Just One Night

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*

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: This is the chapter where I’m mean—both because of what happens in it and because it’s a short one. But to make up for it, the next chapter will be longer and happier (and smuttier, too.) In the meantime, consider yourselves warned: angst ahead!

Just One Night

Chapter 2

Harry’s first thought was that he had had the most wonderful dream.

Hermione had been there and she’d been kissing him and caressing him and encouraging him with her touch and her sounds, and he’d lost himself in the softness of her…

He felt a touch of cold air against the bare skin of his shoulder and abruptly realized that he was no longer wearing a shirt—or anything else for that matter.

It hadn’t been a dream.

That realization broke in on him and he opened his eyes, expecting—and hoping—to see Hermione.

She wasn’t there.

But it had happened; it must have happened! He could smell the faint scent of her hair lingering on his pillow; he remembered it… He remembered waking up from a nightmare to find her, remembered the incredible, indescribable comfort of her warmth and her presence and her caring. He remembered her first light, tentative kiss—and his reaction to it—remembered the heat of her and the softness of her and the passion of her… He remembered never wanting to let her go again, remembered the utter rightness of holding her… He remembered the certainty of knowing what he’d suspected for a while now, that whatever Ginny had once meant to him, Hermione meant more…

He hastily reached for his glasses, hoping he might have missed something.

There was a piece of parchment which had been left underneath his glasses and he snatched it up.

There were only three words written on it, in Hermione’s familiar handwriting when she was in a rush.

It’s okay, Harry.

He stared blankly at the parchment for a moment, as if half-expecting more words to appear but none did.

It’s okay, Harry.

What was okay?

There was absolutely nothing okay about this. Last night had been incredible—possibly the best night of his life, amazingly, given that it had started out as one of the worst. She had been incredible, wonderful, and… and just hot. So hot he felt a streak of heat go through his body at the memory—God, he’d wanted her… Still wanted her.

And this morning—where had she gone? Had he—had he hurt her that much? He flinched at the thought. He knew it had hurt but then she’d kissed him again and he’d forgotten to wait and… and he remembered her soft touches, the soft gasps and moans she made… Surely he couldn’t have hurt her so much if she could respond to him like that…

He needed to see her.

Harry threw aside his blanket and grabbed some clothes, hastily pulling them on rather haphazardly.

He pivoted to grab the piece of parchment and stopped cold, staring at his sheet, revealed now that his blanket had been pushed aside.

That was—it was blood staining the sheet. Just a few drops but it was blood. Harry stared in horror, remembering her cry when he’d entered her. He’d made her bleed!

God, no wonder she’d run away…

He flinched away from the thought. It couldn’t have hurt so badly; he remembered the way she’d kissed him and touched him afterwards and he knew she’d felt some pleasure then… She must have…

But then why had she run? Hermione was the least cowardly person he knew and he didn’t even want to think about what she must be feeling to have left in the night like this.

Hermione knew it was cowardly of her but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t face him so soon—not in his tent, not with him naked under his blanket. Just not—there.

She wished—irrationally—that she could just run away but she knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t just leave him for one thing and for another, it wasn’t safe. She couldn’t even wander very far, could only go to the edge of their little campground, the edge of where they’d set the wards up from.

She sensed his eyes on her before he spoke—was she always going to be so aware of him, she wondered painfully.

“Hermione.”

She closed her eyes in a futile attempt to strengthen herself and then turned to look at him.

Or tried to look at him. She barely managed a glance at his face before her gaze faltered and fell to the ground as a hot blush scorched her cheeks. She felt as if her entire body was blushing.

He came nearer and she tried desperately to sound normal but was quite unhappily certain that she failed. “Morning, Harry.”

He stopped where she could see his scuffed trainers in front of her. “Hermione—I- er—are you okay?”

The soft concern in his voice tore at her. “I’m fine.”

He hesitated and then asked, “Did I—did I hurt you?”

The guilt and remorse in his voice pushed her into momentary forgetfulness of her own feelings and her eyes flashed up to meet his for the first time, only managing it for a fleeting second. “No!” she burst out, with so much certainty and feeling he couldn’t really doubt it.

He knew a wave of relief.

“I saw some blood,” he explained awkwardly—more for lack of anything else to say than because he felt he needed to tell her why he’d asked.

She blushed again, even hotter this time, although a minute ago, she wouldn’t have thought that was possible. “That’s supposed to happen,” she managed in little more than a whisper, her gaze still fixed on his shoes.

“Oh.” Harry wished desperately that she would look at him but she kept her eyes fixed on the ground as steadfastly as if she thought she would suddenly be able to see through it to the other side of the earth, if she just stared long and hard enough.

“Hermione, about last night, I…” Harry began uncertainly and then stopped, not knowing what he could say, not knowing how to tell her what it had meant to him.

Hermione rushed into the silence with a desperation born of panic, the words coming quickly, not the calm, reasoned words she’d mentally composed—those had fled her mind promptly—but anything that came to mind, anything to keep him from suspecting all that the last night had meant to her. “Don’t worry about it, Harry. It was nothing. You needed comfort and I comforted you. That’s what best friends do, right? It was a one-time, best friend thing, when you needed someone. Really, Harry, it’s okay. It was just one night and—and we’re best friends and last night, you just needed someone and I was there. That was all it was.” She tried, at first, to meet his eyes but her gaze got caught by his lips and she suddenly remembered him kissing her breast—she blushed again—hastily lowering her eyes but they only fell on his hands—his hands that had touched her so gently and then with such passion, his hands that had caressed her, his hands that had made her feel so much and so good… She shut her eyes and only opened them to stare blindly down at the dirt between her feet.

Harry’s lips parted to tell her that the last night had not been ‘nothing’ to him, had been anything but ‘nothing’—had been everything—that he didn’t want it to only be one night… But her flood of words, the desperate certainty in them, silenced him better than anything else could have. Words, phrases, echoed in his mind, slicing at him with surgical precision. Nothing… one-time, best friend thing… just one night… all it was… Nothing, nothing, nothing…

He tried, desperately, one last time to stop her words, to tell her how he felt, the words seeming compelled from him almost against his will—when his rational brain was screaming at him to leave, that it was clearly hopeless. “But, Hermione, I--” he lifted one hand to touch her chin, wanting to see her eyes—

She flinched away from his hand as if she thought he meant to strike her.

His hand dropped to his side, stark waves of hurt radiating through him—if she had stabbed him through the heart, it might have hurt less, he thought numbly.

It really was hopeless. She didn’t care about him that way, didn’t want him that way—that was more than clear. She had offered him comfort because he needed it—but that was all it had been. Just one night of comfort, one night between best friends…

He’d never dreamed that the thought of being best friends with Hermione would hurt so much.

He’d known—somewhere in his mind—that Hermione would do almost anything for him; it was just the kind of person she was, the depth of loyalty and friendship in her. She simply cared that much—about him, as a friend.

She just didn’t care enough, not in the way he wanted her to.

She cared enough that, in the darkness of the night, on the impulse of a moment, she’d offered him all she could. She cared enough that she could find some pleasure with him—he wondered rather sickly why he couldn’t find that thought at all comforting.

Who knew, really—wasn’t it the boy who was supposed to say that the shag hadn’t really meant anything beyond a shag?

And at any other time, with any other girl, he might have thought just that—he was honest enough to admit that—but not with Hermione.

He had needed comfort—but more than that, he’d needed her. He’d needed her strength and her faith and her loyalty, the comfort he could only find with her… She thought he’d just needed ‘someone’, as if anyone would have done, but that wasn’t true. He’d needed her—who else did he trust enough to show all his fears to, to show his vulnerabilities to? There was no one else; there was only her…

But he was only her best friend, as he’d always been.

He fought back the wave of pain. He wouldn’t have her feel bad for him or guilty because she didn’t care about him in that way.

She was still studying the ground so he couldn’t see her face and he knew a sharp pang of regret—not because he knew he could never kiss her again, never touch her again (he didn’t dare allow himself to think like that or he would break down) but because he wished that he could have seen her last night. It was the only night he would ever have with her and he wished, now, that he could have seen her… He would have liked to see the look in her eyes after he kissed her, wanted to see what her body looked like… He was sure she would be lovely—she’d felt lovely-- he just wished he could have seen her to know it.

He stifled a sigh.

“I- I did need someone last night,” he managed to say in something approaching his normal voice. “so… erm—thank you… I guess,” he faltered awkwardly. “I—” he began and stopped. It meant a lot to me. You mean a lot to me. I wish you could care about me the way I care about you… A hundred different things crowded into his mind but he couldn’t say any of them.

Hermione forced herself to look up at him, briefly, a rather wan smile trembling on her lips. “It’s okay, Harry. I- I wanted to comfort you,” she confessed, skirting as close to the truth as she dared.

He wasn’t even looking at her, she realized, his gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder, but at her softly-spoken words, his gaze darted to hers and then promptly retreated again. “Yeah,” he managed to say. “I appreciate it. You- you’re a good friend.” The words sounded oddly stilted.

Hermione kept her eyes fixed on the ground, fighting back the tears that would well up in her eyes in spite of herself. He agreed so quickly, so easily, wasn’t even trying to convince her that the last night might have meant something more than only comfort to him—of course, he wasn’t. Why would he? He wasn’t the sort of boy to lie about his feelings—and he didn’t care about her like that…

If Hermione could have looked up at him at that moment, she might have seen the stark, raw hurt in his eyes—but she couldn’t, she didn’t.

And finally, after an endless moment of tense silence, he fled.

Leaving Hermione unhappily conscious that, for the first time ever, she felt relieved to have him go.

~To be continued…

A/N 2: I did warn you…

*ducks and hides*

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Author’s Note: As promised, the happy ending. (For those who are wondering, the reason Harry mumbled Ginny’s name that night was because he was dreaming about rejecting Ginny and telling her it was over—remember he also mumbled ‘no’ before he mumbled her name.)

Thanks, everyone, for reading and reviewing. I hope this long, fluffy and smutty chapter satisfies!

Just One Night

Chapter 3

In such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable.

Hermione found that line from one of her favorite books returning to her mind often over the next week.

It would have been easier—so much easier—if she could forget that night. She vacillated between a desperate wish to remember everything, every detail, every sensation, of that night and an equally desperate wish to forget.

It would be easier to forget. If she could return to the platonic friendship they’d had, if she could return to seeing him only as her best friend—the best friend she loved, yes, but she had gotten quite accustomed to hiding her true feelings for Harry in the past few months. So used to it that it hardly even hurt anymore.

Now, though, with the memory of that night staying in her mind, it was so hard—almost impossible—to continue to treat Harry as only her friend.

How could she treat him normally—platonically—when every time she looked at him, she was suddenly swamped with vivid memories of how it had felt to be kissed and touched by him? When her body seemed to react to him in a way it never had before—but now she couldn’t seem to stop herself from reacting.

When she was around him, she was suddenly aware of her body in a way she’d never been before. Aware of her breasts and her hips and her legs—because he’d kissed her breasts, he’d caressed her hips and his legs had tangled with hers… More than that, though, she was aware of him, aware of him as a physical, sensual, being in a way she never had been before. He was no longer Harry, her best friend, and she was miserably certain she’d never be able to view him in a completely platonic way again. His mouth, his hands, his body—every time she saw him, she was vividly reminded of how it had felt as if he was imprinting his body onto hers, his mouth and hands somehow marking her as his…

She tried not to think about it, tried not to react like that, but it happened in spite of herself and she would feel a flush of heat, a blush coloring her cheeks.

While they were still out searching, camping in their tents, it was a little easier but in a few days when they returned to the enclosed, forced intimacy of Grimmauld Place, it got infinitely more difficult.

She’d never realized before just how claustrophobic Grimmauld Place could be—it was a large house by London standards and it was only the three of them—but that didn’t matter. She couldn’t avoid him for long; all she could do—all she did do—was try to ensure that Ron was present as much as possible as a comfortable third person to make things easier.

And then she was guiltily aware that before, until now, Ron had generally been the one she avoided being alone with and Harry had been the third person buffer.

Oh, why couldn’t she forget? Why couldn’t she somehow rid herself of this awareness of him?

But even as she wondered, another part of her clung to the memories, all the more tenaciously, for all the hurt they caused.

How could she forget—how could she even want to forget what had been so wonderful at first? How could she want to forget that he had needed her that night—he had needed her and she had given him comfort…

It was painful to remember but she didn’t want to forget. Even if she could, she didn’t want to forget. She always wanted to remember his touch and his kiss and his passion—and the memories would have to last her a lifetime…

~

Ron rounded on Harry the moment Hermione disappeared up the stairs into her room.

“What’s up between you and Hermione? She’s blushing practically every time you look at her these days.”

Harry tore his gaze away from the door through which she’d left. Of course Ron would notice. It was too obvious not to notice, not even with Ron’s sometimes-amazing talent for obliviousness—and that hurt too. “It’s nothing,” he lied automatically, not really thinking Ron would believe him for a moment but because he really couldn’t say anything else.

Ron only gave him a supremely skeptical look.

Harry suppressed a wince. He’d been trying not to think about how different things were now, how awkward Hermione seemed to be around him now—as if denying it would make it somehow not true. But denial could only go so far and it had just run out. “I- er—I just—um—I kissed her,” Harry blurted out finally with the fraction of the truth. He would sooner cut out his tongue than admit what had really happened.

Ron stared, his jaw dropping slightly, before a flash of anger crossed his face. “You mean, you and Hermione are… are together like that now?” he asked in a too-controlled voice.

It was Harry’s turn to gape at the swiftness of this conclusion, even as he bit back the bitter laugh welling in his throat. Together? He wished!

Fortunately (or not), Ron went on before Harry had to try to marshal a response that didn’t involve breaking down. “Why didn’t you tell me? You could’ve told me, you know. I don’t--” he swallowed, then continued, “I don’t mind. You know Hermione and I ended ages ago.”

Four months ago, Harry thought, his mind fixating on the detail in a futile attempt to distract himself. Ron and Hermione had broken up four months ago—and it had been eleven days now since That Night. Eleven days, 14 hours and—he glanced at the clock—about 35 minutes since she’d told him it had meant nothing…

How did this sort of thing happen to him, he wondered gloomily. First, Hermione was barely able to look at him anymore—and that hurt enough. Now Ron was brassed off because he thought he’d been hiding a relationship with Hermione. His heart twisted. Really, it was almost funny… in a painful kind of way.

“We’re not,” he finally managed to get out of his throat. “It was nothing, just a—just a thing between friends. It didn’t mean anything like that.”

“Oh. She agreed to that?”

She insisted on it. Harry nodded, not able to trust his voice.

“Then why’s she acting all weird around you?”

Because it wasn’t just a kiss, Harry thought but bit it back. Instead, he tried for a wan smile in a desperate attempt to distract Ron from this line of questioning. “Who knows why girls do anything?”

It sounded feeble in his ears—and nonsensical, given that Hermione had never been that hard to understand; she wasn’t like other girls in that way.

But Ron—thankfully, surprisingly—didn’t seem to see it that way and only smiled. “Fair point,” he agreed and changed the subject, apparently satisfied.

Harry relaxed slightly, only half-listening to what Ron was saying, as he brooded over Hermione.

Things were strained between them. He could tell that she was trying to act normally; she still talked to him- a little stiltedly and formally—but she talked to him (although he’d noticed that her gaze always seemed to be focused on his ear or someplace that was not his eyes). She even still touched him, not as often as she used to but she still did, those tiny, fleeting touches to his arm or his shoulder sometimes that never had any particular purpose or meaning behind them but insensibly comforted, soothed nevertheless—and every time, he had to fight his own reaction. He felt… rebellious was the only word for it, whenever she touched him in such an obviously platonic way. He could almost be angry at her for still giving him those little touches when she didn’t care about him in that way—and then he’d feel sick at the very thought of her not giving him those little touches anymore. Funny how he’d never realized before how much they meant to him but—even now, when they were almost painful—they were precious to him and he didn’t want to give them up. They were such gestures of affection, all the more important because of how unpremeditated they were, so utterly sincere—and he valued them all the more because he’d never known such unthinking, constant caring in his life—until her.

She was the most loyal friend he’d ever had in his life, and he needed her in his life as his friend—even more than he wanted her to love him.

He couldn’t take this anymore.

That thought formed and solidified in his mind and somehow, without his even consciously thinking about it, he found himself standing outside Hermione’s room and knocking on her door—and then he belatedly realized what he’d done and wished he could take it back, suddenly nervous.

But it was too late.

He heard her say, “Come in,” and he swallowed hard, wiping his damp palms against his trousers before he opened the door.

She hurriedly stood up when she saw him, looking as if she might bolt at the slightest provocation, as her eyes widened. “Oh, Harry. It’s you.” Her voice sounded awkward.

He inwardly winced—this was what he couldn’t stand anymore. This awkwardness, this tension, the way she hardly ever looked at him anymore and, worse, hardly talked to him either. Oh, she talked to him about what was necessary—the horcruxes, where they needed to go next, the ‘business’ part of the war—but other than that, she didn’t talk to him about anything more personal. And there were no more shared glances of understanding or amusement—or shared glances of any other kind, for that matter. The few times their eyes had met, or when he looked at her, it was as if he didn’t know her anymore, as if Hermione had been replaced by a stranger. And that bothered him more than he could say because if there was one person he would have said he knew, it would have been Hermione. That wasn’t the case anymore.

He hadn’t even realized it until this past week—he’d never had to live without Hermione as his best friend—but now he knew that he really didn’t know how to function without Hermione as his best friend. In some odd, indefinable, even irrational way, it was as if her friendship, her very presence, the knowledge somewhere in the back of his mind that Hermione was there for him, was what allowed him to simply be. Without it, he felt as if the world was suddenly a strange place, as if he didn’t quite know what he was doing. He didn’t understand it—couldn’t even put it into very coherent words—but the feeling was there.

It was, although he hadn’t thought it in so many words, what made Hermione so much more to him than what Ginny had been. He didn’t need Ginny; he never had. Even when he’d fancied her, he’d been able to leave her and do what needed to be done; he’d been fine without Ginny, had even stopped thinking about her at all, for the most part. And that was the difference.

He needed Hermione with a stark, almost visceral need that was so deeply embedded into his mind and heart that it was almost as natural as his need to breathe or eat or drink. It had nothing to do with the way he found himself distracted by the shape of her lips or the curves of her breast and waist and hips—really, it didn’t. It had to do with everything else—how he automatically (still) turned to Hermione first whenever anything happened or something occurred to him, how there were times when it felt as if just her smile or her touch or a look were all that kept him going when otherwise he might have given up… It had to do with how much he trusted her, not just with the horcruxes or their mission or anything else, but with his fears and his vulnerabilities, even his anger and his frustration. He simply needed her—and whatever he needed to do so they could just be friends again, since that was what she wanted, he would do it.

And the words came rushing out of him heedlessly, unplanned, somewhat incoherent and jumbled—conscious somewhere in his mind that he needed to get it all out before he had time to think better of it.

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I just—this—it’s too weird between us now. You don’t talk to me anymore and—and I—Hermione, it just doesn’t feel right for things to be so off between us. What can I do? Is there anything I could do to make it easier for us to get over it? A Memory Charm so you don’t remember it happened—would that help? Hermione, I just-- Maybe if you didn’t remember it… It doesn’t matter if you don’t love me—you don’t have to love me—but I—I need you as my best friend and it doesn’t really feel like we are anymore. Do you want me to Memory Charm you?”

“No,” Hermione blurted out, her mind focusing on his last question. No, never a Memory Charm. Living with the memory was hard, but she wanted to remember, never wanted to forget that one lovely, painful night, if it was all she—her thoughts cut off as she realized what else he’d said.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t love me… But that almost seemed to imply… She didn’t dare complete the thought, too afraid of hoping.

“Wait, stop, Harry, what do you mean it doesn’t matter if I don’t…” she stopped, hesitated and then burst out, the confession being impelled from her, “But I do!”

He gaped at her. “You—what?”

She was blushing scarlet now but she managed to make herself meet his eyes; there was no point in trying to hide any longer. “I do love you, Harry.”

Harry stared at her, not able to believe what he’d heard. She—it—she—his thoughts stuttered as, for a fleeting moment, he could almost swear he’d forgotten how to comprehend the English language. A small bubble of hope and tentative joy began to well up inside him—but he still didn’t understand. And finally, he managed to remember how to speak. “But—but you said that it didn’t mean anything and you were only trying to comfort me.”

“That was because I thought it was what you wanted to hear. I knew you didn’t—you don’t—love me in that way and I didn’t want to make you feel bad or guilty about it…”

“You think I don’t love you? How--where--” he cut off his blunt question of where she could have gotten such a ridiculous idea and asked instead, “Why do you think that? Is that why you ran away that night?”

A fleeting expression of stark hurt flashed over Hermione’s face. “Don’t be nice, Harry! I know you don’t care that way--”

“Nice? You think I’m being nice? Don’t be daft,” he interrupted her thoughtlessly, too thrown off balance by this sudden revolution in his thoughts and feelings to be more tactful. “Of course I care.”

“Don’t say that, Harry! I heard you that night! When you were asleep, you—you said Ginny’s name. You were dreaming about her after—after we’d…” she broke off abruptly, blushing.

Harry’s mood abruptly softened, his heart filling with almost painful tenderness and remorse at this evidence that she’d been hurt—possibly even more than he had been—by what had happened. He stepped closer to her, one hand lifting to touch her cheek—and this time she didn’t flinch, just met his eyes.

“I don’t remember what I was dreaming about but I know it couldn’t have been about Ginny in that way. I haven’t really thought about her in months. Hermione, don’t you know it’s you I’ve been thinking about, you I care about like that?”

The beginnings of a smile appeared in her eyes now. “Really?”

He managed a small smile. “Really. That night—it meant so much to me. But when you said that it meant nothing…” he stopped—it was over now and they’d both been blind. He asked instead with a sort of tender teasing, “God, Hermione, do you have any idea how crazy you’ve made me since that night?”

She made a soft sound in her throat and threw herself at him, hugging him hard.

“No crazier than you’ve made me,” she responded, her voice half-muffled in his shirt. She tightened her arms around him. “Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry!”

He wrapped his arms around her, closing his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair—the scent that he could swear had lingered on his pillow for days and haunted him ever since. “I’m sorry too,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her hair and then her temple and then just above her ear.

She drew back slightly, just enough so he could see the flush on her face, the way her eyes were shining.

His gaze lowered to focus on her lips, as they had so many times over the past days and, as usual, he felt a flash of heat, temptation tugging at him—but this time, he could act on it.

Her lips parted slightly and he was close enough, his every sense attuned to her enough that he heard the slight flutter of her breath, saw the way her eyes flickered from his down to his lips.

Slowly, he bent his head and kissed her, gently at first, but she made a soft sound in the back of her throat, her arms tightening around him, and she deepened the kiss, her lips parting for him—and he was lost. He hadn’t wanted her for so long, hadn’t been dreaming of her every night for the past week and half, to be able to resist her—not when she was warm and soft in his arms, not when he could feel the press of her breasts against his chest, could taste her… Not that he really wanted to resist her, either.

So he tightened his arms around her until she was pressed full-length against him, kissing her the way he’d wanted to for days now, his tongue exploring her mouth, stroking it, and she responded, her tongue engaging his in a half-playful duel. The touch of her tongue to his sent heat sizzling through his body, as the blood rushed out of his head to pool heavily in his groin.

Oh, he remembered the taste of her, the scent of her, the feel of her against him… Kissing her felt like coming home—and sent desire spiraling up inside him.

Hermione pressed herself against him, deliberately and shamelessly rubbing herself against the evidence of his arousal, her arms sliding around his neck as she kissed him, open-mouthed and passionate, with all the pent-up desire she’d felt for days.

Yes, yes, yes, oh yes... The words clamored in her head in a mindless mantra of love and happiness and desire. Oh, she wanted him, wanted him, wanted him… she kissed him and held him as if she’d never let him go again—she never wanted to let him go again. Now, especially, she knew what it was like without him and she never wanted to repeat the experience.

The kiss only ended when oxygen became an issue but his lips only left hers to wander, trailing soft kisses over her face, learning her features with his lips and she could only close her eyes and glory in the tenderness she could feel in his touch. “I’ve been wanting to do this all week,” he murmured against her skin, pausing between each word to brush his lips against her chin, her cheek, her ear, her nose, the tip of her eyebrow, random places she’d never realized could be so sensitive, never realized could lead to so much pleasure tingling through her entire body.

She felt her lips curve slightly. “You should have,” she murmured, just before she tangled her fingers in his hair and tugged his lips back to hers so she could kiss him this time, her tongue exploring his mouth, the ridge of his teeth, stroking against his tongue in a way that sent delicious shivers zinging through her body.

He finally tore his lips from hers with a strangled groan, drawing back just enough to stare at her and she felt a blush scorch her cheeks just from the way he was looking at her. He looked at her the way she’d dreamed of having a boy—no, of having Harry—look at her, as if she was the most beautiful girl in the world, as if he could happily look at her forever.

His eyes were dark and hooded with desire—he wanted her—and the look sent a thrill of fresh desire through her.

On a sudden, bold impulse, she moved one hand, sliding it down his chest and his stomach in a long caress, loving the shiver that went through his body in response and the way his eyes darkened, before she cupped the bulge in his trousers.

His hips jerked. “Hermione!” His voice sounded half-strangled.

And she barely had a chance to smile slowly, smugly, before he flattened himself against her, his lips coming down on hers as he kissed her again.

His hands also wandered over her back and down to cup her butt and bring her arching against him. She gasped against his mouth, heat and arousal swirling up inside her, clouding her mind, making her feel as if her knees were melting.

She pressed herself against him, instinctively lifting one leg to curve around his in an attempt to get even closer to him. More, more, more—she wanted more, wanted to get closer… She could not get close enough to him, felt as if she could happily crawl inside him and still not be close enough.

He tugged the hem of her shirt out of her trousers and flattened his hands on the bare skin of her back and she shivered. Oh yes, she remembered this, remembered the hot pleasure of his touch… His hands caressed her back, the curve of her waist.

But it wasn’t enough, could never be enough and she finally ended the kiss just so she could hastily pull her shirt off over her head leaving her upper body bared to his avid gaze.

He caught his breath sharply, staring at her, before he lifted his hands to cup her breasts through her bra. His touch seemed to scorch her skin through her bra and her head fell back on a gasp, closing her eyes. His fingertips lightly grazed the upper curves of her breasts, his hands cupped, caressed, stroked. And then she felt her bra tighten over her sensitized nipples as he undid the clasp and then fall away and she let her bra fall heedlessly to the floor.

She was expecting him to continue his caresses but instead he simply paused and looked at her. Oh, how he looked at her! A slight quiver of reaction passed through her, pooling in liquid heat in the core of her body.

He looked at her as if he could look at her forever, as if she was the most beautiful girl in the world; he looked at her the way every girl dreamed of being looked at, with admiration bordering on awe and a healthy dose of pure lust.

He looked at her without moving to touch her for what felt like an hour, although it was probably barely a minute, but even that was too long for her. She wanted his touch with a sort of greedy impatience she’d never felt before, never really thought she was capable of before.

So she flattened herself against him, her arms going around his neck to tug his head down so she could kiss him, open-mouthed, holding nothing back. He made a small sound, half-laugh, half-groan, which was swallowed by her mouth, as his arms wrapped around her, his hands flattening on her skin, wandering over every inch of her bare skin in greedy caresses.

She arched against him, stifling a moan at the feel of her bare skin and sensitized nipples against the cloth of his t-shirt. There was something amazingly, incredibly erotic about her bare skin against his clothes—although she wondered fuzzily if she wouldn’t find everything erotic, given how aroused she was.

Her own hands were busily occupied in tugging his shirt up so she could touch his skin, hot and smooth to the touch, her hands caressing, rediscovering every inch of his back and his chest which she could reach.

He got her unspoken message and hastily tugged off his shirt as she moved to undo the fastenings of his trousers.

“God, Hermione,” he choked out and she felt herself blush but didn’t stop in pushing down his trousers and his boxers, freeing his erection so she could see him.

God… She paused for a fleeting second to stare at him as he hastily shoved his boxers down the rest of the way, stepping out of them. He was so… so large… she thought inanely but then forgot everything else in the one other thought that sent a thrill of potent pleasure through her: this was because of her, because he wanted her so much…

Heat and arousal and need were raging through her like anarchy, obviating any self-consciousness or shyness she might otherwise have felt as she hastily pushed off her trousers and her knickers until she was completely naked.

Once she was done, she looked up at him and the look in his eyes—the frankly lustful way he stared at her—sent a shiver of liquid heat coursing through her body. God, she didn’t know how he could make her burn with wanting him with just a look but he could, he did, until she thought she’d literally die if he didn’t touch her.

She flattened herself full-length against him, moaning at the feel of his erection against her, as she kissed him, lifting one leg to curl around his to bring herself closer to him.

And she was the one to half-tug, half-push him over to her bed until they both fell onto it.

She wanted to see, touch, taste, caress every inch of him. She wanted to know what he liked, what made him tremble and what made him burn. She wanted to know him…

And so, characteristically, she set out to learn.

At another time, when she was capable of thought, she might have been surprised at how easy it was to be so bold, so open and so honest about what she wanted—but then, no, it wasn’t surprising. She didn’t think it—could not think—but she felt it, somehow. This was Harry, after all, and if she could not be open and honest with him, she could never be so uninhibited with anyone. It wasn’t that she wanted him—although Merlin knew she did—it wasn’t even that she loved him—although she did. It was that she trusted him, completely and unwaveringly, with a trust that did not allow for any shyness.

She wanted to do and feel everything with him—and she knew she could. If not at that moment, if not that night, then later. Because this was Harry—and that, more than anything else, made this right, the most right thing ever.

She caressed his chest, pausing at his flat, male nipples, tweaked them gently with her fingers; he let out his breath in a hiss, his head falling back. She lowered her lips to his skin, kissing her way down his throat and his chest, scattering small, butterfly kisses across the breadth of his chest before she paused, touching her tongue experimentally to his nipples. He moaned so she did it again, smiling slightly against his skin, his soft moans sending a fresh wave of heat shivering through her to pool between her legs.

Her hands moved further down, skating over the taut muscles of his chest and stomach, loving the feel of him, the heat of him, the reactions of him as he lay there, seemingly passively, except for the tension investing every inch of his frame and the burning look in his eyes as he watched her, his eyes hooded and dark. He wanted her, was aching for her, burning for her—just as she was for him. It was a heady, thrilling, euphoric knowledge that she could do this to him, to have him look at her as if she were a siren, a goddess, the sexiest woman in the world—and at that moment, she felt that way too. She felt as if she were sexy and sensual and alluring and all those things she’d never really believed she could be, plain bookworm that she was.

Her hands strayed further down to caress his thighs and he cried out and then grabbed her wrist before she could touch his erection.

“No more, please,” he rasped. “I’ll die.”

She wanted to smile but before she could, he was reaching for her, kissing her hard and forcefully, at first, and then more gently. She fell back onto her pillow as he shifted above her, his hand cupping her cheek lightly and then sliding down her neck and her throat and lower, lower, in a long caress.

His lips left hers only to leave a trail of heated, open-mouthed kisses down along the line of her jaw and her neck.

“Oh. Oh, Harry,” she gasped, not even aware of saying his name.

His lips closed on her nipple and she nearly shrieked at the sensation, her mind emptying of everything except for the magic of his touch, of his kiss, of his lips and hands on her… God, had she thought she remembered what it felt like to have him touch her like this? The memory was just a pale shadow to the reality of it.

She felt as if she was drowning, sinking into a sensuous haze, his lips and hands all that anchored her to the world.

He lightly grazed her taut nipple with his teeth and she cried out, her back arching, her hands flying to tangle in his hair, holding him in place.

“Do you like that?” he mumbled indistinctly against her skin.

Her answer was to tighten her fingers in his hair, pushing herself against him, offering herself to him.

He moved on to do the same to her other nipple and she cried out again, pleasure so intense it was almost pain lancing through her.

His lips left off their ministrations to her breast and she knew a fleeting second of disappointment but then she felt him drop a kiss on her stomach, his hands stroking, exploring the curve of her hips and her thighs.

His lips moved lower, scattering kisses over her stomach, pausing as his tongue touched her belly button—God! She’d never known her belly button could be so sensitive, could be such an erogenous part of her body but she’d never forget it again.

Pure fire streaked through her body from every place his hands and his lips touched and she was vaguely aware of hearing broken little moans and sobbing breaths and then belatedly realized they were coming from her.

One hand slipped down to cup the center of her body where all sensation seemed to be focused—and she forgot how to breathe. He hadn’t touched her there before and she was shocked at the depth of her reaction.

Slowly, a little tentatively, he stroked one finger up the core of her, gently touching her wet, swollen flesh—she cried out at the sensation, pushing herself into his hand in a mindless, desperate search for more. It was too little—and paradoxically, too much at the same time, too much sensation, too much pleasure, until she thought she might go mad.

His hand left her and she almost sobbed with the loss but then—oh my God! That wasn’t—it was—his lips on her body. He dropped a light kiss at the juncture of her thighs and then moved lower, leaving soft, delicate, uncertain little kisses down, down, the hot, wet center of her.

She opened her mouth on a shriek that strangled in her throat on a gasp instead as her body seemed to leap to a new plateau of intense sensation. Tension, hot and burning, was building up inside her, pulsing through her veins.

Oh God!

He licked her. He touched his tongue to her tentatively, tasting her, and then more by luck than knowledge, his tongue found a small nub of flesh—

And she died. The tension that had been building exploded in a white-hot burst of sensation, her mind scattering, shattering, a scream ripping its way from her throat.

Slowly, very slowly—it may have been years for all she was aware of it—Hermione became aware of her surroundings, her bed underneath her and, most importantly, Harry. Harry, who had just sent her to what felt like another plane of existence, who had given her ecstasy she hadn’t even imagined (she’d heard and read about it, the pleasure that was to be found, but this—this had been beyond any pleasure)… She felt as limp as if every bone in her body had dissolved, her breath coming in gasps, tiny aftershocks of bliss trembling through her.

Harry was looking at her with a mixture of awe and arousal. “God, Hermione,” he rasped, “you looked so…” he trailed off, the heated look he gave her more eloquent than a ream of poetry could have been.

A fresh wave of heat coursed through her just from the look in his eyes.

“You never—um—you didn’t--” he swallowed and finished, “last time, did you?” It was more a statement than a question.

She felt herself blushing hotly—irrationally, given what they’d just done and what they were about to do—and that was all the answer he needed.

His lips parted on an apology—she could see it in his eyes, in his expression—but she tugged him back up so she could kiss him, cutting off his words.

She could taste herself on his lips and tongue, she realized fuzzily, and wondered why that was so oddly erotic.

She kissed him slowly, languorously, her body still humming with too much pleasure, satiated, to be passionate. She drew back slowly. “Don’t,” she whispered against his lips. “What happened that night was beautiful as it was.”

“Until what happened after,” he inserted, a shadow flickering across his face.

“We’re not going to think about that anymore,” she said firmly and softly.

“Still bossy, I see,” he murmured, a thread of tender teasing in his voice. His hands moved up to cup her cheeks with infinite gentleness and when he kissed her, they were both smiling.

The smiles faded as the kiss deepened, all amusement being replaced by arousal and need and passion.

He pressed her back into her pillow, shifting until he was lying almost fully above her, as the kiss became harder, hotter, more passionate.

She could feel the hardness of his erection nudging her thigh, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress, and she gloried in it, the wonderful familiarity of it. She remembered the heat of him, the feel of him above her, and she’d thought she would never experience it again but he was with her now, kissing her, his lips and tongue claiming her as his hands wandered, searing her with his touch.

She wrapped her arms around him, returning his kisses with abandon, arousal clouding her mind, pure need pulsing through her, the fire inside her burning hotter and brighter than ever.

Oh, she wanted him, wanted him, wanted him, wanted his kiss and his touch and his body—again. She would always want him…

He moved, shifting until his hardness nudged her wet, swollen flesh, just the tip of him entering her, and she broke their kiss on a cry. Every nerve ending in her body, every sense she had, her entire being, focused, centered on that one spot, shivers of delicious reaction radiating outwards.

And he froze. “Hermione,” he groaned and a shiver passed through her at the sound of his voice, how strained it was, the gravelly passion in his tone—passion for her, because of her… “I don’t want to hurt you again…”

Her heart melted, even as her body burned. God, she loved him! She loved him and she wanted him so much…

“You won’t,” she promised softly, kissing him again, as she shifted, arched, encouraging him… He would never hurt her… She kissed him, pressing herself against him, offering him her body, her mind, her heart, with a trust that didn’t admit any doubts.

He slipped further inside her and she tightened her muscles experimentally around him and he groaned, his hips surging forward uncontrollably until he was fully inside her.

She stifled her cry against his shoulder.

“God, Hermione, I’m so—did I hurt you?” he rasped.

She shook her head, no. He’d surprised her, the fullness of him stretched her, but it didn’t hurt.

She shifted beneath him, feeling her body softening, adjusting—oh, she remembered this too, remembered how it felt to have him inside her, completing her…

“Harry,” she breathed and his name was an endearment and an affirmation at the same time.

“Hermione,” he half-groaned, his lips finding hers so her name was half-swallowed by her mouth.

He kissed her with surprising tenderness, given the tension she could feel in his frame, kissed her as if asking permission to move, permission which she gave by arching against him, her legs wrapping around his.

And that was all he wanted.

He broke the kiss on a sharp gasp as his hips began to move, retreating and then thrusting forward again.

She met and matched his movements, her body arching up to meet him, her legs wrapping around his hips, her arms holding him to her.

And the rest of the world ceased to exist as he became the focus of her very existence at that moment, until all she knew was the sound of his gasps for breath against her ear, his hands on her breasts and her butt and her hips, the feel of him inside her…

And then she was burning, again, driven to the peak of physical sensation, an explosion of pure ecstasy flooding her senses, tingling through every inch of her body, until she gasped and cried out and clutched at him as if she’d never let him go again.

He followed her over the edge, stiffening and shuddering as he spilled himself inside of her.

Harry collapsed on top of her, her name wrenched from his lips on a groan.

Hermione closed her eyes, as she drifted, luxuriated in the aftermath of bliss. She felt as if every bone in her body had dissolved, as if her body had merged, melded with his. She could feel his heart, pounding in time with hers, it seemed, feel his breath against her ear. And she was completely happy, for once; lying in Harry’s arms as she was, where she’d dreamed of being, always conscious of his warmth and his weight above her. There was nowhere else in the world she would rather be…

It could have been minutes—or hours—days? Years?—she didn’t know and cared even less; she could have stayed like this forever, she thought fuzzily—before the comfortable silence was finally broken.

“Aren’t I too heavy for you?” he belatedly mumbled.

“No, it’s okay.”

But he shifted off of her anyway, rolling sideways and bringing her with him with his arm so he ended up lying on his back with her sprawled half on top of him.

She kept her eyes closed, feeling languid and sated, feeling his fingers straying over her back in an idle, feather-light caress.

“Mm,” she let out a soft sigh of contentment that was almost a purr and sensed, rather than saw, his slight smile.

“You’re not going to run away this time, are you?” he murmured half-teasingly.

She shifted, turning her head to rest her chin on his chest so she could meet his eyes and she felt a swell of warmth fill her chest at the way he was looking at her. It was a look that made his eyes beautifully soft and clear, a look of love. “I’ll never run away again,” she promised.

His lips curved. “Good.”

His fingers tangled in her hair, gently tugging until he could kiss her again, softly, lingeringly, a lazy sort of kiss with no passion or intensity, all their passion spent. Just a kiss, just his lips on hers, and all the more precious because it wasn’t about passion or lust or any physical need; it was only about emotions.

The kiss ended slowly, their lips separating rather reluctantly, as she let out a soft sigh against his lips. “Mm…”

“It occurs to me,” Harry said quietly, “that I should have just kissed you that morning when you were going on about how that night meant nothing.”

She opened eyes that were somewhat unfocused, blinking, before she smiled. “Maybe you should have.”

A comfortable, peaceful silence fell as Harry tightened his arms around her almost imperceptibly, keeping her imprisoned against him, not that she had any desire to move. Ever again, for that matter.

The silence was only broken when Harry yawned.

Hermione tilted her head up to look at him with a half-smile playing on her lips. “Tired of me already?” she quipped.

He laughed softly, briefly. “Never,” he promised and then added, “I haven’t slept that well this past week.”

“More nightmares?”

An odd expression she couldn’t quite read crossed his face before he moved one hand to touch her cheek. “Not really. It was more because I kept thinking about you.”

A smile trembled on her lips at this confession.

“It’s nice to see you find something funny about my broken heart,” he said drily, the twitch at the corner of his lips belying the sarcastic tinge to his words.

“Oh, Harry,” she half-sighed, half-laughed before she reached up to kiss him, pressing her lips against his, lingering, as her lips caressed his, until his fingers tangled in her hair, holding her in place.

She drew back slowly, gathering her scattered thoughts with an effort. “I was just thinking that we’ve both been such idiots. All that time, I was thinking about you too.”

His eyes and his expression softened as he moved his hand on her back in a caress. He didn’t respond in words but then again, he didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said it all.

She settled back against him, her head resting against his shoulder, one hand lying on his chest, as she closed her eyes, letting the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her hand lull her into drowsiness.

At the last moment, as his breathing became deep and regular, he mumbled, “I love you, Hermione.”

His words drifted through her consciousness wispily and, although at another time, if she’d been more alert, she may have reacted more strongly to hearing him say the words for the first time, at that moment, half-asleep and hovering between sleep and full consciousness as she was, she didn’t. It was as if, somehow, her subconscious had recognized the truth of the words long before her conscious mind, with its doubts and vulnerabilities, had.

Her thoughts were fuzzy with encroaching sleep but one thought escaped her lips on a drowsy murmur, “I know…”

Somehow, peripherally, she sensed his slight smile and then heard it in his answering murmur, “You would.”

She smiled to herself and stopped even a token resistance to her drowsiness.

And so they slept, peacefully, happy in each other’s arms and secure in the knowledge of their love and their forever…

~The End~

A/N 2: The first line of this chapter is a little tribute to my favorite book of all time. And Ron’s quick assumption that Harry and Hermione are together is taken from canon and how everyone—including Ron!—always is so quick to think that Harry and Hermione are more than just friends. As the saying goes, where there’s so much smoke…

But then again, JKR, as we all know, is an idiot who doesn’t know her own canon.