Title: Hope Floats
Summary: Oliver comes home to find someone he didn't expect.
Rating: PG
Author's Notes: I have been waiting to put this one up for WEEKS! I hope it satisfies! The prompt involved a scene from Consequentially Yours, where Ny and I were discussing Oliver finding a pair of socks on the mantle and wondering how they ended up there. I said I could just imagine the scene and she made it my newest prompt for this series.
Oliver opened the door to his flat at midnight on a Tuesday; tired, dirty and half-starved. Two hours earlier, the captain of his Quidditch team had finally released them from an eighteen hour training session and Oliver wanted nothing more than a bath, a hot meal and his warm bed, though he wasn't too particular about the order in which they came. It was with no little irritation, therefore, that he realized the door would open no more than a hands breadth before bumping into something – something that said oof as the door connected with it.
What the hell?
“Oliver?” the something asked as the door suddenly opened fully. He sucked in a breath as his brain registered the sight of bushy brown hair and wary chocolate eyes.
“H-Hermione?” he stuttered stupidly, at a loss to explain her presence in his flat.
“Well, come in,” she admonished, pulling him through the open doorway before shutting the door so forcefully that it could only be considered a slam. He absorbed the faint scent in the air; the scent of vanilla and – broccoli? before he noticed the various pieces of wood on the floor next to the front closet.
“A shoe rack,” she muttered, almost angrily, he thought.
“Er – Hermione?” he ventured. She looked up at him in encouragement, but the power of those eyes nearly knocked his feet out from under him. “Um – what are you doing here?” he blurted out. It wasn't that he minded her presence, but after the library incident, she had sought him out in his room and her words had echoed hauntingly in his ears these past three months.
She had walked into the room without knocking; he'd just come from the bath and had been towelling his hair, a pair of blue sleep pants the only thing he'd bothered to toss on. He had forgotten to tie the drawstring, and he remembered hoping they'd not slip down his hips too far while she was in there. Her eyes had widened, and he'd have sworn there was a flicker of interest in her eyes before her face shuttered. He'd said her name softly, and she had held up a hand, explaining in a flat, emotionless voice that she was going to try to make things work with Weasley. She'd thanked him for his offer and walked out. He'd not even had a chance to get a word in edgewise.
He'd left the castle a few days later; he'd been called up to training camp, finally. He left her a note with his address and a key to his flat, just in case she should ever have a need of it. She'd sent him several letters since then, and he'd responded to each, but she'd not once mentioned moving into his home. As his exhausted senses took in the room around him, he realized she couldn't have been there long.
“I – I broke up with Ron three days ago – I didn't have anywhere else to go, but I still had your key...” she trailed off, looking down at her feet.
“No – no it's fine, lass – really,” he assured her. “You know you're welcome to stay here as long as you like.” Oliver looked down as well, noticing the faint pink shimmer of her toes and realized he hadn't seen her feet before. He never had considered himself attracted to feet, but hers were downright pretty. It's exhaustion talking, his brain whispered sensibly.
“You go back to whatever it was you were doing,” he said, gesturing at the wooden shoe rack still in pieces on the floor next to her adorable pink toes. “I'm just going to have a quick bite and a shower before bed.” He stepped over the mess on the doorstep and she looked up. After an awkward bit of a dancing step to get around one another, he found himself facing the kitchen and she settled herself to the floor.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, looking up distractedly. “There's a quiche in the icebox; I meant to go to the market tomorrow.”
“I'll take you around the neighborhood and show you how to get around,” he called over his shoulder as he thought delightedly of coming home to real meals, cooked by a pretty girl.
Quiche, he thought, staring at the blackened item on his plate ten minutes later. In those ten minutes, his visions of home-cooked meals had flown out the window. He was no chef, by any means, but he was fairly certain a quiche wasn't hilly on the edges, flat in the center, and full of indistinguishable black lumps that had once been broccoli. Furthermore, he was positive there were eggs in it – but whatever Hermione had put in this concoction, it was certainly no quiche.
Ah, well, in for a penny, in for a pound Oliver thought fatalistically, pushing the first bite past his protesting lips. For a moment he wasn't sure he'd be able to swallow it, but he didn't have to worry about that, at least, for he suddenly heard Hermione's muttering quite clearly in the silence, and the thought of the petite spitfire cursing in any language was enough to make it difficult for him not to spit out his food in shock, but for that cursing to foul enough to make the requisite sailor blush – and in Welsh no less, was too much.
For a moment, he was torn between disgust at the thought of eating food anyone had spit all over, even himself, happiness that he now had an excuse for not eating the disgusting concoction and curiosity as to what brought on this sudden resemblance to an American trucker. Curiosity won out, and he clattered to his feet to see a self-satisfied smirk grace Hermione's face as she glared in triumph at the fully assembled shoe rack. Oliver suddenly thought of Aunt Henny. “Discretion is the greater part of valour.”
He thought the old bird might just be right, and he offered Hermione a small acknowledgement of her success, completely neglecting to comment on the wand in her hand – or the many screws and dowels still lying scattered on the rug, though he couldn't help his eyes from roving over them. She followed his gaze and let loose a small laugh.
“Don't say a word, Wood,” she threatened, but the humour in her voice belied her words and his deep chuckle accompanied her musical laughter.
“I'm afraid I've rather ruined your dinner, lass,” he mumbled in excuse. “Perhaps you'd like to go out and get something?”
“No, there's some Chinese take-away left over from last night, but you're more than welcome to it,” she offered, and his eyes lit up. “I’m going to read for a bit.”
It was amazing how his mood could change so drastically in a mere half an hour, he mused. He was sitting in his favorite chair, completely comfortable, with his feet propped up on his battered coffee table, a copy of that morning’s Prophet spread out on his lap and a blazing fire from the hearth behind him taking the chill out of the air. He still needed that bath, but he figured he’d get there eventually. Hermione had gone to bed before he’d finished eating, and just knowing that she was in the other room, her whiskey-brown curls spread over his pillow, was enough to bring a smile to his face. He enjoyed his position for several minutes before something distracted him.
What is that awful smell? He sniffed the air; there was a sour odour wafting towards him, and he was determined to place it. Bad enough that she’d shown up at his flat when he hadn’t cleaned in several weeks, but that the place smelled so disgusting was an untenable thought. He put the paper down and walked around the room, but he was unable to pinpoint where the scent was coming from. He resumed his earlier position, enjoying the sheer pleasure in having his feet up, when he realized where the smell was coming from.
Bringing his right foot to his face cautiously, he caught a stronger whiff of the offensive odour, and realized suddenly that it was his own feet. Mentally shrugging, he pulled off his socks and tossed them over his shoulder; what else could he expect after eighteen hours of practice? A strangled sound alerted him to the presence across the room, and he raised his face to meet horrified brown eyes.
“What?” he asked, wondering if the rest of him smelled as badly as his socks.
“So that’s how they get up there,” she said, staring at a point over his head. He turned around in the chair and realized that his socks had landed upon the mantle. He felt heat suffuse his face and he ducked his head, standing up and crossing to the mantle to pick up the socks and put them in his training bag. The team had a laundress, who would take care of them when he returned to camp later in the week. He looked up and realized she was still staring at him in horrified wonder.
“I think I’ll just go have that bath now,” he muttered. He ambled into the bathroom, daring a glance over his shoulder, where she seemed to be rooted to the spot, though her eyes appeared to be directed at his bag. He sighed and closed the door behind himself.
After a very hot bath he found himself on his rather lumpy sofa, shifting uncomfortably to try to find a spot that didn’t poke him in the kidneys. He was definitely buying a new sofa while they were out shopping in the morning; that was all there was to it.
The mostly sleepless night passed incredibly slowly to his mind, and when the sun rose, he turned, bleary-eyed, to the coffee-machine, hoping that the caffeine would help take some of the sleepiness out of his brain. A soft shuffling was the only warning he had before Hermione walked into the room, her own eyes a bit red, though whether that was from tears over her current situation or just sleep he couldn’t tell.
“Mornin’,” he mumbled, pouring himself a large mug full of the steaming black liquid before remembering that he had a guest and offering it to her instead.
“No thank you; I prefer tea,” she explained, pulling a small kettle from the cabinet and setting it upon the stove top.
“I was thinking that I should do some other shopping this morning as well. D’you want to join me?” he asked. She merely nodded and sat across the small table from him in silence until the kettle whistled. As she bustled around, making tea, Oliver thought disparagingly of the sofa, realizing that much of his furniture was in the same sorry state. In fact, as he thought of his bedroom, he suddenly remembered why he spent so much time in the dorms at his training camp; his bed was nearly as uncomfortable as the sofa. The coffee finally started to kick in and he felt his eyes open fully, some of the clouds parting in his brain.
“How did you sleep?” he asked his companion.
“Er – fine, thank you,” she stumbled over the words, and he couldn't resist a laugh.
“You don't have to lie to me, lass. I was just thinking that I should probably pick up some new furniture today while we're out.” He carefully considered his next words before speaking. “I was wondering if you'd like to help me pick it out?”
“Of course. I've got an interview with the Ministry tomorrow, but today is empty,” she said, stifling a yawn.
“C'mon, lass, get dressed. We need to get you a decent bed so you can get some sleep tonight,” he laughed.
Two hours later, having already shopped for food and dropped it off back at the flat, he and Hermione stood in a furniture shop, staring in wonder at a leopard sofa.
“Do you think someone would actually buy that?” he asked, incredulous, turning to the girl beside him with a flush of sheer happiness.
“I am sure someone would,” she answered primly, but he could see the doubt in her eyes.
“Ah, c'mon, Hermione; you know that no one with any sense at all would buy that god-awful thing!” He was rewarded with her deep, throaty laugh. He turned and saw the perfect sofa. Grabbing Hermione's hand, he pulled her over to it.
It was long and deep, plush without being fussy, and the butter-soft leather was the same shade of whiskey-brown as Hermione's curls. He sat down and immediately felt his body relax. He patted the seat beside him and stretched his arms along the back, smiling when she joined him. The back was the perfect height; her head rested ever so slightly on the crook of his elbow and he fought the urge to bend his arm and pull her closer.
She stood suddenly, and he was pleased to note a slight flush to her cheeks. “You're right, Wood, this is definitely your perfect sofa.”
“What do you think of these tables?” He pointed to the rich mahogany accessories positioned around the sofa.
“They go well with the set; are you going to get them all?” She had wandered closer to the matching chair, and he had a sudden vision of her in her dressing gown, curled up in the chair with a book. He nodded, swallowing at the image.
“You'll need a rug to go with it,” she suggested.
“Why don't you pick that out? I know nothing about rugs,” he said. She led him to the back of the store, where a large selection of area rugs stood.
“You should pick it out yourself, Wood; it's your flat, after all,” she urged, flipping through the designs. He reached for her hand and slowly spun her to face him.
“Hermione, you live there, too; it's our flat now,” he said seriously, looking down into her chocolate eyes. She ducked her head and turned back towards the rugs, pointing at the one she'd stopped at.
“That one, then.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “Now, we need to get you a decent bed.” It was his turn to drag her across the store, stopping in front of a display model. It had high wooden posts with rails across the top. Drifting from the rails were sheer panels of white and pale blue, pooling slightly as they reached the floor. Oliver fought the image of her lying between the striped sheets, her hair spread across the pillows in a cloud. When his vision cleared, he looked for her, but she was standing some distance away next to the plainest, most boring bed he'd ever seen in his life.
“Hermione, how about this one?” he called, pointing at the blue and white dream.
“Oliver! It's too much,” she said, coming to stand next to him.
“Not at all, lass,” he denied. “It's a very pretty bed, and I won't have any other.”
“You're being far too extravagant, you know,” she laughed. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he'd buy her the moon if it would make her laugh at him that way when a salesperson, smelling a large commission, sidled up to them.
“You simply must try it out,” the woman gushed, grabbing them by the arm and dragging them closer. Oliver gave up resisting when she pushed him backwards on the bed and pulled Hermione to the other side, doing the same to her. For a moment he simply savoured the feeling of lying this close to her, breathing in the subtle scent of vanilla and cinnamon.
“This is the bed for newlyweds,” the woman continued. “The curtains practically scream romance. And isn't it divinely comfortable?” She didn't give them space to answer, merely continued in her nasal voice. “I noticed you looking at the chocolate leather living room set, too. It's absolutely perfect. Are you outfitting your first home?”
Hermione started to stutter a negative, but Oliver stepped in quickly. “Not exactly. We're redecorating my flat,” he hedged. The saleswoman merely nodded, as if she got that answer all the time, and gestured for them to get up, which Hermione did gratefully. Oliver followed suit, mentally groaning at the thought of the nasal voice droning on during his day with Hermione. Thinking fast, he came up with what he hoped was an acceptable compromise.
“Ma'am, I'll make you a deal,” he said, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Leave us alone and I'll pay full retail for everything we buy today.” He could see the wheels spinning in the woman's mind as she frantically calculated the commission on just the two rooms they'd looked at so far, before she nodded, licking her lips in anticipation. She walked back to the counter and Oliver grabbed Hermione's hand and led her over to the kitchen section.
“We're buying that bed,” he informed her. “What did you think of the sheets?”
“The bedding was lovely,” she murmured. “Oliver, are you sure you want to spend so much?”
“I can afford it, if that is what you're worried about,” he chuckled. “The team pays me extremely well, and I've been meaning to get the place spruced up anyway. You coming to stay with me has just been the kick in the rear I needed to do it.”
“If you're sure, then I can't really argue, I suppose,” she sighed.
“Hermione, lass, I'd spend twice that to make you feel comfortable and welcome in my home,” he whispered softly, brushing a curl off her cheek. Her hand fluttered up to still his, and he flattened his palm against her face. Her eyes widened and he dropped his hand to his side.
“Come on, lass; let's go outfit the kitchen.” His voice was gruff, and he dropped her hand, trusting that he hadn't blown it badly enough for her to refuse to follow him. He sighed inwardly in relief as she followed him across the store.
“What color do you think?” he asked her.
“Oliver, it's your flat – you should pick the color,” she repeated.
“Hermione, it's our flat – I want you to feel at home,” he mocked, shooting her a teasing glance.
She teasingly heaved a large sigh before pointing to the black brushed-steel set. “Those. They'll go with anything.”
Two hours and several thousand pounds later, they found themselves back in the flat, sitting down with more Chinese take away and an old film on the telly.
No, I don't think I will kiss you, although you need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how.
Oliver spluttered. “What the bloody hell are you forcing me to watch, lass?” Her laughter made him smile. “'You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how,' eh?” he mocked.
“It's Gone with the Wind, Wood. Surely you've seen it?” Her tone was incredulous.
“Well, it wasn't exactly common in the Wood household to spend an evening watching the telly, being as my entire family thinks that Muggle contraptions are the work of evil.” He snorted as he said the last, thinking of how ashamed his mother would be if she could see him watching the television and eating Chinese food.
“Oh, how sad. It's wonderful,” she sighed. “It was always one of my favorites.”
“So, does this Rhett-bloke say more of that nonsense?” Oliver joked. “Because I think my manhood might suffer from too much of this.”
“I'm sure your manhood will be fine, Oliver. My father watched this with my mother and I all the time and it never seemed to bother him,” she sniffed.
Oliver sighed in contentment. He had his dream girl sitting next to him and a house full of new furniture being delivered the next day. He wasn't due back at his training camp for another three days. He'd have to say, if asked, that his life was just about perfect.
