No Better Fate

Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 02/02/2006
Last Updated: 02/02/2006
Status: completed

There are worse fates in the world than being married to a smart and beautiful woman. One-shot SWS.

Chapters

1. No Better Fate

1. No Better Fate

Disclaimer: All things HP still belong to JKR (whether she deserves it or not.)

Author’s Note: Written for Connaka’s birthday.

Fluffy smut-with-substance. One-shot.

No Better Fate

Hermione was talking to the visiting French Minister of Magic, a Monsieur Etienne Chalmont, gesturing animatedly. The poor man, who had at first been delighted to hear Hermione’s fluent French was now looking rather shell-shocked.

Harry bit back a smile, more than a touch of pride in his eyes as he watched his wife. His wife. Those were two words he was never going to get tired of calling Hermione. His wife. This was the first annual Victory ball since they’d been married and having her by his side as his wife had made even the fanfare announcing his arrival seem pleasant, for once.

Hermione had been delighted when she had found out that Minister Chalmont was going to be at the annual Ball to commemorate the final defeat of Voldemort 5 years ago. She had seen it as the perfect opportunity for her to win his support for a law protecting the equal rights of all magical races, which she had championed and gotten passed in England and was now working to get it adopted by the European Council of Magical Affairs. And by the looks of it, Hermione was in her element. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glowing with all the passion of her nature as she spoke with an eloquence and feeling which Harry (given his very limited knowledge of French) could only guess at.

Harry felt a moment of combined amusement and sympathy for the French Minister. Minister Chalmont looked rather dazed as if he didn’t know what had hit him but Harry could also see the dawning of surprised respect in the man’s eyes. Harry had no doubt that by the time Hermione was done, Minister Chalmont would be committed to support the law.

He looked at his wife again and felt a tug of instinctive and by-now-familiar desire mingled with his sense of pride.

He loved when Hermione got into her intense mode, the way her entire body seemed to change, the way her cheeks flushed with color and her eyes shone (as they were now). He loved the passion of her, the dedication that she brought to everything.

She looked—hot, was the only word that came to mind.

It didn’t help that she was dressed in a new formal gown that had made his hands positively itch to touch her and then strip the gown off her from the moment he’d first seen her in it earlier that evening. Not that the gown was particularly revealing or provocative (that wasn’t Hermione’s style) but it did fit her upper body like a glove before the long skirt flared out slightly at her hips before falling to the ground, a style that highlighted her (in his admittedly rather biased opinion) gorgeous figure.

“I see Hermione’s holding the French Minister captive.”

Harry glanced over with a smile at Ron who had come to stand beside him.

“Poor man,” Ron continued. “He looks like he’s been hit with a Bludger while walking 100 meters from the nearest Quidditch pitch.”

Harry smiled slightly at Ron’s rather apt and characteristic analogy.

“Yeah. She said she was going to speak with him,” Harry answered lightly enough.

Ron glanced at his best friend, at first surprised and then amused at the unmistakable note of pride and love in Harry’s tone, before he gave in to impulse to tease his best friend.

“I don’t know how you do it, Harry,” he began solemnly enough, though his lips were twitching.

“Do what?” Harry glanced at him curiously.

“Live with Hermione. Be married to her. I mean, I love Hermione to death, you know I do, but I couldn’t live with her, couldn’t be married to her. She’d drive me mad—or we’d kill each other.” He shook his head teasingly. “She’s scary, our Hermione is. Brilliant, but scary,” he said, repeating a phrase that had become something of a running joke between the three of them. (Ron had said it of Hermione often enough—both sincerely and jokingly that sometimes he just called it Hermione’s BBS mode.)

Harry smiled. “She’s always been that way.”

“I know. It used to drive me mad—it still would if I had to live with her.” Ron paused and then smirked at Harry. “Then again, you’ve always been a little off your rocker too so no wonder you get along so well.”

Harry shot a mock glare at Ron who laughed even as he stepped back in feigned intimidation. “Oh no, it’s the Harry Potter death glare. I’m trembling in my shoes.”

“Ha ha. You’re so funny,” Harry sniped before he gave in and laughed with Ron.

“There are worse fates in the world than being married to a smart, beautiful woman,” Harry said lightly, glancing at Hermione again—and mentally added, especially one whom you happen to lust after around the clock.

Ron laughed. “That’s one way of putting it. I’ll tell her you said so,” he teased.

“Go right ahead,” Harry grinned “Maybe she’ll finally believe me when I say she’s beautiful.”

Ron smiled and glanced at Hermione before returning his gaze to Harry and saying soberly, “I think she knows you mean it.”

He clapped Harry on the shoulder and left to slip his arm around Luna, his wife of three years.

Harry made his way over to the bar, pasting a friendly smile on his face for the benefit of people who turned to stare and the people who stopped him to “say hi and thank him for everything he’d done in the war”. Merlin, it had been five years and people still hadn’t gotten over it; he was beginning to doubt they ever would. And his liking of being treated like a celebrity hadn’t increased over the years; if anything, his tolerance for the ridiculousness of his fame had lessened.

He saw a pretty young woman, who looked like she was barely of-age, smile at him, interest and admiration and a less-than-subtle invitation in her eyes and he turned away feeling rather sick.

He was newly-married, for Merlin’s sake, and he still had problems with witches who decided that the Boy Who Lived and Savior of the Wizarding World would be ideal as their next lover! He suppressed a shudder at the very idea and headed in the opposite direction, where he’d last seen Fred and George. At least the twins could always provide amusement.

Someone caught his arm and even before he turned, he knew who it was, as if his skin could recognize her touch through the cloth of his formal dress robes, his irritation dissipating as if it had never been.

“Hello, stranger,” she said teasingly. “Care to dance?”

He grinned, tugging her gently closer to him and moving onto the dance floor, even as he answered, “I don’t dance much; I’m an old, married man, you know.”

“Are you?” She deliberately let her gaze wander down the length of his body and then back up again to meet his eyes, a familiar gleam in her eyes. “You don’t look that old to me.”

He gave her a look and stepping closer to her, whispered in her ear, “You know you’ll pay for teasing me like this later. Especially considering that I’ve been fantasizing about stripping this gown off you all evening.”

“Have you?” she answered, equally softly. “Tsk tsk. You know we really must work on your over-active imagination, Mr. Potter.”

He laughed and let their teasing banter stop as he asked more seriously, “So did you get Minister Chalmont’s support?”

Her face lit up with a smile. “Oh, yes. He even volunteered to be the one to introduce the law when the Council meets in Luxembourg next month.”

“Wonderful. It’s exactly what you were hoping for, isn’t it?”

She nodded delightedly. “And then some. His support practically guarantees the support of Germany and Spain; Luxembourg, the Netherlands and Denmark have already begun to pass legislation increasing the rights of magical races and so will likely be willing to agree to this European commitment to equal treatment.”

He smiled and nodded, even though he had heard all this before. “I knew you’d get Minister Chalmont’s support, love. You always do when you set your mind to something. Congratulations.” He brushed his lips against her forehead and smiled into her eyes. “I’m proud of you, my Hermione,” he said softly. “Even if I think you’re going to be replacing me as Dobby’s favorite person in the world after this,” he added half-jokingly.

She smiled at him but didn’t respond and they continued dancing in silence.

“Finally. Home again and no one around to point and stare at me.” Harry let his breath out in a sigh of relief before turning to smile ruefully at Hermione.

She shook her head even though an understanding smile curved her lips. “Harry, really, it wasn’t that bad. You’re exaggerating.”

He reached out and caught her by the wrist, tugging her gently into his arms. “Ok, so maybe it wasn’t. But it was still a public place where I couldn’t do this.” He bent his head and kissed her deeply, his hands wandering over her back.

She melted against him, her arms going around his neck, as she made a small sound of pleasure in the back of her throat.

He wondered idly, in some little portion of his mind, how many times he’d kissed her, how many times he’d felt her body pressed against his… Tens of thousands, millions even, in the last two and a half years or so since the first time he’d kissed her… Countless times since he’d realized that Hermione was so much more than just his best friend and given in to the desire he’d felt every time he’d found himself staring at her lips…

But it didn’t matter; every time was still just as arousing, as pleasurable, as the first time…

He finally ended the kiss, slowly, lingeringly, resting his forehead against hers as he stopped to catch his breath. “Have I told you tonight just how beautiful you look in this gown?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” she smiled.

“Well, I’ll tell you again. You look amazing and this gown…” he let his voice trail off as he let his gaze wander appreciatively down the length of her body, “this gown has been driving me insane all night long because it just makes me want to do this…”

He kissed her again as his hands undid the back fastenings of her dress, hearing the soft swishing sound as the dress slid down to the floor, leaving Hermione all but naked to his gaze, in only her bra, her knickers and her nylons.

He stopped to stare at her, drank in the sight of her like this—this sight of her that belonged only to him and no one else. And felt a surge of pure male possessiveness, instinctive, irrational and powerful: mine, mine, mine. He’d never thought he was particularly possessive or greedy or jealous—but that had been before Hermione. Now—now he couldn’t help feeling something very like triumph at knowing that no one else- no other man- would ever get to see her like this, would ever get to see the sheer beauty of her body…

She blushed, color spreading from her cheeks and down to her chest, as she shifted rather uncomfortably, her hands moving awkwardly in an attempt to shield herself and he smiled in spite of himself as he caught her hands in his.

“I love to look at you,” he said softly.

And she smiled and he could see her fleeting embarrassment fade as she eyed his dress robes. “Yes, but don’t I get the same privilege?”

He grinned and quickly shrugged out of his formal robes, tore off the shirt and trousers he wore underneath them, as well as his boxers, freeing his erection.

He saw a familiar gleam in her eyes as she let her eyes wander, deliberately, teasingly, her gaze lingering on his jutting erection. Then, slowly, her every motion sensuous, seductive, she unhooked her bra, shrugging out of it, and pushed her nylons and her knickers down the length of her legs, before she lay down on their bed.

Great Merlin, he had the best wife in the universe. And the sexiest…

Who else could know that the same woman who, only a few hours ago, had been advocating the rights of all magical races so forcefully with the French Minister of Magic could also look like this- living embodiment of his every erotic fantasy?

He loved that about her, he thought, even as he moved to join her on their bed, his body covering hers, his hands moving to caress her breasts as his lips scattered kisses down the length of her body heading for the hot, wet center of her.

She moaned and writhed under his touch, her hands wandering over his body with their own abandon, eagerness, touching, arousing…

God, he loved her, loved the passion of her, loved the way she moved under him and with him, the way she cried out as his lips sucked and teased and licked, the taste of her on his lips…

He could never get tired of this, he knew, never get tired of her…

She rolled him over and slid down the bed to take him in her mouth in her turn—and he lost all power of coherent thought or any power of control over his own body, his entire world narrowing down to the feeling of her mouth on his body.

“Oh God, Hermione…” he let out in a guttural groan, his hands fisting against the sheets as his hips thrust automatically, instinctively.

He was vaguely aware that she was smiling at this evidence of her absolute power over him as she moved back up over his body and he brought her down to kiss her, his tongue thrusting inside her mouth as his hands moved to cup her breasts.

He slid inside her in one smooth move, kissing her long and deeply.

She hooked one leg around his hips, bringing him in even deeper inside her, and he groaned.

And she was the one to set the rhythm, her hands cupping his butt, encouraging him to move and he did…

He filled her, completed her—and they moved together in a rhythm that could have been made for them alone, as if this passion, this lust, was unique to them…

Their lips met, clung together, in a long, endless kiss.

Her muscles tightened, clenched around him, as she slid over the edge into ecstasy, the world graying out around her, her eyes closing, her head thrown back.

A few more thrusts and he followed her, clutching her tightly to him as he emptied himself inside her, her name just barely decipherable in the cry that tore from his throat.

He collapsed on top of her, kissing her again, gently this time, the lust from earlier sated, and then feathered kisses over her face, her eyelids, her cheeks, the corners of her lips…

She curled up beside him, her body fitting perfectly into the curve of his, as the lassitude of fulfillment—and exhaustion—settled over them.

She let out her breath in a soft sigh, lacing her fingers with his as they rested on her side.

His arm tightened around her unconsciously, loving the feel of her warm body against his, knowing that he would be happy to sleep with her, like this, for the rest of his life. He rather doubted he could ever sleep completely soundly again, if she wasn’t lying beside him. He was, he thought idly but with absolute honesty, addicted to his wife, addicted to the passion of her, addicted to the comfort of her—just addicted to her… And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He suddenly remembered his half-joking words to Ron: There are worse fates than being married to a smart and beautiful woman…

Worse fates… A half-drowsy smile curved his lips slightly as he brushed a kiss on her bare shoulder. Worse fates, indeed. He couldn’t think of a better fate than this, being married to his smart and beautiful Hermione.

~The End~