Friday, August 21st, 1998
Hermione Granger closed the thick copy of Cosmic Witch that she had been perusing for the past hour. It wasn't her usual type of reading material, but she found that Witch Weekly was not supplying her with any useful information for her current predicament, nor were the one hundred and twelve books on her billowing bookcase. Cosmic Witch, unlike Witch Weekly, was aimed towards an older, post-Hogwarts age group of witches and the articles ranged from interesting economic developments to biographies on successful business witches and beaming, well-groomed witch politicians. Every issue also dedicated a section to romance and how to entrance wizards, which had been the exact pages Hermione immediately flipped to when the tawny owl delivered her monthly subscription.
Hermione's heart was still pounding after studying the rather explicit sexual scenes described in a section titled: "Bewitch Him in the Bedroom: 17 foolproof moves that will leave him as good as Confunded!" The article was accompanied by animated depictions of the positions with a busty witch and her rather enthusiastic partner, a blonde wizard with rippling abs and a hairless chest. Half of the positions seemed impossible given the height different between her and Ron, and she had no earthly idea how large or long his penis was. Yet Hermione found she was inspired and awed by at least three of the moves; one actually included wandwork from the participating witch. She was itching to try them on Ronald Weasley, and was grateful she was alone in her parent's modest but affluent suburban home as she felt a tingling, irresistible-to-not-touch sensation between her thighs.
Last month's issue of the racy magazine was curled on Hermione's polished granite bathroom counter, open to the instructions she had painstakingly followed on the page entitled "Magically trim your lady regions pain-free!" There was an advert for Madame Starlight's strongest Swelling Solution strategically placed at the bottom of the glossy page. She had cautiously trimmed her pubic hair out of curiosity, if anything. It wasn't like she expected anyone but herself to witness the clean triangle of dark brown hair down there anytime soon.
For Ron was not his usual self lately. The Battle of Hogwarts had ended over three months ago, but the misery and anger he had felt after Fred's death kept an ironclad grip on him. It seemed to have hit him harder than most of his siblings, which surprised Hermione, as she knew he was often the victim of the twins' constant ridicule and bullying. He was irritable, moody, and although they were together nearly every day, he did not speak much to Hermione. Because of his mournful depression, she had not addressed the kiss they had shared at Hogwarts on May second of that year. She did not want to risk losing her chance of being with the boy she had secretly yearned for years, so their days were spent with him sulking and her studying, mostly at the Burrow but sometimes at her parent's house. She knew if she didn't visit him and give him a reason to get up out of bed in the morning, he would have spent his summer alone in his cramped room at the Burrow, brooding in solitude and fury.
Hermione had her battle scars too, both apparent and invisible. She had her usual coping mechanism of reading and was drawing up a rigorous study schedule for the students who had fallen behind in their schooling at Hogwarts last year. Hermione was determined to help the professors with getting all the students caught up. It was nice to have something to do. With all the close brushes with death over the past year, she was almost numb to all the memories that might have otherwise cursed her with sadness. What disturbed her above all atrocities suffered at the Battle of Hogwarts, Gringotts, and Godric's Hollow was the torture she had endured at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange that spring. Late at night she was forced to revisit the scene in that hazy stage between wakefulness and restless sleep.
'You are a lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it!' Hermione could hear Bellatrix's angry, accusatory shriek as though she were standing in the room. 'Where did you find my sword? Who gave it to you?'
Hermione, refusing to answer, had been hit repeatedly by the Cruciatus Curse. She lost count after the fourth time, when the spell had shattered her left arm and the bones poked bloodily out of her pale flesh. Her blood splattered the floor around her, drops of sweat joining the scarlet puddles as curse after curse hit her. With added cruelty, Bellatrix had slashed her robes, revealing her undergarments and skin in private places. Fenrir Greyback had licked his lips, revealing his pointed teeth. His longing groans for her were hungry and sexual in their perversity. Even through the jeering of Death Eaters and the shattering sounds of her own pleading screams she could still hear Ron bellowing her name at the top of his lungs. His voice had never sounded so scared, so desperate. It sounded like someone was sawing off his legs with a dull razor judging from the anguished yells that were escaping the cellar prison. They were enough to fill her with terror because there was nothing he could do for her. She had wanted to die; the thought of ceasing to exist was something comfortable and welcoming to her. Then Ron wouldn't have to worry about her being in pain, would not have to marry a filthy Mudblood, and she would not reveal to Bellatrix where they had gotten the ruby-encrusted sword of Godric Gryffindor or about their secret quest for Horcruxes. As she slipped between varying states of unconsciousness and consciousness, what she thought were her last seconds on earth were spent thinking about her beloved Ron and Harry, hoping they would carry on and do what they had been working so hard towards. She was just one small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things. But thanks to some quick thinking on her part, a lie from Griphook, and the rescue efforts of Dobby, they had all survived the ordeal battered, but relatively unscathed.
The residual trauma from the debacle at Malfoy Manor flared up at the most unexpected of times. For instance, because Andromeda Tonks looked so strikingly similar to her deceased sister, Hermione could not even look at the witch when they crossed paths at Lupin and Tonks' funeral. She had grabbed Ron's sleeve, and he, sensing her dread and urgent need for protection, wrapped his arm around her for the remainder of the service. His shoulder was a solid resting spot for her troubled mind. It was the closest to romantic contact they had shared in the months after the Battle. She had melted into his side, catching a whiff of the familiar scent of his shampoo and knowing that as long as she was in his strong arms, she was safe.
The white marble fireplace of the Grangers' living room suddenly flashed bright green and expelled a lanky, long-haired redhead. Ron Weasley shook soot out of his hair and coughed out a mouthful of ashes. Hermione knew he hadn't Apparated because he hated the pressing, uncomfortable feeling of it and was not entirely proficient at performing the means of travel. His bright red hair was past his chin and suited his long face and nose quite well. He looked like a younger, less scarred version of his eldest brother, Bill. The wispy strands of ginger hair on his chin, however, made Hermione feel a mixture of disgust and curiosity: how would it feel on her lips? And if they got to that point, her freshly trimmed "lady region"?
"Sorry," he mumbled, waving his wand to clean up the blackened carpet. "Didn't say the address quick enough, I think."
"Don't worry about it," Hermione replied fervently, pulling out her newly recovered vine wood and dragon heartstring-cored wand and sucking away the debris from his black robes. "Why are you in your robes?"
"Just got done talking to Shacklebolt and Harry at the Ministry," Ron yawned, walking past her to the plum purple couch. "Where's your mum and dad?"
"They went to Germany for a week or so, they weren't sure for how long. It was a last minute sort of decision, but they've wanted to enjoy time to themselves lately." Hermione looked down at the wooden floor stiffly. She had found them at the end of June, when she was sure things had calmed down enough, and removed the Memory Charms she had placed on them. Sadly, they had not regained everything she had wiped clean from them. Sometimes they even forgot her name. A dark voice in the back of her constantly-working brain told her this was because they had enjoyed their child-free life in Australia, and their minds were repelling her memory. Shaking this thought, she said in what she hoped was a cheerful voice, "But they'll be back a couple days before I leave for Hogwarts, so I'll get to spend time with them."
"Don't remind me," Ron muttered grumpily, peeling off his boots. "I can't believe school is starting in a little more than a week." The act of him taking off his shoes signaled to Hermione that he was staying for a spell, which pleased her tremendously.
"Want to stay for dinner? I was thinking of making some chicken cordon bleu," Hermione asked him tenderly. With the ash cleaned from his face, she noticed that his freckled skin was slightly blotchy, but he was not looking at her. Most of the soot was gone from his robes, which were new but had been worn quite a bit over the summer between all the Ministry visits and funerals. There were a few threads hanging loosely at the bottom hem, a symbol for the tall, fraying man whom they clothed.
"That sounds incredible, Hermione," he said, finally making eye contact with her. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen as if he had been upset. She did her best to ignore this and turned towards the kitchen, knowing that if she pursued it he would shut down emotionally. Ron did not cry often, so this must have been a big deal. She decided firmly that they would only talk about it if he was the one who brought it up.
Using some nifty new charms she had acquired from the June edition of Cosmic Witch, Hermione fixed the chicken with a spring salad and fluffy rolls in less than ten minutes. Ron knew his way around the kitchen and the rest of the home rather well; they had spent countless hours together here and he often helped himself to bits of food from the refrigerator (or, as Ron referred to it, the "Box of Coldness"). Mr. and Mrs. Granger did not remember him at all, so Hermione took the opportunity to introduce him with the air that he was a romantic interest. Luckily they found him quite amusing, with his obscure references to the magical world and odd clothing. He had been gallantly patient and friendly with them despite the somber demeanor he had assumed after the Battle. Hermione knew with a flutter of her heart that her parents would approve of him if the day ever came that he asked for their permission for her hand in marriage.
Ron found all the necessary supplies quickly and set places for two at the small, circular table. He sat as she lowered the steaming food on the table with her wand. His stomach let out a loud groan as he eyeballed the chicken greedily. There was something primal and satisfying for Hermione about preparing a meal that he would consume and gain strength from. His muscular, Quidditch player frame had succumbed to his fidgety eating habits and he was far too thin for her liking. She poured each of them a glass of wine from her parents' well-stocked liquor cabinet as he started to shovel food into his wide mouth. She found that alcohol in any form tended to lift Ron's spirits, which he was in dire need of tonight. And predictably, after his fourth glass and when she was opening the second bottle, he seemed to be a great deal more cheerful. He had told Hermione her cooking was almost as good as his mum's, which was as valuable as solid gold, coming from him. He was informing her about his meeting at the Ministry in between forkfuls of moist chicken and handfuls of warm bread.
"Kinglsey has three cases that he thinks can be closed in less than a year," he said happily through a mouthful of salad, his cheeks slightly rosy. "With some help from the Aurors, I think Harry, Neville and I can catch them. He wants to keep hushed up about it though, so I can't tell you who we're after or where we'll be going."
He let out a loud hiccup, then refilled and gulped down his sixth glass of wine. There was a tiny purple mustache stained above his top lip.
"I think you've had enough," Hermione said sternly, but she was glad to see his mood improving dramatically. He grinned back at her as he slammed down the cup abruptly. He was definitely feeling the effects of the wine, judging by his glazed eyes and lopsided smile.
"You know, you look really good with your hair pulled back like that," he slurred.
Hermione reacted instinctively by grabbing her long plait. He hadn't complimented or even acknowledged her physical appearance since they had gone to Colin Creevey's Muggle-style funeral and he had told her shortly that she looked "well-rested".
"I haven't washed it yet today, honestly," she said dismissively, but the pink blush that erupted over her face betrayed her pleasure. "I've been working on which Defense against the Dark Arts topics are the most important to cover, and I've been highlighting Professor Binns' History of Magic notes for key points, because there just simply won't be enough time to cover all the gritty details of the goblin wars during the eighteenth century."
Ron was looking at her full in the face, his own flushed with determination. He hadn't been listening to a word she was saying and there was something fighting to come out of his slightly freckled lips.
"I've been meaning to talk to you, Hermione," he said quietly.
"About what?" she asked, her heart missing a beat and settling somewhere in the base her throat. They were still sitting side by side at the oak table, the distance weighing on her like the waves crashing on the shore near Shell Cottage. The sun had started to set and there was a bright, pinkish gold light washing through the bay window. Was this finally happening? Right now?
"Us," Ron said, his voice wavering as he continued. "Hermione, I've almost lost you too many times. You almost died… I'm sick of wasting time. I'm bloody sick of it." The last part of this came out angry. "Let's just get on with it already, what are we doing?"
"So you want to – to go steady?" Hermione asked, her voice uncharacteristically high and shaking. She had to be certain he meant what she hoped he did. She felt like she was a little girl on the playground nervously asking her crush out for a play date.
"I reckon, yeah." But there was unmistakable hesitation in his answer. She guessed the source of it before he had a chance to elaborate.
"If it doesn't work out, we'll still be friends," she stated. "You have been my best friend for almost eight years, please don't think a little fling will ruin that." She grabbed his large, scarred hands in her smaller ones, squeezing them with her reassurance.
"A fling?" Ron repeated, spit flying out on the 'f' as his eyebrows shot above his hairline. "I was hoping for a little more than a fling with you, Hermione."
She laughed, waving her hand dismissively as though casting aside his doubt from the air.
"I only mean that we don't need to hold back because you're worried what it will do to our relationship. I love you, Ron. Whether that's as friends or something more, I always will. You oughtn't worry about that."
His lips were crushed against hers almost before she had finished the sentence, cutting off the flow of babble she had going on in her head. The kiss was fierce, sloppy, but full of feeling. His lips were smooth and wet and his breath tasted like the chicken she had prepared for dinner mixed with the sharp, fruity tones of merlot wine. Apparently being connected by the lips to Lavender had done him well, Hermione found herself breathless as he explored her mouth with his tongue, sucking and biting her lips tenderly and placing his hands on her face. She felt like an amateur; the only practice she had was a few emotionless smooches with Viktor Krum and the blundering advances of Cormac McLaggen. Hermione noted that the hair on Ron's chin tickled her face a bit, but it did not feel unpleasant at all. It was surprisingly soft for how scruffy it appeared. She dreamily pulled him to the couch so they didn't have a table separating them and clutched at the front of his robes as she kissed him back eagerly.
He kissed her neck and then softly planted one on the thin, red line that Bellatrix's knife had made months before. Hermione froze. She was sensitive about that spot; no amount of Essence of Dittany had faded it and so it always stood out, almost grinning, against her pale flesh. The silver dagger must have been laced with some sort of poison, perhaps snake venom or werewolf saliva.
Ron moved away from the tender spot and started to bite at the point where her neck met her shoulder, which rapidly chased the memory of the scar from her mind. She writhed under him – it felt so good, too good really, so why was her body involuntarily fighting against him? He laughed loudly, pinning her down with most of his weight. "You like that?" He fiercely dove down at her neck to bite more, eliciting a half-giggle, half-shriek from Hermione.
After a full twenty minutes of making out, which ended up with Hermione on top of him, Ron abruptly gasped, "We need to slow down!"
Hermione was pressing the crotch seam of her high-waisted jeans into his hardened member beneath his black robes when he had emerged from their feverish grinding. She repositioned her knees on either side of him so that there were a few inches of hot, humid air separating their pelvises. She wiped away the drool that dribbled from her puckered lips and nodded her head vigorously, her eyes wide.
Ron sat up, forcing Hermione to sit back on the opposite side of the couch. She gazed across at him, bushy sections of hair sticking out of her braid as if she had been riding a bucking broomstick. The sexual feelings that had stirred in her earlier had reawakened, but he was cutting it off before they had a chance to get to that point. She felt disappointed and downright malicious.
"You know, Ginny and Harry did it," she blurted without thinking. She shouldn't have said this, but it was too late; the damage was done.
"They – they what?" Ron blustered, rising to his feet in front of her, his fists clenched. "He's already got his dirty hands on her?"
"Already?" Hermione laughed derisively. "Ron, he almost died three months ago. They've been in love for only God knows how long! They're both adults and mad for each other, doesn't it make you happy your sister is with your best friend?"
Ron ignored her words as he growled, "But she's hardly of age! She's going back to Hogwarts, and now he's going to make her want to stay and have babies or something."
He was getting utterly ridiculous. She knew that the true source of his anger was the jealousy of his best friend and younger sister both having had sex before him. Hermione turned her back to Ron and starting cleaning up the detritus of their meal. She heard him walk towards her and then he grabbed her arm with unnecessary force, pulling her back to face him.
The next kiss was different than the ones on the couch; this one was chaste in comparison and contained something that transcended mere physical affection. He lifted her off her feet, her arms flinging around his broad shoulders and his hands wrapping fully around her slender hips. A plate that had been in her right hand fell to the floor, shattering and scattering tiny shards about the room. This kiss expressed to Hermione that she was the most single important thing to him, and she thought wildly, 'Fuck, I'm in love with you.' Their lips remained locked for what seemed to be ten minutes before Hermione felt it was necessary to apologize for making him angry.
"I'm sorry for springing that on you, but I sort of thought you should find out from me and sooner rather than later. So you're ok with it?" she asked breathlessly once they had slowly parted.
"I'm not exactly 'ok' with it, but there's nothing I can do about it," he said with finality. "I guess if Ginny's going to be with a bloke, it ought to be Harry, right?"
"Exactly," agreed Hermione. As she said this, they heard the fireplace in the living room let out a loud roar, which could only mean another person had arrived via Floo powder.
"I hoped I'd find you here, are you alright?" Harry asked once he had rounded the corner and found Hermione and Ron in the kitchen and dining area. They were standing in front of the oak table, Ron's hands on Hermione's hips and her arms wrapped around his neck. Both had windswept hair and their clothes appeared to have been rustled about. Harry could spot a love bite on the center of Hermione's neck over where her knife scar usually was. She hastily smoothed out the front of her blouse and did her best to not look at Harry in the eyes.
His mouth twitched into a knowing half-smile as silence filled the room. The couch pillows had been tossed across the living room haphazardly and there were three empty wine bottles on the table, shining in the light of two dripping candles. Whereas before he had always been embarrassed by the blossoming romance between his two best friends, this new relationship with Ginny made Harry want everyone around him to be in love. It was the best feeling in the world and he wished to relish it alongside them.
"I already know about you and Ginny," Ron said pointedly, wiping the smile clean off of Harry's face. Before Harry could retort, he said, "Listen, you've got my blessing or whatever. Just be careful with her, ok? She's going to Hogwarts, so no little speckled gits running around anytime soon."
"Are you drunk?" Harry laughed, noting the obvious slur in his best friend's speech and his overfriendliness when talking about his younger sister.
"A weenie bit," Ron answered truthfully. "Hermione's wine-and-dining me."
"You seemed bothered, mate, I guess the drinks did you good," said Harry as he shot Hermione a thankful look. She returned his smile sheepishly and then turned back to the redhead.
"What happened?" Hermione asked, seizing the opportunity to address what she had noticed when he first got there.
When Ron didn't answer right away, Harry said, "Shacklebolt brought up Fred, started talking about how we needed to make sure people didn't die for nothing. These last Death Eaters can't band together and try another war. It would be a waste of who we lost."
"I think he was just trying to motivate me, I've been kind of nervous about all of this," Ron admitted dejectedly. "I thought maybe I should just go back to Hogwarts, but he insisted he needs me as much as he needs Neville and Harry."
"It's true," Harry said quickly. "You've been with me through almost everything, you are really brilliant, Ron, and you don't give yourself credit."
His ears were bright red, but Ron looked pleased nonetheless. "Thanks, mate."
"It's nothing," Harry said. "Well, I just wanted to check to see if you were alright, you two can carry on…" He made to leave by stepping back towards the fireplace.
"We weren't doing anything," Ron replied indifferently. Hermione felt a flash of anger, but stayed quiet. Ron needed time with his other best friend, and she had already had quite a bit of quality attention from him today.
"So about Ginny," Harry said reluctantly, plopping into the armchair next to the fireplace. He was measuring his words. "Your Mum invited me to lunch tomorrow. Just me, her, and your dad."
Ron let out a low whistle. "It's the talk. She sat me down during sixth year when I was seeing Lavender, it was dreadful."
"You think Ginny told her?" Harry asked nervously.
"No, mothers just know," Hermione said dogmatically. "And Ginny hasn't exactly been hiding it, has she?"
Ginny Weasley, who was always the life and soul of whatever room she was occupying, had taken to dancing around the Burrow, bellowing off-key variations of Celestina Warbeck ballads at the top of her lungs. She volunteered to feed the chickens, degnome the garden, and help her mother with household duties. She always had been very beautiful, but was now accentuating her striking features with hints of rouge, lipstick, and mascara. Any and every spare moment she had was spent at Grimmauld Place with Harry, where they had fucked each other senselessly six wonderful times since her birthday, if you didn't split last Sunday's two hour long session into two. Almost every word out of her mouth involved some notion of Harry Potter, just like how she had been during the summer before her first year. She was emitting a youthful glow that had not graced those around her for months. The contagious joy was starting to help her family fill the void left by Fred.
Molly Weasley immediately took notice of this sudden change in behavior and recognized the symptoms: her dear Ginny, her youngest child and only daughter, was deeply in love. And if she was not mistaken, and her maternal instincts rarely were, Harry and Ginny were now physically expressing their love. The hours at Grimmauld Place had not passed unnoticed, and whenever she returned to the Burrow, Ginny bolted straight for her room and did not emerge for hours afterward. She was hiding something, and it was time to address it before things got out of control. So Molly invited Harry over for lunch on Saturday the twenty-second at one o'clock sharp. Arthur would have the day off from work, so he could sit with them and mediate if it was needed. She was not planning on any other family members to be home, including Ginny, whom Hermione and Ron would be taking out for lunch and to Diagon Alley to be fitted for new Quidditch robes and do a last bit of school shopping.
"Just tell her the truth, she won't be mad," Ron said. "She thinks of you as another son, so she's not going to chase you off or anything."
"I'm more scared of your dad," Harry admitted, gulping. Arthur Weasley was a very kind-natured man, but in the times Harry had seen him angry, he was positively terrifying. Ginny was his little girl and the only female Weasley to be born in generations, so it would not be outside the realm of possibility for a physical confrontation to break out if tempers flared.
"He's the calmer of the two, you know that," Ron reminded Harry as he got to his feet and fetched a full bottle of wine from the cabinet. "He's fond of you, especially because you were raised with Muggles. You and Hermione are his heroes because you might be able to fulfill his life's ambition, to know how airplanes fly." He poured three glasses and handed one to each of them and added, "Nutter." They each sipped thoughtfully, the room dark except for the flickering of the fireplace. Harry refilled and drank three glasses before he broke the silence.
"I'm in love with her," he proclaimed thickly to the two. They stared back at him, Ron's face appraising his best friend but Hermione looked close to tears as she smiled. "I don't want to say goodbye to her in a week."
"We've got to though. I'm going to miss Hermione like something awful, but we're going to be busy," Ron said quietly. "This war isn't over yet, and I haven't finished avenging my brother."
"It isn't," Harry agreed, impassioned by the wine. His green eyes flashed from behind his round spectacles. "But I'm going to make sure it will end finally. If I cross paths with some Death Eaters along the way and have to take a few of the cowards down – all for the better."
