*Just a heads-up: this chapter contains sexual content and a possible trigger warning - I'm not entirely certain but I thought I'd mention it just to be safe. Scroll to the bottom for trigger reveal.*

1st August 1998: The Burrow.

The afternoon of Bill and Fleur's wedding anniversary was, all things considered, going rather smoothly. Music was in full swing, the gnomes were keeping their distance and Molly had only cried once, a tearful sniffle when they had all sat down for tea. Much like at Harry's 17th birthday the previous year, the outdoor tables had been magically extended and duplicated to allow for such a large gathering, and it took an awkward five seconds for Molly to realise she had laid an extra place at the table for Fred out of habit. It had been Kingsley Shacklebolt who had raised his glass and, in his deep and calming voice, toasted to Fred Weasley, as well as Remus and Tonks. Molly had smiled sadly, her eyes shining, and Arthur had rubbed her shoulder comfortingly.

The sun was now low in the sky but showed no sign of cooling and the scene before Hermione shone beautifully in the honey-gold light. Harry and Ginny were cooing over Teddy, who was now four months old and sprouting blonde curls that flashed intermittently with a tint of violet. On the makeshift dancefloor/lawn was Bill, twirling a barefoot yet graceful Fleur under his arm; Molly and Arthur, who were three large glasses of wine down each and doing some sort of jive; and Kingsley and Mrs Delacour, chatting amicably and dancing a relaxed to-and-fro a few feet apart. Hagrid and Mr Delacour were still at the tables, cheers-ing and clapping each other on the back every now and then while George, Charlie and Percy sipped their drinks quietly nearby.

A patch of sun fell directly on Hermione, warming her skin. She had chosen a simple pale yellow dress for the occasion, strappy and sleeveless with a floaty skirt that fell below the knee; the thin cotton usually kept her cool in the summer weather but now she could feel the sweat gathering on her chest and on the small of her back. Her wine glass was beaded with condensation in her hand, the ice she'd snuck into it (much to Fleur's dismay) long melted. She rose and headed into the house.

It was infinitely cooler in the kitchen, and blissfully quiet. She set her wine glass down on the table and pulled her hair into a ponytail, before tearing some kitchen towel away from the roll on the windowsill to dab the moisture from her face and neck. She ran the tap, letting the water get colder as it ran through her fingers, and was filling a clean glass when she felt a pair of sturdy arms circle her waist from behind.

'You could use a cooling charm for that, you know,' Ron murmured in her ear. She felt his soft hair tickle her neck as he pressed a light kiss to her pulse point. Hermione smiled begrudgingly.

'What is is your mum says, about whipping your wands our for everything?' she replied, turning and taking a sip of her water. Ron rolled his eyes and stepped back to appraise her. His eyes seemed to darken as they drank in her shape and Hermione heard his throat work as he swallowed. She cleared her throat pointedly and he had the grace to turn slightly pink.

'You, er... you look great,' he said. 'The dress, you know, it's... it's beautiful. It's yellow.'

'Is this an attempt to compliment me, Ronald?' she smiled, setting the glass down. Ron wasn't particularly forthcoming with his affections verbally but she knew it wasn't for lack of trying.

'Maybe,' he smirked.

'Well, you also look lovely,' she returned, plucking at the shoulder of his cream-coloured shirt. 'We don't often see you looking so smart.'

'It's a special occasion, I thought I'd try to scrub up a bit,' he replied. He took a step towards her and she felt the kitchen ledge touch her lower back as he leaned into her, broad and tall, covering her hands with his. His eyes flicked to her lips once more before he kissed her, softly at first but with more vigour when she responded in kind. It was a nice kiss. He coaxed her mouth to open and she could taste the Butterbeer on his tongue and feel how warm his hands were when they moved to her waist. He leaned against her further, his large body heavy and warm and overwhelming as it pressed into her. One hand slipped between her and the kitchen side, rounding her behind and gathering her cotton skirt into a fist and pulling her hips towards his. He stepped back abruptly with a low groan, backing into the table as far away from her as the cramped space would allow. The pink from his cheeks was sneaking down below his collar.

Heat seemed to fizzle through her veins like pins and needles, and her head thrummed deliciously from the two glasses of wine she'd sipped at throughout the afternoon. When Ron was kissing her, there was just that, just Ron, and nothing else, just for a little while. Everything forgotten.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Sorry. I know we've talked about that... I know you're not ready and that's fine, I just...'

She wanted to forget, and she felt emboldened. Her exhilarated pulse throbbed in her temples.

'We could go upstairs,' she said. Ron's eyes widened and his cheeks became impossibly pinker.

'Up-upstairs?'

She nodded and he nodded back. He glanced out the open door where the party was still ongoing, everyone's attentions occupied. Harry and Ginny were dancing a ludicrously fast jig to an otherwise slow and romantic song.

'Okay,' Ron said. He took her hand and led her out the kitchen and up the narrow staircase. The old wood creaked with their quick footsteps. They passed the rom she shared with Ginny and continued upwards until they reached his bedroom door, still stuck with a faded Chudley Cannons poster. She followed him in and he shut the door behind them with a quiet click.

Hermione had never been in Ron's room without Harry being there too. The space that Harry's fold-out bed usually took up was now occupied by Ron's old Hogwart's trunk and broom and a pile of clean, once-folded clothes that had yet to be put away. The walls were still orange, albeit faded from the years of sun and now (thankfully) bereft of posters. The bedding was cream and, in places, bobbled from age, his matching orange set clearly in the wash.

'Sorry about the mess,' Ron said a little too loudly, bringing her attention back to him. One hand was in his trouser pocket, the other scratching the back of his head. Hermione stepped towards him, still confident from the wine and the weather, and slid her hands to his shoulders, rising on her toes to touch her lips to his. Again, softly at first; he brought his large, warm hands to her elbows and kissed her with more fervour. She moved her hands to his neck and walked them backwards towards the single bed. It creaked under their weight as he knelt above her. His eyes were darting all over her face.

'What is it?' she asked.

'I've-' he cleared his throat. 'I've never... I've not...'

His hair brushed against her forehead and she pushed it back.

'I haven't either,' she said.

'I thought, y'know, maybe... with Krum...'

She huffed a short laugh and shook her head. 'No.'

'No?'

'No.'

'Okay'. He kissed her again, his lips quickly moving to her neck. She let her knees fall sideways and he sank deeper against her body. He was hard; she could feel it between her legs, a teasing pressure. She ran her hands down his back and untucked his shirt from his trousers, pulling his backside against her as she rolled her hips. He exhaled against her neck shakily, the slightest moan coiled in his throat. He pulled back and moved one hand to her breast, squeezing tentatively. Her dress hadn't required a bra.

'Is this alright?' Ron whispered.

'Yes,' she whispered back, catching his lips again and rolling against him a second time. He squeezed her breast more firmly and she felt her nipple tighten under his touch.

'Always loved your tits,' he murmured into her mouth. She didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing and just let him kiss her; a simple "thank you" didn't seem appropriate. The skin of his back and waist, hitherto unexplored by her, was smooth under her hands, his stomach and sides soft and yielding, and it exhilarated her to be touching it.

Ron's hand left her breast, sliding down to her waist, her hip, the bare skin of her thigh. Her skirt had fallen to gather at her middle, exposing her light-coloured cotton briefs. He pulled back slightly to look at her and she wondered idly whether he had hoped or expected something more risque. He knelt between her legs, stroking his thumbs over her hipbones.

He was going too slowly. Anxious for progress, she removed first one strap then the other of her dress, sliding them along her arms and pulling the bodice down to reveal her breasts. Ron gazed at them and wet his lips. She felt him throb between her legs and moved to unbuckle his belt. As if snapped from a stupor, Ron stood and quickly removed his trousers before climbing back on top of her. She got a glimpse of his cock tenting through his boxers and felt the first zap of panic; that was going to be inside her - how on earth was it supposed to fit?

Emboldened with fresh confidence, Ron kissed her feverishly; his body covered hers almost completely, his hips bucking to press his cock against her core. She could feel that she was wet and the contact made something in her ache. Her hands moved to the collar of his shirt and deftly unfastened the buttons, her fingers brushing against the light trail of hair on his stomach. His mouth moved to her neck again, breathing hot against her skin. She felt his hand drift, feather-light, down her body and snake between them; he fumbled with the material of her underwear for a moment before his thumb slid against the fabric, lightly stroking her entrance.

'Hermione...' he breathed.

She felt very warm. Ron stroked the pad of his thumb insistently over her core as she drew in shuddering breaths. His cock throbbed through his boxers against the inside of her thigh, reminding her of its largeness. His breath was hot on her collarbone. She could feel her hair coming loose from its hair-tie against the pillow.

Ron took her hand and guided it down his body to the front of his boxers. She pressed her palm clumsily to his groin, feeling the size of him and the damp spot of precum in the fabric. She squeezed experimentally and he made a guttural sound, his hips snapping to meet her hand.

'Please, Hermione...'

'Yes?'

'Please...' He kissed her. 'Touch me.'

'I am touching you.'

His lips were warm and firm against her own, their mouths open and their breathing laboured; he swirled his tongue into her mouth as he groaned again quietly and she felt a thrill shoot through her. He took hold of her hand again and brought it up to his lower belly, smoothing her fingertips beneath the waistband of his boxers. Her eyes opened, her gaze landing on the cracked ceiling. Oh. A wave of heat flew through her and pooled unpleasantly in her stomach. This was new.

She slid her hand further down at his encouragement, grazing the soft patch of pubic hair, and found his cock and wrapped her fingers around it before she could doubt herself. It was warmer and harder than she expected, and the skin loose and velvety smooth. He moved his hips, the movement mimicking a thrust as his cock twitched in her grasp; he hummed appreciatively in response. He pressed the flat of his hand firmly against her core for a moment before fingering at the edges of her underwear. With some manoeuvring, he twitched them to one side and touched her directly. She gasped, taken off guard by the contact, and Ron, spurred on by her response, began squeezing one finger inside her.

'Oh,' she breathed shakily. Relax, she told herself. It wasn't comfortable. It almost hurt. It's hurting because you won't relax. She felt nauseous, panicked. She heard doors clattering far below and voices buzzing, the party returning indoors.

'Hermione?' Ron asked. She met his gaze; through lust-filled, heavy-lidded eyes, touching her intimately and with her hand down his pants, he was looking at her with the utmost concern. It almost made her weep. 'Babe, what's wrong?'

'I'm-I'm sorry,' she began. She felt frozen.

'Sorry? What for?' He swiftly righted her underwear and removed her hand from his boxers as he moved to sit back, giving her space. 'You don't need to be sorry.'

'I... I can't do this,' Hermione heard herself say.

'It's okay, it's okay, we don't have do,' he said soothingly, helping her sit, helping her to pull her straps back into place. 'We can wait. I'm sorry, I don't want to push you...'

'No, no,' she said. 'No... I can't... I can't do this.'

Ron blanched, his large hand a blistering heat on her leg. He wet his lips and swallowed dryly. 'What do you mean?'

'I... I just...' Hermione gestured hopelessly, the words she was searching for deserting her when her eyes fell on Ron's face. His blue eyes were glassy, his kiss-swollen lips pouty and downturned. A little crinkle of hurt had formed between his brows. The sun outside had drifted behind a cloud and the room no longer shone with its beaming light.

'Hermione,' he said in a low voice. She could hear the steady pattering of heavy raindrops hitting the window.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered. She stood, righted her skirts and fled from the bright orange room, tumbling down the rickety staircase two at a time. She reached Ginny's landing and burst inside. Ginny was stood beside her bed, pulling her rain-damp hair into a knot on top of her head; she glanced at Hermione with alarm at the sudden intrusion.

'Hermione?' she said. 'Hermione, what's up?'

'I'm-I'm sorry, Ginny, I need to go,' she replied shrilly, searching the room - under her bed, under her pillow, in the bedside drawers - for her beaded bag. She was aware of movement in the room so far above her as Ron moved around, no doubt putting his trousers back on.

'Go! Go where?' Ginny cried. 'Why? What's happened?'

Hermione felt the bag, way under the bed next to the wall, with her fingertips and swung her arm out to grasp the strap. She stood up and, avoiding Ginny's eyes, was back out on the landing in one quick movement as Ron rounded the corner down the flight of stairs above her.

'What did you do?!' she heard Ginny round on Ron.

'Nothing, I swear-'

She swung round the bannister into the lounge, which was now cluttered with damp people who looked up at her presence. Mrs Delacour was perched on the edge of the armchair closest to the hearth, warming her hands on the fire. Molly was bustling round Charlie, drying his hand with hot air from her wand.

'Oh, Hermione, dear, I was wondering where you'd got to-'

Hermione sidled past her, eyes on the floor, acutely aware of the rolling footsteps and hollering of Ginny and Ron on her tail and of the anxious fluttering of her heart in her ribcage. She strode through the kitchen, round Hagrid who was occupying the only space in the Burrow large enough for him, the alcove in the kitchen, and out the open door into what was now heavy rain. The clouds seemed to roll above her, tumultuous and grey. The grass was a sodden muddy slush that easily overwhelmed her delicate heeled sandals, but she persevered, past Arthur, Bill and Percy as they wrestled with the magically extended trestle tables that seemed to catch on the wind like sails, aiming for the Apparition Point just past the garden gate without its fences which had fallen into disrepair long ago.

'Hermione!' Ginny cried behind her. She could hear her trying to run, feet sticking in the mud. 'Hermione, please wait! It's alright, whatever's wrong we can sort it-'

Hermione stepped past the garden gate, grasped her wand and Apparated, her eyes locking on Ginny's pale, crumpled face as she turned, before she could screw them shut. The roar of the wind in her ears silenced, the falling of rain in her hair ceased; the only sound in the darkness behind her closed eyes was the ticking of a nearby clock.

Keeping her eyes closed, she raised her wand and performed as many protection charms as she could remember. She made the house Unplottable before she realised her mistake, that the Muggle neighbours would no doubt wonder at the disappearance of a four-bedroomed detached house that had been very much present the night before. When her work was done, she took several breaths before she peeked at her surroundings.

Her childhood bedroom, left much the same as it had been before the war when Hermione had locked it behind the door and under a Notice-Me-Not charm, was her welcome refuge.

'Cutting it fine, aren't you, Granger?'

Hermione had rounded the corner and barrelled down the stairs into the Entrance hall where she was due to meet Malfoy for Patrol Duty at nine o'clock. She had left the Prefects' Suite at 8:58 PM and she had made good time, but of course Malfoy was there already.

'I'm here, aren't I?' she retorted. The collar of her robes felt sticky around her neck and one of her knee socks had drooped to her shin. She stooped to fix it.

'Touchy,' Malfoy said. She noticed he had forgone robes altogether, his black trousers and white shirt immaculate, his green tie knotted perfectly at the base of his throat. She noticed the smooth white skin move as he lifted his chin, jerking his head to the side. 'Shall we?'

'We shall.'

Tonight's patrol route was along the fifth, sixth and seventh floor corridors and they walked in increasingly frosty silence. As expected, the route itself was essentially deserted; the student body were more concerned with catching up with their friends in their common rooms than sneaking out to rove the castle. The shooed Peeves from a disused classroom where he was writing rude limericks on the chalkboard, and Hermione was subject to a particularly depressing extended conversation with Nearly-Headless Nick about the state of Hogwarts both immediately pre- and post-war while Malfoy huffed impatiently behind her.

'Were you taught to be this impolite or are you just naturally gifted?' Hermione shot at him when she finally managed to bid goodbye to Nick. His only answer was a quiet but pointed scoff. 'I amuse you?' she furthered.

He threw her the briefest sidelong glance. She was expecting at least a trace of humour but his eyes were cold.

'You want to talk about being impolite,' he murmured

They walked the length of the corridor, turning the corner onto a passage lined on one side with high, ornate windows. Pearly moonlight seeped through the panes, dappling the stone floor, and their clipped footsteps bounced from the arched ceiling. The absence of Hermione's response seemed to swell.

Malfoy stopped abruptly in the middle of a bar of shadow. Hermione, a few paces ahead, turned to face him; he was staring straight at her, his arms crossed against his chest. Somewhere along the walk, he'd loosened his tie and rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbow. His expression was inaccessible in the low light, but his grey eyes glinted as they bore into her.

'I wrote to you,' he said. When she didn't response, he took a step towards her. 'I know you got the letters.'

She did get them. They were swaddled in an old sweater at the bottom of her trunk in her dormitory.

'You didn't write back.'

'I didn't know what to say.'

He nodded, his eyes never once leaving her face. She wished he would look away. Until he looked away, she could not look away. He took another step, slow, calculated.

'You're still with the Weasel.'

It wasn't a question, so she didn't answer it. He stepped out of the bar of shadow and his hair gleamed in silver pearl. He was close enough to her now that she could see the light catching on his eyelashes; she could smell him, clean and sharp. The intensity of his gaze seemed to double.

He was much too close. She felt something low in her stomach clench and her fingertips tingled with the yearn to reach out and feel his skin, feel the firm muscle of his forearms tight across his body.

Something in her face seemed to satisfy him. He smirked, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards in a twisted grimace devoid of humour, drawing her eye to the plumpness of his lower lip. Despite herself, her breath was, mortifyingly, ragged on her next inhale.

She expected a snarky remark, a crude one-liner to boost his own ego, but instead he stepped around her curtly and continued along the moonlit corridor.

*Trigger warning: pain during sexual activity; ?sexual assault