A/N: This chapter has been edited/dulled down to adhere to the rating system of FFN. For the full chapter, check out the story on Archive of Our Own.

Chapter Thirteen

September 26th, 2006

The green flames cast a brief glowing light around the room as Neville and Hermione stepped out of the fireplace and into his flat. He'd had time, since she'd last been there, to unpack, though it was still fairly minimal when it came to decor. While putting all his things away, he'd been cautiously optimistic that he'd soon be packing them up again; if Hermione decided to stay with him, they'd be picking out a house in Hogsmeade very soon. That, at least, had been his thoughts while emptying out all of his boxes, folding and storing them in the front cupboard instead of pitching them.

Now, however, he was more than certain she was going to . . . she was going to marry him. The display she'd made at dinner with his gran and uncle . . . it was nothing short of everything he'd always expected from Hermione Granger. The light in her eyes ignited like a blazing fire, and he was desperate to see it happen again, this time from passion rather than indignation.

"Strip," he commanded automatically, stopping briefly as he stepped ahead of her.

Neville winced, rethinking his tone. It was a command he'd given before, but never specifically to her, and certainly never so abruptly. Turning, he gauged her reaction, wondering if he needed to apologise before explaining and then taking things slower, but the witch was already shimmying out of her dress, letting the soft fabric pool around her feet leaving her standing there looking nervously excited.

He smiled at her, a brilliant smile that displayed the happiness he was feeling. Memories flashed before him, recalling many moments at Hogwarts when a question would be asked and Hermione's hand would fling into the air with a speed that sometimes made him worry that she'd dislocate her arm. She enjoyed it. Enjoyed being the best, proving her worth, responding immediately, and following orders.

He stepped close to her, but moved slowly, his gaze wandering over her beautiful body, not stopping very long to linger on any one bit about her because it was all beautiful and soft and supple. He reached out, the tips of his fingers ghosting across her belly, up her ribcage, over her breast, watching as she tensed in anticipation for that skin to skin contact they both craved. He grinned and let his fingers land on her chin, which he tenderly took in his hand and lifted, directing her gaze up to his face.

Their stares connected and he whispered, "Good girl."

And she smiled so very smugly.

Something felt like it caught in his chest, and Neville desperately knew that he wanted to make her smile forever.

He stepped closer, right into her personal space, letting the fabric of his robes graze against her, paying extra attention to the way one of his buttons touched her skin, the cool metal sending a shiver through her, though he hoped that he had a little something to do with that. Brushing her soft curls from one bare shoulder, he leant in and gently rested his lips against her ear. "Go into the bedroom, bend over the mattress, resting your stomach on the bed, but this," he ran the tips of his fingers against the curve of her arse, "remains in the air."

Hermione slowly exhaled.

"Can you do that, sweetheart?"

She nodded quickly.

Neville pulled away and smiled. "Can you do that silently?"

She stared at him incredulously and that expression made his smile turn into a teasing smirk, adding a raised eyebrow—a challenge—into the mix.

When he stepped back, Hermione looked at him for just another moment, longing in her eyes, before she darted off to the bedroom with the same soft, quick steps she used to take when slipping down the stairs Christmas morning, anticipating the most wondrous presents.

The bedroom was dark and Hermione looked around, noting that there were more shapes and shadows since she'd been there last. She took a moment before deciding not to cast any light, knowing that it wasn't something he'd specified in his requests—demands?—no, commands.

Feeling exposed but wanting to please, Hermione ran her fingers against the soft blanket that covered the bed before setting her wand down on the mattress where she could see it, reach it, and then bending over, pressing her stomach and chest against the bed. She she breathed in the scent from the blankets that immediately triggered her memory of the last time she was there, the first time they'd . . . well, she wasn't sappy enough to call it making love, though he'd been a bit more gentle with her than what she'd expected after seeing his toy chest.

He'd been . . . strong, unyielding . . . powerful.

She remained utterly silent save for her breaths, which came out quicker and quicker as the tension built while she waited. Listening, Hermione tried to listen for his footsteps, wondering if he was getting undressed in the other room, or if she'd hear the slip of fabric when he entered through the door—the snap of buttons, the fall of his robes, and the click of a buckle.

But silence remained.

She looked back at the open door, a part of her wanting to call out for him to see if he was still coming, but she stopped before speaking. He said silently. She needed to do this silently. Squaring her shoulders, she retook her position and waited.

Slowly, her fingers started tapping impatiently.

Her nose twitched.

What is he waiting for? she wondered irritably.

Had he changed his mind? Did he not want her anymore? No . . . that couldn't have been it. She'd seen that look in his eyes: he wanted her. Maybe . . . was he planning something extravagant? Did he move his trunk? She didn't dare move from her space on the bed to look to see if the yet untouched toy chest remained where she'd last seen it. Maybe he'd moved it into another room and he was getting things from it. But what? Her mind began racing through the things she'd seen and the potential situations Neville could create with them. Not that he needed tools to begin with, she thought as she remembered what he'd done with a pile of torn knickers and a transfigured hook.

Memories came to her of hanging there from the ceiling while he just stared at her as though she were the most beautiful art, lightly touching, unbearably teasing with the hinted promise that eventually . . . maybe . . . she would be rewarded for her patience. Ultimately, Hannah had interrupted all of that, and while the spanking that came later that night was abundantly—and surprisingly—pleasing, she'd craved him, wanted him, needed him. Memories of being intimate with him were overwhelming and she felt like an addict after just the one taste.

She whimpered slightly, still waiting, still listening for him to enter. Her knees ached a bit and her hands clutched at the blanket as the frustration built—as the anticipation built.

When she felt the touch of a hand on her back, she jumped and then let out a sigh of relief, slightly embarrassed for her reaction, though she was a bit annoyed that he'd clearly cast a Silencing Charm on his feet to prevent her from hearing his approach. His hand was warm and her skin was cool and his touch spiralled out from her lower back, working its way up and down her legs, and around her stomach.

"So patient," he whispered.

Her mouth fell open when she realised he was still clothed and had nothing in his hands. He'd made her wait on purpose. Made her mind race, anticipating the many things he could do to her and all for—

"Perfect," he said again as he touched her.

Oh, she thought before pressing her cheek into the mattress and purring.

Sweaty, shaking, and delirious, Hermione barely noticed when he swept her up into his arms. Lying down on the bed, wrapped up in Neville's large arms, she gently ran her numb fingers against the hair on his chest in amusement, finding pleasure in the texture. His breath was heavy and his heart was racing, she could feel it against her cheek when she snuggled into his embrace.

He kissed the top of her head before pulling away, cupping her face with one hand. "Hermione?" he whispered. "Hermione, look at me. Are you all right?" His tone was soft, having lost all hardness that he used when commanding and the gravelly husk when teasing her. He was just . . . he was Neville. Sweet, wonderful Neville.

Heavy-lidded eyes looked up at him and he pushed back a few wild curls from her face, repeating his question, "Are you okay?"

She giggled deliriously in reply.

Neville grinned and laughed and kissed her forehead. One by one, he took her hands within his own, rubbing warmth back into them before kissing each fingertip. He pulled the blanket up and over their bodies but kept an arm wrapped around her as she curled on top of his long body like a cat. As though she really were a beloved familiar, Neville stroked his fingers through her hair and then down her back, petting her with a softness that left her feeling just that: beloved.

Exhausted, when words finally returned to her, they came out only one at a time.

"Thanks."

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head.

She didn't even care that she knew her hair was soaked with sweat.

"Thank you," he replied.

"Good?"

"Perfect," he whispered. "You're—gods, Hermione, you're . . . beyond outstanding," he said, clearly choosing his words carefully. Hermione caught his meaning and laughed softly, her breath causing his chest hair to move. "Everything about you is perfect." He pulled her in close and she used what little strength she had in her arms to hold onto him. "I want you always," he said. "I think I'm addicted to you, Hermione."

If you think I'm addicting, you ought to try yourself, she thought in amusement.

"I don't ever want to let you go," she heard him say as sleep finally took her.