Come the Spring

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything, I promise you.

This is a sequel to my other story, Prelude of Autumn. You don’t have to read it, but I’d advise you to (unless you’ve already read it, of course. And if you have, you could read it again, to have a better flow - if you will).

This is the getting-past-the-insecurities phase. I think it’s sweet. Hee hee. But then, anything H/Hr is sweet, right? Except for that disgusting “I love you, Harry! I love you too, Hermione!” scene. But enough about my pet peeves and me, eh?

Enjoy!

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- Come the Spring -

They had not seen it coming, nor would they know what to do if it had not come.

Their very lives were altered, twisted, distorted - molded into something completely and utterly new. And all that they once held as concrete fact and way of life was rattled and shaken to its downfall. But still remained the immobile actuality that they needed each other, and that was what they held on to.

Fruitless as it was to convince or even explain the depth of their adoration, they stayed outside on that cold, frostbitten autumn evening, unknowing of what to do. Had they merely walked into a dream? What kind of strange adversary would arise once they set foot in the Great Hall?

Yet it did not feel dreamlike.

Harry glanced at the young woman beside him and knew it was real. He felt the tug of his heartstrings, the sudden overwhelming sensation of tranquility, and, most of all, a nearly tangible feeling of comfort and hospitality. He decided, without hesitation, that that was the most wonderful feeling of all.

It caught him by mild surprise when a hand, chilled by the bitter wind, suddenly snaked into his own and squeezed his fingers reassuringly. Harry’s eyes locked onto Hermione’s and burned with such desire that she gasped audibly, and almost lunged towards him in a desperate embrace. But she contained herself; stood as still as stone, watching his eyes burn; watching his lips curl into a lopsided smile.

And still he did not say those three loving words.

She loved him as much as one person was able. She did not need wooing or fancy demeanors. Had it not been there all along, she might have been offended, heartbroken, or maybe even angry; but it had, and it had blossomed to the point where it took a charismatic leap and left behind the awful silliness of pre-adulthood. But it was not infatuation. This was pure love, untainted by cooing and coddling. It was raw, burning love that could never be satisfied. It was the kind of primordial love, which held its place even through the toughest of battles, the worst of famines, the horrid ruins of mankind. It did relegate to say that their love was child’s play of adolescents all around the world, because it was not, and never would be. They had too much to offer. Too much to sacrifice. They would not simplify their love.

It would be wrong to say that they knew this, but it would be wrong also to say that they did not. They comprehended their love to a limit, and then there was a cutoff, a sudden stop. Their wisdom could only bring them thus far. Afterwards, it was to stumble blindfolded through life until they reached the age where hindsight was obtainable.

Harry squeezed her hand back, looking into her flushed face. Her eyes gazed back, intelligent, thoughtful, and loving - labyrinths of emotions stretching as far and wide as a vast oceanic body.

She smiled shyly, and warm heat spread from the soles of his feet to his quivering fingertips. He could not fool himself. He wanted that passion once again, the scorching desire of lips against lips, skin against skin. He wanted to feel her body pressed up against his, her hands cradling his face, her hair whipping against his cheeks in the fell wind. But Harry knew her too well. He knew her every detail, down to her annoyingly endearing swaggering smirk after a rightly answered question. She was not just any girl.

“Why me?”

It was a simple inquiry in itself, yet the meaning was bafflingly complex. And it was Hermione who spoke, not Harry, which made him all the more confused. He had been contemplating the same question for himself, and he had yet to present a suitable answer for his own benefit.

He stared at her in light bemusement. How could he explain such a magnificence as herself? “Because.”

“Because?” She was cynical. Her nose was crinkled slightly.

“Why are you asking me this?” asked Harry, puzzled.

“Oh, Harry.” Her voice was now soothing, rhythmic, a kitten’s soft purr. “You never cease to amaze me. Can’t you see? I guess it’s just my … lack of self-confidence, you know. It’s difficult to swallow, you and me being … involved … in this way.” She made a strange gesture with her hand.

Harry’s smile vaporized. He felt leaden.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” Hermione said quickly, “I just … feel …” She sighed. “My goodness Harry, I’m just a dull, boring bookworm.”

He stared at her ashen face for a moment until the reality of the situation clicked in his mind. “You’re not boring or dull, Hermione, you’re wonderful.”

A tinge of flattering color appeared on her cheeks. “You don’t have to say that, Harry …”

“You’re right,” he said, “I don’t. But I did, and I’m being completely truthful.”

He took her hand in both of his own, and looked deeply into her large amber eyes. “Didn’t it feel so right?”

“Yes,” she whispered hoarsely.

He tucked a stray, windswept wisp of hair behind her ear, leaning towards her so that his nose was touching hers, his breath caressing the corners of her eager lips. She shivered, stared into his bottle green eyes. She tilted her head up and moaned in impatience, “Harry… please…”

His lips touched hers ever so lightly, starting with pent-up passion; a trickling stream winding its way to a raging river. The basis was to test the waters, and when it accepted him with zeal, he suddenly crashed down upon her, holding her against him, weaving his fingers through her auburn ringlets of hair, kissing the parting of her lips with such uncontrolled craze that she shivered ecstatically. She felt his lips on her neck and she closed her eyes, hurriedly blocking the rest of the world from her pleasure. She wanted this one time, just one, where she and he were not merely loyal companions, but something much deeper that ran along the roots of human desire.

But then, it could not just be one time. Suddenly she knew that. If he rejected her now, she would slowly wilt away, until all that was left was a hollowed body and soul. How could she even fool herself into thinking such nonsense? She knew. She knew that she loved him more than anyone. She could not just let go and allow him to be taken away.

She pressed her lips to his in renewed vigor, pulling away moments later only because of her shortage of breath. Her hand went to his cheek, caressing the face she knew so well.

“Do you understand?” he asked quietly, intertwining his fingers with hers.

She embraced him then as though she had backtracked, and were eleven once again; the finest of friends, taking comfort in one another, not allowing of the other to be in pain or crisis. Their lives had been changed - as they bound to be viewed - but the friendship they had kept for so many years stayed intact - stronger, perhaps, than ever before.

It had begun.

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Thanks for staying with me. This is the closest thing to fluff I can write…

Hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it! This was refreshing for me.

-Lauren