Dream Chasing

Dream Chasing

Chapter 7. Awakenings

Hermione's eyes shot open, her brain immediately wondering what had caused her to wake up - and she caught sight of the window of her bedroom in their fantasy bungalow, where a sudden gust of wind had momentarily parted the curtains and allowed a single ray of brilliant sunlight to penetrate the darkened room and slam into her closed eyes.

Sensing that there was no immediate danger, her brain started running an internal checklist on her current situation - she was lying on her side, facing the window (through which she could see the clear blue sky and glimpses of a sun-drenched beach), her head pillowed on her elbow - arms and legs embracing a huge pillow.

But there was something different ... there was a feeling of some heavy object immediately behind her eyes causing a slight headache; an arid mouth, as if she had stuffed it with cotton in preparation for a dental operation; a lethargic feeling in her limbs as if she were still exhausted from some strenuous activity the night before.

The first coherent thought came to mind - 'you have a hangover, dear,' her brain informed her with a small snicker of its own.

The memories of the previous night broke through her befuddled brain: consoling a heart-broken Nicole after saying good-bye to Ron; Joyce and Erin at their table; a subdued Lils bringing a tray of drinks and quietly laying them out; the whole room thoughtful and quiet after Nicole's heart-rending song.

She wasn't a drinker in the first place; even the supposedly non-alcoholic butterbeer in Hogsmeade was enough to give her a slight buzz. Whatever they were drinking at the Red Queen was smoother than butterbeer but had double or triple the wallop - and she smiled as she remembered weaving back to the bungalow with Harry's arm around her, his other arm still clutching a bottle of whatever it was they had been drinking, giggling as he sang - chanted? - in a loud voice, "Ah lahve you bhey-bee, hend hif hits kwayte ollrahyt, Ah need you BHEY-BEE!"

She'd tried to shut him up but couldn't - she'd been giggling and laughing too much, enjoying his performance and feeling her heart swell in sheer joy at seeing her best friend so carefree, so relaxed and untroubled by anything and everything in the world - and she found herself joining him: "Oh pretty BHEY-BEE, dohn't bhreeng me dahwn Ah fray -"

Smiling, she started to stretch - and froze. Her heart stopped beating as she felt it leap to her throat - and started beating again as she tried to swallow it down and force it back to its accustomed place in her chest.

How can her head be resting on her elbow when both her arms were wrapped around the pillow she was hugging?

As she lay frozen, stiff with shock, her senses finally broke through her addled brain and started feeding sensations she had been ignoring since she woke up:

... a soft breeze gently ruffling the crown of her head, and she realized that someone was breathing, nose and lips apparently buried in her hair.

... an arm draped around her torso, resting on her bare - her bare stomach (and her heart was in her throat again as she remembered waking up all wet and sweaty in the warm night -- tearing off her shirt and bikini so she could sleep unencumbered and loose).

... a warm, oh, so warm body snuggled into her back, and she could feel the even, rhythmic rise and fall of a chiseled chest along the skin of her back, sending goose-bumps all over her body and she shivered as she felt the arm around her move slightly, brushing the skin of her bare stomach and finally resting on the skin just below her rib cage.

... and ... and ... dear Merlin's ghost and ancestors ... what was a tire iron doing in the bed with them? But no, her rational brain argued - that was no tire iron! It was ... it was ...

Her eyes bugged out as a final sensation blasted through her mind: why, in the name of all that's holy in the wizarding, magical, and Muggle worlds, was her bed wet?

* * *

Madam Pomfrey pushed back her chair with a contented sigh, having had her fill of the delicious lunch that those two wonderful girls had brought in for her. She shook her head in wonder, surprised that Hermione Granger could have found two young witches who shared her enthusiasm for elf-rights and S.P.E.W. - but then, she thought, that's children for you.

You never really know what to expect from them.

She stretched luxuriously and glanced out the window of her office. It was another beautiful day at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - a brilliant noon sun in a clear blue sky, a brisk but cooling breeze ruffling through the trees, students out on the grounds lounging, playing or simply sitting under the shade of trees: happy that it was a Sunday once again.

Except for the Terrible Two, she thought.

She was surprised when the doors to her domain opened to reveal them: Cindy, carrying a tray of food; Carolyn, her slim companion with long, thick black hair in a ponytail, following closely, a pitcher of pumpkin juice in hand while, over her shoulder, a bag full of books was slung.

Before she could say anything, Cindy was asking where to place the tray. Madam Pomfrey silently gestured and followed the two into her office, where Cindy set down the tray on her desk with a sigh.

"What -" she began, but was quickly interrupted by Carolyn.

"We met Dobby as we were coming up here and told him we'll bring the tray in for him," the girl responded to her unfinished question. She could feel an eyebrow climbing up as Carolyn continued, "Miss Hermione would have wanted it that way."

Madam Pomfrey's eyebrow stopped its upward climb, and she shook her head. She was aware of Hermione's obsession with S.P.E.W. and elf-rights - but it was surprising to learn that she'd found two willing converts to her cause.

Before she could remark on this, Cindy spoke up: "Would it be all right if we stayed here for a while, Madam Pomfrey? We'll be quiet ... we have some studying to catch up on."

"Uhm -"

"It's just that ... well, Miss Hermione and Sir Harry would always help us when we were studying," Carolyn said. She glanced out at the door towards their mentors and said, in a low voice, "We miss them," as her friend nodded vigorously.

Madam Pomfrey glanced from one to the other, wondering why Minerva McGonagall called these beautiful, enchanting and loyal angels "The Terrible Two." That they would be great friends with Potter and Granger was a surprise; that they would willingly give up a day in the bright sunshine, to spend the time studying in the Hospital Wing just so they could be with Harry and Hermione -

She'd granted permission, of course; breaking the rule about visiting hours, given the earnest and concerned looks of the two young girls, and smiled as she watched them sit down next to each other in the large, comfortable arm-chair that Minerva McGonagall conjured up the night she was here.

She watched in amusement as they opened up their books and started reading, remembering the hours when Harry Potter could be found in the Hospital Wing bringing books and homework to the stricken Hermione Granger and, with another shake of her head, went into her office for a peaceful lunch.

She stood up and walked out of her office to check on her patients - and stopped, smiling, when she realized that the two young girls had fallen asleep in their chair. Her smile widened as she glanced at her patients - and realized that they were spooned together: Hermione's back to Harry's front, Harry's arm around Hermione's waist, snuggling close to each other as if they needed each other's warmth, a single blanket covering them kicked off ...

'Thank Merlin,' she thought to herself, 'no one except the girls decided to drop by today -- especially not Miss Brown or Miss Patil.'

Or Colin Creevey with his ever-present camera.

It would be a major embarrassment for the two if people saw them spooned together so comfortably, as if they were a long-married couple rather than two children who did not even know of the existence of the other until they met on the Hogwarts Express five years ago. She noted that they were still holding hands even now ... whatever it was that had happened to them three days ago, their hands - and bodies - never seemed to be more than an inch or two away from each other.

With that, she turned away and headed back to her offices. Why should she deny herself some rest and relaxation when everyone else was indulging in the same thing?

If she had lingered a moment or two longer, she would have seen two unconscious teens struggling on the joined beds, faces red from the effort of a major tug-of-war over a pillow - and two first-year Gryffindors asleep in their chair, giggling, their hands covering their eyes.

* * *

He was not going to give up without a struggle.

The thought - and its accompanying resolve - pulsed through his disorientated mind as his internal body clock kept sending signals that it was time to wake up, that it was time to leave the comfort of his warm and restful bed and face the day.

He didn't want to wake up.

Not for a few more minutes, at least.

All because of the warm, smooth, soft but slim pillow that he was holding - no, embracing so tightly.

And the wonderful, sweet, spicy but somehow different smell that was emanating from the pillow in his arms.

He'd never had a pillow in his life.

At least, not until he came to Hogwarts and saw his four-poster with its heavy draperies, the thick and warm blankets, the crisply starched sheets and that wonderful smell of clean laundry that he had sunk into that first night in the castle.

And the pillows - so large that it seemed he would be unable to wrap his 11-year old arms around them, so firm yet soft that wrapping his arms and legs around them gave him a sense of security and warmth that started to heal the wounds of his childhood.

He'd never had a pillow in his life until he came to Hogwarts.

And he would enjoy this pillow to the fullest - reveling in its smoothness and warmth, that wonderfully tingling sensation on his skin as he wiggled in an effort to find a more comfortable position ... burying his face and nose in that oh so wonderful smell of apples and cinnamon, strands of stuffing tickling his nose -

He froze.

That wasn't pillow stuffing clogging his nose and mouth ... it felt like hair.

Hair?

His eyes sprung open, wide as saucers, realizing in the same instant that he didn't have his glasses on but there was no need for glasses to recognize the long, curly strands of brown hair that he'd watched for so long - the hair that he knew would be silky-soft, something wonderful to run his fingers through ....

And his senses and memories finally kicked in:

... the wonderful smell of cinnamon and apples touched with the barest hint of sweat: the smell of Hermione's hair as she walked to the Great Hall beside him for dinner after a full day of walking around the castle.

... the smooth, soothing sensation that he could feel all along his chest as he hugged his "pillow:" Hermione's back as she snuggled close, the skin with their own warmth or heat as blood coursed through her veins ('what was the difference between heat and warmth?' his befuddled brain asked).

... the subtle dents and indentations of her rib cage that he could discern through the now-sensitized skin of the arm which he had flung over her in a warm embrace - as well as the tingly sensation he could feel from his feet, entwined as they were with the small, well-formed feet of his sleeping companion.

... the rhythmic, tingling sensation on a wrist - coming from the soft, slow exhalations from her mouth and nose, breathing on the exposed skin of his wrist and the back of his hand.

And he realized, with a growing horror, that the bed he was lying on was wet - wet with what, he didn't know and didn't want to find out ... but an errant memory came crashing with all the force and power of a runaway train: of suddenly waking up in the darkened room, that uncomfortable feeling of dampness all over his waist and below, of the clammy sensation of sweat breaking out from the unaccustomed alcohol or whatever potions made up the contents of the bottles that Lils had handed out ....

Of tearing off his shirt and trunks and flinging them away before rolling back into sleep, arms and legs automatically wrapping themselves around that warm and slim pillow ...

He screwed his eyes tightly in pain as a soft and cooling breeze blew through the room, and he wanted to bury himself, realizing in the same instant that he was hiding his face in the soft, bushy crown of hair of his best friend in the world -

And realized with a sudden jolt of electricity running through him that his skin could feel nothing but his best friend's skin.

Which meant that ...

He felt his skin prickling and felt Hermione stiffening in his arms -- which meant that she was awake.

Which meant that she was beginning to realize that she had fallen asleep in the arms of her sweaty, wet below the waist male friend who had somehow -- unwittingly, unthinkingly, or cluelessly -- thrown away his clothes as he sought for a more comfortable sleeping position ...

His mind started a frantic search for something to say ... something to do ... some thing to explain what he was doing in her bed, her wet bed - but his frenetic mind suddenly froze as he heard a squeak coming from his companion: "Harry?"

* * *

She could feel the sudden tension in the body that was pressing along her back, and she knew that Harry was awake.

What should she do?

Jump up and run for her bathroom? Yeah, right ... she'd be putting on quite a show for Harry - showing her backside and her birthmark to him as she ran.

Nope.

Pretend that she was still asleep and let him slink out of her bed and bring the tire iron with him?

Why not?

And then a horrifying thought struck her: How could she be sure that that was Harry behind her, in her bed?

Merlin.

Before her logical mind could kick in, her frightened brain sent a signal to her parched throat and dry mouth and she heard herself squeaking, "Harry?"

A tidal wave of relief passed through her body, starting from the crown of her head to the tips of her tingly toes as she heard a squeak in a voice she would always recognize and never forget: "Hermione?"

She felt him moving, rolling away from her and she breathed a sigh of relief ... lifted her head slightly to let him pull his arm from under her head ... shivered as his other hand was lifted from her stomach ... felt the mattress roll as he tried to sit up ... froze again as she felt him falling back into the bed with a groan: "My head!"

'Which head?' popped into her mind for a brief moment - and she could feel her rational mind grab that thought and throw it into the gutter where it belonged. In the same moment, her innate caring and anxiety for the welfare of her best friend asserted itself and she started to roll over to face him (still hugging the pillow to her front) - and froze.

She could still feel the tire iron pressing on her back.

But that couldn't be, her mind raved. Harry had moved away from her ... she distinctly felt the mattress move as he shifted his body away ... she could feel the breeze on her back when he'd moved away from her ...

Unless ...

She closed her eyes tightly against that thought and blindly started groping around behind her back. Her questing fingers touched smooth, hard flesh for a moment ('his chest? His stomach?') and quickly skittered away as she heard a squeak of surprise ("Hermione!") but she continued groping behind her back ...

And her fingers touched something smooth ... hard ... warm ... and her fingers clenched into a tight fist around it, whatever it was - and froze as she felt Harry's long fingers enfolding her hand.

For a long moment she lay still as a statue and her mind flashed to second year and the moment she was Petrified: remembering only the page that she had torn from a book clutched in her hand and hoping against hope that Harry would find it and read it - suddenly reverting back to the present and wondering what she would do with the ... the thing in her hand, with Harry's fingers around her hand ...

"Hermione?" She bit down on her lip to keep from screaming, this was embarrassing, why did she have to reach out and start groping around the bed when she knew, she knew that Harry was in bed with her and probably having his icky little hormonal fantasies as he slept with his body wrapped around her, and ...

"What's a bottle doing in your bed?"

The bemused question blasted through her brain.

She spun around so fast that she could feel her neck bones snap, felt the tips of her hair flick around and swipe momentarily across Harry's face, and she got a glimpse of his startled green eyes for a brief moment before her eyes focused on the thing she was holding in her hand.

A bottle.

It was a slim, dark green bottle and her mind suddenly clicked as she recognized the bottle that he'd been holding as they made their drunken way back to their bungalow, singing "Ah lahve hiyou BEHY-BEE" at the top of their lungs--

Harry must have helped her into bed last night, she realized. She'd nearly fallen flat on her face as he opened the door to her room, except for Harry catching her around the waist and holding her up - but she'd fallen into bed, and he'd probably crashed into the same bed with the bottle still in his hand ...

Which was why the bed was wet, she thought with relief, as she saw a small amount of liquid swirling around at the bottom of the bottle.

So nothing had happened in the night - except that they had both fallen asleep in the same bed. She was so relieved at the thought that she felt a giggle, a snicker, and finally - a laugh break out of her now-functioning mind and she let go with a whoop that made her ears ring - and Harry to groan beside her.

She quickly sat up and turned to him with a smile - and her face fell as she realized that his eyes were shut tightly in pain at her whoop of joy, and she reached out to touch his shoulder, saying in a small, concerned voice, "Harry?"

She saw his emerald eyes open wide and stare at her for a moment before he opened his mouth: "What happened?"

"I think we had a little too much to drink," she responded. He nodded at that and tried to sit up to face her, bleary eyes locked on her face and unheeding of the blanket around his thighs. He'd somehow found his glasses and put them on, she realized, and he stared at her through bleary eyes as he asked in a raspy voice, "But what were you laughing about?"

She could feel herself burning under his gaze but the relief and the release of tension were such that she couldn't help herself. She started blubbering an explanation as she choked down the hilarity and joy that was bubbling in her chest: "I thought (gasp!) that you ... (hiccup!) that was (huff!) ... it was ..."

"Hermione!" She felt his warm hands on her shoulders shaking her and she quickly drew in a hiccupping breath and she leaned back against the headboard, clutching the pillow to her front and, in a strangled voice, said: "Ithoughtitwasyour thing thawasspressingagainst my backbutnowIrealize it'sjusta bottle ...I'msorry, Harry, it's just that ..."

His befuddled mind tried to make sense of it ... tried to process the rambling, incoherent words of which "bottle" was the only thing which made sense to him ... and then his brain kicked in, and everything started falling into place like tumblers in a lock - and his eyes widened as he finally understood what she was saying.

"Hermione!" His shocked whisper made her stop and she stared back at him with her brown eyes filled with mischief and mirth. "Do you really think I would do something like that?"

"Yes I do, Harry." Her smile widened at the look of shock, surprise and hurt on her best friend's face. "What else am I to think, given the way you sleep?"

She would have paid a fortune for a picture of his face as he realized that she knew he had slept beside her without a stitch on and, with an evil grin, she suddenly grabbed the blanket around his hips and threw it into a corner as she laughed at him.

What she hadn't counted on was his lightning-quick reflexes: before she could even think of retreating and barricading herself in the bathroom, Harry had leaped after her and tried to grab the pillow she was holding in front of her.

In the blink of an eye, they were engaged in a struggle to the death: pulling and tugging on the pillow that Hermione had been hugging in her sleep, each determined to succeed in claiming the only thing left that could ensure their modesty and decorum, unthinking of anything else but to be the victor in this battle ...

With a powerful tug, Harry succeeded in pulling the pillow away from Hermione - but he'd exerted a little too much force and fell back on the bed, with Hermione on top of him and the pillow following the blanket into the corner.

They froze at the contact of skin on skin, staring into each other's eyes - shocked at the turn of events that they had found themselves in. They could have jumped away from each other, they could have rolled away in blushing embarrassment, they could have simply stood up and walked away but they didn't.

They couldn't.

For a moment, the world was vivid greens and warm browns - and a sense of sudden heat emanating from rapidly beating chests, pressed tightly against each other. If they could think, they would have been surprised and amazed that the tempo of their hearts matched -- but this was not a time for rational thought.

At the same time, there was a sense of recognition in the joined rhythm of their hearts: it was a beat that first took form when the world was young and magic had no words.

But this had no need of words or incantations.

All it needed was consent ... agreement ... the grant of approval from one to the other.

They could only stare at each other, knowing that something had changed ... that this may be a dream or a fantasy but recognizing that something was happening....

Who made the first move, they would never be able to say -- perhaps there was no conscious "first" move. It could have been Harry who'd lifted his head that few vital inches ... or perhaps Hermione had dipped her head that few needed inches ...

Either way, the next sensation they would remember was the soft, gentle brushing of lips on lips.

It was strange, Hermione would later think, that of the dozens or hundreds of things that her sensitized skin should remember ... it was that soft, gentle brushing of lips that would stick to her mind. There should have been something more: heat from her chest as she pressed her body onto him, the slight goosebumps on her skin as Harry ran fingers callused from gripping wand and broomstick over her body as he explored her back and sides, the sensation of running her fingers and palms over his shoulders and up to his hair--

She would never know that Harry was having the same sensations and feelings running through him: that it would always be that soft, gentle brushing of her lips on his own that he would always remember first - and would always remember best.

There would only be vague sensations of his back rubbing against once-starched but now rumpled and slightly damp sheets, of the warmth along his chest and his stomach as Hermione settled herself more comfortably on his front - of the feel of her hair and the back of her head as his fingers cupped themselves around her ...

There would be nothing - and everything - in that first brush of their lips.

They could have murmured something - names, an endearment, a promise - but no words were ever needed.

Words would have been superfluous and would not have been understood as their lips fused together ... as tongues silently explored lips, quietly ran along teeth and eventually met the other's tongue in a silent ballet danced to a tune that was timeless - a music with no words but a roaring in their ears, a beat with no real rhythm but the pounding of their hearts felt through chests with no distance or fabric between them.

There was nothing in their world but each other, for their world was now defined only by the circumference of their arms and the reach of their skins ... not even the vague sound of a girl calling out, "Helloooo! Anybody home?" could penetrate their fevered, singularly focused minds ...

It was the sound of a door slamming open, the happy call of a very familiar voice crying, "There you a-" followed by a loud "EEEEK!" and a quickly mumbled apology that broke the trance they found themselves in ...

They fell off the bed in the scramble to find someplace to hide from the sudden intrusion and snapped their heads around in time to see the back of a slim young girl in a one-piece swimsuit with a ponytail of black-as-midnight hair and a bag slung over her back being dragged out of the bungalow by another girl wearing an identical swimsuit but whose back showed once fair skin now as red as a lobster who'd dived into a pot of boiling water ...

For a moment, they sat on the floor by the side of the bed, unwilling to move, all thought and sensation frozen ...

And Harry found his voice from whichever corner of the room it had fled: "Was that Cindy and Carolyn?"

He didn't need to turn to see Hermione's vigorous nod ... he could only turn to meet her worried brown eyes and proclaim, in a hushed and solemn voice: "We are in deep ca-ca."

And Hermione could only nod.