Title: Notes on an Affair
Pairing: For all intents and purposes, it's H/Hr …
Summary: When you marry the wrong person, what do you do? How can you live your life filled with regret? Warning: Affair!Fic - this means that Harry & Hermione are NOT officially together. Part 2/3
Rating: PG-13ish for questionable morality, theme, etc.
Notes: This fic was started right before Doomsday, based off a thread in the Leaked/Fake forum. I completely intended to finish this up in a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am fashion, however my disenchantment with JKR had a lot to do with my non-post status. Also, I believe in happy endings, so don't worry about this one, k?
Disclaimer: Not mine. Also unbetaed. I'm … not a frequent `affair!fic' writer, and I don't know if I'd show this (which is so tame in comparison to what I've read) to my beta.
Part Two
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She's fairly certain after the twins' birthday party that it would be a good idea to lay low, to stay away from wedding planning, to stay away from the refurbishing of his parents' old house, to, in general, stay away. The last thing she needs is to be constantly thrown into his company. Unfortunately, staying away is not an option when you're one of Molly's chickens.
He brushes against her at the cake tasting; fingers graze her wrist as she tries yet another morsel of cake; eyes flicker to hers, letting her know he hasn't forgotten.
At the caterer's, while scrutinizing the benefits of prawn over shrimp, of Shiraz over merlot, and discussing the benefits of an open bar, she reaches for his hand under the table. This is an old habit she's had to break since marrying Ron, and though her spouse is on her left, her fingers stretch until they clutch the hand on her right. As if it's the most natural thing, his own hand curls around hers, and suddenly he's stroking slow patterns on the inside of her palm.
It's not the wine that brings the flush to her cheeks, but in case anyone suspects, she gives that merlot another try. Oh, hell. She can't stay sitting there and not embarrass herself. She excuses herself to the ladies.
What are you doing? The answer to that is simple, the real question is why. She looks sternly at herself in the mirror, fluffs her curls, squares her shoulders and gains control of herself. Satisfied, she prepares to be Mrs. Weasley and steps back into her life.
On her way back from the powder room, she is unceremoniously pulled around a corner, out of sight of Ron and … her, and he's kissing her. He's kissing her and he's kissing her and suddenly she can't remember the wedding where she had yellow flowers and Chinese lanterns and how it didn't rain although it was supposed to and how she used to be so happy.
He breaks away and she can taste him through the wine, little puffs of his breath across her lips doing more for her than Ron had in ages.
"I'm not making this a habit," he says with conviction. She almost believes him. "Hermione." Her name is whispered like she might disappear, that this is some errant teenaged dream.
She gives him a look, hoping her heart is not in her eyes and leaves him standing there. She reminds herself she already had a wedding.
xxx
The Ronald Weasleys have invited the almost-Harry Potters over for a low-key evening for tea. Low-key is something that Ron doesn't do very well. Everyone involved knows it's because he wants to show off the new hot tub he talked his wife into buying. They needed it. Ron loves new toys and imagines happy hours spent with his wife enjoying this new hot tub. He won't admit to himself that lately it's work she spends more time with than her own husband.
xxx
She finds herself pushing the limit just a little, finding reasons to drop by his work. Delivering invitations for dinner in person, asking questions she doesn't need the answer to, checking in to see how he's doing. She knows she's looking for a weakness and wondering when it will give.
It's after five o'clock on a Friday, and the Magical Law Enforcement Office is as still as a tomb, except for his cubicle, where she knows he'll be working late on paperwork. Her husband is out of town with the Cannons, taking a holiday on the road with them. The cubicle bank is dark except where he's sitting, head bent low. She can see the ink smudges on his hand as he fills in the details of another mundane report. Fighting evil just isn't the same after you've vanquished the Dark Lord.
She walks across the room, knowing full well that her curls bouncing at her shoulders and her skirt fluttering about her knees make for a pretty picture. Ron's told her enough times, you turned out quite nice, Hermione, for her to know she has an effect when she wants it. This time is no different. Straightening in his chair at her approach, he watches her like a puma does his prey.
She arrives slightly out of breath, though it was hardly thirty feet to his desk. She tries not to squirm as he observes her keenly, waiting for the precise moment. She leans her hip on the side of his desk, and idly traces over the files, touches this odd, that end and then looks at him. The look in his eyes is almost feral, and she finds she's holding her breath, waiting for him to pounce. He's up like a flash, capturing her face between his rough hands and fixes her there under his lips. She's ready this time, after weeks of dancing that age-old pattern, she blindly pushes papers and quills and bits of things out of her way behind her. He drops his hands from her face to slide them down her back to her rear and lifts her up, breaking their kiss. She hits the desk without ceremony and tugs his face back down to hers, pulling him in with enthusiasm. Her legs wrap around him, bringing her flush to him, heat searing, every nerve tingling and every synapse firing in rapid succession.
He makes quick work of her blouse, pulling it from the waist of her skirt, and slides his hands over her flesh like this isn't the first time he's done this, even if it is. He's not careful or gentle, and she whimpers at the intensity of it all. Fine encouragement it is indeed, as expert hands make even quicker work of her bra.
Her every sense is acutely tuned to him. He tastes like strong coffee, he could use a shave, but not a haircut. She hears the hum of random things in the office, the thud-thudding of her heart, the hammering of his as she caresses his neck, and dips her fingers below the collar of his robes to feel the pulse point there… He's probably not aware, but he's making his own sounds of approval; she crows in triumph, a smile plays on her lips.
She breaks away on impulse and looks at him. The green of his eyes has almost completely disappeared, and she sees herself reflected in them. Is this how he sees her, with wild hair like snarled branches everywhere, a smattering of childlike freckles across her nose, and wide eyes? Her eyes drop to his freshly kissed lips, and her mind goes blank. His lips curl into a slow smile, and his face dips to her collarbone. She shivers as he caresses her neck with the tip of his nose - his warm breath leaving quaking skin as it passes.
"I thought we agreed not to make this a habit," he mumbles, hand kneading the soft flesh of her stomach as the other nests in her hair.
She ponders this. Strangely, she cannot recall saying anything so absurd. Surely not, if he makes her feel like this. "Mmm… you agreed with yourself not to make this a habit. What makes you think this is a habit?" she sighs.
He chuckles; she smiles. "Maybe not a bad habit. I don't have bad habits."
What were they talking about? Oh yes. Habits. She needs to start talking if she's going to hold on to control.
"You're right - studies show that in order to form a physiological or psychological dependence, something needs to be repeated over a course of twenty-one days."
He moved back up to her lips, releasing her earlobe.
"Seeing as," he pauses, punctuating with kisses, "it's been at least thirty-one since I've done this …"
"Then it must not be a habit," she says breathlessly, sucking on his Adam's apple.
She can feel as he tries to choke out his next words: "Must not be."
The next thing she knows, she's flat on her back and he's all she can see: his hair, the gleam of his glasses in the low-wattage lamplight, how his lips have swollen. The way he looks at her, like she might fly away at any second; like she's a Snitch there for the snatching.
"Hermione," he sighs, brushing hair away from her face, and suddenly this becomes more than just a tryst,
more than their personal Garden of Eden, she is more than the Fruit he can never have. She won't name it, but
it's bigger than what they thought that afternoon at the Burrow.
"Harry," she breathes, and his name feels more forbidden than anything she's done so far this afternoon. "Harry… Harry, I…" she falters. What can she say?
She hears a bin clatter in the anteroom - someone's tripped. Someone's coming.
As quick as anything, he has her off the desk and under it. She folds her body into the space and for once is grateful for the cubicle bank. Perhaps no one saw her. Merlin! What if she cost him his job? What if she cost herself hers? Oh, god!
Before she can think much more on that, he sits down in his chair, and she's cordoned off by his legs. Despite the seriousness of their situation, she could make him as flustered as she feels. There's hardly enough room to breathe, let alone cause mischief, however …
"Potter," she hears in a nasal baritone. It must be Nottingham, his slight superior here at MLE. "Potter, what the devil happened to your desk? Were you sleeping?"
"I -" he chokes. She lightly traces the pattern on his robes. It just happens to be right along his thigh. Perhaps it is a coincidence, she smirks to herself.
He clears his throat and tries again. "I suppose I might have been, sir. The Bellimick raid had my team out until three this morning, and you have us report to the office at seven. I heard the clatter in the file room, and I woke up."
Nottingham, unimpressed, continues to reprimand his very best Auror, and the situation stops being funny. Not wishing to get him into more trouble, she rests her hand on his knee, and in the next moment, his hand is holding hers in acceptance of her proffered support. Then, Nottingham is gone, and he slides his chair back.
"You can come out now, madam," he teases. She unfolds herself and he pulls her to feet, resting again against his desk. All seduction gone from her mind, she wants to hold him, and she pulls him to her. He slides forward on his chair and wraps his arms about her waist, resting his head against her abdomen.
She threads her fingers through his hair for a minute, maybe five, maybe ten. She can tell that he's not asleep, but it's easy for her to imagine them in a similar situation. Her mind easily jumps from the bank of cubicles, and places them in bed. She skips over the bed she shares with her husband, over the bed he shares with her, over all that, and suddenly they're in a new place, a new bed all their own. What a mess she's in.
"We're never going to talk about this." It was supposed to be a question; she wants to add, `are we?' but cannot. She knows they can't.
He doesn't answer - what can he say? There shouldn't be a `this,' after all. He shifts, resting his forehead at her navel, and she can feel him taking deep breaths. He's steeling himself. She braces for his next words.
"You should go." He pushes himself away, unwraps his arms from her waist and she's cold. "I have to finish this report." Finally, his eyes sweep up her figure to meet hers. She's not on the verge of tears. She's not.
Standing, he cradles her face in his hands, rests his forehead against hers again. It's becoming a favourite gesture of hers, she thinks. She breathes him in - the finality of his tone has thrown her completely. What is she doing? What could possibly come of this? She can't expect a happy ending. She doesn't have the right to one.
She can't leave that room fast enough. Nodding herself beyond her tears - she's too proud to let even one fall. She refuses to appear weak, like she is the one lacking resolve. She's not alone in what she's done, and she refuses to shoulder his blame for it.
As she moves away, he catches her hand. Daring herself to look into his eyes, to prove that she can, she sees he's torn. It becomes clear that her leaving is the last thing he wants, but he doesn't know how to make it right. She doesn't know either, so they're in a proper fix.
His face softens, even becomes tender, as he reaches under her shirt and refastens her bra. He doesn't meet her eyes as he slides each button through its hole, straightens her skirt and brushes the hair out of her eyes. As he lets his hand drop back to his side, she steps away, afraid for one more touch. She's fragile, and even a look will make her shatter.
xxx
She's crying when Ron comes home from his Cannons trip, and doesn't leave bed all weekend long.
xxx
To be concluded.
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