Forever Lovers

Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 04/03/2006
Last Updated: 04/03/2006
Status: completed

Harry and Hermione's wedding night-- need I say more? Very fluffy one-shot smut.

Chapters

1. Forever Lovers

1. Forever Lovers

Disclaimer: JKR still owns all things HP- unfortunately.

Author’s Note: A plotless, pointless (unless you consider a sort-of tribute to H/Hr as My OTP Forever to be a point) piece of fluffy smut.

Party inspired, on the RL front, in reading about the wedding of Jamie Sale and David Pelletier.

For the ever-brilliant and multi-talented Demosthenes91.

Forever Lovers

This was ridiculous.

Hermione stared at herself in the mirror, mentally calling herself names for how uncomfortable she was at the idea of walking out of the restroom wearing—this.

It was ridiculous. She was feeling—almost shy and oddly, unaccountably nervous. As if this were the first time.

Ridiculous.

She shook herself slightly, mentally squaring her shoulders. She was a Gryffindor and this hesitation was getting ludicrous.

Harry poured champagne into two crystal flutes as he stared outside at the dusk from the Merlin Suite of the Atlantis Hotel, the finest and most exclusive wizarding hotel in all of Britain. It usually required several years’ advance notice (to say nothing of an exorbitant amount of Galleons) to reserve the Merlin Suite, which was normally used by visiting Ministers of Magic or other wizarding celebrities. It was one of the times Harry had been rather grateful for his fame and his status in the wizarding world that he had been able to reserve the Merlin Suite on the relatively short notice of a few months. It had (naturally) still cost him an amount of money which would have made him, at any other time, quiver and wince at the extravagance—but for tonight, his wedding night, he had paid without a qualm or a second thought.

It was his wedding night.

It was for Hermione.

It was well worth any amount of money.

He smiled to himself at the memory of how her jaw had slackened and her eyes widened when he had finally told her where they were spending their wedding night (and the night after that)—the amazed awe and anticipation at the thought.

Oh yes, for that moment, for the expression on her face, he would have paid the cost of these next two nights’ stay twice over and considered it a bargain.

What a day it had been. Busy and exhausting, both physically and emotionally. But the best day of his life for all that.

He had cried during the vows. At any other time, he would probably have cheerfully died rather than cry in public but not today. Today it didn’t matter; today all that mattered was her and him and the rest of their lives together. And today he didn’t care if the entire wizarding world heard about his tears that showed just how deeply he felt the words he was speaking, just how much he really loved this woman. Let them know; he wanted the world to know. If he could have, he would have shouted it from the roof-tops. He was marrying his best friend. He was marrying the woman he loved more than life. He was marrying Hermione.

The tears had first come to his eyes when he saw her coming down the aisle toward him. His heart had stopped and the only thing he could think was, Oh my God…

And then in saying aloud his vows, the tears had slipped down his cheeks and he hadn’t even noticed.

“You’ve been my best friend all my life,” he had said, his voice trembling ever-so-slightly, despite all his effort to keep it steady. “You’ve been beside me for everything, good and bad, for so long now. You are, quite literally, my everything, and when I say I love you, no one has ever meant it more. I love you now and I will love you more every hour of every day for the rest of my life. I promise to love you, to take care of you, to respect you and to be faithful to you, forever, no matter what happens.”

Her vows had been shorter; her voice clear and confident. “You are, and always have been, my best friend and the most important person in my life. I promise to stay beside you, to help you, to love you, always. I will be your best friend forever. I love you.”

Ron had grinned teasingly at them after the ceremony and commented, “You know I think I could have slept through that and not missed anything. You two didn’t say anything the rest of us haven’t known for years now. You really needed all the pomp and ceremony?”

They had laughed and he had answered jokingly, dropping a quick kiss on Hermione’s temple, “I didn’t but I think Hermione’s dad would have hunted me down if I hadn’t made an honest woman of her.”

Harry smiled to himself at the memory and put the flutes of champagne down on the side table, lifting a hand to rest on the window.

The light from inside the room caught the ring on his finger, making it glint, and drawing his attention to it.

The ring was a plain gold band that Hermione had slipped on his finger just hours ago.

She had smiled softly at him as she slid the ring home and her smile had said, Now you’re mine—and everyone knows it.

Harry slanted a small affectionate smile at the ring on his finger as if it were a person. Darling, he thought, addressing Hermione mentally as he did so often it seemed sometimes and using an endearment he hardly ever used except either in jest or when he was feeling very tender, I’ve always been yours, mind, body and soul.

He had wondered before just why it would feel so different—somehow—to be married to Hermione as opposed to just in love with her, living with her. And yet it did. It was true that their vows had not said anything which they hadn’t already known but they had meant so much more than the simple words. It had been the public commitment, the private reiteration of those thoughts and promises which they had only understood but never actually said aloud before, putting into words what had until then been left unsaid. And it was knowing that now everyone knew what Hermione meant to him, knowing that in the eyes of the world, as well as just between them, he belonged to her and she to him. For the rest of their lives…

The thought led him to wonder what was taking Hermione so long. She had slipped into the restroom to change out of her clothes (and he’d refrained from saying that she’d changed in front of him before) leaving him to shrug out of his formal wear until he was wearing only his shirt, untucked and unbuttoned, and his formal trousers.

“Hermione, love, are you ready to come out?”

“I’m coming,” she answered and then walked out of the restroom, pausing just inside the room with the tiniest of smiles playing on her lips.

He turned to smile at her, holding the two flutes of champagne which he’d picked up again—and then stopped dead.

He was vaguely aware of his grip loosening and the two flutes of champagne falling—but the spilled liquid didn’t even register in his suddenly dazed mind.

He could only stare at her, knowing his mouth had parted in sheer amazement—and a good dose of lust as well.

If there was one thing he would have said he knew for sure about Hermione, it would have been that she simply did not wear sexy lingerie. He didn’t particularly mind; Merlin knew he would probably find Hermione attractive even if she wore a burlap sack. It was just part of her practical nature, that she rather scorned those admittedly unnecessary, frivolous items such as skimpy lingerie. She didn’t wear them.

She was wearing one now.

As lingerie went, it was almost absurdly plain. There were no ribbons or lace or any decorations of any kind; it was really more effective without. It was a simple short-sleeved affair. It was of some sheer pale blue material, transparent enough that he could clearly see every line of her body, her nipples, and the dark triangle of hair between her legs. It also ended at mid-thigh.

He stared, and he stared, and he stared, drinking in the sight of her.

His mouth had gone dry as all the blood in his body left his head to pool in his groin. He was no more capable of coherent thought or of coherent speech than he was of sprouting wings and flying without a broom.

Great God, she was gorgeous. Beautiful. Seductive. Arousing.

And she was his wife.

He was the luckiest man in the universe. He had thought it before but now he knew it, felt it, in his soul and in every part of his body.

Hermione forced her suddenly-weakened legs to move forward, unbearably aware of her hardened nipples and the moisture between her legs just from having him look at her like that—with that stunned admiration and desire.

Pretending a casualness which she was far from feeling, she reached for her wand and quickly cleaned the carpet from the champagne which he had spilled and levitated the two now-empty flutes back up to the side table.

That done, she closed the distance between them stopping just in front of him and deliberately slid her hands inside his open shirt to spread them on his bare chest, smiling inwardly at the way his muscles tensed at her touch. “Hello,” she said softly, half-teasingly.

And the sound of her voice seemed to jar him out of the trance he’d fallen into as his arms closed around her to bring her body flush up against his, his mouth coming down on hers, his lips parting hers, his tongue thrusting inside to slide against her tongue.

She kissed him back, her hands sliding up his chest and around his neck, bringing his head down even more.

And he lost his mind…

He thought of it as His Hermione Insanity, the madness that possessed him every time she touched him, kissed him like this, in the way that told him she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. It was like insanity, the way he was suddenly no longer a rational adult capable of coherent thought but became a mindless body, wanting and seeking only her, the warmth of her, the smoothness of her skin, the smell of her, the feel of her, the sound of her, the passion of her… All there was of her—everything that made her Hermione, everything that made her his…

The madness that wiped out any memory of how the rest of his clothes left him or how he stripped her lingerie off her body until they were both completely naked and tumbling onto the bed.

How he could never get close enough to her, how he could never get enough of her naked skin pressed against his, how he thought he’d die of wanting if he couldn’t touch her, taste her, be inside her hot, wet warmth…

They weren’t each other’s first—but each and every time he touched her like this, kissed her like this, it felt as if they were… In some strange way (maybe this was part of His Hermione Insanity), he couldn’t help but think sometimes it was true… And he knew that whatever else, they would be each other’s last—and only—lover for the rest of their lives…

He loved to kiss her and feel her melt against him. He loved to trace his lips over every inch of her bare skin, to lick, suck, nuzzle, caress every sensitive spot he knew on her body.

He loved to make her cry out, loved to make her moan, loved to make her shiver.

And he did so now. He worshipped her body with hands and lips and tongue until she was reduced to moving her head restlessly back and forth on the pillow, mindless sounds of abandon and arousal coming from her throat. God, he loved the sounds she made, those little gasps and moans and soft, low cries that sent jolts of heat straight through his body.

He loved the fact that she wasn’t ticklish anywhere but on the backs of her knees so he could trail his fingers up her sides and she would lie still but the moment he even drew close to touching the backs of her knees she would twitch and squirm and giggle. He loved that she giggled, a low, soft sound of mirth that she would probably be ashamed of at any other time.

He kissed the soft skin of the inside of her legs working his way with a tantalizing slowness down to the back of her knees, pausing to blow on the dampened skin very lightly and couldn’t help but laugh quietly himself at the way she gasped and squirmed and giggled, a soft, half-hearted protest escaping her lips.

He loved that he was the only person who knew that about her, that he was the only person she let hear her when she giggled like that, that he was the only person who could do that.

He loved it when she became impatient and flipped them over so she was on top of him, loved the sight of her on top, loved the way her breasts stood up so proud and so beautiful when she straddled him like that.

He reared up to take one nipple into his mouth, his hands caressing the skin of her back. She threw her head back on a gasp before she returned the favor, her hands roaming over his chest and stomach, her fingers dancing over his skin lightly in a manner that ensured he lost what little remained of his mind. And he stopped his own caresses, his hands falling to twist and clutch at the sheets in helpless arousal.

He loved the way she could reduce him to an incoherent, groaning mass of flames with one touch of her lips and tongue on his hardness. He knew how she would always pause to smile slightly; he knew the gleam of mixed arousal and triumph in her eyes which she got. He knew how she became a goddess, a siren, a temptress, before his very eyes.

She was a siren now, his goddess, his siren, as she bent over him and took him in her hands and then her mouth.

He loved her boldness, the passion in her that echoed his own. He loved that no one else knew that about her. They knew her as the bookworm, the Healer, the clever one. He knew her as the wanton, the seductress, the lover.

He knew her as Hermione—in her every mood, in her every emotion, in every facet of her. As she knew him…

He finally slid inside her until he was buried to the hilt in her, surrounded by the wet heat of her, savoring her gasp at the intimacy of it. And he knew he was home. With her, inside her, filling her—he was home. Wherever she was, was his home…

He kissed her eyelids, the corner of her eyebrows, her forehead, her nose, her cheek, the little hollow before her ear, the tips of her lips—irrational places that only a man in love would treasure—and then her lips themselves, pouring all his love and all his emotion into the kiss, his tongue caressing hers.

Harry. Hermione. He was man; she was woman. They moved with each other in a dance of love that had been established since the beginning of time, but somehow felt so unique, so special to just the two of them—and maybe, just maybe, it was… And somehow, every kiss, every touch, every gasp, every moan, felt like—more—than it had ever been before.

They were Harry and Hermione. Husband and wife. Partners for life. Soul-mates. Lovers…

That was it. Lovers—equal in love, equal in passion, equal in feeling…

And equal in ecstasy.

Her climax hit her hard, tearing a cry from her as she clenched around him, her hands on his back tensing. And the sensation of her pulsing around him pushed him over the edge as he stiffened, his orgasm ripping through him as he shuddered above her and came with a force that had him seeing the sun, the stars and the moon—and somewhere above it all, her face. His Hermione…

He collapsed on top of her, gasping for breath, feeling as if his heart might simply pound its way out of his chest. Beneath him, he could feel her heart pounding too, as they lay like that, limbs entangled.

It could have been hours before he finally gathered the strength to roll off her, bringing her in close to him, their fingers entwining where her hand rested on his chest, dropping a quick kiss on her forehead.

He felt her smile against his skin as she in turn dropped a quick kiss on his chest.

He let his eyes close as he relaxed, letting the lassitude of fulfillment and peace fill him, enjoying the weight of her pressed against his side.

She was quiet too as their heartbeats slowed until she breathed, “My God…”

He smiled slightly. “My thoughts exactly.”

“I didn’t think—I thought—just, wow...”

“Hermione Granger stuttering and at a loss for words? I think that’s a first.”

She poked him in the side with a finger. “I’ll have you know that’s not my name anymore, or have you forgotten so quickly? And you know what I mean.”

“Hermione Potter, I meant,” he corrected himself, and then paused for a moment, savoring the sound of those two words. Hermione Potter… He tightened his arm around her. “My wife…” he breathed softly, the words barely audible, and something in their tone made them both an endearment and a prayer.

She smiled. “My husband,” she returned equally softly, in the same tone.

They were both silent for a few minutes, enjoying the closeness, the peace, the simple joy of being together—as they would always be.

He finally broke the silence to say, “I think if I’d known it would be like this, I’d have insisted on eloping.”

She laughed softly. “If I’d known it would be like this, I’d have insisted we marry right after our first time.”

He chuckled, low and quietly in his throat, his hand brushing her bare shoulders lightly.

“It’s never felt like this before. I guess this is more proof—if we needed it—that this is really right…” he said in a musing tone.

“I always knew that.”

“Still, it’s nice to have proof, sometimes. We can remember it when things aren’t so perfect.”

She moved her head to look at him, a soft smile on her lips, a world of tenderness in her eyes and expression. “I don’t think I’ll ever be in danger of forgetting.”

He tried to smile but somehow couldn’t; the moment was too precious for smiling. Warmth blossomed in his chest at the look on her face, the openness of it. Hermione wasn’t given to overly sentimental displays of affection but sometimes, in rare moments like this when it was only the two of them and she was feeling particularly loving, she would look at him as she was looking at him now. And the one look alone told him more than anything else ever could, that however much he loved her she loved him too, with the same depth, the same intensity, the same devotion…

And sometimes, when he saw that look, he would remember the Dursleys (as he did at very rare occasions) and think that the look on her face alone made up for everything. Every bad thing that had ever happened to him from the Dursleys to Voldemort—just stopped mattering that much, compared to that look on her face… The look on her face… And he knew he was blessed.

“God, I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

She kissed him softly, lingeringly, before snuggling back down beside him, her head leaning against his shoulder.

He let his eyes close, loving the warmth of her skin pressed against his, the closeness of her.

It was, he thought, pure magic and a miracle—that this woman loved him so much… And it was beyond a miracle; it was a gift, a blessing, a marvel beyond the power of words to express to know that he would get to spend the rest of his life with her—his best friend, his life-partner, his soul-mate, his lover… His Hermione…

The End (of this story);

The Beginning of Harry and Hermione’s Happily-Ever-After. ;-)