Fic: Better Than Words (Hermione/Harry, any age)

[heathershaped]

Title: Better than Words
Pairing: Harry/Hermione
Rating: PG
Summary: Harry doesn't quite know how to say it.
Word Count: 1016
Notes: Birthday fic for inell originally posted at inell_love. ♥

Harry crossed his legs at the ankles as he flipped through another Potions manual. If, when he'd signed up for Auror training, he'd known there would be quite so much reading involved, he may have reconsidered his career choice. Especially as it was keeping him at home on more Friday nights than he cared to think about.

When he heard footsteps on the stairs, he glanced up from his book. Hermione, he knew, would be going out. Party for a friend, or something like that. She seemed to be more social lately, though it didn't take much to be more social than him. He wondered what she got up to sometimes, when the words in his books started to run together and he began to feel restless. Lately, it wasn't the only thing he wondered about her.

He sat up as he heard her cross the landing, her feet making sounds that were louder and considerably more click-y than usual. He lifted his hand to wave just as she came to the door and popped her head into his bedroom.

"I'll see you later, Harry." She smiled and ducked out nearly as quickly as she'd come in.

"Bye," he said automatically, already flipping his book open again before he stopped, mid-flip, frowning.

Because, well, he was sure he'd caught a flash of leg, a little flounce of skirt, as she'd walked away.

Which was... Hm.

He tossed his book to the side and nearly leapt out of bed, reaching the door in a few strides. Rather than slow down when he reached the corridor, he slapped a hand against the jamb to stop himself. "Wait."

"Yeah?" Hermione turned around; he'd caught her at the top of the stairs. Once he had, though, he wasn't sure what he actually meant to say.

More than anything else, he'd wanted another look.

His gaze dropped to her feet, and the heels she wore (that would explain the clicking), then continued up her legs -- her bare, nice, really nice, legs -- past the dress that stopped at about mid-thigh. It flowed, and clung, then flowed again in all the right places. They looked like the right places to him, anyway. And now his mouth was dry.

"Yes?" Hermione looked at him as if she were expecting him to say something.

"Erm. What?"

"You just told me to wait," she pointed out, giving him a strange look. "So ... what am I waiting for?"

"Oh. Right. Well," Harry cast about for something to say, which really should be easy, but all he could come up with on the fly was, "I just ... what's that?"

"What's what, Harry?"

He dropped his hand from the door jamb and rested it on his hip, gesturing with his other hand in the general direction below her neck. "That."

Glancing down, Hermione reddened, but replied, "In some circles, it's called a dress."

"No -- I know that," he said. "Just. You look ... I mean, you don't usually wear those."

Hermione's blush deepened, and she tugged at the skirt, which made the fabric pull against her body just slightly, and just enough to make Harry lose his train of thought again. "It feels strange," she admitted. "I know I must look, um, odd. It's less than comfortable. But the occasion called for a dress, so I just thought I'd --"

"No," Harry said again, quickly. He was starting to suspect that he was going about this conversation in the entirely wrong way. "I didn't mean ... I've just never seen you look like this before," he finished lamely.

He thought he saw agitation cloud her eyes. "I'm hardly a dog walking on its hind legs, Harry," she muttered, standing up a bit straighter. "I was pretty sure you'd worked out I was a girl. You caught on before Ron did, remember?"

"I didn't -- damn." He frowned, and tried again. "I know you're a girl, Hermione -- believe me. But you can't just go out like that."

"And why not?" Hermione crossed her arms, and he got a better view down the front of her dress. Fuck.

"Because -- well, because other blokes are going to try and dance with you." Put their hands on you. Do all sorts of things to you. His hands curled into his palms.

"I think that's the point, Harry." Hermione's expression was inscrutable, to him anyway, and she stepped a bit closer to him. "Why do you care what other blokes want to do with me?"

He swallowed. "I don't."

"You're acting like you do," she continued, and the space between her eyebrows furrowed just a bit, the way it always did when she was trying to figure something out. "You're bossing me around like you do."

"I'm not 'bossing you around'; I was just suggesting. Forget it." He jerked a shoulder and jammed a hand into his pocket.

"Harry." There was something about the way she'd said it that made his pulse jump a little, especially when she moved closer.

"Look, just -- I dunno." He groaned a little, frustrated that he didn't have the words. "Just don't go."

"If this is you not bossing me around, then ..."

"Fuck it." He reached out and then his hand was in her hair, pushing through it to grip the back of her neck. Maybe he couldn't say it, but then again, maybe he could. He caught her mouth in a kiss, groaning as he heard the way her breath caught, just before their lips met. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and spread it against her back, warm through the dress, and fitted her against him as he felt her arm hook around his neck. When he needed air, he pulled back, keeping her close, keeping his eyes on hers.

Hermione's gasped against his mouth. "Next time," she paused to breathe again, "you might just tell me I look nice."

Harry bent to touch his forehead to hers. "Think maybe I was doing just fine," he said, "if it got me here."