Moved To Poetry
Author's Note: Originally published on March 15, 2011
Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses
It was a hard feeling to describe, even after the seven years we've been together. Breathtaking was close, but much too simple to explain the sensations that Ron made me feel with his kisses and caresses. It had been that way ever since our memorable first snog, which had left me reeling.
From that day my passion was truly ignited. It had been there for a long time, barely in check below the surface when it came to Ron, but that was the moment when I finally took the gamble—and it led me to the man I love, my husband.
I cherished these moments after we made love, when he pulled me to him as he drifted off. I felt so safe, so loved in his arms, and I couldn't help but whisper the thoughts running through my head while experiencing this state of utter bliss. Sometimes I would murmur nonsense; snatches of Muggle love songs I'd heard growing up or silly, girly words of adoration. Most times, however, I was inspired by the literature of my youth—poetry and the sonnets of Shakespeare.
My parents enjoyed the classics, but my favourite declaration of love came from a beautiful book of poetry my dad gave my mum for Valentine's Day one year, when I was about eight or nine. It was such a precious gift in my eyes, with its leather bound cover and gold trimmed pages. I distinctly remember the look on her face when she scanned those pages for the first time, a knowing smile directed at my father—a smile I didn't quite understand until I fell in love.
It was a number of years later, during one of my brief stays at home that I ventured to open it. The words, the emotions that flowed from those pages staggered me with their beauty and romance, and made me blush with their sensuality. It was unlike anything I'd ever felt, and even at that age, thoughts of Ron mingled into the scenes the poems painted.
There was one in particular that I loved and which stuck with me throughout the years. It was this poem that I would repeat most often when I was surrounded by him—his heat, his scent, his love.
I smiled to myself as he mumbled something, his breath hot on my bare skin as my fingers tangled in his ginger locks. I took great delight in playing with his hair, as I'd itched for years to be able to do so. There was something about it that had always drawn me in.
As he settled into a steady pattern of breathing, snuggled against me, I wondered what he thought about during these moments...
They were always just out of my reach when I drifted off. Half-dreamt and half-remembered words, I wasn't even sure if they were real. Her warm breath and the whisper in my ear told me otherwise. I'd noticed a pattern though, just as any good Auror trainee should. With the lightness of a feather, the soft sayings would float into my imaginings most frequently after we made love.
Our passion for each other was endless, bursting forth like accidental magic—wild and uncontrollable—when we expressed our physical affection towards each other. It was afterwards, when I wrapped my battle-scarred arms around Hermione's waist and nestled my head against her breast that the words would come. I was betrayed, every time, by my heavy eyes and relaxed state as I hung on the precipice of consciousness.
I occasionally caught snippets of phrases as I fought off sleep, an incomprehensible puzzle I couldn't quite piece together. It became a game for me to decipher her mutterings, though she remained completely oblivious to the plotting going on in my head as her fingers ran gently through my hair.
I didn't even recognize the language most of the time; it seemed so old and flowery. Sometimes I'd repeat aloud something she said, my lips brushing her skin and concealing my voice as I worked on this mystery. There was one thing she said frequently, something about being drunk and kissing, that struck me.
I needed to know what she was talking about.
Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses
Late one January evening while sprawled in bed after a relaxing bath, one in which we'd slowly savoured each other's touch, I finally stumbled on a clue to this mystery. A single word I thought I'd heard before but didn't understand; a Muggle term.
Turpentine.
I stored the strange word away, convinced this was the key.
Knowing this wasn't something I'd find using Wizarding means, I decided to pay a visit to my main source of Muggle information—Hermione's parents. It used to be Harry, but he was surprisingly useless when it came to obscure Muggle references. Blimey, by this time, I knew almost as much as he did, considering how much time I spent in the Muggle world with Hermione's family.
They were surprised to see me show up at their door, but as always, graciously invited me in for a cup of tea while I explained to them this problem I was trying to solve. Mr. Granger immediately launched into an explanation of what turpentine was used for while Mrs. Granger watched, her shoulders shaking in silent amusement at the pair of us.
Clueless, we were.
When I asked her what was so funny, she merely stood up and retrieved a volume from the bookshelf, one that was a bit worn around the edges but still very nice. The kind of book Hermione would love. Mrs. Granger confirmed that it was indeed one of my wife's favourites before she flipped to a page and began reading.
I felt a rush of excitement as the first few words left her lips, the answer I'd been seeking revealed. This rush quickly turned to embarrassment as the poem went on—I didn't understand it all, but it seemed a bit racy to me. Hermione's parents shared a look and I knew it was time for me to leave.
As the door closed behind me, I was so elated that I'd figured out the mystery that I forgot to ask what any of that had to do with turpentine. I decided to make a quick stop at a Muggle shop before heading home. Hermione would be so proud of me for not waiting until the last minute to get her gift.
Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses
I love this man with all my heart, I thought as I fell back onto the pillow, completely satiated. He kissed his way up my naked body before collapsing next to me, spent. I shifted and placed my head on his chest, nuzzling in the copper hairs before closing my eyes and dozing off.
I awoke a while later with the sun beaming through the curtains. His even breaths indicated that he was still resting, and I couldn't help but recite my favourite poem once again, the stillness of the room acting as my audience.
He whispered something and I was shocked. Surely he couldn't be saying what I thought I'd just heard. I turned around and his eyes, those clear blue eyes of his were focused on me, his tempting lips upturned in a grin.
He said it again, loud and clear, and once again I was stunned.
"Neruda," I repeated, smiling at the adorable look of disbelief on her face.
She sat up on her knees, staring at me in astounded silence as I recited the entire poem back to her, those perplexing words I'd memorized over the past few weeks just for this occasion.
Seeing as she was still speechless, I dropped my arm down to the floor and felt around under the bed for the gift I'd purchased after visiting her parents. I picked it up and presented it to her, complete with a small red ribbon around its leather bound cover.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Hermione."
She clutched it to her chest and I could see the tears forming in her eyes. I knew it touched her when I listened and was thoughtful of her feelings. After all, it had led to that amazing, mind-boggling first kiss we shared during the war.
"How?"
"Well, my love, I do happen to be rather brilliant. I'd heard you, many times, just as I was falling asleep. I was able to figure out a few words of what you kept saying and your mum filled in the rest."
"I cannot believe you sometimes, Ron Weasley. Do you know how much I love you?"
She buried her face in my neck and I held her tightly, her warm tears sliding down my collarbone as I whispered into her hair, telling her how much she meant to me.
"You learned poetry for me," her muffled voice stated as her soft lips brushed my skin.
"Just the one and I don't even know what it means. Drunk as drunk on turpentine? From what your dad said, that stuff would kill you if you drank it."
I suddenly felt warm and dizzy, fully engulfed in a deep, luxurious kiss. The tips of her fingers massaged my scalp as our needs took over, our breathing heavy as we snogged each other breathless for long minutes. We separated, our chests heaving from the intensity of it.
I blinked a few times, trying to clear my head.
"Wow."
"You see, turpentine has a very strong odour, so if you breathe it in, you feel sort of dizzy and can't think properly."
She paused and a rosy blush flooded her cheeks. "That's why I always think of that poem when we're together. When you kiss me and touch me, I just feel..."
"Warm and dizzy and can't think properly," I finished in awe, knowing exactly what she was talking about.
I always felt it around her. It was the best feeling in the world to drown in her.
No words needed to be said as our lips met once more, voracious and seeking to drown in each other, again and again.