Written for Harmony MAYhem '22
Prompt:
aka You May Kiss the Bride or Wedding Day
A fic on Harry and Hermione's wedding day.
It had been a long three long months. Two of them, a waking nightmare for Hermione, with Harry Potter gone missing and written off as dead by the Ministry after a mission tracking down a budding militia had gone horribly awry. The night that was once planned to be their wedding night, when she felt closest to giving up and cried herself to sleep, begging God and Merlin and the universe and anything else that may be listening to let her join him if he was gone, he had apparated to the Atrium of the Ministry, half dead and barely coherent.
Being Harry, he steadfastly refused St. Mungo's for more than a single night, some vestige paranoia from his captivity and his independent streak finally accepting the compromise of a supervised recovery among those he trusted. For a full month they stayed at The Burrow, an excruciating period of healing and reassuring and moving forward with regular assistance from George, whose gifts with mind healing involved rather more talking and laughter than wand-waving and cures. Gradually, Harry returned to some semblance of health after weeks of near starvation, hallucinogenic spells, sleep deprivation, regular applications of the Cruciatus curse, and old-fashioned beatings. He came back to her, thanks to good company, fourth helpings of Molly's cooking, and what he insisted was all that kept him alive during his time as a prisoner of a one-sided war: that greatest magic of all. It was the kind he spoke of with reverence and looked directly at her when he did, finding her eyes no matter who he was speaking to.
When George and Arthur finally managed to convince Molly to let him out of her clutches, they had returned to Grimmauld Place, only to suffer two days of unending interruptions as friends and every goddamn redheaded wizard in Britain, plus various spouses and children, Floo'd in. They both ground their teeth as they accepted visits, gifts, meals to feed an army for a month, and most helpfully from Charlie, several contraband bottles of a frankly dangerous but delicious spirit, the apparent Romanian answer to Firewhisky. But everything the universe could throw at them couldn't stop their reunion. It just delayed it a little while.
Harry finally lost his temper while Ron reclined on their sofa, blathering on about the Cannon's latest hopeless acquisition. Subtlety had never been the redhead's strong suit and he had failed for the past hour to catch on to increasingly unsubtle hints that, while they loved him, Harry and Hermione would very much like to be alone and uninterrupted.
"Ron!" he barked, cutting off their best friend's entirely one-sided monologue bemoaning the suspected curse on his favourite team, "if you don't get the hell out of my house, I'm going to bend Hermione over right here and fuck her, and then I'm going to put an actual curse on the sodding Cannons."
Years ago, Hermione would have been embarrassed or even cross with Harry for his lewdness, but she was too annoyed and quite apart from that, too turned on to care. Not necessarily at the idea of Ron watching – well...? - but that her fiance desired her so much.
Ron pretended to be tempted. "Hmm, I don't know, if exhibitionism is your thing, I might be interested, but I'd have to ask Lou first. But you know how she li- owww!" he rubbed his cheek where a red welt had appeared, courtesy of a wandless stinging jinx sent by Hermione, "bitch!" He gave them a parting naughty grin and flipped them the two finger salute before grabbing a handful of Floo Powder, stepping into their fireplace, and shouting, "Diagon Alley!"
She was in his lap before the flames extinguished. Harry warded them in, making sure their security was every bit as tight as when they'd camped during the Horcrux hunt years before. Visitors were just as unwanted, after all.
The first time, the sex was explosive, an unabashed feast of the starving as she claimed him back from whatever hell he'd been in, sucked and rode him into oblivion reached with an expediency they'd be embarrassed by if not for just how long it'd been, for just how much they needed each other and needed this last piece of their bond back. The second was slow and tender, apology and love infused in every touch, unhurried and with no goal besides re-establishment. And the third? The third time, they actually made it to their bed, and it was a welcome home – all the way home – at last, bubbling laughter and playful fighting for dominance that said they'd never part again, an expression of innocence found and quiet joy. He held her and whispered that he was done, done with the Aurors, and she'd cried tears of delight as they mapped a new, more peaceful future out in between kisses and touches and sighs.
Those treasured words – I'm out, love. I owled earlier. I can't take the risk of not coming back to you ever again. – are her talisman as she wakes before him in the early morning darkness to shower. He's up quickly thereafter; Hermione winks saucily on her way out when he gives her arse a wet slap and watches just a moment in appreciation at the view of him, naked and stepping into the warm spray. Still thinner than he should be, his joints a little prominent, but his skin now healed and unblemished, and his smile more honest and carefree than she thinks she's seen it since Sirius went through the Veil all those years ago. A lifetime won't be enough to thank George for giving Harry – both of them, really – that peace. Harry even wants to keep talking to George; perhaps she ought to try as well.
Making her way to their elegantly paneled closet, inspiration strikes. She had vaguely planned to don the get-up he presented to her months earlier on Valentine's day, but she thinks he quite deserves a present. Presents need wrapping. Need to be unwrapped, too.
It's something she bought for the wedding night that never happened, but this is better.
Rolling the wooden library ladder out, she can barely reach the boot-sized shoebox on top of the luggage, still packed for that honeymoon that wasn't, inconspicuous and undisturbed from when she left it there, the hopes for its use nearly completely crushed. It's one of the things she held onto, a way to bind herself to hope, to keep him alive in her mind. And now its day has finally come.
Hermione slips into the thong first, deepest claret satin trimmed in pretty black lace, she shivers with expectant delight on first contact with her sex. Admiring herself in the mirror for a moment, she notes her limited time and hurries, removing the carefully-folded stockings and suspenders from the box next. She pulls them over the stilts of her legs, the sinewy curves of her calves to the delicate softness of her inner-thigh. The garment makes her skin stand out pale-moonlight against the black matte of the stockings. She leaves the suspenders for later.
The pièce de résistance lies comfortably in the box, and her mouth runs dry on examination of it. Claret vine-like swirls of velvet laid over deep red silk, lightning strikes of shimmery, silvery piping, all cinched by black leather laced in and out, in and out, of shiny silver fasteners. He's going to need another shower. She probably will too, if the hum low in her belly at the mere sight of the thing is any clue.
She had to do some reading in a tawdry old Muggle romance novel of her mother's to learn how to put the thing on when she first bought it, not wanting to fumble with it like a fool during their honeymoon. Thus, it is with some surprise, as she delicately lifts the corset from its resting place, that she remembers exactly what to do. Wrapping the bodice loosely around her waist and fastening the front hooks into their little silver eyes, she tightens it only enough to keep it from falling from her.
If the way he looks at her when she wears her lace-up leather boots is heat, he'll test the theory of spontaneous human combustion to its logical and illogical limit today. She's not worn one before, but she knows he'll love it. Corsets are a study in contrasts, she thinks. Decadent display and domesticated discipline. Old-fashioned and dangerously edgy. Familiar and forbidden. Hidden in public and designed to be seen in private.
The water cuts off from the bathroom, and Hermione snaps the suspenders to the bottom of the bodice quickly before she scurries to her place. Long, stocking-clad legs drape oh-so-casually over the leather chair in the corner of their shared office. She selects a book from the shelf at random – 394 Sticky Predicaments and 1,472 Defensive Solutions, by Reginald Regnery – and feigns interest, kicking a foot idly and waiting for him to dress and emerge from the closet.
She considered ambushing him straight out of the shower, but it turns out she quite likes the anticipation of waiting to unwrap presents too. When given proper motivation. Contrary to their normal balance of his brash style with her patience, she's much more a rip-the-paper-off kind of girl. When she was five, her mum shared with her the wonderful secret of turning the cereal box upside down to find the toy inside without having to eat through the whole box of bland whole grains (no sugar bombs had ever or would ever cross the threshold into the home of two dentists, thank you very much), and this lesson began a lifetime of impatience with unnecessary procedure to get to the prize. Harry, however, takes his time. Hermione thinks it must have been his early deprivation of presents that makes him savor the mystery, make certain the paper comes off in one piece, pay equal attention to each corner.
She hopes sincerely that these patterns will be respected this morning.
"Hermione?" he calls from the closet, "are you wearing those leather boots again without letting me help you into them?"
An evil grin spreads left to right across her face.
"I'm in the office, Harry," she taunts coyly, "why don't you come help me?"
The footfalls come haphazard and heavy as he literally stumbles over himself to get to her quickly. He's not as dressed as she'd like – his trousers and shoes in place, but only a black t-shirt – but she can work with it. She can definitely work with the mouth that hangs open as he takes in her attire.
"Hey," Hermione purrs. "Got a present for you."
Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows thickly, Harry's gaze roams over her with abject longing mixed headily with the intoxication of lust. She finds the self-conscious part of her entirely silent. She looks good. She knows it.
"Stand," her fiance commands after long moments, finally able to harness his voice. He's not to be argued with, but she can certainly test him. She feigns reading a second longer before dog-earing a page and putting it back with its shelf-mates, taking time and precision to align the spines. Harry's frustrated growl becomes a shiver of promise up her spine.
Swinging her legs back around and watching him follow their movement, she rises on confident legs, stilling for his assessment and inspection with a hand on her hip and an irreverent smirk still in place. The emerald gleam of his eyes burns imaginary patterns of flames up her exposed skin, intense and unrelenting. He takes a decisive step toward her. She matches it, staring her playful defiance to him. There's no doubt that he's thoroughly in charge now, just as intended, but that doesn't mean she'll not test her limits. They wouldn't be them if she didn't.
"A little help here, love?" she teases, pleased at the murmured curse that escapes on an exhale.
"Turn around, all the way" he orders, his tone telling her he won't be denied her obedience. She spins on her toes for him like an obscene porcelain dancer on a pedestal, and she feels every bit a doll. A toy to be played with, a thing to be touched and admired. She slows, then, coming to a creeping halt with her back to him, giving him access and permission to the laces.
He begins at the top with the first lace, tugging the ends experimentally through their grommets, and her breath hitches at the first hint of tightening around her bust. Her nipples harden to stiff points under the thick suppressing material of the corset, straining against it as he pulls the laces tight.
Maintaining the pressure on the first stitch, Harry lets it alone only as the second row is brought to tension, the constriction of her breasts becoming real. His rough breathing behind her is a soundtrack of controlled lust played in perfect time to the delicate work of his callused, trembling hands, pulling her tighter and winding her higher with every leather pull of lace.
Constrained and increasingly constricted, she goes to take a deep breath and finds her chest protesting the act. Shorter, choppier breaths will suffice, but not for long. Merlin, he's only halfway done. Pulling the laces together in a quick-release, Harry halts momentarily.
"Bedroom," he manages out, his voice low and gravelly. She complies on shaky legs, far too affected already by the molten heat spreading throughout her body from between her thighs. Stopping her in front of the floor-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom, Harry quickly resumes his task and Hermione marvels at this new way to stun her fiance into silence. He's not managed a full sentence at all yet. Pushing himself to her back, the thick press of his confined cock into the cleft of her arse sends shivers through her.
A particularly sharp yank on the leather causes her to hiss an exhale, and the tightening continues. She watches in the mirror with fascination as her body transforms. Her breasts, smaller than she'd like (Harry insists otherwise, claiming a mouthful is plenty) and typically minimized in suits and layers, lightly rounded now over the top of the bust, creamy skin framed with rich black and red. Her trim waist is highlighted, her hips look curvier and follow the luscious contour of the corset that flares out before ending, just a sliver of pale olive skin peeking through before the trim of her thong.
He jerks on the laces one more time with a rough pant that has nothing to do with physical exertion. Harry finishes off his task with a sigh of both accomplishment and disappointment at its end, fastening the whole pretty package with a bow.
Mirror-Hermione looks at them both, at the expression in his eyes that could burn a city to ashes, at the way her mouth hangs slightly open as she gasps shallowly both from constriction and arousal. The pretty ensemble, selected initially solely for his delectation, surprises her in how much it turns her on, too. It's always a powerful feeling to make him want her – not that she has to do much; he's been known to jump her even when she's hanging around in one of his horrid old shirts, after all – but this is entirely new. It comes from making him grow hard and his breathing grow as shallow as hers, yes, but now it comes from within, too. It's intensely feminine and feeling the raw power in that is intoxicating. To take joy in being a woman in this way is not something her life permits often. She finds her ways in little rebellions, in the pugnacious four-inch heels she loves to wear despite their potential for ridicule (no one has yet dared), in her stubborn refusal to straighten or contain her wild hair or cave to the orthodoxy of robes at the Ministry, but it's rare she's allowed to revel in it this obviously. For a wild moment she entertains pulling a Potter and owling her immediate resignation and dedicating the corset as her new uniform. But, such things are impractical. Perhaps just the resignation.
Hands snake their way into her hair, stopping to brush the shell of her ear before hesitating momentarily. Heart clenching, she knows on instinct what it's about. He always pulled the length of her hair to one side when they stood here, before his disappearance. With much of her hair gone, it does not cascade down her back and chest the way it used to, but rather bounces free in loose curls around her shoulder. She cut it one morning with a pair of Muggle scissors in a fit of grief when she looked in this very mirror and for a moment, expected him to be there to brush her hair out of her way. It was his absence in those small rituals that hurt the worst.
"I know," she murmurs, bringing her fingers up behind her to stroke his face. "I know. I'll grow it out again. I can do it now…?"
Mirror-Harry's lids slide closed for a moment and he leans into her hand like a cat seeking touch.
"I like it," he says finally. "I like your hair any way you have it."
From any other man it would seem like an empty placation, an offhanded remark in the same vein as a dismissive non-reply to a do-I-look-fat-in-this trap of a question, but the earnestness in his eyes and voice fill her with affection and wonder. Wonder, that he's been through so much, that the world has shifted underneath his feet once again, and yet he's not trying to run from it any more. Not trying to put things back as they were, nor mourning the loss of what might have been of their wedding, honeymoon, these weeks they should have spent reveling in their married life instead of slowly reclaiming life itself. The changes may still catch him by surprise, but she realizes, that doesn't mean he's not ready – enthusiastically ready – to move forward and meet what comes.
Her heart beats steadily but her lungs can't seem to get their usual measure of air, the satin embrace of the corset working its magic and he moves closer, unable to resist, and she can't either, tilting her head back in need and invitation of his kiss. He obliges gladly, his hands sliding over the tightly-laced bodice, gripping momentarily at her waist, gliding past the flare of her hips until he meets bare skin. Pushing underneath the tightness of the garment, his fingers grip her hips roughly, in a way that's sure to leave bruises – ones she's missed the last three months, dearly – and a moan escapes from her into his mouth, lost between them as a faint vibration.
They kiss slowly and passionately, her arm wrapping around the back of his neck behind her, his confining her with all the strength and gentleness in the world. Her head begins to spin a bit and she's dizzy with both desire and the shallowness of her breath. It's an unexpectedly lovely sensation. She knows she's in no danger, her breathing's not that restricted, but it's enough to make her pleasantly lightheaded and hypersensitive to his touch. He breaks their kiss, apologizing with a suckle to the back of her neck and a wicked smirk to her reflection.
There's a moment, then, when he stares at her and she at him, a battle neither will call win or loss, but he ends it first, sinking with a slight cringe to his knees and spinning her to face him, but not before pressing a kiss and leaving a bite to the lightly curved cheek of her arse in a way that makes her gasp for air she can't find.
"I'm going to taste you now, Hermione," he states matter-of-factly. She barely has time to process this statement of intent before his hands clasp round her thighs, urging her legs apart and she dimly obeys. His mouth closes over her, sucking her already wet center through the lace of her thong, the sensation so overwhelming after so long without it that – in partnership with the restriction of the corset – it doubles her over, forces her to brace her palm on his shoulder, her free hand thrusting into his thick, ottery hair for comfort. One and two tension-snapping releases of the suspenders, three and four, and he's dragging the soaked scrap of lace down her legs with maddening leisure as she stares down at him, his wicked eyes never leaving hers.
She steps out of her panties and waits expectantly for the return of his mouth, but it doesn't come immediately. Instead, he drags his long, spidery fingers through her slick center, gathering up the sweet-tart fluids that flow readily, another flare of desire bringing her breathlessly curling into herself as she watches him suck two digits into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed for a moment at the taste of her. Impulsively, she rips his hand away, cleaning what's left, crying out in her dazed state when he forces his tongue into her without preamble.
Orgasm hitting her instantaneously, she rakes her teeth across his knuckles, screams his name, pulls his hair as she grasps at something – anything – to keep her upright. Her body constricts all on its own, winds up so tight it breaks, sending her scattering to pieces and her ripe form trembling with waves of pleasure-pain. Being bent at the waist makes the difficult task of getting oxygen even moreso, and at last she jerks back, jutting her chest out and trying to take deep breaths, but she just fucking can't. All she can do is push her cunt to his mouth, blindly seeking more while wanting to pull away from too-much in the same moment. He decides for her. Too-much it is. Harry is relentless. He flicks his tongue rapidly against her clit and her knees buckle from underneath her with the force of a second orgasm she doesn't see coming – can't predict in the slightest – before the first has even broken.
Sinking to the floor on her knees in front of him with a sharp inhale and a pitiful whine, she receives a sharp slap on her arse from her lover, irritated at his succulent treat being taken from his mouth too soon. Fingers fisting in her hair again now that she's on his level, he drags her forward for a rough kiss. The button of his trousers is stubborn and she lets out a breathless exclamation of rage, despising it from keeping her from her present a second longer. Finally it budges and she yanks the zipper down with no finesse, shoving his trousers and boxers down and watching his blood-darkened, swollen cock spring free.
Weakly, she helps him from his shirt, seizing it and flinging it onto the bed somewhere behind them. Regaining some composure with the temporary ceasefire of his assault, she examines him in the mirror, watches the free rise and fall of his chest in contrast to hers, the sharp movements of the short breaths she can manage accentuating her breasts. She moans quietly at the barely-controlled look in his stare, the slight shimmer of wetness around his mouth from what he's just done to her. The grip he has on her hair never falters, and before she's had time to gather her pieces back together, he's back on her.
Harry pulls her knees apart with his own, the obscene position she's in only tightening the corset around her as her hips shift to display the pink center of her to him. He grunts thickly, cupping her sex with one hand just long enough to set off another searing aftershock and soak his palm in her sweet-tangerine slickness. Harry strokes himself roughly a few times, his eyes never leaving hers, before moving the hand in her hair down to her dripping, grasping heat, pushing two fingers into her and circling her clit with his thumb. He sets a slow pace, fingers fucking her, training her on what's to come, and it's all too much.
She's still too full and sensitive from the first two and he's showing her no mercy. It's all she can do just to keep upright and emit a steady stream of whimpers mixed with incoherent pleas: begging him to stop, begging him not to stop, begging him to fuck her already, begging him to make her come.
"Come, then!" he snarls at her, the raggedness of his treatment to his cock saying he's not far behind, "come, now, Hermione!"
The world fizzes out into darkness with a curl of his fingers.
She's sure mere seconds have passed, but it feels like longer. The next thing she's aware of is her cheek pressed into the fibers of the rug, searching for any air to replace what's been squeezed out of her lungs by the constriction of her breasts and waist and the force of the orgasms. He's blurry in her vision, but unmoving and watching her with fascination, his fingers still curled inside her. Hermione manages a frail smile of enervation, her eyes flickering to the now-stilled hand on his swollen cock.
"Please," she manages, because it's all she can think, all she can say. He complies, unable to deny her, unwilling to be denied himself.
Moving with a grace and confidence she sees in him only in battle or when they're fucking, he's behind her in an instant, his bony knees mercifully cushioned by the soft rug she's laid on. Her lover grabs her hips, smiling at her devilish and dark in the mirror, pulling her onto her hands and knees. She's transfixed by the way they look, the way the corset and stockings frame her center, bright pink and dripping, her wetness all over her thighs.
Jointing his hips to the slender curve of her arse, he positions himself and spreads her with his blunt head, setting off spasms and making her moan softly as she struggles to keep her gaze up. Evidently he is displeased when she lets it drop, pulling her head up by her hair again and forcing her to watch them, watch his thick cock spread her and disappear inside her, watch her reflection gaze at his with the sinful combination of adoration and lust, all topped off with a hint of her ever-present fire.
"You like this, love?" Harry rasps, the arm around her waist and hips holding her immobile, binding overtop of binding, as he slowly thrusts in and out of her. "You like being all wrapped up for me?"
Merlin, does she ever. Everything is heightened, tight. His hand in her hair, the squeezing of her breasts, the pressure against her nipples, the cinching at her waist, the anchor of his arm around her hips. Watching his cock sink into the constriction of her cunt like she's encased in the constriction of her new favourite toy, it's almost too much by itself.
"Yesss..." she hisses, "if you're a good boy I'll let you unwrap me too."
Raising her by his hold on her hair, he brings her upright, her back flush against his chest with only his arm holding her up as he fucks her. Her heart beats rapidly in its cage, she feels its thick pulse absolutely everywhere now: her lips, her throat, her sex, her fingertips. They're stunning together – they always are – but she had no idea, no idea, what a difference this bit of satin and velvet and leather would make, how perfectly it would showcase her, how powerful it made her feel even while he was thoroughly in charge.
"What would I have to do to earn that," - a perfectly-angled thrust elicits a short scream from her - "privilege?"
She growls, not coherent enough now from the swimming in her head, the burn of desire radiating through her body from where they're joined, the need for more, to find a witty comeback.
"Just fuck me, Harry," she resorts to begging again, "god, hard, please, I nee-" her attempt at keeping up their banter cuts off into a staccato of screams as he complies instantly with her request, setting a brutal pace and quickly finding the spot deep inside her that shuts her up every time. He pounds into her with abandon, never closing his eyes, watching them in the mirror. Seeing him bury himself inside her and how she stretches to grip and accommodate him, the curl of his lips into something between a snarl and a grin, the sheen of sweat covering them both, the way her legs spread for him, the tasteful pornography of the corset; such a pretty image. They rock together, focused on the pictures they're playing in front of them, the rhythm of him into her.
Thrusting harder, the slap of his hips to her arse joins the chorus of her screams and gasps, the wet sounds of their connection, the filth that pours from his mouth as he stares directly at them and tells her all the things he wants to do to her, this and so much more. She knows he's close, knows he's barreling towards his end, knows he's going to come in her and god she wants it, needs it, can't wait for the feeling of his release inside of her.
"Gonna come in you, love," Harry warns almost arrogantly, and she spasms around him, her body pleading as much as her whines and moans, "good girl. My perfect, gorgeous present, wrapped up like a toy on Christmas morning," the sheer possession and pride he has for her makes her clench around him, a strike of his thick head inside her is all it takes to send her spiraling back into airless oblivion. She claws at him wildly, any skin she can, sure she's making him bleed but secure in the knowledge that he is fully whole and healthy and hers, and that a few marks on his newly-healed skin are marks of joy rather than endurance. The edges of the world begin to fizz towards black again.
"Please, Harry," she sobs, managing only a whisper in her state, "please, come in your pretty little toy..."
He consumes her body in his grip, an explosive reaction to hearing her call herself his toy, bringing a loud, feral growl out of him as he comes, grinding into her roughly the whole time as his release coats her inside, overflows, forced out with every thrust.
"Merlin, Hermione," he pants out raggedly, hips still jerking erratically in time with the last of his release, determined not to deprive her of a single drop, "so fucking good, sweetheart..." the endearment returns to him as they float back down to earth together. He releases his grip in her hair, stroking her cheek but still unable to look away from their reflection, as if he could look at her forever and it would still never be enough.
Their breathing slows, his guiding hers back to something close to normal. Harry begins tracing the slope of her nose, an act he knows from experience always calms her, makes her feel cherished. Hermione's eyes finally flutter closed on this image in the mirror. If she must someday choose, she thinks this is the moment of today that she wants woven into her memory for the rest of time: the two of them still joined in the most intimate of ways, his come coating her, the blooming welts and scratches and bruises they've left on each other on full display, juxtaposed with Harry's expression of such raw tenderness and adoration, and her satiation. It's right. It's everything.
All she can do is nod tiredly, follow bonelessly when he moves her, his chest supporting her upper body while a hand snakes into the non-existent space between them, yanking the leather laces undone and allowing the corset to loosen at last. She sighs with relief and the oxygen floods back into her good-sore body, and she finds the energy to seek him again.
His lips greet hers, soft and sweet, and Hermione manages to shift her legs out from under her, his knees parting in invitation for her to settle between them and simply enjoy the comfort of each others' presence as they come down.
Much later, a weak shiver runs through her as the sweat on her skin begins to cool in the drafty home. It takes a supreme effort to rise and move, though only to move as far as their hopelessly-rumpled bed. He helps her out of the corset with the precision and childlike excitement she anticipated, uncovering her slowly. When she's bare at last, he works carefully, folding the garment lovingly and admiring the detail of the piece before putting it on the bedside table with the stockings she's toed off with a haste that made him scowl with feigned disapproval.
She cranes her neck back, seeking him again, and he rushes to oblige her, breathes the air of life and hope and laughter back into her with a tender stroke into her mouth. His shaking fingers play on the side of her face; the tremors he was unable to rid himself of completely, which George and the healers at St. Mungo's theorize may always be a part of him now, angered and disappointed him during during his recovery, and she knows he still thinks of them proof that he has not fully healed. Hermione finds herself growing to love them as proof of life instead. She lets him cradle her naked body as they make out lazily in the still and colourless early morning gloom, every slide of their twisting tongues laced with a desire and wholeness that aches, she is infinitely glad she saved this pleasure for now. Though it's not an occasion she ever planned on having to wait for, it was worth the wait. He's worth the wait, always has been, will be a thousand times over.
"What do you want to do today?" he mutters against her cheek.
"Mmm," she purrs, "I don't care. It's Saturday." No work. She'd probably skive even if she had. Harry always activates a not-so-deeply buried rebellious streak in her, after all.
Harry doesn't respond for a while, seeming content for nearly an hour to let what little conversation about the day's plans there'd been drop without resolution, lost in happy thoughts as his fingers drum idly on her ribcage and card through her wild curls.
"Let's go to the Ministry tonight and get married."
He says it as if it's a suggestion that they grab ice cream at Fortescue's or go for a walk in Hyde Park. Like it's just something nice he'd like to do today with her. Like they hadn't planned for months before their wedding that wasn't, like they hadn't had contingency plans involving Hippogriff tranquilizers for Mrs. Weasley if she got to be too much, like they hadn't carefully planned how to seat her parents among Muggle-friendly wizards or minimize their exposure to outright magic given that they were still wary of it, like they hadn't argued over Petunia Dursley's inclusion (Harry's kindness astounded her) or exclusion (Hermione would never, ever forgive her) on the invite list.
No catering, no guest list, no big overly-embellished dress her mum had tearfully pleaded with her to buy, no professional photographer. Harry's already seen her today – and oh, has he seen her – so that pointless tradition's out the window too. Perhaps they'll call Nev, Ron, and Luna as witnesses and celebrate with a shot of that dodgy concoction Charlie gave them, before returning home to this sanctuary once more. Eloping now on an ordinary Saturday in November would mean denying the Wizarding public and the blasted Prophet the now-even-more highly anticipated Wedding of the Century. (As they're less than a decade into the century, Hermione thinks this is a rather presumptuous declaration anyway.) A rush of vindictive pleasure shimmies through her at the thought of depriving the press – Rita Skeeter particularly – of the story altogether. Let them find out during one of the regular searches of their names in the Ministry's records they conduct, hoping to uncover the slightest hint of new gossip or skeletons in their closets. Or they could be proactive and sell the story and whatever photos they take to Luna at the Quibbler for three Knuts, on the condition they don't sell to anyone else and print exclusively.
It sounds like the most wonderful wedding in the world to her.
She can feel her smile spread so wide it nearly hurts, and she must be giving him a sappy look most unlike her usual ones, but finds she doesn't care at all. He returns it in spades, as if he already knows she'll say yes. Who is she kidding, of course he knows.
"Mmkay," Hermione murmurs into a kiss she's pressing to his collarbone, squirming closer into his embrace by way of answer. The corset and accessories were a wedding present after all, she concludes. She just hadn't known it a few hours ago. They've done things a bit backwards today, but they always get there in the end.
Thank you for reading. Comments and constructive criticisms greatly appreciated! And if you will excuse me, I need a very strong cup of coffee and a nap now to deal with the nerves of posting smut where other humans can read it.