Portrait of a Marriage by Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 17/08/2007
Last Updated: 11/12/2011
Status: In Progress

A series of fluffy vignettes from Harry and Hermione's married life-- beginning with the
REAL 2nd Epilogue to stick into the back of DH. Mostly fluff and smut.




1. All He Ever Wanted
---------------------

Disclaimer: JKR is an idiot who wouldn’t know real love if it came up and bit her on the arse.
That is all.

Author’s Note: This was written to be the REAL 2nd Epilogue to stick into the back of
DH and get the bad taste of it out of your mouth.

It still is that, but I’ve decided to continue this on and make this little universe I’ve
created in here, a series. Because there’s a shortage of happy!married!H/Hr smut fics out there and
I’ve decided it’s my duty to fill the gap.

So, expect a series of fluffy vignettes of Harry and Hermione’s marriage life, with no real plot
and no real point; all the vignettes will be self-contained and you don’t need to read them in any
order. Enjoy!

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*All He Ever Wanted*

Harry jerked awake with a shallow gasp, for a moment feeling a moment of disorientation and
panic.

He looked over to the other half of the bed, half-expecting to see a mane of curling, red
hair—but of course, he didn’t. The bed was empty, unoccupied except for himself. It had only been a
dream—but great Merlin, how realistic the dream had felt, details, back-stories that seemed like
actual memories, all there in vivid detail…

Except in it, he’d been married to Ginny and Hermione married to Ron—married, with children! As
unpleasant dreams went, this was not even a blip on the nightmare scale—and yet… He was conscious
of an odd hollow feeling in his chest, a lingering bad taste in his mouth.

Not that marriage to Ginny would be so terrible; she was nice and a good friend now, but the
thought of being married to anyone but Hermione—and Hermione married to anyone else, even Ron—was
enough to provoke an instinctive flare of sharp protest.

He looked over at Hermione’s empty half of the bed again, conscious of a sharp stab of missing
her. The bed seemed to stretch on for miles without Hermione in it (cold, desolate miles, at that).
She’d been gone for nearly a week now, at a conference for Healers in Salem, Massachusetts, and
he’d already decided that a week was far too long a time to be without her.

But she’d be home the day after tomorrow. He clutched that thought to himself, looking over to
where he knew their wedding picture was standing on the dresser, although he couldn’t see it in the
dark. She would be home soon…

His mind flashed back to the dream—sending his and Ginny’s kids off to Hogwarts. Well, at least,
that part of the dream took no great strain to imagine why he’d dreamed it.

Emily’s Hogwarts letter had arrived that day and she’d been as thrilled and excited as if her
getting into Hogwarts hadn’t been a sure thing from the moment of her birth. And Andy and Sabrina
had been just as excited as Emily (with a twinge of envy, at least on Andy’s part).

So Harry had spent the entire evening telling every story relating to his getting his
letter—from the flood of letters bursting into the Dursley’s house, the old hut in the stormy
night, and of course, Hagrid breaking down the door and bringing with him something even better
than his first birthday gift ever, the hope of a different, better future, the hope of a home. Not,
of course, that they hadn’t all heard the stories at least a hundred times already. But they loved
it and Harry was the first to admit he could never deny his kids anything when they turned their
bright-eyed pleading faces up to his.

With that, it was no wonder he’d dreamed of the Hogwarts send-off—but why his mind had decided
to insert the disturbing elements and resurrect his relationship with Ginny and Hermione’s
relationship with Ron, he didn’t know.

He was suddenly filled with a need to check on the children—*his* children—just to make
sure they were sleeping soundly and, yes, to gloat over them as well (as Hermione teasingly termed
it, saying once that he acted like a miser looking over his jewels, as if he’d been solely
responsible for their births. He had pulled her into his arms and said, “Believe me, I am
*never* in any danger of forgetting the part you played in bringing them into this world,”
before he’d kissed her gently, with the tenderness he always felt whenever he remembered the hours
of worry and waiting when Hermione had been in labor—and then he’d added, teasingly, against her
lips, “or the part you played in creating them,” letting his voice become deliberately husky,
before he’d kissed her again with deliberate, and somewhat exaggerated, sensuality—before she’d
turned the tables on him as she usually did, and he’d become the seduced rather than the
seducer…)

He sternly cut short his increasingly heated memories—that would *not* help him in making
Hermione’s absence less painful.

He quietly padded down the hall and opened the door of Emily’s bedroom, his heart stuttering
slightly in his chest as it always did when he saw her asleep like this. She looked so much like a
miniature Hermione, Hermione as she’d looked when he’d first met her so many years ago. In sleep,
the slight differences in her features (she had his eyebrows and his nose in a feminine cast)
compared to Hermione’s, were less apparent, especially so because her green eyes (her most
noticeable Potter legacy) were hidden.

Her breathing was deep and even, and he smiled as he noticed that she was clutching her Hogwarts
letter in one hand. His little Emily was 11 now; he knew a moment of awe mixed in with dismay. When
had that happened? It seemed like only yesterday that she’d been born, that he’d taken one look at
her in the maternity ward of St. Mungo’s and fallen head over heels in love at first sight. She
was, he thought with a small pang, growing up far too quickly.

He moved on to Andy’s bedroom, filled almost equally with Quidditch things and with books. Andy
had kicked off his blankets in his sleep (as was his habit) and Harry gently tugged them back over
his son.

The poor boy (Harry thought with a twinge of deprecating humor, as he always did, when he looked
at his son)—not only did he have to go through life with the fame of being Harry Potter’s only son,
but he also had to look almost entirely like his father as well, with the exception of his brown
eyes (that were Harry’s personal favorite feature). Ah well, at least Andy didn’t have glasses—and,
thanks to his eyes and subtle differences in features, he actually looked more like James than he
did Harry, although no one ever noticed *that*, with the exception of Professor McGonagall,
who had known James Potter about as well as she knew Harry himself.

And then, finally, he went to check on little Sabrina, the baby, as he still thought of her,
never mind that she was turning six years old and insisting she wasn’t a baby anymore. Sabrina was
curled up on her side in her habitual position, clutching her favorite stuffed unicorn doll, given
to her by her Uncle Ron. He smiled down at her, touching one fingertip ever so lightly against the
perfectly smooth skin of her cheek. Sabrina, whom everyone said looked so much like him, except for
the fact that her coloring was entirely Hermione’s from her brown hair to her brown eyes.

His children—his and Hermione’s—and Harry wondered, not for the first time, as he closed
Sabrina’s door quietly behind him, just how he had ever gotten so lucky to have all this…

And then he stiffened, tensing, every nerve in his body suddenly on alert. He’d heard
something—a faint sound downstairs.

He reached automatically for the pocket where his wand always was—only to realize that, of
course, he didn’t have his wand with him, dressed as he was in boxers and a t-shirt. He knew a
moment of panic as he tried to mentally calculate how silently he could move to his bedroom, get
his wand, get his kids out, and then find out who the intruder was—before his rational mind kicked
in. He was clearly still jittery and keyed-up from his dream or he would remember that if the
person had even remotely hostile intentions, wards were set up to go off loud enough to wake the
dead, the moment they got within 10 feet of the house.

He relaxed a little before moving quietly down the stairs, trying to stay out of sight and see
who was there.

It was too dark to see much beyond a shadow—but the moment he saw it, he knew.

And in another second, he was down the stairs, disbelieving and full of an incredulous joy, as
he snatched the person into his arms.

She let out a half-shriek that was instantly muffled by his lips coming down on hers in a
lingering, and yet still gentle, kiss of greeting. And she relaxed into his arms, her arms sliding
around his neck.

“Harry, you scared me half to death!” she exclaimed in a whisper, as the kiss ended. “What are
you doing awake at this hour?”

“I was checking on the kids. I could ask you the same question—what are you doing back home so
early?”

“I realized that I’d already been to all the sessions that I really wanted to go to and decided
I missed my family more than I wanted to go any of the sessions tomorrow or the last day.”

“Good.”

She smiled. “I guess that means you missed me?”

“No, not at all. It was nice having the house and kids all to myself,” he teased—and then
proceeded to thoroughly demonstrate the lie of his statement by lowering his head to hers and
kissing her long and slowly.

She melted into his kiss as she always did, loving the familiar taste of him, the feel of him.
Even now, after more than 15 years of marriage, he could still leave her dazed and breathless with
wanting with just a kiss, could still turn her bones to water with a look…

His kiss was surprisingly tender and gentle, considering how long she’d been away from him (she
remembered with a shiver how he’d greeted her the last time he’d been away for a few days, the
force of his passion that had driven her insane with lust and need)—like the kisses he gave her
when he was having one of his moments of being amazed that she was his wife, that they were
married… (And she loved—oh, how she loved that, even now, after so many years, he still had those
moments of wonder…)

The kiss ended slowly as she gave a soft sigh of pleasure.

“Mmm, I missed this…” she breathed.

“I missed you,” he whispered, all humor gone from his voice. “A week is way too long to be
without you.”

His lips lowered to her skin, again, avoiding her mouth this time, as he simply scattered light,
fleeting, butterfly kisses from the corner of her mouth and up to the sensitive hollow just before
her ear, kissing her ear-lobe, the soft skin below her ear, the tips of her eyebrows, her nose,
random places that only a man in love would prize—and places that only he could touch and still
awaken every nerve ending in her body.

At any other time, she would have savored the slow stoking of the flames inside her, savored the
slow seduction of every one of her senses—but she had been away for a week, without him for a
week—and at that moment, she didn’t want slow; she wanted *him*.

She let out a soft gasp as his lips traveled down to her neck, unerringly finding every
sensitive spot with his lips and his tongue. “Harry…” she sighed, “much as I’m enjoying this, I’ve
been sleeping alone for the past week, imagining all the things I’d like to do to my handsome, sexy
husband…”

She let her voice trail off suggestively as she swept one hand down his chest to flatten on the
growing bulge in his boxers—that hardened rapidly under her touch as he let out a sharp hiss of
breath.

“God, you’re amazing,” he said in a strangled whisper.

She smiled into his eyes as her hands captured his face and she kissed him, hard and deeply,
letting him know with her kiss just how much she wanted him, how much she’d missed him.

He let out a soft sound of surrender in his throat, his arms tightening around her, bringing her
in firmly against his body as he kissed her back, his tongue plunging into the familiar depths of
her mouth and then retreating again.

Arousal was bubbling up inside her body, sweeping her up with its force, swirling around her,
around them, wrapping them up in it.

His body and his arms around her tensed and she sensed his intent a moment before his hands slid
down to cup her butt as he lifted her and she complied, wrapping her legs around his hips, bringing
the core of her body closer, to rub against the bulge of his erection so he groaned.

She finally broke the kiss on a gasp as his lips left hers to travel down the length of her
neck, kissing, licking, lightly sucking at the soft skin. “Harry… *bed… please*…” she gasped,
the words the only ones she could think of with all thoughts leaving her body in a rush.

Harry felt a shiver go through him just from the throaty sound of her voice. God, he loved her
voice when she sounded like that, husky with arousal and breathless with need; it was the hottest
sound in the universe… When she said his name like that, he was helpless to resist, would do
anything she asked him to and more—and she knew it too.

He kissed her again as he took a few, stumbling steps forward towards the stairs, blind with
need and lust and desperate to feel her skin against his, her body under his.

“Harry, I want you,” she gasped against his ear, her hands greedy and insistent as they explored
his back and shoulders, loving the way his muscles rippled as he carried her up the stairs.

They bumped into the walls a few times as they went but neither of them cared; all either of
them cared about was getting to feel each other’s naked skin against each other as fast as
possible.

They stumbled blindly into their bedroom and he pushed the door shut with his foot and then
trapped her against it as he let her slide down his body, groaning at the feel of her body rubbing
against his. God, he wanted her; he could never get enough of her. Even now, after so many years of
marriage, she could still make him insane with want and desire until he knew nothing but her.

Her hands had slid under his shirt and were hot and hard as they caressed his bare chest and
stomach greedily and then they were tugging his shirt up off over his head before she touched her
lips to his flat nipples—and he felt her smile as he let out a sharp hiss of breath. She loved that
she could always send fire shooting through his body just by touching her tongue to his nipple,
loved how sensitive they were to her touch—it was one of those things about his body that only she
knew.

He let his head fall back on a groan as she palmed his aching erection through his boxers and
then her clever, wicked fingers were pushing his boxers down and then her fingers closed around
him, stroking the hot, hard length of him.

His hips jerked instinctively and he pulled away from her after a moment. It had been a week—too
damn long—and he was dying for her, burning for her—but he didn’t want it to end just yet.

His hands made quick work of her blouse and her bra, baring her breasts to his hot, aroused
gaze. His hands cupped, caressed her, kneaded her breasts, applying more pressure and then less in
that way that he knew she loved. She arched her back, pushing herself further into his hands.

He lowered his lips to her breasts, taking one hardened nipple into his mouth as his hands moved
on to undo the fastenings of her trousers and pushing them and her knickers down her legs.

And then she was naked and his breath strangled in his chest at the sight of her. It never
mattered how many times he’d seen her like this before. She really was the most beautiful woman in
the world. Now, at times like this, her skin gleaming and flushed with arousal, there was
absolutely nothing and no one in the world more lovely.

She took his breath away—and then she flattened herself against him and kissed him and she stole
his mind and his heart and his soul…

Somehow they fell backwards onto their bed as his hands and lips caressed, worshipped every inch
of her body.

Her breasts were fuller than they had been when he’d first touched them so many years ago, her
hips wider. She wasn’t the girl he’d known—and loved—anymore. But then he wasn’t the boy she’d
known and loved either; his shoulders were wider, broader, his body harder. But their bodies still
fit against each other perfectly.

He knew every inch of her body now, knew how to kiss her, how to touch her, to bring her to the
brink of ecstasy. He knew the sounds she made, knew the way she clutched at his hair and his
shoulders.

He knew her taste as he kissed and licked and suckled the core of her body—knew the scent of her
when she was wet and aroused.

He knew when she was close, on the edge, and drew back, stopping his ministrations. He made his
way back up her body, stopping her instinctive sound of protest with his mouth as he kissed her and
then slid inside her with one smooth thrust.

She was his home—and when he was inside her like this, feeling the hot, wet warmth of her body
clasping him, surrounding him, there was nothing in the universe he needed or wanted. There was
only her, always her…

He kissed her again and again, his lips capturing every gasp and moan she gave, as he began to
move, their bodies automatically falling into their usual rhythm and he gave himself up to the
passion of her, the pure, mind-blowing pleasure he could only find with her.

Hermione tore her lips from his only to scatter kisses on his neck and his throat, her lips and
tongue finding the sensitive spots on his body as he had on hers, and felt rather than heard the
groan rumble through him at her touch.

Bolts of white-hot lightning were streaking through her body, the pressure building up inside
her, more and more, tighter and tighter, with every motion of his hips.

His hands moved to capture her breasts, his fingers flicking at her hardened nipples, and she
cried out, stifling her cry against his shoulder.

He was getting close, she could tell, not just from the quickened pace of his hips and his
labored breathing against her ear, but she could *feel* it, feel *him*, with the
knowledge that only came from years of love-making.

With a touch of mischief, she slipped her hand in between their bodies to touch his body where
it met hers, and that did it.

He surged up inside her with a last, powerful thrust, groaning her name, “Hermione,” as he
exploded inside her.

At the same moment, the pressure shattered inside her, shards of ecstasy ripping along every
nerve ending in her body as she clutched him tighter, her nails digging into his skin.

He kissed her again, his tongue plunging into her mouth, as his hand slipped down to touch the
core of her body, where she was joined with him—and she fractured, another spasm of pure bliss
shaking her entire body, tripping on the heels of her first one.

God, he loved to watch her like this, loved to see that expression of complete abandon to
physical pleasure on her face, loved knowing that he had brought her to that point, loved knowing
that he was the only person to see her like this. There was something unutterably arousing and
touching, too, to see her, with all her cleverness and her will, brought to the point of mindless
pleasure and to know that he was the only person whom she trusted enough to let him see her like
that.

She had no idea how long it was before she drifted back to earth, back to where his arms were
anchoring her to reality.

She opened her eyes to see him watching her, looking down at her, his expression suffused with
inexpressible tenderness mixed in with some smugness, as his hands cupped her face and he kissed
her gently, lightly, as was his habit after they made love. Always, no matter whether their
lovemaking had been fast and furious or slow and luxurious, when it was over, he kissed her like
this, gently, letting her know with his lips that he loved her.

“Mmm,” she sighed softly as his lips left hers, still feeling the warm tremors of pleasure
rippling through her body. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” he murmured softly.

After a moment, she smiled up at him with a hint of teasing in her eyes. “I should go away more
often if only for the fun of the welcome home.”

His hands grasped her wrists as he shifted, pinning her beneath him. “Don’t even think about
it,” he warned, although the words were belied by his tone and the way his eyes gleamed with humor,
responding to her teasing.

She pretended to think about it. “Well, I guess the kids would miss me too much and I’d miss
them too.”

“Thank Merlin for the kids,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

She laughed softly as she kissed him again, feeling him smile against her lips.

After a moment, their lips parted as they rearranged themselves on their bed, finding their
favorite position of her resting her head on his shoulder, her body snuggled in closely beside
his.

“Emily got her Hogwarts letter today,” he told her quietly.

“Oh, did she? I was wondering when it would come, hoped I’d be home in time for it. She must
have been thrilled.”

“She was… mildly excited,” Harry said wryly and Hermione laughed softly at his tone, correctly
guessing that he meant the exact opposite.

“I spent the entire evening telling them the story of how I got my Hogwarts letter.”

“How many times have you told them that story, Harry?”

He looked somewhat sheepish. “At least several hundred, but you know how they love it.”

“And you can never say no,” she said indulgently. “You know you spoil them.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I can’t help it.”

He didn’t say that all he needed to do was remember his own childhood to know that he was going
to give his children everything he could to make them happy; he knew he didn’t have to say it, that
she knew it without words.

She did know it and felt her heart soften, melt. She had loved him her entire life and even
though she wouldn’t have thought it possible, she felt herself falling even deeper in love with him
with every day of seeing him with their children.

She dropped a light kiss on his shoulder and relaxed back against him with a small, happy sigh.
She felt him drop a kiss on her hair and smiled rather sleepily.

Harry felt himself relax as happiness and peace filled his body and his senses. After all, what
did some stupid dream matter when he had this reality to wake up to?

He felt Hermione’s breathing deepen, even out, as she drifted into sleep and he closed his eyes,
following her, confident that now, at least, he would have pleasant dreams.

~*~

Hermione’s homecoming was made complete early the next morning when she heard the sound of
running steps, which provided her a moment’s warning (and just enough time to quickly lock the
door, allowing her to throw on some clothes and toss Harry his shirt and boxers as well) before she
opened the door to have her youngest daughter all but throw herself on her.

“Mummy, you’re home!”

Hermione lifted up Sabrina into her arms with exaggerated effort before she pretended to stagger
and drop her. “Oof, I think you’ve grown since I’ve been gone.”

Sabrina giggled. “Did I? Oh goody. Will I be as big as Emily soon?”

“Yes, soon, love,” Harry answered for Hermione with a smile and a half-sigh at the thought of
just how ‘big’ his little Emily had gotten.

He ruffled her hair and nuzzled her cheek a little in his usual morning greeting, making Sabrina
giggle more.

And Hermione wondered if it were possible for her to melt on the spot—and if it were possible
for them to be any cuter.

Sabrina looked back at Hermione. “I missed you, Mummy,” she said matter-of-factly. “I don’t like
it when you’re gone. Promise you won’t leave again.”

Hermione’s heart melted as she knelt down until she was eye-level with Sabrina. “I promise,
love.”

Her eyes met Harry’s over Sabrina’s head and saw him smile and mouth the words, *I love
you.*

And her answering smile said it all. *I know. I love you too.*

The moment was interrupted by more running feet as Emily appeared, followed by Andy in quick
succession.

“Mum!”

“Mummy!”

Hermione hugged Andy and dropped a kiss on Emily’s forehead.

“Mum, I got my Hogwarts letter!” Emily announced, the words bursting out of her as if they
couldn’t be held in any longer.

Hermione exchanged an amused glance with Harry. “Yes, your Daddy told me. I’m so glad for you,
Emily.”

“They sent a book list and I’m going to need robes and my own wand—and Mummy, can I get an owl
of my own, please?”

“Yes, I think so,” Hermione agreed.

“Thank you, Mum! I want to name her Hedwig, like Dad’s first owl.”

Hermione met Harry’s gaze again, seeing the flicker in his eyes at the mention of Hedwig, the
friend he’d never forgotten.

“That’s nice, love,” Hermione murmured softly.

“Thank you, Emily-kin,” Harry said, dropping a kiss on Emily’s hair.

“Dad, will you come and help me pick me out my owl?”

“I want to come too!” Andy inserted before Harry could speak.

“Me too!” Sabrina chimed in.

“We’ll all go and make a day of it,” Hermione decreed. “And,” she added, “we’ll go to Florean’s
afterwards to get a treat.”

Harry felt his heart melt as his children cheered, beaming with anticipation and excitement. He
was, he decided not for the first time, the luckiest man in the world. This—being married to
Hermione, with their children—was the perfect life and all he wanted, needed, in the world.



2. A Matter of Trust
--------------------

Disclaimer: I’m not making any money off of this but I wish I could, since I think I deserve it
more than JKR does, idiot that she is.

Author’s Note: The second part of my ‘Portrait of a Marriage’ series, showing Harry’s future the
way it should be, if JKR had half a brain and remembered her own canon. Takes place before ‘All He
Ever Wanted’ as you can probably tell. This was meant to be a ficlet, inspired by reading Dorothy
Sayers’ ‘Busman’s Honeymoon’ and one of my favorite lines in ‘Sound of Music’ but it grew. And I
wasn’t intending for it to include smut—but H/Hr had other ideas.

So, fluff with a dash of smut. Cavity alert! Enjoy!

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*A Matter of Trust*

“Harry.”

He looked up in surprise at the sound of Hermione’s voice. “Hi. What are you doing here?” His
smile of greeting faded slightly as he saw the look in her eyes.

“I came to see if you were free for lunch,” she said lightly but he read the unspoken message in
her eyes and understood that there was more to it than that. She just wasn’t going to say it in
public.

“For you, I’m always free,” he answered, smiling, more for the benefit of the other Aurors
around him than for her.

He got up, grabbing his cloak from where it was hanging. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he said over
his shoulder as he followed Hermione out.

He caught up with her at the elevator door. “What is it?” he asked softly, under his breath.

“How was your morning?” was her response, letting him know with her glance and her words that
whatever it was would wait.

He nodded almost imperceptibly. “It’s been mercifully quiet for once,” he said. “How about
yours?”

“Busy, but not too bad.” She was lying, he could tell. There had been something and it was
troubling her; it was the reason she’d come to find him now. He kept his expression neutral,
though, in spite of the concern. It wasn’t an immediate threat and she, herself, was fine—he could
see that in her eyes so he relaxed a little, his hand resting on the small of her back, as was his
habit.

She glanced at him once they were out on the street. “I was thinking of getting take-away and
going home.”

He nodded, understanding immediately that whatever-it-was needed the privacy of their home. On
any other time, he might have wondered, with a flicker of anticipation, if this would become one of
their occasional lunch quickies, but not today.

They didn’t say much as they picked up food and Apparated back to their home.

He turned to her the moment they were inside the door, the casual demeanor dropping from him as
he shrugged off his cloak.

“What is it?”

She sighed and moved into his arms to kiss him briefly.

His arms slid around her waist as his lips captured hers in a more lingering kiss but even then,
his concern nagged at him, distracting him, and he released her with a small sigh.

She took his hand and led him over to the couch, dropping into it and curling into his arms
although she remained facing him.

“It’s the situation in South America,” she began without preamble.

He nodded, his hand on her shoulder tensing slightly but otherwise showing no reaction. He knew
what she was talking about, of course. There had been an outbreak of some sort of virulent
infectious disease in a remote part of South America and so far, none of their local Healers had
been able to find out the cause or the cure, although they had managed, to provide relief for the
symptoms. But the troubling thing was that this seemed to only affect magical people. It hadn’t
spread to any of the nearby Muggle villages and was only affecting the magical villages (South
America being one of the few places where completely wizarding villages and towns still existed and
were actually quite common, where they co-existed relatively harmoniously with their neighboring
Muggle villages.)

“We were called into an Emergency Meeting this morning. The South American Ministry has asked
for our help and we’re going to be sending a special team down.”

“And they want you to go,” he finished for her, flatly.

“Yes,” she said. “The Chief Healer asked me specifically because of some of the research I’ve
done before.” She studied him for a moment. “Harry,” she finally continued softly, “they want us to
leave tonight. They’re only giving us a few hours to decide and then a few more hours to pack
whatever we might want to bring.”

“No,” he blurted out in instinctive, automatic denial. “It’s too dangerous.”

She sighed, putting her hands on either side of his face as she leaned in to brush her lips
against his. “Harry…”

That was all she said, just his name, but he understood what she left unspoken. It was her job
and her duty but even if it hadn’t been, she would want to go. People were dying; *children*
were dying… It wasn’t in her to stay behind in safety while others went into danger, not when she
could help, not when there were other lives at risk.

He knew that; he even loved that about her. But at the moment, it mattered less to him than the
one over-riding fear that he voiced in a husky whisper. “What if you get sick? What if something
happens to you? I can’t lose you now; I *can’t*…” The disease was clearly contagious and
though the local Healers had managed to quarantine off the few infected villages, the St. Mungo’s
team would obviously have to go into the quarantined area.

His worst nightmare was of something happening to her—and now, this suddenly made his worst
nightmare seem more than possible; it seemed probable.

She was… everything to him. She was his wife, his best friend, his lover—but more than that, she
was his *life*… How was he supposed to live without his life?

Her expression softened and she kissed him, her body fitting itself automatically to his, as his
arms went around her, holding her to him tightly, almost protectively.

It was a few minutes before the kiss ended and she drew back just enough to meet his eyes, her
expression serious. “If you don’t want me to go, if you ask me not to go, I won’t.”

His breath caught in his throat at the offer. He knew she meant it; he could see it in her eyes,
and he, of all people, knew just how much power he had over her—just as he knew that she had just
as much power over him. She loved him, would do anything for him—if he asked her to. If he asked
her to, she would stay behind, let others take the risk and not herself.

His throat closed as he hesitated for a fleeting, endless second. He was—God forgive him—he was
tempted to ask. He didn’t like the idea of anyone going into danger because of him but for her, to
protect *her*… *She* meant more to him than anyone else in the world…

But even as he hesitated, even as he was tempted by his own need to keep her safe, he knew what
his answer would be. What his answer would always be.

“Go.” The one word was all that was necessary. It was one of the hardest things he had ever had
to say, to let her go so far away, when there was such a risk—but he could not do anything else. He
couldn’t ask her to stay. To do so would be to make her less than she was. He could not ask her to
be less than she was, could not ask her to become less of the woman he loved—not even for his own
sake, especially not for his own sake.

And he understood, too, that if she were the type of person who *could* sit back and let
others go into danger while she stayed behind, he wouldn’t love her as much and as deeply as he
did.

And she thanked him with another kiss, a deeper, longer kiss, a kiss of some passion, yes, with
all the intensity of his fears for her, but it was also a kiss of tenderness, of acceptance.

It was a kiss of gratitude as she thanked him for understanding. She *would* have stayed
behind if he’d asked her to—but she’d known, even as she offered, that he wouldn’t ask. It was why
she could and she did trust him with her heart, her very soul—why she felt no trepidation or doubts
about knowing just how much power he had over her, just how much she would do for him. Because she
knew he understood and he loved her enough that he would never ask, would never take advantage of
her love and her trust like that. Just as she would never take advantage of his love for her.

“When will you be leaving?” he asked in a somewhat rough whisper when they finally drew
apart.

“We’re supposed to get to St. Mungo’s by 7:45 so we can leave at 8.”

“I’ll try to leave work a little early, then, so we can have a little more time.”

She nodded, leaning in to kiss him again, and this time the kiss was explosive, became a heated
tangle of lips and tongues as her hands fisted on his shirt and his hands found their way beneath
her top to flatten on the bare skin of her back. She pressed herself against him, feeling the firm
planes of his chest flattened against her breasts, feeling all the familiar heat of him, the
familiar flare of arousal, as immediate and as fiery as only he could incite in her.

She tore her lips from his with a gasp, pushing herself away from him with palpable reluctance,
as she glanced at the clock. “We should stop,” she said, her breath coming quickly.

His head fell back on the couch with a soft groan of resignation, his eyes closing. “I
know.”

She forced herself to stand up, moving off from the couch and where she’d been half straddling
him. “We only have about 15 minutes to eat lunch as it is. I need to get back to St. Mungo’s to let
them know I’m coming and then try to finish up as much work as I can before I pack.” The lingering
breathlessness and slight tremor of desire in her voice belied the businesslike words.

He nodded. “I know. And if I’m going to leave a little early, I need to get back too.” He
grimaced slightly as he stood up, glancing ruefully down at the bulge in his trousers.

She took a step forward, meaning to brush her lips against his, but stopped. No, she shouldn’t
touch him, not even such a simple, relatively chaste kiss, not now. With the way she was feeling,
with the way she knew he was feeling, no kiss, no touch, no matter how chastely it might begin,
would end that way.

She stepped back, moving to sit down at the table, and setting out the food they’d picked up on
it with a wave of her wand.

They kept their conversation studiedly casual as they ate and prepared to return to work. But at
the last moment, before they separated to Apparate to their respective work places, he grabbed her
hand and lifted it to his lips to press a light kiss on her palm, his tongue flicking out to leave
a damp spot, sending a shiver of heat through her entire body.

“Later,” was all he said.

She nodded, not trusting her voice. *Later…*

Later was 5:30 when Harry returned home.

He hardly waited to shrug off his cloak before he pulled her into his arms, where she went
willingly, pressing herself against him.

His lips came down on hers forcefully, his tongue thrusting inside her mouth, claiming her,
possessing her. It was, from the first, a lush, blatantly passionate kiss, as the lust that had
been smoldering in them all afternoon exploded, arousal rising up in their bodies like a tidal
wave, sweeping them up in its force.

His hands were hard, greedy, on her body, as they touched, caressed, every inch of her, roaming
from her back down to cup her butt and bring her arching against him and then up again to cup her
breasts.

They stumbled blindly backwards towards their bedroom, still kissing.

She had no recollection of how or when they shed their clothes—they seemed to vanish as if by
magic—until they were falling back onto the bed, his body landing half on top of hers.

She arched up against him, her hands wandering eagerly over his shoulders and his back, her lips
only leaving his to scatter damp kisses across his chest, her tongue flicking out to touch his
nipples, until he let out a sharp hiss of breath.

His hand slipped down to touch the core of her body, one finger sliding inside her, and she
cried out, her body automatically tightening around his finger.

Her breath was coming in gasps. “Now, Harry, *please*…”

This wasn’t the time for slow, leisurely love-making; she wanted, needed, more, needed him
inside her *now…*

And he gave her what she wanted—what they both wanted—and entered her with one thrust of his
hips, his hands tangling in her hair to bring her mouth to his.

He kissed her, his tongue thrusting into her mouth matching the rhythm of his hips.

He slipped one hand in between her bodies to lightly pinch her nipple and that was all it took
as she shattered, fractured, shards of pure physical pleasure streaking through every nerve in her
body in a glorious explosion of bliss.

And he followed, the feeling of her muscles convulsing around him pushing him over the edge as
he spilled himself inside her, her name escaping his lips in a groan, the one word somehow
expressing all he felt…

He collapsed on top of her in a boneless heap before he managed to roll off of her onto his
side, his arms automatically drawing her in closer to him, and she followed, her body fitting into
the curve of his, as it always did.

He let his eyes close, savoring the warmth of her body curled against his, and for just a few
moments, as his heartbeat slowed and the sweat of exertion dried on his skin, he knew peace. For
just those few moments, as his hands moved in idle caresses over her skin, he knew the joy he
always found with her, the joy he could only find with her.

But all too soon, the reality of the little time they had before she had to leave—the grim
reality of the risk she was taking—intruded, inevitably.

He sighed, very softly, his arms tightening around her, and he felt her shift closer to him,
dropping a light kiss on his chest and then his shoulder and then his chin.

She was the first one to speak. “We will be careful,” she said softly, infusing her tone with as
much reassurance as she could muster. “We’ll be taking every precaution when we’re there. And
before we leave, we’re all going to take the preventive potions and perform just about every
protective charm for diseases known to man. There really isn’t that much of a risk.”

“Any level of risk, no matter how small, isn’t okay with me,” he countered, rather irrationally.
Even though he knew, intellectually, that all she was saying was perfectly true and that, while
there was still some risk, it wasn’t excessive by any means, with his fears prodding him, with all
the unknowns that this new disease presented, he couldn’t be reassured.

Let others be rational; where Hermione was concerned, he was never rational, could never be
rational. Any threat to her, no matter how small, affected him on a visceral level, struck him at
his most vulnerable point.

He loved her; he needed her… He didn’t know how to live without her…

She made a sound that was half a laugh and half a sigh. “Harry…”

He moved his head so he could meet her eyes. “I love you,” he said in an almost fierce whisper,
as if he were trying to reassure himself that no matter what happened, she would know that he loved
her, know just how much she meant to him.

Her expression softened, her eyes shining with a remarkably tender light. And she wondered,
half-idly, how many times she had heard him say those three words to her before, hundreds, perhaps
thousands by now… And yet, even now, she still felt her heart thrill, still felt a little amazement
that he really loved her… She didn’t know if she would ever become so accustomed to hearing Harry
say those words that she would become blasé about it; she doubted it and she was glad of it. She
never wanted to lose this thrill, the burst of pleasure in her heart every time she heard the
words.

She lifted her lips to his as he kissed her, long and tenderly, his tongue stroking and
caressing hers, the inside of her mouth, one hand moving to cup her cheek.

“I love you,” she breathed against his lips as the kiss ended.

They got up reluctantly and she took a quick shower—alone—but he helped her get dressed
afterwards. That was a pleasurable but more time-consuming experience as he took the time to kiss
and caress every inch of her skin before it was covered up by her clothes, taking all the time in
dressing that they hadn’t taken earlier in undressing.

She’d never realized, until him, that putting on clothes could be quite as erotic an experience
as taking them off could be. There was an intimacy in being dressed by someone which she’d never
realized, never appreciated, until the first time he’d interrupted her in getting dressed, not to
hinder the process but to help it.

And so he dressed her, once she had put on her knickers and her bra, trailing his lips up the
length of her legs as his hands slowly pulled her trousers up, leaving a string of light kisses up
her stomach and between her breasts as he buttoned up her shirt, until she was fully clothed and
his lips returned to hers, to kiss her lingeringly.

They kept the conversation studiedly casual as they ate a quick dinner, avoiding any mention of
her departure or of his worry or, indeed, of anything serious.

She managed a gently teasing smile. “I’ll be back before you know it. It won’t be so bad. You
can invite Ron over and pretend you’re bachelors again.”

He smiled. “Of course. We’ll just lounge around in our shorts, drinking beer and scratching our
bellies, as we talk about manly things.”

She laughed. “Should I expect to come home and find the house a complete mess?”

He managed a grin. “Probably.”

They smiled at each other until, slowly, the smiles from their somewhat-forced humor faded.

She took a small step forward and he met her half-way, his arms closing around her and his lips
coming down on hers to kiss her. The kiss started out as a hard melding of lips and tongues but it
gentled gradually, becoming softer, more loving than passionate. And when it ended, he brushed his
lips against her cheek, the tip of her nose, her eyelids, before he rested his forehead against
hers. “Be careful,” he breathed softly, and the words were a plea.

“I will.” She caught his face between her hands gently, meeting his eyes. She could see all the
worry he felt, all his fear for her, lurking in the shadows of his eyes—and see, too, what it cost
him not to say anything more, what it was costing him to let her go into danger and know that he
couldn’t help her or protect her. “I’ll be fine and I will come back, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I know you will,” she smiled softly and brushed her lips against his.

She let him go and stepped back. “I’ll see you in a while.”

He nodded. “See you,” he repeated, in keeping with an unspoken promise they’d made years ago,
not to say goodbye when either of them had to go away. Goodbye was too final a word.

She gave him a last, small, sort of tender smile, and then she was gone.

~*~

Harry found the note waiting on his desk when he returned from questioning a suspect in an
incident of Muggle tormenting that had occurred a few days ago. It was unsigned but it didn’t need
to be signed; he knew the handwriting as well as he knew his own. It was her writing, when she was
tired and hurried, quite different from her usual precise, neat handwriting but hers. It was very
brief, just one line, but the one line was enough to make relief and happiness burst in his
heart.

*I’ve kept my promise.*

How he got through the rest of the day when his entire being, his very soul, was in a fever of
impatience to get home, to see her, to reassure himself that she was really back, that she was
really fine, healthy and unharmed, he didn’t know but somehow he did.

He closed the door of the house behind him and paused for a moment to stare at her cloak, once
again hanging on its usual hook, savoring the sight. He didn’t know when he had become this sort of
fellow, to find so much joy in just seeing her cloak hanging up beside his, but he had.

He stepped quickly into their bedroom and stopped.

She was there, sleeping. He could see from the pallor of her skin (in spite of the fact that she
had gotten a light tan in the past two weeks) and the shadows under her eyes that she was
exhausted, and his heart pinched a little at the sight. She looked as if she’d hardly slept at all
in the more than two weeks she’d been gone.

But she was home; she was safe—and that was blessing enough.

Quietly, he shrugged out of his shirt and his trousers and then slid in beside her.

It was a sign of just how exhausted she was that she didn’t awaken but she stirred and shifted
automatically closer to him, a soft murmur, “Harry,” escaping her lips on a sigh, as he curled his
body protectively around hers.

He let his eyes drift closed, feeling peace settle into his heart (a peace he hadn’t known as
long as she’d been away), and knew that he was home.

*~The End~*



3. Worth Any Price- Part 1
--------------------------

Disclaimer: See ‘All He Ever Wanted.’

Author’s Note: Another fic of H/Hr’s future—the third part of this little installment. No smut
in this part but that’s coming next. A little more substance this time, still fluffy but with a
dash of angst. Enjoy!

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*Worth Any Price*

*Part 1*

Hermione tucked Sabrina into her bed, dropping a kiss on Sabrina’s forehead. “Good night,
Sabrina.”

“G’night.” She closed her eyes only to open them again immediately. “Mummy, when will Daddy be
back?”

Hermione brushed a stray lock of hair out of Sabrina’s face with a gentle touch. “Soon, love.
He’ll be home soon, I promise.”

“Okay.” Sabrina shut her eyes again, satisfied.

Hermione closed Sabrina’s door behind her softly before going in to Andy’s bedroom, to see her
son sprawled on his covers flipping through the pages of the latest issue of the *Quidditch*
*Weekly* magazine.

“Time’s up, Andy-boy,” she announced. “Bed-time for you.”

He closed the magazine with clear reluctance, letting out a heavy sigh that had Hermione hiding
a smile at how exaggerated it was.

He slid under his covers and smiled up at her. “Good night, Mum.”

She ruffled his hair. “Good night.”

She closed his door behind her, thinking with a small pang of how he had stopped calling her
Mummy from the day he turned 10. He was growing up, no longer the truly little boy he’d been.

All her children were growing up. Emily off at Hogwarts now, starting her 2nd
year—and Hermione still couldn’t believe it sometimes. How had Emily’s first year at Hogwarts gone
by so quickly? It seemed like just yesterday that she and Harry had smiled over Emily’s first
letter from Hogwarts, giddily announcing that she’d been sorted into Gryffindor and exclaiming over
how much fun the castle was, with its moving staircases and ghosts and everything.

And last month, when Emily had set off for her second year, she had left with as much calm as if
she were now an old hand at leaving her home and her parents for the better part of a year. (And
Harry had been the wreck, predictably, fretting over Emily’s leaving as if she’d had a terrible
first year at Hogwarts with no friends, rather than the exact opposite.)

Hermione stifled a sigh as she went downstairs to finish going through some files she’d brought
home from work, wishing in a rather uncharacteristic moment of weakness that Harry could be there
just to hold her and comfort her in this unexpected melancholy at the thought of how quickly their
children were growing up.

It was some time later when she was about to go upstairs to her lonely bed when she heard
it.

There was a knock on the front door and she felt a sudden, instinctive frisson of fear go
through her. *No… oh no… Please, no…*

She opened the door to see the grim face of one of the Aurors, Nicholas Alpert, who was vaguely
familiar to her—and her physical strength suddenly failed her. If she hadn’t clutched the door knob
convulsively, she would have fallen. *No… oh no…* And then in a silent scream of agony,
*Harry…*

In that one blinding, endless moment, she lived and died and suffered enough for a lifetime. In
that one moment, she paid the price, in full, for her happiness, for *their* happiness, seeing
her entire future flash before her eyes in a nightmarish image of herself, the rest of her life as
his widow (she flinched away from the word), raising their children alone… *No, no, oh
no…*

“Mrs. Potter,” Mr. Alpert began—and somehow, in some crazy way, just the sound of that name, her
name, gave her some strength which she clung to desperately. She was Mrs. Potter, Harry’s wife and
the best friend who had already gone into hell and back with him; she would not, could not, give
way now.

“Mrs. Potter, I am very sorry but Mr. Potter is gravely injured. He is in the emergency ward of
the Auror Infirmary now. We must ask you to come immediately.”

He was still alive… She clutched that thought to her heart desperately even as she felt her mind
reeling from the suddenness of it, her every worst fear and nightmare coming true all at once.

“Yes, of course,” she said with forced calm. “I will be there at once, as soon as I get someone
to come watch my children.”

His impassive mask flickered with something like pity at the mention of the children.
“Certainly. Someone will be waiting for you at the entrance.” He paused. “Mr. Potter’s condition is
not hopeless,” he added, the words seeming impelled from him.

“Thank you.”

She closed the front door numbly, feeling the waves of black fear and panic beginning to surge
up inside her and fighting them back. No, she could not give way; she *could not*.

Ron—she had to Floo-call Ron.

She went through the motions of what she had to do—floo-called Ron and broke the news.

He went pale but all he said was, “I’ll meet you at the Infirmary.”

“No,” she cut him off.

“Hermione--” he began in protest but she continued on hurriedly.

“No. Please, Ron, I want you to come stay with Andy and Sabrina for at least these first few
hours. If they wake up, they’ll be more reassured with their uncle Ron there than with anyone else
and I don’t want to frighten them now before we know anything for sure. I’ll—I’ll let you know when
I get to the Infirmary and… and then, I’ll decide when and how to tell them.”

He nodded. “I’ll let my parents know,” he said somberly.

“Thanks, Ron.”

“Hermione,” he stopped her before she could end the call.

She paused, looking at him, as his throat worked for a moment before he simply said, “Good
luck.”

She swallowed back the lump of fear. “Yeah.”

She had no clear memory of Apparating over to the Auror Infirmary after that, other than to be
fleetingly grateful that she didn’t splinch herself on the way, didn’t remember being met at the
door by some Auror Infirmary worker whom she didn’t know and would hardly recognize again.

All she was conscious of, through the litany of dread and fear, was one thought, one thought
that seemed to burn her mind as if it were a flame. *It was too soon. They hadn’t had enough
time…*

Not enough time together… A lifetime wouldn’t be enough of him, of loving him and being loved by
him, of raising their children together—but this was definitely not enough. They’d been married for
17 years—only 17 years—and it was too soon…

She couldn’t lose him now… Please, dear God, she couldn’t lose him now… He wasn’t only her best
friend, her husband and the father of her children—he was her *life*—what would she do without
him?

She didn’t emerge from her waking nightmare of searing fear until she faced the Chief Healer of
the Aurors, Healer Evangeline Del Prete.

“I have good news, Mrs. Potter. He is out of immediate danger now; we’ve managed to stabilize
him…”

She said a little more, details about Harry’s condition, but Hermione heard very little of it,
her entire being consumed with just one thought, the words repeating in her head in a mantra of
relief and gratitude: *he is out of danger now.*

*He was out of danger; he wasn’t going to die… He wasn’t going to leave her.*

And something gave way inside her, a wall crashing down, and she brought her hand up to her
mouth in an attempt to stifle the wild sobs of relief rising up inside her.

*He was out of danger; he wasn’t going to leave her…* And somehow, only then did she
realize just how terrified she had been of the bleakness of her future if she lost him now; only
then did she realize just how much she had dreaded having to somehow tell their children—and they
were all still so young, so very young, too young to understand—that their beloved father was
gone…

Her breath was coming in gasps as she fought for some control, returning to the present to
realize that Healer Del Prete had stopped speaking and was now regarding her with some sympathy
mixed in with her professional manner.

“I am afraid Mr. Potter is still unconscious but you may sit with him now.”

“Thank you.” She rallied, finding some reservoir of strength and coherence from somewhere inside
her. “What more can you tell me? How serious are his injuries?”

“To be entirely honest, there were a few moments immediately after he arrived that we almost
despaired of him. He had been hit with any number of curses that had a combined effect that could
easily have killed anyone weaker but your Mr. Potter has a strong will, to say nothing of his
magical power, and he rallied. His condition has stabilized so that he is no longer in immediate
danger, but I would be lying if I were to tell you that he is entirely out of the woods. I will
say, though, that given his youth and his strength, I like his chances.”

Hermione nodded rather mechanically, clinging to hope. Harry could not die now… it was too soon…
He could not…

She made her way into his room and then, in a burst of energy, closed the distance between her
and his bed in a few long strides, sinking into the chair pulled up beside it.

She blinked back the tears and swallowed back her automatic cry at sight of his ghastly
pallor.

*Oh, Harry…*

She moved his hair away from his face with a light caress, bending over to brush her lips
against his forehead and then his lips.

“Harry, it’s me,” she whispered against his ear. “I’m here now. I’m here so it’s time for you to
wake up. You’re home now,” she said, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

He didn’t move, didn’t react. She dropped another feather-light kiss on his unresponsive lips
and settled back in her chair to wait.

Some hours later; she had lost all concept of time passing except for the punctuation of the
visits from Healer Del Prete and her Floo-calls home to check on Andy and Sabrina, who were, Ron
assured her, still sleeping.

She hated to think of them waking up to find her not there and be faced with the news that their
father was hurt but she also could not leave Harry. She could not leave him while there was even
the smallest danger and somehow, in some small corner of her heart, she was irrationally sure that
he sensed her presence, that he would be comforted by it.

She retained her grip on his hand, sitting by his bed, reflecting, with a pang, how very
familiar this was. How many times had she waited in an infirmary, at Hogwarts and after, worrying
about Harry? So many—and yet she knew, even as she thought it, that she wouldn’t have had it any
other way. Life might have been easier, less stressful, less dangerous certainly, without Harry in
her life—but it would also have been so much poorer, only a pale imitation of what her life was
now. It wasn’t something she could ever put into words but she knew as she looked down at his pale
face, so utterly still in his unconsciousness, that it was all worth it, more than worth it. No
matter the worries, no matter the fear, no matter the danger, it was all worth it. She was repaid
every time he smiled at her, that small, tender smile he saved for her alone; repaid every time he
kissed her; repaid every time he touched her; repaid every time she fell asleep in his arms,
knowing that she was exactly where she belonged, with him.

She pushed his hair off his forehead with the lightest of caresses, brushing a kiss on his
forehead, across his scar, that mark of his fame and his destiny. “Come on, love, it’s time to wake
up,” she murmured softly. “Please, love, you can’t leave me and the children…”

Hours passed and she found herself almost nodding off, drifting, until she realized the small
talisman hovering above his bed, the monitoring talisman, she knew, had turned a bright white from
the gray it had been.

At the same moment, Healer Del Prete entered and just the expression on her face as she bent
over Harry and then passed her wand over his body as she murmured the words to the diagnostic
charm, which Hermione was all too familiar with from her own work, made a tidal wave of relief
surge up inside Hermione.

And she hardly needed to hear the words, “He is out of danger and should, with time, make a full
recovery.” She had already sagged back into her chair, the adrenaline and the worry that had been
lending her some extra strength leaving her in the flood of searing relief, so powerful she could
only compare it to a resurrection.

He was going to be fine. And that was all she needed to know.

~

Hermione heard the running footsteps of Andy and Sabrina before she saw them as they both hurled
themselves bodily at her with a cry, “Mummy!”

She caught them in her arms, meeting Ron’s eyes over their heads with a slight smile of thanks
which he returned with a small nod.

She dropped a kiss on Sabrina’s hair and smoothed a caressing hand over Andy’s hair as she drew
back just enough to look into their faces but keeping her arms around them. “Daddy’s going to be
just fine. Some bad men hurt him but he’s going to be fine,” she reassured them, her voice
gentle.

Sabrina’s lip trembled slightly. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Can we see Daddy?” Andy sounded very young all of a sudden, his voice trembling slightly in
spite of all his clear efforts to control it.

“Yes, we can see Daddy.”

She kept her hand on each of their shoulders as she led them into Harry’s room—and they stopped
short the moment they had stepped far enough inside it to actually see Harry, lying so still and so
pale on the bed.

She sensed Ron hovering uncertainly behind them, not quite in the room but not quite out of it,
but only peripherally, all her consciousness focused on her children, on Sabrina’s pale face with
the tears glistening in her eyes, on Andy, who was staring at Harry, his eyes wide. She flinched in
spite of herself at the shock and the vulnerability in his eyes at this sight of the father whom he
worshipped, who had always seemed so strong, so powerful, suddenly brought low like this. And for a
moment, she felt a flare of generalized bitterness at the disillusionment, inevitable as it was, of
Andy realizing that his father was human and not some invincible being after all.

She felt Andy reach up and grip her hand that was still resting on his shoulder. “Mummy,” he
began, with a slight quaver in his voice—and her heart broke at the sound of the familiar word
which he hadn’t called her in several months now. And for all that she had missed being called
Mummy, she knew she would have given anything she owned to call it back. He sounded so young, so
scared, so immensely vulnerable… “Mummy, is Daddy… sleeping?”

And the tears which she’d managed to keep inside all this time finally broke through the walls
of restraint, welling up in her eyes as she hastily blinked them back. She could not cry; she would
not cry; she needed to be strong for her children. She didn’t want them to see her cry. “Yes,” she
managed to say, keeping the tremor out of her voice with an immense act of will, “he’s only
sleeping. Daddy will be fine; don’t worry.”

And then in one of those perfect moments that occasionally happen, even in real life, it was at
that moment that the first flicker of returning consciousness passed over Harry’s face. It was too
faint for Andy and Sabrina to have noticed it but Hermione saw it, her eyes made sharper with love
and worry and her own training as a Healer. She caught her breath sharply, her hands tightening
their grip unconsciously on Andy’s hand and Sabrina’s shoulder.

It was barely more than a breath of sound when it came, one mumbled word—but she recognized it
with a pang of so much happiness it physically made her chest ache. It was her name, slurred,
sounding more like “’mi’ne” than anything else but she recognized it.

She released her grip on Andy and Sabrina and leaped over to his bedside, her heart in her
throat, hardly daring to breathe. “Harry?” she whispered, very softly. “Darling?” The endearment
slipped out naturally in that moment, even though she hardly ever used it, tending to reserve it
for moments of teasing or moments of particular tenderness.

Sabrina and Andy followed her more slowly, as if afraid to get too close.

“Daddy?” Sabrina whispered and the word was hardly audible, so softly was it spoken.

It seemed like an eternity before another flicker of consciousness came and went, and then, very
slowly, so slowly, with all the speed of a glacier melting, his eyelids fluttered, lifted—and he
opened his eyes.

His gaze was bleary, unfocused, blank, at first, but in another few minutes, some awareness
returned to his gaze and he looked first at her and then his gaze dropped to Sabrina and Andy—not
as if he’d known they were there but as if it required too much energy to keep his eyes focused on
any one thing for too long.

“Daddy?” It was Andy’s turn to whisper now.

She could see the effort it cost him to try to speak as he looked back up at her and she managed
to force her lips into a reassuring smile.

“’m home,” was all he managed to murmur before his eyelids drooped, closed, and he drifted back
into oblivion.

But he had awoken, had been alert enough to recognize them—and for now, that was enough for
her.

She knelt down so she was on a level with Sabrina and Andy. “Daddy’s so happy you’re here. He
said that he’s home now. He’s going to be fine; he just fell asleep again because he’s tired. Why
don’t you stay with Uncle Ron and come back and see Daddy this afternoon when he’ll feel better?”
She glanced questioningly at Ron at her words, seeing his nod and gave him a quick smile of
thanks.

“Yes, Mummy,” Andy said, sounding subdued but more like his usual self. Sabrina only nodded, her
eyes not leaving Harry’s face.

She kissed each of their foreheads and hugged them in turn before she gave them a gentle push
toward where Ron waited.

“I’ll take them to the Burrow first, where Luna took the kids and is waiting with my parents,”
he told her and she nodded.

“Thanks.”

He shrugged away the thanks. “I’m just glad he woke up,” he said soberly.

She couldn’t quite manage a smile but she tried, managing only a twitch of her lips.

“I’ll see you later. Get some rest, will you?”

She nodded, watching as Andy and Sabrina followed Ron down the hallway.

At the last second, though, Sabrina paused and then ran back to her as Hermione knelt to be on
her level, half-expecting Sabrina to whisper something in her ear but all she did was drop a kiss
on Hermione’s cheek. “Give that to Daddy for me, Mummy.”

Hermione drew her daughter into her arms and hugged her tightly, her heart and her throat full.
“Of course I will, sweetie,” she managed to say through the constriction in her throat.

And, satisfied, Sabrina ran back to where Ron and Andy were waiting.

~

It was some hours before Harry woke up again, to see her by his side, as always.

She bent over him. “How are you feeling, love?”

A slight grimace passed over his face. “Like I’ve been run over by a stampede of elephants.” His
voice was slightly hoarse, weaker than usual, but she was reassured by his feeble attempt at a
smile—and, oddly enough, the fact that he was admitting his pain. If it were truly terrible, he
wouldn’t, she knew.

She bent and brushed her lips against his. “Don’t you dare scare me like that again.” The
tenderness of her touch and her slight smile belied the harshness of the words.

He gave her a small smile. “I’m sorry, love.”

“You should be,” she said with mock severity, before she sobered, her expression becoming soft
and amazingly tender, a look she reserved solely for him and the children. “How do you expect me to
say goodbye to you? I can’t lose you; I can’t lose *us*. We haven’t had long enough; you can’t
leave me yet.”

“I won’t leave you. You’ll have me forever,” he whispered and the words were a promise. *For
the rest of his life—and even beyond that…*

She brushed her lips against his again. “I love you, Harry,” she whispered against his lips.

“I love you too.”

“Daddy?”

They heard Emily’s voice, sounding very uncertain, before she appeared in the doorway, shock and
dismay flattening her expression for a moment before she flew across the room to hug him.
“Daddy!”

Hermione saw the wince that crossed Harry’s face, his expression contorting in a rictus of pain,
and took an involuntary step forward, meaning to gently pull Emily away but she met his eyes and
stopped short. She could see the effort it cost him—and the discomfort it caused him—but he moved
one arm to hug Emily back, his hand stroking her hair lightly. And she knew that he would rather
suffer the pain than not have Emily’s embrace at all.

Emily was crying softly into Harry’s shoulder and Harry patted her hair gently. “Sshh, darling.
I’m fine; everything’s going to be fine. There’s nothing to cry about.”

She pulled back after a few moments, sniffling, and Harry managed a slight smile. “That’s my
brave girl.”

She gave him a wavering smile. “Does it hurt, Daddy?”

“No,” he lied. “Not much.”

She looked at him a little oddly. “Daddy, are you lying?”

“No, it really doesn’t hurt that much. Don’t worry,” he reassured her, even as his gaze met
Hermione’s over Emily’s head and Hermione stifled a smile at what she could read in his eyes.
*She’s not your daughter for nothing.*

“How did you get here?” he asked, trying to distract her.

“Hagrid brought me down and he told me to tell you to get better soon.”

Harry smiled slightly. “Did he?”

“Yes. And Headmistress McGonagall was worried too.”

“I’ll just bet she was.”

Her face sobered, her lip quivering a little, and she hugged Harry again. “*Nothing* can
happen to you, Daddy. You’re not *allowed* to get badly hurt again.”

“Okay, sweetheart, I won’t. I promise,” he murmured soothingly.

His eyes met hers over Emily’s shoulder and she stepped forward, reaching out and grasping the
hand he held out and resting her other hand on Emily’s shoulder.

His hand tightened on hers, his fingers entwining with hers, as she met his eyes, seeing an
apology for worrying them so much, seeing all the love he felt for them, in his eyes. And somehow,
at that moment, the last lingering bit of tension, of worry, that had been in her heart dissolved.
He really was going to be fine…

To her horror, she actually felt tears of relief and gratitude pricking at her eyes and blinked
them back hastily, but knew he saw in the way his expression softened, as he brought the hand he
still held to his lips, brushing the lightest of kisses against it.

He was going to be fine. Her life wasn’t over; they would still have the rest of their lives
together.

*~To be continued…*



4. Worth Any Price- Part 2
--------------------------

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~*



5. The Faith of a Daughter and of a Wife
----------------------------------------

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~*



6. Her Father's Daughter
------------------------

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~



7. Not the End
--------------

Disclaimer: HP still belongs to JKR, because unfortunately copyright laws don’t take into
account whether she deserves it or not.

Author’s Note: This is something like an AU of this AU version of H/Hr’s future. It’s not really
part of this series because I don’t have any intention of putting H/Hr through this, in my world.
It was only written to get out some RL angst. And I was going to make it a purely angsty story but
then I decided that I may as well take advantage of my god-like powers in my fics and give H/Hr the
happy ending which did not happen in real life.

Dedicated to the memory of J. Phil Neilan and to his wife, Mary.

~

**Not the End**

Matt Lindsey was a smart man. He was young—not that young, as he was reminded every time he
noticed the gray generously mixed in with the brown of his hair—smart and confident. He had
finished at the top of his class in Hogwarts and then the Healer’s Academy afterwards.

He was, some people thought, possibly the best Healer St. Mungo’s had.

But nothing had ever told him how to do this.

He did not know how he was going to walk out of this room and tell Harry Potter that he didn’t
know—that he could not promise anything…

Dear Merlin! Even in his thoughts, he couldn’t put it into words! This was his job—but it had
never before appeared to him as daunting and impossible as it did right then.

How was he going to tell Harry Potter?

He knew—as everyone did—how much Harry Potter loved his wife. And even if he hadn’t known
before, he certainly would now after seeing Mr. Potter’s face in this past long week of waiting and
worrying.

And now…

Harry Potter was, Matt had no doubt, probably the most courageous wizard alive. And Matt cringed
at the thought of having to go outside and break this news.

He washed his hands with ostentatious thoroughness, looked once more at all the various monitors
in the room and then checked them again as if he thought her condition might have changed in the
past few seconds, glanced around the room searching for something—anything—which needed to be done,
anything to avoid leaving the room but there was nothing.

He couldn’t avoid it any longer.

He took a deep breath, mentally bracing himself, trying to bring to mind the calm, comforting,
professional speech he used in times like this, and then he opened the door and stepped
outside.

Mr. Potter spun sharply in his pacing to face Matt—and every last word died in his throat. And
he saw that he need not have worried about what to say. There was no need for words. Mr. Potter’s
gaze took one look at Matt’s expression and Matt knew he knew.

*(So much for his calm, professional mask,* some corner of his mind thought
peripherally.)

Matt automatically, unconsciously, took a step back, flinching from the intensity—the
savagery—of Mr. Potter’s expression—and his *eyes*!

“*Don’t tell me that!*” he snapped. “You can’t tell me that! I don’t believe it!” his
sentences were short, staccato, his voice harsh in the silence of the private corridor. For a
moment, his throat worked and then with a strangled sound, he pushed his way into the room with
enough force as if he needed to break a brick wall down to get through the door.

Leaving Matt shaken and stunned and moved by a surge of sympathy so strong it nearly knocked him
off his feet.

*Great gods!* Matt suddenly wondered if this was what the late, unlamented Tom Riddle had
felt like when he had faced Harry Potter for the last time so many decades ago. And for the first
time, he realized why so many people spoke of Harry Potter with respect, yes, but also with a
healthy dose of fear.

He hadn’t been able to understand it, really. The first time he’d met Harry Potter, he’d been
struck more by how very normal, almost mild, Harry Potter seemed. There was nothing overt to show
that he was a hero who had saved the wizarding world several times over. Oh, it was generally clear
after spending any amount of time in his company that he was a powerful wizard but there were other
powerful wizards who didn’t strike the least bit of fear into people’s hearts. Mr. Potter didn’t
aggrandize himself or boast or threaten or in any way seem anything other than a polite,
good-natured sort of fellow. Not that he was meek but he seemed perfectly willing and able to
accept other people as equals and treat them as such. Indeed, Matt had been rather disappointed
after first meeting Harry Potter to find that the hero didn’t seem like much of a hero at all.

But at that moment, with all of Mr. Potter’s social mask stripped away, Matt had seen and, for
the first time, felt a flicker of fear. And he finally saw and understood what people feared in
Harry Potter. It wasn’t that they thought he would harm them but it was still the sense—the
knowledge—that he *could* harm them. In that brief glimpse, he saw at least some of the power
Harry Potter had—and was uncomfortably, tremblingly, aware that at the moment, he was little more
than a grain of sand compared to this terrible Fate that seemed about to snatch the wife Harry
Potter loved so much away.

~~~

Harry staggered over to Hermione’s cot and collapsed into the chair beside it, more because his
legs had given way than because of any conscious decision to sit down. He couldn’t breathe,
couldn’t think, his chest feeling as if it was being crushed under the weight of his suffocating
dread.

With a shaking hand, he touched his fingers to Hermione’s pale cheek, caressed it, sifting his
fingers gently through her hair.

She was so terribly pale—and she might be dy—his mind stopped short, backing away from the
unthinkable. He *would* not think it; he *could* not think it! It wasn’t going to
happen!

“Darling, please…” he finally managed to whisper brokenly. *Please don’t leave me,
Hermione…*

He bent and kissed her unresponsive lips and something about the stillness of her broke through
the dam he’d so carefully built up around his emotions and words—broken and intense and not
entirely coherent—rushed out of him in a torrent of feeling.

“Hermione, you have to get better. You know you do. I can’t go on without you; you *know*
that. I don’t know how to live without you, don’t know how to *be* without you. Please, love,
you can’t leave me, can’t leave the kids. I can’t take care of them without you. I’ll spoil them
terribly; you know I can’t resist any of them. And without you, who’s going to help Emily study for
her N.E.W.T’s and Andy with his O.W.L’s? I can’t do it. You’ll be lucky if they don’t both get
nothing higher than a P if you leave them to me. I need you.” His voice cracked and he swallowed
hard. “I need you, Hermione. You *know* that. You can’t leave me. You can’t. You just
*can’t*!” His voice broke on a choked sob and he lowered his forehead to hers as he fought
back the sobs rising in his throat.

He couldn’t lose her. He *couldn’t*. She was everything to him; he didn’t know how to
function without her. She was his best friend, his better half. She made him strong; she gave him
courage; she kept him sane.

“God, Hermione, how can you expect me to go on if you leave… You have to get better; you’re
*going* to get better! I’m not going to let you go. I can’t let you go…”

Harry broke off his ramblings only at the sound of a soft knock on the door that preceded
Emily’s venturing into the room with uncharacteristic uncertainty.

“Daddy?”

For a fleeting second, years faded away and Emily was once more a little girl and then he
blinked and he returned to the present, to see his very grown-up Emily—he still couldn’t believe
she was already 17; when had that happened anyway?—calling him by the name she hadn’t used
basically since starting Hogwarts, except for a few very rare occasions.

And his heart broke again at the sound.

“Yeah, sweetie,” he said softly, closing his arms around her as she almost threw herself at him
in a quick movement that betrayed all her fear. He held her tightly—his little girl who’d grown to
be nearly as tall as he was, this darling eldest daughter of his… And for a fleeting second, he
forgot all his soul-searing fear for Hermione in his love and concern for Emily, the silent comfort
and strength he insensibly received from her.

After a minute, though, she drew back. “How is Mum, Daddy? The Healer didn’t tell us anything,
really.”

Harry looked at his daughter, seeing the way her lips were pressed together as they did when she
was holding back intense emotion and trying not to cry—the same way Hermione did. She looked so
much like Hermione, slightly different cast to her features, but other than that—and, of course,
her green eyes—she could have been Hermione’s younger self.

And Harry’s courage failed him. How could he say the words when he himself couldn’t face the
reality?

“Mum’s going to be fine,” he managed to say and hoped desperately that he sounded
convincing—hoped, too, that he wouldn’t turn out to be lying. It *had* to be the truth;
anything else would be unthinkable.

Emily hid her flinch, fighting back the urge to scream or cry or do anything like that, feeling
a touch of real terror touch her heart like a cold hand, for the first time thinking, *Mum’s
going to die!*

She could hear it not only in her father’s tone, that sounded too falsely confident to her ears
but more from his face—his eyes. Her father looked as if he’d aged a decade in the past few hours,
his face haggard, his eyes bleak. She knew he hadn’t really slept at all in the past week but
this—the way he looked now… For the first time she could remember, her father looked… *frail*…
Even that one time years ago when he’d been so badly wounded, he had looked ill, certainly, and
injured—but even then, he hadn’t looked this delicate. Even then, somehow, she realized now, there
had been something of his usual presence, an impression of strength and power, with him that made
his pallor all the more startling. (Only recently had she realized that this was what made her
father different, what made his presence so comforting.)

Now—for the first time—he looked frail. Whatever was in his bearing or his manner that
contributed to the impression of strength—and she still didn’t really understand it—it wasn’t there
anymore.

And the thought darted into her mind before she could stop it: *if Mum—if anything happens to
Mum, Dad couldn’t survive…*

She’d always known her father loved her mother deeply. Her parents’ love for each other was one
of the immutable facts of her existence, one of those simple certainties of life that she could
rely on, like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, like the turning of the tides and
the changing of the seasons. She hadn’t stopped to think much about it—there wasn’t much need to
think about something that never changed, like the rising and setting of the sun, after all.

But now, looking at her father, she knew her father couldn’t live without her mother. He could
not do it. She knew he would try—for her sake and for Andy’s and Sabrina’s sakes—he would try and
she knew better than most the danger of under-estimating her father. But he couldn’t go on without
her mother. He might not die physically but somehow, at that moment, she knew that a large part of
him, his heart and soul, would die with her mother.

*Oh dear Merlin!*

Emily looked down at her mother with eyes that *would* fill with tears in spite of all her
efforts at keeping them back and then kissed her mother’s cheek. *Please, Mum, you have to get
better. You have to. You can’t leave us yet; you can’t leave Dad. We can’t do without you so you
have to get better. Mum, please…*

“Where are Andy and Sabrina?” her father asked quietly, his voice sounding somewhat clogged with
emotion.

“They’re waiting with Uncle Ron.” She hesitated and then added, knowing there was no point in
hiding it as her father would see it, “Sabrina’s crying on Andy’s shoulder.”

“Yeah, ok,” was all her father said but it was enough.

Emily hugged her father, paused, opened her lips to ask if he was going to come home to rest and
then stopped, knowing the answer already. He hadn’t gone home for more than a change of clothes in
the past week; he wasn’t going anywhere tonight. She fought back another wave of tears, pressing
her lips tightly together to hold back the sobs, and then left so Andy and Sabrina could go in.
(St. Mungo’s rules prohibited more than two or three visitors at a time in a room for those
patients who were so severely ill or injured.)

Sabrina flew into Harry’s arms the moment the door opened, flinging herself at him with a choked
cry. “Oh, Daddy!”

Harry wrapped his arms around his daughter, shutting his eyes against the tears he refused to
cry in front of his children. He didn’t open them until he felt more in control, to look at his
tall, young son.

Harry released Sabrina and hugged Andy, a real hug for the first time in years, before Andy drew
back.

“How is Mum doing, Dad?” he asked quietly.

“Will Mummy be okay, Daddy?” Sabrina asked at the same moment, her voice quavering slightly in
spite of her visible efforts to control it.

Harry forced a reassuring smile for Sabrina’s benefit. Call him crazy—but when his
daughter—well, really, any of his children—looked at him like that, he was quite willing to promise
anything and everything. He would have promised her the moon if she’d asked for it then, would have
promised to bring her the proverbial pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, anything. “Mum’s going to
be fine, I promise.”

*Hermione, don’t you dare make a liar out of me or I’ll—I’ll… I don’t know what but you won’t
like it.*

“Okay, Daddy.” Sabrina managed a wavering little smile, in spite of the tears still in her eyes,
and Harry almost heard his heart break again at the simple trust in her voice and her expression.
At 12, Sabrina had outgrown the stage of thinking that he could do anything and was always
right—Harry was resigned to that now, not happily, but resigned to it, thanks in no small part to
Hermione—but at that moment, with all her fear that made her seem so much younger, some of her
unwavering faith in him returned, he could see. Because he told her that Hermione was going to
recover, she believed him—and her unquestioning faith broke his heart.

Andy had moved over to Hermione’s bed and was looking down at her with the expression on his
face that Harry knew meant that he was trying very hard not to break down, trying to be strong.

He looked up at Harry. “She will be okay, right, Dad?”

Harry nodded, his throat clogging again and he had to swallow hard before he could say,
“Yeah.”

Andy nodded silently.

Sabrina bent to kiss Hermione’s cheek and Harry heard her choked whisper, “Get better
*soon*, Mum.”

*Oh, Hermione, how can you even think of leaving us when we all need you so much? You can’t
leave us, can’t leave me…*

He opened his lips to tell Sabrina she should go home and try to sleep—he could see the dark
circles under her eyes, the tears on her lashes and her cheeks, and hated to see her look so
tired—but before he could, Andy spoke up. “I’ll take the girls home to sleep for a while, Dad.”

“Yes, do that,” Harry managed, putting a hand briefly on Andy’s shoulder, wondering when Andy
had grown up so much.

Harry gave Sabrina a tight hug before pulling back, holding her face between his hands as he met
her eyes. “Mum’s going to be just fine, I promise.”

Sabrina nodded, looking terribly young, and then they left.

Harry turned back to Hermione, grasping her hand in his and willing her to move, to open her
eyes, willing her to recover.

*Did you hear that, Hermione? I promised Sabrina you’d get better; you’re not going to make me
a liar to our daughter, are you? You can’t do that.*

“Harry…”

Harry rounded on Ron with a glare at the pity and despair in Ron’s voice. “Don’t!” he burst out.
He could see Ron’s sorrow etched on his face and his soul shuddered away from the sight. “She
*is* going to get better!”

Ron swallowed hard and nodded. “Right,” but his tone carried no conviction, or rather, it
carried conviction of the opposite kind.

“Don’t say it,” Harry warned sharply. “Don’t even *think* it! She’s going to be
*fine*!” He forcibly softened his tone, reining in his frayed temper. “Just… just take the
kids home for the night.”

“You’re not--” Ron began and then stopped, thinking better of it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry said with quiet certainty.

Ron nodded, gripped Harry briefly on his shoulder in a mute gesture of sympathy and then left,
leaving Harry alone.

Harry never forgot that night, the seemingly-endless hours of tense waiting and watching, the
minutes and hours bleeding into each other. His only awareness of time passing was in the regular
visits of one of the Healers to check on Hermione.

He touched her cheek with caressing fingers, brushing her hair away from her face, brushed his
lips against her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, her cheek, her lips. He held her hands in a firm
grip, as if he could somehow infuse his strength, his life, into her. And all the while, he watched
her, hardly dared to blink in case something would change and he’d miss it.

She was so pale, so utterly still, it hurt him to see it. It was as if her soul, her spirit, all
that made her Hermione, had already left and there was only the physical shell left behind…

And he began to talk to her almost without knowing it, words spilling out of him in stops and
starts, soft and husky with pent-up emotion and stress and terror.

“Hermione, come on, wake up. You have to get better; you can’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.
You know I can’t do anything without you so you have to get better. You *have* to. Please,
love, come back to me… I need you to come back; you have to get better. Please…”

There was no change and his tone shifted. “Come on, Hermione, if your intent was to scare me,
you’ve succeeded so now you can get better. You have to get better. I’ve promised the kids that
you’ll be fine. You don’t want to make a liar of me, do you? You can’t leave us. Don’t you dare
even think of leaving me and the kids, Hermione. I’m not going to let you go. You can’t leave me;
you *can’t*!”

His voice broke and he swallowed hard, continuing on in his rambles, his voice gravelly with
unshed tears. “Hermione, darling, please… Don’t leave me. I can’t do anything without you. You know
that, know-it-all that you are, you *know* how much I need you.” He stopped short on a sob
that he choked back—he wouldn’t let himself cry. He was afraid if he did, the moment he let go like
that, he’d never be able to stop and he needed to be strong for his kids, needed to be strong,
especially now when Hermione *wasn’t*…

His head went down so his face was buried in her pillow, his hair mingling with hers. If ever
he’d doubted how much he needed her, after this past week, he’d never doubt again. It wasn’t so
much about the things she *did* or even things she said; it was just her, just being with her.
Something about her presence just seemed to recharge his soul and after a week without her, he felt
as if he was constantly on edge, on the verge of going outright insane. If this went on any longer,
people would find him curled up in a ball in fetal position, rocking back and forth in a corner of
a dark room. Without her, nothing *worked*…

*Without her…*

The phrase seemed to slash at his heart. *Without her…*

Pure panic at the very possibility of it took a hold of him. He started up, grabbing her hand in
both of his and just barely managed to refrain from shaking her bodily. “Come on, Hermione! You
have to get better! That’s an order! Do you hear me?” He stopped. “You know you hate being ordered
around so get better so you can kick my arse into next week. Hermione! You can’t leave me. Don’t
you dare even think about leaving me like this! I’ll never forgive you if you leave…” His voice
broke again, the desperation that had fueled his little outburst leaving him as abruptly as it had
come, and he slumped down, again fighting back the tears.

And stayed that way, motionless, for he didn’t know how long. He didn’t sleep or doze—he was
quite sure of that as he was always conscious, somehow, of the soft sound of her breathing, the
vague humming noise from all the Magical equipment in the room—but an odd sort of calm settled over
him, as if all the emotion had been drained out of him, leaving him empty of everything, empty of
despair but also empty of hope.

And then it happened.

At first, he thought he was imagining it, dreaming it even, as he stilled, forgetting to breathe
or blink, not daring to move as he waited and it felt as if the entire world paused for that
endless moment.

And then, again, it happened. Just the slightest twitch of movement against his hand, barely a
movement at all and if he hadn’t been so focused on her, he might have missed it, but he felt
it.

He jerked up, his eyes going from her hand in his—*she’d moved!*—to focus on her face.
There was no change, though, and his heart fell, his throat tight with disappointment, but then he
heard it, a slight shift in the sound of her breathing, and he bent closer.

“Hermione?” he breathed.

The next few seconds seemed to stretch on for an eternity before, very faintly, hardly more than
a flutter of breath, he heard a sound he hadn’t heard for a week now: her voice, barely a thread
but he knew it.

He blinked back tears of relief this time and bent closer. “Hermione, love, I’m here.”

“Harry…”

Only he could have deciphered his name out of the whisper of a breath that escaped her lips but
he heard it and his heart leaped.

“Yes, love,” he breathed and brushed her cheek with his fingers with a feather-light touch.

And slowly, excruciatingly slowly, since he had stopped breathing some time ago, he saw the
slightest flicker of movement of her eyelids and then her eyes opened.

It seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort for her to lift her eyelids but she managed it,
blinking once, slowly, before her eyes focused on him.

He tried to smile but didn’t quite manage it. “Welcome back, darling,” he managed to say, his
voice hoarse from his knee-weakening relief.

A frown flickered across her face before her lips parted. “You… look… terrible…” she breathed,
pausing as each word was dragged slowly out of her.

He smiled, in spite of the tears that *would* well up in his eyes. “And you look
beautiful.” He meant every word; in spite of her pallor and obvious weakness and her rather gaunt
appearance, she was still—as always—beautiful to him.

“Liar,” she mumbled drowsily even as she lost the battle to keep her eyes open and in another
minute, he could tell that she was asleep.

Asleep but not unconscious and he knew she would wake up again. He didn’t need to glance at the
monitors around her to know that she had—miraculously—pulled through and was out of danger now.

He slumped forward, all the terror and dread and emotion that had been keeping him going
vanishing abruptly, leaving him utterly spent and empty of everything except for his soul-searing
relief. He rested his forehead against her pillow and breathed the most fervent prayer of his life,
“*thank you*,” and he wasn’t sure if he was addressing the Fates or Hermione.

She would recover. His life wasn’t over.

And finally, he allowed himself to cry.

He cried out all the fears and dread that had gnawed at his heart and soul in these past days,
cried out his dizzying, euphoric relief, cried for all the worry for his children as well as for
himself. He cried as he couldn’t remember ever crying before, cried until he was half-ashamed of
himself, but when his tears had stopped, he was calm, at peace for the first time in what felt like
a very long time.

~~~

Matt stopped short at the door to Mrs. Potter’s room, his gaze going from the monitors that
showed she had turned the corner and would recover eventually to the bent form of Mr. Potter,
wracked with sobs, no less intense for all their softness. He saw and understood in one second and
in the next moment, had quietly closed the door, leaving the Potters alone.

There was no place for him in that room right now, no place for anyone else in the all-consuming
intensity of Mr. Potter’s relief, just as intense as his fear had been.

Instead, he turned to Floo-call Mr. Weasley with the good news, to do what was the best part
about his job.

And as he walked, he found himself smiling, more glad and relieved than he could say or explain,
to know that this vigil, in particular, had come to a happy conclusion. He didn’t flatter himself
that Mrs. Potter’s recovery was due to his skill; in her condition, her life had, for a time that
night, been out of all mortal hands and he could only thank whatever Fates had mercifully decreed
that it was not yet her time. He could also only wonder if, somehow, in some way, the very strength
of Harry Potter’s love had been what had saved her, a love so strong it could have overcome the
shadow of death.

Whatever it had been, he was immensely thankful.

This was not the end of the love story of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger Potter. And for now,
that was enough.

*~(Not) The End~*



8. A Reason for Seduction
-------------------------

Disclaimer: See ‘All He Ever Wanted’.

Author’s Note: Some more smut of the happy, married H/Hr variety, since that is the main purpose
of this little series anyway. Pure fluff to make up for the angst in the last one.

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*A Reason for Seduction*

At a little after 6 pm one perfect August evening, Harry Potter fell in love. Again.

He pushed open the door of his and Hermione’s flat. “Hermione, I’m home,” he said half-absently,
part of his mind still mulling over the latest development in the sporadic incidents of Dark magic
he’d been keeping an eye on.

He shrugged out of his light summer cloak and turned to hang it up on its hook beside where hers
was already hanging.

“Hello, love.”

He turned, his brows raised and a small smile already playing on his lips in reaction to the
decidedly sultry tone of her voice and that was when it happened.

His heart stopped—and then began to pound. All the blood fled from his head in a rush. He
vaguely thought he heard a soft strangled sound that escaped his throat, something like a last gasp
as he had the equivalent of a heart attack.

*Dear Merlin…*

He might have sworn, if anyone had asked, that Hermione could hardly surprise him anymore. After
more than 4 years of marriage, almost six years of being romantically involved and, more than that,
a decade and half of friendship where they had studied, laughed, faced countless dangers together
until by the end of their 7th year, there were times it hardly seemed as if they were
two separate people anymore—he knew Hermione as well as he knew himself. He would have doubted that
Hermione could surprise him very much.

He would have been wrong.

Because Hermione, on this evening and at that moment, had just about knocked him off his feet
until he could only be amazed—in afterthought—that he hadn’t keeled over from shock—and an
immediate surge of lust.

He knew Hermione was beautiful and Merlin knew there had been several occasions over the past
few years when she had knocked the breath from his body. But he had never seen, or imagined,
anything as gorgeous—as amazingly, heart-stoppingly sexy—as she looked right then, as she stood in
the doorway from their bedroom.

*Dear Merlin, how he loved her…*

She was wearing a new dress (he didn’t keep track of her entire wardrobe but he was very sure he
had never seen her wear this before as there was no way, short of complete and total amnesia and
possibly death, that he could have forgotten such a sight) and for a moment, he could only stare,
greedily taking in the sight of her. He had heard the expression ‘a feast for the eyes’ and for the
first time, he knew exactly what it meant. She was, quite literally, that—a feast for all his
senses—and he thought he could happily go without food or drink for days if he could simply look at
her.

The dress was red (the first surprising thing, as Hermione hardly ever wore red, disliking the
color) but Harry promptly revised his thinking to decide that red was definitely his new favorite
color for her. The rich, bright color contrasted beautifully with her skin, making it look paler,
almost seem to glow as if she was illuminated from within; it provided a perfect contrast to her
hair and her eyes, making them seem darker, provocative.

And as for what the material and the style of the dress did to Hermione’s figure… It wasn’t that
the dress was very tight; it wasn’t. Instead, it seemed to flow over the curves of her body, almost
caress it much as he wished his hands could. As he had every intention of doing once he could
remember how to move his feet.

“Well, are you just going to stand there and gape all night?” she asked in a voice that was pure
seduction.

With a look which could only be called sultry, she turned away, moving into their bedroom.

Harry nearly swallowed his tongue. The backline of the dress plunged down to leave most of her
back bare.

He nearly swallowed his tongue before he crossed their flat faster than he ever had in his
life.

He kicked their bedroom door closed behind him and grabbed her arm in the same moment and that
touch was all it took.

She swung around, flattening herself against him, wrapping her arms around him as her lips found
his in a kiss that had all the explosive power of a fusillade of cannons. There was no build-up to
this, as there usually was between them; all the build-up necessary had been taken care of with her
dress and her manner.

He kissed her hard, possessively, with all the passion and lust roaring through his body, not
bothering to hide how aroused he was (not that he ever did). His arms wrapped around her body,
bringing her up snugly against him, his hands slipping inside her dress to flatten on her bare
skin.

She met him passion for passion, lust for lust, encouraging him, inciting him, with the arch of
her body against his, her tongue meeting his, stroking his, as she explored the warm depths of his
mouth. She raked her fingers through his hair and then lightly trailed her nails across the back of
his neck, feeling the reactive shiver go through his body.

They kissed until their bodies were burning and straining against each other, until the rest of
the world ceased to exist and they were the only two people in a heated, sensual world where
feeling was supreme.

They stumbled backwards blindly, still kissing, until the backs of her knees bumped into their
bed. He finally tore his lips from hers when breathing had become a serious issue, drawing back
just enough to stare down at her, as he always liked to do. He loved to see her like this, her eyes
dark and dilated with passion, her cheeks flushed, her lips moist and swollen from his kisses.
Loved to see her like this and know that she was his; the sight of her like this, a little dazed
and breathless, never failed to send a surge of pure, male possessiveness through him. This side of
her, the picture she made in these moments, was only his; he was the only man to see her like this…
(He’d never thought he was a particularly possessive person but he had found that with her, where
she was concerned, he was.)

The moment lingered, stretched, as they simply stared at each other, letting the blazing passion
that had erupted wane, becoming a slow, steady simmer of lingering arousal instead. The air became
thick as anticipation rose, swelled between them.

“New dress?” he finally asked, huskily. His fingers moved in a slow, idle caress on the bare
skin of her back, just brushing her skin, knowing how sensitive she was to even the lightest of
caresses when she was aroused.

“Yes. Do you like it?” She cast him a flirtatious look that was pure provocation, the sort of
look that could—and did—draw his heart and soul out of his body.

His fingers tightened automatically on her skin before he let his gaze dip, wander down the
length of her, as much as he could see. And he answered her (rhetorical) question with a kiss, his
tongue plundering her mouth possessively before he drew back, just enough to leave a trail of soft,
damp kisses along the line of her jaw and her cheek. “You,” he said huskily, “are not allowed to
wear this dress in public,” punctuating every word with another kiss. “Ever,” he added, as if his
statement hadn’t been clear enough.

“Not allowed to?” she repeated in mild defiance—or at least, that was what she was aiming for,
but the words came out as more of a breathless gasp, as his lips unerringly found every sensitive
spot, sending shivers of heat and pleasurable sensation through her body.

His eyes sparked as he slid his hands down to cup her butt and bring her arching against him
until she could feel the hardness of his arousal pressing into her even more emphatically.

Her eyes darkened, her lips parting on a soft gasp, even as she swayed gently, lightly rubbing
herself against him in deliberate seduction—and she gave up the attempt to tease him for his
assumption of authority. “I won’t,” she promised breathlessly—as she’d always been intending to.
She had no wish to wear the dress in public; she’d bought it for him, had every intention of only
wearing it for him.

“Good,” he breathed just before he lowered his lips to hers again, kissing her with a less fiery
passion but deeper, instead, letting his tongue explore the depths of her mouth in a leisurely
fashion that was a seduction in itself, alluring her, tempting her. She arched herself against him,
making a soft sound in the back of her throat, and took charge of the kiss, her tongue dueling with
his in a wholly arousing fashion, making the kiss a wilder, flagrantly greedy melding of lips and
tongues.

He mentally gasped, reeling from the intensity of the sensual power she could wield over his
senses. He was dizzy with need and desperate lust, every nerve in his body crying out for her,
wanting more, wanting all of her. He wanted to strip her bare, wanted to glory in the beauty of her
body, wanted to taste her passion, wanted to sink into her…

His hands travelled up the bare skin of her back to her shoulders and then, slowly, pushed the
straps of her dress down, leaving her shoulders completely bare. She had lovely shoulders; until
her, he’d never even realized that shoulders could be beautiful, but Hermione’s were. Her skin was
perfectly smooth and the slope of her shoulders, the curve of it, was a picture of grace (in his
admittedly biased opinion).

He’d had some vague idea of stripping her slowly, as he normally liked to do, peeling her dress
off her, revealing every inch of her body inch by delectable inch as if she were some priceless
gift he was unwrapping—but he changed his mind in a heartbeat when he saw her bare shoulders. How
just the sight of her shoulders could inflame him so much, he didn’t know but at the moment, he
didn’t care either. All he knew was that it did.

He needed to see all of her *now* and the word, slow, had suddenly vanished from his
vocabulary.

He closed the distance between their lips, kissing her fiercely, his tongue invading the
familiar depth of her mouth, dueling with her tongue, while his hands hastily pushed her dress
down, stripping her.

Her hands weren’t idle either, her fingers flying to undo the buttons of his shirt and then
pushing it off his shoulders until he shrugged out of it himself.

One of her hands slid down to cup his arousal, her fingers playing over the hard length of him
through the cloth of his trousers, and he broke their kiss to groan, while her other hand undid the
fastenings of his trousers and pushed them down. His hands finally left her body only to assist her
in pushing off his trousers and his boxers, freeing his straining erection.

Before he could so much as draw breath, her hands were on him, touching him, feathering along
the rigid length of him before she wrapped her fingers around him, beginning to stroke him in that
way which she knew never failed to drive him crazy.

His knees buckled and he groaned, grabbing her wrist quickly and pulling her hand away from his
body. “No more,” he rasped out.

She shot him a look of combined seduction and mischief from under her lashes—and for a moment,
he thought he would embarrass himself right there, responding to her look even more than he had to
her touch.

She fell back onto the bed with a languorous sensuality that tugged at him, captivated him and
drew him with her with more sureness than if she’d pulled him down with her.

He barely paused to take in the sight of her lying on her back in wanton abandon on their bed,
unusually for him since looking at her, seeing her like this, was one of his favorite things in the
world and something he never tired of. (She was so utterly, unspeakably beautiful, the embodiment
of every erotic dream or fantasy he’d ever had or ever hoped to have—unsurprisingly given that all
his erotic dreams and fantasies starred her now and had for years.)

God, he wanted her so… He felt as if he would die if he didn’t touch her, taste her, sink into
her wet, yielding warmth…

He lowered his lips to her skin, leaving a trail of hot, damp kisses down the column of her
neck, her throat, nipping lightly at her collar bone, and then further until he reached his
goal.

He captured her taut nipple with his lips, as his hand cupped, toyed with the other breast. She
let out a cry as she arched up towards him, her hands flying to his hair, holding his head in place
as he continued his ministrations.

He licked, sucked, laved, nibbled ever-so-gently, his lips and teeth and tongue working magic on
her sensitized breasts.

He teased her, worshipped her soft skin with his mouth, until she was burning, her head moving
restlessly on the pillow, small gasps and moans tripping from her lips.

He drew back momentarily when he sensed her getting too close to the edge, intending to wait a
few minutes but he forgot his resolution in the space of a few heartbeats. He was addicted to her,
to the softness of her skin, and he wanted her too much to pause now.

All he could do was leave off his attentions to her sensitive breasts, shifting lower on her
body.

He moved further down on their bed, letting his lips leave a damp trail of kisses across her
stomach, heading slowly but surely for the hot, wet center of her body. She moaned and whimpered
and writhed a little beneath him.

And then for almost the first time, she stopped him before he could reach his destination,
getting his attention with a gentle tug on his hair until he looked up at her with eyes dark and
hooded with arousal.

“No. I want… you… inside me *now*,” she managed to get out, her words disjointed and
punctuated by gasps for breath. “*Please*,” she added, her hips arching in mute
invitation.

And he gave her what she wanted; when his beautiful, sexy wife asked for anything in that tone
of voice, with that look on her face, he couldn’t resist her, would have happily given her his
soul.

He surged upward, his lips finding hers blindly, even as his jutting erection found the slick,
wet center of her body, the tip of him just sliding along her swollen flesh until she thought she
would go mad with wanting and she writhed under him, pushing herself against him in a mindless
search for completion. He finally thrust into her, sheathing his full length inside her, filling
her with the heat and the strength of him, and they both cried out sharply at that moment of
joining.

*God…* His senses spun out of control even as his every nerve ending paradoxically seemed
to tighten, focus, on the spot where they were joined, on the hot wetness of her surrounding him,
clasping him.

Her arms and her legs wrapped around him, urging him on, deeper inside her, as he began to move,
his hips thrusting into her with quick, impatient movements. And she met and matched his frantic
rhythm, both far beyond the point of trying to draw out their pleasure.

It was hardly any time at all before she shattered, her muscles clenching convulsively around
him as her body reached that peak of sensation, a scream tearing its way from her throat.

And that was all it took. He followed her so closely it almost felt simultaneous, the exquisite
pleasure of her body moving around him propelling him into bliss as he exploded inside her with a
muffled groan.

He collapsed on top of her in a boneless heap, gasping for breath, his heart seeming to want to
fight its way out of his chest, lying there for what could have been anywhere from a minute to
several years for all his awareness of time passing. It seemed like an endless time before he
finally managed to move, rolling over onto his side to take his weight off of her. His arm
tightened around her as she shifted, tucking her body into the curve of his.

She let out a soft sigh of contentment and murmured idly, “I love you, Harry.”

He felt a small bubble of warmth in his chest. No matter how many times he heard her say the
words, it somehow never failed to make joy blossom in his heart. But he wouldn’t admit it and
strove for a teasing response. “I wasn’t sure before but after seeing you in that dress, I know I
love you.”

Her hand moved from where it had been resting on his chest to pinch one flat, male nipple, with
just a little too much force. “Harry!” she scolded mildly.

He flattened his hand on top of hers, preventing her from doing any more damage. “Well, it’s
true,” he defended with mock sincerity.

His reward was a look of mock reproof as she pretended to try to leave the circle of his
arms.

He tightened his arm around her as if to imprison her before she settled back against him, her
head nestled against his shoulder.

“What brought this on?” he asked after a moment, adding with a slight smile, “Not that you need
to have a reason to seduce me. In fact, feel free to do it again anytime you like.”

In spite of his bantering tone, he did know that something must be going on in some way for
Hermione to deliberately set out to seduce him like this in the middle of the week. It wasn’t
anything he’d realized consciously—Merlin knew his conscious mind had been completely enthralled
with her to the utter exclusion of all else—but somehow, in some part of him that was almost
instinctive, the knowledge that there was something beyond the obvious going on had become embedded
in his mind and it was only now, when his body had been sated, that the awareness returned to the
surface of his mind.

The more so because he was relatively sure that today didn’t mark any special anniversary of
theirs—although, given Hermione’s tendencies, he couldn’t be entirely certain of that either. He
still remembered how Hermione had remembered the year anniversary of their first, real kiss—and had
“celebrated” by taking him out to lunch—and he also remembered, very vividly with the flicker of
heat he always felt in remembering that day, that they hadn’t really eaten during that “lunch” at
all… (Over the years, Hermione had also remembered the anniversary of the first time he’d told her
he loved her—and then she’d kept track of how many times he said the words, startling him one day
by informing him that he’d now reached 100 times. Besides, of course, the anniversaries of their
engagement and their wedding—but he remembered those dates too.)

She shifted her head to look up at him, meeting his eyes, her expression sobering, and his smile
faded with it, all teasing leaving his eyes and his mood.

There was something, he knew, which she’d been mulling over for the past few days. He knew her
well enough by now to recognize the signs of her distraction and her preoccupation and, by now, he
also knew when he could ask her what she was thinking about and when he couldn’t. He hadn’t tried
to find out what was on her mind. He knew Hermione loved him and trusted him and there was as much
confidence and openness between them as was possible between two people. But sometimes, he
understood now, Hermione simply needed some space in order to think something through on her own
and only then would she mention it to him. It had bothered him at first (in fact, he remembered
very vividly that one of their first more serious arguments had been over just that, his stubborn
insistence that she tell him what she was thinking about when she hadn’t been ready to do so) but
by now, he knew that it wasn’t a sign of any lack of trust on her part and he knew, too, that when
she was ready, Hermione would tell him.

And now, he guessed, it looked as if that time when she would tell him had arrived—and had
somehow served as the underlying reason for this seduction, he assumed.

“You remember that little girl I told you about?”

He didn’t have to think. “The one who was unconscious for more than a week and then regained
consciousness?”

“Yes. I told you how happy and how relieved and how grateful her parents were but there was one
part that I didn’t tell you. When she woke up, the first thing she saw was her mother’s face and do
you know what she said?”

He shook his head mutely, knowing better than to give some glib, joking answer.

“She said—even though her voice was so weak from her having been so sick for so long—the first
thing she said was, ‘are you okay, mum?’”

Harry was silent, because he could think of no words to say in response to such a story and even
if he could, he was afraid that his voice would tremble in an unmanly fashion, given how much the
story had moved him.

“It just… it really made me think, Harry. I haven’t been able to think about much else since it
happened, actually, and now, I’m sure.” She paused and met his eyes. “I’m ready, Harry. We haven’t
talked about it lately but I’m sure now.”

Harry’s breath caught in his chest as he stared at her, his mind automatically going back to the
conversation they’d had just before their wedding. It was one of the few important things which
they’d differed on in their outlooks and he knew, because Hermione had told him once afterwards,
that she’d worried about it for a while before bringing it up.

*Harry studied Hermione with a slight frown of concern in his eyes. She looked and sounded
unusually solemn, almost hesitant—and that hint of hesitation made him nervous. Hermione uncertain
of herself with him? She had long ago outgrown any slight shade of uncertainty where he was
concerned—or so he’d thought.*

*Her lips parted, then closed again in visible indecision.*

*“Hermione?* *Come on, love, I know you aren’t confessing a crime so it can’t be that
bad,” he teased gently, trying to coax a smile from her.*

*The ghost of a smile touched her lips before she sobered and met his eyes. “What about kids,
Harry? Do you want them?”*

*His answer was swift and sure. “Yes—but not yet.”*

*It was almost amazing how certain he was in this. The thought of children hadn’t even crossed
his mind until very recently—certainly never with any of his previous girlfriends—but the thought
of having kids with Hermione, of Hermione holding one of their children, just did something to him,
filled his chest with an odd sensation he couldn’t even name other than to know it led to an
intense pang of longing.*

*“Oh.”*

*She said nothing more and he frowned slightly. “What about you? Do you?”*

*“I- I don’t know, Harry,” she confessed rather hesitantly. “I know I don’t want them now or
any time soon…”*

*“Well, I don’t exactly want them tomorrow either,” he said gently, because her tone was
sounding oddly, uncharacteristically diffident and she was no longer looking at him.*

*She finally glanced up at him. “I don’t know if I’ll ever want them!” she blurted out. “I
just—I’ve never been one of those little girls who grew up playing house pretending their dolls
were their children or something.”*

*He had to smile at that, in spite of the seriousness of the conversation. “I never thought
you were.”*

*“I’ve never felt very comfortable around kids—even when I was young myself, I wasn’t
comfortable with other kids,” she confessed.*

*He hadn’t known that but it didn’t entirely surprise him. He remembered how friendless
Hermione had been at first at Hogwarts and he knew very well that she’d never been one for large
groups of friends.*

*She looked up at him. “What if I decide I never want to have kids?”*

*“Then we won’t,” he answered simply.*

*“But, Harry, you want--” she began.*

*He cut her off with a quick kiss, brushing his lips against hers. “I do want kids eventually,
yes—but I want to marry you more.”*

*She still didn’t look entirely comforted so he managed a smile and said teasingly, “I’m not
marrying you because I think you’ll make a great breeder, you know.”*

*She’d finally smiled and kissed him—and the conversation had ended after they’d both tacitly
agreed to talk about it again later.*

Later had become now.

He couldn’t think of anything to say, couldn’t think of any way to express his thoughts—and even
if he could have, he didn’t know if he trusted his voice to function, given the sudden tightness in
his throat.

“Hermione,” he finally breathed. “Really?”

She nodded, smiling a small, solemn sort of smile, that told him (even though he’d already
known) that she hadn’t made this decision lightly (did she ever make a decision lightly? This was
Hermione, after all; about the only decision she’d ever made, he thought, without having to think
about it at all was the decision to accept his proposal.) “Yes, really, Harry. I want to have your
children.”

He shook his head slightly, putting a gentle finger on her lips. “No, not *my* children,
*our* children. That’s the most important part, after all, what I really always wanted:
*our* children.”

Her expression softened, her eyes shining with a tender light, in a way that never failed to
make his breath still in his chest, his heart filling with warmth. It was an expression of so much
naked emotion, so much pure, unadulterated love, it just amazed him. He didn’t see it often, only
in moments of particular tenderness, so it was doubly precious when he did see it. All the more
because he knew it was a look that only he ever saw.

“I do love you, Harry.”

His lips quirked into a teasing smile. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“Harry.” There was a warning in her tone, in spite of the answering smile tugging at the corners
of her lips.

He abruptly sobered, letting his expression soften. “I love you too. More than I even knew was
possible.”

He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers, kissing her softly, lingeringly, until she
shifted above him, one hand sliding up to cup his cheek, as she deepened the kiss.

She ended the kiss slowly, nibbling lightly at his lower lip, dropping a fleeting kiss on the
corner of his lips, his cheek, his chin, before she moved lower, pressing a series of slow,
leisurely kisses from his shoulder, across his chest, and then further down.

Harry closed his eyes at the soft touches of her lips to his skin. The kisses weren’t
deliberately meant to be seductive, he could tell, were more tender than sensual—but then again,
he’d discovered long ago that his body didn’t distinguish between the two. When she touched him, no
matter how she touched him, his body reacted, heated. The blood was beginning to rush through him,
pooling heavily in his groin, as he felt himself stir.

She felt it too.

He sensed the subtle change in her kisses, the added intent. And then she touched her tongue to
his nipple, wrenching a groan from him, as his body hardened instantly.

She smiled against his skin as she continued on her path.

*He’d married a siren.*

Arousal was clouding his mind, drugging his thoughts, and he fought for coherence, forcibly
pulling his mind away from her body and her lips and what she was doing to him.

“Hermione,” he managed to get out.

She paused, looking up at him, and he had to bite back another groan at the sultry intent in her
eyes. “Hmm?”

For a split second, he couldn’t remember what he’d been about to say. “Do you want to perform
the charm now or wait?”

Her eyes softened, became more loving than seductive. “You do it for me.”

Only she could do this to him—make him feel a wave of such tenderness even while his body was
hard and aroused.

She twisted around, reaching for her wand lying on the nightstand, and gave it to him.

He closed his fingers around it even as he asked, “You’re sure?”

“Very,” was all she said, simply.

He looked at her wand and then down at the smooth skin of her stomach, feeling the slight
tingling in his palm that came from holding her wand. He’d used her wand a few times during the
war—times when he’d been disarmed, losing his grip on his wand, and she’d thrown him hers—and he’d
been surprised to feel that using her wand didn’t feel odd or wrong at all. Not like the one time
he’d used Ron’s wand—that had been a definite indication of the truth that a wizard using another
wizard’s wand was not generally advisable. Using Hermione’s wand wasn’t like that—oh, it wasn’t his
own wand, to be sure, and he could feel the difference—but it somehow fit him well enough. He’d
wondered, in an idle moment, if it wasn’t yet one more indication of the indefinable connection
between him and Hermione—and now, at this moment, he had to believe it. Just one more sign that she
was somehow a part of him and he was a part of her…

He bent and brushed his lips against hers lightly before he drew back and focused his attention
and his gaze on her stomach before murmuring the words to undo the Contraceptive Charm.

A faintly pink light emerged from the tip of her wand and settled, seemed to be absorbed by
Hermione’s skin, which glowed momentarily.

And he knew it was done.

His eyes flicked up to hers, seeing the sort of tender solemnity in them, before she leaned
forward and kissed him lightly, lingeringly, as she took back her wand and blindly dropped it back
onto the nightstand behind her.

His hands came up to cup her face, holding her in place, as she shifted above him, deepening the
kiss as her hair came falling forward around their faces.

“I love you,” he whispered against her lips when she finally drew back.

He opened his eyes to see her smile—sweetly, a smile he knew she reserved only for him.

“I know,” she said softly.

Their eyes met and held for a long moment as she looked down at him, her fingers sliding idly
through his hair.

He saw the flicker in her eyes before she lowered her head, dropping a fleeting kiss on his
lips.

“Now,” she almost purred, “where were we?” She flicked her eyes up at him, her expression a
mixture of mischief, love, seduction and arousal.

His body hardened again just from the look in her eyes, the tone of her voice. God, he loved it
when she sounded like that, never failed to react to the throatiness of her voice—all the more
because he knew just what it led to.

“Hermione…” Her name came out on a husky moan.

She smiled again.

“My turn,” she breathed, just before she lowered her lips to his skin again, leaving a trail of
initially delicate kisses that became more deliberately sensual and sent heat sizzling through his
body. Her hands weren’t idle either and skated ahead, stroking, exploring, caressing, paving the
same path her lips followed.

Down his chest, past his stomach, and further still…

He died, lost his mind—but before he did, he fell in love and lust—again. Forever. And knew that
he had all he’d ever wanted or needed--- all he would *ever* want or need—right there.

*~The End~*



9. Coming Home
--------------

Disclaimer: See ‘All He Ever Wanted’.

Author’s Note: For my very dear Romulus Lupin—happy birthday, Gil!!

Pure fluff—it might be the all-time fluffiest fic I’ve ever written. So consider yourselves
warned—major cavity alert!

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*Coming Home*

A soft whimper took Hermione to the “baby’s room” as it was called to see Sabrina curled up on
her bed, clutching the stuffed unicorn which was her favorite doll while tears streaked down her
cheeks.

She sat down on the side of the bed, reaching out to bring Sabrina into her arms. “Sshh,
sweetie, mummy’s here now. What is it? Did you have a nightmare?” she murmured soothingly.

Sabrina nodded, whimpering fitfully. “I want Daddy,” she half-wailed. “Where’s Daddy?”

Hermione suppressed a sigh, cuddling Sabrina closer to her and biting back the impulse to say
that she wanted “Daddy” too. “Daddy’s not here, darling. He had to go away, remember?”

“I want Daddy,” Sabrina repeated with all the stubborn persistence of childhood.

“I know, sweetie, I know. He’ll be home soon but he can’t be here now.”

“Where’s Daddy? He should be here; I want Daddy!”

“Sssh, darling, Daddy will be home soon. You can be a good, brave girl until then, right,
love?”

Sabrina sniffed, blinking back her tears, as she nodded.

Hermione gave her a soft smile of approval. “That’s my good girl. Now try to go back to sleep.
I’ll stay right here and I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

“Promise?”

Hermione hugged Sabrina tighter. “Of course I promise. I’ll always protect you and take care of
you.”

Sabrina returned the hug, nestling against Hermione with the simple trust that somehow never
failed to melt her heart. “Okay.”

Sabrina was silent for a few minutes as Hermione stroked the girl’s soft hair, before she turned
her large eyes on Hermione again. “When will Daddy come back?”

“Soon, Daddy will be home soon.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. Now hush and try to go back to sleep and Mummy will stay right here until you do.”
Hermione tucked Sabrina securely back into bed with her stuffed unicorn and, for good measure, the
teddy bear Harry had bought for Sabrina, and then kissed Sabrina’s forehead and cheek tenderly.

“Night, mummy,” Sabrina mumbled as she snuggled into her pillow, her unicorn safely in hand.

Hermione lingered in Sabrina’s room for another hour until she was sure her baby was asleep, her
eyes caressing every precious feature.

She wondered where Harry was that night, suddenly missing him with a fierce intensity. She
always missed him when he wasn’t around, of course, but Sabrina’s nightmare tonight just seemed to
emphasize how much she needed him—how much they all needed him.

It wasn’t only that she knew the kids—all of them—automatically seemed to turn to Harry first
when they had nightmares. For just about everything else, they turned to her as a matter of course
but whenever any of the kids had nightmares, “Daddy” was usually the first word out of their lips
and he was the one who could soothe them the best. She supposed it was just more evidence of that
feeling of safety that Harry tended to give those closest to him; she had always felt it herself
and their kids all seemed to as well, always seeking Harry after a nightmare. He had told her once
that she was his haven; what she hadn’t quite realized until then, what she’d never really told him
in so many words although she knew by now that he knew it, was that he was her haven too.

But the children’s nightmares aside, she simply missed him. She would never tell him (although
she suspected he knew) how hard she found it whenever he went away, dealing with the kids on her
own. It wasn’t that they were rowdier or misbehaved more when Harry was away; rather it was that
her supply of patience was more limited when Harry wasn’t there to take the edge off, as it seemed.
The little squabbles, the occasional fractiousness, the usual noise of childhood, seemed to grate
on her more and she found herself biting her tongue sometimes to keep from speaking in a sharper
tone than warranted. She was always heartily ashamed of herself but had to admit that she was not
the most patient of people and having been an only child—and a quiet, only child at that—she’d had
very little real understanding of the noise children could, and did, make. Harry was better, more
patient, than she was—and he helped her too. He had the ability to make her smile and relax with a
word or a smile, his simple presence somehow seeming to add to her supply of patience. And then, at
night, falling asleep beside him, just being with him replenished her emotional stores, allowed her
to begin the next day afresh.

*Come home, Harry,* she thought, wondering fancifully if she could will him to return
quicker. *We need you; come home soon, love…*

~

Harry quietly let himself into his dark house, not wanting to disturb anyone.

He was bone-weary after five days of basically camping out in the wilds of Wales, looking into
some reports of disturbances in the area. There had been a disappearance and a few incidents of
Muggle baiting which, together, formed a disturbing picture. He had found that, thankfully, the
incidents were unrelated but it had still taken him five days away from his home and his
family.

He let out a soft sigh as he locked the door and, as he always did on returning home, made sure
the wards were secure.

That done, he made his swift, silent way through his house and up the stairs, not bothering with
a light as he knew every step of his house by heart.

He crept into Andy’s bedroom to see his son sleeping soundly, lying on his side, with one hand
tucked under his pillow. He smiled to himself and brushed a lock of black hair away from Andy’s
face with a feather-light touch before he crept out again.

The door to the room where Sabrina, the baby, slept was ajar, as always, and he pushed it open
with a careful nudge. He could hear her deep, even breathing before he could see her but made his
way over to her bed anyway. He loved to watch her sleep, his little baby girl, clutching the
stuffed unicorn which Ron had given her on her 3rd birthday and which had been her constant sleep
companion since that day. He felt a wave of tenderness and reached out with one finger to brush the
soft baby skin of her cheek in the lightest of caresses. “Sleep tight, my little love,” he
whispered before sneaking out, as quietly as he had entered.

Emily’s room was his last stop. As always, his breath stuttered a little in his chest at the
sight of her sleeping. In sleep, she looked even more like a miniature version of Hermione with her
brown hair and her features, her green eyes, the most noticeable thing she’d inherited from him,
hidden behind her eyelids.

It was why he loved to watch Emily sleep so much; he could trace every familiar feature with his
eyes and picture what Hermione must have looked like at that age, years before he would meet her.
And if Emily was any indication, Hermione must have been adorable too—although he admitted to being
biased in that regard. It was amazing, sometimes. He’d never thought he would be that sort of
fellow, the one who could spend hours watching his kid sleep—or watching his wife sleep—but then
he’d fallen in love with Hermione and then the kids had come along and entirely naturally, it had
happened. He remembered the first time, when Emily had been a baby, he’d been watching her as she
napped and when Hermione returned home, he’d still been watching her in much the same position he
had been when she’d left. Hermione had teased him about looking like he hadn’t moved in the past
two hours—and it was only then that he’d realized that he really had, essentially, spent two hours
doing nothing much but watching Emily sleep.

Silly, perhaps, sentimental, definitely—but honestly, what else was a man to do when he had the
most beautiful daughter in the world?

She looked most like Hermione but she was his little girl in every other way, having soon
learned that her father was like putty in her small hands. When she looked up at him with her
bright green eyes out of that face that reminded him of Hermione when he’d first known her, he was
quite helpless to resist her. He knew it; Hermione teased him lightly because of it, but he
couldn’t help it and wouldn’t even if he could. From the first moment he’d seen her, he’d fallen
head over heels in love with his daughter and that had never changed.

He brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over her face and bent to brush his lips against
her temple, secure enough in his knowledge of how sound a sleeper Emily tended to be. (Andy was the
lightest sleeper of the three of his children.)

He straightened, turning away, but then he heard her sleepy voice, “Daddy?”

He stopped and turned back to her, crouching down by the bed. “Yes, Emily-kin, it’s me. Go back
to sleep, love. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Mm hmm,” she mumbled, turning onto her side as her eyes closed again.

He tucked her blankets in around her again with a gentle hand and brushed a kiss on her cheek.
“Good night, Emily-kin.”

“G’night.”

He straightened and was beginning to turn away again when she spoke. “Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m glad you’re home.”

Harry’s heart melted. “So am I, love. Now, go back to sleep.”

She nodded drowsily, wrinkling her nose in a half-yawn, as she drifted off again. Harry watched
her, his heart in his throat, deciding (yet again) that he truly was the luckiest man in the world.
It amazed him, simply knocked him off his feet, to think that this was all his, three beautiful
children, a wife he loved more than he’d ever thought possible… He didn’t know what he’d done to
get so lucky but he was thankful to the Fates every day of his life.

He slipped quietly into his bedroom, using every ounce of stealth he possessed. He didn’t want
to wake Hermione; he could guess how tired she must be after days of dealing with the children on
her own, especially as, knowing her, she wouldn’t have worked any less either.

The room was dark, the moonlight weakly filtering through the curtains, just enough for him to
make out vague shadows. The only sound was the quiet one of Hermione’s deep, steady breathing.

He made quick work of his clothes, haphazardly folding them before tossing them onto the dresser
(just enough to avoid Hermione’s mild scolding in the morning), before he slid into bed behind
her.

But in spite of his care, he wasn’t very surprised when she stirred and mumbled drowsily,
“Harry?” Never a very heavy sleeper at the best of times, he knew very well that she was an even
lighter sleeper when he wasn’t home, so even the softest sound from any of the children’s rooms
tended to wake her.

He curved his body around her warm one, slipping his arm over her waist and settling her more
firmly against him, as he brushed a kiss on her ear. “No, it’s your secret lover,” he murmured,
nuzzling her, a thread of laughter in his voice.

He sensed rather than saw her slight smile, heard it in her voice as she breathed, “Oh, good. Be
careful my husband doesn’t catch you.”

He smiled, his arm tightening slightly around her, as he relaxed onto the bed. “I will be.”

She moved one hand to rest over his, her fingers brushing over his knuckles in an idle caress
before weaving their fingers together, holding his hand lightly.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling his body relax, all the tension that he felt whenever he was away
from home draining out of him. It was a cliché but it was very true that Hermione was his home. It
was only when he was with her that he truly felt as if he had returned home. Secure in that, with
the familiar warmth of her body curled against him, the familiar sound of her even breathing, he
felt himself slide into sleep.

He awoke to find the pale light of dawn filtering through the curtains, patchily illuminating
the room. He had only slept for a few hours but he always found it difficult to sleep for very
long, in spite of his fatigue, after he’d been out on a mission, after days of being on edge and
sleeping only a couple hours at a time.

He could hear Hermione’s even breathing and for that moment, he was perfectly content to simply
lie there and listen to the familiar sound, enjoy the familiar warmth of her lying in his arms. He
would never admit it aloud (although he suspected that she knew, as she always seemed to know) but
even now, after more than ten years of marriage, he still liked to lie in bed next to her and still
felt amazed that she was there with him, that she loved him.

At that moment, she shifted a little in her sleep, moving slightly, until she was snuggled more
closely to him, her bottom pressed firmly against him.

And his thoughts abruptly shifted direction, moving from the tender to the lustful in the space
of a heartbeat, his body reacting immediately to the firm heat of her body against him.

Even in sleep, she could seduce him. Then again, he’d realized long ago that Hermione didn’t
even need to try to seduce him; at times, it seemed like even her breathing was seductive.

He gritted his teeth and sternly tried to scold his aroused body into submission (it didn’t
work) and then shifted backwards infinitesimally, as far as he could without having to remove his
arm from around her or otherwise disturb her in any way.

She was asleep; he could guess how tired she must be; and it was barely dawn. He could wait an
hour or two until she woke up; he *would* wait until she woke up on her own. He wasn’t some
lust-crazed teenager who couldn’t control his own body’s impulses anymore and he would be a
thoughtful husband. He *would*…

On the other hand, another part of his mind (or to be more accurate, his libido) reminded him,
she never minded being woken up by him for this sort of reason, especially not after he’d been away
for a few days. (It was one of the things he loved about her.)

But no—he absolutely would not cut short her rest for his own selfish desires.

He stared at the wall opposite him, trying very hard to ignore the firm warmth of her body
curved against him, ignore the curve of her breasts which were close to where his hand rested,
ignore the growing ache in his groin.

He tried to think of what he would report about his mission to Minister Callahan later in the
morning, tried to think of the summary of his findings which he would report to the Head of the
Auror division afterwards. Muggle baitings and Dark wizards and—*the familiar scent of her
drifted through his senses, teased him, tempted him—*he wrenched his mind away from her—his
investigation—scattered occurrences that weren’t quite enough to warrant a full-scale assault but
he would recommend—*caressing* *the silken smoothness of her skin—*heightened
watchfulness in that area in the near future-- *teasing her to an awakening of more than one kind
with his lips—kissing her neck, perhaps—and his hands—cupping her breasts—*

He gave up the obviously futile attempt to think about anything else but Hermione, began to
think instead of the much more appealing (if more tormenting) subject of what he would like to do
to and with Hermione.

Merlin, how he wanted her. As much as he ever had even in the beginning of their
relationship—and he sometimes thought that he wanted her *more* now than he had in the
beginning. Because now he knew her so much better, knew her scent and her taste and her touch, knew
her passion and her boldness. Now he had memories and not just fantasies—although his imagination
was still quite active where Hermione was concerned.

He grimaced, mentally swearing at himself. Bloody stupid of him; remembering past times with
Hermione had heated his blood even more and his body was rather vehemently demanding release.

He wondered when Hermione had gone to sleep, how many hours of sleep would she have had if he
woke her up now, how tired she was.

He lost the battle. He wanted her, was burning for her (and she hadn’t even touched him, nor had
he touched her really), and he’d been without her for four full nights now.

He shifted his head closer to her, nudging her hair aside from where it was covering her neck.
He pursed his lips and blew a gentle, steady stream of air on the back of her neck, very aware of
how sensitive her skin was there. He blew and then just brushed his lips against it in a kiss as
light as a butterfly’s wing.

She let out a soft huff of breath and moved slightly. He pressed another kiss to the sensitive
spot just behind her earlobe, nuzzling the nape of her neck lightly.

He could feel her skin heating through the cloth of her sleep shirt and he smiled to himself as
he sensed the first fluttering of awareness in her body, sensed her returning to wakefulness.

And, as was characteristic of her, almost immediately after he sensed her beginning to regain
full consciousness, she awoke. He knew she was awake even though she didn’t move or otherwise stir
to indicate consciousness; after so many years of sleeping beside her, he could feel the difference
in her body when she was asleep versus awake, the subtle increase of tension in her body.

He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, just where her neck met her shoulder, and then let
his lips travel on, leaving a trail of light kisses along the back of her neck, nudging her hair
aside to clear the way for his kisses.

She smiled—he sensed it, even though he couldn’t see it facing her back as he was—and then
reached one arm back to cup his hardness with her hand.

He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Good morning,” she said softly, her tone entirely innocent, as if her hand was not resting
against a very private part of his body, as if she wasn’t touching him intimately.

He didn’t know—never would—how she could sound so bloody innocent when doing the most evil
things to his body but it was one of those endless contradictions in her that surprised and
delighted him to this day.

His hips jerked, pressing himself more firmly into her hand, and he groaned, his greeting dying
on his lips.

She twisted as if to turn over to face him but he stopped her with his hand and a quick word
(which he hardly ever said when they were in bed), “No, don’t.”

“Harry,” she began, a question in her tone.

“Not yet,” he amended. “I’m rather enjoying it like this.” He lightly flicked his tongue against
the hollow just behind her ear lobe, kissed his way down her neck until he reached the spot where
her neck met her shoulder.

“Mm, I can tell,” she breathed, trying to sound teasing as she shifted to press her butt more
firmly against him, but the words came out on a breathy gasp of pleasure.

He smiled slightly against her skin. He loved the sounds of her, the soft gasps, the throaty
moans of pleasure, loved how incredibly responsive she was to his every touch. Even when she wasn’t
in a position to really reciprocate, such as now, she was never passive, never simply accepted his
caresses; she encouraged them with her sounds, her small movements, the way she shifted closer to
him, the way she arched her neck or her body to allow him easier access.

His hand began to wander, moving upwards to cup her breasts, lightly, each one in its turn, and
then sweep further down in long, slow movements, exploring the familiar curves of her body through
the cloth of her pyjamas.

He returned to cup her breast, more firmly this time, as she made a soft sound in the back of
her throat. He could feel her nipples peaked and hard against his hand through her pyjamas, gently
pinched them with his fingers, before he brushed his palm against the cloth over her nipple, at
first lightly and then with more force, until the soft cloth of her pyjama was lightly abrasive
against her sensitized nipple.

He knew her reactions, knew how to touch her, and he did, using all the knowledge that came from
years of sharing a bed, loving how sensitive she was, the soft gasps escaping her lips as his hands
swept over the curves of her body. He explored her until her skin was hot, her breath coming in
quick pants, and he was amazed her pyjamas didn’t ignite from the heat generated from both their
bodies.

“Harry,” she finally broke the heavy silence in something halfway between a moan and a gasp.

“Hmm?” he murmured against her neck.

“Let’s get… out… of these clothes…” She punctuated her words with soft gasps.

“Good idea.” He tried to sound teasing but his voice came out huskily and more unevenly than
he’d have liked.

“Well, I’m a very clever woman,” she managed to say as she pushed herself up, hurriedly
stripping off her shirt and sliding out of her knickers and her pyjama bottoms.

He imitated her, making quick work of his shirt and boxers, and she felt a thrill of delicious
arousal at the sight of his erection.

The moment he was naked, she caught his face between her hands, kissing him fiercely, her tongue
taking possession of his mouth, communicating with her lips all the passion she felt for him. Oh,
she’d missed him so much, missed his lips and his hands and his touch, and now that he was back,
she wanted him with a fierce intensity which was almost startling.

He returned the kiss but for once, when she let her hands slide down his shoulders and his
chest, he stopped her, grasping her wrists. “Wait,” he breathed huskily. “I wasn’t finished.”

Before she could even begin to wonder what he meant, he gently turned her, until she was lying
flat on her stomach on the bed.

She twisted her head, trying to look at him. “Harry, what--”

He brushed the heavy fall of her hair aside with his hand, baring her neck and lowered his lips
to it. “Ssh,” he murmured against her skin, feeling some of the tension seeping out of her as she
let out a soft sigh of pleasure at the touch.

He moved on, trailing his lips down the long, graceful line of her spine, before pausing to look
down at her.

She did have a beautiful back—and a lovely butt. He’d first noticed it once soon after they’d
begun dating and he’d offered to massage her shoulders. He had until she was limp and relaxed and
then the massage had become an extended seduction, his hands running lightly over her back, tracing
her shoulders blades until her skin felt hot enough to burn him and her breath was ragged and she’d
turned over and pulled him down to her to kiss him with an aggressiveness she hadn’t shown him
until then.

He pushed the memory aside and, for once, found it easy to do so. Why remember when the present
was just as enticing?

He loved the long, graceful lines of her back, her still-slender waist, the smooth, erotic curve
of her hips. He’d never known before that just the simple sight of a woman’s back could be so
sensual, so utterly arousing—but then, as with just about everything else to do with Hermione, she
was different. But the sensuality of it, the sheer beauty of it, wasn’t what struck him most
whenever he saw her naked back. It was the trust implicit in the sight that truly did him in. He’d
never thought it before her but the sight of someone’s bare back was an incredibly vulnerable one,
spoke of a degree of trust that was almost stunning.

They had fought in a war; they both had it ingrained into them not to turn their backs on anyone
unless it was someone they trusted absolutely. The added vulnerability added by nudity only
underscored the trust inherent in seeing her naked back. Not because it was unusual to be trusted
by her—he’d always trusted her, just as she’d trusted him; implicit, absolute trust had been a
staple of their relationship long before he’d even thought about kissing her—but more because it
served as a very simple, very subtle, but very potent reminder of the depth of their trust that was
both empowering and humbling at the same time.

It was also, again because of the vulnerability of the position, something that never failed to
tug at his heart because, with her, he knew that the impression of weakness, the appearance of
powerlessness, was an illusion that masked the real, formidable strength of her character. He, of
all people, knew just how strong she was—but he also knew her vulnerabilities and he loved
that.

All these thoughts swirled inside him as he stared down at her naked back, feeling an odd surge
of protectiveness, a need to make sure she was always safe and happy, mingled in with an equally
powerful surge of pure desire, arousal pulsing through his veins, throbbing in his groin.

His lips traced a path down the line of her spine, straying to kiss and caress her shoulders
blades with his lips and his tongue. His hands paved the way for his lips, preceding them, with
slow, gentle strokes of her sides, her hips, her butt, her thighs. Lips, tongue, hands, all paid
half-tender, wholly-sensual homage to the smooth expanse of her bare back, slowly but surely
reducing her to wordless, mindless arousal. He knew it, could hear it in the hitch in her
breathing, in the soft sounds she made, could feel it, sense it.

“Harry!” she tried to protest again, trying to twist around to look at him, to become an active
participant, but again prevented by his hands.

“Wait, I’m admiring your back,” he said, smiling slightly against the skin of her back between
her shoulder blades.

“My back?”

“It’s a lovely back,” he murmured, suiting action to the words and running his tongue lightly
along the groove of her spine, tasting the slight saltiness of her skin. She gasped and squirmed
slightly, her hands twisting on the sheets.

“You need to have your eyes checked.” The words were tart but her tone was breathless, soft with
love and husky with desire.

“I like it here,” he breathed, his lips pausing to kiss her spine between her shoulder blades,
“and I like it here,” he added, his lips traveling further down until he pressed a kiss to the
small of her back, flicking his tongue against the sensitive spot.

A soft moan of pleasure vibrated in her throat. “Harry…”

He smiled slightly against her skin. “And I especially like this,” he said, deliberately lacing
his tone with mischief, as his hands cupped her bottom, lightly traced the curve of it.

“Silly--” she began but then his hand slipped down to cup the hot, wet center of her body
between her legs and the words died on her lips—as did every coherent thought she might have
had.

He stroked her sensitive flesh with one finger and she moaned, her eyes closing.
*Oohhh**…* God, she loved his hands, his wicked, wonderful, skillful fingers playing over
the damp core of her, as every nerve in her body focused on that one spot.

His thumb brushed over the most sensitive little nub of flesh where all feeling was centered and
she cried out, her head moving restlessly back and forth on the pillow, as she wiggled, pushing
herself further into his hand, wanting, needing more, more, more…

One finger slipped inside her, moving in an almost hypnotic rhythm, sending her already-dizzy
senses spinning in a blissful whirlwind of pleasure.

Close, she was getting so close, the delicious tension rising, building inside her…

“Har--” He moved his hand again, brushing against the center of her, as he leaned over to kiss
the sensitive hollow before her ear. And her moan of his name was cut off on a cry as she found her
release in an explosion of ecstasy, her inner muscles clenching convulsively around his finger,
spasms of pure physical delight shaking her.

*Oh God.*

She didn’t know how much time passed before she drifted back to reality to find that he had
slipped his finger out of her and returned to light, almost soothing caresses of her back and her
butt.

He dropped soft kisses on her shoulder blade, the curve where her neck met her shoulder, her
earlobe, her cheek, before drawing back and she opened her eyes to see him. He was stretched out on
his side beside her, watching her with a look of banked desire and tender love mingled together,
that made his eyes remarkably soft and beautifully clear. It was a look reserved entirely for her,
a look that never failed to catch at her heart and take her breath away, a look that made her feel
as if she could see his very soul. And that soul was *hers*…

“Hello, love,” he said softly, the hint of a smile touching the corners of his lips.

She couldn’t quite manage a coherent response, settled for a soft murmur of contentment. “Mmm.”
She felt as if every bone in her body had dissolved—and for all the added tension and stress which
she’d known in the past few days of his absence, at that moment, she felt as if she’d never known
the meaning of the word ‘tense’ in her life.

The corners of his lips curved upwards. “I love seeing you like this.”

Some semblance of coherence was returning to her and she smiled, sated, replete with
contentment. “I love feeling like this.” The words emerged sounding more breathless than humorous,
were almost purred.

His smile deepened, amusement—and affection-- gleaming in his eyes. And then he leaned over and
kissed her lightly, gently, a kiss that lingered as she turned over, sliding her arms around his
neck, tugging him down to her to deepen the kiss.

His tongue plunged into her mouth, stroking hers, as one hand slid down to cup her breast,
toying with the hardened nipple, so that she tore her mouth from his on a gasp, feeling her body
heat and soften with a fresh flood of arousal.

She could feel the hard length of him pressed against her thigh and deliberately shifted under
him, lifting one leg to twine around his. And it was his turn to break off their increasingly
heated kisses with a groan this time, as his erection slid along her wet, swollen flesh.

She arched against him, the tip of him entering her and sending waves of sensation shooting
through her body, radiating outwards from that one spot. Her hands slid down to grasp his hips as
she moaned.

“Harry…”

Her plea had hardly escaped her lips before he slid fully inside her with one smooth twist of
his hips.

And she was completed, filled.

She welcomed him in with a gasp, her arms and her legs wrapping around him, as she brushed
kisses against his ear, the side of his chin, his cheek, the corner of his lips, anywhere she could
easily reach.

His hands slid up to cup her face as he captured her mouth with his, kissing her deeply, as his
hips began to move.

She met and matched his movements, falling in with his rhythm as easily as she always did.

His hands moved down from her back to her butt before one hand slid up her side, one finger
brushing against her taut nipple.

She was on the edge, could feel the peak approaching rapidly, tension building. Deliberately,
she slipped one hand down to touch him just where they were joined and as she’d known it would,
that pushed him over the edge and he stiffened, groaned her name as he thrust one last time. She
followed him immediately, her muscles clenching around him, as her senses seemed to implode in a
burst of delight, only peripherally aware of the flood of warmth from his own release.

He slumped on top of her, his breath coming hard and fast, as she let her eyes close, her legs
relaxing, falling onto the bed. She drifted, satiated, fulfilled, peripherally conscious of his
body still inside her, his familiar weight on top of her, and luxuriated in it. She loved these
moments, loved the feeling that he was entirely hers, as she was his…

It was just a few long moments before he moved, slipping out of her, and she was spared the tiny
pang of loss when he cupped her cheek in one hand and kissed her softly, tenderly, as he always did
after their love-making.

And then he rolled over onto his back, his arm curving around her, bringing her close to him, as
she fit her body against him, as always, nestling her head on his shoulder.

She suspected they both dozed for a while because the next time she returned to a full awareness
of her surroundings, it was fully morning, sunlight filtering in through the curtains. She lay
there, savoring the quiet and the peace, her fingers lightly straying over his chest in an aimless
caress.

His fingers tightened ever so slightly on her skin before he captured the hand on his chest with
his and lifted it to his lips to brush a kiss against her palm.

She smiled slightly and murmured, unnecessarily, “I missed you.”

His answer wasn’t in words; he only turned his head enough to kiss her forehead.

There was another comfortable silence and then the orb that was charmed to help them monitor
Sabrina’s sleep turned white to show that she was waking up.

Harry turned his head to look at her, the mood broken, as the day officially started. “I’ll go
get her and start making breakfast while you rest a little.” He kissed her lips quickly before he
moved to sit up, going into the loo to brush his teeth and then out again to get dressed
quickly.

Hermione lay in bed, enjoying the view and making no pretense about it.

“Sabrina had a nightmare last night so she was asking for you,” she told him quietly as he
pulled on a pair of jeans.

He stilled, looking at her. “She did?” He suddenly felt like a bastard; what kind of father was
he to not be there when his daughter needed him?

“Don’t worry about it, Harry. She’s fine,” Hermione assured him, as usual responding to his
thoughts more than his actual words. “I just wanted to tell you so you’re prepared if she greets
you with more excitement than usual.”

“Well, she’s usually so subdued when she sees me,” Harry agreed wryly.

Hermione laughed softly (subdued being the last word anyone would use to describe Sabrina) and
pushed herself up on her arm to kiss him quickly on the cheek. “We’re all glad you’re home.”

“So am I.”

He stood, pulling on a shirt and retrieving his glasses, before he left the room with a last
quick kiss and a smile.

Hermione stayed in bed, listening, until she heard the cry which she knew was Sabrina’s shout of
greeting, and then smiled to herself.

“Daddy!”

Harry grinned, feeling his heart flood with warmth. Much as he hated to leave his family, it was
almost worth it just to see the way Sabrina greeted him after every absence—almost.

He loved to see the way she bounced up, her face, eyes and smile so bright he could swear they
almost outshone the sun.

“Daddy, you’re home!”

“How’s my little girl this morning?” he greeted her as he lifted her up into his arms, obeying
the silent command in her outstretched arms.

She giggled, shrieking with glee as he swung her up high before settling her into his arms.
“Daddy!” She flung her arms around his neck, giving him a smacking kiss that just missed his cheek
and landed on his earlobe instead. She drew back to look at him, sobering. “I missed you, Daddy,”
she stated matter-of-factly.

He dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose. “I missed you too, sweetie.”

“I had a bad dream, Daddy, and I wanted you but you weren’t here,” she informed him
reproachfully.

Harry suppressed a wince. Sabrina was already a past mistress of inducing guilt. “I know; Mummy
told me but I’m back now.”

“But I was brave and went back to sleep like Mummy said.”

He tightened his arms around her as he carried her downstairs. “I know. You’re a very brave
girl, sweetie.”

She drew back to look at him. “But don’t go away again, Daddy,” she said, with an almost uncanny
imitation of Hermione’s look and tone when Hermione told any of the kids not to do something.
(*Just in case anyone would doubt whose daughter she was...*)

“I’ll try not to, baby.” He had to bite back the automatic response of promising he wouldn’t—he
had decided from the beginning that he wouldn’t make promises to his kids which he couldn’t keep,
if at all possible. It was harder than he would have thought sometimes but he tried.

“Good.”

He placed Sabrina into her chair and poured her a cup of milk before getting started on
breakfast—omelettes and toast—keeping one ear alert for sounds to indicate that Andy or Emily was
awake.

So he wasn’t surprised when just a few minutes later, Andy and then Emily ran down the stairs
and into the kitchen.

Andy flung himself at Harry with a shout. “Daddy! I knew it was you!”

“Oof.” Harry pretended to stumble back from the force of Andy’s hug, making the boy laugh. “How
did you know it was me?”

Emily laughed. “Silly Daddy. You always make omelettes when you come home from being away.”

Harry kissed Emily’s forehead, ruffling Andy’s hair with his hand. Hm, he’d never thought of it
before but she was right.

The kids were all seated and eating and he was just about to (finally) drink his own glass of
pumpkin juice when (after a brief consultation in whispers), Emily looked up, clearly the
designated spokesperson, and asked, “Daddy, can we go on a picnic today?”

He hesitated. It was a Thursday and, knowing Hermione, he was sure she must have plans for the
kids. She was teaching Sabrina her numbers and Andy and Emily almost always had exercises to help
them practice reading and writing.

“Daddy, please?” Emily gave him her best pleading look.

Really, he thought peripherally, it couldn’t be a good thing that his kids knew how to
manipulate him so well.

He was rescued when he heard Hermione’s step on the stairs and escaped the would-be trap with
relief. “Ask your mother.”

And so when Hermione entered the kitchen, she was greeted by three children with pleading
expressions on their faces—and one adult male with a rather sheepish look, as he busied himself by
making her a cup of tea, just the way she liked it in the mornings.

“Oh, Mummy, please can we?”

“Can you what?” Hermione asked, passing a caressing hand over Andy’s tousled hair and wiping
Sabrina’s upper lip with a napkin in one practiced motion.

“Can we go to the park and have a picnic today? Please, Mummy?” Emily answered on behalf of the
kids.

She looked from her youngest, who gave her a look of wide-eyed sweetness more effective than
begging, to Andy, who gave her his most adorable smile, to Emily who gave her a look that, for a
moment, made her look almost exactly like Harry when he was trying to wheedle her into something—to
her husband, who managed to look innocent, sheepish and cajoling all at the same time.

She gave up. Clearly, there were forces greater than she arrayed against her.

“Alright, today can be a holiday and we can have a picnic.”

“Yay! Thank you, Mummy!”

And Hermione was rewarded for her indulgence by a hug from Andy, a beaming smile from Sabrina, a
bounce from Emily—and a smile from Harry.

She accepted her mug of tea from him, pausing as she watched her children eat (with a remarkable
display of cleanliness and manners as if to tell her they deserved a treat).

He slipped his arms around her waist, dropping a light kiss on her ear. “I love you,” he
breathed quietly.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you had the kids ambush me just now.” She tried to make her
tone tart, keep her mouth straight—and failed miserably on both counts.

He gave her an innocent look, somewhat belied by the smile twitching at the corners of his lips.
“What? I just thought we all deserved a little holiday.”

Really, one would think that after more than ten years of marriage, she would have gotten over
her susceptibility to his smile and his teasing—but she hadn’t. He could still make her heart
flutter, still make her knees feel a little weak. (And he knew it too.)

But then—she looked from her three adorable (and adored) children to Harry, who was looking at
the kids with that look of boundless love in his eyes, as his arm tightened around her waist and
she suddenly felt a surge of love so powerful it made her heart almost physically ache—she wouldn’t
have it any other way.

*~The End~*



10. The Persistence of Memory
-----------------------------

Disclaimer: See ‘All He Ever Wanted’.

Author’s Note: Because today is Crappy Canon Day and I’m working on a series of fics for a
so-called 1 Year After collection to commemorate the day JKR broke my heart and proved she wouldn’t
recognize real love if it came up to her and hit her on the head.

And what better way is there to commemorate Crappy Canon Day than by posting fluffy H/Hr
smut?

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*The Persistence of Memory*

~

Harry’s eyes met Hermione’s across the table as they all laughed at a story Emily had just
told.

He looked around at his smiling children, savored the sound of their laughter. Sabrina had just
started her first year and so this sort of dinner, with all three of their children home, did not
happen often and he was amazed sometimes at how much he missed it. Such a simple, even silly, thing
to miss really, but miss it, he did. Missed the noise of the kids eating, the friendly (and
sometimes not-quite-so-friendly bickering), the laughter—the *love*. But now, with Christmas
approaching in a few days, the children had come home for the holiday, as he had insisted. And it
was so *good* to have them home; it was, as he’d said to Hermione, possibly the best and only
gift he wanted.

“Headmistress McGonagall let us have a Yule Ball this year,” Andy announced casually.

“No, she let you big kids have a Yule Ball,” Sabrina inserted with something approaching a
pout.

Harry exchanged amused glances with Hermione and he reached over to pat Sabrina’s hand on the
table. “It’s alright, love. If their Yule Ball was anything like ours, you probably didn’t miss
much.”

Hermione, meanwhile, turned to Andy and Emily. “And did you both go? Was it fun?”

Andy wrinkled his nose. “It was alright, I guess. The girls got all silly about it,” he said in
a tone of disgust.

Harry quickly choked back a bubble of laughter, mindful of Hermione. “What do you mean by
silly?”

“They got all giggly and stuff. They couldn’t talk about anything other than what they were
going to wear and makeup and all that for weeks before the Ball.”

“Hey! I didn’t!” Emily protested. “Not all girls acted like that.”

Hermione bestowed an approving smile on Emily. “Of course you didn’t, Em. But did you enjoy the
Ball?”

Somewhat to Hermione’s surprise, Emily colored a little as she answered, “Yeah, it was
okay.”

Andy snorted inelegantly into his glass of water. “You looked like you thought it was a lot more
than okay.”

Emily threw a warning glance at Andy. “It was fun,” she amended.

“I wish I could have seen how you looked in your dress robes, Em,” Harry said with a smile at
his daughter. “I bet my girl was the prettiest girl in the school. Just like Hermione was at ours,”
he added.

That idle addition got a somewhat more dramatic reaction than he’d expected as Hermione gave him
an arrested look and Emily and Sabrina both promptly looked up to stare at him expectantly, as they
usually did whenever he said something about his memories of Hermione when they were young. (Emily
and Sabrina were both fascinated with his and Hermione’s friendship long before anything else had
happened, for reasons that were, frankly, beyond him.)

“Was Mummy pretty, Daddy?” Sabrina asked. “What did she wear?”

“I wore dress robes, just like everyone else,” Hermione spoke up. “And he’s exaggerating. I was
certainly not the prettiest girl in the school that night. Your Aunt Fleur probably was.”

Her daughters ignored her and continued to look at Harry.

“Dad?” Emily prompted. “What was Mum wearing?”

“I doubt your father remembers what he was wearing, let alone what I was wearing,” Hermione said
lightly.

“That’s not true,” Harry defended himself automatically.

Hermione gave him a teasingly challenging smile. “Okay, Harry, tell us, what was I wearing at
our Yule Ball in 4th year?”

He returned her smile with one of his own. “Light blue dress robes,” he answered promptly. “And
your hair looked different than it usually did; it was all smooth and shiny.” Odd but up until a
few minutes ago, he wouldn’t have thought he remembered that night but something about Andy’s
words, the very familiar sentiment of annoyance at the giggling girls, made all the memories from
that time come flooding back and he’d suddenly remembered seeing Hermione for the first time at
that Yule Ball, remembered his jaw dropping and how he’d had to do a double-take on seeing her look
so pretty. He’d gotten so accustomed to thinking of Hermione as the most beautiful woman in the
world in these past years that he’d forgotten that there’d ever been a time when he didn’t think of
her that way—but now, suddenly, he remembered. Remembered that night and the first time he’d ever
consciously associated the word ‘pretty’ with Hermione.

Hermione felt something inside her soften, melt, and mentally decided that he was definitely
going to be rewarded later that night once they were alone. She would never have expected that
Harry would remember that night, as long ago as it was, especially as she’d always been very
certain that Harry never looked at her as a girl until after they’d left Hogwarts. But she fought
to hide her reaction behind a teasing smile. “Very good, Mr. Potter. 10 points to Gryffindor.”

Andy laughed and Sabrina giggled.

“Mum, you sounded just like Headmistress McGonagall then,” Andy grinned.

“Your mother’s very good at sounding like that,” Harry told Andy with a teasing look at
Hermione.

“Did you go to the Yule Ball with Mummy, then, Daddy?”

“Well,” Harry temporized, “we both went to the Ball.”

“Silly,” Emily chided Sabrina mildly. “You know Mum and Dad didn’t start dating until after the
War.”

“I know that, but they were already friends then so they could have gone.” Sabrina began.

“You’re right, love, but your father was going through one of his silly phases so he forgot to
ask me in time.” Hermione threw a teasing glance at Harry.

“I was stupid then,” Harry admitted, somewhat to Hermione’s surprise. He met her eyes, suddenly
quite sober. “I don’t know why I didn’t think to ask you first thing since you were the only girl I
really talked to then.”

*Oh, yes, he was definitely going to be rewarded tonight.*

“But you got smarter so that’s okay,” Sabrina said, distracting her parents and giving Harry
that beaming smile that never failed to make him feel like a king.

“Thanks, love,” he said softly before he turned to Emily and changed the subject, wondering when
this conversation seemed to have shifted to become about him. “Did you dance with anyone,
Emily?”

“A few people.”

Andy snorted. “A few fellows and one fellow in particular. Come on, Em, tell them about
Justin.”

Harry’s gaze swung immediately back to Emily. “Justin? Who’s Justin?”

To his less-than-pleased surprise, she colored—when had Emily started blushing at the mention of
some boy’s name?--and glared at Andy. “Oh, he’s just a friend. He’s in his 7th year, a
Gryffindor like us.”

“Yeah, you’re very *friendly*,” Andy grinned. “Emily fancies him,” he announced with
teasing glee.

“I do not!” Emily’s cheeks were about the color of ripe strawberries. “Andy, shut up or when we
get back to school, I’ll tell everyone that you fancy Tiffany Cardwell.”

“Okay, okay!” Andy promptly retreated, apparently judging discretion the better part of valor.
“That’s just mean!”

“Who’s this Tiffany Cardwell?” Hermione asked, her tone deliberately mild and uncurious, moving
the subject away from Emily and this Justin even as she made a mental note to ask Emily about him
later.

Sabrina giggled. “She fancies Andy.”

At the same moment, Andy said, “She’s the most annoying girl in my class.”

“Well, those two characteristics can go together sometimes,” Harry conceded in a tone of mock
solemnity.

“Has she sent him a singing Valentine yet?” Hermione asked teasingly.

Andy looked as horrified as if Hermione had suggested he eat an acromantula for dessert.
“Merlin, no!”

Emily laughed. “A singing Valentine? That’s just silly. Who does that?”

Hermione’s eyes met Harry’s, a teasing gleam in them. “Oh, some girls have been known to send
them to your father.”

“Really? Who?”

“I don’t remember,” Hermione lied quickly—Ginny would kill her if she told the kids about her
youthful folly.

“What did it sing?” Sabrina asked with a giggle.

“I don’t remember exactly,” Hermione fibbed, giving Harry a teasing glance, before she went on,
“Something about his eyes being so green—what was the expression used? It was priceless, I
remember.”

Harry gave Hermione a look that promised retribution before he responded with a suppressed sigh,
“’As green as a fresh pickled toad’, that was what it said.”

Emily, Andy and Sabrina burst out laughing.

“A fresh pickled toad! Ew!” Sabrina was giggling so hard she could hardly force the words
out.

Harry looked at his laughing children and decided, for the first time ever, that he was rather
thankful to have received that Valentine. Anything that made his children laugh like that was
welcome…

~

Hermione knocked on Emily’s door. “Emily? Can I come in?”

“Come in, Mum.”

Hermione sat down on Emily’s bed, idly smoothing the covers with one hand as she studied her
daughter.

“I remember how excited I was for my Yule Ball. I’m glad you enjoyed yours,” she began mildly.
“So, did you go with Justin?”

Emily flushed but met Hermione’s eyes frankly. “No, I went with Chris because he asked me first
but I danced with Justin.”

“I see,” Hermione murmured. Chris Simmons was one of Emily’s close friends, almost by default
because Chris’s family lived quite close to Bill and Fleur and so he had grown up tagging along
after his older brother who was one of Jack Weasley’s best friends (Jack being Bill and Fleur’s
youngest) and thus been unofficially absorbed into the clan of Weasley children and
grandchildren—much like she and Harry and their kids had been. “What’s Justin like?”

“Oh, he’s awfully nice and clever too; he’s always helping some of the first and second years in
Transfiguration and Potions.”

“That’s always a good sign,” Hermione smiled.

“And he never asks me about Dad or treated me any differently because of who my dad is.”

Hermione smoothed a lightly caressing hand over Emily’s hair. “Poor girl; a lot of people bother
you that way, don’t they?” she asked with half-laughing sympathy, as this was a relatively common
subject between them (even if she’d never mention it to Harry, although she suspected he
guessed.)

Emily lifted one shoulder in a dismissive, sort of half-shrug. “It’s gotten better. But Justin
never did. He never gives any of the little kids a hard time and I’ve seen him talking to his
little sister, who’s in Ravenclaw, making sure she’s okay and happy.”

“Mm, that’s nice.” Hermione studied her daughter’s somewhat flushed face. She didn’t think she’d
ever seen Emily look quite so pretty—or quite so enthused when talking about anyone before.

Emily took this as encouragement enough to admit, “I think I do fancy him, Mum. I- I like his
smile and when he smiles at me, I get this fluttery sort of feeling in my stomach, you know,
Mum.”

“Yes, I know what that’s like,” Hermione laughed a little.

“Mum,” Emily burst out in sudden confidence, “who was the first boy you fancied?”

Hermione smiled, remembering an odd, half-forgotten-until-now, little moment in a store in
Hogsmeade. “In all honesty, Emily, your dad was the first boy I fancied.”

“Really? But you and Dad didn’t start dating until after Hogwarts!”

“Yes, well, I didn’t think much about it at the time and there were other things that distracted
me and besides, I always knew then that your dad didn’t think of me that way so I pushed it out of
my mind. But I remember once in Hogsmeade, in our 3rd year, when your dad wasn’t allowed
to go to Hogsmeade, he snuck in using his Invisibility Cloak.”

“He *snuck* in?”

“You know your dad’s never been one for following rules if he doesn’t like them,” Hermione
exchanged smiles with her daughter before she continued. “He snuck in and surprised me and your
Uncle Ron and when I pointed out that he shouldn’t be there, he just grinned at me the way he does
when he’s trying to talk his way out of trouble--” (Emily laughed softly and nodded)—“and asked me
if I was going to turn him in.”

“But you didn’t,” Emily guessed accurately.

“No, I didn’t. I probably should have since he nearly got us into a lot of trouble because of it
but when he grinned at me like that…” Hermione gave her daughter an understanding smile. “I got
that fluttery feeling that you mentioned.”

“Oh, Mum, did you really?”

“Yes, I really did.” Hermione’s gaze became distant, thoughtful, for a moment. “I’d forgotten
about it until just now when you said that but it happened so I guess your dad really was the first
boy I ever fancied.”

Hermione blinked and then returned her gaze to Emily. “Now, just because I told you that, I
don’t want you to start thinking that you’re going to end up married to this Justin or
anything.”

Emily colored slightly but laughed. “No, I won’t,” she promised. “Besides, it’s not like he’s
really my boyfriend or anything yet. It was only a couple dances at the Ball and--” Emily broke
off, blushing.

“And what?” Hermione prompted.

“He kissed me,” Emily admitted, her cheeks now scarlet, but Hermione was glad to see that in
spite of that, Emily met her eyes as openly as ever. There was still something of the little girl
in her yet and that was reassuring.

“Ah,” Hermione smiled a little. “Well, that’s not too surprising. I’d be more surprised if he
hadn’t.”

“You don’t—mind, do you, Mum?” Emily ventured.

“Mind? No, of course not. We trust you not to be foolish.” She paused and then added only
half-jokingly, “Just don’t tell your dad if Justin kisses you again or if you kiss him back.”

She spoke lightly but Emily looked a little stricken. “Will Dad mind that much?”

Hermione smiled and, standing up, kissed Emily’s forehead. “Don’t worry about it. Your dad won’t
be unreasonable.” And she mentally thought, but didn’t say, that she wouldn’t let him be
unreasonable about this.

Emily smiled. “Okay. Good night, Mum.”

“Good night, love.”

~

Harry hardly waited until Hermione closed their bedroom door before he asked, “Well, does Emily
fancy this Justin?”

Hermione gave him a look of mild reproof as she sat down beside him, resting one hand on his
knee, more so she could keep him calm than from any other reason. “Yes, I think she does.”

She felt him tense before he spoke. “What is she doing, fancying anyone? You’d think after that
Jeremy fellow, she’d know better.”

“Harry,” was all Hermione said but her tone spoke volumes and he had the grace to look
sheepish.

“Sorry. I just think she’s too young to be fancying fellows.”

“She’s sixteen now, Harry. I think you’d better get used to the idea.” She paused and then
added, carefully, “And from the sounds of it, he may not be her boyfriend yet but it won’t be long
until he is.”

“She fancies him that much? She can’t have a boyfriend yet! She’s only sixteen!”

“Harry!” Hermione laughed even as she gave him a scolding look. “Listen to you. You had a
girlfriend when you were sixteen—had already fancied and kissed two different girls by then.”

“And we know what a smart thing that was to do. I rest my case; no one should date at the age of
sixteen. Me fancying Ginny should be clear proof that sixteen year olds don’t have any sense about
that sort of thing.”

Hermione smiled almost in spite of herself at this somewhat irrational argument—and smiled, too,
because in spite of his words, she knew he wasn’t really seriously protesting but more making a
token protest to relieve his own feelings. “Harry, I don’t think you need to worry about Emily so
much. She’s a smart girl; she’ll be fine.” She paused and then added, “And you can stop thinking
about sending the boy some sort of owl telling him all the inventive ways you’ll hex him if he so
much as lays a finger on Emily.”

Harry opened his mouth on an automatic denial but then closed it and gave her a look of mock
disgruntlement. “Your telepathic abilities are rather irritating, you know.”

She smiled and patted his knee. “It’s why you love me.”

“Oh, is that why? I was beginning to wonder,” he deadpanned, even as he put his hand on top of
hers, lacing his fingers with hers.

She let out a huff of mock annoyance but the smile tugging on her lips gave her away.

There was a brief pause, amusement fading and being replaced with a tinge of wistfulness. “They
are growing up so quickly, aren’t they, Harry?”

“Too quickly,” he agreed, echoing her sigh with one of his own, as he put his arm around
her.

“When did it happen?” she asked, only half-facetiously, as she relaxed against him

“While we weren’t looking, apparently,” he quipped.

She smiled, even as she sighed again, resting her head against his shoulder, feeling comforted,
as she always did.

And for a moment, neither of them said anything more.

“Harry,” she finally said, “I had no idea you still remembered the Yule Ball so well. It was so
long ago; how can you still remember what I was wearing?”

She turned to look at him with a soft smile.

“I didn’t know I remembered it myself,” he admitted, “but then somehow when Andy mentioned the
Ball, it came back to me and I remembered what you looked like that night.”

“I didn’t know you noticed me that much. You were a bit distracted by Cho that night.”

“Well, yes, I was, but I do remember seeing you for the first time that night. I noticed it then
and should have said something.” He drew back just enough to meet her eyes, touching her cheek with
his fingers in a light caress. “You were so pretty that night, Hermione. I think the reason I
remember it so clearly now is because it was the first time I consciously thought of you as being
pretty.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I don’t really remember the Ball that well but I do remember the way you looked that night,
remember thinking how very pretty you were.”

There was really only one way she could respond to that sort of statement and so she closed the
distance between them and kissed him, softly, lingeringly, until his arms tightened around her and
she leaned further into him, deepening the kiss into a lavishly sensual exchange between their lips
and tongues.

When the kiss finally ended, she only drew back just enough so her lips could wander, pressing
soft, fleeting kisses to his chin and along the line of his jaw and down, until she reached the
spot where his neck met his shoulder, a spot which she had once, years ago, soon after their
relationship had changed, placed a deliberately smacking kiss on and teasingly informed him that
she was claiming that spot as hers. (His response had been one of those remarkably sweet things
which he occasionally said and which never failed to make her melt—“You don’t need to claim me to
make that true. I’m *all* yours, body, heart and soul.”)

She knew how sensitive that spot was, how he always reacted to the touch of her lips, so she
wasn’t surprised when he shuddered and made a low sound in his throat before he moved back.

“Well, I certainly never reacted like this to you when we were 14,” he quipped but the huskiness
and the strain in his voice belied the lightness of the words.

He paused, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips, gleaming in his eyes, as he added
with exaggerated thoughtfulness, “I’m not sure if I like you better now than I did then; you didn’t
torment me nearly as much then.”

She smiled, slowly, seductively, the sort of smile she’d never even dreamed she could smile
until him, the sort of smile which she knew never failed to make arousal tug at him. The sort of
smile that telegraphed her intentions quite blatantly and she saw his eyes widen, heard the slight
hitch in his breath—and felt an answering thrill go through her at his reaction. She leaned forward
as if to kiss him again but at the last moment, she turned her head so her breath just touched his
cheek, tickled his ear—he stiffened—and breathed, “Well, I guess I’ll just have to help you make up
your mind then.”

And he barely had time to suck in his breath before she kissed him again, slow and deep, her
hands moving over his chest and shoulders, deliberately finding and flicking over his flat nipples
through the cloth of his shirt, before she slowly tugged his shirt up and over his head. She left
his glasses in place, for the moment. For her purposes, he needed to be able to see her.

Deliberately, with exaggerated lasciviousness, she licked her lips as she looked at his chest,
forcing a half-strangled laugh from him before she flattened her hands on his chest again, pushing
him back until he was lying flat on their bed.

His hands moved to undo the fastenings of his trousers but she stopped him with a hand. “No, let
me do it.”

He gave in with a smothered moan of mingled anticipation and arousal that sent a fresh wave of
heat through her, pooling low in her stomach and between her thighs.

Slowly, slowly, oh-so-slowly, she undid his trousers and pushed them down, her fingers hooking
in his boxers, as he lifted his hips so she could get them off and then he lay there, naked,
aroused, his body prominently begging for her touch.

He watched her, couldn’t take his eyes from her, as she undid the fastenings of her trousers and
pushed them off, leaving her knickers on for the time being. She moved on to her blouse, slipping
each button out of its fastening with deliberate intent, revealing her skin inch by inch. Again,
she left her bra on.

“Hermione…” Her name was a moan—and a compliment.

She gave him a slight, wicked smile before she straddled his thighs wantonly—but she didn’t
touch him. Not there, not yet.

He groaned. “Hermione, *please*…”

Now she took his glasses off, his face suddenly looking much younger and more vulnerable, as it
always did without his glasses. Maybe it was an effect of having been talking so much about old
memories but for a fleeting second, she saw the boy Harry who she’d first befriended, the boy she’d
cared about and, yes, fancied first before it had been forgotten… But then she blinked and he was
the man again, *her* Harry, whom she loved more than she’d ever cared about the boy, the one
whose body she knew so well…

Her hands caressed his chest, teasingly tracing every ridge of muscle with her fingers, loving
the way they tensed, rippled, at her touch, loving the hitch of his breath, the way his hands
clutched, fisted on the sheets. Her hands stroked, explored, their way down his chest and his flat
stomach, slowly, very slowly, until finally she allowed herself to touch him.

Very lightly, at first. Her fingers danced along the length of him, her touch feather-light and
teasing, as he hardened even more, straining against her hand, as she closed her hand lightly
around him.

His eyes rolled back in his head as he groaned, fervently. “You’re going to be the death of me,”
he gasped out, the words husky and broken.

Hermione smiled, scooting further down his legs, before she bent and pursed her lips to blow on
his erection.

His hips jerked spasmodically. “God!”

She looked up until she could see his face, his eyes closed, the expression of agony contorting
his face even before she gave him the ultimate pleasure. A jolt of lust sizzled through her body.
God, she loved to see him like this, loved to do this to him, to reduce him to a mindless, groaning
mass of pure want. She’d never thought she had it in her to be so sensual, never thought she was
the type of woman to drive a man crazy with lust—until him. But with him, she *was*. She’d
never thought she was beautiful—no matter what he said—or seductive or flirtatious, but with him,
to him, she was and that was all that mattered. She’d had three children—and it showed—but he still
thought she was beautiful and sexy and arousing. And she loved that, loved the confidence that
knowledge gave her, loved that she could still do this to him, even after more than 20 years of
marriage.

And she loved—oh, how she loved-- knowing that he was *hers*.

She let her eyes close, her senses focusing, sharpening, as she finally took him into her mouth,
lips and tongue moving on him as only she knew how to do, pushing him to the brink of insanity as
only she knew how to do, with all the knowledge born of years of loving him. She lavished pleasure
on him, on *them*; as always, his pleasure was hers…

She knew how to lick him, knew how to touch him—and she knew when to stop.

She pulled away from him, sliding off of him so she could hastily undo her bra and slide out of
her by-now-soaking knickers. Her entire body was flushed and heated, her breath coming hard and
fast from sheer arousal.

His eyes opened to stare up at her, his gaze burning her, as she joined him on the bed.

“Evil woman,” he rasped out and she just had time to smile- smugly- before he rolled, pinning
her beneath him with a swiftness that startled a gasp from her.

He caught her face between his hands, as his eyes met hers, his touch gentle in spite of the
roiling tension which she could feel in him, in spite of the urgency of his lust which was obvious
in the jutting erection she could feel against her thigh.

“That,” he said huskily, “wasn’t very nice.”

“What do you plan to do about it?” she asked, attempting to sound teasing but not quite managing
it as the words were gasped out, giving him a look that was sensual flirtation personified. She
*was* flirting with him, with her husband of more than 20 years, she thought with a sudden
spurt of giddy amusement and amazement (the amazement not because flirting like this with Harry was
so unusual but because it *wasn’t*—even now, especially now…) And then his hips shifted so he
was pressed against her more definitely and all amusement vanished until there was only need.

His lips came down on hers, hard, as he kissed her with a passion that was almost violent so
intense was it, a passion that seared through her and stole the very breath from her lungs.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, giving him passion for passion, equal
heat and equal lust. They were always equals in this…

His hands slid down her body to cup her breasts, his fingers finding her hard, aching nipples,
and she cried out, breaking off from their kiss as she threw her head back, arching into him. And
though she couldn’t see him (her eyes were closed), she knew he smiled (he always smiled when he
touched her like this, saw her like this), a moment before he lowered his lips to capture her
nipple in his mouth.

Hot, wet sensation flooded her entire body, spreading through every nerve, as his tongue flicked
over the nipple, played with it, before sucking on it—and she could feel that tugging in tiny
ripples of heat all the way down her body to the core of her.

“Harry…” she half-panted, half-moaned against his ear. “please…”

She was beyond thought, beyond waiting, as she arched and twisted under his body, her legs
wrapping around his, her hands gripping his hips, as she shifted sinuously beneath him until she
could feel the hard length of him against her body, where all her desire was centered. Her cry was
echoed by his groan at the intimate touch and then she moved and he moved—it didn’t matter who
really initiated it—as his body (finally) entered her, the heat of him filling her, completing her.
Their bodies came together, joined together, in a mutual seeking and finding of pleasure.

He paused, not moving for one second, as if to let them both luxuriate in the moment before his
hands cupped her cheeks and he drew back just enough to meet her eyes.

“Harry.” Her lips formed the shape of his name but didn’t speak it aloud.

He lowered his lips to hers and at the last moment before he kissed her, breathed her name,
“Hermione,” against her lips, in a tone that made her name the most tender endearment. And then he
kissed her and in the same moment, his hips began to move.

She arched under him, welcoming him, urging him on deeper, harder, with her hands and her legs.
She was aware of every inch of him filling her, the heat of him, the strength of him.

She could hear her gasps for breath almost in time with their movements, could hear his own
harsh breathing. She could feel the explosion building, bubbling up inside her, building,
building…

Until he slid one hand up to cup her breast, flattening against her taut nipple, and the jolt of
pleasure lancing through her from that movement seemed to meet the tension from his ever-quickening
thrusts and she was lost, her body convulsing, burning up around him, her sharp cry swallowed by
his mouth as he kissed her one last time before he stiffened and shuddered, finding his own release
with a low groan.

He slumped on top of her, fighting for breath, and it was a long, few seconds before he managed
to move, rolling over onto his back, his arm bringing her with him, keeping her body imprisoned
against him.

For several long minutes, the room was silent except for the sound of their rapid breathing, as
she sprawled half on top of him, exhausted, sated, *loved*. She wasn’t sure how much time
passed, didn’t care either; the entire world had narrowed down to him and her, their sweat-damp
bodies molded together, and at that moment, nothing else mattered.

Finally, he broke the silence to say, half-gasp really, “Okay, I *definitely* like you
better now.”

She smiled against his skin but didn’t move otherwise. “Good.”

The silence fell again, comfortable, peaceful. And she had one of her moments of feeling as if
their very souls were melding together, much as their bodies were.

She was vaguely aware of feeling the beat of his heart under her hand where it rested on his
chest, fancied she could almost hear it with her head resting on his shoulder, and the steady
rhythm of it lulled her into a sort of dreamy haze of contentment. Moments like these were, she
thought sometimes, about as close to paradise as one could reach on earth.

She felt his hands straying over her back in a lazy, aimless caress, and remembered how he had
remembered what she’d looked like at the Yule Ball so many years ago. Nearly 30 years ago now and
he remembered, had thought she was pretty even then, so long ago…

She couldn’t even remember what Viktor Krum had looked like anymore. She suddenly thought of
that blazing row she and Ron had had after the Ball, had to laugh a little to herself, at her own
foolishness—why had she been so angry? It seemed amazing now to think that once she could have felt
so upset with Ron for not telling her he fancied her—how very silly she had been to think she cared
about Ron as more than just her best friend. Of course it was Harry; looking back on it with the
benefit of hindsight, she could see the beginnings of her love for him, as if it were a tree whose
seed had been planted the day she first met Harry and which had been growing steadily, nurtured
with every day of their friendship, until it had blossomed and she’d recognized it for what it was.
How could there ever have been a time when she didn’t love Harry? It was simply inconceivable
now.

She smiled softly, a little dreamily. “Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you ever think we’d be like this?”

“Like what?”

She moved her head just enough so she could rest her chin on his shoulder and meet his eyes.
“Did you ever think that we’d end up like this, together?” Still living and laughing together,
still *loving* together—after three children and more than 20 years of marriage…

He smiled, more with his eyes than with his lips. “Oh, of course, I always knew it,” he said
airily.

She raised her eyebrows a little, and he abruptly sobered, lifting one hand to touch her cheek
very lightly.

“You *know* I didn’t,” he said softly. “At first, I didn’t really think I’d live till my
18th birthday and even after the War, I thought of the future in terms of days, not
years. It wasn’t until you that I even started to really want the years, the forever, and now… Now,
I think about it all, all we have, all you’ve given me, and I’m amazed. This—you and the kids—is
more than I ever thought I’d have, more than I’d ever dreamed I could have…”

She had no words. Really, she didn’t. She felt the prick of tears at the back of her eyes and
fought them back. Her question had been half-idle but his answer… Harry wasn’t the most gifted
person with words, although he’d gotten better over the years, but he would never be very glib or
smoothly eloquent. But sometimes, not often, sometimes, he could- and did- take her breath away
with his words and his sweetness and his sincerity.

And the only thing she could do was to reach up and kiss him, softly, tenderly, letting her kiss
tell him all she could not say.

His arm tightened around her, his other hand sliding into her hair to cup the nape of her neck,
as he returned the kiss. And as always, he felt his heart warm, seem to expand to fill his chest
with the swell of emotion, at the tenderness of her kiss.

“I love you,” she whispered when the kiss finally ended.

“I love you,” he whispered back and felt the utter truth of the words. Such small words, they
seemed so inadequate to describe what he felt for her now. He had loved her for years now, loved
her *more* now, with a depth and an intensity he certainly hadn’t been capable of at 16 and
not even at 20, when he’d first started thinking of ‘love’ and ‘Hermione’ in the same sentence. It
hardly seemed fitting that the same words were used now as he’d used then—now, when he loved her
with all the added depth and all the added wisdom that came from marriage and fatherhood—especially
fatherhood, that had seemed to increase his capacity and understanding of love exponentially.

But those three words were all he had—and, somehow, as usual, he rather thought she knew and she
understood.

Of course. This was Hermione, after all, and he’d long ago resigned himself to the fact that she
was almost always right (it made life simpler). And that was one thing that hadn’t really changed
with the years.

She let out a soft sigh of breath as she relaxed back onto him. He could sense her drowsiness,
feel it in her body, hear it in the steadiness of her breathing.

He focused his attention on the lights with an unspoken “Nox” to turn them off and then settled
back into the bed, keeping Hermione nestled against him.

The thought of this evening, of Emily blushing over the mention of this Justin’s name, flitted
into his mind but without any of the emotions that had roiled him before. It may have been an
effect of the utter peace and calm he always felt in these moments, with Hermione in his arms, but
the reason didn’t matter as much as the fact did. (He didn’t *like* the idea of Emily
dating—but that was to be expected.) Hermione, as always, had been right; he could not keep Emily
from growing up, could not keep her from fancying boys and even dating them, and when he thought
about it rationally, he did trust in Emily’s good sense. She was, after all, her mother’s daughter
and aside from that, he did know his Emily.

He brushed the lightest of kisses against Hermione’s hair, wondering—yet again—just what he
would do without her. He only hoped that he would never need to find out.

His eyes drifted closed, drowsiness stealing over him, and he relaxed into it, secure in the
knowledge that all was right in his world.

*~The End~*



11. Foundations
---------------

Disclaimer: See ‘All He Ever Wanted’.

Author’s Note: Finished a while ago and finally getting around to posting this here. Intended to
be a prequel, of sorts, to this series (hence its title, before H/Hr are even married). Enjoy!

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*Foundations*

Harry managed to wait until the dinner things were all cleared away and they were having a cup
of tea before he finally asked, “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

He didn’t need to ask the more basic question of whether there was something wrong. He knew
there was something. He hadn’t been Hermione’s best friend for more than a decade and they hadn’t
been dating for nearly a year, without his having learned how to tell when something was bothering
Hermione. He could read her mood and the expression in her eyes to within an inch now.

She’d been making a valiant effort to act as if there was nothing wrong and it had just been a
normal, relatively uneventful day and it would probably have been enough to convince anyone
else—but not him. He knew her too well, cared about her—no, that wasn’t it—loved her too much. And
he could tell there was something on her mind from the rather absent way in which she responded to
him, from the slight frown that flickered across her face at times before she seemed to shake it
off and glance at him as if to make sure he hadn’t noticed. All of which was bothering him and
worrying him.

She looked up at him, the faint trace of a frown that had been lingering over her face
disappearing, to be replaced with a more serene expression—one which he didn’t like to see because
he knew it usually meant she was hiding something, when they were in public together. It was almost
the first time in his memory that he’d seen this expression on her face when they were alone
together and it bothered him. “It’s nothing, Harry. Don’t worry about it.”

“Hermione.” All he said was her name but there was a clear warning in it, mingled in with his
growing concern.

“It’s really nothing,” she insisted.

“Tell me anyway.”

“Harry, really, it’s nothing.”

“I really wish you’d stop saying that when it’s clearly not true.”

She shot him a look that at any other time might have made him stop but at the moment he was too
worried, burgeoning irritation with her refusal to tell him what was wrong mixing in with his
worry.

“Fine, there is something but I don’t want to talk about it. Happy now?”

“Why don’t you want to talk about it?”

“I just don’t.”

“I thought you could tell me anything. I’m your best friend and your boyfriend. We’re sleeping
together. Why can’t you tell me what it is?” His voice softened, as did his eyes. “Anything that
affects you affects me too, you know. I want to know when things are bothering you.”

“Hello, Pot. Meet Mr. Kettle,” Hermione responded rather caustically.

Harry had the grace to color a little. “I know, but I do tell you things now; you know I do. I
trust you more than anyone else I know. Don’t you trust me?”

“I do trust you, Harry,” Hermione sighed, her tone softer than it had been until now. “But just
because I trust you doesn’t mean I have to tell you everything.”

“But whatever this is, it’s bothering you. I know it is and I do want to know when something’s
troubling you.”

“Just stop it, Harry!” Hermione burst out, clearly having reached the end of her patience. “We
may be sleeping together but I won’t become just an appendage incapable of having any independent
thoughts. I’m still in charge of my own mind.”

“I’m not saying any differently. I just want to know what’s wrong so I can try to help.”

“If I wanted your help. I’d have asked for it! I’m not that stupid.”

“I never said you were. Will you stop putting words in my mouth? For Merlin’s sake, Hermione, I
only want to know what’s wrong so I can help you! Isn’t that part of my job as your boyfriend, let
alone your best friend?”

“It isn’t when I don’t want your help. All I want right now is for you to leave me alone! Is
that too much to ask?”

“Fine! I’ll leave you to your bloody precious privacy since that’s what you want. Excuse me for
worrying about you!”

“Fine.”

“Good then.”

Harry glowered at the table top and then at the ground and then over at the counter-top,
avoiding looking at Hermione.

She finished her tea in tense silence and then sent her mug sailing over to the sink with an
angry flick of her wand that made the mug leap into the air and fly into the sink with enough force
it was a minor miracle that it didn’t break. She set the dishes to being washed with another angry
motion before stalking off to the sitting room and opening a book.

Harry grabbed a Firewhisky and followed, settling into the chair across the room from where she
was, and opening the latest edition of Quidditch Weekly, where he sat glowering at the moving
pictures on the pages and not comprehending one word out of every ten that he read.

Hermione ignored him— ostentatiously not commenting on his drinking Firewhisky on a weeknight
(something he hardly ever did except when he was upset over something) and then went over to the
corner of the room that served as her study where she pulled out some files she’d brought home and
plunged into work with grim determination.

A tense silence reigned in the flat for the next few hours, unbroken except for the scratching
sound of Hermione’s quill on parchment and the sporadic sound of Harry turning a page of his
magazine, more for show than because he was really reading, at least not to make any sense of what
he read.

Harry glanced surreptitiously over at Hermione as she worked. She looked completely absorbed in
her work and he knew that a casual observer would have thought she had forgotten entirely about the
quarrel but he knew better. A slight frown creased her forehead and there was tension in every line
of her frame and in the set of her lips, which he could see even from her profile.

He had a sudden memory of times when he’d lightly brushed his lips against the corner of her
lips, kissing away the evidence of her worry or her irritation or her fatigue… He couldn’t do that
now. Every line of her pose was unwelcoming. His heart clenched, the last of his anger dying.

He supposed—no, he knew—he shouldn’t have persisted as much as he had, shouldn’t have insisted
she tell him what was wrong as forcefully. Thinking about it now—more calmly—he should have known
better. He knew Hermione, knew the streak of independence in her. She asked for help when she
needed it but she tended to prefer to think things through, try to solve things herself, if at all
possible.

Admittedly, he had some of that tendency in himself too, which was why he usually understood it
in Hermione, but if there was one thing the War had taught him, it was that he really could not do
everything alone. He knew he would never have survived past his first year, let alone anything
after that, if it hadn’t been for the help of Ron and Hermione and Professor Dumbledore; he’d never
have been able to rescue Sirius in third year without Hermione or survive any of the tasks in his
fourth year without her…

By now, turning to her, at least, was second nature to him. He tended not to like having to rely
on anyone else but relying on her was different. He needed her, entirely aside from loving her.

But—he thought with a sudden pang of fear—he wasn’t so sure that she needed him. She was capable
enough and smart enough on her own that she could usually get through anything on her own.

In a flash of insight, Harry realized just why he had reacted so strongly to her not telling him
about whatever was bothering her. Fear. He was afraid of losing her—not only because something
might happen to her—but because he didn’t know if she needed him the way he needed her. There was,
somehow, in spite of everything, a little nagging fear deep in some corner of his heart that she
might, some day, realize that she could do so much better, that she didn’t really need him at all…
(Certainly, she would be safer if she wasn’t known to be his girlfriend and best friend. There were
still times he thought that if he really loved her, he would push her away, refuse to let her near,
lie to her so she’d believe he didn’t care—but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He knew he
wouldn’t last very long without her; he needed her too much…)

He knew—he *did* know—that Hermione loved him. She’d told him she loved him and he believed
her, not only because of her words (although he also knew she was too honest a person to lie about
such a thing and too precise in her thinking to say so if she wasn’t sure of it) but because of her
actions. He felt it in her kiss and in her touch, in the small, absent-minded caresses she gave
him, in the way she made his favorite tea without his having to ask for it, in the way she waited
up for him on nights he came home late.

But for all that, he was still afraid that he might lose her, that she would stop loving him,
that she didn’t need him… Irrational, yes, and he could forget about it most of the time but
sometimes—like tonight—it flared up again.

Why wouldn’t she tell him what was bothering her? Why didn’t she want him to know—or didn’t she
think he could help her or comfort her or whatever she needed? He loved her—could she possibly not
know that he would do anything for her? He had a “saving people” thing, as she’d said years ago and
with her, it was a thousand times more intense, the panic that gripped him whenever he thought of
anything happening to her so strong as to be paralyzing. Didn’t she know that? Why wouldn’t she
tell him what was wrong and let him help her, when he sometimes thought he would happily sell his
soul to the devil if it would keep her always safe and happy?

Finally, the silence and his own fears became too much for him and he hastily stood up, tossing
his now empty bottle of Firewhisky into the trash. He glanced over at Hermione, his lips opening to
say something—he didn’t know what—but something about her posture and her expression made what
little courage he had at the moment shrivel up and any words he might have said died in his
throat.

He suppressed a sigh as he went into their bedroom, mechanically going through the motions of
getting ready for bed.

He lay in bed staring unseeingly up at the ceiling for what felt like years but was in reality
not much more than an hour before he heard Hermione get up and put her work away.

He waited tensely but the moment he heard her step outside the door, sensed her nearness, he
promptly closed his eyes in a futile attempt to pretend to be asleep. (He knew it wouldn’t fool
her; by now, she knew him well enough to know when he was really asleep and when he wasn’t but at
least, with his eyes closed, he couldn’t see her face.)

He kept his eyes determinedly closed as he listened to the quiet sounds of her getting ready for
bed, aware of a (rather ridiculous) pang of loss at how different this night was from the way their
nights usually were.

Usually, they talked, mostly about inconsequential things, as they each prepared for bed.
Sometimes, one of them would watch as the other undressed—usually with a half-teasing leer on his
part, that always made her laugh—or one of them would help the other undress with the aid of kisses
and caresses that almost always became more…

There was none of that tonight. No conversation, no teasing, no looks whether they were loving
or lustful, and certainly no touching.

He was hyper-aware of the dip in the mattress as she got into bed and even more aware of the
rush of cool air against his side that was not replaced by her warmth.

He cracked his eye-lids open to see that she was lying on her side, her back to him, close
enough to the edge of the bed that she was almost in danger of falling off.

Funny, he’d never realized before that their bed was something like a mile wide.

He shut his eyes again on a half-sigh.

He wanted to say something—*I’m sorry, don’t leave me, I love you, good night*—but his
throat was tight and seemed to have forgotten how to function. He had the odd, rather irrational
sense, of being poised on the brink of something and one word, one move, would upset the delicate
balance of— of whatever—and send him hurtling off into darkness, or more accurately, angry words
and reproaches and more choking fear.

And so he said nothing.

Hermione was unhappily conscious of the space between them on the bed, her lingering annoyance
dissipating with every second to be replaced with regret.

She hated this, hated feeling like this, hated the distance between her and Harry, hated the
tense silence, hated the knowledge that he was upset and it was because of her…

She didn’t know why it felt somehow so much worse, so much harder to feel annoyed, with both of
them lying on either side of the bed—and yet it did feel worse. Until now, they’d never yet been
together in this bed without touching. Until now, this bed had never seen them not talking. Until
now, they’d never gone to bed angry.

She felt, rather irrationally, as if some indefinable thing had been violated, the sanctity of
this bed which had never been a part of any disagreements.

Oh they had had a few little tiffs, minor things always, that ended quickly and generally been
laughed at soon after. This was the first major fight they’d had and it hurt. It almost caused her
physical pain to lie here like this, separated from Harry both by the width of their bed and by the
memory of their earlier quarrel.

She realized now, belatedly, that she had over-reacted.

She hadn’t wanted to tell him—she was even annoyed at herself for reacting as strongly as it
did, for letting such a relatively insignificant thing get to her the way she had—and since it
wasn’t anything he could do anything about, she didn’t want to tell him. She had already decided
from the moment she arrived home that she wouldn’t mention it, had tried very hard to act entirely
normally.

She supposed she ought to have known better than to think she could fool Harry for long. Even if
she would have been able to fool him before, she couldn’t now, not after this past year. He knew
her too well—as she knew him.

For the first time though, that rather bothered her too. It should have been a good thing—it
*was* a good thing—that he knew her so well but, somehow, at that moment, after what had
happened, it bothered her.

It had been such a little thing really, had taken barely more than a minute. She’d paused while
standing in the corridor of St. Mungo’s re-checking something in the file she was holding and had
overheard the words by accident and gotten the proverbial fate of eavesdroppers.

“Look, Mum,” a girl who was maybe around eight, much too young to be in Hogwarts yet, had said
in what was meant to be a whisper but carried easily in the quiet of St. Mungo’s. “It’s Harry
Potter’s girlfriend.”

“So it is,” the mother had answered. “I didn’t know she worked in St. Mungo’s.”

“What’s her name, Mum?”

“I can’t remember. H- something, I think, not a common name. Henrietta, perhaps—no, that doesn’t
seem right either.”

“I wish I could meet her. She knows Harry Potter, could tell us what he’s like--”

At that moment, Hermione belatedly realized that she really had no business listening to this
and had other things to be doing, besides, and had hurriedly moved on.

But the brief exchange had lingered in her mind.

She should have laughed it off, she supposed. After all, what did it matter if some rather silly
people didn’t quite remember her name or anything about her but that she was Harry’s girlfriend?
And yet… and yet, it did matter and it did bother her.

She had studied so hard, tried so hard, worked so hard in these past few years to get where she
was. She was in line to become the youngest Head of a Division ever. To say nothing of the fact
that she had, as Harry freely admitted, saved Harry’s life and fought beside him for most of the
War. And after all that, to that woman and her daughter, she was still only “Harry Potter’s
girlfriend”, whose name they couldn’t be bothered to remember.

She knew she was over-reacting to get so worked up over it but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t
want to be reduced to a name-less ‘Harry Potter’s girlfriend’; that wasn’t who she was. She was
Hermione Granger, Healer at St. Mungo’s, and being Harry’s girlfriend didn’t change that and she
didn’t want it to. She didn’t want her entire life to become only about her being Harry’s
girlfriend.

She’d managed to push it to the back of her mind for the next hour or so until she was done with
work but she didn’t forget it. She didn’t want to mention it to Harry because it really wasn’t
important and she didn’t want to bother him with something so trivial, especially when she knew
he’d be upset on her behalf and probably blame himself too, since he was very good at that.

She was annoyed at herself, as it was, for making such a big deal out of it—but it seemed to
feed directly into something that had rather bothered her when she and Harry had first gotten
involved. She had wondered—and rather feared—if she could keep her independence as Harry’s
girlfriend.

A large factor in her break-up with Ron had been a feeling that she was being stifled somehow;
Ron always wanted her to be around, always expected that her entire life would revolve solely
around him, and she hadn’t been able to live like that. She couldn’t be like Mrs. Weasley.

Harry didn’t expect or want her to be another Mrs. Weasley but she’d found, too, that with
Harry, it was so easy to *let* him become her entire life. Every once in a while, she
realized, with a moment of dismay, just how necessary he’d become to her. She knew she couldn’t
sleep without him in bed next to her, knew no day ever felt complete without being able to see him,
talk to him… He had become as necessary to her happiness as the air she breathed and it frightened
her, sometimes, when she thought about it.

But she didn’t think of it often because she was so happy with him, loved him so much, and it
was hard to fear anything that made her so happy.

If he ever left her, if anything ever happened to him, she didn’t know if she could cope and
that sort of vulnerability, of dependence, scared her. She was losing herself in him…

And to hear that woman and her daughter refer to her only as ‘Harry Potter’s girlfriend’ had
almost seemed like evidence of it, as if she’d ceased to be herself and had become only Harry’s
girlfriend, an appendage, not complete without him.

~

Hermione awoke from a rather uneasy sleep to find that she was nestled next to Harry, as if even
her subconscious recognized how unnatural it felt to be at odds with Harry.

She relaxed against him with a half-sigh and somehow, in that quiet hour just before dawn, it
was much easier to admit to herself that she was being an idiot.

Why should she invest so much significance in what two complete strangers said? They didn’t know
her, hadn’t meant anything by it. And as for losing herself in Harry—wasn’t it possible that she
was thinking of it in entirely the wrong way? She suddenly remembered something Harry had said to
her once, after she had half-teasingly said something about how brave he was: “That’s because of
you. I don’t know how you do it but you make me braver than I am.” She had smiled and kissed him
and said nothing more but she thought of his words now and thought, too, that it was the same for
her. It always had been that way. He made her braver too—and stronger, smarter, simply
*better* than she was without him. It wasn’t about losing herself; it was about *gaining*
something, becoming a better version of herself because of him. And what was to fear in that?

Harry stirred beside her and that one restless motion was enough, after a year of sleeping
beside him, to tell her that dreams were disturbing his sleep.

Quick as the thought, she had turned on a light and bent over him, shaking him gently. “Harry.
Harry, come on, love, wake up.”

He jerked awake with a half-gasp, his eyes wide and shadowed with a vulnerability which she
hadn’t seen in months.

He blinked, his gaze focusing on her face. And he just said her name, “Hermione,” in a rough
whisper before his arms closed forcefully around her, pulling her tightly against him. He held her
as if he was drowning and she was his life-saver.

Her heart clenched from sympathy and regret as she returned his embrace, brushing soft,
reassuring kisses against his neck, his cheek, his earlobe, anywhere she could reach.

“Hermione, I’m sorry. Don’t leave me.”

She tightened her arms around him, pressing her lips to his cheek. “No, never,” she promised
soothingly.

She drew back just so she could find her lips with hers, pressing a kiss to his lips.

His response was immediate and heated, his arms locking tightly around her, his lips and tongue
parting her lips insistently. He kissed her with a desperation, an intensity, she hadn’t felt from
him in a long while, kissed her as if it was the last time and he wanted to imprint the memory of
him on her.

*Oh Harry…* Some part of her mind and heart wondered what he feared, what was fueling his
desperation, but even as she wondered, she dismissed the question. It wasn’t the time for that; she
could find out later. Right now, all that mattered was him, reassuring him with her body that she
was there and she wasn’t going anywhere.

She kissed him back, her hands cupping his face, returned his passion with her own, kissed him
with all the strength of her love and her loyalty. And every kiss was a silent apology for their
argument, for over-reacting, for acting as if she expected him to treat her differently than she
did him because she would have persisted too, would have insisted he tell her the problem—as she
did, when she could tell something was bothering him.

His legs tangled with hers, his hands hot and greedy as they moved over her body until she
gasped against his mouth and she felt the familiar liquid warmth of desire flood her body.

He could always do this to her, arouse her so easily and so quickly, and it never mattered how
familiar his touch was, how many times he’d caressed her before, she always reacted to his touch,
burned at his touch.

But there was something different about his touches now. They were more desperate, more needy,
possessive, as if he needed to reassure himself that she was really there, that he was touching
her—and she felt a surge of sympathy and understanding mingle with her arousal.

And she knew what he needed.

There were times when he was the one to take the initiative in loving her, seducing her,
pleasuring her—usually, it was both of them, together, sharing their bodies and their pleasure and
their passion. Tonight, right then, he needed it to be her.

She cupped his face between her hands as she kissed him with every ounce of emotion in her,
pouring all her love and all her loyalty and all her regret into the kiss, shifting her body above
his until the hardness of his erection through his pyjamas was cradled against her. And knew he
understood, sensed it, in the tenderness of his touch and in his response to her. She loved that
about him, that with him, in this realm especially, no words were necessary.

She only ended the kiss when they were both breathing hard, their bodies hot and straining
against each other, pyjamas twisted beneath exploring, caressing hands.

She sat up, making quick work of her pyjamas, before moving on to him.

His eyes opened, almost black in the dim light, burning up at her, and his hands moved to tug at
his shirt but she stopped him with a word and her hand on his. “Don’t.”

She bent and brushed her lips against his, let him feel her now-bare breasts pressed against his
still-clothed chest. “I’ll do it,” she breathed against his lips.

She pushed his shirt up slowly, pausing to kiss and caress every inch of skin she revealed, up
his flat stomach and then his chest, aware of every gasp, every moan, every twitch of his body
under her touch.

She only paused, briefly, to tug his shirt up off over his head and then she returned to what
she’d been doing.

She loved his body (as she’d once told him teasingly, after deliberately letting her gaze wander
up and down the length of him, and he’d grinned, responding, “well, you know I can never hear
*that* enough.”) His shoulders, a little broader than they had been, his chest, his flat
stomach, he wasn’t overly muscled but he was fit and trim and... and beautiful… Perhaps not exactly
Greek god material but she didn’t want perfection anyway. She just wanted him...

She knew his body, knew every sensitive spot and she found every one, loving his sharp intake of
breath, loving the heat of him, the strength of him, the sensitiveness of his body under her hands.
She flicked her tongue against his flat nipples, hearing his strangled groan, swirled her tongue
lightly around it and then gently, let her teeth graze it and he hissed, his entire body jerking.
She repeated the process on his other nipple, deliberately and systematically pleasuring him as
only she could do.

His hands had been caressing her body, moving over her back and her hips and up to her breasts
and then down again but her touch had distracted him, stopped him, until his hands simply rested on
her body, lightly, not holding her in place but just so that every movement she made had him
caressing her, sending fresh floods of heat through her body, the familiar hollow ache beginning
deep inside her.

Oh yes, she wanted him. *How* she wanted him!

She pushed his pyjama bottoms down, taking his boxers with them, and he obligingly lifted his
hips so she could strip them off him.

She took her time moving back up his body, half-teasingly caressing his legs, until she reached
his thighs. She trailed her lips lightly along his taut, hot skin, letting her body brush against
him provocatively, until he groaned, his hips shifting impatiently.

She caressed his thighs, leaving a trail of soft kisses along the inside of one thigh and then
the other, deliberately ignoring the part of his body that was so prominently begging for
attention. He moaned. “God, Hermione!” She paused, looking up at him along the length of his body.
“Please,” he gasped.

And then she touched him, lightly at first, her fingers just running up the length of him,
measuring his passion with a feather-light caress even as his hips shifted, straining towards
her.

Then finally, finally, she touched him with her lips and tongue. She licked delicately up the
length of him, pausing to drop a quick kiss on the tip of his erection, and he cried out.

She paused for one fleeting second, looking up at him, thankful for the single light and the
moonlight filtering in through the curtains, allowing her to see his face, his expression. He
looked… she felt a shiver go through her, adding to the wetness pooling between her thighs, at the
look on his face. The expression on his face- his eyes closed, his head thrown back- was a cross
between agony and ecstasy, as if he was seeing a new world, a beautiful landscape of passion and
pleasure. God, she loved seeing him like this, loved knowing she could bring him to this point,
give him this pleasure. The thought drifted through her lust-clouded mind: *he was hers*. Not
just at that moment, not just because of this sensual connection between them, but for always, in
every way, he was hers. Perhaps it was something in the utterly raw, naked sensuality of his
expression, no barriers, no masks, it was only him, his body, his heart, hers for the taking.

And so she did. She knew how to touch him, how to draw out and enhance his pleasure. She made
love to him with her mouth and her lips and her tongue, lavishing the most erotic pleasures on him
with every ounce of knowledge and emotion in her.

He was hers—and with every kiss, every lick, every touch of her tongue and her lips, she made
sure he knew it until his breath was coming in harsh gasps, his hands twisting in the sheets, and
she knew he was on the edge.

It was only then that she drew back, trailing her lips up his body, as she shifted, straddling
him wantonly, knowing he could feel the slick wetness between her thighs resting so close to his
erection.

She kissed him, deeply, luxuriously, let him taste himself on her lips and tongue, until his
hands came up to cup her cheeks, his fingers tangling with her hair, and the kiss exploded, his
lips and tongue taking hers with a voracious hunger and she felt a thrill deep inside her at this
evidence of just how much he wanted her.

One of his hands slid down to her shoulder and then around to cup her breast, making her gasp
into his mouth, and arch into his touch.

She shifted, her body pushing, straining against him instinctively, in a blind search for what
she needed and then she felt it, just the tip of his body finding her, sliding into her, and she
cried out, breaking off the kiss.

She sat up just enough so she could guide herself down, lowering herself onto him with one swift
move with the knowledge that came from nearly a year of loving him, until he was completely inside
her.

He let out a sharp hiss of breath that was half a gasp, her name, “Hermione,” escaping him,
roughened into something more like 2 syllables than its usual 4.

She lowered her lips to his. “Harry,” she breathed against his lips and something in her tone
made his very name a promise.

This—all of this—was for him, to tell him that she loved him and would never leave him. And on
the thought, she made a quick decision.

She shifted above him, circling her hips, until he groaned, his fingers digging into her skin,
and then she tightened her thighs, rolling over and tugging him with her until she was lying on her
back under him, their bodies still joined.

She wiggled a little, feeling her body mold itself to his in this new position, as it always
did, a low hum of pleasure escaping her as this new position pushed him even deeper into her.

She opened her eyes to look up at him, saw him staring at her, and knew he understood. She had
made him hers earlier; now he could make her his.

He lowered his lips to hers, kissing her, his tongue plunging into her mouth, as his hips began
to move. Her arms and legs wrapped around him, urging him closer to her, wanting more of him, all
of him.

His hips thrust faster and she welcomed it, loved the feeling of him inside her, stretching her,
possessing her, and then with a last gasp, he stiffened and shuddered and she felt a flood of
warmth from his release before he collapsed on top of her.

She wrapped her arms around him, her body softening under his. She loved to feel the weight of
him on her, loved this feeling as if he was imprinting his body on hers…

She didn’t know how long it was before he lifted his head. “I’m sor--”

She cut him off with a kiss. “Don’t,” she told him quickly. “Besides,” she added huskily against
his ear, “I’m next.”

And she was.

His soft, brief laugh was swallowed by her mouth as he kissed her, open-mouthed and passionate,
his hands moving to cup her breasts, caressing, kneading, shaping.

He bent and took one hard nipple into his mouth, licking it, laving it with his tongue before he
sucked it into his mouth, and she moaned, feeling that gentle tugging send fresh shards of
sensation, bright and clear, shivering through her body to pool in the center of her. She was
beyond thought, beyond emotion, beyond everything but pure physical sensation. Sensation that
flooded through her with every tug of his mouth, every touch of his tongue, on her sensitized skin,
intensified with every brush and shift of his body against hers, hot and hard and searing.

One hand lowered to touch her where they were still joined and she gasped sharply, writhing
against him, her fingers digging into his skin, as she felt the wave of sensation, of pleasure,
building, cresting, inside her, until his finger caressed her wet, swollen flesh once, twice, and
the wave broke. Reality- the entire world- fractured around her; nothing and no one existed beyond
their entwined bodies, where he was buried inside her. She convulsed around him, under him, with a
cry and he tightened his arms around her, swallowing her cry with his mouth.

He kissed her hard, deeply, with enough lingering force that his weight pushed her deeper into
the bed and something inside her tightened and burst in a fresh explosion of bliss.

She clung to him, let the tidal wave of pleasure sweep through them, around them, until they
drifted, slowly, back to earth.

He brushed his lips against hers, lightly, with so much tenderness her heart melted inside her,
and she returned the kiss with all the love she felt.

He ended their kiss slowly, with almost palpable reluctance. “I’m sorry about rushing things,”
he said again.

She put her finger on his lips to stop him. “Do you hear me complaining?”

“No, but--”

“Besides,” she went on, interrupting him as if she hadn’t heard his answer, “I take it as a
compliment. I was the one who pushed you over the edge.”

He half-smiled against her finger that still rested lightly against his lips and then lightly,
teasingly, nipped at it. “Well, that’s true. Okay, it’s all your fault that I couldn’t wait.”

She smiled and he bent and kissed her again, lingering this time, savoring the familiar warmth
and heat of her mouth, the taste of her.

She melted into his kiss, as she always did, and knew, deep in her heart and soul, that she
always would melt at his touch. She was his… Body, heart and soul, she belonged to him and she
always would…

He finally ended the kiss with a sigh, drawing back and holding her gaze with his. “I love you,”
he whispered.

“I love you too and I’m sorry about earlier. I over-reacted and it was stupid of me.”

“You’re never stupid.”

She smiled slightly but shook her head a little. “No, it was stupid. I shouldn’t have let it get
to me the way I did. I just happened to overhear a mother and daughter talking and—God, this is
going to sound lame—they didn’t remember my name. They just knew me as Harry Potter’s girlfriend
but they didn’t remember my name.”

He stiffened a little at the phrase “Harry Potter’s girlfriend.” “I’m sorry.”

She sensed his withdrawal, more an emotional one than a physical one, and tightened her arms
around him. “Harry, no, it wasn’t that. It’s not that I mind people knowing that I’m yours; you
*know* that. I don’t even know exactly why it bothered me so much except that it made me feel
like all I’ve done at St. Mungo’s, even all I did at Hogwarts, didn’t matter and--”

“It mattered,” he interrupted her. “It *all* matters. You’re brilliant and everyone knows
it and anyone with any sense probably wonders what someone like you is doing with me when you could
have someone better.”

“Harry, don’t be silly.”

“I’m not.”

She caught her breath a little, a touch of unease entering her. “Harry, you don’t really wonder
that, do you?”

“No,” he said too quickly and she almost flinched, feeling a fresh wave of guilt. She thought
she knew him so well—she *did* know him so well—why hadn’t she realized that he might still
feel some doubt about this, about her? She knew how deep-seated his insecurities were, thanks in
large part to his worthless relatives.

“Oh, Harry…”

She pushed on his shoulder, rolling them over (again) until she could look down at him, trying
to let him see all her sincerity in her eyes, hear it in her tone that was firm, forceful, rather
than loving. “Harry, I Love You. You are the first, last, and *only* love of my life.” Her
voice softened, became tender. “I’m *yours* and I always will be.” She bent her head and
kissed him softly, lingeringly. “Trust me,” she whispered against his lips.

“I do.”

She smiled slightly, seeing the clear bright green of his eyes, all the shadows gone. “Good.
Besides,” she added teasingly, “you’re *mine* and if you think I’m letting you go, you can
think again.”

He smiled. “Good.” His smile faded as he fixed her with an intense look. “I want you to promise
me that you’ll tell me when something is bothering you, let me help you.”

She met his eyes. “Harry, I love you, I trust you, and you do help me more than you’ll ever know
but I can’t promise that I’ll tell you every little thing. if it’s something I can take care of on
my own, you have to expect that I will. I’m not helpless and I won’t act as if I am.”

“I know you’re not helpless; it’s one of the things I love about you. But I want to *be
there* for you. I want to help you the way you’ve always helped me.”

“You will; you *do* help me. I know you’ll always be there for me. I trust you.” He opened
his mouth to respond and she continued on, “And you have to trust that I’ll tell you what’s
bothering me when I’m ready to talk about it. Sometimes I just need to think things through on my
own before I talk about it.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and then sighed. “I guess I can understand that. And I do trust
you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered softly against his lips, brushing a kiss, two kisses, against his
lips. She deepened the kiss as he made a soft sound in the back of his throat, his hands sliding up
her back to tangle in her hair, holding her head in place.

And as always, she felt a spark of heat inside her at his kiss, his touch, his body against
hers. Deliberately, she slid her hand down his body until she was touching him, feeling his
immediate reaction.

He broke their kiss on a sharp gasp. “Hermione…”

She smiled down at him. “I think we have some more making up to do, don’t you?”

He smiled and then rolled them over with one quick motion, making her gasp and then laugh
softly. “I like the way you think.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

He cut off her teasing question with a kiss, sinking into it, sinking into her, her warmth, her
softness, her passion, and all the generosity of her sensuality, all thoughts vanishing except for
two words that lingered a little longer than the others, encapsulating all he felt for her.

*Mine. Forever…*

*~The End~*



12. A Happy Family Christmas
----------------------------

Disclaimer: See ‘All He Ever Wanted.’

Author’s Note: Consider this a belated Christmas gift. I hope you all had happy holidays and
Happy New Year!

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*A Happy Family Christmas*

“Daddy, what time is it?”

Harry figured it had been about three minutes since the last time Sabrina had asked him this
question but he smiled indulgently down at her. “It’s just a few minutes ‘til 5.”

Andy let out a little irritated huff of breath and even rolled his eyes at Sabrina’s question
and Hermione put her hand on Andy’s shoulder with an expressive look, at which Andy subsided.

“Oh. Only? But we’ve been waiting for so long!” Sabrina was almost literally bouncing on her
feet, too impatient to stay completely still.

“It hasn’t been that long, love,” Hermione said, exchanging an amused glance with Harry. They
had only gotten to Platform 9 and ¾ perhaps 10 minutes ago, if that.

“And when will the train be here?” Sabrina asked again.

“It’ll be here soon, love, I promise,” Harry assured her, passing a caressing hand over
Sabrina’s hair. His eyes and his smile softened as he looked down at her. He had such a sweet baby
girl, he thought, to be so impatient to see her older sister again. It was heart-warming. He hadn’t
quite realized that Sabrina missed Emily so much.

It had probably been the hardest thing he’d had to do in years to send Emily off to Hogwarts on
September 1 for her first year. Irrationally. It wasn’t as if Emily would be alone; she was heading
there with Ron’s twins, Avery and Amy, who were also starting their first years, to say nothing of
the fact that she had all the older Weasley grandchildren who’d be there as well, with Ron’s David
and Jeff, Bill’s youngest, Jack, and Ginny’s Frank and Victoria (better known as Tory). Indeed,
Emily was one of the kids with the largest group of ready-made friends in the entire school.
Besides which she already knew Hagrid and Headmistress McGonagall relatively well.

But knowing all of that with his conscious mind had been one thing; actually feeling it, when
he’d be letting his little girl go off for months-- well, that was something else entirely. (Much
to Hermione’s amused understanding.) He had been, Harry admitted now, something of a nervous wreck
until they’d received Emily’s first owls, in which she’d written glowingly of the castle and her
classes and finally getting to learn the things she’d spent her life hearing about and seeing.

Harry had also worried a little over how she would be treated, the eldest daughter of Harry
Potter as she was, and he knew better than anyone just how hard he and Hermione had had to work to
keep their children away from all the media attention and he’d been a little afraid for how the
other kids would treat his Emily. But aside from mentioning a few of the surprised and curious
reactions, and laughing over how at first she’d caught some kids staring at her forehead as if
expecting to see a matching scar like Harry’s on it, Emily’s owls had been almost uniformly
cheerful. She was enjoying Hogwarts, making friends and liking her classes, and not even Harry’s
hyper-sensitized reading of her owls could make him detect anything bad. (And he’d tried. He’d been
quite prepared to fly up to Hogwarts and bring Emily back home with him at the first sign of any
trouble or unhappiness—well, to be strictly accurate, *he* was prepared for it but he knew
Hermione would have had something to say about any such scheme.)

But no such drastic measure had been necessary but Harry still found himself quite beside
himself with anticipation at the thought of Emily being home again, spending Christmas with all his
kids at home, as they always had before. He felt a lot of sympathy for Sabrina and her obvious
excitement; if he wasn’t careful, he would start bouncing on his feet as well (and then Hermione
would never, ever, let him live it down.)

As it was, he smiled down at his baby girl and wondered if it was possible for a heart to burst
with love. “We’ve all missed Emily, love.”

Sabrina reached up and grasped his hand in both of hers. “Yeah, I guess,” she said dismissively,
with all the innocent self-centeredness of childhood, blithely unconscious of the splash of cold
water she’d just thrown on Harry’s sentimental thoughts. “I want to decorate the tree. We’ve never
waited this long before decorating it before,” she fretted.

Harry blinked. So much for Sabrina having missed her older sister so much.

He felt Hermione’s eyes on him and met her knowing smile with a rueful look. He should have
known; Sabrina could be as single-minded as anyone and she’d been talking of little else but the
tree for days now.

Hermione’s eyes were dancing with amusement and he knew she had- as usual- read his thoughts and
his lips quirked as he couldn’t help but laugh silently at himself. Serve him right for somehow
imagining his kids were angels.

Hermione tucked her hand into his arm, giving it a brief squeeze, and he smiled before brushing
his lips against her hair.

And just then Andy bounded forward. “Oh, I think I hear it! I can hear the train, Daddy!”

Sabrina would have run forward (as if she could somehow pull the Hogwarts Express in faster,
Harry thought with a grin) if it hadn’t been for Hermione’s grasping her cloak.

Andy had been right and it was only a few minutes before the train was in sight, slowly moving
along the tracks along the platform.

Almost on cue, he heard Ron’s voice. “Hello, strangers.”

Sabrina turned, her face lighting up. “Uncle Ron!” she greeted him joyfully.

Ron bent and hoisted Sabrina up in his arms in his traditional greeting. “Hi, munchkin. You
excited to see Emily again?” he asked, as he grinned at Harry and Hermione and ruffled Andy’s
hair.

“I want to decorate our tree!” Sabrina announced.

“Of course. Decorating the tree is the most important part,” Ron agreed solemnly, although his
eyes were dancing.

“It is,” Sabrina agreed.

“You came alone?” Harry asked.

“Luna’s at home getting things cleaned up and ready since she just got home yesterday,” Ron
explained briefly and Harry nodded. Luna had been away for one of her occasional magical creature
sightings the past couple days and so hadn’t had time to prepare.

With a last shriek of sound, the Hogwarts Express pulled to a stop and almost immediately, kids
started flooding out of it and Harry’s attention was immediately distracted as he searched for
Emily.

He found her, along with Avery and Amy, quickly enough and had to almost physically restrain
himself from running forward to greet her. Emily spotted them first and broke out into smiles as
she waved, hurrying forward with Avery and Amy beside her.

Harry suppressed a brief sigh. He remembered a time when Emily would have run to him first
thing, flinging herself at him after every brief absence as if they’d been apart for days… No more,
though. That little girl Emily had been replaced by this one, who only quickened her steps, still
talking to Avery and Amy; he was no longer the main focus of her attention after an absence. He
supposed it had to happen sometime but he was almost surprised by the intensity of his regret
before he shook off the melancholy thoughts as the girls arrived and then was immediately comforted
as Emily threw her arms around him with almost as much enthusiasm as ever.

“Oh, Daddy, it’s good to see you!”

He closed his arms around his daughter in the sort of hug a man gives the dearest thing in the
world to him and could only wish he never needed to let her go again.

Harry shook off the sentimental thought as he released Emily for Hermione’s hug and retrieved
his youngest from where Ron had put her down as he greeted the twins. (David and Jeff had opted to
stay at Hogwarts over the holiday to keep their cousins company as Ginny and Neville, along with
their youngest, Samantha, had gone on a trip to Egypt, and Bill and Fleur and their two elder kids
were spending the holiday in France with Fleur’s family.)

Ron, Avery and Amy were off with a wave and a “See you on Boxing Day!” since, while Christmas
was always spent among the individual families, on Boxing Day, the Burrow was always filled to
bursting with the Weasleys and the Potters.

Harry hoisted Sabrina up into his arms and turned to put his free arm around Em as they left the
station.

Emily was as bright and cheerful as he’d ever seen her and Harry met Hermione’s eyes to see the
smile in them. Emily was happy at Hogwarts, that was clearly, flagrantly obvious and soothed any
last lingering worries he’d had—and for now, at least, he asked nothing more of life.

Sabrina almost burst into the house when they returned, heading immediately to the sitting room
where the tree waited.

“Em, do you want anything to eat?” Hermione asked.

“No, we have to decorate the tree!” Sabrina answered quickly, before Em could.

Emily laughed, pretending to smother Sabrina with her scarf before she answered, “No, I’m fine,
Mum.”

“Maybe you want to rest a little,” Harry suggested teasingly and they all laughed at Sabrina’s
strangled shriek of protest. “Okay, okay, we can decorate the tree now,” Harry relented, as he’d
always been planning to, and grinned at Hermione as the kids flew to open the baskets full of
ornaments.

Harry always loved this. His kids were so different in how they went about it. Emily—ever her
mother’s daughter—was methodical in placing ornaments with due thought for position and color and
visibility. Andy made hanging up all the Quidditch-related ornaments his personal job and Sabrina
loved the most brightly colored or the sparkling ornaments most and always tried to make sure every
part of the tree (that she could reach) was as bright and sparkling as possible, if not downright
blinding.

Sabrina ran up to Hermione. “Here, Mummy, this is yours so you have to put it on the tree.”

Harry stifled a laugh. That particular ornament was one he’d given Hermione a few years ago, of
a girl holding a book on which was written, *She* *is too fond of books and it has addled
her brain.*

Hermione laughed and followed Sabrina’s tugging to the tree where she made a great show of
pondering where to put it with each of the kids offering a suggestion before she deliberately took
Emily’s idea, ruffling Andy’s hair as she did so.

Hermione turned to Harry with a mock threatening glance. “Don’t smirk at me like that. You’re
lucky I never made you sleep on the couch for that.”

He didn’t even bother to hide his grin. “What? It suits you.”

“Oh, so I’m addled, am I?” she asked in a familiar refrain between them.

He slipped his arm around her waist, bringing her in closer so he could whisper in her ear.
“Luckily for you, I find women who are addled to be sexy.”

She tried to frown at him—really, she did!—but he dropped a kiss on the sensitive hollow just
behind her ear and as usual, she felt herself melt at his touch. Really, it shouldn’t be possible
for a husband of more than 15 years to still be able to weaken her knees with just a touch—but he
could. And he knew it too.

She leaned in closer to him until he could feel her breath on his lips, saw the flash of heat
darken his eyes, as she deliberately traced her fingers along the back of his neck.

She stepped back and it was her turn to smirk at the look on his face. Oh well. If he could melt
her with a touch, she could do the same to him, so it wasn’t a bad bargain.

His wife was a siren—an evil siren—he thought but then was yanked from his arousal by a cry of
“Daddy!”

He turned to Sabrina, “What, sweetie?”

None of the kids so much as batted an eye at their parents’ little flirtatious interlude, too
accustomed to the sight to react to it, and Sabrina was supremely unconscious of interrupting
anything as she simply held up her arms in silent command. He understood—this was their usual
ritual—and he lifted her up in his arms so she could put her ornaments on the topmost branches of
the tree.

Sabrina giggled as she draped him with a sparkling garland that made his neck itch but he bore
it with smiling good humor—as he would have borne much worse to see his kids laughing and
giggling—even if the laughter was at his expense.

“Now, the star,” Andy declared.

“Ooh, let me!” Emily volunteered quickly. “I can do it!”

“Ok, Em,” Hermione agreed and held out the star that had been charmed to sparkle and shine.

Then to both Hermione’s and Harry’s surprise, Emily pulled out her wand. “Wingardium leviosa!”
and the star rose, hovering as Emily, frowning in concentration, guided it up to perch on top of
the tree and then made it stay there with another charm, the one Harry or Hermione usually used to
achieve that purpose.

“Oh, wow, Em,” Andy enthused.

Emily beamed proudly. “I did it!”

“Yes, you certainly did,” Hermione laughed. “Nice job.”

“That’s my girl,” Harry grinned at Emily.

“That was neat!” Sabrina clapped her hands. “I wanna learn to do that!”

Harry smiled indulgently at her. “Wait a few years until you go to Hogwarts and then you
will.”

Sabrina pouted. “Can’t you teach me now, Daddy, *please*?”

Harry hesitated; he knew he had to refuse her but saying no to Sabrina when she gave him her
pleading look was not easy. He suppressed a sigh, wondering if he could somehow persuade the
Improper Use of Magic Office to relax the rules for Sabrina and under-age magic (he probably could,
since he knew there were few Departments in the Ministry of Magic who would ever refuse a request
of his—not that he was going to ask, for one thing, and, even if he were, Hermione wouldn’t let
him, for another). He glanced at Hermione to see her watching him with amusement—and
understanding—in her eyes. “You know you can’t, sweetie,” he told Sabrina gently.

“Can’t you change the rules, Daddy? You can do almost anything.” Sabrina gifted him with the
world’s sweetest, most beguiling smile—and Harry wondered, half-wildly, when his daughter had
learned to manipulate him so well. *Powerful wizard, ha, when he was so helpless against his own
children…*

“Daddy can’t change the rules like that, Sabrina,” Hermione spoke up, rescuing Harry and he shot
her a grateful look.

Sabrina looked ready to pout again but Harry hastily grabbed an ornament and handed it to her.
“Here, baby, where do you want to hang this up?”

Sabrina considered the tree seriously, her pout vanishing, and Harry relaxed a little. Sabrina
was generally too good-natured of a child to pout or be in a bad humor for very long. (It was one
of the things he was most grateful for, he sometimes thought, that his kids were, generally, happy
children and not given to pouting—although he was already beginning to live in fear of what would
happen when they all hit their teenage years. He could remember what he’d been like at 15—and he
frankly shuddered at the thought of his kids acting as he had that year.)

The sound of Andy’s and Emily’s laughter brought him back to the present and Harry dismissed
those vague concerns for another time. For now, at least, his kids were still young, still blithely
good-natured (for the most part) and they were all here for Christmas. What more did any man need?
What more could any man ask from life than this? Nothing more, he thought, just this and he was
perfectly happy…

*~Christmas Day~*

The day ended, as usual, with them all sitting around watching *A Wizarding Christmas
Carol*—which Sabrina loved and so was one of the few things which could keep her quiet and
unmoving for any amount of time on Christmas Day.

The film ended as the words, Happy Christmas to All, scrolled across the screen and Harry
glanced down to see that Sabrina had (finally) used up her seemingly inexhaustible store of energy
and dozed off, still hugging the large, plush Kneazle that had been her gift from Ron and Luna.
Harry exchanged a smile with Hermione over her head before Harry slipped his arms under her,
lifting her up so he could carry her up to her room.

She stirred a little, mumbling something he couldn’t decipher, before she settled against him,
her head resting against his shoulder with that instinctive, boundless trust that always filled his
heart with emotion—and made him make a little prayer that he might never betray that trust.

“Emily, Andy, come on and get ready for bed,” he said, keeping his voice low so as not to
disturb Sabrina and they both stood up.

Hermione hugged them in turn, kissing Emily on the forehead and dropping a kiss on Andy’s hair,
as she wished them a good night and then they trooped upstairs.

Harry put Sabrina into her bed and then paused, looking down at her for a moment, wondering—how
was he to get her out of her clothes and into her pyjamas without waking her up?—before Hermione
appeared. “I’ll take care of it,” she said softly and, with a skill that amazed him (he didn’t know
how she did it) she managed to unbutton Sabrina’s blouse and slip it off, handing it to him without
looking and then sliding her skirt off her before she repeated the process in reverse, sliding
Sabrina into her pyjamas, all without Sabrina waking up, although she stirred, mumbling some more
indecipherable words a few times. Really, his wife was a miracle worker.

He bent to brush his lips across Sabrina’s forehead before tucking her blankets in around her
and then made his way over to Andy’s room to see that Andy was already in bed, reading Ron’s gift
to him, an illustrated history of the Chudley Cannons.

He had, characteristically, left his clothes strewn on the floor and Harry shook his head a
little before he stooped and picked them up, haphazardly folding them and putting them on the
chair.

“Don’t stay up too late, Andy,” he said.

Andy looked up and smiled. “I won’t, Daddy. Happy Christmas and good night.”

“Good night.”

Emily was in her pyjamas and, as she usually did, putting her clothes away and methodically
picking out her clothes for the next day. (She grew more like Hermione every day; it was really
almost frightening. Of course Hermione always told him, half-severely, that Andy’s penchant for
disorder must be from him—except he, at least, had been trained to a degree after living with
Hermione for so long, whereas Andy hadn’t reached that level yet.)

He paused in the doorway and simply watched her for a moment, enjoying the familiar sight of
her, all the more after these months of her not being home.

She glanced up at him when she was finished and smiled. “Happy Christmas, Daddy.”

He gave her a quick kiss on her forehead. “Happy Christmas, sweetie. Sleep well.”

She gave him the smile that never failed to warm his heart, a smile she reserved for family
only. “I will. Good night, Daddy.”

When he arrived in his and Hermione’s room, it was to find Hermione sitting on their bed and a
plain white box with a ribbon of the Gryffindor colors wrapped around it, sitting on his
pillow.

He sat down beside her, lightly tugging her until she was leaning against him, while he picked
up the box with his other hand. “And what’s this?”

“Your other Christmas present.”

“I get another one?” he grinned with a passable imitation of the kids.

Hermione laughed. “Just open it and you’ll see.”

He tugged on the ribbon to untie the bow but not until after he’d leaned over and captured her
lips with his in a slow, lingering kiss.

When it ended, she blinked, her eyes soft and a little unfocused in that expression he loved to
see, and he allowed himself a brief smile—too much of a male not to feel a little smug—before he
turned his attention to the box.

He opened it and then stared, the blood rushing out of his head so fast he felt dizzy.

It was… little more than a scrap of lace and silk in a wine red color.

Slowly—his hand was almost trembling with some combination of surprise and lust—he pulled it out
of the box.

It was a slip, a very short slip, with enough lace across the miniscule bodice area that it
would, no doubt, leave very little to the imagination. And just the mental image of Hermione
wearing it was so potent that he had to bite his lip to stifle a groan.

His mouth was dry and he had to fight to swallow.

“It’s- ah- just my color, isn’t it?” he tried to joke but the words were belied by the huskiness
of his tone.

She laughed softly, gifting him with a seductive look from beneath her lashes. “I’d pay a lot of
money to see you in something like this.”

He half-choked on a laugh. “I think you’ll look better in it.”

She pretended thoughtfulness. “I’m not sure… Maybe I should try it on so we can see…”

*Dear Merlin, yes!* His mouth had gone too dry to speak so he only gave her a look and she
smiled, a very slow, very seductive smile filled with all the feminine knowledge and age-old
confidence of a woman who knows she’s desired, even as a slight blush colored her cheeks. (God, he
loved that she blushed. She would buy something like this, playing the role of a siren, but she
would still blush…)

She brushed her lips against his in a tease of a kiss, much too quickly and much too lightly for
him to respond, and he almost groaned when she drew back.

She threw him a teasing, flirtatious look just before she vanished into their closet. “Get
comfortable,” she said huskily.

His wife was the sexiest woman in the universe, he decided, yet again, as he quickly stripped
off his jumper, haphazardly tossing it onto a chair where it was soon joined by his trousers.

After all, Hermione was probably right—as usual—in saying Andy’s penchant for disorder came from
him—*Andy*. He stilled, quickly reaching for his wand and casting a sound-proofing charm on
the bedroom. He and Hermione had gotten accustomed to love-making in silence—or as quietly as
possible—but he had the distinct feeling that tonight was going to be one of those times when quiet
wasn’t possible. No need to potentially scar the kids—to say nothing of the fact that he loved the
sounds she made when she was aroused, when he touched her in certain ways…

He sensed her reappearance in their room more than anything else and a shiver of mingled lust
and anticipation ran through him in the split second before he turned to see her—his body reacting
immediately to the sight of her.

*Holy Merlin…* She was seduction and sensuality personified, a goddess, a siren, every
red-blooded man’s erotic fantasy come to life. And she was *his*… His eyes wandered over every
inch of her, beginning with her eyes, dark with desire, to her lips and then down, to her breasts,
covered just enough by the diaphanous lace of the bodice so as to be completely tantalizing making
his mind immediately conjure up vivid images of touching her, tasting her through the lace and then
stripping her bare to his gaze, further down to the curves of her waist and her hips, and down to
where the slip ended, drawing attention to smoothly rounded thighs and then further still until
they reached her feet. (When even the sight of her bare feet could arouse him, he didn’t know, but
at the moment, he rather thought everything about her aroused him.)

Vaguely, in some peripheral corner of his mind, he wondered how it was that it never mattered
how many times he’d seen her body before; the sight of her still affected him just as much as it
ever had when he’d first seen her, had first explored her body. He’d thought, then, that she was
the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen or imagined seeing—and she still was. Even after all these
years, she still was the most beautiful woman. Her breasts might be fuller than they had been years
ago, her hips wider, her stomach slightly more rounded—but none of that mattered a whit when he
looked at her. She still took his breath away, made him crazy with wanting her—always would take
his breath away. He would always want her…

Hermione felt heat and arousal flash through her body, desire and anticipation and lust coursing
through her at the look in his eyes as he stared at her. She felt the heat of his gaze as if it
were a touch. He stared at her as if she were a goddess, the most beautiful, desirable woman in the
world and she loved that. She loved the way he stared at her, the touch of awe mingling in with the
lust stamped on his features—and that look on his face was all she’d wanted, was what made her do
this.

She smiled, a very slow, very knowing, very feminine smile. “So what do you think?”

He blinked, having to fight to remember what on earth she was asking. “Ah- I- uh- I think it’s
the best Christmas gift ever.” His voice was hoarse, raspy.

“Lie down, Harry.”

Lie down? He would have given her the moon if she’d asked for it, would give her his soul if she
asked for it…

She moved onto the bed beside him, let her eyes wander over the length of his body, linger on
his prominent erection visible through his boxers and then back up his chest and shoulders to meet
his eyes.

“Hermione…” and her name was a groan, a fervent prayer. “Touch me…”

And she did.

She flattened her hands on his chest, her fingers caressing, exploring, brushing over his flat,
male nipples until he groaned. Her hands skated lower to trace over the muscles of his stomach,
that tightened and rippled beneath her hands—she loved his reactions to her touch.

She lowered her lips to his skin, dropping a light kiss on his shoulder and then leaving a
string of kisses across to his other shoulder, pausing and making a detour up to lick at his Adam’s
apple and she felt him swallow. She moved on, her lips skimming over his chest, pausing to let her
tongue flick lightly against first one and then the other nipple, as he groaned, his hips arching
involuntarily.

Her hand cupped his arousal through the cloth of his boxers and he cried out sharply, his body
straining against the cloth, toward her hand. She stroked, lightly, let her fingers trace over the
rigid length of him through the cloth.

“Hermione… please…” His jaw was clenched so tight it was a wonder he managed to grit the words
out.

Her fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers, pushing it down, finally freeing his
erection, and sliding it off him and tossing it blindly to the side. And then, before he could so
much as draw in a shaky breath, her hand closed around him again, robbing him of what little breath
he’d had.

She knew his body, knew every inch of him—and she loved to touch him like this, so intimately,
loved knowing that her touch could reduce him to incoherence, that his world at these moments was
narrowed down to her and her hand and her touch… And so she touched him, explored him. Her fingers
traced along the rigid length of him as he groaned, his eyes closed, his head thrown back, his
hands scrambling for purchase on the sheets. And it was only then, when she saw that look of utter
abandonment to sensual pleasure on his face, that she closed her hand around his length before she
brushed her palm ever so lightly against the tip of him—

In a quick movement that startled a gasp out of her, his hand grasped her wrist, tugging until
she lay sprawled on the bed and in another second, he’d twisted over until she was half-trapped
beneath his body.

“Harry!”

His eyes burned down at her. “My turn,” he rasped, the huskiness of his tone sending a fresh
wave of heat through her, more liquid heat pooling between her thighs and she could only agree. It
wasn’t what she’d planned or expected but who cared about that? In this realm, at least, plans were
over-rated.

He kissed her, hard and deep, his tongue delving into the familiar depths of her mouth, finding
and stroking her tongue with his. She arched under him, her arms sliding around his neck, returning
his kiss with the searing passion that was so much a part of her, the passion that never failed to
steal his breath, his heart and his very soul.

He was addicted—now, as he’d been from the beginning—to her passion, loved the passion in her.
She made love with all the intensity and fervor that she gave to every other aspect of her life, to
everything else she did, and it was intoxicating, addicting… And *hot*… She made him burn…

The silk of the slip was cool against his over-heated skin and it was the most sensuous, erotic
thing to feel the silk and underneath it all, the warmth and softness of Hermione, as she arched
into his touch, her body moving against his in a way that sent the silk sliding over and between
their bodies.

His hands skimmed caressingly down the length of her body, feeling her skin heat at his touch
even through the slip. The silk was smooth against his hands, enough that it almost felt like a
return caress—but he knew from long years of loving her that Hermione’s skin was softer, infinitely
more arousing and more sensuous to the touch than any silk could ever be.

He shifted lower on the bed, his lips moving down to find her taut nipples, suckling at them
through the flimsy lace of the slip’s bodice, first one and then the other, until she moaned his
name. Deliberately, he let his teeth graze her nipple lightly and she cried out sharply, her hands
clutching his hair, as she arched into his touch. He half-smiled against her skin—God, he loved the
sounds she made…

He moved lower on the bed. The slip was lovely—and she was a goddess in it—but it had to go. His
hands pushed the slip slowly up her body, caressing her thighs, her hips, as he went before he
lowered his lips to her skin, kissing every inch of the skin revealed as he pushed her slip further
up her body.

His lips trailed slowly, caressingly, along the soft skin of her thighs, paused to drop a kiss
on the triangle of hair at their junction although he didn’t lower his mouth to kiss the center of
her body where she was wet and swollen for him. Instead, he moved on, his lips skimming over her
lower belly and up her stomach, dipping his tongue lightly, teasingly, into her belly button until
she let out a huff of breath that was half a laugh, half a moan.

He looked up at her, momentarily pausing in his caresses, as his eyes met hers, seeing the
haziness of arousal in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks, her lips slick and swollen still from his
kiss. “You’re so beautiful,” he told her, huskily, the words slipping out unbidden, blunt and
utterly sincere.

Her eyes softened, glowed with all the love in the world, and she moved her hand, lightly
touching her fingers to his cheek, tracing over his lips. It was an oddly intimate caress—given
that she’d just been touching him in a much more intimate manner—made so by the simple emotion
behind it; this had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with love.

He kissed her fingertips softly, lingeringly, before he dipped his head again, returning his
attention to the bare skin of her stomach. (He was addicted to this too, the taste of her skin, the
scent of her…)

He could spend hours like this, he thought hazily, kissing and caressing every inch of her,
worshipping her skin with his lips and hands and tongue…

But then she shifted beneath him, twisting so her leg brushed against his arousal and he felt a
fresh wave of lust jolt through him—proving the lie to his thought. He would spend hours kissing
and caressing her skin—except his own control wouldn’t last for it.

He pushed the slip further, all the way up to bare her breasts—her lovely, perfect breasts—and
then up over her head where he tossed it onto the floor—and then paused to stare at her, just drink
in the beauty of her. He could never get enough of seeing her like this…

Her eyes were dark and dilated with arousal as she looked up at him and the barest hint of a
smile—the smile of a seductress—touched her lips before she reached for him, her arms sliding
around his neck and bringing him down to her.

Her lips found his as she kissed him, first slowly, languorously, and then heatedly until he was
reeling, dizzy, from lust and love and the full force of the sensual power she could wield over
him.

And he was lost.

He deepened the kiss, pressing her further into the mattress, as one hand slid into her hair to
cup her head. His hips shifted until his arousal was where he wanted, needed, it to be, and she
arched up beneath him, pushing herself towards him until the slick core of her body slid against
his erection and he broke the kiss on a strangled groan. It was a pleasurable agony and he had to
grit his teeth as he thought, for the barest second, that he might just come right then. He fought
it back and lowered his lips to hers again, his tongue delving into her mouth as, in an oddly
parallel movement, his hips thrust forward, entered her, filled her, until he was fully sheathed
inside the slick heat of her.

She was the one who ended the kiss on a soft sound, that wasn’t quite a gasp but was more just a
simple breath, a sound she almost always gave whenever he entered her, a sound he loved. It was an
intimate sound, a sound only a lover would know, a sound only he knew, familiar to him from years
of loving her.

She tightened her muscles around him in an evocative caress. “Harry,” she breathed, the word
barely audible, the husky tone of her voice nearly as evocative as the feel of her wet warmth
surrounding him.

And he obeyed the unspoken wish in her movements and began to move, withdrawing from her and
then sliding back in. He tried—he really tried—to keep it slow—he loved being able to savor this,
this joining with her—but she urged him on with her arms and her legs and her hips, arching beneath
him. And then before he could so much as catch a labored breath, he felt her thighs tense and he
could only roll with her as she shifted, straddling him now.

He saw the sensual intent gleam in her eyes a moment before she rose and then lowered herself,
letting him slide deeper into her body and his eyes rolled back in his head with a groan as he gave
himself up to the exquisite torture of it all, of her and of the pleasure she clearly meant to
lavish on him, on them both.

Her body knew the movements by now, knew just how to shift and tighten and then rock above him
and she let her lids fall, her senses stretching, as she moved, setting the pace that he met and
matched with his hips.

She felt the pleasure building, welling up inside her, surging, as she quickened the pace. His
hands came up and found her breasts, cupping them, flattening on her over-sensitized nipples, and
that caress was all it took and she was *there*, ecstasy bursting inside her, pulsing through
her body, as she threw her head back with a sharp cry.

He followed her almost immediately, his hips thrusting up sharply one last time as he found his
release, exploding inside her with a guttural groan.

Hermione slumped over, boneless, breathless, mindless, her body sprawling wantonly above him.
Vaguely, she was aware of his arms around her, anchoring her to him, and—although she was too tired
to think of it—something inside her smiled, and she relaxed, sleepy, satiated, *loved*…

Harry relaxed into the mattress, feeling as if the bed was almost enfolding him, his thoughts
fuzzy, unfocused with bliss, but always aware of the warm and deeply sated bundle of female limbs
and curves that was Hermione above him, in his arms. He let his eyes close as his mind found its
leisurely way back to the world, to the wonderful reality of her and him in their bed.

It was some time before he managed to stir or regain enough coherence to speak and even then, it
was only to brush his lips lazily against her temple and murmur, the words almost more a rumble of
sound in his throat, “That was definitely the best Christmas gift ever.”

He sensed rather than saw her small smile, heard it in her voice as she murmured—purred,
really—“It was my pleasure.”

There was another pause, another silence, before he broke it again. “Happy Christmas,
Hermione.”

She looked up as she shifted off him until she was lying snugly against his side, although her
head remained resting on his shoulder. And as usual, she answered his thoughts rather than his
words. “I love you too, Harry.”

With an effort, he summoned the mental energy to turn off the lights without his wand before he
turned back to her, his eyes meeting hers. “I know you do,” he said, the ghost of a smile curving
his lips.

She smiled and stretched up to brush her lips against his, lightly, tenderly, before she settled
back against him.

He shifted just enough to close his arms more comfortably around her and then let himself drift
into sleep, knowing that she was, as always, right beside him as he did so.

*~The End~*



13. Anniversary
---------------

Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.

Author’s Note: Well, I decided that there needed to be more married!H/Hr smut out there and I’m
just loving this universe. Yet more fluff and more smut, too. Cavity alert!

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*Anniversary*

*~*

*June 8, 2012*

Harry awoke to a dream.

A very vivid, very erotic dream.

A small cool hand slipped inside his pyjamas to wrap around him and he jerked from sleep to full
awareness—and full arousal—in the space of a split second. His eyes flew open on a sharp gasp and
he saw her.

His first thought- utterly inane as it was (but really, who could expect anything like coherence
when her hand was where it was, doing what it was)—was that she’d changed out of her pyjamas. He
knew she hadn’t been wearing *this* when they’d gone to bed. Hermione leaned over him wearing
only a short silk slip with an almost nonexistent bodice, so sheer was the material, and a small,
seductive smile—and nothing else. He could clearly see her breasts, not at all concealed by the
slip and the slip was short enough to reveal her bare hips and- well, everything below that.

If he hadn’t been lying down, his jaw would have dropped. As it was, his lips parted as his
mouth went dry. He could swear his heart stopped beating and then began to pound, so fast he was
almost dizzy, as all the blood left his head in a rush.

Her hand tightened around him and he groaned. “Hermione!” he croaked, her name the only thing he
could think to say.

His wife—his oh-so-seductive siren and temptress of a wife—met his eyes through her lashes,
giving him the look that he swore could draw the very soul from his body. “Good morning, love,” she
purred.

And then before he could so much as catch his breath, she bent, lowering her lips to his skin,
flicking her tongue into the sensitive little hollow just beneath his Adam’s apple and he sucked in
his breath sharply. She kissed her way down his throat and his chest, finding, first, one flat,
male nipple with her lips and her tongue and then the other, touching her tongue to it and then
lightly, deliberately, grazing the nipple with her teeth, making his entire body jerk beneath
hers.

He could feel the cool silk of her slip whispering against his skin and the contrast of the cool
silk with the warmth of her lips and her tongue was somehow the most erotic thing he’d ever felt as
she moved over him, let her lips wander, explore every inch of his chest.

Her hands hadn’t been idle either, had pushed his pyjama bottoms down, taking his boxers with
them, until his arousal was finally freed. But she wasn’t satisfied with merely pushing his pyjamas
down; no, her hands stroked, caressed his legs in a leisurely fashion as she did so. And when he
was naked, her hands made their way back up his legs, her fingers deliberately wandering to his
inner thighs, coming perilously close to touching his rampant body—so close he could almost sense
the pleasure her hands could give him and he groaned—before she moved on.

He was burning, dying, from this deliberately sensual assault on his senses. He was going to die
and she was killing him…

She bent again, lowering her lips to his chest and he groaned and jerked, the involuntary
movement making his arousal brush against the cool silk of the slip and the sheer eroticism of it
startled a moan from him. And he just saw the sudden, wicked intent flare into life in her eyes
before she moved, her body hovering over his, until her breasts brushed against his arousal, once,
twice, three times, the most fleeting and light of touches, the silk sliding over her skin and
brushing against his in the most maddeningly sensual caress he could ever have imagined.

*Good God!!*

His eyes drifted closed, the better to enjoy the sensation but then he opened them again, to
stare at her, to watch her. He loved to watch her at times like this, loved to see the expressions
play across her face… She was a sensual goddess, enthralling in her passion and her inventiveness.
And he was, now and always, hers, utterly captivated by her, by the sensual power she could—and
did-- wield over him. It was something that never failed to amaze him, to take his breath away—and
he loved it, loved *her*. Loved the fact that she loved him with all the single-minded
devotion with which she did everything else, seduced him with all the intensity of her character,
studying his reactions and his body with as much diligence as she gave to her work…

She scooted further down, first teasing his arousal by letting him feel her warm breath and then
finally, enclosing him in the wet heat of her mouth.

His eyes closed, his hips jerking in automatic reaction, as he groaned. “God, Hermione!” The
words were choked out but then his throat closed, what little thoughts he had splintering,
fracturing, until all he could do was grip the sheets convulsively with his hands and endure.
Endure the most blissful torture until he felt himself drawing close to the edge, just on the right
side of sanity.

With a last lick, she drew back and he sucked in a sharp breath just before he forgot to
breathe—again—as she straddled him.

And then she paused.

His eyes flew open to stare at her, his vision practically clouded with desire, and saw the
small, sensual smile curving her lips. *Gods, she was the most beautiful woman…*

She met his eyes, lowering herself until the center of her hovered just above his aching
erection, so close he could almost sense the wet heat of her body.

And then- finally, finally, she lowered herself fully, taking him into her body.

She filled his senses until he knew nothing else, had eyes only for her, only to see her utterly
sensuous beauty as she straddled him, the look of uninhibited, physical pleasure on her face, had
ears only to hear her soft, panting breaths, had hands only to touch her… At that moment there was
nothing and no one else in the entire universe—and he was hers. She claimed him, stole his breath
and his heart…

The movement of her hips increased as she rocked on him, his hips rising upward to meet her.

His hands slipped around from where they’d been gripping her hips to caress her inner thighs and
then just touching her wet flesh where they were joined—and just like that, she threw her head back
on a sharp cry, her muscles tightening convulsively around him in spasms of pure ecstasy.

And the sight of her, the feel of her, the sound of her, all of it combined to push him over the
edge of insanity as his hips jerked up sharply and he exploded inside her, a groan being ripped
from his throat.

He could have sworn he almost blacked out because when he returned to earth and became aware of
his surroundings again, it was to find her slumped on top of him, a boneless, breathless, utterly
feminine bundle of curves covered in smooth, cool silk.

He didn’t open his eyes—it would have taken too much effort to open his eyes right then—it was
as much as he could do to tighten his arms around her almost imperceptibly—and then he let himself
drift.

He loved this time with her, the aftermath of love-making, loved the feel of her against him,
loved the closeness of her in these minutes when it was only them and the rest of the world ceased
to matter. There was no Ministry, no St. Mungo’s, no children clamoring for attention, even, and
they were only Harry and Hermione, lovers…

On the thought, he let his fingers stray over her back in a lazy caress, sliding under her slip
to touch her smooth skin.

He felt her soft sigh against his ear a moment before she shifted slightly, turning her head
just enough to brush her lips against, first, his ear, and then his cheek and finally his lips, her
lips just touching his softly, in the world’s tenderest kiss.

Until he moved his other hand to tangle in her hair, cupping the nape of her neck, and parting
his lips to kiss her more deeply, a long, leisurely exploration with lips and tongues…

She finally broke the kiss but only to rest her head on his shoulder again and the words slipped
from her lips in a soft whisper, hardly louder than a breath, “Happy anniversary, love.”

*Happy anniversary…*

The words finally broke through his dreamy haze of satiation.

*Oh, shit.*

He involuntarily stiffened. Anniversary.

Well, that explained this morning, he thought inanely. It wasn’t like Hermione changed into
lingerie and seduced him on a normal morning.

“Happy anniversary to you too, love,” he finally said, hoping she hadn’t noticed his long
silence and the way he’d stiffened.

But knew when she drew back to look at him that—of course—she had. (He couldn’t hide anything
from her now, had never really been able to hide much from her and certainly couldn’t now, when she
knew him so well, was so attuned to him in every way.) “You forgot, didn’t you?”

It was more of a statement than a question, without a particle of accusation or reproach in it,
but he winced a little anyway. He thought about prevaricating but discarded the idea as soon as it
came. “Yeah,” he admitted sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Harry.” She brushed her lips against his chin in a fleeting kiss before moving off
him and glancing at the clock. “Andy should be awake soon.”

He blinked, a little nonplussed at the change of subject and her utterly normal tone of voice—as
if nothing had just happened. He glanced at the clock in his turn to see that it was just after
5:30 which did mean that Andy would be awake soon (he could never understand how it was that his
son could essentially wake with the sun, invariably waking up before 6 every morning.)

He opened his lips to ask if she was angry, for once suddenly at a loss to read her mood. She
seemed to have shrugged off his forgetting about their anniversary remarkably quickly and he just
could not believe that she was as indifferent to it as she seemed, not when he knew she must have
planned out this dawn seduction with the same meticulousness she gave to everything. How could she
not be annoyed?

But then before he could, she had sat up and made her way into the restroom, and he gave up.

How could he ask if she was angry? Even if she wasn’t, the question might annoy her for his not
knowing how she felt and if she was, it would only anger her more.

He suppressed a sigh, unable to help the fleeting thought that life would be so much less
complicated if things like emotions didn’t get in the way.

He heard the shower begin and he stared up at the ceiling, wondering, planning. He would need to
get flowers—daffodils, if he could find them since they were her favorite, if not, either orchids
or white roses since Hermione liked white roses better than either pink or red ones-- on his way
home. And he would stop over to Tiffany’s just after lunch, he decided. (He normally got Hermione a
book or perhaps tickets to see some show for their anniversary since Hermione didn’t wear much
jewelry on a daily basis aside from her wedding ring and a few pairs of basic earrings which she
generally rotated through; she never had worn much jewelry and she wore even less now since Andy
had a habit of grabbing for anything she might wear, which caused some issues. But having forgotten
their anniversary, something more extravagant than a book was definitely called for.)

The sound of the shower ceased before Harry had managed to decide what kind of jewelry to buy
her and in another moment, Hermione came back into their room, wrapped in only a towel, her hair
wet.

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, thousands of times, but somehow, that morning, the
sight of her like that hit him in the chest with enough force to take his breath. Not with lust—no,
it wasn’t lust that he felt at that moment, for once—but something else that had nothing to do with
physical attraction.

*She was his wife*…

It was an inane thought—of course, she was his wife; she’d been his wife for 9 years now—but
somehow, at that moment, it struck him as profound.

It was something about the sheer intimacy of the sight of her in just a towel, the intimacy of
it and the *familiarity* of it… it wasn’t the fact that she was so nearly naked that affected
him so—at least not then—but the fact that she was so comfortable in her near-nudity and it just
amazed him sometimes. If anyone had ever told him years ago that he would become accustomed to
seeing Hermione in various stages of undress, he would have said they were barking mad. And yet,
here he was, after more than a decade of sleeping with her, as familiar with her body as he was
with his own.

*She was his wife… Great Merlin…*

She was his best friend, his partner, his lover, mother of his children, his soul-mate… His
heart was suddenly filled with a rush of emotion so intense and so pure it felt like it was
something more, something deeper, than love, love that was tinged with something like reverence,
adoration. He loved her and he didn’t know how he had ever gotten so lucky as to have *her*
for his wife, to wake up beside her every morning.

He watched her as she got dressed. He enjoyed watching her get dressed, he’d realized some time
not long after they had first started dating. It was an odd, almost inexplicable thing, since he
would have assumed—not that he’d ever thought about it before Hermione in typical, male
fashion—that he would find pleasure in watching a woman get undressed. Which he did-- but he’d
discovered that there was another sort of pleasure in watching Hermione getting dressed. There was
something about the intimacy of it that he liked, something about the utterly unself-conscious
efficiency of her movements that attracted him, drew his gaze even without his thinking about it.
It was a surprisingly intimate thing, because he knew he was the only person to see Hermione before
she was dressed; he was the only person to see Hermione in only her bra and knickers. And there was
something… captivating… in her unconscious grace and her smooth efficiency.

“What time will you be home?”

“Probably around 3, I think. I’ll be home in time to make dinner,” he answered.

She gave him a quick smile, her lips parting to say something but then the orb that monitored
Andy’s sleep turned white and whatever she’d been about to say was turned into a half-sigh. “Well,
here we go again. I’ll see you downstairs,” she said as she hurried out of the room.

And he waited until he heard the muffled sound of Andy’s cry before he, too, got up to prepare
for the day, remembering a time when days hadn’t begun until after 8 or so. That had ended
immediately once Andy had arrived since Andy seemed to be incapable of sleeping much past
sunrise.

~

Harry opened the front door to be greeted by the familiar cries of “Daddy!” as first Emily and
then Andy came running out of the family room.

Emily stopped short, her eyes widening. “Oh, Daddy, pretty flowers!”

He smiled at Em and stooped to kiss her forehead. “Hi, sweetie.” He bent and scooped up Andy,
making Andy giggle. “Hi, Daddee!”

Harry looked down at his daughter. “Where’s Mummy, Em?”

“She’s right here,” he heard Hermione’s voice and looked up to see her coming towards him.

He handed her the bouquet of white roses. “These are for you, love.”

Hermione’s smile softened. “Thank you but you didn’t have to buy me flowers.”

He wanted to gape at her—he’d forgotten their anniversary, flowers were the least of what he
should have bought her—but with Emily and Andy present and watching the exchange, he settled for a
half shrug. “I wanted to.”

She smiled and quickly brushed her lips against his cheek and he knew he wasn’t imagining her
soft whisper of “Later,” before she drew back to ruffle Emily’s hair.

Harry bounced Andy on his arm, making Andy giggle. “Now, what have you two been up to today?” he
asked.

Emily beamed up at him, reaching up to grab his free hand and half-pulling him with her as she
led him into the family room. “Mummy read to us and then we colored pictures and…”

Harry smiled, letting Emily’s cheerful voice wash over him as she continued on with her litany
of what they’d done all day. Emily was always, characteristically, thorough in her answers to such
questions, telling him everything to what colors she’d used on her drawings to what Andy had done
to what they’d had for lunch and how long Andy’s nap had been. (After all, Emily wasn’t Hermione’s
daughter for nothing.)

Hours later, Hermione made her way back up to her bedroom. She’d been working in her office as
she usually did, in the brief time in the evenings, while Harry was putting Andy and then Emily to
bed, in the little ritual they had and Emily always insisted on.

As always, she poked her head into, first, Andy’s room to make sure that Andy was sleeping
soundly in his little bed and that the little charm set to monitor Andy’s sleep was in place—he was
and it was—and she smiled to herself. She was thankful every night, still, that Andy now slept the
night through. It made life much easier for both her and Harry.

She went into Emily’s bedroom and Emily’s eyes promptly opened.

“Good night, Em.”

“G’night, Mummy.”

Hermione bent to kiss Emily’s forehead and then left, closing Emily’s door behind her.

Her room was empty when she entered it but she could hear the shower running and—Hermione
paused—there was a small box in distinctive Tiffany’s green lying on her pillow.

Hermione half-smiled even as she shook her head a little at Harry’s extravagance. She had the
most indulgent husband in the world.

She opened the box to see a delicate golden chain with a single pearl pendant and matching
earrings. *Oh, Harry…*

She lifted her head, her gaze falling on the small pile of his clothes which he’d haphazardly
folded and left on top of the dresser—he had stopped leaving them scattered on the floor.

She paused, considered—she had, of course, showered that morning but then again, it wasn’t as if
cleansing herself was her objective now—and made a quick decision, putting the Tiffany’s box away
and stripping out of her clothes, leaving them—for once in her life—lying in a careless heap on her
dresser. They hadn’t showered together in a while—but anniversaries did call for something special,
she thought with a very small, very knowing smile.

She left her bra and knickers on the floor in the bathroom before she slid open the shower door
to see Harry, his head tilted back under the spray, before he straightened his head to stare at
her.

“Need any help?”

His eyes flashed down to what he could see of her body, a smile tugging at his lips. “God, yes,”
he breathed fervently.

She smiled as she stepped into the shower, letting her eyes wander down his body and then back
up again, inspecting him as thoroughly as if she hadn’t seen it all before. Water was streaming
down his body, drawing her eyes down, down his chest and still-flat stomach and further—she loved
looking at his body, a little broader than it had been more than a decade ago when she’d first seen
it; then, it had been a boy’s body, now, it was a man’s body… And what a man…

She didn’t touch him—yet—but even as she looked at him, his already-burgeoning erection hardened
even more. *Mmm**…* She just barely managed to keep from licking her lips and had to tear
her gaze away from him to look up and meet his eyes.

She closed the small distance between them, sliding her arms loosely around his neck, as she
joined him under the shower spray, feeling his arousal against her stomach. His eyes flickered and
flared as he focused on her lips and she saw him swallow and heard his breathing hitch as he rested
his hands lightly on her waist. “I opened your gift,” she said softly, her voice coming out in a
husky whisper. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” The words were almost a croak, his voice hoarse and strained with
arousal.

Hermione abruptly—or not so abruptly—lost all interest in talking and tightened her arms around
his neck and he bent his head to flatten his lips on hers. He kissed her hard, deeply, his tongue
thrusting inside her mouth, claiming her, exploring the familiar depths of her mouth with delicious
thoroughness. Her moan was lost in the back of her throat as she arched against him, clutching him
even tighter, her wet body sliding against his in the most erotic way.

She had the vague thought that it was a miracle they weren’t bursting into flame, what with the
hot water coming down on them and the heat their bodies were generating.

Harry’s hands were everywhere, it seemed, touching her everywhere he could reach—her back, her
butt, her hips, her shoulders, her hair, her face— and she was vaguely aware of him nudging her
backwards until her back hit the wall. She jumped slightly and then shivered at the feel of the
cool tiles contrasted with her warm skin and then moaned, as he finally, finally, moved his hands
to touch her breasts. His hands cupped, kneaded, his palms flattening against her hardened nipples
before he flicked his thumbs against them.

Her blood was roaring in her ears, almost drowning out the sound of the shower and her own gasps
for breath, and then her ear just caught some other sound, a sound that certainly didn’t belong to
that moment of heated sensuality.

“Daddy?”

They both froze, Harry’s hands abruptly leaving her, as their eyes met in a moment of mutual
panic and dismay.

Harry cleared his throat hastily, stepping away from her and averting his eyes, as he answered.
“Ah, yes, what is it, Emily?”

“I wanna go on a picnic tomorrow. Can we, please, Daddy?”

“Sure, sweetie.” Harry’s voice was slightly hoarse, his gaze fixed on the tiles.

“Thank you, Daddy.” Hermione could just picture the smile on Emily’s face. “Goodnight.”

“Good night, sweetie.”

Hermione allowed herself to relax a little, as did Harry—and then they both froze again.

“Daddy, why is Mummy in the shower with you?”

Hermione felt as if she’d been turned to stone for a second, wishing fleetingly that a hole
would just open up in the ground so she could burrow into it, and watched as Harry did a remarkable
impression of a man having a coronary, his eyes widening.

“Ah, Mummy’s- er- helping me.” Harry’s voice was strained, sounded unlike himself.

*That was one way of putting it*. Hermione bit her lip to bite back a sudden burst of
hysterical laughter—at Harry’s words, at the situation in general—caught, almost literally in
flagrante delicto, by their young daughter! Harry might never recover.

“Oh. Like Mummy helps me take a bath?”

Harry closed his eyes briefly and Hermione noted—with a spurt of sympathy mingled with
amusement—the color staining his cheeks. “Er- yeah, something like that,” Harry answered, his voice
something like a croak.

“Okay.” Emily sounded satisfied. “Good night, Daddy, Mummy.”

“Good night, sweetie,” Hermione spoke up because it looked as if Harry was incapable of words at
the moment.

She held her breath, and knew Harry did too, until they heard the sound of the door closing
behind Emily.

And that was when she started to laugh, a little hysterically, her shoulders shaking.

Harry groaned, letting his head fall forward to rest on the tiles. “It’s not funny.”

Hermione didn’t answer—couldn’t answer—as she laughed. Oh God, of all ridiculous things to
happen!

“I almost had a heart attack—how is that funny?” Harry groused but Hermione caught the slightest
hint of amusement in his voice. And after a moment, he turned his head so his eyes could meet hers.
A half-reluctant smile tugged at his lips before becoming a full-blown grin and then he was
laughing too.

“I’m never going to be able to look Em in the face again.”

Hermione laughed. “Silly Harry. She doesn’t know anything.”

“I hope she never understands what we were doing.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Hermione said lightly. “But it’ll be years before she does.”

“It better be at least 20 years. Better yet, 30.”

Hermione laughed again, softly, at Harry’s expression and his words. “I don’t think it’ll take
nearly that long.”

Harry slanted her a look. “I nearly had a heart attack because our daughter just caught us in
the shower and now is the time you pick to rub in the fact that she’ll eventually learn about
sex?”

Hermione leaned over to brush a kiss against Harry’s neck where she knew he was sensitive. “Are
you going to sulk about what happened all night or can we get back to what we were doing?” she
whispered breathily into his ear and felt the slight shiver that went through him in reaction. As
she’d known would happen. After so many years, she knew how to arouse him, knew what to do, what to
say, and how to say it—and she knew how he would react.

He turned his head to capture her lips with his in a brief but deliciously thorough kiss. The
kiss ended but then he stepped back in front of her, leaning in until the length of his body was
pressed against hers, and she could feel the very definite bulge of his erection against her.

Harry lifted his hands to cup her cheeks, his thumbs brushing against her skin in a tender
caress, as her eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment. He brushed his lips against hers in a
tease of a kiss before he whispered huskily, “Now, where were we?”

She opened her eyes to meet his and then she was the one to kiss him. “Well, if memory serves,”
she responded in the same husky tone, “you were touching me here…” and reached up to grasp his
wrists, moving them down until his hands were cupping her breasts.

As close as they were, their breaths mingling, it was easy for her to see the flicker of
surprise—and arousal-- at her boldness in his eyes. But then, with him, it wasn’t boldness; it was
confidence—confidence and a level of comfort which she felt with no one and nothing else in her
life. With him, she was free to show him and tell him all she wanted. With him, she was
herself.

He kissed her then, with a half-groan caught in his throat, kissed her long and deeply, his
tongue taking possession of her mouth, dueling with hers. His hands tightened on her breasts,
kneaded, his fingers teasing her already-hard nipples into even harder points.

And then his hands left her breast and he broke off the kiss, his lips skating down her chin and
her neck in a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses, down, down, until his lips closed over her nipple.
She gasped, arching into his mouth, her hands flying into his wet hair to hold him in place. She
could feel his lips and tongue, lightly tugging at her sensitized nipple, the sensation shivering
through her body to pool in the wet heat between her legs.

He moved on to her other breast as his hands slid down her body, one hand slipping between her
legs to that most sensitive part of her body. And she was suddenly grateful for the wall behind her
as otherwise, she rather thought she would have slid down into a boneless pool at his feet.

He slid his fingers along the center of her, touching her, exploring her body with all the skill
and knowledge that came from years of loving her.

Her breath was coming in pants and gasps now, mostly drowned out by the sound of the shower but
not entirely.

He let his teeth graze her nipple ever-so-lightly and her shriek was strangled in her throat as
he slid one finger inside her, caressing her ever more deeply and ever more intimately.

“Oh… Harry…” The words were fractured, his name broken up into something more like three
syllables than its usual two, punctuated with gasps.

She was on the edge, she could feel it, the mounting pleasure building, building, inside
her…

But then his hand abruptly left her and she opened her eyes in protest, every nerve in her body
keyed up and screaming for release. She just saw the intent gleaming in his eyes, just had time to
catch her breath sharply, before he knelt in front of her, one hand lifting one leg until she could
brace her foot against the opposite shower wall.

And then he paused for a fleeting, eternal second, looking up along the length of her upper body
to meet her eyes.

“Harry, please…” She was panting, half-sobbing with want and need, vulnerable, open to him,
pleading.

“Hermione,” he breathed and her name was a caress. She swore she could feel his breath against
the center of her and a shiver racked her.

And then—finally—he put his mouth on her, kissing the quivering center of her, before touching
his tongue to her. He licked and sucked and swirled his tongue over that one spot and…

And the entire world dissolved around her into one swirling maelstrom of physical sensation. Her
toes curled, her eyes closed, her head fell back against the wall with a thump that might have been
painful if she’d been capable of feeling any pain or aware of any sensation besides those centered
on the spot Harry’s tongue was touching…

“Harry!” She would have shrieked his name if she’d had the breath for it but as it was, her
voice emerged as a gasping cry.

She returned to an awareness of her surroundings slowly and was vaguely amazed to find she was
still standing upright, even if she was sagging against the wall. Slowly, her foot slid down from
the wall until it was flat on the shower bottom and she was standing on two feet—shakily—but
standing.

Harry had stood up, was watching her with the half-tender, half-awed, and wholly lustful look
that he sometimes had when he witnessed her ecstasy. And as always, something inside her—her very
soul—seemed to soften and melt, even as her senses were still purring from physical pleasure.

Moving slowly, languorously, she straightened, sliding one hand around his neck as she shifted
closer to him—

Only to get the shower spray directly in her face.

She blinked and sputtered a little, shifting backwards, the thick silence between them
momentarily broken as they both laughed softly, smiles slowly fading as their eyes met and held for
a long, long second.

She reached out blindly for the soap, lathered up her hands and then returned the soap to its
tray, all without once taking her eyes from his. “My turn,” she breathed huskily and she heard his
breathing hitch and then quicken. The slightest smile touched the corner of her lips; she loved how
he reacted so, when she hadn’t so much as touched him yet.

And then touch him, she did.

She flattened her hands on his chest, beginning to stroke him, running her hands, slippery with
soap, with deliberate, leisurely care, over his body, hearing his breathing grow increasingly
harsh. Slowly, slowly, her hands inched down his body, sliding around to his butt and then forward,
caressing his hips and then down his thighs…

His hips twitched involuntarily as he groaned and it was only then that she touched his
straining erection, wrapping her hand around him with delicious, excruciating gentleness, stroking
him with a deliberately light touch.

“Hermione…” Her name emerged in a guttural groan.

She turned him around, her hands on his hips, as she stepped up close behind him until her
breasts were brushing his back. Her hands continued stroking the front of him, with delicious and
deliberate thoroughness, this time to wash off the soap, in the most sensual cleansing.

And she knew the moment he was clean because he abruptly grabbed her hand and then spun around
until her back was once more pressed against the shower wall. His other hand slid between her legs
to touch her where she was wet—and not from the shower—and then in one swift motion, he was inside
her, filling her.

His hands grasped her hips and she wrapped her arms around him, wrapping one leg around his hip,
encouraging him further, deeper, into her, gasping almost in time with his movements as he
thrust.

*Oh, God…* Hermione closed her eyes, her hands clinging to him.

They were both so close that she was half-surprised they didn’t come right then and even so, it
was hardly any time at all before she could feel the familiar tension coiling inside her. She could
feel him nearing the edge, could feel the tension gripping his body, with a knowledge bordering on
instinct after so many years, and then he moved one hand to touch her where they were joined and as
always, that one touch was enough.

Her fingers were digging into his skin, her mouth open on a sharp cry, her muscles convulsing
around him, and she was only peripherally aware of his groan as he thrust one last time, his body
shuddering as he exploded inside her…

When she drifted back to reality, it was to find him slumped heavily against her, half his
weight pressing her into the shower tiles and the other half leaning against the wall beside her.
His face was buried in her shoulder and then she felt him stir, felt him brush a kiss against her
shoulder.

“Mmm,” she sighed softly, turning her head so her lips could meet his in the merest brush of a
kiss as he lifted his head.

“The water’s getting cold,” he finally murmured.

“Mm, I suppose we should get out then.”

He turned the water off and slid open the shower door, handing her a towel as he stepped out and
appropriated the other one for himself.

Their movements were slow, leisurely, as they dried off and then hung up their towels.

When they were both finished, he tugged her gently into his arms and kissed her, lightly,
languorously, both of them too satiated for passion.

Still exchanging soft, lazy kisses, they stumbled back into their bedroom and only broke apart
so they could get into bed, arranging themselves in their habitual position with him on his back
and her tucked in snugly against his side.

Hermione closed her eyes, feeling every muscle in her body relax into him, as her very soul
seemed to let out a blissful sigh. There was nowhere else in the world she would rather be…

“I’m sorry I forgot our anniversary.” The words were quiet, a murmur of sound, but with a thread
of remorse running through them.

She moved her hand on his chest in an idle caress as she turned her head so she could meet his
eyes. “I wasn’t angry.”

He blinked—he believed her, couldn’t not believe her. He knew her too well and he could see the
truth in her eyes. And he was feeling too content, too filled with peace, even to feel even a
flicker of hesitation as he asked, simply, “Why not?”

Her expression softened even further, even as she lifted the hand resting on his chest to touch
his cheek lightly with her fingers. “Because,” she said very softly, “I *know*.”

She saw the question flicker in his eyes and continued on, still softly. “I don’t need jewelry
or grand gestures on our anniversary to know you love me. I know you do, know what all this--” she
waved one hand in a small gesture meant to encompass them, together, and Emily and Andy, safely
asleep in their respective beds—“means to you.” She paused and then added, still more softly, so
softly it was hardly more than a breath, “I know you.”

There was a long minute of silence and then—“Of course you do,” he murmured, and for once, the
words were more tender than teasing. “*My* know-it-all.”

A smile just touched her lips and she stretched up to kiss him again, lightly, before she
relaxed back against him, his arms tightening around her almost imperceptibly.

His eyes drifted closed, a smile lingering in his heart. Of course she knew. She, Emily, and
Andy, were everything to him…

And so they slept.

*Postscript*: Sabrina Lily Potter was born nine months later…

*~The End~*

A/N 2: The second half of this fic essentially came to me in a dream (and I’m not sure what it
says about me that I dream in fic-form.) I wasn’t originally going to include Emily’s interruption
but decided I simply had to—and Harry may never forgive me. ;-)



14. The Luckiest Man in England
-------------------------------

Disclaimer: See ‘All He Ever Wanted.’

Author’s Note: This installment in this series is rather less fluffy than they’ve been so far
but it ends happily. Warning for some angst in the beginning.

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*The Luckiest Man in England*

Harry sprinted down the hall in St. Mungo’s, ignoring all the curious stares and the whispered
questions that inevitably followed on the sight of Harry Potter running in St. Mungo’s. Or not
ignoring them, so much as not seeing them.

He didn’t see or notice anything, dodging out of people’s way by instinct rather than actual
thought.

A familiar face- he almost skidded to a halt, breathing hard, in front of Abigail Brantley, the
family Healer. “Abby,” he almost choked out.

Abby looked up and her face softened, an expression that struck stark terror into his heart,
terror that seared through him with even more intensity than when he’d first received the urgent
Owl message at work: *It’s Hermione. Come to St. Mungo’s now.*

“She’s waiting for you, Harry, in Suite 500.”

He didn’t bother thanking her, just ran, his heart pounding out a litany of fear and dread and
worry. *Oh God, Hermione. Hermione. Hermione…*

He almost ran straight past the door to Hermione’s room in his worry and had to grasp the door
frame as he almost hurtled into the room.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” he gasped out, his eyes searching Hermione’s face.

She looked pale and a little wan and he could see the signs of some tears on her cheeks but
other than that, he noted with some relief, she didn’t look ill.

Hermione held out her hand and he approached, taking her hand and perching on the edge of the
bed as he bent over her to brush his lips against hers.

“What is it, love? Is it… is it--” he had to fight to get the words past his tight throat- “the
baby?”

His question was soft, a husky whisper, but her reaction was extreme. She gave a strangled sob
and abruptly buried her face in his shoulder.

*Oh God.* Harry stopped breathing. And in that moment, he knew what Hermione was going to
say, knew what had happened. His heart hurt and he couldn’t decide whether it was more for the baby
or for Hermione.

He put a gentle arm around Hermione and waited for her to speak.

When she did, it was in a voice that sounded unlike her, a voice that anyone who didn’t know her
would have said sounded remarkably cold but which he knew meant that, in reality, Hermione felt too
much and was trying desperately not to break down. A voice that made him wince and suppress a
shudder and automatically tighten his arms around her.

“I lost the baby, Harry. I just… started bleeding and… I lost it.”

Harry forcibly kept himself from flinching at the mention of bleeding—*God!* He didn’t even
want to think about Hermione bleeding, Hermione in pain… A slight shudder racked her body and he
forgot his own reactions in his worry over her, tightening his arms around her slightly, making
soft, soothing noises in the back of his throat. “Ssh, love, it’s okay. I’m here. It’s okay…”

Hermione clutched at him, her face still hidden in his shoulder, and he felt his shirt become
damp from her tears, felt the sobbing breaths shake her body.

And he closed his eyes tightly against the tears that he felt welling up, felt the tightness in
his throat building, but he refused to let out the tears. He would not cry, could not cry,
*refused* to cry—not now, not when Hermione needed him to be strong.

No, he would not cry. He only held her in his arms and focused his mind on the relief in the
knowledge that she was fine. She would recover, physically at least, quickly enough.

“I’m sorry, Harry, I’m *so sorry*.”

He shook his head slightly, tightening his arms around her. “No, love, don’t. *Please*
don’t. It’s not your fault. It’s okay…”

He wasn’t sure how many minutes passed as he sat there, holding Hermione, pain tearing at his
chest with every sob that he heard from Hermione, but eventually, she straightened up, drawing in a
sharp breath.

“I’ll be okay, Harry.” She essayed a wan attempt at a smile, an attempt that failed rather
pitifully, but it was something.

And he forced his lips to curve slightly, even as he wondered if his heart was
breaking—again—not for their loss this time but for her courage, her strength. For the millionth
time, at least, he was amazed, just struck dumb with awe, at his wife. He didn’t know how she did
it. He still felt like crying, felt like he couldn’t breathe properly for the unshed tears—but
Hermione, who’d actually been carrying their baby and had really suffered the loss, Hermione was
trying to comfort *him*, to reassure *him*.

“I know you will be,” he finally managed to say, his voice husky.

She nodded, once. “I just want to go home now, Harry.”

“We’ll see what Abby says and then we can go home,” he promised softly. He leaned forward to
brush his lips against her forehead, as softly as if he feared she might shatter at the merest
touch. “I’ll go find Abby now.”

He waited for her slight nod, thinking with a sudden wrench of his heart, that she looked,
somehow, suddenly, very small and very young. He looked at her now and he could see very little, if
any, traces of the strong woman he knew she was.

He left the room and made it just a few steps down the hall- just far enough where he knew he
was completely out of her line of sight- before he stopped, sagging against the wall. *Oh
God.* In some tiny corner of his mind, he was aware that he hadn’t grieved yet for the loss of
the baby—that sorrow had not yet penetrated into his mind—and right now, he was too preoccupied
with Hermione, being strong for Hermione, to face his own grief. He let out a ragged breath and
forced himself to straighten, forced himself to manufacture and put on as calm an expression as he
could muster.

He found Abby quickly enough; she hadn’t moved much from where she’d been when he’d run past
her. “Abby, Hermione says she wants to go home.”

Abby Brantley looked up, her expression softening at the sight of Harry’s face. “I’m so sorry,
Harry,” she said gently.

Harry stiffened, every muscle in his body locking in automatic reaction, automatic rejection. As
good a friend as Abby had become to both him and Hermione in these past couple years, he didn’t
want her sympathy. He could not deal with her sympathy now. “Yeah,” he only said briefly. “Can
Hermione go home now?”

Abby sighed a little as she started down the hallway. “I’ll tell you both together so I don’t
have to repeat myself.”

“Hermione,” Abby greeted, her voice kind, “I’m afraid you can’t go home right this minute. We
want to keep you overnight, just as a precaution, and then you can go home tomorrow morning, I
should think. And then I don’t want to see you back here for work until Monday at the very earliest
and I really think you should consider taking Monday off too.”

Harry nodded. “She’ll stay home on Monday too,” he assured Abby.

Hermione glanced at Harry and opened her mouth, no doubt to protest at his answering for her,
before she relented. “I’ll work from home on Monday, if I work at all,” she promised.

Abby nodded. “Good.” She paused, hesitated, and then finally continued on, carefully, “I know
you two are probably concerned but let me assure you that this shouldn’t affect your future ability
to have children at all.”

Her voice was gentle but Harry saw Hermione’s almost imperceptible flinch.

“These things happen, sometimes without any visible reason. We usually say that it’s nature’s
way of telling us this particular baby wasn’t fit for the world for whatever reason.”

She paused and Harry forced himself to respond, since he could see that Hermione couldn’t.
“Thanks, Abby. That’s- that’s good to know.”

After Abby left, Harry carefully wedged himself onto the bed, drawing Hermione into his arms
until she was resting against him and felt the slight shudder that went through her before she
relaxed.

“Get some rest, Hermione,” he finally said, softly. “I’ll stay right here.”

“I know you will.” The words were familiar, even if the tone—so vulnerable—wasn’t. But for the
first time, Harry felt the knot in his chest easing ever so slightly. His Hermione, the one he knew
and loved so well, was still here, still with him—and for now, that was all he needed.

~

He couldn’t sleep.

He thought—he hoped—that Hermione was asleep as she lay, tucked up against his side. But he
couldn’t sleep.

He’d brought Hermione home yesterday morning and since then, he had insisted she remain mostly
in bed and, though she’d protested, it had been more of a token protest than not and she’d given
in.

He thought that she was better, not just physically. Her voice was no longer as
uncharacteristically vulnerable and soft, nor was it uncharacteristically hard, as if she were
holding back all her emotions. She had even smiled a few times. She was, he thought, beginning to
be herself again.

But now, with his worry over her somewhat allayed, he felt his own sorrow over the baby begin to
build.

He turned his head to the side, away from Hermione, and closed his eyes tightly against the
tears he felt pricking at the back of his eyes as he remembered all the things that had led up to
this. Could still see Hermione’s face, hear her voice, remember how he’d felt…

Hermione as she’d met his eyes and told him, “I’m ready, Harry” and then, later, “I want to have
your children.” And how he’d gently corrected her, “No, not *my* children, *our*
children. That’s the most important part, after all, what I really always wanted: *our*
children.” He remembered the look on her face when he’d said that, that blossoming of so much love
it never failed to take his breath away.

Coming home, just over three weeks ago, to see Hermione holding a bouquet of flowers which she’d
then handed to him with an odd smile that was a mixture of tenderness, happiness, and triumph, as
she’d said, “We’re going to have a baby.” He remembered the star-burst of reaction inside his chest
to those words, to her expression. He’d never realized before that it was possible to feel both
utterly terrified and completely overjoyed at the same time.

Hermione, as she’d made him promise not to tell anyone, including Ron, just yet. “It’s so
early—it’s not even two months yet—and sometimes, things happen. The books say that you shouldn’t
start telling people until after the first trimester.” He’d agreed easily; of course, from the
moment she’d told him about her pregnancy, he would have agreed to anything she asked for. He would
have agreed to walk on his hands and knees to the other side of the world to get a blade of grass,
if she’d asked him to. He hadn’t thought about what she’d said much and he’d found that part of him
rather wanted to keep the precious knowledge just between them at least for a little while longer.
He certainly didn’t want any of the media attention he knew would come the moment the public found
out that he and Hermione were (finally) expecting their first child. (The fact that they’d been
married for four years now with no children had already been commented on by the media more times
than he cared to think about or acknowledge. It was to the point that, the winter before last, when
Hermione had come down with a cold severe enough that she’d actually consulted Abby about it,
someone had overheard something and the next thing they knew there had been a huge headline
splashed across the front page of both the *Daily Prophet* and *Witch Weekly* speculating
that he and Hermione were expecting their first child. Abby had had to categorically deny any such
report, at his and Hermione’s request, since he and Hermione had already decided years ago to
refuse to answer any questions about their personal lives, even if it was only to deny a
rumor.)

He remembered how he’d stayed awake, long after Hermione had fallen asleep, just to watch her
and how he’d found his gaze irresistibly drawn to her flat stomach. He’d placed his hand, ever so
lightly, over her stomach, and marveled at how there could be a child—their child—a visible,
tangible symbol of their love—growing inside her. And, for the first time, he’d found himself
whispering, very softly, “Hello,” before he’d almost snatched his hand away, feeling almost
embarrassed at his actions, not that anyone had been around to know of it.

That had been only a week ago. And now… Now, there was no baby, no child growing inside her…
Now, there was… nothing…

*Sometimes, things happen…* He remembered her words again, the words invested with an
ominous significance they certainly hadn’t had before. *Things.* Yes, something had certainly
happened…

He blinked back the tears and had to bite his lip to keep a sob from escaping—his baby,
*their* baby, was gone now… *I lost the baby, Harry… Things happen…*

Over and over, those two sentences repeated in his mind like a dismal fugue of dread and sorrow
and—

He paused. He was never entirely sure how he knew but at that moment, he realized that Hermione
wasn’t sleeping. Perhaps it was some slight change in her breathing or maybe it was just the feel
of her body against him, he didn’t know. But after so many years of sleeping beside her, he could
sense it, suddenly knew she wasn’t sleeping.

And he understood why. Realized suddenly in a flash of understanding that Hermione’s smiles, her
effort to appear normal in the past two days, had been to reassure him so he wouldn’t worry over
her so much. Of course they had been, just as he had tried not to show her his own sorrow so she
wouldn’t fret over him.

He turned to face her. “Hermione?”

He knew his voice was slightly hoarse, would tell Hermione that he, too, had been lying there
fighting tears.

Hermione let out a sound that was half-gasp and half-sob, instantly turning in his arms until
she was facing him.

“Oh, Harry, I- I’ve just been thinking about how I didn’t want to tell people yet, what I
said…”

At this point, he felt no surprise that she’d been thinking of the exact same thing he had been;
of course she would be. She trailed off and he finished her thought for her, his voice slightly
husky with emotion. “Sometimes, things happen.”

Her breath hitched in her chest. “I *knew* that things happen; I-I’d read about
m-miscarriages.” She stuttered slightly over the terrible word, and then finished, “I just- I never
really thought it could happen to us!”

And that was when she started to cry, cry as he hadn’t seen her cry in years—if ever-- great,
gasping sobs, that somehow made her sound and look very young. For a moment, it was as if she was a
young girl again, the girl who’d gone to all his Quidditch matches, the girl who’d stayed up so
many nights to prod both him and Ron into studying, the girl he’d learned to love even before he
knew what love was…

And it broke his heart.

He hauled her into his arms, until she could bury her face in his chest, as he wrapped his arms
and then his legs around her, curling his entire body around hers, wishing he could somehow absorb
all her grief into him.

He felt dampness on his face and realized belatedly that he was crying too but he didn’t care
and let himself cry. With anyone else, he wouldn’t have, couldn’t have, but with Hermione, it
didn’t matter.

She was clinging to him as he held her, their bodies straining together, wrapping around each
other, in an embrace that was, for once, entirely asexual and devoid of passion. Just two people,
grieving together… Grieving together for their loss and for each other’s sorrow.

It should have been a moment of weakness. Should have been and yet… And yet, somehow, it was
not.

It was, instead, a moment of comfort, even of strength.

Harry closed his eyes tightly as his hands rubbed Hermione’s back in a half-idle, soothing
motion. Even in his own grief, the ache of sorrow and of regret in his chest for the baby that
might have been, he was always aware of Hermione, of the warmth of her pressed against him, of the
dampness of his shirt from her tears, of the slight trembling of her form from her sobs. And
somehow, it was enough, just to know she was there, with him.

He moved his head just enough so he could press his lips against her hair. He had the vague
notion that he should be saying something to comfort her but couldn’t think of anything to say and
so he settled for murmuring her name, softly. “Hermione. Hermione…”

And slowly, he felt her sobs cease, felt the trembling in her body stop, her arms loosening from
around him, and she lay in his arms, quiescent.

She stirred a little and then sighed. “Oh, Harry…” There was a pause during which he could sense
her trying to calm herself. “I…”

“I know,” he interrupted her gently. She didn’t have to say it. Merlin knew, he couldn’t always
read her thoughts; he doubted there was a man alive who could honestly say they always knew what a
woman was thinking and he was no different. But after so many years, he knew her well enough to
know what she’d been about to say, at least in this situation. *I don’t remember the last time I
cried so much.* As a rule, Hermione didn’t cry often and when she did, it was usually in the
form of a few tears slipping down her cheeks rather than outright sobs. Unlike tonight’s
anomaly.

She sniffed a little and gave him a somewhat watery attempt at a smile. “I’ll be okay now,
Harry. Really. I just- I needed to cry a little.”

He bit back the unruly thought that she’d cried “a little” tonight in about the same way that
Ron was only “a little” interested in Quidditch—but he also knew himself well enough to know that
the thought meant that he was reassured about her. He knew she would be okay.

They had both grieved and the grief would heal.

“I know you will be, my Hermione” he finally said softly, using the endearment he only used in
the most tender of moments. And left unsaid what he knew she already knew—that as long as she would
be fine, so would he be.

Hermione brushed her lips against his chin and then his lips in the most fleeting of caresses
before she settled back into his arms, her body fitting itself automatically against him.

And after a while, comforted, content, they both closed their eyes and slept.

~*~

“Harry?”

“Mm, what is it?” Harry looked up from his book with a vague, half-smile. He paused for a moment
to enjoy the sight of Hermione in her bathrobe as she moved around their bedroom, putting away her
clothes, straightening the items on top of her dresser, all the little, inconsequential tasks that
made up Hermione’s nightly bed-time ritual, familiar and comfortable and precious, if only for the
intimacy of it.

“I’ve been thinking…”

Harry closed his book, although he kept one finger inside to mark his spot, not because
Hermione’s words were so surprising but because he’d heard something, the slightest hint of
something in her tone, that had been enough to set off warning bells in his head, warning bells
signaling that something important was coming up.

Hermione perched beside him at the edge of the bed, setting the book aside (although, being
Hermione, she paused to slip a bookmark in to keep the page) before she leaned forward and kissed
him with a slow, deliberate sensuality that had his blood heating and his skin positively tingling,
as his hands reached for her, bringing her in closer until she was resting fully against him. She
was the first one to break the kiss, drawing back slightly, just enough to keep their lips from
touching really.

They were close enough that their breaths mingled, close enough that she could speak in the
softest of whispers and he still heard her clearly. “I want to try again.”

Now he was the one to draw back so he could meet her eyes. “It’s not too soon?”

She shook her head once, decisively. “I don’t like the feeling that I failed at something so
impor--”

He interrupted her. “*You* didn’t fail. It was an accident. You know that.”

“I know but it still feels like a failure.”

“You’ve never really failed at anything in your life.” His voice was soft.

She smiled slightly and thanked him with another long, slow kiss. “I want this, Harry,” she
whispered against his lips. “I want to have your baby.”

Harry decided fuzzily that those six words may have been the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. He
slipped his arms around her, feeling the soft cotton of her robe beneath his hands, as he pulled
her closer to him until his lips were hovering just a breath away from hers. “Well,” he breathed,
“I’d never want it said that I don’t give my wife what she wants.”

And he kissed her, his lips moving against hers, tasting, teasing, as she let out a soft breath
and returned his kiss, her tongue exploring the so-familiar depths of his mouth, caressing his
tongue with hers.

His hands shifted, slid inside her robe, parting the sides, and then paused as his hands found
bare skin instead of the cloth of her pyjamas as he’d been expecting. He drew back to stare at her.
“You’re not wearing your pyjamas,” he said dumbly.

She gave him a look through her lashes, her lips curving slightly. “Complaining?” She shrugged
out of her robe, letting it slide off her shoulders in one seductive motion, and tossing it to the
floor, leaving her in nothing but her bra and knickers.

He almost groaned and tightened his arms around her, loving the feel of her bare skin beneath
his hands, even as he smoothly flipped them over until she was lying flat on her back beneath him.
He smiled, a smile that was an odd mixture of smugness and admiration, too much of a male not to
enjoy the view. “Have I told you lately that you’re beautiful?” he asked huskily.

She smiled, with all the confidence and all the age-old sensuality of a woman who knows she’s
admired and loved. “Not very lately.”

“Hmm…” He lowered his lips to hers, kissing her lightly, before his lips continued on, sliding
down the line of her chin to the soft skin of her neck, nuzzling the sensitive spot just behind her
ear lobe. “A terrible omission on my part,” he murmured, feeling the slight shiver go through her
at the sensation of his lips moving against her skin.

She arched, her head falling back to grant him more access, her hands tugging on his shirt, as
she gasped, “I think you’re over-dressed.”

He broke off from where he’d been pressing slow, damp kisses along her jaw-line. “I think you’re
right.”

Moving hastily, his hands made quick work of his pyjamas, tossing them carelessly onto the floor
beside the bed and dropping his glasses blindly onto the nightstand.

She sat up and reached back to unhook her bra but he stopped her. “Don’t.” And he answered the
unspoken question in her eyes with a quick smile that was half an exaggerated leer. “I want to do
that.”

She expected him to remove her bra immediately but instead, he gently pressed her back until she
was lying down again, lowering himself over her.

He cupped her cheeks in his hands with palpable tenderness as he kissed her, not with passion so
much as with a deep sensuality, his tongue exploring her mouth, tangling with hers, enticing,
arousing. And she returned the kiss fully, her hands sliding from his hair down to his shoulders
and then further still, feeling the muscles in his back, loving the smooth heat of his skin beneath
her hands, loving the reactive shiver that went through him at her touch.

His lips left hers to skate down her chin and down to her neck, his lips unerringly finding
every sensitive spot, flicking his tongue into the hollow in her throat until she gasped and arched
under him, her fingers momentarily tightening on his back.

His hands skated down, following the curve of her shoulders in a smooth caress, paving the way
ahead of his lips.

He left a trail of kisses across her shoulders until he found the strap of her bra. Again, she
expected him to remove it or at the very least, push the strap aside, but he didn’t. His lips went
on, following the line of her bra, along the upper curve of her breast and down the valley between
and then up, still following the line of her bra.

Her nipples were hard, practically aching for his mouth and his hands, as she arched, almost
writhing. “Harry, bra,” she gasped, in as coherent a statement as she could manage.

He let one hand drift across her chest until it cupped her breast and she moaned, pushing
herself into his hand, but it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t nearly enough. She wanted to feel his bare hand
against her breast, with no barriers in between, wanted to feel his chest against hers. Wanted…

“Ssh. Not yet,” he murmured and she wondered if he were really planning some sort of advanced
torture.

He licked along the upper curve of her breast just above the line of her bra, pausing to flick
his tongue in the valley between and then moved on, down her stomach.

He explored, caressed, worshipped her body with his lips and his tongue and his hands, avoiding
the more obvious spots like her breasts and the wet center of her between her legs, choosing to
lavish his attentions on the other places of her body, places that only he knew were so sensitive
and some that not even she had been aware could feel so erogenous. He knew her so well, knew her
body better than she did herself, and he capitalized on that knowledge.

First his hands and then his lips and his tongue found the sensitive spot on the inside of her
elbow. He left a trail of kisses down the soft skin of her inner arms, swirled his tongue against
her palm and she moaned, feeling lightning sizzle through her entire body. He flicked his tongue
into her belly-button, scattered kisses across her flat stomach, again just tracing along the
waistband of her knickers.

His hands caressed the curve of her hips, around and down to the smooth curves of her thighs,
only to be followed by his lips.

Not that she was passive in all this—no, Hermione was never passive and he loved that about her.
She arched beneath his lips and hands, writhed, pushing herself against him, her hands reaching
for, caressing any part of him she could reach.

His fingers traced lazy, arousing patterns across the backs of her knees as his lips trailed
lightly along her inner thigh, until her legs were quivering and parted even more for him. By the
time his lips were dangerously close to the heated center of her, she was moaning, desperately
trying to push herself closer to him.

“Harry…” His name was a plea.

*Knickers. Off. Now.* If she’d had enough breath or wits left to speak, she would have said
the words aloud but she didn’t, could only writhe and hope he understood—of course he
understood.

Oh he understood—and deliberately ignored. She was going to kill him…

Assuming she survived this assault on her senses, this finding of erogenous zones on her body
she hadn’t even known she had.

He smoothly switched over to her other leg, leaving soft kisses down her thigh, pausing at her
knee, and then going further still, his hands caressing her calves. He couldn’t remember the last
time he’d spent so much time on her legs—more fool him. Hermione had delightful legs and trim
ankles and she was just as responsive to his touch on her legs as she was in every other part of
her body. God, he loved how responsive she was, how sensitive and how sensual she could be.

He flicked his tongue against the arch of her foot and she moaned.

He knew her body, knew from the way she was moving her head restlessly on the pillow, from the
way her hands were plucking at the sheets, from the heat of her skin—and just from the knowledge
that came from years of loving her—that she was close and he moved smoothly back up her body.

Hermione was trembling, moaning, her entire body burning, tingling from the top of her head to
the bottom of her feet—good God! The feeling of his tongue against her foot—her foot!—she’d never
even dreamed her foot could be so sensitive.

His hands were caressing her legs and then finally—finally—he hooked his fingers into her
now-soaking knickers and drew them down her legs.

And then—*oh God!*—and then his lips found the throbbing center of her, his tongue touching
the sensitized flesh of her as she felt every nerve, every sense in her body focus only on that one
spot of her body.

And that one single touch of his tongue to her body was all it took and the coiling tension in
her body abruptly exploded in a dazzling starburst of pure sensation, and she was flying, soaring
on a wave of intense, soul-searing pleasure as the explosion’s ripples shimmered over every inch of
her…

She felt as if she’d died and come back to life when—an eternity later—she drifted back to
reality, was aware again of the mattress beneath her and of the man—*Harry, yes, always Harry,
her love and her lover*—lying beside her. Small aftershocks were still rippling through her and
she was breathless, boneless.

He cupped her cheek in his hand and bent to brush his lips against hers, kissing her softly,
until her lips parted on a soft sigh of satiation, before he drew back.

“I- that was…” She trailed off, her sluggish brain not finding a word for it.

He smiled, even as his eyes flared with heat. “I love reducing my clever, articulate wife to
speechless incoherence.”

At any other time, she might have protested, would have narrowed her eyes in half-teasing
warning but it required too much energy at the moment. And she was still too boneless with pleasure
to feel anything approaching irritation.

It took every ounce of what little muscle she had left to reach up and curve her hand around the
back of his neck, bringing him down so she could kiss him, softly, at first, until she parted her
lips and let her tongue slide inside the familiar depths of his mouth.

And he responded, as she knew he would, his tongue caressing hers, his hands sliding around her
body.

She felt her bra briefly tighten and then loosen as he unhooked it and they broke off the kiss
just so she could shrug off her bra and toss it aside. And then he was back, his lips on hers, his
hands hot as he finally cupped her bare breasts, his fingers lightly teasing her nipples into even
harder points. He lowered his lips to take one aching nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue
around it, until she cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair and holding him in place, until he
moved on to repeat his attentions to her other breast.

She moaned and arched beneath him, shifting until she could feel his erection against her thigh
and then against the slick heat of her body. She deliberately arched, her hips writhing beneath
him, and he broke off his ministrations at her breast to groan at the oh-so-erotic caress of her
body against his.

And then her arms and her legs were wrapping around him, her hips arching so his hardness just
entered her and he thrust forward helplessly until he was fully inside her, gasping at the feel of
it, of her, under him, surrounding him.

And he was hers. In that moment, as always, she possessed him, body, heart and soul.

He wanted to give her everything—all he had and all she might ever want…

“Hermione…” he breathed and her name was both an endearment and a prayer all at once, as he
began to move.

She moved with him, her body as attuned to him as always, her muscles tightening around him,
welcoming him, encouraging him.

His lips found hers, kissing her briefly, quick and passionate, before he groaned and quickened
his thrusts.

She surged up beneath him and then lost her breath as his body moved against hers in just the
right way and she was only peripherally aware of crying out his name, her fingers digging into his
shoulders, as she convulsed around him, was barely aware of him shuddering at almost the same
instant, his hands gripping her tighter as he exploded within her…

He collapsed above her so she could feel the pounding of his heart inside his chest, almost in
time with her own. She kept her arms and her legs around him, as she closed her eyes, loving the
feel of him inside her, above her, pressing her into the mattress. She loved these moments, when it
felt like their souls took over where their bodies left off.

They lay there like that, their bodies entwined, limbs tangled, for a long few moments and she
was just beginning to be uncomfortably aware of the weight of him before he stirred and rolled over
onto his back. His arm stayed around her so she rolled with him, her body settling comfortably
against his in easy intimacy, as his hand drifted half-idly over her skin to come to rest on her
stomach.

She closed her eyes again and let herself dream, picturing a baby—their baby—with a thrill of
emotion that was, for the first time in more than a month, only tinged with the slightest hint of
sorrow, sorrow that was entirely overshadowed by the renewed hope welling inside her.

“Do you think it worked?” she murmured, after a moment.

She sensed rather than saw his lips kick up at the corners. “We’ll keep on trying until it does.
I’ll gladly offer my services for the purpose.”

She smiled. “Your services are very much appreciated.”

“Anything for you, love.” His voice was soft, tinged with mild humor that belied his sincerity,
and hovered on the edge of drowsiness.

She could picture Harry with their baby so easily, knew just how much he would dote on any child
of theirs. And for a few precious moments, she was silent as she dreamed and hoped. “When our son
is born--” she began musingly, speaking her thoughts aloud.

“Daughter,” he interrupted her quietly. “I’d like a little girl with bushy brown hair just like
her mother’s.”

“Okay,” Hermione agreed, her lips curving, “but I hope at least one of our kids has your
eyes.”

“If you insist. I prefer brown eyes, though.”

“Mmm,” she murmured, feeling herself begin to slide into sleep, and only just roused herself
enough to add, “and when our daughter is born, you’ll feel like the luckiest man in England.”

He didn’t respond immediately, his breathing deep and even, and she let the sound of his
breathing lull her into sleep.

But at the last moment, when she was lingering just on this side of consciousness, she heard his
mumbled response.

“I already do…”

And, somewhere in her sleep, she smiled.

*~The End~*

A/N 2: In this fic, you'll see something I've been thinking about for a while now- well,
two things, really, the first being that I'm attempting to make sure my smut stays interesting
and not too repetitive as to be boring. The second, more important one is about
happily-ever-afters- which is, after all, what my entire ‘Portrait of a Marriage’ series is about.
It seems to me as if happily-ever-after is somehow taken to mean that nothing bad will ever happen
again, except it isn't really true. No one can prevent bad things from happening. The real
meaning of happily-ever-after isn't that nothing bad ever happens so much as it is that the
relationship is strong enough to weather whatever bad things might happen in the future, that two
people can deal with tragedy and loss and be stronger because they're together. And if that
doesn't sum up what I love about H/Hr, I don't know what does.



15. The Women In His Life
-------------------------

Disclaimer: See ‘All He Ever Wanted’.

Author’s Note: This might be the fluffiest episode in this ongoing series. Definite cavity
alert! For eric_bowling, because he requested a fic where the kids are newborns.

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*The Women in His Life*

Harry Apparated into the little alley beside his flat, glancing around as he always did now for
anything at all that looked even remotely threatening.

It wasn’t something he’d mentioned to Hermione—mostly because he knew he didn’t really need to
and partly because he felt he was being ridiculous—but having Emily had changed his outlook in ways
he could not have predicted and one of those ways was that now he looked at everything in the light
of a potential threat to his baby daughter.

He remembered asking Ron, teasingly, what it felt like to be a “daddy”, soon after Ron’s son,
David, had been born.

Ron’s answer had been, “You worry a lot more.” And while Harry’s question had been teasing,
Ron’s answer had been serious, thoughtful.

Harry had smiled in response, in the blithe ignorance of a young man who was not a father.

But it was only now, thanks to Emily, that Harry understood what Ron had meant. He did worry a
lot more, worried about everything now. Worried about Emily’s safety—about every possible thing
that could happen to hurt Emily in any way, from the mundane—Emily tripping or scratching herself
on any rough or uneven surface—to the more serious—one of those enemies of Harry’s who might choose
to attack him where it would hurt the most; worried about Emily’s health; worried about Emily’s
future. He worried about her because she was so tiny, seemed so fragile, but at least, she was also
never left alone right now. He worried about when she would grow up and could be alone and all the
things that could happen to her.

He hated going to work every morning because he hated to leave Emily, even if he was leaving
Emily in Hermione’s capable hands. (It occurred to Harry that, entirely aside from loving her, he
couldn’t possibly have married anyone but Hermione because he couldn’t imagine trusting anyone but
Hermione with his children, when he was working. Only Hermione, who he knew would be as capable and
as clever and as devoted to their children as she’d always been to anyone she loved—as she’d always
been to him.) And that was nothing to how he felt in the few times when either he or Hermione took
Emily anywhere. Moody’s phrase of ‘Constant Vigilance’ came to mind, and didn’t sound nearly as
amusing anymore.

He could just hear Hermione’s voice in his head talking about his “saving people thing” and his
protective streak; yes, he admitted it. Hard to not admit it when just the thought of anything
remotely dangerous even coming close to Emily made him crazy.

The last thing before he opened the door to his flat was to check the wards around it—as
always—and make sure they were all solid and unchanged.

He pushed open the door, hanging up his light cloak on the hook beside the door, and then
ventured into the family room only to stop short, his mouth abruptly going dry, his heart rate
quickening, in automatic reaction.

Hermione was feeding Emily, one breast bared, and it looked as if she might have dozed, as her
head was lying against the back of the couch, her eyes closed.

But then, even as he looked, she blinked and straightened as if she’d sensed his gaze on her,
and looked over at him, giving Harry a quick, if somewhat weary, smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Harry said softly. “How was your day?”

“Okay. Emily just woke up a couple hours ago.”

Harry nodded. “That’s good.” He bent and brushed his lips against Hermione’s, drawing back, but
she caught him by his shirt, holding him in place.

“That’s all the greeting I get?” she asked, a slight teasing smile curving her lips.

He gave in—as always, even though he knew that it wasn’t the wisest thing to do at the moment--
kissing her more thoroughly, before drawing back slowly.

“There, satisfied?” he asked in something of a husky whisper.

“For now.” Hermione’s smile was tinged with a mischief he hadn’t seen often in the last few
months and he couldn’t help but smile, an involuntary thrill of reaction streaking through him.

He touched his finger to Emily’s soft cheek in a light caress before moving around the couch to
settle next to Hermione.

An easy silence fell over the room, broken only the faint sounds of Emily’s suckling, and Harry
felt himself relax, his body once more under control.

When he thought about his life, he remembered a number of times where he’d thought he was
especially happy: when Hermione had said yes to his proposal, his 22nd birthday—and the
“special gift” Hermione had given him, their wedding day, their first anniversary… But he rather
thought that all those times paled in comparison to this, to being able to sit here and watch
Hermione feed Emily.

(It was probably the only time when he could see Hermione’s bare breast without feeling a flash
of lust—okay, so that wasn’t true. He still felt the flash of lust. That was always, still, his
first—and oh hell, his second and possibly even his third—thought but afterwards, when he’d managed
to tamp down his automatic reaction, that was when the contentment settled in.)

He loved these moments, loved to be able to watch his wife and his daughter.

Hermione, too, was looking down at Emily, the fingers of her free hand lightly straying over
Emily’s head, smoothing her brown hair. The expression on her face was one of remarkable
tenderness, an expression he couldn’t quite remember having seen on her face before Emily had
arrived. He knew, better than anyone, the depth and strength of Hermione’s love but he also knew
that it wasn’t something she showed in her expression very easily or often. Now, looking at her, it
was as if he could see all her heart, all the love of which Hermione was capable, plainly written
across her face. And it caught at his heart, filled his chest with a surge of emotion, and he was
shocked to realize that tears were actually stinging his eyes—tears which he hastily blinked back,
abruptly irritated with himself.

God, she was beautiful. They were *both* beautiful. He couldn’t decide whether to admire
his wife or his daughter more and easily settled on simply admiring both.

Hermione let out a little hiss of breath, flinching a little, and he abruptly straightened.
“What is it?”

Hermione glanced up at him with a slight, rueful smile. “She just sucked a little too hard. I
don’t think we need to worry about her appetite.”

He smiled, his gaze dropping to focus on Emily’s head and addressing his baby daughter softly.
“You should be more careful not to hurt your Mummy like that, Emily.”

Predictably, the baby ignored him, continuing to suck in blissful ignorance.

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I hope she doesn’t grow up making a habit of ignoring what I
say.”

Hermione gave him a laughing glance, opening her mouth to reply, but then was distracted as
Emily’s suckling slowed and then stopped.

She reached for the little cloth she always kept near, to find that Harry was already handing it
to her, and she gently wiped Emily’s mouth before cleaning herself up.

“Here, let me take her,” Harry said, suiting his action to his words and reaching over so
Hermione could transfer the baby into his arms, before he stood up with Emily in his arms.

Harry paced back and forth, gently patting Emily’s back. He never got tired of the feeling of
holding her little weight, feeling her tiny, warm body braced against him. It amazed him and
touched him, to know that this little creature was so completely dependent on him, made him
resolve—for the umpteenth time—that he would do everything he possibly could, would move heaven and
earth if necessary, to make sure he never let her down, to keep her safe and healthy and happy.

As usual, it didn’t take long before Emily burped—only this time, a little milk splattered onto
Harry’s collar and Harry felt a drop hit his neck.

Hermione bit back a laugh at Harry’s expression as she took Emily from him.

“Gee, thanks, Emily,” Harry quipped as he used the cloth to wipe at his collar and his neck. He
turned to Hermione. “I’m going to go change my shirt since Emily clearly doesn’t like this
one.”

Hermione laughed softly, even as she began to pace in her turn, gently rocking Emily in her
arms. Emily was a surprisingly methodical baby—Harry claiming that already she must be taking after
Hermione in that respect—and so, now that she’d been awake for some hours and had been fed, it was
about time for Emily to sleep again.

Hermione gently laid Emily into her cradle, turning to see that Harry was standing watching
her.

He gently tugged her to stand in front of him, bending his head to kiss her softly, lazily.

He drew back slowly, just enough so he could see her somewhat-dazed eyes, but then the tender
moment was abruptly ended as Hermione yawned.

His lips quirked into a grin. “That’s nice. Flattering to know that my kisses put you to
sleep.”

“Sorry.” Hermione’s slight smile belied the apology, as did her light tone.

“You should rest,” he said more seriously. “You were up half the night. Go take a nap.”

“But…”

“Go to sleep, Hermione. I’ll be here if Emily wakes up.”

Hermione gave in (with a rapidity that testified to how tired she was, since normally, Hermione
never napped), reaching up to brush a kiss against his cheek, and then going across the hall to
their bedroom. She was asleep almost instantly.

Harry spent the next hour or so hovering in the hall that separated his bedroom from the room
they’d converted into a nursery where Emily was sleeping. He didn’t know when he’d turned into
“that guy”—on second thought, yes, he did; it had happened the moment the midwife-Healer at St.
Mungo’s had handed him the red-faced bundle of new-born baby and he’d fallen head over heels in
love at first sight—but here he was, almost two months later, quite content to spend his time doing
nothing more than watching his daughter sleep.

(In his own defense, Harry could only say he could hardly do anything else when he had the most
beautiful baby daughter in the history of the world.)

So Harry hovered.

Hermione was sleeping soundly, which he was glad of. She had been up half the night since she
had awoken every time Emily made the slightest sound, fed Emily once more, and then stayed up,
holding Emily until Emily had fallen asleep again.

And as usual, he loved to watch Hermione sleep. Loved to see her expression smoothed out, so she
looked younger and more vulnerable; when he watched her sleep, he could see her as the girl she’d
been years ago, the girl he’d first fallen in love with… She was the girl he had loved all his
life, the woman he would always love, and now, the mother of his child—and there were times when he
looked at her that he felt his heart swell, his chest filling, with so much emotion it almost hurt,
an emotion so strong and so deep he couldn’t put a name to it (love seemed too weak a word.)

He only left off his hovering in order to quickly make some pasta for his and Hermione’s dinner,
keeping his ears peeled for any sounds from the nursery. He figured Emily would sleep for a while
yet; Emily generally only slept for 2-3 hours at a time before waking again.

He finished the pasta soon enough and set it aside where it would be ready to be quickly heated
up and then served and then headed over to the desk in the corner of the family room that served as
a makeshift office, where he opened up the latest report on Dark activity around the world and read
it.

Or, to be more accurate, he tried to read it. But what with his constant getting up again to
check on Emily mingled with his equally constant putting down the report to listen to any sound
that might break the silence, it took him all of an hour or more to get through two pages and even
so, he wouldn’t have testified to any of what he’d just read. He could hear Hermione’s mildly
chiding voice in his head, telling him he really did not need to be quite so vigilant, but in all
honesty, he couldn’t seem to help himself—and didn’t really want to.

At any rate, when he finally did hear the quiet fussing noise that always heralded Emily’s
having woken up, he was out of his seat and into the nursery in a flash, to see Emily just blinking
her eyes open and beginning to make small whimpering noises—as she usually did as a prelude to
tears.

“Hello, sleeping beauty,” he greeted her softly, carefully keeping his voice low enough that it
shouldn’t wake Hermione up. “Did you have a nice nap?”

Emily abruptly ceased her fussing as her mouth gaped open and then shut, in something that Harry
chose to interpret as a yes, in answer to his question.

“Oh yes, you did, didn’t you? That’s my good girl,” he crooned, picking Emily up and settling
her comfortably in his arms as he left the nursery, still talking softly. “You slept for almost
exactly two and a half hours, did you know that? How did you learn to be so methodical and time
your naps like that, Emily-kin? You must take after your mummy in that, I can tell.”

Emily wrinkled her little nose and made a gurgling sound, followed by a little cry.

“Hush, sweetie. You don’t want to wake your mummy up, now, do you?”

Emily closed her mouth and waved a tiny, closed fist. And Harry decided—for at least the
thousandth time—that his daughter was the smartest and the sweetest baby in all of Great Britain,
possibly even all of Europe. He didn’t think it was entirely out of the realm of possibility that
she was the smartest and sweetest baby in the entire world.

“Of course you don’t, pumpkin, because you know, your mummy’s very tired. I’ll tell you a
secret, Emmie; your mummy doesn’t really like to take naps so when she does, you know she must be
really tired. So we’re going to let her sleep a little while longer, aren’t we, sweetie?”

Harry nuzzled Emily and then narrowly avoided Emily’s tiny fist from knocking his glasses askew.
“Now, Emily, haven’t we taught you that it’s rude to try to hit daddy like that?”

Emily opened her fist for a moment and then closed it again, in a gesture that Harry chose to
interpret as an apology and he smiled, dropping a kiss on Emily’s soft hair.

~

Hermione woke up slowly and then sat up, looking at the clock and was surprised to find that
she’d slept for several hours and that it was nearly dinner time.

She could just hear the murmur of Harry’s voice as he talked quietly and smiled to herself as
she walked quietly towards the family room.

She paused, staying just out of sight but where she could see into the room, enjoying this view
of Harry, who was lounging on the floor in an utterly undignified position as he played with Emily.
She sometimes thought that these were the times she loved him most, when she watched him with their
daughter, when she could see all the care and all the tenderness in him.

Harry was playfully batting at Emily’s tiny, waving hands and Emily made a soft gurgling sound,
her mouth opening into something like a smile.

“Why, sweetie, did you just smile at me? Where’d you learn to do that? Smile for Daddy again,
Emmie, will you?”

Emily gurgled again and Harry’s smile widened. “There. You’re beautiful when you smile like
that, love, the most beautiful baby in the world. You know that? You, Emily-kin, are the most
beautiful little girl in the world.”

Hermione suppressed a laugh as she stepped into the room. “Really, Harry, I think we’re lucky
she doesn’t understand you or she’s going to develop the most frightful ego.”

Harry’s head shot up to see the smile playing on her lips before he gave her a look of mock
horror. “How can you say such a thing? I’m quite sure Emily understands every word I’m saying.” He
addressed the baby with a playful smile. “Don’t you, pumpkin? Yes, you understand everything that
Daddy’s saying.”

Hermione smiled and bent to brush her lips against Harry’s ear. “You’re hopeless.”

He gave her a quick smile, reaching up to grasp her hand with his, before he returned his gaze
to Emily. “Did you have a nice nap?”

“You shouldn’t have let me sleep for so long,” she responded mildly, indirectly answering his
question.

He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug before he met her eyes. “You were tired,” he said
simply.

Amazing how those three words could melt her heart and yet, they did.

“Besides,” he added, “Emily only woke up about half an hour ago herself.”

“Oh, of course. She is very good about timing her naps, isn’t she?”

“Well, you know she takes after you in loving a routine schedule so much. Very irritating of
her,” Harry grinned at Hermione as she gave him a mock-offended look.

Hermione knelt and picked Emily up. “Come on, Emmie, we’ll leave your Daddy here since he’s
being so silly and see what’s for dinner.”

“I am not being silly,” Harry protested without a particle of heat, as he stood up and followed
his wife and daughter into the kitchen. But then proceeded to belie the words as he made silly
faces for Emily’s benefit as she peered at him over Hermione’s shoulder.

The rest of the day passed quickly enough in the usual routine. Harry cleaned up the kitchen
quickly while Hermione played with Emily.

Later, Hermione gave Emily her bath. (Harry wasn’t allowed to bathe Emily; the one time he’d
volunteered, he had ended up taking more than twice as long as Hermione usually took, a large
puddle of water had formed on the bathroom floor, and Emily had begun to wail because of some soap
that had gotten into her eyes, before Hermione had come to the rescue and finished the task.)

Afterwards, it was time to feed Emily again and then put Emily to bed and not long after that,
it was finally time to go to bed themselves.

Harry watched with a mixture of sympathy and mild amusement as Hermione half-crawled, half-fell
onto their bed after completing her usual bed-time rituals. “You’re not going to try to get some
work in tonight?”

Hermione shook her head without opening her eyes. “No. I managed to do a little work earlier
this afternoon during one of Emily’s naps.”

Hermione was on maternity leave from St. Mungo’s, of course, but she’d begun to look over some
files and read the latest reports in the Healer’s journals in preparation for going back to work in
a few weeks. She never ceased to amaze him that way, Harry thought, as he bent to brush his lips
lightly against hers.

Her eyes opened to look at him before she pushed herself up until she was sitting up, moving
until she was sitting next to him as he automatically slipped his arm around her. “What do you
suppose are the chances that she’ll learn to sleep the night through sometime soon?”

Harry smiled a little. “I don’t think I’ll hold my breath waiting for that to happen.”

She sighed extravagantly. “Maybe we could run away and leave Emily with Ron and Luna or my
parents for a week or two.”

He laughed softly. “You’d go crazy with worrying over Emily if we left her for a full day, let
alone a week.”

“As if you wouldn’t,” Hermione retorted teasingly.

He lifted one shoulder into a half-shrug. “Guilty as charged.”

She smiled to herself as she rested her head against his shoulder. He was, as she’d always known
he would be, the most doting father and it was, she had to admit, decidedly sexy. Which reminded
her…

She turned, lifting one hand to his cheek, as she leaned in to kiss him, slowly, and then
deeper, her tongue lightly flicking at the corners of his lips before sliding inside his mouth to
tangle with his.

He made a soft sound in the back of his throat as his arms came around her, tugging until she
was lying fully against him. He slanted his head, taking the initiative in their kiss in his turn,
as the kiss grew lush and immodest, a heated tangle of lips and tongues, as she felt her skin heat
and her heart begin to pound.

He was the one to break the kiss on a sharp gasp, his breath coming quickly. Unperturbed, she
moved on, stringing a series of soft kisses down his jaw and then, deliberately, letting her teeth
lightly graze his ear lobe, loving his reactive shiver. She trailed kisses down his neck while her
hands were busy pushing his shirt up to bare his chest and she only paused in her ministrations to
lift his shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside, and then removing his glasses as well.

He just had time to let out a strangled gasp before she kissed him again and her hands returned
to caress and explore his chest with as much thoroughness as if she’d never touched him before.

And then she was the one to break off their kiss but only so she could move further down his
body, her lips scattering kisses across his chest and shoulders, following the path her hands had
already taken.

He groaned and abruptly seized her hands in his. “Stop, *please*, Hermione.” His voice was
almost hoarse with strain, sounded unlike himself, as she broke off her caresses to look up at him.
His eyes looked almost wild as he stared at her, his breathing labored, and she could see his
struggle for control before he managed to say, “We need to stop. We can’t—I—you—we can’t,” he
repeated, rather less than coherently.

But she understood and was abruptly filled with tenderness before she sat up and then
deliberately straddled him. His eyes widened and he sucked in his breath sharply before she cupped
his cheeks with her hands, making him meet her eyes. “Harry, Abby said six to seven weeks.” She
paused, letting him read the sensual message in her eyes, before she finished deliberately, “It’ll
be seven weeks day after tomorrow.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

She smiled. “Ye--”

He was kissing her even before she could finish the word, his lips flattening on hers with
almost explosive force, his hands roaming over her body in a heated caress.

She slid her arms around his shoulders, shifting until she could feel the bulge of his arousal
pressed intimately against her, her fingers running through his hair and then down, to caress his
shoulders and back.

His hands found her breasts and she tore her mouth from his on a sharp gasp, her head falling
back, as she arched into him. She could swear her breasts were more sensitive now than ever, her
nipples hardening almost instantly as he cupped and fondled her breasts through her pyjama top. His
lips slid down, tracing the vulnerable curve of her neck and throat before his mouth fastened on
one nipple, laving it through the cloth of her pyjamas.

His lips left off their ministrations but only so he could tug her pyjama top up and over her
head before his hands went to her pyjama bottoms, pushing them down until she abruptly pushed
herself up so she could finish undressing, her hands almost trembling in her haste, while he did
the same, almost tearing off his pyjama bottoms and his boxers.

They came together again on their bed, their hands greedy and reaching for each other,
feverishly caressing each other’s bare skin, as they kissed again, heatedly.

She let herself fall backwards until he was lying on top of her and felt a slight tremor of
delight go through her at the familiar weight and feel of his naked body lying above her, his hands
on her body. It had been so long—too long—4 months, 2 weeks, and 5 days, some tiny corner of her
mind supplied.

(Oh, they had engaged in some heated kissing sessions, especially in the past couple weeks, and
a few times, she had kissed and caressed him into bliss, giving him pleasure since they couldn’t
actually make love, but he had generally touched her with as much gentleness and care as if she
might break with too much passion. And in the other times, he had, she knew, become accustomed to
taking cold showers.)

But no more. Now, he was kissing her and touching her with as much intensity, as much focused
passion, as she’d ever felt from him, and she gloried in it, gloried in once more being the
recipient of his unbridled lust.

He fastened his mouth on her nipple, suckling, until she cried out at the wet, tugging sensation
she could feel shimmering through her entire body to pool between her legs, while his hand cupped,
kneaded, her other breast, his fingers flicking over the hardened tip.

She let out a moan of protest when he paused in his ministrations, her eyes flying open to see
him as he stared at her, breathing hard, his eyes dark and dilated with lust.

His eyes lowered to watch as his hands slid over her body, exploring all the changes in it from
the past couple months. Her breasts were noticeably larger, her stomach more rounded and softer
than it had been—and Hermione felt something inside her melt at the look in his eyes, the mixture
of love and passion and desire and something almost like awe. And the last vestiges of
self-consciousness at the changes in her body vanished forever.

She reached up to curve one hand behind his neck until she could kiss him again, her lips
teasingly feathering over his until he made a sound in the back of his throat and kissed her hard,
his lips and tongue taking possession of her mouth as his hands laid claim to her body, caressing
every curve from her breast to her waist to her hips to her thighs.

And she responded, gave him back his passion with her own, her hands sliding over his shoulders
and down his back and then further to caress his butt before she let her hands move forward, until
she could touch his erection, one hand wrapping around him.

He groaned sharply, his entire body jerking, as he abruptly grasped her wrist in one hand in one
swift movement. “Hermione,” he gasped, the expression on his face something like pain, “I can’t
wait--”

She felt her lips curve slightly, her body shifting under his, her legs parting further, until
she could feel his arousal at the apex of her thighs. “Harry,” she breathed and didn’t need to say
anything more, couldn’t say anything more, as he understood and surged inside her with one smooth
thrust.

And they both cried out sharply at the eroticism of the moment, the delicious intimacy of it, as
he paused, fully buried inside her, filling her as she hadn’t been filled in so long. It felt… it
felt like the first time, she thought half-fancifully, in the power and the significance of the
moment, somehow.

He moved his head to kiss her ear and then her cheek and then her lips. “I missed this,” he
groaned. It had been so long, too damn bloody long. Merlin, he’d missed this so much, missed the
utter rightness of it, missed the feeling of coming home. *She* was his home…

She let her hands stray over his back in a light caress, deliberately shifting beneath him,
tightening her muscles around him until he groaned. “I missed *you*,” she breathed.

She arched beneath him, her body sliding slickly around his in the most erotic caress, and the
last thread of his control snapped just like that and he began to move, his hips withdrawing and
then thrusting again. And it wasn’t at all controlled or gentle; it was hard and fast.

But she welcomed it, her legs wrapping around his hips, urging him deeper into her, her hands
cupping his butt. Her body moved with his as they came together in the most elemental of ways,
giving and taking, and at that moment, they were no longer parents or even husband and wife, but
were just man and woman, Harry and Hermione, equals in love and in lust.

Harry could feel the building explosion, knew he was close, too close, and at the last moment,
deliberately moved his hand so he could touch her soft, wet flesh where they were joined. Her
muscles clenched around him and that was all it took, as he exploded inside her with a groan, only
peripherally conscious of her stifling a scream in his shoulder as her fingers dug into his
skin.

He collapsed on top of her, fighting for breath, feeling rather as if his heart might pound its
way out of his chest. Great gods, he’d missed this, missed the passion of her so much, missed the
utterly sated sensation of peace and exhaustion that he could only find with her.

It was some time before he managed to muster enough energy to roll over onto his back. As usual,
she rolled with him, her body fitting itself against his with the naturalness that came from years
of lying next to him like this. He could feel her head tucked against his shoulder, her hand
resting on his chest. He closed his eyes as he reached for her hand, lacing her fingers with
his.

It was another few minutes before he regained enough coherence to realize how little care he’d
shown Hermione, less than two months removed from giving birth, and knew a flare of guilt. He
turned his head to look at her, his concern soothed at the sight of her face, her expression with
her eyes closed, the peace of satiation plain to be seen. “Are you okay?” he asked softly,
automatically, even if he could see she was.

She made a soft, utterly contented sound, somewhere between a purr and a sigh, as she opened her
eyes to meet his. “Mm, wonderful,” she breathed, her lips curving.

He could swear his heart skipped a beat at the look in her eyes, dark and filled with languorous
pleasure. Merlin, she was beautiful, the most beautiful woman in the world, especially when she
looked like this, drowsy and fulfilled, her face flushed. He loved to see her like this—oh, how he
loved to see her like this! When she was all soft, yielding, feminine warmth against him… He loved
her for her strength and for her cleverness and her determination—but there were times when he
thought he loved her best at moments like this, when she was softened and sated, deliciously
drowsy—and completely *his*. As he was hers.

He lifted his head with an effort, just enough so he could brush his lips against hers.

“My ‘Mione,” he breathed, the endearment slipping from his lips. He didn’t call her that often
and never, ever when anyone else was around and he knew he was the only person in the world who was
allowed to call her “Mione” since Hermione, as a general rule, disliked nicknames. And even he only
called her “Mione” occasionally, in particularly tender moments, the moments when even the words, I
love you, seemed inadequate.

He saw her eyes soften even more, saw her lips curve ever so slightly, before she closed her
eyes and fit herself more snugly against him.

It hardly took any time at all before her breathing deepened, her body relaxing yet more fully
against him. Evidence of her lingering tiredness, in spite of her nap, and no wonder really, given
how little sleep she’d been getting in the past few days, thanks to Emily’s sleep schedule. But she
was sleeping soundly now.

And so, closing his eyes, he, too, let himself drift into sleep.

He woke up to the sound of fitful whimpers and turning his head, saw that Hermione was still
sleeping—for once, he had woken up before her in response to Emily’s fretting. Carefully, he slid
out of bed and hastily threw on his boxers and shirt and grabbed his glasses. He was just leaving
when he heard Hermione stir and then her sleepy voice mumbling, “Is it Emily?” He returned to the
bed, bending over her to brush his lips against her cheek. “Go back to sleep, it’s okay.” For a
fleeting second, it looked as if she might protest but then her eyes closed and he knew she’d given
in. Yet more evidence, as if he’d needed it, of how tired she was.

He padded across the hall to the nursery and picked Emily up, holding her against his chest as
he paced back and forth, making soothing noises. “Ssh, sweetie. Go back to sleep…”

He brushed his lips against her cheek, breathing in the clean, baby scent of her, and felt her
small fist close around his shirt. Carefully, he moved one hand to her fist, gently prying her
fingers from his shirt (the last time she’d gripped his shirt, she’d nearly strangled him before
he’d managed to loosen her grip and he wasn’t about to repeat that). Fortunately for him, she
seemed content to grip his finger instead. He smiled to himself, kissing her hair, as he kept on
pacing back and forth.

It was some time before he felt her weight settle heavier against him as her breathing evened
out and her grip on his finger loosened slightly and he glanced at her to see that her eyes were
tightly closed. She was asleep. For at least another few hours.

Ever so carefully, he laid her back down in the cradle, brushing his lips against her soft cheek
before he drew back. She moved a little restlessly, one hand finding and closing on her blanket,
gripping it in her tiny fist. He felt a sudden surge of love swell up inside him like a tidal wave,
so strong it almost left him breathless. This little baby—so tiny, so fragile—was *his*, his
to protect, his to cherish, his to love—his and Hermione’s.

His tender musings were abruptly—and inappropriately—interrupted when he yawned, suddenly
realizing that it was the middle of the night and he was tired.

Obeying his body’s wishes, he returned to his bed after a last glance at Emily and slid under
the covers. Hermione stirred a little and mumbled “Harry” before she settled against him, seeking
him even in her sleep as she always did.

He curved his arm around her and closed his eyes, yawning again, feeling himself slide into
sleep. And his last conscious thought was that his life was perfect. Even if an uninterrupted
night’s sleep was a thing of memory and of fantasies rather than a reality. Sleep was a small price
to pay for the joy that was his baby daughter.

*~The End~*

A/N 2: I should also add that what I know about babies could fit into a thimble; I will leave it
up to those of my readers who know more than I do to tell me if I’ve written Emily as the most
unrealistic baby in the history of babies.



16. What Husbands and Wives Do
------------------------------

Disclaimer: See ‘All He Ever Wanted.’

Author’s Note: The next part of this little series—because it might be my version of H/Hr’s
ideal married life but I am trying to keep their characters realistic.

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*What Husbands and Wives Do*

“Hey! That wasn’t fair!”

Sabrina’s voice rose, shrill and a little querulous, from where she and Andy were sprawled on
the floor over a game of wizarding Monopoly.

“It was, too! See, it says so right there!” Andy retorted. “Aren’t I right, Em?” he appealed to
Emily.

Emily sighed loudly. “I don’t know,” she answered shortly. “Oh, just let her win, Andy—and for
Merlin’s sake, be quiet! I want to read this.”

“No, why should I let her win?”

Andy’s protest mingled in with Sabrina’s renewed complaints and Emily’s impatient attempt at
peace-making.

Hermione tried to block out the noise and concentrate on the notes she was making from the
treatise she was reading—tried, only to find that her hand had jerked, leaving a large blot on her
parchment, and she’d lost her place for what seemed like the thousandth time in the past half hour.
She threw down her quill impatiently. She couldn’t work like this!

“Be quiet, all of you!”

Her sharp voice cut across the noise and silenced her children as nothing else could have, all
of them turning to stare at her, as she continued, her voice rising. “For Merlin’s sake, can’t you
three be quiet for even two minutes?! I can’t hear myself think! How am I supposed to get any work
done with you three constantly making such a racket and getting into rows? Andy, it’s not nice to
fight with your younger sister. Sabrina, you shouldn’t be such a sore loser; you can’t always win.
Now, just be quiet so Mummy can get some work done!”

Her children stared at her wide-eyed, Sabrina, in particular, looking rather stricken, and for
some reason, it only irritated Hermione more. With a last frown, she retreated into her study.

She wanted to slam the door but wasn’t quite so lost to temper as to do that; instead, she
closed the door with deliberate care. Normally, when she was in her study, she left the door open
so she could listen to what the kids were up to but today, she needed some quiet.

Hermione fell into her chair with a huff, leaning her head back and closing her eyes.

Today had not been a good day. She had woken up with the beginnings of a headache and, although
she had, of course, taken a headache potion, the headache hadn’t entirely gone away, had only
receded to a dull throbbing. It had rained all morning (although the rain had, at least, stopped
now) which meant that the kids were confined indoors and that made them more fractious and
quarrelsome than usual. And while she was usually more patient with them, she was the first person
to admit that she wasn’t, by nature, the most patient person in the world and on this particular
day, her usual store of patience was even lower than normal. She was worried over one of her
patients who wasn’t responding to the treatment she’d prescribed when she’d been at work yesterday
and today was one of those days when she would have wanted to go in to work to be there herself to
monitor his condition—except she’d had to stay home today as Harry needed to go to the Ministry for
a meeting with the Aurors. And, of course, Harry had, in typical, male fashion, not even bothered
to ask if she were okay this morning when he’d seen her taking the headache potion and had only
left the house after breakfast with the most perfunctory of goodbyes.

She heard the faint murmur of voices and music and guessed that the kids had retreated into the
family room to watch the telly.

Good. That should keep them busy and out of trouble until Harry got home.

She sat up straighter, pulling the treatise and her notes toward her and tried to concentrate on
her work.

Harry unlocked the door, pushing it open with one hand. “Kids? Hermione?”

Emily, Andy and Sabrina filed into the front room so quietly he was mildly stunned. Usually,
Sabrina greeted him with a shout and threw herself at him with as much enthusiasm as if he’d been
gone for a month while Emily and Andy alternated as to which one showed more cheer, depending on
their moods; it was one of the things he loved most in his life, how he was always greeted with a
smile by his children.

They were not smiling today.

He quickly scanned their faces and dismissed the idea of illness or injury; they looked fine, if
subdued.

He dropped a kiss on Emily’s forehead, ruffled Andy’s hair and knelt in front of Sabrina. “Hi,
sweetie. Where’s Mummy?”

“She’s in her study,” Andy answered quietly.

Sabrina tugged him closer to whisper into his ear with the air of imparting a grave secret.
“Mummy *shouted*, Daddy.”

“Did she, really? About what?”

“She said we were being too noisy,” Emily said, her voice chastened. “And we were but not that
loud. She wouldn’t normally have yelled at us for it.”

“Mm,” Harry murmured, frowning inwardly. It sounded like Hermione had been having one of those
days. He knew she’d woken up with a headache because he’d seen her taking the headache potion and,
more than that, he recognized that slight frown on her forehead by now. He knew the look on her
face when her head was aching. He should have mentioned it, would normally have asked if she wanted
him to stay home except that he’d been preoccupied with the meeting with the Aurors and, at any
rate, had known that it was impossible for him to stay home today, in particular, thanks to that
meeting which he really needed to attend.

“She shouldn’t have yelled,” he told Sabrina solemnly. “I’ll go talk to her, shall I?”

“Oh but Daddy, she might yell at you too.”

He gave Andy a quick wink. “If she yells at me, I’ll make her go to bed without dinner or
dessert, so I think Mummy will be good now.”

He was rewarded by Sabrina’s small giggle and Andy’s and Emily’s smiles.

He stood up, resting a caressing hand lightly on Sabrina’s hair. “Now, why don’t you go back to
the telly for now and think about what you want for dinner.”

Sabrina smiled up at him, now quite restored to her usual self. “Okay, Daddy.”

Harry knocked on the study door lightly.

“What is it?”

He winced slightly. Hermione’s tone was not exactly harsh but it wasn’t exactly welcoming
either. No, she really wasn’t in the best of moods.

He opened the door just enough to poke his head in. “Do I need to get my body armor and a shield
or is it safe to come in?” he asked, only half-teasingly.

And realized his mistake when she didn’t crack even the ghost of a smile, only gave him a brief
look. “Don’t try to tease, Harry; I’m not in the mood. What is it?”

He opened the door fully and came in, entirely sober now. “I think I’ll take the kids out for
dinner so you can have the house to yourself for a few hours.” He studied her for a moment. “Is
your head still aching?”

“Yes- no- not really,” Hermione said, with enough of a sigh that he didn’t allow himself even
the merest hint of a smile at her uncharacteristic indecision. “You and the kids have fun; I really
need to get some work done. I should have gone into St. Mungo’s today,” she fretted.

“I’m sure Alice would have Floo-called you if anything serious had come up,” Harry responded
mildly, referring to Hermione’s deputy.

“Oh, of course she would have, but I still feel like I should have gone in.”

Harry opted for discretion as the better part of valor and didn’t respond to this. He only bent
and dropped a quick kiss on Hermione’s hair. “Well, if you want to go in for a quick visit now, you
can. I’ll take the kids out for dinner and be back later so you don’t have to worry about us.”

“Mm, ‘kay,” was Hermione’s only response, her head already bent over the papers spread out on
her desk.

Harry slipped out of the study quietly, closing the door gently behind him, leaving Hermione in
peace.

Hermione put down her quill and pushed away the treatise she’d just finished reading with a
short sigh. She had put in a good three hours of work in the quiet house, only taking a brief break
in the middle to grab some food for dinner, and then returning to her desk. Her headache had
subsided—or, perhaps more accurately, been forgotten about while she lost herself in her work. And
now, she was done, could go into work tomorrow morning with a clear conscience.

She stood up, wandering into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea and then curled up on the
couch with it.

The house really was remarkably quiet—too quiet, really. Hermione laughed ruefully and shook her
head a little at her own inconsistency but it really was true. She was too accustomed, now, to
hearing the sounds of her children that an empty house struck her as odd and definitely too quiet.
She glanced at the clock to see that it was just after eight so Harry and the kids would, no doubt,
be returning soon. She felt a wave of remorse for how she had raised her voice earlier; the kids
hadn’t been that much louder than usual and she’d been unjust to lose patience the way she had. She
sighed, closing her eyes and tipping her head back for a moment. She knew she wasn’t the most
patient person in the world and, having been a quiet child herself and an only child at that, she
had to admit there were times when the sheer noise of having three young children in the house
grated on her nerves, especially on days like today where she really had needed to get some work
done while at home. She adored her children, loved them so much it almost hurt sometimes, and that
made it easier to be patient but she wasn’t always successful. She was heartily ashamed of herself
now. Really, what sort of example was she setting for her children losing her temper over such a
minor thing? What sort of mother did that? And snapping at poor Harry when he hadn’t done
anything—it was only a miracle that he hadn’t snapped back.

She opened her eyes, turning her head to stare thoughtfully at one of the pictures on the
mantelpiece, one of all of them together, which Ron had taken the last time they were over at the
Burrow. In it, they were all lying on the grass, flushed and laughing, as Harry had been spinning
around with Sabrina in his arms until he’d pretended to collapse from dizziness. Emily and Andy had
proceeded to half-tackle him, preventing him from getting up again, and then, as she’d been
standing and laughing at them, Harry had reached up and tugged her down as well.

She smiled to herself, as she always did, at the memory of that day and the picture, feeling a
fresh pang of guilt and regret. She had the best family in the world, was the luckiest woman on the
planet.

How could she lose her temper so? How *could* she raise her voice to her children when they
didn’t deserve it—and for what? Because they’d been disturbing her work. Her work—it was always her
work. She worked hard, enjoyed her job and was good at it—and yet… And yet she wondered if it was
right for her to put so much of herself into her work. Was she somehow cheating her children… Did
she, she wondered with a sudden chill in her heart, give her work precedence over her children?
Worse, did her children ever feel that she cared more about her work than she did about them? As if
on cue, a flood of memories poured into her mind—all the times the kids had wanted to go somewhere
or do something fun and she had told them no, because she had to work. All the times she’d heard
Emily shushing either Andy or Sabrina with the reminder, “Mummy’s working.”

Oh, she was being ridiculous. In some tiny corner of her mind—the rational part of her knew she
was over-reacting, over-analyzing today’s events. Her children were happy, she knew that. She
looked back at the picture, focusing on their bright, laughing faces.

And yet… She wondered…

She finished up her tea and moved into the kitchen to clean the mug out when she heard the door
open and the high, cheerful voices of her children mingled in with Harry’s deeper one. She shook
off her uncharacteristic bout of melancholy and conjured up a smile as she left the kitchen.

“There you are,” she greeted them with a bright smile. “I was just beginning to wonder where you
were.”

“Oh, Mummy!” Sabrina almost danced over to Hermione to hug her enthusiastically and Hermione
closed her arms around her youngest daughter, feeling a wave of gratitude for Sabrina’s restored
exuberance and the resilience of children.

“Did you have a good dinner? Where did you go?”

“We went to Pizza Express because Andy wanted pizza,” Emily answered.

“And then we went to Florean’s and we had sundaes and Mr. Tom gave me an extra scoop of ice
cream in mine ‘cause it’s my turn,” Sabrina chimed in.

“Oh, did he?” Hermione smiled. “What kind of sundae did you and Emily have, Andy-boy?”

“Chocolate and vanilla,” he answered promptly, with a quick smile.

“I had a banana split,” Emily smiled.

Hermione shook her head in mock reproof. “You each got your own? That’s way too much dessert for
you on a week night.”

“Daddy said we could for a special treat,” Sabrina spoke up cheerfully.

“Now, Sabrina, remember we said that was going to be our little secret,” Harry interrupted
mildly—and only half-seriously.

Sabrina threw Harry a contrite look. “Oops, sorry, Daddy. I forgot.” She gave him a winning
smile, the one she always gave her parents whenever she’d committed some minor infraction—the smile
that Harry, at least, could never resist.

“So much for a secret,” Hermione said indulgently. “And did Daddy have a sundae too?”

“Uh huh,” Sabrina nodded. “He had a chocolate sundae.”

Hermione caught Harry’s eye as he shrugged, smiling half-sheepishly, a smile which she returned,
even as she half shook her head at him for his indulgence. Usually they only ordered two sundaes
and made the kids share—especially as Tom Bombadell, the new owner of Florean’s (who had kept the
name out of tradition and respect to his old friend, Florean Fortescue) always gave them an extra
scoop of ice cream for free, a treat for the Boy Who Lived and his equally famous children. (This
was a compromise measure, as at first, Tom had insisted that all their sundaes would be free, an
offer which Harry had refused, and after some haggling, she and Harry had agreed that every time
they went to Florean’s, Tom could give one of the children an extra scoop of ice cream, rotating by
turns. And while, at first, Hermione had been skeptical of the system, it ended up working quite
well as the children were remarkably good at remembering whose turn it was to get the free ice
cream.)

“We promised to be extra-good tomorrow,” Sabrina explained.

Hermione gave in and laughed, dropping a kiss on Sabrina’s hair, even as she addressed Harry
teasingly, “Bribing the kids into being good again, Harry?”

He shrugged. “Hey, it works, doesn’t it?”

“Nice example you set for them,” she pretended to chide him.

It was Emily’s turn to chime in, giving Hermione her brightest, most innocent smile. “We really
will be good, Mummy, we promise. So we deserve treats.”

“I’m sure you will,” Hermione assured Emily solemnly, before kissing her forehead. “Now, what do
you want to do before it’s bedtime?”

“I want to finish up my book so I’ll be in my room,” Emily said. (Predictably. She was, just as
Hermione had been before her, quite determined to read every book she could before she left for
Hogwarts in September.)

“Ooh, it’s my turn to pick what we watch on the telly!” Sabrina exclaimed, scampering over to
the other room with Andy fast on her heels.

Harry watched them go with a smile before he turned back to Hermione. “Did you get some work
done while we were out?”

“Yes, thanks,” Hermione answered, letting her head rest briefly against his shoulder as she
walked beside him, following Sabrina and Andy into the other room.

“Good.” He dropped a kiss on her hair before letting his arm fall from around Hermione’s
shoulders as he sat down and then picked Sabrina up so she could sit on his lap.

Sabrina’s favorite movie, “The Lion King,” was just beginning and she settled back against Harry
contentedly.

Hermione watched her youngest daughter’s expressions with a fond smile; Sabrina’s face was so
expressive as she watched the movie, her eyes shining, smiling or frowning depending on what was
happening in the movie. It never seemed to matter that Sabrina had probably watched the movie at
least several dozen times already. She still enjoyed it just as much as ever and Hermione just
loved to watch her daughter.

Andy dozed off before the movie ended but Sabrina watched the entire thing, wide-eyed and
enthralled, from her perch on Harry’s lap. She let out a happy sigh as the movie ended and leaned
back against Harry.

Hermione waved her wand at the telly to turn it off before she gently shook Andy’s shoulder.
“Andy-boy, it’s time to go to bed.”

Andy awoke quickly and followed Hermione upstairs quietly as Harry hoisted Sabrina up into his
arms and stood, carrying her into her room.

He helped Sabrina change into her pyjamas and then shooed her into the bathroom to brush her
teeth and wash her face, at which point Hermione joined them to put Sabrina to bed.

Harry bent and dropped a kiss on the tip of Sabrina’s nose as Sabrina threw her arms around
Harry and hugged him. “Night, Daddy.”

“Good night, baby,” Harry smiled and left the room with a last caress of her soft cheek.

Hermione tucked Sabrina in, kissing her on the forehead. “Good night, sweetie.”

“Night, Mummy.” Sabrina closed her eyes and then a moment later, opened them again and sat up
abruptly. “Mummy?”

“What is it, love?”

“I’m sorry we were noisy today; we’ll be better tomorrow.”

Hermione’s heart melted as she felt another pang of guilt and she gave Sabrina a quick hug. “Oh,
darling, you weren’t really noisy today. I’m sorry I yelled like that, sweetie. Forgive me,” she
said soberly.

“I forgive you, Mummy,” Sabrina said sweetly and then promptly switched tones and gave an almost
spot-on imitation of Hermione as she added, “But don’t do it again.”

Hermione laughed. “I’ll try not to, sweetie. Now, go to sleep.” She tucked Sabrina back in and
passed a caressing hand over her daughter’s hair. Her baby. She felt a surge of love well up inside
her, filling her heart with almost painful emotion. At that moment, she couldn’t imagine ever
feeling annoyed or angry at her daughter again.

Famous last words, she knew, but she did resolve to be more patient. If she couldn’t make an
effort to improve herself for her children, whom she loved so much, then she would never be able to
improve.

Andy was already tucked into bed and half-asleep when Hermione went into his room to check on
him. She brushed his black hair away from his face with a gentle hand as she slipped out again.

She spent the next hour or so in her study, as was her habit; this time after Sabrina and Andy
were in bed was usually her most productive time to work. She knew Harry would be outside, checking
to make sure all the wards were in place, as he always did, before he returned to lock up the house
from within and put up the last set of defensive wards.

She was waiting for him sometime later when Harry slipped into their bedroom from wishing Emily
goodnight in the little ritual they had which Emily, even at 11, still insisted on and which,
Hermione knew, Harry was dreading the end of, once Emily left for Hogwarts at the end of the
summer.

“I apologized to Sabrina for raising my voice,” she mentioned as he headed into the
bathroom.

“What did she say?” he called back.

“She forgave me.” Hermione paused and then added, “And then she told me not to do it again.”

She heard Harry’s choked laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“Yes.”

He returned and sat down next to her on their bed and she leaned over to rest her head on his
shoulder. “I’m sorry for being so crabby earlier. You didn’t deserve that but thank you for taking
the kids out.”

He slipped his arm around her shoulder. “It’s okay; it’s not like you haven’t put up with plenty
of bad temper from me over the years.”

“Still.” Hermione sighed. “I know I’m not the most patient person in the world but I shouldn’t
take it out on the kids.” She paused and then blurted out, “Harry, do you think I work too
much?”

She sensed his surprise even before he drew back slightly to stare at her. “What brought this
on? No, you don’t work too much; you work just the right amount.” He quirked a smile, trying to
coax a smile from her.

The corners of her lips lifted slightly as a faint concession to his humor but it faded soon
enough. “I was just thinking about today, how I yelled at the children because they were bothering
my work.” She paused and then straightened slightly as she met his eyes. “Harry, tell me
honestly—do you ever think that I put my work first, before the kids or you? Do I act as if work is
my priority?”

Harry’s first impulse was to laugh at the somewhat ridiculous question but he bit it back,
trying, honestly, to think about it with as much seriousness as she deserved, as much seriousness
as she’d had in asking it. And, looking at her, he saw the flash of vulnerability in her eyes and
understood, the last vestiges of amusement disappearing. He knew, as no one else did, the streak of
vulnerability in Hermione, the doubts she hid so well behind her cleverness and her strength of
character. He knew of her well-concealed doubts and loved her for them, loved too that she didn’t
hide them from him.

He lifted one hand to touch her cheek as he met her eyes steadily. “No,” he said flatly before
he continued. “Hermione, your work is important to you, of course it is, but I know and the kids
know, too, that we matter more to you than your work does. You’re amazing that way, Hermione.”

“Really?”

He gave her a small, very tender smile. “Do you remember our third year at Hogwarts?”

Confusion flickered across her face at this seeming non-sequitur, bringing up ancient history.
“Yes, what about it?”

“That year, how many of my Quidditch games did you miss?”

“None, you know that. Harry, I don’t--”

“You went to all my Quidditch games, Hermione, even when you were taking so many classes, you
needed a Time-turner to get to them all. With all that, anyone would have missed at least some of
the games, but not you. You went to them all—for *me*.” He paused, seeing the flicker of
something like embarrassment cross her face. “Did you think I’d forget that, love?”

“I didn’t know it meant that much to you.”

“It didn’t,” he answered promptly, surprising a laugh out of her, before he finished with a
slight smile, “at least, not back then, but I was an ungrateful git. It didn’t really occur to me
how important that was until years later but you know how slow I can be at times.” He gave her a
quick, teasing grin, before he sobered.

“The point is, Hermione, that you’ve always done that. No matter how hard you studied or how
hard you work, you’ve *always* put me and the kids first. That’s just the kind of person you
are. The one thing in my life that I’ve *never* doubted was you--your loyalty and your love.”
He paused and added, softly, “And I love you for it.”

Really, it was a miracle she wasn’t crying. Was it any wonder that she loved him so much? “Oh,
Harry, I…”

“Now,” he said, his tone shifting, becoming almost brisk, “what on earth could make you ask such
a thing?”

She gave him a little laugh, that was only slightly shaky with the last vestige of self-doubt.
“Oh, I was just having one of my bouts of not liking myself very much.”

He brushed his lips against her hair. “Silly Hermione. And as far as not liking yourself goes, I
think that’s my job.”

She turned to stare at him, even as a slight smile curved her lips. “It’s your job not to like
me much?”

He let out a brief laugh. “Very funny, you know that’s not what I meant.” He sobered, meeting
her eyes. “What I meant was that it’s my job to like you even when you don’t like yourself.” His
lips quirked into a small, serious sort of smile. “I promised, didn’t I? For better or worse,
remember?”

She had the best husband in the world.

“Besides,” he added, the intonation of his voice changing slightly but just enough for her to
know that, for tonight at least, he didn’t want to be entirely sentimental, “I happen to think
you’re cute when you’re angry. I’m strange like that.”

And whatever soft, sentimental thing she’d been about to say dissolved into a laugh. If anyone
else had called her cute, she might have almost been offended—or severely skeptical, at best—but he
was different. She couldn’t explain it, really, but it did something to her, caught at her heart,
to hear him call her ‘cute.’ She’d never been ‘cute’, not even when she’d been a child and most
adults had chosen to comment on how precocious she had been—but not to Harry. To the rest of the
world—even to their children—she was always strong, the clever one, the determined one, and it was
an image she cultivated—but to him, she was all that and *more*… To him, only to him, she was
also ‘cute.’ To him, she was… only herself… and he loved her anyway. She suddenly felt a surge of
love so powerful it almost choked her with emotion—but she didn’t say it, knew she didn’t need to,
really. Instead, she responded to his lightly teasing tone. “You are a freakish person,” she
whispered just before she reached up to kiss him, brushing her lips lightly, teasingly, against
his, once, twice, three times, before she returned to press her lips against his more firmly.

And as always, his lips softened and parted as he returned her kiss, letting her tongue explore
the familiar depths of his mouth.

She was the one that finally ended the long, leisurely kisses, drawing back just enough so she
could see his eyes. “You know what I was thinking,” she began softly, before trailing off.

His eyes opened to meet hers, still looking more than a little unfocused, dazed. “What?”

“I was thinking… you really deserve a reward for being such an understanding husband.”

“Mm, I do, don’t I? What did you have in mind?” he murmured, a smile in his voice.

She pretended to think about it. “Tickets for you and the kids to go to a Quidditch game?” she
suggested with feigned seriousness.

“Only? But I can go to Quidditch games whenever I want.” Harry’s tone was a remarkable imitation
of a petulant child (even if it was belied by the gleam in his eyes.)

“Well, if you don’t want that, then maybe I could--” she stretched up to whisper something in
his ear and his eyes widened as he almost choked on air.

“Hermione!”

She drew back slightly even as one hand slid down his chest until she was touching him
intimately through his trousers, and gave him an exaggeratedly innocent look. “Well, if you don’t
like that idea…”

“I like it,” he interrupted her quickly, his voice a little strained. “You can *feel* just
how much I like it,” he added, trying to sound teasing.

She didn’t bother to hide her decidedly smug smile. “Mm, yes, so I can,” she purred.

Harry bit back a groan, a fresh surge of lust skittering down his senses at her tone and her
look. He reached for her, his hands impatient to feel her warmth, her bare skin, but for once she
evaded him, catching his wrists in her hands and pushing them back down. “Not this time,” she told
him huskily. “This time, I want to seduce you.”

*Seduce him!* The woman was mad.

“I’m seduced,” he blurted out immediately.

She let out a small laugh, giving him a mock-chiding look. “Oh honestly, Harry, I haven’t even
started yet.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, you don’t have to *try* to seduce me.” He tried to sound
teasing but knew he failed in that attempt.

“I can do better if I try, though…” she breathed just before she kissed him, deeply.

His head spun as he gave himself up to her kiss, to her lips and her tongue and the familiar
taste of her. Hermione trying to seduce him… He didn’t doubt her success (that was never in
question)—he doubted whether he’d survive it.

Hermione poured her heart and soul into the kiss, letting her tongue slide into his mouth,
caressing his tongue in that way she knew always enflamed him.

Her hands weren’t idle either as she busied them in pushing up his shirt to bare his stomach and
his chest, letting her fingers lightly dance against his bare skin as she did so. She ended the
kiss slowly, her tongue briefly teasing the corners of his lips before she withdrew fully to meet
his dazed eyes, that had to blink a couple times before he focused on her.

“Let me thank you,” she breathed huskily and saw the surrender in his eyes and his
expression—not that she’d doubted it. It was what she loved about him, how he prolonged his own
pleasure and his torment to pander to her senses. She loved it—loved him—and rewarded him for it in
the best possible way.

So he sat up, just enough so she could pull his shirt up and over his head. She removed his
glasses, placing them blindly on the nightstand by the bed, and then she scooted down, turning her
attention to his trousers. She finished stripping him quickly—sometimes she deliberately chose to
draw out the process but not tonight.

When he was completely naked, she sat back, letting the moment stretch and linger, as she simply
looked at him, let her gaze wander slowly over every inch of his body.

She loved looking at him, loved the fact that his arousal visibly grew under her gaze, when she
hadn’t even really touched him yet. Loved that she could arouse him so quickly and so easily.

And, Merlin, but he was a beautiful specimen of a man… (In her admittedly biased opinion.) He
was never going to be the most heavily muscled or muscularly-built of men but he had filled out,
his shoulders becoming wider, his stomach flat and his hips trim, the body of a man now rather than
the boy he had been when she’d first seen his naked form.

She didn’t, she realized, often take that much time to really look at his body, usually being
much more eager to get to the touching part. But there really was something incredibly arousing
about just looking… The warmth pooling in her belly was clear proof of that.

“Hermione, tell me this seduction is going to involve touching too.” His voice was strained,
although she knew he was trying to sound teasing.

She gave him a quick grin. “Just inspecting my property and deciding where I want to start.”

He made a sound that was half-laugh and half-groan. “Merlin help me.”

She started with a kiss, cupping his face in her hands as she kissed him with a focused
intensity, deliberately using her lips and tongue to arouse him as only she knew how, letting her
tongue flick against the corners of his lips before sliding inside his mouth, claiming his
mouth.

She moved on, sliding her lips down his chin and his neck, pausing to graze his Adam’s apple
with her teeth ever so lightly, loving the way he swallowed hard and shuddered beneath her.

She flattened her hands on his chest and then set her hands to wandering, stroking, every inch
of him, from his shoulders down his arms and up again, caressing his chest with a feather-light
touch.

She scattered kisses across his chest, pausing to delicately touch the tip of her tongue to one
flat, male nipple. He groaned, his hands clenching into fists. She repeated the motion and then
deliberately swirled her tongue around his nipple, feeling the way his entire body stiffened even
more under the touch. She hid a smile as she moved on to treat his other nipple the same way,
savoring the familiar, slightly-salty taste of his skin.

She moved on further down his body, caressing him with first her hands and then her lips and
teeth and tongue, finding all the sensitive spots on his body, all the places that made him jerk
and groan and cry out.

There was something incredibly erotic about being fully clothed still while Harry was naked and
she was touching him. Her breasts brushed against Harry’s stomach and even through the cloth of her
bra and her shirt, she felt her nipples peak and harden and, deliberately, she lowered herself so
her breasts were flattened against him. She knew he could feel her hardened nipples, even through
the layers that separated their skin and knew, too, what the sensation did to him.

“Hermione!” Her name was gritted out from between clenched teeth.

She looked up at him through her lashes, meeting his heated green gaze with a look of spurious
innocence. “What? I’m merely trying to show my appreciation for what an understanding husband I
have.”

“If I tell you you’ve made your point, will you stop?” he grated out.

She gave him a small, deliberately lascivious smile. “No, this is too pleasant for me.”

She resumed her caresses, tracing her tongue along the muscles of his stomach that tensed at her
touch. Meanwhile, her hands continued on their journey of exploration, straying just above his
arousal and then down, stroking his thighs but avoiding touching him with her hands.

She shimmied further down his body, leaving a soft trail of kisses down his hip. Her hair and
then her cheek brushed against his jutting erection along the way and a cry strangled in his
throat.

She smiled to herself. She loved the sounds he made when she touched him, loved how sensitive he
was to her touch, loved knowing that she, of all women in the world, knew how best to arouse him
and pleasure him. And most of all, she loved knowing that he was hers.

She turned her head until she knew he could feel her warm breath against his erection and felt
the slight shudder that racked him. She waited for a full minute, letting the breathless
anticipation ratchet up a few more notches, before she finally touched him with her lips, trailing
her lips up along the rigid length of him. He groaned, his body jerking involuntarily. She touched
her tongue to the tip of him and then, after another breathless pause, took him fully into her
mouth. And proceeded to thank him for being so understanding in the best possible way, loving him
with lips and tongue, using all the knowledge of years.

Loved him until his breath was coming fast and harsh and she knew he was on the verge of
exploding; loved him until her body was burning, her clothes felt uncomfortably confining and much
too thick, and her knickers were soaked through.

With one last lick, she drew back, sitting up.

His eyes flew open until he looked almost wild with lust as he stared at her.

*God.* She’d left her clothes on much, much too long. Her fingers trembled as she hastily
tried to undo the buttons of her shirt and, for once in her life, she didn’t care—hardly
noticed—when one button was torn off in her haste. She had probably never undressed quite so
quickly in her life but it still felt like an eternity until she managed to shrug out of her shirt
and her bra and then shimmied out of her trousers with the same impatience.

And he watched. Watched her with eyes that seemed to scorch her until she was finally naked and
crawled back onto the bed, straddling him wantonly. She lowered herself onto him slowly,
*slowly*, with excruciating care, letting him slide into her wet heat inch by inch.
Deliberately, she tightened her muscles around him and he groaned. She did it again—and just like
that, his control snapped and he surged up inside her with one forceful thrust, tearing a cry from
both their throats.

Hermione let her eyes close as she savored the feeling of him inside her, filling her; she never
tired of this, of the intimacy of being joined with him like this.

She bent to kiss him, possessing his mouth with voracious passion, a passion he returned, his
tongue tangling with hers, invading her mouth. Her breasts were flattened against his chest and
deliberately she moved, rubbing herself against him, breaking off the kiss with a moan at the
friction against her over-sensitized nipples.

And then, she began to move, undulating above him, finding the rhythm that gave them the most
pleasure with the ease of years.

She opened her eyes to meet his. “Touch me,” she gasped.

He obeyed almost before the words had left her lips, his hands immediately flying to cup her
breasts, kneading and squeezing them, until she felt fresh jolts of arousal shooting through her to
pool in the center of her.

Pleasure was building, building, inside her, stealing her breath and her heart and her very
soul.

She was vaguely aware of his hands moving to grasp her hips and then, in one swift motion, he
rolled over, flipping them until she was beneath him.

She gasped, her body arching beneath his, softening to accommodate him in this new position. He
bent to capture one taut nipple with his lips and she could feel the wet tugging of his lips and
tongue radiating outward from that spot through her entire body, joining with the heady pleasure
from where they were joined.

One hand slipped down to touch the slick heat of her where they were joined at the same time as
he thrust inside her even more fully than he had been and just like that, she shattered, her mouth
opening on a scream as ecstasy exploded inside her.

She was only peripherally aware of him thrusting one last time before he, too, exploded, his
body stiffening and shuddering above her.

He collapsed on top of her, so she could feel his pounding heart, his quick breaths against her
ear as he fought to steady his breathing. She closed her eyes, loving the weight of him above her,
loving the feel of him still inside her. And as usual, just when he was beginning to be too heavy,
he moved, rolling over onto his side. His arm curved around her as she settled against him, her
body fitting against his as perfectly as it always had.

Oh but she loved these moments, when satiation was sliding heavily through her veins, weighing
her down like a warm blanket. When the intensity of their passion had been sated, leaving the more
comfortable bliss. When she could close her eyes and drift, secure in the knowledge that all was
right in her world.

These moments were all the more precious to her because she usually had trouble turning her
thoughts off long enough to fall asleep or truly relax but not with Harry. Whenever he touched her,
kissed her, whenever she touched him, the rest of the world faded away, narrowing down to him and
her and their entwined bodies…

She didn’t know if it was minutes—or hours—even days—later (and cared less) before he finally
stirred, brushing his lips against her hair. “On second thought,” he said softly, lazily, “this is
why I love you.”

It took actual effort for her to move, lifting her head and propping her chin on his chest so
she could meet his eyes. “That’s okay, then,” she informed him with mock solemnity. “I love you for
your body too.”

His lips quirked into his best attempt at a rakish grin. “Glad to be of service.”

Their eyes met and held for a long moment before they both succumbed to laughter, their soft
chuckles only ending when he slid his hand into her hair to cup the nape of her neck, angling her
head so he could kiss her, in a lazy kiss now that their lust had been sated, a gentle kiss of
shared humor and shared understanding.

The kiss ended slowly, lingeringly, and Hermione brushed her lips against his chin and throat
before nestling her head more comfortably against his shoulder. Her fingers strayed idly over his
chest until he reached up to catch her hand in his, bringing her hand up to his lips to kiss her
palm.

Hermione closed her eyes and relaxed against him, her body fitting itself against the warm
solidness of his body with its usual ease. She felt Harry tug up the blanket to cover them both as
she slipped closer to drowsiness.

Almost at the last moment before she succumbed to sleep completely, she heard his voice,
entirely serious now. “You’re the most loving person I know. Don’t ever doubt that.”

She smiled to herself, the words sliding into her heart, warming her, healing her, the last of
her doubts fading away.

“I love you too, Harry,” she murmured against his shoulder.

And, content, reassured, she drifted into sleep to the sound of his deep, even breathing, her
body nestled against his, and his hand holding hers…

*~The End~*



17. One Enchanted Evening
-------------------------

Disclaimer: See ‘All He Ever Wanted.’

Author’s Note: Because I really never will get tired of writing about H/Hr’s happy married life.
Enjoy!

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*One Enchanted Evening*

Harry sat on the couch in what was possibly his favorite place to be, sitting between his
daughters, an arm around each of them, with Andy stretched out on the floor at their feet, as they
all watched a remote apparition recording of the Puddlemere United Quidditch match that had taken
place earlier that day.

Beside him, he heard Emily suck in a small breath as a Bludger slammed into one of the players.
“Ouch, that must have hurt.”

“Yeah, I’ll say,” Andy agreed.

“Did that ever happen to you, Daddy?” Sabrina asked.

He smiled down at her. “No, not really,” he said reassuringly (with something less than complete
truth but he wasn’t going to tell his baby girl about his being injured playing Quidditch.)

She returned his smile and nestled back against him.

Harry brushed his lips against her hair and turned his attention back to the game, only to be
distracted again at the sound of the clock striking a quarter after seven. He glanced at the clock
and inwardly frowned a little.

Hermione was late.

She hadn’t been sure if she’d been able to make it home for dinner so he and the kids had eaten
without her but now he was beginning to wonder.

Chantal was due to arrive in half an hour and then he and Hermione needed to leave for the
annual Victory Ball to commemorate the anniversary of the last battle of the Second Voldemort War.
(The Ministry had originally wanted to call the anniversary Harry Potter Day but he’d flat-out
refused that and finally, they’d compromised on naming the anniversary itself Remembrance Day and
hosting a Victory Ball that evening.)

Not that Harry was much more eager to attend this Ball than he’d been to attend any other formal
event in his life, beginning with the Yule Ball way back in his 4th year, but he’d
gotten accustomed to it. (And, he had to admit, there was one very distinct reason to look forward
to these formal events in that it gave him a chance to see Hermione in formal clothes.)

He wondered what had happened at St. Mungo’s to keep her there but then looked over at the
family clock and saw that the hand for Hermione was now pointing towards “Home” and, right on cue,
heard the front door open.

“Harry? Kids?”

“Mummy!” Sabrina was the first to leap up and dash out to greet Hermione with her usual
exuberance, while Emily, Andy and Harry followed with more calm.

“Hi Mummy,” Emily and Andy said, not quite in unison but close enough.

Hermione gave Sabrina a quick hug. “Have you eaten dinner?”

“Yes, Daddy fed us.”

“We had mac and cheese, Mummy!” Sabrina announced. (Characteristically for her, Sabrina never
just ‘said’ something; she had a knack for making every word out of her mouth sound like the most
exciting news ever.)

“We were just watching the Puddlemere game,” Andy volunteered.

She smiled indulgently. “Well, I won’t keep you from that. Go back to the game.”

“Thanks, Mummy!” Andy threw her a quick grin before he disappeared back into the family room,
followed by Emily and Sabrina.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Hermione apologized. “A new patient was rushed in just as I was about to
leave.”

“Don’t worry about it. But Chantal will be here soon so we’d better get ready.”

“I know,” Hermione said, putting her work bag into her study and then hurrying up to their
bedroom with Harry on her heels.

Harry changed into his dress robes quickly and then proceeded to simply enjoy the sight of
Hermione’s preparations. He didn’t know why it was (certainly it was a new thing that had only
begun with Hermione) but he loved to watch Hermione get dressed for a formal event. She was as
efficient in this as she was in everything else and he liked the simple grace of her quick
movements. (And he had to admit to a purely masculine enjoyment of seeing the curves of her hips,
her butt and her legs as she pulled on a pair of pantyhose and stepped into her dress. What? Surely
a husband could ogle his own wife.)

“Zip me up, will you, Harry?”

Harry pulled his gaze away from where he’d been staring at her hips to meet her eyes as she
looked over her shoulder at him, presenting him with her back.

He stepped forward, conscious of a distinct (and irrational) reluctance to comply with her
simple request because he did so enjoy the sight of the graceful line of her spine and the smooth
skin of her back but then he reminded himself that he would have plenty more opportunities to
admire Hermione’s back (and the rest of her) and closed the zipper of her dress. He paused, his
hands lightly resting on her shoulders before he bent, irresistibly—it wasn’t a conscious decision,
more a compulsion—and kissed her bare skin in that sensitive spot where her neck met her
shoulder.

And as always, she softened against him, letting out a soft breath, her eyes closing, her head
tilting to give him better access. He loved how responsive she was, loved the fact that he could
sense her skin heating from such a simple caress.

“Harry…”

“Hmm?” he murmured against her skin.

“Don’t—oh… We really don’t have time for this,” she managed to say, although the words were
belied by the breathiness of her tone.

He sighed briefly as he lifted his head and stepped back. “I know.”

She turned and gave him a slight, understanding smile. “We’ll continue this later,” she
promised.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

She threw him a teasing look as she went over to her dresser. “Do I ever make promises I don’t
keep?”

“Is that a trick question?” he quipped, hoping that humor would dispel the sensuality in the
air.

“Very funny, Potter,” she retorted but he could hear her smile in her voice as she ran a brush
through her hair and then used a quick charm to put her hair into a simple twist, softened with a
few errant curls that escaped.

Harry went over to retrieve his wand from where he’d dropped it onto the bed while he changed
and put it into the discreet pocket sewn into his dress robes and then turned to see Hermione,
who’d finished up with her primping, minimal as it was.

And, for a moment, forgot how to breathe. She was wearing a new gown and, although he’d glimpsed
it on a hanger when she’d taken it out, he’d never seen it on her. She’d put on the amethyst
earring and necklace set he’d given her for their tenth wedding anniversary and it matched the
color of the gown almost perfectly (the gown being just a shade darker.) As for what the gown did
to Hermione’s body… Suffice to say that he immediately started mentally calculating how many hours
would need to pass before he could strip the gown off her. (Peripherally, he wondered if it was
normal for a wife to still have this effect on her husband after nearly 15 years of marriage but
then decided he didn’t care if it wasn’t. Rather, he could only pity any man whose wife
*couldn’t* take his breath away and capture his every thought so completely.)

His gaze wandered down and back up the length of her body, his mouth going dry, and he had to
swallow before he could speak, trying to make light of his reaction (this wasn’t the time to tell
her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—and the sexiest). “You clean up well.” But the
words were rather belied by the husky note in his voice.

She rolled her eyes a little, although a knowing smile was playing on her lips. (She knew
perfectly well how he’d reacted to the sight of her just now and the knowledge never failed to
thrill her feminine soul. She loved—oh, how she loved—that she could still make him speechless even
after so many years of marriage.) “Thank you. How can anyone resist such flattery?”

He lifted one shoulder into a half shrug. “It’s part of my charm.”

She snorted, falling in with his humor as she always did. “You’re delusional.”

“Actually, the word I was going for was confident. Suave, perhaps. Dashing, even.” Harry grinned
at her, the grin that, even now, never failed to make her heart give a little flutter. (Really, it
shouldn’t be possible for him to have this effect on her after so many years of marriage.)

“Arrogant,” Hermione retorted teasingly.

Harry gave her a look of exaggerated hurt. “You know, aren’t wives supposed to be nicer to their
husbands?”

“Where is that written?”

“If it isn’t a law, it should be,” Harry said, pretending to grumble.

“I’ll be sure to mention that to Minister Lovett tonight,” Hermione promised with mock
gravity.

Harry tried to keep his lips straight, tried to look offended, but knew it was useless. Her eyes
were dancing as she suppressed her own smile and picked up her small formal purse.

“Are you ready?”

He looked at her, at the smile playing on her lips and glowing in her eyes, and decided (yet
again) that he could never imagine anything more beautiful than she was. He had the most beautiful
wife in the world. Was he ready? “For you, always,” he said, half-jokingly but
wholly-sincerely.

She laughed softly, color tingeing her cheeks, at the deliberate huskiness infusing his tone.
“Later,” she promised as she brushed her hands across his shoulders, making sure his dress robes
were perfectly straight, as she usually did.

“Am I presentable enough for you?” he asked, capturing one of her hands in his and bringing it
to his lips for a quick kiss before he released her.

“You’ll do.” And she grinned at him before she preceded him down the stairs and into the family
room where the kids were.

Sabrina looked up when they entered, unlike her siblings (Sabrina was still a little young to
fully appreciate the game but whatever Emily and Andy did, she naturally wanted to do too and if
that meant watching Quidditch, she watched Quidditch.). “Oh, Mummy, you look beautiful!” she said
with wide-eyed sincerity.

Hermione smiled, her eyes and her expression soft. “Thank you, love.”

Harry pretended hurt. “And what about me, baby?”

Sabrina laughed, giving him a look she’d perfected early on, the one that said clearer than any
words could that she thought he was being ridiculous but she would indulge him anyway (a look that,
for the moment at least, always made her look so much like a tiny version of Hermione he was hard
pressed not to grin like an idiot at how utterly adorable she was). “Silly Daddy,” she giggled and
then added, generously, “You always look handsome to me, Daddy.”

Harry grinned at her. “Thank you, love.” He bent to kiss her and told her in a carrying whisper,
“You always look beautiful to me too.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Hermione smiled, warmth in her heart as she watched Harry and Sabrina. They really could not be
any more adorable and she could not love them any more…

She crouched down by Andy and ruffled his hair a little, making him glance up at her.

“How was your day?”

He gave her a quick grin, although his eyes returned almost immediately to the Quidditch match.
“It was fine, Mummy.”

Hermione could only smile at his absent answer and his distraction; it seemed like every year,
he got even more fascinated with Quidditch.

She glanced over at Emily, who gave her a smile. “You look very nice, Mummy.”

“Thanks, Em.”

“I finished my book today, Mummy,” Emily informed her.

“Good. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?”

Emily nodded, her lips parting but whatever she might have said was cut off by the sound of the
door bell ringing.

“I’ll get it!”

Emily was the first one to leap up and run over to open the front door and Harry and Hermione
exchanged small smiles. Emily had a whole-hearted admiration for Chantal, Bill and Fleur’s eldest,
whom Emily believed was the coolest person she knew.

“Hi, Chantal!”

“Hey, Em.” Chantal gave Emily an affectionate half-hug and looked over at Harry and Hermione.
“Hi, Uncle Harry, Aunt Hermione. Don’t you both look smashing,” she added teasingly.

Harry laughed. “Thank you, Miss Weasley.”

“Thanks for watching the kids, Chantal,” Hermione spoke up.

Chantal shrugged. “It’s fine, Aunt Hermione. I’d much rather spend my evening here playing with
these young’uns than at some fancy party listening to a lot of grown-ups talk.” She winked at Emily
and Sabrina before pretending to push Harry and Hermione out the door. “Hurry up and leave so we
can start having fun.”

Harry handed Hermione’s cloak to her, grabbing his own, before he bent and dropped a kiss on
Sabrina’s hair.

“Be good for Chantal, okay, baby?”

Sabrina gave him a beatific smile. “I will, Daddy.”

Hermione suppressed a laugh. Judging by Sabrina’s expression and her words, she really should be
the most angelic child…

“Be good, kids. Don’t stay up too late,” Hermione added warningly.

Chantal grinned. “I won’t let them,” she promised but her tone and conspiratorial wink promised
that she would, at least, let them stay up later than usual.

~*~

Harry nodded and tried to look interested, trying to keep a pleasant expression fixed on his
face, even as he felt like saying something rude or, better yet, simply walking away.

He’d been captured by some visiting foreign dignitary (he couldn’t remember where the man was
from at the moment—Austria, maybe? Or was it Germany? Switzerland?) and the man had launched into a
very involved tale about the appointment of the new Minister of Magic there.

Why the man thought Harry would be interested, he really didn’t know—unless it was some part of
the persistent belief held by many that Harry himself would one day be Minister and must,
therefore, be interested in the politics of self-aggrandizement. Whatever the reason, Harry was
bored out of his wits and beginning to wonder if suicide or murder was more appealing.

He suppressed a sigh and let his eyes wander surreptitiously, being careful to at least appear
politely interested as he did so.

He saw Ron talking to Oliver Wood, who was now the captain of the Appleby Arrows, and then,
predictably, his gaze found Hermione next (he always knew where she was).

His eyes narrowed a little. Hermione was talking to someone whom he didn’t know although he
recognized him from somewhere but the young man—and he did look young, maybe in his mid 20’s at
most—looked positively enthralled. He was speaking rapidly, his hands gesturing, his expression
intense and rather… adoring. And as he watched, the young man apparently forgot himself in his
enthusiasm and put his hand on Hermione’s arm and Harry knew her well enough to see the slight
tensing of her form, although she was too polite to pull away entirely.

Harry turned his gaze back to his current torment and interrupted the man’s speech when he
paused to take a breath. “If you’ll excuse me, I see someone I need to speak to.”

“Oh, Mr. Potter, of course. It was an honor- truly an honor- to meet you.”

Harry managed a smile. “My pleasure. Have a good evening.”

Harry made his way across the ballroom, carefully skirting around any other dignitaries and
people from the Ministry, catching Hermione’s eye as he neared and saw the welcoming smile in her
eyes before he reached her side, sliding his arm around her waist.

She smiled at him. “Oh, Harry, I don’t think you’ve met Nigel Bachilder.”

Bachilder turned to Harry with a smile as he shook Harry’s offered hand with enthusiasm. “Oh,
Mr. Potter, it’s an honor, a great honor. This entire evening has been so wonderful, to get to
speak with Healer Granger and now, to meet you as well. I was just telling Healer Granger that I
just finished reading her little treatise on new uses for the mullein powder and thought it was
absolutely brilliant.” Bachilder’s blue eyes shone with an almost religious light as he said
this.

“Yes, well, Hermione’s never been anything less than good at everything she tries to do,” Harry
responded. “It gets rather irritating at times,” he added jokingly.

Hermione discreetly jabbed him in the side, taking pity on Bachilder’s obvious confusion as to
how to respond. “Don’t mind Harry, Nigel. Saying things like that is his idea of being funny.”

“If you’ll excuse us, I think I see someone Hermione and I need to speak to,” Harry
inserted.

“I’ll see you at St. Mungo’s, Nigel,” Hermione added.

“Oh, of course, yes. It was so good to meet you, Mr. Potter.”

For a moment, Harry half expected Nigel to bow but he refrained before Harry and Hermione turned
away.

“It looks like you acquired an admirer,” Harry commented.

Hermione let out a soft laugh. “He is certainly enthusiastic. But he really is quite clever.
Some of the things he said reminded me of myself.” She paused and then added with a small laugh,
“Except he certainly seems to have a tendency towards hero worship that I never did.”

Harry looked at her, raising his brows. “Never?”

She gave him a prim look, although a slight smile was tugging at the corners of her lips,
belying her tone. “Hero worship tends to manifest itself in people who are insecure in their own
worth.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry teased. “So you’ve never felt hero worship for anyone?”

“Certainly not. I’ve admired people like Headmaster Dumbledore but hero worship? I certainly
never felt anything like hero worship for you,” she added with a teasing gleam in her eyes.

Harry only gave her an eloquent look before he gave a fake cough in which the word, “Lockhart,”
was clearly audible.

Hermione elbowed him. “Harry! That’s ancient history! I was 12 years old!”

Harry pretended innocence. “I didn’t say anything…”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you.” It
wasn’t a question.

He grinned at her, taking her hand in his. “Nope, I’m funny like that. Besides,” he added, “you
haven’t made that many silly mistakes in your life so I have to bring up the ones you have made;
it’s only fair to the rest of us foolish mortals, you know.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Very funny.”

“Luckily for young Bachilder and his hero worship, you really are as brilliant as he thinks you
are.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Hermione retorted but her smile belied the words.

Harry went on as if he hadn’t heard. “And anyway, I can’t fault his taste for fancying you.”

“Okay, maybe flattery will get you somewhere.”

Harry laughed, wiggling his brows at her in an exaggerated leer. “Well, you know I only flatter
you so I can get you into bed.”

Hermione laughed and then deliberately stepped closer to him, letting her breasts brush his arm
as she gave him one of their private, “bedroom” looks. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but you
don’t need to flatter me to get me into bed.”

Harry swore he could feel every drop of blood leave his head in a rush; this wife of his was
more potent than a punch to the head. He carefully stepped away from her in a half-futile gesture
as he could still feel her warmth against his arm as he gave her a look. “Hermione,” was all he
said, warningly.

She gave him an innocent look, although the smile in her eyes and tugging on her lips belied the
expression. “Yes?”

“Hermione…” Her name was almost a moan. “You’re evil, you know that.” He pretended to address
the air, even though his voice was low enough that no one but her could hear him. “Why did no one
warn me that my wife was evil?”

She laughed a little, even as she shook her head at his nonsense. “As if you didn’t know that
already. Now, I’m going to go say hello to Dean. You should mingle some more.”

He sighed and grimaced a little. “Yeah, I know I should. Say hello to Dean for me too.”

“I will,” she smiled, giving his hand a light squeeze as she turned away, heading towards
Dean.

Dean smiled as he saw her. “Hermione, you look great tonight.”

“It’s good to see you, Dean. How have you been?”

“Oh, you know, the usual, keeping busy. And you?” Dean worked as an artist for the Daily
Prophet, providing sketches and drawings for times when actual pictures were not available.

“Oh, you know what my life is like; between St. Mungo’s and the kids, there’s hardly a quiet
moment,” Hermione smiled.

Dean returned the smile. “How are the kids? I haven’t seen them in months.”

“They’re doing well. They’re at home, being baby-sat by Chantal Weasley, Bill’s daughter.”

“Oh, yes, of course, Chantal. She seems like a perfect choice for the job, since she always
seemed very level-headed to me.”

“Who seems level-headed?”

Hermione and Dean both turned to grin at Ron, who joined them, shaking hands with Dean and
putting his arm around Hermione in a brief, brotherly hug.

“I was just saying that Chantal seems like the perfect choice for a baby-sitter because she’s so
level-headed,” Dean explained to Ron.

Ron grinned. “That she is. She gets it from her mother because Bill certainly is not.”

Hermione nudged Ron lightly. “Ron! That’s hardly true. Bill may be the most sensible of all your
brothers.”

“But not as sensible as I’ve always been,” Ron inserted with mock solemnity.

Hermione laughed. “I wouldn’t say that exactly.”

Dean grinned. “I think I’ll have to agree with Hermione in this.”

Ron huffed, pretending disgruntlement. “Nice friends you two are.”

Dean laughed and they chatted for a while, catching up on each other’s news since Hermione
rarely saw Dean except at these big events.

It was a little while before Dean spoke up just as Ron finished telling a rather involved story
of something that had happened at his last Quidditch match, “Oh, I see my supervisor and I should
go over and pay my respects. It was good to see you, Hermione, and you too, Ron.”

“Take care, Dean,” Hermione smiled.

Hermione turned back to Ron but her gaze was caught by Harry, who, she saw, had been cornered by
one of his fangirls. She couldn’t place the woman but she was less interested in the woman’s
identity than in the fact that the woman was quite clearly flirting. The woman was wearing a dress
tight enough it looked as if she’d practically been poured into it and her neckline was low enough
to leave almost nothing to the imagination.

Beside her, she heard Ron laugh. “Oh dear, poor Harry. He looks utterly miserable.”

“I’d better go rescue him,” Hermione said.

“Yeah, you’d better go,” Ron agreed, amusement in his voice.

Ron always did find it hysterically funny whenever Harry was cornered by one of the seemingly
endless number of women who seemed to think it their mission to try to seduce Harry. Hermione was
resigned to them and had learned to view them with a sort of detached amusement, made much easier
because of her trust in Harry.

Hermione slid her arm around Harry’s waist in a deliberately possessive gesture. “There you are,
darling,” she said, deliberately using the endearment that neither she nor Harry used on a regular
basis and certainly never in public, and Harry gave her a look of unmitigated relief at the
rescue.

Hermione gave the woman a bright, utterly false smile. “You will excuse us, won’t you. Harry
promised me a dance.”

Faced with Harry’s wife, the woman had no choice but to agree, which she did with ill grace.

Hermione kept her arm around Harry as they walked, more because she knew the woman would be
watching. “A new friend of yours, Harry?” she teased.

“Thank you for saving me. She wasn’t taking any of my hints and I was beginning to be afraid I’d
need to hex her or something to get away.” Harry grimaced. “I can’t imagine what she—or anyone
else, really—thinks will happen. Do they really think I’m that much of an idiot?”

Hermione laughed softly at his petulant tone. “I imagine they all think that since you’re
married to plain, old me, you must be bored and looking for fun.” She spoke lightly, with all the
confidence she felt.

“They must all be blind and stupid,” Harry responded, more easily, as they stepped into the slow
dance. He let his fingers stray over Hermione’s back in a light caress, feeling the tension from
the unpleasant encounter drain away. “How could anyone possibly hope to compete with you?”

“Flatterer,” Hermione chided but the word was belied by her smile.

“I’m very serious,” Harry said with exaggerated solemnity. “If I wanted to talk to the most
beautiful woman in the room tonight, I’d only end up talking to you.”

Hermione’s smile softened. She knew she wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the room—but she also
knew that Harry meant every word and somehow, with him, seeing herself reflected in his eyes, she
*felt* like the most beautiful woman in the world.

“You really do want to get lucky tonight, don’t you?” was all she asked out-loud.

Harry’s response was to give her an exaggerated leer. “Is it working?”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh a little. “It occurs to me that there’s something not quite
right about us.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Do you think it’s normal for an old, married couple of nearly 15 years to flirt with each other
so much?”

Harry lifted one shoulder into a half-shrug. “You know me; I’ve always been the resident freak,”
he quipped.

Hermione hit his shoulder. “I thought we agreed you weren’t supposed to call yourself that.”

Harry caught her hand in his, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to her palm that she felt
all through her body. His eyes and his voice were suddenly, completely serious. “If it isn’t normal
for a husband to be in lust and love with his wife, then who wants to be normal?”

“Do you think we’ve been here long enough that we can go home now?” was Hermione’s response and
let him see all she felt in her eyes and in her smile.

His fingers tightened on her skin. “You know we haven’t.”

Hermione gave an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose I’ll just have to be patient then.”

“For two sickles, I’ll take you home and ravish you right now,” Harry offered, only
half-jokingly.

It was a tempting suggestion. Hermione grimaced a little. “You know very well that we can’t
leave yet. We just arrived an hour ago. If we do leave so early, everyone would notice and it’ll be
all over every newspaper tomorrow morning.”

Harry gave an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh. “That is, sadly, true.”

Hermione couldn’t help but grin. “It’s hell being a responsible adult, isn’t it?”

“How would you know anything about that? You’ve been a responsible adult your entire life.” A
teasing smile tugging at the corners of his lips belied his solemn tone.

Hermione lifted her chin and assumed a prim expression. “I’ll choose to take that as a
compliment.”

“You’re awfully sexy when you try to look all prim and proper, Healer Granger,” Harry said
conversationally.

Hermione made a skeptical noise. “You really are very strange,” was what she said but knew he
could see the smile fighting to break free. She couldn’t help the flicker of heat she felt inside
her at his words—because she knew he meant them. It was something she never ceased to find amazing
but Harry really did seem to find almost anything she did sexy—even after all these years. And she
loved knowing that. As much as the knowledge that she was the love of Harry’s life meant to her, it
was equally precious—odd as it might sound—to know that, in his eyes, she was still sexy, that he
still, even after so many years of marriage, fantasized about her, was aroused by her.

But then again, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. The feeling was, after all, entirely
mutual.

With a decided effort, Hermione pulled her mind away from this sensuous path—that way lay
frustration—and changed the subject to something entirely neutral. “I heard the new Austrian
Minister of Magic is said to be quite the reformer. Do you know anything about him?”

He blinked and she hid a smile as he visibly (to her, at least) focused his mind on this new
topic. “Actually, I was just speaking to one of the Austrian Ministry officials who seems to be
very admiring of their new Minister, was telling me some of the changes he’s proposed.”

Hermione listened as Harry briefly summarized what he’d heard. She knew that Harry, personally,
didn’t particularly care for politics and certainly didn’t care to mingle with foreign officials or
dignitaries, but for her sake, for her continuing interest in political reforms, he always made an
effort to find out any current issues to tell her about them. Not because she asked him to but
simply because he knew her.

Hermione listened and commented—and silently willed the hours until they could go home to pass
quickly.

Some hours later, Harry and Hermione opened their front door quietly and walked in to see
Chantal, sitting on the couch with a book.

She looked up, closing her book, and grinned at them. “Hi, Aunt Hermione, Uncle Harry. Did you
have a good time tonight?”

“Yes, thanks, Chantal,” Hermione answered. “How were the kids?”

“As good as gold,” Chantal reported cheerfully. “We played Monopoly after the Quidditch match
ended. Sabrina dozed off by 9 but I let Andy and Em stay up until a little after 10 before sending
them off to bed too.”

“You really did let them stay up past their bed time,” Harry noted.

Chantal shot him a mischievous look. “Why else do you think I’m their favorite baby-sitter,
Uncle Harry?”

Harry tried to look disapproving but knew he failed.

Chantal stood up, putting her book away. “Well, I’d better head home before my parents start to
wonder what happened.”

“Tell your parents we’ll see them at the Burrow next weekend.”

“Yeah, I will. Oh, thanks, Aunt Hermione,” Chantal said as she put on her cloak and accepted the
money Hermione handed her.

“Thanks for watching the kids, Chantal,” Hermione said with a smile.

“Anytime.” Chantal waved as she opened the door. “G’night.”

“Goodnight, Chantal.”

Hermione waved a last time before closing and locking the front door and, behind her, heard
Harry murmur the words to the protective wards he always put up at night.

That done, she led the way upstairs, Harry on her heels, as they looked, first, into Andy’s room
to see if he was sleeping—he was, his breathing deep and even, and Hermione brushed his hair away
from his face with a feather-light touch, careful not to wake him before she crept out.

Sabrina’s room, “the baby’s room” as they still tended to call it sometimes, was next. Sabrina
had pushed off her blankets and Hermione tucked her in again before pulling the door mostly closed
behind her, keeping it just slightly ajar as always.

Harry had already opened Emily’s door to look inside and she joined him just as he was about to
close the door.

Their eyes met in the dim hallway in a brief exchange as clear as telepathy. *She’s asleep?
Sleeping soundly. Ok, good.*

That done, Hermione slipped her hand into Harry’s to give it a brief squeeze as they walked the
rest of the way down the hallway to their own bedroom and she went in first, hearing him close the
door, quietly but firmly, behind him.

She headed straight to her dresser, taking her earrings off as she went and then the necklace.
She had just murmured the charm the undo the charm she’d used on her hair, sending it cascading
down past her shoulders, when she heard his voice.

“Wait, stop.”

She paused and turned to him, her eyebrows raised slightly, the ghost of smile just touching her
lips. Even from those two words, she knew that tone, could guess what he was thinking.

And was proven right the moment she saw his face. The lingering desire that had been banked
during the hours of the ball leaped to life, heat beginning to simmer inside her.

Harry finished shrugging out of his dress robes, sending them to hang in the closet with one
quick flick of his wand, and then dropped his wand carelessly onto the nightstand by the bed before
crossing the room slowly.

He let his eyes wander up and down and then back up Hermione’s body, not even trying to hide
what he was doing, noting the look on her face, the slight smile just curving her lips. Merlin, but
he really did have the sexiest wife in the world.

“Now,” he said huskily, “I get to do what I’ve wanted to do since the second I saw you in this
dress.”

Her eyebrows lifted a fraction higher as she gave him an innocent look. “Oh, and what’s
that?”

He couldn’t help a smile at her look and her tone, both being very familiar to him by now. “Wait
and see.”

He took her hand and led her forward until they were both standing beside their bed and then
reached behind her to pull the zipper down, deliberately letting his hand stray inside to lightly
caress the bare skin of her back, feeling the slight, reactive shiver that went through her
body.

“Now lie down, but keep the dress on.”

Arousal, tinged with amusement, flashed through her eyes before she complied.

She lay back on their bed with the instinctive, unconsciously sensual grace that never failed to
make his mouth go dry before she looked back up at him and this time, it was her turn to look him
up and down and then back up again.

“You should take off your clothes now,” she suggested, her voice a husky whisper.

He hadn’t planned to, not immediately, but… With a mental shrug, he started to unbutton his
shirt. Not listening to her would only be cutting off his nose to spite his face and anything
Hermione said or did would only lead to more pleasure for him. His wife was brilliant like
that.

He hastily stripped off his clothes but kept his boxers on; it would help him keep control and
for his purposes, he needed that.

That done, he crawled onto the bed until he was leaning over her.

“You look beautiful in this dress, but…” he paused deliberately, “you’ll be even more beautiful
out of it.”

And then, finally, he set out to do what he’d wanted to do since the moment he’d seen her in
this dress: strip it off her.

He slid the straps of the dress of her shoulders, caressing her skin as he went, until she could
free her arms from them and then, slowly, he pushed the dress further down. He lowered his lips to
her skin, starting at the little hollow just behind her ear lobe that he knew was sensitive and
then trailed his lips further down the line of her chin and then her neck, pausing where he could
feel her pulse fluttering rapidly. He touched his tongue lightly to the spot, making her gasp, her
head tilting back to grant him greater access, and then he sucked lightly on the skin above her
pulse point until she moaned softly.

Inch by inch, he pushed the dress down her body, his hands and then his lips caressing the skin
revealed to him.

She was still wearing her bra, of course, but he cupped her breasts, squeezing lightly, and
could feel her nipples hardening immediately through the lace and cloth of her bra. He allowed
himself a small, very satisfied smile—God, he loved her responsiveness. He slipped one hand into
her bra, freeing her breast, and then fastened his lips to her nipple, suckling and then swirling
his tongue over and around it in that way he knew she liked, until she gasped and moaned and arched
her back, pushing herself closer to him.

He released her nipple with a last flick of his tongue but before he could decide how to touch
her next, she shifted and she was the one to unhook her bra, shrugging out of it and tossing it
aside, leaving her completely bared to his avid gaze from the waist up.

And he forgot how to breathe, forgot how to blink, as he stared. Great Merlin but she was
beautiful. And if it were possible for someone to glow… well, she was… Her skin was flushed and
gleaming with perspiration and the contrast of her skin against the purple of her gown…

And there was something indescribably, incredibly erotic about seeing her like this, only bared
to the waist but still fully clothed below the waist, with her gown pushed down the way it was. She
looked… wanton… sensual… seductive… especially with the way her hair spilled out across the pillow
and over her bare shoulders.

He lowered his lips to the delicate curve where her neck met her shoulders, kissing the
sensitive spot and just breathed in the scent of her. He could smell her, a mixture of her shampoo
and soap and her perfume and the other scent that was just her. He would have just breathed her in
for a moment but she chose that moment to arch her back, deliberately pressing her breasts against
his chest, rubbing herself against him with the boundless, instinctive sensuality that never ceased
to surprise him.

He groaned against her neck and then she turned her head, her hands sliding into his hair, so
she could meet his lips with hers, kissing him hard, her tongue pushing into his mouth, engaging in
a half-playful, wholly-arousing duel with his tongue. She kissed him as if she wanted to possess
him, claim him, kissed him with all the passion and the intensity of her nature and he was, as
always, lost.

He slid his hands into her hair, flattened himself against her, and returned her kiss,
forgetting for the moment the rest of his plans in favor of kissing her, his lips and tongue
melding with hers, loving the familiar taste of her.

And when he finally broke off the kiss, it was only to kiss his way down her jaw and then her
neck, finding every sensitive spot that made her gasp and shiver and clutch at him with her
hands.

He trailed his lips down her body, leaving a series of hot, damp kisses down the valley between
her breasts, pausing to lick every sensitive spot, and then further down the soft skin of her
stomach. His hands made their own voyage down, tracing, caressing every curve of her until he
reached her dress and proceeded to continue stripping the dress off her.

She lifted her hips and he deliberately let his hands caress and cup the curve of her butt and
her hips as he pushed the dress further down.

His hands skimmed lightly down her legs, feeling the smoothness of her pantyhose, but really,
he’d always found he much preferred to caress the smoothness of her skin. He hooked his fingers
into her pantyhose and dragged it, too, slowly down her body, bringing her knickers with it. He
stripped her slowly, even reverently, letting his hands worship, caress every inch of her.

She was so beautiful, had always been beautiful, but he rather thought she was more beautiful
now than ever. The years—and having three children—had left their traces on her body, her hips a
little wider, her stomach a little softer—but she was beautiful, more beautiful now than when he’d
first seen her body, with the added beauty and sensuality of maturity, of health and life and, yes,
love… She was still, as always, the embodiment of womanly beauty and seductiveness; she was all
he’d ever wanted or dreamed of or fantasized about—and more…

And he told her so with every touch, every lingering caress, delighting in every gasp, every
breathy moan, every movement of her body that gave the proof of her arousal.

God, he loved touching her, loved reducing his clever, strong-willed Hermione to this wanton,
writhing, sensual creature.

His hands reached her knees and he paused to brush his fingers lightly against the sensitive
skin of the backs of her knees and she gasped, her body arching, her hands twisting against the
sheets.

He finished pushing her pantyhose and her knickers down her legs, tossing them aside, and then
grasped the folds of her dress as it lay bunched around her feet. He was going to simply toss them
aside too but then paused, what little remained of coherent thought in his mind coughing to life—it
occurred to him afterwards that Hermione really had trained him well-- and instead he sent the
dress sailing to hang in the closet with a wave of his hand.

He sensed her slight smile before he returned his gaze to her face and saw it. “Are you trying
to impress me?” Her voice was low, sultry, and sent a fresh wave of arousal skittering through his
veins.

He gave her an exaggerated leer. “Of course I am.”

“Mm.” She gifted him with a look through her lashes that scrambled his brains, made his mouth go
dry, and his arousal jerk to attention, hardening even further.

Before he could so much as catch his breath, she reached out and cupped his straining erection
through his boxers, squeezing lightly. “*This* impresses me more,” she purred.

He nearly choked on his own tongue. He let out a sound that was half-groan, half-laugh, his hips
thrusting involuntarily into her hand.

She slid her hand into the waistband of his boxers but before she could proceed, he grasped her
wrist and pulled it away. “No, wait,” he gritted out. If she touched him, he knew he would lose
control and he didn’t want that—not yet. Not until he’d pleasured her.

He lowered his lips to her legs, kissing his way up her inner thighs until he hovered just above
the core of her. He blew warm breath against her slick, swollen center until she moaned his name,
her hips stirring restlessly, and then he touched her.

He trailed soft, delicate kisses along the apex of her thighs before he set his lips to her,
kissing her, licking her. This was heaven, right here, the taste of her, the scent of her, the
sounds of her as she writhed against his mouth. He knew when she was close to the edge, could feel
it in her trembling, hear it in the increasingly frantic, breathless cries coming from her throat.
He fastened his mouth to her wet flesh and suckled gently and that was all it took as she came with
a scream of his name.

He lifted his head to watch her, loved the sight of her like this, the utterly abandoned look on
her face as she gave herself up to pleasure. Seeing her like this never failed to catch at his
heart, thrill him in a primitive, possessive, masculine way, that *he* had brought her to
this, that he was the only man to see her like this.

His body hardened even more—impossibly—just at the sight of her—it was the most erotic thing
he’d ever seen, bar none. And he knew he couldn’t wait. He was trembling and so hard it hurt and at
that moment, he wanted to be inside her more than he wanted his next breath.

His hands shook with the violence of his need as he shoved off his boxers, mentally swearing a
little at his own clumsiness in his impatience, and then let out his breath in relief as he was
finally free from the constriction.

The moment his arousal was free, her hands were on him, wrapping around him, and he felt what
little remained of his control vanish in an instant. He almost surged up the bed, flattening
himself against her, his lips finding hers, kissing her heatedly, as his jutting erection found,
almost by instinct, the center of her body.

His hips moved, caressing her slick flesh with his body in an unbearably erotic way, and he
plunged into her. He’d planned for this entire lovemaking to be slow, seductive, but he’d clearly
overestimated his own self-control, no longer remembered what “slow” meant.

And even if he’d been able to slow down, she met and matched his impatience with her own as she
arched beneath him, lifting her hips, her arms and legs wrapping around him, encouraging him.

And it was hard and fast, his hips retreating and then thrusting again and again into the slick,
wet heaven of her body. She was the beginning and the end of his universe, the sole center of his
world, every one of his senses, his body, his mind in thrall to her, to the passion of her, the
sensuality of her. In that moment—as always—she took possession of his very soul until he knew
nothing and no one else, was only attuned to her, to the soft gasps of her breath against his
cheek, the taste of her, the heat of her beneath him, surrounding him…

He could feel himself nearing the edge, could sense it and knew, too, with the almost
instinctive knowledge of her body, that she wasn’t quite as close as he was.

He gritted his teeth, fighting to pull back, and broke off their kiss so he could fasten his
mouth to her nipple, suckling it, letting his teeth graze the hardened tip lightly. He slid one
hand down to touch her, finding the spot where they were joined, caressed it with his finger, until
he felt her body tighten.

Her inner muscles convulsed around him, set off his own explosive climax as he thrust one last
time, his vision graying out around him, letting out a strangled shout as he fell into the
darkness. Fell knowing she was there with him, would catch him. Fell into the heaven that existed
solely for them.

He collapsed above her and then rolled heavily onto his back, his arms keeping her with him, so
they lay, sprawled, their limbs tangled, his body still tenuously joined with hers. Her hair
spilled across his shoulder and chest as she lay above him; he rested his cheek against the top of
her head and closed his eyes, feeling the glorious weight of utter satiation settle over them. He
may have drifted off, dozed, his mind hovering somewhere between sleep and full alertness, not
quite conscious but always aware, on some elemental level, of the warmth and weight of her against
him, the rhythm of her heartbeat, the svelte, yielding curves of her body.

*His Hermione.* The words drifted through his mind, not a thought but more an emotion. His
Hermione— his better half, his dream-lover… *His*—and he was hers. There was something
indescribably calming, precious, in the utter certainty of that. Even if there were times he felt
as if he understood nothing else in his life, at the end of every day, he returned to her, his
home, his haven, and he knew he was where he belonged.

Hermione stirred, shifting until she was lying beside him rather than on top of him as she
nestled her head into the hollow of his shoulder that seemed as if it had been made for her head to
rest there.

He lazily moved one hand until the blankets slid up to cover their bodies, cooling now that the
sweat of exertion had dried off, before he resettled his arms more comfortably around her.

He knew she must be tired; in spite of its being a Saturday, she had gone into St. Mungo’s a
little earlier than usual because she’d been worried over a patient. He made a mental note to let
her sleep in a little tomorrow morning—assuming she would, which was doubtful, since Hermione
sleeping in usually meant she wasn’t feeling well.

Hermione let out a soft, sighing breath, the one that he knew signaled her falling asleep, and
he wasn’t surprised to hear her breathing even out, as her warm weight against his side became just
that little bit heavier.

He moved his head just enough so he could see her sleeping face. He loved to watch her sleep,
when all the intelligence and strength of character that animated her expression during the day was
softened, gentled. She looked younger in her sleep until he could trace in her features the girl
she had been, the Hermione from their long-ago Hogwarts days, the somewhat-bossy know-it-all with
the bushy hair and the most loyal, loving heart of anyone he’d ever met. The girl he’d loved even
before he knew what the word meant… and the woman she’d become, the woman he loved even more than
he’d loved the girl.

He could have watched her sleep for hours but after a moment, he waved his hand to turn off the
light and closed his eyes. Letting the sound of her deep, even breathing lull him into sleep.

He was with Hermione; his children were sleeping soundly in their beds. And all was right in his
world.

*~The End~*



18. As Time Goes By
-------------------

Disclaimer: See ‘All He Ever Wanted.’

Author’s Notes: Written for Valentine’s Day, as a tribute to the love that will last forever.
Enjoy!

**As Time Goes By**

“Harry?”

Hermione paused in the front room, looking around. “Harry, where are you?”

She knew he was home; his cloak was hanging on its usual hook by the door and he’d left just an
hour before she did from Emily and her best friend, Ariel’s, new flat, where they were moving after
finishing Hogwarts last June.

She’d seen the look on his face as he looked around the flat, still disorganized but slowly
beginning to resemble a home, the look on his face when he’d seen that one of the first things Em
had put up in her room had been a recent family picture taken when Emily had just finished
Hogwarts.

“Harry?”

Still nothing but then she heard a soft sound from upstairs and she knew.

Of course.

Hermione climbed the stairs and then walked down the hall to see that the door to the attic was
open. She suppressed a small smile. She knew him so well.

“Harry?”

She went up the stairs into the attic to see Harry sitting on the floor as he looked up at
her.

“Oh, you’re home. Is Em all settled then?”

“Not quite but she’s getting there. The flat’s beginning to look very cozy.”

“That’s good.” Harry turned back to the trunk open in front of him.

Hermione slipped down to sit beside him and smiled a little mistily. Of course she’d known what
had brought Harry up here, to rummaging through the trunk where they stored the pictures and some
of the smaller knick-knacks from the kids’ growing up.

Harry pulled out the photo album at the very bottom of the trunk—a photo album that had “Emily
Granger Potter” written across the front in stylized handwriting and just beneath that, in
Hermione’s handwriting, August 17, 2008- Emily’s birthday.

Hermione rested her head against Harry’s shoulder, slipping an arm around him, as he opened the
album.

The first picture in it was the first family picture they’d taken, the three of them, the day
after Emily had been born. Hermione smiled a little; she was still wearing the St. Mungo’s hospital
gown and looked, well, exhausted. Harry looked tired but uplifted—and, Merlin, how young he’d
looked then. How young they’d both been. And Emily—Emily was a red-faced bundle in blankets.

Harry touched one finger lightly to Emily’s face in the picture. “Look at her,” he whispered,
his voice a little husky. “She was so beautiful.”

“Yes, she was,” Hermione agreed, her own voice a little husky with emotion. It was more than 18
years ago now; Emily would be turning 19 in less than six months and now had her own flat. And yet,
Hermione could remember it all as if it was just yesterday. If she closed her eyes, she could
almost swear she felt the warm weight of Emily in her arms. She could hear in her head the first
time Emily had said “Mama.”

Harry turned the page again and choked on a small laugh. In it, Emily was sleeping next to the
stuffed Kneazle Ron had brought; the doll was about twice the size of Emily.

“Do you remember—I keep thinking of that time when I left Em sleeping on the sofa in the living
room and left the room for just a second--”

“And when you came back, you didn’t see her,” Hermione finished for him with a soft laugh. “And
it turned out she’d just shifted so the cushions had slipped down on top of her and you
panicked.”

“I did not panic,” Harry protested. “I was very calm!”

Hermione suppressed a snort. “Sure you were, Harry. I think the cry of alarm you gave before you
picked up the cushion is still ringing in my ears. You took 10 years off my life with that
cry.”

“I was just surprised,” Harry defended himself but she could hear the laughter in his voice.

“Of course you were,” Hermione agreed half-laughingly.

Harry turned another page in the album and Hermione sobered and it was her turn to reach out to
touch one finger to the photo. She remembered this picture. It had been—still was—one of her
favorites, taken just after they’d brought Emily home. In it, Harry and Emily were both asleep,
Emily lying curled up on Harry’s chest while Harry had one protective arm around her.

“I love this picture,” Hermione said quietly.

“I know you do. You kept it on the mantel until after Sabrina was born,” Harry returned. “Ron
never saw it without calling me ‘Sleeping Beauty.’”

Hermione grinned. “Why do you think I kept it there for so long?”

Harry snorted. “I know. Don’t think I’ve forgiven you for that,” he said in a mock-threatening
voice.

Hermione turned her head to give him a quick, deliberately smacking kiss on the cheek. “Sleeping
Beauty.”

“Don’t you dare call me that.”

Hermione only laughed as she turned the next page in the album. This page had a picture of Harry
holding Emily in his lap and manipulating her arm in a wave at the camera and another picture of
Emily sleeping.

“Remember when we brought her home for the first time?” Hermione asked.

She sensed rather than saw his slight smile. “I’ll never forget it. I’d never realized what a
frightening place the world was until we were walking out of St. Mungo’s with her and suddenly
everything seemed threatening.”

Hermione laughed. “You pulled out your wand and nearly hexed the head off a cardboard
cut-out!”

“I didn’t see it clearly; I only saw what looked like a person about to lunge out at us from the
corner of my eye!”

Hermione snorted a little but said nothing more. Besides, she hadn’t been that much better than
Harry had been at first; she’d wrapped Emily up in so many blankets, Em had looked prepared to go
out into a blizzard, rather than the mild August day it had been.

The next four pages had pictures of Emily sleeping in a variety of places—sometimes with
Hermione in the picture, sometimes with Harry, once with Ron bending over her, and a couple just
with Emily.

“Just how many pictures did you take of Emily sleeping?” Hermione asked, although she knew the
answer perfectly well.

“Not that many,” Harry returned. “And it’s not my fault that Emily looked so adorable when she
was sleeping.”

Hermione laughed softly. If memory served, she’d counted once and Harry had taken a full 138
pictures of Emily sleeping in her first six months—and that didn’t include all the pictures he’d
taken of Emily when she was awake. She remembered watching him watching Emily as she slept—and how
he would take a picture every time she so much as moved a muscle. She turned her head; he took a
picture. She moved her hand; he took a picture. She fussed with her blanket; he took a picture. It
really had been ridiculous.

And she’d loved him for it.

“You were obsessive,” Hermione teased gently.

“Again, not my fault,” Harry said defensively. “She got the beautiful-when-she-sleeps thing from
you.”

Hermione shook her head a little even as she couldn’t help but smile. “Flattery will get you
nowhere.”

“A man can try.”

More pages in the album—more pictures. So many more pictures. And even more memories.

“Remember when she started to walk?”

Hermione smiled. “I can still picture her as she toddled around before falling down and then the
way she wrinkled her nose before she crawled up to her feet again.”

“Do you know that before I took her outside for the first time when she was just beginning to
walk on her own, I spent about an hour picking up every stick and stone from around the front walk
in case she would trip and fall? I think I even cleared out the weeds that had started to come up
through the cracks of the pavement.”

Hermione laughed. “Oh, I do remember that! I remember being stunned when I came home that
afternoon and saw how perfectly neat the front walk looked. You were impressively thorough.”

Harry’s smile was reminiscent. “I was so afraid she would fall and hurt herself…”

“Do you remember the time Emily fell and scraped her knee while we were outside and she wouldn’t
stop crying…” Hermione began.

“Until I came out and picked her up,” Harry finished. “Yeah, I remember.”

“I was so hurt that day,” Hermione said musingly. “I remember wondering what kind of mother I
was that I couldn’t comfort my own daughter when she was hurt.”

Harry reached over to grasp her hand in his, giving it a brief squeeze. “I know. It was just a
phase anyway. Remember there were those few weeks when Emily always cried for you and absolutely
refused to stop crying when I was there.”

“Yeah. The kids always cried for you when they had their nightmares, though.”

“Funny how they did that. I always cried for *you* when I had nightmares.”

Hermione smiled and squeezed his hand in her turn. “Then I guess we’re even.”

Harry turned another page in the album, this one having a picture of Hermione holding Emily as
she slept and one picture of Hermione’s parents cooing over a gurgling Emily as she waved her
fist—in which she’d captured one of Hermione’s dad’s fingers, holding him captive.

“Did we ever give your parents a copy of this picture?” Harry asked.

“Yes, we did.”

“Mm, good. It’s a good one of them with Emily.”

“Yeah. Don’t you remember, Mum had it framed on the wall in their living room for a few
years?”

“Oh, yeah, before it was replaced with one of all three kids.”

Harry tapped his finger lightly against the picture of Emily gripping Hermione’s dad’s finger.
“She had quite the grip on her, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I don’t know how many times she grabbed one of my fingers and every time I tried to pull away,
she would screw up her face like she was going to cry…”

“And so you just stayed there,” Hermione finished.

“Well, I could hardly let her cry, could I?”

Hermione smiled. “I suppose not.”

There was a moment of silence as Harry turned another page in the album, and then another.

“It feels like only yesterday, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it really does,” Hermione said with a half-sigh.

“I thought we’d have a little more time with her as our little girl, you know,” Harry said, his
voice sounding husky again.

“Yeah, I know.” She paused before she added, “But you knew she wasn’t going to live with us
forever.”

“Yes but another year or two would have been nice.”

Hermione nestled her head against his shoulder, not answering as she wasn’t sure she trusted her
voice anymore. She sniffed a little and then blinked rapidly. “Drat you, Harry, I promised myself I
wasn’t going to get all weepy again over this,” she said trying to sound scolding.

He lifted one shoulder, the one she wasn’t leaning on, in an apologetic half-shrug. “I think
you’re allowed to get weepy when our eldest moves out of the house.”

She paused and then asked with a somewhat watery smile, “If we’re this bad over her moving out,
can you imagine what sort of wrecks we’re going to be when she gets married?”

“A convent is beginning to sound like a brilliant idea to me,” he said, only half-jokingly.

Hermione laughed. “We’re not Catholic, Harry.”

“If it’ll keep Emily—and Sabrina—from meeting untrustworthy fellows, I’m willing to start
worshipping a god made out of spaghetti.” He sounded entirely serious.

She laughed, as she knew he intended for her to do, and shook her head, her smile fading
gradually as she thought about Emily’s old bedroom just below them, emptied now of all her
things.

There was a moment of silence before Hermione said, with an attempt at briskness, “She’s going
to be fine, you know. She’s a good girl, with a good head on her shoulders.”

“Well, she isn’t your daughter for nothing,” Harry responded, trying to match her matter-of-fact
tone and not quite managing it.

“She’s not *our* daughter for nothing,” Hermione corrected him. “And Ariel’s also a good
girl. She’s been Em’s friend since they started Hogwarts and is almost as sensible as our Em
is.”

“I know.”

Hermione suppressed a little smile. Harry’s acknowledgement of Ariel’s sense sounded almost
grudging. “What, is it her you don’t quite trust or is it Emily you’re worried about? Afraid she’s
suddenly going to start being reckless or throwing wild parties and getting drunk every night?”

Harry gave her a look. “This is Emily we’re talking about, who’s as close to perfect as humanly
possible. And I like Ariel. It’s not what they might do I’m worried about; it’s everyone else I
don’t trust,” Harry retorted. “Just a whole world of people out there who might want to take
advantage of my little girl or hurt her in some way.”

Hermione tightened her arm around his shoulders. “She’ll be okay. Really, she will. We’ve put up
all the defensive wards and charms we know around their flat; she’s been trained in Defense. And
you know she’s promised to have dinner with us every week.”

“I know but I like it better when she’s home with us,” Harry half-grumbled.

Hermione laughed. “You know she couldn’t live at home forever.”

“Maybe not but another year or two might have been nice.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Hermione sighed a little and touched a finger lightly to Emily’s
baby face in another picture. “She really did grow up so fast, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, she did.”

Harry turned his head to brush his lips against her temple and Hermione smiled a little, feeling
comforted, as always, by his presence, his touch.

And with the comfort, her usual sense reasserted itself, reminding her again of Emily’s good
sense. She did trust her daughter; Emily would be fine. And it wasn’t as if she would be far
away.

She lifted her head from his shoulder to brush her lips against his cheek and then his chin
until he turned his head so their lips could meet.

The kiss was soft, tender, their lips just brushing against each other, but then it deepened.
Harry lifted one hand to cup her cheek, shifting, so he could kiss her more fully, not
passionately—at least not just yet—but a leisurely exploration of the familiar depths of each
other’s mouths.

And as always, Hermione felt the familiar spark of heat in her body from his kiss. She never
tired of this, of his taste and his touch and his kiss. Even after nearly 25 years of marriage, she
still loved kissing him.

He shifted so he could lean into her more fully and she flinched a little as the lock of the
trunk she’d been leaning on dug into her spine.

He drew back immediately. “What?”

She gave him a rueful little smile. “The lock on the trunk was digging into my back. Let’s try
this instead,” she added, deliberately lowering her voice to a husky whisper. She turned and then
slid her arms around his neck before she lowered herself until she was lying flat on her back on
the attic floor, bringing him with her until he was lying on his side beside her, leaning over
her.

A slight smile curved his lips. “I do like the way you think,” he murmured just before he
lowered his head to resume their kisses, more heatedly this time, his tongue plunging into her
mouth to play with hers. Her small gasp was swallowed by his mouth as she tangled her fingers in
his hair to tug him closer.

His hand that had cupped her cheek slid lower, caressing her throat and her neck until he cupped
her breast and she arched into his familiar, still arousing touch. She could feel the heat and the
weight of his body against her as he shifted to lie more fully on top of her, one of his legs
fitting itself between hers.

His hand cupped and then squeezed her breast and she could feel her nipple hardening at his
touch. Even through the layers of her bra and jumper separating their skin, his touch could still
make her burn, heat building up inside her.

“Mum? Dad?”

The sound of Emily’s voice from downstairs had them breaking apart in an instant, breathing
hard, as Hermione quickly sat up and tried to straighten out her clothing and her hair while Harry
did the same. Hermione left the attic ahead of Harry as she could see with a glance he would need a
little more time to recover.

“Hi, Em,” she said as she hurried down the stairs, trying to seem entirely calm. “What is
it?”

But then Hermione knew she’d failed as her daughter took one look at her and blushed. “Mum! Tell
me I’m not interrupting anything.”

Hermione lifted her chin, assuming as dignified an expression as she could manage. She was not
going to—absolutely *refused*—to blush in front of her daughter for having been kissing her
own husband. Even if it was the middle of the afternoon. “Of course you’re not. Your dad and I were
just… going through some of the old things in the attic.”

Emily only rolled her eyes a little and opened her lips but before she could respond, Harry came
hurrying down the stairs, looking more composed.

“Hi, sweetie. Did you miss us already?”

“Hi, Dad. I realized that I’d forgotten to pack Mr. Happy so I came back to get him.”

Of course, Mr. Happy. Hermione hid her smile at the mention of Emily’s favorite childhood toy, a
stuffed bunny rabbit which Harry had bought her for her first birthday and which had been her
constant companion for the next two years or so. Everywhere Emily went, Mr. Happy had gone too,
clutched tightly in Emily’s little hands, until the day when Mr. Happy had been relegated to a
place on Emily’s bed during the day and then to the chair in her room and finally, packed away with
some other childhood toys.

“He’s in the attic, isn’t he?” Harry said.

“Yeah. I can find him,” Em said and vanished upstairs.

Harry finally looked over at Hermione. “I would have thought Em moving out would mean this sort
of thing would stop happening.”

Hermione let out a soft laugh. “Apparently not. But when she does leave, until Andy and Sabrina
come home for the summer, we’ll have the house to ourselves.”

Harry gave her an exaggerated leer. “What are you suggesting?”

Hermione threw him a laughing glance. “Behave. Em’s still here, you know.”

As if on cue, they heard Em’s voice from upstairs. “I found him!” And then a moment later, she
reappeared, holding Mr. Happy in her hand. (And, thanks to Hermione’s judicially-applied Charms
from when she’d packed Mr. Happy away, Mr. Happy still looked nearly new, not much older than when
he’d been Emily’s constant companion.)

Harry smiled at Emily and Hermione could see that he was, once again, trying to sound much less
emotional than he was. “That’s good. It’s a relief to know Mr. Happy will still be there to look
out for you.”

Emily’s smile softened. “Yeah, I know.”

She turned to Hermione. “Oh, Mum, I did put an Unbreakable Charm on all the dishes and
things.”

Hermione nodded. “Good. That will make your life much simpler.”

She hugged Emily goodbye, for the second time that day. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Yes, Mum, I will.”

Emily turned to Harry next as Harry wrapped his arms around Em in the sort of hug a man gives
the dearest creature the world holds for him, his eyes closing briefly, before he released her.
“And remember to give us a ring or Floo-call if you need anything, okay?” he reminded her for what
must have been at least the hundredth time in the past couple days.

“I know, Dad. Do you want me to give you a ring every day so you can know exactly what we ate
for breakfast every morning, too?” Emily said lightly.

Harry had the grace to laugh a little. “That won’t be necessary but ring us up every few days,
okay, Em?”

“Yeah, Dad, I will. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Harry sobered, lifting one hand to chuck her chin lightly with his finger in one of his habitual
gestures of affection. “I know you will be. My little girl’s all grown up now, aren’t you,
Emily-kin,” he said, using the pet-name which he hadn’t used since she’d turned 11.

Emily’s expression softened as she gave Harry another hug. “I’ll always be your little girl,
Daddy,” she said softly.

Harry wrapped his arms around his daughter, his little girl, and wished fleetingly that he would
never need to let her go, that he could keep her a little longer as his little girl, under his sole
protection and care. But then he drew back, kissing her forehead, and let her go.

He conjured up a smile as Em squeezed Hermione’s hand quickly and, with a quick “Bye, Mum, Dad.
I’ll see you guys next weekend,” she had left the house.

Harry moved to stand in the open doorway, watching as Emily walked down the front path. In his
mind’s eye, he could see the little girl she had been, see her in those days when she’d held onto
his hand wherever they went. And it was almost as if he could still feel a small child’s hand
clasping his so trustingly.

He felt Hermione move to stand beside him and a moment later, her hand slipped into his and he
gripped it firmly, finding comfort, as always, in her simple touch, in her presence.

He knew—rationally—that Emily wasn’t going far and he’d still see her often. She’d been much
further away and he’d gone much longer without seeing her when she was at Hogwarts—but that had
been different. Her home had still been here, with him and Hermione; she’d still been under his
care. Now, she was all grown up, an adult in her own right, and while she would always be his
little girl, it would never really be the same.

And he wished—oh, how he wished—he could have his baby back. As it was, he could only watch her
walk away and say a brief, fervent prayer to the Fates and all the Higher Powers, to take care of
her, to always keep her safe and happy. He never wanted anything like sadness or pain or fear or
danger to touch her, never wanted any darkness to shadow her life.

But that wasn’t up to him; he couldn’t protect her from the world or from life. He could only
let her go—and hope and pray she would be okay…

She’d reached the end of the block where the anti-Apparition wards around the house ended and
she turned back to wave her hand—he lifted his free hand in return—and then she was gone,
Apparating away, back to her new flat.

He sighed a little as he turned away, closing the front door. And then was immediately comforted
as Hermione stepped forward into his arms, her arms going around his waist. He brushed his lips
against her forehead and then her hair.

“She’s a good girl. We did a good job with her,” he finally said into her hair.

He sensed rather than saw Hermione’s slight smile. “One down, two to go…”

He laughed, tightening his arms around her for a moment, his mood lifting. “That’s one way of
putting it.”

Hermione laughed softly too and for a moment, they simply stood in silence.

Harry rested his cheek against Hermione’s hair, feeling tension drain away and enjoying the
peace of the moment. Quiet interludes like this one were rare occurrences, had been for years now,
and he appreciated them all the more when they happened. After all the emotions he’d been feeling
as he’d helped Emily with moving her things into her new flat, now, with Hermione, he felt calm
again. As always, she was the stable center of his life.

But with his new calm, the wants of his body reasserted themselves, the desire from earlier that
had been momentarily banked and pushed aside while saying goodbye to his daughter making itself
felt again. He was aware of the warmth from her body against him, aware of the familiar feeling of
desire at feeling her breasts against his chest.

“Well, now we’ve got the house to ourselves. What do you suppose we should do?”

“Hm, I’ve got the draft of that treatise to edit and I should work on my next article for St.
Mungo’s Journal.”

“Oh, is that all you have in mind?”

He sensed rather than saw her smile, loving how she caught the thread of amusement and desire in
his tone and reflected it back in her own voice. “I think I could be persuaded to do something
else…” Her voice lowered on the last two words, as she used what he mentally termed her “smoky”
voice, transforming the commonplace words into a seduction. And even after so many years, the sound
of her “smoky” voice sent a surge of heat through him, his body automatically responding.

He brushed her hair away from her ear, letting her feel his warm breath against her ear and felt
the slight shiver of her reaction. His lips grazed the top of her ear and then skated down her ear
lobe lightly before he pressed his lips to the sensitive skin just behind her ear and heard her
soft gasp.

“I’m persuaded,” she gasped softly and then turned her head to brush her lips against his neck
just above the collar of his shirt.

It was his turn to shiver in reaction, letting his lips graze her skin, her neck, where her jaw
met her neck, her chin, the corner of her lips, until she let out a soft sound that was half a
laugh and kissed him fully, her lips parting for his.

He slid his fingers into her hair, holding her head in place, as he forgot himself in her
kiss—as always. The taste of her, the feel of her, the way she kissed him with all the passion of
her nature, never failed to captivate him until he forgot where they were, what they’d been doing,
everything except for her.

She was the one to end the kiss, when they were both breathing hard, and he had to blink and
fight to regain some coherence as she said, her voice husky, “We shouldn’t do this here.”

It took him another second before he could think clearly enough to realize she was right. After
all, they were standing right before the front door and while he didn’t think Emily would be
interrupting them again, the front room was still not the place for this, not with its hardwood
floor and lack of furniture. “Our bedroom?”

A slight smile curved her lips as she shook her head slightly. “I’ve got a better idea.” She
began walking backwards, holding his hand and bringing him with her, into the family room.

“We’ve never had sex in this room, have we?” he asked, voicing his thoughts aloud.

“I think it’s time we changed that, don’t you?” The question was a rhetorical one as she
released him, her hands immediately going to the hem of her jumper.

She kept her eyes steadily on his as she undressed and he forgot to breathe, forgot to
blink—forgot how to move at all—as he watched her. There was nothing in the world as seductive as
the sight of Hermione undressing, not with any added motions to make it a more provocative
strip-tease—no, Hermione didn’t need to do anything like that. All she needed to do was pull her
jumper up and over her head in one smooth motion, the same un-self-conscious way she undressed in
their bedroom every night, and his breath strangled in his chest, his mouth going dry.

Her hands went to undo her trousers with the same naturalness but she lifted her eyebrows ever
so slightly as she looked at him and he belatedly realized that he was still standing there doing
nothing and was by now decidedly over-dressed. He stripped off his jumper with a haste that almost
ripped the wool, not wanting to miss so much as a second of Hermione undressing, and tore off his
trousers, boxers and his socks with equal haste.

He saw her gaze lower to fix on his arousal and saw the slight curve of her lips as she reached
behind to unclasp her bra and then bent to strip off her knickers. And in the split second, even
before she’d straightened up, he’d already decided this was the most brilliant idea ever.

The sight of her naked body always affected him, of course, but this—the way she looked at this
moment hit him with an almost stunning impact that left him breathless. He hadn’t thought about it
but he hadn’t seen Hermione naked in sunlight in he couldn’t remember how many years; with three
children in the house and how busy their lives had gotten, their love-making had been restricted to
the night in the privacy of their bedroom. He hadn’t stopped to consider it before, so full had
their lives been, but now, he realized it and realized, too, what a loss it had been. He was very
used to seeing Hermione by candlelight, by moonlight, by wand-light, but had never realized the
difference it would make seeing her by sunlight. Sunlight was so much brighter, harsher in some
ways, illuminating every inch of Hermione’s bare skin with almost-merciless clarity. Starkly
revealing her body—all the changes wrought by the years, yes, but all the beauty, the natural
sensuality, too.

Maybe it was the result of their having spent the better part of the last hour indulging in a
rare and uncharacteristic bout of nostalgia but whatever it was, it imbued the moment with a
curious solemnity. Made it seem like seeing each other naked like this was something momentous as
opposed to the relatively commonplace event it was.

He wanted to tell her some of his thoughts, wanted to tell her she was still the most beautiful
woman in the world, but he couldn’t find the words, every coherent thought having drained out of
his head. “God, Hermione,” he finally breathed in a husky whisper, “look at you.”

She no longer blushed that often around him but now, at his words, color bloomed and deepened on
her cheeks. “I’m not young anymore.”

He didn’t smile—hell, it felt as if the muscles of his face had forgotten how to smile,
everything in him seized up and focused so intensely on her. “You still look perfect to me.”

The softest of smiles just curved her lips as she reached for him and he flattened his body
against hers, loving the way her every curve fit against him so perfectly.

He kissed her, open-mouthed, his tongue almost bathing the insides of her mouth, rubbing against
her tongue, the kiss thorough and deep rather than impassioned.

There were times when their love-making was hard and fast, when they came together with a quick,
even fierce passion; this was not one of those times. Maybe it was something about the hour, the
late afternoon, a lazy time of day, the consciousness that they had the rest of the day if they
wanted it, that kept their kisses and caresses more sensuous than passionate. Harry didn’t stop to
try and analyze it, only felt it and felt her answering mood.

He took his time in caressing her, his hands exploring her familiar body thoroughly, lavishing
every inch of her skin with caresses until her skin felt almost hot enough to burn, until she was
trembling slightly against him, until her breath was coming shallow and fast. He cupped, shaped her
breasts with his hands, stroking his thumbs over her nipples until they were hard and erect. He
continued fondling her as she arched her back, pushing her breasts into his hands, her head falling
back on a gasp, and he let his lips follow along down the curve of her chin and neck, pausing to
lick every sensitive spot he knew of, before finally, finally closing his lips around one hard
nipple. He was vaguely aware of her crying out, not because he heard it so much as because he knew
she usually did cry out when he touched her like this, as he focused his attention on first one
nipple and then the other, circling his tongue around it and then letting his teeth graze it ever
so lightly.

He released her nipple and straightened up slowly but only so he could trace the curve of one
smooth bare shoulder with his lips.

He loved Hermione’s shoulders for some reason he could never identify. It may have been
something as simple as the fact that her skin was so perfectly smooth to the touch, may have been
something about the graceful curve of her shoulder that appealed to him so—when she gave him one of
her occasional glances over her shoulder, the curve of her neck and shoulder never failed to make
him catch his breath. Or it may have been something about the mixture of strength and vulnerability
in her shoulders—strength from the way she carried herself, the straightness of her posture in
spite of the years she’d spent lugging around her heavy book bag, but also vulnerability as well.
Hermione wasn’t very slight in her build, unlike some women, the ones that exuded an air of
delicate fragility that made it seem as if they would break at the smallest puff of wind, but
neither was she built along large lines. For all her strength and for all that he never consciously
associated Hermione with any weakness, she was naturally physically weaker and smaller than he was
and while he would never tell her so in words (he knew his Hermione too well to think she would
appreciate it), something about her bare shoulders appealed to his protective instincts as well,
made him want to shelter her, shield her from any harm. And, after all, maybe it was as simple as
the fact that he was the only person to see Hermione’s bare shoulders.

Not that any of this occurred to Harry at the time, preoccupied as he was with caressing her
shoulders and her neck with his hands and his lips.

But before he was nearly done paying homage to her shoulders, she moved and it was her turn to
return the favor, her hands starting on his shoulders and then beginning to slide down. Her hands
touched, explored him with the same mixture of slow sensuality and confidence as he’d used in
touching her. Her lips trailed kisses across his chest, pausing to flick her tongue delicately
against each flat male nipple making him groan. He felt her slight smile against his skin; it was
an amazingly erotic thing to feel the curve of her lips before she went on. She moved slowly around
him, her lips tracing a slightly damp line around his body, across his chest, his arm, his shoulder
blades. She paused and switched direction to run her tongue lightly down the groove of his spine
and he jerked slightly, moaning involuntarily. He’d never known before that his spine could be so
sensitive but it *was*—*God*, it was.

Her hands slid down to caress his butt deliberately—and he sensed the smile that curved her lips
as she did so. (She’d once jokingly told him that she’d married him for having the cutest arse in
Britain; he’d responded that they were even because he’d married her for having the most perfect
breasts in the world.) He couldn’t help but grin at the memory but then all thought of amusement
vanished as she moved back around to wrap her hand lightly around his arousal.

He thrust into her hand involuntarily and groaned her name, “Hermione”—but then, for once, he
grabbed her wrist and stopped her when she would have stroked him further. He was too close—his
body reacting to the touch of her hands and her lips as they always did.

“I’m not finished yet,” he told her huskily as his hands lightly held her hips and then slid
down to caress her thighs that quivered slightly and parted. He cupped the softest, most private
part of her body with one hand, pausing there for a moment as he felt her, heard her soft breath
that was almost a moan.

He lifted his eyes to her face as he slid first one finger inside her and then two, caressing
her ever more intimately, ever more deeply. He watched her as her head fell back, her eyes closing,
her lips parting as her breath came quick and fast, interspersed with moans with every movement of
his fingers. She was nearing her peak; he could see it in her face, could hear it in her quickened
breaths, could feel it in the tightening of her inner muscles around his fingers. Deliberately, he
rubbed his thumb over that most sensitive nub of flesh and that was enough; she convulsed around
his fingers, spasms of sheer bliss racking her body as she cried out his name.

And he watched her as she came. It never mattered how many times he saw her like this, the sight
still hit him in the chest with a force that took his breath away. He couldn’t describe the way she
looked in these moments—it was like the dawning of a new day, like the sun on freshly-fallen snow
until the world looked covered with diamonds, like a miracle, but more beautiful than all those
things. She was the most beautiful woman in the world and the most erotic sight he’d ever seen, in
her passion and her utter abandon.

He caught her as her knees gave way and carried her the few steps over to the couch. He watched
her still, brushing his lips tenderly over his forehead, until she blinked her eyes open and her
gaze managed to focus on him.

A small, satiated smile curved her lips. “Harry,” she sighed and then she slid her arms around
his neck and brought him down to her to kiss him.

His body nudged hers and she shifted her hips, arching up to meet him as he slid inside her with
one smooth thrust. She scattered haphazard kisses over his neck, his chin, his cheeks, before he
caught her lips with his and kissed her deeply as he began to move.

And now, after all the slow eroticism of their love-making so far, the passion overtook them and
he moved his hips faster as she arched up against him, her arms and legs wrapping around him,
encouraging him, meeting his every thrust with her own. He could both feel and hear her gasps for
breath against his ear. He felt her muscles begin to tighten around him again and just like that,
he was lost, exploding inside her with a groan, emptying himself of all he had so deeply he
couldn’t tell where he ended and she began but maybe there was no end and no beginning after all.
There was only him and her, his wife, his love, his Hermione.

He collapsed on top of her breathlessly, letting the glorious satiation slide through his veins,
positively drug him with pleasure. He loved the feel of her under him, around him, loved the
familiar fit of her body with his. But slowly, he mustered enough coherence to realize that he
would be crushing her and rolled over onto his side, keeping his body curled around hers, as he
closed his eyes.

It was some minutes—hours, perhaps?—before he returned to earth and opened his eyes to look at
her, savor the peace and the lazy fulfillment on her face. She was always so busy, his Hermione,
but at these moments, he knew, she let herself free, basked in the lack of thought, and only
enjoyed the closeness and the quiet bliss of the moment.

He sifted his fingers lightly through her hair, now sprinkled with gray—as was his—and studied
the faint trace of creases at the corners of her eyes and her lips, the beginning of a few wrinkles
that hadn’t been there just a few years ago. He could still see the familiar features of the girl
she’d once been but she wasn’t, as she’d said, young anymore and neither was he. But the tenderness
he felt in these moments was just as strong as ever, the passion he found in her, with her, just as
powerful as ever, the love he felt just as overwhelming—even more so—than ever.

And by now, he’d stopped expecting that to change, knew he would feel this tenderness, this
passion, this love forever.

“Harry?” She stirred and looked at him.

“Mm?” He met her eyes as she lifted his free hand to kiss his palm lightly.

“I was thinking, I don’t need to go into St. Mungo’s tomorrow, so…”

“So we can go up and visit Hogwarts,” he finished for her, guessing her thought with the ease
that came from years of knowing her.

She smiled a little at how he completed her sentence for her. “We could go watch Andy’s
Quidditch match.”

“You don’t think he’ll mind having us there?” Harry asked—something he would never have thought
to ask for either Emily or Sabrina but Andy was different. His son seemed to spend his time at
home, since he’d turned 15 at least, alternately sullen or angry, answering his questions
monosyllabically, at best, or downright rudely, at worst. And Harry felt a new species of empathy
for everyone who’d had to put up with him when he’d been 15, now that he’d had to deal with his son
at the same age. (Not that Andy was all that bad, as other teenage boys went. He wasn’t, was still
a little too well-trained by Hermione to raise his voice to either of his parents and he was still,
for the most part, patient with Sabrina although he and Em had been known to have brief flare-ups
when Emily decided to exert her older-sister authority.) At any rate, it was enough that Harry
thought to ask, since Andy seemed to have developed an allergy to being seen with his parents in
public places, an allergy that stemmed from the fact that Andy had always disliked the added
attention he got from being Harry Potter’s son and his only son at that. He knew part of it was
simply Andy rebelling against the pressure he felt from being Harry Potter’s Only Son and while he
understood it, he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of hurt that Andy seemed to blame *him* for
it, as if Harry himself didn’t hate his fame every bit as much as Andy did, if not more.

“It should be okay as long as we don’t make a big deal about being there to watch him play.”

“At least Sabrina hasn’t gotten to the age where she’s ashamed to be seen with us,” Harry said,
trying to sound unaffected. But he knew he failed when Hermione’s expression softened and she
reached up to run her fingers lightly through his hair as she brushed a kiss against his chin.

“Andy will come around; he won’t be a teenager forever.”

“Thank Merlin for that,” Harry said fervently. “How did you manage not to hex me during 5th
year?”

“Oh, you weren’t that bad.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Your memories of 5th year seem to be distinctly different from
mine.”

She smiled and amended her statement. “You weren’t that bad to *me*. You only blew up at me
once or twice that I recall.”

He grimaced a little. “I was still a colossal prat.”

“Well, yes,” she conceded with preternatural solemnity.

“Thanks a lot,” he huffed in mock offense.

She laughed softly and turned her head to kiss his shoulder and he smiled as he slid his arm
around her to bring her in yet more snugly against him.

He rested his cheek against her hair and for the moment, said nothing more. He was with Hermione
and at the moment, still feeling the lingering golden afterglow, he couldn’t feel that exercised
over Andy and his teenage behavior.

But then Hermione could always calm him down; he didn’t even know how she did it but somehow,
with a look, a word, a smile, a touch—or just her very presence—she could calm him. Fortunately for
him, as otherwise he knew there would have been many more arguments with Andy. Especially since
Hermione dealt with Andy these days better than he did, was more patient with him, and Andy
responded by not reacting as heatedly to Hermione’s occasional reprimands than to Harry’s.

Sabrina, at least, would be happy to see them, although Harry still found himself missing the
way Sabrina had used to greet him with something approaching a shriek of excitement and the way
Sabrina had used to almost leap into his arms when she saw him. His baby girl had grown up too much
for that and Harry knew another moment of wonder at the fact that his baby was now all of 13 and
officially a teenager. Really, he didn’t know when it had happened…

“Harry?”

“What?” He turned his head to look down at her.

“Do you feel old enough to have a kid moving out of the house?”

He wasn’t surprised to find that her thought echoed his almost exactly. He gave an exaggerated
grimace. “Did you have to remind me of that?” he pretended to grumble. “I was just beginning to
feel cheerful again.”

She laughed, as he’d known she would, and turned her head a little to rest it more snugly
against his shoulder. “Honestly, Harry.”

He couldn’t help but grin at her tone and her expression, the same half-indulgent,
half-reproving response which she’d always given him when she thought he was being silly or
thoughtless but couldn’t find it in herself to scold him, the way he remembered her looking at him
after he’d snuck into Hogsmeade in their 3rd year, the look and the tone he mentally labeled her
“I-love-you-anyway” look. At that moment, she could easily have been the girl he’d known for years,
long before he’d realized he was in love with her.

It was comforting. His kids might be growing up so quickly it was positively frightening but he
still had Hermione and while she too had changed in some ways, she was still, in spite of
everything, his Hermione.

“What’s so funny?” she asked him.

His grin widened a little, a bubble of laughter rising in his chest for no reason at all, as he
dropped a kiss on her nose. “Nothing. I just love you, is all.”

After so many years, she looked more suspicious than touched but then—perhaps, after all, she
could read some of this thoughts in his eyes-- her expression cleared. “I know you do.”

“Know-it-all,” he responded automatically, in what had become a very familiar exchange over the
years.

She only smiled and he kissed her.

And that, too, was the same—and always would be.

*~The End~*

*(of this vignette but not of this series)*



19. His Deepest Fear
--------------------

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR, etc. etc.

Author’s Note: This is the first vignette in this Portrait of a Marriage series that doesn’t
include smut, but no worries, I have every intention of continuing this series with more smut, once
my smut muses come out of hiding. This vignette has to be dedicated, with thanks, to ‘Castle’ for
the inspiration.

*Portrait of a Marriage*

**His Deepest Fear**

Harry slowed and then stopped at the tables, overflowing with books, that were outside of
Flourish & Blott’s. Hermione’s birthday was coming up in a few weeks and he hadn’t yet bought
her gift.

He looked down at Andy. “What do you think, Andy? Should we get Mummy a book for her
birthday?”

Andy blinked up at the books that were stacked higher than his head. “Mummy likes books a lot,”
he agreed.

Harry chuckled, making a mental note to tease Hermione later about how Andy, young as he was,
spoke of her love of books as if it were an immutable fact of life. “Yes, she does.”

He shifted closer to the table so he could shift the books around and browse a little.

He’d had some business to take care of in Gringotts and had brought Andy with him to give
Hermione something of a break. Emily had had a mild summer cold and, while she was mostly recovered
now, Emily was still feeling under the weather enough to make her rather irritable and fussy, quite
unlike her usual cheerful self. And this mood seemed to have translated itself to Sabrina as well,
who had also not been her usual, bubbly baby self. All things considered, their home had not been
the pleasantest of places lately, and Harry had been guiltily glad to have a reason to leave it
today. Andy had agreed eagerly to accompany Harry to Diagon Alley, since it was one of the coolest
places in the world in Andy’s young eyes (much as Harry had thought it on his first visit so many
years ago), and as an added inducement, Harry had promised that they would end with a visit to
Florean Fortescue’s for ice cream sundaes.

Harry’s business at Gringotts had been easily taken care of since the Gringotts goblins, no less
than the rest of wizarding London really, were always eager to help him. But Harry was, for once,
in no real rush to return home. It was a lovely afternoon, a perfect summer’s day really. So in
spite of the fact that generally Harry didn’t like to linger much in Diagon Alley because it was
one place where he was guaranteed to be stared at and pointed to and whispered about, today he
decided to make an exception to that. And anyway, aside from all else, giving Hermione an afternoon
of one less kid to worry about was the least he could do.

Harry moved a pile of books to the side to peek at the title of the large volume underneath it
and then smiled. It was an old edition of a classic treatise and would make a nice gift for
Hermione. Carefully, he pulled the book out and then turned to show it to Andy.

“Here, Andy, what do you think of--” He broke off. “Andy?” Andy was no longer by his side.

Harry felt a mild shock, as from a burst of electricity, run through him, his senses abruptly
alert. “Andy?” He dropped the now-forgotten book on the table as he looked around. “Andy, where are
you?”

There was no sign of him.

Harry stepped away from the table, bending to glance underneath it, to make sure Andy hadn’t
crawled under it. Nothing.

His breath was coming quicker as he stepped quickly into Flourish & Blott’s, thinking Andy
might have headed inside. He moved hurriedly towards the back where the section for young children
was; he and Hermione had bought some books for Emily there not too long ago so Andy would know of
it.

No Andy.

*Oh my God.*

Harry felt his pulse speed up, his breath beginning to come fast, as he quickly glanced down all
the aisles of Flourish & Blott’s, silently cursing the fact that the store had so many angles
and corners. Andy was nowhere to be seen.

Harry almost ran out of it, feeling panic beginning to pick at the corners of his brain, his
thoughts beginning to whirl. *My God, my God, my God… Andy…*

He and Hermione had always *told* Andy not to wander off, but Harry had been a parent long
enough to know that such instructions tended to slip out of children’s minds.

Andy was so young, such a little boy still. Where could he have gone—they had told him not to
wander off alone before—he’d only turned away for a couple minutes—*oh God.*

He glanced frantically up and down Diagon Alley, hoping to see one familiar black head somewhere
in the crowd. It would have been hard enough to find an adult in the shifting mass of people moving
through Diagon Alley; finding one little boy in the crowd was even harder.

He was peripherally aware that he was drawing attention to himself, more than usual, because of
his behavior, but didn’t care.

Wait. Maybe Andy had gone ahead to Florean Fortescue’s—if he had, Harry was going to strangle
the boy, after he’d hugged him tight enough to squeeze the breath from his lungs—but Harry ran
towards Florean’s, almost skidding to a halt just inside it. “Andy?”

Andy was nowhere in sight.

If Andy had gotten bored—Harry belatedly remembered Quality Quidditch Supplies with a flare of
incipient relief. Andy had already shown signs of developing an interest in Quidditch and it was
almost right next to Flourish & Blott’s. It would not be surprising if Andy had wandered over
to look at the Quidditch merchandise.

Andy wasn’t outside of the store, looking into the windows, so Harry ran inside it, glancing
frantically around. “Andy? Andy, where are you?”

Nothing.

By the time Harry left the store, he had left worry far behind him and was rapidly entering
panic, worse than anything Harry had ever felt in his life. His breath was coming fast and, as he
jerked to a stop outside Quality Quidditch Supplies, he was briefly dizzy as he looked around.

*Oh my God. His son, his baby boy, was gone!*

He’d been trying and trying not to think about it but now, the thought couldn’t be avoided any
longer, almost stopping his heart with a species of black dread and terror beyond anything he’d
ever felt—and if there was one thing Harry knew of, it was about fear. Had it happened? His worst
nightmare. A public place. The entrance to Knockturn Alley wasn’t far. Everyone knew he had a son.
Harry Potter’s only son—it would be any Dark wizard’s dream to have such leverage over Harry
Potter. They could literally ask for the world as ransom and Harry would give it to them—he knew
that in one stark moment. For Andy—for any of his children—he would do anything, would go against
everything else he held dear, break every law, trample on every principle he’d spent his entire
life defending.

“Andy!” The name was a gasp, a strangled cry.

For one instant, Harry thought he might actually pass out—but he *could not* fall apart.
For Andy—and, oh God, *Hermione*. How was he going to tell Hermione?

He realized his legs were beginning to tremble slightly from the force of his emotion as he
stood there, looking frantically around. He caught people staring and then realized in a flash of
desperate hope what that meant. People were always watching him, even staring at him. Surely,
someone would have seen, noticed, if Andy had wandered off somewhere or been taken. For the first
time ever, he could find it in him to be thankful for his celebrity.

“Has anyone seen my son?” he asked, raising his voice slightly. But he didn’t shout—at least,
not yet. Just in case, he didn’t want anyone who might be in Knockturn Alley to know his son was
lost.

More people started looking around, beginning to take the initiative, and then he heard someone
speak up. “I- I think I saw him go over there.” Harry turned to stare at the woman, and then
pivoted to look where she was pointing, across Diagon Alley towards… Eeylops Owl Emporium.

Harry didn’t bother to thank the woman, only sprinted across to Eeylops and burst inside it.
“Andy?”

And then his legs almost gave way as his son looked up from where he was standing, peering into
the cages. “Oh, hi, Daddy. Did you find a book for Mummy?”

He couldn’t speak. Hell, he couldn’t move. Relief—love—anger—burgeoning guilt-- so much emotion
buffeted him, it was a wonder he stayed on his feet and, for a moment, he couldn’t even decide
which emotion was the most prominent.

Andy was safe. Safe and blithely unconscious of the worry he’d caused.

“Daddy?”

Andy was looking up at him questioningly and Harry finally managed to move, a little shakily,
over to his son, before almost falling to his knees in front of him so he could haul Andy into his
arms, clutching his son’s precious body to him. He buried his face in Andy’s neck, one hand cupping
his son’s head, savoring the familiar warmth and the sturdiness of the little boy’s frame. “Andy,”
was all he could say. “Andy…” The one word was the most heartfelt prayer of his life.

Predictably, Andy squirmed to get away after only a few seconds. “Lemme go, Daddy. I want to
look at more owls.”

Harry let Andy go but only so he could grasp Andy’s shoulders firmly. “Andy, look at me.”

Andy did, innocent curiosity written plainly on his face. “Yes, Daddy?”

“What have Mummy and I told you about going places alone?”

“Oh.” Andy’s face sobered briefly, until he looked sheepish. “I forgot. Sorry, Daddy.”

“Don’t *ever* go off by yourself again.”

Andy scuffed one trainer on the ground. “I only wanted to look at the owls.”

Harry’s tenuous hold on his temper snapped—after all the gut-wrenching fear and concern he’d
felt!-- and he stood, before he bent again to pick Andy up. “Come on, Andy, we’re going home.”

Andy balked. “But, Daddy, you said we’d get ice cream!”

“Not today,” he bit out, and walked out of the store, holding Andy firmly enough in his arms
that Andy couldn’t wiggle out.

He was angry, yes, but he was not going to make more of a spectacle of himself than he already
had and, angry or not, he was not about to scold Andy in such a public place. And, entirely aside
from that, after the scare he'd had, he wasn't going to breathe easily until Andy was safe
and sound in their home.

How, he wasn’t sure, but he retained enough presence of mind to remember the woman who had
directed him to Eeylops.

She gave him a tentative smile. “Oh, you found your son. I am glad.”

He nodded, just once, and then managed to say, “Thank you.” He paused and then opened his mouth.
“I--” his throat closed, his mind blanking on anything he could say to this stranger, and finally
just said, again, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Potter.”

He nodded again and then turned, knowing he was being abrupt but unable to help it. He still
felt a little shaky, as if he was being held together by bits of string, the fear he’d felt too
strong to recover from quickly and not helped by his anger.

He tightened his arms around Andy, almost savoring the strain on his arms from his son’s weight.
Andy had grown heavy enough that he wasn’t carried around often but after what had just happened,
he never wanted to let his son go again.

“I want ice cream, Daddy.”

“No.”

Andy squirmed and twisted a little. “Daddyyy,” his voice edging perilously close to a whine.

Harry only tightened his arms around Andy. “That’s enough, Andy.” He spoke sharply, enough that
Andy said not a word more and promptly stopped his squirming.

Harry didn’t put Andy down until they had left Diagon Alley and were out of the Leaky Cauldron
and some ways down Charing Cross Road and even then, he kept a firm grip on Andy’s hand.

His heart pinched slightly at the expression on Andy’s face but he ignored it and silence
reigned between them, brittle and tense on his part and rather sullen on Andy’s, all the way
home.

Hermione was just coming out of her office when they walked in the front door and she looked up
with some surprise. “Oh, you’re home earlier than I-- what is it? What happened? Harry?”

He couldn’t explain it but just the sight of Hermione, the slight frown of concern shadowing her
face, hit him in the chest until he felt rather like an anvil had been dropped on it. It was the
first thing that had broken through his anger and, for a moment, all he wanted was to go up to her,
to feel her arms around him.

But the feel of Andy’s hand in his snapped him back to the present.

“Later,” he told Hermione briefly, before turning his attention to Andy. “Upstairs, to your
room,” he ordered, finally releasing Andy’s hand although doing so took some effort.

Andy went.

“Harry.”

There was just a hint of a question in Hermione’s tone but he couldn’t trust himself to answer
it now without breaking down or- or something—and he needed to deal with Andy first. He only
touched her shoulder fleetingly with his hand before he went upstairs, knowing that Hermione was
watching him go.

Andy hadn’t closed his door and when Harry walked into the room, it was to find Andy sitting on
his bed, looking distinctly mutinous.

Harry closed the door behind him softly.

“Andy.”

As if the sound of his name had been a cue, Andy abruptly flared, “I wanted to get ice cream! I
only went to look at the owls! I was going to come back!”

The memory of what he’d gone through in those minutes when he’d been searching for Andy—the
sheer agony of it, the soul-crushing dread-- flashed through his mind and any chance he’d had of
not scolding his son vanished.

“Andy, that’s enough! You *know* you’re not supposed to go places alone and especially not
somewhere like Diagon Alley! You don’t go *anywhere* alone, do you hear me? Never *ever*
do that again!” Harry’s voice rose progressively until he ended on a shout.

Andy visibly shrank, his shoulders hunching slightly, and Harry forcibly lowered his voice. “You
scared me, Andy. You know that? I was very scared when I thought I’d lost you.”

Andy’s lip trembled and then quivered and then tears welled up, effectively dousing Harry’s
anger.

His anger had only been an outgrowth of his fear and, as always, he couldn’t stay angry in the
face of tears. Harry softened, crossing the room swiftly to perch on the edge of Andy’s little bed.
Andy almost threw himself at Harry, his small hands clutching Harry’s shirt, as he buried his face
in Harry’s chest.

“I’m sorry, Daddy! I just forgot and I—I didn’t mean to be bad, Daddy.”

Harry sighed, tightening his arms around Andy and pulling him into his lap. “I know, Andy. It’s
okay. It’s okay,” he murmured, knowing one of those moments of feeling like he was floundering,
lost in new, uncharted territory without a map. He hated knowing he’d made Andy cry, hated Andy’s
tears, but at the same time, Andy needed to be punished in some way for wandering off alone, didn’t
he? Andy needed to be made to understand that wandering off alone could have consequences beyond
just scaring him—but he didn’t want to scare Andy either. And he certainly did not want to talk
about Dark magic or Dark wizards with Andy at this age. He and Hermione had always known they would
need to tell their children about it sometime, but they’d wanted to wait until they were older. And
so far, with Emily, the simple instruction had worked. But then Emily was a different type of child
than Andy. It was the most predictable thing in the world that Andy would have gotten fidgety and
then wandered off; Andy was, Harry was aware, rather easily distracted. Just telling Andy not to
wander off wouldn’t work. Not with Andy.

Harry sighed again, moving a soothing hand down Andy’s back. “I was just scared, Andy. I’m sorry
I shouted.”

It was a few minutes before Andy shifted away, scooting out of Harry’s lap, sniffling a little
as he did so. “Why were you scared, Daddy?”

Harry met Andy’s eyes, resting his hands lightly on Andy’s shoulders. He was, suddenly,
terrifyingly, aware of just how very frail Andy’s shoulders were. He was such a little boy still. A
healthy little boy, yes, but his little frame was, well, little. It was not hard to imagine that
any grown adult of reasonable strength could hurt Andy, even as his mind, his very soul, shuddered
away from the thought.

“I was scared because I thought I’d lost you.” He paused. Now was the time to explain about the
potential danger, but he didn’t have the slightest idea what to say, how to tell his son about the
evil in the world, how to somehow explain something he himself had never really understood. He
looked at his son, met the clear, brown eyes—saw the *innocence* in them, and he knew he
couldn’t possibly explain about Dark magic now. He couldn’t bear to have Andy lose that precious
innocence—not yet. Andy was still so young, too young to have to know about the evil in the
world.

“It’s just… bad things can happen to little kids when they’re alone,” he finally temporized.

“Bad things?” Andy’s eyes were wide.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Kids get hurt when they’re alone. I thought *you* might have been hurt
and that scared me. Can you understand that, Andy?”

Andy nodded solemnly.

“Promise me you won’t go anywhere alone again?”

Andy nodded again. “I promise, Daddy. I won’t forget.”

“Good.” He couldn’t quite manage a smile, only kissed Andy’s forehead.

“Daddy?”

“What?”

“Can we have ice cream next time we go to Di’gon?”

He let out a small laugh that felt decidedly foreign in his current state. “Yes, we can have ice
cream next time,” he promised.

“Okay, good.”

And Harry realized, with a spurt of relief, that things were fine now. Andy was fine and—he
hoped—would not wander off again so lightly.

As for himself, well, he was not himself, had yet to recover from the ordeal of the afternoon.
He still felt brittle, his insides still trembling. Knew it would be some time before he could
recover. It had been too much, had brought him face to face with his worst, deepest fear.

He hugged Andy again before he stood up, pushing himself to his feet. “Let’s go see Mummy and
the baby, okay, Andy?”

Andy nodded, scrambling off his bed, before he gave Harry a somewhat tentative smile. “You’re
not mad at me anymore, are you, Daddy?”

Harry’s heart squeezed and he bent to pick Andy up again. “No, I’m not mad, Andy.”

“Okay.” Andy settled himself comfortably against Harry’s shoulder, one thin arm going around
Harry’s neck.

And that was how they left the room.

They found Hermione bending over Sabrina’s cradle and she straightened up as they walked in, her
eyes scanning both their faces swiftly.

He lowered Andy to the ground, letting Andy run up to peer into the cradle.

“Is everything okay?” Hermione asked quietly.

Harry nodded, keeping his eyes on Andy and Sabrina. “Everything’s fine.” He wrapped one arm
around Hermione in a brief half-hug. “I’ll tell you what happened later,” he promised.

He was aware that Hermione was studying him, a slight frown in her eyes, knew she would sense
his tension. But he also knew that she would accept his assurance now and wait until tonight, when
he hoped he would be able to talk about the afternoon’s ordeal without breaking down. He loved that
about her, that she knew him well enough to know when to press him and when to just wait.

And wait she did, although he noted the way she kept glancing at him for the rest of that day.
He was tense and jittery, and he knew he was acting oddly with his utter reluctance to let Andy out
of his sight. (Andy, thankfully, was blithely unconscious of any of this, and seemed his usual
self, pestering Emily and playing with Sabrina—although, admittedly, “playing with” usually meant
hanging around Sabrina and treating her as if she were some sort of exotic and fragile toy.)

He made a point of tucking Andy into bed that night, arranging the blankets snugly around Andy
with as much care as if Andy’s life depended on the coziness of his bed, and then lingered long
after Andy had fallen asleep. He reached out a careful hand to brush a lock of hair away from
Andy’s face with a touch as light and soft as a feather. He would have bent to kiss Andy’s forehead
again except he didn’t want to wake Andy up and Andy was the lightest sleeper among his
children.

His son, his baby boy. Looking very small and very vulnerable indeed as he slept. God, if
anything ever happened to any of his children… He shuddered.

It was a sign of just how preoccupied he was that he didn’t realize Hermione had entered the
room and started a little as she put her hand on his shoulder.

“Come to bed, Harry,” she said softly, her voice barely louder than a breath, so as not to
disturb Andy.

“Yeah,” he agreed equally quietly and then followed her out of the room, pulling Andy’s door
until it was just ajar but not quite closed.

“What happened today, Harry?” Hermione asked as she slid into bed beside him a little while
later, after they had both changed into their pyjamas and washed up for bed.

He let out a shuddering breath that was almost a sigh. “Andy and I were just wandering through
Diagon Alley since it was such a nice day out. I stopped to look at some of the books on display
outside of Flourish & Blott’s; I must have turned away for maybe a couple minutes. When I
turned back to Andy, he was gone.”

“Oh…” The word was just a sigh of understanding.

Hermione slipped her arm around him and he automatically shifted closer to her as he continued,
his voice slightly shaky as he remembered how he’d felt in those endless minutes.

“I- I couldn’t find him. I checked inside Flourish & Blott’s and then went to Florean’s and
then to Quality Quidditch Supplies, and he wasn’t *anywhere*. I thought—I thought someone
might have… might have… taken him…”

Hermione tightened her arm around him. “Where was he?”

“Some woman said she thought she’d seen him go into Eeylops; that was where he was. He was—he
was looking at the owls. And when I found him, he was so… normal… he didn’t even think he might
have done something wrong in wandering off. I just… God, Hermione, the scare he gave me and he
didn’t even know, didn’t even realize…”

“Did you tell him why he shouldn’t wander off?”

“I told him… I told him that bad things can happen to little kids when they’re alone. I- I just
*couldn’t* try to explain to him about Dark magic…”

“No, you’re right. He’s too young for that; he wouldn’t understand. We’ll have to tell the kids
about it, but not yet. We’ll tell them together, when the time comes.”

He nodded against her head, kissing her hair, as he tightened his arm around her, bringing her
in closer to him, letting the solid, familiar warmth of her soothe his abraded spirit.

And he didn’t understand why—when nothing had really happened and all his kids were safely
asleep in their beds—but somehow, to his horror, he found tears welling up in his eyes and then he
was crying and couldn’t seem to stop. Maybe it was just the delayed reaction from his panic that
afternoon, all the emotion he’d been holding inside until now, but now, with Hermione, he couldn’t
hold it in any longer. Whatever the reason, he just crumpled—knowing, with her, he *could*
fall apart and trust that that she was there to catch him.

“Harry…”

He buried his face against Hermione’s shoulder as she wrapped her arms around him, running her
fingers lightly through his hair almost as she did to soothe their own kids.

“I- I was *so scared*,” he choked out. “I thought… it was my fault—if anything had happened
to him… I should’ve been more alert…”

Hermione tightened her arms around him and he clutched her as if she was a life-saver and he was
drowning. She was, as always, his rock. With her strength, her steadfastness. He didn’t know how
she did it, but he loved that about her, that in these times when he wasn’t strong enough on his
own, she felt like the only thing keeping him standing.

The storm passed quickly—he very rarely cried but when he did, it was never for long—and when it
was over, he let out a shuddering breath, not moving from his position leaning against Hermione. He
was suddenly exhausted from the flood of emotion, but for the first time since he’d looked down to
find Andy gone, he also felt calm again.

He felt Hermione drop a kiss on his hair and he closed his eyes briefly at the tender touch. And
after a minute, he shifted, still keeping his arm around Hermione, as they settled easily into
their usual positions, with Hermione’s head on his shoulder. He reached up to lace his fingers
through hers, resting their joined hands on his chest.

He sighed and then said, quietly, “It’s my worst nightmare, something happening to any of the
kids because of who I am.”

Her fingers tensed slightly, her grip tightening on his hand for a moment. “I know,” was all she
said.

Which rather surprised him—and yet, he supposed it shouldn’t have. Of course she knew.

He had never put it into words before, never said anything to her. He’d had other fears before
his kids were born—fears about what kind of father he would be since he’d grown up without a real
father; fears that something would happen to him and would leave his kids to grow up not knowing
him as he had never known James; fears that he would become a parent like his Aunt and Uncle had
been, who indulged their children until they grew up to be veritable monsters… He and Hermione had
talked about his fears—and hers—but in all their talks, he had never mentioned his fear that
someone would target his children because of who he was. It was the one thing lurking in the
deepest corner of his mind, unacknowledged, too terrifying to even be put into words. As if never
putting it into words would make it somehow impossible. As if never putting it into words would
guarantee that he would never need to face its existence.

Today, he’d faced his worst nightmare and the secret was out. And he had to face it now.

“When I thought Andy was lost, that he might have been taken… it was the worst moment of my
life.”

He knew she felt the slight shudder that racked him at the memory, heard it in his voice.

“Don’t, Harry. You don’t have to torture yourself over this. Nothing happened and Andy’s
fine.”

He let out his breath. “I know. I keep telling myself that, but I just… Nothing happened
*today*, but that doesn’t mean that nothing ever will happen…”

It was her turn to shudder; he felt the slight tremor go through her. “I know,” she murmured.
And then, after a moment, so softly he almost couldn’t hear it and—if it had been anyone else but
Hermione—would have assumed it wasn’t meant to be heard, she added, “It’s my worst fear too.”

He twisted his head to look at her, his heart clenching. “It is?”

She turned her head to meet his eyes, the corners of her lips lifting into an expression that
was a ghost of a somber smile. “Did you think it wouldn’t be?”

Put like that… But it wasn’t that he had thought she *wouldn’t* fear it, but that he’d
deliberately avoided wondering if she feared it too, just as he had refused to acknowledge his own
fear.

He brushed his lips against her forehead. “I don’t know,” he said, and wasn’t even sure exactly
what he meant. With anyone else, he wouldn’t have said such a lame thing, but this was Hermione and
he never censored himself with her, never needed to censor himself.

Hermione resettled her head snugly against his shoulder. “We’ve done everything we can do to
keep the kids safe. You know that. There’s nothing more that we can do except take precautions.
We’ll explain to them why they need to be more careful when they’re older, old enough to
understand. And Andy promised he wouldn’t wander off alone anymore?”

“Yeah, he did. I just hope he remembers his promise the next time he starts feeling
restless.”

“We’ll keep reminding him, Harry. What else can we do?”

Her matter-of-fact tone was oddly comforting, her calm logic the perfect foil to his irrational
emotion. And, after all, he could not argue because she was right. As always.

They had done everything they could, making their house generally Unplottable, not being
connected to the Floo network, to say nothing of all the defensive wards and protective spells
around the house. They had turned their house into what was probably the most well-protected
residence in England, arguably even safer in some ways than Hogwarts.

She was right. And that thought, too, had a comfort of its own. Because he trusted her, more
even than he trusted himself in some ways.

And so for the first time since that afternoon, he felt himself relaxing, as he tightened his
arms around her. “What would I do without you?”

It was a rhetorical question, really, one that had become almost a catch-phrase between them.
And normally, her answer was lightly teasing, wry.

But today—today was different. The question felt different, somehow.

“I don’t know,” she finally said quietly, “just as I don’t know what I would do without
you.”

It was the sort of thing she didn’t often say, since Hermione was not, and never had been,
particularly given to sentimentality.

Harry didn’t say anything more, partly because he couldn’t think of anything to say but also
because there was no need to say anything. He only turned his head to brush a kiss against
Hermione’s temple.

He turned off the lights in their room with one wave of his hand.

And then he closed his eyes, letting himself drift into sleep with his cheek resting against her
hair.

*~The End~*



20. A Lesson Remembered, A Lesson Learned
-----------------------------------------

Disclaimer: See ‘All He Ever Wanted’.

Author’s Note: Yet another smut-less vignette in this series—sorry! Just the result of finals
being on my mind and from thinking that so far, this series has been rather Emily-centric, and I’d
hate for Andy and Sabrina to feel left out!

Also, apologies for the error in uploading this last time!

**Portrait of a Marriage**

*A Lesson Remembered, a Lesson Learned*

Harry heard the front door open and Hermione’s voice. “I’m home.”


He mentally tracked her movements, with half his mind, knowing her routine as well as he did after
so many years, the way she shook out her summer cloak before hanging it up on its usual hook, the
place on the floor in her study where she put down her bag, her quick stop to glance through the
stack of owls and other mail they’d received that day.


And as always, he knew the moment she appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, sensed it as he
turned to give her a quick smile. “You’re home early today.” Hermione had worked late every day
this week, not arriving home until he and Sabrina had already started eating dinner, at the
earliest, and once, not coming home until long after dinner was over and Sabrina had finished
washing the dishes.


“We had a long staff meeting this afternoon and afterwards, I was just too tired so I decided to
come home and finish up any work I needed to do from here,” Hermione explained.


He set their dinner to be finished with a few quick flicks of his wand, although he usually cooked
without the use of magic, just out of habit after his early years and he tended to find it
soothing, somehow. But Hermione’s admission of being tired had him snapping his head around to
study her face as she poured herself a glass of water. And in a minute, he had washed and dried his
hands and come over to slip his arms around her.


Hermione relaxed against him with a soft sigh as he pressed a kiss to her hair. He didn’t say
anything for the moment; he could tell by Hermione’s expression when she just wanted to be held for
a little while and he knew-- partly because she’d told him and, more than that, because he felt the
exact same way-- that just being together like this was all she needed to recharge her energy.
Still. By now, it had even ceased to surprise him that she felt the same way as he did, that he
could give her the same strength she had always given him. By now, he’d stopped wondering if that
would ever change, knew it wouldn’t. But for all that, it was still amazing to him, still made him
want to take a mental step back and double-check-- that this was really his life, that Hermione
really did love him and need him just as much as he did her.


And in the back of his mind, the part of his mind that always sounded like her, he could almost
hear her say in the tone she used when she was trying to sound scolding and not succeeding,
“Really, Harry, after more than 20 years of marriage, you shouldn’t be so easily amazed.”


He gave an inward smile and kissed her hair again.


She finally stirred, stepping back just enough to look at him. “I needed that. It’s been a long
week.”


“For you, it has been. You should take the weekend off,” he suggested mildly.


She shook her head slightly as she moved to sit down at the table. “No, there’s too much I have to
do. I think I will just work a half-day on Saturday, though, and I’ll just work from here on
Sunday.”


“Actually, I was thinking we should do something on Sunday, all of us go out somewhere. Em and Andy
should be free.”


“Any special reason or do you just feel like it?” Her tone was indulgent.


“Nothing in particular, except Sabrina’s O.W.L. results just arrived this afternoon, so I thought
we should do something to celebrate.”


She straightened. “Oh, they came? Somehow, I didn’t think they’d arrive ‘til next week. How did she
do?”


“She--” Harry paused. “You know, I don’t know. They only came a little while ago and she
disappeared up into her room with them and I haven’t seen her since.”


“Hm.” A slight frown creased Hermione’s forehead for a moment. “That doesn’t sound like her.”


“No,” he agreed. “Now that you mention it, it is unlike her.”


“She told us she’d thought she’d done well, when she came home,” Hermione remembered.


“I know. So I just assumed when they arrived...” Harry paused, realizing now that it really was
unlike Sabrina not to have announced her O.W.L. results immediately. Sabrina, of all his children,
was the most high-spirited and the least given to melancholy or bad temper. When she received good
news, Sabrina could always be relied upon to shout it from the roof-tops, figuratively
speaking.


He’d once wondered aloud to Hermione where Sabrina had gotten that seemingly-boundless inner cheer,
and Hermione had surprised him by saying, “From you.” He had stared and she’d added, her tone
gentle, “I meant, she got it from your father. We know James had a streak of mischief and humor a
mile wide; it’s why he and Sirius were such good friends. And we know one of the reasons it took
your mum so long to come around was because she thought he took nothing seriously.”


As usual, the mention of his parents had made him thoughtful. “But I’m not like that at all,” he’d
finally said.


And then, Hermione had come to sit beside him, putting her hand on his knee. “No,” she’d agreed,
her voice quiet. “But remember, Harry, that you grew up differently from your father. I think,” she
hesitated and then finished, gently, “I think Sabrina takes after James and is, in her way, what
you would have been like, if you’d been raised in a happy family.”


He hadn’t been able to say anything in response to that insight, had only been able to hug her
wordlessly. But he’d never forgotten her words and, he’d realized soon after, that she’d given him
an unexpected gift, because it had added a new dimension to his joy in watching and listening to
Sabrina. In observing his youngest daughter, he’d felt oddly as if he was getting to know James
better too-- and, for the boy who’d spent almost his entire life wishing he could know what his
parents were like, that insight into his father’s personality had been incredibly precious.

“Of course, she may have just gotten distracted by something else,” Hermione reasoned. Which was
also entirely possible. Sabrina did not have Emily’s ability to focus all her attention on any one
thing for hours on end.

“Well, I’ll just go up and find out how she did,” Harry suggested. “But what do you say to our
going out on Sunday? Can you spare the day?”

“Yes, let’s. It’ll do me good to take a break anyway,” Hermione agreed, with a readiness she
would never have shown towards taking an unscheduled day off from work years ago. But as she was
well aware, if there was one thing Harry—and Ron—and her children too had taught her over the
years, it was the truth in the old saying that all work and no play made for a very dull life.

Harry gave her a smile, giving her shoulder a fleeting pressure as he left the dining area to go
upstairs.

Sabrina’s door was closed, which was the first sign that something was not quite right. Sabrina
usually kept her door open during the day.

“Sabrina?” He knocked briefly on the door. “Rina, love, can I come in?”

There was no answer but after a moment, the door was opened, although Sabrina herself retreated
from it almost immediately, going to sit on her bed.

“Mum’s home,” Harry began. “We were thinking that we could all go somewhere on Sunday, with Em
and Andy too, to celebrate your O.W.L. results.”

If he’d expected Sabrina to smile and agree immediately—and he had—he was disappointed. An
indefinable but undoubtedly sober expression quivered across her otherwise
uncharacteristically-still features. “There’s nothing to celebrate,” she finally said, sounding
more dispirited than he could ever remember before.

Oh dear. “Rina, can I see your O.W.L. results?” he asked gently, mentally preparing to see a row
of T’s.

She hesitated and then almost flung a piece of parchment at him, that had been a little bit
crumpled, and which he unfolded, smoothing it out.

He glanced over the results quickly.

His mind suddenly flashed back to the time five years ago when one of the less-reputable
newspapers had had the gall to print Emily’s O.W.L. results. Which would have been quite bad
enough, as he and Hermione had always made it very clear that news coverage about the children was
strictly forbidden. (He had given up on trying to enforce such a rule for himself and Hermione.)
Except the newspaper had, since Emily’s results had been nothing scandalous as Emily had
(predictably) received all O’s, except for one E in Ancient Runes, decided to take the angle of
accusing the O.W.L. graders of being biased, not-quite-subtly insinuating that Emily had not
deserved the scores she received but had only received them out of favoritism. For once, he had
actually been the calmer one between him and Hermione, as Hermione had been outraged, the
implication that Emily might not have earned her grades fairly offending Hermione on a personal,
visceral level. McGonagall had been only too willing to defend both Emily and the fairness of her
grades, while he had—for almost the first time—taken full advantage of his status and his power in
the wizarding world to ensure that the people responsible for the article were made to feel very
sorry indeed for having violated the blanket prohibition on covering Harry Potter’s children.

Sabrina’s results were not bad. Naturally. He highly doubted any child of Hermione’s
*could* do very poorly on the O.W.L.’s, but when compared to Emily’s and Andy’s results, they
did not measure up particularly well. There was only one O, in Astronomy, and the rest was a
smattering of E’s, with A’s in Care of Magical Creatures, Potions, and History of Magic. It was,
Harry realized suddenly, the first A any of his children had received. (Andy’s O.W.L. results had
been about evenly divided between O’s and E’s.)

He looked back up at Sabrina but before he could say anything, she burst out, “I’m sorry, Dad.
Are you very disappointed in me?”

“Disappointed? No, sweetie,” he answered immediately, moving to sit on the edge of her bed.

Her expression didn’t brighten; she only sniffed a little and he was horrified to hear the
slight quaver in her voice, so unusual for her, “I tried, Dad, I really did but I guess I’m just
the stupid one of the family.”

“You are *not* stupid! Don’t *ever* call yourself that again, Sabrina,” he scolded
forcefully, his voice loud and a little harsh in his dismay.

“It’s true. I’m not clever like Em and Andy; I’m not a Prefect like they were, and I’m not even
good enough at Quidditch to be on the team.” She sniffed, her voice wavering again. “I’m not good
at anything.”

His heart hurt with an almost physical pain at this uncharacteristic display of vulnerability in
Sabrina—that Sabrina, who was always so at-ease with herself that she had the gift of making others
feel more comfortable too, should feel lacking in any way just made his chest ache.

“That isn’t true. You can draw and Em can’t. You’ve seen some of the things Em drew when she was
little; the only thing that made anything recognizable were the colors.”

He realized he’d made a mistake in going for levity when Rina didn’t smile, or even respond, in
any way.

He promptly sobered, scooting closer to her so he could lift her chin to meet his eyes.
“Sabrina, love, listen to me. You. Are. Extraordinary,” he said, pausing deliberately after each
word. “And there are lots of things you’re better at than either Emily or Andy,” he added, ticking
each one off on a finger. “First, you can draw.”

“You already said that,” she muttered, but he was somewhat comforted that she was responding and
that the so-uncharacteristic quaver was out of her voice.

He continued on, emphasizing each one. “You are neater than Andy is, better at keeping your
temper, and more patient too. More importantly, Sabrina, you’re a *happy* person.”

“Being happy’s not a talent.”

“Yes, it is, love. It might be the best talent there is. You make people feel happier just by
being around them because you are so cheerful. People like to be around you for that reason,
Sabrina; you make them feel better about themselves, about their lives.” He paused, and then added
softly, “Do you know what a gift that is? You’ve always amazed me because of it.”

“Really, Dad? I amaze you?”

He gave her a small, tender smile, as he reached up to touch her cheek lightly. “You’ve amazed
me every day of your life.”

“Even though I’m not a Prefect and I didn’t do well on my O.W.L.s?”

“Yes,” he answered simply.

And was rewarded with a smile, somewhat less bright than her usual ones, but a smile
nevertheless, before she threw her arms around him in a hug. “Thanks, Dad.”

He wrapped his arms around her, returning the hug, beyond thankful that he had, somehow, managed
to say the right things, that he’d comforted her.

"And as far as your O.W.L. results, you want to know something?"

"Yes, what?"

Harry deliberately lowered his voice as if about to confess to something absolutely horrifying.
"You did better than I did on my O.W.L.'s."

A little spurt of half-incredulous laughter escaped her. "Really, Dad?"

"Yes, really."

"I didn't know that."

"Yes, well, don't tell Em and Andy, okay? I'd like for them to still look up to
me," he winked at her, giving her a conspiratorial smile.

She smiled. "I won't. I promise."

"Good girl."

She returned his smile but after a moment, her smile faded as she sobered, her expression
clouding over a little. “I just wish I could be clever, like Em and Andy are.”

He sighed—and, suddenly, knew what he had to say, a half-forgotten memory winging back to him.
“I know, Rina. I’ve felt that same way sometimes. It can be hard being around clever people,
knowing they’re more clever than you.”

Sabrina stared at him, her eyes wide, and he could see that she had, for the moment, entirely
forgotten her own troubles. “But, Dad, you…”

“I’m not clever like Mum is,” Harry said simply. “I said that to Mum once, years ago, that I
wasn’t as clever as her.”

“Really? What did Mum say to that?”

Harry gave his daughter a small smile, his gaze drifting inward, as he remembered that occasion,
so many years ago, a lifetime ago, really. “Mum said that she was only books and cleverness, but
that there are more important things, like friendship and bravery…”

He blinked, returning to the present, to focus on Sabrina again. “And you know what? She was
right. There are more important things than just being clever, Sabrina, and your Mum would be the
first person to admit that, even though Mum is the cleverest person I’ve ever met.”

“Mum really said that?”

“She really did.” He tried for a smile. “Do you feel better now?”

She nodded, slowly, but then blurted out, “I just wanted to make you and Mum *proud* of me
like you are of Em and Andy.”

He touched her chin so she met his eyes. “Sweetie, the only thing you ever have to do to make me
proud is to be yourself. And all you ever have to do to make me and Mum happy is to come home at
the end of the day.”

She sniffled, her eyes now shining with tears. “Oh, Daddy…”

It was the first time she’d called him Daddy in years, since she’d stopped soon after starting
her third year at Hogwarts.

She brushed her tears away hastily and then threw herself into his arms. “Thank you, Daddy. I
feel better now.”

He smiled and closed his arms around his little girl. His baby, who was growing so tall but
still had an endearing tendency of reverting to childishness now and then, especially when she was
at home. He treasured those moments, since both Emily and Andy had long since left childishness
behind. Even Sabrina, too, was growing up with distressing speed, but for all that, she was always
going to be his baby girl.

He brushed a kiss against her forehead, his tone becoming brisker as he stood up. “Dinner should
be ready in about half an hour.”

Sabrina smiled up at him, a return to cheekiness evident. “Good, because I’m getting
hungry.”

He laughed as he left her room, feeling much better at this clear sign that Rina was once more
restored to her usual self.

He found Hermione in the family room, and it was a sign of how tired she was that Hermione was
occupying herself by flipping idly through the latest issue of Quidditch Weekly, something she
rarely read.

“How did Sabrina do?”

He threw himself down beside her on the couch, tugging at her hand until she was half-leaning
against him. “Not as well as she was hoping,” he answered briefly. “One O in Astronomy and then E’s
and A’s.”

“Oh dear. Was she very upset about it?”

Harry sighed a little, turning his head to brush his lips against her hair. “Yes, rather. She
said she thought she wasn’t good at anything since she’s not as clever as Em or Andy, she’s not a
Prefect, and she didn’t make the Quidditch team.”

Hermione stiffened and turned to look at him. “What did you tell her?”

He smiled slightly, touching his finger to her nose in a half-teasing, affectionate gesture. “I
told her that there are more important things than books and cleverness.”

It took her a fleeting moment to place the reference before he saw the flicker of recognition
cross her face. “Harry, you remember that?”

He gave her a look of exaggerated superiority. “I remember everything.”

“Hmph. Of course you do, when you want to remember it.”

He smiled and dropped a kiss on the corner of her mouth that betrayed her by twitching. “I’ll
have you know a selective memory is considered a talent.” He sobered and added, “And anyway, did
you really think I would have forgotten about that?”

Hermione lifted one shoulder into a half-shrug. “It was more than 30 years ago, Harry.”

“It was also the first time I could remember of anyone hugging me,” he pointed out mildly.

Her expression softened. “You never told me that.”

It was his turn to shrug. “Well, it’s not really a nice conversation piece,” he said with an
attempt at lightness. He did not add, since he knew she already knew, that he rarely talked about
his years with the Dursleys; even Hermione only knew the bare outlines of those years.

“Oh, Harry…” Hermione sighed softly as she nestled her head against his shoulder. And in that
small movement, in her tone, was all her sympathy and all her understanding, although she said
nothing more.

He rested his cheek against her hair for a moment before he returned to the original subject.
“At any rate, Sabrina’s feeling better about herself now.”

“Mm. I wondered if she felt badly about not being made a Prefect, but she seemed to take it so
calmly, as if she’d never even thought of it. I guess I just assumed she was fine.”

“We both did. Rina’s always been so sure of herself, it never even really occurred to me that
she might feel lacking in some way. But I think I managed to restore her cheerfulness,
thankfully.”

“By telling her that there are more important things than books and cleverness?”

“I like repeating your words as if they were mine. It makes me sound ever so much wiser, you
know,” Harry teased.

Hermione laughed. “Thank you, I think.”

Harry grinned at her before he stood up, pulling her up after him. “Dinner should be nearly
ready by now, so come on. It’s your turn to set the table, remember?”

“Yes, *Dad*,” Hermione said mockingly as she accompanied him.

“So, get to it, then.” Harry made a mock shooing gesture with one arm.

And so Sabrina came downstairs to the sound of their laughter, making her hide a smile. Her Mum
and Dad never changed, somehow, were still best friends, just as much as they were husband and wife
and parents. Even a year ago, she might have rolled her eyes at it, but now, she could only think
that it was… nice… And she already knew that she would not change her Mum and Dad for anything.

From the back of her mind, she heard her dad’s voice saying, *all you ever have to do to make
me and Mum happy is to come home at the end of the day*. She smiled again, and knew she would
never forget it.

*~The End~*



21. Great Expectations
----------------------

Disclaimer: See ‘All He Ever Wanted.’

**Great Expectations**

Harry made his way to the kitchen, yawning as he went. At an unhurried pace, he poured himself a
cup of orange juice and sat down, enjoying the quiet of the morning. It wasn’t often that he was
the one awake first, since Hermione was the morning person of the two of them, but this morning,
Hermione was still sleeping and he wasn’t about to wake her, not when he knew what Hermione’s
mornings were usually like these days.


It was a few minutes before he deemed himself awake enough and went to pick up the Daily Prophet
from where it waited by the fireplace. He took another drink of juice as he opened the newspaper--
and then choked, narrowly escaping spewing juice all over the paper.


The banner headline, boldly across the top of the front page, read “Harry Potter Expecting First
Child?” and was accompanied by a large picture of Hermione, in profile, as she browsed through a
selection of books outside of Flourish & Blotts. On the picture, the Prophet had drawn a circle
around Hermione’s stomach with an arrow pointing to it.


Harry grimaced as he quickly skimmed through the article that was mostly speculation about whether
Hermione was, in fact, pregnant, given the just-perceptible bump of Hermione’s stomach, noticeable
when the breeze flattened Hermione’s fairly loose shirt against her body. The article made much of
the fact that Harry and Hermione had been married for more than four years now and it was clearly
high time for them to be expecting their first child.


Blast the Daily Prophet anyway! And really, he thought sourly, it was incredible that the wizarding
world apparently had nothing more news-worthy to write about than his own personal life. He could
never, for the life of him, understand this perpetual fascination about him.


The only thing that somewhat mollified him at this point was that the media had, apparently,
finally learned to respect his blanket ban on talking to the press about his personal life so they
had not even bothered to contact either him or Hermione about this article before printing it.


From their bedroom, he heard the sounds of footsteps and Hermione using the loo.


He sighed a little. He really did not want to have to show Hermione the article but could hardly
hide it from her. But even so, he made a point of folding the newspaper up so the article was
hidden before he busied himself with frying some eggs for Hermione’s breakfast.

He was very glad that Hermione had finally stopped feeling sick every morning; he’d hated seeing
how pale and wan she looked in the mornings and hated knowing she felt ill. But now that the
morning sickness had passed, Hermione had begun to eat.

That was, he thought, one of the biggest changes in Hermione. Hermione’s usual breakfast was a
cup of tea and the occasional slice of toast. These days, Hermione’s breakfast was eggs and toast
and possibly some cereal too. More surprising was the way Hermione ate throughout the day—this, in
the girl who had been known to forget about meals entirely if she got too caught up in her work.
Now, however, Hermione never missed a meal and, in fact, ate in between meals too. He would never
say it aloud—he liked having all his bits in one piece—but there were times she reminded him of a
cow grazing, not eating a lot at each sitting necessarily but just nibbling steadily.


It was a few minutes before Hermione made her way into the kitchen where he had her cup of tea and
a plate of fried eggs waiting for her.

She gave him a grateful smile. “Oh, thanks, Harry. I’m famished this morning.” There was a beat
of silence and then she added, with a smile that was edging into a smirk, “It’s okay, Harry. You
can say it. I’m always hungry these days.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Harry protested.

“You were thinking it.”

“No, I--” Harry began, an automatic denial on the tip of his tongue, before he gave in. This was
Hermione, after all. He shot her a mock-exasperated look. “Do you ever get tired of being
right?”

Hermione laughed as she buttered up a slice of toast. “You know I don’t.”

“Know-it-all,” was all he said, even as he opened the jar of jam and handed it to Hermione. He
wondered, idly, just how many times he’d called her a know-it-all. Thousands, maybe millions, of
times by now. So many times and it had become an endearment, a private thing just between them. And
he loved it. Loved her and how well she knew him that at times, he could almost swear she was
telepathic.

And looking at her now, watching her as she ate, he felt a surge of emotion fill his chest and
he found himself wishing—not for the first time—that the rest of the world could just leave them
be, that it could only be the two of them—the two of them and their baby. It was, he thought, all
he wanted in the world.

It was a testament to how hungry and distracted by the food Hermione was that it took several
minutes before she asked, “Harry, what’s happened?”


Wordlessly, he handed over the Daily Prophet, watching her face carefully and noting the surprise,
displeasure, and finally resignation play across her face.


“You know, it was bound to come out some time, Harry,” she reasoned.


“I suppose but, really, don’t they have anything better to talk about?” he groused.

“You should know by now that people want to know everything about you, right up to your shoe
size and if you wear boxers or briefs.”

Harry felt himself color. “Hermione!”

She gave him a look of exaggerated innocence that was belied by the slight quirk at the tip of
her mouth. “What? You know it’s true.”

“Did you have to put it like that?”

“Anyway, I think a large reason for it is because people want to live vicariously through us—or
through me, I should say, considering the way half the female population in the wizarding world
went into mourning when we got married, officially taking you off the Most Eligible Bachelor
lists.”

“For which I will be forever grateful,” Harry interjected.

Hermione gave him a teasing look. “You’re not so bad to have around so I think I’ll keep you to
myself. I’m just selfish that way.”

He smiled as he knew she wanted him to but answered automatically—and entirely sincerely,
“You’re the least selfish person I’ve ever met.”

Her expression softened into a smile, the sort of tender smile that, for once, showed all the
depth of emotion that Hermione was capable of but that only he ever saw.

“Besides,” he added quietly, “you being pregnant has nothing to do with anyone except us. I
wanted it to stay that way, just between us, for a little while longer.”

“We told Ron and the other Weasleys a couple weeks ago,” she reminded him mildly.

“I know, but still. This is our baby, no one else’s, and I wanted it to stay our secret.” He
added, but only in thought, *just in case anything happens,* with the flicker of remembered
pain and stab of fear that the thought always brought. And that was really the biggest reason, the
reason he was so upset over the article. He was still, in some small corner of his heart, afraid,
afraid of tempting the Fates that had never seemed inclined to be kind to him as it was. But he
wouldn’t say it aloud, didn’t want to remind Hermione of their loss or upset her in any way.

He realized his mistake—his stupid mistake—when he looked back at her and saw the look in her
eyes. She knew. Of course she knew; she knew him too well not to understand what he meant even when
he didn’t say it. They had talked about it when she’d first found out she was pregnant—again—talked
about their fears both with each other and with Abby. He had been tense for the next month and more
until the day Hermione had said, “I’m past the first trimester and most accidents happen in the
first trimester.” (She hadn’t said the word, miscarriage; it was the most obvious indication of her
own nervousness since, as a rule, Hermione would have scorned such euphemisms, just as she had been
among the first to call Voldemort by his name.)

“Oh, Hermione,” he breathed, getting up so he could touch her, cupping her cheek in his hand.
“Don’t look like that, love.”

She blinked and two tears spilled over her lashes, sliding down her cheeks, even as she tried to
give him a wobbly smile. “I know, I’m sorry, Harry.”

Even knowing that Hermione’s tears came much more frequently these days because of her
pregnancy, his heart clenched at the sight. He never had been able to stand the sight of Hermione
crying. He wiped her tears away gently before he wrapped his arms around her as she leaned into
him.

“It’s going to be okay, you know,” he said softly, keeping his voice steady, confident. “You
*know* that. The chances of anything happening now are slim and Abby says you’re doing just
fine. There’s nothing to worry about and everything’s entirely normal, the way things should be at
this stage.”

Hermione gave a somewhat shaky laugh. “You sound like a Healer.”

“I guess I must have learned something from all these years of being married to one,” he said
with a slight smile.

“It’s nice to know you were listening.” The words were teasing but the smile and the look she
gave him were soft, thanking him without words for comforting her.

He kissed her forehead briefly before he returned to his seat. “Anyway,” he said, resuming the
earlier subject, “I don’t see what business it is of anyone else whether we’re expecting a
baby.”

“You might not understand it but the general public still cares. I’ve actually been thinking
that it might be better to make an announcement confirming that we’re expecting a baby.”

He gaped at her. “You can’t be serious. You *know* how hard I’ve tried never to talk about
our private lives in public.”

“I know, Harry, and I wasn’t saying you should make the announcement or even that I would make
it, but we could have Abby release a short statement through St. Mungo’s confirming my pregnancy.
Otherwise, people will keep speculating and do you really think we’re going to be able to keep this
a secret when I grow to be the size of the Knight Bus?”

“Well, I was planning on having you go around wearing a box so we could keep it hidden,” he
deadpanned.

She laughed. “Wearing a box will probably attract more attention than just making an
announcement would.”

“You’re right. Bugger, there goes my brilliant plan.”

“We can’t avoid the publicity forever, Harry,” she said reasonably. “But the excitement will die
down eventually and we may as well get it over with now.”

“Fine,” he agreed with exaggerated resignation. “Tell Abby she can release a statement sometime
this week.”

“Now that wasn’t so hard to say, was it?” Hermione teased.

He grimaced. “It hasn’t actually happened yet and that will be the painful part.”

She only laughed and he had to smile. After all, what did he care about the publicity as long as
he could see Hermione smile, hear her laugh, every day?

~

Harry greeted Hermione with a smile as she opened the door of their flat. “Hi, how was your
day?”

She gave him a quick smile of greeting before vanishing inside her study to deposit her bag in
its usual spot, reappearing a moment later to sit down beside him on the couch, resting her head
briefly on his shoulder. “Hi, Harry. It was fine. Thankfully, we didn’t get any new patients
today.”

“Tired?”

She gave him a somewhat wan smile. “A little.”

He turned to drop a kiss on her hair. “Well, you can rest a little while I get dinner ready,” he
suggested as he stood up.

“I need to read more of that treatise I started yesterday,” she demurred, straightening up.

“All right, I’ll leave you to it,” he agreed as he went into the kitchen.

Not quite an hour later, Harry set the table with a couple flicks of his wand and then returned
to the living room to get Hermione. “Hermi—” He stopped abruptly, seeing that her head had fallen
back to rest on the couch.

She had fallen asleep, he saw, as she tended to do these days. The treatise she’d been reading
was lying open on the couch beside her, one hand resting on it.

He knelt in front of her silently, enjoying the opportunity of watching her sleep. He loved to
see her sleep, loved the way her features relaxed. Her lips were slightly parted, her cheeks softly
flushed. She was so lovely, he thought for perhaps the millionth time.

His gaze fell to focus on her stomach, as it always did these days. Sitting as she was, dressed
as she was, the still-small bump that was their baby—*their baby!*—was barely visible but it
didn’t matter. He stared at it anyway, for a long moment. And then, moving very slowly, very
carefully, he bent forward and lightly pressed his lips to her stomach.

He drew back to rest on his haunches and looked up to realize that her eyes were open, looking
at him with a soft expression, a look of so much tenderness it caught at his heart. He managed a
small smile, knowing she could see his emotion in his eyes, before he pushed himself to his feet,
bending to kiss her forehead lightly. “Dinner’s ready, love.”

Grasping both her hands in his, he tugged her gently to her feet, sliding his arm around her
waist when she was standing. And they went into the kitchen together.

“I talked to Abby,” she mentioned as they were eating.

Harry nodded. “So when will she make the statement?”

“Probably in the next day or so. I told her to make it very brief, no more than a few sentences,
to try to discourage any wildly sensational stories.”

He made a face. “Since when has that strategy worked when it comes to our personal lives?”

“It probably won’t,” Hermione conceded, “but I also didn’t want anything else to be included
like when the baby is due.”

“Right,” Harry agreed. “The shorter the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I was thinking more about baby names earlier,” Hermione said after a moment, changing the
subject. “I was looking through some past records and came across a file for a girl named Lacey.
What do you think?”

“Lacey,” Harry repeated thoughtfully. “I’m not sure… It sounds like we’re talking about a dress,
not a girl.”

She grinned. “We could just name her Silk or Satin,” she quipped.

“Satin Potter. It’s perfect,” Harry said with mock gravity.

She shook her head at him in exaggerated horror and he suppressed a smirk.

“What do you think of Helen?” Hermione suggested.

He wrinkled his nose a little. “Don’t you think a third H name in the family is a little much?
Besides, if he’s a boy, what would that make him—Herman?”

She snorted a laugh. “Good lord, not that! Okay, no H names,” she agreed. “What other girl names
do you like?”

“I don’t really know. The name, Hermione, has grown on me,” he teased. “If we stayed with a
mythological theme for the name, we could name her something like Aphrodite or Artemis.”

It was Hermione’s turn to make a face. “Oh, no, please. I like more… normal names, names that
are easy to pronounce and to spell. Don’t tell my parents I said so, but I never liked my name.
Before Hogwarts, kids used to tease me about my name and I swear I don’t think anyone managed to
pronounce my name correctly on the first try.”

“I can’t imagine why not, Hermy-own-ninny,” Harry quipped, exaggerating the mangling of her
name.

She threw her napkin at him. “Honestly, Harry!” But then she gave in and laughed. “Poor Viktor.
He never did manage to say my name right, even after I spent half an hour trying to tell him how to
say it.”

“Well, when you’re busy snogging, I suppose it doesn’t matter what he calls you.”

She straightened and threw him a look. “Harry Potter! What are you talking about?”

“You and Viktor and the way you spent our fourth year snogging him.”

“What?” Hermione gave him a look that suggested she thought he had gone barking mad. “Viktor
kissed me exactly twice, if I remember correctly, and neither of those times were what I would call
a snog.”

He blinked, forgetting the subject of names entirely. “But Ginny said in 5th year that you had
told her that you and Krum had snogged.”

She frowned. “I don’t remember…” She trailed off, paused, and then began, “No, wait, I do
remember telling her that now. But really, Harry, you don’t need to sound so jealous. It’s ancient
history.”

“I’m not jealous,” he denied automatically—and truthfully. He wasn’t *jealous*, per se;
he’d be an idiot to be jealous, since he knew Hermione and trusted her too much to doubt her—and
after all, they *had* been married now for more than four years. “I just don’t like to think
of you snogging other fellows,” he explained rather lamely. “Nothing like the thought of it to turn
me off from food for life,” he finished with manufactured lightness.

“Honestly, Harry, you silly idiot.” She shook her head but her tone and her expression were soft
enough as to make the word ‘idiot’ sound almost like an endearment more than anything else. “If you
must know, when I told Ginny that, I was lying.”

He stared. “But you never lie!” Or as close to never as made no difference. Hermione was the
most straightforward and honest person he’d ever met.

“You and I both know that’s not exactly true. And in this case, I lied because, well, I was
embarrassed.” Hermione flushed, looking rather sheepish. “Ginny had been talking about snogging
Dean and I was embarrassed because a girl who was a year younger than me had more experience
snogging than I did. It was silly of me but I didn’t want to admit it and so I told her that Viktor
and I had snogged, but it wasn’t true.”

“You didn’t snog Viktor Krum,” he repeated slowly, and then began to laugh. “I wish I’d known
this years ago! Poor Viktor.”

She gave him a bemused look, even as she was smiling. “What are you laughing about?”

“Do you have any idea how much I disliked Viktor Krum back then?”

“You didn’t. Ron did, but he was such a jealous prat that year, anyway.”

“Oh, I didn’t much like Krum either; I was just better at hiding it than Ron was,” he admitted.
“In hindsight, I think I must have been jealous too; I just didn’t know it. I didn’t bother
explaining to myself why I disliked Krum, only thought you deserved better than to snog some bloke
who couldn’t even be bothered to say your name right.”

She laughed. “You really are a silly idiot, Harry, but a sweet one too. And why would you have
been jealous back then when you spent 4th year fancying Cho?”

“It wasn’t jealousy because I fancied you like that,” he admitted candidly. “It was jealousy
because I don’t think I liked that you were paying attention to some other fellow. I think… I had
just gotten so used to the idea that Ron and I were the only fellows you ever really had any time
for that I didn’t much like it when we suddenly had a rival for your attention.” He shrugged,
looking a little sheepish. “What can I say, I’m a selfish prat when it comes to sharing your
attention.”


“Very self-centered of you,” she agreed with teasing disapproval but the smile she gave him was
indulgent, belying the words. “Anyway, just when did you think I’d have had time to snog Viktor in
our fourth year when I spent most of that year trying to help you with the Tri-Wizard Tournament
and even when I wasn’t helping you, I was worrying about you because of the Tournament?”

He blinked at her. “I—well, I guess I never thought of that.” He paused and then added, trying
to sound lightly teasing, “Come to think of it, I guess I should have known that because Krum
almost told me so.” It was ridiculous to feel so touched, now, at the thought of Hermione’s
worrying over him then—she had shown the depths of her loyalty and her love so much more in the
years since then—and yet, he really was touched. To think that even back then, before their
friendship had been truly tested and strengthened during the War, she had cared so much… And he had
barely noticed, had taken her so much for granted…

She looked confused. “What are you talking about now? What did Viktor say?”

“He asked me what was going on between us. I think he was a little jealous because, as he said,
you talked about me so much. I should have realized that meant you weren’t busy snogging him since
he would hardly have been jealous of me if you had been.”

She shook her head a little but her smile was indulgent. “Really, Harry, it was such ancient
history. I can’t believe you still remember it, let alone care what might or might not have
happened between me and Viktor then.”

“I care about everything that concerns you,” he said lightly. “It’s an obsession of mine.”

She was trying not to smile, he could see, but the corners of her lips twitched upwards,
betraying her. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t suggest that we name our son Viktor then,” she finally
quipped.

He gave her a look of exaggerated horror. “I would rather name our son Draco.”

She made a face at him and then they were both laughing.

“I know. We should name our son Wulfric!” she gasped in between chuckles.

“No, no. Regulus Potter has a much nicer ring to it,” he managed to choke out.

She snorted. “While we’re at it, what about Severus Potter?”

“Ron would have a fit! So would I, for that matter,” he added in a somewhat calmer tone.

She grinned at him. “How lucky for you that I’d never inflict that name on my son.”

“I’ve known for a long time that I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he responded, abruptly
sober again.

Her expression softened. “And I’m the luckiest woman,” she said quietly, an unusually
sentimental response for her.

He reached over to squeeze her hand lightly.

“Harry,” she began after a moment, her tone a little hesitant, “what about James or Lily? Do you
want to name our baby after your parents?”

He stilled, staring at her. Another James Potter or another Lily Potter… Did he want that? “I
don’t know,” he finally said, slowly. “I never thought…”

“Or do you want to name our son after Sirius or Remus or Headmaster Dumbledore?” she suggested,
her gaze and her tone understanding. She, of all people, knew how much Harry had grieved for them,
knew how much Harry still respected the memory of Headmaster Dumbledore.

Harry was silent for a long moment, his eyes unfocused as he gazed absently at the floor, the
very mention of their names bringing with it a host of memories. Did he want to name his kids after
them? But then he blinked and looked back at Hermione, meeting her eyes—and somehow, he knew what
his answer was.

“No. I think…” he paused, trying to articulate his thoughts. “This baby is the future. I think
the baby should have his or her own name. Our kids are going to be famous from the moment they’re
born just because of who we are; it’ll be hard enough for them to be seen as themselves and not
just as ‘Harry Potter’s Son’ or ‘Harry Potter’s Daughter’ without adding in any expectations or
comparisons that will come from naming them after someone else.”

“I think you’re right,” was all she said, but the look in her eyes and her smile said volumes.
It was a look of understanding, of approval, a look that filled his chest with warmth and also had
him wanting to sit up a little straighter, stand a little taller. A look that made him feel like he
could actually be the hero the rest of the world thought he was.

“Anyway,” he said in a tone of manufactured lightness, “can you imagine naming a baby
Albus?”

She gave him a look of utter innocence. “We could shorten it to Albie or just Al.”

He snorted. “Al Potter is worse than Albus Potter would be.”

She grinned. “Well, we agree on that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Al Potter sounds like a perfect name,” Hermione said, feigning
seriousness.

“Actually, I was thinking of naming our son Bartemius Potter,” he deadpanned.

“Bartemius Potter it is,” she agreed with a straight face.

He gave her a look of such exaggerated horror that she burst out laughing and he joined in,
before he cut off her laughter with a quick, firm kiss on her lips.

“Witch,” he accused her smilingly and his tone made the word a compliment.

She smiled into his eyes, giving him one of those looks that never failed to make his breath
catch in his chest, and that was the end of any conversation about names—or of anything else—for a
few minutes.

~

Harry was tugged out of sleep and automatically turned towards Hermione, his bleary eyes
managing to make out the darker shadow of her form lying beside him. And realized in that same
instant that she was awake too, although how he knew it, he couldn’t have said for sure. He reached
out to touch her shoulder. “Hermione?” he asked, his voice slightly fuzzy from sleep. “What is
it?”

Hermione turned her head towards him, although it was too dark to see her features. “It’s
nothing, Harry. I woke up because I had to use the loo, that’s all.”

It was a simple explanation—and entirely plausible, too, since he knew how often Hermione needed
to use the restroom these days. And yet… there was an odd intonation in her voice, the faintest
indication that something was not quite right.

He turned on the light with a quick wave of his hand so he could see her face. “Hermione?”

Her only response was to shift closer to him, nestling her head against his shoulder. He wrapped
his arm around her automatically, turning his head to brush a kiss against her hair, but other than
that, he said nothing more. He knew better—now—than to try to force a confidence and by now, he
also trusted that she would tell him when she was ready to.

Harry could feel the burgeoning bump of her belly against his side and his thoughts drifted
naturally to their unborn baby. He wondered rather idly if the baby would be a boy or a girl; he
and Hermione had both agreed that they didn’t need to find out. He didn’t really care whether the
baby was a boy or a girl, as long as the baby was healthy and the birth didn’t cause Hermione too
much pain. He pictured a little boy with Hermione’s chin and eyes or a baby girl looking like a
miniature version of Hermione…

“Harry?” His imaginings were interrupted by the sound of Hermione’s soft voice.

“Hmm?” He turned his head to look down at her.

“What if—what if I’m a bad mother?”

He wanted to laugh but one look at her face had him forcibly swallowing it back. She
was—incredible as it seemed to him—serious, the expression on her face one of open vulnerability
that he rarely saw.

“Hermione…”

“I’ve never been good with children and I never know what to say to them. You saw how awkward
I’ve been with the Weasley kids. Other little girls seemed to spend their childhoods pretending
their dolls were their babies but I never did that. I made up adventures with my dolls when I was
little; I never--”

Harry bit back a smile at the mental image of a little Hermione having adventures with her
dolls, interrupting her uncharacteristic flood of words. “Hermione.” He touched a gentle finger to
her lips, quieting her as he met her eyes directly. “Hermione, love,” he began softly, seriously,
“you are going to be a great mother.”

“How can you be so sure? I- I’m not like Mrs. Weasley; I’m too rational and I don’t coo over
babies or—” She broke off, her voice clogged with tears.

“Darling,” he began, the rarely-used endearment getting her attention and emphasizing his
sincerity. “I’m sure of it because I *know* you. You don’t have to be like Mrs. Weasley to be
a good mother; you’ll be a good mother because of the way you *care*.” He gave her a smile
that was half-tender and half-teasing. “I can’t claim to know everything, unlike you, but there are
two things I do know about, more than anyone else—loving Hermione Granger Potter and being loved by
Hermione Granger Potter. I’m an expert at what it’s like to be loved by you,” he finished with a
quirk of his lips.

“Oh, Harry…”

He shifted to place his hand gently on her belly. “This baby is going to have a lot of Weasley
cousins, a favorite Uncle Ron, a nervous wreck of a father,” he said with a quick smile, “and most
importantly, this baby will have a wonderful mother.”

He moved down the bed until his head was level with her stomach. He pushed up her pyjama top to
bare her stomach and pressed his lips to the firm skin.

“Do you hear that, baby? You are going to have the best Mummy in the entire world. She’ll boss
you around—” he gave Hermione a teasing wink before he went on, addressing her stomach, “and she’ll
take care of you and teach you and protect you.” His voice softened, became somewhat husky with
emotion, as he went on, not looking at Hermione again as he spoke softly to their baby. “And while
she’s doing all that, she’ll also love you, love you with all her heart, and that, baby, is an
awful lot. Your Mummy has the kindest heart of anyone I’ve ever met, you see, baby. So you and I
are very, very lucky because we’re the ones your Mummy loves the most.”

He stopped then as he heard Hermione make a sound that was half a sob, half a gasp, and then she
was reaching for him, pulling him up, so she could kiss him fiercely, as if to demonstrate the
truth of his words, the boundless depth and strength of her love.

And he fell into the kiss, caught and held, enthralled really—as always—by her passion, as he
cupped her face with his hand, one hand sliding back so his fingers could tangle in her hair.

She broke off the kiss with a gasp, drawing back, and he opened his eyes to meet hers, soft with
love and dark with arousal.

“Make love to me, Harry,” she said, her voice a little breathy, husky with arousal.

His lips curved into a slight smile, even as his body reacted, hardening with a speed that
almost surprised him. Gods, he could never get enough of her, had never heard anything as sexy as
those five words from her lips. “Your wish is my command.”

And then he did what his wife wanted, stripping her pyjamas off her body slowly, kissing and
caressing her skin as he went, pausing to pay homage to every additional inch of her body he bared
with his lips, tongue, and hands.

He touched her, loved her, until her breath was coming in gasps and her skin was heated and
flushed and slightly damp with perspiration. Until she was entirely bared to his gaze and he paused
in his touches to stare at her, his eyes caressing her much as his hands and lips had.

“God, Hermione, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, the words falling from his lips without
conscious thought.

She flushed, her hands automatically moving to cup the curve of her stomach, not to conceal it
but in sudden self-consciousness. “I’m beginning to look like I swallowed a Quaffle.”

One corner of his lips quirked upwards. “No, only one of the practice Golden Snitches for kids.”
(The practice Golden Snitches were more than twice the size of a normal Golden Snitch to make it
easier for children to see it and catch it.)

She huffed out her breath in a half laugh. “Thank you, I think.”

But then all amusement faded from her face as he moved to cup one enlarged breast in his hand,
his fingers tracing around and over it, before he palmed it, appreciating the increased fullness of
it.

“Of all the changes to your body, I think this one is my favorite,” he rasped out, trying to
sound teasing.

Her only answer was a moan as her back arched, pushing herself more firmly against his hand.

And he gave up on further words, his lips fastening on the hardened peak of her nipple. He
swirled his tongue over and around it, savoring the taste of her, and then suckled it, lightly at
first, and then harder, until she gasped and flinched slightly as he suckled too strongly. He
immediately stopped, pulling back just enough to scatter soft, apologetic kisses across her
breast.

He moved on to pay the same attention to her other breast, careful this time not to suckle too
hard.

He moved further down her body, exploring the changes in her body first with his hands and then
with his lips, the taut curve of her stomach. He kissed her stomach again but this time, his intent
was sensual rather than simply loving, focused on her and not on their unborn baby. He dipped his
tongue into her belly button as his hands ventured lower to caress her hips and her thighs that
fell open at his touch.

He could smell the familiar musk of her arousal as he turned his head to pillow his cheek
lightly on her stomach, feeling a rush of awe even in the midst of his arousal at the thought that
a baby—his baby, *their* baby!—was inside her stomach.

“Hermione,” he murmured softly against her skin.

His hand caressed her thighs and then slipped between to cup the hot, wet center of her—and she
gasped, a quiver going through her entire body.

She was so wet, so responsive, so uninhibited in her passion—and he loved it, could never get
enough of her. And so he showed her, kissing her, licking her, with all the knowledge and all the
confidence that came from years of loving her. Until her head was moving restlessly on the pillow,
until her hips arched up and a sharp cry escaped her lips, as her pleasure ripped through her.

He looked up to watch her as she came—and God, she was so beautiful with her head thrown back,
her hair spread out on the pillow, her skin flushed. It was the most erotic, arousing sight in the
world.

He hastily stripped out of his pyjamas with hands that trembled slightly with the force of his
lust and impatience and then he stretched himself alongside her, his lips finding hers.

And then it was her turn as she kissed him, her hands greedy and knowing as they skated across
his shoulders and then down his chest.

He felt her pushing lightly and he gave way, rolling onto his back and taking her with him as
she sprawled over him in wanton abandon.

She pressed herself against him and he groaned at the feel of her breasts against his chest. Her
lips scattered kisses across his chest as she moved over him, her teeth lightly grazing one flat,
male nipple. Causing lightning to sizzle through his body to his arousal. His hips bucked, his
erection brushing against her, and he gave a guttural groan and abruptly knew he couldn’t take this
anymore.

Swiftly, his hands lightly grasped her hips, guiding her until she was straddling him. And then
she paused and his eyes flew open on a gasp.

“Hermione… *please*…” he rasped out, the words barely recognizable as his throat seemed to
have closed up from sheer lust so powerful he was nearly in pain.

The ghost of a smile—the smile of a siren—curved her lips and the sight of it sent another bolt
of lust streaking through him. Slowly, slowly, with excruciating slowness, she lowered herself
until the tip of him just barely entered her—and he lost control, his hips surging up until he was
fully inside her. And his eyes nearly crossed from the dizzying pleasure of it, of finally,
finally, being inside her, surrounded by her wet warmth.

His hands tightened on her hips as she rose up and then lowered herself, the movement of his
hips automatically finding and matching the movement of hers, as they fell into the rhythm of this
familiar, endlessly-exciting dance of lust and passion and pleasure.

He kept his eyes open, drinking in the sight of her above him, the look on her face. She was his
siren, his goddess, his lover, his dream…

His hands moved to cup her breasts and just like that, her body was tightening around him as
spasms of pure physical pleasure shook her, captured her, her head falling back with a cry.

And he didn’t know if it was the sight of her or the feel of her that pushed him over the edge
but his hips snapped up in one last, final thrust as he exploded inside her with a guttural
shout.

And he knew no more, returning to some semblance of consciousness some endless time later to an
awareness that she was slumped above him in a breathless, boneless heap of feminine curves.

Something inside him—his very soul—seemed to purr its satisfaction at the feel of her above him,
the familiar—and oddly unfamiliar—warm curves of her body draped over him. Lying as she was, he was
conscious of the changes in her body from pregnancy, the new curve of her stomach, so she didn’t
feel entirely like his Hermione. And yet, no matter the slight changes, his body, his soul,
recognized her and luxuriated in her closeness. She was still—and always—*his*.

He let his hands stray up her back in an idle caress and felt her turn her head to kiss his chin
lazily.

“Am I too heavy?” she mumbled half-sleepily.

The ghost of a smile curved his lips as his fingers tightened slightly on her skin. “No, stay,”
he murmured. “I like feeling you on top of me.”

He felt her smile against his shoulder.

He slid one hand up to tangle in her hair, turning her head so he could kiss her, softly,
tenderly.

She let out her breath in a soft sigh as the kiss ended. “My Harry…” she breathed.

Warmth filled his chest at the unusually sentimental words. He was hers, had always been hers.
His mind drifted back to the conversation they had had about Viktor Krum and their 4th year, her
admission of just how much she had worried about him, cared about him, even then—long before he had
even begun to think of the word ‘love’ in connection to Hermione. It amazed him, humbled him, to
think about the depths of her friendship, her loyalty.

He cupped her cheek in a caress as he met her eyes. “You’re the most loving person I’ve ever
known,” he told her in a whisper.

Her eyes softened, getting just a little teary with emotion, and he quickly added, “And I should
also mention that this baby will have the sexiest mother in the world.”

She choked on a laugh. “Honestly, Harry!”

“Well, it’s true,” he said with mock defensiveness.

She smiled as she shifted off of him to settle into her customary position, nestled against him
with her head resting on his shoulder. “We’ll see whether you still think that when I really start
to look like I swallowed a Quaffle,” she teased.

“That won’t make you any less sexy.”

“You’re just saying that because to you, anything to do with Quidditch is sexy,” she
quipped.

“Well, that is why I find Ron so endlessly attractive,” he deadpanned.

She laughed. “I’ll tell Ron you said so.”

He grinned. “Oh good, that ought to ensure he’ll never be able to look me in the eye again.”

Her soft laugh was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed her.

“I love you,” he said quietly against her mouth as he drew back.

“I know.”

“Know-it-all.”

Her response was a yawn and he chuckled softly, kissing her forehead. “Go to sleep,
Hermione.”

“G’night, Harry.”

“Good night.” He turned off the light with a wave of his hand and let himself sink further into
the mattress, relaxing against her, as he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep, to dream of their
baby.

~~

The next day, St. Mungo’s released the following statement to the press: *Harry Potter’s
primary Healer has confirmed that Hermione Potter is pregnant with the couple’s first child. Harry
and Hermione Potter thank everyone for the good wishes and ask that everyone respect their privacy
as they await the birth of their firstborn.*

*~The End~*

Author’s Note: I wasn’t originally planning on H/Hr having their little conversation about
Viktor but it practically wrote itself. I just can’t seem to get enough of having married!H/Hr
talking about their memories from canon—and including my own interpretations.