Infinity Moments

When he sees her for the first time in nearly a year, she is standing outside a Muggle used bookshop, flipping through a dog-eared copy of Peter Pan.

He can scarcely remember a time when he would have thought of it simply as a used bookshop, without having to add the somewhat derogatory 'Muggle' to it. Once, he had been a Muggle, for all intents and purposes, knowing nothing of his history, his future, his Destiny, capital 'd,' cue the music. In the time before he knew of the magic inside his being he had been as much a Muggle as any of them. He sometimes liked to pretend he felt different, that he'd always known there was something special inside of him that made him different from Dudley and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia -- he'd like to say that he knew, but when he's honest, it's more that he hoped.

Rescued from a house that had never been a home, sent to dwell in an old Scottish castle where ghosts freely roamed the halls, heir to a legacy of power, and he finally knew how 'different' different could get. On the same brisk September morning, he'd met both of his best friends within an hour of each other. Hermione had always seemed to hold it against both he and Ron that they'd met each other before her, as though it were something they'd conspired about, even then, to exclude her from.

She's not excluded now, he thinks as he stands and stares before she realizes he's there. If anything, he is the one who is excluded. Her relationship with Ron put them on another playing field altogether, so caught up in does-he-love-mes and how-could-she-say-that-to-mes that it wasn't too surprising that Harry frequently found himself in the role of third wheel.

So much so that he'd elected to take Charlie Weasley up on his offer of a place to stay and a guide in Romania. Harry had been meaning to take time off since he graduated, but with the war and the rebuilding effort, the opportunity had never presented itself. It was Hermione who convinced him to go. Her voice was often the one he heard in his head, but in the past year without her it had grown more present than ever.

Hermione, he had heard (via Charlie who got all the dirt from Mrs. Weasley who insisted her son and his girlfriend visit at least once a month), had taken a position at Hogwarts this year -- Madame Pince, the librarian, had retired at last and Hermione couldn't wait to get her hands on all the musty, forbidden books in the back room.

It is summer now, though, and school is out. Harry is profoundly affected by the knowledge that Hermione cannot get enough of musty and ancient books. He is profoundly affected by the knowledge that he sees her without seeing her; that he can see her in Romania or Hogwarts or the Quidditch World Cup, that he does not have to lay eyes on her to see her, because she is always with him, more a part of him than his own arm. It is a peaceful feeling, this recognition of something so basic to her character, to her place in his heart, and it settles over him gently, prodding him forward to at last make himself known to her.

"Harry!" she calls out, her voice a joyful sound, both in tone and by his own account.

Another second and he has his arms around her, the force with which she launches herself at him propelling their bodies back a few stumbling steps. He cannot help himself and laughs out loud, absently turning over in the back of his mind how long it has been since he's laughed at anything besides Charlie's jokes; laughed just because the joyful noise bubbled up inside him and couldn't be contained.

"Hello, Hermione," he finds himself whispering into her ear; it is a quiet greeting, so soft he isn't sure she heard it. He's not sure he meant her to. It has become almost reverent to him, repeating her name in a certain tone, with a certain inflection. He enjoys it so much that he hasn't allowed himself the pleasure in years. He has always spoken her name in a possessive tone, one that implied a certain intimacy.

He does not wish to be quite so intimate with his best friend's girl.

The year in Romania has tested the bounds of his self-imposed rigidity, and he is giddy with the sight and smell and sound of her after so long. So for the moment, restraint is cast aside and he allows himself to remember a feeling long buried, one that he hadn't recognized for what it was, too caught up with fanciful notions of what being in love was supposed to feel like.

"How are you?" she asks, pulling away from him at last. "What on earth are you doing in this part of the world? Have you come for the wedding?"

Something seizes up inside of him, icy fingers clutching at his heart, and he thinks, No. No, no, no, no. It is infantile and unhelpful, to say nothing of impotent and not at all profound, but it is all he can manage. A litany of denial is his only reaction to the thought of his two best friends getting married, and how could he possibly have thought the old feelings buried deep enough to keep from resurfacing?

She sees the look on his face and winces at her own thoughtlessness.

"No, of course you aren't. I'd have thought Mrs. Weasley would have -- but no, she wouldn't have, would she? Would have wanted to spare you, figuring you'd be lost with Charlie for at least another year."

He swallows. Tries to speak, then realizes his heart is still in the way. He swallows again and forces a pained smile to his face.

"Why would I need sparing, Hermione? That’s wonderful news. Though I am a bit hurt I'm just now hearing about it. Thought we were better friends than that." The effort expended to keep his voice light, teasing, nearly sends him to his knees.

Hermione waves his concerns away with a casual hand.

"Oh, you know Ginny," she says with a long-suffering sigh. "She loves everyone dearly, but she's got the attention span of a blast-ended skrewt."

Harry blinks. "Ginny?"

"And don't think Malfoy's any help," Hermione continues blindly, "because he's not. If anything, he encourages her irresponsible behavior, Apparating her off to Tahiti and Nepal and Merlin knows where every other week. I swear, Harry, Mrs. Weasley is about to go out of her mind, what with Ginny's arrow always being on 'Traveling' or 'Mortal Danger' because you can be certain Malfoy always finds a way to get them into some kind of bind."

"Must be his winning personality," Harry manages, thinking Hermione might expect him to speak at this point. His mind is whirling, going from desperately crushed to confused and incredulous in five seconds flat. Ginny? Malfoy? In the same breath?

"Hmph!"

"So then --" What to say? The truth? Dear God, anything but that.

Hermione is looking at him expectantly and he curses himself for speaking in the first place. When would he ever learn that opening his mouth always caused him nothing but trouble?

"You and Ron -- you aren't -- I mean, erm, you aren't marrying Ron?"

If possible, Hermione grows more hyper.

"Marry Ron?" A bark of laughter escapes her mouth. "Are you -- you're joking, right?" Her eyes widen. "You aren't -- you mean you haven't heard? I would have thought -- oh, but of course she wouldn't. If she didn't tell you about Gin and Malfoy, she certainly wouldn't bother you with this."

"Bother me with what?" Harry feels as though everything around him is moving too quickly, leaving his own thoughts and actions sluggish. Or perhaps it is just that he's grown unaccustomed with Hermione's energy.

"Ron and I split up," she says, and her tone is so matter-of-fact, so lacking any urgency, that he wonders if he's imagined what he most wanted her to say, and willed the words into her head and out of her mouth. "But enough about that," she quickly continues, taking his hand and pulling him along, the forgotten copy of Peter Pan stuffed beneath her arm, "let's go and grab a bite and you can tell me all about your year away!"

~

Lunch goes smoothly. Hermione fills in a few of the details surrounding the whirlwind courtship Draco Malfoy and Ginny Weasley shared ("Ron's gone a bit mad over it. Honestly, I think he's totally denied the whole thing's happening"). Harry's relationship with Ginny had been ill-fated, ending a short four months after it had begun. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, mingling with his best friend's sister; her family had already adopted him as one of their own, why not go all the way and make things official?

Her pre-pubescent crush aside, Ginny and Harry soon learned that they actually had no interest in one another, full stop. Ginny had grown to hate Quidditch, and Harry had never been much for gossip, which seemed to be Ginny's only passion. (The position she'd taken with the Prophet as a gossip columnist a few years back seemed to compound matters.) Their breakup had been amicable, and the party most affected by it had been Mrs. Weasley, who had been inconsolable for days.

Hermione glosses over her breakup with Ron -- "Silly, really, that we ever tried to make a go of it in the first place. Seems that in a rush of hormones you can sometimes mistake frustration for passion and deep, platonic affection for intense, romantic love" -- and goes on to tell him about Ron's new career: Seeker for the Chudley Cannons.

"You should have seen him when he got the owl!" she says, stirring a cup of tea. "I've never seen anyone dance around a room like that. You hear the expression all the time, 'doing a jig,' but there he was, in the middle of the Burrow, actually doing one."

They share a laugh and Harry watches her smile in awe. He tries to think of a polite way to ask her if Ron is really as all right with their breakup as she is, and if she's started dating anyone yet.

"So, anyone new in your life, Herm?" There. That sounded casual. Friendly. A friendly inquiry from one friend to another.

"I don't have time for a beau," Hermione confides with a sigh. "I hate to speak ill of my predecessor, but oh, Harry, you can't imagine how horribly disorganized the library is! I think Madame Pince just gave up trying a few years ago."

He tries to concentrate on what she's saying, tries to follow the conversation like a normal person, but he can't. He feels giddy and strange, an alien in his own body, compelling him to take action he hasn't seriously contemplated since -- well, ever.

"And!" Hermione goes on, totally unaware of the thoughts churning through his mind. "You'll never believe -- the new batch of students this year are over fifty percent Muggle-born! Hogwarts hasn't seen anything like it in its history."

"There's usually fewer Muggle-borns then?" Harry says, because for once, Hermione seems to expect a reaction from him. He prays that his banal answer will appease her and that she will not realize he is a babbling idiot in her presence or that he is a love-struck randy fool, for that matter. He has not yet decided which fact he wishes to conceal from her most.

"Much!" Hermione says enthusiastically, and he lets out the breath he's been holding. "The amount of Muggle-born students is usually below forty percent. This many is stunning, and I think a real reflection on the number of people we lost in the war."

"It's sad," Harry says, then notices Hermione's perplexed expression. "How many people we lost in the war," he continues dumbly. "It's -- sad." Sad. Oh my God, someone please come up behind me and knock me unconscious.

"Harry . . . are you all right?"

"No." Oh God! Why did I go and say that? Why?? Quick, think of something plausible; I'm tired from the long trip. Haven't had much sleep the last few days. Still feeling a bit muzzy from the bender I went on last night. There, lots of options to choose from. Just have to pick one as soon as she asks--

"What's the matter?"

"I want to kiss you."

Hermione chokes on her tea. "Wha--what?"

"I want to kiss you," Harry repeats, and there is no stopping him now, because his heart has hijacked his mouth and they'll have dug his grave long before his mind catches them. "And I want to do more than kiss you, though that's certainly where I'd like to start. I want to hold you. Have done for . . . I don't really remember how long. Long enough that it feels like it's always been with me, a part of me; long enough that it seems like the bulk of my life has been spent wanting to be near you."

"Harry," she whispers, and he can't tell if she's horrified or ecstatic, can't tell and doesn't much care in the moment; he's come this far, and by God, he'll say the rest before she saves him or kills him.

"I want to be with you so much that I felt the strangest little ache whenever you and Ron looked at each other in that way you had. I want to kiss you so much that I had to move to Romania. Romania, Hermione."

"Why didn't you--" Her mouth closes tightly. "Of course you wouldn't. He's your -- and I'm -- and we -- oh, Harry."

Clever and kind are the words Harry would immediately use to describe Hermione to someone who didn't know her. The words he actually feels fit her best he keeps close, because this is one of the few ways he's selfish; he likes that he knows a part of Hermione that no one else does. He likes that he is the only one who knows how frightened she is underneath it all, how insecure and funny and intuitive and brave, all at once. He likes that she isn't as beautiful to anyone else -- not even Ron -- as she is to him and that she's the only person in the entire world who loves him just as much when he's weak as she does when he's strong.

Right now, she is trying to figure out how to let him down easy. She is trying to spare him, the same way Mrs. Weasley tries so hard to spare him every single day, as though they'd both gotten together at some sort of tea party and decided that Harry had had too much upset in his life, and it was now their personal mission in life to keep heartache from him. But Harry does not feel heartsick at the moment, does not want to take his words back; for the first time ever, really, he feels free.

"You don't have to say anything," he continues, and he leans forward and takes her hand gently in his. "You don't -- I don't want you to feel . . ." He sighs at himself, because once he's used up a good flow of words, he becomes quite useless with the English language again. "I just need to. Just once."

And then, before he loses his nerve, he leans in and kisses her. Her lips are cold and soft, slightly chapped because she spends too much time with books and not enough remembering to eat and drink at regular intervals. She charms her food for nutrition, but never bothers with something as simple as parched lips. Hermione is still and only the press of their lips and the tiny circles his thumb makes on her knuckles connects them. Seconds pass, and soon, Harry stops measuring time in seconds, and instead begins to count moments.

Moments can last a small fraction, or a lifetime -- that's the great thing about moments. This kiss, the way he feels her eyes flutter shut though he can't be sure because he'd had to close his eyes to work up the nerve to kiss her in the first place; the way her mouth finally, finally gives up the ghost and melts against his; the way their lips part at the same time and an almost-chaste contact becomes something decidedly more intimate, all conspire to turn what is meant to be a heartbeat-fast stolen kiss into a moment stretching into infinity.

And then, infinity is over; the sounds around the Muggle coffee shop filter back into Harry's frenzied brain and he pulls away from Hermione, blinking like a tired child awaking from a deep, deep sleep.

"Harry," she breathes, but he barely hears her, because he is letting go of her hand and practically running out of the coffee shop.

~

He finds a dark corner far enough away from watchful Muggle eyes to quickly Apparate. He decides to go home, even though he hasn't been back to his flat in over a year and it barely felt like home even before his trip to Romania. There are no words to describe how foolish he feels and he is only comforted by the knowledge that he did not force himself to hang about long enough to hear Hermione's very kind rejection.

Harry is thinking a shower would be a good idea indeed, and stripping off his shirt when Hermione Apparates into the middle of his living room.

"Are you out of your mind?!" She rarely shrieks anymore, something she grew out of at school. Only times of great stress break the cool exterior she projects to most of the world. "How dare you kiss me like that and just leave?!"

"I don't know?" His confusion is genuine, as is his fear. He clutches the plum shirt he'd been wearing to his chest like a favorite stuffed animal and tries to project an air of sincere contrition.

"Why did you kiss me like that?" She shakes her head, clearly annoyed with herself. "What am I saying? You made it very clear before you kissed me why you were kissing me, but what I mean, Harry, is -- why did you kiss me like that?"

"Because I love you?" Honestly, he isn't sure why he's suddenly turned into an idiot.

"Are you asking me or telling me?!" She is clearly about to have a stroke of some kind.

"Er -- I'm telling you?" He clears his throat. "I mean -- I'm telling you. Hermione. I -- I love you."

"You've loved me for a long time," she says, but she doesn't sound happy about it.

"Well -- yeah."

"Since we were kids," she continues, but she just sounds sadder. "Harry, you don't -- I mean--"

He gets it. By some miracle of magic or intuition or just plain paying attention, he gets it.

"Hermione," he interrupts quietly and walks the few feet that separate them. The hand not clutching his shirt rises to her face and shakes only slightly as he lets the very tips of his fingers paint invisible lines beneath her eye. "I'm in love with you."

"Are you sure?" she whispers. Her eyes look wet and he tries to remember the last time he saw Hermione cry. He can't, and his chest tightens.

"I moved to Romania," he says helplessly, because he doesn't know how else to express himself. "I didn't come home for Christmas this year. I--"

This time, she kisses him; he likes this, as it sets the tone for equality in their relationship, and he is starting to believe a relationship is definitely in the cards. Take that, Trelawney. I'm seeing the future and there's not a grisly, horrific death in sight.

They exchange several breathless kisses and he only pulls away from her when he tastes her tears in his mouth. His hand is tangled in her hair and his shirt fell away ages ago, her hands taking stock of the flesh revealed to them.

"Hermione," he whispers, "are you all--"

"Shut up," she says, her voice crisp. "I feel like I've waited my whole life to hear that you love me and I don't want you spoiling the moment by saying something dim. You've done a good job so far."

"Thank you," he notes sarcastically.

"You're welcome," she answers, not getting -- or ignoring -- his tone.

He considers defending himself, but she starts pulling the layers of clothing she's wearing off and he gets distracted by milky white flesh. The fact that Hermione is not shy about her body surprises him, as he thought nothing about her could ever surprise him again. She bares herself to his hungry gaze neatly and efficiently, setting each item of clothing she removes on a chair to her left. Hermione stands before him, not proud, but not shrinking away -- she stands before him as she does everything else, with a no-nonsense, straightforward air that inspires awe and consternation in equal measure.

Harry realizes quickly that he's over-thinking things, considering Hermione is very naked in front of him, and wastes no further time. His arms go around her and hers around him and they clash together somewhere in the middle, a clumsy medley of repressed attraction and lifelong affection. There is giggling and embarrassed snickering, moaning and indefinable whispers. At some point they get Harry's pants off and end up on the floor, hands and mouths trying to make up for years of being denied in the space of a few minutes.

Both elect that the floor is hard and uncomfortable, and they half crawl, half run, in a not-at-all-official game of tag to Harry's bed. His glasses fall off and he crushes them beneath his knee; he does not care, and lands on his back on the bed. Hermione flops down on top of him a second later, and they resume their mad kissing from (a-few-seconds-ago-but-it-seems-like-forever-since-you-kissed-me) the floor.

Thoughts of contraceptive spells flit through Harry's mind, but he can't land on a single thought. Hermione has always been the responsible one, and he assumes she's taken care of things. And if she hasn't . . .

For her sake, he tries to work up a good panic about an unplanned pregnancy, but he can't quite get there. All his life, Harry has wanted nothing more than a family. Once he matured enough to understand what went into committing totally to another person, the way his father had committed to his mother, he hadn't feared it. He would be married now if the only girl he wanted to marry hadn't been involved with his best friend.

"Stop thinking about whatever you're thinking and concentrate on me," Hermione says, stern. She is straddling his waist, and before he can make a sarcastic 'Yes, dearest,' response, she has thrust down onto him, reducing his oh-so-witty retort to little more than an unintelligible gurgle.

"I was concentrating on you," he grouses. His hands find her hips and she begins to rock against him. "Not my fault you -- ah -- can't tell."

Her hands move to his face, begin tracing the angles and planes of it. Her index finger finds his scar and she reverently zig-zags up and down a few times. A shudder wracks through his body at the contact and she gives a little sigh of appreciation.

Hermione's hair is long, longer now than it was at school. She normally wears it pulled back in a loose barrette, as it is now, and Harry is seized by the urge to see it free (even if his lack of glasses means he can't see much at all). He sits up, which jostles their positions in a most delightful way, and he gets the cutest squeak out of her. His hands reach up to her hair, and soon it's spread out around her shoulders, trailing over her breasts, and he lies back against the bed to enjoy the view.

An added bonus: Hermione's hands gain purchase on his chest, and she begins to rock against him anew. Every time she moves backward, her chest thrusts forward and he gets a teasing look at her nipples, peeking out at him from behind waves of honey brown hair. As good as the show is, he grows frustrated with it and leans up again, pushing her hair away so that his mouth can close over one peach-colored tip. A sharp cry leaves Hermione's mouth, followed by another, and her fingers clench and unclench in his hair, holding his mouth in place.

He feels her climax, dazedly recognizes the name she's chanting as his own, and swiftly reverses their position until she's beneath him. Her hands clutch at his back and he bears down on her, staring at her face with unfocused eyes. She is a blur, but he can see her perfectly, the picture he carries of her in his mind's eye, in his heart, filling him completely. He is awash in her, in her scent, her taste, the feel of her all around him, and he comes with a muffled moan he's desperately afraid was more of a whimper, buried in the crook of her neck.

They rest side by side, wrapped around one another, breathing heavily for several of those infinity moments Harry has grown so fond of.

"I've got to fix your glasses again," Hermione mutters. She is falling asleep and he smiles at the thoughts that run through her mind before unconsciousness takes her.

"Later, love," he murmurs.

"You'll go bumping into everything," she insists, her words slurring badly.

"Anything I plan on bumping into until my glasses are repaired," he murmurs, settling his head next to hers on the pillow, "isn't going to mind the contact any more than I will."

"Hmph," she sighs, and then a deep, satisfied snoring fills the room.

He smiles.

"Besides," he whispers to her sleeping form, "I can see you just fine."

Finis