For just those few minute’s walk, Harry let himself consider the possibilities, eyes roaming covertly down her body, appraising… Hermione had definitely grown-up, hadn’t she?
Her bushy hair and teeth had been tamed by fourth year, and her overall figure had matured with ample curves.
She was really quite pretty, too, in a girl-next-door sort of way, with a very light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and warm eyes that reminded him of dark-bronze pence pieces.
Her smile was genuine, her shiny curls a warm blend of copper, chocolate, and russet, and her skin was an enticing golden-pink hue.
Overall, he found he was physically still attracted to her.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be a total disaster if he drew her name from the pile tomorrow, as he’d worried when the thought occurred to him last night.
Their personalities sometimes clashed, yes, but she was someone he could be honest with, and he felt comfortable talking about private things with her.
Maybe that would be enough for a start?
On the other hand, ‘Mione was the upwardly mobile, independent type, always looking for that next plateau to conquer.
She didn’t need someone to emotionally lean on, and her intellect and personal ambition far outstripped everyone else’s he’d ever known.
He knew from Ron that she was also the aggressive type in between the sheets.
Harry was exactly the opposite; he was more laid back about his future, content to enjoy his work.
He wanted a woman who would need him and let him be the strong one in the relationship, would let him romance her, and who would actually enjoy long love-making sessions.
No, clearly ‘Mione, like Ginny, was not the girl for him, no matter how sexually attracted to her he may be, and he knew it deep down inside.
In fact, if they messed around, he was worried he’d become even more attached to her than he already was, which would be very bad for their friendship in the end.
Theirs would be a messy break-up…
No, he decided, it would be a really bad thing were he to draw her name as his partner for the game.
Leaving Hermione at the entrance to Madam Pomfrey’s lair, he turned about and headed back towards D.A.D.A., wondering if he would ever find a girl who actually wanted to fall in love the old-fashioned way.
X~~~~~~~~~X
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, Scotland Dining Hall Thursday, June 11, 1998 (mid-afternoon)
Blaise stared across the Great Hall at the Weasley girl.
Crimson fire flashed as she brushed a long gathering of her hair over her shoulder, laughing in delight over something Seamus Finnigan, her Quidditch teammate, had said.
Her pink lips were turned up in a beauteous smile that lit up the room, and Finnigan laughed in conjunction around his sucking on the end of a Sugar Quill.
The two shared a secret smile.
He couldn’t believe it: she’d fucked the Irish, too!
Blaise could see it in the intimate look that passed between them.
It was bad enough Potter had taken her virginity, but Finnigan was an unapologetic man-slag with a roster that outstripped even Blaise’s list of conquests.
Inside his guts, something tightened and his blood heated, amping him up for violence.
Weasley was his.
The sexy, little minx had spent the last two years taunting and haunting him from the Quidditch pitch… and in his dreams… and in the bed he’d shared with others during that time, as well.
Every partner, no matter their skin or eye colour, their gender or body shape, or how they smelled or sounded, all were her as he shut his eyes and took them.
They all had her bronze-gold orbs that sparkled, her shiny, straight strawberry-blonde mane that she’d randomly dyed black at the tips just to be controversial, her full bottom lip that begged for kissing, and her lightly freckled skin that smelled of spicy orange and cinnamon perfume.
Every single time he’d orgasmed over the last two years, whether in a partner or in his own hand, he’d cried out for Ginevra in his mind, pretending it was her sweet, tight body he was pouring his seed into.
Yet, his single-minded fixation regarded him with nothing but clear disdain each time she glanced over at him, refusing to acknowledge or even attempt to know the real man under his various uniforms – and all because he was a Slytherin.
Her House prejudice was firmly ensconced by a generational Gryffindor brainwashing, and her contempt cut him up inside and out.
The fact of the matter was, from their very first formal introduction across the Quidditch arena two years ago, Ginevra Weasley had effectively ruined Blaise’s aloof calm.
She continually distracted his concentration, made him feel ineffectual, and manoeuvered him into positions where the consequence was him acting the fool–and she’d accomplished that task with minimal effort, and clearly, without care.
He intended on making her pay for that.
He was going to destroy her senses as much as she did his.
Once he had Draco fix the cards on Saturday night so he was partnered up with her, and he’d had a chance to fuck her good, he would drop little Miss Weasley on that prissy, snooty ass of hers with relief, and finally be free of this obsession that had made him pathetic for far too long.
Glancing to his side, he watched his best friend’s winter-grey gaze zero-in on Granger.
“Patience,” he cautioned under his breath to his friend, low enough for only the two of them to hear.
Unlike Blaise’s temper, which was usually reserved and outwardly rational, Malfoy’s was fireworks-in-the-sky volatile.
The last thing they needed was be called ‘foul’ by the other team and be disqualified for provoking pre-game fighting, thus losing before the contest could commence.
“And more care, if you don’t mind. We’ve both read the rules of the game. Your little stunt this morning in class could have cost us.”