gal-texter
Feb 10 2009, 07:17 PM
In Dec 2008, I've emailed the "After Eight" authors at dashak@aol.com,
pdeniability@hotmail.com but I got an "dashak@aol.com MAILBOX NOT FOUND" error. I haven't heard from pdeniability so he or she probably no longer uses that address.
I'm posting much of the plagiarized version Glori had posted here in PK. Thanks to newyn for providing this copy. I'm putting this in here to assist everyone who'd like to guard against plagiarism.
---------------
Outlook Good
By Glori Phiverpoff
Rating: NC-17 for adult situations, green punch, eighties music, and smut. Kids, this isn’t one for you.
I took out the NC-17 parts - gal-texter
Category: Romance/Humor
Summary: Is it the Muggle Magic of the Eight Ball, the Christmas Spirit, or something that’s been a long time coming?
DISCLAIMER: Come on JKR, don’t sue me. Yes, I don’t own these characters: I borrowed them without permission, but it’s a great way to publicize your stuff. Besides, I’m not making any money off of this. I wish.
~+~
“So that’s all you can tell me?” Harry asked, sitting across from the old woman. “You can’t remember anything else about the man who visited you yesterday?”
The cluttered room was dark and smelled of incense and cat food. A gray Persian, the apparent reason for the latter smell, purred noisily and wrapped itself around Harry’s ankles.
Madame Sujka frowned, and her dark eyes narrowed haughtily. “Of course that’s not all I can tell you,” she said in her heavily-accented English. “My inner eye is strong. I see many things— my future, your future. But the identity of the man you seek…that I cannot say.”
“Really? So, you can see my future?” Harry looked mildly amused.
“Come on, Harry,” Hermione said behind him. “We’re wasting our time here.”
They old witch drew herself up proudly. “Of course I see your future, Mr. Potter. I am Madame Sujka! I told you, my inner-eye is one of the strongest you’ll ever encounter!”
Harry looked around. “So what do you do, read tea leaves? I’ve never been exactly, erm, convinced by all that stuff, you know? Prophecies…they’re no fun. And crystal balls—”
“Harry—” Hermione said, crossing her arms over her chest impatiently.
“Crystal balls are for amateurs,” sneered Madame Sujka. “I read the palm, and the soul!”
“And you could read my palm?”
“Harry, we’re going to be late!” Hermione exclaimed.
“Give me your hand,” ordered Madame Sujka, grabbing Harry’s wrist. She yanked his arm across the table and bent over it, peering intently. With one long, bony index finger, she traced the lines that criss-crossed his palm. Her lips moved wordlessly as she read the mysteries written before her.
She sat back finally with a look of satisfaction. “Your lucky number is eight,” she pronounced, releasing his hand.
Harry sat, waiting while Hermione tapped her foot.
“That’s it?” he asked after a moment. “That’s my whole fortune— ‘Your lucky number is eight’?”
Hermione looked disgusted. “Whatever happened to ‘Oooh, an omen!’, or an ‘I see a tall, dark man in your future’?”
“That is your fortune, you little skeptic,” Madame Sujka snapped at her. “His fortune I have already determined. His lucky number is eight. That is all.”
“That’s really my whole fortune? My friend Ron could have told me a more interesting outcome, and he spent all our Divination classes drooling on our table,” Harry said incredulously.
“That’s the part that matters right now, and that’s what I’m sticking to. That will be twenty Galleons, please.”
“Twenty Galleons for that?” Harry asked in disbelief. “For Merlin’s sake.”
The Persian jumped up on the table, purring loudly. Madame Sujka scooped the cat into her lap, and stroked its luxuriant fur. “You want a more romantic future,” she answered, “you need to lead a more romantic life. Twenty Galleons.”
Harry shook his head, got up and gave the money to the woman. He turned around and walked away, not waiting for Hermione’s ‘I told you so’s’. They were late for the Weasley’s Christmas get-together as it was, and they had a Ministry party to attend to that night.
~+~
“Could you let me through here—” Harry shouted, trying to push his way between a group from the Charms Department and two female Aurors whose names he couldn’t remember. The throbbing beat of the Weird Sisters “Relax, it’s magic!” all but drowned him out. He lifted his glass aloft and sucked in his chest in an effort to squeeze through the crowd.
“Hey!” said one of the women, turning around with a glare.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Accident.” There was not much else you could say to a woman when you’d just slid your groin against her behind.
The room was packed. It was warm, too; the combined heat of so many bodies had pushed the temperature up. There were flushed faces everywhere he looked. Of course, some of the glow around him was probably due to alcohol. Kingsley served strong drinks.
In fact, he thought, maybe he ought to slow down a little. A cup of eggnog and four Firewhiskeys— he rarely had that much to drink in a whole week, and here he’d downed it all in under ninety minutes. He had an impressive buzz going. The music seemed to be pounding right through him, making him want to grab the closest woman and dance.
Speaking of which, where was Hermione? He looked around the crowd hopefully. He hadn’t seen her all evening. Their little trip to Nockturn Alley had just left him a bunch of Galleons poorer and hadn’t given them any new lead in their current investigation. If she didn’t show up in ten minutes, he was out of here. He’d put in an appearance, made friendly conversation, had some drinks. He’d done his Ministry Christmas Party duty. Ron had left fifteen minutes ago with Luna, maybe in search of a nice, little broom closet. You could never know with those two.
Kingsley stood off to the side, near the glass windows, deep in conversation with a pretty blonde thing’s cleavage. Harry wiped his face and wondered what arcane secrets the bald man held, since the Deputy Head of the Auror Department, despite the fierce body heat of Ministry employees, didn’t seem to be sweating at all. And, on another note, how strange was it that Kingsley was a Weird Sisters fan?
The music faded to the unmistakable synthesizer beat of “Sweet Dreams” and Harry took another slug of his drink, watching the dancers writhe to the seductive purr of the singer’s voice. Nikki, the lead singer of the newest witch group ‘Talismans’, had an aura of mystery that always gave him some rather interesting thoughts. But no, he was not going to go there.
This was a work party. And he was waiting for his best friend to appear. The best friend who, as of lately, had been the food of his most insane fantasies. His pants were feeling a bit tight, but he could ignore them. Tonight he was going to be on his best behavior. Yeah.
Harry’s virtuous thoughts decided to pack it off for a three-day package trip to Hawaii as he spotted a brown head making its way through the crowd. Pathetic, he thought, all I can see is the top three inches of her head and I’m already entertaining some dangerous ideas.
These ideas sprung into three-dimensional, Technicolor fantasies again as Hermione finally made her way to him. She was holding a glass of florescent green punch and breathing hard at her efforts through the crowd. Already her cheeks were pink and her lips wet from either her drink or from licking them. Harry hoped it was the second choice and that she’d do it again in front of him.
She must have gone home and changed. At the Weasleys’ she’d worn one of her ubiquitous black robes, but now she had on a silver-blue blouse that clung to her skin and was unbuttoned one button too far for modesty.
Holy sh**. He didn’t need to remember that Hermione had that many curves tonight.
He shook his head to dispel the idea. Now he remembered why he didn’t drink more often. It was dangerous being drunk— thoughts were harder to govern. Besides, he had a feeling he was wearing that smile, the goofy one that appeared in some of the pictures that had been taken right after Voldemort’s defeat, in the days when all they’d wanted to do was celebrate, drink and be merry. The camera had seemed to catch him disheveled, glassy-eyed, and grinning among a group of equally-inebriated friends quite a bit in those days.
“Merry Christmas, Harry,” said Hermione, arriving at his side. She had to raise her voice to make herself heard. “What’s so funny?”
Yep, he thought; he was definitely wearing the goofy smile. “Private joke,” he answered. “Did you just get here, Hermione?”
Her lips quirked at the corners. “Half an hour and three cups of punch ago.”
Well, well, well, he thought: three cups of punch, and an actual smirk. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d been partaking of a little holiday cheer. “You look nice tonight,” he said, leaning in toward her so he wouldn’t have to shout.
She tilted her head and her eyes flickered over him with a hint of tipsiness. “Thanks, Harry. So do you.”
She not only looked great, but she smelled great, too. It wasn’t her usual perfume, but something stronger and decidedly sexier. Almost against his will, his gaze drifted to the neck of her blouse ...
“What?” she said, glancing down. “Did I spill something on myself?”
He flushed and looked away. Lust one, subtlety zero, he thought. Way to go, man.
Hermione touched his face and he stifled a shiver at the sensation of her fingers on his cheek. “Your face is all red,” she said over the thump thump thump of the music.
“It’s hot in here,” he said, stating the obvious.
She looked around at the horde of drunken Aurors with a wry grin. “If I had know that Kingsley threw such a festive party, I would have accepted his invitation ages ago.”
...
“Coming through,” shouted Ernie McMillan, carrying three bottles of Butterbeer in each of his hands. AS he walked behind Hermione he tripped a bit and shoved her right into Harry, who had to reach out with both arms to keep her from falling flat on her face.
Oh Merlin, now he could really smell her, the bewitching aroma of her perfume, the green tea shampoo he knew she used and underneath those commercial scents was the faintest hint of the real Hermione.
Just as quickly as had clasped Hermione in his arms, Harry allowed her to straighten up and back away from him. ...
Hermione glanced at him a little self-consciously and smoothed her blouse over her hips, a move that only proved more distracting, ... “Sorry,” she said. “It’s crowded in here.”
“Yeah…” he said. “It is really crowded. I don’t know if I’m going to stick around much longer.” It seemed safer, under the circumstances, to make his exit.
She looked a little disappointed, but she nodded and said, “Yeah, me neither.”
The song changed—Nikki now was singing something that made Harry wish Kingsley would stop playing songs that made him want to have a sex life. In a minute the backup singer was going to start making that moaning sound, and then he would really be screwed. “Uh, before you go, Hermione…”
She tipped her large, chocolate eyes up at him hopefully. “Yes?”
“I, uh…I wanted to give you your Christmas present.”
She brightened, even as she was jostled by someone pushing past her on his way to the punchbowl. “You got me a Christmas present?”
“When do I not? But don’t’ get too excited,” he said, reaching out to steady her. “It’s just…you know, something small. It’s the thought that counts.” And if that didn’t make him sound cheap, he thought with an inner urge to smack himself, nothing would.
She smiled. “I got you something too, Harry.”
He must have been really drunk, because he found himself with a small fleeting hope that it was a can of Redi-Whip and a pair of silk scarves. He could be such a pig after a few drinks.
Just then Ginny appeared and snaked between the two of them., holly in her auburn hair and her gums green from the punch. “Hey guys. The mistletoe’s over in the corner, you know?” she slurred, winking as she passed them.
Hermione looked at her feet and Harry cleared his throat.
“So, what did you get me?” he asked.
“I left it at home, Harry. I was afraid I might break it.”
Damn, cans of Redi-Whip didn’t break, now did they?
She moved closer and he smelled fruity and alcoholic punch on her breath. “Do you have my present?”
He would not discuss the special gift he had for her in her pants. He really wasn’t in the mood to be slapped by his erstwhile best friend.
“It’s with my coat,” he said. “And the coats are in one of the guests rooms. But if you were serious about leaving anyway…”
She nodded, and he turned to make his way through the crowd. “Excuse me…excuse me…” He could barely hear himself repeating, though the press of people around them had been drinking enough, and the dancing had grown wild enough, that he doubted anyone even noticed him squeezing his way past.
He looked over his shoulder to see if he’d lost Hermione. She was smaller than he was, after all, and he had a feeling that it would be easy for her to get swallowed up in the crush of bodies all around them. To his surprised, she was right behind him. She flashed him a smile and reached out to hook her finger in one of his belt loops. “I’ve got your back,” she said, with a slightly drunken intonation.
When they reached the edge of Kingsley’s living room, the crowd thinned. Hermione let go of him— he was a little sorry to lose the tug of her hand on the back of his waistband— as they made their way down the hallway. They passed a line of partygoers waiting for a turn in Kingsley’s bathroom. Further on, a few less sociable Aurors, and several couples who had retreated to the hallway in order to carry on conversations, hugged the walls.
At last they found the right bedroom, and Harry pushed it open to reveal a huge bed, buried under a sea of coats and jackets. He crossed to the bed and started sorting through the piles, hunting for his black trench coat.
Finally, he found it. “Bingo,” he said, glancing up to find Hermione looking around her with frank curiosity. “And here’s your present.” He reached under his coat, and pulled out a package wrapped in red and gold foil.
She smiled nervously, and came to take it from his outstretched hand.
“Hmmm. It’s heavy for its size,” she said, hefting the package.
“Open it.”
Frowning a little with concentration, she untied the thin gold ribbon. Then she began to carefully separate the cellophane tape from the folded paper.
Harry watched with impatience. “Come on, Hermione, just tear it.”
She glanced up at him, smiled, and then tore the wrapping open with a satisfying rip. She pushed the paper aside and stared down at the gift in her hand. “It’s…an Eight Ball.”
He couldn’t tell whether her voice held disappointment, or just surprise. “A Muggle Magic Eight Ball,” he corrected. “The ‘Muggle Magic’ part is very important, in this case.”
“That’s nice, Harry.”
He couldn’t help but notice that she seemed less than impressed. Damn, he should have gotten her jewelry. Women liked jewelry. Or maybe a book would’ve been better. He felt his heart sink.
From down the hall, he could hear the sound of another odd song. The singer’s voice dripping with attitude, taunted “I might like you better if we slept together…”
He gestured at the Eight Ball. “Give it a try,” he said, just to break the awkwardness of the moment.
She smiled fleetingly, a smile told him he was being humored, and shook the black globe. “Is Harry too drunk to Apparate himself home?” she asked in a clear voice.
She flipped the Eight Ball upside down. He peered over her shoulders to watch as the answer came floating up out of the inky blackness: AS I SEE IT YES.
“That does it,” Hermione said in a definitive voice. “I’m calling you a taxi.”
He clutched at her arm as she went to retriever her coat. “You’d better not be Apparating, either.”
Her smile was almost taunting. “I’m smarter than you, Harry. I’ll take a taxi.”
A light bulb went off in his drink-sodden brain. “Great, then we can share it.”
She looked at him as if he had sustained a major brain injury. “We live in opposite sides of London, Harry…”
Damn her for being so logical.
And then her face softened and he watched the color rise in her cheeks. “Well,” she said in a voice that was barely audible over the music,” I do have to give you your present.”
“And I can sober up with a cup of coffee,” he pointed out.
“Coffee won’t sober you up, it’ll just make you an alert drunk.”
“Merlin, Hermione, you’re a ton of fun with a few drinks under your belt.”
She actually grinned at that, and picked up her coat.
The crowd was now singing alogn to Glenda Chittock’s ‘Henery the Eight’ and hopping up and down like coked-up frat boys, instead of the responsible people of the law they truly were.
Kingsley caught them as they were about to head out the door to wait downstairs for the cab. “Leaving so soon? I was just telling that lovely lady back there that she could start taking pictures.” He pointed behind them, where Lavender Brown was standing with her camera out, a delighted grin spreading across her face.
Oh great, they were being seen leaving a party together by the biggest gossiper of all times. That would fuel the tabloids until Easter.
Hermione made matters worse by turning a deep shade of red. “It was a great party,” she said, “But I leave for Australia in the morning to spend New Year’s with my parents, and Harry here has been kind enough to offer to see me home.”
Harry found himself nodding his head in agreement, in a truly idiotic fashion. “Thanks for the party,” he said.
Their boss took a sip from his glass and smiled. Or was that a smirk? Harry couldn’t be sure.
“Get home safely,” was all he said as they walked through the door.
It was cold outside Shacklebolt’s house, but the cold felt good after the overheated atmosphere of the party. It seemed awfully quiet outside, too; Harry had grown so used to the throbbing beat of the music that the hush seemed to echo in his ears. Stars twinkled in the sky overhead, their brightness vying with the lights of the city.
Hermione stood beside him, cradling the Eight Ball against her coat. Between the sweltering air of Kingsley’s home and the breeze outside, her hair had turned wavy again, instead of the sleek hair she had gotten used to wear lately. It was a look Harry liked; it reminded him of their days at Hogwarts. It also gave her an unaccustomed air of wantonness that he found truly mesmerizing. With her hair this way, he could imagine her wearing nothing but ...
Oh, no, he could not imagine her that way. That was definitely crossing the line, especially since they were both tipsy and he was heading to her flat. He pushed the thought from his mind and reached for the Eight Ball.
She looked at him questioning as he took it from her. “Will the taxi get here in the next minute?” he intoned, shaking the Eight Ball. He turned it over and held the window toward the streetlight to read the answer. “OUTLOOK GOOD.”
“That shows how accurate those things are,” Hermione said with a sniff. “There’s no way the cab will get here that quickly on a Saturday night. I called for it just 5 minutes ago.”
She had no sooner spoken the words, however, than a cab rounded the corner and pulled up to the curb. She stared at it in surprise. Harry shot he a self-satisfied look and bent down to open the taxi door for her.
He settled in he backseat beside her as she gave the driver the address, and the cab started on its way. After a moment he looked down at his lap and realized he was still holding the Eight Ball. He lifted it and gave it another shake.
“Is Hermione planning to take advantage of me at her flat?” he asked loudly, causing the cabbie to glance back over his shoulder at them.
“Harry!” she exclaimed, and made a grab for the Eight Ball.
He held it out of her reach. “My sources say no,” he read. “Ah, well…”
She snatched it from his hand and shook it firmly. “Is it true what they say about men with big feet?” she asked, glancing at him. She turned it over and read, “DON’T COUNT ON IT.”
“Ha-ha,” he said. “I’m wounded.”
...
He leaned back in the seat and realized he didn’t remember where they’d told the taxi to go. It would seem they were on the way to Hermione’s place.
The thought made him shiver.
“Are you cold?” she whispered.
“A little,” he said.
“I have hot chocolate at home. It won’t sober either of us up, but it’ll taste good.”
The cabbie, a small chubby man in a green parka, flipped on the radio and began scanning channels. He settled on Kajagoogoo’s “Too Shy.”
Weird, Harry thought, we’re being followed around by odd songs tonight. He wouldn’t admit it even under the pain of torture, but he’d actually enjoyed some of their songs. The Dursley’s hadn’t had such a bad musical taste after all.
There was something about Hermione’s expression that made him realize he wasn’t the only who’d liked them. He picked up the Ball and asked, “Is Hermione a Kajagoogoo fan?”
OUTLOOK GOOD, the ball revealed.
“I knew it,” he said, chuckling.
She said nothing, but took the ball from Harry, shaking it. “Does Harry know his hand has been on my thigh for the last minute?” she asked it.
Harry yanked his hand away. “Oh. Sorry, I— ”
Unperturbed, Hermione read off the answer from the Eight Ball: “VERY DOUBTFUL.”
“Well, at least it’s right about that,” he said, his faced turned to the window.
He must have looked as embarrassed as he felt, because Hermione reached out and squeezed his hand in hers. “It’s okay, Harry,” she said, before letting go.
He glanced over at her, wondering what that meant— ‘it’s okay.’ Did it mean she wasn’t angry, or did it mean she wanted him to do it again? He had never really been that good at reading women. Not even this woman.
They were entering Hermione’s neighborhood. She leaned forward to point out her building to the cabbie. Harry watched her face, intelligent and composed, as she spoke to their driver. It made him wonder guiltily how we could have such lustful thoughts about his best friend when she carried herself with such an air of dignity.
The taxi slowed and Harry pulled out his wallet to pay the driver. “Thanks,” he said, handing the man a couple of notes. Then he got out, and helped Hermione exit the cab with a hand to her elbow. She was holding the Eight Ball against her, ...
As they walked together to the door of her building, she reached in her coat pocket and pulled out her keys. “The holidays seem to come earlier every year. I can’t believe I’m leaving for Australia tomorrow.”
“I won’t stay long,” he promised. He felt suddenly nervous, now that they were going to be alone together in her flat. Ridiculous, he knew; it wasn’t like they hadn’t already spent countless hours alone together. Yet something about the cool night air, the alcohol in his blood, and the half-smile on Hermione’s face made his heart quicken.
“I didn’t mean that Harry,” she said, fitting her key in the lock.
Inside, her flat was bright and cozy. She had put up a Christmas tree, decorated in rose and cream, and the air smelled like evergreen. He shed his coat and Hermione took it from him, passing him the Eight Ball so she could hang their coats in the closet.
“You said something about hot chocolate?” he asked.
She smiled at him. “Sure, Harry.”
He followed her into the kitchen. He set the Eight Ball on the counter to watch her as she took coffee cups and cocoa from the cabinets. He hoped there was something sexist about the way he always enjoyed watching Hermione acting domestic.
“It’s quiet in here,” she said. “The party was so noisy.”
“You want me to put some music on?”
She smiled at him. “Would you? It will only take me a minute to get this hot chocolate ready.”
He went back out to the living room and turned on the stereo. He expected her to have the receiver tuned to something classical, or perhaps a station that played holiday music, but instead he heard Foreigner singing “I Want To Know What Love Is.”
Creepy, he thought— more eighties music. He fiddled with the tuner until he found a Christmas tune.
He went back in the kitchen to discover Hermione holding the Eight Ball. “Harry, if this really were magic,” she said, turning the glass ball over slowly in her hands, “what would you ask it.?”
Looking at her, at how heart-rendingly lovely she looked, a question sprang immediately to mind, but it wasn’t the kind of question he could admit to her. Instead he said, “I suppose I would ask it about…lot’s of things.”
“What things?”
“Just things. Mundane things. Quidditch, I don’t know. What about you Hermione? What would you ask it?”
A mixture of emotions crossed her face in the space of seconds— sadness, curiosity and amusement. She thought for a moment, biting her lipstick-red lip and finally said. “You can’t get the answers to life’s important questions from a toy, Harry.”
He groaned. “Hermione, you’re supposed to be playing along here.”
,
She shot him an indignant look. “Are you saying I’m a kill-joy?” Her brows knit together.
“Maybe,” he hedged.
“I’m a kill-joy who needs a drink,” she said, heading for the living room.
“I don’t think we should have another drink,” he called after her.
“Shut up, Harry.” She returned with a gold tissue-paper wrapped gift. “Merry Christmas.”
Hermione smirked. “How about opening it to see?”
He ripped off the paper like a little boy hoping to find a new broomstick. Harry saw a plain cardboard box. Opening it, he drew out a bottle of clear liquid. The letters on the label were Cyrillic, so he had no idea what the bottle held. “What is this stuff?”
“It’s vodka, from Russia, a very rare brand called Vosmaya Roza. It means ‘The Eighth Rose.’ One of my cousins got it for me when he visited Murmansk a few days ago.”
He grinned. “Ah, so you are known as a heavy drinker among your family then. You’ve been holding out on us, Hermione.”
She laughed at that, taking two shot glasses from the cupboard. “Not at all. I guess he just bought too much of it and had no idea what else to give me. Come on, let’s drink this on the couch. These heels are killing me.” She kicked off her black high shoes with an audible sigh and immediately shrank two inches.
They settled on the couch. Harry uncapped the bottle and poured them each a shot. “What should we toast to?”
She blinked rapidly. “To us. Harry.”
To us? What the hell was that supposed to mean?
He put on his most casual face and clinked glasses with her. “To us,” they said in unison and drank.
Woooo, it was strong and Harry made a face at the vodka kick. To his shame, Hermione knocked back the shot with unruffled aplomb. She had been holding out.
He decided he had to salvage some pride. “So, you still need to ask the Muggle Magic Eight Ball what you would most like to know.”
“Fine.” She grabbed for the Ball and gave it a fierce shake. “I’ve got a good question…”
The look in her eyes was challenging and Harry found himself holding his breath.
“Will Harry get the guts to kiss me tonight?” she asked the Ball.
Harry’s eyebrows shot higher. “The guts?” he echoed.
Hermione turned the Eight Ball over wordlessly. Heads together, they read the answer: SIGNS POINT TO YES.
She looked surprised, making him wonder if it was the answer she’d been hoping for.
“You said it wasn’t really accurate,” Harry reminded her.
“And you said it was,” she countered, looking him in the eye.
He swallowed.
His heart had had begun to pound unnaturally. Gravely he took the Eight Ball from her, and reached over to set it down with care on the glass coffee table. Then he put his hands on her shoulders, bent his head, and kissed her softly on the lips.
The vodka, he realized in the same moment, must have some kind of delayed aftereffect; suddenly he felt about ten degrees warmer, heat sweeping through him in an alarming way. He’d always thought that when he kissed Hermione, he would focus on her taste, her softness, her scent, their closeness; but all he could think about was how his pulse was racing out of control and how the vodka was so strong he must be having a heart attack.
He pulled away and fell against the back of the sofa, breathing hard.
Hermione’s face looked impressively pink. The vodka must be affecting her too, he thought vaguely.
“That was— ” she began. “That is, Harry— I thought—”
He reached up to tug at his tie. “I know what you mean.”
After a moment the feeling began to fade. He heaved a sigh of relief; for a minute there, he’d been afraid he was going to have to spend the rest of the evening in St. Mungos.
“Wow,” she said.
He sat up straighter. “I don’t think I should have any more of that vodka tonight, Hermione.”
“Really?” She sounded breathless. “I was just thinking I should have given it to you a long time ago.”
He laughed nervously, and picked up the Eight Ball. Hermione had been drinking, and things were in danger of getting out of hand.
“Should I be going home now?” he asked shaking the Eight Ball.
He turned it over and read the answer.
“What does it say?” Hermione asked, leaning closer.
He passed it to her without comment.
“CONCENTRATE AND ASK AGAIN,” she read aloud.
He shut his eyes and concentrated with all his might. “Should I be going now?” He took a deep breath and shook. ‘MY REPLY IS NO.”
Hermione looked up at him and smiled. “I guess we have to do what the Ball says.”
His breath came out in a whoosh. “Are you saying you believe it is accurate now?”
She grabbed the ball and shook it, saying “Will Harry give me a real kiss this time?”
The ball said, OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD.
Her lips turned down in a frown.
“You just have to know how to ask it the right questions, Hermione,” he said and gave the ball a fierce shaking. “Will Hermione give me a real kiss this time?”
This time they both took deep breaths.
The ball told them. AS I SEE IT YES.
Her eyelashes fluttered a bit and he wondered if she were embarrassed. “I guess it’s up to you,” he said, smiling.
She rose and touched his face with her warm hands. “I suppose it’s only fair,” she whispered.
He met her halfway and their lips met again, gently at first. ...
Their kiss went on for what felt like hours, their bodies so pressed so tightly together a piece of parchment couldn’t have been slid between them. ...This is so surreal, he thought. After all this time, all we’ve gone through, we’re kissing.
He couldn’t believe how happy such a simple act made him.
Hermione was the first to pull away and he made a disappointed sound until he caught a look of mischief in her eyes.
He made a grab for the Eight Ball and asked the question that scared him than just about any question in the world. “Does Hermione want me?”
She laughed and covered the answer window with her hand. “What do you think it’s going to say, Harry?”
He closed his eyes. “I’m hoping for ‘signs point to yes.’”
She uncovered the Eight Ball. They both leaned in and, together, they read the answer: IT IS DECIDEDLY SO.
“Maybe it is magic,” Hermione said, looking up at him.
Magic or not, Harry showed it a total lack of respect as he tossed the Eight Ball down on the sofa beside him. He pulled her against him and kissed her, hard.
...
when she reached over and retrieved the Eight Ball from where he had tossed it on the sofa. “Is Harry happy right now?” she asked, shaking the ball and flipping it upside down? She checked the answer and grinned at him. “YOU MAY RELY ON IT.”
“I told you it was accurate.”
...
“What do you want for Christmas, pretty girl?” he said ...
“Are you Santa, then?”
“Have you been a good girl?” he asked grinning.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“I see,” he said, kissing her throat. “Nice instead of naughty.”
... “You can remedy that.
He chuckled. “I’m sure I could.”
...
On the radio, a choir was singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” “On the eighth day of Christmas,” caroled a strong tenor voice, “my true love gave to me…eight maids a-milking…”
...
“What are you looking for?” he mumbled.
“This,” she said, and showed him the Eight Bal.
He realized he was probably squashing her, and propped himself up on one elbow. “What are you going to ask it?”
...
“If it says ‘My sources say no,’ I’m throwing it out the window.”
She laughed and showed him the answer: IT IS CERTAIN.
“Well,” he said, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, “once a year or so, I get lucky.”
She gave his shoulder a little squeeze and laughed. “It had better not be another year before you get lucky.”
He wondered how many times he’d heard Hermione laugh and made an early New Year’s resolution to make her laugh at least once a day. That wasn’t the only thing he resolved to do once a day.
~+~
After a quick shower, they raided her fridge and ended up making large, messy sandwiches from nearly everything that was inside. Harry had never known that turkey bacon, pickled cabbage, chips and mustard could make such a compellingly delicious sandwich. Or maybe it was the ...
He put down the crusts of his sandwich, took a swallow of orange juice and yawned.
“Tired?” she asked, brushing her hair off her forehead.
“A little.” Was she going to ask him to go home?
“Do you…do you want to stay over tonight?” The expression on her face was surprisingly shy.
Everything’s changed, he thought, but instead of that realization scaring him, it felt entirely natural. They were finally doing what they were meant to do.
“If you want me to…” he said, hedging his bets.
“Of course I do.” She rose and put her plates in the sink. “My portkey isn’t until one in the afternoon tomorrow. We can sleep in.”
Amazing, he and Hermione would be sleeping together.
...
“Hey, Hermione, are you asleep?” he whispered.
She stirred a little and her head rose. “Not quite.”
“Remember the woman, Madame Sujka?”
“Yeah?”
Harry leaned in and sniffed her hair. The shampoo scent was now overlaid with the heady musk of sex.
“She said that eight was my lucky number…”
She chuckled. “How is this significant?”
“I got you a Muggle Magic Eight Ball for Christmas and the bottle of vodka is called ‘The Eighth Rose.’ And all night we heard eighties music.”
Hermione’s chuckle turned to a full-blown laugh. He kissed the nape of her neck and settled down to sleep, listening to her breathing slow.
Harry had just about dropped off when he opened his eyes and saw the Eight Ball sitting on the bedside table. He switched the lamp on to the dimmest setting and started to shake the ball.
“Does Hermione love me?” he asked it softly.
Before he could see the answer, she stirred. “Put down the ball, Harry,” she said. “I think you already know the answer to that question.”
All in all, it was a very good Christmas.
~+~
END
A/N: So a little bit of holiday cheer, even if we’re not in that season yet. Heh, I just noticed I always end my stories with H/Hr in bed. I wonder why…hmm. And yes this was my first attempt at smut. Should I ever try again? Feedback would be delightful and greatly appreciated ^^,
It's a most read, guys. Check it out!
- and I read the fan fic twice in a row! I would have read it a third time but that one's witten in German! 
