This

Disclaimer: Everything HP-related belongs to JKR.

Notes: Rated hard R/NC-17 for SWS (my first attempt at SWS.)

For vicariousleigh- Happy Birthday!

And for Anne- *hugs* Thanks for the encouragement!

~This~

This wasn’t supposed to happen…

She stared around the study of her flat, blinded by her tears and her shock as acceptance began to seep into her consciousness. Acceptance. The stark, horrible reality staring her in the face.

And suddenly she couldn’t bear the silence of her flat, couldn’t bear the loneliness of it, the lack of life in it. She needed someone, someone to talk to- she needed—she needed Harry. Harry, who would understand, who could comfort her, could strengthen her so she could face the next few weeks…

She gave a choked sob just before she Apparated into his flat. It was dark and he was asleep as she’d known he would be at that hour of the night but she knew he wouldn’t mind.

She felt her way to his room, finally turning on the lights with a whispered “Lumos,” though she moderated it to keep the room dim. She couldn’t bear too much brightness right now and didn’t want to wake him with the light.

“Harry. Harry, wake up,” she managed to choke out through the tears clogging her throat, putting her hand on his shoulder and shaking him gently.

He awoke groggily, blinking at her for a moment before full awareness set in and he sat upright, slipping on his glasses in the same movement. “Hermione? Hermione, what--”

And the alarm and concern in his voice broke through the dam she’d built around her emotions and she crumbled, beginning to cry in earnest now.

She was only vaguely aware of Harry, pulling her down to sit half on his lap and half on his bed, as she cried all the tears she’d been keeping inside for the past week since she’d heard. Only vaguely aware of his arms around her, holding her, comforting her and the soothing murmur of his voice. She simply cried, uncaring that she was getting his t-shirt wet, and only aware on some peripheral, instinctive, level of the comfort in being held, the comfort of his warmth.

It was some minutes before the sobs stopped enough for her to explain, haltingly, not moving from her position in his arms. “It’s my father. He- he’s dying, Harry. Dying! He- he was diagnosed with cancer a week ago and the doctors- they said it was already too late, that they couldn’t do anything for him, because the cancer had spread too much. I- I couldn’t believe it, refused to believe it. I’ve been researching cancer in both Muggle medical journals and wizarding healing manuals. I was sure there must be something magic could do, something I could do, to help him, cure him. But there isn’t. I can’t do anything! There’s only a few things magic can do and it’s too late for my dad. But even if it wasn’t, they won’t work because he’s a Muggle and wizarding magic doesn’t work on Muggles because wizards’ bodies are different, which is why they age slower than Muggles do. He’s dying—the doctors give him a couple months to live—and I can’t do anything!” Her voice broke again on an anguished sob which she tried to muffle by turning her face into his shirt.

“I- I’m so sorry, Hermione,” he finally said softly, his arms tightening around her in helpless sympathy.

He drew back slightly—maybe it was to wipe away her tears, maybe to kiss her cheek. She never knew exactly because as he did so, she moved her head slightly, why she never knew, and his lips brushed hers. Brushed hers and then returned and he was kissing her in earnest, or she was kissing him. They were kissing each other as the kiss shifted from gentle, tentative, to hard and passionate.

She didn’t think, only reacted, only felt the sudden flare of want inside her. And suddenly she knew this was what she needed. She needed this, to feel this, every nerve in her body suddenly coming to life, making her feel more alive… God, she needed this, wanted this! She needed this, an affirmation of life, in the agony of her own grief, wanted this, too, to make her forget her grief in purely physical pleasure, even if only for a moment.

Her arms clutched him tighter, trying to bring herself closer to him, vaguely aware of his hands splayed on her back, holding her against him.

She didn’t know if she was the first to move, or if he was. Her hands moved from his back around to the front, slipping under his t-shirt to touch his chest, wanting to feel the warmth of his skin. They finally broke the kiss just long enough for her to strip off his shirt and him to strip off her jumper, lifting it over her head. And then his lips were back, devouring hers, his tongue slipping in to caress hers.

His hands moved from caressing her bare back to her breasts and she gasped and then moaned into his mouth, arching into his touch mindlessly. “Harry!” It was the first word, the only word she could think of to gasp. Just his name. His name which she’d said so many times before but never like this, never so breathless with desire and need…

He didn’t answer her; he couldn’t, his mouth was occupied, pressing kisses down the side of her neck and shoulder until he finally took one nipple into his mouth. She arched even further into his touch, her eyes closing, her mouth opening on another gasping moan.

Her hands continued on their own voyage of exploration, from the muscles of his chest to the smooth skin of his back then down to his butt, his thighs, and then back up. He shivered and his hips rocked at her touch and she smiled slightly against his neck, kissing the point where his neck met his shoulders.

Someone moaned—she was never sure if it was herself or him—and then he rolled, taking her with him, until she was lying flat on her back with him above her.

He paused in his ministrations at her breast to look at her, his green eyes clouded and dark with need and she shivered involuntarily at the fire in his eyes. “Are you--” he rasped out, an expression almost as if he was in pain crossing his face.

She cut his words off with a kiss, bringing his mouth down to hers, to kiss him deeply. She didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to think—couldn’t think, really. All she knew was that she needed this somehow, needed his touch, wanted his touch so badly she thought she might die if he stopped right now. And somehow, at that moment, things changed. It wasn’t about her anymore, wasn’t about comforting her; it wasn’t even about him. It was about them, both of them, together, seeking the pleasure that maybe only they could give each other…

He understood, his hands sliding down her body to caress first her thighs and then the spot between them, the place which wept for him. He slipped one finger inside her and she cried out involuntarily and then felt him smile slightly against her lips.

He entered her with one smooth stroke, filling her until she thought she might cry from the sheer sensation of him inside her, his hands moving to cup her breasts again as he kissed her. And then he began to move.

And in a split second of sudden and inexplicable rationality momentarily breaking through her lust-clouded mind, she thought, this wasn’t supposed to happen… She’d come here only seeking comfort, never expecting, never dreaming it might lead to this… He kissed her again, one hand still caressing her breast, and she could feel the pressure building inside her, building, building—until the world exploded around her. “Harry!” she cried out his name automatically and at that moment, he came as well with a final thrust, gasping out, “Hermione.”

He collapsed on top of her, breathing hard. She felt exhaustion setting in, both physical and mental from the strain of holding in her emotions this past week. And when he drew her closer, she went, letting out her breath in a soft sigh as she relaxed, curling her body next to his as if it were the most natural thing in the world…

She awoke suddenly, and lay there, listening to Harry’s deep, even breathing beside her, her mind, clear again, wondering, doubting… Not regretting, exactly, but fearing…

My God, what had just happened?

I’ve just slept with Harry. I’ve had sex with Harry. I’ve shagged Harry… She tried thinking of it different ways, still coming up short at the realization that this was really and truly the end of the comfortable, friendly relationship she and Harry had shared over the past decade and more. 12 years of friendship, uncomplicated by anything else, ended because of one night, one impulsive search for comfort.

Dear God.

She couldn’t believe it. How- how did something like this happen? One minute he was simply her best friend, comforting her in her first bout of grief in reaction to her father’s illness… And the next…

She had wanted it, wanted this… She knew that; it wasn’t as if Harry had taken advantage of her in a moment of weakness (as if Harry was even capable of that sort of behavior…)

She had simply wanted him. Not just to make her feel alive, not just to make her forget, for a while, her grief, and not just to comfort her… She had wanted him because it was him. Harry, her best friend, the person who knew her better than anyone else and understood her better… Harry, whom she had always loved as her friend and now, she could acknowledge, loved as more than just her friend. She was in love with him, she admitted now to herself, something she’d been shying away from, refusing to look at it or acknowledge the feeling as if ignoring it would make it go away, in some unconscious, and misguided, attempt to preserve the comfortable friendship they had.

But did he love her? What if this had just been about passion for him? Or, worse, if this had just been to comfort her… She turned to look at him, studying his sleeping face that looked oddly naked and vulnerable without his glasses.

Harry, I think I’m in love with you… But what if you’re sorry this happened? What if you regret this? Do we—can we just go back to being friends after this?

She knew he was awake even before his eyes opened. Something about his expression, his position, altered slightly, just enough to signal the return of awareness, before he opened his eyes and saw her.

“Hey,” he greeted her softly, his voice scratchy from sleep.

“Hi,” she managed to say, with a lame attempt at a small smile, trying to hide her sudden doubts, her insecurities, her fears.

She failed.

He frowned slightly as he studied her for a moment. “Are you--” he hesitated, looking away and then back at her, “are you sorry?” he asked, his voice so soft she could barely hear it.

She blinked furiously, trying to keep back the tears that inexplicably felt like welling up. “No,” she whispered. “Are you?” And this time, it was her turn to look away, suddenly terrified of what he would say.

“No,” he said, still softly but with certainty in his tone. “No, I’m not.”

She managed to look at him again, her eyes searching his- for what she didn’t quite know.

He visibly hesitated and then asked, quietly, slowly, as if the question was wrung from him against his will, “Was this only because of your father?”

She looked at him in silence for a long moment and then, slowly, shook her head. “No. It was because- because I- I think I love you,” she finished in something of a rush, her voice dropping so low on the last four words he had to strain to hear them. Her eyes lowered, focusing on the sheets as if she saw something fascinating written on them.

He finally moved, using one hand to lift her chin until their eyes met. He smiled slightly. “I think I love you too.”

She caught her breath. “You do?”

His smile deepened, became teasing. “Do you think I sleep with every girl who cries in front of me?”

She choked on a laugh, the solemnity of the moment broken. “No.”

And as they smiled at each other, just before he slipped his hand behind her neck to bring her mouth in for a kiss, the thought crossed her mind: maybe this was meant to happen after all…