Chapter 44
Harry
Fuck.
I slam the door behind me, the hard smack of it closing doing nothing to calm the anxiety crawling over my skin.
Our warded bedroom is enormous, but I feel trapped and cornered. I need to run, to fly. To grab Hermione and stick her on my broom and get as far away as possible. I pace the open area instead, trying to kill the panic coursing through my blood. Yanking my glasses off, I rub my palms into my eye sockets, pushing at the pressure building behind my eyes. I screwed up. I screwed up so bleeding bad. There were so many people in that kitchen, and I just…
Snape, that bloody bastard, was at the fucking table.
"FUCK!"
A wave of raw magic bursts from me, and the chairs around our tiny table, now clear and back to its original size, topple over at the unleashed energy into the air.
"Go away, Ron," I snap when I hear the door open.
"Yeah, and let you destroy half the house in a fit of pique? I don't think so. It's literally my job description to keep you from self-destructing."
Mockery is dripping from his voice.
I quickly grab my glasses and place them on my face as I whip my wand out and shoot a banishing hex at him, intending to force him from my bedroom. He has a physical shield raised on his arm quicker than I can blink. The spell rebounds, and I duck at the same time Ron twirls his wand and pulls it into his body, and a loop tightens on my right ankle and yanks my foot out from underneath me. I end up sprawled on my back, looking up at a smirking Ron who places his socked foot on the middle of my chest.
I debate my options on how to best thrash him, but Ron must see it flare behind my eyes because he grinds his heel into my breastbone and straightens his wand arm until his wand is pointed at my balls.
Matchpoint to Ron.
"Now we could throw hexes at each other all night, or you can tell me what your actual problem is; because that was a pretty extreme reaction from just being told you can share a room with your wife at school. Especially since if I'm remembering correctly, and stop me if I'm not, you threw a fit not two months ago when Mum tried to tell you that you couldn't share a room with her."
"That was impressive," I say despite myself. "You realize you did that spell nonverbally?"
"Thank you," he grins, peeking over his shield. "I can only do the defence spells. And only in the last few days. Don't tell 'Mione. She'll expect me to start using it for everything."
I huff out a laugh, knowing the truth in his words. She's become a right pain the closer we get to leaving for school, pressuring people to study and get ahead for their OWLS and NEWTS.
He reaches his hand down, shield still covering his vital organs, because Nate literally beat it into us to never let your guard down, and I let him help me to my feet. He slips his wand into its holster, and the shield vanishes as quickly as it arrived as we right the sideways chairs and take a seat at the table.
Only as soon as I sit down, the need to flee is so overwhelming I shove up from the chair again to return to the pacing of my bedroom.
"That wasn't an extreme reaction," I argue, at last, looking at him with stormy eyes. "An extreme reaction would have been cutting off McGonagall's head and slicing open the soft spot of Snape's belly to watch him bleed out over my kitchen table. Then, maybe flooing to Dumbledore's office and removing his limbs joint by joint. I simply—" Ron looks at me with an amused expression bare on his face. Panic is clawing at the back of my throat, and it's making it hard to breathe. Fuck, fuck, FUCK! "I can't lose her, Ron," I tell him emphatically. "Not again. The way I see it, my reaction was perfectly reasonable."
I can feel Ron's eyes on me, ever watching, as I stomp the length of the room before turning back and starting the other direction.
"What?" I sigh, unable to take his constant staring. He leans back in his chair, raising his hands in a sign of meekness.
"You tell me," he recommends, and my neck cracks with the amount of tension snaking up and down my spine. "There's more going on here than that."
Yeah. Like it's that easy.
"I don't think I can explain it," I tell him honestly.
His shoulders roll forward as his elbows go to rest on his knees.
"Try," he encourages, and suddenly I want to scream again. I don't know how to put into words the way I feel when I linger too long on thoughts of Hermione. I don't even know if there are words to describe it adequately."
"Elle me consume corps et âme," I sigh, then Ron and I both startle when I speak in French instead of English.
"That's new," Ron laughs.
"Hermione speaks French," I say unnecessarily. We both know where that came from. "I don't even know what I said," I lie.
She consumes me body and soul.
Ron links his fingers and taps his thumbs together, waiting for me to go on.
"You don't want to hear this," I assure him. I don't want to be feeling it. I don't understand it. Ron damn sure doesn't want to know about it.
"If you say something that disturbs me, I'll let you know. Promise."
He sounds so fucking heartfelt it hurts. It's not like him at all.
"I thought you had the emotional range of a teaspoon," I grumble under my breath.
Ron gives me a confused smile.
"Must have been the other me," he says with a shrug. "Or maybe, my best friends dying, coming back, getting married, and living under the constant threat of death has made me wise beyond my years."
I snort in surprised amusement at that rather philosophical response.
My chest aches with the burden of everything I stand to lose, and quite without realizing it, I've raised my hand to the middle of my sternum, attempting to rub the pain away. Unfortunately, this is a hurt that won't disappear so easily.
Fine. I slide into the chair I'd previously vacated.
"Malfoy gave Mi a gift, of sorts, of the journals written by the Bonded Mates among the Malfoy line."
I peek my eyes up at Ron, who gives me a silent nod of encouragement.
"I didn't read all of them. Mi did, but I didn't. We don't both need to read the same thing anymore, you know. She can read something, and I can read something, and we can each use the information the other learned. Which, Hermione thinks, is the best part of being Bonded Mates, by the way."
Ron chuckles, but it's a nasty sort of sound.
"What?" I ask, caught off guard by the change in his demeanour.
"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. Then he kind of growls at me. "Only it's bullshite that on top of everything else, now you don't even have to study. It's bad enough you're going to pass your OWLS no problem, if only because Hermione remembers what's on the tests, but now you basically...well, you get to cheat for the rest of your life."
I stare at him dumbfounded before I start to laugh. Merlin, he's so fucking stupid.
"You think that's the way this is going to work? Hermione is going to do all the studying, and I'll do what? Be off in a corner playing exploding snap. Spend all the time I used to devote to homework wanking or flying? You're bloody delusional, Ron. Hermione has an eidetic memory, and she's planning on using me as a second set of eyes to get in twice the amount of study time as she usually did. This is going to make school so much worse! She'll expect me at the library with her every day, for hours on end. History of Magic essays twice as long as the requirements. If I don't get O's on everything from now on, always, Hermione is going to throw a colossal fit!
"AND, despite the fact I technically know everything she does, half of it still doesn't make sense. Like Advanced Arithmancy. Or maybe that's just because I don't care about it the way she does. Equations are not my thing. I don't really enjoy gathering knowledge the way Hermione does. Not that that matters for this particular conversation…"
I shake my head, getting back on track. Merlin, now I'm even rambling like Hermione. Ron's eyes go wide as he realizes the truth of my words.
He throws his hands up in concession.
"Yeah, okay. I see your point. Double- edged sword, and all that. Forget I even said anything. You were talking about the journals?"
My headache is starting to spread behind my eyes. I massage my palm across my forehead.
Right. The journals...
"I did read the one, written by the bloke. He wasn't as loquacious as his Mate. He had two journals, compared to her, I don't remember how many. He talked about how intense the first few weeks were after the Binding sealed, but then how it sort of—tapered off? I don't know exactly how to describe it. Settled, I guess, is maybe a good word. After the first few weeks, the Bonds didn't consume him as they did at the start. He was able to return to his job; they were able to return to their regular life without their connection adversely affecting them.
"I should be used to it by now, Ron. It's been months. The Bonds are settled. Entrenched. But every day, every second, it feels as if the Bond is getting tighter. We are becoming more entwined. It…" I toss my glasses onto the table again and dig the heel of my palms into my eyes. "It terrifies me. I lay in bed at night and watch her chest as she breathes and feel her heartbeat thrumming along in the back of my head and wonder, will it ever get any easier? Will this need to touch her, t-to claim her ever loosen its hold on me? It's like a compulsion. And now I'm supposed to handle that surrounded by a thousand students and teachers who I can't trust?"
I reach out across our Bond and sense how heavy she feels. Tired, despondent, but oddly decisive as well. I consider slipping into her thoughts, seeing through her eyes, but discard it as swiftly as the idea comes. She's cleaning up the mess I made like she's done so many times before. I have no right to intrude on how she does that.
Even this though, being away from her just this much when I know she's burdened and unhappy…my hands spasm with the desire to wrap my arms around her and lift her load from her shoulders. To throw myself at her feet in apology for my fuckup and offer to protect her from the world.
"What does 'Mione think about it?" he asks, breaking into my maudlin thoughts.
What indeed?
I run both hands through my hair, trying to formulate a response.
"You know Hermione. She's all logic, and I mean that in the best way possible. She's always been the more pragmatic of the three of us, and me the more emotional, and the effects of the Bond have only made those differences starker. To her, the Bond is a-a tool to be learned, mastered, and manipulated to our best advantage. She's not wrong. Gods, I can't even imagine what would have been different if we'd had this connection last lifetime. But—" my hands are spasming over my knees with the need to feel her under my fingers. "I feel like the more control I gain, the less in control I am. I can kiss the constellation of freckles across her back and still feel like I'm not close enough to her. It's like the difference between free falling and flying. With one, you're in complete control of your actions and with the other, all you can do is pray. Yet, in both situations, you're zooming through the air.
"She's in my head, and in my blood, and still I need more. Loving Hermione is like a study of contradictions. It's too much while at the same time, not nearly enough."
My voice falters off, as my throat goes dry. I swallow roughly, trying to gather enough wetness in my mouth to continue. I still didn't really answer his question.
"She thinks I'm somehow fighting it. That I need to surrender to the Bond. That even when we…you know," I stutter with a blush. I resolutely refuse to look in Ron's direction. "I don't want to reach the end. In that case, I guess she's right, because why would I ever want that to end? Reaching the end just means I have to separate from her again, and that's the one thing I've come to despise most in this world. What she doesn't realize though is that succumbing to her was the easiest thing I've ever done. I don't need to surrender. I already did."
Elle me possède, corps et âme.
She owns me, body and soul.
"Despite what I said downstairs, kissing Hermione was the best thing I ever did. I can't believe it took me so long. I feel like a prat that I never kissed her before."
I finally raise my eyes, to see Ron staring at me with wide eyes. He gapes at me like a fish before he finally gains his voice.
"You are a besotted fool, aren't you?" Ron sympathizes.
Yes. Yes, I am.
"Yet, incredulously you thought you'd be okay being separated from Hermione at Hogwarts? Already you've set an impossible bar for every bloke in the castle. How are we supposed to measure up as boyfriends when Harry Potter, Bonded Mate, looks at his wife the way that you stare at 'Mione. I'm a little embarrassed for you Mate, to be honest. Still, though, I understand wanting to pretend the outside world doesn't exist, but not realizing the truth would come out when we went back to school was just stupid."
The anxiety is crawling back into my shoulders and my knee bounces in agitation. I shrug my shoulders in defeat, the action painful and jerky.
"I hadn't given what returning to Hogwarts would mean for us one bloody thought all summer. Obviously. Maybe I purposefully avoided thinking about it so that I didn't have to risk her outside the sanctuary we've built here. The idea of losing her again? That she could die, and I might possibly live through the process? Be forced to carry on without her?
"The thought of something happening to her simultaneously paralyzes me and makes me want to hunt Riddle down tonight and kill him with my bare hands, magic and prophecies be damned. I know she's not helpless. I know it. Of all the people we know, Sirius included, Hermione is the most capable of kicking someone's arse. Most people at school are petrified of her, for good reason. Remind me to tell you what she did to Umbridge last time. And when she was being tortured for information on us and on the sword? Fuck Ron. It was unbelievable. Bellatrix mutilated her with a knife and tortured her with the Cruciatus curse, and yet Hermione never stopped screaming the lie. But still…"
"You can stop, please," he begs. Ron is panting in his chair, fist- clenching on his knee so hard his knuckles are white. He closes his eyes and takes a calming breath before he looks me in the eye again. "I get it, okay. I get it. The thought of her falling into enemy hands is an irrational fear that's not all that irrational."
He shakes his head like a dog shedding water.
"Merlin, I'm so glad they didn't send me back too," he mumbles almost too low for me to catch it. "I'm going to have to Scourgify my brain of those images before I try to sleep tonight."
I look at him from over my clasped hands and jerkily shake my head. Now he knows what I deal with every time I close my eyes.
"Thanks. That's brilliant. Loads of help."
Ron leans back in his chair with his elbow on the table and taps his thumb against the wood. He summons a plate of biscuits and takes an impressively big bite. Crumbs sprinkle over his front, and he chews like a mad man for a moment until his mouth is clear enough to talk.
"The way I see it, we have a couple of options. First, and really the most obvious option is you could kill yourself."
A noise sounding something like a blast ended skrewt claws from my chest and I jerk like I've been slapped.
"Excuse me? How does dying solve this problem?"
Ron gives a little shrug like it makes all the sense in the world to him.
"Well, your death is what triggered this timeline. Isn't that what you and Hermione call it? A new timeline?"
I nod my head in agreement.
"Then your death will trigger another one. Die, ask for another re-do, and don't seal the Bond. Better yet, to be safe, cut her off completely. The minute you come to, kick Hermione to the curb. Tell her she's an insufferable, know-it-all swot, and you don't understand how we were ever friends with her, to begin with. Honestly, the best thing to do would be to ask your Death, thingy, person, to send you all the way back to First Year, and never become friends with her at all. I'm not suggesting we let the Troll eat her, but it's a possibility. Hell, we might even be able to find a way to take out all the Horcruxes before he regains his body and stop the entire thing from happening."
I stare at him flabbergasted. That's—that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.
"Besides the fact that it would destroy her not to have us as friends, since we were basically her only ones for a while, we wouldn't survive a week without Hermione. You know that as well as I do. Think of all the trouble she's pulled our arses out of over the years. How would you expect a twelve-year-old version of you and me to hunt down and destroy Horcruxes without Hermione? That's just barmey, Ron. Completely nutters. Not to mention, I have no desire to go through puberty for a second time. Being fifteen again sucks enough."
Ron grins at me full out for the first time since I lost my shit in the kitchen.
"Yeah, I do know that Mate. Just wanted to make sure you did too."
I scoff at the reverse psychology of it all. Okay. I need Hermione. I know it, she knows it, we all know it.
Next.
"So, option number one, I kill myself. Not a scenario I'm all that chuffed about to be honest. Suggestions for option number two?"
Ron takes another bite of biscuit, shrugging his shoulders in a nonchalant kind of way.
"Surrender to it."
Really? This again?
Ron wipes the crumbs off his face and meets my eye.
"I don't mean submit to the Bond. I mean concede to the fact that you're probably always going to feel this way in some shape or form. Make peace with the fact that you love your wife, and that's probably going to make you do stupid things from time to time—Like rattle the walls with overwhelming power and confess to a room full of people that you've been reincarnated. Add in a healthy dose of magic and biology, and I think you're stuck this way."
"That's a lot of really big words, Ron. Are you sure you aren't being possessed? Do I need to check the back of your head for a Dark Lord of some sort sharing your body?"
Ron twists on his seat, showing me his back and flipping me the bird simultaneously.
There's a recognizable loosening to my muscles that tells me Hermione must be drinking. I don't know why I didn't think of that. Tension that's been making my muscles quiver suddenly slips from my shoulders like rain off a rooftop. The witch is a bloody genius.
I guess it's like that prayer thing Mrs. Figg used to say. Change the things I can, accept the things I can't, and recognize the difference. The silence between us lightens, until we're both sitting and smiling, rather than scowling and near tears.
"How'd you know it was me anyway?" he asks, and I lean back in my chair and run my fingers through my hair. "When I first came in," he adds in case I didn't know what he meant.
"Hermione's still in the kitchen," I say distractedly. "Drinking, from the feel of it. Nope. Now, she's on the move."
She's going to kill me. Actually, kill me. I won't have to kill myself to reset the timeline because Hermione will do it for me. Though, she doesn't feel angry at all. More resigned than anything else. Determined.
Ron shakes his head, a bemused half-smile on his face.
"I've seen you use that trick all summer but that knowing where she is at all times thing is still seriously freaky, you know."
"I like it," I admit, feeling Hermione travel through the house. She ends up in Sirius's study. Curious.
"I know you do. I'll never understand that. The thought of living inside Hermione's mind is petrifying to me."
I have to laugh, even if the sound is dark and harsh.
"Yeah. But remember. She has to live inside mine too." I tap myself on the temple.
Ron visibly shudders. I've finally run out of words and so wait for Ron to break the peace and acknowledge the hippogriff in the corner.
"Say it," I demand when the silence gets too thick between us.
"You just confirmed for everyone in the house that you're from the future," he says bluntly with his hands in his pockets.
"I figured that out for myself, funny enough. Any other helpful advice?"
"Advice? No. But—"
Ron takes a breath, gathering his courage.
"I don't think it really matters."
I stare at him agog, not following his line of thought at all. Rubbing the back of my neck to work out the knots, I lean back in my chair.
"You'll have to explain that one to me, Mate. Because I don't understand."
"I don't think it matters," he repeats. "The only people in the kitchen who hadn't sworn fealty to you were Snape and McGonagall, and I'm positive they each have sworn an oath to Dumbledore. Snape, you're planning to kill, and I bet McGonagall would swear to you if you asked her."
Not happening. Am I going to kill Snape? Undetermined, but still a distinct possibility.
"Every person in this house either already knew, or suspected." Ron scratches at his chin. "I mean, give us some credit. Either you've become a seer, or you've got information from someplace that even Dumbledore and Snape didn't know about. 'Don't ask me how I know, but there's going to be a breakout from Azkaban?' Come on, Harry.
"What's more plausible, that you could take over for Professor Trelawney, or that you've died and come back to the past. Because, between you and me, I would lean towards dying and coming back."
"And you think, in your infinite wisdom, that the entire residence already suspected that Hermione and I are from the future?"
"I think," Ron emphasizes, "that once the shock of your rather impressive outburst wears off, these past few months are going to make a lot more sense to people. Like Mum, who still gets cringy when she sees you and Hermione come down for breakfast together knowing you two slept in the same bed. But in your mind, you're already of age, and Hermione is your wife. You've been through something together that very few people, if any, could ever understand. Maybe now they will."
He shrugs, and a blush lightly covers his cheeks.
"Simple as that huh?" I chuckle.
"Simple as that," he confirms.
"How'd you get so smart?" I wonder aloud, thankful that despite our differences, we always make up in the end. This is why I told him about what happened to Hermione and me. Ron keeps me sane.
"Spent a lot more time in the library," he shudders, and I laugh along with him. Or maybe I'm laughing at him.
I feel better, as impossible as that sounds. Calmer, at least, about admitting the truth to the world.
"Speaking of Hogwarts," I say offhandedly, trying to pull the conversation away from the uncomfortable topic of my wife and me. "Did I ever tell you; you were Keeper from Fifth Year on?"
Ron's eyes light up, and he jerks forward in his chair.
"Seriously?" he demands.
"Yup," I confirm with a grin. "So long as everything holds true, Angelina will be captain, and you steal the Keeper position right out from under McLaggen's nose."
"Stupid git," Ron growls, and I quietly agree. "Will you still be on the team this year?"
It's my turn to shrug.
"It might be a nice break. Especially if practices run at the same time Mi is taking lessons with Snape. I wasn't particularly looking forward to lounging in the dungeons once a week to watch her brew. She wasn't either. We had a massive row about it. Now that Malfoy will be with her, maybe I can give up my supervision duties. If Malfoy had to choose between Hermione and Snape, I'm sure he'd choose Hermione."
Ron makes a disgusted face.
"You seriously think it's a good idea to trust Malfoy? I mean, I know he oathed and all, but I still don't trust him."
Hermione is on the move again, slowly making her way to our portion of the townhouse.
"He bent the knee to her as well," I tell him, and Ron makes a whatever motion with his hand. I shake my head and smirk at him. "No. I mean, Draco Malfoy, pureblood bigot and wizarding scion, swore his fealty without caveat. Not 'I'm on your side until the Dark Lord's death,'" I say sarcastically. "He told her that I had a second, and she needed one too. He swore to be her man until she released him from his oath or until death took him. Whichever happens first."
I chuckle darkly at Ron's nonplussed expression. If his jaw drops any wider, he's going to drool.
"Frankly, Ron, I trust him with her more than you, Mate. They've got this weird, symbiotic master/slave bond, whatever, thing going on that's more than a little bit freaky. He yields to her, I don't know...superiority? Dominance? Something that ranks her above him in the grand scheme of things. But it's still Malfoy, so he only submits enough to ensure he's not crossing that invisible line that his oath drew in the sand.
"She thinks she can make him a more palatable human being; he thinks he can make her some type of devious wizarding queen the purebloods will have no choice but to take seriously, with him as her right hand of course."
"Of course," Ron sneers.
"And in the meantime, we're forced to watch as they try to one-up the other while guarding each other's backs." Ron looks dizzy trying to work through the puzzle of Malfoy's and Hermione's blossoming friendship. "If nothing else, it'll make for an interesting school year."
The door pushes open, and Hermione saddles through, looking much looser than I anticipated. Then I put my glasses back on and zero in on the Firewhiskey bottle in her hand, and realize the reason I feel so much better may have more to do with Hermione's drinking than Ron's sudden emotional maturity.
Ron immediately climbs to his feet, stretching his arms over his head.
"This is where I leave you," he says, and squeezes my shoulder in support. I place my hand over his, and give him a squeeze in return.
"Thanks, Ron," I say quietly, hoping he knows that he helped, even a little.
"No problem," he assures me, before turning towards my wife. Hermione wraps her arms around him, and their height difference is so severe that he can rest his chin on her head.
"Thank you for taking care of him," she whispers, and Ron kisses her on the top of her head, before letting himself out of our room, and quietly shutting the door behind him.
She finishes walking to the table, and places the almost empty bottle of Firewhiskey down with a thump. I know she didn't drink all that because I'd feel it if she did. She reaches into each of her pockets, and pulls out two identical vials of potions. They're labelled, but facing away from me, so I can't see what they are. Hermione twists the lid off the Firewhiskey, and when I decline the bottle, she takes a swig instead. The sensation of my muscles unclenching, even more, gives me a loopy sort of smile.
Next, she hands me one of the vials, and I pop it without question. Immediately my headache eases into nothing.
"I'm so sorry," I start, gearing up to throw myself on my sword. Literally, if need be. I scoot to the edge of my seat and reach my hands out towards my wife. "I don't know what happened downstairs. I didn't mean to lose it like that. Please forgive me."
Hermione doesn't even glance at me as she moves around the bedroom.
"Ummm, Mi?" I prompt, only to be ignored completely. She walks over to the hamper and removes her leggings then drops them into the empty basket. Her shirt is one of mine, and therefore still covers her bum. Unfortunately. I know for a fact she's wearing lace baby blue knickers today, matching the bra she put on this morning. She moves to the sound system her parents gave us and browses through the shelves of records until she finds the one she wants. I don't see the title, but the word Sinatra is written in white lettering. With the ease of someone long familiar with handling vinyl, she slips it onto the turntable. Music immediately begins drifting from the speakers, and Mi takes both of my hands in hers and hauls me from the chair.
"What are you doing?" I ask through halting laughter as she drags me to the open space between the couch and the fireplace. It sounds like a song from the old movies that Aunt Petunia used to watch; black and white with couples dancing across the screen.
Hermione drapes one of her arms across my shoulders and keeps her fingers linked with my other hand, holding them between our barely touching chests. She's light on her feet, a lifetime of dance lessons shining through. She sways her hips from side to side, alternating her weight from foot to foot, and unconsciously I sway with her. Her lifetime of dance lessons making me light on my feet too.
"Remember when we danced in the tent? We were miserable, but for those few minutes, it was just you and me, and we were happy and together. I don't want to talk about what happened in the kitchen. Not yet anyway. Dance with me, Harry, and we'll worry about everything else tomorrow."
She twirls herself out, so our arms are stretched as far as they'll go, and when I tug at her, she twirls into me until her back is against my chest.
Cause it's Witchcraft Frank Sinatra croons from the speakers. Wicked Witchcraft.
I burst into laughter as Hermione twists in my arms, turning to face me once again.
"Really, Mi?" I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in ages. "Witchcraft?"
She's grinning ear to ear, and I dip her backwards before hauling her tight into my arms. The music swells, and we move in what little open space is available between us, my thigh between her legs, as we dance to the music.
"Why are you so good at this now?" she asks, delight on her face.
"Because you're good at it, love. How old were you when you started lessons?"
"Six," she confirms. "My parents thought it would help me socialize. It didn't, but I always liked it anyway."
It's such an ancient pitch
But one I wouldn't switch
'Cause there's no nicer witch than you
The music comes to an end, and we slow our movements until we're swaying in place, her hips snapping in time with the snapping of the record. I slip my hand down her thighs, then up the hem of her shirt, spreading my fingers wide against the small of her back.
"I love you," I tell her, dropping my forehead to hers.
"Take me to bed, Harry. Take me to bed tonight, and let's not worry about tomorrow."
I make it as far as the couch before I have her underneath me.
There are about a hundred different ways Hermione says my name.
There's plain old Harry. When her lips are turned up in a smile, and my name gets brought up in conversation. There's the way she says it when she breaks it down into multiple syllables, her exasperation with me evident. There's when she uses my full name, and everyone in the vicinity takes a small step back, because they know I've done something wrong, and my wife is one of the only people unafraid of telling me what it was.
Loudly.
Then there's when she sounds like this, and my name is like a breath in the air. A sigh and a caress. When it falls from her tongue with a broken gasp, and her limbs shudder from the sensations ripping through her.
That's how I like it the best. When she can't form words, yet my name still slips from her lips.
"Harry," she sighs, her hips rocking on my lap. Her skin is flushed a lovely pink, sweat coating her flesh. Her hair is a mess of curls and tangles, gathered in a knot at the top of her neck. Little strands fall loose and wild, sticking to her face and throat and breasts.
How could I not have surrendered my soul into her safekeeping, when she says my name like that?
She holds a hand to the back of my head, her nails scraping deliciously over my scalp and skin. The other hand is behind her, on my thigh, supporting her as she rides my cock. She presses me to her when I take her breast into my mouth. Her nipples are fat and hard. The flesh of her breast is red and heated from the scrape of my stubble and teeth and tongue.
"You're such a good girl," I say against her flushed skin, and Hermione whimpers and bucks, her hips snapping with extra force at the adulation.
I'm perched on the edge of the couch, my feet planted on the ground, giving Hermione a steady frame from which to ride me. The fire is roaring in the hearth, even though we cast cooling charms to keep us from melting this close to the flames. Even though I love making Hermione sweat.
Our bodies slide against one another from the heavy coating of our perspiration, and Hermione seems to glow in the firelight.
The lewdness of her moans is intoxicating when I run the flat of my tongue around her nipple. When I imprint my teeth into the softness of her curves and suck the swell of her breast between my lips.
I almost laugh at the thought that I haven't surrendered myself to this witch.
I could worship at her tits for hours. I plan on it, as a matter of fact. Every time I suck her nipple between my teeth and flick it with my tongue she cries out in pleasure, her back arching to bring her closer to me.
Her breasts are framed beautifully in my hand when I spread my fingers across her ribcage.
She's perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Hermione is so fucking lovely with her head thrown back and her eyes closed. All of her reservations are gone. All of her worries, and fears. The weight of the world that lays heavy on our shoulders is left outside our bedroom.
The only concern we have in our bedroom is how many times I can bring my wife to completion before I follow her myself.
After tonight, who knows when we'll feel this at peace again.
"Gods, Harry."
The way she says my name. It inflames me.
It's like a sigh. Or a prayer. Or maybe a thank you for a prayer answered. I can forget about everything else when Hermione says my name like that.
I can't decide where to touch her, and so touch her as much as I can in as many places as possible. As her hips lift, and my cock slips from her warmth, I fill my palms with her breasts. Spread my hands around her rib cage and feel her lungs expand with life.
When she lowers herself to take my length as deep inside her as possible, I grab her hips and force her down. Bruise my fingerprints into arse cheeks. I hate being separated from her. It causes me physical pain. But every time she's away from me, I want her to feel where I was inside her the night before.
She's covered in my markings if anyone dares to look. Of course, if they'd try, I'd kill them, so it would be the last thing they'd ever see. My marks are on her hip, and her breast, and her thigh. The crevice between her legs has a perfect impression of my teeth, because my girl is no wilting flower, and she likes it rough as often as she wants me worshipping at her feet.
The sounds of our lovemaking fill every corner of the room. Her sighs and her hisses. The smacking and sucking of my lips against her chest, and collarbones and shoulders. The slapping of skin against skin when she tightens her legs around my hips and speeds up her motions.
"Slow," I hiss, grabbing her hips and decreasing her rhythm. "Slow down, love. We've got time."
Her walls flutter and contract around my prick, and she whines my name in a glorious broken sound that makes my stomach muscles clench with need. She's so close. Her body is trembling in need. She's so close to the edge I could push her over with little more than a hard puff of air.
But I'm not ready for this to be over yet.
Another thing she's right about. I'm never ready for it to be over. I'd stay like this forever if we could.
"You have the most beautiful cunt," I mumble against her breast, as I slip my fingers against her clit. She jerks like I electrified her and her walls clench against my length. I lean back some and stare down the lines of our bodies, until I can see her wetness clinging to her curls and the way my dick disappears between her fat and swollen lips.
"Harry," she whines, and Merlin, how my name on her lips ignites me. "What are you doing to me?"
Hermione grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls, dragging a hiss from my lips. My back bows and my neck arches and my chin tilts up until I'm looking into her eyes.
I'm inches taller than her, a gap that grows every day, but when she's riding my cock like this, she towers a full head over me.
"Making love to my wife, as she requested."
"Gods, Harry," she says on a breath of air, before bringing her lips to mine. That beautiful fucking mouth that says the filthiest things that nobody gets to hear but me. If the others knew the way she swore when I was buried balls deep inside her, they'd fall over from shock.
Her kisses have deteriorated to that place I love them best. Wet and messy and lewd. She thrusts her tongue into my mouth and kisses me with the determination of a Niffler searching for treasure.
I pin her to me with an arm around her back and the other on her hips. I maybe throw a little bit of magic in as well, so she can't raise her hips any higher than they currently are. Instead, she rotates them in a circle, looking for the friction to send her over the edge.
"Slow," I breathe against her lips, and Hermione whines in a broken, desperate way.
I pull her bottom lip down with my thumb and she sucks it into her mouth. Her tongue twirls around the digit, and she scrapes her teeth against me, and against my wishes, my hips snap up to meet hers, and Hermione keens at the impact.
"That's cheating," I chastise her, as her hips speed up again. I grip her hips in both of my hands, spreading her spit over one, and slow her motions to a heavy drag of my dick inside her body. She squeezes me as tight as she can, her body going rigid then limp, as I force her to take me at my pace.
"Then stop tormenting me," Mi pleads. Her eyes are closed, and her hands are holding the back of my head as her hips twirl in little circles. Keeping a firm grip on the meat of her side, her quim moving up and down my length, tight and warm and deliciously lazy, I move my other hand back between us, searching out her pleasure.
Her fat little bud is so swollen and hot. I don't flick it fast and hard like she wants me to. I shove my thumb back into her mouth and let her suck on me for a moment, and once she releases it, press it against her clit. Slow and soft, I run my thumb over the bundle of nerves. I capture her lips in a kiss and coax my name from her lips as her body starts to tremble.
Surrender to the Bond. What a joke. I gave myself to it willingly, and this is my reward.
Hermione moans, deep and guttural, as her orgasm washes through her. It feels like a pane of glass that shatters, but doesn't scatter to the floor. Like a bulletproof window from Muggle movies, she cracks and splits, lightning bolts of frisson shooting out in every direction, but her pieces never fully break. They never spread across the floor in an ocean of spilt fragments. I can follow every arc of her orgasm when she quietly comes apart atop me.
With her legs around my hips and her arms wrapped loosely over my shoulders, I summon our bedding to the floor, then, together, we rise from the couch, and lay her flat in front of the fire. I cherish the moments I see her like this, her body bursting with life. I rest my hand between her breasts, sitting back on my knees, and her heart is fluttering like a snitch in flight.
She's soft and pliable, limbs made loose from our release. I cup her sex in my hand and grind the heel of my palm into her clit and watch her twitch with aftershocks. Her head thrashes from side to side, and she clenches at the bedding until her knuckles go white. Her thighs are covered with our sex, and I want to lick her clean of it.
My hands shake with the overwhelming urge to mark her, and claim her and lock her inside so no one can take her away from me. There's blood pouring from her...her throat, and her arms. In a matter of hours, we'll be on the train with no glamours and no protection and—
"Hey," she says softly, pushing up onto her elbows. I blink a slow blink, and Hermione, my wife, comes back into focus, pushing out the nightmarish version of her dead on the floor. Just the sound of her voice pulls me out of my spiral. She reaches out a hand for me, and I lean forward until she cups my face in her palm. "It's not a now or never situation, Harry. You have to have faith that no matter what happens in the future, we'll find ourselves right back here again. Bound forever, remember? Together through time and space. I was born to be your other half. What happened tonight doesn't matter. What happens tomorrow doesn't either. I am yours, and you are mine, and nothing can take that from you, Harry. Not Voldemort. Not the Death Eaters. Not even death."
I think the Bond is affecting my vision, because even with my glasses on the bedside table and with the layer of moisture coating my eyes, I've never seen her clearer.
"You don't need to surrender to the Bond, Harry. You need to surrender to the fear eating you from the inside out. Admit to it, release it, and let us live our lives. Because if we hide in fear, locked away in our ivory tower, then Voldemort, and Dumbledore, and every person who has ever tried to control you wins. Simple as that. Surrender your fear, and trust that we, together, will be enough to overcome everything else."
She swipes her thumb across my cheek and wipes away the single tear.
"That easy?" I ask her, my voice shaking and rough. My heart is pounding out of my chest, and it has nothing to do with my bare wife spread out beneath me. Trust that even if we die, we'll find each other again. Can it really be that simple?
I'm still rock hard. Maybe harder than I've ever been in my life. Hermione releases my face and settles onto the blankets, and I line myself up with her entrance. She sighs and I groan, as I sink myself inside her. I fall, collapse, surrender myself across her chest and catch my weight with my hands on the floor. Her feet link against the small of my back, closing what little space remains between us.
"I didn't say it would be easy," she whispers quietly. "But you've defeated the Darkest Wizard ever born half a dozen times now. Certainly, it should be easier than that."
My breath escapes me in a puff, that maybe in another life could have been construed as a laugh before it morphs into a moan of silent submission.
She feels so good. So right. So perfect.
"Harry," she sighs, like a breath of fresh air breathing life into my fractured psyche, and I turn my head and catch her mouth, silencing even my name from her lips.
Hermione clutches at me, gasping and arching her back. Her skin is so hot, it's burning. The smell of our sex is like a drug, spurning me on faster, harder. I pull out and thrust back in and Hermione stretches around me.
"Surrender," she says.
Already I'm on the precipice. I hold my weight on my forearm and slip a hand under her arse, cupping the soft mound and angling her hips so I can sink that much deeper inside her. I bury my face in her throat, kissing and sucking and breathing in her intoxicating scent. Her walls clench and swell around me until the tingling at the base of my spine bursts into a million different directions and I stiffen in her arms.
My release triggers hers, and she gasps against my ear, her nails digging into my back as she clutches me to her breast. Her heels dig into my back, her arms up under my armpits, and I swear she's stolen my strength because she holds me so tight, I can barely breathe.
Our hearts now feel like two snitches, chasing the other through the air. I slide from her warmth when I begin to soften, and turn onto my side, pulling her into my arms. She's facing me and shoves a leg between my knees before throwing the other around my hip. My prick gives a feeble twitch, tormented at being this close yet not inside her. She magics the sheet to cover us, though we're dripping with sweat and everything else.
I can't imagine anything more perfect.
We were meant to be. Even death can't change that.
"Better?" she asks when our breathing almost returns to normal.
I think about it for a moment, wanting to answer her with the truth.
"Better," I confirm, meaning it for the first time all summer. I do feel better. Lighter, somehow. This time I don't think I can blame it on the alcohol.
Maybe the fear of losing her will never go away. But I can't let it run our lives.
She dozes for a little while, and when she comes back round, that familiar thread of determination is thrumming in the back of my head. My eyes flick to the bedside table where I squint to see the clock, and it's after midnight. Tomorrow is here.
"I did a thing," she says into the silence, then cringes at the sound of her own voice. Her hands are tucked under her cheek, my arm under our pillow, and I've spent the last twenty minutes tracing her form with my fingers.
I smirk at her aversion.
"Are you going to tell me, or do I have to seek it out?"
Her nose scrunches in the most adorable way, and she shies away as if waiting for a blow.
"Why don't you already know? It would be so much easier if I didn't have to tell you stuff like this."
Stuff she's embarrassed to say out loud, she means.
"Because I'm not an eavesdropper like somebody I know. I value my wife's independence and autonomy. Besides, I like listening to you talk."
She rolls her eyes, then scoots a little closer to me, tangling her feet with mine.
"I didn't eavesdrop. I was too busy dealing with the unexploded bomb you left in your wake in the kitchen to split my attention and listen in on you and Ron. I simply gleaned a summary of your conversation to ensure that you were in an okay headspace before I moved onto the next step of my plan."
Gods, that sounds just like her. I can't help but smile.
"I am sorry about that."
Hermione simply shrugs. She pushes my fringe out of my eyes, my glasses having been restored to their rightful place across the bridge of my nose when she drifted off to nap.
"Don't worry about it. I took care of the blowback. I told them all the truth."
Mid-breath, it goes down the wrong pipe, and I end up choking on air like a fucking moron.
"Excuse me?" I scrap out, sure I must have misunderstood her.
"Draco, naturally, asked me when we died. So, I told them."
She-she told them? Like it's no big deal? Like she didn't hit me upside the head, repeatedly, when I told Ron and Sirius, and then she tells everyone! Nausea swirls in my stomach, and I get lightheaded at the thought. She told them everything…
"Ow!" I exclaim when she pokes me in the chest. I rub my palm against the new bruise forming.
"Oh no, Harry James. YOU told everyone. I simply put it in perspective. I thought maybe it would help if I gave them a picture of what got your knickers in a twist. I think I was rather effective."
Visions of Draco vomiting in the sink and Mrs. Weasley sobbing in her husband's arms assail my vision. Yeah, I'd say she was effective.
She's getting defensive, then immediately gulps so loud they could have heard it in France. Her face scrunches up again.
"That wasn't the thing I was talking about though…the thing that I did."
I rub the bridge of my nose under my glasses. I'm getting a headache.
"Let's hear it then."
Hermione tugs on her fingers, before curling them into fists. That's not a good sign. She feels all twisty, nervous but convinced she's right.
"I broke the Fidelius and sent Rita Skeeter an owl," she says, then averts her gaze and lifts her shoulders to her ears to protect herself from my coming outburst.
I close my eyes and count to five, before I lose my cool.
It doesn't help. Instead, I push to a sitting position, the sheet pooling at my waist.
"You what?" I say, impressed with the calm I've managed to summon from...somewhere.
Hermione sits up too, ignoring the sheet and resting on her knees.
The fucking cheater.
She's naked, and covered head to toe in little red marks put there by my mouth. My dick immediately starts to swell. We instituted a strict no nakedness while fighting rule for just this reason!
"Hear me out, Harry," she says, pulling on her fingers. "It's best if we just face it head-on. Get the Wizarding public on our side. As much as you hate it, the Boy Who Lived mantle is going to follow you around for the rest of our lives. The Chosen One also having a Bonded Mate? If nothing else, it's great for your brand. Especially since I'm a Muggle-born, and Bonded Mates are steeped in magic. Like, there's never been a recorded pair of muggle Bonded Mates, Harry. Now here we are, Muggle-born and Half-blood. It's significant, whether it means anything to you or not."
She's gaining steam for her subject now, her voice swelling and her power shining.
"You're already going to be the face of this war. There is literally nothing you can do to avoid that. Last time, you were the face of both sides, someone to rally behind and, if the prophecy is true, the last person standing between Voldemort and complete victory. This time, we're going to control the narrative. No more of his Undesirable Number One rubbish."
"You sound like a campaign manager," I joke.
"I learned a lot, last time, from Fudge and Umbridge and even Voldemort. They were able to get away with the atrocities they committed for as long as they did because they controlled what was released to the public. This time, we will. I gave Rita Skeeter the exclusive, so long as she can guarantee that at six p.m. tomorrow, the Prophet will release an evening special edition paper announcing our Bonding. I also owled Mrs. Longbottom, advising her of the previous Fidelius and asking if she'd give a statement to confirm how happy the British Ministry is to support our marriage or the like.
"We give them one article, one statement and interview, and then we refuse to speak of it again. Everything will already be out in the open by the time the owls are rushing home from Hogwarts with the news. There won't be time for snide remarks or "exclusives," with people like Lucius Malfoy with stories about us at school. One and done. That's the deal I offered her."
That's...even the thought makes my skin crawl. I shove my hands through my hair, wanting to get up and pace.
"If Skeeter tells me no, well," Hermione shrugs and smirks at me. "I'll contact the paper directly and put her back in a jar."
Fuck, I love my wife.
I can already tell; the next couple of weeks are going to be horrific. But maybe, just maybe, we'll make it through okay.
"You're positively wicked, do you know that?"
"I am not!" she huffs. "I'm simply rational. It's the smart thing to do."
She bounces in her irritation, and her breasts sway on her chest, and suddenly I forget what we were supposed to be fighting about. Cheater.
"I hate this, Hermione. I really fucking hate this."
She walks forward on her knees until her legs are touching mine.
"I know you do, Harry, love. But better we live by our rules, then blindly follow someone else's. I know you don't trust, well, anyone, really. But at least trust me. Trust that this is the best decision in a whole host of terrible choices. Trust that I will handle Pansy Parkinson asking about when the baby is due and Lavender Brown asking about your dick size. Trust that if a Slytherin wanker tries to corner me during Prefect rounds, I'll leave him oozing in a corner for a teacher to find the next morning."
I don't have much of a choice. I can't follow her around for the rest of our lives, as much as I'd like to. Surrender, then let go.
"Let's make a deal then. I'll try to trust you more, that you can take care of yourself, and you'll trust me to do the same."
"I do trust you, Harry," she says, giving me a bemused smile.
"But not really," I say. "Not if it comes down to your judgement or mine. You didn't trust me to get everyone out of Azkaban after the raid. As a matter of fact, your panicking and sending Winky for reinforcements almost got us all kissed, since she didn't come when we called for her. You sent Dobby and Kreacher, but minutes after I yelled for Winky. In a fight, that's the difference between life or death. We have a division of labour, and I think if we both stuck to that, we'd fare a lot better. You plan, I execute. But plans never make it through the first execution. You should know that by now. You need to trust that once things start to go barmy, I'll be able to handle myself."
Hermione starts to swell in anger, then immediately deflates. She tisks her tongue in a pout.
"You don't own the monopoly of being concerned for your Mate's safety, you know," she says with an irritated huff, crossing her arms over her chest.
"No. I don't. Which means if I have to loosen my reins, you have to loosen yours."
Her eyes twinkle in mischief, and my gaze wanders down her chest as her nipples tighten in the air.
"You don't have to loosen the reins too much," she says, a blush tinting her cheeks a lovely shade of pink. "I kinda like it when you pin me tight."
She tries to put space between us, skittering on her hands and knees, but I link my arm around her waist and haul her underneath me. Hermione throws her head back and laughs, and the sound fills me like oxygen.
Until I fill her mouth with my tongue.
All I hear for the rest of the night are her moans.
A/N
I have no idea how this story got so big already. I am in awe at the response it has garnered, and am so incredibly thankful for all of your support and readership! Things are going to move at a much quicker pace from here on out. We've spent the last 250k words (or so lol. Again, no idea how it got that big lmao) establishing the Bond and the story and setting the scene. Now we're gonna party!