Written for A Sirius crush on Moony 's Most Hated Pairing Challenge. As such, you can assume I hate Harry/Hermione. They don't work, and yet somehow they do.
I can feel his eyes on me as I walk through the hallways of the Ministry building. He knows I have work to attend to, but yet his eyes follow me anyway. He knows it's distracting. He knows I can feel his gaze. He knows he shouldn't, but he does anyway. Mostly because he knows I want it.
There's something about him that's so utterly irresistible that he captivates me even when I know we shouldn't linger on such fantasies. Because they are just fantasies. Nothing could ever really work between me, Hermione Granger, and him, Harry Potter. Absolutely nothing. Of course that's completely against all the rumors that have ever circled through Hogwarts during our school days.
And yes, I've felt his embrace. He's held me while I've cried. He's wiped my tears. We've danced and smiled when the world around us was falling apart. But that doesn't mean we could ever be together. Not really. Because our every touch, every lingering moment, hinges on something that isn't meant to last. And yet we cling to it like that single moment makes up eternity.
During the moment it certainly feels like an eternity. When he traces his lips across my neck, it takes forever for him to reach that one sensitive spot on the right side. He knows it's there and he can avoid it expertly, to the point where one day he might have to retrieve me from insanity. And yet somehow that never happens. He always reaches that spot with just enough of my sanity intact so that the sensation which follows is so intensified I lose contact with the reality around us.
We are transported to another plane of existence for those few moments. It's a place where Ron doesn't haunt the back of my mind. Where Ginny isn't a recurring role in Harry's life. Where we hadn't been so molded and twisted by war that we require each other's forbidden touches and kisses. I suppose it's a nice bite of irony that had we not been twisted by war we wouldn't even need each other. At least that's how I think of our affair. He says he agrees with me, but I see the doubt sparkling in his green eyes, unsure of where to settle.
But really, it doesn't matter. His lips are on mine and his hands are delicately moving down my sides. I'm vaguely aware I'm wearing my far less attractive clothing today, but it seems to make no difference whatsoever. Harry continues to kiss me so anxiously that I can feel the rims of his glasses touch my cheek. I had used to wonder at how one can enjoy the benefits of a good kiss with glasses in the way, but Harry has long since shown me exactly how. Now, as we're pressed for time in my office, door locked, windows drawn shut, he pulls them from his face expertly and tosses them somewhere to the side. The sound they make as they clatter against the surface of the furniture is just an echo in the back of my mind. All I'm really focused on are my shirt buttons. And his of course.
We'd already learned our lesson before, and so this time each button is pushed through its respective hole with gentle fingers, one at a time. There is no more ripping and destroying of clothes in the office space, even if that tactic is still implored between us in far more intimate and personal places. As I try to pause for a breath, Harry can't seem to stop even for a moment. Instead his lips continue moving against my cheek and eventually my neck, all while his nimble fingers make quick work of my blouse and the few remaining buttons holding it in place.
In a rushed breath, I try to tell him it's the last time. There can be no more secrets. We cannot continue to be lovers. We simply can't keep up such a delicate charade for much longer. For a solemn moment, his eyes go dark and his face falls, and he seems to agree. But once I press my lips against his, the darkness fades and the passion returns once more.
When we dress, we avoid direct eye contact as though we're ashamed of the act we've committed. Perhaps on some level we are, but mostly it's the idea of our last time hanging between us that keeps us both so quiet. Perhaps he truly believes it. I know I want to, but in my heart of hearts, the rationality that makes me who I am simply cannot accept such a ridiculous claim. Every time we say it's the last time, and almost every time Harry believes it.
Now, as I take my seat behind my desk and straighten out my collar, I peer up at Harry Potter. His glasses are in place, his shirt without a single wrinkle. He's perfectly presentable, just as he should be, but his coy smile is out of place for his professional appearance. Though I do my best to ignore such outward admissions of our affair, I can't stop the mirroring smile from forming across my own lips.
Most of the time he's believes it, but this time he knows it's as untrue now as it had ever been before. He knows it'll happen again. He knows I'll want it again. He knows it takes only a lingering glance down a hallway or across a break room. He knows we shouldn't, and yet we do it anyway.