Author's note: Thanks to everyone for the wonderful feedback! I feel so encouraged. I'm extremely surprised to get such positive reactions from this...I'm a terribly lazy writer, and I write smut because it's just so damn easy. I apologize for the lack of plot, and the rather disjointed feel this story probably has. I wrote each chapter as a stand-alone kind of thing, each months apart when I was bored, and only just now am stringing them together to try and make some kind of coherent story. This chapter is sweeter than the previous ones, but hopefully not too sugary...I can't stand fluff. (Let me know if you think this is too cutesy-snuggly-bunny orwhatever.) Anyway, I'll stop rambling and let you carry on with the story. Again, thanks for reading...I hope you enjoy this chapter, which I wrote specifically for the purposes of pleasing you readers. ;) This one's for you, guys!
P.S. Please excuse any remaining formatting errors. I think I fixed most of them...but my laptop is a bitch. Damn it!
Harry awoke to the lonely, frightful hours of early morning, covered in sweat from a horrific nightmare. The past years had made him used to troubled sleep, but never had he been more disturbed by dreams than tonight. Waking proved to be little solace for a dream of such intense effect, and as he sat up in bed, a warm rush of nausea made its presence known in his stomach. Swinging his feet off the edge of his bed, he stumbled to his bathroom and retched into the toilet, the grip of terror still firm and keen. His chest heaved as he braced himself against the sink, his heart pounding violently against his bare chest as he fumbled for a glass of water to rinse the vile taste from his mouth. Gradually the flavor of bile was lost, while the distinct tang of fear remained, the cold white hand of terror boldly refusing to release its firm grasp. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand as he groped his way through the dark back towards his bed, knowing all the while that he would find no comfort there tonight.
It was not uncommon for Harry to wake up with the desire to see Hermione, but never had the need been this strong. Tonight it pushed past the hormonal boundaries of want into an intense need, and without a thought of donning his glasses or a t-shirt, he made his way instinctually to her room.
It was only when he saw her graceful form beneath the soft downy covers of her bed that his pulse lessened and could finally draw a solid breath into his lungs. The steady rise and fall of her chest assured him that she was no illusion; the air he breathed was the air she breathed, and they were both alive. He was loath to wake her, but felt he could not truly rest until he had once again seen her eyes and heard her voice.
Softly, he shook her shoulder until sleep abandoned her and she groggily opened her eyes to see him looking down on her. Before she could question his unexpected presence, the answer hit her as she saw the glimmer of tears in his large emerald eyes. "Oh, Harry," she said softly. "Did you have a bad dream?"
He nodded solemnly as he climbed under the covers with her, pulling her tight against him, running his hands up and down her back in the hope of convincing himself that she was truly corporeal. "I dreamt that you were dead," he whispered finally, his voice uncharacteristically shaky, the sharp edge of pain and fear evident in his tone.
"I'm not," she said simply, taking his hand and placing it over her heart. "See?" she asked. "More alive than ever." His vision was blurred without his glasses, but he saw a smile cross her face. He could feel her heart beating fast within her chest.
"Are you scared?" he breathed.
"Of what?" she asked. Her voice was so soft he could barely make out the words.
"Of dying." She could feel his breath, warm against her cheek. For a moment she was silent.
"I'm scared of losing you," she said honestly. He inhaled deeply, absorbing her words and letting the silence wrap out between them, its silver gossamer threads binding them there together in the dark.
"I hope I die before you," he choked after some long minutes.
"Don't say things like that, Harry."
"But it's true," he said.
"It's selfish, but it's true - if you were dead, I -- I don't think I could make it." His voice was unsteady, a deep baritone of emotion.
"I know what you mean," she said quietly, her voice full of understanding. His hand was still on her chest and she wrapped her small one around it, squeezing it gently.
"I've never told you that before," he said.
"I knew it anyway."
"How did you know?"
"I read it in a book somewhere," she joked softly. He smiled, but said, "I'm serious, Hermione. I should have told you a long time ago."
"Told me what?"
"That - that you're the most important thing in my life. You and Ron, I mean. But mostly you." The sheets beneath his face were wet from his quiet tears.
"I love you too, Harry," she said with a small smile. They had said it a thousand times before, but it was different now. Maybe they weren't in love. Maybe they were. But whatever it was, it was love in some form. Love in its purest, rawest sense - desperate, reckless, and complete.
The silence spanned out around them once more, and he kissed her forehead softly. She sighed against his naked chest and said, "You'd better get to sleep."
"I can't sleep," he mumbled into her hair. "I have to stay awake...have to know that you're safe." His words were heavy with the mummer of exhaustion.
For a moment she said nothing, finally interrupting the silence with a simple command. "Take your pants off," she said quietly.
He was completely still for a moment, thinking he must have imagined it. "What did you say?" he asked, sure that he had misunderstood her.
"Don't ask questions," she said, the authoritarian in her taking over. "You trust me, don't you?"
Stunned, he did as he was told, pushing his pants down over his hips and kicking them off his feet. In the dark, he could barely see her face as she smiled down at him, slowly moving closer to plant a soft, wet kiss on his lips. Distracted by these ministrations, he barely noticed her hand as it drifted down his torso.
His eyes flew open at the unexpected touch of her hand on his dick, already hard from her bold command, growing harder by the moment as her soft tongue slipped into his mouth. He could feel her breasts against his chest through the thing material of her tank top as she leaned over him, her free hand lacing through his messy black hair. He moaned as she wrapped her little fingers around the length of him, impossibly hard, harder than he could ever remember being. "What are you doing?" he managed to gasp.
"Giving you a hand job," she mumbled against his lips, her tone casual, as if it were the most innocent thing in the world. Her thumb found the small bead of moisture at the head of his penis and rubbed it in a lazy circle around the head, causing him to jerk his hips at the touch. She was fascinated by the feel of it, how unbelievably hard he was, and yet how soft and smooth the skin there was.
"I've never done this before," she said needlessly, feeling a bit breathless herself. "Am I doing alright, Harry?"
He could only nod as she began to stroke him slowly, twisting her hand slightly with each up and down motion. Her hand was soft but she kept a firm grip on his member, squeezing him ever so slightly, a delicious pressure, letting the heel of her palm caress the head with each stroke as he throbbed in her grasp. There was not enough oxygen in the room to fill his lungs, and she moved her mouth away from his to better hear the little moans he made, sucking at his neck in soft, wet kisses. Gradually she moved her hand faster, gripping him harder, relishing the feeling of him thrusting into her grasp, his breathing labored with delicious little groans of satisfaction rolling off his lips.
"Do you like that?" she teased him, her voice barely a whisper.
"I'm - I'm going --" he could barely speak, "--to come," he gasped, his hips bucking up off the bed.
"That's the idea," she said silkily into his ear. "Come for me, Harry." She fondled his balls as she increased her efforts of stroking his shaft, and within seconds, the combination of her touch and her erotic commands sent him tumbling over the edge, spilling himself onto her sheets and on her hand, which continued to move on him until the last drop was spent. "Scourgify," she whispered, cleaning up the mess as his breathing returned to normal.
"Where did you learn how to do that?" he asked, amazed.
"I read about it," she said matter-of-factly. "Nothing is more soporific than a good orgasm."
"Did you read that, too?"
"No..." she said, "I know that from experience." She smiled coyly at him and kissed his cheek softly
Harry couldn't agree more. With the last of his remaining energy, he dipped his head down to kiss her one last time.
"In the morning," he panted, "we'll --"
But she cut him off. "Shh. Go to sleep, Harry."
And at these words, exhaustion set in and he drifted off to sleep by her side, the first truly peaceful rest he had
felt in many months.
A/N: Ooh la la...a cliff hanger of sorts. What does Harry plan on them doing in the morning? I think we all know. ;) I will update according to reader response, as always. :)
P.S. Grr...after 6,782,586,283 tries, I finally got the fucking format to work on this chapter. Arrrggh!! Fucking computers. Where's my damn typewriter?