Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to the marvellous JK Rowling. The only thing that's mine is this speculation on some of her characters. Inspired by the song, 'Bluer than Midnight' by The The (also not mine).

Post war. Non-canon for DH ending.

This is my first posting for a LONG time, so reviews would be great, but constructive criticism only please.

Bluer than Midnight

The candles on the dresser faltered, betraying the light breeze that found its way through the drawn curtains, promising relief from the stifling heat. The young woman lying in his arms made it too hot for sleep to be possible, but he couldn't bring himself to move, couldn't deal with the loss of her before the morning.

For a few hours, he had been able to lose himself in her – an occasional respite from the pain and emptiness that was his ordinary existence. For a few hours more he could lie, her body entwined with his, the sweat drying slowly on their skin in the aftermath of their passion. While the night remained, he could pretend this was his life – that she was his, that he access to peace and joy. That he wouldn't face tomorrow alone.

He had no idea why she allowed this to continue – Merlin knew she could do better. No idea why she let it start in the first place - what she got out of this. He was grateful though and he knew it was pathetic. He was equally unable to fully claim her, or to let her go entirely.

He'd been hailed as a hero after the war, and then vilified for not being grateful. As if the sudden approbation of the society that had despised him for decades was supposed to be adequate compensation for the years of servitude, for all the loss and all the pain. Ironically, she who had genuine reason to despise him, was the one who seemed to understand. At first he'd thought it was pity, or condescension – both traits that that he'd thought the young Gryffindor would have in spades - but Hermione Granger didn't have it in her to maintain anything less than complete sincerity. And to be honest, he knew that she too had found it difficult to adjust to life after the war, and had found a strange affinity with her former potions master, like two people who insist on sitting out the party in the kitchen.

Sometimes it seemed like they were the only two that had come out of the war without good memories. He knew, intellectually, that wasn't the case, but the wizarding world seemed determined to collude with the fantasy that the big bad wolf had been dealt with and all would be peace and light henceforth. Again, he knew that wasn't true, that the Ministry were still in a state of high alert, purging their own ranks of the Dark Lord's followers, and tracked down war criminals wherever they might have run to. Yet he was surrounded by people who seemed determined to live under the tyranny of victory, to hide their wounds rather than deal with them, and participate in a parody of celebration.

And so, when it became too much to bear, he would seek her out. For a night, he would leave the confines of the castle, forgo the strained joviality of the great hall, and apparate outside her little apartment in muggle London. He always felt like a sleaze – some kind of dirty old man – preying on his student. Except, young as she was, she was no longer a child nor his student and there was no unequal power dynamic in play here. It didn't matter though, his need would eventually overcome his shame and he would knock on her door. She too distanced herself from the continual post-war after party which was manifest in the epidemic of engagements, weddings and baby blessings that had broken out in the wake of peace. She wasn't waiting for him, but she was always there, and she never turned him away. Last night had been no exception.

She had opened her door, the light from the hallway lighting her hair, and throwing her slim figure into silhouette. Wordlessly she admitted him and silently wrapped her arms around him. He clung to her like a drowning man, and when she turned her face up to gaze at him, he kissed her with all the desperation and desire that had brought him here. She had led him to the bedroom, and he forgot himself for a while, the gift of her youthful body moving in sync with his own was a concoction far headier than anything he could brew in his lab. They'd made love with an intensity he found both disquieting and overwhelming until they had both lain sated and tranquil in the fading light of a hot summer night.

They had talked for a while, murmuring softly to each other in inconsequentialities that soothed without ever touching the pain beneath, until she fell asleep, her limbs entangled with his, and her arm draped across his abdomen to rest her hand on his hip.

He was tired, and free from tension from for the first time in weeks, but sleep wouldn't come. It rarely did – hadn't for the last twenty-odd years, but it had been different since the war. Purpose had been replaced by a sense of being cast adrift. Bondage had given way not to freedom but to a sense of displacement. He continued to teach at Hogwarts but it didn't feel like his home. He felt an understudy in his own life.

Hermione stirred in her sleep, sliding her hand up to his chest, and he covered it with his own. He could feel the precursor of arousal as her lithe form pressed more closely against his. They would probably make love again when she woke. Not urgent this time, but languorous and unhurried. They usually did. Then they would rise; he would shower and she would make coffee. They would talk of generalities while they drank – her work with the healers, what books they were reading - and then he would take his leave, with no promises, no commitments – no apologies.

He hated those moments of parting. Her soft eyes would look at him, full of everything she would never again ask of him. She had made him an offer once, of a real relationship, and he had recoiled from it. After years of tormenting her in classes, of being an instrument of hurt to her and so many of those whom she loved, he had then compounded his sins by rejecting her. He could not, would not, tether her more securely to him, but he knew he had hurt her. She was young, she could yet heal, and she could find someone else who was young and whole who could give her love and happiness. And yet he could not entirely leave her, this young witch who was a life-line to a sinking man.

Each time he promised himself that he would end it, but like a miserable fool, he couldn't face the prospect of the future without her. He had never thought of himself as a coward, until now, but he both prayed for and dreaded the day she would end it for him. She would finally tire of the man who apparated in and out of her life at unpredictable intervals and denied her either freedom to move on unfettered, or the security of his declared love. She had told him that she only wanted a future with him, for them to commit themselves to one another and make a life together. It was a tempting image, but he couldn't believe that this was anything other than a symptom of her unhealed wounds. He couldn't believe, however much he wanted to, that she would want him as she became stronger, that she wouldn't leave him behind. And that would be an injury that he simply couldn't survive. He hadn't the courage to admit his love for her risk that she actually could be his salvation, rather than just a temporary salve for his pain. Nor could he bear to let go of her and set them both free. And so, like the addict he was, he came to her for a night, only to say goodbye in the morning.

She shifted again and he turned to enfold her in his arms, burying his face in her hair and drinking in her scent. In the stillness, he heard the hiss of rain falling outside the window, and he breathed deeply as the air finally cooled. Perhaps he could try to sleep, just until the dawn.