Because You're Mine

Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 01/11/2005
Last Updated: 01/11/2005
Status: in_progress

He'd never imagined it would happen like this... And that what should have felt so wrong instead felt so right... One-shot SWS.

Chapters

1. Because You're Mine

1. Because You're Mine

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR, no copyright infringement is intended, no money is being made, etc etc.

Author’s Note: Inspired by midnight_ljc’s wonderful fanart, Aurors (http://www.livejournal.com/users/midnight_ljc/98088.html) and also in part by angel423’s very hot smut-let, ‘Breaking Point’ (http://www.livejournal.com/users/angel423/604107.html).

For Libbie. *glomps*

Because You’re Mine

He’d never imagined it would be like this. He’d never thought it would happen this way.

In the times he’d imagined this (and he had to admit he’d imagined kissing Hermione more times in the past few years than any man had any business imagining such things of his best friend, more times than he cared to remember), he’d never thought it would happen like this.

He’d imagined it being soft and sweet and somewhat tentative—as it would be threatening the comfortable friendship of years. He’d imagined their first kiss being quick and hard, almost instinctive, after some traumatic event. He’d imagined it taking place at his flat, her flat, even at the Burrow, or at Hogwarts on one of their infrequent visits back to the castle, inside, outside, nearly everywhere.

He’d never imagined it taking place inside their office in the Ministry.

It was the Ministry, their office where there were usually people dropping by in a steady stream during the day. And he had resolved that while they were at work, he simply did not think of Hermione like that. It was the only way he could survive being her partner, spending so many of their waking hours together, working so closely with her—without completely losing his mind and his self-control. He didn’t think to save his heart; he knew it was too late for that since he’d lost it to her years ago, lost it to her long before he realized it and long before he’d realized that Ron and Hermione were actually happy together.

It didn’t even hurt that much, knowing Ron and Hermione were together; it was just part of the way things had always been. It didn’t hurt—much—because it was part of all the things he was accustomed to. It didn’t hurt because he’d never thought he had a chance.

And it didn’t hurt because he refused to let it hurt, just like he refused to let himself think about it when he was with them. When he was with them, they were only his best friends and nothing more.

It was only when he was alone that traitorous thoughts and imaginings of kissing Hermione, touching Hermione, intruded.

Loving Hermione was simply a part of himself that he never allowed to intrude on any other aspect of his life, not his friendship with Ron and Hermione, not his work, not anything, really, of his waking life. That it made up such a large portion of his dreams at night, he couldn’t help and had become accustomed to.

He had become very good at keeping his feelings for Hermione locked up inside him when he was with her.

Until today.

Maybe it was because he was tired, exhausted really, in a way he could hardly remember feeling since the last battle against Voldemort.

Maybe it was because of that one horrible moment when he’d seen Hermione get knocked down and had thought—feared—dreaded—that she might have been—that she might not get up again. He refused to even think the word of what he’d feared.

Or maybe it was just that after being bottled up for so long, his feelings had decided it was high time something happened to break through the walls he’d built around them.

They were both bruised and sore – although filled with a kind of temporary energy and exhilaration at having finally closed the case they’d been working on and putting the bastards behind bars.

They had only come back to the office despite the lateness of the hour so they could fill out the reports of what had happened while the memories were still fresh in their minds and so they could use some of the healing potions and ointments which Hermione kept a store of in her desk for just this purpose.

Hermione had bent over to open the small chest under her desk which contained the potions and ointments and then had let out her breath in a small hiss of pain. He’d stopped her with a hand on her arm. “It’s okay; you don’t need to bother. I’ll be fine.”

She glanced up at him with a somewhat forced smile that tried to be teasing. “Who said I wanted the ointments to heal you?”

He smiled but only repeated again, “Don’t. I do remember a few healing charms and they should help until you go back to your flat.”

She let her eyes wander from the bruises on his face, the cut on his cheek, to the tear in his shirt revealing the rather distressingly deep-looking gash on his shoulder. She didn’t say anything but the look of concern on her face was obvious.

He gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t look like that, Hermione. I’ve gotten worse injuries from Quidditch before.” He glanced down to the harsh, red wounds on her neck and shoulders and sobered as he reached up a gentle finger to brush against the bruises marring the pale skin of her neck. “I’m more worried about you. Are you sure you don’t need to go to St. Mungo’s and have the healers look at you?”

“Harry, I already told you I’ll be fine and I refuse to go to St. Mungo’s over something so trivial.” She gave him a teasing glance and then said in a teasing voice, “If you’re so worried you can kiss it and make it better.”

And it wasn’t even the suggestion or the words that made him respond the way he did; it wasn’t as if she’d never said anything like that, that could between any other two people, have been interpreted as flirtatious. It was just part of the things they said, part of how comfortable they were in their friendship.

But somehow, today, he responded differently to the words. His eyes met hers in a split second and then impulsively, he bent down and kissed the bruises on her neck.

She caught her breath in surprise and he met her widened eyes as they stared at each other, and he was, for the first time, excruciatingly aware of the fact that it was only dimly lit inside their office and he was standing right next to her, so close to her really, close enough to put his arms around her, to smell her if he breathed in deeply…

He had almost gotten up the strength of mind to step away from her even if he couldn’t bring himself to look away when her tongue slipped out to moisten her lips in a move that he could see had been completely unconscious.

And it was the last straw. Every man has a breaking point and somehow, something about that moment, about seeing her tongue touch her lips, pushed him over the edge.

And before he fully realized what he was going to do, he had crushed his lips to hers, his hands fisting in her shirt and bringing her in flush against him.

If he’d been capable of thought, he would have expected that she’d lurch back in shock and dismay and anger, possibly even slap him. He would have expected that she would break the kiss.

She didn’t.

She stiffened for a moment, in surprise, but he persisted in the madness of the moment and the heat of kissing her for the first time when he’d dreamed of this for so many years—and then, making a soft sound in the back of her throat, she kissed him back, her hands sliding around to touch and caress his shoulder blades and his back, bringing his body in even closer to hers.

This was wrong, his conscience screamed, so wrong and he should stop now if he had any decency; this was wrong in so many ways, on so many levels—he knew it—and yet… And yet, never in his life had anything felt more right.

She fit against him as if she’d been made for him, tasted better than anything he’d ever tasted in his life, felt better than anything he’d felt before…

Her lips parted more as her tongue slid into his mouth, dueling with his own tongue, in a way that ensured any coherent thought would promptly leave his mind.

He shivered at her touch and rocked against her, knowing she would feel his growing arousal. His hands were hard and eager as they slid over every inch of her body, the body he’d longed to discover for so long now. He cupped, massaged her breasts through the fabric of her bra and her shirt, not even bothering to unbutton her shirt fully, loving how she moaned and clutched at him in response.

He wanted to touch every inch of her, caress every inch of her skin with his hands and his mouth and his tongue.

He slid his hands up her thighs and under her skirt, pushing down her knickers with impatient fingers. God, she was so wet already, so wet, so hot, so… Perfect…

She gasped and moved her own hand to cup his hardness through his trousers and he promptly changed his mind about trying to go slower. He could no more slow down than he could stop this, than he could deny that he loved her and had been secretly wanting this for years.

This wasn’t the time for slow sensuality or tenderness or waiting. This wasn’t about that. This was about heat, and lust, and passion, and hunger, and arousal, and desperation, all swirling together—and he needed to be inside her, needed to feel her around him. Needed her more than he’d ever needed anyone, needed her so he thought he’d die or explode if he wasn’t inside her.

He could hardly believe just how aroused he was and they weren’t even undressed but at that moment, he didn’t even want to wait the few seconds it would take to strip off their clothes, didn’t want to stop touching her or separate for the few inches of space they would need for him to take off his shirt.

Her head fell back as her hands frantically fumbled with his trousers and shoved it down along with his pants, freeing his erection. Her warm hand closed around the hard length of him, stroking, squeezing gently and he groaned, grabbing her wrist to stop the wonderful torture.

Blindly, he reached out, sweeping the books and folders off her desk and lifting her up onto it and then, climbing up onto her desk himself, buried himself inside her with one forceful thrust, pushing up her skirt with his hands as he did so.

She welcomed him inside her, her legs parting and tangling with his own as her hands grasped his buttocks, urging him on deeper inside her.

And she was the one that set the rhythm, thrusting her hips upwards against him, her hands fisting on his shirt and then flattening on his arse.

His eyes closed and his hands fisted against her desk as he moved, clenching his jaw against the tension as he moved in an ageless, timeless, endless dance of lust.

Her body clenched around him, her fingers digging into his lower back and he opened his eyes at that critical point, suddenly wanting- no, needing- to see her face as he brought her to climax. Wanted to know what she looked like at that moment, to savor the moment…

Tension crossed her face fleetingly as she cried out, clutching him tighter to her—and it was without a doubt the most erotic thing he had ever seen, Hermione, her eyes closed, her mouth open, her hair spread out on her desk.

And then he forgot to watch her, forgot where they were, forgot everything, as he thrust inside her one last time, the explosion overtaking him as he came with a force that stunned him.

He collapsed on top of her, his arms giving way, feeling drained of everything, his eyes closing as he rested his cheek on her shoulder.

It was a moment before he realized that he was probably crushing her and by dint of will, managed to shift off of her and to the side, landing rather uncomfortably on top of a book but too tired to shift his weight to remove the book.

And it was another few minutes before his breathing slowed and coherent thought returned and he realized what he’d done.

He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, staring upward to the bulletin board above her desk where he could just see in the dim light, the invitation to her and Ron’s wedding which was to be in a month’s time.

Oh God…

He shut his eyes again as a shudder, this time of self-loathing, shook him and then he shifted again to look at her.

She was still lying in the same position, a wanton position, he couldn’t help thinking, her lips swollen from his kiss, her cheeks flushed with passion, her hair spread out around her—her blouse half-unbuttoned so he could see her bra, her skirt shoved up around her hips and her legs still slightly parted.

He stared at her, guilty, fascinated, reluctantly feeling a flicker of arousal go through him again at the sight of her sprawled on her desk like that. She looked—sated and sensual and he knew he’d never be able to look at her again without seeing her as she was now in his mind. She looked like everything he had ever wanted in his life embodied in human form. And he suddenly knew that he’d been waiting for this all his life… And for once it didn’t matter that it would complicate things, that it would be endangering the best friendship he’d ever had, that this constituted a betrayal of his best friend in every way…

He had wondered, before, what it would be like to make love to Hermione—and now he knew… It was perfect… There was a fire, a passion, a connection between them that had been dormant, kept scrupulously tamped down—but now that he had experienced it, he would never be able to treat Hermione platonically again.

Looking at her, the incredible passion that had suddenly exploded between them still fresh in his mind, the taste of her lingering on his lips, he just knew…

He pushed himself up onto one elbow to kiss her, more gently this time, his tongue teasing her lips and then sliding inside her mouth as his other hand cupped her cheek, played with her hair.

She melted against him, her lips softening and parting, her fingers tangling in his hair…

He kissed her long and lingeringly, kissed her until he couldn’t breathe and had to break the kiss from a lack of air.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly and he saw the dawning realization and confusion and dismay in her eyes.

His heart clenched at the thought of the pain and the complications which they had just set in motion but all he said was two words. Two words that summarized what he’d realized at that moment of staring at her…

“You’re mine.” His voice was low, almost gravelly, and forceful, his eyes hot as he stared down at her.

“You’re mine,” he said again, as his eyes burned into hers, willing her to see his thoughts. You’re mine… And she was—because he loved her, because he knew that she loved him or she would never have kissed him back, never have let him love her the way she had, because he knew that without her, he simply could not go on. He could not let her go. Not now that he knew just how well they fit together, not now that he knew how she tasted and how hot and tight she was around him… Not now… Never again…

He had made her his with every kiss, every touch—and he knew, too, that she could never have truly belonged to anyone else… Somehow… She belonged to him and he to her—and so it had always been, somehow, in spite of Ron, in spite of everything… They were lucky that they had realized it now, before she was married, rather than afterwards—for he knew that this would still have happened. At some point, sometime, this would still have happened… It had always just been waiting, waiting to happen… This passion had always just been waiting, waiting to explode… And now it finally had—and he knew that this was right.

She simply stared at him and he was beginning to be afraid that she didn’t understand, that maybe it had just been about lust for her and she didn’t love him, that she still intended to marry Ron even though they had just demonstrated in graphic detail just why she couldn’t… And then she finally said, softly, “And you’re mine,” and he knew she knew and she understood.

She blinked back sudden tears now that she had finally put words to her decision, a decision that she knew would break Ron’s heart and disappoint so many people and probably end the friendship of more than a decade. “I tried so hard to love Ron and I do love him and care about him so much but he’s just—not you. I told myself I had no chance and I should just love the one who loved me too and so I gave up on you and tried so hard not to love you but I couldn’t stop…” Her voice hitched slightly and she swallowed. “I couldn’t stop. And now this has happened and oh God, Harry, I should hate myself for doing this but I- I just couldn’t help it because I love you, I’ve always loved you—and Ron is going to be so hurt. I never wanted to hurt him, wanted to make him happy… But- but…” her voice trailed off as she sighed, automatically shifting closer to him.

He wiped away her tears with a gentle finger. “I know,” he breathed quietly. Oh he knew all too well just what kind of a mess they had made, the kind of chaos they had begun tonight, the kind of pain they were going to be in for because of what they’d done and the decision they’d made…

But as he kissed her again, he couldn’t help but think that all that mattered very little after all… That what should have felt so wrong had instead felt so right… Felt so good and so right that he knew he couldn’t do anything differently even if he’d wanted to. Felt so right that he knew, somehow, deep in his heart and soul, that this was what they’d been meant for, that this had always been what they’d been meant for—and the something in the real, larger scheme of things that had gone awry when Ron and Hermione had gotten engaged, had finally been set to rights…

He didn’t know what would happen now except that Ron would be hurt and heartbroken and he and Hermione would both be in for many bad days when guilt would overwhelm them—but as he kissed her and felt her response, felt how perfectly she fit against him, he knew that this was worth it. She was worth it. They would regret having to hurt Ron and disappoint the Weasleys but they would regret it so much more if they didn’t act on their feelings now that they knew they both cared.

Because she was his and he was hers—and this, in defiance of everything, was right…

~The End~