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"Just one touch and he's yours," Hermione's mother grinned at her daughter, then affectionately squeezed her husband's arm and pecked him on the lips. Hermione looked at her parents with wide eyes, puzzled by such an open display of affection in the Indian restaurant – a public place no less! Her short legs barely reached the floor, and her flowery blue dress was almost entirely hidden by the crisp white tablecloth.
“Why do I need anyone to be mine?” Hermione asked indignantly, pursing her lips as her nose wrinkled. “Can't we all just belong to ourselves and be happy?”
"Of course, you can find happiness on your own, Hermione," her father smiled warmly. "But when you meet someone special, you'll understand." He exchanged a knowing look with his wife, and they shared a smile as if they were sharing a secret.
Hermione simply rolled her eyes, impatiently fiddling with the catlores in front of her. The words sounded silly coming from her mother, and even more absurd as she repeated them in her mind.
These words didn’t come back to her until many years later. It was after the long process of healing from the scars of war, after the heart-wrenching end of her first meaningful relationship, after she found herself living with Harry, her best friend, as flatmates, simply because finding a place of her own in London seemed nearly impossible.
Just one touch and he is yours.
It suddenly popped into her head when Harry came back from another exhausting day of his Auror training, covered in sweat, dirt and whatever else they made him roll over in. He fell into their couch in the living room, not even bothering to take a shower. Hermione sighed, poured him a bowl of roasted swede soup and leaned down, placing it on the coffee table beside him. She watched Harry taking a deep breath before humming, though still laying without movement. His hair looked even messier than usual, the scar on his forehead standing out amidst the glistening beads of sweat.
Hermione delicately traced her fingers over it, and his lips stretched into a small smile.
“Soup,” Harry murmured.
Hermione chuckled softly. "Yes, Harry, it's right here." She moved the bowl closer to his face, and his smile grew wider.
“Leave it there, I’ll dig in a moment,” he said in a very tired voice. “I just wanted to… lay down… for a minute.”
Setting the bowl aside, Hermione retrieved a knitted blanket from a nearby chair and draped it over him before quietly slipping away to her room.
She found him in the morning sleeping on the sofa in the same position as the day before, with the untouched bowl of cold soup still sitting on the coffee table beside him, a small smile lingering on his lips.
Just one touch and he is yours.
The words bubbled to the front of her mind again as Harry confessed to her that he couldn't continue with the Auror training anymore. He was convinced it was his dream, but every day ended up sending him back to the crumbling walls of Hogwarts, burying people beneath them.
Hermione held him in her arms as he didn't hold back his tears, her fingers slowly running through his messy hair, gently brushing the scar on his forehead. After staying like this for a while, Harry turned his face to look up at her, a small smile tugging at his lips, his green eyes looking a bit brighter with tears still swelling in the corners. Hermione smiled back, understanding more in this silence than any words could describe.
Just one touch and he is yours.
She reflected on those words when her heart skipped a beat for the very first time. When Harry came up with the idea of 'cooking together Tuesdays', starting with a simple pasta Bolognese. Somehow, Hermione managed to send pieces of onions flying from the pan as they sizzled in the overheated oil, causing them to get stuck to his apron, her forearms, and even his glasses. She picked up the pan lid to use it as a shield, while he lowered the heat, laughing at the sight. Hermione turned to give him an apprehensive look but noticed a sizable chunk of chopped onion clinging to his forehead. Using her fingers, she plucked it off, her touch tracing the scar, and suddenly his laughter died. Hermione didn’t know what happened, but despite him lowering gas, the heat in the kitchen seemed to only intensify as she found herself lost in his green eyes and that subtle smile gracing his lips. They both blinked, taking a step apart, and the feeling was gone. But her heart remembered. It remembered for a long time.
Just one touch and he is yours.
Her heart clung to those words during every quiet night spent in her bedroom, every long shower where warm water cascaded over her skin, and every moment of weakness alone in their apartment. Her fingers traced her folds, imagining they were his, bringing her much-needed release but leaving craving his touch even more.
Just one touch and he is yours.
The words hit her again when they returned from their third 'friends date' as they called them. Neither in a relationship at that moment, they thought it would be fun to go on sort-of dates as friends. There were plenty of things each of them wanted to try in the Muggle world and nobody to bring along. So they went to the cinema for the first time in ages and shared sticky, overly sweet popcorn. They also joined a walking tour around London, learning the history of a place from a 'Muggle perspective,' as Hermione pointed out. This time, they returned from a small Indian restaurant she had only visited once when she was eight, recalling her mother’s words as they sat at the same table.
Just one touch and he is yours.
It took her hours to decide what to wear, and Hermione schooled her reflection in the mirror. “This is Harry, your best friend,” she kept reminding herself, changing for the sixth time, fingers nervously tugging at a long line of buttons at the front. Hermione blushed at her sudden indecent thoughts and discarded the complicated clothing article to slip into a dress with a simple single zipper at the back. Seven seemed like a fitting number.
Just one touch and he is yours.
“This is Harry! Your best friend!” her mind screamed as his fingers leisurely pulled down the zipper, letting her dress fall to the floor. Hermione forcefully shut down her thoughts with sheer willpower.
“You know what they say about the third date?” she whispered, trailing her fingers over the line of his scar.
“What?” he breathed out, a small smile playing on his lips as her fingers shifted lower, swiftly working with his zipper and freeing him.
She didn’t reply. Her mouth was too preoccupied by then.
Just one touch and he is yours.
The words were on the tips of her tongue as their bodies touched amidst the tangled mess of limbs. Moving together, sinking into the sheets, while lips never left lips, their collective sighs were louder than any proclamations. At last, she had it all and even more – his touch, his warmth, his embrace, his heat, his pleasure, his heart.
Just one touch and he is yours.
The words emerged from her mind as Hermione extracted a simple photograph from the envelope. Not even a magical one, just an ordinary image printed out on matte photo paper and delivered by a postman to her door along with a short note from Dennis Creevy. The time had come, and his parents finally got the courage to sort through the boxes in the attic, marked with a black Sharpie "Colin".
And here it was – a simple Muggle photograph between Hermione’s fingers. It wasn't that she hadn't seen photographs lately – her parents would always send her a handful of shots capturing their adventures across the Australian coast. But observing a much younger herself, wearing her Hogwarts uniform and not noticing any movement, was odd.
Hermione traced the outlines of the two children frozen in time: her younger self, finger pressed against Harry's forehead, a small smile gracing his still innocent face, his eyes closed at her touch. Something stirred within her chest.
"Hermione! Where's the...?" Harry's voice echoed from the other room. "Oh, never mind. I found it!"
"Is everything alright?" Hermione called out, turning her head in the direction of his voice.
“Yeah. Just- Er- Aim is getting significantly better,” he trailed off and Hermione smiled, as her mother’s words flashed in her head again.
Just one touch and he is yours.
There were more touches and smiles since the very first night they spent together. His fingers trailed her scars as gently as ever, and her lips stretched into a grin more times than she could count. Every caress of his fingers left her a writhing mess, every sigh and moan that escaped their lips only served to deepen the curves of their smiles. Yet, it was the moments when their foreheads pressed together, his scar brushing against her skin, that she cherished the most. With just his touch, she felt undeniably his.
Harry emerged from the bedroom, holding a small bundle of flannel sheets in his arms.
“See, I managed on my own!” he announced brightly before looking at Hermione. “What’s this?” Harry nodded towards the photograph in Hermione’s hands. She outstretched her arm, and Harry leaned in, picking it up with his fingers and bringing it closer to his face. In an instant, a smile mirrored the one captured in the photo spread across his features.
A small, chubby arm emerged from the bundle in his arms and playfully swatted him on the forehead before pressing one tiny finger directly onto his scar.
Harry shifted his gaze to the bundle in his arms, and his smile widened even further.
"Like mother, like daughter," he murmured, leaning in to pass their baby girl to Hermione. She cradled the little body, wrapped snugly in soft blankets, and gazed at her tiny features.
She didn’t need to share the knowledge with her. It appears her little bean already knew. From the moment Hermione had told him the news, from the instant he had pressed his cheek to her growing belly, from the very moment she had entered the world and her tiny fingers had clutched at his single digit, that was it.
Just one touch and he was hers.