Unofficial Portkey Archive

Someone asked if this fic should have been classified as angst rather than romance, since very little of the latter has been in evidence. But from its conception, this story was always a romance in my eyes, since Harry's mysterious activities were always motivated by his love for Hermione. Until now, that romance has been hiding in the shadows. Time for it to emerge into the light. (It's also time for this story to earn its PG-13 rating! ^_^ )

A light rain was falling as Harry entered his flat that evening and closed the door behind him, taking care not to make any undue noise in case Hermione was still working on her report. He'd been unable to cast a water-repelling spell over himself, since performing magic outside his flat (in a Muggle neighborhood) was frowned upon by the Ministry. Not only would he get in trouble, but Hermione, being a Ministry employee, would bear the brunt as well. Having left his umbrella behind that morning, he now found himself pushing his damp bangs out of his eyes as he shrugged off his cloak (which the neighbors always mistook for a macintosh) and shook the water droplets from it at the edge of the door. It was when he was reaching out to hang his cloak on the peg above the umbrella stand that he saw Hermione's note. He recognized her elegant cursive immediately, and the Temporary Sticking Charm yielded to his gentle tug as he pulled the note to his face while hanging up his cloak mechanically with his other hand. His glasses were spotted with rain (he'd neglected to Charm them with an Impervius spell before going out), and a droplet fell from his hair onto the note and left a tiny ink smudge on the parchment. Wiping his glasses on his sleeve, Harry held the note away from his damp bangs and read:

Dear Harry,

your Hermione

Harry essayed a wan smile as he folded the note carefully and turned toward the kitchen. No doubt Hermione was enlisting Arthur's help with her report before submitting it on Monday, after which she would spend some long-delayed quality time with Molly and Ginny. This was a pleasant thought, as he had spent many an hour of late worrying that Hermione was working too hard. A brief holiday at the Burrow was just what was needed, he decided as he entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

The refrigerator was indistinguishable from an ordinary Muggle appliance, but it had, in fact, been purchased in Diagon Alley at a shop specializing in magical items designed to pass Muggle scrutiny in a household in which electricity was of little or no use. Harry chuckled, reflecting that he no doubt had the lowest electric bill of any flat in the village.

Opening the door, Harry scrutinized the contents with a leisurely eye before pulling out a plate of sliced roast beef left over from last Sunday's dinner. Such simple fare as this had been the norm over the last year, what with most of their monies being set aside for their future home. Grinning with the thought that, with the acquisition of the land in Hogsmeade, that day was one step closer to reality, he made himself a four-slice (double-folded) sandwich of which his godfather would have heartily approved, returned the platter to its shelf and extracted a cold bottle of butterbeer. Before closing the door, he drew his wand and sent a pencil-thin beam of ice-blue energy into the refrigerator's interior. He closed the door with a nod of satisfaction, satisfied that the Chilling Charm was now good for at least another week. He thought he should also reinforce the Freezing Charm in the upper compartment, but decided that his stomach came first. Anyway, he liked his ice cream a little on the soupy side.

As he was about to exit the kitchen, Harry spotted the little clay honey pot sitting at the center of the small breakfast table. Setting his meal aside, he lifted the lid and smiled to see the pot brimming with fresh honey. He replaced the lid, feeling the Sealing Charm engage the moment his fingers withdrew. Only the touch of a human hand could negate the spell, ensuring that, if the pot should be tipped accidentally, none of its golden contents would be spilled.

Harry entered the parlor, his sandwich (on a small plate) in his left hand, his drink and his wand in his right. Careful not to drop the bottle, he tapped the left arm of his easy chair, activating the Hover Charm he had incorporated into it. When he set sandwich and drink to the left of the chair arm, they sat motionless in mid-air as if upon an invisible table. Settling into his chair with a sigh, he pointed his wand at a cupboard of polished wood sitting just to the left of the faux fireplace and said, "Alohomora!"

The doors of the cupboard sprang open to reveal an ordinary Muggle telly. He turned it on with a flick of his wand, and his smile broadened as the screen glowed softly. It was Hermione who reasoned out how they could watch telly in a flat permeated with magic. A simple Shield Charm (the same type that had protected Harry from the bees earlier today) was placed over the wooden cupboard, thus blocking out waves of magic in the same way that a lead-glass barrier blocked out dangerous radiation in a Muggle laboratory. The barrier was further Charmed to be elastic rather than shield-hard, so that a beam from his and Hermione's wands could press the front surface inward, stretching it just far enough to touch the telly controls like an invisible "finger." As the programs came though an insulated cable, the telly was completely cut off from waves of interfering magic, allowing it to work as flawlessly as if it were in a non-magic home.

It was a mystery to Hermione why no one had ever thought of so simple a solution before. She was further confounded by her friends' continued resistance to applying the same practice to their own homes, which were all limited to the WWN. She would complain at length about how it was just another example of "Nineteenth century thinking on the edge of the twenty-first century!" Harry grinned as he took a large bite from his sandwich and gave his attention to the screen, where the official had just blown his whistle to signal the start of the rugby match.

It was dusk on Friday when Harry Apparated into the midst of a small cluster of trees at the edge of the park which lay five minutes' walk from home. There was a spring in his step (albeit an uneven one, as he'd done quite a lot of bending in Cassandra's magical garden today) as he walked the quiet streets of Godric's Hollow. They'd accomplished a lot in only a few hours. Cassandra had scheduled no other "clients" today, allowing her to devote her full energies to Harry. In addition, Harry had forgone the Polyjuice Potion after his chat with Cassandra the previous day. This allowed him to devote his full attention to the garden, resulting in an increased efficiency which produced immediate results. He berated himself yet again for his weakness in nicking Hermione's hair as he had done. He'd known from the start that Hermione's career was important to her. So what if she was a bit busier than usual lately? When Quidditch season resumed, he would be the one who was distracted more often than not. It would all even out in the end. Compromise was a part of loving someone. Love was like any other treasure -- if it were easy to possess, it would not be the precious commodity it was. The love he and Hermione shared was beyond price, and that made it worth any sacrifice. In his biased view, a minute with Hermione was worth a year with another woman.

As Harry lifted his hand to brush a cloud of midges out of his face, he saw black earth under his fingernails. He grimaced. It wouldn't do for Hermione's keen eye to spot any evidence of his clandestine activities. Looking around to see if any Muggle eyes were turned his way, he slipped his wand out and performed a hasty Scouring Charm. Tucking his wand away, he resumed his stroll as if nothing had occurred, though with a satisfied smile on his face. If things continued to progress as they had been, all would be ready well before Hermione's birthday. But beyond even that happy thought, Harry always enjoyed being busy, working with his hands, Muggle-fashion. Though he'd always resented the grueling chores heaped upon him by Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia in his youth (before his advancing maturity ultimately cowed them into a sort of grudging acknowledgment that he was a member of the family and not an indentured slave), they had instilled in him a work ethic which now served him well in his new role as a productive member of wizarding society. In addition, such activities had of late helped him to "burn off" the seemingly interminable days and weeks before the resumption of Quidditch season.

Harry's feet fairly floated above the sidewalk as he envisioned himself soaring through the air on his Firebolt, the Golden Snitch held high as he took his first-ever victory lap as a professional Quidditch player. After a year of seasoning as a reserve, he'd been virtually assured of a promotion to starting Seeker for the coming season. He was determined to work hard to prove that his triumphs as Gryffindor's Seeker for seven years had been no fluke.

Truth be told, he knew the Dragons had little or no chance of seriously challenging the Wasps for the All-Britain Cup. The Dragons were the newest team in the league, created only a year ago to round out the number of teams to an even fourteen. As they were just starting out, they had been awarded the first draft pick of unsigned players. Harry had been their first selection, but he knew it was not because he was the best Seeker available. It was his name they wanted, to use as a drawing card to fill up the stadium. Harry had taken this in stride. He realized that, had he been drafted by a better team, he might have waited years before advancing to the position of starting Seeker. Now, he was about to become the youngest starter in the league -- the youngest in a century, even as he had been at Hogwarts. And if the Dragons were no threat to win the Cup, Harry would settle for a lesser goal -- that of finishing the season ahead of Puddlemere United. He could hardly wait to square off against Oliver Wood, who had himself been elevated to starting Keeper only last year. Harry almost wished he were a Chaser, like his father, just for the pleasure of scoring a few dozen goals under Oliver's nose. But, by way of consolation, he reckoned that waving the Snitch in Oliver's face in the course of a victory lap wouldn't be all that bad.

As Harry walked at a leisurely pace, waving to an occasional neighbor, he chuckled at the thought of what his wizarding friends would think of him walking even so short a distance to his flat when he could easily Apparate straight into his parlor (as with the Burrow and virtually every other magical abode, the Apparation barrier around their flat was proof against strangers only, and both he and Hermione could come and go at will). It was difficult for witches and wizards who had grown up in a world of magic to comprehend the simple pleasures of life as a Muggle. The easy answer was that, being as the Potters lived in a Muggle neighborhood, it would look suspicious if they were never seen by their neighbors to be coming and going in normal fashion. The best way for wizards to blend into Muggle society was to be as ordinary as possible, this rendering them virtually invisible by virtue of commonality. But more than simple pragmatism was involved. Both he and Hermione had spent the first eleven years of their lives in wholly Muggle environments. Magical blood notwithstanding, it was in their natures to thrive without benefit of magic, and not seven years' training at Hogwarts, nor the prospect of a century or more of immersion in their chosen lifestyles, could stamp it out of them. It was but one of the many common bonds linking them, and it forever separated them, if but marginally, from the wizarding world proper.

Reaching his front door at last, Harry glanced around in a casual manner before drawing his wand fluidly and whispering, "Alohomora." The door opened silently, and Harry slid inside and closed the door behind him. As it was not raining today, his cloak still hung in its place on the peg above the umbrella stand. Seized by a sudden playful impulse as he pulled off his jacket, Harry called out in his best Ricky Ricardo voice, "Honey, I'm home!" Smiling at his perceived cleverness, he hung his jacket beside his cloak and turned toward the doorway leading to the parlor. His smile retreated immediately. The parlor was dark, as was, he now saw, the entire flat.

Apprehension surged through him, fueled by an instinct honed in the war against Voldemort and still prone to surface without warning. Was Hermione not yet returned from the Burrow? Her note had told him she would be waiting for him when he got home. Perhaps he was earlier than she anticipated. Maybe she had come over dizzy from overwork (it had happened before) and was having a kip on their bed? Or - and Harry's stomach clenched - had his worst fear at last come true? Had Voldemort's surviving Death Eaters finally found them, despite the Fidelius Charm? Had Hermione been taken, to be tortured in retaliation for their master's defeat before Harry himself was lured to a similar fate?

Forcing himself to remain calm, Harry called out into the darkness, "Hermione? Are you home, sweetheart?"

When long seconds produced no response, Harry reached slowly for his wand, his body tensing to leap in any direction in an instant. He may have eschewed professional Auror training in favor of Quidditch, but he was far from helpless against the forces of darkness, as many a witch and wizard in Azkaban could testify.

Suddenly, before Harry's fingers could so much as brush the edge of his wand-pocket, the parlor exploded in a silent burst of light. A dozen smokeless candles hovered in a circle just below the ceiling, and the scene which they illuminated brought an audible gasp to Harry's lips.

A small, round table sat in the middle of the parlor, draped in a white linen cloth that glowed softly in the light of the candles. Two place settings were separated by a crystal vase which held a single white rose. Beyond the ring of light produced by the candles was impenetrable blackness. As Harry stared, his eyes wide with confusion, a figure glided soundlessly into the ring of light. Harry's mouth fell open.

Hermione was wearing a black silk evening dress that clung to her delicate form in a manner that enhanced her every curve to the point of intoxication. The fabric seemed to flow out of the surrounding darkness and wrap itself around her like liquid smoke. The calf-length skirt was slit past her hip, and the leg thus revealed as she posed seductively in the golden radiance was like a shaft of moonlight piercing the surrounding gloom. The plunging neckline formed a milk-white V cleaving her bosom, which was scarcely concealed by a bodice suspended by threads finer than spider silk. Her dark chestnut hair spilled over her pale shoulders in a sleek, satiny cascade, flowing in waves around the most beautiful face Harry had ever seen.

"I hope you're hungry, lover," Hermione purred in a voice that made Harry's blood pound in his temples.

As Harry drank in his wife's barely-concealed charms, he felt a hunger that was unrelated to the grumbling of his stomach. He took a halting step forward, but Hermione lifted a finger, a playful smirk on her lips as her eyes danced impishly in the candlelight.

"Silly me. You're not dressed, are you?" Her rose-colored lips curving meaningfully, Hermione snapped her fingers. In the wink of an eye, Harry found himself dressed from head to toe in the finest Muggle eveningwear. Hermione's smile brightened, and it seemed to Harry as if the light in the room was suddenly increased a hundredfold.

As if suddenly released from a Body-Bind, Harry hurried forward and seated his wife before slipping into his own chair. Her coffee-colored eyes twinkling at her husband over the edge of the moon-bright rose petals, Hermione clapped her hands once. Harry jumped back in his chair. The table was instantly laden with dishes of the finest food he had ever seen, from filet mignon to stuffed mushrooms, artichoke hearts and baby carrots, tiny iced shrimp…

"How?" Harry stammered. "How did you…?" Hermione laughed musically, a sound like water trickling down a hillside into a crystal pool.

"Molly Weasley." She waved her hand idly, and a shrimp rose from its dish and drifted toward her hand. "We worked for hours to get all the preparation spells down. Let me tell you," she said with narrowed eye, "when it comes to not tolerating nonsense, Molly could give Minerva McGonagall a run for her money. She takes food preparation very seriously. If Hogwarts ever decides to add household magic to its curriculum, they could do a lot worse than hire Molly to teach."

A look of amazement appeared abruptly on Harry's face. "This is what you were doing at the Burrow? But -- this must have taken all day to prepare." Realization struck Harry like a rogue Bludger. "You didn't go to work?"

"They can get along without me for a day," Hermione said as she teased the shrimp in her fingers with the tip of her tongue. "In the past year I've put in enough overtime for three people. I may even skive off Monday." She defiantly popped the shrimp into her mouth as Harry continued to gape at her.

"But - why?" Harry spread his hands, his gesture encompassing the table, the candles, and not least Hermione herself, the devilish gleam in her eye making her look all the more bewitching. But that gleam softened on the instant, mirroring a gentle smile that made Harry's heart stop in his chest.

"Because I'm the luckiest witch in the world," she said, her dark eyes misting. "I don't know what I did to deserve to be loved so deeply. All I know is that I have the most wonderful husband in the world - in either world, wizard or Muggle. And sometimes I - I get so busy that I forget to remind him just how much I love him."

"I love you so much," Harry said through the lump in his throat. He reached across the table, and Hermione's hand met his. As Harry caressed her fingers lovingly, the light from the candles danced across the diamond of her engagement ring, the tiny glints reflecting softly on the white-gold surface of her wedding band.

Their hands parted reluctantly, and Harry scrutinized the food-laden table with an appraising eye.

"This is incredible," he said as Hermione playfully levitated a shrimp and sent it drifting toward him. "This must have cost - I dunno - more than our whole week's food budget." Hermione shrugged her delectable shoulders indifferently.

"So we'll eat beans and toast all next week," she said, selecting another shrimp as Harry plucked his own out of the air and popped it into his mouth. "And the week after, if it comes to that. What does it matter? Just so we're together."

Thereafter they dined in silence, neither seeming to want to break the spell of love hovering over them like an enchantment. Now and again a hushed laugh was heard as they pantomimed their way from course to course, one of them occasionally feeding the other over or around the white rose that represented the purity of their love.

As Harry enjoyed the superb repast, his eyes lingered ever and again on Hermione. Her aspect was so stunning that he was virtually speechless. He had not felt so tongue-tied since the time he'd stammered out his invitation to the Yule Ball to Cho Chang. Why, he asked himself for perhaps the thousandth time, hadn't he thought to ask Hermione the moment Cho turned him down? How could he have been so blind and stupid, never seeing how important Hermione was to him? Why had it taken him so long to realize that he loved her, and always had? He might have lost her forever any number of times, to Viktor Krum -- to Ron -- to who knew how many other wizards whose heads had not been planted firmly up their arses as his had been for so long. He had often been described as the luckiest wizard alive, whether for surviving Voldemort's Curse as a baby, or for his ultimate triumph over the Dark Lord against overwhelming odds. In truth, he did feel like the luckiest wizard in the world, but not for those reasons. If he could lay claim to that title, the reason was sitting across the table from him in the person of the witch who had forever filled the emptiness inside him with a love beyond measure. If there was anyone, anywhere, luckier than he, Harry would eat Hogwarts castle stone by stone, right down to the foundation of the Chamber of Secrets.

As he mentally caressed his wife's milky shoulders for the hundredth time in the last hour, Harry's eyes drifted up to fall lazily on the corner where Hermione's desk sat wrapped in shadow. He saw that Hedwig's perch stood empty in its place. He smiled as he refilled his wine glass with Merlot (which Hermione had Charmed to neutralize the alcohol).

"I see you sent Hegwig off," he observed as he lifted his glass and took a sip, allowing the wine's flavor to caress his tongue.

"I'm not sharing you with anyone tonight," Hermione smiled. "I always got the feeling that she was a bit jealous of me. She used to be the only 'woman' in your life, and I don't think she fancies my taking her place."

They laughed together as Hermione's eyes twinkled in the candlelight. Had Harry been a Legilimens, he would have seen in Hermione's dancing eyes the real reason for Hedwig's absence. The snowy owl had, in fact, been sent on two very special -- and very different -- errands. Her first stop had been the Ministry, where she delivered Hermione's finished report on the Polyjuice brothels (along with Hermione's apology to Madam Bones for her absence that day). Hermione's report had urged an immediate raid on Cassandra's brothel -- to be carried out at midnight -- which she was sure the head of MLE would implement at once.

Her first mission accomplished, Hedwig would then proceed directly to her second destination -- Cassandra's penthouse, bearing a letter warning her of the impending raid. The owl would have no difficulty penetrating the building's magical safeguards, having already proven her mettle by delivering Harry's letters to Number 12 Grimmauld Place in defiance of the Fidelius Charm placed around it by Dumbledore. Per Hermione's instructions, Hedwig's timing would be such that there would be no moment to spare for Cassandra to warn the other witches (nor their customers). But the note assured her that she would be safe if she remained in her penthouse (which Hermione had conveniently "forgotten" to mention in her report). By tomorrow morning, Cassandra would effectively be out of "business." She would then have all the time she needed to help Harry in her enchanted garden, ensuring that Harry's "present" would be ready on the appointed day. Beginning Monday, Hermione would make a point of checking the Wizengamot docket daily to see if Cassandra appeared with Justin to regain her wand privileges. Circumstances being what they were, Hermione believed that Cassandra deserved a chance to turn her life around if she so chose. She was helping Harry, earning honest gold in the process. If she elected to spurn Harry's offer and retain her old ways, there was plenty of time to bring her in after September 19th to prefer charges. But Hermione was confident that Harry would persuade Cassandra to do the right thing.

She was equally certain that Harry would quickly tire of "tickling the potion" with Cassandra. Beginning tonight, Harry would never again feel the need to look beyond his own front door (or back garden) to find the one whose heart and soul were one with his, today, tomorrow, and forever.

(All the same, after her experiences the previous night, Hermione would take Ginny's advice to heart and keep her hairbrush immaculate -- just in case.)

As the evening waned, the meal ended by unspoken agreement, and Hermione banished the remains with two quick claps of her hands. Harry rose and took Hermione's hand, lifting her from her chair. Table and chairs promptly vanished, but Harry took no notice. Now that his physical hunger was sated, the fire that had kindled in him at first sight of Hermione's stunning aspect was become a volcano poised to erupt. He drew his wife to him urgently, burying his face in her soft, silky (and very un-bushy) hair as he nuzzled her shoulder and neck. He was entirely oblivious to the brief glance she cast over his shoulder toward the doorway, and of the "I-told-you-so" chuckle that came from the direction of the hallway mirror in response to her smile and wink.

"Wherever did you find this dress?" Harry mumbled as he inhaled his wife's intoxicating fragrance. His hands ran up and down her bare back, caressing every curve within his reach.

"Gladrags," Hermione gasped as her husband's roving hands expertly found special places too long neglected, skillfully awakening them from their too-long slumber. She shivered wantonly, clinging more tightly to him. "Paris. The newest in their line of Muggle fashions. All the high society witches on the continent are wearing them this season. Ginny helped me…pick it out…"

"You look like a goddess," Harry breathed as his lips traced their way along her neckline, under her chin, and down between her breasts. Hermione's knees turned to rubber, and Harry, acting without thought or hesitation, swept her into his arms and covered her mouth with his. He kissed her with a heat like unto dragon fire, drawing the breath from her lungs. She clung to him with the fierceness of a she-panther, but the weakness in her knees was flowing through the rest of her body like heady wine. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, her strength pouring from her like potion from a sundered cauldron. Tears were spilling in torrents down her glowing cheeks.

"I love you so much, Harry," she panted, unsure whether she had spoken aloud or merely mouthed the words. But Harry's lips, drawing so ardently upon her own, felt every syllable as she formed the words of love that were the breath of life to him.

"Love you," he moaned into her mouth in a near-sob. "Love you…love you…"

Even through her clouded senses, Hermione recognized the imperative in Harry's declaration. As she hung suspended in his embrace, she sensed a tenseness in him, like a coiled spring straining for release. His urgency mirrored her own. "Harry…Harry…" Unable to articulate, she conveyed her need through animal grunts and anguished sobs. She breathed a fervent prayer of mingled thanks and supplication as she felt her shoulders and back being pressed against a smooth, cool surface - the sheets of their bed, which lay turned back in silent invitation by her own hands in anticipation of this very moment. "Yes," she sobbed hungrily, achingly. "Yes…oh, please, yes…"

Her brain reeled. As if in a dream she felt the delicate straps of her dress sliding down her arms, thrilled to Harry's hot breath against her skin. Her trembling lips emitted a giddy laugh, a sound like a house-elf tipsy on butterbeer. It was not long before her laughter deepened into moans, quickening into sobs that soon exploded into shrieks of unbridled ecstasy.

The first light of Saturday morning found Harry and Hermione entwined in each other's embrace. Harry was drowsing lightly, his face nestled between his wife's breasts. Hermione lay on her side, her left arm under and around her husband's neck. The fingers of her right hand toyed with Harry's bangs with a sort of childish amusement. Acting on a playful impulse, she brushed his hair aside and began to trace her tongue along the thin line of his lightning scar. Reacting to the tickling sensation on his forehead, Harry opened his eyes rolled them upwards. Seeing that she had an audience, Hermione renewed her attention to her husband's famous brand, and Harry laughed, which sent a tickle rippling through Hermione's bosom.

"You like that, lover?" Hermione said, her sultry voice vying with the feigned innocence in her large, dark eyes. Without waiting for a reply, she intensified her oral assault on Harry's scar. Suddenly she paused, and Harry knew from the way her neck and shoulders had tensed for the briefest instant that her brow had wrinkled in thought. When he felt her shoulders relax a moment later, he playfully blew a soft raspberry against her skin.

"You're not supposed to be thinking, Mrs. Potter," he chided. "Thinking is for the classroom, not the bedroom." He felt her vibrate as from a silent chuckle. "Well," he said in mock exasperation, "as long as you are thinking, the least you can do is share it with me. I am your husband, you know. And if I'm not," he added, blowing another soft raspberry onto her right breast, "your parents are going to kick up quite a row when they hear about all the fantastically salacious things I did with their only daughter all last night."

Hermione was silent for a few moments before saying, very mysteriously: "Something's missing."

"Missing?" Harry said, both amused and curious. "From what?"

"From this," Hermione said, wiggling her tongue against Harry's scar meaningfully. Harry could not help but roll over now and regard his wife with questioning eyes.

"What are you on about?" he grinned as Hermione once more toyed with her husband's bangs.

"You don't…taste right," Hermione said thoughtfully.

"I don't what?" Harry laughed.

Rather than answering, Hermione gave a firm, decisive nod. "I know just the thing." Extending her free arm, she reached out toward her night table. Though his vision was less than ideal (his glasses lay on his own night table), it appeared that Hermione had caught up her wand and was now pointing it toward the open doorway. She twirled her wrist a few times in an odd, looping manner, and said firmly: "Accio!"

A soft whooshing sound was followed on the instant by a small object that zoomed through the doorway and straight into Hermione's waiting hand. Apart from his amazement that his wife could cast a Summoning Charm that worked around corners (something he had managed with mixed results at best), Harry wondered just what it was that she had called forth so mysteriously. Unable to see clearly without his glasses, Harry sat up and leaned closer. His emerald eyes went wide.

"You're joking!"

With both hands now free, Hermione held the little honey pot in her left hand and removed its lid, which she set on her night table next to her wand. As Harry stifled a laugh, Hermione leaned in until her nose was less than an inch from Harry's.

"Hold this for me, sweetheart?" she said, pressing the pot into his hands. Parting his bangs again, Hermione dipped her index finger into the honey pot, whereupon she very carefully traced the honey-coated digit along the jagged length of Harry's scar. With a nod of approval, she leaned close and proceeded to tease the sweet, golden line with the tip of her tongue.

"So, what's the verdict?" Harry asked at last, trying his best to sound serious through muffled chuckles.

"Mmmmmm," Hermione sighed with satisfaction. "Yummy." She took the honey pot back from Harry and regarded it meditatively. As she had before, she nodded to herself, as if coming to a decision.

"You're thinking again," Harry said with amusement. "Give it up, then."

"You were so sweet to make this for me," Hermione said warmly. "You know what you are? You're my…my Honey-Boy."

Harry's suppressed laughter turned into a choking cough. "Wh-what?" he said weakly.

"Do you like that name?" Hermione asked, her eyes soft and entreating.

"I -- dunno," Harry said slowly, having been caught quite off his guard. "Say it again."

"Honey-Boy," Hermione breathed seductively.

"Hmmm," Harry said with an exaggerated look of thoughtfulness. "Reckon I could get used to it. But," he said more seriously, "what made you..."

Pressing close against her husband now, Hermione looked into the depths of his emerald eyes and smiled. "Thanks to you, my little honey pot is always overflowing with sweet goodness." Brushing her honey-sweet lips against Harry's, she said softly, "And you do the same thing with my heart. You're my sweet little Honey-Boy. And I love you."

Running his fingers through waves of thick, luxurious hair (Hermione had used a double-portion of Sleekeazy's as an added safeguard against their anticipated bedroom activities), Harry devoured his wife's mouth with his, tasting the sweetness on her lips and tongue. Lost in her husband's kiss, Hermione relaxed her grip on the honey pot and surprised Harry when a large dollop spilled over the edge and splashed onto his chest. Hermione jerked back with a giggle, staring in fascination as the pot bubbled softly and filled itself to the brim before her eyes. Her brow wrinkled once more, this time in concert with the ghost of an evil smile and a devilish gleam in her eye.

"Is this really bottomless?" she asked, gesturing with the now refilled honey pot.

"Uh," Harry said slowly, "yeah…I guess you could say…"

"Let's find out, shall we?" Hermione said in a low whisper, her eyes narrowed wolfishly.

So stunned was Harry by his wife's words that he could do no more than gape stupidly as Hermione, in a single swift motion, upended the honey pot and poured its contents over him, covering him from head to waist in a glistening golden glaze.

"HERMIONE!"

"Yes, my sweet little Honey-Boy?" Hermione said coyly as the pot in her hand bubbled softly until it was once more filled to the brim.

Shaking sticky droplets from his eyes, Harry stared into his wife's faux-innocent eyes for an eternity of heartbeats before springing to life with a vengeance. Employing the reflexes that had earned him the largest signing bonus in BQL history, he lunged, snatching the honey pot from his wife's hand as if it were a Golden Snitch. Hermione sprang aside, but she was not quick enough to avoid being sprayed by wave after wave of amber "rain" as Harry whipped the jar back and forth in front of him, his eyes alight with a deviltry any member of the Marauders would have coveted. Squealing like a banshee, Hermione leaped onto Harry, trying to wrestle the pot from his hand. Honey continued to spray in every direction as the jar continued to re-fill itself. At length the pot, propelled by four frantic, honey-slick hands, shot into the air and crashed to the floor, where it shattered into a hundred pieces in a widening pool of glistening amber.

In the pregnant silence which fell like a veil, Harry and Hermione stared around their bedroom, which seemed to drip honey from every surface. Their bed was a gleaming golden puddle in the midst of which Harry and Hermione sat, their naked bodies glistening from head to foot. Harry was the first to find his voice.

"You look sweet enough to eat - Honey-Girl."

Hermione was running her hands through her honey-soaked hair abstractedly, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

"Do you know how long it took Ginny and me to get my hair looking…looking…like it did…"

"You don't need Sleekeazy's, or a slinky dress, to look beautiful, Honey-Girl." Harry's eyes were tender behind their honey glaze. "To me, you'll always be the most beautiful woman in the world, witch or Muggle."

Her lip trembling, Hermione looked as if she might burst into tears at any moment. (Or maybe it was the honey dripping down her cheeks that promoted the illusion.) With a strangled sob, she flung herself onto Harry with such force that they tumbled off the slippery bed and lay sprawled on the floor. Hesitating not a moment, they attacked each other in a frenzied bout of ravenous lovemaking which, upon its explosive conclusion, left them both too exhausted to twitch a finger. They lay curled together, clinging to one another as if never wanting to let go.

"You know something?" Harry said at last, prying his honey-glazed eyes open with an effort. "Living like a Muggle is okay for some things. But looking at this room - " he paused to spit out a stream of honey that had run down his face and into his mouth, " - all I can say is, praise Merlin for the witch or wizard who invented the Vanishing Charm!"

Hermione giggled, her honey-coated body trembling with mirth.

"As for you and me, Honey-Girl," Harry continued, "what do you say we drag ourselves into the bathroom and enjoy a long, hot Muggle shower."

"Not too long," Hermione said as she pried herself from the sticky floor and sat up, which action sent a stream of honey pouring between her breasts like a golden waterfall. "I don't have my watch - and even if I did, I don't think the warranty includes being drenched in honey - " she added with an arched eyebrow, " -- but if the shadows on the wall are any indication, it must be nearly nine o'clock."

"It's Saturday," Harry grunted dismissively. "Once we're cleaned up, we can go back to bed and sleep as late as we want -- or not sleep, as the case may be," he added with a feral grin.

"Not if we want to get any gardening done before the sun gets too hot."

Harry stiffened as if a Freezing Charm had been placed on him.

"G-Gardening?"

"We haven't worked in the garden for ages," Hermione said, her eyes glowing with a soft light. "I was looking at it through the kitchen window only yesterday, and it looked so sad and neglected. What do you say, then? Just you and me against Mother Nature. No magic. Just like we used to do. It'll be like...like falling in love all over again."

Harry wiped the tears from his eyes (pretending he was merely wiping away a dollop of honey) and stood up awkwardly, his feet slipping on the drenched floor so that he reeled momentarily like a tipsy house-elf. He pulled Hermione to her feet, thence into his arms. He kissed her until he was dizzy from lack of air and Hermione was gasping like a fish out of water.

"I love you, Honey-Girl," he breathed, his lips brushing hers as he stared into her dark, fathomless eyes with unashamed adoration.

"I love you...Honey-Boy."

Humble thanks to everyone who was kind enough to review (and to those who didn't, but still enjoyed the story). I'll return shortly with more H/Hr adventures -- and a few surprises. See you then.