Sundays

Author’s Note: I wrote this while at work, it has not been edited. It’s just a small thing that I did while bored. And yes, there will be a sequel to Hardest Thing eventually. I just finished university and started a job so I haven’t had a lot of time to work on it, but it is coming.

R&R, baby!

Blissful

Sundays were made for sleeping in; to relax in bed until your growling stomach finally forced you to leave your soft, warm solace. The true purpose of Sundays is to spend the day curled up with a good book or a good lover and hide away from the world. Now, I love a good book, books used to be the only solace from my problems and my only friends, in those days, I would’ve been hard pressed to find something more enjoyable than laying in bed with a book, any book. Fortunately those days have passed. I still love a good book, but I ‘d prefer a good lover. There’s nothing more enjoyable these days than spending Sunday curled up in bed with a good lover. Fortunately for me, I have one. Recently acquired as it took him quite some time to come to his senses and realize that he simply could not survive without me. That and I am simply amazing in the sac and ravishing out of it, or so he tells me.

He likes to say that he loved me for ages but just never realized it. Or that he figures that he knew, on some level, how he felt about me from the start but didn’t consciously realize it until we were ready to be together. While I do rather like that idea as it also works to explain why I, oft-called the smartest witch of my generation, failed to realize that I was in love with him and, evidently, had been for quite some time, years even. I tend to tease him for taking so long to realize that he’s mad about me, but in this matter I wasn’t exactly a record holder. I admit that it did take me some time to come to the realization that I felt something more for him than just friendship. It seems that some feelings have a way of creeping up on you so that you don’t realize they’re developing until you’re in over your head and there’s nothing to be done about it. That’s how it happened for us.

For some reason, when asked for how long I’ve loved him, people expect to hear a heart-wrenching tale of love long felt and long denied, that we’ve known forever that we were meant to be together but put our relationship aside until the war was finished and Voldemort was gone. Though that’s a nice story, it’s simply not true. While at times I do almost wish that I could say that I had loved him for longer than I have, that would be a lie. Truth is, I realized how I felt about him at roughly the same time he knew his feelings for me, give or take a day or two. And, sorry to disappoint another commonly held expectation, but it was not all flowers and heartfelt confessions or dramatic declarations of love in the midst of battle. Rather, it was an alcohol influenced shagging.

It happened on Ron’s birthday, something I don’t think he’ll ever really forgive us for regardless of how happy he now is for us. The reason for any remaining animosity on Ron’s part is that he had apparently had the intention of professing his own feelings for me on that night and asking me for a date. Of course, that didn’t happen since I spent the majority of the evening drinking cocktail after cocktail and flirting with Harry. Both Harry and I drank copious amounts of alcohol, somehow managed to stagger back to the flat the three of us have shared since graduation from Hogwarts, and shagged. Repeatedly. And forgot to use a silencing charm, something they heard about for days afterward. It became somewhat routine, though sometimes without alcohol… and sometimes with the silencing charm. Eventually we admitted that it was never just shagging, even from the start it was more than that, more than just physical attraction, though we certainly weren’t lacking in that area.

Last night was free of alcohol and so I am blissfully hangover-free this morning and able to revel in the perfection of waking up with Harry Potter-naked with Harry Potter, even better-and admire him in all his amazingly sexy glory. Just the mere sight of Harry makes my blood boil and my thighs clench.

I lay on my side with Harry pressed against my back, one arm wrapped tightly around me, his grip not lessened even in sleep, like he’s afraid that I’ll slip away while he sleeps. Silly man. His hand is cupped loosely over my breast. I smile softly and slowly move my hand to cover his, lightly moving my fingers over the back of his hand, causing his fingers to reflexively tighten their grip ever so slightly. I slip my hand under his and slowly ease his arm away from body to give myself enough room to roll to my other side under his arm without waking him. I love waking up before him, love being able to watch him while he sleeps, a time when he is fully vulnerable and completely at peace in the knowledge that nothing can happen to him here with me. I love knowing that I am the only person who ever sees him this way, whom he ever allows to see him so unguarded, without his defences and the various masks that he wears everyday. I think it’s absolutely wonderful and more than a little unbelievable that I am the only one to have ever seen him this way and hopefully the only one who ever will. He is such a beautiful, amazing, astoundingly good man that I often find it hard to believe that he’s never been with a woman other than me. He tells me that I’m the only one he’s ever really wanted to be with, that while he was tempted by women before me, the temptation just wasn’t enough, something was always missing.

It always surprises me just how young he appears when he sleeps, like his dreams chase away the worries and stresses of the day. I know this is only the case when I spend the night with him in his bed, Ron and I can both hear the nightmares he has on the rare occasions that I spend the night in my own bed. Needless to say that doesn’t happen very often. His dreams of Voldemort and death are, for the most part, long lost, replaced, or so he tells me, by wonderful dreams of a future that he fervently hopes will one day be his. He sometimes smiles in his sleep, seeing images of what I don’t know because he refuses to tell me. When I ask about those dreams, he tells me that he dreamt of things that he’s always wanted, a home, a family, children, but refuses to be specific, and when I ask him who the children’s mother is, he simply smiles and looks away, refusing to tell me, but the look he gives me when he thinks I’m not looking gives me a pretty good idea who the woman is.

We’ve never talked about marriage or children or any possible future that we may have together. We’re content to remain in the present for now, to enjoy what we have at the moment, and if our thoughts occasionally wander to future possibilities, we enjoy those imaginings briefly but never discuss them. What we have together is still new, too new to wonder about the future or worry over where it may be going. We want to enjoy the newness of it, enjoy learning each other in this new context, enjoy the excitement of a new relationship. We’ve never talked about it, but I know Harry is my future, the only future I can foresee for myself.

I slowly move my hand up to his cheek and softly run the backs of my fingers over his stubble-roughened skin. His hair is a mess as always, his face relaxed and oddly naked without his glasses, his lips full and tempting, but I ignore the desire to kiss him, not wanting to wake him just yet, his jaw is spattered with sexy stubble. I’ve always found morning Harry indescribably sexy, morning sex is my favourite way to start the day and Harry never denies me that.

His lips are parted slightly and air puffs out regularly. I move my thumb across his cheek to glide it back and forth over his full bottom lip and I wonder, for the thousandth time in our month together, how did I get so lucky to get him, to get this.

I move my thumb away from his mouth and lean in to replace it with my lips, kissing him awake as I know he loves. It doesn’t take long and I feel a slight pressure against my mouth as he returns my kisses. I feel him smile against my mouth and moan softly; that rough morning moan that never fails to send a shiver through my body.

“Morning,” his voice is rough from sleep, his arms heavy as they move around me, pulling me against him.

I run my fingers through his soft hair, cup my hand around the back of his head and pull him in for another quick kiss.

“Morning.”

He smiles briefly and kisses me again, longer this time, sweeping his tongue across my lips. I eagerly grant him access and allow him to roll me to my back as he moves over me, his tongue sweeping into my mouth. As his hands move over my body, caressing me expertly, I think that I must have done something amazingly right at some point to be rewarded with Sunday mornings in bed with Harry.