Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
Author's Note: Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing! I'm absolutely amazed at the response I've gotten to this fic. I hope you enjoy this chapter!
For my dear Jacyevans. Things get a little more fun in this chapter (and by fun, I mean UST). ;-) And I indulge my love of James Potter and describe, very briefly, some of what I think should have happened in HBP instead of the utter drivel we got.
The Truth About Love
Chapter 5: In the Still of the Night
They soon settled into a comfortable routine.
Harry generally flew every fine morning. Hermione spent the mornings going over household matters, speaking with Daisy, the house elf who acted as housekeeper. Afterwards, if it was fine, Hermione walked in the gardens, sometimes joined by Harry but on these morning walks, she was generally alone.
In the afternoons, she read, thrilled to have unfettered access to a library and not be prohibited from reading about any subject she might wish, as she had been at Hogwarts.
She spent several afternoons in the portrait gallery. Given that she gave it nearly the same amount of attention which she had once given her schoolwork, it wasn't long before Hermione could identify all the portraits in the gallery by name (greatly assisted by her discovery that the names were written on the back of each canvas.)
Hermione was delighted to find several books in the library that comprised a history of Harry's family, giving at least the names and brief backgrounds. A more pleasant surprise was to see that in the latest volumes, at least, Harry's father had decided to add in his own irreverent commentary along the margins in numerous places. The handwriting looked rather similar to what Harry's had been when she had first met him; there was the same upward slant to them and they shared some characteristics in forming letters. The comments, indeed, enlivened the otherwise rather dull history and she and Harry spent several enjoyable hours talking about them.
Beside the entry for one of Harry's ancestors, Harry's father had scrawled, "The most courageous Potter ever, a true Gryffindor. Any man who could look at that face every day of his life has my sincere admiration," referring to the man's wife, who had been one of the greatest heiresses in the wizarding world at the time but who had also, unfortunately, been very distinctly plain.
Beside the entry on Honoria Malfoy Potter was the note, "A Malfoy who was not evil; all things are possible in this world, apparently."
Another comment read, "A brave woman to be married to my great-great-great Uncle Gus, who once threw several pieces of china at one of the house elves. (He's the reason there's now an unbreakable charm on the fine china.)"
The comment on the Potter ancestor who had married a Muggle was, "With a face like that, I would have married her too!" (The lady had been strikingly beautiful, with guinea-gold hair, large blue eyes, and perfect features.)
Most afternoons, Harry joined her in the library and he would either read himself or they would talk over what she was reading. And they always had supper together; after that first night, the house elves always set their places next to each other at one end of the table so he did not have to move.
Indeed, they spent a good part of the day together. They didn't always talk but the silences were as comfortable as they had always been. And if Hermione sometimes found herself distracted from her book in studying him, her best friend, her husband, if she sometimes wondered what it would be like if her husband desired her, loved her… If she sometimes looked at Harry and wondered what it would feel like to be kissed by him, to be touched by him… Well, she tried not to dwell on it.
And every night, he escorted her to her bedroom and left her with a smile and a "Good night" and sometimes, kissed her hand and, a few times, even her cheek, very lightly. But he never tried to kiss her lips, never touched her in any way that suggested he might desire her.
She knew, as she told herself every day, that she was lucky. Harry was a considerate and kind husband, unfailingly courteous and thoughtful. He was always willing to talk to her about what she read and he never dismissed her thoughts, opinions, or questions because she "was a lady and young ladies were not supposed to take an interest in such things" as she had heard most of her life.
In truth, in some ways, marriage to Harry was exactly what she had always wanted. It was so nice to be able to spend so much time with Harry-without fear of anyone calling it improper for an unmarried young lady and gentleman to spend so much time together, and without interruption. He was her best friend.
And perhaps that was the problem. He acted like her best friend; he did not act like a husband. And Hermione could only sigh at the perversity that made it so that now, for her, friendship wasn't enough. She wanted more. She wanted him to desire her; she wanted him to love her…
~~
Hermione awoke suddenly, for a moment confused and wondering what had awoken her.
And then she heard it again, a soft, sort of muffled sound, and although she could not have told how she knew it, somehow, her mind (her heart?) identified the noise in an instant. It was Harry.
As quick as thought, she was out of her bed, throwing on her robe, and entering Harry's bedroom for the first time.
She had no eyes, no thought, for anything else but him, all of her mind immediately focused on his shadowy figure, barely visible in the dim light.
He was in the grips of a nightmare, she saw immediately, and she was by the side of his bed in a moment, moving to sit on the edge. His brow was furrowed into an expression of so much combined fear and sorrow and dread it hurt her to see it and at that moment, he let out another soft, muffled whimper. "No…"
For a fleeting moment, oddly, she wondered how he could be so quiet in his fear but realized as soon as she thought it why that was. He was forcing himself to be quiet, willing himself to be quiet; she could see it in the strain on his face, sense it in his body. Because he didn't want to disturb anyone and he had never really had anyone to comfort him when he did have nightmares; his parents hadn't been there, his godfather had been unjustly imprisoned for most of Harry's life and then had been killed, his Muggle relatives had been cruel to him. She had realized it before, that no matter how much he might trust her and Ron, no matter that he accepted their help, Harry still, at the core of him, felt alone, even expected to be alone. Even when his nights were haunted by nightmares, he forced himself to be quiet.
And somehow, although she could never explain why this was, that was the moment she realized she loved him. What she felt was not friendship, was not loyalty, was not even affection. It wasn't that she might love him or that she could love him; it was that she did love him.
She loved him. She loved him for his courage and for his kindness, loved the way he listened to her, loved the way he treated her as an equal. She loved the way he teased her, loved his smile and the way his eyes brightened when he smiled. She even loved his occasional flares of anger, his stubbornness, his tendency to blame himself. She loved him.
She put one hand on his arm and then, on an irresistible impulse of tenderness, moved the other to touch his forehead, damp with sweat, brushing his hair away from his face with a soft caress. "Harry," she said softly and then again, with more urgency, "Harry, wake up. Harry."
He awoke with a gasp, his eyes wide and shadowed, as he blinked and then focused on her. "Hermione? What--"
"You were having a nightmare," she said softly.
"Did I wake you up?" He frowned a little.
"It doesn't matter. Do- do you want to talk about it?"
His eyes flickered over her loose hair, streaming down her shoulders, and then her robe and her nightgown, a slight flush coming into his cheeks.
She was suddenly conscious that he wasn't wearing a shirt; the covers had been pushed down so she could see his bare chest. She blushed, feeling a flush of heat go through her body, heat that was from embarrassment and self-consciousness and something else entirely, something unfamiliar and oddly thrilling. In her concern for him, she hadn't noticed, hadn't even thought about the fact that she was sitting on his bed, that she was in his bedroom…
He looked away, focusing on something beyond her shoulder. "I'm sorry if I woke you up."
She felt a pang of hurt at this sign of his indifference to her physically-- (didn't he want to look at her?)-but persisted, concern for him over-riding any self-consciousness and any thought for herself. "I didn't know you had nightmares. Do you get them often?"
For a moment, he hesitated but then answered, "No, not very often anymore, but sometimes. Sometimes…"
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I dream about Uncle Sirius," he finally said, so softly it was hardly audible. "I remember seeing the curse hit him and the look on his face. I remember that it was my fault…"
His voice cracked as he shuddered slightly and she thought her heart might break. She hadn't seen it, hadn't been there to see it. They had heard rumors of something happening around the border between Scotland and England, where Sirius had been in hiding since he was still a fugitive, and Harry had insisted on going to warn Sirius or help him, over everyone's objections (including her own-it had been one of their rare fights-but she would still have gone with him except Professor Sprout had spoken up absolutely horrified at the idea that a young lady would go into such a situation and Professor McGonagall had agreed) and so Harry, Ron, Hagrid and Ron's older brother, Mr. Charlie Weasley who had happened to be at Hogwarts at the time, had gone. They had found that it had been a ruse to draw Harry out of the safety of Hogwarts, away from the protection of Headmaster Dumbledore, and in the ambush, Sirius had been killed. Ron and Mr. Charlie Weasley had been injured but had thankfully survived unscathed; as for Harry himself, his physical injuries had been mild but the deeper injuries had been within Harry. He had been changed after that day; there had been less anger in him-or, more accurately, it was almost as if his anger (and his grief) had chilled, hardened inside him. She had hated to see it and it had lasted for a year, until Headmaster Dumbledore had also been killed and, somehow, oddly, that had pushed Harry out of his coldly controlled intensity and he had been himself again, older, a little graver, but himself. And it had only been then when he had finally spoken of Mr. Black, the name escaping his lips for the first time since he'd been killed. It had been months after that before Harry had been able to smile at the mention of his godfather and still, every time Harry mentioned his godfather in a lighthearted manner, it caught at her heart a little with relief and happiness.
But she hadn't known-although she might have guessed it-that he still suffered from nightmares about it. She hadn't known just how much he still blamed himself.
"But the worst part…" he finally admitted, his voice just a breath of sound and yet so full of pain she ached to hear it, "isn't when I relive it. I don't know which is worse, when I dream it and in those dreams, I'm the one that says the curse that kills him. Or if it's worse when I dream that somehow, some way, I managed to save him but I wake up to know that it was only a dream. He's dead and it's my fault…"
"Oh Harry…" she breathed. "My dear…" The endearment slipped from her lips without thought, without her realizing she'd said it.
His eyes flickered to hers for a moment but he averted his gaze. And she was so filled with sympathy and pain for his pain that she hardly felt a pang at the sight. Her chest felt clogged with so much emotion and for the first time in her life, she wished she had a larger vocabulary. Surely, somewhere, in some language, there were words to tell him all she felt; surely there was a way to tell him that it wasn't truly his fault. Surely there was a way to make him understand… "You shouldn't; truly you shouldn't blame yourself. Mr. Black would not wish it. It was not your fault, Harry, it wasn't."
She paused, realizing rather despairingly that he wasn't reacting; the shadows in his eyes were not lessening. She, of all people, knew how ingrained his sense of guilt was, and she didn't know how to break through his barriers. She didn't know how to make him believe her so he could forgive himself and know some kind of peace. She didn't know but she loved him too much to leave him when he was hurting. She loved him too much not to try.
In desperation, although she'd never felt less like humor in her life, she added, "You know enough of my frankness to know that if it were your fault, I would tell you so."
For a split second, he didn't react, only blinked, caught off guard by her sudden switch in tone.
Hermione held her breath-had she made a mistake, would he think she was trying to make light of his pain?
And then she saw the slightest flicker of a smile in his eyes as he met her gaze for nearly the first time since he'd awoken. "That's true."
She felt a wave of relief and happiness as she met his eyes, still shadowed but not quite as dark as they had been. Now, knowing that he would listen, she said softly, "What you did, in choosing to go warn Mr. Black, you did out of concern, out of affection." In the dim intimacy of his room, knowing they were the only ones who were awake, with her sitting on his bed, she could not bring herself to say the word, love. "It may have been the wrong choice but no one-no one," she repeated firmly, "could blame you. You did it because you cared, because you couldn't allow anyone to be hurt if you could do something about it. The blame belongs with Voldemort, who used that, twisted it, to his own purposes-but not you, never you."
She stopped, her throat and her heart too full to continue.
There was an odd stillness to his expression as he looked at her, stared at her, and she had the sudden feeling-fear? Hope?-that he could see through her, down to her very soul, that he could see all the love she felt for him, that he, of all people in the world, truly knew her…
And for a long, endless moment, she forgot to breathe, forgot to blink, forgot how to breathe really, as his gaze held hers. For that moment, she felt like a rabbit cornered, trapped by some predator-but unlike the rabbit, she didn't want to escape.
She felt her cheeks flush, a strange heat spreading inside her body just from the look in his eyes. She couldn't identify it or explain why it affected her so strongly; all she knew was that she could no more have looked away from him than she could have stopped her own heart from beating.
She'd never known, never expected, that just his eyes could affect her so much. How had she known him for so many years and never suspected what he could do to her, how he could make her feel, with just a look?
"I suppose," he finally said, softly, "you'll never forgive me if I don't forgive myself." The words were light-hearted-but his look and his tone were not. Besides, she knew him, knew that it was his way. When he was feeling vulnerable, when he was feeling particularly touched, his tendency was to try to mask it with humor in his boyish reluctance to show emotion.
She felt her lips curve ever so slightly. "You suppose correctly, Mr. Potter."
Something flickered in his eyes at her teasingly formal address and he looked away again.
"I-er-" he began, his gaze flitting to hers and then away again, before he finished in something of a rush, "you should return to your room, get some sleep. I'll be fine now."
Hermione tried-oh, she tried-not to feel hurt at his words. She didn't want to feel hurt, didn't want to feel rejected-but she was realizing that what she'd feared about loving him was true. It would-it did-hurt to know she loved him and know he didn't love her. To have him send her back to her own room hurt ridiculously, even though part of her mind insisted she was overreacting, that he was merely concerned about her being tired, that he wasn't really rejecting her. It wasn't as if she had offered him anything other than some comfort and he had accepted that comfort. She treasured that knowledge, clung to the consciousness that she had somehow given him the comfort and the reassurance he needed. She knew all this, rationally-but it still hurt. Did he truly not desire her at all?
"Will you sleep too?" she finally asked even as she slid off his bed to stand beside it.
"Yes." His tone gentled as he added, softly, "Thank you."
The gentleness of his voice soothed her and she managed a small smile. "Good night, Harry."
"Good night."
She was at the door connecting their two bedrooms when he spoke again. "Hermione."
She looked back at him questioningly.
For a moment, he hesitated, seeming to struggle with himself, and then he finally said, almost as if the words were impelled from him against his will, "Your hair, it--" he hesitated again and then finished, "it looks nice."
Her hair? She stared, one hand automatically coming up to touch her hair where it spilled over her shoulder, even as she felt a blush heat her cheeks, her heart thrilling. It was the first real compliment he had paid her. Her throat seemed to have closed in the wild thrill of it, the rush of pleasure. "Thank you," was all she managed to say in an almost strangled whisper.
She looked at him for one more fleeting, eternal second and then she hastily retreated into her own room, closing the door behind her.
And then she almost fell into one of the chairs in the room, a smile playing on her lips and in her heart.
Harry had said her hair looked nice… Such a simple word, an inane word really-but oh, so precious to her now. Her hair-Harry liked her hair…
Her hand came up again of its own volition to touch the curls, almost wonderingly. He liked her hair? But her hair was an unruly mass of curls, bushy at worst, passable at best. And yet… he'd said he liked it… She didn't doubt the sincerity of the compliment. For one thing, Harry wasn't the glib type to pay compliments he did not mean and for another, the words had seemed to be compelled from him, almost against his will somehow, had been too spontaneous not to be sincere.
And Hermione had not received so many compliments in her life that she would quibble over one, whether or not she could understand the appeal.
He thought her hair looked nice. It was the first indication she had that he really looked at her, saw her as something other than just his best friend. A surge of exhilarating hope made her heartbeat quicken and her cheeks flush. After all, perhaps he could desire her…
~
She saw him coming through the front entrance as she was coming down the stairs and paused, her step faltering for a moment, as she stared at him, feeling heat travel through her body to pool low in her stomach just at the sight of him.
He wasn't wearing a cravat, was dressed as he usually was when he went flying, in his breeches and just a white shirt with no waistcoat and no coat. She had seen him dressed so casually before, had even secretly admired the sight of him. (She had always liked to see him after he flew, not only because of how he looked in just a shirt and his breeches but because of how the wind and the fresh air and the sheer enjoyment she knew he found in flying brightened his eyes.) But today, she stared, her mouth going a little dry, her entire body feeling a flash of heat. She could not tear her gaze from the strong column of his neck, could not keep herself from tracing the not-overly-bulky outline of his upper body in his shirt even as her mind automatically substituted a picture of his bare chest. (She hadn't looked for long but it seemed just the momentary glance had been enough and now the image of his chest had been seared onto her mind.) She had never seen any man's bare chest before-at least not in the flesh. She had seen-after days of persuading her parents to take her-the Elgin Marbles in the British Museum but marble could not compare, she realized, to the reality; marble had looked cold and the reality… well, Harry's chest had certainly not looked cold nor had she felt cold when she'd looked at it.
She had become rather accustomed to the way she reacted to Harry's smile and certain of his looks, the way her cheeks would flush and her heart would flutter. But this-her reaction to the sight of him today-was on a different plane entirely. Her reaction was… carnal was the only word that came into mind, even though she blushed at the thought. Was this, then, what desire was? This strange prickling heat in her body, this inability to look away from him while the memory of what his bare chest had looked like lingered in her mind, this sudden wish-more than simple curiosity, almost a compulsion-to touch him, to put her hand on his chest and discover what a man's chest felt like? This must be desire…
She wanted him. Wanted to know more of this feeling, this strange warmth she felt inside her when she looked at him, wanted to know what it would feel like to be desired by him… She wanted more, even if she hardly knew what 'more' was…
He looked up and saw her and smiled. "Good morning."
She managed a smile in return. "Good morning. Did you-did you sleep well?" she asked, trying to suppress her reaction to his smile and his appearance.
His smile softened even as his gaze flickered away in apparent discomfort. "Yes, thank you."
"That's good. I'm glad," she murmured inanely, wishing desperately she could think of something more clever to say but her mind had gone blank.
For a moment, they both hesitated, Hermione trying frantically to think of something to say, but he forestalled her.
"I should go, change into more proper clothes," he said hurriedly. "If you'll excuse me…"
And then he was gone, striding down the hallway towards the library and the back staircase, which was the closer one to his bedchamber.
Hermione looked after him as he left, suppressing a small sigh.
She wanted him-but how was she supposed to tell him that? How was she supposed to attract her own husband?
She'd never been one of those young ladies who seemed to know from birth how to flirt and cast inviting glances at any young men. Indeed, she disdained the simpering, hen-witted females and had never even tried to learn the arts of flirtation.
But then she'd never before really wanted to attract a gentleman before. Until now, when she found herself in love with her husband and dismally certain that he looked upon her only as his best friend-a dear best friend, she rather thought, but a friend nonetheless.
Only a friend-but he had thought her hair looked nice. And friendship could become desire, could become love-as it had for her…
~To be continued…
A/N 2: Next up: Harry's PoV.