Cages

Disclaimer: Harry Potter universe is property of JK Rowling. I, sadly, make no money from my fanfiction.

When he faced the Hungarian Horntail during the first task of the Triwizard Tournament during fouth year, Harry had thought he would become engulfed in the flames of the dragon’s breath. More than once he had narrowly missed the jet of fire streaming forth from the dragon’s nostrils and mouth. If Harry were to close his eyes tightly enough and think back on that day, he could almost feel the intensity of the heat all around him. It nearly made him shudder; he had been lucky that day—he knew that quite a number of people, wizarding and Muggle, had become victim to the fiery breath of a dragon. Once Harry had his feet firmly on the ground and Professor McGonagall was shaking his hand, he realised that, out of all the ways to die, being burnt to death would be the most excruciatingly painful way to go. The very notion of flames leaping up all around him, licking and lashing at his skin made him nauseous.

Now, though…he felt as though his body might burst into flames. Instead of the Hungarian Horntail’s blazing breath consuming him from the outside, he could feel a fire welling up from within himself. This sort of fire and flames did not bother him in the least.

He welcomed them.

She was the one who kindled it within him; she was the one who set his heart and passion ablaze.

The way she was writhing beneath him, her hair a wild mane matted to her forehead and cheeks as she tossed her head from side to side in ecstasy, was enough to make him urge the fire within him to build, to crescendo.

Her legs wrapped more firmly around his waist and she thrust up against him, a lusty sob muffled against his mouth. His hand roughly palmed a breast, fingers rolling and pinching a nipple while his other hand worked furiously at her clit, fingers applying pressure and moving in circles as he rocked his hips against hers. Slick skin against slick skin made him forget about the problems he had, about the problems they had. It always made him forget. Forget and burn.

Burning.

He could feel it—the heat, the tongues of flames lapping every last iota of his insides, of his soul. He could feel it and he wanted it to incinerate him.

Her lips were warm and wet on his earlobe and he growled, flipping them over in one smooth motion. Hands shifted to her hips and pulled her forcefully down on top of him, eliciting a strangled moan from them both. Gritting his teeth, his fingers dug into her soft skin and he thought he might die when she began to raise and lower herself on his length. She would pull herself upwards slowly in stops and starts, looking down at him with the wicked glint in her eye that only he was permitted to see before swiftly impaling herself on his cock once more. He would cry out and she would laugh; a bell-like noise that sounded so childish, it never failed to turn him on while they were making love. She did it again-- pushed herself down exigently on him, his cock completely sheathed in her—and laughed. His hands flew from their position on her hips to curl around the curve of her neck, yanking her down toward him to capture her lips in a kiss. The kiss was by no means chaste; his tongue probing her mouth until she opened to him and then sucked her tongue into his mouth, biting her lightly while his hips arched up against hers. She began to tremble around him and then he himself was crashing, crashing, crashing and oh-

“Harrrrrry,” she moaned, collapsing on him and pressing her cheek against his shoulder.

He grunted in response, falling back onto the mattress and waiting for the spasming to subside.

Inhaling and exhaling deeply, her chest rising and falling rapidly against his own, she gasped “I’m pregnant” before finding his hands and threading her fingers with his own.

It was as though someone had opened up his chest and allowed a waterfall to drain into him. In an instant, the fire within him had been doused and frantically he wondered if he would ever feel its heat again. Cold. He was so cold.

Frozen.

He couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t think. Dimly he was aware that her fingers and palms were gently pressing against his but he found that he had apparently lost all control over movements and thoughts. He did nothing, just stared blankly at the ceiling over them.

She wasn’t daft by any means. The cleverest witch in their year, she had been—possibly even the most clever to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts. Her body shifted on top of him and her hair fell around them like a curtain, wisps tickling his cheeks as she stared down at him.

He somehow forced himself to meet her eyes, green staring right back at brown.

“Say something,” she implored quietly, her voice trembling on the last syllable.

“S-something,” stammered Harry, wishing like hell that he had something to whet his dry throat. It was tightening, constricting horribly, much like the way his heart was flexing in his chest.

“Is that it?” she asked slowly, little by little untwining their fingers and releasing the hold she had on his hands.

No.

Bars.

Harry saw bars.

Thick ones, sort of like the kind that had held Sirius and Lucius Malfoy in the walls of Azkaban but more substantial somehow—these were the bars that Harry saw now.

He cleared his throat and she choked, fumbling to disentangle herself from him.

“Don’t you dare!” she cried, rolling off of him and casting aside some tendrils that were hanging in her eyes.

He said nothing, eyes rolling up to study the ceiling once more.

“Don’t. I love you; you know I love you--”

I—I’ve never said it but you know I do, Hermione; you know it—I just can’t. I—pregnant? No. Just no--

They had been together since the Spring Term of their seventh year at Hogwarts. Four years now. Four years in which Harry had still not come to master his fear of love and a greater commitment. After they had been a couple for nearly a year, she had taken to hinting about receiving a particular sort of ring but had essentially come to give up hope of Harry ever gifting her with one. He loved her—of that much she was certain even if he had never said the words—but, at the same time, he was afraid of his love for her.

Love.

Love was a huge part of Harry’s life and would be until the day he died.

The love of his mother had been what had saved him from falling victim to Voldemort’s Killing Curse.

He had been raised in a house with his mother’s sister who showed him nothing of love.

There had been no love in his life while growing up.

There had been no love in lifelife while growing up and it was his own fault. His mother should not have sacrificed herself for him.

Love.

What if he were to love, to be open about loving? Of allowing someone to love him madly? Voldemort would prey on this and he could not have that.

He could not risk Hermione.

Somehow they had managed to keep their relationship a secret from the wizarding world; only Ron knew that they were a couple. Hermione, he was aware, understood the reasoning behind this but at the same time longed for openness, to not have to hide her affections for him when they went out in public.

He had always thought that, as long as she had no ring on her fingerrmiormione would be safe. No one would know what she meant to Harry and she would not be in danger. She would never be put in the position to use her love to protect him like his mother had done.

Whenever he thought about rings and bells, the image of the bars were never far behind.

Caging him. Trapping him. There would be no escape. He feared this.

Whether fearing the no escape was out of concern for Hermione or himself, he didn’t know. All he did know was that it terrified him. It terrified him more than the vision of Sirius’ face as Bellatrix Lestrange’s Killing Curse hit him square in the chest.

He felt the mattress dip beneath him as her weight left it and he automatically rolled onto his side so he could watch her as she shuffled around the tiny room, snatching up her clothing and holding it tightly against her chest. Her jaw trembled and that alone nearly broke him. Swallowing hard, he reached a hand out towards her as if to—

To what? To placate her? To invite her to come back to his bed? To cast her aside?

“I’ll go,” she said hoarsely, tugging on her knickers and linen trousers.

Something about her tone struck a chord deep within him and he sat up, running a hand through his hair and staring at her midsection.

“I’m pregnant.”

Her words began to turn over and over in his mind.

Pregnant.

There was something inside her—something that was part of the both of them. A baby.

Her stomach still looked to be quite flat; she couldn’t be that far along. He wanted to ask her everything—when did she find out, how many weeks was she—everything.

“Don’t—don’t go,” he rasped finally, pushing himself off of the bed as she tugged his old Quidditch jumper over her bare chest.

“Don’t!” shrieked Hermione as he crossed to her. “Just--don’t, Harry! I knew it; I knew this would happen. I thought you’d—I thought you’d change, that it would be different somehow but I see now I was just foolish to think that--”

The flush her cheeks bore was certainly not of the same calibre they had been only moments ago. No longer were the throes of passion the reason for the colour in her cheeks; instead, anger, sorrow, and frustration were responsible for the pinkish tinge.

Her hands, so small and milky white, were quivering now. From the looks of it, she was just as shaken up about things as he.

“Hermi--”

“No!’ she bellowed, stumbling back a few steps, tears freely slipping down her cheeks now. “I—I can’t do this anymore, Harry! I—I’ve waited and waited for you to come around but I just can’t anymore. I’m pregnant now and I--we can’t sit about forever waiting for you to decide that you’re able to commit to me, to us!”

“Hermione,” he tried again, raising his voice in an attempt to be heard over her. A mad cacophony of voices warbled in his mind, causing his head to pound.

“No,” said Hermione in a low, firm voice.

His stomach flipped.

They had been through a number of rows throughout the course of their relationship but never before had it escalated to this. By the look in her eyes, he knew this was serious and likely The Row.

Harry was quickly finding that every single nerve was standing on edge in his body.

“No?” he questioned tentatively, making no move to edge closer to her. She was defensive now; he did not wish to crowd her space.

“I’m through, Harry. Through,” she spat through sobs. “I love you but I can’t do this. I can’t do it to our baby. We’re through.” With that, she crossed to his armoire and picked her wand off of the smooth mahogany, clutching it in her hand. “G-goodbye, Harry.”

“NO!” he yelled, crossing to her and grasping her free hand in both of his. “Hermione, I--”

I need you.

Narrowing her eyes into slits, she looked at him and Harry knew without a doubt that she was deadly serious; she was going to leave him. She was going to leave and she was pregnant and oh Merlin how did they let that happen and he needed her—

If I don’t do something, she’s gonna walk right out of here and that’ll be it and I can’t-- I can’t imagine a life without Hermione, not after what all we’ve been through—

How am I going to convince her to--

“Commit…love…baby….”

It was now or never. Either he did this or lost her forever.

The bars…the cage….NO!

Shoving aside both the fear and the mental image that was nearly crippling him, Harry dropped to one knee before her and looked up at her with round, terrified eyes.

“I--” he started, choking. “I—I—I haven’t got—I haven’t got a ring but I—Don’t. Just don’t. Please d do do this, Hermione. I—I need you. I—Willyoumarryme?”

“What?” Hermione breathed, so startled that her wand dropped to the floor.

Hands shaking, Harry dropped his other knee to the floor and shuffled awkwardly over to where she was, grabbing hold of her hands as best he could.

“Will--” he gasped, his voice breaking. “Will you marry me?”
Hermione blinked and in that moment of silence he thought he would very well die.

“Oh,” she said slowly, sinking down to her knees so that they were on the same level.

“Oh?” sputtered Harry, his eyes dropping to her stomach once more. Our baby’s in there. Baby. I’ve a baby. Merlin help me--

“No,” breathed Hermione, squeezing his fingers, “I won’t.”

All the colour drained from Harry’s face.

“You won’t?!” he cried, utterly confused.

She merely shook her head.

“But I—you’ve always wanted--baby!”

“Harry, I—you’re only asking me as a last resort and I—Merlin knowwantwant to more than anything but it—the proposal has to come from your heart, not out of desperation,” answered Hermione carefully, releasing one of his hands and wiping at her cheeks.

An odd sense of relief washed over him; Hermione must have picked up on this for she wrapped her arm around his waist and pulled him to her.

“Harry,” she whispered softly, speaking into his ear. “It means a lot to me that you would—that you would ask me even though I know’re ’re not ready for something like that.”

He nodded, wanting to tell her that he appreciated the fact that she knew him and he didn’t have to explain himself but couldn’t find the voice to do it.

After a long moment of silence, he finally regained the ability to speak.

“Next—the next time I ask—it’ll be for real; you won’t turn me down, will you?” He didn’t have to ask her if she was staying; she confirmed as much by the way her body was pressed against his and how her breath was tickling his ear.

“No,” she answered, moving their joined hands to rest over her stomach. “I won’t.”

“Okay,” Harry breathed, closing his eyes and moving his hand in light circles over the place where their baby rested. He had so many questions to ask her….

********************

A month had gone by and Hermione’s stomach was no longer quite-so-flat. She was in the beginning of her nineteenth week and her stomach was starting to protrude the slightest of degrees. Harry found that he didn’t mind this at all and was rather content to lay next to her in bed and settle his hand on her stomach, talking to their baby in hushed tones about Quidditch and broomsticks.

Truth be told, Harry had done an awful lot of soul-searching in the past month. He had nearly lost Hermione and their baby due to stupidity and fear, something that he wanted to prevent from happening ever again.

Commitment. Caged.

Harry had been thinking a lot about this and had managed to find peace within himself. Love wasn’t anything to be afraid of or to deny; it was not the evil here. The evil was the Death Eaters. Evil was not what love was. Love saved him. Love protected him. After a long talk with Mrs Weasley, Harry had realised that his mother had been incredibly brave to do what she did and that she would have wanted him to find a love of his own, a love like Lild shd shared with James.

He had that love with Hermione.

He had that love and it was time that he honoured it, honoured her.

One hand resting against the small of her back as he guided her through the busy street of Diagon Alley while his other fidgeted in the pocket of his robe. Fingers brushed against a small velvet box in his pocket and he shook his head as if it would dispel the nervousness welling up inside of him.

“Here,” Hermione said as they walked up to Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour.

“All right,” Harry said with a shaky grin, pulling out a chair for her. “The usual?”

“It’s been the same for ten years now,” she teased. “I expect you won’t forget the order?”

Laughing, his anxiety temporarily forgotten, he shook his head. “No, I won’t forget. Be right back.”

Within minutes Harry had emerged from inside of the establishment and set down a dish of ice cream in front of Hermione before sitting in the chair across from her, handing her a spoon and brandishing one of his own. He’d first bought her a strawberry-and-peanut-butter ice cream when they were just going into their second year; every time since then that they went to Diagon Alley, he treated her to the very same thing. It had become something of a ritual between them, sitting at one of those wrought-iron tables just outside the parlour watching the people walk by. Over the years they had converted from cones to dishes, preferring to share the dessert as Hermione could rarely finish it on her own.

His eyes never left her face as she took small bites, one hand back in his pocket tracing the outline of the box. If he didn’t get it over with soon, he might implode from the anticipation.

“Hermione?” he asked suddenly, propping his spoon on the side of the dish.

“Yes?” she asked, noting his expression and setting her utensil down as well.

“I--”

Just then Hermione’s face wrinkled up in surp and and in the next instant she gasped, a wide smile turning the corners of her mouth up.

“Are you--?” Harry asked, concerned.

“It’s Noel,” she said almost giddily. “He’s—he’s moving.”

Harry blinked and found himself mirroring her smile. “Brilliant,” he breathed, reaching across the table and taking her hand in his.

“Yes,” agreed Hermione with shining eyes.

“Hermione?” Harry tried again. “Will you—”

“Yes!” she blurted, cutting him off, pressing his palm tightly.

“Hermione,” chastised Harry, “if you don’t let me finish the question, it won’t be for real, you know?” His heart began to thud in his chest and he fought back that old urge to flee.

Biting her lower lip, Hermione nodded once.

Taking that as his cue to continue, Harry withdrew the small box from his pocket and opened it, displaying a simple band with a sapphire setting—her favourite stone.

“Hermione Jane Granger,” Harry said in a low voice breaking with emotion, “will you mar--”

He never got to finish the question.

A -Crack!- sounded, indicating that someone had Apparated into the vicinity. Before either of them realised what the sound meant, a loud cry of Avada Kedavra was heard and Harry saw a flood of green light.

Hermione’s face frozen bearing that wide smile, her body slumped lifelessly in her chair and Harry pushed his back swiftly, toppling it over as he leapt to his feet.

“No,” he gasped, somehow managing to find his wand and brandish it seemingly instantaneously.

“Yes,” squeaked a voice from behind a pillar just beyond Harry’s table.

“Show yourself!” he bellowed, rounding the table, concentrating very hard on not looking at Hermione’s chair.

“If you insist.”

Stepping out from behind the stone pillar was a paunchy, balding man with a rat-like face, a face nearly obscured by the hood he was wearing.

Harry’s face contorted with rage and he was faintly aware of the pandemonium happening around him; people were screaming and surging forward wildly in their haste to get away from the scene and find safety. After all, one woman had just fallen victim to the Killing Curse; there was no telling who could be next.

“Wormtail,” he said through gritted teeth, pointing his wand at the man, his blood boiling. “I shouldn’t have spared you; I should have killed you--”

The man shrank back, obviously uncomfortable since he no longer had the element of surprise. “You were kind,” he noted, wand hand shaking. “And I--”

Before he could finish his sentence, Wormtail found himself being bound from head to toe in magical restraints. Harry turned on his heel, spinning this way and that until he located just whom had cast the Charm on Wormtail.

“Got ‘im,” Tonks breathed, jogging up and pointing her wand directly in Wormtail’s face.

The vein in Harry’s forehead twitched. “Go away, Tonks. This is between me and him.”

“No, Harry,” said Remus Lupin, coming up on Tonks’ other side. “It’s not. We’ve been tracking his movement for the last few days, hoping to find Voldemort but--” His eyes drifted over to where Hermione’s prone form remained. “We didn’t think we would come upon this.”

“Let me AT him,” Harry bellowed, attempting to push Tonks out of the way.

Wormtail squeaked and had it not been for Tonks’ wand trained on him keeping him upright, he would have toppled over.

“No!” Remus shouted back. “You can’t kill him; the information he knows is too valuable--”

Thrashing all the while Remus shoved him back to the table, Harry cursed. “He—you SEE her, Remus. You SEE her! She’s—they’re—YOU SEE HER!”

Bowing his head briefly, Remus nodded. “I do. I do and I’m sorry, Harry. Stay here; Kingsley will be along shortly; he and Hestia are scanning the area for signs of anyone else.\" Having said that, he and Tonks simultaneously wrapped their arms around Wormtail and Disapparated with a pop.

Numbly, nearly blinded by tears of the rage and devastation that was now coursing through his veins, Harry stumbled back to the small wrought-iron table. The ice cream was all melted in the dish now, a milky mixture of beige cream with pink swirls pooling around Hermione’s and his spoons. Dropping to his knees, he choked on a sob and pushed her chair back slightly, noting that she had nearly slid out of her chair.

Wrapping his arms around her limp legs, he pressed his face against her midsection and began to tremble.

Rocking against her slightly, he mumbled over and o “Wi “Will you marry me?”

Marry me.

Marry me.

Marry--

She never replied.