Hermione Full of Grace | By : AdamantEve Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Harry/Hermione Views: 13378 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. |
Author’s
note: This chapter might be a bit of info overload, so I put a little
lemon-drop treat at the end of it. Read
this chapter well, now, dear Harmonians.
Many
thanks once more to my beta reader, Aurabolt who,
even now, continues to contribute greatly for the improvement of this
story. This story would have been
NOTHING without him. ^_^
Aurabolt: …. I love this story, and helped
in all the aspects I could…. Thank you for all the reviews so far, I'm sure DeliverMeFromEve loves them, and don't worry, there's still
more to come.
Me:
And now that my beta reader has exposed me for the review whore that I am (lol!) on with the story!!
::hugs Aurabolt::
Standard
disclaimers apply.
------------------------------------------------------------
In which
Hermione finds herself in a bit of a bind.
------------------------------------------------------------
Remus asked Harry about Hermione again,
and after having stewed on his anxieties all morning Harry found himself
pouring his worries out all in one go.
“She told me she was looking for something, but she
wouldn’t tell me what,” he said miserably.
“She said she wasn’t ready to tell me yet, and while I do appreciate
that she’s being honest with me on that aspect, I just know she’s keeping
something big from me. Remus, she’s writing entire manuscripts in a strange,
ancient language and I think she’s speaking it in her sleep! Even for Hermione, it’s not natural. It’s like—it’s like—“
“Like you speaking Parseltongue?”
asked Remus.
Harry hadn’t thought of it exactly like that, but Remus seemed to have hit the nail head-on, and it was
disturbingly accurate.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember the phonetics of what she was saying? I
might be able to identify it for you.”
That would be difficult, but he was sure it had been
imprinted in his mind. “Come with
me.”
It was early afternoon, and Shacklebolt
expected him to be in the office the whole day, working on his reports, but
this was far more important.
Remus followed Harry out of the
department and to the fireplaces.
“Where are we going?”
“To Grimmauld Place.
You don’t mind, do you, Remus?”
Remus smiled. “It’s fine, Harry.”
They left the Ministry and apparated
from outside. Soon, Harry was leading Remus up the stairs to his private study.
There, sitting atop a polished Chinese cabinet, was his pensieve. It wasn’t
quite filled with memories yet, but the ethereal glow, “like light made liquid
or wind made solid” already lit the surface of the bowl.
“Why, it’s a pensieve!” said Remus in surprise.
Harry nodded.
“Hermione gave it to me. She
thought it would be useful to me as an auror, and
really, I’ve found a world of uses for it already.”
Remus chuckled. “Pensieves like this cost a small fortune,
Harry. I didn’t realize the WizCOF paid so well.”
Harry was surprised by this. “I didn’t know they were that expensive.”
“You must have done something good to be rewarded by
something like this.”
Harry felt the blush climbing from his neck to his cheeks.
Perhaps seeing it, Remus waved
away any kind of response Harry might think up.
“No matter.
It was very thoughtful of her.”
It was, and it was also typical of Hermione to be so
lavish with her presents. He could only
value the pensieve more.
“I can put my memories of what I heard from her here, as
well as what I read from her manuscripts, then you can
view them,” said Harry. “But…”
Remus’s eyebrow arched. “But?”
Harry felt himself redden, his old awkwardness returning
as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “We were—erm—that’s
to say… we had just finished… umm, being intimate…”
Even Remus looked rather
uncomfortable after that. He fidgeted on
one foot and then another. “Harry, I
don’t have to have first hand information—“
“Please?” interrupted Harry in a rather miserable
tone. “I have to figure this out, Remus. I’m not—I’m not good at this research and
planning stuff; at least not alone.”
Remus sighed. “Well, at least tell me if there’s something
that might shock me…”
“No, definitely none,” said Harry hastily. “I wouldn’t have suggested it at all if there
was. She’s covered well enough under
blankets, so you won’t—you know—have a gander at—“ He bit his tongue before he
could say it. It was embarrassing enough
for him; so it must be worse for Remus, who saw all
of them as his children. Harry could
acknowledge how traumatic it could be Remus if he
unwittingly saw Hermione naked. “It’ll
be fine.”
“Very well.
Let’s get on with it.”
Harry nodded. He
took out his wand and touched the tip of it to his temple before delicately
withdrawing it. A thin sliver of memory
trailed like a thread from a spool, snapping as it left his head. He set the memory in the pensieve
with a tap of his wand and gestured for Remus to look
in.
“I’d—er—rather we go together,
Harry.”
Sheepishly, Harry agreed.
Carefully, they bent over the pensieve.
00000000000000000000000
Hermione got her work done quickly hoping Heartcomb would let her off early. In spite of her problems, she managed to stay
focused, and her efforts paid off.
Heartcomb declared her work excellent and
told her she was free to leave. It was five
thirty,
and she was eager to use the spare time she had been given.
She rushed to the Auror
department, hoping she could tell Harry that she had somewhere to go, but that
she would try to be home before nine.
He wasn’t there. Gail
told her that Harry had gone off somewhere, yet again, without telling her
where. Apparently, Harry had been coming
and going all day while being secretive about his whereabouts.
Gail didn’t sound happy at all. “He always
leaves me. I’m his partner, dammit!”
Hermione couldn’t help but grin. “He, umm, does that, and all I can say is if
you want to watch his back, you’re going to have to be insistent, to the point
of not listening to him when he tells you to stay back. Just make sure you don’t get in his way when
you do go with him.”
Gail cocked a smile.
“I’ll remember that. I’ll tell
him you came by, and I’ll pass your message on.”
“Thank you.”
“Hermione?”
“Yes?”
“Are you alright?”
Hermione wasn’t sure why Gail was asking. “Quite…”
“I’m sorry if I sound nosy, but Harry’s so worried about
you. I can’t help but pick it up. Being an empath
does that.”
She didn’t realize Gail had that kind of extraordinary
power, but she supposed she should have expected it. Gail had been partnered with Harry, after
all.
Hermione managed a warm smile. “And I appreciate your concern. But you and your partner can stop
worrying. I’ve got it covered.”
Gail eyed her askance but didn’t say anything else.
Hermione left for the library after that, and half an hour
later, she was surrounded by towers of books, scribbling furiously on
parchment.
She hadn’t found the exact binding ritual that would
finally make her Lysander’s familiar, and while she absolutely wasn’t going to be the one to
draw the circles and runes needed for the rite, she wasn’t going to wait for
him to come get her without her knowing how,
either.
Hermione made notes to organize her thoughts, and so far,
she had come to quite a few useful conclusions.
One; she could very
well resist being bound, though according to the texts, this could be very
painful. She could remain unbound while
the will to be independent remained, but unless she found a more permanent
means of putting a stop to Lysander, he would most
assuredly inflict pain on her until he broke her will.
Two; if she managed to break him during this struggle, he would—quite logically—be unable to
continue the ritual. The down side of
this was, if she happened to break him after
they were bonded, she’d go right down with him.
Harry would be
monstrously displeased, I reckon.
It meant she had to break him before they were bonded,
which was difficult, considering she needed a fair amount of his power to
perform any of the ancient spells at all.
Which brought her to the third point: Wizards and Witches
were not built to perform the magic
of Lysander’s kind, but the fact that she did with Crookshanks, and the fact that she was speaking his
language very well suggested that the entire binding process did give her
enough of his kind’s magic to perform those rituals.
Four; his kind, while they may fall victim to Wizard
spells, hexes and curses, had ancient ways of protecting themselves from
it. They can certainly be outsmarted,
since they were after all systematically annihilated in the past, but the ones
that had survived were most assuredly
the fittest, and it was no small thing to survive the hatred and fear of the
entire Wizarding World. She couldn’t underestimate Lysander, even if she had the likes of Harry on her side.
She needed to find out what kinds of weapons she could use
to rid her of Lysander, and hopefully not off herself
in the process. And by “off”, she meant
in the magical and the legal sense.
If she did managed to get rid of the great Lysander Athanasius, she had to
explain to the Wizengamot why she magically did away with him, because really, he wasn’t
exactly the type who could disappear and nobody would care. The man had a one-third influence in the
Enactment Committee alone. Not to
mention the thousands of employees in his companies relying on his Royal Arseness to dish out their salaries... Somehow, she had a
feeling she would have a difficult time explaining the circumstances
surrounding his demise, as nobody but her and those of Lysander’s
kind could read the evidence she could credibly present.
And the irony…
The IRONY!
Because she, Hermione Granger, defender of Elf Rights; the
woman who bore ridicule and fought to save Elves from slavery has found herself
trapped by an elf endeavoring to enslave her.
000000000000000000
Lysander Athanasius,
a man at least approaching sixty years old but could very well be any age by
the hundreds, was born of the most ancient race of Nordic Elves. Unlike their tiny, shriveled cousins, the
House Elves, Lysander’s species were once revered by muggle and wizard alike.
It wasn’t clear whether the current plight of the House Elves could be
attributed to the bad reputation that historically befell their Nordic cousins,
but it seemed logical to suppose that House Elves bore the brunt of slavery
because the Nordic Elves were accused of enslaving wizards so long ago.
Nordic Elves were superior in magic, appearance and
benevolence. They were considered Angels
in many cultures, and it was they who taught wizards how to harness their
inherent magic with wands.
Nordic Elves did not need wands to weave their
spells. Magic flowed from their eyes,
and their hands, and the very pores of their skins. They were powerful and uncorrupted by greed. They were golden beings, fascinating and
magnetic; creatures of light and lovers of beauty. Yet they were warriors, and they can bend
steel to their will. Metal sung at their
touch, their righteous glory accompanying them even in battle. Yet, for all their skill in combat, they were
protectors of peace; guardians of the human soul, lovers of the Earth, nature
and land.
When their species were exterminated because of false
rumors and ignorant fear, their numbers decreased. They went into hiding and
hoped to the divinities that the senseless slaying of their kind would
cease.
It was only later they began to assimilate themselves back
into society as wizards, and out of necessity, they mixed their blood with that
of humans. The rare occurrence of
Elf-human off-spring mixed the characteristics of both kinds: Elf-magic with
human-aspirations. Most remained true to
the benevolence of their forefathers, while others used what power they had for
slightly more egocentric interests.
Lysander was not of the benevolent kind.
He had learned, too early on, that his powers were superior, and that he
could get exactly what he wanted from wizards and muggles
if he applied them. And now she had to
find a way to defend herself against that power.
This felt vaguely familiar,
except the last time, she wasn’t the only one on the hitlist,
and she wasn’t number one on that list, either.
She labored on in the Library of Ancient Runes, and in the
course of the next three days nearing the waxing moon, Hermione found something
of a binding spell that just might save her arse, and
if by some miracle the courts found her self-defense plea credible, she just
might live a normal, Azkaban-free life.
It wasn’t going to be an easy ritual. She needed as much of Lysander’s
magic as he could possibly shove down her throat, but for her not to fall into
the binding trap, she had to genuinely resist the intrusion of his aura into
hers. The only thing that could defeat
him now was his own magic, and that was exactly what she was going to use. It promised quite a bit of pain. Alright, a lot of pain, and she hadn’t a clue
if she could bear the agony while staying true to her will. But she had to try. It was the only way.
Telling Harry and Ron presented… complications.
The texts did say that fellow-wizards were allowed to lend her power to enhance whatever
ritual she was performing. Unfortunately, such a connection would inadvertently
make them suffer with her. So apart from the excruciating pain of a
forced binding, her failure to resist Lysander would
mean he could have three familiars
rather than just one. Like she would ever let that happen.
She absolutely would
not risk it. She was not going to
let Harry and Ron put themselves in such an awful
situation because she had blundered into this horrible arrangement with Lysander.
So, she decided she wasn’t going to tell them they could
offer her their power.
No way.
They’d want to know…
Oh, but you’ll be
putting them in GRAVE danger if you tell.
Surely, you know that?
She sighed.
Another complication attached to having Harry and Ron
present during the binding ritual was having Lysander
use them to force her will. She would
rather subject herself to five hundred years of slavery than see Harry and Ron
in pain because of her, but seeing as being a slave was at the very stinky
bottom of her Wish List, she couldn’t put them and herself in that situation,
either.
There was a high-level Elven
protection spell that she could cast on them.
It was powerful enough to protect them from the threat of Lysander while he performed the binding ritual on her. Naturally, this also meant they couldn’t make
her use whatever magic they wanted to offer her in support because if she took
their magic, that would put them in danger all over again.
Ron and Harry would never agree to the protection spell if
they knew it would leave her to fend for herself, so it meant she couldn’t tell
them about the protection spell either.
Considering all the facts and the need for secrecy, it
seemed altogether better not to tell them anything at all.
Besides, the final and most compelling complication nailed
it:
She hadn’t realized it when she first began to put things
together, but lately, it became clearer that he had already bespelled
her somehow with another spell; low-level, but effective enough. While Lysander
couldn’t completely take her loyalty for Harry away, Lysander
had managed to erect some kind of triggered enchantment on her, so that every
time Harry or Ron questioned her relationship with Lysander,
subsequently interfering with the binding process, she would get angry, or
resistant, or just plain stubborn. She
wasn’t sure when he managed to put
the enchantment on her, but she was willing to admit that he wove it the moment
he met her. He had been preparing for her, after all. Bumping into her like he did in the Ministry,
her emotions high, his advantage on her vast, he could’ve done any number of Elven binding spells on her without her knowing, but he
chose the most subtle one, and it gained strength every moment she had spent
with him. And while the enchantment had
its limitations, it managed to keep her from telling anyone about her troubles in any significant detail.
Thinking about all this as she sat between the shelves of
the Library of Ancient Runes, Hermione found herself crying bitterly at the
sorry state of things.
She wondered if this was how Harry felt when the
inevitability of facing Voldemort became certain, and
she realized that yes, this was exactly how he must have felt.
In spite of the support he had known everyone was willing
to give him, he must have felt dreadfully alone.
The need to protect everyone was so strong that to some
extent, it overcame fear, but the fear was present, nonetheless. Fear for your loved ones and fear for
yourself. Nothing could alleviate it;
not preparedness, not anything. It was
just there, and until you knew how it would end, it hung off your back like a
leaden weight.
As she wiped her tears away, she mustered her second wind.
I can’t fail, she thought. I simply
can’t let Lysander win. He won’t have Harry and Ron, and I won’t let
him harm them. I can do this, and I
will.
Copying whatever text she needed to study, she bid Lord
Mac a’Bhaird goodbye at the door.
As she stepped out on the London streets, she looked up at the
sky, gauging the state of the moon.
The moon was going to wax the following night, and she had
plans to make that would ensure Harry and Ron’s safety.
She smiled wanly at how worried Harry had been about her
in the last three days. He didn’t say
much about it. He just asked, “Are you
ready to tell me yet?”
Her answer would always be No, coupled with an embrace or
a kiss, telling him everything was going to be alright, because it had to be
alright. His eyes; his beautiful green
eyes, were enough to communicate every ounce of worry he was feeling for
her. She wished she could look back at
him and assuage his fears, but apparently, he could see her own anxiety; could
detect her own fears.
Tonight, he would ask her again, and she wondered if she
could break Lysander’s enchantment the slightest bit
just so she could tell him some; not make her feel like she was being disloyal
to Harry. She knew her efforts would be
futile. The spell touched so lightly
that sometimes, she didn’t even realize it was affecting her.
She couldn’t help but wonder, though, if Lysander’s spell wouldn’t have worked so well if she wasn’t
nursing her own fears for the people she loved.
She supposed that was the very essence of the enchantment. It fed off her own reasoning; her own
insecurities, and somehow, even if she knew that was what made the spell so
effective, she still couldn’t help but give into it. The spell was just that subtle; rippling
beneath the surface; giving her a gentle nudge here and there with her own
arguments; her own mind’s voice. Lysander didn’t even have to be there. It was a spell that fed off itself, and
Hermione thought that until she broke Lysander, that
spell was going to stay there.
When she got home it was almost ten. Ron was snoring in the viewing room and Harry
was bent over some papers on the living room table. He looked up from his work when she apparated and she greeted him with a sedate smile.
“Hullo, stranger,” she said, joining him on the couch.
His own smile was marred by the worry showing through his
eyes. His arm was around her instantly,
placing a kiss on her lips then her forehead.
She closed her eyes, savoring the security his presence
gave her. She wished she could weather
this storm in his arms. She wished she
didn’t have to do this alone.
“Have you had dinner yet?” he asked. It wasn’t a casual question. It formed part of his worrying, this dinner
question. When someone was too
preoccupied to eat meals, it was never a good sign.
She slapped her hand to her forehead with an exaggerated
gasp. “I knew I forgot something!”
He frowned a bit and she tried to smile for the both of
them.
“I’ll make myself a sandwich. It’s easy, Harry.”
He rose from the couch and took her by the hand, leading
her to the kitchen. “I’ll make you a sandwich. You sit here—“ he
pulled a seat for her “—and tell me why you’ve been spending so much time doing
research.”
She sighed as she sat, watching him grab
things from the chill box to make her sandwich.
“Oh… I’m just—you know—looking for a spell.”
He slowed a bit at this piece of information. It was the most she’d told him all week. He returned to his usual briskness a few
seconds later, perhaps thinking he had to proceed carefully and in an
unassuming manner. “Oh? What spell?”
She shrugged. “Binding spell. It’s
a bit complicated.”
“Complicated, eh?” He began to slice some tomatoes. “So this complicated binding spell… what’s it
for?”
Hermione bit her lower lip in brief thought and the
enchantment worked its magic.
You’ll end up
telling him, and then what? His saving
people thing will have him jumping to save your arse
for something that’s completely your fault.
That’s the truth of
it…
“Harry, did you… did you have any regrets about letting
Ron and I fight Voldemort with you?”
He looked at her a moment before he returned to assembling
the sandwich. He put the tomatoes aside
and began to spread some butter on some bread.
“What do you mean?”
She wasn’t sure if Harry really
didn’t know, or if he was just trying to get her to talk the entire thing out.
Harry had gone oddly blank in the face and she couldn’t read his eyes
because they were focused on his busy hands.
He put a skillet over the stove and lit the fire.
“You know,” she said softly. “Did you… wish, for whatever reason, that Ron
and I weren’t there?”
His brows furrowed in thought. “How can I, Hermione? You’re both alive. I’m alive…
there’s very little point in regretting anything.”
“But you’ve somehow wished you did things a bit
differently?”
He set the bread butter-side down on the skillet. “When you were in your coma, I wished so
badly I had tried a bit harder to keep you away from the fight. I was thinking I should have stunned you
before we left for the Forbidden Forest, or something, just so you
wouldn’t have been able to follow us.”
He looked up at her, smiling apologetically. “But I suppose that was when the healers kept
telling us you were barely making it through the days, as if at any given time,
you could just suddenly die in your sleep and they wouldn’t be the least bit
surprised about it.”
Hermione thought that must have been horrible. If she was the one who had been awake and it
was Harry in that state, she would go positively spare with worry and
regret.
“You would have sacrificed yourself for either of us,” she
said. “You’d die just so Ron and I could
live.”
He looked her in the eyes and nodded, before pulling his
gaze away to continue with his task.
“And you understand that. Because
that’s what you chose, didn’t
you? You chose to die for me, and for
Ron. You took that Avada Kedavra thinking that Ron and I can’t
throw a protection spell strong enough to deflect it.”
His voice sounded somewhat choked as he said it. He was quiet for a few heartbeats, as if to recover,
before he sighed and spoke again. “That
wasn’t your sacrifice to make.”
“That wasn’t my concern,” she said gently in reply to his
quiet reproach. “I love you. That’s all I knew at that very moment, and I
couldn’t let you die, even if it meant I had to die for you. We understand this part, yes?”
Harry didn’t look at her, assembling the sandwich as he
withdrew into himself for a few seconds.
When he was done, he sliced the entire sandwich in half, put both pieces
on a plate and sat beside her on the kitchen table. He set the sandwich in front of her.
“I want you to promise me you’ll never do that again,” he
said in a serious tone.
She pressed her palm gently on his cheek. He turned to kiss it, capturing it in his
hand and pressing it to his heart.
“Promise me.”
She could only be honest with him with regard to what she was willing to promise him, and
this was not a promise she could make.
She was never one to sit by and watch the ones she loved do it all
alone. Her capacity to love was greater
than that; her courage was more compelling that that. She wouldn’t have been made a Gryffindor
otherwise.
“I can’t promise you that, Harry,” she whispered. “Make me promise anything but that.”
His brows knotted and she could feel his heart picking up
against her hand. She knew then that
there was some kind of fear lacing the atmosphere tonight. Maybe he knew, to some extent, what she was
planning to do.
“I know there’s something you’re not telling me,” he
said.
She didn’t respond.
She won’t deny it, but she can’t say anything more about it,
either.
“Whatever it is,” he continued. “I wish I can make you trust me enough to
share it with me.”
“Harry, I do trust you; unconditionally. Believe me when I
say that! This isn’t—this isn’t about you!”
He paled. “Oh, God,
Hermione… please tell me what it is. Please.
Ron and I can help. You don’t
have to do this alone.”
“I love you both too much to ask your help, anyway, but I
do promise that I’ll do everything I can to get through this.” She smiled as brightly as she could, hoping
to alleviate some of his fear. “It’ll be
alright.”
She pecked an affectionate kiss on his lips. She convinced herself this was a white lie;
to keep him from worrying, but it had hurt her to say the words.
She didn’t feel much like eating her sandwich, but for
Harry’s peace of mind, she did. It was a
great sandwich. It would’ve been better
if she didn’t have some power-tripping elf bent on enslaving her, but what’s a
witch to do?
“This is delicious,” she said after she swallowed her
first mouthful. “And I’m hungrier than I
thought.”
“Hermione, should I be this worried?”
“Harry, you always are.”
He sighed. It
sounded exasperated. She was sure he was
aware that she wasn’t exactly answering his question.
Crookshanks walked into the kitchen.
“Hi Crookshanks,” she said
without thinking. “What’ve you been up
to all week? I barely saw you!”
Doxies are breeding,
he said, hopping
on Harry’s lap.
Harry scratched Crookshanks
behind the ear and the cat-kneazle’s eyes fluttered
close as he curled up against Harry contentedly.
Purrrr.
Harry’s hands.
“I like them too,” she said impishly.
“What?” Harry asked.
Hermione cocked a somewhat embarrassed smile. “Sorry.
I was talking to Crookshanks.”
Harry’s eyebrow arched.
“Since when?”
Hermione paused for a moment, realizing that these were
the kinds of conversations that marked the difference between muggles and wizards. Where a muggle
would tell her she was crazy and that she must be joking, a wizard would ask
her when it happened. She loved being a
witch.
“Since the other day… oh, and I know why Tonks can’t apparate in
here. Crookshanks
doesn’t like her.”
“Crooksh—“
“I told you it wasn’t me.”
Harry looked at Crookshanks,
first at surprise, and then with a gleam of pure amusement. “Well, I suppose twelve Grimmauld
Place really does know who rightfully lives in it! Crookshanks, you
spiteful beast! Let me guess. She stepped on your tail.”
Hate Tonks. Klutz. Tail Killer.
Hermione frowned. “Crookshanks just called Tonks a
Tail Killer.”
Harry laughed.
As much as Hermione wanted to scold Crookshanks
for his petty tantrums, his arrival had managed to lighten the mood around her
and Harry.
Hermione hoped that their interlude with Crookshanks would put Harry’s concerns to rest.
Harry, though still smiling slightly, kept his gaze on
her, rubbing her leg affectionately.
“Purrr…” she teased, batting her
eyelashes at him languorously.
He chuckled.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if you communicated with him the way I communicate
with snakes?”
She winced. “It’s
not very funny that you can communicate with snakes, Harry.”
This amused him.
“Only because it had to do with Voldemort, but
I wasn’t saying Parseltongue was funny. I was saying kneazle-speak
might have been. How many ways can you
say ‘meow’ anyway?”
She finally got the joke and she did laugh.
“It’s strange, though,” he said aside. “How many languages can you learn in a week’s
time, anyway?”
That stopped her, jolted by the undercurrents of it. She
stared at him, blinking. All trace of
her smile gone from her lips.
He knows more than
he lets on.
She wasn’t sure if it had been her or Crookshanks
speaking in her head.
Crookshanks stood and leaped off Harry’s lap,
probably feeling that he shouldn’t be part of this conversation.
“What are you saying, Harry?”
His eyes did not waver from hers. “You talk in your sleep.”
Hermione felt herself paling. Talk in
my sleep? She wasn’t quite sure what
he meant, exactly, but that one time she spoke to Lysander
in her dreams, in Elvish, stood out in her memory,
and it was the only time she could figure that Harry may have heard her.
Then again, he may be bluffing. He could have seen her notes, noticed that it
was in an unrecognizable language and built his suspicions on that.
“And what exactly did you hear, Harry?”
“Amin
ve laa er
lle hanya,” he said, shocking her that he
remembered the exact words. Perhaps
seeing her astonishment, he cocked a wan smile.
“I put the memory in the pensieve. I studied it from there. What does it mean?”
How ironic that he had managed to stun her with the very
present she gave him.
She stiffened. “It
means, ‘I am like no one you’ve met.’”
A flicker of surprise lit his eyes. “That’s—“
“Cocky?”
“Cryptic,” he corrected.
“But I’d like to know why you consider it cocky.”
She bristled at her own carelessness; the defenses of the
enchantment rose. “It was a dream. A weird one, at that.”
“Oh, I know weird dreams.
Tell me about it.”
Hermione tried to contain her irritation. “Why don’t you just bring me in for
questioning at the Auror Department, Harry?”
He sighed, leaning over his seat to close the widening gap
between them.
“I’m not interrogating you,” he said softly. “I just want to know what’s been going on
with you, that’s all.
You’ve been out late all week doing research, you were sick the other
day, you’re communicating with Crookshanks and you’re
speaking and writing in a language I’ve never heard or seen… how many more
clues am I supposed to pick up on before I go spare with concern?”
Her brows knotted, feeling her ire rise, and she wanted to
hit herself over the head for it. She
knew these negative feelings she was having for Harry was not normal. She believed in
her love for Harry. She had faith that
it would get her through, but she was also helpless to reach out to him. As of this very moment, the enchantment was
running full-throttle. It was finally
going to work its true muscle, because Harry was getting dangerously close to
the truth, and the enchantment would not have it getting in the way of the
Familiar Binding Spell’s completion.
“This is not about you,” she repeated softly.
“Stop saying that!” he hissed.
She looked up at him, trying to convey the pain she felt
through her eyes. “Harry, during the war,
you blamed yourself for whatever misfortune that befell anyone. It didn’t matter if the person was actually
acquainted with you or not; you took it upon yourself, anyway. Well, now the war is over, so I beg you to start letting yourself
believe that people are responsible
for their own fates; that the misfortune that will befall them may even be their fault. This situation that I’m in… this is my fault.
I have to fix it. Alone.”
He shook his head. “No, not alone.”
“Yes, alone! I have no choice!”
He glared at her. “Yes, you do!”
My will is the key, she thought with bitter
irony.
“Amin
nauva i noole,”
she whispered.
His glare turned to deep worry. “What?”
She rose from her seat, struggling to contain the magic
roiling inside her. She managed to fight
back her tears as she looked at him. “I
can’t—I can’t deal with this right now, Harry.
I’m sorry. I’m really sorry…” She
turned to go.
“Hermione…”
She didn’t listen, and miserably, she left him to retire
to her room.
0000000000000000000000000000
Harry looked up from his work and saw Hermione standing at
the library door. His worry washed over him in waves, seeing her there looking
so vulnerable and alone. She was dressed
for sleep, but he could tell she’d been crying.
“Harry?” she began softly.
She looked repentant, and he couldn’t understand what she
was so sorry for. It was confusing him,
but it was also softening his frustration of her. Maybe he should be angry at her, but he
couldn’t bring himself to get like that.
Whatever her reasons for saying nothing, it almost seemed as if she felt
she had no choice.
“Hermione, what are you doing standing there?” he said
gently. “Come here.”
He held out his hand and without even hesitating, she went
to him. She curled atop his pajama clad
lap and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face into the crook of
his neck and shoulder. He held her,
closing his eyes as he idly ran his fingers down her hair.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, toying with the fabric of his
sleep shirt.
There she went again.
Apologizing.
He sighed softly.
“Hush now. We won’t talk about it
anymore tonight if you don’t want to.”
She snuggled closer.
“I can’t tonight.”
He wished she had said differently, but he wasn’t going to
force her. “Tomorrow,
then.”
She nodded. “Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow was Saturday but lately, Shacklebolt
always had him in for the weekend. “I’ll skive auror
training.”
“No, don’t. Dinner
time is fine. Be at the Leaky
Cauldron.”
He frowned. “I’m
not sure what time Shacklebolt will let me go…”
“It’s alright. Just
try to get to the Leaky Cauldron around that time. Give me a call on the mobile when you do.”
Harry was silent then he nodded. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but it was
something. At this point, he would take
anything.
She looked up from his shoulder and met his gaze. “I love you, Harry. You know that, don’t you?”
It coaxed a smile from his lips, the quiet quality of the
room with her softly spoken words easing some of his anxiety.
No matter how many times she said it to him, he never grew
tired of hearing it; never grew tired of seeing the look in her eyes when the
words left her lips. It was everything
he ever wanted; everything he ever longed to have.
Her hand was upon his cheek. “Don’t you?” she asked, her brows knotting,
as if she needed his reassurances that yes, he did know what she felt for him.
He nodded, grasping the same hand and pressing his lips to
the heel of it.
She smiled wanly.
“Back then, when Voldemort was alive, I used
to say that I’d fight by your side. I
had no doubts. I knew I would be there
in the final moment and I would fight with you to the end. You inspired that courage in me, because you
looked so unafraid; like nothing can harm you.
And I suppose you can say I went barreling into that battle with my eyes
wide-open, only to realize that I was completely unprepared to deal with how
truly horrible Voldemort was. Now I know
how Voldemort was, and I don’t know if I can face
him as bravely, if for some reason—God forbid, he came back from the dead. But you’ve faced him five times before that last encounter, so you knew how bad it was going to be, yet there you were… brave as
ever. How did you do it, Harry?”
His eyebrow arched in mild surprise before he gave her
question some thought. “I was scared. Shitless, even. But I knew it had to be done, so I just—I
suppose I faked it. Nobody can tell the
difference between someone faking bravery and another who’s really unafraid.”
She laughed softly.
“I don’t think you can fake it, Harry.
Courage is a gift, but for a lot of us, including you, it’s honed in
fear. When you’re frightened, when you
know how terrifying something is, when you’re aware of the danger and it makes
you sick to your stomach, but still you go out there and face the menace,
that’s true bravery.”
He grinned. “Says
you?” he asked teasingly, nuzzling the skin just beneath her ear.
She giggled a bit.
“Yes.”
“Opinion’s a bit biased, I’m afraid.” He nipped her earlobe.
“Hmm, maybe.
I’m your number one fan, after all.”
“We’re each other’s number one fan.” He kissed her, caressing her lips and tongue
with his own. When he broke the
lingering kiss, he sighed most happily.
“You know I’m a fan of that.”
“You and me, both,” she whispered. She turned on his lap, straddling him and
sending him to instant readiness with a single rock of her hips.
Life is good, he thought dazedly, automatically
pushing back.
She smirked. “I’d
say that about makes me a groupie.”
He adored these little innuendos. Holding her by her thighs, he lifted her to
the table and kissed her. “I’ve never
really partied like a rockstar before.”
Giggling, she began to undo the ties of his pajamas. “Well, I know one party where that rockstar of yours has an exclusive invitation.”
Oh, but Lord her wit was a major turn on. “That’s it. You’re going down!”
He magically reduced her tank top and pajamas to nothing
and she gave a small, delighted shriek.
She laughed blithely in her panties as he took a moment to admire his
work.
“No fair,” she said.
“I can’t do wandless magic!”
“That’s why I’m the rockstar and
you’re only a groupie.” He enfolded her
in his arms and kissed her, trailing his palms down the planes of her back then
sliding them to her breasts. He loved
the feel of her under his hands; the fluidity of the slight bumps, dips and
curves.
Leaving her lips, he trailed his kissed down her neck and
shoulder. He heard her sigh
contentedly. He lived for that
sound.
He lowered his grasp, and holding her by the hips, he
pressed his erection against her. She
rocked back and he couldn’t help but give a guttural moan. Leaning back, he
pulled off his shirt while she pushed off his pajamas and boxers with her
feet. He could feel her knees knocking
his ribs and he thought that her knickers most definitely had to go. Not that they weren’t cute. Her white little panties with
strawberry-shaped dots were beyond adorable, but they’d served their purpose:
to drive him mad with longing.
He bid the knickers disappear and they did.
Magic is THE
BEST.
His fingers sought her and she gave a delightful moan.
He thought wickedly that he could just go on and on with
the rockstar inuendos;
about strumming her like a guitar and what not, but he supposed maintaining
that talk would require a certain degree of brainpower, and since blood was
rushing away from his brain right now
to maintain the concert down below, all talk would have to be put off for the
music.
“Good gracious, Harry,” she gasped. “Play me.
Now.”
That’s Hermione: Sex, Brains, and Rock and Roll.
She didn’t have to request twice, and boy did he rock her.
He thrust himself inside her and the sounds she made were
positively the sweetest notes he had ever heard. He kept pushing for that melody through
varying rhythms. His own voice got lost
in hers because it drove him mad when she moaned in his kiss.
He moved fluidly, and each taut chord of desire that she
summoned from him had him whispering praises and endearments of her in her
ear. This was, after all, one of his
fantasies come true. To have her in the
library where she seemed so attuned to; to have her on a desk… it was exhilarating. Arousing. Mind
blowing!
Eloquence was not one of his natural talents, but he
realized that telling her how beautiful she was and how hot her body felt when
he touched her this way had the most wonderful effect on her.
He felt her push back, hips lifting to meet his and he was
pleasantly surprised when she tightened around him deliciously. She cried out in that way, head thrown back and her eyes closed in ecstasy.
There was no feeling that quite compared to seeing his
witch losing herself to him.
When she collapsed against his chest, gasping to recover,
he hitched her in his arms and apparated them to the
couch at the other end of the huge room.
He laid her back against the cushions as he placed wet
kisses down her throat.
When she whispered for him not to stop, he smiled lazily
to himself. She certainly knew how to
make a man feel wanted.
Still inside her, he moved, and the sweet embrace of her legs
gave her the leverage to push back.
There was absolutely no recourse but to groan and tell her
he was loving every stroke.
She said oh, yes, so
did she. Coming to an accord with her
was always a wonderful thing.
When that steady rhythm began to build between them, he
swore he’d never had to concentrate so hard to hold back, so when at last she
came that second time, he thanked whatever deity of music there was and joined
her.
He thought that quite possibly, he was the luckiest bloke
alive, to be loved and be able to make love to this incredible woman. And if this was his blessing for all those
years he spent curled up in that cupboard at Privet Drive, then he could stalwartly declare
that ten years of Dudley stomping up and down the stairs was worth this moment.
Panting for breath, they stayed still for a while before
Harry adjusted to lie by her side, half draped over her.
“You are an extraordinary man, Harry Potter,” she murmured
a brief, comfortable silence.
“Thank you, baby, but you do know it takes two to make a
band rock, so you’re not so bad yourself.”
She giggled.
“Actually it takes at least three to make a band.”
“Well, maybe we could
do with a female drummer…”
Laughing, she pinched his shoulder and kissed him
tenderly. Her laugh dwindled into a
smile. “I don’t just mean sex, you
know. Everything about you… well, no
wonder I’m so taken, eh?”
“Funny you should say that,” he said softly. “I was just thinking how lucky I am to be
loved by you.”
She trailed her finger along his jaw. “Two and a half years ago, you would have
told me my feelings for you would put me in danger.”
“That’s changed.
Now I couldn’t get enough, hearing you say it, and all I want to do is
love you back.”
“I know,” she whispered.
He detected her anxiety in spite of the wonderful intimacy
they just shared.
It would be a shame to break that sense of completion now,
so he decided not to ask her again to tell him what was wrong. She promised tomorrow, so he’d go by that
promise, but he saw no harm in giving her reassurances.
He cupped her face so he could hold her gaze. “No matter what, Hermione, you know I’ll keep
you safe. This isn’t my ‘saving people
thing’. It’s my ‘loving you like nothing
else in this world thing’. Do you
understand?”
She nodded, lowering her gaze.
He stifled a sigh. What wasn’t she telling him?
She closed her eyes and snuggled into his embrace.
Summoning his discarded shirt from the floor, he
transfigured it into a blanket, placing it over them to shelter them from the
chill of the library, but it was the warmth of their bodies pressed against
each other that lulled them both to sleep.
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