Magic Never Dies (Harmione)

Chapter 11

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Harry woke up to Crookshanks insistent kneading on his bladder, as if the big orange furball somehow knew it was the one way to claim a larger share of the suddenly diminished space in his mistress' bed.

A quick trip to the loo later he was wrestling the cat for his spot back. Crookshanks grudgingly allowed Harry to reclaim the warmth he had left beside Hermione but insisted on climbing onto his chest for a thorough ear-and-chin scratching in repayment, eyes slitting in pleasure as Harry's fingers worked their way through his tufty coat.

A rumbling purr, like a contented motorcycle, ensued.

"He really likes the way you do that," a drowsy voice informed him from the pillow. "He actually made me jealous he was so happy the night after Tonks and Lupin brought you home."

This was followed by an enormous yawn.

"He really likes a good work over," Harry said, grinning at her. "I don't think the 'me' part matters at all."

"Which only goes to show I'm not a cat," Hermione said softly. "The "you" part certainly matters to me."

He leaned in to kiss her and her sweetly sleepy response was entrancing enough that he wasn't really conscious of anything else until a persistently nudging nose managed to get his hand going on its owners' ears again. It was an entirely different rhythm and range of motion than what his mistress was receiving with Harry's other hand, until he realized it was a lot trying to like walk and chew gum at the same time; he'd never really been good at that, either. He picked a single cadence and went with it with both sets of fingers. Neither seemed to mind.

Just when the wonderful sounds beginning to emanate from a no longer lethargic Hermione made Harry mindful it was time to lose the cat, there was a sudden popping noise and a feathery woosh above them.

Hermione started; Crookshanks yowled and leapt off Harry, his claws digging into Harry's chest. Harry hissed reflexively and glared at the red-gold bird perched on the footboard.

"Even Phoenixes can knock," he said sourly, examining the welling claw marks now running across his abdomen.

Whether or not phoenixes can knock, they can certainly smile. Or Fawkes could, anyway. His beady eyes seemed to almost... twinkle.

"Isn't it your time of the month in some other time zone?" Harry hinted.

Fawkes preened, drawing his beak along one gleaming red gold wing feather. He'd never looked less like bursting into flames, Harry thought glumly. He was primed and ready for the meeting that evening, and seemed to think it was time for Harry to get his game face on as well.

"They won't be here until tonight you know," he reminded the waiting bird.

Fawkes trilled a single liquid note imperiously; he clearly had things in mind for Harry before then that did not include the activity he had interrupted.

Harry turned back toward Hermione, wondering how one managed to explain that particular difficulty in an acceptable manner to one's significant other when he noticed she was watching them both intently and didn't actually appear angry. Yet, anyway.

"How do you do that? Talk to him like that? I can see he understands you, and you seem to have a pretty good idea of what he's thinking as well," she said wonderingly.