Prompt: Ron and Hermione have to perform some type of magical marriage tradition.
Rating: M
There was, to paraphrase the bard, something rotten in the state of Devon.
Hermione had sensed it the moment she had stepped foot into the Burrow to join the family for dinner. Conversation had ceased as she had Flooed in, and everyone had stared at her guiltily before turning away. Ron had greeted her stiffly, his smile so fake and plastic that he looked like a supersized version of the dolls she had been given as a child. She had looked to Harry and Ginny for explanation, but had been met with the same rictus-like smile that the rest of the family was wearing. Both Bill and Fleur had darted upstairs to check on a napping Victoire, and Angelina had loudly volunteered to help Molly in the kitchen. When George sprang up to join them, Hermione had been staggered. She had stumbled out of the fireplace and into some sort of Stepford alternate universe.
The mood had carried into dinner, as everyone kept up several stilted conversations at once, still refusing to meet her eye. Over her shoulder, or perhaps at her left earlobe, but no matter how fast she turned, they always avoided direct eye contact. Ron had let out a high, whinnying horse laugh when she had tried to ask what was wrong, and she noticed that Harry flinched. Arthur had shot her a furtive, sympathetic look, before turning back to Percy, who seemed even more passionate about cauldrons than usual. Since his denial, Ron had completely ignored her. Usually, his free hand would rest on her knee, or his foot would nudge hers under the table. At the very least, he would send an occasional smile her way. Worst of all, he was hardly eating. Food was being pushed around on his plate, and she would be surprised if one forkful out of five was making it into his mouth. Oh. Oh God. He was planning to break things off, and everyone knew it. That was the only thing it could be. But he had proposed just three months ago!
Hermione froze, running through all of the possible things she might have done to cause him to change his mind. Was it the cottage that they were getting ready to move into? She knew he had wanted to wait until they could own their own place outright, but she had convinced him that even though they didn't plan on having children for several more years, it would be best to have the extra space just in case of any surprises. He had grumbled a bit over the extra work that they were going to have to put into the place to fix it up (what else could they expect, at such a rock-bottom price?), but she thought that he had warmed up to the idea once she had told him he could have a dog.
Maybe he was upset that they were going to spend their holiday this summer with her parents? They were going to have their own room, but Ron might have had other plans before she had surprised him with the news. Or maybe it wasn't so much the plans themselves. Maybe she was being too pushy, and not taking his feelings into consideration again. But they had gotten so much better! It had taken awhile, but they were mostly able to say when something was bothering them, and actually work out a solution with a minimum of fighting. What on earth could it be? Maybe he had met someone at the pub. A stunning blonde named Frieda, and they were going to run away together and breed Nifflers.
Feeling sick, she pushed her food away, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. She wished he would just get it over with, already. Even if he was trying to think of a way to spare her feelings, it would be easier if he had just told her before making her sit through dinner with his family.
Upon seeing her reaction, Molly threw her fork down, and sent a steely look in the direction of her youngest son. "That's it! Ron, you have to tell her. We've tried to give you time, but one of us is bound to slip up; besides, this is something that has to come from you."
Ron seemed to deflate, slumping lower into his seat. "I was gettin' around to it," he mumbled.
"Mate, you've been 'getting around to it' for three months." Harry put in, amused, but still looking concerned.
"Will someone, anyone, just please tell me what's going on?" Hermione asked plaintively. "All I could come up with was that he was about to throw me over."
"What?" Ron yelped, scrambling back into an upright position. "Never!"
Molly pursed her lips. "I told you that you should have told her sooner. Now you've gone and upset the poor dear!"
"Come on, Mum. I think Ron has been pretty upset himself," Bill defended his brother, from the other side of his wife.
"And who can blame heem? I would avoid eet myself, if I could," Fleur muttered.
Hermione raised her eyebrows at Ron, questioningly.
"Alright, alright," he groaned, steeling himself to finally address the subject.
"You know some of the barmy Muggle wedding traditions I've teased you about?"
"Yeeees," she said slowly, unsure what that had to do with anything.
"Well, you're about to have your revenge. Or you would, if this wasn't gonna make you miserable, too."
"Now, I wouldn't say it was that bad," Molly said unconvincingly.
"No, I think this would qualify as 'that bad,'" Percy said in a thoughtful tone, as he speared a carrot.
"What Ron is trying to tell you, Hermione," Arthur said, taking pity on his son, "Is that we have a bit of a tradition, as well."
Hermione blinked. That was it? That was the big, scary secret that had nearly sent her into a minor nervous breakdown?
"Why didn't you just tell me? It isn't as if we aren't doing plenty of Muggle traditions for my family."
Ron shot her a sulky glare from underneath his fringe. "This is a little bit more than just digging around for blue hand-me-downs, Hermione. I might think your traditions are barmy, but you might actually end up changing your mind when you hear mine."
Oh dear. He was becoming maudlin. Perhaps she should hear this out before she said something she shouldn't.
"Now, it's not that bad!" Molly said with false cheer. "Pass the peas this way, Arthur. Thank you. As I was saying, it's actually a lovely tradition, and I wish so many people weren't giving it up nowadays. It was a common practice for centuries, and I think people would benefit from it."
Curiosity piqued, Hermione leaned forward, ignoring the look that Ron exchanged with Harry. "That sounds fascinating! What exactly does it involve?"
Molly beamed at her enthusiasm, and Hermione failed to notice that the older woman still didn't quite meet her eyes.
"It's quite simple, really. Once a couple is engaged, they go to the oldest living relative to receive their blessing, which is basically a spell that uses that person's magic to bless and protect the marriage, and ensure that it's prosperous."
"But that sounds wonderful!" She turned and frowned at Ron. "Why are you so against it? It sounds easy, and I think it's quite sweet!"
"The question you might want to be asking yourself right now, Hermione," Ginny interrupted, "Is who the oldest member of our family is."
Hermione shrugged. "There are so many, it's hard to keep track. I still don't see the problem. Have I met them?"
"Here's a hint," George said, voice full of suppressed mirth, "You might want to gain some weight before you go see them. Specifically in the ankle area."
Having known Ron since she was eleven, her mind was instantly filled with a variety of appropriately inappropriate vulgarities. Verbally, she restrained herself to a single, "Oh. I see."
Harry pushed aside some bowls to lean over the table towards her, face earnest. "No, Hermione. You don't see. I saw. Angelina has seen," he nodded to his future sister-in-law, who shuddered at the memory, "and Fleur's seen. But you haven't seen until you've seen, and then you wish you hadn't."
Alright, she knew that Harry and Ginny had become engaged about a month before she and Ron, but she didn't remember anything about this. From the look on Harry's face as Ginny patted his hand, he wished he didn't remember either.
"Is it really that bad?" She asked in a small voice, wondering if perhaps eloping might not be an option.
"Honey, how committed are you to marrying Ron?" Angelina drawled.
"Oi! That's going a bit far, isn't it? I don't want her off me completely!"
"What do you want, Ron? Are you saying you want to wait until Muriel's position as oldest becomes obsolete?" Ginny asked.
"I reckon she can't last more than another five or ten years, yeah," Ron answered sheepishly, realizing that Muriel could very well outlast each person gathered around the table.
Hermione's eyes narrowed at him. "I am not waiting ten years to get married! And she may be an annoying, hateful, malicious old woman, but I think I can endure a few comments about my ankles to get through this!"
As she sat back with a huff, Angelina shook her head. "Hermione, it's more than just a few insults. The woman goes straight for your insecurities and gives them a squeeze."
"She asked me if I minded being a replacement for Fred," George added darkly.
Hermione winced. She knew that things had been rough for George and Angelina while they were first figuring out their relationship, and bringing up that time of darkness when they were finally happy would have been unbelievably cruel. She glanced at Ron, who had let out a growl at George's admission while the rest of the family gasped. The initial shock had worn off a bit, and she could see now that a lot of his reluctance probably was rooted in the fear of what Muriel would bring up about him. Just the thought of it made a protective rage begin to simmer at the back of her mind. They were going to have their blasted blessing, but if that woman thought that she could use the opportunity to bully Ron, then she was sadly mistaken.
Very deliberately, she pulled her plate back and began to load her fork with a mouthful of roast. "Ron, send an owl to your aunt and tell her that we'll be over on Thursday."
Ron looked like he was about to argue, but something in her expression changed his mind. "Alright; I s'pose it's better to get it over with."
"And Ron?" George said, having gotten a look at Hermione as well, "I think you should make sure that Hermione doesn't take any jars along. I'm not sure she could stand the temptation."
Hermione merely smiled serenely.
For the next few days, work kept them handily distracted. But as Thursday rolled around, Hermione noticed Ron becoming jumpy and on edge. Currently, he was sitting on the sofa and polishing his broom. For the third time that day, but Hermione decided not to point that out, since it seemed to be relaxing for him.
Ron glanced out of the window, and said lightly, "Maybe we should Owl her and reschedule. It looks cool outside, and at her age, it wouldn't be good if she caught a chill."
Hermione lowered the Prophet, not about to be taken in by his sudden display of solicitousness. "Ron, it was warm enough to wear shorts yesterday. I'm sure the weather is fine. Besides, we're the ones going over there, so she wouldn't catch a chill if there was four feet of snow outside."
He snapped the lid closed on his tin of polish with a pout. "Just because it's warm one day doesn't mean the temperature can't drop the next. But if you want to be responsible for sending a poor old woman to her grave, then so be it."
Abandoning her paper as a lost cause, Hermione struggled up from her curled position in her overstuffed chair, and crossed the room to drop onto the sofa beside Ron. "I know that this is an important tradition, but we could skip it, you know. If it's making you this stressed out, there's really no reason to go through with it."
Ron's eyes bugged out in a way that in any other situation would be comical. "Of course we have to do it! Do you know what the woman would do to us if we didn't? Sometimes, I think she likes it when people try to get out of it!"
Absently, Hermione brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Are you saying that she would actually curse us?"
He gently laid his broom and kit on the coffee table, before leaning back. "Well, not curse curse. Not really. Just...not a blessing. Something in the middle? Nothing painful, or anything like that. Just annoying. Besides, everyone else managed to do it, so I'm not gonna be the one to back out."
"That still sounds horrid!" Hermione spat, "Almost like something straight out of Sleeping Beauty."
Ron raised an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side. "Is that one of those strange Muggle things that I should get, but don't?"
"It's a fairytale," Hermione explained, always happy to turn any occasion into a learning session, "A king and queen invite some fairies to their daughter's christening, and while they're giving the baby their blessings, a powerful fairy that wasn't invited comes in, and curses the baby. The curse is broken in the end, obviously, but it sounds like something your aunt Muriel would do if she wasn't invited."
He gave her the look he usually reserved for when she forgot she could use magic. "What kind of bloody idiots invite some fairies, but not all of them? Piss one of them off, and who knows what they'll do!"
She rolled her eyes; storytime was going to be interesting, once they had children of their own. "Ron, they were Muggles. They could hardly be expected to understand the subtle social constructs of the fairy court, and the repercussions for violating them."
"If they knew 'em well enough to invite, then they knew enough to be able to figure that much out. 'Sides, it's just bad manners, isn't it, to invite one but not the other?" He said loftily, pleased to be able to come out ahead of Hermione on the subject of etiquette.
Her lips twitched; of course he would think of manners in a purely hypothetical situation. "The point I was getting around to making, before you went off on a tangent, was that just like in the story, we'll take whatever she throws at us, and we'll come out fine in the end."
Ron gazed at her suspiciously. "Sounds a lark, but something tells me you've glossed over a few details in the middle."
True, but now that he was distracted enough to act normal, she wasn't going to upset him again. "Nothing you need to worry about. Now, I think we should start getting ready to go. It'll be best if we get there exactly five minutes early. That way, she can't complain about us being late, or being too early and being an inconvenience."
He stood up, and began to tuck the tails of the button-up shirt he was wearing into his jeans. "You sound like Mum, but you're probably right. The less we give her to nag us about, the better."
Critically, she ran her eye over him. While his outfit was perfectly acceptable for most situations, she knew it would never do today. "Ron? What are you doing?"
Hand still jammed down his trousers, he paused. "Getting ready to go?"
She shook her head. "Not wearing that, you aren't."
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" He asked defensively. Even though he was able to afford clothes that actually fit him, he was still a little sensitive on the subject, as if the denim would shrink up two or three inches without him noticing.
Standing up, she patted his arm, and began to lead him to their room. "Nothing is wrong! At least, not for normal people. But we're going to cut her off again by wearing dress robes."
Although she had expected him to balk, she was pleasantly surprised when he gave her an impish grin. "You're devious, you know that? I hate to do it on my day off, but it'll be worth it to watch you go up against the old bat."
Hermione smiled modestly; she hoped he remembered all of her efforts when it came time for him to meet her uncle Hubert.
Once they had dressed carefully in their best robes, and had combed (tamed, in Hermione's case) their hair, they set off for Muriel's cottage. Agreeing that the Floo would be too messy, they decided to Apparate down the small lane that led to the house, out of sight of any Muggles that might have wandered close by. The cottage had been in the family for years, and was surprisingly in good repair for its age. It was, however, not very large, and Hermione's mind boggled at the thought of anyone living in such close quarters with the unpleasant woman.
"I can't believe your family lived with her for months," she murmured quietly, as they made their way up the walk.
Ron fought the urge to loosen his tie, and was almost sure that they were being watched from behind the heavy curtains of one of the front windows. "I think it was hardest on Fred and George. She would've been the perfect target for a lot of their experiments, but they were trying not to give Mum a heart attack."
They approached the door, and Hermione brushed off her robes as Ron knocked. "Remember, we say as little as possible, agree with whatever she says, and get out as fast as we can."
"In all the years I've known you, I think that's your best plan yet. Rather makes me wish our plans ever worked."
"Come in!" Came the shrill, grating voice from inside, "I'm an old woman, you know, and I can't be expected to be up and down with my poor joints, opening doors for people without the sense to use the Floo."
"And so it starts," Ron whispered, closing his eyes briefly.
With the greatest of reluctance, they went through the door, and Hermione let Ron lead her in the direction of the sitting room, since he knew the layout of the house. Inside, they found the elderly woman enthroned in a large, leather armchair. She wore flower print, polyester robes, a small strand of pearls, and lipstick that had been applied crookedly, giving her mouth a slightly lopsided appearance. Her thin, white hair was crimped in waves, each pin straight and rigid as if it had been set there years ago. Her beady, black eyes were judging, taking them in from head to toe as they crossed the room.
"Well. You at least had the decency to dress properly, I'll give you that," she sniffed. "I suppose that's your doing, girl. This one wouldn't think of it himself, though Merlin knows his mother tried to raise him right. Still, what can you expect? Not much to work with, in any sense. The oldest boy got everything when it came to looks."
Hermione caught the flash of insecurity in Ron's eyes, and she bridled; Ron's confidence had improved tremendously since the war, and aside from the occasional feelings of doubt that most people experienced, he was in a good place with himself. Watching his years of effort taking a hit like that was something that she couldn't tolerate.
"While it's true that Bill is handsome," Hermione spoke in a false, cheerful voice, "I've actually found that Ron resembles him the most. And I'm not the only girl that's ever considered him attractive."
Ron blushed, and Hermione was pleased that she had handled the situation so well, both making Ron feel better, and contradicting Muriel without offending her enough that she might withhold the blessing.
Muriel pursed her nearly nonexistent lips, her eyes fixed on Ron disapprovingly before snapping to Hermione.
"Already a ladies man, is he? Not a good sign. Do you think you have what it takes to keep him from tom catting around?"
Hermione gasped, not sure if she was more outraged at the implication that Ron would cheat on her, or that she was somehow insufficient in that area.
"I would never do that! I mean, that's just plain wrong! I love Hermione, and she doesn't have to do a damn thing to keep me from doing something I shouldn't be in the first place!" Ron snapped indignantly, his ears flushing a deep plum color.
Muriel sneered. "That's what they all say, in the beginning. But men are all alike; always wanting something fresh and new, and needing to prove their manhood."
"Real men don't have to prove it, and they sure as hell don't do it by hurting the person they've made a commitment to." Ron growled, his eyes flashing.
Hermione couldn't have wanted to cheer more if he had been back on the Quidditch pitch; the strength of his conviction came through in his voice as well as his words. One of Ron's most defining characteristics was loyalty, and it had only gotten stronger as he had matured. Ron might get snappish and sulky after a hard day, and he might forget to do something that she had asked, but this was one area she knew she would never have to worry about.
Even Muriel looked slightly impressed. That is to say, her mouth gave the appearance of having sucked four lemons, rather than five. "Noble words, and commendable if you actually stick to them. But it's a woman's job to keep her man in line, and young women nowadays are always gadding about instead of staying home and attending to a man's basic needs."
Again, Hermione reared back to say something, but Ron beat her to it. "It's a person's own job to keep themselves in line, and doesn't have anything to do with being a man or a woman. And I guess I don't know the same kind of witches you do, because all the ones I know are more than capable of doing both. Not that it's any of your business, but Hermione tends to me just fine, thanks."
"No need to get shirty with me, boy; I'm only speaking from experience." She turned her attention to Hermione. "Well, your ankles might be scrawny, but at least you have good child-bearing hips. I suppose that counts for something. Though what does an old woman like me know? The two of you have probably been living in sin, so you must know something that inspired him to make an honest woman out of you. Looks certainly can be deceiving. Just remember, marital knowledge isn't something you can learn from books."
Hermione ruffled up like an angry chicken, and Ron sidled a few steps away. How dare she? This-this withered, sour old prune! Setting aside the dated notion about pleasing men, this was coming from a woman whose own husband had, in all likelihood, died in self defense! And not only that, but she had simultaneously been able to call her a slut as well as a prude!
"Aunt Muriel, were we going to do this today, or did we come at a bad time?" Ron asked, repressing the fourteen year old boy inside that wanted to watch Hermione lay into the old bat. He loved Hermione, and knew murdering a little old lady would be bad for her, career-wise.
A clawed hand reached out to grasp the head of the cane that was propped against the chair. "Alright, alright! I suppose it was too much to think that young people would want to benefit from the advice of their elders."
Both of them winced as her joints popped like bubble wrap when she raised herself to her feet, neither sure whether or not to reach out to support her as she shuffled forward. With her free hand, she pulled out her wand, unsurprisingly twisted in appearance. She gave each of them a sharp prod with the tip.
"Well, since you're in such a hurry, get yourselves to the center of the room," she fussed.
They hurried to obey, nearly tripping over the large ottoman in their haste to position themselves at the center of the faded rug printed with fat, cabbage roses.
"Now, face each other, and join hands. Both of them, that's right. Focus on each other while I perform the spell." Muriel instructed briskly, standing a short distance away.
Hands linked, they smiled at each other nervously, not exactly sure what to expect. They had heard that there would be a bright light, but some said it hovered between them, and others said it wrapped around them. Frankly, the thought of anything to do with Muriel wrapping around them had both of them rather green, but they had also been told that the worst part would be dealing with the woman's poisonous tongue. Then again, how could it get worse than that?
Under her breath, just out of range of hearing, Muriel began to chant, the tip of her wand glowing with light. Hermione watched out of the corner of her eye as the light began to flow into a surprisingly pretty ribbon of rose gold, floating across the room to hover beside them. With a sudden, snake-like movement, it darted towards them, and Hermione felt Ron start to step between it and her as if to shield her. Sensing that he shouldn't, she squeezed his hands, and he remained still. Faster and faster, the light wove around them, pressing them tighter together, and the breath caught in Hermione's throat as she saw it twisting to form some sort of...vine? They were mostly smooth, but every so often, there were small thorns. Not large enough to cause serious pain, but would definitely smart temporarily. What kind of omen was that? Was that Muriel's influence, or did it say something about the marriage itself?
Ron was looking at her in confusion, and his lips parted just as a sweet, summery scent filled the room. In an explosive burst, large, pinkish gold roses bloomed in a profusion of petals, outnumbering the thorns. There were large roses and small buds, some open widely, and some tightly shut; No two were the same, but each held their own special allure. The nervousness had faded from their smiles to be replaced with delight, neither knowing what the vision surrounding them signified, but both feeling it was somehow right. A gasp reminded them that they weren't alone, and the sound drew their eyes to Muriel. She stood there, wand still raised, stunned into immobility.
Gaze still focused on the display of roses, Muriel finally declared, "This union has been...blessed."
As the magic began to shimmer and vanish, Ron asked his beleaguered looking aunt, "Does that mean we're finished? We can leave now, right?" He didn't see any sense in being overly polite now that they had gotten what they came for.
His rudeness brought her back to herself somewhat, and she scowled at him. "I had been planning to ask you to stay for tea, but by all means, rush off without a thought for an old woman, living out here alone."
Although calculated to elicit sympathy, it was a known fact that Muriel had most of her family well under her thumb, and they danced regular attendance. If she was alone today, it was because she had chosen to be.
"Thank you for everything, but we need to go. My parents asked us to come for dinner," Hermione said smoothly, conveniently leaving out the fact that she had declined and rescheduled.
"Well, be off, then. At least some know when they have a duty towards family," Muriel replied, cutting her eyes at Ron.
It had little effect; in fact, the prospect of leaving pleased him so much that he was able to give her a sunny smile, which disconcerted her into returning her attention to Hermione. "It seems you have a decent future in front of you," she admitted grudgingly, "Maybe you do have something of value, after all."
Determined not to be fazed, and still glowing from the rush of magic which had surrounded her, Hermione smiled broadly, taking Ron's hand. "Yes, I do. I have Ron."
And before the woman could offer a rejoinder, Hermione neatly Apparated them away, disregarding that it was technically an impolite way to leave. They arrived in their own living room, thankfully in one piece, and Ron sagged with a relieved sigh.
"I feel like my soul has just been cleansed. How has she managed to live that long without getting herself murdered?" He asked, his hands already loosening his tie.
"Ron!" Hermione said, only mildly scandalized, as she kicked off her pumps.
He started walking to their room, and she followed. "You know I don't mean that I think they should. I'm just surprised that they haven't."
"I have to admit, after today, I can see your point," she admitted, her mind already wandering to something more important. "Ron? What do you think it meant? The roses. I know there was supposed to be light, but no one mentioned anything like that. Do you think it was telling us something, or-"
"Hermione!" Ron stopped her, upon hearing her words start to speed up the way they did when she overthought things. He took her gently by the arms, so he could look in her eyes. "I kinda remember somethin' about putting too much stock in prophecies, and the shit that can cause. Maybe it does mean something. But does it really matter? Roses don't sound too threatening to me, so I don't think we should worry. Let's just focus on making things as good as they can be, and see what that gets us, yeah?"
"I...you're right. You're right." Hermione nodded, mentally shredding the six feet of parchment she had already thought up on the subject, with its possible meanings. "It's enough to do our best, without looking for some hidden meaning in everything, when there might not even be any." Although she would bet her copy of Hogwarts, A History, that there was.
Ron gave her a quick kiss, before turning to his side of the room. "Good. I'd hate if you drove yourself spare over it, and me along with you. Now, I think I'm gonna change out of these robes; they've absorbed the scent of old woman and mothballs."
Hermione gave her own robes a sniff, and had to concur. Ugh, she would need to do some cleaning up, since the last person she wanted to smell like was Muriel. Even if the actual ceremony had been touching, the woman's poisonous tongue had made it hard to enjoy. As she replayed the afternoon in her head, she began to seethe. Where did Muriel get off insinuating that she didn't have what it takes to keep Ron interested? He had certainly never complained! What could Muriel possibly know in that department? Wasn't she of the 'lay back and do your duty' generation? And why had she thought that the subject was any of her business?
The more she fumed, the more frustrated she got, yanking off her robes, and reaching for some of her comfortable clothes to put on. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Ron had already stripped down to his boxers, and was bent over rooting in his chest of drawers. Couldn't keep his attention, was it? Well, she would soon prove that assumption wrong! In two quick strides she was standing next to him, and as he stood up, she took his face in her hands and proceeded to give him a proper snog. He gave a muffled sound of surprise, and she gave herself a pat on the back as she heard the trousers slip from his hand. She sucked his lower lip into her mouth, biting down with exactly the amount of pressure that she knew would make him groan. On cue, a throaty sound rose from his throat, and his hands gripped her hips, the motion having the result of the rest of her undone robes falling off.
He pulled his head back, his eyes dark under his half closed lids. "What was that for? It's not my birthday, or any national holiday that I can remember."
Hermione flushed with embarrassment, feeling to ridiculous to tell him the reason she was so motivated. "Well, I just thought we could...but if you don't want to..."
With a glance between them, he drew her attention to the bulge that had risen in his boxers. "I think we can safely assume I'm past the point of wanting. You just...kinda caught me with my pants down, so to speak."
"Are you saying you didn't like it?" She asked, her eyebrows coming together. "You said before that you like it when I make the first move. And you've always reacted favorably when I kiss you like that, so I thought-"
"Hermione," Ron said slowly, his lips twitching in amusement as he realized what had set her off, "You aren't letting what Muriel said get to you, are you? Because you know it's a load of shite, and-"
"Of course not!" She huffed. "What does she know about anything? I might not be like the witches in that overused magazine you had when you were younger, but, well, I certainly know what to do with what I have! I'd just like to show her that-"
Ron let out a burst of laughter, leaning away from her to slump against the drawers. "You do realize that this isn't a practical exam, and she isn't gonna pop out and give you a perfect O?"
"I was rather hoping you would give me a perfect O," She responded haughtily, "But if you want to stop..."
She let out a short shriek as he scooped her up, and began to walk to the bed. "Want to stop? Not bloody likely. I'm more than happy to give you two or three Os." He waggled his eyebrows at her, tossing her on the bed and diving in after her.
With a shake of her head, she rolled him over on his back, straddling one thigh. "All in good time. But first..."
Leaning over him, she reinstated their earlier kiss, her hands stroking over the muscles of his neck and shoulders, and spreading over his chest. As he began to respond eagerly, her fingers toyed with one of his nipples, pinching and rolling it into a peak. He whined into her mouth, his back arching; he was sensitive there, as she had found out years ago, and he had gotten over the embarrassment of the noise he made when she played with him. As she worked him up, she pushed herself against his thigh to stimulate herself, the damp material of her underwear dragging across his skin. Finally, she left off kissing him to trail her mouth down to join her hands, which soon had him thrusting his hips in the air. Taking advantage of his movements, she twisted herself to remove his boxers, pushing them to his knees.
Just as she was about to move into her next phase on her assault against his senses, he slid his arm around her waist, and flipped her onto her back, smiling smugly.
"What are you doing? I wasn't finished yet!"
He backed up until he was resting between her legs. "Technically, neither was I. Now, leaving aside for the moment that Muriel is batshit mental, and that there's no need to prove that you can hold my interest, we're gonna change how we go about this. Didn't we have a big talk about marriage being built on equal effort, an' all that? Well, let me get down to my effort!"
She was distracted as his fingers parted her, and began to stroke through the slickness that had already built up. "Yes, but you don't have to-ah! I was going to-"
"Hermione," he said, pausing briefly, a wicked smirk playing on his lips, "You know I'm happiest when I'm eating. If you're dead set on satisfying me, then let me eat."
Her reply was lost in a strangled gasp as he buried his face between her legs, his tongue dancing and flicking across her in a silent testament to the fact that he knew all of her weak points, too. Using one hand to hold a thigh so she wouldn't crush his head, he let his eyes move up her body, from her stomach, which sucked in every time she tensed, to linger at her breasts, which bobbed with her movements. Finally, he watched as her head thrashed from side to side, her hair falling in a tangle across her pleasure flushed face. As much as he loved what she did to him, he had always found it as much of a turn on to see what he did to her.
Once he felt her getting close, and rubbing himself into the mattress had become more painful than a means of relief, he crawled up her body, sliding his jaw from side to side to work out the numbness. Her hands roamed his arms spasmodically, clutching at him as he entered her, both of them groaning at the sensation of her heat wrapping snuggly around him. He didn't bother to go slow; both of them were already near the edge, and anything other than fast, hard thrusts would be more frustrating than pleasurable. Her ankles might be skinny, but they locked around him perfectly as his hips hammered into hers, wringing cries from both their lips. As she spasmed around him upon reaching her peak, his head dropped to the crook of her neck, so he could nip at the salty expanse of skin. Her nails clawed his shoulders, and he came undone; the world flashed white, and then black, everything fading away except for the sensations coursing through his body. When he came to himself, he found that he had managed to roll to his side, and he reached out an arm to bonelessly pull her closer. Spent for the time being, they cuddled into each other, dozing contentedly before the next round.
Neither one could keep their eyes open, and so failed to notice the brief glow of gold around the bed. They failed as well to notice the air filling with the subtle scent of roses...
Edit: The roses were significant of their future. The few small thorns represented the bumps everyone experiences along the way, while the buds and roses were the joy and happiness.
