the lucky one

take my hand

Birds chirp and the dew dots the windowpanes, mist dissipating from the lake beyond as dawn breaks. The last week or so had been a haze. But finally— finally Ron was being released from his sick bed. Hermione has barely left the infirmary, while Mateo and Ginny often stay the night. Miranda and Harry visit as often as possible, watching, helping Ron regain his strength. Also providing him some much needed distraction. He's been cooped up for days and may be going a bit mad.

Miranda stretches, wriggling out of Harry's arms as she admires his rippling back muscles. She rubs her eyes and yawns, feet meeting the cold hardwood floor. Quietly, she slips Harry's shirt over her head, the soft fabric draped over her comically, still smelling faintly of his cologne and broomsticks. She places his glasses on the nightstand for him and begins to tiptoe away.

"Where do you think you're going, Mandy?" Harry rumbles, propping his head up on his elbow. He's awake, apparently. Of course he is. God she loves his morning voice.

Miranda, inches away from the door, sighs, turning towards him. She can't resist him. She never can. She glides over to him, placing a chaste peck on his lips, "Mateo and the girls are going to be back soon." She explains, "I have to go get fresh clothes." One peck turns to two, which turns to three, and suddenly she's being pulled back into bed beside him. His mouth strays over the expanse of her shoulder, drawing back up to her lips, tongue brushing hers.

She giggles through the kisses, trying not to give in, "Harry I'm serious." Miranda cups his face in her palms,  "I need to wash my hair, and—"

"I have a shower, love," Harry cuts her off, raising an eyebrow. Miranda's stomach drops, the butterflies inside cartwheeling and back flipping all around.

She presses a kiss to his jaw, breaking away from his hold, "I need clothes too, Harry. I haven't been to my room since the night of Ron's party."

Harry makes a noise in the back of his throat, indicating he does not care in the slightest. He groans, tugging her back into his chest. "Just wear mine," Harry mumbles into her neck.

"I've been wearing your clothes for days, Harry," says Miranda guiltily. "I feel bad, I—"

He silences her with another head spinning kiss, fingers threading through her hair.  "I like when you wear my clothes Mandy," Harry states, rather simply. "You look good in them." Miranda shakes her head, smiling in spite of herself. He was so hard to say no to.

"Oi! Harry you up?" Mateo's voice calls from outside, breaking Miranda from her kissing induced reverie. His footsteps increase in volume with each step he takes, proximity getting closer and closer

Miranda practically catapults from the bed, frantically looking around the room for an exit. The only way out is the way Mateo is coming from. Panic shoots through her like ice, as she leaps wildly about the room.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Miranda curses, eyes wide. She looks a bit like a cornered animal. "Harry, what do we do?" she presses, pacing. There would be no explaining the situation. Harry was shirtless, Miranda was only wearing his t-shirt, her skirt was on the floor. They can hear Mateo approaching nearer, almost at the door. At the last second, Miranda dives under Harry's bed, taking her skirt with her. Ow. She's fairly certain she's just skinned her knee.

"Hey Harry, sorry did I wake you?" Mateo enters the room, and Miranda stays as still has humanly possible. Her heartbeat is a pounding drum.

Harry, minorly flustered, and acting squirelly, says, "No, no I was getting up anyways." He spies Miranda's bra hanging of the side of the bed, and in one swift motion, kicks it under the bed where Miranda is hiding. Crisis averted.