Bittersweet

Bittersweet

“When love is not madness, it is not love.” ~Pedro Calderon de la Barca

He watched her from the corner, sipping his whiskey and getting progressively closer to being completely drunk.

Each time she tossed her brown curls, he took a shot. Each time she laughed in that beautiful, throaty way she had, he took another. When she rested her hand on the sleeve of her companion, leaning in as if sharing some important secret—with a look for him like he was the only one in the world—Charlie finished the rest of the drink and ordered another.

It wasn’t so much that she was flirting that bothered him, not really. After all, she was perfectly free to talk to whomever she wanted, wasn’t she? Isn’t that what he’d wanted?

They’d started a fling after a party at the Burrow, for Luna and Ron’s engagement. She’d been happy but he’d seen the flare of disappointment in her eyes. All of her friends married, or engaged; Harry and Pansy, the surprise of the century. Ron and Luna. Ginny and Blaise Zabini. House lines blurred, new loyalties forged in the aftermath of war and death.

She’d been alone, unable to put the horrors of the past behind her as easily as her friends. Her life’s work had been to defeat Voldemort; for her, there was no Quidditch to fall back on, no career left on which to expend her considerable talents. Mind and body exhausted, she existed but did not truly live.

She’d suffered in the War, like they all had. The missing seat at the table where Bill Weasley should have sat reminded them all of the price of War. Ginny, who still woke from terrible nightmares of crimson eyes and Riddle’s cold, slick smile. Blaise, disowned for his choice of bride, watching his back in case an assassin should end his life for the choices he made.

Hermione had been outside, sipping wine and staring at the scattered stars. He’d filled her glass and they’d talked of nothing and everything. When the party ended they were still outside, and he fucked her in the garden under the stars of summer.

She was dressed in some combination of silk and satin, clinging yet falling around her curves gracefully, that made him burn in ways that had nothing to do with the whiskey he kept drinking. Her skin was smooth and soft, shimmering in the lights of the club. Her spiky, impractical heels looked like weapons—and they were, designed for seduction.

The man she was speaking to was nodding his head, but he was staring at her breasts, at the nipples that were peeking through the clinging material. It was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath.

Charlie couldn’t blame him for staring, but he hated the nameless man all the same.

A few months of shagging, secret and furious, whenever they could. Things were tense, with the Death Eater trials and the public’s outrage over Lucius Malfoy’s pardon. For a few moments they found happiness in a tangled, sweaty embrace and were content. Moments of sweetness and light in a world slowly emerging from the dark days of War were all they had. She testified at Draco Malfoy’s trial, who watched her with a sneer and blew her a kiss when he was set free. For a week she had been afraid to leave her house, afraid a flash of green from some paid thug would accomplish what Voldemort and his army could not.

She was laughing at whatever the bloke was saying—what was he doing, leaning down like that? The music wasn’t that loud, surely he didn’t need to get quite so close to her ear?

“Another,” Charlie snarled at the man behind the bar.

Without a word, he grabbed the glass the moment the bartender pushed it towards him; he drowned half in one gulp. She was nodding at whatever he was saying, his blood boiled. Was he asking her to go home with him? Was she agreeing?

He’d put a stop to it, finally, watching her brown eyes fill with tears as she clutched the sheet to her chin. He’d started to feel things, dangerous things, when she was around. He never wanted to feel anything again, not after the War, not after the pain of losing his brother.

She made him feel, and he was afraid what would happen, what that would mean.

Instead of telling her this, though, he told her lies. That he was too independent for relationships, that she was better off without him, that he didn’t fancy her anymore. Whatever he could to make her leave, he threw words into her face that bit, words that cut. She’d left, alright, but she’d taken a piece of him with her.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, mate, you’ll do better talking to the lass instead of getting drunk and glowering like you are.”

Charlie swung his gaze to the bartender. “I don’t want advice,” he snarled, “I want more whiskey.”

The bartender nodded wisely. “I’ve seen this before,” he said, drying a glass as he dispensed his wisdom in the age-old way of bartenders. “You’re better off just going up to her and saying something. Because one more and you’ll just end up drunk and miserable.”

“Then drunk it is, because I’m already miserable,” Charlie growled, narrowing his eyes on his would-be psychiatrist.

The barkeep nodded, fixing Charlie with a stern look. “She just grabbed her purse, mate. I think she’s leaving with that tall fellow. Now, I’ll fix you another if you want it, but she looks a might bit more appealing than the bottom of an empty bottle of Firewhiskey.”

His gaze flew to Hermione, who was indeed moving towards the exit. Her hand was on the man’s arm; Charlie was filled with rage as he watched her, watched her smile at him and tilt her head just so, like she used to do with him, when she looked at him as if he were the only man she saw.

She’s mine. Primal, the thought dragged from the depths of his soul. Mine.

He was up and out of the seat in two seconds flat, quite before he knew what he was doing. In a haze of misery and lust he approached Hermione, growled out something that sounded like, “You’re coming with me,” and pulled her back into the shadowy recesses of the club.

“Charlie!” She shrieked, staring at him incredulously as he shoved her up against a wall. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Shut up,” he growled, shoving against her, pinning her to the wall. “Just shut up. You’re not leaving with that bloke, Hermione. You’re not.”

She laughed, a bitterness in the sound he did not like. The War had made them bitter, of course it had, but he knew she could laugh without that tinge in her voice. He had heard her, had made her. His harsh words to her had put that sound in her voice again, and he could never forgive himself for that.

“You don’t care, remember? What did you say? Oh, yes. You could fuck every bloke in England and the continent and I wouldn’t care.” Her hands went up to fist in his shirt. Her eyes were furious, demanding. “You said that after I told you I loved you, you bastard.”

And then she kissed him.

It was a crazy moment of teeth and tongue and lips crashing together, a struggle for dominance neither of them were winning and both refused to lose. “Hermione,” he gasped out, pushing his erection against her. “Hermione.”

“Stop it, Charlie,” she hissed, pulling away. “You don’t want me. You made that abundantly clear, I believe, when you told me to leave. When you told me I was a convenience and nothing more.” Her voice choked on a sob as she repeated his words. “You don’t want me,” she said quietly, “so let me find someone who does.”

He grabbed her hand and forced it against his straining cock. “Does that feel like I don’t want you?” He maneuvered her back so she was against the wall again, unable to stop the push of his hips against her hand pressed against him. “It’s never been that I didn’t want you.”

His hands dropped and he pushed them under her silk shirt. His hands closed around the soft mounds of her breasts, fingers tugging at her nipples. “You’re mine, and you’re not leaving with anyone,” he breathed, licking her neck. She was still caressing his cock, though he no longer guided her hands to do so. “Unless it’s me.”

She tore at the fastenings of his trousers, freeing his erection. He bent down to suck on her nipples, then shoved the swishy-soft material of her skirt up around her waist, fingers tearing at the scrap of silk that were her knickers.

“I’m going to take you right here, right now, so you don’t forget that you’re mine,” he said, hands going to hook underneath her knees as he pulled her up, so that he could drive into her, into the wet heat he remembered so well.

“I thought,” she gasped, wrapping her legs around him and clutching him frantically, trying to bite and scratch, “you didn’t want entanglements, attachments. I thought you wanted your freedom.”

He knew he was thrusting her against the wall and that it might hurt her, but he couldn’t stop. “I lied,” he bit out, biting her lips and her neck, marking her, never wanting her to be able to forget she was his. “I want you.”

His fingers found her clit, he rubbed it as he continued to thrust into her, rough and possessive. “I want you, now, tonight, tomorrow. I want you every day, Hermione, and I want to tell everyone that you are mine…”

“Oh, Merlin, Charlie…” she thrashed, close to the edge, grasping at him tightly. “Please…” she moaned, and sweat dripped into the cuts she was making with her nails in his neck.

“Please what? Please let you come? Not until you tell me you want me, that you’ll be mine, that you’ll never belong to anyone else,” he said, stilling his movements. His body ached for completion but he refused to give it to himself, to her, until he had what he wanted.

She stared at him and they had a moment of perfect understanding, as the words they could not say were spoken by their eyes alone.

I didn’t mean it, I love you, I was afraid that if I loved you, you would go away like my brother, you would die and my heart would break again.

I know, Charlie. I love you, too. I should have fought for you, I should not have given up, but I’m so tired of fighting, so very tired…

“I’m yours,” she said, breathless, softening her touch and kissing him gently. “I’m yours, Charlie. Only yours.”

With a groan he kissed her back, and brought them both to climax there in the shadows of the club. She made the loud, keening moan he remembered so well from their stolen moments together, and it pushed him over the edge, too.

They stay locked together for a moment before pulling apart to right their clothes, shy glances and soft smiles exchanged between them. When they dressed, she fussed over him and smoothed his hair. Smiling, she took his arm and they left their shadowy corner, his arm around her.

Charlie met the bartender’s eyes as they left. He nodded, once, and the bartender saluted him with the bottle of Firewhiskey, and smiled knowingly.

Finis