Disclaimer: Given how obviously AU this is, do I really need to say, again, that I am not JKR?
Author's Note: Again, I wrote this before DH came out and only based on the very vague spoilers (not knowing that the reality of DH would be even worse than the spoilers!). And no, I have not yet read DH. I do know what happens and am thoroughly angry at JKR for it.
Thank you, everyone, who read and reviewed the first part! I hope this second one satisfies!
The Flaw in the Plan
Part 2: The Inevitability of Truth
Harry Apparated directly into Hermione's flat and not to just outside her building and then knocking as he usually did. (He wasn't sure she would want to see him but he knew if he had to knock, he might never work up the nerve to do so and might just flee.) He was nervous, terrified, uncertain, guilty, hopeful-and fighting a renegade flare of heat in his body just at the memory of last night. (The same desire he'd been fighting all day just at the thought of Hermione-and it should have been odd to have lust mingle into his thoughts of Hermione but somehow, it wasn't. He had spent most of his life feeling affection and friendship and loyalty and gratitude and trust for Hermione; maybe, in spite of everything, it was only natural that lust should also enter in to his feelings for her now…)
He hadn't slept last night, had lain stiffly awake beside Ginny's sleeping form, racked with guilt and regret and unhappiness and apprehension. And then he'd left their flat early in the morning, grateful as he'd never been before that he didn't have to go in to an office, didn't have a regular work schedule so he could simply go away and think, try to make sense of the mess he'd made of his life in that one fateful hour or so in Hermione's flat last night. He had flown up to Hogwarts, instinctively seeking out the first home he'd ever known, although he'd avoided the castle and the main grounds, and spent the day pacing the edge of the school grounds.
He had cheated on Ginny-and even though he hated himself for it, it was as if doing so had finally proven to be the catalyst, solidifying all the vague discontent and dissatisfaction he'd been feeling for months now.
He wasn't happy with Ginny, hadn't been happy with her for more than a year now, if he were completely honest with himself. It had been too sudden, too quick, he thought. The war had ended and in the aftermath, when he'd still been grieving over Ron and too numb with the horror of it all, he had clung to Ginny as the only normal thing in his life, the one good thing he remembered from those halcyon days before Dumbledore had died and it seemed his entire world had fallen apart. And he had been grieving for Ron, missing Ron-the Trio of himself, Ron and Hermione had been the first, real family he'd known, in a way that not even the other Weasleys were-and without Ron, he'd felt the loss like he'd lost a part of himself. He had wanted a family, wanted to be a part of a family. Hermione had been there, of course, but she had wanted to spend time with her parents, finally, after years of hardly seeing them and after the last year when they had been in hiding and couldn't contact her at all-and he hadn't begrudged her that. He'd even encouraged her to go spend time with her family and in the haven of her Muggle world, begin to heal, to get over Ron. And he'd been left alone, to cling to Ginny as the closest thing to a family he had.
He had loved her; he didn't deny it or belittle it now. He had loved her then-but it had been the first love of a lonely boy, the first passion of a boy who'd never even imagined being in love before.
And with everyone around them (Mrs. Weasley most prominently) being so happy for them, always exclaiming what a perfect-looking couple they were, always commenting on how they almost looked like James and Lily reincarnated, everything having come full-circle, it had been easy to believe that he and Ginny really were meant to be. That there had been some sort of master plan that was fulfilled in him marrying Ginny. From the first time when Ginny had developed her crush on him-before she'd even said a word to him- looking back on it, it had been nice to think that somehow, in some way, they had been meant to be, even then. It had seemed so perfect, so right-to marry Ginny, to truly become a member of the Weasley family, to become Ron's brother in truth-even when Ron was gone. It had all seemed like the perfect plan.
It had given him a sense of belonging, a sense of comfort, of having found his way, which he had craved in those first months after the final battle. When he had lost his purpose of working to defeat Voldemort (what it felt like he'd spent his entire life building up towards), he had needed something to give his life a purpose-and it had been so tempting, so very easy to believe that Ginny could be that purpose, being with Ginny could be his destiny.
And there had been passion at first-but passion faded, died, if there was nothing more to keep it burning. And he'd found that after the first blissful period-that first year-not even passion had been enough.
There was, he had realized, a flaw in the plan. Because not all the seeming perfection of his and Ginny's relationship could get past the fact that she was-after all-so very young… It wasn't the difference in years-it was the difference in experience. Even in the last year, she had been safe in the relative protection of Hogwarts, had been protected by her age and her parents from seeing and experiencing the worst of it. She was still young-so young-18 when they married. And he-he felt as if he were a hundred years old at times. He had seen too much, suffered too much-and not all the wishing in the world could make him the young, carefree boy he wanted to be.
He'd wanted-needed-something more, something deeper; he hadn't even known exactly what. All he'd known was a growing sense of restlessness, of dissatisfaction.
He'd started volunteering to go on more missions to watch suspicious activity, started working longer hours that required more travel and more nights away from home-not out of any special love of his job (although he did like being a sort of free-lance Auror, the first of his kind, a special status granted to him because of who he was) but because he simply hadn't really wanted to go home.
And, he realized now, he had turned to Hermione. He had turned to Hermione for the peace and the comfort he no longer found with Ginny; he hadn't even really noticed it until now because it had seemed only natural. Of course he turned to Hermione; of course he found Hermione's company to be restful and comfortable; she was his best friend, had always been his best friend.
It was partly why he had taken to going to Hermione's whenever he was hurt in any way. Yes, he did turn to her whenever he was in pain or in trouble; he always had. But it wasn't only that. It wasn't that he was incapable of healing himself; he had learned all the basic healing charms too for the more simple bruises and cuts. But even for those, he still went to her flat. Because he liked seeing Hermione at the end of a long day-or any day, really. He liked the way she would tease him about being helpless even as she quickly and easily took care of him. He liked to see the efficiency of her movements (so reminiscent of the know-it-all, ever-capable schoolgirl he'd known so well), liked to see the slight frown of concentration appear between her brows. He simply liked seeing her.
And, after all, maybe that was the most telling difference between Hermione and Ginny. With Ginny, passion had come first, had been the basis of everything else. With Hermione, years of affection and friendship had come first and passion had come later.
That was really it. He hadn't cheated on Ginny because he was unhappy with her-but at the same time, if he hadn't been unhappy with her, he would never have done it, could never have cheated on her then.
And it hadn't only been lust. If it had been purely physical, he wouldn't have cheated on Ginny either. Even if he was dissatisfied with his life with Ginny, he would never have cheated on her if it was purely a physical thing. He wouldn't have betrayed Ginny-whom he did still care about-for just a physical thing.
He didn't kid himself. He knew perfectly well that if he had only wanted a physical relationship, he could have found it easily, long before now. (And he wouldn't have had to risk the most important relationship of his life in doing so.) He didn't like it but he had accepted that his fame and his status meant that he'd never need to try hard to find a witch willing to shag him. (Even after he'd married Ginny, he'd had to fend off several of the more persistent and unscrupulous of his fangirls.) He knew himself, though, knew that he would never have cheated on Ginny if it had only been about lust.
That was the truth of last night. Last night had stripped away the blinders and all the comforting, comfortable delusions and left him staring at the stark truth. He didn't love Ginny anymore. And he did love Hermione. Loved her with all the intensity and depth of the man he now was. Loved her with a passion he'd never known before-and he loved her with all the faith that this love would last a lifetime and beyond, which came from experience and discovering just how transient passion without true companionship and understanding could be.
He had never been so terrified in his life.
Telling Ginny he wanted a divorce had been easy compared to this. He needed Hermione in his life-he didn't know what he would do without her. And he didn't know how she felt about him.
Did she regret it? Did she hate him now? Would she ever look or speak to him again? And how was he supposed to live if she didn't?
She didn't answer him or make any acknowledgement of his arrival even though he knew she must have heard the sound of his Apparating into her flat.
His heart clenched in his chest. God, maybe she really didn't want to see him again…
He found her in her bedroom, sitting on her bed, and his heart twisted as he noticed the trace of tears lingering in her eyes.
And then he took in the state of the room-and his heart stopped, a tidal wave of panic drowning him. If he had ever doubted the truth of his feelings, he received confirmation in his reaction.
She was packing; she was leaving.
"You're packing," he said dumbly through lips that felt numb with shock and fear and pain.
She didn't look at him, carefully avoided looking in his direction, studying the floor and her hands and the walls as if they were the most fascinating things she'd ever seen, but her cheeks were heated with a fierce blush and he could almost sense her agony of uncertainty. "Not anymore. I can't just leave; where would I go? I can't just run away."
And he understood the unspoken words: But I wish I could-and flinched a little. How had it come to this? How had he done this to her, made her so uncertain and so unhappy that she would want to run away?
He hadn't stopped to think of what he was going to say to her; he'd only come. After telling Ginny and then escaping to fly aimlessly around for more than an hour to recover from the harrowing of his emotions, the guilt lacerating his heart, he had come to her with no thought, no plan, other than wanting to see her, needing to see her, wanting to tell her… everything he'd realized.
"You must hate me now," he burst out. "I didn't-I didn't plan for it to happen. I'm sorry. I know you said we should forget it, pretend it didn't happen but- but, Hermione, I don't know if I can." He stopped in an agony of uncertainty and guilt and pain, floundering around for what to say to her. And that hurt almost more than anything else; this was Hermione and he'd never been uncomfortable around her, never been so at a loss for what to say or so utterly in the dark as to what she was thinking and feeling at that moment.
"I told Ginny I want a divorce," he finally blurted out.
For the first time since he'd arrived, she looked up at him, shocked out of the excruciating awkwardness of it all. "You did?"
"Yes," he said softly.
"Are you sure that's what you want? It's not… just because of last night?" Her heart was fluttering wildly in her chest, hoping, afraid to hope, and needing to be sure. She didn't want him to do something reckless purely out of guilt or something. She wanted him to be sure.
He sighed. "I'm sure. It- it wasn't working; I wasn't happy, haven't been happy, and-and after last night, it was no good trying to pretend I was. I couldn't do it anymore, didn't want to do it."
"Oh, Harry, I'm sorry," she said, momentarily forgetting all her own hopes and fears in her concern for him. She knew him too well to think that he wouldn't care about hurting Ginny, hurting the Weasleys, entirely aside from the guilt-knew how much he still cared about them all. And she cared too much, was too used to caring about him, not to worry about him now, no matter what her own fears were. "Are you okay?"
And somehow, just those words which were so familiar from their years of friendship eased the atmosphere in the room, as if it restored their friendship on some level to what it had been before the passion of last night had complicated it.
It wasn't entirely easy but it was… better.
The weight that had settled in his chest seemed to lighten perceptibly as for the first time, he thought that maybe, after all-even if she didn't love him as he loved her-their friendship wouldn't end over this. They had already been through so much; perhaps they could weather this as well. And that was some comfort.
He took a tentative step closer to her. "Last night… it wasn't only lust for me. It wasn't only physical." He hesitated and then asked, "Do- do you regret it?"
"No… yes… that is, I don't know…"
At any other time, Harry might have smiled at this uncharacteristic indecisiveness on her part but all of this was uncharacteristic of them both, it seemed, both of them feeling their way in this strange, new world now that the comfortable, old one had been shattered. He felt a sudden wave of tenderness for her-he was so used to the Hermione who was confident and knew most, if not all, of the answers and he loved that about her, but he also loved the hidden streaks of vulnerability in her and this confusion on her part was somehow endearing-if only because it echoed some of his own.
She met his gaze fully for the first time that evening, in spite of the uncertainty in her expression. "It wasn't only lust for me either," she confessed. "That was why I panicked so much yesterday."
For the first time, the faintest glimmer of humor entered his eyes. "I panicked too."
The ghost of a smile flitted over her eyes and curved her lips for a moment before she sobered. "Oh, Harry, what are we going to do?"
Harry caught his breath; there was just something in her question, the fact that she'd said, 'we', that made him hope-she'd said it was more than lust for her-maybe, just maybe… there could be an 'us' for them after all…
Not immediately; there would still be a lot of hurt feelings, of complications, of blame and regret and guilt to work through, but maybe someday…
"What do you want?" he asked softly. He knew what he wanted but more than that, he wanted her to be happy.
What did she want? Such a simple question and yet so complicated too-but she knew the answer. Had known the answer since that first moment of insanity (or maybe, in some odd way, it had been the first moment of sanity?) last night. "You. I want you," she admitted.
He let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. "I want you too. I want you forever."
"Oh Harry!" She leaped up and threw herself at him with enough force to knock him back one small step. His arms closed around her hard, holding her against his body as if he would never let her go again.
"Hermione," he breathed against her hair. "Hermione." Just her name which he'd said so many countless times before in almost every tone from anger to humor to affection but never as he said it now, with so much love and tenderness and need. He said her name the way every woman dreams of hearing her name spoken.
And she responded, turning her lips toward his, brushing the lightest of kisses against his chin on the way.
He paused for one fleeting moment, looking at her, drinking in the sight of her-and knew he would never, as long as he lived, forget the way she looked at that moment, her face upturned toward his, her cheeks flushed with emotion, her lips slightly parted, and the look in her eyes…
"I love you," he breathed, suddenly wanting, needing, to say the words before he kissed her. He had already committed himself to her, confirmed the end of his relationship with Ginny in his own mind and heart; now he needed to tell her, declare the truth of his heart to her.
"I love you," she whispered, her breath fluttering against his lips-and then he kissed her.
He kissed her with so much tenderness it almost made her heart ache (yes, this was all the tenderness she'd wanted, dreamed of), kissed her as if some part of him could still not believe that he was kissing her, that this was really happening.
But soon, tenderness wasn't enough. It wasn't enough-not with the memory of the passion of the night before still thrumming through her veins, not when his body was pressed against hers so tightly she could feel every inch of his body imprinting itself on her. Soon, the warmth in her body had been stoked higher to become white-hot heat flaring through her body to settle low in her stomach.
She parted her lips further, sliding her hands into his hair, to deepen the kiss, her tongue finding his, stroking, caressing it-until he made a sound deep in the back of his throat and slid his hands down her back to cup her bottom and bring her arching in against him, making her very aware of the growing hardness of his body.
She gasped, her head falling back and breaking the kiss but he didn't mind, his lips skating across the skin of her cheek to the hollow before her ear and scattering a trail of kisses down the line of her chin and her neck.
Her breath was coming in short gasps, hot puffs of air against his skin, and small moans and other sounds that were a mixture of sobs and whimpers and cries were escaping her throat-and just the noises she made sent another flood of heat through his body and he went from only being firm to being rock-hard in the space of a few seconds. The blood was leaving his head so quickly he was dizzy, dizzy with arousal and need and want-dizzy because of her.
Her hands tugged impatiently at his shirt, pulling it out of his jeans until she could flatten them on his stomach and he shivered, heat arrowing through his body to tingle in his erection.
"Harry," she gasped against his mouth, "I want to touch you." And she suited action to her words as her hands touched, explored his body, slid over the muscles of his chest and stomach.
"Yes," he rasped out. "God, yes."
His own hands hastily, clumsily, tugged her blouse up, until he could flatten his hands on the smooth skin of her stomach and then, impatient at the difficulty of getting any higher, tried to unbutton her blouse. Buttons were evil things, he thought vaguely, as he battled with them, his fingers awkward and clumsy with his hurry and his lust. He was peripherally aware of a soft noise as one button tore off-and then she stopped him, finishing unbuttoning her blouse and shrugging out of it, tossing it somewhere on the ground.
God, he loved her…
His breath caught in his throat as he got his first sight of her breasts in her plain, cotton bra-and the simplicity of it was just as arousing, if not more so, than the skimpiest bra in lace could have been. She didn't need any of that to make her sexy; he was dying for her quite enough as it was…
His hands slid up her stomach to cup her breasts and she arched into him with a low cry. He flattened his palms against her breasts before moving to slide into her bra enough to feel the stiff points of her nipples pressing into his hands. One hand quickly unclasped her bra and she shrugged it off and then she was completely bare to his gaze from the waist up.
God, she was beautiful… He forgot to blink, forgot to breathe, forgot everything as he stared. This was what he hadn't seen last night, what he'd missed out on in the feverish haste of his lust-what he was determined not to miss out on tonight. Her breasts were small, perfect curves that fit into his hands as if they'd been made for them and he caressed them with his eyes and his hands and then, finally, his mouth, drawing one hard nipple into his mouth as she cried out, her knees nearly buckling beneath her.
She was so delightfully responsive. He could never get tired of this, never get tired of her…
Her small hand trailed down his chest and his stomach, lower, lower… until she touched the straining hardness in his trousers, palming him through the cloth-and it was his turn for his knees to nearly give way. "Hermione!"
A very small, very smug, very knowing smile curved her lips-and just like that, he lost his mind.
He tore off his shirt, suddenly desperate to feel her skin against his, and then kissed her again, his arms bringing her in close to him, until he could feel her hard nipples flattened against his chest. She shifted, deliberately rubbing her body against his, and he groaned.
Blindly, they stumbled backwards toward her bed, still kissing, until they were falling onto her bed, her hands pulling him with her (not that they needed to. He would have followed her into hell and beyond at that moment-as he always would…)
She pushed her still-open suitcase away to the corner of the bed, uncaring that it tumbled to the floor, spilling out all of its contents.
Her hands were insistent, greedy, as they caressed his chest and his stomach and his back, before sliding down to try to undo his trousers and he released his grip on her just long enough to help her in shoving them down and then doing the same with his boxers and finally freeing his straining erection.
She wrapped her hand around the hot, aching length of him, stroking him, and then she squeezed ever so gently-and he died.
His hips jerked instinctively as he grasped her wrist with his hand. "Stop," was all he managed to gasp, the one word the only thing he could manage, the only word he could think since she had effectively obliterated any and all thoughts he might have had.
He lowered his lips to her skin, scattering kisses over the soft, perfect skin of her breasts before sucking each nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the hardened peaks, loving the throaty gasps and moans she gave. Moving slowly, he let his lips travel further down her body, following the path of his hands. He was rock-hard and aching for her-and yet there was a joy in this delay too. There was a joy in arousing her so much. There was a tinge of wonder, still, in his caresses, learning, discovering, every inch of her body and just how responsive and passionate she was.
He nuzzled her, kissed her, caressed her with his lips and tongue until her breath was coming in sobs and her hands twisted in the sheets in mindless abandon at the breath-stealing, soul-searing pleasure he was evoking in her. He found every erogenous spot on her body which she hadn't even known existed until now-and somehow, it only seemed right that he, who knew her better than anyone, would also know how to arouse her so well, would know all the sensitive spots on her body…
He had reached the hem of her trousers and slowly, he undid them and slid them down her hips, hooking his thumbs in her knickers to pull them down at the same time. She moaned and gasped, her hips arching on instinct and allowing him to pull her knickers and her trousers past her hips and down her legs.
When his gaze caught, stilled, as he stared at the smooth skin of her lower stomach which he'd just revealed.
Her body was so lovely-so perfect-except in that one spot where a long, faint scar, vaguely reminiscent of a streak of flame, stretched across her lower belly, the single flaw marring her otherwise-perfect skin.
He stared, feeling his throat close up with a surge of emotion that had absolutely nothing to do with lust and everything to do with tenderness. And at that moment, he knew with a knowledge that went down to his heart and his soul, just why he loved her. Years of friendship and loyalty building up to this one moment, as he stared down at her, stared at this stark evidence, if he'd needed it, of the depths of her loyalty and her courage. And he didn't know how it could possibly have taken him so long to realize it. Of course he loved her-how could he not love her? How could he not love the one girl, the woman, who had always been by his side, through so many dangers and so much darkness?
He didn't know how he hadn't realized it before. This, right here, he realized, was the flaw in the plan of him belonging with Ginny. The flaw in that plan-and what made Hermione perfect… He didn't know how he could have thought that he was meant to be with Ginny, who, after all, had never really been with him-and how he could have been so blind to the soul-stirring truth he knew now, that it had always been Hermione, should always have been Hermione. She had followed him into hell-and she was still here…
"God, Hermione," he breathed, and he wanted to tell her he loved her, wanted to tell her what it meant to him to see that scar, but he couldn't find the words, could only think to say, rather inanely, "it's you… It's always been you…"
He pressed his lips to the scar, kissing it with more tenderness than passion, and there was an added gentleness as his hands pushed his trousers and her knickers all the way off her legs.
And Hermione was amazed to feel tears pricking at her eyes from the exquisite tenderness of his touch, of his kiss-and for the first time, she no longer minded the scar, the small corner of her heart that had remained self-conscious about having such a blemish on her skin healing, vanishing forever.
She felt a flood of emotion filling her, mingling, melding with the passion and lust she already felt-and somehow, the combination made her want him more. She wanted him, wanted him inside her, filling her… And she couldn't wait anymore.
"Harry, please…" she gasped, her hands tugging him back up her body, distracting him. She reached for him, kissing him deeply, one hand reaching for his arousal, shifting so that just the tip of him could slide into her body.
He groaned, the last of his control shredding, and he surged forward, burying himself inside her.
He was home.
She gasped, welcoming him inside her, holding him to her with her arms and her legs and, even more than that, with her eyes too, all the passion and all the desire in her eyes taking his breath away, claiming his heart and his soul.
And she could no longer tell where she ended and he began. He filled her, completed her as if she had been made for this, for him, as if they were half of the same whole… And she suddenly felt as if her entire life up to this moment had been building up to this, this moment, this perfect passion, this man; in spite of everything else, in spite of the complications, in spite of all the twists and turns along the way, this was what she'd been meant for…
He kissed her then, his tongue thrusting inside her mouth, and as he did so, his hips began to move, unconsciously imitating the rhythm of his tongue.
And all thoughts of a deeper significance, of emotions, vanished from her mind like a puff of smoke, replaced by pure, physical need, the building friction, and the fire settling in a pool in her lower stomach.
She met his every thrust, her hips arching into him, her body welcoming him, clasping him to her. Pleasure built inside her with every thrust of his hips, every kiss, every caress of his hands.
"Hermione," he said, her name escaping his lips in a sound that was halfway between a groan and a gasp.
And he swallowed her responding gasp of his name, "Harry," as he kissed her in a kiss that seemed to go on forever.
One of his hands slid up her body to cup her breast, flattening his palm against her sensitized nipple, and lightning streaked through her body-and she shattered, convulsing around him, her nails digging into his skin, jolts of pure pleasure searing every nerve in her body.
The sight of her, the sound of her, the feel of her liquid heat clenching around him, all drove him over the edge and he exploded with a shout of her name, "Hermione!", falling, flying, into the heaven he could only find with her.
He collapsed on top of her, her arms drawing him closer to her, and he was vaguely conscious of her dropping a kiss on his hair, as he fought to catch his breath. His lips found hers again, kissing her with more gentleness than passion, as he rolled over, shifting and bringing her with him until she was half on top of him, her legs tangled with his.
He didn't want to let her go, never wanted to let her go, only clasped her to his crazily-beating heart, savoring the feel of her warm body pressed against his, savoring the aftermath of bliss as he hadn't last night. Luxuriating in the knowledge that this passion, this peace, was forever.
It was some time before reality intruded, disturbing the peace of his heart.
He was still married, would need to wait months for his divorce-to say nothing of all the hurt and recriminations and guilt he knew he would face in the months ahead.
He sighed.
She lifted her head just enough to look at him. "What is it?" she asked softly.
"This has to be our secret for a while."
"I know."
He tightened his arms around her, one hand moving in an idle caress of her back. "It's not going to be easy. I'm sorry."
She brushed her lips against his. "It's okay." The ghost of a smile curved her lips. "Besides, when have we ever had it easy?"
His lips curved slightly in spite of himself. "Fair point."
She kissed him again, lightly, one finger tracing idle patterns on his chest. "We'll get through it together, just like we always have."
He stared at her, amazed and touched, as always, by the depth of her courage. "I love you," he told her again and the three words were a vow, a promise. He couldn't acknowledge it to anyone else but to her, at that moment, he promised his heart, his life, his very soul.
"I love you too." And with those words, she promised him the same.
~To be continued, with an Epilogue…