A huge thank you to my beta and life-line, HogwartsDuchess.
Consequentially Yours:
A Gentleman's Duty
20
A Series of Epilogues
1 - Cot Buin a' Fiadhaiche Luchan
***
When Oliver finally got home, the shadows at Cot Luchan had lengthened, and then faded into twilight.
The battle had ended shortly after the Aurors arrived, and Hermione had been relieved that none of her friends had been seriously hurt, though she was still more than a little irritated that they had attempted such a thing with just themselves in the first place. She could hear the slow tick of the clock in the kitchen, the soft sound comforting in the darkness. Charlie had been hit by a nasty Sword jinx, cutting his arm and shoulder where the tendon met the large muscles there, and was relegated to stay at St. Mungo's overnight, much to his disgust. For the rest, assorted spell remnants and hexes had been removed in an hour or so, and Fred no longer had his nose growing out of his ear, and Viktor was able to remove the last of his apparent favourite Shark head Transformation that had been a little too enthusiastically cast.
Oliver, of course, had not stayed at the hospital. He'd waved off his injuries as minor, promising to have them tended to as soon as he had a moment, and after making sure Hermione was seen to, he quickly Floo'd to the Ministry offices, needing to give his report to Percy and mop up any remaining details.
That was five hours ago, and Hermione was trying very hard to ignore the loneliness his absence was causing.
It had been wonderful to be back home; though Cot Luchan had only been home for a scant two months before she'd had to leave, it was almost a sense of relief when she stepped out of the fireplace to be greeted by the rose slate of the kitchen, and the familiar mismatched, comfortably worn furniture. She hoped they didn't have cause to leave again for a long time.
Right now, she was curled up in her favourite chair; an oversized, over-stuffed armchair that was perfect to pull your feet up in. She'd pulled out a book, the horrible one that had started so much awkwardness with Oliver what seemed like forever ago now, and tried to settle in to read. Every little noise caused her to glance up anxiously, expecting to see the burly highlander at every turn, and she had been reading the same page now for the last twenty minutes. With a defeated sigh, she turned the book over in her lap, and threw her head back against the worn fabric of the chair back.
The truth was, she just needed to see him. She looked down to glare at the lurid cover of her book. Somehow, the handsome couple photographed there seemed to be taunting her, and she resolutely denied that she'd brought this book out in hopes of repeating their last encounter it had engendered. That was absolutely not something she would do, after all.
It had been so long since it was just them, and she was surprised to find that she'd missed it... that somehow the concept of them was more comfortable now.
The fire flared in the kitchen, the sudden green flare visible through the darkened doorway of the living room, and Hermione was briefly surprised at how dark it had gotten while she was lost in her thoughts. Oliver's tired movements could be heard in the kitchen as he puttered around, filling the kettle with water for morning.
"Hermione?" he called, his gruff voice soft, obviously thinking she might be sleeping.
She cleared her throat self-consciously, before calling, "In here!"
He appeared in the doorway, and she could just make out the white linen bandage tied around one palm, and the way his shoulders sagged which spoke to just how tired he was.
For a long moment, he simply stared at her, his eyes running over her face and body quickly before settling for just meeting her own rather self-conscious gaze. "Come join me?" he asked finally, holding out a hand to her. He seemed to be trying very hard to pretend he didn't notice it shook slightly.
She swallowed, but scrambled to get loose from the plaid she'd thrown over her lap when the room had cooled down. Without a word, she took his hand gently in hers, being careful of the bandage.
It took only a moment to turn on the lamps, bathing their room in their soft yellow glow, and Hermione watched as he moved into the room and let himself fall into the bed with a small groan. She smiled softly at this - that was until he turned over and with a bit of a tug, had her tumbling down beside him.
"I'm not up to talking to yer chin, lass." He smiled at her bewildered expression.
She didn't know what to say to that, and for a long moment stayed with something safe, cradling his injured hand in hers as she traced the cloth tied there and resolutely kept her eyes focused on her trailing fingers. The tension was back, making her feel like she was on the edge of some big unknown, like a yawning abyss she could fall into if she wasn't careful. "Did you have the healers look at it, then?" she finally asked quietly, unwilling to disturb the tense atmosphere. She looked up to find him watching her, an unknown expression on his face.
"It's barely anything. I dealt wi' it myself."
She gave him a scolding look, before pushing herself up off the bed, and stalking from the room.
"Where're you going, Mouse?" he called after her, sounding disgruntled by her abrupt departure.
"I've seen your idea of a field dressing too many times when it was Harry who was hurt, Oliver," she told him, coming back into the room carrying a few supplies. She crawled back on the bed, depositing the items beside them as she reached for his hand again.
With an amused smile, Oliver relinquished it to her, and she could feel him watching as she concentrated fully on removing the rough dressing with as much care as she could manage. His intense stare was making her fingers more awkward then she'd ever remembered them being, and it took some tugging at the knots, but when it finally came loose, Hermione glared at him again. "And you didn't think this was worth treating properly?"
He didn't look particularly chastised by her complaints, if anything, his smile only grew more sly. "An' why would I do that when I know I've go' such a pretty nurse waiting at home for me?"
Heat bloomed on her cheeks and she didn't know how to answer that, so she bent over the burn again, being careful to work the comfrey ointment into the reddened and inflamed skin as gently as she could manage. Somehow, she wasn't entirely sure if the warmth she felt was coming from his large palm, or her own skin, but it left her even more flustered. When she was done, she used a clean bandage to tie it up again, and looked up to see Oliver still watching her. "Is there anything else?"
"Nothing worth gettin' worked up about," he shrugged indifferently.
"Oliver!" she would have stamped her foot if she wasn't sitting on it, and knowing that only made her more embarrassed.
"Alright, lass, if it fashes ye." He sat up, and began shrugging out of his shirt, and Hermione suddenly felt that perhaps this was a Very Bad Idea, but before she could marshal any reason to give him why she would suddenly change her mind, Oliver was casually flinging his t-shirt over the side of the bed, to land haphazardly by the closet door.
"I hope you're planning on picking that up tomorrow," she tried to scold, but didn't think it sounded particularly effective when coupled with her suddenly perspiring palms and flushed cheeks.
Oliver stared up at her from where he lay against the pillows, one arm bent behind his head and propping his neck up, calmly waiting for her to begin, but she couldn't really tell what he was thinking just then.
Curling her fingers tightly, she let her gaze wander over his physique, knowing this was going to end in embarrassment when he started looking at her knowingly again, with that one damned eyebrow raised at her. His chest somehow looked even broader when it wasn't confined in the tight material of the t-shirts he usually wore, and the skin still held faint traces of his tan from working outside all summer around their cottage. She could smell him again, his scent teasing her nose so that she was startled when she had the sudden urge to lean over and lick the skin, just to see what he tasted like.
Digging her nails into her palms just a little bit harder, she forced herself to stop ogling him, though she still let her eyes trace the path from his muscled chest to his hard ribcage and stomach, and that's when she finally noticed the abraded skin all down his left side. It looked shallow, but there was still dried blood there. His skin twitched under her touch when she trailed her fingers over the wounds, despite how gentle she tried to be, and she was worried she'd hurt him. She reached over for the damp cloth she'd brought, not entirely sure why she was so determined to do things the non-magical way, but somehow needing to feel his skin beneath her hands, and assess how he was for herself. She supposed mothers who kissed their children's foreheads to gauge a fever instead of using a thermometer must feel the same way; though she didn't feel remotely maternal right now.
The blood came away easily under her careful circular movements, and the skin underneath had already begun to close. The bruises were forming, just beneath the surface, and she knew by morning he'd be stiff and spectacularly colourful. She had to make him lift his arm so she could see all of it, it went so long down his side. The ointment smelled pleasant on her fingers, and she used the same gentle touch to slowly spread it over the wounds, from his sternum to almost his waist. So concentrated was she on her task, that she was startled to realise the uneven breathing in the room was Oliver's.
"Lass, if yeh don't stop that, ye're goin' ta kill me," he murmured so quietly, she wasn't sure if she was supposed to have heard him or not, and she froze, suddenly unsure. His eyes, which had closed under her ministrations, suddenly shot open, staring at her patiently until she met his gaze.
There was nothing patient in his expression, though. It looked strained, and Hermione dropped everything she'd been holding in her hands when her fingers suddenly went slack and nerveless. Slowly, Oliver reached out with the arm closest to her, gently cupping her face, running his thumb over the round part of her cheek rhythmically, and watching her with hooded eyes.
When he made no other move for several long moments, seemingly content just to feather his touch along her skin, Hermione felt herself wriggle a little closer, tentatively reaching out to do the same. Using just the very tip of her index finger, she gently traced his jaw, along his nose, his forehead, before giving in and running it slowly along his lips.
He groaned, and she jumped, startled, but he held her hand to his mouth when she tried to pull it away. "Don' stop, Hermione."
Something about the sound of her name, something he rarely used, made everything sound so much more intimate. The sound of it in his husky brogue did strange things to her stomach, and left her limbs feeling like jelly but he didn't give her the chance to resume her actions, when he reached for her, gently tangling his fingers in her thick hair and tugging her closer.
His lips were incredibly soft, and the kiss was gentle, despite the urgency and excitement she thought she could feel thrumming between them. Every inch of her lips were grazed, and left tingling in the wake of his.
She loved the feeling of his hair; somehow far softer than she would expect of a man, and the curls tangled between her fingers until she was tugging, and though she was sure she must be pulling too hard, he didn't seem to mind a bit when he groaned and pulled her closer, using his grip at the back of her head, and his thumb, still resting against her cheek, to angle her head to his satisfaction.
His skin was warm under her touch, and she pulled away slightly, though he gave her a disappointed look, to watch as she ran her fingers over his chest, loving the way his muscled bunched and twisted under her touch. Oliver let his head fall back and he moaned softly. When she bent down, hesitantly letting her tongue trail wetly over his collarbone and upper chest, he jumped, and his normally hazel eyes burned dark as he stared back at her, before closing his arms around her again, and rolling her so that she was now straddling his waist.
The new perspective startled her, and she gazed down at him slightly confused for a moment, before she felt the warmth of his hands through the cotton of her shirt, which had seemed perfectly adequate not half an hour ago, but now seemed far too thin. And far too there.
Oliver seemed to agree, because he wasted no time in finding the buttons, beginning at her neck and with several deft flicks, had the top falling from her shoulders. He kept her eyes while he did it, and she knew that if he thought for one moment she wanted him to stop, he would be out of the room and into the shower before she could blink.
There was no way she wanted him to stop now, and with a shrug, she managed to get her shirt to fall away reasonably nicely, without looking nearly as awkward as she would have expected. His hands were now trailing along her arms, and it almost felt as if he were burning the skin in their wake, his touch was so warm; or had all her blood pooled elsewhere? She whimpered as he moved them lower, tracing the line of her ribs and circling her belly button, before gripping her sides and pulling her in for another kiss.
This one was much harder, and he wasted no time in encouraging her to open to him. The grip he had on her waist would have been uncomfortable under other circumstances, but right now, she needed to feel him hold her, needed to feel his touch on her skin so she could lose herself in the moment and just stop thinking for a while. She was tired of thinking, of always second-guessing where this man was concerned; tired of trying to be the rational one.
"Hermione," he whispered against her jaw, seeming determined to taste every part of her.
She moaned in response, feeling far past the ability to form a coherent response, and she willingly went with him when he rolled her to his side again. Watching her intently, somehow keeping her gaze trapped, he slid off the bed, and stood before her at its foot, watching her intently, and a little mischievously.
Her breath caught when he reached for the zip of his trousers, and his hands slowed as he watched her carefully, but she just shook her head. Shimmying out of his denims, he left his dark blue boxers on for the moment, and instead reached to wrap one large hand around each of her calves. With a gasp, Hermione felt herself dragged across their sheets as he pulled her down to him, letting her legs fall to either side of his hips, and he grinned wickedly before leaning in to lay open mouthed kisses along her stomach and the hollow between her ribs, but even the amazing feeling of his tongue against her skin wasn't enough to completely distract her from his hands, which were now lifting her hips, pulling her already-unbuttoned trousers down past her bum. He had to shift her slightly to pull them the rest of the way off, relinquishing her skin reluctantly before carelessly tossing them to the bedroom floor. With a devilish smirk, and a playful swat across her thigh, he sent her scrambling back up the bed before he crawled up after her to lay full length along her body.
The coarse feel of his skin against hers was erotic in a way she had never experienced before; somehow very masculine and powerful while he was laying in such full length contact with her own body. The tension was worse now, and his hands feathered the length of her, ghosting smoothly over her skin from her chin to her knees. They felt warm against her body, and paradoxaly made her shiver, and gooseflesh rise on her forearms and thighs. His eyes glittered down at her, dark with the surprising passion of the moment, and Hermione quietly admitted to herself that lust, at least, was certainly possible between them.
"Do ye want this, Hermione?" His hands were still busy on her body, concentrating on brushing the skin on the inside of her knees, and gently up her thighs. She throbbed lowly for that teasing touch to finish traveling higher, and was slightly shocked at her own wantonness even as she knew he would not allow it until he had her answer, free of the haze of sexual need.
She felt incredibly exposed by that – this was a clear, conscious decision he was asking for, and not one she would be able to hide behind as a choice in the heat of the moment tomorrow morning. And though she respected him for it, she also hated him, a little. She was so tired of not knowing what to do where Oliver was concerned.
His scent, like spices and apples and warm leather, was quickly becoming the most sensual thing she could ever remember smelling, and she nodded her head before she had even realized she'd done it, and she felt him shift closer, angling his head to take possession of her mouth. His smile was almost predatory, and extremely pleased.
Instead of kissing her, as she had expected, even turned her head obligingly to do, he tasted her. Starting with her jaw just below her ear, he explored the sensitive skin with his lips and tongue, leaving her almost trembling in startled anticipation. When he actually used his teeth, nipping her with their blunt edges, a breathless gasp escaped her as she couldn't stop her hands from rising to tangle in his hair and press him closer. He chuckled, his breath ghosting against her saliva-dampened skin. "I want ye t'tell me, lass. I need to hear you say it," his voice was incredibly strained, and he almost groaned his words against her ear.
"I want this," she barely managed to force the words out, as anything as mundane as breathing was easily overlooked she was finding, "I want you." Somehow, these seemed to be the hardest things she'd ever had to say, and it almost felt freeing to admit it, though that might have only been because she found she had so very little oxygen to say it with.
"Aye, I'll settle for those words for now," and the look he gave her was burning and completely at odds with his upturned lips. "But I'll have the others from you before long." She didn't even have a chance to wonder what words he meant before he was touching her again, and thought became impossible. It was the work of a moment to pop the hooks of her light coral bra, and his gaze as he smoothly pulled it away was openly admiring. He took his time, caressing her breasts as though to learn every nuance of her, cataloguing ever indrawn breath, every embarrassing moan and muffled curse before finally moving on to take care of their remaining clothing. This time, she pulled him closer, arching her body slightly to get greater contact between them, quickly becoming addicted to the feeling of his skin on hers.
His knee had found its way between hers, and she writhing against him, blindly seeking contact as his kisses became rougher, his own control becoming strained. It gave her a powerful feeling to realise that she affected him like that; could make Oliver Wood, a Quidditch star with multitude of groupies and female fans of dubious morality, groan harshly against her skin when she touched him, however much experience she lacked in comparison.
When his fingers finally found the source of her aching frustration they moved easily in the slippery heat, causing her to dig her fingers into his strong shoulder with need. "Oliver!" the hoarse shout was lost to the pounding in her ears. Later, she would remember to marvel at her own daring and lack of inhibition, but right now she was lost, drinking in every moment in a wonderful orgy of sensual stimulus.
The hairs on his legs were springy like thin spun wire where they brushed against hers, and in her highly sensitised state she felt she could feel each one individually, and she couldn't help herself from arching her bare feet to run them up the backs of his calves, where the fine hairs tickled the souls of her feet wickedly. "Mouse," he semi-moaned, semi-whined, and she guessed it tickled him too.
He seemed to take her amusement as a challenge, because suddenly his hands were moving far more determinedly and a great deal less lazily over her skin and she found it very difficult to concentrate on anything else. His lips were curved into a crinkled smile and his eyes glinted wickedly down at her when she failed to restrain her noises.
He seemed to enjoy her own slightly hesitant curiosity, as she experimented with touches and techniques that she had read of, or even been subjected to through dorm-room gossip between Lavender and Parvati. By the sounds he made, and the wonderfully strained expressions on his face, she made sure to file them away for later use. They didn't climax together or anything ridiculous like that - sex being a learned skill like any other, and she certainly didn't have a great deal of experience; but he was considerate of her in every way and seemed more than happy to have her body spread out before him to find creative ways of making her shudder beneath his touch. When he finally did coax her to orgasm, he didn't seem at all disappointed that it was not due to the pleasure she felt at having him buried inside her. She had absolutely no doubt that, given the opportunity, he would happily accept the challenge presented, and learn the rhythms of her pleasure in very short order; but for now, this was more than enough.
When he finally allowed her to collapse, he pulled her close to his side and cradled with her head to his chest as he ran his fingers along her spine. The light touch made her shiver and she cuddled closer, enjoying the heat of his body despite her sweat-soaked skin. She listened to his breathing as it caught, and eventually slowed under her ear, allowing it to soothe her until it was almost hypnotic. Still, he hadn't said anything, though his touch never faltered on her skin, and she knew he wasn't asleep.
She resolutely took a deep breath; she knew under what terms she had done this, and though she didn't know his, she needed there to be no secrets between them – not about this.
"I love you," she murmured against his skin, knowing it was loud enough he could hear, but being quiet enough he could pretend he didn't if he chose.
She felt his breathing still beneath her cheek, before it resumed, louder than before. His hands slipped into her hair, cupping the back of her head and forcing her to look up, and she contrarily closed her eyes, suddenly not as sure as she had been a moment before that she was ready to face him; to deal with his gentle and kindly-meant admission that he cared, but not like that.
"Hermione," he whispered, and the tone was one she'd never heard from him before. "Look at me."
His expression, when she was brave enough to open her eyes, was nothing short of triumphant, as he leaned forward to slide his lips along the shell of her ear, down her jaw, and back up, he whispered, "I told ye I would get the words from you, lass. You don't know how long I've waited to hear you say them."
***
Author's Note:
As you've probably gathered from the title, I'm posting the last part as a series. I just felt, for one, that you all have waited long enough for Oliver and Hermione's moment that it deserved to be set on it's own (and also, you deserved to get it up faster, hence before I finish editing the last parts *lol*) This is by far the largest chunk of the parts that remain - the rest are between 1,300 and 2,000 words. I'll try to get one up at least once a week, though reviews, of course, always encourage me to forget the things I should be doing and go faster :-)
Love you all - it's been incredible *hugs single reader and reviewer*
-Nyruserra