Disclaimer: See 'All He Ever Wanted'.
Author's Note: As promised, the fluffy ending to this little vignette and the smut.
Portrait of a Marriage
Worth Any Price
Part 2
Harry bent and dropped a kiss on Emily's forehead. "Goodnight, Emily-kin."
Her eyes closed on a sleepy smile. "Goodnight, Daddy."
He watched her for a moment, feeling a wave of tenderness so strong it almost made his chest physically ache. He had missed tucking her into bed like this. She had stopped asking him to when she was 10 and since her year at Hogwarts, he would go to her room to find her already in bed or ready for it and she'd dismiss him with a smile and a light, "Goodnight, Dad."
Tonight, though, she had asked to be tucked in. Tomorrow, he and Hermione would be taking her back to King's Cross where Hagrid would meet them and accompany Emily back to Hogwarts. But for tonight, this first night of his being home, McGonagall had given permission for Emily to stay another night and miss another day of classes.
He felt his heart clench a little at the thought of how close he had come to losing all this. Losing Hermione, losing their children, losing this love, this life. He had faced danger, had almost become accustomed to having his life at risk, but now he had so much more to lose; his life was so much more precious to him, infinitely more precious to him. And he realized with a momentary pang just how fragile it all was.
He pushed aside his momentary melancholy. He was back home, with his wife and his children. And tonight, they were all safe. Tonight, all their children were sleeping under their roof again.
He turned from closing Emily's door softly behind him to see Hermione watching him with a gentle expression on her face, the look she reserved for him and the children when she was feeling particularly moved.
"All our children are at home again," she said softly.
By now, after all these years, he felt no surprise that she'd said exactly what he had just been thinking. "I know."
She came up to him, twining her arms loosely around his neck. He sensed her shift in mood a moment before she spoke again. "They're all asleep now…" She let her sentence trail off with a deliberately seductive huskiness.
He felt a jolt of heat go through him at her tone and the implications of it, his body hardening in immediate response. His hands came up to grip her waist. "What did you have in mind?" he asked in feigned nonchalance, falling in with her mood.
She rose up on her toes and brushed a kiss against his lips. "Come to our room and I'll show you," she whispered into his ear, her breath hot against his skin.
He felt a shiver go through him. God, he loved this woman…
Hermione felt heat and arousal burst into full bloom inside her, her pulse picking up speed, as she led the way to their bedroom. She could feel him following so closely behind her, feel the heat of his gaze wandering over the length of her back to her hips and her butt and down the length of her legs, and smiled to herself. She'd never thought it of herself but she'd discovered the pleasure of being deliberately ogled, discovered the heady thrill of knowing her own power of attraction. And she had to admit to loving the fact that, even after 17 years of marriage, Harry still lusted for her as much as he had when they were in their early 20's and just discovering the full force of the physical passion between them. Her, who'd never been the most beautiful of woman as she freely admitted to herself (never mind what Harry said) and who had had three children. She knew her waist and her hips were wider; she was no longer a girl or even a very young woman-but she could still seduce her husband.
On that thought, as they neared the door of their bedroom, she gave in to some wicked impulse and grabbed his arm, tugging him into their bedroom.
He just had time to say, "Hermi--", in a teasing tone, before she closed the door and flattened herself against him, trapping him against the door, and kissed him, infusing as much passion and seduction as she could muster into the kiss. Her tongue took possession of his mouth, stroking his tongue provocatively, until she ended the kiss lingeringly, nibbling lightly on his lower lip before she drew away.
And she smiled, a slow smile of pure feminine satisfaction, at the way he blinked, his eyes cloudy and dazed, when she drew away. She loved seeing that blank expression on his face, loved knowing that she could effectively scatter all his thoughts just by kissing him.
The world knew him as the Boy Who Lived, the hero who had saved the wizarding world and still kept it safe. They knew his power and his courage and his decisive leadership.
But only she knew this Harry, when he'd been kissed senseless, when she knew he was beyond rational thought, when he knew nothing and no one in the world but her… For all the times she sometimes thought that he belonged to the world, the world that seemed to constantly need him to be its hero, she also had these times, times when she knew, deep in her heart and her soul, that he was hers, and only hers…
He blinked again, a small smile curving his lips. "God, I missed you," he breathed huskily.
She kissed him again, with slow, deliberate seductiveness this time, her hands wandering over his chest and his stomach although she avoided going any further down, for the moment. She drew back, sucking lightly on his lower lip as she did so. "I missed you too," she whispered breathily into his ear and smiled to herself at the slight shiver that went through him. She'd known he would react that way to her hot breath against his neck.
His hands slid up from where they'd been gripping her waist lightly to cup the back of her neck, returning her lips to his to kiss her forcefully, with all the heated passion she'd incited in him.
She returned his kiss, met his passion with her own, her hands insistent, greedy, as they roamed over his body, one hand sliding down to press against the growing bulge in his trousers. He gasped and she felt him hardening even more against her hand.
His hands found her breasts, cupping them, kneading them, through the layers of her shirt and her bra. She arched into his touch, her head falling back as her eyes closed. His hands burned her, even through her bra and her shirt.
He lowered his lips to her neck, leaving a damp trail of kisses down until he reached the collar of her shirt and then worked his way back up to kiss her lips again.
Her hands had tugged his shirt out of his trousers and pushed it up to flatten her hands on his stomach and his chest, exploring the familiar planes with hot, eager hands.
He tore off his shirt, tossing it carelessly onto the floor, while she made quick work of the fastenings of his trousers, undoing them and shoving them and his boxers down quickly, freeing his erection and making him groan.
He opened his eyes to stare at her, a half-expectant fire smoldering in his gaze-but she didn't touch him. Not yet.
Instead she kissed him again and took advantage of his distraction to turn them and push him down onto their bed.
She ended the kiss lingeringly, still standing at the foot of their bed and bent over him so her hair fell freely about his face. His hands went up to her waist, beginning to unbutton her blouse, but she caught his hands in hers, stopping him.
He opened his mouth on a question or a protest-she didn't know which-but she stopped him with a soft word. "No. I want you to watch me."
Delicious heat sparked, flared in his eyes, at the words, sending a shiver of arousal through her body.
And, moving with deliberate leisure, she began to strip.
She'd never thought she had it in her to seduce a man by stripping for him, never thought she had the confidence to do such a thing. She knew she wasn't beautiful and she didn't have the most perfect body, certainly not now, after bearing three children. Her breasts were fuller and not as firm as they had once been; her hips and her waist were wider; she'd never particularly liked her legs either-but with Harry, none of that mattered. When he looked at her with that intense, burning heat in his eyes (as he was doing now), positively devouring her with his eyes, she felt beautiful, felt like the most sensual, sexy woman in the world. There was nothing in the world quite so thrilling as the knowledge that Harry lusted for her, that she, of all the women in the world, could arouse him so effectively…
She started with her trousers, unbuttoning them and slowly pushing them down her legs, her eyes never leaving his, aware with every heightened sense she possessed of the heat of his gaze as he stared at her, every intake of his breath, every twitch of reaction from his hands wanting to touch her (and from another part of his body).
Her knickers were next and she allowed her hands to stroke, caress every inch of her legs as she pushed them down, and heard his strangled groan.
And then her shirt. She began at the top, undoing each button with a leisurely care that she had never given them before, but she knew how each added inch of her skin would affect him, and she wanted to draw this process out.
Her bra was the last to go. By this time, his breathing was harsh and strident, coming in gasps, almost echoing in the silence of the room. She reached behind her to unclasp her bra, feeling it loosen and shrugged so the straps slid down her shoulders and then, on a wicked impulse, let her hands cup her own breasts, her fingers flicking lightly over her hard, sensitized nipples.
"Hermione!" His strangled moan, her name roughened into three syllables, was a blend of agony and pure pleasure.
She crawled onto the bed to straddle him, and saw the way his eyes widened as he stared up at her, the flash of heat in his eyes as he saw her expression and read her intent. She was going to seduce him, drive him crazy, (more than she already had) as only she could.
He reared up, his hands lifting to touch her.
She scooted back a little, avoiding his hands. "No, you don't." She caught his hands in hers, moving them back down until they were flat on the sheets.
She deliberately bent down so her hair and then her breasts brushed against his chest, wrenching an involuntary groan from him. "Hermione…"
"This time, it's just for you," she whispered against his ear. "I'm going to do everything for you."
His hands came up again, automatically, trying to touch her breasts and she caught his wrists, preventing him again. "Do you want me to tie you to the bed?" she asked lightly.
He choked on a laugh at her words, which had become something of a running joke between them.
It had been mentioned once, as an idle joke, between them-she didn't even remember who had brought it up-and she had once pretended to tie his wrist to the bed. He would have let her, she knew; he had lain flat on his back on the bed, unmoving, just watching her, his eyes positively smoldering up at her. He trusted her with his life and his heart; he would have let her. But once the handkerchief had been tied, she'd undone it again with a slight shiver. And neither of them had ever tried again. They had each seen the other helpless and immobile, in life and in nightmares, when their lives had been at stake, too often to find any pleasure in seeing it again, even in the different context. They each knew all too well the grim reality of helplessness to subject the other to it. And he'd understood her reaction-as he always understood-and kissed her with a tenderness that soothed, healed, made all the memories fade from her mind…
And, as Harry had once told her, he had fallen in love with the most powerful and clever witch he'd ever known; if he'd wanted someone who was helpless and weak, he could easily have found it in almost any other witch, but he hadn't. He loved her, for all her cleverness and her strength, as well as for the vulnerability which she only showed to him, but he didn't want her helpless, never wanted her helpless.
Besides, it was much more enjoyable to reduce the other person to incoherence and complete surrender with their lips and their hands than through any other means.
So tying the other person to the bed had become just a joke, something to laugh over-and she loved that. Not for the amusement she got out of it but because of how symbolic it was of their entire relationship. It wasn't about who had more power over the other; they shared the power, were equals in this, as in everything else. So sometimes he was the one to do everything, using his lips and his tongue and his hands to reduce her to a quivering mass of arousal and desire and need-and sometimes she was the one to reduce him to that state.
As she was doing now.
He fell back onto the bed with a groan as she proceeded to kiss her way down his chest. "Serves me right for falling in love with such a bossy woman," he managed to joke, the words punctuated with gasps. "Should have known you'd like to torment me like this."
She smiled as she scattered kisses over every inch of his chest, pausing to flick her tongue into the hollow of his throat and where his pulse was beating madly, and then moving on to touch her tongue to his flat nipples.
His hands fisted helplessly on the sheets, a moan rumbling in his throat, as she continued on, leaving a trail of damp kisses down his body.
She always heard about the eroticism in the exotic, the unfamiliar, the thrill of the unknown. She supposed part of that was the appeal of one-night stands (which she had never completely understood). She could see that there was an appeal in the exotic but she'd never quite understood the thrill of the unknown; Merlin knew, she hated the feeling of not knowing something.
And she had discovered that what was stronger, more potent, than the supposed appeal of the unknown was the thrill of the familiar, the thrill of knowledge…
She loved knowing his body as well as she did. She loved that she knew every inch of him now, loved that she knew just how to touch him, just how to kiss him, to drive him mad.
She knew his body with the intimacy that only came from years of love-making. She knew just how he liked to be kissed, how he liked to be touched, every sensitive spot on his body.
And with the confidence which that knowledge gave her, with all the intensity of concentration which she had once given her schoolwork, she set out to show him just how much she loved him, just how much she wanted him.
Her hands, her lips, moved down his body with the sureness that years of lovemaking, of learning every inch of him, gave her.
She knew his body, could gauge his reactions to a nicety-and every gasp, every involuntary movement, made the fire blazing in her own body flare up with added fervor.
And she knew this was love… She loved him with her mind and with her heart, for all the things he was, for all the things that made him her best friend, but this-this was different, on a different plane entirely. This-when arousing him also aroused her, when his pleasure became hers until she no longer knew whether she was the one seducing him or whether she was, somehow, the one being seduced-by his reactions to her and not just by his touch-this was also love, when she loved him with her body, and knew that she was loved in return.
She measured the aching length of his arousal first with her fingers, her touch light as she feathered her fingers along the length of him and then with more firmness as she wrapped her hand around him and stroked.
His hips jerked automatically, his eyes closing, and a throaty moan rumbling from his throat in a sound that went straight through her body to pool in the liquid warmth between her legs.
And then, finally, she touched him with her lips. She dropped a light kiss on him before she touched her tongue to the tip of him, making him gasp, and then she licked her way up the length of him before she took him in her mouth.
She knew his body, knew when he was getting too close to the edge, not only from the harshness of his gasps or from the expression on his face, but from the knowledge that came from years of loving him, of exploring his body until she knew it as well as she knew her own.
And she stopped.
She moved back up his body, brushing a feather-light kiss on his lips before drawing back to look at him, waiting until he opened his eyes to stare up at her.
There was a wild look in his eyes that sent a thrill of combined triumph and arousal through her body and she lowered her lips to his again, kissing him more deeply.
His hands tangled in her hair as he returned her kiss with a passion that bordered on violence, so heated was it. It was a kiss that incinerated their senses, a kiss that consumed them as pure lust crashed over them in a tidal wave, sweeping them both away.
She had vaguely planned to be as slow in lowering herself onto his body as she'd been in arousing him but that plan evaporated as quickly as if it had never been. She wanted him too much; her entire body was a raging conflagration of need and she was going to die if she didn't feel him inside her, filling her.
She shifted above him, her body finding the right angle almost by instinct now, and took him inside her in one smooth move. Dear God… Her head fell back on a cry and she was vaguely aware of her cry mingling with, being echoed by his groan of combined relief and agony.
His fingers dug into her hips convulsively and she followed, obeying the silent plea of his hands as much as the demands of her own lust, rocking on his body, her hips meeting every thrust of his, the pace quickening immediately.
She could feel the tension building, spiraling out of control-amazingly quickly for her but all she had done to him had aroused her too until she was long past the point of needing anything more-and now he was inside her, the wild, urgent thrusts of his hips sending white-hot stabs of lightning through her body from the point where they were joined.
And then the world grayed out around her as she hit her peak, the tension bursting into sharp shards of pleasure streaking through every nerve in her body, ripping a series of soft cries from her throat.
His hips bucked one last time as he exploded inside her-and something about the combination of the heat of him flooding her, the sound of his groan and the way he said her name, the look on his face, sent a fresh spasm of fierce pleasure through her, tripping on the heels of the first one, as she bit her lip hard enough to draw blood to muffle her scream of his name.
Boneless-mindless-she slumped on top of him, breathing hard, still seeing a few lingering sparks in her peripheral vision.
She was vaguely aware of his arms draping across her back, holding her in place (not that she had any inclination or intention of moving). She let her eyes close against his skin, sprawled across his body in decadent abandon, as she waited for the small tremors of pleasure to subside. Waited for her heartbeat to slow, waited for her mind to return to this plane of existence…
"Oh my God," he finally gasped faintly, the soft words penetrating her haze of pleasure.
Hermione was beyond words, beyond thought; she made a soft sound of agreement, of sleepily-sated desire, in her throat, feeling as if her entire body had melted and molded itself to his. She felt as if she'd never move again-but then again, she didn't want to move again. She was in Harry's arms and there was no better place to be in the world…
How long they lay there like that neither of them knew-or cared. She might have dozed for a while; he might have done the same, as they let their minds and hearts drift aimlessly in that blissful peace they always found after their love-making.
But finally, finally, she felt him brush a kiss on her forehead, his hand sweeping down her back in a lazy caress, and she heard him murmur, "That settles it."
She didn't lift her head, didn't move, other than to ask idly, "Settles what?"
One of his hands moved to the back of her head, gently nudging until she lifted her head enough to meet his eyes, see the smile playing on his lips. "I already knew I had the best wife in the universe but now it's definitely settled that I have the sexiest wife in the universe too."
She felt herself flush slightly at the look in his eyes but smiled. "Just so you won't even think about leaving me again for at least another 50 years."
The words were spoken lightly enough but his eyes sobered, though his slight smile lingered. "I couldn't leave you." He paused and then added, with pardonable exaggeration, "I'd come back from the dead to feel again what you just did to me."
Hermione's blush deepened.
He loved that she blushed, that the same woman who had stripped before him, giving him a show as sensual as any he'd ever imagined, and then had used her hands and her mouth (to say nothing of her eyes) to arouse him to the point of pain, would also blush to be reminded of her boldness afterwards delighted him. He would never tell her (he valued his life too much for that) but there were few things in life more… adorable-there was no other word for it (and that was why he would never tell her; he could tell her she was beautiful or sexy or sensual, and even evil, but 'adorable' was one thing he knew she would not appreciate being called, nor would she understand it if he said so since he didn't understand it himself)- than the way Hermione would still blush, sometimes, when he said something to remind her of the boldest things she did with him-and her going down on him tended to be one of those things. It wasn't that she was shy-Hermione was never shy-nor was it out of any sort of false modesty-but enough of the prim schoolgirl remained in her, enough of her innate reserve as a British witch remained, that she blushed. And he loved that. He loved the fact that he could still make her blush after more than a decade and half of marriage and nearly two decades of sleeping together. They were as intimate, physically and mentally, as any two people could be, as attuned to each other and as frank and open about their own desires as was possible to be-but he could still make her blush. And it delighted him-for some reason he could never explain and didn't try hard to explain either. It didn't matter why-but oh, he did love to make Hermione blush.
And it was with that somewhat less-than-pure motive (though no less sincerely for all that) that Harry added, a glint in his eyes, "It ought to be illegal to drive a man as insane with lust as you just did to me."
Her blush deepened and she lowered her head to kiss him, partly to hide her scarlet cheeks. He kissed her back, his hands sliding up her back, under her hair, to cup the nape of her neck while one hand tangled in her hair, as his lips parted hers. It was a soft kiss, a gentle, lingering kiss.
He rolled them over so he could kiss her more deeply, pressing her into the pillows as she melted against him, as she always did, their bodies adjusting to the new position with the ease of years.
She gave a soft sigh of pleasure when his lips finally left hers, her eyes drifting open to meet his.
All the humor and teasing from earlier was gone now from his eyes and replaced by tenderness so deep and so abiding it warmed her heart and her very soul.
"I love you," he whispered softly.
"I know. I love you too."
She lifted one of her hands to touch his face, her fingers brushing his cheek in a feather-light caress. He closed his eyes briefly at her touch.
She traced the scar on his forehead with one gentle fingertip, that famous mark that served as a constant reminder of who he was and, for now at least, a grim reminder of just how close she'd come to losing him, to losing all this… And even though she didn't want to think it, even though she hated to cry like this, she felt tears well up in her eyes. "I almost lost you…" she whispered.
He turned his head to press a kiss into her palm and then brushed his lips across her forehead and her eyelids. "You'll never lose me," he promised softly. "No matter what happens, I'll always come back to you."
She managed a slight smile. "You can't promise that."
"I can," he contradicted gently. "You're a part of me; you, Emily, Andy, Sabrina, you're all a part of me, the best part of me, so no matter what happens to me, I'll never really leave you."
She smiled even through the tears in her eyes. "When did you get so wise?"
His lips curved. "I've spent my entire life with a very smart witch so I guess it just rubbed off on me."
He lowered his head to brush his lips against hers, kissing her with an aching, ineffable, tenderness, and she let out a soft sigh as he lifted his lips from hers.
He rolled over onto his back and she fit her body into the curve of his, as she always did, her head resting against his shoulder.
She felt rather than heard his sigh as he relaxed. "Good night, love," he murmured.
"Good night."
She closed her eyes and as she drifted off to sleep, her last thought was that this was worth it. There was worry; there was stress; there was always the small, nagging fear in the back of her mind and heart that something would happen to him or to her or to their children, because of who and what he was-but if that was the price she had to pay, she would pay it, gladly, and call it a bargain. It was worth it, worth every moment of fear-to be able to wake up in the mornings to see his face, to be able to fall asleep at night nestled against his warmth… Just to know, every minute of every day, that she was loved-that their children were loved-with the sort of deep, abiding love that would protect, cherish, and last for a lifetime and beyond… It was worth it.
And she knew she was a lucky woman, the luckiest…
~The End~