Disclaimer: Not mine. HP belongs to that idiot, JKR, who wouldn't recognize real love if it came up and slapped her in the face.
Author's Note: More fluffy smut, in honor of the day.
For my dear avidbeader and marie_j_granger, because they requested fluffy smut. And there can never be too much happy!married!H/Hr smut, can there? Enjoy!
Portrait of a Marriage
Her Father's Daughter
"Emily was very quiet today," Harry remarked. "Did she say anything to you?" He had to suppress a flicker of regret and a sigh that he even had to ask. He remembered a time-it still seemed like just the other day to him-when Emily had run to him first when she'd been hurt. A time when Emily had turned first to him when she had scraped her knee or fallen and bruised herself, a time when the plaintive cry of "Daddy" had been the first word out of her lips when she was hurt. But not anymore. Not as of the past few years or so, when more and more it seemed like Emily gravitated to Hermione and he was left to ask Hermione for news of what was troubling his daughter. It wasn't that he minded; there were few things he loved more than to see the two girls (and he did still think of Hermione as a girl in these moments) he loved most together. And yet… today, especially, he found himself wishing for those days when Emily would have turned to him for comfort first.
Hermione paused in the act of hanging up her clothes. She'd been expecting this.
Emily had been quieter than usual when they had met her and Andy at King's Cross that afternoon for the start of their summer holiday. Usually, Emily was the more cheerful one, grinning and greeting her parents with enthusiasm before she proceeded to talk a mile a minute about all that had happened during the last year which she hadn't already told them in her letters home and in much more detail. This year, Hermione had been expecting that Emily would want to go into a play-by-play recounting and re-enactment of her Quidditch games for Harry's benefit, with Andy joining in from the perspective of one who'd watched all the games. (Emily had made the Gryffindor team that year as a Chaser and Harry had been in severe danger of bursting with pride and love when they had received Emily's exuberant letter announcing this fact.)
Instead, Emily had been unusually reserved in her greeting, only hugging both her parents and she'd said very little about the school year and it had been left up to Andy to launch into glowing tales of how Emily had done in the matches and of his classes.
Hermione had seen the slight frown in Harry's eyes as he'd watched Emily throughout the rest of the evening, even as he gave a very good impression of being entirely focused on Andy's stories almost to the exclusion of all else. And she'd known that Harry would ask as she'd stood up and followed Emily into her room, where she'd retreated after dinner.
Hermione hesitated almost imperceptibly-but knew that Harry noticed it in the subtle tensing of his shoulders and his expression.
"I'll tell you but you have to promise not to wig out and go into your over-protective father mode."
Harry stiffened, his eyes narrowing a little. "What is it?" he asked, in the quiet tone which Hermione mentally called his 'dangerous voice', which had the effect of making all who heard him practically fall over themselves to answer his questions or do what he wanted. Except, of course, for her, who was, as always, one of the few people who was utterly immune to this mostly-unconscious show of authority.
"Promise you won't turn into the over-protective father," she reiterated, unfazed.
"I am not an over-protective father!" he denied.
She didn't respond but gave him a pointedly skeptical look.
He had the grace to look somewhat sheepish and subsided as he added, more calmly, "I'm protective but I don't over-do it. I get protective when protectiveness is called for."
Hermione smiled a little in spite of herself at his tone and his expression. "If you say so."
"Now, tell me what's wrong."
"Emily specifically told me she didn't want you to go on some sort of crusade in her defense--"
"Hermione!" he interrupted her. "What happened to her?"
"A 6th year Ravenclaw boy whom she had sort of begun to fancy asked her to go to Hogsmeade with him in the last Hogsmeade visit two weeks ago."
"Emily fancies someone?" Harry asked sharply. "What is she doing fancying someone at her age? She's just a child!"
Hermione laughed. "Harry, she's 14! If she hadn't started fancying fellows, she wouldn't be normal."
Harry grimaced. "She's grown up too fast."
Hermione couldn't argue with that one; she couldn't believe how quickly their children had grown up. And Sabrina, her baby, was going to be starting Hogwarts next September… She suppressed a sigh and tried to be reasonable. "If it's any comfort, she certainly doesn't fancy him anymore. He asked her to go to Hogsmeade with him and they had a good time together but then, a few days ago, Ariel overheard him talking to some friends about how he'd only asked Harry Potter's daughter to go to Hogsmeade with him to win some sort of bet and that she was really quite a bore," she finished, referring to Ariel Jamison, who was Emily's best friend.
Harry shot out of bed, grabbing his wand. "He said what?! The bloody bastard," he hissed. "What's his name?" he demanded.
In spite of herself, Hermione blinked and suppressed a shiver. She had known Harry would react badly-Merlin knew, her own reaction had been nearly as violent when Emily had told her a couple hours ago-but she'd underestimated Harry's anger. And the level of it was enough to give her pause, almost enough to disturb even her.
She had seen Harry's anger and she of all people, knew of Harry's power but she had never seen him in this state in their bedroom. In this room, he had never been the Hero or the Boy Who Lived and Defeated Voldemort; he was always simply Harry, her Harry, the man she loved, who could be so remarkably tender and loving, showing a side of himself which he showed to no one else in the world but her and to their children. But now, at this moment, the gentle Harry was gone; this was the Harry who still faced and fought Evil on a regular basis. And there was something about the stark contrast of seeing this side of him in their bedroom that unnerved her.
But even so, this anger was different. This anger was fueled by love, made no less dangerous because of it; if anything, it made him more dangerous.
And she needed to calm him down now. She'd promised Emily.
"Tell me his name," he repeated, his tone quieter now-too quiet, too calm.
"No." His eyes narrowed and she hurried on. "I don't know what it is myself; Em refused to tell me."
"Oh she'll tell me," he muttered and started forward, his intention transparently clear.
Hermione's lips parted to try to persuade him out of it but then she stopped herself. She'd be wasting her breath. She knew him, recognized his expression. His mind was fully focused and in what she privately termed his 'Must Defend the Wife and Children' mode, and far removed from any sort of rational persuasion.
So she stopped him in the only way she could, grabbing his arm and then taking advantage of his surprise to trap him between the door and her body, and kiss him. She caught his face between her hands, holding him there, and kissed him with every ounce of determination and seductive knowledge and love she had in her, kissed him with flagrant passion, her lips and tongue claiming, possessing, inviting…
He stiffened in shock and for the space of a couple heartbeats, did not respond (it was a measure of just how angry he was that he resisted for as long as he did) but soon, finally, his lips softened just a little, his hands going automatically to her waist, and he returned her kiss, meeting her passion for passion, emotion for emotion.
She deliberately gentled the kiss, easing back ever so gradually, until her lips were just lightly brushing his. And when she finally ended the kiss, he was the one to let out a soft huff of breath in protest. His eyes were, she saw, slightly unfocused, the expression on his face one which she loved to see because of how completely open and vulnerable it was, all his defenses down.
"She doesn't need you to go on some sort of crusade to defend her right now," she told him, her tone soft and yet firm.
He blinked, his eyes clearing and focusing on her with a tinge of wry amusement. "You don't fight fair when you know what kissing me like that does to me," he finally said.
She felt a flicker of guilt; she disliked the hint of manipulation in her motives, even though she could tell from his tone and his expression that he didn't blame her. She knew he didn't mean his words in that way but it didn't quite appease her conscience, even if she had done what she'd had to, because she'd promised Emily. "Sorry," she murmured.
He sighed briefly. "No, don't be. If Emily didn't tell you that young git's name, you're right she wouldn't want me to go hunt him down." He grimaced. "So I'll just have to sit here and fume."
He moved, pacing restlessly and making a rather wild gesture of suppressed violence with one hand. "But, damn it! Why doesn't she want me to hex that bastard's bollocks off? I should be the one defending her! I'm her father!"
She stopped him in his tracks with one hand on his arm. "It won't really help, Harry, and it'll only embarrass her. I know you hate it but this is one of those times where you really can't do anything."
For a fleeting second, all the conflict she knew he was feeling, his paternal outrage warring with his acceptance of her reasoning, flickered over his expression, before he finally sighed, his stance relaxing slightly. "I suppose you're right."
She allowed herself a small smile, knowing by his tone and his stance as he sat back down on their bed that his temper was in control again. She sat down beside him, patting him rather absently on the thigh. "She's more angry than hurt right now. She'll be fine. She's not your daughter for nothing, you know," she reassured him with somewhat less than complete truth. Emily wasn't quite past her hurt yet but she would be, Hermione was sure.
She did not tell him-she never would-that Emily had burst out, her entire frame almost quivering with her intensity, "I hate being Harry Potter's daughter!" And even though Hermione had known that Emily hadn't meant it quite that way, she had flinched anyway, partly from the suppressed vehemence of Emily's exclamation. She had flinched and suppressed a sigh.
She and Harry had tried so hard, from the moment Emily had been born, to raise all their children not to think of themselves as being famous or celebrities, even though they had been the most famous babies in the wizarding world from their first breaths. They hadn't wanted their children to grow up feeling entitled to special treatment or being arrogant and she thought they had succeeded. Emily, Andy, and Sabrina had long realized that they were famous, just by virtue of who their parents, who their father, was, but for the most part, they had grown up to be very down-to-earth, friendly, normal children (helped, of course, by the fact that Harry had made it very, very clear from the outset that his children were absolutely, positively off-limits to the press and no one wanted to get on Harry's bad side.)
She and Harry had worried when Emily, and then Andy, had left for Hogwarts but had been relieved to find that for the most part, after the initial curious stares and questions (one of Emily's letters had contained Emily laughing at one boy who had spent a good hour staring at Emily's forehead as if searching for a lightning-bolt shaped scar), for the most part, people had accepted them as themselves. (With the conspicuous, but not surprising, exception of a group of Slytherins.)
But not all of their efforts could prevent those few people from trying to use Emily's, Andy's, and Sabrina's status as the children of Harry Potter in less-than-admirable ways. She supposed she should only be thankful that as experiences in being used went, Emily's had been very mild-but that sort of philosophy was hard to accept when faced with Emily's hurt and her disillusionment at finding out that the first fellow Emily had even thought of fancying turned out to be a git.
Emily's frustration and hurt and anger had partly stemmed the fact that if she had not been Harry Potter's daughter, it would not have happened and Hermione had only been able to hug her daughter, smooth her hair away from her face, and wish, irrationally, that she could protect her daughter from every hurt.
"I know, love, I know." she had murmured. "It is hard and, unfortunately, you're going to have to get used to the fact that there will always be a few people who want to take advantage of the fact that you are who you are. But just remember that it's not everyone and it's not your fault in any way."
Emily had fixed her gaze on Hermione. "Has it happened to you too?"
"Not like that, but to an extent, yes, of course. I've always been known to be your father's best friend so there were many people who have come up to me hoping that I would introduce them to your father or just tell them about him, and it didn't stop after your dad and I got married either."
"How do you deal with it?"
"I just try to be careful about who I trust. You learn to deal with it. There are always going to be people like that, no matter who your father is; it just makes it more obvious and more likely when your father is so famous. It's just one of the reasons your father hates his fame more than anyone else does."
"I know," Emily had acknowledged, "but it doesn't make it any easier."
And Hermione had remembered her own initial misgivings in those first weeks after it became public that she and Harry were officially a couple, 20 years ago now. She remembered the near-constant presence of reporters outside of her flat, remembered the flash of pictures being taken whenever she and Harry went anywhere together, remembered their irritation at the media's persistent fascination with Harry's love-life. He had apologized for it but she'd cut his words off with a kiss and told him it didn't matter. And she'd meant it. She didn't like the fame but she'd always known it was worth it.
And in a sense, it had never really been a choice. By the time she realized all the added interest the media would have in her and Harry's relationship, it had been too late for her. Harry had become so much a part of her, had become such a central part of her life that she could no more have distanced herself from him than she could have commanded herself to stop breathing.
She had always known that. She would rather be with Harry than anywhere else in the world and that made everything-the danger, the inconvenience and the irritation caused by his fame-worth it.
No, she would not tell Harry that Emily was feeling some frustration at the realities of life as his daughter. It would hurt him, she knew, and make him feel guilty, in spite of the fact that it was hardly his fault and, indeed, he had done everything in his power to shield their children from the press and had succeeded-but not even Harry could shelter their children from other people.
Harry did not look particularly comforted by her somewhat optimistic assurance that Emily was more angry than hurt. "It should never have happened. No one should ever say such a thing about her."
"You can't protect her from ever being hurt in any way; all you can do is make sure that you're there for her when she is hurt."
He grimaced. "That doesn't make it any easier."
"No, I know but that's just the way it is."
He sighed. "You know, this habit you have of being right all the time can be rather irritating," he commented with an attempt at humor that fell somewhat flat.
She smiled slightly and leaned in to kiss his cheek. "You always said you liked that about me."
He shrugged. "I've said a lot of stupid things." His tone was serious enough but his lips twitched, betraying him.
Hermione smiled and briefly rested her head against his shoulder as they were silent for a few moments.
He didn't move or break the silence but she sensed his glowering frown at the comforter a moment before he spoke. "I still think I should be able to hex the bloody bastard into the next week."
"Harry!" Hermione scolded, although her tone was mild.
"Isn't it somewhere in the job description of being a good father that I get to beat the living daylights out of any git who dares make my daughter cry?"
"Not when she doesn't want you to and not when it would only embarrass her more."
"Remind me to rewrite that job description," Harry grumbled. "I should always be able to do that."
"It doesn't work that way."
He slanted a glance at her. "How can you be so forgiving and understanding?"
"He's 16, Harry. All boys are idiots when they're 16."
"I wasn't!" Harry looked up at her with half-petulant indignation.
Hermione suppressed a slight smile. He looked so very young with that expression on his face; it should have been ridiculous for a grown man in his 40's to pout but Harry, somehow, succeeded in looking… well, adorable, without looking ridiculous. "When you were 16, you thought you were in love with Ginny," she pointed out mildly.
"I did not! I never-" he began but she interrupted him.
"Harry," was all she said but there was a wealth of meaning in her tone.
He flushed slightly but he met her eyes as he repeated, more soberly, "I didn't, you know. I never once thought of love in connection to Ginny. I thought about her hair and her eyes and, well…" he trailed off rather sheepishly.
"Her other attributes," Hermione inserted with an indulgent smile.
"Right," he agreed with a slight smile before he sobered again, speaking thoughtfully, "but I never thought of love. I fancied her and I cared about her but I never even thought that I might be in love with her, never thought of love at all. You know that. You were the first girl I ever thought I might love. Everything else had just been a fancy and the word, love, never even crossed my mind. Until you." He paused and then added with a smile that was inching towards being a smirk, "And I was right."
"I'd be more inclined to swoon if you didn't look so smug about it," she said, aiming for sounding lightly teasing, but the words were entirely belied by her tone and the softness of her smile. It wasn't that she felt any insecurity about Harry's feelings or any lingering jealousy over his relationship with Ginny, ancient history as it was, but it was… nice to know. She doubted there was a woman in the world who would not feel a glow of satisfaction on hearing her husband confess that she was the first, and only, real love of his life.
His lips curved in a small smile in response to her words but his eyes were soft as he gave her the look which he reserved only for her in moments of particular tenderness and lifted one hand to touch her cheek in a light caress, in a habitual gesture.
For a moment, neither of them said anything more as they knew one of those moments of perfect happiness-or as perfect as happiness can be on this side of the grave-the happiness of perfect harmony.
He finally broke the silence with one word. "Well?" He lifted his brows expectantly.
"Well what?" she asked with a look of deliberate, feigned innocence.
"Aren't you going to return the compliment and tell me that you never loved anyone else either?" He kept both his voice and his expression sober but his eyes gave him away.
"Is that what you expected to hear?" She gave him a look of exaggerated surprise, as if the thought of saying such a thing would never have occurred to her. "Why would I say such a thing?"
He assumed a look of exaggerated hurt. "Oh, cruel wife. My poor ego might never recover."
She couldn't hold back her amusement any longer and laughed softly as she kissed him quickly. "As if your ego needs any encouragement," she teased lightly before she relented and asked softly, "Do you really need me to say the words when you know the answer perfectly well?"
It was his turn to feign innocence-and ignorance. "Know what?"
And though she would normally not have indulged him, tonight her mood was softer, warmed by the very protective anger that had rather unnerved her. It was hard to tell, given everything, but she often thought that she loved him most when he was showing what a good father he was. And tonight was no exception.
So she gave him what he wanted. "I love you," she whispered softly against his lips, punctuating each brief sentence with a kiss, "I've always loved you. I always will love you."
He let out a soft sigh, his hands cupping her cheeks and holding her in place as he prolonged the kiss, his lips and tongue melding with hers, not passionately but slowly, leisurely, as if he could happily spend the rest of his life exploring the depths of her mouth like this.
She finally broke the kiss, drawing back just enough to draw a breath, meeting his somewhat cloudy gaze. She did love to see him like this, the lazy, sated-and sensuous-look of him and felt a flicker of heat go through her.
She brushed her lips against his, once, twice, quick, light, teasing caresses before she breathed against his lips, "Let's go to bed, Harry."
"Sleepy already?" he asked, the slight quirk of his lips betraying him.
"Did I say anything about sleep?" she returned equally softly and with more success at controlling her expression. Deliberately, she trailed her fingertips across the back of his neck in a slow, feather-light caress, sensing the slight shiver that went down his spine in response. She suppressed a smile at his reaction. It had been a completely accidental discovery, soon after they had become involved, that the back of Harry's neck was very sensitive to light touches and an unfailingly erogenous part of his body. It was a knowledge that had come in handy many times over the years, all the more so because it was a fairly innocuous caress which she could bestow in public, knowing that no one else knew just how it affected him-and she had some very fond, pleasant memories of how he had repaid her teasing once they were alone.
His eyes fluttered closed for a fleeting moment as a quiet groan rumbled deep in his throat. "Hermione…"
She let her hand drop and he opened his eyes.
"You know, somehow I always thought it was the men who always wanted it and women who'd plead headaches to get out of it," he commented, in an effort at nonchalance which was belied by the heat in his eyes and the hint of strain she could hear in his tone.
She smiled a very slow, very knowing, very feminine smile, and it hardly took any effort to make her voice a husky, seductive whisper. "Well, most women aren't married to you."
"Great shag that I am," he smirked.
She poked him in the side. "Actually, what I meant was the thrill of being in bed with the Boy Who Lived."
He snorted a laugh. "Oh, naturally, because you've always cared so much about my status."
"Naturally."
They grinned into each other's eyes for a moment of shared humor that gradually sobered, evolved into joy-and something else entirely. And she saw the spark in his eyes a moment before he gently tugged her closer, his lips finding hers, as he fell back until he was lying flat on his back on their bed with her lying on top of him.
His fingers threaded through her hair as the kiss deepened, her tongue warring with his in a half-playful, wholly-arousing duel for supremacy that ended in a draw, each taking turns in tasting the other.
His hands worked their familiar magic, sliding under her shirt and pushing it up as his hands caressed the bare skin of her upper body in familiar and always arousing ways. And she had no clear memory of how or when they shed their clothes, only knew that somehow, in a distracting haze of kisses and caresses and wonderfully-knowing touches, they managed to discard their clothing.
And then they were running their hands over their bared skin, exploring places they knew so well, rediscovering the same passion, the same heat, that was always to be found between them.
He cupped, caressed, kneaded her breasts with his hands; she gasped, arching into his touch.
His lips left a trail of damp kisses along the line of her jaw, pausing to lick the sensitive spot under her ear and then continued on down her neck, nipping lightly at the spot where her neck met her shoulder, licking her collar bone and nuzzling the hollow of her throat. She gasped and moaned and whimpered, small, incoherent sounds of pleasure escaping her throat, encouraging him, stoking his ardor even further. He did love the sounds of her so, loved the responsiveness of her.
He lowered his lips to her hardened nipples, suckling them, nipping at one ever-so-lightly with his teeth; she cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body straining towards his. Oh, she wanted him, she wanted him, she wanted him… As she'd always wanted him, as she knew he'd always wanted her…
He paused, lifting his head from her chest, and she opened her eyes, feeling a ridiculous pang of loss. He stared down at her, his eyes burning her with the intensity of his gaze as he looked at her body, her breasts that were peaked and begging for more of his touch. She felt a thrill of heat simmer through her body, her entire body warming, melting, under his gaze. Even now, he could make her burn with just a look; she loved it when he looked at her like this, as if she were the beginning and the end of his entire world, as if he could happily look at her forever.
He could make her burn-but then so could she to him.
She held his gaze as she deliberately moistened her already damp lips, touching the tip of her tongue to her lips. The fire in his eyes flared, his breath hitching audibly. And then slowly, she moved her hands which had been resting on his shoulders, sliding them down his chest in a long, leisurely caress, loving the feel of his muscles leaping under her touch. His eyes fell closed on a strangled moan and that was when she let her hands drop from his chest.
His eyes flew open, his lips parting on a protest but the protest died on his lips. She cupped her aching, hyper-sensitized breasts with her hands, arching into her touch as she had into his earlier.
A sound very like a growl issued from his chest and then he flattened himself against her, crushing her lips with his as he kissed her fiercely, his hands grasping, greedy, as they caressed her body, touching her breasts, her sides, her back, cupping her bottom. She gasped and moaned and clung to him, her hands just as greedy as she touched his body, explored him, claimed him.
She scattered kisses across his chest and his shoulders, lips and tongue unerringly finding every sensitive spot on his body, mischievously flicking her tongue against his flat nipples and then lightly pinching them between her fingers; he shivered and groaned and reached for her, tugging her mouth back to his to kiss her with scorching passion.
His kiss and his hands gentled as his hands swept further down her body to stroke her thighs. Her legs parted for him, welcoming him, and she cried out as his hand found the part of her body that was weeping for his touch. He cupped her as her hips arched uncontrollably, pushing herself into his hand.
He stroked her with one very gentle, very skillful finger, knowing just how to touch her, just where to touch her, until her head was moving restlessly on the pillow, small, incoherent gasps and moans tripping from her throat.
Her eyes flew open to stare at him, at the focus, the burning intensity of his gaze as he watched her. Lightning streaked through her body, flooding her with another wave of lust, this time having nothing to do with the magic his hand was working on her body and everything to do with the look on his face.
He really could make her come with just a look. This look. It was indescribably, unutterably erotic to see that look in his eyes and know that, at that moment, all the intensity of his character, every fiber of his being, was focused on her, on pleasuring her…
Her breath was coming in gasps and sobs, her hands twisting, moving as restlessly as her head. God, she was so hot when she was like this… She stole his breath, claimed his heart-and made his entire body burn with want and need.
He knew her body, knew when she was on the verge of climax, could feel it in the tremors of her body around his finger-and he stopped, his finger slipping out of her. He wanted to prolong this, wanted her to come with him inside her. He knew her, knew how explosive her climax could be when the pleasure was allowed to build up inside her, and he wanted that, wanted to feel that…
She let out a soft cry of protest which he swallowed with his lips, kissing her not with passion but softly, gently, easing her back from the peak she'd been nearing.
Or trying to.
But she had other ideas, was in no mood to wait.
She slid her hand down his body to trail her fingers along the hard, aching length of him, shifting underneath his body until his erection was nudging the hot, wet core of her; he sucked in his breath sharply, his fingers briefly tensing on her skin. Her hips shifted, arched, rubbing herself against him in deliberate provocation-and his restraint gave way with a crash.
He never could resist her, never could hold on to his control, never had been able to and was even more helpless to resist her seduction now when she knew him so well, knew every technique guaranteed to drive him mad.
He slid inside her in one smooth thrust, knowing just the right angle; she gasped, her inner muscles automatically tightening around him in welcome and he groaned, his head falling forward onto her shoulder.
He kissed her, his tongue automatically falling into the same rhythm as his hips; she met his every move, her arms and legs entwining around him, drawing him in closer, deeper inside her.
He filled her, completed her, touched her heart and her soul as she claimed his body and his heart. Their bodies melding, joining, in a timeless, endless dance of desire and passion and pleasure.
She hit the peak first, convulsing around him with a cry, swallowed by his lips; he followed her almost instantaneously, his body exploding inside her even as he felt himself swirling, spiraling into a whirlpool of bliss and sensual satiation. Equals in passion, equals in lust, equals in trust and in love-as they had always been. She gave and he took; he gave and she accepted.
And in the end, they clung to each other as the glorious tidal wave of pleasure swept over them, around them, drowning them until the entire world ceased to exist except for them, him and her.
He collapsed on top of her, his breath coming in harsh gasps, burying his face in her hair, peripherally conscious of the small tremors of belated reaction he could feel going through her.
She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around him and luxuriated in the dreamy pleasure of the aftermath, letting the world settle back into place, even as small, lingering shivers of delight shimmered through her body. He didn't try to move off of her and she loved that. Loved these moments best of all, she sometimes thought, when he was lying, breathless and sated, on top of her, still joined with her and she could fancy that they were the only two people in the universe.
And she didn't know how much time had passed-in these moments, time ceased to have any relevance-before he finally moved, shifting to take most of his weight on his arms as he bent to brush his lips against hers, kissing her softly, lingeringly, with infinite tenderness-as he always did afterwards. It was a kiss that never failed to melt her heart, claim her soul, with its aching gentleness.
And only when it was over, did he finally roll off of her, slipping out of her body, drawing her with him, as she nestled her head on his shoulder in her habitual position.
Their love-making had changed over the years, had gentled, become somewhat less heated, less desperate, though the passion and the pleasure remained the same. They no longer showered together as frequently as they had before and the presence of the children tended to serve as a rather inhibiting factor. They were no longer in their 20's and, in spite of everything, it showed-but they still fit against each other as well as they always had. She still felt the same emotions as she nestled against him as she ever had and, after all, she couldn't help but think that this was as much of a guarantee of forever as was possible in an uncertain world, that they still had this desire, still had this ecstasy, even after more than 20 years together.
Harry's fingers were tracing idle patterns on her bare skin before they slowed, stopped.
She tilted her head up to meet his eyes.
"Earlier, when you said that Emily was mostly over her hurt already, that was to make me feel better, wasn't it?" he guessed with the insight that still sometimes took her aback. Although, in this case, it wasn't insight so much as his knowledge and understanding of her. It had never been easy to lie to him, for any reason, even when they had been young; he had always, somehow, shown that almost uncanny ability to read her thoughts at times. By now it was nearly impossible with how well he knew her.
She held his gaze unflinchingly. His tone had been mild and she could see that he understood why she had said it and see, too, an acceptance that, if the situations had been reversed, he'd have said the same. "Yes, she is still hurt, but she'll be fine."
His lips thinned for a moment before he forcibly relaxed and said hopefully and only half-facetiously, "Maybe she'll be so traumatized by this that she'll never look at another bloke again."
Hermione laughed, nudging him in the side. "I wouldn't bet on it."
"Neither would I, unfortunately," Harry grumbled.
"She'll be fine. Have a little more faith in her."
"I do have faith in her. But she shouldn't have to be strong because of some young git," Harry grumbled.
Hermione permitted herself a soft laugh, recognizing from his tone and his expression that he was grumbling just for the sake of it and not from any real lingering anger, and brushed a kiss on his shoulder and then his chin and finally his lips. "You're such a good father," she informed him lightly, almost teasingly.
She felt rather than heard his soft chuckle. "It's nice to be appreciated," he said wryly.
She smiled against his skin, her fingers wandering down his body in a light, deliberately tantalizing caress. "Oh, I definitely appreciate you…" she breathed huskily, putting a seductive twist to the words as he sucked in his breath sharply and captured her wandering hand in his, lifting it to his lips to brush a kiss on her palm.
He kept hold of her hand, resting it on his chest, as he felt himself relax, a deliciously sleepy languor stealing through him.
He could sense her sleepiness too, in a subtle change in her warm weight against his body, the slight deepening of her breath.
His mind focused, rallied, enough to think, Nox, to extinguish the lights with the silent word. And then he closed his eyes, enjoying the familiar, warm weight of her against his side, the slight fluttering of her breath against his shoulder, as he slid into sleep.
September 1
Harry smiled slightly as he watched Andy, laughing as he greeted a small group of his friends-Andy, who, at 13 was growing tall enough that Harry could barely recognize the young boy his son had been such a short time ago.
Harry's gaze settled on Emily, noting with a surge of additional joy the brightness of her smile as she talked with Ariel. She had recovered, as Hermione had said she would, with the resiliency of youth and had been her usual self within a month and Harry had rejoiced at the sight, angry as he still was at the unknown git who had dared hurt Emily.
"Oi, Jeremy!" A young lad waved a hand at someone behind Emily and Ariel and Harry stiffened.
It wasn't Emily's expression that told him that the Jeremy that bloke had called was the git; rather it was the way Ariel's stance and her expression changed as she turned to glare at the young bloke who responded to the hail with a lazy wave of one hand.
Harry's eyes narrowed on this Jeremy, feeling a violent impulse to, if not hex the bastard within an inch of his life, but to at least intimidate or threaten him. He wasn't the Hero of the Wizarding World, the Savior and the Boy Who Lived for nothing, surely. The git was good-looking, Harry saw at a glance, and decided, in his admittedly biased opinion, that this Jeremy reminded him of no one so much as Gilderoy Lockhart.
But even as the wild thoughts raced through his mind, he shifted his gaze back to Emily, to see her reaction.
He noted with a surge of violent fury that this Jeremy-utter bastard-had a smirk on his face, as if he expected Emily to swoon or otherwise act like any lovesick teenage girl to get his attention.
Emily did neither. For a fleeting second, so quickly that Harry knew no one except for him, and Hermione, even noticed it, her smile froze, became brittle and Harry knew the distinct impulse to kill that bloody Jeremy with his own bare hands. But then, Emily's chin firmed, lifted, as she cut Jeremy dead, looking straight through him, with a hauteur that would have put Eleanor of Aquitaine and all the other Queens of England to shame, and then turned to Ariel with a grin and said something that made Ariel burst out laughing.
And Harry noted with almost savage pleasure the way Jeremy's smirk froze and faltered before he, too, attempted belated indifference, with less than complete success.
Harry's heart swelled with poignant, almost painful, pride at his daughter, a rush of love filling his heart until he even forgot about Jeremy's existence.
Yes, his Emily would be just fine.
He knew it, with all the more certainty because in that moment when Emily had shown her mettle, Harry had seen not only his daughter but his wife. He'd recognized the set of her jaw, the determined tilt of her chin, because he had seen it all before, in Hermione. And never had Emily looked so much like Hermione and never had he been so proud of his daughter. So proud and yet so filled with something very like melancholy. Because in that moment, too, he had seen his daughter for the first time not as the little girl he still thought of her as, his little girl, but as a young woman. A young woman, as strong and as beautiful as her mother had ever been-and he was so proud… But oh, where had all the years gone?
As if on cue, he felt Hermione's arm slip into his, giving it a light, caressing pressure with her hand as she smiled up at him. "I told you Emily would be fine. She hasn't grown up watching you for nothing."
He smiled down at her, his hand moving to grasp hers, where it rested on his arm. "No," he contradicted softly. "She's not your daughter for nothing. She gets her strength from you."
Hermione's lips parted to respond but before she could, the moment was broken by the sudden flurry of motion as the whistle sounded and children finished loading their trunks onto the train and then started the goodbyes to their families.
And in the space of a few minutes-much too soon for Harry's taste-he and Hermione had hugged Emily and waved her off with Ariel, he had told Andy to "look after your sister" at which Andy had nodded, before he'd hugged the boy before allowing Hermione her moment. The train's whistle blew once, twice-and then it was off.
Harry suppressed a sigh but he felt Hermione's hand slip into his and turned to smile at her.
"Don't look like that, Harry. They'll be fine."
His smile softened slightly and he squeezed Hermione's hand. "I know they will be," he responded with a confidence he would not have expressed just a few minutes ago. But he knew they would be. Andy was growing into a young man and as for his Emily, she was her mother's daughter and if there ever was a good reason to have faith in his girl's strength, it was that.
And so he returned her smile with one of his own before they turned to look at Sabrina, who was watching the departing train with a wistful expression on her face.
Harry ruffled her hair with his free hand before putting his arm around her. "Come on, sweetie, let's go home."
Sabrina looked up at Harry and Hermione with a hopeful expression. "Can we stop off at Florean's for some ice cream on the way?"
Harry glanced at Hermione before he answered, "Yes, I think we can do that."
Sabrina gave a little bounce, all smiles again. "Oh, goody. And next year, it'll be my turn to go to Hogwarts," she announced, quite as if she were announcing some dramatic event which neither Harry nor Hermione would be aware of.
Harry exchanged an amused glance with Hermione at the pride and excitement in her tone. "Yes, love, we know. Next year, you'll be going to Hogwarts too."
Next year… He suppressed a sigh. Only one more year and then all of their children would be away at school. Where had all the years gone? It didn't seem possible sometimes that Emily and Andy could both be teenagers and that Sabrina would be leaving for Hogwarts so soon.
As if on cue, quite as if she'd sensed his wistful thoughts (as she very likely had, knowing her), he felt Hermione's fingers briefly tighten around his.
He mentally shook off his fleeting melancholy and focused instead on his daughter, almost dancing along by his side in that way she had when she was happy and felt warmth fill his heart. He still had a year to adjust, to indulge her. She would still be his baby girl for one more year…
And so he smiled into Hermione's eyes, the clear, warm, steadfast eyes he'd loved all his life, and thought that, after all, at that moment, his life was perfect.
~The End~