Only Natural

Bingblot

Rating: R
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 15/07/2007
Last Updated: 15/07/2007
Status: completed

In the end, it was only the two of them, trying blindly to comfort the other. In the end, she was all he had, his only best friend now... One-shot of what might happen post-canon.

Chapters

1. Only Natural

1. Only Natural

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

Author’s Note: This was written as part of a sort-of ‘worst-case scenario’ series where I’m trying to prepare for the apocalypse, i.e. DH, by writing out different ways where I think H/Hr will happen post-canon.

Not quite angsty but not fluffy either. Character death.

Only Natural

“Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love.” -Albert Einstein

He couldn’t cry.

He wanted to cry. His eyes were dry and burning with raw emotion. It was filling his throat, clogging his chest with guilt and grief—but he couldn’t cry.

He stood there dry-eyed as McGonagall said her brief words about everyone who had died—about Ron. He watched in stoic silence as they placed Ron—and the others, Moody, Kingsley, Justin—on the row of marble slabs and as they were engulfed in flames. From somewhere overhead, he heard a long keening song of mourning and saw a streak of reddish-orange—Fawkes—fly straight into the flames. And he recognized Fawkes’ tribute for what it was; Fawkes had accorded all the dead the same honor as he had for Dumbledore. As if on cue, the flames were extinguished and all the bodies—he flinched at the word—that was Ron—were in white marble coffins, very like the one for Dumbledore a short distance away.

He watched all this and he did not cry. He watched while all the while in his head, one thought kept repeating with the dreary repetition of a fugue: it should have been him. It should have been him, not Ron. It should be Ron standing here now, watching as they buried him. It had always been meant to be him, hadn’t it? He was the hero, the one with the destiny, the one with the power. He should have died. In that moment, he wished he had. He didn’t want to be here and know that Ron had died in his place…

He was pulled out of his gloomy thoughts when he felt Ginny bury her face in his chest, clutching him as she sobbed, and he made a move to put his arm around her—when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Hermione’s pale face. Silent tears were streaming down her face in a demonstration of mute sorrow that was a hundred times more painful to him than Ginny’s vocal grief. And he realized with a pang of guilt that he had been so caught up in his own agony over Ron, he hadn’t really stopped to think about how Hermione must feel. Hermione—who was all he had now, his only best friend now…

Gently, he disengaged himself from Ginny, turning her towards Fred and George standing on her other side, and he closed the distance between him and Hermione with one small step.

He put a hand on her shoulder and as if that touch had been the last straw, Hermione let out a sob, turning blindly towards him. He hauled her into his arms, stroking her hair with a gentle hand. Her arms went around him in a fierce hug that almost pushed the breath from his body as her shoulders shook with her sobs. He tightened his grip on her, closing his eyes against the tears that now, finally, threatened to make their appearance. And in some corner of his mind, he wondered how it was that he couldn’t cry for Ron but he could cry for Hermione’s grief.

How long they stood there like that he didn’t know but it was after everyone else had drifted away. Until at the end, it was only the two of them, standing there, holding each other, as was fitting for them as the two people most closely involved with the war, the two who had been closest to Ron. At the end, it was only them, standing together trying blindly to offer comfort to the other even in the midst of their own mourning. At the end, that was all they had: each other.

They returned to stay at the Burrow at first. Mrs. Weasley had insisted (crying over Harry until he hadn’t been able to say no) and some small part of him had thought that maybe, finally, he and Ginny could spend some time together… He had thought that maybe he could find the comfort he needed, wanted, in Ginny…

He found, however, that comfort was not so easily found.

He found that he didn’t want to spend time with Ginny. Some small part of him still cared about her—he did—but her presence didn’t soothe him, almost hurt him instead. Her red hair, her eyes, her freckles—all served to remind him painfully of Ron—but she wasn’t Ron, could never replace Ron. He wanted-- he had hoped for her to somehow fill the void in his life left by Ron but she couldn’t. She didn’t understand. She didn’t understand all he’d done, all that had happened in the past year. She didn’t know how he had changed. She hadn’t been there, hadn’t experienced it in her rather sheltered existence at Hogwarts.

She didn’t know—and he couldn’t tell her. There was a gulf between them now, one that he wasn’t sure he could bridge, one he wasn’t even sure he wanted to bridge (which hurt him as he finally gave up his last lingering dream of returning to those pleasant weeks he’d had with her before Dumbledore’s death had changed everything.)

Being at the Burrow was stifling too. He couldn’t bear to be indoors where everything he looked at reminded him of Ron, of better times spent there. (And always, always, the nagging thought that it should have been him…) He couldn’t stand to see the Weasley family clock with the hand for Ron constantly spinning in a terrible, inexorable, unending circle. He only felt as if he could breathe when he was outside and even there, he couldn’t escape Mrs. Weasley’s motherly solicitude. It was as if deprived of Ron, she had turned all her grief and her love for her lost son to Harry as the surrogate. And that hurt him too.

It all came to a head after one excruciatingly long week when one morning he simply could not bear it any more. He was lying on his bed in what had always been Ron’s room, staring blindly at the walls covered still with Chudley Cannons posters, and he couldn’t bear it. It felt as if a heavy weight had settled on his chest, suffocating him. He needed to get away from everything, from the fame and the requests from interviews (the other thing that was irritating him past endurance), from the Weasleys for all their affection. He needed to get out.

He hurriedly threw what few things he had into a backpack and left to find Mrs. Weasley.

But first, he went to find Hermione, outside as he’d suspected she might be (she suffered the same feeling of suffocation indoors as he did, he knew) in spite of the early hour.

“I’m leaving,” he told her briefly. “I need to get away from here.”

She looked at him in understanding. “Can I come with you?”

He managed a slight smile for her, what felt like his first smile in weeks. “Of course. I was sort of assuming you would come too.” And realized, belatedly, that it was true. He hadn’t thought it but it was true. He hadn’t come to find Hermione to say goodbye; he’d come to tell her to come with him.

The glimmer of a smile lightened her expression. It had been, he realized, so long since he’d seen her smile and the realization made his chest hurt.

It had been so long since it had felt like there was anything to smile about—but for the first time since Ron had died, he looked at her and felt a flicker of life.

He rather felt as if he’d been moving through the days in a haze of sorrow and remorse, dead to all other emotions. But now, he met Hermione’s eyes—his only best friend now—and realized that somehow, some way, life had to go on.

They went to France, to a small Muggle village Hermione had remembered passing through on one of her trips to France with her parents—a lifetime ago or so it seemed, as she said with a small, sad smile.

They found a small cottage to stay in and there, finally, he found some peace, at least during the days. There where nothing reminded him of Ron, there where no one bothered him…

In the waking hours, alone with Hermione, the one person who knew everything that had happened and who understood, he found it easier to breathe, to relax a little. It wasn’t that she did or said anything special; she was just herself—but somehow, that was all he needed.

His nights were still haunted by nightmares but then, too, he found a comfort he hadn’t expected.

It began one night when Hermione crept into his room, saying she had had a nightmare and couldn’t sleep. And it was only natural to push back the blankets and let her stay with him. Because this was Hermione and she was his best friend, his only best friend now, and if she needed comfort, he would comfort her.

She lay down next to him and it was a few minutes before he heard a stifled sob. He reached for her, his arms going around her easily, as she curled her body into his, crying quietly into his shirt. And again he found that her tears somehow unleashed his own and he let himself grieve and in so doing, somehow, he began to heal… Later, when her tears (and his) had dried, they fell asleep with her still in his arms.

And with the warmth of her next to him, he found he slept better too.

It was as if just her presence kept the nightmares at bay.

It started so easily, so innocently really.

She came to his room again the next night and this time, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to speak; they both somehow understood the comfort of being with another person.

They were only best friends but in the darkness of the night, when the fears and the memories pressed in on them, they found they needed the reassurance that another person provided.

In the sheltering darkness, they spoke more openly, more easily, than they could during the day, of the painful subjects they tended to avoid in the harsh light of day.

It was in the dark that they finally spoke of Ron, of how much they missed him—and Hermione finally told him how it had happened. In the dark, she could speak of it; in the dark, he could listen.

And in the dark, slowly, they began to heal until they could remember Ron without tears, until they could smile, even laugh a little, over the shared memories.

It began another night when Hermione broke the silence by saying softly, “I’m so glad you’re here, Harry. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

And for the first time since Ron’s death, Harry was glad that he hadn’t died too. Hermione was glad he was here; Hermione needed him… After all, perhaps, that was why he’d survived… Because she needed him and maybe, somehow, that was the reason…

And he knew he needed her. It was the one thing he was grateful for in all this; he was grateful for her, for her presence, for her silent comfort, for her understanding without words.

“I’m glad you’re here too,” he finally said quietly.

She snuggled just a little bit closer to him and it seemed only natural to brush his lips against her hair.

She brushed her lips against his cheek and then, after a brief hesitation, against his mouth.

And somehow, in the almost dream-like atmosphere, in the soft cocooning darkness of his room, it seemed natural to kiss her in return. Just a light touch of his lips to hers, so innocent, so simple…

He meant it as a gesture of his affection and his gratitude, a sign of how much he cared.

She returned his kiss, turning into him and shifting closer, and this time her lips lingered on his for just a moment.

And somehow, gradually, the kisses lengthened, deepened. His lips were on hers, his tongue meeting hers, and he could taste her and she was so sweet, so warm, so welcoming…

It all seemed natural as the heat from their bodies rose, the temperature climbing steadily higher. It seemed natural for it to become a hard, heated tangle of lips and tongues.

It seemed natural—it was natural, right—to touch her, his hands sliding from her hair down her back and then up again, exploring her body through her pyjamas. It felt so natural to have her hands on his body, touching him, learning his body the way she already knew his mind.

And then his hands were touching, exploring, caressing her bare skin as her hands were caressing his body in turn. His heart was pounding, his blood rushing down to pool in his groin, and her breath was coming in gasps and breathless moans.

The world narrowed down to him and her and her touch, the softness of her skin, the heat of her.

And then he was inside her, feeling the wet warmth of her surrounding him and her hands were tangled in his hair and he was touching her…

And then he felt her muscles tighten convulsively around him and he was sliding, falling, following her into the light and the warm, satiny darkness…

He slept but awoke early, the return of consciousness tugging him out of sleep.

Beside him, her body curled into his, Hermione slept peacefully, her expression one of perfect calm.

He let his eyes wander over her familiar features in a leisurely caress and could only marvel at the peace and even contentment he felt.

He had shagged Hermione. He had touched her as he never had before (as he’d never touched any girl before), had kissed her, had been inside her body…

He paused, probing at his feelings carefully as if poking a sensitive wound, but he felt no dismay. There was no thought of panic; there was only this peace.

Some part of him thought he should perhaps feel guilt over Ginny, over having slept with Hermione when there was still Ginny—but he couldn’t, he didn’t. Anything between him and Ginny had ended long ago, he knew, and he had changed too much, could not possibly continue on with her, even had Hermione not been there.

But Hermione, this new feeling, this tenderness, he felt for her—this he didn’t doubt.

It had begun as healing, as comfort for them both, a light in the darkness—but somehow, he thought, it had become more than that. And it hadn’t been sudden; it hadn’t been surprising; it hadn’t seemed in any way odd.

And yet, there it was. What had begun as healing had become more, had become… love.

And it only felt natural to him. They had been seeking comfort but they had fallen—no, not fallen, that was too violent, too harsh a word to describe it —they had slid, drifted, into love… It had been slow, gradual, but inexorable, as inevitable as the ebb and flow of the tide, as the rise and set of the sun, as natural and unnoticed as gravity…

Hermione returned to consciousness slowly, the awareness of someone watching her tugging her gently back to consciousness.

And Harry’s face was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes.

He was watching her with an odd, indescribable expression in his eyes, a sober expression, a tender expression. He looked at her as if he were seeing the truth of his life.

“Hello,” she finally said softly, for the moment taking refuge in the commonplace words as she tried to understand what had occurred, what had brought that expression to his face.

“Hello,” he returned equally quietly.

For a long minute, they didn’t say anything more, just studied each other’s eyes in the pale light of morning.

And Hermione could only wonder at how it could feel so comfortable, so natural, to wake up like this beside Harry. Because it did feel natural; it felt… right… It felt right in a way that nothing in her life had felt since the moment she’d seen Ron fall.

“I love you,” he finally murmured not as if it were a declaration of anything startling but as if he were stating something she already knew. As if he had said those words to her countless times before…

The words should have been a surprise, some part of her thought—and yet they weren’t.

“I love you too.”

And she felt all the truth of the words to her heart and her soul, as some part of her finally understood the truth of her heart.

She had loved Ron too; she knew she had and some part of her would mourn him for the rest of her life, mourn the loss of her best friend, mourn the loss of her innocence, mourn the loss of her youth.

But she understood now that what she felt for Harry, what Harry was to her, was more than that.

She had loved Ron but it had been the innocent first love of a girl; it had been the rather shallow, blind love of youth and immaturity. He had been her first fancy, the boy who had been her friend and her enemy too in some ways, who had teased her and irritated her but who had also made her laugh and taught her to relax more.

Harry was different. He was her best friend, had always been her best friend. He was the one who understood her, the one she turned to when she was worried or scared. He was the one who needed her…

Her love for Harry was different, just as her feelings for him had always been different. She loved Harry now with the deeper, more lasting, love of a woman. This was the love that would last, that would only strengthen with time, the love that would remain, burning as brightly and as steadily as it was today.

She hadn’t expected it; she hadn’t known it would happen. But she knew it was real, it was true.

It was, perhaps, what had always been meant to happen, her heart turning to his—turning to the understanding she found in him, to the strength she found in him—in a motion as natural as that of a flower following the path of the sun.

And she knew he knew it too.

She shifted closer to him, her eyes fluttering closed, as she kissed him slowly, with all the decision, all the knowledge, that had somehow been lacking before.

And she knew that here, with Harry, she had found her future, the rest of her life. She had found her forever.

And nothing had ever felt more natural.

~The End~