Notes on an Affair

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 1/2

Rating: PG-13ish for questionable morality, theme, etc. and could go up.

Notes: This was requested by a few readers on the Leaked/Fake books forum to rally our spirits while we wait… Well, rally's prolly not the right word, but this fic's designed to get back at some of the Choco and Heron swooming (yes, I just made that word up, so sue me) that we're seeing all over the place.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Also, it's unbetaed… You shouldn't have too many problems, but a second pair of eyes is always appreciated, and all my second pairs are busy tonight.

Enjoy!

XXX

“A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair.” Robert Frost

XXX

Her eyes flit across the crowded room, landing for a split second on the recently engaged couple and she squeezes the hand that holds her own. She turns to her red-haired husband and smiles, and is silently surprised at the effort it takes. He returns her gaze warmly, and then bends to kiss her on the forehead.

“Oi! Harry!” he calls over the din, and releases her hand to walk across the room to join his best friend and his baby sister.

For a brief moment, her eyes lock with his, and she tries to smile again, to show him how happy she is for him, to show him how wonderful it is that he's getting married. Her smile remains trapped in her throat behind a barricade of regret.

xxx

A few days later, it's the four of them. We're four now, she reminds herself. They're at dinner, at an innocuous pub in Cornwall, not far from the house she now calls home. They're laughing, smiling, and drinking. She's having a great time, really. This time she thinks the smile is reaching her eyes. Her husband's arm rests casually around her shoulders, mirroring the couple on the other side of the table.

She resists the distinct urge to alienate the bride-to-be, with reminiscing over something that she wouldn't understand, that she wasn't involved in, something that he would never share with her otherwise. Yet, she doesn't. Instead, she reminisces about Hogwarts, about Lockhart, or Seamus, or that little Creevey boy or someone else that really doesn't matter, but it does the trick, and the three, four, of them are laughing. She takes the time to admire his eyes, so filled with mirth that he's almost crying. As the table quiets and they catch their breath, he catches her eye in just-that-way. She's used to her body's reaction to this look - her heart pauses, her thoughts stop, and she's frozen. The other two don't notice, as the future Mrs. Potter hides her face in his shoulder and shakes quietly with laughter.

Mrs. Ronald Weasley continues to play the part, and shoves the jealousy next to regret and leans into her husband's touch.

Xxx

When next they meet, it's in New Diagon, at Flourish & Blotts. She's in the Quidditch section, thinking about Ron's birthday, but all she can find are things that would interest someone else—would interest him.

And then he's there, standing next to her. She smelled him as he walked up, her subconscious picking up his distinct smell of new parchment (A distinct smell of new parchment? In a bookstore? Of course that's what you smell.). He was fresh, crisp, clean.

“You never saw me here,” she says conspiratorially.

“Never saw you here,” he says, and she hears the smile in his voice rather than sees it on his face. Her skin tingles.

She turns to him then, and looks at him for the first time since he's arrived. He's as he always looks: wild hair, scar, glasses, one slightly crooked bottom tooth, and an imperfect nose courtesy of Draco Malfoy.

He winks at her with ease, something he's been doing for at least ten years now, and she feels herself relax a little, though the air is still humming, and her skin still tingles.

Realising it is perhaps her turn to say something, she fishes around her languid brain for a topic—she wants to ask after his job, about his fiancée, about Dobby, about anything. Instead, they just stand there, and she's itching to touch him.

Breaking the silence, he asks:

“Need any suggestions?”

She shakes her head and turns back to the shelves, idly fingering the spines. “Nah, it's not like this isn't a fail-safe gift or anything.” He laughs and makes a comment about how typical it is that she gives books as gifts.

She doesn't respond to that; she knows it's true.

“Books, however,” he begins, “make excellent gifts.”

She can't help but smile at that. “They do, indeed. I've never received one that I didn't appreciate.”

They stand in companionable silence for a moment or two more, and then he catches her elbow, turning her to face him. She can feel so much through the wool of her jumper. He says something: she doesn't quite catch it, about having to go. She nods, and as he kisses her temple like the brother he's about to become, his crisp smell wafts over her again.

He lingers at her temple longer than a brother would, smiles again with unreadable eyes and walks away.

She discovers she's been staring at the shelves for lord knows how long, and leaves the store, having purchased nothing for her husband's birthday.

xxx

She and Ron haven't had sex in weeks. They weren't fighting—they never fight anymore. What's the point? It's so draining… and to be honest, make-up sex isn't all it was cracked up to be with Ron Weasley. She senses a feeling of triumph on his part when there should be concession. Wild…exciting, generous surrender.

No. For them, it is the work-a-day fatigue and her lack of desire to initiate and/or fake it, she isn't sure which, that keeps their marriage bed celibate, but to be quite honest, she can't be sure he's noticed.

She expects to resent her husband and his lack of Casanova-Don Juan-suave finesse. Yet, she marvels, resentment is the furthest thing from her mind. She finds herself feeling grateful over the whole situation.

She takes that gratitude and tucks it in next to the regret, beside the jealousy. She fluffs her pillow and lowers the volume on Ron's snores with a soft flick of her wand.

She's grateful. Funny, that.

xxx

A month and a half later, they're all at the Burrow. It's Fred and George's birthday, and in true twin fashion, they're throwing the party of the year. She'd been there during the day to help Molly, Angelina, Katie, and Ginny set up. They're expecting over seventy guests for dinner alone, and so the Weasley women cooked, cleaned, baked and bustled to prepare for their favourite pranksters.

The party turns out simply wonderful. She can't help but be reminded of Bilbo Baggins' eleventy-first birthday party, what with the fireworks and cakes and general mischief that the twins seem to carry with them wherever they went. She's smiling and dancing with her extended family, and enjoying herself for the first time in months. She loves this family so much - there's never a quiet moment, and always someone to talk to. Molly's table has been the meeting place for every family gathering, and as children run about the garden, dodging in and out of tables, chairs and legs, she knows it's only going to get better and better now that Voldemort's gone.

She's carrying another stack of dishes to the outdoor kitchen for washing when Molly asks her to head out to the old broom shed for more dish soap, and could she re-check the freezing charms for the ice cream?

Arthur stops her halfway to the shed and starts talking shop with her - This-is-How-Muggle-Things-Work shop. He's fascinated by records, CDs, and cassette tapes as of late. When finally she gets to the broom shed, she tucks inside, just for a few minutes of peace and quiet.

She resets the freezing charms on the homemade ice cream, locates the dish soap, and putzes around old bicycle tires, broken brooms, and jars of odds and ends, lightly fingering them and smiling as she thinks of her father-in-law. Suddenly, the door opens and the amber light of party spills across the dirt floor. She looks up to see her best friend standing there, hair as untidy as ever.

“Hey, Harry, did Molly send you on errands, too?” she asks, as she suddenly remembers she's not supposed to be dawdling and actually supposed to be returning to the party.

“No,” he laughs. It has a rich quality, like warm ochre mead. “I think that Sampson and Lynda have driven me into hiding.” George's children thought that it was quite possible that Harry hung the moon.

“Oh, come on, now… You know you like it. They adore you.”

“Well, I can be, you know, adorable at times,” he shrugs, suddenly self-conscious, she's surprised to realise.

“Oh, rubbish, Harry Potter, you're more than adorable, and you know it.” She stands next to him, both of them leaning against a table that she knows is held together by magic. He doesn't say anything, but she can feel his smirk in the darkness, so she bumps him with her hip. “You know it!”

“All the girls think so,” he admits finally. She laughs at his sudden ego, and they're hip-to-hip, shoulder-to-shoulder in the dark.

They carry on in this vein for a few moments longer, when she can't help it any longer. She had been picking up on little signs all day that he has been having an off day with his fiancée—she figured this broom shed escape was a little more than just escaping some four year olds.

“You and Gin okay?” she asks, mastering the art of casual, and she shoves the tiny, jealous hope that all is not well down past every other feeling she's been hoarding.

He doesn't answer her, so she turns to him and repeats her question. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head.

“Hermione,” his voice resonates, “I can't be better. I honestly cannot think of one more way my life could be better. I lost everything I had, and now I have it all back. I have you, Ron, and Ginny…” he trails off, losing steam.

She nods, knowing where he's going because they've been there before, and she takes his hand in the dark. He threads his fingers through hers in their old pattern, waiting for what he must know she is going to say.

“It's all right to feel a little guilty, Harry… It's not all right to dwell on it. So many people made the same sacrifice you did - it's just that their numbers came up first. You've been given such a precious gift—” she spiels, but is cut off.

“Guilt is different than regret, though,” he huffs. This is new, and it makes her happy because maybe it means he will get to heal a little more tonight.

“That's true,” she begins, choosing her words carefully. “Guilt indicates that you've done something wrong, or something you should be ashamed of. But what do you regret?”

He goes on to list things he never said, things he could have done, should have done, never took the chance to do, and now it was too late. She couldn't let him go on, waxing miserable like that.

“Regret is for people who live in the past, Harry. You have an opportunity to make the choice to have no regrets from here on out,” she says softly, hoping she's helping.

He thinks about what she said for a moment, and she wills him to forgive himself, if only for a little while. He smiles brilliantly. “Hermione, you always say what I need to hear, you know that?” He brings one hand up to her face and strokes her cheek, a gesture of thanks.

She blushes looks down. “I have my moments,” she replies reluctantly. He pulls her chin up to look at her again. She can see the lights of the party reflected in his glasses, the muted sounds of celebration trickle through the dusty windowpane.

“No regrets, yeah?” she asks, driving the point home.

His eyes flicker away from hers, down to her lips, and suddenly the air in the broom shed becomes very close. She pulls in a preparatory breath for what she knows is about to happen, and she can't process that it's supposed to be wrong.

His warm lips play over hers as his breath brushes her cheek as softly as his fingers had a moment before. Too shocked to even remember she's not available, and neither is he, she allows his gentle ministrations.

Regrets are for people who live in the past, she chides herself, and in an instant, she knows what has been bothering her for the last few years, she knows why she and Ron are better friends than lovers, she knows why he's doing this now, and why she's letting it happen. She missed the first train, and she's not going to miss this one.

Giving into the temptation, she lets go of his hand and places hers over his pounding heart. Taking in a deep breath, she catches the windblown smell of grass in his hair, which she currently is clutching with her other hand. She is pressed against the table, and he deepens the kiss they should have shared years ago, perhaps even back in the common room, that fateful Quidditch Saturday. She realises now that that was the mistake… Not hexing Ginny Weasley to kingdom come.

She feels his growl rather than hears it, deep in his chest, beneath her fingers. Pressing into her, she is satisfied to know it's more than a one-sided attraction—there's no questioning it. Breaking away for air, she rests her forehead against his shoulder, and he occupies himself with her neck, clutching her body to his tightly as he tastes and nips and discovers.

The magically supported table's support suddenly gives out as he thrusts and presses against her so hard that the edge of the table makes her arse hurt. The crash that follows it is enough to break them apart—his glasses skewed, her face flushed, both panting and avoiding each other's eyes.

True to form, she flicks her wand, and the table reasserts itself, as if what had happened just hadn't. A quick look out the shed window shows that no one heard the commotion over the Filibuster Fireworks.

“Hermione,” he begins, voice full of dread, “I don't even know what to say—Ron's going to kill me. I… I'm s—”

“Don't you dare, Harry Potter. No regrets. We're adults, we're completely capable of handling this on our own.” She brandishes her wand to emphasize her point. He backs off as red and gold sparks fizzle off the end of her wand.

She begins to pace the dirt floor of the shed, frantically attempting logical thought, I should have done that years ago, years ago… trying to find a way to vindicate what she really didn't want to deny.

Deny everything. That's what Lupin coached her to do when she walked into the proverbial lion's den. If she believed it, then it was true to her, and Voldemort wouldn't see past that. It worked then, it would work now.

“There's nothing to be sorry for,” she says simply.

“Wh-what?” the look on his face is full of confusion. He's surprised she didn't jinx him, that she's not calling for Ron, that she just absolved the whole situation.

“There's nothing to be sorry for,” she says again, and takes on an authoritative manner. “We shouldn't make that a habit, but as far as I am concerned, it never leaves this shed.” That's right, she thinks. Plausible deniability will save them both. She takes a look at her wand and is surprised to see it's pointed at his chest. She lowers it and takes in the picture he makes in this dusty, dirty shed. He's still flushed, his hair is rumpled - he looks good enough to eat. She sighs.

“No regrets, Harry Potter. I don't regret one day or one moment with you,” she says earnestly. “I just don't think this should happen again.” She tries to hide the sadness in her voice—she's supposed to be livid, after all.

He nods his head almost imperceptibly, and squares his shoulders. He heads for the door, and she stops him, with a hand on his arm.

“I should probably go first. Molly will be wondering where I am.” Again, he nods slightly and allows her to crack the door. On impulse, she turns and gives him a quick peck on the cheek.

“I love you, Harry. More than anything. No regrets, okay?” She's not surprised when he doesn't answer her - she wasn't expecting him to say anything. If they ever talked about it again, she would be surprised.

As she walks away from the broom shed, dish soap in hand, she remembers the immediacy in his kiss, and the firebolting reaction she had to it. She's an idiot if she thinks it won't happen again - and if there was one thing she's sure of, she isn't an idiot.

That little touch of desire worms its way to the surface, and as she inhales the sweet scent of the air and trees and grass, she thinks with anticipation as to when it might happen again.

xxx

TBC because I have to go to bed.

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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

xxx

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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