Unspoken

Summary: He wakes to find her in his room in the middle of the night. Will he tell her everything or continue to keep his feelings hidden?

Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe, nor am I making a profit from them. Unfortunately for me, Harry and everything related to him belongs to J. K. Rowling and associated publishers.

*Her*

He wakes slowly, hearing the soft rustle of fabric against fabric before he sees her. Without his glasses, she seems to glow, surrounded by a white aura of gentle moonlight. The slightest hint of vanilla and roses floats on the air and fills the room, a scent full of safety and warmth, of her.

He sits up and puts on his glasses, gleaning his surroundings bit by bit. She comes into focus, standing by the window, face pointed upwards, eyes closed, a soft summer breeze blowing gently through the open window. The transparent curtains billow around her, nightgown flapping against long legs. Her long hair has been tamed into a tight plait; only a few curly wisps lay against her smooth neck and pale cheeks. Not for the first time, he inwardly marvels over how beautiful she is, how soft her skin looks, milky and flawless. He wonders not why she is in his bedroom staring up at the night sky, wonders not why she has not tried to wake him. No answers are needed to either question; he cares not about the whys or hows. She is here, with him, and that is enough. Pulling the blanket back so he can go to her, he stops suddenly. Hearing him, she opens her eyes and looks towards the bed, causing his breath to catch in his throat.

She’s crying, silver steaks marring her cheeks; her once dancing eyes sparkle in the moon’s reflection, but not in joy as they used to. She starts towards him, not bothering to wipe the tears away. Reaching the bed, she crumples into him, clinging to his chest. He gathers her in his strong arms and comforts her as best he knows how. He wipes her cheeks with steady hands and trails his fingers up and down her arms while she continues to sob. Finally, the tears subside and her quick, gasping breaths slow into the rhythmic breathing of someone in the clutches of slumber. He traces his fingertips along her back in slow, lazy circles, still holding her tight against him.

He has done this before, numerous times, her grief being insatiable the first few months. Just when he had begun to hope that she had started to heal, to move on, to see…but, no. It was unfair to expect her to realize, to want the same thing. He didn’t even have the right to want what he did. His life had become nothing but grief, guilt, and endless longing, each emotion hidden carefully away from her. He would be strong for her, care for her. She needed him to be her hero this time, not the world’s, just hers. He alone understood the void left by his death, knew the pain and unending sorrow she felt. A part of both of them had been lost forever that night, but he would be damn sure that she wouldn’t be lost too. He would help her find solace in friendship, even if only in friendship.

Gazing down on her sleeping form, he softly wipes away the remaining moisture that clings to her dark lashes. A soft flush has come to her cheeks, her lips curled into a slight smile. He wonders what she is dreaming of. Is she playing chess with him? Repeating the good times they shared together? He lies down next to her and breathes her in, always vanilla and a slight trace of roses, a scent she wears in remembrance of him, her first love. Brushing her lips lightly, he leans over her to place his glasses on the table and whispers in her ear. “Sweet dreams, Mione. I love you.” She snuggles into his neck and winds her fingers through his in her sleep, silent tears flowing down his cheeks as he sinks back into sleep's comforting embrace.

She steps silently into the dark room, scared and unsure. She trembles slightly, despite the warm night. She is afraid of telling him, of revealing her sin. His leg moves slightly and she pauses, gazing at him from the foot of his bed. Her eyes drink him in, enjoying the look of calm on his face, something not seen very often. His brow is not furrowed, but smooth, and she wonders if his skin is soft to the touch as well. She shivers violently as the guilt washes over her. What is she doing? Why is she here, in his room, by his bed, ready to confess?

She knows she shouldn't be there, that it wouldn't be right. She is supposed to be mourning…healing. She fights the desire to wake him and kiss him; surely he would hate her for her betrayal of their mutual friend. Hot tears threaten to fall; delicate fingers clench the lacy hem of her nightgown. A breeze begins to blow softly, teasing her face with cool relief. She walks to the window and gazes up toward the full moon. Its brilliance obscures the surrounding stars; tonight the sky basks in its beauty alone. Closing her eyes, she breathes in the night air, sweet and pure. He used to love to sneak out at night and walk the grounds, usually dragging her along. Their first kiss was under a full moon, innocent and tentative. Now she was standing under the full moon wishing for the kisses of another man, a man whom them both loved. How would he ever forgive her? How would she ever forgive herself?

She turns suddenly at a noise from the bed. He is staring at her, brilliant green eyes glowing in the moonlight, full of concern and care. She finally breaks, longing mixed with fear and guilt, as she lets herself fall into his arms. As she cries, he cradles her gently and tries to dry her tears. Her skin burns where he touches her, craves more than his comforting and chaste hugs. She can hear his heart rapidly beating in his chest, hear his sadness in his soft murmurs. She knows she reminds him of his friend, of what they lost. She knows he is strong because she needs him to be strong and that he aches for what they lost. No, she will not tell him what she feels for him. She will not make him hate her when she needs his love; she will not leave him completely alone and cause him more pain. She will carry the burden of her love for the man she calls friend and help him move on as he does for her. She drifts off to sleep and dreams of the day when they flew together and saved the day, of beating wings and the feel of her arms around his waist. As they rise higher into the night sky, silhouetted against a full moon, she can almost hear him whisper that he loves her in her ear. If only dreams were real.

*Them*

They lie together, pressed close. As golden rays of sun creep up the bed, they begin to stir, slowly shaking off the warm comfort of sleep. She wakes first, blinking deep mocha eyes against the bright glare of early morning. Feeling the warm weight against her, she notices an arm slung over her side, long fingers intertwined with her own. Panic and confusion begin to set in, her mind begins to unfog and her pulse quickens as she realizes that that is his bare chest against her back, warming her through her thin nightgown. That is his hot breath against her ear. Never before has she stayed with him. Before, when she came to his bed seeking solace and safety, he would eventually return her to her own room to send her to sleep with a chaste peck to the cheek and a crooked smile, unsure but comforting. She shivers at the contact, begins to plan escape, for she could not bear for him to wake, to pierce her with those eyes and stir her soul in a way no man has ever. Not even…

He tightens his hold around her slim frame, grips the thin material gathered along her upper thighs. Still mostly asleep, he mumbles slightly against the nape of her neck, words she cannot decipher, but that nevertheless induce a reaction from her traitorous body as his lips graze her skin. Her skin tingling, desperation takes hold. She inwardly resigns herself, commits herself to leaving him in peace, to smothering the flame of desire which has begun to lap at her deliciously from within. Moving slowly, she lifts the enemy limb from her waist and begins to slip from the bed.

“Mione,” he pants, lost in a dream. He is amazed at how real she feels, this dream lover of his. He can feel the smoothness of her skin and how the free wisps of hair tickle his nose; hear the tiny gasps she emits when he breathes lightly onto a delicate spot below her ear. How amazing this fake woman is, how lifelike. She even has a tiny scar on her left ring finger, right above the knuckle, just like the one his real love has had ever since a long fall through a trap door when they were too young to know the depth of love and devotion. A scar she has worn ever since she made him feel loved for the first time, loved and admired for more than his own scar that he carries. The scar that cost them a friend and changed their relationship forever.

She begins to leave, to retreat into the bright light his subconscious seems to have chosen as background, but he will not let her go. He will not lose her too, the only Hermione he is allowed to love freely. He pulls her back to him, holding her with a firm and unrelenting grip. He breathes her name again, tasting lips full and sweet, just as he has imagined them for years. She gasps against his mouth, stiffening slightly. “Harry?” she whispers, sounding surprised and confused, but neither appalled nor angry. She shakes him awake gently, and when he sees those eyes, large and full of shock, he knows. Her tiny mouth has formed a pink O, so cute and enticing, yet he cannot move, frozen in his bed. He laments his obvious blunder, inwardly chastising himself for letting her stay asleep in his arms, mourning the lack of self-control that has probably cost him her friendship…the last thing he has.

Moments pass in silence, each of them trying to read the other as if they were books, but utterly failing at first. She has once again begun to cry, but he cannot see sadness or shame in her eyes. He sees….is it hope? Hope filling dark chocolate pools, her eyes are begging him to not be sorry. She shifts and her leg brushes against his own under the sheets, shaking him out of his trance. He reaches to her, pulls her close once more and brushes the wetness off of her cheeks, planting kisses upon closed eyelids. She tips her chin and his resolve crumbles; he is kissing her gently, lovingly. Her palms are pressed to his bare chest, scorching his skin. She moans against his lips, deepening their kiss. Soon he stops and looks at her, smiling the first real smile in many months. She smiles back, shyly, in a way that makes his pulse quicken and his breath catch in his chest. They lie back down and curl into one another; he shuts the curtains with a murmured spell as they fall back to asleep in each other's arms, content and happy, finally at peace with themselves and their pasts. They know that they should not feel guilty anymore. Because love really does conquer all, as the old saying goes...even if it remains unspoken.