Oasis
The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.
"What happened to your scar?" he says. She stares up at him from her place in his arms on the dance floor at his brother's wedding. Her body stiffens and his does too, for he realizes what he's just said.
The scar's on her chest, you oaf. You've just admitted you've been looking down her dress.
He sputters for a minute, trying to find words that will not drive her into the arms of a surly Bulgarian git.
"I mean- I wasn't- oh bloody hell, Hermione, I'm sorry, but I know you had a scar from the Department of Mysteries and I should be able to see it, in that dress. And I'm obviously making it worse and I shouldn't have said anything and I swear I'm not staring at your... oh bugger- please don't be cross with me. Have I told you how good you look?"
He stops speaking for he's run out of breath, and his eyes are closed and his hands are shaking and he's just waiting for her to pull away and leave him alone in this crowd of people. She doesn't say anything at first but she doesn't move either, so he somehow finds the courage to look down at her.
Her face, Weasley. Make sure you're looking at her face.
She is smiling. She is smiling so wide he is sure she is trying to hold in a laugh.
"It's ok, Ron. Please, start breathing again. If you collapse from lack of oxygen you're going to take me down with you."
"I'm sorry," he says again. "I spoke without thinking. You can just forget about it."
"Oh, Ron," she sighs, and she rests her head on his shoulder as the slow song continues to play. He is sure she can feel his heart pounding. "You're- you're right. I do have a scar. Well, it's more of a permanent bruise, really, and if I hadn't disillusioned it you'd be able to see it in this dress."
"What?" he says, pulling back from her to try to catch sight of her face.
"Parvati taught me a spell last year to even out my skin tone. The effects only last a few hours, but it's still pretty useful." She is still leaning closely against him, and his heart beats faster and faster.
Why would she charm away a scar? He wracks his brain as they spin slowly. Hermione didn't change the way she looked, like that- not like other girls did. The last time he remembered her doing anything drastic to her appearance was - oh, no. He fumes as he catches sight of a certain overgrown vulture-like famous Quidditch player.
He takes a step back before she could feel him shaking.
"Ron? Is everything ok?" She stares up at him again. She looks as confused as he is angry.
"No," He says before he can stop himself. "You shouldn't cover that scar. It's a part of you, and you shouldn't cover it just because you're going to see... people you haven't seen in a while. Cause if anyone doesn't like it... well, he doesn't deserve to see you in that dress, that's for sure." He mumbles that last part, and he clenches and unclenches his fists, and he can't help his eyes from darting back and forth between her face and the floor and that stupid man with the stupid little beard at the table behind her.
She looks confused, until she turns around and sees where his eyes keep darting. She sighs and shakes her head.
"It's not like that," she insists. "I mean it's obviously not my favorite part of my body, but I really covered the scar because I didn't want your relatives to ask questions. It's not an easy thing to explain, is it?" She is looking up at him with a look in her eyes that begs him to believe her. He suddenly feels extremely foolish.
"Oh. Right, then," he says stupidly, and hesitantly reaches for her again. They continue dancing. He wonders for a moment why she hasn't hit him or yelled at him for being jealous and presumptuous, but when she places her head on his shoulder again and sighs contentedly he can't be bothered to think about anything but the way she feels pressed against him.
He finds her in the small guest bedroom wearing one of his sister-in-law's silky dressing gowns. It is tied at the waist but it hangs on her too-thin form, and she fiddles with the gaping neckline as she stands in front of the mirror.
"Dinner's on the table, if you're up for it," he says. She looks up, but does not meet his eyes. She stares at her reflection, and with her right index finger she traces the thick red line that now mars her graceful neck.
"I won't be able to hide this one," she whispers. When she reaches the end of the cursed wound, she trails her fingertips further down her chest and between her breasts, resting them briefly on the purple stain across her cleavage before she drops her hand.
He knows it oh so wrong, given the circumstances, but he can't help but think that Hermione's fingers traveling down her own torso is the single most erotic thing he has ever seen.
He swallows thickly and approaches her, so his form joins her own in the mirror. He hopes she cannot hear his blood rushing, and he prays she cannot see how much his hands yearn to touch her as she has just touched herself. He is so consumed with hiding his desire to physically reach out to her that he misses the first teardrop that hits the dressing table. He sees the second and the third, though, and he feels her small frame shake next to his own.
His need to reach out for her increases tenfold, but he somehow manages to restrain himself. He knows that if he holds her he will lose his words, and she needs words to heal.
"Hermione," he whispers, willing his own eyes to stay dry, "do you remember what I told you at the wedding?"
She nods but she does not look at him. He keeps talking.
"You are so fucking beautiful, and nothing that monster did to you can change that." His heart pounds with the weight of his admission. She lets out a breath that he thinks might have been a laugh, if she had the energy to make it so.
"If it weren't for the expletive, I'd have trouble believing you are Ron Weasley." The corners of her mouth turn up and her cheeks flush prettily.
"You can ask me a question, if you'd like me to prove my identity." He is shocked by the timbre of his voice and the brazenness of his words. He can see her eyes widen in the mirror, and he knows he must have shocked her as well.
"Any question?" she whispers, and he swears he can see her brilliant mind working through her still-wet eyes.
"Anything," he promises, his breath short with anticipation of what she may ask him. She bites her lip briefly, contemplating. He clamps his eyes shut and stifles a groan, wondering if she has any idea what she does to him.
"What were the first words Ron Weasley said to me when he woke up in the hospital wing after his 17th birthday to find me at his bedside?" His eyes fly open, and he cannot help the grin that stretches across his tired face.
"Is this a good dream or a bad dream?" he responds, repeating the words he said to her just over a year ago.
"And what did I reply?" she asks, breathless.
"You are the only person who could mistake a near-death experience for a good dream," he says, imitating her voice as best he can. She laughs out loud at his impression, and the sound emboldens him. "Then I told you that you were there at the end, so it was more good than bad."
She turns to face him, adjusting the robe so far less of her torso is on display. He would have mourned the loss of that strip of skin, had her eyes not been so captivating.
"I understand now," she whispers, reaching for his hand. She squeezes his large palm briefly with her much smaller one. "I just need to get dressed. I'll be down in a moment."
"I'll wait for you in the hall," he replies, heading toward the door.
"I can walk down the stairs by myself," she says with a pointed look in his direction. He shrugs from his place by the door.
"That doesn't mean you have to." He closes the door behind him, not waiting for a response. As he leans against the door frame, his heart feels exceptionally large in his chest, and he wonders if it will ever shrink back to normal. When Hermione opens the door wearing a pair of pajama bottoms, an old t-shirt, and a smile, he hopes it never does.
A/N: Title taken from a song of the same name by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals. I don't own that Potter either.