An Affair of the Heart

Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 10/01/2006
Last Updated: 17/01/2006
Status: completed

He shouldn't be turned on by Hermione. He was. And it was all the bathrobe's fault. Eventual NC-17.

Chapters

1. Part 1: Lust-- and Something More

2. Part 2: Simple Truths

3. Part 3: Just Right

1. Part 1: Lust-- and Something More

Disclaimer: Not mine; all things HP belong to JKR, WB and Scholastic, etc.

Author’s Note: This first part was first posted at the fanfict00bs LJ community.

UST to be followed by some angst and then fluff and smut.

Happy 2006, everyone!! I hope you all have a very Harmonious year!

Part 1 of 3. Enjoy!

An Affair of the Heart

Part 1: Lust—and Something More

Harry blamed the bathrobe.

That had been the start of this whole thing.

It had been an accident of timing—or something.

Hermione usually left for work before he woke up in the morning, choosing to go to work early, being a morning person, while he was very definitely not. That morning, though, he had woken up early and had wandered into the kitchen to get some water and been on his way back to his room when the door to the bathroom had opened and he’d seen Hermione.

He had stopped for one long, endless second as his eyes took in the sight of Hermione.

She was obviously just out of her shower, in a bathrobe that was partially gaping open, allowing his stunned gaze a glimpse of the beginning of her cleavage. She had a towel wrapped around her hair as she was drying it. But what really drew his attention were the droplets of water he could see on her throat and upper chest, drawing his gaze inexorably down to the cleavage he could just see hinted at. His mouth had gone dry and his thoughts had skidded to a halt and all he could think, somewhat inanely, was that he had never in his life wanted to be a bathrobe before that moment. To be a bathrobe—to be wrapped around Hermione’s body, drying the moisture from her body—he stopped his thoughts.

He came to his senses when he met her surprised gaze and turned tail and retreated swiftly back to his room.

Great Merlin, what had just happened? It was ridiculous—he shouldn’t be turned on by the sight of Hermione in a bathrobe! He shouldn’t be turned on by Hermione at all, for that matter—but beyond that, a bathrobe?! If it was going to happen, shouldn’t it be when she was even wearing something more-- sexy? But no, a common, simple bathrobe, not even the most revealing thing he’d ever seen Hermione wear with how loosely it hung around her body—but there was something in the fact that he knew perfectly well that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath the bathrobe... All it would have taken was one tug on the belt and—and--

If anyone had asked him a minute before if he’d ever thought about what Hermione’s body would look like without her clothes, he’d probably have sworn that he didn’t think of Hermione that way. She was just his best friend.

Apparently, he’d have been lying given that he was having absolutely no difficulty now imagining what she would look like underneath that bloody bathrobe…

His hand dropped automatically to the straining hardness in his boxers as he pictured what he’d never really seen but what his imagination was easily picturing in glorious detail…

It was over in the space of a few minutes as he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood to prevent his groan from escaping as he spilled himself into his own hand.

Oh God…

He was suddenly disgusted with himself. What had he just done? Wanking off to the mental image of his best friend?

Oh God, oh God, oh God…

It had started that day.

He’d made a resolution that it must have been a fluke, a mistake, a very stupid mistake at that—and it wasn’t going to happen again.

That resolution had been broken within the week—hell, within three bloody days of making it.

They’d been having dinner, he and Ron and Hermione, in the kitchen of their flat and she’d been laughing at something Ron had said, an imitation of something his coach with the Chudley Cannons had said at the last practice, and then her tongue had come out as she’d delicately licked her lip to clean some lingering drops of sauce. And then she’d reached for her glass and taken a sip of water and in his crazed state of mind, just the touch of her hand on her glass looked like a caress.

He had never in his life known before that eating and drinking could be such sensuous acts—especially when he knew she was being completely natural and not even trying to attract.

Then again, as was becoming clearer and clearer to him by the day, Hermione didn’t need to try to attract him. He was attracted like a bloody moth to the proverbial bloody flame—to everything she did, because of everything she did.

So he stared at her mouth and her hands—and then he’d escaped to the bathroom and he’d pictured her mouth and her hands on various parts of his body and—well, that had been the end of his resolution.

It hadn’t changed—although he was discovering that his imagination was an incredibly active one in finding any and all of Hermione’s most mundane actions to be arousing.

He couldn’t decide sometimes if the whole moving-in-together idea, after the final defeat of Voldemort, was either brilliant or the world’s most refined torture—or both.

It had made sense at the time. Ron and Hermione were his best friends, had spent nearly every waking moment with him in the past few years; who else would he move in with now that he no longer had to go back to the Dursleys? And at first it had been wonderful.

There had been some tangles, some minor arguments (that were simply part of Ron and Hermione’s usual interaction) and the usual snarls that happened in the course of any people living together for the first time—but overall, it had been wonderful.

He had loved it. Loved having a real home. Loved having Ron and Hermione around when they could just be best friends and have fun in the first few months after the last battle without having to worry about Death Eaters or anything else. Then they’d all gone back and started work, Ron as the Keeper of the Chudley Cannons, Hermione as a Healer at St. Mungo’s and he as one of the Aurors—the only Auror in history ever to become one without having to undergo any of the usual Auror training.

But now, it was getting to be torture.

Being around Hermione so much, seeing Hermione so much in all the thousands of every-day situations of ordinary intimacy—being able to smell her shampoo and her soap after she used the bathroom. Her scent lingering in the living room—and even in her absence, the entire flat suddenly seemed full of her presence now. He didn’t know why it had never bothered him or occurred to him before but suddenly everything reminded him of her. He could see the pictures she’d chosen in the living room, her books in the bookshelves, a sweater of hers which she’d left thrown over the couch, her orange juice in the fridge.

He was obsessed with his best friend. There was something wrong with him.

And it wasn’t even that he was wanking off to mental images of his best friend on a regular basis now. That was practically the most normal thing about this new obsession. He was young and healthy and Hermione was a pretty young woman—no wonder he was attracted to her. (Never mind that he’d known her for 7 years now and had never felt this sort of attraction before…)

No, this went beyond that. What was troubling wasn’t his lust; it was how everything reminded him of her, how he thought of her nearly constantly. Because that was what told him that this wasn’t just lust. He didn’t just want his best friend. This was more than lust. He didn’t know what to call it, wasn’t sure it was love, but whatever it was, this was more than lust.

And she only thought of him as her best friend. He was just Harry to her.

And he was going crazy.

He’d been going crazy for nearly two months ago now.

Harry waited with Ron in the living room, idly talking, trying very hard not to think of the fact that he knew Hermione was getting dressed for the Weasleys’ Christmas dinner just a few meters away in her bedroom.

And then her bedroom door opened and he saw her.

He stopped breathing.

She looked—she looked—amazing, incredible. She was wearing a new dress—and he knew it was new because he’d never seen her wearing it before; there was no way he could have seen her in this and not remembered it, despite his usual inattention to clothing. It was a forest green, the color her concession to Christmas, he guessed, and he could swear that her very dress was in some sort of conspiracy to make him even more mental than he already was, with the way it seemed to lovingly outline every curve of her body in a way that he hardly ever saw given the sensible, comfortable clothing she usually wore. She had pulled back most of her hair but left the rest of it to fall in its usual curls past her bare shoulders. The neckline was relatively modest but it left her shoulders mostly bare and he swallowed hard.

“You look great, Hermione!” Ron exclaimed admiringly and she smiled at him.

“Thanks. You don’t look bad either.”

Harry said nothing—he seemed to have lost all power of speech right along with all power of coherent thought and all power to breathe but he somehow had the presence of mind to grab her cloak off the hook and help her into it in a rare gesture that made Hermione raise her brows slightly even as she smiled.

“You look--” he swallowed and avoided looking at the hint of cleavage revealed by the neckline of her dress, as he finished lamely, “you look- nice.” And then wanted to kick himself for saying something so inane.

His fingers brushed her shoulders as he put her cloak on and he could swear that she shivered slightly, just as he did. He felt the impact of that lightest of touches all over his body.

She turned to look at him and he forgot to breathe again, his gaze lowering from her eyes to fix irresistibly on her lips.

And for that crazed moment, he forgot that she had never indicated thinking of him as anything other than her best friend and in another moment, who knew what might have happened…

But then Ron said cheerfully—seemingly oblivious to the sudden tension in the flat—“All ready? Come on, let’s go. Mum’ll be waiting.”

Harry couldn’t decide whether he wanted to hug Ron or strangle him.

To be continued…

2. Part 2: Simple Truths

Disclaimer: See Part 1

Author’s Note: Thank you, everyone, who reviewed on Part 1. I’m so glad you’re enjoying this! And now, Part 2—which shows I’m apparently incapable of writing a fic without some Ginny!snark in it. Enjoy!

An Affair of the Heart

Part 2: Simple Truths

Hermione couldn’t decide whether to love Ron or hate him for his interruption.

For the first time, there had been—something—in Harry’s eyes and his expression when he looked at her, something she’d never seen before, something she’d nearly given up hope of ever seeing.

It had started the moment she’d stepped out of her room and he’d seen her. His jaw had visibly dropped before he closed it again and the look on his face—part awe, part surprise, and wholly admiration—was a look she suddenly thought she’d been waiting her whole life to see on Harry’s face. And she was very glad that she’d given in to impulse that day a few weeks ago and bought this dress. It wasn’t at all what she usually wore being more form-fitting than she felt entirely comfortable with but she’d seen it, tried it on in a moment of pure feminine weakness and bought it in the same mood. And she realized, too, that part of her motives in buying the dress had been because she wanted to see if she could get Harry to look at her as something other than just his other best friend—see her as, well, a woman.

And if the look on his face was any indication, she’d succeeded nicely.

She couldn’t help but feel some surprise when he helped her into her cloak; it was one of those sweet gestures he made on rare occasions. Then he’d opened his mouth and said, in a rather odd voice, “You look- you look nice” and somehow those plainest of words were transformed into the best and most eloquent compliment ever through the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice as he said it.

His fingers brushed her shoulders and she had to suppress her gasp and shiver. But then her eyes met his and everything inside her stilled. He was looking at her in a way she’d only dreamed of seeing and she could almost swear that he had felt something when he touched her too.

Time slowed, stopped; his eyes darkened with something she could almost believe was desire…

And then Ron had interrupted, as blithely oblivious and eager for his Mum’s cooking as a little boy could be.

She stepped back away from Harry, suddenly unable to meet his eyes as she made a big production of putting on her scarf before they stepped outside—since their flat didn’t allow direct Apparition inside or out of it.

At the Burrow, they were greeted with the usual warmth and welcome by Mrs. Weasley as she fussed over them all while Mr. Weasley smiled his welcome. Ginny’s greeting of Harry was almost embarrassingly single-minded; Hermione couldn’t decide whether to hate Ginny for her confidence or envy her for never being shy about making it quite clear that she, at least, still rather fancied Harry, no matter that they hadn’t actually dated for more than a year now.

Hermione stifled a frown and a pang of undeniable jealousy at how Ginny was clinging to Harry’s arm as if she was afraid he would disappear if she didn’t told on to him and how she was monopolizing his attention. Harry smiled and answered all her half-teasing, half-flirtatious words—but Hermione knew him well enough to think she detected a bit of stiffness, of being uncomfortable, in his expression and his bearing—only to wonder in the next moment if maybe that was more her own wishful thinking than anything else. For she did want to see that Harry wasn’t completely thrilled at Ginny’s patently obvious flirtation and willingness to go on as they had before, never mind that it had been more than a year ago and a year in which Ginny had barely seen Harry at all.

She had so hoped that after more than year, Harry might be over Ginny…

Now she wondered if she’d been an idiot to hope it. Ginny was so very pretty, after all, and not at all subtle about liking Harry—and Harry had cared about Ginny before, maybe still did care about her—only this time, there was no threat of Voldemort keeping them apart.

Ginny had kept Harry behind, distracting him with her pretty questions, so they were the last two to enter the Burrow’s living room when Ginny stopped in the doorway and, looking up, said, “Oh look, mistletoe!” with a mixture of pleasure and surprise and just a touch of endearing shyness. Hermione wondered if she were being completely unfair to Ginny to suspect that Ginny’s surprise was entirely manufactured; she wouldn’t put it past Ginny.

Harry colored—and for a moment, Hermione wondered if he’d glanced at her…

And then in front of the amused, and indulgent, eyes of the Weasleys—and the horrified eyes of Hermione—Harry kissed Ginny on the lips. Ginny’s arms promptly slid around Harry’s neck as her eyes closed and she kissed him back with an eagerness that was clear to be seen.

Hermione’s gaze seemed fixated, with masochistic fascination, at Harry’s hands where they lingered—or seemed to linger—on Ginny’s waist. She was reminded of the last time she’d seen them kiss like this in public, that day in the Gryffindor Common Room in 6th year, except that time, Harry’s arms had been holding Ginny to him… But she sternly quashed the renegade flicker of hope that thought encouraged. Of course he couldn’t quite kiss Ginny with the same abandon in front of her parents—and her five brothers.

It seemed like an eternity—a hellish eternity during which Hermione couldn’t breathe for the pain in her chest—before Harry and Ginny broke the kiss and drew back, Harry blushing and Ginny smiling, to meet the wide grins of Fred and George, the amusement of Ron, the speculative surprise in Bill’s and Charlie’s and Mr. Weasley’s eyes and the motherly happiness in Mrs. Weasley’s eyes.

And then it almost seemed as if the room exploded into merriment and good-natured teasing and Mrs. Weasley’s delight at seeing her daughter and her almost-son together (and Hermione realized that Ginny and Harry had been together so briefly that no one had ever thought to tell the other Weasleys so only she, Ron, Harry and Ginny herself were aware of their past history).

Hermione stood it as long as she could, having pasted a smile on her face that could have passed for sincere in front of anyone with the possible exception of Harry, who had always had the uncanny ability to tell when she was lying, but Harry wasn’t looking at her. Harry was preoccupied with answering the jests of the twins and even Bill and Charlie—and, Hermione noticed, Ginny still hadn’t let go of his arm.

It wasn’t even as if Harry were declaring undying love for Ginny; no, he was laughing it off, joking about it, saying any guy who’d found himself under mistletoe with a pretty girl would have done the same and he was just lucky and even pointing at his scar with a laugh, as proof of just how lucky he’d always been.

But still, Hermione couldn’t stand it. She wondered how it was possible that, even though she’d never really hoped that Harry might care about her as more than just his best friend, and even though until that very evening, she’d never even dared to hope that Harry might ever kiss her—somehow the truth of seeing Harry and Ginny together- again- was just too much for her.

Ginny, who was so pretty and so lively and good at Quidditch and everything Hermione was not. Ginny, whom Harry had cared about, his first real girlfriend.

Ginny and Harry—and even Hermione had to admit, with another pang, that they looked good together, with their respective coloring. Harry’s black hair made a perfect contrast for Ginny’s vivid red hair, his handsomeness (and Harry had become handsome, in his own way) offset with Ginny’s beauty. They looked probably much as James and Lily had looked together…

And Hermione couldn’t stand it.

She slipped out of the living room and ran blindly, not even thinking where she was going, until she stopped to find she’d run into what had been Ron’s old bedroom—and where Harry had always stayed whenever they’d visited the Burrow over the years. She wished desperately she could just Apparate back to their flat and not go back down there to face the merriment of the rest of the evening; she was feeling about as merry as a funeral and despite all her fondness for the Weasleys, at the moment, she hated the idea of being with them.

God, why did it hurt so much? How could it hurt so much? It wasn’t as if she’d ever really hoped that Harry would come to see her that way… It wasn’t as if Harry had ever really been hers to feel jealous of his kissing Ginny. It wasn’t as if Harry cared about her that way.

But somehow, it did hurt. Seeing Harry and Ginny kiss like that had hurt more than anything she’d ever felt, hurt all the more because she could see, all too clearly, that Ginny, with her charm and her outgoing personality and her confidence, was so beautiful. She was everything Hermione was not.

Hermione knew that she was only passably pretty, knew she could be bossy and a know-it-all and she wasn’t, had never been, popular. She’d never really had any friends except for Ron and Harry, never really felt as if she fit in among other girls. She- she just wasn’t that kind of girl.

And she’d thought she was resigned to it. Until today and seeing Harry and Ginny together and she’d suddenly realized that she really had no hope at all. Harry could have any girl in the country and not just because of his status as the Boy Who Lived but because he was, after all, good-looking and rich but more importantly, a genuinely good person. He was funny and kind and generous and honest…

He could have anyone he wanted. Why on earth would he ever want to date his rather plain, bookish best friend?

She sighed heavily and blinked back hot tears, trying to calm herself down so she could go down again and be fit company for the Weasley’s Christmas dinner.

“Hermione?”

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath and stiffened her spine before hastily flicking the last tears out of her eyes and praying Harry hadn’t noticed her action before turning to face him with a fake small smile. “Yes, Harry?” She tried to sound completely normal, as if it were usual for her to simply disappear for several minutes in the middle of a family gathering.

His quick frown told her that Harry didn’t buy either her nonchalant tone or her smile—and that he’d seen her tears. And for the first time, she felt a fleeting flare of anger that Harry—who understood her so well and knew her so well—could also be so blind, deaf and dumb that he didn’t know she loved him. “What’s wrong?”

She forced a slight laugh that even to her own ears sounded brittle. “Nothing. I just- I just had a passing headache for a while.”

Harry stepped completely inside the room and shut the door firmly behind him—and Hermione noted in some detached corner of her mind, that the room seemed to have noticeably shrunk since when they’d last stayed here, because Harry was now much taller and had filled out since he’d stayed here so many years ago.

“I wish you wouldn’t lie to me,” Harry said flatly. At some other time, his words might have been funny but not now. He paused and looked at her searchingly for a moment and then he asked, “Is this about Ginny?”

The quiet question broke through the walls and besides, she’d never been able to lie very well to Harry. “I- yes,” she finally admitted, her voice so low he could barely hear it. “But it’s ok,” she hurried on to say. “I- I’m not surprised; I’ve rather been expecting that you and Ginny might,” she swallowed before she continued, “get back together. After all, you know you and Ginny only broke up because of the danger and now that danger’s gone and, well, she obviously still cares about you, Harry. You should get back together,” she said, managing a smile, and wishing she hadn’t just been babbling like an idiot.

Harry was frowning still. “No,” he began. “I- Hermione, I didn’t mean to, didn’t really want to kiss Ginny but it was the mistletoe and when I would have made it only a quick peck, she pulled me in and kept me there and I could hardly just shove her away.” He stopped, seeming to realize that his words sounded rather like an excuse, and then finished decidedly, “I won’t be getting back together with Ginny, Hermione. I don’t—I don’t care about her that way anymore. I don’t want her. I want—” he stopped abruptly and then looked at her again before seeming to decide and finishing, “I want you.”

Hermione sucked in her breath sharply at hearing those words she’d convinced herself she’d never hear. I want you, I want you, I want you…

And oh, she wished she could believe him. She knew Harry, didn’t think he would lie, but years of insecurities had been brought to the surface with her minutes of thinking of Ginny versus herself and couldn’t be put to rest that easily.

“But you- you can’t! I mean, Ginny- she’s so pretty and- and fun to be with. I- I’m not like that. You- You can’t; you don’t mean it, Harry, though it’s nice of you to say.”

She hadn’t been looking at him as she said this but at the dead silence that followed her words she finally had to look up at him and flinched at the expression on his face. It was a mixture of disbelief and shock and—yes—annoyance.

“Why can’t I mean it? What did you think was what happened earlier back at the flat? I know you felt it too.” Hermione’s eyes widened. She’d thought she’d managed to hide her reaction. “Did you think I just act that way every time a pretty girl walks in or that I react that way every time I touch any girl? Do you think I’m that shallow?” he asked sharply.

“No!” Hermione burst out. “No—I—I don’t know,” she faltered, trying to explain what she really couldn’t; it had been instinct, almost, self-protection after so many months of telling herself Harry could never see her that way. “I thought it was—I don’t even know—just a physical thing and I wasn’t sure I hadn’t been imagining it and Ginny’s so pretty and you fancied her before and—and look at me! You could date any girl, so much prettier and- and sexier—than I am…” Her voice trailed off towards the end after the rush of words escaping her lips. She wasn’t looking at him, couldn’t look at him.

And then his arms reached out and pulled her against him, not roughly but firmly, holding her in place, her body pressed against his. Her breath left her in a gasp and she stared at him in surprise and almost reluctant pleasure and the beginnings of hope and happiness.

“You’re crazy,” he said quietly and intensely, his eyes holding hers. “There is no one prettier or sexier than you—why do you think I’ve been fantasizing about you and only you for two months now?” He asked the question in something like a self-deprecating tone which she might have found funny if she weren’t so shocked.

“You- you’ve fantasized about- about me?”

“Constantly,” Harry answered bluntly, although the color in his cheeks showed that he was uncertain about being so honest about this.

And she felt the last of her doubts fly away. She couldn’t not believe him, not now, now with that look on his face and the huskiness of his tone that she’d never heard before, and more than that, the heat of his hands on her lower back burning her through the fabric of her dress… Oh she believed him and she was suddenly filled with an almost reckless surge of joy, amazing given that only a few minutes ago she’d been convinced her heart was broken.

Hermione began to smile, a teasing glint entering her eye, herself again with all doubts put to rest. “Only two months? I’ve been fantasizing about you for a lot longer than that.”

His eyes widened and his breath caught as he stared at her for a long moment. And then he closed the distance between their lips, kissing her, and although he might have meant for it to be a gentle kiss, the moment his lips touched hers, any thought of gentleness or that it was their first kiss, vanished from his mind in the flare of passion that sparked between them.

She slid her hands into his hair, holding his head in place, not that he showed any sign at all of wanting to end their kiss, her lips parting, welcoming the thrust of his tongue. And dear Lord, but it felt so good… He felt so good, tasted so good… She was vaguely aware of hearing a soft moan and only belatedly realized it had come from her own throat as she arched against him.

One of his hands slid down to her hip while the other moved up her back in a slow caress and then forward to cup her breast through the material of her dress and she finally broke the kiss as her head fell back on a soft, breathy cry. He didn’t pause, his lips moving down the line of her chin and her neck, pausing to kiss her here or lick her there and then his tongue darted into a sensitive spot, the hollow on her throat, and she gasped, her hands clutching him tighter against her, even as they explored his shoulders and his back.

His hand slid inside her dress and her bra to flatten against the bare skin of her breast.

Dear God…

She had no idea where she found the presence of mind or the strength but some small corner of her mind retained enough coherence to interrupt and she realized where she was and how close they were to the point of no return and managed to gasp, “No, Harry.”

He stopped, lifting his head to look at her, his eyes darkened with desire, a flicker of doubt, of hurt, passing over his face.

She kissed him lightly, quickly, on the mouth before closing her eyes, her forehead resting against his chin as she tried to regain her breath and her thoughts. “Not here, Harry, not now.” She raised her head to meet his eyes. “We can’t—the Weasleys—they’re probably wondering what happened to us. We need to go back down.”

He let out a frustrated breath. “Do we really have to?”

She couldn’t help a slight laugh at his disgruntled tone that, for a moment, made him sound much younger, even as she could feel the hard evidence pressed against her that he was most emphatically not a little boy anymore.

“You know we do.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

She moved to put some space between their over-heated bodies, part of her really wishing she could damn the sensible side of her and continue where she and Harry had left off.

She hurriedly straightened her dress and checked to make sure she looked presentable before she looked at Harry.

He met her eyes and a small, rueful smile curved his lips. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I shouldn’t have--”

She cut his words off with her lips, kissing him hard on the mouth. “Don’t say that. I wanted you too.” She smiled slightly. “Wait until tonight.”

“I hope everyone eats quickly,” was Harry’s response and Hermione laughed, kissed him again lingeringly, loving that she could kiss him now, letting him feel the promise in her kiss but pulling away before he could draw her closer and deepen the kiss.

She left the room with a last smile for him.

Hermione paused before re-entering the living room, hoping she didn’t look as thoroughly kissed as she was and hoping she didn’t have a ridiculously happy smile on her face, although she had less hope of the latter, given how happy she was feeling. Harry wanted her! He wanted her…

Luckily, no one asked her where she’d gone when she re-entered and moved to sit next to Ron who was talking with the twins and Charlie about the prospects for who might win the League next year. Hermione listened quietly although she heard little and understood less, given that her interest in Quidditch couldn’t really have been said to have increased at all in the past few years. In all honesty, the sum total of her interest in Quidditch had pretty much begun and ended with Harry.

Harry came in a few moments later and moved to sit next to her, joining in the Quidditch conversation as Hermione’s interest in the talk suddenly increased.

Then he did something that caused her heart to stutter and then fill with happiness.

Casually, almost as if he did it without thinking although Hermione could tell he was being quite deliberate about it, he reached over, taking Hermione’s hand and placed it on his knee, where he rested his hand on top of hers.

It was a small gesture, perhaps, but an incredibly significant one.

No one noticed immediately until she heard a small intake of breath from where Ginny stood, talking with Mrs. Weasley.

Ginny looked from Harry to Hermione with dismay and suspicion in her eyes. “How long has this been going on?” she asked, her voice sounding rather shrill and drawing the attention of all the Weasleys.

Harry looked at Hermione, meeting her eyes, letting her know silently what he was going to say, before turning back to Ginny. “About 7 minutes or so,” he said with deceptive casualness and then answered more seriously, “But I’ve wanted it to happen about two months now.”

He could see the moment Ginny realized the significance of the 7 minutes, that it had actually been her mistletoe trick that pushed them together.

She went white then red. “No,” she said in a strangled voice.

Harry didn’t answer in words but calmly slid his arm around Hermione’s waist, in a move that rather surprised Hermione as she realized that Harry must be rather annoyed at Ginny for her possessive greeting as well as her little ploy with the mistletoe, despite the good that had come of it.

The rest of the Weasleys who had been watching this little scene turned to look at Ron, as if automatically acknowledging that Ron had the right to react first.

Ron blinked, looking at his two best friends for a moment and then his lips twitched, he grinned and said, “I knew it!”

Whatever Harry had been expecting Ron to say, it hadn’t been that and he stared, the unspoken question clear on his face. How did you know?

Ron’s grin widened and he began to laugh. “Sorry, Harry, but if you wanted to keep your feelings about Hermione a secret, you need to try harder than that. I’ve known you too long and you were a tad bit obvious, especially to another wizard.”

The tension in the room was dissipated as every man in the room burst out laughing at the dumb-founded expression on Harry’s face.

3. Part 3: Just Right

Disclaimer: See Part 1

Author’s Note: And now what you’ve all been waiting for, the smut! :-)

Part 3 of 3. Enjoy! And thanks for reading and reviewing.

An Affair of the Heart

Part 3: Just Right

It was quite possibly the longest dinner in the history of the world.

Or at least, that’s what it felt like.

It was as good a dinner as Mrs. Weasley usually made—or, he assumed it was. He tasted very little of it and as far as he was concerned, all the food could have been made out of sawdust and he doubted he’d have noticed a thing—but everyone else enjoyed it. The conversation was as lively as any dinner conversation including Fred and George always was but every once in a while, Harry’s gaze would catch Hermione’s from across the table and he would lose track of where he was and what people were talking about as he could see the promise in her eyes.

The evening seemed to last forever.

But finally, finally, he, Ron and Hermione managed to tear themselves away from Mrs. Weasley’s motherly hospitality and Apparate back to their flat.

He and Hermione hadn’t touched since going into dinner, had carefully kept apart in fact.

He was finding, though, that as far as trying to keep his mind off of Hermione—and all the things he wanted to do with Hermione and to Hermione—not touching her had no effect at all.

They were both silent as the three of them entered their flat, as Ron turned on the lights, and as they all shrugged off their cloaks.

Ron yawned, glancing at his two best friends, who were standing motionless in the hallway just staring at each other. He rolled his eyes, stifling the urge to forcibly push them together or possibly hit them to get their attention. “Goodnight,” he said in an unnaturally loud voice.

“Night,” Harry answered absently, not looking at Ron.

“Goodnight,” Hermione said, equally distractedly.

Ron had the distinct impression that neither of them would have noticed if he had suddenly begun tap-dancing on top of the coffee table in the living room, so absorbed were they by the other.

With a last roll of his eyes, Ron retreated to his bedroom, closing his door behind him with a decided click.

“I-” Harry began, his voice strangely hoarse, before he stopped, not sure what he was going to say.

But as if the sound of his voice had allowed her to make a decision, she stepped closer to him and she was the one to close the distance between their mouths and kiss him.

His arms closed around her, bringing her in tightly against him, as his tongue explored the depths of her mouth.

Her hands slid into his hair, messing it up even more than it already was, and then wandered down over the muscles she could feel in his shoulders and on his back. And it was just as it had been back at the Burrow, except better. There was the same excitement, the same fire. She could feel the hardness of his erection pressed against her and part of her mind couldn’t help but think, in some wonder, even now, that she could make Harry feel this way. That she could arouse him like this—after so many months of despairing that he would ever think of her in anything but a platonic fashion.

They moved blindly, still kissing and not letting go of each other, until they reached her bedroom as it was closer than his was and stumbled inside.

Harry let go of her briefly to close and lock the door and then turned back, pausing as his eyes roamed the length of her body, still in her dress.

She made a move to unzip herself but he stopped her with a quick gesture. “Let me,” he said softly.

And he did. Slowly, deliberately, he slid her zipper down and then stripped her gown off her as if he were unwrapping a priceless gift, leaving her in her bra and her nylons. He sucked in his breath staring at her and she blushed, wishing she had a better figure, was skinnier, perhaps, looked more like those gorgeous witches featured in Witch Weekly. But then, any thought of that left her when she saw the expression in his eyes as he stared at her—as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world. With the same deliberate care and pausing to caress every inch of her bare skin on the way until her breath was coming in shallow pants and every nerve of her skin was sensitized, he unhooked her bra and slid it off.

“Oh God, Hermione.” The words escaped his lips in a half-strangled groan as he looked at her and then his hands were on her, cupping, kneading, his thumbs pausing to flick over her hardened nipples until she lost all self-consciousness to be standing nearly naked in front of him, in the haze of sheer arousal and lust coursing through her body.

Her eyes had drifted closed only to fly open when she felt his mouth close over one of her nipples, his tongue laving it and her knees weakened, literally, when his teeth nipped, ever-so-gently, at her breast. She clutched his shoulders to keep from falling and then she felt his hands at her hips, rolling her nylons down her legs and taking her knickers with them.

Oh dear God…

She could feel her mind beginning to fly apart at the seams and summoned every last remaining bit of coherence to gasp, “Wait.”

He stopped and met her eyes and she felt a smile that could only be described as sultry curve her lips and wondered, idly, how it was that she somehow knew how to smile like that. She felt different—beautiful, sexy, alluring, all those things she’d never thought she was, until now, and this moment, with him. He made her feel this way, with the way he touched her, the way he looked at her…

“My turn now,” she said softly, and kissed him, her tongue caressing his lips before sliding inside his mouth to taste him. Her hands went to the collar of his shirt, unbuttoning it as quickly as her fingers could before she pulled his shirt out of his trousers and then pushed it off his shoulders.

And then she paused, her hands lightly resting on his chest, positively drinking in the sight of him. She had seen his bare chest before. She’d seen him with only a towel wrapped around his waist after a shower but she’d never thought that she’d see him standing like this, naked to the waist, in front of her, when she could touch him the way she wanted to.

Her hands wandered at their leisure over his chest and down his stomach, loving the way he tensed at her touch.

She turned her attention to his trousers, undoing them and pushing them and his boxers down his legs so he could step out of them.

And she saw the one part of him that she didn’t know. She feathered her fingers along the hot hardness of him, heard his groan, until he grabbed her hand, stopping her half-innocent, half-bold and entirely arousing exploration.

His eyes burned into hers for a moment before he crushed his lips to hers, kissing her hard and deeply.

Their naked bodies were pressed against each other, skin to skin, hands wandering, caressing, stroking, learning the other’s body.

She was vaguely aware of moving backwards and then found herself falling back onto her bed, her arms keeping him with her as they landed in a tangle of arms and legs.

His lips left hers to brush small, butterfly kisses over her face, her eyelids, the corner of her eyebrows, her nose, the spot right next to her ears, the corners of her lips and then further down. She had the sudden thought that he was memorizing her features, but the thought dissipated—along with every other thought in her mind—as his mouth continued its journey further down her body, pausing to suck at one nipple and then the other.

She moaned and arched into his touch, her hands tightening their grip on his shoulders.

“Beautiful. So beautiful,” he murmured against her skin.

His mouth—his wonderful, incredible mouth—moved further down and she knew a moment of surprise. He wasn’t—he couldn’t—he was and he did…

His lips closed over the very center of her, licking, sucking until she wondered wildly if it was possible for her head to simply explode from the pleasure spreading out like a tidal wave through her entire body. Her fingers clutched convulsively at the sheets, the almost-manic pleasure building up inside her until his tongue moved against her in a swirl and she screamed, her muscles clenching, her vision going black until she saw stars.

He slid back up her body and she framed his face with her hands, even as her body still trembled from the force of her orgasm, kissing him fiercely, tasting herself on his tongue.

And then it was her turn.

Her hands, her lips, moved over him with a selfish need to know, to learn every inch of his body as he had learned hers. She caressed him with touch and tongue with an urgency she’d only dreamed of, returning his passion with her own. They were a tangle of arms and legs and skin against skin and spiraling heat. Passion filled her senses and her soul.

He stopped her caresses with a groan and a hand and she looked up to meet his eyes.

Oh yes…

He shifted positioning himself at her entrance, pausing at the last moment to stare down at her, his eyes asking a silent question which she answered by drawing his head down for a kiss.

He wanted no other answer and slowly, pushed forward until he was inside her. She felt a sharp flash of pain and cried out, her fingers tensing on his shoulders, and felt him flinch at her cry. That simple act, that he flinched at her pain, filled her heart and almost insensibly, she felt herself relax, the pain subsiding, and she urged him on with another kiss, kissing him with her heart, her very soul.

He thrust further until he was completely buried inside her and she gasped at the shocking feel of intimacy and the stunning sensation of- of rightness… The word darted into her mind and she could only accept the truth of it. This was right…

And all the emotion she felt was expressed in a single word. “Harry.”

“Hermione,” he breathed in response, moving one hand to brush her hair away from her face, caressing her cheek.

He kissed her again, at first tenderly and then harder, as the passion from earlier overtook them again and all thought of rightness or tenderness or anything else left her mind to be replaced by the more simple, primal feeling of lust, hot and undeniable.

Slowly at first and then faster, his hips began to move. She met his every thrust, her legs opening wider and tangling with his legs and urging him on deeper.

On and on… More and more… Sensation upon sensation building on top of each other…

She gasped and then cried out as she felt herself hit the peak, again, the world graying out around her and waves of pure physical pleasure coursing through her body, drowning out everything else—everything except the one glimpse she had, before her eyes unfocused, of the look in his eyes as he watched her climax.

She was still trembling when he stiffened, his jaw clenching, and he thrust inside her a last time, clutching her even tighter to him as he spilled himself inside her, his half-shout, half-groan partially smothered by her hair.

He collapsed on top of her, both of them fighting to catch their breath. After a minute—or ten—he lifted his head, kissing her again, this time gently, their passion spent.

She felt a pang of loss as he slipped out of her body but then he drew her close, his arms going around her, keeping her with him as he rolled onto his side.

She turned over to face him, although she kept as close to his body as possible, wanting to preserve the contact.

Their eyes met and held and she wondered that even now, when rationality was creeping back into her mind, she felt no awkwardness about being naked like this with Harry. And it wasn’t awkward; it was simply what she’d been waiting for her entire life.

The words slipped from her lips unconsciously, on the heels of that thought. “I love you.”

The smile began in his eyes before spreading to his lips. “I love you.”

She stared. “You do?”

He laughed and then kissed her, gently pulling her until she was lying half on top of him. “What did you think this was?” he asked softly, between kisses. “Just lust? It was more than that; you know it was.” He paused and then added, “It was just—right…”

She smiled against his lips at hearing that he’d felt the same rightness she had and then curled up next to him, her body fitting perfectly against his.

Yes, this really was just right…

~*~

Harry awoke slowly to the awareness of the warm body pressed against his side.

He could tell from the evenness of her breathing that she was asleep and was almost surprised at the wave of protectiveness and tenderness he felt.

Oh this was love. He loved her. He had realized it sometime between trying not to stare at her during dinner and coming back to their flat, that what he felt for her could not be anything but love. It was so much more than lust; it was in the way he thought about her constantly, in the way he cared about her opinion so much. It was in the way he’d felt when he’d seen the evidence of tears in her eyes earlier. He cared so much about her, entirely separate from his desire for her… Of course he loved her.

He had known it at that moment and then he had felt the absolute truth of it the moment he’d first seen her body, caressed her bare skin. Had felt it in how it had suddenly ceased to be about him or about his desires but had become about him and her together, about them… Had realized it as he continued touching her, arousing her, as instinct and love substituted for his lack of experience… He had known that even as his body felt as it would spontaneously combust from his lust for her, the feeling that filled his heart, his very soul, was nothing other than love.

For that moment, he was completely happy, had no wish to be anywhere else in the world. Just to be here with Hermione watching her sleep.

Moving slowly so as not to wake her, he moved up onto his elbow so he could see her better. His eyes followed the line of her body from her bare shoulder down to where her waist tapered in, her hips and her legs.

He had thought it before when he’d undressed her and thought it again now: all his fantasies hadn’t done her body justice. She was gorgeous, perfect.

Not beautiful, perhaps, by conventional standards, but so beautiful in his eyes.

She didn’t have a perfect hour-glass figure, per say. She looked what she was, healthy, fit, slim and very delightfully curved.

Her breasts weren’t large but they were perfect for his hands.

And she had gorgeous legs. He’d already had a healthy appreciation for her mouth and hands and breasts but somehow he’d never really thought about her legs. Now, after seeing them, he was rapidly gaining a strong partiality for her legs as well.

And he was positively in love with her responsiveness. The way she had reacted to his every touch had fueled his own arousal and, dear Merlin, but the way she had touched him!

If he had known of the passion in her nature, he thought half-ruefully, he would have given in to his desires and kissed her long ago.

The sight and sound of her when she came was worth the entire universe and more—and the sexiest thing he had ever seen.

He was hard again from his thoughts but before he could decide whether to wake her up with kisses and caresses or do the more noble thing and let her sleep, the decision was taken out of his hands.

She shifted and then her eyes opened slowly.

She smiled softly when her eyes met his. “Hello.”

He smiled as well, wondering if he looked as ridiculously happy as he felt. “Hello,” he answered equally quietly.

Her eyes wandered over his body, pausing on his erection, her smile widening.

Then she moved so she was half lying on top of him, kissing him slowly and deeply, her hair falling down around his face in a brown curtain.

Her hand made its way down his body to gently wrap around his arousal and he groaned, thrusting into her hand.

He could feel his mind losing any command of his thoughts, coherence dissipating rapidly with every touch of her hand.

And his last thought before he completely gave himself up to the raging lust and the passion between them was, Forever.

He could happily be inside her forever.

He could touch her like this forever.

He could feel her touch him like this forever.

He could kiss her forever.

He could—and he would—love her forever…

~The End~