Moonlight Madness

Bingblot

Rating: NC17
Genres: Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 30/01/2008
Last Updated: 30/01/2008
Status: completed

He'd never believed in it before but he was beginning to think there might be some truth to the belief in the erotic power of the moon... One shot smut, with no plot and no point whatsoever.

Chapters

1. Moonlight Madness

1. Moonlight Madness

Disclaimer: All things HP belong to JKR, even though she doesn’t deserve it.

Author’s Note: The idea for this fic was for basically a shameless excuse for plotless, pointless smut—so if you’re looking for a plot or realism or much substance of any kind, move right along. You won’t find it in this fic.

Written as a Christmas gift for my dear Marie_j_granger.

Moonlight Madness

Harry tossed the dinner roll which he’d brought out with him into the lake and then watched as he saw one tentacle of the Giant Squid break the surface of the water and then vanish with a small splash, as if to thank him.

He was back at Hogwarts for the celebration of the 5th anniversary of the final defeat of Voldemort. He understood why people felt the need to celebrate the occasion; it was just that when he thought about that time, he didn’t feel like celebrating. In fact, he felt more like mourning.

It really was a beautiful night, he thought dispassionately. The glassy surface of the lake reflected the light from the moon, glimmering whitely in the darkness.

It was a night, Harry thought with a brief pang of melancholy, that Sirius would have loved to be out flying on his motorcycle in. But then again—he glanced up at the moon—Remus would probably be locked up somewhere and so Padfoot would likely be with him if they were here.

He heard a soft step behind him and turned to see Luna. “Hi, Luna.”

As usual, she didn’t bother with any conventional greeting as she came to stand next to him. “The Flying Whipples must be out tonight.”

“The what?”

“The Flying Whipples—they come out and fly on nights when the moon’s out. The moon attracts them, you see,” she explained in her dreamy fashion. “They fly up towards her and she’s waiting for them. She welcomes them with her light like it’s an embrace and when the moon is full, the Whipples are happiest because that’s when she is most generous with them.”

She glanced at Harry. “The romance between the Flying Whipples and the moon is why they say people do crazy things during the full moon. Something about the Whipples being happy makes the air feel different, makes people act differently…” She met his eyes questioningly. “Don’t you feel it too? The power of the moon and the Whipples?”

He blinked at her, feeling vaguely uncomfortable as he tended to do whenever Luna said one of her odd things about her strange creatures. “Er, I don’t know.”

She smiled serenely at him. “I’m going to find Ronald to see if the Whipples affect him too.”

“Ok.”

She drifted off in the direction of the castle, leaving Harry to stare after her in some confusion. He’d rather become accustomed to Luna’s odd manner and he did find some of what she said rather amusing but there were times- like tonight- when he did wonder whether she was from some different planet.

Hermione stopped short in the shadows just outside the castle, past where the lights spilled out onto the grounds.

Harry was standing where she’d expected him to be, under the oak tree by the Great Lake, but what stopped her was that he wasn’t alone. Luna was with him. There was no mistaking the pale blond hair that seemed to shine in the moonlight.

She supposed it was irrational but she couldn’t help the brief pang of something very like jealousy as she watched. Not because anything was happening—they were only talking—but the thought darted into her mind, but I’m the one he talks to.

Or at least, she always had been before. She didn’t know how many times he’d wandered off to be alone and she’d always been the one to find him and talk to him. She hadn’t even realized just how much it meant to her to know that she was the one he talked to when he was brooding over something until now when she saw Luna standing next to Harry and wondered if maybe he was finding some comfort in Luna. She remembered Harry telling her about Luna’s mother, how they had both been able to see the thestrals in their 5th year. He hadn’t said but she guessed that it had made him feel an odd sort of sympathy with Luna because they’d both seen death.

Could Luna replace her? At any other time, she could have dismissed the sudden fear as irrational and ridiculous—but at that moment, she couldn’t. Not while she was seeing Luna standing next to Harry, looking out over the lake, in the same spot where she had been so many times.

She wanted to be the one Harry talked to, the one he turned to when he was melancholy. She always wanted to be that one person for him…

Finally, Luna walked away, leaving Harry standing alone. After a moment’s hesitation, Hermione walked out to join him.

Harry didn’t bother to turn around this time when he heard the soft step behind him. He knew who it was. It was as if he had some sort of sixth sense to tell him when Hermione was near—and, more prosaically, he always rather expected her to come find him. She always was the one person to come find him when he went off alone. (Actually, he’d expected it to be her before too and been surprised to find that it was Luna instead. He supposed that Luna had just wandered outside to look for those Whipples of hers and decided to talk to him for a while instead.)

“You don’t really feel like celebrating, do you,” she said and it wasn’t a question.

He half-sighed. “No. I keep thinking about all the people who aren’t here…”

“I know but they’d want you to celebrate. They’d want you to be happy.”

“Yeah, I know. I just… miss them.” Especially here at Hogwarts, where memories seemed to permeate every inch of the place. He no longer had nightmares that often anymore and he was no longer as haunted by the memories but here, when everyone was gathered to celebrate the victory, he missed them the most.

“I know.”

She didn’t say anything more and neither did he, as a comfortable silence fell. And he reflected how pleasant it was to talk to Hermione and be able to trust that she understood what he meant.

Hermione hesitated and then asked, almost against her will (she didn’t want to sound jealous or nosy but she couldn’t help but ask), “What did you and Luna talk about?” She tried to make the question sound off-hand but feared she hadn’t completely succeeded. She only hoped Harry didn’t notice.

Harry let out a soft huff of laughter. “Oh, Luna was being her usual self, talking about one of her creatures.” He slanted a smiling glance at her. “D’you ever get the feeling that she might be from another planet entirely?”

Hermione laughed, feeling foolish for her momentary jealousy. She should have known better than to think that Harry would really talk about his troubles with Luna when he wouldn’t even talk about them with Ron and had never really talked about them with Ginny either, even when he and Ginny had been together. “Oh, all the time. What creature was she mentioning this time?”

“Some creature called the Flying Whipple that, according to her, always come out on nights like tonight when the moon is so full. Something about the erotic power of the full moon or some such non--”

He glanced at her with a grin but his words died in his throat as he forgot what he’d been about to say, forgot what they’d been talking about, forgot everything in that moment except for the one word, erotic, that seemed to be repeating in his head. Erotic, erotic, erotic, erotic… Just that one word that hung in the silence between them, changed the atmosphere, as a tidal wave of pure desire rose up and slammed into him with enough force to make him dizzy.

His eyes met hers, his grin fading, as the air seemed to thicken around them. His breath fractured, his lungs seizing in his chest, as he stared at her. God, she looked so beautiful. Moonlight was made to flatter women, softening any blemishes, smoothing any flaws, gilding highlights in their hair—and on Hermione, who had no flaws which he’d ever seen and was beautiful on even a bad day, the moonlight made her almost seem to glow until he could easily believe that she was some goddess come to earth, a siren, a temptress. His gaze fixated on the smooth curve of her cheek—erotic, the word whispered through his mind—the shape of her lips… Erotic—again, the word echoed in his mind, teasing him, tantalizing him, heating his blood with thoughts of all the erotic things he’d like to do to her and with her. Her skin glimmered whitely in the dimness of the night; her eyes sparkled; her lips seemed to shine… Her lips…

Her lips that he realized belatedly were moving as she spoke.

“You don’t really believe in that, do you?” she asked with an attempt at lightness that fell flat, her voice emerging low and soft and—and inviting, somehow.

He fought to remember how to speak coherently—had to fight to remember what they’d been talking about in the first place. “In what?”

“In that erotic power of the moon stuff.”

God. Saying the word himself had been distraction enough, taking his mind to places it had no business going to, but hearing her say the word, erotic, hit him with all the stunning force of a blow between the eyes. His mouth went dry, his palms became damp, his thighs tensing with desire.

He’d never believed in any of that stuff before but he was rapidly changing his views on that. Maybe there really was something to it. Otherwise, how else could she seduce him just by talking, just by saying the word, erotic?

(Then again, maybe it wasn’t the moon at all, since he’d stood out here and heard Luna talk about embraces and romance and hadn’t felt anything beyond the discomfort he always felt when she started talking about one of her fantastical creatures. It was only with Hermione that moonlight seemed to have taken on all sorts of strange powers.)

Full moon madness? Perhaps it was that, the mystical influence of the moon, that had recklessness suddenly infecting him—overriding all the caution and doubt that had kept him silent for months now. Perhaps it was the madness of the moon that made him meet her eyes as he said, softly, huskily, in a tone he’d never used with her before, “I never did before, but I’m beginning to think there may be something to it.”

His senses were hyper-sensitized and completely focused on her to the exclusion of all else so he heard her breath hitch in her chest, saw her eyes darken, dilate, even in the dim light.

“So am I,” she breathed huskily.

He felt the electric tension sparking between them to the marrow of his bones, a shiver of heat rushing through his body.

And she felt it too. He knew it, sensed it, saw it in the deepening flush on her cheeks—and what little chance his rational mind had of reasserting control died in that instant.

He wanted her, he wanted her, he wanted her. God, how much he wanted her! He’d wanted her for months but that desire had been lukewarm, tepid, in comparison to this sudden, powerful surge of lust. At this moment, he wanted to kiss her more than he wanted air or food or water—and she wanted him too.

There was no aphrodisiac on earth more powerful than knowing that the woman he desired, wanted him too. And he could no more have stopped himself now than he could have stopped the sun from rising. It may have been madness—but if it was, it was too tempting to resist, too powerful to deny.

He closed the distance between them with one small step, his hands cupping her cheeks, and he kissed her. From the first moment, the kiss wasn’t gentle or uncertain; this was no regular first kiss—and maybe it was the madness of the moon that eliminated all doubt. Her lips parted immediately, welcoming his tongue inside to taste her, to explore her mouth. And he lost his mind, his thoughts scattering into a whirlwind of sensation and pleasure and heat, as he slanted his lips over hers, deepening the kiss.

This kiss was open-mouthed and passionate, his tongue delving into the depths of her mouth, tasting her, stroking her tongue. And she kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck and returning his kiss with flagrant passion. She met him, need for need, lust for lust.

He kissed her until the entire world seemed to fade from around them. He was no longer aware of the ground beneath his feet, forgot where they were, forgot about time passing (he could have kissed her forever)… He kissed her until nothing and no one else existed but her, the taste of her, the yielding warmth of her body pressed against the length of his, her fingers tangling in his hair holding him in place, the tiny, urgent movements of her lips and her body to try to get even closer, closer than she already was… He kissed her until she had become his entire universe…

They kissed until their mouths were wet and swollen and their breath came fast. Kissed until their clothes—his dress robes and her dress—had been twisted beneath grasping hands, until their bodies were straining against each other.

He finally tore his lips from hers to stare at her, his eyes wide and a little wild, his breath coming in harsh gasps. “Hermione--”

She didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to risk the return of sanity. Talking wasted lips that were best used for other things as it was. “Ssh, don’t say anything,” she half-ordered and then she caught his face between her hands, standing up on her toes to kiss him fiercely, her lips claiming him, her tongue exploring the depths of his mouth, the different textures of his tongue, his cheeks, the rim of his teeth, the taste of him, a heady, masculine taste that was just him, along with a hint of butterbeer.

He gave in with a strangled sound deep in his throat, his arms clutching her to him, molding her body against his until his hardness was nestled against her soft body. His head slanted to take back control of the kiss, his hands wandering over her back and down to cup her butt and bring her arching against him.

Moon or no moon, he was burning for her, dying for her. She was a madness that had taken possession of him, body and soul, the feel of her, the taste of her, the passion of her…

His lips finally left hers only to scatter kisses across her face, quick, hard brushes of his lips against her cheek, her chin, her nose, her eyebrows, the hollow before her ears.

As if from far away, through the roaring of his heartbeat, he heard her gasp, “Harry,” against his ear, her breath hot on his skin, and felt a shiver go through his body.

He opened his eyes, drawing back just enough to stare at her, drinking in the sight of her like this, her lips swollen, her face flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark with arousal. He was still close enough to her that their breaths mingled, so close he could feel the heat from her skin on his.

Vaguely, he heard a burst of far-away laughter and realized with a mental jerk that they were in full view of the castle for anyone who cared to look towards the lake and the moonlight didn’t allow for any sheltering darkness. He closed one hand about her wrist and stumbled the few steps until they were on the other side of the great oak tree, the trunk shielding them from view of the castle.

“Hermione, I--” he gasped, his mind struggling to come up with some last vestige of coherence.

She stopped whatever he’d been about to say with a quick shake of her head. “Stop thinking,” she whispered huskily, just before she kissed him again. She’d made her decision—if decision it could be called, made with her body and not with her mind. She wanted, she wanted… All of him, everything of him—and at that moment, she didn’t care about the consequences (a broken heart was almost a guarantee), didn’t care that she didn’t know if this was pure lust, full moon madness in truth, or something more than that. All she knew was that she wanted him, had wanted him for months—even years—in some secret, unacknowledged corner of her heart and her mind. And finally, at this moment—even if it was just for this moment, just for this one night of madness— he wanted her too. If she had nothing more, if this was all of him she ever had, then by Merlin, she’d make this count and she did, holding nothing back, clutching him to her, shamelessly pressing herself against him.

Harry’s mind exploded. Thinking? What thinking? He was no longer capable of thought—at least not in any part of his body above his waist. He backed her up blindly, one, two stumbling half-steps until her back was against the tree and he ground his body against hers, unable to help himself, as she arched against him, one leg lifting to rub against his leg.

His lips left hers to leave a trail of hot, greedy kisses down the line of her neck and her throat, as far as he could until he was blocked by the modest neckline of her dress. She whimpered and gasped and wiggled in a desperate attempt to get closer; if she could have crawled into his skin, she would have and not felt close enough.

His hands slid up her body to cup her breasts—finally—and she cried out, her head falling back. His lips and tongue trailed fire over her throat as his hands kneaded, flattened her breasts, stroked them through the fabric of her dress until her nipples were hard and aching, desperate for his touch on her bare skin.

Her hands had undid the closures of his dress robes and slipped inside, her nails marking the cloth of his shirt, as his hips pressed into hers. He shivered and groaned at her touch, rocking against her.

With a huge effort, he wrenched his lips from her skin to stare down at her—but only for a moment. Her eyes opened, met his, and in that second as they stared at each other in the dim moonlight, question, answer, consent—all they needed to know—arced between them in silent communication.

His hands left her body only to shrug out of his dress robes, tossing them to the ground.

Her hands made quick work of the fastenings of his trousers, shoving them down to his knees and taking his boxers with them, and then her small, hot, wicked hands were on him, stroking him, teasing him, and his knees gave way.

He never knew whether she pulled him down to her or whether he pushed her down but somehow she sank to the ground mostly on top of his discarded dress robes as his hands frantically pushed up the skirt of her dress until it was bunched around her hips.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her knickers, caressing the smooth curve of her hips and thighs as he pushed them down. She was wearing garters.

His throat closed, his mouth going dry at the sight of them—was there anything sexier in the world?-- but before he could react (he wanted to press his lips to the soft skin just above and below them), he heard a faint rustle and realized she had somehow managed to undo the bodice of her dress, pushing it down and unfastening her bra. And he lost all interest in her garters in favor of her beautiful breasts, gleaming pale and perfect in the weak light.

His hands cupped, squeezed, before he lowered his lips to close around one peaked nipple, sucking it into his mouth, laving it with his tongue and then lightly nipping at it with his teeth, until she cried out sharply, writhing under him, her hands clutching at his hair, his shoulders, in half-frantic caresses.

What little remained of his control shattered.

One of her hands found him again, wrapping around the hard length of him, and he groaned, his hips jerking, thrusting into her hand before—by more luck than anything else—his body found the spot it was aching for.

The tip of him slid along her hot, wet, swollen flesh and his eyes nearly crossed at the mind-blowing pleasure of it, every nerve in his body tightening, zeroing in on that one focal point of intense pleasure-that-was-almost-pain.

For one odd, split second where time seemed to stop and stand still, she stared up at him, her eyes meeting his, seeing the way his eyes gleamed down at her, shadowed and dark in the dim light but she knew the intense green of them, almost black now with lust and need. For that one heartbeat, it seemed as if the entire world trembled on the brink of something—and she knew with every fiber of her being that, whatever happened, her world would be forever altered.

But then he shifted slightly above her, his erection slipping in just a fraction more, and the moment—the odd awareness—shattered into nothingness, leaving only blind lust behind.

She twisted and arched under him, her arms drawing him down to her, and he came fully into her with a groan, his hands sliding under her back.

Oh God. Oh yes… Her eyes closed, her mouth opened on a soundless gasp, her muscles clenched; she was stretched, full, completed…

Her legs wrapped around his, her hips arching up to meet his thrusts, the quick, urgent movement of his hips.

Sharp, wild, stabbing bursts of pleasure were starting to shoot through her body, building, building, building until it reached its peak and she shattered, convulsing around him, her muscles, her arms, her legs all tightening around him, bringing him in closer to her in every way, as she gave herself up to the explosion of pure physical sensation, shards of ecstasy streaking down every nerve to end in a tingle of fireworks.

One, two more thrusts and he followed her over the edge, his body stiffening, spilling himself inside her with a hoarse cry.

His arms tightened around her instinctively, his body curling around hers, as if to savor to the full each moment of their joining, as he slumped on the ground, rolling over to lie on his back, unmindful of the bunches of cloth underneath him, bringing her with him to lie half-sprawled above him in a wanton heap of twisted clothes and tangled limbs.

They lay there, still tenuously joined, as their breathing slowed, their heartbeats resumed a normal rhythm and slowly, gradually, sanity crept back into their minds.

He lay still, sated, quiescent, under the warm weight of her, staring up at the canopy of the tree above them, the round face of the moon just visible between the leaves, shedding a dappled light over their entwined bodies.

His hands moved in an idle caress over her bare back, his eyes falling shut momentarily as he savored the feeling of her breasts pressed against him, hot even through the thin fabric of his shirt. He wanted to feel her breasts pressed against his bare chest, the thought drifted into his mind. He still wanted her—he would never get enough of her.

He moved his head, just enough to brush his lips against her cheek, her temple, the corner of her lips, the lazy caresses revealing a betraying tenderness.

Strangely enough, it was that gentleness that pushed Hermione into stark realization of where they were and what they’d done.

She pushed herself up until she was sitting up, feeling him slip out of her body. She felt a hot blush crimson her cheeks and couldn’t quite meet his eyes, not because of shame but because of embarrassment and searing self-consciousness.

She didn’t regret it—she couldn’t regret something so wonderful, something she’d wanted for so long-- but God, how was she going to bear it if this was all, if this had only been the madness of one moonlit night? How was she supposed to move on as if this hadn’t happened when her entire body still tingled, feeling more alive than she’d ever felt, just from the memory of his touch? When it felt as if his lips and his tongue and his hands had branded her skin, marking her as his in some strange, indefinable, almost mystical way? When she knew that no matter what happened, she would never forget his touch, never forget his intensity, never forget his passion and his desire—never forget him, what it had felt like to touch him and be touched by him…

She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—forget it. And if this was all she ever had of him, now she knew what it felt like to be wanted by him and she would remember that…

“I must look like such a mess,” she murmured, striving to sound unconcerned, even a little amused.

Harry studied her, his gaze wandering from her hair, falling out of the twist she’d had it in, to her breasts, pale and peaked with rosy nipples, her skin still flushed, and her dress crumpled around her waist.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight. A mess? Perhaps—but that wasn’t the word that came to his mind. She looked… utterly delicious… Wanton, sensual, seductive, every red-blooded male’s lustful fantasy come to tantalizing, titillating life… He could forget everything else in this life, up to and including his own name—but he would remember this sight of her, he suddenly thought. He’d never be able to look at her again without seeing this image of her in his mind. He’d never be able to look at her without wanting her… She was in his blood now, in his very soul… And he knew that this madness—of desire and something more—was permanent.

But he settled for saying, simply, “You look beautiful.”

She blushed even hotter, her gaze flicking up to his eyes momentarily. “I-” she hesitated and then said, rather lamely, “thanks.”

She reached for her bra, lying discarded on the ground, and put it back on, shielding herself from his gaze.

When she was done, he was the one to hold the bodice of her dress up so she could shrug into it, zipping up the side zipper and smoothing back her hair, helping her put herself to rights again in a silent gesture of caring that went beyond lust.

She stood up, as did he, pulling up his boxers and his trousers and re-tucking in his shirt and lastly, adjusting his glasses from where they’d been skewed drunkenly, shoved on top of his head.

She managed a small smile, although her eyes were focused more on the level of his nose than on his eyes. “We can blame this on the moon.”

Blame it on the moon. He might have believed it—except he knew it wasn’t true on his part. It had served as a nice excuse and it may have lent some courage, at most, but the truth was that the moonlight had only served to gild the beauty he’d already known Hermione had; it hadn’t made her beautiful and alluring and desirable—she already was all those things. The moonlight had only made her irresistible.

And for her, the excuse of the moon might have been convincing—except for two things. The first was that he knew her and she did not have casual flings, whether from any moon-induced madness or any other reason. And the other…

He stepped closer to her, putting his finger under her chin to gently lift her head until she had to meet his eyes. “Hermione, the full moon isn’t tonight. It’s two nights away.”

He wouldn’t have thought it was possible but her blush deepened. “I know,” she finally whispered.

Heat—and hope—flared in his eyes at that admission and it emboldened him to make his own confession. “This wasn’t about the moon,” he confessed, his voice husky. “It was just… you.”

He waited and then finally, heard her say very softly, “This wasn’t about the moon for me either.”

He moved his hand from her chin to her cheek, where his fingers rested in a light caress—and this time, he knew it wasn’t the moon or anything else that gave him courage to continue, to tell her the truth he’d been hiding, denying, for months now. It was—as it had always been, really—only her. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for months—even when there is no moon or when the sun is out,” he added with a flicker of humor in his eyes.

Emotion flared in her eyes as she studied him, her lips parting, her breath stalling in her chest. “I want you too.” Entirely unconsciously, the tip of her tongue just touched her lips.

His eyes lowered irresistibly to focus on her lips and he sensed rather than heard her slight hitch of breath, felt, too, the unmistakable return of tension, of physical awareness, humming between them.

Slowly, inexorably drawn to her, he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her. And oddly enough, this kiss was the one that felt somehow more like a first kiss. This kiss was gentle—their passion had been sated—light, almost a tease rather than a kiss. His lips touched, brushed hers and then his tongue slipped inside her mouth as her lips parted, tasting her now-familiar taste leisurely, luxuriously. This kiss was soft, a lingering mutual exploration and enjoyment of the other’s lips and mouth.

It was an oddly peaceful thing—he’d never thought that kisses could be described as peaceful before and yet, somehow, this one was. After all the lust that had exploded between them, after the madness had subsided, he felt calm settle over him. Just kissing—with no thought of anything more. Just kissing—their lips and tongues the only things touching aside from his fingertips resting ever so lightly on her cheek.

Just kissing—that was all. But it was also everything.

There was no excuse of the moon, no strange compulsion from whatever mystical influence the moon might have. This wasn’t about a fleeting, momentary impulse. This wasn’t even about purely physical attraction.

It was conscious, deliberate. It was, in every way, a beginning.

His lips left hers only to feather light kisses across her cheek to the hollow just before her ear, nuzzling her earlobe until she let out a soft gasp.

“I love you,” he murmured thoughtlessly against her skin as his lips moved on, leaving a trail of butterfly kisses up to her temple.

Hermione felt as if she was floating, drifting, in a sea of pleasure, warmth blossoming in her body, renewed desire beginning to cloud her mind—until his words broke through the haze. He—what?

She gently pushed him away, needing to see his face, his eyes. Maybe he’d only meant the love of a best friend or he’d only been talking about desire or…

He blinked at her in some confusion for a fleeting second, wondering why she’d pulled away—he knew she’d been enjoying it just as much as he had been, he’d felt it, sensed it—but then he saw her eyes, the uncertainty shadowing them, and the realization of what he’d unconsciously admitted burst in on his mind. He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t meant to tell her so soon—had barely admitted even to himself that what he felt for Hermione was so much more than simple lust.

“You love me?”

His heart squeezed in his chest at the hint of vulnerability in her voice. She was such a contradiction sometimes, a know-it-all and so clever and confident when it came to anything you could find in a book but with a deep-seated insecurity hidden beneath it all, especially when it came to personal matters. It never failed to catch at his heart. She was so-- dear, this best friend of his…

He caressed her cheek very lightly, brushing his thumb across her lips in a tender gesture. “Of course I do,” he said softly. “Do you really think I could be in lust with you and not be in love with you too?”

“They’re not the same thing--” she began.

“I know—but this is you. After everything you’ve been to me, how could I not love you?”

Her smile began deep in her eyes and grew until it illuminated her entire face. She glowed—and she was so beautiful his breath caught in his chest.

“Oh Harry, I love you too!”

She caught his face between her hands, kissing him with more enthusiasm than skill—at least, at first, but then he responded, his lips parting, the kiss deepening, lengthening, until they were both out of breath by the time they finally drew apart.

Her eyes shone, even in the dim moonlight, her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen. God, she was so lovely…

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, without consciously realizing he’d spoken.

She smiled. “It’s about time you noticed,” she joked—or at least she was aiming for a teasing tone but she feared her voice came out somewhat too breathy. After so many years of knowing him and years of loving him, it was amazing how he could make her insides flutter and her knees melt just with a few words. And though she’d always rather prided herself on not being the type of girl to go weak in the knees easily, she was discovering that—as with just about everything else to do with Harry—it was different.

She half-expected some bantering response about how he’d always noticed, just never bothered to say anything before, but instead his eyes softened, sobered, even as his lips curved in response to her words. “I always thought you were pretty,” he said quietly, “but I don’t know when you became beautiful. Somehow, I didn’t see it, didn’t really see you…”

Poetry, it was not, but Hermione thought that they were the sweetest words she’d ever heard—except for when he’d said he loved her.

She brushed her lips against his in a quick, light caress. She loved that she could kiss him like this, loved knowing that now, finally, she could show him all the love she felt which she’d been hiding under the guise of purely platonic friendship for so long now, longer than she’d admitted even to herself.

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed at the touch, the spontaneous gesture of affection and love touching his heart to an almost ridiculous degree. It was so like her, he found himself thinking. She always had given him small, light caresses, the sort of unthinking gestures of caring he’d grown up without and valued all the more because of that.

And she loved him!

He felt a fresh surge of joy well up inside him—and then looked at her and felt fresh lust mingle in with the joy. He wanted to kiss her more, again—but at that moment some corner of his rational mind asserted itself, tugging him into a reluctant acknowledgement of the inadvisability of it.

“We should probably go back inside,” he said resignedly.

“Yeah, you’re right, we should,” she responded, sounding about as enthused as he felt.

He didn’t want to go back but he knew he couldn’t avoid it by lingering out here much longer. People would notice and then his return would be commented on, his absence speculated about. Plus, as the guest of honor, he felt something of an obligation to stay.

He grasped her hand lightly in his, brushing a fleeting kiss on her temple as they turned towards the castle.

By tacit agreement, his hand released hers as they approached the castle.

They re-entered the Great Hall together, heading by silent, mutual consent, towards the table where the drinks were set up.

They were not holding hands or touching in any way but he was conscious—in a way he’d never been before—of her walking beside him, of her nearness. They had always been, in some way, attuned to each other’s thoughts and feelings but now, they were also attuned to each other physically. He was aware of her skirt brushing against his dress robes as if it was an actual physical touch, was aware with every nerve he possessed of her nearness, just as he was conscious of every inch that separated their bodies.

“Oi, there you two are,” Ron greeted them as he approached.

They agreed with one glance as they turned to face Ron that they’d tell Ron later. For now, they would keep it to themselves; it was too new, too precious, to share, even with Ron. Besides, a public announcement of this sort wasn’t their way.

“Where’d you disappear to?” Ron asked.

“We were outside, admiring the moon,” Hermione answered in a tone that was pure innocence.

Harry glanced at her in time to see the sparkle of distinct mischief in her eyes—and choked on air that he quickly transformed into a cough, earning a concerned look from Ron.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” Harry managed to get out.

At this point, Luna drifted up to them, linking her arm with Ron’s. “Dance with me, Ronald,” she said in her dreamy fashion.

Harry stared with some surprise and more than his fair share of amusement as Ron flushed and followed her, with a half-sheepish, half-satisfied glance at Harry and Hermione.

“Admiring the moon?” he murmured under his breath as they watched Ron leave with Luna.

“Weren’t we?” she asked teasingly—and then shot him a look of so much sensual promise it sent a jolt of white-hot heat through his body, his palms going damp and his mouth going dry. And he wished desperately that this evening would end immediately. He wanted to be alone with her, in the flat they shared with Ron—more specifically, he wanted to be alone with her in his bed.

God, he wanted her so much. Again. Always.

And she knew it too. He saw it in her eyes, in the faint curve of her lips.

She was seducing him with just a look.

He moved closer to her, irresistibly drawn to her, but he didn’t touch her, knew he shouldn’t touch her because he wouldn’t be able to stop. “You’re evil,” he breathed into her ear before he stepped back, putting some much needed distance between them.

Her lips curved. Evil.

And Harry found himself smiling, in spite of the increasingly urgent desires of his body, as she gave him another wickedly- deliciously- teasing glance, feeling a bubble of joy well up in his chest. Joy that had nothing to do with the heated desires of his body.

He’d never seen this side of her, this seductive temptress side of her—but he loved it, loved her.

He’d almost grown accustomed to wanting her, to the flashes of lust he would feel at random times when she said or did something which he found arousing (sometimes for reasons beyond his understanding, but that hardly mattered). This wanting—this need—was stronger than anything he’d felt before—because now he knew exactly what he wanted, knew her taste and her passion and her boldness, knew the exquisite sensation of her under him, surrounding him…

He knew her; he wanted her—but now, finally, he also knew that in the space of a few hours, he would have her, could kiss her and touch her and feel her…

So in spite of this momentary torment (he could wait a few hours—he was sure he could wait a few hours—maybe)—he smiled, saw the way her eyes softened, shone. And he knew that he was happy—more than happy—euphoric might be more accurate.

What had really begun as a moment of madness, whether moon-induced or not, had led to this truth, this joy—this love… And he could only thank whatever Fates there might be for the madness-- and the miracle-- of this night.

~The End~