Ron

I move slowly and carefully, propping myself up on my elbow so that I can watch her sleeping.

We were still holding hands when I finally fell asleep, and our fingertips were still touching when I woke up moments ago. Bloody brilliant!

I don't want to disturb her, so I'm reluctant to move, but I must. My leg is aching and stiff, and it's not the only thing. She sighs and moves slightly. She doesn't wake, but I lose the one point of fingertip to fingertip, flesh to flesh, contact that I had.

Flesh to flesh!

Bloody Hell!

I don't want to let go of her hand, but if I want to get some feeling back in my leg, if I want to watch her, I must.

I slide sideways, away from her, and turn cautiously onto my side (some people might say gingerly, but I'm a Weasley, we always do everything gingerly). I grin to myself at my very crappy, and very old, joke.

Moving across the bed allows me to bend my knee and I begin to get some feeling back in my leg. Now, as I finally relax onto my side, I can really see her. I watch her sleeping. I'm happy, ecstatic, I'm feeling better than I ever have in my entire life and I want to feel like this forever. The reason is lying next to me.

I have watched her sleeping before. I have shaken her awake and soothed her to sleep countless times over several years. I have even shared a room with her, more times than I can count, but Harry was always there too. Last night, however, was the first time we shared a bed.

I gaze at her perfect features, still relaxed in sleep.

She is beautiful; masses of brown hair tumble wantonly over the white pillow.

Bloody hell! I'm starting to think poetic thoughts! It must be love.

It is love, and it's turning me soppy.

And I don't care!

Her eyelashes are long and fine, they are perfect. They make me want to kiss her closed eyelids, but I don't. There is a faint half-smile on her lips and it creates a very kissable crease at the side of her mouth. I don't kiss her there, either, although I want to.

Her skin is pale. The tan from last summer's French sunshine has faded into nothing and she's probably as pale as I am (on those few bits of my skin that aren't covered in freckles).

She is beautiful. She doesn't think so, apparently. I often wonder what she heard, and overheard, at school. I know that Pansy was always rude about Hermione's appearance. I have no idea why. I suppose that it must have been jealousy, because pug-face was no great beauty, and definitely not a genius. Pansy was better looking than muscle-bound Millicent and horse-faced Daphne, big deal. Maybe Pansy was always horrible to Hermione because she needed to get her retaliation in first.

But Pansy wasn't the only one. On the morning after the Battle, I was walking down the dormitory stairs when I overheard Seamus and Dean talking. They were in the Gryffindor common room.

'They reckon that Ron snogged Hermione,' said Dean conspiratorially.

'He's mad,' said Seamus. 'He had Lavender, all curves and passion, and he ditched her to chase after a bossy, screeching, know-it-all, an annoying pain in the arse.'

'Parvati and Padma and Lavender are all better looking than…' Dean was saying when I walked in to the common room. They fell silent and exchanged a guilty look. Somehow, I managed to keep my mouth shut. I think that they knew I'd heard them, and that I wanted to thump both of them. But I said nothing, and did nothing, because Seamus' girlfriend, the stomach-churning Lavender, was in the hospital wing and no one knew whether she would survive.

Seamus and Dean are idiots. Hermione is none of those things; she's forceful, opinionated and clever. And she's bloody gorgeous. Hermione would never expect me to wear naff jewellery, and she certainly wouldn't buy it for me. She isn't silly or soppy and she is beautiful. Sometimes, however, I think I'm the only one who's noticed how wonderful she is. Perhaps that's a good thing.

She doesn't have the curves of Lavender, but she's… What is she? I wonder.

After all of the funerals last summer, while Hermione was with her parents for those long weeks of enforced separation, I asked Ginny if she thought that Hermione was good-looking. She said yes, Hermione was definitely attractive. Ginny claimed that Krum still fancied Hermione, although I think she was teasing me. I told Ginny that not everyone thought so, that Pansy was always rude about her appearance. Ginny told me that Pansy was half-troll, and besides pug-face had snogged Draco, therefore her opinion on absolutely everything was worthless.

Ginny also said that different boys find different things attractive, and so do girls. We're all different, Ginny said. She told me that I should be very grateful that we iare/i all different, because Hermione, who is intelligent in every other way, was somehow blind to the fact that her boyfriend was a lanky, ginger idiot with a big nose and a permanently gormless expression.

I asked Ginny if she'd actually noticed that she was snogging a scrawny, speccy scruff. She just laughed and told me that she was very glad that I didn't fancy her boyfriend.

Ginny can be really annoying sometimes, but she's my sister, we're supposed to annoy each other. There are times when Hermione annoys me too, but so did Lavender. Strangely, although Hermione annoys me, Lavender used to drive me crazy. I think I've finally figured out why. Lavender was—frilly—she talked constantly, but it was always about nonsense, clothes and stuff. Why is it that an annoying Hermione is still bearable, and even fun to argue with? When Lavender was annoying she was just—annoying!

Harry doesn't fancy Hermione, I know that now. He's told me often enough. He thinks that she's sort-of-good-looking, but he doesn't like her hair. I think he needs new glasses. I love Hermione's hair; I love the fact that I get a face full of her hair when we hug.

Harry says that she goes on and on about house-elf rights and stuff too. He's right, she does, but so does he. It's just that he goes on about different stuff, like Death Eaters.

I look down at my sleeping girlfriend. I think she's wonderful. Who cares what anyone else thinks?

One arm, the one furthest away from me, lies above the duvet. The duvet itself is lying across her at an angle. It's trapped under her far armpit.

I can see the top of the very faint scar on her chest. It's the scar she was given by that Death Eater at the Ministry. That was almost three years ago I realise. Until I saw her in a bikini last summer, I had never seen it. She pointed it out to me at the time. I think that she expected me to make some stupid, insensitive comment. I didn't. Instead, I told her the truth, I said that I hadn't noticed it.

She didn't believe me; she called me a liar! So I reminded her that she was wearing a bikini, that she was revealing a lot of places I'd never seen before and that I had things to look at that were a lot more interesting than an almost invisible scar. That made her blush. Her blushes are incredible. Her cheeks turn rose-red.

I can find that scar, but only because I know where to look. It is very difficult to see, thanks to Madam Pomfrey, unlike the scars on my arms.

She is relaxed and peaceful in sleep and she is Hermione-beautiful, it's not her face, or her nose, or her figure I like. It is her, all of her, but particularly her legs and her ankles, and her bum, and her ... no, I was right the first time, it is all of her. I continue my observations.

Closer to me the bedclothes are even lower and I see the tiniest fraction of brown areola peeking out. That's how all this happened … sort of … possibly.

Areola is a word I didn't know until yesterday. Hermione taught me several new words yesterday, and she used one that I thought I'd never hear her say. She always tells me off when I use that word, "will you stop effing, Ron" she says. She doesn't ever use that word. But she did last night. As she pointed out rather earthily, it was the correct word for what we were doing at the time.

Bloody hell!

Last night! Me and Hermione! It was sticky and sweaty and rather uncoordinated and I didn't do much for her, not at first. 'We just need to practice,' she told me, while I apologised.

I really don't deserve her.

We persevered. She told me where, and how, to touch her. Merlin! That was a worthwhile lesson. Now, at nine o'clock in the morning I'm wide awake and staring at her and my memories from last night mean that I'm quite literally and physically up for a bit more practice. But I know her too well; she can be rather crabby in the morning.

I don't dare wake her.

I want to. Because, well, because…

But I don't want to, because she looks so peaceful and perfect, and she's mine. And last night, for the first time, we slept together.

Ginny teases me all of the time. She once said that Hermione and I spent almost nine months sleeping together. But that was in a tent with Harry. And we were on the run. And a lot of the time I was being a complete arse. But, apparently, Hermione never hated me. That's what she said last night, anyway.

I've no idea why she didn't hate me, because for a lot of the time I hated myself.

So I watch Hermione sleep.

She is breathing in through her nose, and out through her mouth. Her lips are relaxed and they open slightly with a soft 'puhhhh' sound every time she breathes out. The regular, gentle, noise is making my heart beat faster. She is driving me crazy (but she always drives me crazy and I love that, too). Then I realise that the 'puhhhh' sound is the way some of the noises she was making last night started. Merlin, those noises were even better. Her little panting sighs turned to rasps and gasps and finally grunts, several 'Oh, fuck's', and a squeal.

I am driving myself wild with these thoughts.

I want to wake her and get more practice. The trouble is, if I wake her, she'll be annoyed with me.

This is so frustrating!

I think about last night, even though that simply adds to my frustration.

I really didn't expect us to come back here. I think that somewhere, at the back of my mind, I sort of hoped. But really, all I wanted was to take her out for the day, just the two of us. I wanted to give her a holiday from revision, because she works too hard. But somehow we ended up here, in bed together. She had wanted to do this for a long time, apparently.

I wish I'd known that sooner.

Last night she was giving me lots of instructions, so I asked her how she knew what to do—we both knew that it was the first time for each of us.

She'd read some books on the subject, she said; I should have guessed. I asked if they had pictures and to my astonishment, she blushed. So I suggested that we take a practical exam, and that made her laugh. I love to make her laugh, she has a wonderful laugh. It's not easy to make her laugh, but it's always worth it.

Damn! My leg's going to sleep again.

I shift, it's only slightly but it's enough to move the duvet down an inch. I notice the contrast between skin, areola and nipple. I stare.

If she was awake Hermione would accuse me of looking at her breasts (and that's the word she'd use for them). I'd admit that I was, and I'd tell her that they're nice tits (because that's the word I'd use), and they are well worth looking at. Anyway, what else are they for, apart from fondling and kissing, obviously?

Merlin, I need some relief! I am going to go crazy here! I could…

I begin to move my hand down to my cock. But if she wakes up, and she's up for it, that would be better than me simply…

I force myself to simply watch and wait.

It's weird the way her tits almost disappear when she's lying on her back. They're still very nice, but they sort of fall to the sides and I want to move them back on top.

I have to stop myself from doing just that.

Look, but don't touch, Ron.

I am definitely going to go crazy here!

What can I do to take my mind off Hermione?

I look at my scarred and freckled forearm instead. That doesn't work! I move my arm towards her, to try to compare colours, but I disturb the duvet again, and she opens one eye. Her brown eyes are bright, and I realise that her breathing changed some time ago. I wonder how long she's been awake.

'What're you doing, Ron?' she asks drowsily.

'Comparing colours. I'm sorry, I didn't want to disturb you,' I apologise.

'Colours?'

I slide my arm under the duvet, cup her right boob, and try to explain. I have big hands, Keeper's hands, and her tit fits easily within it. I move the soft flesh back onto her chest and watch it flow under my fingers. She doesn't slap my hand away, but instead smiles sleepily.

'My skin and freckles, and your skin and areola.' I make a meal of pronouncing the last word.

'You like that word, don't you?' She's laughing at me. That is always good.

'Areola, areola, areola,' I say in a sing song voice. 'Actually, Hermione, it's probably your areolas that I like, not the word for them. But I'll need to take a much closer look at them to be absolutely sure,' I tell her. I lower my head towards her chest and she laughs.

'You are incorrigible, Ron,' she tells me.

'I certainly don't need much incorrigement to get closer to you,' I agree. While she's laughing at my very bad pun I begin to flick her right nipple with my thumb. As it stiffens and hardens under my touch, I lower my head further and softly blow on her left areola, that nipple twitches tantalisingly and I have no option but to lick it. I am desperate, rampant, and almost painfully hard.

I roll over. Still kissing one tit and fondling the other I crouch above her, one knee between her legs. My cock brushes her leg. Her hand encircles it and I groan.

'Merlin, I think it's bigger that it was last night,' she says.

'What is?' I ask teasingly.

'Your penis,' she says.

'Penis!' I laugh at the word.

'Breast,' I say. I squeeze it.

'Areola,' I say. I encircle it with my thumb.

'Nipple,' I say. I flick it gently. Then I release her tit. While I'm watching it move sideways I slide my hand downwards.

'Navel.' I barely stop, but my fingers tickle it as my hand continues downward.

Hermione giggles, another good thing.

My fingers reach a forest of hair.

'Mons pubis,' I tell her proudly, proving that I was paying attention last night. She thinks that I never pay attention, but I do when it's something important, like Quidditch and Chess; and Hermione.

'And on top of the mountain, the Forest of Hermione.' I run my fingers through her tangled pubes. I'm suddenly curious, I wonder how far my hand will stretch. I extend my thumb up, so that the tip rests gently in her belly-button. I then extend my fingers downwards.

'Clitoris,' I tell her. She moans. My forefinger has easily reached that pleasure point, so I slowly massage it. I extend my middle, ring and little fingers.

'Vagina,' I say, as the three other fingers slide inside the moist warmth.

Her hand tightens around my dick. Her thumb slides up the outside and I discover a pleasure point I didn't know I had.

'Fuck,' I say as her thumb reaches the point where my foreskin meets the purple helmet.

'Do you like that?' she asks, rubbing it again.

'Fuck, yes,' I tell her. 'But you'd better stop it if you want…' I raise an enquiring eyebrow. My fingers continue to massage and probe.

'If I want what?' she asks. 'If I want us to fuck?' She releases my cock, and now I'm more desperate than ever.

'I do,' she tells me.

I push myself up with me left arm sit up while continuing to finger her. The duvet falls down my back. She was naked under the bedcovers, now she is simply naked. I can see as well as feel her, so I examine her closely. My gaze moves from bushy brown hair, mischievous brown eyes, lips which seem fuller than usual, lovely boobs, belly button and finally down to … bushy brown hair. I smile as I try to imprint her appearance on my mind.

'You're letting the cold air in. Warm me up,' she demands.

So I do. I withdraw my fingers and she spreads her legs for me. This is probably basic stuff, but we're both new to this game, and we're learning together. Before I try to enter her, I slide down the bed and kiss her nose, and then her lips. It's slow, tongue tangling and sloppy, and as we kiss I can feel her pubes tickling my belly-button. I'm so much taller than she is that I can't kiss her while we're fucking. At least, I haven't figured out how to do it yet. Perhaps if she was on top and I was sort of bent?

I raise myself up, hands each side of her head, arms extended and I look down at her impish face. I take it slowly and she reaches down to guide my cock into her nest. My instinct is to ram myself in, hard and fast, but I don't. I slide slowly inside her, concentrating on her face. Is this what she wants, what she likes? I need to know. After all the better it is for her the more likely it is she'll want to do it again, and again and…

'Fuck, that was good,' she tells me. She lets out a contented purr, throws her arms around my neck, and pulls me down for a kiss.

'It was.' I agree. 'I love you, Hermione,' I tell her. I roll off her, but she follows me, and we lie on our sides, facing each other, kissing, and relaxing in each others' arms. We are holding each other tightly when we hear a thump and a squeal from upstairs.

'It sounds like Harry and Ginny are awake,' Hermione tells me unnecessarily.

That's something I don't want to think about. But it's something that I'm going to have to get used to, especially while I'm living at Grimmauld Place with Harry.

I roll over onto my back, and Hermione snuggles up to me and slides an arm over my chest. She kisses my cheek.

'Good morning, boyfriend,' she whispers.

'It is a very good morning, beautiful girlfriend, very good indeed. The best ever,' I reply.

'I'm not beautiful,' she says.

'You are,' I tell her drowsily. 'You are without a doubt…'

She frowns at me, preparing to argue.

'…The most beautiful girl…'

I watch as she prepares a list of girls she foolishly thinks are more beautiful than she is.

'…In this bed,' I tell her triumphantly. She laughs, because she can't argue with that, and we hug, bare flesh to bare flesh.

I close my eyes for a moment.

When I open my eyes I'm alone in my bedroom. I move my hand across to Hermione's side of the bed.

Hermione's side… Do we have sides? How does that work? When we parted last night I rolled onto the left side of the bed, and Hermione took the right. We did the same this morning. Will we always do that? Why?

This morning, and for many more mornings I hope, the right side is her side. It is not quite cold; a faint and fading warmth remains. I roll over onto the comforting shadow of her heat, the last lingering warmth she has left for me. It feels good, and it smells Hermione.

I am happily soaking up the Hermioneness in my bed when my stomach reminds me that it's time for breakfast. I look around the room and realise that Hermione's clothes have gone. She will probably be in the kitchen—with Harry and Ginny!

Damn! What am I supposed to do? What happens now? Hermione knew about Harry and Ginny and she didn't tell me. Am I supposed to go downstairs and pretend that nothing has happened? I can't!

'Go get some breakfast, Ron,'/my stomach tells me. Suddenly, I'm ravenous. If I stay here, I'll starve. That's not an option.

I dress and head for the bathroom. That's where I realise that the hollow feeling in my stomach is not only hunger, it is worry too. In a few minutes I must face my girlfriend, my best friend and my sister.

My sister and Harry have been…

And I know!

Hermione and I have been…

And they know!

What do I do?

I can't hide forever, so I dry my hands and face, and head downstairs.