Chapter Three

Disclaimer: My thanks to JK Rowling for having such a splendid imagination and for allowing us to play around with her characters in the fanfiction universe. She gets all the credit for anything you recognize; the plot for this story is entirely mine (though I don't get paid).

Chapter Three

Ensconced in the veil of shadows, the Stranger watched as Harry and Hermione left the bookshop, arm in arm. The Stranger hesitated. Hermione never closed up shop early. Never.

A note stuck to the front door of the shop, one corner fitfully flapping in the breeze. Once the couple was out of sight and it was determined that they were not going to return, the Stranger emerged and surreptitiously approached the door.

"Closed early. Sorry for the inconvenience," the note read. "We'll be open at 9:00 A.M. Thank you!"

It was concise, and it revealed absolutely nothing. The Stranger turned to look down the street in the direction Harry and Hermione had disappeared into the darkness. It was too late to follow now; they could have Apparated anywhere. A search would most likely be a waste of time.

Hermione was a creature of habit...that the Stranger had already learned...and her habit had become the Stranger's habit. It was routine to watch her through the window of the shop every evening as she performed her closing ritual, locked the doors, and disappeared up the stairs. The Stranger would always stay until the lights came on in the flat above the shop, confident that she had survived another day without coming to harm.

It wasn't until now, when that routine was broken, that the Stranger realized her safety meant a little more than previously believed. The vague overheard threat to her safety aside, women working alone in a public establishment were vulnerable to the riff-raff that occasionally passed through this less-traveled section of Hogsmeade. The Hog's Head was just down the side street. It was only natural to want to make sure she was safe, after all.

After staring a while in the direction Hermione had parted, the Stranger seemed to come to the decision that she was most likely safer with Harry Potter than with anyone else and turned to walk in the direction of the Hog's Head. The night had a chill, and the pub sounded like an inviting place to warm up the insides before returning to the alleyway to await Hermione's return.

~ o ~

Madam Rosmerta welcomed Harry and Hermione exuberantly, and the evening turned out to be the best night out Hermione had in a long time. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time she had had so much fun. Having Harry back, even if it was only for a short while, had improved her mood considerably, and she even managed to forget about her troubles for a few hours.

She couldn't remember when the butterbeer had turned into wine, and ultimately champagne, but that didn't matter when a good time was being had. Together, they managed to finish three bottles of Merlot and one bottle of Rosmerta's finest Wizard's Vineyard champagne, all of which was on the house due to Rosmerta being totally infatuated over Harry's visit. Of course, several patrons sent Harry shots of liqueur and glasses of Firewhisky, just so they could say they had drinks with the Great Harry Potter.

Needless to say, by the time they left the Three Broomsticks around midnight, they were both pretty inebriated. Just as they had arrived, they left arm in arm, this time to ensure that they both remained upright and could walk in some semblance of a straight line. Harry found himself sat soundly on his bum once...or was it twice?...when Hermione lost her balance and pulled him down with her. The wizards and witches they passed were greeted loudly and jovially, and each answered in kind, laughing at the enthusiastic, stumbling pair.

When they reached the side door to the stairs that led up to Hermione's flat, Harry toppled against her, his body heavy as he pressed her up against the doorframe.

"Thththat wuz great," he said, his words shuffling together much like his uncoordinated feet. "We shshould do thish more offen."

Hermione giggled. "Yes, we should."

Harry's body felt warm and comfortable against hers, and apparently Harry thought so as well for he made no attempt to move off. Instead, he scrutinized the girl he had pinned against the doorframe, twisting a lock of her hair around one of his fingers.

"Bushshy as always, I sssee."

He smirked and accepted the playful swat he had earned. Sober or drunk, Harry had to make comments about her hair. She had never minded it though, and right now, she was enjoying how he was running his fingers through her hair. She rested her head on his chest and let him play with the tangled strands just a little longer.

"I don' wanna leave," he whispered, which made her look up into the fogginess of his eyes.

"Then don't," Hermione replied. She missed Harry and all the fun they once had. If only this night could last forever. If only he didn't have to go. If only.

She blinked, lost in Harry's gaze, and then suddenly she felt something soft and warm against her lips. A kiss. Tipsily, her head spun as she realized she was kissing Harry ... and it was good. Very good. His kiss made her feel sober...dizzy, of course, but sober. All her senses seemed to awaken from their alcoholic slumber and coalesce into thinking only about Harry.

She knew it was wrong, but at the same time, she thought, what did it matter? Who would find out? No one. They had been friends for so long, it was almost inevitable that this would happen. What was one night of passion between friends? She loved him, had put her life on the line alongside him. Why shouldn't this happen? It was perfectly understandable. It made sense.

She lost herself in his soft, inviting kisses. Every time her mind tried to analyze why she was in Harry's arms, how strange but how right it felt to be kissing him, she got caught in the whirlpool and was dragged back down where thoughts no longer mattered. Harry's lips on hers, insistently tangling his tongue with hers; Harry's hands in her hair, fingers entangled in the curls; Harry's body pressed tightly against her, harder than she ever remembered his body being: every point of contact was felt with great acuity. Only when their heartbeats stumbled over one another, and every breath was drawn merely to survive, and their bodies wound tighter in anticipation did they part and look at each other in a shocked sort of desperation.

"What are we doing?" Harry asked, sounding as sober as she suddenly felt.

"I don't know," was the honest reply.

"I want this. Do you?" Honesty between friends. Not afraid of the other's answer. It's what she always treasured about Harry.

"Yes." She breathed in the heat of his body, his musky male scent, and she couldn't help but want more, to find out what lay beneath Harry's exterior.

"We should go inside before we become the talk of the town," Harry whispered as he kissed the edge of her earlobe.

"Right," she answered ... or thought; she wasn't sure anymore if the words were coming out of her mouth or if she was just thinking too loud.

The locks came open easily, but it took her three tries to remove the wards. Her shaking hands made it difficult to perform the exact wand movements. It didn't help that Harry was hugging her from behind, pressing his hard body against her and placing kisses on her neck. When the door finally opened, she tugged him by the hand and led him up the stairs as quick as his stumbling feet could follow.

Harry had never seen her flat before ... The errant thought broke the surface and threatened to bring the real world back sooner than she wished. He had either been too busy or too involved soothing the easily-ruffled feathers of his overly jealous fiancée. Now his fiancée truly had reason to be jealous, Hermione supposed. Still, she found that she didn't really care at the moment. Perhaps she would later, in the morning; perhaps never. It didn't matter. She drowned the thought in another kiss, and the passion returned.

Several glasses of wine helped by a couple flutes of champagne removed their clothing before either of them knew what was happening. They collapsed onto the rug of her sitting room before the fireplace, and neither of them seemed to be able to stop the course set by the alcohol still swimming in their blood ... even if they had wanted to.

Hermione's consciousness swam. Harry's hands on her body, his mouth on hers ... trailing over to her ear ... it was all too much to comprehend. It was like a dream. Sweet, sexy Harry...yes, she had always thought of him as sexy. His image had been fuel for a fantasy or two during those moments she had taken for self-pleasure. But she had never seriously contemplated any relationship with him other than that of very good friends.

The room was spinning. Her body was throbbing. She didn't know how to deal with the situation, except to let it happen and deal with it tomorrow...when her mind was clearer and able to deal with things. Right now, all she wanted to deal with was ...

Harry's mouth kissing, nipping, sucking her swollen breasts. She arched her back to greet him, silently encouraging him. His fingers found her wetness below, and she slid onto him easily and let him caress her inside and out. She needed to make him feel what he was making her feel, felt an intense need to do so. Letting her hand slide down his body, she felt her way to his hardness and imitated his movements, simulating what it would be like if he were inside her at this very moment. Yes, she definitely wanted him inside her.

Harry groaned at the contact. "Hermione. Gods, I need you ... now. Oh, please." He was pleading, desperate, frantic as his hands roamed her body, requesting more than what she was already giving him.

Who was she to refuse? She wanted him. Oh, gods, yes. It was a fantasy come true. A dream. In the morning, it would all be a dream anyway, wouldn't it? Her mind was convoluted with desire and champagne. She wanted this. She wanted him.

She nudged him over, and he slid between her legs in response, each of their bodies pleading for the other to need, to want, to take. His needs were her needs. His desires were her desires. With heaving chests and burning lungs, they moved together over and over, bodies glistening in the firelight, hungrily devouring each other's burning flesh ... and this continued into the wee hours of the morning, until they both completely exhausted each other.

~ o ~

The Stranger had been lost in a Firewhisky haze, having had just enough to relax but not deaden the senses. Harry and Hermione's return was earlier than expected; many witches and wizards out for an evening stayed out long past the witching hour. And their return was inconsequential ... until Harry leaned into Hermione and their lips met in a kiss that was meant for more than friends.

They kissed with great familiarity, and it made the Stranger wonder if this relationship had been ongoing for some time. The conversation that followed was intimate, but not so quiet that the Stranger could not hear with a flick of a wand, and it became apparent that Harry and Hermione had never done such a thing before. For some reason, the Stranger breathed easier with that knowledge.

It wasn't until the door slammed shut to the flat above the shop that the Stranger finally left the pair to their privacy.

~ o ~

Hermione awoke, not in her bed but on the floor, completely nude beneath an afghan that usually decorated the back of the sofa. She wondered for a second how it happened that she came to sleep here. A turn of her head found Harry, fully dressed and looking out the window. Hazy memories began to filter back into her brain. Sitting up, she carefully wrapped the afghan around her shoulders and waited for her woozy head to clear a bit.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Harry said, turning from the window with a smile.

Groggily, she answered. "G'morning. What time is it?"

"Only half past six. I made coffee. Would you like some?"

She nodded, and as Harry walked into the kitchen to get the coffee, Hermione wandered into her bedroom to put on a robe. The afghan was a little scratchy, and she felt slightly awkward sitting around Harry with nothing on save a bit of loosely knitted yarn. No matter that he had seen quite a bit more the night before. The thought made her blush.

She stopped to use the loo and wash her face a bit. Looking at herself in the mirror, she was glad she hadn't one of those nasty charmed things they used to have at Hogwarts. If it was one thing she did not need this morning, it was a judgmental piece of glass. She was judging herself enough as it was.

That reminded her ... She rummaged about in the bathroom cabinet, picking up this bottle and that, looking to see if she had any Morning-After Potion left over from gods-knew-when. She didn't think she had any, and if she did, its efficacy would probably have expired. She'd have to remember to place an order with the apothecary later this morning after she opened the shop.

Walking back into the sitting room, she noticed that Harry had placed two mugs of coffee on the table and was already seated on the sofa. Suddenly a little shy, her first instinct was to take the chair, but Harry patted the space next to him on the sofa. With a small smile of thanks, she sat down next to him and gratefully picked up the steaming mug of coffee, sipping it noisily to cool it down before it hit her throat. It was bad manners, but it was either that or she would remain decaffeinatedly incoherent.

Her coffee was half drunk before she realized that Harry was just sitting there staring into his still-full mug. Suddenly, she felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. It was all her fault. She should have never closed up shop early last night, and she should have never agreed to go to the Three Broomsticks. She would remember to listen to her practical side next time...if there ever were a next time.

"Harry, I'm...I'm sorry," she managed to say, though her throat felt too constricted to speak.

Harry looked up suddenly and put his mug down on the table. "No. No, Hermione. Don't be sorry." He took her hand in his. "Look, I'm the one who should be apologizing. It was all my fault. I kissed you first."

She smiled. It was so like Harry to take full responsibility for everything.

"Yes, but I kissed you back." The childish banter lightened the mood and made it easier to talk.

"True," he replied. "True. You know this can never happen again, right? I suppose that's kind of silly to say. Of course you know."

"Yes, I do. You will be married next month and off defeating the Wimbourne Wasps next. And I'll probably not see you again for another couple years...oh, except for the wedding. I didn't forget about that! Anyway, we're better off as friends, Harry. I know that." She decided to stop talking before she said something that sounded stupid or something that could be misinterpreted. She hadn't planned what had happened, of course, but it was embarrassing, and she felt an awful lot like crying. "This won't ruin our friendship, will it?"

For the first time since he woke up that morning, cuddling skin-to-skin next to Hermione, he touched her. Placing a hand on her arm, he smiled and said, "Of course not, Hermione! I don't ditch my friends over a bit of rough and tumble. If I did that, Ron and I wouldn't be best mates...." His grin faded. "Oh, that didn't sound the way I meant it."

Copious amounts of laughter dispelled any lingering embarrassment between the two.

~ o ~

Harry ended up leaving at half past eight. Surprisingly, they had found much to talk about that hadn't been covered the night before, catching each other up and fitting in all the conversation they would miss out on in the near future. What had happened between them the night before was easily pushed aside for comfort's sake, but certainly not forgotten, at least not by Hermione.

Hermione opened the shop right on time and was surprised to see a customer already waiting at the door. She let the woman in with a bright and welcoming, "Good morning!" and saw the note she had put on the door the night before lying on the ground. The reason for the note came back to haunt her momentarily, and her morning turned out to be very unproductive indeed.

One thing she did manage to accomplish that morning was to send a request to the apothecary through the Floo Network. That seemed to be the one thing her mind was willing to grasp hold of and carry through with, at least.

~ o ~

The Floo flared green and spat out a singed piece of parchment onto the floor. Old Mister MacDougal levitated the parchment to his waiting hand, having lost his ability years ago to bend over and straighten back up successfully. He placed his spectacles upon his nose and squinted at the order.

ORDER

ITEM: 10 grams Morning-After Potion

RECIPIENT: Hermione Granger, Strega Letteraria, Hogsmeade

PAYMENT: enclosed

Please deliver this afternoon.

Old MacDougal tipped the envelope and heard the satisfying clink-clink of two Galleons hitting the counter. He shuffled back to his storeroom where he kept various potions in various quantities, ready to fill any order as soon as it arrived.

Squinting his spectacles up his nose, he focused on the small labels. He'd really have to remember to tell his son to write a little larger. His spider-scrawl was nearly illegible. Finding what he was looking for, he took down a small, red bottle and held it up to the sconce-light of the storeroom.

He could make out a script M and a P and what looked like scribble in between. Satisfied that he had found what he was looking for, he walked to the front of the store where he kept his prescription labels. He removed the old label and worked up a new one, complete with Hermione Granger's name and the directions to take one ounce every morning for three days, and slapped it on the tiny bottle.

As the apothecary's owl took flight with its cargo secured tightly to one leg, the old label was whisped off the table and floated to and fro until it came to rest upon the floor. It wasn't found until later that day when Old MacDougal's son was sweeping the floor. The boy picked it up and eyed it. Memory Potion, it stated, quite clearly in his opinion, on the label. His father had gone to have a bit of a lie down as he did every afternoon. Deciding he'd wait to ask the old man about it later, he pocketed the label ... where it remained, forgotten.