Author's note: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far. I wanted to explain the title a bit before chapter 1 but somehow I managed to leave the explanation off my author's note. So here is what the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary has to say about umbrage:
Pronunciation: UM-brij
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Middle French, from Latin umbraticum, neuter of umbraticus of shade, from umbratus, past participle of umbrare to shade, from umbra shade, shadow; akin to Lithuanian unksme shadow
Definitions:
1 : SHADE, SHADOW
2 : shady branches : FOLIAGE
3 a : an indistinct indication : vague suggestion : HINT
3 b : a reason for doubt : SUSPICION
4 : a feeling of pique or resentment at some often fancied slight or insult <took umbrage at the speaker's remarks>
synonym see OFFENSE
Also, I wrote seven complete chapters of this story during November 2004 as part of National Novel Writing Month, plus another later chapter that is mostly complete. I hope to post the first few chapters approximately once every 7-10 days. I hope to write at least 3 more chapters by the time the first 7 are posted. But basically I don't think I'll finish this fic until sometime between late March and early June. So if you plan to come along for the whole ride, thank you in advance for your patience. Thanks also to my wonderful betas, MollyMoon, MPotter77 and abigail89. I love them to pieces. Also you might notice a little nod to the wonderful parkergray in this chapter; she's my favorite ficlet writer and I just couldn't resist. ~ Anne U
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Chapter 2
August 5, 2002
They make me sick. I almost caught them snogging in the lift at work today. They think people don't know what they've been doing, but it's written all over their faces. I can always tell when they've been doing it. His ears always look pink and his hair is even messier than usual, like she's been running her grimy little hands through it. She usually seems a bit out of breath; maybe he's been inspecting her tonsils, or trying to suck her soul out, like a Dementor. I've always thought she was a rather soulless little creature. Little Miss Perfect. Teachers' Pet. Even when she did something wrong, she never got punished for it. I don't remember hearing that she'd ever served detention. I can't even catch her snogging him. They've been practicing it for months, that little jump away from each other just as the doors open and people pour into the lift. I almost caught them a few days ago. It was about half an hour after I saw them at Fortescue's. I swear they were both glowing; I bet they went home and had a quickie after lunch. Just once I'd like to catch them in flagrante delicto in the lift. I bet he moves his hand up under her skirt and slips his finger inside her knickers while he's kissing her. And the little harlot lets him do that. She wanted everyone to think she was so prim and proper at school. But I could tell she wanted to shag him senseless, even though he didn't have a clue about what she wanted. Everyone talked about what great friends Granger and Potter were, how he needed her brains and she needed his bravery. And of course Weasley was always with them back then Maybe that's why she never made a move on him until after You-Know-Who was killed; she couldn't get Potter away from that bumbling ginger-headed fool. No matter. Once You-Know-Who was out of the way she had no problems sinking her hooks into him.
The more I think about it the more I'm willing to bet they do it everywhere in their flat…not just in bed, in the dark, like normal people do. I bet if I got into their flat and checked around I could find evidence of them shagging on the kitchen counter, in the pantry, in the shower, in the coat closet in the front hall, on the coffee table…I bet they rut like animals and don't even take their clothes off, he just pushes her knickers aside and she opens his flies and takes him in her hand. And he bites her neck and rubs his thumbs against her breasts through her blouse while he has his way with her. That's what I think they do. I bet they don't even have the decency to take their clothes off and do it in the dark like normal people. Why should they get to do that with each other, when I don't get to do it with anybody? I'm not ugly. I take care of my body. It's not fair. None of it. They're rich and famous (well, he's rich and they're both famous) and I'm a nobody. I shouldn't be a nobody. I come from a pureblood family that has served the Wizarding world for centuries. He's a half-blood and she's a Mudblood. Malfoy was right. They should never have let her into Hogwarts. And stupid Potter should never have gotten his letter. He never would have gone to Hogwarts and met her and she never would have gotten all those ideas in her head.
She's not anyone's better.
I'm going to take a shower now. I hope the water is very cold.
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August 6, 2002
Work was boring, as usual. Went in, shuffled papers, talked to people through their fireplaces, shuffled into the lift (fortunately not encountering Potter and Granger pretending they weren't about to shag), went to the archives, breathed in too much dust from all those ancient files. Same as I do every day. However…I did have an interesting lunch today. I went to Fortescue's and had a small salad and an ice cream soda. No one interesting was there. Probably just as well, as I had another errand to attend to. Now there's an owl sitting in a cage in my living room. I've never had an owl before. I've always had a cat as my familiar. Godfrey is a lovely cat but he can't fly, so I had to get an owl. I've decided to name him Salazar. I've often wondered why I wasn't sorted into Slytherin. I've read Hogwarts, A History (only once, of course, and that was for Binns), and it seemed to me that Salazar Slytherin got a bit of a raw deal.
Regardless, now I have a lovely owl. I think I'll give him a few easy tasks before I send him out to do anything important.
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Harry awoke when a patch of sunlight drifted across his face. Turning onto his side, he snuggled up to Hermione's soft, bare bottom, which felt particularly delectable against his naked skin that morning. His hand drifted down her left arm, then slid underneath until it located the silky skin of her breast. Circling her nipple with his thumb and forefinger, Harry squeezed gently while placing butterfly kisses from Hermione's shoulder up to her ear. The space between her buttocks proved irresistible and he found himself rubbing his hard length between her cheeks, squeezing her nipple a bit more firmly and suckling the tender spot where her neck met her shoulder. If this doesn't wake her up, I don't know what will, he thought as his rubbing became firmer and faster.
Before he could think on it more, Hermione's eyes fluttered open and she turned her head toward him and caught his lips with her own. "Mmmm," she sighed, rocking her bottom against Harry's arousal. "You really know how to wake a girl up properly."
"You like this?" he asked, tweaking her nipple and licking the shell of her ear while he pushed against her more firmly.
"I like any part of you on or in me," she breathed. As she rocked harder against him, she took his hand off her breast and placed it between her legs.
Harry didn't need an engraved invitation to know what Hermione wanted. In a split-second he flipped her onto her back and slid on top of her body, his hand remaining where she'd guided it.
"Just tell me what part of me you like best right now and where I should put it."
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Hermione loved making love with Harry. When their friendship of nine years had finally turned to romance, she'd breathed a sigh of relief and uttered a silent thank-you to whatever gods finally took the blinders off Harry's eyes. Now, two years after that first fateful night of passion, she could barely remember a time when she hadn't awakened next to him. She loved waking up to his strong arms around her, his soft, sensuous lips feathering kisses on her skin, his arousal pressed between her buttocks (something he did often and that gave her a special thrill), the way he kissed his way up her inner thighs until his tongue found its favorite target. Best of all she loved the way he filled her up till she thought her body would burst with sensation and her brain would melt out from between her ears. Like most other couples, their lovemaking had been clumsy at first, but they soon learned the nuances of each other's bodies and exactly where to kiss, lick, touch and push to make the other's body thrum with ecstasy. She didn't care how badly his hair stuck up from his head, or that he didn't have much hair on his chest, or that his fingers were calloused from years of clutching his Quidditch broom. There was nothing she loved more than making love with Harry - nothing except Harry himself.
She did love Harry. More than anything in the world, she'd finally admitted to herself when he went out to face Voldemort alone on Halloween almost four years ago. The thought that she might actually lose him - that he might not return from the battle - had struck her like a sword twisted into her heart. When the smoke of the battle cleared and the medi-wizards took Harry off to St. Mungo's, Hermione had been beside herself with fear and worry. She vowed then that she would do whatever it took to nurse him back to health. As a result she practically lived at St. Mungo's for four weeks while Harry first drifted in and out of a coma, then awoke with amnesia, then finally regained his memory and his strength. When Harry couldn't remember who he was, much less who she was, Hermione left his hospital room, went out into the corridor and cried. Ron came after her and offered a strong shoulder to cry on, for which she thanked him many times over the next few weeks. But what she really wanted was for Harry to return. Her Harry. The man who made her heart stand still whenever she saw him. Two weeks later, when he finally asked for her by name, Hermione knew that Harry was really, truly back.
The road to wellness was a long haul for Harry. Once he was able to recognize his friends and get out of bed on his own, he needed several weeks of Wizarding therapy to regain his strength and his ability to cast proper spells. Hermione was with him every step of the way. She even took a leave of absence from her training at the Ministry of Magic so she could be with Harry whenever he reached a significant milestone in his recovery. Throughout that time, she never once told him that she loved him. Part of her hoped he knew, but another part of her was terrified of saying it for fear that he couldn't or wouldn't say the same words to her.
When Harry was finally ready to leave St. Mungo's, Hermione insisted he move in with her so she could take care of him until he was fully recovered. She was pleasantly surprised when he agreed to this without any debate or discussion. A year and a half later, she stood in their kitchen washing dishes the Muggle way while Harry chatted with her, drinking a butterbeer, just as they'd done on many other nights. Suddenly his lips were upon hers, the butterbeer was sliding down the drain, and Hermione's hips were on the kitchen counter - which gave Harry a better angle from which to suckle her breasts. Ten minutes later she was sliding beneath him in his bed, her skin on fire, blood roaring through her body like lava erupting from a volcano. Neither of them was quite sure what to do with the other's bits but that was okay. She was naked, he was naked, and they were doing naked things together, things she'd dreamed of doing with him but never dared hoped for. She felt like she'd died and gone to heaven.
Now, two years after first giving herself to him completely, Hermione knew she would always love making love with Harry and waking up next to him. As she lay beneath him yet again, panting from their mutual workout, a tiny tear fell from her eye and rolled down her cheek.
Harry noticed.
"Hey… hey…what's up? Don't cry! Was it that bad?" His lips gently kissed the tear away.
"Bugger, Harry…no, it was so not bad I could hardly believe it," she laughed softly. "I'm just amazed that after two years, I'm still lying here doing this with you -"
"Over and over and over again," he smirked.
"Well, yes, over and over and over again. Sometimes on the same morning."
"Like today."
"If they were all like today I'd never be able to walk again."
"Well, we can't have that, can we? I guess I'm going to have to stop shagging you."
Hermione finally smiled. He certainly could be cheeky. It was definitely part of his charm. "Don't you dare!" she squealed and walloped him with one of the loose pillows on the bed.
"Mercy!" Harry laughed, raising his arms in front of his face to ward off her blows.
"Okay," she gave in, deciding she was too hungry to toy with him anymore. "Let's get cleaned up and have something to eat."
Harry nodded and rolled off the bed, then pulled Hermione up to join him. The room was full of sunlight now, which enabled her to fully appreciate the sight of his naked body. His lean chest and Quidditch arse set her blood roaring again, and before she could stop herself she said something she knew she would regret later that day.
"Last one in the shower is a rotten egg," she giggled, racing ahead of him into the bathroom.
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Breakfast was a leisurely affair. Hermione puttered around the kitchen in her red silk dressing gown, making bacon and eggs, while Harry fixed the coffee. She whistled a cheerful tune he didn't recognize, probably some Muggle song she'd learned while growing up. He often envied her normal upbringing, how she grew up in a family that loved her and didn't deprive her of food, lock her in a cupboard or treat her like a servant. Her dressing gown clung to the curves of her hips and ended midway down her thighs, the same thighs that had held his own hips in a vise grip less than an hour ago, tightening around him and urging him toward his goal. Before he could slip further into his erotic reverie, Hermione's voice brought him back to the present.
"How much do you want?"
"Hmm?" Why couldn't he just have her for breakfast?
"How much bacon, Harry?"
"Mmmm… three slices, the usual." She resumed her whistling and he resumed looking her up and down.
"What's that you're humming?" he asked, unable to contain his curiosity.
"Oh, don't you know this? It's a song from the sixties. My Love, by Petula Clark. She was very popular while my parents were growing up. Not like the Beatles of course -"
"Of course not," Harry agreed, relieved that he knew who the Beatles were.
"No, but fairly popular anyway. Mum used to sing this to me at bedtime when I was little. It was part of our routine. I would lean up against her while she read a chapter of a book like Winnie The Pooh or Charlotte's Web, then she'd lean back with me against the pillows and she'd sing this song to me."
She placed a plate full of bacon and eggs at Harry's place at the table. Before he tucked in, Harry looked at his breakfast then looked to Hermione. "Your mum sounds like a wonderful mother," he said quietly.
Hermione said nothing for a moment but stared at her own breakfast. Her eyes were moist and her chest heaved slightly. "Yes, she was quite wonderful. Dad too. I couldn't have had better parents." She looked down at her plate, her eyes clouded in pain.
Harry placed his hand over hers and rubbed his thumb gently on the back of her hand. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."
"It's okay, really," she replied, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "At least I knew my parents. I can't imagine how you survived with those horrible Dursleys."
Harry nodded silently, relieved that he didn't have to explain himself to her. That was one of the best things about his relationship with Hermione. She knew him so deeply and so well that he didn't have to explain his childhood and adolescence to her. With her he could just be. He leaned toward her, intending to kiss her gently, but before he could a loud rap on the kitchen window interrupted him.
"I'll see what it is," he said, getting up from his chair and walking across the kitchen. At the window ledge he discovered a tawny owl carrying a small scroll. Harry took the scroll from the owl's leg, patted the bird's back and shooed it gently off the window ledge. The owl quickly flew off in the direction of St. Paul's Cathedral.
"What's that?" Hermione asked, wiping a bit of egg off the corner of her mouth with her napkin.
"Dunno," Harry said as he opened the scroll. What he found inside disturbed and confused him. Someone had cut letters out of publications and assembled them into words, then glued them to the parchment with a sticking charm. The message was not pleasant.
I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.
I KNOW WHAT YOU DO.
YOU MAKE ME SICK.
"What does it say?" Hermione asked brightly, unaware of the vein now throbbing in Harry's temple.
"It seems to be a threat," he said dully, passing the scroll to her so she could read it. Although Voldemort had been dead almost four years, there were still pockets of his followers across the British Isles and Europe. Harry knew all too well that the remaining Death Eaters would love the opportunity to avenge their master's death. But the wording was odd; it didn't sound like anything a Death Eater would say, especially not to Harry Potter. Death Eaters would definitely mention Voldemort; they might talk about successors to the "Dark Lord". The words on this scroll seemed to be not political, but personal, as though written by someone who didn't like Harry but also didn't give a flip about Voldemort.
"If it is a threat, it's the most vaguely worded threat I've ever seen," Hermione remarked, her eyes narrowing as she seemed to be puzzling out the meaning of the message. "I don't think this is from any Death Eater," she said as though reading Harry's mind. "It's just not on. Definitely not Death Eaters."
"I agree," Harry said. "Not Death Eaters. I've received enough threats from them the past six years to know their style. This is not their style at all."
Hermione pursed her lips and stared at the parchment again. "The cut-out letters are the strangest part. It's like the person doesn't want us to be able to trace where it came from, but he or she doesn't know enough advanced magic to be able to put anti-tracing charms on the parchment. So whoever did this is not exactly an expert at charms and probably didn't take the NEWT-level charms class."
"Probably not. And maybe they watched too many bad Muggle telly shows."
She smiled, then looked at him questioningly. "So are you really worried about this?"
Harry gathered his thoughts for a moment then tossed the parchment in the waste bin under the sink. "No, not really. I'm a public figure - not that I ever wanted to be - but people know who I am. It's probably just some nutter." The tension in his stomach uncoiled enough to allow him to nibble at his bacon. His eggs were already cold so he muttered a warming charm to make them edible.
Hermione finished her bacon, drank the last sip of her coffee and rose from her seat. "You're probably right, sweetheart. I'll try not to worry about it either." With that she kissed him on the cheek and went to get dressed. Harry followed her with his eyes as she left the room, wondering if there would ever be a time when he and Hermione could feel totally safe.
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On Monday morning Harry and Hermione Apparated to the Ministry to begin a new work week. Hermione kissed him goodbye in the lift when he got off at Level 2 then continued down to the Department of Mysteries. Despite being her lover and designated next-of-kin, Harry knew next to nothing about what Hermione did at the DoM because she never talked specifically about anything she was working on. She did tell him she had been sworn to secrecy - literally - when she started working there, so Harry assumed her superiors placed a hex on new employees that would activate only if they revealed any of the secrets they learned. Fortunately he knew Hermione could keep any secret, no matter how dark or deep, if she felt properly motivated, and she certainly had adequate motivation now. She had wanted to work in the Department of Mysteries since her sixth year at Hogwarts. The "Harry Potter Rescue Mission" (as the Ministry badges called it) at the end of fifth year had left an indelible mark on Hermione, who spoke often of the mysterious place during their final years at school. When Harry returned, near death, after he'd vanquished Voldemort, Hermione took a leave of absence from her DoM training to nurse him back to health. While he often wondered what she was working on - especially when she traveled outside Great Britain - Harry never questioned Hermione because he knew she would simply say, "I can't talk about it. Really."
Near noon that day Harry felt a poke on the back of his neck. He knew there were no Doxies in the Ministry building, and a swat on his neck confirmed that the pointy end of a Ministry memo had struck him. He opened the parchment airplane and found Hermione's flowing script:
Dear Harry,
Please meet me at the Leaky Cauldron at half past twelve. I've got orders to go to France for a few days and I'll be leaving this afternoon, so we really must have lunch together today.
Yours,
Hermione
Harry smiled at the idea of having a quiet, intimate lunch with Hermione. He hoped she was able to get one of the small private rooms off the main room. It would be easy enough to cast a silencing charm, a door-locking charm and some cushioning charms once he'd shoved their lunch dishes off the table…. At 12:25 p.m. he left his desk, made his way out of the Ministry, then Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron to meet Hermione. He entered the pub and learned from Tom the barkeep that Hermione was waiting for him in a small room at the back of the pub. As he approached the room, he started to feel light-headed as his blood began to rush below his belt. He couldn't help but smile at what he thought he might find beyond that door.
When he entered the side room, Harry's heart fell a bit. Hermione sat at the table with her hands crossed primly in front of her. Her summer cloak hung from a peg behind the table, which was set with plates, goblets and cutlery for two.
"Hello, sweetheart," she smiled at him. "Close the door, would you?"
"Of course," he replied.
"And lock it with a good strong charm."
He raised his eyebrows at her, wondering if her meaning was what he'd hoped for, but did as she'd asked. "Won't that make it difficult for the waiter to bring our food?" he smirked.
"We can eat food later," she replied huskily, remaining seated as Harry crossed the room slowly, his muscles coiled with tension like a tiger waiting to strike.
He stopped about two feet from the table. Hermione leaned forward slightly, revealing more cleavage than Harry remembered from when he'd left her that morning. She'd unbuttoned the top few buttons of her blouse…
"Before I come any closer," he asked, his voice suddenly rough and dry, "how long are you going to be gone this time?"
"I think three days."
"Three long, lonely days."
Hermione's tongue circled her lips slowly and deliberately. Then she pushed the table aside and Harry discovered why she had remained seated-she was naked from the waist down. She leaned back, pushing her bottom forward to the edge of the chair, then extended her hand to him. Harry took her hand and dropped to his knees between her legs.
"How did you know what I wanted for lunch?" he smiled as he undid his flies.
"Witch's intuition," Hermione smirked, pushing his head between her legs with one hand. "Evanesco, table settings!" she panted a few moments later. "I'll just…transfigure something else…to replace them later."
"Thanks for doing that," Harry rasped, lifting her up from the chair and laying her back on the table. He leaned over and kissed her deeply, twining his tongue with hers. "We might be shagging on Tom's table but let's not break his dishes!"
"Breaking his dishes would be very rude," she squealed as Harry's pants fell down to his ankles and he unbuttoned the last few buttons on her blouse.
"I could never -" he sucked her left nipple -"be rude to Tom" - he moved to her right nipple - "He's done so much for me"- he sucked her collarbone and kissed a trail up to her lips. "After we're done here I'll be sure to thank him -"
"Shut up about Tom. I'm leaving in two hours and I need to eat before I go."
"Good thing you don't need to eat before you come."
"Not food anyway," she giggled.
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