Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
Author's Note: Thank you, everyone, for reading this story so faithfully, in spite of the long wait between some updates. I'm absolutely amazed at the number of reviews this story has had-almost 900!!-- and so glad to know so many people enjoyed this story that much. And now, this is the last chapter and the end of this story, except for an Epilogue to come.
In which Ginny gets a little more punishment- followed by more smut and yet more fluff. Enjoy!
The Truth About Love
Chapter 14b: The Truth About Marriage
Miss Ginevra Weasley was not pleased.
She had to fight to keep her expression pleasant even as she wanted to glare at her, Hermione Gra-no, Hermione Potter, Ginny corrected herself with an inward grimace. It was all her fault, Ginny thought. Hermione's fault for getting herself compromised-Ginny was quite sure that Hermione must have somehow planned for her staying overnight in the cabin with Mr. Potter and Ron to become public. If such a ploy would have worked for Ginny herself, she would have arranged to stay overnight with Ron and Mr. Potter as early as possible-except she knew it would not have worked as Ron would have served as an adequate chaperone so doing so would not have achieved anything. But for Hermione to plan such a thing and then, worse than that, succeed at it-it was the outside of enough!
Hermione was smiling and to Ginny, her every smile resembled a smirk as if she knew she'd won and was gloating over it. It was really the most infuriating thing.
Mr. Potter had belonged to Ginny. He'd wanted to marry her, Ginny knew it. But no, he'd had to do the honorable thing and marry Hermione and now it was all ruined. The perfect life she'd had planned, her perfect life with the handsome, wealthy and heroic husband, all the fine dresses and fine jewelry she'd already begun to think of, all ruined because of her.
Ginny narrowed her eyes as she studied Hermione, seated at the end of the dinner table opposite Mr. Potter. It was positively sickening to see Mr. Potter smile at Hermione from across the table and then how their eyes would meet and linger in what was clearly a private exchange. They looked like every bit of the happily enamoured couple. Ginny abruptly realized she had clenched her jaw and forcibly relaxed it, pasting her most winning smile on her face as she turned to Mr. Potter, only to realize that he was, still, watching Hermione with that soft expression in his eyes.
Ginny turned away, gritting her teeth as much as she could while still outwardly smiling. It didn't make any sense! What could Mr. Potter possibly see in Hermione Potter? She was certainly no beauty; her hair was a very drab brown and almost wild in its curls and her eyes were very plain as well. She had no sense of what was fashionable; Ginny remembered quite well that Hermione had always been utterly incapable of carrying on a normal conversation on such basic topics as the latest bonnet styles or the merits of various Town modistes. Hermione wasn't really a young lady at all, always more interested in the more masculine, unladylike pursuits like Defense Against the Dark Arts, than in any of the more ladylike subjects like embroidery. It was positively scandalous how hoydenish Hermione was! Ginny studied Hermione, attempting to view her in an objective manner, or attempting to find what Mr. Potter saw in her but failed. Mrs. Potter's gown was a plain one, almost completely devoid of ornamentation and frills, and her only jewelry aside from her wedding ring was a very simple, very plain gold chain. Ginny simply could not understand it. Mrs. Potter had no beauty, little charm, little sense of what was truly proper for a young lady-and yet, it was at her that Mr. Potter stared with that tender expression, at her that Mr. Potter smiled… And it was her whom Mr. Potter had kissed with so much palpable tenderness that afternoon-scandalous, yes, but yet more visible proof that Mr. Potter was safely married and therefore entirely out of her reach.
Worse, Ginny could not even detect the slightest shred of regret in Mr. Potter for having married! Ginny could not believe it. For what other reason had she been anticipating this house party if not to see some sign of regret for what he'd lost? Ginny didn't want Mr. Potter to be miserable; all she'd wanted, all she'd really expected, was some sign-a sigh or a look, perhaps-to show that Mr. Potter felt some regret, some wistfulness at the thought of what he'd lost. Some indication that Mr. Potter wished, in his heart of hearts, that he'd married Ginny instead of his hoyden wife.
Instead, Ginny was being forced to witness Mr. Potter gazing at his wife as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world, generally behaving very much like a besotted husband. And, adding insult to injury, Mr. Potter's manner to Ginny herself left much to be desired. Oh, he was scrupulously courteous and agreeable, as any host should be, but there was very little special warmth in his manner, no particular attentiveness. Even earlier that day when Ginny had deliberately engaged Mr. Potter's attention by asking about Quidditch, he had answered her questions with good humor and perfect courtesy, yes, but with detachment as well. It was as if Mr. Potter had entirely forgotten that he'd once wanted to court Ginny at all, as if Mr. Potter had never even thought of marrying anyone other than Hermione at all.
It was all entirely unaccountable and very disagreeable. Ginny fought the impulse to scowl down at her plate.
She heard Ron make some remark to Harry and his jocular tone grated on Ginny's nerves until she could have cheerfully slapped her brother for being so utterly oblivious to Ginny's own humiliation and anger.
And Ginny could only fix a baleful gaze on Hermione Potter and writhe inwardly in a silent agony of helpless anger and resentment. Her anger was futile, Ginny acknowledged, and the knowledge only served to increase her resentment.
Hermione had won; she was married to Harry Potter and, even if Ginny found it entirely incomprehensible, Mr. Potter seemed quite besotted with Hermione. It was beyond infuriating and Ginny could only wish, desperately, that this entire, interminable day would end soon and this ill-fated house party would be over quickly without any more nauseating displays of Mr. Potter's affection for Hermione.
If he had but known it, Harry might have been surprised to know that his and Ginny's thoughts and wishes were running along very similar lines at that moment, albeit for very different reasons.
He could swear this particular meal, this day in general, was lasting twice as long as it normally did. All when he was in a positive fever of anticipation for that night and when he could finally be alone with Hermione again. He hadn't had a moment's chance of a private tete-a-tete with Hermione all day with the exception of that all-too-brief (and still public) interlude that afternoon.
What had he been thinking to think hosting a house party was a wise idea? He inwardly grimaced. More fool him.
At this rate, marriage seemed likely to turn him into a veritable hermit.
Harry sat in his dining room with only those who were nearest and dearest to him and found himself quite candidly wishing that every one of his guests were in Egypt or on the continent or, at the very least, in Town, anywhere so long as they were not there, in his house. He wanted to be alone with Hermione, wanted to be sitting close by her so he could talk to her and listen to her and, occasionally, reach over to touch her hand.
Instead, he found himself separated from Hermione by the length of the dining room table and quite unable to have any private conversation with her.
Although being seated where he was did allow him to keep his gaze on her. She was so beautiful, this wife of his, his Hermione… He glanced at Miss Lovegood, smiling as she listened to what Mr. Weasley was saying, and then at Miss Weasley, who he'd always before thought was so lovely, before he looked back at Hermione, deciding that Hermione really was-in his probably biased opinion-the most beautiful woman ever. He didn't know how he could have known her for so many years and not noticed it, not seen it, but he could only think that he must have been willfully blind.
She was smiling a little as she listened to Remus but more than that was the intensity of her concentration on whatever Remus was saying. He knew her well enough to recognize when she was eating absently, not paying attention to what she ate, could recognize the absorbed look on her face. He felt a flicker of curiosity as to what Remus was telling Hermione and made a mental note to ask Hermione later.
Later… The word brought up Hermione's earlier promise of waiting until tonight and distracted his thoughts from his idle curiosity to focus on her and on all he wished he could do to her and with her…
His eyes wandered leisurely over her face and down the graceful curve of her neck and chin, the smooth skin revealed by the relatively low bodice of her evening gown, modest as it was. As usual, several strands of her hair had escaped from her coiffure and were dangling down, just brushing the nape of her neck, the lovely curve where her neck met her shoulder. He wanted to bury his lips in that spot, taste her skin, hear the delicious little gasps she gave whenever he touched her like that…
Harry fought the urge to squirm, wrenching his gaze away from his too-enticing wife and trying to focus on Ron, who was saying something (of which Harry had heard very little). Ron looked at him expectantly and Harry quickly made a noncommittal sound of agreement before taking a rather undignified bite of food to avoid anything further. Fortunately, Ron didn't seem to see anything odd and continued on while Harry made a valiant effort to listen.
Marriage or, more accurately, love, was certainly opening his eyes to new experiences-although Harry rather thought he could have lived without his current experience of sitting in the dining room in public while half-aroused and knowing that he would simply have to endure it for hours yet.
He was never going to invite guests to his house again. Or at least not until this ever-present desire for Hermione somehow waned-although he couldn't imagine that really happening. He really wasn't going to host another house party ever again, he decided. Not when he had a wife who was infinitely more distracting and desirable than any guest could possibly be.
But his decision still meant he needed to endure the rest of this evening, to say nothing of the next couple days of this party.
It was in this not-very-hospitable state of mind that Harry resolutely turned his mind to what he should be doing as the host and listening to what Ron was saying.
But before he did, he couldn't resist one last, quick glance at Hermione, meeting her eyes as she gave him a small, private smile and even at that distance, he fancied he could see the promise in her eyes, the slight blush on her cheeks, before she returned her gaze and her attention to Remus.
And Harry made a valiant effort to give his complete attention to Ron.
Just a few more hours… A few more hours and then he could be with Hermione again…
All things do come to an end and the seemingly interminable supper ended and then, some time later, Mrs. Weasley was the first one to stand and say she was going to retire. (Harry had to fight to suppress the urge to sound too enthusiastic over that idea.)
Mr. Weasley lingered a little while longer before he too retired, followed almost immediately by Miss Weasley. Miss Lovegood remained for a short time before retiring as well.
Harry glanced at Hermione as she gave Ron and Remus a smile before saying, "I will leave you gentlemen to your conversation." She glanced at Harry, meeting his eyes and he read her unspoken thought in her eyes as clearly as if she'd spoken it aloud. Hurry upstairs. And it was as much as Harry could do to keep from following her out of the parlor as she left.
Harry suppressed a sigh as he resumed his seat and looked towards Ron and Remus, seeing the slight, knowing smile on Remus' face.
Ron opened his lips and Harry waited tensely, waiting for Ron to say that he, too, would retire only to hear Ron's voice say, instead, with the most ingenuous joviality, "I say, Harry, what do you say we try some of that remarkable brandy you mentioned earlier?"
Harry wanted desperately to refuse but good manners and his duties as host prevailed and he agreed with as much alacrity as he could muster.
Never mind the years of friendship, he reflected, as they adjourned to his study and waited for Dobby to bring the brandy. He was going to kill Ron. That was all. Really. If Ron insisted on lingering for any longer than a few minutes…
~~
Harry walked as swiftly as he could without actually breaking into an undignified run down the silent corridor until he reached his bedchamber, the only door under which a light was visible.
He entered the room and lost his breath at the sight that greeted him. And any last remnants of irritation and impatience he'd been feeling vanished, a surge of love and lust filling him until there was no room for any other emotion. She was all he'd ever wanted or dreamed of in his life…
Hermione was sitting up in his bed reading a book which she put away once he entered, as she looked up and smiled at him, gloriously. This wasn't the more restrained smile she used in public occasions, or the more formal, meaningless social smile she could call forth; this was an open, utterly honest smile that glowed in her eyes and illuminated her face and warmed his heart at the sight of it-all the more because he knew perfectly well that he was the only person who would ever see her smile like this.
She was wearing a nightgown of such a gauzy material that it rather called attention to the curves it purported to conceal, the thin material flowing over her body in such a way that the curves of her breasts were clearly outlined and he could just see hints of the slightly darker aureoles of her nipples. He felt a flash of heat go through his body, his body reacting immediately to the sight. Merlin, she was so lovely…
Blast Ron anyway! He should have been rude and simply left Ron to his own devices.
"I hope you enjoyed your conversation with Ron and Mr. Lupin."
He made an eloquent face. "Ron was being very tiresome and swilling our brandy as if he were dying of thirst."
Hermione laughed. "What an ungenerous thing to say, Harry," she chided mildly. "Ron isn't to blame for your impatience."
"Perhaps not," Harry conceded, shrugging out of his coat and undoing his cravat. "But he could easily have retired sooner than he did, lingering over his brandy the way he did. We'll see how he likes it if someone ever does the same when he has a wife warming his bed." He paused at her soft laughter, knowing she knew that he was pretending to rather more irritation than he felt. He tossed his waistcoat onto the dresser before continuing, "And Remus was not much more helpful. They will see if they are ever invited here again," he threatened with mock severity.
"You may not invite them but I certainly will," Hermione retorted teasingly. "I, for one, have been very much enjoying Mr. Lupin's company."
"Yes, I could see that," Harry said, pretending disgruntlement. "What were you and he discussing over supper and afterwards that thrilled you so?"
"He was telling me more about his experiences with Defense Against the Dark Arts and we have arranged that he will return in a se'nnight for my first lesson."
"It is nice to know my wife sees fit to consult me before inviting guests to our home," Harry said ironically, addressing the air. "You are very fortunate that I am not more inclined to be a jealous husband," he informed Hermione with mock seriousness that was entirely belied by the teasing smile he could not help.
She laughed softly, reaching for him as he slid into bed beside her. "Oh yes, I've long known that I am most fortunate in my husband."
"Good. See that you do not forget it," he breathed, brushing his lips against her temple and then down, lightly feathering kisses along the curve of her cheek.
"Never," she promised softly just before his lips found hers and he kissed her fully.
She melted against him, as always, her lips parting, yielding. What he wanted, she gave with the same open generosity that never failed to captivate him.
His hand cupped the nape of her neck gently, holding her in place, as he shifted above her, pressing her into the pillows. He could feel the thin material of her nightgown against his bare chest and through it, the heat and the softness of her skin, could feel her nipples as they peaked and hardened against his chest.
His other hand slid irresistibly down her body to cup her breast as she arched against him, making a soft sound in the back of her throat.
He cupped and kneaded and pleasured her through her nightgown until she had to fight to breathe, had no coherence left but could only strain towards him, urging him on. The material of her nightgown was thin enough that it wasn't a barrier at all but it was still too much. She wanted to feel his skin against hers.
Her hands clutched at his shoulders and moved restlessly, impatiently, greedy for the feel of his skin, the taut muscles of his back and lower still.
She felt a sharp stab of loss when his hands ceased their caresses only to realize a second later that he was tugging her nightgown up and she arched, lifting her hips obligingly so he could slide the nightgown up all the way. And she just felt the touch of cool air against her now-bare skin before his body was back, settling over hers, covering her and there was only the heat of him.
A shiver of anticipation and arousal passed through her, feeling her body soften, mold itself against his as she brought his lips back to hers to kiss him with all the passion in her soul, all the love and all the lust she felt. Her tongue flicked against the corners of his lips, tangled with his tongue, as she kissed him with all the sensual skill and knowledge she could muster.
He finally broke the kiss on a gasp, his lips moving on, skating down the line of her chin, finding the sensitive spot just under her earlobe and then down further, leaving a trail of soft, damp kisses along her neck until she was moaning and arching under him.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured indistinctly against her skin, the feel of his lips, the low, husky sound of his voice, his words spilling over her skin, faintly tickling, titillating, the sensations blurring together until she could swear she physically felt every syllable.
"Harry…" His name escaped her lips on a half-moan, half-sigh, without her even realizing she had spoken.
Her fingers tangled in his hair intending to tug him upwards so she could kiss him but then he lowered his lips to her skin again, his lips leaving a leisurely trail of soft, damp, open-mouthed kisses down from her breasts, down her stomach, and further…
He kissed, he licked, he savored-she lost her mind.
Her fingers tightened mindlessly in his hair and then relaxed on a fresh wave of pleasure as he traced the curve of her hip with his tongue.
She was dying, her body burning up beneath his lips and hands; she was gasping for breath, desperate and needy and squirming under him. Surely-surely-he would cease this delicious torment soon… Surely-surely-he would move back up and ease into her, fill the emptiness inside her…
His lips travelled lower, along her upper thigh and then-and then she could feel the hot puff of his breath against her thigh and there, that most secret, most intimate part of her body…
It was too much sensation, too much pleasure-it felt wicked, sinful… decadent… irresistible…
Surely he wouldn't-he couldn't-
He would-he could-and he did…
Her lips had parted, on a breath or a protest, she wasn't sure and never found out, because at that moment, he lowered his lips again and kissed her there--
All the breath-her remaining wits-left her on a strangled cry. And she forgot to protest, forgot to breathe, forgot where she was, her own name, forgot everything except the unbelievable, shocking-thrilling-intimacy of his lips on that most secret part of her body.
Liquid fire was streaking through her veins from the spot where his lips and tongue were moving on her body, exploring, worshipping, learning her in the most intimate way a man could learn a woman.
She felt as if something, some madness, had taken possession of her body, her hips twisting, arching, under him of their own volition, small, breathless cries and moans tripping from her lips as she writhed under his touch. And then all the tension, all the building pleasure, reached its peak and exploded inside her in a burst of glory.
When she returned to an awareness of her surroundings, it was to find that Harry had moved back up on the bed, his hand resting on her stomach and moving in idle, almost soothing caresses, as he watched her with a look of arousal mingled in with so much tenderness it made her breath catch in her throat and she could only think, vaguely, that she would never doubt his feelings for her again. All the love she'd ever dreamed he might feel was clear to be seen in his eyes at that moment.
"Oh, my…" The words trembled on her lips on a sighing breath. Had she thought she knew what pleasure was to be found in the marriage bed? She hadn't; it had been a pale imitation of this, what she'd felt tonight. Clearly, loving-and knowing that she was loved-had a powerful effect on love-making. "That was… lovely…"
"You're lovely." The words were spoken so simply and so obviously sincerely that the trite words were somehow invested with fresh meaning, almost as if they'd never yet been spoken by anyone, or at least not with so much feeling.
Harry could swear he'd stopped breathing as he watched Hermione, an odd triumph (as if this were the first time) mingling with his fierce desire to know that he'd given her this, he'd brought her to this peak of pleasure.
He had been a little uncertain, doing something which he'd only heard spoken of in whispers and bawdy euphemisms among circles of men when they were discussing women and what gave them pleasure-but nothing had told him that it would incite his own desires to such an extent, that it would give him such pleasure to pleasure her, to taste her, explore the wet, soft, heated mystery of her body with his lips and his tongue… And then to see her, hear her, as she came…
She was the sweetest, loveliest thing he'd ever seen. And while he'd long known of her honesty, it had only been lately that he'd realized what it meant for love-making and then it was to find that the utter transparency of her pleasure and of her passion was an aphrodisiac like no other. She was too honest to hide her feelings or her thoughts and too honest to hide or even think to hide her reactions. And he loved that about her, loved not only her responsiveness and the passion of her but also loved the unabashed sincerity of her passion, the sensuality she didn't think to hide. She was so giving… In every way, in the bedroom and out of it. Outside of the bedchamber, she gave of her caring and her loyalty and her cleverness; it was why she was incapable of standing by when she saw an injustice. And in the bedchamber, she gave of herself, all the passion and the natural sensuality of her nature, with an honesty and a generosity that enthralled him, ensnared him.
All the more so because, somehow, in spite of his blindness about her until recently, Hermione-and all her honesty, all her generosity, all her passion-was his…
"Harry…" she breathed, sliding one hand behind his neck to bring his lips to hers-not that he needed much urging.
He cupped her cheek with one hand as he kissed her, his lips on hers, his tongue exploring her mouth as her lips softened and parted for him. And as always, he felt as if he were sinking into her, gave himself up to the heat of her and the softness of her and the taste of her.
She shifted beneath him, her body adjusting to his, molding to his, with the innate, instinctive sensuality that took his breath away and then he felt her hand slip in between their bodies and wrap around him.
God! She was going to be the death of him.
He tore his hips from hers on a sharp gasp, his body rigid with lust, as he looked down at her, seeing the hint of a smile curve her lips, the touch of smugness in her expression.
"I want you," she told him simply and then, suiting her action to her words, tightened her hand around him, wrenching a groan from his chest before he gave in.
He couldn't resist her, even if he'd wanted to. He flattened his lips on hers, kissing her long and deeply, his body lowering over hers, as her legs parted for him, and he slid inside her wet heat in one smooth motion.
He stopped for the barest instant when he was fully inside her, his eyes almost rolling back in his head at the exquisite agony of feeling her, tight and hot and wet, surrounding him.
"Harry," she breathed and then tightened her muscles around him, her arms and her legs wrapping around him, encouraging, welcoming him, urging him on.
"Hermione…" Her name was a rough, guttural sound just before he kissed her as his hips began to move, withdrawing and then returning.
She met and matched his movements with her own, her hips arching up to meet him, her arms clutching at his shoulders, her legs wrapping around him.
His heartbeat was thundering in his ears but even so, he was aware of the tiny, soft sounds she made, the small gasps and little moans, the familiar and ever-erotic sounds of her arousal. He loved it all, gloried in it, everything about this-the sounds she made, the taste of her, the heat of her, the responsiveness of her…
One of his hands cupped, curved around her breast, his fingers brushing her hardened nipples, and she cried out. His other hand slid down her body in a long caress until he found the swollen, wet center of her where they were joined--
She screamed, her scream swallowed by his lips as he kissed her, feeling his hips speed up their movements, feeling the tension building, building…
She cried out again, her muscles convulsing around him, and just like that, the feel of her tightening around him pushed him over the edge and he died, the explosion rocking him, shaking him, stealing his breath and his mind.
She did that to him, the heat of her, the softness of her, drawing him with her-and he could only respond, gave her his life and his heart and his very soul…
He collapsed on top of her, his heart feeling as if it was trying to pound its way out of his chest, and tried to breathe, tried to move. Tried-and failed.
How long he lay there, he didn't know, but then she shifted a little, and he belatedly realized he must be crushing her and managed to roll over onto his side, his body slipping out of hers.
He drew her with him, keeping her warmth against him, and she came willingly, her body softening, molding against his, as if it was where she'd always been meant to be.
He closed his eyes and luxuriated in the feel of her against him, the press of her breasts against him, the warm weight of her as she lay half above him, one of her legs tangled with his… He never wanted to move again.
He felt rather than heard her soft, contented sigh, her breath lightly tickling his skin, a moment before he heard her murmur, softly, "I love you."
He smiled to himself, feeling those three words, I love you, twine around his heart, seep into it, filling his heart with an emotion he'd never felt before, filling him with the truth of them. The truth of her love for him-and of his for her.
"I know."
He sensed her slight smile. "That was not the right answer," she informed him teasingly. She moved her head, propping her chin on his chest so she could meet his eyes. "You're supposed to say, I love you too."
He gave her a look of exaggerated innocence and surprise. "Oh, was I? How remiss of me. And how fortunate that I have a wife who is always willing to tell me what to do."
He deliberately said nothing more, waited until he saw the laughter in her eyes, curving her lips, as her lips parted, on a teasing scold, he knew-before he added, softly, "You know I love you."
His words clearly sidetracked what she'd been about to say and she stopped, blinking for a moment, while he enjoyed the sight of her (it wasn't often that he could see his Hermione momentarily at a loss for words). But then she smiled, a brilliant smile, a smile that glowed in her eyes and illuminated her entire face until she was so lovely it brought an odd ache to his chest just to look at her and to know that this expression was for him, because of him…
"Oh, Harry…" she sighed just before she stretched up to kiss him, softly, her lips lingering on his, as his hand swept up her back in a long caress before his fingers tangled in her hair, keeping her head in place.
The kiss ended slowly and when it was over, Hermione nestled back against him, resting her head on his shoulder.
He tightened his arms around her almost imperceptibly, feeling his body relax, peace and happiness settling over him like a blanket, warm and comforting.
This was happiness, the thought drifted through his mind. Happiness-soul-deep and true-to be here, feeling the warm weight of Hermione's body against his side, knowing that he loved her and she loved him. It was, he realized, like a deepening of the comfort he had always felt with Hermione, a more intense version of comfort, if that made any sense. He had always been comfortable with Hermione, had always felt at ease with her. And that feeling was only deeper now, a deeper trust. He had trusted her with his secrets and with his life for years and now, it seemed only natural to trust her with his heart, with his very soul, even…
It wasn't long before Hermione's breathing became deep and even and he realized she'd fallen asleep.
He felt a wave of tenderness and shifted to pull the covers up over them, moving carefully so as not to jostle her sleeping form.
A shaft of moonlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating her face, and he turned his head on his pillow just enough to look at her, wondering when watching her sleep had become such an enjoyable pastime.
She looked… different… in sleep, softer somehow, more vulnerable, even fragile, with her features relaxed as they were. And even though he, of all people, knew that the impression of fragility was misleading, something about the sight of her now caught at his heart. Seeing her sleeping like this made him want to keep her wrapped in safety and security and happiness forever.
He suddenly found himself remembering the only other times he had ever seen Hermione asleep before they'd been married, those times she had come to where he and Ron were in hiding because she had found something out. (Those fateful times that Lady Danvers had somehow heard about and used to force them into this marriage, and he found himself thinking that after all, that scandal had ended up being the best thing that had ever happened to him.) The first time had been because she had figured out where one of the horcruxes must be hidden, the second when she had found a spell which she thought would be useful in defeating Voldemort (and it had been; it had been that spell which, more than any other, saved his life, a spell to separate a soul from its body). Both times she had been almost haggard with exhaustion and had then dozed off in her chair. And he had not had the heart to wake her, had only covered her with a blanket and slipped away to his own room, although he had usually not slept.
Now, months later, he remembered it with a rush of gratitude and tenderness which he hadn't felt then, preoccupied as he'd been with the War. Perhaps, after all, this love had really begun then, so many months ago, with all her loyalty and her friendship and her courage, when she had never permitted anything, any rule of Hogwarts or of propriety (which she had scornfully shrugged off as being silly when his life or death was at stake) to keep her from helping him. Perhaps, just perhaps, this feeling had always been there, just waiting for him to realize it, and the only aspect which was truly new was his desire…
He really did not know when he'd begun to love her so, could not even remember exactly when he had realized he loved her. But, after all, he didn't need to know when it had happened. All he needed to know was that it had.
He shifted a little, his body adjusting to a more comfortable position and then he stopped as Hermione stirred a little restlessly.
He brushed his lips against her forehead, his hand moving on her bare back in a slow caress, and she nestled in closer to him, a soft, wordless murmur escaping her lips.
So very dear, so precious to him…
"My love," he breathed softly, even though he knew she wouldn't hear him in her sleep but simply to say the words, feel the truth of them again.
She was his best friend, his comfort and his strength… She was his love-as, perhaps, in some strange way, she always had been meant to be.
He closed his eyes and let himself drift into sleep, content in the knowledge that she was there, beside him, and always would be.
~(Almost) the end…