I'd Do Anything

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Warning: Explicit sexual activity between consenting minors. Age ain’t nothin’ but a number people!

Hermione’s POV

I hadn’t slept well in months. The stress of beginning fifth year, along with the events at the end of the TriWizard tournament had really taken a toll everyone, and I was feeling the burning of the candle from both ends.

Coming back from summer holidays, we were all a bit taken aback by the differences in our appearances. Harry and I spent the last three weeks of the summer at the Burrow with the Weasley clan. Harry had lost much of the roundness in his face, making him look even more like his father, the planes and angles of his jaw and cheek bones highlighting the haunted look about his eyes. He had also grown several inches and that, along with his unkempt black hair, gave him a very imposing figure, almost Snape-like in intensity.

Ron was much more subdued this year; he spent more time playing chess with Harry than ever, rarely pulling pranks or getting into mischief with Fred and George. He’d grown taller as well, out reaching Harry by a couple of inches. The brassy red of his hair was settling into a more auburn color and he’d gained some muscle tone working the loading docks at Flourish and Blotts over the summer. He’d tried out and made the Quidditch house team this year – our keeper. More and more, Ron was maturing into a very responsible wizard, and one of my best friends.

Most of the students in our year had lost their baby fat and had grown a bit. Neville Longbottom had thinned out quite a bit and had begun dating Pavarti Patil during our second week back. I felt good for Neville; he deserved some happiness in his life. Of course, Draco Malfoy was still the same slimy little git he’d been since day one. I was happy to note that he hadn’t grown more than an inch or two over the holiday.

We all felt older, certainly. The shadow of Cedric Diggory loomed large in everyone’s mind, though no one seemed to want to discuss it.

Especially Harry. Ron said he’d tried more than twice to bring the subject up and give Harry a chance to talk about it. He hadn’t, but was having tremendous nightmares that kept the dormitories up more nights than not. The screams penetrated even Professor Flitwick’s best silencing charms, filling the air with muffled moans and wails.

For all Harry’s problems, he actually acted as if he was on an even keel most of the time. He did scream at Colin and Dennis Creevey for following him around, but mostly he answered people’s queries and smiled at the jokes as would seem normal.

But he was quite depressed. Ron and I could see the tension in his shoulders and the hollows in his eyes. We were becoming worried that Harry would do something drastic if he didn’t find someone to confide in, even if it wasn’t us. Visits to Dumbledore’s office (which we made after any particularly bad night of screaming from Harry’s bed) were fruitless, as the Professor seemed to think Harry’d work it all out.

So it was unusual that the night was utterly silent. I threw my quilt back and came out of bed, donning a light robe to cover my thin nightgown. I grabbed my copy of ‘Hogwarts, A History’ hoping that a review of the last 500 years would be just the thing to send me off to dreamless sleep in front of the fire.

Dismounting the stairs, I saw the fire still burning brightly in the grate. Coming around the back of the sofa, I found Harry sitting there, his sock feet extended as he slumped into the cushions. He was still dressed, his tie and glasses on the end table beside him.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He looked at me morosely. “Letting the house get a little sleep. What’re you doing up?”

“Too quiet.” I came round and sat down next to him. For several minutes we sat there, saying nothing. Although I’d known Harry for more than four years, I couldn’t think of anything that would get him to open up and share whatever had been tormenting him. His eyes had turned to muddy green and were sunken into their sockets from lack of sleep. I was truly scared for him to have to endure what had happened with only his thoughts alone for comfort.

“He wanted me to have the Cup all to myself, you know that, don’t you?” Harry turned his face to me briefly, then returned it to the flames.

“Harry –“

“- But I insisted that we both take it at the same time, so we could be dual victors. I wanted to be sure that everything was fair, and since he’d gotten to the cup at the same time I did…well, it was my sense of parity got Cedric killed.”

“Tell me, Harry.”

Staring deeply into the flames, he started talking about entering the labyrinth, all of the animals and challenges he’d met, slowly at first, then the words started to flow out of him like a floodwall had burst. The discussion. The port key trophy. Cedric’s death. I laid my hand over his as he spoke quietly.

I was shocked at Voldemort’s cruelty as well as Harry’s conviction that he could have done something to prevent Cedric’s death. He recounted the meeting of his and Voldemort’s wands and the incredible events that occurred while they were connected.

“…and then Cedric’s ghost – he – it – asked me, asked –“ his face contorted with the memory. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. I rubbed his back as he struggled to maintain composure.

Finally he raised his head and sat back. “After that, what could I do? I’d already killed him –“

“Harry –“

“Don’t tell me it isn’t my fault. I’m to blame for so much, so many –“ his face crumpled as he began to cry in earnest. I pulled him into my embrace as he cried, great wracking sobs that shook through us both. Tears coursed down my face as I realized what he’d been reliving in his mind every day and night, and how wrong he was about his role in meeting Voldemort.

I held him until he was calmer, his shuddering breaths more regular before I spoke.

“Harry, you are wrong. You were, and are, the savior of the wizarding world. Probably of the entire world. If you hadn’t lived that night, destroyed Voldemort’s power, no one could have stopped him. Not even Dumbledore. You have saved more lives than anyone. You can’t change what happened. You didn’t know.”

“I should have guessed. I shouldn’t have been so willing –“

“Could you have grabbed that cup in front of Cedric, thinking at the time that you would have to face him in the Great Hall, knowing he got there first?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “No.”

I ran my hand through his hair, a motion to soothe his disquieted thoughts, the smooth strands flowing over my fingers. He sighed again and relaxed into me. I understood that he wanted to be held, so I held him, laying my head on top of his, our arms around each other.

We stayed like that for an eternity, it seemed, although it may have been as short as fifteen minutes. His heart thudded through his light sweater, his breath alternately warming and cooling the damp spots left by his tears. I shivered slightly at the sensation, drawing another sigh from him. Instinctively I kissed the top of his head, remembering how reassuring it felt to me.

Slowly his head came up from my shoulder. I angled my head back slightly to meet his eyes. They were still cloudy, but there was a strange look in them as he gazed at me. I became aware that we were staring at each other, eyes moving over the other’s face. Without thinking, I dipped my head and captured his lips to mine. His eyes fluttered closed and his head tipped back to press his lips more firmly to mine.

I shut my eyes and concentrated on the feel of his lips against mine, slightly wind-roughened and salty, certainly male. He squeezed his arms around me, sitting erect, his lips now above mine, pressing with a light suction. I allowed my lips to go slack and I was surprised when the kiss didn’t end, but became deeper. He tentatively touched his tongue to my lips.

Somewhere in the corner of my mind I knew this was a psychological reaction to verbal intimacy, but I was reacting outside of thought. My tongue met his and our mutual gasps were loud in the quiet of the common room. He sealed our lips together, exploring the recesses of my mouth with his tongue as I opened my mouth wide to him.

Our mouths still fused together, I slid my hands under his jumper and oxford shirt, over his hot skin. He made a small noise and his hand went to my nape, tilting me forward. His other hand was resting on the curve of my waist, moving up and down a few inches.

I broke the kiss first. Breathing heavily, I grabbed the hem of his sweater and pulled it up and over his head, watching as his hair resettled. Nibbling at his lips, I worked the buttons of his shirt until it hung loose. My hands began a new tracing of his chest; Harry released a low groan into my mouth.

“Hermione,” he said in a gruff voice I didn’t recognize.

“What?” I responded in a husky voice I didn’t recognize.

“I think we should stop.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I want this.”

Later I would replay this scene over and over again, wondering what possessed me to offer myself to him. Possibly I thought that stopping at that point would be too awkward, just as awkward as if we’d gone all the way anyhow. Possibly because I wanted to take his mind off of his anguish for a little while. Hell, possibly because I was in love with Harry and not sure how to show it.

Emerald sparks flashed in his eyes as he opened the tie of my robe. He looked into my face before putting his lips to my neck. His hands came up and cupped my breasts, which were already peaked from the feel of his breath on me. He brushed his thumbs back and forth over the crests and I arched forward to give him better access.

I pulled him down over me when his lips returned to mine. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at me.

“Are you sure?” he panted lightly.

“Yes.” I could feel his hardness pressing through his trousers and into my cleft. Small shards of dread were creeping up my spine, disrupting the tingling desire enveloping me, and I had to steel my resolve to go through with this.

“It’ll hurt.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

He kissed me over and over until I felt dizzy and my fears faded to a small space in my mind. I ground my hips into his; he lifted the hem of my nightgown, kissing, laving and suckling my breasts until I was writhing under him, wanting him to assuage the tension growing between my legs.

I fumbled with his belt buckle but managed to get it undone. Between the two of us, we got the button open and zipper down. I reached out to grasp his prick in my hand, stroking it experimentally. Breath hissing, Harry pushed the fabric from his pelvic area and down his legs.

He slanted forward and hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties. “This is it, Hermione. If you want me to stop at any time, tell me and I will.”

I shook my head, but the fact was that I seriously doubted my decision. It was on the tip of my tongue to call the whole thing off when he touched me. Down there. In just the right spot. My legs fell apart naturally as he fingered my clit; my cries were muffled by the pressure of his mouth on mine. And when he slid a finger into me, I could stand no more. I bucked against it, loving the feel of it, the threads of pleasure swirling into my belly. My fingers moved on his cock in rhythm with his movements.

He removed his finger and I would have cried out for him to continue, but he shifted his weight and settled between my thighs. All of the air left my lungs, replaced by gut-wrenching fear. With shaking fingers, I guided him to my entrance, then looked into his face.

“I’ll try not to hurt you,” he said, the lines of his face hard with pent-up tension.

“It’s okay. Just do it.”

I forced myself to keep my eyes open while he penetrated me, but when he gave the final push, my eyes screwed shut against the burning pain that lanced through me. Harry began to move over me, carefully and slowly. The pain began to diminish almost immediately, leaving me feeling full as I felt Harry’s prick against my tight walls.

I pulled my legs back and was rewarded when Harry went deeper inside. I opened my eyes to see Harry over me, supporting himself on his hands. His face was taut with concentration, the cords of his neck rigid, his lower lip between his teeth as he held back, trying not to hurt me.

“Harry,” I whispered.

He opened his eyes and looked down at me, moving even more slowly, almost at a stop. “Yeah,” he panted.

I pulled on his arms, trying to bring him down on top of me. “Harry, do it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. It feels good now. Please.”

He didn’t increase his pace right away, but pushed in deeper each time he thrust. It only took a few minutes before I was moving against him, wanting more.

“More, Harry, faster.”

He did both. The sensations he created in me pooled in my stomach, coiling tightly.

“Harry…” I moaned as the coil unwound, causing me to arch and buck as my release washed over me. The ripples seemed to go on forever until I realized that some of them belonged to Harry.

Opening my eyes, I saw the top of Harry’s head. It came up slowly, revealing his sweaty, flushed countenance. He laid his head back on my shoulder, and again I heard the thundering of his heart. I smiled and ran my hands through his hair, now wet from exertion.

“We’d better get to bed,” Harry told me half an hour later. “It’ll be sunup in less than an hour.”

“Okay.” I pulled the lapels of my robe together and stretched as I stood. We kissed softly as we parted ways for our respective dormitories.

“Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for listening. For everything.” He smiled at her.

“I’d do anything for you, Harry.”

His face turned serious. “I know. You’d do anything. I’d do anything for you.”

“I know.”

We both turned and walked up the stairs.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: This is simply Harry’s POV.

Harry’s POV

I wished I had never been born. True, I was already a famous and reputedly powerful wizard, but as Snape once said, ‘Fame isn’t everything.’

The first months after the TriWizard tournament were the worst. Just imagine your greatest fears and insecurities have all come to attack you and no one understands or believes you. They all say its not you, that you’re not the one to blame; the thing is, they’re wrong. Everything from the beginning of your life is wrong, utterly wrong. I am the opposite of Voldemort, but the same. We both destroy everything we touch with magic.

The Dursleys’ kicked me out of their house after less than two weeks. That’s when the night terrors started. I owled Mr. Weasley and he agreed to pick me up in the Leaky Cauldron, where I stayed after the night bus dropped me off in Diagon Alley. At the Burrow, I was glad of the chaos; it took my mind off of my guilt most days. Ron and I passed much time beating bludgers, degnoming the garden and playing chess. I would sneak out of the house every night and sleep in the garden as not to scare everyone, returning before dawn or when Ron dragged me back to the house.

For the first time ever, I dreaded the return to Hogwarts. Hermione came to the Burrow for the last few weeks of the summer. She’d grown taller and more willowy, actually quite beautiful. I wondered if she would be the next target for Voldemort, or would he pick Ron?

As I imagined, things did not improve once I returned to school. People either stared at me or ignored me or more terrible yet, treated me with forced cheerfulness that clearly belied a desire to be far away from me. Malfoy dogged my steps every minute, trying to get me to react. But his taunts didn’t make me angry. Nothing did. I felt nothing but gnawing guilt all of the time.

Ron and Hermione were the only ones who didn’t seem all that put on around me. I played chess with Ron as much as we played Quidditch. His was the first face I saw in the night as he woke me from the endless number of dreams that peppered my sleep, his eyes bright with worry. Several times he tried to ask me about what had happened, about what happened on the other side of the portal; I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him. I knew he would tell me it wasn’t my fault and not to feel guilty, et cetera. What he didn’t understand, what no one understands, was that I was the person who wanted Cedric to take the cup. Alone. Then I could ease out of the spotlight for a while, let him have the glory for the Hufflepuffs. I don’t know why I couldn’t have just grabbed the cup and left him there. That scene replays over and over, the moment our hands closed over the handles, consigning Cedric to his death and me to purgatory.

A couple times a week I would stay in front of the fire in the common room, awake for most of the night. More than anything, I wanted to think in silence, but also to let everyone get a quiet night of sleep. The tired faces of the Gryffindor students attested to the severity of my nightmares, as no charm or spell was strong enough to drown out the noise I made while in the throes of Morpheus’ grip.

I was sitting in my usual position, slumped low on the sofa, legs sprawled in front of the hearth when I heard soft footsteps. Hermione came around the corner and looked at me.

“What are you doing?” she asked. Dumb question, I thought.

“Letting the house get a little sleep. What’re you doing up?” She was holding her worn copy of ‘Hogwarts, a History’ and observing me with a calm gaze.

“Too quiet.” She sat down next to me and put the textbook on the floor. I saw her studying my profile for a quick second before she turned to contemplate the flames licking up the fireplace. I felt my exhaustion creeping into my bones. I was tired of acting as if everything was okay. And tired of holding it all inside.

“He wanted me to have the Cup all to myself, you know that, don’t you?” I blurted. I turned to look at her and was surprised to see her gazing at me levelly. For some reason, it made me want to tell her everything. The expectant, but non-judgmental look she wore battered down my defenses and I struggled to hold back, to keep her from knowing what had transpired away from Hogwarts that night.

“Tell me, Harry.”

I began to talk. Once I began, I couldn’t seem to stop. I traveled back in time to that day, giving a running commentary of each step I took, completely reliving the final task. Coming upon Cedric and the cup. That moment we were transported, not to victorious cheers, but to Voldemort and Wormtail. I fed on Hermione’s silent acceptance.

As I spoke of Cedric’s death and the request his ghost had made of me, all of the anguish and terror visited upon me that night slammed into my carefully constructed façade. I put my head in my hands, fighting the overwhelming tides of coldness that washed over me, holding back the tears I’d vowed not to shed.

I felt Hermione’s hand as she rubbed my back with her flat palm. It was so warm and soothing. Growing up without a mother, it was rare for me to experience warmth from another person without having to share it. Hermione’s touch was firm as she circled over my sweater.

Taking a deep breath, I sat up and back against the couch. It was done. I’d killed Cedric, he was dead because we couldn’t decide, no, because I couldn’t decide…

“After that, what could I do? I’d already killed him –“ The image of my hand grasping Cedric’s cold, dead wrist loomed in my head, along with other, jumbled images – Cedric’s parents, my mum and dad, Dumbledore, Snape – all the people I felt I’d let down. “Harry –“ “Don’t tell me it isn’t my fault. I’m to blame for so much, so many –“ Before I could register anything, I found myself sobbing into Hermione’s shoulder. I surrendered to the wretched grief that I’d heretofore held inside, the sorrow bursting forth like a waterfall from my chest.

It vaguely registered that Hermione was crying as well. I wanted to tell her that it was going to be okay, that she didn’t need to cry for me, but I couldn’t take a deep enough breath to do more than sob hoarsely.

I can’t describe how good it felt to be held by another person. I’d never had the experience before. It was like being cocooned in the warmest, softest blanket. I squeezed my arms around her lightly and she returned the gesture. A second later she spoke.

“Harry, you are wrong. You were, and are, the savior of the wizarding world. Probably of the entire world. If you hadn’t lived that night, destroyed Voldemort’s power, no one could have stopped him. Not even Dumbledore. You have saved more lives than anyone. You can’t change what happened. You didn’t know.”

Wise words indeed. I still believe that I let many people down that day, that I should have figured it out with the Marauder’s Map. But her softly spoken words touched the part of my psyche that wanted to just be absolved of all responsibility. As long as she and Ron and Dumbledore could forgive me, that I could go on. Her response made sense, but I wasn’t ready to accept it, not yet.

I stayed within the circle of her arms, inhaling her light talcum powder scent. She riffled her hand through my hair and laid her cheek on the top of my head. It was the most natural feeling in the world, to be cradled against her. The gentle rise and fall of her chest lulled me into a feeling of complete security. If only she could lie with me at night until I drifted to sleep…

Almost on instinct, half-dazed, I rooted my mouth ever so slightly. She shivered as a puff of air hit the damp area where my tears had fallen. I felt the tightening of her nipple under her robe and a corresponding tightening in my groin.

The kiss she pressed to the top of my head brought me out of the trance-like state I’d been in. Lifting my head, I found myself entrapped by Hermione’s face, bright with tears, looking down at me intently. I took in her features; I hadn’t truly noticed the light sprinkle of freckles across her nose and cheeks, nor the way her upturned nose gave her a cherubic quality.

Her lips descended toward mine and I closed my eyes to the silky sensation. Another first. Unless you counted being kissed by Franny Connors in the primary school cloakroom, I’d never really kissed a girl. Or had her lips on mine, as it were.

I sat up to make it easier to access her lips. My lack of experience made me hesitant, but I needn’t have worried. Instinct took over and when she opened her mouth to me, I did the same, tentatively touching my tongue to her. I gasped as her tongue snaked out and we came together frantically. We fought to get closer; I ate at her mouth like a man starved.

When she pulled away, I was again drawn to her face, concentrating on her red, swollen lips. Her eyes were the color of coffee; it felt strangely powerful to know that I was the one to do that to her. An answering pull from my lower body reminded me of where this scenario was likely to head, and I didn’t want to push Hermione into doing anything she wasn’t absolutely ready for.

Hermione lifted my sweater over my head and freed the buttons of the school shirt I wore. I took a deep breath.

“Hermione,” I said, my voice sounding gravelly to my ears.

“What?” she said in a throaty voice that shot directly to my prick.

“I think we should stop.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I want this.”

So did I. I didn’t want to worry about tomorrow or about any of the other problems that were sure to loom large in the light of day. Right at that moment I wanted to show Hermione how much I cared about her, and if this was the way that worked best, I was ready.

I untied her robe, revealing the sheer nightgown she wore. Her breasts were still peaked and I ran my thumbs over the tips, licking her neck and shivering with every sigh and pleasure-filled noise she made.

She wound her arms around my neck and pulled me over her. Even after her reassurances that she did want to go through with this, I still felt her fear. I was as nervous as she was and I didn’t want to hurt her or disappoint her. I kissed her again and again, until she was hot and wiggling restlessly under me. She worked my belt and together we managed to free my prick from its constraints. The last barrier was the small cotton panties she wore.

“This is it, Hermione,” I said. “If you want me to stop at any time, tell me and I will.” I waited for her response and when I had it, I slid my finger into her slit, praying that I would be doing things right. Her reaction let me know that I had hit her clit, and I played with it, absorbing her moans into my mouth. Moving downward, my finger slicked with wetness as I fingered her. She was stroking me and we coordinated our movements back and forth, in and out.

She shook as I moved over her. As much as I didn’t want to hurt her, my body was now throbbing for release and I wanted to bury my prick inside her wet warmth. I pushed forward slowly, feeling her body gradually giving way to mine. The sensation was incredible – a silky, wet, hot fist clutching me – and I had to resist the urge to rut into her mindlessly.

Moving very slowly, I felt some of her tension fading away as she became more accustomed to me. She shifted under me and I fought against the waves of pleasure that were engulfing me.

At her urging, I moved harder against her, thrusting deep, trying to get as far inside as I could. I sped up my pace when Hermione began to grow restless, twisting her hips and moving to drive me further into her. The tingles running down my spine alerted me to my impending orgasm and I hoped to be able to hold out long enough to see Hermione come.

Her body tightened spasmodically under mine and she threw her head back, moaning my name. The sound was so erotic that I couldn’t wait to watch and I groaned with the rush of my own release.

I brought my head up to look at her. She wore a satisfied smile and enfolded me in her arms as I rested atop her, my hands tangled in her hair. I kissed her neck gently, then her lips. We explored each other’s mouths experimentally, trying different things, laughing softly.

We disengaged ourselves and dressed. The last chiming of the clock had signaled 4 a.m., and I didn’t want the night to be over. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen; we’d blurred the lines of friendship, and although I felt better than I had in months, I wasn’t sure I hadn’t simply transferred my angst to Hermione.

She looked to be okay, her cheeks flushed pink in the firelight. Her smile and words held no inkling that what we’d done was anything but natural, which eased my mind. I wanted to broach the subject, but was afraid of breaking the mood permeating the night.

I stood up with a sigh. We had to get to bed before someone awoke early and caught us here together, as it was obvious what had happened. I’d left my shirt open and my belt unbuckled; Hermione’s robe was open and her lips bore the dusky impression of having been well-kissed.

“We’d better get to bed. It’ll be sunup in less than an hour.”

She pulled her robe together and stretched. We walked toward the stairs that would lead us to our rooms. I kissed her gently, aware that both of our mouths were swollen.

“Hermione?” I wanted to tell her how much better I felt, but was afraid I’d sound daft.

“Yes?”

“Thanks for listening. For everything.”

“I’d do anything for you, Harry,” she said seriously.

“I know.” I replied, and knew it was true, for better or worse. “You’d do anything. I’d do anything for you.”

“I know.”

At that we parted ways. As I climbed the stairs, I felt threads of exhaustion wind around me. I fell into bed, fully clothed and was asleep before I could remind myself not to dream.