A Most Advantageous Match

A Most Advantageous Match

Chapter 1: The Lengths One Goes to for a Friend

There could be no greater felicity, Miss Hermione Granger was certain, than a day lounging by the lake on Hogwarts’ grounds, especially with her favorite person in the world, one Mr. Harry Potter.

One might call it impertinent, the way they spent time together, unaccompanied by any friend or chaperone, but Hermione found the implication that they were doing anything improper simply preposterous. Harry had been her dearest – and at times, her only – friend since age eleven, and he would no sooner compromise her virtue than he would feed her to the lake’s Giant Squid.

And on a day like this, with the sunshine warm on their faces and a gentle breeze rustling through the nearby forest, she couldn’t bother to think of such things. Nothing could destroy these moments.

Well, almost nothing.

“I have to get married,” Harry said miserably. His demeanor suggested complete calm – he sat sprawled in the grass, legs stretched out in front of him, supporting his weight with his hands behind him – but his eyes said something else.

Hermione swallowed. “W-why ever would you have to marry? You’re only seventeen. No men marry so young.”

Harry sighed. “My parents, in their will, made it so that I would receive access to my full inheritance at age 18 – but it would remain under the custody of my guardian until I married. I- I’m sure they thought they’d be preventing me from squandering the family fortune, but I don’t think they considered who my guardians might be.”

Unfortunately, Harry had suffered a most tragic childhood. While just an infant, his parents had been murdered by a man opposed to their political views (and political power), called Lord Voldemort. To add insult to injury, Harry’s godfather, Lord Black, had been framed for the murder and imprisoned for twelve years – until he escaped and revealed the real culprit to Harry. Unfortunately, Lord Black died two years later while engaged in a duel with one of Lord Voldemort’s supporters. Harry had been devastated.

With his legally appointed guardian in prison for murder, Harry had been forced to live with his last remaining relatives, the Dursley family of Privet. Mrs. Dursley was Harry’s mother’s only sister, married to a decently well-off businessman. They had one son, exceedingly rotund and ill-mannered, named Dudley. Mr. and Mrs. Dursley indulged their son extravagantly while giving Harry barely enough to live on.

Only at age eleven did Harry find out not only about his inheritance, but about his true nature as well – for Harry was a wizard, just as his parents had been. Hermione, too, was a witch, though her parents were unmagical, and together they’d attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for seven years. Harry’s parents had long ago set aside funds to pay for his education, and Hermione’s parents had been surprisingly supportive of her receiving a magical education.

Thus, there they sat on that lovely May afternoon, Harry to turn 18 and receive his inheritance on the last day of July that year, and the greedy Dursleys to maintain control over it until he married.

Hermione felt her heart grow heavy. Harry was too young to marry – she wasn’t ready for him to marry, because when he did, their friendship as she knew it would die. They’d never be able to sit together like this again…indeed, they’d probably not be alone in each other’s presence for the rest of their lives. And what if Harry’s wife didn’t approve of their friendship? Would they be able to maintain any sort of relationship at all?

“Have…have you any prospects?” Hermione asked, eager to know whom all Harry’s attention would soon be devoted to.

Harry sighed, brushing back his perpetually unkempt hair from his forehead. “I’d always wanted to marry for love, as my father did. It’s not as if I need worry about money – or at least, I hadn’t thought I would, and…where’s the sense in bowing to the demands of society only to be miserable the rest of my life? I find, however, that…I’ve never felt anything more than a fleeting fancy for any woman. All my contemplations have led me to only one conclusion…and that is that you are and always have been the woman I care most for in the world.”

The candor of Harry’s words stunned Hermione into speechlessness, and she felt tears prick at her eyes as Harry turned his body and his gaze fully to her. “I’ve thought long and hard on this matter before confiding in you…I could not ask anyone else, Hermione. I – I cannot promise love, nor, do I believe, can you, but…we have such similar dispositions that I believe we could live quite comfortably together, and I would endeavor in every way to make you happy. If you long for something more, some deeper affection, then I will take no offense at your rejection, but…but if you feel as I do, that you could be content to spend the rest of your life with a man that holds you in the highest regard as his dearest friend, then perhaps…perhaps you would consent to marry me?”

His speech was bumbling and a little boyish, but as usual, Hermione was impressed with his simple sincerity. Her mind buzzed with his words as she sat beside him in the grass, knees drawn up to her chest underneath the standard, basic white frock all Hogwarts girls wore. So unexpected was his proposal that she couldn’t begin to think of an answer.

Hermione swallowed. “Will you…will you be willing to accept my reply tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Harry said, blushing and gazing intently at his rather scuffed up shoes. “I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

“No, not at all – you’ve only taken me by surprise,” Hermione said as she stood and readied herself to return to the castle. Honestly, she was flustered beyond belief and could only make a vague affectation of calmness, but she tried nonetheless.

“Let me escort you back,” Harry said, jumping up and offering his arm with all his usual chivalry. Hermione smiled and accepted, feeling as always a deep sense of affection for the young man, and wondering if she could accept the life he offered her.

~

Hermione spent that evening awake with her thoughts. While she did not believe herself to be in love with Harry, and nor could she be sure that she ever would – and even still, while she knew Harry did not and probably would not ever love her – he was one of three men in the world Hermione truly respected – the other two being her father and the extremely elderly Headmaster Dumbledore. And knowing Harry’s character as she did, she felt sure he’d be nothing less than a devoted and kind husband, which was more than many a woman could ask for. He was right; they could live quite comfortably together, and though she hated to admit it, the match would be most advantageous. In marrying him, she could save him from destitution and secure her own future at the same time.

Still, Hermione blanched at the thought of forever. If she married Harry, that would be permanent. She would lose forever any chance she had of finding love…true love. Thought outwardly pragmatic and rational, Hermione had always harbored an inner sense of romanticism, a dream of a man that would love her passionately and respect both her intelligence and her longing for independence.

Hermione had long chided herself for such silly fantasies, however, believing them to be girlish and impractical. As difficult as such long-rooted desires were to uproot, she felt she must. What if true love never came, and she lived a life of poverty and loneliness waiting for it?

When she could have been comfortable, and…happy, with Harry. What more could she ask for, than a lifetime spent in the company of her dearest friend? He had, at least, never tried to tame her like most men had, had never asked her to be meek and ignorant of the world around her. Unlike everyone else in the world (or so it seemed to Hermione), Harry had never wished her to confine her learning to household charms and other such inane things. No, he’d often humored her curiosity by teaching her defensive magic himself and pilfering such books for her as she requested.

Surely Harry would continue to grant her such freedom as his wife…and could there really be another man in the world so compatible to her nature that would allow her half the liberty Harry would?

And…and if they were married, nobody would question their behavior around one another any longer…theirs could be as affectionate a friendship as they liked, with all the privacy they’d often longed for.

She would never have to give him up, she realized. Their friendship could last…interminably. Unless, of course, she refused him, and he was forced to choose another wife – leaving her quite alone in wait for something better, something that might never come.

By sunrise, she had made her decision.

~

The next day, Harry asked her to walk with him. They strolled around the lake in silence, and finally stopped at Hermione’s favorite tree, where she often sat reading, and where Harry often sat with her in companionable silence.

She turned to him, meeting his anticipatory gaze readily. “If you feel quite certain that I am the woman you wish to take as your wife, then I will gladly consent.”

Harry smiled, a broad, unreserved smile. “I am certain, and…so very pleased. I can think of no better life’s companion, nor any better Mistress of Godric’s Hollow, than you. We will have a happy life, I know it. If you give me leave, I’ll write your father this very moment. I’m afraid I did not quite have the courage to ask his consent beforehand.”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione replied, holding back a chuckle, and she was only blushing slightly as he rushed back to the castle.

~

The next day, Harry received her father’s reply by owl, which gave his hearty consent to the match, provided Hermione was willing, which she promptly wrote him to say that she was.

The wedding was set to be held in late June at Hogwarts, after which they would honeymoon at the Black home in London and then settle in at Godric’s Hollow. All of their friends were informed of the engagement, and for the next month, Hermione barely saw her betrothed. Both had their last school exams to take, and while Hermione was trapped in gown fittings, Harry was preparing his estate for their inhabitance.

Meanwhile, rumors circulated heavily about the reasons for their marrying. None but Harry and Hermione knew of his precarious financial situation, so naturally, all were completely untrue. Many whispered in the hallways that they were forced into the marriage by the consequences of their time spent alone together, an assumption that Hermione knew would be dismissed in nine months. Others claimed that Hermione had ensnared him with a love potion to gain his heart – or his money. Still, there was a small contingent of romantics that insisted Harry and Hermione were deeply, passionately in love and had been for some time. Hermione wished the last were truer, but quickly dismissed such thoughts. She was very lucky to have a man such as Harry for her husband, and she would be happy with that.

Hermione had little time for second thoughts or doubts, however, as her wedding day arrived with alarming speed. No sooner had the ink dried on her examination papers, it seemed, than she was whisked into her dressing room the morning of the ceremony.

The event itself was performed with simplicity and economy, sealed with the chastest of kisses that nevertheless left Hermione’s lips tingling oddly afterward. She attributed this sensation to the novelty of the act of kissing, and for the duration of their wedding breakfast, felt comfortably at ease in the presence of her best friend.

Not until she and Harry were in the carriage bound for London did Hermione begin to contemplate the wifely duties she would be expected to perform that night.

A Most Advantageous Match

Chapter 2: Wifely Duties and Husbandly Declarations

The House of Black was a fine townhouse in a slightly disreputable part of London. Luckily, magic had a way of making the disreputable avoidable, and so, the house left almost nothing to be desired. The house was run by one reluctantly free house-elf named Winky, who in fact looked down upon Harry for his unwillingness to enslave her, but her attitude did not affect her service.

Harry had inherited the house upon his godfather’s death and had been quite reluctant to set foot in it until recently. Extensive refurbishing and redecorating had left the place barely recognizable from Lord Black’s days, however, and when they entered the house from their bridal carriage, Harry’s demeanor showed no misgivings.

Winky appeared to collect their coats and hats the moment the two stepped into the foyer, and a moment later, all their belongings (along with Winky and the coats) disappeared, presumably headed upstairs.

“Come,” Harry said. “Let me show you to your room – which, I might add, is located conveniently near the library.”

Hermione laughed. “This was your plan all along, was it not? To take a mad wife and keep her locked away in the library?”

“I wouldn’t dream of such a thing,” Harry said with a smirk. “Although,” he added in a conspiratorial whisper, “I have added a considerable number of volumes since your last visit.”

Hermione grinned as he led her to a room across from the library on the second floor, presumably next to his own bedchamber, from the looks of things. Hermione entered to find her belongings already in place, and was astonished at how beautifully the room had been decorated. The walls were a pretty, sedate shade of sage green, and the furniture was of a lovely dark wood. The four-poster bed looked particularly magnificent, with a white bedcover embroidered with elaborate vines of ivy.

“Is – is it to your liking?” Harry asked, almost shyly, from the doorway.

Hermione turned to him with a smile. “Oh, yes – yes, of course. It’s lovely.”

“Well,” Harry said, “Should you want for anything, you need only say the word. And you need only call, of course, should you require Winky. I – I’ll be next door. I’ll…see you at supper, then?”

Hermione nodded, and was left alone for the first time since their marriage.

Feeling inexplicably lonely, Hermione sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Her emotions were exceedingly puzzling to her; her despondency was without due cause. Her wedding had been happy, and their trip to London had been peaceful and pleasant. Nor had anything changed for the worse in her relationship with Harry. Indeed, they bantered much as they always had, and he was, as usual, kind and gentlemanly. What could have possibly changed to leave her so listless?

Perhaps that was the problem, then, it occurred to her. Today she was a married woman, a wife, and she felt as though nothing had changed since her visit to the House of Black the previous summer. She felt no different; her husband treated her no differently than he had the day before, or months before, when an engagement had been far from their minds.

She was being silly, was she not? What, precisely, had she expected to change? Had she expected a more affectionate mien from the man that was now her husband? He had never been the sort to display his emotions openly, even to one whose confidence he sought as readily as hers. Should Harry have showered her with affection, then she would have had cause to feel uneasy.

Nevertheless, she realized, she had hoped, in some distant part of her heart, that their wedding would somehow magically turn them into a loving couple.

She could not believe she had allowed herself to be so ridiculous, especially without her notice.

With a sigh at her lapse into silliness, Hermione turned her attention to her trunk, where she searched for one of the new gowns she had had made for her new life as a married woman.

Hermione was nothing if not pragmatic, and if this wasn’t the perfect marriage, then she would make the most of it, like all the other strong women of her time. In fact, she decided, as she took out a lovely, pale blue frock, she would excel at married life, as she did at every endeavor she undertook. She would give Harry no cause to regret taking her as his wife.

Invigorated by her newly re-evaluated attitude, Hermione wasted no more time in calling Winky to help her change.

~

“You look lovely,” Harry said as he escorted her to the dining room.

“Thank you,” she said, wondering if his compliments held more significance, now that they were married. He’d always been somewhat complimentary toward her, although he lacked the self-assurance to pay such attentions to other young ladies. Although she’d never doubted the sincerity of his words, she generally thought his compliments to be of a brotherly nature, more observation than admiration. Could his words be out of a different kind of affection for her now, or was she silly to expect any change at all?

Harry helped her into her seat and moved to sit across from her. The table seemed extraordinarily large with only the two of them sitting at it.

“Have you any diversions in mind for tomorrow, Hermione?” Harry asked as the first course was served.

“No, I must admit, I had not thought much beyond today’s activities,” Hermione replied, wondering at her new husband’s utter placidity. Was he not unsettled at all by what was to come?

“Did you fear you would not live through the day?” Harry asked, grinning.

“Certainly not. I simply did not seek to plan for a day whose events I could not reasonably foresee. I had no idea what married life would require of me.”

Harry smiled. “I believe the purpose of the honeymoon is to postpone the requirements of married life, Miss Granger.”

“You forget, I am Mrs. Potter now,” Hermione said, unexpectedly injured by the misnomer.

“Forgive me,” Harry said hastily. “I have not forgotten – I merely spoke with the impulse of familiarity. “Indeed,” he added with an odd look about his face, “You are Mrs. Potter now.”

A moment of silence passed, filled with unspoken thoughts as a house-elf delivered the second course.

“Well,” Harry spoke eventually, “London is never without its entertainments. I am sure we will uncover something to amuse us. Or we may stay in, if it would please you. I know you find society almost as irksome as I do.”

“Indeed. We shall see what tomorrow affords,” Hermione said.

Little else of consequence was discussed during their late supper, and at last, they retired – this done with no little trepidation on Hermione’s part and apparent ease by Harry.

Hermione’s unease turned to complete confusion when Harry bid her goodnight at her bedroom door. While she hadn’t been entirely sure as to how the consummation of their marriage was to be initiated, she certainly didn’t believe it could begin with the words “good night.” One didn’t say such a thing to a person he expected to see before morning, surely.

Frowning, Hermione entered her dressing room and prepared for bed. Once in her bedchamber, wearing a pretty and rather impractical nightgown, Hermione sat on her bed, wondering what was to be done.

Perhaps Harry had bid her good night only as a formality, and would come to her when he was ready.

Or, perhaps, he expected her to come to him. The few married girls in Gryffindor Tower had not hesitated to inform her of the nature of a wife’s duties, which did include the act Hermione was currently worrying over.

After several minutes of deliberation and rather ferocious gnawing at her bottom lip, Hermione decided she would go to Harry and get to the bottom of this…business. Surely, if she and Harry were expected to commit this act as husband and wife, it should not be at all improper for them to speak of it in private chambers.

That settled, Hermione wasted no time in going to the door that adjoined their bedchambers and knocking – perhaps a little more sharply than she ought to have.

“Hermione?” she heard him inquire through the door.

“Yes,” she said. Hermione wondered just who he expected to be at that particular door, especially at such an hour.

“Er – come in.”

Hermione turned the knob only to find darkness on the other side. Harry had already extinguished his candle and, as far as she could tell, had made his way into bed.

“I – I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, stepping tentatively into the room, “but I’m a little…er…perplexed.”

The bedclothes rustled as Harry sat up. “Well, come here and tell me what is troubling you.”

Hermione padded barefoot over to his bed and sat hesitantly. She was grateful now for the darkness, for it meant Harry would not be able to see her blush as she attempted to explain herself.

“As I said, I’m a bit perplexed because…well, I’ve been told that upon one’s wedding night, it is…er…customary, to consummate the marriage, and…well, we don’t appear to be doing that.”

Harry’s reaction was a rather audible intake of breath.

“I – I did not think you would…want to…er…consummate,” Harry said. “Until such time as you wanted to have children, of course. Presuming you want to have children at all.”

“I did not think I had a choice,” Hermione replied truthfully.

“Well…you certainly ought to. As I’m sure you’ve heard, it is…quite painful for a lady, the first time, and I do not wish to inflict that upon you until it is necessary.”

“I see,” Hermione said, although she felt as befuddled as ever. “And…when shall we have children?”

“When you wish to,” Harry said. “I assumed you would want time to settle in before you…became with child. But when the time is right, you need only tell me – if, in fact, you wish to have my children.”

Hermione frowned into the darkness. “And just who else’s children am I to have? Besides, you must have an heir. I can’t bear the thought of your awful cousin inheriting everything.”

Harry gave a slight snort of laughter. “Actually, since the estates are protected by magical law, they will go to my nearest living magical relative…but then, that’s probably not much better. I don’t yet know who the closest relative is, but it’s sure to be a member of one of the old wizarding families – we’re all interconnected, as it is. Perhaps we do need an heir, lest the estate land in the hands of a Malfoy.”

“Indeed, you must have an heir,” Hermione agreed, suppressing a shudder at the thought of the Potter name dying and its wealth falling prey to a character so unsavory as a Malfoy.

Harry patted her hand that rested on the bed cover. “All will be managed in due time, Hermione. For now, you should rest. It has been an eventful day.”

Hermione nodded and returned to her own bedchamber, wondering why, exactly, she felt so disappointed when she should have felt relieved.

A Most Advantageous Match

Chapter 3: Dinner Guests

A/N: I hope this chapter answers a lot of your questions. Also, thanks to Bingblot for taking the time to beta this story for me.

The next morning a letter arrived over breakfast from Mr. Ronald Weasley, a good friend to Harry during their time at Hogwarts and, by association, to Hermione as well (although indeed a bit less to Hermione – she had always found him a bit crude, to be truthful, but because Harry, with his unfailing good judgment of character, respected him, Hermione did as well). As it happened, Mr. Weasley was currently in London with his sister, Miss Ginevra Weasley.

Miss Weasley was a charming and beautiful girl of sixteen years, but unfortunately for her, those were the only inducements a gentleman might have to marrying her. The Weasleys were a family of no rank and so little money that they were nearly impoverished. Their father was employed with the Ministry of Magic, but he lacked the social standing to obtain a position that would provide for his seven children – the youngest of which were the two mentioned above.

As a result of their situation, Ginny had long been in pursuit of an advantageous marriage, and had set her eyes on Harry the moment she’d learned of his wealth and his inclination to marry for love. Hermione wondered if she might have succeeded, had circumstances allowed her more time to use her womanly wiles on Harry.

“Where are they staying?” Hermione asked as Harry perused the letter.

“The Leaky Cauldron,” Harry said. “They’re stopping a few days on their journey home.”

“You should invite them to dine with us,” said Hermione.

“But it is our honeymoon. Should we not be languishing in each other’s company for the time being?”

“On the contrary, I daresay you’ll tire of me prematurely if you languish too much,” Hermione remarked wryly, although she recognized a small part of her heart that asked for reassurance with such a comment.

“Nonsense,” Harry replied. “I could never tire of your company. But I should like to see them before we go to Godric’s Hollow. If you do not mind, I would like to extend an invitation.”

“Of course I would not mind,” she said, somewhat appeased.

~

The Weasleys accepted their invitation, and Harry and Hermione passed the rest of the day quietly in the library. Usually a voracious reader, Hermione found herself lacking focus this day, taking in little of the volume in her hands. Her thoughts were not on the book, but rather, the young man no more than five feet away that she’d married yesterday.

The entire event and following hours had been so quick and surreal that the reality of Hermione’s new life had not struck her – until their wedding night, when her new husband had turned her away from his bed.

Hermione had not thought much about making love to her husband beyond the usual anxieties that attend every virginal bride – of not knowing how to behave, of having to bare one’s body to a man for the first time, of the pain that might accompany the act. So consumed was Hermione by these concerns that it had never occurred to her that she and Harry might not undertake the act at all. Now she had to wonder why.

Harry had given his reasons, and they were quite difficult to contradict. Hermione had no doubt that he genuinely did not want to cause her pain, but she felt sure that was not the whole truth. After all, they would have to get it over with eventually – Harry’d as good as said so himself. Why, then, did they not go ahead and do it on their wedding night like every other married couple?

Perhaps Harry was postponing the inevitable not solely for her sake, but for his as well. Perhaps he dreaded it as much as she.

Or at least as much as she ought to have, as a proper young lady, but as much as she’d worried over the idea, she’d been…excited. That highly guarded act was the stuff of whispered conversations and subtle innuendo – how could a curious young woman like Hermione not wish to have that forbidden knowledge?

Nevertheless, the extent of her disappointment had been disproportional to her curiosity, and Hermione could no longer attempt to hide from herself the reasons for this. In the darkest recesses of her heart, Hermione had held on to the hope that she would find passion in her husband’s bed, even if she and her husband admittedly did not love each other. To be truthful, she’d imagined that an act so intimate could lead to love. This could never happen, however, if her husband did not wish to touch her…if he did not find her at all attractive…if their relationship was forever restricted to the platonic realms of their minds and never allowed to touch the physical.

Therein lay Hermione’s disappointment, and she could not have felt more ridiculous. As a woman who prided herself on her rationality and despised the over-emotional, histrionic behavior of many ladies, Hermione could not stand having such an irrelevant train of thought taking such firm hold of her mind. It did not matter, after all, if her husband did not find her attractive, for she did not find him attractive, either – did she?

Hermione glanced over the top of her book at Harry, who seemed as usual so infuriatingly calm in the face of her confusion. He did have a very striking countenance, with his startlingly green eyes and jet black hair. She supposed she did find him handsome, in his own way. His hair was never tame and he bore a jagged scar on his forehead from the attack that took his parents’ lives, but he had a strong jaw and rather elegant features. In growing up with him, she’d hardly noticed. She’d first seen him as an underfed child swimming in the secondhand clothes of his cousin, but he’d long since grown into a man…a handsome, amiable man who could have easily swept her off her feet if he’d ever tried.

Yes, there was the rub, Hermione realized with a sigh. Harry had never once tried to win her. He hadn’t wanted to, and it was possible that he’d never needed to, either.

~

Eventually Harry and Hermione went their separate ways from the library to dress for company, and shortly after, a house-elf entered the drawing room, where they waited, to announce the Weasleys’ arrival.

Harry and Hermione stood as they entered, Ronald with his usual bow that always came out looking rather whimsical to Hermione, and Miss Weasley with a graceful curtsy. Hermione immediately realized that the two did not share the same purpose in visiting – Ronald looked as he always had at school, resigned if not satisfied with the shabby clothing that was the bane of his existence. His idea of the visit was a friendly call. Miss Weasley, on the other hand, looked to Hermione rather like a peacock in search of a mate, even if that metaphor was for the wrong gender. Although her garb was, too, a little shabby, it was clear to Hermione – if not to the men – that she had made every effort to be as noticeable as possible.

Hermione bristled inwardly as she outwardly exchanged the usual pleasantries. What was the girl thinking, dressing in such a manner to visit a married couple? She would find no eligible bachelors here – which suggested she meant to steal a husband instead.

Did she mean to become Harry’s mistress? Even through her insecurities, Hermione knew Harry would never dare consider an annulment or – even more unthinkably – a divorce…but could he be tempted to take a mistress? And what an insult, for Miss Weasley to presume Harry to be in want of a woman other than his wife the day after his wedding! Did Miss Weasley really believe Hermione as unappealing as that?

In an angry haze, Hermione went with the others into the dining room, where she seated herself across from her husband, and where Miss Weasley seated herself beside him.

Harry, in the usual habit of males, was completely insensible of the battle being waged over him, as was Mr. Weasley, who was generally oblivious to all but food, sport, and fine bosoms.

The first course was served quickly, and before everyone had so much as the opportunity to pick up his or her silverware, Miss Weasley took control of the conversation.

“I hope, Mr. Potter, that you aren’t finding married life too dull. I mean no insult, of course, but I can’t imagine there being much room for conversation with a wife who lives with her nose in a book.”

Hermione bristled at this comment, but was determined not to show her discomfort. With such apparent disdain on Miss Weasley’s part, it was hard to remember a time when they had been close to friendship. Indeed, there’d been great talk of affection and sisterhood – until Miss Weasley had come to understand that Hermione could not be persuaded to humor the odd fancy Mr. Weasley had taken to her at the time (which had long since passed) or to give up her strong friendship with Harry. Their acquaintance had gradually decreased from intimacy to civility to cold formality, and had upon Hermione’s marriage to Harry turned to open hostility.

“Quite the contrary,” Harry replied coolly. “Mrs. Potter’s reading provides her with such a wealth of information on such a variety of subjects that we never want for conversation. I’m glad to have such a wife. So many young ladies these days seem to have nothing but gossip and ball gowns in their heads.”

Hermione alone could be capable of perceiving the true anger that lay beneath Harry’s composed response, and this knowledge was deeply gratifying to her. Although she cared little about Miss Weasley’s opinion of her suitability as a wife, Harry’s respect and esteem were essential to her, and that Harry showed no signs of agreeing with Miss Weasley or favoring her in any way was deeply reassuring.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Mr. Weasley contributed. “Why, I wouldn’t mind having Mrs. Potter as a wife at all if I didn’t hate libraries so much.”

“I’ll be generous to your character and assume you meant to make a compliment,” Hermione said archly.

“Oh, you know me well enough to know I meant no insult,” he said. “I was only trying to say that your intelligence and knowledge are very amiable qualities to have in a wife.”

Before Hermione could respond, Miss Weasley attempted to turn the conversation in her favor once more.

“If intelligence is such a superb quality in a wife, why is it that you young men do not chase after Ravenclaws instead of the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs you’re always flirting with?”

Harry smiled thinly. “We may act irrationally, but let me assure you, most men do not want silly wives.”

Miss Weasley quickly changed the subject after that remark.

~

Harry and Hermione wearily mounted the stairs after bidding the Weasleys goodnight.

“What on earth was the matter with Miss Weasley this evening?” Harry asked. “I thought you had been friends.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “I suppose I had been convenient to her at one time, before she realized I wouldn’t help her, but never friends, not really.”

Harry frowned. “Help her with what?”

“Getting you, of course.”

“Me?” Harry said with some alarm. “What can you mean?”

“She meant to have your hand – and your fortune, I’m sure – in marriage. Don’t tell me you never noticed her behavior around you – every girl in Hogwarts knew what she was after.”

“I had no notion of it. Are all young ladies so conniving?”

“Of course not,” Hermione said with a small smile. “Some just have…different priorities…and some are more desperate than others.”

“So Miss Weasley is angry with you for marrying me. Seems a little petty if it was my fortune she was after. There are plenty of rich men to marry.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh, Harry, really, how many rich men do you know that would have a woman with no fortune and no connections?”

“That is a good point. But Miss Weasley will have to withstand her disappointment. I’ve found my wife.”

At this point, they had reached Hermione’s bedchamber door, and Harry turned to her with a smile. “Goodnight.”

And then he surprised her very much indeed by doing something he had never done before. He leaned in and kissed her cheek.

With befuddled thoughts, Hermione watched him walk away, and she would have given anything to know what was in his head in that moment.

A Most Advantageous Match

Chapter 4: Godric’s Hollow

A/N: Here’s a few more answers for you. I’m trying to get these out about one a week, so bear with me. ^^

The rest of their honeymoon passed as uneventfully as it had begun, and soon Harry and Hermione were safely ensconced in the carriage on the journey to Godric’s Hollow, which was about three hours outside London – a very convenient distance, although they were not likely to take advantage of their closeness to London very often.

Harry was deep in thought during this trip, while Hermione amused herself with a book across from him. She seemed, as usual, perfectly, frustratingly, at ease, but Harry could not be so easy.

Long before their wedding night, Harry had resolved not to force Hermione to share a bed with him if she did not wish it. His sensibilities would not allow it – he could not take pleasure in an act that would bring her such pain, nor would he have her engage in the act solely out of feelings of obligation.

Harry would never admit to anyone but himself that his resolve had, in fact, wavered when Hermione had taken the initiative to come to him. He hadn’t been prepared for her to knock on his bedchamber door, nor had he been at all prepared for the vision she had presented in the moonlight, with her hair loose in a riot of curls around her face and her thin white gown flowing about her. He’d been able, for the first time, to see the curves of her body, and he’d been tempted. He’d been sorely tempted.

When he’d seen her anxiety, however, all such thoughts were quelled. For a brief moment, he’d been entertaining thoughts of passionate kisses and his wife’s heated embrace – but he quickly realized there could be no such thing. Hermione would be scared, uncomfortable at first…and eventually in pain. The thought of tears on her face effectively destroyed any and all fantasies of blissful lovemaking.

He decided then and there that he would never lay a hand on her unless she wanted his touch as much as he wanted to touch her.

When Hermione left his bedchambers that night, he thought the danger had passed. Even in his naivety, he should have known better, for the next day at breakfast, he found that Hermione had not become once more a simple friend in the light of day. If anything, the light had served to show him the pale glow of her skin and the streaks of bronze in her hair.

Harry soon discovered that his heart must have known something he did not in urging him to propose to Hermione. Indeed, when Miss Weasley had attempted to insult her, the truth had finally sunk in that Hermione was his wife, and he had no regrets or doubts on that score. Hermione was his wife, and he was glad, because no one but Hermione would do.

Unfortunately, Harry now had a problem that he could not see any solution to. He was lusting after – maybe, perhaps, even in love with – his wife, and he had no idea what to do about it.

~

Harry was glad that, upon his first going to live at Godric’s Hollow, Hermione came with him. The place was little more familiar to him than it was to her, and the thought of trying to be master of an estate where the people had been going about their business without him for eighteen years was an intimidating one indeed (the estate had been in the hands of a Mr. Remus Lupin since his parents’ deaths, a good friend to them and for all intents and purposes, Harry’s second godfather). With Hermione, however, who was so innately fair, just, and logical, he felt he could not do anything to terribly wrong – not with her to guide him.

He thought, as their destination grew near, that he saw a bit of nervousness in Hermione’s countenance as well, but he could not be sure this was not mere wishful thinking on his part. Nevertheless, this thought did serve a useful purpose – it made Harry determined to show no discomfort on his part, to be stronger and braver, for her sake, so that she might lean on him in starting her new life.

That was a great cause of his anxiety, Harry had to admit – that Hermione might be unhappy in her new home, that she would not be pleased with Godric’s Hollow. He knew she was not the sort of woman to be concerned with the expensiveness of the drapes, but he had nonetheless spent a great deal of time and effort decorating the house to her taste. He wanted her to be absolutely enchanted with the place, so that she would never long for any past home or regret – due to domestic dissatisfaction – marrying him.

There was one room in particular that Harry felt sure Hermione would fall in love with, and that, of course, was the library. Generations of the Potter family going back centuries had contributed to the massive collection – which now filled the room from floor to ceiling and from wall to wall with volumes. Evidently, the Potter line had been full of voracious readers, especially amongst the females (including Harry’s own mother), and full of spouses willing to humor them. Harry had a feeling he, too, would be buying a great number of books for his voracious reader.

The rest of the house, however, he wasn’t as sure about. He’d tried his very best to furnish the common areas and her chambers as amenably to her taste as possible, but he doubted his abilities as a decorator and wondered if he’d guessed her preferences correctly at all.

Nothing more could be done, however, as their carriage had come to a stop.

~

The Potter estate at Godric’s Hollow was a rather large manor – larger than Hermione had been expecting, to be sure. The great stone edifice was fine and stately, with the kind of elegance that withstands the tides of fashion. Hermione was immediately impressed with it.

A man came out to meet them, with grey hair and eyes of almost the same hue, whom Hermione recognized as Mr. Lupin, who had been a professor at Hogwarts for a short time. Unfortunately (as he was reputed to be a great teacher), Hermione had never had the luxury of learning from him, because he taught Defense Against the Dark Arts, a course that young ladies had not been able to take at Hogwarts for many years.

“Lupin,” Harry greeted him happily. “Meet my wife.”

“It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Potter,” he said with a bow. “I’ve heard great reports of your intelligence.”

Hermione blushed. “I’m amazed anyone’s been making reports about me at all.” She was tempted to tell him that she’d heard good things of him as well, and that she wished she could have been in his course, but she couldn’t be certain that he wouldn’t find it improper, so she said nothing else.

“Well, you shouldn’t be surprised that I’ve been making such reports,” Harry interjected. “And you ought to know it’s quite true, or else you’re not as intelligent as I thought you were.”

Hermione could only laugh at him. “You flatter me too much, but as I know you’ll never stop, I’ll just have to advise everyone to pay you no attention.”

“My wife is quite silly,” Harry said conspiratorially to Lupin. “I think I may have to lock her up in the attic.”

“What a waste of a good wife that would be.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Harry said with a grin. He turned to Hermione and offered his arm. “Come, let me show you the house.”

Hermione nodded her agreement and took his arm, and he led her up the steps and through the fine, sturdy doors into the manor’s grand entryway. Her eyes landed first on the main, marble-lined staircase, which was wide at the bottom and curved upward to the second floor. Her eyes slid down to the floor, a warm shining tile, and then up to the high ceiling.

“It’s magnificent,” Hermione managed, overwhelmed as she was. Although she’d known that the Potter family was old and wealthy, she’d never imagined the scale of grandeur now before her.

Harry smiled and led her to the dining room, through the kitchen, over to the drawing room, and up to her bedchambers, all of which she found equally impressive. Finally, with the air of an excited child dragging along a parent to see his latest accomplishment, Harry took her to the library, which seemed to cover an entire wing of the house.

“Prepare yourself,” Harry said with a grin, before opening the door and gesturing her inside.

Hermione was struck first with the sheer size of the room, which was easily twice the length of the library at Hogwarts. She then realized that every wall was covered floor to ceiling with bookshelves, separated only by windows, and those shelves were all entirely filled.

“Good heavens, Harry, why did you never mention this?” she asked, turning with wonder to his satisfied smile.

“Those aren’t even half the collection,” Harry told her, stepping forward with his wand raised. A quick gesture sent every shelf along the length of the room to move toward the center, revealing more long lines of shelves, until the back of the room couldn’t be seen for all the stacks in the middle.

“There must be thousands,” Hermione breathed, taking in the many rows of leather-bound volumes.

“Just over ten thousand,” Harry confessed. “My family’s collected a combination of wizarding and non-magical titles over at least seven centuries.”

Hermione swallowed. “I dare say you’ll never have to buy me another book for the rest of our lives.”

Harry chuckled. “Oh, no. I have a family tradition to uphold, haven’t I? Far be it from me to refuse the convenience of a well-read wife to expand the collection.”

Hermione laughed. “Well, at the very least, you’ve found a way to keep me busy indeed.”

~

The comforts of Godric’s Hollow were so extensive that Hermione felt very guilty indeed for being at all discontent in her marriage. Her bed alone was a feather-stuffed, silk-sheeted piece of heaven, and every furnishing, tapestry, and carpet in the house was nothing short of beautiful. The house-elves were the most loyal and skilled in the country, and thanks to their service, the house was always in perfect order and the food, right down to the daily bread, was magnificent. Hermione’s home with her parents had been comfortable, to be sure, and Hogwarts had always seemed to her to meet the highest standards, but this…this was a level of luxury heretofore unknown to Hermione.

Harry often seemed surprised by the richness of their lifestyle as well, even as the master of the estate, and each day saw them discussing some new and unexpected facet of their living.

Hermione found no shortage of amusement at Godric’s Hollow, either. Harry had devised for her a lovely little nook in the library where she could read in comfort for hours on end, and when she tired of this, she could explore the grounds, which were as extensive as the library and as beautiful as any other part of the home. Every day Hermione found a new path to explore and some new natural beauty along the way. If these weren’t enough to hold her attention, she had ample opportunity to practice drawing or playing the piano forte, should she wish it – practices she had abandoned in childhood but found herself returning to, finding comfort in the practice of the arts.

Unlike many married couples, she and Harry spent a great portion of each day together, conversing or pursuing any number of activities in companionable silence. Hermione wondered if this was less a product of Harry’s affection for her than an effect of his upbringing, which left him with little knowledge of sport and other typical masculine entertainments. Harry did fly very well, and devoted a part of every fair day to this activity, but otherwise, he remained indoors or walked the grounds with Hermione.

Thus her married life began, and every evening, Hermione took to the soft warmth of her bed with some sort of satisfaction from the day.

Try as she might, however, Hermione could not close her eyes without thinking of her husband, alone in the next room, and wondering if her marriage would ever be behind closed doors what it seemed in plain view.

A Most Advantageous Match

Chapter 5: The Long-Lost Cousin

A little over a week after Harry and Hermione moved in to Godric’s Hollow, an unexpected visitor came to call. They had been sitting in the drawing room while Harry read a newspaper and Hermione attempted to draw the scene without Harry’s knowledge. She’d been forced to set aside her tablet when a house-elf ventured tentatively in.

“A Mr. Malfoy to see you, Masters.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look as they stood, both fearful that perhaps Lucius Malfoy had come to call, a man who had once been one of Voldemort’s most loyal supporters, and who would most likely give anything to see the Potter family in ruins once more.

Luckily, it was not Lucius who swaggered in, but his son, Draco, who was just as cruel as his father but only half as clever.

Malfoy bowed lazily and smirked as he addressed them. “Mr. Potter, Mrs. Potter. I’m glad to see you so well settled.”

“How kind of you to call on us, Mr. Malfoy. To what do we owe the pleasure?” Harry asked with a sharp, sarcastic tone.

“Well,” he replied, taking a seat without waiting to be offered one, “like the rest of the wizarding world, I must admit, I’m curious about our prominent new couple. After such a quickly formed engagement, you cannot be surprised that your…motives are in question.”

Harry and Hermione sat back down together. “I cannot see,” Harry said, “how our motives can be considered public information.”

“Perhaps you have not yet acquainted yourself with all the particulars of the entailment of your estate, Mr. Potter. In that case, your motives may become an issue,” he said with a self-satisfied smile.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked with a menacing narrowing of the eyes.

“In particular, I speak of the clause which states that a child conceived out of wedlock may not inherit,” he said, eyeing Hermione crudely as he said this. Hermione frowned and curled herself inwardly as if to defend herself from his gaze.

“My wife,” Harry said angrily, “has always been irreproachable on the subject of virtue. I’m sure that shall not be a problem.”

Malfoy laughed. “Perhaps not a problem for your wife, but you may find difficulties.” He turned to Hermione and said, with a roguish wink, “Men need their entertainment, do they not?”

Had Hermione not felt the full meaning of his words, she might have made an outburst in defense of her husband. As it was, she understood that the insult was not to Harry, but to her. She was not amusing enough, not beautiful enough, to retain her husband’s attentions – that was the implication, and Hermione could not be indignant because she wondered if it were true.

“I assure you,” Harry said harshly, “That will not be a problem, either. Why such interest in the affairs of my estate, Mr. Malfoy?”

Malfoy feigned surprise. “Are you not aware that our families are related, Mr. Potter? We are cousins, and should you fail to produce a legitimate heir, it so happens that I stand in line to inherit. Family is a funny thing, is it not?”

“Indeed,” Harry said curtly, offering nothing more.

Malfoy, seemingly satisfied that he’d made his point, stood. “I will leave you now. I’m sure you have many…pressing matters to attend to.”

Harry stood and bowed, but Hermione had not the presence of mind, and merely watched the man retreat from their drawing room.

Harry startled her by calling in a house-elf as soon as the door had closed behind their visitor.

“Yes, Master?”

“Mr. Malfoy is not to enter this house again without my consent until he inherits it, should that be the case,” Harry told the elf, who squeaked his compliance before Harry dismissed him.

Hermione watched her husband pace and spoke, with all due consideration to his temper, mildly, “Do you not think that measure extreme? To be sure, he is an impudent, unpleasant sort of man, but –“

“Loathe as I am to overestimate Malfoy, I do not believe he will be content to taunt us and leave us to sort out our affairs. I fear he means you bodily harm.”

Hermione frowned. “I appreciate your concern, but surely he would find it more efficient to leave you incapacitated. I am, after all, only the means to an end – you may always find another wife to produce your heir.”

Harry grimaced. “True as that may be, I daresay Malfoy would find it more amusing to leave me with a wife that could not bear my children, but would live out many years. Please, do not quarrel with me, Hermione. I could not bear any injury coming to you because of my situation.”

Hermione was touched by his anxiety on her behalf, but she knew a good opportunity when it crossed her path.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “you should continue to instruct me in self-defense.”

Harry was well-enough acquainted with her to know that the request was made more for the satisfaction of her curiosity than the alleviation of fear, but he did not question her, only offered her a knowing smile.

“If that would comfort you,” Harry said, and Hermione continued the ruse.

“It would.”

“Very well,” Harry said, looking for all the world as if he would laugh at any moment. “We’ll begin soon.”

~

Hermione’s instruction did not begin the next day, much to her disappointment, because Harry was otherwise engaged. Indeed, she did not see him at all between breakfast and supper. Harry had gone with Mr. Lupin to begin to take over the management of the estate. Hermione would eventually take over the management of the household as well, which was currently in the hands of a very capable house-elf who seemed a little reluctant to share her duties with her mistress. Hermione insisted, but would try to proceed gradually.

Harry returned in the evening with Mr. Lupin in tow, who stayed on to dine with them.

“Did you have an eventful day?” Hermione asked them over a spoonful of soup.

“We did,” Harry said. “I’ve determined that Lupin’s been working far too hard these past 18 years.”

Mr. Lupin laughed. “Oh, there’s far worse work to be doing. Like teaching you lot.”

Harry grinned. “Pity you never taught Hermione. She would have made up for the rest of us.”

“So my colleagues at Hogwarts often told me,” Lupin said. He turned to Hermione. “I also hear you are interested in taking up the study of defense.”

Hermione blushed and glanced at Harry, who only grinned cheekily in return. Her very unladylike curiosity was well out in the open now, and she decided not to attempt to disguise it. “Yes, I…I must admit that I have long desired to make a full study of the subject, but have only now found the time and opportunity.”

“If you wish it, Mrs. Potter, I would be glad to assist your learning in any way possible. I think it unconscionable that we leave the ladies of our society unaware of the dangers surrounding them. It only intensifies the danger.”

Hermione smiled, her regard for the man growing with every conversation they shared. “Thank you, Mr. Lupin. I would be delighted to learn from you. The boys in my year, Harry especially, always spoke very highly of your skill and knowledge.”

Thus, an agreement was made, and Hermione would have two defense instructors as soon as Lupin finished training Harry in the maintenance of the estate.

~

“You have chosen very well in your wife,” Lupin remarked after Hermione quit the drawing room, claiming tiredness. Harry wondered if she were merely bored or longing to read something instead, but he sent her to bed with a smile anyway.

“I’m glad you think so,” Harry said sincerely. Lupin was the closest person Harry had to a parent since the death of his true parents and his godfather, and Harry valued his opinion dearly. He’d never had any doubts where Hermione was concerned, but hearing her praised was in a way gratifying to himself.

“Indeed,” Lupin said. “She is a very practical, intelligent young lady. She rather reminds me of your mother, in fact.”

“Really?” Harry inquired, inching forward in his chair. “How so?”

“Your mother had the same thirst for information and independent spirit that your wife seems to be in possession of. She was equal to your father in every way, which, I believe, was exactly what he needed in a wife. She was the only lady that ever dared to challenge him, and he loved that in her. They were quite devoted to each other, once your mother finally accepted him.”

“She initially refused him?” Harry asked, alarmed.

“Oh, I’m sure your father seemed an arrogant dandy to many in his youth,” Lupin chuckled, “But once your mother learned his true nature, she grew to love him as he did her.”

Harry smiled inwardly at that thought. If his mother had once loathed his father and grown to love him, perhaps there was hope for Hermione one day loving him. He was still not sure if his regard for her was love, exactly, but for some reason, he still wanted very much for her to love him, for both their sakes. He thought Hermione would be happier if she were in love in her marriage, and Harry wouldn’t mind reciprocating her affection at all. It seemed a very pleasant notion.

Nevertheless, his mother had not known his father’s true nature before she loved him, as Lupin said. What possible alteration could there be in Hermione’s feelings for him if she already knew him better than anyone else did? What discovery could possibly sway her opinion of him?

Harry sighed to himself. There was nothing to be done; he knew that much, and that was the very fact that unsettled him the most. Of all things, Harry was at the very least an aggressive personality. He had always been impatient, perhaps a little volatile, and waiting had never suited him when he could be acting. Harry’s restlessness in the face of this predicament was surpassed only by his cowardice.

Indeed, the brave Gryffindor Harry Potter was terrified of approaching his own wife. Oh, he conversed with her as easily as ever and maintained their friendship as well as ever, but in making a move toward furthering their relationship, Harry was petrified. He could not confide in her his newly formed and befuddled emotions, nor could he make any physical overture such as kissing her (which he longed very much to do. The one kiss he’d given to her cheek was nothing more than a teasing glimpse of what he did not currently have with her). He was most decidedly stuck, and he hated being stuck.

With a raised eyebrow and an unconcealed smirk, Lupin broke into Harry’s musings. “Lost in thoughts of your charming wife?” he teased.

Harry only laughed and took a sip of the drink in his hand, leaving Lupin to assume whatever he liked. Lupin was correct in thinking that Harry was quite enraptured with his new bride, but if he thought Harry had full knowledge of her charms, he would be completely incorrect. Unfortunately, those mysterious charms Harry had yet to uncover were the ones most distracting to him.

A/N: I’ve had a few express concerns about the promised rating change to this story. I do plan to introduce adult content, eventually, but I’d be happy to post clean chapters as well if that would be amenable to everyone.

Also, thanks for your dedicated reviewing. Your questions and comments keep me enthused about this story. ^^

A Most Advantageous Match

Chapter 6: Motherly Advice

Hermione felt as though she were finally settling comfortably into married life. While Harry was out learning all the minute workings of his estate, Hermione was gradually taking on the duties of running a household. In most cases, Hermione succeeded brilliantly. She was nothing if not practical, and on top of that, she was a compulsive planner. Managing a house was nothing. The servants, however, were another matter.

Hermione tried her best to be kind to the house-elves in her service, but they seemed to take great offense at everything she did. If she gave them compliments, they were likely to burst into tears. If she offered them freedom and pay, they only stared at her in horror – before they began weeping and pleading her not to free them. Hermione found this behavior all very alarming and couldn’t understand why they didn’t want to be free. Hermione determined that they had been persuaded to like slavery, and made it her mission to educate them as to the true nature of their condition.

Unfortunately, she was not very successful, and that frustrated her exceedingly. Hermione hated to fail.

When Hermione had brought the matter up with Harry, he had merely chuckled at her.

“Hermione, I bid you all the luck in the world, but the elf that wants to be free is very rare indeed.”

“But Winky is free and paid, and so is your manservant Dobby. Why can we not pay the rest?”

Harry sighed, but smiled. “Hermione, Dobby is one of those odd sort that longs for freedom, and I was happy to employ him. Winky, on the other hand, was set free by another family, and begged me not to pay her when I took her on. The elves consider pay an insult, and freedom is a disgrace second only to betraying one’s master. I understand your feelings, Hermione, but sometimes it is better to try not to free someone that doesn’t want to be freed.”

Hermione sighed, reluctant to admit he was right. “Very well. I shall try not to abuse their sensibilities too terribly.”

Harry grinned. “I’ll ask for nothing more.”

~

Hermione’s mission had to be temporarily set aside almost as soon as it had begun, for Hermione’s parents came to visit. The average parents might have given their daughter more time to settle in before imposing on her new home, but Hermione was their only child and they’d seen her very little for the past seven years she’d spent at Hogwarts. Harry was quite happy for them to visit, and so they arrived barely a month after she and Harry wed.

Hermione was very eager to see her parents, her mother in particular. She had no better confidant or counselor than her mother, and she longed for the opportunity to discuss the nature of her marriage and seek advice in obtaining conjugal felicity. Hermione’s parents were well-matched and maintained a very happy marriage. If anyone could help Hermione to sort out her confusion, it would be her mother.

By the time the Grangers arrived, Hermione was so impatient to see them that she ran out to meet their carriage. Harry followed at a more sedate pace.

Hermione ran to embrace her mother as soon as the footman handed her out of the carriage while Harry greeted her father, who stepped out behind her.

“Oh, mama,” Hermione said, “It is so very good to see you.”

“It is good to see you, too, my dear,” her mother laughed, releasing her, allowing Harry a chance to greet her mother and Hermione to hug her father.

“You must be tired,” Hermione said. “Let’s go inside.”

~

After the Grangers and the Potters had spent ample time exchanging their news and taking refreshment, Harry turned to Mr. Granger with a grin.

“Mr. Granger, I suspect our wives wish to have some conversation without our cumbersome company,” Harry said. “Would you like to accompany me on a tour of the grounds?”

“Excellent notion,” Mr. Granger said. Thus, the men took their leave, and Hermione was left alone with her mother, just as she had wanted. Hermione marveled at Harry’s ability to read her mood, although she hoped he had no inkling of her motives. Hermione trusted Harry implicitly, but she didn’t want him to know of her discontent. He would take it as a personal failure, and most likely torture himself with guilt. That, she would not have.

“Well, what is amiss, my dear? You seemed out of sorts when you met your father and I today.”

“Do not mistake me, Mama,” Hermione said. “I do not regret my choice at all. Harry is my closest friend, and the best, kindest man I know. I could not ask for a better husband. But I fear that…that there is something…lacking, in our marriage.”

Mrs. Granger eyed her appraisingly. “Hermione, forgive my frankness, but are you speaking of your nocturnal activities?”

Hermione blushed, but nodded, eager for her mother’s counsel.

“I am sure the experience was not at first pleasant for you, and it may yet be rather uncomfortable, but I think you will find that –“

“Oh, mama, no!” Hermione interrupted. “That is to say, that is not the problem. It cannot be the problem, for Harry and I…we have not yet shared a bed.”

Mrs. Granger sat back in her chair, wearing a contemplative expression. “Have you discussed this with your husband?”

“I have,” Hermione said miserably. “He did not come to me on our wedding night, as I was given to understand he would. I went to him instead, to attempt to understand our situation, and he informed me that he wished not to…er…partake, until it was absolutely necessary. To produce an heir. His excuse was that he did not wish to cause me undue pain, and I do not doubt his sincerity, but…”

“You suspect he has other reasons,” her mother finished for her, with all the astuteness that Hermione had inherited.

“Yes.”

Her mother nodded thoughtfully. “Hermione, I know you must be thinking with your own insecurities. He may have other reasons, but they may be other than you have in mind. Many a young man is unsure of himself. Perhaps he wants encouragement.”

Hermione mulled over this idea. Harry had no experience in love; she wondered if he had even seen a lady naked before. Perhaps he only feared his own ignorance. Perhaps she needed to approach him once more.

Then another thing her mother had said came to mind. “Will it really be uncomfortable beyond the first time?” she asked.

Her mother smiled that knowing smile that she’d so often seen on married women. “As you know, it will be painful the first time, and there may yet be some lingering soreness,” she said. “But I think you will find that, if your husband is considerate enough, and willing to learn, it can become quite the…rapturous experience.”

Hermione tried valiantly not to imagine her mother and father in any such raptures, but she did dare to hope. “My husband is very considerate.”

Mrs. Granger chuckled. “I dare say you will find your marriage a very happy one in time.”

~

Never one to dawdle, Hermione translated her mother’s advice into action that very night. After her parents had gone to bed on the other side of the house, and after Harry had bid her goodnight at her door, Hermione’s maid helped her into her most flattering nightgown. Hermione dismissed the elf shortly after, and instead of going to her neatly turned down bed, she went to the door connecting to Harry’s bedroom.

With little more than a knock, Hermione entered before she could lose her courage. Harry had dressed for bed, but had not yet extinguished his candle. He stood next to his bed with a book, looking at her with surprise.

“Hermione? Is something the matter?”

She swallowed. “May I lie with you?”

Harry hesitated, turning away under the pretense of setting down his book.

“It should not be indecent,” Hermione pressed. “We are married, are we not?”

Harry smiled with only half his mouth and nodded. He sat on the edge of his bed and gestured behind him. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Hermione noted with some amusement that Harry’s chambers were decorated in Gryffindor colors before she slipped between the soft white sheets. Harry did the same on the other side of the bed, and to her relief, extinguished the candle flame between his thumb and forefinger. She didn’t know if she could say what she wanted to in the light. Better if he couldn’t see her blush and she couldn’t see his reaction.

A little thrill shot down her spine as Hermione turned under the blankets to face her husband. This could be the night. Her curiosity might finally be satisfied. She’d learn whether she was to find passion or indifference in her husband’s embrace. If she was lucky, she might discover the ‘rapturous’ experience her mother had spoken of and be initiated into that forbidden world of pleasure she’d heard spoken of in hushed tones.

“Harry…should we not…begin our family soon?” she asked, phrasing it as delicately as possible.

Even in the space between them, Hermione could feel him tense.

“There is plenty of time for children,” Harry said. “Are you eager to have them so soon? You have just begun your defense instruction….”

Hermione swallowed, feeling her plan slipping away like vapor. “I am not impatient,” she said. “But…children do not always come easily. Perhaps it is better to err on the side of caution.”

Harry was silent for a second too long for Hermione’s comfort, and all her worries came forward at once.

“Unless, of course, you do not find me desirable. You need not hide that from me. It would be better if I knew –“

“Hermione,” he interrupted firmly. “It is not that I find you or the idea unappealing. It shall happen when the time is right.”

Hermione’s mind struggled with the possibilities. Was her mother right about his reluctance, or was he lying to escape injuring her feelings?

“Do you not even wish to kiss me?” she asked, trying and failing to make out his eyes in the darkness.

After a time, Harry asked, “Do you wish to be kissed?”

Hermione remembered the kiss with which they’d sealed their marriage and realized she did want to be kissed, very much, if only to find out if the second kiss would feel as lovely as the first. She did not want to give her feelings away, however, if he did not return them, for that, too, would leave him tortured with guilt.

“I wish to make you happy,” she said truthfully.

Hermione felt his hand come to rest on her upper arm as he leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

“Do not fret, Hermione. I am happy. Sleep now.”

Harry then took her into his arms, which would have been a comfort to her, had she not been convinced of the platonic nature of the embrace.

She had her answer now. Harry did not want her, not as anything but a quiet, complacent companion, and this time, she could not deny the cause of her disappointment. She knew now that she loved Harry in the one way he did not, and probably would never, love her.

~

A/N: Don’t kill me, now, you know it’s never as easy as all that. See you next chapter. ^^

A Most Advantageous Match

Chapter 7: Taking a Tumble

Harry watched his wife and Lupin dueling in the library, surrounded by a shimmering safety field to protect both them and the room around them. Hermione was fighting fiercely, although Harry sensed that Lupin was still holding back a bit, which he was grateful for. His wife’s ambitions were sometimes larger than her physical capacity to attain them, as they’d learned their third year, when Hermione had to be given a Time-Turner to accommodate her many courses. She’d run herself ragged that year, and Harry knew she was still susceptible to overworking.

Harry was feeling a little more protective of Hermione than usual, although he suspected she needed to be protected from him more than anything else. She’d come to him again last night, looking like a beautiful dream in her thin summer nightgown, that he’d almost used the excuse she gave him of procreating to make love to her. Once again, however, the thought had come – this time all too vividly – of his wife lying rigidly beneath him, little more than a prop to be used for his pleasure. That he could not bear.

She’d felt so delicate in his arms as well, so soft and fragile and warm that Harry felt more profoundly than ever the need to guard her, to preserve her and her spirit in any possible, by any means necessary. She was so pure and sweet. He could not blemish that by taking her with anything less than love – true and requited love.

The indifference Hermione seemed to feel at his refusal convinced Harry of the correctness of his behavior. If Hermione had felt any of the passion that was growing within him for her, any of the longing, then surely she could not have accepted his rejection so passively.

Just as Harry was beginning to become lost in his musings, Lupin managed to hit Hermione with a tickling curse, and she fell to the floor shrieking with laughter. Harry smiled as she rolled about on the rug and Lupin stepped forward to remove the spell.

“Again,” she huffed, fighting through a tangle of skirts to stand. “I need more practice.”

Breathing hard, Lupin chuckled and replied, “Mrs. Potter, I have not your speed of recovery. Perhaps you can convince your husband to assist you while this old man rests.”

Hermione looked to him challengingly, eyes flashing with determination. “Harry, will you?”

Harry hesitated, not because he feared hurting his wife, but because he knew he could not – and his tentativeness would anger her to no end.

“Very well,” Harry replied, feeling she would be less insulted if he made an attempt, at the very least.

“Think you can best me?” Hermione taunted, grinning.

Harry could only smile vaguely. If he could use the full extent of his powers against her, he could disarm her within seconds, but those powers would cause her pain…so, no, he could not best her.

“On three,” Hermione said, wand leveled at his chest. “One, two, three!”

Harry conjured a shield before she could finish the word “expelliarmus.” Thus, their duel began, but it had little opportunity to progress further because Mr. Granger came into the room and took issue with the events transpiring therein.

“What are you doing to my daughter?” he barked at Harry, rushing forward as if to shield Hermione.

“We were dueling,” Harry said, fighting hard not to take offense as he cancelled the remaining active spells in the room.

“Dueling?” Mr. Granger said incredulously. “But she’s a woman!”

“Papa!” Hermione interjected.

“She wishes to learn,” Harry said as coolly as possible, but inwardly he was bristling with anger.

“She could be hurt!”

At this, Harry did take offense. “I would never knowingly hurt your daughter, sir, and there are shields in place to prevent accidental injury. She is quite safe.”

Mr. Granger shook his head vehemently and stormed out of the room.

Harry struggled to calm himself as he turned to Lupin. “Are you prepared to resume dueling?” he asked.

Lupin nodded. “Certainly.”

Harry nodded to Lupin and his wife and strode out of the room, seeking a way to clear his thoughts.

~

For the first time since her arrival, Hermione felt the need to escape Godric’s Hollow. After the spat between her husband and father the day before (and she could characterize it as nothing more manly than that, silly as they were being), the mood in the house had been very tense. Harry brooded, her father glowered, and she and her mother could only shake their heads in exasperation.

Today her mother was doing her best to distract his father from his current ill-will toward his son-in-law, and Hermione thought it best to let her own husband brood in peace – especially because he tended to snipe at her when she tried to make him see sense. So she’d leave them all to their private woes, and she would make an excursion onto the grounds, to explore some of those nooks and crannies yet uncovered.

It was a cloudy, rather muggy day, and Hermione knew she ran the risk of being caught in the rain, but she cared not. So long as she could have a little peace and solitude, a little water was nothing.

Today’s wanderings led Hermione along a quietly trickling spring located on the edge of their property. It led her into a thick wood, but she pressed on, feeling that the further she was from human contact, the better.

Even had her husband not been brooding or her mother not occupied with reasoning with her father, Hermione felt she could not have enjoyed their society. Her mother might have asked how she was progressing with her husband, and she did not think she could bear the embarrassment of having been refused. And Harry…

Harry had always been her closest, most beloved friend. Their relationship had been comfortable and easy, harmonious, almost. They rarely tired of each other or quarreled, and only then in extreme circumstances. Now, however, she felt a rift coming between them, and she knew it was somewhat her doing. She had broken their agreement of an amicable, friendly marriage by beginning to see him as a man, a man capable of pleasing – loving – a woman. But he did not love her, though she felt herself growing more attached to him with each day, and in that knowledge, how could she be easy in his company?

Deep in thought, Hermione had paid little attention to where she walked, and found herself deep within the forest, where the stream had gone very narrow. Unfazed, Hermione continued, pushing through the undergrowth, until she felt a distinct drop of water hit her face. Looking up through the leaves, she was met with what was quickly becoming a heavy downpour.

Hermione decided she had better turn around then, and took several steps toward doing so, until she slipped on patch of wet leaves – and found herself tumbling down a steep hill.

Then everything went dark.

~

“Where could she be?” Mrs. Granger asked. Harry didn’t respond as he paced the drawing room and Mr. Granger tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.

Supper was ready to be served, and still Hermione had not shown her face to anyone in the household.

“Tripsy!” Harry called, summoning Hermione’s aptly named, clumsy maid.

“Yes, master?” came her reply before she fully materialized, stumbling.

“Did Mrs. Potter tell you where she was going?”

“Only that she was going walking on the grounds, sir,” Tripsy said, wringing her hands in her apron. “I told her, sir, she should not go out when rain was so near, but she wasn’t hearing it.”

Harry smiled ruefully. No, Hermione never listened to perfectly sound advice unless it suited her aims.

“Thank you, Tripsy,” Harry said. “You may go.”

The elf disappeared with a pop, and Harry turned to the Grangers. “I’m going to look for her. You may as well eat. I cannot say how long it will take me to search the grounds, even on broom.”

Harry did not wait for their response, but hurried out of the room, down a side corridor where the brooms were stored. A ready elf stood nearby with his cloak and gloves. Harry took them gratefully and took out his fastest broom.

Moments later, he was out the door and in the air, flying low over his property. He would scan the open areas first, and then, if necessary, venture into the woods. He hoped she had not lost herself amongst the trees, and felt a sense of foreboding at that thought. If Hermione were lost, she would be able to use magic to find her way home. If she were not on her way back now, something more sinister must have transpired. Harry felt sick at the thought.

A thorough perusal of the grounds proved Hermione was not within sight, and Harry’s heart fell further toward his stomach with every minute that passed without the sight of the pile of brown curls atop her head.

Resigning himself to the unpleasant, Harry landed on the edge of the woods, shrunk and pocketed his broom, and, on instinct, began to follow a small stream into the trees. Harry walked deep into the forest, until he was forced to light his wand to see, and would have continued further, had he not caught a flash of color out of the corner of his eye.

Harry saw that he stood atop a steep hill, and, to his horror, he realized the flash of color was Hermione, sprawled out on the ground in a tangle of skirts, covered in mud and soaked to the skin.

Panic seizing his mind, Harry fumbled down the hill without thinking, running to her side.

He put a hand to her face. She was so cold, so pale…but he felt a whisper of breath against his wrist, and hope flared within him. She was alive. If she was alive, she could be well again.

Harry quickly assessed the state of her injuries, seeing bruises, but thankfully, no blood or visibly broken bones.

He quickly took out his broom and resized it before gathering Hermione in his arms and mounting carefully. He shot upward through a clear patch in the tangled braches above them and flew her speedily home.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger had been keeping watch and met them at the door, but Harry hurried past them, carrying his wife up the stairs.

“What on earth has happened?” Mrs. Granger asked.

“I know not. This is the state I found her in,” Harry called over his shoulder. He took her to her room, where Tripsy was waiting.

“Change her into dry clothes – her nightgown,” he instructed, setting her gently on the bed. “And light a fire. She needs to be warmed.”

Thank Merlin for magic, Harry thought to himself as Tripsy performed the allotted tasks within five seconds. Then he took his wife’s care into his own hands, gathering her into his arms beside the fire, waiting to feel some warmth in her skin under his fingers, and waiting for the moment she opened her eyes.

A Most Advantageous Match

Chapter 8: Convalescence

Harry quickly understood that his wife would not recover any time soon. When she finally woke, she was groggy and disoriented, and during the night, she lapsed into fever. She was delirious by the time Harry went to visit her the next morning.

Tripsy took diligent care of her. Harry could do little more than sit beside her and apply a cool cloth to her forehead while she slept fitfully. Hermione’s parents were in and out to visit, and at one point, Mr. Granger suggested calling a doctor of their acquaintance, but Harry refused. Wizards knew very well that non-magical methods of healing generally consisted of doctors issuing orders to the healthy to make them feel less useless. Harry and Tripsy were already doing everything possible; there was no point bringing in another unneeded person.

He had contacted the Healer at Hogwarts in hopes that some magical means could help his wife, but Tripsy had already been giving Hermione all the restorative draughts recommended. Harry resigned himself to the fact that he could only wait and hope for her recovery, but that did not make him any less worried.

As each hour of Hermione’s feverish mutterings continued, Harry became more aware of the alarming possibility that he could lose her. If she did not recover soon…if she did not return to lucidity…if she could not make it through, he might have to live without her. The thought of being in this house without her, of being all alone there, scared him. Nor was remarrying an option; he had to have Hermione. It must be her face across the breakfast table, her voice in the drawing room, her smile, her laugh…her presence. No one else would do.

He must find a way to save her, Harry decided, looking to her flushed face, eyes lingering on the delicate eyelashes that brushed her cheeks. Hermione would know what to do. That was the key. He must think like Hermione.

Harry took a deep breath and forced his mind into some semblance of calm. He must identify the problem and find a way to rectify it. What was currently ailing his wife? What was the greatest threat to her health?

“The fever,” he muttered aloud. “Something more must be done about the fever.”

In his next breath, he called out for Tripsy, who appeared immediately.

“Please prepare a cold bath for Mrs. Potter,” he said.

The elf went to her task unquestioningly. Although he admired his wife’s sense of fairness, he would not, at that moment, have freed his elves for that one admirable quality. They did not question their masters, nor would they ever offer any reproof for what he was about to do.

“The bath is ready, sir,” Tripsy said, her words beginning before she fully materialized beside the bed.

“Thank you,” Harry said. “That will be all.”

The elf left obediently, and Harry set about his own task.

First he stood and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Then he picked Hermione up and carried her into her dressing room, where the bath waited. She curled toward him like a child, and he was filled with protective tenderness for her, so much so that the sweat dampening her nightgown was painful to him. He would do anything to make her well again.

Harry set her down on the stool before the vanity in her dressing room and began to ponder the logistics of getting her nightgown off. Perhaps he should just leave it on. But he’d still have to change it afterward.

As he was struggling with these thoughts, he realized Hermione’s eyes were open and she was looking blearily at him.

“Harry?”

“Yes, it’s me,” he said, brushing the damp hair back from her forehead.

“What’s happening?” she asked, swaying a little dangerously.

“You have a very bad fever,” Harry told her. “It must be reduced. I’m going to put you in a cold bath, all right?”

Hermione nodded, but Harry sensed her drifting back into her fever-induced fog.

“Hermione,” he called, trying to hold her attention. “Can you stand up for me?”

She mumbled something and stood, wobbling a little. Harry was able to pull her nightdress up to her hips before she lost her strength and he was obliged to catch her against his chest. He had gained enough ground to remove her nightgown the rest of the way, holding her with one arm and tugging on the fabric with the other. It was a blessing and a curse that he was forced to hold her against him, for he could not see her naked form, but he could feel it, firm and soft and supple against his body and under his fingertips.

Harry despised himself for lusting after his wife when she was in so vulnerable and helpless a state, completely unawares and unable to give him a good, strong slap, were she so inclined.

Nevertheless, this had to be done, and so he endeavored to ignore her womanliness as he picked her up and carefully deposited her in the bath.

Hermione whimpered at the cold, but otherwise remained still. Having very little to do now but wait for the cold water to take its effect, Harry turned his eyes away, trying not to look at the fair skin and full curves that had already imprinted themselves on his memory. He dare not take another look, lest he lose the fragile control he maintained over his emotions – and over his lust.

Oblivious to his thoughts, Hermione murmured a sound of discontent and turned toward him. He met her eyes, which were watching him blearily.

“It’s c-cold,” she said quietly, shivering.

“I know,” Harry said. He reached out to stroke her forehead, a gesture that was both a caress and a judgment of the level of her fever.

“How much longer?” she asked, and she looked so frail, so delicate in that moment that Harry completely lost any preoccupation he’d had with physical attributes. He wanted only to protect her, to keep her safe and well for the rest of his days.

“Until you’re not so hot,” Harry said. “The fever must be broken.”

Hermione rolled her head back and closed her eyes, and Harry sat watching her face until the unnatural flush seemed to leave it. He then lifted her from the water and sat her again on the vanity stool to dry her – and in so doing, could not avoid seeing her more intimate areas, which left him uncomfortably and guiltily aroused.

After she was dried, Harry helped her into a fresh nightgown, and she was lucid enough to navigate her own arms into the sleeves. That accomplished, Harry carried his wife back to her bed and saw her settled comfortably under the covers. He stood watching a moment, watching her shiver, before he made the decision to remove his boots and climb under the covers, where he held her quivering body to his in a vain attempt to soothe her.

~

Hermione woke very sweaty and uncomfortable, with a hand grasping hers tightly.

“Harry?”

“No, it’s me, dear,” said her mother’s voice, a little ways above her ear. Hermione lifted her head to look around her, finding only her mother and her maid in the room.

“What happened?” Hermione asked, sitting up shakily.

Her mother frowned, and Hermione could see the familiar lines of worry in her brow. “I was rather hoping you could tell us that. You went for a walk four days ago, and Harry found you in a dead faint in the woods in the rain – which, no doubt, was the cause of the illness you’ve been suffering the days after.”

Hermione scoured her memory for that day. “I lost my footing on a bit of wet ground, when it started to rain,” Hermione said, recalling the events as she spoke, “and I fell down a hill…and that’s all I remember.”

“Well, you’ve given us quite a fright,” her mother said fondly, with an undertone of relief that enforced the gravity of the situation for Hermione. She supposed she must have been very ill, to remember as little as she did of the past few days.

“Has Harry been here?” she asked, not worrying about informality, so curious was she to know her husband’s reaction to her illness.

Her mother smiled knowingly. “Oh, he’s hardly left your side since he brought you back, and until he was assured that the danger had passed, he took personal charge of your care.”

Hermione’s heart swelled forcefully, and then shrank back, like a wave crashing on the shore. Harry’s actions were a sign of his love, to be sure – but that love could be quite platonic. That was the love she’d always had.

But perhaps there was something to be said for a love that would keep him by her bedside when she was ill. Perhaps devotion from the man she’d come to love could be just as satisfying as passion.

Perhaps.

“Where is he now?” Hermione asked, oblivious to the amused quirk of her mother’s brow.

“Cleaning himself up a bit, I think,” she replied. “He only consented to leave when I came in a little while ago, and he seemed to have every intention of returning promptly. Ah, speak of the devil!”

Indeed, the door adjoining Harry’s chambers to hers had just opened, and Harry entered with a good deal more urgency than she’d ever seen in him before.

“You’re awake!” he said, his words heavy with relief, and he came to sit on the edge of her bed. “How are you feeling?”

“I would say I felt better, but I have little recollection of feeling ill. As of now, I feel well enough, I suppose.”

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Or thirsty? You must have something, to begin to recover your strength. Tripsy, could you - ?”

“Yes, Master!” the elf replied, evidently reading his mind, for she did not allow him to finish speaking.

At that point, Mrs. Granger stood to leave. “I must go tell your father the happy news. He’s been awful these past few days – you know how sullen he becomes when he’s anxious.”

Hermione smiled and nodded her agreement with the statement, while she avoided looking too closely at her husband, lest his eager care inflate her hopes too much.

“You’ve given me the fright of my life,” Harry said as soon as they were alone.

“Yes, I seem to have scared the entire household halfway to death,” Hermione joked. “Perhaps next time I shall be more successful.”

Harry shook his head, clearly not amused. “You would not laugh if you had seen what I saw. When I found you in the woods, you were so…so still and cold. I thought, for a brief moment, that I had lost you. And then, you took so severely ill…I have been in constant dread and terror for days.”

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat, taking in fully now the countenance of her husband – the dark hollows beneath his eyes, the more-than-usual unkemptness of his hair, the lines of worry about his mouth and in his forehead, the paleness of one who has not slept or eaten properly in days. She longed to reach out and caress away all the weariness and anxiety she saw, but she refrained, letting her heart ache for him in silence.

Yes, she decided, perhaps this sort of love was enough.

~

A/N: Please don’t kill me until I finish the story. :P

A Most Advantageous Match

Chapter 9: The Obligatory Ball

Hermione was restrained to her bed for some time longer than she would have wished, mostly because Harry had ordered the house-elves not to let her out of bed unnecessarily. He did visit her often, bringing her volumes from the library and completely ignoring her displeasure at being so confined. After several days of arguing, she gave up.

It was during one of her husband’s frequent visits that she decided to question him on a matter that had been troubling her since her awakening.

“Harry, there’s something I remember from being ill,” she told him. “I don’t know if I dreamed it or it really happened.”

He flushed and fidgeted, and that alone might have confirmed her suspicions. “And what do you recall?”

Fighting a smile – for his discomfort was most amusing – she said, “I seem to remember you putting me in a cold bath, in order to rid me of a fever.”

Harry nodded, looking at his hands. “Indeed, I…I did. I thought, for the sake of your health and your life, even, that there was no other option.”

She did not to know what to make of his expression. There were equal parts guilt and remorse in his countenance, but she could not tell from his face what his reaction had been to her nakedness, nor could she recall how he’d looked then. The absence of answers was exceedingly frustrating.

“You need not feel guilty,” she said. “I do not blame you; I’m sure I would have done the same. I was only curious, as it would have been a very strange dream to have.”

Harry smiled with only the corners of his mouth. “Indeed…it would.”

A long silence followed, full of heavy thoughts on both sides.

“I had a letter from Mr. Weasley this morning,” Harry announced without any attempt at some segue. “He and his family send wishes of your good health. His mother also sent along an interesting message for me.”

Hermione only raised her eyebrow, waiting for some criticism to come, as Mrs. Weasley was often as bad as her daughter.

“She tells me that as the owner of such a fine estate, it would be reprehensible of me not to hold a ball here. What do you think?”

“I had not considered the notion,” Hermione replied. “While I think Mrs. Weasley perhaps has too high an opinion of balls in general, it is the custom of the wealthy to host such events, and it would do you no discredit. If you would like to hold a ball, I should not object.”

“But do you feel your strength is equal to the task?” Harry asked. “The burden of hostess is not light.”

Hermione scowled. “My strength is the same as it has always been, Harry. I’m perfectly well, and I should very much like some activity other than lying in bed to occupy my time.”

She watched him fight a smile. “Very well then. We should get to work on the guest list soon.”

“Now is as good a time as any,” Hermione replied.

Harry gave her a measuring stare, and finally rolled his eyes. “Very well. Get dressed and meet me in the library.”

~

The guest list was quickly decided upon. All of the local wizarding families were to be invited, along with many friends and acquaintances from their days at Hogwarts. Her mother and father would be staying on for the occasion, and the two youngest Weasleys would be invited to stay at Godric’s Hollow, as well as their particular friends Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom. Mr. Longbottom had been in their year in school, and Miss Lovegood a year younger. She would only be able to attend because the ball would take place before the term started.

The flurry of planning that commenced shortly afterward was enough to keep Hermione’s mind thoroughly occupied. Harry helped a great deal, but having attended very few balls in his life, he had very little idea what went into one. Thus, Hermione had to do the detailed work, and though she’d always thought balls a little frivolous, she found the planning of one rather entertaining.

Quickly, invitations were sent, and Hermione set about obtaining an orchestra, having the ballroom floor polished, choosing the foods to be served, and deciding other such vital matters to a good ball.

The date was set for the end of August, and left Hermione perhaps inadequate time to have the perfect gown constructed for the occasion – not that she was the sort of woman to worry much about her appearance. In this case, however, she had a very small audience in mind, and that was her husband. She desired him, at least, to see her in full splendor, and perhaps rethink the platonic nature of their marriage.

With her mother’s assistance and a very good seamstress, Hermione obtained a dress of light blue silk, which flattered her complexion very well, and was designed in such a way to show her figure to great effect. All in all, Hermione was quite satisfied with the ensemble.

The day of the ball approached quickly, and soon it was only three days before the ball, when Mr. and Miss Weasley arrived, followed the next day by Mr. Longbottom and Miss Lovegood. Hermione only felt uncomfortable at having Miss Weasley in her home, but she did not think the young lady bold enough to search out her husband’s rooms, nor did she think her husband low enough to accept an advance of that nature, so she slept relatively easily, given the anxiety she felt about the approaching ball.

The day before the ball would take place saw perhaps one of the oddest breakfasts Godric’s Hollow had seen in its long history. At one end of the table, Mr. Weasley was conversing with the Grangers, inquiring as to the many ways in which non-magical folk managed daily tasks. Mr. Longbottom, being a shy, bumbling sort of fellow, was listening quietly to this conversation.

Next to Mr. Weasley sat Miss Lovegood, with Miss Weasley across from her and Harry at her other side. Hermione seated herself next to Miss Weasley, preferring the unpleasant act of being near her than letting the girl any closer to her husband.

“Thank you so much for inviting me,” Luna was saying to Hermione. “This is precisely what I needed. Dancing is the only way to get rid of gryffilinks.”

“You’re welcome,” Hermione said, nodding patiently. The girl had always been on the odd side, but she had proven to be of such loyal and steady character that Hermione could not help liking her.

Miss Weasley was, of course, using the opportunity to attempt to attract Harry’s attention, but he thwarted her plans by engaging himself in the conversation between Hermione and Miss Lovegood. Miss Weasley turned to flirt with Mr. Longbottom, who was so alarmed by her attentions that he spilled his tea right down his shirt.

After breakfast, the men went outside to fly, or in Mr. Granger’s case, to watch the three others fly, and the women were sent to the drawing room for their traditional sport – gossip. Hermione loathed flying, but she would rather have been out on a broom than confined in a room longer than necessary with Miss. Weasley.

Luckily for Hermione, Miss Lovegood began talking to Miss Weasley of her typical fantastical creatures, and Hermione was free to whisper with her mother.

“Miss Weasley seems to be quite as shameless as you depicted her,” Mrs. Granger said conspiratorially in her daughter’s ear. “Perhaps you should advise your husband to lock his door this evening.”

Her mother’s harsh words made Hermione feel much less guilty in her jealousy and dislike toward the girl. “I think her father might consider reviving the chastity belt, if only for the safety of the men around her.”

Mrs. Granger stifled a laugh. “I wonder that you invited her at all.”

“Only for her family’s sake,” Hermione replied. “They were always very kind to Harry. I would not insult them by snubbing their daughter, much as I might like to.”

Her mother smiled. “Well, if it is any consolation, your husband seems to feel as much distaste for her as you do.”

Hermione smiled. “Oh, I know. I have no fears on that score. Harry’s much too honorable to ever be unfaithful. I just wish….”

“What, my dear?”

“I wish I knew he were faithful because he’d never want anyone else…because he loved me.”

“And I’d like to know what makes you so sure he doesn’t,” her mother replied, with the smallest of smirks.

~

Early the next evening, Hermione engaged her mother’s assistance in dressing for the ball, and sent her maid (who was being a little too helpful for Hermione’s liking) to help the other elves in their preparations.

Currently, Hermione stood gripping a bedpost while her mother tightened her corset strings.

“Can you still breathe, dear?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, although she wasn’t sure what she was managing quite met the definition. “Tighter.”

“I worry about you, Hermione,” her mother said. “I’ve never known you to be one to work so hard to impress a man – and you do realize the fruitlessness of wooing a man you’ve already married, don’t you?”

“I’d certainly rather not be doing this if I didn’t have to,” Hermione said – or gasped, more like, as her ribcage was now severely compressed. “But it’s him that doesn’t realize he’s married me.”

Mrs. Granger chuckled. “If he’s truly a man, he’ll realize soon enough, trust me.”

Hermione sighed. “You know, when I agreed to marry him, I feared I might fall in love with somebody else, and regret having accepted him. It never occurred to me that I might fall in love with my husband. I should have known irony would have its way.”

“If irony’s truly set on having its way, you’ll probably find out he’s loved you all along and you’ve gone to a lot of trouble for nothing,” her mother said wryly.

“Irony is only that kind in novels, mama.”

“Well, if there’s anything that can work miracles, it’s this gown,” Mrs. Granger said. “Let’s set it to work.”

Several moments later, Hermione stood before the mirror, scrutinizing her reflection. The dress was lovely, a magnificent work of silk and thread, though Hermione did not see the awe-inspiring transformation she’d been hoping for. She saw nothing impressive enough to tempt a man who had yet to see her as a woman.

“Come, dear,” her mother said gently. “Let’s do your hair now.”

While Mrs. Granger was pinning her hair into place and Hermione sat ruminating on the sad beginning to the evening, a timid house-elf Hermione had never seen before appeared.

“Master sends this,” she said, holding out to Hermione a black box that appeared to house a necklace, “and he says he hopes it will do, as he’s not seen your dress.”

Hermione smiled and thanked the elf, who quickly disappeared. Her mother had stopped her work to see what the box contained.

Mouth dry, Hermione opened it slowly to find a dazzling necklace of silver and diamonds.

“Good heavens,” her mother breathed. “If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

Hermione smiled wistfully. “It’s probably from the family’s collection.”

Nevertheless, the diamonds around her throat gave her more confidence than she’d anticipated having when she made her way down the main staircase to meet their guests.

A Most Advantageous Match

Chapter 10: An Intricate Dance

Hermione came around the bend of the stairs and saw her husband in the foyer, his back turned to her, in conversation with Mr. Weasley. Miss Lovegood stood with them – the other guests had not yet made themselves ready – and it was she who gasped at Hermione’s appearance and thus attracted Harry’s attention.

Harry’s eyes first showed shock, surprise – a bit more surprise than Hermione would have liked, to be truthful – but then there was something warmer, deeper, something like pride and affection, and something she couldn’t place…. While it wasn’t the desirous look she’d been hoping for, she couldn’t feel disappointed with such a look.

“Oh, Hermione, you look beautiful,” Miss Lovegood said, and Hermione thanked her, although she never took her eyes off Harry as she descended the last steps of the staircase and took her place by his side.

“All the women in attendance this evening will be dying with envy of your beauty,” Harry said, with an unusual gruffness to his voice that sent a bit of a shiver down Hermione’s spine.

“Thank you,” she said, trying to control the blush that was burning in her cheeks and sweeping down her neck. It was then that she remembered what was around her neck, and added, “And thank you for sending the necklace. It’s beautiful.”

Harry smiled. “It suits you perfectly. I’ll have to employ that jeweler again.”

Hermione had so convinced herself that the necklace was only a small piece of the family collection that she was taken aback by his statement. “You had this made?”

“Of course,” Harry said. “You ought to have something special, don’t you think?”

Hermione might have found some reply, but a very unwelcome voice floating down the stairs, encouraging her to take a firm grip on the inside of Harry’s elbow instead.

Miss Weasley was descending the staircase on the arm of poor, naïve Mr. Longbottom, chattering gaily about some episode that had evidently occurred at Hogwarts, while Mr. Longbottom listened so attentively that he stumbled on a few steps. Miss Weasley was beautifully dressed in a white gown of a quality that had to be well beyond her family’s means, causing Hermione to wonder what mischief she’d employed to procure it. The pure color did little, however, to make Miss Weasley seem at all innocent or demur.

“Why, Miss Granger,” Miss Weasley said, very intentionally, “How lovely you look.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, bristling at those heavy words – partly because they brought to mind Harry’s initial slip of her name, and partly because of the implication that Harry was not, at least in some manner, her husband – “But I am Mrs. Potter now.”

Miss Weasley offered one of her more insincere smiles. “What a pity your dress is rather out of fashion – but perhaps no one will notice.”

Hermione clutched Harry’s arm rather more tightly, but he did not come to her aid. Instead, Miss Lovegood did.

“I don’t know what you mean, Miss Weasley,” she said. “Something so elegant could never be out of fashion.”

Hermione would not refuse any defense at the moment, but she did wonder how much weight Miss Lovegood’s opinion could carry when she wore a gown of a startling pink-orange colour that Hermione didn’t think could be obtained in England.

Before Miss Weasley could find a new way to insult Hermione, Harry stepped in, much to her relief.

“Perhaps you would like to take up your own entertainment while Mrs. Potter and I await the other guests,” Harry suggested, addressing everyone, and reluctantly, they all followed Miss Lovegood, who had taken up Mr. Weasley’s arm and begun chatting about the little known dangers of whist.

“Do not mind Miss Weasley, or anyone else. You look beautiful,” Harry said, once the others were well out of the room, patting her hand on his arm for reassurance. Hermione would have liked to feel pleased, but provoked by anger and insult, she could only wonder if he did not find Miss Weasley’s flame-red hair and slender figure more beautiful.

~

Sometime later, when the rooms were positively brimming with guests, the orchestra took up their places, and the time came for the first dance. As the hosts, Harry and Hermione would be expected to lead this dance, and Hermione had been looking forward to this particular event for some time. While dancing couldn’t provide the level of intimacy Hermione would have liked, it did require some level of physical closeness, and Hermione would take what she could get.

The first dance was up-tempo but fairly simple, the second slower and more intricate. Hermione savored them both, enjoyed every brush of Harry’s hand, every smile they shared, every time she thought she felt his eyes lingering on her. She even appreciated the envious looks other young ladies gave her (although she appreciated them rather a bit less when they moved to her husband).

The dances ended far too soon, and Hermione was forced by the necessity of being a good hostess to surrender him and dance with other gentlemen.

She danced next with Mr. Weasley, then Mr. Longbottom, followed by a long series of neighbours and friends from Hogwarts. Even after they all ceased dancing and took a lengthy rest for refreshment, Hermione had little energy to give to her dancing partners. When another finger tapped her shoulder for the umpteenth time that evening, she turned around with little self-defense – and was thus startled to find herself face to face with none other than the younger Mr. Malfoy.

“Mrs. Potter,” he said, with a smile that didn’t quite manage not to look like a sneer, “May I have the next dance? Or have your charms already ensnared your next partner?”

Hermione swallowed, instincts jumping at the friendly tone in his voice. Malice she could handle in a Malfoy, but friendliness was something to be especially wary of.

“I’m afraid I’ve already promised the next dance to my husband,” Hermione said, hoping Harry would assist her in evading the man, but Mr. Malfoy only smirked again.

“That’s strange. I’m sure I just heard Mr. Potter engage Miss Weasley for the next dance.”

Hermione’s stomach sank as she realized she’d not only been caught in her lie, but also had her best defense stolen by their malevolent young guest.

“I must have been mistaken,” Hermione said as composedly as she could manage.

“Now, you would not be so cruel as to deny me the pleasure of your company for a little while, would you?”

Trapped by politeness, Hermione could find no way to refuse the man, and could only wonder how on earth he had even heard of the ball, as she had certainly not invited him.

Malfoy kept his movements a little too close for Hermione’s comfort, and Harry, at the other end of the lines, had evidently not noticed them, for he showed no signs of aggravation. Hermione could only resolve not to play along with Mr. Malfoy’s game, whatever that was, while she waited for the dance to end.

“Tell me,” she whispered, as they passed, “What exactly are you planning?”

Malfoy raised a delicate eyebrow at her. “Whatever do you mean, Mrs. Potter?”

“I know you’re not here for the enjoyment of the society,” Hermione hissed. “And because you came uninvited, I suspect you have some great motivation to be here tonight.”

The touch of his hand to hers made her skin itch. “And tell me, what do you suspect my motivation to be?”

“Namely,” Hermione said sharply, “to secure yourself as the heir to Godric’s Hollow.”

Mr. Malfoy looked coyly at her, and said with deliberate innocence, “But Mrs. Potter, as of now, I am the heir.”

“Until I bear a child,” Hermione said through gritted teeth, not scrupling to speak of such things with the likes of Mr. Malfoy, “And I’m sure you mean to prevent that.”

“Do you think me so greedy?” he replied, pretending injury. “Why, I only came to pay my respects to my relatives. Besides, you seem to suspect me of intending you some bodily harm. There are much subtler, less messy ways to prevent children.”

Hermione tensed, following the path of Mr. Malfoy’s eyes to where her husband still danced with Miss Weasley. His words might have meant nothing to her had her husband been looking back at her, offering her his reassurance, but his attention was on his task, and he remained completely oblivious to her plight. That fact alone disappointed her more than any of Mr. Malfoy’s suggestions.

“Oh, do not worry, Mrs. Potter,” Mr. Malfoy said, uncomfortably close to her ear. “A woman such as yourself will never want for attention, even if your husband is too busy to provide it.”

Hermione felt the slow prickle of tears at her eyelids and blinked them back, hurt mingling with anger as she went through the last steps of the dance. “If that is an offer, Mr. Malfoy, I suggest you swallow it and choke on it.”

He only smirked as he bowed to her and she returned with a reluctant curtsy. “I do look forward to our next encounter, Mrs. Potter.”

Hermione offered him only a curt nod and walked away as quickly as she could without tripping over her own feet or attracting undue attention. She strode out of the ballroom, through the foyer, and down a dark hallway, where the tears finally began to spill.

~

Harry had never hated the idea of having a ball so much as when, half-listening to Miss Weasley prattle on about something, he’d realized he would have to be the last to leave it.

“…I just absolutely love that dance,” Miss Weasley was saying, “and it seems all the young men have reserved their dances so far in advance that none are free. How silly it is, don’t you think, to reserve all your dances before the ball even arrives! It makes spontaneity quite impossible. And you, Harry, have you already reserved that dance?”

Harry, not sure what dance she was even talking about, muttered, “Er…no, no I haven’t.”

He was trying to spot his wife through the many layers of satin and frolicking couples, but was failing miserably. He had hoped, if he could find her, that he could be excused paying a bit more attention to her than his other guests, but if he couldn’t find her….

“Well, shame on you!” Miss Weasley exclaimed. “Knowing you had that dance free and not asking it of me? Why, you must dance it with me. Come, now, I won’t take no for an answer.”

Harry cringed inwardly as he slowly realized he was trapped. He could not now say the dance was reserved for someone else, nor could he refuse without appearing an ungracious host, even if his guest was being imprudent…and how would it look, besides, if he snubbed his own houseguest?

Accepting the inevitable, Harry replied, “Of course, I should be happy to oblige.”

Reluctantly, Harry followed Miss Weasley to the floor.

No sooner did the dance begin than Miss Weasley began to talk.

“Are you quite happy in your marriage, Harry?”

Harry winced instinctively at her impropriety. “Yes, I’m very happy, Miss Weasley,” he replied, with a great deal of emphasis on the Miss Weasley.

“Well, I am glad,” she said with a slight laugh. “Nothing’s worse than a bad match. I just wish Mrs. Potter were as happy.”

Harry almost stopped dancing, her words struck him so. “What makes you think she isn’t?”

Miss Weasley smiled slyly. “Oh, well, don’t mistake me, she keeps no confidence in me. It’s only that now and then she seems rather…discontent, don’t you think? You should be careful…not that I doubt Mrs. Potter’s character, but I think you’ll find that a wife can take a lover just as easily as a husband can.”

He was sorely tempted to walk away at that moment, to abandon this conniving woman, but he knew he could not and instead remained resolutely silent and did his best to ignore Miss Weasley.

“Why, would you look at that,” Miss Weasley said as the dance was about to end. “It looks like she’s having her first lover’s quarrel now.”

Harry followed her eyes to his wife, who looked ready to cry, and looked across to her partner, who, to his extreme surprise, turned out to be none other than Mr. Malfoy.

Harry knew his wife to be well above what Miss Weasley suggested, but he did wonder how Mr. Malfoy had gained entrance to his house, and what he might have done to his wife to send her running out of the room, as she did now, with tears in her eyes.

Harry gave a brisk bow to Miss Weasley and a muttered, “Excuse me,” before following after his wife.

The foyer was empty when he stepped into it, and he did not quite know where his wife would go this evening. He started with the library, knowing she was wont to hide there when upset – well, she was wont to hide there whatever the circumstance – but he could not find her among the stacks. He tried the corridors to the back of the house, but saw no sign of her.

By the time he returned to the foyer, he found her there, standing as composedly and calmly as-you-please, hands folded in front of her as she caught sight of him.

“There you are,” she said, as if she’d been the one scouring the house for him. “Some of ours guests are preparing to leave. We must see them off.”

Harry could still see traces of tears in her eyes, but decided to say nothing until they could speak privately.

As Hermione had said, their guests were preparing to leave, and over the course of an hour and a half, they bid goodbye to all but their houseguests. Mr. Malfoy never did make another appearance, and Harry worried that he might still be in the house, intending some harm to him or his wife, but Hermione seemed thoroughly unconcerned. Harry took this as a sign, at least, that Malfoy had not done immediate harm to her, and relaxed slightly as they said goodnight to the Weasleys, Miss Lovegood, and Mr. Longbottom.

Harry turned to speak to his wife, but found that she was already halfway up the stairs and not looking back at all. Deeply unsettled, Harry called a trusted house-elf to give him his final orders for the night, particularly to search the house for any unwanted Malfoys, and set off in pursuit of his fleeing wife.

TBC

A/N: Yes, yes, I know you all HATE me right now (even my beta hated me after this one) but I assure you, it’ll be well worth the agony in the end. Really, I swear.

A/N: I had intended for this chapter to be posted in two versions, NC-17 and PG-13, but I feel as though a great deal of the emotional development in this chapter takes place amongst the NC-17 material, and…well, the chapter’s only 3 pages long when you cut out the smut. So, if you’re uncomfortable at any point, feel free to stop reading; I promise you won’t miss anything plot-related.

A Most Advantageous Match

Chapter 11: Lovers’ Quarrels

Hermione retreated quickly to the safety of her bedchamber. She wanted to be away from everyone, all the Miss Weasleys and Mr. Malfoys conspiring to destroy her happiness, all the sympathetic faces, and most of all, the husband that seemed to want anything but her.

Battling tears, Hermione called her maid to help her out of her dress. The elf worked quickly and quietly, without asking questions, and the elf had helped her out of her dress and undone half her corset ties when a knock sounded firmly on the door, and the visitor entered without waiting for reply.

Hermione had expected to see her mother – no one else would have dared barge into her room, or so she thought – but instead she found her husband, looking to be in such a confused mess of emotions that Hermione couldn’t tell if he were angry, worried, or distressed himself.

He glanced briefly at her in her state of deshabille and then to her maid. “Leave us, please, Tripsy.”

The elf had grown to be very loyal to Hermione, but she would not dare disobey the master of the house, and so Hermione was left to face her husband alone, in her undergarments, no less.

“Hermione,” he said, closing the door behind him. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” she said, turning away so that he would not see any more of her tear-stained face.

“You danced with Mr. Malfoy and then ran out of the room in tears, Hermione. What did he do to you, Hermione?”

“Nothing, Harry. He just talked.” She wanted to enjoy his concern, wanted to tell him the horrible things Mr. Malfoy had said, but at the same time she was angry, and proud. He hadn’t been there when she needed him, and she would never admit how much that had hurt, not as long as she had the façade of a content wife to uphold.

“Then what’s wrong, Hermione?”

Hermione felt the bitterness welling in her stomach, bubbling with unexpressed frustrations, and she lost her powers of restraint. She whirled around to face him.

“What’s wrong? What isn’t wrong, Harry? We’ve been married for two months and you’ve yet to touch me, though I’ve offered myself to you, twice, and in the meantime, we have a guest in our house determined to be your mistress and a relation trying to seduce and manipulate me to keep me from having your child – not that it matters, since you’ll never give me the chance!”

“Is that why Malfoy was here?” Harry asked, and Hermione could have slapped him for so effectively missing the point.

“Yes, that’s why he was here…why else?” She looked at him carefully and then wanted to slap him all over again for what she saw. “You were wondering if I invited him, weren’t you? Oh, that’s rich…I’m not the one who keeps taking Miss Weasley into his house!”

Harry crossed his arms. “Do you think so little of me, then? Do you really believe that I would be unfaithful to you, and within our own house, no less? You know I care nothing for Miss Weasley, and so it doesn’t matter what she wants. She can do no harm.”

Hermione clenched her jaw as she felt tears slipping unbidden down her cheeks. “No harm to you, I suppose, but she’s done nothing but insult me since she came – and tonight, you were too busy accommodating her to notice that I needed you.”

Harry had the decency to look ashamed. “I was only trying to be a good host, Hermione.”

“Yes, well, you must be courteous, mustn’t you?”

Harry took a step toward her, eyes dark, and Hermione took an instinctive step back. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

She took in a shaky breath. “It means, Harry, that that’s all you’ve ever been to me…your wife, remember?”

Harry pursed his lips. “You could have refused me if you didn’t want to be my wife. You knew all along that –“

“I knew you’d never love me, yes,” Hermione said, finding it easier to say the words for him than to hear them. “But I thought we’d at least have a normal marriage, that we could be somewhat happy…but our wedding night has long since passed, and we’ve not once shared a bed. How can this ever be a marriage if we don’t even act as man and woman?”

“I never said I couldn’t love you,” he said quietly, and his voice gave her a shiver and a little burst of hope. “And I thought…I thought I was sparing you.”

“Sparing me what, precisely? Because you’ve not spared me the humiliation and the pain of knowing that my husband doesn’t want me.

Harry stepped closer, reaching out as if to touch her shoulder, but she stepped out of reach. He sighed. “It’s not that I don’t want you, Hermione.”

“Then why?”

Harry came closer, and Hermione took another step back, but the bedpost against her back kept her from taking another, and he kept approaching.

“It’s because I do want you, Hermione,” he said, voice lowering with each slow step. “And that’s why I can’t bear to do it, not if you’re allowing me to out of some sense of obligation. If it happens, I need you to want it as much as I do.”

Hermione shivered, feeling his body heat through the scant inches that separated them.

“You never asked me what I wanted, Harry.”

His hand reached up to her bare arm, brushing her skin lightly, and that touch solidified her decision. She knew what she wanted.

“All right. What do you want, Hermione?”

She wanted to return his touch, but wasn’t sure exactly how she should. “I want to be with you, Harry. I want to be your wife.”

His eyes were bright, intent, piercing. “Why?”

She swallowed, knowing she could not lie to him now, not when they were this close, not when there was only one answer to give.

“Because I love you.”

For a moment, Harry looked as though he would smile, but instead, he kissed her, truly kissed her for the first time. His lips were warm against hers, and surprisingly soft, and the new sensation was overwhelming – but not so overwhelming that she did not long for more.

The hand on her arm slipped down to her waist, and Harry’s lips opened on hers. She could not, nor did she want to, resist opening in return, letting his tongue slide hotly against hers, bringing with it a fresh new wave of sensations. Without thinking, she pressed herself closer to him, putting her arms around his neck. His chest was wonderfully firm against hers as he brought his arms around her middle to keep her there, and she responded to his kisses with nothing short of wild abandon. They were heady, addictive things, and she was lost to them.

He pulled his mouth away, sucking in deep breaths. “Turn around,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

He smiled, almost wryly. “So that I can finish undoing your corset.”

Hermione blushed and turned as requested, leaning against the bed post as his fingers made quick work of the remaining strings, and then it was loose, and she was free of the awful garment. She turned herself back around, smiling at her husband’s darkened eyes.

“What of your clothing?” she asked, tugging lightly on his cravat. “Should that not go as well?”

Harry smiled and she waited for no other response, beginning to undo the useless accessory – she could not look kindly upon it now. His hands settled once again on his hips, and Hermione realized she would not have much help from him at all. Almost irritated, she let her fingers fall shamelessly to the buttons of his coat and undid them as deftly as she could. He shrugged it off his shoulders gracefully.

“If I didn’t know better,” he said, “I’d think you were accustomed to undressing a man.”

“And if I didn’t know better,” Hermione said archly, “I’d say you didn’t know how to undress yourself.”

He laughed, a sound which sent a little thrill down her spine in the current setting, and gathered her into his arms once more. “I’d much rather undress you.”

“Well,” Hermione said, just barely mustering the will to resist such a statement, “I don’t want to undress you. You’ve far too many buttons.”

“Oh, very well,” Harry said, and Hermione leaned back against the bedpost, watching his fingers work the buttons of his shirt free. The pause allowed her time to fully understand what was upon her. Harry would undress himself, then her shift would be removed, and…then they would make love.

She was nervous, she realized, watching Harry’s shirt fall to the floor, but not to the point that she wanted to stop. On the contrary, she didn’t think she could stop, especially not now that she was able to truly admire her husband’s body. His shoulders were broad, his hips slender, and he was neither scrawny nor overweight, as so many young men of the age were. Rather, he was finely toned, and she wondered how those muscles would feel beneath her fingertips.

Harry had removed his boots and stockings, and now, barefooted and bare-chested, his fingers went to the fastenings of his breeches. Hermione tried to brace herself for what she would see. She’d learned a bit about the male anatomy from books she wasn’t supposed to have seen, but she’d never seen more than a rough illustration. She wasn’t sure how different the real thing would be.

Harry looked up at her, his breeches staying on only by his hands holding them there. “Would you feel more comfortable if…it were dark?”

“No,” she said, moistening her dry lips. “I want to see.”

Harry nodded and stepped out of his breeches, and Hermione remained still, looking long and hard at that mysterious thing which separated man from woman. She hadn’t expected it to seem quite so…lively. She’d known, from her reading, what would happen when a man became aroused, but she’d not expected it to be quite so protruding and pinkish and…well, large.

“Will it…fit?” she asked him uncertainly, paying no heed to the blush in his cheeks.

“It’s of no extraordinary size, I assure you,” he said, a small smirk of amusement shaping his mouth in a very delectable way. “I’m sure we’ll have no harder time than the millions of other men and women on this earth.”

Hermione smiled, anxious and excited all at once, and he came toward her again, reaching for her waist. His fingers grasped the thin fabric of her shift. “May I?”

She nodded, mouth too dry to speak, and she felt more and more cool air hit her skin as he pulled the shift up her body and eventually over her head.

She felt the complete exposure of her breasts and her sex, and she was tempted to cover herself, to hide from his intent gaze…but it was that very gaze that made her stay still, because in it she could see appreciation – desire – and that was the very gratification she required.

A brush of Harry’s hand made her shiver. “Do you think, perhaps, we should move to the bed now?” she asked.

Harry nodded, and as she went around to one side of the bed, he went to the other.

“Er…under the covers?” she asked, uncertain.

“No,” Harry said. “I…I want to see you.”

Hermione felt herself blushing again, but she acquiesced, settling down atop the bedclothes. Harry laid himself beside her, and added to the feel of the soft cloth against her bare skin was the sensation of his fingers grazing her stomach, which leapt at his touch.

She watched him as he ran his hands over her hips and stomach, along her thighs and around the edges of her breasts. She watched his eyes rove over her body, and for the first time, his gaze made her feel…beautiful. His compliments, nice as they could be, had never done as much to tell her that he appreciated what he saw when he looked at her. She felt…cherished.

“Hermione…do you mind if I – “

“You can do whatever you like,” she told him, unable to resist reaching up and brushing a lock of hair back from his forehead. “I trust you.”

He smiled and kissed her again, his body leaning over hers so that their skin brushed in the most intimate of places, and she felt aroused like she never had before, felt a strong longing for a man’s body.

Then Harry began to do whatever it was he had in mind, moving his lips from her mouth to her jaw, to her neck, to her shoulders, to her chest. Her breath grew shallower and shallower as his lips made their way first to one nipple, then the other, taking each between his lips, and she jumped at the unexpected sensation that flew from her breasts to her sex, warming her from the inside out.

She was disappointed when his lips began to travel again, but far too curious to say anything. His tongue flicked against her navel, and it was not so much the sensation as the look in his eyes that made her gasp. He looked positively…lascivious, and she rather liked it.

His lips pressed the skin beneath her navel, and his hand gently nudged her thighs apart. She opened them nervously and watched him settle between them, and then, with a caress of her inner thigh, he lowered his head to her center.

Hermione could do little more than gasp as his tongue coaxed from her a new, powerful wave of sensations, traveling up her spine to set her body aflame and cloud her mind. She forgot herself, giving all her attention to the heat between her legs and the man causing it. She’d not known such feelings were possible, had never realized that a man could give pleasure in return – she’d imagined that to be the woman’s chore. But instead she lay writhing and producing incoherent sounds as her husband – her Harry – brought her to peaks she’d never known existed.

She felt her lower body tensing, the heat and sensation pooling deep in her stomach, filling her until the pressure became more than she could bear, and the puddle burst, surging into every vein, and her body fell to complete sexual abandon.

He came over her again, kissing her, and his mouth tasted strange – he tasted of her, she realized, and the thought was so far outside the realm of decorum that it gave her an extra little thrill.

“Hermione,” he breathed, against her lips, and his eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them as he looked into hers, primal, full of some mysterious power that made her want to give everything she had to him. “Can I…are you…are you ready?”

Hermione smiled, amused with his attempt to put things delicately, and she nodded. “I’m ready.”

He settled between her legs, and she felt his hardness against her almost over-stimulated sex as he braced himself on one arm above her and used his other hand to guide his member into place.

The sensation of him entering her was strange, so very strange, but fantastic as well, feeling the hot flesh pushing into those tight folds. He went slowly, breathing heavily, and then she felt the resistance, a feeling of being torn, punctured, and she found herself gripping him tightly, willing herself past the pain.

She’d known it would happen this way, of course, but the pleasure she’d felt had caused her to forget about the impending pain, and when he pushed fully inside, it surprised her.

He held himself still, forcibly. She could feel the tension under her fingertips, even as her body fought against his intrusion.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, head hanging close to her ear.

“Don’t be,” she said, relaxing slightly as the pain began to recede, and she experimentally reached up to run her fingers through his hair in a gesture of comfort. “It’s…it’s starting to feel good.”

Harry kissed her neck, just beneath her ear, and in that moment, she felt nothing but the delicious fullness of holding her husband inside her. Her husband…he was truly her husband now, she realized. He was now her lover as well as her best friend, the man who would father her children, the man she would grow old with…and now he was here, literally inside her – where he ought to be.

He began to move, one hand on her hip, holding her in place, slowly at first, and she finally understood the allure of intercourse. The sensation of him pulling out and pushing back in, however slowly, was shiver-inducing, a tickling burn that filled her entire body with heat.

She watched him lose himself in her, the perspiration on his brow, his eyes fluttering closed now and then, the tensing of his shoulders, the passion in his gaze. Watching his pleasure made hers all that more acute, and soon she found herself gasping…moaning, even, unable to prevent the sounds from rising out of her throat. He seemed to push harder, faster as her sounds grew louder, and then she felt it…that same tightness as before, the sensation that something was building up inside her that could not be stopped, would inevitably burst if he didn’t stop at once – but he didn’t stop, and this time along with the explosion came a cry ripped from her lungs as she clenched around him.

He gave an answering cry and drove deeper, harder, and then she felt his seed fill her, hot between their skin.

They both lay panting, jerking with aftershocks, and then they were both very still. He did not move from her, and she did not want him to, feeling lethargic and peaceful under his warm weight.

She felt his lips again, against her neck, and eventually he kissed her mouth, and she returned his kisses without restrain. If possible, she felt even more in love with him now, charmed by his skin that was slightly darker than hers, by his earnest kisses, by the way it felt to have him whisper in her ear. She’d always known he was a good man, a great man, and had adored him for his kindness and bravery and loyalty, but now she knew the sensual side of him as well, and could never separate the two again.

As he broke their kiss, he finally moved away from her, and to her great alarm, moved all the way off the bed.

“Where are you going?” she asked, sounding ridiculously panicked. She simply couldn’t bear sleeping by herself after what they’d done, and couldn’t believe he could leave so easily.

“I’m putting out the candles,” he said, looking back at her with a gentle but amused smile. “I don’t think we’ll need them anymore.” It occurred to her then that she was very much exposed, although she was nonetheless intrigued by the view of his backside as he crossed to the candelabra.

Feeling heavy, she lifted herself and turned back the bedcovers to slip beneath them. Harry extinguished the last candle, plunging the room into darkness, and she heard more than saw him crossing the room again, felt the quick breeze and sinking of the mattress as he came into bed beside her.

His hands reached for her, and she went gladly into his arms, falling asleep against his solid chest with the most contentment she’d ever felt.

A/N2: There is still at least one more chapter to come, perhaps two, and an epilogue as well. I hope you’ll stay along for the ride.

A Most Advantageous Match

Chapter 12: Marital Bliss

Harry woke with the sun that filtered through the sheer curtains of his wife’s bedroom. Hermione lay on her side, fast asleep, her hair as wild as he’d ever seen it, and he lay curled around her. The bedcovers were up around their chests and he held her with an arm around her middle. Their naked closeness left his skin tingling.

He couldn’t recall a more pleasant morning.

He really ought to get up, he knew; they still had guests who would be expecting them for breakfast. He didn’t want to disturb her peaceful, sleeping face, though, and he didn’t want to leave this bed, lest he find that all the wonderful things that had happened there were only a dream.

Harry didn’t know how long he lay there, watching Hermione sleep, before she began to stir, murmuring and then stretching – languidly, like a cat reaching out with its paws. He felt the moment she realized she wasn’t alone, the quick tensing of her arms and legs as she twisted her head around to look at him.

To his heart’s joy and relief, she smiled at him.

“You’re still here,” she said, turning her body over to look at him more comfortably. He saw a flash of her breast and resisted the urge to reach out and caress it.

“I didn’t want to leave,” he replied, reaching for the lock of hair that fell into her eyes. He pushed it back, behind her ear. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” she said quickly, smiling with some relief. “I didn’t want you to leave, either.”

It was then that Harry realized she still didn’t understand how he felt about her. Otherwise, she would have known that there was nowhere in the world he would rather be. But did she want his love?

“Hermione,” he began hesitantly, unable to look away from those dark brown eyes, “last night…when you said…that you loved me, did you…did you mean –“

“I wasn’t talking about friendship,” she said with a small smile. “I love you, as a woman loves a man.”

Harry’s heart felt as if it swelled within his chest. “I should have told you last night, Hermione…I love you, too. I think…perhaps I already loved you when I asked you to marry me. I said it was because you were the only woman I’d ever really cared for, but I think there was a reason for that – I think it was because you were the only one I wanted, even if I didn’t know it.”

Her dark eyes softened tenderly, and her fingers rose to lightly trace his jaw. “I would scold you for not telling me sooner, but I wasn’t very forthcoming either, and now…things will be better, won’t they?”

Harry might have smiled back at her, but as he considered her statement, he recalled the previous evening.

“We still have Mr. Malfoy to contend with, I suppose….”

Hermione’s eyes darkened. “And Miss Weasley, as well.”

Harry frowned and propped himself on his elbow. “What can she possibly have left to do about it?”

“Well, she can’t do much of anything,” Hermione said, a little smugly, he thought, and it was adorable, “But I suspect she’s been working under Mr. Malfoy’s instruction. Last night he told me, essentially, that his plan was ‘subtlety.’ His intention isn’t to harm either one of us, apparently, but to seduce me – and have you enthralled by Miss Weasley in the meantime.”

Harry was tempted to jump out of bed and have Miss Weasley bodily removed from the house, but restrained himself. “I suppose we foiled that plan rather effectively last night.”

“Rather,” she agreed suggestively, mischief in her eyes. He had hardly the time to feel aroused by that look before she continued on slyly, “By the way, where did you learn to do what you did to me last night? With your mouth, I mean.”

The faint blush on her cheeks was the only sign of her discomfort in saying the words, and he grinned at her developing boldness.

“Well, Mrs. Potter, you’re not the only person who reads books she’s not supposed to have,” he said, recalling the well-illustrated volume his dorm-mates at school had given him when he announced his engagement.

She grinned back, and he was only slightly stunned when she pressed up against him beneath the covers. “For being such a good boy and doing your reading, I think you deserve a reward.”

Taunted by the playfulness in her eyes, Harry responded with enthusiasm, rolling to pin her beneath him on the bed. Her eyes held his steadily, daring him to take her.

“Just what would the nature of this reward be?” he asked, a little gruffly.

“Something like this,” she said quietly and seriously as her hand wrapped around his hardness. He groaned and dropped his head to her shoulder.

“What have I unleashed?” he muttered, somewhat short of breath, as she stroked him with nothing short of diabolical glee.

“There’s only one way to find out,” she replied, taking her hand away and looking up innocently at him.

Harry considered reminding her of the guests in the house who were very likely wondering where they were, judging by the amount of sunlight streaming through the curtains, but then thought better of it and kissed her, instead.

Her lips were warm and welcoming, and her body was soft and small and delicate against his as he gathered her closer. Though he knew her strength, her smallness in his arms filled him with tenderness and protectiveness, the same rush he’d felt when he’d found her unconscious in the forest some weeks ago. This gentle creature kissing him for all she was worth was everything to him.

She held him tightly, returning his kisses fervently – because she wanted him too, he realized with a little shock. In his mind, he had yet to fully connect the fact that she loved him to this particular aspect of love. He’d never imagined Hermione would ever want him to touch her, or that she’d want to touch him. The concept was somehow staggering.

Harry pulled away and felt her sigh against his lips; the soft warmth thrilled his soul. He held her warm, steady gaze as he stroked the smooth skin under his fingertips, tracing over her hips, palming her breasts, all with trembling hands. He watched the look of desire intensify in her eyes and knew he would never want anything more than to please this woman who looked at him with such fire.

She whimpered out a strangled moan as he worked his hand lower, into the soft, dark curls between her legs, holding himself on one arm above her. He watched her eyes flutter closed, her lips fall open, her cheeks flush. All the while, he felt his own desire grow.

“Oh, Harry,” she breathed, squirming rather tantalizingly. “Let me feel you…I want to feel you inside me again.”

Those words aroused Harry like none he’d ever heard before in his life, and he knew only his wife could say them to such effect.

His response was to settle between her legs and slide into that beautiful, warm place he never wanted to leave.

“Oh, Merlin,” he breathed as her legs wrapped around him and he gave up on thought.

~

They were terribly late for breakfast. Hermione entered the dining room first, Harry to follow subtly after a little later.

“I’m so sorry to have kept you all waiting,” Hermione said to a knowing look from her mother, which she ignored for the moment. “I’m afraid I’m not used to such late evenings.”

“Evidently, Mr. Potter isn’t either,” Miss Weasley commented as Hermione took her seat.

Hermione wasn’t sure if a barb was intended in that statement, but she decided she ought to respond as if it were. “Yes, I think last night’s exertions quite did him in.”

“It was a lovely ball,” Luna said, ending what might have escalated into a civil war, and Hermione was thanking her when Harry made his entrance.

“Good morning, everyone,” he said. Hermione didn’t meet his eyes, afraid of showing too much in front of all their guests, but he touched her shoulder as he passed her and took the seat next to her. The gesture was a subtle reminder of all that had transpired overnight, of what had changed between them. She glanced over to him, finding his eyes already on hers, and she knew nobody, not Miss Weasley, not Mr. Malfoy, could come between them.

“We were just discussing how exhausting the ball must have been to keep you in bed so late, Mr. Potter,” said Miss Weasley, right on cue. Now Hermione felt quite certain that Miss Weasley suspected their nocturnal activities – and she desperately wanted to confirm the girl’s suspicions. Let her know how her schemes had failed; let her know who the real Mrs. Potter was.

“Indeed,” Harry answered vaguely. “Especially since we had a few unexpected guests.”

Hermione glanced quickly at Harry and then to Miss Weasley, realizing what he was after.

Miss Weasley looked appropriately bemused, but there was a stiffness to her expression that suggested its lack of authenticity. “Oh? I didn’t see anyone extraordinary last night.”

“Perhaps they escaped your attention,” Harry said. “I can only wonder how they found a way into the house without my knowledge.”

“That is very strange,” Miss Weasley said, suddenly very intent on her breakfast tea, and Hermione felt all her suspicions confirmed.

“Very strange indeed,” Hermione said wryly, and Miss Weasley threw her a sharp look which Hermione returned in full.

~

Mr. Longbottom left them that morning to return to his grandmother’s home, where he resided most of the year. Hermione rather wished all her guests had left so that she might be alone with her husband, but fortunately, the Weasleys would be leaving in two days’ time, and they would take Miss Lovegood with them to London, just in time for the two girls to be transported to Hogwarts for the next term. Miss Lovegood seemed very happy with this arrangement, although the two Weasley siblings were a little baffled as to how the arrangement had been made at all. That, Hermione mused, was the brilliance behind Miss Lovegood’s oddness.

The afternoon did pass quietly. Miss Weasley evidently decided to forego her attempts to woo Harry and kept largely to herself. Miss Lovegood engaged Mr. Weasley in an intense conversation as to the possibility of flying doing damage to the air, which Mr. Weasley argued vehemently against. Harry and her father had some sort of political discussion, although Mr. Granger did most the talking, as Harry was not an avid follower of non-magical events.

As for Hermione, she found herself sequestered in a corner with her mother, who unfortunately was the source of Hermione’s own shrewdness.

“I take it by your late start this morning that you have finally resolved all your marital difficulties.”

Hermione felt her face grow very hot. “Yes, we have finally understood one another, and I am loathe to admit you were right.”

“About what, my dear?” her mother asked curiously.

“It seems irony can be kind…he did love me all along,” Hermione said with a small smile, fighting not to look over at the object of her thoughts.

Her mother did not seem surprised by this information, which Hermione found a trifle frustrating.

“Did he give a reason, then, for his…hesitance?”

“He needed me to love him as well,” she said, torn between discomfort and the warmth she felt for her husband.

“I take it he was very considerate, then?” Mrs. Granger said slyly.

“Very,” Hermione admitted with a blush.

“It seems all is well, then,” Mrs. Granger replied, smirking. “Well, your father and I will be returning to London tomorrow, I think, but you must be sure to let us know when we can expect the first grandchild.”

“Mama!”

“Oh, and that is when my impropriety shocks you, my dear? You needn’t be so prudish; you are married now.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and made every attempt to change the subject.

~

That night, finally away from all the guests, Hermione walked alongside Harry toward their rooms, suddenly uncertain. What was the correct procedure now? Would they make love again, or would they share a bed at all?

She stalled uncertainly when they reached her door, and he, still moving, looked back at her with a single raised eyebrow.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to stay with me tonight? My bed is exceedingly comfortable.”

Hermione smiled. “I would like that.”

“Good,” Harry said, taking her hand and drawing her nearer, “because you’ve spoiled me. I’ll never be able to sleep without you again.”

Hermione didn’t resist as she was pulled into his arms and his lips neared hers. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

TBC

A/N: Still one more chapter to go, with a little comeuppance for the conspirators and a little more connubial bliss for our favorite couple.

A Most Advantageous Match

Chapter 13: What Goes Around Comes Around

Hermione sighed happily as her husband nestled his naked body against hers. She would never tire of waking this way, of that she was certain.

“We must never have guests again,” Harry muttered into her hair. “This practice of getting out of bed in the morning simply won’t do.”

Hermione chuckled, although she agreed wholly with the sentiment. “My parents leave today, and the others leave tomorrow. We’ll soon have the house entirely to ourselves.”

“I look forward to it,” Harry said, making her shiver as he nuzzled her neck. “I have great plans for the library,” he added, kissing her shoulder, “and the drawing room…and perhaps the dining room….”

Hermione ignored the tremor that ran through her at his words. “If you tell me about those plans now, we’ll never get out of bed.”

“That was my hope, yes.”

She turned over and met his mischievous eyes. She had been wary of that look in their school days, but now it put butterflies in her stomach.

“Well, it is early yet….”

Harry grinned devilishly and drew her against him. “That’s my girl.”

Some time later, more reluctant to get out of bed than ever, Hermione snuggled into her husband’s side with a sigh of complete satisfaction. This was the fourth time she had made love to her husband, and somehow, each time was better than the last.

She wondered if she could be pregnant already. Surely it was possible. The thought of having a child with Harry gave her an unexpected thrill. Before, she hadn’t much considered children; she’d assumed she would have them, as wives were expected to do, but she’d felt little either way about the issue. Now, however, she could imagine Harry looking tenderly upon their first child. If it were a boy, he would teach him to fly and duel…and a girl, he would pamper and protect fiercely.

Unless, perhaps, he didn’t really want children. It didn’t seem likely, but Hermione didn’t want to second-guess him.

Craning her neck to look at her husband, she found him looking back at her. She felt safe in his arms and in his steady gaze. He loved her; she knew that much.

“Do you want children, Harry?” she asked before the question died in her throat.

“Yes,” he said, looking a little wary. “I’ve always wanted a family. And I’m doing a terrible job of preventing a child if I didn’t want one, aren’t I?”

Hermione chuckled. “Yes, I suppose you are.”

“And you – do you want children? You are, after all, the one who has to bear them.”

She read the anxiety in his gaze and almost laughed. “Oh, Harry, of course I do.”

He smiled and a spark of mischief appeared in his eyes. “Good, that’s settled, then.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Hermione admonished, guessing the meaning of that look. “We’re not setting to work now. We have to get out of bed and see my parents off.”

“You won’t even share a bath with me?” he asked, pouting theatrically.

Hermione wriggled out of his grasp and out of the bed, and pulled her discarded nightgown over her head. “Tomorrow, perhaps, but if we tarry much longer, there’s no telling what ideas my mother will get in her head.”

~

After breakfast was eaten and the Grangers had been sent on their way, Mr. Potter decided to pull Mrs. Potter down a narrow corridor and into a shadowed alcove, toward the back of the house, near the servants’ quarters.

Little did they know, they had been followed.

“Oh – but what if someone comes looking for us?” Mrs. Potter protested. “What if a servant comes by?”

“The servants are trained to pretend not to see these things,” he answered, “And if our guests don’t know better than to follow us into darkened corners, I’d say they’re beyond our help.”

Mrs. Potter began to protest once more, but her voice was muffled and quickly faded away.

Ginny peeked around the corner to find Mrs. Potter pressed against the wall, her mouth fastened securely to the mouth of Mr. Potter, who was standing between her legs doing his best to hike up her skirt.

She watched with disgusted fascination and disappointment as Mr. Potter happily ravaged his wife.

What did he see in her? The woman wasn’t beautiful, even by unconventional standards, and she certainly wasn’t the entertaining sort. She didn’t even have a fortune to her name. Why had he chosen her?

It should have been Ginny in her place. She was beautiful and witty. She could have made him just as happy – happier, probably. Why had he never even looked her way?

“Repulsive, isn’t it,” a voice whispered in her ear, startling her, and the only thing that stopped Ginny from screaming was her fear of being caught. “Look at them, rutting like animals.”

“What are you doing here?” Ginny hissed, whirling to face the source of the voice. “If they catch you here –“

“I had to see what progress you’d made,” Mr. Malfoy replied, wholly displeased, “And it looks as though you’ve failed me miserably, Ginevra.”

“Don’t address me so intimately,” Ginny demanded, finding her own back to the wall as Mr. Malfoy loomed over her. She could hear the moans of the two lovers around the corner and her stomach turned.

“I’ll call you whatever I like,” Mr. Malfoy said menacingly, leaning closer. His nose nearly touched her as he continued, “You owe me. I’ve invested quite a bit in your seduction plans – the wardrobe, the potions you failed to use, the perfume – “

“I’ll give it all back,” she whispered, fearing the dark glint in his eyes.

“Keep it,” he snarled. “I have no use for any of it. I want something else.”

“I can’t get any money, if that’s –“

He snorted. “Please, Ginevra, I know you’ve never touched a sickle in your life.”

“Then what do you want?” she asked with growing fear.

He smirked. “What does any man want but a willing woman in his bed?”

Ginny shook her head, recoiling. “No.”

“Oh, so you’re willing to become Potter’s mistress, but not mine?”

Ginny wished she could get away from him. “I’d be your whore, not your mistress.”

Draco grinned devilishly. “I treat all women like whores, Ginevra, but that’s no reason you couldn’t be my whore and my mistress. Now, think carefully before you answer, Ginevra…it’s your choice, of course, but you do owe me, and it could be that some nasty rumors about your family could be planted in some important ears if you’re not careful.”

Ginny stiffened and glared. “You son of a –“

“Language!” he admonished. “I’ll give you some time to think about it – but we will be seeing each other soon.”

He left her quickly and silently, so abruptly that she wondered if he’d ever been there. As Mrs. Potter cried out in rapture around the corner, Ginny felt her stomach clench painfully. How had everything gone wrong?

Mr. Potter grunted his release, and Ginny fled to the drawing room on shaky legs.

~

It was with great joy and relief that Harry and Hermione saw the last of their guests off the next day. They did not, as one might expect, hasten back to bed or desecrate the drawing room sofa.

Rather, they curled up on the sofa with a couple of books and spent a quiet morning reading, while occasionally Hermione would feel Harry’s fingers brush against her neck, and she would turn to find him watching her – and now she was free to kiss him to her heart’s content.

In the afternoon, Harry gave Hermione a dueling lesson, which somehow ended with Hermione atop a library table with her husband making every effort to lift her skirts. Unfortunately, that was when Mr. Lupin arrived for a visit.

“Goodness, Harry,” he said, taking one look at the two of them. “You’re worse than your father.”

Blushing, Harry tugged Hermione’s skirts down with great force, and Hermione refused to look Lupin in the eye for the duration of the visit.

After dinner, instead of staying and chatting with Harry and Lupin – which she usually enjoyed because Lupin was willing to talk politics with her – Hermione fled to their bedroom with a book. Knowing that Lupin knew what she and Harry were about to do in the library was too awkward for her to bear at the moment.

Meanwhile, Lupin took Hermione’s absence as the perfect opportunity to tease Harry mercilessly – it was what James would have wanted, after all.

“It seems you and Mrs. Potter have found ways to entertain yourselves without your guests.”

Harry glared, and Lupin pressed on.

“I hope you’re not exerting the poor girl too much. Wouldn’t want her falling asleep in the middle of training.”

“I’m sure there will be no such problem.”

“Have you considered a bed? Tables can be very hard on the back –“

“We generally do use the bed,” Harry gritted out, face bright red. “We just weren’t expecting company today.”

Lupin couldn’t help grinning. “All jokes aside, Harry, I’m glad you’ve worked things out with your wife. You were obviously well-suited for each other.”

Harry blinked owlishly. “What makes you think we had anything to work out?”

Lupin smiled. “No happily married man could look as sexually deprived as you did, Harry.”

Harry flushed again, but smiled. “I asked her to marry me because we were good friends. It didn’t occur to me until much later that I loved her…or that she could ever love me.”

“Well,” Lupin said, standing and clapping Harry on the shoulder, “I’m glad you’ve figured it all out. If anyone deserves a happy marriage, it’s you. I’ll leave you now; you can go finish what I interrupted.”

He left with Harry’s swearing at his heels.

~

Epilogue coming soon!

Before we start, I’d like to give a big, huge thank you to Bingblot, who’s beta-ed this entire story and been wonderfully supportive. May we have many more ventures together!

A Most Advantageous Match

Epilogue

Harry had never been so terrified in his life.

This was more terrifying than the basilisk he’d battled in his second year at Hogwarts. It was more terrifying than dueling Death Eaters. It was even more terrifying than realizing he was in love with his wife.

Hermione was giving birth to their first child.

Oh, he was elated, to be sure. He’d always wanted a family of his own. As a child, his one wish was to have his parents back, and along with them a horde of brothers and sisters. The next best thing was to have his own horde of children – and now that he’d fallen for Hermione and found in her the most wonderful wife he could imagine, he knew he’d have the perfect family with her. Little bushy-haired children raiding the library and crashing their brooms…he couldn’t wait, and he couldn’t wait to create a second child with his beautiful wife.

He also knew the risks, however. Everyone knew the dangers inherent in childbirth that claimed so many young women, and he couldn’t bear the thought. Losing Hermione would destroy him, completely – he needed her. He needed her beside him each night, to smile at him each morning, to help him raise their children…he didn’t think he could do it without her. Even if he knew the first thing about being a father, which he didn’t, a child needed a mother…and he didn’t think he would ever find a woman worthy to take Hermione’s place.

Each sound of pain or distress from the bedroom they’d set up for the birth, the doorway of which he was pacing outside, unsettled him a little more. He wished he could go inside and be with her to at least hold her hand, but Mrs. Granger and the healer had forbidden it. Birthing was difficult enough, they said, without a man panicking, and he couldn’t deny that he probably would panic at the smallest sign of trouble.

A hand on his shoulder interrupted his pacing. Harry turned to see Lupin smiling amusedly at him. “Relax, Harry,” he said. “She’s a strong woman – she’ll be just fine.”

Harry sighed and nodded. “I keep telling myself that, but I can’t help worrying.”

“Your father was the same way,” Lupin said. “Even Sirius’s special firewhiskey couldn’t calm him down.”

Harry laughed. “Special?”

“Intensified, of course,” Lupin grinned.

A sharp cry from Hermione caused Harry to turn toward the door, blanching. Lupin patted him on the back. “Try to remain calm.”

Needless to say, Harry was anything but calm as Hermione’s sounds of pain intensified minute by minute. He was about to burst through the door and demand to know who was torturing his wife when another cry stopped him – a different kind of cry. A baby’s cry.

Harry rushed in the door, and then immediately regretted it. The bed was a bloody mess and the healer was holding up a strange, purplish, gunk-covered creature.

“A girl,” the healer announced to the room at large, and Harry finally met his tired wife’s eyes.

Her lids were drooping and her brow and hair were drenched with sweat, but a quiet joy filled her eyes, and it touched his soul. He didn’t know it was possible, but he loved her more than ever.

He hurried to Hermione’s side and kissed her soundly, in spite of the presence of the healer and Mrs. Granger. She smiled at him. “We have a daughter.”

Harry grinned. “So we do. You’re amazing, Hermione.”

She let out a shaky laugh as he helped her sit up. “I’m sorry I didn’t give you an heir, though. Next time, perhaps.”

“Actually,” Harry said as she leaned against him, “I managed to change the clause entailing the estate away from the female line. It doesn’t matter if we have ten daughters; the estate will stay with them.”

Hermione beamed at him, but then her smile turned wry. “I hope you know I don’t intend to have ten of anything.”

Harry laughed, but was distracted as the healer approached with the newly-cleaned child bundled in a fresh blanket. Hermione took her gratefully, cradling her head with infinite tenderness. Harry felt his heart clench as he watched his wife and daughter – his family.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Hermione said quietly, angling herself so that Harry could see the baby better.

“She is,” Harry said, looking down at the tiny face. She was sleeping already, evidently exhausted from being born – for which he couldn’t blame her. Her head boasted a riot of fuzzy, dark brown curls. He could already tell that she would have Hermione’s pert little nose, and he wondered what color eyes she would have. Her mouth moved absently and her tiny fingers flexed against the edge of the blanket.

“What shall we call her?” Hermione asked, her voice tight with unshed tears. He knew his voice would sound the same.

“I don’t know. I think she needs a name as pretty as she is.”

Hermione stroked her small hand absently. “What about Lillian? We can call her Lily….”

Harry’s throat tightened at the gesture, and he wrapped his arm about his wife’s shoulders. “Sounds perfect.”

The End

Well, thank you all for coming along for the ride! I suppose I should put you all out of your misery now and tell you…that I’ve decided to write a sequel.

Yes, it will involve some D/G, with Draco perhaps getting a bit more of his share of the comeuppance, as some of you have commented on. :P It will also feature Harry and Hermione’s journey into parenthood and perhaps a few visits from other characters as well.

I haven’t decided on a title yet, but you’ll know it when you see it, I think. Until then, goodbye, and thanks for all your support!