Sometimes, when Harry had so many things on his mind—well, they weren’t so many as they were so massive—bits of the things he chose to hide snuck up to the surface and displayed themselves in his actions. So much for hiding them.

In the past, it had been things like nightmares he didn’t want anyone to know about. His friends, at least, could always tell that something was wrong, especially if he was too busy worrying about exams and Voldemort and Quidditch to even think of hiding the fact that he was having the nightmares.

This was one of those times when the amount and size of all he had to think of was so over-flowing that something he’d been fighting to keep down for at least a year now slipped out.

His mind teeming over with thoughts of Voldemort, Quidditch, Dumbledore, exams, death, life, vengeance, and oddly, something about that pumpkin pie remained on his mind—Harry wasn’t guarding it. The militia surrounding his heart had been fighting off, without pause, the sneaking "Tell her" for over a year now, and they were quite tired, as it was.

It was after supper, after he’d eaten that nagging pumpkin pie. He shouldn’t have eaten it; he was, ultimately, the only one at the table once he’d finished, but, alas, he’d eaten it, and now he had to suffer the consequence of heading up to the Gryffindor Tower alone. His stomach full of the gingery pumpkiny mush (that’s how this author thinks of it anyway), his heart attempting to beat off the tired soldiers (unbeknownst to his brain, of course; the brain can never keep track of the heart, you know), his mind running over the inevitable facing of Voldemort one last time and the results that would mean either life or death, his fingers sliding across the stone walls and over the stairway banisters, his feet shuffling against the stone flag floor, he slowly made his way to the common room, where his Transfiguration homework awaited him. Lovely subject, Transfiguration. It evoked such confidence of victory in Harry to see daily death omens.

It’d be funny if all that ginger were actually rat poisoning, he mused, kill me off the good old Muggle way—
"Harry?"
Having thought and walked himself into a fuddled self, he blinked a few times at the sound of his name and realized he was staring at a stone wall. He must’ve taken a wrong turn or something along the way…
"What are you doing up here?"
He turned around, facing the voice he’d recognized but failed to register immediately. "Where’s here?" he inquired stupidly.
Rat poisoning, he confirmed. He did stoop that low.

The answer to his question was quite obvious now that he’d turned around. The telescopes and pale moonlight gave away that he’d somehow managed his way up to the Astronomy Tower. And there was Hermione, perched up on one of the wide sills circling the room, arms looped tightly around her knees and eyes staring inquisitively at Harry.

Upon eye contact, he immediately felt squeamish, on which he blamed the rat poison. The militia was poked back into place, but his heart squashed them in seconds. Harry didn’t know, though.
"I seem to have taken a wrong turn," said Harry lamely when Hermione didn’t respond.
"Oh." She looked away, out one of the immense side windows, down at the lake glittering like little fireflies some distance away.

She looked so small, sitting there in an almost fetal position. The soft light slipped beneath her thick hair and highlighted the side of her face he could barely see, a thin stream sparkling against a single tear sliding slowly, roughly down the quivering skin that was Hermione’s cheek.

The militia was dead, and Harry knew it. His heart slipped down into the depths of his clenching stomach, and it was in that moment that Harry realized if he didn’t let it out, it wouldn’t be rat poisoning or magic that would kill him; it would be spontaneous combustion, as he was about to blow in that very moment.

Unsteady in the truth he’d finally accepted, Harry moved across the room to Hermione’s window and sat on the spot next to her, forcing himself to maintain distance. He’d fought this for over a year, these confused feelings he’d developed for his female friend. She was untouchable. To think of her in any way but platonic seemed to violate the very values on which their friendship was based. At least, that’s what his mind told his heart, but, as said before, the heart never listens to the mind.

He wet his lips. They felt cracked, his throat parched, his stomach clenched, and his hands sweaty, so when he spoke, his voice shook. "What’s wrong?" he asked quietly, trying to shield the tremor in his voice through softness.

She bit her lip. Harry wished she hadn’t. This action had drawn his attention to this specific attribute of hers, and now he found he couldn’t look away. It was quite fascinating how red Hermione’s lips were when she chose not to wear make-up, and the downward curve in the middle of her upper lip begged for inspection from his tongue.

He closed his eyes tightly. But the images still remained, and his stomach turned hotly.

"I just can’t stop thinking about it," said Hermione softly.

He opened his eyes. She was looking at him now, her brown eyes sparkling with unshed tears. She was fighting them, but still a few slipped by and rolled down her cheeks.

On instinct, Harry reached out and brushed one away, failing to realize his action until after it had been completed. And to Harry’s surprise, Hermione leaned her head slightly to the side Harry had brushed. "I keep thinking that you have so much to think about, so much to bring you down, and you’re not showing it."

He slid his thumb over the salty wetness of the tear he’d collected on his index finger. "I’m okay," he said hoarsely.

Actually, I’m not. But not in the way that you would think.

Hermione laughed slightly. "You know, sometimes I just want to grab your shoulders and shake you and tell you, ‘Just let it out, Harry! Just let it out or it’ll kill you!’"

She looked at him with a sad smile on her face, half her lips curved while the other remained straight. "You can tell me things, Harry. You know that, right? If there’s anything you need to tell me, I just want you to tell me. I can’t stand the thought of losing you, and I feel like I am."

The tear had dried on his hand. "You’re not," he whispered. "I just can’t tell you everything."

"Why not?" she persisted, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Because—" He stopped, picked up his eyes. Looked into hers. "God, Hermione," he moaned.

"What?" she asked, looking startled, retracting her arm, but not before he reached out and grabbed a hold of it.

"I’ve been fighting a lot of things. Some I’ve won, some I have yet to finish, and some I lost." He hesitated. "You’re one I lost."

She blinked at him, confused. "You didn’t lose me, Harry."

"No, but I lost myself to you."

Hermione was puzzled, and her face made a great show of it. Lines formed on her forehead and her nose wrinkled, her eyes slipping down to the floor in thought. "What are you saying?" she whispered.

Harry was surprised at the intensity of her words. By the look of her face, he’d assumed she was bewildered, but her voice suggested the opposite.

He couldn’t take it. He had to risk it, or he’d die.

His hand snuck under Hermione’s chin and tilted her face to his, forcing her eyes up. Her mouth opened slightly as she let out a breath of surprise. "Harry?" she asked.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His insides were rattling too hard. All he could do was slowly lower his lips down until they were pressed against Hermione’s, until the delicate skin of his own dry lips met up against her soft, damp once, until the breath she released made a direct transfer from her mouth into his, and it was then, at that moment, his heart jumped back up and went from clenching his stomach to pounding against him and forcing his lips to press harder into Hermione’s. He felt the curve he’d noted earlier slide across his lower lip as he tilted his head, shutting his eyes, and felt, to his relief, Hermione respond. She must have noticed his lips were rather dry because she wasn’t very hesitant in adding moisture from her mouth onto his.

He decided in that moment that lip balm was completely unnecessary when it was obvious Hermione’s saliva could heal all wounds.

Everything that had been clogging his heart and mind subsided as Hermione’s front teeth clashed against his, the militia was swept away as her tongue met his, and he got an adrenaline rush that lifted his spirits he didn’t think even the best Quidditch match could ever live up to.

It was only when their oxygen level went to a dizzying low that they pulled apart, and at that, they didn’t pull very far away.

"You’re wrong," Hermione whispered suddenly, touching her swollen lips.

"What?" Harry asked.

"You’re wrong about losing."

"I am?"

"You didn’t lose, Harry." She smiled slightly. "It was a stalemate. A tie. We both fought it, I think. But in the end, we both threw down our crowns at the same time and accepted the fact that sometimes, you can’t always fight it. And you know what?"

"What?"

"You taste like pumpkin pie."

And thats why were called the HMS Pumpkin Pie. :)