When I Fall

by Tourniquette

Why does Ron always leave nothing but a mess behind that I have to clean up?

That is the foremost thought on Harry's mind at the moment. He's sitting on the opposite side of his modestly used couch, in his modestly lived-in flat, from his weeping best friend who needs his comfort. Again. The best friend who's always been there for him unconditionally, who fights his battles with him no what, who never asks anything unreasonable of him no matter how annoying the reasonable things she asks for are.

The one who would never dump a lifelong friend without an explanation and leave that person waiting at a restaurant for three bloody hours while shagging Pansy Parkinson. The one who recognized precisely when Harry's relationship with Ginny was artificial and not consummated back in 2002, who knew it was because Harry had been infatuated with a certain pale, blond Slytherin alumnus who just happened to be Seeker for the French team he faced every year in the Quidditch World Cup. The one who didn't stop speaking to Harry for five months afterwards simply because Harry had taken her advice and made a clean break rather than shagging the Quidditch player behind his sister's back. The one who was there for him and let him curse the world over her shoulder when said Slytherin choose to end their violent, passionate non-relationship and to marry a girl he'd barely met in order to keep his inheritance.

The one with whom Harry had fallen, madly, irrevocably in love with years ago and never even realized it until tonight.

The one who had absolutely no clue that, in fact, his door did swing both ways.

Thirty minutes earlier...

Harry had been sitting on the floor in front of his couch, watching certain explicit films he saved for moments of extreme boredom, stroking his cock in that languid, lazy I've-got-all-night way that reminded him of large cats lounging in the sun in some remote wildlife preserve, unfettered by the opinions of others.

Lions, for example. They don't have to roll out of bed at six a.m. in the bloody morning to go to Auror training. They don't have to listen to some pompous old codger lecture them on the importance of defensive charms when practical experience is the least of their problems. They don't have to rush off to hours of gruelling practice with old colleagues like Oliver Wood around to make them feel nervous if they fly straight into an audience tower and catch dirt in the mouth instead of a snitch in the hand. Harry knew this because between channel flipping he caught three or more documentaries about lions. After all, he did have the Nature Channel; what was the point of paying for twenty channels if you only watched one?

No, lions have it good, Harry had thought. Their days probably go something like this:

Male lion: *yawns and wakes up* Morning, love. How's the hair today?
Female lion: *scratches* No different than when you asked me two hours ago after your previous nap. I think I'll bathe myself at least twice more before sunset.
Male lion: Are you sure it's not because you have the scent of that neighbourhood runt on you?
Female lion: *licks self* Don't be an arse, dear. Be sure to catch something big for dinner tonight. I was thinking zebra might be yummy.
Male lion: *more scratching* Sure, sounds great. Fancy a shag first?
Female lion: *stretches* Okay.
Male lion: Sweet.

Yes, Harry had found that despite saving the world a couple of times over, he was busier than he had ever been as a teenager. It was his own fault for being overly ambitious, of course, but what self-respecting wizard ever admitted to that?

Besides, he had porn. Good porn, even if most of it did star Muggles, the kind with halfway decent actors and real plots and none of those weak camera angles that often served as cheap filler. He was particularly fond of a certain witch-actress with dark eyes, pale skin and brown hair. Her hair was straighter than Hermione's, unfortunately, but she was just as plump and voluptuous, and he had even managed to special-order a series in which she starred as a Muggle-born witch secretly in love with her best friend, a rising Auror and the best Seeker in the wizarding world.

Okay, so he had called in a few favours about six months ago though Lee Jordan. Lee had a friend of a friend whose cousin directed films in the industry. He had certainly paid them enough not to tell anyone where the characterization ideas originated. No one would know besides Lee. And his friend's friend's cousin, who had damn well better keep his mouth shut or risk his face erupting in boils. Harry had learned a few tricks from Hermione in action.

When the doorbell rang, Harry had been well on his way to a second orgasm, and the volume on the telly was considerably louder than normal. Still, the angry, repeated buzzing broke though the haze of arousal surrounding him, and Harry quickly turned down the volume, ejected the DVD, and tossed it under the couch. He then proceeded to zip up his trousers as fast as humanly possible and imagined Hagrid in a thong.

Shuddering violently but significantly cooled down, Harry open the door.

"Harry!" Hermione sobbed, and she launched herself into his arms and wouldn't let go.

She didn't seem to notice that Harry's shirt was completely unbuttoned and that she was clutching at sweaty, bare skin, or the fact that Harry's erection was making a decidedly inopportune comeback.

In any event, Harry certainly noticed both of these minor details. He pulled away slowly and inspected the contents of the bag at her feet.

"That looks like contraband," Harry tsked, gesturing to the twin containers of Celebris Rose Extra Brut near her boots. "Oh-ho! I stand corrected. Rare, outrageously costly contraband."

She smiled half-heartedly at him through her tears. He could read her thoughts, clear as day. How fortunate for her that she had neutral ground at last! Harry was someone who had absolutely no qualms about getting pissed on real champagne usually saved for momentous occasions because she damn well felt like going through at least two bottles of something sweet and expensive in one go and had no desire to do so alone.

"You have no idea how nice it is to know I'm on neutral ground," she said, rubbing at her eyes with one sleeve and holding up the bag for inspection. "I knew you were the perfect person for this, because I know you have absolutely no qualms about getting pissed on real champagne I would normally save for momentous occasions. Tonight, I damn well feel like consuming more than one bottle of something sweet and expensive in one go, and I need another person for that."

Not perfect, but pretty damn close.

"Can I come in?" she asked.

Hmm, let me think, Harry replied inside his head. Spend another night alone, wanking off to a fictitious look-alike, or imbibe French chardonnay with the object of my fantasies? "Okay."

Hermione seemed to be glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was alone -- as if she expected him to have stashed Draco away in the hall closet or something equally ridiculous. Granted, Harry thought to himself, it was only ridiculous if the person you adored KNEW that you had thought of no other person save her for the better part of a year...

"Harry, you can close the door now. I'm well on my way to the armchair."

"Oh. Right."

Back in the present...

Harry isn't sure what he'd imagined when he first let Hermione into his flat, but he's fairly sure it didn't involve an impromptu theatrical cross-over production of Beauty and the Beast & Wicked: The Convergence, complete with costumes Hermione transfigured from Harry's pyjama collection. Nor did he imagine them playing charades and theorizing what era of dance music an acromantula would enjoy if it wasn't constantly trying to run around and eat people. Harry has the distinct impression that he and Hermione have channelled Luna Lovegood for the better part of two hours and not bothered to call each other on it.

"Honestly, Harry. Judging by your body weight, you should be able to drink at least five glasses of this stuff if you had any dinner at all and still walk a good ten feet without falling over. What on earth is the matter with you?" Hermione plunks backwards onto the couch. "I, for myself, have calculated that I can stand four glasses after eating a sandwich without losing my balance, and here I am, sitting pretty on no less than six. You're a disgrace to your sex and a failure at life."

Harry burps. "And that's what I think of that."

"Bravo. The poetry of Bacchus, right there."

"I know," he says, body slung over a nearby chair on his stomach so that he can draw really neat pictures into the shag of his carpet. "I rule."

Hermione shifts and tries to move her hair behind her head, but it keeps falling over her nose. Harry is enthralled by the stick figures he's tracing and only notices when Hermione's raspberry blowing grows louder and shorter in repetitions. "Hey," he shouts weakly, "I know the décor is less than posh, but try not to slobber all over the furniture, eh?"

"What? Oh, I was trying to push hair off my nose," Hermione answers, as if that answers anything.

"...And how does mocking your hair accomplish that again?"

"I'm trying to blow it out of the way, naturally. My arm is too lazy." More raspberry noises.

"So this is the arm's alternative plan of attack, then?"

"Indeed."

"...Hermione?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"You do realise that blowing doesn't involve spitting, right?"

She stops. "Oh, right."

They both notice the double-entendre at about the same time -- about three seconds later than they would sober. Hermione half-screams and half-groans in protest, grabbing the nearest cushion and lobbing it at him with formidable aim. He sniggers and dives under his dining table, crawling around the rear so as to avoid further battery by airborne missiles. "That's it. Nobody abuse the great Harry Potter's armchair accessories and gets away with it."

He's about to give as good as he gets when one of Hermione's weapons lands near him, but she's still dressed in one of his t-shirts, and it's far too tempting to stare at her chest stretching the cotton as she lobs a projectile than it is to duck and cover.

"Victory!" She cheers giddily as a cushion collides with half-open mouth and Harry goes down. Hermione walks over and prods him with her toe. "Get up, you tosser."

He waits until she's close enough, then grabs for her legs and waist to drag her down and tickles her along her sides where's sensitive. He knows where she's sensitive because Hermione has engaged in tickle-fests with him before many times, in complete innocence like he was her brother.

"Gaaaaah!" Hermione squeaks and inhales incorrectly, causing her to snort and laugh at the same time. "I call foul! Employing weapons of mass distraction!" She has to force this out as she's squealing, and she pays him back by diving for the sensitive spots on his chest right in front of his armpits.

Harry contorts and yells, "AUGH! Cheating! Now who's the hypocrite? Aaah!"

They tussle clumsily on the floor, rolling out from under the table on the opposite side of the dining room alcove that adjoins the living room. Harry is the one to grab the nearest pillow, and he dashes at Hermione, who has paused in the space of the doorframe outlining the front hallway, to make a full-frontal tackle.

Suddenly, Harry is sliding along the linoleum floor beyond her. He passes her well-worn leather clogs and his own pile of footwear before his "pillow board" and his body collide with the front door. He comes to a stop, dazed, and looks back at the doorframe.

"Always wanted to try that," Hermione giggles.

She has her bare feet braced tightly against the edges of the walls and stares at him over her should before turning around. "I've seen people leapfrog other people in films during stunts before, but I never thought I could manage it drunk." She puts a coy finger up to her lips and taps them, a smile threatening to overwhelm her face. "I do now."

Harry groans and clutches his head. "I think I broke my brain."

Her triumphant look fades to one of concern. "Oh, Harry, I'm sorry! I thought you'd be able to stop in time...or at least not hit too hard at the end. Are you all right?" She wobbles the few feet down the hallway, and Harry is amazed that she managed to jump over him completely yet can't manage the simple act of walking in a straight line.

Hermione kneels down, probing his skull for injuries. "I can find my wand. Where does it hurt?"

Harry strengthens his hold on the pillow behind him and slips his knees off. "Right...HERE!" He grins and whacks her on the back of her head and launches himself from the floor. Retribution would be swift.

Her expression, or what Harry caught of it, was outrage mixed with incredulity. "Why, you sneaky little git!"

Harry responds by thrusting his arms up exultantly from behind the couch. "Ten points! Never surrender!"

The pillow flies within inches of his forehead. She chases him around various pieces of furniture through the kitchen and back. Hermione only catches up with him when Harry forgets to watch where his feet are going and does a ridiculous accidental flip over the back of the settee onto the cushions, bouncing onto the floor. Hermione clears the hurdle easily and straddles him in quick succession, pinning his legs behind her as she tickles him to within an inch of his life.

"I -- regret -- nothing!" He gasps. "Nothing, I tell you!"

"Oh, you don't, do you?" Hermione replies, amused, though there's a glimmer in her eyes that belies the humour in her voice as she stares down at his face imperiously, her hair a dark halo around her head, her face half in shadows.

Perhaps it's simply the abundance of alcohol in his system that makes the blood in his veins flow faster as she holds him ensconced. Merlin knows, he's longed for her body to be in contact with his just like this, minus several articles of clothing. But Harry feels more aware of her vulnerabilities and her strengths as she utters those five words than he ever has before. He remembers the reasons she came here in the first place, the weakness of one person who feels bound to another without means of escape, even when the other person has taken their friendship beyond filial and hasn't the courage or the inclination to bother with bringing it back to its original state.

They've done a fantastic job so far of forcing the problems that hurt her to the back of her mind. A good three hours of a fantastic job, if Harry does says so himself. Still...

Maybe skirting around the issue isn't what's needed anymore.

Harry feels the air between them turn charged.

He sits up on his elbows and regards her expression, trying not to be aroused by her position on her lap. She stiffens, then lifts one leg and slides off of him gently. His body cries Nononononooo! but Harry's relieved that he'll be able to speak now without worrying about such desirable distractions.

"Hermione..." he says, trying to form the right words, but her gaze is always beyond him, past him, seeing through him and beyond to some other living room in some other flat, where a perfectly ungrateful friend is shagging some other girl. Hermione leans her back against the side of the couch, her calves peeking out from the bottoms he's loaned her. Her eyes flutter shut; she sighs, and it's such a longsuffering, utterly defeated kind of sigh, one holding the collected hopes and fears of half a decade's worth of planning and dreams within it, that Harry's heart breaks.

She cats a sideways glance at him, and the sympathy does her in, because her face is crumpling and she's sobbing. In an instant, Harry wraps his arms around her and lifts her up.

"Hermione, I know there's nothing I can say that will make this any easier." Harry sighs and rubs her back. "He's not going to change."

"No." The answer is immediate, with no hint of denial or argument.

He doesn't expect an admission of the truth so quickly, but he continues. "He doesn't deserve you."

"I know."

She puts her chin on his shoulder. He can see her expression in his mind anyway, as sharp as broken glass from a mirror.

"He's a prat, and I don't think he ever outgrew his childhood infatuation with you, because that would acknowledge that he has to grow up as well. One day he will understand this, and he'll apologise to you." Harry's face darkens as he strokes her hair, and he pulls back enough to turn her head and make her look him in the eye. "He will apologise to you, Hermione," he says forcefully. "I swear it. He'll go down on his knees and beg for you to be his friend again, or I won't let him come within a mile of you."

Hermione sniffles, but she appears to believe him. "Part of the five stages of guilt recovery, is that it?"

"It depends on his sanity and whether he wants to lose two mates for the price of one, but yes, I'm sure saying he's sorry for mucking up several years of your life is part of a grander plan for the Ronald Weasley Rehabilitation and Maturation Process."

Hermione sniggers and wipes at her eyes. He is glad to see a smile, even a fleeting one. She sighs again. "I can't say I'm sorry that he finally forced my hand instead of dragging out the subterfuge and deceptions, but we really are talking about a huge chunk of my life..." She trails off, rubbing his arm absently, as if she needs to remind herself that she is awake. "I mean, if I'd known this would be all that's left of our friendship, I would have liked a few more happy memories, some romantic moments to savour, just to make the constant squabbling and emotional maelstroms seem worth the trouble."

Harry presses his lips together. "Let's see if we can rectify that."

He picks up his wand from the nearby table. "Grab those glasses and the wine."

Hermione gives him a strange look, but she does as he instructs.

"Accio clogs." Hermione's shoes set down in front of her. She looks at them, then back up at Harry. "You'll want to slip those on," Harry says.

Hermione's eyes widen in understanding. "Oh, Harry, no. You're too drunk."

"Barefoot, then? Ah, well." Harry shrugs playfully. "Your choice. And no, you're too drunk. I, on the other hand, am not."

He summons his own footwear and wallet, pushes his heels past the worn and tattered spines until they're sitting on the soles, snakes his arm around her waist -- it's one of the few excuses he's ever had to do so in such a long time -- and presses her to him. If he's enjoying her body snug against him for a few moments longer than necessary, or if he lets his hand rest just above the waistband of her borrowed pyjama bottoms where his fingers can touch the soft skin of her waist, she takes no note of it.

"Harry, this really isn't a good—"

He tries not to think of Luke Skywalker and Leia in the first Star Wars movie swinging across that metal abyss between doors, before they knew they were close to committing incest, because he has played the damn brother long enough, and he Apparates them both.

Besides, Hermione's hair is much, much sexier than Leia's was.

"Ow!"

"Oops. Sorry! Here, let me help you."

"Lay off, I've got it. Nice landing, Harry."

"I said sorry!"

"Damn."

"What?"

"Could you Scourgify this doggy poo off my foot, please?"

"...I'm really sorry."

They land in the middle of some shrubbery in the corner of a small park, thanks his wandering thoughts. He cleans her foot off; he casts the charm a little too forcefully and not only rids it of the faeces but a thin layer of skin as well. After a few muttered curses in his direction, Hermione informs him that he's damn lucky she was too tipsy to think to bring her wand with her, or he'd be sorry. Harry cringes and makes sure to cast the healing charm correctly.

He supposes they're lucky neither of them ended up splinched, but he doesn't want to dwell on that, so he occupies himself with checking that his privates are all there in one piece, then wiggles his toes and fingers, then pats down his head and torso. Hermione is probably doing the same thing, he reasons, and it's dark.

"Nice place," Hermione observes, and Harry doesn't immediately realise why she's keeping her voice so low.

"Why are you whispering?" Harry whispers. She doesn't turn around. She can't hear him. He smacks himself on the forehead and casts a Do-Not-Notice spell and a muffling charm. Then he tries again. "I've put up a noise encasement," he shouts. She's several yards away by this point, looking down at a stone path with a fork in it as if trying to decide where to go next.

"About time." Hermione smiles over her shoulder at him. "I wouldn't want to end up in the company of the Muggle authorities for trespassing in a private, gated community garden." She gives him a look, then chooses the left path. "Where are we, anyway?"

"A few blocks from Hereford and Bayswater. We've eaten at the pub there a couple of times, remember?"

"Oh, yeah! The Swan." Hermione smiles. "Wish they didn't have so many tourists, but the place was decent and a short walk from the Tube."

There was another thing that Ron would never understand. She doesn't need to use Muggle as an adjective in front of every other word when they're outside of Diagon Alley. Harry feels warmth spread across his chest, as if she's still hugging him for the Side-along Apparition.

"Well," he says, trotting the last few steps to catch up, "Shall I give you the grand tour, as I am trying to create several years' worth of happy memories in one night? Free of charge, of course."

She laughs. "You're speaking too easily. Here. Have some more to drink."

"We'll have to stay all night."

"And your point is...?" he asks, grinning.

They spend time walking around the garden, trying to figure out what the plants are; Hermione did exceedingly well in Herbology, of course, and Harry knew a few of the most common blooms, but in the Muggle world, horticulture must be far down the page on the list of thing Hermione longed to learn in her spare time, and so they play drunken guessing games and try to imagine what Muggles would do if they accidentally uprooted an infant Mandrake -- that is, before they passed out.

They find a park bench on which to sit. Hermione allows Harry to put his arm around her and steady her often -- so often, in fact, that every time his hands skirt along her arm or he breathes in the scent of her hair, it becomes a turn-on. In that regard, the bench is a fortunate device that allows him to crosses his legs, albeit incredibly uncomfortably.

They finish off the wine and try to recreate an abridged version of Hamlet. Harry isn't sure how it happens, but he finds himself lying prostrate on the bench with Hermione giggling and pouring "poison" into his ear.

Only it isn't poison, it's alcohol, and he curses until she stops laughing hysterically long enough to take his wand and perform a cleansing and healing charm. He can't decide if he's amazed or disappointed that his wand doesn't backfire on her.

"Aw, Harry!" Hermione says. "But we haven't reached the part where Hamlet tells Ophelia, 'Get thee to a nunnery!' That's the best scene, in my opinion, even if I can't remember how it goes, exactly..."

Harry rolls his eyes and happily finds that they don't stick to the roofs of his eyelids. "It's all for the best, I'm sure. Why do I have the sneaking suspicion we'd be gender-swapping?"

Hermione waggles her eyebrows at him conspiratorially. "Just think of it as a sharp learning curve in the wonderful world of the theatre."

"Hmph. Next time, I'll invite Seamus Finnigan. He'd be more than willing to act out every murder scene. Perhaps Dean and Neville would, too."

"Naturally. Mind you, I wouldn't let Finnigan play Hamlet for the play within the play, or he might do things to your ear that healing spells won't fix."

Harry makes a face. "Eugh. Your mind did not just go there."

She frowns. Then a few seconds later, "What?" The expression on her face as the meaning of his words dawn on her is priceless. "HARRY!"

"Want to try some ice-skating? I did manage that freezing charm for the Auror exams, you know. This spot's nice and flat."

"You made me have a one-track mind because you have a one-track mind. You're sick, you know that?" She looks as if she regrets returning his wand because she'd like to hex him.

"That makes absolutely no sense. You know that, don't you?" Harry asks her, grinning as he begins a fairly complicated transfiguration on the grass. He's amazed he remembers it, actually. He definitely wouldn't trust either of them to Apparate home by this point.

"I know that. Doesn't mean I can't say it." She pouts and looks confused at her own words. Harry almost fumbles the final swish and flick because he's staring at the way her lower lip sticks out slightly.

Definitely too much good wine.

He manages to transfigure their shoes into closed toes with blades on the bottoms. Hermione shrieks and zooms past him. She definitely hasn't figured out how to stop yet.

Another shriek, then the sound of someone smacking their bum on the ice. Harry executes his figure eight and swivels to a graceful stop. He skates over to her and gallantly offers Hermione a hand. "Good thing I put up those cushioning charms."

"Shut up. How are you still standing? You haven't fallen once!" Her tone is accusatory; she seems incredulous that he can perform more adeptly than she at anything.

"Petunia made Dudley take lessons for a few ears when he was little, once a week for a year." Harry shrugs, though his expression deadens just a little. "She dragged me along to be his skating partner. I was supposed to catch him and stop him from falling whenever possible while he trained to be...I don't even know what Petunia wanted him to do. Try out for the Olympics?" They both snort at that. "I had to learn the basics just to keep up with him as he barrelled from one end of the ice rink to the other and stop him from crashing into the walls."

Hermione looks more than sceptical. "I bet that went well."

"He might have squashed me once or twice," Harry says. "Every five minutes."

She laughs again, and it's a wonderful sound when he can't sense the hurt behind it, simmering just beneath the surface. He grabs her and spins her around until she's pleading for him to stop and grinning at the same time. Harry yanks her in to him with a purely selfish moment of glee. They both lose their balance, of course, and Harry yanks her out of the spin, barely managing to stay upright.

Hermione isn't managing at all; just as she gives him a relieved look and hesitantly starts to remove her hands from his arm, her knees quake and jerk, and she's flailing and threatening to take him down with him.

Damn the woman to Hell. Does she have to grab me around my waist and shove her face near my groin in order to stay upright?

While her manhandling has, until this point, been done with only the best of intentions as far as he can tell, she takes an awfully long time to slide up his abdomen...

Not again.

Harry is pretty sure that this is the wine talking. He knows she would never dare to tease him in such a brazen manner, sliding her hands up his torso, fingers splayed, nails dragging as they drift by his nipples through the cotton fabric before she clenches his shoulders for support. He has a hard time believing that Hermione is so sex-starved that she'd torture a man she thinks is permanently off limits just for the fun of a grope. He's fairly certain, in fact, that she has absolutely no idea of the sweet torture she's inflicting upon him...

...Wait, is that her hand sliding down my back?

"Hermione!" Harry means it to come out as an admonition, but it's more of a squeak as she presses against his front and squeezes him bum in a way that is definitely not platonic.

She tilts her head back, looks at his expression, and smiles innocently. "What? I've always wanted to know if you actually needed a good cushioning charm or not when you ride a broom."

Two can play this game. Harry snakes an arm around her back in return and holds her close, not letting her escape. "Hermione," he says in an admonishing tone, "You're not the only one in the room who helped to finished that champagne." Although, he thinks, I will be the only one who keeps the label so that I can order more of it on Monday.

"I know." She titters and holds her hand over her mouth, as if she can't believe her own behaviour. "But let's face facts here: when else will I have the guts to demand an entire night with Harry Potter, and then proceed to grope him in a park while trying to figure-skate?"

"Ah, so it was on purpose."

"Brilliant deduction, Watson."

She hasn't moved away from him yet, either. She'll have to soon enough, Harry thinks, or else I will, before I do something monumentally stupid.

Suddenly, his feet are wet and cold. He looks down, and she follows his gaze. The frozen grass has reverted back to it's original, thawed state, but Harry must have botched the spell a bit, because there's an additional three inches of water on the ground that wasn't there before.

She tilts her head at him impertinently. "You going to clean that up, or should I?"

Harry gives her a Look, with one arm still around her, he vanishes the water and dries their feet. They stand there for several moments, their bodies still touching. Somewhere a block or two away, a noisy neighbour has left the window at a party open. Though the Muggles can't hear the pair, they most certainly can hear the Muggles and the distant, happy music as it floats across the lawn.

"Dance with me," Harry says suddenly. "Like you would dance with Ron."

Hermione looks at him with surprise, but he catches her hands before she can pull away. "One more moment to add to the list, and then we'll go and wait for the tube. I promise."

To his delight, Hermione doesn't protest. Truth be told, neither of them are terrific dancers, but the surge of alcohol-induced confidence no doubt helps to grease the wheels.

"I don't turn so well when the ground doesn't stay even," Hermione says.

"Easily fixed." Harry pulls on her arm, and she twists unsteadily to him, and they're both holding each other up now: she, afraid of sporting a concussion, he, afraid of never holding her so close again if he lets go. They're swaying together in lazy circles, and Harry is definitely taking liberties with the way he's holding her. His hand presses into the small of her back; there are no inches of safety between them. He mentally runs through a list of reasons why throwing her to the ground right here and shagging her senseless would not be a Good Idea. There are about a million and one, not the least of which is that Ron effectively ditched her merely hours prior to this...this...what was it, exactly? Ah, yes. An interlude.

Of course, Hermione has plans of her own, and she certainly doesn't consult him when her head dips and she breathes onto the skin just past the collar of his shirt. He's so transfixed by the feeling of warm air over gooseflesh and her hair tickling his chin that it takes him several minutes to notice the thumb purposefully slipped inside his waistband that's rubbing along his hipbone. Harry's glad he's not wearing a polo-neck, or it would have taken considerably more effort for her to accost him, and he would have had no excuse of time to not prevent her. He groans and stops dancing, although he can't bring himself to push her away.

I'm no better than she is, for crying out loud! "Hermione..." Harry says, a note of uncertainty in his voice. He hopes to any deities listening that she's not too sloshed to notice what she's going. Again. Or that he hasn't stopped her.

"Hmm?"

"Do you really want to be doing that?" Say no, damn it! Help a bloke out here!

Hermione looks up at him, still absently moving her left hand along his waist. "What?" Her hand slows, albeit a bit too late for him not to have a reaction. Luckily, she steps away from him a bit, running her hand through her hair, though her other hand slides down his arm from where their fingers had entwined to pause on his shoulder. "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

He arches his eyebrows. "Oh, really? Seemed to me that was exactly what you were trying to do."

Hermione's cheeks are ruddy, but that's more likely to be from the wine than from embarrassment. "Please don't be upset with me, Harry. I'm so grateful for this. For you."

He frowns and takes her other hand. "Why would I be upset with you?"

She squeezes his hand. "Nothing. It's just that you mean so much to me. I don't want to lose you because I'm bold enough to do things smashed that I would never so sober." She stares directly into his the eyes for a moment, as if she's willing him to believe her sincerity when she speaks but doesn't have the courage to do so when she speaks. "You mean everything to me, you know."

He stares at her, gobsmacked. She rushes into the silence to fill it before it has a chance to become awkward. "I want you to understand -- good Lord, what am I saying? This is so humiliating, and now you'll never look at me the same way again." She breaks away from him and rubs at her temples, almost as if she would will the words to leave her mind before she dares to speak them.

He draws breath to speak, but she senses it and holds up one hand. "Please, let me finish. This won't take long." She must reach a decision in that moment, for she squares her shoulders (as best as one can when one is as pissed as either of them) and turns to face him. "I've tried to make myself believe that I did the right thing in trying to work things out with Ron. I thought that being complete opposites would somehow make us stronger together. Somewhere along the line in the last couple of years or so, I think I figured out that it was crap.

"I wanted so badly to belong, to be around you both forever, to never have anyone separate us, that I convinced myself I could somehow change both me and Ron into people who wouldn't fight so much." She took a shaky breath. "I thought we were all meant to be a big, happy family that gathered at the Burrow on the weekends and stayed at each other's flats over the holidays. I thought you were meant to be with Ginny, and in my mind, that meant I was meant to be with Ron. I was upset when the two of you ended, but Ginny seemed to recover well enough, and you got on so perfectly with Ma—with Draco after that, even if it meant fewer days with you. You deserve more happiness than anyone I know."

She sniffles. Harry realises she's weeping, but he wants to understand what she's trying to say, which is why his arm drops as soon as he lifts it. Well, no; it's actually because she steps away from him, and it hurts him.

"I know I have no right to say these things, and you'll probably resent me as much as I'll hate myself in the morning for saying them, but if I don't have the courage to tell the truth now, when will I ever?" She laughs mirthlessly. "You and Ron were, no, are my centre, my world. I thought I could keep that world together by making myself feel for Ron what I've gradually come to feel for you, and... agh, head spinning." She stops and wobbles on her feet.

Harry doesn't move to catch her because he's trying to piece together what she just said. What did she just say, anyway? He thinks, She can't possibly mean what I think she means. Miracles just don't bloody happen. Not to me. Especially not ones that are so easy to seize at this moment, ones that neither of them would be able to act on if they weren't both thoroughly plastered. Right?

Right?

But they were thoroughly plastered. Positively, absolutely wrecked, in fact.

There's no telling what we might do.

Harry vaguely realises that Hermione is rubbing at her eyes, looking up at the stars. "Right," she mutters to herself and looks back at him. "I'll get to the point. I couldn't envy Ginny because back then, I was blind. I could envy him, and I did, I assure you. Partly because I knew he would always have a better shot at keeping you than I ever would because you had long since decided on which was the fairer sex. But mostly because he was bold enough to take what he wanted. What I couldn't."

She steps forward, and Harry's heart rate triples. He knows very well how he would like to interpret what she just said to him. He also knows that she could be talking about chocolate frogs and Ancient Runes, and he would still like to pretend she had said what he thought she said, so much so that he can't really be sure she actually DID say what he thought she said.

Damn, but this was a confusing business. He's sure that the lions wouldnever have to muddle their way through awkward social situations to work out their feelings.

Even if they did, they sure as Hell wouldn't be bloody stupid enough to do it with alcohol.

Hermione touches him again, one hand on the shoulder and another one on his neck. Harry's throat goes dry; he can't draw breath to make a sound.

"In a minute, I'm going to make you promise me to put all of this up to the ravings of a distressed, ditched person," she whispers. "But tonight, or this morning, or whenever this is..." Hermione trails off. That left thumb of hers traces over the pulse on his neck like some part of her knows she holds sway over his life and death. "I'm brave enough."

Before he has the chance to stop her -- whether or not he would have stood a chance of saying no notwithstanding -- she tilts his face and kisses him.

He's so startled that he nearly turns legless in both senses of the word. His first thought, two seconds before his hand comes up to touch behind her ear and press their heads closer together, is: She can't be more pissed than I am. The kiss is that good. Of course, any kiss involving Hermione is good in his mind, and they're well past making sound judgements, so of course he's prone to exaggeration.

Only that's not the case here. This is better than I've given, and far better than I've received. She opens his mouth and licks just behind his teeth, right there where it tickles and nearly makes him laugh, but the warmth spreading through his body drives away all thoughts of laughter.

They both taste of champagne. She nibbles at him before taking his lower lip into her mouth, and she must know that he's letting her do this; he's not pulling away or pushing her off of him. In fact, he's humming like the air around their heads, ripe with a different kind of magic, the sound beyond silence that crashes over them like waves and drowns out everything else. Harry closes his eyes and holds here there, their bodies a whisper apart, and strokes her cheek while she kisses the corners of his smile before plundering his mouth again. The pleasant tingles on his face spread down his neck, across his chest, shooting through his arms and rebounding until they settle in the pit of his stomach and pool there and start to build up. Suddenly, he's achingly hard and very grateful that he's not wearing trousers with a zipper.

He must have groaned, for she pulls back, a disappointed look on her face. He takes a second to register that those lovely lips aren't on his face anymore. He can't see very well; fog covers his glasses, and he pushes them into his hair.

"I'm sorry," she says, breathing hard. "I'm taking advantage of you. You don't need to say a word. It was nice enough that you kissed me back. I feel so wonderful, even though I feel terribly guilty."

Harry stares at her in disbelief. She thinks I was trying to find a way to disengage. She still doesn't understand. He's been as careful tonight about concealing his emotions as Dudley was about throwing temper tantrums in public during his youth, and then he had kissed her back, and she still didn't know? She must think he deserved an Oscar. No one he knew would be able to pull off that performance merely for someone else's benefit and still manage to leave her at the end with a clean conscience.

Some of the bravado slips off Hermione's face, though she isn't any more sober for it. She turns to go.

Harry shoots out his hand and catches her wrist. "Hermione." His voice is hoarse. It sounds like he's just emerged from a deep sleep. How appropriate. "Don't go."

"I really have to before I die of humiliation. I cannot believe I just put you in such a spot."

"Yes, you can." He says it without accusation or humour, and the look he gives her is steady and calm. Yes, considering that he's a moment away from ripping her clothes off and taking her on the ground in the middle of a gated garden surrounded by sleeping Muggles, he thinks he's exceptional calm under the circumstances. "You can believe it because you wanted to do it, and because I'm still here."

He reels her in, inch by inch, as she stares at his face and tries to read it. "Harry, what are you trying to say?"

He doesn't answer her, merely draws her to his chest, rubbing every inch of her against him that he can, his arousal unmistakable. He rocks her against his hips, showing her exactly how 'not attracted' he is. She gasps; her mouth forms an 'o,' and she looks down and back up at his face.

"Trust me, Hermione," Harry says, "when I say that you aren't taking advantage of anybody."

Her look is somewhere between joy and mortification; it's such an open, vulnerable look that it almost seems comical on Hermione's face. Harry wants to tell her everything, how much he's wanted to say but held onto instead, from the time he first noticed how perceptive she was at reading his moods back in Fifth Year at Hogwarts, to the lucky escape with her shrinking bag and all of its supplies, without which he, she and Ron would not have survived the Second War, to those burdensome off days when the wizarding world seemed to choke him and he needed to just escape, take the Floo Network and mispronounce the words on purpose and end up where they ended up, damn the consequences, to the times when he needed a friend who didn't think that Starbucks was not a type of extraterrestrial currency or some Leprechaun's long-lost miniature stallion.

He wants to thank her properly for what happened during the Day of the Dead party at the Patil's less than a year ago, when Romilda Vane had attempted to ply information from him with copious amounts of Firewhiskey (and possibly a little Veritaserum) in his punch. Try as he might to avoid her, the harpy was inescapable and damned clever at drugging unsuspecting wizards; Harry hadn't stood a chance. Fortunately, Hermione had wanted to test the potency of a batch of Cornish Pixie pheromone oil she had acquired from the Apothecary's earlier in the day. Romilda's hair had absorbed a full spray of it quite nicely, and Hermione pulled him out from under Vane and her brand-new winged friends before the distracted witch could tease the details of his then-private affair with Draco out of him.

Harry doesn't love her because she's gorgeous or intelligent, though those attributes don't hurt. He loves her because she's adept, dependable, ardent, spontaneously witty, and perceptive. He loves her because she's so damned good at being there without him having to ask.

For some reason, he still can't find the balls to say that.

Then again, it doesn't mean he has to let her escape, either. Harry leaves no time for the pleasure of taking in her before he kisses her back.

Normally, crying in the middle of a make-out session wouldn't be sexy at all, but wine, especially good wine, ameliorates a host of imperfections. Harry certainly doesn't care.

Before she has a chance to lecture him on the impropriety of letting certain assumptions on one's best friend's orientation stand for a quarter of a decade, Harry reminds her that the sun is rising and they need to exit the park. They stroll a couple of blocks with Harry's arm wrapped tightly around Hermione's waist, and she whispers secret confessions to him as he tries to purchase one-way electronic passes. The attendant gives them dirty looks, which Hermione pointedly ignores.

They're a little early for the first train. They sit down together, glasses and wine bottle clinking as Harry sets them down. He's still blotto, but that doesn't mean his insecurities can't return to haunt him. He wonders if she merely thinks he's saying, 'Yes, Hermione, it's okay for you to sleep with me tonight because I'm attracted to you, but just tonight, because I'm still gay,' whether she heard all of the preceding with the caveat of 'we are friends with benefits and this has no effect on my preferences,' 'we are friends with benefits and this definitely should prove to you what my preferences are, but don't go thinking beyond that,' or any number of variations along those lines.

A terrifying thought strikes him, and he tenses beside her. What if she's doing this because she thinks it will please him? It would be so like Hermione to do that, to progress into a sexual relationship because of a genuine belief that it would cement the bonds of a friendship. She puts his happiness (and Ron's, though he suspects that will change after tonight) before her own so often that it's like breathing to her. In the name of strategy, she would forsake her own deepest burning ambitions in an instant if it meant the his salvation...or their friendship.

Harry sighs. He never would have believed that another person's selflessness could make him feel so guilty for simply existing...until now. Hermione would slap him for entertaining any notions of guilt over her, but he's entertaining them nonetheless. I should have just told her outright weeks, months, years ago. I would have, had I figured out my own heart earlier. We've wasted so much time already—

"Harry? What's wrong?"

Hermione rubs his shoulder and looks at him quizzically, her mouth in a slight frown. "Are you okay with this?" She turns fairly pink after saying this. "We don't have to do anything if you don't want to. It was rather unfair of me to heap this on you when we're both intoxicated. While I feel marginally more coherent than I did before we walked around, our blood alcohol levels are well above the amounts required to impair judgement, and—"

Harry brings a hand up to her mouth. Her breath tickles the pads of his index and middle fingers. "Hermione?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Shut up."

He grabs her jaw firmly and plunders her mouth. In the back of his mind, he's glad he set down the glasses a few moments ago, because the bottle rolls off the bench and breaks somewhere beyond his peripheral vision. "Oops," Hermione giggles into his mouth.

Harry kisses his way down her neck nipping under her ear. When he pulls back to work his way across her chest, though, Hermione shifts and awkwardly pulls in a leg and slides it over his lap, brushing against his thighs. He stifles a groan. She straddles him and takes his left hand in between her palms, splaying her fingers and intertwining them with his.

"You have long fingers," she comments. "Not like a Leo at all."

"So do you," Harry counters. "I thought you put as much stock in astrology as you did in divination."

"True," Hermione replies. "That doesn't mean there aren't plenty of lunar-induced phenomena in biology." Something glints in her eye. She wraps a hand around his thumb and brings it to her mouth, watching for his reaction as she moves it back and forth across her lower lip.

Harry's eyes widen a little. He rolls his hips slightly against her, and Hermione closes her eyes. Her head falls back, and she makes a whimpering sound that his thumb promptly muffles as she draws it inside her mouth.

Biting back a guttural sound rolling in the back of his throat, Harry lets his head rest against the wall behind the bench. His arousal flares to life again, and he's hard in seconds. He pants a little as she laves at his fingers one by one, letting them slip off her tongue before kissing each tip.

"When's that train coming again?" Harry wheezes out. Hermione laughs and sucks on his middle finger again. She grinds into him, and his image of her, wild hair, rubbing against him so eagerly with her mouth wrapped around an extension of his body, is positively wanton.

"I have no idea."

They feel the displaced air before they can hear the distant clunking and screeches of metal on metal. Harry nudges Hermione off of his lap. "I want to make it home, and that means not pissing off some bleary-eyed conductor leaning out of a window who's going to stare at us as we board."

"I thought they were the understanding sort. Come on, Harry. Who cares?"

"I'm not taking any chances."

"I'm supposed to be the sensible one."

He grins. "I know."

The conductor does indeed look grumpy, although she's too far away for Harry to make certain. They hop into the nearest door and sit down next to each other. The train starts moving again. Evidently, they're the only ones on this section of the train for several cars in either direction.

Not thirty seconds into the ride, Hermione sidles closer to Harry, deftly unzips him and starts to stroke his erection in fluid, steady strokes. Harry throws his shirt end over her hand. Hermione leans her head on his shoulder and watches the view, pausing a few times to rub the head in little circles. Harry bites his forearm so hard he nearly breaks the skin, trying not to scream.

The trip home takes far too long, yet it's not long enough.

As soon as they're in his building, she jumps him, wrapping her arms and the wine glasses around his neck, attacking his lips with abandon. She's dried off his shirt so as to avoid any lewd questions from the guard at the front desk.

They continue to thoroughly dishevel each other until they reach Harry's floor. Harry half-carries, half-drags Hermione with him down the hall. "In," she orders him as she shoves him up against the door, sliding her hands underneath his shirt and pinching his nipples. Harry fumbles with his key, and they fall inside his flat in a heap on the doormat.

"Hermione...ah, yes, right there," Harry says as she grinds down on him in just the right place. "Um...don't you think we should get the door?"

She gives him a feral, hungry look, and without even looking to aim, her foot finds the edge of the door and kicks it shut with a slam. "Better?" she asks.

"Better."

"I concur."

She has his shirt off in short order and tosses her own bottoms off, letting him know just how wet he's made her. Harry reaches up and slides his hands along undersides of her breasts, half in wonder, thinking that he must be delirious, that this isn't happening.

His face must give him away, because Hermione leans over and gently plants kisses on either side of his mouth, an intent expression on her features as her eyes gleam at him in the dark. "I'm right here, Harry," she says. "I'm right here with you, and I'm not going anywhere."

He feels the skittering beat of her heart beneath his palm, and Harry's control snaps. He falls upon her, raining kisses along her face, jaw, neck, arms, breast, stomach, hips and back up again. He lifts her up, sliding his hands down to her knickers. She takes hold of his trousers and unfastens them, her hands rubbing between his legs and his groin, teasing him without actually touching him where he aches for her to touch.

"Tease."

She licks his throat and blows lightly before nipping at him with her teeth. "So?"

He growls low in his throat and lifts her hips, slamming them both into the wall. Once he has her pinned there, he tries to yank off the next to last vestige of modesty from her body. When the traditional route requires that he kneel and she release his thighs, Harry gives up and rips the cloth off, snaking his finger between her legs and sinking them into her warmth.

"Ow! Harry!" Hermione glares at him. "Those had elastic. It hurts."

He shrugs and rubs his cock against her belly. "Sorry."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "No, you're not." Her face takes on a look of bliss as he finds her centre and rubs it, his hand caught between the two of them. She makes little keening noises, and it has to be the fifteenth time that night -- morning -- Harry aches for her so badly that he can't see straight.

He blinks and discovers that he really can't see straight. Oh, right. The glasses fog over. Forgot about that. He tosses them carelessly into the main room. There we go.

By this point, Hermione is lifting one of her leg up to give him better access. "Harry..." It's not so much begging as it is impatience. He angles their bodies and slides into her.

God, it's been too long since I've been with a woman. With anyone. Harry knows his face must look blissfully happy. He pushes in her to the hilt and stays there. Hermione whimpers. and looks at him, running a hand down the side of his face, stroking his lips. "Are you okay? Tell me what you're thinking." It's just the kind of thing Hermione would say, even when sloshed.

That this isn't going to last very long because I'm going to come any second from you gripping me. That you're warm and tight. That I adore you. "I think I'm never going to be able to look at this hallway in the same way again."

They both laugh in a choked type of murmur. She leans down to kiss him, and he responds by pulling back and pushing in again, insistent. "Hermione." Harry's voice comes out husky when he kisses her neck. "I have to go faster." Another thrust. "I'm sorry."

She mumbles something about not caring, and he responds by lifting both of her legs one at a time and wrapping them around his hips before setting a bruising pace. Her breath hisses out in gasps as Harry thrusts into her again and again, the liquid heat that has settled on his chest dripping down, down, downwards, like drinking a cold gulp of Felix Felicis potion. His hands grip her thighs and spread her apart as much as he can, but his pace doesn't falter. What started out as soft moans from Hermione quickly builds into one long, continuous sound of strung-out pleasure. Then Harry's ears are ringing, pounding with his own blood thundering through his veins like bottled lightning. His mouth closes around an earlobe and starts to suck, never slowing his movements or pausing to give quarter. There's a faint noise in the background beyond him; he doesn't realise until later that it's Hermione, crying out.

A series of tugging motions pull him deeper inside her as she convulses and squeezes involuntarily around him. He keeps thrusting even as she comes down from her high and spends himself a half-minute later. They collapse, in slow motion, into a boneless heap on the floor.

Harry lies there for a couple of minutes as his breathing returns to normal, stroking the outsides of Hermione's breasts, feeling how soft they are. Sometimes, he muses, it's better not to think too hard.

He's slipping into a languorous, blissful daze when he feels her stirring. Eventually, she says, "Come on. I'm not going to fall asleep on the floor," and she tugs at his arm and extricates herself from his embrace.

Dragging him towards his bed, Hermione barely give him a chance to fetch his glasses and his wand, which his uses to cast a contraceptive charm. Harry cringes. Aren't they supposed to do that first?

"Don't worry," she says over her shoulder. "I can cast a better counter spell in the morning. Come on, I'm cold."

They snuggle under Harry's covers. Hermione notes with humour in her voice that they smell like hot fuzz and Harry's hair. Harry takes it as a personal insult and challenges her to a tickling match, which she loses.

The light is strong behind his pulled down window shades when Harry next wakes up. Her lips are around him, sucking him hard, and he pulls her down over his face when she relents and mounts him so that he can run his tongue over her nipples as she moves. She falls asleep on top of him, and he rolls them both onto their sides so that he can breathe and get a drink of water.

He pays her back a couple of hours later, first with his mouth and then with his hands as he parts her legs and enters her again, from behind this time. Her hair slides down his chest as she clutches his pillow and moans into the cotton.

When the threat of starvation forces him to open his eyes once more, her side of the bed is empty. Harry immediately panics, bolts out of bed, then clutches at his temples as the first wave of pain from his hangover hits him. "Damn it. Where did I put my glasses?"

Harry figures that he can't catch up to her if she's already left, so he takes care of the most urgent business in the bathroom, forcing himself not to think gloomy thoughts. He has aiming problems. He curses and uses his wand to Scourgify the toilet, then yanks on a pair of trousers and dashes into the living room.

"Hermione? Are you--"

He trails off. She's curled up on an armchair, watching one of those 24/7 news channels on the telly.

"Still here?" Hermione smiles impishly. "Why yes, I am." She rises and kisses him on the neck. "Afternoon, Harry."

"Right, right. Afternoon." He tries to sort though a list of things he wants to say; his pulse, though momentarily slowing when he spotted her, leaps back to an abnormally fast pace. Everything is fuzzy compared to the pounding his forehead is taking.

"Anti-hangover potion's on the kitchen table. I brought some on the assumption that we would over-indulge. Mind if I start a movie to watch during breakfast?"

He sighs in relief at her first words and rushes to the kitchen to pour himself a nice big dose. Questions and answers can come later, Harry thinks. Right now, she's here, with me, and she has no intention of leaving. He praises whatever deities are watching that he doesn't feel awkward at all (aside from the after-effects of the wine). Full confessions can come later. He's hungry.

"Harry, what's this? I've never heard of the title... The Sorceress Who Shagged Me? Sounds like a B-grade rip-off of a bad spy movie spoof."

All of the blood leaves his face. Shit.

"Uh, it's just a really boring scream queen flick that I picked up a couple of weeks ago. Try the cabinet below the screen."

Her voice is loud, even from the other room; Harry realises she's talking over the set because the volume is turned up. He can hear familiar intro music start to play. "Well, I'm open to stupid movies if they're funny. Let's give it a chance."

He rushes into the room just as the menu clicks on at high volume. The animated, sound-filled menu.

Harry slaps a hand to his face as Hermione's jaw drops and she fumbles for the remote to turn the sound down. Loud moaning and cries continue onscreen. She hits the wrong button and increases the noise.

"The other way!" Harry yells, holding his ears. The neighbours will think he's an obnoxious perv until the next millennium or so.

"Stupid buttons!" She manages to do it correctly this time. Harry's face is scarlet. Hermione's isn't far behind. She looks at the set, then back at him, then at the set.

"Er..." Harry stammers.

Hermione gives him an incredulous look. Then she turns back to the TV. A confused expression flickers across her face. In one of the chapter preview reels, a dark-haired boy with green eyes sidles up to a brunette witch reading a glossary of Ancient Runic symbols and starts making quick work of her blouse. She does a double-take. Peering more closely, Hermione squints, as if she's trying to decipher something.

Someone, please strike me dead. Right now.

"Is that...supposed to be...me?" she asks in an oddly strangled voice.

Oh, sweet Merlin.

Her voice is tremulous. "Harry?"

Looking at the carpet, Harry nods. He can't meet her eyes.

There is a protracted silence that stretches out, filling the room and the space between them. Harry wonders if the Killing Curse works when it's self-inflicted.

After what feels like a lifetime, Harry wonders why she hasn't hexed him yet and dares a glimpse at her expression. She's not looking at him. She's gazing at the screen, her lips pursed in that determined way that can mean only one thing. She's planning.

"Tell you what, Harry," Hermione says, and she turns to him then. Her eyes, however, are unreadable. She could be plotting some horrible, mortifying revenge. He knows he deserves it, and it scares him more than he'd like to admit.

Harry watches her warily. Still, he can sense no anger from her...

Is that a smile playing at the corners of her mouth?

"I'll promise to forget I ever saw this," here she waves the plastic DVD case and arches an eyebrow, "if you teach me how to do what they're doing in Chapter Six."

Fin.