Everything to Him

Disclaimer: If I were JKR, this really would have happened in DH (minus the smutty part). But I’m not JKR because I’m not stupid and I don’t think romance consists of blazing looks and chest monsters.

Author’s Note: This is fluff with no real plot whatsoever. Inspired by a comment madderbrad made on my fic journal that it really is ridiculous that Harry would never even consider Hermione as a romantic possibility, never wonder if she could be more than just his best friend.

Well, in my world, Harry is smarter than JKR makes him out to be. A chapter in which absolutely nothing is said, given it takes place mostly in Harry’s mind—and in certain other parts of his body (but I promise there’s no chest monster.)

AU, obviously. Enjoy!

Everything to Him

Part 1: Noticing

He could never tell when it started.

It wasn’t like with Cho or, even, with Ginny. There was no moment he could pinpoint, no reason for it, no specific thing about her he noticed.

She was just always there, his best friend—his best girl friend—and somehow, some way, he started to notice.

Maybe it was natural—inevitable, even—that after spending so much time together, so much time together in small places, so much time together, working together, talking together, even laughing together—maybe it was natural that he would start to notice her like that.

He was a teenage boy and she was a girl and maybe it was inevitable that he would start to notice. He’d always known she was a girl, always known she was, in her own way, quite pretty—but it had been sort of a peripheral knowledge, not something he ever thought about. She was only Hermione, his best friend, had always only been Hermione, his best friend—and one simply didn’t think about best friends like that. Even less so when said best friend was also the girl his other best friend fancied.

He couldn’t—he shouldn’t—he didn’t know why he was—but he couldn’t help it.

He’d always known she was a girl—but now he noticed it.

He couldn’t tell what he first noticed or when or even why; it wasn’t as if she started acting differently or doing anything different. Nothing changed about her to make him start noticing—he just did.

He noticed the slim lines of her figure, the curve of her hips and—and, well, her upper body.

He noticed her skin—had it always looked so smooth and… soft?

He noticed her mouth—noticed the pinkness of her lips, noticed the shape of them, noticed that her lower lip was just infinitesimally fuller than her upper lip and it made her lips look… look… kissable was the only word that darted into his mind—and that terrified him.

He could not—he should not—be thinking about Hermione’s lips like that—should not be wondering what it might be like to kiss her… He shouldn’t be thinking about Hermione like that at all.

He shouldn’t—but he was.

And he couldn’t seem to stop noticing her.

He noticed every time she smiled at him, noticed what seeing her smile did to his insides, making them feel… odd…

He just noticed her.

He tried to tell himself it was only physical—only one of those natural things from his being a boy and her being a girl and it didn’t matter, wasn’t important. It wasn’t like he really fancied her like that; he couldn’t. He couldn’t really fancy her; there was Ginny and Ginny was the girl he fancied and cared about in that way, he knew that.

She had to be—he remembered how he’d felt when he kissed her for the first time in the Common Room, remembered what seeing that “blazing” look of hers had done to his insides, remembered what it had felt like to kiss her and touch her… It had to be Ginny whom he fancied like that.

Only Ginny wasn’t there; he and Ron and Hermione were alone, searching for the horcruxes and Ginny wasn’t there.

Ginny wasn’t there—but Hermione was.

That was really it, he told himself. It had to be. That was the reason he’d suddenly started noticing Hermione like that. It was because he missed Ginny, wanted to be with Ginny—but Ginny wasn’t there and Hermione was and so of course he’d start to notice Hermione as the only girl around…

It made perfect sense. It should make perfect sense.

He wanted to be with Ginny, wanted to have a girl to kiss and touch and… and just notice like that.

And it didn’t help that Ron did have a girl to kiss and touch.

He wasn’t sure exactly when or how it happened; he’d always been sort of expecting it to happen, but now it had happened and Ron and Hermione were… together. Ron could—and he did—touch Hermione in a more-than-friendly way (nothing very obvious because Hermione wouldn’t let him, not when Harry was around, but enough that Harry noticed; it wasn’t as if Ron had ever touched Hermione before even in a platonic way. It was just in the way his hand lingered on her shoulder or how he sometimes touched her hair lightly in passing or how he occasionally put his hand on her knee). Ron could—and he did—kiss Hermione, generally on the cheek but sometimes, Harry walked in on them snogging—and then they’d leap apart, Hermione blushing hotly and not quite able to meet his gaze for a while afterwards.

Maybe that was it. Maybe that was why he suddenly started to notice Hermione like that. Because he couldn’t not notice Hermione’s skin when her cheeks were flushed like that, couldn’t not notice how soft her hair looked when Ron’s hand touched it occasionally, couldn’t not notice her lips when he saw Ron kiss them or when he saw them slightly swollen from Ron’s kiss.

And he missed Ginny.

Maybe that was it, why he’d suddenly started to notice Hermione like that, because he missed Ginny and Ron and Hermione were together and—and he had no one.

It made perfect sense.

Only—it didn’t.

Because he didn’t really miss Ginny all that much. It would have been nice, sure, to have her there if only because it would mean he didn’t need to feel so much like a third wheel when Ron and Hermione wanted to be alone—but he didn’t really miss her. He missed having a girl to kiss and touch and cuddle with—but that really was only physical. That had nothing to do with Ginny specifically. But he didn’t miss talking to Ginny—had he ever really talked to Ginny? He didn’t miss spending time with Ginny—all he could really remember doing in the little time they had spent together was snog, for some reason, even though at the time, it had felt like more…

He didn’t understand it, didn’t like himself for feeling it—but he didn’t miss Ginny, not really.

And that made him wonder—how could Ginny be the girl he really fancied, cared about, if he didn’t even miss her that much?

He had fancied her for her hair and her eyes and her prettiness—but even when he’d fancied her, he’d never really talked to her about anything important, never really shared much with her. He’d never needed to; he had Ron and Hermione to talk to, to share things with, and that was fine because they were his best friends and who else would he talk to?

But now—now he noticed Hermione like that.

Now, he started to feel his stomach twist, an odd, disagreeable feeling rather like he was going to be sick, when he saw Ron touch Hermione—and the twisting sensation was only stronger when he saw Ron kiss Hermione.

He wanted to know if Hermione’s skin really felt as soft and smooth as it looked, wanted to know what it would feel like to touch her hair, wanted to know what it would be like to kiss her…

He’d known, vaguely, that she was pretty—but now he noticed it. Noticed… everything… Noticed the way she smiled at him, noticed the way she sometimes put a hand on his arm or on his shoulder in passing, tiny, little gestures of friendship which she’d been doing for years but he’d never really noticed them before and now he did; now he felt them all…

She had always been there, just Hermione, just his best friend—but now she was also that girl. That girl who haunted his daydreams and his dreams at night too, that girl who distracted him just by her presence…

He shouldn’t—he knew he shouldn’t—he couldn’t—she was his best friend, she was his other best friend’s girlfriend—but he couldn’t help it. He just… noticed her now and he couldn’t help but wonder… what would it be like to kiss her, touch her hair and her skin?

Bu what terrified him most of all was not that he noticed her now—he’d noticed Cho in that way, noticed Ginny in that way, and it hadn’t terrified him. But that had been physical—and they hadn’t been his best friends so there hadn’t been as much to lose.

Even with Ginny, he realized now, it had been physical; it had been about her hair and her eyes and her figure; it had been about the way she looked but it hadn’t been about her.

He hadn’t wanted to talk to Ginny about things, hadn’t wanted to ask her things or turn to her when he was in trouble; he’d wanted her to make him feel like a normal boy, one who could just snog a girl he fancied and have fun and not worry about things like Death Eaters and Voldemort and danger.

But he’d known, even as he wanted it, that he couldn’t be that normal boy. He couldn’t be that normal boy—but when he’d been with Ginny, he’d let himself forget it, let himself pretend.

But now—now he couldn’t forget, now he couldn’t pretend or hide or deny it. Now this was a war and with Dumbledore gone, it was up to him. And he didn’t need Ginny for that, didn’t even want Ginny to be involved with it; she never had been before; she couldn’t and she didn’t really understand…

But Hermione did—Hermione had always been there with him, had been his best friend and the one he trusted and turned to when he was in trouble or when he was worried or anything… She was the one he just talked to about… well, everything—the one he could talk to, the one he could laugh with…

She had always been his best friend—but now she was also that girl…

It wasn’t only about noticing her now; it was more than that. She was more than that.

She was—she could be—everything to him, not just the girl he fancied, the girl he wanted to kiss and touch, but also the one he talked to, the one he trusted more than anyone else.

She had always been Hermione, his best friend—but now he wanted her to be more than that. He wanted her to be… everything…

But she was with Ron now. She was with Ron and she didn’t fancy him in that way.

He wanted her to be everything—but she could only be his best friend. Only his best friend, just as she’d always been—but for the first time, that wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough…

Harry felt his heart twist painfully inside his chest.

God, he wished he’d never started noticing Hermione like that, wished he’d never started thinking of her like that.

But he had—and now it was too late…

~To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing the first part; I’m glad you enjoyed it so much! In this one, there’s more fluff but with a dash of angst too. Enjoy!

Everything to Him

Part 2: Confessing

He didn’t mean for it to happen; he never would have meant for it to happen. Never would have meant to do that to Ron.

But at that moment, he could not have acted any differently.

Ron was gone; he had left a couple days ago with Mr. Weasley, who had come by to say that the Order had heard where Nagini might be and were going to try to capture Nagini—and see if Nagini really was a horcrux. But it was too dangerous for Harry to go too; Harry needed to be kept safe as the last, final weapon—not that anyone phrased it that way, but Harry knew that was what they meant. He was the last weapon, the one with the power to defeat Voldemort—and they needed to keep him safe.

He hadn’t wanted Ron to go but Mr. Weasley had insisted and Ron had agreed (and it would, Harry knew, also allow Ron to spend a precious, stolen few hours with his family—and that had really been why Harry agreed to it. He felt badly enough over taking Ron away from his family, knew how much Mrs. Weasley worried; he wasn’t going to deny them this.)

He’d only realized belatedly that Ron leaving also meant that he was alone with Hermione. He wouldn’t have to see Ron and Hermione together but he’d be alone with Hermione—and for once in his life, he didn’t want to be alone with her.

He was only her best friend, was used to only being her best friend—but it didn’t make it easier when he wanted more.

He couldn’t sleep, had been staring blindly out the window at the rain lashing against it. He started a little when he heard a soft sound and she slipped out of her room, joining him in the front room of the small cabin they were using as their hide-out this week.

“Can’t you sleep, Harry?” she asked in a whisper as she settled onto the floor beside him.

“No. Can’t you?”

“I had a nightmare,” she admitted with a small shiver.

He looked at her—really looked at her—noting the faint traces of tear stains on her cheeks and the shadows under her eyes with a pang, his heart clenching. “I’m sorry,” was all he could manage to say.

“It’s not your fault.”

“What--” he hesitated for a moment and then asked, very softly, “what are your nightmares about?”

“You.”

The simple word seemed to stab at his heart and he sucked in his breath. He knew what she meant; it was the same as what made her—something happening to her—his nightmare. God, she cared about him so much, even as her best friend—how had he never realized before now the depths of her loyalty and her friendship? He felt a surge of almost painful warmth in his chest as a dangerous tenderness filled his heart.

“I didn’t know I was that scary,” he said in a lame attempt at humor to try to disguise his reaction.

She let out a huff of breath that was almost a laugh but didn’t quite make it. “Oh Harry…” She paused and then admitted, very softly, “I’m scared of something happening to you, of you being hurt…” She didn’t say aloud, of you dying, but he knew it was what she meant, and felt the shudder go through her just at the words.

And even though he knew it was a stupid thing to do, given everything, he couldn’t help it. He had to comfort her, somehow, some way… He put one arm around her shoulder and felt her relax against him.

And he knew he was an idiot.

He was an idiot to have done this, an idiot to touch Hermione in any way when he’d spent the better part of the last couple months trying not to notice her like that and when he was still filled with an emotion he’d never felt before—but it was that same emotion that had compelled him to put his arm around her in the first place.

He wished he could tell her he would be fine, wished he could promise that they would all be fine—but he couldn’t. It would be a lie and she would know it was a lie.

He felt rather than heard her soft sigh—just as he felt the warmth of her body pressed against his side.

He turned his head irresistibly and brushed his lips against her hair, his eyes closing automatically as he did so. God… her hair did feel as soft as it looked…

He heard her slight hitch of breath—he shouldn’t have done that—and he felt her head move so she could look at him.

He met her eyes almost unwillingly, afraid she would see all he felt but unable to keep from looking at her.

Her eyes were soft, shining with an emotion he couldn’t read, was afraid to try to read—and she looked so unutterably beautiful that his breath stuttered, stalled in his chest.

And even though he knew he shouldn’t—he couldn’t—she was his best friend and he was betraying Ron—at that moment, as he stared at her, he could not stop himself. All the emotion, all the longing, all he’d felt for her for weeks now, seemed to coalesce inside him. The tug of attraction, of desire, of caring, was as inexorable as gravity and he could no more resist it than he could stop his own heart from beating.

Slowly, very slowly, he bent his head and touched his lips to hers—lightly, tentatively as if he couldn’t believe he was doing this. He felt her breath flutter against his cheek and then stop.

He started to draw back—reluctantly but he knew he had to, he shouldn’t have kissed her at all—but she leaned forward almost imperceptibly, keeping her lips against his.

And something inside him gave way at the feel of her soft lips against his, and he lingered, prolonging the light touch of his lips to hers. (He knew he shouldn’t be doing this but he couldn’t help it. Just once, he decided hazily, just once, he wanted to kiss her…) Her lips were soft, so soft and so sweet, and it was… incredible and so much more than any other kiss had ever been—just as she was so much more than any other girl he knew. More because of the sweetness of her, more because of the warmth from her body, the warmth from where their lips touched radiating outwards and spreading heat through his entire body, more because he knew it was her…

He felt himself falling, any thoughts in his mind evaporating into wisps of smoke, and with a last struggle and effort, he managed to pull away, ending their kiss. He felt the loss of her lips against his as an almost physical blow—ridiculously—and felt an odd twist in his chest at the thought that he would never have that again, never be able to do that again.

He really was an idiot. It was going to be so much harder to deny his feelings, so much harder to hide his feelings, now that he knew what it felt like to kiss her, now that he’d felt the softness of her lips against his…

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out in a strangled whisper. “I shouldn’t have done that. I—I know you’re with Ron and- and everything. I shouldn’t have done it; I’m sorry. I’m so sorry… And it won’t happen again, I promise.” It couldn’t happen again.

“What if--” she hesitated and then finished in a rush, a slight flush coloring her cheeks, “what if I want it to happen again?”

His lungs forgot how to function. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink, couldn’t think. He could only stare at her, uncertain, shocked, half-convinced he’d imagined it, afraid to hope… “Hermione, I…” he breathed but then trailed off, not knowing what to say

“Did you really want to kiss me? It wasn’t just… just because I was there or- or because you miss Ginny and I was convenient or…”

He cut her words off with another kiss, just a light, quick brush of his lips against hers, because he couldn’t help it, because the vulnerability he could hear in her tone and see in her eyes was hurting him, because he wanted to. “Hermione, no, it’s you. I wanted—want—to kiss you…” There, he’d said it. The truth he’d been trying to deny, trying to forget, for weeks now but no longer—even if he knew he shouldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t deny it anymore.

“Really?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Oh, Harry…” she sighed and she was the one to lean in and kiss him this time. Her lips touched, brushed his, lingered, and he gave in to the sweetness of it, the warmth of her, the temptation of her, and responded with a little more pressure, his tongue tentatively touching the seam of her lips that softened, parted with a slight flutter of a sigh.

His free hand moved of its own volition to touch her cheek, brushing her skin with his fingertips—her skin did feel as soft and smooth as it looked, he noted vaguely, as he cupped her cheek in his palm.

Warmth was spiraling up inside his body, tugging at him with a force that was stronger, deeper, somehow, than even attraction, deeper than anything he’d felt before. Tiny tendrils of desire were curling around him, enveloping him in a mesh of emotions and attraction in a world that was rapidly narrowing down to include only him and her, the feel of her, the warmth of her, the taste of her…

And then his conscience belatedly caught up to his body, breaking through the fog of his brain with its pointed prodding—Ron—and why he couldn’t do this, they couldn’t do this. He tore his mouth from hers with an act of will that seemed to require every shred of determination in him. “We can’t do this,” he managed to gasp, looking everywhere but at her lips, pink and moist and a little swollen from his lips. “What about Ron?”

A stricken expression crossed her face, extinguishing the light in her eyes so quickly and effectively it hurt him to see it. “Oh God, Ron… I’m a terrible person. You must think I’m such a--”

“Hermione!” he cut her off, his tone firm and yet gentle. “I could never think that of you. I just… I need to know what this is,” he finished awkwardly—and then thought how- nice, how right- it was to be able to say something so inane and trust that Hermione would understand what he meant. (And that really was what made her more; it was in how she understood him, always had understood him…)

Her face seemed to crumple as her body sagged, tears filling her eyes and he flinched to see it. “I care about Ron. I do,” she said in something approaching a wail. “But—but, Harry, you’re… you and I—I always cared about you, fancied you first--”

He sucked in his breath sharply at that admission, feeling something like regret tug at his heart. He really had been blind; how could he not have noticed Hermione before now?

“But I thought you didn’t care about me like that, never would care and Ron did and I do care for him too…” she trailed off, looking down at where her hands were twisting in her lap.

“I do care,” Harry blurted out. “I do care about you like that, more than just as my best friend. I want you to be more than that…”

“Oh, Harry…” The tears spilled over out of her eyes even as she managed a tremulous smile for him before she threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. “I want that too. I always wanted it…” she half-wailed, her voice muffled by his shoulder.

He closed his arms around her, wondering how it was possible to feel such a rush of joy and, at the same time, feel so torn with guilt and apprehension and sadness at how Ron would react. He’d never known it was possible to feel so much, so many conflicting emotions, never known happiness could be, at the same time, so painful, so poignant. He’d never known—until now, until her…

And he was also, suddenly, excruciatingly aware with every nerve in his body of the warmth of her body, aware of every inch of her upper body pressed against his… He could feel her breasts pressed against his chest! (Even though he’d noticed them, somehow, actually feeling them was shocking.) And he could only wonder, a little dazedly, just how he could have hugged her so many times before and never noticed, never been aware of her like this…)

“I don’t want to hurt Ron,” he finally murmured—but he didn’t release his grip on her, still held her.

She sniffled a little. “Neither do I—but, Harry,” she drew back just enough to meet his eyes, “I can’t be with Ron, knowing you care. I do care about Ron, but… but, Harry, it’s you…”

And somehow, that statement, as incoherent as it might have been, was the most poignant thing he’d ever heard.

“We’ll have to tell him.”

“I’ll tell him,” she said at the same moment.

At any other time, Harry might have smiled at this—but not then, not with the thought of how Ron would react hanging over their heads.

“He’s going to hate me,” he said bleakly.

She didn’t contradict him, didn’t assure him that, of course, Ron would understand, wouldn’t be angry. She knew that there was no guarantee of that and any such assurance would be a lie—and, oddly, that touched him, too, in a way he would never have expected. Her honesty—that she wouldn’t lie to him about something important, about something like this, even to comfort him—meant something. She was the only person who had dared to call him on his ‘saving people thing’ in their 5^th year, the only person who had challenged him in that year when he’d been angry at everyone—and she’d been right… He couldn’t explain it but at that moment, he knew, understood, that no matter how badly Ron might react, he couldn’t change this, wouldn’t change this. He needed her—it wasn’t only because he wanted to kiss her; it was more than that. She really was everything… his best friend, the person he trusted the most, the person who challenged him and made him better, the person he relied on—and she was the girl he noticed, wanted too…

He wanted to tell her something of this, wanted to tell her he needed her, but he couldn’t find the words, couldn’t think of anything to say or how to describe what he felt. So he settled for simply breathing her name, “Hermione…” and somehow, he couldn’t help but think, maybe she would understand…

He lifted his hand again to touch her cheek, his fingers brushing her skin in the lightest of caresses.

Her eyes fluttered closed at his touch, as if to savor it, her lips parting slightly on a soft sigh, and he couldn’t resist, leaned in to kiss her again…

And it was perfect. It was something about the softness of her lips, something about the taste of her, something about the way he could feel her breath against his cheek, something about knowing that it was her…

The kiss ended slowly, his lips lingering on hers, lightly tracing the outline of her lips with his, before finally, he drew away.

She settled in against him, leaning against him with a soft sigh of contentment, as he slipped his arm around her again, brushing his lips against her hair, much as he had earlier except now, this embrace felt more comfortable, more natural, closer somehow, than it had before.

“I didn’t think you ever really looked at me as a girl,” she finally broke the silence by saying quietly, idly.

“I didn’t,” he blurted out automatically.

She let out a brief huff of laughter in surprise at his honesty.

He moved his head just enough to meet her eyes. “I didn’t,” he repeated softly, “not until a couple months ago. I was blind; I don’t know how I didn’t see it, didn’t see you… But I started to notice and I couldn’t stop noticing, even when I didn’t want to notice you like that.”

The ghost of a smile curved her lips, brightened her eyes.

“You’re so… beautiful,” he blurted out with something like a sigh.

She blushed, her eyes almost seeming to glow as if she was illuminated from within—and his breath caught, his entire soul seeming to still, with an odd mixture of admiration and desire and reverence. She was beautiful—and she cared about him too…

His hand lifted of its own volition to touch her cheek, cupping it in his palm, as he closed the distance between them and kissed her again. And the vague thought flitted through his mind that he didn’t know when or how but she had become everything he’d ever wanted…

~*~

Ron came back two days later.

He looked tired but jubilant in a restrained sort of way, as well, as he produced something out of his knapsack with a small flourish. “One piece of You-Know-Who’s soul, just for you.”

Harry stared, his throat suddenly closing, at the small golden cup which Ron placed on the table. Hufflepuff’s cup. Ron had found it, with the help of his family, but he had found it.

And he was about to take Ron’s girlfriend.

He swallowed, wondering if it was possible for his heart to physically crack from the weight of guilt settling on it. “Nagini wasn’t there?”

“She was but not because she’s a horcrux but because she was guarding this. Bill suggested a really complex series of curses and hexes that managed to neutralize her for several hours and we went and searched the entire place.”

“Thanks,” was all Harry could say, wretchedly.

“So, how did you guys spend your time while I was gone?” Ron asked curiously.

Hermione glanced at Harry and spoke up, a slight tremor in her voice, “Ron, we have to talk. I-I have to tell you something.”

Maybe it was her tone and her expression that alerted Ron; maybe it was some instinct that told him, some sort of sixth sense to prepare him for heartbreak. Harry didn’t know, would never know, how Ron guessed, but he watched as Ron’s smile faded to be replaced with a stricken expression that seemed to stab at Harry’s chest.

God, he felt as if he’d just killed something innocent and helpless, to see the light vanish from Ron’s expression and his eyes as quickly as if it had been extinguished.

“Ron, I…” Hermione began.

“Don’t tell me,” Ron interrupted sharply in a voice that wasn’t his own. “It’s him—you and him—isn’t it?”

Harry flinched at Ron’s tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen, didn’t mean to care—but I couldn’t help it and it just… happened…”

Ron ignored Harry as if looking at him would be too painful, focused instead on Hermione, his face pale and tears beginning to show in his eyes. “I thought… I thought you really cared about me.”

Hermione let out a muffled sob. “Ron, I do! I swear I do; I haven’t been pretending these past few months. I do care…”

“Then—why?” All the confusion and all the hurt he felt rang in his voice in that single word.

Harry flinched at the sound and sensed, rather than saw, Hermione’s slight shudder.

“Because… I love him…”

The words were soft, hardly above a whisper, but they were filled with so much suppressed emotion, her voice nearly quivered with it. And for the effect they had, they might as well have been shouted.

Harry’s lungs seized—his heart seemed to stop, clenching--as he turned to gape at her, momentarily forgetting about Ron’s hurt in his utter shock. She—she loved him?

Ron sucked in his breath sharply, paling even more if that was possible, until his freckles stood out starkly against the pallor of his skin. He stared at Hermione for a long, painful moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, raw with emotion. “I… I knew you loved him. I think… I think I always knew, somehow. But I thought—I hoped—that now, finally, you were over him, that it was me you cared about…”

His brief pause was punctuated by Hermione’s sob.

“But I think… I always knew… you would choose him.”

“I’m so sorry, Ron. It’s not a choice; it’s just… the way things are… I’m sorry…” Hermione sounded wretched, her voice oddly muffled from suppressed sobs.

Ron turned away, his throat working. “Yeah,” was all he said but the single word contained so much hurt and so much resignation it was more heartrending than anything else could have been.

He didn’t look at Harry, didn’t look at Hermione again either, only headed towards the door of his room.

Harry stepped forward, not knowing what he wanted to say but feeling as if he had to say something. “Ron, I’m sorry… I--”

“Don’t!” Ron cut him off sharply. “Don’t say anything! I don’t want to hear it! She chose you—but don’t, for Merlin’s sake, expect me to like you right now!”

Hermione saw the way Harry flinched, the stricken look in his eyes going straight to her heart, and yet, oddly, comforting her as well. Because in that moment, in the way he looked at Ron’s rejection, she knew everything she wanted, needed, to know.

She knew how much Ron and his friendship meant to Harry; Ron had been his first friend, had been the thing he would miss the most in their 4^th year. And even though she’d told herself it was silly, in some tiny, unacknowledged corner of her heart she’d wondered if he cared as much about her and her friendship—entirely aside from anything beyond friendship. She had wondered if she were only his second, the back-up friend so to speak. But in that moment, once and for all, she knew that wasn’t true and it soothed, healed, that tiny corner of her heart that had wondered.

He hadn’t said that he loved her, hadn’t told her anything about his feelings other than that he cared about her as more than just a friend (which she had felt in his kiss)—but at that moment, she knew that he did love her.

She was suddenly filled with an incredible, poignant rush of happiness. He did love her—and after she had given up on his ever seeing her as anything other than his best friend, he did love her… And it was the most precious knowledge she’d ever had.

She moved to where he was still standing, staring at Ron’s closed door with an almost haunted expression, and slipped her hand into his.

He turned to look at her as his hand tightened around hers.

She moved in close to him, putting her arm around him in a hug and feeling his arm go around her as well. It was only a hug of mutual comfort, could have been a hug between two purely platonic friends, but it meant more than that.

Neither of them said anything more for a time as they simply held each other. Simply held each other, in silence—and it was, somehow, all they needed.

~To be continued…

A/N 2: That one mention of the horcruxes is all the actual ‘plot’ you’ll find in this fic and I included it solely because I wanted to get Ron out of the way. You see my priorities… ;-) Fluff and smut to come!

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 4^th 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 3^rd 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 3^rd 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~