Disclaimer: Does this look like something JKR would write? Didn't think so. I'm only fixing the mistakes she made out of stupidity.
Author's Note: In this fic, I decided to literally begin en medias res (and in flagrante delicto, so to speak). Written because I felt like writing Hermione's POV and writing something with some angst to it.
Just One Night
Chapter One
The pain brought her clarity, woke her from the strange, almost dreamlike state to the stark reality of it.
Until then, she hadn't really thought, hadn't needed to think, had only followed her own instincts, her own wishes, her own heart.
Up until then, it had only been natural. It had been his kisses, his caresses, his desire, his haste as he fumbled with her clothing and with his own, before it had been his hands and his mouth on her bare skin and it had felt so good-so much more than she'd guessed or dreamed this would feel like… And it had been Harry and she loved him and she knew he needed her-right now, at this moment, he needed her. He wanted her touch and he wanted her comfort and he needed her to be there for him-and as long as he needed her, that was all she needed to know…
But then he shifted, his body nudging the wet center of her, and then he was inside her with one thrust.
Her sharp cry of pain and surprise was half-strangled in her throat, muffled against his shoulder, and he stopped, as her arms wrapped around him tightly in an instinctive search for comfort as she tried to catch her breath, tried to adjust to the feeling of him inside her, stretching her.
And the sting of pain ripped through the vague gauziness of her thoughts up until then and she realized what she was doing, what this meant-not to regret, no, never to regret, but just to know and to resolve.
She would never forget this.
"Hermione…" Her name was a groan.
She loosened her arms around him, willing herself to relax, her body slowly adjusting, as she brushed her lips against his, once, twice, three times, before he responded, deepening the kiss and his hips automatically, instinctively, seemed to fall into the same rhythm as his tongue.
She would remember this, she knew. Would remember the feel of him moving inside her, above her; would remember the sound of his gasps for breath against her hair, would remember his hand on her breast and the rush of heat it made her feel, adding to the wetness, her body softening around him…
Her arms clung to him, her legs tangled with his, wrapped around his, as her hips met his thrusts, her body seeming to know what to do of its own volition. And she was tingling, burning, and then with a last gasp, a groan, she felt a flood of warmth as he stiffened and shuddered and then collapsed on top of her.
She tightened her arms around him, held him as tightly as if she'd never let him go again, as if to protect him from all the world. He was heavy, as he pressed her back into his cot, but she didn't mind; she wanted to feel his weight on top of her, wanted to feel his warmth against her, wanted to feel his body imprinted on hers.
She brushed her lips against his forehead, his hair, his temple, anywhere she could reach, as she felt his heartbeat slow, his breathing even out.
"Hermione…" he breathed and there was the faintest hint of a question in his voice.
She brushed another kiss against his forehead. "Yes, Harry, I'm here."
"Mm," he sighed, his body relaxing into hers, his arms and most of his body imprisoning her beneath him as she felt him slide into sleep. But at the last moment, he mumbled, "thank you."
She smiled slightly, even as she felt sudden, inexplicable tears prick at the back of her eyelids.
Thank you.
It wasn't a declaration of love, but at that moment, it was enough. It was him, Harry, and that made it enough.
And she wanted to kiss him again, wanted to tell him she loved him and she'd do anything for him, wanted to tell him she'd never leave him alone-but she wouldn't disturb his sleep. She knew how rare peaceful sleep was for him these days-and after all, hadn't that been what had led to this in the first place?
She hadn't been able to sleep, had been tossing and turning on her cot in her tent, and had finally gotten up, intending only to peek into his tent, just to make sure he was sleeping.
She was worried about him, more than usual, because she knew it wasn't easy for him, having to return to Godric's Hollow, having to see the place his parents had been murdered, had seen the weight of all he needed to do hanging on him even heavier than before.
But then she had peeked into his tent. She hadn't been able to see him-it was too dark for that-but just the sound of his breathing had been enough to tell her that he was having another nightmare.
And she hadn't needed to think. In the space of a heartbeat, she'd crossed to his side, blindly finding his arm, his face, with her hands, shaking him gently by the shoulder.
He hadn't responded-not in the way she wanted-he'd only curled up further, away from her-and it had been only natural, the only thing she could do, to slip into his cot, beside him, curling her body around his.
She hadn't been able to do anything else and it had worked. Somehow-she didn't even try to understand why-but it had worked and he'd uncurled just enough and she'd touched his face with her hand, said his name, and he'd awoken with a jerk, his breath sounding fast and harsh.
She couldn't see him but she'd sensed his wide-eyed gaze, staring into the darkness, before he'd finally said, rasped really, "Hermione?"
The voice hadn't been his, had still held too much lingering fear, too much vulnerability, and it had caught at her heart. And so she'd done the only thing she could think to do and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him hard, as hard as she'd sometimes done when she'd greeted him but this time had been different because they were lying down in his rather narrow cot.
He'd resisted, stiffened, for the space of a moment, one breath, and then it had been as if something inside him had given way and he'd responded, his arms wrapping around her, clutching her to him, with a desperation, a strength she'd never felt from him before. But she didn't care-no, she almost delighted in it-and held him like that, feeling his heart beating against hers, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the warmth of his body pressed full-length against hers.
Finally, just when she'd been about to ask if he wanted to talk, he'd let out a shuddering breath and she'd heard his voice, muffled as if the words were forced out of him. "I don't know if I can do this. I-I'm scared-I can't-I don't know-I just don't know…"
Her heart had broken at the pain and the doubt and the guilt and the fear in his voice and she'd hugged him tighter, not even realizing that one of her legs had fit its way in between his. One of her hands made its way to his hair, running her fingers through it in a light caress. "Ssh, Harry, it's okay. It's okay to be scared sometimes."
"Not for me," he had retorted, his voice still muffled but sounding fractionally comforted, his body just marginally less tense.
She'd felt him bury his face in her shoulder, felt the few shuddering breaths that hitched in his chest, felt the few tears that forced their way out of his eyes and dampened her shirt, the tears he would never allow himself to cry during the day, the tears he'd never show to anyone-even her, she knew-the tears that only came out now, in the sheltering safety of the darkness.
Her heart ached for him but in spite of her sympathy, she knew a moment of bittersweet happiness-because right then, right there, she knew he needed her.
He needed her-and anything he needed, she would give him… It wasn't a decision so much as it was an acceptance of a truth she'd known for months now.
And the darkness had given her courage, made it seem easier, only natural, to brush her lips against his hair, his ear, his forehead, and then finally his lips. Just once before she'd paused, drawn back slightly, as she'd waited for some sign, some response from him, and then he'd tightened his arms around her again and his lips had found hers and he'd kissed her.
And she'd known, somehow, that it was because of the darkness, that the darkness allowed him to do this, allowed him to accept this sort of comfort from her with an ease that would never have been possible in the light. But somehow, in the darkness, it was easier-felt safer, somehow-to do this, to cross an invisible line, to give and to receive comfort like this without worrying about the consequences that would seem so glaring in the harsh, revealing light of day.
And then she'd forgotten to think about that, forgotten to think about anything at all, and only been aware of his increasingly passionate kisses, his caresses, a little awkward, a little uncertain, a little fevered and a little desperate. She'd only been aware of the growing heat in her body, the strange tingling spreading through her, the moist heat pooling between her thighs, as she gasped and moaned and clutched at him, her hands fluttering from his hair to his shoulders to his back and down to touch his butt once before moving up again…
Only once had he hesitated, lifting his head and stopping his caresses, to ask huskily, "Hermione, you-are you…"
She had cut him off with another kiss, letting him know without words her answer. Yes, yes, yes, she wanted this, she wanted him…
She hadn't thought as he helped her out of her clothes or when she impatiently helped him out of his-and then he'd been touching, caressing, kissing her breasts and her nipples, and she'd thought she would lose her mind to the rush of physical sensation and there'd only been him and her and his hands on her and what he was making her feel…
Until the pain. The sharp sting that marked his invasion of her body had shocked her out of her vaguely dream-like arousal and mindless want and she'd suddenly been supremely conscious of herself, of her body, of the hardness of him inside her, stretching her, filling her… Of the fact that this was Harry, the boy she loved…
She loved him, she wanted him-and he needed her… At that moment, he wanted her too, and that was all, the most important thing.
And now she was here, lying beneath him, very conscious of every inch of his body pressed against hers, of the warm puff of his deep, even breathing against her bare shoulder, of the weight of his arm over her.
She closed her eyes, to sharpen her other senses, concentrating on everything, every detail she could feel, down to the minor discomforts and including the pleasure of it…
So this was what it felt like.
This was what she'd wanted, dreamed of…
Irresistibly, lightly so as not to disturb him, she brushed her lips against his forehead, ran her fingers through his hair…
He shifted, stirred slightly in his sleep, and she stilled, hardly daring to breathe, until the sound of his even breathing reassured her again.
Oh, Harry…
She was suddenly filled with a wave of tenderness and unconsciously, her arm tightened slightly around him, her other hand seeking his.
But he shifted again, not quite away from her but certainly not closer to her either, and then she heard him mumble, "No…"
And then, another mumble, very soft, so slurred that it was hardly a word at all, but she recognized it, knew what it was with an almost instinctive knowledge that forewarns of pain.
"G'nny…"
The name was mumbled, slurred into one vague syllable, but it was enough.
She caught her breath, stiffening, tears stinging her eyes-and for one fleeting second, she couldn't move, couldn't think to move, knowing a sharp surge of pain so intense it almost blocked out everything else.
Oh God!
She blinked back the tears, concentrating instead on gently shifting, wiggling out from under Harry's weight, what had been comforting suddenly becoming stifling, what had been a haven suddenly becoming a prison.
It seemed to take forever, every additional second of feeling his weight above her adding to her hurt-although, in reality, it took only a few minutes-before she was finally free and slowly, so slowly-she didn't want him to wake up, didn't want to face him-she managed to slide out from under him.
The chill in the air on her bare skin struck her like a physical blow but she was hardly conscious of it, pulling on her knickers and her clothing with hands that trembled and eyes that smarted and a throat tight with the tears she refused to cry-at least not yet.
And through it all, only one thought lingered in her mind. He didn't love her. Not like that, not the way she loved him.
She supposed she should have known it. He hadn't said anything; they certainly hadn't talked about it. He hadn't given any indication that he loved her in that way-she knew he'd needed her, needed her comfort; she had felt that in his touch, heard it in his voice, but that wasn't the same thing. Accepting the comfort she'd offered him so freely when he was vulnerable didn't mean he loved her the way she did.
And now she knew-he didn't.
He could accept her comfort and her touch, could even touch her in return, could desire her-but in the end, he dreamed of Ginny. Ginny, who was beautiful, Ginny, whom he cared about like that, Ginny, who he dreamed of still…
Not her. Never her.
She flinched at the fresh wave of hurt-all the more intense because she had been so happy just a little while ago…
At least-at least she hadn't told him she loved him. It was the only small comfort she could think of. She hadn't had a chance to tell him she loved him-and now she never would.
She knew that. She didn't want him to feel guilty about not loving her, didn't want the awkwardness of one-sided love to spoil their friendship-it would be hard enough to keep their friendship unchanged after this past night.
He might not love her but he did need her. She didn't doubt that. He needed her to be his best friend, to help him with her books and her cleverness-and so she would. She would be his best friend; she wouldn't leave him, not now, not while he needed her…
It was getting to be light outside, the pale, gray light of dawn just beginning to lighten up the darkness in his tent.
She looked at him, still sleeping soundly-she had given him that, at least! She had given him comfort so he could sleep peacefully-and she tried very hard to feel grateful for that. Tried but didn't quite manage it.
She suddenly remembered how she'd promised herself to remember it all; she'd known she would remember how it felt. At the time, she'd been savoring it as the first time; now-now, she knew she would remember it because the memory of last night would be all she had.
She would never know his kiss again, never know the touch of his lips and his hands on her skin again…
She abruptly pressed one hand to her mouth to stifle the sob that rose in her throat-oh God, how was she going to get through the next few days?
It would get easier with time, she knew-but how was she going to live through the next days until it did?
She mentally shook herself, trying to get a hold of her emotions.
She had asked for this. She had come to his tent; she had kissed him first; she had offered him comfort… She had wanted him…
She had had one night with him, one night of his passion and his tenderness and-yes, in a way-his love… She had had one night to kiss him, to be kissed by him, to touch him and be touched…
Just one night-and that would have to be enough…
~~
Is this a lasting treasure, or just a moment's pleasure?
Tonight, with words unspoken, you say that I'm the only one/
But will my heart be broken when the night meets the morning sun?
I'd like to know that your love is a love I can be sure of/
So tell me now… will you still love me tomorrow?
~"Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?" by Dave Mason
~To be continued…
A/N 2: I did warn you about the angst, didn't I? Before you all hunt me down and kill me, I will just tell you two things: first, I do promise a happy ending, and second, no, Harry is not as stupid as I just made him sound (or as he is in canon.)
*runs and hides*