A Paradox In Time

Supernova

Hermione had taken a bold decision. She was going to come out of the shower draped in just her towels, as usual. One was wrapped, turban like, around her hair, while the other would protect her modesty, if Harry stopped watching Ancient Aliens long enough to notice her. She didn't quite know if she wanted him to or not. Sometimes, when she left the shower in other hotels in other cities, she often thought that Harry was sneaking glances at her out of the corners of his eyes, as if he thought she wouldn't notice him doing it.

But she'd noticed, and she was astonished to find that she didn't mind him looking if he wanted to.

In fact, it thrilled her far more than she knew it should. Her rational mind knew why Harry would be glancing at her like that, but that same logic would argue that it was Harry ... and that he didn't want her like that, so why else would he be looking? Which made her a bit cross, if she was honest. Okay, so she wasn't Olympic-swimmer fit, but she wasn't Olympe Maxime heffa-sized, either.

In any case, Harry seemed to like looking ... whatever it was that Hermione looked like. She just couldn't rationalise why.

And now, ever since his declaration two days ago, Hermione found that she was strangely shy around him. Ever since she'd asked him - and only him - to come to Australia to help locate her parents, they had sunbathed together, swam in remote lagoons together - albeit in their underwear - and shared multiple beds together. But now, it seemed that such things had become so taboo that to suggest any of the like again was akin to committing a heinous crime.

Which is why Hermione had needed to corral all of her courage to exit the bathroom dressed just in towels. There was always the possibility that she hadn't wrapped tightly enough, and whereas before - if her towels had fallen - that might have been a funny story to tell, Hermione now thought it might be a flirty little precursor to something else. Though why such things were dominating her mind she was at a loss to explain.

It was like a dam had broken in her brain, and she had no idea how she was supposed to stem it.

So it was with a curious sense of disappointment that all her racy little plans came to nought, as she found her room frustratingly Harry-less when she exited the bathroom. Instead, she found her mother lounging on the bed, watching the twenty-four hour cookery channel, in preference to Harry's addiction to the bizarre conspiracy theory that aliens had built the Pyramids of Giza.

"Mum?" Hermione queried, tightening her towels and wondering immediately why she had left them quite so loose in the first place. "What are you doing in here? Is everything alright?"

Catrin Granger turned to her daughter. Her eyes still retained a hint of the glassy glaze that the Memory Modification Charm had caused, though the St Mungo's Healers - who had taught Hermione the reversal spell - insisted this would fade over time. Hermione hoped that it would vanish sooner rather than later ... the guilt it stirred in her on seeing it made her physically sick.

"Oh, yes honey," Catrin replied brightly. "Everything's fine. Your Dad and Harry have gone down to the bar. There's something called the FA Cup Final on television apparently. They were both very excited about watching it."

"Hold on," Hermione smirked. "Dad and Harry have gone to watch the football and have a beer or two? Is that what you're saying?"

"Something like that," Catrin grinned back. "I've pretty much pussy-whipped your father over the years ... I think he's actually enjoying a bit of masculine company for a change!"

Hermione closed her eyes in her horror. "Mum, please ... never use the phrase pussy-whipped to describe you and Dad again! No amount of therapy - magical or Muggle - will remove that notion from my brain!"