Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
Author's Note: Thanks, everyone, who's read and reviewed this so far; I've been really blown away at all the responses!! Without further ado, the next chapter-in which Ginny appears and the honeymoon is essentially over.
The Truth About Love
Chapter 12: An Idyll, Interrupted
Harry stopped short just inside the library, where Hermione was taking advantage of the last few, precious hours before their house-guests started to arrive, in order to study the books which had been neglected during her parents' visit.
The Grangers had left after a very pleasant visit and he and Hermione had had one day of respite before today, when the Weasleys, Mr. Lupin and Miss Lovegood would be arriving shortly.
"What," he asked in half-laughing dismay, "are you wearing?"
Hermione looked up and blushed.
"Do you not like it?"
Harry pretended to study the filmy lace cap perched on top of Hermione's hair and then shook his head, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. "It makes you look like a dowager." (He privately thought she also looked rather adorable but, as he valued his life, he was not going to say so.)
Hermione pursed her lips in a picture of mock offended dignity. "I believe that is the point." She paused and then added resignedly, "It is what all married ladies wear."
"Perhaps," he conceded, "but you've never worn one before."
"No, but I'm certain Mrs. Weasley will expect to see me wearing a cap and I shouldn't want to disgrace you."
Harry plucked the cap from Hermione's hair. "I believe my reputation can weather whatever scandal your lack of a cap will cause. Besides," he added, somewhat disingenuously, although with complete sincerity, seeing the shadow flicker across her eyes, "your hair is much too pretty to be kept hidden."
"Flattery will not help," she said with an attempt at severity but her words were belied by her smile.
"Very well, my lady dowager," he teased.
Hermione smiled. "Well, if it would please you, I shall not wear it," she said, sweetly enough, but with a tone which he recognized, of her making a seeming concession which aligned with her own inclination. "And if anyone inquires, I shall simply tell them that I am being an obedient wife and my husband forbids it," she added with a distinctly impertinent smile.
He laughed softly. "My very obedient wife," he teased and dropped a light kiss on her upturned face.
"But you needn't imagine, sir, that I will always be so compliant," Hermione said a little time later, the crisp words belied by the softness of her tone, in an attempt at dignity, no matter how she melted at his touch.
"Hermione, if I ever had any such illusion, I'm sure you would disabuse me of the notion in a remarkably short time," he replied with complete honesty.
A slight frown crossed her face. "You make me sound like a shrew."
"No, not a shrew, never that. Merely honest." He touched her cheek fleetingly with the tips of his fingers in a gesture that wasn't quite a caress but wasn't quite not, his tone softening with understanding.
After all, he reflected with sudden insight, they were still new to this business of being husband and wife, rather than merely friends-and while he flattered himself that the physical aspect of their relationship was developing nicely, the other aspects were rather less smoothly changed. It was somewhat easier for him, he supposed, since he was not expected to change. It fell to wives to conform to their husbands and, for Hermione at least, such meek behavior was out of character, to say the least.
"I would not want you to be anything other than honest, you know, Hermione. After all," he added with a slight smile, "I have relied upon you to be a voice of reason for so long, I hardly know what I would do without you to quell any of my pretensions to arrogance or foolhardiness."
"You would get into far more trouble than you already have, no doubt," she said lightly enough but she thanked him without words for his reassurance by turning her head to brush the lightest of kisses against his hand where it rested on her shoulder.
"Undoubtedly," he conceded. "I am going to sequester myself in the study until the guests arrive and attempt to make sense of the account books before Remus arrives to scold me out of countenance, no doubt."
Years of habit made Hermione ask, "Would you like some help?"
He gave her a look of mock injury. "Do you think me incapable of performing basic arithmetic?"
She smiled. "Not at all."
He grinned. "Pity. You may have been right about my inability to perform arithmetic. But no, I think I will be fine. Thank you."
She smiled up at him, looking so pretty he was severely tempted to consign the account books to perdition-or at least, to some other time-but refrained. (It was also his main reason for not accepting her offer to help him; he had no doubt that her presence in the study would prove to be more of a distraction than anything else, a distraction he could ill afford.)
So, with a fleeting touch of his hand to her cheek, he left her to her books while he entered the study and sat behind the large desk, pulling open Godric's Hollow's account books with a half-sigh of resignation.
His first reaction when Remus had told him that he would, of course, need to take over the keeping of the account books along with his other duties as a landlord, had been something like dismay. It wasn't as if his childhood at the Dursleys or the years at Hogwarts and fighting the war had exactly provided him with training in estate management. Indeed, up until his third year, he hadn't even known that he had an estate to manage at all. All Remus had told him, initially, had been that his father's family had been a wealthy one and so he owned an estate, which Remus was currently over-seeing. (Remus had left out of that initial tale, the detail that Harry's godfather, Sirius Black, had initially been designated as the one to manage the estate until Harry came of age but after Sirius Black had been sent to Azkaban, that responsibility had devolved to Remus.) At the time, the news had not meant much to Harry, who had known about as much about estate management and the duties of a landlord as he knew about embroidery, that is to say, he knew of their existence and had a vague idea of what was involved but that was the extent of both his knowledge and his interest.
In all truth, it had only been recently that Harry had fully come to appreciate what it meant to be a landlord, a development which he could attribute to Hermione's influence. It had been Hermione who had first awoken in him an appreciation for his family's history and its legacy in this old house and, through her eyes, he'd come to see and value his patrimony all the more and understand what he owed to his family as well as to himself.
Not for the first time, it occurred to him that he had gotten much more out of this marriage than he had ever dreamed a marriage would give him. In Hermione, he'd gotten so much more than just a woman to manage the household or be his hostess or, even, be his lover. He had been, he thought, extremely short-sighted in his thoughts on what a wife should be like-and it was only now, with Hermione, he realized that marriage involved so much more. In Hermione, he had a wife who was all things to him, a friend, a confidante, a help-mate, a lover, his voice of reason as he'd told her just now. And he knew too that all this was because of who and what she was; not everyone was so blessed in their wives (as evidenced by the large number of unfaithful husbands in Society) and he found himself wondering what might have become of him if Lady Danvers hadn't interfered. Wouldn't he have eventually become one of those bored husbands, who preferred their clubs to their houses and preferred their mistresses to their wives-or if not that, since Harry couldn't quite imagine ever keeping a mistress, at least preferring to sleep alone as opposed to with his wife? He had been saved from that fate, no thanks to his own wisdom except in seeing and appreciating Hermione for what she was.
Oddly enough, it was his very musings about Hermione that brought Harry back to a realization that he'd spent the better part of ten minutes lost in thought while ignoring the account books completely. He could hear her voice in his head, very like the times she'd gently chided him for not attending to his school-work at Hogwarts- is this what you consider going over the accounts?
He blinked, pushing aside all other thoughts, and turned his attention back to the account books, this time with a sort of resigned determination.
~
Hermione quickly wrote down one question she'd thought of which she wanted to ask Mr. Lupin when their first Defense lesson occurred and then put down her quill and pushed her book away, giving up on the idea of studying any more, at least for the moment.
She supposed she was being ridiculous but a part of her could not but regret the prospect of guests, much as she would like to see Ron again. In the past months, she had gotten rather spoiled with having Harry's company and his attention solely to herself. Even during her parents' visit, he had almost always been present, had spent so much time with her and her parents. She had gotten accustomed to having his smiles and his little looks and his humor directed at her. And now she would have to give most of that up. With guests arriving, Harry would need to play the attentive host to all, as she would need to be the attentive hostess. The time when it had only been the two of them, just her and Harry, was at an end-and she could not help the small pang of regret.
With all that, it was hardly a surprise that her mind was not on her book, persisted in wandering to the guests. Or, more specifically, wandering to one particular guest, Miss Ginny Weasley.
She tried to tell herself her vague sense of apprehension and unease was irrational and unfounded, based only on her own fears and not on reality at all. She tried to convince herself that she felt no nervousness whatsoever-but failed.
She was apprehensive about this visit and the idea of sharing this house with Miss Weasley.
She tried to tell herself that she had no reason to feel apprehensive, that she was entirely secure in her position with Harry, which was true to an extent. She was Harry's wife, for better or worse, and nothing Miss Weasley could do would alter that. The problem lay in the fact that she didn't only want to be Harry's wife. She wanted to be the woman he loved-and that was where the crux of her uncertainty lay.
She had his friendship, his affection, his desire, but that wasn't enough for her. It would never be enough for her, not when she loved him.
She half-sighed at the thought that there had been a time when just knowing he desired her might have been enough, but that time had passed weeks ago. Just knowing he desired her wasn't enough because she knew well enough that desire was not necessarily forever. What would she do if he ever tired of her?
No. She resolutely closed her mind to that thought. She would not think it.
She wanted Harry's love but she didn't even know if his love was to be had; perhaps he had been in love with Miss Weasley, still loved Miss Weasley…
He had married her out of duty and out of friendship; theirs had not been a love match. But, oh, how she wished she could think it was!
She was only startled out of her rather melancholy reverie at the sound of a quick knock on the door before the door to the study opened and she saw Harry.
"Dobby informs me that two carriages have just entered the grounds and should be at the house within minutes." He offered his arm to her with an air of exaggerated gallantry, smiling at her with his eyes. "Shall we go greet our guests, Mrs. Potter?"
"Certainly, Mr. Potter," she returned his smile with her own as she linked her arm with his.
They had barely taken a step though before he glanced at her and paused. "One moment. You have a spot of ink on your cheek."
"Oh." Hermione blushed hotly. She would certainly never win Harry's heart through her elegance! She lifted her hand intending to wipe it off but he stopped her with a word. "Wait."
She paused and looked at him.
"Let me," he added softly and gently wiped at her cheek with his handkerchief.
Something inside her fluttered, melted, at the gentleness in his touch. He touched her as if she was made of the finest porcelain, as if she was as fragile as some flower and would crumple at an unkind touch, and his gentleness was irresistible.
It was odd, she thought fuzzily, she'd never really thought about the charm in being treated like spun glass. She was more accustomed to getting irritated when people treated her like some delicate hothouse flower but she was realizing that-as with everything to do with Harry-it was different. Perhaps it was because for Harry, gentleness didn't also equate to condescension and he never treated her as if she was some empty-headed thing. And perhaps, after all, she gloried in his gentleness because in it, she could also sense tenderness.
"There, it's gone now," he said quietly but his hand didn't move from where it was touching her cheek, lingering in a feather-light caress.
Her breath stalled in her chest, the rest of the world dissolving around her as a sudden mesmeric attraction flared between them. He brushed his thumb lightly against her lower lip, as her lips parted on a soundless gasp. His eyes darkened with what she recognized as desire and she felt an answering flare of heat in her body, wishing desperately that they could be in his bedroom.
"Harry," she breathed, so softly it was just a wisp of sound.
"Hermione…" His voice was quiet, husky, and made her name a caress.
Neither of them moved or spoke for a long moment, the air thick and heavy-and then there was a soft knock on the door and the spell was broken.
"Harry Potter, sir, the carriages are approaching the house," Dobby's voice came through the door, sounding as apologetic as if he knew he was interrupting.
Harry took in a breath, blinking and visibly getting a hold of himself. "Yes, thank you, Dobby," he managed.
"We should go," Hermione said, trying not to sound as disappointed as she felt.
"Yes, we should," he agreed but didn't move for another long moment before he finally turned away towards the door.
"Dobby's timely reminders appear to be becoming a tradition of ours," Hermione said as they walked, trying to relieve her disappointment by finding the humor in it.
"Indeed. Remind me to give Dobby clothes next time he interrupts," Harry muttered in a tone of mock disgruntlement.
Hermione laughed softly, the laugh of one who had utter confidence in his kindness, and felt something inside her ease at his grumbling words. This was Harry, after all, and she knew him, trusted him, and knew that he would never hurt her.
Two carriages slowed to a stop in front of the house, Ron and Mr. Weasley stepping out of the first one while Harry offered his hand to Mrs. Weasley as she alighted first out of the second carriage, followed by Miss Lovegood and Miss Weasley.
Hermione stepped forward eagerly, a smile lighting her face, dipping a curtsy to Mr. Weasley first before turning to Ron and giving him her hands.
She hadn't realized until that moment how much she had missed Ron's good-natured company, his easy smile. Since they had tacitly agreed to disagree, as it were, their near-constant quarrels had become a thing of the past and she had missed him.
He paused, making a show of studying her appearance, before bowing with exaggerated formality. "Mrs. Potter, you are looking very… matronly," he said with preternatural solemnity but his dancing eyes and twitching lips betrayed him.
She swept him an equally formal curtsy before responding, "And you, Mr. Weasley, are looking quite dashing," teasingly emphasizing the formal address which they'd never really used with each other.
"Why, thank you," he grinned at her. "I will make sure to pass along your compliments to my tailor."
"Do."
Their solemnity dissolved into laughter as she took Ron's arm.
"It is good to see you, Ron."
"Of course it is. You must be getting positively famished for some entertainment with only your dull husband for company. Indeed, I don't know how you've survived it."
Ron threw a teasing glance at Harry.
"I'll thank you not to insult me in front of Hermione, Weasley," Harry retorted, approaching with Miss Weasley and Miss Lovegood on each of his arms and accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, in time to hear Ron's words.
"Oh, I do beg your pardon, Mr. Potter," Ron said with exaggerated remorse.
"And so you should," Harry said with mock severity, the words belied by the quirk of his lips.
In the general smiles that went around, Hermione had the chance to greet Mrs. Weasley and nod to Misses Weasley and Lovegood.
"Mrs. Weasley, it's a pleasure to see you again. How was your journey here?"
Hermione had to make an effort to appear the easy and friendly hostess. All it took was one look at Miss Weasley on Harry's arm and Hermione promptly felt drab and dowdy and very plain when compared to Miss Weasley's vibrant beauty. She was suddenly miserably conscious that her figure could certainly not compare to Miss Weasley's and her hair was, of course, once again slipping out of its coiffure. She must look positively disheveled compared to Miss Weasley's perfect elegance, she thought with a pang.
And Harry and Miss Weasley made such a striking couple too, Miss Weasley's coloring providing a dramatic contrast to Harry's. It didn't matter, of course-but the thought was hardly conducive to providing any reassurance.
She tried to catch Harry's eye as they all entered the house but he was addressing Mr. Weasley and did not see her.
The arrival of Mr. Remus Lupin a little time later completed their little house party.
As they were all well-acquainted, the party enjoyed a relaxed, intimate atmosphere, in keeping with the long-standing friendship between Ron and Harry and Hermione. Indeed, Hermione thought the party could hardly have been more congenial and her enjoyment of it would have been complete except for one thing which she noticed during supper.
It did not take long for her to realize that Miss Weasley clearly did not look upon his marriage as a reason to pay less attention to Harry than she had before. She didn't monopolize his attention in any overtly improper way but whenever possible, she directed her words, her wit, and her smiles to him, sought his opinion and listened to him with a rapt attention that would have flattered the most humble of saints. It was not so pointed as to draw any undue attention from either her parents or any of the other guests but Hermione could hardly miss it, her insecurities heightening her awareness of Miss Weasley's interactions with Harry.
That she sought Harry's attention and his approval was clear; Miss Weasley's motives in doing so were less so.
Hermione could not imagine that Miss Weasley would be so lost to everything as to welcome any compromising involvement with a married man, if for no other reason than the simple fact that ruining her reputation would only result in her own disgrace and prevent her from ever making a respectable match. Hermione could only suppose that Miss Weasley enjoyed flirtation and was one who could not be content without trying to test her own powers of attraction, which would hardly make Miss Weasley unusual from many other young ladies. In all fairness, with the limited numbers of this party, Harry was essentially the only gentleman with whom Miss Weasley could flirt. Aside from her brother, Mr. Lupin was the only single gentleman present and he was on the wrong side of five and thirty, which would undoubtedly make him appear positively ancient to Miss Weasley. That left only Harry.
Hermione knew that Harry's duties as the host (to say nothing of his own innate courtesy) prohibited him from doing any such thing but some, small, irrational corner of her heart could not but wish that Harry would simply ignore Miss Weasley altogether. As it was, she was only somewhat comforted because he did not seek Miss Weasley's oh-so-beguiling attentions nor did he respond in kind but he did smile and laugh and was as attentive as any host should be.
And she could not tell if he felt anything more personal for Miss Weasley and tried not to think about it. She knew once she did, she would start seeing evidence of it everywhere, herself creating what she saw, and finding a softness in his eyes or his smile when he looked at Miss Weasley or an added gentleness in his manner, or, or, or… It was all calculated to make her go quite mad and so she deliberately tried not to think about it.
Unfortunately, she could not will her awareness of Harry and his interactions with Miss Weasley to entirely go away, nor could she entirely silence the small, persistent voice in her head asking, had Harry loved Miss Weasley? Did he love her still?
~*~
Harry grimaced, throwing down his quill with a sigh, heedless of the small spatter of ink it left on the page of the account book as he looked up at Remus.
"I don't suppose there's another Dark Lord for me to defeat," he said facetiously. "I believe I preferred that to this and I was certainly more successful at it!" he added with a short laugh.
Remus chuckled. "Now, Harry, that certainly isn't true. It does take some adjustment but you have the makings of a fine landlord in you, I believe." He paused and added, "Your father told me once that after he had first attempted to manage the estate accounts, your grandfather was so horrified at the botch he made of it that he threatened to hand all the books over to your mother, who was your father's betrothed at the time, and let her handle them all as she would probably do better at it than James had." Remus smiled, half-absently, as he added, "As James admitted, your grandfather was probably right!"
Harry grinned. "Somehow, I have no trouble in believing that. I assume, however, that my father eventually learned."
"Oh yes, James learned. By the time he--" Remus stopped abruptly and then began again, a little more quietly, "By the time you were born and the War had escalated, James had become so he could admit to me that he rather enjoyed going over the estate account books." Remus paused and then added with a slight smile that seemed a trifle forced, "Of course, he also said that if I ever breathed a word of it to Sirius, he would be forced to call me out."
Harry smiled, a smile slightly tinged with melancholy, as always, at any reminder of just how close the friendship between his father, Sirius and Remus had been.
"Am I very like my father?" Harry asked abruptly, the question impelled from him before he'd even realized he was going to ask it. "I mean, I know I resemble him but aside from that, am I like him?"
Remus studied Harry for a moment with a somber gaze. "In some ways, yes, you are very like James; in others, you are quite different. James was always very self-assured-'arrogant' as your mother called it. But you both have the same protective instinct, the same courage that borders on recklessness."
Harry's smile became somewhat sheepish.
"And neither of you finds intelligence and high spiritedness in a woman at all intimidating," Remus added. "Your Mrs. Potter very much puts me in mind of your mother."
"I thought Hermione gave you leave to call her by her given name," Harry commented.
"Yes, she was gracious enough to do so. Very well then-your Hermione puts me in mind of Lily."
"They certainly don't look alike," Harry pointed out needlessly.
"No, but they have something of the same spirit, the same intelligence. Lily was not at all one of those meek and biddable wives, and I suspect your Hermione is much the same."
Harry let out a short laugh. "No, meek and biddable are two words that could never be associated with Hermione."
Remus smiled. "From all I've seen, I rather suspect that meek and biddable become synonymous with boring after a time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I will go seek out my bed."
"Of course. Thank you for your help. I will bid you good night."
"Good night, Harry." At the last moment, Remus paused, glanced back at Harry and added, "You are doing very well, Harry. Your parents would be proud," before he disappeared out of the study.
Harry stared at the door for a moment, a slight smile playing on his lips, before he turned his eyes back to the books awaiting his attention.
Some time later, Harry put down his quill and closed the account books with a sigh, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to work the stiffness from them.
He had made enough progress on the accounts now that he thought he could be forgiven for leaving off and retiring for the night. Besides which, the long columns of numbers were beginning to run together in his mind which wouldn't help his accuracy.
He glanced at the clock, resigning himself to the likelihood that Hermione would already be asleep by now. He hadn't known how long he would be at the account books and so he didn't expect her to have waited up. He wondered if she had chosen to sleep in her own bed since he would not be there, could understand if she had. Only…
He opened the connecting door to the library and, his mind having already wandered ahead to his bedroom and whether Hermione would be in his bed, just barely managed to keep from starting when he saw a candle already burning and heard a soft gasp of surprise and saw Miss Weasley turning away from one of the book shelves.
He stopped short. "Miss Weasley, whatever are you doing here?" he asked with more bluntness than courtesy, too caught off guard to temper his words.
"Oh, Mr. Potter," she exclaimed rather breathlessly. "I was restless and thought to read a book until I could sleep."
"Ah. I- er- hope there is nothing amiss with your room," he managed to say, taking refuge in automatic courtesy. He paused, uncomfortably aware of a blush creeping into his cheeks as he tried to look anywhere but directly at her. He was acutely conscious of the intimacy of the whole situation, of the fact that they were alone with no chance of interruption, of the fact that she was clearly dressed for bed in her nightgown, robe, and a shawl. She was, thankfully, completely covered from her neck to her ankles but the overall effect of her nightgown was nonetheless one of startling intimacy, an effect that was only exacerbated by her hair. Her hair was loose, flowing past her shoulders in ripples of smooth curls, still vibrantly red and shining in the rather dim candlelight.
It really was lovely-she was lovely. The thought was dispassionate, even detached, and he wondered at himself. How was it that the sight of Hermione in such deshabille, her hair loose, had ignited a flare of desire inside him, making the sight of a lady's loose hair seem like the most erotic sight in the world-whereas the sight of Miss Weasley left him essentially unmoved?
"Oh no, everything is wonderful. My room is quite lovely," Miss Weasley assured him with a soft smile.
"Good. I hope you've managed to find a book to your liking."
He kept his gaze on the bookshelves, not quite daring to look at her. It was strange and inexplicable but he was conscious of another sort of allure tugging at him. It wasn't the power of the present but rather of the past; he was very conscious of the fact that just months ago, such a sight of Miss Weasley would have seemed like a delightful fantasy. He felt an unaccountable, vague sense of guilt niggling at him, not because he felt anything untoward but because he didn't and, somehow, because he knew that just months ago, he would have…
He was becoming an exercise in illogic, he thought with some exasperation.
"Indeed I have, Mr. Potter. You have a wonderful library."
He smiled, his mood lightening at the memory of Hermione's entirely ingenuous, unfettered delight in the library. "Thank you. I am glad you think so," he said, his tone unconsciously softening. He paused and then asked, "Can I help you find any book in particular?"
"Oh no, I have just finished," she said, glancing back at the bookshelves and taking one book.
"In that case, allow me to escort you to the stairs."
"With pleasure," she dimpled up at him.
She took his arm as they walked along the silent corridor to the main staircase. They were nearly at the steps when she stumbled and nearly fell.
He reacted automatically, instinctively, his hands grabbing her upper arms as he steadied her on her feet.
"How clumsy of me," Miss Weasley said breathlessly, sounding charmingly flustered. "You must think me very graceless."
"Not at all," he began but then she looked up at him and he stopped, suddenly realizing how very close they were. With her face turned up towards him so, there were barely a few inches between their lips. She stared at him, seeming to realize the same thing, as her breath caught in her throat, her lips parting unconsciously…
His hands were still holding her arms, he realized, and released her as if he'd been scalded, stepping back to give her a slight formal bow. "I wish you a good night, Miss Weasley," he managed rather stiffly.
"Oh, yes, thank you, Mr. Potter," she said softly. "Good night."
He didn't pause but turned away as soon as she turned to go up the stairs and walked swiftly back to the library, through the dim room, and taking the private staircase to the family wing with rather undignified haste.
His steps slowed as he reached the first floor and turned towards his bedchamber, now calm enough to scold himself for reacting so irrationally. In that one moment, his mind had understood-and pictured-how infidelity could happen almost without intent. He hadn't been tempted but for that fleeting second, the part of him that paid no attention to the dictates of reason had reacted anyway on an instinct as old as time. A natural reaction, perhaps, but troubling nonetheless because he'd suddenly realized just how easily infidelity could happen. He had always-naively-thought of infidelity as being something that others did, never thought that he could ever be unfaithful to his wife, no matter who she was, but that one moment had been a revelation and he'd seen that it wouldn't be difficult for it to happen.
There, but for the grace of the gods…
He paused outside of his door, taking a few deep breaths to clear his mind. Thinking of it would do little good. Nothing had happened; nothing would happen-and he was more certain of that now because he had, after all, felt nothing when he looked at Miss Weasley.
He focused, instead, on the thought of Hermione, his mind easily conjuring up the image of her at any number of times, smiling at him, frowning over something she was reading, speaking with Daisy about household matters-and the way she looked in his bed, as she'd looked the morning after their first night together…
His reaction was immediate and powerful, both physically and emotionally too, and it reassured him, restoring his equanimity. Odd, he reflected with a slight, inward smile, that somehow in the past weeks, lusting for Hermione had become so natural, had even become a sign that his world was in its rightful position.
When had his desire for Hermione become such an immutable fact of his existence, ranking along with his love of flying and the evil of Voldemort?
He opened the door to his bedchamber quietly and slipped inside, his hands already going up to tug on his cravat, undoing it and pulling it off, before he stopped, his gaze falling on Hermione.
He felt a rush of warmth in his chest. She had elected to sleep in his bed even though she couldn't know when he would join her… And she had tried to wait up for him too. He smiled at the sight of her, having clearly fallen asleep while reading, her book still open on the counterpane, one hand resting on it.
He made quick work of the rest of his clothes trying to be as silent as possible so as not to wake her, but in spite of his care, she stirred anyway and awoke.
"Harry?" she mumbled half-drowsily.
"Yes," he answered quietly. "I did not mean to wake you."
She blinked and then opened her eyes fully, her gaze finding him as he moved about the room. "I intended to stay up until you came."
A smile curved his lips. "I can see that but you should not have bothered."
She roused herself, propping herself up on one arm as she put her book away on the nightstand. "Did you manage to accomplish as much as you wanted to with the account books?"
"Yes, I believe so. At any rate, you needn't fear that I will mismanage the estate into debtor's prison."
She smiled. "I never had any such fear."
"I am flattered to hear it." He paused and then remarked, "Miss Weasley was in the library when I left. She was restless and sought a book to help her sleep."
Harry didn't notice Hermione's slight stiffening at his words as he slid in beside her.
"Oh?" Hermione strove to keep her tone controlled so as not to reveal her automatic reaction and then was torn between relief and irritation that Harry didn't seem to notice anything odd in her voice. "Was her room at all uncomfortable? Should I speak to Daisy about it?"
"No, I think it's fine." He moved one hand to cup the nape of her neck, gently tugging her closer to him. "Let us not talk of her anymore." He brushed his lips against hers lightly, teasingly. "I can think of better things for us to discuss," he murmured against her lips.
She laughed softly against his lips, dismissing her momentary doubts and melting against him as she always did. She could never resist his touch or his kiss. "Oh really? What did you have in mind, Mr. Potter?" she breathed, her lips just touching his, once, twice, three times.
He deepened the kiss as her lips parted for him, welcoming him in, her arms sliding around his neck, as she returned his kiss with her usual sweet ardor.
His lips left hers to trail delicate kisses along the line of her jaw and then down her throat, his lips and tongue finding every sensitive spot he'd learned in the past weeks.
She gasped and arched under him, her hands moving restlessly over his shoulders and back.
"I think," he murmured softly against her skin, "we should discuss this." One of his hands slid up her thigh in a slow caress, pushing up her nightgown as it went.
She whimpered and had to fight for some semblance of coherence, even as his wickedly wandering hand was rapidly dissolving whatever grasp she had of the English language. "A scandalous suggestion," she returned on a sharp gasp that turned into a moan.
"I find a little scandal adds spice to life," he murmured, the effect of the words marred by his own gasps for breath and the huskiness of his tone.
She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging him back so she could kiss him again and no more words were spoken by either of them, to be replaced with soft moans and gasps and whimpers.
And they both forgot the very existence of Miss Weasley and, indeed, of everyone else in the world, the rest of the world dissolving around them until they were the only two people in it…
~To be continued…