Chapter 3 - A Crazy Idea
"Well," Harry said slowly. "That's...interesting."
I looked up at him at the same time he looked over at me.
"What?" I whispered. "Who did you get?"
"A long list," he said.
"Same. It, um, it kind of lends credence to Malfoy's theory that muggleborns and half-bloods will be more compatible to more people because we're not as inbred," I said, before internally cringing at the school marmish way I sounded.
"Your list all purebloods?" he asked.
I shook my head. "Mostly. Lots of purebloods, although some of them could be half-bloods. I don't know everyone on this list. And then there's you. You're on my list."
His eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, crinkling the lightning bolt scar on his forehead.
"Who did you get?" I asked, not giving him a chance to respond to the news that he was on my list.
He ran his fingers through his hair and scanned the parchment with a frown on his face.
"Ginny, for starters, so I guess her claim that we matched was accurate. Both Patil twins. Cho Chang. A bunch of names I don't recognise because they've apparently just finished Hogwarts or they're more than a few years older than we are. Mandy Brocklehurst. Who is Layla Dearborn? That sounds familiar."
"She works in my office," I said quietly, thinking about my coworker. Layla was four years older than Harry and me both and beautiful. She'd married during the war but was widowed soon after and had yet to remarry. She was wickedly smart, funny, and charming. Harry would like her if he got to know her, I was certain of that. An uncomfortable feeling of jealousy welled up inside of me at the thought of Harry with my colleague.
"Oh."
"Who else?"
He lifted his head then, and his green eyes met mine.
"You."
~oOo~
I had matched with a very high confidence level to Harry, Malfoy, and Ron, which I supposed was proof that magical compatibility and personal compatibility were not the same thing. Harry had matched with similarly high levels to Ginny, Layla, me, and a 19-year-old witch he'd never met named Esme Balfour.
Neither of us was seemingly willing to commit to picking a name from our respective lists, so we instead sat down to dinner in uncomfortable silence, both of us deep in thought. I could not possibly imagine Harry agreeing to marry Ginny after all of their fights and the way she'd accused him of infidelity, so I picked at my dinner that night, feeling deeply unsettled and hating the idea that my best friend was likely going to marry Layla or this Esme person. After all, it was laughable to think that Harry would willingly marry me. It would be… almost incestuous, wouldn't it? We were the best of friends, as close as siblings. Harry said that once, to Ron: "I love her like a sister."
Harry's morose mood seemed to mirror my own, and so after dinner, he brought out the alcohol again. I didn't object.
"So who is it going to be then - Ron or Malfoy?" he asked, handing me a shot glass. "Or are you going to take your chances with whatever's behind door number 3? Technically anyone on your list should be compatible enough to make magical babies."
I downed the whiskey in one go and cringed both at the burning in my throat and at the idea of being married to either of them, or to someone I did not know.
Ron would want me to stay at home and have a large family. He'd always resented my career and my devotion to my work when we were together, and I could not see that changing if we were forced to wed. Images of a lifetime as Mrs. Ronald Weasley stretched out before me in my mind, and it was not a wholly pleasant picture: years of nagging him to clean up after himself, to help out with the children. Years of dealing with his insecurity and his need for attention and additional mothering. Molly Weasley hadn't been a bad mother, but with seven children (not to mention Voldemort's return and a war), a lot got lost in the shuffle, and Ron had had an extra dose of feeling insignificant as the sixth boy to come before his parents finally had a girl. I shuddered at the thought of having a family that large. Just spending the holiday at the Burrow after the war had been overwhelming, and I wasn't particularly keen on being expected back there for weekly Sunday dinners as an official member of the very family who'd cut me off before. Our previous relationship was proof that Ron was happy to defer to his mum on far too much, and I wasn't keen on the idea of that continuing into marriage.
But then, it was not as if Draco Malfoy was any better. His father was a convicted war criminal, recently released from Azkaban, who might try to murder me before I could debase the family's purity by bearing a half-blood child. His mother was one of those women who never looked as if she had a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her robes. It was downright Stepford-esque, and I was about as far away from that as a witch could get. I'd been literally tortured in their family home by Draco's aunt whilst the family stood around and watched. I'd punched Draco once in school, and he'd called me vile names and said he hoped a basilisk ate me. Not exactly the right sort of foundation for a marriage. Then again, he'd said he wouldn't interfere with my career, and that was an enormous plus. Okay, fine, the only plus.
Of course, if I could ever get this insanely stupid law repealed and we could go our separate ways, Malfoy was undoubtedly the safer choice as he'd surely be willing to ditch me for a proper pureblood princess of a wife. Ron on the other hand would probably never want to let me go, and I'd have to deal with a good 20 years or so of Molly constantly hovering and badgering me about my parenting skills. Assuming Lucius Malfoy didn't try to kill me, I figured he'd probably be all too happy to disown any half-blood grandchildren and pretend they did not exist.
"I'd like to avoid a lengthy stay in Azkaban, so who do you think I'd be less likely to kill?" I asked, pouring myself another shot and gulping it down quickly.
Harry emitted a bit of a nervous laugh and took a shot of his own. "Blimey. Um. Honestly? That could go either way. Arthur and Molly may have been upset you wouldn't marry Ron before, but at least they probably won't kill you in your sleep? If you marry Malfoy, someone - maybe George, maybe Dean Thomas, I don't know - will get a pool going on how long it will take for one of you to snap and maim the other."
I downed another shot and then set the glass aside to put my face in my hands. This is what my life had come down to. Picking a spouse based on who I thought was less likely to result in someone committing a serious crime.
"I don't know," I mumbled into my palms. "I don't want to deal with this."
I looked up at Harry in time to watch him do another shot. At this rate we would be completely inebriated very soon. Normally I was not one for heavy drinking like this, and neither was Harry, at least not before this insane law was passed, but the occasion sure called for it. Forced marriage, possibly to our exes? Forced reproduction? That's pretty tough to take sober.
"What about you?" I asked, not wanting to think too hard about my own future.
"Well, Ginny should be a 'no,' given how everything went before," he said. "But I don't know Layla or Esme. I mean, what is it they say? Better the devil you know?"
I'd barely eaten at dinner, and the alcohol was going quickly to my head. The realisation that my best friend had just inadvertently called Ginny Weasley a devil was suddenly very funny, and I giggled until Harry looked at me as if I'd gone barmy. When I told him why I was laughing, he joined in until my laughter turned to tears.
I ended up in Harry's arms, a drunk, teary mess. He held me close and stroked my hair, making soothing mumbled noises until he admitted that he'd gotten a finger stuck in my thick tangle of curls, an action that led to more drunk laughing.
"I don't want to marry any of them. I don't know those two witches. And as for our former classmates, if I'd ever wanted to marry any of them, I'd have done so already. Or at least dated them," he said into my hair, resting his chin on my head.
I shifted on the sofa to make myself more comfortable. I felt safe here with Harry. I always had. I didn't want to give this up.
Then again, perhaps I did not have to.
My name was on Harry's list, and his was on mine.
Was it such a crazy thought? The two of us together?
I pressed my head against his chest and listened to the steady sound of his heartbeat. We could certainly tolerate living together, and no one knew him as well as I did. The longer I laid there, the more it sounded like a good idea.
"Hey?" he prompted, tugging lightly on my hair.
"Hmmm?"
"You're too quiet. You're either about to fall asleep on me, or your brain is going a million kilometers a second. Which is it?" he asked teasingly.
I lifted my head and gazed into his green eyes. My best friend, he was my very best friend, and I could not imagine leaving him for anyone.
"Harry?" I whispered.
"Yeah?"
Maybe it was the alcohol in me, the so-called 'liquid courage' or maybe that dose of bravery was just an inherent part of me, part of why I'd been sorted into Gryffindor.
I decided to go for it before I changed my mind.
"Maybe we should get married. To each other."
~oOo~
He blinked at me for a moment, digesting my words. Then he sat up, pushing me upright with him. The room spun a little bit as he did so, and I regretted taking so many shots.
"What did you say?" he asked hoarsely, fixing me with an intense gaze.
"We could get married. To each other," I repeated.
He opened his mouth to respond, but I cut him off, afraid to hear a 'no' from him.
"If you think about, logically, it makes the most sense. I'm on your list. You're on my list. We already live together and have for years. We know each other better than anyone else, and we know we can get along together. You don't care that I have a career, and you know that I won't want to drag you to a bunch of stuffy, boring events so the press can gawk at us. I won't have to worry about Lucius Malfoy killing me in my sleep, and you won't have to worry about someone wanting you for your fame or your family's vault."
I was babbling by that point, and I wanted to continue. I felt like I should continue, because I knew I wasn't doing the best possible job of selling this to Harry, not whilst under the influence of so much alcohol.
He looked like he was trying to get a word in edgewise though, so I stopped talking and started worrying that I'd made an utter fool of myself.
He ran his fingers through his perpetually messy hair and stared at me for an interminably long moment.
"It's...it's not a bad idea," he said softly.
My heart soared at the realisation that he wasn't saying no, at least, not yet anyway.
"But you… you know that if we do this, we'd have to… be together. I mean, that stupid fucking law requires consummation of the marriage and, and children."
My face felt hot, and I was fairly certain I was blushing profusely at that point. I'd never considered sex with Harry, not really. I mean, sure, we'd lived together for years, and during that time, I'd seen him in his boxers or wandering about in just his pyjama bottoms. I'd watched as he'd morphed from a scrawny teenager into an attractive adult. Regular meals after the war had helped him finally put on some weight and keep it, and he'd had a rather large growth spurt in our 8th year at Hogwarts. He was in peak shape because of his work, and his body was all lean muscles. He kept his hair relatively short, and more days than not, he sported a five o'clock shadow. Yes, Harry Potter had grown into a man I could find attractive.
I realised he was looking at me as if he expected a response.
"I, um...I know. I can't imagine marriage and sex with a stranger. And I'd rather, um, well, I mean, I've been with Ron, and I'd rather not go back to him, and don't even get me started on Malfoy. I'd rather be with you than either of them."
Shit. That sounded like he was the default for me, the lesser of three evils.
"I mean, it's not like you're an awful choice or anything. You're attractive. I mean, clearly, you know this because enough witches throw themselves at you. So it's not like it would be some terrible sacrifice on my part if we had to, you know."
His eyebrows arched up as I spoke, and then he laughed.
"I think this might be the most inarticulate I've ever seen you," he said in a teasing voice.
I recoiled from him then, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. I'd put myself out there, and whilst he had not explicitly turned me down, he'd not taken me up on my offer either. I felt embarrassed that I'd even suggested it.
I had no illusions about myself and my value - or lack thereof - as a potential spouse. I was not what anyone would ever call "beautiful." My features were plain: brown eyes, brown hair, tanned skin that got too dark and too freckled too quickly if I spent much time in the summer sun. My hair was an unruly mess most of the time: I simply had too much of it, and the curls were prone to bushiness if the humidity exceeded 10%. I was not good at anything overly feminine. I rarely wore makeup or bothered with hair products or beauty charms. I didn't care one whit about fashion, and my wardrobe could only be described as "serviceable." Even now, under my plain white blouse and grey skirt, I wore basic white cotton undergarments. I'd never be able to compete with witches like Ginny Weasley or Layla Dearborn who knew how to look feminine and stylish and pretty.
"Look if you don't want me, just say so," I mumbled as I poured and then downed another shot. Alcohol was absolutely the last thing I needed, given how inebriated I was already, but it was something to do with myself and a way to try to quiet my racing thoughts.
"No. No, I mean, it's not that. I just…"
His voice trailed off, and I dared to look at him then. Harry was facing me on the sofa, looking at me as if I was someone he didn't know but who looked somehow vaguely familiar to him.
"We've never… you've never…" he ran his fingers through his hair and muttered a curse word under his breath. He took the firewhiskey from me and poured himself another shot, downing it quickly.
"You don't think of me that way," I said softly. To my surprise, I felt the first pricks of tears in my eyes, but I stubbornly blinked them back. I wasn't going to allow myself to cry if Harry rejected me.
He reached out then, almost hesitantly and his fingertips brushed my cheek and my jaw, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine.
"Can I?" he asked softly.
I wasn't sure what he was asking, but I nodded anyway. I trusted Harry, explicitly, and whatever he wanted to do, I figured it wouldn't be bad.
He leaned in toward me, and I realised then that he intended to kiss me. My alcohol-addled brain started churning at a rapid pace. The idea of kissing Harry was more than a little intimidating. What if it was awful? What if it felt like kissing my (admittedly non-existent) brother? I'd just suggested we marry, but if this kiss was terrible, surely we'd both have to admit that this was just a really horrible idea.
Before I could react, Harry's lips touched mine. His kiss was tentative at first, a gentle press of the lips, once, then twice, and I gasped in spite of myself. And then...I don't even know how it happened, but somehow we went from that initial, cautious kiss to something...other-worldly.
His hands caressed my face and wound into my hair and curved around my waist and pressed down the length of my spine. His tongue was suddenly in my mouth, and he tasted of whiskey and spice and fire and home and everything familiar and comforting.
I kissed him back. I let him lead, let him explore my mouth, and then I gave just as good as I got, sliding my tongue against his, pressing my body closer, clutching at his hair and his clothes. His body was lean and hard against mine, and he felt good.
Why had I been worried about this, I wondered to myself. This was so much better than I could have anticipated.
I heard a soft moan, and I wasn't sure if it came from him or from me, but I couldn't be arsed to care. All I knew then, in that moment, was that my world had tilted on its axis. Up was down and left was right, and everything I thought I knew was all wrong because somehow the most amazing snog of my entire life was happening with the one person I'd never previously considered an option. I wanted Harry Potter.
The room was spinning, and I was panting, and then his mouth - oh God - his mouth was on my ear, his teeth tugging at my ear lobe in a way that made me arch my back and moan and roll my hips, and I needed more. I needed so much more. It had been so embarrassingly long since I'd had a good snog.
I don't know how we moved or how it happened, but I was suddenly on my back on the sofa, with Harry on top of me, doing something utterly sinful to my neck as I grasped handfuls of his hair and shamelessly spread my legs and wrapped them around his waist. He rutted against me, and even through our layers of clothes, I could feel his erection, and holy shit, it felt like Harry was rather obscenely endowed.
For practically my whole life, I'd been the bookworm, the quiet one, the one others thought of as studious and boring and probably asexual in some way, but the truth was that I had desires and needs just like anyone else, and I wanted - desperately wanted - someone to make me burn with passion and make me feel wild and free and feminine and sexy. And in this drunken moment, it seemed like Harry… my best friend, the wizard I'd known since we were kids, the wizard I'd never allowed myself to view as a potential partner, as a possible life-mate, just might be able to do that for me.
I tugged his hair, pulling his mouth back to mine with a frantically whispered, "Kiss me," before our lips met again. We were wearing too many clothes, and I was hot, and the room was most definitely still spinning. We pulled at clothes, and I think a button was wrenched from my blouse, but it didn't matter because I had my hands on Harry's bare back, and he was pressing hot kisses down my throat, past my collar bone, and across my chest.
I wanted him, I wanted him like I'd never wanted anyone before, and I knew then that I could marry Harry Potter and be very happy as his wife.
Harry kissed over the top of my breast, his tongue sliding over the soft flesh just above the plain white bra I wore, before he pressed a kiss into the skin over my rapidly beating heart.
And then it happened.
I felt...a jolt of some kind.
It felt almost like a shock, perhaps?
I had never felt anything like it before.
I had a moment of drunken absurdity in which I figured that it would just be my rotten luck to have a heart attack just when I was about to get lucky for the first time in ages.
"Did you…?"
I realised then that Harry had jerked back from me, lifting his head from my chest, and staring at me wide-eyed.
"What?" I gasped.
"Did you feel that?"
He glanced down at my chest and then at me again.
"Wait - you felt that?" I asked breathlessly.
"Yeah. It was like...like being shocked, like an electric shock, but not painful. It almost felt like… magic." He sat up then and ran his fingers through his thoroughly wrecked hair.
Magic. Well, that was certainly unexpected, although I supposed within the realm of possibility given that I was a witch and he was a wizard.
"I've never… has that ever happened to you?" I asked. I was relieved that I wasn't having a heart attack, but a part of me was also annoyed because if there was going to be something weird happen, of course it would happen to Harry bloody Potter.
He shook his head and then blushed as he looked down at me, and I was suddenly acutely aware that my blouse was wide open and my breasts were on display in what was surely one of my least attractive bras.
"We, um, we should stop," he muttered.
I laid there trying to catch my breath as he backed off of me until he was seated on the other side of the sofa with a pillow in his lap to hide the obvious tent in his trousers. I pushed myself up to a seated position and tried to button my blouse, but I was apparently more inebriated than I'd realised because I couldn't seem to get the damn thing back together.
"You want to stop?"
"Yeah I...I'm really drunk," he admitted. "And if I'm drunk, you're utterly wasted."
"The room is spinning," I said, "But I don't want to stop."
He rubbed at his face as if he was in pain.
"Believe me, neither do I, but we're both drunk, and I don't want to do anything that either of us will regret in the morning."
"Oh." I felt suddenly very insecure, holding my blouse together. I'd acted so very wanton, so out of control, so totally unlike myself. I'd suggested that we get married, I'd snogged him until we'd literally been jolted by, well, by our own magic I supposed, although I had no idea what that even meant. And he hadn't even answered my damn question about marriage.
"Look, Hermione, I think we should finish this conversation when we're both sober," he said softly.
I don't know that he intended to be hurtful, at least I don't think he did, but I felt as if I'd been doused in cold water. I was, in his words, utterly wasted, and horny as hell and throwing myself at him, and he was turning me down. It was a bitter pill to swallow when I knew that most wizards would have been fucking me six ways from Sunday by now.
I couldn't look at him at that point because Merlin only knew what sort of drunken nonsense would come out of my mouth. A tactical retreat was most definitely in order. I mumbled something about needing to go to bed then, and I quickly stumbled out of the room and away from Harry.
