Disclaimer: See 'All He Ever Wanted'.
Author's Note: Yet another part of this series on Harry and Hermione's married life. Pure fluffy smut-if you're looking for a plot, move along, you won't find it here. Cavity alert!
Portrait of a Marriage
The Faith of a Daughter and of a Wife
Harry knocked on Emily's door. "Emily, can I come in?"
Her answer was short, succinct, and forceful. "No!"
He frowned a little. Emily might be 13 but until now, she hadn't shown much of the temperamental behavior that teenagers were notorious for. Indeed, just the other day, he had grinned at Hermione and told her that no doubt it was due to her mother's influence that Emily was more mature, in many ways, than other 13 year olds.
"Emily, love, is something wrong?" he asked carefully, not quite sure of his footing in dealing with a suddenly teenage daughter.
"I don't want to talk about it."
Harry winced slightly, wondering if he were imagining the unspoken words, with you, at the end of that sentence. His little Emily was really growing up-too fast-if it meant that she suddenly didn't want to turn to him for her troubles.
"Don't you want any dinner?" he tried again.
"I'm not hungry."
"Okay, but you know we won't feed you later if you change your mind."
Silence greeted this last warning and Harry sighed as he made his way back downstairs.
Dinner was a rather depressing affair; it felt strange and awkward to be eating without Hermione and without Emily, too. Oh, he had had dinner alone with the kids before, on nights when Hermione stayed late at St. Mungo's for some reason or another, but never before had one of the kids refused to come to dinner when they were home.
Andy ate quickly, wanting to return to the Remote Apparition of the Quidditch game he'd been watching. Sabrina, too, was more subdued than usual, finally admitting, "I have a headache, Daddy."
And so it was that when Hermione returned home a couple hours later, she was greeted with a distracted wave and a "Hi, Mum," from her son (still engrossed in watching the Quidditch game) and a husband who gave a fervent "Thank Merlin you're home," as he tugged her into his arms.
She returned his kiss with a brief one of her own before she drew back. "What brought this on?" she asked with a flicker of concern. "Where are Emily and Sabrina?"
"Sabrina had a headache so I gave her a potion and put her to bed. Emily's shut herself up in her room and refuses to talk to me."
Hermione frowned a little. "Oh dear."
She went upstairs, peeked into her youngest daughter's bedroom to see that Sabrina was sleeping and then knocked on Emily's door. "Emily? Can I come in?"
She and Harry both heard the door unlock and then Emily had thrown herself at Hermione. "Oh, Mum!"
Hermione caught her daughter in her arms, smoothing her hair away from her face. "Hello, Em. Now what brought this on?"
"Mum, can I talk to you?"
Hermione opened her lips to say, "of course," but only got the first word out before Emily added, "Alone. I don't want to talk to Dad."
Given that Harry was hovering behind Hermione, this statement was all the more pointed to the point of rudeness.
"Emily!" Hermione exclaimed in surprise and disapproval. To hear Emily, who had always adored Harry and had always been her Daddy's little girl, say such a thing was absolutely unprecedented. But she pushed her surprise aside and followed as Emily pulled her into her room, closing the door firmly in Harry's face. And Hermione felt a pang for the bewildered hurt she knew Harry must be feeling.
Hermione sat down and regarded her daughter. "What is it?"
For a moment, Emily hesitated, her entire frame almost vibrating with tension and indecision and then she burst out, "Mummy, I think Dad's seeing another woman!"
Hermione stared at her daughter, biting back the bubble of laughter at Emily's dire tone (her tone and her expression were as sincerely but exaggeratedly tragic as only a 13 year old girl could be) and an odd mixture of relief and dismay that this was apparently why Emily was so mad at Harry. "Wherever did you get that idea?"
Emily went to her desk and pulled out a crumpled scrap of newspaper. It wasn't the Daily Prophet but one of the small, more scandal-minded publications, notorious for publishing rumors rather than facts (and the only thing saving them from constant legal trouble over libel was that it was so widely-discounted by the majority of the world and that they were careful to post most of their stories as seeming speculation and innuendo, rather than actual fact.)
It wasn't an article, just a picture and a rather lurid caption, "Harry Potter's Dirty Little Secret?" but the picture, as the saying went, was worth a thousand words. It had been taken from far enough away and from an angle so all that was visible was a man's back as he kissed a woman (whose face couldn't be seen but who was clearly blonde) but even in the picture, it was clear that the man's hands were wandering to places not quite appropriate for a public embrace. And even knowing that the picture wasn't of Harry (the stance, the shoulders, weren't quite right, to say nothing of the fact that Harry would sooner be caught dead than kissing in such a fashion out on a public street), the man's back-the way he was dressed, his untidy dark hair, especially-looked enough like Harry to make even Hermione's heart give an unpleasant twist.
She grimaced, pushing the newspaper away. "Oh, Emily…"
Emily had been watching for Hermione's reaction with some nervousness but then seemed to slump at Hermione's calm, tentative hope showing in her eyes. "It- it's not true, is it, Mum?"
"Good lord, no," Hermione answered with enough certainty to quell most of Emily's doubts.
Emily sniffed a little. "You're sure?"
"Absolutely. That's not your father in that picture; it's just a man who, from behind, looks rather like him."
"Have you asked Dad if…" Emily trailed off, looking excruciatingly uncomfortable and unhappy, but not quite ready to believe yet.
Hermione smiled a little, her eyes becoming remarkably soft, tender, for a moment, before she met Emily's eyes directly. "No, I've never asked. I don't need to ask; I know." She paused and then added, "Would you like to ask Dad yourself, since I know he's wondering what he did to make you mad?"
Emily nodded, most of her equanimity restored at Hermione's unflinching faith in Harry, and opened the door. "Dad?"
Harry appeared with enough suddenness that Hermione guessed he'd been lurking just out of sight in one of the bedrooms, waiting and wondering. "Emily?" He glanced at Hermione and was reassured by her slight nod.
Emily closed the door behind Harry and then asked, with characteristic directness, now that her fears had been allayed, "Dad, are you having an affair?"
Harry blinked and stared. "Of course not! Why--"
Hermione glanced down at the newspaper and he followed her gaze, his eyes riveting on the caption before he crumpled the paper up in his fist. "Oh good God, not again," he said disgustedly, throwing the wad of paper into the trash and setting it on fire with a quick wave of his hand. (Rather surprising Hermione-and Emily as well-because Harry so rarely used wandless magic; with years of practice, he was able to perform most basic spells without the use of his wand but it tired him and he tended to avoid it, except in duels when it could make the difference between life and death.)
"Again?" Emily asked in some confusion.
Harry sat down beside Emily. "Various idiots have been trying to invent stories of me cheating on Hermione since the moment they found out we were together, why I do not know."
"They went away for the most part after you kids came along," Hermione added, "but every once in a while, something like this still comes up."
"Doesn't it bother you?"
"No. I don't like it," she added, in response to Emily's stare, "but I trust your father and hardly anyone believes any of the rumors anyway."
"Then you've never…" Emily trailed off, looking uncomfortable.
Harry put his finger under her chin so he could meet her eyes. "No," he said with quiet sincerity. "And I never will."
"And you know what a terrible liar your father is so you know he's telling the truth," Hermione added, trying to coax a smile out of Emily.
"Hey!" Harry protested in mock offense but he subsided when Emily gave a small laugh, the last shadows clearing from her eyes.
Emily moved into Harry's arms, giving him a quick hug. "I'm sorry I was mad at you, Dad. I was stupid to believe that newspaper."
He returned her hug, dropping a kiss on her hair. "No, it's okay." He drew back and looked at her with a slight smile. "If I ever do anything like that, I'd hope you'd be angry at me. In fact, we'll make a deal. If I ever do something that hurts Hermione, I give you permission to hex me into oblivion. And you can even use my own wand to do it if you want."
Emily laughed. "Deal."
And Hermione watched with a soft smile on her lips and warmth in her heart as Harry brushed a kiss on Emily's forehead, wondering if she could possibly love them any more than she did right then.
~
Hours later, after Emily had gone to bed, quite restored to her usual cheerfulness again, Harry sighed a little as he slid into bed beside Hermione, putting his arm around her as she automatically fit her body against his. "I'm sorry about that blasted newspaper picture."
She smiled a little and kissed him softly. "It's hardly your fault that some scandal-mongers are convinced we're destined to end with infidelity."
"Still… You shouldn't have to deal with it Why can't they just accept that I love you and you're the only woman I want?"
He was aware that he sounded rather petulant but she only laughed softly and brushed a kiss on his shoulder, before she sobered.
"Poor Emily," Hermione murmured. "I think she was really afraid that she was going to hurt me by telling me and afraid of what might happen, but too angry at you to not tell me."
"I suppose it was inevitable that she would see or hear one of those lies eventually. I guess we're just lucky it happened when she was home and could ask us directly."
"Poor girl. She was distraught to think that you might have done that."
"Well, if she's going to be mad at me, it's something of a relief that it's over something I didn't do. Less guilt," he said rather wryly. He paused and she sensed his shift in mood a moment before he spoke again, a distinctly teasing leer in his voice. "Clearly, none of those idiots really know what you're like or they'd know that I couldn't possibly need any other women. I wouldn't have the energy for it."
She rose up on her elbow to look down at him, a challenging glint entering her eye. "What I'm like? And just what do you mean by that?"
He gave her a look of mock innocence, although the look was completely belied by the slight smile playing on his lips and the way his eyes strayed to her breasts, covered by her thin sleep-shirt as they were. "Can I help it if you can't get enough of my body?"
She suppressed the shiver of heat that went through her body, feeling her nipples harden just from the look in his eyes and the huskiness in his tone. (Only he could do this to her; only he could arouse her so easily with nothing more than a look.) Her eyes narrowed. "Oh so now it's my fault? And you're just indulging me while you aren't really interested?" She deliberately shifted, wriggling so that she was lying half on top of him, one hand sliding down his body in a slow, tantalizing caress until she pressed her hand against the part of his body that was very clearly interested.
He sucked in his breath sharply. "I'm interested. I'm always interested in you," he gasped.
She smiled rather smugly and then shifted off of him and removed her hand as well. "Good," she said rather primly, as if they were talking of something as innocent as his having completed an assignment for school.
Harry felt his body harden even more, even as his every nerve protested the loss of her touch, feeling a flicker of heat just from her tone. There was something indescribably sexy about this sort of suggestive conversation with Hermione when contrasted with what he mentally called her Little Miss Prefect tone. He loved the contrasts of her, loved the little glimpses he had of the girl he'd known so many years ago-the girl he'd fallen in love with-although, Merlin knew, he loved the woman she had become even more, with the deeper love that came from so many years of marriage and fidelity and having three children. And he loved knowing that he was the only person whom she let down her guard around enough to show him all the facets of her personality.
He rolled over, trapping her beneath his body in one swift move, knowing she would feel his erection against her thigh.
"Harry!" She squirmed in a half-hearted, teasing attempt to free herself-teasing because he could tell from the look in her eyes and the way she was rubbing herself against him that she was trying to arouse him further. And after so many years, he could sense her arousal, knew when she wanted him.
And the knowledge made him burn, stoking his already inflamed desires, as nothing else could. Still, even now-always-there was absolutely nothing in the world that aroused him more than knowing she wanted him.
He sobered abruptly, the humor leaving his eyes to be replaced with something warmer, something stronger, something that made her breath catch and her heart, her entire body, soften, melt. "I'll never have enough of you, never get enough of you," he said softly, in an intense whisper.
Her eyes glowed up at him with a tender light that stole his breath. "Luckily for you, you're stuck with me forever," she responded. Her words were light, teasing enough, but her tone and her look were not.
And he could only kiss her, his lips touching hers, gently at first, with all the tenderness he felt, but then her fingers tangled in his hair and she parted her lips and the kiss exploded from there.
Their tongues tangled, fenced in a half-playful, wholly arousing duel until they were both breathing hard, their bodies burning.
His hands slid down to cup her breasts through her shirts, squeezing them and then flattening his palm against her hard nipples that budded even more against his lightly-abrasive touch.
Her own hands slid down the muscles of his shoulders and back and down to his butt and up again in quick, eager movements that made him gasp and then rock his hips against her. She slid her hands under his shirt to feel the hot, bare skin of his back and then tugged impatiently on his shirt hem.
He got the message and left off his ministrations to her breast and interrupted the trail his lips were tracing down the line of her neck, finding every sensitive spot with his tongue with the sureness that came from years of exploring her body.
They made quick work of their pyjamas and then turned back to each other, hands eager and grasping as his lips found hers again, parting them in a lush, open-mouthed kiss of pure lust.
She arched against him, pressing herself quite deliberately to his hard, aching body and he broke their kiss on a groan. God, he wanted her. Always wanted her, would always want her. No matter how many times he kissed her, touched her, felt her under him, around him, he knew he could never get enough of her.
He supposed-in his more coherent moments, since such musings could not be further from his thoughts now-that part of it was the prosaic explanation that by now, after so many years, she knew just how to arouse him, knew how to touch him, knew how to move against him, to ensure that he lost his mind. But on another level, he knew that it had very little to do with that. It wasn't because of her knowledge but simply because it was her-and making love to Hermione was always more than just physical.
With her, a kiss was always more than just a kiss, every touch was more than just a touch, and every time they made love it was more than just the physical act of pleasure but a mutual affirmation of love and passion and fidelity.
But he wasn't thinking of that now. Indeed, he was no longer capable of any sort of thought at all. His entire world had narrowed down to her, to the familiar softness of her skin, to the scent of her, to the feel of her, to the part of his body that was hard and aching for her…
His lips left a trail of hot, damp kisses down her jaw and her neck, pausing to flick his tongue at the hollow of her throat, the spot where her pulse was fluttering madly, the sensitive spot on the nape of her neck just where her neck met her shoulder, his lips and tongue unerringly finding every sensitive spot with a knowledge that was almost instinctive to him now. He knew where to kiss her, knew how to caress her with his lips and teeth and tongue. He nuzzled the soft skin just below her ear, nipped lightly at her earlobe, loving her soft cry in response.
She gasped and whimpered and strained against him, her hands wandering eagerly over his shoulders and his back.
His lust soared, raged inside him, and he abandoned his vague idea of prolonging this to pleasure her first. Much as he loved the taste of her, much as he loved to see her reduced to wordless incoherence as he licked and sucked the center of her, tonight he needed her too much. Tasting her like that, pleasuring her with his lips and tongue, would have to wait for another time.
And he loved that too. He loved the confidence of always knowing that there would be other times. It was a precious knowledge, a sweet certainty, that there would always be other nights, more nights, with her. Because a lifetime wouldn't be enough for this passion, for this joy…
He slid one hand down her body in a caress, stroking her thighs that parted for him until he was cupping the center of her. He groaned against her skin at how hot and wet and ready for him she was.
She shifted under him, pushing herself into his hand, her breath coming in gasps. "Now, Harry, please. I want you now."
Her hand moved down his body to wrap around his erection and his hips jerked in instinctive reaction as he closed his eyes to the delicious torment of her hand on him. She stroked the length of him lightly, teasingly, before guiding him to where she wanted him-and where he wanted, no, needed to be-and he gave her what they both wanted. He slid home with one smooth thrust and then paused, for a fleeting second, gasping at the exquisite sensation of being inside her.
There was no feeling like it in the world. She was his home, his haven, his heaven-and then she tightened her muscles around him and any thoughts of emotion or sentiment vanished to be replaced with pure, carnal need.
He kissed her hard and greedily, his hands returning to her breasts, kneading them, his fingers lightly pinching her hard nipples until she cried out, her head moving restlessly on the pillow. "Harry… oh, Harry…" His name was hardly recognizable in her small, keening whimper and just the sound of it sent jolts of white-hot lightning through his body, filling him with a purely masculine, possessive triumph.
God, he loved seeing her like this, loved seeing her when she was wild with arousal and incoherent with lust-and he loved knowing that he was the only person to see her like this. This side of her-this version of Hermione-was only his…
Almost as if she sensed his thoughts, her eyes opened to look at him and he saw her intent a moment before her legs wrapped around his hips and she rolled them over until she was straddling him.
The friction caused by the change in position tore groans from both of their throats. He might have smiled-- he loved it when she took control like this; it was the most thrilling thing in the world to know that he had brought her to this point of being so impatient, so needy- but he was too far gone for smiles, too lost to the lust roaring through him. His hands went automatically to her hips, his fingers tightening convulsively as she lifted herself up, letting him half slide out of her, before she sank down on him again. A strangled groan escaped his throat.
She was killing him.
He was dizzy from the rush of blood away from his head, gasping for breath, and so wild with lust he could hardly see straight but somehow, through the haze that seemed to be enveloping him, he saw her face, saw the slight gleam in her eyes and he knew that she wasn't done yet.
She really was evil and she was going to be the death of him. He just knew it.
She bent until her breasts touched his chest, the hardened points of her nipples seeming to burn him where they touched his chest.
"God, Hermione!"
He sensed rather than saw the slight smile on her lips before she rubbed herself against him in a slow, deliberate motion.
She knew perfectly well what it did to him to feel her breasts against his chest. She knew it and she gloried in it.
It was torture, pure, deliberate torture of the most agonizing, exquisite kind.
She brushed her lips against his and his hands immediately tangled in her hair, keeping her there as he prolonged the kiss, deepened it, until she made a soft sound in her throat and pressed herself against him.
She finally broke the kiss on a soft sigh of pleasure. "You're mine," she whispered huskily against his lips.
It was an uncharacteristically sentimental thing for her to say but somehow it only seemed natural in that moment, the desperation from moments before having been soothed with their kiss.
"Forever," he half-gasped and knew it was true, had always been true. He had always belonged to her, even before he knew it, and he always would.
"Forever," she repeated, kissing him softly, and the word was a promise.
Slowly, she began to rock on him, increasing her speed gradually, and the fires that had been temporarily banked, flared up again with renewed force.
The universe narrowed down until no one and nothing else existed but her and her hot, wet warmth surrounding him, his every nerve focused on the one spot where they were joined, and he could swear that his heart was beating in time to her motions.
And then she threw her head back on a sharp cry, quickly stifled, as she hit her peak. The eroticism of the sight of her, her head thrown back, the expression of complete abandon to sensual ecstasy on her face-which he couldn't see, but he knew how she looked in these moments and could never see it enough; she was so unutterably, soul-stirringly beautiful and sexy, a siren, a goddess-combined with the feeling of her inner muscles convulsing around him, pushed him over the edge. His hips thrust upwards, arching off the bed. She tightened around him, enticing him, arousing him, seducing him, as he exploded inside her. In that moment, she claimed his body, his breath, his heart, his very soul. In that moment, she was his life, his world, his every dream, his hope…
She slumped down on top of him, her skin flushed and damp with sweat, her breath coming in quick gasps. He could feel her heart racing, feel the small tremors and shivers of reaction ripple through her body. He was oddly, supremely conscious of her, his entire being attuned to every inch of her, of every sign of her lingering pleasure, even as he floated, drifted, in the warmth of afterglow, his limbs heavy with satiated pleasure.
He couldn't move, couldn't think, could only fight for breath and wait for the return of some measure of coherence, but for the moment, he was content-more than content-just to savor this, the familiar bliss of fulfillment, the warm weight of her on top of him.
How long they lay there, unmoving, he couldn't say, didn't particularly care. At moments like this, time had no relevance; nothing had any relevance except him and her-them.
He felt rather than heard her soft, satisfied sigh and after a moment, she shifted her head just enough to brush her lips against his. He slid his hand up her back to cup the nape of her neck as he returned her kiss. It was a lingering, lazy kiss, with no passion, just boundless tenderness.
The kiss ended slowly as her eyes drifted open to meet his, a soft smile in them, and he felt a sudden surge of love. She really was the only woman in the world for him, the way she touched him, the way she moved with him, the way she loved him, so honestly, with nothing held back, with all her body and her mind and her heart… He would never want anyone else. She was all he wanted, everything he'd ever wanted…
He wanted to tell her that but could not think of the words-and, more importantly, he knew that she knew it. He could see it in her eyes. So all he said was, lightly, teasingly, "You are an evil, amazing woman."
A slight flush touched her cheeks-as always when he called her evil in this tone of voice.
"I know," she said softly, huskily, her tone perfectly serious but he saw the glint of humor in her eyes.
He laughed, low and softly, and then rolled them over so he was lying half on top of her. "You," he said, very softly, "really are an insufferable know-it-all," punctuating every word with a quick brush of his lips against hers, the tenderness in those quick caresses entirely belying the words so even the word 'insufferable' somehow sounded like an endearment.
The glint in her eyes became more pronounced and he went on, his tone more tender, "But you're my insufferable know-it-all and I wouldn't have it any other way."
"Neither would I."
He gave her one last quick kiss and then rolled over onto his back as she curled her body against his, resting her head against his shoulder, fitting against him as she always had.
He let his eyes close, as he heard her whisper, "Nox," to turn off the lights, and felt himself relax, peace settling over him like a blanket.
After all, what did it matter what some scandal-mongering idiots chose to print or believe about him and Hermione's relationship? She knew the truth and trusted him and the idea of either of them cheating on the other was something of a running joke between them, which was the best evidence of just how secure they were in their relationship.
At the end of every day, whether it had been good or bad or something in between, this-being able to fall asleep with her warmth tucked against his side, listening to the sound of her even breathing-was truly his greatest joy, the most precious blessing.
~The End~