Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
Author's Note: Again, apologies for how long it's been between updates but life got busy and then my muses went AWOL and then distracted with other fics. This chapter is the one I had the most fun writing about, although the end may either make you love me or hate me. At any rate, enjoy!
The Truth About Love
Part 8: How to Woo a Wife
It was over.
Harry was nearly the first person out of the courtroom and, although he heard a few reporters calling his name and, more pleasantly, guessed that Mr. Weasley and Ron would be wanting to talk to him, he needed to leave. He felt as if he were being suffocated, the room closing in around him, stifled with the burden of his memories and his guilt and his sorrow-and, through it all, the coldly-vindictive anger he couldn't help but feel, but the anger did not help, only seemed to add to the burden.
He fled the courtroom and hurried down the corridors and back outside to the small alley-way just outside the new Ministry of Magic's headquarters where he stopped, leaning back against the wall, taking in deep gulps of the not-quite-fresh air of London. He tilted his face up toward the sun and let himself breathe and, finally, the bleakness of the memories and of his emotions receded somewhat, leaving him once more aware of his surroundings, aware of the busy noises from the nearby street and the passers-by, going about their normal lives-their peaceful, normal lives.
It was over.
"There you are, Harry."
He turned to see Ron and Mr. Weasley coming towards him and straightened up from his position leaning against the wall.
Ron gave him a questioning glance but said nothing, knowing, from experience, better than to ask after Harry's welfare.
"Well, it is over now," Mr. Weasley said, in unconscious echo of Harry's earlier thought. "Shockingly disagreeable process but it is over, and I, for one, am glad of it." He looked at Harry. "Harry, my boy, are you sure you will not reconsider and take supper with us before you return home?"
"Quite sure, thank you, sir," Harry said, managing a rather wan smile. "I am afraid I would be no fit company for the ladies."
"Now, if that's your only worry, you know Mrs. Weasley and my Ginevra will not mind in the least," Mr. Weasley assured him.
Harry shook his head. "No, I thank you. Convey my respects to Mrs. Weasley with my thanks for her kind invitation but I am very weary and will have to decline."
"Very well, then. Give Mrs. Weasley's and my regards to Mrs. Potter," Mr. Weasley said.
"Gladly, thank you."
"Yes, give my greetings to Hermione," Ron added.
Harry nodded, as Ron grasped his arm briefly in a gesture of farewell and sympathy, before Harry inclined his head in a slight bow to Mr. Weasley.
"Ron. Good day, Mr. Weasley."
Mr. Weasley nodded. "Harry," he said in farewell, before he and Ron turned to walk towards the street.
Left alone, Harry took in another few breaths, trying to banish the rest of his memories, before he Apparated back to Godric's Hollow.
Harry felt a surprising sense of warmth fill his chest when he Apparated into the courtyard of Godric's Hollow, realizing he felt more at ease, some of his weariness lifting, just from seeing the house with its lit windows.
He was home.
And for someone who had never really had a home before, who had spent his life longing for a true home, it was truly a remarkable and a profound feeling to know he had a home.
Hogwarts had been the closest thing he'd ever had to a home but it hadn't been his; he had always had to leave it at the end of every school year. He had lived in Grimmauld Place for more than a month when he had been in Town but Grimmauld Place had never felt like home; it was too gloomy, too haunted by his memories of his Uncle Sirius.
He'd never expected Godric's Hollow to feel like home after only a month but it did. Godric's Hollow was his home now.
As usual, Dobby was waiting for him just inside the front doors, ready to take his cloak. Harry smiled at Dobby. "Hello, Dobby. Would you just put this in the library?" he asked, also handing Dobby the small box he had slipped into the pocket of his cloak. "Do you know--" he began, intending to ask whether Dobby knew where Hermione was but stopped as he saw Hermione herself coming towards him.
He felt an odd spurt of gladness in his chest, reflecting that perhaps this was why Godric's Hollow felt so much like home. It wasn't the house itself but this, the knowledge that someone-that Hermione-was here, waiting for him.
She gave him a searching look. "You look tired. Was the trial very difficult?"
"It was hard," Harry admitted, almost automatically drawing her hand into the crook of his arm as they walked towards the library, preceded by Dobby.
"Did she say something?" Hermione asked, guessing the answer from the sudden tension she felt in his arm.
"What didn't she say?" Harry asked rhetorically. "She was given a chance to 'defend herself' of course, but she used her chance to let us all know just what she thought of us. She said--" his voice trembled slightly before he forcibly calmed himself, "she said Uncle Sirius deserved what he got for being a traitor to the blood, that he was a Muggle-loving, worthless good-for-nothing."
"Oh, Harry…" Hermione sighed, knowing just how much the words would have pained Harry. Not because he wasn't expecting Mrs. Lestrange to say something similarly offensive but expecting it didn't make hearing the words any easier to hear. "I'm sorry but at least it's over now. She got her just deserts."
He sighed heavily. "Yes, it's over. She will be dead soon."
"So they did sentence her to death."
"Yes. I don't think they could have done any differently given what she said about them and how clearly unrepentant she was."
"She deserves it. And I, for one, am glad," Hermione said with unladylike harshness.
Harry stared at her for a moment in some surprise until she blushed, looking rather abashed, which made her look almost as mild as any other milk-and-water miss and certainly incapable of expressing such a sentiment.
"She does deserve it," she said more gently.
And even though a minute ago, he could not have imagined doing so, he felt a smile curve his lips and then let out a half-chuckle. "Oh, Hermione, there's no one like you," he said half-teasingly and half-seriously and wholly sincerely. He admitted soberly, "I'm glad too."
There was a moment of silence which she finally broke by saying lightly, "I suppose this makes us terrible people."
"If it does, then I should think we're well-matched," he responded, without thought.
She smiled a little, her expression softening, and Harry realized belatedly what he'd said and the other, more personal implications attached to it, but found he didn't care.
They were well-matched-and the vague thought drifted through his mind almost too quickly for him to catch it, that he couldn't imagine being this happy-in spite of everything, in spite of the lack of any physical intimacies between them-with anyone else. Who else could understand him nearly so well; who else could he trust so much?
He felt himself relax, feeling a peace settle inside him which he could never have expected as of even an hour ago when he'd been filled with so much anger and grief and so very tired from the strain of the trial.
His absent gaze fell on the small box which Dobby had placed on one of the end tables and he sat up. "Oh, I nearly forgot. I bought you something," he told Hermione.
She smiled. "You did? Oh, Harry, you didn't have to do that."
He shrugged one shoulder dismissively. "It occurred to me that I never gave you a wedding present."
She flushed a little. "I wasn't expecting one."
He stood up, taking out his wand to undo the shrinking and feather-light charms he'd placed on the box so it expanded to become nearly as large as the trunk where the bludgers, the Quaffle and the Snitch were kept in between games.
"Goodness, Harry, you shouldn't have bought so much."
"Open it."
She did so with a last smile at him.
"Oh, Harry, thank you!"
He grinned at her enthusiasm. He had bought the latest edition of Deliver Me From Evil: a Complete Guide to Defense Against the Dark Arts, which was the most extensive and most detailed compendium available, so extensive and so detailed that it consisted of a full 10 volumes in this latest edition, beginning with the most basic spells and hexes to the Unforgivable Curses and a range of the other darkest magic known to the wizarding world. "It occurs to me that our marriage might end up saving me money. Any other young lady would, no doubt, expect jewels and furs, but you are completely satisfied with a set of books," he quipped.
She threw him a laughing glance but immediately returned her gaze to the books, the first one already open in front of her.
And Harry decided that he would willingly buy her every book ever published to keep that bright smile on her face, could happily spend his life trying to make her smile like this…
Harry smiled as he watched her, only to have his smile fade, his enjoyment in seeing her pleasure replaced by something completely different and unexpected. He was suddenly gripped by a fierce envy-and something else. Envy for a book- that book. Her hands-her lovely hands-were touching the book with the care that was characteristic of her with books, dear as they were to her. His eyes were riveted on her hands; he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could only stare as all the blood in his body rushed out of his head. She was almost caressing the bloody book and he couldn't help but imagine what those same hands might feel like on his body, couldn't help but imagine her touching him, caressing him, in almost the same way she was touching the book at that moment.
Good God, he really was becoming a candidate for Bedlam if he was wishing he were a book.
Harry forcibly hauled his unruly mind back to reality, sternly trying to quash the heat in his body.
"If those books haven't completely taken over your mind, there is another part to my gift," he managed to say, amazed at how normal and teasing he sounded.
She looked up at him with the brightest smile he had ever seen on her face. She positively glowed, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, her eyes sparkling.
He stared at her, suddenly forgetting entirely what he'd been about to say.
She was beautiful. Absolutely, unutterably, soul-stirringly beautiful. She stole his breath and his wits and he could not understand how he hadn't seen it before. At that moment, he would have sworn that she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, the most beautiful woman in England-- no, the world.
How could he not have seen how beautiful she was? How could everyone else not see how beautiful she was?
Was the world populated with blind men or merely stupid ones?
He blinked, returning to the present to realize that Hermione's smile had become teasing. "Well, where is the rest of my gift?"
"I- er- well, I spoke with Remus while I was in Town today and he's agreed to come visit to practice dueling with you too and actually teach you some of what you can't really learn from the books."
"Teach me-like he taught you at Hogwarts?"
Harry nodded. "Yes."
"Oh Harry…" she breathed.
To his dismay, she looked touched to the point of tears and he cast about desperately for something to say to ward off tears and finally opened his lips, meaning to say lightly that his motives weren't purely altruistic because he'd want his daughters to be trained in Defense and what better way to ensure that than to train her in it as well-but then the words caught in his throat. The thought had been heedless, the words glib, but his mind's eye was suddenly assailed with the image of a small girl-a girl with Hermione's curly brown hair and her bright brown eyes-holding on to Hermione's hand, looking to Hermione for instruction and for love and for comfort. A little girl who called him Papa… His daughter. His and Hermione's daughter. His throat closed. He had never thought about children before, other than in the most general fashion, merely assuming he would have them one day. But then he had married Hermione and, thanks in large part to her, he had learned more than he'd ever hoped to know about his family's history. And he'd become conscious in a way he never had been before that he was the first-born son of a first-born son of a first-born son of a Potter going on back for many generations; he owed it to his family, if nothing else, to have children and continue on the family line. But now, for the first time, the idea of having children-having children with Hermione-seemed very real. He blinked, looking at Hermione with a strange, new warmth in his chest that had something to do with the now-familiar flare of desire at the thought of how children were made but was also more than desire, was… warmer than that, deeper than that. Something that was more about his heart than about his body.
Harry mentally shook himself out of his reverie and blurted out teasingly (and rather inanely) the only thing that came to mind, to try to distract her from the tears that seemed imminent. "And maybe if you're a very good student, he'll even let you take the N.E.W.T's in Defense too."
"Oh Harry!"
And before Harry could so much as blink, he abruptly found his arms full of a very warm bundle of grateful wife.
Hermione had thrown her arms around his neck in a hug and was now pressed against him full-length. "Thank you! I think this is the nicest gift anyone has ever given me." Her voice was somewhat muffled by his shoulder.
He closed his arms around her automatically, breathing in the light, floral scent of her hair and very, very conscious of the warmth and softness of her body pressed against his. The arousal he had partially succeeded in tamping down flared up again with renewed force at the feel of her breasts against his chest, the heat from her skin warming his hands through the fabric of her gown. His eyes closed as he savored the delightful sensation of holding Hermione in his arms. Dear Merlin, she felt so… perfect…
He had only a few precious, fleeting seconds to savor as all too soon, she remembered herself and drew back, blushing scarlet at her admittedly unladylike behavior that had turned every rule of propriety on its head. He loosened his arms from around her reluctantly but couldn't quite bring himself to let her go entirely, his hands lingering irresistibly at the curve of her waist. Not tightly enough to hold her in place; she could have easily stepped back-but she didn't.
She didn't move but stayed where she was, her body only separated from his by a few scant inches of space, her face upturned to his.
He stared at her, could not look away from her, mesmerized, entranced, by her. He had known her for so many years now, had thought he knew what she looked like, and it was somewhat stunning to find that he really hadn't known at all. He had looked at her but he hadn't really seen her, he thought vaguely. He hadn't seen that her eyes weren't just brown as he'd always thought but that there were flecks of amber and hazel mixed in with the brown; he hadn't seen that her lashes--well, he had never thought about her lashes before-but now, standing as close as they were, he could see that her lashes weren't completely brown either but were light at the ends, as if some benevolent god had just dipped them into molten gold. And her lips-his entire body seemed to clench, tighten inside him as his gaze lowered to focus on her lips. Her soft, pink lips, the lower lip slightly fuller than the upper one-her lips were temptation put into flesh. A man would have to be dead to be immune to her-and as he was very aware with every beat of his suddenly racing heart, he was most certainly not dead or immune.
Some part of his mind was very insistently telling him that he should step back and release her, that he should do the gentlemanly thing and not rush her into any physical intimacy she might not be ready for, might not want. But another part of him-the greater part of him-spoke up, pointing out that she could have easily stepped back herself if she'd wanted to but she hadn't. She had stayed. Perhaps she felt this too. Perhaps, just perhaps, she felt this same attraction…
This mesmeric, odd tension that held him in its grip, making him at once hyper-conscious of her and at the same time, utterly unconscious of anything else-this was desire, truer and stronger than anything he had yet felt.
And he could no more resist its temptation than he could have kept the sun from rising in the morning.
His head lowered, his eyes closing, and slowly, with an almost exquisite gentleness, he kissed her. His lips touched hers, brushed hers, lingered there until, almost without conscious thought, he increased the pressure of his lips against hers. His tongue touched the seam of her lips, which parted on a small gasp, allowing him access and he finally tasted the sweetness of her.
He was vaguely conscious of her hands moving tentatively from where they'd been resting on his arms up to his shoulders and then up to touch his hair and he was very conscious of the slight movement of her lips, so softly against his, and her tongue venturing forth to touch his in a shy, uncertain caress. She was kissing him back-the thought blazed through his dazed mind, riding on a wave of triumph and desire that scorched through his body. More than that, he realized belatedly, her lips and tongue were imitating his actions, matching his movements with her own, until he no longer remembered if he were the one kissing her or she was the one kissing him-and didn't care either. After all, the fuzzy thought drifted through his mind, she had always been a quick study…
Just kissing her was… was indescribable. He felt the slightest motion of her lips and her tongue through his entire body, every nerve he possessed focusing on her, drowning in her, the feeling of her, the taste of her… She had softened, her body yielding and becoming pliable, almost molding herself against him. His body was hard and he wanted nothing more than to slide his hands down to cup her hips, to press her body against him, but some small fraction of his mind that retained the ability to think coherently spoke up and reminded him of his promise to wait until she was ready. He would not push, would not presume, or try to persuade her into more than she was prepared for. With anyone else he might have but not with her. This was too important for that; she was too important. This was for the rest of their lives; he could and he would wait until she was ready… Until she wanted him as much as he wanted her…
But until then, he could kiss her, more, repeatedly, ease her into more intimacy…
And for now, it was enough, just to savor the taste of her, the feel of her softness pressed against him. She felt so… delicate, somehow, pressed against him and he felt a wave of protectiveness mingle with his arousal, oddly making him want her even more. He could, he decided fuzzily, happily spend the rest of his life kissing her…
He heard the sound without it registering in his mind for a moment before he recognized it for what it was, the sound of someone knocking on the door.
It took every particle of strength he had in him to end the kiss, letting his hands fall from her waist and stepping back. "What is it?" he asked, trying not to sound as frustrated as he felt.
"Supper is served, Mr. Potter, sir," he heard Dobby's voice say.
"Thank you, Dobby."
He closed his eyes for a moment, battling to get his desires under control again. Supper. Of course, it had been nearly supper-time by the time he had returned.
He opened his eyes and looked at her and felt a fresh wave of desire go through his body at the sight of her, her face flushed, her eyes soft and a little unfocused, her lips damp and swollen from his kiss. Good Lord…
One hand lifted of its own volition to touch her cheek, trailing lightly down to the line of her jaw, in an irresistible caress. "Hermione…"
"Harry…"
It was almost absurd how just the sound of her voice saying his name like that made his body clench with need.
And he knew that if he stayed, if he let himself linger like this any longer, all of his good intentions would dissolve.
He swallowed, stepping back and letting his hand fall as well. "We should go to supper," he finally managed to say.
For a fleeting second, something flickered in her eyes before something like her usual composure reasserted itself as she nodded. "Yes, we should."
As usual now, she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and just that most simple of touches was almost his undoing.
Harry gritted his teeth and reminded himself sternly that he was a gentleman. He was a gentleman and he had given his word.
~To be continued…~