Push//Pull (Harry/Hermione)
There's a push and pull to everything.
Eight year is like the clasp broke on a pearl necklace, everything scattering. On the ground is Harry, trying to pull everything back into order.
It's nothing dramatic. No yelling matches, or tears, no confrontation. Just a need to be around other people. A push. He didn’t notice at first; now, it’s everything he sees.
Ron is Ron, neck-deep in girls and quidditch.
Good for him.
There's no pull to quidditch. Harry feels so weightless that he's afraid he won't come down if he gets up on that broom.
Hermione is…
Sitting in the back row, in Sirius leather jacket, finding everything just hilarious. Hanging around those Slytherin that used to hate her, mock her.
She never raises her hand, so Harry does it for her. Wanting her to be jealous like Sixth year. Push her to react. To yell, hex or slap him. Anything, really.
She doesn’t. And Harry, he knows.
It's not a push. It's punishment.
For surviving.
Knowing too much.
Dancing…
—
Ravenclaw hosts a valentine's soiree.
And there's Hermione, without Sirius's fucking leather jacket, in a see-through dress in a sea of pink balloons and fuchsia streamers.
She's dancing wildly, not even discreet about the flask, and Harry wants to shake her. This isn't you.
And then there's Malfoy and Nott.
And Harry, he does—
–
"You kissed me."
She's standing behind him. And he knows he should turn, confront her.
And yet.
He says nothing, eyes trained on the frost in the grass as the sun rises and casts the sky in pinks and oranges.
"Don't do that again."
She stands there. Behind him. He didn't know about the cold until she left.
There's no push or pull.
Only a point of no return.
He touches his lips.
A kiss.