Anything For Harry

Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 27/07/2007
Last Updated: 27/07/2007
Status: completed

Harry's been poisoned while on Auror duty and the antidote is something only Hermione can give him. Just an excuse for fluffy H/Hr smut. Written before DH so very AU. One-shot.

Chapters

1. Anything for Harry

1. Anything for Harry

Disclaimer: JKR is an idiot and she’s no more capable of writing smut than she is of writing good romance; therefore I am glad not to be her!

Author’s Note: Written for granger_girl17, who requested a fic where Harry gets slipped a poison while on duty as Auror, the effects of which will only abate as long as he's got his *cough* adrenaline up. ;) Hermione helps him to do this and save his life, by whatever means possible.

Contrived plot- yes, it’s just an excuse for some fluffy smut. Written before DH, obviously, so it’s completely, happily AU. Enjoy!

Anything for Harry

Hermione stifled a cry when Harry stumbled into their flat late one night. (She’d been staying up to wait for him as she usually did on nights when he was late, partly because she knew he disliked returning to a dark, silent flat, but mostly because of concern and she always wanted to be available in case Harry was hurt in any way and hadn’t, because of his own stubborn issues, gone first to St. Mungo’s or the Auror’s Infirmary.)

He looked—absolutely terrible, in a way she hadn’t seen him look since... since the last battle really, her heart shuddering away from the memory.

“Harry! Dear God, what happened? Are you okay?”

She hurried over to his side, reaching out to put a hand on his arm, but he recoiled violently away from her, avoiding her touch as if she carried the plague.

“No!” he burst out. “Don’t touch me!”

And with that, he made his way into his room and closed the door with a very definite click.

Hermione flinched and gasped at his repudiation, feeling a stab of hurt, before her rational mind reasserted itself. She knew Harry, knew that he didn’t hate her touch; he’d never shied away or avoided it before. There was no reason for him to reject her outright now—unless it had something to do with why he looked so terrible. Something to do with what was wrong with him.

The question was what that was. His avoiding her touch provided some clue—clearly he feared either contagion through touch or something else. She thought, all her training at St. Mungo’s coming to the fore as she slipped easily back into Healer Granger mode.

She could dismiss most things which were contagious by touch fairly quickly as they usually produced some physical signs, ranging from discoloration of skin to more severe symptoms, and fortunately, Harry hadn’t shown any of those physical symptoms. He’d been pale, his eyes bloodshot, but what had really struck at her heart had been the expression on his face, that look of utter agony mixed in with some despair, which she hadn’t seen in so long.

He had been in pain. And he hadn’t wanted her to touch him. So what could it be, that he wouldn’t want her to touch him, that would cause such pain?

As the question floated through her mind, she stiffened as a suspicion of what it could—what it most likely was—floated through her mind. Dear God… was it possible? Could it be—

But even as she thought it, she knew it was more than possible; it was probable. And her entire being flinched at the thought.

It was—it had to be-- what was commonly (stupidly) known as the Sex Poison, one of the most advanced potions ever, the directions for how to make it being highly classified, almost as restricted as the knowledge of how to make a horcrux, for example. And its effects—sometimes laughed off by teenage boys—were to stimulate the body’s sexual impulses but what was worst—what made its other name be the Unforgivable Poison or simply the Fourth Unforgivable—was that it could not be solved purely by having intercourse. Nothing so simple would solve it—because it wasn’t purely about stimulating the body. It had a mental component too; it was very, very clever in that it also was based, in part, on the human desire to feel a connection to some other person.

And it had driven more men—and women-- than Hermione cared to think about to rape, or madness, or suicide—before it killed them on its own, as did eventually happen. It was pure torture—and it was torture of the worst kind in not being as simple as the Cruciatus of simply causing physical pain. This was more diabolical, in a very real way, because it was more constant discomfort. It was gradual, water wearing away a stone, as it were, and it went on and on… There was some controversy about what, exactly, served as the antidote to the poison but it was more than simple sex. It needed more—it needed a real connection. She had once heard the antidote described, very simply and yet profoundly, as being perfect happiness, perfect peace—and she supposed that was probably the most apt way of putting it. It wasn’t always sexual but that was the most direct way of achieving it. But what made this so terrible was that it also brought home in its most stark, real form to every victim that that sort of perfect peace and happiness, that sort of connection to another person, was rare. And that despair was what drove more of its victims to suicide than even the physical effects, which consisted mostly of feeling antsy, tense, jittery—and very, very easily aroused to the point that it made simple, platonic touches almost painful.

And if Harry…

She didn’t know if having sex with him would do it; she didn’t know if the connection between them would be strong enough to achieve it. (She hoped it would… her most secret dreams and wishes wanted their connection to be that perfect peace and happiness—but she didn’t know if it would happen. She was relatively sure that on her side, her heart and her emotions would help, but she didn’t know about him. He simply thought of her as his best friend—didn’t he?--and then it wouldn’t work.) Sex might simply give him some temporary relief. But even that, Hermione was willing to chance.

She could not possibly leave him to suffer if there was even a chance that she could alleviate his pain somehow. Even if it was only temporary. (If it was temporary, she would move heaven and earth to find some other cure—but that was for tomorrow.)

Some small corner of her shied away from the idea. She didn’t want her first time with Harry to happen like this; didn’t want it to be because he had to and at this point, any female would do (at least as far as his body was concerned). She didn’t want it like this—and she knew very well that he wouldn’t want it either. He would never, ever ask her for help in this. She knew him, knew that was why he had avoided her touch earlier.

But this was Harry—and she knew, had always known, that she would do anything for him. And right now, he needed her body (and he might need her heart too).

For Harry…

With those two words that were almost a vow echoing in her mind, she stepped forward and opened his door, after a quick, almost perfunctory knock.

He was lying flat on his back on his bed and his head snapped around to pin her with a glare the moment the door opened. “Go away!”

She stepped inside his room and shut the door behind her. “No,” she said simply.

His eyes narrowed. “Hermione”—and there was a wealth of warning in his tone. “Get out now. You can’t help me with this; I won’t let you help me.” He bit out the words tersely, tension vibrating through his voice, confirming her suspicions though she didn’t really need it.

She moved closer until she was standing by the side of his bed. “It’s the Unforgivable Poison, isn’t it, Harry?” she said softly and it wasn’t really a question.

He avoided her eyes.

“You need me,” she stated flatly.

“No!” he burst out, his eyes now flying to hers. “Absolutely not. I don’t want your help; you can’t help me! I didn’t—and I won’t—ask for your help; I don’t want it.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

And with that, she lifted her pyjama top off over her head, dropping it blindly onto the floor, baring her breasts since she had taken off her bra earlier in preparation for bed.

He sucked in a sharp breath and shut his eyes. “Hermione.” His voice positively vibrated with tension, was stiff with rejection and with unwilling arousal.

She ignored him—and ignored the way her heart was racing with a mixture of apprehension and arousal and desperate hope—as she stepped out of her pyjama pants and then her knickers until she was completely naked.

She knew him, knew she was going to need to take charge and he would fight it as long as he could (that was his way; he would not want to use her like this, she knew that as surely as she knew her own name)—but she also knew that he would give in and then it would be about him, his need.

For Harry…

She considered him for a fleeting moment and then, with a quick wave of her wand, stripped his clothes off him. (That was one spell she’d never really thought she’d need to know but now, she was thankful for it. He wasn’t going to cooperate in letting her take them off him.)

He was naked now—already aroused too—and just the sight of his body, the ridges of muscle on his chest and stomach, the length of his legs, the strength visible in his arms, and of course, his jutting erection, sent a flood of heat through her body, dampness in the core of her body.

Oh she wanted him, had wanted him for months—and even if this weren’t the ideal situation, she still wanted him.

She crawled onto his bed, letting her skin brush against his in deliberate provocation, her breast against his leg, her thighs brushing against his, before her hand closed around the hot, hard length of him.

His eyes were still closed, his hands twisting in his sheets in his (futile) attempt to resist her.

Deliberately, lightly, she stroked the length of him, measured him with her fingers, brushed her palm against the tip—

That wrenched a groan from him and his eyes flew open, his hand grasping her wrist like an iron manacle, not enough to cause any pain but too firmly for her to twist free, not that she really meant to resist.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to get out in the last moment before he pulled her towards him, his arms closing around her and rolling over until he was on top of her. His lips came crashing down on hers in a hard kiss, his tongue thrusting almost fiercely inside her mouth—and she kissed him back, twining her arms around his neck. She met his passion with her own, encouraging him, inciting him to do more. Fire exploded inside her body, tingling down to pool between her thighs.

His hands moved from where they’d been tangled in her hair to cup her breasts—and she arched into him, pushing her already hardened nipples into his palms, and he groaned. He caressed, kneaded, shaped her breasts with his hands until she felt half-wild with desire. His lips left hers to scatter brief, impatient kisses down her throat until his mouth replaced his hand, sucking her nipples into his mouth, laving them with his tongue. He nipped at her breast with his teeth hard enough to cause a twinge almost approaching pain but that was quickly drowned out in her arousal and she moaned, her hands twisting in his hair, holding him to her.

And it was hard, intense—not at all tender or gentle, as she guessed that Harry would normally be—but she didn’t care. His lust was stoking the fire inside her even higher with every touch, every caress, and she just wanted him inside her, filling the void inside her body. This wasn’t about tenderness or even love at the moment; it didn’t need to be. It was about need and lust and pure carnal longing—and at the moment, that was fine with her.

But even in the madness of the moment and the physical demands of his body, he didn’t hurt her. There was passion in his touch but it wasn’t rough; there was a driving need and lust, but there was no violence.

His free hand slid down her body to cup the core of her body, hot and wet for him, and any lingering thoughts in her head evaporated in the surge of arousal. He moaned against the skin of her breast before his mouth moved on to pay equal attention to her other breast. His wonderful, wicked, delightful fingers were exploring her body, first one finger and then two slipping inside her, until her hips arched against him with enough force to lift him as well, and she cried out.

The pressure between her thighs was nearly unbearable now and she reached down with one hand to wrap around his erection again, urging him on to where her body wanted him, needed him.

He gave in with a shudder and thrust into her with enough force to push her back on his bed. A cry tore itself from her throat at the intensity of the joining and a similar cry—although whether it was more of pain or pleasure or a mixture of both, she couldn’t tell—was ripped from his throat. He was stretching her, filling her—his hands hard as they grasped her hips.

He was so deep inside her it almost felt like he was touching her very soul. The vague thought flitted through her mind but then dissipated almost instantly before she’d managed to comprehend it, replaced by pure physical lust.

There was no thought of emotion in her mind; there was only the primacy of her own need. There was only him and her, his body joined with hers, in the universe; nothing else mattered…

Her legs wrapped around his, her hands on his back, his butt, urging him on, as she met his every thrust, rocking together on his bed.

She could feel the heat spiraling up higher and higher inside her, pushing her closer to the edge—and then it burst and she shattered, ecstasy searing through every nerve in her body and ripping a scream, “Harry!”, from her throat.

Her scream mingled with his own cry of release as he thrust inside her one last time, his body going rigid above her—before he collapsed on top of her.

He rolled off of her onto his side, his arm keeping her against his body.

She nestled closer against him, her head resting against his shoulder, just wanting to savor the physical closeness to Harry, the small aftershocks of pleasure rippling through her body.

How long they lay there, unmoving and entwined, she didn’t know but gradually, she felt reason and life returning.

His hand began tracing small, idle patterns on her arm and she let the gentleness of his touch, now that the immediacy of his lust had been sated, soothe her returning nervousness. Maybe, after all, he did love her a little… She knew how much he cared about her as his best friend; maybe, just maybe, this could be the catalyst, a beginning, to love…

Surely he wouldn’t want to snuggle like this, stay so close to her, caress her lazily with no other motive, if he didn’t care—even more than friendship.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he finally broke the comfortable silence, his voice soft.

She shook her head slightly against his shoulder. “No. You couldn’t hurt me.” You wouldn’t hurt me. That knowledge, that trust, was endemic to her, so deeply engraved into her mind and her heart that nothing could erase it.

He was silent for another moment and then—“I’m sor--” he started to say.

She cut him off. “Ssh. Don’t, Harry.” She wanted to tell him that she would do anything for him, wanted to tell him she loved him—but now wasn’t the time. Instead she settled for lightness. “Believe me when I say it was my pleasure.” She let a hint of seduction curl in her words.

She sensed rather than saw his smile. “Well, thank you, I guess.” He sounded diffident, unsure of himself.

She let her hand stray over his skin in an idle caress of reassurance.

Silence settled in the room again and she was the first one to break it this time.

“How did it happen?”

“I was careless and let my guard down for a second,” he answered, self-disgust in his tone. “I know who did it and it won’t happen again,” he added quietly, a grim note entering his voice. She didn’t doubt it; this was the Harry who had defeated Voldemort. She knew it wouldn’t happen again.

She paused, wondering if the question would somehow make things awkward between them. She wanted to savor this calm, wanted to savor this closeness without thinking of the ramifications, but with the return of reality, she knew she couldn’t put it off. She needed to know…

“Did-” she hesitated and then finished, “Did it work?”

She held her breath, wondering if she dared to hope. Could she have given him perfect happiness—did he care enough about her that this would work?

He hesitated for a moment and then said, “I’m not sure.”

For a moment, doubt fluttered inside her—was he, no, he wouldn’t lie—but then he lifted his head, one hand cupping her cheek, to kiss her, long and deeply but with a restrained passion—and she forgot her doubts, forgot everything as she melted into the kiss.

It didn’t matter; nothing mattered but his lips on hers, his hands on her skin…

His hand slid from her cheek down to her shoulder and further to cup her breast, in a long, leisurely caress. There was less passion in his touch now; here was, instead, the gentleness that had been missing earlier. It wasn’t a conflagration erupting inside her but a slow awakening of her sated senses, still humming with the memory of their passion from earlier.

His hands touched, stroked, explored her breasts with all the gentleness she’d always known he was capable of. She arched into him, pressed herself closer to him, wanting him to touch her more, harder. His fingers finally lightly pinched her nipples, already (still?) hardened with arousal and she heard a sound halfway between a sob and a moan and realized belatedly it had come from her. And all the while, he kissed her, his lips and tongue arousing her as steadily, as surely, as his hands.

She could feel the growing hardness of his body nudging her and felt an added wave of heat sweep through her body. Vaguely, she wondered if he was still feeling the effects of the poison but then the thought was pushed out of her mind and quickly forgotten under the influence of his drugging kisses.

His lips only left hers to skate down the line of her jaw, down her neck, scattering kisses here, nuzzling her there, pressing his tongue briefly to the spot where her pulse fluttered, before he reached her nipple and touched his tongue to it. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair to bring him closer to her, wanting more, and he obliged, sucking her nipple into his mouth, laving it with his tongue. He trailed his lips across her chest until he reached her other nipple, giving it the same attention as the other one.

Oh God… His lips and his tongue and his hands were all wreaking havoc on her senses, obliterating any coherent thoughts as the flames consumed her entire body. “Harry, please,” she gasped and she didn’t know what she was pleading for except she knew she wanted more, more of his touch, more of this pleasure, more of him…

He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers, and she saw the banked fire in his eyes, the intensity of his gaze. A shiver trembled through her body, her arousal spiking even higher at the look in his eyes. She had always known of the intensity of his nature, the single-minded force of him, and now that burning intensity was focused entirely on her, on what he was doing to her…

For a moment, a very small, very smug smile crossed his lips. He was enjoying this, she thought fuzzily. He liked arousing her. Why that thought sent another flood of wet heat down to pool between her legs she didn’t know but it didn’t matter.

He lowered his lips to her skin once again and any and all thoughts evaporated out of her head until there was only him, only his mouth on her skin, only the pleasure stealing her breath and her heart. He kissed, nuzzled, caressed her body as he made his way down, down, lower…

His hands were caressing her thighs now, his fingertips tracing light, delicate patterns just enough to drive her crazy but not touching her where the pressure was building even higher. From somewhere, she heard moaning and realized belatedly that it was coming from her.

And then, finally, just when she thought she really would go mad, he touched her, kissed her there where all the pleasure in her body was centering right now—and she screamed, her hips arching. She felt his smile against her body—holy God… He licked her, his tongue moving on her, tasting her as if she were a delectable feast…

She writhed on the bed, her hands clutching restlessly at the sheets, feeling herself coming apart at the pleasure shooting through her.

He swirled his tongue on that most sensitive part of her body—and she died, shards of pure physical pleasure splintering along her body, shooting out of every nerve.

It took her some time to return to this plane of existence, trembling, gasping with the small aftershocks still rippling along her nerves. God—and she thought she’d wanted him before…

He made his way back up her body slowly, leisurely, nuzzling her here, kissing her there, his hands stroking her lightly, almost soothingly—except there was nothing whatsoever soothing about what his lips and tongue had just done to her and what his touch was still doing to her.

Her breath was still coming quickly, her heart pounding, but some semblance of thought was returning slowly and with it came a flicker of mischief along with a healthy dose of arousal.

It was her turn to take the initiative now.

She brought his mouth back up to hers, kissing him deeply (she could still taste herself on his tongue, she realized with a shiver), taking advantage of his distraction to roll over so he was pinned beneath her now.

She met his eyes as she straddled him, a slow smile that could only be described as sensual curving her lips. “My turn,” she said softly.

And she saw the way his eyes widened fractionally, the way they darkened with arousal, and heard his strangled groan in response as she lowered her lips to his skin.

She scattered kisses down his neck, pausing to lick the hollow of his throat, and then further down his chest, paying added attention to each flat nipple until he moaned, his hands clutching her hips convulsively. She let her breasts brush against his skin in deliberate provocation, loving the shiver that went through his body.

She moved further down his body, her lips following the path of her hands until she touched the part of his body that was prominently begging for her attention. She feathered her fingers along the length of him, stroked, cupped, caressed him, until his hips thrust uncontrollably into her hand. And then she replaced her hands with her lips, dropping a kiss on the hot, hard length of him before she licked her way up and then just touched her tongue to the tip. His hips bucked. “Hermione!”

There was something amazingly arousing about giving pleasure to someone you cared about, Hermione thought vaguely, feeling the heat in her own body spiral upwards. And she gave up the idea of tormenting him anymore. Her own arousal had spiked until all she wanted, the only thought in her head, was him inside her, filling her, now.

She moved back up his body to kiss him, knowing he could taste himself on her tongue and the knowledge fueled her desire even more.

And then slowly, inch by inch, she lowered herself on top of his body until he was completely sheathed inside her.

His hands cupped her breasts as she began to move, rocking on his body and matching the thrust of his hips with her own movements.

His eyes were closed, an expression halfway between agony and ecstasy on his face, and she thrilled at the sight of it. At that moment, she knew, he was completely hers, belonged to her, body and soul—and it didn’t matter, then, if it was only for now. She savored the knowledge, treasured the moment. No matter what happened, she would have this moment of knowing that she had brought him to this point, that for at least this moment, he was hers…

The movement of his hips sped up, almost in time with the growing pressure building, growing, inside her. She could feel herself being pushed closer and closer to the edge with every movement, so close…

One of his hands slid behind her neck to urge her mouth back to his—and the feeling of her breasts rubbing against his chest, his lips on hers, pushed her over the edge and she shattered, fractured, shards of rapture tearing through her body in a blaze of glorious sensation.

His cry of release was half-swallowed by her mouth as his hips drove up into her, his body going rigid beneath her.

Boneless, her body a quivering mass of pleasure, Hermione sank down above him, feeling his body slip out of her.

His arm was heavy across her waist half-imprisoning her but she didn’t mind, had no desire to move. Instead, she let herself stretch out above him, feeling rather as if her body was flowing, molding, to fit against his, her head resting on his shoulder, her legs tangled with his.

She wondered fleetingly if she were too heavy, if she should get off him, but she was too warm, too comfortable, her entire body filled with the drowsy contentment of satiation to want to move—and his arm kept her in place anyway.

She let her eyes close against his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear and her hand, and simply let herself drift on the warm sea of peace.

~~

He had lied.

The thought niggled at his consciousness, intruding on his peace.

Well, he hadn’t lied outright—he hadn’t been entirely sure, never having suffered the poison before, that the first time had been the cure—but he’d suspected it. (It hadn’t been from the physical pleasure of that first, amazing, mind-blowing experience but from the aftermath of it, when she had been curled up so close to him, her breath tickling his skin. He had felt the peace seeping into his soul, soothing him, healing him in ways he hadn’t even known he needed—just being with her… And if that hadn’t been the antidote to the poison, nothing would do it.) But he hadn’t said so, moving instead to distract her.

He supposed if he was truly the perfect, noble hero, he wouldn’t have—but who was he kidding? He was a red-blooded male (a very red-blooded male as far as she was concerned) and he had Hermione in his bed, in his arms (where, if he were completely honest with himself, he’d wanted her to be for months now).

Hermione was in his bed, willingly, naked and pressing all sorts of delicious bare skin against him. And through no flight of heroism or nobility run mad could he possibly resist the temptation of her, just give up their closeness so soon.

And Merlin knew, the second time had been even better, even more amazing than the first. He knew now just how passionate, how responsive, Hermione was. Knew he would never forget, too, the way she’d looked on top of him. She had been a goddess, his goddess, a siren—and she had taken his breath away.

But now, as the world returned to normal, his conscience and his heart were in full revolt over his lie. He had to tell her; he wanted her to know that this had had nothing to do with the poison. He needed to know that she wasn’t here now in his bed only because she thought he needed it.

“Hermione,” he murmured quietly.

“Mmm,” she made a supremely contented sound that was almost a purr, not stirring from where she was stretched out on top of him.

And for a moment, he hesitated. He wanted her to stay where she was forever, never wanted to move again… How could he risk disturbing this peace? How could he risk losing her delightful warmth against him, warming not only his body but his heart as well?

And yet he had to. He couldn’t take advantage of her friendship by not telling her the truth.

“The first time did work as the antidote,” he confessed quietly. “The second time was just me, because I wanted you.”

He waited, hardly daring to breathe. He had rather tricked her into the second time, he knew that, and even if she had enjoyed it, it hadn’t been right…

She lifted her head to look at him, her eyes serious—and he knew a flicker of fear—and then a smile began deep in her eyes and grew, blossomed, until it illuminated her entire face. “I know,” she said softly. And she had known it. The thought hadn’t penetrated her arousal-fogged brain before but she had known it, somehow. It had felt different; his need had been less urgent, just as passionate but with more tenderness mixed in with the passion—and she had discovered that passion and tenderness made an explosive combination.

He wanted her—and she knew a flicker of hope. He had to care about her—more than she’d thought—if the first time had proven to be the antidote. And he wanted her.

She felt a smile curve her lips as she deliberately shifted above him so her body brushed against his in several interesting places. “In case you didn’t notice, I wanted you too,” she whispered half-teasingly, half-seductively.

He slid one hand up her back in a long, slow caress, sliding under her hair to cup the back of her neck and bring her head down to his to kiss her.

And she gave herself over to the thrill of his kiss, to the thrill of being kissed by him—and she knew deep in her soul that this passion wouldn’t fade away. There was no way they could return to their platonic friendship from before tonight. She would never be able to look at him without remembering his kiss and his touch, would never be able to see his mouth and his hands without remembering how they had felt on her skin and what they’d done to her body… She would never be able to be with him without wanting him…

Her fingers trailed down his chest and up again in a teasing motion and he squirmed slightly at the touch, breaking the kiss with a strangled sound of pleasure in his throat. “You are amazing,” he breathed against her lips.

She smiled, loving the huskiness of his voice, but she made answer lightly. “Took you long enough to notice.”

He rolled over to pin her beneath him in one quick move.

She wriggled under him in a feigned attempt to escape which ended abruptly when his hands imprisoned her shoulders. She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and slowly, the smiles at their mock battle faded, the mood shifting, sobering.

“I’ve always known you were amazing,” he said in a husky whisper.

She felt herself blush from the sheer intensity of his voice and his eyes as he looked down at her. “Oh Harry…” she sighed, her entire body softening, melting.

Harry looked at her, for the moment pushing aside his inevitable reaction to the feeling of her body under his, to focus on the softness in her eyes, the warmth in them. He let out a breath before he stepped off the metaphorical cliff. “I think I’m in love with you,” he confessed in a breathless rush. “That’s why I didn’t want you to help me earlier; I didn’t want this to be a shag only because of the poison; I didn’t want it to be about that. I want this to be more. I want this to last.”

Hermione could almost feel her knees weakening and she knew her heart was fluttering with a rush of happiness. “Oh Harry, I love you too,” she sighed.

His eyes widened almost comically. “You do?”

She smiled. “You silly prat,” and her tone and expression made the words an endearment. “It’s you and me—it’s us. How could this not be more than just a shag?”

Put like that, he didn’t know. Put like that, all of this, this passion and this emotion—nearly unthinkable as it might have seemed only hours ago—seemed almost inevitable, as if somehow, in some way, everything in their entire lives until now had only been leading up to this.

His breath caught in his chest at the wonder of it before he managed a smile. “When you put it like that, who am I to argue against the cleverest witch I’ve ever met?”

He saw the smile in her eyes and curving her lips, the satisfaction of it; it was a familiar expression, one he’d seen on her face so many times before when she’d answered a question correctly in class, whenever she’d been proven right about something. It was, amazingly, sexy to see that expression on her face now with her naked skin pressed against his (then again, anything and everything would probably seem sexy to him as long as her naked body was this close to him, he thought fuzzily)—and he could no more have stopped himself from kissing her than he could have stopped himself from breathing—than he could have stopped himself from falling in love with her after all these years…

And he felt his heart soar, filling with the rightness of it all, that the girl who’d been his best friend for his entire life was now the woman he loved. He’d trusted her with his life for so many years now; it was only natural to trust her with his heart and soul as well.

He kissed her, feeling all the wonderful passion of her response, feeling the rising surge of arousal in his own body… And his last thought before he stopped thinking about anything at all other than her, was that, in spite of how this had all started with that poison tonight, nothing in his entire life had ever been more right than this, kissing Hermione, touching Hermione, loving Hermione…

Nothing had ever felt more right—and he knew this would last forever.

~The End~