A/N He guys, so I'm still working on My Little Girl, but this idea's kept me up all night, so voila! Hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: As ever, I'm still waiting to wake up and find out I'm JKR, but for now none of this is mine.
He had seen her grow up from a somewhat mousey bookworm, to an elegant, fierce woman. They had met when she was fourteen, and even then he had seen the fire that sometimes lit up in her eyes, whether it be when she spoke passionately about something, scolded his younger brother, or showed her never-ending loyalty to her friends. He was terrified by his thoughts of the woman, but frequently fell asleep with her smouldering image behind his lids, an image that not even the copious amounts of firewhiskey he drank could expel. He so wanted to tell her of his feelings, but knew that they were too extreme, too wrong, yet he couldn't stop wanting to feel her blaze. It was her inferno he craved, an uncontrollable intensity that he had always craved, and it only seemed to grow over the years until he had the masochistic need to be consumed by it, burned from the inside out. But he couldn't be, not with her.
The war had changed her; the once soft planes of her face had been replaced by harsh lines of sorrow and pain. Her body had become sterner, leaner, her muscles more defined even when she hid them beneath baggy sweaters and over-large robes. She hated people seeing the mark on her arm but he, whose skin was more scar-tissue than healthy, found it to be a mark of bravery, a mark of strength, a mark of triumph. Despite her hardened outer shell, she still showed the same caring nature that she had always had towards his family, helping them as they grieved the loss of their friends, their brother... But still, ever present, was the smouldering that sometimes leapt to life in her chocolate eyes, and as they spent more time together, he found that he wanted it now more than ever.
She was with his youngest brother; he couldn't think of a worse pair. Ron expected her to lock down the fierce nature that sometimes arose, expected her to settle down quietly and become a housewife. He hated him for it; a beautiful passion such as hers should be encouraged, should be worshipped, not hidden away. The only times he saw it now was when they argued, which was frequently, and though he hated himself for his selfishness, he thrived on these wild fights, unable to take his gaze from her as her bushy hair seemed to crackle with the power she was unable to control.
His mother tried to set him up on dates, as she always did, but they were too cold, too controlled, too full of ice. He had spent most of his life aroused by the excitement of naked heat, and the women he met could not provide him with that excitement. No, he was slowly becoming consumed by her, heart and mind addicted to the fierce nature he had always loved.
...
It was night and he was sat alone in his flat, staring moodily into his fire, when it suddenly burst alive and she stepped out, dressed in a pair of denim shorts and a red vest, cheeks flushed with anger and pacing before him as if she had too much energy to stay still for even a second. She told him of their fight, of how she and Ron were over, of how he bored her. He sat in silence, gazing in wonder at her wildness as she swore and raged against his youngest brother, and though he knew he should be supportive, all he could think about was crashing his lips against hers, feeding on the energy she was emanating. She apologised for barging in, that she needed someone to vent to, and he merely waved her off, offering her a drink and trying to discreetly hide the bulge in his trousers.
She threw back the glass of whiskey he gave her and met his eyes silently. He could see it there, see the fire growing, and oh how he wanted to stoke it, to see it explode before his eyes. Before he even knew what he was doing he had pushed her roughly against a wall and lowered his mouth to hers violently, biting at her lip in an almost painful way. He knew that it was wrong, of course he did, but she had said that she and Ron were officially over, hadn't she? All thought left his mind, though, when she shoved him back hard enough for him to fall on his sofa, then followed him down to mould her body against his and kiss him back with the wild abandon he had wanted for so long. Their fingers scratched through one another's hair, and as he moved to graze his teeth along her earlobe, he saw the desire burning in her eyes, burning only for him. He met her with his own incinerating power, tearing her vest and bra open with his bare hands and kissing her with such passion he was amazed they didn't combust. The rest of their clothes followed shortly after, and then she was riding him, pushing him fiercely within her as she lost all inhibitions and moaned loudly. He growled and left bruising marks along her heated skin with his lips, loving the way she ran her nails along his chest, leaving deep welted scratch marks. As she came apart around him, he pulled her down by her hair and smashed his mouth against hers once more, swallowing her rawness, her wildness, her fire, as he followed her over the edge of oblivion.
She left soon after, and the next time he saw her she was once again on his brothers arm, smiling placidly at everyone else. She refused to even look at him, though he tried many times to claim her attention, even if it was only to hear her rage at him for taking advantage of her vulnerable state. Because it was gone. The searing light within her had been stilled, and though she laughed and teased with everyone else, her smiles were gentle, her body placid, her tone mild. Most of all, her eyes, the eyes he had loved for so many years now, were cold, showing nothing more than simple, quiet love. Where had her blistering vitality gone? He decided to make it return, he needed it to return. For he had fallen into a hedonistic, masochistic, addictive love with those flames, and he refused to let the embers fade.
The months went by and still, she refused to look at him, though he never failed to try and make her. She didn't look at him at his birthday celebration, by her engagement party it was becoming nearly painful for him, and at her wedding it was as if he'd never even existed. He was haunted constantly by the memory of their night together, the night that was so wrong yet so right. The night that he had been Icarus, flying too close to the sun that was her, and getting caught in the violent, uncontrollable blaze. He loved her, he had realized, but not the version of her that she had been recently; cold, contained, icy. No, he loved the primal, instinctive, wild side of her, the side that could curse him into oblivion or ride with him to the edge of heaven. The side that was as dangerous as putting your hands into bare flame, but just as exhilarating, just as thrilling. He loved her raw side, and would never love another in the same way. Of course, it was entirely wrong to love his brothers wife, but he was helpless; she had taken his most base desires and scorched her name there.
But as she and Ron passed him on their way to floo to their honeymoon, he finally caught her eye, and his heart broke. They were glaciers; gone was the molten chocolate and the tinges of amber that would blaze with desire, or anger, or pure passion. They were replaced with frigid, calculating and entirely disciplined brown that seemed as hard as stone to him. The woman he loved was dead.
And that is why, after being burned by, falling for and losing Hermione Granger's fire, Charlie Weasley returned to Romania, to scald himself in the flames of dragons, and wish that they could be hers consuming him instead.