Eight Years, Three Months, One Week, and Two Days

Hermione rolled over on her side, squinting at the ray of very weak sunshine that crept through the window-blinds and into her eyes.

What time is it? Oh, never mind…it’s Sunday…

Harry’s side of the bed was empty. Then she heard the hiss of the shower and knew where he was.

This wasn’t a good sign.

Harry normally liked to sleep late on the weekends – he’d probably sleep late every day of the week if he thought he could get away with it – but if he didn’t sleep well one night, he’d be up early the next day. And most often, the reason for his interrupted sleep would be a nightmare, which meant he’d be in the shower for a ridiculously long time the next morning.

Harry was apparently under the impression that Hermione couldn’t hear him crying in the shower.

But he was mistaken.

She flopped onto her back, staring at the vaulted ceiling, doing a bit of mental math.

Eight years, three months, one week, and two days of marriage. That’s 3,019 mornings we’ve woken up together. And I’m willing to bet at least a quarter of them have gone like this.

Hermione knew the script by now.

Harry was good enough at hiding his nightmares now that he didn’t wake her up in the night anymore. He would just get up early and hit the shower, and after he’d cried himself out he’d come back to bed. Sometimes to sleep, sometimes to talk, sometimes to make love, and sometimes all of the above. She never knew which it would be, but whatever Harry needed, she would give.

It was times like these that she mentally cursed Vernon and Petunia Dursley for turning their nephew into the emotionally constipated man who was currently half-drowning himself in the shower.

Hermione heard the familiar metallic squeak of the water being cut off and the shower door sliding open, and a soft whoosh as Harry pulled a towel off the rack by the shower. A minute later he stood in the bathroom doorway with a crisp white towel wrapped around his hips, using another towel to dry his hair. The sight of Harry wearing nothing but a towel still made her heart skip a beat even after so many years. He was still a bit on the thin side, as he’d always been, but it was more of a lean thinness rather than the slightly scrawny awkwardness he’d had in school.

It was as if Harry had been tempered to a hard, brittle finish in the oven of his life; the boyishness and wonder were gone from his face and eyes and replaced with determination and a touch of bitterness.

A few drops of water sparkled on his chest as he stepped into the bedroom, and for once Hermione didn’t think about telling him not to drip on the rug.

"Hey," he said quietly, rubbing his hair with the towel. "Did I wake you?"

"No," she said, turning back the covers. "Come here."

He hesitated only a second before dropping both of the towels and sliding in beside her. She wrapped her arms around him, moulding her body to his in the way she knew he liked. He was warm, and his skin still slightly damp and soapy smelling from the shower.

"You okay?" she asked, stroking his hair.

"Mmm," he answered non-committally. He was very tense at first, but gradually relaxed under her touch, eyes half closed. One hand rested lightly on her hip, and she could feel how warm he was through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

If he wanted to talk, he wouldn’t do it right away. She’d learned that a long time ago.

A bit of pressure on her hip told her he wanted her to lie back, and when she did, he rested his head on her stomach.

So that’s what it’s about, this time, then, she thought, rubbing his shoulders lightly.

"It’s not your fault, Harry."

"Mmm," he said again, but this time in a doubtful tone, tracing the curve of her hip with the flat of his hand.

She didn’t push the matter further, not wanting to talk about it any more than he did. Oddly enough, while she could listen to Harry’s worst nightmares of Voldemort and torture and death, she could not discuss this one subject – something that a husband and wife ought to be able to discuss – with him without breaking down herself.

They didn’t know what the problem was; they’d seen countless doctors, magical and Muggle, had every possible test, tried every possible procedure, no matter how painful or embarrassing.

There was no reason, they said. Absolutely nothing wrong with either of them.

It just wasn’t happening.

As usual, Harry felt the need to blame himself despite all evidence to the contrary.

He lay there with his head pillowed on her stomach for quite a while, and she thought he’d fallen asleep until she felt his fingers slide up her thigh.

"Harry," she whispered. Not as a protest, but as a reassurance that this was what he needed.

"Please, Hermione," he said in a half-choked voice. "Let me do this." He slipped her underwear off and pushed her nightgown up, brushing his fingers over her skin with exquisite gentleness, as though she was as fragile as a Remembrall and he was afraid she would shatter. Lips followed fingers, tracing a path up her stomach, her chest, her throat, and finally her mouth, kissing her as if his life depended on it.

She reached for him, hoping to do something for him that would drive away the miserable look on his face, but he caught her wrists and held them, pinning them just over her head as he kissed the hollow of her throat.

That was when she understood that this wasn’t just about Harry needing release; he needed to prove to himself that he could do something. He hadn’t yet been able to defeat Voldemort, he hadn’t been able to save Ron or Sirius, and he hadn’t been able to give her a child; failures that weighed on him every day and threatened to break him, and he had to prove to himself that he wasn’t totally incompetent.

Hermione could have told him that, of course, but he wouldn’t have listened.

Harry put as much determination and resourcefulness into his lovemaking as he did into his evil-fighting, and any other time what he was doing would have driven her wild, but today it only left her feeling hollow. She desperately wanted to reassure him that he wasn’t the failure he thought he was, but the fact he was doing this just to prove he could was rapidly proving self-defeating.

"Harry…."

He froze, then rolled off of her and sat up, pulling the quilt over his lap.

Hermione sat up as well and hesitantly laid her head on his shoulder. "I’m sorry," she said quietly. "It’s just…."

"Yeah."

"You don’t have anything to prove to me."

He didn’t say anything, but picked at a loose thread on the quilt-top.

"I hate it when you get like this," she said, stroking his arm.

"I know. I just thought…." His shoulders sagged and he shook his head.

There really wasn’t anything else to say on the subject. Anything they could have said had already been said a hundred times before.

"It’s okay, Harry, really," she said, sitting up.

Then she noticed something she hadn’t seen before – a thin streak of silver just above his right ear, standing out in sharp contrast to the jet-black hair around it. How long had it been there without her noticing it?

He shrugged as she traced the streak with her fingertips. "Just saw it this morning," he said, in answer to her unspoken question. "Now I look as old as I feel."

She poked him in the ribs with a finger, thinking a bit of humour might be in order. "Yes, you’re positively decrepit."

"Hmph," he snorted, but Hermione could see the corner of his mouth turn up ever so slightly.

"Thirty-six is absolutely ancient, after all," she added.

Harry looked up at the ceiling.

"Maybe we should keep a Healer on call, in case you have a heart attack or something."

He shot her a dirty look.

"I should probably see if St. Mungo’s has a bed in their nursing home wing," she said, sticking a leg out from under the quilt as if she were getting out of bed. "Let me find Hedwig –"

Harry grabbed her by the waist and fell back on the bed, pulling her down on top of him, and a stray piece of her hair caught in his face. He tucked it behind her ear, out of the way.

That simple gesture sent a delicious tingle down her spine, and she shifted a bit, suddenly very conscious of the fact that the only thing between them was her nightgown. Harry’s hands pressed into the small of her back, urging her even closer.

Strange, how quickly a mood can change, she thought, as their lips met. It wasn’t the desperate, drowning type of kiss they’d shared earlier; it was an apology and a promise all rolled into one, with far better effect than before. It was a kiss she didn’t think she could ever get enough of, the kind of kiss that made her think that breathing was highly overrated; and she wouldn’t have even stopped to let Harry pull her nightgown off over her head if it were not for the fact that she suddenly wanted to feel as much of his skin next to hers as possible.

"Hermione...." Harry whispered, the fingers of one hand twined in her hair, the fingers of his other hand running lightly over her lower back.

"Shhh." She slowly ran her thumb over his bottom lip. "I know." She shifted her hips just enough to take him in, feeling as if she could wrap herself around every part of him and not be nearly close enough. Even after eight years, three months, one week, and two days of marriage she didn't think she would ever get used to the feeling of him, the feeling of being connected in the most personal of ways sending a shudder throughout her body that only grew with the passing years.

Harry's fingers danced along her spine; he always knew just how to touch her to make her break out in goosebumps and gasp for breath. She responded by kissing deeply, matching each thrust of his hips with her own. And it was at that moment she realised that they both needed this. It was about more than sex and release, it was about how the two of them needed each other. How they needed to depend on each other in the good times and the bad times – especially the bad.

Especially now.

Hermione wanted to make this last as long as possible – to relish the feeling of him, to memorise the taste of his lips and the sight of his dark eyelashes against his skin as he closed his eyes and lost himself to her – but she couldn't help but give in to the overwhelming feelings that were washing over her.

Harry held her tightly, his breath tickling the side of her neck, and she could feel him shaking just a bit. "Harry?" she whispered into his shoulder.

"I'm just glad I have you," he said against her skin. "That we have each other."

She took his hand and laced her fingers with his. "We do, Harry, for always. No matter what."