Hello readers! Welcome to my little side project from When I Have You. This is something that I have been working on for a while now and I am finally ready to publish chapter 1.

This will be 11 chapters long, so only short.

It is inspired from the film Knocked Up, but Romione style. Please note that things will reflect elements from the movie, but will not immitate the exact storyline as I don't feel that Romione fit the exact arc.

This is very much M rated. If you want something more vanilla, When I Have You is much more for you. This fic contains swearing, graphic (albeit bad, because I suck at writing it) sex and much more adult things.

It will not be regularly updated as WIHY is. I'll try not to leave weeks apart, but there'll be no posting date for this, just when I can.

Also, and most importantly, HUGE thank you to cheesyficwriter for taking the time to beta this for me. Your suggestions and help has been invaluable! Thank you so very, very much!

I hope you all enjoy it!

Chapter 1

Thump thump.

It sounded almost like the music that had blasted in his flat just hours earlier, except this one reached right into his ears, weaving its way up into his brain and causing it to throb.

Thump thump. Ring ring.

Now someone was singing off-key.

No.

It was still in his head, a sharp pain shooting through every nerve that his body possessed. And now there was light stinging his eyes. But not like the magical strobe lights George had put up for the celebration. This light was painful, making his eyes water.

They flashed opened — something he immediately regretted. A stream of morning light was peeking through the window, shining directly into his eyes.

He groaned, rolling over, only to breathe in something very thick and suffocating.

He spluttered, pulling back and lifting his head. It was hair. He was lying beside a pile of hair, which — he now realised — was connected to a body. And that body was very naked, blankets dropped to their waist. All he could see was their back.

A light breeze came from somewhere unknown, for the window was closed, but it made him aware of his own nakedness. And he was far less dignified than his companion, who was still asleep. The sheets were down at his ankles, leaving nothing to anyone's imagination.

What had he done? Most of last night past nine o'clock was a blank. There had been a lot of alcohol. Firewhisky, in particular, and he could remember enough to know that he'd consumed more than his fair share of it.

Shots.

Firewhisky shots at George's makeshift bar. It had seemed like an endless supply, being passed around like sweets in a sweet shop. There had been Seamus, Dean… Justin. There was also Hermione.

He sat bolt upright, an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. Maybe it was the unidentified number of Firewhisky shots he'd consumed, or maybe it was the slowly dawning realisation of some things that made him feel as if he needed to run to his bathroom and throw up.

"Oh, fuck," he said. "Oh fuck, fuck, fuck." He stared at the bushy haired figure in the bed beside him, horror now deep in his bones. He only knew of one person with hair like that, and he'd insulted her. He'd called her a prude because she wasn't willing to get drunk.

So she'd decided to prove him wrong.

Ron couldn't remember past the third shot, but he was certain there had been many more. And now somehow, they had ended up in his bed, completely naked, hungover and…

Fuck.

Hermione stirred beside him, his string of curse words rousing her from her drunken slumber. She was slow to roll over, giving Ron enough time to cover himself with the sheets. But she seemed blissfully unaware of her state of undress. Groaning and rubbing her eyes, she rolled onto her back and gave Ron a full view of her breasts.

"What —" she mumbled. "What time is it?"

Ron didn't answer. He just stared at her, waiting for her to notice him. Her eyes flickered open, groggy still, and then she, too, sat up.

"Ron! What are you doing here?" She quickly drew the sheets up to her neck, bunching them as if he hadn't already seen the things she didn't want him to see.

"It's my bed," Ron said. "And my room. What are you doing here?"

Hermione frowned, looking around. It took her a moment, her head probably throbbing as much as his, but then her eyes widened. "Oh no. Oh no. What —"

Ron stared at her, too horrified to know what to say. This was his friend. His best friend. They had known each other for fifteen years. And now they were in bed together, naked, and had undoubtedly done unspeakable things with each other the night before.

Hermione's eyes fell on Ron, taking in his upper torso which he hadn't covered. She seemed as lost for words as he was.

After a moment, Ron said, "What do you think the chances are that I let you sleep here because you were too incapacitated to get home. And then we just went to sleep… without any clothes… in the same bed?"

Hermione rubbed her face, groaning again. "I don't remember anything," she said. "I don't remember…" She looked at him. "But I don't think those chances are high. Oh God… what did we do?"

"I don't remember either," Ron spoke quietly. "The last thing I remember is us taking shots George was passing around and then… I'm blanking."

"Me too."

Silence fell between them. In fifteen years, nothing like this had ever happened. In all the times they'd gone out together, spent time together, Ron had been drunk, and they'd never gone further than hug one another. There were times — a lot of times — where Ron had wanted something to happen, but he'd never acted on it.

And he certainly didn't go to bed with someone for the sake of it. At twenty-six, his sexual experiences were with three short-lived relationships in the space of five years. And although he'd never asked, he thought Hermione's were even less.

Not once had he done this before, and he knew Hermione wouldn't have.

How drunk had they been?

"Oh God, Ron." Hermione buried her face in her hands. "What have we done? This is bad. This is so, so bad."

"It's not so bad," Ron reasoned. "I mean, at least I didn't wake up to a stranger in my bed."

"In some ways that would have been better," Hermione groaned. "At least then I could call myself an idiot and… forget." She sat up fully and peered over her side of the bed. Ron now noticed the scattered clothes. His jeans lay on the floor, and his shirt was at the end of the bed. Hermione's clothes were in the mix, most notably her bra draped over the doorknob.

Whatever had happened between them last night, there was now no doubt that it had involved sex. And by the position of their clothing, they'd both seemed rather enthusiastic in getting them off.

Hermione looked back at Ron, gathering the sheet closer to her. "I think I need to shower. I have the worst headache, and I feel so…"

"Gross?" Ron offered.

"I didn't want to say —"

"It's alright," Ron said. "So do I. Please just let me put some trousers on before you pull those sheets any closer to you."

Hermione flushed, loosening her hold ever so slightly. Ron did his best to reach for his trousers without exposing himself, and he was grateful for Hermione looking away as he slid into them. They reeked of alcohol, but it was better than Hermione seeing him naked. That was something best left to the imagination for her (though last night he'd obviously not been concerned).

She gathered the sheets around her, completely pulling them off the bed. Her hair was so bushy and tangled and a flicker of a memory came to Ron in that moment. His fingers entwined in her hair, and her Firewhisky-tasting lips against his.

His stomach lurched at the vague memory, but nothing else came to him. He wondered if he would ever remember last night, or if it would forever be a mystery for both of them.

…

Hermione waited for the steam to fill the bathroom before she hopped into the shower. Everything felt so wrong. She felt dirty, sweaty and she could still taste the alcohol in her mouth, mixed with the scent of Ron. He had a signature smell about him, and it was all over her. Not necessarily unpleasant, but there nonetheless.

She dropped the sheets and stepped into the shower, allowing the almost scalding water to drain over her. Along with everything else, her head throbbed and stomach churned from the ridiculous amount of Firewhisky she'd drunk last night in Ron's flat.

He'd talked her into it. She could remember that much. He had accused her of being boring, never wanting to have fun. The others had agreed, so she'd been determined to prove them wrong. But Ron and Seamus and Dean… they could drink so much more than her. She had been determined to keep up, but keeping up had clearly meant that she jumped into bed with her best friend.

She shook the water from her face and reached for the bar of soap sitting on the shower bench. She scrubbed every part of her thoroughly, as if that would erase what had happened. How could she be so stupid? How could she lose control of herself so badly that she would have a one night stand, and with her friend of fifteen years at that?

Control was something she'd prided herself in. She was happy to have the odd drink here and there, but she usually knew where to draw the line. She'd only ever been drunk once before, and that was at a wedding she attended with her parents. And it had been wine.

Relationships in general were not something she'd had that much experience in. Even if someone was interested in her, she was always much too busy to put in the effort. The one adult relationship she had had — Steven — had lasted a little over a year before he decided that he needed someone less focused on their career and more focused on him. That had been two years ago now.

She shivered despite the steaming water. She couldn't remember a single thing after a few shots. Her mind was completely and utterly blank. When she tried to think about it, nothing came to her. There was no memory of entering Ron's bedroom, nothing about taking all her clothes off — though that had clearly been the case — and there was certainly nothing she could remember about what had happened between her and Ron.

The only good thing about that was that Ron had seemed just as surprised as she had been. That meant that he couldn't remember either.

Once she was as clean as she could be, she stepped out of the shower and dried herself with a towel. It looked filthy, and she didn't have her wand to clean it, but it was the only option. It was only after she was dry that she realised she had no clothes to put on. What she did have lay scattered around Ron's bedroom.

She inched the bathroom door open ever so slightly, peering into the hall of Ron's flat. It was empty.

"Um… Ron?"

"Yeah?" His voice came from the kitchen. So, he was up.

"This is really embarrassing, but do you think you could… bring me my clothes?" She felt her face heat up from the implication of her words.

For a moment, she didn't think Ron was going to comply. But then she heard the scrape of a chair against the floorboards and a moment later, Ron's figure appeared in the crack of the door. He passed her clothes through — bra, underwear and all — and then he was gone again.

"Th-thanks," she stammered.

"Anytime."

She dressed quickly and came out to where Ron sat at his little dining table. She combed her fingers through her wet hair, trying to unweave the tangles that had wound their way into it. She paused a few feet away from Ron, and he looked up at her. He, too, was dressed in what he'd worn last night.

For a while, neither spoke. What was there to say? Were they supposed to acknowledge what had happened between them? She was certain that they both knew exactly what had happened, even if they couldn't remember it.

They'd gotten so drunk that both of them had thought it a good idea to go to bed together and completely destroy the nature of their friendship in one night. This time yesterday, she'd had a best friend who she could engage in conversations and banter with. He could press her buttons like no one else could, rile her up and without even trying, talk her into drinking herself stupid.

Today… today, he was the second person she had ever had sex with.

She averted his gaze. "So… I should probably go home. Put on some new clothes…"

"Yeah…" Ron stood up, but they still kept their distance. Hermione didn't think she could stand him touching her right now — even in a hug. He seemed to have the same thoughts, for he didn't even try.

She turned to leave, walking back to the hall towards his front door. It was only when she rested her hand on the handle did she realise he'd followed her.

"Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"We're just going to pretend this never happened, right? I mean… we're still friends and everything after this, aren't we? It was just a stupid, drunken mistake… won't happen again…"

Hermione felt her mouth curve into a smile. "We will never speak of this again," she assured him. "And I will never tell anyone, either. It was just one night. One we can't even remember, at that. Let's… let's hope it stays that way."

Ron nodded his head in agreement. "We're still on for dinner next week?"

The last thing Hermione wanted right now was to be alone with Ron, but if she refused, then it would mean that things were awkward. And she didn't want awkward. She just wanted to forget.

"Yeah," she said. "Next week at yours, right?"

He nodded.

"See you then."

She left, walking quickly down the corridor, desperate to leave the building that until today, she'd loved coming to.