what i wouldn't do for you
In an effort to remind myself that I am actually capable of finishing a fucking sentence, I'm posting up another one of my smutlets.
I've been staring at almost blank Word page all day, and it's driving me batty. I know exactly what I want to write; I've got all these phrases and images in my head; I've even made fucking notes, which I never ever do.
And the fruits of my labour? The Vaughn story stands at 357 words.
Yeah.
A/N - Title and a few lines taken from Richard Greenburg's Three Days of Rain. Various other lines and images gacked from lots of places.
[Potter, 'Three Days of Rain']
It's the one time Sorcerer's Almanac been wrong in more than a century. It's been beautiful up until now, almost a real, proper summer, the first one you can remember in a long time. And now, now, this. Pearly grey skies and rain coming; you can feel it, in your bones, like you used to think only old people got. But, sometimes, you can feel the rain coming in your leg, in your knee. The one, constant reminder of a time of your life you would almost rather forget. But even if other people let you forget, if the Daily Prophet would leave you alone, if you didn't attract constant stares wherever you go, your knee would still be there. Sometimes, you think you should post that somewhere in your house, ‘your knee will always be there,' like a slogan for life, a mantra. But you don't.
So, you can feel it in your knee, the rain, and you can smell it too. That clean, spring smell, the smell of a good, proper rain, not just mist and not a deluge, but a several-day event, an unceasing, unrelenting shower. You only hope Draco and Ginny are prepared for it.
As you walk into their house, or their ‘love nest,' as they prefer to call it, you look around and already see preparations being made by the house-elves. Their house is gorgeous, and totally inappropriate for Britain, but that's Draco and Ginny, you think. It looks like it would be more suited for Tuscany or Greece, with a great open courtyard and terra cotta everywhere. Apparently, in one of their first holidays together, they stayed in a place like this, Gin fell in love with it, and Draco, as a surprise, had this built. When you first heard, you couldn't help but roll your eyes, thinking, ‘that's Malfoy all right,' since you still called him Malfoy then.
That was years ago, you think, right after the war, and they're just now getting married. Molly's beside herself and Arthur just keeps joking that Ginny's finally going to make an ‘honest man out of him.' Ironic, you think, that Arthur can joke around like that and be so prepared, so excited to have a Malfoy in the family, considering the almost blood feud the Weasleys and Malfoys had for so long. Trust Ginny and Draco to defy convention, but, you think, that may have been part of the appeal. That's what you thought at first anyway, that they would shag and get it out of their systems, give both sets of their parents heart failure, then go their separate ways. But now it's years later and here they are, living together and getting married, in the middle of a British summer, the first proper summer in years, and it still looks like rain anyway.
*
So, you're friends with Harry.
You've always been friends with Harry, best friends. You tell each other everything; like your sister, if you'd had a sister, only he has a penis. And this fact, the fact that he has a penis, has never caused you any problems. Not like other people, you think; not like practically everyone else you know. You reckon it's because of the circumstances of your growing up.
You grew up together, side by side, almost attached at the hip. You feel like you've known Harry forever. Like you have known each other from the womb; that you were born friends. In some ways you have. He's certainly been with you for all of your real life, your important life. When you try to think about life before eleven, it seems like a dream. But not fuzzy in the way you normally talk of dreams, but hyper-real. Too real; there's too much talking and the colours are sharper, they practically hurt your eyes. Life after eleven was ancient; pared down to its essentials - your wand and your innate magic is all you need to survive.
So, Harry's been with you for your whole life, your true life, the life that really matters, but you've never had any of the normal, gender-related traumas that seemed to afflict everyone else around you. Even you and Ron. Sometimes you think you were too close; you knew each other too well. But the rest of the time you think it was just the fact that both of you had more important things to worry about. You met him before you started thinking about boys and beds in conjunction with each other, then you were too worried about keeping him alive to worry about the shadow on his chin or his voice deepening or his jaw squaring. You're equally certain that he didn't spend time thinking about the fact that you grew breasts or got an actual waist and hips and gave up your knee socks for garters.
These things registered, but they just didn't matter. And by the time the war was over, it was too late to start seeing each other in a sexual way. You met a boy and one day you blinked and he was a man. The change hadn't intrigued you; it was just fact. You'd known him too long; he was like your brother. And, besides, if it was supposed to happen, wouldn't it have happened by now?
So, Harry's your friend, your best friend. He always has been, which is why you're able to concentrate at the moment. You're both down in the living room, each working quietly. Everyone else has gone to bed, after a scrumptious dinner out in the courtyard. It really was lovely, you think, with the lanterns and candles and slight breeze; the wards that that house elves had put up against the rain didn't even have to be used. You don't know how much longer the rain will hold though, no matter how well connected Draco and Ginny may be, even they don't have a direct owl to the weather gods.
Even though you're tired and becoming more so, with the sounds of sleep all around you, you've both still got a bit of work to do. You're shaping up an article and Harry's going through some case he's got coming up and the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fire and the soft whisper of pages turning. If this were anyone else, the mood would seem decidedly romantic, but with Harry, it's just peaceful.
`Want a cup of tea before you go up?'
He's looking at you, smiling faintly, looking ready to turn in himself. You smile back and nod and before you can blink, a cup of tea is hovering before you. Black, one sugar, just the way you like.
You nod your thanks and head upstairs.
*
The next day you're out all day with Ginny, last minute alterations on her dress and things like that. You're at Lavender's and she's left the room for a moment to check on some incoming silk, leaving just you and Gin in the back room. She looks gorgeous, you think, and she's twirling around in front of the mirrors, looking like nothing so much as a child playing dress up. So what she says next shocks you even more than it normally would have done.
`Did you see my baby in that suit? I felt like a stream was running between my thighs all night.'
A couple of minutes later, after you've recovered from your choking and coughing fit, you think that this kind of thing shouldn't really surprise you anymore. After all, Ginny was the first and still pretty much only female you were ever able to have a frank conversation about sex with. In fact, Gin's really the only reason you're able to even think the word sex. She's always been frank, bordering on crude, you think, but you guess that's what comes from living with six brothers. You have to be crude to keep up.
You're not crude, you'll never be crude, you don't think; you can hardly bring yourself to think of sex in an active way. Oh, you enjoy it, it's fun, but it's always about having people do things to you. You think that that was the biggest shock in hearing Gin talk about sex, especially with Draco. That she craves it, almost; that she's such an active participant in events. You think that maybe your reluctance to do things is a hold-over from the first person you slept with, Ron. He seemed to think you were something to be worshipped, adored. It's not that you minded so much; it's just that he also didn't want you to do anything to him - like you were too good or pure or something for that. You're not sure of the reason, but you do know that ever since then you've never felt really comfortable taking charge in bed, with anyone.
Gin's laughing at you, at your reaction; she's always amused that you still get so embarrassed and flustered talking about sex. Still, you're glad you're friends with her; there's no one else to talk to.
*
So, you were watching this thing on the BBC a couple weeks ago. There was some Top 40 thing on the WWN and you just weren't in the mood, so you flipped the telly on. Just for noise, really, but there was this report on, some study or article that said, apparently, sex was going with the over-sixty crowd.
At first, you thought, good for them; you hope when you're sixty you're still having sex. Then you thought no more about it, until a few days later when you saw the same thing in the paper. The over-sixty crowd, you thought to yourself, have always gotten all the sex. That's the generation between the baby boomers and the X-ers. They got Woodstock and free love and Jim Morrison with his leather pants and growl and bed-ins for peace. You and your generation, the tail-end of the X-ers, got AIDS.
Ever since, it's been meandering in and out of your thoughts, like a scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if you could just stop tonguing it.
*
Later that night, after the first of the real rehearsal dinners, you and Harry are back down in the living room. It's almost a replay of last night, except this time it is raining, the skies having opened up that afternoon after you got back from Lavender's. Dinner was still lovely, the wards working perfectly, if anything, you think, the courtyard looks even more spectacular because of them. You're not sure of the specific charm, it's probably not something you could do anyway, since house elves have access to some magic that you simply don't, but it's wonderful. Almost like a glass ceiling, with the rain hitting and pooling right above the courtyard, reflecting the light from the lanterns, if anything it makes you feel like you're in a giant aquarium.
Hours later and you're still working on that article, and he's still flipping through his case. This time, it's you who gets the tea; white, no sugar, just the way he likes. He smiles at you and his eyes go back to the file in his lap.
You glance over at the clock and start when you realise how late it is. You think you should go up to bed, even though you don't feel particularly tired yet; you've got a full day of being pampered to rest up for. You slip your parchment back into its case and screw the top back on your ink bottle.
`Bed,' you announce, glancing up at him.
`Yeah,' he says, only it doesn't sound like a question, more like an answer and so you look at him and there’s…the way he’s looking at you.
`Yeah,' you say, not at all like a question, definitely an answer and you look at each other and think that maybe this is something you would have done this a long time ago, should have done a long time ago, but everything else kept getting in the way.
You stand up and head for the stairs, feeling strangely calm, like you're not about to sleep with your best friend, like this doesn't take the cake for the least intelligent idea you've ever had. But you hear Harry right behind you and before you can think about it anymore, you've pulled your shirt over your head and dropped it on the floor. As it leaves your fingers, you turn around and see Harry step into the room. You start backing up until you can feel the cool press of glass against your bare back.
He doesn't look any different; calm and knowing, the same as you, you think, as he closes the door firmly behind him. The only light in the room is coming from the lanterns still glowing, their light streaming in the window behind you and the glass is cold from the rain, but his eyes are burning you up, so you feel slightly feverish.
He's walking towards you and suddenly he's right there; his hands splayed on the glass behind you, barely an inch separating you. His eyes are firmly fastened on your mouth. You can feel your pulse speeding up and your nipples tightening, straining to get closer to him.
The last half-inch between you takes forever to disappear, you think, like that physics theory that says you can never get right next to something, that you always still have half the distance to go, but finally he's there, his mouth is there and you don't think that you want it to leave. Ever.
You think that Harry tastes like the good kind of sleepless night, the kind that Gin's always telling you about, the kind that you've never had, the kind that leaves her glassy-eyed and walking funny and walking into walls by accident. You think about all this as you try to climb inside Harry's mouth and think that you can't have that kind of day tomorrow, it's the rehearsal and everything, for Merlin's sake, and you shouldn't be doing this, you certainly shouldn't be doing this the night before the night before Ginny and Draco's wedding, in their house, with the rest of the wedding party there too, but then Harry unsnaps your bra and his hands, cooled from the glass, go for your nipples, followed by his volcanic mouth and suddenly you're boneless, sinking to the floor, knees vanished.
You can feel the throw rug under your back and you certainly shouldn't have rug burn for the wedding, your dress is strapless, but aren't you a witch and you have done a few healing spells in your time, so fuck it. Harry feels amazing, like velvet over steel, his body pressing into yours, a conflict between the need to be as close together as possible and feel each other skin to skin. At the moment you're trying to do both, trying to get his shirt off and pants unbuttoned while still kissing him, your legs wrapped around his waist.
You finally get his shirt off and you run your palms up his chest, scraping your nails over his flat nipples, feeling him shudder in response as he bites your ear. You can feel his erection pressing into you and you feel like the Amazon's running between your thighs, it's Niagara Falls down there and there's a burning pit in your abdomen that only grows hotter when he reaches for your zipper.
Simultaneously, you pull slightly away, divesting yourselves of your trousers, underwear coming off the same time. Simply dropping your pants on the ground, you reach for Harry, shivering when you feel his entire body resting atop yours, pressed together, head to toe, skin to skin. Your legs are tangled together and your hips are pressed tightly together and you feel like you're going to blister where his hands touch you. He pulls slightly away and rumbles, `bed'. You nod, and push him so he's sitting against the box-spring, straddling him.
He kind of laughs, but stops abruptly when you reach for his erection. He's strong and smooth and slick in your hand, feeling better than anything has a right to; you think that you usually like foreplay, warm the oven and all that, but right now, at this moment, all you want is Harry inside you. A low hiss escapes his lips as you run your thumb over the tip, smearing precum and suddenly his hand is there, pushing yours away. He looks at you, almost impishly, you think, and suddenly his hand is between your legs, kind of tentative, like a question. When he feels how wet you are, suddenly it's no longer a question, but a yes, and two of his fingers are inside you, his thumb rubbing over your clit and you're grasping his shoulders, bearing down on his hand, moaning in his ear.
You realise you're almost there, and this time, the first time, you want Harry inside you when you come. You slide a hand down his arm, feeling his muscles work under your hand and you grasp his hand, pulling it away, twining your fingers together, feeling your wetness on his fingers. You grasp him again, guiding him to you, and then he's there, sliding into you, into your very soul, sliding home, you think.
His hands are running over your back, sliding around to cup your breasts, then down to your hips to guide you. You're definitely going to have rug burn on your knees, your hands are gripping his shoulders and you're sighing into his ear. You don't think you're making that much noise, but you can't really be sure, the only thing you can think of right now is Harry and how good he feels, how right it feels for him to be inside you, like you're custom-made for each other. Suddenly, Harry's hand is between your legs again, rubbing circles around your clit and you think you might have just screamed. He's hitting somewhere amazing inside you, over and over and over and over, and you can feel your eyes almost roll back in your head. A couple more thrusts and you're done, coming harder than you ever have, gasping his name; mere seconds later, Harry's finished, growling your name in your ear, and exhausted as you are, you almost come again from that.
You finally make it to the bed, ready for another go, and this time, Harry's on top. You thought that nothing would be as good as before, thrusting down on to him, but this is good, this is good too, definitely, you think. You're kissing sloppily, tongues and teeth and lips, then little kisses along chins and noses and cheeks, his forehead against yours, and your body is arching up into his, your legs wrapped around his waist. It's just as good as before, both of you growling and gasping when you come. You fall asleep wrapped around each other, his hot breath on your neck, your hand cupping his hip.
*
You wake up the next morning when you hear the snick of the door closing. You open your eyes slowly, blinking and glance groggily around the room. Harry's gone, as are his clothes, but before you can process this, Molly has bounded into your room, `Rise and shine, we've got a lot to do today.' Outside your door, you can hear feet up and down the hallway, male voices moving away; you can also hear the fall of rain, splattering against the wards outside.
Suddenly, another body drops on to your bed, Ginny throwing her arm around you, groaning. `Please, please make her go away. I might kill her before this is all over.'
You laugh, still shell-shocked from last night and having Harry gone this morning, and if you don't laugh, you might cry, so you laugh and squeeze her back. `Only one more day, Gin. One more day.'
She sighs and sits up, running her fingers through her hair. `I know, one more day. But it's one day of her, all day. We won't see the boys until tonight.'
Oh, you think, that's right. Draco has some sort-of surprise for all of them, threatening them if they were late this morning. Maybe that's why Harry left without saying anything, or maybe he just wants to forget last night happened, that it was a horrid mistake, but you stop that train of thought. Today's about Ginny and preventing her from matricide, not about you and the fantastic sex you and your best friend had last night. That thought brings a blush to your face, and the soreness between your legs makes it that much worse, so you hurriedly sit up, wrapping the sheet around you.
Luckily, Gin's too preoccupied with everything to notice you're naked and blushing, with your clothes simply dropped on the floor, not characteristic of you at all. She's biting her lip, staring out the window, not really seeing anything, which is lucky, since there's a handprint there from where Harry's hand was when he kissed you. She turns to you, glowing and whispers, `I can't wait. I can't believe it's finally here.'
You look at her, so excited, and you decide then and there to forget your own worries today and concentrate on her. You give her a hug and whisper, `Me neither. I'm so happy for you.'
*
It's later that night and you're getting ready for the real rehearsal dinner. Wizarding weddings, you think to yourself as you slip on one of your gowns, are almost more trouble than they're worth. But, you do feel nice. You've been buffed and polished and scrubbed and waxed and tweezed and lacquered to within an inch of your life. Your skin feels silky, your hair feels soft and luxurious, not like the usual rat's nest, you think; you feel great. Gin's glowing and Molly's still chirping around, so all in all, you think it was a pretty successful day. You only thought about Harry and last night about every five minutes, so that was something, you think. You're glad of the house-elves; the room you came back to was clean and shining. You're not sure what you would have done if the clothes from last night had still been on the floor and even Harry's handprints are gone from the window.
There's a knock on your door and you knock your comb off the dresser as you turn around to stare at it. You're flustered, trying to imagine what you'll say to Harry. You feel like you're twelve again, with your first crush on a boy, you're sure you're blushing and you feel hot and sweaty and you're trying not to think about the soreness still between your legs, the good kind, definitely, you think, feeling yourself flush more. You finally open the door, you can feel your insides droop when it's just Ron.
`Oh,' you say, staring at him. He's looking at you, clearly amused, as he walks past you into the room. `Come in,' you say, staring at his back. He turns to look at you and you definitely don't like the look in his eye. `What?' you say and even you can hear the defensive tone in your voice, when you were just going for annoyed.
`Oh, nothing,' he says, glancing around the room, searching for something, you think. Yes, he's definitely searching for something.
You cross your arms over your chest and stare at him. He's smirking. `What?' you say again, leaning against the wall. He just stands there and looks at you, so you roll your eyes and cross to the vanity, picking up your necklace. Before you've said a word, Ron's right behind you, taking the necklace from you and placing it around your neck. He stands there for a beat too long, looking down at your neck before looking up and meeting your eyes in the mirror. His eyes are wide, somewhere between amused and saddened, more amused, though, and he puts a finger on your neck, rubbing gently. Your eyes widen when you see the dark mark, a hickey with Harry-shaped teeth imprints.
`You missed a spot,' he says and then he's gone.
*
Later, you're lying in your bed in the guest room, staring at the ceiling. The only light in the room is coming from the lanterns again; it looks faintly blue tonight, so it feels even more like you're underwater. Fitting, you think, as you feel like you've been moving underwater all night. There is a shaft of light coming from your slightly open doorway; you haven't closed it all the way, like a question. Whether to yourself or Harry you're not sure.
You haven't said a word to each other all night, hardly even looking at each other at the rehearsal. Which was kind of hard, you think, considering you're the maid of honour and he's the best man. You had to walk with him and face him and basically be with him all night, and then, at dinner, your place was across from him. You just stared at his forehead or nose all night, so maybe everyone else thought you were looking at him. But you knew, without a doubt, that if you had caught his eye, you would have either started laughing hysterically, or screeching like a banshee. You were afraid to open your mouth all night, afraid the sound that would come out would be inhuman, raw, something that would tear your throat. But you got through it, avoiding Harry's eyes and avoiding Ron's smirks and nudges, even though you noticed Ron was sending the exact same looks Harry's way. Harry, like you, was carefully ignoring him. So, you think, Ron somehow found out on his own, because with the way Harry was acting; he certainly didn't tell him.
You're lying in bed, your head at the foot and your feet resting on the duvet, listening to the rain again, and you hear someone come down the hall. The shaft of light is abruptly cut off, then grows, then disappears completely. You turn your head slowly, still feeling like you're underwater. It's Harry, answering your question, you guess, you think.
You say nothing, feeling the silence begin to choke you, until he starts moving, slowly, as if he's underwater too. He comes to stand right next to you, hovering over you, but you don't move, simply looking up at him. He reaches a hand out and traces your side, rubbing the exposed skin of your stomach briefly. You're trying not to react, not to shiver, waiting for him to say something.
He opens his mouth and you can see his throat work and you can see he's already hard against his trousers. The thought of that, the fact that you can do that to him simply by lying there, is astonishing, you think, and very, very arousing. The thought of him, in your hand and moving inside you last night, is enough to make your mouth water, and you have to make a conscious effort to not grab him.
He opens his mouth again and licks his lips, staring at you like you're water in the desert. `Sorry about this morning, but Draco was…well, you know how he gets. And I heard him stomping outside and if he'd tried my room, I wouldn't have been in there and then…hell, I could hardly remember my name this morning, much less decide…I just…Hermione, I just…I don't know…' he finally finishes on a breath, his hand still moving across the skin on your stomach, gently dipping into your bellybutton.
You don't say anything; you can't give him any answers, especially since you don't have any of the questions, so you don't say anything. You just lay there, staring at him, listening to the rain, trying to control your shivering as his index finger keeps dipping into your bellybutton. You just lay there, and don't say anything, feeling the silence grow, expand, but it's not choking you now. The anticipation is doing that.
Silently, the only sound in the room the soft patter of rain and your increasingly heavy breathing; Harry reaches for the button on your trousers. You think it's funny, in a really breathless, not-at-all kind-of way, that tonight was a given. You knew when you left your door open and changed into baggy trousers and a tank top, you knew. And you kind-of want to laugh, but Harry's on the bed now, kneeling between your legs, hands running along your hipbones, dragging your trousers down.
Still saying nothing, you raise your hips and he's got your trousers off and on the floor in one motion and then suddenly, no preamble, he's dropped his glasses on the floor on top of your pants, and his head is between your thighs, his tongue circling your clit. Gasping, your hands fist in the duvet, your hips arching up off the bed, bucking and twisting. Then his hands are on your hipbones, holding you down and your arms moving restlessly behind you, gripping the bottom of the bed, your back arching. You don't know who taught him how to do this, the little circles and long licks and short nips, but whoever she is, wherever she is, Merlin, you want to meet her and thank her, shake her hand, send her flowers. You're not spending any time being quiet tonight, you're sure that Gin can hear you, but you just don't care. Not now, not when you're so close; your body wound so tight you feel like you're going to die. But then, when you really think you might lose your mind, Harry starts sucking on your clit and your entire body tightens and explodes.
Then suddenly, somehow, he's naked, sucking briefly at a nipple as he pulls your shirt off. Then he's inside you again, and you're barely recovered from your first orgasm when you can feel your second approaching and you're sure you're making noise now. There's a fine sheen of sweat covering both of you, magnifying the noise of your bodies slamming together. You're not sure how he's doing it, but he's hitting your clit with every thrust and you know you're going to be pretty sore tomorrow. It's worth it, though, you think, digging your heels into the duvet, thrusting up, so worth it. Harry's first tonight, groaning or gasping or sighing, you can't really tell which, not when you're so close yourself. You finish with a sigh and you fall asleep like that, him still inside you, clinging to each other.
*
When you were little, your favourite book was Matilda. You loved all of Roald Dahl's books, but Matilda was definitely your favourite. Sometimes, you liked to pretend you were Matilda; you knew you were almost as smart as her and you could even move things if you concentrated hard enough like her, too. It wasn't until years later you found out why you could move things, though.
You remember the first time you read it; you couldn't stop talking about it. You remember your parents smiling and laughing and reading it with you, so happy that you could read and that you liked reading. They told you they had always wanted a good, smart little girl. A perfect little girl, you thought, so that's what you tried to be. And you were, you think, the best little girl that you could be.
You knew that your parents were nothing like Matilda's, that your parents wanted you to read and be smart and be the best you could be. You knew that they loved you, probably no matter what, too. But you still wanted to be the best you could be for them. The first time you told them you wanted to move things like Matilda could, and that you thought you could, they told you to be happy with what you had. You were smart and could read, that sometimes people had to settle. So you decided to be happy with what you had, that you could read and enjoy Matilda's world, but not having to be it.
Later, you found out that you could move things, and do a lot more, so your parents realized you'd been telling the truth.
But you think about that a lot.
*
You wake up to the sound of rain, so constant in the last two days that it almost doesn't register. You and Harry have moved during the night, now he's sprawled out next to you on his stomach, one of his hands wrapped protectively around your breast. Your heads are still resting at the foot of the bed, though, and you're still on top of the duvet. You're also vaguely sticky and you desperately need a shower. You lay there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, feeling the grit in your eyes and the stickiness, soreness between your thighs. You roll your head to look at Harry; he's sleeping like a rock, like he hasn't slept for days, like he could do this forever.
Forever, you think, feeling something tighten in your throat. Forever.
You glance over at the clock, the clouds outside making it impossible to tell if it's morning or still the middle of the night and you almost yelp when you realize how late it is. You jerk up, Harry's arm falling into your lap. Shower, first, definitely, you think as you glance down your body, then find Gin. You jab Harry in the side while getting off the bed.
He opens one eye groggily and groans, stretching. `Hermione, hey…'
`No time, Harry,' you say, throwing his clothes at him and looking at yourself critically in the mirror for any evidence. You don't need a repeat of the Ron episode from last night. Before you can look back and prod him again, he's standing behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.
`I doubt Gin and Draco are even up by now. Calm down, we've got time,' he says, giving you a grin that's pure lechery.
You fix him with a look and jerk out of his embrace. `I don't think so, Harry. Get out,' you tell him, putting on a robe and flinging the door open.
He looks at you while sliding on his glasses, naked, holding his clothes in one hand. He doesn't say anything, his eyes speaking for him, huge and forlorn, looking too big for his face.
`Nice try,' you say, waving your wand at him and before he can blink, he's dressed. You put a hand on his back and shove him out the door. `And do something about the scratches on your back.'
You stand there for a second, staring at the closed door, imagining Harry on the other side, like you're in one of those awful Muggle movies. Suddenly, you want to open the door and jump on him, kiss him, drag him back to the bed, damn everything else. Then you snap out of it, you're not in a movie, you're in a wedding, today, and you need to get ready.
You'll worry about him later.
*
`How long have you been in love with him?'
You glance up and see Draco standing there, a glass of champagne in his hand, looking very dapper in his morning suit. Despite the fact he is still averse to most things Muggle, he and Gin agreed on Muggle clothing for their wedding, instead of the traditional robes. It's a good look for him, you think, but you also think he knows it. You think you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone else in the world, man, woman, or beast, as vain as him. You also know he'd retaliate by saying that he's got a reason.
`What?' you say, holding your own glass of champagne, watching everyone on the dance floor. It's been a beautiful wedding so far, the rain, if anything, making it lovelier. Everything is very green outside and inside it's like another world. A very posh, glowing world. Very Draco and Ginny, you think.
Draco rolls his eyes at you, taking a sip from his glass. `You heard me. How long?'
You look at him, in the eye, and you sigh. If the half-smirk you find there is any indication, he knows what's going on. You don't care, you think; it's not like you have to discuss this with him.
`It's not…we're just…listen, Draco, it's complicated,' you say, wondering at how weak your voice sounds, even to your own ears.
He snorts, not a very Draco-like sound and looks at you pointedly. `I'm sure, Hermione. It's very complicated and none of the rest of us mortals would understand, right? Well, how about I give it a go anyway?'
You shrug and indicate for him to go ahead; he's apparently determined to say something, you might as well let him, then he might leave you alone.
`You two finally got it together, not being very quiet about it, if you catch my drift,' he starts, and you can feel your face heat up and your nipples tighten, just from thinking about it. `And then you threw a wobbly and threw him out. Now you're both miserable, throwing each other desperate, longing looks instead of talking to each other, or shagging again, like you both want to. He's thinking that you've decided it's all a mistake and you've decided that it possibly was.'
You say nothing, wanting to alternately hex him or throw your arms around him, cry on his shoulder and ask him to fix it. You could hardly bring yourself to look at Harry either during the ceremony or dinner, the last thing you said to him ringing in your head. `And do something about the scratches on your back.' You almost want to close your eyes against the memory, but Draco's not done yet.
`When what's really going on is that it's just a convenient excuse for you both. You can say that you don't want to ruin your friendship, so you don't have to deal with the fact you're in love with him and he can just sigh and pine, lamenting the fact that you won't talk to him, and not have to deal with the fact he's in love with you.'
He stares at you pointedly, then glances over where you know Harry is. Your eyes inadvertently follow his and you see Harry staring at you. You almost smile, he looks adorable, you think, just standing there, staring at you, not even trying to hide it. He looks amazing in his suit too and you have to smile at his shoes. In one of the poshest, most sophisticated weddings of the decade, the best man is wearing Doc Martens.
You look away, yanking your eyes from him; looking at Harry, you think, you really might scream or cry. You look back at Draco, and see him raise one eyebrow knowingly. You sigh. `Why aren't you telling Harry all this?'
He rolls his eyes and scoffs. `Don't think I didn't try, but you know how he gets. `Woe is me, the girl I'm in love with doesn't love me back, and I'm getting a cramp from carrying the weight of the world around.' Plus, he was a bit preoccupied trying to remember a good healing spell for scratches. Nice work, by the way.'
Oh, you think. So that's how they found out, wincing slightly at how painful they looked. Well, you think, you were walking pretty funny for awhile this morning. Snapping out of it, you look down into your glass of champagne; thinking maybe the bubbles will give you your answers. `Why do you even care?'
He puts his hand over his heart like you've mortally wounded him. `Can't I offer my two closest friends a bit of advice; I've got your best interests at heart here.' Before you can even roll your eyes at this, though, he leans in close and whispers, `You're driving the rest of us batty with this whole will-they-or-won't-they scenario. Everyone's completely preoccupied and it is not your day, it is mine and Gin's and I won't have you two, however inadvertently, fucking it up.'
He raises an eyebrow, smiles pleasantly at you and walks away.
Well, you think. Leave it to Draco.
*
You've always known you were halfway in love with Harry. Ever since you can remember, really. You've certainly always loved him, ever since your first Halloween, when you three found out how good you could be together. You loved Harry and Ron the same then, as brothers.
And then, you're not sure when, you can't remember the exact date, you looked at Harry and thought, Oh. You think he looked at you and thought the same thing, but you both decided to wait. You figured that some day it would happen, you didn't have to rush it, you didn't have to worry about it; you didn't even really need to think about it. One day, you thought, one fine day.
But it was nice to have that in the future, you think. You always had that in front of you, you could always subconsciously cling to that dream, that `one day.' Well, you think, one day is here. One fine day. Nothing like sleeping with him to jolt you both awake.
You've always known you were halfway in love with him, but sleeping with him just confirmed it. And it wasn't even the fact that the sex was great, even though, Merlin knows it was. You couldn't say how or why or when during you knew, but at some point he looked at you with a serious, intense look in his eyes and the end of your spine shot sparks and you felt an implosion in your chest, and you remember just whispering, `Fuck. Fuck,' over and over again, wanting to close your eyes against the beauty and pain.
You love him like you never thought possible and you want him like you've never wanted anyone or anything. You remember a conversation you had with Ginny a few years ago, when you had both had a bit too much wine at dinner and Draco was out for the night, so you were staying over with her, about what you found attractive in a man. Ginny had a list; you couldn't believe it, you remember. You thought at the time it seemed like anything would turn her on.
And you remember sitting there, stumped, because, honestly, no one and nothing had ever done it to you before. You look at people and think, dispassionately, they're attractive, or they might be good in bed, but it's a very removed thing. You've certainly never gotten wet just from thinking about someone or looking at someone. Until looking at Harry now. You feel like a veil has been lifted from your eyes, that you can see properly for the first time in forever.
Harry is Harry, you think, and that's what will always turn you on in the end.
*
`Can you teach me how to dance real slow?'
It's a whisper in his ear and before he's even turned around, you know that you've been forgiven. Still, though, still, you need to say something.
`I…this morning…it's just that, Merlin, Harry, I don't…' is all you get out before he stops you with a kiss.
A kiss. In front of everyone. In front of God and everyone. In the middle of the dance floor at Draco and Ginny's wedding reception. `I won't have you fucking it up,' you think and mentally shrug. You can deal with Draco later, right now Harry's against you, his hands gripping your back like he's never going to let you leave and you're holding him to you just as tightly. You pull back and stare at him, trying to smile, but your face feels like it's made of rubber.
`I know,' he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours. `I know.'
Good, you think. At least one of us does.
You nod and close your eyes, hearing the music that the blood rushing in your ears had rendered mute. You start swaying with the music and look up at him and can't resist another kiss.
You can hear the music, the rain and both of your hearts beat and think that nothing has ever been so beautiful before. Rain, you think, will be the most beautiful sound in the world to you now. But then you're not thinking at all, because Harry's sucking on your bottom lip and you can feel your knees get weak. Your hands move down to his ass of their own accord, grabbing and pulling him flush against you. You feel more than hear his groan and can feel his erection pressing into your hip.
Suddenly, you jerk back, panting. `Harry,' you hiss, breathless. `We're in the middle of the reception.'
His eyes open suddenly; you can see his pupils contract from the light. `Right,' he breathes, licking his lips. `Right. Want to get out of here?' he asks, winking.
Merlin do you ever, you think, as you suppress another groan. `We can't. We're the maid of honour and best man. We've still got the cake cutting and the bouquet thing and…' you trail off, closing your eyes.
No, you think, you will be strong. Later. Later.
You open your eyes and he's still staring at you. `That stuff's not for awhile, we could just skip out for a bit and then come back,' he suggests, looking over at one of the doors.
You groan and shake your head, telling him, `What I want to do to you is going to take a lot longer than that.'
His hands tighten convulsively on your back as he takes a deep breath. `Merlin, Hermione, do not say stuff like that.'
You grin at him and wink. `Why not? Don't you like it?'
He gives you a mock glare that would work a lot better if he didn't have a lascivious grin spread across his face. `Oh, I like it. Too much.' He presses against you for emphasis and he's still hard against your hip.
You bite your lip and can feel your eyes twinkle at him. `Sorry.'
He laughs, his eyes sparkling. `Just let's dance for a minute and I'll think about Snape in a thong.'
You giggle, putting one hand on his shoulder and using your other to grab his hand, pulling yourselves into a more appropriate position. `Or Dudley in a tutu.'
He grins, spinning you. `Thanks.'
`No problem,' you say, kissing his jaw.
*
Hours later, after everyone has gone home, Draco and Ginny have headed off for their holiday and the rest of the wedding party is asleep, you and Harry are laying in bed. You're exhausted from today, the wedding and tonight, but you can't go to sleep. It's okay, you think, you don't have to get up for work tomorrow and neither does Harry. And Draco and Ginny have offered you their place while they're away. Ginny dragged you away earlier, obstinately to help her change, but it was more to tease you than anything, you think.
After making several lewd remarks that you imagine would make even a sailor blush, she hugged you, told you she was very happy for you and you were both welcome to stay here for at least the rest of the week, for longer if you could get holiday from work. You thanked her, saw her off and then hardly got up the stairs and into your room before the first time.
Against the wall, you think, almost wanting to bury your head in your hands. What has happened to you? You smile when you look at Harry, though, thinking that you like it, whatever it is.
As you look at him, sleeping peacefully, you think about something he said earlier. He asked you, `What do you want?'
What do I want? you think. What do I want?
And you answer him, breathing the words against his shoulder.
`You. Forever. Right here in this bed.'
*
It was the one time The Sorcerer's Almanac had been wrong in more than a century. They guaranteed a beautiful summer, especially a perfect middle-July, but three days of rain marred their perfect record. It also marred that lovely summer, but to you, those three days of rain were the most perfect things about that summer.
You can still feel rain coming in your knee, you still think that maybe that could be your slogan for life, your mantra. But now, when you feel your knee and smell the rain coming, you smile. You smile and laugh a little and get a little wet. You told Ginny that once and she laughed and rolled her eyes at your deliberate double entendre, saying she never thought she'd see the day.
You're still not as crude as Ginny, you don't think you ever will be, but you don't blush when she talks about sex anymore. You don't talk anymore than you used to, but you know now. You know how it feels to want someone like that, to know how perfect and right and good he feels and tastes, against you and in your hand and inside you. And, besides all that, besides the good kind of sleepless night, the kind that leaves you fuzzy-headed and bruised in strange places and walking into walls by accident, you have him. Him. His smiles and grins and hair and strength and tears and those bloody glasses that seem to be everywhere you look, then you can't find them when you want them. You have him. Everything, you think, you've always wanted.
You used to imagine you were born friends, that you'd come out of the womb holding hands. Now, now you like to think that you were born loving each other. There's never really been anyone else for you, you think, not really. And it only took three days of rain to figure that out.
END
Harry/Hermione - You've always known you were halfway in love with Harry and nothing like sleeping with him to jolt you both awake.
I've been staring at almost blank Word page all day, and it's driving me batty. I know exactly what I want to write; I've got all these phrases and images in my head; I've even made fucking notes, which I never ever do.
And the fruits of my labour? The Vaughn story stands at 357 words.
Yeah.
A/N - Title and a few lines taken from Richard Greenburg's Three Days of Rain. Various other lines and images gacked from lots of places.
[Potter, 'Three Days of Rain']
It's the one time Sorcerer's Almanac been wrong in more than a century. It's been beautiful up until now, almost a real, proper summer, the first one you can remember in a long time. And now, now, this. Pearly grey skies and rain coming; you can feel it, in your bones, like you used to think only old people got. But, sometimes, you can feel the rain coming in your leg, in your knee. The one, constant reminder of a time of your life you would almost rather forget. But even if other people let you forget, if the Daily Prophet would leave you alone, if you didn't attract constant stares wherever you go, your knee would still be there. Sometimes, you think you should post that somewhere in your house, ‘your knee will always be there,' like a slogan for life, a mantra. But you don't.
So, you can feel it in your knee, the rain, and you can smell it too. That clean, spring smell, the smell of a good, proper rain, not just mist and not a deluge, but a several-day event, an unceasing, unrelenting shower. You only hope Draco and Ginny are prepared for it.
As you walk into their house, or their ‘love nest,' as they prefer to call it, you look around and already see preparations being made by the house-elves. Their house is gorgeous, and totally inappropriate for Britain, but that's Draco and Ginny, you think. It looks like it would be more suited for Tuscany or Greece, with a great open courtyard and terra cotta everywhere. Apparently, in one of their first holidays together, they stayed in a place like this, Gin fell in love with it, and Draco, as a surprise, had this built. When you first heard, you couldn't help but roll your eyes, thinking, ‘that's Malfoy all right,' since you still called him Malfoy then.
That was years ago, you think, right after the war, and they're just now getting married. Molly's beside herself and Arthur just keeps joking that Ginny's finally going to make an ‘honest man out of him.' Ironic, you think, that Arthur can joke around like that and be so prepared, so excited to have a Malfoy in the family, considering the almost blood feud the Weasleys and Malfoys had for so long. Trust Ginny and Draco to defy convention, but, you think, that may have been part of the appeal. That's what you thought at first anyway, that they would shag and get it out of their systems, give both sets of their parents heart failure, then go their separate ways. But now it's years later and here they are, living together and getting married, in the middle of a British summer, the first proper summer in years, and it still looks like rain anyway.
*
So, you're friends with Harry.
You've always been friends with Harry, best friends. You tell each other everything; like your sister, if you'd had a sister, only he has a penis. And this fact, the fact that he has a penis, has never caused you any problems. Not like other people, you think; not like practically everyone else you know. You reckon it's because of the circumstances of your growing up.
You grew up together, side by side, almost attached at the hip. You feel like you've known Harry forever. Like you have known each other from the womb; that you were born friends. In some ways you have. He's certainly been with you for all of your real life, your important life. When you try to think about life before eleven, it seems like a dream. But not fuzzy in the way you normally talk of dreams, but hyper-real. Too real; there's too much talking and the colours are sharper, they practically hurt your eyes. Life after eleven was ancient; pared down to its essentials - your wand and your innate magic is all you need to survive.
So, Harry's been with you for your whole life, your true life, the life that really matters, but you've never had any of the normal, gender-related traumas that seemed to afflict everyone else around you. Even you and Ron. Sometimes you think you were too close; you knew each other too well. But the rest of the time you think it was just the fact that both of you had more important things to worry about. You met him before you started thinking about boys and beds in conjunction with each other, then you were too worried about keeping him alive to worry about the shadow on his chin or his voice deepening or his jaw squaring. You're equally certain that he didn't spend time thinking about the fact that you grew breasts or got an actual waist and hips and gave up your knee socks for garters.
These things registered, but they just didn't matter. And by the time the war was over, it was too late to start seeing each other in a sexual way. You met a boy and one day you blinked and he was a man. The change hadn't intrigued you; it was just fact. You'd known him too long; he was like your brother. And, besides, if it was supposed to happen, wouldn't it have happened by now?
So, Harry's your friend, your best friend. He always has been, which is why you're able to concentrate at the moment. You're both down in the living room, each working quietly. Everyone else has gone to bed, after a scrumptious dinner out in the courtyard. It really was lovely, you think, with the lanterns and candles and slight breeze; the wards that that house elves had put up against the rain didn't even have to be used. You don't know how much longer the rain will hold though, no matter how well connected Draco and Ginny may be, even they don't have a direct owl to the weather gods.
Even though you're tired and becoming more so, with the sounds of sleep all around you, you've both still got a bit of work to do. You're shaping up an article and Harry's going through some case he's got coming up and the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fire and the soft whisper of pages turning. If this were anyone else, the mood would seem decidedly romantic, but with Harry, it's just peaceful.
`Want a cup of tea before you go up?'
He's looking at you, smiling faintly, looking ready to turn in himself. You smile back and nod and before you can blink, a cup of tea is hovering before you. Black, one sugar, just the way you like.
You nod your thanks and head upstairs.
*
The next day you're out all day with Ginny, last minute alterations on her dress and things like that. You're at Lavender's and she's left the room for a moment to check on some incoming silk, leaving just you and Gin in the back room. She looks gorgeous, you think, and she's twirling around in front of the mirrors, looking like nothing so much as a child playing dress up. So what she says next shocks you even more than it normally would have done.
`Did you see my baby in that suit? I felt like a stream was running between my thighs all night.'
A couple of minutes later, after you've recovered from your choking and coughing fit, you think that this kind of thing shouldn't really surprise you anymore. After all, Ginny was the first and still pretty much only female you were ever able to have a frank conversation about sex with. In fact, Gin's really the only reason you're able to even think the word sex. She's always been frank, bordering on crude, you think, but you guess that's what comes from living with six brothers. You have to be crude to keep up.
You're not crude, you'll never be crude, you don't think; you can hardly bring yourself to think of sex in an active way. Oh, you enjoy it, it's fun, but it's always about having people do things to you. You think that that was the biggest shock in hearing Gin talk about sex, especially with Draco. That she craves it, almost; that she's such an active participant in events. You think that maybe your reluctance to do things is a hold-over from the first person you slept with, Ron. He seemed to think you were something to be worshipped, adored. It's not that you minded so much; it's just that he also didn't want you to do anything to him - like you were too good or pure or something for that. You're not sure of the reason, but you do know that ever since then you've never felt really comfortable taking charge in bed, with anyone.
Gin's laughing at you, at your reaction; she's always amused that you still get so embarrassed and flustered talking about sex. Still, you're glad you're friends with her; there's no one else to talk to.
*
So, you were watching this thing on the BBC a couple weeks ago. There was some Top 40 thing on the WWN and you just weren't in the mood, so you flipped the telly on. Just for noise, really, but there was this report on, some study or article that said, apparently, sex was going with the over-sixty crowd.
At first, you thought, good for them; you hope when you're sixty you're still having sex. Then you thought no more about it, until a few days later when you saw the same thing in the paper. The over-sixty crowd, you thought to yourself, have always gotten all the sex. That's the generation between the baby boomers and the X-ers. They got Woodstock and free love and Jim Morrison with his leather pants and growl and bed-ins for peace. You and your generation, the tail-end of the X-ers, got AIDS.
Ever since, it's been meandering in and out of your thoughts, like a scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if you could just stop tonguing it.
*
Later that night, after the first of the real rehearsal dinners, you and Harry are back down in the living room. It's almost a replay of last night, except this time it is raining, the skies having opened up that afternoon after you got back from Lavender's. Dinner was still lovely, the wards working perfectly, if anything, you think, the courtyard looks even more spectacular because of them. You're not sure of the specific charm, it's probably not something you could do anyway, since house elves have access to some magic that you simply don't, but it's wonderful. Almost like a glass ceiling, with the rain hitting and pooling right above the courtyard, reflecting the light from the lanterns, if anything it makes you feel like you're in a giant aquarium.
Hours later and you're still working on that article, and he's still flipping through his case. This time, it's you who gets the tea; white, no sugar, just the way he likes. He smiles at you and his eyes go back to the file in his lap.
You glance over at the clock and start when you realise how late it is. You think you should go up to bed, even though you don't feel particularly tired yet; you've got a full day of being pampered to rest up for. You slip your parchment back into its case and screw the top back on your ink bottle.
`Bed,' you announce, glancing up at him.
`Yeah,' he says, only it doesn't sound like a question, more like an answer and so you look at him and there’s…the way he’s looking at you.
`Yeah,' you say, not at all like a question, definitely an answer and you look at each other and think that maybe this is something you would have done this a long time ago, should have done a long time ago, but everything else kept getting in the way.
You stand up and head for the stairs, feeling strangely calm, like you're not about to sleep with your best friend, like this doesn't take the cake for the least intelligent idea you've ever had. But you hear Harry right behind you and before you can think about it anymore, you've pulled your shirt over your head and dropped it on the floor. As it leaves your fingers, you turn around and see Harry step into the room. You start backing up until you can feel the cool press of glass against your bare back.
He doesn't look any different; calm and knowing, the same as you, you think, as he closes the door firmly behind him. The only light in the room is coming from the lanterns still glowing, their light streaming in the window behind you and the glass is cold from the rain, but his eyes are burning you up, so you feel slightly feverish.
He's walking towards you and suddenly he's right there; his hands splayed on the glass behind you, barely an inch separating you. His eyes are firmly fastened on your mouth. You can feel your pulse speeding up and your nipples tightening, straining to get closer to him.
The last half-inch between you takes forever to disappear, you think, like that physics theory that says you can never get right next to something, that you always still have half the distance to go, but finally he's there, his mouth is there and you don't think that you want it to leave. Ever.
You think that Harry tastes like the good kind of sleepless night, the kind that Gin's always telling you about, the kind that you've never had, the kind that leaves her glassy-eyed and walking funny and walking into walls by accident. You think about all this as you try to climb inside Harry's mouth and think that you can't have that kind of day tomorrow, it's the rehearsal and everything, for Merlin's sake, and you shouldn't be doing this, you certainly shouldn't be doing this the night before the night before Ginny and Draco's wedding, in their house, with the rest of the wedding party there too, but then Harry unsnaps your bra and his hands, cooled from the glass, go for your nipples, followed by his volcanic mouth and suddenly you're boneless, sinking to the floor, knees vanished.
You can feel the throw rug under your back and you certainly shouldn't have rug burn for the wedding, your dress is strapless, but aren't you a witch and you have done a few healing spells in your time, so fuck it. Harry feels amazing, like velvet over steel, his body pressing into yours, a conflict between the need to be as close together as possible and feel each other skin to skin. At the moment you're trying to do both, trying to get his shirt off and pants unbuttoned while still kissing him, your legs wrapped around his waist.
You finally get his shirt off and you run your palms up his chest, scraping your nails over his flat nipples, feeling him shudder in response as he bites your ear. You can feel his erection pressing into you and you feel like the Amazon's running between your thighs, it's Niagara Falls down there and there's a burning pit in your abdomen that only grows hotter when he reaches for your zipper.
Simultaneously, you pull slightly away, divesting yourselves of your trousers, underwear coming off the same time. Simply dropping your pants on the ground, you reach for Harry, shivering when you feel his entire body resting atop yours, pressed together, head to toe, skin to skin. Your legs are tangled together and your hips are pressed tightly together and you feel like you're going to blister where his hands touch you. He pulls slightly away and rumbles, `bed'. You nod, and push him so he's sitting against the box-spring, straddling him.
He kind of laughs, but stops abruptly when you reach for his erection. He's strong and smooth and slick in your hand, feeling better than anything has a right to; you think that you usually like foreplay, warm the oven and all that, but right now, at this moment, all you want is Harry inside you. A low hiss escapes his lips as you run your thumb over the tip, smearing precum and suddenly his hand is there, pushing yours away. He looks at you, almost impishly, you think, and suddenly his hand is between your legs, kind of tentative, like a question. When he feels how wet you are, suddenly it's no longer a question, but a yes, and two of his fingers are inside you, his thumb rubbing over your clit and you're grasping his shoulders, bearing down on his hand, moaning in his ear.
You realise you're almost there, and this time, the first time, you want Harry inside you when you come. You slide a hand down his arm, feeling his muscles work under your hand and you grasp his hand, pulling it away, twining your fingers together, feeling your wetness on his fingers. You grasp him again, guiding him to you, and then he's there, sliding into you, into your very soul, sliding home, you think.
His hands are running over your back, sliding around to cup your breasts, then down to your hips to guide you. You're definitely going to have rug burn on your knees, your hands are gripping his shoulders and you're sighing into his ear. You don't think you're making that much noise, but you can't really be sure, the only thing you can think of right now is Harry and how good he feels, how right it feels for him to be inside you, like you're custom-made for each other. Suddenly, Harry's hand is between your legs again, rubbing circles around your clit and you think you might have just screamed. He's hitting somewhere amazing inside you, over and over and over and over, and you can feel your eyes almost roll back in your head. A couple more thrusts and you're done, coming harder than you ever have, gasping his name; mere seconds later, Harry's finished, growling your name in your ear, and exhausted as you are, you almost come again from that.
You finally make it to the bed, ready for another go, and this time, Harry's on top. You thought that nothing would be as good as before, thrusting down on to him, but this is good, this is good too, definitely, you think. You're kissing sloppily, tongues and teeth and lips, then little kisses along chins and noses and cheeks, his forehead against yours, and your body is arching up into his, your legs wrapped around his waist. It's just as good as before, both of you growling and gasping when you come. You fall asleep wrapped around each other, his hot breath on your neck, your hand cupping his hip.
*
You wake up the next morning when you hear the snick of the door closing. You open your eyes slowly, blinking and glance groggily around the room. Harry's gone, as are his clothes, but before you can process this, Molly has bounded into your room, `Rise and shine, we've got a lot to do today.' Outside your door, you can hear feet up and down the hallway, male voices moving away; you can also hear the fall of rain, splattering against the wards outside.
Suddenly, another body drops on to your bed, Ginny throwing her arm around you, groaning. `Please, please make her go away. I might kill her before this is all over.'
You laugh, still shell-shocked from last night and having Harry gone this morning, and if you don't laugh, you might cry, so you laugh and squeeze her back. `Only one more day, Gin. One more day.'
She sighs and sits up, running her fingers through her hair. `I know, one more day. But it's one day of her, all day. We won't see the boys until tonight.'
Oh, you think, that's right. Draco has some sort-of surprise for all of them, threatening them if they were late this morning. Maybe that's why Harry left without saying anything, or maybe he just wants to forget last night happened, that it was a horrid mistake, but you stop that train of thought. Today's about Ginny and preventing her from matricide, not about you and the fantastic sex you and your best friend had last night. That thought brings a blush to your face, and the soreness between your legs makes it that much worse, so you hurriedly sit up, wrapping the sheet around you.
Luckily, Gin's too preoccupied with everything to notice you're naked and blushing, with your clothes simply dropped on the floor, not characteristic of you at all. She's biting her lip, staring out the window, not really seeing anything, which is lucky, since there's a handprint there from where Harry's hand was when he kissed you. She turns to you, glowing and whispers, `I can't wait. I can't believe it's finally here.'
You look at her, so excited, and you decide then and there to forget your own worries today and concentrate on her. You give her a hug and whisper, `Me neither. I'm so happy for you.'
*
It's later that night and you're getting ready for the real rehearsal dinner. Wizarding weddings, you think to yourself as you slip on one of your gowns, are almost more trouble than they're worth. But, you do feel nice. You've been buffed and polished and scrubbed and waxed and tweezed and lacquered to within an inch of your life. Your skin feels silky, your hair feels soft and luxurious, not like the usual rat's nest, you think; you feel great. Gin's glowing and Molly's still chirping around, so all in all, you think it was a pretty successful day. You only thought about Harry and last night about every five minutes, so that was something, you think. You're glad of the house-elves; the room you came back to was clean and shining. You're not sure what you would have done if the clothes from last night had still been on the floor and even Harry's handprints are gone from the window.
There's a knock on your door and you knock your comb off the dresser as you turn around to stare at it. You're flustered, trying to imagine what you'll say to Harry. You feel like you're twelve again, with your first crush on a boy, you're sure you're blushing and you feel hot and sweaty and you're trying not to think about the soreness still between your legs, the good kind, definitely, you think, feeling yourself flush more. You finally open the door, you can feel your insides droop when it's just Ron.
`Oh,' you say, staring at him. He's looking at you, clearly amused, as he walks past you into the room. `Come in,' you say, staring at his back. He turns to look at you and you definitely don't like the look in his eye. `What?' you say and even you can hear the defensive tone in your voice, when you were just going for annoyed.
`Oh, nothing,' he says, glancing around the room, searching for something, you think. Yes, he's definitely searching for something.
You cross your arms over your chest and stare at him. He's smirking. `What?' you say again, leaning against the wall. He just stands there and looks at you, so you roll your eyes and cross to the vanity, picking up your necklace. Before you've said a word, Ron's right behind you, taking the necklace from you and placing it around your neck. He stands there for a beat too long, looking down at your neck before looking up and meeting your eyes in the mirror. His eyes are wide, somewhere between amused and saddened, more amused, though, and he puts a finger on your neck, rubbing gently. Your eyes widen when you see the dark mark, a hickey with Harry-shaped teeth imprints.
`You missed a spot,' he says and then he's gone.
*
Later, you're lying in your bed in the guest room, staring at the ceiling. The only light in the room is coming from the lanterns again; it looks faintly blue tonight, so it feels even more like you're underwater. Fitting, you think, as you feel like you've been moving underwater all night. There is a shaft of light coming from your slightly open doorway; you haven't closed it all the way, like a question. Whether to yourself or Harry you're not sure.
You haven't said a word to each other all night, hardly even looking at each other at the rehearsal. Which was kind of hard, you think, considering you're the maid of honour and he's the best man. You had to walk with him and face him and basically be with him all night, and then, at dinner, your place was across from him. You just stared at his forehead or nose all night, so maybe everyone else thought you were looking at him. But you knew, without a doubt, that if you had caught his eye, you would have either started laughing hysterically, or screeching like a banshee. You were afraid to open your mouth all night, afraid the sound that would come out would be inhuman, raw, something that would tear your throat. But you got through it, avoiding Harry's eyes and avoiding Ron's smirks and nudges, even though you noticed Ron was sending the exact same looks Harry's way. Harry, like you, was carefully ignoring him. So, you think, Ron somehow found out on his own, because with the way Harry was acting; he certainly didn't tell him.
You're lying in bed, your head at the foot and your feet resting on the duvet, listening to the rain again, and you hear someone come down the hall. The shaft of light is abruptly cut off, then grows, then disappears completely. You turn your head slowly, still feeling like you're underwater. It's Harry, answering your question, you guess, you think.
You say nothing, feeling the silence begin to choke you, until he starts moving, slowly, as if he's underwater too. He comes to stand right next to you, hovering over you, but you don't move, simply looking up at him. He reaches a hand out and traces your side, rubbing the exposed skin of your stomach briefly. You're trying not to react, not to shiver, waiting for him to say something.
He opens his mouth and you can see his throat work and you can see he's already hard against his trousers. The thought of that, the fact that you can do that to him simply by lying there, is astonishing, you think, and very, very arousing. The thought of him, in your hand and moving inside you last night, is enough to make your mouth water, and you have to make a conscious effort to not grab him.
He opens his mouth again and licks his lips, staring at you like you're water in the desert. `Sorry about this morning, but Draco was…well, you know how he gets. And I heard him stomping outside and if he'd tried my room, I wouldn't have been in there and then…hell, I could hardly remember my name this morning, much less decide…I just…Hermione, I just…I don't know…' he finally finishes on a breath, his hand still moving across the skin on your stomach, gently dipping into your bellybutton.
You don't say anything; you can't give him any answers, especially since you don't have any of the questions, so you don't say anything. You just lay there, staring at him, listening to the rain, trying to control your shivering as his index finger keeps dipping into your bellybutton. You just lay there, and don't say anything, feeling the silence grow, expand, but it's not choking you now. The anticipation is doing that.
Silently, the only sound in the room the soft patter of rain and your increasingly heavy breathing; Harry reaches for the button on your trousers. You think it's funny, in a really breathless, not-at-all kind-of way, that tonight was a given. You knew when you left your door open and changed into baggy trousers and a tank top, you knew. And you kind-of want to laugh, but Harry's on the bed now, kneeling between your legs, hands running along your hipbones, dragging your trousers down.
Still saying nothing, you raise your hips and he's got your trousers off and on the floor in one motion and then suddenly, no preamble, he's dropped his glasses on the floor on top of your pants, and his head is between your thighs, his tongue circling your clit. Gasping, your hands fist in the duvet, your hips arching up off the bed, bucking and twisting. Then his hands are on your hipbones, holding you down and your arms moving restlessly behind you, gripping the bottom of the bed, your back arching. You don't know who taught him how to do this, the little circles and long licks and short nips, but whoever she is, wherever she is, Merlin, you want to meet her and thank her, shake her hand, send her flowers. You're not spending any time being quiet tonight, you're sure that Gin can hear you, but you just don't care. Not now, not when you're so close; your body wound so tight you feel like you're going to die. But then, when you really think you might lose your mind, Harry starts sucking on your clit and your entire body tightens and explodes.
Then suddenly, somehow, he's naked, sucking briefly at a nipple as he pulls your shirt off. Then he's inside you again, and you're barely recovered from your first orgasm when you can feel your second approaching and you're sure you're making noise now. There's a fine sheen of sweat covering both of you, magnifying the noise of your bodies slamming together. You're not sure how he's doing it, but he's hitting your clit with every thrust and you know you're going to be pretty sore tomorrow. It's worth it, though, you think, digging your heels into the duvet, thrusting up, so worth it. Harry's first tonight, groaning or gasping or sighing, you can't really tell which, not when you're so close yourself. You finish with a sigh and you fall asleep like that, him still inside you, clinging to each other.
*
When you were little, your favourite book was Matilda. You loved all of Roald Dahl's books, but Matilda was definitely your favourite. Sometimes, you liked to pretend you were Matilda; you knew you were almost as smart as her and you could even move things if you concentrated hard enough like her, too. It wasn't until years later you found out why you could move things, though.
You remember the first time you read it; you couldn't stop talking about it. You remember your parents smiling and laughing and reading it with you, so happy that you could read and that you liked reading. They told you they had always wanted a good, smart little girl. A perfect little girl, you thought, so that's what you tried to be. And you were, you think, the best little girl that you could be.
You knew that your parents were nothing like Matilda's, that your parents wanted you to read and be smart and be the best you could be. You knew that they loved you, probably no matter what, too. But you still wanted to be the best you could be for them. The first time you told them you wanted to move things like Matilda could, and that you thought you could, they told you to be happy with what you had. You were smart and could read, that sometimes people had to settle. So you decided to be happy with what you had, that you could read and enjoy Matilda's world, but not having to be it.
Later, you found out that you could move things, and do a lot more, so your parents realized you'd been telling the truth.
But you think about that a lot.
*
You wake up to the sound of rain, so constant in the last two days that it almost doesn't register. You and Harry have moved during the night, now he's sprawled out next to you on his stomach, one of his hands wrapped protectively around your breast. Your heads are still resting at the foot of the bed, though, and you're still on top of the duvet. You're also vaguely sticky and you desperately need a shower. You lay there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, feeling the grit in your eyes and the stickiness, soreness between your thighs. You roll your head to look at Harry; he's sleeping like a rock, like he hasn't slept for days, like he could do this forever.
Forever, you think, feeling something tighten in your throat. Forever.
You glance over at the clock, the clouds outside making it impossible to tell if it's morning or still the middle of the night and you almost yelp when you realize how late it is. You jerk up, Harry's arm falling into your lap. Shower, first, definitely, you think as you glance down your body, then find Gin. You jab Harry in the side while getting off the bed.
He opens one eye groggily and groans, stretching. `Hermione, hey…'
`No time, Harry,' you say, throwing his clothes at him and looking at yourself critically in the mirror for any evidence. You don't need a repeat of the Ron episode from last night. Before you can look back and prod him again, he's standing behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist.
`I doubt Gin and Draco are even up by now. Calm down, we've got time,' he says, giving you a grin that's pure lechery.
You fix him with a look and jerk out of his embrace. `I don't think so, Harry. Get out,' you tell him, putting on a robe and flinging the door open.
He looks at you while sliding on his glasses, naked, holding his clothes in one hand. He doesn't say anything, his eyes speaking for him, huge and forlorn, looking too big for his face.
`Nice try,' you say, waving your wand at him and before he can blink, he's dressed. You put a hand on his back and shove him out the door. `And do something about the scratches on your back.'
You stand there for a second, staring at the closed door, imagining Harry on the other side, like you're in one of those awful Muggle movies. Suddenly, you want to open the door and jump on him, kiss him, drag him back to the bed, damn everything else. Then you snap out of it, you're not in a movie, you're in a wedding, today, and you need to get ready.
You'll worry about him later.
*
`How long have you been in love with him?'
You glance up and see Draco standing there, a glass of champagne in his hand, looking very dapper in his morning suit. Despite the fact he is still averse to most things Muggle, he and Gin agreed on Muggle clothing for their wedding, instead of the traditional robes. It's a good look for him, you think, but you also think he knows it. You think you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone else in the world, man, woman, or beast, as vain as him. You also know he'd retaliate by saying that he's got a reason.
`What?' you say, holding your own glass of champagne, watching everyone on the dance floor. It's been a beautiful wedding so far, the rain, if anything, making it lovelier. Everything is very green outside and inside it's like another world. A very posh, glowing world. Very Draco and Ginny, you think.
Draco rolls his eyes at you, taking a sip from his glass. `You heard me. How long?'
You look at him, in the eye, and you sigh. If the half-smirk you find there is any indication, he knows what's going on. You don't care, you think; it's not like you have to discuss this with him.
`It's not…we're just…listen, Draco, it's complicated,' you say, wondering at how weak your voice sounds, even to your own ears.
He snorts, not a very Draco-like sound and looks at you pointedly. `I'm sure, Hermione. It's very complicated and none of the rest of us mortals would understand, right? Well, how about I give it a go anyway?'
You shrug and indicate for him to go ahead; he's apparently determined to say something, you might as well let him, then he might leave you alone.
`You two finally got it together, not being very quiet about it, if you catch my drift,' he starts, and you can feel your face heat up and your nipples tighten, just from thinking about it. `And then you threw a wobbly and threw him out. Now you're both miserable, throwing each other desperate, longing looks instead of talking to each other, or shagging again, like you both want to. He's thinking that you've decided it's all a mistake and you've decided that it possibly was.'
You say nothing, wanting to alternately hex him or throw your arms around him, cry on his shoulder and ask him to fix it. You could hardly bring yourself to look at Harry either during the ceremony or dinner, the last thing you said to him ringing in your head. `And do something about the scratches on your back.' You almost want to close your eyes against the memory, but Draco's not done yet.
`When what's really going on is that it's just a convenient excuse for you both. You can say that you don't want to ruin your friendship, so you don't have to deal with the fact you're in love with him and he can just sigh and pine, lamenting the fact that you won't talk to him, and not have to deal with the fact he's in love with you.'
He stares at you pointedly, then glances over where you know Harry is. Your eyes inadvertently follow his and you see Harry staring at you. You almost smile, he looks adorable, you think, just standing there, staring at you, not even trying to hide it. He looks amazing in his suit too and you have to smile at his shoes. In one of the poshest, most sophisticated weddings of the decade, the best man is wearing Doc Martens.
You look away, yanking your eyes from him; looking at Harry, you think, you really might scream or cry. You look back at Draco, and see him raise one eyebrow knowingly. You sigh. `Why aren't you telling Harry all this?'
He rolls his eyes and scoffs. `Don't think I didn't try, but you know how he gets. `Woe is me, the girl I'm in love with doesn't love me back, and I'm getting a cramp from carrying the weight of the world around.' Plus, he was a bit preoccupied trying to remember a good healing spell for scratches. Nice work, by the way.'
Oh, you think. So that's how they found out, wincing slightly at how painful they looked. Well, you think, you were walking pretty funny for awhile this morning. Snapping out of it, you look down into your glass of champagne; thinking maybe the bubbles will give you your answers. `Why do you even care?'
He puts his hand over his heart like you've mortally wounded him. `Can't I offer my two closest friends a bit of advice; I've got your best interests at heart here.' Before you can even roll your eyes at this, though, he leans in close and whispers, `You're driving the rest of us batty with this whole will-they-or-won't-they scenario. Everyone's completely preoccupied and it is not your day, it is mine and Gin's and I won't have you two, however inadvertently, fucking it up.'
He raises an eyebrow, smiles pleasantly at you and walks away.
Well, you think. Leave it to Draco.
*
You've always known you were halfway in love with Harry. Ever since you can remember, really. You've certainly always loved him, ever since your first Halloween, when you three found out how good you could be together. You loved Harry and Ron the same then, as brothers.
And then, you're not sure when, you can't remember the exact date, you looked at Harry and thought, Oh. You think he looked at you and thought the same thing, but you both decided to wait. You figured that some day it would happen, you didn't have to rush it, you didn't have to worry about it; you didn't even really need to think about it. One day, you thought, one fine day.
But it was nice to have that in the future, you think. You always had that in front of you, you could always subconsciously cling to that dream, that `one day.' Well, you think, one day is here. One fine day. Nothing like sleeping with him to jolt you both awake.
You've always known you were halfway in love with him, but sleeping with him just confirmed it. And it wasn't even the fact that the sex was great, even though, Merlin knows it was. You couldn't say how or why or when during you knew, but at some point he looked at you with a serious, intense look in his eyes and the end of your spine shot sparks and you felt an implosion in your chest, and you remember just whispering, `Fuck. Fuck,' over and over again, wanting to close your eyes against the beauty and pain.
You love him like you never thought possible and you want him like you've never wanted anyone or anything. You remember a conversation you had with Ginny a few years ago, when you had both had a bit too much wine at dinner and Draco was out for the night, so you were staying over with her, about what you found attractive in a man. Ginny had a list; you couldn't believe it, you remember. You thought at the time it seemed like anything would turn her on.
And you remember sitting there, stumped, because, honestly, no one and nothing had ever done it to you before. You look at people and think, dispassionately, they're attractive, or they might be good in bed, but it's a very removed thing. You've certainly never gotten wet just from thinking about someone or looking at someone. Until looking at Harry now. You feel like a veil has been lifted from your eyes, that you can see properly for the first time in forever.
Harry is Harry, you think, and that's what will always turn you on in the end.
*
`Can you teach me how to dance real slow?'
It's a whisper in his ear and before he's even turned around, you know that you've been forgiven. Still, though, still, you need to say something.
`I…this morning…it's just that, Merlin, Harry, I don't…' is all you get out before he stops you with a kiss.
A kiss. In front of everyone. In front of God and everyone. In the middle of the dance floor at Draco and Ginny's wedding reception. `I won't have you fucking it up,' you think and mentally shrug. You can deal with Draco later, right now Harry's against you, his hands gripping your back like he's never going to let you leave and you're holding him to you just as tightly. You pull back and stare at him, trying to smile, but your face feels like it's made of rubber.
`I know,' he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours. `I know.'
Good, you think. At least one of us does.
You nod and close your eyes, hearing the music that the blood rushing in your ears had rendered mute. You start swaying with the music and look up at him and can't resist another kiss.
You can hear the music, the rain and both of your hearts beat and think that nothing has ever been so beautiful before. Rain, you think, will be the most beautiful sound in the world to you now. But then you're not thinking at all, because Harry's sucking on your bottom lip and you can feel your knees get weak. Your hands move down to his ass of their own accord, grabbing and pulling him flush against you. You feel more than hear his groan and can feel his erection pressing into your hip.
Suddenly, you jerk back, panting. `Harry,' you hiss, breathless. `We're in the middle of the reception.'
His eyes open suddenly; you can see his pupils contract from the light. `Right,' he breathes, licking his lips. `Right. Want to get out of here?' he asks, winking.
Merlin do you ever, you think, as you suppress another groan. `We can't. We're the maid of honour and best man. We've still got the cake cutting and the bouquet thing and…' you trail off, closing your eyes.
No, you think, you will be strong. Later. Later.
You open your eyes and he's still staring at you. `That stuff's not for awhile, we could just skip out for a bit and then come back,' he suggests, looking over at one of the doors.
You groan and shake your head, telling him, `What I want to do to you is going to take a lot longer than that.'
His hands tighten convulsively on your back as he takes a deep breath. `Merlin, Hermione, do not say stuff like that.'
You grin at him and wink. `Why not? Don't you like it?'
He gives you a mock glare that would work a lot better if he didn't have a lascivious grin spread across his face. `Oh, I like it. Too much.' He presses against you for emphasis and he's still hard against your hip.
You bite your lip and can feel your eyes twinkle at him. `Sorry.'
He laughs, his eyes sparkling. `Just let's dance for a minute and I'll think about Snape in a thong.'
You giggle, putting one hand on his shoulder and using your other to grab his hand, pulling yourselves into a more appropriate position. `Or Dudley in a tutu.'
He grins, spinning you. `Thanks.'
`No problem,' you say, kissing his jaw.
*
Hours later, after everyone has gone home, Draco and Ginny have headed off for their holiday and the rest of the wedding party is asleep, you and Harry are laying in bed. You're exhausted from today, the wedding and tonight, but you can't go to sleep. It's okay, you think, you don't have to get up for work tomorrow and neither does Harry. And Draco and Ginny have offered you their place while they're away. Ginny dragged you away earlier, obstinately to help her change, but it was more to tease you than anything, you think.
After making several lewd remarks that you imagine would make even a sailor blush, she hugged you, told you she was very happy for you and you were both welcome to stay here for at least the rest of the week, for longer if you could get holiday from work. You thanked her, saw her off and then hardly got up the stairs and into your room before the first time.
Against the wall, you think, almost wanting to bury your head in your hands. What has happened to you? You smile when you look at Harry, though, thinking that you like it, whatever it is.
As you look at him, sleeping peacefully, you think about something he said earlier. He asked you, `What do you want?'
What do I want? you think. What do I want?
And you answer him, breathing the words against his shoulder.
`You. Forever. Right here in this bed.'
*
It was the one time The Sorcerer's Almanac had been wrong in more than a century. They guaranteed a beautiful summer, especially a perfect middle-July, but three days of rain marred their perfect record. It also marred that lovely summer, but to you, those three days of rain were the most perfect things about that summer.
You can still feel rain coming in your knee, you still think that maybe that could be your slogan for life, your mantra. But now, when you feel your knee and smell the rain coming, you smile. You smile and laugh a little and get a little wet. You told Ginny that once and she laughed and rolled her eyes at your deliberate double entendre, saying she never thought she'd see the day.
You're still not as crude as Ginny, you don't think you ever will be, but you don't blush when she talks about sex anymore. You don't talk anymore than you used to, but you know now. You know how it feels to want someone like that, to know how perfect and right and good he feels and tastes, against you and in your hand and inside you. And, besides all that, besides the good kind of sleepless night, the kind that leaves you fuzzy-headed and bruised in strange places and walking into walls by accident, you have him. Him. His smiles and grins and hair and strength and tears and those bloody glasses that seem to be everywhere you look, then you can't find them when you want them. You have him. Everything, you think, you've always wanted.
You used to imagine you were born friends, that you'd come out of the womb holding hands. Now, now you like to think that you were born loving each other. There's never really been anyone else for you, you think, not really. And it only took three days of rain to figure that out.
END
Harry/Hermione - You've always known you were halfway in love with Harry and nothing like sleeping with him to jolt you both awake.