Disclaimer: Since this is (again) fixing JKR's mistakes, no, I'm not JKR and, sadly, this does not belong to me.
Author's Note: Written months ago but I forgot to post it here until now. Another AU take of what should have happened in DH if JKR had half a brain and an emotional range greater than a teaspoon. This was originally meant to be a one-shot but it got long so I split it up into two-and I didn't mean for it to involve smut but the smut just ended up happening (and really, a fic where Harry and Hermione are already in bed that doesn't involve smut is just a waste, isn't it?)
Partly inspired by one line from a column by ESPN's The Sports Guy on the Red Sox winning the World Series-I don't understand my own mind sometimes, what can I say?
Pure fluff with smut to come! Enjoy!
What Happened One Night
Part 1
He couldn't sleep.
Not that there was anything surprising about that. He hadn't been able to sleep very soundly or for very long for months on end, always too tense and too worried to be able to fully relax.
He prowled restlessly around the narrow confines of the cabin, too tense to be able to sit still or lie down, too keyed-up to even be conscious of tiredness, although he knew he was tired but it was more of an intellectual knowledge than really feeling tired.
The wind was howling outside and he tensed every time the branch of the tree which grew next to the cabin scraped against the side of the wall or every time he heard the slightest sound.
He tensed again as he heard something, very faintly, through the sound of the wind. For a fleeting instant, he thought it might have been the whimper of a wounded animal from outside but then he heard it again and he knew what it was. And felt a rush of adrenaline shoot through him, mingled with a sharp surge of concern.
He pushed open the door to the single bedroom in the cabin, his eyes flying to the corner where the bed was, to Hermione. Even as he saw her, at that moment, she let out another soft whimper of pain and fear, a sound that seemed to stab at him. Her hands were fisted on her blanket, twisting them until he was almost surprised it didn't rip. And he saw, with a pang, that there were tears staining her cheeks.
He knelt down by the bed, putting his hand on her shoulder to shake her. "Hermione. Hermione, wake up. It's okay; it was a nightmare.
She opened her eyes with a gasp, staring at him, her eyes wide and shadowed.
He softened his voice. "You were having a nightmare. Are- are you okay?" he asked, a little diffidently. He'd never woken her up or comforted her from a nightmare before, he realized. He had hardly ever been the one to comfort her in anything, he thought now with something like shame. She had comforted him, always been there for him-but had he ever really been there for her? She always seemed so strong, so capable-and he knew she was all that-but he'd never really stopped to think about her weaknesses too. But now, seeing her with tears staining her cheeks, her hands still clutching her blanket as if she needed to hold onto something, she suddenly looked very vulnerable, very small… He felt a surge of protectiveness mingled with affection.
Even as he watched, though, she seemed to struggle with herself, using one hand to hastily wipe her tears off her cheeks. "I'm fine, Harry."
Before that night, he might have accepted her claim but not now. Not when he was suddenly swamped with guilt that he really had not been as much a friend to her as she had always been for him. So he stayed, persisted. "Are you sure? Do- do you want to talk about it?" he ventured uncertainly. And when she hesitated, he added, rather lamely, "You can trust me."
Something flickered in her eyes at that. "I know. I do," she assured him hastily and then fell silent.
"What are your nightmares about?" he asked softly, realizing that he really did want to know. He wanted to know what had made her cry tonight, what had terrified her so. And he wanted to help, wanted to comfort her.
Her eyes flicked up to his before she faltered, barely above a whisper, "Of you-and of Ron-getting hurt."
He almost flinched. She had cried over him? Thinking that he-and Ron-had been hurt had made her look and sound so very vulnerable? His heart clenched inside him. "I have nightmares about that too," he admitted in a whisper, "of something happening to you and Ron."
A small shudder went through her. "I'm scared," she admitted, so quietly he had to strain to hear her, as if the words were compelled from her against her will. As if, he thought with a sudden flash of insight, she hated to admit to fear, to anything that even hinted of weakness. But what disturbed him wasn't that so much as it was the realization that she didn't want to admit weakness because she felt she needed to be strong-for him, to help him. He knew he felt that way, not wanting to admit to his fears, because of who he was, because he knew that the entire wizarding world did look to him. But somehow he hadn't realized that Hermione might feel the same way-not for the world but for his sake because she knew he depended on her.
And it was that which made him admit what he'd never admitted aloud before. "So am I. I'm scared too."
"Oh, Harry…" she sighed and put a hand on his arm.
He felt a swell of emotion, filling his throat, just from admitting his fears to her. It was too much; he fought it back, swallowed, a sudden memory darting into his mind of another time years ago when she'd admitted to being worried about him. And he knew what to say. "Well, I've been lucky before; maybe I'll get lucky again," he said, striving to sound unconcerned, as he gestured with one hand to his scar.
She remembered that time; he saw the memory flicker in her eyes along with the ghost of a smile before she sobered. And before he could blink, she had sat up and, just as she had years ago, thrown her arms around him in a hug. "Oh, Harry!"
It was much the same as that first hug she had given him; he still started back, even as his arms automatically closed around her. But that time, he hadn't been quite so conscious of the warmth of her. And he certainly had not felt her breasts pressed against him then-he slammed a mental door on that thought, and gently pulled back from her.
"Don't joke about that, Harry. Please don't. It isn't funny." A slight shiver passed through her, her eyes becoming momentarily distant and he knew that she was seeing again what she'd seen in her nightmare.
"I'm sorry," he said rather lamely, putting his hand on her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.
She looked up at him, hesitated, and then pushed her blanket back in an unmistakable gesture. "Will you-why don't you stay here for tonight, Harry? You shouldn't have to spend the entire night out there on the couch."
He blinked and stared at her, feeling a blush heat his cheeks. "I- I don't think--" he began uncertainly, his gaze flickering down to her pyjamas and blushing hotter.
She flushed slightly as well but met his eyes. "Don't be silly, Harry," she said, something of her usual brisk manner returning. "We're best friends and I trust you."
He still hesitated, feeling oddly uncomfortable in a way he'd never been with Hermione before. He never really thought of Hermione as being a girl, not like that; she was always just Hermione to him. But somehow, he felt uncomfortable. With her blanket pushed back like that, with her invitation lingering in his mind, he was suddenly very conscious of the intimacy of the situation, that they were alone here in this cabin, of the dimness of her room, of the fact that she was in her pyjamas even if her pyjamas were as good as her clothes were, as far as keeping her covered. It hadn't occurred to him before; it hadn't mattered before. She was just Hermione, his best friend, and that was all. Of course, he told himself, it didn't matter and she was right. They were best friends, had always been only best friends. There really was no reason to feel awkward about it, not really.
Right?
"Please, Harry. I'd rather not be alone tonight," she admitted softly.
That admission, more than anything, made up his mind. After all she had done for him, after all her support, if his presence would provide comfort, then how could he deny her? "Ok, I'll stay," he agreed. "You're like my sister so it's fine." (And if he had said that just days ago, he could have meant it sincerely, said it without a qualm. It was only tonight, at that moment, that he wondered why it suddenly felt like he'd said it more to convince himself of its truth than because he really believed it. Maybe something about saying the words, hearing them spoken aloud, just served to make him more aware than he'd ever been before, that they weren't true. She wasn't his sister; she could never be his sister… He didn't want her to be his sister. The vague thought drifted through his mind but dissipated before he could even begin to understand what that meant and he pushed it from his mind. She was just Hermione, his best friend, and that was all.
She shifted over as far as she could to make room for him and he settled into the bed beside her, his weight depressing the mattress so she automatically ended up pressed against him. She shifted until they were lying side by side, flat on their backs, her arm warm against his. It wasn't entirely comfortable-he wasn't used to sharing a bed with anyone, period-but it wasn't entirely uncomfortable either. It just felt… different.
Suddenly-belatedly-he thought of Ron and felt rather like squirming, ill-at-ease and feeling almost… guilty… although he couldn't have told exactly why. They hadn't done anything-and yet…
The thought of Ron seemed to make the bed feel much smaller, the thought hovering, settling in the room with an almost palpable physical presence.
Ron had decided-and Harry had agreed-that it might be better for them to split up, that Ron would join his father and Remus and other members of the Order in trying to find the next horcrux while he would continue on as he had been, searching alone. Ron had taken it for granted that Hermione would come with him and Harry hadn't questioned the assumption.
Instead when Ron had told Hermione what they'd decided, that he was leaving, Hermione hadn't questioned the decision but she had met Ron's eyes as she told him, quietly but with no uncertainty either, "I'm staying with Harry."
Harry saw again, vividly, the stricken look on Ron's face as he'd stared at Hermione in those moments before he'd left, heard the hurt in Ron's voice as he'd said, "It's him, isn't it? It's always been him…"
For a moment, Hermione's expression had crumpled and she'd faltered but then she'd met Ron's eyes. "It's not that, Ron, you know it's not. But I won't leave Harry alone; he needs us."
Ron hadn't understood, had almost stormed out-but Harry also remembered the look in Hermione's eyes when Ron had left, the wounded look of one who'd just received a blow to the heart.
"Hermione," Harry blurted out, breaking the silence, the words coming from his mouth unbidden, before he'd even realized he was going to say them, "why are you here?" The words were stark, might have sounded unwelcoming, but he knew she wouldn't take it that way. "Why didn't you go with Ron? I- I didn't ask-I couldn't have asked you to stay. You didn't have to--"
She cut off his words by putting her hand over his mouth. "You can't do everything alone. You know you couldn't do this alone and I couldn't leave you alone."
He moved his head a little so he could speak. "Maybe you should have gone. It'd be safer for you."
"Harry, stop it. I'm not going to change my mind and I already made my decision." Her tone and her expression softened. "Do you really think I could leave you alone when I know what you have to do? That's not what best friends do."
"Thank you," he blurted out, "for staying, for being my best friend. I- I haven't thanked you before and I probably haven't shown it but thank you."
She smiled slightly. "You don't need to thank me. I couldn't have done anything else."
For a long moment, he could only stare at her, amazed and touched at the depth-and the simplicity-of her loyalty. It wasn't only that she hadn't left him, that in all these years, she'd always been there for him (even when she hadn't approved of what he was doing, he thought, remembering their 5th year and that ill-fated trip to the Department of Mysteries with a pang) but it was that, to her, she really didn't see it as being particularly special. In her absolute, utterly steadfast loyalty, the idea of leaving, of doing otherwise, never even occurred to her as a possibility. She was amazing… He didn't know what he'd done to deserve such loyalty from her…
Not even Ginny had been so loyal. The thought slipped into his mind and he mentally recoiled, trying to deny it, forget it, disliking the disloyal thought-but it persisted. It was true; Ginny had just let him go, hadn't even tried to stay with him… Only Hermione had stayed with him…
She leaned over to brush a kiss against his cheek-making him suddenly, excruciatingly aware of the fact that he could feel her breast-her br-- Don't think of it, don't think of it-pressed against his arm before she rolled onto her back again and he remembered how to breathe. Don't think of it; it didn't happen; it meant nothing… She was just Hermione, just his best friend… Don't think of it…
"Good night, Harry," she said softly.
"Good night," he returned automatically.
In a few minutes, he could hear the way her breathing had evened out, becoming deep and steady, and knew she'd fallen asleep.
There was, he decided, no way he was going to be sleeping, not here, not with Hermione's warm weight pressed against his side. But it was comfortable lying down and he suspected he would wake her up if he got out of bed, so he stayed, trying not to think of Hermione lying so close to him, trying not to think of Ginny and how she had let him go so easily…
Harry drifted awake slowly, consciousness gradually seeping into his mind, making him aware of his surroundings-and that at some point during the night, he had shifted onto his side and draped his arm over Hermione, almost as if… he refused to consider what it felt like to wake up with Hermione essentially in his arms.
Moving carefully-he didn't want to wake her-he lifted his arm and rolled onto his back again.
He had slept. He'd slept well and soundly, dreamlessly for the first time in weeks. Part of him wanted to tell himself that it was mainly because he was tired and being in a real bed for the first time in weeks had made it only natural that he would sleep soundly-but the reasoning fell flat. It was partially true but it wasn't only that. It was because of her. He couldn't explain it but somehow, it was true. He felt the peace settle over him, warm and reassuring-and unsettling because of what it meant.
What did it mean that he'd found a peace with Hermione that he'd never known with Ginny? What did it mean that he was more thankful to have Hermione with him than he would have been to have Ginny beside him now? What did it mean that he was beginning to realize that he cared more about Hermione than he did about Ginny?
With Ginny, it seemed he'd always been focused on her eyes and her hair and her smile, on wanting to kiss her and touch her. But he'd never felt the flood of pure emotion for her-and with her-that he'd felt for Hermione last night.
He shifted, turning to look at her as she slept. He didn't think he had ever really seen Hermione asleep, or if he had, he didn't remember it, but he suddenly knew that he would never forget this sight of her sleeping.
Lying next to her like this, her face was so close to his, so very close, close enough that even without his glasses, he could see every detail, every one of her eyelashes or the very faint freckle on her cheek just before her ear. (He'd never known she had any freckles before and he found it oddly, well, adorable.)
There was a strange fascination, an almost mesmeric attraction, to watching Hermione like this. In sleep, she looked so different than she did when she was awake, her expression calmer than it ever was during the day, the eyes that tended to shine or flash or sparkle depending on her mood hidden. She looked younger, softer. Different-and yet still Hermione. Odd but he'd never realized until now just how well he knew her, but even without thought, he could picture her smiling, laughing, concentrating, scolding, fighting, crying… He knew how she looked in every mood, in every situation…
He knew how she looked but he was beginning to wonder if he'd ever really looked at her before. and if he had, how had he never noticed how… pretty she was? More than pretty. Her skin was perfect, pale but with a slight flush on her cheeks, and he couldn't help but wonder if it would be as soft and smooth to the touch as it looked. His gaze strayed to her lips-soft, pink, kissable (there was no other word that came to mind) lips-as his thoughts strayed to things he had no business thinking or wondering about his best-friend-who-was-like-a-sister.
He dragged his eyes away from her lips with effort- for what it mattered but he was beginning to realize that he could derive an almost extraordinary amount of pleasure just from watching Hermione sleep, all the determination and courage that characterized her during the day softened to a beguiling gentleness tinged with strength, even in sleep. It was an odd combination that somehow seemed to call forth every ounce of protectiveness and affection in him. It was a strange, new feeling which he'd never felt for anyone before. He'd felt a sort of general protectiveness for Ginny but that had faded, been forgotten as he started thinking about Ginny's smile and her eyes and the scent of her hair. He'd felt something of this fascination for both Cho and Ginny, when he'd had a hard time tearing his eyes from them, liking to look at them. But together-this affection and protectiveness and attraction… He'd never felt this combination of emotions swirling around inside him. He didn't know how to describe it or what was so different-but something was happening. Something confusing and unsettling and very, very powerful…
~To be continued… (with smut)