Disclaimer: See Part 1.
Author's Note: As promised, the smut! Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing this fic so far. I hope this last part satisfies. Cavity alert for fluff! For my very dear avidbeader.
Everything to Him
Part 3: Knowing
It wasn't entirely happy after that.
Ron didn't exactly hate him-but he also stopped looking at either Harry or Hermione if he could help it, stopped speaking to them if it wasn't about the horcruxes or the most mundane commonplace things, and he kept his words to a minimum. And whereas before, there had been the odd moments of laughter and teasing, that was gone now too.
It wasn't entirely happy; Harry was conscious of feeling wretchedly guilty when he was with Ron, conscious of missing the old camaraderie between the three of them. But it wasn't an unhappy time either.
Even though there were times he was still surprised to think it, to feel it, he didn't regret it, didn't regret her. He hated knowing he'd hurt Ron-but it was worth it; she was worth it.
Somehow. He missed Ron and their old friendship-but he needed Hermione.
Not because he liked to kiss her, liked to touch her, liked the soft sighs and gasps and little moans she gave when he did kiss her and touch her in certain ways (and he was rapidly building up an inventory of how to kiss her and touch her to evoke those sounds)-although, Merlin knew, he did. When he kissed her and touched her, tentatively and a little awkwardly as it initially was, he forgot about everything and anything else in the world, forgot about guilt, forgot about danger, and only remembered her.
But it wasn't only that. It was in how she understood him, how she cared about him. It was in how she knew when to hug him and when to distract him further with her lips and her hands. It was in how she knew when to say nothing, do nothing, and let him mull things over alone. And it was in how she told him the truth, how she still told him when he was being silly or uselessly morbid or reckless. She still told him the truth and though there were fleeting moments of irritation, afterwards, always, he knew she was right and he was thankful. And more than comfort, more than honesty, she gave him hope. In spite of her own worries and her fears, one thing that never wavered was her faith in him. And even though he didn't-he couldn't-quite feel that same belief in himself and his ability to do this, he couldn't doubt her. She was, he thought, the only thing he didn't doubt.
And in spite of how much he missed the old companionship with Ron, he knew, too, that in the end, somehow, some way, Hermione was all he needed.
He couldn't help remembering the time in their 4th year when he and Ron had also not been speaking and he'd been spending most of his time with Hermione-and he remembered thinking that being with Hermione meant more time spent studying and less fun, less talk about Quidditch, than being with Ron. It felt like a lifetime ago-had it really only been three years ago?-and he could only wonder at how stupid he had been then. How could he have thought that it was boring to be with Hermione simply because she didn't care about Quidditch? How stupid, how shallow, he had been-as if Quidditch was really that important, as if that was the only thing that mattered in friendship. What did it matter that she neither knew nor cared what a Wronski Feint was, when she knew so much more about other things, more important things? And even if she didn't care about Quidditch, he remembered with a surge of tenderness he hadn't felt at the time, that she had still gone to every Quidditch match, even in their 3rd year when she was taking so many classes there weren't enough hours in the day for all she had to do, she had still made the time to go to the Quidditch matches-for him, because it was important to him…
That memory was still fresh in his mind a few minutes later when she slipped inside his room after a quick knock, as she usually did in the evenings. During the day, they tried to stay apart, act as if they were still only old friends for Ron's sake, but in the evenings, when Ron had gone into his room, she would slip into his room or, sometimes, he would join her in hers and they were the most pleasant, most precious parts of every day for Harry. Evenings that slid into nights as he kissed her and touched her and sometimes just held her while they talked quietly-and at those times, he couldn't help, half-guiltily, but contrast this, what he had with Hermione, with what he'd had with Ginny in those brief few weeks they were together. He couldn't remember if they had ever really talked, if he had ever simply held her without trying to do anything more, couldn't remember even wanting to do such a thing. With Hermione, though, it was different. Just holding her was sometimes enough-more than enough-for him, an odd, elusive sense of peace settling into his heart and soul in those quiet moments, in a feeling entirely separate from desire and lust, although Merlin knew, he felt those too.
He gave her a small smile of greeting, the memory of her loyalty in their 3rd year automatically infusing his smile with so much tenderness that she blushed (delightfully, he thought) and instinctively infused his first kiss with an added gentleness, a hint of the gratitude he felt.
Hermione sighed into his mouth as she melted into his kiss. She loved the tenderness of his touch, his kiss, that told her better than the words which he usually didn't say, how much he cared.
And though she didn't like to think it, it was Harry's tenderness that truly made the difference, that made this so much more… right… Ron had been gentle but there had always been an eagerness in his kiss. Harry was less about eagerness than about intensity but even his eagerness was always overlaid with a hint of shyness, of uncertainty-but what she loved, what made every touch and every kiss of Harry's infinitely more precious, was the tenderness she felt in it, tenderness that was more arousing, somehow, than all the passion in the world.
Their lips and tongues melded as her hands slid into his hair, leaning further into him. And the kiss that had started out so gently spiraled out of control from there, becoming a harder, more heated tangle of lips and tongues, as his hands roamed restlessly over her shoulders and down her back to slide under the hem of her shirt so he could touch her bare skin.
She pressed herself against him until he could feel every inch of her upper body against him, her breasts flattened against his chest, making him very, very aware of the growing hardness in his trousers, the blind lust beginning to cloud his mind and he broke the kiss on a gasp, tearing his lips from hers. It was too much, too hot, too intense-he wanted her too much. But he couldn't bring himself to pull away completely, couldn't bring himself to let her go, couldn't bring himself to stop touching her skin (he was becoming addicted to the feel of her skin). Instead, he traced his lips across the line of her jaw, leaving a trail of soft, tiny kisses, up to the delicate skin just under her ear lobe (she gasped), experimentally flicking his tongue at the gentle whorl of her ear and then further, along her cheekbone to press light kisses to her eyelids, down her nose, learning all the familiar features of her face over again with his lips.
She let out a soft whimper that somehow sent a bolt of white-hot lightning streaking through his body to tingle in his groin. Her fingers tangled in his hair, dragging his mouth back to hers, to kiss him with scorching passion and it completely incinerated all his good intentions-all the dictates of what little remained of his mind that it was too much, that they should stop before it was too late, before they passed the point of no return…
He wanted her, he wanted her, he wanted her… He was burning for her, dying for her…
His hands had developed a mind of their own and slid around from where they'd been happily caressing the smooth, bare skin of her back to her stomach and then higher, up, up, until-with an odd mixture of eagerness and uncertainty, boldness and shyness-his hands cupped her breasts for the first time.
He'd never dared-his hands had strayed occasionally, brushed against her breasts, touched them through her shirt, but those caresses had always been fleeting and he'd moved his hand immediately afterwards as if scared by his own daring, moving to other, safer, still delightful places on her body.
This time, though, this time, he didn't pull away, couldn't pull away. He was touching her, his hands cupping the round fullness of her breasts, and it was… incredible, what just touching her like this through her bra did to him. And he forgot the reasons why he'd hesitated and been so nervous before, forgot everything, as he gently increased the pressure of his hands on her, stroking her a little more firmly, until he could feel the points of her hardened nipples through her bra.
She whimpered and moaned and arched her back, pushing herself further into his hands. "Don't stop," she gasped.
He might have laughed, if he'd been capable of laughing, of feeling amusement. He couldn't stop now…
Her hands were tugging impatiently at his shirt, her hands hot and greedy on his chest and stomach and he felt a shiver go through him at her touch. And somehow, without his even realizing exactly when or how it happened, she had lifted his shirt up off over his head, his glasses being discarded somewhere with them, and then she was running her hands over him again, exploring every inch of his skin and he thought he might die from the pleasure of it.
And then her lips touched his skin, scattering kisses over his chest before she flicked her tongue lightly, almost teasingly, at his nipple and he knew he was going to die.
He groaned. "Hermione, wait."
She paused, looking at him, her eyes darker than he'd ever seen them, her cheeks flushed, her lips moist and swollen-and he knew that he would never, even if he lived to be older than Dumbledore had been, see or even imagine anything or anyone hotter than she looked right then.
"Can I-I want to see you too."
Some small part of his mind half-expected her to balk, to decide it was too soon, too much.
What she did do ensured that he lost what little remained of his mind. She gave him a smile that was an odd mixture of shyness and a sort of instinctive seductiveness that sent the blood rushing down from his head to pool in his groin so fast it left him breathless (more breathless than he already was) and dizzy with lust (more dizzy than he already was). And then her fingers went to the buttons of her shirt, undoing them.
"Hermione…" Her name escaped his lips in a sound halfway between a groan and an awed whisper.
Her shirt fell open and she shrugged out of it, letting it drop to the growing pile of clothes by his bed, leaving her upper body covered with only her bra bared to his fascinated and aroused gaze.
His hands returned to cup her breasts before sliding around to unclasp her bra and then she was completely naked from the waist up.
Hectic color flooded her cheeks and spread down her throat as he stared at her, drank in the sight of her small, round breasts peaked with darker nipples, her slim waist. "God, Hermione, you're beautiful…" he breathed hoarsely as he finally touched her bare breasts, cupped them in his hands. He brushed his thumbs over her hardened nipples and her head fell back on a gasp as her eyes closed.
He paused in his caresses for a moment to stare at her, fascinated at the play of expression-of arousal, of desperate need-- flickering across her face, seeing all that he felt, all that was burning his own body reflected on her face. She looked so… sensual… like this, the cleverness that usually distinguished her drowned out in her abandon to pure physical pleasure-and he found it both incredibly endearing and arousing at the same time.
He was doing this to her; he was making her feel this way, look like this… He felt a sudden surge of possessive triumph, mingling with all the desire he felt. In all his imaginings about what this might feel like, he'd never imagined, never thought, that it could feel so good, be so arousing, to arouse her…
He lowered his lips to her breasts, taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking at it, licking it, then, on an impulse, nipping at it ever so gently with his teeth. She cried out sharply, her back arching, and, encouraged (and feeling his erection harden even more), he moved to pay the same attention to her other breast.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to her, not that he had any intention of moving or any desire to move.
"Harry." His name was half a gasp and half a whimper.
"Hermione," he breathed, his breath hot against her skin.
She tugged lightly on his hair, dragging his mouth back to hers to kiss him with a searing passion. The feeling of her breasts flattened against his chest was the most erotic thing he'd ever felt and he groaned into her mouth.
Somehow, he shifted, his hands going to her waist, as they fell back onto his bed with him landing half on top of her, his body pressing her into the bed. The friction generated from where his body-his aching arousal bulging in his sweats-rubbed against her body was exquisite and agonizing.
Her hands moved from his shoulders down his back to the waistband of his sweats, her fingers hooking into them and pushing them down along with his boxers, finally freeing his erection, making him gasp from the sheer relief of it. And then she paused, staring at him, studying him with an odd mixture of shyness and curiosity and desire-and something about seeing her gaze on him made him harden even more, although he wouldn't have thought it possible.
Tentatively, a little uncertainly, her hand moved to touch him, her fingers just brushing along the aching length of his body. He groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head, which encouraged her and she wrapped her hand around him, stroking him with more boldness now.
He grabbed her wrist with his hand, pulling her away from his body, from the delicious torment she was inflicting on him. "Stop it, please," he gasped.
The hint of a smug smile gleamed in her eyes, startling a breathless half-laugh from him.
He shoved his sweats and his boxers the rest of the way off with impatient hands, trembling with lust and need, before his hands went to the fastenings of her trousers.
He heard her slight intake of breath and something about the sound broke through the haze of arousal in his mind and he paused, glancing at her. "You're sure?" he rasped out-not even sure where the words came from or why, because he didn't know if he'd be able to stop.
"If you stop now, I just might kill you."
He let out another half-laugh, kissing her quickly on the lips but drawing back before the kiss could lengthen, knowing what her kisses did to his mind and his body. "If I stop now, I just might die," he returned only half-teasingly and he didn't catch her expression because his gaze lowered to her body as he finished undoing the fastenings of her trousers and pushed them and her knickers down. Her hips arched towards him, allowing him to pull them down the length of her legs. (She had beautiful legs, he thought fuzzily.)
He stared up the length of her body, as his lungs forgot how to function, seeing every inch of her skin, the curve of her hips and her waist, her perfect breasts, her face-so familiar and yet not, her skin flushed with arousal, her eyes dark and dilated with desire, her lips wet and swollen from his kisses. She was the most beautiful, the most perfect thing he had ever seen, ever hoped to see, and he knew he'd never forget this, never forget the way she looked right now, at this moment, the embodiment of every dream, every fantasy he had ever had, everything he'd ever wanted…
Hermione felt a shiver go through her, white-hot heat streaking through her body, just from the way he was looking at her now. His eyes were dark and hooded with arousal, his expression a combination of awe and lust and tenderness and something very like reverence. He looked at her as if she was the most beautiful, most precious, thing in the world and at that moment, she felt as if she was…
"Hermione…" he breathed and her name was almost a prayer.
He slid his hands slowly up her legs and then, following some instinct, some compulsion, he couldn't resist, lowered his lips to her skin, following the path his hands had just taken.
His lips and his hands trailed fire up her legs, past her knees, until she was moaning, small mewling sounds tripping from her lips-sounds he felt in his groin almost more than he heard them, sounds that stoked his raging arousal even hotter than it already was.
He pressed a slightly damp kiss to the inside of her thigh as his fingers strayed dangerously close to the center of her body. And then, almost frightened by his own daring, he trailed his lips up still further to kiss the core of her. God, he could smell her, the musky scent of her arousal, could feel just how wet she was… Tentatively-he could hardly believe he was doing this-his tongue came out to lick her… And he almost came right there and then just from the scent of her, the taste of her, and the long, keening cry that left her lips. "Harry!"
He looked up at her, almost more fascinated and thrilled by what his touch was doing to her than by what touching her and tasting her and hearing the sounds she made were doing to him. Her eyes were closed, her head flung back, her hair spread out on his pillow, her hands making small twisting motions on the sheets. God… His breath stalled in his chest at the unutterable eroticism of the sight.
And he abandoned the vague idea of exploring, experimenting any more. Every nerve ending in his body was on fire, screaming for release. He was burning, aching, dying in a kind of delicious agony. He needed her, needed to be inside her, wanted her too much…
He made his way back up her body, pausing briefly to kiss and suckle her breasts before he moved up to kiss her lips, his mouth meeting hers in a lush, heated tangle of lips and tongues, as he kissed her with a passion that seared her senses…
His erection was pressed against her thigh, so close to where he wanted, needed to be, so close he could sense it.
"Are you-er-are you protected?" he gasped, something approaching rationality momentarily breaking through his fog of lust and need.
She nodded, blushing.
He could feel every last restraint, every bit of coherence crumbling, and he returned his lips to hers to kiss her with a heated passion that devastated both their senses.
The length of him just nudged against her wet folds and he gasped, breaking the kiss, as a vague recollection of something he'd heard (in conversations in the Gryffindor boys' room, about girls and their first times) came winging through his mind, bringing with it a concern that was possibly the only thing that could have given him pause at that moment. "Will this-will this hurt you? I don't want to hurt you," he breathed against her skin.
"It doesn't matter. I want you, Harry, all of you," she whispered, her breath hot against his skin and sending a reactive shiver through him.
"Then you haven't-you didn't-with Ron?" he stammered out in an agony of awkwardness, not sure why he was asking, not even sure he had a right to ask, but something inside him suddenly wanting to know.
He hadn't thought-hadn't expected he would care that much-he did understand that Hermione cared about Ron and he had known they were together, doing… things… He wasn't jealous, not anymore-but at the thought that Ron might have-that he might have seen her like this, that he might have touched her like this… His heart was suddenly wrenched with a fierce burst of possessiveness-irrational, perhaps, but no less intense for all that he realized, in some corner of his mind, that he was being irrational. He wanted to be the only one to see her like this, touch her like this… He wanted her to be his…
She blushed scarlet. "No, I-it just never felt right. I never felt… ready…"
And after all, maybe that was the best proof, if she'd needed any, that she belonged with Harry. However much she had cared about Ron, she'd never felt comfortable enough with him, never really wanted to do everything, experience everything, with him. She had never wanted him enough to overcome her innate caution and her uncertainty. With Harry, all her hesitation and her uncertainty seemed to melt away like so much ice on a hot day. When Harry kissed her, touched her, nothing else mattered but him and her and what his lips and his hands did to her body… She trusted Harry with her life and her heart-how could she not trust him with her body as well?
She hadn't. He was the first, the only, person to have seen her like this… He felt a rush of gratitude, of relief, of tenderness, and cupped her cheek in his hand as he kissed her, his tongue sliding into her mouth, taking possession of her mouth, kissing her with enough thoroughness to steal her breath and her heart.
She arched into him, her arms going around him, molding herself to him, offering herself to him, body and soul.
He gasped into her mouth, the feeling of her bare breasts rubbing against his chest obliterating what little remained of his sanity and his control.
More by instinct than by intention, the tip of his erection found her entrance and slid just a tiny bit inside her. God… His eyes nearly crossed at the intensity of the sensation, every nerve ending in his body focusing on that spot of his body and the hot wetness of her body against him.
She whimpered, one of her hands moving to touch him, urging him on as her hips arched and he plunged the rest of the way inside her.
She stiffened, her cry half-muffled against his shoulder and he stopped, flinching at the sound of it. "Oh, God, Hermione, I'm sorry…" he said in a strangled whisper. He felt a flood of remorse at the sheen of tears in her eyes, guilt momentarily dousing his raging lust.
But only momentarily-not even guilt could entirely take away the feeling of her wet, hot passage surrounding him, clasping him so tightly, not with every nerve ending in his body centered on that one place, the sensation of it. It was the hottest, most erotic thing he'd ever felt in his life and it was driving him mad. It was heaven; it was hell; it was the most exquisite torture. He gritted his teeth, fighting back his baser self. He was going to die if he couldn't move, if he couldn't do something to relieve the feeling building up inside him…
But, he thought with an odd clarity as he looked down at her, he would rather die than hurt her in any way-and even though he had no idea how he would do it, he knew that if she said the word, he would, somehow, stop and pull out of her. Even if it killed him (and with the way he was feeling, it just might) but he would do it, for her…
"Hermione," he said in an aching whisper.
She drew his head down to hers, lifting her lips to meet his. "It's okay," she breathed against his lips. "Just kiss me…"
The sweetness of the words shattered him and he did as she asked with a groan, kissing her with a searing tenderness and slowly, restraining himself with every ounce of what little strength he had, his hips began to move.
She tightened around him, her hips arching to meet his, and just that smallest of movements was too much for him and he gave in to the need to move, his hips finding an instinctive rhythm.
Her nails dug into his shoulders, her gasps and breathless sobs forming an erotic soundtrack against his ear.
The pressure was building, building, the pounding of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears as he felt himself nearing the edge, and he fought it desperately but then he felt her muscles clenching around him, her wet passage convulsing around him, as she threw her head back with an unintelligible scream of something in which he vaguely thought he could discern his name.
And that was the end of it.
He exploded inside of her, his hips jerking, his back arching, every dream and every hope of his life being summarized in the one word that spilled from his lips in a hoarse groan. "Hermione…" She was, in that moment, the beginning and the end of his entire world, his universe.
He fought for breath as he lay on top of her in a boneless heap, his lips brushing idle kisses against her hair, her face, not out of any conscious decision to do so but in instinctive, automatic tenderness. The vague realization that he was probably crushing her floated into his mind and he somehow managed to move, summoning up the last dregs of energy to roll over onto his side, curling his body around hers protectively.
His eyes closed as he let himself drift. He was drowsily conscious of the warmth of her body pressed against his and he let his hands stray over her bare skin idly, just for the sleepy pleasure that touching her brought.
He didn't know how long this lasted, how long he floated in the lassitude that followed ecstasy, how long he savored the afterglow of that outburst of pleasure. All he did know was that he could gladly have stayed like this, with her nestled against him, forever.
Some semblance of coherence was seeping back into his mind, bringing with it the memory of her pain. "Are you okay? I didn't hurt you?" he asked softly. He lifted his head just enough to look at her.
Her eyes were half-closed, her expression one of languorous content. Her eyes opened slowly, a soft smile curving her lips, as she shifted, moving just a tiny bit closer to him. "Mmm," she sighed and the sound was almost a purr. Her expression as much as the sound was eloquent that she was feeling the same bliss he was, and he wanted no other answer.
He bent to brush a kiss against her temple and then the little hollow before her ear, a spot which he already knew was sensitive. She made another soft sound of pleasure deep in her throat.
He smiled, feeling an odd mixture of amusement and tenderness. "I never knew you could sound like that," he whispered, half-teasingly, half-tenderly. "I didn't know you purred."
She met his eyes, her expression softer than he'd ever seen it. "You do that to me. I didn't know I could feel like that."
"I didn't know you would feel like that," he returned and then added, teasingly, as he deliberately moved one hand so he was tracing idle patterns on her breast with his fingers, "If I'd known touching you would feel like this, I'd have fancied you a lot sooner."
She laughed softly even as she swatted at him. "Harry!"
He sobered abruptly. "We've wasted so much time," he said softly, a thread of regret and sadness in his voice. "I wish I'd known, wish I'd really looked at you and saw you sooner. It-it doesn't seem… fair to discover this now when I don't know how long we have… What if something happens to y--"
She cut his words off with her lips, kissing him hard, with perhaps more energy than skill, but it didn't matter. "No, Harry, don't think like that. I'd rather be here with you now-no matter what happens-than anywhere else in the world."
"But--" he began.
She cut him off with another quick kiss. "I know what you're going to say. It's dangerous and you don't want me to be hurt. The same goes for me too, but I also know that everything's better when I'm with you. I want to be with you; I don't care about the risk. I love you…" Her voice had stayed quiet, an intense whisper, but it softened even more at the last words until they were barely more than a breath of sound.
His breath stalled in his chest. She loved him. And for the first time, he realized just how deeply she meant those words. She had said "I love him" to Ron-but the impact of those words had been momentarily blunted, almost forgotten, in light of Ron's hurt and the crack that had formed in their friendship. But he'd remembered it, thought of it, afterwards. She'd said she loved him… Such small words, tiny words really, but he'd never heard them before, never realized the terrifying impact they could have. He hadn't asked her, hadn't mentioned it again, and neither had she (and he hadn't known if he'd been more relieved or sorry). She'd said she loved him-he just hadn't understood what she meant by the words, hadn't known just what they meant.
She loved him. But what truly made his entire being, his soul, still with amazement was not that she loved him but that she, of all people, truly knew him too. She knew his stubbornness and his recklessness; she knew his 'saving people thing' and she knew his anger. She had seen him at his worst; she had seen his fears and his weaknesses and his vulnerability. She knew him-and she still loved him. It was, he thought, the most precious gift anyone had ever given him, anyone ever could give him.
How could she not be everything to him, his best friend, the girl he trusted, relied on, cared about, desired? How could he not love her too?
He hadn't thought to define what he felt for her, had always somehow, instinctively, shied away from the word, love, in his mind (he'd never known it and all he knew of love, he tended to associate with death) but now, with her, he knew there was no other way to describe what she meant to him, what she was to him. She was everything to him-and he loved her.
He stared at her, his wide eyes meeting hers in the dim light. "I- I love you too." He stumbled a bit over the unfamiliar word, the unfamiliar confession, but there was no doubt in his voice-or in his heart.
Her eyes, her expression, softened a moment before a slight smile curved her lips, shone in her eyes. "I know."
And even though he could never have imagined it, never have imagined laughing at a moment like this, he did, softly, briefly. "Know-it-all," he said-but his tone made the epithet an endearment. He loved that she was so clever about things, even loved it that she could be bossy about knowing things-and he loved the deep insecurities and vulnerability her bossiness tried so desperately to shield. He didn't kid himself that he was the most perceptive fellow in the world but he understood insecurity-because he felt it too. He tried to mask it, hide it, with anger and with recklessness; she hid it with bossiness. He knew her too-and he loved her.
He saw an answering glimmer of humor in her eyes mingle with the emotion. "Well, you know what I'm like," she breathed-and what had been meant to sound like a light rejoinder somehow sounded poignant.
He cupped her cheek in his hand and kissed her, gently. And she kissed him back, her lips molding themselves to his, with a passion and a responsiveness that was already familiar to him.
He loved how responsive she was, loved the softness of her lips and how they fit against his, loved the taste of her, loved the way her tongue would flick against his… He loved feeling her fingers tangling in his hair and feeling the soft puff of her breath against his cheek… And he could only wonder how he could have known her for so long and seen her only as his best friend, never noticing her lips, never imagining how good it would feel to kiss her, to touch her like this.
Even if he lived to be 200 and spent the rest of his life kissing her and touching her, he knew he'd never get enough of this, never get enough of her.
He didn't know when or why or how he started to notice her-but he could only be immensely thankful that he had started to notice. He could only be grateful to think that now he knew just how much Hermione meant to him; now he knew that she could be-she was-so much more than just his best friend.
The kiss ended slowly, lingeringly, her lips brushing feather-light kisses against his lips and his cheek and his chin, before she settled back into his pillow with a soft sigh of contentment.
He brushed a strand of hair away from her face with unconscious, instinctive tenderness, before he, too, relaxed into his pillow, letting his eyes drift closed. Peace settled over him like a blanket, every nerve in his body pleasurably sated and drowsily conscious of the warmth of her body curved against his, the way her body fit against his.
He missed the old friendship with Ron but he had hopes-vague, tentative hopes-that Ron was softening towards them, was beginning to forgive them.
And until then-and even after that-- for always, no matter what happened, he would have Hermione and she was everything he needed, everything he wanted, just… everything to him…
~The End~