Chapter 4: The Peak

"Oof!" Hermione blurted as Ron captured her elbow to save her from taking a header down a very steep incline. She'd lost her footing on a loose rock as she and Ron neared the crest and might have twisted her ankle had Ron not promptly shifted the picnic basket he was carrying to his other arm and righted her in time.

"You OK?" he inquired, setting the overloaded basket on the ground beside him and kneeling down to press his fingers to Hermione's ankle.

"I'm fine," she breathed, though she was winded. She rested her hand on Ron's shoulder to balance herself as he lifted her foot and experimentally turned it right and then left before deciding she was telling the truth and setting it down. "Honestly, Ronald — I just slipped. I'm quite all right."

"Fair enough," he replied. He stretched himself back up to his full height and hoisted the picnic basket with his right hand while extending his left hand for her to grip, which she did with both hands. "Just wanted to be sure. After all these years of promising to take you to The Peak, it wouldn't do to have you fall off it."

A few stumbling steps and another near-tumble more, and Ron and Hermione did indeed reach the summit of the rocky hill the Weasley family had always called The Peak. It was the highest point for miles, providing a striking view of the Devonshire countryside in all directions, and though it was so far from The Burrow that the ramshackle structure appeared dollhouse-size in the middle distance from that vantage point, The Peak was well within the outer ring of the Weasleys' protective wards.

Ron led Hermione to his favorite spot, a grassy knoll nestled within the rocky bluffs atop The Peak, and unfurled one of two quilts he towed along with them on this hastily organized outing. Ron had decided on the excursion at first light, upon seeing that, after a week of clouds and showers, a gloriously sunny and warm day was dawning. He'd thought fresh air and sunshine would do Hermione a world of good. Best of all, both he and Hermione were free: Hermione had no Healer's appointments that day (the only activity that had taken her away from The Burrow these past few weeks), and Ron had none of the commitments that had occupied so much of his and Harry's time. No get-togethers with Kingsley. No press interviews. No physicals. No meetings with prosecutors. The thought of this last bit had made Ron flinch a little, because he was quite aware that the Ministry's Justice Department dearly wanted Hermione's testimony, and soon, something he dreaded for her sake and had valiantly tried to delay on her behalf. But, setting all that aside for the moment, he had reminded himself that the day ahead of them looked blessedly open, and he'd taken his mother aside after breakfast to ask if he could raid the kitchen for a few essentials.

What he hadn't bargained on was for Molly to stuff the picnic basket to overflowing, but she had: There were leftover treacle tarts, bacon sandwiches, magically chilled bottles of pumpkin juice, rounds of cheese, apples, as well as an assortment of the biscuits and savories that Molly, Hermione and sometimes Ginny had baked together out of boredom during the recent stint of gloomy weather.

Ron sat atop the quilt and squinted upward into the sun to see Hermione still standing and scanning the distant prospect with a look of awe on her face. He followed her gaze first toward The Burrow, then over the little town of Ottery St. Catchpole, looking similarly toylike, just beyond, then along the winding River Otter and to the rolling hills on the horizon, arrayed in shades of green and blue and gold. Hermione's hair flickered in the sunlight, her curls dancing in the steady breeze that also caused her flowery cotton skirt to billow and sway about her knees. Ron was right: An outing seemed to be just the thing for Hermione. Her cheeks were pink, eyes bright. She'd recently been given the all-clear to remove the bandage that had covered the scar at the base of her neck, and though the mark was still visible there within the opening of the dainty blouse she wore, it had at least narrowed to a thin pink line. He felt a sudden urge to pull her to him and kiss it, but he nudged that idea aside — for now.

Though he and Hermione had been sleeping together every night for the better part of a fortnight, that was all that they had done — sleep — partly because Ron had made a promise to his father and he intended to live up to it, and partly because Ron reckoned he needed to go slow for Hermione's sake. Harry's presence in the bedroom was another impediment, of course, and at any other time, Ron would have considered this nighttime company inconvenient in the extreme. But, under the circumstances, he reckoned it was just as well.

Still … none of this meant Ron didn't crave Hermione's touch, didn't long to be near her, didn't yearn to be alone with her to show as well as tell her how he felt. Today, for better or worse, was really his first opportunity to do so.

"How high are we up here?" Hermione asked, pulling Ron back from these thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"Oh, I just wondered how tall this particular hill is."

"Dunno," he said with a shrug as he kicked off his hiking boots and watched them land helter-skelter a few feet down the hill. Then he laid back, propping himself up on his elbows. "100, 200 meters, I reckon. No idea, really. Why?"

Hermione shook her head and laughed, sitting down primly on the quilt net to Ron. "Nevermind, it's silly."

"No it isn't," Ron replied. "What?"

Hermione looked down and blushed, then gathered herself in a manner that reminded him fondly of her many recitations from "Hogwarts: A History" back in the Common Room. "There's a formula, you see, for calculating the distance of the horizon," she chirped. "For an observer on the ground, the horizon is at a distance of just under five kilometers. The distance goes up exponentially from there, however, depending on how high you are. At a height of 30 meters, for instance, the horizon is almost 20 kilometers distant." Her eyes returned to the hills at the edge of their vision. "So, I reckon we can see more than, maybe, 40 kilometers from up here. Quite amazing, really."

Ron shook his head and grinned. "Yes, you are," he said.

Hermione, somewhat startled at the warmth in his voice, peeked back at him over her shoulder, then averted her gaze to her boots. She swatted at his knee playfully but was evidently charmed by his remark nonetheless, for she couldn't suppress her smile. Her cheeks reddened and she busied herself with neatly untying her boots and placing them just beyond the edge of the quilt. She then paid far more attention to the act of rolling up the sleeves of her cardigan than she might have done could she not feel the heat of Ron's admiring gaze on her.

"It's beautiful here," Hermione continued once she felt she could speak again without grinning like a nutter. "I love Devonshire."

Ron rolled onto his side, propped up on one elbow, and reached into the basket for an apple, tossing it lightly in his hand rather than biting into it. "You don't miss Cambridge?" he asked.

Hermione turned to look at him again briefly and then returned her eyes to the horizon. "Of course, there are things I miss there," she said quietly. But then she cleared her throat and brightened somewhat, lifting a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the sunshine as she continued to scan the faraway hills. "There is beauty in the Cambridge countryside, to be sure. But it's a totally different landscape there. Some of it is even below sea level, believe it or not." She paused and dropped her hand to finger the hem of her skirt, studying it closely as she tucked it tightly behind her knees. "Cambridge is lovely," she continued slowly, "but, to me, it's nothing to Devon."

Ron felt his face warm by several degrees as she spoke. "It's," he started, then stopped to try to sort out his thoughts. She loved Devon. It seemed a silly thing to be moved by — what's not to like about Devon? — but he was moved nevertheless. She liked the place where he'd grown up, the place he'd loved best, where he'd always hoped to live. He dropped the apple back into the basket and reached for her hand, the one that had been fiddling with her hem, and brushed the back of it with his fingertips before wrapping it in his. She turned to face him more fully then, looking down at him as he reclined next to her, and he found his voice. "It's not the only beautiful place in the world, Devon," he managed to say past the lump in his throat as he caressed her knuckles with his thumb.

Their perspectives reversed as Hermione pivoted and lowered herself to lie on her back alongside him. He was above her then, and she marveled at the sight of him, ginger hair falling into his eyes, glinting in the sun. "Yes," she said slowly, consideringly, "but there's no place like home, is there?"

He dipped low and kissed her then, softly at first. They'd kissed, of course, many times, even in bed. There had always seemed to be reasons to hold back, however, mostly due to the lack of privacy in the overcrowded Burrow. But there were no such obstacles here, and Hermione hummed appreciatively as Ron deepened the kiss and gathered her closer to him with both arms.

"Hermione," he finally murmured, his lips pressed against her cheek, after coming up for air. "Gods, I so want you to think of this place as home." He shifted himself so that he could see her face, and smiled when he spied the teary grin that greeted him. "Didn't know quite how much I wanted it until just now, I reckon."

Hermione raised one hand to the side of Ron's face and sighed. His joyful just-won-the-House-Cup expression … the pink flush that had risen to his cheeks, mixing so sweetly with the pale auburn freckles splashed across his face … his mussed hair, sticking up in countless different directions as the wind played with it … he was utterly adorable, and she was fascinated and even a little awestruck to see that her praise of his birthplace had so clearly pleased him. Gods, she loved him. Even in the depths of her grief, he had ways of finding her and pulling her out of it, of making her feel alive and glad of it. She felt her smile widening. "Wherever you are is my home, Ronald," she whispered. "Never forget it."

Several hours later — though she couldn't swear just how many — Hermione's eyes fluttered open in smiling semi-wakefulness. She squinted skyward and judged, from the angle of the sun and the lengthening shadow cast by the lone tree that sheltered the knoll, that it must be mid-afternoon. With her ear planted against Ron's bare chest, she could hear the slow rhythm of his heartbeat, punctuated by the occasional soft snore. She shifted one leg slightly and savored the delicious feeling of Ron's skin — so, so much of it — against so much of her own. Her cheeks burned at the thought of how she had come to be in such a state of dishabille, tucked nearly starkers between two quilts, wrapped in Ronald Weasley's lanky arms. The memory of it made her want to squeal with delight, and she might have but for her wish to let Ron sleep.

He'd been so tender and so incredibly gentle, and yet he couldn't hide his need, whispering her name over and over with an intense urgency that would have melted her resistance had she the inclination to offer any. "I love you so much," he'd continued, murmuring into her ear as he slid his hand beneath her bum, the better to pin her beneath him. "Let me show you, Mione. Please. Let me show you."

And he had, and in a manner that felt somehow much more intimate than the only other time she had ever, erm, *let herself go,* in a manner of speaking, in Ron's presence. That first time, back in the privacy of Ron's Hogwarts four-poster, they'd both been carried away in the crosscurrents of need, grief, desire, joy and exhaustion, moving together until each achieved the release that had seemingly eluded them for years despite the layer of clothes between them. This time, however, there was so much more touch involved — and so much more to touch. Ron had wasted little time in ridding himself of his shirt, leaning back and tearing it off in a quick motion that left his hair in an even more irresistible state of breezy disarray than it was before. He chucked the shirt in the general direction of his boots and seemed about to leap back atop Hermione when he paused and looked at her, splayed out beneath him on the quilt.

"You're so beautiful, Hermione," he said then, shaking his head slightly as if in disbelief. "Gods, what are you doing here with me?" he added, the corner of his mouth curling upward.

Hermione smiled back, slipping her hands upward and pressing them flat against his chest, which felt warm and smooth to her touch. "Waiting for you to kiss me," she answered as she slid her hands further upward to circle around his neck.

He lowered himself to her then, kissing her deeply as he unbuttoned her blouse and eventually slid his hand beneath her skirt and under the silky fabric of her knickers. She didn't have time to be nervous or even self-conscious about what happened next, because before she had a chance to think, Ron's fingers had discovered their objective, stroking her center gently at first and then more insistently until she could do little more than arch her back and cry out his name.

He wore a satisfied little grin after that, but she couldn't begrudge him his triumph — he'd undone her completely. Not long thereafter, she was down to her knickers alone, running her fingers through Ron's hair as he explored her body — pausing only to Levitate a second quilt over them when he sensed she was chilly.

Soon he guided her hand to the zip of his jeans and proceeded to teach her how to provide him the sort of pleasure he'd just given her. She'd felt his hardness through his clothing, of course — it was difficult to miss when they slept together at night — but she wasn't prepared for the magnificent sight of him: much larger and, well, thicker than she had imagined.

He'd wordlessly taken her hand and curled it around himself, demonstrating the pressure and speed needed to bring him to the edge — and, in a remarkably short time, he was there, eyes pressed shut and mouth open as a deep groan escaped his chest. Hermione was mesmerized, and not a little chuffed, that she'd brought about this response.

Afterward, as they tumbled about in one another's arms before succumbing to sleep, she'd noted to herself how gingerly he'd handled her — his strength just barely bridled, but bridled nevertheless, as if he was fighting mightily with himself to resist the urge to crush her to himself and have his way with her. She sensed he was holding back — reining something in — and she was right, at least to a degree. Ron was indeed holding something back. Something he dearly wanted her to know, a secret that he thought she might not be ready to hear. More than once, as they explored one another between the quilts, he'd had the urge to tell her, but he forced it down. It wasn't time yet, he told himself. It wasn't time yet. But soon, he hoped. Soon.

oooOOOooo

A/N — I hope you're enjoying this, my dear readers!

For a little while there, I hesitated to post this chapter because I thought the outdoor setting might be too similar to the Scotland scene in Chapter 19 of "One Punch: A History," one of my other stories. But then, I have always imagined that Ron is an outdoorsman — someone who enjoys hiking and wilderness, because he was born and raised in the countryside. And so I keep having the urge to place him in such settings.

Finally I decided to go with it because ... what the heck.

Anyway, here's my usual, tiresome and shameless plea for reviews and shares. Thanks for reading!

Cheers,

Holly.