Expectations are hopes pinned on a false idol, and he hasn't ever felt as fake as he does now.
[He is fake.]
He is the Saviour. At least, this is what they say. This is what they believe.
[If they only knew.]
He believes none of it. It had been luck, dumb luck, plain and simple, that he'd been able to defeat Voldemort alone, let alone walk away whole with his best friends, also alive and whole and healthy, by his side. Luck and nothing more.
[Luck, may she take many shapes and forms.]
He has not had much luck since then. Jobs are few and far between; he isn't suited for this, he doesn't like that, his social skills are lacking, he refuses to use his celebrity to garner attention for the company, et cetera. Women are even fewer and farther between.
Ron always said it was because no one would measure up to Ginny in Harry's eyes, while Hermione always replied that Ron would do well to leave well enough alone; everyone knows Harry and Ginny decided long ago they made better friends than lovers. Everyone being Fred and George initially, who told Lee who told Katie who told Lavender who told pratically everyone with whom they'd gone to Hogwarts that Ginny'd had her fill of Potter cock and was moving on up, spending all her waking hours working on becoming Queen of the Universe, as that was really the only thing she could do to best her Conquering Potter achievement. Harry never said anything. He would ignore it, serve up the tea, and listen to Ron and Hermione go on about their day. When they would leave, he would go soak in the tub, dirt and grime and expectations unwanted slipping off his skin to swirl in the water. The water would cloud and slosh and then he would grab his cock and think on Ginny. He would think on her and talk of her, her name spilling past his lips like prayers for the dying as hips buck hand squeezestrokesqueezes and oh oh ah he would come.
He only liked to think of her when he came because that was how he had liked her best - wanton and spread for him and moaning. That was how he'd liked her best. Satisfying him. Allowing him to touch her.
He didn't miss her. He'd missed her warmth and her body.
Ron would hex his bollocks off if he'd ever find that out.
Luckily for Harry, Ron has never held interest in Occlumency.
He could have any woman he likes, probably. Not a day goes by that he doesn't get an offer, be it spoken or not. Some witches are shameless with their forward nature and empty words. Every once in a great while, when he cannot bear the thought of his hand being the form of release for the evening, he tries one. They always fail him.
Disappointment has become awfully familiar.
He isn't the only one who has taken up with such concepts.
Ron and Hermione are no more, have not been a More Than for weeks now. Their split was amiable, which surprised the bleeding hell out of Harry, but did not at the same time. Since age eleven, the two could row round and round in circles one day and be absolutely fine the next.
As Harry was never even remotely as close to Ginny as Ron and Hermione are to one another, he cannot imagine what it must be like for them to remain friends in the face of their parting. They are better persons than he. Of this he is certain.
Thought neither of them says so, he knows they are disappointed on some level that their match did not work.
On the day that had once been Ron and Hermione's anniversary, Harry took Ron out for a pint. Harry did not return home until somewhere after slamming down pint number eight or nine. He stumbled down the hall to the bath and ran the water. It was lukewarm and soothing on his skin, around him, and he grabbed his cock, knackered and sloppy and slow. Stroke stroke tense oh and he was coming and it wasn't Ginny's face swimming before him, all narrow-eyed and naughty. It was Hermione's.
He passed out in the tub, hand on his cock and Hermione's tits on his pissed brain.
[In the morning light, he knows shame.]
The pub seems like years ago, though only a few hours have passed.
Harry stays in bed most of the day, waving away Hedwig when she brings the post; tossing a pillow at the fireplace when Neville's head pops in it; groaning when the Wireless, charmed to turn on at half-four in the afternoon daily, blares on.
The programme on the Wireless is unbearable today on account of the splitting headache, so Harry drags his arse out of bed. After shutting it off, he promptly falls back asleep.
"Harry?"
Her voice jolts him awake.
Starting, he sits up, alert with that thudthudthud adrenaline pulsing and pushing through him.
Hermione stands at the foot of his bed, concern etched on her features.
"When you didn't come round, I thought you were running late, but then you didn't answer your fireplace, so..."
Shite.
He was to have had dinner with Hermione tonight. Hell, he'd been the one to suggest it last week when he'd remembered about Ron and Hermione's impending no-longer-anniversary.
"Christ, Hermione. I'm sorry." Though it really fucking hurts his head and it makes everything all spinny, Harry stumbles out of bed and begins to scurry about his room. Clean clothes are definitely in order. He's not taking Hermione out wearing the same shite he'd gone in to pub with Ron.
"Really, Harry," she says, and he can tell by the tone of her voice that she's trying quite hard not to lecture him about the evils of drinking until one spews their stomach lining.
"Just a minute," he says quickly, snatching up his clothes. He closes the bathroom door before she can call after him.
Off come the clothes he'd shoved back on after getting out of the cold bath this morning. Taking his wand off the ledge of the sink, he freshens up a bit, feeling better already, though the headache is still very much there.
However, his coordination is not. Harry attempts to step into his trousers but misjudges and finds himself to be a lump on the floor.
"What happened?"
Hermione is standing in the middle of the bathroom before Harry's even processed that he's on the floor.
"I'm fine," Harry mumbles, cheeks flaming.
"Yes, of course you are. That's why you look like death warmed over and have taken up refuge in the centre of the floor." Rolling her eyes, Hermione leans over to give him a hand.
The moment his fingers curl around hers, his cock twitches.
Unfortunately for him, he'd not pulled on any shorts before attempting to get into the trousers, so he is quite exposed. Quite exposed in the presence of his very observant best friend.
She yanks her hand away and turns around.
He doesn't know what to say, so he gets to his feet and tucks himself into his trousers, pulling up the zip.
"Er..." Yes, that's just brilliant. 'Er' will make the awkwardness shove right off.
"Maybe we ought to just do this another time." Her shoulders are stiff and he feels like a complete ass.
"No," he says quickly. "I said I'd take you out tonight; I'll take you out."
"Harry..."
He wants to be there for her; that's why he'd thought this up in the first place. She can tell him she's fine til she's blue in the face, but Harry remembers how hard certain days were after he'd had it out with Ginny. It helps to be around a friend on those days, and this is one of those days for Hermione.
"Don't, Hermione." He reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder, turning her toward him. "Don't."
"I'm fine." She gives him the steely-eyed look that had always pinned him down before, but this time the effect is different.
The look sparks something inside Harry and suddenly he remembers floating in warm water, hand fisting over cock while visions of Hermione and her smile and her figure urged him on. He remembers these things, she's standing so very close, and he cannot help himself from what he does next.
He kisses her.
Harry kisses her, and it isn't the sort of kiss someone gives their best friend.
"I'm fine."
Her words repeat over and over in his head, urging him on. He knows she needs him on some level and today, here and now, this is the level he chooses.
Hermione's lips part the slightest of degrees and her shoulders feel tense under his hands, but then he can feel her give in, feel her lips move against his, and he knows the tension has gone out of her body before he even physically feels it leave.
[Stay don't go.]
He can't remember much from one moment to the next. Everything is loud and brightbold and her and Harry cannot get enough of her. Her skin is soft and hot under his, her hands just as skilled with flesh as they are with mortar and pestle or ink and quill. Her back is pressed firmly against the door to the loo, Harry's mouth is on her neck, her hands are under his shirt, and Harry is okay. More than okay.
He's fine.
He's fine and this is more than fine. It's Harry and Hermione and this Thing. This Thing that's been there for God only knows how long. Harry hadn't known it was really there until last night, and it's obvious Hermione knows, too.
The way she's kissing him, all taking charge and leading, is so damned brilliant that it makes him completely forget that he's got a headache and a hangover. The only thought processing at all is please don't stop because I'll die. She's pushing herself up against him, standing on the tips of her toes, and her hands slide further up his chest to clutch at his shoulders. He can feel her wobble slightly against him and, with a grunt, he bends at the knees, lifting her so she's pressing hard back against the door and her legs have nowhere else to go but round his waist. Harry's hands are under her arse, squeezing and supporting, and she laughs breathlessly against his lips. Harry likes the way she sounds, all wanton and womanly, and he finds himself wondering if she sounded like this when she was with Ron.
Ron.
He's not going to feel guilty about this. He won't. Ron'd been all right at the pub and seemed ready to move on. Hadn't he?
[Guilt over mind over matter, sharp and true.]
Her heels dig into his arse and he forces himself to forget about Ron. Hermione's skirt is hiked up to the tops of her thighs and, if he tilts his frame just so, he can feel her hot and wet against him. There's no way he can resist touching her, so he doesn't even try. Up up and under his hands slip, fingers edging just under the elastic of her knickers. "Oof," she breathes, tilting her hips up enough so his fingers move in easily. When she moves up, her hips roll against his and a scorching hot flame bursts through him, right down to the groin. At this rate, he'll come any minute and he doesn't even care. There's this connection between them that Harry can't deny any more than Hermione can, and every little thing she does, every little way she moves against him, sends this fiery burst of desire to every last fibre of his being.
Unable to hold off any longer, Harry uses a hand to undo the zip, then shoves her knickers aside, plunging fingers deep inside her.
"Harry...oh." Her head falls back against the door, hair pushing up and around her like a frizzy halo. She cries out when he trusts his fingers in deeper, thumb moving in slow circles over her clit.
"Hermione." His voice is low and shaking as he works his fingers. Hermione sighs against his ear, warm breath tickling the sensitive shell, and he changes the angle of his fingers, wrist pushing in and out faster and faster. When he crooks a finger inside her and presses just so, she squeaks and gasps and then slams herself down, then arches toward him. His fingers are wet with sex and release; he can feel it trickling down his hand as he reaches for his cock with the other.
Guiding himself to her opening, he pushes in the tiniest of degrees, waiting until she cannot take it anymore. He doesn't have to wait long. A low keening sound tumbles past her lips and she's using her heels to haul him up as she pushes herself forward. Harry groans as he feels himself moving in inch by inch, her velvety heat enveloping him. Pistoning his hips, Harry kisses her fiercely, sucking her tongue into his mouth, teeth scraping over the muscle as his cock moves in and out of her. Her hips jerk erratically and he can't get over how tight and hot she is. He tells her as much, whispering, letting her know how good she feels, how she makes him feel. He keeps on whispering as her hands settle on his chest. Her breasts bounce with each thrust of his hips, and he kneads and pinches at them through the fabric of her shirt while they rise and fall together.
It isn't long before she is clenching around his cock, and Harry's mouth gapes soundlessly as his orgasm is milked out of him. Gasping, clutching at the door, he cants his hips forward and waits for the shuddering to stop.
Groaning, he pins Hermione against the door, heat and release pooling between them.
"What just happened?" Hermione says after a long silence.
"I don't know," he says honestly. And he doesn't.
She grows quiet again and Harry exhales sharply, then grits his teeth. He is very much aware of her legs still around his waist and the feel of her around his cock.
There's a twisting heat in his stomach, strong and bigger than him, and he smiles.
[Oh you left some stars in my belly.]
Hermione laughs that laugh again, and he doesn't feel so fake anymore.
A/N: Title taken from a line in the late Jeff Buckley's "Jewel Box." Line also appears near the end of this fic.
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