Dear Harry,

I'm sorry that it took me so long to answer your letter. I have an explanation for being so late to reply, but I think it had better wait until I see you.

We've been very busy this past week, I've barely been able to read. I wish I had our book list already. I really should go down to Diagon Alley and pick up The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5, at least, but it slipped my mind the last time I was there. Even if I had it, I don't know when I'd have time to use it! I hope you've been able to keep yourself occupied too, and that your aunt and uncle aren't giving you too much of a hard time. I've been thinking of you every day and hoping you're alright.

I expect we'll be seeing you soon. Until then, take care of yourself.

With love,

Hermione

Hermione sat back in her chair and surveyed her drying letter critically. It was too short, she knew it, and it lacked explanation, but what could she say? "Hello Harry, I'm having a very busy holiday here at Sirius Black's house while we plot the downfall of the Dark Lord"? He wouldn't be satisfied, but her hands were tied.

She sighed and stretched, reaching for the ceiling. Shafts of morning light cut through the high window to the floor, where Crookshanks pounced and played in swirls of dust curling up from the carpet. It was Sunday, the one day, Ron had informed her, that they were all allowed to do what they liked. She had been at Grimmauld Place a week.

It was still early and the rest of the house was quiet, but Hermione hadn't been able to wait to write her letter any longer. She'd been plagued by bad sleep, tossing and turning with visions of Harry, alone and tormented, and a certain pair of brown eyes had haunted her dreams. Waking up in a cross temper, she'd resolved to put her worries to paper then and there. The problem was, she thought, frowning, was that the majority of her worries could not be sent safely through owl post.

She dressed and brushed her teeth quietly, relishing her solitude after a week in constant company. A whole day to do whatever she wanted! There were things to be accomplished, of course, as there always were. Cleaning her dresser was paramount. A trip to Diagon Alley, sending her letter, hopefully some reading. And, whispered a sly voice in the back of her head, half an hour for that daydream charm…

She tutted so loudly that Crookshanks' ears twitched. What had possessed her to accept such a thing from Fred? First the Extendable Ears, then the brocade purse, and now this… Just another thing that had to be kept from Mrs. Weasley. Hermione squirmed with guilt at the thought. She knew how the twins' mother felt about their inventions. But, whispered that sly, annoyingly persistent little voice, aren't you curious?

She was, of course. Terribly curious. Curious about how such a thing could be made, and what its effects would be. But it was wrong, plain and simple. Their mother had forbidden such things, burned their order forms, destroyed their joke toffees… But was a daydream charm really so dangerous?

"Shut up," she muttered. Crookshanks looked at her curiously.

"Don't mind me," she told him, marching towards the door. "I've got a dresser to clean."

o - o - o - o - o

The sun rose steadily over Grimmauld Place as Hermione worked, but still there was no noise from behind the many closed bedroom doors. After two weeks of constant cleaning, spying, and standing guard, all occupants seemed only too happy to jump at the chance of a lie-in. It wasn't hard to find Mrs. Weasley's store of cleaning supplies, all packed into the basement cupboard, and by nine o'clock Hermione had scrubbed out her dresser, dusted her chandelier, and changed her bedding. A quick shower later and she found herself with wet, freshly-washed hair, seated at the writing desk under the window, reading and re-reading her letter. At her elbow, the silvery constellations of her little globe swirled and sparkled in the sunlight.

There was nothing else for it. Resignedly, she folded up the sad little square of parchment and slipped it into an envelope, worry gnawing at her with every quill stroke lettering out Harry's address. The Daily Prophet had come in while she was cleaning, and she dearly hoped that he was not reading it, or at least not reading it cover-to-cover. The snide jabs and mocking words casually slipped in made Hermione's stomach burn with indignant anger. How dare they? If she could, she thought mutinously, she would track down every one of those miserable journalists and stick them in a glass jar for a year.

Sighing, she sat the envelope address-up on the sunny windowsill to dry. There was nothing to do now until Fred woke up so they could go to Diagon Alley together. Nothing at all, except…

Her eyes drifted to the "DAYDREAM" envelope.

Cursing herself inwardly, Hermione picked it up carefully and turned it over and over in the sunlight. She could feel the hard little glass bottle inside, falling to the bottom with each rotation. There was nothing else printed on the outside, no extra information. Well, it couldn't hurt to have a look, could it? Besides, she knew that he would ask her about it, and she needed to be prepared to make something up that would satisfy him. She couldn't very well do that without examining the contents more closely, even if she had no intention of using them…

Slowly, carefully, she slit the top open and tipped the envelope gently onto the desk. Out slid a small crystal bottle with a sealed stopper and two slips of paper, both covered in scrawling, all-capitals handwriting. She picked up the larger one first.

DAYDREAM CHARM (PATENT PENDING)

Designed for in-school use, hence the "run time" (thirty minutes). Can produce both fantasy and reality-based daydreams. Pleasant sensations, high color, high realism. Magic for enjoyment's sake. Only very minor side effects discovered so far, i.e. vacant expression, some drooling, general unresponsiveness to exterior stimulants. Charm can be broken by an especially loud noise or advanced physical movement (being shaken, falling out of seat, etc.), similar to how one would be woken up from regular sleep.

Hermione's eyes rested on "patent pending", "magic for enjoyment's sake", and "some drooling" for a moment each in turn and raised her eyebrows. There was no need to patent something that wasn't going up for sale to the general public… she didn't even want to know the explanation behind those two bracketed words. As for magic for enjoyment's sake, well, try as she might, she couldn't help but feel that this charm fell squarely into the same category as Apparating down a flight of stairs instead of walking. Dangerous? No, but what was the point? To squander away a school lesson more pleasantly? To spend galleons on your own imagination when you could use it for free with a book? As for "some drooling", well… Hermione wrinkled her nose. That needed no explanation.

She set down the first piece of parchment and picked up the second. This one was much shorter, with only a few words on it.

Imera imaginato (ee-mare-a ee-maj-een-a-to)

And here was the incantation. Hermione fingered the edge of the parchment thoughtfully, thinking hard. Using her wand, of course, was out of the question, under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. So how on earth had Fred expected her to use this?

Unless…

Hermione groaned. He must know, as she did, that while the Ministry could track underage magic, it was impossible for them to tell who the perpetrator was under a magical roof. If she cast this charm, it could just as well be any of the of-age witches or wizards staying at Grimmauld Place. And, she thought, fingering her wand without quite realizing what she was doing, the house was under the Fidelius Charm. Was it even possible for the Ministry to track magic through the boundaries of such an ancient, powerful spell? She seriously doubted it, considering that the charm rendered the building soundproof, invisible, intangible, and Unplottable.

She swore. Curse Fred Weasley and his forethought!

Weighing her options, she picked up the little bottle and held it up to the light. The color of the potion surprised her. It was a pale but vibrant blue, the shade of a perfect summer sky. Clearly something of their own invention, made exclusively to be paired with the incantation… She squinted closer at the swirling potion, then saw something that made her start so forcefully she almost dropped the bottle.

Pixie dust. She was sure that was the only thing it could be, the ultra-fine flecks of gold glitter shimmering and sparkling in the liquid. She straightened up, half indignant, half impressed. So that's why Fred and George had insisted on cleaning up the pixie nest, and why Fred had been so covered with glitter that night. They hadn't just cleaned it up - they had collected it, and used it! It was ingenious, really, all things considered, and showed a real resourcefulness…

Hermione bit her lip and glanced first at the slips of parchment on the desk and then at the clock. It was already nine fifteen. He would be awake soon, and then it would be time to go.

In a split second, curiosity won out and she made her decision. She made sure that her door was securely locked and then bent studiously over the parchment for a second time, reading and re-reading the incantation, carefully mouthing the pronunciation to herself. When she felt satisfied, she gingerly uncorked the bottle and sniffed it lightly. It smelled like butterscotch, creamy and sweet. The potion danced within its tiny confines, as if inviting her to drink it.

"I'm losing my mind," she muttered, and downed it in two gulps.

Hermione gasped. It tasted unexpectedly of apples and was surprisingly warm, making her throat and the pit of her stomach glow with heat. No sooner had she re-stoppered the bottle than she began to feel its effects. The warmth spread to her fingertips and up her spinal cord to her mind, and she smiled in spite of herself. She felt very nice indeed, engulfed in a buzzy, floaty kind of feeling.

Taking one last look at the incantation, she picked up her wand.

"Imera imaginato!"

She swept her wand in front of her in a graceful arc, and watched as the air on either side of the wand's path began to shimmer, as if with heat. It wavered for just a moment, and then began to turn and change, like tiles flipping over to reveal a different pattern on their underside.

Soon, her room at Grimmauld Place had melted away.

o - o - o - o - o

The scene formed in great glittering brushstrokes, blooming around Hermione like plumes of paint being dropped into water. The sky was blue, with fluffy white clouds drifting across it at their leisure; the ground under her feet was a vibrant green, the grass fragrant and swaying in a warm breeze. She turned in astonishment, eyes drinking in the sights, and it seemed that the more she looked, the more of her surroundings loss their fuzziness and took solid shape.

She was in an apple orchard, a lovely, endless apple orchard, the trees stretching on either side of her heavy with snowy white blossoms and fruit. The grass was long and soft, and the soft buzz of late summer filled the air. As she watched, a skylark took flight from one of the taller trees and soared across the sky, singing sweetly as it went. Hermione couldn't help it. Her mouth fell open in amazement. The level of beauty, the level of detail, was incredible. Crouching down, she rubbed a blade of grass between her fingers, marveling at the realism in every millimeter. She could feel the warmth of the air, feel the slight give of soil under her feet with every step.

"Hermione!"

She jumped and turned, and then jumped again. Fred Weasley was making his way towards her, a rosy apple in his hand.

Alarm flooded her. Why was he here? It's not real, she reminded herself, taking a deep breath. It's not real. It's just a daydream. This is not Fred.

"Well don't you look chuffed to see me," he teased, drawing up next to her and taking a bite out of his apple. "I'm not that ugly, am I?"

"Er, no," Hermione muttered, determinedly looking anywhere but his face.

"Hey," he said, and tucked his hand under her chin. He was turning her face up to him with those quick fingers before she had time to process the feeling of his touch. "You okay?"

She was forced to meet his eyes, and felt all the breath go out of her. He was gorgeous down to his freckles, there were no two ways about it, and those warm brown eyes seemed took look right down to her heart. He blinked, his long orange eyelashes sweeping up and down, and Hermione felt like something in her middle had melted.

"Yes," she whispered, suddenly unable to take her eyes off of him. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Well, good," he said, leaned down, and pressed his lips to her cheek before she could react. "Let's go pick some of these beauties, eh?"

Hermione was devoutly thankful that he grabbed her hand and turned away to lead her down the aisle of trees, because whether this was the daydream version of Fred or not, she was sure she was blushing down to the roots of her hair. His lips had been soft on her skin, so soft, and felt so much fuller than she had ever expected. The place where his mouth had touched her tingled madly, like mint and cold water mixing. She raised a hand and pressed her fingertips to it gently, surprise and pleasure still somersaulting in her stomach.

Still trailing behind him, Hermione forced herself to sober. However pleasing it was, she told herself sternly, it was bizarre, and in a way, very wrong. She shouldn't be here with this dream imitation of Fred, any more than he should be here with her… But, whispered that voice, you are here. So why not try to enjoy it?

She hated the logic of that voice. But the daydream potion was still thrumming through her body, warming her from her center, and it was very hard to be sober indeed. She felt as though she was floating across the top of the grass behind Fred, the edges of both her consciousness and her surroundings dreamy and watercolored. His kiss had certainly done nothing to help clear her mind. His hand was warm and his calloused fingers were rough against hers, and, for once, she felt herself give in.

"Here we go."

They had stopped at the end of the row, where there was a stack of large wicker baskets, the old-fashioned kind that Hermione remembered from childhood. She used to go apple-picking with her parents every year, she remembered with a pang. They hadn't been in a very long time. Why, she wasn't sure. In a way, it seemed like many of the simple pleasures she remembered from when she was younger had fallen by the wayside as she'd gotten older, and life had gotten more serious. It was rare now to do something for the sheer joy of it, just because she wanted to. Except for reading, of course.

Why the charm had brought her here, she couldn't be sure, but perhaps there was something she could take away from this after all.

When Fred let go of her hand she almost protested, but she caught herself. He propped a basket on his hip and grinned his mischievous grin at her, his shaggy red bangs flopping into his eyes.

"Shall we?"

Hermione smiled back. "We shall."

He laughed, and to her silent delight, reached out and grabbed her hand again. "Merlin, you're beautiful."

Hermione's stomach flipped over, his words echoing in her head as he smiled down at her. It was better, so much better, than any compliment she had ever received before because it was straightforward, uninhibited, and it was Fred.

"You have a wonderful laugh."

The words had tumbled out of her mouth before she could check them, but he just laughed again and pulled her into his side. The sound was music to her ears, the look on his face artful to her eyes. Like he was happy, so happy, just to be with her.

He kissed her again, on top of her head this time, and then trailed his fingers down her shoulder, down her arm, until he reached her hand again and grasped it. His light touch left goosebumps skating down her skin, and she shivered involuntarily as they began to walk again, the emerald grass flattening under their feet like a carpet rolling out before them.

They stopped underneath the tallest, most sprawling tree in the orchard, hanging down heavy with apples as big as Hermione's fist, in colors from crisp pale green to ruby red. The golden sunlight slanted through the fluttering leaves as she reached up and plucked one. It came off easily in her hand, as fragrant as perfume.

"Mmm," she breathed. "It smells amazing."

"Try it," Fred suggested. He had set down his own basket and covered the bottom with a layer of apples, but was staying near enough that she could reach out and touch him. "They're so sweet this year."

He was right. The tender skin gave way easily, and she had to wipe her mouth to keep the juice from running down her chin. Fred, watching, gave her his beautiful, easy-going laugh, eyes sparkling.

"Good, eh?"

She nodded, something in her stomach warming and twisting under his gaze in a way that had nothing to do with the apple she was eating.

It was true, Hermione thought, she had been apple-picking many times before, but never like this. As if the daydream orchard wasn't beautiful enough on its own, Fred seemed to lend his warmth and brightness to everything around him as they collected the huge tree's harvest. He laughed, sang, and never went too long without touching her, skimming his hands over her shoulders, pulling her in close to his warm body for a hug every now and then. Hermione could feel hard muscles in his arms and abdomen under his t-shirt that she hadn't been expecting, and it made her mind wander places that were decidedly unrelated to apples.

When they had picked all of the fruit they could reach on the low-hanging branches and eaten so many themselves that she was sure she couldn't take another bite, the daydream shimmered and wavered again at the corner of her vision. Under the tree next to them, a blanket had appeared on the grass, set with a flagon of pumpkin juice and a hardcover book. Fred, carefully tucking their baskets against the tree trunk in the shade, hadn't noticed.

Smiling, Hermione strode over to it, and couldn't help but exclaim with pleasure when she saw the cover. It was a novel, a muggle novel, and one she knew. Pride and Prejudice. She flopped down happily onto the blanket and leafed through the pages with glee.

"Books never fail to excite, do they?" Fred called laughingly. She looked over. He was leaning against the trunk himself with his arms crossed, his hair shining all shades of orange in the dappled sunlight. The sight of him staring at her made her heart pound, and she motioned him over eagerly before she'd thought twice about it.

"Come sit with me."

He ducked under the branches and crossed the space between them, never taking his eyes off of her face. When he dropped down beside her, she showed him the cover.

"Have you ever heard of this book?"

He shook his head and took it from her interestedly, cracking it open to skim the inside cover. "Is this a muggle book?"

She nodded, pleased to note that his voice held not one ounce of condescension, only curiosity. "Not just any muggle book. One of the best ones."

He smiled, that dimple that she loved appearing in his cheek. "I'll have to read it sometime, then."

"Would you read a little bit to me now?" she asked, laying back on the blanket.

"Me? Read to you?"

"Yes, please," she laughed, unable to help it at the surprised look on his face.

He shrugged, the dimple reappearing, and stretched out on his stomach next to her. "Alright, here we go. Chapter one…" he cleared his throat. "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife…"

Hermione closed her eyes blissfully, letting his voice wash over her. He did, she thought, a lovely job, hardly ever stumbling over the old-fashioned phrases, and putting on a slightly different voice for each character, making her giggle. After a while, she found herself staring at him.

It was hard not to; there were so many things in his face that warranted looking at. His gingery eyebrows, and the way they rose and fell with expression as he read - the sprays of freckles across his nose, like the stars forming little constellations in the globe that the real Fred had bought for her - the fine angle of his nose, and the curve of his lips just below it. His voice floated through the air and seemed to wrap around her like a blanket, warm, clear, but somehow deep and a little rough in places. It really was music, Hermione thought contentedly, and it was even better because it was reading her one of her favorite stories, one that she hadn't thought about in a long time.

"The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would return Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to dinner," Fred concluded the second chapter. He glanced up to gauge her reaction, and when he caught her staring at him and smiling, she didn't even try to look away.

He smiled back, taking one hand off of the book to stroke her hair, and Hermione closed her eyes and resisted the urge to purr like a cat. She loved having her hair played with, and he must have realized it, or perhaps the daydream version of Fred already knew, because he scratched his fingernails lightly along her scalp before twining her thick hair around his hand. It felt fantastic.

When she opened her eyes, her breath caught in her throat. He was closer now, much closer, the book lying open, face-down, by his elbow. It was Hermione's first instinct to inform him that that was very bad for binding and that he should close it, but the way he was looking at her made her swallow the words. He was close enough that she could see all the shades of brown in his eyes, each tiny freckle on the bridge of his nose. His hand was still wound in her hair and as he leaned his upper body over her, brushing his bangs out of his eyes, it occurred to her in a rush that he was almost pinning her against the blanket and that she didn't mind all. In fact, she realized with a rush of heat, she almost wished that he would put some of his weight on top of her. Wondering dimly what possibly could have taken hold of her quickly faded into the background along with everything else as his face inched imperceptibly closer to hers, his expression simultaneously soft and more intense than she had ever seen it. He brushed a lock of hair away from her face, and without thinking about it she leaned into his touch. He smelled like spices and gunpowder.

Just as she became sure that the air between them would shatter with tension, the edges of her vision began to shimmer and blur. Her heart sank, disappointment weaving through her, but whether the scene was disintegrating or not, whether this Fred was real or not, he was making it terribly difficult to concentrate on anything except the way he was looking at her. As if in slow-motion, he kept coming closer and closer, lowering his head to her until he was so close she could almost taste him -

I have to remember this, Hermione thought wildly, staring at the beautiful face of a man who had somehow managed to make her feel more special than she ever had before in the space of half an hour, even if it wasn't real. I have to remember him, and us, and the way that this was, because it will never happen again. The sky had disappeared, the apple trees had vanished, even the ground around her was disappearing. The only thing that was real at all was his face in front of her, so close -

And just as she was sure, so sure that their lips were going to touch, Fred himself dissolved in a rush of red and gold, like glitter lost to the wind. She reached out for him, almost called his name, but before she knew it her vision was blurry and everything around her had washed out, like water thrown onto a wet painting.

o - o - o - o - o

Hermione came to with a start and a gasp, jerking her head up from off her elbows. It took her a moment to remember where she was, and only after she had glanced around the room twice at the faded gray silk and the dusty crystal was she sure that she was back in her room at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Crookshanks was eyeing her curiously from the bed, but she had no time, or even any idea, how to explain to him what had just taken place.

She sat back in her chair, heart pounding like she'd just run a marathon, and stared at the empty crystal bottle on her desk. Her thoughts were a hopelessly jumbled mess. What in the name of Merlin had just happened to her? She had drank the potion, said the incantation, and then…

Hermione buried her face in her arms and groaned. What was she going to do now? How was she supposed to feel now? Her cheeks burned as she remembered Fred, or whatever version of Fred that had been, lying next to her, almost on top of her, for god's sake! And she had enjoyed it; no, she had craved it, been absolutely bewitched by it.

"Who am I?" she mumbled desperately into the desktop.

She kept her head down and took some deep breaths, trying to cool her face and, if she was being honest with herself, a heat that had sprung up between her legs sometime between her room dissolving and reforming. One breath. Two breaths. Three… four…

Slowly, very slowly, her heartbeat grew more regular and logic began to return. First and foremost - it was not real. It was not real, what had happened, and that was her greatest comfort. That man had not been the real Fred. The real Fred did not think she was beautiful, and the real Fred certainly would not have held her, kissed her, or looked at her like that. Small comfort, muttered that little voice in the back of her head, but Hermione quashed it impatiently and completely for the first time that day. It was a comfort, and she would hold onto it with everything she had. Secondly, she thought, continuing her measured breathing, he did not know what she had seen, or even that she had used the charm. Thirdly, she never had to tell him, nor would she.

After a few more long moments, Hermione raised her head. Crookshanks was staring at her quizzically.

"Don't look at me like that," she muttered. His ears swiveled. Sometimes that cat was too smart for his own good.

She got up slowly and made a circle of the room and then another, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other. It had not been real, he did not know, and she did not have to tell him. But, Hermione thought, frowning, she knew. She knew what had happened when she had cast that charm, and she knew what she had seen, knew what she had felt. Those things were less easily solved, especially since she had been determined in the moment to burn them into her mind! She groaned again and covered her face with her hands as she paced.

What made it all decidedly worse, too, was that she had agreed to spend several hours alone with Fred today. The fact that she had been excited about this prospect not twelve hours before seemed as far away as another lifetime. How, how was she going to get through today? How could she even look him in the eye?

She stopped and forced herself to breathe again. One… two… three…

She would look him in the eye, she told herself firmly. She would because she had to, and it was not real, he did not know, and she did not have to tell him.

She pushed away her own feelings the same way she had squashed the voice. She could deal with them later, or at least attempt to. But for today, she decided, she would pretend that this had never happened. Fred was Ron's brother. He was practically her brother by extension, family, and certainly not someone that she needed to be daydreaming about, magically or otherwise. They would continue to be friends, just friends, and that was where it began and ended. They would go to Diagon Alley today, as friends running errands together, and they would return to Number Twelve as friends.

And so, she thought, resuming her pacing, since what she had just experienced had never happened, there was no reason that she should hide in her room like a nervous schoolgirl and wait for him to come and fetch her. She glanced at the clock. It was ten o' clock. The chances that he was not awake by now were slim indeed. No, she decided, she would not hide. She would go and fetch him.

Before she left the room, however, she pulled off her cotton tank top and put on a long-sleeve instead. There was no reason to have any more bare skin around him than was strictly necessary.

As she climbed the flight of stairs to the third floor, visions of a handsome face so very close to her own danced across her vision and her heart began to race again, this time with nerves. Her stomach turned over when she remembered who she was climbing towards. Stop it, she told herself firmly. Stop it right now. You'll leave friends, you'll return friends. It wasn't real, he doesn't know, and you never have to tell him. Breathe in, breathe out. It never happened.

By the time she reached the landing, she was calmer and reasonably confident in her ability to not make a fool of herself in front of him. She did need to send her letter, after all, and she was not keen on the idea of going out to Diagon Alley alone. They would go, she would accomplish what she needed to, and then they would come back and she could spend the remainder of the day in blissful solitude, perhaps even with a new spellbook to occupy her mind instead of dwelling on anything she shouldn't be.

She had reached the twins' door. She gave her neck a roll, took one more deep breath, and repeated her mental chant to herself once more.

Then, she raised a hand and knocked, quick and firm, three times.

"Yeah?" came Fred's voice from inside.

Hermione winced. She had hoped that George would answer, but there was nothing for it now. She pushed the door open.

She had to work hard to keep her jaw from dropping to the floor. He was shirtless, and facing away from her, rummaging around in the wardrobe, and she was so gobsmacked that all her calmness and all her words failed her at once. George was not in the room - it was just the two of them.

In the space of a few seconds her eyes roamed over his back, taking in his bare skin, his bare arms. Freckles were scattered across his torso as liberally as on his face, and the muscle she had felt in her daydream was real enough, alright. He'd grown taller and filled out in the last two years, and wiry strength was spelled out in every line of him. She watched as the muscles in his back moved under his skin, watched his biceps flex as he dug through a stack of t-shirts.

"What is it?" he asked, still without turning around.

She tried to say, 'I was going to see if you were ready,' but it came out as "I, er…"

Fred spun around so fast that he almost fell over, and his eyes went wide at the sight of her. Now it was his turn to blush as red as his hair.

"Hermione! Oh, I, er, thought that you were George…" he groped behind him for a shirt, and threw on the first one he grabbed, but not before she had gotten an eyeful of his pectorals and lean, defined abdomen. He even had a 'V' of muscles on his hips, the lines disappearing down into his jeans. She was sure that both of their faces were practically glowing red.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. Say something! "I, er, I was just coming to see if you were ready to go to Diagon Alley." There, thank Merlin, she'd managed to string some words together in a voice of reasonably believable calm.

"I, er, yeah. I'm ready. Just give me a couple minutes to get some shoes on and grab my money and I'll meet you downstairs," he muttered. He was staring at a bit of floor, refusing to meet her eyes, and she couldn't blame him.

"Alright," she said, feeling more awkward than ever. "I'll be in the hall."

And, as quickly as she could without running, she backed out of the doorway, closed the door, and fled down the stairs.