Chapter Text
Rain hammered against the tall windows of the Head Student common room while Hermione Granger aggressively annotated an essay on defensive enchantments.
Across from her, Harry Potter aggressively existed. Which, lately, seemed specifically designed to irritate her.
His tie was loose. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone with reckless abandon, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone and a distracting glimpse of toned skin.
Hermione noticed this purely because she was an observant person.
Academically observant.
Scholarly observant.
A future Minister-for-Magic level of observant.
Nothing else.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing lean forearms dusted with faint scars and the flex of muscle every time he moved his hand.
Hermione’s gaze lingered for precisely three seconds.
Entirely for research purposes.
Obviously.
After all, she was studying advanced human-elemental Transfiguration, and understanding muscle movement was..
Actually, no. That sounded ridiculous even to her.
Harry shifted in his chair, absently dragging a hand through his already messy hair.
Hermione immediately looked back at her parchment.
Because she was not staring at Potter.
She simply happened to be facing the general direction of Potter while conducting unrelated intellectual activities.
Very different things.
And his hands...
Honestly, his hands were becoming a problem.
They looked elegant at first glance but there was strength underneath them. The same hands that maneuvered a Firebolt (or was it a Nimbus?) with impossible precision. The same hands that cast defensive spells with effortless confidence.
Were they rough from Quidditch?
Probably.
Did Hermione wonder what would it feel like to be held by Harry Potter - the Hufflepuff Quidditch captain and Head Boy?
Absolutely not.
That would be wildly inappropriate.
And embarrassingly unscientific.
And it certainly had nothing to do with how unfairly good he looked in his Hufflepuff Quidditch jersey (even when Hufflepuff defeated Gryffindor).
Besides, Hermione Granger was a rational young woman. She did not sit around thinking about Harry Potter’s hands....
Or his shoulders.
Or the way his shirt stretched distractingly across his back whenever he leaned forward.
That was simply anatomy.
Educational anatomy.
Merlin, perhaps Madam Pomfrey deserved more respect.
Harry reached for his mug and Hermione’s eyes dropped, entirely against her will, to the movement of his throat as he swallowed.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Human physiology truly was fascinating.
That was all.
Nothing more.
Certainly not because Harry Potter somehow looked unfairly attractive doing absolutely nothing.
Which was honestly rude of him.
Even worse during Potions.
The steam from the cauldrons always curled through his dark hair, leaving it artfully disheveled while his sleeves stayed rolled up and his lips somehow looked softer.
Hermione blamed dungeon humidity.
There was probably a scientific explanation.
There had to be.
Otherwise she’d have to accept that Harry Potter simply looked devastatingly attractive while crushing lacewing flies, and Hermione refused to live in that reality.
And instead of helping her complete the patrol reports they were supposed to finish together, Harry was currently balancing a quill on his upper lip.
Hermione glanced at him through her lashes.
Purely because she needed to assess how much of a threat he posed to academic productivity.
A severe one, apparently.
“If that falls into the ink again,” Hermione said coolly, not looking up from her parchment, “I’m not helping you clean it.”
“It won’t fall.”
It fell immediately.
The quill tipped directly into the inkpot with the confidence of a man who had never once respected consequences. Black ink splattered dramatically across the table, his sleeve and somehow the edge of Hermione’s essay.
Hermione closed her eyes slowly and pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose like a witch on the verge of homicide.
Harry sighed deeply. “In fairness, gravity is against me.”
“You are twenty times more exhausting than gravity, Potter.”
Harry smirked instantly, as though he’d been waiting all evening for that sentence specifically.
“That’s probably true.”
Hermione shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through dragon hide.
Harry grinned.
And there it was again.
That infuriating grin.
That stupid, crooked, devastatingly attractive grin that made her want to hex him and stare at him simultaneously.
Which was deeply inconvenient.
Because she hated him.
Mostly.
Probably.
Harry leaned back lazily in his chair, entirely too pleased with himself.
“Like what you see?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Honestly, expressions like that were probably responsible for half the poor decision-making at Hogwarts.
Hermione narrowed her eyes.
“The view is headache-inducing.”
“Interesting. You’ve been staring at it for several minutes.”
“I was assessing the damage.”
“To my face?”
“To my concentration.”
Harry looked delighted by that answer.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “normal people don’t glare at someone this long unless they’re secretly obsessed with them.”
Hermione’s quill snapped cleanly in half. The silence that followed was glorious.
Harry looked openly thrilled.
“Oh, excellent,” he said brightly. “I’ve upset you.”
“You breathe too loudly.”
“That’s not even a real complaint.”
“It is when you’re the one breathing.”
Harry laughed outright.
Hermione hated that laugh too.
Warm and careless and rich enough to slide straight under her skin before she could stop it.
Unfortunately for her sanity, Harry noticed everything.
Especially when she was annoyed.
Especially when she looked at him too long.
Especially lately, since he’d apparently developed a hobby of provoking the Gryffindor Head Girl for sport.
Which meant he was now watching her with deeply suspicious amusement.
“You’re blushing.”
Hermione looked scandalized. “I am not.”
“You are.”
“I’m angry.”
Harry tilted his head thoughtfully.
“Interesting thing to turn red about.”
Hermione stood abruptly enough that her chair scraped against the floor.
“I’m making tea.”
“You don’t drink tea when you’re angry.”
Of course he knew that.
“I do tonight.”
“You’re stomping.”
“I am walking.”
“You’re furious walking.”
Hermione spun around so quickly her curls whipped over her shoulder.
“Do you ever stop talking?”
Harry’s eyes flicked briefly to her mouth before lifting lazily back to her eyes.
“No.”
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Hermione hated that too.
She turned sharply and marched toward the kitchenette with as much dignity as one could maintain while being emotionally ambushed by a Hufflepuff.
Behind her, Harry smirked faintly to himself.
Because here was the problem -
He was supposed to dislike Hermione Granger.
She was bossy.
Judgmental.
Terrifyingly intelligent.
Annoyingly better than him in nearly every subject except Defense and Divination.
Harry’s mouth twitched at the thought of Hermione referring to Divination as “dramatic hallucinations with homework.”
And yet, somehow, he’d become addicted to provoking her.
Because angry Hermione paid attention to him completely.
Because when she got flustered, her composure cracked for exactly half a second before she tried to murder him with eye contact.
Because she looked absurdly beautiful when she was annoyed.
Because there was something dangerously attractive about the way she corrected him in that sharp, authoritative tone without ever needing to raise her voice.
Because she sometimes bit her lower lip before responding and Harry found it so distracting it bordered on psychological warfare.
Which was a serious problem.
Hermione returned carrying two mugs.
Harry looked up innocently.
“One for me?”
“No.”
She placed one mug (her chamomile tea) on her side of the table. Then, without thinking, slid the second mug toward him.
Harry glanced down.
Ginger-cardamom chai.
Exactly the way he liked it. Balanced perfectly between strong and sweet.
Then he looked back up at her slowly.
Hermione froze.
“That was reflexive,” she said immediately.
Harry’s mouth twitched.
“Sure.”
“Oh honestly, don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“That smug one.”
“I can’t help being naturally charming.”
“You are naturally unbearable.”
Harry took a slow sip while maintaining eye contact purely to irritate her.
Which should not have looked attractive.
And yet, somehow it did.
Absurdly so.
Hermione wanted to throw the mug at him.
Possibly herself too.
Thunder cracked outside. The lights flickered briefly overhead.
Harry stood suddenly.
Hermione narrowed her eyes immediately.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for the extra candles.”
Hermione got up, placing the mug of tea on the table. “You don’t know where they are.”
“I live here too.”
“Yes, but unlike me, you navigate entirely on instinct and luck.”
“That’s unfair.”
“You once got lost trying to find the bathroom.”
“It was dark!”
“You lit yourself on fire with a torch.”
Harry pointed at her accusingly. “That story becomes more dramatic every time you tell it.”
“You screamed.”
“The torch exploded!”
“You screamed before it exploded.”
Harry opened his mouth, paused, then pointed again. “Irrelevant.”
Hermione laughed before she could stop herself.
Harry went completely still.
Hermione realized her mistake too late because now he was looking at her differently.
Not teasing.
Not smug.
Just...
Looking.
Softly.
“You laugh differently with me,” he said quietly.
Hermione’s stomach betrayed her immediately.
Her arms dropped slowly to her sides.
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Harry said, stepping closer, “you pretend to hate me more than you actually do.”
Hermione crossed her arms defensively.
“You’re unbelievably arrogant.”
“And you still didn’t answer.”
He was close now.
Too close.
Hermione could see the faint scar near his chin from Quidditch practice last winter. She could see every shade of green in his eyes.
Honestly, it was unfair for one person to possess eyes like that and also a functioning personality.
Her pulse stumbled unevenly and worse, she couldn’t step away.
“I do dislike you,” she informed him, though her voice betrayed her slightly.
A detail that would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone except Harry Potter.
Harry nodded once and stepped closer again.
“Right.”
“You’re infuriating,” Hermione said, attempting to sound intimidating but sounding breathless instead.
It didn’t help that his aftershave smelled warm and clean - cedarwood, rain and something distinctly, unfairly Harry.
“Mm.”
She was almost certain she could feel his breath now.
“You never listen.”
“Probably.”
“You flirt with me constantly just to annoy me.”
Harry’s expression shifted instantly. Surprise flickered briefly across his face before something darker and infinitely more interested replaced it.
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
Hermione’s breath caught.
Because suddenly his voice sounded lower.
Rougher.
More serious.
“Oh,” Harry murmured, stepping even closer, “that explains a lot.”
Hermione hated how unsteady her voice sounded.
“Explains what?”
“Why you get flustered every time I look at you too long.”
“I do not get flustered,” Hermione breathed.
“Hermione,” Harry said softly, his gaze dropping briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes, “you can barely breathe right now.”
And then he looked at her with an intensity so devastatingly focused it felt less like eye contact and more like being slowly pulled apart by it.
Unfortunately, that was true.
Hermione’s brain had become entirely unusable.
Harry noticed.
Of course he did.
A slow smile appeared on his face.
Not smug this time.
Worse.
Fond.
“You know,” he said quietly, “for someone who supposedly hates me, you let me stand very close.”
Hermione looked up at him.
Neither of them moved.
Rain battered the windows around them while the fire crackled softly nearby.
And then Hermione said the stupidest possible thing.
“You smell nice.”
Silence.
Harry blinked.
Hermione looked genuinely horrified with herself. Her eyes widened so dramatically it would have been funny under any other circumstance.
Harry stared at her for exactly two seconds. Then he burst into laughter.
“Oh my God,” he wheezed, bending slightly, “that’s what finally slips out?”
Hermione covered her face instantly.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I absolutely do.”
Harry gently pulled her hands away from her face. His grin softened immediately when he saw how red she’d become.
“You really don’t,” he said quietly, still holding her hand.
And before Hermione could argue,
He kissed her.
Which was deeply unfair.
Because Harry kissed exactly the way he argued -
Confidently.
Intensely.
Like he fully intended to win.
Hermione made a soft, startled sound against his mouth and Harry nearly lost his mind over it.
When they finally pulled apart, Hermione stared at him breathlessly.
“I still think you’re annoying.”
Harry grinned against her mouth.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “You fancy me anyway.”
Then he kissed her again and Harry realized something alarming ~
Kissing Hermione Granger felt freer than flying.
Freer than diving after a Snitch.
Freer than winning a match.
Freer than anything he’d ever known.
And judging by the way Hermione clutched the front of his shirt and kissed him back like she was finally, finally giving in,
Hermione Granger might very well be the greatest catch of his life.