Disclaimer: Is this really still necessary? JKR wouldn't be caught dead posting fic here on PK because she's an idiot, as she so thoroughly proved in HBP and DH.
Author's Note: My first (posted) fic, written completely after DH and with DH spoilers (although I still haven't read the book so the spoilers are all general.) This might be one of my fics which I'm proudest of, in terms of how it came out (working on how to up the tension between H/Hr before they so much as kiss.)
That said, for those of you who have thanked me for not leaving the fandom in the aftermath of That Damn Book-well, you might be taking your thanks back, after this fic. Smut with loads and loads of ANGST. Consider yourselves warned.
What Could Be
Part 1: For Love
He could never explain how it happened.
Neither could she.
But in the end-did the how really matter?
What was important was that it did happen-and they knew why it had happened-and it changed their lives forever.
Hermione studied Harry carefully out of the corner of her eye as she cleared the table, moving their plates into the dishwasher with a flick of her wand.
Ron was away at Quidditch training camp and Harry had come over for one of their usual weekly dinners; it never mattered if Ron was there or not to whether Harry came and sometimes she liked the times alone with him. It gave her the chance to talk to him about some of the things which she knew he didn't like to talk of when Ron was around, in spite of the trust between them.
There was something slightly… off… about him tonight and it was concerning her.
Oh, it was nothing overt about his manner; no one else would have noticed it, she knew. But she knew him too well from years of close friendship and shared dangers that had made them so close at times it was like they were extensions of the same mind. And there was something not quite right…
He had been chatting easily, making light conversation all evening-and that was almost more worrisome than anything else. Because with Harry, usually, his easy conversations tended to serve as a shield for things which really bothered him. And while his distractions worked for almost everyone else he knew, it had never worked for her.
(And what was always left unsaid, unacknowledged, even in the silence of their own hearts was the fact that when he was troubled about something, he didn't talk to Ginny about it. Somehow, perhaps out of the force of habit, he didn't turn to Ginny. When he turned to anyone at all, he turned to her, and to Ron, but usually to her. It was one facet of their relationship that was never acknowledged and hardly conscious but it was there nonetheless.)
So she watched him as they got up and took their tea into the sitting room before she decided that, clearly, he wasn't going to bring it up.
"Okay, Harry, what is it?"
He started a little, looking up at her, as her question broke the comfortable silence.
He opened his mouth but she forestalled him. "Don't say it's nothing."
A slight smile crossed his face. "I suppose I should know better than to try an evasive maneuver with you around."
She returned his smile with one of her own. "That's right. You should. I was quite the heroine in the last war, you know, or so some people say," she said teasingly.
He laughed. "You were the heroine," he said and then repeated, more soberly, "You were a hero."
Her smile softened. "So tell me what's wrong," she repeated, her tone gentle.
He let out a small sigh. "It really is ridiculous," he began in a self-deprecating tone.
"Harry, if it's bothering you enough that I noticed it, then it's not ridiculous," she told him logically.
"It's just… I had a dream about my parents, about Sirius and Remus," he confessed softly. "I mean, the dream itself wasn't important; it was only that it was one of those dreams that felt real."
She sighed. "Oh, Harry…"
"So… I've just been missing them, somehow, today." He paused. "See, I told you it was nothing. I'm sorry I worried you."
"Harry, if it's bothering you, I want to know about it, no matter how small it might seem to you. I know you and you don't get bothered about things that don't matter. And this… I don't know, Harry. I don't know what to say. You know they'd be proud of you, so proud of you."
He let out a breath. "Yeah. But I still… miss them."
"Winning doesn't bring them back, does it?" she asked softly.
He shook his head. No, winning didn't bring any of them back. Not Sirius, not Dumbledore, not his parents, not Remus, not Fred…
"It's what you do after the winning, Harry, as long as you keep acting in a way that keeps their memories alive, as long as you're happy the way they'd want you to be."
"Yeah," he said softly. "I know."
He met her eyes. "Thanks for listening. It helps."
She smiled. "Anytime."
She got up to go to the kitchen to get a drink of water, touching his hair in a light, fleeting, automatic caress with her hand as she passed him.
It wasn't anything she hadn't done before and he could never tell why it happened, why he reacted the way he did.
He closed his eyes fleetingly at her touch and then, without even thinking about it, grasped her wrist before she could move away and brought her hand to his lips in a quick, spontaneous gesture of affection and gratitude.
She caught her breath at the rather uncharacteristic gesture, feeling her heart fill with a dangerous warmth.
He felt the slight, almost imperceptible tremor of her hand and looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers.
And maybe that was when it all changed. Maybe that was when it all became irresistible, inevitable, somehow.
His eyes met hers, held hers-and it was insane but somehow, something changed in the air around them, hanging in the atmosphere that was suddenly charged with something neither of them quite dared to put a name to.
Deep in his eyes (deep in his soul?), something sparked.
And she felt a shiver go through her in response.
Something… something that was the beginnings of desire but it was also more than that, something darker, more dangerous than even desire… Temptation.
It was temptation, the temptation of desire, yes, but what was more powerful than that was the temptation of dreams, the temptation of possibility, the temptation of what could be… The temptation of all the most secret fantasies and wonderings of their hearts, all the times they'd secretly, guiltily, wondered, what if…
Slowly, feeling rather as if he were in a dream and not in complete control of what he was doing, he turned her hand over to press his lips to her palm.
Another shiver passed through her body, her eyes darkening, as her lips parted on a soft gasp.
She had never thought her palm was particularly sensitive; it never had been an erogenous spot on her body. But then he'd never touched his lips to it before either.
The vague thought swam into her mind and then dissipated almost before she could grasp it, that he could probably turn her entire body into an erogenous zone, somehow…
His lips just on her palm were doing the most amazing things to her body; she could feel the heat arrow straight through her body to tingle in the core of her, feel her insides melting.
Slowly, with excruciating slowness, his lips traced a path up her palm to the inside of her wrist, where he paused, touching his lips to the spot where he could feel her pulse fluttering and then he just touched his tongue to the spot as well, leaving a damp spot on her wrist.
He met her eyes again and she felt a flare of pure, white-hot heat flash through her body to pool in the secret place between her thighs at the way his eyes had darkened with a passion, a desire, she'd never seen in him before, never associated with him before. (She knew his kindness and his humor and his courage and his stubbornness; she knew his vulnerability and his streak of impulsiveness; she knew his protectiveness and his gentleness and his honesty. But she'd never known his desire, never known his passion-and somehow, some way, she couldn't help but think that maybe it was high time she discovered this last facet of him, whom she already knew so well.)
His eyes held hers as, with equal slowness, his lips continued on, feathering the lightest trail of butterfly kisses up the sensitive, sensitized skin of her inner arm. It seemed as if every nerve ending in her body was rushing towards that one spot where his lips touched, as if every sense she had was centered, focused on that one spot.
Her breathing was fractured, her lungs having ceased to function properly. (For that matter, her brain had ceased to function properly, her thoughts congealing until she couldn't remember who they were or why they shouldn't, couldn't, do this, couldn't remember why this was wrong; all her thoughts, all her awareness, was focused on him, on his lips, on his lips on her skin, and beyond that, nothing and no one else existed…)
She couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only watch, mesmerized as much by the light touch of his lips on the inside of her arm as by the way his eyes were burning her and, more than that, mesmerized by the touch of awe, almost of reverence, (tenderness?) she could sense in his touch.
This wasn't only desire; it wasn't only temptation; it was more than that… The wispy thought floated through her mind, only understood somewhere in her subconscious, but dissipating before her conscious mind could grasp it.
But as if even the subconscious understanding of that thought were enough, she let out a gasp, the soft sound shattering the intense silence up until now. "Harry." Just the single word, his name, left her lips on a gasp-it wasn't a question but it was, somehow, a confirmation that this was him, this was her best friend-always her best friend, never more than that-doing this to her, wielding a power over her senses which she'd never even dreamed of, never dreamed anyone could… Until now, until him…
Something flared in his eyes at the sound of her voice and slowly-not in the same dreamlike state he had been in but more deliberately, as if some decision had been made, even unconsciously-he stood up, his hand still gripping her wrist, his thumb beginning to move in light caressing strokes, brushing back and forth over her sensitized skin.
He stood up so he was suddenly so close to her, closer than he'd ever been (or so it seemed-because he'd never been close like this), their breaths mingling. So close he could feel her breath hot against his skin, so close he could see the way her eyes had darkened, dilated with arousal, so close he could breathe in the familiar, light, floral scent of her shampoo and her lotion. It was a subtle scent, one that was, somehow, suddenly, enticing, curling through his senses, subtly arousing.
A surge of desire swept up inside him, stealing his breath and his wits, so strong it almost weakened his knees.
His free hand came up of its own volition to touch her cheek, his fingertips just barely brushing her skin in a caress as light as a butterfly's wing, as light as air. Her skin felt amazingly soft and smooth even at this lightest of touches-and it only made him want her more.
Her eyes fluttered closed for a fleeting minute as if to savor his touch and his reaction this time had less to do with want than it did with a purer, simpler, and yet deeper impulse of emotion, of caring. He did care about her so much… more, he was beginning to realize, than he'd ever thought-and that was what made all this more, more dangerous than simple desire, more powerful than simple lust, more frightening and more compelling than anything he'd ever felt before.
It was as if the entire world, time itself, seemed to pause, hover, and for that moment, he was keenly aware of all the chaos and all the turbulent emotion they were about to unleash, turning their worlds upside down. But he was no more capable of stopping it, of stopping himself, than he was capable of stopping the ebb and flow of the tides.
He could no more stop himself from kissing her than he could stop his heart from beating or stop the sun from rising.
Slowly, oh so slowly, he lowered his head until his lips touched hers and he kissed her for the first time. It began gently, his lips soft and yet firm against hers, lightly brushing and then increasing the pressure until she parted her lips and allowed him access and he tasted her.
The kiss deepened, lengthened, as their tongues met and melded, stroked and caressed, in a leisurely exploration of their mouths. He tasted her; she tasted him; and nothing had ever felt more right.
Oddly, perhaps, it wasn't an explosion of passion; it felt more like a natural growth of desire, seeping, spreading throughout their bodies, slowly and steadily building, consuming them both. And it was all the more seductive for its very slow build-up, all the more tantalizing, all the more irresistible, as all the reasons why this was wrong and they should not, could not, do this evaporated from their minds like so much smoke.
Heat and arousal were building, pulsing through her body, making her toes curl and scattering her wits, as she felt herself falling into his kiss. She let out a small sigh of pleasure which was swallowed by his mouth, as she melted against him, her body swaying to press against his.
He broke the kiss on a gasp, resting his forehead against hers, before he moved to stare at her, his eyes wide and clouded with desire. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to say something, his lips parting, but all he said, all that emerged from his lips was, "Hermione." Just her name, half-gasped in a throaty voice that sent a fresh wave of heat swirling through her body just at the sound of it.
"Harry," she answered him, her own voice husky, and she asked the question she could sense in his eyes. "What are we doing?"
What were they doing? How had this happened?
"I don't know," he breathed, his voice hardly audible. "But I know I can't stop." And it was true. At that moment, he wanted, needed, her more than he wanted, needed, his next breath; he couldn't think to care about the reasons or how this had happened, he only knew he wanted this, wanted her…
"Neither can I," she admitted in a tone just above a breath of sound.
The admission drew a soft sound of surrender from him before he covered her lips with his again.
And then the explosion happened, pure lust surging up inside them, its force seeming all the greater for the build-up to it. His lips slanted across hers, their tongues tangling now in an almost fierce and entirely arousing duel.
His arms closed around her body, bringing her body more firmly against him. Her fingers which had been tangled in his hair moved to clutch at his shoulders, his back, roaming restlessly over his body. She was intensely, supremely conscious of his body hardening against hers, and arched against him so her body rubbed against him in an unconscious, instinctive movement, seeking to relieve the tension building between her thighs.
His groan was swallowed by her mouth as she flattened her body to his. God, she could not get close enough to him, could not get enough of his mouth and his hands and his touch; she wanted more, more, more…
She wanted to feel his skin.
Her hands tugged impatiently at his shirt to slide underneath, flattening her palms on his stomach and his chest, loving the way the muscles flinched in reaction. Her fingers brushed across his flat nipples and he let out a sharp hiss. With a touch of mischief, she did it again, flicking her fingertips across his nipples, and he broke their kiss on a groan as he hastily tore his shirt off over his head, dropping it blindly behind him.
The moment his shirt was off, his hands went to her blouse, unbuttoning it with fingers made clumsy with haste and lust. She moved to help him and then shrugged out of her blouse.
In some small corner of her mind, she couldn't help but think that she ought to feel some sense of oddness at being bared to his gaze except for her bra-this was Harry, whom she'd always insisted she loved like a brother, like her friend-- but she didn't; she couldn't. All she was conscious of was a thrill of arousal shaking her at his sharp intake of breath as he stilled and simply stared at her.
Slowly, almost reverently, his hands came up to cup her breasts through her bra (which might as well have been nonexistent for all that she could still feel the heat of his touch) and she arched into him, pushing herself into his hands, encouraging him. His hands slid around to her back to unclasp her bra and she felt it tighten and then fall away.
"You're so beautiful," he breathed hoarsely as he cupped her now-bare breasts with his hands, his thumbs flicking over her nipples as they budded, darkened with arousal. His hands alternately stroked, caressed, and kneaded, applying first more pressure, flattening her breasts, and then less, until her breath was coming in gasps and moans and she thought she might be losing her mind to the pleasure shooting through her.
She flattened herself against him, her lips finding his again as she kissed him with all the intensity of the lust roaring through her body.
He gave a strangled moan at the feel of her breasts pressed against his bare chest and then he felt her hands slide down between their bodies in a slow, wicked caress before she palmed, cupped, his arousal through his trousers-and he nearly exploded right then and there.
He felt as impatient as if he were the teenage boy he hadn't been for several years now, a teenage boy first touching a girl at that.
Her fingers brushed teasingly, deliberately, against the bulge in his trousers as he felt her undo the fastenings.
God, he wanted her. He wanted her so much it hurt, ached for her, needed her-and she was driving him mad.
How he managed to shove his boxers and his trousers down, he never quite knew-he certainly had no memory of it-but somehow, he did it, freeing his erection.
Immediately, her wonderful, evil hands were on him, first feathering along the hot, hard length of him and then wrapping around him, stroking him at first slowly and then with increasing speed, until he was groaning and his hips thrusting uncontrollably into her hand.
The universe narrowed down to him and her and her hands on his body and the amazing, wonderful, thought-shattering pleasure she was evoking in him.
He opened his eyes that had fallen shut to see the expression on her face-and even in spite of the arousal that was clouding his brain, stealing his breath and his wits, everything inside him seemed to still at that moment. He knew that expression, recognized it-it was the expression of concentration, of mental focus, when he knew that all the cleverness and all the determination and all the intensity that made Hermione Hermione were focused on one topic. He had seen it most often during the last year of the war, when she had been focused almost to the exclusion of all else on the horcruxes and how to defeat Voldemort-and it was back now. Only now, she was focused on him.
He wouldn't have believed it possible but he hardened even more to the point of pain, his need growing. There was something indescribably… hot… about seeing that expression on her face and know she was focused on him, on what she was doing to him. But mingled in with all the arousal was something else, something even more intense than physical need-something more, something stronger… He couldn't think to put a word to it but he felt it, recognized it in himself-and all he knew, somehow, was that that something was why this was happening now.
He was going to die if she didn't stop. He grabbed her wrist with one hand, jerking his hips back away from her. "No more," he panted. "I need you now."
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes." And then she was in his arms again, flattening her body against his, as his hands roamed greedily down the smooth skin of her back to cup her butt through her jeans and then swept around to the front to hastily undo the fastenings and then shove her jeans and her knickers down, his hands trembling a little from his haste and his impatience.
She kicked her jeans and knickers off her legs and she was naked-and he forgot how to breathe. And he'd thought she was beautiful before… That was nothing compared to what she looked like now, her skin flushed with arousal…
He slipped his hand between her thighs, groaning at how wet she was. God, he couldn't wait. He needed to be inside her now…
She wrapped one leg around his as his erection slid in between her legs, just nudging the spot where he was dying to be.
His hands cupped her butt, lifting her against him as she wrapped her legs around his hips and he surged inside her with one forceful thrust, crying out at the exquisite sensation of her around him.
His knees buckled from the sheer, mind-blowing pleasure of it-and he hadn't even begun to move yet-and he sank down blindly onto the couch as she straddled him.
He gritted his teeth, letting his head fall onto her shoulder, as he fought for some semblance of control but it was all too much, she was too hot, too wet, too tight around him.
Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her breath coming in sobbing gasps, (the sound arrowing straight to his groin) as she began to rock on him.
His hands grasped her hips as they found a rhythm and it was incredible.
It was passion and it was lust and pure, carnal need, all swirled together mixed in with that something else, the temptation that had begun it all, coming together in an explosive combination.
Her muscles were tightening, clenching around him, and his hips jerked, his hands tightening convulsively on her hips, and she came with a strangled cry. The sensation of her hot, wet tightness clasping him pushed him over the edge, drew his pleasure out to the breaking point, and he exploded inside her, his hips shuddering, his vision graying for a moment until the only thing he could see, somehow, was her face, the look of complete abandon to physical pleasure…
She sagged against him as he fell backwards on the couch, just managing to turn his body so that he was lying on his back as she fell forward on top of him.
He wrapped his arms around her, brushing his lips against her temple, as he felt himself relax, sliding into the deepest peace he had ever known…
But not for long.
He fought the return of reality, of rationality, trying desperately to cling to this peace for just a moment longer-but knew, even as he tried, that it was hopeless.
A tidal wave of guilt and recriminations surged up and swamped him, engaging in a pitched battle with his heart.
What have you done?
I couldn't help it. God help me, I couldn't resist it, couldn't resist her…
You have to help it! Forget this happened. You have to forget it.
But I'm in love with her!
And somehow that thought didn't surprise him the way it should have. It only filled him with acceptance of its truth, the knowledge settling into his heart as if he had always known it, somehow, some way, in the most secret corner of his heart where he hadn't even acknowledged its existence -and a deep, piercing sorrow to realize it now when it was too late, when the realization only hurt all the more.
I know. But it doesn't make it right.
This doesn't feel wrong… it feels… like everything I've been meant for…
You have to forget it. Get over it. Deny it. Pretend it never happened.
I know…
He had to forget-but how?
On the heels of his despairing realization, he felt her shudder and then the wetness of her tears on his chest as she gave in to the guilt and the sadness racking her.
Oh God, what had they done? And what were they going to do now?
Even though he knew he shouldn't-he couldn't-he could no more refrain from tightening his arms around her and trying to comfort her than he could have commanded time to stand still.
He hauled her tighter against his body, curling his body around hers as if to shield her from all the pain and suffering in the world (he only wished he could), his hand stroking her hair, even as every one of her muffled sobs slashed at his heart. "God, Hermione, don't. Please don't. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"
And even though she knew she shouldn't-that turning to him now would only make it a thousand times harder in the end, she could no more keep herself from clinging to him as she cried, her tears wetting his chest-no more stop herself from sagging into the haven of his arms-than she could have stopped her heart from beating-- than she could stop her heart from breaking.
And maybe that realization was more terrifying than anything else. He was still the one person she automatically turned to for comfort. He was still, in spite of everything, her haven.
And that scared her into pushing herself away from him, swallowing back the rest of her tears. She sat up, moving to the other chair, needing to put some distance between them, and curled up on it in a futile and belated attempt to shield her body from his view, as if that would change anything. She didn't look at him; she couldn't look at him. "I'm okay. I'm sorry. We can't do this, Harry. You know we can't." She knew he could hear the pain in her voice but she couldn't help it.
"Hermione, I l--"
"Don't!" she cut him off sharply. "Don't say it! Please, don't say it! You can't say it; you shouldn't feel it!" she burst out, even though she knew the words were ridiculous. He could no more help it than she could-but she couldn't bear to hear the words. She knew she couldn't bear it. "Please, Harry, just leave. We have to forget this ever happened. We have to!"
"I know, but how?"
She'd never known before that you could hear heartbreak in a voice but she heard it then. Heard it in the plaintive note of desperation edging his question.
And she had no answer. "I don't know."
She kept her eyes and her face averted as she heard him retrieve his clothes and get dressed again, trying to keep her mind from picturing his body, trying desperately to erase the image of him from her memory. She sensed his hesitation and his unhappiness, sensed his gaze on her-sensed rather than felt the hand that reached out, irresistibly, to brush her hair in a feather-light, fleeting caress (she closed her eyes at the touch and fought to keep herself from breaking down and turning to him). She heard his sigh and sensed his struggle for words, for something to say, before he gave up and left, leaving her alone with her guilt and her misery and her confusion.
His last question seemed to echo in her mind.
How? How were they supposed to forget this? How were they to go on as if it had never happened?
She didn't know. It was almost bitterly, painfully funny-in a gut-wrenching sort of way-that now, when she really needed to know the answers of how to salvage their lives and their friendship, she had nothing, knew nothing.
~To be continued…~