What Happened One Night

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 5^th 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)

Disclaimer: See Part 1.

Author’s Note: The very long, fluffy and smutty conclusion to this fic. Cavity alert! Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing! And now, enjoy!

What Happened One Night

Part 2

Hermione awoke slowly, returning to consciousness with a feeling of utter comfort, drowsily aware of how pleasant it was to have a warm body lying beside hers.

She kept her eyes closed, for once taking her time in allowing her mind to shake off the fuzziness of sleep, letting herself enjoy the warmth of her bed, the warmth of Harry lying beside her, rather like a bulwark of strength against the world, she thought fancifully. Harry… And somehow, the thought was less fancy than simple truth. Because Harry was, somehow, her bulwark of strength; she knew now just how much she relied on him for support and for understanding. It was one of the reasons she’d been more upset at Ron’s behavior last year; because, with Harry distracted by Ginny and with her at odds with him over his use of the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook, she’d felt very alone, suddenly, more alone than she’d felt in years—in five years, to be precise, since the day Harry and Ron had befriended her. And in part because of how off-balance she’d felt, she’d been more inclined to turn to Ron, as her only remaining best friend, the one who’d given her every indication—in his own, inept way—of fancying her as more than just a friend and that had been appealing to her then. She wasn’t proud of it, but she knew—now—that it was true. It had only been when she’d felt as if she’d lost Harry that she’d turned to Ron.

But now Harry needed her—just as much as she needed him, she admitted to herself. And even though normally, with any other person, she hated to feel helpless, hated to feel like she wasn’t strong enough on her own, it was—as it always was—different with Harry. With him, she could rely on him and it didn’t take anything away from her own strength. It was easy, natural, to rely on Harry because of what he was, because she knew that he would always—no matter the risk to himself or the danger—act to protect others, not because he necessarily thought of himself as the hero or the savior but simply because it never occurred to Harry to do anything else.

On the thought, she opened her eyes to see Harry, awake and watching her with an odd look in his eyes, an expression she couldn’t decipher, but which made his eyes look remarkably soft and clear. She felt the heat of a blush in her cheeks at the intimacy of waking up next to him, that somehow, irrationally, struck her as being even more intimate than having slept in the same bed.

She supposed it was shameless of her, even wrong, but she felt no embarrassment at it, no uncertainties—and perhaps that was the most striking thing of all. It felt somehow, entirely natural—even right—to wake up next to Harry in a way she hadn’t expected when she’d asked him to stay with her. It hadn’t—for once in her life—been something she’d thought through with any thoroughness; it had more slipped out of her mouth almost without her thinking it.

But somehow, some time in between the moment she’d made the offer and the moment she’d fallen asleep, she had realized just what it was about Harry that made her do what she did. It had been a gradual sort of understanding, one that felt perfectly natural, almost inevitable, even as it made her heart twist with a poignant regret and something like pain. And she finally understood her heart.

She remembered, with a pang, the look in Ron’s eyes right before he’d left, the way he’d said, “It’s him, isn’t it? It’s always been him.”

At the time, she’d been beyond irritated by Ron’s jealousy that seemed to be constantly rearing up even when it was really irrelevant. She’d dismissed it and had meant it then; not leaving Harry alone had nothing to do with her feelings for Ron and everything to do with simple loyalty and friendship. But she’d accepted that for Ron, friendship could not be purely that, as if because their friendship was hovering on the line of becoming more than that, every friendship had to be suspicious as well.

And that had part of what made her realize that Ron was, as much as it bothered her to admit it and as guilty as she felt about it, right. It was Harry, was always Harry. Perhaps, had always been Harry. She cared about Ron as her best friend and more than that—but Harry was just more than that. Had always been more than that, even though it hadn’t started as anything more than friendship. But somehow, even without her noticing it, Harry had become the single most important person in her life. It didn’t matter about anyone or anything else; Harry came first in her life.

And with that realization had come the other question—how could Ron be more than her best friend if Harry came first? He couldn’t. And that was the stark, simple truth. She cared about Ron, always had—but she loved Harry. She loved Harry, with a depth and a completeness that made almost anything else seem insignificant.

Ron had, after all, been right about her and her feelings for Harry. She hated the thought of hurting Ron but if she had to choose between going with Ron and staying with Harry, there really was no decision to be made. It was Harry, had always been, would always be Harry.

And somehow, new as this revelation was, new as all of this—waking up next to Harry, knowing she loved him—was, it only felt natural…

She met his eyes, flushing almost in spite of herself, casting about for something to say and finally settled on the simplest thing. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said equally softly.

He stared at her, studied her, as the silence lingered, lengthened, stretched, the air slowly becoming thick with an odd tension that was partly due to the physical but not entirely. The moment became a minute, more than that, as her breathing fractured, her lungs suddenly forgetting to work properly.

It was something in his eyes, something which she couldn’t quite read, something which she’d never seen before, something that made her breath hitch slightly in her chest, sent small ripples of heat through her body.

Harry stared at her, the familiar features of her, the warm, brown eyes he knew so well, conscious of a tug of something deep inside him, a visceral thing stemming in part from this sudden mesmeric attraction that seemed to hum, sizzle between them.

Her lips parted on a soft breath and that was all it took for his gaze to focus on her lips—her perfectly kissable lips…

It was one of those moments when the entire world seemed to stand still, a moment when the world had narrowed down to only him and only her. It was a moment when he forgot how to breathe as his mind realized and accepted what his body and his heart seemed to have already realized. An amazing, unforgettable moment when everything fell into place and started to make sense, even as absolutely nothing was really making sense.

It was the moment when he realized what was happening. Hermione, his best friend, just his best friend—and yet not…

He was falling in love with Hermione—no, was already in love with her, in love with her loyalty and her courage and her strength and her vulnerability. He was in love with his best friend—and even though he’d never even thought of it before, it somehow managed to seem entirely natural. That after all these years, after all they’d been through together, he would fall in love with the one person who had been with him for everything, the good and the bad, his best friend.

His best friend whose lips were becoming increasingly distracting.

She finally broke the silence, her voice soft, hushed, as if she didn’t dare disturb the quiet. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking…” he trailed off, hesitated, and then finally finished, “earlier, when I said you’re like my sister… I think—no, I know I was wrong…”

The ghost of a smile glowed in her eyes and curved her lips—and that was all he needed to know.

“I’m not your sister,” she said, very softly, in a hushed voice just above a whisper.

“No, you’re not,” he reiterated equally softly. He had the odd sense that if either of them spoke too loudly, it would somehow shatter the moment. It was too solemn, too precious, a moment to speak normally; after all, he thought rather dumbly, it wasn’t every day you realized you were in love with your best friend.

His gaze flickered down to her lips (again) and he sensed rather than heard her slight hitch of breath.

And then he kissed her. He shifted, moving his head just enough so his lips could touch hers, brush hers, lightly at first, a tease of a kiss, but then with more certainty, lingering until he was very aware of the flutter of her breath against his cheek, the warmth radiating from her skin, the softness of her lips… And it was amazing. He felt that light touch of her lips to his in a rush of tingling sensation all the way down to his toes.

But more than that was the thought repeating in his head: I’m kissing Hermione, I’m kissing Hermione, and she’s kissing me. I’m kissing Hermione…

He drew back, ending the kiss slowly, as she let out a soft, breathy sigh. He opened his eyes, wanting to see her face again. Or, more specifically, wanting to see her face after he’d kissed her.

She was flushed from a combination of emotion and pleasure, her eyes dark, her lips damp and just a touch swollen. She was, he thought, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in his life.

He let out the breath he hadn’t even realized had stalled in his throat at the sight of her in something like a sigh of surrender—he couldn’t resist her. At that moment, it didn’t matter that he knew this would hurt Ron; it didn’t matter that this was changing his friendship with Hermione irrevocably and he was, in some part of him, terrified of ever losing her friendship. It didn’t matter… Nothing mattered, except her… At that moment, he wanted to kiss her more than he wanted his next breath.

Almost as if she’d sensed the thought, her gaze lowered to focus on his lips.

He propped himself up on his elbow and lowered his lips to hers, kissing her with more certainty, her lips softening and parting, as his tongue ventured into her mouth to taste her for the first time. She kissed him back, one of her hands sliding into his hair, as her tongue met his, stroked his, sending a shiver through his body.

He kissed her long and lingeringly, his tongue exploring her mouth, hard and deep and then gentler, discovering how she liked to be kissed and discovering, too, how much pleasure there was in kissing her and in giving her pleasure. He loved the soft sounds she made, the way she responded, letting him know in the movement of her lips and her hands and her body how she felt. (Ginny hadn’t been like this, he thought fuzzily. She’d been eager and she’d been passionate but she hadn’t been this… sweet, this giving… Or maybe he simply hadn’t cared enough to think about what gave her pleasure as opposed to simply what he liked…)

Finally, reluctantly, he broke the kiss when a need for oxygen became imperative, noting with an inward smile and a rush of heat that she looked about as dazed as he felt.

He brushed a strand of hair away from her face with his free hand, his fingers trailing along her skin in a light caress.

Her eyes darkened, softened and he wondered how he’d never noticed that there were flecks of amber and gold in her eyes.

“Harry…” she breathed very softly—had his name ever sounded so good before?

His lips parted, the words spilling out before he’d realized it. “I think I love you,” he whispered.

Her eyes glowed. “Oh Harry, I love you too. I--”

He cut her words off with his lips, kissing her again, impulsively, not able to help it in his rush of relief and joy at hearing her confession. She loved him! She loved him.

The kiss ended slowly, lingeringly, as he lightly nibbled her lower lip before drawing away.

She let out her breath in a soft sigh of pleasure, her eyes opening to meet his, looking a little cloudy and dazed at first before awareness returned.

She blinked and then the ghost of a smile touched her lips. “I was right.”

His lips curved, as he felt a rush of affection for her. It was such a Hermione thing to say. “About what?”

“You’re not a bad kisser.”

It was his turn to blink at her, the memory of when she’d said that immediately winging into his mind, of them in the Common Room after he’d kissed Cho for the first (and last) time. He felt a bubble of laughter tickle his throat and gave in to his amusement-- and realized, peripherally, that it almost seemed strange to feel amused, realized just how long it had been since he’d felt like laughing—until now. Trust Hermione to remember the moment and being right. “I’m glad you think so,” he said lightly. He paused, a question darting into his mind, and then blurted out, “Why did you say that I wasn’t a bad kisser then? You didn’t know.”

She blushed, her eyes faltering for a moment before she met his eyes again. “Why do you think I said it?”

He stared at her for a moment, remembering that moment, trying to process what she’d said, along with her blush and the look in her eyes just now—and drew himself up sharply. “You—back in 5^th year, you thought about me kissing you?”

Her deepening blush was her answer and it was all the answer he needed.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, “for being such an idiot.” For not appreciating her, for not really looking at her to see just how beautiful she was…

A slight smile curved her lips. “It’s okay. I was an idiot too.”

For the space of a heartbeat, he didn’t react, too surprised, and then slowly, a smile grew into a grin and then became soft laughter. “I don’t believe I heard that right. You, an idiot? Who are you and what have you done with my Hermione?”

The teasing words slipped out of his mouth without thought and it was only when he saw her eyes shine, her entire expression softening, that he stopped to think about what he’d said and the unconscious endearment that had slipped out. My Hermione. He’d never thought it but it was amazing how easy the words had been to say—and how right they somehow sounded to him now.

She looked as if she wanted to say something but then hesitated, seemed to think about it, and then finally asked, lightly, “Does that mean I get to call you my Harry?” Her tone was bantering but her blush deepened slightly at the last two words and he decided he’d never seen anything more- well, adorable, than Hermione blushing. (She didn’t blush that often but she’d blushed more in the past few minutes than he could remember her blushing in the past few years. He didn’t know why this was so but there was something almost charming about her uncertainty when compared to the confidence that he usually associated with her—maybe because he somehow knew that she’d only show this vulnerable—blushing—side of her to him?)

“If you want to,” he answered, smiling.

God, she really was so… pretty, he thought for what seemed like the millionth time in the past half hour. How was it that he’d never seen it before? Had he been blind or, as he’d said, just plain stupid, when Viktor Krum and Ron had both noticed—

The thought of Ron acted on the warmth unfurling in his chest like a bucket of ice-cold water, erasing his smile—and hers, as well. He saw a slight frown crease her forehead, in automatic reaction to his change in mood, her expression darkening.

“What is it?”

“What about Ron?” he blurted out. “What—how are we going to tell him?”

She looked stricken with remorse and guilt and regret. If she had just discovered she’d seriously injured an innocent baby, she couldn’t have looked more so and he almost wished he hadn’t brought it up. Why had he brought it up? They’d been happy; he’d been loving the fact that even in the face of all these new feelings for Hermione, they could still laugh and tease—he loved the glimmer of humor in her eyes.

But now her eyes were dark and sad and he hated to see it, hated even more knowing that it was because of him—and yet he’d had to ask. He knew that, knew they couldn’t, shouldn’t, avoid the mention of Ron. He pictured again the look on Ron’s face when he’d realized that Hermione wouldn’t be going with him, remembered all the different ways Ron had shown that he fancied Hermione—and almost wished he could have stayed blind. He’d never wanted this, never wanted to hurt Ron.

It would, he thought painfully, have been so much simpler if he could have stayed with Ginny, if his relationship with Ginny could have lasted But even had Hermione not been there, he couldn’t have stayed with Ginny. Looking back on it, he couldn’t remember anything that had brought them together, couldn’t remember what he’d found so fascinating about her, except for her looks, her smile and her eyes and her hair and her figure… It had only been a physical thing with Ginny. But this—his feelings for Hermione—this was so much more than that. There was the physical part, yes—he didn’t kid himself that his feelings for Hermione weren’t very affected by how pretty she was, how it had felt to kiss her—but it was also about how she knew him so well, how he trusted her and needed her so much, how he found some measure of peace with her… It was about all the things that had made her his best friend for so many years.

And he could no more give this up, give her up, stop himself from feeling this way, than he could will himself to stop breathing.

“I don’t know,” she finally sighed, “but I think… I think he sort of knows. He was right, when he said before he left that it was you. I don’t want to hurt him but it’s you, it’s always been you, Harry, even when I told myself you’d never see me that way and I--”

He interrupted her half-faltering words—had to interrupt her because of the flicker of remembered hurt in her eyes. “I was an idiot,” he said softly, his thumb moving over her cheek in a light caress. “I’m sorry. I wish I’d known, wish I’d looked at you sooner--” Regret laced his words. If only he had realized sooner just how much he cared for Hermione, it might have simplified things; if he had, maybe Ron would have learned to outgrow his fancy for Hermione, maybe…

It was his turn to cut him off with a quick shake of her head. “It’s okay, Harry. It was my fault too. I shouldn’t have let Ron think I cared so much; I shouldn’t have thought that I could make myself stop caring about you--”

He kissed her. He couldn’t help it; really, he couldn’t. In spite of the somberness of the topic and his lingering guilt over Ron, he couldn’t help it and certainly not when she said something like that. Plus, her lips, still swollen from their kisses, were so very distracting—and how had he never noticed that the word ‘you’ when it was spoken looked like a kiss?

He kissed her, one hand tangling in her hair and the other cupping her cheek as he unconsciously shifted his body until he was lying half on top of her for ease of access to her lips. He felt as if he were sinking into her and she was melting into him, his tongue exploring the depths of her mouth, meeting and stroking her tongue with his. He swore he could feel every slight movement of her tongue and her lips through his entire body, heat and arousal skittering along every nerve ending he possessed.

And she kissed him back, her arms sliding around his neck, her hands clutching his shoulders, her body arching into him.

He wasn’t sure how it happened—it didn’t matter how it happened—but then she was pushing herself against him and he gave in, rolling onto his back as she followed him, their lips still fused together, until their positions were reversed. If he’d been capable of thinking clearly, he may have thought (as he did, afterwards) that it was like Hermione to assert herself so; it wasn’t in her to lie back passively and merely accept his kisses. But it didn’t occur to him at the time; he didn’t care. His entire world, his existence, had narrowed down to the confines of her bed, to the warm weight of her body pressed against him, to the feel of her breasts flattened against his chest, the taste of her, the scent of her, the soft puff of her breath against his cheek… He was lost in a world of pure, physical sensation and nothing else mattered.

His hands somehow slipped under the hem of her shirt, finding the smooth bare skin of her back. Her skin was so soft and so hot to the touch; it was drugging, intoxicating, making him want to touch and explore more… The purpose of his entire existence at that moment seemed to be encapsulated by that one word: more, more, more…

His hands strayed further, irresistibly lured by the expanse of her back, and she made a soft sound in her throat which was swallowed by his mouth. Encouraged—and inflamed—he dared to go further, one of his hands sliding up her side until his fingers were brushing the side of her breast. She wasn’t wearing a bra, that realization bursting in on his dazed mind. His other hand wandered further south, learning the curves of her waist and her hips with his hand, curves which he’d never really noticed on her before but he was quite sure he’d never not notice them again, caressing her through the cloth of her pyjama pants.

And all the while, he kissed her, his tongue exploring the depths of her mouth with as much thoroughness as his hands exploring her body. He could have stayed kissing her like this forever, could happily spend the rest of his life kissing her, just kissing and not even anything beyond kissing—liar, the growing ache in his groin accused him sourly.

Her hands hadn’t been still either, wandering over his shoulders and chest and stomach with curiosity and growing urgency and—

One of her hands slipped down to cup the hardness in his trousers—if he could have leaped out of his skin while lying down, pinned beneath her, he probably would have. As it was, he tore his lips from hers with a strangled sound, halfway between a gasp and a groan. “God, Hermione!”

She raised her head to look down at him, a smile which he could only describe as wickedly (delightfully) seductive curving her lips.

He wouldn’t have thought it was possible but he hardened even more—he was so hard, it hurt—and it was because of her expression, not even her touch.

She moved her hand, shifting her entire body off him in a deliberate, almost ostentatious fashion. He remembered how to breathe again and then decided he didn’t want to breathe, if it meant she would stop kissing him, touching him, letting him kiss and touch her…

She cast him a look from under her lashes that in any other girl, he would have called flirtatious—but this was Hermione and—and-- “Didn’t you like it?” she asked, in a tone almost dripping with innocence, never mind that her tone was entirely belied by her expression. How, how, how did she manage to sound so damn seductive and so innocent at the same time? (And just how had he never known before that she was downright evil?)

He responded in the only way he could, rearing up and flattening his lips to hers, gently pushing her back down so he was once more above her. “Witch,” he accused in a low whisper against her lips, half-teasingly and half-affectionately, his voice husky with arousal. He swallowed her soft huff of laughter with another heated, drugging kiss.

He tore his lips from hers with some vague thought of trying to ease the raging lust inside him but he couldn’t—he absolutely couldn’t—bring himself to stop touching her or kissing her. All he could do was move on from her lips, letting his lips leave a trail of soft, butterfly kisses along the line of her jaw until he reached her ear. She let out a soft, breathy sigh as his lips found the small hollow just below her ear lobe, where her jaw began, and he kissed the spot again before moving on to scatter kisses across her cheeks, on her nose, her eyelids, her forehead, her chin, learning her familiar features with his lips.

She let out a throaty gasp that dissolved in a long sigh of pleasure, her hands tangling in his hair—and he could swear that he felt the sound rather than heard it, felt it in a rush of searing heat through his body.

From somewhere, some dim corner of his mind, what little remained of his brain fought, rallied for one last moment of rationality, trying to slow his headlong hurtle into utter madness. “Hermione,” he managed to mutter against her skin, his lips moving on down past her chin, along the delicate line of her neck, “we should… mm… stop…” His lips and his hands continued on in their quest to explore more of her body, belying his words. “It’s… too much…”

Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugged gently to bring his lips back up to hers, so she could kiss him, a long, slow, lingering kiss that effectively incinerated what little was left of his brain. When she finally drew back, ending the kiss, he blinked at her dazedly.

“Don’t stop,” she said in a husky voice. “I want this; I want more…”

He stared, some semblance of sanity returning to his sluggish mind. “Are you sure?” he blurted out, even as part of him was shrieking in his head, are you insane? She just said she wanted more; when a girl says that, you don’t give her a chance to rethink it or change her mind and you just do it! He squelched the voice with a sharp rejoinder, not with Hermione. With her, I want her to be sure, can’t risk her regretting it later.

Her answer wasn’t in words. Holding his gaze, in spite of the scarlet blush heating her cheeks, she tugged her shirt up and over her head, dropping it on the floor.

He died. Or at least, he should have. Afterwards, he had no idea how he survived the moment and could only feel rather dumbly thankful that he had survived. His throat closed, his lungs seized, his very eyelashes seemed to have turned to stone as he stared at her.

Oh my… Holy… She was… she was… His mind floundered around for a word, failing miserably. She was… beyond the power of words to describe. There wasn’t a word to describe her being so unutterably beautiful and sexy and sensual and precious and utterly delicious and… and… brave… He could see it in her eyes, the combination of boldness and shyness and uncertainty and determination—and it was, somehow, an amazingly erotic thing to see.

“I—Hermione, you…” he managed to croak but then stopped, his eyes greedily wandering over every inch of her skin, the pale, glowing skin, the small, round, perfect breasts peaked with rosy nipples… Even as he watched in fascination, her blush spread down to her chest.

She didn’t cover herself although her hands made a small, restless movement as if she was about to. “Harry, please…”

Her hands moved to the hem of his own shirt and he finally jerked himself out of his dazed stupor of lust enough to drag off his own shirt.

And then, as if finally moving had once and for all ended his paralysis, he immediately reached for her, cupped her breasts in his hands. His eyes nearly rolled back in his head at the heady rush of lust and pleasure that went through him. She fit his hands so perfectly, felt so good as he cupped, lightly squeezed, caressed, discovering not just the wonderful feel of her but learning how to touch her.

She gave a soft cry, her breath coming faster, her head falling back, and he dragged his eyes away from her breasts to look at her face, lingered there, fascinated—and aroused beyond belief—just to see the expressions cross her face, seeing all the pleasure and arousal and desire and need that were swirling around inside him mirrored on her face. God, she was so lovely…

He leaned forward, all uncertainty having been long drowned out by his lust, and just touched his tongue to her nipple. She gave a strangled cry, arching her back, and he closed his lips around her taut nipple, swirling his tongue around it, sucking on it as if it were the sweetest candy—and it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.

“Oh… Oh, Harry…” she moaned as she fell back on the bed in a languorous movement that seemed more like she’d melted than that she’d consciously decided to lie back. He followed her, lowering his body on top of hers as he continued his ministrations to her nipple. He finally moved on but it was only to scatter kisses across her chest before he reached her other breast and repeated his actions, licking her, suckling her, laving her breast with his lips and tongue.

His hands went to grip her waist of their own accord and then irresistibly, driven by some mindless compulsive need to feel more of her skin against him, slid into her pyjama bottoms, his finger hooking on her knickers and pushing them down along with her pyjama bottoms.

He wouldn’t have thought that anything could distract his attention from Hermione’s breasts but he had to watch as he slowly pushed down her pyjama bottoms, baring her to his unabashedly lustful gaze. He felt rather as if he was unwrapping the most beautiful, precious gift—wasn’t he?—and thought (afterwards) that this made up for every birthday and Christmas gift which he’d never received while with the Dursleys. This moment, being able to see Hermione like this, touch Hermione, more than made up for everything and he knew he was the luckiest boy who’d ever lived.

She had a beautiful body, all soft hills and valleys and delicious curves—and legs that went on for miles… She made his hands positively itch to touch her, to stroke every gentle curve of her body, made his mouth quite literally water with the desire to taste her. An image flashed into his mind with vivid clarity of him running his lips and tongue over every inch of her body, tearing a groan from his throat at the erotic mental picture and the pulsating heat it sent through his body at the thought of it.
Her hands went to the waistband of his trousers, undoing the fastenings and then pushing them down in her turn, her fingers hot and clever as they deliberately brushed against the bare skin of his stomach, making his muscles clench automatically.

He moved to help her, his fingers trembling from the intensity of his need as he impatiently shoved his trousers and his boxers off his legs, groaning in spite of himself when his erection was finally freed from its confines.

Before he could so much as catch his breath, her fingers—wonderful, evil fingers—were feathering along the length of him, measuring his passion with light strokes. She was killing him with her fingers, torturing him with her touch, until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, wasn’t aware of anything beyond her fingers touching him…

His hand shot out and grasped her wrist, stopping her motions. “Stop it, please. No more,” he rasped out in a voice that wasn’t his own.

She looked at him from beneath her lashes, a rather smug, satisfied smile curving her lips—it was, he realized, an expression he’d seen many times before. It was much like her expression whenever she’d answered a question correctly in class, whenever Professor McGonagall had given her a few, rare but always well-deserved words of praise or approval, only now it was tinged with sensual knowledge.

He met her eyes. “My turn,” he said huskily and saw the flash of heat, mingled with erotic anticipation, in her eyes.

His gaze and his hands wandered down her body, stroking, caressing, discovering every inch of her enticing, beautiful body. The feel of her skin was rapidly becoming an addiction; he wanted to keep touching her, exploring her, more, more, more… He wanted everything. The fuzzy thought that he would never stop wanting her formed in his mind but dissipated in an instant as she gave a throaty cry that sent another jolt of lightning sizzling through his body, ending in his aching erection.

His hands had been stroking her hips and her thighs, her legs parting naturally. And he nearly swallowed his tongue as he saw that most secret part of her body.

Holy… God! She was slick and wet—he could see it. And he could smell her arousal and—and—good God…

Finally, finally, he touched her there, the hot, wet, swollen flesh, at first tentatively, not daring to breathe (his lungs seemed to have forgotten how to breathe as it was), half-expecting her to stop him, to clamp her legs closed. He could not believe this was happening, that he was touching Hermione like this…

But she didn’t stop him. She cried out, her hips arching to push herself further into his hand.

Encouraged—and his mind so fogged with desperate lust, it drowned out all uncertainty—he moved his hand, exploring her. His fingers found, brushed against a small nub of flesh and her hips bucked, as she cried out again. She liked that. He repeated the action with more confidence; she made a sound somewhere between a sob and a moan and a cry.

It was the hottest thing he’d ever heard and drew his gaze up to her face. His breath fractured, his lungs seizing in his chest. He could almost swear his heart stopped beating for one long, wondrous minute. Good God. He knew she was beautiful but this—the way she looked now—this was beyond beautiful. There were no words in the English language—o r any other, he was quite certain, to describe this, as she looked now, with her eyes closed, her lips open, her face flushed. She looked… as if she had gone to some new, wonderful plane of existence, some blissful place apart from this world…

And it was because of him. He had done this; he had made her look like this. He felt a surge of fierce emotion—part joy, part triumph, part possessiveness—and a tidal wave of even fiercer lust.

He wanted—no, needed—to join her in that place, find that bliss with her…

He moved up over her body, his lips crushing hers, kissing her deeply, heatedly, with all the raging lust he felt. He was rock-hard, desperate, brainless, mindless, except for the need that possessed him to the exclusion of all else and—by luck and instinct rather than knowledge, his jutting arousal found where it needed to be. He plunged into her, his eyes rolling back in his head, a groan tearing its way from his throat at the feel of her wet warmth surrounding him. So tight, so hot, so slick, so… heavenly…

But even in his haze of lust, he was attuned to her, his being focused on her, so he somehow felt her stiffen, felt her nails suddenly dig into his shoulders, heard her soft, muffled cry which was mostly swallowed by his lips.

He froze, stopped, still inside her although he didn’t know where he got the strength or will to stop. He wrenched his eyes open, searching her face. He wanted to ask her if she was okay, if he’d hurt her, but words were beyond him. It took serious effort to finally murmur, “Hermione?” It was all he could manage, just her name.

She opened her eyes, seeming to try to catch her breath. She blinked, the ghost of a frown flickering across her face—he could almost see her struggle—and then, “I’ll be fine. Just… give me a minute.” Her words were hardly more than breaths of air, punctuated by slight gasps.

A minute?! He was going to die. He was already dying. But he gritted his teeth, his jaw locking as he looked at her—and something changed. It didn’t get easier; he was still in something approaching downright agony—she was so tight, so wet, felt so damn good… But the vague thought drifted into his mind and lingered, crystallized into certainty. He would rather die than hurt her more…

On a wave of tenderness, he lowered his lips to hers, brushing light, fleeting kisses on her mouth, her nose, her cheeks, her chin, anywhere he could easily reach, offering a silent apology and silent comfort.

And after a moment, she shifted, one hand sliding into his hair, holding him in place as she returned his kiss, her lips moving against his. Her body shifted as well, her muscles tightening around him spasmodically, and he tore his lips from hers on a groan, feeling what little remained of his control and his sanity splinter into a thousand pieces. “Hermione, I need to--”

“I want it, Harry. I want you,” she whispered, her breath coming in warm puffs of air against his skin.

He kissed her again as his hips began to move, finding an instinctive rhythm.

And she met him, her hips arching against him, her legs tangling with his, her hands flattening on his shoulders and down his back, moving in a restless caress. He could feel as well as hear her soft gasps of breath, against his cheek. Her tiny, soft sounds of pleasure and arousal were the most erotic sounds he’d ever heard. Everything about it, the entire moment—the sounds she made, the taste of her, the feel of her under him, around him, surrounding him—it was all the most erotic thing ever. He was going insane from the sheer overdose of pleasure, every one of his senses overwhelmed from the flood of pure, physical stimulation, thrilling his every nerve ending.

As if from very far away, he vaguely heard someone gasp, “Hermione, I--” before the words were cut off on a sharp intake of breath, and realized, belatedly, fuzzily, that it must have been him. But the realization vanished; he still had no clear idea what he’d started out to say--

Oh God… He was dying, he could feel it, the explosion bubbling up inside his body. His hands, which had been moving over her skin in a mindless, greedy caress, slipped down further until—by some accident or dumb luck; he had no mind left for deliberate intent—he touched her wet, slick flesh where they were joined—and she cried out, her hips arching sharply.

Her sleek, inner muscles convulsed around him, her nails digging into his back with a pressure that might have been painful if he’d had any ability to feel anything that wasn’t centered around his aching, pulsating erection—and that was it. The explosion that had been building inside him finally detonated, set off by the feel of her clamping around him.

He stiffened, he soared, he died. His mouth opened on a soundless scream or an endless gasp as he fought for air, and he fell. Fell into her, into the warmth of her, into her arms and legs wrapping around him, welcoming him…

He collapsed on top of her, fighting for breath, his face buried in her hair, as he simply lay on her. Eventually, after several minutes, the vague realization that he must be crushing her drifted through his mind and he managed to force himself to move, rolling over onto his side, his arms wrapping around her and bringing her with him until she was leaning against him and half on top of him.

And then he drifted, floated, dreamed for an endless time—but he didn’t sleep. Always, in some corner of his being that was something less than full consciousness, some way more visceral than that, on an almost instinctual level, he was dimly aware of her, of the rhythm of her breath, of her heart beating through her skin (so close he couldn’t tell where her heartbeat ended and his began), of the warmth and the weight of her lying against him, of the curves snuggled so closely against his… He could almost imagine that she was melting into him, melding with him in some indefinable way.

He felt the soft flutter of her sigh against his skin and his fingers skimmed over the bare skin of her back in an idle caress. “Are you okay?” he murmured, having to reach far back inside himself for some vestige of coherence.

“Mmm…” Her soft sound of pleasure, almost a purr, that he felt more than heard, was her only answer—and all the answer he wanted. It was the most contented sound he’d ever heard and it filled him with the most amazing sense of well-being he’d ever known, an alien feeling after all these months of fear and danger and constant worry and nightmares. But at that moment, all those things which had been his constant companions for the past few months dissipated until they seemed as ephemeral as smoke. It was as if, just for this moment, his life was as perfect as it could be; just for this moment, he was safe and nothing could harm him; just for this moment, he was exactly where he belonged… With her.

He shifted his head on the pillow so he could look down at her, seeing her features suffused with the same peace and contentment he was feeling. “That was…” he began and then trailed off, at a loss for any word that could do justice to it.

“Mm, yes,” she agreed breathily.

He felt a smile curve his lips, feeling a flicker of amusement mingled with affection. “So this is what it takes to make you speechless? I should have tried this years ago,” he teased, although the moment he said it he realized there was another, deeper meaning in his words. He should have really looked at Hermione and grown to appreciate her sooner…

She met his eyes, a mischievous spark entering her eyes. “I should have tried kissing you whenever you disagreed with me.”

“Yeah, you should have,” he agreed with sham solemnity. “I’d have studied a lot more if I’d known this would have been my reward for listening to you.”

She choked on a laugh, poking him in the side. He grabbed her hand before she could repeat the action and for a few seconds, they engaged in a playful bout of mock arm-wrestling as she tried to free her hand from his grip.

It ended when he caught her lips with his, stilling her as he kissed her lingeringly, with none of the passion from earlier but gently, in a leisurely fashion. She sighed softly against his mouth as the kiss ended.

He stared at her. Really, she was so… utterly adorable when she was like this, blinking a little dazedly, her entire expression softened with almost sleepy pleasure, her lips pink and damp and swollen from his kisses…

He was so used to thinking of Hermione as the clever one, the strong one, the determined one—and she was all that. In these past months, she’d been the one who’d refused to give up, who’d refused to let the fear deter her. Looking at her now, it was almost hard to believe that this was the same girl, all soft, yielding curves and soft, yielding lips. He fancied he could still see her strength in the line of her jaw and her stubbornness in her chin. It was an oddly alluring combination (to say nothing of being arousing, as he’d already discovered) to know that she was so strong and so determined and then to see her like this. That the same Hermione who had once slapped Malfoy’s face, who had single-handedly planned their rescue of Sirius in their 3rd year, who had confronted him about his ‘saving people thing’ in his 5th year when he’d been angry at the entire world, could also be this Hermione…

He felt a sudden bubble of affection inside his chest, mingled with something like awe. This was Hermione, he thought rather stupidly. His best friend, Hermione, with her bushy hair and her books and her cleverness and her know-it-all tendencies—and her loyalty and her courage… This was Hermione who had driven him mad with lust and need—and even in his sated state, he felt a flicker of heat, his body beginning to burn, at the memory of the way she’d touched him…

He remembered that moment earlier this morning—it felt like years ago, somehow—when he’d realized what was happening, realized that he loved her. Remembered how he’d thought that it made perfect sense, even as it didn’t make any sense. Hermione, his best-friend-who-was-like-a-sister. Hermione, his more-than-best-friend, his love.

“Hermione…” he murmured idly, almost before he’d realized he had spoken aloud.

“Harry,” she returned equally softly.

He brushed a kiss against her forehead. “I do love you, you know.” It was amazingly easy to say those words.

Her smile was in her eyes rather than on her lips. “I know.”

He really did love her. It was strange to think that as of just last night, less than 12 hours ago, he’d still only been thinking of Hermione as his best friend. And now… she was everything…

Who could have guessed—he certainly wouldn’t have-- and yet, thinking about it now, it somehow felt so right, natural.

He loved Hermione. Well, of course…