The Hours In Between by Asexual Albert

Rating: NC17
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 24/07/2003
Last Updated: 24/07/2003
Status: In Progress

When you’re fighting towards the greatest battle of your life, you have to find comfort in what
things you can. As the inevitable showdown with Voldemort looms ever near, Harry and Hermione come
into an understanding that might change the outcome of the second war.




1. Prologue
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**Title:** The Hours In Between

**Author:** Albert (vance085@hotmail.com)

**Spoilers:** For all five books

**Rating:** NC-17

**Disclaimer:** I am not J. K. Rowling. In fact, I am not even of the right gender to be J.
K. Rowling. I think it would be nice to be J. K. Rowling, except for the whole
wanting-to-break-your-own-arm-to-avoid-writing thing. That aside... the following characters aren’t
mine; they are hers. They are also owned in part by the book people and the movie people, who,
again, aren’t me. Please don’t sue me. I am a starving college student.

**Credits:** This fan fiction is a response to Lover’s “Bed Buddies” challenge at the Portkey
forums. The title, “The Hours In Between,” was shamelessly lifted from my long-running column in my
high school newspaper.

**Summary:** When you’re fighting towards the greatest battle of your life, you have to find
comfort in what things you can. As the inevitable showdown with Voldemort looms ever near, Harry
and Hermione come into an understanding that might change the outcome of the second war.

**Author’s Note:** Wow, the number of people that want to see this written amazes me, but I’m
sure that’s just the challenge and not my writing. I have a tendency to write longer stories, so
this is just the prologue. I hope that it’s what you wanted. Bear with me; I’m still trying to sort
out all the PM and e-mail addresses to make sure that everyone that wants this gets it. Thanks for
the opportunity, Lover!

--Albert

Prologue

“At the end of the day,
And into the night,
That's when the darkness gives me light.
I can see clearly what is right in front of me.”

*--Dexter Freebish, “Deeper”*

Her skin was cool under his fingertips despite the frenzied heat of the moment. He pulled her
down onto his erection again, trying not to fall out of the rhythm they had already established for
the night. It was difficult; he was getting so close and unsure of how much longer he could control
himself.

Allowing his eyes what he wouldn’t his hands, he took in every detail of her. She had a mole on
her left breast. She had been injured in a Muggle auto accident years and years before and had the
surgery scars on her abdomen to show for it. She had a turtle-shaped birthmark as well, but it was
so low that his thumb was covering it. Sometimes he wondered if his knowledge of her body wasn’t as
intimate as touching her in all those places. He marveled over her one last time, marveled over a
gorgeous body usually rather hidden beneath her billowing school robes, robes he knew she bought
several sizes too big, before pulling a hand away from her hip.

“Charm,” he managed, fumbling about for his wand, which was lying on his bed next to them. He
felt her hand close around his, and together they spoke the incantation that would keep her from
getting pregnant. (Potions were certainly easier but much harder to come by at Hogwarts.) It was
only after this had been done that he let himself go. Within seconds, he felt her muscles tighten
around him and heard her whimper in her efforts to stay quiet, and he knew that she had climaxed as
well.

He wordlessly extended his arms to her, and she snuggled against him. They were both breathing
heavily still when she rested her head against his chest. She was lying on his left arm, the one
with the hand gently stroking her bushy hair. His right hand was on her hip. No explanations. No
apologies. No regrets. Those were the only rules that they had.

It had been September when they had first found each other. Dumbledore had called Harry into his
office after dinner at the end of the first week back, and, just like that, he had been made a
member of the Order of the Phoenix. He would have been secretly thrilled had it come a year before,
but as it was, he couldn’t even manage a private, dull excitement.

A year before he had had Sirius, and therefore a lingering hope for a real family someday.
Sirius had been taken from him, Harry had seen death and battle in the Department of Mysteries and
the prophecy that had shaped his life had been revealed to him. It had left Harry dead and empty
inside, with a realization that he had no choice but to become a warrior against Voldemort and, of
course, that invitation into the Order.

That night he had been unaware of a second offer of induction independent of his own. He had
gone looking for Ron and Hermione and found only Ron, and Ron he couldn’t tell about the Order.
Hermione had not returned until very late, until every other Gryffindor but Harry was fast asleep
in the dormitories above. She had been dead on her feet, had just returned from her prefect duties,
but she had made time for him.

Harry had broken down that night, not in anger but in tears. Every single emotion that he had
ever kept suppressed, it seemed, had come through that evening. He had talked of the Dursleys and
of his childhood, of the prophecy and its content, of Cedric Diggory and finally of Sirius. Maybe
Hermione had been right the previous school year in wanting to talk about it because it had felt
nice to lie on the couch in front of the fire, his head in her lap as she gently ran her fingers
through his unruly hair.

She had offered him, that night, anything that would make him feel better. He had asked her to
hold him for a while, not knowing or expecting his request to land them where it had. Their first
time had been awkward, as all first times were, and painful for her, but she had done what she had
promised and held him—it was just done inside of her, that was all.

The next night Harry had been startled to find her in Dumbledore’s office at the time he was to
Floo into London for his first Order meeting. When he realized that they had both been brought into
the Order without the other’s knowledge, he had half expected Ron to show up as well. Three months
later, he was still waiting.

Harry and Hermione had found each other again that night, this time in Harry’s room. Dumbledore
had taken pity on him, he assumed, and given him a room of his own. Harry had originally kept
residence with his year-mates, but it had quickly gotten overwhelming. He had not told Hermione
where he would be. She had known, and she had found him.

It had still been awkward, and she was still so sensitive to him, but being together had seemed
like the most important thing in the world that evening.

After that, sex became the other aspect of Harry and Hermione’s friendship. They didn’t mention
it, to each other or to anyone else. They came together after every Order meeting, after every
triumph, after every failure, whenever the need of comfort arose. It was almost like something more
powerful than themselves kept them coming back together.

In the beginning, the sex had been the bare act itself. They hadn’t really known what it was all
about or what to do, but they had learned quickly enough. It had been then that Harry discovered
her for the first time. He knew, of course, the differences between boys and girls, men and women,
but experiencing it had been another thing entirely.

Harry hadn’t been able to keep his hands off her. There had been foreplay then, and lots of it.
During the act itself, he had been the perfectly attentive lover. He had kissed her everywhere
(except her face, which would have been too much like a true relationship), gotten to know the
curve of her breasts and memorized every inch of her skin. He had learned where to touch her and
just how to do it. She was much smaller than he had always thought of her being, but it was all
right because he liked to take care of her, especially then. She was beautiful in ways he had never
known and others he had never acknowledged, and he had started to tell her so often.

By Halloween, he had begun feeling an emotional attachment that he knew he shouldn’t. Gryffindor
had played Ravenclaw two weeks later to open the Quidditch season. They had won, and he had ended
up in the showers with Hermione after both the stands and locker rooms had cleared. He had been so
consumed with the act itself that he had slipped, and the bruise had only just gone away. It had
still been one of the most amazing experiences of his life. It was also the last time that he had
put more into the act than the act itself.

After that, Harry had resigned himself to do away with all his touching and
Hermione-worshipping. He had allowed too much passion into something that was supposed to be about
comfort. It seemed that they needed each other more now, every night instead of every other, but
Harry justified it as within the bounds of friendship now. It was and always had been about
comfort. Harry and Hermione were just the best of friends, and that meant they were there for each
other. Hard times, Order meetings, it didn’t matter what.

Snape had stopped him that morning after Potions. “Potter,” he had sneered, “report to my office
before the meeting tomorrow. It has been decided that your Occlumency lessons will begin again, and
I will teach them if I wish to keep my job.”

Harry and Hermione had already had sex twice that night.

He continued to stroke her hair even after their breathing evened out. Usually, she would have
gone; they had an early morning Transfigurations text the next day, after all. Something kept her,
though, and Harry was thankful for that. He held her for a long time before he came to the
realization that he needed her, not the sex, if only for that once. She was lying catlike next to
him, and he felt himself growing hard again when he was able.

Harry rolled over on top of her and parted her legs. He propped himself up above her while he
stroked her with a gentle intensity that he hadn’t dared for a month now. He entered her slowly,
and when his length was fully seated with her, he didn’t move. He held her there for a long time,
his tears dripping down onto her and hers streaking her face. Emerald green met chocolate brown,
and Harry found himself determined to hold her gaze.

When they did begin to move together, Harry found that the eye contact made the experience all
the more intense. It had been ages since they’d been in this classic position, and he made the most
of it. His hands danced on her hips as she met his every thrust; they explored her delicate waist
as she sighed. Her breasts, round and full, responded to his every touch as her breathing became
ragged. After casting the contraceptive charm, Hermione’s arms encircled Harry’s neck. He lifted
her up enough to wrap his arms around her as he felt it building within.

“Hermione,” he breathed.

They came at the same time. Harry didn’t want her to go just then either, so she lie there with
his head on her stomach, stroking his hair, until they had both come down from it.

“It’s late, Harry,” Hermione said at last. “I have to go.”

“I’ll see you in class, tomorrow, then,” said Harry heavily.

“It’s today by now,” said Hermione, sliding her dressing gown on. She hesitated, and then she
pulled Harry’s glasses gently off his face. Setting them on the bedside table, she took his head in
her hands and kissed his forehead. “Good night.”

“’Night,” said Harry, but only after the door had clicked shut behind her. He rolled over onto
his side, still able to smell her shampoo where she had laid her head on his pillow. Had someone
told him a year before that his good pal Hermione would become his bed buddy, he would have laughed
at him.

Harry drifted off, heady dreams of Hermione keeping away his anxiety about the Occlumency lesson
he would have to endure.