Only Time Will Tell

Chapter 3: Hermione in Love

Hermione was in good spirits as the school year began. Seventh year meant N.E.W.T.S. and it was even more work than fifth year. She was thrilled with all of her classes except Potions. Only the best and brightest students were allowed to take advanced Potions, only those who got Outstanding on their O.W.L.S. Even Harry, who was determined to become an Auror, was surprised at how vicious Professor Snape was being towards Hermione. Hermione held her ground, though, and try as he might, Professor Snape was unable to rattle her. When Harry questioned her, Hermione made some offhand remark about Professor Snape not liking intelligent women. Although it didn't quite resonate, Harry had let it go at that. Hermione was not one to be coaxed into giving any more information than she intended to give.

Every morning at breakfast, Hermione would wait anxiously for the owls. Owl post was quite a sight to see as owls of all shapes and colors fluttered through the Great Hall, dropping letters and parcels on eagerly awaiting students. Most students propped their newspaper or letters up against their mugs of coffee or juice to read them while they ate. Hermione did this too when she received letters from her parents. However, Harry and Ron couldn't help but notice that sometimes she didn't do this at all. Sometimes, she got a dreamy look on her face and carefully folded the letter, not even reading it. Then, she would place the letter inside her robes. At first, Ron and Harry found this quite strange. Everything else she carried with her, she kept in her book bag. Her wand was kept in the outer pockets of her robes. But whatever these letters were, they required extra special handling and protection. As Harry and Ron looked at each other with a questioning glance, Ginny just giggled. Hermione ignored them all. Another letter, that's all that mattered.

Meanwhile, life in Gryffindor house had returned to normal. Ron, Harry, and Hermione had claimed their usual seats in front of the fire along with Ginny and sometimes Neville. Ron and Harry had picked up on the change in Hermione's demeanor. While still very focused on her studies, she seemed to be preoccupied by something else as well. Try as they might to get it out of her, she had no intention of telling them. One thing they did notice was that she always seemed to disappear just before midnight, regardless of what they were studying or doing.

Hermione had retired for the evening. She lay on her bed, curtains drawn, inhaling the scent of the parchment-- myrrh. She sighed and imagined him lying next to her, his arms wrapped around her, the warmth of his body pressed against hers. That thought filtered through her mind as it did every night before she fell asleep. But tonight, she had a letter. A letter she had kept with her all day. A letter that seemed to be burning a hole in her robes. It took more control than she could have ever imagined not to run into the girls' bathroom between classes and read his letters, but she made herself wait. Wait, until she could be nestled in bed and let the warmth of his words spread through her body as she drifted into dreams of nights spent together. She lit the candle on her bedside table and devoured his words with rapt attention.

***

Ron was in a particularly bad mood that Saturday evening. He, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny had spent the day in Hogsmeade. It had been a crisp, autumn day and they'd all enjoyed butter beers, chocolate, and some hilarious stuff from Zonko's. On the way back, Ron had slipped his hand into Hermione's thinking there might still be something left between them. Although Ron and Hermione had dated briefly during sixth year, it had become clear to everyone, including themselves, that they were better off as friends. Still, Ron yearned for Hermione at times; she was, after all, his first true love.

When his fingers had meshed with hers, she had inhaled quickly, her body stiffening at his touch.

"Ron." Her eyes had held a moment of pity in them and Ron had let go of her hand instantly, his face flushing red.

"I'm so sorry, Ron."

He had waved his hand to stop her, shaking his head. The embarrassment and anger flooding through him were more than he could handle. He had stalked away from her then, knowing that she'd never love him again, and feeling incredibly stupid for even trying.

He was brought back to the present as the clock struck midnight.

Hermione, noticing the time, quickly headed to her dorm, leaving Harry, Ron, and Ginny in mid-conversation.

"What is it with her?" Ron said, a hint of dejection in his voice.

Harry and Ginny both looked at him, surprised at his outburst.

"It's Krum, isn't it? She's in love with Krum!"

Ginny laughed at that and put her hand on Ron's arm, "It's not Viktor Krum. Believe me, I'd know. In fact, I don't think she's even spoken to him since the summer after our fifth year."

"Then who Ginny?" Ron asked.

Ginny looked away as Harry watched the conversation intently.

"Come on, Ginny, I know you know. If she's told anyone, she's told you," Ron persisted.

"Ron, she'll tell you when she's ready," Ginny said, sighing at her boorish brother.

"And not a moment before," Harry echoed. "Knowing Hermione, we'll be waiting a long, long time."

Harry returned his attention to the essay he'd been working on while Ron sunk further into his chair, arms crossed, not looking at either of them.

Meanwhile, Hermione had fallen asleep writing to Remus. She'd told him all about her classes, careful to skim over the happenings in Potions, instead focusing on her high marks in Transfiguration and Charms. She always tried to ask him a question or two about Defense Against the Dark Arts as well, hoping he'd feel that she needed him in more ways than one. After that was out of the way, she focused on other things. Like telling him about how she'd love to run her hands over his sleek, muscular body. Kiss his warm, eager lips. Run the tips of her finger along the curve of his back. Play with the soft curls on his chest.

It wasn't hard to think of these things, not after the summer they spent together, forced to make each other's acquaintance, locked together, alone, in that safe house. But something quite unexpected had happened. She'd found herself attracted to him. He looked younger somehow, the gray had left his hair, the lines on his face softened. At first she thought her intense feelings were due to the stress of being confined alone with him. But soon she realized it was much more than that. And as small, seemingly innocent gestures became less innocent and more intimate, she began to realize just how much she wanted him, how much she needed him. She relished his eager touch, his beckoning eyes, the warmth of his presence. She loved to make him laugh. She loved his smile. She loved the way he held her in his arms, so tight and so secure. She loved the way his hands and his lips and his tongue caressed every inch of her body. She loved how he'd made love to her that first time--hungrily, passionately, as if his life depended on it.

She could only wonder if her letters affected him the way his affected her. The ideas he planted in her head were enough to make her fall asleep warm and wet and wishing he was there with her. She smiled at the thought before drifting off to sleep, the quill leaving a pool of ink on her sheets, the parchment nestled underneath her as she rolled on top of it. Dreams, oh sweet dreams.