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Dataset card Data Studio Files
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"If I do, will you sleep in my bed tonight?" she suggests.
"I don't think that's a very good idea," he says.
"True," she agrees.
They do it anyway. He wraps himself around her and she knows he's a little hard but she doesn't want to have sex again, she just wants to be held. He seems to understand this.
"Is she pretty?" Hermione whispers. "The girl you're seeing."
"Yes," he says.
"Prettier than me?"
"No." He buries his face in her shoulder.
"Are you just saying that? Because I'm not fishing, you know. I want you to be with someone pretty."
"Does it matter?"
Yes, kind of, because it's the one thing she isn't. She'd hate it if he were with another socially inept bookworm; someone clever and bossy and thoughtful like she is. She wants him to be with someone vapid and gorgeous and vain.
"Is she good in bed?" Hermione asks.
He pauses for a second before answering.
"I enjoy it," he says, "but it feels different."
She knows exactly what he means.
"Okay," she says.
He turns her face until he can reach her lips and he kisses her the way they never kiss each other during sex, and then they both go to sleep. As usual, they act like nothing happened in the morning.
He never realized before how much he dislikes being alone, which probably accounts for the string of relationships that come after. She stays with the older guy, the professor, for another six months or so before she invites Harry out one night to where she's with some friends at a bar. It's late but he accepts because...
"It's a hen do," she tells him breathlessly.
"I see that," he agrees, amused. He hasn't seen her get pissed very many times over the course of their lives, but it's always amusing. She becomes a fairy princess version of herself, all optimism and wonder. She hands him the balloon.
"Hold my penis," she says.
"With pleasure," he tells her.
She digs through her purse for something, setting aside what appears to be a pocket-sized vibrator as she hunts around.
"What's this?" he asks, plucking it out and laughing.
"Oh, that's—" She reddens. "A party favor."
"It certainly is," he agrees, and she smacks his shoulder before discovering her wallet.
"What are you drinking?" she asks him.
"You're not paying for me, are you?"
"Not by the hour," she jokes.
Somewhere beside them, one of her friends overhears and laughs.
"You two are cute together," the friend says.
"We're not together," they say in unison, Hermione fishing out some currency and calling unwisely for shots, which Harry knows he's going to accept. He's never been very good at saying no to her, and he assumes she's called him here for something. She, unlike him, prefers being alone most often, so if she doesn't want ...
He takes a shot and she pulls him to the dance floor before he's even swallowed it, his lips still slick with whisky. Her eyes drop to his mouth and she gives him a look that awakens his cock with primal urgency.
"What's wrong?" he asks her.
She rolls her eyes. "Must something be wrong?"
"Dance with me," she says.
She tugs at his hips and grinds on him, a bit wobbly in her heels. He is delighted, even though some distant, soberer part of him knows they're not exactly being subtle with their behavior. Anyone watching them now would know their secret, that they touch each other from time to time, and he wants to care but he doesn'...
They dance and then he orders a beer, drinks it while they dance some more, and then she talks him into another shot. He yells to her about how he can tell something is wrong and she yells back how he doesn't know anything. Someone tells them again how cute they are and they say it again, how they're not together, even...
Later they go out in search of food and her friends are still here, dwindling but still here, and he wishes he could flick them away like mosquitos. He says be right back and heads to the bathroom and she follows after a few minutes. He grabs her hand and pulls her into the alley, says give me your purse.
"Is this a mugging?" she whispers loudly.
He drops his mouth to hers and her breath is hot, her chest sticky with sweat where she presses against him. His hand closes around the little pocket vibrator in her purse and he shushes her when she giggles loudly, though he's laughing himself.
"Turn around," he says, and she does, bracing with her hands on the brick wall while he slides her dress up her thighs and holds the vibrator against her, running it slowly between the lips of her cunt. Her legs tremble and he holds her up, one arm secure around her ribs.
"Aren't you going to fuck me?" she says raggedly over her shoulder.
"Tell me what's wrong first," he says.
She moans over the muffled sound of whirring vibration.
"I'm going to end up alone," she grits through her teeth.
"Not true," he mutters in her ear. "You'll always have me."
"Not really," she gasps. "We'd never make it, we'd never last—"
"Maybe not as a couple," he agrees. "But we've got something, don't we?"
She reaches for his other hand and bites down on his palm when she comes.
"What about you?" she says eventually, gaze drifting to his trousers.
"I'll take care of myself later."
"But that's not fair," she protests.
"I just got you off in an alley," he reminds her. "Believe me, you've given me plenty to work with on my own time."
She turns to lean against the wall and lets her head loll back, lazy while she looks at him.
"Could you love me?" she asks, a bit slurred.
"I do love you," he says, and he means it. She's the one whose calls he answers.
Most days, she is the only one whose calls he answers.
"Could you love me?" he counters.
"I do love you," she says.
They stare at each other for a few seconds and he thinks about the way he feels when he looks at her. She fills him with something... not happiness, exactly, because he's usually a little filled with shame after they've just fucked, but it's definitely something in that realm. It's not joy, it's too complicated for tha...
"I heard you're back with Ginny," she says.
"No," he says. "We broke up again."
"Yeah. Apparently I don't let people in."
"Meaning what?"
"I don't know."
"I do," she says, which is funny. Not only because she's the one who asked, but also because she's the genius in their friendship. If anybody's going to know, it's her. "It's too hard for you," she says. "You think if you're not the golden boy, if you're not shining for everyone, if you're not their beacon of light, th...
He reels back like she's punched him in the gut.
"Jesus," he says.
"Yeah," she says.
"But I let you in."
"Yeah," she agrees, "and I do you the very kind favor of being so fucked up you can never actually be with me."
"You're not fucked up."
"Of course I am. And so are you."
"I didn't realize you thought that."
"What did you think we were doing here?" she says bitterly.
He lets out a thin stream of something. Pain, maybe.
"You realize that nobody else's love will ever be enough for us now," she continues. "And we can't love each other, either, so we're just eternally fucked."
"You're drunk," he says, numbness dripping from his shoulders.
"Yeah, but I'm right."
"Oh yeah?" She laughs hollowly. "Are you seeing someone else right now?"
He doesn't answer.
"Told you," she mutters.
He hopes he'll feel okay again just by looking at her like he usually does, but the longer he stares, the more pointedly she turns away.
"I thought you loved me," he says, uncertain.
"I do," she says. "I love you more than you love you. I love you enough to want you to have whatever I can't give you. That's a lot of loving you."
"Well, I hate it," he says. "I hate that you're saying any of this."
She shrugs. "Think of this as me doing your homework for you again," she says.
Then she wraps her arms around herself and walks away.
As a gift to him, she doesn't go to his engagement party. As a gift to herself, she takes a trip. She doesn't book a return ticket because she can do her job from anywhere, and also she doesn't think of London as home anymore. There is nothing to return to now.
The last year has been good. Fruitful, productive. She had a very nice eight-month relationship with a kind and stable man that ended respectfully, without any wrongdoing on either side. I've done it, I'm healed, she thinks, because she doesn't feel bored or anything, and she doesn't feel any wild impulses to call Harr...
She still has fantasies, of course. Obviously. She imagines him chasing her down, saying he can't do it, telling her that happiness is dull and that the woman he thought could fill his life is in love with something he isn't. She's in love with the person he never actually wanted to be. "You're the only one who really ...
She honestly felt sad that he didn't have a great love story. Instead he had her, the woman in his life, who could never bring herself to be more than halfway there.
"I knew, you know," Ron had told her before she left. "I've always known about the two of you. What I don't understand is why you didn't just tell me."
She laughed it off but inside she was thinking: You don't know. You have no idea. She was furious with him for saying anything. You know why we didn't tell you? Because you don't deserve to know! Because you're too conventional, too judgmental, too simple, you wouldn't understand. You don't understand what it is to be ...
She falls asleep and dreams about Harry, about sex, about the men who were probably even better at it than he was but who didn't know how to give her the right kind of silence or the right kind of safety so she could come like she wasn't in danger anymore, like she was protected, like someone else was actually there. S...
She wakes up to her phone buzzing beside her face. Unpleasantly, she remembers: three in the afternoon, a garden wedding, répondez s'il vous plaît, until she sees his name.
Come back to me, he says, and she wonders if he's called the wedding off in advance or if he's saying this to her while preparing to walk down the aisle. She wonders what made him wait so long or if he even means it, but then she remembers she really, really doesn't care.
I'm coming, she tells him. I'm almost there.
Harry Potter was six years old when he came up with his first rule.