A/N: Sorry for the long wait; I've been quite busy as of late. Nevertheless, I'd like to thank everyone for all your support. And I have especially enjoyed the snarky reviews in defence of this mildly racy title. I'm thinking of adding individual chapter titles. Suggestions are welcome in the form of private messages, of course. This chapter's fairly long, and again, I'll issue a sex warning. I'm not sure how it turned out, because it was supposed to focus more on home life, but I'm telling you, you'll like where it's going from here on out. But then, maybe you won't. So I suppose you'll have to wait and see! And I really do hope you'll wait.

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The day Harry Potter regained his courage was the day Ron found his. There was a whole commotion in the Black House when Harry began to attend strategy meetings. Mrs Weasley ran to him with sterile cloths in hand, cleaning his wounds, whispering over and over, "Oh, Harry, Harry, you're well..."

Harry smiled in a series of huge stupid grins that hid the severity of his final decision. He figured he'd save his surrogate mother the embarrassment, and washed and dressed himself. Ron had apparently heard it all, and, exempt from mourning, or merely out of jealousy, descended the stairwell to the parlor. The room went silent; it appeared as though Ron was himself again. He smiled, approached Hermione from behind where she sat on a sofa, and surprised her with a kiss on the cheek.

She almost screamed out Draco's name.

Good thing she knew it in her better interest, then, to verify her lovers. She turned her head to see her fiancé and her face lit up. She shrieked and kissed him on the mouth. Something in Draco's stomach twisted an made him feel like hurling. "Ron," she cooed. "How're you feeling?"

His eyes glistened, and for a second she could see just how disconsolate he really was, but he merely responded, "Better than ever." He flashed her a smile. "So, what's the buzz?"

"Oh, Ronald!" Mrs Weasley cried. "Both of you!" She embraced both boys and they smiled dumbly.

"Nice to have you back, mate."

"Nice to be back. Now tell me, you prat, what in the hell is going on!"

Apparently, Mrs Weasley decided she would answer for Harry. "Harry's feeling well, you're feeling well, we're all planning for the end!"

The manner in which she affirmed Harry's decision was dripping with morbidity, but all the cavorting and carousal drowned the magnitude of the task at hand. In fact, through all the drinking and yelling and laughing, Ron barely got the chance to properly greet his fiancee. "Barely," however, was just enough, and he found time.

"Hermione," he said softly, pulling her aside, her hands in his. "I know I've been rather... distant lately. I'd like to make it up to you. Would you care to join me for dinner tonight? Just the two of us."

She smiled warmly. "I'd love to. But where?"

"It's a surprise."

"You're just full of surprises today, aren't you?"

"S'pose so," he replied, and kissed her forehead. "We're leaving at seven. Wear something nice. Formal, even."

"Will do!"

"You're beautiful." He gave her a longer kiss on the mouth.

It was interrupted by Ginny's cry of, "Get a room!" Hermione laughed, but Ron yelled back, "Ginny, you little tart, I swear–" and Ginny ran girlishly into Harry's arms. Their owner said simply, "Watch it, brother-in-law."

Draco had retired to his room by that time.

Shortly thereafter, Ginny and Hermione had gone to Sirius' grandmother's room, and for one reason–they both had hot dates that evening, and the woman happened to own the largest vanity known to wizard kind, save, maybe, that of Narcissa Malfoy. It wasn't so much Ginny who really needed the grooming as it was Hermione. The friends knew her hair would take a minimum of two hours to tame.

"You know," Ginny began, running a comb through Hermione's mope, "I'll be happy if we only have to do this two more times."

"And those times would be...?" Hermione laughed, muttering a few incantations along the way.

"Our weddings!" Ginny exclaimed.

"Oh," Hermione said stupidly. She hadn't thought of that in a while.

"You seem excited," Ginny mocked.

"Oh, no, I was just thinking. You know that McGlaggen was injured very badly today in a surprise siege on the Parkinson estate. We think they must have gotten a hint. If it was Snape, we can't really stop up the leak." Nice save, Hermione.

"You sure do have a way of spoiling the mood." Ginny dejectedly recited a spell that made no noticeable changes to Hermione's hair.

"They were all there, Ginny," Hermione whispered. "Moody and his team went expecting extra defence to comprise a few angry house elves, but they were all there. Waiting."

"Horrid, isn't it?"

Hermione sighed at her friend's naive apathy. It was a serious fight. The aurors had held their ground, but only for a while. They were greatly outnumbered and forced to retreat. The outcome, needless to say, was not as expected; they'd gone in search of illegal magical weapons that had gone missing from Gringotts. They returned empty-handed, and with severe injuries. It surely required a direr reaction than that.

"Completely," Hermione sputtered dutifully.

"Isn't it great about Harry and Ron?"

Well, someone was eager to change the subject. Or just oblivious.

"Fantastic," Hermione agreed.

"I was getting worried there for a moment. They don't deserve this."

"Agreed." Another spell on her hair, and a bit of potion should do it...

"'Course, I could rarely find you to talk about it."

"Oh, well, you know..."

"Oh, well, I know what? What have you been doing all these weeks that I can never find you?"

Uh-oh. The moment of truth. "Well, Gin, you'll never believe this, but I've been tutoring."

"You? Tutoring? I'd believe it in a second. But whom?"

"Well, that's the part you won't believe. Now, promise not to laugh."

"No guarantees."

Hermione sighed dramatically. "It's Malfoy!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Oh, the horror! Did Moody put you up to this?"

"Well, in sorts."

"That bastard! You should tell him you aren't dispensable like that. Just because you're a clever witch–the cleverest, even–doesn't mean he can just go about... exploiting you!"

"Eh, it's not too agonising. Don't get me wrong–Malfoy's a complete arse–but he's not half-bad when I'm reporting back to his superiors, if you know what I mean." Hermione's heart sank.

Ginny laughed. "Now that's the spirit! Must be nice to have some control over that git, finally."

"Yeah."

When they'd finished her hair, she slipped into a little black dress. It was rather plain–much more so than Ginny's, which was a fire engine red to match her hair, of course–but it hugged her curves in all the right places, and would be enough to make Ron's jaw drop a bit. Her hair was pulled sleekly back into an intricate bun, a few ringlets shaping her face here and there.

"Hermione, you look lovely," Ginny said earnestly.

"As do you!" Hermione exclaimed, and the friends embraced.

Harry and Ginny left some time before Hermione and Ron, off to some undisclosed location as well. Just as Hermione was hurriedly pulling on a heel, though, her favorite student caught her in the corridor.

"My god, woman. You clean up well." She whipped around at the sound of that same low voice that made her tremble a little. "More than well," he affirmed, staring at her chest.

"Shall I fetch you a towel? Quit drooling," she said sheepishly.

"Only if you tell me where you're going that you have to look so delicious."

"Er, well, I..." she could have been twiddling her thumbs. "I'm going out for dinner."

"With Weasley?" His eyes went cold.

"Well... yes."

He seemed to ignore her. "Will I see you tonight?" he asked, clearly irritated.

She eyed him sadly with no response, and he snarled at her before storming off, his hands letting off steam and stress by running through white-blond strands.

"What was that about?" Ron questioned, running down the stairs.

"Oh, nothing," she replied, and they kissed.

"My..." Ron's jaw dropped and he turned bright red before garbling his words.

"What is it, Ron?"

"It's just that... I just... I mean..." he paused to regain composure. "You look gorgeous."

"Not half bad-looking yourself, mister!" She giggled, but somewhere in the back of her mind she was juxtaposing Ron's awkward, boyish actions with Draco's suave, collected presence.

"Nah." His cheeks flushed a bright red.

"So now are you going to tell me where we're going?"

"Ah-ah-ah, not so fast."

"But then how will we apparate?" Ron donned a devilish grin. "Ron?" No response. "Uh-oh, I don't like that look."

"C'mon!" He exclaimed, grabbing her hand and pulling her out the door.

"Ron!" They ran to a cellar near the back of the house. Hermione gasped when she recognised his plans. "Oh, no. No way. Nah-ah." She shook her head fervently. "You know I hate to fly."

"Not anymore you won't," he grunted, and pulled out a brand new broom. "Look what I bought," he gleamed. "A Thunderbolt One. First in its class. Ridiculously agile, if I do say so myself." Her stomach dropped as she remembered the last time she'd ridden a Thunderbolt. "Fancy a ride now?"

She sighed. Sometimes he could be so dense. Nevertheless, she figured she could sacrifice the contents of her stomach for a mere broom ride; if she were to refuse, she'd never hear the end of it. "Fine! I give in! But no tricks, you hear?"

He merely winked and offered, "I'll try to resist. Hop on." He patted the back of the broom, and she grudgingly complied.

In seconds, she was elevated scores of feet in the air. She let out a girlish scream that pierced the night sky, and he laughed wholeheartedly. It was the first time in a long time that she'd heard him laugh, let alone like that, and she could not deny that it made her glad. She'd missed him too much to bear. To show him this, she tightened her grip around his abdomen and rested her head on his shoulder.

"I love you."

"What did you say?" Ron shouted back. With the way he yelled, you'd think they were flying adjacent to a jet plane.

"I said I love you!" she screamed, and then laughed.

"What?" Now he was just teasing her.

"Oh, you prat, do I have to say it again?"

"No," he responded, and kissed her cheek. "Got it the first time. Just wanted to see how long you'd go without getting your knickers in a twist. Apparently, I'm only worth two times!"

"Oh, screw you."

"Not while we're flying! Maybe we can make a pit stop on the way, if you're that eager." She slapped him playfully. "I love you too." There was the Ron she knew.

She sighed as they soared through the endless diamond-studded abyss. Flying wasn't all that bad once you got used to it. And it certainly helped that Ron was an excellent flyer. Perhaps not as good as Harry, although Hermione had never been one to judge, but good nonetheless.

Perhaps not as good as Draco.

No, she would have to stop thinking about him if she wanted to enjoy her evening with her future husband. Your future husband! she repeated in her mind. Forever, 'til death do you part. Your husband. Can't you think loyally for one moment? You're no whore.

But it was a heavy thought. Marriage. What did it mean? She loved Ronald Weasley with all her heart. She wouldn't know what to do without him. But was securing him by means of marriage necessarily right?

No, she wasn't securing him through marriage. She loved him, and it was a covenant of love alone. Not convenience. Not a means of making certain he never left her.

Right?

Yes. She desired more than companionship. Ron would give her that, too.

But if she desired more than companionship, then why wasn't she with Draco? He certainly knew what made her tick. He was smooth. Sexy. Experienced, even.

She shook her head to get the thoughts out of her mind, and to slight avail. But not much. She merely found herself reminiscing upon the time she lost her virginity to Ron.

It all happened rather awkwardly. They'd been out of Hogwarts for two years, helping Harry locate the final horcruxes. The night before they were set to embark on the search for the third was a solemn one. The dangers were evident. McGonagall had helped Hermione complete the research required, and she had sufficient reason to believe there was one just off the shores of Edinburgh. None of them had apparated that far, let alone dealt with the obstacles at hand. They suspected Voldemort was on their tail, and knew he–it–would do anything in its ability, which was vast, indeed, to prevent their success, and kill them in the process. Voldemort's life was on the line, now. It was no longer a matter of fruitless attempts at Harry's. Ron and Hermione were prepared to lay down theirs for the cause, and so, the night wind howled as they sat in courageous fear, in deadly apprehension of what was to come.

Ron cut through the blackness of the room and the sky with his voice. He and Hermione were huddled together, clinging for life in vain practice on a sofa in the burrow, the room black as pitch. His voice, if it were to have some sort of aura, would only have resonated a light slightly brighter than that of the room itself. He was scared, and she could discern this without even noticing the nearly undetectable quiver in his voice. But then, she was scared, too.

"Hermione," he'd propositioned. "If... if we, you know..." A gulp. "If we–"

"Die?" Hermione looked at him with pleading eyes he could barely recognise in the dark.

He swallowed hard. "Yeah," he whispered.

"Ron," she began, "If you want to, I mean, I suppose–" she cut herself off by kissing him slowly at first, followed by a series of heated pecks.

"Yeah," Ron breathed, pulling his shirt off, his lips still glued to hers. He kissed her neck and fumbled with her robes. Seconds turned to hours as he blundered her cloak in an awkward attempt to pull it over her shoulders.

"Here," she offered, and finished removing it herself. He hastily unzipped his trousers as she undid her bra to save him the humiliation. Soon they were both naked, and she lowered herself onto the couch, arms folded on her chest out of modesty.

At first he showed a deep unease in touching her. He traversed her shoulders with his fingers and began to breathe more heavily.

"You're sure?"

She nodded her head. At this, he grunted and entered her slowly, but then lost himself and quickened his thrust. She inhaled sharply and whimpered in pain. The puzzled look on his face told her he needed reassurance. "It's okay, Ron," she breathed. He nodded his head, embarrassed, and continued. With steady motions, he penetrated her, their bodies clasped together by the pained arch of her back and the convex curve of his. She exhaled a piercing whimper that scared him into submission, and within a few moments, he lay on her body, head on her breast as she stroked his hair and whispered sweet nothings into his ear.

"Was it... was it okay for you?" he asked timidly.

"It was wonderful, because I love you," she whispered, and kissed the crown of his head.

"Oh, oh my–you're bleeding, Hermione!"

"Oh, don't worry, that's normal," she explained. "I'll go fetch a towel." And she rose from the cushions to search for something to help them clean up, all the while musing on what they'd done, and what they were preparing to do.

They landed in the street in front of a quaint pub. There were lights strung outside through canopies, under which people laughed boisterously with their drinks and meals. A sign on the entrance to the indoor dining room read, "Madame Culottes'."

Ron was positively beaming. He seemed immeasurably proud of himself. "Harry and I found this place a while back, and I'm telling you, you have never tasted fish until you've been here." He ushered her to the Maitre d', who, by the looks of it, was the reason Harry and he had come here in the first place. She was a rather scantily-clad, petite woman, whose dark locks cascaded over her bare shoulders in a manner that made Hermione seethe with jealousy. Ron stared dumbly at her chest, completely unaware of the daggers Hermione shot at him.

"Table for two," Hermione snapped, glaring at Ron, who seemed to have forgotten that asking for a seat was common restaurant protocol.

The girl shot her a smug smile that seemed to scream, "I'll take my bloody time so long as I've got your boyfriend's eyes glued to my curves." But what she actually said was, "Inside or outside?" in a high-pitched, veela-like voice. Hermione even thought she heard the woman giggle.

For the first time since they'd arrived, Ron looked at Hermione. "Whatever you want, love." Hermione stared at the outside, and thought it might be romantic to eat under the trees.

"Oustide," Hermione said, quite directly, to the girl.

"Sure thing, right this way," she sang. Hermione caught a suggestive glance she shot Ron, and discretely hexed a good portion of her hair to fall out. Ron gasped, but the Maitre d' didn't seem to notice.

Upon arriving at their table, he'd held her chair aside for her. Such a gesture made her glow, and sent blood to her cheeks. She laughed at the way he said, "M'lady."

"I highly recommend the scallops. But choose the most expensive thing you can find on the menu; this is your night."

"How romantic," she drawled sarcastically.

"I try," he offered, clearly content with himself.

"Oh, you!" she shrieked. "Well, I really do enjoy the decor. I never knew my boyfriend had such good taste, I must say."

"He doesn't. His best mate, on the other hand, does."

"Oh, but of course."

After they'd placed their orders, though, Ron ended the small-talk. "You'll never know the pain I felt after Fred and," he gulped. "After the incident." She nodded her head and stared into her lap. "And it still hurts, you know? They were my brothers, for Merlin's sake. They still are. But," his voice wavered, and then he calmed himself. "But I want you to know that I'll never leave you again. From now on, I only want to make you happy. Mum gave me the idea, but I said I'd talk to you about it. She wants to move the weddings up."

"The weddings?" Hermione questioned.

"Well, yeah, I mean, now that Harry and Ginny are engaged as well."

"Oh, yes, I nearly forgot," she lied. She was thinking of Draco, of what he'd say, of how she would hurt him with the news. Because she was going to marry Ron, no matter how much she loved–no, she didn't love him.

Did she?

Certainly a woman could love her betrothed and another man without incident. It was no great deal, she convinced herself. And the loves were so different, in any case. She knew the stable love should be resigned for marriage. The passionate love, well... The passionate love would have to end soon enough, and she should make the most of it whilst she could. At Ron's suggestion, however, the ending seemed to approach at a blood-curdling rate. Her heart dropped.

"How silly of me. What did your mum have in mind?"

"Oh, she said maybe a few weeks. It's soon, I know, but she's quite insistent, and I can see her purposes."

"Before the battle, right?"

"Yeah," he affirmed quietly.

"Ron," she said softly, gathering all the courage she had. "If I were to die out there, I want you to know that I love you, and will always love you."

"You're not going to. I won't allow it."

"But, realistically, Ron, if it were to happen–and it could–I want you to have all my things, and I want you to be the one to tell my parents, and–"

"Hermione, has anyone ever told you to stop making plans, and shut the bloody hell up?"

"You, a billion times over." She gave him a watery smile.

"You should take my advice every now and then!"

"Says the man who retook his apparation test five times."

"Hey," he prodded playfully. "I'll have you know that the test was completely unfair–"

"–And then used his ability anyway, and got on probation before he even had his license."

"Well, if they'd given me my license in the first place, maybe I wouldn't have had to apparate without it!"

"Your sense of logic just astounds me."

"I know it does, pet," he agreed, and kissed her nose.

The night went accordingly, and Hermione did have the best fish she'd ever tasted–a revelation for which Ron prodded endlessly, and she finally submitted. It reminded her of her childhood that had since been lost. Now she was an adult, and she could go to dinner with a man she loved well and knew better, but who remained an enigma to her all the same. And adult life was so much about enigmas, because nothing was ever organised into neat little packages anymore. Or perhaps they never were, but childish mentalities allowed for simpler explanations. She could no longer find those compact answers, and the truth struck her with remembrance.

She recalled when she was a young child, her father would take her on his boat–it was a small thing–and teach her muggle science about the environments they traversed. "Look," he'd say into the salty mist every few minutes, the steady humming of the engine vibrating their feet. "Over there–that is called an estuary." And she'd argue with him, because she'd read it to be a delta, or a strait, or an island, because it was composed of silt and whatever else, and he'd laugh softly as she rambled on, and wait for her to admit he was right all along–something she abhorred to no end. But she did it, because the answer was simple: admitting her wrongs was the right thing to do, so there was no question that she would do it. It is that way children can simplify matters, or perhaps, adults merely jumble them up. It wasn't as easy now for her to distinguish what was right from what was wrong. Even upon deciding, it was nearly impossible for her to do the right things all of the time, and she mused on this, staring at the glow on the visage of the only one she'd hurt in the process besides herself.

When they rode home, slicing that night sky, he did not–or could not–notice the burden on her mind. That he did not was that which upset her the most. He was not receptive, or even considerate. He was merely a boy in a man's body, awkwardly stumbling about like a child in clothing four sizes too big. Perhaps it was for the better–he'd never question her morality or infidelity. He'd never question her commitment, and he'd surely never question her affection.

They arrived at Grimmauld Place, but Ron had no intention of going inside. At Hermione's attempt, he grasped her hand and pulled her to the field behind the house.

"Sit," he commanded.

"What? I–"

"Oh, come on, can you just trust me for once?"

She sighed heavily and obeyed. The ground did not welcome her with its cold, misty blades of grass flirting with–or, rather, warning–her skin and robes. She lowered her hands to balance herself and felt an unpleasant surprise of mud under her fingers. Like she had touched a hot flame, she pulled her hand back to examine the damage, but eventually shook her head and rammed it back into the earth. She would humour him, so long as it only required a few moments of her time.

He plopped down right next to her, and soon his arm found her shoulders.

"Look up," he instructed, and she did.

It was his meager attempt at romance. Apparently, something about viewing the stars from the ground had more of an appeal to him than watching them from hundreds of feet in the air on a broom. They were stars. She'd seen them before. She wished men would get some sort of a clue and remember that they were expecting huge balls of burning gas millions of miles away to be somehow sensual. Somehow.

"They're beautiful." It wasn't a lie; they were. Even overrated natural phenomenons could be beautiful. And if it would pacify him so she could go inside and clean up, she would utter a billion untrue words in the utmost sincerity.

"Not as beautiful as you."

"Ron!" She rolled her eyes in the dark. "Could you have chosen a more trite response?"

"Er... I..."

"Oh." Suddenly she became very self-conscious. "No, I mean, it's just that... I mean, that's what guys always say. And you know I don't need compliments from you, silly." She offered him the best smile she could conjure, but when it failed to raise his spirits, she grasped his face in her hands and kissed him gently.

At first, he was reluctant to receive the kiss–as a rule, Ron Weasley was always one to hold a grudge–but then he took it as a go-ahead to undress her in that field. Something about him groping her that way made her uncomfortable, but she brushed it off as the ground being cold and wet. It soon became too much to handle, and she pushed him away lightly.

"Ron," she breathed between kisses. "Ron, I can't. Not tonight."

He gave her a puzzled look she could discern through his sweaty brow and flushed cheeks. "But why?"

"I... er..." and then Hermione did what any woman would do. She used her monthly as an excuse.

Ron clearly did not want her to expatiate on that, and said "oh" a few times, embarrassed, before fixing his collar and tucking his shirt into his trousers. They walked back to the mansion hand in hand, saying nothing.

Ron was quick to undress and find his place in bed.

He was half-asleep when she called out to him. "Ron, I'm going to have a shower."

"Mmmngh."

She closed the door quietly as she could and tip-toed down the hall until she came upon a green and silver pane. Apparently, Draco had been experimenting with charms again. He probably did it to ensure nobody had forgotten, to save his supposed dignity in a house crawling with Gryffindors, as he would put it.

She moved her hand to the doorknob but withdrew it cautiously. She raised a flat palm against the door and lay her head atop it, thinking. If there were any time to start anew, it would be now. If she could just find the will to return to Ron's bed–her bed–everything could be negated. Because when Ron was in his slump, it didn't count, right? Because he wasn't really himself, and she couldn't be disloyal to him if he wasn't really there. And he wasn't.

But he was now. He was real, he was back, he was himself, and anything she could do now would shame her clean slate–her clean slate that wasn't really clean at all, her clean slate that she had fabricated for her own sanity. Because she didn't have a clean slate, not since the day she was born. She was born in sin just as any other woman or man and she struggled and toiled through the muck even until now. Wrong was wrong, no matter who you wronged, no matter if there was none to wrong in the first place. Wrong was wrong when the faint voice in the back of your head shook its own, and sighed in disappointment; wrong was wrong when she could feel the guilt approaching.

So what the hell if she added another sin to the list longer than her sixth-year Arithmancy N.E.W.T. essay?

Evidently, she didn't have a choice.

She stumbled over Draco when he opened the door, but he caught her effortlessly. "Looking for something?"

"I thought I would take a stroll," she elucidated, regaining her composure.

He eyed his watch. "At one in the morning? That's some stroll." He looked at her thoughtfully before donning a wicked grin. "Must've been awfully tired to take such a long rest against my door."

She narrowed her eyes. "You knew?"

"What do you think my wards are for?" She stared at him blankly. He didn't miss a beat. "By the way, do you approve of the colors? I'll admit they're a bit flashy for my tastes. But aesthetics isn't really the purpose they serve, I suppose."

"Those are charms, Draco."

"So I was waiting for you. I was unaware that exaggerating was a crime; sue me. Can't a man maintain some level of tact in his house?"

"You could have told me the truth tactfully, too, you know. I would have been flattered. And this is not your house."

He looked away from her, his hair flipping with his face's movement. "How was your rendez-vous?" His voice was cold as his eyes.

"I... It was, uh..." She wracked her mind for the words. "Oh, Draco."

He put a finger to her lips and kissed her hungrily. "That good, huh?" he managed to slip in between furious kisses. "Mmmngh," she agreed, and he reached up her skirt. He shot her a smug grin when he discovered she wasn't wearing panties, and she returned a knowing stare. She didn't have all that much time to recuperate; Hermione gasped when one finger entered her, then two, thrusting sharply inward. At this, she kissed him harder, pulling down her stockings just in time as he laid her on his bed. Between the two of them, before they put their wands aside, they managed to hex all their clothing off.

"Tell me you want me," Draco whispered into her ear before biting it. He then lowered his mouth to her breast and teased her with his kisses.

"I want you," she breathed, and in a heated frenzy, he penetrated her. He grasped her leg as she wrapped it around the small of his back, and she clawed at his shoulders as he kissed her violently. She couldn't hear what he'd whispered into her ear above her moans, but when he licked her neck, she got the message. As soon as she felt her heart rate quicken, she instructed him with a simple word–"harder"–and he complied. A few grunts and thrusts later, she was there, this time screaming his name without regard for who in the house would hear her. As though he were holding out all the while, he came moments later, his flushed face slanted toward the ceiling with an expression of utter pleasure, and hers smiling at him calmly.

She realized she'd had no choice to begin with as they lay panting beside one another.

"You're not really going to go through with it, are you?"

"If you're asking whether I'm going to marry Ron, the answer is yes."

He snorted through forced laughter. "Well, good luck with that."

"Oh, come off it, you're just jealous."

His eyes narrowed. "Of course I'm jealous. Doesn't mean I'm wrong." Hermione eyed him sadly. "Which I'm not."

"You're never wrong, are you?" she asked sardonically.

"Never."

"You know, we both think we're always right. That means we can never disagree."

"But we do."

"Ah, so one of us isn't always right."

"Then it's you, because I'm always right, and I say you're not always right, and since I'm always right, you're wrong."

"You are truly insufferable, do you know that?" she sighed deeply and they lay in a comfortable silence.

It was a silence he quickly broke. "I'm getting restless, Hermione. I didn't switch over to be a burden. I want to fight," he said quite bluntly, and her heart sank.

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"Remus, may I have a word?"

Lupin looked up from his paper, his eyes the same color as dusky sky. He gave her a half-hearted, dog-like smile that seemed a bit empty. "Anything, my dear."

"It's about Malfoy," she conceded, carefully manoeuvering his last name.

"Oh?" Lupin raised an eyebrow knowingly.

"He wants to fight. He's getting impatient, really. But that's not it. I think he would be of use. He's ready."

"Hermione." Lupin frowned and administered a silencing charm on the surrounding doorways. "Hermione it is important not to mix your emotions with war tactics. You know that."

"What? Of course I know that. What has that got to do with sending Dr–Malfoy to fight?"

Lupin smiled sadly at her for the second time. "Oh I think it has everything to do with sending Draco to fight."

"What are you saying?" she asked incredulously.

"Hermione, I've lived quite a long time. I also happen to be a werewolf. With a combination of my heightened experience and sense of smell, I'm surprised I didn't figure it out sooner."

"I don't understand," Hermione said flatly, a feeling of uneasiness churning in her stomach.

"If you don't want anyone else to find out about you and Mr Malfoy–and I'm assuming you don't–I would end it now, or at least watch the manner in which you stare at him when he passes. Sometimes, I fear, I can smell him on your skin. I'm fairly certain I'm the only one, but then again, Bill has been exhibiting more wolfish tendencies lately."

Hermione was crushed under the weight of his words. "Remus," Hermione begged, eyes pleading, "keep the secret."

"What else can I do?" he asked, his own despondent eyes staring at a point seemingly beyond her face.

"I love Ron. You know I do."

"Of course you do, dear," he affirmed distantly.

She nodded her head and hurried out.

"Hermione." She turned around briskly. "Please end it. For everyone's sake."