Honesty Between Friends

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to JKR.

Honesty Between Friends

The Truth Can Hurt

Ron got back to his flat to find Hermione waiting for him.

Not that there was anything unusual about this; what was unusual, what made his step falter and his greeting die on his lips, was the sight of her bags packed and sitting by the cloak rack.

“Hermione,” he began hesitantly and then stopped as she turned to face him and he saw the tears in her eyes, tears that slowly streaked down her cheeks when she blinked.

He looked at her face—and he knew. He couldn’t even say he was very surprised. It had been building for a while now, even though he’d tried to deny it, avoided thinking about it as if ignoring it would make it go away—but now he could only feel a little surprise that it had taken this long. A little surprise—and a lot of regret.

“I- I can’t do this anymore,” Hermione managed to say, her voice pained. “I’ve tried- so hard, to be happy, to make you happy, to make it work—but I just can’t… I- I care about you so much, Ron. You know that, right? You’re my best friend and I thought, I hoped, we could be so much more—but it just isn’t working…”

Ron stared at her, his throat tight with a knot of emotion, for a long moment before he found his voice and choked out, “I know.”

He could see some of her tension visibly leaving her at his words, relieved that he wasn’t arguing with her.

There was another long, painful silence, broken only by a sigh from him and a muffled sob from her, as they alternately stared at each other and avoided each other’s eyes—looking around at his flat where they had spent so much time in the few months since he’d gotten it, where they had talked and laughed and argued and made up, more arguing than anything else in the last few weeks.

He made a vague gesture toward her bags. “Where-” his voice cracked and he swallowed hard before continuing, “Where will you go?”

“Probably back to my parents,” she answered softly.

He nodded dumbly. “Okay.”

She got up to leave but then paused, hesitated, and then threw her arms around him in a last hug, which he returned, his arms closing around her tightly—it was a hug for past memories, a hug that spoke of regrets and some hurt, a hug of friends.

She drew back after a moment as he released her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Me too,” he said equally quietly.

She put on her cloak and picked up her bags.

“We’re still best friends, right?” he blurted out, uncertainty and vulnerability and the hint of old affections in his tone.

She looked back at him, trying to smile but only managing a slight twitch of her lips. “Always,” she said simply—and that, at least, was true.

It was the saddest part of this whole thing, really. She and Ron were best friends—still, and always would be; it was simply that they didn’t work as anything more than best friends, no matter how much they tried and no matter how much they cared. It hadn’t been enough to get over what was, essentially, an incompatibility of natures; he hadn’t been able to understand her and she hadn’t been able to understand him. It had manifested itself through their arguments, more and more frequently as the months went on—until lately, they’d stopped spending any time together as just the two of them and basically avoided each other except when in the presence of some mediating other person, Harry more often than not, although Ginny and the twins had also served that purpose.

He looked as sad and as resigned as she felt—and she had to look away.

“Bye, Ron,” she said, her voice so soft he could barely hear it—and then she was gone.

~*~

Harry started at the sound of a knock on the door, putting down the latest issue of Quidditch Weekly which he’d been idly flipping through.

He opened the door expecting to see Ron as Ron had casually mentioned that he might stop by to talk about going to see the Chudley Cannons game against Puddlemere United the next weekend—but then his breath caught in his throat.

It was Hermione, tears staining her cheeks, looking so vulnerable his heart hurt at the sight.

She hurled herself at him the moment the door was open, with enough force to knock him back a step, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder with a muffled sob. “Oh Harry!”

He just managed to understand the words, half-wailed into his shoulder as they were, as he hugged her back. And he didn’t ask what was wrong or why she was here; he could find that out later. For the moment, all he needed to know was that she was crying and had come to him for comfort.

And then his gaze dropped to the bags sitting just outside his front door.

His entire body stilled as his mind registered the significance of those bags. Oh…

He sternly stifled any reaction to the realization of what must have just happened; he would think of that later.

She drew back slightly, her arms falling from around him, as if she’d just realized what she was doing and where she was. She flushed slightly, not quite meeting his eyes. “Oh Harry, I’m--”

He cut her off before she could say what he knew she was going to say, reading the apology in her expression. “It’s okay, Hermione.” He half-led her over to sit on the couch before he went back to bring her bags into his flat, shutting the door behind him.

Hermione relaxed into Harry’s couch, letting the comfort of just being with the person she trusted the most seep into her consciousness. She hadn’t really meant to come here, had been intending to go home to her parents, where she still nominally lived even though she spent most of her time in Ron’s flat, but when she’d closed the door to Ron’s flat behind her and gotten to the nearest Apparating point, she’d known as she closed her eyes just where she wanted to go, who she wanted to turn to. The one person she somehow always turned to and who understood her and could comfort her—Harry. And even though she had always before kept herself from going to Harry when she and Ron fought, so as not to put Harry in the middle of it (he’d had quite enough of the position of mediating between his two best friends during their 7^th year), this time, now—when she and Ron were finally over—she couldn’t help it. He was the only person she knew she could turn to. And so she’d found herself outside his flat and knocking on his door almost before she’d consciously decided to do so.

She had closed her eyes but she opened them again as Harry came back with a mug of steaming hot tea and she knew even before she accepted the mug that it was her favorite kind of strawberry-flavored herb tea sweetened slightly with some honey, just the way she liked it.

“Thanks,” she said gratefully.

He shrugged a little as he sat down beside her. “It’s nothing,” he paused and then asked, gently, “what is it?” even though he knew what her answer would be.

She kept her gaze on her tea rather than looking up at him. “Ron and I broke up,” she told him softly, knowing he would have probably guessed the truth from the moment he saw her bags.

She wasn’t surprised when he didn’t react. He had guessed it, then.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded. “I- I just couldn’t do it anymore, Harry. We’ve tried so hard and- and we care so much about each other but it just wasn’t working. I- I wanted it to work. I tried to convince myself it was working, that I was happy—but I just couldn’t do it anymore.” Her voice broke slightly as she blinked back renewed tears. “I don’t know, Harry. It- it seemed so perfect, you know—Ron and me. After the Yule Ball in 4^th year and then Lavender and everything else, I thought—I thought we would finally be together and it would work. And Mrs. Weasley was so happy for us and Ginny was glad and the twins said they thought it was about time—and with Voldemort gone, it just seemed so perfect. Finally. It was going to be even more perfect when you and Ginny got back together—but then you didn’t.”

There was no reproach in her voice, just a simple statement of fact, but he responded anyway. “I didn’t care enough about Ginny. I- I thought I could make myself care but I knew before it had been a week that I couldn’t and I thought it best to tell Ginny honestly before anything else happened.” He paused and then repeated, “I didn’t love Ginny.” He refrained from saying what he’d also realized about his feelings when he saw Ginny again—and knew that he didn’t love her, because he loved someone else… He sternly killed the thought before it could even fully form, as he had for months now, not even letting himself think it.

“I know,” she said. “And I don’t blame you. I just thought—Ron and I would last, that when we finally got together, everything would be okay.” She gave a half-laugh, although there was no amusement in it and only some self-deprecation. “I guess I’ve been a right idiot.”

“No,” he interrupted, “you haven’t. You and Ron did care about each other and Ron had fancied you for years anyway. Of course you’d think that once you got together, everything would be okay. Everyone thought so.” (Well, not him, but he refrained from saying that.)

She let out a shuddering sigh as she finished her tea. “I- I thought I could make it work if I tried hard enough. I guess I just wasn’t good enough…” Her voice trailed off as tears welled up again.

Harry took the empty mug, putting it onto the table, before he gently pulled her into his arms, letting her cry into his shoulder as his hand rubbed soothing circles on her back. “Don’t, Hermione,” he said, his heart hurting at the sound of her soft sobs. “Don’t. It’s not your fault. And it’s not that you’re not good enough; you are. You deserve so much and you’ll find someone else who can make you happy. You and Ron both will.”

And he thought—as he always did whenever he saw her cry—that he would do anything- lie, cheat, steal, kill, anything- to keep her from crying. To make her happy, to see her smile—he would do anything he could…

It was a few minutes before her sobs quieted and she simply leaned against him, drained now.

“Harry?” Her voice was soft, tentative. “Could- could I stay here with you tonight?”

He froze for a moment, reacting automatically even though he knew she hadn’t meant anything by it.

She sat up, blushing, as she realized what her question could be interpreted as. “I just don’t want to go home to my parents and have to answer all their questions today.”

“You can stay as long as you need to. You know you don’t need to ask.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

He got up, suddenly needing to put some space between them. “I’ll get your bags,” he volunteered, picking them up and carrying them into the spare bedroom of his flat. He was suddenly immensely glad that he had decided to spend the extra money to get a two-bedroom flat.

She followed him inside. “Harry, I- you really--”

He managed a smile as he interrupted her, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so inarticulate.”

A flicker of wan amusement passed over her face. “I guess being broken-hearted does that to a person.”

He stilled, his expression somber. “Are you broken-hearted?” he asked very quietly.

She paused, thinking about it as his tone, the look in his eyes, told her that her answer would mean a lot to him—more, some small part of her mind said, than it should mean to him as her best friend. “No,” she finally said slowly. “I’m sorry that Ron and I aren’t together but I know it’s right and this would have happened eventually. No,” she said again. “I’m sorry and I have regrets—but I’m not broken-hearted.” She paused and then added, so softly it was more to herself than to him, “And Ron isn’t broken-hearted either.”

He nodded but didn’t say anything as he left her alone.

~*~

He couldn’t sleep.

He wasn’t surprised at his insomnia, had even expected it after the news that Ron and Hermione had broken up and with Hermione staying in his flat, sleeping just a few feet away.

Carefully, quietly, he got up out of bed and made his way through the darkness of his flat to the spare bedroom. He paused at the door which she had left slightly ajar, listening to the sound of her even breathing, before he gave in to impulse and slowly pushed the door open a little wider, enough so he could see.

He lifted his wand so the light from the tip of it spilled over the bed, grateful for nonverbal spells, as he watched her sleep.

It was a rare privilege to be able to watch her sleep, even from the distance of him still standing at the door, one hand lingering on the door knob.

She was lying on her side, one hand under her pillow and the other resting on her pillow by her face. He was glad to notice that there were no tear stains on her cheeks, evidence that she hadn’t cried herself to sleep. He smiled slightly as he realized she was wearing the shirt he had bought her as a joke as part of her last birthday gift, a large t-shirt that said, ‘Bookworm and proud of it.’

She was sleeping peacefully, her expression open and clear in a way he hardly ever saw it when she was awake. He let his gaze wander over her familiar—and so dear—features, caressing her with his eyes.

She shifted in her sleep and he quickly killed the light from his wand and closed her door again.

Hermione and Ron had broken up… Finally, a small voice in his head inserted.

Hermione was no longer Ron’s girlfriend.

And he couldn’t help but feel relieved, glad—despite his guilt. What kind of best friend was he to feel relieved over something that had hurt both his best friends? Then again, what kind of best friend was he to have been secretly in love with his best friend’s girlfriend for so many months?

Because he was in love with Hermione. He allowed himself the luxury of admitting it honestly to himself, for the first time. He had spent months denying it, months making excuses for why he sometimes had to squash the flicker of resentment at Ron every time Ron said something that hurt or angered Hermione, why he always looked away and felt his stomach (and his heart) twist whenever he saw Ron and Hermione snogging—why he reacted the way he did every time he saw Hermione smile, why he tried so hard sometimes to make her laugh. No more excuses.

He was in love with Hermione. He had begun to realize it when he’d understood that he simply didn’t care- that way- about Ginny anymore, if he ever really had—that he was fond of Ginny in the ‘She’s a Weasley’ way but didn’t care about her in any special way, anymore than he was fond of Mrs. Weasley. Ginny was a pleasant memory—but no more.

It was Hermione he loved—maybe it had always been Hermione he’d been in love with. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t care more about Hermione than any other girl, when he didn’t trust Hermione more than anyone else. And he’d slowly come to comprehend that, somehow, without his realizing it, he’d also begun to think of Hermione as the prettiest girl he knew too. She didn’t have Fleur’s Veela-like beauty or Ginny’s more fiery charm or even Cho’s slightly exotic prettiness—but she was lovely. He loved the way her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparked when she was excited or angry, loved the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating hard, loved how expressive her face was of her every mood—and, he’d finally noticed, her mouth was lovely. Maybe just a shade too wide for perfect beauty but it suited her face and was delightfully shaped- and- and- perfectly kissable. Entirely too kissable for his sanity or his thinking of her as only his platonic best friend.

He was in love with Hermione—absolutely, completely, irrevocably. He’d tried to stop, tried to deny it, tried to forget it, but nothing had worked.

And now she was free.

He hated himself for feeling glad, hated himself for feeling that it was about time Ron and Hermione broke up… For all his affection for Ron, he had never understood how Ron and Hermione managed to sustain their relationship with all the disagreements they had—only he’d always had to wonder how much of that was his own bias because he wanted Hermione for himself.

Hermione was free…

He would comfort her, help her, be her best friend as he’d always been.

And maybe, just maybe, he would tell her that he loved her—someday…

To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Part 1 of this story.

Author’s Note: Thank you, everyone, who read and reviewed the first part of this story. I hope you enjoy this next part just as much.

For annearchy, junesrose and eibbil_libbie. *hugs*

Honesty Between Friends

The Beginning of Forever

“Here,” Harry said, covering Hermione’s shoulders with her cloak, “it’s too cold to be out here without your cloak.”

“Thanks,” she said, not turning to look at him and only continuing to stare out into the darkness around the Burrow.

“Are you okay?”

She managed a smile to reassure him. “I’m fine. I just came out here to get some air.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly on her face, not buying her nonchalance.

She had left the Burrow’s family room about ten minutes ago and hadn’t come back and he had noticed and come looking for her. She had been smiling and talking to Ginny and Bill in her usual fashion but there had been just a hint of brittleness to her smile and her laughter and it almost seemed as if she was avoiding looking directly at Ron and Luna.

To almost everyone’s surprise, Ron and Luna had begun dating around the middle of January, when it had been three months since Ron and Hermione had broken up—and they were doing well and seemed remarkably happy together. Harry was glad of it and though he had asked Hermione before when they’d first found out, she had seemed happy for Ron and Luna too. Only now, at one of the Weasley family dinners which Mrs. Weasley insisted on holding every month or so, when Hermione had seen that both Luna and her father had also been invited, partly because of Luna’s status as Ron’s girlfriend but also because the Lovegoods were old friends of the Weasleys from living so close for so many years, Hermione’s demeanor had seemed a little strained. Not enough to really notice, and Harry was sure it had slipped past everyone else, but he knew her too well—watched her too closely with eyes made sharp by friendship and love, for him not to see it.

He put his hand on her arm in a silent gesture of concern. “What’s wrong—and don’t tell me it’s nothing. You wouldn’t be out here in the March cold if there was nothing wrong.” He hesitated and then asked in a low voice, “Is it Ron? Are you- do you still wish you were with him?”

“No,” she answered quickly and sincerely. “I’m happy for Ron, I really am.”

He relaxed slightly, one of his secret fears relieved. “But then what is it?”

She hesitated and then she sighed. “It really is nothing, just me being stupid. I just—I couldn’t help but wonder when I see Ron and Luna, why I can’t seem to find someone else. I mean, I know I’m no Veela and I’m not the prettiest girl in the world but--”

“Don’t be silly,” he interrupted her. “You’re beautiful—and any bloke who doesn’t see it is just a bloody idiot and doesn’t deserve you anyway.”

She let out a little laugh, giving him a glance full of affection. “Oh, honestly, Harry. You shouldn’t exaggerate like that just because we’re friends.”

“I’m not exaggerating. You are beautiful.”

There was an odd intensity in his tone that made her look at him—and even in the dim light, she could see- something- in his eyes as he looked at her. Something she’d never seen before, something that set her heart to beating crazily in her chest. And she knew he’d meant it; he really did think she was beautiful…

She felt flushed and suddenly warm, despite the chill in the air, from the way he was looking at her—honestly, with nothing hidden—as if she was the most beautiful, most desirable, woman in the world…

“Harry, I…” her voice trailed off, unsure of what she could say and wondering how it was that she was feeling this way, reacting this way, to Harry whom she’d never before allowed herself to think of as anything other than her best friend… She recognized the feeling; it was attraction, the beginnings of desire.

She stared at him, wondering how this could somehow feel so new and yet so natural all at the same time, and unconsciously, her tongue came out to moisten her suddenly dry lips.

His eyes flared slightly at the movement, his gaze lowering to focus on her lips—and then, slowly, he lifted one hand to brush her cheek very lightly in a butterfly’s caress.

Her breath caught at the sensation. How was it that this lightest, simplest, most chaste of touches, just his fingers brushing her cheek, from someone whom she’d always felt a platonic affection for, could now make her react like this—her skin heating, tingles of unmistakable desire radiating outwards from the spot where his fingers touched her skin?

And he felt it too; she could see it in his eyes, sense it in the heat from his body.

Slowly, his hand moved to cup the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, as her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parting slightly.

Only inches separated their lips… three inches… two… one…

His eyes closed as well.

His lips touched hers—he kissed her. Gently, tentatively. Her lips parted more as she responded, shifting closer to him, and the kiss deepened, changed… The mood shifted from one of half-hesitant discovery to one of desire, of newly-recognized passion.

Her hands made their way of their own volition to tangle in his hair as his other arm stole around her waist, bringing her in against him.

She clung to him, kissing him back, her tongue dancing with his, and somewhere in the back of her mind, where she still retained some power of thought that wasn’t completely preoccupied with the taste of him, the feel of him, and this sudden passion between them, she couldn’t help but think fuzzily that this was more than just a kiss, more than just the expression of desire. It was a beginning of something that maybe, just maybe, had always been waiting to happen—the beginning of something that she somehow knew would last forever… The thought had barely formed before it dissipated again, lost in the physical sensations swamping her body, all of them centering on his lips on hers.

His lips only left hers to trace her jaw line and then up to brush light, fleeting kisses over her face, the hollow just before her ear, her cheekbone, the tip of her nose, her eyelids, the tips of her eyebrows.

She finally drew back slightly, realizing his lips were causing serious havoc to her mental capacity. “Harry, I…” she began and then trailed off. What was that? Why did it happen? The two questions hung in her mind and she opened her lips to ask them but instead heard herself blurt out, in an oddly breathy voice, with a hint of surprise in it, “I want you.”

Oh God, she had not just said that…

His breath caught as he stared at her, eyes widening, and she couldn’t miss the flare of want in his eyes in reaction.

He cupped her face in his hands, kissing her once, briefly—and there was a promise in his kiss.

“Later,” he said, his voice low, as his eyes burned into hers, repeating the promise.

Later…

~~~

Harry wondered if he had dreamed it all.

He had kissed Hermione—and she had kissed him back. She had said she wanted him… Hermione wanted him…

After all these months of loving her, of dreaming of her and never letting himself hope that she might feel that way about him—he wondered if he had dreamed it.

He hadn’t meant to kiss her. He had only wanted to know she was okay, wanted to know she didn’t still care about Ron, wanted to be her friend…

But when she’d said she wasn’t pretty with that hint of hurt and longing in her voice, he hadn’t been able to help himself and had blurted out that she was beautiful—but he still hadn’t meant to kiss her or do anything to let her know that he didn’t think of her in only a platonic fashion.

Until she’d just looked at him, her eyes soft and warm, and he’d decided only half-consciously in a moment of Gryffindor recklessness, to let her see the truth of his feelings in his eyes.

And he’d seen the answering flare of desire in her eyes, felt the answering tug of attraction—and it had all gone from there, acting mostly on instinct because at that moment, he could no more have stopped himself from kissing her than he could have stopped himself from breathing or his heart from beating.

He’d never felt desire with such intensity before. He’d looked at her lips and wanted to kiss her before (nearly every time he saw her for the past 9 months at least). He’d been attracted to other girls, had dated other girls and shagged one, his girlfriend of a few months (he’d begun dating Allison shortly after his 18^th birthday, partly in a desperate attempt to convince himself he wasn’t really in love with Hermione, but also because he had fallen in lust with Allison from the moment he saw her—only to realize all too soon that it was nothing more than lust and when that was gone, he still wanted Hermione, still thought of Hermione—pictured Hermione when he closed his eyes even when he was buried inside Allison—and had broken it off with her almost immediately after that.)

This was different.

He had seen the desire in Hermione’s eyes, seen her lick her lips—and he hadn’t wanted to kiss her. He’d needed to kiss her, needed her like he needed food, needed her like he needed water, needed her like he needed air.

And the kiss was- was—perfect… She was sweet and warm and he thought he could die a happy man if he did nothing else but kiss her for the rest of his life. This was what kissing was supposed to be, this connection of two mouths, two tongues, two souls, he thought fuzzily.

Later, he had promised. Later…

For now, he fought for some return of sanity, of rational thought. “We- uh- we should be getting back inside,” he managed to say—even as part of his mind was arguing that they should just Apparate back to his flat immediately and leave the Weasleys to think what they might.

She blinked. “Right, we should.” But she didn’t move, only stared at him, still flushed and her breath coming faster than usual.

He closed his eyes to the sight of her, knowing if he looked at her any more, he would just give in and leave.

It took every ounce of will power he had in him to force himself to turn away from her, to turn his steps back to the Burrow.

At another time, he might have rested his hand on her back as they went in, but he didn’t dare touch her again, not now.

Hermione wanted him.

He felt a smile curve his lips, exultation swell in his chest. There was, he thought, no aphrodisiac in the world like knowing that the woman you loved and wanted, wanted you too.

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

He could swear it. He could swear that the Weasleys had never been so convivial, never been so eager to eat and talk, lingering at the table which groaned under the weight of Mrs. Weasley’s usual feast.

He was fond of the Weasleys. Very fond of them. They were the closest thing to a family he had ever known and he would willingly risk his life for any and all of them. He liked Luna and he had grown to like Mr. Lovegood too, in the few times he had met him.

These were some of his favorite people in the world.

Or so he told himself repeatedly as he forced smiles and feigned paying attention to the conversation around him.

He was fond of the Weasleys.

At the moment, he wished they were all in Borneo. Australia. China. Somewhere away. Very away. Far away. Mars might be nice, he found himself thinking half-idly.

He wished they would all go away so he could be alone with Hermione again—so he could kiss Hermione again, touch Hermione again.

He carefully avoided looking at her, although he felt her gaze on him more than once.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Good God, he was nearly half-aroused already just from trying not to think about all the things he wanted to do to Hermione, all the things he wanted to do with Hermione—all the things he had every intention of doing once this bloody interminable dinner was over and they were back in his flat.

This was torture.

This was torture—and he was either going to go insane or die if it went on too long.

He was immensely grateful when Mr. Lovegood finally announced that he needed to go home as he had to be up early to see if he could catch a glimpse of some mysterious creature he called the Apollic Rumpleback. Luna was the only one who nodded in perfect understanding, as she told her father she would see him later.

And then Hermione said that she too would leave as she was tired from the past work week, carefully avoiding Harry’s gaze as she said so.

He, too, stood up—and almost before he could believe it, they were outside, after saying their good-byes to the Weasleys and to Mr. Lovegood.

They didn’t look at each other or talk to each other—it wasn’t necessary. And almost before he could think, finally, they were entering his flat.

He finally dared to look at her, suddenly wondering if he’d assumed too much, if she had somehow changed her mind—but before his mind could fully process the thought, she had flattened herself against him and was kissing him.

Oh God…

His rational mind spluttered—and died…

He quickly shrugged out of his cloak, tossing it blindly aside, and was vaguely aware that she did the same—and what little was left of his mind paused, even while his lips were still fastened to hers, to be surprised. Hermione never simply tossed her cloak aside; she was always careful to hang it up and had taken both him and Ron to task many times for not doing the same.

Hermione was hardly aware of her actions anymore, was too preoccupied with the feeling of Harry’s lips on hers, his hands on her body. In a last attempt at rationality, her mind stopped to wonder how this had happened, why this was happening, what this meant that she wanted Harry so much, that she and Harry were going to do this—and end their platonic friendship forever—but for the first time in her life, she dismissed the thoughts. Harry’s lips were on hers, his hands were doing wonderful things to her body, which she felt even through her clothes and which were sending heat pooling low in her belly and moisture between her legs—and at that moment, she decided, nothing else mattered.

They stumbled blindly into his bedroom as he shut the door, trapping her against it, as his lips left hers to wander along her jaw line and down her neck, pausing to lick his way down her collar-bone, eliciting a breathless moan from her as her head fell back, allowing him greater access. His tongue darted into the hollow of her throat, unerringly finding the sensitive spot, and she shivered, clutching him tighter to her.

His hands found her breasts through her shirt, cupping them, kneading them, and she arched into him, her fingers tangling in his hair to tug gently, bringing his mouth back to hers.

She kissed him fiercely, her hands tugging his shirt out of his trousers to flatten on the bare skin of his stomach, loving the way he tensed at her touch. She didn’t stop to think, to realize, that she was hotter, wetter, than she could ever remember feeling—that they were still wearing all their clothes and she was already more aroused than she’d felt in months since even before she and Ron had broken up, or ever.

Too many damn clothes…

They shed their clothes quickly, stripping down until they were both naked, and she lay back on his bed, as he paused for a fleeting moment to stare at her, his eyes roaming over every inch of her body as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

She felt herself flush but somehow, it didn’t feel as awkward as she might have expected. The vague thought flitted through her mind too quickly for her to fully grasp it, that she almost felt as if her body belonged to him as much as it did to her…

He lowered himself on top of her, holding her face between his hands as he kissed her, not so much passionately at the moment but with something more like reverence—until she deepened the kiss, tugging him closer, bringing him down on top of her.

She wanted—she needed—to feel his naked skin against hers…

He tore his mouth from hers with a gasp to stare down at her.

“God, Hermione…” he breathed in something very like awe mixed in with a healthy dose of lust, “you’re beautiful…” His look, his words, sent another jolt of heat through her body. She couldn’t not believe him when he was looking at her like that; she felt beautiful…

Then he set out to learn her body. His hands skimmed over her skin, very lightly, barely touching, down her arms then back up to her breasts—she caught her breath as his palms lightly abraded her hardened nipples—he moved on, his hands skimming down her sides, her hips, her legs, in a feather-light—and incredibly arousing—exploration of her body. And she marveled that he could set her on fire, her every nerve sensitized and tingling, from such a light touch.

Finally, his hands returned to her breasts, cupping, caressing, kneading—he lowered his mouth to her nipple and she arched off the bed, crying out. He smiled a very male, very possessive smile—and then he began retracing the path of his hands with his lips and teeth and tongue, loving the taste of her—just loving her…

Every gasp, every moan, was like music to his ears—and aroused him even more.

And though he hadn’t consciously decided this, he knew he wanted to make her forget she had ever been with anyone but him, wanted to make her his in every way he could…

And so he did.

First his hand cupped and then his fingers caressed the hot, wet center of her—his lips replaced his hand and she made a sound halfway between a moan and a cry.

He licked, sucked, worshipping her until her head moved restlessly back and forth on the pillow, small, mindless sounds of arousal coming from her throat, as her hands twisted and clutched at the sheets.

His hands moved back up to fondle her breasts and she cried out, shattering, her entire body shaking as tremors of ecstasy ripped through her body.

The sight and sound of her nearly pushed him over the edge and he moved quickly back up her body, kissing her as her trembling subsided.

One thrust of his hips and he was buried inside her, both of them crying out at the intimacy of it. And the feel of her, hot and wet and tight around him, was again almost enough to push him over the edge and he froze, his muscles and his jaw locking, as he fought for control.

She captured his face between her hands, kissing him deeply, her hands beginning their own journey of exploration, roaming greedily over his shoulders and his back and down to his arse, before she rolled them over, taking him by surprise, until she was on top.

The change in position increased the friction between them and settled him even more deeply inside her, although a second ago he would’ve sworn it wasn’t possible.

“Good God…” he groaned in a guttural tone, before he opened his eyes to stare up at her.

She felt a half-teasing, wholly-seductive smile on her face and saw the way his eyes widened.

She bent until her breasts just brushed his chest and, on a sudden, mad impulse, whispered, “My turn,” in his ear, feeling the shudder that went through his entire body as her words penetrated his lust-fogged brain.

Slowly, deliberately, she raised herself up and then lowered herself again on top of him, her head falling back as her mouth opened on a gasp.

His hips thrust to match her movements, their bodies settling into an ageless, timeless dance of need and arousal and lust.

One hand reached up to cup her breast while the other went down to caress her where her body was joined with his—and she shattered, again, with a scream, her body clenching around him.

He thrust up inside her one last time, the world imploding around him as she collapsed bonelessly on top of him, and he came with a force that tore a cry from his throat and left him gasping for breath, feeling as his heart might pound its way out of his chest.

“Oh my God,” he finally managed to gasp out.

He felt rather than heard her mumble something in response, as he rested one hand on her back, moving his fingers in an idle caress, and he closed his eyes, letting the lassitude of bliss settle over him like a blanket.

It might have been years for all he was aware of the time passing before Hermione slipped off him.

He opened his eyes to look at her. “You didn’t have to get off.”

“I was probably crushing you.”

“No, you weren’t. I liked having you on top of me,” he answered automatically and then flushed at how that had sounded.

She smirked. “I’ll remember that.”

There was a pause before an uncomfortable expression crossed her face—and he felt a pang of apprehension. He knew that look, had seen it too many times over the years not to know it—and at the moment, it was the last thing he wanted to see.

She’d been acting on instinct, he knew that, hadn’t taken the time to process or think about what was happening. And now her mind was functioning again; she was analyzing what had happened.

“Uh, Harry,” she hesitated, blushing scarlet and tugging the sheets up to her chin, “I- er- what happens now?”

He thought about confessing the truth—that he’d been in love with her for months now and had only been doing what he’d been wanting to do, dreaming of doing, to her and with her for months now—but just as promptly, rejected that thought. He couldn’t tell her that now—not when he didn’t know how she felt and not when she was obviously feeling awkward now that the lust that had exploded between them had been sated (at least temporarily). “What do you want to happen? I- Hermione, I want you,” he finally settled for saying. It wasn’t a lie; it just wasn’t the complete truth…

She looked down, addressing the sheets more than him, as she admitted, “I want you too.” She was silent for a moment and then looked up at him. “Can we- just take this slowly and see where it goes?”

He fought to keep any reaction from showing on his face. Slowly. Sure, he could do slowly. He’d waited this long—he could wait longer. He understood; she’d been more hurt than she’d admitted, more bothered by her failure (as she saw it) to make her relationship with Ron work. And it had put a strain on their friendship for more than a month afterwards, a strain that had been painful for all three of them, and had finally dissipated and only really ended, he thought, when Ron had begun dating Luna. It was no wonder she wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of getting involved with her other best friend. He understood. And yet…

And yet he couldn’t help but feel a tiny, renegade pang of hurt.

He had recognized that their kiss—all they’d just done—had been more than just physical; it had touched him on every level, physical, mental, emotional… And he had almost thought she had experienced it too… But no, it appeared not.

He managed a slight smile. “Slowly works for me.”

“Okay.” She smiled and kissed him quickly on the corner of his mouth before she settled her body into the curve of his, her eyes drifting closed. “G’night, Harry.”

“Goodnight,” he murmured softly—and then waited until he was sure she was sleeping soundly to whisper, very quietly, “I love you.”

~~~

“I have something for you,” Harry said, rather uncomfortably, suddenly wondering if this was really the smart thing to do. It had seemed like a brilliant idea earlier that afternoon but now, suddenly, he wondered if he was doing this too soon, if he just might scare her away and send her running for the hills.

“You do? Why? It’s not any special day or anything.” She smiled at him. “You’re so sweet.”

She smiled at him—and his heart skipped a beat. It had been more than two weeks since the night of the Weasley family dinner and he could have sworn he’d felt a change in her. She was spending nearly all her time outside of her work at St. Mungo’s in his flat; she was more physically affectionate with him than she had ever been (and even than he could remember her being with Ron—although that may have had to do with her trying not to make him uncomfortable).

And that morning, when she’d been leaving his flat, she had dropped a kiss on his hair and said casually, “I’ll see you tonight, love.”

Love.

She had dropped the endearment so offhandedly, almost as if she wasn’t even conscious of having said it—and his traitorous heart had given a bound of hope and then begun beating out a quick rhythm in his chest.

Love. Could she mean it? Did she love him?

He knew she wanted him; she always responded eagerly and participated in their love-making and he had learned just how passionate a person she could be (and decided that Ron really must be absolutely barking mad—or the world’s biggest idiot—for letting Hermione go). He could have sworn he felt love in her caresses, in the way she clung to him, in the way she trembled at his touch—but then he was so terrified it might just be his own wishful thinking, he never really allowed himself to believe.

She was waiting, a half-teasing, half-expectant look in her eyes—and he swallowed, taking a breath.

Please…

Slowly, he pulled out the ring box from his pocket and passed it to her.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared between him and the box in shock before she reached out with trembling hands to open the box.

Inside was a gold ring in the shape of two hands holding a heart and on top of the heart, a crown.

She pulled out the ring with trembling fingers, just staring at it before she looked up at him, watching her with his heart in his eyes.

“It’s called a Claddagh ring,” he explained softly. “The hands represent friendship, the crown is for loyalty, and the heart is, well, you know…”

“Love,” she finished for him.

“Yeah, love,” he affirmed, his gaze meeting and holding hers. This was it, time for his final confession… “Hermione, I- I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for months now; that was really why I couldn’t get back together with Ginny, why I broke things off with Allison so quickly. I loved you.”

She was blinking back tears and he hurried on. “I- it’s okay if you’re not sure; I’ll wait. I- I just wanted you to know that I’m in this for the long term—that I’m yours. Forever.”

There, it was out. The truth of his feelings for her, all that he felt, all that he had felt for months—and his tremulous hope.

She stared at him, seeing all the love she’d ever wanted in his eyes. Forever… And somehow she knew it was true. Her lingering doubts, her occasional fears—none of it mattered because this was real—more real than anything she’d ever felt—and this was forever…

“Oh Harry… I love you too!” she admitted softly and, getting up, moved to throw her arms around his neck, feeling his arms close around her.

They were both smiling when his lips found hers and she felt the familiar tug of desire and the accompanying emotions—by now, she knew his kiss, the softness of his lips, the warm sweep of his tongue as it slid into her mouth, the passion mingled with boundless tenderness… She knew his taste, his touch, could sense his mood through his kiss and his caress, and felt all the emotion in his embrace. And she knew, with a knowledge that reached her soul, that here, in Harry’s arms, was where she belonged, where she was meant to be…

And after all that we’ve been through
It all comes down to me and you
I guess it’s meant to be
Forever you and me
After all

~ “After All”, sung by Cher and Peter Cetera

A/N 2: I have some vague plans for an Epilogue but since I’m not sure if it’ll ever end up actually being written, this is the end for now.