DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and things that are part of the Harry Potter universe all belong to J.K. Rowling, though should she choose to give up ownership of Ron, then I would gladly take him. This particular story, however, is mine.
Harry glanced at his best mate, his expression filled with curiosity and disbelief at what he had just heard. "So let me get this straight," he said as he and Ron sat down in a corner booth of a pub with two empty glasses and a bottle of firewhiskey. The Chudley Cannons had lost yet again, in spectacular fashion, and it had become a routine of sorts for the two friends to frequent this particular pub after every Quidditch match, win or lose (and the Cannons often lost). "Since you and Hermione apparently can't keep your hands off each other—which, by the way, is a mental image I would rather not have—both of you have decided to give up the…physical aspect of your relationship? Again, something I'd rather not picture," he hastily added as he opened the bottle and poured.
"You make it sound completely mental when you say it like that," Ron remarked, touching his glass to Harry's before swallowing the liquor with a quick gulp.
"It sounds completely mental no matter how you say it!"
"Trust me, it makes sense." Didn't it?
Harry shook his head. "I don't see how. Why would you ever agree to something like this?" He imagined voluntarily giving up sex with Ginny and nearly shuddered at the horrifying thought. He tossed back his own drink in an attempt to erase the image.
"She provoked me, all right? This is really all her fault, but I'm not about to back down. You see, here's what happened…"
Ron then launched into the tale of how he and Hermione arrived at the situation they were in. By all accounts, the evening they had spent together at his flat showed no signs of trouble looming ahead. Even the dinner he had cooked, which (predictably) had been a disastrous effort, didn't dampen their spirits; if anything, his clumsy attempt had somehow charmed Hermione and she rewarded him handsomely when they made their way to his room afterwards. A couple of hours later, sweaty and satisfied, they reluctantly left behind his tangled bed sheets since she was adamant about going back to her own flat rather than spending the night with him.
"You really don't want to stay?" he asked as he held her close. He was prepared to accept that she was leaving, but there was always a chance that he could change her mind.
"Ron, you know how much work I have to do for the Ministry. If I stay here, I won't get an early start on it."
"But it's the weekend!"
Hermione gave him a stern look. "Do you think that matters to house elves? They don't have the luxury of getting weekends off! That can change with the proposal I'm working on; it needs all of my attention."
"Right. Second place to a bloody report," he said resignedly. He had grown to care about the rights of house elves, even if he didn't match Hermione's fervor. There was no stopping her from her crusade, not that he wanted to get in her way.
She frowned and crossed her arms resolutely. "This is for the best. I'd never get anything done if I keep letting you distract me—"
He was about to kiss her one last time when her remark stopped him short. "Letting me?" he blurted out incredulously. "Are you saying that this…" He waved his hands ambiguously at the space between them. "This is something you can turn on and off?"
"Face it, I've always had more self-control than you."
He scoffed loudly. "Oh, I guess that was another girl who ripped part of my jumper the other night in her hurry to—"
Hermione turned beet red. "That is hardly the point!" she exclaimed indignantly.
"We're talking about self-control, aren't we? It seems to be exactly the point."
"Besides, that's just one instance compared to all the other times you've…initiated things."
His eyebrow quirked as he said, "I never heard you complain."
"I wanted to spare your feelings."
"Spare my—" He couldn't finish the sentence; her statement was too ludicrous to even repeat. "You want self-control, Hermione? Well, you'll have it."
She burst out laughing. "Oh, please, you wouldn't last a day!"
Didn't she realize that her utter lack of confidence in his resolve only made him more determined to prove her wrong? "Care to make it interesting?"
"You're challenging me?"
"Yeah, I am. Afraid you'll lose?"
"Believe me, that's not going to happen. What do I get when I win?"
"Something better than any prize. The winner gets the personal satisfaction that he's right."
"I'm sure you meant to say 'she.' All right, challenge accepted." Hermione grinned. "This is going to be fun. You know how much I like being correct."
Ron chose to let her believe in her own superiority, knowing that it would be that much sweeter when she comes crashing down to earth later. "Weren't you leaving?" he reminded her as he opened the door to the warm night air. The gesture was merely a formality since she could have Disapparated from inside the flat.
"Getting rid of me without a kiss good night?" She playfully poked him in the chest. "Are you worried you'll lose already?"
In response, he crushed his lips to hers and offered her a taste of what she would be missing. It gave him a rush of pleasure to feel her responding to his demands, to know that she perhaps didn't have quite a hold on her precious control as she claimed to. Pulling away, he couldn't help but smile as he felt her tremble slightly against him. "That should last you a while," he murmured.
"How very considerate. The real question is, how long will it last you?" She stood on her toes to kiss him, just a brush of her mouth against his, and it annoyed him greatly that the feather-light touch affected him much more than the passionate exchange he'd initiated just seconds before. "Good night, Ronald."
Ron now scowled at the memory of it as he refilled his and Harry's empty glasses. "You see what she does to me?"
Harry slouched in his seat when he noticed two wizards pointing in his direction. The Boy Who Lived (Again) still drew some attention, much to his dismay, even though peace had been restored for more than two years now. "So how long has it been since…?"
"Three weeks," Ron mournfully responded. Three very long, lonely weeks. The last thing he saw before Hermione had Disapparated was the smug, all-knowing smirk on her face; they were both well aware that she had reclaimed the upper hand that he'd held so briefly. He could still feel the imprint of her kiss, so soft and fleeting. It had been the barest of touches, but he might as well have been branded by it.
"Blimey, Ron! Three weeks?" Harry gaped at him, his eyes growing larger behind his spectacles. "But how do you—"
"Cold showers," he cut in with a sigh. "Lots of cold showers."
He tried so hard not to think of Hermione, but bloody hell, he missed her. His bed felt so empty without her there and even though he had already washed his sheets, blankets, and pillow cases, her scent remained as if to taunt and tempt him. He missed watching her sleep, on the rare occasion that he was awake before she was. She would probably dismiss it if he told her, but he thought she looked beautiful when she rested, so utterly content and at peace. He liked watching her eyelids flutter open and the look of mild surprise when she saw him, as if she couldn't believe that he was already awake. He missed the shy smile she would give him as she burrowed a little further into the blankets. He found her modesty endearing, especially since he's seen and tasted all of her and she was equally as starved for him. He loved the way she kissed him to start the day, somewhat tentative at first, then growing bolder as she rolled on top of him and took her fill. She was both greedy and generous and it drove him crazy with lust. He missed the way her hair would fall around their faces like a curtain, making the moment more private even though they were already alone. He could practically hear her sighs and whispers in the crowded pub. His palms itched at the thought of touching her; his hands seemed to have memorized every gentle curve, every smooth angle, and every soft line of her body.
He toyed with his glass, sliding it back and forth between his hands, in a vain attempt divert himself. He'll need another cold shower tonight.
Harry drank his firewhiskey in sympathy. "Why can't you two have a normal relationship like Ginny and me? We would never get into this kind of a situation…"
Ron sipped his drink slowly as he tuned out Harry's voice. It was a speech that he would hear time and time again whenever he and Hermione encountered some kind of snag in their relationship. With all due respect to his best friend, what Harry considered normal or stable is what Ron thought to be bloody boring. Boring is fine for some people; in fact, with everything Harry had gone through in his life, boring and normal are exactly what he should be drawn to. But Ron believed that he and Hermione needed the conflict, especially when their relationship had been tumultuous ever since they were just friends. The bickering was just a part of who they were and he couldn't imagine their lives without it. He hoped that what he and Hermione had would never be normal. Besides, what did it matter if the journey wasn't smooth, as long as she was by his side through it all? There was no one else he'd want to share this adventure with.
Still, he wasn't going to give in to her, even though desperation was clawing at him with sharp talons that nearly tore his control to shreds. One thing was for sure, he mused as he sulked over his drink. She was probably handling this challenge with much more confidence than he was.
She was going mad and the blame lay squarely on Ron Weasley's shoulders. Yes, it was entirely his fault that she had become the opposite version of herself. Why, it was only three weeks ago when she used to be productive, on task, and intelligent. Now none of those attributes could be used to describe her.
Irony had dealt her a cruel blow when it decided that she wouldn't be able to focus on her work without Ron to distract her. If anything, she thought about him more when he wasn't around, curse him. Quite simply, Ron had invaded every corner of her life. Every room in her flat had a piece of him in it: his clothes in her bedroom, his towel and toothbrush in her bathroom, his favorite mug and snacks in her kitchen. She kept a few photos of him in her office and even though she had stuffed them all in one of her desk drawers, the effort was futile.
The report that had been her reason for leaving Ron's flat that night weeks ago was still unfinished and even the drafts she had discarded didn't seem as if they had come from her own quill. Not only was her writing riddled with mistakes, but the sentence structure, the paragraphs, the overall flow of the composition seemed so…simple. So unlike her. There seemed to be no knowledge behind the words, just a bland presentation of facts and unconvincing arguments. Her dissatisfaction grew with each roll of parchment she crumpled up and threw away.
There had been a particularly embarrassing moment a few days before when she was in a meeting with a small group of people to discuss the proposed amendment to the rights of house elves and other creatures used for domestic servitude. As a rebuke for her incomplete report, she was delegated to recording the minutes, which was usually the task for a self-writing quill that automatically transcribed dictations. She was actually quite diligent for the first half of the meeting, until she stifled a yawn and reflected on how tired she was, which caused her to think of Ron since he was completely responsible for the state she was in.
She thought of how his bright red hair looked on her pillows, mussed from sleep, and how she enjoyed running her fingers through it. He usually slept on his stomach and it had become a habit for her to trace the line of his spine and the lean muscles on his arms and shoulders as the sun filtered through the window. He always woke up slowly and before he even opened his eyes, he would have his arm around her waist to pull her closer to him. "Better than any alarm clock," he would say in a sleepy voice before kissing her good morning. He never failed to rob her of her breath or her sensibilities. Ron Weasley didn't believe in chaste pecks on the cheek, not even if he was in a hurry; whether he was savoring her or devouring her, he kissed deeply and thoroughly, as if there would never be another moment but the one they were currently sharing and he had to make the most of it. Her sighs would fill the room as he kissed her neck and her throat; she could feel him smile against her skin, as if enjoying a private joke. He always asked if he was crushing her and she always said no, which was the truth. He may be quite taller than her, but once they were in bed, everything lined up perfectly. Besides, she loved the feel of him on top of her, so strong, so solid…so hers. Before long, his pulse would be pounding in rhythm with her own frantically beating heart, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he unraveled the knot of her dressing gown and—
"Miss Granger!"
Hermione gasped and dropped the quill that had been loosely dangling from her fingertips rather than scratching furiously on the parchment.
"We've been trying to get your attention for a full minute! Please enlighten us on what you could possibly be thinking about that has captured your interest so thoroughly?" her superior demanded.
Of course she couldn't tell her what was truly on her mind and she fumbled with a lie and an apology as her face grew hotter. Is this what she's been reduced to, daydreaming of making love with Ron during work hours, in the middle of a meeting? She could strangle him for putting her in this position!
Surely it would help her a bit if she had someone to talk to, someone who would listen to her as she vented her frustrations. No doubt Ron had turned to Harry, so that was out of the question; she wouldn't want to put their best friend in the middle. Besides, it would be rather odd to talk to him about that particular subject. Of course there was always Ginny, but Hermione doubted that she would want to hear of her brother's sex life.
She was now sitting in a Muggle café, her tea and sandwich cold and untouched. She needed to get as far away from the wizarding world as possible, though the distance she had placed between her and Ron didn't seem to be helping. If people here thought it was odd that she was writing with quill and parchment rather than pen and paper, it escaped her notice. She had fled to this place in her desperate need to finish her report and escape from thoughts of Ron, but she realized that the only way the latter would happen was if she had a lobotomy or suffered from amnesia, in which case she won't be able to do the former.
She sighed as she leaned back on her chair. At this rate, this report will never be finished. She had to do something, anything that would enable her to stop missing him without surrendering the control she valued so much, the control that she could practically feel slipping through her fingers. But what?