Originally posted: March 09, 2006

Title: The Second Tuesday of Every Month
Author: sdk
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Harry/Hermione, implied Ron/Hermione and Harry/Ginny
Rating: R
Genre: Romance, Angst
Length/Word Count: One-shot, 800 words or so
Notes: Thanks to my lovely beta, quite_grey! With her help, this fic has become 100 times better. However, any remaining mistakes are mine, and mine alone. Concrit and feedback welcome. I'd love to know what you think!
Disclaimer: I own nothing of this, yadda yadda yadda, no profit's being made, don't sue!
Summary: Harry and Hermione meet on the second Tuesday of every month.


The Second Tuesday of Every Month


They use the Leaky Cauldron because Tom is discreet. A few mumblings about important Ministry business as he is an Auror now, she an Unspeakable, and he has his excuse for requesting a private room. Tom never questions him. He can’t decide if Tom is simply that gullible, or too happy for the steady business to care much about their reasons.

They’ve been meeting here for five years now, on the second Tuesday of every month. He laughed when she first proposed a schedule, then questioned the wisdom of her plan. She replied that Ron was too naïve to notice their arrangement; Harry was not unkind enough to agree with her aloud.

She walks in the room, unpinning her hair as she moves, because she knows Harry likes it best when it’s free and down around her shoulders.

“Hurry, we haven’t much time,” she whispers, shedding her black standard issue Ministry robes as she takes off his glasses, carefully setting them on the end table. He thinks it’s funny that she just drops her robes on the floor, when she’s always so careful with his glasses. Some days he hopes she’ll rip them off his face and throw the delicate frames against the wall before she kisses him, but he knows this will never happen unless he asks. He won’t ask.

They kiss then. His fingers immediately twist in her hair as her hands wander around to his arse. Her tongue is wet, heavy, and alive in his mouth; he can’t breathe. He doesn’t like to breathe.

They used to take their time getting undressed, blushing with each touch, exploring each patch of skin as it was bared with lips and light fingertips. Now their clothes are off in seconds, ripped away so their skin can slide together, teeth mashing, fingers probing. Harry thinks this is a natural progression. He knows her body now, almost as well as his own, knows he can get her off in seconds if he wishes, but he never does. He wants to make it last.

Their legs tangle and they fall onto the bed, rolling until he ends up on top of her, bushy locks fanned out around her face and he gently caresses her cheek; their eyes lock. She nods and bites her lip; he always kisses it better. Then his world turns black because he’s inside her, hot and wet and tight and safe and his. She trembles and he gasps, overwhelmed, panting into her neck and he hears his name, falling from her lips in short breaths.

“Harry – Harry – Harry,” she chants to the rhythm of his thrusting. He never says anything, just licks the bead of sweat that rolls down her temple, sucks on the corner of her jaw and finally, when he can’t last any longer, sinks his teeth into her neck and comes as she screams.

He rolls off and she curls up to his side, running a finger through the sparse hair on his chest as they both catch their breath.

“I can’t stay long,” she says and Harry merely nods, squeezing her shoulder. They used to spend the night and sometimes he would convince her to take breakfast in bed, but their visits have steadily become shorter as each month passes. They’re busier now, Harry thinks. His caseload has increased and he can only imagine her work has too; she was always ambitious in school.

“Ron’s going to ask me to marry him tomorrow.” Harry nods again; he helped Ron pick out the ring that morning and even booked the reservation for him at a fancy Muggle restaurant in London, never once thinking of the time he spends with her in this room. His role as best man is separate from this; everything is separate from this. “I do hope you’ve managed to convince him not to buy me something too gaudy.”

Harry smiles and whispers a quiet yes, but says nothing more. She’s oddly talkative and he’s oddly silent; it’s usually the other way around, but Harry doesn’t give it much thought.

“Ginny’s getting anxious too, you know.” Harry looks up at the ceiling and she frowns at him, propping up on an elbow. “This doesn’t have to change anything.” He turns to meet her gaze, but doesn’t say a word; he doesn't say that he ended things with Ginny just before arriving here. He thinks she looks upset as it is, and knows she’ll ask him why. He doesn’t know why.

He pulls her down to his chest and she lets him, giving in; uncharacteristic of her, but maybe she’s tired. They lay there in silence, his arms wrapped around her, her breath tickling his chest and he begins to drift off into a light doze.

“Harry?” she whispers. He hears but doesn’t answer. She slips out of bed and kisses his forehead before silently getting dressed. He hears the soft scratching of quill on parchment and he knows what her note will say.


Had to leave, didn’t want to wake you.
See you soon.

Love from,
Hermione



--Fin--








I'd love to hear what you think! And if you're interested, there is a prequel for this fic here! (Safe)

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