Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
Author's Note: Apologies for how long it's taken me to update this!! RL got busy and side-tracked me and then I ran into a major case of writer's block for this fic, all of which slowed me down in posting this chapter. Thanks, everyone, for reading and reviewing and for waiting so patiently. I hope this is worth the wait!
The Truth About Love
Chapter 7: What a Wife Should Be
Harry smiled at Hermione. "Will you be all right on your own for a day?" he asked, only half-seriously.
She gave him a look and a smile that were distinctly impertinent. "If you must know, I am looking forward to having the house to myself."
He laughed softly, enjoying the mischief sparkling in her eyes. He did love Hermione's teasing, had always enjoyed the fact that she had never, even from the moment they'd first met, been at all over-awed by his fame or his status as most other young girls had been (somewhat to his shock, since he had had no idea that he was famous until he had first been introduced to the wizarding world by Hagrid.) "Of course. I should have known better than to think my strong-minded wife would miss my poor company if I were gone."
She sobered. "I do wish I could accompany you, though. I should have liked to see the trial of that woman."
"I wish you could come with me too," he responded more out of automatic courtesy, only to realize belatedly that it was true. He did wish Hermione could come with him. He was dreading having to appear as the principal witness in the trial against Bellatrix Lestrange and it would have been a comfort if Hermione could be there, in the spectator gallery. He wasn't even sure exactly when or why or how but somehow he felt that she would make him feel stronger, better able to cope with the memories he dreaded having to relive.
He fully expected that the trial was going to be an ordeal; it was going to require him to relive some of the worst moments of his life. He could not even think of Bellatrix Lestrange without a surge of violent emotion, mingled rage and sorrow and the acrid taste of guilt, so he shuddered to think of facing her, seeing her arrogant, coldly unrepentant face.
Having Hermione there would make it easier, he was somehow very sure of that.
But she could not accompany him. While the Wizengamot's rules did not specifically prohibit women from going to trials as spectators, it was an unwritten law that women, especially gently-bred ladies, simply did not go to trials, unless they were required to be witnesses or unless they were closely related to the accused.
"Will you be home for supper or should I have it held back a while?"
"The trial has been set for 1 o'clock and should go on for a couple hours, I imagine, but as I don't plan to linger in Town afterwards, I should be home well before supper. But if, for whatever reason, I am not returned yet, you need not wait for me."
"If you're not returned, I will delay supper up to an hour, but then I will simply dine alone," Hermione countered.
"Very well," he murmured noncommittally, belying the warmth he felt in his chest at the concern he could see in her eyes but which she did not give voice to.
"Give my regards to Ron and Mr. Weasley when you see them."
"Of course."
There was a brief silence. Harry knew he should be leaving but he was conscious of an odd reluctance to do so and manufactured a reason to linger by asking, "Can I get you anything in Town?"
"No, I have everything I need, thank you."
"Are you worried about the trial?" she asked.
"A little," he admitted. "I do not want to see that woman."
She put a hand on his arm. "She can do you no more harm and after today, it will be over."
"You are right, as always," he managed to respond, striving to sound normal and unaffected by the warmth of her hand on his arm which he could feel even through his coat.
Their eyes met and held for a long moment, as he fought to remember how to breathe. When had Hermione's nearness begun affecting him so much? He couldn't remember but it affected him now. She attracted him irresistibly, undeniably.
And then she did something which she'd never done before, something which caught at his heart as much as it affected his body, made his lungs suddenly seize in his chest. She went up on her toes and brushed her lips against his cheek.
"Hurry home," she murmured softly into his ear, her breath hot against his skin.
He suppressed a shiver of reaction, tamping down the flare of arousal. He was quite sure she had no intention of sounding seductive, let alone implying anything more than the simple words. It was only his own inflamed imagination that had his mind immediately picturing Hermione waiting for him, not just anywhere in the house but in his bed, dressed in something suitably seductive, or not dressed at all, more accurately. His breath caught in his throat from the very vividness of the mental image, far-fetched as it was. She didn't mean it that way; he knew she didn't.
But that knowledge didn't keep his entire body from reacting, his pulse from leaping. "I'll try," he managed to force out through his closed throat. "Have a good day." And with that, he left, before he could be tempted to stay any longer.
~~
"Harry, it's good to see you, my boy."
Harry smiled at Mr. Weasley. "It's good to see you too, sir."
"They have moved the time of the trial back until half past three o'clock so we have a few hours. Will you join us for luncheon? I am expected home."
Harry hesitated, feeling a vague reluctance. "I wouldn't want to impose," he began.
"Nonsense, nonsense," Mr. Weasley interrupted. "Depend upon it, Mrs. Weasley will only be too glad to welcome you. You know you are always welcome."
"Thank you."
True to Mr. Weasley's words, Mrs. Weasley was, indeed, transparently delighted to see Harry.
And under the influence of Mrs. Weasley's clear welcome, Mr. Weasley's easy good humor, and the familiarity of Ron's grin, Harry felt himself relaxing, in spite of his tension over the trial this afternoon.
But the tension returned-a different kind of tension, an awkwardness-when Harry heard a soft step outside the door and the next moment, the drawing room door opened to reveal Ron's sister, Miss Ginny Weasley-the young lady to whom, if circumstances had been different (if Lady Danvers had not cut Hermione so publicly at Lord Westerfield's ball), he might well be engaged. The only young lady he'd ever seriously considered courting.
He felt a momentary flicker of pre-emptive guilt for whatever disloyal thoughts to Hermione which seeing Miss Weasley again might evoke, realizing that this was why he had hesitated before accepting Mr. Weasley's invitation. He didn't want to impose but in all truth, with how kindly the Weasleys had always treated him, he had grown to look upon them almost as a second family.
It had been partly why it had been so easy to consider courting Miss Weasley; the idea of becoming a member of the Weasley family in truth had appealed to him, almost as much as Miss Weasley's person and her personality had.
But with his marriage to Hermione, that was no longer the case. He had not seen the Weasleys since the wedding (had it really been a month since then?) but he could not have avoided Town for this trial, the trial of Bellatrix Lestrange, where he was the key witness (and even if he were not, he would have wanted to be present for the trial of his godfather's murderer).
For the first time, he was conscious of a distinct reluctance to see Miss Weasley. He didn't expect the sight of her to be painful and he wasn't afraid of anything untoward happening as a consequence. He knew himself and he took his marriage vows too seriously; he might not love Hermione (he wasn't sure how he felt about Hermione, now that desire had muddled all the old, comfortable, familiar feelings of friendship) but he cared enough about her that he would never want to hurt her in any way. But he couldn't help but wonder if he would feel any regret-would he look at Miss Weasley and wish that she was his wife? He didn't want to feel regret; he had settled into marriage, had grown accustomed to seeing Hermione every day. But he wondered if he would, in spite of everything, feel some regret at this first sight of the lady he would have married, if circumstances had been different.
Mrs. Weasley looked up and smiled at her daughter. "Ah, there you are, my dear girl. Look who's come to join us for luncheon."
Harry bowed, in silence, to Miss Weasley, struck, as he always was, by how very pretty she was. Red hair wasn't the most fashionable, although Harry had always thought he had rather a partiality for red hair because of his mother, but on Miss Weasley, her hair only added to the overall vibrancy of her appearance. She was smiling at him with almost as much flattering attention as she had given him, even when he had been an unacknowledged would-be suitor, but for the first time, he looked at her and acknowledged her beauty with a dispassion that amazed him (even as he felt relief that he was so disinterested.) She was lovely, yes, her features almost amazingly perfect and not even detracted from by the small scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, her figure and posture the epitome of grace. Not so much as one hair was out of place to mar the perfect loveliness of her appearance.
And yet-and yet, somehow, he found himself unaffected. For the first time, he looked at her and felt… nothing.
Indeed, she looked almost… too perfect-if that made any sense. He had gotten accustomed to Hermione's less noticeable, more natural attractiveness, had learned to see the beauty in brown eyes and curly brown hair that tended towards the unruly so that within a few hours of her morning toilette, there were always a few tendrils escaping to brush the skin of her neck (as if their intention was to draw his attention to the graceful curve of her neck and make him want to touch his lips to the spot where those few stray curls brushed.) He felt a flicker of heat just at his mental picture of Hermione, bent over some book, renegade locks of hair brushing her neck…
He blinked, forcibly pulling himself back to the present.
"Mr. Potter, this is a pleasant surprise," Miss Weasley was saying. "I hope you left Mrs. Potter well."
"Yes, she is well, thank you," Harry answered automatically.
"Harry, I was just going to say that I hope you are not concerned about the outcome of today's trial," Mr. Weasley began. "I have spoken with several members of the jury and they are well aware of Mrs. Lestrange's character and her actions. There can be no question of the verdict."
Harry opened his lips to respond but was prevented.
"Oh, Papa," Miss Weasley interjected with blithe gaiety, "surely it is not necessary to speak of such disagreeable subjects as the trial. I am sure it is much too lovely a day to think on such things."
Mr. Weasley smiled indulgently at his only daughter. "Very well, my dear. I was not considering you and you are quite right."
Miss Weasley smiled at her father before turning the full force of her smile onto Harry. "Mr. Potter, do tell us what Godric's Hollow is like. We are all immensely curious about your family home. I am sure it must be lovely."
"You can hardly expect me to praise it," Harry demurred. "It is my home so naturally I am not qualified to be an impartial judge."
"I would qualify as an impartial judge, I think, so perhaps you should wait for my judgment, Ginny," Ron said lightly before he addressed Harry. "I will claim the privilege of our long friendship in intruding upon two newlyweds' privacy, and will make a point of calling on you soon."
"If you come to call, we will insist you stay for a visit," Harry threatened with a small grin.
"You should have a house party. Please say you will. I should like it above all things."
Harry turned his attention to Miss Weasley at her words and gave the response which courtesy demanded of him. "You've anticipated me, Miss Weasley," Harry managed a smile. "I will talk to Mrs. Potter and you may expect invitations to a house party soon." (He didn't think he had ever referred to Hermione as Mrs. Potter before; odd how naturally the words slipped from his lips.)
Miss Weasley gifted him with that same bright, almost glowing smile which he had once thought so beguiling. Had she always been so… self-absorbed? Had she always exhibited the same blithe unwillingness to speak or hear of anything she found disagreeable, regardless of what others might think?
He remembered how charming he had found her vivacity; her bright smiles, the utterly unspoiled nature of her light-heartedness, had drawn him, all the more in the months before the war had begun in earnest because of how different it was from his own outlook on life. She had seemed like a light in the darkness; her smiles and her eyes and her laughter had attracted him like the proverbial moth to the proverbial flame.
It was only now that he wondered if such blitheness wasn't also a trifle tiresome-perhaps a sign of a lack of depth?
A winsome smile, sparkling laughter was all well and good-but did there not also need to be more than that?
He thought of Hermione, remembered the comfort she had given him after his nightmare, remembered all the quiet afternoons in the library. He remembered his odd reluctance to leave her this morning, the unspoken sympathy in her eyes and in her tone that had warmed his heart. He truly had been content, happy, in these first weeks with Hermione…
It was odd how it was only now, on leaving Hermione for the first time since their marriage, that he realized fully just how happy he had been. It had been such a subtle feeling, no wild bursts of delight but more a calm, soothing sort of contentment-in spite of (or because even because of) the near-constant desire coursing through his veins whenever he was near her (and even when he was not).
As if his thoughts had somehow been visible on his face, he heard Mr. Weasley ask genially, "So, Harry, how have you found the married state? The leg shackles have not chafed too badly, I trust," he added jocularly. "Have there been any surprises?"
Immediately, a vision from That Night, of the way Hermione had looked in her nightgown, leaped unbidden to his mind--and brought with it a vivid memory of his reaction to her, the surge of undeniable lust. Surprising? Yes. To say nothing of how surprisingly pleasant it was to spend so much time with Hermione, how he found himself almost automatically gravitating to the library just for the sake of being near her, just to be able to watch her surreptitiously as she read. "None that were at all unpleasant," he answered easily with a smile, but unconsciously to him, his tone (and his eyes) softened, becoming tinged with something very like tenderness. Harry himself didn't realize it, would have been shocked if he had, but it did not go unnoticed by anyone else in the room.
"Harry, do join us for supper tonight, after the trial is over," Mrs. Weasley invited.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Potter, do," Miss Weasley seconded her mother's invitation with alacrity.
"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley, but I'm afraid I cannot. I have some business to take care of and I did promise Mrs. Potter that I would be home for supper." He hadn't promised, of course-but he had gotten accustomed to having supper with Hermione and he surprised himself with the realization that he would rather have supper alone with Hermione than with the Weasleys.
"Very well, then," Mrs. Weasley said. "But the next time you are in Town, you must, of course, have supper with us."
"It would be my pleasure. Thank you."
Luncheon was announced at that moment, providing a distraction which Harry was rather thankful for.
The food was as good as it always was (the Weasleys were fortunate in their cook) and conversation became more general. Ron turned to Harry to make plans for acquiring tickets to the upcoming Quidditch season; Harry agreed easily. The most pleasant thing about his fame, he had found, was the fact that his name alone virtually ensured that he would be able to purchase tickets to any match he wanted, even if such tickets were not to be found for love or money to the rest of wizarding society.
But then Ron's attention was claimed by Mrs. Weasley and Harry turned his attention to Miss Weasley on his other side, and asked her, after a moment's thought, how she had been enjoying the Season thus far.
Harry sat back, only half-listening to her response and letting her smoothly-modulated tones wash over him, as he wondered just why he had been seriously considering making her his wife.
He murmured appropriate responses and smiled at the appropriate times (even though he could not have told what she was saying a moment after she'd said it) and all the while, he wondered.
What did he know about her? What had he ever really known about her, other than her lovely face and form, her laughter, and her family? He realized, with an odd feeling of distance from her, never mind that she was seated right next to him, close enough that he could reach out and touch her if he'd wanted to, that he had never really known much about her at all. He didn't know her tastes, her likes or her dislikes...
Automatically, almost idly, he remembered that, even before they had been married, he had known Hermione, known that she disliked the color pink, that she liked the colors blue and green and purple, that her favorite season was the fall, that she loved the first snowfall in the winter, that she took her tea with one lump of sugar and she liked her tea to always be hot. No lukewarm tea for her, characteristically, he had once reflected; it wasn't in Hermione to like half-measures.
But Miss Weasley was different. What did he know of her mind, her thoughts, her character?
Very little, the answer came almost immediately. He tried to remember a time when he had heard her express her opinion on something, tried to remember some incident that proved her character. He remembered pretty smiles and sparkling witticisms; he remembered looks of admiration that had buoyed his confidence and some words of dismay at the danger he faced that had warmed him. But thinking about it, he realized that her words had expressed some concern, yes, but the concern had been entirely free of any real understanding of what it was he faced, free of any real understanding that he had no choice. He supposed it wasn't surprising. What would she know of the grim realities of war or of Dark Magic in general? She couldn't know it. Even when the male half of the student population of Hogwarts had been kept informed of what was happening with the War, the girls had been carefully shielded from any of that information on the grounds that they were too delicate to be exposed to such things. (With the notable exception of Hermione, who had insisted on being told and had been, either by cajoling usually him or sometimes Ron into telling her, or by persuading Professor McGonagall or Headmaster Dumbledore into telling her.) Harry still remembered vividly the furor that had ensued when Headmaster Dumbledore had elected to tell the entire student population, male and female, the true fate of Cedric Diggory and the fact that the Dark Lord had returned. Many of the girls had fainted outright, including Miss Lavender Brown who had gracefully swooned into Ron's arms to Ron's surprise and Hermione's disgust. Miss Weasley had grown very pale and swayed on her feet but had recovered very quickly when Mr. Longbottom had tried to persuade her to sit down.
Now, looking at her and listening to her light conversation, he tried to imagine telling her of his nightmares or, more simply, telling her even some of what he had seen and done in the War. He failed. He could not imagine it, could not imagine really wanting her to know-but, he thought now, wasn't it the sort of thing a wife ought to know about her husband?
And what did it say about him that he didn't think he could trust her with the darker corners of his life and his mind but he had been prepared to marry her as of only a few months ago? Had he been so blinded by her undeniable beauty, so bewitched by her lighthearted charm that he hadn't thought beyond that? He felt a flicker of dismay, mingled with shame. He wouldn't have thought that he could be so shallow-and yet, at that moment, he was faced with the evidence that he had, after all, been just that much of a fool.
And for the first time, he thought of Lady Danvers with a slight softening of his attitude. He could not quite forgive her cutting Hermione but, he admitted to himself, he was… glad he had married Hermione.
Maybe he didn't love her-but he did desire her, wanted her with a desperation he had never even dreamed he could feel for her, and more than that, she was his best friend and he cared for her, trusted her. And he had the distinct feeling that friendship, the sort of friendship and trust which he had with Hermione, was a much stronger-and wiser-basis for marriage than anything else.
No, he did not regret marrying Hermione. More than that, he was quite sure now that he never would regret it. Seeing Miss Weasley again had been the one thing he had been somewhat apprehensive over, for the regrets which it might have given rise to, but no longer.
A small knot of tension he hadn't even realized was present seemed to unwind within his chest at that realization and he relaxed enough to enjoy the rest of the luncheon for what it was, a good meal with pleasant company.
It was later when Harry was preparing to leave that Ron pulled him aside for a quiet word. "Harry."
"Will I see you at the trial?" Harry asked, unnecessarily.
"Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?" Ron returned. "About Hermione, how is it, truly? I know with my parents around, you might not want to say, but to me, how is it?"
Harry met Ron's eyes directly, realizing, with a sense of surprise, that if he did have any dissatisfaction with his marriage, he would not want to tell Ron. It was something he had never considered before but he realized it now, facing his best friend-the first friend he had ever had. He was married now; his first loyalty was to Hermione…
He felt an odd twist inside him at the thought. Fortunately, he could answer Ron with complete honesty. "It's good," he said simply.
Ron studied him for a moment. "You're happy then?"
"I think… I really am. Hermione is…" he trailed off, hesitating. How could he describe Hermione briefly? Amazingly desirable, came to mind but Harry could hardly say that. "She's sweet," he finally settled for saying. It was an odd word, perhaps, and one which he'd never really thought to use to describe Hermione before but somehow, it fit. When he remembered the way she'd comforted him after his nightmare, when he remembered her smiles and her way of gently using humor to tug him out of melancholy, it really did suit her.
Ron gave Harry a look that suggested he thought Harry was a candidate for Bedlam. "Sweet? Are we speaking of the same Hermione, Prefect and Head Girl Hermione?"
"She is sweet," Harry repeated. "I'm not sure why we never noticed it before and she really is quite pretty."
"Hermione is a dear friend, when she is not being irritating, and I would never have said she was particularly plain but pretty? I think not."
Harry felt a flicker of shame that as of only weeks ago, he might have said the same about Hermione. He didn't know how he had never noticed her before-had he simply become so accustomed to thinking of Hermione as his friend he had forgotten to really look at her? But whatever the reason, he was heartily ashamed of himself. "She is pretty, you know. I don't think she's changed at all-but she is."
"I will take your word for it," Ron answered, giving Harry a rather odd look. "I hope Hermione is happy as well." He paused and then added lightly, although there was an underlying thread of truth in his tone, "You are both my best friends and I should hate to have to call you out for making her unhappy."
"If I truly made her unhappy, I would call myself out and spare you the trouble," Harry responded half-humorously but with complete sincerity, as he reflected on Ron's unspoken question.
His stomach clenched oddly inside him. Was Hermione happy? She was content, he knew; he did not doubt that. He knew her well enough to recognize when she was forcing smiles and her smiles had been very genuine. But contentment was somehow not enough.
Not after today when he had realized that he was rather thankful, truth be told, to be married to Hermione. He might have some regret over the initial reasons for it but he did not regret the marriage, had not regretted the marriage for one moment.
He was happy; was Hermione happy too? Contentment was too mild, too bland, a word; it wasn't enough. He wanted her to be happy…
At that moment, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley interrupted them and he turned to take his leave.
"Oh, must you leave now, Harry? I was hoping you would stay and talk with us until it was time for the trial."
"I'm afraid I have some business to see to and I would like to complete it before the trial if possible," Harry answered, now more determined than ever to carry through with his idle plans to show Hermione that he cared.
"Well, then, of course, we shall not keep you," Mrs. Weasley assured him with a smile.
"I will see you at the Ministry later, Harry. Would 10 minutes after 3 suit you?" Mr. Weasley spoke up.
"Perfectly, thank you, sir."
"I'll see you then," Ron added.
Harry managed a slight smile. "Yes. Until later this afternoon, then, sir. Mrs. Weasley, thank you for luncheon."
"Nonsense, Harry. There is no need to stand on ceremony here; you know you are always welcome."
"I thank you for it, ma'am." He bowed to Miss Weasley. "Miss Weasley."
Miss Weasley gifted him with a bright smile as she curtsied and then looked up at him. He blinked, nonplussed for a moment as he could swear that she had just touched the tip of her tongue to her parted lips in a movement that was pure provocation.
He had a sudden memory of other times when she had done that, when she had done something to draw his attention to her lips, and he'd felt a flicker of heat in response. Now, though, for the first time, he felt… nothing. Or no, that wasn't true. He did feel something, something perilously close to distaste. He didn't know what she intended by it; perhaps it was simply an automatic movement with no intent behind it but whatever it was, he felt no desire, no attraction.
The attraction he had once felt for her was truly gone now, he realized, which was as it should be. And in its place, there was only Hermione. It was Hermione he wanted now, Hermione whose person became the focus of all his senses, awareness flickering, whenever he was with her. Perhaps it was only the frustration of unexpressed, unfulfilled desire but at the moment, he didn't choose to analyze it.
He wanted Hermione-and beyond that, he didn't try to think.
~To be continued…~