Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR, unworthy woman that she is.
Author's Note: Written before DH came out, just based on the first vague spoilers, because H/Hr really is the Affair Waiting to Happen. Officially AU now.
And if it seems a little OOC, well, it does to me too, but that's from having to try to fit H/Hr into JKR's idea of them and then fixing it. Expect angst in spades (and you can blame JKR for it) and then a happy H/Hr ending.
The Flaw in the Plan
Part 1: The Madness of the Moment
It started as just another night.
Hermione opened her door to see Harry, leaning against the door-frame as if he'd been unable to keep upright for another minute longer.
"Oh Harry!" Quickly, with an ease born of practice, Hermione quickly slipped under his arm, providing him support as she helped him over to the couch. He tried to help her, she could tell, but was not quite able to, letting out small hisses of pain with every movement.
She made a tsk-ing noise as she quickly summoned the various healing ointments and potions. Her movements were brisk and efficient as she passed her wand over his body, quickly healing the more immediate problems-the gash on his leg, the long, thin cut on his shoulder, the cut on his forehead. And then she started work on the bruises and various other injuries.
She shook her head, giving him a half-reproachful glance. "Oh Harry, Harry, why don't you go to St. Mungo's or the Auror Infirmary?"
"Because I-" he began.
"I know, I know," she interrupted. "You hate hospitals and infirmaries because you spent so much time in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts."
He gave her a crooked grin. "Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?"
She smiled slightly. "I don't know. For that matter, I don't know why I still put up with you, Harry, and your ridiculous refusal to go to St. Mungo's. I must be a glutton for punishment."
"You know you love it, Hermione," he said teasingly. "If it weren't for me, what would you do at night?"
She shook her head but the disapproving expression she tried to preserve was belied by the smile she couldn't help. "Well, I think you're back in one piece," she said, stepping back a little.
He stood up as well, stretching a little. "Good as new." He grinned at her and then added, more soberly, "Seriously, Hermione, thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Hope you never have to find out," she shot back lightly.
He stepped forward to hug her, his usual goodbye hug, which she returned.
He turned his head to kiss her cheek. At the same moment, she moved to brush her lips against his cheek. Their lips brushed, touched.
And somehow, insanely, something happened, changed, in that simple brush of lips, igniting a spark that, perhaps, had always been there just waiting to be lit-and just that light touch of his lips to hers was enough to kindle a fire.
His breath stopped, as did hers, as they both drew back slightly just enough to see each other's eyes, to see the sudden beginnings of awareness, of desire, echoed in the green eyes and the brown.
And it was utter madness but at that moment, Harry couldn't remember any of the reasons why this was wrong, why he absolutely should not be doing this; he just knew he wanted to, just knew he wanted to kiss Hermione so badly he thought he might die if he didn't. And with a half-groan that rumbled in his chest, his lips came down on hers, kissing her hard, in a lush, open-mouthed tangle of lips and tongues.
And after a fleeting second, she kissed him back, parting her lips even further and arching against his body, her hands sliding into his hair, keeping him in place.
His body was already hard and aching with need and arousal and some small part of him was amazed that this could happen so quickly, that she could arouse him so easily with just a kiss, but then she shifted slightly, rubbing her body against his, and even that thought dissipated.
His hands were impatient, greedy, as they slid up to cup her breasts through her shirt, squeezing, kneading, until she moaned and her head fell back, finally breaking the endless, drugging kisses. He scattered quick, hard kisses down the line of her chin and her neck to where he was impeded by the collar of her shirt and then back up again, and all the while his hands continued to explore her body, sliding down her back to cup her butt and bring her arching against him. And he thought he might explode on the spot just from the feel of her body pressing against his.
He no longer remembered where they were or how this had happened, couldn't remember why this was wrong. The entire universe had narrowed down until the only thing in it was him and her and her hands on his body, his hands touching her, exploring her body through the layers of her clothing. She was the beginning and end of his world, all he knew, all he needed-and he wanted her, was dying for her, burning for her.
Her breath was coming in quick gasps and she was the one to take initiative, her fingers moving to unfasten his trousers and shove them down along with his boxers just enough to free the hard, aching length of him. Her fingers wrapped around him, stroking him, until he groaned and thrust forward into her hand.
His hands were clumsy, awkward with haste and lust, but he finally managed to undo the button of her jeans and shove them down along with her knickers, and then he slid one hand to touch the most secret part of her body, and groaned when he found that she was already wet and ready for him.
He wasn't conscious of anything except for her, her hands clutching at him, her breathless gasps against his ear, but somehow, he found that she'd lowered herself to the floor, bringing him with her.
And he buried himself inside her with one thrust and they both cried out at the moment of joining, at the sheer bliss of her wet warmth surrounding him, clasping him to her.
His lips returned to hers, kissing her heatedly, his tongue matching the movement of his hips as he began to move.
And this wasn't about tenderness; wasn't about emotions, at least not then; it was purely physical lust, a roaring conflagration of passion that had suddenly exploded and swept them both away.
And it was over almost as soon as it had begun, as all too soon, she was tightening around him, her muscles clenching around him, and that was enough to push him over the edge and he followed her into ecstasy with one last, forceful thrust and a hoarse shout.
He collapsed on top of her in a boneless heap, his breath coming quickly, his heart still pounding so fast he was amazed it didn't simply pound its way out of his chest. He rolled off of her to lie on his back beside her, trying to catch his breath, trying to understand what had just happened…
He had no idea of how much time passed-it could have been just a few minutes, it could have been days, months, he didn't know-before rationality, sanity, returned along with the stunning, horrifying realization of what he'd just done.
He had shagged his best friend but it wasn't that thought that made him hate himself. It was the other, harsher realization that he'd turned into what he'd never, ever thought he would be, a cheating husband.
He had cheated on Ginny. He had cheated on Ginny with Hermione. Oh God, oh God, oh God. He really was the world's biggest bastard.
More so because at that moment, he turned his head just enough to look at her, seeing the lingering flush of arousal on her cheeks, her lips swollen from his kisses, her hair spread out around her. He looked at her as she lay there sprawled on her floor-and he still wanted her. He still wanted her-and he didn't know how he was ever going to look at Hermione again without seeing her as she was now, without remembering the sound of her breathless gasps in his ear, without feeling her hands clutching at him greedily, without remembering how it had felt to be buried inside her body…
He still wanted her-even now, when sanity had returned to his mind. Even now, with Ginny's reproachful face swimming vaguely through his mind-even now, with the panic of what he might have done to this most precious friendship of his life-even now, he still wanted her.
He didn't know how this happened. He didn't understand how they could go from being simply old friends, from the routine of her healing his injuries and half-scolding him for his refusal to go to St. Mungo's, to this-to the madness of passion that had him shoving Hermione's trousers and her knickers down and taking her on her floor in a fever of lust.
How had it happened?
But that was much less important than the question that now blazed through his mind, setting off a panic, a fear, he'd never known. What were they going to do now?
"Hermione," he began with more nervousness and uncertainty than he'd ever used before when he said her name.
And as if the sound of his voice had brought her out of whatever reverie she'd been in, she suddenly moved, rolling over away from him in a movement that was so jerky and sudden as to be almost convulsive, her hands going up to cover her face. "Don't!" she burst out. "Please, don't! Just-just go away, Harry. Go away and we'll pretend this never happened."
"But--"
"Go away, Harry! Please just go away and try to forget this ever happened!"
And the desperate pleading of her voice finally persuaded him, reluctantly, to listen. At least enough that he managed to stand up and hurriedly put his clothing to rights again, until he was fully dressed again and looking down at her as she lay there, still hiding her face from him and refusing to look at him.
"Please leave, Harry. This didn't really happen; we have to forget this ever happened!"
He stared at her, feeling an irrational sort of hurt at her insistence on denying this, even as part of him knew that forgetting was the only thing to do, the best thing to do-it was all they could do. This was impossible; it had to be impossible. He was married-and she-she was his best friend.
"I'm sorry," he finally managed to get out from the constriction in his throat. And he couldn't help but wonder if those two words sounded the death knell of their friendship.
And then he left.
He left, leaving her shattered behind him.
And she cried. She cried as she'd never cried before in her entire life, not when she'd heard that her parents had been attacked, not when she'd finally seen her parents again after the war was all over and they were able to come out of hiding, not when Ron had died and she'd had to see the way Harry seemed to crumple in on himself and the months before he had been himself again. She cried and cried, harsh sobs tearing their way through her chest as she lay there on the floor of her flat.
She cried for the loss of innocence, for thinking that things like adultery and cheating didn't happen to her. She cried for him, for the guilt and the confusion she knew he must be feeling-all that she was feeling now. And she cried for herself, cried for the truth she now knew. Cried for the way tonight had stripped away her delusions, shattered all she'd thought she knew about her life, about herself.
She cried because now she knew what she'd been denying, what she'd refused to face or understand until now. She cried because now she knew she loved him.
She loved him; she loved Harry, maybe she'd always loved him but she'd denied it, hid the truth away somewhere deep inside the most secret corner of her mind and heart, because he was with Ginny and he was her best friend and he didn't-he couldn't possibly-feel that way about her.
But now she knew the truth. From the moment his lips had touched hers, from the moment she'd first felt that flare of desire, she'd known-and she had no more been able to keep from kissing him back, from touching him, from wanting him, than she would have been able to stop herself from breathing.
She could still feel him inside her, stretching her, filling her, until she could have sworn he was touching her heart as well as her body. She could still feel the weight of him on top of her, the touch of his hands on her body…
And even though she knew it was wrong, even though she knew this was going against everything she believed in, everything she'd thought she'd known about herself and her morals, she still wanted it, still wanted him.
It was insane and impossible and so very wrong-but she still wanted him. She wanted his kiss and his touch; she wanted his passion and she wanted his tenderness (the tenderness that hadn't been in their frantic shag tonight but which she knew he was capable of).
She'd panicked at the revelation when the madness of the moment had been over, when the small aftershocks of pleasure had abated somewhat and she had returned to herself to realize what had happened. She had panicked and she'd sent him away because at that moment, she couldn't have born to be around him any longer.
She didn't know how he felt, didn't know if he still loved Ginny (she thought he did; he'd never said anything different about Ginny) and even though she didn't think Harry could have cheated on Ginny if he did love Ginny, she didn't know. And at that moment, she knew that if he tried to tell her that he was sorry but he did love Ginny, was married to Ginny, and wanted to stay married to Ginny-she knew she would have shattered. Maybe later, when she'd had more time to think, to recover, to build up her walls, she would be able to hear those words without showing him her breaking heart, but at that moment, when he'd spoken, she'd known she couldn't. She couldn't stand it; she didn't want to hear it!
So she'd panicked and sent him away, pre-emptively trying to deny the significance of what had happened, insisting they forget it, act as if it hadn't happened. She had said it, even as she knew that it was impossible for her.
No matter what happened, no matter how long she lived-even if she never touched Harry again-she knew she would never forget tonight, never forget the feel of his hands on her body, the feel of him inside her, never forget the sound of his harsh gasps in her ear and the way he'd stiffened and shuddered and cried out as he spilled himself inside her…
She would never forget it.
She had to forget it.
She couldn't forget it.
She didn't know how she got through the next day. She didn't know how she managed to get through the routine of her work at St. Mungo's as if nothing had changed, as if she hadn't realized that she'd been living a lie, as if she hadn't put the most important relationship of her life in jeopardy. But she somehow managed. She survived, even though she felt rather as if she'd died and come back to life to find that everything had changed around her.
And if she had a tendency to fall into reveries, if she found herself staring into space as she wondered what Harry was doing, thinking now, she always caught herself before too long and pushed all other thoughts aside as she focused on the work at hand.
She discovered a strength-and an acting ability-she'd never known she had. But she had never been so grateful for the day to end and to be able to return home to the solitude of her flat before.
But even her flat was no longer quite as restful a place as it had been. She couldn't be in her living room without her gaze being drawn to the spot on the floor where they had lain last night, couldn't look at her couch without remembering Harry.
She couldn't forget, couldn't imagine forgetting, couldn't imagine returning to their old, comfortable, platonic friendship now when she knew she loved him, when she knew how it felt to be desired by him. The thought of actually pretending that the night before had never happened made a wave of something like panic go through her-she couldn't-she couldn't do it-and on an impulse of cowardice which she would be ashamed of later, she pulled out a suitcase and started to haphazardly pack some clothes.
Oh God, what was she thinking? She couldn't run away, even if she wanted to. She had a job; she had obligations; she couldn't just skip town with no notice. It was crazy to even think it.
Hermione sat down heavily on her bed, irritated with herself for her own irrational behavior and feeling the prick of tears in her eyes (and then was further irritated with herself for even wanting to cry.) It was amazing how off-balance and unsettled she felt, all her equilibrium upset by the revelations of last night. She didn't know how to live without Harry as her best friend-but she didn't know how she was going to live with him as only a platonic best friend anymore either. She didn't know how she would ever face him again…
To be continued…