Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
Author's Note: I hope this chapter satisfies. The last chapter, except for a very short Epilogue. This chapter is rated a soft R, just to be safe, and the reason the fic was rated R in the first place. Enjoy.
Brave Enough
Chapter 3
Harry knew who it was the moment he heard the knock on his door. It was as if he had some sixth sense that allowed him to recognize Hermione's knock-or more prosaically, it was simply that he had been expecting (half-dreading) her knock for the past two nights since she had stormed out of his flat. His entire body tensed as if in expectation of a blow as he got up and opened the door.
He had been right. It was her.
She looked somber, something of the shattered look which he'd seen that night lingering in her eyes, and his heart twisted in his chest. He had hurt her; he knew he'd been harsh, even if he really had not had a choice. But it was a hard thing to have to deliberately cause pain to a loved one, to have to knowingly cause her pain-her, when there were times he thought he would give up everything he owned just to bring a smile to her face, when he knew he would willingly spend the rest of his life keeping her happy and safe…
"Hi," he finally managed to say, lamely, through the sudden obstruction in his throat. He stepped back to let her in.
She didn't sit down, remained standing-and he wondered at the ridiculousness of his heart when even that most-trivial choice caused a pang of hurt because of the discomfort and the wariness it seemed to show.
Hermione swallowed before she turned around to face him. She'd never been so ill at ease with Harry and it hurt.
Her eyes seemed to focus on his lips of their own volition and she felt herself flush at the memory of his kiss, of his words. I'm in love with you… I love you…
She forcibly wrenched her gaze away from his lips-but that didn't help much either because they fell to his hands hanging by his side and she was suddenly filled with the memory of how he had gripped her arms. And oddly, that memory, more than even the thought of his kiss, was the one that made her heart fill with a dangerous warmth. Even in his anger-and he had been angry-he hadn't hurt her. His grip on her arms had been firm but never, not even when he had shaken her, had he hurt her; she had felt and been aware of his strength but his touch had been gentle, in spite of everything.
And maybe, after all, that very gentleness was what made him so dangerous to her heart and her soul…
She finally looked up at him and met his eyes when the silence had become oppressive, only to find that her mind had gone completely blank of what she'd planned to say.
"I- I wanted to hate you for what you said," she blurted out.
Harry fought to control his flinch. He'd expected nothing less but it still hurt to hear her say the words. He nodded numbly. "I thought you would," he said, rather inanely, as he tried to steel himself for the rejection he knew was coming. She didn't love him; she couldn't love him… He had lost her…
How did one prepare oneself to have one's heart broken, he wondered desperately. Knowing it was coming, expecting it, didn't make it any easier to face her.
She swallowed and went on bravely. "But you were right. I had closed myself off and I was afraid of failing. It had hurt so much to end things with Ron and I just didn't know how to deal with it all, so I ran away and told myself I didn't need anyone else. Now… I don't know. I'm still afraid but I don't want to be a coward anymore."
"You're not a coward, Hermione," he sighed. She was still the bravest person he'd ever known-and he loved that about her. He loved her courage and that had been why it had bothered him so much to see her hiding behind the walls she had put up. It had almost physically hurt him too, to know that she was hurt so badly, to know that her fears were so deep as to over-ride all her customary courage and her will.
Hermione opened her lips to tell him what she'd really come here to tell him, that she couldn't love him like that, that she wanted to only be friends with him-but at that moment, she met his eyes and really saw the look in them and her words died in her throat.
He looked… resigned. There was no hope in his eyes, no expectation. There was only a mute sadness, mingled with so much caring it made her heart twist and her breath catch. She hadn't seen his eyes look so bleak in years-since those first days after Sirius had died, since Dumbledore had died-but even so, this look was different; it was deeper, somehow, more poignant, more powerful.
At that moment, looking at him, a torrent of memories from the past decade and half of friendship, of loyalty, of trust, flooded her mind and her heart.
Oh God, what was she doing? She was doing it again, letting her fears and not her desires dictate what she did; she was being a coward when she'd sworn she wouldn't do that again. She was being a coward-and she would be breaking Harry's heart in the process, as well as denying her own.
How could she do this?
She couldn't.
She was still afraid of losing her heart to Harry, afraid of what would happen if she failed again, every cautious instinct in her body shrieking out a warning. She knew how devastated she would be if she failed again, if she lost his friendship, and it would be the height of stupidity to knowingly open herself up to that sort of devastation. And Hermione had spent her entire life trying to be the smart one.
But at that moment, something deeper, something stronger, something infinitely more powerful than all her instinctive caution surged up inside her, drowning out any other protest. It may have been folly but it felt like wisdom, a truer wisdom from her heart rather than her mind.
She might be risking her heart but if she chose, if she had the courage to choose it, she could gain so much more… Not the happily-ever-after which she no longer believed in, but something much simpler, in some ways, and yet much more profound at the same time: happiness. Not the perfect happily-ever-after of storybooks and childish dreams but the mature happiness that came from experience-the happiness that could withstand all the inevitable bad times, all the arguments and the fights, the bad days, the illnesses, even the tragedies of life, the happiness that came from trust and hope and, above all, love…
"I'm still afraid," she finally admitted, her tone faltering ever so slightly before she forcibly controlled it. "But," she met his eyes directly, taking one small step closer to him, "I'm willing to take the chance. I'll risk it." She paused and then finished with some hesitation, "that is, if you still want me to."
For one second that seemed to last an interminably long time to Hermione, Harry didn't react, only stared at her, his face wiped clear of all expression. She knew a flicker of doubt-maybe he'd only said what he had in order to shock her out of her self-imposed isolation; maybe he hadn't really wanted her after all; maybe he was having second thoughts…
For one second, Harry doubted the evidence of his ears. He had been prepared for rejection, had braced himself for pain, and he could have sworn he'd seen that decision to tell him, no, in her eyes-but then she spoke. And he, apparently, lost his ability to comprehend the English language but then he saw the look in her eyes, all the courage of her heart, the same courage he had seen so often in situations when their lives had been in danger. His heart squeezed in his chest with an aching tenderness; God, he loved her… He wanted to tell her that, wanted to tell her that he knew what it was costing her to face her fears and accept the risk, but all that came out of his mouth was one word that caught at his mind. "If?"
He yanked his feet from where they seemed to have taken root to the floor to close the distance between them, slowly, until he was close enough to touch her, until he could lift his hand to cup her cheek. "If?" he repeated again, softly. "God, Hermione, I've wanted you for years; I don't think that's ever going to change."
Her eyes drifted closed for a moment at his touch, her heart softening, sighing. He touched her the way every woman dreamed of being touched, with infinite gentleness, boundless tenderness, and with a hint of reverence as if she were a miracle. And that was when her last reservation melted away. How could she not risk everything for this? From some dim corner of her mind, a line she had read somewhere years ago drifted through her thoughts: A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart.
"Hermione…" he breathed. "Can I kiss you?"
She smiled, in spite of herself, in spite of the seriousness of the moment. "You didn't feel the need to ask the first time."
His lips curved slightly. "Well, I'm asking now. It's your choice to make."
You have to choose…
Her breath stilled in her chest as she understood why he was asking, what he meant. He was truly giving her the choice; it was up to her and she knew that if she said no now, he would leave and that would be it. He was asking for permission not only to kiss her but for permission to love her, asking for the chance to make her love him…
At that moment, there was only one answer she could give, only one answer she wanted to give. And she didn't bother to speak the word. All she did was to rise up on her toes and press her lips to his. She kissed him.
One of his arms slid around her waist, holding her to him, while the other, the one that had been touching her cheek, slid behind to cup the nape of her neck. He kept the kiss gentle at first, his lips moving over hers with so much tenderness it almost made her heart ache. It wasn't enough. Slow heat was spiraling up inside her, enveloping her, and she yielded to it, kissing him back with a passion that incited his. He deepened the kiss with a muffled groan, kissing her hard, with all the desperation of years of love and wanting.
He wanted her, he wanted her, he wanted her… She could feel it in his kiss, in the strength of his arms around her, in the way his hands clutched her to him-and for the first time in years, she gloried in the feeling of knowing that a man-that Harry-wanted her… The vague thought drifted through her mind: she was risking her heart but, after all, wasn't the risk worth it just for this?
And then she stopped thinking entirely, in favor of all the sensations he was calling forth, the pleasure of wanting and being wanted…
~~
One must be particularly careful in diagnosing-where was he? It had been more than a week now-the Lympanary Infection as its symptoms are very similar to-dear Merlin, if anything had happened…-- those of the Malarum Fever. But the-a week and there had been no word…-- Potion which is used to treat the Malarum Fever can-why had there been no news?-- have nearly fatal effects-fatal… if anything had gone wrong…-- if it is wrongly administered to a patient suffering-Harry, where are you?!-- from the Lympanary Infection. Healers Caravelli and Lebisky have-Harry…-- been instrumental in devising one test to distinguish between the two…
Hermione pushed herself away from her desk with a strangled sound of frustration. She could not concentrate. She had just spent the last half hour reading the same paragraph over and over again and she still could not have told what the paragraph had said. Her thoughts were too fragmented and too consumed with worry over Harry to pay attention to her work.
He had been sent to investigate more rumors of Dark activity, this time in Slovakia, by Minister Hamlin. These investigations were never on a set time-frame, of course, and she knew he could never tell her exactly when he would return home, due to their very nature. But he had said that, at the longest, he expected he would be away for a week and half to two weeks.
It would be 23 days since he had left tomorrow. She had refused to allow herself to worry too much until 17 days had gone by, but then she hadn't been able to help it, worry seeping into her mind until by now, it had nearly become full-blown panic.
She was guiltily aware that she hadn't been giving her patients the attention they deserved, the attention she owed them, in the past few days, too preoccupied with her all-consuming fear for Harry to completely devote her mind to work. She was only lucky that none of her patients at the moment were in critical condition, but that didn't lessen her guilt for her distraction.
In some tiny corner of her mind, a small voice spoke up insisting that this was partly what she had feared before she had gotten involved with Harry and, in her moments of stark honesty, she had to admit that it was true. She had feared how all-consuming her feelings for Harry would become, had feared how necessary he would become to her happiness.
It was odd; he had probably been the central figure in her life for years and one wouldn't have thought that it would make that much of a difference to love him, to be with him, but it did. Oh, it did. Before, he had been important to her happiness. Now, he was vital to her happiness, to her life.
And she didn't know where he was or if he was safe. If he was even al-but no, she refused to think of that possibility, her entire being shuddering away from it.
She stood up, pushing herself away from her desk. She had to get away. She was clearly not going to get any work done here but even so, more out of habit than not, she gathered up a stack of files and her notes which she needed to go through and put them in her bag.
"I'm going home now," she told her assistant, Irene, ignoring Irene's unconcealed look of surprise at her leaving so early, when it was barely 5 o'clock. "I'll see you in the morning."
"Of course. Have a good evening, Hermione," Irene managed to say but Hermione was aware of Irene's gaze on her back as she strode quickly down the halls of St. Mungo's.
She went to her flat first but she spent all of three minutes in it before she gave up. Her flat felt cold, somehow, empty. It was too dark, too big (irrationally). And-she admitted to herself-it no longer felt like home anymore.
Harry's flat was home now.
She had stubbornly insisted on keeping her own flat, even though she spent the majority of her time at his flat (she could count on one hand the number of nights she had spent in her flat in the past two months, count on two hands the number of nights she had spent in her flat in the three months before that) and slowly but surely, an increasing amount of her belongings had taken up residence in his flat, alongside his.
He had never commented on it but she had caught him staring into his closet where her clothing now took up nearly half the space in it with an odd expression on his face or in the shower, where her toiletries resided next to his as if they had always been there. She had almost been able to see him swallowing back the words and part of her had wanted to give in, had wanted to tell him that she would give up her flat and move in with him, but something had always held her back from taking that final step.
It was that same something that had kept her from telling him she loved him.
And she did love him. She was in love with him. She didn't even try to hide that fact from herself anymore-but she had not said the words.
Some tiny part of her-a part she'd thought she'd conquered-had held those words back, just as that same part of her had insisted she keep her own flat.
Just in case. In case she failed again… In case anything happened… In case he'd been wrong and she really could not be in a happy, lasting relationship with anyone…
Now, staring around her at Harry's flat, she acknowledged the lingering cowardice that had held her back-and hated herself for it.
What good had it done? It hadn't kept her from falling in love with him. It hadn't kept her from needing him; it hadn't made her happier in any way. All it had done was keep her from telling him she loved him-and now she didn't know if she would ever be able to tell him.
No! She refused to think like that.
He would come back; he was safe. Of course he would return. She was being ridiculous and paranoid and irrational. Harry would be back and then she would tell him.
She wandered through his flat restlessly, too anxious to stay still and every room in the flat seemed to torment her with thoughts of him, memories from the past five months.
She went into the kitchen and she was assailed by the mental image of Harry standing at the stove, grinning at her as he teased her about her inability to cook. Of him, wearing only a pair of jeans, bending over to peer into the fridge, giving her a lovely view of his decidedly well-formed backside, until her hands had practically tingled from the urge to run them down the smooth skin of his back. (And then she had given in to the impulse, surprising a laugh out of him that had quickly turned into a groan.) Of them standing at the sink together, washing the dishes-or trying to, before they had given up on the attempt as he had started to kiss her neck, his soapy hands wetting her shirt as they had come up to cup her breasts.
The bathroom was little better. She remembered standing beside him at the sink as they brushed their teeth. Remembered scolding him mildly for not hanging up his used towel and remembered the way he had smiled and kissed her into good humor. Remembered showering with him, the heat of his body making the warm water seem almost cool by contrast, their wet bodies sliding against each other…
The bedroom-she wasn't sure why she ventured into it but she couldn't seem to help herself. It seemed to draw her, in spite of the fact that she knew, all too well, just how vast and desolate his bed would seem without him. It was the same way her own bed felt in those few nights she spent in her flat.
Oddly, though, it wasn't even the memories of all the passion, all the joy, they had found in his bed that tormented her the most, although those memories lingered too, like old ghosts. But what she found herself remembering more were the few times they had argued, the scant few times when they had fallen asleep on either side of his bed, even though they had usually ended up curled up together by morning, their bodies seeming to automatically move together in their sleep, recognizing what their minds were too stubborn to admit sometimes. She remembered the searing tenderness of his kisses and his touches when they had made up after one of those rare arguments. She remembered the occasional nightmares he had and the way he clutched her afterwards, as if she were all that anchored him to the world.
A slight shudder went through her and she fled his bedroom for the living room.
She fell onto the couch, noticing that he had left a jumper thrown haphazardly over the back of a chair and that there was a pair of dirty socks still lying on the floor. For the first time, though, she noted these things without the flare of annoyance she usually felt.
Oh, she missed him, missed him so much she almost ached with it. And she loved him, loved him with a depth and an intensity that frightened her because of how much more it was, compared to the love she had once felt for Ron. Ron had been her first love; Harry had become a part of her, a part of her very soul. Oh, why why why had she not told him that? Why had she been so stupidly afraid to put her feelings into words and tell him that she loved him?
She had been waiting for him to say the words to her too. He hadn't, not since the night he had first blurted out his confession. She guessed that he had been waiting for her to say them-and she was honest enough to admit that he had already said them. He had already put his heart on the line and she didn't doubt that he did love her. And yet, somehow, she had not said the words. As if, in some tiny, misguided corner of her mind, she had thought that as long as she didn't say the words, she would not need him quite so much.
Coward, coward, coward! Stupid coward, at that, she berated herself now. And after she had promised herself she wouldn't let fear dictate her actions anymore-but after all, it was hard to break what had become the instinctive, automatic reaction.
Then she heard it, the most welcome sound she had ever heard in her life: the sound of a key turning in the lock.
He was home. He was safe.
Her heart lifted, as if a part of it that had been missing for the past 22 days settled back into place.
She barely had time to process that he looked exhausted, shadows under his eyes, even as he gave her a slight smile. "Hermi--" he started to say but his words were cut off by her lips as she flew at him and kissed him.
She kissed him with every particle of the love and worry and regret she had known over the past three weeks, kissed him with perhaps more energy than finesse, but it didn't matter because his arms had closed around her and he was kissing her back as if he never wanted to let her go again.
She drew back only when the need for air became imperative and even then, it was only to scatter quick kisses haphazardly over his face, his nose, his chin, his ear, his eyebrow, his scar.
But after a moment, she recovered a little from her overpowering relief and stopped even those hasty caresses, flushed from all her emotions, as she met his eyes.
"I'm so glad you're home," she finally said, entirely unnecessarily, and saw the slight flicker of humor in his eyes.
"I can see that."
"I've been so worried. What happened? I thought I would go insane with worry and oh, Harry, I missed you so much."
He opened his lips to explain or to apologize, she didn't know which and never found out what he had been about to say, because she hurried on before he could speak.
"I love you, Harry. I'm in love with you. I- I have been for months now but I didn't say it because I've been an idiot but I need you to know. I love you."
He sucked in his breath a little and she saw the joy flare in his eyes and she knew a moment of poignant regret that she had made him wait so long to hear the words. His arms tightened around her and his lips came down on hers to kiss her with enough passion to make her knees go a little weak before his lips left hers to leave a trail of soft kisses along the line of her jaw and across her cheek, his lips unerringly finding the sensitive hollow right before her ear. "I love you!" he whispered almost fiercely into her ear.
Her eyes closed, her lips parting on a small gasp. "I love you too."
His lips returned to hers as he kissed her again, this time in a long, slow, tender kiss, a kiss that drew her very heart and her soul out of her body, the sort of kiss women dreamed of, a kiss she could not have broken if her life depended on it. Her head spun, her thoughts scattered, her body heating and melting against him, and somehow, she knew that she would love him for the rest of her life. No matter what happened, at this moment, with this kiss, he had claimed some part of her soul, irrevocably, and some small part of her would always love him, belong to him.
And for the first time in years, she was not afraid. At that moment, with his arms around her, his lips on hers, she felt brave enough for anything, for this passion, for this joy. Brave enough for this love.
~To be continued, with a very short Epilogue…
A/N 2: The line Hermione thinks of, about such a kind heart, is by Shakespeare.