A/N: I tried my best for this not to be crude, corny and cheesy, I hate crude, corny and cheesy, but alas, alack, it surely came out that way still. And it seriously messes with the rating this way. Oh, and do forgive the hangover scene, I've never been drunk, and I know that one very small glass of rum while grandma baked a cake doesn't count.
But I have to ask, if just to tease, surely you didn't expect to end the story that easily?
Disclaimer: Yeah, JK Rowling would never write this. HBP aside, she does not do crude, corny or cheesy. Aside from that, the characters are hers, the OCs and the plot is mine.
*~***~*
The Morning Afternoon After
It was Ginny who had told her once, in a moment of crudeness, that if you ever woke up naked, alone, nauseous and smelling strongly of alcohol you were in trouble. Lavender had then pointed out that that wasn't so bad, it was if you ever woke up naked, alone, in someone else's house, nauseous, smelling strongly of alcohol and feeling rather sore in a particular place that then, and only then were you in trouble. The naked hangover could happen to anyone. Ginny had agreed and both girls had started laughing, but Parvati and Hermione, to whom nothing like that had even remotely happened just sat staring at them with jaws dropped, stunned.
Now though, Hermione knew exactly what they meant.
She was still in her room, which was immediately and annoyingly clear. The sun had had the audacity to rise hours before all bright and yellow and was now pouring light heavily in unto her. The room was sickeningly warm, people were clearly up and about in the city without and every pinprick of light that penetrated the protective wall of her eyelids stabbed dangerously into her head threatening each vessel with explosion. She groaned and rolled over.
Today she was not a morning person, though the sun shouldn't be on this side of the flat….
This was when she discovered that she was naked and nauseous. Lavender and Ginny had both agreed on this point, and that was frightful enough, but then there was also that last one that Lavender had pointed out on her own. She was sore, and she felt it, but oh it was in more places than one.
What had she done? She could not have, could she…? She wasn't one of those girls, and she certainly wasn't like Lavender and Ginny, not that open. But she must have done something, hence her condition, and really the only other question that mattered now was, who had she done it with?
She dare not open her eyes, the pain from that exercise would be unnecessarily excruciating, but she had an arm free. If she moved it slowly enough, and in one direction-in this case, forward-she might be able to lessen her brain damage. It would still hurt, of course, that was the point of hangovers, but she had to do it. She had to know if she was alone.
Very slowly, she inched her fingers across the smooth mattress. Despite her careful calculations (okay, not that careful, but her head hurt) each creeping step sent a jolt of pain to her nerves and she found the bile slowly rising to her throat. But she was a Gryffindor, or at least had been one, and had fought Voldemort, or rather, had helped that ungrateful bastard she called her best friend fight him, she could take it.
Or at least she thought she could, that was, until her hand met with warm bare skin.
It was smooth, this skin, and coated with a thin film of sweat and a vaguely familiar scent. It was also attached to a slightly muscular arm that though as well vaguely familiar was obviously not hers. And, if truth be told, as she dared to trace her fingers along it, it became rather frightfully familiar.
She couldn't keep her eyes closed, she had to look. Groaning at the effort, she forced them open… and then nearly fell off the bed in shock.
He was lying beside her with his head on his arm fast asleep. His glasses were gone, as were, as far as she could and would dare to see, his clothes. His messy black hair was even messier, sticking up at odd angles all about his head. All about his shoulders and arm she could see the marks of her fingernails, and one of them had been deep enough to draw blood. And his scent, oh his scent, in the vague visions of the night before that refused to fully come to focus she remembered it like musk, and now it coated him, the bed they lay on, the sheets they were tangled in and her.
It was Harry, she had slept with Harry.
Despite the pain, despite the nausea, despite the fact that she was surely fully nude, she forced herself off the bed, snatched up her discarded bathrobe and backed into the wall.
What had she, what had they done?
But oh, if she hadn't believed it had happened before the small dark red stains that had soaked into the sheet and maybe even the mattress beneath was the final nail to the coffin.
She got up and speedily padded off to her bathroom, and not caring or worrying that she would wake him, slammed the door behind her. And once safely locked within she dropped her head over the bowl and retched until her throat and chest hurt and the tears were running freely.
Oh no, what had they done?
Harry, she had… with… oh no, what had they done?
If this had happened in any other way, she might not have been so… well, she didn't want to think mortified, maybe surprised. As a matter of fact, she had often found herself thinking about, dreaming about a day like this. A morning when she would wake up next to him and smile and kiss him awake and it would swiftly go the route of one of those romance novels when the hero and the heroine are finally together in the end. They would have been married first, they would have been deeply in love and they would have been definitely sober….
But not this… she had never thought of anything like this.
What exactly had happened the night before? Everything after she had finally drunk that second butterbeer was a rather strange blur.
Had Harry started drinking too? Had their friends dropped them off at the flat before they publicly humiliated themselves? Had he taken advantage of her, or she of him? Did he even know that… she had never lied to Ginny and Lavender about it, but that had been so long ago, before he moved into the flat, before they had become so estranged, surely he didn't know…?
But when he saw the blood he would, probably already did. Oh, what had they done? She was more responsible than this, how could she…?
And then she remembered why she had drunk the firewhiskey in the first place. Harry, the very sight of Harry coming into that pub, like his absence that morning, seemed to make her silly. Rational Hermione took a hike and this crazy, alcohol-guzzling, whatever she was took control and the next thing she knew she was naked and feeling like a complete fool?
What had happened to them?
"Oh Harry, what happened to us?" she whispered, dropping her head against the cold ceramic bowl, relishing in the chilled touch against her warmed, sore forehead.
But seconds later she was sitting sharply upright again and looking over herself in alarm. If they had, oh who was she kidding, since they had done what they did… had they… did they…?
Temporarily forgetting the throbbing pain in her head (ha-ha) she darted to the sink drawer nearby and began riffling through it. They definitely had to have, if they weren't both drunk, (and if they weren't Harry had better have a proper explanation, one, for taking advantage of the situation, and two, for not thinking) then surely someone had had the sense to….
She found what she was looking for: her little black diary where she kept track of all her personal details. For a few tense seconds she stood anxiously flipping through the pages, trying to ignore the fact that she was standing there naked and had not just stepped out of the shower… and then gave a relieved sigh. Even if they had forgotten a thing or two she should be, they should be safe.
Sometime later in their conversation, Ginny had added: "Actually, we forgot one, let's hope no one forgot to-ahem, for the sensibilities of our 'less mature' friends-mind the gates, because if not, then you should consider yourself well and truly screwed."
It had not been less crude, just more vividly reinvented.
And then she heard him.
Despite the fact that it hurt too much, her brain had refused to shut off her hearing and so she knew perfectly when he awoke. She heard him move, rolling over on the mattress, the sheets rustling, and then suddenly he sat up and after a moment or two called, "Hermione…?"
She snatched up the bathrobe again, flushed the toilet, closed it and sat herself on the bowl, "H-Harry…? I'm… I'm in the bathroom…."
There was no denying that this was going to be awkward. She could already hear him shifting off of the mattress to come to the door. It was not that she didn't love him, oh she definitely loved him, always had and probably always would… but the thought that they had… and she had been too drunk to remember…. She couldn't face him, he had probably seen more of her and her of him than she knew by now, but she couldn't. Not after what had happened, oh how could they…?
The bathroom door knob rattled, "Hermione… Hermione are you okay…? I didn't… I didn't hurt you did I?"
She tried to be cheeky again, "That's very presumptuous of you, Mr Potter. What are you trying to imply?"
Harry didn't seem in the mood for it, his voice faltering, he replied, "There's… there's blood on your bed…."
She lied at once, "Oh that, well, you know… I'm a girl, time of the month thing…."
Secretly she prayed for that "time" to come on time. How stupid could she have been?
"Oh… okay," he replied, and then, after a moment of awkward silence, where she was sure he was working some things over in his head, asked again, "Are you sure that you're alright?"
Persistent little bugger, he was, Voldemort never stood a chance really.
"Yes, I'm fine… but I do have a hangover… and I need a bath," she replied.
"Oh… then… I'll make us breakfast," he told her, sounding much more relieved, and immediately she could hear him leaving. She made to get off her perch then, deciding that the bath wasn't too bad an idea… when he suddenly came back.
"Um, Hermione…?" he asked, nervously.
"Yes?" she asked, freezing halfway off her seat.
"I love you," he replied.
Oh Merlin… what happened last night?
But realising that he was probably waiting for an answer, she said, and with as much meaning as she could muster, "I love you too."
She could hear him smile, she knew he was smiling, and then he was gone again, off to the kitchen to make breakfast, and hopefully a potion for her hangover too.
*~*~*
"Breakfast" actually turned out to be a late lunch. When Hermione finally emerged from her room, clean and dressed in fresh clothes, she discovered that they had slept to noon, the firewhiskey and her unintentional "deflowering" having worn them both out. But she was too hungry to care, and barely waited for Harry to return from his own bath to start helping herself.
He had made toast and ham and eggs, laid out some of Mrs Weasley's scones, reheated, and cold glasses of orange juice and milk, just the smell alone made her both nauseous and hungry. It was a bit much, but the firewhiskey had dehydrated her, and before the pub the last time she had eaten was lunch at the Burrow.
A recipe for disaster that was, alcohol on an empty stomach… thank goodness for Madam S.P. Keyes' Guaranteed Withdrawal Remedy, which he had also set out for her on the counter.
He caught her in the midst of her third sandwich, leaning against the kitchen sink staring out at the lazy London Sunday afternoon, "Hey, leave something for me, I made it."
She stopped eating abruptly; nearly dropping the sandwich like she had been caught stealing. But that was the wrong thing to do, for Harry immediately came over to her and taking her into his arms, lifted her face to his and asked again, "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Stop asking me that, I'm fine," she snapped.
"Oh… I was just…" he said, sounding slightly hurt and drawing away from her a bit.
Realising her error, she quickly flashed him a smile and said, "Oh, you silly boy. You worry far too much for your own good, you can never hurt me."
But that just made him come back to her again, and this time with a kiss over the sink that made her knees go weak and set her heart racing. The half-eaten sandwich dropped into the sink forgotten. She couldn't help but think, even though he had obviously ravaged her the night before, if he kissed like that while he did it she couldn't complain. But she still pulled away.
This was far too new; too much… they had made a mistake, a terrible mistake….
Thankfully, he seemed to think nothing of her withdrawal this time and turned his attention to the rest of the sandwiches at the table. She quietly followed him over and had a seat, watching him very nearly inhale his breakfast before her eyes, oblivious to her thoughts. He might not be fooled for long, but she hoped it would be long enough for her to figure out what had led to this.
Harry would never hurt her; he would never take advantage of her… of anyone really, so this had been a voluntary thing…. But how did it happen?
And then suddenly Harry's hands were around her waist-she did not recall seeing him leave his seat-and he was behind her and drawing the hair from her neck to plant a very soft, very sweet but oh so disarming kiss. She started slightly, and gasped, and he laughed into her neck, sending shivers down her spine and raising goose pimples on her arms.
Oh dear, oh dear, oh no… oh Harry… no….
She put her hands up and pushed his head away, "I'm hungry… I'm trying to have breakfast."
"So am I," said Harry.
She blushed, and knew he was as well, but he carried on nevertheless, "I've just found something new I want."
She smiled; though she wasn't sure he could see it and then began, rather nervously, "Well… I'm tired, and… and…. Harry, I have to ask you something, did we-did we… did I…? Oh I don't know how to ask this, but did you… use one of those-"
"Charms?" he finished for her, going back to her neck again as if she hadn't just pushed him away. He replied against her skin, so that his voice was slightly muffled, "Yes…. You did it… I think."
She immediately pulled herself free of him and stood up and out of his grasp. When he made to come at her again, she turned to face him but backed away and demanded, "What do you mean 'you think'?"
But before he could answer there was a crackling from the fireplace and Kingsley's voice came through, "Harry? Harry, are you there?"
When neither responded he began to grumble, "First I can't get rid of him, and now I can't find him. That Finnegan boy said he went home…."
Harry made to reply then, but Hermione stopped him with a look. He whispered at her though, "I thought you did it, you said you would take care of it, and then you took my wand…. I-I'm just not sure if you actually did anything…."
"And I thought I was drunk…" Hermione whispered back, heatedly. "I don't know what happened last-"
She snapped her mouth shut mid-sentence and then covered it with both hands.
But it was too late, he had heard, and with eyes widened in surprise, asked, "Hermione… do you… do you remember anything that happened last night…?"
Kingsley's voice again, echoing from the fireplace, "I can hear whispering, I know you're there Harry…."
Her anger long evaporated, she could not find the nerve to look at him. Her voice was barely audible as she confessed, "No…."
"Oh Merlin…" Harry groaned, and then quickly stepped to her, grabbed her hands in his and bent slightly to find her face. When she finally allowed him her eyes, he asked, "And… and the blood…?"
She instantly looked away and he stepped back, but would not let go of her hands.
"Last call, Harry Potter and then I'm coming over, are you there, Harry? I know you are I can hear voices!" called Kingsley again.
The only response he got was Crookshanks padding out of the bedroom towards the fireplace and fixing him a glare. Shortly after that the fireplace went silent.
In the kitchen though, Harry and Hermione could not bring themselves to speak. Hermione kept her gaze trained on the portrait on the wall of the three of them, three carefree, (as if) happy (in what reality) teenagers enjoying the last of their attempts at normalcy. Harry kept her hands in his but his eyes were on the floor, and it was an eternity before he lifted them again to her and asked, "Do you remember… anything?"
"Drinking that second butterbeer and then flashes of afterwards," she replied, still staring at the portrait.
"Do you remember an argument?" he asked, next, his grip tightening on her hands.
She tried, for a moment, searching through the haze in her head, and then shook her head.
He squeezed her hands for a moment, without a doubt completely terrified, and then said, "You told me you loved me…."
She turned to him so fast she was sure she heard her neck crick, she had told him… but regretted it at once. Harry was staring at her, though she doubted he was really seeing her, completely crestfallen. His eyes were dull, almost blank, his skin pale and his smile gone, not even a trace of the earlier playfulness was left.
But she had told him.
"You told me you loved me and I…. When you kissed me… I stopped you, I knew you were pissed, I knew it… but then you told me you loved me, and that you were just wasting your time… and I didn't want you to leave… I was sure you were going to leave…" he said, dully.
All the life seemed to have gone from him… but it was swiftly being replaced by horror.
And then his eyes refocused again and he said, "I… I… we'd better go to St Mungo's, find out if I… if you…."
She caught on to the path his thoughts had fallen into at once, and reversed the position of their hands so that she was gripping his, and said firmly, "You did not rape me."
At the word he flinched and dropped his gaze, so now it was her turn to find his eyes and when she did she said, "You did not. I was 'juiced up', to quote Ron… freer inhibitions and what not…."
"I was sober…" he told her, lamely.
"So what?" she spat, as nonchalantly as she could. "I was pissed, and frankly, according to a running bet by Ginny and Lavender, this (she released one hand to gesture between them) was bound to happen sooner or later…."
He still would not look up, and for some reason she could tell he was also none too pleased about that little bit of information, nor was he convinced. She would have to own up to her confession. She might have no clear recollection of it, she might have been drunk when she said it, but she meant it all the same.
She took a step closer, squeezing his hands in hers, "I-I love you, I know that, I mean that… and-and… out of anyone, I'm glad it was with you… that this (she gestured again, her hand only slightly lower this time) happened with you. I love you."
Harry at last looked up at her, and for a time just stared until Hermione began to feel self-conscious and dropped her gaze. A mistake, Harry pulled his hands free and stalked off towards his bedroom. A moment later she heard the door slam, and then almost immediately after that the sound of him kicking his trunk.
Oh how the tables had turned.
But she was at least grateful that he hadn't tried to force her through to St Mungo's still, or worst, gone immediately to find Kingsley.
She had brushed it all off just for his benefit. She had pretended, and done a rather good job of it, she had to admit, of making it seem as if what had happened between them happened to just about anyone everyday. But she knew, oh she knew, that if he had left her, if she had woken up alone… there would have been nothing to stop her tightly wound world from falling completely apart.
Nausea gone, but hungry still, Hermione let the dishes to the sink and retreated to her room. "Breakfast" was over.
*~*~*
How could he have done it?
How could he have been so foolish, so blind… so stupid?
How could he have not known that she wasn't herself yet? People didn't just sober up because they got into an argument, she had refused to let him perform the spell on her and then… then he… how could he just let everything get so out of hand?
His leg throbbing slightly, Harry was perched on his bed with the windows all shut and the curtains blind. He didn't want to see or hear the outside world, he didn't want to know that the people out there had no idea how he just continued to suffer.
Regardless of what she had told him, he had taken advantage of the situation. He hadn't been drinking, he had had the power to stop it the whole time, and he just… he just let it happen. He was worse than Malfoy.
But she had said, she had just repeated, claimed that she loved him.
He knew she was lying though, she didn't love him.
She thought she did when she was drunk, and she was only saying it now to make him feel better. It was just like her to do something like that.
When the war had been at its worst she had done her best to keep him from it. In the aftermath she had practically gone to every funeral they had had to, gone to every trial they were to give evidence in, and appeared at every party, parade and celebration they were expected at as she could to give him time to recover, to have peace. And how had he repaid her? He broke up with her then, and now….
Oh Merlin, she could be pregnant.
She could be carrying his child right then. He was sure now, he was absolutely sure that she hadn't performed the charm. He remembered every moment of last night, every nervous, jerky, awkward movement, from the first passionate kiss to the last, tender caress. It had not been the entirely mind-blowing event he had expected, or, he was sure, was expected of him, but it would be more than enough.
He squelched the thought, then, that with no one to compare him to, and with her memory muddled, his "reputation" was still intact. What reputation? He was a jerk and a joke.
What was it she had asked him last night?
"There is nothing tying me to you so what am I waiting for, why should I wait?"
He was just a selfish ungrateful bastard, and now that it was his moment of realisation, his opportunity to let her free, he had forced on her a way to keep her forever.
But there was still hope… there was still a way to redemption. As soon as they knew the truth for sure he would give her the chance to walk away, and he hoped, he very desperately hoped, that she would take it. He did not want, need or could stand her pity, not anymore, not knowing that he had once had her love.
With a sigh he fell back on his bed. "Breakfast" was over.
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