Chapter 4

Hermione awakened first, smiling at the realization of where she was — wrapped securely in Ron's viselike grasp. He had been lying on his side, holding her close beneath the rumpled duvet not only with his arms but with his legs locked tight around hers. She laid still, cheek resting on his muscular bicep, eyes adjusting to the early morning light filtering in through the curtains, savoring the feeling of being entirely wrapped up in Ronald Weasley. With her ear pressed to his chest, she could hear the reassuring sound of his heartbeat. She was actually in his bed. This wasn't just another of the many fantasies she'd spun in her mind — and then savagely stifled — during another desperate night in Cornwall. No, this was real. She was home.

She didn't want to wake him, and yet she felt the need to stretch her legs a bit, and she winced as her slight movement caused him to stir. She didn't think it was possible, but Ron actually tightened his grip on her then, muttering something unintelligible under his breath and then repeating it a minute or so later when he began to emerge from slumber, breathing it out a bit more clearly this time: "Errr-my-neeeeeee."

She smiled and ran the hand that had been tucked against his chest upward toward his chin. Though she was pressed as close to him as she reckoned she could possibly be, she was still able to lever her head upward just enough to study his face. He slowly opened his eyes, and her heart fluttered as the light of recognition warmed them.

"Oh, thank Merlin," Ron said huskily as he slowly blinked himself awake. "You're really here."

Biting her lip, she chuckled and nodded. "Mmm hmm."

"Thought maybe you were a figment of my imagination for a second," he said, loosening his grip on her enough to lean back and look her over. "You're beautiful in the morning, did you know that?"

She laughed out loud in response and slapped his chest lightly. "You're mad. I'm sure my hair is sticking out in ten different directions, and my breath is probably foul."

"No fouler than mine," Ron replied with a half grin. "C'mere." He planted a small kiss on her lips and then rolled back flat against the mattress, dragging her along with him so that she was now lying halfway atop him. "Did you sleep well?" he asked as he tugged gently at one of her audaciously messy curls and twisted it around his finger.

She kissed the tip of his nose before answering. "That was, without a doubt, the best sleep I've had in years," she said. "You?"

He laughed and stretched before returning his gaze to her face. "Honestly, love, you're not going to believe me when I say this but — even with that interruption in the middle of the night — I don't think I've slept like that since the night of the Battle of Hogwarts."

Hermione couldn't help but smile at the memory of being curled up beside him within the wine-red curtains of his Hogwarts four-poster. "Come to think of it," she said, tapping her lip with her finger, "that was the best night's sleep of my life until now."

He kissed the hair curled about his finger. "That settles it then. We're sleeping together from here on out."

Hermione laughed and sat up, making a show of stretching and throwing back the duvet — an attempt to distract his attention away from her rapidly reddening cheeks as she rose to head for the loo. Ron captured her hand before she could slip away from him, however, and tugged her back to the bed. She tumbled backward, laughing, and leaned across his chest.

"I'm actually serious," he said, though the lopsided grin betrayed him just a bit. "You're staying with me from now on, right? Not just for a night or two."

The earnest look on his face, coupled with that half-smile that always took her breath away, melted Hermione's heart anew. She couldn't have resisted him if she wanted to — and she very much didn't want to. Instead, she nodded and smiled, though her cheeks were warming painfully from a bout of shyness that she couldn't quite account for.

"We don't have to live here, by the way," he continued, misreading her quietness. "I mean, I know this place is tiny. We could certainly look around — there's loads of bigger flats nearby, or maybe you'd prefer the country, though you—"

"I love this place," Hermione said, interrupting him. "I'd like to stay right here — with you," she added, averting her eyes momentarily, "at least for now. Um, If that's OK."

Ron chuckled. "It's more than OK. That's what I've been trying to tell you, woman."

He grasped her by the shoulders then and pulled her to him, planting a firm kiss on her lips. "Now that we understand one another," he said when they came up for air, "I'll let you make that trip to the loo."

"Why, thank you very much, kind sir," she replied with a mock aristocratic air, and he swatted her bum lightly in response as she rose to leave the bed.

Breakfast was a simple affair, with Ron scrambling a few eggs and making a batch of toast while Hermione lingered at the table, sipping tea and watching through the window as a narrow barge drifted slowly past down Regent's Canal.

Meanwhile, Ron dug around in the cupboard looking for a jar of marmalade and stole a peek at Hermione out the corner of his eye. He knew her well enough to know that the look clouding her eyes was worry. And he thought he might know what she was worried about.

He sat opposite her at the little table and spread marmalade on his toast. Taking a bite, he chewed and watched her, still staring out at the water with her teacup pressed lightly to her lips.

"It'll be all right, you know," he said after a little while.

"Hmm?"

"I said it'll be all right. Going to Cornwall, I mean."

Hermione tore her eyes away from the window and looked at him. "How did you know I was thinking about that?"

"Dunno," he answered with a shrug and took another big bite of his toast. "I just knew. Point is, it'll be all right. You don't have to do it alone."

Hermione sighed and put down her teacup. "Thank you," she said quietly. She knew she needed to go back to Cornwall eventually to gather her few meager possessions and say goodbye to the handful of acquaintances she'd made there. But the thought of walking into that little cottage…

"It'll be hard, what with all the memories there," Ron continued, filling in her thoughts. He reached across the table to take her hand. "But we'll do it together, OK?"

They Side-Alonged down to Cornwall by late morning, landing just behind the pub where Ron, Harry and Hermione had breakfasted on that fateful day only a week or so prior. Had it only been a matter of days? It felt to both of them like a year had gone by since then. So much had happened. So much had changed.

They popped into the pub to eat lunch, and Hermione said her farewells to Gladys and Johnny, deciding to stick to the story Hermione also would tell her co-worker Sandy a bit later when they visited the library: She was moving to London to reunite with Rose's father, whom she introduced to them as Ron. When her friends asked after Rose — that is, after exclaiming in delighted tones how much Rose resembled Ron — Hermione explained that Rose wasn't with them at the time being. She was staying with family. It wasn't the *entire* truth, but it was close enough — or at least as close as Hermione could get.

Descending the library steps with Ron's arm wrapped comfortingly around her shoulder, Hermione realized she would actually miss the people she'd gotten to know in Cornwall. They were decent, caring folk, some of whom had helped her, quite unknowingly, to endure the very worst period of her life. She regretted that she would likely never see any of them again, but she'd never be able to explain the situation with Rose — that is, not without modifying peoples' memories, and she was determined never to perform that kind of magic again.

"You all right?" Ron asked as the reached the bottom of the steps.

Hermione leaned a bit closer to his side, taking comfort in his warmth for a moment before collecting herself. "I am thanks to you," she said softly. Then she took a deep, fortifying breath, squared her shoulders and turned them toward the lane that led to the cottage. "Now for the hard part," she said, and they strode together toward the little house that had been her home with Rose for three difficult yet amazing years.

She paused on the front porch before sliding her key into the lock, but only long enough to look up into Ron's eyes and be energized by his reassuring smile. Then she carried on and opened the door.

Ron followed her inside the lounge and grimaced at the sight — it was exactly as Harry and the two of them had left it on that awful day when they took Hermione and Rose to the Burrow, effectively in the custody of the Ministry's Auror Department. The blankets Ron and Harry had slept in were piled neatly on the sofa. The wallpaper bore a mark where Ron had flung his tea in anger. He took out his wand and removed the stain.

Hermione saw what he was doing. "It's OK," she said at just above a whisper. "The landlord was going to redo that wallpaper anyway."

"It's not that," he said, stowing his wand back in his pocket. "I just hate being reminded of how I acted that day."

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "That's all behind us now, remember?"

He blinked a few times, feeling a lump rise in his throat, but he pulled himself together for Hermione's sake. He knew he needed to be strong for her now, though he hadn't quite come to grips with how difficult that would be until just then.

"Here, let me show you a few things." Hermione took Ron by the hand and led him down a small, narrow hallway that led from the lounge past the bathroom and toward the two bedrooms at the back of the cottage. She pushed open the door to her left and pulled him gently into a small, brightly lit room: Rose's nursery.

He gasped, but he wasn't aware of it — he was too busy taking in the sight. It was a tiny room, but airy and sunny. Cozy, not cramped. The walls were painted a pale blue-green, contrasting sharply with the crisp white wood trim and the gauzy curtains filtering the afternoon light. Rose's crib was white as well, as was the bookshelf next to her bed and the rocking chair beside it, where Ron was sure Hermione had spent many an hour reading to their little girl. A round rug, a swirl of pink, peach and white roses against a background of palest yellow, anchored the space. Several stacks of blocks, a small pile of books, and a stuffed dog sat at the center of floor, where Rose no doubt left them when last she'd played there.

"Here," Hermione whispered, snapping Ron from his reverie. He turned and saw she was pointing at a series of penciled notches on the white-lacquered doorframe behind him. "Once she was able to stand on her own, I measured her every month." Ron bent to look. The first pencil mark, labeled "October 1999," rose to just beneath Ron's knee. "November 1999," was a half inch or so above that, and so on. March 2000 must have been an especially good month, he noticed, because Rose shot up a full inch in just a few weeks' time.

"And here," Hermione continued, as Ron struggled to swallow past the lump in his throat and straightened up to follow her. She took one small picture frame down from the bookshelf, and then another.

"Here she is at eight months," Hermione said, handing Ron a white frame containing a muggle-style picture of Rose, sitting with her favorite stuffed bunny in her lap and dressed in a light blue dress, an open-mouthed grin lighting her face beneath a pile of downy ginger curls. "And here she is in her Halloween costume last year," Hermione continued, handing him a frame holding a photo of Rose dressed up like a fuzzy lion, a few renegade locks peeking out around her face from beneath her costume mane.

Ron blinked a few times and swallowed hard. "A Gryffindor through and through, isn't she," he said with a raspy voice.

He stood staring at the image for a full minute before Hermione gently slipped the frame from his hand and placed it back on the shelf. She stepped away from him and rummaged through the closet, pulling out a large box and placing it on the floor.

She reached out to him, wordlessly asking for his wand, and he handed it over. With a few deft flicks — Ron was impressed by how easily magic came back to Hermione after so many years — the toys, photos, and bed linens, the flowered rug, clothes and, finally, the furniture, filed into the magically extended box in an orderly fashion, until the room was entirely empty.

"There," Hermione breathed. "So much easier than doing it the muggle way."

The noise of the objects shrinking and sorting themselves must have muffled a smaller noise emanating from the hallway, but now that the room was empty, it was audible: a soft, rhythmic bumping sound, like tiny knuckles rapping on the nursery door, which must have closed behind Ron and Hermione when they'd entered.

Ron opened the door and in drifted two tiny, pink trainers, which had apparently been trying to respond to Hermione's Levitate command much like the rest of Rose's possessions had, and yet had been thwarted by the closed door in their path. The sight caused Hermione's breath to hitch in her chest, and she grabbed the little shoes from mid-air as they drifted past on their way to the box. "I haven't seen these shoes in months," she said in a distracted voice.

"They must have been somewhere in the lounge — under the sofa, maybe," Ron said.

Hermione nodded, eyes fixed on the scuffed little shoes, their laces dangling forlornly. "I'd forgotten her feet were ever this small," she said, her eyes welling with tears. Clutching the little shoes to her chest, Hermione felt her legs give way from beneath her and she crumpled to the bare hardwood floor, sobs racking her frame as she leaned against the box containing every remnant of the child she'd once cared for in that very room.

"Oh, Ron, I miss her so much," she managed to say in a choked voice between sobs as Ron knelt next to her and hugged her, pulling her close until finally he was seated cross-legged on the floor with Hermione nestled between his legs, her head tucked beneath his chin as she cried into his chest. "It hurts."

"It's all right, love," he murmured into her hair. "Let it out."

Hermione struggled through wave after wave of tears, now and then thinking she'd touched bottom and was ready to resurface from the undulating tide of grief until she was overcome by another torrent of sobs. Through it all, she clung to Ron desperately, and he soothed her as best he could, fighting back tears of his own as he whispered encouragement into her ear.

"She's where she needs to be now, Hermione," he said. "You did it. You took care of her and got her back to her own time. She's safe now. But we'll see her again, love. We will."

Hermione caught her breath and exhaled shakily, trying to pull herself together. "I'm sorry," she sputtered. "I just … thank you, I … you're right, I know …"

"Shh," Ron said. "You miss her. It's OK."

"Oh Ron," she said, drawing in a deep breath and straightening up a bit as she wiped her eyes to look at him more clearly. "I'm just," she said, voice trembling, "I'm just … so glad you're here."

"Wild hippogriffs couldn't keep me away from you now, Hermione."

She sniffled out a tearful laugh. "I know. And that means so much. You have no idea." She looked around the now-empty room and shook her head. "When I think of all the restless nights I spent in this room … the nights when she was teething … the night she had a fever that just wouldn't go down … the times she would wake up in the middle of the night and call out for me just because she was scared for one reason or another, and I had to be brave for her even though I was scared, too…"

Her voice trailed off and she brought her eyes back to his. "Oh, Ronald, if you only knew," she said, "I always missed you. It was like a dull ache that would never go away. But at times like that…" She blew out a puff of air from her lips and shook her head again, raising her hand to his chin and studying his face. "Oh darling, I *longed* for you at times like that."

Ron, by then, was crying too, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. "You were a great mum. You *will* be a great mum." He tipped his forehead against hers and tightened his grip on her waist. "You will *never* have to face all that alone ever again, Hermione. Never. I promise you that."

Hermione wrapped her arms around Ron's neck and pulled him close, touching her lips tentatively to his. A moan rumbled through his chest, and he gave in, unable to hold back any longer as his lips parted hers, which still tasted of salt from her tears. She wound her arms around him, drawing him closer. That was all the encouragement he needed to deepen the kiss and pull her tight against him.

"I love you, Hermione," he breathed as they paused for breath before he plunged back in and kissed her soundly.

Heart pounding, Hermione hummed against Ron's lips. He was there with her, finally, in that little room where she had spent so many lonely and worried hours pining for him. And he was never going to leave her side ever again — she was certain of it. She loved him, more than she ever thought possible. Pressing her hands to his face, she sunk her fingers deep into his hair and pulled her lips away from his, just far enough to whisper, "I want you." She kissed him again and then pulled back again, saying it a bit more firmly this time, though her eyes were still pressed shut and her nose was still angled against his, as if she couldn't say what she needed to say if she were making eye contact: "I want you, Ron … please."

She could feel the heartbeat that had been pounding in her chest also echoing in her core, powered by years of unfulfilled desire. She was about to say "please" again when Ron removed her hands from his hair and clutched them to his chest, lifting his nose away from hers and speaking evenly, "Hermione, look at me."

She pressed her eyes even more tightly shut for a moment.

"Look at me," he repeated at a whisper. And she did.

He took a deep breath.

"Hermione Jean Granger, I want you like I have never wanted anyone or anything — *ever,*" he said solemnly, looking down at her with a sober expression that made her stomach flutter. "There is nothing I'd like more than to scoop you up, carry you into the bedroom across the way, and make love to you over and over and over again."

He paused to look down at their joined hands, still pressed firmly against his chest. "But," he continued, raising his eyes again to hers with the same penetrating gaze that was making her insides wobbly, "I can't — I *won't* — I won't make love to you if you're not ready, Hermione. Do you understand?"

She wasn't sure she did. She must have taken a second too long to think about it, because he read the look of confusion on her face and continued without waiting for a response. "I reckon I've done enough to hurt you over the years, Hermione, and I'm going to do my damnedest never to hurt you again. And, well, going to that level, *making love* … much as I'd like to go there, I want to be careful. You're emotional right now, and I don't blame you. If we're going to take that step … I just want you to be sure."

She *had* been sure, but something about Ron's words made Hermione even more certain. She felt her cheeks warm and she knew she must have begun to smile just a bit, because Ron smiled back at her tentatively in return.

He knew she was a virgin — the tests done on her when she was in custody confirmed as much, though he felt in retrospect what a terrible invasion of her privacy it was that he and everyone else now knew this — and she was quite positive he wasn't a virgin, though she chased that thought away for the time being. Now wasn't the time to indulge her curiosity over Ron's ill-fated relationship with Lavender, or with any other women for that matter, she thought with a shudder. There was a time, when she was much younger, when she would have lamenting not being Ron's first. But the pain and hardship of the last few years had taught her not to let such a bygone fantasy keep her from appreciating what was right in front of her in the here and now. She wanted Ron Weasley just as he was. She wouldn't trade him for anything. If he was more experienced than she — simply because he had lived the life she had tried so desperately to let him live — so be it. He could hardly be blamed for it. In the meantime, he was there, in the flesh, and she knew in her bones that he was once again what he had always been and always would be — utterly and entirely hers. And, after years of deprivation, she wanted what was hers.

"I'm sure, my love," she said in a small voice. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Ron nodded once and set his jaw, rising to his feet and holding out his hand to pull her up to hers. Once she was standing, he swiftly scooped her into his arms and carried her through the doorway, crossing the hallway into what he correctly guessed was Hermione's bedroom just beyond.

Her room was darker than Rose's, the late afternoon sun muted by deep turquoise-blue curtains. Ron laid her atop her bed, kicking off his boots before climbing in after her. He settled in beside her, propped up on one elbow, and crushed his lips to hers, feeling the last remnants of restraint melt away as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back passionately.

Even if she'd had any left, Hermione's habitual reserve couldn't withstand the heat of Ron's kisses and caresses, his moans and ardent vows. She unbuttoned the top button of Ginny's blouse, then the next and the next, suddenly wanting nothing more than to shed the borrowed clothes that separated herself from Ron, not wanting to remain hidden from him for a moment more. Soon she was stretched out unclothed before him, unafraid.

"You're so beautiful, Mione," he said with a note of astonishment in his voice. And he *was* astonished, because he'd never done more than touch Hermione from through a layer of clothes. In the days and weeks immediately following the war, they'd never had the chance to do more than snog by the pond behind The Burrow or within the walls of the treehouse. So the sight of her, completely revealed to him, was simply breathtaking. "You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful sight I've ever seen, love," he said as he laid his hand on her waist and raised it, slowly, upward to cup her breast, which was fuller than he'd remembered it from so long ago. More womanly, as were her hips. "So beautiful." He lowered his lips to her nipple and kissed her there, drawing a deep hum from Hermione as a powerful jolt of energy coursed through her center.

She stitched her fingers into his hair, encouraging him to continue kissing one breast, then the other, as she writhed beneath him, her little toes caressing his shins.

"Mmmmmmm," she hummed as she released one hand from his hair to begin tugging at his T-shirt. He quickly leaned back and sat up to peel the shirt off, and paused when he heard her loud gasp.

"Oh, Ronald," she said in a shaky voice as he felt her fingertips trace the near-forgotten, slightly sore spot in the center of his back.

He peered over his shoulder at her and then remembered — the lightning-shaped scar.

"Does it still hurt?" she asked in a quavering voice, her fingers still ghosting over the surface of his skin.

He shrugged. The Dittany Fleur had put on it the previous day had helped tremendously. "It's just a bit tender is all," he said evenly.

Her light touch became a caress, and soon her hand was sliding appreciatively over his arms, more muscular than she remembered from their Hogwarts days, and, as he turned toward her, his bare chest, broader and more sculpted than it once had been.

He shimmied out of his jeans and pants next, and then laid beside her again, returning his lips to her breasts. The feel of his skin against hers was mildly intoxicating and she laid back, somewhat surprised that she wasn't nervous or self-conscious to be so exposed to him. "I love you so much, Ronald," she murmured. "So much."

His lips had traveled upward to her neck by then as his hand slid downward.

"Then just relax and let me take care of you now, love," he murmured, and the combined vibration of his deep, sonorous voice against her eardrum, his breath against her skin and the pulsing of his fingers transported her to somewhere beyond her cares and worries, beyond thinking, even beyond her grief, to a place that was all Ron and her, just the two of them. "Let me make you feel good, love," he whispered against the skin behind her ear. She was floating, stretched out beneath him, skin tingling at every point of contact with Ron's body. "Gods, you feel so good, Mione," he continued as he took her ear between his lips and nibbled at it gently before adding, "I've wanted you for so long … years … and you're mine now, aren't you?"

Hermione, eyes pressed shut and hands clutching Ron's solid shoulders, began to feel a familiar wave building within her, but this one was bigger than any she had experienced before, and soon it was crashing over her, and all she could do was be swept up in it and call out his name.

Ron, meanwhile, had raised himself up on his elbow again to watch her, mesmerized as the surge of pleasure rippled through her. A few moments later, she stilled his hand and opened her eyes, gasping for breath.

He'd expected her to take a moment to come down and thus was surprised when she'd looped her arms around his neck and pulled him downward, kissing him passionately. He answered with equal passion. In any other circumstance, Ron might have lingered, seeking to make the moment last, but this wasn't such a time — there was too much pent-up emotion, too much desire, to tolerate any delay. Hermione Jean Granger — the girl he'd fancied since he was a kid, the woman who had moved heaven and earth to protect him, who had cared for his child and would do so again — was with him now, ready for him, and the thought made his heart race.

"Oh, Mione," he said in a raspy voice, "sweet Merlin, I want you."

"I want you too, Ron," Hermione answered. "Please."

Ron swiftly reached for his wand and performed a quick Contraceptive charm, then angled himself atop her, pausing to look her in the eye one more time. She understood his unspoken question and gave him a resolute nod.

As he nestled himself between her legs, it was as if the entire history of their relationship flashed in his mind in a few, rapid seconds — mountain trolls, Malfoys, quidditch stars, dragons, Death Eaters, prophecies and sacrifices — and yet, they'd survived it all and lived to claim this moment. And there was now so much future ahead, a future he wanted more than anything.

She was so soft, so warm, and becoming one with her was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Leaning back to check she was OK, he was relieved — and moved — to see that she was looking back at him with a warm, rapturous smile, tears streaming from her eyes.

"Someday," he said softly as he entered the very depths of her, and the hitch in her breath and gentle nod told him she understood his meaning perfectly. This act was a promise. Someday, hopefully not too far in the future, they would come together just like this and, by the most miraculous magic there is, would remake their very own Rose.

oooOOOooo

A/N — Oh, jeez, I love these two, and ermynee322's original story is endlessly inspiring. Please leave word and let me know how you like the story so far. Many thanks!

Holly.