Guinevere

Guinevere

Her consciousness rose to the surface languorously, feeling no particular hurry to face the morning. The senses supplied it with information about the surroundings: the luxurious warmth of the smooth covers, the cinnamon scent of the even warmer body against her own, and the weight of the arm thrown casually across her waist, holding her close.

Opening her eyes, she sighed and stretched luxuriously, delighting in the stretching of muscle and bone that sent the sluggish blood running through the body at a moderate, respectable pace. Certainly at a much more decent rate than the lousy hours and hectic days she'd been keeping recently.

After all, it was the long-awaited, well-deserved break from the cares and the worries of the world, and she was determined to spend it perfectly.

Turning over, she spied him buried deep inside the covers.

"Ickle Ronnie still sleepy?" she teased, pinching and pulling at his freckled cheek.

"Mmm...more sleep...." he mumbled, turning over and burying his head in the pillow. She stifled a laugh, holding her fingers away from the delicious curls they ached to pull and decided to let him sleep in a little longer. They had no plans, no engagements - it was all gloriously free. And yesterday - or last night, to be accurate - had been a study in passionate lovemaking spiced with the slow intimate silences that spoke louder than words.

Indeed, last night had felt like their wedding night, instead of being their wedding anniversary. The very first, Mrs. Weasley, she told herself, and smiled.

Slipping out of bed, she tied a robe around herself with vigor, going through her head on what she should prepare for breakfast. Something truly delicious that he liked. Perhaps she could make toast and scrambled eggs that Ron loved so much. Or she could try the new package of fabulous sausages that her mother had sent during her visit to Germany, and the Dutch cheese from....

Idly running down the alphabetic list of all the ingredients stored in her small but comfy kitchen, she stepped through the open kitchen doors, slippers making the smallest of scuffling sounds on the tiled floor, and stopped still.

For some obscure reason, she wasn't surprised at all to see the figure leaning against the kitchen sink, lifting a mug to his lips. He looked a little thinner than when she'd last seen him, his 'three-day stubble' spread evenly across his face, though otherwise clean and fit. He wore his old jeans and the threadbare jacket that she'd always wanted him to get rid of, though also she noticed the gleam of black boots on his feet, along with the immaculate way he'd set up the coffeepot. Treated black dragonhide, and hand-ground, home-roasted Ethiopian coffee beans? Strange, how the mind notices such things.

Her first impulse was to dash forward and lock her arms around him and never let go.

Her second impulse was to pummel and scratch and hurt every bit of him she could get her hands on, and give him a matching scar to always remember her by.

So she did neither.

"Good morning."

"Good morning."

She brushed passed him, glad that the coffeepot was running. It gave her the excuse to keep herself busy, hands and eyes away from him, as she rummaged in the cupboards for a clean mug. Then, it was the bread and jam for the toast, then the knife and fork to set the table, then....

"Have you missed me?"

His hand was searing hot on her wrist, and she froze. Damning herself for a fool, she bit her lips and forced herself to stand up and look at him, trying to get as close as possible to the calm and impassiveness that she wasn't feeling. He didn't take his hand away, but instead used it to pull her gently closer. She resisted him, holding her head high and away from the mesmerizing eyes and lips.

"When did you arrive?"

"In England? Two days past."

And he hadn't gone home yet, she knew, because she'd met Ginny just yesterday. All thin and lost with him gone, eyes open but not seeing. A part of her that nestled in a niche in her chest burned knowing that he'd gone to her before coming here. But what another part felt was relief, along with shock that it felt relief.

"I stayed with Charlie for a week or two in Romania."

And that was all the explanation she'd get for her questioning look about his entire length of disappearance. Smiling, he tried to pull her closer, and she could smell his scent - that mixture of sweat and leather and cologne that was just him.

"You've been gone for a bit longer this time," she stalled, fighting his pull. "Half a year, was it?"

The smile changed to a smirk, though neither reached his eyes. Instead, they gazed at her, reflective circles of deep green on white, unblinking and harsh.

"I know you better than that."

"Fine then," she retorted, the hot coils of tension taut in her belly, threatening to climb through her chest and out of her throat. "It is, as of today, exactly one hundred and ninety seven days since you decided to disappear off the face of Earth. Again, if I might add, without telling anyone anything. Ron worried himself sick about you, and Ginny was heartbroken, and I...I...-"

Then she was in his arms, feeling the hot searing touch on her lips, engulfing her soul and setting it on fire. His tongue, probed against her teeth, and she responded with desire, running her hands over his face and shoulders and hair, desperate to reassure herself that he was truly back, here, where he belonged: in her arms.

Then giving into the second impulse, she pulled away from his arms and swung her hand in a satisfying meeting of hand on cheek.

His expression didn't change at all. He simply continued to look at her with those unblinking eyes. A trickle of blood seeped out of the corner of his lips, the blow cutting his lips open...or was that where she had bitten him, just now?

She wrapped her trembling arms around herself, weak bonds against the forces that threatened to escape from her heart. "I was happy without you," she whispered. It was almost a lie, but neither was it the truth.

How much belief did one need to cross the line between lies and truths?

He made a move as if to take her in his arms again, and she stepped back, arms tightening around herself. "Ron's asleep in the master bedroom," she said. To him or to herself, she didn't know.

But he simply nodded, and reaching back for his mug he brushed past her with a murmured, "Thanks for the coffee."

The kitchen was desolate with him gone, and she stood still in the middle of the newly tiled floor, arms in a deathgrip around herself. She could hear him settling into the living room couch, then the low buzz of the telly that she had insisted Ron install in the house.

Soon, or perhaps late, she could hear the delighted cry of her husband as he discovered his best friend in the living room couch, and the sounds of backslapping and the noise of re-acquaintance floated into the cold kitchen.

"Dear! Harry's back!"

Ron's shout into the kitchen echoed hollowly, followed by the sounds of more words being exchanged between the two. Dragging her feet, she slowly made her way to the door and leaned against the doorjamb for support.

Ron was perched on the arm of the couch, still dressed in his gown as he gestured wildly, trying to fill his friend in on the happenings of their little corner of the world. Harry was settled deep in the couch, smiling and nodding and grinning at the appropriate places. Then his eyes flickered over, and met hers for the fleetest of moments, before turning the gaze back to Ron.

And in her heart of hearts, Hermione Granger-Weasley burned with question.

"Will you be the Lancelot, that cracks Arthur's Camelot?"

To Be Continued