Unspoken by MinnieMcG

Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 28/08/2003
Last Updated: 12/09/2003
Status: In Progress

He wakes to find her in his bedroom late at night. Will he finally confess what he feels or
continue keeping his secret?




1. Her
------

**Summary**: He wakes to find her in his room in the middle of the night. Will he tell her
everything or continue to keep his feelings hidden?

**Disclaimer**: I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe, nor am I making a profit
from them. Unfortunately for me, Harry and everything related to him belongs to J. K. Rowling and
associated publishers.

***Her***

He wakes slowly, hearing the soft rustle of fabric against fabric before he sees her. Without
his glasses, she seems to glow, surrounded by a white aura of gentle moonlight. The slightest hint
of vanilla and roses floats on the air and fills the room, a scent full of safety and warmth, of
*her*.

He sits up and puts on his glasses, gleaning his surroundings bit by bit. She comes into focus,
standing by the window, face pointed upwards, eyes closed, a soft summer breeze blowing gently
through the open window. The transparent curtains billow around her, nightgown flapping against
long legs. Her long hair has been tamed into a tight plait; only a few curly wisps lay against her
smooth neck and pale cheeks. Not for the first time, he inwardly marvels over how beautiful she is,
how soft her skin looks, milky and flawless. He wonders not why she is in his bedroom staring up at
the night sky, wonders not why she has not tried to wake him. No answers are needed to either
question; he cares not about the whys or hows. She is here, with him, and that is enough. Pulling
the blanket back so he can go to her, he stops suddenly. Hearing him, she opens her eyes and looks
towards the bed, causing his breath to catch in his throat.

She’s crying, silver steaks marring her cheeks; her once dancing eyes sparkle in the moon’s
reflection, but not in joy as they used to. She starts towards him, not bothering to wipe the tears
away. Reaching the bed, she crumples into him, clinging to his chest. He gathers her in his strong
arms and comforts her as best he knows how. He wipes her cheeks with steady hands and trails his
fingers up and down her arms while she continues to sob. Finally, the tears subside and her quick,
gasping breaths slow into the rhythmic breathing of someone in the clutches of slumber. He traces
his fingertips along her back in slow, lazy circles, still holding her tight against him.

He has done this before, numerous times, her grief being insatiable the first few months. Just
when he had begun to hope that she had started to heal, to move on, to see…but, no. It was unfair
to expect her to realize, to want the same thing. He didn’t even have the right to want what he
did. His life had become nothing but grief, guilt, and endless longing, each emotion hidden
carefully away from her. He would be strong for her, care for her. She needed him to be *her*
hero this time, not the world’s, just hers. He alone understood the void left by his death, knew
the pain and unending sorrow she felt. A part of both of them had been lost forever that night, but
he would be damn sure that she wouldn’t be lost too. He would help her find solace in friendship,
even if only in friendship.

Gazing down on her sleeping form, he softly wipes away the remaining moisture that clings to her
dark lashes. A soft flush has come to her cheeks, her lips curled into a slight smile. He wonders
what she is dreaming of. Is she playing chess with him? Repeating the good times they shared
together? He lies down next to her and breathes her in, always vanilla and a slight trace of roses,
a scent she wears in remembrance of him, her first love. Brushing her lips lightly, he leans over
her to place his glasses on the table and whispers in her ear. “Sweet dreams, Mione. I love you.”
She snuggles into his neck and winds her fingers through his in her sleep, silent tears flowing
down his cheeks as he sinks back into sleep's comforting embrace.



2. Him
------



She steps silently into the dark room, scared and unsure. She trembles slightly, despite the
warm night. She is afraid of telling him, of revealing her sin. His leg moves slightly and she
pauses, gazing at him from the foot of his bed. Her eyes drink him in, enjoying the look of calm on
his face, something not seen very often. His brow is not furrowed, but smooth, and she wonders if
his skin is soft to the touch as well. She shivers violently as the guilt washes over her. What is
she doing? Why is she here, in his room, by his bed, ready to confess?

She knows she shouldn't be there, that it wouldn't be right. She is supposed to be
mourning…healing. She fights the desire to wake him and kiss him; surely he would hate her for her
betrayal of their mutual friend. Hot tears threaten to fall; delicate fingers clench the lacy hem
of her nightgown. A breeze begins to blow softly, teasing her face with cool relief. She walks to
the window and gazes up toward the full moon. Its brilliance obscures the surrounding stars;
tonight the sky basks in its beauty alone. Closing her eyes, she breathes in the night air, sweet
and pure. He used to love to sneak out at night and walk the grounds, usually dragging her along.
Their first kiss was under a full moon, innocent and tentative. Now she was standing under the full
moon wishing for the kisses of another man, a man whom them both loved. How would he ever forgive
her? How would she ever forgive herself?

She turns suddenly at a noise from the bed. He is staring at her, brilliant green eyes glowing
in the moonlight, full of concern and care. She finally breaks, longing mixed with fear and guilt,
as she lets herself fall into his arms. As she cries, he cradles her gently and tries to dry her
tears. Her skin burns where he touches her, craves more than his comforting and chaste hugs. She
can hear his heart rapidly beating in his chest, hear his sadness in his soft murmurs. She knows
she reminds him of his friend, of what they lost. She knows he is strong because she needs him to
be strong and that he aches for what they lost. No, she will not tell him what she feels for him.
She will not make him hate her when she needs his love; she will not leave him completely alone and
cause him more pain. She will carry the burden of her love for the man she calls friend and help
him move on as he does for her. She drifts off to sleep and dreams of the day when they flew
together and saved the day, of beating wings and the feel of her arms around his waist. As they
rise higher into the night sky, silhouetted against a full moon, she can almost hear him whisper
that he loves her in her ear. If only dreams were real.



3. Them
-------



***Them***

They lie together, pressed close. As golden rays of sun creep up the bed, they begin to stir,
slowly shaking off the warm comfort of sleep. She wakes first, blinking deep mocha eyes against the
bright glare of early morning. Feeling the warm weight against her, she notices an arm slung over
her side, long fingers intertwined with her own. Panic and confusion begin to set in, her mind
begins to unfog and her pulse quickens as she realizes that that is *his* bare chest against
her back, warming her through her thin nightgown. That is *his* hot breath against her ear.
Never before has she stayed with him. Before, when she came to his bed seeking solace and safety,
he would eventually return her to her own room to send her to sleep with a chaste peck to the cheek
and a crooked smile, unsure but comforting. She shivers at the contact, begins to plan escape, for
she could not bear for him to wake, to pierce her with those eyes and stir her soul in a way no man
has ever. Not even…

He tightens his hold around her slim frame, grips the thin material gathered along her upper
thighs. Still mostly asleep, he mumbles slightly against the nape of her neck, words she cannot
decipher, but that nevertheless induce a reaction from her traitorous body as his lips graze her
skin. Her skin tingling, desperation takes hold. She inwardly resigns herself, commits herself to
leaving him in peace, to smothering the flame of desire which has begun to lap at her deliciously
from within. Moving slowly, she lifts the enemy limb from her waist and begins to slip from the
bed.

“Mione,” he pants, lost in a dream. He is amazed at how real she feels, this dream lover of his.
He can feel the smoothness of her skin and how the free wisps of hair tickle his nose; hear the
tiny gasps she emits when he breathes lightly onto a delicate spot below her ear. How amazing this
fake woman is, how lifelike. She even has a tiny scar on her left ring finger, right above the
knuckle, just like the one his real love has had ever since a long fall through a trap door when
they were too young to know the depth of love and devotion. A scar she has worn ever since she made
him feel loved for the first time, loved and admired for more than his own scar that he carries.
The scar that cost them a friend and changed their relationship forever.

She begins to leave, to retreat into the bright light his subconscious seems to have chosen as
background, but he will not let her go. He will not lose her too, the only Hermione he is allowed
to love freely. He pulls her back to him, holding her with a firm and unrelenting grip. He breathes
her name again, tasting lips full and sweet, just as he has imagined them for years. She gasps
against his mouth, stiffening slightly. “Harry?” she whispers, sounding surprised and confused, but
neither appalled nor angry. She shakes him awake gently, and when he sees those eyes, large and
full of shock, he knows. Her tiny mouth has formed a pink O, so cute and enticing, yet he cannot
move, frozen in his bed. He laments his obvious blunder, inwardly chastising himself for letting
her stay asleep in his arms, mourning the lack of self-control that has probably cost him her
friendship…the last thing he has.

Moments pass in silence, each of them trying to read the other as if they were books, but
utterly failing at first. She has once again begun to cry, but he cannot see sadness or shame in
her eyes. He sees….is it hope? Hope filling dark chocolate pools, her eyes are begging him to not
be sorry. She shifts and her leg brushes against his own under the sheets, shaking him out of his
trance. He reaches to her, pulls her close once more and brushes the wetness off of her cheeks,
planting kisses upon closed eyelids. She tips her chin and his resolve crumbles; he is kissing her
gently, lovingly. Her palms are pressed to his bare chest, scorching his skin. She moans against
his lips, deepening their kiss. Soon he stops and looks at her, smiling the first real smile in
many months. She smiles back, shyly, in a way that makes his pulse quicken and his breath catch in
his chest. They lie back down and curl into one another; he shuts the curtains with a murmured
spell as they fall back to asleep in each other's arms, content and happy, finally at peace
with themselves and their pasts. They know that they should not feel guilty anymore. Because love
really does conquer all, as the old saying goes...even if it remains unspoken.



