From the Pumpkin Pie Documents

Hermione rolled over on the couch and impatiently pushed away the pile of Charms papers she needed to finish for her class the following day. On the pretense of eating dinner, she stole for herself a hearty slice of her mother’s leftover pumpkin pie – from a recent birthday her father had had. Now, drowning herself in papers and pumpkin pie, she only started when the doorbell interrupted her from her studies.

Hardly anyone came over to bother her. The only people who really came around were her mother, her father, and, on occasion, Harry and Ron. She hadn’t heard from them, however, in eons. And she was only twenty-three – not a particularly good sign, but she supposed they were tied up in relationships, work and whatnot. Now nearing her seventh year out of Hogwarts School, and her sixth in a nearby wizarding university, she had to prove herself if she wanted to become the Charms professor she had aspired to become.

But for now, she had a doorbell to tend to.

With great effort, which she surmised was the effects of eating her mother’s scrumptious pumpkin pie, she heaved herself up with an almighty grunt and meandered her way to the front door. The visitor was now knocking, giving up with the doorbell. They probably figured the ringer wasn’t functioning. Hey, she lived in a Muggle house, what would they expect?

Hermione pulled open the door – after giving her figure a quick once-over in its jeans and sky-blue T-shirt (it wasn’t like she was always dressed to kill) with her hair in a slick ponytail – and positively shrieked in horror. She slammed it shut, breathing hard.

Had she seen what she had thought? Flashes of white skin – no, strike that, she saw almost nothing but skin. And maybe a small article of clothing. But oh, how so familiar those eyes were. Leading herself into temptation, she slowly peered back out of the side window, but couldn’t see anything. There were no noises occurring, signifying that whomever was paying her a visit had not budged an inch. What other choice did she have? She opened the door again.

And saw Harry.

He was just standing there, wearing absolutely, positively nothing but a towel and some slippers covered his feet from the cold. It was too bad that towel couldn’t cover all of him from the frigidness of that night. His mouth split open into a devilish grin. "Hello, Hermione," he said warmly.

He didn’t look any different, at least not to her – excluding the fact that he was almost naked, something she had never encountered at school. "Um… Holy cricket, what in Merlin’s name have you done to yourself?" was all she could say as she drank in the image of him like that as much as she could, knowing this would certainly be something to look back on.

"Oh, nothing," said Harry innocently. "Just came to visit you, that’s all. I’m allowed, right?"

"In a towel?" asked Hermione faintly.

Harry tapped a slippered foot on the wood of the porch in impatience. "Well, aren’t you going to invite me in? It’s bloody cold out here!"

Not wishing to see Harry shivering, she led him into her living room, which was cluttered with her schoolwork. "You know, there is life after school," Harry reminded her as he inspected her living room, the parchment and quill on the floor in front of the couch and the half-consumed pumpkin pie on the table next to it.

"I’m sorry my place is such a mess," Hermione apologized as she briskly cleared away the unused books with her wand, "but I’ve just been so preoccupied with school that I haven’t had the time to keep my house clean like I used to."

"What are you talking about, Hermione?" asked Harry. "Your house has never been clean."

"A drink," she said firmly, steering the subject in another direction. "And something… else for you to wear. Jesus Christ, Harry, what gives? A towel?"

"I just took a shower," said Harry sheepishly.

"You could have easily dressed yourself before you came! Common courtesy, Harry Potter, and especially in the presence of a woman! How dare you knock on my door and expect hospitality when all you’re wearing is a towel around your bloody waist?" From then on, Hermione exploded into lecturing him on proper etiquette and the public dress code, while Harry sauntered his way over to her original seat on the couch.

"Can I have this?" he interrupted her without even regarding anything she had just ranted about of any interest, and pointed to what was left of her pumpkin pie.

Hermione’s face became a furious puce. "I cannot believe you, Harry! What is your problem?"

"I just want some pumpkin pie," admitted Harry with an air of malevolence as he began to help himself nonetheless. The entire pie was consumed in one minute, and all Hermione could do was stand there and watch him in horror.

"Well," she said after an eerie silence, "would you want another article of clothing to put on? Goodness knows you could do with a shirt for Merlin’s sake."

Harry suddenly made an incoherent noise from the depths of his throat, for he couldn’t speak with the pumpkin pie in his mouth unless he wished for it to disperse itself all over Hermione’s floor. He swallowed once he knew he had her attention. "Hermione," he said, seriously, eyes boring intensely into hers, "I show up at your doorstep wearing nothing but a towel, and your reaction is, ‘would you like another article of clothing to put on?’ I believe that I did have a good reason for the towel, Hermione."

"Oh, you wanted to use my shower?"

"No, Hermione." He sighed, clasping a hand to his forehead.

"What did you want to do, then? Eat my pumpkin pie?" She sat down next to him on the couch and gawked at him, more so his chest than his face where she should have been.

Being sexually educated by his fellow friends at Hogwarts School and Ron, who knew nastier terms than even his parents and Fred and George Weasley did, Harry grinned. "In a sense."

Hermione floundered. "Excuse me?" When Harry merely smiled at her, her gaze narrowed. "Harry, what did you want to do? This?" She picked her homework and laughed at her own joke. "My homework?"

"No," said Harry, openly exasperated. "This." Without even thinking, or paying enough attention, he heaved himself forward, snaked his arms around her, and kissed her.

He hadn’t been lying; he certainly had taken a shower. His hair smelled some sort of melon. She finally concluded on watermelon, since it smelled the best and was one of the only ones she knew, as he leaned in unexpectedly to his kiss. It was sweet yet shy. The first kiss always was. Silent, tense, but nonetheless truly blissful. She allowed herself to fall in full force as she wrapped her own arms around him, but feeling nothing but the slippery – and slightly chilled from the cold – bare skin that was his back. Their teeth clashed, pearly whites over pearly whites, and suddenly, she felt something probing her mouth that also came to her as an oddity: his tongue was roaming… but, being the blushing little virgin she was, she wondered if that was okay. And, since Harry was doing it, she supposed she was obligated to do it as well, letting her tongue slip and slide over his. Harry let out a little groan, and she felt his lips form into a smile. One of his hands had found its way inside of her shirt and was fondling her bra strap. Within seconds, he had the clasp undone and was rubbing the spot where the clasp marks had imprinted into her skin gently. Their legs were suddenly rolling over one another as they shifted back and forth in varied positions, none of which worked very well.

Suddenly he was on top of her, both with breath reeking of pumpkin pie, hands roaming one another with highly defined desperation. As Hermione moved her hand out of the way, she felt it strike the plate that had held the pumpkin pie at one time, and it clattered to the floor, her not having a care in the world about it. Harry pushed Hermione’s hair out of the way to see all of her face, and made a soft trail of kisses all along the perimeter of the oval-shaped face that she possessed. She left out a giggle and went for his neck, but one of her legs, in the middle of another shift, careened against some cloth.

It seemed like Harry’s towel was suddenly in the way.

Not a predicament to Hermione. A hand grazed the snugly fit tie he had made and began to pull at it. But he pushed her away, trying to talk between ragged and sharp intakes and outtakes of breath, as he sat up and looked down at himself.

"I’m… not… wearing anything underneath."

"I know that!" said Hermione excitedly. "That’s the good thing!" She reached her hand out again, but was only stopped once more.

"Damn you, Harry!" she snapped angrily. "I just want… in!"

He laughed, gently pushing her away. Now her bra, leaving her to hang pendulously like before, was of no virtual use to her. Very carefully, she pulled each arm back through the sleeve of her shirt. Harry stared longingly at her, thinking she was going to take her shirt off entirely, but she did not. She deftly pulled her arm back through the bra loop and repeated the same step for the other. Then, through one sleeve, out slipped a lacy, black bra.

"Good taste," he said. "Do you know what black means?"

"What?"

"You want to have sex soon." His eyes glimmered viciously.

Hermione chuckled. "That saying only goes for black underwear. Not bras."

"May I check your underwear, then?" The same glimmer was there, only twice as bright.

A nasty grin played across Hermione’s face. "You may… may I check under your towel?"

He paused, answers forming quickly. "Sure… " he said slowly. "But you must respect me."

She eyed him in turmoil. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that… " he trailed off again, "anything you see that you are not… erm, satisfied with, is to remain strictly confidential."

She laughed hollowly. "Boys will be boys. But you mustn’t be so juvenile about… measurements."

"It’s not a measurement!" burst Harry. "It’s just the fact that you may run off and tell all of your girlfriends that I was only… such-and-such." His face was stiff as he finished, and then relaxed momentarily. "But I have won in the measurement department."

"All right," she said impatiently, "now I’m driven." Without further hesitation, off her shirt went, and she pulled him back on her, dispersing his glasses onto the floor roughly six feet away.

That towel finally came off. "Wow," Hermione murmured, as Harry the Captor leaned in and snagged his prize.

*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tempestuous rains and winds raged for the duration of Hermione’s preparation for dinner. She dashed furiously around the kitchen, waiting. Waiting for Harry. Waiting for the moment he stepped in the door. The moment he would shake the rain from the ends of his raven hair and it would splatter on her, tickling her skin and then vanish seconds later. The moment he would take off his cloak, shake it outside like she always asked him to, sweep her up in his arms as his hand encircled her waist, and say, "Good evening, darling. If your day was as bad as I seem to think it was, I can make it all better for you." The moment she would giggle, tell him her day was spectacular, and seal his mouth shut with an affectionate greeting.

And then they would sit and talk. Just be conversationalists. And Hermione loved to talk more than anything.

She and Harry had been steadily dating for eight long years. They were both twenty-seven years old and, although neither had them had directly proposed the idea of marriage, both insinuated that the offer was still on the table. Hermione patiently awaited the day Harry would grasp her hand, kneel down in front of her, tell her she was truly the most wonderful person he had ever laid eyes on, and declare that he wanted to grow old with her. They joked about that statement often. Harry said it had long been clichéd but he said it to her a lot nonetheless. Hermione tingled with pleasure when she heard it at the very prospect.

Knock. Knock. Harry was standing outside the door.

Elated, Hermione propelled herself at the front door, pulled it open, and threw herself at Harry, despite his sopping wet cloak. She could feel him freeze, contemplate a conceivable reaction, and then fasten his arms around her, where they should have been all along. Harry just didn’t look right with his arms not snaked around Hermione’s shoulder or fixing her with a smile of extreme adoration. "I love you," Hermione breathed into his cloak. She buried her head into the crook of his neck and inhaled the fresh scent of Harry’s cologne tinged with the purity of the rainwater.

"Hermione?" she heard Harry’s voice softly coo her name. By narrowing their proximity, Hermione had found that Harry’s voice grew huskier and huskier – and huskiest was the predominant way Hermione preferred to hear her name uttered by him. She picked up her head and stared into those eyes, those eyes that had entranced her that warm, September day in 1991, when she met him for the very first time, sitting in a compartment with Ron and staring curiously up at her. "I love you," she reiterated, "and there’s something we should talk about."

"All right then," agreed Harry. "But get me a mug of hot chocolate. The cold’s making my bones rattle."

Hermione briskly rubbed his arms and led him into the kitchen. He shrugged off his cloak, draped it on her coat tree, and sat at the table as he watched her set a large and covered metal platter in front of him. "Lacarnum inflamore!" she intoned towards the candle as she pointed her wand at it. A small blue flame shot up from the wick, casting them in a dim but simultaneously bright whitish blue light. "Dig in," she invited, unveiling the platter of succulent turkey, surrounded by vegetables and potatoes. His hot chocolate was ready moments later. Harry picked up a carrot and bit it gingerly.

"Wow, Hermione. It looks amazing. You didn’t have to make that. It must have taken eons."

"Wait until desert." She waggled her eyebrows at him, but couldn’t help stiffening from what she had in store.

Harry leaned in and grasped her hand. "You’re on, wild one." He kissed her hand and helped her slice the turkey. "Hermione," he said, "this turkey is so big, we can’t possibly finish it in one sitting, or even four at that. You should have invited Ron."

"No, Harry," said Hermione firmly. "I want to be alone with you and that’s the way it’s going to be. If I wanted Ron to accompany us, then fine, always room for company, but for now, no visitors. Just you, me, the storm outside – "

"That’s three," pointed out Harry slyly.

"Don’t contradict me!" she said, lightly but playfully slapping his hand. She let go and severed a piece of her turkey, and then shoveled it into her mouth. The rest of the dinner revolved mainly around small talk and subjects they had often broached, but Hermione drummed her fingers tensely. She looked over her shoulder at the two fortune cookies sitting on the counter behind them, and pursed her lips.

Harry let his knife and fork fall to his plate with a clatter. "Hermione, I couldn’t possibly eat any more."

Her stomach lurched dangerously as she glanced back over at the fortune cookies. He couldn’t know what was encased inside of them, not now. But he would have to find out sometime. She pushed her chair back; it scraped against the wood. She heaved herself up and approached the fortune cookies, snatching them both up.

Hermione scrutinized them. One was concealed in bright red wrapping and tied with a small white ribbon while the other was bone white and tied with a red ribbon. If she could remember correctly, Harry’s was the one in the bright red wrap. She couldn’t forget. She had bought them at a Muggle Chinese teashop in London a week ago, and had just tossed the fortune that was originally inside of it into the rubbish bin. Then she had restored the cookie back in one piece with a simple Binding charm after replacing the old fortune with a special one of her own. She couldn’t mess this up. Oh Merlin, she couldn’t. "Fortune cookie?" she offered, holding the cookie donned in red wrapping to him.

Harry stared into her glossy eyes. "Sure." He took the cookie and untied the white ribbon, depositing it onto the table. Then he took off the wrapping.

It was probably the single most nerve-wrecking moment in Hermione’s life as she stood there, still holding her untainted cookie, watching Harry crack the golden brown cookie into two jagged piece and take out her fortune. There was no emotion to be seen on his pale face as he read the fortune, and she bit her lip. Had it been the wrong time to ask? She saw his lips form the words, "Marry me?" and then he looked up at her.

She wasn’t sure if it was a smile, but he was screwing up his face into some expression. "Hermione… " he croaked.

Without even thinking Hermione fell into his lap and cried. "I’ll understand if you don’t want to," he barely heard her say.

But he framed her blotchy face with his hands. "Why wouldn’t I?"

Her mouth fell open as she gaped at him. "But I thought – well, you didn’t seem like you wanted to… I’ve just been thinking about it so much and I was afraid you would never ask me so I did it myself – it’s just that we’ve been trying to get away from everyone and the hustle and bustle of London and we never spend enough time together, so… " She trailed off and sniffed as she waited for his response.

There wasn’t a verbal response. Instead, she felt his arms find their way around her body as she was pulled as close as was humanly possible to him. "Now we can spend forever," she caught him say, huskily, like always, to her as he hoisted her out of the seat and out of the kitchen.

***