Chapter 3
You will never again doubt where my affection lies.
His words hung in the air.
She didn't know how much later she slumped against the kitchen island and dropped to the floor, but the words he whispered into her ear stayed with her through the rest of a sleepless night and into the next day. She found herself rubbing where her ear met her jaw, recalling the feeling of his breath caressing her skin as she remembered the words he said, still as real as the light touch of her fingers. She imagined that it was Harry's fingers brushing along her jaw, whispering the phrase as his lips almost touched hers.
"Healer Granger?"
It was inevitable, and probably fortuitous, that a student interrupted her fantasy. The distraction worked for a while, until she would be walking down the hall alone and her mind would wander to the night before once again. She puzzled over what happened. What did they talk about before he burned his hand? Was dinner good? Did she make a fool out of herself? Did she hurt him when she told him that she didn't regret not being with him for the past 15 years? Did she have some sort of unconscious ulterior motives in cooking dinner for him instead of going out to a public restaurant? When would she see him again?
The last question came to her, along with a heavy dose of guilt, while she sat in her office at the end of the day. The sun was beginning to set in the distance, casting a warm glow through her office. She looked at the picture on her desk of Miguel and Daniel, and her stomach constricted with self-loathing. Despite the fact that Miguel had been dead for two years, she still felt as if she was betraying him any time she thought of another man in a context that had been reserved for him alone.
She rubbed her queasy stomach and smiled, remembering Harry doing the same thing the night before. Poor bloke, she thought with a chuckle, he was starving and I was going on about something dreadfully boring, I bet. She didn't think he had been bored with her company at the time, but looking back on it she couldn't imagine how discussing her job and such would hold much interest for him. Thinking on it, she realised she had done most of the talking. With a few well-placed questions here and there from him, she had barely given him any time at all to talk about himself. And there was so much she wanted to know about The Black Foundation, his girls, what he did in his free time, whether he keeps up with their old Hogwarts friends?
She was ashamed to admit that what she was most interested in was his failed marriage. What she knew about it was sparse to say the least. Ginny, who Hermione had kept up with only marginally better than Ron and Harry, had given her an earful during a lunch for a business trip she had in France a few years ago. Ginny made it clear that Bridgette Smyth-Potter was despised by all of Harry's friends for various reasons, with the primary offense being the fact that she was a 'publicity-seeking, gold-digging tart.' Hermione couldn't argue with that assessment. Her few experiences with Bridgette had been less than positive. It was obvious to everyone, except Harry, that Bridgette had married him for his name, fame and money.
It broke Hermione's heart to think that Harry had been unhappily married for so many years when he had so much to offer the right woman: courage, humour, intelligence, dedication, love, loyalty…not to mention good looks. She groaned as she remembered their exchange about him putting on weight. She was sure that was the wrong thing to say, or at least the wrong way to say it. She thought he looked very good indeed, so good that the memory of him staring at the skyline of Barcelona for the first time had been distracting her all day.
His green eyes had grown wide in astonishment behind his glasses. He had run his hand through his hair, a mannerism she didn't remember from school, pushing it back from his forehead briefly before it fell back into place across the scar that had defined his life. His jaw was dusted with the end of the day stubble of a beard, something she remembered for sure the 17-year-old boy she knew hadn't had in such abundance. Later in the evening, when she was bandaging his hand, she had noticed a new scar less than an inch in length, running horizontally across his chin just before it dipped down into his neck.
She closed her eyes and remembered the exact moment butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach. She was standing in front of him and had just dabbed the potion on his palm. He gasped and his legs jerked together involuntarily, pinning her in front of him. She was sure that he didn't even realise it had happened, he was so distracted by the stinging in his hand and the horrible smell of the ointment. She still couldn't explain what she did next by bending over and blowing on his palm. As a doctor, she knew that that particular reflex, to blow on a burn, did absolutely no good. But there she was, in her memory, blowing seductively on the palm of a man she had once loved before whispering something - she couldn't remember what - to him.
She laid her forehead down on her desk in embarrassment. She tapped her head over and over on the desk, chiding herself for being such a tease. Why don't I just write 'Shag me' on my forehead? Her head stilled and she turned her cheek to the cool mahogany surface and stared at the picture of her family. She was amazed at how easily the guilt from earlier had left her, only to be replaced with more fantasies and memories of Harry.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
Her head shot up from the desk to see a snowy owl sitting on the ledge of her window, tapping its beak against the glass.
"Hedwig?"
The owl flew through the window Hermione opened, and she dropped a rose and a piece of parchment on Hermione's desk before settling on the tower of files. A smile broke across Hermione's face at the delivery. She picked up the red rose and inhaled its scent, the butterflies from the night before returning in full force.
Hedwig hooted and swiveled her head around in a complete circle, searching, Hermione was sure, for water. Hermione tapped an empty mug with her wand and a stream of water poured from the tip. "Here you go, girl," she said as she petted her soft feathers. "I'm very, very glad to see you," she said, the rose still under her nose.
She eyed the parchment warily. Fantasizing was one thing, but opening that letter and having her desires reciprocated was something else entirely. Her thoughts were her own - private and very safe. No pain would come from letting her imagination run riot. The idea of kissing a man other than Miguel was all right to think about, but the terror Hermione felt at the thought of actually going through with it was something else altogether.
You have a high opinion of yourself, she thought with contempt. Whose to say this isn't a simple "Thank you for dinner, maybe I'll see you on the platform next year" note? After all, you did a bang-up job of making him feel responsible for your breakup twenty years ago.
"That's not true," she said to the empty room.
Yes, well, did you see his face when he went to wash up? That wasn't the look of someone smitten with an old flame. Then you followed it up with "I can't regret what happened." Was that your idea of encouragement?
She felt a nipping on her hand and saw Hedwig on the edge of her desk, gently pecking her fingers. Once the owl had gotten Hermione's attention, she hopped over to where the note had landed and hooted encouragingly. "Are you waiting for a reply?" Hermione asked.
The snowy owl hooted again and spread her wings in assent. "I guess that's a good sign," Hermione said, to an affirming hoot from Hedwig. If Hermione didn't know better, she would swear the owl smiled.
"Right, then," she said, picking up the rolled-up parchment and settling in her chair. "Here goes."
Hermione -
It's 3 a.m. and I can't sleep. I've been going over and over our conversation in my mind. I don't know who is to blame for what happened. Should blame even be assigned to a mistake that has given us so much? You had a wonderful marriage to a man who loved you very much. And you have a son who, if Jo's letters are correct, is the perfect combination of intelligence and charm. I have three daughters that I love wholeheartedly and wouldn't trade for anything in the world. So I agree with you - we should have no regrets.
But, I can't help but wonder what would have happened between us if I had told you how I felt about you all those years ago. It would have been simple really; three little words would have made such a difference in our lives. At the very least I wouldn't be sitting up at 3 am wondering 'what if?' I find myself wanting to know the answer to my 'what if' questions more for the future than the past. What if I ask her out and she says no? What if she says yes? What if we've changed so much that the connection we had before is gone? What if she can see when she looks in my eyes that all I can think about is kissing her lips? What if that idea is 'totally gross' (to borrow a phrase of Olivia's) to her? What if, what if, what if?
Despite the depressing turn the conversation took for a while, I enjoyed myself immensely last night. It is now 4 am and I am no closer to sleep. My meeting at Gringotts looms large at 8 am. Luckily, in a meeting with goblins, they do most of the talking, so I won't be required to do much beyond showing up. Which, as it happens, is the story of my life. Ginny basically runs the Foundation, Dobby runs Grimmauld Place and my children are at school.
All of this free time brings me to this: I want to see you again. Soon. How soon depends on you. What happens from here depends on you. I understand there are other issues involved and I'm not going to rush you. But I see no point in pretending that my feelings for you are platonic. We are too old to play cat and mouse, don't you think?
I don't know if it is possible to rectify the mistakes I made in the past. I do know that I'm not going to make the same mistake twice. I guess this letter is my feeble attempt at being forthright, the lack of which cost me dearly 20 years ago. I've re-written it twice and re-read it more times than I can count. I keep telling myself that putting myself 'out there' like this is good. But honestly, it is the most petrifying thing I've ever done. My palms are sweaty and Hedwig keeps giving me commiserating looks. That is never a good sign.
As you may have guessed, Hedwig is supposed to stay until you reply. Of course, she isn't supposed to peck you to death, just give you sad eyes and hoot woefully until you feel pity on me and either give me the heave ho or make my day.
Waiting patiently,
Harry
Hermione looked at Hedwig, who, as if on cue, hooted woefully and stared at her with large amber eyes. Hermione laughed and said, "Don't worry, I'm not going to make you wait." She pulled out a piece of parchment and began to write her reply.
Harry,
Hedwig is doing her job nicely, I must say. Although I don't plan on making her wait.
I'm sorry that writing to me was a terrifying experience. I won't make you wait until the end of the letter to find out the question that, although wasn't stated outright, was the underlying theme of your letter.
Yes, I want to see you again. Soon.
You are a very distracting man, Harry Potter. You leave me last night with a piercing gaze and a cryptic statement which have both occupied my mind for the last 24 hours. Then you write a letter that mirrors the thoughts and questions I've been grappling with all day. At least the question of our feelings being mutual is answered, yes?
As to the 'other issues' you alluded to, I assume you mean Miguel. On a logical level I know that Miguel is dead, but emotionally it's difficult to let go. I also know that exploring what I feel for you isn't going to diminish what I felt for Miguel. But there is still a certain level of guilt for even acknowledging that I haven't been able to think about anything but you all day long.
I see what you mean about being petrified. My palms aren't sweaty, but I do have a queasy feeling in my stomach while I write this letter. I wonder why that is? You've already told me your feelings (well, actually I read that between the lines), so it isn't as if I'm putting myself out there like you did. What a brave Gryffindor you are! I don't know that I would have been able to do that. I've no doubt that I would have continued to mull over what happened between us until time slipped away from us again.
Hedwig is ruffling her feathers in expectation. I believe she is ready to go so I'll wrap this up. There is a muggle festival, La Merce, held in Barcelona each September. Would you like to come into town for a couple of days, possibly the 24th and 25th? You must see Correfoc, the parade of demons and fire-breathing dragons in Sant Jaume Square. Of course, the dragons aren't as exciting as the 'real' thing, but for a muggle display, it is quite good. The next day, I will take you to the magical side of Barcelona and to Tres Leches Square, the Spanish Diagon Alley. Do send your answer back soon!
Thinking of you,
Hermione
**
It was two and a half very long weeks from the time Hermione's invitation to Barcelona took flight with Hedwig until she heard the knock on her front door announcing Harry's arrival. Each day that passed, her nervousness grew until she was sure she was going to explode from the anticipation. She had been pacing up and down the hallways of her house, looking at her wristwatch and the clock in whichever room she happened to be passing at the moment. Time would alternately speed up and slow down, with no discernible pattern to its movement. She would sit in the library and jump up when she realised that thirty minutes had passed in the blink of an eye. She made three laps around her house with barely five minutes ticking off the clock. The sandwich she made purely to have something to do sat untouched on the counter. No book held her interest. She had retreated to the loo five times to check her make-up and hair, which is where she was when she heard the faint knocking.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to reveal the cause of her distraction and anxiety. She was relieved and concerned to see that he, too, was nervous, greeting her with only a small smile and a croaked, "Hi."
"Hi," she returned, rooted to the spot.
This isn't good, she thought and immediately wondered if she had made a mistake in inviting him. She didn't know what to say, and anxiety regarding what in the world they were going to talk about flooded her. All of the romantic notions and fantasies of a comfortable weekend were lost as she stared at a man she suddenly realised she didn't know at all.
Shaking herself from her internal dialogue and remembering her manners, she jumped back out of the doorway. "Come in," she said, motioning with her hand.
"Thanks," he said. He stepped through the door, obviously trying to stay as far away from her as possible.
She closed the door behind him as he looked around the entrance hall and she noticed the duffle he had thrown over his shoulder. A lead weight settled in her stomach as she remembered that the plan had been for him to stay overnight.
"Let me show you to your room so you can put your things away," she said, leading him down the hallway to the left of the front door.
They passed the library and she resisted the urge to flee into her sanctuary. Instead, she continued to lead him to the spare bedroom. She opened the door and flipped on the light with a wave of her wand, stepping aside for him to walk in.
"Thanks," he said, giving her a smile. He threw his bag onto the bed and gave the room a cursory glance.
"The loo is just down the hall," she said, motioning vaguely to the left.
"I'm sure I'll find it." He looked around the room again as if searching in every nook and cranny for something to say. He slipped his hands in his pockets and bounced on his toes. Hermione heard the faint jingling of money as his hands fluttered in his pocket. "Was that a library I saw back there?"
"Yes," Hermione said, embarrassed.
"It looked very cozy," Harry replied, moving a step closer to her.
"It is. I spend loads of time in there," Hermione replied. "Shock horror" she said with a nervous laugh.
Harry chuckled and looked around the room. He jingled change in his pockets and admitted, "I feel like a teenager."
Hermione laughed. "Come to think of it, that's a spot on description of how I feel."
"I reckon we both need to relax a bit. You seem to be tense, and I know I am." He stepped forward and lightly grasped her hand. "Why don't you show me your library?"
"Okay," she said, leading him out of the room by the hand. His thumb ran along the back of her hand a few times, sending goosebumps up her arm. "Here it is," she said, releasing his hand once they were in her favourite room.
Harry walked around the sofa and glanced out the windows that overlooked the street. He turned to his right and walked alongside the wall covered with bookshelves, inspecting the tomes as he went. He paused briefly as he walked by the mantle adorned with pictures of Hermione's family, before returning to Hermione's side.
"Very cozy. Just as I thought."
"It looks alarmingly like Professor McGonagall's quarters at Hogwarts."
"Really?"
"Yes. I only went to her quarters once or twice and barely got a glimpse as I stood outside the door. But I guess I retained more of it in my memory than I knew. I only realised why it seemed so familiar a few years ago."
"I would have pictured her with straight-backed uncomfortable chairs and wooden benches. Well, McGonagall has good taste I guess. Who would've thought?" Harry mused, looking at Hermione. As he smiled at her a bit more of her uneasiness melted away.
"Do you want something to drink?" she asked. "The parade doesn't start for a bit so we have time."
"Sure."
"What would you like?" she asked as they walked toward the kitchen. "I have wine, ale, pumpkin juice…"
"Hermione," Harry interrupted, grasping her hand and stopping her in the entrance hall. "Can we get something out of the way?"
"What?" she asked, distracted by his hand covering hers. He leaned forward, his eyes on her lips, and paused.
"Oh," she said in a small voice when his intention became apparent. His eyes moved to hers and she said, "You mean that."
He waited for what seemed like a rather long time to Hermione. Was he waiting on her? She tilted her face up and closed her eyes.
His lips are like velvet. How did I forget that? Not that I've ever kissed velvet, but if I did, I imagine this is what it would feel like. I wonder what he's thinking right now. Probably not about kissing fabric. Well, at least I hope not. I wonder what my lips feel like. Do I have lipstick on? Does he hate the taste of lipstick like Miguel did?
Bloody hell. Shouldn't have thought about that.
Hermione pulled back slightly and ducked her head in embarrassment. "Sorry," she said wondering when their hands had intertwined. His thumb began its journey up and down the back of her hand. She watched it for a moment and reveled in the sensation the simple touch sent through her.
"I should be apologising," Harry said. "I've barely arrived and I'm snogging you in the hall." Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry." He took a step back and started to release her hands.
"No, don't," she said, grasping his hands before he could break the connection. "It's not that. I'm just thinking too much."
A lopsided grin greeted this revelation. "The more things change, the more they stay the same." He lifted his hand and ran his fingers along her jaw. "You are just as beautiful as you were twenty years ago."
"Oh, I hardly think…" He placed his fingers over her mouth to silence her.
"I don't remember if I told you how beautiful you were then." He let his fingers drop from her mouth while his eyes roamed over the features of her face and her hair. "You were, you know. And you are even more beautiful now."
The last thing she saw before she closed her eyes again were his green eyes boring into hers with a thrilling intensity.
This kiss she felt. The fact that Harry had soft lips was the last thing on her mind. Instead, the physical sensations roiling through her body consumed what little coherent thought she may have possessed at the time. Chills sped up her spine as a burning sensation she hadn't felt for years settled into her abdomen. Her arms hung limply by her sides as his hands cupped her face, his fingers gently stroking her neck.
But he didn't deepen the kiss. Instead he released and captured her lips, interspersing long sensual kisses with short sweet ones, which led to his lips roaming down her jaw to her ear. His warm breath tickled her ear as he nipped her earlobe. She reflexively grinned and ducked her head to the side. He took the opportunity to shift his lips to her cheek before settling again on her lips in a long, soft, sensual kiss. Her hands finally responded to his prompts by sliding around his back and pulling him closer. She opened her mouth beneath his and ran her tongue across the seam where his lips met, encouraging him to open his mouth to her.
She couldn't help herself - she thought again of her dead husband. The guilt from wanting another man had diminished over the past few weeks, but nothing would change the fact that this was the first man she had kissed besides her husband in 15 years. She had resigned herself to the comparisons that she knew would pop up at the most inopportune times. This was the first of many.
He tastes different.
But it was familiar. She remembered the first time she kissed Harry when they were 17 years old. When she tasted him for the first time so many years ago, it was as if he was the missing ingredient to a complex potion. This feeling of completion hit her again as his tongue roamed around her mouth, filling her senses with his unique flavor of musky masculinity mixed with a hint of pumpkin juice. The last ingredient made her chuckle and she pulled away.
"What?" he asked, breathless and confused.
"Pumpkin juice."
His brows furrowed and he shook his head. "I'm not thirsty."
She laughed, leaning her head on his chest. "No, I just remembered that you always tasted a bit like pumpkin juice."
"Hmm," he said, tightening his arms around her waist and pulling her closer. "What else do you remember?"
"That what I felt for you scared me. You scared me."
"Why?"
She looked up at his face, one that had changed for the better over the years, the sharp lines of his youth softened into the soft curves of adulthood. His hair, under the tutelage of the gray elder statesmen dispersed throughout the rebellious raven locks, had calmed into a more mellow state of unruliness. His glasses, once such a prominent feature of his face had been replaced with smaller, rimless versions of their predecessors, making his green eyes even more noticeable. The scar was still there, prominent beneath the hair that would always give a valiant effort at concealment.
Was this version of Harry less frightening than the one from twenty years past? Were her feelings from him less intense, tempered by age and experience?
"I was young and inexperienced, Harry, and was less than confident in my ability to keep you interested."
"Did I ever act uninterested?"
"No," Hermione said, shaking her head. "I…" She stopped and looked at his confused and somewhat angry expression. "Are we going to go through this every time we're together? What happened happened. We both made mistakes. I thought the whole point of this," she said, placing her hand on his chest, "was to remedy the mistakes of the past. I want to move forward, do you?"
He turned his head to the side and looked at her from the corner of his eye. "That depends."
"On what?"
"If moving forward includes more of this," he said, leaning forward and capturing her lips. He pulled her tightly against his body until she felt every contour through their clothes. He dipped her, bracing her back with his right hand while his left hand cradled her head, deepening the kiss until she was dizzy and breathless. He released her lips but continued to hold her in the dip.
"Feeling confident?" he asked, a cheeky grin spread across his handsome face.
Breathing heavily she nodded her head, holding tight the knowledge of the confident witch that awaited Harry once she found the courage to take their relationship to the next level. A tenative smirk broke across her face.
He isn't going to know what hit him.
**
"The festival celebrates Catalunian Princess La Merced's protectorship of the city," Hermione yelled into Harry's ear.
They were standing in the middle of Sant Jaume Square among a throng of muggles waiting for the festivities to begin. Hermione was taking the opportunity to educate Harry on the history of La Merce.
He was only partly paying attention to what she said. He was rather distracted by her - her lips, her hair, her eyes, the way she moved her hands around when she was explaining something, how she tucked her hair behind her left ear, never her right. That possibly could be due to the fact that he had her right hand in a vice grip, determined to not let her go.
What he enjoyed most was seeing her smile. She had many different smiles, he realised. And if he were to think on it, he would remember that that was always the case. The small smile she gives when she is distracted by something else but too polite to say, "Leave me alone, I'm doing something." The sarcastic smile that is accompanied by the roll of her eyes and followed by a laugh when he makes a silly joke. The aha! smile she gets when she has found the solution to a problem or the answer to a question. The smile that starts in her eyes when he looks at her, moving down to the lips that he always wanted to kiss again and again. But his favourite by far was the 'I know something you don't know' smile she gave him today when he kissed her. That smile held the promise of something bigger, something worth knowing…and the anticipation of the discovery was killing him.
The crowd was thickening around them as movement at the far side of the square increased. A buzz filled the air and people began moving forward, pressing toward something Harry couldn't see.
"Here they come," Hermione said in his ear.
Everyone around him began to wrap scarves around their mouths and noses in anticipation of the vast amount of smoke produced by the fireworks display to come. He and Hermione didn't have to do that. Hermione had performed a simple charm on each of them that would keep the smoke from bothering them.
Whoops and cheers went up from the crowd and Harry saw in the distance a tall pole with twirling lights on the top begin to move through the crowd. Showers of sparks fell into the crowd as more and more poles made their way through the throng until the square was filled with the dancing light of the fireworks. The mass of people pulsed with excitement. A group of drunk twenty-somethings passed by them, pushing their way through their crowd and knocking Harry sideways into Hermione.
"Sorry," he said, grabbing her arm to keep her from falling.
She waved her hand in dismissal. "What do you think?" she asked, her upturned face being lit by the dancing light.
"Beautiful," he replied, keeping his eyes on hers. The crowd jostled him into her again, but all he felt was his somersaulting stomach.
The roar of the crowd broke their eye-to-eye connection. Hermione looked toward the far end of the square and shouted, "Here they come!"
Harry moved around behind Hermione and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close to him.
"Is this all right?" he whispered in her ear.
She covered his hands with hers, intertwining their fingers and nodding in assent.
"Good," he said, lightly kissing behind her ear.
He felt her lean back against him and her head fall back against his shoulder. Harry looked up to see dragons of all shapes, colours and sizes weaving through the crowd to the delight of everyone, but all he could think about was the way Hermione's body felt against his. His right hand slid under the hem of her shirt and touched her bare stomach. He felt her abdomen quiver as his fingers slid back and forth along her smooth skin. Her eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling in short bursts. On the next pass his hand made across her stomach his pinky finger slid beneath the waist of her jeans, testing the boundaries. A hand rested on his and he paused, waiting.
There was no smile in her eyes now as she turned to face him. "You've seen one fake dragon, you've seen them all. Let's go," she said, and she turned to lead him through the throng of people.
**
She didn't remember passion.
When she thought of her time with Harry twenty years ago, passion was never part of the equation. Nervousness, fumbling, inexpert kisses and touches were what came to mind; two children learning as they went. The predominant feeling she remembered and had thought was desire she now realized was fear. Fear of doing something wrong. Fear of doing something right and where that might lead. Fear of exposing herself, literally and figuratively, to her best friend. She was so busy being afraid that their intimate moments were less than memorable. In fact, over the years she had done her best to forget them, she was so full of embarrassment at how she had or hadn't acted.
With Miguel, there had been no fear. His confidence had buoyed her and given her confidence she never knew she possessed. With him it had been pure excitement from the moment he had leveled that intense gaze at her in the café. It had helped that he was a stranger, one she was sure she would never see again. That allowed her to be a version of herself she had longed to set free, uninhibited and sexually self-assured. By the time she came to her senses, she was too enamoured of her newfound confidence and the thrill of passion to turn back.
It was the same thrill of passion she felt at that moment, as Harry pressed her against the wall and kissed her roughly. Their tongues found each other at once and began an intimate frenzied dance. He wasted no time, his hands moving under her shirt to seize her breasts. She lifted his jumper over his head, tossing it aside carelessly. Then she pulled him back into a kiss. Her hands roamed over his shoulders and down his arms before finding the broad expanse of his back.
Hermione moaned at the sensation of being in a man's arms again - feeling smooth skin under her hands, warm lips on hers, strong hands rubbing along her body pulling her closer, his erection hard against her belly. She felt blood rush downward and she clenched in anticipation. It had been so long and she wanted him so badly. She whimpered and leaned her head back as he began kissing her neck, whispering her name. She ran her hands through his beautiful dark hair and pulled him closer to her, whispering, "Miguel…"
As soon as the name left her lips, she realised her mistake. Harry stopped kissing her neck and slowly lifted his eyes to hers. The feeling of warmth was replaced by cold dread and shame. She leaned her head against the wall and squeezed her eyes closed to block out the look of pain reflected in Harry's eyes.
"Oh God, I'm sorry, Harry." She hit her head against the wall and repeated, "I'm so, so sorry."
She swallowed, fighting the bile that was rising in her throat in its desperate attempt to abandon her churning stomach. She felt tears burning her eyes behind her closed lids. She squeezed them tighter to stem the flow of tears she knew was coming. Despite her best attempts she felt the tickle of her nose and knew that the sob wouldn't be denied.
Harry's fingers rubbed across her cheek. "Hey," he whispered, pulling her head to his bare shoulder. "Don't cry, Hermione. Shhhhh. It's okay." He stroked her hair and continued to whisper consoling words to her as she cried.
As her sobs subsided, Harry pulled back. Hermione couldn't bring herself to look at him, instead focusing on the knot of bone that protruded from his right shoulder.
"Look at me," he murmured.
She clenched her teeth and looked at him, prepared for anger and hurt to be reflected in his eyes. Instead she saw compassion.
"I understand, Hermione. You don't have to apologise. To be honest, part of me expected it." He adjusted her shirt, which had been in the process of being lifted out of the way when the unfortunate event occurred. "I can't imagine how confusing this must all be for you. You aren't ready to move in that direction, and that's fine." He rubbed her arms and continued. "I don't want to leave, but I'll understand if you want me to."
"No!" she said, shaking her head vigorously. "I don't want you to leave."
He gave her a relieved smile. "Good." He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and stroked her cheek. "You are so beautiful," he whispered. "I got carried away. All rational thought flew southward."
Hermione smiled, relieved that her gaffe hadn't caused irreparable damage to their burgeoning relationship. "You and me both," she said with a grin.
"Really?" Harry asked, cocking one eyebrow.
"Despite…what I just said, and how that may seem. I wasn't thinking about Miguel, I really wasn't. That just slipped out. I don't know why. God, I'm sorry."
"You don't need to apologise," Harry replied. "The last thing I want to do is scare you off. Let's take it one step at a time, okay?"
"Right," Hermione replied, disappointment and relief surging through her.
He stepped back from her and gave a little nod toward the loo. "Right, then. I'll just go to the…you know, cold shower and all."
Hermione looked down at the ground sheepishly. "Right," she replied. "You should have everything you need in there. Towels are in the cupboard."
"Night," he said, leaning forward and placing a soft kiss on her lips. "Sleep well."
He retreated into the guest room and Hermione walked into her room and began her bedtime routine.
Sleep well, she thought pulling her pyjamas on. Not bloody likely.
She would be surprised if she got a wink of sleep, she was so wound up by what just happened. Harry was right; she wasn't ready to move their relationship there. Her body was, which was no surprise to her. Her body had been ready for some time, the solitary efforts she had made to appease it over the last two years proving to be unsatisfying, to say the least. But her mind, it seemed, wasn't quite there yet. She just hoped that once her mind had caught up to her body, Harry wouldn't be too shocked by the monster that would be unleashed.
She chuckled and shook her head at the irony of her sex life. She had always enjoyed sex, but had thought that it was geared more toward the male than the female. Miguel's excitement was always rather obvious, his completion a crescendo that was difficult to miss. With her, as with most women, she presumed, it was more subtle. Sure, she felt the stirrings and tinglings that were common in romance novels, and she enjoyed herself. But she was always a bit envious of the gusto of Miguel's achievement, for she never felt anything close to that. Until one night her hand errantly touched her nub while stroking Miguel, something she never considered doing before. And damn if all of those lost years of great sex wasn't the biggest regret of her life.
That night, she had her first truly memorable orgasm, whether from what she did, what Miguel did, or Miguel's reaction to what she did, she didn't know. But after that everything changed. She became a woman obsessed with pleasure. She would find herself thinking about it at random times during the day, something she knew was a very masculine thing to do. She would owl notes to her husband, suggesting he come home for lunch on her days off. She even spent time exploring her body on her own, something only months before would have been absolutely shocking for her to consider.
Then, Miguel got sick and sex was the last thing on her mind.
It had all happened so quickly. The headaches he had ignored, and not told Hermione about, until his only refuge was a dark room, a soft pillow and complete silence. The diagnosis of an inoperable brain tumor so far advanced that his prognosis was given to them in terms of days instead of weeks. His death a mere month later.
They were all in shock. Hermione was stung, not only by the loss of her husband and lover, but also from her inability to save him. The lesson that magic had its limitations, one that she had recited to numerous families of terminal patients over the years, was difficult to accept when it was your own loved one you were helpless to heal.
For the first time in Hermione's life, she took the easy way out. She focused on Daniel and getting him through his grief instead of her own. His devastation at the loss of his
father, the man that he idolized and that doted on him, was complete. The traits that made Daniel so much like Miguel, carefree, confident and outgoing, seemed to die with him. The phrase, "you are so much like your father" was heard less and less until the only comparison made between the two had to do with their unique nose and dark eyes.
Hermione tried everything she could to draw her son back out. Over time, as the sting of the loss eased, she saw glimpses of the child he had been before. But, everything was tempered with caution, as if he viewed happiness as a fleeting emotion. They settled into a comfortable routine, their life returning to a semblance of what it was before but both knowing that his normalcy would be short lived, that he would soon be leaving for school.
The specter of Daniel leaving began to weigh heavily on Hermione's mind. Always close, even when Miguel was alive, the thought of her son not being there every night when she came home broke her heart. Keeping him out of school wasn't an option, nor was sending him to Beauxbatons, a much closer but far inferior school to her alma mater. The logical move, one she had considered after Miguel's death, would be for her to return to England. She delayed the decision, one that she considered inevitable, in deference to Daniel. With the upheaval his father's death had caused, she wanted to wait as long as possible to uproot him from the only home he had ever known. Plus, her career was going well in Spain. The idea of uprooting her life wasn't appealing either.
Hermione paused, hairbrush poised to run through her hair, trying to remember when the loss of Miguel, his absence had become less painful. She had never wallowed in self pity. Questions of 'how will I do this without him' never entered her mind. Failure for her had never been an option and this was no different. Bills needed to be paid, a child needed to be raised, the minutia of life would still be there, arrogantly indifferent to the loss of the man that made her laugh, the man that taught her how to love, the man that looked at every day as a new adventure. She would be damned if she let the little things destroy her. Miguel's absence didn't affect those things. His role in her life, and she hoped hers in his, was enrichment. He was the reason the little things didn't destroy her, but her reason was dead now for two years. The little things had been starting to weigh on her more and more, especially since she had watched Daniel walk down Platform 9 ¾.
Then, Harry Potter had walked back into her life with a cryptic statement and a piercing gaze and somehow she knew that life would never be the same.
**
Harry was staring at the ceiling, his arms crossed behind his head. He doubted he would get a wink of sleep, due partially to sexual frustration but mainly to his mind refusing to shut off.
He knew this had been a possibility; he had prepared himself for it when he decided to pursue a relationship with Hermione. He even bought a fucking book about it. But the fact remained that his ego had been bruised when Hermione had called out Miguel's name. Every man expects to be able to drive the memory of previous lovers away with their sexual prowess. The fact that he couldn't was tough to take, even though he knew his feelings about it were selfish and unrealistic. At least she didn't call out someone else's name.
You bastard! She is conflicted and grieving for her husband and that's what goes through your mind?
"Shut it," he said aloud. He flipped the blanket off of himself and swung his legs to the floor. Sleep wasn't coming any time soon.
He pulled on a t-shirt and opened the door to his room, peeking out into the darkened hall. He tip-toed down the hall to the library. A shaft of gray light illuminated the room. He wandered over to the bookshelves and began looking at the titles, hoping to find something compelling enough to capture his interest but boring enough to put him to sleep. Unfortunately, everything seemed to be about anatomy or cooking. He wasn't surprised to see there wasn't a Quidditch book in the lot.
He walked past the dormant fireplace, looking at the pictures of Hermione's life without him.
She looks blissfully happy.
He stared at the oldest picture - the one of Miguel and her taken after their wedding. He had the sudden urge to chuck it into the fire. The look on her face made him doubt that there would be a future between them and planted a seed of fear in his heart that there would be no way he would be able to compete with the memory of the love of her life. He stared at it for a long time, thinking that if he hadn't been such an idiot all those years ago he could have been in Miguel's place. He could have been the one kissing Hermione in a café, her adoring gaze lingering on his face.
"Harry?"
He turned, startled by her voice. She was standing in the doorway, wearing men's pyjama bottoms and a white v-neck t-shirt, both a good two sizes too big for her. Her hair was pulled back into a very loose ponytail and her face shown with the radiance of newly cleaned skin.
"Hi. I was just looking for something to read," he said, motioning to the fireplace mantle as if it were the bookcases. Embarrassed that he'd been caught staring at her pictures, he stepped back in front of the bookcases and gave an discomfited smile. "I can't sleep," he continued.
"Me, either," she replied. She stood in the doorway for a moment more, before walking toward him. "Anything in particular you want to read?" she asked, stopping in front of the picture he had wanted to destroy moments before.
"Er…anything about Quidditch?"
"Will that put you to sleep?" she asked with a grin.
"Depends on whether I've read it."
"Well, I have nothing on Quidditch, sorry to say. I do have a dusty copy of Hogwarts: A History. That'd put you to sleep in no time, I'm sure."
"I've read it, thanks."
"Oh, that's right! Dumbledore made you read it sixth year, didn't he?"
"Yes. I fell asleep with that book across my chest for months."
They stared at each other for what felt like a few minutes, but could have only been seconds. Harry felt the same comfortable connection he'd felt with her as a child and teen. He'd lost the ability to read her mind or finish her sentences, but staring into her eyes, he knew that it was only a matter of time before that particular talent returned. Although they hadn't been as close for the past fifteen years, he realised that time couldn't erase the bond they shared. He hoped she felt the same.
"You're looking in the wrong place," she said.
"Sorry?"
"That's where we kept all our professional books." She backed up past the fireplace and motioned at the other bookshelf. "This should have something a bit more interesting to read before putting you to sleep." She gave him a half smile and pulled a thin volume from a middle shelf. "What about Shakespeare? Will that do it?"
"Sure," Harry said, taking the book from her. Their fingers brushed as they exchanged the book.
"Would you like some hot chocolate?" she asked in a strangled voice. "I was on my way to make some."
"Okay," he replied and started to follow her out the door.
"No, stay here. I'll bring it to you." Hermione pointed her wand at the fireplace and a small, perfect fire erupted. "Make yourself at home."
"Right. I'll just start reading."
He sat down on the sofa and looked at the book for the first time. "The Taming of the Shrew," he read. He opened the book and read a brief biography of Shakespeare before turning to the first page. Barely three pages in he was bored, but not tired. He closed the book and stared at the fireplace, wishing he was in the kitchen watching Hermione make hot chocolate. He wondered what was taking her so long to pour chocolate powder into hot milk. He stood to go help when she returned with a large white mug in each hand.
"Here you go," she said, offering him a mug.
"Thanks," he replied.
He lifted the cup to his lips and blew on the liquid.
"It shouldn't be too hot," she said, taking a sip to prove her point. "I've got hot chocolate down to a science." Harry took a sip as she continued. "It's Daniel's favourite."
"Perfect," he said. "Blimey, this is really good. Is there cinnamon in here?"
"Just a touch," she said, smiling over the rim of her cup.
"I really wish you'd stop doing that," Harry said.
"Stop doing what?" Hermione replied in alarm.
"Smiling. It makes my stomach do these little flippy things and I feel like a teenager again."
She started to smile, caught herself and twisted her mouth in a frown in a sarcastic attempt to stop it. Instead, she just managed to purse her lips in a very engaging way that made Harry want to kiss her.
"Sorry," she said in a deep voice. "Not smiling."
She sat down on the opposite corner of the sofa, tucking her bare feet underneath her bum. Harry sat down at the other corner, feeling foolish for leaving so much real estate between the two of them, but not exactly sure that sitting in the middle of the sofa, right next to her, was appropriate. He wished it was a smaller sofa. Then he wouldn't be in such a quandary.
"Tell me about Bridgette," Hermione said, placing her mug on the side table with a click.
Harry choked on his drink. "That's a bit out of the blue," Harry said, wiping the chocolate that had sloshed on his chin.
"Sorry," Hermione said. "There hasn't been an appropriate time to ask, so I decided to just come out with it." She pulled a chenille throw from the back of the sofa and tucked it around her lap, as if settling in for a long story.
"Getting comfortable, are you?" Harry said. "I don't know that the story will be all that long. It isn't one of my favourite subjects."
Hermione picked up her mug and cradled it in her hands for warmth, the gold band on her right hand glowing in the firelight. She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.
"Right," Harry said. He searched his mind for memories of his ex-wife that weren't tainted with bitterness, lest he appear to have had a miserable life for the past fifteen years. His life hadn't been miserable. It hadn't been what he expected or wanted, but for whatever reason, he wanted to keep the miserable details from Hermione for a while longer. "Why don't you ask me questions," he said finally.
"How did you meet?"
"At a club, I'm sorry to say."
"Was it love at first sight?" she asked, the corners of her mouth turning up in a sardonic smile.
"I take it by your expression that you don't believe in love at first sight."
"Not the 'see someone across a crowded room' kind, no."
"But you fell in love with Miguel rather quickly. That wasn't love at first sight?"
She looked down at her beverage. "No. It took at least a day for me to fall in love with him."
Harry shifted in his seat. "What did he do," Harry asked quietly, "to make you fall in love with him?"
She tilted her head to the side still focusing on her chocolate. "He made me feel like I was the only person in the world. He had this way of focusing on whoever he was with, giving them his undivided attention. That along with his charm was a devastating combination for a witch inexperienced in the ways of love." She looked up finally. "I thought we were talking about you and Bridgette."
"Yes, well, I was trying to move the conversation away from that, truth be told."
"Is it that painful?" she asked in a quiet voice.
"No, it is that embarrassing."
"Embarrassing?"
He took a sip of his chocolate and looked away. "I wasn't much competition."
"What do you mean?"
He cleared his throat. "It never occurred to me that someone would go to the lengths she went to to get what she wanted."
"What did she do?" Hermione asked in alarm.
"I thought I was marrying someone like…" Harry stopped, stunned that the word about to tumble for his mouth was, 'you.' Until that moment, he didn't realize that Hermione was the woman to which he compared all others. The obsession he'd had with her since their encounter at Platform 9 3/4 no longer seemed as concerning or out of the blue, which he had to admit, was a relief.
"Harry?"
"What?" he asked, shaking his head to clear it.
"You didn't finish. You thought you were marrying…?" she prompted.
"My ideal woman," he finished. "It turns out I married Pansy Parkinson's long lost sister."
"That is unfortunate," she said with a chuckle. "I hardly think that is anything to be embarrassed about. Bridgette is the one at fault, not you." She lifted the mug to her lips, the gold band on her right hand, a magnet for Harry's gaze. "Did you love her?" she asked.
"No," he replied. "I thought I did at the beginning. She knew just the right buttons to push to get me to fall in love with her. When Bridgette wants something, she usually gets it. It's a gift of hers," he said. "She wanted me and nothing was going to stop her. It took years for me to realise what a fraud she was. She was able to keep up the façade of love for quite a while. It was more difficult for her to shun the spotlight, which is what she wanted from the beginning. She wanted to be Mrs. Harry Potter."
The only sound in the room was the crackling fire. Harry was relieved that the silence wasn't awkward or uncomfortable. With anyone else he would have been self-conscious about revealing his life's biggest failure. Truthfully, he wouldn't have revealed what he just told her to anyone else, Ron included. Harry was sure that Ron knew it anyway, but to voice it aloud would make him feel like less of a man. He preferred his emasculation to be understood but not talked about.
"Now it's your turn," he said.
"My turn?"
"You tell me something terribly humiliating."
"Harry, you should not be humiliated. Bridgette sounds like a dreadful person. You didn't deserve what she did."
"Well, the sex was good," he said in an attempt at humour. He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. "Sorry," he said, chagrined. "Not appropriate."
Hermione waved her hand in dismissal. "Please. We're adults. It isn't like I think you never made love to your wife, or other women, for that matter."
"Other women? How many women do you think I've been with?"
"More than me, I'm sure." She placed her mug on the coffee table. "So, how many?" she asked.
"You did not just ask me that."
"Yes, I did."
"Why?"
"Honestly? It slipped out." She paused, picking at the fringe of the throw she was snuggled under. "But, since it's out there, you might as well answer it."
Harry cleared his throat, wondering if the revelation from earlier of his fallibility would in fact be the most embarrassing revelation of the night. In an attempt to again steer the conversation away from him, he asked, "How many for you?"
"One," she answered without hesitation.
Damn, she answered that too quickly. I was hoping for an uncomfortable pause.
Resigned to answer the question, he replied, "Well, more than that, but not by much."
He half expected her to quiz him on the particulars of the unnamed 'other women' and was relieved when she didn't.
The silence that followed was uncomfortable, due in large part to the elephant that was now in the room with them. So Harry did what he did every time he was in an prickly situation. He moved the subject to something he was at ease with - Quidditch.
"Did I tell you Jo made the House Team?"
Hermione straightened up. "No! You didn't. That's brilliant!"
"Yeah, it is."
"What position?"
"Chaser," Harry said, his eyes lighting up with pride. "She is a great flyer. Flies circles around me."
"I find that hard to believe."
"It's true. She's a natural."
"That's to be expected - she is your daughter, after all," Hermione said with a smile. "I remember how impressive you were on a broomstick. I loved watching you play."
"I thought you hated Quidditch."
"I can take it or leave it. I went to see you, and Ron, play."
"Have you been to a Quidditch game since Hogwarts?"
"Er…no."
"Want to go to one?"
"I guess that depends. Who's playing?" she asked with a smile.
"Jo," he replied. "I was thinking that you might want to come to England for a weekend and go to the match with me. You could see Daniel."
"Oh," Hermione said. "When is it?"
"Two weeks from tomorrow."
She squinted one eye closed and screwed up her face in mock concentration. "I think I can swing that," she said with a smile.
"Really?" Harry asked.
"Really. It sounds like fun," she replied, giving him a warm smile.
"Brilliant."
"I'll owl Daniel tomorrow to tell him I'm coming." Hermione gave a huge yawn, covering her mouth with her hand. "Sorry," she said. "It's been a long day."
"Come here," Harry said, lifting his arm in invitation. She smiled and scooted next to him, nesting her head in the crook of his shoulder. She placed her left hand on his chest, the other lightly resting on his thigh. He intertwined his fingers in hers and felt her give a little squeeze.
"I'm glad you're here," she whispered.
"Me, too," he said, squeezing her hand in return.
"It's nice to have someone to talk to," she said in a quite voice. "Since Daniel's been gone…" she trailed off.
Harry squeezed her shoulder. "Are you doing okay?" he whispered.
"Some days are better than others. But mostly?" she paused and Harry waited for the answer he knew would come.
"No," she answered.
"No?" he repeated, surprised at her admission.
"Having you here, being with you, has made me realize how much I miss my friends in England." She snorted. "If I even have any left that is, since I've done such a stellar job keeping up with everyone."
"What about your friends here?" Harry asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. "They aren't really my friends. They're Miguel's. When he died, they were very supportive. But, I never had a connection with them and with Miguel gone their owls and visits came less and less often until they stopped altogether. Now that Daniel is gone, all I do is go to work and come home. As much as I love what I do, that isn't enough for me."
Harry shifted to look at her, excitement rising in his chest. "Are you thinking of moving back to England?"
"Not anytime soon, I'm afraid. I just don't know what it would do to Daniel. This is his home. He has friends here. I don't want to uproot him."
"But, what about you, Hermione?" Harry asked. "Isn't your well-being important?"
"I…I dealt with Miguel's death on my own, I can deal with this if it means Daniel is happy."
"What do you mean, deal with Miguel's death on your own?" Harry asked. "I thought his friends were supportive."
Hermione sat up and moved away from him. "I really don't want to talk about it, Harry."
"Too late," he said. He reached out and gently turned her face to his. "I'm your friend. Talk to me."
She stood up and walked to the fireplace, her back to him. "I'm past it Harry."
"Past what?" he asked, rising and moving to stand beside her.
"Miguel's death."
"Are you?" he asked, turning her to face him. "I'm not so sure," he said, fingering the sleeve of the overlarge man's t-shirt she was wearing.
She looked down and chuckled, shaking her head. "I started wearing his pajamas before he died, when he was in the hospital. They still held his smell, and I needed something of him to hold onto at night. After he died, I just kept on." She shrugged her shoulders. "It probably wasn't the healthiest thing to do, but at night was the only time I was alone and could grieve. All day I felt like I had to be strong for Daniel. At night, I could wrap myself in Miguel's memory and cry. Eventually, the crying stopped, but packing his pajamas away was something else. They became the symbol of his memory, I guess. If I put them away, he would cease to exist."
"You know that's not right."
"I know," she said. She played with the hem of the t-shirt. "But, they are just so comfortable. It's very difficult to find comfy pyjamas, these days" she said jokingly.
"They look comfortable," Harry said in a soft voice. "Hermione…" He didn't want to say it. He didn't want to tell her that the ring on her finger and the clothes she was wearing told him that she wasn't ready for a relationship. He didn't want to tell her how hearing her call out Miguel's name had broken his heart like nothing before. He stared at her face, tilted up to his in question, half shadowed in darkness, half bathed in dancing golden firelight and was unable to finish what he needed to say. "Are you sure you are ready for this? For dating another man?"
"Yes," she said with conviction.
"But," he began.
"Harry, I'm wearing his pyjamas is all. Don't give it more meaning that it has." She grasped his hands. "I loved him with all of my heart. I've grieved for him. I've said my goodbyes. I've had chances to move on with other men. I haven't taken them because it didn't feel right. I began to think that I had ridiculously high standards after what I had with Miguel. When I saw you standing on my terrace, looking out over the city, I…I was able to see myself moving on, or trying to, with you."
"Really?"
She nodded. "When we were in the bathroom, standing that close to you, I knew I was in trouble. Why do you think I couldn't look at you?"
"I thought it was because you were angry with me."
She laughed. "Hardly." She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him. "Don't give up on me yet, Harry."
"Don't worry, I won't," he replied, returning her embrace. He gently removed her arms from around his waist. "Come here," he said, leading her over to the sofa. He sat down in the corner he had just vacated and raised his arm, inviting her to return to their comfortable position from before. She smiled and sat beside him, tucking her feet under herself again and resting her head on his shoulder. "Like this?" she said.
"Yes, just like this." He closed his eyes, enjoying the pleasant feel of her head on his chest. The light fruity scent of her shampoo tickled his nose as she intertwined her left hand with his right. The fingertips of her other hand moved slid languidly up and down his forearm, sending goosebumps down the entire right side of his body.
"I'm glad we both couldn't sleep," she said, her voice heavy with sleep.
He kissed the top of her forehead lightly in response. "Me, too."
"I was nervous…," she gave another huge yawn, "sorry…about what we would talk about when I saw you standing at my door this afternoon."
"Were you?" Harry said.
"Petrified, which was silly. We've always been able to talk, haven't we?"
"Yes," Harry whispered. "To a point, we have."
"Right, to a point. I reckon we did a good job of chipping away at that particular barrier tonight, don't you agree?"
"Yes. As uncomfortable as it was, I'm glad we talked."
"Me, too," she replied, moving her head up and down as if burrowing into his chest for a comfortable spot. When she stilled, he asked, "So tell me, what was that look you gave me earlier?"
"What look?"
"The one you shot me when I dipped you in the hallway."
She lifted her head from his chest. "I gave a look?" she asked.
"Yes, an 'I know something you don't know' kind of look."
Her furrowed brows cleared and she smirked again before resting her head back on his chest. "Bits and pieces, Harry. Bits and pieces."
He wanted to be irritated because she was keeping something from him, but couldn't. Instead he sat there, staring into the fire as Hermione's breathing evened out and deepened, marveling at how despite fifteen years of mistakes, he had still managed to find his way back home.
**
She usually woke up all at once, ready to attack the day. Today, she woke up slowly.
Eyes closed, she stretched her arms and legs wide, the crisp sheets of her bed rustling against her outstretched limbs. She was used to the absence of a body next to her, so that was not unusual. What was unusual, she realised as the events of the night came back to her, was that she was in her bed at all. The last thing she remembered was Harry's arm wrapped protectively around her and her head resting on his chest as they both snuggled on the sofa in the library.
She opened her eyes and looked around. Nothing out of place. No sign of Harry, not that she expected him to be there. She was disappointed nonetheless. Still bleary from sleep, she got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom to brush the morning taste out of her mouth. After a half-hearted attempt, she left her room, her foggy brain intent on finding Harry to make sure that she hadn't dreamt their conversation last night.
She knocked on the door of his room. "Harry?" she whispered, wondering what time it was and if he was still asleep. "Harry?" she repeated a bit louder.
"Looking for me?" he whispered behind her.
She jumped and turned to see him standing there, shaving kit in hand, a mischievous grin on his face. "You scared me," she said, placing her hand over her heart.
"Didn't mean to," he replied. "Good morning," he said, leaning down to give her a light kiss on the lips.
"Good morning." She smiled at him and leaned forward to return his kiss, lingering just a fraction longer than he did. "How did I end up in my room?"
"I carried you."
"Did you?" she said, impressed.
"Yep," Harry said, flexing the muscles on his right arm.
Hermione squeezed his bicep and said, "Impressive."
"Glad you think so," he said. "Do you always clean your teeth first thing in the morning?"
"Yes, I…wait! How did you know?"
"I could taste the toothpaste on your lips."
"Oh, right," she said, touching her lips. "In answer to your question, yes, I do. Always. First thing."
"Is that because your parents are dentists?"
"No, it is because I hate morning breath."
"And here I was hoping that you cleaned your teeth because you were eager for me to kiss you."
"Well, there is that, too. You did just kiss me."
"True, but I didn't kiss you."
"Is there a difference between a kiss and a kiss?"
"Definitely. Harry leaned down and gave her a soft, chaste kiss on the lips. "That is a kiss."
"That is a kiss. Right, got it."
Harry wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to him, capturing her lips with his and releasing all thoughts that didn't involve him and his lips, his tongue, his arms, his hair…really every inch of his body, from her mind. He released her suddenly and said, "That is a kiss."
Breathless, she said, "I see the subtle difference now that you mention it."
"Subtle?" he said, his eyes darkening as they moved down her body. He advanced on her until she was stopped by the door of his room. "Subtle, eh?"
A thrill of fear shot through her at the darkened look in his eyes. There was no doubt that he wanted her, desperately if she read the expression on his face. He moved his hands slowly under Miguel's t-shirt, his fingers lightly touching the skin on her sides, making her shiver in anticipation. His eyes moved to hers as his palms cradled her sides, moving slowly around to her lower back and back again to her sides, this time a fraction higher than where they started. She knew where they were going and wanted nothing to impede their progress. She lifted her arms and draped them around his neck as his palms slid underneath her arms and around to her breasts.
She couldn't restrain the gasp that escaped her throat. It had been too damn long since she'd felt someone touch her this way and the need of it overwhelmed her. Harry leaned forward and devoured her mouth.
Did he see it in my eyes? she wondered, as she allowed herself to be taken away by the physical sensations of being in Harry's arms.
He pulled away from her breathless, lips swollen and wet. "Say my name," he panted.
"Harry," she breathed.
"Again," he said.
"Harry," she whispered, pulling his head to her neck and knotting her fingers in his hair.
"Tell me you are thinking about me," he whispered hoarsely in her ear. "Even if it's a lie, tell me."
"It isn't a lie, Harry," she breathed. "You are all I've thought about for weeks." He pushed his pelvis against her in response, his erection rubbing against her. "Oh, Merlin," she said as a warm tingling sensation shot out from her center. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pressed into him, wanting to feel the length of him against her.
"Hermione," he panted, between frantic kisses. "We don't have to do this. If. You. Aren't…ready."
She reached back and opened the door to his room in answer, kissing him all the while. They never made it over the threshold.
"Hermione!"
The sound of a male voice carried through the house. She dropped her legs from around his waist as he released her from their embrace. They looked down the hall, in the direction of the voice that called out Hermione's name again.
"Who is that?" Harry asked.
"Andres," she said. Without looking at him she moved away and walked toward the kitchen. She felt his confused and angry gaze on her back as she turned the corner. She took a deep breath and pushed her hair from her face, trying to smooth it out while her other hand ran across her wet lips, erasing any evidence of the kiss she just shared with Harry.
"There you are," Andres said with a smile from the threshold of the kitchen. "I didn't wake you, did I?"
"No," she said, brushing past him into the kitchen. "I wasn't expecting you."
He stopped her, grasping her arm. "Are you okay, Hermione? You look a little flushed." He placed the back of his hand against her forehead feeling for a temperature.
"Am I?" she asked with a nervous laugh. "I feel fine," she lied.
"I brought breakfast," he said, still looking at her with concern and pointing to a bag of pastries on the counter.
"You didn't have to do that," she said, moving to make coffee.
"Yes, well, what can I say? I'm thoughtful."
She heard the rustling of the bag as he removed the pastries. She stared at the coffee pot, having forgotten what she was doing. "I forgot my wand in my room," she said, turning to leave the kitchen. "I'll be right back."
"That's okay," Andres said, pulling his wand. "I can do it. Just have a seat." A swish and a flick and water flowed into the urn from his wand and ground coffee scooped itself into the pot.
"Thanks," Hermione said walking around the island and sitting on a barstool. She watched him move through the kitchen. He was prattling on and on about something, but she didn't hear a word. She was preoccupied, trying to think up a way to get rid of him and worrying about whether Harry was going to walk in wearing his pyjamas.
"Did you hear me, Hermione?"
"What? Sorry, no."
"I asked what your plans for the day are."
"Oh," she said.
"Are you sure you are okay?" he asked, giving her a concerned look.
She stared at him.
No, I'm not okay. I feel like my parents just walked in on me doing something I shouldn't be doing. But, why shouldn't I? I'm a grown woman. What Harry and I were about to do isn't wrong.
Well, you aren't married.
Stop being so old fashioned. I've known Harry for years and I'm thirty-eight years old.
But this is only the second time you've seen him in years.
Third.
The train station hardly counts.
What is your point?
You don't want to tell Andres because you're afraid of his reaction.
I don't answer to anyone, especially him.
"I'm going…" she began.
"To show me the sights of Barcelona," Harry finished.
Hermione turned and saw Harry, arms crossed, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen in his pyjamas, a defiant look on his face. She narrowed her eyes at him, giving him the silent scolding look that worked so well on Daniel. He caught her eye and raised his eyebrows.
"Well, isn't this…unexpected," Andres said. Hermione turned to find Andres looking at her with barely concealed fury. He moved his gaze to Harry and said, "In town on business?"
"No," Harry replied. "Just for pleasure. Hermione invited me to the festival and offered to show me Barcelona since I didn't get the chance the last time I was here."
"How thoughtful," Andres said. "And what did you think? Of the festival?"
Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Well, when you've fought a real dragon, the muggle ones just don't really compare." Harry stepped farther into the room, his eyes never leaving Andres'. "Ever fought a real dragon, Andres?"
He bristled. "No, can't say that I have."
Harry snorted and nodded his head. "Lucky you."
Andres wiped his hands on a dishtowel. "Hermione is a great tour guide," he said walking toward the door. "She learned from the best."
She heard the cracking sound of him disapparating from outside the kitchen and whirled around to face Harry. "'Ever fought a real dragon, Andres?' What the bloody hell was that all about?"
"I could ask you the same thing."
"What are you talking about?" she huffed, walking toward the coffee pot.
"You sure didn't seem too anxious to tell him you were spending the day with me."
"You were eavesdropping?"
"Couldn't quite bring yourself to tell him, could you?"
"I was about to when you interrupted!" she retorted, yanking a mug out of a cabinet.
"Took you long enough."
She slammed the mug down on the counter. She closed her eyes, her chest heaving from her laboured breathing. Ten, nine, eight, seven…She opened her eyes and stared at the half empty coffee pot.
"What do you want from me, Harry?" she said in a small voice.
She heard him move toward her. "I want to know what I'm up against, Hermione."
She dropped her head and laughed. "It isn't Andres."
"Then why the hesitation?"
"Forgive me for not being able to switch seamlessly from passion to insouciance in the span of two minutes."
"I don't even know what that means," Harry said, throwing his hands up in the air.
"Indifference, nonchalance, whatever," she said, turning around. She leaned against the counter and looked at him. Maybe it was her imagination or wishful thinking, but his lips still looked swollen and wet from earlier.
"What do you want, Hermione?"
"What do I want?" she repeated.
What do I want?
She was shocked to discover she had never considered the question. During all of the hours of musing about Harry and what it all meant she never once thought about what she really wanted. She'd thought about Daniel's reaction. She'd thought about Harry's children's reaction. She'd thought about what her being in a relationship would do to Miguel's memory. She'd thought about her parents. She'd thought about what the British wizarding world would think. She'd thought about what Andres would think. She'd considered how the logistics of a long distance relationship would change her life. She'd thought about Harry, wondering if his desire to atone for past mistakes would be a passing whim, ultimately breaking her heart. She had become so expert at putting other people first, mainly Daniel since Miguel's death, that her happiness, her desires never entered her mind.
She looked up at Harry, tears brimming in her eyes. "I want, for ten minutes, to stop thinking and just feel," she croaked. "I want to be able to do something impulsively and not struggle with guilt. I want to not worry about what other people think." She inhaled and hiccupped at the same time, a squeak escaping her throat. She blinked and tears trailed down her face.
"I want you," she whispered, before a full-fledged sob escaped her throat.
She buried her head in her hands in embarrassment a split second before Harry wrapped his arms around her.
"Shhh," he said. "Please don't cry. There is nothing to cry about. You have me." His lips pressed on her head in a soft kiss while his hands rubbed her back. He tightened his arms around her, protecting her and said, "You will always have me."
She wrapped her arms around his waist and returned his embrace, silent tears of relief flowing down her cheeks.