You fuck her until there's no tomorrow! (jk, you embarass yourself)

Hey, John! What do you do when you meet a fictional person, someone whom you would, at best, call an innocent fantasy and a cursed obsession at worst? Naturally, none of us is gifted with the ability to keep our cool in situations like that. Being the simple creatures we are, we can't escape the idea of mere fantasy. Ah, yes, fantasy. It's not but a **** desire compelled to remain in unsatisfactory lands. And once it gains more than it bargained for, a nightmare is born.

Unlike you who must be exhausted exaggerating about this hypothetic, said imagination of yours never grows tired. It follows an unruly dogma: if _that_ _could happen, surely must also this.

In your case, that's bullshit. Your fantasy can't not happen. Your fantasy has just become very real really quickly. You're thinking in wrong terms, walking on false territory. We're not talking about fantasy or wishful thinking anymore. This is reality. And part of it must be any of your actions and words. Don't forget that.

****

"Her-Her-, HERMIONE?!"

Before another tone climbs out of your hole, she, rationally, hastily leans over you and covers it with her left hand. You'll think about this moment many times afterward. Her face asks for something. She puts her other hand's index on her lips, then points towards the half-open door 10 meters afar. Her eyes try to beg you to keep quiet, thus you nod, going along with her pleading. Cautiously, the dexterous hand slips away; you wish it would stay.

"I'm so sorry! I'd assumed you would be asleep at this moment.", Hermione whisper-mumbles.

You'd kill just to get a chance to try finding all the correct words to tell yourself about how cute, adorable and sweet her voice is, right now. But your mind has other things to worry about: coherence. "It's ok, it's ok, no problem, I mean, no problem at all, and, umm, wow, I mean....."

Fuck! Calm down.

*cough*

"I meant to say, it's all cool. Wow, it's a real pleas-, I mean honor to meet you. You look even more perfect in real life!" _Hehe, nailed it!_ You tool.

You thank the heavens with all your life for the footsteps the two of you hear, and they're growing in sound. Madam Pomfrey? A house-elf? Hopefully not...

Hermione turns her head towards the door, back to you, back to the door, and, without much situation-consideration, tip-toes around your bed and climbs into it from the other side. Out of reflex, you move and make room. You can't be giving much thought to the fact Emma Watson, in her role as freaking Hermione Jean Granger, is just crawling under your bed sheets, hiding her slim waist about a finger-length next to yours. The thrill of getting caught awake by another nightly visitor grabs you as the Whomping Willow has done earlier.

Her, lying completely still under the blanket, and you, burying your head facing the door into the cushions. The steps have stopped talking. You assume somebody must be standing outside, presumably inspecting the surroundings. Steps again. The door opens. You could've guessed that Filch can't keep his nose out of stuff like that. His cat, notorious Mrs. Norris, must've seen Hermione sneak her way towards the hospice room and thus led the school's caretaker.

Will that ferocious feline be successful in busting the two of you? Although, technically, you haven't done anything wrong until now. You're about to.

As you think, you hear him walk up to your bed, humping on one foot. Sweat drops, sweat drops on your comfy cushion. He's getting closer. You don't see it, because you're pretending to be asleep, but the candlelight casts his creepy shadow on the wall next to your bed. His face only a few tiny distances away from you, the grotesque odor of his clothes and breath abuses your nose. But the fear of getting Hermione busted (and thus taken away from you) makes you brave.

You try to stand, or rather, lay your guard, although the unbearable stench of Filch's presence makes it harder, just as the fright-filled figurine of the petite Miss Granger starting to actually press against your back....makes _it _harder.

But, suddenly: a loud cry, howling noises, the sound of several porcelain plates shattering on the floor. Filch turns his head around. You hear him grumbling. And, although you can't see his face, you get the feeling his eyes must be burning bright and red. What the hell?

Then, it all starts to make sense. The aforementioned howling turns into giggling, then into a hysterical fit of laughter; actually, a perverted form of it, rather. Rattling and clattering, as high pitched as possible for a man. As if....as if.....as if the one laughing wasn't one of this world!

Which Peeves, the not-so-friendly houseghost, or rather homeless ghost, has been for quite some time. A plague to some, mostly Filch, a nuisance at best to all the others, and probably a scary boogeyman for the Hogwartian house elves, this ectoplasmatic charlatan likes to spend his eternal life doing macabre jokes or immature pranks towards anyone who happens to walk by him in the castle. And Filch is one of Peeves' favorite victims to ****, just for the fun of it.

With the athletic spirit (heehee) of a Viktor Krum in his prime, the controlling custodian sprints towards the open door, into the lighted hall where explosions, several tiny screams and even louder giggling are to hear, his hissing helper right behind him.

The door closes with a BANG!, and immediately, you let out an exhausted sigh, the sweat still on your foreskin. But while the northern front is as good as gone, the southern begins a strategic attack on the neck area. Hermione lets out a sigh of relief as well, and boy!, the chills it gives you are magical. Geddit?