Faking It
Rating: NC-17
She was faking it.
Of course, she had been doing that a lot recently, so she had gotten quite accomplished at faking it.
Her eyes closed, squeezing shut, as she felt the man on top of her quickly losing his own control. She had gotten really good at the timing, as a particularly ragged thrust actually sent a spark of pleasure through her, causing her to gasp breathlessly.
A gasp she turned into a squeal of false pleasure as she concentrated everything on tightening herself around him. It never took much of her doing that to bring him pleasure, and she felt him pump through the forced contractions of her sensitive walls, once, twice, before the heat of his pleasure flooded her body.
The sound of it filled her senses and she was filled with happiness. She knew he needed this, this escape, to get away from the grief, the pain, the loss. She was the only one he trusted, the only one he let his guard down with.
The only person he dared reveal it to.
His breathing slowly returned to normal. "I'm sorry, Hermione," Harry Potter whispered.
She knew she was not supposed to hear it. Many nights she knew she never had, but still she knew, that he said it anyways. He would not be the same Harry Potter if he had not done so.
She was not sorry, she had never been sorry. As much as she hated the routine, as much as she hated that he did not return her feelings, she still loved him.
She knew what he was apologizing for. For being too weak to resist 'taking advantage' of her. For being too weak to save everyone. For being too slow when they had sought the Horcruxes.
She knew he could not have gone any faster. She knew that all three of them, then four of them, once Ginny finished school, and Harry could not keep her away, could not have done it any sooner. She knew Harry blamed himself for those two deaths in particular.
She knew Harry blamed himself for all the deaths. Thousands of them. The Prophesied Savior of the Wizarding World. Which was even more of a joke, in Britain anyways, now, for there was hardly a remnant of that world left.
Everything they had known before their quest was gone. Hogwarts, the Ministry, Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. Thousands of wizards were dead as they tried to resist in the wake of Dumbledore's death. Harry, Hermione, and Ron had vanished into their quest following the wedding… the wedding where most of the remaining Weasley's had been wiped out.
Only Ginny had survived, and only barely. They had not stood a chance, and they had run, the three of them. They had had to, of course. They were the only ones, the only way to beat him.
Wizards died by the thousands after that.
Dumbledore had taken nearly four years to locate two Horcruxes and only managed to destroy one before he died. It had taken six years, but just as Voldemort was bringing his campaign in Britain to a close, Harry had confronted him in London.
In fact, in a park right outside Buckingham Palace, an event which shattered the illusion the Wizarding World had tried to maintain for so long…
Not that anyone really knew what had happened, but it had been the four of them and whatever support they could rally. She really could not remember the faces at this point, so many dead, they were all gone, not one of them known, but it was over now.
She and Harry had been the only survivors. The only reason she had survived was because Harry had thrown himself over her as Voldemort had been destroyed…
He had saved her with his body. Now, it was the only place she had left that she felt safe. Under him, surrounded by him.
He was still just Harry to her. But he was so much more than just Harry as well. He was the only one she could ever love, could ever imagine loving.
And as she had always done, she gave him everything she could, helped him in every way.
Even this way. It was the way he needed most. Safety, security, the ability to drop the barriers he had around his heart. To let himself feel, even for a brief moment.
He used her, and she was there for him, and she no longer cared what his feelings were for her, as long as she got to have him like this, the only way that she ever would.
She shivered, and realized the weeping had stopped. They both cried, she knew, afterwards. She, for the love she would never get from him, him for his weakness, his failure, his inability to be strong for the only person he had left.
She glanced at him, and gently pushed him off of her, and smiled as he unconsciously snuggled against her, his head pillowed on her breasts as he slept.
"I'm sorry too, Harry," she whispered, for her lack of strength, her need of him, her sorrow that he would never feel what she did. "I love you." She would keep on going, though.
Harry needed her. And that was enough for the witch who loved him. Even if she had to fake it.
* * * * * *
He was faking it.
He had no idea how much longer he could, too. It was becoming slowly more and more difficult, to put the effort into something he knew Hermione did not want to do each night. He tried, he really did.
He wanted it to be good for her, not just for him. And not just the physical release, the emotional one, the mental one. For the few moments that the complete and total loss of everything was driven away.
He wanted to share that with her. He wanted her to return his feelings for her too, but he knew she would never do so.
He knew why she did it, though. Gave herself to him whenever he demanded it, nearly, that was.
She cared about him… and she no longer had a reason not to. She knew it was what he needed, and she had been a good friend, always giving him what he needed, helping him however he needed. Which was what she did whenever she let him take her.
He had, originally, tried to pretend they both wanted it. But he knew she had broken after the final battle. The pain, the loss had caught up to them, and she had broken, Hermione's strength finally going out at last.
His had too. He needed her desperately. He knew he loved her, he knew he should not take advantage of her weakness, her inability to resist giving him what he needed, as she had always done, just trying to make life normal again.
And so, to forget, to move on with life, it had started.
Harry sighed softly, and rose off the couch. She would be getting home soon, and he had promised to have dinner ready.
Dinner was, as always, a silent affair. He felt horrible about what he did, taking advantage of her, using her. Like tonight, when it got to him the most, he tried desperately to make it up to her.
His hands were on her, touching her, feeling the softness of her body, and he drew her into a rough kiss, hungry, demanding. He hated that he did this, that he could barely control himself any more, but her faking emotion no longer helped him any more.
Of course, he knew that she faked other things when they were in bed, and he hated that too, that she had to. That he was unable to give her what she gave him. He would try, he swore, tonight, he would do his best.
He made that oath every night, though. Tonight he was going to keep it, he swore, though.
He tore her shirt off, the echo of the buttons hitting hard surfaces oddly ringing in his mind. He would repair it tomorrow, he knew. He always did.
His hand squeezed her breast, earning him a soft moan from her, his thumb rubbing across it until he could feel the hardening of the point inside the second layer of cloth. With the amount of experience he had with her, that piece of fabric was gone quickly enough, too.
His tongue was on her breast, lathing across the nipple, hungrily, his teeth scraping across her skin, fastening onto her to suckle gently at the hard nub. She was moaning more now, which was what he liked to hear. His hand slipped between her legs, caressing her inner thighs, moving upwards to press against her through her jeans, eliciting a louder moan as he rubbed her.
He lay her back on the bed from the standing position they had been enjoying, and peeled off his shirt before climbing on top of her. He had tried other things, but she always refused anything but having him here.
He had no idea why that was.
He returned his attentions to her breasts, his hands caressing and squeezing and kneading them, rubbing her nipples which stood out firmly, hardened in natural response. Just her body, not her mind. His lips trailed along her jawline, to behind her ear, hungrily. She was moaning again as he pried her legs apart with his knee, using it to rub against her.
He felt her arch up under him, eagerly. It had been quite a while since he caused that reaction, he knew, and he continued to force himself to focus on her. He rubbed his knee against her, feeling the heat building there. He could feel her breasts, soft and heavy, filling his hands as he rubbed them, wanting her to feel pleasure tonight that he so rarely actually gave her.
He heard a whispered sound, that sounded like "Please," and so he took it to the next level, her remaining clothing coming off in a few, well practiced movements. She was so beautiful, so faithful, so utterly committed to his needs.
He could not ask for more from her, he could not ask for his love returned. It would be too much, especially for his only remaining friend.
His fingers drifted up the inside of her thigh and she shivered slightly before his caress reached the heat of her. She arched up, trying to deepen the contact, but he pulled his hand back, letting it barely remain against her…
Which was when he pressed down, his fingers opening the petals of flesh to seek the sensitivity beneath them. His tongue flicked out against her breast, flickering across her hardened nipple as he found that singular spot between her thighs with a fingernail…
She whimpered softly, so he did it again, earning himself more and more whimpers, which soon became moans of pleasure. She was oblivious to anything but his touch he realized, slithering down her body until he was between her legs. He looked up her sweating, glistening body as it writhed on the tip of his finger, so that when his finger stopped, he saw her begin to lift her head…
Which is when he flicked out his tongue against her, giving him a gasp as Hermione's head fell backwards onto her pillow again. He grinned slightly, his fingers exploring her gently as his tongue shifted back and forth over her most sensitive of spots. Her whimpering was getting louder…
A lot louder…
And nearly became a scream when he slid his fingers into her body. He kissed her, he licked her, he moved his fingers deeper and faster, the heat all around him, the scent of her, the wetness, he wanted more, so he gave her more…
And he got more and more, and the more he got, the more he gave…
And then he stopped, his grin devilish as he raised his head to look at her. Her whimper now was of frustration, and sounded suspiciously like "Nooo."
He scraped his fingernails over the wet, hot, flushed folds of her most intimate spots, and let his tongue do just ever so briefly what his fingers had been doing a moment before, when he heard her demand…
"Fuck me, Harry."
He knew why she phrased it that way. Because she did not love him, so it was not making love, and he did not own her soul, so he could not possess her. So it came down to the only option left, the crudest, animalistic expression of the act…
He wanted more. She wanted more, but not from him.
None of that mattered at the moment, of course. He was far too far gone to refuse, even if he had wanted to…
His clothing was gone in an instant, a trick picked up from the war, though usually used in reverse. He climbed up her, his fingers still stroking her gently, keeping her keyed up, ready.
He knew she was not faking it for his sake tonight when her legs parted more and wrapped around his hips eagerly, and he found himself pressed against her. This was what they both needed right now, his soul, her body.
There was no more waiting, delaying. He gave in with a single thrust, driving his hips into hers powerfully. The sheathing was exquisite, hotter and wetter and closer together than he could remember in…
Forever.
He could feel her body adjusting, gripping him tightly, realizing his presence, and he moved, swiftly, lifting his hips up, then dropping them down. Harry set a quick pace, his still toned athleticism letting him breathe almost evenly with the effort…
Or it would have, if it had not been for intervening factors, like the steady explosion building inside him… four days since the last time was not factoring into a measure of control that he needed…
He gritted his teeth. He was not going to add yet another failure to an already impressive list. As he grew rougher, wilder, he could feel her under him, bucking up against him, adding her own motions…
The kiss surprised him, especially in the midst of their intensity, that it was so soft, undemanding.
It cost him everything. He lost it, white flashing behind his eyes as he cried out hoarsely, his pleasure roaring through him, spilling out of him…
And Hermione screamed his name…
Not the little screams she used when she was faking it, not the wordless sounds she made when he had failed her yet again, when she was thinking she was fooling him.
Which was how he knew, this time, he had not failed her. Her scream ended as he collapsed heavily, sparing her, barely, his full weight.
It was a long moment before he rolled off of her, their breathing slowly returning to normal. He thought to hide it under the cover of his heavy breathing, when he whispered, "I'm…"
She cut him off with a finger on his lips. "Not tonight, Harry." He smiled, for once.
It was the most talking they had ever done afterwards.
Sleep was claiming him, pulling him under, too tired to resist it, even as a horrible thought came to his mind…
We didn't say the charm…
Darkness.
* * * * * *
She was faking it, again.
No, not that. The last month had been a lot better where that was concerned, actually, since that one night…
That night…
She had realized neither of them had done the charm a few minutes after Harry had gone to sleep, and she had laid there, wondering with her hand resting in the patch of curls on her pelvis if there was a chance…
Hoping against hope that there was…
She regretted that now as she threw up again, spitting whatever was left of last night's dinner into the toilet.
She had forgotten about it the next night, and Harry had been extra careful, and she realized that he had noticed too, after the fact…
And so she did not remember. Even when she was late. That had, after all, happened before…
She had remembered the second morning in a row she had woken up to heave whatever she had consumed in the past twenty four hours into the bowl of the toilet. That had been yesterday…
She always woke before Harry, but she never got out of bed until he did, so even he would have to realize something was going on, eventually…
She had just hoped they could have spared the moment a bit longer, but he had woken up early today, and ran into the bathroom when he heard her…
He was standing there, watching her throw up, a terribly worried, what-do-I-do expression on his face. Finally, she felt him kneel down as she rested her forehead on the cool porcelain.
"Hermione, are you okay?" His voice was worried, worried for his friend, his…
…fuck buddy.
The term just seemed to fit, but she had never thought it just like that before, and it hit her instantly why she never told him to take her, to claim her, to make love to her. Because he did not love her.
He used her, fucked her, and she enjoyed it, needed it… Like him, she used it to forget. But not the things she had lost, the failures… Just the one thing she could not have.
"Yes, Harry," she said after a moment. "I'm alright. Just a little sick to my stomach. Nothing to worry about."
Please please please let him believe me.
She did not want it to end, but she knew, in her heart, that this would end it between them, and she would never feel him again, never have him take her breath away, never hear his pleasure again, never experience that little spike of electricity when his skin brushed innocently on hers.
"Hermione, we'd better get you to the hospital."
It would have worked on Ron, was her first bitter thought. But Ron had never been Harry, despite all the growing up she had seen him do, despite all she had cared for him, it had never been Ron.
Always Harry. Even when she was with Ron, trying to forget that Harry would never love her.
She sighed heavily. "There's no need. I'll just pack up my things and go, Harry."
She saw him blink as she rose unsteadily to her feet. His mouth dropped open. "Whaaaa? Why?"
She realized she had left out the important fact, but passed on it for now. "We can't keep doing this, Harry. It's time to move on."
He fell on the floor, stunned, the light in his eyes completely fading. "No," he whispered, uncomprehending.
"Yes," she responded simply. "I can't think of myself any more, or even you. There's someone more important now."
The pieces clicked into place behind his eyes. She had always loved that about him, when he finally had the right information, he always got the right conclusion. "Our baby will not grow up without a father. I've failed too many other things to fail this too. We'll get married."
She was stunned. He had not asked, just assumed. That was his way, taking on responsibility. She loved him for that too.
But she had to be sure that he wanted this. "Harry, we don't have to. I know you feel responsible," and you are, thank god, "but I don't want you doing this because of your saving people thing."
He glared at her, truly and awesomely angry, but his voice was surprisingly quiet and she shivered as green ice bored into her brown eyes, as she realized this was the last thing Voldemort had seen, had heard… this Harry…
One she had never known… and loved instantly. "Hermione, if you refuse to marry me, you'll still see me just as much every day. I'm not going to let any child of mine grow up without two parents."
"Okay," was all she whispered. Inside, her mind was screaming.
YESYESYESYESYESYES!
* * * * * *
He was faking it.
He bit his lip to keep from slamming his fist through the chair arm as another scream tore through him like his very own agony.
Which it was, really, as Hermione's vise like grip nearly crushed the hand she held.
It did not hurt, of course, not at all. Not a single bit.
How could he have done this to her? How could he have made her hurt for him like this? How utterly selfish was he? His best friend, lying there in agony.
And it was all his fault.
His hand was crushed again as Hermione screamed once more. His vision started to go a bit red around the edges as Hermione squeezed again, but he heard a calm, soothing female voice. "Almost there, luv. Just one more push will do it…"
The pain was not quite as bad the next time when Hermione cried out, the voice not as high pitched.
Well, Hermione Potter's cry wasn't high or loud.
The newest Potter, on the other hand…
Harry instinctively snatched his free hand to his ear to try and block out the sound.
It did not work. At all. The crying drowned out the Healer's voice, though, as she tried to present the child, all the messy business completed, the blood wiped away, the little body wrapped in a blanket.
The eyes were closed, and Hermione released Harry's hand, as the Healer gave her the child. Harry leaned over to examine the small human as Hermione cradled it, where upon it instantly shut up at her touch.
"She looks like you," he murmured unthinkingly.
He could feel the shocked silence, and turned his head to meet Hermione's gaze. "Weren't you listening, Harry?" He shook his head, realizing he'd missed something important. "It's a boy."
He blinked. "Oh." Calmly, he reached down and lifted up the blanket slightly and peered underneath. "Oh."
Hermione giggled at that, and Harry smiled. It had been a very long time since he had heard that. "Well, we'll just have to call him Ronald James Sirius Remus Albus Frederick George Potter, then."
"Harry," Hermione began but broke off in surprise when Ronald fastened his lips on her and began to suck gently. She swallowed, and recovered slightly. "What about the next one?"
Next one? Are there twins? He looked at the Healer confused, who was standing there, ready to write down whatever name they chose.
Which is when the light clicked on in his head, behind his eyes. More like a spotlight. Or a sunburst.
She wanted to have more children with him. She wanted to go through all that pain all over again. For him. For children with him.
There was only one reason she could possibly want to suffer that much, as that had appeared far worse than anything he had ever gone through fighting the war.
She loved him. She wanted to have more children with him.
Of course, he would not have been Harry Potter if he had not managed to say some totally inane thing at that very moment. "Next one is going to be a girl," was what he came up with, as if to explain his insistence on such a long name.
Hermione giggled for a moment, and finally got it under control, turning to the Healer, still poised with the quill. "Ronald Sirius Potter," she said softly.
He nodded. Perfect. They could honor their other friends with the rest of the children. Their children.
The Healer smiled at them and left the room, giving them their first time as a family. He leaned over and kissed Hermione softly on the lips and she gasped in surprise, looking at him suspiciously, before looking back the baby still on her breast.
He had rarely shown her such blatant public affection. He smiled tenderly. "I just realized something, Hermione, and I thought now that I knew it, I should tell you something else."
She looked up from the boy. Their boy. Their baby boy. "Yes, Harry?"
"I love you, Hermione Potter."
"I love you too, Harry Potter."
He grinned at her. "I know. That's what I just figured out."
Hermione laughed. "And of the two of you, Ron was supposed to be the thick one." She looked down and cooed to the baby, "No, not you, your namesake." She looked back at him. "Honestly, Harry, I've loved you for forever. Do you think I would have stayed with you if I hadn't, especially for the last two years?" She was crying. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"
He was lost for words as she rambled on, crying with happiness, with sadness for the time they had lost. He joined her.
But it was the last time they cried for their old life. The last time they cried for pain.
* * * * * *
They were both faking it.
"Ronald Sirius Potter! You will get in here right now and tell me what you did to make your little sister cry!" Harry's voice carried completely through the house, and Hermione cringed.
Lily Minerva was Daddy's little girl, at five years old, a year younger than Ronald, who she resembled in everything but looks, though her penchant for getting into trouble, or, at least, getting caught, was far lower.
Harry had been right. The next one had been a girl. Though the twins after that had had their names as a given.
"Won's in twouble," two-year old Frederick James giggled as Hermione struggled to strap his five minute older brother George Remus into his seat for dinner.
Neither one of them, they had realized about an hour after they had brought little Ronald home, had the slightest idea how to raise a child.
Harry was always harsh but imminently fair with them. He never spoiled them, and he never neglected them. He never planned it, but as the family grew and grew, she had noticed, and then, she began to clock him.
Over the course of a week, he spent within five minutes, exactly the same amount of time one-on-one with each child. And he did it without thinking about it, because she had asked him. He really was an amazing man. He was a natural at it, despite having been so very scared at first.
Harry carried a squirming six-year old, who, almost to Hermione's disappointment, had lost the brown curls he had started with in favor of his father's black mop. She would not have had it any other way, she realized.
Lily matched her namesake, red hair and green eyes, but Fred and George were the first ones that really looked like a combination of their two parents, black hair, chocolate brown eyes.
Harry sat Ronald down in his dinner chair and scowled at him. "Apologize to your sister," he said calmly, though his gaze was on his wife, and he heard his eldest son sincerely apologizing to his sister, though not the words.
She was far more prone to spoil them than he was, and he knew where it came from. She had been raised in a family that loved and cared for her, was always there for her and around her, and Harry growing up on his own, realized that there were things children had to learn to do for themselves.
They had just understood it after the first three months of having Ronald home with them. They had not needed to discuss it. They just knew. Harry had refused to let him become a Dudley, but he managed to not withdraw so much the child was like him either. Hermione, naturally, clung slightly more to the newest child, who was first Lily, and was now the twins.
And, she had told him last night, in eight more months, whichever that one was.
Since Ronald had been born, that had been the only faking going on. That they knew what they were doing.
They both loved every minute of it, though. And they knew they would get through whatever the four, soon to be five, children, brought them.
Because as a family, they were not faking it at all.
The End