Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
Author's Note: Apologies for the terribly long wait!! And since I truly don't mean to keep you waiting forever and because I decided to split this last chapter up into two, because it's really getting to be too long, I'm posting the first half of this chapter now. Because it's Valentine's Day and you all have been very patient in waiting for this.
In which Ginny gets her come-uppance. Enjoy!
The Truth About Love
Chapter 14a: The Truth About Marriage
It was going to be a wonderful day.
Hermione was quite blissfully certain of this as she almost floated down the stairs that morning. She supposed she must look rather silly smiling to herself as she suspected she was, but she could not help it and, for once in her life, she was too content to care if she looked foolish. She was still filled with a deliciously languorous sense of well-being after the way Harry had woken her up that morning and the all-too-brief interlude that had followed.
A slight shiver of pleasure passed through her just at the memory of his slow, leisurely kisses and idle caresses. It was truly astonishing just how delightful it had been to lie there beside him and simply kiss him, be kissed by him-just kissing, only his lips on hers, and very little else involved. For once, there had been no blaze of passion, no intensity of sensation; it had simply been warmth and lazy, luxurious pleasure until she had felt positively limp with bliss, dazed and suffused with the warm sense of utter well-being which lingered in her now. Simply kissing… he had not tried to caress her intimately, had not tried to escalate things, and neither had she. They had both been perfectly content just to kiss, exploring the other's mouth with a leisurely thoroughness that was rather new but no less pleasant…
She would have been perfectly happy to linger there in his bed, kissing him, for hours but all too soon, they had reluctantly separated with the acknowledgement that it would not do for them to stay there while the morning advanced, given the presence of guests.
The morning room was deserted when Hermione arrived although she could see evidence that someone-Remus, she surmised-had already breakfasted and gone out.
Well, solitude suited her that morning; she was quite content to think of Harry and the morning so far as she broke her fast.
Her smile lasted through her daily morning consultation with Daisy over the menus for the day and any other household matters that may have come up. And on a wish to see everyone as happy as she felt, she gave Daisy a (perfectly sincere) smiling compliment that had the elf flushing until she looked almost purple and curtsying so deeply she looked in danger of losing her balance for a few seconds and almost babbling her gratitude and pleasure and the great honor to work for Harry Potter and his wife.
She dismissed Daisy's thanks with another smile and left the room which she'd appropriated as her sanctum with a light step.
"Good morning, Hermione."
Hermione turned to beam at Ron as he intercepted her on her way outside. "Good morning. Have you breakfasted?"
Ron gave her a smilingly incredulous look. "You should know me better than to ask such a question by now, Mrs. Potter. Of course I've breakfasted."
Hermione laughed a little. "Of course. I forgot momentarily whom I was speaking to."
"I was just thinking of walking out to enjoy the fine weather. Would you care to join me?" Ron asked with teasingly-exaggerated formality.
"Certainly, Mr. Weasley," Hermione smiled, the formal address belied by the comfortable way in which she took his arm.
"This is certainly a very fine house," Ron commented idly as they left the house.
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Hermione slowed as she glanced back at it. "Sometimes," she admitted softly, hardly realizing she was going to speak at all, "I look around and I'm still amazed that this is my home now."
"You are happy then," Ron said and the words were a statement rather than a question.
Hermione glanced at him. "Why, Ron, did you expect that Harry would banish me to live in a hovel somewhere, perhaps live on scraps of food and water?" she smiled, making light of it.
Ron smiled swiftly but turned to look at her and his expression was, again, rather uncharacteristically sober. "I was more concerned about your personal happiness than the material considerations. I know you and Harry did not exactly marry under ideal circumstances," he finished a little awkwardly. It was his first outward acknowledgement that there had been anything at all unusual about the reason for her marrying Harry. "I was simply concerned. I- I rather think you both deserved more than a forced marriage."
"Oh, Ron…" Hermione sighed a little. She, of all people, knew that Ron was much more than the carefree, good-humored young gentleman most people saw but even so, she was still taken aback in the rare times when he was completely serious. "You need not worry about me. I am perfectly content." More than content, she admitted, fighting a blush at the memory of that morning and savoring the lingering warmth at the thought of it.
She felt Ron's gaze on her face and gave him a smile. "You are very sweet to be so concerned, though."
Ron's face assumed an arrested expression as he studied her for a moment and then a smile dawned slowly. "Well, I'll be…" he said softly. "You are in love with him." It was not a question.
Hermione felt herself blush hotly but could hardly deny it. "Is it so very obvious?"
"Mm, perhaps not," Ron conceded. "But I do know you rather well, you know, Hermione."
"Yes, I suppose you do. Well, you may certainly put any fears for my happiness to rest."
"I have no doubt of that now and I am glad of it. I should hate to think of either you or Harry being unhappy."
Hermione smiled and gave his arm a slight pressure as they continued their stroll, in which they were soon joined by every other member of the party, all seeking to take advantage of the fineness of the morning.
And Hermione felt the first ripple in her happiness as she saw that Miss Weasley had succeeded in trapping Harry into conversation, even drawn them a little apart from the others.
That, in itself, she would not have minded quite so much-although she had to admit that some tiny (petty) corner of herself did not particularly care to see Harry with Miss Weasley simply because of what a striking pair they made together-but what she did mind, what made the first shadow encroach upon her happiness of the morning was how very engrossed Harry seemed in the conversation.
She knew Harry well enough to be able to recognize when he was bored or impatient with a conversation, when he was merely being polite in conversing with someone. She didn't see any of those signs today.
She could not tell what they were speaking of but whatever the subject, Harry at least was quite interested. She could see it in the gestures he made, in the animation of his expression as he looked at Miss Weasley.
And Miss Weasley, as was customary for her, was regarding Harry with a flattering attention, an apparent fascination in all he might say.
Hermione told herself she should not mind, that she had no reason to feel at all threatened by this.
And yet… she was troubled, the surface of her happiness a little disturbed.
She little knew at that moment how much more her happiness would be disturbed that day.
~
Hermione stiffened when she found that Miss Weasley had moved to her side as they strolled in the gardens and that they had, somehow, fallen apart from the rest of the group, who had paused to admire a bed of particularly vibrantly-colored and fragrant roses.
She had, until now, managed to avoid any direct conversation with Miss Weasley other than the most mundane pleasantries in her duties as the hostess but now, short of an unforgivable breach of manners, she was trapped.
She did not know Miss Weasley very well; the age difference combined with Hermione's lack of interest in the usual feminine subjects of fashion and gossip had effectively prevented any real friendship from developing. That aside, Hermione had to admit that she was simply ill at ease with Miss Weasley, Miss Weasley being exactly the sort of young lady who had always had the effect of making Hermione feel something like a sort of distant cousin to a troll or a hag. Hermione was not overly given to thinking about her appearance but being in company with Miss Weasley and other young ladies like her never failed to make Hermione feel painfully lacking. She told herself that she had no reason to regret-she was, she knew, smarter and more capable than Miss Weasley or her like would ever be. But it was small comfort, sometimes, especially as Hermione was also much too clever to be under any illusion as to the fact that gentlemen rarely considered intelligence when it came to admiration or love and, equally certainly, gentlemen nearly always prized beauty above all else.
She pretended absorption in admiring the patch of hyacinths they were standing by in a futile attempt to avoid conversation.
She wondered what reason Miss Weasley could have in seeking her out. Until now, Miss Weasley's attention had generally been focused, as much as basic propriety allowed, on Harry and, foolish though it might be, Hermione could not but feel uncomfortable around Miss Weasley from the consciousness that, had circumstances been different, had Lady Danvers never snubbed her, had Harry been less honorable, Miss Weasley would likely be engaged to Harry, if not married to him.
And a corner of her couldn't help but wonder if Harry regretted it, if Harry still wished he had married Miss Weasley instead. She knew that Harry desired her (and the knowledge thrilled her, made her entire body feel warmer at the thought) but desire wasn't love and knowing that Harry desired her, cared about her, wasn't enough. It would never be enough for her, not with him, not when she loved him.
Almost unconsciously, her gaze sought and found Harry, where he was standing talking with Ron and with Mr. Lupin. He was smiling easily, his stance relaxed, as he gestured with one hand, and as always, her heart reacted to the sight of him smiling. As if he sensed her gaze, he glanced over at her, his eyes meeting hers, and even at that distance, she saw (or perhaps she sensed it, willed herself to see) his smile soften a little and his small nod of acknowledgment, before he turned back to Ron.
"He should have been mine," Miss Weasley broke the silence abruptly.
Hermione's breath caught in her throat at the bluntness of this statement, the directness of this offensive, a mixture of shock, disbelief and burgeoning anger warring within her. "I beg your pardon?"
"He was going to marry me; he wanted to marry me. You and I both know it so let us not be coy and pretend otherwise," Miss Weasley said coolly. "He was my intended but you somehow got yourself compromised; you took what should have been mine."
At any other time, she would have been angry-part of her was stunned and furious at Miss Weasley's blatant rudeness-but her anger was quickly subdued in the incipient hurt that seemed all the greater because of the stark contrast to her happiness of the morning. It wasn't so much the spitefulness of Miss Weasley's words; she could have dealt with the spite and dismissed it as so much ill-natured words. What hurt, what truly pained her, was the sting of truth in them. She hadn't planned to compromise him but other than that, it was true. Harry had wanted to marry Miss Weasley; he had been Miss Weasley's intended, never officially and never so openly as to bind Harry formally, but it was true. Within the small circle of people who knew, it had been tacitly understood. And, unintentional as it had been, she had taken what was Miss Weasley's.
"He is my husband now," Hermione responded and no one hearing her could have guessed what it cost her to sound so calm and unaffected.
"Yes, he is," Miss Weasley conceded grudgingly, "but remember that it was me-it is me that he wanted to marry. It's me whom he still wants, if he were not tied to you. He did not want you; he never wanted you. He loves me still; I know he does."
Hermione looked blindly out over the gardens, the quintessentially English scene of the grass and the flowers under the bright sunlight, and wondered, with a flare of pain, why it was still so beautiful. All her contentment and her joy in Godric's Hollow, the house and the grounds, her happiness of this morning, was gone now, poisoned by Miss Weasley's deliberate words.
And she wished-oh, how she wished-that she could dismiss them as the bitter lies of a disappointed young lady (especially one who was unaccustomed to having her wishes thwarted), that she could dismiss them as having been spoken out of anger and out of malice but with little to no truth in them. But she couldn't. She could not dismiss them, could not forget them.
Because it was true; it was all true. Harry hadn't really wanted to marry her; he had married her out of duty and out of honor and out of friendship, but he hadn't really wanted her. For a moment, her mind flashed back to their wedding day, to that one, seemingly-interminable look that Harry and Miss Weasley had shared-but she shoved the memory aside. It didn't matter; that had been then but things were different now-Harry desired her now… Everything was different now-wasn't it?
She thought that Harry must feel something for her-just for her-not just physical desire and more than friendship. Surely he must; he could not have touched her so tenderly, would not have held her afterwards, during the night, when she had felt as if she were melting into him, had felt completely safe, happy, even loved…
Could he have been imagining he were with Miss Weasley instead?
Oh, nonsense! She knew better than that; her own hurt was making her irrational.
And yet… the one cold, stark fact she could not deny was that Harry had never said anything to indicate that he loved her.
He was kind and considerate and affectionate-but that was simply Harry's way and he'd never said he loved her…
She had always understood that she wasn't the type of young lady whom a gentleman would fall in love with; she wasn't beautiful, she wasn't lively, she was not charming or flirtatious. She was a bluestocking; she was too bossy, too opinionated. She had thought she had accepted it but now, faced with Miss Weasley, who was everything she was not, who was exactly the sort of young lady most gentlemen would fall in love with all too easily, now all her old insecurities came surging up inside her, insidiously but undeniably chipping away at all the confidence, all the faith, which she had gained in the past weeks.
And it hurt-oh it hurt so much. She loved Harry and she wanted Harry to love her. And she didn't know how she would bear it if he didn't love her… She knew he would always be kind and unfailingly courteous, even if his passion eventually waned-but she didn't know how she would bear his kindness then.
Harry's gaze wandered, inevitably, inexorably, across the green stretch of the gardens to where Hermione was standing with Miss Weasley, drawn as surely as the tide was drawn to the shore to Hermione's face, to the curves of her slender figure in her gown, the curves he now knew so well…
He was brought back to the present by the sound of Remus's chuckle and pulled his attention back to see Ron's grin.
"Wool-gathering?" Ron asked knowingly.
"Absolutely besotted, Harry," Remus teased. "You are as bad as your father ever was with how you seem unable to keep your eyes away from your wife."
Harry joined in with Ron's amusement, laughing self-deprecatingly. "I was looking over the gardens to see if there was anything which the garden elves needed to be told," he said in mock denial but didn't try to defend himself when Remus only raised a skeptical brow.
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," Ron mourned in an exaggeratedly histrionic fashion. "To think that the hero of the wizarding world would be reduced to such a state by a woman-and not just any woman but his own wife at that." He shook his head in mock sorrow, though the grin tugging at the corner of his lips belied the tone. "How very unfashionable of you, Harry."
Harry laughed but didn't bother to either disclaim it or defend himself. After all, there were worse fates than being completely besotted with one's wife. In fact, he was hard-put to think of anything better.
On that thought, he looked over at Hermione again and frowned, his good humor leaving him at the sight of Hermione's face.
There was something wrong. Hermione's expression was quite calm and serene-too calm and too serene. He knew her too well, could almost sense the tension in her frame, could almost feel her battle for composure, a battle which he knew she would win but which worried him.
What was Miss Weasley saying?
He felt a spurt of protective anger. "If you'll excuse me," he said in a perfunctory manner before he left Ron and Remus, and didn't wait for their response before he began moving, closing the distance between him and Hermione with swift steps.
There was something amiss; he did not like that too-still expression on Hermione's face. This was Hermione and she'd never cared to master the art of always appearing serene and unruffled and so, now, when she did look that way, he knew there was something wrong. She would not look so blank unless she was trying to conceal some strong emotion.
Hermione struggled, rallied, fighting back the crashing waves of self-doubt and incipient hurt.
She shouldn't doubt; she wouldn't doubt-but oh, how she wished she knew… Had Harry loved Miss Weasley? Did he-God forbid-did he still love Miss Weasley? Even as he desired Hermione physically, did some part of his heart still cling to Miss Weasley?
She felt as if her heart were cracking, wished desperately that she could retreat to the haven of her bedchamber in an attempt to regain her composure.
But she knew she couldn't. Moreover, she refused to give Miss Weasley the satisfaction of knowing she'd been affected in any way.
Although she didn't know how she did it, she preserved a calm façade and only responded, coolly, "Be that as it may, I am his wife now and nothing will change that."
She had some poor comfort in seeing Miss Weasley look momentarily disgruntled at this response but then Miss Weasley's entire expression, her posture-everything-changed in the blink of an eye.
"Why, Mr. Potter," Miss Weasley smiled as she greeted Harry with so much sweetness Hermione was torn between half-hysterical laughter and being sick to her stomach, "I was just telling Mrs. Potter what a lovely garden you have."
Harry looked at Miss Weasley and for a split second, there was an odd expression in his eyes (Hermione's heart gave a painful leap in her chest) but then it was gone, replaced by what Hermione termed his Society mask. He smiled courteously (and Hermione wondered if she were imagining it or did his smile not reach his eyes?). "Thank you. If you'll excuse us, there is something I would like to discuss with my wife."
(Was she imagining it-her hopes creating what she heard-or had there been the faintest emphasis on the last two words?)
"Oh, of course, you needn't worry about me. These flowers are quite enough to keep me company." Nothing could have been sweeter and more accommodating than Miss Weasley's expression and her tone; if Hermione hadn't just been privy to what Miss Weasley's character was like when she was displeased, she might have been fooled herself into thinking that Miss Weasley was truly as kind and considerate as she sounded. As it was, Hermione could only wonder with a painful wrench of her heart whether Harry was fooled-but how would he know? Miss Weasley would never have dreamed of behaving in such a way in front of Harry-and as long as Miss Weasley had her way and her wishes were satisfied, Hermione knew that Miss Weasley could be a perfectly agreeable, even charming, companion.
Harry offered his arm to Hermione with his usual courtesy. Hermione hesitated almost imperceptibly before she rested her hand on his arm, choosing the more formal gesture rather than the more intimate one of tucking her arm into his, as she usually did. She knew Harry would guess there was something amiss just with that one small change and her hesitation but she could not have borne to walk with her arm tucked into his, as they had before. If she did, if she felt his warmth against her arm, she just knew she would do something unforgivably stupid, like cry.
She sensed Harry's gaze on her but kept her face averted, thankful for once for having to wear a bonnet that served as an effective shield. "What did you need to discuss with me?" she asked and congratulated herself that she sounded normal.
"You looked like you wanted rescuing," he answered, softly enough to guarantee that no one but she could hear him, not that it was truly necessary as they were walking away from everyone else and back towards the house.
Hermione flinched inwardly. So much for her calm façade. How was it possible that he could understand her so well? Why was it possible? He shouldn't be able to read her so easily if he didn't love her…
"What did she say to you?"
Hermione hesitated but pride and years of etiquette won out. "It was nothing of consequence."
"I don't believe that," Harry said quietly. "If she said anything to you…"
He left his sentence unfinished but the implications of it were clear and the concern and the caring in his tone were her undoing.
And she found herself blurting out a question she'd never meant to ask, had promised herself she would never ask, unmindful of the blunt impropriety of the question. "Did you love her?" She did not-she could not-ask if he still loved her…
"What-is that what she said?" Harry demanded.
"No," Hermione lied immediately. "I-I wanted to know after talking with her--but you don't have to tell me. I'm sorry," she added hastily, unhappily, her momentary impulse of almost morbid curiosity over.
"No," Harry said flatly.
"No?"
"No, I didn't love her. I thought I could love her, thought that was all that mattered, but I didn't know."
Something in his tone finally gave her the courage to look up at him, trying to search his eyes. "Didn't know what?"
His steps slowed but didn't stop, his eyes fixed on the grass beneath their feet, as he spoke thoughtfully. "I didn't know what love was. I didn't know that there was more to love, more to marriage, than a pretty face and pretty manners. I never stopped to think about it, to truly consider, what it meant to spend my life with someone. Beauty and the usual lady-like accomplishments of singing and sewing and what-not, along with a bright and witty manner-that was what I thought was needed. After all, it is Society's ideal, is it not?" He infused the question with a slightly sardonic tinge, looking up at her. And what she saw-what she thought she saw-in his eyes set her heart to fluttering wildly in her chest even more than his words already had.
Now he stopped walking, turning to face her. "I never thought about what it would be like to spend my life with someone else. I never thought about what it would be like to come home to someone, what it would be like to see that person across the table every day."
"But then Lady Danvers said what she did and you were forced into marrying me," she blurted out, uncaring that she was revealing one tiny corner of her heart that still hurt at the thought that he had been forced into this. He hadn't wanted to marry her… No matter how kind he was, no matter how considerate he was, always, always, the knowledge lurked in her heart, subtly, stealthily poisoning her happiness with doubt. He hadn't wanted to marry her… He was making the best of a bad situation, wasn't blaming her-but he hadn't wanted to marry her either…
He stopped her words with his thumb, his hand cupping her chin as his fingers lightly brushed her cheek, his thumb moving slowly back and forth over her lips with a touch as light as a butterfly's caress.
He might as well have stopped her lungs as well as her words; she forgot to breathe, could only think-- no, not think, she couldn't think-- could only feel that light, mesmerizing brush of his fingers and the intimacy of his hand cupping her chin.
His lips curved ever so slightly in the ghost of a smile, his eyes lightening. "Dear Lady Danvers. I'm grateful to her every day for ensuring that I did marry you-and I learned what it meant to be married… I never thought about the importance of companionship in marriage, that one should find comfort, understanding, friendship in marriage… as well as desire," he added, his voice becoming slightly softer, huskier, on the last four words.
She felt herself flush from his tone, his words, and from all the memories, the images, they conjured up in her mind, her body suddenly much warmer as if the sun had decided to direct all its warmth solely on her.
"I didn't expect it, didn't know it would happen. But, Hermione," he said, his voice suddenly much softer and so suffused with unmistakable tenderness that happiness was already breaking over her like a wave, even before he finished his sentence, "I fell in love with you."
Her mind had stopped functioning some time ago, her entire being focusing on his touch and his tone and his look and his words, but she found enough coherence to confess, "Oh, Harry, I love you too."
The slight smile in his eyes and playing on his lips deepened a little. "I know."
She felt herself blush, some part of her pride rebelling, in spite of her happiness, at the thought that she might have been so obvious. Surely he hadn't always known…
"I may not have been the top of our class at Hogwarts, that honor being reserved for one very dear friend of mine," he added teasingly with a smile, before he went on, more soberly, "but I think I know enough to recognize love in the way you've kissed me and touched me…" his voice lowering, becoming husky.
Hermione's cheeks flamed, even as she knew a moment of vague relief. He hadn't always known but perhaps, his love had helped him recognize hers… "Harry…" she breathed, just his name but he heard and recognized the desire in her voice and in her eyes.
Heat flared in his eyes as he stepped infinitesimally closer to her, his hand still cupping her chin and neither of them knew whether she turned her face up towards his or whether he nudged her face up…
But then he belatedly realized where they were, that they were still out on the lawn in full view of their guests, the Weasleys and Remus and Miss Lovegood, and forcibly stopped himself, letting out a frustrated sigh. "Next time I suggest we have a house party, kindly tell me I'm being a fool and refuse. I'd much rather be free to kiss you whenever and wherever I please."
"Kiss me anyway." The words slipped from her lips, surprising her almost as much as they surprised him.
If she had had any power of coherent thought left, she might have reflected that, after all, their guests were few and close to being family. She might have thought that she would like to show Miss Weasley just how wrong she had been, that Harry might not always have loved her but he loved her now-and she was his wife, and always would be…
As it was, those considerations were far from her mind; indeed, she barely remembered that they were not alone. All of her thoughts, her mind, her body, were focused on him, on the tender light in his eyes mingling with the desire that sent a flush of heat through her body, arousal already beginning to make her skin tingle in delicious anticipation.
He loved her; he loved her; he loved her… And compared to that delightful truth, nothing else mattered.
Kiss me anyway. The words seemed to echo in his mind, an irresistible temptation-and a wonderful surprise. She could still surprise him; he loved that she could still surprise him.
"My love…" he murmured, without intent, without meaning to.
Hermione's eyes glowed at the endearment, her body automatically, instinctively, shifting ever so slightly closer, as if wanting to get closer to the love he offered.
And she was so beautiful at that moment that all other concerns-for propriety, for shyness, for everything else-faded from his mind; indeed, he was having difficulty recalling his own name.
His lips curved slightly. "After all, what's a little more scandal among family and friends?"
"What, indeed…" she breathed.
The words had hardly left her mouth before his lips closed over hers and he kissed her.
It was a gentle kiss, his lips just touching hers, as he kissed her tenderly, lingeringly, before he drew back reluctantly.
He wanted to deepen the kiss, to part her lips with his and feel all the delightful passion of her response-but not even he was quite so lost to the world as to do that.
She sighed softly as his lips left hers.
"I wish we were alone so I could kiss you more thoroughly," Harry said softly. "I wasn't going to say anything while everyone was here."
She drew back a little, something about his words breaking through her haze of happiness. "And why weren't you going to tell me? Why didn't you say anything sooner?"
He blinked. "Tell you I loved you?"
"Yes."
"I thought you knew."
"How would I know?"
He smiled a little, his hand cupping her cheek. "Hermione, what did you think all these past nights have been about?"
She blushed. "I thought it was about… desire," she admitted, somewhat less than fluently, her cheeks blushing hotly (delightfully, Harry thought inconsequentially) at the word. "I know that it isn't the same thing as love and I didn't want to-to presume…"
He smiled at her choice of word. "You," he said, half-lightly and half-affectionately, moving his hand to touch his finger to her nose in a teasing gesture, "think entirely too little of yourself. And as far as I'm concerned, my dear wife, you may presume all you wish."
She flushed, something in his tone and his eyes as he said the words hinting at illicit (or licit, as the case may be, since they were married) encounters, of kisses, of hot, bare skin…
"But-I'm not the sort of woman most gentleman want as a wife," she persisted, not sure why she was repeating this often-heard belief, that had always irritated her-and angered her, when she'd realized that it was, for the most part, sadly true.
"You are exactly the sort of wife any man with sense would want," Harry countered. "Men of sense do not want silly wives. Did you really think I wouldn't fall in love with you once I truly saw you for what you are?"
He paused and then added, teasingly, before she could respond, "You must think very little of me if you think I could be such a fool as to not fall in love with you."
As he'd intended, this statement surprised a laugh out of her. "Harry, don't be absurd."
"How could I not fall in love with you? After everything you've been for me, of course I would fall in love with you."
"Oh Harry…"
"That's quite enough nonsense from you on your flaws as a wife," he said with mock severity.
"Yes, Mr. Potter," she murmured demurely enough but the sparkle in her eye and the smile playing on her lips belied the meek words-and made her look so adorable that he very nearly kissed her again.
He forcibly stopped himself-one small kiss in view of others was quite bad enough but two was beyond the pale (and he knew, too, that if he did kiss her again, he would not be able to keep it brief, would not be able to resist deepening the kiss.)
He sighed. "We are putting on quite a performance for our guests and neglecting them at the same time," he said with an attempt at dignity.
"How shockingly remiss of us," she replied, with somewhat more success than he had had in regaining her usual composure, although her tone was belied by her breathlessness and the glow in her eyes and heightened color.
He let his fingers brush her cheek in a light caress before he lowered his hand back to his side. "Duty calls, Mrs. Potter."
"Yes," she said simply but her eyes were bright as she smiled at him before they both turned back towards their guests, to find that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Remus had politely turned away and were feigning rapt absorption in the view, Miss Lovegood was studying them with her usual air of half-dreamy, half-detached curiosity, Ron was openly watching them with a wide grin, and Miss Weasley was staring at them with a look in which shock, disbelief, and dismay were about equally mingled.
Hermione felt herself blush hotly and, in her current uplifted mood, could almost (almost) find it in herself to pity Miss Weasley.
"Why did I decide having house guests was a good idea?" Harry muttered but his tone was mild, laced with humor.
Hermione fought a bubble of laughter from pure happiness and found herself saying, "Wait until tonight." Then she felt a flicker of surprise at how her own voice had unconsciously softened, become low and husky-seductive-on that last word, making her meaning unmistakable. Dear Merlin, who could have known she could sound like that?
She sensed Harry's surprise before he let out a brief, somewhat strained laugh. "Witch," he accused, his voice low and with the hint of a growl in it, sending a slight, reactive shiver through her.
She met his eyes to see the heat in them before they parted, he to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and her to be greeted by an openly-grinning Ron and a smiling Mr. Lupin, whose approval was less blatant but no less sincere. And as she blushed and laughed at Ron's teasing, her own words seemed to echo in her mind, anticipation tingling through her.
Wait until tonight… Oh yes, she was definitely looking forward to tonight…
~~
~ To be continued… with more fluff and more smut… and then this fic will be over, except for a short Epilogue.