Disclaimer: See 'All He Ever Wanted.'
Author's Note: Because I really never will get tired of writing about H/Hr's happy married life. Enjoy!
Portrait of a Marriage
One Enchanted Evening
Harry sat on the couch in what was possibly his favorite place to be, sitting between his daughters, an arm around each of them, with Andy stretched out on the floor at their feet, as they all watched a remote apparition recording of the Puddlemere United Quidditch match that had taken place earlier that day.
Beside him, he heard Emily suck in a small breath as a Bludger slammed into one of the players. "Ouch, that must have hurt."
"Yeah, I'll say," Andy agreed.
"Did that ever happen to you, Daddy?" Sabrina asked.
He smiled down at her. "No, not really," he said reassuringly (with something less than complete truth but he wasn't going to tell his baby girl about his being injured playing Quidditch.)
She returned his smile and nestled back against him.
Harry brushed his lips against her hair and turned his attention back to the game, only to be distracted again at the sound of the clock striking a quarter after seven. He glanced at the clock and inwardly frowned a little.
Hermione was late.
She hadn't been sure if she'd been able to make it home for dinner so he and the kids had eaten without her but now he was beginning to wonder.
Chantal was due to arrive in half an hour and then he and Hermione needed to leave for the annual Victory Ball to commemorate the anniversary of the last battle of the Second Voldemort War. (The Ministry had originally wanted to call the anniversary Harry Potter Day but he'd flat-out refused that and finally, they'd compromised on naming the anniversary itself Remembrance Day and hosting a Victory Ball that evening.)
Not that Harry was much more eager to attend this Ball than he'd been to attend any other formal event in his life, beginning with the Yule Ball way back in his 4th year, but he'd gotten accustomed to it. (And, he had to admit, there was one very distinct reason to look forward to these formal events in that it gave him a chance to see Hermione in formal clothes.)
He wondered what had happened at St. Mungo's to keep her there but then looked over at the family clock and saw that the hand for Hermione was now pointing towards "Home" and, right on cue, heard the front door open.
"Harry? Kids?"
"Mummy!" Sabrina was the first to leap up and dash out to greet Hermione with her usual exuberance, while Emily, Andy and Harry followed with more calm.
"Hi Mummy," Emily and Andy said, not quite in unison but close enough.
Hermione gave Sabrina a quick hug. "Have you eaten dinner?"
"Yes, Daddy fed us."
"We had mac and cheese, Mummy!" Sabrina announced. (Characteristically for her, Sabrina never just 'said' something; she had a knack for making every word out of her mouth sound like the most exciting news ever.)
"We were just watching the Puddlemere game," Andy volunteered.
She smiled indulgently. "Well, I won't keep you from that. Go back to the game."
"Thanks, Mummy!" Andy threw her a quick grin before he disappeared back into the family room, followed by Emily and Sabrina.
"I'm sorry I'm late," Hermione apologized. "A new patient was rushed in just as I was about to leave."
"Don't worry about it. But Chantal will be here soon so we'd better get ready."
"I know," Hermione said, putting her work bag into her study and then hurrying up to their bedroom with Harry on her heels.
Harry changed into his dress robes quickly and then proceeded to simply enjoy the sight of Hermione's preparations. He didn't know why it was (certainly it was a new thing that had only begun with Hermione) but he loved to watch Hermione get dressed for a formal event. She was as efficient in this as she was in everything else and he liked the simple grace of her quick movements. (And he had to admit to a purely masculine enjoyment of seeing the curves of her hips, her butt and her legs as she pulled on a pair of pantyhose and stepped into her dress. What? Surely a husband could ogle his own wife.)
"Zip me up, will you, Harry?"
Harry pulled his gaze away from where he'd been staring at her hips to meet her eyes as she looked over her shoulder at him, presenting him with her back.
He stepped forward, conscious of a distinct (and irrational) reluctance to comply with her simple request because he did so enjoy the sight of the graceful line of her spine and the smooth skin of her back but then he reminded himself that he would have plenty more opportunities to admire Hermione's back (and the rest of her) and closed the zipper of her dress. He paused, his hands lightly resting on her shoulders before he bent, irresistibly-it wasn't a conscious decision, more a compulsion-and kissed her bare skin in that sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder.
And as always, she softened against him, letting out a soft breath, her eyes closing, her head tilting to give him better access. He loved how responsive she was, loved the fact that he could sense her skin heating from such a simple caress.
"Harry…"
"Hmm?" he murmured against her skin.
"Don't-oh… We really don't have time for this," she managed to say, although the words were belied by the breathiness of her tone.
He sighed briefly as he lifted his head and stepped back. "I know."
She turned and gave him a slight, understanding smile. "We'll continue this later," she promised.
"I'll hold you to that."
She threw him a teasing look as she went over to her dresser. "Do I ever make promises I don't keep?"
"Is that a trick question?" he quipped, hoping that humor would dispel the sensuality in the air.
"Very funny, Potter," she retorted but he could hear her smile in her voice as she ran a brush through her hair and then used a quick charm to put her hair into a simple twist, softened with a few errant curls that escaped.
Harry went over to retrieve his wand from where he'd dropped it onto the bed while he changed and put it into the discreet pocket sewn into his dress robes and then turned to see Hermione, who'd finished up with her primping, minimal as it was.
And, for a moment, forgot how to breathe. She was wearing a new gown and, although he'd glimpsed it on a hanger when she'd taken it out, he'd never seen it on her. She'd put on the amethyst earring and necklace set he'd given her for their tenth wedding anniversary and it matched the color of the gown almost perfectly (the gown being just a shade darker.) As for what the gown did to Hermione's body… Suffice to say that he immediately started mentally calculating how many hours would need to pass before he could strip the gown off her. (Peripherally, he wondered if it was normal for a wife to still have this effect on her husband after nearly 15 years of marriage but then decided he didn't care if it wasn't. Rather, he could only pity any man whose wife couldn't take his breath away and capture his every thought so completely.)
His gaze wandered down and back up the length of her body, his mouth going dry, and he had to swallow before he could speak, trying to make light of his reaction (this wasn't the time to tell her she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen-and the sexiest). "You clean up well." But the words were rather belied by the husky note in his voice.
She rolled her eyes a little, although a knowing smile was playing on her lips. (She knew perfectly well how he'd reacted to the sight of her just now and the knowledge never failed to thrill her feminine soul. She loved-oh, how she loved-that she could still make him speechless even after so many years of marriage.) "Thank you. How can anyone resist such flattery?"
He lifted one shoulder into a half shrug. "It's part of my charm."
She snorted, falling in with his humor as she always did. "You're delusional."
"Actually, the word I was going for was confident. Suave, perhaps. Dashing, even." Harry grinned at her, the grin that, even now, never failed to make her heart give a little flutter. (Really, it shouldn't be possible for him to have this effect on her after so many years of marriage.)
"Arrogant," Hermione retorted teasingly.
Harry gave her a look of exaggerated hurt. "You know, aren't wives supposed to be nicer to their husbands?"
"Where is that written?"
"If it isn't a law, it should be," Harry said, pretending to grumble.
"I'll be sure to mention that to Minister Lovett tonight," Hermione promised with mock gravity.
Harry tried to keep his lips straight, tried to look offended, but knew it was useless. Her eyes were dancing as she suppressed her own smile and picked up her small formal purse.
"Are you ready?"
He looked at her, at the smile playing on her lips and glowing in her eyes, and decided (yet again) that he could never imagine anything more beautiful than she was. He had the most beautiful wife in the world. Was he ready? "For you, always," he said, half-jokingly but wholly-sincerely.
She laughed softly, color tingeing her cheeks, at the deliberate huskiness infusing his tone. "Later," she promised as she brushed her hands across his shoulders, making sure his dress robes were perfectly straight, as she usually did.
"Am I presentable enough for you?" he asked, capturing one of her hands in his and bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss before he released her.
"You'll do." And she grinned at him before she preceded him down the stairs and into the family room where the kids were.
Sabrina looked up when they entered, unlike her siblings (Sabrina was still a little young to fully appreciate the game but whatever Emily and Andy did, she naturally wanted to do too and if that meant watching Quidditch, she watched Quidditch.). "Oh, Mummy, you look beautiful!" she said with wide-eyed sincerity.
Hermione smiled, her eyes and her expression soft. "Thank you, love."
Harry pretended hurt. "And what about me, baby?"
Sabrina laughed, giving him a look she'd perfected early on, the one that said clearer than any words could that she thought he was being ridiculous but she would indulge him anyway (a look that, for the moment at least, always made her look so much like a tiny version of Hermione he was hard pressed not to grin like an idiot at how utterly adorable she was). "Silly Daddy," she giggled and then added, generously, "You always look handsome to me, Daddy."
Harry grinned at her. "Thank you, love." He bent to kiss her and told her in a carrying whisper, "You always look beautiful to me too."
She smiled at him. "Thank you, Daddy."
Hermione smiled, warmth in her heart as she watched Harry and Sabrina. They really could not be any more adorable and she could not love them any more…
She crouched down by Andy and ruffled his hair a little, making him glance up at her.
"How was your day?"
He gave her a quick grin, although his eyes returned almost immediately to the Quidditch match. "It was fine, Mummy."
Hermione could only smile at his absent answer and his distraction; it seemed like every year, he got even more fascinated with Quidditch.
She glanced over at Emily, who gave her a smile. "You look very nice, Mummy."
"Thanks, Em."
"I finished my book today, Mummy," Emily informed her.
"Good. We'll talk about it tomorrow, okay?"
Emily nodded, her lips parting but whatever she might have said was cut off by the sound of the door bell ringing.
"I'll get it!"
Emily was the first one to leap up and run over to open the front door and Harry and Hermione exchanged small smiles. Emily had a whole-hearted admiration for Chantal, Bill and Fleur's eldest, whom Emily believed was the coolest person she knew.
"Hi, Chantal!"
"Hey, Em." Chantal gave Emily an affectionate half-hug and looked over at Harry and Hermione. "Hi, Uncle Harry, Aunt Hermione. Don't you both look smashing," she added teasingly.
Harry laughed. "Thank you, Miss Weasley."
"Thanks for watching the kids, Chantal," Hermione spoke up.
Chantal shrugged. "It's fine, Aunt Hermione. I'd much rather spend my evening here playing with these young'uns than at some fancy party listening to a lot of grown-ups talk." She winked at Emily and Sabrina before pretending to push Harry and Hermione out the door. "Hurry up and leave so we can start having fun."
Harry handed Hermione's cloak to her, grabbing his own, before he bent and dropped a kiss on Sabrina's hair.
"Be good for Chantal, okay, baby?"
Sabrina gave him a beatific smile. "I will, Daddy."
Hermione suppressed a laugh. Judging by Sabrina's expression and her words, she really should be the most angelic child…
"Be good, kids. Don't stay up too late," Hermione added warningly.
Chantal grinned. "I won't let them," she promised but her tone and conspiratorial wink promised that she would, at least, let them stay up later than usual.
~*~
Harry nodded and tried to look interested, trying to keep a pleasant expression fixed on his face, even as he felt like saying something rude or, better yet, simply walking away.
He'd been captured by some visiting foreign dignitary (he couldn't remember where the man was from at the moment-Austria, maybe? Or was it Germany? Switzerland?) and the man had launched into a very involved tale about the appointment of the new Minister of Magic there.
Why the man thought Harry would be interested, he really didn't know-unless it was some part of the persistent belief held by many that Harry himself would one day be Minister and must, therefore, be interested in the politics of self-aggrandizement. Whatever the reason, Harry was bored out of his wits and beginning to wonder if suicide or murder was more appealing.
He suppressed a sigh and let his eyes wander surreptitiously, being careful to at least appear politely interested as he did so.
He saw Ron talking to Oliver Wood, who was now the captain of the Appleby Arrows, and then, predictably, his gaze found Hermione next (he always knew where she was).
His eyes narrowed a little. Hermione was talking to someone whom he didn't know although he recognized him from somewhere but the young man-and he did look young, maybe in his mid 20's at most-looked positively enthralled. He was speaking rapidly, his hands gesturing, his expression intense and rather… adoring. And as he watched, the young man apparently forgot himself in his enthusiasm and put his hand on Hermione's arm and Harry knew her well enough to see the slight tensing of her form, although she was too polite to pull away entirely.
Harry turned his gaze back to his current torment and interrupted the man's speech when he paused to take a breath. "If you'll excuse me, I see someone I need to speak to."
"Oh, Mr. Potter, of course. It was an honor- truly an honor- to meet you."
Harry managed a smile. "My pleasure. Have a good evening."
Harry made his way across the ballroom, carefully skirting around any other dignitaries and people from the Ministry, catching Hermione's eye as he neared and saw the welcoming smile in her eyes before he reached her side, sliding his arm around her waist.
She smiled at him. "Oh, Harry, I don't think you've met Nigel Bachilder."
Bachilder turned to Harry with a smile as he shook Harry's offered hand with enthusiasm. "Oh, Mr. Potter, it's an honor, a great honor. This entire evening has been so wonderful, to get to speak with Healer Granger and now, to meet you as well. I was just telling Healer Granger that I just finished reading her little treatise on new uses for the mullein powder and thought it was absolutely brilliant." Bachilder's blue eyes shone with an almost religious light as he said this.
"Yes, well, Hermione's never been anything less than good at everything she tries to do," Harry responded. "It gets rather irritating at times," he added jokingly.
Hermione discreetly jabbed him in the side, taking pity on Bachilder's obvious confusion as to how to respond. "Don't mind Harry, Nigel. Saying things like that is his idea of being funny."
"If you'll excuse us, I think I see someone Hermione and I need to speak to," Harry inserted.
"I'll see you at St. Mungo's, Nigel," Hermione added.
"Oh, of course, yes. It was so good to meet you, Mr. Potter."
For a moment, Harry half expected Nigel to bow but he refrained before Harry and Hermione turned away.
"It looks like you acquired an admirer," Harry commented.
Hermione let out a soft laugh. "He is certainly enthusiastic. But he really is quite clever. Some of the things he said reminded me of myself." She paused and then added with a small laugh, "Except he certainly seems to have a tendency towards hero worship that I never did."
Harry looked at her, raising his brows. "Never?"
She gave him a prim look, although a slight smile was tugging at the corners of her lips, belying her tone. "Hero worship tends to manifest itself in people who are insecure in their own worth."
"Yes, Professor," Harry teased. "So you've never felt hero worship for anyone?"
"Certainly not. I've admired people like Headmaster Dumbledore but hero worship? I certainly never felt anything like hero worship for you," she added with a teasing gleam in her eyes.
Harry only gave her an eloquent look before he gave a fake cough in which the word, "Lockhart," was clearly audible.
Hermione elbowed him. "Harry! That's ancient history! I was 12 years old!"
Harry pretended innocence. "I didn't say anything…"
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you." It wasn't a question.
He grinned at her, taking her hand in his. "Nope, I'm funny like that. Besides," he added, "you haven't made that many silly mistakes in your life so I have to bring up the ones you have made; it's only fair to the rest of us foolish mortals, you know."
She rolled her eyes at him. "Very funny."
"Luckily for young Bachilder and his hero worship, you really are as brilliant as he thinks you are."
"Flattery will get you nowhere," Hermione retorted but her smile belied the words.
Harry went on as if he hadn't heard. "And anyway, I can't fault his taste for fancying you."
"Okay, maybe flattery will get you somewhere."
Harry laughed, wiggling his brows at her in an exaggerated leer. "Well, you know I only flatter you so I can get you into bed."
Hermione laughed and then deliberately stepped closer to him, letting her breasts brush his arm as she gave him one of their private, "bedroom" looks. "I don't know if you've noticed but you don't need to flatter me to get me into bed."
Harry swore he could feel every drop of blood leave his head in a rush; this wife of his was more potent than a punch to the head. He carefully stepped away from her in a half-futile gesture as he could still feel her warmth against his arm as he gave her a look. "Hermione," was all he said, warningly.
She gave him an innocent look, although the smile in her eyes and tugging on her lips belied the expression. "Yes?"
"Hermione…" Her name was almost a moan. "You're evil, you know that." He pretended to address the air, even though his voice was low enough that no one but her could hear him. "Why did no one warn me that my wife was evil?"
She laughed a little, even as she shook her head at his nonsense. "As if you didn't know that already. Now, I'm going to go say hello to Dean. You should mingle some more."
He sighed and grimaced a little. "Yeah, I know I should. Say hello to Dean for me too."
"I will," she smiled, giving his hand a light squeeze as she turned away, heading towards Dean.
Dean smiled as he saw her. "Hermione, you look great tonight."
"It's good to see you, Dean. How have you been?"
"Oh, you know, the usual, keeping busy. And you?" Dean worked as an artist for the Daily Prophet, providing sketches and drawings for times when actual pictures were not available.
"Oh, you know what my life is like; between St. Mungo's and the kids, there's hardly a quiet moment," Hermione smiled.
Dean returned the smile. "How are the kids? I haven't seen them in months."
"They're doing well. They're at home, being baby-sat by Chantal Weasley, Bill's daughter."
"Oh, yes, of course, Chantal. She seems like a perfect choice for the job, since she always seemed very level-headed to me."
"Who seems level-headed?"
Hermione and Dean both turned to grin at Ron, who joined them, shaking hands with Dean and putting his arm around Hermione in a brief, brotherly hug.
"I was just saying that Chantal seems like the perfect choice for a baby-sitter because she's so level-headed," Dean explained to Ron.
Ron grinned. "That she is. She gets it from her mother because Bill certainly is not."
Hermione nudged Ron lightly. "Ron! That's hardly true. Bill may be the most sensible of all your brothers."
"But not as sensible as I've always been," Ron inserted with mock solemnity.
Hermione laughed. "I wouldn't say that exactly."
Dean grinned. "I think I'll have to agree with Hermione in this."
Ron huffed, pretending disgruntlement. "Nice friends you two are."
Dean laughed and they chatted for a while, catching up on each other's news since Hermione rarely saw Dean except at these big events.
It was a little while before Dean spoke up just as Ron finished telling a rather involved story of something that had happened at his last Quidditch match, "Oh, I see my supervisor and I should go over and pay my respects. It was good to see you, Hermione, and you too, Ron."
"Take care, Dean," Hermione smiled.
Hermione turned back to Ron but her gaze was caught by Harry, who, she saw, had been cornered by one of his fangirls. She couldn't place the woman but she was less interested in the woman's identity than in the fact that the woman was quite clearly flirting. The woman was wearing a dress tight enough it looked as if she'd practically been poured into it and her neckline was low enough to leave almost nothing to the imagination.
Beside her, she heard Ron laugh. "Oh dear, poor Harry. He looks utterly miserable."
"I'd better go rescue him," Hermione said.
"Yeah, you'd better go," Ron agreed, amusement in his voice.
Ron always did find it hysterically funny whenever Harry was cornered by one of the seemingly endless number of women who seemed to think it their mission to try to seduce Harry. Hermione was resigned to them and had learned to view them with a sort of detached amusement, made much easier because of her trust in Harry.
Hermione slid her arm around Harry's waist in a deliberately possessive gesture. "There you are, darling," she said, deliberately using the endearment that neither she nor Harry used on a regular basis and certainly never in public, and Harry gave her a look of unmitigated relief at the rescue.
Hermione gave the woman a bright, utterly false smile. "You will excuse us, won't you. Harry promised me a dance."
Faced with Harry's wife, the woman had no choice but to agree, which she did with ill grace.
Hermione kept her arm around Harry as they walked, more because she knew the woman would be watching. "A new friend of yours, Harry?" she teased.
"Thank you for saving me. She wasn't taking any of my hints and I was beginning to be afraid I'd need to hex her or something to get away." Harry grimaced. "I can't imagine what she-or anyone else, really-thinks will happen. Do they really think I'm that much of an idiot?"
Hermione laughed softly at his petulant tone. "I imagine they all think that since you're married to plain, old me, you must be bored and looking for fun." She spoke lightly, with all the confidence she felt.
"They must all be blind and stupid," Harry responded, more easily, as they stepped into the slow dance. He let his fingers stray over Hermione's back in a light caress, feeling the tension from the unpleasant encounter drain away. "How could anyone possibly hope to compete with you?"
"Flatterer," Hermione chided but the word was belied by her smile.
"I'm very serious," Harry said with exaggerated solemnity. "If I wanted to talk to the most beautiful woman in the room tonight, I'd only end up talking to you."
Hermione's smile softened. She knew she wasn't the most beautiful woman in the room-but she also knew that Harry meant every word and somehow, with him, seeing herself reflected in his eyes, she felt like the most beautiful woman in the world.
"You really do want to get lucky tonight, don't you?" was all she asked out-loud.
Harry's response was to give her an exaggerated leer. "Is it working?"
Hermione couldn't help but laugh a little. "It occurs to me that there's something not quite right about us."
"Why do you say that?"
"Do you think it's normal for an old, married couple of nearly 15 years to flirt with each other so much?"
Harry lifted one shoulder into a half-shrug. "You know me; I've always been the resident freak," he quipped.
Hermione hit his shoulder. "I thought we agreed you weren't supposed to call yourself that."
Harry caught her hand in his, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to her palm that she felt all through her body. His eyes and his voice were suddenly, completely serious. "If it isn't normal for a husband to be in lust and love with his wife, then who wants to be normal?"
"Do you think we've been here long enough that we can go home now?" was Hermione's response and let him see all she felt in her eyes and in her smile.
His fingers tightened on her skin. "You know we haven't."
Hermione gave an exaggerated sigh. "I suppose I'll just have to be patient then."
"For two sickles, I'll take you home and ravish you right now," Harry offered, only half-jokingly.
It was a tempting suggestion. Hermione grimaced a little. "You know very well that we can't leave yet. We just arrived an hour ago. If we do leave so early, everyone would notice and it'll be all over every newspaper tomorrow morning."
Harry gave an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh. "That is, sadly, true."
Hermione couldn't help but grin. "It's hell being a responsible adult, isn't it?"
"How would you know anything about that? You've been a responsible adult your entire life." A teasing smile tugging at the corners of his lips belied his solemn tone.
Hermione lifted her chin and assumed a prim expression. "I'll choose to take that as a compliment."
"You're awfully sexy when you try to look all prim and proper, Healer Granger," Harry said conversationally.
Hermione made a skeptical noise. "You really are very strange," was what she said but knew he could see the smile fighting to break free. She couldn't help the flicker of heat she felt inside her at his words-because she knew he meant them. It was something she never ceased to find amazing but Harry really did seem to find almost anything she did sexy-even after all these years. And she loved knowing that. As much as the knowledge that she was the love of Harry's life meant to her, it was equally precious-odd as it might sound-to know that, in his eyes, she was still sexy, that he still, even after so many years of marriage, fantasized about her, was aroused by her.
But then again, perhaps it wasn't so surprising. The feeling was, after all, entirely mutual.
With a decided effort, Hermione pulled her mind away from this sensuous path-that way lay frustration-and changed the subject to something entirely neutral. "I heard the new Austrian Minister of Magic is said to be quite the reformer. Do you know anything about him?"
He blinked and she hid a smile as he visibly (to her, at least) focused his mind on this new topic. "Actually, I was just speaking to one of the Austrian Ministry officials who seems to be very admiring of their new Minister, was telling me some of the changes he's proposed."
Hermione listened as Harry briefly summarized what he'd heard. She knew that Harry, personally, didn't particularly care for politics and certainly didn't care to mingle with foreign officials or dignitaries, but for her sake, for her continuing interest in political reforms, he always made an effort to find out any current issues to tell her about them. Not because she asked him to but simply because he knew her.
Hermione listened and commented-and silently willed the hours until they could go home to pass quickly.
Some hours later, Harry and Hermione opened their front door quietly and walked in to see Chantal, sitting on the couch with a book.
She looked up, closing her book, and grinned at them. "Hi, Aunt Hermione, Uncle Harry. Did you have a good time tonight?"
"Yes, thanks, Chantal," Hermione answered. "How were the kids?"
"As good as gold," Chantal reported cheerfully. "We played Monopoly after the Quidditch match ended. Sabrina dozed off by 9 but I let Andy and Em stay up until a little after 10 before sending them off to bed too."
"You really did let them stay up past their bed time," Harry noted.
Chantal shot him a mischievous look. "Why else do you think I'm their favorite baby-sitter, Uncle Harry?"
Harry tried to look disapproving but knew he failed.
Chantal stood up, putting her book away. "Well, I'd better head home before my parents start to wonder what happened."
"Tell your parents we'll see them at the Burrow next weekend."
"Yeah, I will. Oh, thanks, Aunt Hermione," Chantal said as she put on her cloak and accepted the money Hermione handed her.
"Thanks for watching the kids, Chantal," Hermione said with a smile.
"Anytime." Chantal waved as she opened the door. "G'night."
"Goodnight, Chantal."
Hermione waved a last time before closing and locking the front door and, behind her, heard Harry murmur the words to the protective wards he always put up at night.
That done, she led the way upstairs, Harry on her heels, as they looked, first, into Andy's room to see if he was sleeping-he was, his breathing deep and even, and Hermione brushed his hair away from his face with a feather-light touch, careful not to wake him before she crept out.
Sabrina's room, "the baby's room" as they still tended to call it sometimes, was next. Sabrina had pushed off her blankets and Hermione tucked her in again before pulling the door mostly closed behind her, keeping it just slightly ajar as always.
Harry had already opened Emily's door to look inside and she joined him just as he was about to close the door.
Their eyes met in the dim hallway in a brief exchange as clear as telepathy. She's asleep? Sleeping soundly. Ok, good.
That done, Hermione slipped her hand into Harry's to give it a brief squeeze as they walked the rest of the way down the hallway to their own bedroom and she went in first, hearing him close the door, quietly but firmly, behind him.
She headed straight to her dresser, taking her earrings off as she went and then the necklace. She had just murmured the charm the undo the charm she'd used on her hair, sending it cascading down past her shoulders, when she heard his voice.
"Wait, stop."
She paused and turned to him, her eyebrows raised slightly, the ghost of smile just touching her lips. Even from those two words, she knew that tone, could guess what he was thinking.
And was proven right the moment she saw his face. The lingering desire that had been banked during the hours of the ball leaped to life, heat beginning to simmer inside her.
Harry finished shrugging out of his dress robes, sending them to hang in the closet with one quick flick of his wand, and then dropped his wand carelessly onto the nightstand by the bed before crossing the room slowly.
He let his eyes wander up and down and then back up Hermione's body, not even trying to hide what he was doing, noting the look on her face, the slight smile just curving her lips. Merlin, but he really did have the sexiest wife in the world.
"Now," he said huskily, "I get to do what I've wanted to do since the second I saw you in this dress."
Her eyebrows lifted a fraction higher as she gave him an innocent look. "Oh, and what's that?"
He couldn't help a smile at her look and her tone, both being very familiar to him by now. "Wait and see."
He took her hand and led her forward until they were both standing beside their bed and then reached behind her to pull the zipper down, deliberately letting his hand stray inside to lightly caress the bare skin of her back, feeling the slight, reactive shiver that went through her body.
"Now lie down, but keep the dress on."
Arousal, tinged with amusement, flashed through her eyes before she complied.
She lay back on their bed with the instinctive, unconsciously sensual grace that never failed to make his mouth go dry before she looked back up at him and this time, it was her turn to look him up and down and then back up again.
"You should take off your clothes now," she suggested, her voice a husky whisper.
He hadn't planned to, not immediately, but… With a mental shrug, he started to unbutton his shirt. Not listening to her would only be cutting off his nose to spite his face and anything Hermione said or did would only lead to more pleasure for him. His wife was brilliant like that.
He hastily stripped off his clothes but kept his boxers on; it would help him keep control and for his purposes, he needed that.
That done, he crawled onto the bed until he was leaning over her.
"You look beautiful in this dress, but…" he paused deliberately, "you'll be even more beautiful out of it."
And then, finally, he set out to do what he'd wanted to do since the moment he'd seen her in this dress: strip it off her.
He slid the straps of the dress of her shoulders, caressing her skin as he went, until she could free her arms from them and then, slowly, he pushed the dress further down. He lowered his lips to her skin, starting at the little hollow just behind her ear lobe that he knew was sensitive and then trailed his lips further down the line of her chin and then her neck, pausing where he could feel her pulse fluttering rapidly. He touched his tongue lightly to the spot, making her gasp, her head tilting back to grant him greater access, and then he sucked lightly on the skin above her pulse point until she moaned softly.
Inch by inch, he pushed the dress down her body, his hands and then his lips caressing the skin revealed to him.
She was still wearing her bra, of course, but he cupped her breasts, squeezing lightly, and could feel her nipples hardening immediately through the lace and cloth of her bra. He allowed himself a small, very satisfied smile-God, he loved her responsiveness. He slipped one hand into her bra, freeing her breast, and then fastened his lips to her nipple, suckling and then swirling his tongue over and around it in that way he knew she liked, until she gasped and moaned and arched her back, pushing herself closer to him.
He released her nipple with a last flick of his tongue but before he could decide how to touch her next, she shifted and she was the one to unhook her bra, shrugging out of it and tossing it aside, leaving her completely bared to his avid gaze from the waist up.
And he forgot how to breathe, forgot how to blink, as he stared. Great Merlin but she was beautiful. And if it were possible for someone to glow… well, she was… Her skin was flushed and gleaming with perspiration and the contrast of her skin against the purple of her gown…
And there was something indescribably, incredibly erotic about seeing her like this, only bared to the waist but still fully clothed below the waist, with her gown pushed down the way it was. She looked… wanton… sensual… seductive… especially with the way her hair spilled out across the pillow and over her bare shoulders.
He lowered his lips to the delicate curve where her neck met her shoulders, kissing the sensitive spot and just breathed in the scent of her. He could smell her, a mixture of her shampoo and soap and her perfume and the other scent that was just her. He would have just breathed her in for a moment but she chose that moment to arch her back, deliberately pressing her breasts against his chest, rubbing herself against him with the boundless, instinctive sensuality that never ceased to surprise him.
He groaned against her neck and then she turned her head, her hands sliding into his hair, so she could meet his lips with hers, kissing him hard, her tongue pushing into his mouth, engaging in a half-playful, wholly-arousing duel with his tongue. She kissed him as if she wanted to possess him, claim him, kissed him with all the passion and the intensity of her nature and he was, as always, lost.
He slid his hands into her hair, flattened himself against her, and returned her kiss, forgetting for the moment the rest of his plans in favor of kissing her, his lips and tongue melding with hers, loving the familiar taste of her.
And when he finally broke off the kiss, it was only to kiss his way down her jaw and then her neck, finding every sensitive spot that made her gasp and shiver and clutch at him with her hands.
He trailed his lips down her body, leaving a series of hot, damp kisses down the valley between her breasts, pausing to lick every sensitive spot, and then further down the soft skin of her stomach. His hands made their own voyage down, tracing, caressing every curve of her until he reached her dress and proceeded to continue stripping the dress off her.
She lifted her hips and he deliberately let his hands caress and cup the curve of her butt and her hips as he pushed the dress further down.
His hands skimmed lightly down her legs, feeling the smoothness of her pantyhose, but really, he'd always found he much preferred to caress the smoothness of her skin. He hooked his fingers into her pantyhose and dragged it, too, slowly down her body, bringing her knickers with it. He stripped her slowly, even reverently, letting his hands worship, caress every inch of her.
She was so beautiful, had always been beautiful, but he rather thought she was more beautiful now than ever. The years-and having three children-had left their traces on her body, her hips a little wider, her stomach a little softer-but she was beautiful, more beautiful now than when he'd first seen her body, with the added beauty and sensuality of maturity, of health and life and, yes, love… She was still, as always, the embodiment of womanly beauty and seductiveness; she was all he'd ever wanted or dreamed of or fantasized about-and more…
And he told her so with every touch, every lingering caress, delighting in every gasp, every breathy moan, every movement of her body that gave the proof of her arousal.
God, he loved touching her, loved reducing his clever, strong-willed Hermione to this wanton, writhing, sensual creature.
His hands reached her knees and he paused to brush his fingers lightly against the sensitive skin of the backs of her knees and she gasped, her body arching, her hands twisting against the sheets.
He finished pushing her pantyhose and her knickers down her legs, tossing them aside, and then grasped the folds of her dress as it lay bunched around her feet. He was going to simply toss them aside too but then paused, what little remained of coherent thought in his mind coughing to life-it occurred to him afterwards that Hermione really had trained him well-- and instead he sent the dress sailing to hang in the closet with a wave of his hand.
He sensed her slight smile before he returned his gaze to her face and saw it. "Are you trying to impress me?" Her voice was low, sultry, and sent a fresh wave of arousal skittering through his veins.
He gave her an exaggerated leer. "Of course I am."
"Mm." She gifted him with a look through her lashes that scrambled his brains, made his mouth go dry, and his arousal jerk to attention, hardening even further.
Before he could so much as catch his breath, she reached out and cupped his straining erection through his boxers, squeezing lightly. "This impresses me more," she purred.
He nearly choked on his own tongue. He let out a sound that was half-groan, half-laugh, his hips thrusting involuntarily into her hand.
She slid her hand into the waistband of his boxers but before she could proceed, he grasped her wrist and pulled it away. "No, wait," he gritted out. If she touched him, he knew he would lose control and he didn't want that-not yet. Not until he'd pleasured her.
He lowered his lips to her legs, kissing his way up her inner thighs until he hovered just above the core of her. He blew warm breath against her slick, swollen center until she moaned his name, her hips stirring restlessly, and then he touched her.
He trailed soft, delicate kisses along the apex of her thighs before he set his lips to her, kissing her, licking her. This was heaven, right here, the taste of her, the scent of her, the sounds of her as she writhed against his mouth. He knew when she was close to the edge, could feel it in her trembling, hear it in the increasingly frantic, breathless cries coming from her throat. He fastened his mouth to her wet flesh and suckled gently and that was all it took as she came with a scream of his name.
He lifted his head to watch her, loved the sight of her like this, the utterly abandoned look on her face as she gave herself up to pleasure. Seeing her like this never failed to catch at his heart, thrill him in a primitive, possessive, masculine way, that he had brought her to this, that he was the only man to see her like this.
His body hardened even more-impossibly-just at the sight of her-it was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen, bar none. And he knew he couldn't wait. He was trembling and so hard it hurt and at that moment, he wanted to be inside her more than he wanted his next breath.
His hands shook with the violence of his need as he shoved off his boxers, mentally swearing a little at his own clumsiness in his impatience, and then let out his breath in relief as he was finally free from the constriction.
The moment his arousal was free, her hands were on him, wrapping around him, and he felt what little remained of his control vanish in an instant. He almost surged up the bed, flattening himself against her, his lips finding hers, kissing her heatedly, as his jutting erection found, almost by instinct, the center of her body.
His hips moved, caressing her slick flesh with his body in an unbearably erotic way, and he plunged into her. He'd planned for this entire lovemaking to be slow, seductive, but he'd clearly overestimated his own self-control, no longer remembered what "slow" meant.
And even if he'd been able to slow down, she met and matched his impatience with her own as she arched beneath him, lifting her hips, her arms and legs wrapping around him, encouraging him.
And it was hard and fast, his hips retreating and then thrusting again and again into the slick, wet heaven of her body. She was the beginning and the end of his universe, the sole center of his world, every one of his senses, his body, his mind in thrall to her, to the passion of her, the sensuality of her. In that moment-as always-she took possession of his very soul until he knew nothing and no one else, was only attuned to her, to the soft gasps of her breath against his cheek, the taste of her, the heat of her beneath him, surrounding him…
He could feel himself nearing the edge, could sense it and knew, too, with the almost instinctive knowledge of her body, that she wasn't quite as close as he was.
He gritted his teeth, fighting to pull back, and broke off their kiss so he could fasten his mouth to her nipple, suckling it, letting his teeth graze the hardened tip lightly. He slid one hand down to touch her, finding the spot where they were joined, caressed it with his finger, until he felt her body tighten.
Her inner muscles convulsed around him, set off his own explosive climax as he thrust one last time, his vision graying out around him, letting out a strangled shout as he fell into the darkness. Fell knowing she was there with him, would catch him. Fell into the heaven that existed solely for them.
He collapsed above her and then rolled heavily onto his back, his arms keeping her with him, so they lay, sprawled, their limbs tangled, his body still tenuously joined with hers. Her hair spilled across his shoulder and chest as she lay above him; he rested his cheek against the top of her head and closed his eyes, feeling the glorious weight of utter satiation settle over them. He may have drifted off, dozed, his mind hovering somewhere between sleep and full alertness, not quite conscious but always aware, on some elemental level, of the warmth and weight of her against him, the rhythm of her heartbeat, the svelte, yielding curves of her body.
His Hermione. The words drifted through his mind, not a thought but more an emotion. His Hermione- his better half, his dream-lover… His-and he was hers. There was something indescribably calming, precious, in the utter certainty of that. Even if there were times he felt as if he understood nothing else in his life, at the end of every day, he returned to her, his home, his haven, and he knew he was where he belonged.
Hermione stirred, shifting until she was lying beside him rather than on top of him as she nestled her head into the hollow of his shoulder that seemed as if it had been made for her head to rest there.
He lazily moved one hand until the blankets slid up to cover their bodies, cooling now that the sweat of exertion had dried off, before he resettled his arms more comfortably around her.
He knew she must be tired; in spite of its being a Saturday, she had gone into St. Mungo's a little earlier than usual because she'd been worried over a patient. He made a mental note to let her sleep in a little tomorrow morning-assuming she would, which was doubtful, since Hermione sleeping in usually meant she wasn't feeling well.
Hermione let out a soft, sighing breath, the one that he knew signaled her falling asleep, and he wasn't surprised to hear her breathing even out, as her warm weight against his side became just that little bit heavier.
He moved his head just enough so he could see her sleeping face. He loved to watch her sleep, when all the intelligence and strength of character that animated her expression during the day was softened, gentled. She looked younger in her sleep until he could trace in her features the girl she had been, the Hermione from their long-ago Hogwarts days, the somewhat-bossy know-it-all with the bushy hair and the most loyal, loving heart of anyone he'd ever met. The girl he'd loved even before he knew what the word meant… and the woman she'd become, the woman he loved even more than he'd loved the girl.
He could have watched her sleep for hours but after a moment, he waved his hand to turn off the light and closed his eyes. Letting the sound of her deep, even breathing lull him into sleep.
He was with Hermione; his children were sleeping soundly in their beds. And all was right in his world.
~The End~