The Truth About Love

Disclaimer: I didn’t invent Harry Potter and I most definitely did not invent the Regency period. And does this look even remotely similar to something JKR is capable of writing, since the woman can’t write romance to save her life?

Any characters whose names you don’t recognize are mine, however, but that’s all I own.

Author’s Note: I always said I could never write a real AU that transported the HP characters and world into a different place or time. I should have known better than to say ‘never’ (since I once said that I could never write smut or angst or an affair fic and we all know how that turned out…) So this is a completely AU fic, in the Regency period.

For my dear Amethyst_J—who started this with her fic, ‘A Most Advantageous Match’ and whom I blame entirely for this fic’s existence.

Will be rated R/NC-17 for future “fun parts.” ;-)

Enjoy!

The Truth About Love

Chapter 1: For Honor

Every young lady, once she reaches a marriageable age, must have a Season.

It was an unwritten law of their Society and one which she had always known, always been prepared for.

She only wished she could look forward to it with more anticipation and not with dread.

Miss Hermione Granger suppressed a sigh. She was not expecting a pleasant evening.

“You look like you’re about to go to the guillotine,” she heard a familiar voice say in her ear and she turned to smile at her best friend.

“That’s about what I feel like.”

Harry Potter gave her a teasing smile. “Never say that the young lady who helped me face the Dark Lord feels more trepidation at the thought of entering a ballroom than she did in fighting a war.”

“Very well. I won’t say it.”

His eyes sparkled down at her and she smiled at him, feeling immeasurably more cheerful.

But not even the comforting solid-ness of his arm beneath her hand could keep her from swallowing hard when she heard their names announced by the footman in stentorian tones.

“Mr. Harry Potter! Mr. Ronald Weasley. Miss Hermione Granger.”

She had known they were going to be announced like this.

This ball, the one that officially marked the start of the Season for wizarding Society, was being hosted this year, by the Minister of Magic himself, Lord Westerfield, and was, as everyone knew, in their honor. (Lord Westerfield had, she knew, wanted the ball to simply be in Harry’s honor but that, Harry had flatly refused, saying that if Ron and she were not also included as the guests of honor, he would not attend. Lord Westerfield had not been best pleased but with the victory over Voldemort barely two months old, no one was in any hurry to displease Harry over anything, and Lord Westerfield had given in, with as much grace as he could muster.)

They greeted Lord Westerfield first, thanking him for the honor of the ball, and Hermione strove desperately to sound sincere in her thanks.

At some point during the evening, Hermione had no doubt that everyone at the ball would be introduced to Harry—and to herself and Ron, by extension—but for now, at least, they only needed to greet a select few.

Hermione smiled and curtsied to their hostess, Lady Westerfield, not missing Lady Westerfield’s look of hastily-concealed surprise at the simplicity of Hermione’s gown and her lack of adornment with jewels and wondered if she were being spiteful to imagine Lady Westerfield thinking it surprising that Hermione wouldn’t seek to distract attention from her unremarkable looks with a fortune in jewels.

After Lady Westerfield, they greeted the French Minister of Magic, who had come from Paris just to meet Harry, followed by a few of the most important heads of Ministry Departments (and the one person Hermione was sincerely glad to greet, Mr. Weasley, Ron’s father, who had recently been promoted to be the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement).

From Mr. Weasley, Harry turned towards Lady Danvers, who was one of the self-acknowledged leaders of wizarding society, partly due to her age. (Lady Danvers was nearly a contemporary of Headmaster Dumbledore himself and, reportedly, had known Headmaster Dumbledore well and was, moreover, a member of the Board of Trustees of Hogwarts, the only female Trustee at that.)

“Mr. Potter, it’s about time you’ve come to pay your respects,” Lady Danvers barked in her characteristically direct fashion.

“Lady Danvers,” he greeted her politely with a correct bow. “I don’t believe you’ve met my friend, Mr. Ronald Weasley.”

Lady Danvers nodded to Ron in the perfunctory manner made acceptable by her age and her status. “Mr. Weasley.”

“Lady Danvers,” Ron greeted her with the respectful tone he reserved for Hogwarts professors.

“And may I introduce my other dear friend, Miss Hermione Granger?”

Hermione dipped into a curtsy. “Lady Danvers.”

And then to her utter shock, Lady Danvers pointedly ignored her, addressing Harry. “You may not.”

“My lady?” Harry asked confusedly.

“I have heard of Miss Granger and find I do not care to make her acquaintance at this time,” she stated coolly.

Hermione gasped.

Harry’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he stepped forward, edging slightly in front of Hermione in a distinctly protective manner. “I beg your pardon?”

His voice was cold and carried a wealth of warning but Lady Danvers was either oblivious or, more likely, indifferent to any veiled warning he could make.

“I will bid you and Mr. Weasley a good evening,” was all she said, in a tone arrogant enough to put even a Malfoy to shame.

And with that, she turned and swept away, leaving Hermione in a state of shock and Harry furious.

He was angry; she could sense the anger practically coming off him in waves and, oddly, that served more than anything else to break through her shock and hurt.

There was a fleeting moment of unnatural silence that was broken by the sound of Professor McGonagall’s voice, greeting them with an unusual and uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, how good to see you.”

Numbly, Hermione curtsied to her former professor, aware of Professor McGonagall’s concerted effort to make her feel welcome after Lady Danvers’ cut, but quite unable to respond.

She had been snubbed, given the cut direct.

Harry turned to her in some concern, feeling the added pressure of her hand on his arm. “Hermione? Do you want me to call your carriage?”

She shook her head, stiffening her spine. “No, thank you, Harry. I’m fine.” To leave now would be to implicitly admit guilt and would only add to the scandal and that, she would not do. She could not do that.

“You’re sure?” Ron inserted. “I can make your excuses to my mother, who will let Lord and Lady Westerfield know.”

She struggled and manufactured a brittle smile, although she knew it wouldn’t fool Harry for a moment. “No. I’ll be fine.”

“I can’t believe the bloody hag said that,” Ron muttered.

“Let’s not talk about it,” Hermione responded. “It’s not important. This is our first ball; we should enjoy ourselves.”

With that resolution in mind, Hermione deflected all of Harry’s looks of concern and tried, gamely, to act completely unaffected by the insult.

It helped that nearly everyone followed Professor McGonagall’s lead in welcoming her, a faint hint of defiance in their smiles as if to say that they, at least, didn’t believe whatever slanderous stories Lady Danvers might have heard, but Hermione sensed the added whispers, the curiosity in people’s gazes, and shrank from it as she would from a whiplash.

She could see, too, the sympathy and the pity in some people’s gazes and that was even worse than the curiosity. Her pride rebelled at being an object of pity because of one woman’s unfounded insult.

She clung to the consciousness of her innocence, using it as armor to deflect the curious and the occasionally spiteful, calling on every fiber of pride and self-control in her to survive the evening.

She knew she succeeded because Harry stopped giving her concerned glances and relaxed his attitude of protective vigilance against anyone else who might think of insulting her.

Their first ball was not an unmitigated disaster, given its beginnings, but she had never been so glad for an evening to be over in her life as when she was finally in the carriage with her chaperone, Miss Chittister, thankfully silent.

~

She wasn’t surprised when Harry was announced the next morning, at the earliest possible hour for callers.

He had the look of someone who’d been pacing the floor for much of the night, his hair even wilder than usual. He disregarded the usual conventional greeting to blurt out, “I’m sorry,” the moment she stepped inside the drawing room.

Her step faltered slightly but she strove to sound calm as she answered, “Good morning to you too.”

He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “Good morning,” he said in a perfunctory manner and then continued immediately, “We have to talk.”

He didn’t wait for her response, only went on, looking distinctly ill-at-ease and not quite looking at her. “About what Lady Danvers said last night—I don’t know how but somehow, someone told her or hinted at those few times you came to see me and Ron—or about what happened after the last battle.”

Hermione felt herself blush out of a mixture of self-consciousness at the memories and also in outrage. “But it’s ridiculous! You were fighting a war; we all were! How could they think—it’s ridiculous!” She swallowed back the rest of her protest, that Harry would sooner think of killing Prinny and mad King George than he would of compromising her in any way. He would never—he didn’t even consider her to be a young lady, as far as Hermione could tell. It was what had allowed them to become such good friends from the first, that he treated her like an equal and a rational being, with no qualms about her “feminine weakness” or “delicate nature” or any of the other reasons which were often given to explain why girls were not permitted to take Defense Against the Dark Arts or to learn some of the more advanced potions or were even permitted inside certain sections of the Hogwarts library.

It had been one of the biggest disappointments she had suffered when she’d arrived at Hogwarts eight years ago. She had been so excited to receive her letter, so excited to think of a whole, new, magical world to discover, so hopeful that the wizarding world would prove to be more open than the society into which she’d been born, that she might finally be respected for her intellect and treated as an equal and not some delicate, empty-headed doll.

She had always known she didn’t fit in to the world in which she’d been born. In a world where girls were brought up to be ornamental and frivolous, she was serious. In a world where beauty was the most important attribute a girl could possess and where fairness was considered the ideal, she was dark and not a beauty by any standards. In a world where a girl’s primary concerns were supposed to be clothes and jewels and girls were not encouraged to read anything other than La Belle Assemblee or the society pages in the newspaper, Hermione had read everything, from philosophy to the Classics, to novels, to political works.

But she had hoped that in the wizarding world she might finally find where she belonged. Only to be disappointed in that hope. At Hogwarts, she had been introduced to so many new subjects that had fascinated her, yes, but there too, she’d found that girls were expected to study things like Household Magic and not permitted to study Defense Against the Dark Arts. Potions classes were divided so that girls learned things like the Headache Potion and the Sleeping Potion and the boys learned things like the Polyjuice potion and other, more interesting things.

And, once again, she’d found she was a pariah, ridiculed by the other girls as being a bluestocking, ignored by the boys as being plain and putting on airs.

Only Harry, she’d found, had been willing to accept her as she was. Only Harry—amazingly as, from the moment she had learned about the existence of the magical world, she had pored over books on it and come across his name as the boy hero, who had somehow managed to defeat the Dark Lord when he was only a baby. Then she had met him, only to discover that the hero was just a boy, after all, skinny and wearing clothes that were clearly cast-offs from someone considerably larger than he was, with messy hair and cracked glasses.

But Harry had been different; Harry, alone, hadn’t laughed when he found her in the library, staring at the shelves of books which girls weren’t permitted to read and—when she had been caught with one of those forbidden books which she had snuck into the boys’ section of the library to get, in one of those infrequent times when Madam Pince, the librarian, wasn’t looking—Harry had been the one to take the blame, insisting to Madam Pince that he had been the one to take out the book and it was his fault for carelessly leaving it out on a desk where anyone could read it. Madam Pince had grumbled but the Boy Who Lived, was entitled to a certain amount of indulgence, even from Madam Pince, who looked as if she had never so much as smiled in her life. Hermione had smiled at him, a little tentatively, and he had smiled back—and from that moment, they had been friends.

It had taken longer for Ron to accept her as a friend, taken longer for Ron to stop laughing every time she made some sort of serious suggestion. But Ron had learned to accept her too after she had proven her worth in saving them several times and now Ron was one of her dearest friends as well.

But she had retained an added affection, an added loyalty, to Harry, for being her first friend, for being the first person who’d accepted her for who she was and never made her feel like she didn’t belong. So when Lord Voldemort had returned and it had been Harry’s task to face him, she hadn’t had to think twice before she knew she would do anything she could to help Harry. She hadn’t been able to go with Harry and Ron to the remote locations when they had been in hiding and hunting out Voldemort; not even she had been able to overlook the proprieties to that extent. And she had decided that she would help them more by staying at Hogwarts to do all the research which they could not do; with special permission from Professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledore, she had willingly spent nearly every waking hour delving into the history of the dark arts and Voldemort’s past, in order to find some spell which would allow Harry to defeat him.

There had only been a few times when she’d ignored the proprieties—twice, when she had discovered a new spell and had Apparated to where Harry and Ron were staying and had ended up falling asleep and then after the last battle, when Harry had been brought back to Hogwarts, bloody, bruised and unconscious, she had refused to move from her chair by his bed in the Infirmary until the healers had told her he would be fine.

And now, some scandal-minded people—or one scandal-minded woman in particular—had found out.

She felt some embarrassment, yes, but she refused to regret it—she didn’t regret it. She could not have done anything different and she refused to be made to feel ashamed for the honest friendship and affection and loyalty that had prompted her actions, especially when she had not done anything remotely improper, no matter how it might look.

“I know but you know that doesn’t matter when it comes to things like this,” Harry finally said. “It’s a scandal and scandals don’t usually wait for the truth.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I should have thought—I never meant—I shouldn’t have let you--”

“Don’t, Harry. I refuse to feel guilty over this and I refuse to let you feel guilty when we didn’t do anything wrong or even remotely improper.”

He didn’t look reassured and in an attempt to make him smile, she added, half in jest, “I will take as my motto, ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense,’ and defend it against all comers.”

The ghost of a smile curved his lips. “What?”

“It’s the motto of the Order of the Garter. The shame be upon him who thinks evil where there is none.”

He let out a short laugh. “Fitting.”

She smiled and for a fleeting minute, things were restored to their usual comfort between them.

But all too soon, he remembered why he was there and the smile faded from his eyes. “The motto is all well and good but, Hermione, you know it won’t make a difference to some people. You’ve been compromised in their eyes.”

“But nothing ever happened!” she protested hotly.

“I know that and you know that and everyone who knows us knows that but that’s not important. Some people will listen to what Lady Danvers said; she might be an old harpy but she’s still a force to be reckoned with in society.”

Cold was beginning to seep into her heart, apprehension at Harry’s uncharacteristically reasoning tones chilling her. And she suddenly knew that, no matter what the truth was, Lady Danvers’ cut last evening had changed her life forever.

“What—what are you saying?” she asked, though she had a terrible feeling she already knew the answer.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he tended to do when he was worried or distressed. “We have to marry.”

She had never thought that four words, spoken in such a tone, could hurt so much. Her heartbeat was suddenly roaring in her ears, filling her head with a dull, echoing Be careful what you wish for…

“No!” she burst out in unthinking denial. “I can’t marry you!”

“Think about it, Hermione. We don’t have a choice.”

“But you don’t want to marry me.”

“And you don’t want to marry me,” he responded.

Hermione flushed and bit her tongue on the answer that sprang to mind and turned her gaze away, suddenly terrified of Harry for the first time since she’d known him—terrified not of him but of his eyes, of what he might see in her eyes, the truth she’d only just acknowledged to herself. She’d never thought it, never dared to think it, but in that moment, she knew that somehow, in the most secret corner of her heart and mind, she had hoped… She had dreamed… Somehow, impossible as it might have seemed—impossible and yet almost inevitable too… He was the only person, aside from her parents, who accepted her for who she was and who’d never wanted to change her, the only man, aside from her father, who had never even hinted at wanting her to be anything less or different than she was.

How could she marry anyone who couldn’t accept her for who she was or who would want her to be someone she wasn’t?

How could she not hope, dream—somewhere in her most secret heart—that one day, she might marry him, the best friend who had always accepted her?

God help her, she did want to marry him. She had wanted to marry him. But not like this. Never like this. Not when he didn’t want it too. Not so he would feel trapped. Not when he would spend the rest of his life looking at her and wishing she were someone else.

Be careful what you wish for…

Fortunately, Harry took her silence for agreement that she didn’t want to marry him, and Hermione allowed herself a fleeting moment of relief that she still possessed some pride.

“But what about Miss Weasley?” she persisted, finally saying the name that had leaped to mind the moment he had suggested marriage. Miss Ginny Weasley, Ron’s younger sister. Beautiful Miss Weasley. Vivacious, popular, lovely Miss Weasley. Miss Weasley, whom she knew Harry admired, cared for—loved? She flinched away from the thought that Harry might actually love Miss Weasley. “You were… going to court her.”

She knew, as no one except for him, Ron, Miss Weasley herself, the Weasley family, and a few very select friends, knew, that Harry had wanted to start courting Miss Weasley, except the war had intruded and all thoughts of courtship and marriage had been pushed aside. But it had always been a tacitly-acknowledged belief that, now that the war was over, Harry would pay court to Miss Weasley.

He sobered, something flickering across his face and looking at the floor at the mention of Miss Weasley’s name, as if the sound of her name, the sound of what he would be losing, hurt him, before he looked back up at Hermione, met her eyes unflinchingly. “I never made any promises to her. I am not bound to her by honor.”

Not bound by honor but what about by inclination? She bit back the question. He was doing the honorable thing, the only thing he could do—but, oh God, she hadn’t wanted this. She’d never wanted this, for everyone to think she had trapped him.

“Is it so terrible to think of being married to me?” he asked, in a rather feeble attempt at humor.

She gave him a small smile in acknowledgement but couldn’t bring herself to respond in a like manner. “I didn’t want this,” she finally settled for saying, lamely.

“Will you please stop acting like marriage to me is such a tragedy?” he pleaded teasingly. He sobered as he met her eyes. “It’s not so terrible, you know. We’re already friends and we know we can coexist peacefully. That’s more than most couples can say at the beginning of a marriage.”

She met his eyes—the clear, green, steady, affectionate eyes of the best friend she already knew so well—the best friend she was terribly afraid she might fall in love with all too easily.

She let out a breath and in that moment, Hermione Granger took the metaphorical leap off a cliff and did so with open eyes. “Yes, I will marry you, Harry.”

“Thank you.” He smiled and took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips to kiss it with an odd mixture of awkwardness and gallantry.

She watched his dark head bend over her hand and the roaring in her ears, that had quieted somewhat in the last few minutes, returned louder than ever, thundering in her mind and heart.

Be careful what you wish for… You just might get it.

~To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: As I said in Part 1, this is AU and takes place in the early 19^th century, so don’t expect this to be entirely canonical—or at all canonical, really, in much besides character (at least, some parts of character, ignoring the idiocy that was character ‘development’ in HBP).

Thank you, everyone, who read and reviewed! I’m amazed at how popular this fic seems to be already. This is a rather short chapter out of necessity, in order for certain scenes that need to go together to actually go together. But to make up for it, I’ll try not to wait too long before posting the next part.

For my dear AnndeeGranger.

The Truth About Love

Chapter 2: Learning Experiences

The next days and weeks passed for Hermione in something of a haze of unreality punctuated with moments of sharp clarity.

She soon realized—with a mixture of amusement and irritation—that for the most part, she was the object of envy from most other young ladies—and from most mothers of daughters of marriage-able age—for having managed to snare Harry, who was the undisputed most eligible bachelor in wizarding society that Season. As she overheard one matron put it, she was “a sly girl,” although that matron said it in tones of grudging admiration.

Somewhat to Hermione’s surprise, Professor McGonagall not only expressed no surprise but professed herself to be utterly delighted and was transparently sincere in her congratulations. Other than Professor McGonagall, it seemed as if Mr. Remus Lupin, her parents and Miss Chittister were the only people who were unreservedly glad.

Miss Chittister, indeed, was blithely satisfied at having her charge engaged to such an eligible bachelor so soon into the Season, and dismissive of the slight taint of scandal—“What does that matter? He’s marrying you after all.” And, as Hermione reflected, the “scandalous” behavior had been from before the time Miss Chittister had been engaged to act as Hermione’s chaperone in wizarding Society events (closed to Hermione’s parents, as Muggles) and so could hardly reflect badly on her.

Her parents’ joy was rather more surprising to Hermione—surely they weren’t happy that she’d been trapped into this just as much as Harry had been? But as Hermione’s father put it, “We know you’re innocent but if your mother and I were going to choose any man in the world to be your husband, we would have chosen your Mr. Potter.” And her mother had added, “You are marrying an honorable young man who honestly cares about you and, perhaps more importantly for you, truly respects you as well. The circumstances are not ideal, admittedly, but all things considered, your father and I are very happy for you, my dear.”

Which left Hermione with no choice but to swallow her own misgivings, at least for the moment.

She couldn’t decide if she was more relieved or not that preparations for the wedding and her trousseau kept her from seeing much of Harry, other than at the obligatory social events they continued to attend in their status as a newly-engaged couple. (Hermione was thankful to find that, now that she was engaged, no one dared to be outright rude to her and thankful, too, to Harry, who was unfailingly courteous—as always—but with an added hint of gentleness in his manner.)

He called on her exactly once in the month following their engagement to talk about the more mundane details of their marriage.

“I was thinking of getting married at Hogwarts,” he said with a tinge of uncertainty in his manner, that she suddenly found endearing. “If that’s okay with you. Unless—would you rather get married here in Town?”

“No, I was thinking of Hogwarts too,” she smiled. “It would give my parents the opportunity to see the school.”

He looked relieved. “Good. I- erm—might have mentioned the possibility of our getting married at Hogwarts to Professor McGonagall when I last talked to her. I hoped you’d agree.”

“I hope this isn’t a sign that you’re going to be one of those husbands who expects their wives to agree with everything they do,” Hermione teased, trying to banish the slight awkwardness in their interaction now.

He looked stricken. “I didn’t mean to--”

“Harry, I was teasing.”

He relaxed enough to smile at her. “I’m sorry. This is a little… strange for me. I’ve never been married before.”

“Neither have I, so we’ll learn together.”

They smiled at each other and for a moment, Hermione was comforted. They were still friends; marriage wouldn’t change that entirely. And she knew Harry liked her, cared about her. They could be happy together…

“Also,” he began in something approaching his usual manner, “I was wondering, where do you want to live? Would you want to stay in Town, in Grimmauld Place, to stay close to your parents?”

“Honestly, Harry, I don’t know if I want to stay in Town. It’ll be easy enough to visit my parents, now that I have my Apparition license.”

“And of course, your parents will be welcome to visit us, whenever they like,” Harry interjected.

She thanked him with a smile as she went on. “I was actually thinking of Godric’s Hollow.”

She saw an odd look flicker across his eyes and hastened to add, “But I really don’t mind living anywhere, really. We can live at Grimmauld Place. It’s not that important to me.”

She couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. Maybe Harry didn’t want to live at Godric’s Hollow; he never had until now, had barely visited it at all. His parents had died there… Would he really want to live in the house where his parents had been murdered? Oh, why had she brought it up and not simply agreed that they could go on living at Grimmauld Place, where Harry was now?

She hardly dared to breathe until she saw his expression lighten a little. “Have you added being a soothsayer to your many talents? I was actually thinking that it was time to open up Godric’s Hollow again; I just wasn’t sure if you’d want to live there.”

She relaxed again, managing a smile.

“I think I’m going to like having a wife who can read my mind like this,” Harry added lightly. “I’ll send Dobby over to open up the house and make it livable again.”

“Thank you. Miss Chittister and my mother have taken over the other preparations for the wedding, for the most part, but they wanted me to ask you if there’s anything you’d like in particular.”

He shook his head. “I don’t really have any preferences. I’m sure you ladies will know much better than I will about flower arrangements and other such things. Don’t all young ladies begin planning their ideal wedding from the moment they’re old enough to understand such things?”

“I don’t know about every other young lady but I didn’t.” She added, with disarming, unself-conscious candor, “I didn’t really expect to ever get married.”

“You planned to be a spinster?”

She nodded. She hadn’t thought it in such definite terms, had cherished a tiny, carefully-hidden flicker of hope deep inside, but she realized that it was true; she really had not expected to be married. “I never really thought I would find anyone I would want to marry or who would want to marry me.”

“Why ever not?”

“I’m not the sort of young lady whom most gentlemen seek in a wife; I know that. I’m not meek and subservient; I’m a bluestocking. I’m not a beauty nor am I some great heiress with a fortune to make up for my lack of beauty. I can’t play or sing and I dislike embroidery so I am a sad failure in the traditional female accomplishments. And I wouldn’t want to marry anyone who would want me to become a different person.”

Harry stared at Hermione at her calm recitation of her so-called flaws. Amazingly, he couldn’t detect more than the faintest hint of sorrow in her tone or in her expression; she sounded perfectly calm and matter-of-fact, as if she were discussing something as immutable as the seasons. He felt a surge of emotion and it took him a moment before he realized that what he was feeling was anger—anger at all the people who had ever made Hermione think she was somehow not worthy of matrimony—anger and protectiveness too. He had accepted that he had to marry Hermione and he recognized that she was just as much a victim of this as he was but he hadn’t truly thought about what this must be like for her. He might not have planned for this; he might not have wanted it at first; he might not love her—but he would make her happy. He was suddenly fiercely determined, in a way that he hadn’t been before, to make sure that she never regretted marrying him. She deserved more than what she was getting; she deserved to be happy, deserved to have everything she wanted…

“This might not be what you wanted but I hope you feel free to make your wedding everything you ever dreamed of,” he said, sincerity and a touch of self-consciousness making his voice rather rough.

She smiled at him, feeling warmth unfurl in her heart. “Thank you, Harry.” Surely this marriage couldn’t possibly be so bad when he could say something so sweet, be so considerate?

~~

It was the night before her wedding.

By this time tomorrow, she would no longer be Miss Hermione Granger; she would be Mrs. Harry Potter, Mrs. Hermione Potter.

Mrs. Hermione Potter… She tested the name in her mind, trying to make it sink in that it would be her name from tomorrow. For the rest of her life, she would be Mrs. Hermione Potter.

She heard a soft knock on her door. “Come in.”

Her mother slipped inside the room, closing the door. “How are you feeling?”

She managed a smile. “I’m fine.” She paused, thinking about Harry, thinking of different things he had said and done in these past few weeks. “I’m fine,” she repeated with more certainty in her voice.

Mrs. Granger smiled as she sat on the edge of Hermione’s bed. “I think you will be happy. He’s a good man.”

Hermione’s expression softened unconsciously. “I know he is,” she agreed softly.

Mrs. Granger studied her daughter, feeling a wave of tenderness for the girl, her only child, her dear, clever, mature daughter. “You love him, don’t you, Hermione?” she asked quietly.

Hermione flushed and then paled, looking down at her fingers fidgeting with the bed covers. “No… I don’t know… But I think,” she looked up at her mother soberly, “I think I could love him.” And she was terrified that after a few weeks of marriage, she would love him…

She’d never thought that the idea of loving her own husband would be frightening but it was. If she did grow to love him—if she let herself love him—but he didn’t love her, it would break her heart. How was she supposed to live with him, loving him but knowing that he didn’t love her? She didn’t doubt that he would be a good husband; she didn’t doubt that he would be a faithful husband; no matter how low the standards for marital fidelity might be, in general, in their Society, she knew Harry wouldn’t be that sort of husband. He was too honest and he cared enough that he wouldn’t want to hurt her so he wouldn’t. But if she loved him and he didn’t love her—how would she live like that? It would kill her—slowly. Every day, her heart would die a little more.

“Is it so terrible, to think that you might grow to love him?”

“But he doesn’t love me.”

“Are you so sure of that?” Mrs. Granger studied her daughter. She had watched young Mr. Potter when he was with Hermione and had seen signs of tenderness, of caring, in him that seemed rather more than what was due to friendship. Mostly unconscious, from what she could tell, but the signs had been there nonetheless, and had done more to reassure her about her daughter’s marriage than anything else could have. Perhaps he didn’t love Hermione yet but the potential for love was certainly present.

“Yes.” The one word answer was still eloquent in its tone of resignation.

“Let him learn to love you. Let him see the intelligent, lovely, kind young lady you are and I think he’d be a fool not to love you.”

Hermione choked on a laugh. “You’re my mother; of course you think so.”

“Perhaps, but it doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Mrs. Granger sobered, looking down at the bed covers in her turn, as she flushed, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Now it’s time I tell you a little of what you can expect tomorrow, on your wedding night.”

Hermione blushed, feeling an odd mixture of curiosity and nervousness and embarrassment.

Mrs. Granger didn’t look up at Hermione as she went on. “I would be remiss if I did not tell you that there will be some pain at first—but if your husband is careful and considerate, which I’m sure young Mr. Potter will be, it should not be too much or too lasting. The act of love can be—indeed, it should be—pleasant for both man and woman—but it is not always so for women.”

“Is it—always pleasant for men?” Hermione ventured.

“Yes.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

Mrs. Granger gave a rather wry smile, looking up for the first time, though her cheeks were still the color of ripe strawberries. “I believe you are well aware of the fact that life is not generally fair.” She paused and then added, “This is not to say that it is necessarily a disagreeable or painful experience for women; it is not. Has—has your Mr. Potter kissed you?”

Hermione shook her head in a rather jerky, almost involuntary movement. “Only on the hand.”

“Ah. Well, I have seen the way he behaves with you and he is always considerate and respectful, so I am sure you have little to worry about.”

Her tone sounded somehow less certain than her words but Hermione wasn’t sure whether that was due to embarrassment or not.

“A man—even one who is faithful to his wife, which I’m sure young Mr. Potter will be—can find pleasure with almost any woman but a woman’s enjoyment of the marriage bed relies on her affection for her husband.” Mrs. Granger met Hermione’s eyes. “I do not think, given what we just spoke about, you need worry about a lack of affection for your husband, on your part. Truly, Hermione, I am confident that your husband will treat you with all the care and gentleness you need, so you should have nothing to fear.”

Hermione nodded, trying to seem reassured. “I’m not afraid,” she managed to say.

Mrs. Granger smiled gently. “Good.” She stood up, with the rather relieved air of one who has completed a disagreeable task. “Have a good night and sleep well, dear.”

Hermione nodded again as her mother left after dropping a light kiss on her forehead. But somehow, Hermione rather doubted that she would be sleeping well, if she slept at all. Her fears had not been allayed. If anything, they had been exacerbated. She wasn’t afraid that Harry would hurt her; she trusted Harry, trusted him not to hurt her, at least not physically.

Harry had not kissed her. He had not even tried to kiss her. Did he not desire her at all? But her mother had said that a man could find pleasure with almost any woman—could desire almost any woman.

Did Harry desire her? Could he desire her? And even if he could—even if he did—how would she know if, when the candles were snuffed and it was dark, Harry would close his eyes and picture another woman’s—Miss Weasley’s—face…

And could she live with not knowing?

~To be continued…

A/N 2: The obligatory ‘wedding night’ talk between the bride and her mother; be grateful that Mrs. Granger is too sensible to tell Hermione to ‘lie back and think of England.’

And before you decide to get out your muskets and bayonets at the idea of Harry fantasizing about Ginny when he’s with Hermione—believe me, he won’t. Ever. My Harry is much smarter than JKR would have him be. But you can expect a good deal of UST before the fun part actually comes. ;-)

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: Thank you, everyone, who’s read and reviewed this fic so far! And now, what I’m sure you’ve all been waiting for, and wondering about, the wedding and the wedding night.

For my dear Amethyst, without whom this fic would never have been written.

The Truth About Love

Chapter 3: Wedding Night Woes

It was her wedding day.

The day went by in a blur, for the most part; she remembered it afterwards in shards, tiny moments here and there. She remembered the tears in her father’s eyes even as he smiled when he gave her away; she remembered feeling a moment of fleeting panic as she walked down the aisle and then meeting Harry’s eyes and feeling oddly reassured; she remembered seeing the slightly questioning look in his eyes as he reached for her hand and then the small, comforting smile. She remembered the smiles on Professor McGonagall’s, Ron’s, Bill Weasley’s, and Mr. Lupin’s faces. She remembered the light, fleeting, ever-so-chaste brush of Harry’s lips against hers—and the way her lips tingled afterwards.

And she remembered the strained expression on Miss Weasley’s face and seeing, at the last moment as she and Harry turned to face the guests, Harry’s glance flicker towards Miss Weasley as their gazes met and held for one fleeting, interminable, endless moment… That one remembered glance was the one lingering memory in her mind, tainting her remembrance of her wedding day, and leaving behind a faint, lingering trace of bitterness. (Was that a wistful, longing look in his eyes when he looked at Miss Weasley? Was he wishing he were married to her instead?) She knew she was tormenting herself with no good reason for it (it had been one look, one exchange of glances, and a brief one at that, too brief for anyone else to have noticed it) but still, the memory of that one glance persisted in her mind, rankled.

But then Harry turned to look at her (she didn’t know but she wondered if she had tightened her grip on his arm, unconsciously) and he’d smiled and she was, at least for the moment, reassured.

And then she was hugging her parents, smiling at Ron who gave her a quick, brotherly kiss on the forehead as he congratulated her, and accepting the quiet but clearly sincere good wishes of Mr. Lupin.

But she watched—almost against her will—when Harry finished greeting the other Weasleys and turned to Miss Weasley last of all. She watched, even as she smiled and nodded and pretended to be paying complete attention to what Professor McGonagall was saying to her. The look on Miss Weasley’s face was, for one moment, utterly open, her thoughts clear to be read. And Hermione realized, for the first time, with a slight chill, that whatever Harry’s feelings for Miss Weasley, just how much Miss Weasley had wanted to marry Harry. She didn’t know Miss Weasley well enough to know if Miss Weasley truly cared about Harry but she could read the regret in Miss Weasley’s expression. Harry’s expression was harder to read but he looked sober, a trifle guilty, as he accepted Miss Weasley’s rather forced congratulations.

Hermione looked away, suddenly not wanting to see any more.

He was her husband now—but he was still her best friend too, still the same young man she had known for so many years. She would not—she could not—torment herself with imagined fears. They could be happy together; they would be content together…

~

In all the haste and preparation for the day and in all her wonderings about their wedding night, Hermione hadn’t stopped to consider where exactly they would be spending it, whether they would stay the night at Hogwarts or somehow go on to Godric’s Hollow.

But then Harry turned to her and murmured quietly, “We should be leaving soon if we’re to get to Godric’s Hollow before it is too late.”

“Oh. So we are going to Godric’s Hollow today?”

He nodded but before she had a chance to ask how they would be traveling—since she knew Godric’s Hollow was only a few days’ carriage ride outside of London and therefore at least a week’s distance from Hogwarts, she was being ushered into the small room off the Great Hall which had been converted into a dressing room, to change into a traveling gown and being hugged one last time by her mother and she realized that it was really time to leave.

She was Harry’s wife now; her place was with him.

He was waiting for her in the Great Hall, conversing idly with Ron and with Mr. Lupin, but he looked up when she arrived and smiled, a smile which she returned.

She was still wondering how they would be traveling to Godric’s Hollow but her question was answered the moment they stepped outside of the Great Hall.

Hermione stared, her breath catching, before she turned to Harry. “Oh, Harry!”

He smiled a little at her wide-eyed surprise. “How did you think we would be getting to Godric’s Hollow?”

“I hadn’t thought of it,” she admitted.

She turned when her mother touched her arm.

“Hermione, I realize I’m not familiar with this world but does this carriage move on its own power?” her mother asked uncertainly.

“Oh, you can’t see them,” Hermione exclaimed. “It’s harnessed to thestrals.”

“Thestrals?”

“They’re winged horses.”

Her father turned sharply towards her, his expression showing his surprise. “Winged horses, like Pegasus?”

“No, they’re rather more unpleasant than Pegasus, I’m afraid,” Hermione admitted. “They’re large and black, but with white eyes, and have rather skeletal bodies with heads and necks that look rather like dragons. Really, they look very threatening and it used to be considered a bad omen to see them but that’s only superstition.”

“What Hermione has not mentioned,” Harry interjected with a slight smile, “is that thestrals are only visible to witches and wizards who have seen death. However, on a more positive note, they do have quite extraordinary senses of direction and can fly at a remarkably fast pace.”

“I see,” Mrs. Granger said rather faintly, clutching her husband’s arm a little more tightly.

And Harry was the one to reassure Mrs. Granger by saying, gently, “The carriage ride will be completely safe, I assure you.”

Mrs. Granger gave him a small smile.

Harry helped Hermione into the carriage before seating himself beside her.

The thestrals seemed impatient and took off the moment Harry had closed the carriage door and the carriage set off with a jerk that knocked Hermione back against the seat.

The carriage rose higher and higher with a speed that Hermione would have found alarming, she knew, if she had been out in the open but in an enclosed carriage, with Harry sitting by her side, it wasn’t nearly as frightening and she even found it a little exhilarating.

She was flying! It was the one magical experience which she had not had—and had, in all honesty, not regretted much given her fear of heights, but this was different; this felt safer. It was the experience of flying without the danger or the need to look down.

“Oh Harry,” she breathed, leaning forward to peer out the window. “This is wonderful. Look at how fast we’re going!”

Harry leaned back against the carriage seat and watched Hermione with a slight smile, enjoying the sight of Hermione’s transparent excitement. He, himself, rather wished he could be outside, on a broom or perhaps riding a thestral, so he could actually feel the night wind whipping through his hair, really experience it, but he knew he couldn’t. It was, too, oddly touching to see Hermione’s excitement.

There was, he thought, a magic about seeing someone’s first experience of something. A first was special, could never be repeated, and seeing the way Hermione was so clearly enjoying this particular first was an enjoyment in itself, in a way he’d never considered before. All the more so because she was so honest about it; there was no false modesty about her, no pretenses of being more sophisticated or knowing than she was. Hermione was, he had long ago realized, one of the most naturally forthright people he had ever met. She was never coy, never insincere, never pretentious; her modesty was as natural and as ingenuous as her intelligence.

Although, Harry realized now, that this characteristic was not considered a virtue by their society as a whole, that encouraged all young women to pretend innocence and meekness, no matter what the truth was. But Hermione was incapable of pretending to be something other than what she was—and so it was very easy to label her as a bluestocking and dismiss her as such.

Looking at her now, watching her utterly unpremeditated enjoyment of her first experience of flight, Harry realized that Hermione’s honesty was one of the characteristics he liked best about her.

He had seen too much insincerity and falseness growing up with the Dursleys, who were adept at pretending to saccharine sweetness when other people were around (“how good of you to take in your dead sister’s child and raising him as your own” as he had overheard one woman say, at which his Aunt Petunia had simpered a little) while treating him as little better than a slave in private.

Her eyes were almost glowing in the dim moonlight illuminating the carriage in a patchy manner.

She turned to smile at him. “I’ve never flown before,” she admitted rather self-consciously.

“I guessed that,” he said rather wryly and she colored.

“Honestly, I’m rather afraid of heights so I don’t like the thought of looking down and seeing nothing but air beneath me, but this is different. I don’t have to look down; I can just look out and see the stars and the clouds and I’ve still got something solid beneath my feet so it’s not quite as frightening.”

“I didn’t know that you were afraid of heights,” Harry responded, feeling a flicker of surprise. He always thought of Hermione as being so brave; she was brave. He, of all people, knew just how courageous she could be. He didn’t know one other young woman who would have done some of the things she had, who would have taken some of the risks she had to help him. But somehow, he’d never known that she was afraid of heights. It was, he thought, one chink in her armor, a small vulnerability, and he suddenly found it endearing to know this one weakness she had.

She gave a small, rather self-conscious laugh. “It’s why the one restriction that I didn’t mind was the rule not allowing girls to take flying lessons or play Quidditch.”

“That’s true; I never really thought of that. That is one thing I never heard you protest about. Merlin knows, I’ve heard you protest nearly everything else,” he added teasingly.

She flushed. “Well, some of the restrictions really aren’t fair.”

“I know. They’re antiquated and based on false generalizations about young women,” he said with a slight smile, repeating two of her most frequently-uttered reasons for objecting to some policy or another.

“Well, they are!”

And Harry gave in to the laughter that had been building inside him at the sight of her indignant expression, feeling the last lingering awkwardness from the consciousness that she was his wife now, dissipate. This was truly the Hermione he knew; it seemed like most of his earliest memories of their friendship involved Hermione expressing her indignation at one of Hogwarts’ policies regarding what was suitable for young witches and what was not.

She was still the friend he knew so well. They might not have love or passion but they had friendship; they could be comfortable, content, in this marriage…

~

It seemed like hardly any time at all—certainly long before she had tired of looking out the window at the night sky—before she felt the carriage begin to descend and then in another minute, regain land with a small jolt. And she looked out the window, as the carriage rolled forward, to see that they were in a large courtyard.

All that she had heard of the speed at which thestrals could travel was certainly true, Hermione reflected.

“Here we are,” Harry said unnecessarily as the carriage slowed to a halt.

He opened the door and stepped out before helping Hermione to step out as well and Hermione’s foot had barely touched the ground before their attention was caught by a familiar voice, exclaiming, “Mr. Harry Potter, sir!”

Hermione hastily finished brushing her traveling dress out as Harry turned to smile at Dobby, the house-elf whom Harry had freed and who had, in turn, rewarded Harry with a loyalty that was unimpeachable.

“Hello, Dobby. I trust you remember Hermione?”

Dobby bowed so low his nose nearly brushed the ground as Hermione smiled at the house-elf. “Hello, Dobby.”

“Oh, Missmynee, it is truly an honor! Dobby is very glad to welcome you and Mr. Harry Potter to Godric’s Hollow!”

Harry suppressed a smile at Dobby’s name for Hermione; Dobby was possibly the only person—creature—who had given Hermione a nickname which she tolerated.

“Thank you, Dobby,” Hermione responded.

“Is everything ready for us, Dobby?” Harry asked.

Dobby nodded with such enthusiasm his entire body seemed to bob up and down. “Oh yes, Mr. Harry Potter, sir! Dobby saw to it all; the house has been completely cleaned and Missmynee’s room is ready for her and Winnie is waiting for Missmynee in her dressing room.”

“Winnie is the house elf I hired for you,” Harry said in an explanatory note. “We can go over the house tomorrow since it is late.”

She gave him a slight smile. “It has been a busy day.”

She looked away, pretending fascination with her surroundings, though she actually saw very little of them, suddenly excruciatingly conscious that now was their wedding night. She had tried not to think about it and been successful at pushing it from her mind but now—now she couldn’t avoid it any longer. Her mother’s words—the comforting part and the disquieting parts—echoed in her mind. She had said there would be pain—how much pain? She didn’t fear that, not with Harry, but did he—could he—truly desire her? She remembered the touch of his lips to hers earlier and felt an odd shiver go through her; there would be more kissing, wouldn’t there? She didn’t think she would mind that, remembered the way her lips had tingled after his lips had brushed hers…

She became conscious that Harry had led her up a wide, curving staircase and down a hallway and was now stopping at a door. “This will be your bedchamber,” he said, a touch of awkwardness in his manner, as he opened the door.

Hermione’s wide eyes barely registered the furnishings, decorated mostly in white with accents of blue, because all of her attention was focused on the large four-poster bed, with covers that were also white and embroidered with a delicate pattern of small blue flowers.

“If you don’t like the decorations, you can, of course, feel free to redecorate the room,” Harry said hastily.

Hermione pulled herself forcibly from her preoccupation enough to shake her head and give him as much of a smile as she could muster. “Oh, no, this is lovely.”

He gestured to the door on the far wall. “That door leads to your dressing room.” He paused, color now rising in his cheeks and, indicating a closer door in the adjoining wall, added in a distinctly constrained manner, “This door connects to my bedchamber.”

“Oh,” was all Hermione could say. Her lips seemed to have forgotten how to function.

She stiffened her spine, suddenly angry at herself for being so silly. She was acting like a veritable gudgeon, just like any other vapid young lady. She glanced at Harry and forced herself to say, feeling a hot blush color her cheeks, “I’ll—I’ll just need 15 minutes to… prepare…”

It was his turn to flush and look uncomfortable. “Hermione, I—nothing’s going to happen tonight.”

“We’re not going to… er… consummate our marriage?” She felt as if her cheeks were on fire and she could not meet his eyes, kept her eyes fixed on the wall or on the curtains.

“I thought—I thought you’d want to have some time to… get accustomed to being married before we…” he trailed off, making an awkward movement with one hand.

“Oh,” Hermione said again. She wished she could think of something else to say but she couldn’t; no etiquette lesson she’d ever learned had ever told her how to respond to this sort of declaration from her husband! Saying Thank you was hardly possible—for that matter, she didn’t know if she was thankful or relieved or disappointed or hurt; she didn’t know how she felt, other than confused and excruciatingly uncomfortable. And she hated that too, hated feeling so unsure of herself, hated feeling so uncomfortable around Harry.

“It—it won’t happen until you want it to,” he said, his tone gentler, as if sensing her discomfort and wanting to reassure her. “I--” he began, stopped, and then finally said, simply, “Good night, Hermione.”

“Good night.” And then she thought, rather stupidly, that at least she hadn’t said, “oh,” again.

He gave her a last look with a slight twitch of his lips that she knew was meant to be a smile but didn’t quite make it, and then he stepped out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Leaving Hermione standing alone in her new bedchamber, feeling more bewildered and uncertain than she’d ever felt before in her life—and she didn’t like the feeling.

They weren’t going to consummate the marriage—not yet. Harry’s reasoning that she would want time to adjust to being married was most likely true enough—it would be like him to be considerate—but a tiny voice in her mind which she couldn’t silence wondered, did he not want to consummate the marriage? Did he not desire her? What if he simply did not find her desirable—in that way, as a woman—and he was avoiding consummating their marriage for that reason?

Some part of her knew she was reading too much into this, knew she was being somewhat irrational, but she couldn’t help but wonder—if Harry had married Miss Weasley, would he have been so willing to wait to consummate the marriage?

A soft knock on the door from her dressing room pulled Hermione out of these painful wonderings. “Come in.”

The door opened to reveal a house elf, this one with a rather dirty pink bow on her head, and Hermione forced a smile. “Oh, you must be Winnie.”

The house elf bobbed into a curtsy, beaming to know that Hermione knew her name. “Yes, Mrs. Potter, ma’am. Winnie is very honored to be here, ma’am, and Winnie will work very hard to do anything Mrs. Potter might want.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“Winnie has put away your clothes which were sent here. Would you like to change now?”

“Yes, thank you, Winnie.”

There was a comfort in performing the rote motions of preparing for bed—but even there, Hermione found, the embarrassment of the night was not yet over.

For what she found, after dismissing Winnie and opening the dresser where Winnie had put away her nightgowns, was the nightgown her mother had obviously intended for her to wear tonight.

It was a pale turquoise in color and was made of a completely sheer fabric that didn’t even pretend to have any purpose other than to incite a man’s desire. Hermione felt the blush that had faded in the past few minutes return to her cheeks hotly. She stared for a moment, hardly able to imagine ever finding the courage to wear such a thing and yet, conversely, half-wishing that she would even have a reason to wear it tonight. But she would be spending her wedding night alone.

She suppressed a sigh as she touched one finger to the silky sheer fabric. Perhaps, one day…

And then she pulled out one of her customary, plain cotton nightgowns, slipping it on with something like a pang, before she climbed into the bed.

She was momentarily distracted by the utter luxury and comfort of the bed—her bed at home, that is, her parent’s home, had not been of nearly such quality—and for the first time, she understood just what it meant that Harry was wealthy. She had never thought of Harry in those terms. It had never really mattered to her, but the bed was unavoidable, tangible proof of his wealth and she reflected, with a flicker of amusement, that she was possibly the only young lady in England who would realize, on her wedding night, the wealth of her new husband.

Her new husband.

She lowered her gaze to the connecting door between their bedchambers, wondering if he were sleeping, wondering what his bedchamber looked like, wondering, too, if she would ever find herself in his bed…

Wondering… Until, almost against her will and without realizing it, she fell asleep.

~To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: Many of you have reviewed saying that you’re less than pleased with Harry for being mean to Hermione but in Harry’s defense, I’d have to say that he is being a thoughtful husband—and he has no idea that Hermione has any feelings for him beyond friendship. Hermione is not unhappy.

This was one of the chapters I enjoyed writing the most. I do love Harry and Hermione’s friendship and I love writing their banter. And I also had fun with history and literature and period detail. I only hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

For my dear Avidbeader.

The Truth About Love

Chapter 4: Beginnings

Hermione awoke to find the sun high in the sky and the morning well-advanced. She glanced at the clock to find, to her dismay, that she had slept in until it was nearly 10 in the morning. She must have been more tired than she had thought.

She sent for Winnie and proceeded to dress for the day with more haste and, at the same time, more care than she usually put into her clothing, aware of a wish, which she hadn’t felt before, to look pretty—or as pretty as possible—for her husband, choosing a simply-styled morning dress in a violet shade.

“Very nice, dear,” her mirror remarked approvingly when she was finished and, somewhat heartened by this praise, Hermione hurried out of her bedchamber and down the stairs, receiving a fleeting impression of clean, elegant lines.

The front door opened just when she reached the entrance foyer and she saw Harry.

He had been out flying, she could see, from his clothing and from the generally refreshed and wind-blown appearance he had.

She wondered if she were imagining the slight falter in his step when he saw her, the almost imperceptible flicker of some expression she couldn’t read in his eyes, but then he smiled and she dismissed her wondering as her imagination. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” She felt herself flush a little, wondering when she had begun to react this way to seeing Harry—was it only the consciousness that he was her husband now? Was that where this sudden awareness of him, not just as a person and her best friend but as a man, came from?

“I was thinking we could have a tour of the house and some of the grounds today. I don’t know how good of a guide I’ll be since it’ll be just about my first time seeing it all too, but…”

“That would be nice.”

“Good. I will see you in a little while, then.”

Godric’s Hollow was not just a house, Hermione realized once the tour had begun; it was a manor, with all of what that word entailed.

It was not a pretty house, exactly; its exterior, indeed, looked a trifle grim, even in daylight, with its pale gray stonework but it had a sort of imposing elegance to it. But the somewhat grim impression was mitigated by the turrets and crenellations which softened the façade of the house. It looked like what it was, an old house which had been built centuries ago and had withstood time and change with reassuring solidity. In spite of the additions which she could see had been added on in more recent centuries, she noted approvingly that whoever had overseen the additions had been wise enough to replicate the original stonework so that the additions blended in with the rest of the house in a nearly seamless manner. With the additions, the manor was now roughly the shape of a large, sprawling letter E, in tribute to Queen Elizabeth, who had been Queen at the time of the additions.

Hermione had known, intellectually, from the books she had read that the Potters were an old wizarding family but she hadn’t fully realized just how old a family they were. Certainly Harry, having grown up not knowing about his wizarding roots, didn’t exude any consciousness of his ancestry, but here, in this house, it was clear just how old and how established the Potters were.

It was odd to think that she was now one of them; in marrying Harry, she had become a part of this family’s and this house’s history.

The interior of the house had clearly been updated and modernized over the years so it was more gracious, generally decorated with clean, elegant lines and simple styles. One of the Potter wives, at least, at some time, had had good taste, Hermione thought.

She smiled, turning to Harry. “I think I will like your home.”

He returned her smile, his eyes brightening with something like gratitude for the simple compliment but what he said was, “It’s now your home as well.”

She felt her breath stutter a little in her chest—although she wasn’t sure whether it was due to his words or due to his smile, or a combination of both. This was her home too…

The ground floor had all the public rooms, a formal dining room with a table in it that looked, at least from the entrance, at least as long as one of the House tables in the Great Hall at Hogwarts (although, Hermione was to find, it was actually less than half that length, which, admittedly, still meant that it could seat upwards of 20 persons), the smaller, more intimate morning room (where Hermione had eaten her breakfast), and another smaller, more cozy dining room (this one clearly only intended for family use) several sitting rooms and parlors, a music room with a pianoforte and a harp and some instruments which Hermione could not identify (the music room led out onto the terrace, which, in turn, led to the gardens behind the house). Also, attached to the house (clearly a much more recent addition, within the last century, Hermione guessed) was a conservatory. It looked to contain a number of both magical and Muggle plants as she recognized such things as an orange tree and also other plants, such as the Mandrake root, which she had learned about in Herbology.

Upstairs, on the first floor, were the bedrooms, bedrooms for guests in one wing of the house and the family bedrooms (where her and Harry’s bedchambers were) in the other wing. Also upstairs was the gallery, which stretched along most of the back of the house with windows looking out over the gardens, lined with portraits of the Potter family.

Hermione smiled to herself. Even at a quick glance, she could see the resemblance. The men of the family in particular seemed to have the messy black hair and the glasses, although the spectacles ranged rather widely in style over the years.

She glanced at Harry, whose expression had become oddly still as he looked at these pictures of his family, most of whom he didn’t know and whom he had grown up knowing nothing about. And she suddenly thought how terribly tragic it was for Harry to know so little of his family; the richness of his own family history, the family legends, all that he would know next to nothing about. She made a mental note to look and see if she could find any books of the Potter’s family history, thinking, with a slight blush, that at the very least, their children could grow up knowing something of their history.

Hermione cast about mentally for something to say, feeling a need to banish the hint of melancholy in his expression now as he looked at these pictures.

“I can see where you get your hair,” she said teasingly.

The melancholy fled as he turned to grin at her, once again the best friend she knew. “It’s part of the Potter charm,” he quipped.

“Oh, of course,” she laughed. “My, you really do have a long lineage, Mr. Potter,” she said lightly, in a tone of mock awe.

He smiled. “If it means anything, my family is not nearly as Pure-blooded as most old wizarding families are. Apparently, some of my ancestors were rebellious and I remember my Uncle Sirius mentioning one particular scandal when one of my ancestors ran off with and married a Muggle young lady.”

“Oh? Which one of these couples would that be?”

“I- ah- don’t know,” Harry admitted in a sheepish manner. “I did warn you, did I not, that I would not be the best of guides?”

She paused in front of one painting of a couple, dressed in clothes from Renaissance times, struck by the woman in the picture who looked, with her blond hair and thin, sharp features, startlingly like a more pleasant version of Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy. “Harry, she looks like a Malfoy.”

Harry looked, stepping a little closer to the painting. “Oh, yes. And fortunately for you, this is one person whom I can actually tell you a little about. Uncle Sirius mentioned her to me once, when he was telling me about my family. The reason she looks like a Malfoy is because she is one. Honoria Malfoy, to be precise.”

Hermione made a disbelieving sound in her throat, indifferent to how inelegant it was. “Someone named a Malfoy for honor?”

Harry let out a brief chuckle. “Ironic, is it not? But apparently, she was not entirely Malfoy-like and the marriage, according to Uncle Sirius at least, who had it from my father, was a comparatively happy one, by the standards of the time.”

“The standards of the time? Wouldn’t that mean that they were capable of spending at least a month in the same house without one trying to kill the other?”

Harry smiled. “Something like that, I believe. To do her justice, however, according to what my father told Uncle Sirius, she was actually an agreeable woman. I suppose it goes to show you that not even a Malfoy is always evil.”

“But that would mean that you’re related to Mr. Draco Malfoy.”

“Very distantly, yes, I am. As my Uncle Sirius mentioned, almost all of the older wizarding families are related in some fashion, especially the Pure-blooded ones, but even to a lesser extent, my family.” Harry’s smile and his tone softened a little as he added, “Uncle Sirius said jokingly that as we shared an ancestor somewhere, he could really be my nephew many times removed or something.” He was silent for a moment and then he blinked a little. “Being related distantly by blood clearly doesn’t mean much because of how inter-related most of the old wizarding families are, but for my father and Uncle Sirius, they saw it differently and made their distant blood relationship just part of a much closer friendship.”

Harry’s eyes had that distant, sad expression he tended to have whenever he spoke about his Uncle Sirius (who had not been an uncle at all but his godfather, but had been as close as a brother to Harry’s father, hence why Mr. Black had insisted that Harry call him Uncle rather than the more formal Mr. Black) and his father.

Hermione studied Harry in silence, a little surprised at how much Harry had revealed in the past few minutes. Harry had never been the most communicative of young men, didn’t speak of his parents or of his godfather very often, but Hermione had realized long ago that what some people might mistake for not thinking about them, was actually an indication of the opposite and that Harry thought about his parents and his godfather all the more for not speaking of them. Harry was that type to feel things deeply but not speak of them to any but a select few. And she was fortunate that she and Ron—along with Mr. Lupin, she knew—were probably the only people whom Harry did trust enough to speak about his parents with.

The silence stretched, becoming tinged with sadness, and in an effort to dispel it, Hermione said lightly, “Hmm, I might have to regret marrying you if it means I’m suddenly related to the Malfoys.”

Harry blinked, his gaze returning to her, with a slight smile. “Why do you suppose I didn’t tell you about being related to them until now, when it’s too late for you to change your mind?”

Hermione smiled, rejoicing to see the humor gleaming in his eyes. “Aha, so that was your sly plan. I see your intent now, sir.”

He didn’t say anything in response but his eyes were bright and as they turned to finish their walk through the gallery, he offered his arm to her. It was a small gesture, insignificant enough as gestures went, but it sent a little thrill of happiness through her, nevertheless. It was the first indication he had given of welcoming her touch, even as chastely and simply as her hand on his arm, and while she had rested her hand on his arm before, those other times had usually either been for the benefit of others or because he thought she might be tired. This gesture had very little to do with any of those other occasions; there was no one there to see or care and he could not possibly think she was in need of support after simply strolling through his house. This gesture was from gallantry and from something warmer—dare she call it affection?—a wish for her to touch him even? She wasn’t sure but she knew it meant something more than simple civility or even friendship. And so she smiled as she rested her hand on his arm.

A little ways down the gallery, they came to the last of the family portraits, although there was still plenty of space left—space for her and Harry and for their children, she realized with a blush.

And Hermione saw what Harry’s parents had looked like for the first time. She knew that he had seen them, to know what they looked like, first in the Mirror of Erised, and then, more terribly, when they had emerged from the wand of Lord Voldemort, but she had not been present at either of those times. So she studied this last couple in the portrait with a personal interest which she hadn’t given to any of the others.

“Oh, Harry…” she breathed softly, not quite sure why she said it, but the words slipped out. Perhaps out of sympathy for his never having known them?

He tried to smile but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes as he said, with mock formality, (even as he blithely turned on its head, the polite rule of always addressing the elder party first and introducing the younger one to them) “Hermione, may I introduce you to my parents, Mr. James Potter and Mrs. Lily Potter?”

Harry bore a remarkable resemblance to his father, Hermione saw immediately. Not just the messy black hair or the glasses but the features, too, were like his father’s, with only slight differences about the nose and mouth. But Harry’s eyes, the clear green which everyone always noticed, were from his mother.

Hermione felt something inside her give an odd twist at the first sight of Harry’s mother, as Mrs. Lily Potter’s bright red hair reminded her, unpleasantly, of Miss Ginny Weasley, but a moment’s closer notice banished the impression. Any similarity between Miss Weasley and Harry’s mother ended at the color of their hair, not only because Mrs. Lily Potter’s eyes were the same vivid green as Harry’s but because of the expression on Mrs. Lily Potter’s face.

Whoever had painted the portrait had been skilled, Hermione could tell even with her limited knowledge of art, because of how very alive the people in the portrait appeared. Mrs. Lily Potter was seated while Mr. James Potter was standing beside her. In the portrait, even as she watched, Harry’s father seemed to grin and then wink down at her and Harry, before turning to look down at his wife, his hand moving to rest on her shoulder. Harry’s mother also smiled at Harry and then looked up at her husband. There was an open-ness, a liveliness, about Mrs. Potter’s expression as she smiled up at her husband, that bore no resemblance to Miss Weasley’s customarily serene expression, and the simple power of the emotion clear to be read in Mrs. Potter’s eyes as she looked up at her husband was more than any emotion which Hermione had ever seen Miss Weasley exhibit in seven years.

“Your mother was a lovely woman,” she finally said simply.

Harry’s eyes were soft, as was his tone. “Yes, she was.”

“I wish I could have met her.”

Harry glanced at her. “I think she would like you. Both my parents would have liked you,” he responded, almost without thought, and he only realized, belatedly, that he really meant the words. He did think his parents would have liked Hermione—and the thought was somehow reassuring, as if his parents had just given his and Hermione’s marriage their blessing.

“Thank you. It was the kindest thing which Mr. Lupin said to me yesterday. He told me that I reminded him of your mother.”

“Did he say that? Well, he would certainly know what my mother was like.”

Harry was quiet as they left the gallery, thinking of his parents, of his godfather, of Remus who was now the closest thing to a father he had, but somehow always conscious, in a way he’d never been before, of the warmth from Hermione’s ungloved hand resting on his arm, even through the cloth of his jacket.

He had been rather uncertain about moving into Godric’s Hollow but he had decided that now, on his marriage, was the right time for him to finally move into his family home, no matter what ghosts and memories he might disturb there.

But enough of his hesitation had remained that he hadn’t tried to visit the house before the wedding, had not tried to explore it on his own this morning.

All he had done was to go flying over the grounds of the estate but that had been more for the relaxation he always found in the air than for the purposes of seeing the grounds around the house.

But exploring the house with Hermione had ended up being surprisingly (or not so surprisingly—this was Hermione, after all, his best friend) enjoyable. She had kept her comments and exclamations light-hearted enough and it had allowed him to see the house as what it was, an old, dignified family home, and not only as a place of hallways where his parents had once walked, not only as the ill-fated location of his nightmares of his parents’ murders.

And even now, looking at his parents’ portrait, there had been a touch of wistfulness, of regret, yes, but not the overwhelming grief he had rather been expecting. For about the first time, he’d allowed himself to think of his parents without guilt, had thought that now, finally, he might be able to put their ghosts to rest.

He glanced at Hermione as they walked. He didn’t doubt that it was due to her presence, in large part, for why this tour of his home had been pleasant, and felt a sudden wave of affection for her, his dear best friend. On impulse, before he could think better of it, he moved his free hand to cover hers, where it rested on his arm, giving it a light pressure.

She gave him a quick smile but didn’t say anything.

“There’s still one more part of the house we haven’t seen,” he told her, enjoying the way her eyes widened a little.

“There’s more? Harry, your house isn’t one of those with expanding walls or anything, is it?”

“No, it isn’t, not as far as I know.”

He had deliberately kept this part of the house for last; it was the one part of the house he had gone to look for, earlier this morning, wanting to know where it was.

And it was with a hidden smile of anticipation that he led her down a back staircase and opened a door with a small flourish.

“Oh, Harry!” Her hand dropped from his arm as she clapped her hands together once, gazing around her with unhidden delight.

It was the library.

Harry had been rather pleasantly surprised himself at just how large the library was, the walls of the room entirely lined with bookshelves, all filled with books. He smiled to himself as he pulled out his wand and waved it, smiling at Hermione’s delighted laugh as all of the shelves along one wall moved away from the wall toward the center of the room, showing yet another layer of bookshelves.

Hermione gave Harry a glowing glance. “This is definitely my favorite room in the house.”

“Is it really? I’m absolutely astonished,” he deadpanned, his eyes teasing.

She gave a self-conscious little laugh. “Oh, it’s wonderful.” She moved closer to some of the bookshelves, almost drawn to them, noting with pleasure that the library had both Muggle and magical books. She saw several books she recognized from the Hogwarts library, several editions of Hogwarts: a History, books on Herbology and Potions and Magical Creatures and Transfiguration, to say nothing of History of Magic. But she also saw other books, volumes of Shakespeare, an edition of the Faerie Queene, a volume of John Donne’s poetry, Alexander Pope, and even—she noted with some surprise and some amusement—the works of Mary Wollstonecraft. (Most likely belonging to Harry’s mother—and she suddenly felt a wave of kinship with Mrs. Lily Potter which she hadn’t felt simply from knowing that Mrs. Lily had been Harry’s mother, who had given her life for him.)

“Oh, Harry, why didn’t you tell me your family had amassed such an incredible library?”

“I should have,” he said humorously. “It would have been easier to convince you to marry me, if I had.”

She threw him a laughing glance. “Of course it would have been.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” he said, assuming an injured tone. “You wouldn’t marry me to save your reputation or simply because I asked you to, but you would marry me for my family’s library.” He gave an exaggerated sigh, addressing the air. “It’s a lowering thing, for a man to know that he ranks lower in his wife’s eyes than his books.”

Hermione laughed softly and moved closer to give him a teasingly consoling pat on his arm. “Well, I did marry you before I found out about your library.”

“I will forever be gratified to know that,” he told her with sham solemnity.

“You should be,” she answered lightly, but her gaze had returned to scanning the bookshelves, he saw with some amusement.

“At least now I know where you will be found, if I’m ever wondering where you are.”

“You do, indeed.”

Harry smiled again and then gestured towards a door on the far wall. “That door leads out to the main corridor and the front of the house.” He indicated another door on the adjoining wall. “And that door leads to my father’s study.”

He moved to the door, opening it.

It was certainly the most masculine room in the house, decorated mostly in dark woods, the room dominated by a large desk.

“I’m told that my father and grandfather took care of the estate accounts and any other business here and it also served as their retreat when there were callers whom they wanted to avoid seeing. Because of its connecting door to the library that connects, in turn, to the back staircase which leads you directly to the wing with the family’s bedchambers, it made an ideal escape route.”

“From what I’ve heard of your father, the escape route part sounds more like him than the business,” Hermione observed teasingly.

Harry laughed. “You are probably correct. But given that it was Remus who told this to me, you can understand why he would have somewhat edited his memories for my benefit.”

“And it does Mr. Lupin credit,” Hermione rejoined before asking lightly, “Will you be using this room as a study or as an escape route?”

“I am not sure. Do you plan to be having many disagreeable callers whom I’d want to avoid seeing?”

Hermione pretended to ponder the question. “Well, I was planning on inviting Mr. Malfoy’s mother to tea sometime,” she teased (ignoring the fact that Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy would sooner leave the Magical world altogether to become a Muggle seamstress than she would accept an invitation to tea from Muggle-born Hermione Potter).

“In that case, I will definitely be using this room as an escape route.”

Hermione laughed.

“If you’ll excuse me, I told Remus I would Floo-call him so we could go over some of the estate accounts since it’s time I start handling them. You will not be bored, I think,” Harry added with a slight smile.

“Bored? In the library? Oh yes, it will be tedious in the extreme; however will I amuse myself?”

He laughed and lifted her hand to brush it with his lips before he left.

He joined her again at supper, which was the only meal held in the formal dining room unless there were guests.

The places were set, as was proper, with him at one end and her at the other.

Hermione suppressed a sigh. She knew this was the way of things but it did seem somewhat ridiculous for two people to be seated at opposite ends of such a large table and she did not like the feeling of being separated from him. But she stayed silent, not wanting to sound dissatisfied.

Harry sat down, smiling at her before he directed his glance down at the length of the table with a slight frown, and after a moment, stood up again. “This is ridiculous. I feel like we’re in separate counties.” With a wave of his wand, he moved his place setting down to the place adjoining hers, and sat down with a slight smile. “This is better, is it not? Much more conducive to conversation. Unless you mind?” he added with a touch of uncertainty.

“No, not at all. It’s hardly necessary to be so formal when it is only us.”

After supper, they talked for a little while longer and then he escorted her up to her room, leaving her at her door with a smile and a “Good night, Hermione.”

She stifled a sigh before she went inside.

She spent the second night of her marriage much as she had the first: alone.

~To be continued…

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.

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…

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…~

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…~

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: This chapter is definitely what you’ve all been waiting for (very patiently.) I hope it makes up for all the anticipation! Enjoy!

The Truth About Love

Chapter 9: A Lady Does What She Must

Hermione stared at the closed door of Harry’s bedchamber blankly for a moment, conscious of only one thought, three words, echoing in her mind.

That was it?

He had kissed her, had kissed her so she’d somehow felt the touch of his lips to hers in a rush of tingling sensation through her entire body down to her very toes, until her thoughts had begun to scatter like so much chaff in the wind. He’d kissed her and she’d learned that kisses involved more than just lips but they also involved mouths and tongues, until she’d learned just what temptation and desire meant. And it hadn’t only been the kiss; it had also been the way he’d looked at her earlier, had stared at her and she had thought that there was something in his eyes which she’d never seen before, something warmer, something deeper, something that had made her insides seem to melt, set her heart to fluttering.

Something which she hadn’t seen even in these past days when she had tried--not to flirt, exactly--but to attract him. She knew herself too well to think that she could suddenly become a simpering, flirtatious young lady along the lines of Miss Lavender Brown or a vivacious beauty like Miss Weasley. She had no doubt that any such attempt to imitate them would only end in making herself look ridiculous (and a small voice in her mind whispered that if Harry was really the sort of gentleman who could only be attracted by either a Miss Brown or a Miss Weasley, then she may as well give up now, as she knew she could never be that.) All she could really do—all she had done—was to go through her wardrobe, noting the very modest necklines on them, some made so by the addition of a fichu or a lace trim and, as much as possible, with the help of a few discreet trimming charms (for the first time grateful for the fact that young ladies were required to learn the basic needlework charms to alter or repair clothing—while young men were in Defense Against the Dark Arts), lowered the necklines of the bodices. Not so low as to be at all immodest and not even as low as most fashionable evening gowns but still low enough to reveal rather more skin than Hermione was accustomed to showing. Low enough that the first time she wore one of her newly-altered gowns, she had blushed to see herself and almost managed to persuade herself to give up her admittedly rather nebulous plans.

But—Hermione had sighed more than once over this—for all her hesitation and all her self-consciousness, she might as well not have tried. Harry had not seemed to notice. Certainly she had never caught him staring at her bodice, whether it was surreptitiously or not. Indeed, for all the attention he paid, she may as well have been dressed in a nun’s habit that concealed her skin from throat to wrist.

He was the perfect gentleman—too perfect, in fact—and, more discouragingly, he had been, as always, the good-humored best friend she had known for years.

She had begun to wonder if he would ever look upon her as anything other than simply Hermione, his best friend—until this evening. Until she had almost flung herself into his arms in a rush of gratitude for his gift that truly was the most thoughtful gift she had ever received. To be able to truly study Defense Against the Dark Arts and all the other subjects that were forbidden to young ladies, in a more systematic way than what she had learned in her research to help Harry defeat the Dark Lord, had been a secret dream almost since the day she had arrived at Hogwarts and she had almost despaired of ever achieving it. The number of qualified professors of Defense Against the Dark Arts who would even agree to teach a young lady was limited, Hermione had no doubt, to Professor Lupin. And now, Harry had arranged for it all. He had made her dream come true. All the lessons of propriety and all the self-consciousness she had ever felt had been forgotten, drowned out, in the surge of pure joy as she had hugged him with an abandon which had, until now, been reserved solely for her parents.

She had not even thought of the intimacy of such an embrace but in that fleeting moment when she’d been pressed full-length against him, she had been made very aware of the masculine strength of his body against hers, and never had she felt more feminine, more delicate even. Her cheeks had grown hot, all her gratitude and her happiness mingling, changing, into something else, something warmer, something deeper…

And then he had kissed her. His kiss had been gentle even after he had coaxed her lips open… Hermione shivered slightly, feeling heat travel through her body just at the memory of his kiss. Dear Lord, she’d never known that a kiss could affect her so strongly. She had felt as if she were losing her mind—and in another moment, she’d decided that her mind was well lost if only Harry would keep kissing her. She’d never wanted him to stop kissing her…

Then, of course, they had been interrupted.

But she had thought, had expected, had hoped that afterwards, after supper, when there was no longer any danger of their being interrupted, he would kiss her again, that tonight, finally, would be the night they would consummate their marriage.

Instead—just as on every other night—he had escorted her to her bedchamber, wished her a good night, and then left. Without a kiss on her hand or her cheek, let alone her lips, without anything more.

Automatically, she stepped into her room and closed the door behind her, for once utterly blind to her pretty room.

Abruptly, she straightened, feeling a sudden flare of something like irritation. She supposed Harry was, as usual, doing the honorable thing, thinking to gradually build on the intimacy of a kiss and allow her to ease into further intimacies.

She allowed a rather unladylike grimace to cross her face. She loved Harry for his sense of honor; she truly did. But at this particular moment, she decided, she also found it quite irritating.

She was willing—she was even eager—for this marriage to become real and surely, surely, he had not feigned that kiss earlier. She had not imagined or dreamed the desire in his kiss earlier. Had she?

No, she remembered the way he’d looked at her, the heat in his eyes…

She felt herself flush just at the memory of the look in his eyes and oh, his kiss… She had read and heard of kisses that heated the entire body, that stole one’s breath and one’s wits, but she’d never imagined just how true that could be.

And she wanted more… Wanted more of his kisses, wanted more of his touch, wanted more of him… Even though she hardly knew what that ‘more’ entailed, she knew she wanted it.

It started as a vague thought slowly solidifying into resolve, determination building inside her. Very well, then. If he would not come to her, then she would go to him. She would tell him, somehow, that she wanted this, that she wanted him.

She could hardly believe she was thinking this, some tiny part of her mind stunned and almost horrified at how bold she was about to be, but they were married. They were married and she wanted him, little as she might know about such things.

She was a Gryffindor, was she not?

The decision made—or perhaps, in the madness of the impulse—she moved swiftly into her dressing room, just allowing Winnie to help her out of her gown before dismissing Winnie for the night.

She moved over to the dresser, opening it with hands that almost shook with an odd mixture of nervousness and anticipation and trepidation and curiosity and desire and an almost painful hope. She pulled out the sheer nightgown her mother had intended for her wedding night, untouched since then and never worn. It was the work of a moment to slip out of her chemise and her stockings until she was naked and another second to hurriedly slip the sheer nightgown on.

Her fingers were clumsier than usual as she pulled the pins out of her hair and brushed it out, leaving it to curl freely past her shoulders, remembering that Harry had said he thought her hair looked nice when it was down.

She blushed crimson as she took in the sight of herself in the looking glass. Oh my God…

The flimsy negligee did not conceal anything, was nearly as revealing as wearing nothing at all. It provided some sort of vague, filmy cover but nowhere near adequate and nowhere near enough to conceal anything.

She swallowed, all her resolve, the impulse of the moment, drowned out in the wave of embarrassment and uncertainty. She could not do this…

Perhaps some ladies—ladies with more confidence in their attractiveness to men—could but she… she, who had always known that she was certainly no great beauty, not quite plain perhaps, but certainly not pretty. She didn’t know how she could do this.

She supposed her form wasn’t entirely lacking in feminine curves but she knew she wasn’t voluptuous, was certainly nowhere near beautiful. She only hoped that Harry, somehow, wouldn’t think so, that perhaps the sheer nightgown would manage to convey some added allure to the body it so poorly concealed. He had wanted her earlier. Surely he could not want her less now.

She became aware that she had stood here dithering for several minutes and felt another wave of irritation, this time directed at herself, for behaving in such a way. She was a Gryffindor; she was Harry’s best friend and his wife. She refused to retreat ignominiously now.

But even so, she snatched up her cotton wrapper and slipped it on, covering herself decently, as she stiffened her spine and lifted her chin.

She took a deep breath to fortify herself.

She wanted this; she wanted him, wanted to be his wife in every way. And clearly if she didn’t make that blatantly clear to Harry, their marriage would still be in this not-quite-complete stage for months yet.

That thought strengthened her resolve as nothing else could have. Some embarrassment, a little mortification, was a small price to pay for more of Harry’s kisses, his desire.

She knocked quickly on the connecting door and then pushed it open the moment she heard his, “Come in.”

He was standing at the window, dressed in only his shirt and trousers.

He turned to look at her, his gaze taking in all of her from her loose hair to her practical wrapper effectively covering her body.

Her cheeks began to burn out of self-consciousness, all too aware of just how little she was wearing underneath her robe.

An odd strained expression flickered over his face and he closed his eyes briefly before opening them to focus his gaze not on her but on some spot on the wall over her shoulder.

She pushed aside the wayward flicker of hurt, swallowing the lump of nervousness in her throat as she opened her lips—and said nothing. She had come this far but her mind had gone completely blank for once in her life. She had no earthly idea what to say; no book she’d ever read, no lesson she had ever learned, had told her how a young lady was supposed to ask her husband to… to consummate their marriage.

“Hermione?”

His tone and his look were questioning and somehow, it jarred her into speech.

“I--I want to be your wife.”

Oh, what a witless thing to say. She half-expected that he would make some bantering response about how she already was his wife or didn’t she remember the little ceremony at Hogwarts—but then she should have known that he wouldn’t make light of her innocence or her ignorance. He teased her and he could make her smile and laugh as no one else could, but he somehow also sensed when he could tease her and when he couldn’t or shouldn’t.

He didn’t pretend not to understand what she meant, the color in his cheeks deepening, his eyes widening as he stared at her.

For one split second, Harry thought he had gone mad. He must have; he was clearly delusional or was experiencing a hallucination of some kind. His mind had conjured up an image of Hermione in her wrapper, her hair loose and flowing over her back in a mass of curls that, again, just begged for his fingers to be tangled in them, to make him regret even more fiercely the presence of his conscience insisting that he wait. (Merlin knew, it wouldn’t be the first time he had pictured Hermione in her robe with her hair down.)

He had promised her to allow her time to adjust to being married and that included time to adjust to physical intimacy. He thought—felt the heat of arousal through his body and something else, too, something softer, something gentler, just from the memory of that kiss—that she had felt something when he had kissed her. She had responded, awkwardly and a little hesitantly at first, but she had responded and he hadn’t seen any fear or distaste in her eyes. There had only been surprise—surprise and pleasure.

But he had promised—and in spite of the temptation, one thought had kept him from trying to persuade her with more kisses to go further; this wasn’t just any woman; this was Hermione. This was going to be the start of their marriage and he would not taint that with anything. No, he would do the honorable thing; he would wait until she was ready.

He didn’t think of how the devil he was going to bear the waiting.

And now he’d gone mad. Hermione could not be standing here in his room, looking (delightfully) flushed, telling him she wanted this.

He may have gone mad but it didn’t matter, he thought in that second. Madness or not, he was going to enjoy every minute of it before sanity returned.

He took one step forward, closer to her, and her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, the blush staining her cheeks deepening.

He stopped, as reality came crashing down on him. That expression in her eyes—it wasn’t fear but it was uncertainty, vulnerability, a hint of shyness, mingled in with an almost desperate courage—and in all his fantasies, he had somehow never imagined how very… uncertain… she would look.

No, he had not gone mad; he was not imagining things. This was real. Hermione was standing here in his bedchamber—and she’d said she wanted this.

“Are you sure?” he somehow managed to say.

In answer, Hermione undid the belt of her wrapper, letting the two sides fall open and then she shrugged out of it, leaving her bared to his gaze except for the almost nonexistent nightgown. She felt as if her cheeks—her entire body—were on fire, both from the heat of her blush and from the heat of his gaze and fought to keep her hands from covering herself.

His eyes traveled over every inch of her body, scorching her in every place his gaze touched, making her breath hitch in her chest, becoming ragged, her skin tingling, her body warming, a strange, hollow ache beginning somewhere deep inside her body.

“God, Hermione,” he finally breathed in a husky whisper, just when she thought she might go mad from the suspense of it, “you’re beautiful…”

Her lips parted on a denial but the words caught in her throat as she saw the look in his eyes, dark with passion and heat and sincerity… He meant the words, she could see it in his eyes, see it in the hint of something like awe in his gaze. She knew she wasn’t beautiful; she was only passably pretty, at best, but at that moment, with Harry looking at her with that look in his eyes, she believed him.

It was quite possibly the most profound, precious moment of her life thus far.

You’re beautiful…

She remembered having once overheard one of her aunts say to her mother, “At least Hermione is so clever and sensible,” in an affectionate enough tone but which also managed to imply that Hermione’s cleverness and sense were her only redeeming qualities. The words had stung and at that moment, she would have gladly relinquished all her intelligence in favor of being blessed with fair hair and blue eyes and perfect features. Hermione had fled, not staying to hear her mother’s defense; she knew her mother would defend her. Both her parents called her pretty but Hermione had never believed them; her looking glass was more honest and, sincere as Hermione knew her parents were being, they were her parents so of course they thought she was pretty.

But this—you’re beautiful—was different. This was a man telling her so; more importantly, this was Harry—and he thought she was beautiful.

She knew he meant it. It wasn’t the glib compliment of some polished rake; it was Harry and he was looking at her, staring at her, as if he could never get enough of looking at her.

And for the first time in her life, she felt beautiful. With him looking at her like that, his eyes burning as they greedily wandered over the length of her body, she felt beautiful…

Was it any wonder that she loved him?

He closed the distance between them with a few small steps, until he was close enough to touch her, and finally lifted his hand but he didn’t touch her in any of the more intimate parts of her body, as she might have expected. All he did was touch her shoulder, rest his hand lightly on it, his fingers straying back and forth in a feather-light caress on her bare skin, sending tremors of pleasurable sensation throughout her body. She’d never dreamed that her shoulder could be so sensitive.

“You’re trembling,” he said very softly.

Was she? She hadn’t even realized it.

“I’ll try not to hurt you. I’ll be careful,” he breathed.

That made her smile, an odd sort of calm settling in her heart. All the lingering nervousness and uncertainty she’d felt seemed to vanish in that moment, because of his words, and she was suddenly filled with certainty. Oh yes, this was trust, absolute and unwavering, and this was love… “I know you will.”

Something flared in his eyes at her words and she was the one to close what little space remained between their bodies, pressing herself against him with a boldness that came from trust and desire and love, as she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him.

At first, her lips landed slightly off-center, on the corner of his mouth, but then she shifted, her lips moving until she found her mark and kissed him with all the burgeoning passion she felt. His lips opened for her and, remembering the way he had kissed her earlier, she imitated his actions, sliding her tongue into his mouth, tasting him, her tongue stroking, tangling with his. She might have had no previous experience or knowledge beyond their kiss earlier that evening but she had desire and so much love for him and instinct to compensate.

And so she kissed him with everything she had in her. She kissed him until she was almost dizzy with the sensations flooding her body, until it felt as if her bones were dissolving from the heady pleasure of it.

His arms closed around her, bringing her body flush up against his. She shivered at the feel of his hard body nudging her, a tremor of mixed nervousness and triumph going through her at the thought that she had done that to him. He was aroused because of her… It was the most incredible, most… erotic thing to be pressed against him full-length when he was still clothed and she was not. She could feel the different textures of his shirt and his trousers against her skin, as the sheer nightgown provided no barrier at all.

His hands roamed over her body, caressing, stroking, exploring through the tissue-thin nightgown, leaving trails of fire in their wake. And though she had wondered about the self-consciousness she might feel in being touched so intimately, in places no man had ever touched before, she found that all thought of self-consciousness vanished, incinerated in the heat of his touch. Perhaps it should have felt odd to be so close to him, to have his hands on her, but it didn’t. This was what she’d always been meant for; this, Harry touching her, Harry wanting her, was what she’d dreamed of… She abandoned the attempt to make rational sense of this and arched into his touch, her arms holding him to her, in complete, wanton abandon. Yes… oh, yes… this was what she’d wanted…

His tongue explored her mouth as freely as his hands explored her body. She touched her tongue to his and waves of shimmering desire coursed through her body. She shivered in delicious heat. Had she thought she knew what his kiss was like, what he could do to her with just a kiss? She hadn’t, oh she hadn’t…

She broke the kiss on a sharp gasp as his hands slid up to cup her breasts, her head falling back and her eyes closing as she gave herself up to the jolts of pure pleasure shooting through her body. Oh… Oh, dear God…

Her thoughts splintered, dissipated until she was hard put to remember her own name and her awareness of her surroundings narrowed down to his hands on her body and the wonderful, delightful things he was making her feel.

She didn’t open her eyes until his hands fell from her and she became aware of him lifting the sheer nightgown up and over her head until she was completely nude. A hot blush crimsoned her cheeks but before she could even think to cover herself, he closed his arms around her, his mouth coming down on hers. She slid her arms around his neck and forgot her momentary embarrassment as she gloried in the passion of his kiss.

She let out a small gasp as his arms tightened around her and he lifted her up, carrying her the stumbling few steps to his bed until he could place her on the mattress.

She was in Harry’s bed.

It should have been a simple statement of fact but somehow it sounded profound. She was in Harry’s bed—finally—and he was going to perform the marriage act with her, do things to her which she didn’t know of other than the basic mechanics of it.

But she wanted it. Oh, she knew she wanted it, wanted him. Her body was still over-heated and her insides trembling slightly from the pleasure of his kiss and his touch.

His hands had gone to his shirt, stripping it off, and she saw his bare chest again, that image which had been seared onto her brain. She sucked in her breath sharply at the sight, feeling a rising wave of heat go through her body, her hands almost tingling with the desire to touch him, feel the smooth skin of his chest under her fingertips. How was it possible for a man to be so… beautiful?

His hands had gone to his trousers and suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the room as her lungs seized in her chest and she stared, curiosity drowning out any nervousness she might feel.

A small sound, halfway between a gasp and a soft cry, escaped her lips at the sight of him, completely naked and fully aroused. Oh my God. That was… this was… her mind floundered around ineffectually for coherence. Oh God, ohgodohgod… It wasn’t fear that she felt—she didn’t know how exactly this was going to work but she trusted him with a trust that made outright fear impossible—but there was some definite nervousness, bordering on apprehension.

He slid onto the bed beside her and she stiffened in automatic reaction, tensing for she knew not what, but he only slid one hand into her hair, his fingers tangling in her curls, as he kissed her again, his lips and tongue almost teasing hers.

She let out her breath in a soft sigh of his name against his lips, relaxing almost insensibly and shifting towards him, as his other hand continued its exploration of her body, sliding down her body in a slow caress to cup her breast. And all rational thought left her mind, leaving it awash in a haze of pleasure. His fingers brushed over her nipple and then paused, returned, tweaked it gently, and she cried out at the jolt of sensation that lanced through her body.

He paused in his kisses and, feeling bereft, she opened her eyes to find him looking down at her, an expression she couldn’t quite read on his face except that it looked almost like… wonder…

He moved one hand to touch her cheek in a feather-light caress before his fingers tangled in her hair. “Hermione,” he breathed and her name was half a question and half an affirmation at the same time. Something about the way he said her name, about the look in his eyes, made her breath catch in her throat. He wanted her. It should have been an odd thought to drift through her mind, given where they were, given all he’d been doing to her—and yet, it wasn’t. In some tiny corner of her mind, she remembered what her mother had said about a man being able to find pleasure in almost any woman; but at that moment, she knew that no matter what else, Harry wanted her. She wasn’t just an anonymous feminine body to him or a substitute for any other woman. She knew that, deep in her heart, with a knowledge that admitted no doubts. Right now, at this moment, he wanted her; his desire was for her and her alone. She was the only woman in his mind at that moment—and it was all she had ever needed to know.

She curved her hand around the back of his neck, bringing his lips back down to hers, silently offering him her lips and her body and her heart. What she offered, he took and gave of himself in return, his lips and tongue melding with hers.

His lips left hers to leave a trail of tiny, soft kisses down her chin and the line of her jaw, down her neck, pausing where her pulse was fluttering madly, and then down, down until his lips closed over her nipple, suckling at it. She cried out, her back arching, unconsciously pushing herself closer to him. A tug of desire shivered through her chest, seeming to be pulled through her in response to what his lips and tongue were doing to her breast, as liquid heat pooled in her lower stomach and lower still, in the core of her between her legs. So this was what desire, what passion, truly felt like, this damp heat at the core of her, until she felt wet and hot and… needy, wanting, needing something she couldn’t put a name to, other than to say that she wanted him…

She heard a series of gasps and soft moans as if from far away and then realized, dimly, that those sounds were coming from her own throat.

Her hands flew up of their own accord to touch his back, his shoulders, his hair, light, almost fluttering caresses, as she learned the feel of his skin, felt the muscles of his body. She couldn’t decide where she wanted to touch him more, didn’t know how to touch him. His skin was smooth and so hot to the touch and she let her hands wander at will over his shoulders and his back and down until she just brushed his back side before she moved her hands back up. He shivered slightly, his hips jerking slightly, pressing his hardness into her. She flicked her gaze up to look at his face; his eyes were closed, his lips parted slightly, his expression one of torment that she somehow knew was because of pleasure and she knew a flicker of triumph. He liked it when she touched him. She filed that knowledge away in her mind and let her hands move on to explore his chest, her fingers lightly brushing against his flat, male nipples and he groaned. Encouraged, she did it again and then his eyes flew open.

The look in his eyes was almost… wild, in a way she’d never seen before and it sent a shiver through her body. She had done this to him; she had brought that look to his eyes…

“No more,” he rasped out. “Please.”

She felt a small, very feminine smile curve her lips, a smile of a knowledge which she hadn’t known until tonight. Something—was it passion?— flared in his eyes and he lowered his mouth to hers again, kissing her lightly, his lips and tongue almost teasing hers until she tangled her fingers in his hair to tug him closer to her.

One of his hands slid further down her body, stroking the curve of her waist and her hips and then venturing onward to touch her thigh, his fingers straying dangerously close to the center of her. Surely he could not—would not—want to touch her there…

Her thighs clamped together in instinctive reaction against the alien touch, delightfully pleasurable as it was, and she wondered briefly if he would be displeased but he didn’t react. His hand returned to stroke her hips as his lips skated along the line of her jaw, nuzzling her ear, and she let out another whimper as his lips found a sensitive spot just under her ear. “Oh… Oh, Harry…”

Without realizing it, her legs relaxed, parted, and then his hand was there, touching that most secret part of her body. Her hips nearly flew off the bed, a cry of surprise and arousal escaping her lips, at the incredible sensation of it.

His touch was tentative, a little uncertain, as if he wasn’t certain of his actions, exploring that secret part of her body, somehow managing to find a spot that sent fresh waves of feeling shooting through her body. Every nerve in her body, every sense she had, had narrowed down to that one spot, to his hand touching her in wonderful, scandalous, delicious ways, a knot of pure physical pleasure building, growing, inside her. Oh God, oh God, oh God, she would lose her mind; she was going mad… She didn’t know what he was doing with his hand or how he was doing it or how she would survive this overwhelming onslaught of feeling but… Oh God… She wanted it to stop… she wanted it never to stop… she wanted… she wanted…

And then she died, the small knot of pleasure exploding within her in a white-hot burst of dizzying sensations, tearing his name from her lips in a sound halfway between a cry and a scream.

Before she could even begin to wonder what in heaven had just happened, he shifted above her, moving until she felt his hardness nudging against the core of her, making her gasp at the extraordinary caress.

“Hermione,” he rasped out, “this will hurt but I can’t--”

“Yes,” was all she could gasp, her hips arching towards him in unconscious invitation.

He gave a strangled groan and pushed forward slowly and the shock of it pulled her from her haze of lingering pleasure. He paused for a fleeting second but then thrust until he was fully sheathed inside her.

She stiffened, a thin cry escaping her lips at the invasion of her body and the stinging pain that accompanied it. He stopped, looking down at her. His expression looked strained, his features hard as if they’d been carved out of stone, as he met her eyes. “Am I hurting you?” he rasped out.

She stared at him—he looked as if he were in pain as well, a flicker of something like fear in his eyes as he looked at her. Her heart melted, softened, in a flood of tenderness and slowly, she shook her head, shifting a little under him, as she tried to accustom herself to this. It felt so very… odd… He was stretching her, filling her, when she’d never even known she was empty—and the pain was gone, replaced by a strange soreness only.

He kissed her again, softly, gently this time, his lips just brushing against hers, and then with more passion, and some of the fire, the pleasure returned, building up inside her, and she arched against him, some instinct guiding her. He groaned, his arms sliding beneath her to pull her closer to him, as his hips began to move, pressing hers into the mattress with quick, urgent force.

She welcomed him, her hips automatically rising to meet his, her arms holding him to her. Another wave of heat swept through her body, and then he stiffened above her, his hands tightening convulsively on her, and she felt a flood of warmth in her body as he groaned her name. “Hermione!”

He collapsed on top of her, his breath ragged, his skin damp with sweat, and then rolled over onto his side, bringing her with him. She went gladly, relishing the closeness of him, loving the way his lips brushed against her hair, as she nestled her head against his shoulder.

She let out a soft sigh, feeling her body relax, mold itself to his as if it had been made to fit against him.

It was done. She was a maiden no more, was well and truly his wife now. She felt a small smile curve her lips at the thought.

“How do you feel?” he murmured softly.

She just moved her head enough to meet his eyes, blushing in spite of herself. “I feel… like a wife,” she answered softly, remembering what she’d just thought.

A slight smile gleamed in his eyes, curved his lips. “In a good way, I hope,” he said teasingly, his voice low, husky.

Her blush deepened at the thought of just how splendid it had been. “If I’d known it would feel like that, I’d have insisted that you perform your husbandly duties from the first night,” she confessed with thoughtless candor.

He laughed softly and brushed his lips against her forehead. “Ah, Hermione…” he murmured against her skin and her heart thrilled at the note of tenderness she could hear in his voice.

Her mother’s words the night before the wedding drifted through her mind: the act of love can be—indeed, it should be—pleasant for both man and woman…

Hermione smiled to herself with a feminine satisfaction and knowledge which she’d only learned that night. Pleasant, indeed! Perhaps, after all, the reason no one spoke of just how pleasant it could be was that there really were no words to describe it, the… utter bliss of it.

She let out a soft, satisfied sigh and unconsciously nestled closer to him, loving the warmth of him against her, loving the feeling of being in his arms.

In another few minutes, she heard his breathing become deep and even and she realized that he had fallen asleep.

She was tired as well and feeling delightfully languid, sated, even as her senses still hummed from the overload of bliss she’d felt earlier, her entire body still tingling from the memory of his touch.

But now, she felt some uncertainty returning, questions creeping into her mind. Not of what had happened or even of her feelings or of his desires but, incredibly, absurdly, the simple question of what she should do now. Should she stay here? Did Harry expect, want her to sleep the entire night in his bed? Separate bedrooms were the rule rather than the exception for most married couples and she didn’t know what Harry would want or expect.

His arm was loose enough and she knew she could easily slip out from underneath it and return to her own bedchamber as he slept. She probably should return to her own bedchamber; she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable or presume…

Yes, she should return to her bedchamber—and she would, too, she decided, but in a little while. For just a few minutes longer, she would linger. She rested her head against his shoulder, letting one hand rest on his chest, delighting in the sound and feeling of his deep, even breathing, the steady beat of his heart under her hand. For just a few more minutes, she thought, she would linger, indulge herself in this closeness to him, in the warmth of him against her…

Just a few more minutes…

~To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: To azusena, who specifically reminded me that this fic has now reached 600 reviews and so it is high time to update—and to all of you who’ve read and reviewed to help me reach the 600 review goal. Thank you!

The Truth About Love

Chapter 10: His Good Fortune

Something was tickling his nose.

He shifted in a lazy attempt to get away from it but it didn’t succeed and rather reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

To see Hermione.

Immediately, his mind was flooded with memories from the night before, memories so vivid they sent a fresh wave of heat through his body.

She was sleeping peacefully, lying on her side next to him. A strand of her hair had been what was tickling his nose and he brushed it aside and then, irresistibly, lightly sifted his fingers through her hair, watching as one tendril of hair curled possessively around one finger.

Early morning light was filtering through the curtains and just from the quality of the light and the vague glimpse of the blue skies, he could tell that it was going to be a beautiful day. More than that, it was a perfect day to fly, one of those days when it was just cool enough and the breeze just crisp enough as it ruffled his hair and whipped around his face. But it was only a passing thought.

For the first time in his life, he felt absolutely no desire to fly, notwithstanding the perfect flying weather. He felt a small, rather self-deprecating smile quirk his lips at the thought that he had finally found a pastime he preferred over flying. Or, to be strictly accurate, had found several pastimes he enjoyed more than flying, all of which centered around his wife.

His gaze returned to Hermione, feeling an odd warmth bubble up inside him, filling his chest, as he let his gaze wander at will over the warm, sleep-flushed curves of her body, his memory filling in what was concealed beneath the sheets and the counterpane. And the warmth he felt had nothing to do with desire—or, to be honest, it wasn’t entirely to do with desire. It was more than desire. This was Hermione, his best friend, his wife, his… lover… The woman he wanted with a fervor that rather amazed him, even now, when he should have become accustomed to this desire.

But this was Hermione and it was still, somehow, surprising that he could feel such passion for his best friend. After seven years of friendship and never once suspecting, never even imagining the attraction of her…

He felt rather as he imagined a blind man must feel on regaining the power of sight. He didn’t know how he had never noticed, never imagined Hermione was so beautiful, so enticing, but he supposed he had always only viewed her as a friend, in the same category as Ron, and so he had never noticed, had been blind, in a very real sense, to all her beauty.

And of course, he reflected, he never had seen her with her hair down before or in her nightgown…

Even if he lived to be 200 years old, he would never as long as he lived forget the moment when Hermione had undone the belt of her wrapper and let it fall to the ground, baring her lovely body to his stunned (and quite frankly aroused) gaze, except for the flimsy negligee. The sheer turquoise fabric had done nothing to conceal any of her body and had, in truth, as it was undoubtedly intended to, only added to her allure. The turquoise color had made her skin seem fairer, softer, contrasting beautifully with her dark hair and eyes.

He had thought she was beautiful before; in that moment as he stared, drank in the sight of her, she had been beyond beautiful, beyond seductive.

He supposed—although the thought hadn’t occurred to him at the time—that she didn’t have a fashionable figure. She was not voluptuous; her curves were modest but they suited her slim, lithe figure. Her breasts were small, certainly small enough that they would never be of the eye-catching sort that threatened to spill out of her bodice at any moment (even if Hermione had been of the type to wear such a low-cut gown to begin with), but he was rather thankful for that. What curves she did have had been quite distracting enough in the relatively modest necklines of her gowns. He didn’t know how many times over the past days and weeks that he had needed to forcibly drag his gaze upwards to focus on her face. (Indeed, he acknowledged rather shame-facedly, there had been several mornings when he’d thought he was in serious danger of swallowing his own tongue when he’d seen her, or more accurately, seen her bodice.)

Her curves were modest—as were her bodices—but the modesty of the necklines compared to some which he had seen while he was in Town almost made them that much more alluring, the hints of what he could see, the amount of skin she did reveal, more seductive than the lowest-cut décolletage he’d ever seen. It had succeeded in making his imagination become increasingly active about all the charms which he had never particularly noticed before but was now increasingly desperate to see.

And when she had stood before him clad in nothing but that sheer negligee… Dear Lord, she had taken his breath away. She had taken his breath away and he was, belatedly, amazed he hadn’t simply died right then, the victim of his own throat closing.

He didn’t know when she’d become so lovely or so precious—or could he really have been so blind for so long?

He wasn’t sure, but he was beginning to think that he owed Lady Danvers a debt of gratitude. Perhaps he should even get down on his knees before her in gratitude.

His lips quirked into a smile at the thought of the stir that would cause if he ever did any such thing—not that he would—but the thought tickled him—and he was grateful.

If it hadn’t been for her, foul-minded, interfering dragon that she was, he might never have learned to see, would certainly not be lying here in his bed next to a delightfully naked Hermione.

As he watched, she stirred slightly and he could almost see the slow return of awareness as she slid out of sleep towards wakefulness.

Unable to resist any longer, he reached out one hand to touch her, his fingers brushing her hair back away from her face in an unmistakable caress.

“Good morning,” he murmured softly.

Her eyes flew open. “Oh.”

He felt his lips curve in a small, tender smile. “I was hoping for a good morning but I guess that will do,” he quipped.

She blushed hotly, her cheeks turning crimson, as she rather belatedly tugged the sheets up to her neck. “I thought--” she began, stopped, and then finished rather awkwardly, not quite meeting his eyes, “I was intending to return to my bedchamber and sleep there.”

“Do you think I’m so stingy about my bed-space?” he teased.

“No—I simply wasn’t sure… Most couples don’t share a bedchamber and I didn’t know what you wanted, what you expected…”

He pretended to ponder for a moment before lifting her chin so she had to meet his eyes. “My dear wife, perhaps most couples don’t but I suspect that is because most men aren’t fortunate enough to be married to someone like you,” he said softly, seeing the flicker of pleasure in her eyes at the endearment. “As for me, I find that I very much like the idea of waking up to see you every morning.”

She smiled, her blush deepening—and unable to help himself, he shifted closer to her, brushing his lips against hers, lightly at first, but then deepening the kiss as her lips parted for him with a soft sigh in the back of her throat.

He pressed her further into the pillow, sinking deeper into her, feeling heat flare and spread through every inch of his body.

God, had anything ever been as sweet as she was? Could anything be as sweet as she was? He doubted it.

Her arms slid around his neck, her lips and tongue imitating his actions as she returned his kiss with an utterly unself-conscious passion that seared his senses. Her tongue stroked his, explored the depths of his mouth, sending a wave of lust shimmering through his body.

Forever, the fuzzy thought formed in his mind. He could kiss her forever, would happily spend the rest of his life kissing her. Touching her. Holding her. Which was fortunate for him, he thought vaguely, because a lifetime was how long he had with her…

His lips finally left hers, only to feather kisses down the line of her jaw and her neck as he slid down the bed.

She gasped and arched under him. “Harry.” His name escaped her lips on a breathless moan.

“Mmm?” he murmured absently, distracted as he was by the softness of her skin, the rising heat of her body.

He let his lips wander, finding every delicate curve and hollow of her throat, savoring her reactions, learning the sensitive spots on her body.

She let out a soft cry of pleasure, her hands moving restlessly over his shoulders and back, twisting to get closer to him. “It’s… morning…” she began in a faint protest that quickly died on a gasp as his tongue flicked against the spot where her pulse was fluttering madly.

He could barely think, any remaining thoughts drowned out by the pounding of his heart, the rush of blood through his veins. It took a Herculean effort to raise his head just enough to look at her. “Should I stop?” he asked huskily, just before he captured her erect nipple with his lips.

She gasped, her fingers twining in his hair, holding him against her. “No, don’t stop.” Her voice sounded unlike herself, breathless and filled with wanting.

He smiled slightly against her skin and took her at her word, continuing to ensure that she had a very good morning indeed, in the best possible way.

Lord, she was so soft, so lovely… She was intoxicating in every way, the softness of her skin, the sweetness of her, the taste of her, the responsiveness of her… She was as honest and as open in her passion as he’d dreamed she might be in his most secret fantasies. Somehow he’d found in Hermione not only a wife with enough wit and intelligence not to bore him but also a wife from whom he didn’t want to stray. (He’d never thought he would stray but he admitted that there was a difference between not straying from his wife because of duty and not straying because he honestly did not desire any other woman.)

And then he stopped thinking entirely, feeling himself sinking into her until all he was aware of, all that mattered to him, was her, the feel of her… The rest of the world dissolved until the confines of his bed made up the boundaries of his entire world and all he knew was the velvety, wet warmth of her surrounding him, her gasps of breath against his ear, the soft sounds of pleasure and arousal she made as he kissed her and touched her, the feel of her arms and legs wrapping around him, encouraging him… And then when she shuddered and cried out his name, he held her tightly against him, his lips finding hers, as he, too, followed her over the edge, finding his release with a low groan.

Harry slumped onto his side, feeling her curl up, limp with pleasure, beside him, the warm curves of her body fitting into his as if she’d always been meant to fit against him. Gradually, his breathing slowed, his heart returning to a more normal pace, and he found himself smiling to himself, not from any particular reason but simply because he felt like it. He felt… happy… Happy and utterly disinclined to ever leave his bed again.

On the heels of that thought, he felt her shift closer to him, brushing her lips against his cheek in a quick caress. “That was a lovely way to wake up,” she said, with so much unabashed, dreamy pleasure that his smile widened and he bent to kiss her again, briefly—or at least as briefly as he could, given how much he enjoyed kissing her.

“For me too” he murmured against her skin before he kissed her again, lazily, just kissed her, leisurely exploring the familiar depths of her mouth with no thought of anything more.

It was a delightfully pleasurable interlude of a few minutes before he finally, reluctantly, drew back to look at her, loving the unfocused look in her eyes.

“I suppose we cannot linger here all day.”

She blinked slowly, awareness returning to her eyes. “I suppose not.”

There was so much palpable resignation in her voice that he had to smile. “I think this is the first time that I’ve known you to want to dawdle in bed. You were always the first one up in our school days.”

“Yes, well, at the time, I didn’t have a reason to linger in bed,” she responded, a teasing gleam entering her eyes.

He gave a low laugh and touched her cheek with his fingers in a last caress, before he sat up.

She sat up as well, clutching the sheet to her breasts.

His breath stalled in his chest as he looked at her. With her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen, and her hair tumbling down past her lovely, bare shoulders in a riot of curls, she looked like what she was, a woman who’d been well and truly loved, rising from a bed of pleasure. Just the sight of her evoked visions of smooth, beautiful skin against satin sheets and the dreamy look in her eyes after he’d kissed her and he had to swallow back a groan. He tore his gaze from her body resolutely—if he didn’t, he knew that they would not be leaving his bedchamber all day and appealing as the idea was, he did have obligations to fulfill.

He reached for his robe, covering himself, before he handed her the diaphanous nightgown and her wrapper, steadfastly keeping his eyes turned away from her, partly because he could tell from her heated blush that, in spite of the night they’d just passed, she wasn’t comfortable being in the altogether in front of him yet, but mostly because he knew if he looked, any resolve he had to leave her would fade.

It was only when he knew she was fully covered again that he turned to look at her, brushing his lips against her temple and then, irresistibly, against her lips as well. “I will have Winnie draw up a bath for you.”

“Thank you. Will I see you at breakfast?”

He smiled slightly, touching his fingertips to her cheek in a fleeting caress. “You may depend upon it.”

She gave him a last, quick smile before disappearing into her own bedchamber.

Harry entered the morning room after a very quick flight and even quicker bath to see Hermione already seated at the table, having helped herself to eggs and toast.

She smiled at the sight of him, leaving him to wonder when just the sight of her smile had acquired the power to make his heart skip a beat. “Good morning,” she greeted him, her tone demure but there was a flicker of mischief in her eyes and the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, belying her tone.

He returned her smile easily, falling in with her mood. Two could play at this game, he thought. “Good morning.” He paused as he loaded his own plate and sat down across from her. “How did you sleep?” he asked, his tone all innocent solicitude.

She choked on her pumpkin juice, coughing, as she shot him a look which he responded to with a bland smile. “Harry!” she scolded him when she’d regained her breath.

He couldn’t help but smile at her blush but then sobered and left aside his teasing. “I promised to call on the tenants today and the Turner family needs some assistance to fix the roof of their cottage before the next rain comes, so I will probably be out until tea time.”

“Oh. Would you like me to come with you when you call on the tenants?”

“Perhaps next time. I’ve found that the tenant’s wives tend to become unsettled when I show up and I suspect that your coming would throw them into an even worse flutter. I will let a few of them know that you will accompany me next time to give them some notice.”

Her smile softened, though her words were teasing. “How very thoughtful of you, Mr. Potter.”

“Yes, I am quite known for my thoughtfulness, did you not know?” he asked, attempting to look saintly.

She shot him an amused glance over her pumpkin juice and a brief silence fell, which he broke.

“I was thinking that we should invite your parents for a visit, perhaps just before the house party. If they arrive today or tomorrow week, it would give them time to spend a few days here before the Weasleys and Remus arrive. What do you think?”

“Oh, Harry!”

Hermione gifted him with a beaming smile that suddenly made him feel invincible, as triumphant as if he’d been elected King of the known world, as if he could single-handedly defeat a whole army of Hungarian Horntails without even the benefit of his wand.

And Harry thought that he would do much more than simply invite Hermione’s parents for a brief visit if it would make Hermione smile at him in such a way.

He said, “Well, I can’t have your parents wondering if I took you away from their care only to throw you into some dank dungeon somewhere, can I?”

“No, of course you cannot,” she agreed with sham solemnity. “I am sure they were very worried on that score.”

“It would be a shocking thing for my reputation were those suspicions to come out,” he agreed, sternly swallowing back his smile.

“Shocking, indeed,” she murmured and then smiled sincerely, all humor gone from her eyes. “I will send them an invitation by owl this very morning. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he murmured and reflected that marriage—marriage to Hermione—was really a remarkably pleasant experience in a way that had nothing whatever to do with the marriage bed but everything to do with this, the pleasure in simply talking to her, spending time with her.

~*~

“Come in.” Hermione looked up at the knock on the library door, which opened to reveal Dobby, looking as hesitant as she’d ever seen him look.

She smiled. “Yes, what is it, Dobby?”

“Oh, Missmynee, Dobby was wondering, does Missmynee know where Mr. Harry Potter is?”

“Harry’s going to be busy until the afternoon. Can I help instead?”

“Missmynee is very good but Dobby is not sure…” Dobby hesitated.

But just then Hermione glimpsed another house elf’s head peek around the door into the library. This house elf looked quite filthy and distressed but with hope wavering on his admittedly rather grimy face. “Who is your friend, Dobby?”

Dobby promptly wrung his hands, an expression of almost comic dismay twisting his features as he looked from the other house elf to Hermione. “Oh, Missmynee, this is Ferdy. I used to work with him before at the other place.”

“Oh, at Hogwarts?”

“Oh, no, Missmynee, not Hogwarts but the other place.” And somehow, in spite of Dobby’s squeaky voice, he managed to infuse something sinister in the sound of the last two words with his emphasis.

Hermione stiffened slightly. “Oh, yes, that other place.” Ferdy had worked for the Malfoys. Poor elf. She directed a welcoming smile at Ferdy. “Hello, Ferdy. I’m Hermione Potter.” (It was the first time she’d ever introduced herself using her married name and she half-expected that she would feel self-conscious but surprised herself because she didn’t. Hermione Potter—in some small corner of her mind, she thrilled at the significance of it, doubly special after this last night. She was Harry’s wife; she was his and he was, at least in body, hers…)

Ferdy’s eyes widened as he bobbed a nervous bow.

“And so this other place gave Ferdy clothes?” Hermione asked.

Ferdy’s face sagged for a moment like wet parchment as he nodded, one big tear welling up in his large eyes.

“Yes, Missmynee,” Dobby answered, rushing on, “and a house elf given clothes with no references, it’s hard for the house elf to find another family. Ferdy, he knew I was here so he came here.”

“Ferdy will work very hard, Missus Potter,” Ferdy spoke up, the words spilling out of him with a haste that might have seemed comical if it weren’t so obviously stemming from desperation. “Ferdy’s a hard worker and Ferdy has always been in charge of the Master’s shirts and cravats but then Ferdy accidentally scorched a shirt and Master said Ferdy must go but Ferdy won’t do it again. Ferdy knows better and will be very good and--”

Judging from how disreputable Ferdy looked at this moment, Hermione suspected that Mr. Malfoy had not only given Ferdy clothes but had beaten him rather severely in the process. She felt a surge of pity and anger. She interrupted this flood of words by addressing Ferdy with another smile. “Ferdy, I’m sure you are a very good worker. Mr. Potter would be glad to have you taking charge of his shirts and cravats. Dobby will tell you of your pay and your days off, won’t you, Dobby?” she added, turning to Dobby.

Dobby bowed so low his nose nearly scraped the floor. “Oh, yes, Missmynee. Thank you!”

“Yes, thank you, Missus!” Ferdy echoed, bobbing his upper body repeatedly in bows so low he looked in danger of toppling over head-first. “Missus is as great and good and kind as Dobby always said Mr. Harry Potter is.”

“Dobby will tell Mr. Harry Potter about Missmynee’s kindness,” Dobby asserted, favoring Hermione with the sort of openly worshipful expression which had until now been reserved for Harry.

“I can tell Harry about Ferdy’s situation. You needn’t worry.”

“Yes, Missmynee. Thank you.” Dobby bobbed a low bow, which Ferdy imitated.

“Dobby will outfit you and show you around, I’m sure. Welcome to Godric’s Hollow, Ferdy,” Hermione smiled.

“Thank you, Missus. Ferdy will be very good, Ferdy promises!”

With a series of low bows, Ferdy retreated from the room, followed by Dobby, more calmly with a characteristic, respectful bob of his head.

Hermione stifled a smile as the library door closed behind the two elves, before her amusement faded to be replaced with something like concern.

She had no fears of Harry disapproving of hiring Ferdy, given his circumstances, but now, she was unexpectedly beset with some doubts about her wisdom in essentially appointing Ferdy to be Harry’s valet.

Gentlemen always hired their own valets as it was such a personal position and until now, Hermione knew, Dobby had functioned as Harry’s valet of sorts, as well as the majordomo-cum-butler. (Harry was no dandy or a fop and reasoned that he had no need to hire one elf purely for his sartorial needs and, moreover, was accustomed to functioning without the aid of a valet.)

She had neatly circumvented his judgment now and wondered with a touch of nervousness what he would say.

~~

Harry took the front steps of Godric’s Hollow two at a time, not bothering to conceal his eagerness to be with Hermione again, either from himself or from any nonexistent observers.

It had been a long, if satisfying, day for him. He’d been surprised—having been diffident about taking on the role of land-owner and master initially—at how he really had enjoyed his first calls on his tenants and been touched at their loyalty to him and to his parents. (Indeed, several of the older, grizzled tenants had made a point of sharing their memories of ‘Young Master Potter’ or ‘Master James’ as they referred to his father, from memories of when James Potter had been a young scapegrace of a lad to when he’d grown and become ‘as good a Master as his father, the Old Master, had been’, according to one tenant, Bill Fletcher.)

Beyond that, though, Harry had been impressed at the diligence and the ingenuity and the courage with which the tenants went about their daily lives. Being Muggles, they did not have the conveniences of magic to make their lives easier but far from resenting or envying their Magical masters, they seemed quite content to live and work as they always had and relying on their masters only for some extra help when times were particularly hard.

On this particular day, the village had come together to build a new roof for the home of one family, the Turners, and Harry had assured them he would be glad to help when he’d last visited. And though he had offered magical help to make the process quicker, they had all refused, gratefully but firmly, and had finally (after some persuasion) agreed to allow him to cast a Water Repelling Charm on the roof when it was finished. He had to admire the independence and the dignity they showed and had relented, volunteering, instead, to help them with his labor, as another fit worker.

There was no doubt he should be intensely sore, his muscles protesting work to which he was unaccustomed, but instead Harry was grateful for the various Healing Charms that completely eased any soreness, allowing him to hasten up the front steps of Godric’s Hollow with nearly as much energy as he’d had when he left the house that morning.

He was greeted by Daisy who bobbed a small curtsy and answered his question before he could ask it.

“Mrs. Potter is in the blue sitting room having her tea.”

“Thank you, Daisy,” he smiled.

“Daisy will get a fresh pot for Harry Potter, sir.”

Daisy scurried off toward the kitchens and Harry turned his steps toward the informal sitting room—and Hermione.

He found her in a characteristic position, reading the first volume of the Defense Against the Dark Arts books he had bought her, a slight frown of concentration marring the smoothness of her brow, as she absently sipped from her cup of tea.

“Thank you for delaying tea for my sake,” he quipped.

Her head came up, her teacup went down, her frown clearing to be replaced with a smile, as she rose to greet him.

“I wasn’t sure when you would be returning,” she explained, going up on her toes to brush her lips against his cheek.

But he had other ideas and turned his head so her lips brushed his lips instead and then lingered, so what had been meant to be a very brief touching of lips turned into a more leisurely, pleasurable greeting.

His arm slid around her waist automatically, bringing the warmth of her lightly against him.

The kiss ended slowly as he brushed his lips against her cheek and the tip of her nose, before she drew back with a soft sigh of pleasure.

“How were your calls on the tenants?” she asked as he sat down beside her.

“They were very pleasant and quite productive. We managed to complete the roof of the Turners’ cottage and it is sturdy enough to last for quite a while.”

“That’s good to hear. Oh, Harry, let me call for a fresh pot of tea for you.”

He fore-stalled her. “Daisy’s already bringing it—and there it is,” he added after a moment as there was a soft knock on the door which was then opened to reveal Daisy, who carefully levitated the teapot across the room to settle gently on the tea table.

“Thank you, Daisy,” Hermione smiled.

Daisy beamed and bobbed a quick curtsy as she left, closing the door behind her.

“And how has your day been?” he queried, as he accepted the cup of tea which she’d poured for him.

To his surprise, she seemed to stiffen, her hand pausing in mid-air en route to picking up her own cup. “Oh, Harry, you don’t know what I’ve done!” she blurted out incautiously.

“What you’ve done?” He shook his head in a mockingly scolding fashion. “Whatever am I to do with you? You are always getting into trouble. Well, you may confess now. Did you put us into debt by owl-ordering every book ever published? Should I expect to be thrown into debtor’s prison?” he teased.

“I hired a house elf to be your valet.”

“What shocking effrontery, to be sure,” he quipped lightly, trying to coax a smile out of her and barely succeeding. “I see you’ve determined to make a dandy of me. I suppose,” he added with mock resignation, “I must make a show of being fashionable. I can hardly appear the unfashionable clod and disgrace my beautiful wife, can I?”

A flush colored her cheeks but she didn’t waver from her explanation or from the sobriety of her expression, in spite of the fleeting smile he’d won from her. His own levity faded as he realized that for whatever reason, this truly was a serious matter for her.

“His name is Ferdy and I simply had to hire him because he worked for the Malfoys.”

“Ah. I see.” And he did see. He had a strong suspicion of what he was about to hear and sure enough, his suspicions were confirmed.

“They gave him clothes for scorching a shirt but, Harry, I think that Mr. Malfoy had him beaten first.”

Harry’s face became grimmer. It didn’t surprise him in the least but he had to wonder, rather gloomily, just what it meant that he had done what he had, fought so hard, only to see so many people like the Malfoys still living on, as cruel and arrogant and intolerant and secure in their intolerance as they had ever been. It made all his struggles in the war seem almost like a waste, as if nothing had really changed after all. He hadn’t fought to keep people like the Malfoys in power.

But before these dark thoughts could get a hold of his mind, his eyes were drawn back to Hermione’s face—and he knew exactly why he’d fought. It had been for her—not only to keep her safe but because he’d had to fight the idea that she was somehow less than the rest of the wizarding world. And to know that now, no one would ever dare to question her status as belonging to the wizarding world or question her worth, made everything worth it. The world might not acknowledge her courage as being equal to his (if not greater) but by Merlin, it would acknowledge her value.

“They beat him over a shirt! As if giving him clothes for such a trivial thing wasn’t criminal enough, they beat him. The sheet he was wearing was torn and dirty and he was badly bruised. I had to hire him.”

“Certainly you did. I would expect nothing less from you.”

“How can people have so little compassion and so little honor as to debase and abuse those who are weaker? It’s terrible! People who abuse their house elves so should be hanged!”

This was the Hermione he knew so well—she was lovely in anger too, with her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashing with righteous indignation, her jaw set with all the determination he knew she possessed.

“I know. I am glad you hired this Ferdy. I believe, when we return to Town, I may have to let it slip that all our house elves are free and given wages and treated justly. It won’t affect people like the Malfoys but it may affect some others. Where I lead, others will follow, you know,” he added, his mouth curving into a self-deprecating smile, his tone sardonic.

“I do know but I didn’t realize you did.” Indeed, Harry was so supremely indifferent to his fame and so little interested in aggrandizing himself that she’d somehow assumed that he neither realized nor particularly cared the influence he exerted.

He gave her a look of mock injury. “Credit me with a modicum of sense. I may not enjoy it but would have to be blind not to realize it.” (It had been one of the most surprising things about first going to Town for the Season, that so many people apparently cared to know his opinion on everything from who his tailor was to what kind of knot he favored to tie his cravat to which vintage of port he preferred to his opinion of the Minister of Magic. He wondered just when these people expected he would have had time to form his tastes in fashion given he’d just spent the past years focusing on simply surviving—but whatever the case, it didn’t stop them from asking.)

She gave him a small smile and touched her fingertips to his cheek in a fleeting caress.

“Harry, couldn’t you also push for legislation which forbids the mistreatment of house elves?”

“Of course.”

“But in the interim before any legislation can be pushed through the Ministry, your influence within Society should reap some more immediate benefits for house elves.”

“Quite so. I knew there was a benefit to having married such a clever woman,” he teased lightly, rejoicing that the shadows which had been darkening her eyes at the thought of the house elves’ plight was gone now, her eyes bright with hope and happiness. He never wanted to see those shadows in her eyes, always wanted to see her smiling…

She smiled, brushing her lips against his in a quick, spontaneous caress. “You are a good man, Harry Potter,” she said softly.

He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. Not as good as some. A truly good man would not have needed the approval of Hermione as an incentive to try to remedy the injustice done to house elves—but seeing the soft approval shining in her eyes, he couldn’t help but think that maybe he really was quite a decent fellow after all and he would certainly do all in his power to ensure that she never had cause to look at him in disapprobation.

But all he said was, lightly, “I am very glad you think so, Mrs. Potter.”

She gave him a demure look. “It is a wife’s duty to approve of her husband, is it not?”

He laughed. “That’s a pleasant thought but no, I do not think I want a wife who is blindly uncritical and agrees with my every thought.”

“That is fortunate for you, Mr. Potter, as you do not have such a wife,” she returned with sparkling eyes and smiling lips.

He had exactly the sort of wife he had always wanted, the vague thought drifted through his mind—and then he kissed her.

And for a while, no other sounds were heard in the sitting room of Godric’s Hollow.

All in all, Harry reflected some hours later, as he walked with Hermione up to their bedchambers that night, it had been the happiest day of their married life. The morning had been absolutely wonderful and every moment spent with her this afternoon and evening had shown him just how much he honestly enjoyed Hermione’s company, entirely aside from his desire for her.

And now, he felt the beginnings of some uncertainty. Did she want to spend the night with him again? Should he ask? Did she want it? And what could he say? There was no protocol for how a man went about asking his wife if she wanted to share his bed. Would you like to share my bed was much too blunt but perhaps something more subtle, a suggestion, such as ‘my door will be open’…

They had reached the door of her bedchamber now and he was out of time. But before he could say anything, before he’d even decided what to say, she turned to him and went up on her toes to kiss him, quickly, on the mouth, with enough passion to make his senses whirl and leave him mentally gasping for breath. And then she breathed, “Just give me a few minutes and I’ll come to you,” her breath hot against his skin, just before she slipped inside her bedchamber with a last look that he could only describe as sultry.

Sultry? Hermione? He didn’t know where she’d learned how to look like that but he couldn’t marshal his thoughts into any kind of coherence to wonder.

A few minutes…

It was only a few minutes—a few minutes in which he managed to undress quicker than he ever had before and his thoughts circled restlessly around and around the one searing, mental image of Hermione from the night before—and then she opened the door and stepped straight into his arms.

He wondered fleetingly how she could manage to make a plain, cotton nightgown look like the most seductive garment in the history of the world—and then he forgot to think at all, knew nothing beyond the heat of her and the softness of her and the passion of her…

And knew, in some tiny corner of his heart, that he truly was the luckiest man in the world.

~To be continued… ~

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: Apologies for the wait but I was hoping to get most of Chapter 12 finished before posting this one and it’s just not happening. So I’m posting this now even though I can’t promise when the next chapter will be ready. A little more smut in this one—enjoy!

The Truth About Love

Chapter 11: Such a Wife, Such a Woman

She had never been so happy in her entire life.

She had always believed that Harry was capable of an almost amazing tenderness (considering how he had been raised) if he would only show it, had even dreamed of experiencing his tenderness. But she’d never known, never dreamed, in her innocence, just how delightful it would be to be desired by Harry, to know that he desired her… It was the most precious knowledge.

And oh, she had never dreamed just how much bliss there was to be found in the marriage bed, had never known she could feel so much and so intensely… She had never dreamed but she loved it all. She was, she supposed, utterly shameless, even shockingly wanton—but Harry—Harry—wanted her, desired her—and she loved him… And if she was shameless, she was too happy in her shamelessness to care overmuch.

She was happy—albeit there were fleeting moments when a shadow momentarily eclipsed her contentment, when a small ripple of wistfulness, of melancholy, disturbed the otherwise smooth surface of the days.

It never lasted long and she tried not to dwell on it overmuch, tried to push it out of her mind altogether. She was happy; truly she was and so very lucky. Harry desired her, cared about her, she knew. She could see it in his smile when he looked at her sometimes; she knew it from the way he sought her out these past days, when it seemed the only times they were apart were when he flew in the mornings and when she was going over household matters with Daisy. He cared about her—but she loved him. And it seemed as if every day, the shade of difference between those two feelings grew darker, stealthily, subtly overshadowing her almost euphoric happiness, giving her momentary pangs of self-doubt and the tiniest beginnings of hurt.

She wanted to be the one woman he dreamed of, the one woman he desired. She wanted his eyes to automatically seek her out when he entered a crowded room. She wanted to know if he would want her forever—or would he lose interest in her? She had heard enough stories—those told in hushed whispers—to know that gentlemen’s attentions, and their desires, wandered. She wanted… she wanted him to love her…

And the fact that she didn’t know if he loved her—if he could love her—was the one cloud over her happiness, the one thing disturbing all her contentment with a faint trace of hurt, that could not be completely forgotten, no matter how she tried.

Harry paused just inside the door of the library, enjoying the appearance of his wife as she bent over a book. As always, by this time in the afternoon, some tendrils of her hair had escaped her simple coiffure and were brushing her neck, drawing attention to the graceful curve of her neck and shoulder. He felt desire pulse into life and his feet propel himself forward almost before he’d thought it.

She didn’t turn, too engrossed in her book. He suppressed a smile—he loved the single-mindedness of her concentration, could picture the expression on her face, the way she would be biting on her lower lip—and then he deliberately set out to shatter said concentration and distract her.

He bent and placed his lips on the soft skin of her neck, just where it was brushed by her hair.

She started, letting out a soft cry of surprise that turned into a sigh of pleasure, as her head automatically tilted to allow him greater access to her neck.

“Harry…” The breathiness of her voice belied the mildly scolding tone she fought to preserve.

“Mm?” he murmured against her skin, continuing to press light fleeting kisses to the soft skin. One of his hands drifted up to touch the bare skin of her arm below the short sleeve of her gown, his fingertips brushing against her skin in the lightest of caresses.

“I was… I was trying to study… oh…” her unconvincing protest trailed off on a sigh.

Harry suppressed a very satisfied, masculine smile as he rounded the edge of her chair and fit himself beside her. The armchair was a large one but not large enough for two people to sit in it at once so Hermione ended up mostly perched on his lap, a position which suited him just fine.

“Harry!” his name was a breathless gasp, half-protesting, as she tried to stand up but he kept her in place with his arm. She wriggled against him in an attempt to free herself from his arm and he closed his eyes, his jaw locking, at the almost painful pleasure. The feel of her warm, soft bottom on his thighs made him instantly tense, his body reacting to her proximity.

After a moment, though, she seemed to accept that he wasn’t releasing her and ceased moving—thankfully. However, she sat perfectly straight, as if she were going to be tested on her deportment and ladylike posture.

Harry smiled inwardly, fondly. She was still, in spite of the past week and in spite of her uninhibited responses to his touch, an innocent. Her stiff posture spoke volumes about how ill at ease she was with this sort of intimacy outside of the bedroom. It was endearing.

Besides which, her straight-backed posture did afford him a wonderful view of the nape of her neck and the places where those stray tendrils of hair brushed her bare skin so tantalizingly.

He lowered his lips to her neck again, lingering this time, letting his tongue venture forth to taste her.

“Harry! Oh! Ooh…” Her voice trailed off on a sigh as her body relaxed against him, her neck arching to grant him more access.

He lingered, savoring the slightly-salty sweetness of her skin, which was rapidly becoming hot as her breath hitched, became uneven.

She made a soft sound in her throat, a sound that sent a jolt of lightning through his body, and shifted in his lap, turning sideways until she could face him, one hand cupping his face as she kissed him.

Her lips lingered on his, lightly, sweetly, and as always when she kissed him, he lost all interest in anything else but her, the world fading from around him. By the time she drew back, ending the kiss on a small gasp, his body was burning and he knew she must be aware of his arousal.

Perhaps it was because of that that she drew back but he consoled himself by brushing his lips across the delicate line of her jaw in a light series of kisses, before he buried his lips in the sensitive little hollow just behind her ear lobe, making her gasp softly. He felt the slight shiver of reaction that went through her body and smiled slightly against her skin.

“Mm, Harry…” she sighed.

“Hmm?”

“We really have to stop…”

Her voice emerged so wispy and breathless, ending on a soft gasp, that it was more encouraging than not.

Stop… He was vaguely aware that she was right. They were in the library and… and… there was something else… But with her sitting on his lap, her yielding warmth pressed so close to him, he couldn’t muster enough coherence to remember what that reason was.

“Must we?” he murmured, returning his attention to the soft skin of her neck.

“My parents… will be arriving soon,” she managed, the words coming out somewhat choppily.

He froze, his lips abruptly leaving her skin, her words having all the dampening effect that a bucketful of icy water would have had. Her parents. Of course, that was the reason they couldn’t continue—and the reason he’d come to find her in the library to begin with, except that had flown out of his mind completely on his first sight of her.

He groaned softly, letting his head drop to rest his forehead on her shoulder. “Can’t we just have Dobby welcome them and then give them a very long, extended tour of the gardens, while I give you a long, extended tour of my bed?” he asked, only half-facetiously.

She gave a soft laugh. “Harry!” she scolded mildly, even though her cheeks were scarlet.

“No, I know,” he sighed. “And I do want to see your parents. Truly, I do.” Just not right at this moment, he added mentally.

He sensed rather than saw her smile before she moved, getting up off his lap and bent to brush her lips against his cheek.

“I know,” she murmured. “And you are very sweet.”

Well, that was some comfort, he reflected, as he concentrated on trying to tamp down his lingering arousal.

“I’m glad you think so,” he said lightly. “But don’t tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation. Gentlemen are not sweet.”

She smiled. “It will be our secret.” And, leaning down, she kissed him again.

No one would ever know how much his self-restraint pained him, Harry reflected with wry amusement at himself, as he and Hermione waited on the front steps as the Grangers’ carriage rolled up the drive. He must resign himself to only being able to be truly alone with Hermione, without fear of some interruption, in his bedchamber at night. Truly it was almost enough to make a man wonder why he would ever invite house guests.

Even as he had the ungenerous thought, however, it was quickly dissipated as the carriage came to a halt and the footman opened the door for Mr. Granger to step out and then hand his wife out. And the brightness of Hermione’s smile and the clear anticipation and happiness in her eyes as she almost ran to embrace her parents more than recompensed him for any mild irritation at the loss of Hermione’s exclusive attention.

“Oh, Mama, it is so good to see you!” Hermione exclaimed.

“And you, my dear girl,” Mrs. Granger smiled as she returned Hermione’s hug before drawing back to study Hermione. “Well, I need not ask how you have been for I can see that you are well.”

“I am very well indeed, Mama.”

Hermione took her mother’s arm as they both turned towards Harry, preceded by Mr. Granger.

Harry smiled and bowed to Mr. and Mrs. Granger. “Welcome to Godric’s Hollow. How was your journey?”

“It was uneventful and quite pleasant, thank you.”

“Good. I am glad to hear it. Dobby will see to bringing your trunks up to your rooms but in the meantime, would you like to rest after your journey or perhaps have some refreshment? Tea can be ready in just a few moments.”

“Actually, I believe I can say for us both that we are not at all fatigued and would prefer to see more of the house,” Mrs. Granger spoke up.

“Yes, we should like to see Hermione’s home,” Mr. Granger concurred.

“Very well,” Harry agreed and caught Hermione’s glance and, falling in with her unspoken wish to spend some time alone with her parents, continued, “Unfortunately, there is some business which I must see to, but Hermione can show you the house. Indeed, she may know more about its history than I do by this time.”

“I would hardly say that,” Hermione demurred but she smiled at him as she said it.

“You were always better at remembering history than I,” Harry responded before addressing Mr. and Mrs. Granger, “If you’ll excuse me, I will leave you in Hermione’s capable care.”

“Of course. Thank you, Mr. Potter.”

Harry smiled as he watched Hermione and her parents walk down the corridor, heading towards the library, it looked like. She was talking freely and openly and for the first time, he realized what a close relationship Hermione most likely had with her parents.

He himself did not know the Grangers well at all but this visit would remedy that, no doubt. And if Hermione’s parents were anything at all like Hermione herself, he had no doubt that he would enjoy their company.

It was the next morning, as they were finishing up breakfast, that Harry was able to take the first, definitive step towards improving his acquaintance with Hermione’s parents.

“I was thinking of taking advantage of this fine morning by walking up to the small rise, from where there is a rather fine view of the village and some of the tenant’s cottages. Mr. Granger, would you care to accompany me?” Harry asked.

“Certainly. Thank you.”

Harry glanced at Hermione with a slight smile, his tone softening almost unconsciously. “We will return in good time for luncheon.”

“Have a pleasant walk,” she smiled at him and then turned her smile to her father.

Harry smiled and nodded at Mrs. Granger as he rose. “I will leave you to talk to Hermione.”

Hermione’s father pressed his hand on her shoulder in a quick gesture of affection as he moved to join Harry and they made their way through the foyer and out the front entrance.

“This is a very fine house, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Granger began.

“Thank you but please, sir, call me Harry.”

“Harry, then,” Mr. Granger agreed and was silent for a moment before he spoke up again. “I must thank you, Harry. You seem to have made my daughter very happy.”

“I hope so, sir,” Harry answered honestly. “I will certainly do all in my power to keep her happy.” He paused, hesitated, wondering. He did not know Mr. Granger all that well and he was not accustomed to speaking of his innermost emotions with ease. His childhood with the Dursleys had, indeed, left him exceedingly uncomfortable with discussions of feelings and it was only with Hermione and, to a limited extent, with Ron, that he was able to speak comfortably. But he felt he should say something more to reassure Mr. Granger that he need never worry about Hermione’s welfare, something more than the very trite words that he had said. “Hermione is… very dear to me,” he managed to say, aware that the words came out sounding rather stilted and awkward but unable to help it.

“You do not need to reassure me on that score, Harry. I can see that well enough with my own eyes,” Mr. Granger said with a slight smile in his tone. He paused and then added, more soberly, “I will admit that my mind had not been entirely easy on the subject of Hermione in these past years so it eases my heart to see her so well settled.”

“I understand, sir, and I assure you that every effort was made to keep Hermione as safe as it was possible for her to be. Unfortunately, this is Hermione and when she’s made up her mind, she is not to be gainsaid and she was quite set on her course and would not listen to reason on the risk she was taking.” Harry fought to keep his voice light and not show his lingering guilt over the danger Hermione had been in quite so obviously.

He was suddenly swamped with intense relief that the War was over, that Hermione was safe—and he would never allow anything to happen to her again. As it was, the mere memory of some of the risks she had taken in the past years—for his sake—made him turn cold with fear.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sir?”

“Was Hermione in any serious danger?”

Too late Harry remembered that Hermione had once confessed that she’d never told her parents about the true extent of the war. She had not wanted them to worry overmuch and had deliberately made the threat of Voldemort seem much less severe than it was, speaking instead of all of the safety measures which Hogwarts had put in place.

“Oh, no, of course not,” Harry hastened to assure Mr. Granger, with something less than complete truth. “There was some risk but it was never very much and she was never in any serious danger.”

Mr. Granger was frowning slightly now. “I see,” he said, not sounding entirely convinced. “But this war is over, this Dark Lord defeated?”

“Oh yes, sir. That is all over now.”

“Ah.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Mr. Granger studying the ground with a somewhat perturbed frown.

“My concern over Hermione was actually a much more mundane one,” Mr. Granger finally began. “I had begun to wonder if Hermione would ever find a husband and if she did, if she could be happy. As you undoubtedly know, Hermione could never be truly happy unless she was married to someone who respected her and treated her as an equal. She does not take kindly to being thought of, or treated as, a lackwit or a creature incapable of rational thought.”

“Yes, sir, I know,” Harry concurred with a slight smile at the memory of some memorable moments when someone had dared to condescend to Hermione and her reaction.

“Her mother and I have always been proud of her for her cleverness. We, neither of us, could ever see the reason why women were taught to be flighty and so we encouraged Hermione to read what she pleased, to study as much as she pleased. It is only in the past few years that I have begun to realize that we may have erred in doing so. I had begun to fear that she would never be able to find happiness for few gentlemen appreciate so much cleverness in a woman. Sadly, it had begun to seem as if no gentlemen could truly appreciate Hermione for who she truly is. But if I am not much mistaken, you do, Harry.”

Harry smiled slightly. “It would be the height of ingratitude if I did not appreciate Hermione for what she is. If it had not been for her cleverness and her courage, I have no doubt I would not have survived to be standing here today.”

“Truly? She did not tell us that.”

“No, she would not. She persists in denying just how much I owe to her. As for thanks, there is no need. I am the fortunate one to have such a wife,” Harry demurred with all sincerity. Any man would be fortunate to have a wife like Hermione, so loyal and kind and… delightfully passionate. A sudden memory from a few mornings ago flashed into his mind, when he’d been awoken by her touch and she had proceeded to explore his body with her hands and then her lips with a thorough diligence which she had heretofore only exhibited for her studies, until he had been more than half-mad with lust. The memory sent heat streaking through his body and he sternly pushed it aside. He could hardly tell Hermione’s father how wonderfully passionate Hermione was.

“I am glad to hear you say so,” Mr. Granger said with a kind of somber smile. “It eases my heart to know that my daughter is happy and is appreciated properly.”

“I will make every effort to ensure that you never know another moment of concern over Hermione’s well-being again,” Harry promised with all sincerity.

“I am sure you will,” Mr. Granger smiled.

The rest of the walk passed in agreeable conversation. Mr. Granger was a sensible, good-humored man and Harry found his opinion of his father-in-law rising steadily as they talked and he could recognize the source of Hermione’s sometimes dry wit. (Harry was already disposed to like Mrs. Granger, as her resemblance to Hermione endeared her to him from the first, and she had a kindly manner that appealed to him.)

But even as he listened to Mr. Granger’s conversation and responded in kind, part of his mind was dwelling on what Mr. Granger had confessed of their fears for Hermione’s future. It had never occurred to him, in all their years of friendship, to wonder what Hermione’s future would be like; he supposed that he would have just assumed she would marry as most young ladies did. It was only now that he wondered if that would have been the case. Mr. Granger was right and Harry knew perfectly well that Hermione would never have countenanced marrying someone who did not respect her and who did not treat her as an equal. And with Hermione’s intelligence and her other qualities, she would have been hard-pressed to find any man whom she could also respect. Merlin knew that he had never met anyone as clever as Hermione and most men would be intimidated, at best, at the idea of marrying a woman as clever as Hermione was. Most men would sooner go to a ball en dishabille than marry a bluestocking, preferring the milder, biddable young ladies.

It occurred to him that most men were utter fools.

He might have felt more scorn at the thought but he was rather grateful that they were. As it was, the thought of Hermione being married to anyone else made something twist disagreeably in his chest. Hermione was his; he liked knowing that he was the only man to see and appreciate her beauty—and he definitely liked knowing that he was the only man who would ever know how much passion she had in her.

Mrs. Granger managed to wait until they had moved into Hermione’s morning sitting room after Harry and Mr. Granger had left before she smiled warmly at Hermione.

“I am very happy for you, my dear,” Mrs. Granger beamed. “Did I not tell you that your Mr. Potter would grow to love you?”

Hermione promptly manufactured the brightest smile she could muster and put it on for her mother’s benefit—and she did not need to worry about manufacturing a blush because just the thought of the nights she spent with him made her blush hotly. “I am very happy, Mama,” she said honestly. She bit back the other words, but I don’t know if he loves me.

Her mother laughed softly. “You do not need to tell me that. It is written quite clearly on your face. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you looking so well. Clearly, marriage—and your Mr. Potter—agrees with you.”

“He is very good. He listens to me and cares about what I think.”

“That is not very surprising, is it, Hermione? He was your best friend before he was your husband.”

“Yes, of course,” was all Hermione said. But it was different now. Before he had listened to her, for the most part and certainly more than Ron ever had, but then it had always, necessarily, been something to do with him. They had been fighting a war and her energies and her thoughts had mostly revolved around him, keeping him safe, helping him.

Now, with the war over and spending as much time together as they did, he listened to her when she spoke about herself or her own thoughts, her own opinions, on just about anything. And not only did he never tell her that some subject or another was improper for a young lady’s conversation, he listened to her and took her seriously. She remembered speaking at some length—and rather angrily—about the plight of the house elves and how they were treated as slaves (ironically, this had happened before the advent of Ferdy) and how Harry had listened and agreed (in stark contrast to Ron, she couldn’t help but remember, when she had brought up house elves in years past, and Ron had first looked positively horrified that a girl would even mention such a topic and then had tried to placate her by saying that it was simply the way of the world and could not be changed.) Harry didn’t do that; he never tried to placate her, never showed the least bit of dismay or surprise at her opinions, and indeed several times, he’d deliberately sought out her opinion on things he’d read in the Daily Prophet.

As romantic gestures went, it would not, perhaps, rate very highly—but it mattered more to her than any gift of flowers or jewelry or anything else could have. Every day, he was showing her why he had been her best friend for so many years and why she had always, in her most secret heart, wished she could marry him.

~~

“No!”

Harry jerked awake with a start, to find he was damp with perspiration and tears were stinging his eyes.

He opened his eyes at a gentle touch on his cheek to see Hermione leaning over him, a look of so much tender concern on her face that it comforted him before she’d even said a word.

“Harry, are you alright?” she asked softly.

For a moment, he felt a mad urge to laugh sardonically, but he swallowed it back. It would hurt her, he knew, and she did not deserve that, would never deserve that. He stared up at her, letting the familiar sight of her face, the warmth from her body so close to his, seep into his senses and his soul, providing the reassurance he needed that she was safe, that everything was fine, and it had only been a nightmare.

A terrible nightmare, one that still held him in its merciless grip of soul-searing agony and sorrow. It had seemed so familiar at first, much like his recurring nightmares of Sirius’ death—but instead of Sirius, it had been Hermione. And he’d only been able to watch, in helpless anguish, as he lost her, lost everything… He had already known so much loss in his life; he’d managed to survive every loss—but in that horrific dream, he’d known that he would not recover from losing her. And he’d suddenly known that she really was everything to him now. He could no longer imagine a life without her; he didn’t want a life without her…

He forced back a shiver of reaction. It had only been a nightmare and she was fine.

Her fingers brushed against his cheek in a light caress. “Harry?” she breathed.

He managed a wan smile. “I’ll be fine.”

Concern flickered in her eyes. “Was it about Sirius Black or Professor Dumbledore?”

“No. It was about you.”

“Oh, Harry…” She bent and brushed her lips against his in a light fleeting caress. “I’m afraid I’m a very selfish creature because I have no intention of freeing you to once again be the most eligible bachelor in wizarding Society,” she said lightly, trying to coax him into a smile in an attempt to lighten the shadows in his eyes.

He managed the ghost of a smile. “That is good to know,” he murmured, trying and failing to match her light tone. He loved her gentle teasing—he did—but he still felt too shaken; the nightmare and his reactions had been too intense to be shaken off so easily.

Her expression softened. “You should not worry so,” she whispered. “I am perfectly well and safe and have every intention of remaining that way.”

She brushed her lips against his in a tease of a kiss, once, twice, before she deepened the kiss, pressing her body against his, as her hair fell around them in a brown curtain. She kissed him with flagrant passion, utilizing every bit of the sensual knowledge she’d acquired in the past days of loving him.

She ensnared his every thought, distracting him from his fears, and providing him the best possible comfort in the tangible reality of her closeness, her warmth, her vitality. He wrapped his arms around her, bringing her in tighter against his body, returning her kiss with a passion that bordered on desperation, desperate to feel, desperate to know, desperate to be reassured, that she was truly safe and his fears were ungrounded. He kissed her and touched her, his hands roaming over the bare skin of her back and down to her bottom in a heated caress, needing her touch and her closeness with a need that went deeper than his physical desire. It was the best affirmation of her life, her safety, her presence—and his stark, searing realization of just how much she meant to him now.

She gave a gasping breath against his lips at his caresses and moved, shifting until she was lying half on top of him with a boldness that he found momentarily surprising before all surprise was completely forgotten in the surge of lust that took possession of his mind and body.

Her lips scattered light, teasing kisses down his chin along the line of his jaw and then down his neck and as if the touch of her lips to his skin weren’t enough to drive him mad, her hands explored his chest and his stomach, her small fingers questing and finding his flat, male nipples.

His throaty groan was torn from his throat as he closed his eyes for a moment, burning, dying, all his senses savoring her touch, half-innocent and half-eager and wholly-passionate, using everything she’d learned about his body and his pleasure in the past days. She’d always been a quick study—but he doubted anyone had ever considered just what that meant in the context of the bedroom. “Oh, God, Hermione!”

His eyes flew open to stare up at her, wishing there was more light so he could see her more clearly, see her eyes. Earlier, some pale moonlight had filtered through the curtains providing some patchy illumination, but now it looked like a cloud had passed over the moon, leaving the room in darkness again. All he could see of her was the paleness of her bare skin, the darker shadow that he knew was her hair.

She lowered her lips to feather kisses across his chest, pausing to flick her tongue against his nipples, in unerring imitation of what he so liked to do to her, and he thought he would die.

His hands slid up from her back to cup her breasts, palming the hardened nipples, as her head fell back, momentarily abandoning her own attentions to his body. Lord, he wished he could see her face. He loved to see the look on her face when he touched her like this, loved the tell-tale flicker of surprise in her eyes at such moments as if she could still not quite believe the intensity of her body’s reactions, loved the uninhibited abandon of her pleasure. There wasn’t a shred of coyness in Hermione, no thought of even trying to hide her reactions to preserve her ladylike dignity.

“Harry!” His name fractured on a cry as he moved his hands over her breasts in a deliberate caress.

“Hmm?”

“I—oh…” Whatever she’d been about to say dissolved in a long sigh of pleasure. (He’d never dreamed that sounds could be just as erotic as touch or sight—but her soft moans and cries of pleasure never failed to send desire simmering through his veins.)

Her hands skated down his chest and stomach with an utter lack of self-consciousness that spoke volumes about the level of her arousal and he groaned, his hands falling from her body to clutch helplessly at the sheets.

One hand found his aching body and he thought his heart was going to leap out of his chest. She measured his ardor with feather-light strokes and then wrapped her hand around him, her touch more curious and tentative than deliberately arousing—but his body was long past the point of distinguishing.

He grasped her wrist with one hand, stopping her uncertain caresses before he embarrassed himself. “Stop. Please.”

“Do you not like it when I do that?” By now, she knew how to recognize the strain in his voice from too much pleasure and so her voice was teasing, husky from her own arousal, rather than questioning.

He choked on a laugh. “God, Hermione!”

He felt her hot breath against his cheek and his lips a moment before her lips came down on his, her hands sliding to his shoulders as she tried to gently tug him above her.

For the first time, he resisted, his hands moving to grasp her hips and shift her body until she was straddling him.

Her breath left her on a sharp gasp. “Harry, what are you--” He could feel the sudden tension in her body, echoed by the question in her voice.

He let his hands stray to caress her hips, the small of her back, reassuringly. “Do you trust me?” he managed to rasp out.

It was his question rather than his touch that had her body relaxing a little, becoming more pliable in his hands.

“Yes.”

He paused, feeling a bubble of warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with arousal at the unhesitating certainty in her voice.

Afterwards, he reflected on just why it meant so much to him to hear her say that. (At that moment, he was too consumed with lust to coherently think of anything else.) It almost seemed odd that it had meant so much. He knew Hermione trusted him with her life; he, Ron, and Hermione had all trusted each other with each other’s lives for the better part of the last seven years and that had not changed with the war. But this trust was different, was more, than simply trusting him with her life. She was trusting him with her body—and he wondered if he were being too fanciful to think that she was trusting him with her happiness, trusting him with her heart… Or perhaps it was only now that he realized just how precious her trust was, only now that he realized just how much it meant to him to know that she trusted him so fully, so confidently…

But none of those thoughts occurred to him then. He knew only that his heart warmed at her answer—and then he lost all interest in even that, the emotional drowned out by the increasingly urgent demands of physical desire.

He grasped her hips and guided her down onto his rigid body, a strangled groan escaping him as the wet heat of her enclosed him.

Her breath left her on a throaty cry. “Har—Oh, Harry!”

He opened his eyes to stare up at her and wished desperately that he could see her more clearly. In the darkness, he couldn’t see her expression, couldn’t see the look in her eyes, and he wanted to, wanted it so intensely he could almost taste it. He delighted in watching the play of expression across her face, delighted in being able to see all she was feeling in her eyes, delighted in how honest and open all her reactions were.

She tightened her muscles experimentally around him and he groaned, his fingers digging into her hips. “Hermione!”

He sensed rather than saw her smile. It was really somewhat shocking what a seductive siren Hermione could be. He would have thought he knew her so well after seven years of friendship but he found that every day was revealing some new facet of her—not least of which was the fact that she was a born temptress, with her eyes and her smile and her clever touch…

She shifted above him as if to accustom herself to this new position and he gritted his teeth, experiencing a combination of agony and unbearable pleasure. He tried desperately to focus his mind on something—anything—other than the feeling of her tight, slick passage surrounding him—flying, his next visit to the tenants, the Grangers, the Giant Squid back at Hogwarts, Headmistress McGonagall—but nothing worked. She had become his entire world and the only thing that held a shred of interest for him at that moment. The heat of her, the tightness of her, the wetness of her…

She shifted again, this time lifting herself and then sliding down, her movements slow and awkward, as she tested this new position and he concentrated on trying not to embarrass himself and trying to retain his sanity. Futile endeavors, both, as Hermione all too quickly found her rhythm—an entirely unexpected benefit of having such a clever wife; she was a quick study for everything—and he was meeting and matching her movements with his hips, hearing her soft gasps, his entire world narrowing down to where their bodies were joined.

His hands slid from her hips to caress the inside of her thighs, his fingers straying perilously close to the center of her body, and she cried out, her inner muscles tightening convulsively around him, as she almost fell forward onto him.

He lost the battle for control and surged up inside her, finding his release with a half-shout that was meant to be her name but wasn’t recognizable as such.

She collapsed on top of him, boneless, limp in the aftermath of bliss, and he mustered just enough strength to tighten his arms around her, keeping her against him, as he felt their heart beats slow, the world slowly righting itself around them.

He was drifting in a sea of vaguely sensuous sensations, feeling as if he had somehow visited another world, another reality, entirely—but he was conscious enough, attuned to her, so that he sensed it when her mood shifted, felt it in the tension in her body before she moved, shifting her body until she was no longer lying on top of him.

He curled his body around hers. “Hermione? What is the matter?”

She gave a slight hitch of breath. “What you must think of me!” Her voice came out somewhat muffled with mortification and though he couldn’t see it, he knew that her cheeks must be absolutely scarlet. “I never knew I could be so… so wanton, so immodest. I--”

“Hermione!” he interrupted her, his voice gently teasing. “What I think of you is that you’re delightful and I personally plan to encourage you in this since the results are so pleasant. In fact,” he continued in a musing tone, “I must remember to tell your father how wonderfully passionate you are in the bedroom.”

She choked on a laugh. “Harry!”

He cupped her cheek in his hand. “Are we done with this foolishness about immodesty?”

She nodded against his hand.

“Good.” He brushed his thumb against her lower lip, wishing he could see her more clearly in the shadowed darkness, before he bent and kissed her lightly, lingeringly until her entire body relaxed and softened, her lips parting on a sigh.

The kiss ended slowly as he relaxed back into the bed and she settled in closer to him, her body fitting neatly into the curve of his, as naturally as if they’d been sharing a bed for years. And he drifted to sleep, quite certain now that his sleep would be peaceful.

But after Harry’s breathing had evened out, Hermione lay awake, partly to make sure his nightmare did not return but also to ponder what it meant that he had a nightmare about her.

Did it mean anything at all? Or was it a case of herself creating what she saw? She knew Harry and for the most part, his nightmares were of those people dear to him. He must care about her, more than simple friendship warranted.

She stirred, lifting her head to look down at his sleeping face, and his arm tightened around her, keeping her against him even in sleep. She felt a wave of tenderness and brushed a feather-light kiss against his cheek before she settled back down, resting her head against his shoulder as she closed her eyes.

He cared about her, even if he might not love her the way she loved him, and for now, his affection, his desire, were enough…

And if she kept telling herself so, perhaps it would come true…

~~To be continued… (With the visit from the Weasleys)

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: Thanks, everyone, who’s read and reviewed this so far; I’ve been really blown away at all the responses!! Without further ado, the next chapter—in which Ginny appears and the honeymoon is essentially over.

The Truth About Love

Chapter 12: An Idyll, Interrupted

Harry stopped short just inside the library, where Hermione was taking advantage of the last few, precious hours before their house-guests started to arrive, in order to study the books which had been neglected during her parents’ visit.

The Grangers had left after a very pleasant visit and he and Hermione had had one day of respite before today, when the Weasleys, Mr. Lupin and Miss Lovegood would be arriving shortly.

“What,” he asked in half-laughing dismay, “are you wearing?”

Hermione looked up and blushed.

“Do you not like it?”

Harry pretended to study the filmy lace cap perched on top of Hermione’s hair and then shook his head, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “It makes you look like a dowager.” (He privately thought she also looked rather adorable but, as he valued his life, he was not going to say so.)

Hermione pursed her lips in a picture of mock offended dignity. “I believe that is the point.” She paused and then added resignedly, “It is what all married ladies wear.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded, “but you’ve never worn one before.”

“No, but I’m certain Mrs. Weasley will expect to see me wearing a cap and I shouldn’t want to disgrace you.”

Harry plucked the cap from Hermione’s hair. “I believe my reputation can weather whatever scandal your lack of a cap will cause. Besides,” he added, somewhat disingenuously, although with complete sincerity, seeing the shadow flicker across her eyes, “your hair is much too pretty to be kept hidden.”

“Flattery will not help,” she said with an attempt at severity but her words were belied by her smile.

“Very well, my lady dowager,” he teased.

Hermione smiled. “Well, if it would please you, I shall not wear it,” she said, sweetly enough, but with a tone which he recognized, of her making a seeming concession which aligned with her own inclination. “And if anyone inquires, I shall simply tell them that I am being an obedient wife and my husband forbids it,” she added with a distinctly impertinent smile.

He laughed softly. “My very obedient wife,” he teased and dropped a light kiss on her upturned face.

“But you needn’t imagine, sir, that I will always be so compliant,” Hermione said a little time later, the crisp words belied by the softness of her tone, in an attempt at dignity, no matter how she melted at his touch.

“Hermione, if I ever had any such illusion, I’m sure you would disabuse me of the notion in a remarkably short time,” he replied with complete honesty.

A slight frown crossed her face. “You make me sound like a shrew.”

“No, not a shrew, never that. Merely honest.” He touched her cheek fleetingly with the tips of his fingers in a gesture that wasn’t quite a caress but wasn’t quite not, his tone softening with understanding.

After all, he reflected with sudden insight, they were still new to this business of being husband and wife, rather than merely friends—and while he flattered himself that the physical aspect of their relationship was developing nicely, the other aspects were rather less smoothly changed. It was somewhat easier for him, he supposed, since he was not expected to change. It fell to wives to conform to their husbands and, for Hermione at least, such meek behavior was out of character, to say the least.

“I would not want you to be anything other than honest, you know, Hermione. After all,” he added with a slight smile, “I have relied upon you to be a voice of reason for so long, I hardly know what I would do without you to quell any of my pretensions to arrogance or foolhardiness.”

“You would get into far more trouble than you already have, no doubt,” she said lightly enough but she thanked him without words for his reassurance by turning her head to brush the lightest of kisses against his hand where it rested on her shoulder.

“Undoubtedly,” he conceded. “I am going to sequester myself in the study until the guests arrive and attempt to make sense of the account books before Remus arrives to scold me out of countenance, no doubt.”

Years of habit made Hermione ask, “Would you like some help?”

He gave her a look of mock injury. “Do you think me incapable of performing basic arithmetic?”

She smiled. “Not at all.”

He grinned. “Pity. You may have been right about my inability to perform arithmetic. But no, I think I will be fine. Thank you.”

She smiled up at him, looking so pretty he was severely tempted to consign the account books to perdition—or at least, to some other time—but refrained. (It was also his main reason for not accepting her offer to help him; he had no doubt that her presence in the study would prove to be more of a distraction than anything else, a distraction he could ill afford.)

So, with a fleeting touch of his hand to her cheek, he left her to her books while he entered the study and sat behind the large desk, pulling open Godric’s Hollow’s account books with a half-sigh of resignation.

His first reaction when Remus had told him that he would, of course, need to take over the keeping of the account books along with his other duties as a landlord, had been something like dismay. It wasn’t as if his childhood at the Dursleys or the years at Hogwarts and fighting the war had exactly provided him with training in estate management. Indeed, up until his third year, he hadn’t even known that he had an estate to manage at all. All Remus had told him, initially, had been that his father’s family had been a wealthy one and so he owned an estate, which Remus was currently over-seeing. (Remus had left out of that initial tale, the detail that Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black, had initially been designated as the one to manage the estate until Harry came of age but after Sirius Black had been sent to Azkaban, that responsibility had devolved to Remus.) At the time, the news had not meant much to Harry, who had known about as much about estate management and the duties of a landlord as he knew about embroidery, that is to say, he knew of their existence and had a vague idea of what was involved but that was the extent of both his knowledge and his interest.

In all truth, it had only been recently that Harry had fully come to appreciate what it meant to be a landlord, a development which he could attribute to Hermione’s influence. It had been Hermione who had first awoken in him an appreciation for his family’s history and its legacy in this old house and, through her eyes, he’d come to see and value his patrimony all the more and understand what he owed to his family as well as to himself.

Not for the first time, it occurred to him that he had gotten much more out of this marriage than he had ever dreamed a marriage would give him. In Hermione, he’d gotten so much more than just a woman to manage the household or be his hostess or, even, be his lover. He had been, he thought, extremely short-sighted in his thoughts on what a wife should be like—and it was only now, with Hermione, he realized that marriage involved so much more. In Hermione, he had a wife who was all things to him, a friend, a confidante, a help-mate, a lover, his voice of reason as he’d told her just now. And he knew too that all this was because of who and what she was; not everyone was so blessed in their wives (as evidenced by the large number of unfaithful husbands in Society) and he found himself wondering what might have become of him if Lady Danvers hadn’t interfered. Wouldn’t he have eventually become one of those bored husbands, who preferred their clubs to their houses and preferred their mistresses to their wives—or if not that, since Harry couldn’t quite imagine ever keeping a mistress, at least preferring to sleep alone as opposed to with his wife? He had been saved from that fate, no thanks to his own wisdom except in seeing and appreciating Hermione for what she was.

Oddly enough, it was his very musings about Hermione that brought Harry back to a realization that he’d spent the better part of ten minutes lost in thought while ignoring the account books completely. He could hear her voice in his head, very like the times she’d gently chided him for not attending to his school-work at Hogwarts— is this what you consider going over the accounts?

He blinked, pushing aside all other thoughts, and turned his attention back to the account books, this time with a sort of resigned determination.

~

Hermione quickly wrote down one question she’d thought of which she wanted to ask Mr. Lupin when their first Defense lesson occurred and then put down her quill and pushed her book away, giving up on the idea of studying any more, at least for the moment.

She supposed she was being ridiculous but a part of her could not but regret the prospect of guests, much as she would like to see Ron again. In the past months, she had gotten rather spoiled with having Harry’s company and his attention solely to herself. Even during her parents’ visit, he had almost always been present, had spent so much time with her and her parents. She had gotten accustomed to having his smiles and his little looks and his humor directed at her. And now she would have to give most of that up. With guests arriving, Harry would need to play the attentive host to all, as she would need to be the attentive hostess. The time when it had only been the two of them, just her and Harry, was at an end—and she could not help the small pang of regret.

With all that, it was hardly a surprise that her mind was not on her book, persisted in wandering to the guests. Or, more specifically, wandering to one particular guest, Miss Ginny Weasley.

She tried to tell herself her vague sense of apprehension and unease was irrational and unfounded, based only on her own fears and not on reality at all. She tried to convince herself that she felt no nervousness whatsoever—but failed.

She was apprehensive about this visit and the idea of sharing this house with Miss Weasley.

She tried to tell herself that she had no reason to feel apprehensive, that she was entirely secure in her position with Harry, which was true to an extent. She was Harry’s wife, for better or worse, and nothing Miss Weasley could do would alter that. The problem lay in the fact that she didn’t only want to be Harry’s wife. She wanted to be the woman he loved—and that was where the crux of her uncertainty lay.

She had his friendship, his affection, his desire, but that wasn’t enough for her. It would never be enough for her, not when she loved him.

She half-sighed at the thought that there had been a time when just knowing he desired her might have been enough, but that time had passed weeks ago. Just knowing he desired her wasn’t enough because she knew well enough that desire was not necessarily forever. What would she do if he ever tired of her?

No. She resolutely closed her mind to that thought. She would not think it.

She wanted Harry’s love but she didn’t even know if his love was to be had; perhaps he had been in love with Miss Weasley, still loved Miss Weasley…

He had married her out of duty and out of friendship; theirs had not been a love match. But, oh, how she wished she could think it was!

She was only startled out of her rather melancholy reverie at the sound of a quick knock on the door before the door to the study opened and she saw Harry.

“Dobby informs me that two carriages have just entered the grounds and should be at the house within minutes.” He offered his arm to her with an air of exaggerated gallantry, smiling at her with his eyes. “Shall we go greet our guests, Mrs. Potter?”

“Certainly, Mr. Potter,” she returned his smile with her own as she linked her arm with his.

They had barely taken a step though before he glanced at her and paused. “One moment. You have a spot of ink on your cheek.”

“Oh.” Hermione blushed hotly. She would certainly never win Harry’s heart through her elegance! She lifted her hand intending to wipe it off but he stopped her with a word. “Wait.”

She paused and looked at him.

“Let me,” he added softly and gently wiped at her cheek with his handkerchief.

Something inside her fluttered, melted, at the gentleness in his touch. He touched her as if she was made of the finest porcelain, as if she was as fragile as some flower and would crumple at an unkind touch, and his gentleness was irresistible.

It was odd, she thought fuzzily, she’d never really thought about the charm in being treated like spun glass. She was more accustomed to getting irritated when people treated her like some delicate hothouse flower but she was realizing that—as with everything to do with Harry—it was different. Perhaps it was because for Harry, gentleness didn’t also equate to condescension and he never treated her as if she was some empty-headed thing. And perhaps, after all, she gloried in his gentleness because in it, she could also sense tenderness.

“There, it’s gone now,” he said quietly but his hand didn’t move from where it was touching her cheek, lingering in a feather-light caress.

Her breath stalled in her chest, the rest of the world dissolving around her as a sudden mesmeric attraction flared between them. He brushed his thumb lightly against her lower lip, as her lips parted on a soundless gasp. His eyes darkened with what she recognized as desire and she felt an answering flare of heat in her body, wishing desperately that they could be in his bedroom.

“Harry,” she breathed, so softly it was just a wisp of sound.

“Hermione…” His voice was quiet, husky, and made her name a caress.

Neither of them moved or spoke for a long moment, the air thick and heavy—and then there was a soft knock on the door and the spell was broken.

“Harry Potter, sir, the carriages are approaching the house,” Dobby’s voice came through the door, sounding as apologetic as if he knew he was interrupting.

Harry took in a breath, blinking and visibly getting a hold of himself. “Yes, thank you, Dobby,” he managed.

“We should go,” Hermione said, trying not to sound as disappointed as she felt.

“Yes, we should,” he agreed but didn’t move for another long moment before he finally turned away towards the door.

“Dobby’s timely reminders appear to be becoming a tradition of ours,” Hermione said as they walked, trying to relieve her disappointment by finding the humor in it.

“Indeed. Remind me to give Dobby clothes next time he interrupts,” Harry muttered in a tone of mock disgruntlement.

Hermione laughed softly, the laugh of one who had utter confidence in his kindness, and felt something inside her ease at his grumbling words. This was Harry, after all, and she knew him, trusted him, and knew that he would never hurt her.

Two carriages slowed to a stop in front of the house, Ron and Mr. Weasley stepping out of the first one while Harry offered his hand to Mrs. Weasley as she alighted first out of the second carriage, followed by Miss Lovegood and Miss Weasley.

Hermione stepped forward eagerly, a smile lighting her face, dipping a curtsy to Mr. Weasley first before turning to Ron and giving him her hands.

She hadn’t realized until that moment how much she had missed Ron’s good-natured company, his easy smile. Since they had tacitly agreed to disagree, as it were, their near-constant quarrels had become a thing of the past and she had missed him.

He paused, making a show of studying her appearance, before bowing with exaggerated formality. “Mrs. Potter, you are looking very… matronly,” he said with preternatural solemnity but his dancing eyes and twitching lips betrayed him.

She swept him an equally formal curtsy before responding, “And you, Mr. Weasley, are looking quite dashing,” teasingly emphasizing the formal address which they’d never really used with each other.

“Why, thank you,” he grinned at her. “I will make sure to pass along your compliments to my tailor.”

“Do.”

Their solemnity dissolved into laughter as she took Ron’s arm.

“It is good to see you, Ron.”

“Of course it is. You must be getting positively famished for some entertainment with only your dull husband for company. Indeed, I don’t know how you’ve survived it.”

Ron threw a teasing glance at Harry.

“I’ll thank you not to insult me in front of Hermione, Weasley,” Harry retorted, approaching with Miss Weasley and Miss Lovegood on each of his arms and accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, in time to hear Ron’s words.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon, Mr. Potter,” Ron said with exaggerated remorse.

“And so you should,” Harry said with mock severity, the words belied by the quirk of his lips.

In the general smiles that went around, Hermione had the chance to greet Mrs. Weasley and nod to Misses Weasley and Lovegood.

“Mrs. Weasley, it’s a pleasure to see you again. How was your journey here?”

Hermione had to make an effort to appear the easy and friendly hostess. All it took was one look at Miss Weasley on Harry’s arm and Hermione promptly felt drab and dowdy and very plain when compared to Miss Weasley’s vibrant beauty. She was suddenly miserably conscious that her figure could certainly not compare to Miss Weasley’s and her hair was, of course, once again slipping out of its coiffure. She must look positively disheveled compared to Miss Weasley’s perfect elegance, she thought with a pang.

And Harry and Miss Weasley made such a striking couple too, Miss Weasley’s coloring providing a dramatic contrast to Harry’s. It didn’t matter, of course—but the thought was hardly conducive to providing any reassurance.

She tried to catch Harry’s eye as they all entered the house but he was addressing Mr. Weasley and did not see her.

The arrival of Mr. Remus Lupin a little time later completed their little house party.

As they were all well-acquainted, the party enjoyed a relaxed, intimate atmosphere, in keeping with the long-standing friendship between Ron and Harry and Hermione. Indeed, Hermione thought the party could hardly have been more congenial and her enjoyment of it would have been complete except for one thing which she noticed during supper.

It did not take long for her to realize that Miss Weasley clearly did not look upon his marriage as a reason to pay less attention to Harry than she had before. She didn’t monopolize his attention in any overtly improper way but whenever possible, she directed her words, her wit, and her smiles to him, sought his opinion and listened to him with a rapt attention that would have flattered the most humble of saints. It was not so pointed as to draw any undue attention from either her parents or any of the other guests but Hermione could hardly miss it, her insecurities heightening her awareness of Miss Weasley’s interactions with Harry.

That she sought Harry’s attention and his approval was clear; Miss Weasley’s motives in doing so were less so.

Hermione could not imagine that Miss Weasley would be so lost to everything as to welcome any compromising involvement with a married man, if for no other reason than the simple fact that ruining her reputation would only result in her own disgrace and prevent her from ever making a respectable match. Hermione could only suppose that Miss Weasley enjoyed flirtation and was one who could not be content without trying to test her own powers of attraction, which would hardly make Miss Weasley unusual from many other young ladies. In all fairness, with the limited numbers of this party, Harry was essentially the only gentleman with whom Miss Weasley could flirt. Aside from her brother, Mr. Lupin was the only single gentleman present and he was on the wrong side of five and thirty, which would undoubtedly make him appear positively ancient to Miss Weasley. That left only Harry.

Hermione knew that Harry’s duties as the host (to say nothing of his own innate courtesy) prohibited him from doing any such thing but some, small, irrational corner of her heart could not but wish that Harry would simply ignore Miss Weasley altogether. As it was, she was only somewhat comforted because he did not seek Miss Weasley’s oh-so-beguiling attentions nor did he respond in kind but he did smile and laugh and was as attentive as any host should be.

And she could not tell if he felt anything more personal for Miss Weasley and tried not to think about it. She knew once she did, she would start seeing evidence of it everywhere, herself creating what she saw, and finding a softness in his eyes or his smile when he looked at Miss Weasley or an added gentleness in his manner, or, or, or… It was all calculated to make her go quite mad and so she deliberately tried not to think about it.

Unfortunately, she could not will her awareness of Harry and his interactions with Miss Weasley to entirely go away, nor could she entirely silence the small, persistent voice in her head asking, had Harry loved Miss Weasley? Did he love her still?

~*~

Harry grimaced, throwing down his quill with a sigh, heedless of the small spatter of ink it left on the page of the account book as he looked up at Remus.

“I don’t suppose there’s another Dark Lord for me to defeat,” he said facetiously. “I believe I preferred that to this and I was certainly more successful at it!” he added with a short laugh.

Remus chuckled. “Now, Harry, that certainly isn’t true. It does take some adjustment but you have the makings of a fine landlord in you, I believe.” He paused and added, “Your father told me once that after he had first attempted to manage the estate accounts, your grandfather was so horrified at the botch he made of it that he threatened to hand all the books over to your mother, who was your father’s betrothed at the time, and let her handle them all as she would probably do better at it than James had.” Remus smiled, half-absently, as he added, “As James admitted, your grandfather was probably right!”

Harry grinned. “Somehow, I have no trouble in believing that. I assume, however, that my father eventually learned.”

“Oh yes, James learned. By the time he--” Remus stopped abruptly and then began again, a little more quietly, “By the time you were born and the War had escalated, James had become so he could admit to me that he rather enjoyed going over the estate account books.” Remus paused and then added with a slight smile that seemed a trifle forced, “Of course, he also said that if I ever breathed a word of it to Sirius, he would be forced to call me out.”

Harry smiled, a smile slightly tinged with melancholy, as always, at any reminder of just how close the friendship between his father, Sirius and Remus had been.

“Am I very like my father?” Harry asked abruptly, the question impelled from him before he’d even realized he was going to ask it. “I mean, I know I resemble him but aside from that, am I like him?”

Remus studied Harry for a moment with a somber gaze. “In some ways, yes, you are very like James; in others, you are quite different. James was always very self-assured—‘arrogant’ as your mother called it. But you both have the same protective instinct, the same courage that borders on recklessness.”

Harry’s smile became somewhat sheepish.

“And neither of you finds intelligence and high spiritedness in a woman at all intimidating,” Remus added. “Your Mrs. Potter very much puts me in mind of your mother.”

“I thought Hermione gave you leave to call her by her given name,” Harry commented.

“Yes, she was gracious enough to do so. Very well then—your Hermione puts me in mind of Lily.”

“They certainly don’t look alike,” Harry pointed out needlessly.

“No, but they have something of the same spirit, the same intelligence. Lily was not at all one of those meek and biddable wives, and I suspect your Hermione is much the same.”

Harry let out a short laugh. “No, meek and biddable are two words that could never be associated with Hermione.”

Remus smiled. “From all I’ve seen, I rather suspect that meek and biddable become synonymous with boring after a time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I will go seek out my bed.”

“Of course. Thank you for your help. I will bid you good night.”

“Good night, Harry.” At the last moment, Remus paused, glanced back at Harry and added, “You are doing very well, Harry. Your parents would be proud,” before he disappeared out of the study.

Harry stared at the door for a moment, a slight smile playing on his lips, before he turned his eyes back to the books awaiting his attention.

Some time later, Harry put down his quill and closed the account books with a sigh, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to work the stiffness from them.

He had made enough progress on the accounts now that he thought he could be forgiven for leaving off and retiring for the night. Besides which, the long columns of numbers were beginning to run together in his mind which wouldn’t help his accuracy.

He glanced at the clock, resigning himself to the likelihood that Hermione would already be asleep by now. He hadn’t known how long he would be at the account books and so he didn’t expect her to have waited up. He wondered if she had chosen to sleep in her own bed since he would not be there, could understand if she had. Only…

He opened the connecting door to the library and, his mind having already wandered ahead to his bedroom and whether Hermione would be in his bed, just barely managed to keep from starting when he saw a candle already burning and heard a soft gasp of surprise and saw Miss Weasley turning away from one of the book shelves.

He stopped short. “Miss Weasley, whatever are you doing here?” he asked with more bluntness than courtesy, too caught off guard to temper his words.

“Oh, Mr. Potter,” she exclaimed rather breathlessly. “I was restless and thought to read a book until I could sleep.”

“Ah. I- er- hope there is nothing amiss with your room,” he managed to say, taking refuge in automatic courtesy. He paused, uncomfortably aware of a blush creeping into his cheeks as he tried to look anywhere but directly at her. He was acutely conscious of the intimacy of the whole situation, of the fact that they were alone with no chance of interruption, of the fact that she was clearly dressed for bed in her nightgown, robe, and a shawl. She was, thankfully, completely covered from her neck to her ankles but the overall effect of her nightgown was nonetheless one of startling intimacy, an effect that was only exacerbated by her hair. Her hair was loose, flowing past her shoulders in ripples of smooth curls, still vibrantly red and shining in the rather dim candlelight.

It really was lovely—she was lovely. The thought was dispassionate, even detached, and he wondered at himself. How was it that the sight of Hermione in such deshabille, her hair loose, had ignited a flare of desire inside him, making the sight of a lady’s loose hair seem like the most erotic sight in the world—whereas the sight of Miss Weasley left him essentially unmoved?

“Oh no, everything is wonderful. My room is quite lovely,” Miss Weasley assured him with a soft smile.

“Good. I hope you’ve managed to find a book to your liking.”

He kept his gaze on the bookshelves, not quite daring to look at her. It was strange and inexplicable but he was conscious of another sort of allure tugging at him. It wasn’t the power of the present but rather of the past; he was very conscious of the fact that just months ago, such a sight of Miss Weasley would have seemed like a delightful fantasy. He felt an unaccountable, vague sense of guilt niggling at him, not because he felt anything untoward but because he didn’t and, somehow, because he knew that just months ago, he would have…

He was becoming an exercise in illogic, he thought with some exasperation.

“Indeed I have, Mr. Potter. You have a wonderful library.”

He smiled, his mood lightening at the memory of Hermione’s entirely ingenuous, unfettered delight in the library. “Thank you. I am glad you think so,” he said, his tone unconsciously softening. He paused and then asked, “Can I help you find any book in particular?”

“Oh no, I have just finished,” she said, glancing back at the bookshelves and taking one book.

“In that case, allow me to escort you to the stairs.”

“With pleasure,” she dimpled up at him.

She took his arm as they walked along the silent corridor to the main staircase. They were nearly at the steps when she stumbled and nearly fell.

He reacted automatically, instinctively, his hands grabbing her upper arms as he steadied her on her feet.

“How clumsy of me,” Miss Weasley said breathlessly, sounding charmingly flustered. “You must think me very graceless.”

“Not at all,” he began but then she looked up at him and he stopped, suddenly realizing how very close they were. With her face turned up towards him so, there were barely a few inches between their lips. She stared at him, seeming to realize the same thing, as her breath caught in her throat, her lips parting unconsciously…

His hands were still holding her arms, he realized, and released her as if he’d been scalded, stepping back to give her a slight formal bow. “I wish you a good night, Miss Weasley,” he managed rather stiffly.

“Oh, yes, thank you, Mr. Potter,” she said softly. “Good night.”

He didn’t pause but turned away as soon as she turned to go up the stairs and walked swiftly back to the library, through the dim room, and taking the private staircase to the family wing with rather undignified haste.

His steps slowed as he reached the first floor and turned towards his bedchamber, now calm enough to scold himself for reacting so irrationally. In that one moment, his mind had understood—and pictured—how infidelity could happen almost without intent. He hadn’t been tempted but for that fleeting second, the part of him that paid no attention to the dictates of reason had reacted anyway on an instinct as old as time. A natural reaction, perhaps, but troubling nonetheless because he’d suddenly realized just how easily infidelity could happen. He had always—naively—thought of infidelity as being something that others did, never thought that he could ever be unfaithful to his wife, no matter who she was, but that one moment had been a revelation and he’d seen that it wouldn’t be difficult for it to happen.

There, but for the grace of the gods…

He paused outside of his door, taking a few deep breaths to clear his mind. Thinking of it would do little good. Nothing had happened; nothing would happen—and he was more certain of that now because he had, after all, felt nothing when he looked at Miss Weasley.

He focused, instead, on the thought of Hermione, his mind easily conjuring up the image of her at any number of times, smiling at him, frowning over something she was reading, speaking with Daisy about household matters—and the way she looked in his bed, as she’d looked the morning after their first night together…

His reaction was immediate and powerful, both physically and emotionally too, and it reassured him, restoring his equanimity. Odd, he reflected with a slight, inward smile, that somehow in the past weeks, lusting for Hermione had become so natural, had even become a sign that his world was in its rightful position.

When had his desire for Hermione become such an immutable fact of his existence, ranking along with his love of flying and the evil of Voldemort?

He opened the door to his bedchamber quietly and slipped inside, his hands already going up to tug on his cravat, undoing it and pulling it off, before he stopped, his gaze falling on Hermione.

He felt a rush of warmth in his chest. She had elected to sleep in his bed even though she couldn’t know when he would join her… And she had tried to wait up for him too. He smiled at the sight of her, having clearly fallen asleep while reading, her book still open on the counterpane, one hand resting on it.

He made quick work of the rest of his clothes trying to be as silent as possible so as not to wake her, but in spite of his care, she stirred anyway and awoke.

“Harry?” she mumbled half-drowsily.

“Yes,” he answered quietly. “I did not mean to wake you.”

She blinked and then opened her eyes fully, her gaze finding him as he moved about the room. “I intended to stay up until you came.”

A smile curved his lips. “I can see that but you should not have bothered.”

She roused herself, propping herself up on one arm as she put her book away on the nightstand. “Did you manage to accomplish as much as you wanted to with the account books?”

“Yes, I believe so. At any rate, you needn’t fear that I will mismanage the estate into debtor’s prison.”

She smiled. “I never had any such fear.”

“I am flattered to hear it.” He paused and then remarked, “Miss Weasley was in the library when I left. She was restless and sought a book to help her sleep.”

Harry didn’t notice Hermione’s slight stiffening at his words as he slid in beside her.

“Oh?” Hermione strove to keep her tone controlled so as not to reveal her automatic reaction and then was torn between relief and irritation that Harry didn’t seem to notice anything odd in her voice. “Was her room at all uncomfortable? Should I speak to Daisy about it?”

“No, I think it’s fine.” He moved one hand to cup the nape of her neck, gently tugging her closer to him. “Let us not talk of her anymore.” He brushed his lips against hers lightly, teasingly. “I can think of better things for us to discuss,” he murmured against her lips.

She laughed softly against his lips, dismissing her momentary doubts and melting against him as she always did. She could never resist his touch or his kiss. “Oh really? What did you have in mind, Mr. Potter?” she breathed, her lips just touching his, once, twice, three times.

He deepened the kiss as her lips parted for him, welcoming him in, her arms sliding around his neck, as she returned his kiss with her usual sweet ardor.

His lips left hers to trail delicate kisses along the line of her jaw and then down her throat, his lips and tongue finding every sensitive spot he’d learned in the past weeks.

She gasped and arched under him, her hands moving restlessly over his shoulders and back.

“I think,” he murmured softly against her skin, “we should discuss this.” One of his hands slid up her thigh in a slow caress, pushing up her nightgown as it went.

She whimpered and had to fight for some semblance of coherence, even as his wickedly wandering hand was rapidly dissolving whatever grasp she had of the English language. “A scandalous suggestion,” she returned on a sharp gasp that turned into a moan.

“I find a little scandal adds spice to life,” he murmured, the effect of the words marred by his own gasps for breath and the huskiness of his tone.

She tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging him back so she could kiss him again and no more words were spoken by either of them, to be replaced with soft moans and gasps and whimpers.

And they both forgot the very existence of Miss Weasley and, indeed, of everyone else in the world, the rest of the world dissolving around them until they were the only two people in it…

~To be continued…

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: Apologies for the wait for this chapter. I am well on my way into the next chapter so hopefully it won’t take nearly as long—but I make no promises.

This chapter has another little tribute to L/J and the Marauders, since I love them. And if the last chapter was essentially on what I’d call outside challenges to H/Hr’s marriage, this chapter can be said to be on the internal challenges.

Enjoy!

The Truth About Love

Chapter 13: On Conjugal Relationships

~

Remus Lupin strode towards the portrait gallery, his steps almost completely noiseless even in the morning quiet that still pervaded the house.

It was too early for almost everyone to be awake except—Remus glanced outside as he saw something out of the corner of his eye; Harry was awake and was outside, flying. Remus smiled a little, reminded of two other young men he’d known who had had the habit of flying at the start of each day. Like father, like son.

His steps were deliberate as he moved to stand in front of the portrait of Lily and James, seeing Lily’s serene smile and James’s sober mien.

“You can dispense with your attempt at dignity, Prongs; you forget I know you too well to be fooled by it,” Remus said drily.

Lily laughed as James made a disgruntled expression.

“How are you, Remus?” Lily asked smilingly.

“I am very well, Lily.”

“Hello, Moony,” James greeted him. “You are here visiting Harry?”

“Oh, Remus, how is he?” Lily chimed in eagerly. “We have not seen him lately, except once about a sennight ago, when he and Hermione were here showing the gallery to an older couple, Hermione’s parents, I believe.”

“Harry is quite well. We went over the account books last evening and Harry appears to be settling into his role as landlord as well.”

“Oh, those account books,” James grimaced. “Yes, that does bring back memories. I wish Harry joy of them.”

Remus permitted himself a smile. “Harry was less than sanguine about his abilities but I have every confidence that he will soon learn.”

“That is all well and good,” Lily interjected before James could respond, “but, Remus, is he happy? When we last spoke to him, he seemed somewhat troubled about Hermione, uncertain of her feelings. You’ve seen them both, spoken with them; how are they?”

“Harry was uncertain of Hermione’s feelings?”

“That is what he indicated to us when we last spoke to him about a fortnight ago.”

“I think Harry is too modest or if he is not, then the situation has changed rather dramatically since then,” Remus answered, thinking of his observations of Harry and Hermione’s interactions last evening.

They were not outwardly demonstrative; Harry, for one, was characteristically reserved when it came to expressing his emotions. And the presence of their guests would, of course, preclude any of the more obvious signs of intimacy and any private conversation. But in spite of that, their happiness and their mutual affection had been quite clear—or at least, it had been to Remus, who had the benefit of having also observed James and Lily’s relationship from when they had been courting to after their marriage.

He’d seen the way Hermione’s eyes tended to follow Harry and the way Harry always seemed to be aware of Hermione, revealed not always through his eyes but more subtly, in the way his eyes and his smile brightened, softened, whenever Hermione laughed. In the occasional quieter moments, he’d seen the look in Harry’s eyes when they rested on Hermione and, imperceptible though it may have been to anyone else, Remus had noticed that look, remembered a very similar expression on James’s face when he’d looked at Lily.

More than all that, though, Remus had been struck by the silent communication he’d witnessed later on, towards the end of supper, an exchange that had consisted of Harry meeting Hermione’s eyes, her barely visible nod and slightly raised eyebrows, followed by his equally subtle nod and her look. The exchange had been quick enough that Remus doubted anyone else would have caught it and its purport was easily explained when Hermione had soon after led the ladies out of the dining room, adjourning to one of the parlors, while the gentlemen had lingered over their port. It had been a simple enough communication but Remus had seen enough of life to know that it usually took many months, if not years, of marriage for a couple to attain that ease of silent communication—and many couples never attained it. In a couple as newly married as Harry and Hermione were, that sort of silent communication was rather remarkable and it spoke volumes for the level of intimacy they shared. No doubt their years of friendship helped but friendship hardly accounted for the softness he’d seen in Harry’s eyes as Harry had watched Hermione lead the ladies out of the dining room.

It was all very subtle but very telling and in Remus’s mind, a more hopeful indicator of Harry and Hermione’s future happiness than even the most loving caress could have been.

Thinking of that now, Remus smiled a little. “I do not think you need have any fears for their happiness. Indeed, I would venture to say that in due time, Harry and Hermione may well become a by-word for a happy and enduring love match.”

“That is good to hear.”

“Speaking of love matches,” James began, “Moony, enlighten us on something. Harry mentioned something about how they had to marry but he was not very forthcoming. What exactly happened?”

Remus told the story as briefly as possible before adding, “In all truth, I am fairly certain that the entire thing would have been much ado about nothing. With Harry’s firm support and the support of Professor McGonagall, for one, I doubt any lasting stain could have attached itself to Hermione but even the slightest chance of that was unacceptable to Harry.”

“I should hope so,” Lily interjected. “We all know how brittle a young lady’s reputation can be and how much glee some people in Society take in destroying them.”

“That is true enough,” Remus conceded. “Harry really could not have honorably done anything else.”

“It must have been a simple enough matter since neither of them was engaged to another,” James commented.

“Yes, simple enough as that goes,” Remus agreed cautiously. “There was some vague scuttlebutt about Harry and Miss Weasley but that was all and not widely known.”

“What about Harry and Miss Weasley?” Lily frowned slightly.

“He admired her and did not trouble to hide it, and of course, why would he. But it was never anything more than that, certainly it was never a formal engagement.”

“But if Harry loved…” Lily began and then stopped.

“I don’t believe he did,” Remus assured Lily. “And I, for one, was delighted to learn that Harry would be marrying Hermione. Miss Weasley is a charming young lady but she is…” he hesitated, aware of straying dangerously close to an ungentlemanly candor, “very young,” he finally settled for saying.

“Youth and beauty. Yes, I can see why she would make such an unacceptable wife for Harry,” James quipped. “All she needs is a generous dowry to render her completely beyond the pale.”

“Don’t be absurd, James,” Lily responded but her slight smile belied the words.

Remus chuckled, both at James’s wit and at Lily’s familiar scold. “Well, that, she is innocent of. Rather, what I meant was that she is still too young to be an equal partner for Harry, in striking contrast to Hermione. Harry and Hermione, on the other hand, are rather like a marriage of true minds. They have always been good friends and marriage does not seem to have changed that in the slightest; it appears to have only deepened their friendship.”

“And I’m quite sure Hermione’s mind is the aspect of her Harry appreciates the most,” James agreed sardonically with an exaggerated leer.

“James Potter!” Lily scolded, hitting James in the arm.

Remus laughed. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly. If I were a betting man, I would wager that you will become grandparents within a year.”

James smirked before his smirk became full-blown laughter. “That’s my boy!” he exulted.

Lily narrowed her eyes at Remus.

“You,” she said with mock severity, “should not encourage him so.”

Remus exchanged a grin with James before assuming a look of exaggerated innocence. “I? I have done nothing.”

“Hmph. Absolutely incorrigible, the both of you, with your highly indelicate speculation,” Lily scolded. “What am I going to do with you?”

James winked at Remus before assuming a thoughtful expression, pretending to ponder. “As I recall, my dear, you married one of us and befriended the other.” He slid his arm around her waist as he smiled down at her.

Lily’s response was another humph but she didn’t try to escape the circle of James’s arm and a slight smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She fought to hide it but finally gave in and returned his smile.

James brushed a kiss against her temple before they both turned their attention and their smiles back to Remus.

Remus watched the fleeting interlude with a hidden smile; he had seen it many times before over the years and every time had to marvel a little at the palpable closeness between Lily and James, especially considering that they had spent most of the first six years of their acquaintance at odds with each other, at least on Lily’s part.

On James’s part, of course, the feeling had been entirely the opposite. Remus remembered very vividly how one particular evening, in their 4^th year, after yet another scathing set-down by Lily, James had watched her stalk off and then turned back to Sirius, Peter and Remus, who had been silent, wincing witnesses, and announced, quite calmly, “I am going to marry that girl.”

They had all gaped for a moment before Sirius had begun to guffaw. “Prongs,” he’d gasped when he’d regained his breath a little, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but Lily Evans detests you and last I checked, kidnapping unwilling brides has rather gone out of fashion.” For once, James had not responded to the mocking raillery and the moment had been easily forgotten, dismissed as a crazy whim of the moment—only to be remembered again years later when the names of Lily Evans and James Potter had been on nearly everyone’s lips as an acknowledged couple. And then each of them, on the night before James’s betrothal was announced in the Daily Prophet, when Remus and Sirius had been enjoying a very fine brandy in their club, had received a note which had contained only one brief statement: I told you so. By that time, the announcement had not come as a surprise and Sirius and Remus had only shared a laugh at James’s chosen method of announcing his renunciation of the bachelor state to them before drinking a toast to James and Lily’s happiness.

Remembering that story, Remus grinned. He must remember to relate the story to Harry and Hermione at some time, he reflected.

“In all truth, Lily,” Remus finally said, more soberly, “I don’t think you need have any worries over Harry’s happiness with Hermione. Neither of them has confided in me, of course, but Harry seems very protective of Hermione’s happiness and I am quite certain that Hermione loves Harry. Indeed, I believe she always has.”

“What makes you so certain of that?”

“I saw her when Harry was carried in after the final battle. She is not given to hysteria or the vapors, far from it, but when she first saw him, she swayed and for a moment, I thought she would faint. She rallied immediately and she was among the first to reach his side, where she stayed.”

“The more I learn of my daughter-in-law, the better I like her,” Lily declared.

“Yes, I rather thought you would,” Remus said with a slight smile. “Indeed, if it hadn’t been for her devotion to Harry, I don’t know if this marriage would ever have happened.”

“That’s an odd thing to say, Moony. Stop being so cryptic.”

“Well, one of the incidents that was seen as being so potentially compromising to Hermione’s reputation was the fact that she stayed beside Harry while he was recovering in the Hospital Wing after the final battle. She adamantly refused to leave his side and so she spent the night in the Infirmary and I highly doubt she slept at all that night. It was not until late the next morning, you see, when Madam Pomfrey was able to assure us that Harry would recover.”

Lily shuddered a little. “Oh, my dear boy… And that dear girl, to stay with him.”

“Foul-minded old dragons to make a scandalous story out of that,” was James’s comment even as he put a comforting hand on Lily’s shoulder.

“Yes, well, you know what they can be like,” Remus agreed. “And in this case, at least, much good came out of it.”

“That’s true,” James acknowledged.

There was not much more to say after that and Remus smiled as he left the Portrait Gallery soon afterwards to break his fast, knowing that Lily and James could rest at ease in the knowledge that Harry was well and happy-- and loved.

~*~

“Excuse me, Missmynee.”

Dobby materialized in the silent fashion of most house elves as the ladies walked to the sitting room.

Hermione turned to Mrs. Weasley. “I will join you in a moment in the sitting room.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Weasley nodded her understanding.

Hermione turned back to Dobby. “Yes, Dobby, what is it?”

“Missmynee, Dobby was wondering if the disturbance last night was taken care of or if there is anything more which Dobby should be doing.”

Hermione blinked and stared. “Disturbance?”

Dobby’s already wide eyes widened even further. “Yes, Missmynee. Dobby noticed some odd things and mentioned it to Mr. Harry Potter and Mr. Harry Potter said he would see to it.”

“Thank you, Dobby. I’m sure it’s fine,” Hermione smiled reassuringly at Dobby who beamed and then scurried away with a bow.

Hermione paused for a fleeting moment before she turned to continue on to the sitting room, forcibly smoothing her expression so no hint of her mood was visible.

There had been a disturbance of some sort. She didn’t need to think to know what must have happened. Harry must have investigated it and—this was what rankled—he had not told her. He had not seen fit to mention anything out of the ordinary to her.

She felt oddly betrayed—not in any traditional sense of the word for a philandering husband; Harry wouldn’t—but betrayed because he had said he would not wish her to change and she had thought he, of all people, understood and respected her desire to be treated as an equal. She was disappointed and hurt and, underneath all that, she was conscious of a flare of irritation. Why had he not told her?

By dint of will, she kept a smile in place as she made idle conversation with Mrs. Weasley and waited for the gentlemen to rejoin them.

It wasn’t long before they did.

Keeping her expression pleasant, she excused herself from Mrs. Weasley and extracted Harry from his continuing conversation with Ron by way of a smile and a “You will pardon me for borrowing him for a few moments, Ron? A household matter has come up.”

“A household matter? Oh, Hermione, you have become a matron. I’m going to start calling you madam,” Ron teased before he moved away to inflict his teasing on his sister and Miss Lovegood, no doubt.

Harry turned a questioning gaze on her. “What is it? I hope nothing is amiss.” His eyes and his expression softened as he took one of her hands in his, idly playing with her fingers.

For one fraught moment, Hermione felt her determination waver. With him looking at her so—as if all he wanted was to take care of her, all his caring showing—how could she quarrel with him? Did she want to appear the shrewish wife, especially with Miss Weasley present, always charmingly deferential to Harry, as a living reminder of the sort of mild, compliant wife he could have had?

And yet… she mentally stiffened—she had to, if not outright quarrel with him, let him know in no uncertain terms how she felt. This hit too closely to the core of who she was and what she wanted in this marriage. “Dobby sought me out earlier to ask whether last night’s disturbance was all taken care of.”

“Oh, did he? I will reassure him about it.” Not a flicker of unease showed in his eyes—and of course, why would it? He didn’t think he had done anything—and if he’d been married to almost anyone else, this wouldn’t be an issue. But she was different.

She kept her voice quiet but let her tone firm in a way he couldn’t miss. “Harry, why didn’t you tell me about it last night?”

“You were asleep when I returned.”

“I did wake up once you joined me if you’ll recall.”

She had awoken but he’d kissed her and merely apologized for waking her and soon she’d fallen asleep again, curled up next to his warmth, nestling against him.

“You did not tell me today either. If it hadn’t been for Dobby asking, I wouldn’t have known.”

“Do you doubt my ability to defend this house, and you?” Now he frowned a little.

“I don’t doubt it at all but that is not my concern. You should still have mentioned it to me. Whether or not I can help, I do want to know when such things happen. This is my home as well as yours and its safety concerns me too.” She sighed a little. “Harry, I don’t want to quarrel with you but I cannot simply let this go. Not at present as we must not neglect our guests any longer but we will return to this subject.” With that, she turned away, firmly pasting her social smile on her face.

Harry stared, acknowledging the call of duty and mentally swore. How was he supposed to be an affable and attentive host with this clouding his thoughts? While they hadn’t outright quarreled, constrained as they were by the presence of guests, he knew this wasn’t over – not by a country mile. He suppressed a sigh as he went to join Mr. Weasley and Remus.

Some hours later, Harry hesitated outside of his bedchamber, steeling himself, for once the knowledge that Hermione was inside waiting for him not making him eager to enter, indeed having the opposite effect.

He had delayed this moment as long as he could, suggesting a game of billiards when the ladies had risen to retire.

He’d seen the look Hermione threw him before she’d left and it had almost made him wince—and it had tended to distract him from the game, allowing Ron to defeat him handily, much to Ron’s ill-concealed delight.

It wasn’t that Hermione was a shrew, far from it. But she was still a force to be reckoned with and no one with a grain of sense or any instinct for self-preservation would willingly incur her displeasure.

He did not have a choice now.

He was suddenly irritated with himself for hesitating like this. He was still a Gryffindor, was he not, and a grown man and master of this house; he should not be standing outside his own bedchamber like this.

With that, he pushed open the door and entered, closing it behind him.

She turned from the window to face him. She had changed, was in her nightgown and her wrap, her hair freed from its coiffure and spilling down her back. But, for once, seeing her thus did not incite his desire. Every line of her attitude, the set of her jaw, the way her lips were firmed, all served as evidence—and warning.

They faced each other in fraught silence for a long moment, Harry uncomfortably aware of the distance between them.

“Well, why did you not tell me?”

“I didn’t think you needed to know.” He honestly had not thought of it but he decided against mentioning this.

“Why not?”

“It was a very minor disturbance. It was nothing more than a small group of miscreants and they Apparated away the moment they realized their presence had been detected. They hadn’t yet succeeded in bringing down the wards or anything. I merely tested them to be certain then added another set of wards a little further inside to be doubly assured of our safety.”

If he had thought this explanation would appease her, he was much mistaken.

“And you decided I did not need to know all this.”

“Yes!” Harry exclaimed, some of his frustration and confusion slipping out, his voice rising. “I did not want to worry you over so trivial a matter. Is it not part of my duty as your husband to protect you, preserve your peace of mind?”

“If ignorance is the price of my serenity, then I will gladly do without it. Do not think to keep me wrapped in cotton wool and treat me like one of those delicate ladies prone to succumbing to the vapors at the mere mention of anything not perfectly happy. You know I’m not so missish.”

“I don’t think anything of the sort of you and you know it but in this case, I simply did not see a need to inform you of something that really was so trivial.”

Her tone softened slightly. “Harry, I want to know of anything that might affect the safety of this house, of our home, and it is mine as well as yours.”

“Protecting this house is my duty and responsibility. I’m sorry you don’t seem to trust me to do so adequately,” Harry said rather stiffly.

“Harry, that’s not what I mean. My problem is that you decided, on your own, that it was not worth mentioning, that I did not need to be told of something that affects me just as much as it affects you. I can’t—I won’t be treated like just another helpless female, Harry. This may have been a trivial enough matter but if you will not tell me of even this, then how can I trust that you will tell me of anything more significant and not simply try to protect me from any and all worries?”

She paused and he opened his lips to argue or defend himself further but before he could, she finished, “I am your wife, not a child to be protected and sheltered from the truth and I am not so witless as to worry needlessly.”

“I know you’re neither witless nor a child but I didn’t want you to be troubled.”

“Well, I am troubled now. This is exceedingly troubling to me. Why else do you think I decided years ago that I was never going to marry?”

With that last, terrible statement, Hermione whirled and hurried into her own room, wanting to escape before she gave in and retracted all her words, before she softened and apologized and let herself become one of those women who knew nothing and were happy to know nothing. Oh, she hated quarreling with Harry; she always had but it was so much worse now because she loved him, she hated to think of his peace of mind being disturbed and she always wished to smile at him, to laugh with him…

But in this case, she knew she could not let this pass without comment. She knew Harry, knew his tendencies to keep things to himself, not from any willful secretiveness but because, after his upbringing, he simply was not accustomed to telling other people about his worries or relying on others to help him or support him in any way. She understood—truly she did—but that did not change her determination to be the help, the support, the equal partner Harry had never truly had.

For a blank moment, Harry stared at the connecting door between their bedchambers, which had never seemed quite so solid and quite so intimidating than at that moment, before he mentally shook himself and began undressing in preparation for bed. His movements were quick and jerky, betraying his internal turmoil.

How could Hermione not have enough confidence in his ability to keep this house safe? Surely she knew he would always do everything in his power to keep her and Godric’s Hollow safe. That was all he could think of, somehow, to explain why she felt she needed to know, aside from Hermione’s perennial thirst for knowledge. Hermione always wanted to know everything; he didn’t mind and, indeed, he had the healthiest respect for Hermione’s intellect but in this case, he could not think it necessary for her to know what really had been such a trivial matter. He certainly did not want her to worry unduly.

Did she want to be worried over every single thing, trivial or no? Why couldn’t she appreciate that he’d been trying to protect her? He hadn’t wanted her to worry; he always wanted her to be smiling and happy—was that so wrong of him? Blast unreasonable woman!

Harry did not even bother to climb into bed; he knew that sleep would prove to be elusive. And his bed seemed remarkably cold and unwelcoming without Hermione in it. He could almost laugh at himself for it; he had been sleeping alone for 18 years but after just a few weeks of sharing his bed with Hermione, the idea of sleeping alone seemed unthinkable.

He glanced at his bed that had never looked quite so large and quite so empty before and his mind automatically supplied a mental picture of Hermione’s sleeping form and he felt a pang of longing, his mood softening, the last remnants of irritation dying.

His mind clearer now, his thoughts returned to Hermione and all she’d said.

And as he thought, he knew he could not dismiss her annoyance as being unreasonable. He knew Hermione and she wasn’t unreasonable. She rather prided herself on being rational and clear-thinking and so she was. It was one of his favorite things about her.

He was suddenly rather ashamed of himself for what now seemed like petty irritation and for not really trying to listen and understand what she was saying.

Her words came back to him with an added sting: why else do you think I decided years ago that I was never going to marry?

He knew what she wanted, even required, in a marriage; it was clear enough to anyone who knew her at all. She wanted a marriage of equals, a partnership, one where she would not be expected to blindly obey her husband’s dictates or be treated as if she were any other young lady with more hair than wit and no real thoughts beyond clothing and gossip.

He had tacitly promised that he would give her that—certainly he was possibly one of a very few gentlemen who would even think to promise it-- and the words had been easy to say and he’d meant them sincerely. Of course he would listen to her and treat her as an equal; he knew how quick-witted and strong-willed she was and how clever. But in the first real test of that, he had not done so. He had fallen back into his old habits and acted according to instinct in trying to shield her but in doing so, he had treated her as someone who needed protection. And then when she had pointed that out to him, he had retreated behind his own pride and sense of male dignity and he had not truly listened to her.

It had been instinct, a subconscious decision, not to mention the disturbance to her because he did not wish to worry her—but that decision was not his to make. She could not be an equal partner in any sense if he concealed information from her on a whim, no matter how relatively pure his motives may have been.

He winced. Truly, he’d been a fool and he did not deserve her.

He did not fool himself into believing that it would be easy to keep his promise, easy to always treat her as an equal. His instinct to protect her, shelter her from any worry or possible danger, was well-honed and powerful—all the more so because he knew now just how precious she was to him—but he also wanted her to be happy. It would be a near-constant struggle, he suspected, between his protective instincts and her need to be treated as his equal—but it was what she wanted and so he could do nothing else but try.

It would not be easy—but then when had dealing with Hermione ever been that easy? Hermione, who was too clever to fool, who somehow knew when he was lying, and who was too strong-willed and determined to give way when she believed she was in the right (as she usually was). She was not meek or biddable or weak or at all awed by him—and he had spoken truly when he had said he would not wish her otherwise.

He looked again at the connecting door and then glanced at his unwelcoming bed before making a quick decision. There was no possibility that he would be able to sleep.

He knocked quietly on the connecting door, figuring if she was asleep, it wasn’t loud enough to wake her and if she wasn’t… If she wasn’t, he could begin groveling.

“Come in, Harry.”

He winced at the tone of her voice; it was very calm and controlled, too controlled.

His gaze went from the undisturbed counterpane on her bed to her, standing by her window.

His heart clenched as he came closer, enough to see the faint trace of a few tears on her cheeks.

“Hermione, I’m sorry,” he began softly, contritely. “I’m sorry for not telling you and I’m sorry for not listening and not trying to understand your meaning earlier.” He searched her eyes and then ventured to add, “I’m afraid your husband isn’t very quick-witted.”

That coaxed a small smile from her, her eyes softening. “Oh, Harry… I am sorry too. I do not regret marrying you; I should not have said what I did.”

“Not even when I am being such a fool?”

“Not then, not ever,” she promised.

After a moment, she continued. “You do understand now, though, don’t you? This wasn’t even a serious incident and it didn’t involve any risk to me. But if you won’t tell me of such a minor occurrence, then how will you act if something more serious ever occurs? I don’t want to be treated like some helpless, flighty girl, who needs to be sheltered from the realities of the world.”

“I know. I’m sorry; I did not think of how arrogant I was being in deciding you did not need to know of the disturbance. I don’t think of you as helpless, you know I don’t. Indeed, you are one of the least helpless people I’ve ever met.” He paused and then continued on, “I didn’t want to worry you. You once told me that protecting people is what I do, that I assume I have to save people. You were right and protecting you is natural to me, not because I think you’re helpless but because I want to know you’re safe.” He hesitated and then admitted, “And I can’t promise that I’ll never do anything like this again but I will try to be better about telling you of everything that might affect us. You will have to forgive me if I am not always successful, though.”

“That’s all right. I will be here to remind you when you are being overbearingly protective,” she told him with a slight smile.

“I will probably require frequent reminding—but I promise you I will try.”

“That is all I ask.” She gave him the soft smile he was already beginning to recognize and look for, in moments of particular affection.

He let out a brief sigh. “It will be difficult, Hermione. I don’t like seeing the frown that forms here,” he touched one gentle finger to her forehead between her brows, “whenever you’re worried. I’ve already made you worry enough for a lifetime in these past few years, I think.”

“Perhaps but I have not minded. A little worry is the price one must pay in caring for someone and it is far outweighed by the rewards.”

“I rather think that anyone who knows me would say there’s mostly worry and very little reward,” he said half-wryly.

She let out a brief huff of breath that was almost a laugh. “Harry, that isn’t true.”

He gave her a soft smile, moving one hand to cup her cheek tenderly. “I am glad you seem to think so, at least.”

She reached up to brush her lips against his cheek before she put her arms around him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “I hate quarreling with you, Harry.”

He tightened his arms around her waist. “I know, as do I.”

“I never want to quarrel with you again.”

“Until the next time I do something stupid,” he quipped.

She laughed, tilting her head up to look at him. “Perhaps I will be the one to do something stupid.”

“You? I don’t believe that’s possible,” he told her, only half-facetiously.

“Are we not all prone to being foolish at some time or another?”

“You less often than I, I’m certain.”

“Harry…” His name was almost a sigh, half-scolding and half-amused, before she reached up to feather her lips against his in the lightest of kisses and then returned to kiss him more firmly. She kissed him long and deeply, with nothing held back, with all the confidence which she felt, which she’d learned, in this realm of their marriage at least.

He angled his head to sink deeper into the kiss, one hand sliding up her back to tangle in her hair and the other sliding down to cup her hip and bring her arching against him.

The kiss was long and heated and only ended when she drew back, just enough to brush a series of soft kisses against his cheek and his chin.

“Take me to bed, Harry,” she breathed against his lips.

And her voice, low and husky with arousal, was as much of a seduction as her words.

“Whatever you command…” he murmured before, suiting action to the words, he bent, hooking his arm beneath her knees and lifting her into his arms.

“That’s an intriguing offer,” she returned, half-teasingly, as she occupied herself with scattering light, fleeting kisses to his chin and his neck and his ear.

He flinched a little. “That tickles,” he protested, the protest weakened by the smile in his voice.

She repeated her earlier actions with mischievous intent this time and he twitched.

“Hermione! Don’t or I’ll drop you,” he warned.

She laughed softly, some part of her rather amazed at her own behavior, at how she could be this open, even a little, yes, flirtatious, but somehow, with Harry, it seemed natural. But she relented and instead of repeating the forbidden gesture, pressed her lips to the underside of his chin.

As places on his body went, it was probably about the most neutral, most unromantic, most unseductive spot she could have picked, aside from his elbow. His unregenerate body didn’t seem to care. He almost recoiled.

“Hermione!”

She laughed again—and he wondered when the sound of her laugh had become so arousing.

“I did warn you,” he said—and then he dropped her. Onto his bed.

She tried to frown but couldn’t manage it, her lips curving up instead as she looked up at him.

Harry looked at her, his eyes drinking her in as she lay, half-reclining and half-sitting up, where he’d dropped her. Her nightgown had obligingly rucked up to her knees, revealing delightfully shapely legs, her cheeks were flushed and a slight smile played on her lips. She was a perfect picture of allurement, with the unstudied and unconscious sensuality of her position. Only a eunuch or an inanimate statue could have resisted the picture she made and he smiled, a very slow, possessive smile, one that positively screamed his intentions, too much of a male not to appreciate (and react to) the view.

A deliciously sensual shiver passed through Hermione in reaction to the way Harry was looking at her. She would never tire of seeing Harry look at her like this, she thought, as if she was the most beautiful, desirable woman in the world. She didn’t know how it was that just seeing that look on Harry’s face could affect her so much, make her so very aware of her body, a slow tingling heat beginning in the most intimate places of her body.

He slid onto the bed beside her but made no move to touch her other than lifting one hand to cup her cheek gently. “You are so lovely,” he whispered.

Everything inside her seemed to soften and melt at his words and she could only think, fuzzily, that she did not care for anyone else’s opinion as long as he thought her lovely. His opinion was the only one that mattered.

She curved her arms around his neck, reaching for him until her lips hovered just a breath away from his. “Kiss me, Harry,” she breathed a moment before her lips touched his. And so he did, his lips softening, parting, as she returned his kiss with all the urgency of her own desire, their lips melding, tongues tangling, until it no longer mattered who had kissed whom. It was a mutual exchange of pleasure and arousal.

She felt herself falling backwards until she was lying fully beneath him, her hands moving to the buttons of his shirt and undoing them until she could flatten her hands against the warm, solid expanse of his chest.

The rest of their nightclothes seemed to dissolve in a haze of heated kisses and greedy caresses.

She would never tire of this, she thought, would never tire of his kiss or his touch or his passion.

And then she gave up thinking entirely, giving herself up to the intensity of pleasure and desire he aroused in her, that only he could arouse in her…

She loved him and he desired her and for the moment, that was all—and everything—she needed to know.

~~

To be continued… (With one more chapter and then an Epilogue to go…)

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: Apologies for the terribly long wait!! And since I truly don’t mean to keep you waiting forever and because I decided to split this last chapter up into two, because it’s really getting to be too long, I’m posting the first half of this chapter now. Because it’s Valentine’s Day and you all have been very patient in waiting for this.

In which Ginny gets her come-uppance. Enjoy!

The Truth About Love

Chapter 14a: The Truth About Marriage

It was going to be a wonderful day.

Hermione was quite blissfully certain of this as she almost floated down the stairs that morning. She supposed she must look rather silly smiling to herself as she suspected she was, but she could not help it and, for once in her life, she was too content to care if she looked foolish. She was still filled with a deliciously languorous sense of well-being after the way Harry had woken her up that morning and the all-too-brief interlude that had followed.

A slight shiver of pleasure passed through her just at the memory of his slow, leisurely kisses and idle caresses. It was truly astonishing just how delightful it had been to lie there beside him and simply kiss him, be kissed by him—just kissing, only his lips on hers, and very little else involved. For once, there had been no blaze of passion, no intensity of sensation; it had simply been warmth and lazy, luxurious pleasure until she had felt positively limp with bliss, dazed and suffused with the warm sense of utter well-being which lingered in her now. Simply kissing… he had not tried to caress her intimately, had not tried to escalate things, and neither had she. They had both been perfectly content just to kiss, exploring the other’s mouth with a leisurely thoroughness that was rather new but no less pleasant…

She would have been perfectly happy to linger there in his bed, kissing him, for hours but all too soon, they had reluctantly separated with the acknowledgement that it would not do for them to stay there while the morning advanced, given the presence of guests.

The morning room was deserted when Hermione arrived although she could see evidence that someone—Remus, she surmised—had already breakfasted and gone out.

Well, solitude suited her that morning; she was quite content to think of Harry and the morning so far as she broke her fast.

Her smile lasted through her daily morning consultation with Daisy over the menus for the day and any other household matters that may have come up. And on a wish to see everyone as happy as she felt, she gave Daisy a (perfectly sincere) smiling compliment that had the elf flushing until she looked almost purple and curtsying so deeply she looked in danger of losing her balance for a few seconds and almost babbling her gratitude and pleasure and the great honor to work for Harry Potter and his wife.

She dismissed Daisy’s thanks with another smile and left the room which she’d appropriated as her sanctum with a light step.

“Good morning, Hermione.”

Hermione turned to beam at Ron as he intercepted her on her way outside. “Good morning. Have you breakfasted?”

Ron gave her a smilingly incredulous look. “You should know me better than to ask such a question by now, Mrs. Potter. Of course I’ve breakfasted.”

Hermione laughed a little. “Of course. I forgot momentarily whom I was speaking to.”

“I was just thinking of walking out to enjoy the fine weather. Would you care to join me?” Ron asked with teasingly-exaggerated formality.

“Certainly, Mr. Weasley,” Hermione smiled, the formal address belied by the comfortable way in which she took his arm.

“This is certainly a very fine house,” Ron commented idly as they left the house.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Hermione slowed as she glanced back at it. “Sometimes,” she admitted softly, hardly realizing she was going to speak at all, “I look around and I’m still amazed that this is my home now.”

“You are happy then,” Ron said and the words were a statement rather than a question.

Hermione glanced at him. “Why, Ron, did you expect that Harry would banish me to live in a hovel somewhere, perhaps live on scraps of food and water?” she smiled, making light of it.

Ron smiled swiftly but turned to look at her and his expression was, again, rather uncharacteristically sober. “I was more concerned about your personal happiness than the material considerations. I know you and Harry did not exactly marry under ideal circumstances,” he finished a little awkwardly. It was his first outward acknowledgement that there had been anything at all unusual about the reason for her marrying Harry. “I was simply concerned. I- I rather think you both deserved more than a forced marriage.”

“Oh, Ron…” Hermione sighed a little. She, of all people, knew that Ron was much more than the carefree, good-humored young gentleman most people saw but even so, she was still taken aback in the rare times when he was completely serious. “You need not worry about me. I am perfectly content.” More than content, she admitted, fighting a blush at the memory of that morning and savoring the lingering warmth at the thought of it.

She felt Ron’s gaze on her face and gave him a smile. “You are very sweet to be so concerned, though.”

Ron’s face assumed an arrested expression as he studied her for a moment and then a smile dawned slowly. “Well, I’ll be…” he said softly. “You are in love with him.” It was not a question.

Hermione felt herself blush hotly but could hardly deny it. “Is it so very obvious?”

“Mm, perhaps not,” Ron conceded. “But I do know you rather well, you know, Hermione.”

“Yes, I suppose you do. Well, you may certainly put any fears for my happiness to rest.”

“I have no doubt of that now and I am glad of it. I should hate to think of either you or Harry being unhappy.”

Hermione smiled and gave his arm a slight pressure as they continued their stroll, in which they were soon joined by every other member of the party, all seeking to take advantage of the fineness of the morning.

And Hermione felt the first ripple in her happiness as she saw that Miss Weasley had succeeded in trapping Harry into conversation, even drawn them a little apart from the others.

That, in itself, she would not have minded quite so much—although she had to admit that some tiny (petty) corner of herself did not particularly care to see Harry with Miss Weasley simply because of what a striking pair they made together—but what she did mind, what made the first shadow encroach upon her happiness of the morning was how very engrossed Harry seemed in the conversation.

She knew Harry well enough to be able to recognize when he was bored or impatient with a conversation, when he was merely being polite in conversing with someone. She didn’t see any of those signs today.

She could not tell what they were speaking of but whatever the subject, Harry at least was quite interested. She could see it in the gestures he made, in the animation of his expression as he looked at Miss Weasley.

And Miss Weasley, as was customary for her, was regarding Harry with a flattering attention, an apparent fascination in all he might say.

Hermione told herself she should not mind, that she had no reason to feel at all threatened by this.

And yet… she was troubled, the surface of her happiness a little disturbed.

She little knew at that moment how much more her happiness would be disturbed that day.

~

Hermione stiffened when she found that Miss Weasley had moved to her side as they strolled in the gardens and that they had, somehow, fallen apart from the rest of the group, who had paused to admire a bed of particularly vibrantly-colored and fragrant roses.

She had, until now, managed to avoid any direct conversation with Miss Weasley other than the most mundane pleasantries in her duties as the hostess but now, short of an unforgivable breach of manners, she was trapped.

She did not know Miss Weasley very well; the age difference combined with Hermione’s lack of interest in the usual feminine subjects of fashion and gossip had effectively prevented any real friendship from developing. That aside, Hermione had to admit that she was simply ill at ease with Miss Weasley, Miss Weasley being exactly the sort of young lady who had always had the effect of making Hermione feel something like a sort of distant cousin to a troll or a hag. Hermione was not overly given to thinking about her appearance but being in company with Miss Weasley and other young ladies like her never failed to make Hermione feel painfully lacking. She told herself that she had no reason to regret—she was, she knew, smarter and more capable than Miss Weasley or her like would ever be. But it was small comfort, sometimes, especially as Hermione was also much too clever to be under any illusion as to the fact that gentlemen rarely considered intelligence when it came to admiration or love and, equally certainly, gentlemen nearly always prized beauty above all else.

She pretended absorption in admiring the patch of hyacinths they were standing by in a futile attempt to avoid conversation.

She wondered what reason Miss Weasley could have in seeking her out. Until now, Miss Weasley’s attention had generally been focused, as much as basic propriety allowed, on Harry and, foolish though it might be, Hermione could not but feel uncomfortable around Miss Weasley from the consciousness that, had circumstances been different, had Lady Danvers never snubbed her, had Harry been less honorable, Miss Weasley would likely be engaged to Harry, if not married to him.

And a corner of her couldn’t help but wonder if Harry regretted it, if Harry still wished he had married Miss Weasley instead. She knew that Harry desired her (and the knowledge thrilled her, made her entire body feel warmer at the thought) but desire wasn’t love and knowing that Harry desired her, cared about her, wasn’t enough. It would never be enough for her, not with him, not when she loved him.

Almost unconsciously, her gaze sought and found Harry, where he was standing talking with Ron and with Mr. Lupin. He was smiling easily, his stance relaxed, as he gestured with one hand, and as always, her heart reacted to the sight of him smiling. As if he sensed her gaze, he glanced over at her, his eyes meeting hers, and even at that distance, she saw (or perhaps she sensed it, willed herself to see) his smile soften a little and his small nod of acknowledgment, before he turned back to Ron.

“He should have been mine,” Miss Weasley broke the silence abruptly.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat at the bluntness of this statement, the directness of this offensive, a mixture of shock, disbelief and burgeoning anger warring within her. “I beg your pardon?”

“He was going to marry me; he wanted to marry me. You and I both know it so let us not be coy and pretend otherwise,” Miss Weasley said coolly. “He was my intended but you somehow got yourself compromised; you took what should have been mine.”

At any other time, she would have been angry—part of her was stunned and furious at Miss Weasley’s blatant rudeness—but her anger was quickly subdued in the incipient hurt that seemed all the greater because of the stark contrast to her happiness of the morning. It wasn’t so much the spitefulness of Miss Weasley’s words; she could have dealt with the spite and dismissed it as so much ill-natured words. What hurt, what truly pained her, was the sting of truth in them. She hadn’t planned to compromise him but other than that, it was true. Harry had wanted to marry Miss Weasley; he had been Miss Weasley’s intended, never officially and never so openly as to bind Harry formally, but it was true. Within the small circle of people who knew, it had been tacitly understood. And, unintentional as it had been, she had taken what was Miss Weasley’s.

“He is my husband now,” Hermione responded and no one hearing her could have guessed what it cost her to sound so calm and unaffected.

“Yes, he is,” Miss Weasley conceded grudgingly, “but remember that it was me—it is me that he wanted to marry. It’s me whom he still wants, if he were not tied to you. He did not want you; he never wanted you. He loves me still; I know he does.”

Hermione looked blindly out over the gardens, the quintessentially English scene of the grass and the flowers under the bright sunlight, and wondered, with a flare of pain, why it was still so beautiful. All her contentment and her joy in Godric’s Hollow, the house and the grounds, her happiness of this morning, was gone now, poisoned by Miss Weasley’s deliberate words.

And she wished—oh, how she wished—that she could dismiss them as the bitter lies of a disappointed young lady (especially one who was unaccustomed to having her wishes thwarted), that she could dismiss them as having been spoken out of anger and out of malice but with little to no truth in them. But she couldn’t. She could not dismiss them, could not forget them.

Because it was true; it was all true. Harry hadn’t really wanted to marry her; he had married her out of duty and out of honor and out of friendship, but he hadn’t really wanted her. For a moment, her mind flashed back to their wedding day, to that one, seemingly-interminable look that Harry and Miss Weasley had shared—but she shoved the memory aside. It didn’t matter; that had been then but things were different now—Harry desired her now… Everything was different now—wasn’t it?

She thought that Harry must feel something for her—just for her—not just physical desire and more than friendship. Surely he must; he could not have touched her so tenderly, would not have held her afterwards, during the night, when she had felt as if she were melting into him, had felt completely safe, happy, even loved…

Could he have been imagining he were with Miss Weasley instead?

Oh, nonsense! She knew better than that; her own hurt was making her irrational.

And yet… the one cold, stark fact she could not deny was that Harry had never said anything to indicate that he loved her.

He was kind and considerate and affectionate—but that was simply Harry’s way and he’d never said he loved her…

She had always understood that she wasn’t the type of young lady whom a gentleman would fall in love with; she wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t lively, she was not charming or flirtatious. She was a bluestocking; she was too bossy, too opinionated. She had thought she had accepted it but now, faced with Miss Weasley, who was everything she was not, who was exactly the sort of young lady most gentlemen would fall in love with all too easily, now all her old insecurities came surging up inside her, insidiously but undeniably chipping away at all the confidence, all the faith, which she had gained in the past weeks.

And it hurt—oh it hurt so much. She loved Harry and she wanted Harry to love her. And she didn’t know how she would bear it if he didn’t love her… She knew he would always be kind and unfailingly courteous, even if his passion eventually waned—but she didn’t know how she would bear his kindness then.

Harry’s gaze wandered, inevitably, inexorably, across the green stretch of the gardens to where Hermione was standing with Miss Weasley, drawn as surely as the tide was drawn to the shore to Hermione’s face, to the curves of her slender figure in her gown, the curves he now knew so well…

He was brought back to the present by the sound of Remus’s chuckle and pulled his attention back to see Ron’s grin.

“Wool-gathering?” Ron asked knowingly.

“Absolutely besotted, Harry,” Remus teased. “You are as bad as your father ever was with how you seem unable to keep your eyes away from your wife.”

Harry joined in with Ron’s amusement, laughing self-deprecatingly. “I was looking over the gardens to see if there was anything which the garden elves needed to be told,” he said in mock denial but didn’t try to defend himself when Remus only raised a skeptical brow.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Ron mourned in an exaggeratedly histrionic fashion. “To think that the hero of the wizarding world would be reduced to such a state by a woman—and not just any woman but his own wife at that.” He shook his head in mock sorrow, though the grin tugging at the corner of his lips belied the tone. “How very unfashionable of you, Harry.”

Harry laughed but didn’t bother to either disclaim it or defend himself. After all, there were worse fates than being completely besotted with one’s wife. In fact, he was hard-put to think of anything better.

On that thought, he looked over at Hermione again and frowned, his good humor leaving him at the sight of Hermione’s face.

There was something wrong. Hermione’s expression was quite calm and serene—too calm and too serene. He knew her too well, could almost sense the tension in her frame, could almost feel her battle for composure, a battle which he knew she would win but which worried him.

What was Miss Weasley saying?

He felt a spurt of protective anger. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said in a perfunctory manner before he left Ron and Remus, and didn’t wait for their response before he began moving, closing the distance between him and Hermione with swift steps.

There was something amiss; he did not like that too-still expression on Hermione’s face. This was Hermione and she’d never cared to master the art of always appearing serene and unruffled and so, now, when she did look that way, he knew there was something wrong. She would not look so blank unless she was trying to conceal some strong emotion.

Hermione struggled, rallied, fighting back the crashing waves of self-doubt and incipient hurt.

She shouldn’t doubt; she wouldn’t doubt—but oh, how she wished she knew… Had Harry loved Miss Weasley? Did he—God forbid—did he still love Miss Weasley? Even as he desired Hermione physically, did some part of his heart still cling to Miss Weasley?

She felt as if her heart were cracking, wished desperately that she could retreat to the haven of her bedchamber in an attempt to regain her composure.

But she knew she couldn’t. Moreover, she refused to give Miss Weasley the satisfaction of knowing she’d been affected in any way.

Although she didn’t know how she did it, she preserved a calm façade and only responded, coolly, “Be that as it may, I am his wife now and nothing will change that.”

She had some poor comfort in seeing Miss Weasley look momentarily disgruntled at this response but then Miss Weasley’s entire expression, her posture—everything—changed in the blink of an eye.

“Why, Mr. Potter,” Miss Weasley smiled as she greeted Harry with so much sweetness Hermione was torn between half-hysterical laughter and being sick to her stomach, “I was just telling Mrs. Potter what a lovely garden you have.”

Harry looked at Miss Weasley and for a split second, there was an odd expression in his eyes (Hermione’s heart gave a painful leap in her chest) but then it was gone, replaced by what Hermione termed his Society mask. He smiled courteously (and Hermione wondered if she were imagining it or did his smile not reach his eyes?). “Thank you. If you’ll excuse us, there is something I would like to discuss with my wife.”

(Was she imagining it—her hopes creating what she heard—or had there been the faintest emphasis on the last two words?)

“Oh, of course, you needn’t worry about me. These flowers are quite enough to keep me company.” Nothing could have been sweeter and more accommodating than Miss Weasley’s expression and her tone; if Hermione hadn’t just been privy to what Miss Weasley’s character was like when she was displeased, she might have been fooled herself into thinking that Miss Weasley was truly as kind and considerate as she sounded. As it was, Hermione could only wonder with a painful wrench of her heart whether Harry was fooled—but how would he know? Miss Weasley would never have dreamed of behaving in such a way in front of Harry—and as long as Miss Weasley had her way and her wishes were satisfied, Hermione knew that Miss Weasley could be a perfectly agreeable, even charming, companion.

Harry offered his arm to Hermione with his usual courtesy. Hermione hesitated almost imperceptibly before she rested her hand on his arm, choosing the more formal gesture rather than the more intimate one of tucking her arm into his, as she usually did. She knew Harry would guess there was something amiss just with that one small change and her hesitation but she could not have borne to walk with her arm tucked into his, as they had before. If she did, if she felt his warmth against her arm, she just knew she would do something unforgivably stupid, like cry.

She sensed Harry’s gaze on her but kept her face averted, thankful for once for having to wear a bonnet that served as an effective shield. “What did you need to discuss with me?” she asked and congratulated herself that she sounded normal.

“You looked like you wanted rescuing,” he answered, softly enough to guarantee that no one but she could hear him, not that it was truly necessary as they were walking away from everyone else and back towards the house.

Hermione flinched inwardly. So much for her calm façade. How was it possible that he could understand her so well? Why was it possible? He shouldn’t be able to read her so easily if he didn’t love her…

“What did she say to you?”

Hermione hesitated but pride and years of etiquette won out. “It was nothing of consequence.”

“I don’t believe that,” Harry said quietly. “If she said anything to you…”

He left his sentence unfinished but the implications of it were clear and the concern and the caring in his tone were her undoing.

And she found herself blurting out a question she’d never meant to ask, had promised herself she would never ask, unmindful of the blunt impropriety of the question. “Did you love her?” She did not—she could not—ask if he still loved her…

“What—is that what she said?” Harry demanded.

“No,” Hermione lied immediately. “I—I wanted to know after talking with her--but you don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry,” she added hastily, unhappily, her momentary impulse of almost morbid curiosity over.

“No,” Harry said flatly.

“No?”

“No, I didn’t love her. I thought I could love her, thought that was all that mattered, but I didn’t know.”

Something in his tone finally gave her the courage to look up at him, trying to search his eyes. “Didn’t know what?”

His steps slowed but didn’t stop, his eyes fixed on the grass beneath their feet, as he spoke thoughtfully. “I didn’t know what love was. I didn’t know that there was more to love, more to marriage, than a pretty face and pretty manners. I never stopped to think about it, to truly consider, what it meant to spend my life with someone. Beauty and the usual lady-like accomplishments of singing and sewing and what-not, along with a bright and witty manner—that was what I thought was needed. After all, it is Society’s ideal, is it not?” He infused the question with a slightly sardonic tinge, looking up at her. And what she saw—what she thought she saw—in his eyes set her heart to fluttering wildly in her chest even more than his words already had.

Now he stopped walking, turning to face her. “I never thought about what it would be like to spend my life with someone else. I never thought about what it would be like to come home to someone, what it would be like to see that person across the table every day.”

“But then Lady Danvers said what she did and you were forced into marrying me,” she blurted out, uncaring that she was revealing one tiny corner of her heart that still hurt at the thought that he had been forced into this. He hadn’t wanted to marry her… No matter how kind he was, no matter how considerate he was, always, always, the knowledge lurked in her heart, subtly, stealthily poisoning her happiness with doubt. He hadn’t wanted to marry her… He was making the best of a bad situation, wasn’t blaming her—but he hadn’t wanted to marry her either…

He stopped her words with his thumb, his hand cupping her chin as his fingers lightly brushed her cheek, his thumb moving slowly back and forth over her lips with a touch as light as a butterfly’s caress.

He might as well have stopped her lungs as well as her words; she forgot to breathe, could only think-- no, not think, she couldn’t think-- could only feel that light, mesmerizing brush of his fingers and the intimacy of his hand cupping her chin.

His lips curved ever so slightly in the ghost of a smile, his eyes lightening. “Dear Lady Danvers. I’m grateful to her every day for ensuring that I did marry you—and I learned what it meant to be married… I never thought about the importance of companionship in marriage, that one should find comfort, understanding, friendship in marriage… as well as desire,” he added, his voice becoming slightly softer, huskier, on the last four words.

She felt herself flush from his tone, his words, and from all the memories, the images, they conjured up in her mind, her body suddenly much warmer as if the sun had decided to direct all its warmth solely on her.

“I didn’t expect it, didn’t know it would happen. But, Hermione,” he said, his voice suddenly much softer and so suffused with unmistakable tenderness that happiness was already breaking over her like a wave, even before he finished his sentence, “I fell in love with you.”

Her mind had stopped functioning some time ago, her entire being focusing on his touch and his tone and his look and his words, but she found enough coherence to confess, “Oh, Harry, I love you too.”

The slight smile in his eyes and playing on his lips deepened a little. “I know.”

She felt herself blush, some part of her pride rebelling, in spite of her happiness, at the thought that she might have been so obvious. Surely he hadn’t always known…

“I may not have been the top of our class at Hogwarts, that honor being reserved for one very dear friend of mine,” he added teasingly with a smile, before he went on, more soberly, “but I think I know enough to recognize love in the way you’ve kissed me and touched me…” his voice lowering, becoming husky.

Hermione’s cheeks flamed, even as she knew a moment of vague relief. He hadn’t always known but perhaps, his love had helped him recognize hers… “Harry…” she breathed, just his name but he heard and recognized the desire in her voice and in her eyes.

Heat flared in his eyes as he stepped infinitesimally closer to her, his hand still cupping her chin and neither of them knew whether she turned her face up towards his or whether he nudged her face up…

But then he belatedly realized where they were, that they were still out on the lawn in full view of their guests, the Weasleys and Remus and Miss Lovegood, and forcibly stopped himself, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Next time I suggest we have a house party, kindly tell me I’m being a fool and refuse. I’d much rather be free to kiss you whenever and wherever I please.”

“Kiss me anyway.” The words slipped from her lips, surprising her almost as much as they surprised him.

If she had had any power of coherent thought left, she might have reflected that, after all, their guests were few and close to being family. She might have thought that she would like to show Miss Weasley just how wrong she had been, that Harry might not always have loved her but he loved her now—and she was his wife, and always would be…

As it was, those considerations were far from her mind; indeed, she barely remembered that they were not alone. All of her thoughts, her mind, her body, were focused on him, on the tender light in his eyes mingling with the desire that sent a flush of heat through her body, arousal already beginning to make her skin tingle in delicious anticipation.

He loved her; he loved her; he loved her… And compared to that delightful truth, nothing else mattered.

Kiss me anyway. The words seemed to echo in his mind, an irresistible temptation—and a wonderful surprise. She could still surprise him; he loved that she could still surprise him.

“My love…” he murmured, without intent, without meaning to.

Hermione’s eyes glowed at the endearment, her body automatically, instinctively, shifting ever so slightly closer, as if wanting to get closer to the love he offered.

And she was so beautiful at that moment that all other concerns—for propriety, for shyness, for everything else—faded from his mind; indeed, he was having difficulty recalling his own name.

His lips curved slightly. “After all, what’s a little more scandal among family and friends?”

“What, indeed…” she breathed.

The words had hardly left her mouth before his lips closed over hers and he kissed her.

It was a gentle kiss, his lips just touching hers, as he kissed her tenderly, lingeringly, before he drew back reluctantly.

He wanted to deepen the kiss, to part her lips with his and feel all the delightful passion of her response—but not even he was quite so lost to the world as to do that.

She sighed softly as his lips left hers.

“I wish we were alone so I could kiss you more thoroughly,” Harry said softly. “I wasn’t going to say anything while everyone was here.”

She drew back a little, something about his words breaking through her haze of happiness. “And why weren’t you going to tell me? Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

He blinked. “Tell you I loved you?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you knew.”

“How would I know?”

He smiled a little, his hand cupping her cheek. “Hermione, what did you think all these past nights have been about?”

She blushed. “I thought it was about… desire,” she admitted, somewhat less than fluently, her cheeks blushing hotly (delightfully, Harry thought inconsequentially) at the word. “I know that it isn’t the same thing as love and I didn’t want to—to presume…”

He smiled at her choice of word. “You,” he said, half-lightly and half-affectionately, moving his hand to touch his finger to her nose in a teasing gesture, “think entirely too little of yourself. And as far as I’m concerned, my dear wife, you may presume all you wish.”

She flushed, something in his tone and his eyes as he said the words hinting at illicit (or licit, as the case may be, since they were married) encounters, of kisses, of hot, bare skin…

“But—I’m not the sort of woman most gentleman want as a wife,” she persisted, not sure why she was repeating this often-heard belief, that had always irritated her—and angered her, when she’d realized that it was, for the most part, sadly true.

“You are exactly the sort of wife any man with sense would want,” Harry countered. “Men of sense do not want silly wives. Did you really think I wouldn’t fall in love with you once I truly saw you for what you are?”

He paused and then added, teasingly, before she could respond, “You must think very little of me if you think I could be such a fool as to not fall in love with you.”

As he’d intended, this statement surprised a laugh out of her. “Harry, don’t be absurd.”

“How could I not fall in love with you? After everything you’ve been for me, of course I would fall in love with you.”

“Oh Harry…”

“That’s quite enough nonsense from you on your flaws as a wife,” he said with mock severity.

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” she murmured demurely enough but the sparkle in her eye and the smile playing on her lips belied the meek words—and made her look so adorable that he very nearly kissed her again.

He forcibly stopped himself—one small kiss in view of others was quite bad enough but two was beyond the pale (and he knew, too, that if he did kiss her again, he would not be able to keep it brief, would not be able to resist deepening the kiss.)

He sighed. “We are putting on quite a performance for our guests and neglecting them at the same time,” he said with an attempt at dignity.

“How shockingly remiss of us,” she replied, with somewhat more success than he had had in regaining her usual composure, although her tone was belied by her breathlessness and the glow in her eyes and heightened color.

He let his fingers brush her cheek in a light caress before he lowered his hand back to his side. “Duty calls, Mrs. Potter.”

“Yes,” she said simply but her eyes were bright as she smiled at him before they both turned back towards their guests, to find that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Remus had politely turned away and were feigning rapt absorption in the view, Miss Lovegood was studying them with her usual air of half-dreamy, half-detached curiosity, Ron was openly watching them with a wide grin, and Miss Weasley was staring at them with a look in which shock, disbelief, and dismay were about equally mingled.

Hermione felt herself blush hotly and, in her current uplifted mood, could almost (almost) find it in herself to pity Miss Weasley.

“Why did I decide having house guests was a good idea?” Harry muttered but his tone was mild, laced with humor.

Hermione fought a bubble of laughter from pure happiness and found herself saying, “Wait until tonight.” Then she felt a flicker of surprise at how her own voice had unconsciously softened, become low and husky—seductive—on that last word, making her meaning unmistakable. Dear Merlin, who could have known she could sound like that?

She sensed Harry’s surprise before he let out a brief, somewhat strained laugh. “Witch,” he accused, his voice low and with the hint of a growl in it, sending a slight, reactive shiver through her.

She met his eyes to see the heat in them before they parted, he to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and her to be greeted by an openly-grinning Ron and a smiling Mr. Lupin, whose approval was less blatant but no less sincere. And as she blushed and laughed at Ron’s teasing, her own words seemed to echo in her mind, anticipation tingling through her.

Wait until tonight… Oh yes, she was definitely looking forward to tonight…

~~

~ To be continued… with more fluff and more smut… and then this fic will be over, except for a short Epilogue.

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: Thank you, everyone, for reading this story so faithfully, in spite of the long wait between some updates. I’m absolutely amazed at the number of reviews this story has had—almost 900!!-- and so glad to know so many people enjoyed this story that much. And now, this is the last chapter and the end of this story, except for an Epilogue to come.

In which Ginny gets a little more punishment- followed by more smut and yet more fluff. Enjoy!

The Truth About Love

Chapter 14b: The Truth About Marriage

Miss Ginevra Weasley was not pleased.

She had to fight to keep her expression pleasant even as she wanted to glare at her, Hermione Gra—no, Hermione Potter, Ginny corrected herself with an inward grimace. It was all her fault, Ginny thought. Hermione’s fault for getting herself compromised—Ginny was quite sure that Hermione must have somehow planned for her staying overnight in the cabin with Mr. Potter and Ron to become public. If such a ploy would have worked for Ginny herself, she would have arranged to stay overnight with Ron and Mr. Potter as early as possible—except she knew it would not have worked as Ron would have served as an adequate chaperone so doing so would not have achieved anything. But for Hermione to plan such a thing and then, worse than that, succeed at it—it was the outside of enough!

Hermione was smiling and to Ginny, her every smile resembled a smirk as if she knew she’d won and was gloating over it. It was really the most infuriating thing.

Mr. Potter had belonged to Ginny. He’d wanted to marry her, Ginny knew it. But no, he’d had to do the honorable thing and marry Hermione and now it was all ruined. The perfect life she’d had planned, her perfect life with the handsome, wealthy and heroic husband, all the fine dresses and fine jewelry she’d already begun to think of, all ruined because of her.

Ginny narrowed her eyes as she studied Hermione, seated at the end of the dinner table opposite Mr. Potter. It was positively sickening to see Mr. Potter smile at Hermione from across the table and then how their eyes would meet and linger in what was clearly a private exchange. They looked like every bit of the happily enamoured couple. Ginny abruptly realized she had clenched her jaw and forcibly relaxed it, pasting her most winning smile on her face as she turned to Mr. Potter, only to realize that he was, still, watching Hermione with that soft expression in his eyes.

Ginny turned away, gritting her teeth as much as she could while still outwardly smiling. It didn’t make any sense! What could Mr. Potter possibly see in Hermione Potter? She was certainly no beauty; her hair was a very drab brown and almost wild in its curls and her eyes were very plain as well. She had no sense of what was fashionable; Ginny remembered quite well that Hermione had always been utterly incapable of carrying on a normal conversation on such basic topics as the latest bonnet styles or the merits of various Town modistes. Hermione wasn’t really a young lady at all, always more interested in the more masculine, unladylike pursuits like Defense Against the Dark Arts, than in any of the more ladylike subjects like embroidery. It was positively scandalous how hoydenish Hermione was! Ginny studied Hermione, attempting to view her in an objective manner, or attempting to find what Mr. Potter saw in her but failed. Mrs. Potter’s gown was a plain one, almost completely devoid of ornamentation and frills, and her only jewelry aside from her wedding ring was a very simple, very plain gold chain. Ginny simply could not understand it. Mrs. Potter had no beauty, little charm, little sense of what was truly proper for a young lady—and yet, it was at her that Mr. Potter stared with that tender expression, at her that Mr. Potter smiled… And it was her whom Mr. Potter had kissed with so much palpable tenderness that afternoon—scandalous, yes, but yet more visible proof that Mr. Potter was safely married and therefore entirely out of her reach.

Worse, Ginny could not even detect the slightest shred of regret in Mr. Potter for having married! Ginny could not believe it. For what other reason had she been anticipating this house party if not to see some sign of regret for what he’d lost? Ginny didn’t want Mr. Potter to be miserable; all she’d wanted, all she’d really expected, was some sign—a sigh or a look, perhaps—to show that Mr. Potter felt some regret, some wistfulness at the thought of what he’d lost. Some indication that Mr. Potter wished, in his heart of hearts, that he’d married Ginny instead of his hoyden wife.

Instead, Ginny was being forced to witness Mr. Potter gazing at his wife as if she were the most beautiful woman in the world, generally behaving very much like a besotted husband. And, adding insult to injury, Mr. Potter’s manner to Ginny herself left much to be desired. Oh, he was scrupulously courteous and agreeable, as any host should be, but there was very little special warmth in his manner, no particular attentiveness. Even earlier that day when Ginny had deliberately engaged Mr. Potter’s attention by asking about Quidditch, he had answered her questions with good humor and perfect courtesy, yes, but with detachment as well. It was as if Mr. Potter had entirely forgotten that he’d once wanted to court Ginny at all, as if Mr. Potter had never even thought of marrying anyone other than Hermione at all.

It was all entirely unaccountable and very disagreeable. Ginny fought the impulse to scowl down at her plate.

She heard Ron make some remark to Harry and his jocular tone grated on Ginny’s nerves until she could have cheerfully slapped her brother for being so utterly oblivious to Ginny’s own humiliation and anger.

And Ginny could only fix a baleful gaze on Hermione Potter and writhe inwardly in a silent agony of helpless anger and resentment. Her anger was futile, Ginny acknowledged, and the knowledge only served to increase her resentment.

Hermione had won; she was married to Harry Potter and, even if Ginny found it entirely incomprehensible, Mr. Potter seemed quite besotted with Hermione. It was beyond infuriating and Ginny could only wish, desperately, that this entire, interminable day would end soon and this ill-fated house party would be over quickly without any more nauseating displays of Mr. Potter’s affection for Hermione.

If he had but known it, Harry might have been surprised to know that his and Ginny’s thoughts and wishes were running along very similar lines at that moment, albeit for very different reasons.

He could swear this particular meal, this day in general, was lasting twice as long as it normally did. All when he was in a positive fever of anticipation for that night and when he could finally be alone with Hermione again. He hadn’t had a moment’s chance of a private tete-a-tete with Hermione all day with the exception of that all-too-brief (and still public) interlude that afternoon.

What had he been thinking to think hosting a house party was a wise idea? He inwardly grimaced. More fool him.

At this rate, marriage seemed likely to turn him into a veritable hermit.

Harry sat in his dining room with only those who were nearest and dearest to him and found himself quite candidly wishing that every one of his guests were in Egypt or on the continent or, at the very least, in Town, anywhere so long as they were not there, in his house. He wanted to be alone with Hermione, wanted to be sitting close by her so he could talk to her and listen to her and, occasionally, reach over to touch her hand.

Instead, he found himself separated from Hermione by the length of the dining room table and quite unable to have any private conversation with her.

Although being seated where he was did allow him to keep his gaze on her. She was so beautiful, this wife of his, his Hermione… He glanced at Miss Lovegood, smiling as she listened to what Mr. Weasley was saying, and then at Miss Weasley, who he’d always before thought was so lovely, before he looked back at Hermione, deciding that Hermione really was—in his probably biased opinion—the most beautiful woman ever. He didn’t know how he could have known her for so many years and not noticed it, not seen it, but he could only think that he must have been willfully blind.

She was smiling a little as she listened to Remus but more than that was the intensity of her concentration on whatever Remus was saying. He knew her well enough to recognize when she was eating absently, not paying attention to what she ate, could recognize the absorbed look on her face. He felt a flicker of curiosity as to what Remus was telling Hermione and made a mental note to ask Hermione later.

Later… The word brought up Hermione’s earlier promise of waiting until tonight and distracted his thoughts from his idle curiosity to focus on her and on all he wished he could do to her and with her…

His eyes wandered leisurely over her face and down the graceful curve of her neck and chin, the smooth skin revealed by the relatively low bodice of her evening gown, modest as it was. As usual, several strands of her hair had escaped from her coiffure and were dangling down, just brushing the nape of her neck, the lovely curve where her neck met her shoulder. He wanted to bury his lips in that spot, taste her skin, hear the delicious little gasps she gave whenever he touched her like that…

Harry fought the urge to squirm, wrenching his gaze away from his too-enticing wife and trying to focus on Ron, who was saying something (of which Harry had heard very little). Ron looked at him expectantly and Harry quickly made a noncommittal sound of agreement before taking a rather undignified bite of food to avoid anything further. Fortunately, Ron didn’t seem to see anything odd and continued on while Harry made a valiant effort to listen.

Marriage or, more accurately, love, was certainly opening his eyes to new experiences—although Harry rather thought he could have lived without his current experience of sitting in the dining room in public while half-aroused and knowing that he would simply have to endure it for hours yet.

He was never going to invite guests to his house again. Or at least not until this ever-present desire for Hermione somehow waned—although he couldn’t imagine that really happening. He really wasn’t going to host another house party ever again, he decided. Not when he had a wife who was infinitely more distracting and desirable than any guest could possibly be.

But his decision still meant he needed to endure the rest of this evening, to say nothing of the next couple days of this party.

It was in this not-very-hospitable state of mind that Harry resolutely turned his mind to what he should be doing as the host and listening to what Ron was saying.

But before he did, he couldn’t resist one last, quick glance at Hermione, meeting her eyes as she gave him a small, private smile and even at that distance, he fancied he could see the promise in her eyes, the slight blush on her cheeks, before she returned her gaze and her attention to Remus.

And Harry made a valiant effort to give his complete attention to Ron.

Just a few more hours… A few more hours and then he could be with Hermione again…

All things do come to an end and the seemingly interminable supper ended and then, some time later, Mrs. Weasley was the first one to stand and say she was going to retire. (Harry had to fight to suppress the urge to sound too enthusiastic over that idea.)

Mr. Weasley lingered a little while longer before he too retired, followed almost immediately by Miss Weasley. Miss Lovegood remained for a short time before retiring as well.

Harry glanced at Hermione as she gave Ron and Remus a smile before saying, “I will leave you gentlemen to your conversation.” She glanced at Harry, meeting his eyes and he read her unspoken thought in her eyes as clearly as if she’d spoken it aloud. Hurry upstairs. And it was as much as Harry could do to keep from following her out of the parlor as she left.

Harry suppressed a sigh as he resumed his seat and looked towards Ron and Remus, seeing the slight, knowing smile on Remus’ face.

Ron opened his lips and Harry waited tensely, waiting for Ron to say that he, too, would retire only to hear Ron’s voice say, instead, with the most ingenuous joviality, “I say, Harry, what do you say we try some of that remarkable brandy you mentioned earlier?”

Harry wanted desperately to refuse but good manners and his duties as host prevailed and he agreed with as much alacrity as he could muster.

Never mind the years of friendship, he reflected, as they adjourned to his study and waited for Dobby to bring the brandy. He was going to kill Ron. That was all. Really. If Ron insisted on lingering for any longer than a few minutes…

~~

Harry walked as swiftly as he could without actually breaking into an undignified run down the silent corridor until he reached his bedchamber, the only door under which a light was visible.

He entered the room and lost his breath at the sight that greeted him. And any last remnants of irritation and impatience he’d been feeling vanished, a surge of love and lust filling him until there was no room for any other emotion. She was all he’d ever wanted or dreamed of in his life…

Hermione was sitting up in his bed reading a book which she put away once he entered, as she looked up and smiled at him, gloriously. This wasn’t the more restrained smile she used in public occasions, or the more formal, meaningless social smile she could call forth; this was an open, utterly honest smile that glowed in her eyes and illuminated her face and warmed his heart at the sight of it—all the more because he knew perfectly well that he was the only person who would ever see her smile like this.

She was wearing a nightgown of such a gauzy material that it rather called attention to the curves it purported to conceal, the thin material flowing over her body in such a way that the curves of her breasts were clearly outlined and he could just see hints of the slightly darker aureoles of her nipples. He felt a flash of heat go through his body, his body reacting immediately to the sight. Merlin, she was so lovely…

Blast Ron anyway! He should have been rude and simply left Ron to his own devices.

“I hope you enjoyed your conversation with Ron and Mr. Lupin.”

He made an eloquent face. “Ron was being very tiresome and swilling our brandy as if he were dying of thirst.”

Hermione laughed. “What an ungenerous thing to say, Harry,” she chided mildly. “Ron isn’t to blame for your impatience.”

“Perhaps not,” Harry conceded, shrugging out of his coat and undoing his cravat. “But he could easily have retired sooner than he did, lingering over his brandy the way he did. We’ll see how he likes it if someone ever does the same when he has a wife warming his bed.” He paused at her soft laughter, knowing she knew that he was pretending to rather more irritation than he felt. He tossed his waistcoat onto the dresser before continuing, “And Remus was not much more helpful. They will see if they are ever invited here again,” he threatened with mock severity.

“You may not invite them but I certainly will,” Hermione retorted teasingly. “I, for one, have been very much enjoying Mr. Lupin’s company.”

“Yes, I could see that,” Harry said, pretending disgruntlement. “What were you and he discussing over supper and afterwards that thrilled you so?”

“He was telling me more about his experiences with Defense Against the Dark Arts and we have arranged that he will return in a se’nnight for my first lesson.”

“It is nice to know my wife sees fit to consult me before inviting guests to our home,” Harry said ironically, addressing the air. “You are very fortunate that I am not more inclined to be a jealous husband,” he informed Hermione with mock seriousness that was entirely belied by the teasing smile he could not help.

She laughed softly, reaching for him as he slid into bed beside her. “Oh yes, I’ve long known that I am most fortunate in my husband.”

“Good. See that you do not forget it,” he breathed, brushing his lips against her temple and then down, lightly feathering kisses along the curve of her cheek.

“Never,” she promised softly just before his lips found hers and he kissed her fully.

She melted against him, as always, her lips parting, yielding. What he wanted, she gave with the same open generosity that never failed to captivate him.

His hand cupped the nape of her neck gently, holding her in place, as he shifted above her, pressing her into the pillows. He could feel the thin material of her nightgown against his bare chest and through it, the heat and the softness of her skin, could feel her nipples as they peaked and hardened against his chest.

His other hand slid irresistibly down her body to cup her breast as she arched against him, making a soft sound in the back of her throat.

He cupped and kneaded and pleasured her through her nightgown until she had to fight to breathe, had no coherence left but could only strain towards him, urging him on. The material of her nightgown was thin enough that it wasn’t a barrier at all but it was still too much. She wanted to feel his skin against hers.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders and moved restlessly, impatiently, greedy for the feel of his skin, the taut muscles of his back and lower still.

She felt a sharp stab of loss when his hands ceased their caresses only to realize a second later that he was tugging her nightgown up and she arched, lifting her hips obligingly so he could slide the nightgown up all the way. And she just felt the touch of cool air against her now-bare skin before his body was back, settling over hers, covering her and there was only the heat of him.

A shiver of anticipation and arousal passed through her, feeling her body soften, mold itself against his as she brought his lips back to hers to kiss him with all the passion in her soul, all the love and all the lust she felt. Her tongue flicked against the corners of his lips, tangled with his tongue, as she kissed him with all the sensual skill and knowledge she could muster.

He finally broke the kiss on a gasp, his lips moving on, skating down the line of her chin, finding the sensitive spot just under her earlobe and then down further, leaving a trail of soft, damp kisses along her neck until she was moaning and arching under him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured indistinctly against her skin, the feel of his lips, the low, husky sound of his voice, his words spilling over her skin, faintly tickling, titillating, the sensations blurring together until she could swear she physically felt every syllable.

“Harry…” His name escaped her lips on a half-moan, half-sigh, without her even realizing she had spoken.

Her fingers tangled in his hair intending to tug him upwards so she could kiss him but then he lowered his lips to her skin again, his lips leaving a leisurely trail of soft, damp, open-mouthed kisses down from her breasts, down her stomach, and further…

He kissed, he licked, he savored—she lost her mind.

Her fingers tightened mindlessly in his hair and then relaxed on a fresh wave of pleasure as he traced the curve of her hip with his tongue.

She was dying, her body burning up beneath his lips and hands; she was gasping for breath, desperate and needy and squirming under him. Surely—surely—he would cease this delicious torment soon… Surely—surely—he would move back up and ease into her, fill the emptiness inside her…

His lips travelled lower, along her upper thigh and then—and then she could feel the hot puff of his breath against her thigh and there, that most secret, most intimate part of her body…

It was too much sensation, too much pleasure—it felt wicked, sinful… decadent… irresistible…

Surely he wouldn’t—he couldn’t—

He would—he could—and he did…

Her lips had parted, on a breath or a protest, she wasn’t sure and never found out, because at that moment, he lowered his lips again and kissed her there--

All the breath—her remaining wits—left her on a strangled cry. And she forgot to protest, forgot to breathe, forgot where she was, her own name, forgot everything except the unbelievable, shocking—thrilling—intimacy of his lips on that most secret part of her body.

Liquid fire was streaking through her veins from the spot where his lips and tongue were moving on her body, exploring, worshipping, learning her in the most intimate way a man could learn a woman.

She felt as if something, some madness, had taken possession of her body, her hips twisting, arching, under him of their own volition, small, breathless cries and moans tripping from her lips as she writhed under his touch. And then all the tension, all the building pleasure, reached its peak and exploded inside her in a burst of glory.

When she returned to an awareness of her surroundings, it was to find that Harry had moved back up on the bed, his hand resting on her stomach and moving in idle, almost soothing caresses, as he watched her with a look of arousal mingled in with so much tenderness it made her breath catch in her throat and she could only think, vaguely, that she would never doubt his feelings for her again. All the love she’d ever dreamed he might feel was clear to be seen in his eyes at that moment.

“Oh, my…” The words trembled on her lips on a sighing breath. Had she thought she knew what pleasure was to be found in the marriage bed? She hadn’t; it had been a pale imitation of this, what she’d felt tonight. Clearly, loving—and knowing that she was loved—had a powerful effect on love-making. “That was… lovely…”

“You’re lovely.” The words were spoken so simply and so obviously sincerely that the trite words were somehow invested with fresh meaning, almost as if they’d never yet been spoken by anyone, or at least not with so much feeling.

Harry could swear he’d stopped breathing as he watched Hermione, an odd triumph (as if this were the first time) mingling with his fierce desire to know that he’d given her this, he’d brought her to this peak of pleasure.

He had been a little uncertain, doing something which he’d only heard spoken of in whispers and bawdy euphemisms among circles of men when they were discussing women and what gave them pleasure—but nothing had told him that it would incite his own desires to such an extent, that it would give him such pleasure to pleasure her, to taste her, explore the wet, soft, heated mystery of her body with his lips and his tongue… And then to see her, hear her, as she came…

She was the sweetest, loveliest thing he’d ever seen. And while he’d long known of her honesty, it had only been lately that he’d realized what it meant for love-making and then it was to find that the utter transparency of her pleasure and of her passion was an aphrodisiac like no other. She was too honest to hide her feelings or her thoughts and too honest to hide or even think to hide her reactions. And he loved that about her, loved not only her responsiveness and the passion of her but also loved the unabashed sincerity of her passion, the sensuality she didn’t think to hide. She was so giving… In every way, in the bedroom and out of it. Outside of the bedchamber, she gave of her caring and her loyalty and her cleverness; it was why she was incapable of standing by when she saw an injustice. And in the bedchamber, she gave of herself, all the passion and the natural sensuality of her nature, with an honesty and a generosity that enthralled him, ensnared him.

All the more so because, somehow, in spite of his blindness about her until recently, Hermione—and all her honesty, all her generosity, all her passion—was his…

“Harry…” she breathed, sliding one hand behind his neck to bring his lips to hers—not that he needed much urging.

He cupped her cheek with one hand as he kissed her, his lips on hers, his tongue exploring her mouth as her lips softened and parted for him. And as always, he felt as if he were sinking into her, gave himself up to the heat of her and the softness of her and the taste of her.

She shifted beneath him, her body adjusting to his, molding to his, with the innate, instinctive sensuality that took his breath away and then he felt her hand slip in between their bodies and wrap around him.

God! She was going to be the death of him.

He tore his hips from hers on a sharp gasp, his body rigid with lust, as he looked down at her, seeing the hint of a smile curve her lips, the touch of smugness in her expression.

“I want you,” she told him simply and then, suiting her action to her words, tightened her hand around him, wrenching a groan from his chest before he gave in.

He couldn’t resist her, even if he’d wanted to. He flattened his lips on hers, kissing her long and deeply, his body lowering over hers, as her legs parted for him, and he slid inside her wet heat in one smooth motion.

He stopped for the barest instant when he was fully inside her, his eyes almost rolling back in his head at the exquisite agony of feeling her, tight and hot and wet, surrounding him.

“Harry,” she breathed and then tightened her muscles around him, her arms and her legs wrapping around him, encouraging, welcoming him, urging him on.

“Hermione…” Her name was a rough, guttural sound just before he kissed her as his hips began to move, withdrawing and then returning.

She met and matched his movements with her own, her hips arching up to meet him, her arms clutching at his shoulders, her legs wrapping around him.

His heartbeat was thundering in his ears but even so, he was aware of the tiny, soft sounds she made, the small gasps and little moans, the familiar and ever-erotic sounds of her arousal. He loved it all, gloried in it, everything about this—the sounds she made, the taste of her, the heat of her, the responsiveness of her…

One of his hands cupped, curved around her breast, his fingers brushing her hardened nipples, and she cried out. His other hand slid down her body in a long caress until he found the swollen, wet center of her where they were joined--

She screamed, her scream swallowed by his lips as he kissed her, feeling his hips speed up their movements, feeling the tension building, building…

She cried out again, her muscles convulsing around him, and just like that, the feel of her tightening around him pushed him over the edge and he died, the explosion rocking him, shaking him, stealing his breath and his mind.

She did that to him, the heat of her, the softness of her, drawing him with her—and he could only respond, gave her his life and his heart and his very soul…

He collapsed on top of her, his heart feeling as if it was trying to pound its way out of his chest, and tried to breathe, tried to move. Tried—and failed.

How long he lay there, he didn’t know, but then she shifted a little, and he belatedly realized he must be crushing her and managed to roll over onto his side, his body slipping out of hers.

He drew her with him, keeping her warmth against him, and she came willingly, her body softening, molding against his, as if it was where she’d always been meant to be.

He closed his eyes and luxuriated in the feel of her against him, the press of her breasts against him, the warm weight of her as she lay half above him, one of her legs tangled with his… He never wanted to move again.

He felt rather than heard her soft, contented sigh, her breath lightly tickling his skin, a moment before he heard her murmur, softly, “I love you.”

He smiled to himself, feeling those three words, I love you, twine around his heart, seep into it, filling his heart with an emotion he’d never felt before, filling him with the truth of them. The truth of her love for him—and of his for her.

“I know.”

He sensed her slight smile. “That was not the right answer,” she informed him teasingly. She moved her head, propping her chin on his chest so she could meet his eyes. “You’re supposed to say, I love you too.”

He gave her a look of exaggerated innocence and surprise. “Oh, was I? How remiss of me. And how fortunate that I have a wife who is always willing to tell me what to do.”

He deliberately said nothing more, waited until he saw the laughter in her eyes, curving her lips, as her lips parted, on a teasing scold, he knew—before he added, softly, “You know I love you.”

His words clearly sidetracked what she’d been about to say and she stopped, blinking for a moment, while he enjoyed the sight of her (it wasn’t often that he could see his Hermione momentarily at a loss for words). But then she smiled, a brilliant smile, a smile that glowed in her eyes and illuminated her entire face until she was so lovely it brought an odd ache to his chest just to look at her and to know that this expression was for him, because of him…

“Oh, Harry…” she sighed just before she stretched up to kiss him, softly, her lips lingering on his, as his hand swept up her back in a long caress before his fingers tangled in her hair, keeping her head in place.

The kiss ended slowly and when it was over, Hermione nestled back against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

He tightened his arms around her almost imperceptibly, feeling his body relax, peace and happiness settling over him like a blanket, warm and comforting.

This was happiness, the thought drifted through his mind. Happiness—soul-deep and true—to be here, feeling the warm weight of Hermione’s body against his side, knowing that he loved her and she loved him. It was, he realized, like a deepening of the comfort he had always felt with Hermione, a more intense version of comfort, if that made any sense. He had always been comfortable with Hermione, had always felt at ease with her. And that feeling was only deeper now, a deeper trust. He had trusted her with his secrets and with his life for years and now, it seemed only natural to trust her with his heart, with his very soul, even…

It wasn’t long before Hermione’s breathing became deep and even and he realized she’d fallen asleep.

He felt a wave of tenderness and shifted to pull the covers up over them, moving carefully so as not to jostle her sleeping form.

A shaft of moonlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating her face, and he turned his head on his pillow just enough to look at her, wondering when watching her sleep had become such an enjoyable pastime.

She looked… different… in sleep, softer somehow, more vulnerable, even fragile, with her features relaxed as they were. And even though he, of all people, knew that the impression of fragility was misleading, something about the sight of her now caught at his heart. Seeing her sleeping like this made him want to keep her wrapped in safety and security and happiness forever.

He suddenly found himself remembering the only other times he had ever seen Hermione asleep before they’d been married, those times she had come to where he and Ron were in hiding because she had found something out. (Those fateful times that Lady Danvers had somehow heard about and used to force them into this marriage, and he found himself thinking that after all, that scandal had ended up being the best thing that had ever happened to him.) The first time had been because she had figured out where one of the horcruxes must be hidden, the second when she had found a spell which she thought would be useful in defeating Voldemort (and it had been; it had been that spell which, more than any other, saved his life, a spell to separate a soul from its body). Both times she had been almost haggard with exhaustion and had then dozed off in her chair. And he had not had the heart to wake her, had only covered her with a blanket and slipped away to his own room, although he had usually not slept.

Now, months later, he remembered it with a rush of gratitude and tenderness which he hadn’t felt then, preoccupied as he’d been with the War. Perhaps, after all, this love had really begun then, so many months ago, with all her loyalty and her friendship and her courage, when she had never permitted anything, any rule of Hogwarts or of propriety (which she had scornfully shrugged off as being silly when his life or death was at stake) to keep her from helping him. Perhaps, just perhaps, this feeling had always been there, just waiting for him to realize it, and the only aspect which was truly new was his desire…

He really did not know when he’d begun to love her so, could not even remember exactly when he had realized he loved her. But, after all, he didn’t need to know when it had happened. All he needed to know was that it had.

He shifted a little, his body adjusting to a more comfortable position and then he stopped as Hermione stirred a little restlessly.

He brushed his lips against her forehead, his hand moving on her bare back in a slow caress, and she nestled in closer to him, a soft, wordless murmur escaping her lips.

So very dear, so precious to him…

“My love,” he breathed softly, even though he knew she wouldn’t hear him in her sleep but simply to say the words, feel the truth of them again.

She was his best friend, his comfort and his strength… She was his love—as, perhaps, in some strange way, she always had been meant to be.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift into sleep, content in the knowledge that she was there, beside him, and always would be.

~(Almost) the end…

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: It’s finally finished! After nearly two years and more than 125 pages in Word, this is the end of ‘The Truth About Love’. Many, many thanks to all of you who’ve read and reviewed this story so far and thank you for being so patient in waiting for this.

For madderbrad- who wanted a perfect happily-ever-after.

The Truth About Love

Epilogue: Perfect

Harry turned and looked up when he heard her step on the stairs—looked and stared. He barely managed to keep his jaw from dropping, barely managed to keep from drooling.

Good Lord.

She’d told him she’d ordered a new gown from her modiste just for tonight, their first ball together as a married couple. He couldn’t decide whether to give her modiste an outrageous bonus or a severe lecture.

He’d married a goddess, a seductive siren.

The gown was a deep, sapphire blue—a color she had not been able to wear before, limited as she had been to the pastels that were de rigeur for unmarried, young ladies—and while she’d never been anything less than lovely in his eyes in those pale colors, he’d never thought, never realized, that with her darker coloring, she could easily wear darker colors as well. As for this color—it suited her perfectly. The contrast with her skin made her skin seem even fairer until he could almost swear she glowed in the candlelight. The color added a luster and a richness to her hair, lent an added brilliance to her eyes.

And all that was entirely incidental to what the material and the cut of the dress did for her figure, the shining silk neatly limning her figure, not tightly but it didn’t need to. The effect was subtler than that but no less potent. The way the material clung and then flowed over the curve of her hips only served to subtly hint at the curves of her body. It was desire disguised as clothing, almost guaranteed to make any red-blooded male begin imagining the body only hinted at within the dress; to him, who knew every inch of what was covered by the dress, it did more than that because he didn’t need to imagine.

Watching her descend the stairs toward him almost did him in. He was never going to be able to take his eyes off of her tonight.

He wondered why such gowns had not been outlawed yet.

Hermione came to a stop before Harry, smiling, entirely satisfied with his reaction.

Just months ago, she might have planned such a gown with the intention of ensuring that no other woman even had a chance to try and attract him; she knew quite well that Harry would be even more attractive to some of the bored matrons now that he was safely married. Not that she was worried. She had too much confidence and faith in Harry to worry over that. But looking her best had its own rewards; she admitted to enough feminine vanity to want to be beautiful for Harry. And now, seeing the glazed expression in his eyes followed by the flicker of heat as his gaze wandered over her, the way his eyes darkened, made all the expense of the gown and the thought she’d put into it quite worth it.

“Do I meet with your approval, Mr. Potter?” she asked teasingly.

He couldn’t believe he was going to allow her to be seen in public in the gown, he thought but knew better than to say aloud. Aloud, he said only, “You take my breath away.”

Hermione smiled, reaching up to brush her lips lightly against his. “Thank you.” She drew back, letting one hand smooth down his coat in a familiar gesture, half a caress. “You look very handsome yourself.”

He relaxed into a smile, inordinately pleased at her simple compliment. “Well, then, shall we go?”

He offered her his arm in a gesture of exaggerated courtliness and she accepted, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm with a smile.

It was entirely different, Hermione told herself bracingly. There wasn’t the slightest reason to feel at all apprehensive over this evening.

Yes, tonight was the first time she and Harry were attending a formal event, this ball to mark the official end of the London Season and one that could not be missed by anyone absent some dire circumstances, but she was not the same person she had been months ago at Lord Westerfield’s ball. She was Mrs. Hermione Potter now and she was secure in her position and in Harry’s love.

And yet, for all her encouraging thoughts, she couldn’t quite suppress the tiny flicker of nervousness as she and Harry waited in the line to be announced. She couldn’t even have told why except that she disliked knowing she would be the cynosure of so many eyes, not all of whom would be friendly and many of whom, she knew, would be watching only to find fault. (Succeeding in snaring the most eligible bachelor of the Wizarding world was not something that would increase her popularity to any degree.)

“Nervous?” Harry murmured beside her, almost as if he’d read her thoughts—which he probably had, in this case. Hermione had rather become accustomed to the realization that Harry truly did know her well enough to be able to guess her thoughts in most times.

She turned to look at him, seeing the reassuring warmth in his eyes as he met hers, and was suddenly able to smile at him with complete sincerity. “Not at all,” she said—and it was, remarkably, true, she realized. She wasn’t nervous, could not be nervous, not with him beside her.

His lips quirked slightly. “Good because I’m terrified.”

She choked on a soft laugh. “Why?”

He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “You know I hate being the center of attention and these large Society events are the worst. You won’t mind if I try to hide behind your skirts, will you?”

She laughed and was barely conscious of the footman’s announcement, his voice ringing out clearly over the buzz of conversation in the ballroom, “Mr. and Mrs. Harry Potter!”

And so it was that the first glimpse most of wizarding Society had of Harry Potter and his new wife was of her laughing expression turned up to his face as he smiled down at her—before they both realized, belatedly, that they’d been announced.

The fleeting silence that had fallen after the announcement swelled and stirred into an even louder buzz, everyone’s heads coming together to comment and react to their appearance.

“Once more unto the breach,” Harry murmured into her ear as they made their way into the ballroom, exchanging smiles and nods with those of their acquaintance before pausing to greet Minister Bartlett.

“Mr. Potter!”

The voice was unmistakable and Hermione stiffened a little as she turned along with Harry to face Lady Danvers.

She noted that Harry’s smile was quite sincere and remembered him saying that he was actually grateful to Lady Danvers for making it so that they must marry. (Put like that, Hermione was grateful to Lady Danvers as well.)

“Lady Danvers,” Harry greeted. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

“No, it’s not,” she contradicted, “but it’s nice of you to say so.”

Hermione had to bite her lip to keep back a bubble of laughter and then found it wasn’t necessary as her impulse to laugh died as quickly as it had arisen as she found her gaze pinned by the too-acute gaze of Lady Danvers.

“Mr. Potter,” Lady Danvers ordered crisply, although she kept her eyes on Hermione, “present me to your wife.”

Hermione sensed Harry’s surprise, felt the slight tensing of his arm beneath her hand before he moved his other hand to cover hers for a fleeting moment, a silent gesture of reassurance and protectiveness. (Not that she really needed it. With Harry beside her, she felt as if she wouldn’t care if all of wizarding Society decided to give her the cut direct.) But all he said was, “Certainly. Lady Danvers, my wife, Hermione.”

Hermione dipped into a curtsy of just the right depth—suited to Lady Danvers’ superior rank and age but not at all fawning-- before raising her head to meet Lady Danvers’ gaze directly and was surprised to see that Lady Danvers was actually smiling and nodding in approval. “Very good. I knew I would like you.”

Hermione stared and felt Harry’s surprise as well before he blurted out, rather incautiously, “I beg your pardon?”

Lady Danvers looked at Harry, her expression almost… kindly? “I knew from what I’d heard of you and of your wife from Minerva McGonagall that she had spirit.”

“Professor McGonagall spoke to you about us?” Hermione heard herself say, almost without realizing she was going to speak. She felt Harry’s quick glance at her but kept her eyes on Lady Danvers.

“Certainly and all I heard convinced me that you would be the perfect wife for Mr. Potter here.”

“How could you possibly have known that?” Harry asked bluntly, unmindful of propriety.

Lady Danvers’ smile widened. “I knew your parents and I have heard quite a bit about you over the years from both Albus Dumbledore and Minerva, Mr. Potter, and all I heard convinced me that you were enough like your father that you would need a proper wife with some spirit.”

She moved closer, lowering her voice with an air of one about to reveal a great secret. “And when I heard from Minerva that she thought you admired the Weasley chit, I decided to take matters into my own hands. The Weasley chit is certainly pretty enough but it did not take much to see that she would never do for your wife; she doesn’t have two serious thoughts to rub together and she would certainly never be able to keep you in line. No son of your father’s could do with some silly chit for a wife.”

“Do you mean to say that you plotted to cut Hermione and force us to marry?” There was a slight edge to Harry’s voice now and Hermione squeezed his arm lightly where her hand rested on it.

“Certainly I planned it. Do you think I give people the cut direct for no reason or that I really imagined for one moment that anything untoward had happened between you two?” Lady Danvers looked almost affronted.

Harry opened his lips to respond but subsided, closing his mouth, as Lady Danvers continued on. “No one with half the sense God gave a sheep would truly imagine that anything improper had occurred between you two in those nights during the War—and, yes, of course I know about them. Minerva told me of them. But, fortunately for my purposes, most of Society does not have the sense God gave a sheep and so I knew that giving your then-best friend the cut would be all that was necessary. I’ve lived long enough to know what Society is like and I knew you could be trusted to do the honorable thing, unlike many other young gentlemen.” She paused, her gaze taking in Harry’s expression that was frozen into one of surprise but was certainly not best pleased either. “And you needn’t look at me like that or are you going to tell me that you are not happy in your marriage?”

Her gaze flickered to where Hermione’s hand rested on Harry’s arm before she looked back up at their faces. “After the entrance you two made tonight, no one would believe that.”

Hermione felt herself smiling at Lady Danvers with more fondness than she would ever have believed possible, suddenly liking the lady, for all her sometimes off-putting directness and her rather severe manner, a great deal.

“Of course we’re happy,” Harry admitted but he sounded almost grudging about it and Hermione patted his arm a little and, after a moment, he moved to cover her hand on his arm with his.

Lady Danvers nodded, her expression looking quite smug. “Good. You may thank me properly by presenting me with a god-child soon.”

“Lady Danvers!” Hermione burst out, feeling a hot blush color her cheeks at the blunt words.

Lady Danvers waved a hand dismissively. “Now, don’t be missish. I know you’ve got more spirit than that.”

“I will make every effort to show my gratitude in such a way,” Harry said with mock gravity.

Hermione pinched his arm lightly, throwing him a look, as she felt her entire face turn scarlet. “Harry!” she hissed softly.

He gave her a look of exaggerated innocence. “What? I make it a point to promptly repay all such debts of honor.”

Lady Danvers gave a brief chuckle and nodded. “You will do very well together, as I knew you would.”

With those words, she stalked off, looking for some other person to terrorize.

Leaving Harry and Hermione to stare after her.

“Meddlesome old dragon, isn’t she?” Harry muttered. “I can’t believe she put you through that kind of scandal deliberately.”

Hermione smiled a little, entirely over her surprise and quite restored to herself again, and tightened her grip on his arm, leaning in until her breast deliberately brushed against his arm, getting his immediate attention. “You can’t deny it was effective.”

He glanced at her, his rather disgruntled expression softening. “I’m sorry. Your husband is not being very gallant, is he?”

She smiled at him, letting her other hand rest briefly against his waistcoat in a fleeting caress. “No, but then I would rather have you honest than gallant.”

“You might be the only woman in England who could say that and actually mean it,” he said with half-teasing wonder.

“Yes, I am quite the marvel, am I not?” she quipped.

“And so humble too,” he grinned at her as the first strains of a waltz began. “May I have this dance, Mrs. Potter?” he asked with mock formality.

Hermione dipped her head in an exaggeratedly dignified acceptance. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

“Do you know,” Harry continued as they made their way onto the dance floor and stepped into the waltz, “I do believe this is the first time we’ve ever danced together.”

“It is,” she agreed. “But I know you don’t like dancing.”

“No,” he contradicted softly. “I don’t like dancing with other people because I always knew I had to be careful not to show any signs of favoring any particular young lady but dancing with you is an entirely different matter.”

“Because I’m your wife?”

“Well, yes, that minor detail does help,” he admitted, making her laugh softly, before he continued, “but also because with you, I don’t have to worry about people getting any false impressions.”

She smiled and decided that—amazingly, given they were in a crowded ballroom—she’d never been as happy as she was right then. But she made answer lightly enough. “Such charming words, Mr. Potter, and to your own wife too. How very unfashionable of you.”

He didn’t respond in words but his smile deepened, shone in his eyes. And then he tightened his arms around her, bringing her in closer to him, until their bodies were not separated by the distance usually required by high sticklers during the waltz. His fingers tightened slightly on her back, his hand moving in a light, subtle caress. And she abruptly changed her mind and decided that, no, after all, she would be much happier if they were alone in his bedroom…

And she knew he could read her thoughts on her face because of the glint in his eyes before he murmured, “I think we should leave the ball early, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer in words, only smiled at him.

His grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly in response.

There was, after all, no real need for words between them, not then…

They did leave the ball early and, not long after that, left Town entirely, returning to the welcome peace of Godric’s Hollow. Harry had asked Hermione if she would want to remain in Town longer, to be closer to her parents and to the Weasleys, to say nothing of the bookstores and lending libraries, but Hermione had smiled and shaken her head, as she’d answered him, simply, “I think we should go home.” And so they had, even if they’d promised solemnly to return to Town for Christmas.

~*~

Harry took the steps two at a time as he returned from his usual morning flight. There had been a storm the day before so the air had the crisp, clean quality of a perfect autumn day which made flying so much more exhilarating, although in this case the storm had had other consequences which were not so pleasant and which had delayed him so that he was more than an hour later in returning than he usually was.

He glanced at the door to the little side room which Hermione used to meet with Daisy over the daily household matters to see the door was open and the room empty. Hermione must have finished her consultation with Daisy, then. With that in mind, Harry abruptly changed direction to walk towards the library only to find that the library was equally empty.

He stepped back out and nearly walked into Dobby who was passing. “Oh, Dobby, do you know where Hermione is?”

“Good morning, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby has not seen her, sir. Dobby thinks that Missmynee is still in her bedchamber because she has not come down.”

Now Harry frowned. “She hasn’t?”

“No, Mr. Harry Potter, sir. Daisy has not seen her yet.”

“Thank you, Dobby,” Harry dismissed Dobby half-absently before he turned and made his way swiftly across the library and up the private staircase to the family wing, heading straight for his room.

He had left Hermione dozing in his bed but that had been more than an hour ago and she was always up and about by this time. Was she not well? Had something happened?

He almost burst into his bedchamber to find that his bed was deserted, although the connecting door between his and Hermione’s rooms was open and he strode through it and into Hermione’s adjoining dressing room, not bothering to knock on that door.

Hermione looked up and Winnie gave a little squeal of surprise as the door opened to admit Harry. Hermione was standing only in her shift and Harry stopped short.

Winnie bobbed a hasty curtsy and almost scurried away once Hermione had finished stepping into her gown and dismissed Winnie with a nod and a smile, which she then turned to Harry. “Good morning.”

“Are you feeling well?” Harry asked, foregoing a greeting in his lingering concern. “You never lie abed this late.”

“I’m fine, Harry. Honestly, I am. I felt a little tired earlier which is why I decided to linger in bed longer. That is all and I am perfectly well,” Hermione assured him as she presented him with her back so he could lace up her gown.

Harry laced her up and then bent to brush a kiss to the back of her neck, left bare by the style of her hair. “You are quite sure you are well?”

Hermione turned to brush her lips against his with a tender smile on her face. “I am well, Harry. You need not worry over me.”

Harry’s expression softened into a smile. “Very well, I suppose I am making much ado about nothing.”

“It’s very sweet of you but entirely unnecessary.”

Harry nodded slightly. “I must be going then. I only returned to the house to change my clothes and tell you what has happened. The storm last night brought down a tree so I am going out to help the tenants clear it up.”

“Oh, dear. Did it hit anything? How can I help?” Hermione asked in swift concern.

“Fortunately, it only hit a fence and not any one of the tenant’s cottages. But it did bring a section of the fence down, so I will be helping to rebuild the fence once the tree has been removed.”

“I will arrange for food and refreshments to be sent down to you then.”

“Thank you, love. Obviously, I will not be able to return home for luncheon today and perhaps supper as well.”

Hermione nodded. “Of course. Let me know if there is anything I can do to assist.”

“Naturally, I will,” Harry promised with a slight smile as he kissed her cheek quickly. “I will see you later tonight.”

Hermione smiled at Harry’s back as he turned to return to his own dressing room where, no doubt, Ferdy was waiting to help him. She’d said she was feeling perfectly well, which was true enough, but she was beginning to suspect the reason why she’d been feeling so tired in the mornings, why there’d been a few occasions lately when her stomach had felt rather uneasy. Her smile deepened; she would tell Harry once she’d confirmed her suspicions. Although, it occurred to her, that once Harry heard, he would undoubtedly start hovering over her as if she was in danger of falling apart at any moment.

It was with that in mind that Hermione waited until the next night, when her suspicion was no longer just a suspicion, when Harry was at his most relaxed as they curled together in his bed, their heartbeats slowing, the sweat of exertion drying on their skins.

Harry shifted, moving until he was lying on his back, and Hermione followed, her head resting comfortably against his shoulder, one hand lying on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

She could feel the utter relaxation in Harry, felt the same lassitude in her own body.

She could feel herself drifting into sleep but deliberately pushed it back. She needed to stay awake at least a little longer.

“Harry?”

“Mm?”

“I have something to tell you.”

She felt him brush his lips against her hair. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“Well, you know that I have been feeling rather tired lately.”

She felt him stiffen and sit up enough so that he could meet her eyes.

“Yes, but you’ve assured me you’re fine. Don’t tell me that wasn’t the truth. You’re not ill, are you, Hermione?”

There was a thread of burgeoning panic in his voice and in his eyes as he looked at her.

“No, I’m not ill, Harry,” Hermione hastily reassured him before she looked down, lowering her eyes to where her hand rested on his chest, and finished with just the slightest touch of mischief in her voice. “Pregnancy is not generally thought of as an illness.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Preg—Hermione, are you really?” He moved his hand to her chin until she had to look up and meet his eyes, allowing him to see the contentment shining in her eyes.

“I’ve suspected it for a few days and now I’m certain of it.”

“How are you feeling? Are you feeling unwell at all? How--”

She interrupted his abrupt burst of concern. “Harry, I am in perfect health. There’s no need for you to worry so. I hope you won’t spend the next seven months treating me as if I am in immediate danger of shattering at the slightest touch.”

He had the grace to look somewhat sheepish. “I will try not to but I may need frequent reminders.”

His expression abruptly darkened, a shadow crossing his eyes, and she felt a pang of doubt. She had felt so certain that Harry would be happy at the news but his expression was decidedly not a happy one at the moment.

“You are happy, aren’t you?” Her question came out sounding less confident than she would have liked.

He stared at her for a moment before he abruptly cupped her face in his hands with so much tenderness it almost made her heart ache. He leaned in to kiss her softly before he drew back to meet her eyes. “My love, I never knew life could be like this, never knew I could be so happy.”

She managed to smile through the tears that had welled up in her eyes. (Tears! Merlin, pregnancy had made a watering pot of her.) “I never knew life could be like this either.”

“I am happy over this. I- I can’t even express how much. I was only wondering what kind of father I will be because I never knew my own father and my uncle Dursley was not exactly a model father.”

It was her turn to reassure him, reaching up to take his hands, which still lingered on her cheeks, in her own. “You are going to be a wonderful father; I have no worries over that.”

One corner of his lips lifted in a half smile. “Your faith in me is heartening.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek softly. “I know you, Harry. I know you will be a good father.” She paused and then added lightly, “Besides, how could you not be when you are such a good husband?”

Now he smiled fully, his eyes softening, before he kissed her, softly at first and then more deeply, as she pressed herself fully against him, melting into his kiss as she always did. As she knew she always would.

His arms tightened around her, his hands caressing her bare, heated skin, until she was gasping, burning.

She moved, shifting above him, until she could feel his arousal against her thigh. She lowered her lips to his skin, leaving a trail of hot, damp kisses along his collar bone and further, feeling the slight shudder go through him, hearing his gasps, as his entire body went rigid beneath her. She smiled to herself, loving his reactions, loving the sensual power she had over him.

She moved, straddling him fully, lowering herself onto him with slow, deliberate care, until he groaned, his hands tightening on her skin. And then she set herself to loving him, her inner muscles caressing him, taking him as thoroughly as she gave herself to him. She loved him with all the sensual confidence she’d gained over the past few months, loved him with all the passionate generosity of her nature, loved him until he was shuddering and arching beneath her. And her sharp cry of fulfillment mingled with his groan of her name as she convulsed around him, above him, until she collapsed on top of him.

She lay sprawled wantonly above him, too spent and too sated to even contemplate moving. She could hear his gasps for breath against her ear, could feel the bone-deep satisfaction in his body.

“Great Merlin. Hermione…” The words were spoken on a gasp, his hands straying over her bare back in an idle caress.

She didn’t open her eyes, only responded in a murmur, “Harry…”

“That was… that was…”

She smiled slightly at his stuttering. “I know.”

One of his hands swept up her back in a long caress, cupping the back of her head and turning it gently so he could kiss her, softly, with a sort of lazy tenderness.

The kiss finally ended as she gave a soft, contented sigh, settling her head comfortably in the hollow on his shoulder.

She could feel drowsiness settling over her like a blanket and she let herself drift into it, vaguely conscious of his pulling the counterpane up over both their bodies as he, too, settled into a more comfortable position beneath her.

She could feel the steady beat of his heart, thought about the baby—their baby—that she carried inside her, a living symbol of their marriage and their love…

And her last coherent thought before sleep claimed her fully was that, now, truly, she had all she had ever dreamed of. Now, her life was perfect…

~The End~