Whispered Endearments by Goldy

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 21/05/2005
Last Updated: 21/05/2005
Status: Completed

"They make such an excellent looking couple." In a post-war world, Harry finds himself
caught up in a relationship with Fleur Delacour. But is he *truly* happy?




1. Part One
-----------

**Title**: Whispered Endearments

**Author**: Goldy

**Summary**: They make such an excellent looking couple.

**Warning**: Starts with a Harry/Fleur pairing, but *it does end H/Hr*. I swear it.

**A/N**: Written for simonsays, who challenged me to write Harry/Fleur (any and all death
threats can be directed at him). As a therapeutic measure, I wrote a sequel, which is the second
(and much longer) chapter and is solely H/Hr. Promise.

They make an excellent looking couple.

*The Daily Prophet* certainly seems to think so. *Witch Weekly* agrees. The wizarding
wireless chimes in as well. Fine looking couple. His dark hair, her fair looks.

The media works itself into a frenzy. It needs this, now that Voldemort has been vanquished.
Three dark years of war. It’s time to let loose. Time to gossip. Materialism is embraced. People
need it. They no longer have to read about who’s dead, who’s missing, and who’s been jailed.

There is no story bigger than Harry Potter, of course. And *she* is beautiful. Together…
they make an excellent looking couple.

When people ask them why they’re together, he shrugs a shoulder, flashing a small, embarrassed
smile. She’s much better at fielding the inquiries. She enjoys it. She tosses her hair, flashes her
white teeth, and holds her head high as reporters salivate at her feet. That’s how she is.

The truth is, he doesn’t really understand it himself, only that it’s happened and it seems
quite impossible to break out of it now. The papers all say he should be happy. He’s one lucky
bloke. Anyone would die to have Fleur Delacour.

*Good going, mate*, Ron always says. *‘Bout time you got a little action. Now… don’t take
this the wrong way… but after the Cho Debale… well, you know. No… no, nothing like that. It’s just…
I had a moment or two where I **wondered**…not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you,
I certainly wouldn’t have had a problem with it, no way, not me. It’s just… good to see you with
her. Jealous as all else, but you look happy.*

*Well, honestly, Harry…* Hermione says, *don’t you think you could have found someone
with a little more… I don’t know… substance? Not that I’m not fond of Fleur, I just… she seems so…
flighty? No—don’t get upset, it’s not that… I just… oh, as long as you’re happy, I suppose. That’s
all that matters.*

The thing is, he’s not happy, not really. He doesn’t like the flash of cameras in his face. He
doesn’t like being trailed by reporters when he goes off to dinner. He doesn’t like that his entire
“relationship” seems to be one big show for the media.

But here he is, Harry Potter with Fleur Delacour—the excellent looking couple of the wizarding
world. Imagine their children! Heavens!

What Fleur Delacour wants, she gets. She got him, after Voldemort was defeated and he’d been
feeling too much to feel anything at all. It was too much Firewhiskey and he was tired and here she
was, this beautiful woman, who wanted *him*.

She was funny and she made him laugh and she brought out a sort of reckless abandonment in him.
When he was with her, he didn’t *feel* like the boy who held the weight of the world on his
shoulders. He was just a boy, following his hormones.

They don’t talk. Not about important things. Not about Voldemort or what it felt like facing him
or the people he’s lost. He doesn’t tell her about the years he spent worrying over who he’d target
next—if it’d be Ron or Hermione or Hagrid.

When he talks, it’s to Ron and Hermione, whom he’s always talked to. When he wants to remember
who he *really* is and what home feels like, it’s with them.

He knows that they can’t last. It’s not love. It’s barely lust. It’s escapism. It’s abandonment.
It’s letting go like he never has before. It’s enjoying his fame for the first time in his
life.

Sometimes he wonders if he’s lost himself when he’s with her. Surely this isn’t him. Not
*him*, the boy who could barely ask Cho to go to Hogsmeade with him once upon a time. Not the
boy who trod all over Parvati’s feet at the Yule Ball. But here he is, Fleur on his arm, entering
an expensive restaurant, and the cameras are flashing, and he’s smiling and he’s *happy*, they
all say he is.

And then they stumble up to her room (it’s always hers), hands fisting at shirts, ties,
trousers, it doesn’t matter. He can taste her lipstick and she always smells like daffodils. They
barely talk and he finds himself wondering if this is what it’s like for everyone. If there can
ever be whispers of endearments.

The sex is good, and he’s very happy, that’s what they all say, and the papers love them
together, and the wizarding world loves it even more, the shining beacon of hope they represent. So
it doesn’t much matter if it doesn’t feel real and so what if it all feels like a dream? He’ll get
over it soon.

They make such an excellent looking couple.



2. Part 2
---------

**A/N**: The last line *used* to be the cheesiest line in existence (and, consequently,
this A/N *used* to give a warning on that), but it was bugging me so much I went back and
changed it. Now it’s only moderately less cheesy.

She shouldn’t be allowed to think about Harry Potter this much. She *knows* this, and yet
she’s never been able to help herself. Since she was eleven-years-old, thinking about Harry has
been something she’s done with a rational, obsessive compulsion that sometimes frightens her.

And she doesn’t think she can stop now. She isn’t sure she’ll *ever* stop. *Great, there
I’ll be, ninety-years old, Hermione Granger, rocking back in forth in my chair and nattering on
about what Harry’s gotten himself into this time*.

She’s beginning to hate that Hermione Granger.

Frankly, she’s tired of worrying about Harry, and thinking about Harry, and wondering if Harry’s
doing okay. The *Daily Prophet* makes it clear, every day, that Harry is *more* than
okay. In fact, he’s bloody perfect. He’s happier than he’s ever been with Fleur Delacour hanging
off his arm.

And still… she can’t help it. She fusses over him when he doesn’t get enough sleep, she worries
when she sees he has dark circles under his eyes (it’s the nightmares), she harps on him when he
doesn’t eat. Over and over again. And he just smiles, happy to oblige her, letting her fuss and
harp and worry like she’s done her whole life.

When he comes in that morning, eyes blurry, hair mussed, and a small contented smile on his face
she decides she can’t do it anymore. *That’s it*, she thinks, as she looks up from the kitchen
table. He gives a small wave before heading into the bathroom. She follows his retreating back with
her eyes, the decision causing a small rip inside her. She’s not certain she’s capable of shutting
him out of her thoughts.

But she can’t continue on like this, either. Seeing him with Fleur… it’s too painful. It’s too
much and it’s every day.

It’s clear to her. She’s been standing right in front of him his entire life, and he chose
Fleur. *That’s it*, she thinks again. *That. Is. It.*

She hears the shower turn on.

She wishes that he’d bring Fleur back to the flat, at least once. But he never does. Ron brings
girls home all the time and she’s had Viktor over during the span of their on and off again
relationship. But Harry doesn’t.

The only evidence Hermione has of their relationship is the beaming pictures she sees on the
covers of the newspapers, and the awareness that Harry spends at least every other night with her.
It’s the newspapers that tell her how happy they are and how perfect they look together.

And Hermione wishes she could see evidence of it.

Maybe then, seeing it up close, maybe then she could let go of her hope.

*It’s the teeth*, Hermione decides, looking at a picture of Fleur on the cover of *The
Daily Prophet*. The bloody teeth.

She doesn’t want to compare herself to Fleur. She knows she shouldn’t. She knows it’s not
healthy. And she doesn’t, not really.

Except for the teeth.

Fleur’s teeth are perfectly aligned, and are always a dazzling white. When she smiles, it
illuminates her face. Prodding her own teeth with her tongue, Hermione feels the inadequacy of
them. Her teeth have never been that perfect.

***

Harry Potter and Fleur Delacour do not sound right together.

Oh, perhaps the papers enjoy it, and the whole of the Weasley family was beside themselves when
they found out about them, but there’s something about the sound of Harry Potter and Fleur Delacour
that sounds fundamentally *wrong* to Hermione.

When she found about them, she could scarcely believe it. Ron, of course, had been ecstatic—but,
then, Ron had never paid much attention to what was going on around him. Sometimes Hermione wonders
if Fleur had merely been a case of Harry getting swept up in the partying and the whirl of the
post-war celebrations.

When she heard about them (from the *Daily Prophet*), she’d simply folded up the paper,
placed it on the table, excused herself from the room, and shut herself up in her bedroom. From
there, she’d sobbed for a half hour, giving herself that time to let it out.

Afterwards, she picked herself up, and pretended she was fine.

***

She sees him out on the balcony. His elbows rest on the railing and his face is gazing out at
the wizarding section of London. His back is hunched over. She can tell, just from looking at him,
that there’s something weighing on him.

She considers him, her own decision heavy in her mind. Her instincts tell her to go to him. Her
feelings tell her she can’t do *this* anymore. He has Fleur for emotional support.

It is that thought that propels her outside. She has *always* been his emotional support,
and she *will not* give that up. Not for Fleur. *Especially* not for Fleur.

He straightens at the sound of the door sliding open. She hesitates a moment before coming over
to stand next to him, mimicking his posture. The night is cool and a light breeze blows through her
hair.

She waits a moment, letting him grow accustomed to her presence.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

He doesn’t turn to look at her, but continues to gaze out across the city.

“It’s nothing.”

*You’ve never been able to meet my eyes when you lied*, she thinks, staring at his
profile.

“Is it… the nightmares… again?”

“No.”

His tone is abrupt. Hermione almost turns to go back inside, but something stops her.

“Is it Fleur?” she finally says, her voice hushed.

He slowly turns his head to look at her, exhaustion on written on his face. He gives a small
nod.

Hermione feels the breath catch in her lungs. *I shouldn’t talk to you about this. Not me.
Anyone but me. Oh, please, don’t ask me to talk about this with you, Harry. Please don’t, please
don’t, please don’t…*

Instead of making excuses, instead of leaving, she stays where she is, staring intently at his
face. And waiting.

“Do you…” he swallows and tries again. “Do you… when you…. when you and Viktor, you know… when
you were *intimate*… was there *more* to it?”

“What?” she says, mouth dropping open. She can’t believe he’s just asked her that. She
*can’t* believe it.

“Forget it,” he says, turning back to the railing.

“You want to know… what do you mean was there *more*?” she says, her voice rising.

He sounds angry that she doesn’t understand. “*I mean*, is there *more* than just…
just the sex? Is there supposed to be… I dunno… promises… and—and *love*?”

This last word is chocked out and his face flushes. She can see that his entire body has
stiffened up.

“I… Harry, why are you… why are you asking me this?”

“Never mind,” he grits out, going back to the staring.

Hermione regards him with sudden understand. “You don’t love Fleur anymore.”

“*Anymore*?” Harry repeats. “I’ve *never* loved her… I don’t… Hermione, I don’t even
*know* what love is supposed to be.” He swallows before continuing. “When we… shag… that’s it.
We sleep on opposite sides of the bed. We never talk. Not about anything worthwhile. I don’t even
know… I don’t even know what her favourite colour is. I mean, that’s not… *right*, is it?”

“But… but, Harry…” she feels a lump in her throat. “The papers… they all say…well, you’re
*happy*, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

He looks resigned, as if he expected her not to understand. The lump in her throat grows bigger.
She grabs his arm.

“*No*, Harry… that *isn’t* what love is. Is *that* what you wanted me to tell
you? It doesn’t matter how many times you shag her, you won’t be able to turn it into love! I’m
sorry, but that’s not the way it works!”

“Well, *fine*, then!” Harry says. “Maybe this is the way things are supposed to be. Maybe
there is no such thing as love.”

She digs her fingers into his arm. “You don’t believe that. And don’t you dare tell me you don’t
know what love is—you know damn well that’s a lie! *Love is what made you different from
Voldemort*! Don’t you remember *that*?”

“*Of course* *I do*!” he says. “But that’s *different*!”

“How? *How is that different*?”

“Because—because it was—it wasn’t… I wasn’t *shagging* anyone at the time, *that’s
why*!”

His eyes blaze for a moment, with fury and frustration. Hermione lets go of him, suddenly very
desperate to end this conversation. She isn’t sure she can trust herself with him. She can feel
hurt and resentment rising in her.

“This—this whole thing,” Harry says, hitting his hand against the railing. “I don’t
*understand*. Hermione, I don’t even… I don’t even *like* her that much. What am I
*doing*?”

“I don’t know.”

She’s surprised that her voice is so controlled.

“You always know,” Harry says softly. “Sometimes I think… all those years, if Ron and I had
never gone after you that Halloween…”

Hermione blanches. *Stop. STOP. Stop.*

She’s amazed she’s still standing there on the balcony with him. Overlooking the wizarding
section of London. Still standing. Still normal. Still calm.

“Am I more important to you than she is?”

The question is whispered, and she hates herself for the hint of vulnerability she hears in her
voice.

His eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Wha—why would you…?”

She wants to say something—perhaps take it back, but her eyes are trained on his face, needing
an answer.

He takes a step towards her before seeming to think better of the situation. “Of course you
are,” he finally says. “I don’t think… I’m not certain there’s *anyone* more important to me
than you are.”

“Then you need to stop,” she says. Her voice sounds funny to her ears. It’s dripping with
fury.

And pain.

“Stop… Hermione, what’s going on—are you—”

“You need to *stop*.” Her teeth clench. “If you care about me, you have to stop *doing
this to me*! I can’t do this, Harry, don’t you see? I can’t stand here and listen to you telling
me you’re shagging her when you don’t even *like* her! Not when I would… not when… not when it
means you’d rather be with *her* than… than me.”

He takes in a sharp breath of air. The night darkens around them. He seems far away.

“Than… you… I… what—what d’you mean?”

She closes her eyes, a curtain against his face. This balcony. This night. This decision.

“Love is *possible*,” she says. She’s trembling all over. “I *know* it’s possible. It
*hurts me* to see you with her. I want you to be happy, Harry, more than anything. But I
can’t… I can’t take *this* anymore.”

She opens her eyes. She waits for him to tell her their friendship means a lot to him. That
she’s his best friend.

He doesn’t say anything at all.

“Alright, then,” she whispers. “I’ll… I’ll see you later.”

Head held high, she opens the sliding doors, enters their flat, and makes for her bedroom.

***

She hears a knock on her door two hours later. She stares straight ahead, pulling her covers up
to her chin, and silent tears roll down her cheeks. Her comforter is pink, bought for her by her
mother. It’s warm and big—and it gives her solace. For a little while.

“Hermione, please let me in.”

She wipes at her tears, and continues to stare straight ahead. Pictures of her, Harry, and Ron
sit on her dresser

“*Hermione*… I won’t beg out here forever… *sod it*, I’ll break in if I have to, and
don’t think I can’t, because we both know I can!”

She waits a moment.

“Fine,” she calls out, voice hoarse. “Break in, if you must.”

The words have barely left her mouth when she hears, “*Alohamora*!”

The lock clicks, and Harry rushes in, relaxing when he sees her.

“Hermione…” he says, the relief evident in her voice. He immediately goes to her bedside and
sits down. She wishes she could move away.

“God, I am so *sorry*,” he says. His eyes are dark with concern. “I never… if I had known…
I wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt you, Hermione. You know that.”

“I know,” she whispers. She can feel the sad weight settling in her chest. “I *do*
know.”

He slumps with relief. “I… er… I just… I just came back from Fleur’s.”

Her ears ring from the sound of her name. She nods because she doesn’t know what else to do.

“I broke up with her,” he says flatly.

She flinches. “Harry, you didn’t have to do that!”

He gives her an incredulous look. “Are you *kidding*? Hermione, were you even
*listening* to any of that? *I don’t love her*! And I *will not* tolerate losing you
because I get in a shag every once in a while!”

She feels… she doesn’t know how she feels. Except she can feel her old love coming back. For
him. Again.

“But you don’t… love me either… at least, not like that.”

Harry shifts and Hermione wishes he would leave her alone. She can deal with her pain. As long
as she’s alone.

“I don’t know,” he says. He peers at her thoughtfully. “I meant what I said, you know, before.
You *are* the most important person in my life. I’d do anything if it meant keeping you
safe.”

“Harry…” her voice breaks. “Please don’t try and—”

“*I’m not*!” he says, looking indignant. “I’m just trying to… be honest. For the first time
since—since I put Voldemort in the fucking ground.”

He goes quiet, seeming oblivious to the tears in her eyes and the ways she’s clinging to her
comforter.

“*The thing is*,” he looks at her, *really* looks at her, and Hermione can see that
he’s having just as difficult a time. His voice is unsteady when he continues. “I couldn’t bear it
if we… Hermione, *I don’t know* what being in a relationship means. I think about Fleur… the
way things were… that *can’t* happen with you. Do you understand that?”

His face has gained that innocent vulnerability she remembers from when he was a fifteen-year
old boy and bewildered by Cho Chang.

*Fleur* did not *love you*, she wants to tell him. *She was* using *you. It
would be different with me, so much different, can’t you see? Can’t you tell the
difference?*

She wants to rage against Fleur for *doing* this to him. Hermione’s always known that all
Harry wants, *really wants*, is to be loved and accepted. Fleur would never be able to give
that to him.

Harry seems to read her mind. “I didn’t love her either, Hermione,” he says quietly. “It went
both ways. It… it wasn’t all bad, I s’pose. We had some good times. It just wasn’t meant—”

“To last,” Hermione finishes. She sighs. “Bet she’s taught you how to be a wicked shag.”

Harry flushes a deep red, confirming Hermione’s words. She doesn’t want to think about
*that*. She can’t understand why she brought it up.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “It was something… Ron said earlier. I guess… it stuck with me.”

“Oh.”

Things are uncomfortable between them.

Harry shifts back and forth, fiddling with his hands, looking out of place and odd, sitting at
the edge of her bed. She continues to fist the comforter in her hands, twisting it back and forth
in her fingers. The silence stretches out.

“Was she your first?” she blurts, unable to stop herself.

Harry’s head snaps up. He finds her eyes. “Are you sure you want to know that?”

“Guess she was, then,” Hermione says. “Well… *good*. I’m glad it was with someone who was
experienced. Smashing.”

“Was Viktor *your* first?” he parries back.

“No, it was Ron actually, we made this pact back in fifth-year that if neither of us—don’t look
at me like that, o*f course* Viktor was my first. I think the *entire world* became aware
of that when Ron chased him out of the flat the next morning when he was still in his
*underwear!*”

Harry smiles. Silence descends on them again.

“But we didn’t… it only happened a few times with us. I was never… very interested in him.” She
sneaks a peak at Harry. He deliberately avoids her eyes. “I’m sure… well, you probably have
*loads* more experience… in that area.”

Harry’s mouth tightens. “Don’t do that,” he says. “This isn’t some competition. And my
experience hardly means anything. Sex is different when you’re in love. Or so I’ve been told.”

“So I’ve read,” Hermione mutters.

Harry visibly relaxes. “What do we do, Hermione?”

She blinks. “I… don’t know.”

“Stop saying that.”

“I’m sorry. I’m rather flustered about this whole thing.”

Harry rubs the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I guess the question is, what do *you* want?”

“Well, I should think that’s obvious,” Hermione says. “I think it’s the other way around.”

“No, it’s not,” Harry says. “Not really. I feel like I’ve made that clear. I just… Hermione, do
you really *want* to deal with me? In case you haven’t notice, I’m rather emotionally buggered
up.”

Hermione stares at him. *You don’t understand*, she thinks.

*You still don’t understand. You sit in front of me and you think you understand, but you
don’t. You’re not even close*.

“Harry, I *love* you. I have… for a very long time. I’ve spent years carrying this around.
But that does not mean you must settle for me. I know I’m your best friend—I know I’ve always been
that. I don’t want… I *need* you to be certain.” She blinks back her tears. “You only just
broke up with Fleur, for heaven’s sakes! How can you be sure of anything?”


Harry jumps up and begins furiously pacing around her room. His arms cross over his chest, his
face has gone blank, and she recognizes that look. It’s the look he wore throughout the war. The
pacing was something he did outside of Dumbledore’s office, waiting for news.

“But that’s just it!” He spins around, eyes overly bright. “How do I know *anything*? How
do I know I *couldn’t* love her because I already loved *you*? *How do I know*?”

The lump in her throat makes it difficult for her to speak. “Harry…love isn’t… you *would*
know.”

“Not if I’d been feeling that way for a while, not if…” He stops his pacing. “You’ve been the
most important person in my life… for years now, Hermione. *You know that*. I never would’ve
been able to defeat Voldemort if it wasn’t for you. You *were* right, I *do* know what
love is—of course I know what it is. I couldn’t have beaten him otherwise.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying…” he sits back down on her bed. “Can’t a person be in love and not know it? Not if
they didn’t know anything else? Isn’t that possible?”

“I… I don’t know…”

“It *has* to be possible.” He shifts closer to her. “*Please*, Hermione… I
*can’t* lose you…”

For the first time, she can see how worn he is. She can see it in his posture and in the way his
hands are shaking.

“Oh, Harry…”

“I’m sorry I didn’t see sooner, I’m sorry was ever with *her*… and I swear it, if that’s
the reason you won’t…”

“Harry…”

“If it’s because of Fleur, I’ll—I’ll… well, I don’t know what I’ll do it! But that’s a lousy
reason, and you know it!”

“Harry…”

“Look, if you need more proof… it’s all there in the prophecy. The *power he knows not*?
Remember that? It *must* have come from you—”

“*Harry*!” she chokes his name out, a half-laugh, half-sob. He goes quiet, but his eyes are
pleading and nervous.

Looking at him, she feels all her hurt and tension melt away. Suddenly, all she wants to do is
take care of him, just like she always has.

She pats the bed next to her. “Come lie down, Harry.”

His mouth bobs open. “Wha—why—lie—”

“Down, yes,” she answers. “You’re exhausted, Harry. You need rest.”

“I don’t… I…”

“Shh, it’s alright.” She smiles warmly. “It’s *alright*. Do you understand?”

He nods obediently. Finally, following her instructions, he stretches out next to her, resting
his head on the pillow next to hers. She turns on her side to see his face. For a breathless
moment, that’s all they do. Watching. Waiting. Wanting.

His breathing is slightly erratic, and all she can think is that he’s lying next to her, eyes
staring into her own. His body stretches out on her bed, long and lean, and he seems so much bigger
than her, all of a sudden. The bed dips in his direction and she bites her lip to keep herself from
falling against him.

*Stay steady*.

Her breath comes out in a hiss when his palm comes up, smoothing along her cheek. Those few
inches still separating them, she stares into his eyes, feeling the soft touch of his hand against
her cheek. It dips behind her ear, his fingers tickling her skin and brushing back her hair.

“Harry….”

He moves closer to her. It’s getting more difficult to stay on her side of the bed.

“Hermione…” he says back, smiling.

Her stomach does a pleasant little lurch. She shifts her body closer to his. She’s so close she
can feel his warm breath on her face.

“I *can’t*… if this isn’t real, you have to stop…”

“It’s real.”

“How can you know? You said—with Fleur, you said you didn’t want—”

“It’s real.”

“You can’t know that. I couldn’t bear it if you weren’t sure… you *need* to be sure.”

“It’s you and me, Hermione,” he says quietly. “How could that not be real?”


Something in her breaks and gives in. She throws her arms around him, kissing his face and his
neck and his chin and all the parts she can reach. She tries to tell him she loves him between
kisses. *This **is** the way things are supposed to be*, she wants to say. *There
**is** more.*

He grins and laughs and when she pulls away, she can see that he’s happy, *really* happy,
not pretending-at-being-happy, like he has been for the press shots and the interviews.

She can see that with her he can be real, and fallible, and
not-Harry-who-always-saves-the-world. And that’s the only Harry she’s ever wanted.

And when he kisses her, his lips are warm and soft, and he’s so gentle. He kisses her like he’s
waiting for her to back out, or like he can’t believe it’s really happening. When he pulls away,
she feels a flood of disappointment. He meets her eyes, and she can see the promise there.

“When we… well, it has to mean something,” he says.

She nods in understanding. “It’s *you* and *me*,” she says. “How can it not mean
something?”

“Smart witch,” he whispers. “Throwing my words back at me.”

“The smartest.”

They stare at each for another breathless moment before she shifts closer, allowing her face to
rest on the crook of his neck. He slides his arms around her waist and she sighs, contented.

*This is right.*

The End