UPDATE, per April 2017:
In response to some recent reviews — and to satisfy my own desire to go back and fix some things in this first-draft version of my first-ever fic — I'm going to revise and re-post certain chapters of this story. As always, I hope you enjoy this little Frankenstein monster of a fic. It may not be everyone's cup of tea — there's a fair dose of smut throughout, but it's smut with a purpose! When I began this story, it was to put into words my own personal head-canon: If Ron Weasley had worked up the nerve to share his feelings with the girl of his dreams sooner, a *lot* would have changed. And Ron Weasley, once unshackled from his own insecurity and frustration, would be a quite expressive and passionate man. That's my theory, anyway, and this story explores it in full. Enjoy!
Holly.
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This is my first fanfic — inspired by some of my favorite R/Hr writers, including TMBlue, jesrod82, writergirl8, HeRonFan, HalfASlug, Wordsmithsonian, R.W. plus me and so many others.
Here's the gist: It's the night before Dumbledore's funeral. Ron and Hermione have a lot to talk about. Enjoy!
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Dumbledore's funeral is tomorrow. Tomorrow. Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger.
The idea of it is doing my head in. All our heads, to be honest. Hermione is next to me on the big sofa, staring intensely, in that way that only she does, gazing deep into the Common Room hearth, where the fire is just beginning to burn down to embers. I can tell she's knackered — she's chewing her lower lip and rubbing her hands up and down her arms, almost holding herself to keep it together — and I can also tell from the crinkle in between her brows that she's thinking hard, having spent the day fussing over Harry and now trying to work out what the buggering fuck the three of us are going to do next without Dumbledore to guide us or at least drop us a few mysterious hints now and then.
At least she succeeded in getting Harry to take himself upstairs for some well-deserved shuteye. But she's miles from sleep and, to tell the truth, so am I. She's not the only one who's trying to work out a solution to our problems and what we're up against — though I'm sure her methods are much more, well, methodical, than mine, while my thoughts are admittedly more scattershot. My mind keeps reeling from the image of Dumbledore lying crumpled in the courtyard, to the astonished look on Harry's face as he told us what he'd just learned about Snape and the Half Blood Prince, to the sound of Hermione's sniffles as she collapsed on the sofa next to me a little while ago, exhaling in exhaustion.
Hermione and I are the only ones left in the Common Room now — it's got to be well past 1 o'clock in the morning, and it's as quiet as an old castle like this can be, with just the breeze rustling the curtain at the high window, which is cracked open just a bit, and the pop of the fire keeping us company. Hermione's sitting nearby but not close enough to satisfy my inner lustful teenager. We've been on good terms since the end of the Great Lavender Incident — also known as the biggest fucking mistake of my pathetic excuse for a life — but the status of our, um, "relationship," for lack of a better word, is murky at best nowadays. Having her effectively shut out of my life during those months I wasted with Lavender proved at least one thing: Life without Hermione is a life that's quite simply not worth living. And judging by how hurt she was during that whole effing fiasco, I have a hunch that she may feel something for me that's beyond mere friendship. In fact, I know it.
The question that's hung over my head since then, however, is whether I can ever make it up to her, whether I deserve her, whether I can make her happy. Because she deserves to be happy. Hermione, more than anyone I can think of save maybe Harry himself, deserves a life that's free of care and worry — and when this bloody war is over, that's what I hope they both get, and I'll do anything to ensure that they do. I would like to think I could be part of that picture with her, but that's entirely up to her at this point. I am at her command, mate. I'm a goner. And I don't care if that makes me sound like a tit — this girl is worth any sacrifice I could make. I may not know where the next year will take us or what it holds in store, but I know this: I will protect her and Harry 'til my dying breath. Losing Dumbledore has been a blow, but there's still reason for hope. Harry is the bloody Chosen One, isn't he, and Hermione is without a doubt as brilliant as any witch or wizard now living, regardless of her years. Between the two of them, I know they have what it takes to unravel this Horcrux problem eventually and then take down You-Know-Who. My part in it will simply be to protect them — it's easy to forget they were raised by muggles, but every now and then they need a born-and-raised wizard like me to help them interpret what they're seeing and make sense of it all. So I can contribute that. That plus my life, which I'd happily lay down for either one of them.
Listen to me, sounding all noble. Shite. I'm not that high and mighty, really. If I had my choice, I'd survive this thing, thank you very much. But if it comes right down to it — and it might — I know what I would do. If Harry and Hermione can go on and live a life without fear, then that's just going to have to be enough for me. I jolly well love them both that much. And there I go, sounding like a tit again. Hell, who cares. I just hope to Merlin she knows. Actually, I think lately she's been cottoning on to it.
An ember in the fireplace pops loudly and just as suddenly, the sofa cushion behind me shakes and I realize that Hermione has just shivered deeply. I turn to her and notice that, like she has a million times before, she's catching a chill because she was too deep in her thoughts to bother putting on a bloody jumper. All she's wearing is a faded old Chudley Cannons T-shirt that I gave her years ago during the Quidditch World Cup — well, she pretty much stole it, to be more precise, because I lent it to her and she just never found a reason to give it back — a pair of grey flannel pyjama pants and some ratty grey socks. She's brilliant, this one, but not always terribly practical when it comes to taking care of herself. Just another reason she needs me, I reckon.
"Here," I say, breaking the silence. I raise my arms and pull off my old maroon Weasley jumper and hand it to her. "Chilly in here, isn't it? You need this."
Her eyes snap to mine, and I give myself points for succeeding in one thing: Making that little crease between her furrowed brows disappear, because she's torn her gaze away from the dying fire and onto my face, and her lips curl into a little half smile that I would describe as shy if I weren't talking about a girl who's been my best friend since she was 11.
"Well, now you're going to be chilly, aren't you?" she whispers, and I look down at my arms and shrug. I'm still wearing one of my Gryffindor quidditch practice jerseys and a pair of plaid flannel pyjamas, too.
"I've got long sleeves on — good enough for me," I say.
She smiles a little more widely and her eyes trail away from my face toward — wait, is she looking at my shoulders? Yes … well, now my arms. I feel my ears turn a little pink — damn these ears — and shift back into the sofa cushions to resume gazing into the hearth. Out the corner of my eye, however, I see her quietly bunch up my jumper and pull it over her head. Her hair, which had been tied up in a messy bun, comes loose and tumbles over her shoulders as she pushes her arms into the sleeves. She rolls the sleeves up several inches so now they're just covering the backs of her hands. She pulls the hem down so that now the jumper is covering her all the way down to her mid-thigh. She's practically swimming in it, she's so petite. And now she's hugging herself again, running her hands up and down her arms and, bloody hell, is she smelling the collar of my jumper? Sweet Merlin, I believe she is. The sight of her in my jumper, sniffing it, nestled in it, is doing things to me — things that I'd rather she didn't notice at this moment.
I swallow the growing lump in my throat and will my eyes to remain fixed on the burning logs. I still haven't worked out the biggest problem — the "do I deserve her?" problem — and I can't let anything happen until I do. Hell, actually, I reckon I already know the answer. No! No, you don't fucking deserve her, you eedjit. And now's not the time anyway. Dumbledore's funeral is tomorrow, for the love of Merlin. Get the hell out of here before you do something she'll only live to regret.
"Well, er, it's getting late, isn't it — big day tomorrow — guess I'll head up and crash," I say, leaning forward to stand.
But then, as I place my hands on the edge of the sofa to hoist myself up from the cushions, Hermione grabs my right wrist and cries, surprisingly loudly, "Wait!" Then she coughs a bit, still holding tight to my wrist, and whispers, almost apologetically, "Don't go. Not yet."
Bloody hell. All right, then, I guess I'm not going anywhere. Because Hermione, my Mione, for some reason beyond my bloody comprehension, wants me to stay. So be it.
I turn to her, shifting on the edge of the sofa, trying to stay level and not push the situation in any direction she doesn't want it to go. Stay neutral, I'm telling myself. She's emotional right now. Don't take advantage. Cool it. But my ruddy ears are getting pinker, I just know it. Shit.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and bring my hands together. She's still holding my wrist, but now she's running her thumb over the back of my hand. Holy buggering fuck. I pull my eyes up from her hand to her face and see that her eyes are brimming with tears. Well, shit. Before I have a chance to talk myself out of it, I'm leaning back against the pillows again and pulling her into my arms. And just like that, she's folded herself into me, her legs across my lap, her free hand clutching my jersey, her face tucked into my neck, and I'm cradling her, my nose buried deep in the curls at the crown of her head. God, even after a day like this, she smells delicious. Yes, delicious. You heard me.
There isn't much to say, really — I know she just needs to cry, and knowing her like I do, I know she needs to feel safe before she can cry. And I know that, due to some pretty fucking deep magic that only wizards like Dumbledore and, well, Hermione could ever truly understand, she feels safe with me. So she cries. Not a wracking, ugly, gasping-for-breath cry — just a gentle one, and I know it's a mix of sadness about Dumbledore, worry over Harry, fear over the future, anger over the bloody Death Eaters, concern about keeping her parents safe, wishing she could just be a normal student when she can't, just the whole bleeding heap of dragon dung. So I let her cry into my neck, marveling at how tiny she is, and I just make, I dunno, little shooshing sounds, fanning my fingers over her shoulders and her back as she calms herself down. I can feel her eyelashes on my neck. She sniffles. And I don't know, there's just something about that sniffling sound, and the feel of her soft little body curled up in my arms, and the occasional shiver that runs through her that lights a little flare of anger in my mind for a moment — this girl, this beautiful, brilliant, kind, brave and passionate girl, should never be reduced to feeling this way, balled up and frightened for her life and the lives of those she loves. Dammit. It's not bloody fair. It isn't right. Effing You Know Who … I'd like to kick him in the balls.
"It'll be all right, I promise you, Hermione. It will," I whisper into her hair. And I know people always say shit like that at times like this and little phrases of this sort are usually just bollocks, hardly any more meaningful than the shooshing sounds that I was making earlier. But, for me, this is a promise. It will be all right for her. I'm pledging that to her here and now. I'm going to make it all right for her or I'm going to die trying.
I shift my position a bit so I can take my left hand and lift her face so she can see that I mean it. I need her to hear — and see — that I mean it. I need her to believe it.
"It's going to be all right in the end, Hermione, you'll see," I say, reaching my fingers under her chin to tip her gaze toward me. "We've got a shit-ton of work to do, and it's exhausting to think about right now, I'll grant you, but I know we can do it. I know it because you and Harry are on the case, and I know you can't fail. And I'm going to be backing you up every step of the way Hermione."
She sniffs again and her eyes are half-lidded, darting from point to point all over my face, trying to take in what I've said and make herself believe it. She's so quiet, though, as quiet as a mouse tonight. This girl, who usually will talk my ears off, has hardly raised her voice above a whisper and has only put about ten words together since we settled here on this sofa more than an hour ago. It's up to me to fill the gap.
"Listen," I say, brushing my thumb over her cheek to wipe away a tear that's spilled over from her reddened eyes. "I know you're not big on prophecies, and I know this may sound mental, but I really believe, deep down, that this whole shitstorm that we find ourselves in is going to work out. And here's why." I shift again so that now I'm holding her face in both my hands. I need her to hear this. So I take a deep breath and slow down, so she can run her mind over each word I'm about to say as I'm saying it. I look deep into her eyes — Merlin, they are deep, aren't they? Deep and chocolatey. So sweet.
Shit! Focus! Focus, you idiot. Right. I take another deep breath and dive in. "Listen, Hermione … I'm rambling, yeah?" She smiles and nods. "OK, it's true. But … and again, I know you don't set a lot of store in prophecies. But you and me and Harry, we found each other, I think, because we were meant to find each other, if that makes any sense, and we're meant to be the ones to do the task ahead of us, to take that bastard down." She nods a little. OK, that's progress. Continue, idiot. "We clicked almost from the beginning, the three of us, and I reckon that with all we've been through, we three are as bonded as we could be if we had shared the same blood. We're battle-tested. We're proven. You may not always look it, Hermione, but you and Harry are fucking badasses" — she laughs, and I can't help but chuckle for a second before continuing lest I lose my momentum — "and You Know Who is going to rue the day that he chose to mess with us, I swear it."
She's smiling now, and I'm running my fingers down the side of her neck, and I can't help continuing because I'm just getting warmed up and I feel like maybe I'm finally getting through to her and snuffing out that fear that's been clouding her eyes all night.
"I'm not saying it won't be dangerous. I'm not saying I'm not scared shitless, because I am. But I am saying that I feel it in my bones: We'll accomplish our mission, we'll get 'er done. We will. And you'll see — we're going to kick that bastard's arse, and then you'll go back to Hogwarts, see what they know, and you'll get your 537 NEWTs, and then you'll invent 63 new spells that no one has never even dared to think of, and then you'll free the house elves, and then you'll become the bleeding Minister of Magic, and then you'll go down in 'Hogwarts: A History' as one of the most brilliant witches who ever lived. You're going to make it, Hermione, because you were meant to make it. I've got your back. I'm going to see to it that you make it, do you understand me?"
She's doing that thing again where her eyes are darting everywhere over my face now, but her eyes are wide and her eyebrows are raised this time, like she's shocked by what she's heard. Shit. I thought I was getting through to her.
"Ron?" she says, again at just a whisper. "You're going to 'see to it'? Do you mean what I think you mean?"
Bollocks. She's on to me. Should have known.
I wrap my hands lightly around each side of her neck, sinking my fingers deep into her hair, and take a deep breath to gather my thoughts. I can tell, even in her generally knackered state, she can rise to a fight if I don't play my cards just right here.
"I reckon I mean exactly what I said, Hermione. There's a war ahead. It's going to be bloody difficult. But you're going to make it through. I'm going to see to it. Period."
She's scrunching up her forehead again — and shit, there's that crinkle between her eyebrows again. Dammit.
"But what about you, Ron?" she says, a little louder and clearer this time. Crap. "You keep talking about me making it, so to speak — and Harry making it, too — but what about you? When you picture what's going to happen, you see yourself making it too, right?"
I search her face for a moment — a moment too long, apparently, because now the color is rising in her cheeks.
"Ron!" She sits up a little straighter and my hands slip from her neck to her shoulders. "Ronald Bilius Weasley. You promise me, right this minute — promise me! — that you're planning on making it, too. If you don't, I'll hex you into next week."
She doesn't realize how adorable she is when she's righteous, especially when she's swarmed by my giant Weasley jumper, so now's not a good time for me to chuckle, but I do. It just slips out. A big mistake, it turns out.
"I'm serious, Ron!" Now she's practically shouting and pointing a finger in my face.
"Quiet, Mione, or you'll wake the whole castle!" I hiss back.
"I could not care less if everyone from here to Hogsmeade hears me, Ron! You are going to promise me," she says, pinching my arm for emphasis, "that you are planning on making it, too. Merlin help you if you don't!" She shakes her finger again right at the tip of my nose, glaring at me and willing me to contradict her.
I raise my hands in fake surrender. "All right, all right — for fuck's sake, Mione, yes, I'd like very much to survive this whole thing and live to a ripe old age, OK?" Her posture softens slightly and I rub the spot that she pinched. "Bloody hell," I mutter.
She smiles sheepishly. "Language, Ronald."
I roll my eyes.
"It's just that I don't like all this talk of me making it through, and Harry making it through, as if you're somehow not. I don't like what you're implying, Ron."
"What am I implying?"
She straightens the jumper sleeves slightly and runs her fingers through her hair as if to flatten it, only making it wilder and more tantalizing in the process. I know she's trying to look and sound intimidating and superior while ignoring the fact that her legs are still stretched across my lap and the grey socks on her tiny little feet are flopping off the ends of her toes. God, she's sweet enough to eat. "You're implying that you would sacrifice yourself — do something stupid and noble — if you had to in order to be sure Harry survives or I survive," she says. "You're talking rubbish, Ronald, and I won't stand for it."
I let out a puff of air from my lips and flop my back onto the sofa cushions behind me. "It's just the truth, Hermione," I say quietly, no longer afraid that she'll de-bollocks me for admitting it.
She's not glaring anymore. In fact, she's edging closer, leaning against the sofa cushion, too, looking into my face with an expression of, what is it? Longing? I wish — and yet, again, it isn't right to wish. Not now.
I run both hands through my hair, hoping it'll clear my head. What the hell. Dumbledore's dead, a bloody war is about to break out, we've got a mission ahead of us that looks pretty damned near impossible to me — I might as well lay my Exploding Snap cards on the table, so to speak.
"Look, Hermione, I reckon you deserve the truth. So here it is." I turn to look at her. She's on the verge of tears again. I place my hands on her shoulders to steady her. "Yes," I say firmly, "if I had to choose between my life and yours, between my life and Harry's, I know what I'd choose. I'd choose to let you live, to let Harry live — and I reckon you'd do the same for me if it came right down to it." She nods. She can't deny it. I squeeze her shoulders briefly with my hands, trying to buck her up so she can hear the rest of it.
"I'm a pureblood. If I wanted to, I could sit out this whole war and could probably scratch out an existence in a Death Eater-type world. It's not the world I would choose, mind, and I'd be an outcast for sure, but I could survive in it. They wouldn't really have a reason to fanny about with me, the Death Eaters, because that's how much 'purity' matters to them. I may be a 'blood traitor,' as they call it, but in the end they'd let me live because to them, I'm valuable. I'm valuable because I'm a pureblood and I can help them continue their stupid pureblood tradition."
She shudders, and I pull her closer, so that our foreheads are touching. I can't see her face anymore but it's just as well — I'm not sure I can say what I need to say if I know she's looking at me, anyway. So I rest my hands back where they were earlier, along the sides of her neck, and carry on, focusing my gaze on her lips, which are just inches from mine. She's clutching the front of my shirt with both her little fists. It would be so easy to kiss her right now — and I wonder if maybe she wants me to — but I won't.
"I don't want to live in that world. You've got to know that, course. But what you probably don't know is that I'm fighting for a very specific purpose." I take another deep breath. I'm going to need it for what I'm about to say. "What I'm fighting for is a world where you, Hermione Granger, can live and be brilliant without fear. I could say 'people like you,' or muggle-borns, or throw Harry or my family in there for good measure — and all that's true, I want all of those people to be free — but that would be sort of sidestepping the truth. Because when it gets right down to it, all I want is a world that's safe for you, Hermione, for you — and if all those other people get to enjoy it, that's great, good for them. But it doesn't mean shit if you can't be in it and leading it and amazing everyone in it like I know you can. A world where you can be Hermione Effing Granger, blood status be damned — that's the world I'm fighting for. And that's a world worth dying for, in my opinion." I can see tears trailing down her cheek near her lips, and I'm a little teary myself. Gotta break the mood. "If you want to hex me now, be my guest," I say, and she smiles softly and lets out a little half laugh, half sob.
"I don't want to hex you," she says, wiping a tear off her chin and then clutching my wrists, which are resting on either side of her chin. "I'd rather kiss you."
I close my eyes, take in a long, shuddering breath, and exhale slowly. I've wanted to kiss this girl for years — years — and it would be so effing easy to do right now, to just melt into her. She's offering, after all, which throws me for a loop. But no … she has to know. I've got to keep my head on straight. This is too important. I open my eyes, our foreheads still tilted against one another, and I concentrate on the only thing in my sight — her lips.
"Hermione, I don't think there's anything I'd like more in this world than to kiss you right now. But you have to understand something, and this is big so really, really listen to me."
I feel her tremble beneath my hands, and she clears her throat. "I'm listening, Ron," she replies in a tiny voice.
"Right. Good," I say. "Merlin, I'm sorry — I seem to be doing all the talking tonight, yeah?"
She smiles. "You can be pretty chatty when you want to be," she whispers. "But yes, you're on a roll tonight," she adds, her voice quavering a little on those last few words. She's nervous. I don't want to make her nervous. Shit. But I've got to tell her. I've got to be sure she understands.
"I could kiss you right now — snog you senseless, to be honest — but you've got to know what it means first, and you've got a bigger choice to make here than I think you realize."
I feel her eyebrows rise on her forehead as it leans against mine. Great — she thinks I'm a nutter. Still, I've got to press on. It's not like I ever planned to say any of this — I have no plan at all, as a matter of fact — but the moment is here and the words are just spilling out of me and they absolutely have to be said. I know I'd hate myself later if I didn't at least try to make her know what's in my head and in my heart.
"Li-listen," I continue, stuttering a bit. "I know this is going to sound mental, because for anybody else this would just be a kiss for Merlin's sake, no big deal, but just bear with me. With the whole wizarding world going up in bloody flames, there's too much at stake now, and the old rules just don't apply anymore. So you've got to know … you've got to know that …"
I take another deep breath, close my eyes, sink my fingers deeper into her curly locks, and press my forehead a little more firmly against hers. "Hermione, if I kiss you right now — honest to Merlin, that's it for me. I'm done. I wouldn't have had the bollocks to tell you this a year ago, but I can say it now. If you let me kiss you, that seals the deal for me, I swear, because I'm going to want it all. I'm all in, Hermione, all in. If I kiss you, then I'm yours and you are most undoubtedly mine and that's it, from here on out, until the day I drop dead. No more doubt, no more second-guessing, no more kid stuff."
Lord, I'm rambling. Gotta keep going — in for a knut, in for a galleon, as they say. I'm fairly drunk just on the sweet smell of her, she's so close. "I'm in deep, Hermione … I've loved you so fucking much for so fucking long … if I kiss you now, there's no turning back. If I kiss you now, you're mine, and that means I'm going to fight like hell to keep you safe, walk through fire if I have to, work my arse off so you'll never ask yourself why you chose me, and … yeah, sod it, I'm just going to say it … if I kiss you now I'm going to want the whole deal at some point down the road, Mione." I stop myself before I can say what that really means — a cottage full of ginger-haired kids, a dog, even sodding Crookshanks, for all I care. Probably better skip telling her that part, at least at the moment. But there's more to warn her about.
"And given how cocked up everything in the world is right now, I'm not going to be one of those modern blokes who can, I dunno, give you your space or be casual or non-committal or whatever because you know how mental I can be about you. If I kiss you, I'm going to be even more overprotective and possessive and bloody caveman-like than I've been before, and I know that side of me can drive you mad. So I need you to think about it. Think about it long and hard, Hermione, because this isn't just a kiss — not for me, anyway. Once we open this door, I won't be able to close it again, ever. I love you too much to know what it is to have you and then to lose you or try to live without you. Do you understand?"
She's full-on crying now. I'm such a bastard. And, just like that, I've botched up one of the two most important friendships of my life beyond all recognition. Still, I wouldn't take any of it back. It needed to be said. Something within me demanded it, and it just felt right to say — even if it means the girl of my dreams will never be mine.
My eyes are still closed and I'm waiting for her to say something — anything — and bracing for her to pull away and ask for some time to think, because I know how much my Hermione likes to think. Then, softly, slowly, I feel her lips, warm, wet and salty from her tears, press up against my mouth. The wordiest girl in the world isn't bending my ear with her thoughts, she's not slapping me senseless, she's not dragging herself out of my arms. She's quietly angling her perfect, pink, pouty lips against mine and now she's making a soft little "mmmm" sound like it's the only thing that could possibly be said at a moment like this.
Without taking time to think, I respond in kind. I've been babbling like a lunatic for the past few minutes and now all I can do is kiss her back, because Hermione Granger — Hermione Granger — is wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing her chest against mine and deepening this kiss that I had started to think was never going to happen. I come to my senses just slightly, enough to realize that my hands are still cradling her neck, my thumbs just grazing her cheeks, and I pull back a bit, breaking the kiss, because I just have to look in her eyes — to check that she's understood me. I mean, yes, she's the brightest witch of her age, but I wouldn't bet my life on my ability to communicate what's in my head.
"You OK, then?" I mumble, mentally kicking myself for even having to ask.
"I'm more than OK. I'm perfect. I'm ecstatic," Hermione says, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Her cheeks are pink and her lips are swollen, her hair is a mass of caramel brown curls and fuck me, she's gorgeous. She's smiling like she's been Obliviated, and I can't help smiling back. "I love you so much, Ron. So much," she chokes over a new round of tears — happy ones this time. And then she's thrown herself against me again, planting her face into the crook of my neck and crying like there's no tomorrow.
I'm still smiling like I'm boggled on Firewhiskey. I wrap my arms all the way around her and pull her close to me, kissing the top of her head. "You realize you've basically given me permission to drive you mad for pretty much the rest of your life, yeah?" I say into her hair. "Because, you know, I've just admitted that I'm — what's that thing you always call me — a neon-and-fall?"
"A Neanderthal," she says a bit swottily before pressing her lips to my neck and, sweet Merlin, sucking it ever so slightly. She stops only long enough to say, "and maybe I like the Neanderthal in you, did you ever think of that?"
"No you don't. Just about every row we've ever had, you've called me one of those neander-things, and it's always when you think I'm being over-protective or underestimating your ability to take care of yourself in a battle or some other rubbish," I say, still speaking into her curly mane. "You can't stand that about me."
"Ron?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you done talking?
"Maybe."
"Can you talk to me while you're kissing me then?"
"I can certainly try."
And I do. In one swift movement, Hermione raises her arms back around my neck and I give her a gentle shove and somehow she's lying back across the length of the sofa and I'm stretched out on my side, half covering her with my body and smothering her lips with mine.
We start out slow because, after all, we've never kissed before tonight, and despite how long we've known each other and all the gibberish I just uttered and the, erm, compromising position we are now in, I guess we're both suddenly feeling a little shy. We're just running our lips softly against one another right now, feeling each other out, you might say, and my heart is already throbbing. She's so bloody soft. Her lips are like little pillows, so tender and sweet. I sound like a right prat, don't I. She's making these tiny cooing sounds now and then, like a little dove, and I can't believe that something so innocent-sounding could also be so erotic, because each noise she makes is quickening my pulse. "I love you, Hermione Jean Granger" I whisper, immediately feeling like a prat just on reflex, until I have to remind myself that I can say that now. I don't have to stifle it anymore. She knows. And it's bloody brilliant. She must think it's brilliant too, because she's smiling as she's kissing me. It's so good to see her smile after all the tears and sadness of the day.
I run my tongue against her lower lip and soon her mouth is open and our tongues are swirling against each other and I can't believe that one evening can contain so many emotions — I'm so bloody happy right now, delirious really, and just a few hours ago I was at one of the lowest points of my life. Emotional range of a teaspoon my left testicle. She makes me dizzy, this girl, and bugger all if she doesn't seem to want me at least as much as I want her. It's impossible.
As recently as 24 hours ago, I would never have believed that I could be so bold as I'm being right now, but I'm quite literally lying on top of my Hermione, cupping her bum with my free hand and pressing her hips to mine as she does the most mind-bending thing to my tongue. She's sucking on it and it's sending shock waves straight to my middle, which I'm now brazenly grinding against hers, and she's grinding back. Now she's sucking on my lower lip. Dear lord. I thought I wanted her before but the reality of actually having her here now is so far beyond what my feeble imagination could conjure even as recently as yesterday — I almost feel sorry for the pathetic, horny teenager that I was until a few minutes ago, the guy who for years had wanked to dream images of this beautiful girl now in my arms. Merlin, what that guy didn't know — the real thing is so much better than the imaginary version.
I have to have more of her, so I almost reluctantly pull away from her mouth and run my lips down to her throat. "You're mine now, aren't you," I hiss into her neck, surprised at how hoarse and gruff my voice sounds and how turned on I am by the feeling of her hands running up and down my back.
"Oh God, Ron, yes — all yours," she says as she pushes her hands through my hair and wraps a leg around mine. "I've always been yours. Always."
I'm nuzzling a particularly tasty spot just beneath her ear as she says this and start sucking, which I'm guessing she likes because she responds by bending her neck away from me to give me more access — and then running her hands down my back toward my bum. "Always?" I whisper into her ear, really wanting to know. "For how long?" I ask, before finding her earlobe with my lips and giving it a long, slow suck.
"Oh God, Ronnnnnnnalllllllld," she moans, apparently distracted by my attentions to her neck. Hermione — my Hermione — is moaning in my arms. Blimey. But she wouldn't be Hermione if she didn't answer a direct question, and do so with precision. "For so long, Ron, so long — ever since the day you defended me to Malfoy and wound up coughing slugs, you've been my hero, and you didn't even know it."
That was, wait … bloody hell … was that second year? "That long, Hermione? That long you've fancied me?" I've still got my face buried between her neck and her shoulder, kissing her there between each sentence, but now I'm sliding my hand up from her bum and slipping it under that wonderful old threadbare Chudley Cannons shirt and my Weasley jumper, feeling her torso, which is so firm and yet so incredibly soft and curvy. She's wiggling in a way that allows me more room to move down there, and I decide that I may just die right here, right now.
"Yes, that long," she pants. "And you?"
I think about it while running my hand over her hip and her exposed waist. But I don't have to think long. I know the answer. "I reckon I've always fancied you, Mione, but I was too stupid to know what it was." I lick her earlobe again — she moans. Crikey! "I knew I felt something more than friendship when you were petrified — I thought I'd go spare until you came to, I really did — but I started to sort it out in fourth year, at the Yule Ball." She chuckles, and I can feel the vibration against my lips. "No surprise," I continue, "and then, of course, the invitation to Slughorn's ruddy party did my head in. By then, I was so in love with you, I could hardly see straight."
"Mmmmmm," is her answer. "So long ago," she whispers and lets out a long sigh.
God, so much wasted time. I'm about to fall into that old emotional hole — one I've stumbled into so many times before, where I kick myself stupid for being such an asshat for so many years — but Hermione interrupts my thoughts by grabbing my chin with her hand and lifting my face to meet hers. "Let's not spoil tonight by worrying about the mistakes we made before," she whispers with a sweet little smile on her lips. "Let's talk about now, about the future."
Well, all right then. But suddenly, I don't feel like talking. I stop to really look at her, raising myself up on my elbows, and I see that she's splayed out on the sofa, her hair a curly mane, her lips slightly redder now than usual, her cheeks tinged with the sweetest blush. It's pretty dark in the Common Room — only the fire and a bit of moonlight spilling in through the windows to light our way — but I swear, I can see everything so clearly. This girl, this incredible girl, loves me — me. She's got to be mental. Gorgeous, irresistible, mental — and all mine. Hell's bells.
And, once again, I'm crushing my lips to hers, and she's answering my kisses enthusiastically. And while we were rocking and rolling into each other earlier, I somehow managed to settle myself on top of her altogether and now she's wrapping her arms and both legs around me, holding on tight. I'm propping myself up by my elbows, trying not to crush her tiny frame with all my weight, but she's pulling down on my back and shoulders, almost willing me to press myself fully against her. I have to pull my lips away from hers again to ask: "Are you sure?" And she nods, so I lower myself onto her completely and she just groans in delight. My God, she's practically purring. "OK?" I ask.
"Oh God, yessssssss, Ron," she sighs against my lips. "It feels wonderful to be completely surrounded by you like this," she adds between kisses. "So safe," kiss, "so cozy," kiss, "so secure," she murmurs as she kisses her way down my chin and to my neck.
"That's right, you're safe here with me," I breathe into her other ear, which has gone woefully unattended until now. "You're mine. I protect what's mine."
"Yes, Ron, oh yes," she says, and then she does something that sends shock waves through my entire body — she wraps her legs even more tightly around my waist and presses her hips against mine and starts — holy buggering fuck — starts, well, pulsating beneath me. And I know she can feel me right there because, let's face it, I'm hard as an effing rock right now. But she doesn't seem offended — in fact, she seems absolutely, entirely, completely turned on. "Ronnnnnn, you feel so good, so hard," she whispers as she wiggles her hips beneath me. "You think I don't love the cave man in you, Ron — you're so wrong." She sucks on my lower lip again for a moment, and then murmurs on: "I want to belong to you, Ron — I want to give myself to you. Take me." With that, I'm once again emboldened beyond my wildest dreams. She's grinding against me, and I start grinding back with gusto. My movements draw a deep moan from somewhere inside Hermione, and she hums, "Mmmmmmmm … don't stop. Never stop. You're my knight in shining armor, Ron."
We both know this statement is corny as hell, but neither of us cares — we're just that far gone. And these words flip some sort of switch in my head, because now I'm gripping her to me, thrusting away, feeling myself getting lost in full-on love and lust for this girl. She's got to know what she does to me. And I know that, someday, our pillow talk will go on to explore other topics but, for tonight, it's all about possession, about driving the point through my thick skull that she's mine and I'm hers and nothing is ever going to change it. I'm intoxicated by the idea. And that only spurs me on as I continue to rhythmically — shamelessly — knead myself between her legs.
"No one else can have you now — no one," I murmur in her ear, still grinding away down below.
"No, no one," she agrees with a whimper as I take her earlobe into my mouth and nibble on it lightly with my teeth. "I belong to you, Ron. Forever."
"I love you, Hermione — I fucking love you so much," I say, trailing my lips down to the little divot between her collarbones. "I've wanted you for so long, did you know that? Only you. God, just the thought of anyone else touching you, kissing you, drives me mad. I'll do anything to protect you, to keep you." At this point, I realize I'm babbling like a nutter … and it suddenly dawns on me that this is what that old expression "sweet nothings" really means … but I don't care. The words are just falling out of my head and I hear them spilling out of my mouth, and on any other day I would have been embarrassed or even sickened to hear myself spout such nonsense, but it's what's in my heart and, well, Hermione doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she's more than meeting me halfway. So, what the hell … I'm just going to keep going. "Say it," I whisper. "Say you don't want anyone else."
"I don't want anyone else, Ron. I never have, I never will," she pants. "I love you. I've only ever loved you." We're both getting pretty worked up by now — and for a fleeting second, I remember that we're in the Common Room. But it's incredibly late, we're totally alone and fuck it, I couldn't stop now if I tried, even if McGonagall burst in and held a wand to my head. I'm over the moon, I'm ridiculously turned on, and if we keep thrusting away like this, I'm going to come no matter what, and soon. I lean back for a second to see if any of these concerns appear to be going through Hermione's head and, fortunately, they definitely are not, because she's got her eyes squeezed shut, her lips pressed together in a tight line, her hands pulling at my hips, and she's humming and moaning and damn it if she's not also just, well, concentrating like she would when learning the formula for a new potion. She's mesmerizing, and the look on her face is putting me over the edge.
"God, you're so beautiful," I whisper. "I want you forever." I return my lips to her mouth and gently slide one hand back under her shirt and my jumper, tracing my fingers up to her tit — no, dammit, her breast, she wouldn't want me to call it a tit — and it feels so soft and firm, a perfect handful. "Mine," I mutter. I squeeze her tit slightly and then run my fingertips over her nipple, causing Hermione to buck and shudder beneath me, moaning. Bloody hell. "Oh yes," she says into my mouth. "Yes, Ron, more … please … Oh God." So, of course, I comply, rolling her nipple between my thumb and forefinger while thrusting my tongue into her mouth in rhythm with the movement of our hips.
"You like that, love?" I growl. God, I'm growling.
"Yes, yesssss ... don't stop, please."
And again, I'm lost in the moment, a moment I can hardly believe is real. I've pictured something pretty much exactly like this so many times before, but this is really happening. Hermione's skin feels so velvety and warm beneath my fingertips ... she's a mesmerizing blend of softness and firmness. And her nipple has shrunk to a hard little nub beneath my touch. Every time I brush it or tweak it with the pads of my fingers, she moans in a way I could never have imagined in all my past wanking sessions - and there have been many, all starring this beautiful girl.
We carry on like this, touching and rubbing, and before I know it, Hermione is arching her back, thrusting herself into my hand, opening her lips wide and letting out the deepest, sexiest moan I've ever heard right into my mouth. Blimey, she's coming. This realization sends me over the edge, and suddenly I'm there as well. Something like her name oozes from my lips in a long and probably quite loud groan, but I'm past caring who might hear. I'm done in. I'm wrecked. I'm spent.
We both shiver and squirm for another minute or so, still reeling, and I know I've got to have a huge, dopey grin on my face. But I don't mind looking like the world's biggest prat. I just made Hermione Granger come. And that is just about the greatest thing I have ever accomplished so far in this life. Too bad they don't give out NEWTs for this sort of thing.
Hermione, for her part, is lying back, panting, eyes still shut, but with a look of total relaxation on her face and the slightest hint of a grin. I'm propped up on one arm looking down at her in disbelief. Her breathing is starting to return to normal — mine, too — and slowly she opens her eyes. Seeing my face, she's now positively beaming. God, I love this girl.
"Well, hello," she says in a slightly wicked tone, though the shy smile on her face tells me she may be as shocked as I am that we just, well, went there.
"Hi there," I say, dipping my head down to tap the tip of my nose against hers.
"Did that really just happen?" she asks.
"Yes, I'm pretty sure it did."
"Wow," she says, running the fingers of one hand through my hair while dropping her other hand to my chest, where she's now gripping my jersey once again in her little fist like she did before things got so, er, heated. "This changes everything, you know."
"Is that a promise?" I ask, lifting her hand from my chest and turning it over so I can kiss her palm. She then moves her palm to my cheek and I lean into it, still smiling.
"Yes, that's a promise," she says. "I'm all in, Ron, all in."
"That makes two of us."