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Tell Me COMPLETE	By : Nocturne Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Harry/Hermione Views: 32375 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: All characters belong to JK Rowling. I do not own the Harry Potter fandom. I make no money on this fanfiction.

Chapter List
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Inspired by “Tell Me” – a song released in the 90s by American R&B duo Groove Theory.

Highly recommended.

I don’t normally condone Harry/Hermione. In fact, this is my first attempt at H/Hr fan-fiction. So, be nice…please? =)

Crime is the soul of lust. What would pleasure be if it were not accompanied by crime? It is not the object of debauchery that excites us, rather the idea of evil – or so they say.

Hermione had neither the strength nor desire to disagree. It had been a long and tiring journey thus far, and the last shred of hope she had, had disappeared with Ron Weasley. He left them in their expedition for reasons she failed to decipher. But amongst their inner turmoil one thing was perfectly clear. The Horcruxes were becoming less of a priority and more of a pretext.

She hadn’t spent this much time alone with Harry since – ever.

Whether it was the fear and exhilaration of their lives hanging by a thread or a manifestation of their friendship’s true course, Hermione knew not. All she could be certain of was the torrid heat that seemed to be radiating from him, the emerald glow of his penetrating gaze and the abandon in her own.

It was wrong.

It was so, inexplicably wrong.

“Have we run out of Pumpkin Juice?” inquired Harry, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes. It was early in the morning. The pale glow of twilight still enveloped the English sky.

Hermione reached into her beaded handbag, permitting the clink of empty bottles to answer her friend’s question. He sighed with resignation, folding his arms behind his head before lying down on Hermione’s makeshift bed by the fire. It had been her turn to keep watch.

“What the…” She grasped an unfamiliar bottle, yanking it out of her enchanted bag with mystification. The reddish liquid and leaf gold covering was impossible to mistake.

“Ron and I swiped a bottle before we left the wedding,” Harry explained. “You know, in case we need a drink.”

Hermione swallowed, examining the bottle of Firewhiskey. The seal was still on, which for some reason made her stomach turn. There they were, alone and with a full ration of liquor.

Harry took hold of it, popping the cap off with his thumb as though he had done it before – which for all she knew, he probably had. Without warning, he pressed the bottle to his bottom lip and tilted it back. She could almost visualize the aged liquid streaming past his lips and down his tongue.

“Stop it,” she thought to herself. “Control yourself.”

“Hmm?” Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, extending the alcohol in her direction. “Sorry – didn’t mean to hog.”

She felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Apparently she had spoken out loud. “I’m fine for now,” Hermione murmured, glancing away. “Go ahead and have the rest.”

It was difficult to make out against the autumn wind but she could have sworn she heard him laugh.

“You’ve never had any, have you?” asked Harry, stretching his mouth into its first smile in months.

Hermione answered with silence.

“It’s all right,” he assured her, scooting closer. “It goes down smooth once you get going.”

Feeling like she had something to prove, Hermione grabbed hold of it and followed Harry’s example. She took a deep breath, pouring the liquid down the narrow opening between her parted lips. At first it tasted of something she could only describe as veteran – but eventually her body recognized the soft tones of malted barley blended with the heat that transformed it from regular Irish whiskey to Firewhiskey.

Her senses responded to the foreign substance with ease. Without thinking, she tilted it back once more for a second taste. It was unusual in the most euphoric fashion imaginable. Like a warm, candlelit bath or the foreboding yet tender feeling of one’s first kiss.

But regardless of how it felt, Hermione knew her time was up. She had no immediate plans of getting inebriated – not with him.

The young woman placed the bottle in the few inches between them, creating a bridge between their bodies as she faced Harry.

His eyes darted away, streaked with an emotion she found illegible. This frustrated Hermione. Usually she could read Harry like her tattered copy of Hogwarts, A History but not then.

It didn’t take long for her to realize there was something on his mind.

“They’re fine,” she said, referring to Ron and Ginny Weasley. “I know it.”

Harry disregarded her statement, running both hands through his messy, black hair. “I shouldn’t have let him go,” he said, mentioning Ron for the first time since he left. “If he’s in danger, it’s my fault.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Hermione agreed. “Since, you know, it’s your fault for choosing to be born at the end of July. It’s your fault for the pureblood rubbish the Death Eaters are forcibly preaching.” She made air quotations with the last bit. “It’s your fault for being The Boy Who Lived and it’s your fault for being the Chosen One.”

Harry gaped.

“Thing is, you need to come to terms with the fact that everyone is in danger no matter where they are, what they’re doing or how well you know them.” Hermione placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “This is no longer a matter of Ron and I joining you on your hunt for the Philosopher’s Stone, Harry. We’re in the middle of the Second Wizarding War.”

There was silence between them as he absorbed her statement. It reminded Hermione vividly of the trio’s midnight discussions in the Gryffindor Common Room, except this time Harry had no choice but to grasp her words for what they were – the truth.

There was plenty out of their control, but there was no purpose in dwelling on those aspects. They both came to realize this separately.

They had one job and one job only – to find the Horcruxes and destroy them.

Hermione instinctively grasped the Slytherin locket, feeling it’s weight around her neck. She had swiftly taken a hold of it after Ron left them, clutching onto it like a safety device when she thought of him. After all, it was the last thing he had touched before Disapparating into the night.

But after several weeks of emotional whiplash and worry, thoughts of Ron became fewer and further between.

“Do you reckon I should hold on to that for awhile?” proposed Harry, unknowingly reaching for the locket.

She said nothing in response, watching him with probing eyes as he undid the clasp on the back and dragged the cold metal chain across the bare skin of her collarbone. Hermione closed her eyes in attempt to block out the emotion boiling in the pit of her stomach. “There’s something wrong with me,” she thought. “None of this would have affected me before.”

“None of what?” asked Harry.

Hermione sighed, having voiced her thoughts aloud for the second time that morning. “Nothing,” she mumbled, batting her eyes open.

Harry was looking back at her with something different in his demeanor. She couldn’t quite place it at first glance but after his gaze drifted from her eyes to her lips and eventually down to the place hidden beneath her navy cardigan, Hermione understood his disposition.

He shook his head slightly, reaching for the Firewhiskey with one hand while leaning back on the other. His faded, secondhand clothes began to fit a little tighter over the past year or so. Not that she had been paying close attention or anything – but it was difficult to ignore Harry and the way he seemed to grow in all the right places.

She thought of her late-night chats with Ginny and how her younger friend would describe the Chosen One in his most vulnerable of states.

“He does this thing,” Ginny would say, gleefully regaling her ‘adventures’ with Harry while the lot of them stayed in the Burrow. “Where he’ll start to kiss me and right when we get in the thick of it, I’ll feel the lower half of him shift away.” At this point they would break into a fit of giggles. “He thinks I don’t know anything about the male anatomy – poor bloke.”

But Hermione knew better. Harry was simply being a gentleman. He didn’t want to pressure Ginny into doing anything, which was more than any other teenaged boy could claim.

Still, the thought of him aroused ignited each and every one of her senses. This was mostly due to the fact that she had never thought of him in such a way before. He was Harry Potter – not some horny reject from Slytherin.

However, Hermione couldn’t neglect the obvious. He might have been the Chosen One but that didn’t mean he had immunity to hormones and the like. Harry had urges, too.

She blinked several times, momentarily transfixed. Hermione grasped the bottle as Harry handed it to her, feeling her fingers brush over his.

Her thoughts drifted to Ginny’s stories once again.

“They’re difficult to make out behind these sodding uniforms but they’re definitely there,” Ginny would say, referring to Harry’s muscles. “And they sort of constrict when he’s turned on. As if his pelvic shift isn’t proof enough.”

Hermione downed a large sip of Firewhiskey, the weight of the bottle considerably less heavy than when Harry first cracked it open. She placed it down, gasping slightly as she felt an invisible wave pass through her.

“I…I think I’m drunk,” she breathed, feeling her body begin to tip over.

Harry’s laugh was a little delayed. “Here,” he said, steadying her with an arm around her waist. “Just take some deep breaths and it’ll be over soon.”

She followed his advice, breathing in a fresh gust of crisp, autumn air. It was amusing to think the first time she had ever gotten drunk was while they were on the cusp of defeating the Dark Lord. But, as Ginny would have said, it’s now or never. Who knew when she would even get the chance to see Harry again? She seldom let her thoughts move in such a direction but there was a fifty percent chance the Dark Lord would rule the Wizarding World. There was a fifty percent chance Harry would find the same fate as his parents. There was a fifty percent chance she would have to live in a world without her closest and most trusted friend.

Hermione’s lips began to quiver as she faced him. “Harry…”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned.

She sighed. “What if – What if we…lose?”

Harry stared at her quizzically, probably wondering why the driving force behind his support system was beginning to question their fate. Still, he stayed strong. “Then I’ll die – we all will.”

“But – isn’t there anything – wouldn’t you –” Hermione blinked hard, trying to hold back the rush of emotion. “If that were to happen…what would you miss most?”

~

A cool draft ruffled through their campsite, disturbing both the crackling fire and most noticeably, Hermione Granger. Harry scooted closer, feeling her tiny hands find his as the two of them tried to keep warm.

Of all the things he had thought about over the past few years – knowing his fate would come down to a final showdown with Tom for one – Harry hadn’t given much consideration to what would happen if he died. It was a valid question. The possibility of losing had never been more apparent. But what would he miss most?

Friends? Quidditch? Butterbeer?

The truth was he didn’t have much to miss in quantity, but the quality of his life was enough to send Harry into a whirlwind of mixed emotions. The chance of never seeing his friends again, never kissing Ginny, never teasing Ron, never spending another night at the Burrow, never feeling the wind in his hair during a Quidditch match, never…having sex – never, never, never.

He took another swig of Firewhiskey, following it with a second and then a third.

“This could be it,” said Harry.

“What do you mean?”

He turned to Hermione. “I might never see you again.”

She shifted in his arms, and until then Harry failed to realize his hand was still resting intimately along her waist. Any other moment of any other day it wouldn’t have meant a thing but as he curved his hand to the shape of her hip, Hermione breathed, no doubt feeling the tips of his fingers touch bare skin.

“This is wrong,” she said.

Harry considered playing dumb, but to what she was referring he knew perfectly well. “Is it?”

She paused. “I…I think so.”

“You asked me what I would miss most,” he began suddenly. “And the truth is I don’t know if I can narrow all of it down.” Harry thought for a moment. “But I do know one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

Harry felt the muscles in his chest tighten with each wavering second. “I know what I would regret most.” The young man moved his hand to her lower back, knowing full well they were out in the middle of nowhere with Snatchers roaming the grounds and his head on a chopping block – but the idea of getting killed at any given moment only drove him further into the bowels of their illicit attraction.

He could feel Hermione hold her breath, waiting for him to finish his thought.

But she knew the answer, didn’t she?

She always did.

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Tell Me *COMPLETE*

Tell Me COMPLETE