The Best Part of the Day

Harry stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching as rays of sunshine spilled through the window blinds onto Hermione's prone form. He almost didn't want to wake her; she looked so peaceful. This was the one moment per day when Hermione wasn't pushing herself to juggle at least eight projects, run a household, keep up a social calendar, work on her hobbies (knitting, preservation of archaic texts, rune reading, devising a better filing system for libraries Muggle and Wizarding alike), and be a good partner simultaneously.

It was the best moment of the day.

She had lines imprinted on her face from sleeping a good while on the cuff of her dressing gown , her hair was a frizzy mess, and there was a slight crust about her mouth where drool had dried fast.

In short, Harry thought she was breathtaking. He could stand there all morning watching her, but he wouldn't. The tray he'd brought for her would get cold. While a Warming Charm could be used to heat up a lukewarm breakfast, it just wasn't the same as a freshly-made and piping-hot spread.

"Hey," he said quietly, sitting at the foot of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and her body rocked gently forward and then back. She didn't stir. Setting the tray atop the duvet, he leant forward to lay a hand on her shoulder. "Hey," he said again, one corner of his mouth turning up as her eyes opened.

She gave him a bleary look, rubbing at her eyes and wiping at her lips.

The other corner turned up. "Did I wake y' up?"

"No," Hermione said drily, propping herself on her elbows.

"Good. I'd hate to do that. It'd be dreadful of me."

"Completely dreadful," Hermione agreed around a yawn. Then: "Do I smell bacon?"

"And toast," Harry said. "And porridge. And Earl Grey, semi-skimmed, one lump."

"Harry."

"What?" he asked, sliding the tray overtop her lap. "Don't tell me you started taking two lumps with your tea."

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble," she said after a long moment of silence, curling the fingers of one hand around the mug. He half-expected her to push the tray off her lap and run round like a mad witch, tossing scroll after scroll and book after book in her satchel before Apparating off to This Meeting and That Meeting. It was Saturday, but that didn't mean it wasn't a work day for Hermione. Everyday was a work day to her, no matter what.

"Yeah I did," he said, spooning a bit of porridge into her mouth. Harry didn't mind cooking breakfast for her. Usually she never had time for it, but today he'd see to it that she made the time. This was her bloody day; if she couldn't spare an hour of her morning to eat a bit of breakie with him before popping off to hold meetings on House Elf Rights and Bettering Wards on Orphanages and such on this particular morning, she never would. "Happy birthday, Hermione."

Her hand stilled halfway to her mouth, and Harry could have swore he saw it tremble. He blinked, and it was as steady as could be.

"Happy birthday to me," she murmured, blowing on the hot liquid before taking a sip.

"Happy birthday to you," he said in return, hand giving her thigh a squeeze through the duvet. She looked as though she were Deep In Thought, so he didn't say anything else. He let Hermione have her moment, watching her. Carefully, not expectantly. Often times she shared her Deep Thoughts with him, but sometimes she didn't. Harry wasn't sure if this was because she was still stuck on analysis and comprehension regarding something about herself and she didn't want to share it until she was certain, or if this was because she didn't want to tell him simply because she didn't want to tell him. This was one of those times when she didn't share her Deep Thoughts, and Harry's smile dissolved.

Pushing the tray off her lap, Hermione disentangled herself from the duvet and sheets, and then began bustling about the room. Harry watched in disbelief as she began gathering scrolls, quills, and books, cramming them in her satchel. Her hair and dressing robe flew out behind her as she moved with dizzying speed.

"It's only a number, Hermione," he said finally, holding a rogue scroll out to her.

"It's a milestone," she snapped, tearing the parchment out of his hand, shoving it under the flap.

"You're thirty. It's only a number."

"No," she said, her voice sounding oddly choked. "It isn't."

"It is," he returned, but the sound of the door to the loo slamming drowned out his protest. Sinking onto the bed, he cradled his face in his hands.

Brilliant.

The familiar rattle and squeal of the hot water pipes gave him cause to lift his head. So she would rather stand in the shower until she got all pruney than share her Deep Thoughts with him.

She did this every once in a great while when things got to be too much, and Harry never questioned it.

It would have been hypocritical of him to do so; instead of staying in the shower until he was more wrinkled than a shrivelfig like Hermione, he would go flying in the middle of the night when it was the coldest, pushing himself to go faster and faster so the wind bit his skin, so he'd get so cold that his body would be on the brink of shutting down. She always berated him for doing something so stupid, but she never tried to stop him from it or ask him why he did it. She knew. Hermione knew, just like Harry knew about the shower and her.

He needed to question it today, though.

While he knew the door would be locked, Harry tried the knob anyway. It didn't budge, although he did rattle it a bit before slapping his palm against the wood.

"Hermione, turn that off and open the door."

A beat, and then he shook his head, producing his wand. It took him a few minutes to crack her Locking Charm, but he cracked it all the same. A burst of steam greeted him, and he set his glasses on the counter. Mopping at his brow, pushing damp fringe off his forehead, he watched Hermione, who was hazy and blurry through the frosted glass of the door.

"I'd like to be alone, Harry," she said, giving him her back. Her hands pressed against the side of the stall, spray beating against her profile.

Harry wasn't going to play this game with her, the game where she said one thing, he said another, and they went round and round for eons until someone got disgusted, tired, or both and retreated.

Bypassing the game altogether, he said, "Yeah? I'd like a lifetime supply of Chocolate Frogs and a pony, but I'm not getting that, either." His shirt was shucked off quickly, and he shoved his pyjama bottoms down, stepping out of them and nearly tripping into the shower after he flung the door open.

Her shoulders rose and fell in a huff as the showerdoor clicked closed, rivulets of water rolling down her back.

"I didn't know you wanted a pony," she said finally, head leaning forward to rest against the wall.

"I don't."

"I didn't think so."

"Hermione...." He reached out slowly to touch her shoulder.

She froze, then shrugged his hand off. "Don't," she whispered. It wasn't a plea; it was an order.

Harry didn't much care for orders.

"Listen to me." Closing the distance between them, Harry pressed his chest against her back and wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her to him. Speaking in her ear, he began, "I don't know what you're thinking, but--"

"No, you don't," she said in a clipped voice, a hand pushing at his arm.

"I don't because you won't tell me," he said pointedly, and she stopped trying to push him away. "I don't care a whit if you're thirty or three hundred, all right? You're brilliant inside and out, and I wish you got that, Hermione."

For a long time, the only sound in the shower was that of the spray hitting their bodies and the sounds of their breathing. Harry wondered if maybe he crossed the line by coming in here to confront her, but he wasn't about to take it back. Their skin was slick from water and steam, and being so close against her was making his nerves raw, stirring something inside him. This made him feel like a right git; that was not what she needed right now.

"What do I have to show for it?"

It had been what seemed like yonks since anyone had talked. At the unexpected sound of her voice, Harry started.

"Are you being serious?" he asked slowly, staring at the damp curls tumbling over her shoulders.

Though he couldn't see her face, he just knew she was giving his question a Dirty Look. "I botched up the Smythe case last month, I haven't learnt to properly cook, I can never seem to organise the library or my yarn surplus effectively, I didn't get the promotion at work, I completely missed your game last fortnight, Mum and Dad asked why they've not got grandbabies again, and I found six bloody grey hairs yesterday!"

There really wasn't anything he could say about most of this. They'd talked and talked and talked about the Smythe case (Really, Harry thought she was being too hard on herself about that one.) and the no-go on the promotion until they'd both practically gone blue in the face, he didn't give a toss as to whether or not she could cook, her library and knitting supplies looked more organised than Gringott's security system, he'd already forgiven her for missing his game, and Mr and Mrs Granger could go hang for harping on her about not yet having had a baby. He sincerely doubted she wanted him to rehash his feelings on all of that, especially the last bit.

The grey hairs were new.

Shifting against her, he pushed her hair to the side, breathing against the nape of her neck. "I dunno, Hermione. Grey hair can be rather sexy."

She snorted, but she moved back against him all the same. He was pressed close to her bum, and in that moment he knew he had to kiss her.

As if having read his mind, she turned around. There they were, he with his hard angles and she with her soft curves, and their lips met for a kiss that was understanding laced with appreciation and companionship, and this was by far Harry's favourite sort of kiss. Oh, he loved the ones that were desperate and hard and the ones that were soft and slow and meant to drive one another wild, but this was his favourite out of the bunch.

"Life isn't about the Whats," he said against her mouth, threading the fingers of one hand in her hair while the other moved lightly over her shoulder and down her chest, thumb and forefinger rolling her nipple between them. "It's about the Whos."

"How'd you get so clever?" she gasped, hooking a heel about his waist, running a hand slowly over his features.

"I've been shagging this really clever witch for years. Sooner or later I had to learn something," he murmured, tracing her lips with his tongue.

She laughed at that, and he would have both grinned and sighed with relief in her change of demeanor had she not sucked his tongue into her mouth.

Nerves nearly aching now, his hand drifted down her soft belly, and he groaned at the feel of her nipples, pebble hard, pressed against his chest. His senses became electric, and she urged the current along as her hand took hold of him, leading him to her. A roll of her hips, an arch of the back, and he was inside her. If it were possible, he would spend the rest of his days right there. It was like everything he'd ever wanted and more, and nothing he would ever see in the Mirror of Erised would ever compare to this. They worked together in every sense of the words, and that realisation made him both tremble and fierce with want.

She thrust against him and he met her time and again, and a coil of pleasure wound tighter and tighter in his stomach. Hermione knew how to angle her hips, just where on his neck to lick and suck, where to run her fingers as though she were stroking the spine of a cherished book, and Harry was glad he could be there for her just as she was for him.

Reaching a hand between them, Harry moaned as his fingertips felt him sliding into her. Just a little nudge over, and he felt what he'd been looking for. Pressing his thumb against her, moving his fingers just so, he pistoned his hips. She shuddered and he gasped as he felt her clench and quiver around him.

Gathering her into his arms, his movements slowed, thrusts becoming shallow. A surge, and then it was over.

"You believe me?" he asked quietly, breath panting against her cheek as he held her close.

"I do," she returned, tracing his scar with the tip of her finger.

It was then Harry knew that he'd been wrong earlier. This was the best part of the day.

-->