Author's Notes:
Oh my goodness. I'm a new writer, and I am just floored by the positive and warm responses I've received from everyone! Thank you all so much for your kind words.
As you'll have seen from the last paragraph of Chapter 1, I have kept a few elements from the films in my work. On the whole though, this story is more influenced by the books. In case you were curious.
Also, okay, I can't promise 20 pages per chapter every time, but Chapter 2 seemed to just keep going! Grab a glass/cup of something yummy and settle in.
Chapter Two
Idiot, idiot, idiot, Ron berated himself hours later, staring at the ceiling above his bed.
He should have staked out the blonde. It was a simple intelligence reconnaissance drill. All he had to do was pick a target, engage, collect the data and get out! He was authorized to use to mildest of obliviation spells, but only if necessary.
He should have been at the office right now finishing up a report on everything he'd learned, but no. No, he'd failed any sort of data collection and he was going to have to explain that to the Department Head, Alan Williamson, come Monday.
He should have gone after the blonde! Didn't he know that by now? He always got in too deep when he went after curly-haired girls. Even just thinking over body language and tone, the blonde had been a more available target as well. Idiot. No. No, he always had to go for the curly girl, didn't he?
Ron sighed to himself in the dark. He knew why those curls were his weak spot, too. The truth was raw inside him, hanging its head in sheepish shame. He'd been hoping it was her.
The moment he saw that head of curls leave the British Immigration Offices, he'd been hoping, which was ridiculous. He was an Auror, for fuck-sake! He didn't have to moon and hope. If he'd really wanted to, he could have found Hermione years ago.
So why hadn't he?
She left. She chose. That was always the nasty reality that surfaced. She didn't want people to know what she was up to.
She could have gotten in touch, if she'd wanted to. After ten years and not so much as an owl at Christmas or even a 'Congratulations' to Harry and Ginny when they'd had James. It was pretty clear just how much she cared about staying in touch.
If Hermione didn't want to be in their lives anymore, then… well… then what was the point of learning what she was up to? Too much time had passed. Everyone had moved on. Even Ron had moved on. He'd certainly had his share of relationships. He did just fine for himself.
She barely popped into his thoughts.
Only…
Only, if a head of curls turned up in a case...
Well then he wondered about Hermione, didn't he? He wondered, and he remembered how things used to be, and - and then he did his fucking job and got on with his life.
God, Ron was kind of glad he was alone. He could practically hear Harry or Justin explaining just how pathetic that was – following up on the curls.
Who're you hoping for? Ron could just imagine Justin asking with an annoyingly cocked eyebrow.
Fuck off. We all have our types, he imagined he'd say in response.
Then they would carry on and grab a pint or something.
This time had been different though. It had been her – really her. She'd invited him upstairs! How was that possible? Merlin's wand, what were the odds? In one sentence, she'd made him ten years younger. She'd turned him inside out.
It was almost a saving grace that she was so drunk and that he was working. Could anything have possibly compared to the deluded fantasies of his teenage self? That just wasn't fair to either of them. Not to mention, if he'd broken protocol, if he'd been a selfish prick and gone upstairs with drunk Hermione, what happened after? Breakfast? Would he see her again- would she want him to? What if she disappeared again?
Through his swirling thoughts of self-deprecation that undone top button of hers popped into his mind. That blouse had hugged her figure just right, hadn't it? He could still feel the whisper of her hand on his knee, and his own hands on her the smooth skin of her upper arms.
Under the sheets he felt his body responding to the mere echo of her.
He hadn't expected it to feel exactly the same as when they were teenagers. Ever since Ginny's wedding he'd been prepared to face the rose-coloured tinting of their Hogwarts days. He thought that he'd put that unfinished thread of their lives to rest, but… but it was the same.
No, it was more. It was potent. It was as though the years had built up into a crackling pressure around them, so that Hermione's little half smile almost made him ache. He wanted to hear her voice, and at the same time he wanted to push her against the wall and kiss the Hell out of her.
He ran a hand through his hair. Yep, this was going to make everything so much more complicated. He had a job to do, and if tonight was any indicator, none of it was going to get done with Hermione in the picture.
It was like Harry and Ginny's wedding all over again. He'd been living with Susan Bones at the time. It had already been three years since Hermione had left without so much as a word of goodbye. If Ron hadn't been the best man that day, if he hadn't been there with Susan, he'd have taken a seat at Hermione's table and chewed her out right then and there.
Single-minded focus was the praise he'd received the week before at his final Auror-Basic Training exams. He hadn't understood it until that night at the wedding – also the night Susan started to push him away.
Okay, there was nothing to be accomplished in pointless speculation. He had a job to do and that was what mattered. Lives were on the line. If he could just get his head in the game then he could use Hermione as an asset. She already understood the magical world.
He was a professional. He had this under control.
Starting tomorrow.
Hermione's mobile trilled. She'd been dreaming of a transfiguration exam where she had to change a tent into a manor with a garden. When her ringtone burst through she was adding the azaleas.
It took a groggy moment to realize that the mobile was right next to her head and another groggy moment of realizing that she was almost too hungover to push 'talk'.
She batted at the screen in broad strokes, while whimpering to the room in general. When her hand connected with the little piece of technology a small burst of red and gold sparks ignited in the air around her skin and a voice from the other end of phone started to babble into the room while Crookshanks looked on in disapproval.
"Hermione? I hope you're upstairs, because you never told me you went to someone else's place, which means that I can safely assume we're still on for Charity-shop-Saturday'. Also, it's almost gone noon, AND I'm bringing up coffee so you'd be better be happy to see me… as soon as I can coordinate my spare key. Oh, hello!"
Hermione glanced around the room, but whomever Lucy was talking to was on the street bellow.
"Saw you at the club last night, didn't I," Lucy said cheerfully. Hermione could picture Lucy's ponytail bopping a little.
"Yeah, I'm just bringing coffee up to an old friend."
Oh my God. A tendril of panic punctured Hermione's thick thoughts. She knew that voice.
"Oh, what a coincidence," Lucy said.
Images of the previous night rushed through Hermione's mind. Ron. Ron's hands gripping her arms. Ron's dimpled smile. Ron and dinner. Ron and the walk home – oh - oh God, Ron rejecting her.
Oh sweet mother of fuck. What is he doing here?
She could just picture Ron's dimpled smile as he introduced himself to Luce. A wave of either embarrassment or nausea washed over Hermione.
Lucy, down on the street below meeting Ron for the first time, didn't know any of that though. Lucy probably assumed happy things. Things like: Hermione took a boy home. Whoo! The cute boy went to get her morning-after coffee? Whoo! Keeper!
"Luce," Hermione croaked at the phone, but she got no response. "Luce, no!"
The screen of her phone flashed a yellow banner that said 'muted', and Hermione barely contained the urge to chuck the bloody useless paperweight across the room.
She could already hear the door opening downstairs. Lucy had let Ron into the building.
They would be on her any minute!
Hermione jolted from bed (an action she immediately regretted) and ran for the mirror. She took a minute to throw up, rinsed her mouth and then looked at herself again. The tank top and sleep shorts she could cope with him seeing, but not the morning frizz. She also made a frantic swipe at her raccoon eyes.
Any hair product she'd put in the day before had solidified into a sort of hair putty. The only real cure was a hot shower, but there was simply no time.
Her wand! It lay precariously on the edge of the bathroom sink. She'd never put it away.
Well, what could it hurt?
She reactivated the illusion charm on her forearm and zapped herself with what she hoped was an anti-frizz charm. Both actions felt as fluid as breathing, even after a year, which was something she had no time to dwell on. She tucked her wand back into the Olivander's box and all but threw it under her bed, just as the door to her apartment opened.
Her heart was already racing, and then she saw him again, Ron. Her heart practically tripped over itself, jumping to her throat.
Shit. Seriously? It hadn't been the wine or the gin, or the thrill of the club? No, apparently it was Ron. Even in a casual slouch, Ron somehow stood tall, with tan dress pants hanging off his hips, and with a fitted black t-shirt to remind her of how strong his arms were despite how lean he looked.
She could feel his eyes slide over her bare legs.
Good. Serves him right.
"Guess you scored two lattes," Lucy bubbled, helping herself to a seat in the kitchen, just out of sight. Hermione suspected that she was being given some privacy, just in case.
Ron looked at Hermione a little sheepishly. "I took a guess," he said while handing her a warm paper cup that smelled of bitter espresso. "And a toasted tomato sandwich," he added, filling her other hand with a paperbag that smelled of grains and pepper.
"Thank you," she managed. She felt a little stunned.
She hadn't missed anything last night, had she? He'd turned her down. Why had Ron turned up at her apartment?
I want to talk some more, he'd said. Was that it?
She felt her brow furrowing.
"How are you feeling," he asked, bringing her back from her spiraling thoughts.
For the briefest of moment, Hermione thought about saying something flirty, like nothing I can't handle, or wouldn't you like to know, but another wave of nausea was starting to roll in.
"Hung-over as fuck."
A chuckle escaped him, and she couldn't help but notice that dimple. They were standing so close that his clear blue eyes were boring into her, making her feel sixteen, and making her wish, of all things, that Harry would appear from around the corner and brake the tension before she did something stupid.
But Ron did it for her.
Ron took her face in his hands, running a gentle thumb just on the side of her jaw, making her ache inside. Then, maybe because of the pleading look in her eyes, his lips found hers and brushed them with a vicious softness, so that her whole body was suddenly on alert and awake, and so that she had to focus very hard on not dropping her coffee.
"Good morning." His dimple twitched near the corner of his mouth.
If she hadn't been swimming in the lingering haze of hangover, she might have slapped him. She might have pulled him down for a deeper kiss. She would never know.
"Give it a minute," he said with one suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. Then he turned to join Lucy in the little kitchen.
Hermione took a moment to find a home for her coffee and sandwich, when she suddenly felt a bright and bubbling tingle start form her lips and then radiate along her skin. Her head suddenly felt clear.
She'd felt that sensation before… Pepper-upper potion?
"Do you need to hop in the shower, or are you ready to go," asked Lucy. She'd draped one leg casually over the other and was nursing her own coffee. She seemed utterly unconcerned by Ron's presence.
"Um, yeah, just a second," Hermione replied.
"I'll get out of you hair now," Ron said, standing the kitchen doorframe. "I was really only dropping by to see if you're free."
And to send me some mixed signals, obviously.
"I can drop by later though, in the afternoon - if you're not doing anything. We could grab a coffee." He glanced at the two lattes she'd barely touched. "Okay, maybe not coffee. A pint? My treat."
Hermione caught a glimpse of Lucy leaning so that her face was visible in the kitchen doorway and could be seen just behind Ron.
"Oh my God!" Lucy mouthed. "Say yes!"
But, why did he want to see her again? Her head was still reeling from that kiss. What was he playing at? Was this his way of letting her know he was interested?
Hadn't she already decided he was gay? She'd talked it over with Crookshanks.
Oh Merlin's firm wand, her heart was jack hammering and she still hadn't answered!
"It was Ron, right?" Lucy asked, still leaning back so that she looked like a disembodied head, hovering in the doorway.
"Yes."
"Honestly, we're just strolling around the shops. You are welcome to join if you'd like. Make a day of it."
Ron glanced to Hermione, unsure, and looking out of his element.
Good, she though rather viciously. He'd been far too cool and confident in the past twelve hours. It would probably be healthy for her to see him out of his comfort zone – put things back in perspective.
"Yes, come," she said sweetly. "I won't be a minute throwing some proper clothes on."
Okay, she dressed up – just a little. It was only a skirt and a fitted button-down top, but she picked the shorter skirt on purpose. It was frivolous, and deep down she hated herself for it, especially since he'd rejected her last night.
Then again he'd kissed her, hadn't he? Although maybe that was just a subtle way to slip her a bit of potion – and – and when was the last time she'd felt this flustered?
"How are you feeling, now?" Ron asked. He slowed his pace so that he could walk along with Hermione while Lucy scanned shops up ahead, checking which one looked the most promising.
"Much more alert," Hermione said curtly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
"It's a modified pepper upper potion," he explained. "Gelled into a balm."
"I figured that out."
He couldn't help but smile. Of course she had.
"You could have simply handed me the balm."
"With your friend watching?"
"She wouldn't have known what it was."
"Why would I hand you lip balm? It would have looked strange. And what if she'd asked to borrow some?"
All right, he had a point, barely. He'd still exploited the situation, and her eyes seemed to tell him so.
Ron felt his lips press together while he mulled. Maybe he'd misread the situation.
"I'm sorry." His voice was an echo of a younger, less confident Ron, as though she'd taken the wind from his sales. "I shouldn't have presumed."
"You shouldn't have." She agreed with a biting tone.
He dug his hands deeper into his pockets. He'd really screwed this up and he hadn't even brought up the Ministry. "Do you want me to leave? I really didn't mean to invite myself along."
To her own surprise, Hermione's immediate response was to touch her hand to his, as though to stop him from disapparating.
Her skin against his acted like another dose of Pepper Upper Potion. Her whole body was suddenly wide-awake. They may as well have been back in her apartment, standing in her bedroom, instead of in the middle of a London sidewalk. For all the care she'd put into her outfit, she suddenly wanted nothing more than for those nimble fingers to unbutton her blouse. She wanted to be taken in his arms.
She wanted to be taken. Period.
She let her hand fall limply to her side. "You don't have to go. Just stop giving mixed signals."
Ron's brow furrowed.
Really? Did she have to spell it out for him?
"Hermione, I said I didn't want to come upstairs. I didn't say that I don't want to see you again."
Maybe she was used to more subtlety from men. Maybe it was because she couldn't imagine Ron looking at her like she was being thick. Maybe it was a combination. Whatever the reason, Hermione found her cheeks flaming red at the mention of last night, of her over-eagerness, and his sensible actions
"Um, so what's this all about with the charity shops? What are we looking for?"
Grateful for the change in topic Hermione explained. "It's sort of like antiquing."
"Okay. Is there something you're looking for?"
"Never. That's sort of the point."
Ron nodded, although it seemed as if he didn't follow.
"Okay, if we're giving full disclosure, I'm always hunting for books."
"Of course you are."
"Well some things never change," she said more quietly than she'd intended.
It was more fun than he'd expected. In fact, it was just fun, period. Lucy would hold up outrageous things like a child's shirt with a blue train printed on it and the words: Charleston Choo-choo-choo! Then the three of them would debate over who should buy the shirt.
"The blue would bring out your eyes Hermione," Lucy argued.
"But Lucy, blondes and blue go so well. You should get it. Or…" she grabbed the shirt and held it in front of Ron. "Ron and I used to take the train to school; maybe Ron should grab it. Memories."
"Yeah, but that train was red. If it was a red train on the shirt then I'd have own it."
"It would do wonders for your hair," Lucy added.
"You should see me when I wear orange."
"Okay, so maybe not the train shirt," Hermione conceded, scanning the shelves. "But no one could live without a Christmas themed bed skirt!" She snagged the offending flouncy fabric and brandished it. The red bed skirt was decorated with tiny green Christmas trees and mistletoe berries.
"I think my Gran already owns that," Ron admitted.
The day eased on, Lucy eventually picking up a pair of paisley patterned running shoes. Ron, despite himself, had felt the deep urge to buy a rose coloured glass bell that fit in the palm of his hand. Hermione was thrilled to discover a new political science writer who covered international, current events of the past decade. Sometimes fitting in took research.
Before she'd even dared apply to university, Hermione'd spent the summer listening to music of the past two decades and trying to arm herself with opinions on music videos.
It had been her choice.
That day. The day after the war, when the world seemed to release a long held breath, she'd apparated from Hogsmead to a heap of charred rubble.
Rubble.
Her childhood home had been turned to ash. The bank said it was a gas leak. Some sort of pipeline situation, but she could almost smell the residue of dark magic. It tasted of metal in the back of her throat.
They'd come looking for her. The Death Eaters. They'd done exactly what she feared the most, and she didn't know if it was relief or despair that had left her sobbing in the middle of what had once been in her living room.
That was when Chaz found her. That was the summer she crashed on the couch of one of her neighbourhood childhood friends. That was the summer she made up her mind. Being in the muggle world was simpler. There didn't need to be anything else.
Why not university? Why not Chaz? There was already a history of flirtatious summers, and a history of parents sipping pints in the backyard, or long walks with Chaz - where going to the corner store took an hour.
She knew how to live like a muggle. She'd done it for ten years before Hogwarts. She liked the cinema and curlywhirls chocolate bars like anyone else, and somehow being with Chaz just made it all feel that much more possible, that much more easy – as though magic and murder and blood-feuds were a far off fairytale meant for her bookshelf.
Chaz was real. His kisses were real. Her grief was real. His comfort was real.
That was the summer she gave up the girl of Gryffindor and accepted the woman of London.
She'd had to master the Internet, if only to give herself a rundown on the television shows that would surely be talked about in residence. Then even after all the work she'd put in, her floor mates still sat her down to marathon rom-coms she'd never seen or even heard of.
She found herself wondering then, as she wondered now, if Arthur had ever shown any movies to his kids. Did Ron 'get' some film quotes? Did he know who'd won X-Factor?
He would have denied it, but Hermione was certain that Ron was enjoying all the muggle trinkets in the secondhand shops just as much as his dad would have.
Ron caught Hermione giving him a thoughtful glance and had to suppress the urge to say something flirtatious. It was good that Lucy had been there this morning. So much for playing it cool and doing his job. He'd nearly blown it, not two seconds in the door!
He really did have to get it together. He needed to speak with Hermione alone, explain the situation. The longer they cavorted about as friends, or even simply flirted, he was making the situation worse. He was leading her on.
He should have said, no, to visiting the shops. He admitted it.
Still, he couldn't deny how much fun he was having. It was almost like being back in Hogsmeade on school outings, but he couldn't lose focus. The Ministry would be expecting a report sooner rather than later.
"You didn't have to treat us to lunch," Lucy said as she scanned the menu. "Although it's been lovely to have more time to meet such an old friend of Hermione's."
"Don't mention it. It's nice to meet a new friend of hers, get a picture of the present."
"Absolutely." Lucy's mobile buzzed from the depths of her purse. As she glanced at the call display, Lucy's brow furrowed. "Sorry. I'll be right back."
The moment Lucy stood from the table, Hermione couldn't help her hands fidgeting with a napkin. It had been ten years, and she was sitting in a muggle café with Ron Weasley. Without the haze of alcohol…
"This is surreal," she confessed.
"No kidding."
Their eyes met and they couldn't help but share a smile, which Ron turned into a deep breath, as though preparing for a speech.
"Hermione, I'd been hoping to do this properly, over some drinks, just us, but I have to be honest with you."
He waited for some sort of reaction, a furrowing of the brow or pursing of the lips, but she kept her face calmly neutral, which was somehow more intimidating.
"Okay, the truth, because – well because the truth is important in this situation. It wasn't a coincidence that we bumped into each other last night. I was there on business."
"Pardon?"
"I didn't know who you were, or that you were you. I was just trying to make contact with someone in a muggle immigration office –"
"So you already knew what I do for a living." Despite the last lingerings of summer heat, Hermione felt a chill spreading under her skin.
"Huh?"
"Last night, over dinner, while we played catch-up, you were just playing dumb. You already knew about my life."
"No, when I realized it was you that I'd been tailing from the office I doubted myself. I wasn't sure if you really worked there or if, I don't know, maybe you're another assigned Auror, undercover. Maybe you really are part of the Department of Mysteries. I was trying to feel out the situation."
"Well I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I just work there. I process paperwork and take tea breaks, and sneak long lunches with my coworkers."
"Which is why I really need to speak with you about your work."
"So what did I miss?" Lucy plopped down in her spot before Hermione had a chance to respond.
"Just running through the ex list." Ron shrugged, and Hermione noted how calm and casual Ron sounded, so at ease with lying.
"Oooh, interesting. I just added a new one to my list, unfortunately. That's what the phone call was about… Marcus Addler. He wants more 'space'." She raised her glass as she said the words, and Hermione and Ron clinked glasses with her.
"His 'friend'?" Hermione asked.
"Yeah, Marcus took the morning off work to help with the guy's immigrations paper work. I mean, really? It's just a little too much. I hope they're very happy together, and I hope that that paperwork comes through my desk so that I can reject it!"
The lunch seemed to unfold at an endlessly slow rate. Hermione found that she could scarcely keep up her end of any conversation.
She felt exposed. Ron had followed her. He wanted to talk to her about her job? Her job? How did she even know that this was Ronald Weasley? What if this was someone taking Polyjuice potion.
She pushed that last though from her mind, before the swirls of panic descended.
It was almost a miracle when Ron finally tallied up the bill.
"Are you walking, Hermione," Lucy asked, gathering up her purse. "Did you want to split a cab or–"
"I'll walk you home," Ron said like a hurriedly, already snatching up Hermione's bags from under her chair. Lucy gave Hermione a raised eyebrow, which Hermione chose to ignore.
"It was lovely to meet you Lucy."
"You too. Hermione, text me once you're home."
Hermione nodded, and added, "We'll have to have some drinks and raz on your ex soon."
Hermione took up a brisk pace that had Ron jogging to catch up. When he finally did, she picked up her pace again. Ron could see red patches of anger and maybe embarrassment on her cheeks.
"You didn't have to come today. I would have said yes to pints later. You didn't even need to drop by my apartment. You could have left me a note or something."
"I know. It was unprofessional of me, but I wanted to come. I liked today," he admitted.
She slowed her pace; reminding herself how easily lies could sound on his lips.
"I didn't mean to throw you, over lunch, but I didn't want you to get the wrong idea. I do have to speak with you professionally."
"Says you."
Ron stopped in his tracks and Hermione only noticed several paces later. She turned around and waited. Although for what, she didn't know.
"You followed me from my workplace," she said at last. "That sounds suspicious. How can I really trust that you're an Auror – or – or even Ron!" Her voice was had gone strangely high-pitched, and she found that she was shaking.
Ron was looking at her with cool blue eyes, but there was something calculating about them.
"My name is Ronald Bilius Weasley. My favourite team is the Chudley Canons. I used to have a rat named Scabbers that turned out to be Peter Pettigrew."
Hermione still looked unconvinced.
"In second year, you added cat's fur to your portion of polyjuice potion. In fourth year, you were obsessed with house-elf rights and I took Padma Patil to the Yule Ball. Am I Ron yet? Any of this sounding convincing enough? I can eat a whole piece of toast in one bite. I used to make up my Divination homework. I'm terrified of spiders."
Despite herself, a giggle burst from her. "What? Still?
Ron gave her a small smile, and jumped on his opportunity to explain. "I did follow you from work, yes. It's part of muggle reconnaissance protocols. You target an individual and find an opening to engage them."
"So I was just some fluke. You are supposed to be chatting-up some muggle-girl in that club." Would he have taken that girl to bed?
"Look, I get that you're really mad about this, but yeah, it was a fluke. I'm really glad it happened though," he added, taking a step forward.
"Why?"
Ron's brow furrowed. "Why? Maybe because I haven't spoken to you since –"
"No, I mean why did you have to contact someone in muggle immigrations? I mean, I'm not agreeing to anything, you understand, but I'll listen."
They walked a few steps in silence. Ron could scarcely believe that with all his cock-ups, he may actually be able to use Hermione as his source!
"Here's the gist. I have some questions for your office, and it would be much easier if I could ask them to someone who knows about our world and our history. We don't usually get that luxury, and we usually have to wipe memories, but if you would consent to questioning –"
"What sort of questions."
"Classified."
"You're kidding me."
"I'm not. I can only tell you that we're trying to close our knowledge gap on a particular person."
They were coming up to the door of her flat, and if she didn't agree, then that would be it. Ron would have to find a new contact.
"I can promise that it shouldn't take longer than a few hours and – and then I'll vanish, and you can go about your life undisturbed."
The very thought twisted a ten-year old knot in his gut.
"Unless the questions require you to do a more thorough investigation."
"That is a risk, but I would make sure that part of the investigation doesn't include you."
"Just some questions? That's all you want from me?"
They'd stopped outside Hermione flat. A soft late summer breeze ruffled her hair and skirt, so that Ron could feel his hands itching to drop the bags he was carrying, and feel the softness of that skirt's fabric crushed in his grip.
"Fuck. Hermione," He almost seemed to groan in frustration for his next words. "I'm pretty sure you can guess that that's not all I want. The thing is – I mean, maybe after all the questioning… once I've sorted everything out for my department, I could take you to dinner."
Hermione was looking at him with a soft, brown gaze. The angry patches on her cheeks seemed to have shifted into a blush. "And I want to cook you breakfast the next morning," he added more softly, but just as firmly. His ears were the same colour as his hair, but his gaze was steady and Hermione found that she'd lost all sensation in her limbs. It was a miracle she was standing.
"Ron?"
"Yes."
Her brown eyes found his clear blue ones.
"Fuck it."
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his face to hers, lips parting to meet each other. Where his kiss had been slow and teasing that morning, he was frenzied and hurried now, unable to taste enough of her, shocked by her action.
Hermione found herself suddenly weightless, as Ron lifted her by the thighs and pressed her back against the front of her building. The pressure and heat of his hands on her bare legs sent a dark thrill through her, causing a rasped moan to escape her.
His lips didn't stay on hers, but needed to explore, tracing kisses along her jaw and her neck, almost searing her with hot yearning.
Passers by whistled. One girl shouted: Get a room! A little old couple actually applauded them, but it was all a blur.
Finally, Ron pulled away, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy with want.
"Bedroom?" he asked
"Bedroom," she nodded.
She suddenly felt the pressure of being pulled along through his apparation with a pop.
"We could have taken the stairs," she laughed. They now stood in her open concept living space, Ron still holding her up.
"We could have."
He put her down, and this time he really took in her space. The walls were mostly lined with bookshelves, and the open space that housed her bedroom and her living room was a painted a soft sage green.
It was… it felt distinctly un-magical.
There was Tele-smission in her living room, for a start, and not a one of her bookshelves seemed to hold a familiar title. They were foreign concepts like: Discography of 1980s Rock, Cooking Curry For Dummies, and A Beginner's Guide to Software. It all felt sort of muggle.
How had she been living? Why had she pushed away from the magical world? Was her job more than just an experiment? Did she really want to live outside the magical world? But then again, who didn't have unresolved issues? How long had it taken George to re-open Weasley's Wizard Wheezes after Fred had passed?
Ron looked around again, taking in the fact that there wasn't so much as stray sock strewn on the floor somewhere, and Crookshanks (she still had Crookshanks!) was curled up in a nook on her bookshelf. He'd started purring as soon as they'd apparated.
The apartment was different, but it felt like her, and with that thought, he absentmindedly, and more lazily, kissed Hermione again.
"You should know that I never do this. Not sex I mean, just not this soon. I'm like a serial monogamist. That's what Ginny calls me."
He kissed her again, this time slowly, and sucking ever so slightly on her bottom lip. "Take off you top," he added.
Hermione was not used to people telling her what to do, but his words, made her body feel alive and on fire. She let the airy, lemon coloured material flutter to the floor, and slid her skirt down to follow its mate. Soon she was standing in nothing but matching periwinkle lingerie, whispers of lace and satin on her skin, that had Ron counting his blessings.
Tap, tap, tap.
They both turned to the window near her bed to see a tawny owl, with an official looking scroll in its clutch.
"You have got to be kidding me. I'm so sorry." Ron crossed to the window and let in the bird. "Its for me."
"I would imagine so. I don't get owls."
"Right. Do you have anything I can give him as a treat? He won't leave unless he's fed."
"Crackers?"
"Fine."
With the owl on its way, Hermione threw a housecoat over her lingerie. Somehow she could feel that the mood had changed, and whatever wave of impulse she'd coaxed out of Ron had been buried once more.
It was as though the Ron she only managed to glimpse when they played Wizards' Chess had become his default setting. As though the distant, analyst was the official surface layer. His eyes had gone hard, focused… and she had to fight back the deep urge to bring that intense focus back onto her.
"So, what was so important?"
Ron sat on the edge of her sofa, pouring over the scrap of cryptic parchment, his face blanching.
"Shit."
His face turned to hers and she could see real concern in his eyes, as though he was resisting the very real urge to touch her again, but to comfort. "I'm so sorry, but I have to go into the office. This," he waved the parchment, "changes everything."
He ran a frustrated hand through his hair so that the ends stuck up at odd angles. It almost looked like his head was on fire.
He looked at her again, on the edge of saying something more, then for a flicker of a moment his eyes darted to her forearm.
"Everything I said about questions, I don't know if… I'll owl you."
"You could always just pop in."
He looked startled and pleased by the suggestion.
"Okay."
He reached into one of the shopping bags and unwrapped the little glass bell from its tissue paper.
"I need you to hold this."
He placed the bell in the palm of Hermione's hand and then placed his hand under hers. He pulled his wand from his pocket and swished it over the trinket in little figure-eight movements.
"Cantáte sirenis."
"The Siren's call?"
"Its like an emergency contact. I'll hear this bell whenever you're the one to ring it."
"I know what it is Ron. I also know that it's used by Aurors if they think someone's in danger."
"Of course you do," he half laughed. "More importantly, it's a fast way of getting in touch. Much less invasive than fire-calling."
"Okay." She didn't look convinced. "I guess I'll ring you later then."
He nodded and disapparated.
Hermione sat on the edge of her bed with the little bell in her hand, feeling a shiver of fear that she had managed to keep at bay for ten years.
