Unofficial Portkey Archive

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author's Note: Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing! As promised, the beginning of Harry's PoV. I hope you enjoy it!

The Truth About Love

Chapter 6: What Came of Intimacy

It occurred to Harry within a fortnight of his marriage to Hermione that he had been a double-dyed fool.

He had thought that marriage would not change things, that he already knew Hermione so well, that they could share a house quite comfortably. (He tried not to think about the physical aspect of it because he simply could not imagine it; he had never felt that way about Hermione, had never thought that way about her, but he rather hoped that when the time came, it would somehow happen naturally.)

And at first, in spite of a few, fleeting moments of awkwardness, it had been true. He did know Hermione well and it was comfortable, even familiar, natural, to spend time with her.

She was, after all, his best friend and he knew how to be her best friend. What he didn't know how to be was her husband.

But, he'd realized, he rather… liked being married to Hermione.

He liked to spend time with her; he liked to see her; he liked talking with her.

It should have been an odd realization to come to-of course he liked to spend time with her, she was his best friend-but for some reason, it felt profound.

It started that first morning, seeing her coming down the stairs looking refreshed and quite pretty, and he'd suddenly thought that this was what he would see every morning for the rest of his life. He would see her every morning-and he could only think that he didn't mind the thought.

He liked to see her when she was going over household matters with Daisy, liked the calm competence of her manner and then the way she had of smiling her thanks at Daisy; she had taken over the household affairs with the same intelligence and diligence which characterized everything she undertook and he liked that too.

He liked the way her eyes had lit up when she saw the library, liked to see the expressions flicker across her face when she read, the small smiles, the frowns, the looks of concentration or confusion (not that she looked confused often). She never had mastered the serene expression that young ladies were supposed to achieve (it was possibly one of the few things she hadn't achieved, although that was explained by her not having tried, in truth rather disdaining it) and he liked that about her too.

He liked the simple grace of her movements as she poured the tea, as she ate her supper, as she stood up, as she walked. Hers weren't the delicate, indecisive, unnecessary movements he'd noticed in so many other young ladies, Miss Lavender Brown, for one. She didn't have many of the usual feminine mannerisms (she didn't flutter her lashes, she didn't simper, she didn't cling, she didn't pout) and tended towards practicality in her manner that made it easy to overlook but he'd noticed, at supper, how graceful her hands were and how deft. He'd never noticed it before but then they had never actually shared any meals tete a tete before; now, when he wasn't distracted by Ron's presence or by the general noise and liveliness of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, he noticed it and he liked it.

He liked that she had taken such an interest in his family history and he was grateful to her for discovering his father's little annotations in the margins as it brought his father so much closer and he felt as if he were, finally, truly getting to know his father in a way that not even his conversations with Remus or with Uncle Sirius had managed to do.

He had expected the laughter and the conversations, the friendship and the comfort. What he had not expected was the beginnings of desire…

There was an intimacy to marriage that had nothing to do with the marriage bed but somehow, in some way, it seemed to lead inexorably towards desire.

Perhaps it was something about knowing that she was sleeping in the bedroom next to his, about knowing that there was only one door between them, that made him suddenly wonder what she would look like in a nightgown, what she would look like with her hair down.

Perhaps it was something about eating supper with her, sitting next to her as he was, when he could see the way the candle light flickered over her skin, making it look remarkably soft and smooth, when he could see every drop that lingered on her lips before she dabbed it away with her napkin.

Perhaps it was simply knowing that she was his wife now and that he was permitted to touch her…

Whatever it was, he found himself distracted during the days, looking at her, noticing her.

He noticed the slim grace of her form, noticed the curves of her figure, noticed the shape and fullness of her lips, simply noticed her… Noticed her, and for the first time, felt the beginnings of temptation, of desire, curl through his senses.

He noticed the curve of her neck and the delicate line of her jaw (which rather surprised him as he would never have thought of associating the word, delicate, with Hermione before-and yet, the line of her jaw was delicate, somehow) and he wondered, almost in spite of himself, what it would be like to trace his lips along the curve of her neck, wondered if her skin would feel as smooth and soft as it looked.

It was the first, faint stirrings of desire, a desire which he'd never felt for her before but now couldn't get out of his mind. It was odd because he had felt desire before but it had always been in response to flirtation, in response to some young lady seeking to attract him. It had never just been. But Hermione was different; Hermione didn't flirt and she wasn't trying to attract him. Indeed, he reflected with something like a pang, she seemed perfectly content for their marriage to stay as it was now, a comfortable relationship between friends. (The irony that he had initially only wanted, expected, just that-a comfortable, friendly relationship-- didn't escape him, when he considered that now, he wanted-wondered if they could have-more than that.)

Hermione wasn't trying to attract him; she hadn't changed-but somehow, now, he saw her differently and he wanted her.

It was the beginnings of desire, a little tentative at first, so he could still try to ignore it, could even, at times, push it from his mind-the beginnings of desire but nothing more… Until that night (in his mind, That Night had acquired the significance of capital letters)--until he had seen her in her nightgown with her hair down, falling past her shoulders in a cascade of curls.

Her nightgown and her wrapper were perfectly adequate in covering her body, barely hinting at the curves which he knew were there, but something about the intimacy of seeing her in her nightgown made him want her with a passion he'd never felt for her-or anyone-- before.

He had never seen her with her hair down like that either, never known just how thick and curly her hair was, and found something unexpectedly… erotic in the sight. The curls of her hair were just begging for a man's-his-hands to touch them. He had a sudden vision-fantasy? Hope?-of himself, tangling his fingers in her hair as he kissed her…

He had hastily averted his gaze from her all-too-tempting form, had remembered the darkness and the suffocating pressure of guilt of his nightmare with something like eagerness.

For the first time in his life, he had been grateful for the nightmare that had distracted him, had almost sought the bleak memories.

At first, when he had awoken, he'd been too disoriented, still in the throes of his fear and his despair to notice her state of dress, but then he had noticed, had become suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the warmth from her body where she was sitting on his bed, very aware of the fact that his chest was bare to her gaze, and supremely conscious of how close they were, of how easy it would be to tug her towards him so he could kiss her and more…

And it had been almost a comfort to focus on his nightmare. His first instinct had been to dismiss it but then he'd stopped, changed his mind, some odd compulsion in him making him want to talk about it, talk about his nightmares for the first time in his life, with someone else-with her…

He could not have explained why; he had never even considered talking about his nightmares with anyone before, never even wanted to, even if there had been someone to listen.

But this was Hermione and she was different; she understood, somehow, and she cared, she would listen…

She was the only person he could have talked to about his nightmares, he realized, the only person he would even have considered telling. And somehow, at that moment, cocooned in the dim intimacy of his room, it felt natural to talk to her, to tell her about the guilt that haunted him.

And she comforted him. Not just with her words but something about the softness of her tone, in spite of the intensity of emotion, soothed him too.

She didn't blame him.

He remembered-hated himself in the memory for his own blind stubbornness, even though he acknowledged, somehow, that he could not have acted differently-how she had tried to reason with him, pointing out that even if the rumors of an attack were true, even if all of Harry's nightmares and visions were true, Sirius Black would know better than to do anything to jeopardize his safety by getting involved and that he was, moreover, well-hidden. For Harry himself to leave the safety of Hogwarts would ensure that Voldemort's attention would turn to that particular area of the north of England, which would put Black's safety into even more danger. But he had not listened, too blinded with his own worry for his godfather to acknowledge the truth of her words; he had lost his parents and had only just discovered his godfather; he could not lose Uncle Sirius now, not if there was anything he could do.

But he had lost his godfather after all, lost his godfather when, if he had only listened to Hermione, Uncle Sirius might still be alive…

It was one thing he could not forget, could not forgive himself for.

But she-the one person who had the undisputed right to tell him he'd been wrong-- didn't blame him.

She didn't blame him.

It was amazing what the impact of those simple words were. It wasn't, perhaps, complete absolution; he suspected that only if Uncle Sirius were to somehow return from the dead and tell him directly that he wasn't to blame would he ever feel completely absolved-but it was something.

He finally looked at her, met her eyes again, and the sincerity, the depth of her friendship and her loyalty which he had seen in her eyes, shook him out of his certainty that he was to blame.

It wasn't something that could happen immediately but at that moment, he finally began to forgive himself. He had made a mistake but it had been an honest one, motivated by the purest of intentions… He should not blame himself for it.

It was not complete absolution but it was more than he had been able or willing to acknowledge ever before. And it was because of her.

He wondered if she had any idea just what it meant to him to know that she-of all people-didn't blame him, wished he had the words to tell her, but he couldn't. He didn't. He knew how to cope with cold looks and harsh words and physical abuse; after his years at the Dursleys, he had developed a sort of armor to shield and try to deflect the verbal and non-verbal blows. He did not know how to cope with sympathy, with affection. He didn't know, was uncomfortable with expressing just how deeply he felt every kind word, every gesture of caring-especially now when he was all too aware of the softness not just of Hermione's tone and her expression but of her body, all too aware that his feelings for her now were not at all friendly. Instead he took refuge in a rather lame attempt at humor. "I suppose you'll never forgive me if I don't forgive myself."

Her eyes softened, the ghost of a smile curving her lips. "You suppose correctly, Mr. Potter."

Her use of the formal form of address, ironically, jolted him into a realization of the intimacy of it all, the intimacy of where they were, the intimacy of the hour, the intimacy of the dim light, the intimacy of how they were clothed. He was excruciatingly conscious, again, of his bare chest, of her nightgown, of all the delightful curves underneath the nightgown, which he'd never seen but could imagine with startling vividness, of the warmth of her hip against his side, even through the layers of his sheets and blanket…

And he wanted her. His body had already reacted to the nearness of her, the intimacy of it all.

He needed her to leave. Now. This was too dangerous, too much, when he had promised to give her time to adjust to being married, when he had promised that nothing would happen until she wanted it.

She hadn't come into his bedroom out of desire; she was offering comfort. And even though something inside him, some instinct perhaps, told him that if he asked her to stay, she would; if he asked her, she would permit it, would allow him to kiss her and touch her and do all he wanted, all he had imagined doing, to her and with her… But he also knew that he would not ask-he could not ask. He didn't want her to "submit" to him, didn't want her because of duty or even out of sympathy and a wish to give him comfort. He wanted her to want him; he needed her to want him too.

And so he told her to return to her own room, leaving him to his suddenly-lonely bed. He did the honorable thing.

If he were smarter, he would probably have looked away, would not have watched her leave. But he was a fool and he did watch, let his eyes wander down her back, lingering on the curves of her hips which were just hinted at by her nightgown and her wrapper, before being drawn to her hair, to the thick, lovely masses of curls rippling past her shoulders. A vision of Hermione, her face flushed, her lips parted, her hair spread out over his pillows as she looked up at him, flashed into his mind. He caught his breath at the vividness of the vision. Dear Lord, when had his imagination become so very active where she was concerned? When had she become so tempting, a living embodiment of desire? This was Hermione…

She turned back to him with a questioning look, bringing him to a belated realization that he had actually spoken her name aloud. He cast about desperately for something to say that would explain why he'd said her name but his mind had gone blank and all that came to mind were things he absolutely could not say. I want you. Stay with me. When did I start wanting you so much? Can I kiss you?

Finally, he blurted out the most innocuous thing that came to mind. "Your hair, it-it looks nice." He almost cringed at the hopeless inanity of the words-nice? Of all the bland words to describe Hermione's hair-it was lovely when it was loose. Lovely and seductive-he'd never known that a woman's hair, alone, could be seductive.

She looked so… surprised, he noted, with a wave of tenderness. Hermione really had no earthly idea how pretty she was, he realized, feeling a combination of guilt for not having noticed it before now, anger at the rest of the world for not seeing it, and resolve to make sure, somehow, that Hermione learned just how pretty she was.

But first, he needed her to want him…

By the time a week had passed after That Night, Harry was quite ready to declare himself a candidate for Bedlam. And it was entirely due to his wife.

He was torn between wanting to avoid her and at the same time, wishing to spend as much of his days as possible with her. She attracted him with the same inexorable attraction as-as-the sun held for flowers. Part of him-the smarter part of him-reasoned that the less time he spent with her, the less he could be tempted and, therefore, the easier it would be for him. But the rest of him-the part of him that seemed to dictate his actions-could not stay away from her. Looking at her was rapidly becoming his favorite pastime.

But it wasn't only that. He liked to look at her, to watch her as she went about the routine of their daily lives, but more than that, he simply liked to be with her. He enjoyed her company. It was both as simple and as complicated as that.

And his conflicting wishes were making him go mad.

On this particular morning, Harry retreated to the Gallery after he had flown as it was the best place to pace, fighting the urge to join Hermione on her morning walk in the gardens. But not even the Gallery provided a haven from his desires. A flash of pastel color in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he paused at one of the windows overlooking the back gardens to see Hermione, and then lingered at the window to watch her.

Almost in spite of himself, he felt himself smile. For all that young ladies were supposed to glide rather than walk, to take small, delicate steps, it was another of those characteristics which Hermione had never cared to master. Hermione was almost surprisingly graceful but her grace was an active one, if that made any sense. Even when she was simply walking in their back gardens, when he knew that she had no specific destination, she didn't stroll but strode along with the determination that was characteristic of her.

She lifted one hand to impatiently brush back a strand of hair that had escaped from her pins. That was yet another thing that made Hermione different. It was, he had realized one of the contrasts in her appearance that while Hermione was very neat and organized and was always dressed simply, her hair was not. He understood, now, just why it was so hard to keep her hair confined with pins and so Hermione's hair only looked perfectly neat for a very short while in the mornings, just after she had dressed. He knew she found her hair irritating but he had discovered the charm in those stray locks of hair that escaped from her otherwise neat coiffure.

He sighed even as he smiled. He wanted her-but he didn't know if she wanted him. He had promised her time to become accustomed to marriage but how much time was that? She seemed to be perfectly content with their marriage so far, didn't appear to be troubled with any of the desires that troubled him.

"That sigh sounds entirely too serious for a newlywed."

The vaguely familiar voice made him start and he turned sharply.

His mother nudged his father. "James!" she scolded before she smiled at Harry. "Dear boy."

Harry stared. "Mother? Father? I- I didn't know…" he began. "Can all the portraits in the house talk?"

"No, only a few of the more modern ones can. It is costly but your father and I chose to enable it in case the worst happened."

"Oh, Mother…" He fought to keep from gaping like an idiot. He could hardly believe it. He was actually speaking with his parents…

"Now what were you sighing over?" James Potter interrupted in a brisk tone.

"It's Hermione," Harry admitted, finding it astonishingly easy to talk to his parents' portrait. He hadn't realized that the portraits in Godric's Hollow-although not all of them, according to his mother, were able to talk. Most of the Hogwarts portraits were, of course, animated but he knew it was expensive and required an additional charm to be placed on the portrait and that it be painted by one of a small guild of artists. He had assumed that the portraits in Godric's Hollow were inanimate. But now-he could talk to his parents. They were not completely lost to him.

"She's a pretty girl," his father said in a tone of approval.

"I like her. She seems very clever."

"She is clever," Harry agreed. "She was always the Head of our class."

James Potter feigned concentration. "Now, why does that sound so familiar, I wonder." He gave Lily a teasing smile.

"You made a fine choice of young lady to be your wife, my boy," his father told him more soberly.

"But I didn't choose her," Harry blurted out candidly. "I married her because I had to."

Lily frowned. "You compromised her?"

"No! That is, well, yes, I did but I didn't actually do anything; nothing happened. It only looked that way and somehow Lady Danvers found out about it and gave Hermione the cut direct."

"Lady Danvers?"

"Lady Danvers is still terrorizing society then," James remarked with a slight smile. "I remember her well."

"She was rather an old dragon but I never thought she was so terrible. I can hardly believe she would cut Hermione for some imagined scandal; she was never a very high stickler."

"I wouldn't know, Mother, but I could hardly allow Hermione's reputation to be besmirched."

"Of course not. I understand."

"You did seem quite happy with her, though, in all the times we have observed you," James spoke up.

"I am-well, mostly I am. I only wish I knew…" Harry trailed off and then finished, very quietly, a flush rising to his cheeks and not daring to look at his parents (he could hardly believe he was confessing this), "if she wants me too."

"I- ah- she seems very fond of you," Lily ventured after a moment of silence.

Harry finally glanced up at his parents' portrait to see that his mother's cheeks were pink but she met his eyes, while his father was trying (and failing) to hide a smile.

"I suppose-but we've always been friends. How will I know if she wants more than friendship?"

"Does she smile when she sees you?" James offered helpfully. "I recall very clearly that your mother smiling when she saw me was the first indication I had that she had begun to care."

"She's my best friend. She's almost always smiled when she saw me."

Lily smiled. "Oh, ladies have their ways, even if they cannot say it or show it openly. How does she behave around you? Does she show any reluctance to take your arm?"

Harry didn't have to think about that. "She takes my arm whenever we're walking now." That was true; he was in no danger of forgetting it either given how incredibly conscious he was of her warmth and her closeness every time they walked together. She had taken to tucking her hand in the crook of his arm whenever they were walking, a gesture that spoke of more comfort and ease in his presence than simply resting her hand on his arm, and he had found an almost painful pleasure just from that small gesture. Indeed, sometimes it almost seemed as if Hermione was trying to keep close to him, his arm brushing against the side of her breast so his arm felt scorched and he had been hard pressed not to tense and pull his arm away from her. But walking as they were, with her hand tucked into his arm, his arm was so close to her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body through his coat, close enough to brush against her… And his eyes had developed a mind of their own, drawn of their own volition to the décolletage of her simple gowns and the faintest hint of cleavage he could see-before he remembered himself and forcibly pulled his gaze away from her. He was a gentleman and gentlemen did not ogle gently-bred lady's chests-even if said lady was his wife.

"Show her some of the legendary Potter charm," his father advised with a grin.

His mother gave an unladylike snort. "Don't listen to your father. He suffers from a persistent delusion that I married him for his charm."

"Didn't you, my sweet?" James smiled teasingly at Lily.

"If it had been left up to your charm, Harry would never have been born," Lily responded tartly, although her expression was soft, belying her words.

James assumed an injured air before turning to Harry. "I hope your Hermione treats you with more respect, son."

Harry couldn't help but smile. "No, she doesn't."

James gave an exaggeratedly lugubrious sigh before he winked at Harry. "Being married to a woman of spirit keeps life from becoming too staid."

"How did Father win you, then?" Harry asked his mother. He left unspoken the question he really wanted to ask, how can I make Hermione want me? He colored, inwardly wincing at how desperate that question would have made him sound.

"Yes, do tell. How did I win you, if it wasn't my charm?" James grinned at his wife.

"If you must know, it was when you gave that disagreeable Lady Camilla the cut direct when she was tormenting poor Miss Barrett." Lily looked at Harry and added in an explanatory fashion, "Miss Barrett was unfortunately rather plain and very shy and Lady Camilla, who was one of the reigning beauties at the time and very haughty because of it, took some delight in ridiculing the poor girl, saying all sorts of snide things. Your father cut Lady Camilla quite publicly and asked Miss Barrett to dance."

James had sobered a little. "You never told me that."

Lily looked up at her husband with such a tender smile that Harry looked away, abashed, feeling suddenly as if he were intruding on a private moment. "You were a hero."

James shrugged one shoulder in a self-deprecating fashion. "I never liked that Lady Camilla and someone needed to help Miss Barrett. If I hadn't done it, someone else would have."
"Say what you will; you showed me that you weren't the completely self-centered fribble I thought you were."
James smiled and lifted his wife's hand to his lips, before they both turned their eyes back to Harry.
Harry had turned to look out the window to where Hermione was walking, irrationally disappointed that his parents' experience didn't seem to have any relevance to his own situation. Hermione already knew him, cared about him as a best friend. The question was how to make her want him as more than just a friend.
He tore his gaze away from Hermione to look back at his parents and met his mother's eyes, seeing her soft smile.
"Oh, Harry, I don't think you need have any fear that your Hermione doesn't find you appealing. But I will give you one word of advice, from the perspective of a woman. Show her that you care for her, not in a general sense of caring for her well-being or her health but for her, as a person."
Harry nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. It did make sense; the only question was whether it would lead to desire on her part. At any rate, it could hardly hurt, could it? And he did want her to be happy… "I think I shall. Thank you."
Harry glanced back out the window at Hermione. How could he show her that he-he stilled, as an idea occurred to him, and he smiled.
Yes, that was it. He knew exactly what he would do.

~To be continued…