Disclaimer: See 'All He Ever Wanted.'
Author's Note: This installment in this series is rather less fluffy than they've been so far but it ends happily. Warning for some angst in the beginning.
Portrait of a Marriage
The Luckiest Man in England
Harry sprinted down the hall in St. Mungo's, ignoring all the curious stares and the whispered questions that inevitably followed on the sight of Harry Potter running in St. Mungo's. Or not ignoring them, so much as not seeing them.
He didn't see or notice anything, dodging out of people's way by instinct rather than actual thought.
A familiar face- he almost skidded to a halt, breathing hard, in front of Abigail Brantley, the family Healer. "Abby," he almost choked out.
Abby looked up and her face softened, an expression that struck stark terror into his heart, terror that seared through him with even more intensity than when he'd first received the urgent Owl message at work: It's Hermione. Come to St. Mungo's now.
"She's waiting for you, Harry, in Suite 500."
He didn't bother thanking her, just ran, his heart pounding out a litany of fear and dread and worry. Oh God, Hermione. Hermione. Hermione…
He almost ran straight past the door to Hermione's room in his worry and had to grasp the door frame as he almost hurtled into the room.
"Are you okay? What's wrong?" he gasped out, his eyes searching Hermione's face.
She looked pale and a little wan and he could see the signs of some tears on her cheeks but other than that, he noted with some relief, she didn't look ill.
Hermione held out her hand and he approached, taking her hand and perching on the edge of the bed as he bent over her to brush his lips against hers.
"What is it, love? Is it… is it--" he had to fight to get the words past his tight throat- "the baby?"
His question was soft, a husky whisper, but her reaction was extreme. She gave a strangled sob and abruptly buried her face in his shoulder.
Oh God. Harry stopped breathing. And in that moment, he knew what Hermione was going to say, knew what had happened. His heart hurt and he couldn't decide whether it was more for the baby or for Hermione.
He put a gentle arm around Hermione and waited for her to speak.
When she did, it was in a voice that sounded unlike her, a voice that anyone who didn't know her would have said sounded remarkably cold but which he knew meant that, in reality, Hermione felt too much and was trying desperately not to break down. A voice that made him wince and suppress a shudder and automatically tighten his arms around her.
"I lost the baby, Harry. I just… started bleeding and… I lost it."
Harry forcibly kept himself from flinching at the mention of bleeding-God! He didn't even want to think about Hermione bleeding, Hermione in pain… A slight shudder racked her body and he forgot his own reactions in his worry over her, tightening his arms around her slightly, making soft, soothing noises in the back of his throat. "Ssh, love, it's okay. I'm here. It's okay…"
Hermione clutched at him, her face still hidden in his shoulder, and he felt his shirt become damp from her tears, felt the sobbing breaths shake her body.
And he closed his eyes tightly against the tears that he felt welling up, felt the tightness in his throat building, but he refused to let out the tears. He would not cry, could not cry, refused to cry-not now, not when Hermione needed him to be strong.
No, he would not cry. He only held her in his arms and focused his mind on the relief in the knowledge that she was fine. She would recover, physically at least, quickly enough.
"I'm sorry, Harry, I'm so sorry."
He shook his head slightly, tightening his arms around her. "No, love, don't. Please don't. It's not your fault. It's okay…"
He wasn't sure how many minutes passed as he sat there, holding Hermione, pain tearing at his chest with every sob that he heard from Hermione, but eventually, she straightened up, drawing in a sharp breath.
"I'll be okay, Harry." She essayed a wan attempt at a smile, an attempt that failed rather pitifully, but it was something.
And he forced his lips to curve slightly, even as he wondered if his heart was breaking-again-not for their loss this time but for her courage, her strength. For the millionth time, at least, he was amazed, just struck dumb with awe, at his wife. He didn't know how she did it. He still felt like crying, felt like he couldn't breathe properly for the unshed tears-but Hermione, who'd actually been carrying their baby and had really suffered the loss, Hermione was trying to comfort him, to reassure him.
"I know you will be," he finally managed to say, his voice husky.
She nodded, once. "I just want to go home now, Harry."
"We'll see what Abby says and then we can go home," he promised softly. He leaned forward to brush his lips against her forehead, as softly as if he feared she might shatter at the merest touch. "I'll go find Abby now."
He waited for her slight nod, thinking with a sudden wrench of his heart, that she looked, somehow, suddenly, very small and very young. He looked at her now and he could see very little, if any, traces of the strong woman he knew she was.
He left the room and made it just a few steps down the hall- just far enough where he knew he was completely out of her line of sight- before he stopped, sagging against the wall. Oh God. In some tiny corner of his mind, he was aware that he hadn't grieved yet for the loss of the baby-that sorrow had not yet penetrated into his mind-and right now, he was too preoccupied with Hermione, being strong for Hermione, to face his own grief. He let out a ragged breath and forced himself to straighten, forced himself to manufacture and put on as calm an expression as he could muster.
He found Abby quickly enough; she hadn't moved much from where she'd been when he'd run past her. "Abby, Hermione says she wants to go home."
Abby Brantley looked up, her expression softening at the sight of Harry's face. "I'm so sorry, Harry," she said gently.
Harry stiffened, every muscle in his body locking in automatic reaction, automatic rejection. As good a friend as Abby had become to both him and Hermione in these past couple years, he didn't want her sympathy. He could not deal with her sympathy now. "Yeah," he only said briefly. "Can Hermione go home now?"
Abby sighed a little as she started down the hallway. "I'll tell you both together so I don't have to repeat myself."
"Hermione," Abby greeted, her voice kind, "I'm afraid you can't go home right this minute. We want to keep you overnight, just as a precaution, and then you can go home tomorrow morning, I should think. And then I don't want to see you back here for work until Monday at the very earliest and I really think you should consider taking Monday off too."
Harry nodded. "She'll stay home on Monday too," he assured Abby.
Hermione glanced at Harry and opened her mouth, no doubt to protest at his answering for her, before she relented. "I'll work from home on Monday, if I work at all," she promised.
Abby nodded. "Good." She paused, hesitated, and then finally continued on, carefully, "I know you two are probably concerned but let me assure you that this shouldn't affect your future ability to have children at all."
Her voice was gentle but Harry saw Hermione's almost imperceptible flinch.
"These things happen, sometimes without any visible reason. We usually say that it's nature's way of telling us this particular baby wasn't fit for the world for whatever reason."
She paused and Harry forced himself to respond, since he could see that Hermione couldn't. "Thanks, Abby. That's- that's good to know."
After Abby left, Harry carefully wedged himself onto the bed, drawing Hermione into his arms until she was resting against him and felt the slight shudder that went through her before she relaxed.
"Get some rest, Hermione," he finally said, softly. "I'll stay right here."
"I know you will." The words were familiar, even if the tone-so vulnerable-wasn't. But for the first time, Harry felt the knot in his chest easing ever so slightly. His Hermione, the one he knew and loved so well, was still here, still with him-and for now, that was all he needed.
~
He couldn't sleep.
He thought-he hoped-that Hermione was asleep as she lay, tucked up against his side. But he couldn't sleep.
He'd brought Hermione home yesterday morning and since then, he had insisted she remain mostly in bed and, though she'd protested, it had been more of a token protest than not and she'd given in.
He thought that she was better, not just physically. Her voice was no longer as uncharacteristically vulnerable and soft, nor was it uncharacteristically hard, as if she were holding back all her emotions. She had even smiled a few times. She was, he thought, beginning to be herself again.
But now, with his worry over her somewhat allayed, he felt his own sorrow over the baby begin to build.
He turned his head to the side, away from Hermione, and closed his eyes tightly against the tears he felt pricking at the back of his eyes as he remembered all the things that had led up to this. Could still see Hermione's face, hear her voice, remember how he'd felt…
Hermione as she'd met his eyes and told him, "I'm ready, Harry" and then, later, "I want to have your children." And how he'd gently corrected her, "No, not my children, our children. That's the most important part, after all, what I really always wanted: our children." He remembered the look on her face when he'd said that, that blossoming of so much love it never failed to take his breath away.
Coming home, just over three weeks ago, to see Hermione holding a bouquet of flowers which she'd then handed to him with an odd smile that was a mixture of tenderness, happiness, and triumph, as she'd said, "We're going to have a baby." He remembered the star-burst of reaction inside his chest to those words, to her expression. He'd never realized before that it was possible to feel both utterly terrified and completely overjoyed at the same time.
Hermione, as she'd made him promise not to tell anyone, including Ron, just yet. "It's so early-it's not even two months yet-and sometimes, things happen. The books say that you shouldn't start telling people until after the first trimester." He'd agreed easily; of course, from the moment she'd told him about her pregnancy, he would have agreed to anything she asked for. He would have agreed to walk on his hands and knees to the other side of the world to get a blade of grass, if she'd asked him to. He hadn't thought about what she'd said much and he'd found that part of him rather wanted to keep the precious knowledge just between them at least for a little while longer. He certainly didn't want any of the media attention he knew would come the moment the public found out that he and Hermione were (finally) expecting their first child. (The fact that they'd been married for four years now with no children had already been commented on by the media more times than he cared to think about or acknowledge. It was to the point that, the winter before last, when Hermione had come down with a cold severe enough that she'd actually consulted Abby about it, someone had overheard something and the next thing they knew there had been a huge headline splashed across the front page of both the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly speculating that he and Hermione were expecting their first child. Abby had had to categorically deny any such report, at his and Hermione's request, since he and Hermione had already decided years ago to refuse to answer any questions about their personal lives, even if it was only to deny a rumor.)
He remembered how he'd stayed awake, long after Hermione had fallen asleep, just to watch her and how he'd found his gaze irresistibly drawn to her flat stomach. He'd placed his hand, ever so lightly, over her stomach, and marveled at how there could be a child-their child-a visible, tangible symbol of their love-growing inside her. And, for the first time, he'd found himself whispering, very softly, "Hello," before he'd almost snatched his hand away, feeling almost embarrassed at his actions, not that anyone had been around to know of it.
That had been only a week ago. And now… Now, there was no baby, no child growing inside her… Now, there was… nothing…
Sometimes, things happen… He remembered her words again, the words invested with an ominous significance they certainly hadn't had before. Things. Yes, something had certainly happened…
He blinked back the tears and had to bite his lip to keep a sob from escaping-his baby, their baby, was gone now… I lost the baby, Harry… Things happen…
Over and over, those two sentences repeated in his mind like a dismal fugue of dread and sorrow and-
He paused. He was never entirely sure how he knew but at that moment, he realized that Hermione wasn't sleeping. Perhaps it was some slight change in her breathing or maybe it was just the feel of her body against him, he didn't know. But after so many years of sleeping beside her, he could sense it, suddenly knew she wasn't sleeping.
And he understood why. Realized suddenly in a flash of understanding that Hermione's smiles, her effort to appear normal in the past two days, had been to reassure him so he wouldn't worry over her so much. Of course they had been, just as he had tried not to show her his own sorrow so she wouldn't fret over him.
He turned to face her. "Hermione?"
He knew his voice was slightly hoarse, would tell Hermione that he, too, had been lying there fighting tears.
Hermione let out a sound that was half-gasp and half-sob, instantly turning in his arms until she was facing him.
"Oh, Harry, I- I've just been thinking about how I didn't want to tell people yet, what I said…"
At this point, he felt no surprise that she'd been thinking of the exact same thing he had been; of course she would be. She trailed off and he finished her thought for her, his voice slightly husky with emotion. "Sometimes, things happen."
Her breath hitched in her chest. "I knew that things happen; I-I'd read about m-miscarriages." She stuttered slightly over the terrible word, and then finished, "I just- I never really thought it could happen to us!"
And that was when she started to cry, cry as he hadn't seen her cry in years-if ever-- great, gasping sobs, that somehow made her sound and look very young. For a moment, it was as if she was a young girl again, the girl who'd gone to all his Quidditch matches, the girl who'd stayed up so many nights to prod both him and Ron into studying, the girl he'd learned to love even before he knew what love was…
And it broke his heart.
He hauled her into his arms, until she could bury her face in his chest, as he wrapped his arms and then his legs around her, curling his entire body around hers, wishing he could somehow absorb all her grief into him.
He felt dampness on his face and realized belatedly that he was crying too but he didn't care and let himself cry. With anyone else, he wouldn't have, couldn't have, but with Hermione, it didn't matter.
She was clinging to him as he held her, their bodies straining together, wrapping around each other, in an embrace that was, for once, entirely asexual and devoid of passion. Just two people, grieving together… Grieving together for their loss and for each other's sorrow.
It should have been a moment of weakness. Should have been and yet… And yet, somehow, it was not.
It was, instead, a moment of comfort, even of strength.
Harry closed his eyes tightly as his hands rubbed Hermione's back in a half-idle, soothing motion. Even in his own grief, the ache of sorrow and of regret in his chest for the baby that might have been, he was always aware of Hermione, of the warmth of her pressed against him, of the dampness of his shirt from her tears, of the slight trembling of her form from her sobs. And somehow, it was enough, just to know she was there, with him.
He moved his head just enough so he could press his lips against her hair. He had the vague notion that he should be saying something to comfort her but couldn't think of anything to say and so he settled for murmuring her name, softly. "Hermione. Hermione…"
And slowly, he felt her sobs cease, felt the trembling in her body stop, her arms loosening from around him, and she lay in his arms, quiescent.
She stirred a little and then sighed. "Oh, Harry…" There was a pause during which he could sense her trying to calm herself. "I…"
"I know," he interrupted her gently. She didn't have to say it. Merlin knew, he couldn't always read her thoughts; he doubted there was a man alive who could honestly say they always knew what a woman was thinking and he was no different. But after so many years, he knew her well enough to know what she'd been about to say, at least in this situation. I don't remember the last time I cried so much. As a rule, Hermione didn't cry often and when she did, it was usually in the form of a few tears slipping down her cheeks rather than outright sobs. Unlike tonight's anomaly.
She sniffed a little and gave him a somewhat watery attempt at a smile. "I'll be okay now, Harry. Really. I just- I needed to cry a little."
He bit back the unruly thought that she'd cried "a little" tonight in about the same way that Ron was only "a little" interested in Quidditch-but he also knew himself well enough to know that the thought meant that he was reassured about her. He knew she would be okay.
They had both grieved and the grief would heal.
"I know you will be, my Hermione" he finally said softly, using the endearment he only used in the most tender of moments. And left unsaid what he knew she already knew-that as long as she would be fine, so would he be.
Hermione brushed her lips against his chin and then his lips in the most fleeting of caresses before she settled back into his arms, her body fitting itself automatically against him.
And after a while, comforted, content, they both closed their eyes and slept.
~*~
"Harry?"
"Mm, what is it?" Harry looked up from his book with a vague, half-smile. He paused for a moment to enjoy the sight of Hermione in her bathrobe as she moved around their bedroom, putting away her clothes, straightening the items on top of her dresser, all the little, inconsequential tasks that made up Hermione's nightly bed-time ritual, familiar and comfortable and precious, if only for the intimacy of it.
"I've been thinking…"
Harry closed his book, although he kept one finger inside to mark his spot, not because Hermione's words were so surprising but because he'd heard something, the slightest hint of something in her tone, that had been enough to set off warning bells in his head, warning bells signaling that something important was coming up.
Hermione perched beside him at the edge of the bed, setting the book aside (although, being Hermione, she paused to slip a bookmark in to keep the page) before she leaned forward and kissed him with a slow, deliberate sensuality that had his blood heating and his skin positively tingling, as his hands reached for her, bringing her in closer until she was resting fully against him. She was the first one to break the kiss, drawing back slightly, just enough to keep their lips from touching really.
They were close enough that their breaths mingled, close enough that she could speak in the softest of whispers and he still heard her clearly. "I want to try again."
Now he was the one to draw back so he could meet her eyes. "It's not too soon?"
She shook her head once, decisively. "I don't like the feeling that I failed at something so impor--"
He interrupted her. "You didn't fail. It was an accident. You know that."
"I know but it still feels like a failure."
"You've never really failed at anything in your life." His voice was soft.
She smiled slightly and thanked him with another long, slow kiss. "I want this, Harry," she whispered against his lips. "I want to have your baby."
Harry decided fuzzily that those six words may have been the sexiest thing he'd ever heard. He slipped his arms around her, feeling the soft cotton of her robe beneath his hands, as he pulled her closer to him until his lips were hovering just a breath away from hers. "Well," he breathed, "I'd never want it said that I don't give my wife what she wants."
And he kissed her, his lips moving against hers, tasting, teasing, as she let out a soft breath and returned his kiss, her tongue exploring the so-familiar depths of his mouth, caressing his tongue with hers.
His hands shifted, slid inside her robe, parting the sides, and then paused as his hands found bare skin instead of the cloth of her pyjamas as he'd been expecting. He drew back to stare at her. "You're not wearing your pyjamas," he said dumbly.
She gave him a look through her lashes, her lips curving slightly. "Complaining?" She shrugged out of her robe, letting it slide off her shoulders in one seductive motion, and tossing it to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her bra and knickers.
He almost groaned and tightened his arms around her, loving the feel of her bare skin beneath his hands, even as he smoothly flipped them over until she was lying flat on her back beneath him. He smiled, a smile that was an odd mixture of smugness and admiration, too much of a male not to enjoy the view. "Have I told you lately that you're beautiful?" he asked huskily.
She smiled, with all the confidence and all the age-old sensuality of a woman who knows she's admired and loved. "Not very lately."
"Hmm…" He lowered his lips to hers, kissing her lightly, before his lips continued on, sliding down the line of her chin to the soft skin of her neck, nuzzling the sensitive spot just behind her ear lobe. "A terrible omission on my part," he murmured, feeling the slight shiver go through her at the sensation of his lips moving against her skin.
She arched, her head falling back to grant him more access, her hands tugging on his shirt, as she gasped, "I think you're over-dressed."
He broke off from where he'd been pressing slow, damp kisses along her jaw-line. "I think you're right."
Moving hastily, his hands made quick work of his pyjamas, tossing them carelessly onto the floor beside the bed and dropping his glasses blindly onto the nightstand.
She sat up and reached back to unhook her bra but he stopped her. "Don't." And he answered the unspoken question in her eyes with a quick smile that was half an exaggerated leer. "I want to do that."
She expected him to remove her bra immediately but instead, he gently pressed her back until she was lying down again, lowering himself over her.
He cupped her cheeks in his hands with palpable tenderness as he kissed her, not with passion so much as with a deep sensuality, his tongue exploring her mouth, tangling with hers, enticing, arousing. And she returned the kiss fully, her hands sliding from his hair down to his shoulders and then further still, feeling the muscles in his back, loving the smooth heat of his skin beneath her hands, loving the reactive shiver that went through him at her touch.
His lips left hers to skate down her chin and down to her neck, his lips unerringly finding every sensitive spot, flicking his tongue into the hollow in her throat until she gasped and arched under him, her fingers momentarily tightening on his back.
His hands skated down, following the curve of her shoulders in a smooth caress, paving the way ahead of his lips.
He left a trail of kisses across her shoulders until he found the strap of her bra. Again, she expected him to remove it or at the very least, push the strap aside, but he didn't. His lips went on, following the line of her bra, along the upper curve of her breast and down the valley between and then up, still following the line of her bra.
Her nipples were hard, practically aching for his mouth and his hands, as she arched, almost writhing. "Harry, bra," she gasped, in as coherent a statement as she could manage.
He let one hand drift across her chest until it cupped her breast and she moaned, pushing herself into his hand, but it wasn't enough. Wasn't nearly enough. She wanted to feel his bare hand against her breast, with no barriers in between, wanted to feel his chest against hers. Wanted…
"Ssh. Not yet," he murmured and she wondered if he were really planning some sort of advanced torture.
He licked along the upper curve of her breast just above the line of her bra, pausing to flick his tongue in the valley between and then moved on, down her stomach.
He explored, caressed, worshipped her body with his lips and his tongue and his hands, avoiding the more obvious spots like her breasts and the wet center of her between her legs, choosing to lavish his attentions on the other places of her body, places that only he knew were so sensitive and some that not even she had been aware could feel so erogenous. He knew her so well, knew her body better than she did herself, and he capitalized on that knowledge.
First his hands and then his lips and his tongue found the sensitive spot on the inside of her elbow. He left a trail of kisses down the soft skin of her inner arms, swirled his tongue against her palm and she moaned, feeling lightning sizzle through her entire body. He flicked his tongue into her belly-button, scattered kisses across her flat stomach, again just tracing along the waistband of her knickers.
His hands caressed the curve of her hips, around and down to the smooth curves of her thighs, only to be followed by his lips.
Not that she was passive in all this-no, Hermione was never passive and he loved that about her. She arched beneath his lips and hands, writhed, pushing herself against him, her hands reaching for, caressing any part of him she could reach.
His fingers traced lazy, arousing patterns across the backs of her knees as his lips trailed lightly along her inner thigh, until her legs were quivering and parted even more for him. By the time his lips were dangerously close to the heated center of her, she was moaning, desperately trying to push herself closer to him.
"Harry…" His name was a plea.
Knickers. Off. Now. If she'd had enough breath or wits left to speak, she would have said the words aloud but she didn't, could only writhe and hope he understood-of course he understood.
Oh he understood-and deliberately ignored. She was going to kill him…
Assuming she survived this assault on her senses, this finding of erogenous zones on her body she hadn't even known she had.
He smoothly switched over to her other leg, leaving soft kisses down her thigh, pausing at her knee, and then going further still, his hands caressing her calves. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spent so much time on her legs-more fool him. Hermione had delightful legs and trim ankles and she was just as responsive to his touch on her legs as she was in every other part of her body. God, he loved how responsive she was, how sensitive and how sensual she could be.
He flicked his tongue against the arch of her foot and she moaned.
He knew her body, knew from the way she was moving her head restlessly on the pillow, from the way her hands were plucking at the sheets, from the heat of her skin-and just from the knowledge that came from years of loving her-that she was close and he moved smoothly back up her body.
Hermione was trembling, moaning, her entire body burning, tingling from the top of her head to the bottom of her feet-good God! The feeling of his tongue against her foot-her foot!-she'd never even dreamed her foot could be so sensitive.
His hands were caressing her legs and then finally-finally-he hooked his fingers into her now-soaking knickers and drew them down her legs.
And then-oh God!-and then his lips found the throbbing center of her, his tongue touching the sensitized flesh of her as she felt every nerve, every sense in her body focus only on that one spot of her body.
And that one single touch of his tongue to her body was all it took and the coiling tension in her body abruptly exploded in a dazzling starburst of pure sensation, and she was flying, soaring on a wave of intense, soul-searing pleasure as the explosion's ripples shimmered over every inch of her…
She felt as if she'd died and come back to life when-an eternity later-she drifted back to reality, was aware again of the mattress beneath her and of the man-Harry, yes, always Harry, her love and her lover-lying beside her. Small aftershocks were still rippling through her and she was breathless, boneless.
He cupped her cheek in his hand and bent to brush his lips against hers, kissing her softly, until her lips parted on a soft sigh of satiation, before he drew back.
"I- that was…" She trailed off, her sluggish brain not finding a word for it.
He smiled, even as his eyes flared with heat. "I love reducing my clever, articulate wife to speechless incoherence."
At any other time, she might have protested, would have narrowed her eyes in half-teasing warning but it required too much energy at the moment. And she was still too boneless with pleasure to feel anything approaching irritation.
It took every ounce of what little muscle she had left to reach up and curve her hand around the back of his neck, bringing him down so she could kiss him, softly, at first, until she parted her lips and let her tongue slide inside the familiar depths of his mouth.
And he responded, as she knew he would, his tongue caressing hers, his hands sliding around her body.
She felt her bra briefly tighten and then loosen as he unhooked it and they broke off the kiss just so she could shrug off her bra and toss it aside. And then he was back, his lips on hers, his hands hot as he finally cupped her bare breasts, his fingers lightly teasing her nipples into even harder points. He lowered his lips to take one aching nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, until she cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair and holding him in place, until he moved on to repeat his attentions to her other breast.
She moaned and arched beneath him, shifting until she could feel his erection against her thigh and then against the slick heat of her body. She deliberately arched, her hips writhing beneath him, and he broke off his ministrations at her breast to groan at the oh-so-erotic caress of her body against his.
And then her arms and her legs were wrapping around him, her hips arching so his hardness just entered her and he thrust forward helplessly until he was fully inside her, gasping at the feel of it, of her, under him, surrounding him.
And he was hers. In that moment, as always, she possessed him, body, heart and soul.
He wanted to give her everything-all he had and all she might ever want…
"Hermione…" he breathed and her name was both an endearment and a prayer all at once, as he began to move.
She moved with him, her body as attuned to him as always, her muscles tightening around him, welcoming him, encouraging him.
His lips found hers, kissing her briefly, quick and passionate, before he groaned and quickened his thrusts.
She surged up beneath him and then lost her breath as his body moved against hers in just the right way and she was only peripherally aware of crying out his name, her fingers digging into his shoulders, as she convulsed around him, was barely aware of him shuddering at almost the same instant, his hands gripping her tighter as he exploded within her…
He collapsed above her so she could feel the pounding of his heart inside his chest, almost in time with her own. She kept her arms and her legs around him, as she closed her eyes, loving the feel of him inside her, above her, pressing her into the mattress. She loved these moments, when it felt like their souls took over where their bodies left off.
They lay there like that, their bodies entwined, limbs tangled, for a long few moments and she was just beginning to be uncomfortably aware of the weight of him before he stirred and rolled over onto his back. His arm stayed around her so she rolled with him, her body settling comfortably against his in easy intimacy, as his hand drifted half-idly over her skin to come to rest on her stomach.
She closed her eyes again and let herself dream, picturing a baby-their baby-with a thrill of emotion that was, for the first time in more than a month, only tinged with the slightest hint of sorrow, sorrow that was entirely overshadowed by the renewed hope welling inside her.
"Do you think it worked?" she murmured, after a moment.
She sensed rather than saw his lips kick up at the corners. "We'll keep on trying until it does. I'll gladly offer my services for the purpose."
She smiled. "Your services are very much appreciated."
"Anything for you, love." His voice was soft, tinged with mild humor that belied his sincerity, and hovered on the edge of drowsiness.
She could picture Harry with their baby so easily, knew just how much he would dote on any child of theirs. And for a few precious moments, she was silent as she dreamed and hoped. "When our son is born--" she began musingly, speaking her thoughts aloud.
"Daughter," he interrupted her quietly. "I'd like a little girl with bushy brown hair just like her mother's."
"Okay," Hermione agreed, her lips curving, "but I hope at least one of our kids has your eyes."
"If you insist. I prefer brown eyes, though."
"Mmm," she murmured, feeling herself begin to slide into sleep, and only just roused herself enough to add, "and when our daughter is born, you'll feel like the luckiest man in England."
He didn't respond immediately, his breathing deep and even, and she let the sound of his breathing lull her into sleep.
But at the last moment, when she was lingering just on this side of consciousness, she heard his mumbled response.
"I already do…"
And, somewhere in her sleep, she smiled.
~The End~
A/N 2: In this fic, you'll see something I've been thinking about for a while now- well, two things, really, the first being that I'm attempting to make sure my smut stays interesting and not too repetitive as to be boring. The second, more important one is about happily-ever-afters- which is, after all, what my entire 'Portrait of a Marriage' series is about. It seems to me as if happily-ever-after is somehow taken to mean that nothing bad will ever happen again, except it isn't really true. No one can prevent bad things from happening. The real meaning of happily-ever-after isn't that nothing bad ever happens so much as it is that the relationship is strong enough to weather whatever bad things might happen in the future, that two people can deal with tragedy and loss and be stronger because they're together. And if that doesn't sum up what I love about H/Hr, I don't know what does.