Just For Tonight

Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 30/07/2007
Last Updated: 30/07/2007
Status: completed

Just for tonight, she would kiss him the way she wanted to... Harry and Hermione find a moment of peace-- and something more than that. One-shot fluffy smut-- completely ignoring DH. AU (obviously).

Chapters

1. Just For Tonight

1. Just For Tonight

Disclaimer: If I were JKR, this really would have happened in DH.

Author’s Note: Inspired by the wonderful, brilliant Demosthenes91’s latest fic, ‘Interlude’, that’s absolutely heart-stoppingly beautiful and brought me to tears—and if you haven’t read it, RUN, not walk, to read it now. This fic will wait.

What should have happened in DH but obviously didn’t, because JKR is a colossal idiot.

Just For Tonight

She didn’t mean for it to happen.

She didn’t really mean to do it at all. Or she did—but she hadn’t planned for it. It just happened—and at that moment, she really could not have done anything else.

She jerked awake with a horrified gasp, trembling, sweating, from the terrors of the nightmare that had held her in its grip. Her heart was still pounding, tears still pricking her eyes, at the mental image of Harry screaming, writhing on the ground while Voldemort looked on and laughed—and she was helpless, tied up, and could do nothing but watch—watch as Harry was tortured. She blinked, mentally shaking herself in an attempt to shake the aftermath of the dream, those horrible remembered images, from her mind and her heart—but it didn’t quite work.

It never really worked—because for all that she knew it had only been a dream, she also knew that it could happen; it could come true and one day, soon, it just might happen—and then she wouldn’t be able to simply wake up.

She wrapped her arms around herself with a shudder, trying to calm down, trying to relax enough to get back to sleep. She had so little sleep these days, she could hardly afford to waste what remained of the night.

But she couldn’t. The memory of the nightmare haunted her—the image of Harry under the Cruciatus tormenting her, just as much in her sleep as it did in her waking hours.

She could never forget it—not now, not with everything that was happening. Always, always, inside her head echoed the one terrible thought, Harry could die—and that thought always managed to drown out any others that didn’t have something to do with horcruxes or Voldemort or Harry—always it came down to Harry.

She didn’t like it; she didn’t want it—she wished the voice in her head would quiet down, go away—and she had hated it because it had soured, strangled, her relationship with Ron, because it had.

She’d thought she fancied Ron—she had fancied Ron, somehow—and Ron had finally woken up and realized that he fancied her too. And they should have been happy; it should have worked out beautifully; she should have been happy… Happy just to be able to kiss him, happy that now she was the girl Ron tried to tug into corners and distract from her books for a quick snog…

But she wasn’t. She couldn’t be—not with that eternal, endless, voice in her head saying Harry could die, he might die; Harry might die… She couldn’t concentrate on Ron’s kiss, didn’t even want to concentrate on his kiss or his touch, didn’t want to be distracted away from her research into horcruxes just so they could snog. There were more important things—like surviving and making sure Harry survived, like finding the horcruxes, like destroying the horcruxes, like defeating Voldemort… like friendship and bravery… How could she possibly think about snogging Ron now?

She couldn’t. That was the simple answer.

And Ron didn’t understand, hadn’t been able to understand. He’d lost his temper and she had lost hers (how could he not understand that saving Harry was more important than anything else?) and in a few shouting matches, it had all been over.

It had hurt for a while—but she’d pushed it aside and focused on the more important things and soon she forgot about the little ache and then the ache disappeared altogether.

When they found the first horcrux—the locket—and she saw Harry’s smile, the brightness of it, for what seemed like the first time in weeks… She’d seen his smile and she knew that, at that moment, nothing else mattered. Not Ron’s sulky silences, not the disgruntled looks he occasionally shot her, not the disappointment that, after all, she and Ron simply could not be. Harry was smiling, a real smile—and nothing mattered more than that. There were more important things, like friendship and bravery… and Harry.

When they found the second horcrux and she saw Harry’s smile, the tentative burgeonings of hope in his eyes, she knew the real reason it hadn’t worked between her and Ron, the real reason that the ache had disappeared so soon. Harry mattered more to her than anything else.

She didn’t try—didn’t dare—to put her feelings into words more specific than that. It didn’t matter; all she knew, all she needed to know, was that, right now, Harry was more important to her than anything else in the world—and for him, for his sake, to help him, she would do anything. He was her best friend, her first real friend (she counted him as her friend before Ron because she’d always known, even back in their 1st year, that if it hadn’t been for Harry, Ron would never have even tried to be friends with her)—and he had been a central part of her life for the past six years. (She refused to think about the fact that Harry was not just a central part of her life; he was the central part of her life.)

Hermione gave up the attempt to sleep and crept out of her room in the small, two bedroom cabin they were staying in for that night. She had gotten one room, of course, while Harry and Ron shared the other—but she knew, because that was what always happened, that Ron would be the only one sleeping in the other bedroom. Harry would spend the night in the main living space, stretched out on the couch if he slept at all (and he usually didn’t, not much at least.)

As she’d expected, Harry was lying on the couch—but she noted when she drew near that for once, he was sleeping and sleeping soundly at that. It was probably the deep sleep of near-total exhaustion but at the moment, that mattered less to her than the fact that he was sleeping soundly, sleeping peacefully.

His forehead was smooth, his expression calm, even content, his hands lying lazily on his chest, his glasses hanging from the fingers of one of his hands curled loosely over the edge of the couch. He looked so… young, she thought, lying here like this. With his glasses off, his eyes closed, and that peaceful expression on his face, he looked like the 17 year old boy he was, rather than the more mature leader, the hero of the wizarding world, with all the weight of the world on his shoulders, that he usually looked like these days.

And that was what made her do it.

She was suddenly filled with a rush of poignant relief and happiness, too, just to see him lying here sleeping so peacefully. She knew, better than anyone, just how little sleep Harry had gotten these past months; she knew just how much pressure he was under and how close to breaking down he got sometimes. But just for this moment, the worries were gone, forgotten—and he was just a boy, sleeping. Just for this moment, he knew peace.

All the emotions she felt for him, all her affection and her concern, combined with the lingering memory of her nightmare, all came together, coalesced inside her and she could no more have stopped herself from doing what she did next than she could have stopped herself from breathing. She knelt down on the floor by the couch and, bending over him, brushed her lips over his.

She brushed her lips lightly over his—and that was really all she intended to do. But his lips were soft and she could smell the familiar scent of him (she knew his scent, she realized) and she had the sudden thought that this would likely be the only chance she ever had to kiss him. He didn’t care about her that way; she couldn’t risk their friendship; there were more important things… But just this once, just for this moment, she decided on a mad impulse, she would allow herself to kiss him— when he was asleep and this wouldn’t wreck their friendship.

So she did. She lowered her head again, her lips brushing his, lingering, and all she felt for him, all that had built up for years now, came together and somehow, insensibly, her lips pressed a little more firmly against his, kissing him in earnest…

His lips softened, parted gradually, and it seemed only natural for her tongue to venture forward to really taste him…

And just when she could feel herself beginning to drown in the sensations beginning to well up inside her, some shred of sanity returned and she jerked away, her eyes opening to meet his.

He was awake.

It was a rather dumb thing to think but for once, her mind was blank and she could only stare at him, at his eyes looking just a little bit dazed—from sleep, she told herself firmly.

She felt her cheeks blush hotly. God, she really hadn’t meant for this to happen, didn’t know how it happened but she’d brushed her lips against his and- and God help her, she hadn’t been able to stop… Not then, not at once, not when she knew she would never have that feeling again…

“Hermione?” His soft questioning word finally broke the silence—and she could hear all the unspoken questions—the why—in his voice and see it in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Harry! I didn’t mean to wake you up, honestly, I didn’t. I just—I was so glad to see you sleeping peacefully, no nightmares, and I—I just wanted to- to—I was just so happy to see you sleeping and I couldn’t help it—I’m sorry…” she babbled incoherently. “Because I care about you so much and I’ve been so worried and—and I…”

What was going to spill out of her mouth next in that flood of words, neither she nor he ever found out because he moved, lifting his head, and then he kissed her.

He kissed her, his lips on hers, applying gentle pressure and then retreating. He kissed her—and for a split second, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t think beyond the one startling Harry was kissing her—but then she heard another voice in her head, just this once, and the seductive phrase pushed her past her shock and she kissed him back.

Her lips parted, allowing his tongue to tentatively venture inside, sliding against her teeth and then against her tongue.

Just this once… All other thoughts slid right out of her head as she responded to the pressure of his lips, the warmth of them, the softness of them, her own lips moving against his, her tongue tangling with his. She was vaguely aware of his fingertips lightly resting against her cheek and her jaw, holding her in place with the most gentle of touches—vaguely aware of the fact that her hands had slid into his hair, her fingers tangling in the messy black hair…

Just this once… just once she would kiss him the way she wanted to…

Pleasure was seeping, spreading in her body, radiating outwards from the warmth of his mouth against hers, his breath feathering against her cheek. She felt herself drifting, floating on a sea of warmth, falling into his kiss…

She was quite beyond thought and he was the one to break the kiss off with a gasp, pulling back just enough to rest her forehead against hers. His breath was coming quicker, as was hers, as she scrambled to retrieve her wits again.

“I’m sorry,” it was his turn to apologize now. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

She’d been expecting those words—not precisely the words, but the meaning of them. The regret, the—rejection.

This was a mistake. The words hung in her mind as if he’d spoken them aloud and she squelched the pang of hurt.

She’d known it, expected it—but somehow, it still hurt.

“No, it’s my fault,” she hurriedly said, trying to fill the embarrassing silence. “I woke you up by kissing you; you weren’t thinking clearly; you were missing…” she paused, not quite willing to say the name for some crazy reason, “her,” she improvised, “and it didn’t really mean anything…”

“Hermione,” he interrupted her rush of words, “stop. I said I shouldn’t have done that, not that I didn’t want to do it.”

“I know but you weren’t thinking clearly, you’d been asleep and you’re a boy so—so of course you’d react,” she hastily added, her cheeks blushing even redder though she wouldn’t have thought it was possible, her eyes cutting away from his. “It’s okay; I understand. It was my fault. Really. I shouldn’t have kissed you in the first place.”

She wished desperately that a hole would open up in the ground and swallow her up. At the rate words were rushing out of her mouth, any moment now she’d say something really, unforgivably stupid—like I love you, Harry and then she’d really want to die and she’d never be able to look at him again.

“Hermione!” His interruption this time was a little sharper, his tone more forceful, shutting her mouth effectively. “I might be a boy but I’m not so thick that I can’t tell one girl from another. I shouldn’t—but I wanted to kiss you.”

It was amazing what the emphasis on one word could do.

She blinked and stared at him. And the name she hadn’t been able to say earlier slipped out her mouth now with the ease of surprise. “But… but Ginny… And you don’t feel that way about me. I know you don’t.” Her tone didn’t waver; she hardly even felt a pang at saying the words; she simply accepted them as truth. One didn’t feel hurt over an immutable fact like the sun rising in the east.

To her utter shock, a small smile curved his lips.

“Why are you smiling?” she burst out. “This isn’t funny.”

He visibly forced himself to sober—but then his eyes met hers, and suddenly, she could see, he didn’t have to try, the smile disappearing on its own. “I’m sorry but I just never thought I’d have to say this to you.”

She felt a flicker of irritation at him—amazingly, considering everything, but she didn’t appreciate feeling confused and she simply wished he would let her go, wished he would let her flee so she could hide her face in her own room and not see him again until morning when she would have gotten herself and her emotions under regulation again.

“You’re wrong, Hermione.”

What? “But—but I can’t be,” she said blankly. “You- you don’t fancy me.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know it because you said so!” she burst out.

Because he had said so (oh, not in so many words, but the implication was the same); she remembered the moment as if it were yesterday. The words hadn’t affected her then—well, not like they did now—but she remembered them and now, belatedly, felt the sting of them.

They had been talking about the Prophecy—Hermione had asked him to repeat it since his last telling of it had been hurried and interrupted by that prank of Fred and George’s and then she’d been distracted all that year but now, now when the war was really officially begun, she remembered it and realized she needed to know exactly what it said.

He repeated it, his tone flat, dull, although his voice flinched slightly at the phrase of ‘neither can live while the other survives.’

She’d been thinking over the words—trickily worded, as prophecies tended to be, like the oracle of Delphi, she thought rather cynically, so almost anything that happened could sound like the prophecy coming true—had anyone doubted that Harry was supposed to be the one to defeat Voldemort and had anyone really doubted that he had the power to do so?

Ron spoke up then. “Well, that’s one good thing, at least, mate. You’ve got a ‘power the Dark Lord knows not’ and you’re obviously the one who’s going to defeat him, so that’s a good thing.”

He’d meant to be comforting, meant to nudge Harry out of his bleak reverie.

Instead, Harry snapped, his thin control over his temper in those first few months slipping. “You think it’s good? Fine, then you be the one to fight him! This isn’t good; there is no good. Do you think I like having this destiny, doom- whatever it is—hanging over me? I don’t like any of this; I never wanted any of this. I just want to be normal, just want to be with Ginny--” He cut himself off abruptly, as if the sound of her name was too painful.

And much as she sympathized with Harry, understood his stress and his worry and how tense he was, she couldn’t let his words stand, not with that stricken look in Ron’s eyes—and just in general, Ron aside, she couldn’t let him off with that sort of blatant unjustified anger. “Harry!” she objected sharply on the heels of Ginny’s name—and she would have interrupted him if he hadn’t stopped at that point. “You’re not being fair. You know that’s not what Ron meant!”

Harry threw her a quick, flatly angry glance, before he stormed out of the room.

He returned a few hours later, calmer, and hesitant. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out before he’d even sat down again. He looked at Ron and then turned to Hermione, repeated his words, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that; I know you didn’t mean it that way. I was a git.” He paused and then added, more quietly, looking and speaking at her alone this time, “And thank you for telling me when I’m being a git.” He had ventured a small smile, which she’d returned—and they had been okay again…

She hadn’t reacted to the words then, had been preoccupied with what had come before it, the sudden lash of Harry’s temper—and back then, she hadn’t known what she did now of her own feelings for Harry…

But now, remembering that moment, the words that lingered, echoed in her mind—painfully so—were, I… just want to be with Ginny…

He couldn’t—he didn’t-- fancy her that way. And somehow, now, the thought hurt.

She could see he remembered the moment too, saw the memory (and his shame at it) flickering in his eyes.

“Hermione, that was months ago. Things are different now; I’m different now.”

His words were sweet but she didn’t want to hope, was too afraid to hope. Hope would make it too painful…

His finger moved beneath her chin, lifting her head up gently until she had to meet his eyes, had to see the sincerity in them.

“Do you remember the attack at Hogwarts?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “Of course you do,” he went on immediately.

And he was right; of course she remembered; she didn’t think any of the three of them would ever forget that night. It had been the night Justin Finch-Fletchley had died… The first Hogwarts student since Cedric Diggory to die. They had been at Hogwarts—luckily, it turned out—to talk to McGonagall and Dumbledore’s portrait when the wards had gone off to alert them to an ambush of several Death Eaters. Later, Snape had revealed that the intention had been to try to kidnap several students to force the professors, and Harry, out of hiding—but it had luckily been foiled by the unexpected defense put up by not only the three of them but Remus and Tonks, who had accompanied them to Hogwarts, and by most of the former members of the DA—who had clearly not forgotten and some, at least, had kept up their practicing.

“I realized something that night,” he continued softly, his thumb beginning to brush the skin of her cheek and her chin in idle movements. “You know what I remember most about that night?”

Slowly, she shook her head, barely daring to move, mesmerized as much by the warmth in his eyes and the words he was speaking as by the slow brush of his fingers against her skin.

“I remember seeing Ginny get hit and fall—but I didn’t stop. I knew I couldn’t stop; I just turned to face the next one. I pushed her from my mind and focused on the battle. But then… then I saw you fall…”

At another time, she might almost have blushed in chagrin at the memory. At that moment which Harry mentioned, she had actually tripped—she couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid—over a branch and landed heavily on the ground. But it had turned out to be the most fortunate mistake ever because, at that precise instant, one of the Death Eaters—it turned out to have been Goyle Sr—aimed a Bone-Breaking Curse where she had been a moment earlier which, if it had hit her, would likely have broken her back. Instead, she’d only fallen to the ground, gotten the wind knocked out of her, and immediately taken advantage of it to disarm and then Stun Goyle Sr. before she scrambled back up to her feet.

“I saw you fall,” he repeated, a slight shudder going through him, “and I fell apart. Did you know that?”

She hadn’t; she’d been too preoccupied to notice in the chaos of battle.

“I just stopped moving, couldn’t move until I saw you point your wand at Goyle and I realized you were okay. I completely panicked for a second though.”

He had, too. Even now, Harry could never think of that moment without a shudder and a violent wave of relief. He, who had managed to push the thought of what might have happened to Ginny (she had, luckily, only been unconscious and otherwise unhurt) when he saw Ginny fall, had seen Hermione fall—and he’d fallen apart. Panic, dread, fear, had all filled him at that moment—so much panic, it had turned his heart to ice, his legs seeming to take root, and all he was aware of was a silent scream of utter despair in his head, Nooooo, Hermione, noooo… He hadn’t been able to think, breathe, move, anything. At that moment, he could have seen Voldemort himself pointing his wand at him preparing to say the Killing Curse, and he didn’t think he could have brought himself to react, so petrified with soul-numbing fear had he been right then. Fortunately for him—if it weren’t for that, he’d likely be dead right now—the battle had already been winding down, the tide turning, and he’d seen Hermione move, scramble to her feet, and only then had he been able to return his mind to the battle, so relieved he remembered that moment as if it had been a resurrection.

And it had only been afterwards, when they had left McGonagall and the other professors to strengthen the wards around the school grounds, that he’d had the time to think about the implications of that moment. Of the stark contrast between his level of dismay at seeing Ginny hurt and seeing Hermione hurt. He’d cared about Ginny, been concerned about her, of course—his heart had leaped up into his throat, nearly strangling him, at that moment—but only for a moment. The rest of him—the part of him that knew better—had quickly reasserted itself and he’d been able to go on, pushing Ginny to the back of his mind to focus on the battle at hand. But with Hermione—he hadn’t been able to do that. All of him—body, mind, heart—had all seized up with dread and panic and he didn’t think anything could have broken through it.

It wasn’t, he had realized, that he didn’t care about Ginny; he did. It was that he cared about Hermione more. If something happened to Ginny, he’d be grieved but he would, somehow, be able to go on. If anything happened to Hermione… He would be devastated, beyond grief, and he knew that he would give up then. He simply could not imagine being able to go on, being able to survive on his own, without Hermione. He cared about Ginny still, part of him always would—but he needed Hermione. It had been a slow realization, a gradual thing, in the past months since it had happened—but he knew now, understood, that while part of him still cared about Ginny, Hermione was more than that to him.

And then tonight, he had woken up to her kiss. And in his sleepy state, he hadn’t been able to summon up the willpower or the rationality to pull away or to resist her. He’d only known that she was kissing him, he was kissing her—and somehow, in some small part of him which he’d denied and tried not to think about, he had wanted this for a long time…

And now, he needed to tell her. He’d gone too far to retreat now; the hope in his heart had grown too strong. And the flicker of hurt, of vulnerability, in her eyes and in her voice had completely finished him, demolished all his carefully-constructed reasons for why he couldn’t possibly get involved with Hermione now.

He couldn’t—he shouldn’t—but he also couldn’t, for the life of him, resist it now. All the danger, all the risk—Ron’s reaction—Ginny’s hurt—and, most importantly, the added danger to her, making her more of a target… All of that melted away as quickly as an ice cube on a hot summer’s day—and for once, just for once in this year, Harry let himself push aside the worries of the war, let himself forget it, and just do what he wanted. And what he wanted was to be with Hermione.

“That’s when I realized it,” he told her simply. “I care about Ginny—but Hermione, I need you. You’re more important to me than she is. I wanted to kiss you,” he said again, repeating his words from earlier.

If she had ever heard any sweeter words in her life, Hermione couldn’t remember them. She couldn’t remember ever hearing words that made her heart melt and flutter and then soar with an almost incredulous happiness. She’d barely allowed herself to hope at all—and now to know that not only was this not going to end or threaten their friendship, but he felt the same way… It was incredible. Miraculous.

“Oh, Harry!” She kissed him this time, with the conscious decision that hadn’t accompanied her first impulsive kiss (thank Merlin for acting on impulse; she should do it more often, she decided fuzzily), her lips touching his as she leaned in closer to him, her tongue sliding into his mouth and engaging his in a half-playful, half-tender, wholly-arousing duel.

Heat was spiraling through her body, making her want to press closer to him. Her skin was beginning to tingle, almost itch, with the need to feel his hands on her—and all the while she kissed him.

And he kissed her back, his hands tangling in her hair, before he finally broke the kiss on a gasp when a need for air became imperative, but only far enough so he could trace the outline of her lips with his, scatter tiny kisses from the corner of her lips up her cheek to the hollow before her ear and then down again.

Her breath was coming in gasps now but then she knew a moment of disappointment as he stopped and simply rested his forehead against hers as he had before, trying to catch his breath.

Only this time when he spoke, his voice was teasing. “I assume this means you don’t mind that I- care about you?”

She let out a soft huff of laughter. “Oh, Harry…” she sighed and answered his question with another kiss.

Their lips and tongues melded, tangled, as they each tasted, savored, teased.

One of her hands moved almost of its own volition to flatten her palm against his chest and felt him flinch almost imperceptibly, the muscle reacting. Through the cloth of his shirt, her hand explored his chest and his stomach, feeling the hard ridges of muscle. He felt—like a man and not a boy, she thought fuzzily.

Heat and pleasure were building up inside her, flooding her entire body with sensation and effectively clouding her mind until all she knew in the world was him, the feel of his lips on hers, the slight abrasive roughness of his tongue as it slid against hers, the light touch of his fingers on the bare skin of her neck…

And then hesitantly, so hesitantly she thought she almost imagined it, one of his hands slid further down, lightly brushing against her breast through the cloth of her pyjama top.

His hand didn’t linger, seemed almost frightened by his own daring as he returned to cup her face—but the jolt of electricity that went through her body at his touch, pooling in moist warmth in that most secret part of her body between her legs told her she hadn’t imagined it.

She wasn’t thinking clearly, wasn’t capable of thinking clearly—all she knew was that she wanted more, more of his kiss, more of his touch… She wanted more—and right now, their positions weren’t conducive to more.

She broke the kiss on a gasp. “Harry, bed.” The two words were all she managed to get out, the only words she could think to say. And in her haze of feeling, she hardly even realized she’d said them.

She moved to kiss him again—but he stopped her, his hands gripping her shoulders as he jerked his head back.

Disappointed, she opened her eyes to meet his wide ones.

He stared at her, his breath coming quickly, his lips parted and damp from her kisses, his hair standing up on end in an even bigger mess than usual. He looked—delicious… the vague thought floated through her brain.

“Hermione, you—what?” he choked out.

Now she paused, stopped, realized what she’d said—and what she’d meant. Now, belatedly, she felt herself blush hotly but there was no uncertainty. She wanted this, wanted him—even if it was just for tonight, no matter what might happen tomorrow or the day after that, she wanted to experience this… And she didn’t want to stop.

“I want you,” she said softly. And she couldn’t believe the words were coming out of her mouth but there was no other way to put it; they couldn’t do this here, in the front room of the cabin when Ron could walk in on them just from opening his door, her rational brain managed a last gasp attempt to insert sanity into the moment. “Take me to bed, Harry.”

His eyes widened even more as his breath caught, strangled in his chest. “Wha—are you sure?”

Her hand that was still resting on his chest slid slowly down until she just brushed against the growing hardness in his jeans—his eyes rolled back in his head as he groaned—she snatched her hand away, belatedly embarrassed at her shamelessness.

“I want you,” she breathed and kissed him again as she slowly pushed herself up to her feet, her hands on his shoulders, bringing him up with her.

He followed her, not breaking the kiss even as he scrambled to find his feet, his hands going automatically to her waist, her hips, holding her. Her lips, her kiss, were quite as effective as anything else could have been in ensuring he followed her, stayed with her now. (He would have followed her into hell itself, he knew, as always—but right now, as long as she kissed him like that, touched him like that, he would have followed her into hell gladly; he’d have raced before her into hell as long as it meant she’d keep kissing him like this…)

They stumbled backwards, still kissing, her hands moving restlessly on his body, now clutching at his shirt, sliding under to touch his chest, and then moving to explore his shoulders and his back before tangling in his hair again. His own hands explored her back and her shoulders, sliding down daringly to cup her butt and bring her arching against him—and the feel of her soft body pressing against his made him harden even more, moaning into her mouth.

He didn’t know how they did it, managed to move from the front room of the cabin down the hall the few steps to her room, blind and distracted as they were, but through sheer dumb luck and a miracle, they managed it. (Some tiny corner of his mind could still not believe this was even happening, that he was kissing Hermione like this, that she was kissing him, touching him, that she wanted him in that way… Could not believe that she would taste so good, that just the touch of Hermione’s tongue to his could erase all other thoughts from his mind with one swipe… But she could; she did; she was…)

Fortunately, she hadn’t closed her door all the way when she’d crept out of the room earlier so the door was no obstacle as Harry blindly kicked it shut behind them. And then they were stumbling further into the room, lips still fastened to each other in a lush, open-mouthed, heated tangle of lips and tongues.

She was gasping, her hands impatient as they tugged at his shirt and they finally broke the kiss just long enough for him to pull his shirt off over his head. Her hands returned to his skin immediately, her fingers dancing over the muscles of his chest and stomach, until his breath was coming in gasps and low moans, just the sound of which sent another flood of moist heat through her body to tingle between her legs.

On impulse, she touched her lips to his chest, kissing all the places where her hands had been, pausing to flick his flat nipple with the tip of her tongue and he groaned.

Mindless now, too overcome with desire and need, he forgot all hesitation, all uncertainty, as he brought his hands up to cup her breasts through her pyjama top. She arched her back, pushing herself further into his hands.

He moaned, his eyes falling shut for a brief moment as he simply savored the feel of her. But all too soon, just touch wasn’t enough and he opened his eyes again, moved his hands to the buttons of her top. His fingers were clumsy with lust and some lingering uncertainty (he couldn’t believe he was doing this; couldn’t believe he was here about to do all these things with and to Hermione he’d only ever dreamed about…) and her hands moved up to touch his, undoing the buttons of her top quickly.

And then the buttons were undone and he forgot to breathe, forgot to blink, as she slowly shrugged out of the top, letting it fall unheeded to the floor with a sort of natural, instinctive seductiveness, baring her upper body to his gaze.

His throat closed, his breath strangling in his chest. The pale, perfect skin of her body almost seemed to gleam in the dimness of her room. God, she was so… utterly beautiful… he couldn’t imagine how he’d not seen it before…

Hermione felt herself blush crimson as he stared at her, feeling an odd mixture of embarrassment and arousal at his clear fascination.

Slowly, his hands came up to cup her breasts, finally touching her bare skin, and she forgot all other feelings in the rush of pure, physical pleasure as she gave herself over to the sensations his hands were evoking in her as he caressed, explored, squeezed, kneaded…

And then his hands left her body and she let out a small sound of protest that was immediately transformed into a moan as he replaced his hands with his mouth, his lips fastening on one hardened nipple, suckling it, laving it with his tongue, until she felt stabs of lightning shooting through her body to tingle between her legs. His teeth grazed her nipple and she cried out, her knees almost buckling beneath her.

“Oh, God… Oh, Harry…” she gasped, just as his tongue did something to her over-sensitized nipple and the second syllable of his name became more of a long, keening cry of pleasure.

Her fingers tangled in his hair as she tugged his mouth back up to hers to kiss him hard, her tongue pushing into his mouth almost aggressively, as she flattened herself against him.

The feel of her bare breasts pressed against his chest wrenched a moan from him, which was swallowed by her mouth. She slid her hand down his chest to press against the bulging hardness in his jeans and his eyes nearly crossed at the excruciating pleasure of her touch.

He met all the passion of her kiss with his own, his tongue sliding against hers, as his hands gripped her hips.

And then she was falling backwards onto her bed, tugging him with her so he landed half on top of her, still kissing her and kissing her and kissing her in an endless, drugging kiss that stole her breath and her mind and her heart.

One of his legs had insinuated itself between hers and she shifted, pressing against him, needing something—anything—to relieve the pressure building between her thighs.

His fingers worked their way into the hem of her pyjama bottoms, hooking into her knickers as well, and he looked up at her, meeting her eyes in a silent question.

Can I…?

Yes…

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he slid them down past her hips, as she arched upwards to allow him to do so, and then down what seemed the endless length of her legs. (Dear Merlin, had her legs always been so long, so shapely?)

His hands slid slowly up her calves in a long caress of discovery, of exploration, and she let out a soft sigh. He glanced up at her, seeing the hectic flush on her cheeks, her parted lips, swollen and slick from his kisses, her half-closed eyes, hooded and dark with arousal and pleasure. His breath caught in his chest and he knew he would never, as long as he lived (even if he survived and lived to be two hundred years old) see anything half as beautiful as she was right then. Encouraged, he slid his hands higher up her legs, venturing past her knees, caressing, stroking her thighs, until finally, almost amazed at his own daring, he slid his hand between her thighs to brush against that most secret part of her body covered with a cloud of curly brown hair.

She moaned and pushed herself into his hand—and he nearly died. But his curiosity—he wanted to know her, wanted to learn what she liked—overcame his uncertainty and he tentatively stroked a gentle finger up that part of her body, feeling the heat of her, the wetness of her.

She cried out, her hands fisting on the sheets.

He moved his finger again, exploring her, fascinated by the feel of her skin, her body, the soft sounds of arousal she made at every motion.

Tentatively, he slid one finger inside of her, gasping at the sensation of her hot, wet tightness clasping his finger; the sensation seemed to arrow straight down to his groin making him painfully hard. He moved his finger inside her—and just like that, she spasmed, her muscles convulsing around his finger, as she gasped and cried out, her body stiffening, shuddering.

My God… The sight of her like that, her eyes closed, her head thrown back, her mouth open on a silent scream, the feel of the sensations rippling through her body—it was the most erotic thing ever.

She fell back on her bed, her body still racked with the occasional shudder, gasping for breath, as he removed his hand from her body and slowly moved over her, just watching her with something like awe, savoring the sight of her like this. God, she was so lovely, so heart-stoppingly beautiful… So very precious to him…

Hermione drifted back to earth slowly, opening her eyes and meeting his, feeling another shiver and thrill of heat go through her at the look in his eyes, dark with his own arousal and passion.

“Did you just--” he hesitated, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips uncertainly, “did you just… um…” he trailed off, looking almost agonizingly awkward—and adorable in his very uncertainty.

She felt a slow smile curve her lips, a satisfied smile, a sensuous smile, a smile she’d never before have thought herself capable of, and saw the flicker in his eyes in reaction to it. “Mmm, yes,” she sighed softly and brought his head down to hers to kiss him, slowly, leisurely, too relaxed in the aftermath of that wild burst of pleasure for passion.

He returned her kiss, his hands cupping her cheeks, as the kiss deepened, lengthened, and she felt the heat and arousal spiral upwards again.

He finally broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Hermione, can we—um—do you want to do more?” he blurted out rather hesitantly.

And his hesitation—the fact that he’d asked if she wanted to do more, in spite of his obvious arousal, the desperation edging his voice—melted her heart, filled her with so much tenderness it was almost overwhelming. God, she loved him, maybe she’d always loved him—and for the first time, she didn’t flinch away from the word, didn’t even try to deny the feeling. Even if it was only that moment, just once, she admitted the truth that she loved Harry, loved him in that way that comes only once in a lifetime.

So she kissed him, letting her lips tell him the answer, before she pulled away to breathe, “Yes, I want you, I want this…”

And the words were barely out of her mouth before he kissed her again, harder, more forcefully, stealing her breath and effectively obliterating any thoughts in her head.

Her hands went to the fastening of his jeans and a shiver went through his body as her hand brushed against his stomach, her fingers rather clumsy with inexperience and a touch of self-consciousness and arousal as they undid the button and the fly of his jeans before she paused, intensely aware of the bulge in his jeans.

He groaned and he was the one who shoved his jeans off his legs the rest of the way, pushing his boxers off with them, freeing his erection.

Her breath caught as she stared at him, seeing the one part of his body which she’d never seen, never really imagined seeing, seeing, too, just how hard and aroused he was. Another shiver of heat went through her. She had done that to him; he was aroused because of her… Because he wanted her…

Harry bit back a groan as he looked at her staring at his body and though he wouldn’t have thought it possible, he felt his body twitch and harden even more just from having her gaze on him. Because he knew that look in her eyes, that concentration, from all the times in class when he’d seen it, when she’d been intensely focused on a book she was reading. It was strange and oddly arousing to see that look on her face now, focused entirely on him, on his body.

And then she reached for him, her fingers brushing ever so lightly in a feather-light touch, at first, against his erection, before she became bolder, her hand stroking, measuring the hard, aching length of him.

His eyes rolled back in his head as his hips thrust forward uncontrollably, a groan trembling on his lips.

“Stop,” he gasped. “Please. I can’t--”

She did, her hand dropping from his body, and he felt a ridiculous pang of loss before he struggled, managed to wrench one last coherent thought from his brain. “Are you—er—are you protected?” he gasped.

She blushed—and he suddenly found it the most endearing thing in the world that she blushed at his question when she hadn’t blushed a moment before when she’d been touching him, driving him insane with need and lust with her hand on his body.

She reached for her wand, on the floor by her bed, pointing it at her stomach with a murmured word, before she also pointed her wand at the door and he heard a lock click shut and the odd, sort of suction noise that meant she’d cast a Silencing Charm on the room.

She dropped her wand and drew him towards her, offering him her lips and her body, as he kissed her again.

God, he loved kissing her, loved the taste of her, the feel of her lips against his. He’d never get tired of this, never get tired of kissing her…

And somehow, her body shifted, moved underneath his until he could just feel the tip of him nudging at her softness and he broke their kiss on a gasp.

Dear God…

He couldn’t believe he was about to do this; his body was desperate, aching, but he knew a sudden moment of hesitation. He didn’t want to hurt her, wanted to do everything right… “I- I don’t know what to do,” he blurted out, rather awkwardly, what he’d probably never have been able to admit to any other girl but this was Hermione and he trusted her and he wanted, needed, this to be good for her too—“I don’t want to hurt you or- or anything.”

“It’ll be fine. We’ll learn together,” she breathed just before she kissed him again, her lips swallowing his huff of surprised laughter at how very familiar it was to have her say something like that to him—and how odd to hear it again in this context.

Her hand slid between their bodies, nudging him, guiding him until he was once again pressed against the hot wetness of her.

She arched upwards, her breasts rubbing against his chest, and that shredded what little remained of his mind and his control and his hips surged forward.

He felt her stiffen and heard her sharp intake of breath that was almost a cry and stopped, fully buried inside her, clenching his jaw as he rested his forehead against hers.

“Are- are you okay?” he gasped out. He didn’t want to hurt her; he would die if he’d hurt her—but oh God, he was going to die, explode, if he couldn’t move, do something… The hot, wet tightness of her around him, surrounding him, was driving him mad with the need to move.

Hermione fought for breath, feeling her body being stretched, filled, trying to adjust the feel of him inside her. The pain was easing and she turned her head, brushing her lips against his chin, his cheek, before she found his mouth, kissing him.

He kissed her softly, gently, tenderly now, as if afraid he’d hurt her with his mouth if he kissed her too hard—and her heart melted, her body relaxing, easing around his almost imperceptibly.

The pain was gone now, replaced with a growing friction, the tension between her thighs seeking, needing release.

She kissed him harder, her hands sliding down his back to cup his butt, encouraging him.

“Harry,” she gasped—and she wasn’t even sure why she said his name except that somehow, it felt like she should, wanted to confirm that it was really him.

“Hermione,” he groaned in response as he began to move, slowly, pulling out of her and then easing back in.

Her hips met his, her hands clutching him, her legs wrapping around his, pulling him in deeper, harder, and he felt his control unraveling rapidly.

He opened his eyes to stare down at her, seeing the rapid flicker of sensation across her face, her lips parted on soundless gasps, her eyes dark and clouded with arousal, and his heart clenched in a flood of tenderness warring with his lust. She was perfect, right then, at that moment, he couldn’t imagine anything more perfect, more beautiful than she was. He would do anything for her… He loved her…

The thought flitted across his mind but quickly vanished, any and all other thoughts of emotion or anything else disappearing like a puff of smoke to be replaced with pure, physical need.

She was so tight, so hot, so wet around him…

The tension was building higher and higher with every movement of his hips until Hermione thought she was dying, burning, losing her mind…

His hands slid up to cup her breasts, his fingers flicking against her nipples, and that was the last straw, as she shattered, glorious waves of pure, physical pleasure exploding and flooding outward, filling her body with bliss. A roaring filled her ears so she didn’t even hear her scream of his name, “Harry!”

She was peripherally aware of him stiffening and then shuddering above her and then a rush of liquid heat as he spilled himself inside her with a hoarse cry.

He collapsed on top of her, sweat-soaked, feeling almost dizzy with the blinding, mind-numbing pleasure, his heart pounding hard enough to fight its way out of his chest.

He tightened his arms around her automatically, wanting to keep her against him, never wanting to let her go again, brushing his lips lazily against her temple and her cheek, as he rolled over onto his side, bringing her with him so she was sprawled half on top of him.

Her body was pressed against his and he was pleasantly aware of the warm weight of her beside him, resting against him. He felt rather than heard her breathing even out, deepen, fluttering against his shoulder. And, content, he let himself slide into sleep, the soundest sleep (and the pleasantest dreams) he had known in the past year (and maybe even longer than that.)

~~

Hermione awoke to the odd sensation that her pillow was moving.

Her pillow was moving—and her pillow was harder than it usually was.

She blinked, for a moment completely disoriented, her body still tingling a little from the very pleasant dreams she’d had…

And then she realized it hadn’t been a dream.

It had really happened.

And her pillow was not really her pillow at all; her head was resting on top of Harry’s chest, gently rising and falling with his every breath.

His arm was imprisoning her, keeping her on top of him, and gingerly, carefully, trying not wake him up, she tried to move—but he tightened his grip on her, a slight frown crossing his face even in his sleep. And she gave up the attempt, rather half-hearted as it had been, and let her body relax again as she simply watched him sleep.

It was an odd privilege, which she’d never really thought about before, this intimacy of getting to watch him sleep. It was… precious… to see him sleep like this, her face so close to his she could see, even in the dim light, every detail of his face at a proximity which she’d never seen it before.

She could see his eyelashes (it really wasn’t fair that he had eyelashes like that; they looked longer than hers were), the dark curve of his brows, the mark on his forehead with that twist in the middle to give it the famous lightning-bolt shape, the shadows under his eyes…

She was suddenly filled with a surge of tenderness so strong she felt tears pricking at the backs of her eyes. He really was everything to her; he was her reason for getting up in the morning, her reason for not giving up no matter what happened.

And on an impulse which she couldn’t contain, she slowly lifted one hand to first brush his hair off of his forehead and then, irresistibly, she let her fingertips drift down with a feather-light touch, learning his so-familiar features with her fingers, idly caressing his face with a caress as light as a butterfly’s wing.

She sensed his awakening in the slight hitch of his breath, the return of some stiffness to his body, before his eyes drifted open, blinking for a moment, before they focused on her.

His eyes were clear and green, for once completely free from the shadows which usually darkened them. A soft, sleepy, contented smile curved his lips as he breathed, “It wasn’t a dream.”

She felt an answering smile on her lips. “No, it wasn’t,” she said, equally softly.

“That’s good,” he murmured a little drowsily and she had to smile. God, he looked… adorable… she couldn’t help but think.

He was silent for another few moments as she was content just to watch him, just to be in his arms, and then he blinked again, his gaze sharpening a little as full consciousness returned along with the grim realities of the war and who they were and what was happening.

And even though she’d known that this peace was fleeting, she couldn’t help but feel a pang at the sight of it. Just for tonight—she’d thought it was enough and it was enough, had been enough—but she wished, oh how she wished, this peace could last longer than that.

This moment, this second, in the haven of Harry’s arms, where she felt warm and happy and—safe—she wished this moment could last forever, wished they could stay like this forever—in a sudden surge of desperate wishful thinking that was unlike her, usually so focused, so rational, as she was.

“Hermione,” he spoke, his voice quiet, “what happens now? Where do we go from here?”

“We go on,” she answered simply, and even though until that moment she hadn’t been sure of what she was going to say, now, suddenly, she knew. “We keep going; we do what we have to. Even if this was only just for tonight, it doesn’t matter. It won’t change things. We’ll keep on doing what we have been, fighting, trying, surviving. I don’t know what’s going to happen next; all I know is that I love you and I’ll stay with you, help you, no matter what.”

He was silent, staring up at her, an odd, soft expression on his face (it was the only word she could think of to describe it) before a slight frown flickered across his eyes. “What do you mean, just for tonight?”

She colored hotly. The phrase had slipped out without much thought. “I- I wasn’t sure—didn’t want to assume… that is, I didn’t know…” she stammered, uncomfortable now. She had told him she loved him, admitting aloud to him what she’d only just admitted to herself tonight—and he’d said he needed her, cared about her more than Ginny.

“Hermione,” he interrupted her halting words, “I love you too.” (It was really amazing how easy it was to say those words, never mind that he’d never said them before to anyone, amazingly easy knowing just how true they were…)

She caught her breath, staring at him. “You don’t have to say that just because--”

He interrupted her again. “I didn’t. Hermione, what did you think all this,” his hand moved on her back in what was meant to be a gesture to encompass them, their naked bodies, together in her bed, a flush rising on his cheeks, “was about? I told you I needed you; what did you think I meant?”

She hadn’t thought; she’d only accepted his words for what they were, hadn’t dared to hope for anything more. It had been enough, then, just to know he needed her and he had wanted to kiss her… “I don’t know.”

A slight smile curved his lips. “Well, now you do. I love you,” he said softly, his smile fading as his expression became serious. “And that’s not just for tonight. This—you—it’s everything.”

And he wanted to tell her it was forever, wanted to tell her he would love her forever—but he didn’t, he couldn’t, not when he didn’t know how long his ‘forever’ would be, not when he didn’t know how long they would have. It hurt, in a way that the thought of dying never had before, that he couldn’t promise her forever—but somehow, looking at her, he saw she understood.

Things were too uncertain, too unsettled; they didn’t know what would happen tomorrow or the next day or the day after that.

She lowered her lips to his, kissing him gently, tenderly. “I love you,” she whispered against his lips. “No matter what happens, remember that I’m yours.”

“I love you too.” And he left unspoken, knew she understood, the phrase, for the rest of my life. No matter how long or short that might be, he knew he would love her…

His eyes darkened as another shadow, a thought that haunted him persistently but never with so much power as now, crossed his mind. “I wish I could keep you safe but I don’t know if I can,” he said in an aching, agonized whisper. He didn’t know what he would do if anything ever happened to her. Now, more than ever, he knew, he needed her to be safe…

“We’ll be careful. We’ll protect each other, as we always have. That’s all we can do.”

He sighed a little. “I know.”

She kissed him again, her lips just brushing his lightly, teasingly this time. “Just for tonight, don’t worry about it.”

She deliberately slid her hand down his body to touch him, feeling him twitch and then harden against her hand as he sucked in a sharp breath. “Hermione!”

She smiled at the way his eyes widened, staring up at her, almost amazed at her own daring—but this was Harry and she had wanted him for so long now, longer than she had even admitted to herself, and she didn’t want to waste any of what little time they might have.

“I can think of better things to do with our time,” she whispered teasingly.

He let out a huff of laughter that quickly turned into a moan as she moved her hand just a little. “You’re amazing.”

His hands slid up her back to cup the nape of her back and bring her lips down to his to kiss her again, as he shifted, rolling over so he could press her back into her pillow. And his last thought before he completely gave himself up to the heat of her, the passion of her, was that they could get through this. Right now, with her, he found it hard to despair. They could get through this, together—and that was all he needed to know. She would be his strength and his hope, his reason to survive—and she would be—she already was-- his love…

~The End~