Disclaimer: See Part 1
Author's Note: And this is the end! Thank you, everyone, who's read and reviewed this fic so far. I'm amazed at how much everyone's enjoyed this fic!
A Summer Fling
Part 4: A Gift of Forever
"Happy birthday, Harry!" Ron and Hermione chorused, grinning at him.
He smiled back, feeling wonderfully relaxed and content after the day they had had and now after having what had been a delicious dinner. Just the three of them, with no worries about Dark Lords or danger or of anything else in the world-the first truly care-free birthday he'd had in his life. Ron had even foregone Monique's invitation to visit a nearby city with her and some friends that afternoon, even though Harry had clear seen that Ron had been tempted-but, in the end, Ron had decided to stay around and Harry was grateful. "Thanks."
"Well, come on, then, open up your gifts," Ron urged after a moment, looking as if he'd been bursting to say those words all day now since the first package had arrived by owl that morning (which was probably the case.)
Harry laughed and agreed, pulling the first envelope toward him.
It was from Remus, contained a very brief but sincere message that made Harry smile slightly, softly-and a gift certificate for 200 Galleons at Quality Quidditch Supplies.
Ron let out a long low whistle. "Two hundred Galleons! Remus doesn't skimp, does he?"
"He said I should consider it as being partly from Sirius too," Harry said quietly, as he slipped the card back into its envelope.
Hermione slid her hand onto his arm, giving it a brief squeeze. "That's nice," she smiled softly at him.
He returned the smile, his fingers lacing with hers, as for a fleeting moment, he forgot Ron's presence.
The spell was broken when Ron let out a mock groan. "Oh, no. Not again. I've had to put up with you two being so sweet and mushy for days now; can I please just have a break? You're making me sick, the pair of you."
Hermione laughed as Harry shot Ron a pretend glare and then stuck his tongue out at him.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Boys," she muttered but the slight smile playing on her lips belied her tone.
Mrs. Weasley had sent a cake and… Harry sucked in his breath in shock as he opened the box to find a brand-new broom. It had been shrunk down to fit into the box but even so, he could see that it was the best. Carefully, he lifted it out of the box and restored it to its original size.
Ron's jaw dropped. "Wicked!" he breathed. "My family got you that?! Harry, that- that's the…"
"I know. It's the Firebolt Excel," Harry said, his voice low and slightly awed as he stared at the broom, his eyes running admiringly over the perfectly aerodynamic shape of the bristles and the smooth and yet sturdy handle, made from the finest ash, with a perfect diamond-hard polish.
It was the latest of its kind, having just been released less than a month ago. And already, there were rumors that all the professional Quidditch teams were clamoring that all their players must have one somehow, never mind that it cost nearly twice as much as some of the cheaper brooms. The original Firebolt, its predecessor, had been amazing in its day. This broom-this broom made the original Firebolt look like a positive antique. It had an acceleration speed of 200 mph in 5 seconds (the very thought made Harry's breath come fast and short with anticipation), an unbreakable Braking Charm; could stop on a split second's notice, and was reputed to be so sensitive to the rider's slightest movements that it almost seemed as if the broom could read the rider's mind. Harry had heard of it and felt a sharp pang of longing but not even he could justify spending the amount of money it cost on a broom, especially when he didn't know when he'd next be playing Quidditch.
And now the Weasleys had bought him it.
With slightly shaking hands, he reached for the envelope and pulled out the card, that promptly burst into song.
They all started and then burst into hysterical laughter.
Fred and George had written (and sung) the song; there was no mistaking it in the mischievous lyrics to say nothing of the exaggerated mimicry of voices.
Harry blinked, feeling warmth spread in his chest, as he read the card once the serenade had ended. "All of them chipped in to buy it, your mother says." Fred and George had added on one note that said simply, "Your prize money," and Harry smiled slightly at the memory of forcing them to take the Thousand Galleons of prize money after the Tri-wizard Tournament. Well, Fred and George had repaid that debt now-and with interest, Harry thought.
Ginny's note had been equally brief but poignant for all its briefness. It said only, "Happy birthday to my only non-redhead brother. Love, Gin."
He smiled. She'd called him her brother-and that was truly how he felt about her now. He had never had siblings but he had watched the Weasleys, the way they interacted-and he wanted that sort of comfort, that sort of easy affection and familiarity. He had achieved it with Ron and to an extent with Fred and George, and now with Ginny.
Sister.
It was nice to have a family, Harry thought.
"Now mine," Ron announced and placed another envelope in front of Harry.
Harry glanced at Ron. "I hope you didn't decide that only a card would be enough," he teased. "I might have to reconsider my paying for your vacation."
Ron pretended to be offended. "Me? Give you only a card? I would have you know that I would never do that," he pontificated and then dissolved into laughter. "Oh Merlin, I was trying to imitate the way Percy used to talk and I just can't."
"Best not try, then," Hermione advised with a smile.
"Wow, Ron!" Harry's exclamation cut short whatever Ron had been about to say in response as he had opened the card.
In it were four tickets to the England vs. the Netherlands semi-finals qualifying match for the Quidditch World Cup (which was happening again this summer) and four tickets to the final game of the Quidditch World Cup, which was to be held in Prague this year, between whichever two countries made it through the semi-finals.
(The semi-finals would normally have been long over by now, Harry knew, but they had been postponed because of the war and had recently been announced as taking place beginning in the last week of August, with the final game of the World Cup scheduled to take place in the first week of October.)
Harry gaped at Ron. "How did you-you got tickets? I heard they were sold out!"
Ron grinned smugly. "It turns out it's amazing what you can do when you're a war-hero. I just dropped a hint-or two-into the right ears at the Ministry Department of Magical Games and they were only too eager to provide me with anything I wanted."
Harry laughed. "Well, I'm glad you're enjoying the fame then."
For Ron and Hermione had become nearly as famous as Harry after the last battle; indeed, almost half the requests for interviews had been for Ron and Hermione-but they had both, mindful of Harry's wishes, refused them all categorically.
It was, Harry sometimes thought, possibly the only unmitigated blessing of fame; finally, Ron was nearly blissfully happy, basking in being in the spotlight.
He grinned at Ron. "Thanks. I was really hoping to be able to go to at least one of the matches; I didn't even dream of getting to go to the final match."
Ron shrugged dismissively, though he looked pleased. "Well, it's hardly an unselfish gesture. I was desperate to go to the matches myself so I leaped at the chance."
Harry turned to Hermione. "You'll come with us, won't you? Even though I know you don't like Quidditch that much?"
Hermione smiled and nodded. "I'll come. I wouldn't miss it for the world." And she meant it too. Nothing could make her want to miss out on something that made Harry so happy, his eyes positively dancing and a bright, brilliant green with excitement. She loved him-and to see him so happy, she would willingly go to the ends of the earth and sit through the longest game in the history of Quidditch, for his sake.
He just smiled at her, but she could see his silent thanks and his understanding that she was coming for his sake, because he wanted her to, and not from any real expectation of enjoyment. And she was more than repaid by the warmth in his eyes and smile, that made a small tingle of anticipation go through her body.
Harry opened the box from Hermione with a sense of hope which he hadn't felt for any of the others. He knew Hermione, knew how she knew him so well; he hadn't forgotten that one of the best gifts he had ever received had been that Broomstick Servicing Kit which she'd given him for his 13th birthday. And now, when they were so much more than friends, when he not only knew her but knew every inch of her body as well, when they had spent the last five nights in each other's arms, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope.
That died swiftly as he stared.
It was a book.
Hermione had gotten him a book.
On Quidditch, to be sure; it was called To Seek the Snitch: The Greatest Stories from Quidditch Through the Ages. He was sure it would be a fascinating read, really he was.
But it was a book. It seemed such an... impersonal sort of gift. A gift one would give to one's best friend and nothing more. As if they hadn't touched each other's naked skin, hadn't explored every inch of each other's bodies with passion and with tenderness… As if what they'd done together had really meant very little beyond physical lust after all…
He fought to keep his disappointment and his renegade flare of hurt from showing as he promptly manufactured a wide smile and put it on for her benefit as he looked up. "Thanks, Hermione. This looks great; I can't wait to read it!" he said, infusing as much enthusiasm as he could muster into his tone.
Ron snorted, making a disbelieving and rather disdainful sound. "I say, Hermione, you realize that Harry isn't really- well, crazy, like you are-and his idea of a perfect gift isn't a book?"
"No, no," Harry jumped in. "It's great, really it is. I'm sure it'll be fascinating and it'll be a perfect thing to read on the beach," he asserted enthusiastically and then inwardly winced at how patently false he sounded even to his own ears.
Hermione ignored Ron and simply hugged Harry tightly.
He hugged her back, breathing in the now-familiar scent of her shampoo and her lotion and enjoying the warmth of her against him-and felt the flicker of hurt begin to fade.
So what if Hermione had given him a book? This was Hermione and she loved books-and even if he didn't entirely share that love, he couldn't deny that, to Hermione, a book probably was the best gift.
He was being ungrateful, he thought with a pang of self-reproach, after all that she had done for him, all the ways she'd saved his life. He was pouting because she hadn't gotten him some sort of immensely meaningful gift?
He was all kinds of a prat, he thought remorsefully. He didn't deserve to have her for a friend, let alone for… for more than that.
She drew back slowly, her lips lingering briefly on his cheek-and then he stiffened as the impact of her very softly whispered words hit him. "I'll give you the rest of your gift later. When we're alone…"
There was just the hint of a seductive promise in her tone, which inflamed him and, oddly, soothed his momentary doubts at the same time.
When we're alone…
He decided he liked the sound of those three words, liked them a lot.
~~~
They were alone now.
Harry sat on the edge of Hermione's bed, wondering what the next part of his gift was. Hermione had disappeared into the closet saying she needed to get his gift and hadn't yet come out.
And then she did and he saw her.
His first thought was that he was going to die.
He was going to die and she was killing him.
Hermione stood rather shyly in front of Harry, wearing-or not wearing, as the word 'wear' rather implied there being some actual cloth involved-a tiny, red, lacy bra (that revealed more than it hid) and matching knickers that were really just a scrap of red lace.
Hermione just knew that her cheeks- her entire face- was turning the same color as her underwear as Harry simply stared at her, his eyes so wide they looked on the verge of falling out of his head.
She had specifically snuck away from Ron and Harry one afternoon and found a store that sold sexy underwear and lingerie. The lace was rather itchy and she was feeling incredibly exposed and embarrassed-but the look on Harry's face as his gaze positively devoured her made any discomfort she felt well worth it.
She managed a small, rather seductive smile and walked toward him on legs that felt weak simply from the heat of his gaze burning her.
"Happy birthday, Harry," she said softly.
His only response was a strangled noise in which she thought she could decipher her name but wasn't sure.
"This is the second part of your gift," she added unnecessarily, her voice low and a little husky from embarrassment and self-consciousness and some arousal. "Me."
Moving slowly and deliberately, she reached for his glasses, taking them off, and then with equal precision, lifted his t-shirt up and over his head before her hands went to the fastening of his shorts and undid them, pushing them down.
As she did this, he simply stood there, unmoving except when he lifted his arms to let her take off his shirt and for the quick rise and fall of his chest from his breath, seeming to have fallen into some sort of aroused stupor from the sight of her.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't have spoken if his life depended on it. His throat had closed up and he could swear he had lost all control over his muscles.
My God… Hermione…
She was… she was… everything he had ever wanted in his life…
"I love you, Harry," she breathed softly, punctuating every soft word with a kiss.
He stiffened and jerked his head back, startled out of his stupor and causing her to stare at him in surprise.
"You… what?"
And she suddenly realized what she'd said. Oh God, she'd meant to say that she wanted him; instead the words she hadn't yet wanted to risk saying had simply slipped out.
She dared a glance into his eyes and something she saw there gave her the courage to meet his gaze directly, concealing nothing, and repeat, "I love you, Harry."
His arms closed around her with enough force to knock the breath from her body until every inch of her was pressed against him and he buried his face in her hair. "I love you, Hermione," he half-groaned, the sound rather muffled by her hair, before he moved his head back, capturing her face between gentle hands as he met her eyes. "I love you," he said again, his voice low, intense, and the words were as much a promise as they were a declaration.
She smiled, feeling her heart swell with warmth on hearing the words she'd only recently begun to hope she would ever hear him say. And she wasn't sure whether she made the first move or whether he did but it didn't matter because his lips were on hers and they were kissing, at first tenderly but then with growing passion as they were both swept away by the now-familiar tidal wave of desire, lust and love.
He loved kissing Hermione, Harry thought fuzzily, loved kissing her more every time. Loved the familiarity of her lips, her taste…
He loved that he knew her so well now.
He knew the way she felt against him, knew the way she tasted, the way her tongue caressed his.
He knew the smooth, seductive softness of her bare skin, knew where to touch her and how.
He knew the way she shivered when he caressed her a certain way, knew the way she would let out a breathy sigh when he kissed and licked the little hollow of her throat and the spot where her neck met her shoulder.
He knew the absolutely breathtaking beauty of her body when she was completely naked and lying on her bed, looking up at him with her eyes dilated and dark with passion, a sight that never failed to send a jolt of pure lust and possessiveness through his body.
He knew the responsiveness of her, knew the fire of her.
She slipped her hands between them to skim her fingers lightly, arousingly, over his chest and then down to wrap her hand around him, squeezing gently, almost teasingly, and his breath caught in his throat on a strangled groan.
Oh yes, he knew her so well and he knew that she could still surprise him sometimes with her boldness and how uninhibited she could be with him. He loved that she could still surprise him…
He opened his eyes that had fallen shut as he slid inside the hot, wet, tight warmth of her, feeling her clench around him in that way that he knew she knew drove him mad with want and sent a shudder of tormented arousal through him. He knew the seductive, half-amused glint in her eye when she did something like that, when all he could do in response was kiss her, his tongue thrusting deep inside her mouth, claiming her, possessing her…
He knew the feel of her under him, surrounding him, the feel of her hands bringing him in even closer, deeper, encouraging him to begin to move.
And he knew the tell-tale signs that signaled the beginning of rapture, knew the quick, short pants of her breath and the deepened flush on her cheeks and the way her muscles clenched around him. He knew the sounds of her, the way she gasped and cried out, the sound of her voice as she came with her name on his lips.
And he knew how the sight and sound of her hardly ever failed to push him over the edge until he was falling, flying, dying, tumbling into the mind-blowing, amazing ecstasy that he somehow knew he could only find with her followed by the oblivion of absolute satiation as he collapsed on top of her, rolling over, his arms keeping her close to him.
He knew the warmth and the weight of her lying on top of him and knew that these were really the moments he loved best, more than all the passion and joy of their love-making, the quiet moments of closeness and tenderness afterwards. When she rested on top of him, her head fitting onto his shoulder as if it had been made to rest there; when it seemed as if their hearts were beating in unison and he could no longer distinguish between where his heart and soul ended and where hers began; when he knew that there was absolutely nothing and no one else in the world he wanted…
He felt rather than heard her sigh slightly as she brushed her lips on the bare skin of his shoulder in a fleeting caress and almost sensed her breathe his name, so softly it was just barely audible. "My Harry…" and the tone and the words made his name an endearment.
He would have smiled but the moment was too poignant, too precious, for smiles and only let his eyes drift closed as a lingering warmth filled his chest.
He was hers, he thought, and she was his… And he knew with a knowledge that touched his mind and his heart and his soul, that this, he and Hermione being together, would last beyond just a summer, last beyond even their lifetimes… Would last forever…
~The End~