Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The fire in the drawing room had burned low, sending curls of orange light over the dark wood and deep green velvet of the old settee. Grimmauld Place, for all its creaking and groaning, had a particular stillness at this hour — a kind of truce with its ghosts. The quiet wasn’t peace, exactly, but it was the closest thing Harry had come to it in years.

He sat with one leg tucked beneath him, barefoot and comfortable, wand tapping rhythmically against his knee. The evening had passed in its usual summer rhythm: the others had spilled out to some Muggle club Dean liked — all pulsing lights and ridiculous trousers — and now were either asleep, paired off, or still stumbling in through the floo with half-sincere apologies about tracking dirt on the rug.

Harry had begged off early. He always did.

The door creaked open without warning, and he didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

Hermione entered the room with her usual mix of purpose and chaos — shoulders square, hair half-up and already unraveling, mascara smudged in a way that made her look less glamorous and more real. She was muttering something about boys being a menace, then shushed herself as she kicked off her shoes with a practiced wobble.

“Hello,” she said, not quite whispering.

Harry didn’t bother moving. “Thought you were staying out.”

“I was ,” she said, approaching the couch. “But I got bored of pretending I care about mid-century Brutalist architecture just because someone called me ravishing .”

She dropped onto the cushion beside him with a sigh that managed to be both dramatic and genuine. She didn’t just sit — she folded. One leg bent beneath her, arms crossed. Her knee knocked gently into his.

Harry adjusted slightly but didn’t pull away. It was Hermione. If anything, he leaned into the familiar warmth of her.

“I brought you takeaway,” she added, tugging a wrapped pasty out of her bag. “Then I ate most of it. Sorry.”

He smiled. “Thanks for thinking of me.”

She glanced sideways. “You always come back too early.”

“You always stay out too late.”

“Touché.”

The silence that followed was comfortable, edged with firelight and the slight rustle of Hermione’s skirt as she tried to smooth it down over her thigh. She let out a quiet sigh.

Harry looked over, watching as she wrinkled her nose, the way she always did when something displeased her — whether it was a badly worded essay or, apparently, wandering hands.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Mmm…” she paused as though evaluating and tilted her head back against the couch, eyes closed. “Yes.”

“You’re not completely blitzed,” he said, more observation than question.

“Mm. Nope. Just… floaty.” She blinked at him. “You have more sober-up potion in your stash?”

He stood and crossed the room, rummaging in the small cupboard near the mantle. “Is it still gin that’s your poison?”

“Gin. Elderflower. A hint of regret.”

He returned and offered the vial. She sat up and took it, swishing it once like wine before knocking it back with a grimace.

“Merlin, that’s vile,” she said.

“You keep asking for it.”

“I keep needing it,” she said, and leaned back again, eyes tracing the shadows on the ceiling.

Harry didn’t say anything for a while. She looked tired. Not the exhausted sort of tired, but the kind that settled in your shoulders when you were trying to outrun something. Eighth year had done that to a lot of them. Trying to be normal again. Trying to remember who they were before everything fell apart.

Hermione had thrown herself into study, of course — revising out of habit, joining every club offered, organizing study sessions, and leading endless restoration meetings for Hogwarts. And now she was preparing for Healer training. Always moving. Always planning.

But the clubbing — the casual dates, the snogging in back hallways, the whispered “he’s not that bad” explanations after — that was newer. That was this summer.

“You’re always the last one awake lately,” he said.

Hermione cracked one eye open and looked at him. “Am I?”

“Just… noticing.”

She turned her head to face him. “Are you worried?”

“No.”

She tried to fix him with a glare and gave up, closing her eyes again. “Liar.”

He didn’t argue. “Maybe a little worried.”

Hermione shifted slightly. Her shoulder pressed into his now, solid and warm. Her perfume had faded with the night, replaced by the faint, earthy smell of old books and her shampoo and whatever she’d used to tame her hair. It was familiar. Anchoring.

Hermione exhaled slowly. “Do you ever wonder if we missed something?”

Harry glanced down. “Missed what?”

She waved a vague hand. “All those years. The first kisses. First loves. First everything. We were… fighting. Hiding. Grieving.”

He didn’t answer right away. She wasn’t really asking.

“I keep thinking I’m catching up,” she said, “but it always feels like acting. Like I’m pretending to know how this is supposed to work.” Her voice dropped. “I hate not knowing what I’m doing.”

“And I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said, voice low. “With any of it.”

He didn’t reply right away.

“I know how to study. I know how to plan. I know how to survive.” She exhaled. “But this… dating. Flirting. Trusting people enough to let them close… It always feels like a performance. And if I get it wrong, I can’t revise.”

Harry considered his reply carefully. “That’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself, Hermione. I don’t think you have to know. Not yet.”

Hermione let her head fall against his shoulder. “Feels like everyone else does.”

“Not everyone.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“I know what people think,” she said eventually. “That I’m smart. That I’m useful . No one’s ever tripped over themselves to call me beautiful.. .”

Harry frowned.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she added quickly. “I’m not fishing.”

“I wasn’t going to say it to argue,” he said. “I was going to say I don’t think they’re looking closely enough.”

She turned her head again, cheek brushing against the knit of his jumper. “You’re a good liar.”

“I’m not lying. I do think you’re beautiful.” The words left him before he could think to weigh them.

She blinked. “You’re saying that because you’re not drunk and I am.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true.”

Hermione tilted her head. Studied him. Then her mouth twisted into the faintest smirk. “Well. You’re rather fit, yourself. All brooding silence and noble jawline. If you ever bothered to look interested in anyone, you could have your pick.”

“I don’t want my pick,” he said.

The silence after that was heavier.

“I can’t risk it,” he added, more quietly. “Not with the Prophet sniffing around every time I breathe in the wrong direction. I’d rather be alone than… than have my life printed in a headline. I went to that pub a couple of weeks ago… had a pint and some crisps, and the Prophet ran that stupid piece speculating on whether I was allergic to vinegar.”

She laughed — really laughed — and that made him smile.

“I’d rather… just…not. It’s simpler.”

“So, what? You’re just never going to date or snog or never …?”

He shook his head.

“I can’t, Hermione. I don’t think I could trust anyone, especially with sex. I’d always be worried about who they might be talking to, who might be watching.”

Hermione was quiet. Not shocked. Not judgmental.

Just... Hermione.

Her hand found his, warm and small in his lap. She didn’t lace their fingers. Just rested there.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” he said, voice low. “It’s just true.”

And then the fire popped, and someone upstairs laughed in their sleep, and neither of them moved away.

Not yet.

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place always smelled faintly of something burning, even when nothing was. Harry blamed the cupboards, which he was fairly certain had once housed an aggressive family of soot elementals. The smell had persisted through every cleaning charm Hermione had tried.

He sat at the long scrubbed table, cradling a chipped mug of tea with both hands, the steam curling under his glasses. The sun filtered weakly through the narrow windows, casting pale gold on the worn tile floor.

Kreacher was muttering to himself near the stove, smacking pots with the kind of passive aggression only house-elves could muster.

“—lazy wizards leaving crumbs in the sink, disrespecting the silverware, spilling firewhisky on my floor—”

“I didn’t spill anything,” Harry said, not looking up from his tea.

“Not you, Master,” Kreacher replied darkly. “Though your guests do not appear to have been raised in proper households. One of them put their boots on the mantel. ”

Harry winced. “Probably Seamus.”

“Kreacher remembers,” the elf said, voice like a curse.

Harry let the warmth of the tea settle into his chest, the silence broken only by Kreacher’s grumbling and the faint ticking of the old enchanted clock, which currently read “Recovering” for half the household.

The door creaked open, and Harry looked up just as Hermione appeared — still in pyjamas, hair piled into a wild, sleep-wrecked bun, glasses sliding down her nose. She blinked at the light, shuffled to the table, and flopped gracelessly into the seat across from him.

“Coffee, please, Kreacher,” she croaked.

Kreacher sniffed. “The clever one learns manners at last.”

Hermione groaned and buried her head in her arms. After a beat, a mug clunked onto the table beside her elbow. Hermione lifted her head just enough to mutter a half-hearted thanks.

“You look like you’ve been hit by a Cheering Charm and left in the rain,” Harry said.

“I dreamt that Luna was DJing a Ministry gala,” she said, without context. “Everyone was wearing moonboots.”

“That might not have been a dream.”

Hermione gave a weak chuckle and reached for a piece of toast. They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, drinking tea and slowly becoming people again.

Then Hermione spoke, soft and without looking at him. “About last night…”

Harry glanced up, but she didn’t seem embarrassed. More… contemplative.

“Thanks,” she said simply.

“For what?”

“For not making it weird. For not judging me. For listening.”

He shrugged. “That’s sort of our thing, isn’t it?”

Hermione smiled faintly, her eyes still on her mug. “I don’t always say things like that. Not even to you.”

“I noticed.”

She looked up then, searching his face. “You’re not going to pretend tgat conversation didn’t happen, are you?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t want to.”

Her smile warmed, subtle but true.

“Right,” she said after a moment, nodding to herself. “Good.”

Kreacher slammed a pan a bit too loudly and muttered, “Foolish humans and their whispering. Kitchen’s for eating, not staring meaningfully over toast.”

Hermione snorted, and Harry grinned into his tea.

She tore a bit of toast with deliberate focus. “We’re both starting something new soon.”

“Yeah.”

“Feels… big.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“I was thinking about what you said last night. Maybe I want to stop pretending I know what I’m doing,” she said quietly. “Just for a little while.”

He didn’t answer — just reached for the marmalade and pushed it across the table to her.

Hermione accepted it with a raised brow.

“You always forget you like it until you’ve had the first bite,” he said.

Her expression softened. “You really do know me.”

“Better than Luna in moonboots.”

“That’s debatable.”

Kreacher cleared his throat pointedly. “If Master and his companion are finished communing over condiments, Kreacher will begin clearing this disgrace of a table.”

Hermione stood, taking her tea with her. “Thank you, Kreacher.”

The elf gave a tiny, begrudging nod.

She looked to Harry as she reached the door. “I’m going to shower. Then I’ll be less philosophical.”

“Shame,” he said. “You’re quite good at it.”

She smirked, and for a second, he saw it again — the weariness under the surface, the tightness in her posture, the way she hadn’t quite looked him in the eye when she said she didn’t want to pretend anymore.

She disappeared down the corridor.

Harry stared at the empty doorway for a moment longer than he meant to.

Then he finished his tea.

Chapter Text

Harry came home early again.

The others had stayed — dragged to a fusion pub in Soho that claimed to do “elemental mixology,” whatever that meant. He’d stayed long enough to watch Dean chat up a visiting Hit Witch and dodge Seamus trying to slip a Bludger’s Bourbon into his hand. But the noise scraped at him after a while, and the closeness of bodies, the glancing recognitions, the way strangers said Harry with too much weight — it all pressed in like armor too tight to breathe in.

So, he left.

The house was dark when he arrived home, except for the lamps in the corridor and the low light spilling from the sitting room.

He was halfway through untying his boots when he heard the floo flare behind him.

Hermione stumbled out in a swirl of green and charcoal gray, her heels dangling from one hand, her coat slung over her arm.

Harry straightened, brushing soot from his shirt.

She looked up, startled. “Oh.”

“Hello to you, too.”

“I thought you’d still be out.”

“I thought you would be cozying up to that guy from the Department of Mysteries.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and started walking toward the kitchen. “Merlin, no. He used the phrase ‘sensory convergence’ as a flirtation.”

Harry followed. “You didn’t look completely repulsed.”

She shrugged. “I was trying not to spill my drink on him.”

They reached the kitchen. It was cool and quiet — Kreacher had clearly retired for the evening. Hermione flicked her wand and summoned two mugs from the shelf. Harry took out the tea tin automatically.

Once they were settled — her curled on the bench, him in the corner with one leg pulled up — she spoke again.

“I’ve been thinking about you lately.”

Harry blinked. “That sounds ominous.”

She smirked. “Not like that. Just… about what you said. About not being able to be with anyone.”

He exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Right.”

“I’ve been thinking how… sad that is. That you, of all people, don’t get that part of life. That softness. That freedom.”

Harry shrugged. “I’ve come to terms with it. Mostly. It’s not like I sit around brooding about it.”

“No, you just sit around brooding.”

He laughed under his breath.

After a beat, he added, “It’s not about wanting someone random. I just… sometimes I worry that if I do end up with someone real someday — someone I trust — I’ll be useless. Like, absolutely pants at it.”

Hermione turned toward him, tea cradled in both hands. “You’re not useless.”

“I don’t mean emotionally. I mean… physically. Beyond snogging, I’m pretty much clueless.”

She didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “That’s fair.”

“I’ve done some… you know, heavy petting,” he added awkwardly, looking down. “Over-the-clothes stuff. Nothing major. Never under. Never anything that actually… mattered.”

“Do you want to?”

He hesitated. “I want to know how to do it well. I want to be someone who can help the person I’m with feel… cherished. Desired. Like she’s beautiful. That she matters.”

Hermione was watching him now, not blinking. He forced himself to keep talking.

“I don’t want to be that guy who’s only ever focused on himself. I want to… be good at it. Thoughtful. Not just stumble around and hope I don’t make it worse.”

There was a pause.

Then, in a voice so calm it startled him, she said, “I could help.”

Harry looked up sharply. “What?”

She set her mug down gently. “I’m serious.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not , actually. I’ve had one drink a few hours ago and a very long evening of being disappointed by the male gender. Again.”

He stared at her.

She smiled, just a little. “You’re my best friend, Harry. I love you. You love me — not like that , but we both know it’s true. We trust each other. We know how to talk. We’ve never been jealous.”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again.

She kept going, like she’d already thought it through. “I’ve never been jealous of anyone you dated—”

That’s probably true , Harry thought, feeling something shift under his ribs.

“—and you’ve never been jealous of anyone I dated.”

That’s definitely not true, he admitted privately, before quickly locking that realization away.

“We’d be fine. On the other side of this. Still us.”

He swallowed. “Why? Why would you do this, Hermione?”

Her voice softened. “Because it’s a gift I can give you. Something only I can. And because… I want to. I want to be the one who helps you feel safe. Desired. I want to be the person you remember helped you figure it out.”

She gave him a small, earnest smile. “Someday you’ll be with someone, Harry. And you’ll make her feel incredible. And I’ll be able to look at you and think— I had a part in that. I helped.”

Harry shook his head slowly. “Hermione, this is…”

Hermione waited, the way she always did when she knew silence could be more persuasive than speech.

And Harry — who had been through war, death, prophecy, and the crushing weight of public life — suddenly found himself considering something far scarier.

Being seen.

Being known.

Being taught.

By the one person he’d never once needed to impress.

He should say no.

That was the first and loudest thought in Harry’s mind — the kind that echoed with all the weight of eighteen years of rules and rightness and things you don't risk.

He should say no, because it was Hermione.

Because she was sitting across from him with her bare feet curled under her on the bench and her hair coming loose from its pins, and she was the only person in the world who had seen him shattered and stupid and scared and still stayed.

Because they had built something solid — something untouchable — and to touch it now might shift the ground beneath them forever.

But.

But .

There was something in her voice that he couldn’t ignore. A steadiness. A knowing.

She meant it. Not in a careless, flirtatious way. Not in a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency way. She meant it in the way Hermione meant everything — with precision. With purpose.

“You’ve thought about this,” he said finally.

She nodded. “I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

He rubbed his thumb against the edge of his tea mug. “And you’re… okay with it? Really?”

“I wouldn’t have offered otherwise,” she repeated, but her smile this time was softer. “Harry, I’m not offering to rewrite our story. I’m offering to write something small in the margins.”

That nearly undid him.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Just stared down at the swirls in the woodgrain of the kitchen table. The house around them was still — waiting. The air had gone still, like even Grimmauld was holding its breath.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said quietly.

Hermione reached out and took his hand — not new, not charged, just theirs. She’d done it a thousand times before, in fear and joy and grief. This time, it was an offering.

“I do,” she said.

He looked up.

And in her eyes — open, warm, grounded — he saw it: not desire, not expectation, not even excitement.

He saw care.

That was what undid him completely.

“Okay,” he whispered.

Her thumb brushed his knuckle.

“Not tonight,” she said.

He shook his head. “No. Not tonight.”

They stayed like that for a moment longer. Not holding hands — just resting there, two people who knew the shape of the other’s soul.

Then she stood, stretched, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head the way she had in fifth year, sixth year, last week.

She left the room without fanfare, her empty mug in one hand, her footsteps soft on the stone floor.

Harry sat in the quiet kitchen for a long while, heart thrumming, body still, as the world shifted, slowly, beneath his feet.

Grimmauld’s garden was overgrown, full of stubborn weeds that had survived three generations of neglect and at least two minor magical infestations. Harry had taken to sitting on the broken bench near the back wall, where the sun filtered through old enchantments in lazy, golden waves when he wanted to do some intentional thinking. Today he was unintentionally thinking - mind wandering through Hermione’s offer.

He didn’t even realize Ron was there until he dropped into the grass beside him without asking, cracking open a butterbeer.

“Lavender made scones again,” he said, stretching out his long legs and offering Harry a plate. “Blueberry this time. There’s no flour left in her flat.”

Harry glanced over, grinning. “So you’re surviving on love and baked goods, then?”

Ron smirked. “And a solid appreciation for a woman who lets me be a slob once a week.”

They sat in companionable silence for a bit, licking butter off of their fingers as the garden buzzed with a late summer hum.

“She’s good at baking,” Harry said in appreciation. He noted Ron’s flush of pleasure. “And she’s good for you, isn’t she?” 

Ron nodded. “Yeah. She doesn’t expect me to be anything other than what I am. Doesn’t try to make me cleverer or cooler or… I dunno. Someone else.”

Harry’s voice was quiet. “That’s rare, isn’t it?”

“It is.” Ron fell silent for a moment. Then grinned. “It really is.”

Harry looked at his friend. “You really are happy. I’m glad, Ron. It’s good to see you… I don’t know… at peace.”

Ron grinned again and tipped the butterbeer towards him in a toast. “I highly recommend it.”

Harry chuckled. He joined Ron on the grass, tipping his face to the sun. He turned towards Ron, curious suddenly.

“What makes it click? When you finally figure it out, you know? What is it that falls into place? You didn’t have that happy contented thing with Hermione, did you?”

Ron took a sip of his butterbeer, then looked sideways. “I dunno, mate,” he said. “You know the both of us. How could it have worked- Hermione and me?”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

Ron shrugged. “She’s brilliant. But she never felt… reachable. Like, I always thought she was grading me in her head.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh.

“But also - I think I never felt good enough for her,” Ron continued. “So I never really appreciated her. And she never really relaxed around me, because she didn’t feel seen.”

Harry was quiet.

Ron glanced at him again. “I don’t mean to insult Hermione. She’s never had that problem with you. And you’ve never had a problem with her. You two… you leave space for each other. She lets you be all complicated and shit, and you let her be all brilliant and shit.”

Harry snorted. “Very poetic.”

Ron grinned. “I try.”

A pause.

Ron’s tone gentled. “Makes sense why she’s your best friend.”

Harry looked down. “You’re my best friend, too.”

“Oi, mate, I know that,” Ron said easily. “I’m not worried. It’s just… loads different. Hermione has always filled in the parts of you that you need. If you were ever forced to choose between us, you should definitely choose her.” He winked at Harry.

Then he stilled. He was thinking.  “I guess I feel like that about Lavender. I like that.”

They met in Hermione’s room because, as she put it, it had the least emotional baggage of any bedroom in the house. Grimmauld was large, but not in a way that inspired comfort. The drawing room had too many memories. The library had too many eyes.

Her room, on the other hand, smelled like lavender and old parchment. Neat stacks of books lined the walls. There was a reading chair in the corner with a half-knitted jumper draped over the arm. The bed was made.

Harry stood awkwardly near the window, hands in his pockets.

Hermione closed the door with a soft click and turned, hands full.

The book in her arms was massive. Leather-bound. Slightly weathered. Titled, in elegant gold lettering:

The Art of Intimacy: Theory and Practice for the Modern Magical Couple

Harry blinked. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I most certainly am not.”

“That thing looks like a textbook.”

“It is a textbook,” she said cheerfully. “It’s very comprehensive. There’s a whole section on magical erogenous zones and emotional neuro-tethers.”

Harry looked vaguely panicked. “Hermione. Please. ”

She laughed. She sat down on the bed and leaned against the headboard, heaving the book open against her knees. “We’re not doing diagrams tonight, don’t worry.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Diagrams?”

She looked over the top of the book. “You’re the one who said you wanted to learn.”

He groaned and flopped onto the chair. “I was picturing… I dunno. A conversation. Not magical Kama bloody Sutra.”

Hermione smirked and set the book in front of her on the bed. “Well, let’s start there.”

She pulled a small scroll of parchment from the bedside table and unrolled it. She tapped the list, “ Proteanum. ” A new copy appeared and she handed it to Harry. “There. Now any changes we make will show up on the other’s copy.

At the top, in her tidy script:

LESSON PLAN

He groaned again. 

“Stop it. This is just for structure.”

— Intro: Communication and Consent 

— Lesson 1: Sensory Awareness (part 1)

— Lesson 2: Emotional Intimacy 

— Lesson 3: Sensory Awareness (part 2)

— Lesson 4: Manual Technique

— Lesson 5: Oral Technique

— Final Review (optional, based on mutual agreement)

Harry stared at it.

Then: “You put ‘final review’?”

She grinned. “I'm a Healer-in-training. We believe in evaluations.”

He opened his mouth, then laughed helplessly, dropping his head into his hands. “Merlin, help me.”

“Ok. Communication and Consent. Let’s lay some groundwork here. Rule One,” she said, putting quill to parchment, “we agree this stays between us.”

He looked up, sobered slightly. “Right. Yeah. Absolutely.”

“No one hears about this agreement. Not Luna. Not Ginny,” he rolled his eyes at her smirk. “Not even Ron.”

Harry nodded. “Agreed.”

“Rule Two: at any point, either of us can stop. No explanation needed. We stay friends, no questions.”

He nodded again, heart steadying a little.

She paused. “Rule Three… no kissing.”

He blinked. “What?”

“No kissing.”

“Are you kidding?”

She fixed him with one of her glares. “No, Harry. I’m not kidding. I’m totally serious. Kissing is out.”

“Why?” he prodded.

She blushed lightly and shrugged, “That’s where I’d fall in love.” 

He stared at her, chest tightening with something he couldn’t name.

Harry hesitated. Then: “How am I supposed to learn some of the advanced techniques without kissing your…”
He trailed off, ears already turning red.

Hermione didn’t bat an eye. “Oh. Clarification— no mouth kissing,” she said evenly. “You can kiss other places.”

He blinked. “Other… places?”

She arched a brow, lips twitching. “Other places, Harry. Shall I name them for you?”

He blushed. Fully. Visibly.

“Well,” he muttered, scratching behind his ear. “I suppose that’s… clear.”

“It’s a necessary boundary,” she said, softer now. 

She smiled at him. “Do you have any rules you want to add?”

Harry couldn’t think properly. “Errr… no?”

She shrugged. “Ok. As for Consent - everything else, we talk about. We go slow. We stop if we need to.”

Harry nodded, still pink but smiling faintly.

“Honestly,” she added, “I think you’re going to do fine.”

“I’m just trying not to faint,” he replied.

She laughed — and the sound broke the tension in the room like sunlight through fog.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, the room dark but for the soft golden glow of the enchanted lamp on his nightstand. The door was closed, his trainers lay kicked off in the corner, and Kreacher had long since vanished downstairs, muttering about improperly folded laundry.

The parchment lay in his hands — Hermione’s neat handwriting so familiar it nearly comforted him.

LESSON PLAN

— Intro: Communication and Consent 

— Lesson 1: Sensory Awareness (part 1)

— Lesson 2: Emotional Intimacy 

— Lesson 3: Sensory Awareness (part 2)

— Lesson 4: Manual Technique

— Lesson 5: Oral Technique

— Final Review (optional, based on mutual agreement)

He ran his finger along the edge of the page.

Hermione had made a bloody syllabus. 

The rest of the day after their meeting had passed in a daze. Whenever Harry thought about it, he immediately flushed and his pulse began to roar in his ears. Everything on the list made him hot and bothered, but still, somehow, the thing that stuck with him wasn’t on the list. 

THE RULE . That’s what he had come to think of it as. That’s what was consuming his thoughts. 

It was the way she’d drawn that line in the sand — no kissing — and the way her voice sounded when she said, that’s where I’d fall in love. 

He didn’t know what to do with that. 

He had seen her kissing many a bloke. Kissing didn’t seem to bother her ordinarily. 

He tilted his head back against the headboard, parchment crackling lightly in his fingers.

This thing she was going to do for him… what was she really offering him?

He knew it wasn’t just knowledge. It wasn’t just practice. 

Presence, maybe? Attentiveness? Connection?

A kindness of sharing oneself that most people wanted with sex and never actually found within it?

Harry sat with that for a moment. 

What was he offering Hermione in return?

He hated the way it felt like he was just taking. He doubted there would be much payout for her in his clumsy pawing and inept mouthing. That’s probably why he was a little annoyed that kissing was off the table— he was reasonably sure he was actually pretty good at that one thing.

He swallowed.

He closed his eyes and let himself just consider Hermione for a bit. 

When he thought of Hermione, he thought of a steady unquestioning presence. 

She had been his constant companion for almost a decade now. She never faltered in her willingness to give of herself to him. She was literally always available for him. He knew that he could drag her out of bed at 3 a.m. to listen to him cry, should he be in need, or on the other end of twatdom, convince her to make a wee-hours run to pick up roasted pistachio ice cream at Tesco. She would be there for him regardless. 

And he would be for her. 

Wait. She knew that, right?

He thought about Hermione this summer. He had seen her come home — hair mussed, skirt askew, mascara smudged in a way that wasn’t charming — and watched her shoulders tense when no one was looking. Heard her brush off questions with jokes. Heard her mutter that Muggle boys were easier, because at least they didn’t know she was Hermione Granger . Heard her sigh about being clever enough for a shag but not for a second date.

He looked back down at the parchment.

Emotional Intimacy

They already had that, he thought. 

Well, but… not about anything concerning sex. Though she had shown him a glimpse before. In the tent. After Ron left. 

They’d split a bottle of wine and played endless games of Exploding Snap, and somewhere between the second glass and the third game, she’d told him about Krum. That it had been her first time. That he’d been kind, if a bit technical. That she’d had to say aloud she wanted things to stay casual — even though he hadn't asked. Because she hadn’t wanted to be anyone’s souvenir. Not even his.

She’d been with muggle boys during the summers after that, she had said.

And he knew that after the war, there had been others. Anthony Goldstein. Ernie Macmillan. And there were whispers — nothing confirmed — about Roger Davies. Theo Nott. Even Draco Malfoy.

He remembered walking past the corridor outside the Ancient Runes classroom and hearing someone joke about Hermione Granger being not just brilliant with a wand, but with her tongue.

At the time, he had shuddered and then hadn’t thought much of it. Everyone said things. Everyone talked . Though, they never talked about it between the two of them.

But now — looking back — he wondered if she’d needed to talk. Maybe she had been looking for something. Someone. Something real in the wreckage. Something steady.

No one had given her that. Just passing heat and praise and forgettable names.

He stared at the word sensory and wondered how long it had been since someone had touched her with kindness. Reverence. Care.

It struck him, suddenly and almost violently, that Hermione had never looked at him with that performative smile she wore with other men. The one she used when someone tried too hard. Or not at all.

His mouth twisted. He didn’t have much to offer. But maybe — maybe — he could give her that kindness of connection. A break, maybe. A reprieve from being desired for what someone could get from her. A chance to be known, without having to perform.

No, not performance.

Presence. Appreciation. Care. 

That’s what she was offering him.

He could do the same.

He turned the parchment over and, in his own messy scrawl, added:

Amendment: No other partners during the duration of the lessons.
(Not about jealousy or possession. About presence. About being a gift to each other.)

He sat with that for a long time.

It wasn’t what she was used to.

But maybe — just maybe — his attention could be a kind of rest for her.

A place where there were no transactions. Where she could be brilliant. And complicated. And wholly herself.

Maybe he could learn her even as she was teaching him. 

Maybe this could be good for her, too. 

She chose the smallest guest room for the first Lesson.

It had plain cream walls, a small fireplace that crackled gently in the corner on the unseasonably cool day, and a bed that had never been used — its quilt still stiff from the last laundering spell Kreacher had performed. There was nothing sentimental in it. No ghosts in the corners. Just space.

Hermione had rearranged the room. Two chairs faced each other near the fire, low and close. A narrow table held the now-famous book (thankfully shut), two glasses of water, and their identical scrolls — each glowing faintly with the echo of the Protean Charm.

Harry had brought his wand. And a lot of nerves.

Hermione had brought a notebook.

“Alright,” she said, taking her seat across from him and smoothing her skirt. “Sensory Awareness Part 1.”

Harry gave her a look. “You’re actually calling it that?”

“Yes,” she said, completely unfazed. “Now. This is about learning to notice and respond to how your partner experiences touch. Not just where, but how. Everyone reacts differently. This is… baseline observation.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Right.”

She smiled. “We’re going to start with something simple. Just touch.”

Harry nodded, chest tight. “Okay.”

“No goals,” she said softly. “No expectations. Just information. We go slowly, we check in, and if either of us says stop, we stop.”

“Got it.”

Hermione turned over their scrolls — his eyes flicked to see the addendum still at the bottom, his own messy scrawl there: Not about jealousy or possession. About presence. About being a gift to each other.

She’d added a simple star beside it. A quiet yes.

“Let’s begin with your hand,” she said, extending hers palm-up between them.

Harry hesitated, then placed his hand in hers. She wrapped her fingers around his gently, like she’d done dozens of times before, but now she studied the texture of his skin — the callouses, the tension.

“May I touch your arm?” she asked.

He blinked. “Yeah. Of course.”

She traced from his wrist to his elbow with a light fingertip, then tried again with more pressure. His skin goosepimpled slightly.

“That’s a reaction,” she said, glancing up.

He laughed, a little embarrassed. “Ticklish.”

“Good to know.”

They switched. His turn. He watched her closely, took her hand, turned it gently in his, and tried the same — first a featherlight stroke, then firmer. He noticed the way her eyes fluttered when he moved just under the bend of her elbow. Her breathing changed slightly.

“Here?” he asked.

She nodded. “Good. That’s attentive.”

He smiled. “Well, I’m a fast learner.”

She raised a brow. “Don’t get cocky.”

He chuckled, but his heart felt strange — not aroused, exactly, but open. Alert.

They worked slowly. The touch was never more than hands, wrists, arms, shoulders. Occasionally she’d murmur a quiet “may I?” and he’d nod. Sometimes she’d say “pause,” just to shift. And once, when he got too in his head, she pressed a warm hand to his chest and said, “Just be here. Not anywhere else.”

And he was.

They ended with hands intertwined between them, both slightly flushed from proximity, but still — still — fully themselves.

Hermione gave his hand a squeeze. “You did well.”

He smiled. “You’re a good teacher.”

She tilted her head. “You’re easy to teach.”

They sat there for another moment, and then Hermione leaned over, grabbed her quill, and wrote something at the bottom of her parchment. A few seconds later, Harry’s scroll shimmered.

He unrolled it.

Note (added 9:22 p.m.) – Lesson One:
Harry notices more than he thinks. Very good with light pressure. Extremely responsive to verbal feedback. Still unsure what to do with praise.

He snorted.

“Accurate?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately.”

“Then I’m doing my job.”

She stood, stretching, and gathered the notes. “Next time, emotional intimacy.”

Harry blinked. “I thought this was emotional.”

She glanced back at him with a small smile. “That was physical comfort. Next time… we try presence under emotional pressure.”

He stared after her as she left, the soft click of the door echoing behind her.

He sat back in the chair, his hands still remembering the shape of her wrist.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel afraid of what came next.

Chapter Text

The Leaky Cauldron was loud with summer laughter — students off for the holiday, Ministry trainees celebrating finishing forms in triplicate, and the usual late-night crowd of shopkeepers and misfits. Someone had charmed the pub sign to wink every time a new butterbeer was ordered, and Harry found it mildly unnerving.

He hadn’t planned to come, honestly. But Neville had owled, Dean had sent a follow-up message sealed with glitter, and somehow Harry had found himself slipping on a clean jumper and actually looking forward to it.

Which was new.

Which was Hermione.

When he arrived, she was already there — tucked into the corner booth, sundress pale blue with thin straps, curls pinned off her neck. She looked up and smiled when she saw him, shifting just enough to make room for him beside her.

He slid in, shoulder brushing hers. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she murmured. “How are you?”

Harry exhaled, let his hand rest casually on the table. “I’m good,” he said honestly. “Really good.”

She turned slightly, watching him.

He added, voice low, “Probably has something to do with you.”

Her mouth curled at the edges, but she only said, “And how is the most promising student of magical touch techniques this side of Diagon Alley?”

He smirked. “Still reeling from your quill feedback.”

She laughed softly, but her smile faded just a fraction when he asked, “How are you ?”

“I’m… alright,” she said. “Haven’t been sleeping well.”

He frowned. “Sorry.”

Without thinking, he reached to squeeze her elbow — and his fingers grazed that spot, the one just beneath the curve of her arm, where her skin had responded last night.

She fluttered. Just a breath.

He grinned.

Leaning in, voice just above a whisper, he murmured, “You know, I was thinking…”

She gave him a side-eye, wary but intrigued.

He continued, “When you were learning piano, you had to practice between lessons, right?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, amused and skeptical. “Are you suggesting extra credit?”

“And I had to practice to get better at flying…” he raised 

“Call it self-motivated review.”

She hummed in consideration. “Well… as long as no one knows …”

Harry lifted one brow, grinning. “Strictly sub rosa?”

“Sub-tabla,” she corrected, nodding toward their hands on the table.

And so it began.

Their hands found each other under the table — brushing knuckles, tracing lines along palms. Fingers skated across forearms, remembered what made breath catch, what made eyelids flutter.

Hermione crossed one leg, knee peeking out from the hem of her sundress.

Harry’s fingers ghosted across the skin just above it, casual, like an accident. It wasn’t.

She pressed her lips together. Not fair, her eyes said.

When everyone else was looking at the blinking butterbeer sign, she retaliated by dragging her fingertips up the back of his neck, slow and barely-there, into the soft mess of his hair.

He shivered.

The booth filled and emptied around them, friends talking, laughing, ordering another round. But they sat still, electric. Every movement designed to be ignorable to anyone else — but known.

And then, as if the universe conspired for a moment of mercy, the booth emptied.

It was just the two of them. Her cheeks were flushed, his breath was slightly shallow.

He leaned in, lips near her ear. “Still ok with practicing?”

She tilted her chin toward him. “Mmmmm...”

He reached, slowly, carefully, and let one finger slip just under the strap of her dress, brushing the top of her shoulder.

Her breath hitched — barely — and her eyes met his.

Whatever she was going to say was cut off by the return of Luna.

She slid into the booth opposite them, eyes bright and knowing. Her gaze bounced between them once. Twice.

They froze like children caught with a wand in the cookie jar.

Hermione stood abruptly. “I have to go.”

Harry slid out to let her pass, his front brushing against hers as she exited the booth. She drew in a sharp breath.

She was moving away from him when he reached out and caught her hand.

She stopped.

He waited.

And when she turned — fully, properly and looked into his eyes — he looked back at her, really into her, and tried to telegraph all the spark and the care and the soft steadiness he never quite put into words.

She saw it.

She settled.

Her hand tightened around his. “See you at home, yeah?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She left.

Harry turned back toward the table, where Luna sat serenely with a glass of elderflower fizz and a slight smile.

She raised one eyebrow.

He lifted a hand. “Not a word, Luna. Not. A. Word. ”

She held up her glass in a silent toast. “Of course, Harry. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They hadn’t scheduled another lesson.

Not formally.

But over the last few days, everything felt like practice.

Hermione’s hand had brushed his shoulder as she passed behind him in the kitchen — slow, trailing — and he’d felt it for an hour afterward. She didn’t say anything. Just poured her coffee, added a little honey, and sat back down with a yawn and a stretch that exposed the soft inside of her elbow.

He didn’t say anything either.

That afternoon, she’d been working at the kitchen table, surrounded by scrolls and open books and three different quills. He’d come in quietly, hands still damp from washing dishes, and she hadn’t looked up, just said, “My shoulders are killing me.”

He didn’t hesitate. Just stepped behind her and laid his palms against the curve of her back. Her breath caught — not in surprise, not quite — and he’d kneaded gently, the way she’d shown him once in the tent with a model diagram and firm instruction.

It felt natural. Not charged. But not nothing, either.

Later that night, they were on the sofa watching a film she’d insisted he needed to see — something slow and lyrical with subtitles and devastating scenery — and her legs were stretched across his lap. One of her feet had found the edge of his jumper, cold toes pressing in. He’d grumbled, and she’d laughed, then changed positions and threaded her fingers into his hair.

Just… played with it.

Fingers at the nape of his neck, scraping gently, drifting just behind his ear.

He’d stopped reading the subtitles entirely.

And he’d realized something then— somewhere between Icelandic poetry and the way her thumb brushed behind his ear:

Being close to someone— not sexually, not yet— but physically close, with permission and intention, was… something else entirely.

He’d never really had it before. Not like this.

Cho had been all tension and nerves and unread signals. Ginny had been fire and need and not enough space to think. But this — this was slow. Mutual. Hermione didn’t just touch him; she responded to him. She noticed.

And she let him notice her in return.

There’d been a moment — small, easy — when they’d been reading across from each other, her legs stretched across the ottoman. He’d reached for his mug and, without quite thinking, let his hand brush hers. Then, when she didn’t pull away, he’d taken her hand fully and rested it between them on the sofa cushion.

She hadn’t even looked up. Just squeezed once, then kept reading.

Another night, she’d had her feet in his lap again — that was becoming a thing, apparently — and he’d traced the line of her muscle up the exposed skin of her calf. Not high. Not purposeful. Just there. And warm.

She hadn’t even flinched. Just sighed, content, and leaned further into him.

It was a bit maddening, how casual it all felt.

And how right.

He didn’t know what they were doing, really. They hadn’t talked about it. He hadn’t updated the lesson scrolls. She hadn’t assigned anything.

But every moment — every stretch of her fingers over the nape of his neck, every unconscious lean into his side, every hand tucked into his when the telly got too loud or the room got too cold — it was a kind of unfolding.

And what surprised him most was this:

He was letting himself be known.

Not just touched.

Known.

He hadn’t thought he’d ever be the one to initiate, but sometimes, now, he did. A hand on her knee when they sat too close. A palm pressed to the small of her back when they passed in the hallway. Once, just once, he’d tucked a curl behind her ear and didn’t immediately want to die from the intimacy of it.

And every time, she allowed it. Returned it.

He was learning her, yes.

But also — she was letting him teach himself what it felt like to want, without shame. What it felt like to be wanted, without demand. What it meant to belong to someone without being owned.

Harry leaned back on the sofa that night, watching her doze slightly beside him — book half-open on her lap, her hand still curled in his — and thought:

This. This would be a very good thing to have in my life.

They met for the second lesson in the same room.

The fire was unlit today, but the same two chairs pulled close enough to feel breath between them. The scrolls sat on the table, neatly rolled, each still pulsing faintly with the Protean link. A pot of tea steamed quietly off to the side, and Hermione had lit a candle that smelled like citrus and sage.

Harry wondered if she’d done that for a reason. If scent was part of the lesson plan.

She sat down across from him, feet tucked beneath her, hair loose over one shoulder. She looked comfortable. She looked like home.

And suddenly, he wasn’t comfortable.

Not in a bad way. Just… aware.

Hermione tilted her head. “Ready?”

He nodded. “What are we doing this time?”

“No touching,” she said, “unless prompted. Lesson Two is about emotional presence. Attention. Honesty. Staying with someone even when you want to hide.”

Harry shifted in his seat. “So… you’re going to interrogate me.”

She smiled. “No. We’re going to talk. And notice.”

He frowned. “Notice what?”

“Each other,” she said, simply.

They sat in silence for a long moment. Not awkward — but definitely not easy.

Hermione uncapped a quill and poised it near her scroll.

“I’m going to ask you some things,” she said, “and you answer however you want. You can lie. But I’ll know.”

He gave her a look. “That’s not intimidating at all.”

“First question,” she said. “When do you feel safest?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

She didn’t repeat it. Just waited.

He thought about it. About the tent. About the sofa. About long walks with his hands in his pockets, hood up against the wind. About her head on his shoulder when the credits rolled. About holding hands, not for the first time, but for the eighth, when it had become routine.

“Late at night,” he said, finally. “When no one needs me. When the house is quiet and I can still hear you breathing in the next room.”

Hermione’s eyes flickered. She didn’t write anything down.

“Next,” she said softly. “When do you feel most invisible?”

He hesitated. “Ministry parties.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone looks at me and still doesn’t see me.”

She nodded. “When do you feel most yourself ?”

Harry’s hand curled on his knee. “When I’m doing something that doesn’t involve a wand.”

That surprised her. “Like what?”

“Fixing the house. Cooking. Folding things. Washing your mugs.”

She smiled. “Why?”

“Because no one expects it. Because it’s mine.”

Hermione nodded. Wrote something.

“Can I ask one?” he said.

She looked up. “Of course.”

He leaned forward. “When did you last feel like someone really saw you?”

Her mouth twisted. “Three nights ago. When you asked how I was and waited for the real answer.”

Harry swallowed.

She added, “Before that? It had been a long time.”

The candle flickered.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Next part of the lesson: eye contact. No talking. Just… stay with me.”

Harry sat back, pulse picking up for reasons he couldn’t name.

She met his eyes.

And didn’t look away.

It should have felt silly. Or invasive. But it didn’t.

It felt… intense.

Like she’d taken the warding off her heart and said: Here. Look if you want.

And he did.

He saw the freckles on her nose. The faint line between her brows from years of frowning at books. The softness in her expression — not passive, but letting go.

He wondered what she saw in his.

The seconds stretched. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke.

He stayed.

After a long moment, Hermione reached out and tapped her quill to the scroll.

Harry’s updated immediately.

Lesson Two Notes (from Hermione):
Stays with discomfort.
Doesn’t deflect with humor when asked direct emotional questions.
Feels safest near me. Doesn’t know that’s what it means.
Eye contact sustained 90 seconds. No retreat.

He blinked. “You timed it?”

She smiled, but it was softer this time. “I notice things.”

He breathed in deeply. “You always have.”

Hermione stood, gathering their mugs.

“I don’t know what next week’s lesson will be,” she said. “I might need to make it up on the spot.”

He looked up at her, completely sure of this: “I trust you.”

She paused in the doorway.

Her smile, when it came, was almost too tender to hold.

It was surprising, really.

How being emotionally exposed — intentionally exposed — didn’t feel exhausting.

Harry had expected to feel wrung out afterward, like he usually did when someone poked too closely at the raw edges of who he was. But when Hermione had walked out of the room after Lesson Two, with her scrolls and her quiet smile, he hadn’t felt the need to pull the blankets over his head or retreat to the attic or disappear into old Quidditch games on the wireless.

He’d just wanted… more.

More of that stillness. More of that looking. More of the strange calm that had settled in his chest while she watched him breathe and he watched her think.

It wasn’t arousal. Not quite. He couldn’t name what it was until a few hours later, when he realized it with a start—

It was peace.

So the next night, he knocked gently on the door to her room and leaned in. She was cross-legged on the bed with a book in one hand and her scroll open beside her.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked.

She looked up immediately. “Of course.”

He stepped inside and shut the door. “I’ve been thinking about last night.”

Her brow lifted. “And?”

“I liked it. More than I thought I would.”

Hermione blinked, then set her book aside. “You mean the questions?”

“I mean all of it,” he said, crossing the room to sit at the foot of her bed. “The talking. The listening. The staring.”

“The staring,” she repeated, smiling faintly. “I think you handled that better than most would.”

He nodded. “It might have been my favorite part.”

She looked surprised. “Really?”

Harry shrugged, a bit sheepish. “I felt completely safe. And seen. And…”

He hesitated.

Hermione waited.

“…and loved,” he said finally.

She stilled — not dramatically, not visibly — just… went quiet in that way she did when something landed too close to the bone.

He rushed to clarify, sitting forward. “I know you don’t love me like that, Hermione. I wasn’t saying— I just meant—”

She shook her head quickly, stopping him. “I know. I do love you. And… yeah. I suppose you can tell.”

He met her eyes and nodded. “It was really obvious.”

That startled a laugh from her — short and self-conscious. She tucked her legs in tighter. “Do you want to know why I included the eye contact?”

He nodded.

“There was this article,” she said, smiling a little. “In the New York Times , years ago. Said you could fall in love with anyone if you asked thirty-six questions and stared into each other’s eyes for four minutes.”

Harry stared. “That’s a real thing?”

She nodded again, teasing now. “It’s very scientific. Or romantic. Depending on who you ask.”

He huffed a laugh. “And you decided to test it?”

“I decided that emotional vulnerability would help you become a better partner.”

He smirked. “And if I fell in love with you in the process, that would just be good data?”

She rolled her eyes. “I assumed you wouldn’t.”

He tilted his head. “Do you want to do the questions?”

Hermione blinked. “Now?”

“I mean, we both know we’re not going to fall in love with each other.”

He said it lightly. With a grin. But her mouth tightened — barely — and he filed that away.

She gave a slow nod. “Alright. Sure.”

Harry stretched back across the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. “And maybe we can practice the staring again. I was brilliant at that.”

“You were.”

“Best in the year.”

She laughed. “What do you propose? One question per night and then four minutes of unbroken eye contact?”

“I propose,” he said, voice mock-solemn, “that since we’ve graduated to emotional intimacy, we not abandon physical intimacy entirely.”

She gave him a wary side glance. “Oh?”

“I mean, when you learn a new skill, you don’t just drop the old one.”

Hermione bit back a smile. “You think you can multitask?”

“I think I’d like to try.”

She gave him a long, measured look — then reached for the scroll beside her bed and scribbled something.

A moment later, Harry’s own scroll shimmered at his hip.

He unrolled it:

Lesson Two (ongoing):
Emotional and physical practice now considered concurrent disciplines.
Initiation of “Extended Practice Plan.”
Subject exhibits growing confidence.
Also, cheek.

Harry snorted and tossed a pillow at her.

She caught it, grinning. “We’ll start the questions tomorrow. Stare time negotiable.”

He laid back against the bed frame, smile softening. “Looking forward to it.”

And he meant it.

More than he meant almost anything else.

They didn’t sit as close this time.

Not by design. Just... how the evening unfolded.

Harry had curled into the corner of the sofa, one leg folded under the other, mug in hand. Hermione sat at the other end, not far — just far enough for a cushion between them. Their parchment lay on the table, the questions written in her careful script, slightly smudged at the edges.

Outside, the rain tapped gently at the windows. Inside, the room was still.

“Alright,” Hermione said, reaching for the top page. “You ready?”

Harry nodded. “Soft open, right?”

Question One:
Given the choice of anyone in the world, living or dead, whom would you want as a dinner guest?

He didn’t even need to think about it this time.

“My mum,” he said, voice low. “Not just to ask her about… anything big. Just dinner. I’d want to know what she cooked. What she complained about while chopping things. If she used too much pepper.”

Hermione was quiet, eyes steady on him.

He went on. “I think she’d be a bit bossy. I’d probably forget to set the table and she’d give me a look.” He glanced down, thumb tracing the curve of his mug. “And I think she’d like you. Probably tease you, though.”

Hermione smiled, but didn’t speak.

“She’d see you,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Like you really are.”

The words hung in the air, soft as breath.

Hermione cleared her throat and looked at the parchment for a long time. “That’s a very… lovely answer.”

He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Who’s yours?”

“Well, probably my grandmother. For similar reasons, but…maybe not a family member…” 

“Virginia Woolf,” she said, after a pause.

Harry raised a brow. “Sounds… intense.”

“She was,” Hermione said, folding one leg beneath her. “But I think I’d like her honesty. I’d want to ask her how she wrote through the noise. How she lived in a world not built for her, and still chose beauty.”

He nodded, quiet.

They let it settle for a moment.

Question Two:
Would you like to be famous? In what way?

Hermione looked at him expectantly.

He huffed a laugh. “Pass.”

She grinned. “That’s not how this works.”

He leaned back, eyes on the ceiling. “Ugh… being famous sucks . You know I wouldn’t choose it again in a million years. But if I have to be famous, I’d rather it be for something quiet. Like... helping people without them knowing I was the one who helped.”

“Anonymous kindness,” she said softly.

“Something like that.”

“But if you were anonymous, how would you be famous for it?”

He chuckled. “I think I’d rather not be famous at all. You?”

She thought for a moment. “I don’t like the kind of famous I already am. I wouldn’t mind being famous in academic circles. Not general-public famous — just enough that if someone cited me in a paper, they’d spell my name right.”

He smiled. “They’d have to, wouldn’t they?”

She gave him a look. “You’d be surprised how often people drop the 'e' at the end.”

They paused again, tea cooling beside them.

Question Three:
Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you’re going to say? Why?

Harry laughed under his breath. “No. But I should.”

Hermione tilted her head. “Why don’t you?”

He shrugged. “I think I’ve always been more afraid of sounding rehearsed than saying the wrong thing. If I mess it up, at least it’s honest.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“You do, though,” he said.

“I do.”

“Because?”

“Because I like to get the hard part out of the way in my head. So I can focus on listening.”

He looked at her then — really tried to see her — and felt a small shift in his chest. Not new. Just noticed.

She wasn’t trying to be known. She already was.

He sat up a little straighter. “How many of these are we doing?”

Hermione checked her watch. “Let’s stop at three. Then we’ll do the stare.”

He groaned. “You’re calling it that?”

“The stare,” she repeated, mock serious. “Ancient magical rite of the heart.”

Harry chuckled and reached for the brass timer.

They turned toward each other, knees angled just slightly closer than they had been at the start. She crossed her arms loosely in her lap. He rubbed his palms together, then rested them on his thighs.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Born ready.”

She clicked the timer.

Ninety seconds.

This time, it didn’t feel like proving something. He wasn’t trying to hold her gaze, wasn’t counting the seconds. He just… let himself stay there. In that small space where her eyes softened and her face relaxed and the distance between them blurred into something familiar.

There wasn’t any dramatic realization.

Just the quiet miracle of stillness.

She didn’t break first.

Neither did he.

When the timer rang, neither of them moved for a moment.

Then Hermione reached forward and clicked it off.

“That was easier than last time,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, voice softer than he meant it. “I liked it.”

She hesitated, then smiled. “Me too.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just leaned back beside her, arms close but not touching, and let the quiet settle between them again.

It felt like resting.

Question Four:
What would constitute a “perfect” day for you?

The garden, late morning.

They sat on the half-cleared bench, the sun cutting low over the hedge, her hand resting lightly on his thigh. His fingers played with the hem of her sleeve.

“Quiet house,” Harry said. “Bit of sun. You, maybe, reading in the corner. Good food. Someone who knows how to make a cup of tea without asking.”

Hermione smiled. “That’s a low bar.”

“It’s not.”

He asked hers and she said, “A whole day where no one needs me to be smart. Or useful. Or right.”

He didn’t answer.

Just reached for her hand and held it while they stared, knees brushing.

Her eyes were more gold in the sun. Little flecks that caught.

She bit her lip halfway through and looked suddenly, shyly beautiful.

Question Nine:
Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.

The sofa, late at night.

They’d had a row about biscuits earlier — the funny kind. She was wrong about jammy dodgers and he’d told her so.

He said, “We both prefer silence to noise. And we like words more than people. Also, we have zero tolerance for bad tea.”

She added, “We’re both bad at asking for what we want.”

He looked at her, steady. “Yeah.”

This time, during the stare, she let her thumb brush over the back of his hand as she watched him.

And he noticed the exact way her cheek colored when she felt exposed — like warmth blooming just beneath the skin.

He didn’t comment.

He just stayed.

Question Fifteen:
What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?

The upstairs hallway, sitting against the wall.

They were meant to be on their way to bed. Everyone else was out at yet another club. Instead, they'd paused halfway, legs stretched out across the rug, backs to the wallpaper.

Harry said, “Not letting the worst things turn me into someone I wouldn’t like.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s a good answer.”

She didn’t volunteer hers at first.

Only when prompted, she whispered, “Surviving the war and still wanting softness.”

He didn’t say anything.

They didn’t do the stare right then. After they slowly rose, they just touched foreheads briefly in the quiet and let the moment stand in for it.

Question Twenty-One:
What roles do love and affection play in your life?

The library, rain drumming on the windows.

He wasn’t reading. Just watching her trace something in a book with her fingertip.

“I think affection is how I know I’m real,” he said. “And love is how I don’t disappear.”

She looked up, startled.

He shrugged. “I used to think survival was the point. But maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s this.”

Her hand came up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone.

They stared.

His eyes caught the faint speckle of freckles just at the bridge of her nose, half-hidden under the light.

She always looked straight back, like she was reading him.

And he always let her.

Question Twenty-Seven:
If you were going to become a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for them to know.

In the kitchen, dishwater steaming in the sink.

“I’m already your closest friend,” she said.

He handed her a rinsed plate. “Still counts. Answer the question.”

She frowned, hands moving over the towel. “I’m scared of not being useful.”

Harry stilled.

She added, quietly, “Sometimes I think the only reason anyone keeps me is because I’m helpful.”

He leaned against the counter. “You know that’s not true with me, right?”

“I know,” she said. “But I forget.”

He dried a mug slowly, watching her.

That night, when they stared, she blinked more than usual. Kept catching herself.

And Harry reached across the table, brushing a thumb just below her lip where she’d been biting nervously.

“Still here,” he murmured.

She nodded, and didn’t look away.

Always touching.

Even in the quiet.

Even in passing.

When no one else was there — when it was just them — they were never not connected. His hand in hers on the stairs. Her foot tucked under his knee. A palm on his back while they stood at the sink. Her fingers threading through his hair in the dark.

Not passionate.

Not accidental.

Just theirs.

He hadn’t known it was possible to feel this known .

He hadn’t known it was something he needed.

But now that it was here — soft and daily and unspectacular — he couldn’t imagine going back.

They didn’t call it part of a lesson.

Not out loud.

There was no parchment on the table this time, no official hour, no magical timer.

Just her knocking lightly on the doorframe of his room late one evening, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, bare feet on the carpet.

“Can I come in?”

He looked up from his book. “Always.”

She hesitated just inside the door. “You mentioned… combining practices.”

Harry blinked. “Oh. Right. That.”

Hermione gave a soft, amused hum and stepped in, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. “I thought maybe… we could keep going. Together.”

He set his book aside.

She didn’t need to explain. He already knew what she meant.

They weren’t talking about questions anymore. Not exactly.

They were talking about the way she’d gasped a little last night when he touched the inside of her wrist during a stare. The way his hand had stayed on her knee afterward. The way her voice had dipped when she’d answered what does affection mean to you? and then gone silent, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

They were talking about that.

Harry stood slowly and held out a hand.

She came to him.

No rush. No hesitation.

Just closeness.

They sat on the edge of his bed — not facing each other now, but alongside , shoulder to shoulder, like they always had, like nothing was changing.

Except everything was.

He touched her hand first. Let his fingers drift over the back of it, tracing the knuckles. Her other hand joined his, and she guided his fingers gently to her palm, then to her wrist.

She didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Touch had become language by now.

He slipped his hand up her forearm, remembering the pressure she liked. Not too light. Not too firm. Just enough to remind her he was there.

She let her head drop slightly to his shoulder.

He breathed her in.

After a moment, she tilted her face toward his and whispered, “Do you want to practice more?”

He turned toward her, their knees touching.

“Yes.”

She nodded and unwrapped the blanket from her shoulders, letting it slide down behind her, baring the soft fabric of her tank top beneath.

Harry hesitated only a second before lifting his hand and resting it on her bare shoulder, thumb gently brushing along her collarbone.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he said softly.

“I will.”

He trailed his hand down her arm, slow and reverent. Then again, this time with more pressure. Her breath shifted.

His fingers grazed the inside of her elbow.

She shivered.

He looked at her.

Her eyes were open now, wide and dark, and there.

Not for performance.

Not for anyone else.

Just for him.

“Let’s stare,” he murmured.

She blinked, then smiled. “No timer?”

“We don’t need one.”

He shifted, so they were facing again, closer now — her knees between his, her hands tucked under his.

And they looked.

He saw the gold again — always the gold — but also the smallest things:

The way she bit the inside of her lip when she felt vulnerable. The cluster of freckles near her left temple. The color in her cheeks when he touched her just right.

He saw everything.

And she didn’t hide.

For the first time, she didn’t look guarded. Or logical. Or even sure.

Just… open.

And something in him opened in response.

They didn’t touch anything new.

They didn’t cross any of the lines.

But it felt like worship.

Quiet. Holy. Steady.

She moved first, resting her forehead to his.

He let his hands rest on her waist, thumbs gently stroking the curve of her ribs.

When they finally lay down side by side, fully clothed, still touching, still breathing in time, she whispered,

“Thank you.”

He didn’t answer.

Just held her hand between them on the pillow, fingers laced, and thought:

I could live here.

Chapter Text

It was early afternoon when Harry found her in the drawing room again — feet curled beneath her, teacup hovering near her mouth, an enormous book open on her lap.

He recognized it immediately.

“The book,” he said, standing in the doorway with mock gravity. “It returns.”

Hermione looked up, one brow lifted. “Lesson Three, formally resumed. Sensory Awareness, Part Two.”

Harry grinned. “Do I get a certificate if I pass?”

She pretended to flip through the book. “I believe there’s a space for that in the appendix.”

He stepped into the room and dropped onto the sofa beside her. “Right. Lead on, Professor.”

She gave him a look that was pure fondness and none of the flustered hesitation they’d had in the early days. “You’re in a good mood.”

He shrugged. “Touch-based practice seems to agree with me.”

That earned a low chuckle and a flush at the base of her throat, though she kept her eyes on the page.

“Okay,” she said, clearing her throat. “Today’s topic is... zones of heightened magical and sensory responsiveness. With illustrations.”

Harry leaned over to peek at the page. “Do they still look like cursed meat diagrams?”

“Anatomically respectful enchanted figures,” she corrected. “And yes.”

He laughed.

Hermione turned the book toward him. A softly glowing image pulsed on the page — a gender-neutral figure with small golden flares in strategic places: behind the ears, along the inner arms, the hollow of the neck, the sides of the ribcage, the inside of the knees.

“You may recall some of these from earlier explorations,” she said primly, and Harry couldn’t help it — he snorted.

“Explorations,” he repeated. “Very scientific.”

“I’m creating an environment of mindful discovery,” she said, nudging him with her foot. “Now focus.”

He leaned in, interested now in spite of himself.

“Everyone’s map is slightly different,” she said, “but these are statistically the most common areas where magical beings store physical-attentive memory.”

Harry blinked. “That’s a thing?”

Hermione nodded. “Touch doesn’t just activate sensory nerves. It activates emotional encoding. Especially when it’s tied to safety.”

He was quiet for a moment. “So… the more we do this…”

“The more you’ll associate certain kinds of touch with certain feelings,” she said, voice softer now. “Comfort. Affection. Desire. Whatever we build.”

Harry sat back a little, processing. “And this is true for everyone ?”

“Yes.” Hermione smiled. “Are you just now realizing magic is weird and wonderful?”

“No, I’m realizing I’ve spent most of my life not knowing I was allowed to feel good when someone touched me.”

“Oh, Harry.” Her face gentled, but she didn’t reach for him. “We learn it now, ok?”

He nodded once, firmly.

Hermione flipped to the next page. “Right. Today’s practical involves more mapping of known response zones. We’ll use the same sort of feedback method as before— you tell me what you notice. I’ll take notes.”

Harry squinted at her. “Am I getting graded?”

Hermione smirked but didn’t answer. Just reached into the side table and pulled out the scroll. His scroll. Their scroll.

She handed him the quill.

“Actually— you make the notes,” she said. “I’ll guide.”

He looked at her, surprised.

“Harry,” she said gently, “you know your body now. You know how to notice. This is your work too.”

He didn’t blush.

He smiled.

“Alright, Professor Granger,” he said, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “Let’s see what I remember.”

They started with the back of his hand.

Her touch was featherlight, almost teasing. When she brushed along the tendons beneath his thumb, he exhaled.

He noted it.

When she pressed beneath his ear, he shivered.

Another note.

She worked methodically, murmuring soft questions: Pressure okay? Lighter? There? And he answered, not awkward, not performative — just present.

When her fingers grazed the inside of his forearm, he laughed — genuinely — because the goosebumps rose like spellwork.

“Sensitive there,” he muttered.

“I recall,” she murmured.

He didn’t ask if she meant from past practice or from memory stored in her own hands.

They worked for nearly an hour, mapping everything above the waist. The ribcage was tricky — he was ticklish — and they both laughed through the entire bit, Hermione trying to maintain decorum while Harry squirmed and insisted she was doing it on purpose. When they got to his chest, she raked her fingers over his nipples, firm under the fabric of his shirt. Gently with the pads of her fingertips at first and then with her fingernails. He drew in sharp breaths and made notes on the parchment. She chuckled low.

When they finished, he sat back and looked down at the parchment, filled now with his own notes, his own discoveries.

It didn’t feel embarrassing.

It felt like agency.

After they'd finished his map, Hermione leaned back on the sofa, a little flushed from laughing and writing and correcting his penmanship.

"Alright," she said, reaching for her tea. “That’s you.”

Harry didn’t move. “Your turn.”

Hermione stilled, mid-sip. “Oh?”

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly, already second-guessing. “I just thought—”

She set the cup down and met his eyes.

“No,” she said gently. “I want to.”

He studied her face. “We’ll go slow.”

Her voice was steady. “We’ll go carefully, ok?”

“Same rules?” he asked.

She nodded. “Ask before. No guessing. And I’ll tell you if something’s too much.”

Harry stood, stretched the tension from his arms, and came to sit beside her, not across from her this time. Shoulder to shoulder. Closer.

He offered her his hand.

She placed her hand in his.

They started where he was confident — the back of her hand, the bridge of her knuckles. His thumb made a slow sweep from wrist to pinky and back again. She exhaled, quiet.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He brushed her wristbone, then the heel of her palm. She flexed her fingers. “Bit ticklish.”

He made a note.

“Can I try your forearm?” he asked.

She turned it up for him.

His fingers traced lightly first, remembering what she’d done for him. When he brushed over the curve near her elbow, she drew in a sharp breath, as he expected. 

He took her arm and extended it and then deliberately breathed across the skin. 

“Does that feel different?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good still or...?”

“Good.” She closed her eyes. “Very good.”

“May I try with my mouth?”

She looked up into his eyes. Paused. Nodded, just barely. 

He pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist and dragged his lips up her arm to the inside of her elbow. There, he licked her, then scraped his teeth across it. 

Hermione groaned and her eyes fluttered closed. She tilted her head slightly, but didn’t pull away. Her breathing deepened.

Harry moved on. He kept his hand slow, steady. Tracing the familiar — but newly sacred — terrain of her arms and shoulders. First he would touch. Then, where her skin was not covered by the fabric of her tank top,  he used his mouth, his lips, his tongue and his teeth. Hermione moaned and sighed and her breath hitched and grew erratic. He took note of all of it. 

When he reached her clavicle, she tensed for half a second.

He paused.

“May I?” he asked quietly.

Hermione nodded once. “It’s fine. Just… unexpected, maybe?”

He let his fingers skim lightly across the curve of her shoulder to the dip above her sternum. Her skin warmed beneath his hand. He didn’t press, just mapped. Noticed. Then he followed with his mouth, kissing a path towards the base of her throat. 

“You always wear your jumpers too high,” he said absently.

She glanced at him. “Excuse me?”

“You like hiding your neck.”

She blinked. “That’s oddly observant.”

He smiled. “You trained me to notice things.”

He trailed his fingers back up her neck, lightly pressing her pulse point. He followed his fingers with a kiss. “Your neck is exquisite,” he breathed. 

He moved to her upper back. Her upper back with touch— relaxed. Her lower back with touch— ticklish. She shivered and vibrated to various degrees with his mouth or tongue or breath. Her ribs — more reactive than she expected with touch. He teased gently, watching her smile shift and deepen.

When he asked about her waist, her fingers curled around his wrist.

“Okay?” he asked again.

She nodded.

So he placed his palm there — not possessive. Just anchoring. Like she’d done to him. Like safety.

He didn’t go further.

She looked up into his eyes and he waited, trying to measure what she was feeling. Trying to figure out what she was thinking. 

“Should I go on? My chest is a little different than yours…”

A small smile tugged at the side of her mouth but she didn’t stop searching his eyes. 

“You can map my chest,” she finally said softly. “Or you can just take my word that everything is very, very sensitive.”

He moved his hands to just below her bra line and paused. She hadn’t looked away. Now she tilted her head and looked into his eyes. “You’re worried for me, aren’t you?”

He smiled softly, shook his head slightly, but didn’t drop his gaze. “I know there’s something holding you back from this. I don’t want to cross over whatever line you are holding until you are ready.”

Her breath hitched and her eyes filled with tears. She squeezed her eyes shut and the tears spilled down her cheeks. “Harry, you are so kind to me.” She took another shuddering breath. “So careful. I love…” She stopped. Opened her eyes. Found his again. Swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead, then to her right cheek, then to the corner of her mouth. He lifted his hand to her cheek and lightly trailed the back of his fingers against it. 

“Hermione, I’ll never take from you what you aren’t ready to give.”

She shook her head slightly and leaned in to his touch. “Thank you.”

He sat back, hands resting on his thighs, she looked at him — cheeks flushed, hair slightly tousled, eyes a little too bright.

“How was that?” he asked, voice softer now.

Hermione smiled slowly. “Precise. Respectful. Thorough.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So a passing mark?”

“Outstanding with distinction.”

He laughed, a little shy now.

“Do you want to update the parchment?” he asked.

She nodded and handed him the scroll.

He wrote slowly, carefully.

Lesson Three (cont’d): Sensory Map – Hermione
Areas of strong response: inner elbow, clavicle, waist.
Ticklish: ribs, lower back.
Likes steady touch.

Extremely responsive to mouth, tongue, lips.
Relaxes more when she’s the one being learned.
Trusts me.

He passed it back without a word.

She read it, silent, and then looked at him.

“I do,” she said.

Harry blinked. “Do what?”

“Trust you.”

His chest tightened.

It started with a storm.

Grimmauld always went strange when the weather turned — magic pulling taut in the walls, lights flickering, shadows folding longer than they should. The rain came hard, wind howling down the corridor vents like it wanted in.

Hermione appeared in his doorway just past midnight, jumper sleeves pushed over her hands, hair loose and frizzing in all directions.

“I can’t sleep,” she said.

Harry set his book aside, already shifting over. “Bad storm?”

She nodded, not embarrassed. “Bad thoughts, too.”

He didn’t ask.

She climbed in beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They’d done this before — the tent, the aftermath, nights after long ministry debriefings when neither of them wanted to be alone with what they’d said or seen. But this was different.

This was now.

They lay on top of the duvet, side by side, shoulders brushing. Hermione tucked her head against his collarbone like she knew the space was made for her. Harry adjusted slowly — one hand coming to rest on her back, the other folded beneath his head.

Her breath slowed after a while, but she didn’t fall asleep immediately. Neither did he.

“Do you mind?” she whispered.

“No.”

“I don’t know where this fits in the plan.”

He smiled. “I think maybe we’re outgrowing the plan.”

She didn’t answer, just tucked herself closer. His hand, still on her back, shifted slightly — a gentle rub between her shoulder blades, then down, slow and steady.

Her whole body softened.

He didn’t think about it. He just felt her — the way her weight fit against his side, the way she sighed in her sleep when she settled. The warm press of her thigh against his. The twitch of her fingers as they brushed his hip and stilled.

It wasn’t about want.

It was about witness.

He didn’t sleep at first. He just watched her — the rise and fall of her back, the little curls near her temple damp from the heat of her body, the faint furrow in her brow even now, even here.

He reached up, carefully, and brushed it with his thumb.

Her face smoothed.

He rested his hand near her ribs, fingers curled gently against her side, and let himself breathe in time with her.

Later, when he did fall asleep, he dreamed of warmth. Of the steady rhythm of her breath beside him. Of being trusted enough to hold someone through the night and wake still holding them.

When morning came, pale and quiet, Hermione was still there.

Curled in.

Soft against him.

His arm still around her.

Her breath still easy.

And when she blinked awake and looked up at him — hair wild, eyes soft, face closer than it had ever been — she didn’t flinch.

She just whispered, “Thanks,” like he’d done something sacred.

And he whispered back, “Always,” like he knew exactly what he had.

The next evening, she brought it up like a theory.

They were back in the drawing room. The storm had passed, but the house still felt thick with its echo — like it remembered being a refuge.

Hermione sat cross-legged on the sofa, hair in a messy knot, scroll on her lap. She hadn’t summoned the book this time. She didn’t need to.

“I think we should combine all three,” she said.

Harry, sprawled in the corner cushion with one foot on the coffee table, looked up. “All three?”

“Physical touch. Emotional intimacy. And sleep.”

He blinked. “That’s a lot.”

“I know,” she said. “But we’ve built the foundation. And I think... I think we need to know what it’s like to really be close.”

He waited.

She took a breath. “I think we should sleep in the same bed. Not just sleep — but touch. Skin to skin. No shirts. No jumpers. Just... underthings.”

He stilled.

She rushed on, flustered, but precise. “Not for sex. Not for performance. But because touch is different on bare skin. It tells us more. And if we’re going to learn what it means to be fully present with another person — emotionally and physically — we need to remove the layers.”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

She looked at him, eyes suddenly steady.

“I want to do this,” she said. “But only if you do, too.”

He swallowed, throat dry.

And nodded. “Okay.”

Her shoulders dropped with a small exhale. 

“Thank you. Let’s take it slowly. Tonight. Tomorrow. Maybe the next few nights.”

Harry sat forward slightly. “We’re doing questions and the stare, too?”

“Yes. If you want.”

His answer was rushed. “Yes. I do. I’d rather do that than most anything, I think.”

She smiled. “Okay. Same rules. Same care. Just... less in the way.”

He nodded again. “Okay.”

That night, they met in his room.

She arrived in a robe, hair braided into two long pigtails, scroll and parchment in hand.

He was already sitting on the bed, nervous energy buzzing just beneath his skin.

She closed the door behind her and stood for a moment.

Then, quietly, she let the robe drop.

Harry looked — of course he did — but he tried not to gawk . He wanted to see. The distinction was important to him. He had thought about seeing her all day. A body he already knew, now without armor. Her bra was simple cotton, pale pink. Her underwear the same color. Her legs strong. Her stomach soft.

She looked like Hermione.

He stood too, and pulled his shirt over his head. Then stepped out of his joggers. Now in his boxer briefs. 

They looked at each other for a long second.

No shame. No teasing.

Just acknowledgment.

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded.

They got into bed like people climbing into a lake for the first time — slowly, carefully, learning the depth and temperature with every inch of contact.

Her leg brushed his.

His hand settled low on her back.

Her arm curled between them, palm resting over his heart.

They did the questions first — a few of the deeper ones.

What would you change about how you were raised?
What is one of the most embarrassing moments of your life?
When was the last time you were afraid to say something out loud?

Each answer stripped away something invisible.

And then came the stare.

Ninety seconds. Or maybe more.

Bare skin, shared bed, quiet air.

It should have felt like something else.

But it didn’t.

It just felt true.

He noticed new things now — the way her blush extended down her neck, how her pupils dilated when she was focused, how the freckles on her chest mapped a soft constellation.

She saw him see.

And she didn’t look away.

After the stare, she tucked herself into his side, bare thigh over his, chest to chest, arm curled under his.

“This okay?” she whispered.

He nodded, throat tight. “This is... more than okay.”

They didn’t talk after that.

They lay facing each other, duvet folded low, her leg slung over his hip, his hand resting at the curve of her waist.

Hermione had one elbow propped on the pillow, parchment balanced beside them, candlelight flickering soft against her bare shoulder. Her hair fanned around her like a frame, wild and warm, and Harry couldn’t stop brushing it off her cheek, just to feel it slide through his fingers.

Their knees bumped. Their breath synced.

She read the next question aloud, voice barely above a whisper.

“What is your most treasured memory?”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

His hand slid along her spine, slow and easy. She didn’t flinch. Just waited.

“I think,” he said finally, “it might be the first time I really laughed after the war.”

Her eyes softened. “When was that?”

“With you,” he said. “The day George gave us the hiccuping treacle tart and we couldn’t stop laughing. It was so stupid. But it was the first time it felt like life again.”

Hermione’s lips quirked. “You fell off the sofa.”

“You snorted tea.”

“I did not,” she said. “I would never snort chamomile tea.”

They smiled at each other for a long time.

Then she reached out, thumb brushing the slope of his cheek.

“What do you value most in a friendship?”

He didn’t hesitate this time.

“Space,” he said. “To be complicated. To not know things. To not always get it right.”

Hermione’s smile faltered — not in disappointment, but in something close to ache.

“You give me that,” he added.

Her hand dropped to his chest, resting over his heart. “I try.”

“You succeed.”

He looked for the flecks in her eyes. “Now you,” he said, low.

Her voice was quieter now. “I think I value being chosen. Over and over. Not for usefulness.” Her eyes dropped. “Just… because someone wants me near.”

Harry’s stomach tightened. “Hermione…” He waited for her to look up at him. “You are chosen.” He tucked her hair behind her ear. “You are .”

She didn’t reply, but her fingers curled slightly against his skin. She looked down at the next question.

“When did you last cry in front of another person?”

Hermione didn’t lift her gaze.

He waited.

“Yesterday,” she said. “When you kissed my forehead in the kitchen.”

Harry stilled.

“I wasn’t crying because of that,” she added quickly. “I was already close. But that just… it undid something.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

She met his eyes again. “You?”

He exhaled slowly. “The night we brought Teddy to Andromeda. After it all. I carried him in. And she just looked at me and said, ‘You look like your mother.’ I sat on the stairs and lost it.”

Hermione didn’t try to fix it.

She just reached for his hand and laced their fingers again.

Silence settled again — deep and warm and full.

Then she whispered, “Do you want to do the stare?”

Harry nodded, throat thick. “Yeah. I do.”

They turned slightly to face each other better, close enough now that her knee slipped between his, her toes tucked under his calf. Their arms tangled easily, familiarly, her hand still resting on his chest.

And then they looked.

Deeply, completely looked.

Her eyes were darker in the low light, but still held all those colors — the gold at the edges, the warmth in the middle. He could see a faint flush on her chest, a soft crease between her brows from thinking too hard.

She blinked slowly, and when she did, he noticed the smallest scar near her left temple. He didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before.

Her breath hitched.

He didn’t speak.

When the ninety seconds passed, neither of them moved.

Not for a long time.

Somewhere along the way, the rest of their friends had left them behind. It seemed to be by mutual unspoken agreement that Harry and Hermione belonged to their own world for the rest of the summer. Kreacher made himself scarce— always available if they called, but content to lay out food and drink and turn on lamps and light candles and make beds and then disappear without being seen. 

It was like they were in their own world.

Now they were in the kitchen where Kreacher had charmed the kettle to stay ready. She was reaching for something high on the shelf — tea, probably — her back stretched, hair loose, jumper riding up.

Harry came up behind her, not to help, but just to be near .

His hands found her waist. Her breath hitched.

And when she turned — grinning, triumphant, box in hand — he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the side of her neck.

Not her mouth.

Never her mouth.

But her pulse stuttered all the same.

They were reading.

His legs stretched across the cushions, her feet tucked beneath his thigh. She’d fallen asleep like that once and now it was just the way they sat .

Hermione said something under her breath about syntax and tossed her book aside.

Harry laughed and caught her hand before it landed too dramatically on her lap.

And then — without thinking — he brought her palm to his lips and kissed it.

Soft. Slow. Center of her hand.

She froze.

Just for a moment.

Then curled her fingers around his, and didn’t let go.

He caught her before she left.

A simple errand. She was just going to the apothecary. But he’d slept poorly, and she hadn’t said goodbye yet.

So when she passed him in the hallway, adjusting her coat, he reached out.

She stopped.

He cupped her face in one hand, tilted it toward him.

She looked up, steady.

His thumb brushed her cheekbone.

It would’ve been so easy .

Just a tilt. Just a breath.

But he didn’t.

He kissed her temple instead.

She leaned into it like it hurt.

Then kissed the underside of his jaw.

And left without a word.

Now that they were alone most of the time, there was always touching, holding, brushing against each other, sometimes intentionally pressing body parts together, but never, ever violating The Rule.

He was holding her.

After a long day. After dinner. After laughter that had made her cry.

She was in his lap, head tucked beneath his chin, their legs tangled.

And she looked up.

Eyes dark, soft, wide open.

Her hand found his cheek.

His found hers.

They leaned in at the same time.

And then stopped.

Mouths inches apart.

Breath catching.

She wet her lips. 

He kissed the corner of her mouth.

Just barely.

She closed her eyes.

Turned her face.

Kissed his cheek.

Then tucked herself back against him like she hadn’t just broken them both a little.

Then their sleeping changed.

It was instinct really.

After the questions — after her quiet laugh at his answer to “What would you want your life to look like in five years?” (“Not cursed, and maybe with a garden”) — she shifted in the bed.

Wordlessly, she turned.

Nestled her back into his chest.

His arms opened for her without hesitation, curling around her waist like they’d done it every night for years.

She exhaled, a soft mmm against the dark, and pressed herself back into him.

He fit his nose into the crook of her neck, let one hand rest low on her stomach, the other tangled lightly in her fingers.

This was different.

Not just touch.

Not just sleep.

This was devotion.

And when she whispered, “This okay?” — like she hadn’t just given him the moon — he kissed her shoulder, very lightly, and said, “It’s perfect.”

He fell asleep like that.

Wrapped around the shape of someone who trusted him.

The next night, he was quiet after the questions.

Had been all evening, really.

Hermione didn’t push.

She just held his eyes during the stare — longer than they ever had — and when it ended, he didn’t move.

She reached for him silently. Shifted him so that she could move behind him.

Curved herself around his back, arms wrapping his ribs, her forehead resting between his shoulder blades.

His breathing was steady. Then it wasn’t. Then it was again.

“Is this okay?” she asked softly.

He covered her hands with his.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, this is good.”

He could feel the tightness leave his shoulders inch by inch, until his weight finally dropped into the mattress.

And when she pressed her lips gently to the knob of his spine — he sighed like he hadn’t taken a full breath in days.

On the third night, she told him, before anything else, that she was taking her bra off.

“For the lesson,” she said, like it was nothing. “I think it’s time.”

He nodded.

Didn't move.

She slipped it off beneath her top and set it on the nightstand, not meeting his eyes at first.

Then she turned to face him and lifted the shirt over her head. Her gaze never wavered. 

He looked at her breasts— soft and full, her nipples hardening in pinkish brown areolas. 

His breath caught. 

“You are so beautiful, Hermione,” he whispered. 

He was already shirtless.

Boxer briefs. Nothing more.

She climbed into bed and laid herself over him — slow, sure, every inch of skin greeting him like a revelation. Her chest settled against his, her thighs on either side of his hips.

His hands found her waist without thinking. Her arms tucked around his shoulders.

She pressed herself into him.

He was aroused. Of course he was.

There was no pretending otherwise.

He could feel the flush climb his chest. Could see in her face that she knew but she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t move away.

“Questions first,” she said, voice low. “Then stare. Okay?”

He nodded, throat dry.

She asked him something about love. He answered.

He asked her something about fear. She answered.

Neither one of them remembered the words.

Only the closeness.

Then she sat up just enough to look down at him, elbows braced on either side of his face, hair falling like a curtain around them.

And they stared.

His hand rested at her hips, thumbs rubbing gentle circles. His other hand trailed up and down her spine. Her hands cupped his face, threaded through his hair, thumbs smoothing the skin around his eyes, his mouth.

Her bare chest touched his every time she breathed.

He could feel himself — hard , aching, almost in pain— but not out of control.

Alive.

And she didn’t stop.

Didn’t blush. Didn’t break.

She held his gaze, steady and soft, her lips parted like she was about to say something but hadn’t yet found the words.

When the stare ended, neither moved.

Just rested.

And as her breath slowed and their skin stayed pressed — warm and real and unspectacular — he thought:

We’re not in love.

And he knew it was probably the last time he’d believe that.

Chapter Text

The next morning was... weird.

Not bad. Not tense. Just the kind of off-kilter that made Harry pour water into the kettle before realizing he’d already done it, and made Hermione open the cupboard three times before she seemed to remember she wasn’t making tea, he was.

They’d both slept.

Eventually.

After she’d climbed off of him, after they’d done the stare, after she’d laid curled into his side with one arm across his chest and his hand lightly resting over the swell of her hip.

They hadn’t kissed. 

Of course.

They hadn’t said anything, really.

But everything had changed.

And now they were being idiots.

He stirred his tea with unnecessary focus, very aware that she was across the kitchen, also stirring hers. They hadn’t spoken since she came down the stairs in one of his oversized jumpers and socks that didn’t match.

She hadn’t looked at him yet.

Not really.

She was biting her lip, and he was pretending not to notice that he could still feel her breasts against his chest, her breath on his collarbone, her thighs tight around his hips.

Which was probably why he dropped his spoon.

It clattered onto the floor, loud and ridiculous.

Hermione jumped. “Oh—sorry—what?”

He laughed, helplessly, and bent to pick it up. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Oh.”

They both stood there for a second, spoons in hand, utterly incapable of eye contact.

And then Harry set his mug down, walked straight over to her, and did the only thing that made sense:

He grabbed her hand, pulled her into his arms, and held her tightly against him.

She stiffened for half a second.

Then melted.

Her arms wrapped around his waist, face pressing into his chest, fingers curling into the back of his shirt.

He kissed her forehead.

Not playfully.

Not even tenderly.

Just presently — like sealing something back into place.

They stood like that for a moment, breathing together.

Then she giggled.

It started small — a breath against his collarbone — then grew into a full-body laugh, muffled against his shirt.

He grinned. “What?”

“You were being so weird. ”

“You were worse.”

“You wouldn’t even look at me.”

“You wouldn’t stop stirring the tea.”

She looked up at him then, finally — cheeks flushed, eyes bright — and he thought oh thank God, because it was her again.

Her and all of what they’d become.

They sighed at the same time.

Somehow, that broke the last of it.

She stepped back, bumping her mug with her elbow and muttering “bloody hell” as she grabbed a towel. He reached for the broom. They grinned at each other like kids who’d survived an almost-detention.

And something new settled in his chest.

Something that looked — unexpectedly — like excitement.

She was still here.

Still her.

Still choosing him.

It was halfway through the day when Ron and Harry decided to grab a pint at the Leaky.

It wasn’t a plan — more like an impulse. Harry was free, restless, and unusually cheerful.

He hadn’t meant to whistle on the walk over. It just happened.

When he got to the pub, Ron was already at a corner table with a plate of chips and two mugs of butterbeer, one of which he shoved across the table without looking up.

“Alright, then?”

Harry grinned. “Yeah. You?”

Ron shrugged. “Lavender’s redecorating. Again.”

Harry laughed. “You don’t even live together.”

“She’s preemptively renovating. Emotionally, I think.” He grinned.

They chatted about work for a bit. Then Quidditch. Then Luna’s latest theory about how Patronuses were sentient.

And then Ron leaned back, crossed his arms, and squinted at him.

“What?” Harry asked.

“You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The quiet happy jig inside your skin thing.”

Harry blinked. “I’m not.”

“You bloody are.”

He tried to hide the smile creeping up. Failed.

Ron stared at him for another second, then said, “It’s someone , isn’t it?”

Harry’s smile twitched. “Maybe.”

Ron leaned forward. “You’ve got that glow. Like you’ve found someone who makes you feel like you’re not fighting the world every time you wake up.”

Harry looked at his butterbeer. “That’s strangely specific.”

Ron shrugged. “I’ve seen you when you’re miserable. You’re jumpy. But this definitely isn’t that.”

There was a beat.

Then: “Does Hermione know?”

Harry froze.

Didn’t look up.

Didn’t say anything.

Just blushed.

Ron’s mouth dropped open.

“Oh. Oh! ” He smacked the table with his palm. “ Bloody hell , Harry!”

Harry cleared his throat. “It’s not like that.”

“It bloody well is! ” Ron countered, loud enough that the bartender glanced over.

Harry hissed. “Keep your voice down!”

Ron dropped it to a whisper. “Mate. You’re sitting there practically humming. You’ve got that ‘I get to go home to someone who loves me’ look. And it’s Hermione .” 

He stared at him for a minute. 

Then shook his head. “And Merlin help me, I can’t believe I’m saying this — that actually makes sense. ”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not… serious.”

Ron gave him a look. “You’re glowing. You’re fucking radiating light. You could power the whole bloody bar, mate!”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. Sipped his butterbeer.

Ron leaned forward. “For God’s sake, Harry, don’t wait too long to tell her.”

Harry stared. “Tell her what?”

“That you’re completely gone on her! That you know she makes you better. That you’d walk through fire for her and then some.”

Harry flushed. “It’s not like that.”

Ron shook his head, exasperated. “Mate. You’re so in it you can’t even see it!”  He groaned. 

“Just… don’t bloody cock it up, yeah?”

Harry stared at the foam in his mug.

Then, slowly, he grinned.

“I don’t think I will.”

Ron rolled his eyes, flagging the bartender. “Well, then. You’re buying the next round.”

Harry laughed — the kind that bubbled up from somewhere warm.

Ron grinned, too, and they clinked glasses.

It wasn’t a blessing.

But it felt really damn close.

Harry didn’t walk home.

He bounded .

The rain had stopped, the clouds were streaking gold, and his trainers hit the pavement like every step had purpose. The wind caught his jumper and ruffled his hair and he didn’t care.

He was going home.

To her.

To Hermione.

To the warm house and the scent of lavender and books and that ridiculous kettle that squealed before it boiled. To the shared bed. To the skin-on-skin, thought-on-thought magic of what they were building.

To Lesson Four.

He practically ran up the steps to Grimmauld Place, flung open the door, and called, “Hermione?”

No answer.

He kicked off his shoes, jogged up the stairs two at a time, and found her in the library, curled in the armchair with her knees tucked up and a half-empty mug resting on the windowsill.

“Hi!” he said, bright and breathless.

She looked up, startled. “Hello.”

“You’ll never guess how lunch with Ron went.”

“Did he say something offensive?”

“Not this time.”

“Did you say something offensive?”

“Probably,” he said cheerfully, and crossed the room in three strides, crouching beside her chair. “But then he bought me a second butterbeer, so I must’ve said something right. I bought the third.”

She blinked. “You’re… very chipper.”

“I am. ”

“Did someone slip you a Cheering Charm?”

“Nope.”

“Did you fall in love?”

He paused, grinned. “Define fall.”

She stared at him.

He laughed, stood, and tugged her up from the chair. “Come on. I have so much energy I might explode.”

Hermione let him tug her, arms flailing slightly. “Where are we going?”

“Anywhere. Everywhere. Doesn’t matter.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m happy, ” he said, spinning her once before pulling her close. “And you’re the reason.”

She flushed, but didn’t look away.

He leaned down, pressed his forehead to hers. “I can’t wait for tonight.”

“You can’t?” she teased.

“Nope. I want to learn everything. Lesson Four. Part One. Chapter One. Footnotes included.”

She laughed, finally, and it sounded like the clink of glasses and the first breath after a long-held note.

“You’re a menace,” she said.

He kissed her temple. “I’m your menace.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around him, holding tight.

And Harry — who hadn’t always known what it meant to feel wanted — let himself want, openly.

He didn’t try to hide it.

Didn’t try to dial it back.

He was excited.

He was ready.

He was in this with her, fully.

And Lesson Four didn’t scare him at all.

The bedroom was a little too warm when he stepped inside.

The windows were open just an inch, letting in the summer air. The bed was freshly made. The lamps glowed low.

Hermione was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, her scroll in hand. She was wearing one of her sleep sets — pale brown tank, soft cotton, matching pants. Bra-less again. Bare-legged.

Harry took it in with a soft grin and let the door close behind him.

“Evening,” he said.

She looked up, eyes bright. “Are you ready?”

“Born ready,” he said, sitting beside her, their knees brushing. “What’s the title of tonight’s adventure?”

She cleared her throat and read from her scroll with practiced formality:

Lesson Four: Mutual Arousal and Responsive Touch
Subtopic: Anticipation, Prolonged Contact, and Sensory Permission

Harry whistled low. “Now that sounds official.”

She didn’t look up. “This is a formal lesson, Harry.”

He leaned in. “With extremely promising subtopics.”

She finally looked at him, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Would you like to begin?”

He nodded, suddenly more still. “Yes.”

She set the scroll aside and reached out, fingertips grazing his chest — just above his heart.

“This isn’t just about climax,” she said, tone quiet. “It’s about attention. Desire as something mutual. Something offered. And received.”

Harry exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

“I’ll start,” she said, “and then we switch.”

He nodded.

And let her begin.

Her fingers moved with the same reverence they’d used in other lessons — but there was something new now. Something slower . Not technical.

Curious.

She ran her fingers down the center of his chest, then back up again, this time brushing just along the edge of his collarbone.

He shivered.

Her touch dipped lower, skimming over his ribs, then tracing up the inside of his bicep. He felt the goosebumps rise, but didn’t flinch.

She leaned closer — not kissing, still — but near . Her breath against his ear.

“Here?” she whispered.

He nodded.

Her hand moved lower, over his stomach, just above the waistband of his briefs — not crossing the line. Just hovering. Her palm flattened, grounding him there.

He let his eyes flutter shut for a moment. Then opened them again.

She looked into his eyes then down to his mouth. Then back to his eyes as she grinned a small, pleased look.

She moved back, just a bit and let her fingertips run lightly over the skin right above his waistband. Her eyes darkened. “Anticipation, Harry.” 

He groaned. 

He caught her wrist, stilling the teasing of her fingers. “My turn?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded.

Harry lifted his hands, slower than usual, more deliberate.

He let his fingers trace up the side of her waist, brushing the bottom of her tank. She gave a soft breath in — not surprise. Invitation.

He moved higher, along her ribs, then back down. He noticed the way her hips tipped forward, just a fraction, the way her eyes closed like she was remembering something only she knew.

“Here?” he asked.

She opened her eyes and nodded once.

He trailed both hands up her back, feeling every shift of her spine, every moment her breath changed.

Then he rested his forehead to hers. 

He pressed his lips to one closed eye then another and moved his fingertips lightly across her back. Now his thumbs brushed the side of her breasts. Her breath was shallow. 

He paused to look at her. “Hermione,” he breathed. “Open your eyes.”

Her eyelids fluttered open. Her pupils were wide and she looked dazed. He tried to send every bit of longing and admiration he could into his expression. “You are so incredibly beautiful. So perfect.” 

He pressed his lips to her neck beneath her ear, trailing feather light kisses towards her collarbone. His thumbs lightly stroked over the sides of her breasts. He dragged his gaze back up to hers before lifting her tank slightly. 

“May I take this off?”

She swallowed, closed her eyes again and nodded. 

“Will you look at me, Love?” he whispered. 

Her gaze was soft— warm and intense— as she watched him lift the tank over her breasts and then over her head. He stared at her breasts, full and round, her nipples pebbling slightly as they reacted to the air. He felt like his breath was straining against his chest. He moved one hand to cup her cheek and she bit her bottom lip. He allowed his thumb to pull her lip from her teeth and moved the other hand to cup her breast, feeling its weight and fullness in his hand. He softly, carefully, ran his thumb over the nub. She gasped and caught his other thumb between her teeth. She let them rake across it and it was his turn to gasp. 

Now she brought her arms around his neck and threaded her fingers through his hair. She pulled lightly then ran her fingers from his nape to the crown of his head, raking his hair up into her palms. She pulled gently to bring him to look into her eyes again.

“I think we should move to the next part of the lesson. I’m going to touch myself now, Harry. Will you watch and learn from me?” 

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry, his breath suddenly gone. He nodded.

“And I want you to touch yourself, too. I want to learn from you. Is that ok?”

He nodded dumbly. She smiled, taking over the role of teacher again.

“Sit back so I can see you, ok?”

“Ok,” he whispered. He couldn’t stop watching her. And she didn’t seem to be able to keep from looking back at him.

Neither of them moved quickly.

They arranged pillows.

Shifted positions. 

He watched as she settled back and shimmied out of her underwear. She grinned at him as he stared, open-mouthed. 

“Take off your pants, Harry,” she drawled, her tone teasing.

He flushed as he pulled down his briefs. He glanced up at her and saw her watching. His whole body warmed as her eyes widened at the sight of his erection.  Her eyes flew back to his as she breathed a “Good Godric, Harry.” Her hand reached towards him, then stopped. She flexed her fingers and brought them back beside her. 

He smirked then and allowed himself a low chuckle.

It died in his throat abruptly as she put two fingers in her mouth and withdrew them. They were covered with spit and she brought them to the apex of her legs. Her eyes fluttered closed and he almost couldn’t breathe as she let her legs fall open, exposing herself to him. He wrapped his hand around his cock.

She began to touch herself in slow circles with patient, deliberate movements. He watched, enraptured.  He noticed her fingers as they circled, then stroked, then dipped low into her entrance, then back, spreading glistening moisture over her clit. Her other hand grasped her breast and she tugged the nipple between her forefinger and thumb, rolling it— sometimes gently teasing and other times pulling. He noticed that she did not knead her breast, but shifted its weight in her palm, moving it so she could flick her nipple with her middle finger or press her nipple between it and her thumb. He was fascinated.

But most of all he was enthralled with her face . The way her mouth softened and opened slightly. The flush blooming across her collarbones. The sound she made — that soft, startled ah like a prayer escaping.

And then she opened her eyes.

Her eyes focused on him as he fisted his cock, stroking long sure movements as she played with herself.

“Oh, god, Harry,” she moaned. “You are so beautiful.”

He swallowed again, rasped out, “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

She didn’t smile, just drew in a quick breath as his eyes locked on hers. He couldn’t look away. Her breath was coming faster now, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He mirrored the movement as he stroked himself and his body responded. His head fell back. 

“Harry, look at me,” she panted. “I’m going to come for you.”

He jerked his head up. She was flushed and beautiful and her body was glistening with a sheen of sweat. She was letting him see. She was coming undone, losing control, and she was gifting him the privilege of watching her release. 

He groaned as she looked into his eyes. 

“Harry!” His name was on her lips.  And then hers was on his as he shuddered and felt his orgasm overtake him. He struggled to keep his eyes open, to watch her head thrown back in pleasure as she moved her fingers in and out of her wetness while sighing his name. 

Wave after wave coursed through them as they shuddered and pulsed, watching each other come down from the heights. 

He shifted slightly and reached for her hand.

She didn’t move except to thread her fingers through his.

Her eyes never left his.

They laid there for a long time, fingers interlocked, not speaking. 

The silence was full — not awkward, not unsure. Just complete.

Hermione had rolled to her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Her curls clung to her skin in loose, damp spirals. Her chest rose and fell in slow, satisfied rhythm.

Harry watched her — he thought of her body, the memory of her breath catching and the sound of her voice when she whispered his name.

The way her shoulders had dropped afterward, like something long-clenched had released.

The way she hadn’t hidden.

The way she’d met his eyes and stayed there.

Neither of them looked away.

Eventually, he whispered, “That wasn’t just a lesson.”

Hermione shook her head. “No.”

His thumb brushed over the curve of her knuckles. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way you looked at me.”

She was silent for a moment. 

Then her voice was so quiet it was almost not there. “You looked back.”

His fingers tightened around hers. 

“I always will, Hermione.”

She closed her eyes for a moment.

And then — without warning, without words — she pulled at his hand and directed him so he was laying beside her.

She pressed her naked body to his.

Harry curled around her instinctively, one arm across her back, the other tucked beneath her neck. His mouth found her hairline.

“You’re not afraid anymore,” he murmured.

She exhaled against his chest.

“I’m still afraid,” she said. “But I trust you more than I fear myself.”

He pulled her tighter to him.

He didn’t say I love you.

But he thought it.

Loud and steady and true.

He woke in the night.

Grimmauld was unusually quiet — no clatter from the kitchen, no whirring magical hum in the walls. Just the slow stretch of a midsummer night, the distant sound of traffic, and the faint rustle of Hermione shifting beside him.

Harry felt her bare leg hooked over his, her breasts pressed against his chest, her hand resting on his ribs, her cheek pillowed against his shoulder.

He stayed still for a long time, just… feeling it.

This new normal.

This slow, unfolding thing.

His cock was fully awake now resting against her belly. She stirred slightly and brushed against him. Her hand fell to his cock and she breathed against his chest, and then — softly, so softly — whispered, voice heavy with sleep “We need another lesson.”

Harry smiled, eyes still closed. “We do?”

She reached between them and pressed his cock into her belly, dragging her fingers lightly along his rigid length. 

He sucked in his breath and opened his eyes. A muttered spell turned a lamp on low.

She grinned up at him, blinking against the light, and propped herself up on her elbow now, curls falling across her face, fingers tracing over his belly and up to his ribs.

He reached up and tucked a strand behind her ear.

“What kind of lesson?”

She didn’t blush.

Didn’t stammer.

Just met his gaze and said, “Lesson Five: Oral Arousal to Climax. With consent. With care.”

Harry’s breath caught.

She said it so plainly. But her voice trembled at the edges.

He didn’t answer right away.

He looked at her — eyes wide but steady, the way she wasn’t flinching from this, even if her hand was now curled slightly into the sheets.

He reached for it, covered it with his own.

“I want that,” he said. Quiet. Grounded.

A beat.

Then: “With you.”

Her hand tightened under his.

She looked at him with eyes wide open.

Calm.

Present.

Wanting.

He reached for her hand first, kissed the back of it, and then leaned down to press a kiss to her collarbone. Then her sternum. Then kissed the top of one breast, then the other.

She drew in a sharp breath. 

“Can I?” he asked, voice thick. “Now?”

Hermione sighed.

Then she rolled slightly and opened her body to him.

Harry grinned up at her. “Consent, Hermione.” He kissed the space just below her ribs — reverent, like prayer. “Tell me what you want.”

She groaned. “You. Your mouth. On me.”

He chuckled. “Hermione Granger reduced to monosyllables. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt as powerful as I do now.”

She threaded her hands through his hair and pulled his face up. “Right— taking out Voldemort pales in comparison to this.” 

He laughed and shrugged. His tongue dragged over the underside of one breast. “I can… convince… you with big words…. if necessary…” he murmured between licks and sucks. “Tyrannical… diabolical… overlord… overthrown…”

He moved to the other breast.

 “Mmmmm…” She writhed under him.  “Less talking, Potter. Just keep using that mouth for… Oh!”

He had found her nipple and sucked it lightly before using his tongue to flick it. He blew on it and watched it pucker further. 

“Is this okay?” he asked. He knew it was by her low moans of pleasure. 

He moved to the other breast and took that nipple in his mouth while moving his thumb over the neglected breast. She groaned.  “Oh, it’s so, so okay, Harry…”

He grinned at her and kissed the base of her throat again. Then he began kissing, licking, sucking downward. He used his tongue and his teeth and his breath to worship her skin. He sucked little marks into the skin of her breasts and raked his teeth across her belly. His tongue found her navel and he shifted her to lay between her legs as he blew his breath across her skin. He was rewarded by her flesh immediately reacting with goosebumps.

“Oh, Harry,” she breathed. He kissed the space right above her pubic bone as her hands pushed his head into her. Her breath had changed, deeper, shakier, curling around his name in a whisper.

He paused above her wet and pulsing center. He looked up at her. Her eyes were tightly closed and she removed one hand from his head to sling her arm across her eyes.

“Hermione,” he whispered and she opened her eyes to find his. He lowered himself.

He almost fainted watching her expression. He cautiously pressed his mouth to her heat and kissed her. Then he licked along each side of her slit.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmured, never taking his eyes from hers.

She closed her eyes as her head fell back again. “That. This. Just…” she gestured vaguely into the air. “Just explore, Harry. Assume I like it all. Just… ohhhhh.” She sighed and shifted herself closer to him. “Err on the side of…more.”

More. He focused on the task before him. Her folds were soft and swollen, glistening with moisture. He thought of what she had done last night with her fingers and tried to mimic it with his tongue. He put his hands under her ass and tipped her up to him, opening her even further to his mouth. He licked her bud with his tongue flat and wide. He made small circles and then larger ones. He sucked. He flicked. He varied the pressure, soft, hard, slow, fast… 

He tried not to think about the mechanics.

He thought about her .

The way her body arched to meet his mouth.

The way her hands found the sheets, then the back of his head.

The way her thighs trembled against his shoulders.

The sounds she was making.

He thought about giving.

At some point he remembered that she had slid a finger inside herself earlier. So he did the same. She cried out and pushed herself closer. He pulled back slightly to examine her. She was flushed, skin gleaming, breaths coming hard and fast. He moved his finger in and out. As deep as he could then almost all the way out again. Slow, deliberate strokes drawn along her walls as she pulsed under his mouth.

In the recess of his mind, he remembered one of the 7th years in the Gryffindor dorm talking about the “show me the money” move. He tried it - curled his finger and pressed up into her soft wetness, his thumb on her clit. Her hips rocketed up and he chuckled. “Ahhh, you like that !” 

She moaned louder now. “ More , Harry. Oh, please, give me more.” 

He added another finger and did the same move and was rewarded with a gush of monosyllables falling from her mouth. He decided to add his mouth and latched on to her clit, sucking, tonguing, kissing, flicking. She was bucking against him, fingers twined in his hair, pressing his face to her, chanting over and over again, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop…” 

He paused only to say, “Look at me, Hermione.”

Her eyes flew open and locked with his and he lowered his mouth again and she was shaking, gasping his name like it had never belonged to anyone else while flooding him with her wetness. 

He held.

Let her come apart into his mouth.

And when she finally stilled — boneless, wrecked, wide-eyed — he kissed the inside of her thigh, the softness of her hip, her navel again, and crawled up to her.

She pulled him into her arms, settling his head between her breasts like she never wanted to let go.

She whispered, voice wrecked but certain, “You undo me.”

Harry pressed his lips to her sternum and thought:

Good.

They must have fallen back to sleep. When he awoke the second time, the dawn chorus of birdsong was floating in. Hermione was standing beside the bed. The sun was just coming up— filtering through the window and she was lit from behind— all golden light and sunshine— a veritable vision. She was still naked, just watching him. Her face was soft and something in her expression caused his breath to catch.  

When she noticed he was awake, she brushed his hair from his face. He sighed softly and captured her hand, pressing his cheek into her palm, then holding it so he could turn his head into it to kiss it. 

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I might still be dreaming, actually.”

She giggled - a girlish, delighted sound and he felt the bed dip as she climbed beside him on her knees. She slung her other leg over him and settled astride him. His cock immediately responded and she giggled again. 

She pressed her arms into his chest and shifted her weight slightly so that she was able to move his cock along her slit. “You were incredible at Lesson Five, Harry.”  She rocked her hips just a small amount. “Full marks. Maybe even extra points for the house.”

He groaned. Her moisture was coating his length and her nipples were brushing against the skin of his chest. 

He grinned at her. “So, no need to review?”

She mock-frowned. “Oh, I don’t think we can take for granted that you need no further education. To use your Quidditch analogy, you hardly stop perfecting technique even if you have “caught the Snitch” a few times. As you are fond of saying, Practice, practice, practice , right?”

He pulled her down towards him. It would be so easy to kiss her now, so easy to thread his hands in her hair and slide his tongue in between those maddening lips and kiss her until they were swollen and she was gasping for him.

Instead he pressed a kiss to her neck and trailed his tongue to her collarbone.

“Shall I practice again now?”

She hummed against him. “Actually, I was thinking that I should be the one to practice. Educators can’t become too removed from their topic of instruction, you know…”

She lifted herself slightly, pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat, and whispered, “May I take care of you, Harry?”

He stilled.

And then nodded.

She kissed him again — just below his jaw. She pressed a kiss to his collarbone. Then she moved to his nipple and flicked her tongue across it, before scraping it with her teeth.

His sharp intake of breath had her eyes darting to his. “Alright?” she asked, mouth hovering above him.

He nodded. “I didn’t know teeth were allowed there.”

She smiled softly. “Oh, it’s definitely allowed, Harry. If you like it, that is.” She flicked her tongue against it again. “I like it sometimes. What do you think?” She moved to the other nipple and paused as if asking permission.

He nodded. “I like it.”

She lowered her mouth, teased with her tongue, then lightly bit him.

“And that?”

He closed his eyes and his head fell back. “Mmmmm….” was all he could muster.

She chuckled and continued her movement down his body, slow and deliberate, her hands never leaving his skin. Her hair swept across him, teasing, soft. Every movement was intention. Every glance was permission.

He watched her, watched her watching him —with hunger and also with tenderness .

She took her time.

Her hands mapped him again, familiar now but no less electrifying. Her mouth followed, pressing soft kisses as her hair swept against him. His chest. His stomach. The hard curve of his hip. 

She pressed her hand against his length, let her fingers scrape against him, ran them down to tug gently at his balls. 

He groaned.

And then she lowered herself, brushing her cheek along his thigh, her breath hot against his skin.

He thought he’d feel self-conscious.

Instead, he felt cherished .

She breathed against his cock then lightly flicked it with her tongue. Her eyes found his. 

“Do you want to watch me, Harry?” she asked, her eyes soft on his.

He could hardly nod. 

“I need you to hold my hair then. I want to have both hands free for this.”

He gulped as she gathered her hair and, taking his hand in hers, showed him how to wrap it around his hand. 

“Help me know what you like, Harry.”

Her mouth closed around him. 

He swore— softly, reverently — and his other hand gripped the sheets.

Her mouth was warm and hot. She flattened her tongue against him and moved carefully. She flicked and sucked and kissed. Her other hand stroked his sac gently and he knew it would not take long for him to finish.

He tried to tell her but his words were broken, “Oh, god, Hermione… I can’t… it won’t… not long… oh…”

She chuckled low and hummed against him. She spoke in between her ministrations. “Just… relax… Harry. Enjoy…for… however… long.” She licked up his shaft.  

Her rhythm was patient. Generous. Expert in the way she listened — to his breath, his stillness, the way he trembled beneath her.

She flattened her tongue against him again and took him all the way into her mouth. He cried out as he hit the back of her throat. She gagged slightly and he rushed to pull her back.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean to push…”

She cut him off. “Harry. I liked that. Use my hair and guide me.”

She took him into her mouth again. 

Now he couldn’t think. He could only feel - her mouth hot and warm around him, her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, her eyes shining, bobbing up and down as he guided her, one hand tangled in her hair, the other at the base of his shaft, holding himself tight. 

He was babbling. How beautiful she was. How perfect. How clever. 

He knew that he was saying things he wouldn’t if his brain was connected.  How she was the only one. How he would do anything for her. How he wanted her with him forever. 

He looked into her eyes and she was looking at him, her eyes big and wide and full of kindness and care and unshed tears. 

He knew she wasn’t proving anything.

She was showing something.

That she knew him.

That she wanted him.

His body broke open, sharp and sudden and utterly surrendered, and he cried out her name as he shuddered into her mouth once, twice, then again and again before his vision went white at the edges.

He collapsed, let go of her hair and fell back into nothingness. 

She let him fall out of her mouth and pressed a soft kiss to him, then to his thigh. He felt her hair trailing slowly up him but he couldn’t open his eyes. She crawled back up beside him and laid her head on his chest, cheek warm against his skin.

He wrapped his arms around her.

Held her tight.

Kissed the crown of her head.

He thought he should say thank you.

Sleep claimed him again.

When he woke next, she was still wrapped in his arms— one leg tangled with his, her head on his arm, hair spilled across his chest like a memory. The duvet had slipped low, baring the curve of her shoulder, the arch of her spine.

Harry didn’t move.

He didn’t want to.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains, catching golden on her skin. She was still asleep, breathing deeply, lips slightly parted, brow unfurrowed for once.

He wanted to memorize her exactly like this.

Not because she was beautiful — though she was — but because this was peace.

She shifted a little, brow twitching in her sleep.

He pressed a kiss to her temple.

She settled again and sighed softly.

He closed his eyes again  but before sleep claimed him, he thought: 

This was enough. 

For now.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t a dramatic morning.

There were no declarations when they woke the final time. No forehead kisses that lingered too long. No sacred silences.

Just two people in a warm bed, wrapped in blankets and skin and breath, blinking slowly at the ceiling like they’d slept deeply and well.

Harry woke first again.

Not to anxiety or questions — but to the feeling of her breath on his chest, the rhythm of her legs tangled in his, the soft sound she made when she was content . He didn’t move for a long time. Just breathed her.

When Hermione did stir, she stretched like a cat, face pressed into his collarbone, and mumbled, “We need groceries.”

Harry grinned. “G’morning to you, too.”

“We’re out of coffee,” she added, eyes still closed.

“That’s an emergency.”

“It is.”

They got up together.

He stood in the bathroom brushing his teeth while she stood beside him, tying her hair back into a messy knot. She tossed him a shirt. He handed her socks. 

They moved to the kitchen. He started tea. She scribbled a grocery list. He added “jammy dodgers” at the bottom, prompting an eye roll and a small smile.

At the market, they moved like they’d been doing it for years — Hermione pushing the trolley, Harry tossing in items she hadn’t written down. She argued about brands. He offered to duel a toddler for the last bag of crisps. She huffed. He winked.

He stole her hand in the frozen section.

She didn’t let go.

They took their time.

In the late morning, they cooked.

She chopped.

He stirred.

She scolded him for under-seasoning. He kissed her cheek in retaliation. She swatted him with a dish towel.

At one point, he caught her standing at the sink, hands deep in suds, humming under her breath.

He leaned in from behind, wrapped his arms around her waist, and said, “I like this.”

She tilted her head. “The dishes?”

“You. Here. Like this. With me.”

Hermione was quiet for a second.

Then, softly, “Me too.”

They ate lunch barefoot at the counter, shoulders brushing.

And when they curled up on the sofa later in the afternoon with tea and mismatched jumpers and aching feet, Harry realized something else.

This — this shared ordinary day — felt perfectly complementary to anything they’d done in bed.

It was an extension of all of the intimacy they’d shared there. An intertwining of who they had become together.

This thing they were doing wasn’t just letting the other see a body or provoke an arousal.

They were building a life.

And he wanted it.

All of it.

By dinner, Harry was a bit frayed at the edges. 

Hermione seemed a little detached.

They sat in quiet after eating the pasta Kreacher had made for them. Her hand was next to his and at some point, he found it, turned it over, traced patterns absently into her palm.

Both were preoccupied with thoughts.

Harry was thinking about the night before, thinking about the day of togetherness, thinking about the night ahead. What should come next? Should they move on to… Intercourse? He thought about the syllabus Hermione had created. His impression was that was supposed to be the final exam. But he didn’t want any of this to finish. He didn’t want to be at the end of the instruction.

He startled when she slapped the table suddenly. 

A smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

“This won’t do,” she said softly, eyes darting between his. “We’re too in our heads.”

She stood and held both hands out to him. “Come on,” she tugged him up into a standing position and began to lead him up the stairs.

“We need to stop thinking and start feeling.” They stopped at the landing outside the big bathroom. "Let's take a bath together." She turned to him again, stepping close to put both hands on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she took a deep breath and looked into his eyes.

“We’re still learning each other’s bodies. We’re both as tense as can be right now. I think we’re adding all sorts of pressure and expectation to whatever it is that comes next. What if we just interrupt the whole process? Get in the hot water together and just relax…” She shrugged a little. “It’s instructive, right? If you need an excuse…” she trailed off. 

He chuckled. “I’m going to get to see you naked and wet and you think I need an excuse to say yes?”

She flushed. Relief flashed over her face. “Oh good.” She smiled. “Bathing together will serve several important functions.” She assumed an instructional tone and began counting the ways using the fingers splayed against his chest. “Cleanliness. Relaxation. Shared presence. Sensory permission. Non-sexual intima…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Harry interrupted, grinning stupidly now. “Who agreed to ‘non-sexual’ whatsits?”

She groaned then threw her head back and laughed. “Come on.”

And just like that, not many minutes later, he found himself in the bathroom with steam rising and the scent of bergamot curling through the air like comfort itself.

The tub was enormous — one of Grimmauld’s oldest features, claw-footed and deep enough for two. He'd never used it for more than a quick soak.

Now it felt... almost sacred.

Hermione stood across the room. She was watching him. She pulled off her socks. 

He pulled his off, too. 

His hands found his belt and he pulled it loose, unbuttoned his jeans, unzipped his fly. He pushed them off his hips, arching his eyebrow at her in an unspoken tease.

She unbuttoned her jeans. She looked at him and smirked. She pushed them over her hips. She wore nothing beneath them.

Harry groaned. 

She laughed now and then pulled her jumper over her head. Again, she wore nothing beneath it. 

Harry tried not to stare.

He pulled his shirt over his head and watched her eyeing him. She could see how aroused he was, but she said nothing. 

She lifted her hair off her shoulders and gathered it up to tie it out of the way.

He pushed his briefs down exposing his arousal to her. Her movements stuttered a bit.

Her hair was pulled back but already coming loose from the tie to fall along her graceful neck. Harry had the desire to gather it all up in his fist while he sucked on that spot below her ear that drove her crazy. She moistened her lips, walked towards the tub and put her foot gingerly into the hot water. Her lips parted in a quick gasp and he almost came undone. 

Two quick strides and he was across from her, holding out his hand so she could get into the tub. He lowered himself in after her. 

The water was the perfect temperature— like an embrace they’d both agreed to. She hummed in pleasure as she relaxed back into the water leaning her head back against the tub.

He felt his stomach flip and then something inside him settled.

She was beautiful, god she was so beautiful— but she was more than that. She was complete— whole and real and there . 

He was overwhelmed with love for her. With desire for her. With gratitude and hope for her. He could hardly keep himself from reaching out to her, gathering her to him, holding her and covering her with touch, with kisses, with praise, with adoration. 

She opened her eyes slowly and seemed surprised to find whatever it was she saw in his expression.

He shook his head slightly and told himself to bring it down a notch or two. He tried to soften his gaze, smile at her without looking like he was wanted to devour her, consume her.  He was sitting facing her, knees brushing beneath the surface of the water. Slowly, Harry shifted closer, and grasped her hands. She let him pull her towards him and Hermione settled on his lap. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck as her arms went around his shoulders. 

“You… you are… everything, Hermione,” he whispered. He pressed his lips to her skin then licked in the same place tasting the slightly salty sweat the warmth of the water had brought forth. 

She moaned his name and shifted slightly and then threaded her hands through his hair. He brought his face up to look at her. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed in pleasure, tongue caught between her teeth. He wanted to lean forward and capture her lips, lick into her mouth with his tongue, hear her little sighs of pleasure moaned against his lips as he kissed her. He mentally cursed The Rule for the thousandth time and instead found the underside of her jaw and then that spot on her neck. He sucked hard, marking her, a punishment for everything he wanted to do to her mouth, but could not.

His cock was bobbing between them. She pressed herself closer, moaning as he nipped at her neck. She tipped her hips against him, moving carefully so that his cock tapped against her clit with each small thrust downward.

He wanted to reach down between them and find her nub, but he didn’t touch her.

Not yet.

He dragged his mouth away from her and forced himself to take a breath. A washcloth and soap was beside the tub on a small stand. He pulled them near and got the cloth wet, working the soap into a lather. She was still gently rocking against him. He pulled back slightly. “Let me wash you?”

She watched him for a moment. Her eyes were glazed and her breath was ragged. She gave the smallest of nods and sat back a bit. 

He moved slowly, like it was a ceremony. Over her upper back and neck, behind her ears, under her jaw and down to her throat. He washed then rinsed then kissed where he had been, re-soaped the cloth, and repeated the process on the next part of her body. 

He stretched her arms up and over her head, taking the opportunity to again kiss her neck. He began with one arm and stretched his hand to grasp hers, the cloth between them. He ran the cloth over her palm and then over the flesh of her inner arm. Back over her shoulders and under her armpit. She was gently rocking against him the whole time, creating soft waves that splashed quietly against the tub. At various intervals her eyes fluttered closed, or her head fell back, or she moaned, or she looked at him through her lashes, her lids heavy with desire. 

All the time, he paid attention to the curves and contours of her skin, the softness of her flesh and the sound of her voice. He washed her back and then gathered her ass in his hands to drag her more deliberately against his hard length. He settled her again and washed down the strong muscles of her legs and then between each toe. She continued to tip her slit against his cock and when he brought his fingers between them, she pressed down onto them like she couldn’t hold out for another moment. 

He withdrew them and she whined. He brought the cloth to her chest. Circled one breast, then the next, then soaped her nipples, washed them, and rinsed them. Then lowered his head and sucked them into his mouth gently. She was breathing hard now, glistening not only with the heat of the water but with desire. 

“Harry,” she breathed, taking his head in her hands. She shook him a bit so that he looked in her eyes. She leveled a heated stare. “I need you to fuck me. Now.”

Harry’s dick jumped at her crude speech. He swallowed. He knew she wanted him and god, did he ever want her, but he was determined that this first time be deliberate not hurried and accidental.  

He drew back more and searched her face for frustration or disappointment. Finding none, he allowed himself a smirk. “But I’m not clean, Hermione. It’s hardly fair for me to spend so much time tending to your cleanliness and then have to put aside my own personal hygiene.”

Her eyes widened first in shock, then narrowed. “Oh, so now you’re a cheeky prat, eh? Think you got this seduction thing figured out?” 

Harry swallowed hard.

His cock twitched in her hand as she scraped her fingernails up his length, her mouth hovering just shy of his, her breath warm, her smirk infuriatingly smug.

“Two can play this game, Potter,” Hermione murmured, her voice like a purr, her fingers tightening just enough to make him inhale sharply. “And I happen to be an expert in teasing.”

Harry let out a strangled noise — somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

He tipped his head back, eyes squeezed shut. “Oh, Godric, no — I surrender.”

Hermione stilled. “What?”

“I surrender!” Harry gasped, laughing helplessly now. “I absolutely, one hundred percent, pathetically concede! You win! You will always win!”

She pulled back a fraction, blinking, lips twitching. “That was fast.”

Harry flung his arms out dramatically against the edge of the tub, water sloshing over the side. “I’m not proud! I’m a broken man! You only had to look at me funny and I folded!”

Hermione snorted — actually snorted — and then bit her lip, eyes dancing with glee.

“Oh, Harry,” she murmured, sliding her hands up his chest, tracing slow circles just under his collarbones. “You have no idea what you’ve just handed me.”

He groaned again, dropping his head forward onto her shoulder. “Oh, I know.”

She kissed his temple lightly.

“Poor brave boy,” she whispered, nipping his ear. “You never stood a chance.”

Harry shivered, the laughter in his chest twisting now into something deeper, something hotter. His hands found her waist, trembling slightly as they skimmed the slick, wet skin, and he pressed his forehead to hers, breath hitching.

“Hermione,” he whispered, a note of pleading sneaking into his voice.

“Oh, no,” she said sweetly, dark eyes glittering, “you gave me permission, remember?”

She shifted, slow and deliberate, sliding herself along him in the water just enough to make him suck in his breath. She kissed under his jaw, behind his ear, across the curve of his throat, nipping lightly where his pulse jumped.

Harry let out a strangled noise, his fingers tightening reflexively at her waist.

“Please,” he rasped, voice cracking.

“Please, what?” she whispered, brushing her mouth against his ear.

“Please… just…” He tipped his head back again, eyes squeezed shut, the tension arcing through him like a live wire. “Just anything , Hermione, I swear to Merlin, I can’t take it…”

She laughed softly — a dark, delighted little laugh — and raked her nails down his chest, smiling as he gasped, as his hips twitched up against her.

“Oh, Harry,” she murmured, kissing the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth, his parted, trembling lips.
“I haven’t even started yet.”

And just like that, the teasing began in earnest.

Her hands and mouth and body became a slow, torturous symphony of touches — playful, purposeful, maddening. Every time Harry thought he might catch his breath, she shifted, she pressed, she dragged her fingernails lightly along his ribs or kissed just beneath his ear or whispered something wicked at the edge of his jaw.

And every time, Harry — savior of the wizarding world, master of the bloody Elder Wand — crumbled.

At some point — he didn’t know how long it had been — he realized he was whispering her name over and over, breathless, desperate, his hands shaking as they clutched at her waist.

“Hermione,” he gasped, forehead pressed to hers, eyes dark and wide and blown open. “Please. I can’t— I can’t—”

And that was when everything shifted.

Because she looked at him — hungry, searching, seeking — and the teasing melted out of her gaze.

She cradled his face in both hands, her thumb brushing along his jaw, and smiled — soft, tender, like a secret she’d been holding close for years.

“Harry,” she whispered, voice suddenly low, raw, honest.

“I want you.”

His breath caught.

"You," she breathed.

His hands trembled.

Then she leaned in — no smirk now, no game, no shield — and kissed him.

And Harry fell, fully, completely, utterly.

Not just into the kiss.

Not just into the heat.

But into her .

Because this was the kiss.
The one he’d waited his whole life for.
The one that broke him open and made him whole at the same time.
The one that told him, without words, that he was home.

The moment their mouths met, it was like something detonated inside Harry’s chest.
Not just heat. Not just hunger.
Something feral . Something so holy that it burned everything in its path.

He kissed her like a man drowning, like every kiss he’d ever given before had been a lie, like this was the first time his mouth knew what it was for.

Hermione whimpered — a ragged, desperate sound — and he surged upward, wrapping his arms tight around her, standing without even thinking, water sloshing over the edge of the tub as he lifted her clean off the ground.

Her legs locked around his waist.

Her arms wrapped around his neck.

And they didn’t stop kissing.

He stalked toward the bedroom, not seeing, not hearing, not caring — water dripping from his hair, his skin, her skin, their tangled bodies leaving a trail on the floor.

His mouth was on hers, then on her jaw, then on her throat, then back on her mouth again, drinking her in, lost to everything but the slick press of her body and the gasping, shattered way she moaned his name against his lips.

He reached the bed.

Didn’t remember how.

Didn’t care.

He sat, pulling her down with him, and she followed like she’d been made to fit there — straddling his lap, skin on skin, nothing between them now.

She rocked forward, and he groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding down to clutch her hips, her thighs, feeling her weight settle fully onto him.

Every inch of her was fire.

Every shift of her body was lightning.

She kissed him again — deep, slow, devastating — and he felt her hands framing his face, thumbs stroking his jaw, her chest pressed tight to his.

Her breath was hot against his mouth, shaky and soft, as she shifted her hips, positioning herself above him.

“Harry,” she gasped.

And then —

She sank down onto him.

Harry shattered .

His head tipped back, a ragged, helpless roar torn from his throat, his hands trembling as they clutched at her hips.

His brain sparked, blanked, short-circuited, overloaded by the impossible, perfect, burning feel of her — sliding, taking, welcoming him.

She was everywhere — surrounding him, consuming him, filling his senses until there was no room for thought, no room for breath, no room for anything but her.

He barely realized he was whispering her name, over and over again, one hand threading desperately into her hair, the other gripping the small of her back like he was afraid she might disappear.

Hermione leaned in, mouth brushing his ear, her breath hot and trembling as she whispered, “Stay with me, Harry. Here. Now.”

And he did.

He gave himself over completely to her — to the kiss, to the heat, to the wild, astonishing truth of her. He felt himself fracture — pleasure roaring through him so fast it nearly stole his mind. 

But as his body began to short out from the sheer intensity, something inside him pulled him back from the brink.

Even in the haze, he felt her fingers clutching at his back, her hips working, her breath catching, her moans trembling just at the edge of release.

And in the midst of the heat, he realized— this wasn’t just about him.

This was for them. 

And he wanted her to be wrecked.

Just as undone as he was.

He wanted her lost, trembling, gasping, shattering for him, because of him, with him.

With a ragged growl, Harry wrapped his arms around her and surged upward, flipping them so she was beneath him, sprawled across the bed, hair wild across the pillows, lips parted in a startled gasp.

He kissed her hard, deep, desperate, one hand cupping her face, the other sliding down between them as he drove into her —

—and the moment his fingers found her, he felt her shudder.

“Oh — Harry —”

Her hips arched into him. Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper.
Her hands clawed at his back.
Her mouth sought his with open, gasping need.

He kissed her through it— murmuring her name, panting against her lips, feeling her tremble and tighten and come undone under him, her whole body convulsing with release as he continued to drive into her, barely holding his own climax back.

The moment she stilled, he was gone —
—swept under, swept away, emptying himself into her with a helpless cry, hands clutching, mouth pressing against her temple, breath shattering into fragments as his body bowed and collapsed.

They lay there.
Panting.
Trembling.
Dazed.

Neither spoke.
Neither moved.

For a long, timeless moment, they were nothing but breath and skin and heartbeat, wrapped together on the edge of sleep, dissolving into each other.

When Harry stirred again, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed.

The room was quiet, dim, the world narrowed to the soft weight of Hermione curled against him, the rise and fall of her chest, the scent of skin and sweat and their shared experience.

He kissed her hairline — gently this time.

She stirred, shifting slightly, and looked up at him, her eyes soft, dazed, glowing. She stared into his eyes and he, like so many nights before, looked deep, deep into hers.

Neither of them said a word.

Neither of them looked away.

Harry rolled to his side, brushing her hair back, his thumb tracing her cheek.
He knew The Rule was obliterated, but he some part of him was worried as he kissed her — slow, sure, lingering.
Hermione sighed softly into his mouth, her hand sliding up to cradle the back of his neck to hold him to her as she kissed him back.

And this time— when he moved over her, when she opened to him again — it was different .

Their eyes remained open. Searching. Finding.

Their hands clasped.

Their gasps and moans did not deter them from finding the other’s gaze.

This time it was not urgent.

Not frantic.

Tender.
Sure. Intentional.

Certain .

Every touch was slower.
Every kiss was deeper. Then deeper still
Every movement was deliberate, deliberate, deliberate —
—until they were pressed together again, hips aligned, mouths never parting for long, rocking slowly, building something quieter, fuller, truer .

She whispered his name like a prayer.
He murmured his love into her skin.

And when they reached the edge this time, they went together — eyes open, hands clasped, breath mingling — falling into the kind of surrender that didn’t shatter but completed.

When they stilled at last, neither of them let go.
They just held. 

Just looked.
Just kissed.
And breathed each other in.

He woke to sunlight and the space beside him cold.

The duvet was still rumpled, but her warmth had faded.

Harry sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and called, “Hermione?”

No answer.

He pulled on soft clothes — a jumper, loose trousers. He thought of the last 24 hours, of the way his hair must look a fright, of the marks he knew he had left on her neck and breasts. He fought to keep a giggle- an actual honest to goodness giggle- from rising up out of him as he bounded down the stairs to find her. 

The kitchen was empty.

Kreacher was cleaning the counters, humming under his breath.

Harry beamed at him. “Good morning, Kreacher! How are you this bright, beautiful day?” He crossed to the kettle to begin the tea, not even waiting for Kreacher’s response. 

“Where’s Hermione?” Harry asked. “Did she go upstairs?” 

Kreacher turned slowly. “Miss Granger left, Master.”

His spoon clattered to the counter. Harry blinked. “Left?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did she say where?”

“No, Master.”

“Did she—” Harry paused. “Did she say when she’d be back?”

Kreacher shook his head, slow and final.

Harry set the mug down on the kitchen counter. He turned and walked towards the doorway. Suddenly the hum of the kettle was too loud, the house too quiet.

The floor seemed to tilt away from him.

He could still feel her kiss on his lips.

She didn’t come back all day.

Not for lunch.

Not for tea.

Not even after the sun went down and the shadows stretched long through Grimmauld’s hallways like fingers trying to reach him.

Harry waited.

All day, he waited.

He replayed conversations, reimagined the night before. He tried not to pace. He tried not to catastrophize. He reread the scrolls. Cleaned the kitchen. Scrubbed the tub, then scrubbed the bathroom floor on his hands and knees. Changed the sheets again, even though that was the first thing he had done when he realized she was gone.

Kreacher didn’t offer any updates.

The house felt hollow. As though a vacuum was sucking all the oxygen out of it.

Harry found he couldn’t take a deep breath. 

Still, he waited.

And then — long, long after the sky had gone dark and the candles had burned low — the door creaked open.

Harry looked up from where he sat on the stairs.

Luna stepped inside, her arm wrapped around Hermione, who was clearly, unmistakably quite drunk.

Hermione mumbled something. 

Her curls were mussed. Her cheeks flushed. Her jumper askew like she’d pulled it on too quickly or too late.

Harry stood and took two steps towards them.

Hermione stopped short in the hallway. Wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Hi,” he said, gently.

She looked up at him then— barely — and looked away quickly.

“I don’t want—” she whispered, too fast, too sharp. “I can’t… not right now.”

Luna guided her gently. “Come on, Love. Sober-up potion and bed first. Talk later.”

Hermione didn’t argue.

Didn’t even glance back.

Harry stood frozen as they disappeared down the hall.

He sat back on the stairs.

Put his head in his hands.

And stayed there.

A few minutes later, Luna came back, quiet as dusk, and sat beside him.

She didn't say anything.

Harry didn’t look up. “What do you know?”

Luna was silent for another long moment.

Then she said, softly, “I know she’s in love with you.”

Harry’s hands dropped slightly. “She— what?”

“She’s terrified,” Luna said. “Has been for weeks. Months. Maybe longer.”

He stared ahead. “I don’t want to scare her.”

“You don’t scare her, Harry,” Luna said gently. “But being known— being loved despite being known— that terrifies her.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Luna turned to him. “You already know her. You already love her. And she loves you. That’s the part she found out for sure last night. She thinks she'll break it.”

He exhaled, slow and shaky. “Luna, she’s brilliant. And infuriating. And fiercely loyal. She reads everything and forgets to eat. She always says she’s fine when she’s obviously not. She remembers birthdays. She argues until she’s hoarse. She gives the best presents — not expensive ones, just right ones. She loves logic but believes in hope.”

Luna smiled.

“She’s more afraid of herself than anyone else,” he added.

“And you love her,” Luna said simply.

Harry blinked.

“I—yeah.”

“You always have.”

He rubbed his hands over his face. “I do, Luna. I love her so much. She already knows me. The worst of me.”

Luna tilted her head. “And she stayed even when you let her know you. That was the most frightening thing of all, isn't’ it?”

Harry looked at the floor.

"It's the same for her, Harry. She's scared of being loved so fully."

Harry sighed. "I'm not going to go anywhere. I'm not going to let her go anywhere. I want whatever’s next,” he said. “Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s slow. I want her. ”

Luna reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Then show her that knowing her— all of her— doesn’t scare you— not in the least.”

He nodded.

It wasn’t a fix.

But if it was a start, he was willing to try it.

The house was still dark.

Luna had gone, murmuring something about Thestral migration and needing sleep. Kreacher had vanished into the walls. The moon was high, casting pale streaks through the narrow kitchen window.

Harry hadn’t moved.

He still sat on the stairs. Solid. Still.

He wasn’t angry.

He wasn’t confused.

He was… quiet.

Inside the silence, something had settled.

He thought about the way she’d looked that morning, curled into his chest, skin warm and soft from sleep. The way she’d pressed her lips to his jaw — because she wanted to. The way she’d laughed against his skin the first time he touched her ribs and she’d twitched involuntarily. The way her hands shook when she guided his touch lower, whispering his name like a promise.

She’d trusted him.

Not all at once. Not out loud.

But in the surprising way that Hermione had of communicating confidence. 

In the way she’d handed him her breath and let him hold it.

In the slow yielding of control.

She’d always done this for him— equipped him so that he thought he was accomplishing something when really it was her teaching him, trusting him, giving him power to believe that he could handle whatever challenge presented itself. 

And now she was the challenge and she was pulling back. 

He realized that he had reacted as though the pull-back was meant to punish him— as though she meant to tell him through her withdrawal she didn’t want him and all his complications.

But Luna was right— he knew Hermione saw him and loved him anyway. And he knew how hard it was to believe that.

He knew— he knew — that she wasn’t trying to manipulate him into letting go.

Her withdrawal was because she was terrified .

Of being known.

Of being loved.

Of being real in front of someone who might stay.

He closed his eyes and breathed out.

He thought of the girl in the library who scribbled notes faster than humanly possible.

The girl in the tent who held her wand like a sword and her grief like a wound she refused to name.

The girl who tripped in late at night from a dozen terrible dates and tried again the next time.

The girl in his bed- no, the woman- in his bed who kissed him without permission or plan and curled against him like he was home.

He knew her.

The world saw her as sharp-edged and brilliant.

He knew she was also tender and wanting and so, so lonely.

She gave everything and asked for nothing. She structured lessons so she wouldn’t have to name feelings. She said this is just practice and set up The Rule and then kissed him like she’d forgotten what the word consequence meant.

Maybe she didn’t need his understanding.

Maybe she needed his declaration.

And Harry realized — for the first time with absolute clarity — that he wanted to be sure she understood that the thing he had on offer to her was himself.

Not his body.

Not his name.

Himself.

Whole and open and without escape routes.

Whatever came next, he was in.

He stood slowly, his knees accepting his will to stand.

The house creaked around him, as if it too was holding its breath.

Harry moved slowly up the stairs, his bare feet silent on the worn wood, every step feeling like it cost him something. His hands trembled as they brushed the railing. His heart was a thud, thud, thud against his ribs.

Her door was cracked.

He saw her before he pushed it fully open.

Hermione was curled tight on the bed, her back to the room, her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around herself. The sleeves of her jumper were tugged down over her hands, clenched into fists she pressed against her chest. Her hair spilled wild and dark over the pillow, her breath hitching in the quiet.

Harry’s throat closed.

He felt it — that sharp, awful pull in his chest, the jagged edge of panic, the raw ache of helplessness. She was here, she was right here, and yet it felt like she was slipping away, retreating into some place he couldn’t follow.

He crossed the room, knees shaking, and sank slowly to the floor beside the bed.
He didn’t touch her yet.
He couldn’t.

Instead, he stared.
Watched the rise and fall of her shoulders.
Watched the way she pressed her face into the pillow like she was trying to disappear.

He reached out — just barely — and let his fingertips brush the back of her hand.

She flinched.

His heart nearly stopped.

“Hermione,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

She let out a shuddering breath, her whole body trembling.

“I’m sorry,” she choked, so soft he almost missed it. “I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean— I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Please— no.”

“It ruined everything,” she gasped, curling tighter. “I ruined it.”

“No,” he said again, his voice shaking now. “Hermione, no, please— look at me.”

She shook her head hard, pressing her fists to her mouth.

Harry felt something inside him crack wide open, raw and bleeding.

He climbed up onto the bed slowly, carefully, like approaching a wild, wounded thing. He knelt at her side, desperate and aching and so full of love it nearly crushed him.

“Hermione,” he whispered, his hands trembling as they hovered near her. “Please, please look at me. Please.”

She made a soft, broken sound — a sob, a gasp — and turned her face toward him, just barely, her eyes red and wet and brimming.

And Harry was wrecked.

Because he saw it.
Saw all of it.
The fear.
The longing.
The bone-deep ache of wanting to trust, wanting to hope, wanting to believe she could be fully seen and not shattered.

He let out a choked breath and reached for her, gathering her hands in his, pressing them to his lips.

“Hermione,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You don’t understand.”

She shook her head, her breath hitching, her eyes wide and terrified.

“You think you ruined something,” Harry said, his chest heaving, his fingers tightening around hers, “but you didn’t. You are the something. You are it , Hermione. I don’t— I can’t—”

His throat closed, and he pressed his forehead to their clasped hands, his whole body trembling.

“I don’t have a life without you,” he whispered, voice cracked open, raw and pleading. “I don’t want a future without you.”

She let out a soft, strangled noise.

“I’ve spent so long thinking I could— could just keep you close, keep you safe, keep you happy, and that would be enough.” Harry’s voice broke again, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “But it’s not. It’s not. Hermione, I need you. I need you. All of you.”

She let out a soft, helpless sob, her fingers tightening around his.

“I know you’re scared,” Harry whispered, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. His own were glassy, his lashes wet. “I know you’re terrified. And I’m scared too — Merlin, I’m terrified . Because if I come after you now, if I push too hard, I might lose you.”

His breath hitched.
His fingers brushed her cheek, trembling.

“But if I don’t,” he whispered, “I’ll lose myself.”

She broke then — a soft, sharp cry, her whole body folding forward, pressing into him, burying her face in his chest.

Harry wrapped his arms around her, crushing her to him, rocking her like something precious, like something he couldn’t believe he was allowed to hold.

“I love you,” he breathed into her hair, his voice shuddering. “I love you, Hermione. I love you so much I can’t see straight. I love you so much it’s tearing me apart.”

She clutched at him — desperate, trembling.

“Please, please just let me love you,” he pleaded.

She let out a broken, shaking laugh through her sobs.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped again.

“No,” Harry murmured, kissing her temple, kissing her hair, kissing her jaw. “Don’t be sorry. Please don’t be sorry.”

“I didn’t mean to kiss you— I told you I’d fall—”

“I’m glad you did,” Harry whispered fiercely. “I’m glad. I’m so glad .”

She sobbed harder, her hands fisting in his jumper, her whole body shaking.

“But I don’t know how to do this,” she choked.

“Neither do I,” Harry breathed, kissing the wet tracks of her tears. “But I’m here. I’m here , Hermione. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He rocked her slower, then put his hand to her face, cupped her chin, tipped her face up to meet his eyes. “I’m in,” he said. “Whatever this is. Whatever comes next. I’m not confused about you. I’m not scared by you. I’m in. ”

She let out another shaky breath — half a sob, half a laugh — and folded herself tighter into his arms.

And they stayed like that — kneeling, clutching, breathing, breaking, healing — for what felt like forever.

Just this .

Just Harry, holding her like she was his heart made flesh.

Just Hermione, trembling and wrecked and slowly, slowly trusting that he would stay, that she could stay.

Somewhere in the quiet, she whispered, voice thin and small and shaking, “Okay.”

Harry exhaled — a long, ragged breath — and kissed the crown of her head, cradling her close. He laid down beside her and wrapped his arms around her and pressed her body to his, kissing her temple and her eyes and along jaw as he murmured his love over and over again.

This wasn’t the end.
This wasn’t a pause in their story.
This wasn’t a tying-up of loose ends, a neat bow, a final line.

This was the turning of the page.
This was the first breath of something new.
This was the moment when the story, real and raw and unfolding, finally began.

Chapter Text

The last Friday before the end of summer stretched golden and lazy across the garden.

The table was scattered with half-empty glasses, bright platters of food, and Lavender’s ridiculous tower of lemon bars and iced scones. The roses along the fence leaned heavy and drowsy in the late sun. A string of fairy lights floated overhead, bobbing softly in the warm breeze.

Harry stood under the pear tree, a bottle of cider in hand, watching the scene unfold like something from a dream.

Ron and Seamus were sprawled in mismatched chairs, bickering over Quidditch stats. Luna sat cross-legged on the grass nearby, humming as she sketched a glowing little creature she’d plucked gently from the hedge — a Cintafluvia, she’d explained serenely, a rare South American sprite known to inhabit magical waterways. She was leaving Monday, heading off on an internship that would let her study them up close before taking her new post as a liaison with the Ministry’s Department of Magical Creatures.

Lavender had brought at least two dozen pastries, most now half-demolished by Ron and Seamus, who’d declared her the “true MVP” of the night. She was flushed and laughing, perched on the arm of a chair, shoving a sticky bun into Ron’s mouth when he opened it too wide to argue with something she’d said.

But it was Hermione who pulled Harry’s eyes like gravity.

She stood barefoot near the table, radiant in a yellow flowered sundress, her hair twisted up in a messy knot with tendrils curling loose. She was laughing at something Luna had said, her head tipped back, sunlight catching the glint of her earrings and the edge of her smile.

She looked… grounded. Solid. Happy.

Harry felt his chest tighten, felt that slow, warm ache bloom under his ribs.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop feeling stunned by it — by her. By this life they were building.

Ron drifted over, nudging him lightly in the ribs.

“Oi,” Ron murmured, smirking. “Wipe the lovesick look off your face, would you? You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

Harry snorted, taking a sip of cider. “Jealous?”

Ron huffed. “Not at all. Lavender’s perfection. And I’m thrilled you didn’t cock it up with Hermione, mate. But honestly…” He shook his head fondly. “Tamp it down a bit. You’re so gone for her, you're practically drooling, aren’t you?”

Harry smiled, wide and helpless. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I really am.”

Across the garden, Hermione caught his eye.

She arched an eyebrow, a knowing little smile tugging at her mouth.

And then — slow, deliberate, wicked — she stuck her thumb into the corner of a frosting-laden scone, swirled it through the icing, and popped it into her mouth, sucking it clean before withdrawing it with an exaggerated little flick of her tongue.

Harry’s cock twitched so hard he nearly choked on his drink.

He flushed, hot and sudden, memories slamming through him—

Lesson 27: Edible Enhancements in Lovemaking.

Champagne dripping over her breasts.
Whipped cream smeared across his nipples.
Her mouth on his skin, her laughter breathless, her hands greedy and sure.

“Merlin,” Harry muttered, pressing a fist lightly against his forehead.

Ron chuckled beside him. He’d missed the little interaction but clearly saw Harry’s flustered face. “Yeah, yeah. You’re gone, all right.”

Harry shook his head, half-laughing, half-dazed.

Because it was true.

He was deliriously, stupidly, blissfully happy.

Not because it was perfect — they’d had their fights, their moments of doubt, the hard conversations that left them raw and blinking under the weight of everything they’d carried for years.

Not because they’d figured it all out — Merlin knew Monday would come, and with it the stress of Hermione’s first week of Healer classes, and his own Auror training ramping up, and the shift from lazy summer to tight autumn schedules.

No.

He was happy because he was known.
Fully.
Utterly.
Painfully.

And he was loved.

Hermione walked toward him then, the last of the sun gilding her skin, the smile on her lips small but sure. She reached up and smoothed a hand lightly over his chest, fingers lingering in the curve of his collarbone.

“Hi,” she murmured, voice warm.

“Hi,” Harry breathed, wrapping an arm around her waist, tugging her in close.

He kissed the top of her head, the soft curl of hair at her temple, the little dimple beside her mouth. Then he went ahead and took advantage of The Rule being completely obliterated and kissed her full on the lips.

And as she sighed into him, lips soft and gentle, he knew— without a doubt, without fear— that the offer she’d made him months ago, when she’d cracked open her heart and let him see the whole wild, aching, radiant truth of her, had given him a joy he could barely contain.

A joy not of perfection, or arrival, or completion —
but of becoming —

of becoming more whole, more known, more alive, together, every single day—

a joy he was ready to live into, every day, for the rest of their lives.