The Flaw in the Plan

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…

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…

Disclaimer: This fic is clearly AU now, so do I need to say again that I’m not JKR—and don’t even want to be right now?

Author’s Note: The happy H/Hr ending, as promised. This Epilogue should make it very obvious that I wrote this before DH came out. Thank you, all, for reading and reviewing!

The Flaw in the Plan

Epilogue: Happiness, At last

The months that followed were, at once, the hardest and the happiest of Harry’s life.

Hardest because of his divorce and all the pain that accompanied it, of having to sever ties which had bound him, not just to Ginny, but to the other Weasleys, the first family he’d ever really had. He had to endure several excruciating moments when Ginny begged him—even tried to seduce him once—to return, to “get over it” and then he had to face the tears and the recriminations when he didn’t, couldn’t, give in.

He had moved out and into Grimmauld Place where he hadn’t lived since just after the war had ended and he had never liked the house, haunted as it was by memories of Sirius and of Ron.

Hardest, too, because of all the publicity, the scandal of it. In recent months, the press had somewhat tired of him, since he hadn’t done much and his personal life was so uninteresting (to the media) since he’d married Ginny. But news of divorce had sparked it all up again and again, he was hounded by reporters everywhere he went, again he could never open a paper without seeing some story about him, as usual mostly false. And while he had gotten better at shrugging it off, the stories were still painful, still rubbed salt in wounds which hadn’t healed, exacerbated guilt.

And they were hard, too, because of the need to hide, to carefully limit the time he spent with Hermione in public and be careful never to act as anything other than a friend. And that was difficult, too. He didn’t know how to be completely platonic with Hermione anymore, not now when he could hardly look at her without wanting her, not now when he knew what it felt like to kiss her, to touch her, to feel her wet warmth around him… Not now when he knew the passion of her… But he had to.

He would not—he could not—pull Hermione into the scandal of it. He would not subject her to the press and the invasion of privacy and the inevitable accusations of her being a home-wrecker, a woman who’d stolen another woman’s husband. He remembered, all too well, the hate mail and more harmful letters sent to Hermione after Rita Skeeter’s nonsensical stories were printed about her in their 4^th year—and this would be worse.

He wouldn’t—couldn’t—do that to her. So he had to hide his feelings, had to relentlessly be only her old friend in public. (And he had to stop even the normal, smaller touches of his hand on her arm or her back because he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop at just those touches. Ironically, he succeeded so well that there were even a few rumors circulated about the cooling off of their friendship, speculation that they had quarreled.)

But they were happy months too—happy, in spite of all else, happy because of the stolen moments, stolen kisses—and the nights- dear Lord, the breathtaking, beautiful sensuality and passion of those nights...

He learned all the ways she liked to be touched, all the sensitive spots on her body, learned all the sounds she made when he touched her… He learned the taste of her and the feel of her surrounding him.

He learned, too, all the simple happiness, the peace, he could find in her.

He liked to stay up a little later at nights, or wake up a little earlier, just to watch her sleep, to listen to her even breathing, and marvel that this was really her, that she was really there, that she was really his…

Oh, he loved her, loved her, loved her… Loved her with an intensity and a tenderness he’d never even known he was capable of—until now, until her.

And amazingly, miraculously, she loved him too.

~*~

Hermione entered her flat one evening to find two packages on the table.

She opened one—and her breath caught in her chest, tears pricking at the back of her eyes. It was a decree of divorce—the marriage between Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley was officially over. He was free.

She felt a flood of emotion well up inside her, relief filling her. Even though she’d known that his marriage was ending, knew too that he loved her and belonged to her, some tiny corner of her mind and heart had ached at the knowledge that, in the eyes of the world, he still belonged to Ginny. She wasn’t made for a secret affair and part of her heart had ached at the secrecy and the deception, even as she understood why it had to be so and loved him for wanting to protect her; part of her heart had ached at the cold, hard fact that he was still married.

And now finally, he was free. Free to love and free to be hers… Finally, that small part of her heart which had been hurting these past months could heal.

But the next package was what truly shattered her.

It was a ring, a single diamond that glittered and sparkled as if it were a living thing.

Her heart stopped and the tears that had only been threatening, filled her eyes and spilled over, sliding down her cheeks. And she couldn’t even have said exactly why she was so touched, why it meant so much to her to see this tangible proof of his love—she trusted him, had never doubted him for a minute—and yet… And yet… It still meant so much to her to see this silent promise.

“I love you.”

She whirled at the sound of his quiet words to see him standing in the door of her bedroom. She hadn’t even realized, hadn’t known, he was there—but he was, smiling at her a sort of solemn, tender smile.

“Every day, I’m still amazed to wake up and see you next to me. I want to come home to you every day; I want to wake up every morning to see your face. I want you, every day and every night, for the rest of my life.” He paused and then asked, softly, “What do you think?”

Every word he’d spoken flew straight to her heart and nestled there, to be remembered, treasured, forever. His question pushed her out of her daze of joy and emotion and she catapulted herself into his arms, scattering kisses over his face.

“Yes! Oh Harry, I love you so much…”

His arms closed around her with enough force to push the breath from her body but she didn’t care, only clung to him tighter. His lips captured hers in a long, slow, deep kiss that stole her breath, her heart, her very soul…

And she knew this was forever.

~*~

They were married in a very small, private ceremony a year later.

The ceremony was held at Hogwarts, attended only by Remus and Tonks and Professor McGonagall and Hermione’s parents (who had to receive special permission from the Ministry and the usual defenses around Hogwarts had to be bent momentarily to allow them, as Muggles, onto the grounds and to see the castle as it truly was.)

The day before the wedding, Harry and Hermione went together to the Hogwarts burial ground—begun with Dumbledore’s tomb and joined, later, with that of all those who had died in the war—Moody, Hagrid, Sirius (added after the war), Charlie Weasley, and so many others—and Ron.

Harry blinked back tears as he looked at Ron’s grave, remembering all the years of friendship, all the laughter and the smiles, the Quidditch games, and all the shared dangers. And he remembered, too, the way Ron had watched Hermione, remembered the grin on Ron’s face after one of their snogging sessions (and he was secure enough in Hermione’s love and loyalty that he could think of it without a pang)—he remembered how much Ron had cared for Hermione.

He tightened his grip on Hermione’s hand almost imperceptibly. I know you loved her Ron. And I love her too, love her so much. She’s everything to me. And I’ll take care of her, I promise. I’ll take care of her and try to make her happy…

Hermione smiled a small, sad smile as she looked down at Ron’s grave, remembering his smiles and his first awkward kisses and his loyalty. Dear, dear Ron. She had loved him and she still missed him—but she knew with an odd, poignant sort of knowledge, that even if Ron had lived, it would still be her and Harry. So much of herself, who she was and how she thought, had been built up around Harry over the years—and she understood, now, that she had, in some way, always loved Harry. In the end, it was always going to be Harry, always meant to be Harry… Ron had loved her first- as she had loved him—but Harry would love her last- as she would love him last and always…

It was time.

The small ceremony was going to begin in a matter of minutes—when the door to the Great Hall opened.

“Is this a private party or can we crash it?”

Harry turned at the sound of Fred’s voice, grinning in spite of the sudden warmth in his chest. He’d hardly seen any of the Weasleys at all in more than a year—even Fred and George, who had been less hurt and more sympathetic than anyone else in the family. “I think there’s room for you,” he made answer lightly but his grin faded somewhat as he saw the figures behind Fred and George.

The twins hadn’t come alone. With them were Bill and Fleur and, lastly, Mr. Weasley.

It gave him a sharp, poignant pleasure to see Mr. Weasley’s familiar face, smiling with a touch of awkwardness but still smiling.

“Hello, Harry.”

“Mr. Weasley.”

Mr. Weasley hesitated, looking ill at ease, before he added quietly, “I’m sorry Molly isn’t here but you know…”

He did know and he was all the more grateful to Mr. Weasley for coming because he understood, had always known that where he was concerned, the Weasleys’ affection and gratitude were mingled, now, with regret and reproach, and at odds with their natural love and loyalty to Ginny.

“Thank you for coming,” he said simply and sincerely.

“Yes, well, we couldn’t miss it,” Mr. Weasley said rather awkwardly.

It wasn’t complete forgiveness and absolution—that would take more time. But it was a beginning and, on that day, at that moment, Harry couldn’t ask for anything more.

Mrs. Granger appeared, hurrying to her seat.

And then he saw Hermione—and he forgot about everything and everyone else in the world.

God, she was so lovely. She was everything he had ever wanted, all he’d ever needed in his life…

He saw the way she smiled at the Weasleys, saw the happiness and the certainty in her eyes as her eyes met and held his as she walked towards him.

He felt the peace of absolute confidence settle into his own heart and as he prepared to say the words which would make Hermione his—and make him hers—for the rest of their lives, he knew that this love was what had always been meant to be, what their entire lives had been leading towards, and finally, all was right in his world.

~The End~