I might be in imminent danger of failing my finals...
But at least I can still write fanfic...
Just posting a couple cookies from fics that are in the works (in varying stages of done-ness) so no guarantees on when you'll see the finished product but...
Enjoy!
A/N: This is from a fic that's been sitting on my hard drive for months now- when I decided to go back to before canon went to hell and write yet another fic of what should have happened after OotP (with Harry being smarter than he was at the beginning of HBP).
...
“Harry.”
His name was all she said, just the one word, as she rested her hand on his back.
He flinched away from her. “Go away, Hermione. My hand’s all bandaged up now so you can leave.”
His voice was cold and would have sent anyone else scurrying away, but not Hermione.
“No.”
“For God’s sake, Hermione! Leave me alone!”
“Harry!” She almost forcibly turned him around and then threw her arms around him in a hug that spoke of so much emotion, so much determination, it almost made her words unnecessary. “Don’t shut me out, Harry. I won’t let you shut me out and I’m not going to leave you alone.”
Harry stiffened, all his muscles locking in preparation to push her away-he was going to push her away-he had to push her away… But he could, somehow, feel Hermione’s heart beating, strong and fast, against his, could hear her breath and feel the warmth of her-warm and solid and alive-against him and his mind leaped back to that terrible, wonderful moment in the Department of Mysteries. To Neville saying, “Dat’s a pulse, Harry, I’b sure id is,”-words that had somehow, in spite of Neville’s broken voice, sounded as beautiful as anything he’d ever heard. And that moment of knee-weakening, heart-stopping, dizzying relief-Hermione was alive!
She was alive and she was there and-and he couldn’t push her away now.
Slowly, his arms went around her as he returned her hug, a little tentatively at first but then with more force as he remembered that moment of stark panic when he’d thought-for one ghastly second-that she was dead.
But she hadn’t died; she had lived and it was one of the few good things he remembered about that horrible day.
He needed her… Needed her too much-because even though he knew he should push her away, distance himself from her, he couldn’t… He just wasn’t strong enough to push her away, wasn’t strong enough to do this alone.
So even though he knew he shouldn’t, he hugged her back, clutched her to him, and in the warmth and comfort of that hug, Harry felt the hard, aching knot of guilt and regret and sorrow and anger in his chest begin to loosen. It didn’t go away but for the first time, he thought that someday, it might…
He let out a few shuddering breaths and found himself admitting, very low, “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can forgive myself or-or anything.”
Her arms tightened around him briefly before she drew back, meeting his eyes. “Harry, it wasn’t your fault. You shouldn’t blame yourself, honestly you shouldn’t.”
“How can you say that? It was my fault. I was the one who insisted on going to the Department of Mysteries and if I’d just listened to you… How can you say that it’s not my fault? Why don’t you blame me?”
“Did you really think I would? It wasn’t your fault, Harry; it’s Kreacher’s for lying to you and it’s Voldemort’s fault for tricking you into thinking Sirius was in danger.”
Oddly, the mention of Voldemort broke through his haze of self-recrimination so he had to listen to her, had to believe her sincerity and her honesty, but he couldn’t believe it himself. “If I hadn’t been stupid, Sirius would still be here…”
Hermione suppressed a sigh but didn’t argue with him, instead took a different tack. “Harry, you can’t keep on blaming yourself like this; it does no one any good and Sirius wouldn’t want you to think like this.”
He sucked in a sharp breath.
“Think about it, Harry. Even if Sirius had known what was going to happen, do you think it would have stopped him from going to the Department of Mysteries to save you? You know it wouldn’t have. If he had the choice again, even knowing what would happen, do you think he’d act any differently?”
“No.” The word was very low, soft, almost compelled from him unwillingly.
“He wouldn’t want you to beat yourself up over what happened, Harry. What you did, you did because you cared-and you can’t blame yourself for that.”
He didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. Was she-could she be right? His throat was tight, his chest clogged with emotion, and he suddenly wished that Hermione would leave. He was terribly afraid he was going to cry and he didn’t want her to see it.
The silence seemed to stretch on forever and every second hurt her. He wasn’t looking at her, was staring fixedly at the floor and she almost flinched, unwanted tears pricking at the back of her eyes.
Had she gone too far? She knew Harry, knew his stubbornness, knew how he blamed himself-why would he believe her for simply saying it wasn’t his fault?
She hesitated, arguing with herself, but then finally moved to stand up. He wasn’t listening; he didn’t want her help or her comfort-at least not now. Earlier, when he’d returned her hug, she’d thought… She’d thought he might but now-no, she wouldn’t stay if it would only make him angry and upset him more.
“Think about it, Harry, and believe me. It wasn’t your fault,” she repeated as she stood up.
He grabbed her hand before she could take a step. “No, stay,” he blurted out, almost before he knew what he was going to say. Whereas just a second earlier, he’d wanted her to leave, now he knew he couldn’t bear it if she did. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted… He wanted to be with her… “Stay,” he said again.
And she did.
~
To be continued...
~*~
A/N 2: From the next chapter of 'What Happened Before the Wedding'.
...
Hermione curled up on the couch, wrapping her arms around her knees, as she tried to fight tears. She hated crying and she hated this sort of uncertainty and, most of all, she hated this feeling of failure. Oh she knew, in some rational part of her mind, that she couldn’t really blame herself for this, any more than she could really blame Ron; they had tried and it simply hadn’t worked. But it did feel like failure.
She heard Ron outside the door and had barely a moment to sit up straight, hastily swiping at the annoying tears that would well up in her eyes, before the door opened and he came in.
Ron stopped short, a flicker of some expression Hermione couldn’t identify crossing his face, before he quickly controlled his expression. “Hey,” he said with rather obvious casualness, managing a smile. “You’re home early today.” He busied himself by making rather a production of hanging up his cloak and then turned towards the kitchen. “Did you have a good day today? What do you think we should have for dinner since we can actually eat together? Maybe we can light some candles and make a nice evening of it. It’s been a while.” While he was speaking, he got himself a bottle of butterbeer and steadfastly avoided looking in her direction even as he spoke with such apparent good humor.
Hermione inwardly flinched. She hated this too. She hated how they had to try so hard around each other, try to pretend nothing was wrong, try to pretend they were still happy together, try to keep the conversation as neutral as possible so they wouldn’t fight again.
“Ron, we need to talk.” And then Hermione almost winced at how that had sounded, even if she’d made her tone as soft and kind as possible. The words, ‘we need to talk’, never preceded anything good and Hermione thought peripherally that it might just be the most terrible sentence in the English language. Why was it that no one ever said, ‘we need to talk’ before saying anything good?
She could see Ron stiffen and it seemed like an endless moment before he turned, his expression now carefully, uncharacteristically, blank.
She tried to smile, patting her hand on the spot next to her. “Sit down here. I promise I won’t bite,” she added with a lame attempt at humor that fell flat.
He sat, keeping his eyes focused on his bottle of butterbeer, one finger picking at the corner of the label and then smoothing it out again, with as much concentration as if the fate of the world depended on it. “What do you want to talk about?”
Hermione sighed, studying him, and suddenly felt a wave of poignant affection for him, this best friend of hers, the boy she’d known for years. She knew the shape of his ears, his profile, his red hair. She’d kissed him and touched him and laughed with him and she knew, in spite of everything, she would give her life for him, as he would for her. “Oh, Ron…” she reached over and put her hand on his arm, waiting until he finally looked up at her before she finished, softly, “You know it’s not working between us.”
His fingers tensed and in one tiny movement, that was more of an involuntary jerk than anything else, he ripped off the corner of the bottle label he’d been fiddling with. He put the bottle down on the coffee table. Hermione bit her tongue to keep from reminding him to use a coaster. He paused, staring at the bottle for one odd moment, and then he picked up the bottle, reaching for a coaster, and used it. Leaving Hermione fighting a hysterical urge to either laugh or cry at this tiny gesture; only now, when it was too late, was he finally making this compromise, of his own accord. (In the middle of some of their fights, there had been many times when he’d deliberately not used a coaster, as if daring her to scold, and those moments had seemed to build up until it had precipitated yet another explosion.)
He sighed in his own turn and then said, in a more sober tone than Hermione could remember hearing from him in years, if ever, “I know.”
And even though she’d expected them, knew they were true, the two words still sounded like a kind of death knell to her.
“We- we’re too different, Ron,” she finally said. “It’s okay when we’re best friends but- but we just don’t work as anything more than friends.”
“I know.” He turned his hand up to grasp her hand, giving it a light squeeze. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I- I do care about you, you know.”
She returned his grip of her hand with pressure of her own, staring down at their joined hands, her mind suddenly flooded with memories of their first few months together, the fun they’d had, the times he’d teased her and kissed her, the first few months when even the bickering had seemed pleasant. The tragedy was that it hadn’t lasted, as honeymoon periods never truly do. “I care about you too, Ron, so much. But it just isn’t enough.”
He was silent for a painfully long moment before he sighed and said, very softly, “I guess I haven’t really made you happy, have I?”
“I didn’t make you happy either.”
“I’m sorry,” Ron blurted out. “Sorry for all the times we fought, sorry for all the times I tried to annoy you. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too. I should have tried harder, been more understanding, should have shut up about things.”
He looked up at her, a serious sort of smile on his face. “We were happy together at first, though, weren’t we?”
She smiled a little. “Yeah, we were.”
He leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek, lingering for just a moment, in almost the first spontaneous gesture of affection he’d given her in what felt like weeks. “Still best friends, right?”
It was a question although she guessed that he hadn’t meant for it to be one.
“Of course. We’ll always be best friends.”
...
To be continued... (of course)
~*~
And now for some pure fluff...
A/N 3: From the next part in my 'All He Ever Wanted' universe, because bits and pieces of this scene invaded my head and refused to leave me alone until I wrote them out (and then my Muses deserted me entirely-- or were driven out by school...)
...
Harry changed into his dress robes quickly and then proceeded to simply enjoy the sight of Hermione’s preparations. He didn’t know why it was (certainly it was a new thing that had only begun with Hermione) but he loved to watch Hermione get dressed for a formal event. She was as efficient in this as she was in everything else and he liked the simple grace of her quick movements. (And he had to admit to a purely masculine enjoyment of seeing the curves of her hips, her butt and her legs as she pulled on a pair of pantyhose and stepped into her dress. What? Surely a husband could ogle his own wife.)
“Zip me up, will you, Harry?”
Harry pulled his gaze away from where he’d been staring at her hips to meet her eyes as she looked over her shoulder at him, presenting him with her back.
He stepped forward, conscious of a distinct (and irrational) reluctance to comply with her simple request because he did so enjoy the sight of the graceful line of her spine and the smooth skin of her back but then he reminded himself that he would have plenty more opportunities to admire Hermione’s back (and the rest of her) and closed the zipper of her dress. He paused, his hands lightly resting on her shoulders before he bent, irresistibly-it wasn’t a conscious decision, more a compulsion-and kissed her bare skin in that sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder.
And as always, she softened against him, letting out a soft breath, her eyes closing, her head tilting to give him better access. He loved how responsive she was, loved the fact that he could sense her skin heating from such a simple caress.
“Harry…”
“Hmm?” he murmured against her skin.
“Don’t-oh… We really don’t have time for this,” she managed to say, although the words were belied by the breathiness of her tone.
He sighed briefly as he lifted his head and stepped back. “I know.”
She turned and gave him a slight, understanding smile. “We’ll continue this later,” she promised.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
She threw him a teasing look as she went over to her dresser. “Do I ever make promises I don’t keep?”
“Is that a trick question?” he quipped, hoping that humor would dispel the sensuality in the air.
“Very funny, Potter,” she retorted but he could hear her smile in her voice as she ran a brush through her hair and then used a quick charm to put her hair into a simple twist, softened with a few errant curls that escaped.
Harry went over to retrieve his hand from where he’d dropped it onto the bed while he changed and put it into the discreet pocket sewn into his dress robes and then turned to see Hermione, who’d finished up with her primping, minimal as it was.
And, for a moment, forgot how to breathe. She was wearing a new gown and, although he’d glimpsed it on a hanger when she’d taken it out, he’d never seen it on her. She’d put on the amethyst earring and necklace set he’d given her for their tenth wedding anniversary and it matched the color of the gown almost perfectly (the gown being just a shade darker.) As for what the gown did to Hermione’s body… Suffice to say that he immediately started mentally calculating how many hours would need to pass before he could strip the gown off her. (Peripherally, he wondered if it was normal for a wife to still have this effect on her husband after 15 years of marriage but then decided he didn’t care if it wasn’t. Rather, he could only pity any man whose wife couldn’t take his breath away and capture his every thought so completely.)
His gaze wandered down and back up the length of her body, his mouth going dry, and he had to swallow before he could speak, trying to make light of his reaction (this wasn’t the time to tell her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen- and the sexiest). “You clean up well.” But the words were rather belied by the husky note in his voice.
She rolled her eyes a little, although a knowing smile was playing on her lips. (She knew perfectly well how he’d reacted to the sight of her just now and the knowledge never failed to thrill her feminine soul. She loved-oh, how she loved-that she could still make him speechless even after so many years of marriage.) “Thank you. How can anyone resist such flattery?”
He lifted one shoulder into a half shrug. “It’s part of my charm.”
She snorted, falling in with his humor as she always did. “You’re delusional.”
“Actually, the word I was going for was confident. Suave, perhaps. Dashing, even.” Harry grinned at her, the grin that, even now, never failed to make her heart give a little flutter. (Really, it shouldn’t be possible for him to have this effect on her after so many years of marriage.)
“Arrogant,” Hermione retorted teasingly.
Harry gave her a look of exaggerated hurt. “You know, aren’t wives supposed to be nicer to their husbands?”
“Where is that written?”
“If it isn’t a law, it should be,” Harry said, pretending to grumble.
“I’ll be sure to mention that to Minister Lovett tonight,” Hermione promised with mock gravity.
Harry tried to keep his lips straight, tried to look offended, but knew it was useless. Her eyes were dancing as she suppressed her own smile and picked up her small formal purse.
“Are you ready?”
He looked at her, at the smile playing on her lips and glowing in her eyes, and decided (yet again) that he could never imagine anything more beautiful than she was. He had the most beautiful wife in the world. Was he ready? “For you, always,” he said, half-jokingly but wholly-sincerely.
She laughed softly, color tingeing her cheeks, at the deliberate huskiness infusing his tone. “Later,” she promised as she brushed her hands across his shoulders, making sure his dress robes were perfectly straight, as she usually did.
“Am I presentable enough for you?” he asked, capturing one of her hands in his and bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss before he released her.
“You’ll do.” And she grinned at him before she preceded him down the stairs and into the family room where the kids were.
...
To be continued...
Just posting a couple cookies from fics that are in the works (in varying stages of done-ness) so no guarantees on when you'll see the finished product but...
Enjoy!
A/N: This is from a fic that's been sitting on my hard drive for months now- when I decided to go back to before canon went to hell and write yet another fic of what should have happened after OotP (with Harry being smarter than he was at the beginning of HBP).
...
“Harry.”
His name was all she said, just the one word, as she rested her hand on his back.
He flinched away from her. “Go away, Hermione. My hand’s all bandaged up now so you can leave.”
His voice was cold and would have sent anyone else scurrying away, but not Hermione.
“No.”
“For God’s sake, Hermione! Leave me alone!”
“Harry!” She almost forcibly turned him around and then threw her arms around him in a hug that spoke of so much emotion, so much determination, it almost made her words unnecessary. “Don’t shut me out, Harry. I won’t let you shut me out and I’m not going to leave you alone.”
Harry stiffened, all his muscles locking in preparation to push her away-he was going to push her away-he had to push her away… But he could, somehow, feel Hermione’s heart beating, strong and fast, against his, could hear her breath and feel the warmth of her-warm and solid and alive-against him and his mind leaped back to that terrible, wonderful moment in the Department of Mysteries. To Neville saying, “Dat’s a pulse, Harry, I’b sure id is,”-words that had somehow, in spite of Neville’s broken voice, sounded as beautiful as anything he’d ever heard. And that moment of knee-weakening, heart-stopping, dizzying relief-Hermione was alive!
She was alive and she was there and-and he couldn’t push her away now.
Slowly, his arms went around her as he returned her hug, a little tentatively at first but then with more force as he remembered that moment of stark panic when he’d thought-for one ghastly second-that she was dead.
But she hadn’t died; she had lived and it was one of the few good things he remembered about that horrible day.
He needed her… Needed her too much-because even though he knew he should push her away, distance himself from her, he couldn’t… He just wasn’t strong enough to push her away, wasn’t strong enough to do this alone.
So even though he knew he shouldn’t, he hugged her back, clutched her to him, and in the warmth and comfort of that hug, Harry felt the hard, aching knot of guilt and regret and sorrow and anger in his chest begin to loosen. It didn’t go away but for the first time, he thought that someday, it might…
He let out a few shuddering breaths and found himself admitting, very low, “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can forgive myself or-or anything.”
Her arms tightened around him briefly before she drew back, meeting his eyes. “Harry, it wasn’t your fault. You shouldn’t blame yourself, honestly you shouldn’t.”
“How can you say that? It was my fault. I was the one who insisted on going to the Department of Mysteries and if I’d just listened to you… How can you say that it’s not my fault? Why don’t you blame me?”
“Did you really think I would? It wasn’t your fault, Harry; it’s Kreacher’s for lying to you and it’s Voldemort’s fault for tricking you into thinking Sirius was in danger.”
Oddly, the mention of Voldemort broke through his haze of self-recrimination so he had to listen to her, had to believe her sincerity and her honesty, but he couldn’t believe it himself. “If I hadn’t been stupid, Sirius would still be here…”
Hermione suppressed a sigh but didn’t argue with him, instead took a different tack. “Harry, you can’t keep on blaming yourself like this; it does no one any good and Sirius wouldn’t want you to think like this.”
He sucked in a sharp breath.
“Think about it, Harry. Even if Sirius had known what was going to happen, do you think it would have stopped him from going to the Department of Mysteries to save you? You know it wouldn’t have. If he had the choice again, even knowing what would happen, do you think he’d act any differently?”
“No.” The word was very low, soft, almost compelled from him unwillingly.
“He wouldn’t want you to beat yourself up over what happened, Harry. What you did, you did because you cared-and you can’t blame yourself for that.”
He didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. Was she-could she be right? His throat was tight, his chest clogged with emotion, and he suddenly wished that Hermione would leave. He was terribly afraid he was going to cry and he didn’t want her to see it.
The silence seemed to stretch on forever and every second hurt her. He wasn’t looking at her, was staring fixedly at the floor and she almost flinched, unwanted tears pricking at the back of her eyes.
Had she gone too far? She knew Harry, knew his stubbornness, knew how he blamed himself-why would he believe her for simply saying it wasn’t his fault?
She hesitated, arguing with herself, but then finally moved to stand up. He wasn’t listening; he didn’t want her help or her comfort-at least not now. Earlier, when he’d returned her hug, she’d thought… She’d thought he might but now-no, she wouldn’t stay if it would only make him angry and upset him more.
“Think about it, Harry, and believe me. It wasn’t your fault,” she repeated as she stood up.
He grabbed her hand before she could take a step. “No, stay,” he blurted out, almost before he knew what he was going to say. Whereas just a second earlier, he’d wanted her to leave, now he knew he couldn’t bear it if she did. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted… He wanted to be with her… “Stay,” he said again.
And she did.
~
To be continued...
~*~
A/N 2: From the next chapter of 'What Happened Before the Wedding'.
...
Hermione curled up on the couch, wrapping her arms around her knees, as she tried to fight tears. She hated crying and she hated this sort of uncertainty and, most of all, she hated this feeling of failure. Oh she knew, in some rational part of her mind, that she couldn’t really blame herself for this, any more than she could really blame Ron; they had tried and it simply hadn’t worked. But it did feel like failure.
She heard Ron outside the door and had barely a moment to sit up straight, hastily swiping at the annoying tears that would well up in her eyes, before the door opened and he came in.
Ron stopped short, a flicker of some expression Hermione couldn’t identify crossing his face, before he quickly controlled his expression. “Hey,” he said with rather obvious casualness, managing a smile. “You’re home early today.” He busied himself by making rather a production of hanging up his cloak and then turned towards the kitchen. “Did you have a good day today? What do you think we should have for dinner since we can actually eat together? Maybe we can light some candles and make a nice evening of it. It’s been a while.” While he was speaking, he got himself a bottle of butterbeer and steadfastly avoided looking in her direction even as he spoke with such apparent good humor.
Hermione inwardly flinched. She hated this too. She hated how they had to try so hard around each other, try to pretend nothing was wrong, try to pretend they were still happy together, try to keep the conversation as neutral as possible so they wouldn’t fight again.
“Ron, we need to talk.” And then Hermione almost winced at how that had sounded, even if she’d made her tone as soft and kind as possible. The words, ‘we need to talk’, never preceded anything good and Hermione thought peripherally that it might just be the most terrible sentence in the English language. Why was it that no one ever said, ‘we need to talk’ before saying anything good?
She could see Ron stiffen and it seemed like an endless moment before he turned, his expression now carefully, uncharacteristically, blank.
She tried to smile, patting her hand on the spot next to her. “Sit down here. I promise I won’t bite,” she added with a lame attempt at humor that fell flat.
He sat, keeping his eyes focused on his bottle of butterbeer, one finger picking at the corner of the label and then smoothing it out again, with as much concentration as if the fate of the world depended on it. “What do you want to talk about?”
Hermione sighed, studying him, and suddenly felt a wave of poignant affection for him, this best friend of hers, the boy she’d known for years. She knew the shape of his ears, his profile, his red hair. She’d kissed him and touched him and laughed with him and she knew, in spite of everything, she would give her life for him, as he would for her. “Oh, Ron…” she reached over and put her hand on his arm, waiting until he finally looked up at her before she finished, softly, “You know it’s not working between us.”
His fingers tensed and in one tiny movement, that was more of an involuntary jerk than anything else, he ripped off the corner of the bottle label he’d been fiddling with. He put the bottle down on the coffee table. Hermione bit her tongue to keep from reminding him to use a coaster. He paused, staring at the bottle for one odd moment, and then he picked up the bottle, reaching for a coaster, and used it. Leaving Hermione fighting a hysterical urge to either laugh or cry at this tiny gesture; only now, when it was too late, was he finally making this compromise, of his own accord. (In the middle of some of their fights, there had been many times when he’d deliberately not used a coaster, as if daring her to scold, and those moments had seemed to build up until it had precipitated yet another explosion.)
He sighed in his own turn and then said, in a more sober tone than Hermione could remember hearing from him in years, if ever, “I know.”
And even though she’d expected them, knew they were true, the two words still sounded like a kind of death knell to her.
“We- we’re too different, Ron,” she finally said. “It’s okay when we’re best friends but- but we just don’t work as anything more than friends.”
“I know.” He turned his hand up to grasp her hand, giving it a light squeeze. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I- I do care about you, you know.”
She returned his grip of her hand with pressure of her own, staring down at their joined hands, her mind suddenly flooded with memories of their first few months together, the fun they’d had, the times he’d teased her and kissed her, the first few months when even the bickering had seemed pleasant. The tragedy was that it hadn’t lasted, as honeymoon periods never truly do. “I care about you too, Ron, so much. But it just isn’t enough.”
He was silent for a painfully long moment before he sighed and said, very softly, “I guess I haven’t really made you happy, have I?”
“I didn’t make you happy either.”
“I’m sorry,” Ron blurted out. “Sorry for all the times we fought, sorry for all the times I tried to annoy you. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too. I should have tried harder, been more understanding, should have shut up about things.”
He looked up at her, a serious sort of smile on his face. “We were happy together at first, though, weren’t we?”
She smiled a little. “Yeah, we were.”
He leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek, lingering for just a moment, in almost the first spontaneous gesture of affection he’d given her in what felt like weeks. “Still best friends, right?”
It was a question although she guessed that he hadn’t meant for it to be one.
“Of course. We’ll always be best friends.”
...
To be continued... (of course)
~*~
And now for some pure fluff...
A/N 3: From the next part in my 'All He Ever Wanted' universe, because bits and pieces of this scene invaded my head and refused to leave me alone until I wrote them out (and then my Muses deserted me entirely-- or were driven out by school...)
...
Harry changed into his dress robes quickly and then proceeded to simply enjoy the sight of Hermione’s preparations. He didn’t know why it was (certainly it was a new thing that had only begun with Hermione) but he loved to watch Hermione get dressed for a formal event. She was as efficient in this as she was in everything else and he liked the simple grace of her quick movements. (And he had to admit to a purely masculine enjoyment of seeing the curves of her hips, her butt and her legs as she pulled on a pair of pantyhose and stepped into her dress. What? Surely a husband could ogle his own wife.)
“Zip me up, will you, Harry?”
Harry pulled his gaze away from where he’d been staring at her hips to meet her eyes as she looked over her shoulder at him, presenting him with her back.
He stepped forward, conscious of a distinct (and irrational) reluctance to comply with her simple request because he did so enjoy the sight of the graceful line of her spine and the smooth skin of her back but then he reminded himself that he would have plenty more opportunities to admire Hermione’s back (and the rest of her) and closed the zipper of her dress. He paused, his hands lightly resting on her shoulders before he bent, irresistibly-it wasn’t a conscious decision, more a compulsion-and kissed her bare skin in that sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder.
And as always, she softened against him, letting out a soft breath, her eyes closing, her head tilting to give him better access. He loved how responsive she was, loved the fact that he could sense her skin heating from such a simple caress.
“Harry…”
“Hmm?” he murmured against her skin.
“Don’t-oh… We really don’t have time for this,” she managed to say, although the words were belied by the breathiness of her tone.
He sighed briefly as he lifted his head and stepped back. “I know.”
She turned and gave him a slight, understanding smile. “We’ll continue this later,” she promised.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
She threw him a teasing look as she went over to her dresser. “Do I ever make promises I don’t keep?”
“Is that a trick question?” he quipped, hoping that humor would dispel the sensuality in the air.
“Very funny, Potter,” she retorted but he could hear her smile in her voice as she ran a brush through her hair and then used a quick charm to put her hair into a simple twist, softened with a few errant curls that escaped.
Harry went over to retrieve his hand from where he’d dropped it onto the bed while he changed and put it into the discreet pocket sewn into his dress robes and then turned to see Hermione, who’d finished up with her primping, minimal as it was.
And, for a moment, forgot how to breathe. She was wearing a new gown and, although he’d glimpsed it on a hanger when she’d taken it out, he’d never seen it on her. She’d put on the amethyst earring and necklace set he’d given her for their tenth wedding anniversary and it matched the color of the gown almost perfectly (the gown being just a shade darker.) As for what the gown did to Hermione’s body… Suffice to say that he immediately started mentally calculating how many hours would need to pass before he could strip the gown off her. (Peripherally, he wondered if it was normal for a wife to still have this effect on her husband after 15 years of marriage but then decided he didn’t care if it wasn’t. Rather, he could only pity any man whose wife couldn’t take his breath away and capture his every thought so completely.)
His gaze wandered down and back up the length of her body, his mouth going dry, and he had to swallow before he could speak, trying to make light of his reaction (this wasn’t the time to tell her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen- and the sexiest). “You clean up well.” But the words were rather belied by the husky note in his voice.
She rolled her eyes a little, although a knowing smile was playing on her lips. (She knew perfectly well how he’d reacted to the sight of her just now and the knowledge never failed to thrill her feminine soul. She loved-oh, how she loved-that she could still make him speechless even after so many years of marriage.) “Thank you. How can anyone resist such flattery?”
He lifted one shoulder into a half shrug. “It’s part of my charm.”
She snorted, falling in with his humor as she always did. “You’re delusional.”
“Actually, the word I was going for was confident. Suave, perhaps. Dashing, even.” Harry grinned at her, the grin that, even now, never failed to make her heart give a little flutter. (Really, it shouldn’t be possible for him to have this effect on her after so many years of marriage.)
“Arrogant,” Hermione retorted teasingly.
Harry gave her a look of exaggerated hurt. “You know, aren’t wives supposed to be nicer to their husbands?”
“Where is that written?”
“If it isn’t a law, it should be,” Harry said, pretending to grumble.
“I’ll be sure to mention that to Minister Lovett tonight,” Hermione promised with mock gravity.
Harry tried to keep his lips straight, tried to look offended, but knew it was useless. Her eyes were dancing as she suppressed her own smile and picked up her small formal purse.
“Are you ready?”
He looked at her, at the smile playing on her lips and glowing in her eyes, and decided (yet again) that he could never imagine anything more beautiful than she was. He had the most beautiful wife in the world. Was he ready? “For you, always,” he said, half-jokingly but wholly-sincerely.
She laughed softly, color tingeing her cheeks, at the deliberate huskiness infusing his tone. “Later,” she promised as she brushed her hands across his shoulders, making sure his dress robes were perfectly straight, as she usually did.
“Am I presentable enough for you?” he asked, capturing one of her hands in his and bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss before he released her.
“You’ll do.” And she grinned at him before she preceded him down the stairs and into the family room where the kids were.
...
To be continued...