Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has followed this story and added it to your favorites—I truly appreciate your support! Please be aware that this chapter contains mature themes. If you are not of age, I recommend skipping this chapter. Reader discretion is advised. Happy reading!
Chapter 8: The Cottage of New Beginnings
Up in the sky, Harry and Hermione soared through the mountains astride Buckbeak, the wind whipping through their hair. Hermione held on tightly, her fingers curled around the hippogriff's feathers as the rhythm of its powerful wings filled the air. The setting sun bathed the landscape in hues of gold and crimson, painting a picture so serene it seemed almost at odds with the whirlwind of events that had led to this moment.
As they glided through the clouds, Hermione couldn't help but notice they weren't heading back to the manor. Turning her head slightly, she looked over her shoulder at Harry.
"Are we not going back to the manor?" she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.
Harry leaned forward, his breath warm against her ear. "No. The others won't be returning there either. It's too dangerous now that the villagers know about the wedding. They'll have to move on, living in tents again." His voice was steady, but there was a flicker of regret in it.
"Where are we going, then? Aren't we joining them?" Hermione pressed.
Harry hesitated, and she felt his grip on her waist tighten slightly. "Well, no," he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost shy. "When I agreed to marry you, that was one of the conditions I gave—that we'd have some time alone. Just the two of us, to get to know each other better. We only have three days, but I thought… I thought it'd be better than nothing." He paused, then added hurriedly, "I just didn't think you'd want to spend your honeymoon in a tent. With everyone around."
Hermione felt her cheeks warm as his words sank in. "Oh," she murmured softly, turning her gaze forward.
Honeymoon. The weight of that word settled over her, bringing a fresh wave of unease. How could she have forgotten? A marriage wasn't truly finalized until it was consummated. During the preparations and the wedding itself, it had felt like a performance—dressing up, saying the vows, playing her part in the ceremony. But now, the reality of what came after was inescapable. This wasn't just an arrangement for show; their union had to be real, binding.
Lost in thought, Hermione barely noticed when Buckbeak began to descend. Her breath caught as the view below unfolded before her. Rolling hills stretched endlessly, their greens and golds shimmering in the last light of the day. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the landscape, and the soft chirping of birds reached her ears as they approached their destination.
When Buckbeak landed with a gentle thud, Hermione's breath hitched.
The cottage before them was enchanting, nestled in a shallow valley surrounded by a sea of wildflowers that defied the approaching winter. A small, sparkling lake lay nearby, its surface mirroring the golden and pink hues of the sky. The rolling hills framed the idyllic scene, and the air carried a delicate blend of floral sweetness and earthy richness.
"It's beautiful," Hermione whispered, sliding off Buckbeak with Harry's steadying hand. Her voice was tinged with awe as her eyes drank in the picturesque surroundings.
Harry dismounted smoothly and turned to her, his expression softening. "It belonged to my parents when they first married," he said quietly, his voice carrying a mix of pride and sadness. "Before… before they went into hiding."
Hermione nodded, sensing the unspoken sorrow in his tone. "It's perfect," she said with a gentle smile. Harry's lips curved into a faint but grateful smile in response.
He guided her toward the entrance of the cottage, his steps careful, almost reverent. The brick walls were weathered but sturdy, and climbing roses framed the wooden door, their fragrance lingering in the cool evening air. Despite the season, the blooms were vibrant, clearly kept alive by a touch of magic.
Before Hermione could say anything, Harry suddenly swept her off her feet, carrying her across the threshold.
"It's tradition, after all," he said with a sheepish grin, setting her down gently once they were inside.
"You didn't have to," she said, breathless, though the faint blush on her cheeks betrayed her flustered delight.
The interior of the cottage was cozy and inviting, radiating warmth despite its modest size. The stone walls were adorned with ivy creeping in through tiny cracks, and the hearth in the living room held a simple yet elegant mantel. A worn but comfortable couch sat nearby, and shelves filled with books and keepsakes hinted at the lives that had once filled the space with love and laughter.
Upstairs, the bedroom was equally charming, with white curtains swaying softly in the evening breeze. The bed was modest but inviting, and through the window, the serene lake glimmered under the fading light.
While Hermione explored, running her fingers over the walls and furnishings, Harry busied himself unpacking their things. She could feel the history of the place in every detail, as if echoes of past happiness still lingered in the air.
"Sirius brought me here once," Harry said suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet. "The summer after my fourth year at Hogwarts, after Voldemort came back. I guess he wanted me to have something to look forward to, a place to dream about. Even back then, I thought… if I ever got married, I'd like to live here."
Hermione turned to him, her heart swelling at his honesty. "It's really beautiful, Harry," she said softly, touched by the vulnerability in his words.
Harry gave her a shy smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "We can't stay here permanently—not yet. It's too dangerous, with the war still going on and me being part of the Order. But I wanted you to see it… to know that this could be your home after all this is over."
Her chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, she forgot about the weight of their circumstances, the war, and the expectations surrounding their marriage. She was simply Hermione, standing in a cottage with Harry, the boy she had once read about in history books, now her husband.
As the evening deepened and the stars began to dot the sky, she took a steadying breath, trying to embrace the surreal reality of her new identity—Mrs. Hermione Potter.
Harry left the room, mumbling something about settling Buckbeak. Hermione stood there, alone in the dimly lit bedroom, her nerves fraying as the enormity of her situation settled over her. Her gaze flitted around the unfamiliar space as if it could somehow ground her, but the only thing she could focus on was the fluttering anxiety in her chest.
She had always believed her first time would be with someone she truly loved, someone she trusted implicitly. For a long time, she thought that someone would be Aries. Yet here she was, two centuries in the past, married to Harry Potter of all people. The very thought made her stomach churn—not out of revulsion, but out of sheer uncertainty.
How were they even supposed to begin? Would Harry expect them to consummate their marriage immediately? Would he touch her without preamble? Her thoughts came fast and unrelenting, each one making her feel smaller and more vulnerable. She felt the blood drain from her face as her imagination spiraled.
The creak of the door startled her, and she jumped, her heart slamming against her ribs. Her wide eyes locked onto Harry as he stepped inside, lingering by the threshold. He must have noticed her unease because he gave her a small, shy smile, though it carried a hint of exasperation.
"You don't have to be afraid of me," he said softly, his voice steady despite the awkwardness in the air. "I'm not going to… jump you." He lingered by the door, making no move to approach her. "Come to the kitchen. You must be starving. Remus told me you haven't eaten since yesterday." His words were casual, but his gaze carried something deeper—something that suggested he knew exactly why she had neglected food.
Hermione flushed, the warmth rising to her cheeks like a betrayal. She nodded silently, grateful for the reprieve, and followed him to the kitchen.
The sight that greeted her was unexpected. On the table were dishes she hadn't dared to hope for: roast beef, mashed potatoes, sautéed mushrooms, a small spread of berries, and even wine. A modest tiered cake stood to the side, looking a little out of place amidst the savory fare.
Harry shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. "It's not a proper wedding feast, I know," he said apologetically. "But the traditions are all here… or close enough."
"Thank you, Harry," Hermione said, her voice steady despite the lump in her throat. "This is perfect. I don't need a grand reception."
They ate in near silence, the clink of utensils against plates filling the space between them. Hermione hadn't realized how ravenous she was until she began eating; her hunger quickly overtook her hesitations, and she ended up eating more than she intended.
Afterward, they moved to the hearth, the crackling fire casting warm shadows on their faces. Harry poured them each a glass of wine and hesitated before sitting down beside her. The space between them felt charged, like a chasm neither was sure how to bridge.
Finally, Harry reached out and took her hand, his touch tentative. Hermione blinked at him, surprised.
"I thought… it might be easier if we got used to touching," he said with a self-deprecating laugh. "It might even settle my nerves. To be honest, I'm scared shitless."
"You're scared of me?" Hermione asked, her brows arching in disbelief.
"More scared than you, I reckon," Harry admitted. "That's why I'm holding your hand—to keep mine from shaking."
Hermione didn't entirely believe him, but his earnestness softened something in her. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I don't mind," she said softly.
He nodded, his green eyes steady on hers. "Hermione, I know there are things you can't tell me—things you're not ready to share or things you want to keep to yourself. I won't force you to tell me. All I ask is that if you do share something, let it be the truth. I'll do the same. We have nothing between us now except respect, and respect might have room for secrets, but not for lies."
Hermione felt her throat tighten. She nodded. "I agree. So… can you tell me something? Why did you agree to marry me? You said yourself you're not in a position to take a wife. Why take on this responsibility?"
Harry smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "There are reasons—some I can't share yet. But the main reason is the same as yours: to protect you from Malfoy."
The mention of Malfoy made Hermione shudder, the phantom pain of his curse brushing against her memory.
Harry's grip on her hand tightened. "You're safe now," he said firmly, his voice resolute. "You have my name, my family, the Order… and if it comes to it, the protection of my body. Malfoy will not touch you again while I'm alive."
Something in his words settled deep within her, like the final click of a lock. It wasn't a romantic declaration, but it was a promise—a blunt, unflinching vow that he would protect her at any cost.
She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."
For the first time that day, Hermione felt a fragile tendril of hope. Maybe this wasn't a mistake. Maybe Harry, with his piercing green eyes and unkempt hair, was exactly the partner she needed in this impossibly complicated time.
They sat by the fire, the warmth flickering across their faces, the earlier tension gradually dissolving into a tentative sense of ease. Harry held his wine glass loosely, swirling the liquid as if the motion could help him gather his thoughts. Hermione sat beside him, her posture less rigid now, though she kept glancing at their joined hands, still clasped between them.
"So," Harry started, breaking the silence, "I guess we should… talk. Get to know each other. We're married, after all." His lips quirked into a small, self-conscious smile.
Hermione let out a soft laugh, the sound surprising both of them. "That does seem logical."
Harry took a breath, his green eyes darting to the fire. "Right, well… you probably know most of the important stuff already. The Boy Who Lived and all that rubbish." His tone turned bitter, but he caught himself, softening his voice. "But the truth is, before Hogwarts, I didn't even know I was a wizard."
Hermione blinked. "You didn't?"
"Nope," Harry said, his grip on the glass tightening. "I lived with my aunt, uncle, and cousin after my parents died. They… weren't exactly kind. Actually, they were awful. They hated anything to do with magic, so they never told me about my parents or what happened to them. For eleven years, I thought I was just this weird, useless kid who didn't belong anywhere."
Hermione's heart twisted. "That's horrible, Harry."
He shrugged, trying to play it off, but the faint tension in his jaw betrayed him. "It was what it was. Then, one day, Hagrid showed up with my Hogwarts letter, and everything changed. For the first time, I found people who didn't just tolerate me—they cared about me. Hagrid, the Weasleys, Sirius, Remus... even Dumbledore in his own strange way, I think." Harry admitted, his lips quirking into a small smile. "But it was also incredible. Hogwarts was like a home I never knew I needed. Of course, it wasn't all fun and games. There was, you know, the whole Voldemort wants me dead thing."
Hermione snorted. "Just a minor detail, right?" Hermione studied him for a moment. "And your parents? Do you remember anything about them?"
Harry's expression softened. "Not really. I was just a baby when they died. But I've heard stories. Sirius and Remus like to tell me about them. My dad was a bit of a troublemaker—always pulling pranks with his friends. My mum, though, she was brilliant. Kind, strong, clever. They say I have her eyes."
Hermione smiled. "And your father's hair, it seems."
Harry laughed, running a hand through his unruly locks. "Yeah, unfortunately. Sirius always says I'm the spitting image of my dad, but with my mum's temper when I'm pushed."
Hermione leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "It must be comforting to hear about them, to know where you came from."
"It is," Harry said quietly. "Sirius told me once that my mum couldn't stand my dad at first. Thought he was arrogant. But by their seventh year, he'd grown up, and she gave him a chance. They fell in love, got married right after Hogwarts, and then… well, then they had me."
A soft silence fell between them as Hermione considered his words.
"What about you?" Harry asked, turning the conversation to her. "What was your childhood like?"
Hermione hesitated, aware of the minefield her truth could present. She opted for a version that skirted the edges of her secret. "It was… different from yours. My parents were both dentists—physicians who specialize in treating teeth. They ran their own practice, so they were busy, but they always made time for me. They were supportive of everything I wanted to do."
"Dentists?" Harry asked, frowning. "That's a thing?"
Hermione laughed softly. "It is, though I imagine it's not common now. They were… ahead of their time."
Harry looked impressed. "That's incredible. Did you ever think about following in their footsteps?"
"Well, at first, I thought I wanted to be a healer too," Hermione admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But as I got older, I realized I had a passion for justice. I wanted to do something meaningful, to fight for people who couldn't fight for themselves."
Harry studied her, his expression thoughtful. "You'd make a brilliant Auror or even a Wizengamot member."
Hermione's smile faltered slightly. "Maybe in another time," she said. "But for now, I'll settle for surviving."
Harry's gaze lingered on her, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "You know," he said quietly, "even if this isn't the life you imagined, I think you'll do great things. And if there's anything I can do to help, I will."
Hermione looked at him, startled by the sincerity in his voice. She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Harry. That… means a lot."
He shrugged, a shy smile tugging at his lips. "What else are husbands for?"
They both laughed, the tension between them dissolving further. As the conversation flowed, they shared small, unguarded moments—Hermione talking about her two big front teeth as a child, Harry recounting his disastrous first Quidditch practice that left him stuck in a tree.
By the time the fire began to wane, their laughter had become easy, their connection solidifying into something more tangible. As Harry poured the last of the wine into their glasses, he raised his glass to her.
"To the future, whatever it may hold," he said, his green eyes meeting hers.
Hermione clinked her glass against his. "To the future."
By the time the clock struck midnight, they were no longer strangers. They weren't quite lovers, but they were something closer to friends, and for the first time since their marriage, Hermione thought that perhaps this arrangement might not be so terrible after all.
"It's getting late. I think we should go to sleep." She said, yawning a bit.
"To bed, or to sleep?" He said and Hermione felt her nerves again. But then he smiled at her. "Either way, you're not going to sleep with your gown, right?"
"No, I suppose not." She whispered.
They move to the bedroom. Hermione can see outside their window that it was snowing again. But inside this room, she felt warm.
She felt Harry stepped behind her. "Well then, I'll help you with your laces and such."
His hands did in fact tremble briefly as he began to undress her. She couldn't hear him breathing behind her, it's as if he was holding his breath. He lost some of his selfconsciousness though as he struggle with the dozens of tiny hooks attached to the bodice.
"Ha!" He said in triumph as the last one came loose, and they laughed together.
Hermione didn't know when she decided, but somehow, right that moment, her resolve was set. "Now let me do you." She said, turning around to face him. She reached up and unfastened his shirt, sliding her hands inside and across his shoulders. She brought her hands down slowly across his chest, feeling the hard muscles but soft skin as her hands grazed his nipples. He stood still, hardly breathing as she unbuckled his studded belt around his hips.
He then snaked his hand around the back of her neck and kissed her. It went on for a long while. His hands roamed downward, finding the fastening of her petticoat. It fell to the floor in a billow of starched flounces, leaving her in her chemise.
"Where did you learn to kiss like that?" She asked, a little breathless. He grinned and pulled her close again.
"I'm a virgin, not a monk." He said, kissing her again.
He pressed her firmly to him, and she could feel that he was more than ready to get on with the business at hand. With some surprise, Hermione realized that she was ready too. In fact, whether it was the result of the late hour, the wine, his attractiveness, or simple primitive need, Hermione wanted him quite badly.
She pulled at his shirt loose at the waist, up over his chest, circling his nipples with her thumbs. They grew hard in a second, and he crushed her suddenly against his chest, kissing her deeply again. This time, he slipped the straps of her chemise down over her shoulders. He drew back slightly, cupping her breasts and rubbing her nipples as she had done his. She fumbled with the button of his trousers and it slipped down his legs.
Kicking them off, he suddenly lifted her in his arms and sat down on the bed, holding her on his lap. He spoke a little hoarsely.
"Tell me if I'm too rough or tell me to stop altogether, if you wish. Anytime until we are joined. I don't think I can stop after that."
In answer, Hermione pulled her down on top of her and guided him towards the slippery cleft between her legs.
"Oh, Merlin..." He said, breathless.
He dropped his head on to her shoulders, his body shaking. Hermione felt his warm tears on her shoulder as she wrapped her legs around his waist and arched up to meet him. Harry lifted his head, revealing his tear-stained face as he slowly entered her. Then he stopped.
"Oh my God," he breathed, resting his forehead on hers.
Hermione closed her eyes in a desperate attempt to capture this moment, this feeling for all time. She caressed his face and kissed him, wanting desperately to tell him she is all right. There was definitely a bit of pain but somehow it was muted, drowned out by the pleasure Harry was invoking in her.
"You are amazing, Harry. Please, don't stop." She wrapped her legs tighter around him, pushing him further inside her. He began to move, leisurely sliding in and out, his eyes never leaving hers. Volumes were spoken to each other wordlessly, as they continued to stare directly into each other's eyes. Hermione knew in that instant that she would never be with another man besides Harry.
The intensity of the feelings pulsing through her body was indescribable. For someone who prided herself on her ability to pontificate at will on any given subject, this failure of words was monumental. Later, void of distractions, with time and space separating her intellect from these events, she would be able to concisely describe what she was currently feeling. She was sure of it. At the moment, Hermione Granger - first in her class at Hogwarts, the Head Girl, regarded by and large as one of the most intelligent witches of her time - was reduced to indistinct noises, guttural groans and the periodic gasp of her husband's name.
She opened her eyes and looked up at Harry, who was moving agonizingly slow inside her. A tiny part of her brain, the part that refused to accept their evolved relationship, was shocked and amazed that Harry was making love to her. As good as it felt, and Merlin it was good, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was transported in this time to be with Harry - whatever role she may have in accomplishing his destiny.
He paused, breathing heavily, and rested his forehead on hers. Lifting his gaze to meet hers, he stared into her eyes for a long moment. "You are the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen, Mrs. Potter."
He intertwined his fingers with hers, pulling her arms up above her head and holding them there. He traced kisses down the inside of her arm and onto her shoulder, murmuring endearments along the way. Hermione closed her eyes and arched her back, wanting to take Harry still deeper inside her. Leisurely, he began to move as his warm breath tickled her ear.
They began to move together in perfect rhythm, faster and faster, gripping each other's hands for support. They crept closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy. He locked his eyes on hers and growled her name, plunging himself deep into her core. She cried out as her pleasure reaching crescendo as it reverberated off her bedroom walls. Wave after wave struck, relentless striking. Her back arching, trembling, legs shaking. A blast of blazing hot ecstasy thrashing through her belly, her neck, wracking her mind. The feeling of it. Oh, the feeling of it so overwhelming, unlike anything she has ever felt before.
Through her fog of desire, she watched Harry's face tense up as he entered her again and again, finally crying out her name. She felt his body shudder as he drove inside her a final time before collapsing on top of her in a heap.
Breathless, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him, trying in vain to fuse their bodies together. She heard his ragged breathing and felt him kiss her shoulder, then her neck. She had never felt closer to anyone than she felt to Harry at that moment.
Lying together afterward, it seemed natural for him to cradle her head ro his chest. They fitted well together and most of their original constraint was gone, lost in a shared excitement and the novelty of exploring each other.
He continued to hold her, his hand rubbing her shoulders affectionately. These gradually changed thoug,h to a more determined exploration.
"I want to ask you something." He said, running a hand down the length of Hermione's back.
"What's that?"
"Did I hurt you?" He said, looking a little concerned.
"No, Harry. You didn't" Hermione assured him.
"Did you, um, did you like it?" He asked, a little shyly.
"Yes, I did." She replied honestly.
"Oh, that's good to hear. Mad-Eye said that women do not generally care for it so I should finish as soon as I could."
"What would Mad-Eye know about it?" Hermione said indignantly.
"I had considerable good advice offered to me on the subject last night, from Mad-Eye, Kingsley, Sirius, and Remus. A good bit of it sounded very unlikely to me though, so I thought, I'll use my own judgement."
"It hasn't led you wrong yet." She said, smiling. Although she didn't know whether to feel embarrased or amused. "What other bit sage of advice did they give you?"
Harry blushed. "I could not repeat most of it."
Hermione laughed at this and Harry joined.
"Take off your shirt." Hermione said suddenly, sitting up, pulling the hem of the garment.
"Why?" He asked, but sat up and obliged. Hermione sat up in front of him, admiring his naked body.
"Because I want to look at you." She said. He was beautifully made, with long graceful bones and flat muscles that flowed smoothly from the curves of chest and shoulders to the slight concavities of belly and thigh.
He raised his eyebrows. "Well then, fair is fair. Take off yours then." He reached out and help her squirmed out of the wrinkled chemise. Once it was off, he held her by the waist, studying her with intense interest. Hermione grew almost embarrassed as he looked her over.
"Haven't you ever seen a naked woman before?" She asked.
"Yes, but not one so close." His face broke into a broad grin. "And not one that's mine." He stroked her hips with both hands.
"I know once is enough to make it legal, but…" He paused shyly.
"You want to do it again?"
"Would you mind very much?"
Hermione was the one who initiated the kiss this time.
And so the newly weds spent their night exploring and getting to know each other.
Hermione woke in the hours before dawn, shivering and rigid with terror. She could not recall the dream that woke her, but the abrupt plunge into reality was equally frightening. It had been possible to forget her situation for a time the night before, lost in the pleasures of newfound intimacy. Now she was alone, next to a sleeping stranger with whom her life was inextricably linked, adrift in a place filled with unseen threat.
She must have made some sound of distress, for there was a sudden upheaval of bedclothes as the stranger in her bed - now her husband- vaulted to the floor with the heartstopping suddenness of a pheasant rising underfoot. He came to rest in a crouch near the door of the chamber, barely visible in the pre-dawn light.
Pausing to listen carefully at the door, he made a rapid inspection of the room, gliding soundlessly from door to window to bed. The angle of his arm told her that he held his wand, though she could not see what it was in the darkness. Sitting down next to her, satisfied that all was secure, he slid his wand back into its hiding place above the headboard.
"Are you all right?" he whispered. His fingers brushed her wet cheek.
"Yes. I'm sorry to wake you. I had a nightmare. What on earth—" She started to ask what it was that had made him spring so abruptly to the alert.
A large warm hand ran down her bare arm, interrupting her question. "No wonder; you're frozen." The hand urged her under the pile of quilts and into the warm space recently vacated. "My fault," he murmured. "I've taken all the quilts. I'm afraid I'm not accustomed yet to share a bed." He wrapped the quilts comfortably around them and lay back beside her. A moment later, he reached again to touch her face.
"Is it me?" he asked quietly. "Can you not bear me?"
Hermione gave a short hiccupping laugh, not quite a sob. "No, it isn't you." She reached out in the dark, groping for a hand to press reassuringly. Her fingers met a tangle of quilts and warm flesh, but at last she found the hand she had been seeking. They lay side by side, looking up at the low beamed ceiling.
"What if I said I couldn't bear you?" She asked suddenly. "What on earth could you do?" The bed creaked as he shrugged.
"Tell Kinsley you wanted an annulment on grounds of nonconsummation, I suppose."
This time she laughed outright. "Nonconsummation!?"
The room was growing light enough to see the smile on the face turned toward her. "Yes well, it's only you and me that can say for sure, isn't it? And I'd rather be embarrassed than wed to someone that hated me."
She turned toward him. "I don't hate you."
"I don't hate you, either. And there's many good marriages have started with less than that." Gently, he turned her away from him and fitted himself to her back so they lay nested together. His hand cupped her breast, not in invitation or demand, but because it seemed to belong there.
"Don't be afraid," he whispered into her hair. "There's the two of us now." She felt warm, soothed, and safe for the first time in many days.
It was only as sleep began to claim her, the soft glow of dawn's first rays brushing against her skin, that she remembered the wand tucked above the headboard. The thought returned unbidden, nagging at the edges of her mind: what danger could drive a man to sleep armed and alert, even on his wedding night? Yet, as the haze of exhaustion settled over her, she found herself unsurprised. This was Harry Potter, after all—a man whose life demanded constant vigilance, even in the sanctuary of his bridal chamber.