In Her Eyes

Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 15/02/2007
Last Updated: 15/02/2007
Status: completed

It began as a blind reaching-out for comfort, for warmth, to soothe him and dispel his nightmares. But it became more than that... One-shot song-fic smut to Josh Groban's "In Her Eyes".

Chapters

1. In Her Eyes

1. In Her Eyes

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR and not me.

Author’s Note: Written for HP Quills for a Cause. A song fic to the Josh Groban song, “In her Eyes” that was just too perfect for H/Hr not to write a song-fic to it.

For my dear Anne, filkertom and magickira.

In Her Eyes

She amazed him.

She was amazing and he knew that as long as he lived, he would never forget that night. Not because it had been his first time (although there was that) but for the sheer amazement of it.

He had crept into Hermione’s room at Grimmauld Place late one night, having had one of his nightmares where he jerked awake, his heart pounding and filled with terror. And suddenly, the silence and darkness and emptiness of the room had seemed stifling to him. Ron was away for a few days at the Burrow because Mr. Weasley had been injured (not badly but enough that it had roused all of Mrs. Weasley’s fears and she’d insisted that Ron and all the Weasley children come home for a while).

He simply couldn’t bear to be alone, alone in the darkness, alone with his fears, alone with the memory of his nightmare still chilling his heart. So he’d sought out the only other person (and the one person he would have chosen to go to, even had there been fifty other people nearby, though he didn’t think this consciously).

He’d woken her up when he opened her door, though he hadn’t really meant to, and she’d been the one to insist he share her bed, saying he’d get cold if he didn’t.

And in the darkness, he’d told her something about his nightmares, haltingly, of the sense of danger and the flashes of green light and, always, above all the noises of curses and screams, the sound of cold, high, cruel laughter…

A convulsive shudder went through him and she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug, as if to reassure him silently that he wasn’t alone. And for once, he didn’t feel uncomfortable at physical contact; for once, he put his arms around her and hugged her back, vaguely aware that the warmth of her body against his was comforting in some way, that her touch was reassuring. And it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to brush his lips against her hair a few times, his hands moving in small, idle patterns on her back…

She stiffened slightly and he promptly stopped, releasing her, thinking she was uncomfortable and finally becoming aware of how long their embrace had gone on and the fact that they were sitting side by side in her bed, her side pressed against his from lack of space.

He was on the verge of leaving, of apologizing, but before he could formulate any words, she spoke, her voice soft and hesitant but with a note of certainty in it nonetheless.

“Harry, if you want to- to… touch me… you can.”

He stared at her—or stared into the darkness where he knew she must be, since he couldn’t actually see her. He couldn’t decide if he wished he could see her face or was glad of the sheltering cover of the darkness. She hadn’t—she couldn’t have—just said what he thought she had. He was imagining things, hearing things… He had to be… He’d gone mad. He must be going mad…

“Hermione—what?” he forced out in a rather strangled voice. He was dreaming. He was going to wake up any second now…

And then she took his hand and placed it on what was unmistakably her breast.

Oh my God.

His heart stopped altogether, his throat closing up until he felt like he was being strangled. He yanked his hand back as if it had been scalded (and it rather felt as if it had been; he could still feel the warmth of her skin through her pyjama top, the softness of her). His entire body recoiled so much he nearly fell out of the bed.

“What are you doing?” he croaked.

He sensed her flinch and her blush (he’d never known before that you could hear a blush but he somehow could have sworn he could in her voice) but her voice sounded remarkably calm as she repeated, “If you want to, you can.”

“I can’t! We can’t! I mean, I’m not—I wasn’t trying to—I can’t--” he blurted out, frantically trying to backtrack, horrified that she might have thought he was hinting at that. This was Hermione! He wouldn’t have—he couldn’t!

“You’re not asking, Harry. I’m offering.”

Afterwards, he was amazed he hadn’t simply died at those words, shock killing him.

She flattened herself against him and kissed him then, her lips soft and undemanding but somehow persuasive for all that. Persuasive and… and… seductive… The solid heat of her pressed against him, the feeling of her breasts flattened against him (and now that he’d once thought about them, he couldn’t not notice them) and her lips on his—they were all seductive…

He kissed her back, his lips parting, almost without thought, certainly without a conscious decision to do so, but at the first taste of her, he was lost. She was so sweet…

He made one last grab at rationality, at backing away, when he tore his mouth from hers to gasp, “Are you—are you sure about this?”

She didn’t answer his question in so many words but what she did say ensured he was lost. “I want you, Harry.”

He’d never thought his body would react to words alone but it did—he did…

She offered him her lips and her body and her touch and her comfort and her love…

And that was how it started. With a hug in the darkness, with a few kisses and a few words and with a silent promise to do anything to help him, to be everything he might need…

When he needed comfort, she would be there. When he needed a friend, she would be there. When he needed the warmth of another person’s body, the silent comfort of touch, she would be there. When he wanted to forget, a distraction from all the fears and dangers that haunted him, she would be there.

And if he wanted love, she would love him…

Though the word wasn’t spoken between them, she hoped—she thought—he understood.

It began more as a blind reaching-out for comfort, for warmth, to soothe him and dispel his nightmares. It began with tentative, uncertain caresses, with incredulity at every added intimacy. It began with an almost subconscious acceptance of the depth of the devotion she offered.

But it became more than that.

It became a thing of passion, of heated caresses and feverish touches, of softly-murmured words against bared skin, of tenderness and desire, of breathless gasps and moans. It became a haven from all the unpleasantness of the world and the darkness of their lives. It became a quest as he sought and found all he’d subconsciously wanted and longed for…

It became a thing of love…

But only in silence.

~*~

He needed to find her; he knew she was in danger. It was so dark and he couldn’t see…

Panic filled his chest and closed his throat as he ran.

Hermione, Hermione, Hermione… Her name ran through his mind in a litany of fear and worry and increasing desperation.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something pale, almost glimmering whitely in the darkness, and he fell down by her side.

Oh God…

She was gone. (He couldn’t think of the other, harsher word; it was too final, too horrifically grim to contemplate.) A convulsive shudder racked his body as he gathered her into his arms, irrationally trying to warm her or hoping his life would somehow flow into her.

“No…” The word was a mere whimper as he cradled her to him, closing his eyes against the hot tears that were gathering. He brushed his lips against her clammy skin, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids, her lips, willing her to return to him.

She didn’t move. She was gone; it was over. He’d lost her. He kissed her again and again, this time in a desperate goodbye, a last caress…

And then he stiffened, as he heard from somewhere in the distance the sound of cold, high mocking laughter.

“You couldn’t save her. She died bravely for you but you couldn’t save her, Potter. You couldn’t save her just like you couldn’t save your parents or Black. What makes you think you can save yourself? You failed, Potter. You failed and you’ll be next. You can’t win. You’ll die just like everyone else you care about.”

He had failed; he hadn’t been able to save her. He’d been too late, too late, and now she was gone. And it was because of him. Because of him, she was gone.

He’d failed her. And now he’d lost her…

He awoke with a jerk to find his cheeks wet, his heart pounding in his chest with remembered dread and despair and automatically glanced over to where she was lying beside him, sleeping.

He couldn’t relax, was too upset still, the residual terror from the nightmare that had encompassed his worst fears still holding him in its inexorable grip. He sat up slowly so as not to disturb her and just listened to her sleep. He could hear her breathing, slow and deep and even, in the silence of the room, could just see the outline of her profile against her pillow. One lock of her hair was lying across her face and he lifted one hand to brush it aside.

And slowly, gradually, his panic eased, the beating of his heart slowing down to a more normal rate. Just the sound of her breathing could soothe him, he thought in some wonder and with a surge of tenderness. The sound of her breathing, as even and steady as her friendship had always been, he thought, as steadfast as her loyalty and her faith in him… Whatever would he do if anything happened to her? He knew the dangers but now, when she was so much more than just his friend, now the thought of her in danger sent a thrill of alarm so acute it was paralyzing through his chest. Nothing could happen to her—but how could he guarantee that?

He couldn’t. He had to. But how?

~*~

She stares through my shadow

She sees something more

Believes there’s a light in me

She is sure

And her truth makes me stronger

Does she realize

I awake every morning

With her strength by my side

~*~

Hermione was tugged out of sleep with the nagging instinctive feeling that she was needed.

Rather blearily, she opened her eyes, blinking until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The moment she discerned the darker shadow beside her, all her lingering sleepiness vanished in immediate concern.

He was sitting up in bed beside her, not moving, his gaze fixed unseeingly either at the blankets or the floor. Every line of his shadow spoke of some agitation even if her heart hadn’t already told her the same.

It was amazing, she reflected in passing, that she had grown to be so attuned to him that she would wake up from sleep because she sensed he needed her—and if it had been happening to anyone else, she might have disbelieved it. But this connection of theirs was real, somehow, and stronger than ever after these last couple weeks.

She still wasn’t sure where she’d gotten the nerve or the recklessness or the courage to make the offer she had made that night and if even one of the circumstances had been changed, she knew she probably would never have dared say or do such a thing. But it had happened. (Bet no one had expected that to be a result of Gryffindor hotheadedness but it was…) She’d gone to sleep worrying about him (not that there was anything new about that) and woken up to see him and known that whatever had woken him up must be worse than his usual nightmares. She knew how often he had nightmares and never before had he left his room and come to her because of them. And it had been natural, the only thing she could do, to have him join her and she’d felt the tension in his body, sensed his inner torment and it had wrung her heart. And when he’d hugged her, seeking physical comfort and closeness for the first time in her memory, she knew things were different.

He needed someone, she’d known, needed someone to hold him, needed something—he had needed her and that was all she needed to know. (Although, if she were scrupulously honest with herself, she had to admit she’d wanted him; in spite of everything, when he’d hugged her so tightly, her body pressed against his, his arms around her, she’d been aware of a burgeoning heat deep inside her, the beginnings of an arousal which she would never have admitted to.) And so she’d offered him all she had to give, wanting and needing him to know just how much she would do for him…

And that had been the start.

He had been nervous and uncertain, awkward and fumbling, but oh the tenderness of him, the gentleness of him… And now in these nights since then, she’d learned the passion of him too, felt his intensity and his need…

They didn’t always do anything other than sleep beside each other but it made no difference to the comfort of it, to how much it meant to be able to wake up next to him, held by him.

“Harry, what is it?” Her voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, as she slowly sat up as well.

He didn’t move although she sensed him stiffen at her words and then relax almost imperceptibly. It was a few minutes before she heard him sigh heavily, hanging his head as if the weight of it were too much for his neck to carry any longer, and admit, in the barest whisper, “I’m scared.”

She opened her mouth to respond but he cut her off, continuing in a tone of suppressed intensity as if now that the first admission was out, he couldn’t keep the rest of his emotions inside. “I’m scared. I’m scared of what might happen, scared that I can’t do this, scared for everyone in the Order—but most of all, I’m scared for you. I can’t protect you all the time and I don’t know what’s going to happen and I’m so scared of losing you…”

“Oh Harry… It’s okay. I’ll be careful; you shouldn’t--”

He cut her off sharply. “It’s not okay! I can’t afford to be scared. I’m supposed to be the hero, supposed to be the one to save us all; I have to be the one to save us all. And you’ve seen the articles in the news; everyone’s counting on me, looking to me to be the hero, the Boy Who Lived and all that rot. But I’m not! I’m just me—and I’m so scared sometimes I don’t know what to do.” His voice dropped even softer than it had been at the last words until she could barely hear them.

She put her arms around him and hugged him, holding him to her almost fiercely, pressing her lips to the bare skin of his shoulder.

He relaxed into her automatically, letting his head fall back with a sigh. At any other time, he might have taken pleasure out of the feeling of her breasts flattened against his back, but not at this moment with his entire being consumed with doubts.

“Harry, it’s okay to be scared,” she began firmly, not releasing him. “In fact, if you weren’t scared, I’d think you were daft. Fear is natural but it doesn’t mean you’re a coward or that you can’t be a hero. I read once that ‘the brave man is not he who feels no fear’ but that ‘it is he whose noble soul his fear subdues.’”

“Which is all very well but my soul is not subduing anything except my courage, maybe.” His tone was bitter in its self-condemnation.

“Harry!” she reproached him and he subsided. “The important thing isn’t that you’re afraid but what you’re going to do. Think, Harry, you might be afraid but does that mean you’re just going to give up and run away, leave the rest of us to fight Voldemort on our own?”

“No.”

She allowed herself a fleeting smile at the blunt revulsion at her even mentioning the idea of him leaving them to face Voldemort alone. “My hero,” she said softly against his skin and dropped another light kiss on his shoulder.

He was silent for a long moment, so long that Hermione started to wonder if he’d listened and accepted what she’d said. She knew how stubborn he could be sometimes when he thought he was right, or when things very close to his heart were at issue, but she’d hoped he would listen, that he trusted her enough, believed in her enough to take her words to heart…

Then, finally, he asked, quietly, “How do you always know the exact right thing to say?”

His tone was lighter, almost laced with humor, telling her everything but more than that, she knew he’d listened because she could feel it in the decrease of tension in his body.

She allowed herself to smile against the skin of his shoulder. “Well, I’m pretty smart, you know.”

He let out a brief laugh and then turned to face her as her arms loosened. She couldn’t see the expression in his eyes; there was only enough light to catch the barest gleam from them but she knew he’d sobered. “I need you so much,” he confessed in an intense whisper that revealed much more than his actual words did.

Her heart warmed. “I need you too.”

He caught her face between his hands, his touch gentle and yet somehow passionate at the same time, and kissed her, his lips caressing hers and then deepening as his tongue began what started out as a half-playful duel with her tongue that quickly turned into an outright ravishing of her lips. He was claiming her, possessing her, letting his kiss tell her just what she meant to him…

~*~

I am not a hero

I am not an angel

I am just a man

A man who’s trying to love her

Unlike any other

In her eyes, I am

~*~

He had kissed her before, countless times now, and touched her as well, brought her to the peak of pleasure as she had brought him to it—but there was something different in his kiss now.

If it had begun as a simple enough lust, it had become more than that and now, after the terror of his nightmare which had shaken him down to his very soul and then the ineffable, incredible sweetness of her comfort, how she had soothed him, there was an added intensity, gratitude, even a hint of reverence in his need for her. More than purely physical desire on his own part, he wanted to please her. Wanted to show her all he felt, wanted to tell her that she was—everything and all things to him… That he—his mind stopped, hesitated but then accepted what he could not deny—loved her…

He kissed her and he kissed her and he kissed her; his lips never left hers not when she fell backwards onto her pillow taking him with her, not as he moved his body just slightly so he was half-lying beside her and half-lying on top of her, and not as his hands moved to slide down her throat and behind her head to tangle in her hair.

He finally lifted his lips from hers to stare down at her, his breath coming fast and hearing her quickened breathing as well. It was too dark to see her, just a somewhat darker shadow where he knew she was. He wished fleetingly that he could see her but after all, it didn’t matter that much. It was true that not being able to see somehow intensified all the other senses. He would simply have to rely on smell and taste and sound and, above all, touch…

He lowered his lips to hers again but didn’t kiss her, at least not on her lips; her lips were only the beginning point of a voyage of exploration as his lips traced a path down the line of her chin and her throat, pausing at the little hollow of her throat to dart his tongue into it to taste her skin. He knew her taste now, a little tart and yet very sweet, a hint of vanilla (he still couldn’t believe sometimes that he did know her taste, that this was Hermione he was tasting, touching like this.) But any time he might have found himself in danger of thinking this was some anonymous erotic fantasy, he would hear a gasp or a moan or her voice saying his name and he would remember. This was Hermione—and he wanted her…

She gasped, arching her neck as her neck fell back to allow him greater access, her hands moving in restless motions along his shoulders and his back as he moved on, leaving a slightly damp trail of kisses down the valley between her breasts and further down her stomach. His hands moved on their own journey down her shoulders to the curve of her hips and up her sides in a slow, leisurely caress, delighting in every shiver, every hitch of her breath, every sign that told him of her arousal.

“Harry…” she gasped as she reached for him, her hands moving over him in quick, frantic caresses that sent fire blazing through his body.

He paused in his exploration of her body, rearing up on his hands to gaze up her body to where he knew her face was. He couldn’t see her but he knew what she would look like, could picture it, her eyes dark and dilated with lust, her face flushed, her lips swollen and slightly parted. He knew the shape of her body, had learned it with his lips and his hands, the smoothness of her skin, the swell of her breasts, the indentation of her waist and the flare of her hips. He knew it all; he knew her… “God, you’re so beautiful,” he found himself breathing.

She let out a small, incredulous laugh. “You can’t see me—can you?”

“No but I don’t need to see you to know it. I can feel it and I just know…” She sighed softly, just a breath of air slipping out from between her lips and her hands moved to his shoulders and up to tangle in his hair, gently tugging to bring him back up.

He ignored the invitation for the moment and instead lowered his lips back to her skin, kissing her stomach, breathing in the scent of her—a hint of roses, of lavender, a little musky now from arousal and something else that was just uniquely her, a scent that curled gently through his senses, subtly enticing him. (God, who would have guessed that Hermione didn’t even need to do anything to seduce him—just her smell seduced him, her taste, the sounds she made…)

She let out a sound halfway between a gasp and a moan, her hips bucking, and he made his way back up her body, his lips and his hands re-discovering, worshipping, all the territory he’d already learned. His lips found her nipple, laving it (she gasped), nipping it ever-so-gently (she cried out) and then her hands were on him, more forcefully, her caresses almost frantic now, greedy in their arousal as they wandered over his body.

And he forgot that he’d been meaning to go slower, been meaning to prolong this. His entire world—the entire universe—narrowed down to him and her, his hands on her, her hands on him, his lips on hers, his tongue caressing hers, as he surged into her.

He knew the sound she made, the little gasp, as he entered her, the feeling of her tight, silken wetness under him, surrounding him, possessing him…

Her nails dug into his skin, her hands clutching him, her legs around his hips urging him on, deeper into her, and he gave in to his need, thrusting into her slowly and then faster.

Her breath quickened, coming in small gasps, until he felt her slick passage clench around him, her muscles convulsing, as she cried out her pleasure and his name in an indistinguishable sound.

He opened his eyes, staring into the darkness where he knew her face was, picturing her as he knew she looked in his mind’s eye, and exploded inside her with so much force it was a wonder he didn’t pass out, seeing the stars and the sun and the moon and her face…

He collapsed on top of her, his face burying itself in the spot where her neck met her shoulders. He was peripherally aware of her hands moving in light, idle, fluttering caresses over his shoulders and back, as he slipped out of her and onto his side with a modicum of movement (which was all he could muster, given how spent he was.)

She snuggled in closer to him, her breath tickling his throat, and he felt her breathing deepen, even out, as she drifted into sleep and at the last moment, she breathed out just one word, so softly it was hardly audible. “Harry…”

Harry…

Just one word, just his name, but she made it more than that. She made it beautiful.

With one hand, he pulled the covers up over them, his arm closing around her tenderly, protectively, as if to fence out all danger as he wished he could.

He brushed his lips against her forehead with a touch as light as a butterfly’s wing, careful not to disturb her.

His Hermione. She was his strength and his hope, his everything… And he suddenly realized that she’d been everything to him for much longer than since that amazing night, years even. He just hadn’t realized it until now—and now he knew…

~*~

This world keeps on spinning

Only she stills my heart

She’s my inspiration

She’s my northern star

I don’t count my possessions

But all I call mine

I will give her completely

‘Til the end of all time

~*~

When he awoke, it was morning.

Light had begun to sneak in, stealing across the floor and illuminating her form and her face.

She really was beautiful in the morning, he thought. The peace of her expression when she was sleeping, her eyes that showed her every emotion and shone with her cleverness and her passion when she was awake hidden now. She seemed so small, so fragile, as she lay there beside him but he knew her strength and the force of her will. He loved to wake up beside her, loved that she was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes.

“I love you,” he breathed quietly, wanting to say the words, even if she wouldn’t hear them.

She stirred slightly, her eyes opening as she shifted her head to look up at him. “Hmm?” she asked, drowsily.

She was so… so cute when she was like this, sleep-flushed and warm and still sleepy, that he couldn’t help a slight smile, despite the absolute seriousness of his words. “I love you.”

He waited and saw the exact moment his words penetrated her sluggish thoughts in the slight intake of breath and the way her eyes widened ever so slightly as they focused on his, wide-awake now.

“Oh Harry…” she sighed. “I love you too.”

“I know,” he said automatically before he realized it was true. He had known it, hadn’t he? He’d known it from the moment she offered him the comfort of her body so many nights ago; he knew her, knew she wasn’t the type to do such a thing unless she really loved him… “That’s what this has always been about.” It wasn’t a question.

And it was true. This—this new relationship between them—had always been about love, at its most basic and yet most profound level, more than about comfort or about devotion or about need. It had been about love—even before he knew it.

She met his eyes, a soft smile on her lips. “It’s been about us.”

Something about the very simplicity of that statement took his breath away as he stared at her, letting the absolute truth of it settle in his mind and his heart and his soul.

She didn’t say anything more but then she didn’t need to. He could see it all in her eyes, he thought. He could see all the years of friendship that had been leading up to this moment and this knowledge, this faith, in them and in love.

He could see beyond all the darkness and the dangers that still loomed ahead of them, could see beyond to the peace and the safety they were fighting for. And he could not see any fear. There was only faith that somehow, this love they had found would see them through. And if she believed—who was he to doubt her?

He could see all her love and all her strength, the strength that would let him survive.

He could, he thought, see forever in her eyes…

~*~

In her eyes I see the sky

And all I’ll ever need

In her eyes time passes by

And she is with me

I am not a hero

I am not an angel

I am just a man

A man who’s trying to love her

Unlike any other

In her eyes, I am

In her eyes, I am…

~The End~