Disclaimers: Dark themes, police state ideas, mention of spousal abuse (including rape) on and off-screen, death of minor characters, graphic imagery and violence, frank sex discussion, copious bad language, bashing the fucking Weasleys and Dumbledore, liberties taken with mythical history.
***
Harry hung back out of respect. He knew that Hermione was only taking off her dressing gown, but, as every sinew of his body was aching for her, he didn't trust himself to hold in his control at just this mild display of disrobing. His imagination was vivid enough to fill in the blanks his loins throbbed for, and the energies of the palace were treacherous to what should be a secret intent. Everyone from the lowest under-gardener to his Inner Circle would know what was on his mind just then.
If they didn't already, of course.
But Harry's composure was being severely tested. His mind raced at what Hermione was doing in the room beyond, no matter how simple an act it was. Not being in sight of her didn't help at all. Without being able to see, he could picture her doing it teasingly, as though knowing he was watching or thinking about her. An hour ago, the very idea would have been so absurd that Harry would have laughed it off as a symptom of his delusional mania. He might have been concerned about the depths of his mental instability. But now, he could almost convince himself this preposterous idea might actually be possible.
Especially now that Hermione had kissed him like an enamoured lover.
Harry leaned against the wall and marvelled at the evening. It was his best mother's birthday ever. Harry couldn't wipe the grin off his face, even if it only could cover half of it. Fucking Voldemort and his power curses. Silly cunt. Hermione had kissed him. Actually kissed him, with her tongue and everything. On purpose. That was something he found extremely hard to conceptualise, even though it had happened less than half an hour previous. The texture of her tongue still clung to the inside of his cheek. He didn't want to lick it off. He wore it like a private badge of honour.
Hermione had really kissed him!
He felt like a teenage boy again, ridiculously excited at the burgeoning idea of girls, as though it were a brand new thing. He shouldn't be fluttering inside like this. He'd killed people, conducted dark and dangerous ritual magic, fought the dead and the living and beaten both. He was a tough, ugly, scarred man. Not a lovesick teenager. But that's how he felt. Dizzy, and joyously quivery, and light-headed, and lost, and so flustered he could hardly hold his head in place.
And all he wanted to do was hug the girl in the next room forever. To hell with Horcruxes and snake-shagging Dark Wizards. Someone else could deal with that rubbish. But the girl herself didn't want to just hug ... she wanted to fight, too. And that stirred Harry so poignantly that he felt like squealing. He loved Neville, his Brother-In-Blood. He'd enjoyed killing Dark Wizards alongside him. With Enola, too, who killed so flawlessly she made it an art form.
But there was something about the idea of Hermione in battle, killing for him, maybe defending him, that speeded Harry's heart to reckless abandon. He couldn't describe it, or why it made him grin so foolishly. And he wasn't ignorant to the way the idea aroused him, either. The very notion of Hermione opening up aggressively on someone to protect him ... well, there was just that something about it that excited him. Harry couldn't rightly explain it, wasn't sure how to cope with it.
Because there was this hidden element to Hermione's magic that hit him in the stomach and immediately raced lower. If he had been sensible to such things, Harry might have recognised that it turned him on. But it had been so many years since that had properly happened that Harry had forgotten what it felt like.
But now, it seemed, Hermione's magic was turning that back on, too.
For her power had taken Harry's breath away during the ritual to destroy McGonagall's Horcrux. Harry had always known she was gifted. Of course she was, this was Hermione, more brilliant than anyone he'd ever known. He knew, even though he'd been too shy to say, that she was clever beyond the books she used to shield her modesty, but he had no idea quite how potent she was. He had struggled to hold her magic steady when he drew it from her, and was reduced to taking only a fraction of the amount he otherwise would have.
And even this was enough to basically overload him. In more ways than he would openly admit.
It was sobering. It devastated all the rituals he'd designed for her, to bring out her natural power. He'd been so careful with them, too, factoring in her astral chart and elemental bias, her zodiac signals and what he hoped was her alchemical role. That at least he was certain of. His mother had been utterly right ... she was his white queen in every sense. His soror mystica through and through. Mums always knew best, it would seem.
But Hermione's power level meant that Harry would have to redesign everything to account for her, frankly, jaw-dropping magical potential.
Harry was thrilled at that. It set his heart racing at a thunderous tempo. There was so much Hermione didn't yet know, so much he couldn't wait to share with her. She had no idea who she was, or who she could be. Who they could be. His own awakening had been so monumental ... it brought a smile to his mind just remembering it. It made him laugh to think that a circus conjurer like Tom Riddle would be presumptuous enough to position himself as a threat to that.
Really, Riddle was little more than an irritant in Harry's mind at this point. Like a mild bout of herpes. Harry knew, almost without doubt, that if they met in battle now he'd finish him in minutes. Oh Tom was powerful alright, frighteningly so. Harry would never let that get far from his mind. But that didn't make Tom a good fighter. Harry had been to the Welsh Valleys, where the big boys pumped themselves full of steroids and talked a tough game.
Didn't mean they could take a punch.
It was the same in North America. The magic there was potent, but it wasn't the gangster-dressed mages of New York, or the hooded conclaves of the Florida Keys you had to be wary of. It was the ancient magic of the Native Americans, the covens of the Ozarks, the shape shifting witches of Minnesota ... they were the ones who'd turn your insides out without so much as a warning shot. Harry had learnt so much from those groups. He was eminently thankful for the lessons they'd taught him ... and the help they'd pledged when it was time for his revolution.
A time that was coming fast.
As for Riddle, if it wasn't for the pointlessness of it, Harry would have done him in by now. But his own High Dark Death Eaters - cunts like the Lestranges and Dolohov - would have simply killed a random passer-by, used their body mass to reanimate their Dark King with his Last Horcrux, as many times as there were victims to be had. Harry didn't want their blood on his hands. Good, pure blood. He intended to shed so much blood of the evil kind that he doubted the train in the afterlife would accept his spiritual Oyster Card when the time came now.
But so long as Hermione could go, Harry would be okay with that.
Though if, as she'd pledged, she'd kill just as indiscriminately as him, well, they could just roam purgatory together for eternity. There was something to be said for that as a punishment. Harry could live with it. He would need nothing else. The afterlife would be a cheery place, without Dumbledore badgering him constantly, or having to justify a life of misdeeds to his overwrought parents. Just him and Hermione, doing whatever they wanted. Forever. Harry could definitely live with that.
But, for now, he had to deal with Hermione's earthly woes. For, despite the scale of her magical potential, she was so mentally scarred that Harry was heartbroken just trying to process it. He couldn't quite accept it. Because for every bruise from Ron's punches, for all of Hermione's bones he'd shattered and splintered, Ron's real damage went so deep into her mind that Harry was worried he didn't have the power to help her as he'd promised. And he was so earnest when he'd made that vow. He would give all he had not to break it.
But he couldn't even hold her latest nightmare in his head without losing control of his magic. Sally had described it to him. He couldn't bring himself to view the memory she'd secretly pulled, under the guise of checking Hermione for a fever. It had helped her forget the horrors that little bit quicker. Harry was sure she wouldn't hold the violation of her mind against him, despite the numerous times it must have happened to her before. Harry had done it this time for the sake of her well-being.
But just the description was enough to send him frenzied with fury. The image of Hermione, looking so Bludger-stoppingly beautiful, with her hair all done up with bows and sparkles for a party, hair that was pulled and wrenched and actually ripped from her head ... it made Harry tear at his own messy locks in anguished frustration.
He could no longer imagine the horrors he would visit on Ron ... and he hadn't yet devised a retribution suitable enough. He would have to redefine the very concept to accommodate his justice. And with each new snippet of information on Ron's indiscretions against Hermione, Harry felt he was skirting with the borders of losing his mind. He would make quick work of Tom Riddle, he was set on that.
But with Ron ... he would drag that shit out as long as he could.
The lightshades on the walls of the long corridor abruptly shattered as Harry's unrestrained anger burst out through his internal control enchantments. He didn't care. Some other fucker could fix them. He wasn't done with breaking things yet anyway. But just then, the door to Hermione's suite was flung open and she was there before him, looking fretfully concerned. She pressed her hands to his chest, and Harry stilled almost instantly. He would later marvel at how odd that was.
"What's wrong?" Hermione whispered, worry evident in every line of her face. "I can feel your emotion from inside my room! You took it out on my new vase of flowers."
Harry looked down in shame. "Sorry. I'll fix it ..."
"What is it?" Hermione pressed gently. "What's happened?"
Harry huffed and pulled angrily at his hair. The vision of Ron was swelling in him again, surging through his veins. His magic was building, the pressure throbbing at his temples. The small candles in the hall suddenly caught fire as if they were raging sconces.
Hermione hushed to him and drew him close, pulling his head down to her shoulder. Her arms were unfathomably soft and strong. "Calm down, Harry ... talk to me."
"I know ... I know what you were dreaming of earlier," Harry seethed, bitterly. He was unbearably furious. He couldn't stop it. "Did ... did that really happen? With Ron? After Susan's birthday?"
Hermione stiffened in his arms, before shuddering violently at the memory. Harry had his answer. His anger surge was so powerful, so close to erupting, that he was afraid he wouldn't be able to control it, even with Hermione trying to calm him.
"That ... that ..." Harry spat, grinding his jaw painfully. "That ... fucking ginger cunt."
Something snapped in the air. It was like a thunderclap. It rolled for about thirty seconds, raging up and down the corridor like a violent echo, tearing off ragged strips of wallpaper, wrenching down curtains, scarring the plaster on the ceiling, which fell like rough, angry snow all around them. Then suddenly Enola, Neville, Angharad, Myfanwy, and Enola's friend Cassie were crowding in the hall. All had their wands drawn and the combined pulsing power turned the air positively sub-tropical. Neville and Enola cast a powerful dual Shield Charm around them, encasing them all in a shimmering bubble.
"What's going on?" asked Myfanwy. She looked primed for a fight.
"There's a crack in the main staircase," added Neville ponderously.
"And half of my potions ingredients just spontaneously combusted!" chirruped Cassie.
"Sorry, Harry was just having a moment," Hermione explained.
Harry conceded to her as his spokesperson. He was unable to form words through his incendiary wrath. He was actually quite enjoying Hermione threading her fingers rhythmically through his hair to try and sedate him. But the images still roiled within him. He couldn't push them away.
"Was it about a certain red head we wont mention?" asked Neville, quirking a grin at Hermione. "I told you not to say his name around here."
"I didn't. It was Harry who mentioned him, but I think the moniker he used was 'fucking ginger cunt'," she returned evenly, slightly amused.
"Yeah, that's what he normally calls him," said Cassie, pocketing her wand now the danger had passed. "I have a whole cabinet of FGC pain potions that we've designed to use on him. Unless Harry has shattered them all."
Harry guffawed, his anger subsiding slightly. He turned his head on Hermione's shoulder to look at Cassie. "I told you to magic-proof the room."
"I did!" Cassie complained. "Twice!"
"Sorry," Harry winked.
"Come on," said Enola, stepping forwards. "There's only one person who can sort Harry out now. But first ..."
She drew her wand and delicately drew a containment rune on Harry's forehead, his only bit of exposed skin. He rolled his eye but allowed it. Hermione looked on, and Harry watched her curiously. He wasn't totally sure, but he could have sworn he saw Hermione frown jealously as Enola's magic touched him. It made Harry's insides squirm again, and his anger shirked away a little more.
"Where are we going?" asked Hermione. "Who will help Harry?"
"The only person guaranteed to calm him," said Enola. "Can you take us, Sally?"
Enola looked down at the elf, who had appeared between Harry and Hermione's legs. She nodded
"Hold hands," said Sally. Harry, Hermione and Enola obliged as though they were sealing a pact. Then Sally placed her long fingers over them and they were Apparated two floors up.
And Harry's rage slipped away like a raspy breeze.
He didn't even hesitate to pull his shawl off. It was a reflexive action, as if the room were in command. Or maybe it was the little girl reaching up for a cuddle. Harry was utterly helpless against her. He crossed the room in three strides and scooped her into his arms. She was the cutest little thing. He'd never quite gotten used to that. Or how alive she was, despite her tininess. She squirmed and wriggled all over, moved every part of her little body at the same time. Harry couldn't ever wrap his head around her perpetual motion. It was mesmerising.
But at that moment all he felt was shame. Had he woken her? Had his feeble attempt at rage control stolen sleep from the tiny infant? A thousand curses on him if it had. He hugged her by way of apology, rocked her gently and hoped she didn't hold his anger against him. She didn't seem to. Actually, she appeared to be purring. It was the most relaxing sound. And she smelled of talc. Harry always found that weirdly comforting.
"Well, I ... of all the things ..."
Hermione had come up to his shoulder, and slipped an arm around him. She was looking at him with the most profound, curious expression. But also the most affectionate one he could imagine. His stomach flipped and rippled as considered what she might be thinking. Or was it what he was thinking? He couldn't process that. His heart might explode at the prospect if he did.
"Alison Longbottom ... angry Harry Potter's calming influence," Enola quipped, joining them and grinning at the scene. She looked at Hermione's arm, curled around Harry's waist without any sign of him protesting at it being there. She knew something profound had gone on between them, Harry could tell that from the knowing glint in her eyes, and the beaming smile on her lips. But she didn't press the point. "She never fails in her job."
"I'm sorry, Enn," Harry mumbled, aghast and disgraced. "If I woke her ..."
"You didn't," said Enola. "I was just putting her down for the night. I was about to tell her a story, actually. She likes to be read to before bed."
Hermione looked over, that curious expression still dancing in her eyes. "Do you ... do you mind if we read to her? I'd quite like a bedtime story myself."
Enola flashed her eyes from Harry to Hermione and back again, smiling knowingly.
"That might be lovely," said Enola. "I've been reading to her about Zoric the Alien. The book is just on the nightstand there. It was one of my favourites as a girl. Just remember to leave the aerial light on for her when you're done."
Enola smiled again and slipped from the room. Harry sat in the large rocking chair near the baby's cot and Hermione passed him the book, before sitting cross-legged at Harry's feet. She folded her arms onto Harry's knees and rested her head on them, as he moved baby Alison into a more comfortable cuddling position for her to hear the story. Then Harry began to read.
Hermione tried to listen, to a light tale about giant birds and mice, and a lost alien who made a house from an old teapot with a space-saw that went buzz, but her mind was scrambled. She couldn't bring her raging thoughts under control. They were all at sea. She was intently focusing on the scene, at once a part of it, but watching from afar all at the same time. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine this was another place, another world ...
And another little girl she and Harry might have been cooing to sleep.
Her heart wouldn't stop thudding against her ribs. Harry's voice was soothing, soporific, and Hermione realised with a jolt that he was good at this. A natural, an expert without even trying. Harry had a knack for innate skills, but for some silly reason Hermione had never imagined this to be another one of them. But here it was, right in front of her eyes. She was glad she didn't have to speak, as all the words she knew were lodged in her throat and refusing to budge, lest she voice aloud the wild thoughts chasing each other through her mind just now.
Hermione decided she had to move soon, before her inert desires found life and escaped her chest. Luckily, baby Alison was as lazy as her father and Harry found she had fallen asleep on his thigh. He drew Hermione's frenzied attention silently, and together they moved the sleepy baby down into her crib. Harry tucked a small, stuffed hippogriff into her tiny hands and she clutched at it happily.
Harry looked over at Hermione. Both their hands were on the rim of the cot. Her eyes were aflame without fire. Harry was actually hypnotised by her look, such was its purity. He gulped hard, dearly longing to know what she was thinking, but at the same time he was sure the knowing might scare him silly ... or else kill with him unbridled joy.
"Isn't she gorgeous?" Hermione crooned quietly.
"Yeah ... she is," said Harry, who wasn't looking at the baby.
Hermione curled her head to look at him with a shy smile. "You'll make a great father, you know," she said confidently.
Harry swallowed again. "What makes you so sure?"
"I just am," Hermione swooned. "The way you are with this one would be enough. But then it's also how you protect everyone, how fiercely you love. What more could a child want in their dad?"
Harry huffed. "A normal face might be nice. I'll scare any kids I have out of their little minds."
"You don't scare Alison. You wont scare our kids," Hermione retorted on reflex.
She froze, her eyes shooting wide, the echo of her words hanging in the air between them. She looked back to the crib. Harry could see her chest rising and falling as her breathing hitched. Hermione seemed to lack the courage to look at him.
"Would ... I mean ... is that what you might want? I mean ... you know, someday?" Harry asked, cautiously.
Hermione turned to him slowly, as though suspicious her slip hadn't actually made Harry run a mile. She shrugged and smiled so timidly, so adoringly cutely, that Harry actually ached at the sight.
"I didn't, till I came here," Hermione eventually replied. "The world outside isn't fit for children. But, well ... would you?"
"With you I would," Harry replied without ceremony. Hermione gasped and fixed her eyes on him. "Sorry ... too much?"
Hermione moved and hugged him deeply. "No ... nor too soon. Harry ... we are so going to kill Tom Riddle. Do you think he knows how bad it's going to be for him?"
Harry chortled. "I hope not. I want it to be a surprise." They stayed hugging like that for a few minutes longer, neither finding a good enough reason to stop. Until one occurred to Harry. "Come on, it's time we put you to bed."
"Yes ... Dad," Hermione teased. Harry could only grin stupidly at her, before leading her from the room.
They made their way back downstairs, Harry leaning on Hermione in something of a role reversal. The old damage to her hips, that Harry had absorbed for a while, was a fucking nightmare, truth be told. He may only have had an echo of it left, as a memento from his Healing session with Enola. but he was pretty sure Hermione must have had bone rubbing on bone for the longest time. Harry now carried the residual soreness, and even this was enough to leave him in sever discomfort.
Luckily, the nursery was directly above Hermione's suite, so they only had to manage the two flights of stairs. Harry looked along the corridor once they'd reached the suite doors. He shifted awkwardly, as he noticed someone had fixed all the damage his temper had brought to the hallway. He would owe so many apologies tomorrow.
But for now, his only focus was on Hermione. Oddly, the very act of her holding open the door to her bedroom suite made Harry's insides do somersaults. Then there was the idea of her leading him to the bed. That was an entirely new sensation that he would have to properly deconstruct later. Tucking her in was just beyond his understanding of life or his vocabulary. It lodged his heart in his throat as he tried to be as delicate as he could with her. And the sweet look in her eyes ... he couldn't even hold her gaze with it. It muted the world for a moment.
Then he was back to task, trying to master his trembling fingers. He conjured a set of quartz crystals with his wand. Each one was pale pink and humming lowly with their own vibrational frequency. Hermione watched with immense curiosity as Harry took each one in turn, held it in the palm of his hand for several minutes and charged it with his intent. Soon they were all throbbing with it.
"What are you doing to them?" Hermione asked breathily. She was bright-eyed and flushed crimson. Harry shrunk back in guilty shame ... for he'd forgotten to subdue that bothersome arousal aspect of his magic again. Hermione was bound to think of him as some sort of pervert if he carried on in this fashion. He wondered if he should apologise.
"Just ... just powering them with a spell ... to pull any negative dreams from you," Harry explained in a small voice, angling his eye away from her
"What's wrong?" Hermione asked, sitting up on her elbows in her concern. "Why so timid all of a sudden?"
"Sorry, it's just that ... I know my magic can be ... um ... stimulating, sometimes," Harry muttered. "And in nothing like an appropriate way. I'm sorry, I didn't think to put a dampener on it before I started my casting."
Hermione smiled up at him playfully. "I hope you always forget to do that. If that's what you can do by accident, I cant wait to see what it's like when you actually mean it!"
Harry chanced a boyish grin. "You aren't mad at me?"
"Why would I be?" Hermione asked, genuinely surprised.
"Well, what I did was pretty intimate, you might even call it naughty," Harry reasoned fairly. "You'd have every right to be incensed by the violation."
Hermione laughed beautifully. "Oh, Harry, you and your inane chivalry again! Trust me, sweetheart, nothing you could do could ever violate me ... well, not in a bad way in any case!"
Harry shivered pleasantly under the scorching look Hermione was giving him just then. He swallowed hard under the weight of it.
"So, you were explaining about stealing more of my dreams?" Hermione grinned mischievously.
Harry was glad to be back on solid ground ... all this flirting was way out of his zone of familiarity. "Yeah, I'll pull them from you and they'll be trapped in the crystals. Quartz is good for that."
"How do you know?"
Harry stiffened. "These are mine."
Hermione looked up in wide-eyed shock. "You ... you use these? But why?"
Harry sighed ruefully. "If you'd knew the inside of my mind, you'd want to siphon off some bad imagery before bed, too."
"Oh, Harry ... but wont you need them to sleep?"
"I'll be alright. Your need is greater," said Harry. "Besides, I'm used to nightmares ... even my days are full of them. Well, except for today. I think those images might actually help me sleep tonight."
Hermione smiled, her eyes sparkling. "If that's all you need ... I'd better kiss you a lot more."
Harry grinned at her. "I'll hold you to that. Here, take this, too."
Harry reached into his robe and drew out a large golden coin on a chain. He gently hung it on the back of Hermione's headboard. She sucked in a breath as she saw it.
"Your DA coin?"
Harry nodded. "It's covered in a layer of citrine. Keeps your mind clear. It will help you drift off."
Hermione frowned at him. "You're giving me all these because you don't intend to sleep tonight, do you?"
Harry chuckled. "It's too soon for you to read me like one of your books. Speaking of which, I haven't shown you round the library yet, have I? I'm sure you'll approve. You inspired it ... and it's huge."
"Don't try and distract me," Hermione pouted, ridiculously distracted by the idea of having her own massive library. "Harry ..."
Harry sat on the edge of the bed and reached over to tuck a stray hair behind Hermione's ear. "Hermione ... I've waited for the longest time for what happened between us this evening. I honestly never thought I'd see this day ... and there's no way I will be able to sleep after getting here. I'm afraid if I sleep I might wake up and find it never happened at all."
Hermione looked so tenderly at him that Harry had to avert his eye. "Is that really the truth?"
"I know of no other way to speak to you," Harry told her earnestly. "Don't be cross. I came back from the afterlife for this night. I want to enjoy it."
"Can't I enjoy it with you?"
Harry smiled. "Next time. I have to be by myself tonight. Find a way to make myself believe this is real. That we are really happening. We are ... aren't we? Tell me I haven't got this wildly confused."
Harry looked suddenly petrified. Hermione couldn't help but laugh at his panicked expression. "Of course we are, silly. We can pick a name for whatever we are when we find one that fits."
Harry sighed and relaxed. "Okay. But for now, you need to sleep."
Harry pulled up a chair and drew his wand. Hermione's eyes flashed to it quickly and her whole body began to quiver as she focused on it. Harry saw the look before she could prevent in. A look of unparalled terror swept across the rest of her face ... Harry might as well have pulled a cat-o'nine-tails on her. His entire body shifted in anger at what that meant. He dropped his wand on impulse.
"Hermione ... I ... I'm so sorry ... I didn't think ..."
Hermione let out a strangled breath. "It's not your fault, Harry. I'm sorry ... it's just ..."
Her words tailed off. Harry cautiously moved close and hugged her, whispering soothingly into her hair. "I know exactly what it is. Sssh, it's alright. Everything's going to be alright now ..."
Hermione gasped. Harry knew why. It was the first hug he had initiated and the act had surprised her. Harry found her response a little startling, but exciting at the same time. She didn't resist. She liked Harry hugging her first ... he would have to do this more often.
"Nothing that happened to you was your fault," Harry breathed consolingly. Hermione's own breathing hitched sharply and she spluttered out a sob. Harry hugged her tighter still. "I'll look after you now. You're safe. Nothing will ever hurt you again."
"I know. I trust you, Harry."
"I don't need a wand for this magic," he said. "Just feel my energy. Take it in. It will protect you."
The air of the room was dense as Harry forced his magic to heave out of him. Wandless magic hurt so much. It was sheer agony. Like pushing out acid from every pore. But Hermione needed it, so Harry ground his teeth and bore his self-harm. For what was a bit of pain for Hermione's peace of mind, for her rest? Nothing at all. Harry willed his power out of himself, commanded it to help Hermione, to recognise her as friendly and do as she needed. He didn't know it had worked till he heard her snore into his shoulder some time later.
And as soon as he did, he slid limply from the bed, utterly exhausted.