Day Eighteen

Hermione was dead on her feet. Harry's side-along apparition was smooth, as always, but if he hadn't had both arms latched firmly around her waist she still probably would have stumbled on landing. He'd taken them to Grimmauld, murmuring something about not wanting to fight with Crookshanks, and while she'd been honest earlier about not caring whose house they spent the night in, she cared even less now. Any place with a bed would do. It was almost two am.

If asked before tonight- and if she had been honest- she would have said that when it came to going out in public, she had it almost as bad as Harry did. Not that she was anywhere near as revered as he was, but as the only witch, muggleborn, as well as being the only non-auror amongst the so-called Golden Trio, she was often considered to be the weak link, the one who could be most easily used to gain access to the three of them and their connections. She'd disabused many people of that notion over the years, but the stereotype remained.

Spending the night actually at his side, as opposed to simply hovering in his general vicinity, had proved her wrong. Harry had a magnetic presence. No matter what he thought, his fame was about more than his history and his actions during the war. He very much fit the mold of a hero.

She had apparently forgotten that over the years, because he was also just Harry to her. However, she'd been forcibly reminded tonight as she watched person after person who just lingered in his presence, even when they didn't appear to want anything, or even really have anything to say.

He was more than polite- unless the person in question was being obviously out of line, and that mostly involved looking at or speaking to her in a way that he didn't appreciate- he was gracious. She'd danced only with him, the Weasley boys (including Arthur) and Kingsley, the rest of the time she'd been firmly attached to his side. She'd tried to give him space a few times and it had taken her a couple of hours, an embarrassingly long time, for her to realize that he didn't want her to leave.

She was so proud of him. It had been bubbling up inside of her all night and was threatening to spill over. She'd said so several times, but she was going to have to find a way to show him, because he'd brushed her off like it was nothing.

"Okay, love?" He asked, lips pressed to her shoulder as she swayed in his arms.

She nodded. "Bed."

"Yes," he agreed, then half walked, half carried her up the stairs.

She laughed at his clumsy movements, realizing he was as tired as she. Harry led them to the bed once they'd reached his bedroom.

"Will you help me with my dress, please?" She asked. The gown was muggle and so she was hesitant to use magic on the delicate fabric, it just didn't seem worth the risk, especially not now when she had an extra set of hands at her disposal.

"Hmm," he said by way of agreement, hands falling to her waist then rising to the top of the bodice. "Did I tell you how beautiful you looked tonight?"

She felt him undoing the hook at the top of the zipper and then carefully pulling the zipper down the length of her spine. She appreciated his care. "You did, thank you."

"Anything else?" He asked.

She groaned when she remembered her hair and the thousand or so pins currently keeping it contained in what had passed for an elegant chignon earlier in the evening. She suspected it was less-so at the moment.

"What?" He laughed.

"I have to pull the pins out of my hair."

"Can I help?"

"Sure, just try not to pull my hair," she raised her hands to the back of her head and began to work her fingers through her hair starting at one side, removing the pins.

Moments later she felt him imitating her actions, despite his much larger hands his touch was light, and after he got the hang of it he didn't pull her hair at all as he removed them and tossed them onto the nightstand. Finally done, her hair fell down her back and she leaned against him with a sigh of relief.

"Better?" He asked, moving her hair to one side and kissing her neck. "Did it hurt, to have it up like that?" He asked, voice full of curiosity.

"After a while," she sighed happily at the sensation of his lips still tracing the column of her neck. "My hair is so heavy, eventually it makes my scalp sore," she finished explaining, "not as bad as the heels. Luckily this dress is pretty comfortable, I probably wouldn't trade it for what you're wearing. Though I do enjoy looking at you in your dress uniform."

He laughed lightly. "Thank you, I didn't know you were a fan."

"Well I couldn't very well tell you that before tonight, could I? I mean, a general comment on your appearance was fine but: 'hey, Harry, the cut of your uniform makes you look especially fuckable,' was kind of outside the established bounds of our friendship, don't you think?"

He momentarily froze and then he began to shake with what she assumed was silent laughter, she cringed. "I'm obviously very tired," she defended.

"I'm going to tire you out all the time if you're always like this."

"Yes, well, depending on what that entails, I might be amenable to that plan," she responded tartly.

She stepped out of her heels, and then let her dress fall from her shoulders. She caught it on the way down and then stepped out of it too. Setting it on the bed, she turned to face him in only her matching bra and knickers. She raised her chin proudly and met his eyes, or would have, if they weren't fixed firmly on her chest. That predictable response was actually extremely reassuring.

"Harry," she called teasingly, his eyes snapped to hers and she reached back, unclasped the strapless bra and just let it fall to the floor.

She then turned around and climbed onto the bed, scrambling under the covers and out of the chilly air. She stayed on her tummy, luxuriating in what she hadn't realized was such a sumptuous bed, but turned her head to face him. He was scrambling around pulling off his clothes and jumping out of his shoes. When he was down to his boxers he came to a sudden halt and looked at her again, his determined expression softened and he smiled. She reached out a hand for him.

He climbed onto the bed and under the covers, hovering over her for a moment as he peppered her shoulders with more kisses before finally settling on his own stomach about halfway on top of her.

"Am I too heavy?" He mumbled.

"No." His weight was actually warm and very welcome.

He shifted and the lights went out.

"Show off," she muttered at this display of wandless magic.

"That was necessary, I'm not getting out of this bed for at least six hours." He tunneled one hand under her body and spread his fingers across her abdomen. He tucked his face into her neck.

"Are- are we going to sleep?" She asked, somewhat startled.

"Yes."

"You don't want to…"

He snorted. "The answer to that question with you is always yes. But not right now. We're both exhausted, and we've waited a long time. I don't want us to sleep together just because we're sharing a bed."

The sweet sentiment made her smile, and she had to admit her limbs felt like they were practically weighed down with concrete. She snuggled up against him. "Goodnight, Harry."

He pressed yet another kiss to her shoulder. "Night."

Hermione didn't think it was possible, but she'd finally discovered a creature that she hated more than Rita Skeeter and Delores Umbridge, possibly combined. But Dudley's Aunt Marge was a particularly disgusting specimen, and that was really saying something considering she was currently in the same room as Vernon and Petunia.

When they'd arrived at the Bertrands home that evening for the pre-wedding family dinner, as Amelia had called it, Hermione had not been expecting the infamous Aunt Marge. It was clear from the look on Harry's face when he'd spotted her, that he hadn't either.

It was explained to them while Hermione was being introduced to the vile woman that she was staying with the Dursleys for the week leading up to the wedding to help with preparations. That had sounded more than a little odd to Hermione, considering it was Amelia's family who was hosting the wedding, but she didn't comment.

It quickly became clear to her that Marge was just one of those people who jumped at the smallest opportunity to take advantage of the hospitality of others. Even people she barely knew and who were only endeavoring to be polite, in this case the Bertrands.

Hermione watched in fascinated horror as the woman devoured copious amounts of hors d'oeuvres, drank more than one bottle of wine on her own- and the meal wasn't even finished yet, and asked such intrusive questions of their hosts that Hermione was fighting a blush in reflected embarrassment.

The Bertrands were as gracious as they could be. Harry appeared unsurprised. At least Petunia and Dudley had the decency to appear chagrined by her behavior, they even tried to jump in a few times to attempt to ameliorate it, but Vernon was nearly as bad as his sister. How this man functioned as any sort of successful businessman was a mystery to Hermione.

But none of that would have ultimately mattered to Hermione. She felt that she and Harry both were too far removed from this woman to be held in any way responsible for her behavior. Which was good, because the Bertands were lovely and welcoming. She wished Marge hadn't guzzled most of the bottle of wine she and Harry had brought, so that they could have enjoyed it themselves.

No, it was Marge's barely concealed disdain for Harry that had initially gotten under Hermione's skin. Over the course of the evening that attitude had gradually worked Hermione into a frothing rage.

Apparently, Marge felt that the Bertrands had a few too many questions for Harry. They appeared to approve of him and his chosen profession a little too much. It seemed to be more than she could bear that he'd turned out to be a normal, productive member of society with a steady girlfriend, and enough money to afford a nice wardrobe (Merlin forbid his clothes fit!) and a nice bottle of wine.

She'd openly scoffed when he described his work, translated for the Bertrands as an MI5 agent, which wasn't even really a lie, as he'd worked jointly with the Security Service on multiple occasions, and that was his muggle cover identity. It sounded like Petunia had nearly coughed up a lung trying to stop Marge from interrupting that conversation.

It would have been funny if it wasn't so infuriating. Hermione was at least able to take comfort in the fact that the Bertands were getting a very honest view of the Dursley family, and that, at least Petunia, was suffering for it. Hermione was certain Vernon would suffer later when his wife unloaded on him.

The only person Marge seemed to disapprove of almost as much as she did Harry was Ben, Amelia's brother. He was apparently gay, and was using every opportunity he was given to bring up his boyfriend in conversation. Much to Marge, and to a lesser extent Vernon and Petunia's, horror.

The mystery of the meaning of Amelia's quip the night they'd been at Grimmauld, about Dudley's parents not being particularly open minded, had been solved with that. At one point after Ben had regaled them all with a story about a holiday he and Stephen had recently taken to Barcelona, he'd openly winked at Hermione across the table. She'd almost spit out her wine.

If she had still only been pretending to date Harry, she wouldn't have even had a job to do. The Dursleys were showing their own arses without any help from her. But there was just something about Marge that got to Hermione. It probably had something to do with how much she reminded her of Umbridge and what Harry had suffered under that woman's reign of terror in the castle.

But they probably would have made it through the meal without major incident if it hadn't been for a relatively innocuous comment from Amelia.

They were about to start dessert and Hermione glanced at Harry, just like she had a hundred times before over the course of the evening, but at some point he must have run a hand through his hair, because it was unusually mussed. She chuckled and reached up to attempt to pat it down.

"S'no use," he muttered around a grin.

"I'll never stop trying," she returned his smile.

"Oh, Hermione, that's a beautiful bracelet," said Amelia.

When Hermione had lifted her arm, she'd unintentionally put the bracelet Harry had given- loaned- her that afternoon on display. She had been very firm about it only being a loan, as it had belonged to his mother. On top of the elaborate hair combs she'd found in her Advent calendar for today, it had felt like, once again, he was doing too much.

That was, until he'd looked at her so seriously and said: "I obviously can't wear it, and I'd like to bring something of my mother's along. I think she would approve," then he smirked and added, "my aunt and uncle will just about choke when they see my girlfriend wearing something so obviously expensive."

She had never felt so much approval for such a petty plan. In fact, she'd been trying to find a subtle way to work the bracelet into conversation all evening so that it wouldn't go to waste. Amelia had just given her the perfect opportunity, and when she looked back on it later, knowing what would happen next, she still wouldn't have chosen to act differently.

"Thank you," she practically cooed.

She extended her arm so that the other woman could admire the delicate band of what she assumed were diamonds and yellow sapphires. It was beautifully fashioned into a wreath of lilies circling her wrist. It was obviously expensive, but more than that, it radiated magic to the point where she was certain that even the muggles in the room could tell there was something extraordinary about it. She was actually surprised that it had taken this long for anybody to comment on it.

"It belonged to Harry's mother, his father had it made for her. Her name was Lily, I don't know if you knew that." Hermione explained, her voice growing quiet with real emotion.

"Oh!" Amelia gasped, "another flower!" She looked at Petunia. "Is that a theme in your family, because that seems like a lovely idea." It was a thoughtful and considerate observation and even Petunia looked a little moved.

She opened her mouth to answer but was interrupted by a very loud and derisive snort from Marge. "I wonder where a wastrel like that got the money, probably stole it," she commented.

Hermione was certain by now that Marge was drunk, she also assumed that Marge believed that she had said that under her breath. Hermione also could not have cared less.

"Excuse me?" Hermione asked, her voice low and dangerous.

Marge jolted, like she'd been startled awake, but then she focused her beady eyes on Hermione and it was clear she wasn't going to back down. "You heard me."

"Did you just refer to Harry's late father as a wastrel?" Hermione hissed.

Marge sat up a little straighter. "Death doesn't absolve us of our sins. He was a wastrel and he died like a wastrel along with his wife, in a drunken car accident."

Hermione had never been physically struck in her life, but she was certain this is how it would feel. She grew very still before turning to Harry. "Is that what they told you happened?"

His eyes, his mother's eyes, were enormous and he just nodded.

"Did this woman," she seethed, pointing at Marge, "taunt you like this when you were a child? Is that why-" she cut herself off before she could say 'you blew her up.'

He nodded again.

Hermione turned her attention to Vernon and Petunia. "Why would you tell him that? Why would you let people think that?"

"Listen here, girl," Vernon growled.

Petunia grabbed his arm and raised her chin, trying to look dignified. "We thought it was easier."

"You thought it was easier. You thought it was easier for who? You?" Hermione demanded, she almost didn't recognize the sound of her own voice. "You couldn't possibly have thought it was easier for a child to believe that his parents were lazy drunks who essentially got themselves killed, than to know the truth."

"You think that we should have told him that they were murdered?" Petunia's answered, she was clearly losing her composure.

"I think there are ways to tell a child the truth without being so harsh, and you know it. I think you could have told him that his parents died defending him, which they did," Hermione shot back pointedly. "You certainly didn't have to tell a grown woman your lies," she pointed at Marge, "and then allow her to abuse Harry with them! What kind of person does that? Your sister would be ashamed of you. Your sister-"

"You don't know anything about my sister!" Petunia snapped, standing up, her chair falling to the floor with a crash..

Hermione didn't flinch, but followed her. However she stood much more gracefully. "I know that she stood in front of a terrifying mad man and sacrificed her life for the most precious thing in the world." She pointed at Petunia, still keeping her voice level.

Petunia had the nerve to scoff at this description of Harry.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, her magic danced along the surface of her skin. She hoped Petunia could sense it, she hoped she was afraid. "I know that what she and James did that night was brave, and that their actions bought us all safety. Their son should have known that. There should not have been a moment when he questioned or doubted their memory. It was all he had of them!"

Hermione glanced at Vernon, almost daring him to contradict her, but he was just gaping at her unattractively. She hoped he was afraid too. She turned back to Petunia. "What is the matter with you? What kind of person acts like this? No wonder you cling to this cloak of respectability like it's a second skin. Even if it isn't a particularly convincing one," she laughed almost maliciously and then grew serious again. "You don't have anything else."

Hermione could feel her magic rolling off of her in waves now. She knew that she was moments from doing some serious structural damage to the house, so with that, she spun on her heel and marched out of the room. She didn't look back.

Hermione took deep bracing breaths as she practically ran. She was far from stupid. She had heard the way that people spoke about the Potters as if they were saints, and she knew it couldn't be true.

She understood that they had been placed on a pedestal after their deaths. She preferred to picture them as more human, imagine how they actually would have been as Harry's parents; but that didn't change the fact that in their last moments on earth, they'd both performed beautiful and enduring acts of love. She was humbled by them, and horrified Harry had ever been made to doubt them and the sacrifices they'd made.

He didn't talk about life at the Dursleys much, but she thought she'd put together a fairly accurate picture of it over the years. What a fool she had been! It was clear now that those years had been far more horrific than she ever could have imagined. He hadn't been allowed even the smallest scraps of comfort.

Realizing that didn't keep her from feeling great shame over what she'd just done. Could Harry ever forgive her for exposing him so thoroughly?

Not to mention all those times she'd been exasperated with him, rolled her eyes and told him to just keep his temper, especially when it came to people talking about his parents. How could she have been so thoughtless back then? Why had he put up with it?

Because he'd endured so much worse.

"Hermione! Hermione!"

She heard Harry calling her, startling her out of her thoughts. She looked around and realized she'd just reached the garden. Harry must have stayed and made some kind of excuse for her outburst, or his long legs would have caught up a lot sooner. Unless he'd been busy deciding if he even wanted to go after her.

"Hermione stop!"

She couldn't deny him. She came to an immediate halt but she didn't turn around. In seconds she was in his arms and he was making her turn to face him. And he was…smiling. Grinning like she'd never seen before.

"Oh my god, Harry, I am so sorry-"

He was kissing her, biting and sucking at her lips, plundering her mouth with his tongue, grasping at her back trying to pull her closer and closer still.

It was overwhelming.

"Harry-"

"Nobody has ever-" he pulled away with a deep breath and released her only to grab her face, forcing her to look up at him. He was still grinning. "Nobody has ever done anything like that for me before."

"What?"

"The way you just stood up for me? Fuck Hermione!" He kissed her again.

"I didn't embarrass you? I think I might have broken the statute of secrecy."

He laughed, it was a beautiful, joyful thing. "No, and I don't think so, but I couldn't care less. Hermione." Her name was a gasp and he was looking at her like she was some kind of miracle, eyes bright, his face a picture of wonder. "I love you so much."

She inhaled a shocked breath. Oh God, this man.

"Harry," she raised hands to cover his, which were still cupping her cheeks, her mind still in chaos, but her heart bursting with joy. There was only one thing she could say. "I love you too."

Author's Note: I'd like to point out that I never promised smut in this chapter. However, I am sorry if I set up unreasonable expectations on that front, I just meant to tease you guys a little. And I promise that actual sex scenes do exist in this story, the timing just hasn't been right yet. Also, I took a lot of the information and vocabulary in the conversation with Marge directly from the chapter in PoA where Harry accidentally blows her up, just FYI that I didn't make it up. Thanks for reading, you guys are wonderful!