been disorienting, she admitted, to see so many gifted and well-connected wizards still trip over themselves at the mere possibility of meeting the Chosen One; their Ministry break-in had garnered an unbelievable amount of attention, and unfortunately almost all of it was directed at the already infamous Boy-who-lived.
“It’ll be fine, Harry.” She ran her free hand down the front of his dress robes (Merlin, he looked fit in them), smoothing them out in what she hoped was a comforting way, her own anxiety bleeding out through her ministrations. “You’ll never have to interact with these people again unless you want to.”
He grabbed her hand gently to stop it. “Not if you’re Eldred Worple. I swear that man looked like he was going to hunt me down for the rest of my days if he didn’t get to write my biography.” He shook his head, as if trying to shake the irritation out of his brain physically. “Whatever. Have I told you that you look absolutely stunning already?”
Hermione, hand trapped in his, unfortunately had nothing to hide her blush with. Several times tonight he had said something about her appearance, starting with his initial reverence when he’d first seen her in her dark green evening dress (God, she’d felt powerful then, seeing him flushed and wide-eyed), and each time Hermione had been warmly reminded of this new dynamic between them.
She drew her lips into a teasing smile, though she was sure her cool facade was being betrayed by her pink cheeks. “A few times, now. Quite shallow of you, isn’t it?”
He put down his empty glass and dipped into a bow with feigned haughtiness. “Thou art wise as thou art beautiful, I fear, and that means there is much to compliment.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you read Shakespeare?”
He looked bemused. “Since the summer of third year, actually. I snuck out a few times to go to a library to check out a few plays.”
But still Hermione was confused. “Why were you interested in Shakespeare, though?” Harry enjoyed reading to some degree as a result of a lonely childhood (she’d managed to drag a few more details out of him in private moments in front of the fireplace, her head on his shoulder, the quiet lull of an evening holding her twisting vehemence for the Dursleys at bay), but it had never occurred to her that her friend might be, well, well-read.
“Hermione, you told me that year your name comes from a Shakespeare play.” He said it like the conclusion was obvious, a twist in his grin. “Your mother named you after a character in a Winter’s Tale.”
“So?”
He shook his head, obviously amused. “So, she says. Isn’t it obvious that I was obsessed with you, Hermione?”
Her blush returned in full force, and she sipped on her drink again. “You’re impossible.” Giddiness unfurled in her gut even as she felt the sting of alcohol roll down her throat.
“Maybe.” he said, grinning as he leaned just slightly closer, “But it’s nice to see you smile.”
She looked at him and his stupidly charming face then - looked hard. His hair was tamed for once, with only a few stray strands falling over his forehead, and his eyes were shining like they were looking at the stars. And all of it—this, him—felt startlingly easy.
She didn’t want to look away.
“Since when?” she asked, curious. Bashful, even.
He looked at her carefully. “Since when what?”
“Since when did your obsession with me start? If we’re calling it that.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “Since you first fixed my glasses on the Express, I reckon, but really properly when you hugged me in the hospital wing at the end of first year.”
Merlin – when she’d said something about friendship, and bravery, and- well, she had been too embarrassed to say love, but she’d meant to say it. Friendship, bravery, and love.
“I don’t believe you. Why do nothing if you’ve liked me for so long? What was all that Cho business then?” She felt bold in the face of his declaration, some of the headiness coming from the alcohol, maybe, but most of it stemming from just having Harry so close in front of her.
“Well,” he laughed. “For most of it I was eleven or twelve, and boys that age tend to be pretty thick.”
He tugged on one of her loose curls, before tucking it behind her ear. Her breathing went shallow as his hand brushed her cheek – he’d held her face before, but not like this. Never like it meant more than friendship. Never like it meant desire.
Somehow, the loud din of the room seemed to fade away, and even though Harry’s voice was quiet in its seriousness, she could hear every word. “Then one summer, Ron told me he fancied you, and you hadn’t shown me any interest, so I did what I thought I had to do: I stepped back. I didn’t want to lose the only friends I had, and I thought he would make you happy, so I did nothing. I tried to like other girls. I failed.”
She swallowed. “But then he didn’t make me happy.”
Harry nodded. “And then he didn't make you happy, no. He hurt you, over and over again, and like a horrible friend I watched it happen because it still seemed like you liked him.”
She shoved him, soft but playful. “You promised that you wouldn’t call yourself a bad friend for things that weren’t your fault, Harry. And Ron was definitely not your fault. If anything, part of it was me – I fancied you for so long, Harry, but I refused to let it show because I was so worried you’d never want the swotty girl you were best friends with.”
A smile crept across his lips. “A long time, eh? I guess you weren’t kidding when you called me fanciable.”
She should just shut up, she thought. Harry absolutely could not know she’d found him attractive at eleven - she was sure her face was now absolutely burning at the idea.
Thankfully, Harry seemed oblivious to her embarrassment, and merely smiled at her. “We’ve been quite stupid about this, haven’t we?”
She laughed aloud then, the tension broken: “Maybe, but we know where all the stupid between the two of us comes from.”
He grinned, but before the next thing could come out of his mouth, there was a loud crashing and yelling at the front entrance of the room.
They could hear Malfoy’s protests and Filch’s loud accusations from where they stood, and Hermione could see the conflict in Harry’s eyes as his attention flitted between her and the obvious commotion that was being caused as security dragged the Slytherin outside. She could only roll her eyes as she grabbed his wrist. “Pull out your invisibility cloak. We’re following him.”
If he could trust her, she could trust him too.
A hushed conversation and an Unbreakable Vow revealed later, Hermione’s head was spinning with the implications. Worse, her feet were aching in her heels - she stumbled as they walked back towards the Gryffindor dorms (the party having wound down by the time they returned from their Slytherin-hunting escapades).
She cursed and began reaching down, intending to undo the straps of her shoes, but Harry beat her to the punch by kneeling down first.
Her face warmed as he gently guided her feet out of her heels, his warm skin burning in contrast to the chill of the castle cobblestones at night. He looked up at her, his gaze simultaneously reverent and guilty. “Sorry about our night being ruined.”
God, there was something so cute about his worry that he had disappointed her.
Her lips pursed at his apology, and her hand found its way onto his face, brushing away the strands of his messy locks that had finally overcome its styling. “Nothing’s been ruined, Harry.”
“But we didn’t even get to dance – I knew you were looking forward to it.”
She smiled. “Tonight has been wonderful because it was with you. It’s probably still the best date I’ve ever been on.”
He sucked in a breath, and Hermione realized she’d maybe overstepped – for all they’d talked about their feelings, they’d never really discussed what this was between them. Were they dating? Was she his girlfriend now?
She panicked internally as silent indecision warred on Harry’s face, until he surprised her by quickly hooking an arm behind her knees and picking her up – in her shock, she instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Harry!” she yelped. “What are you doing?” Her flailing limbs and general lack of demeanor was ignored as he reached down to grab her heels with his other arm.
All those years of Quidditch practice had evidently done him some good, as he picked her up like she was weightless – she could feel the lean muscles of his torso against her body through his dress robes.
As she hung on for her life, Harry only smirked. “It’s a date, isn’t it? I’m just doing what any good gentleman should.”
She was close enough to see the tiniest smattering of freckles under his gorgeous eyes.
Hermione only smiled and tucked her face into the crook of his shoulder. “Yeah,” she said. “It is.” Her mind was racing, matched only by the violent thudding of her heart.
She didn’t let go, not until they were inside the empty common room again (past a scandalized Fat Lady), where he gently let her down on the soft carpet.
However, Harry seemed reluctant to move away from her, hands still ghosting around her body, and his eyes seemed to search and follow every line of her face, settling on her lips. Her heart speeding up yet again, Hermione leaned in infinitesimally-
And just like that, he leaned in and kissed her.
A soft press. Just a peck - shy. Shorter than a sigh. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. Like he was scared that, even now, even after all of this, that he might still be wrong about how she felt.
When he pulled back slowly, his wide eyes warily met hers, brimming with uncertainty as if he was already bracing for the part where she turned him away or told him off.
As if he might’ve fucked it all up, right at the end.
Hermione stared at him for a heartbeat.
Then she grabbed the front of his robes, pulled him down to her, and kissed him back with all the quiet, aching, burning affection that had been undoing her ever since this beautiful boy had taken her under the moon and promised her all his goodness.
She refused to let this kiss be shy.
It was soft and warm, and it made her head absolutely spin. It was the slightest bit clumsy, and she could feel him smile against her mouth when she kissed him harder, fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him closer. She could feel the metallic frame of his glasses against her own face as she snogged him utterly senseless.
And for once in her life, Hermione Granger wasn’t thinking at all.
She put it all into this kiss. She wanted to let him feel that she meant it.
God, did he kiss her back like he meant it too.
Hermione felt the back of her legs hit the couch, and she laughed against his mouth as they fell back in a tangle of arms and legs and feelings. She couldn’t have protested if she wanted to (not that she wanted to at all), because her brain wasn’t working properly anymore.
Harry was on top of her.
One knee was between her legs, and she could feel his arms slide up her thighs and waist and sides and neck like he couldn’t decide where she needed to be touched first – he was incredible.
It felt like Harry was everywhere, holding the attention of every single one of her senses.
His lips had started soft and gentle, but gradually became demanding and almost rough, robbing her of any ability to coherently process anything that wasn’t Harry Potter.
Then, he pulled away for half a second, and she could see how clearly his pupils were blown out, the green in them almost imperceptible. “Fuck, Hermione-”
But whatever he was going to say must not have been very important, because he cut off abruptly when she bit her own bottom lip, teasing him as she tried to catch her own breath.
Then, his tongue was in her mouth, and she found herself gasping, one of her legs coming around his waist as she desperately arched her body to just get closer to him, his arm reaching into the crook of her knee to pull her ever tighter against him.
She started laughing at just how hot and real it all felt, and she could feel the smile on his lips as his own chuckles rumbled in his chest.
It was breathless.
It was exhilarating.
It was so easy.
She moved to kiss his jaw, and Merlin, she preened at the low groan she managed to pull from him.
“What are you doing to me, Hermione?” he murmured.
“I could ask you the same,” she said between kisses. “You’ve been holding out on me, Harry.”
“What, you think I’m good at this?” God, she needed to stick her tongue down his throat to shut him up, the cocky bastard. And so she did, feeling him shiver as she threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled him down.
When she pulled back to breathe, she gasped, “I think you’re ridiculously good at this for someone who claims he’s bad with girls.”
He smirked, looking stupidly pleased with himself. “I’m not bad with this one, am I?”
Then, he sucked and nipped her neck, and any clever retort died in her throat, replaced with a keening sound that darkened Harry’s eyes.
She let go of his hair, hand slipping lower to untuck his shirt, and as her nails grazed his skin, he sucked in a breath. She needed to touch him – to feel more of him.
“Hermione, if you-“
“I swear to God, Harry, if you stop snogging me, I will hex you.” Her hands came up, and she tugged him back down to her lips by the collar of his shirt, grinning despite herself.
It was hungry and uncontrolled, the way they moved. She thought she might bruise from how tightly he was gripping her thighs, and she knew her neckline would be utterly littered with marks the next morning – not that she cared in the moment, when she could feel how hard he was against her.
Eventually, her hand found his, and as their fingers laced together, he pinned her arms against the couch beside her head, leaving her utterly vulnerable to his touch.
The rush was unbelievable, to be entirely his like this.
It could have been minutes or hours, but Hermione felt lost in the sea of sensations that assaulted her until her brain was nothing lips and Harry and wanting to be close enough to crawl into his skin, passion blooming everywhere their bodies connected.
Then, at some point during between their luscious open-mouthed kisses, when they let just enough space exist between them to hoarsely catch their breaths, her heart thudding wildly as their foreheads rested against each other, Hermione realized she might not just have feelings for Harry-
She might be completely gone for him.