Ron Weasley sat on a barstool in The Adder's Fork and white-knuckled his firewhiskey. The burn of each swig lessened at a should-be-alarming pace. But sod it all of Ron cared about that right then. His mind was overfull, which he figured could be fixed by instead overfilling his glass.

All he could think about was Draco sodding Malfoy.

And, of course, his so-called best friend. Ironic that he, whose life should be better than ever with fame, fortune, honors, renown—really everything he had wanted up until last year—instead had the weight of family disappointment, damaged friendships, and so much Merlin-be-damned weakness plaguing him. All because of that pale, feckless ferret.

Okay, fine, maybe not all because of him. His failures in Auror training were blissfully his own. But the rest were because of that git, and somehow, no one, no one else could see it.

It had been seven days since he sat down at The Leaky Cauldron with Harry.

"You really buggered this one up, mate," Harry had said once they both had a pint in hand.

"Me!?"

Harry had nodded.

"What in the bloody hell did I do wrong?"

Astonishingly, unbelievably, Harry had rubbed his hand over his scar—a remnant from the war, which he now only did when something really bothered him—and looked away.

"You slept with Parvati—"

"That was ages ago!"

Harry had sighed. Deeply. It reminded him of Hermione. "Look, this hasn't been easy for me either. But, you've got to start thinking about Hermione."

"I do!"

The glare on Harry's face would have made his Mum proud. "You and I both know that we take Hermione horribly for granted. Copying her work for six years. Relying on her to figure all the hard stuff out."

"But she likes doing that."

"She's still the one doing it, Ron." He sighed again. "Listen, it's not like I'm much better. I never even thought about it—about how much she gives—until recently. And now, Merlin, I can't stop thinking about it. And trying to make it all up to her. Mate, her parents are gone because of me. She packed and prepared for weeks so we could leave on a dime. You and I did nothing. She cooked for us; cast illegal charms for us; made sure we didn't die all damn year. And how did we repay her? I looked the other way while you slept around behind her back. She had to move on, and if we don't fix this now, she's going to move on without us."

The words had hit Ron like an erumpent horn to the face. Or, maybe it was just that he had drained his pint so quickly. Either way, the fact remained that each of his brothers wanted to pummel him. Even Percy was stirred enough to write him a warning letter. And now—Harry.

So, they wanted him to think about things from her side of it? Fine.

And, he did. As his mind wandered, thinking up a million scenarios as minds do, each one turned his stomach. No matter how he pictured it, there was no way to change that Hermione was so alone that she had resorted to Draco My-Father-Will-Hear-About-This Malfoy for help.

As if reading his thoughts, Harry had said, "He's good to her, you know. We may have cocked that up for her, too."

Ron reeled, thankful for the booth beneath him. Was Harry serious? He really considered Malfoy—his nemesis since they first stepped foot in Hogwarts—to be a viable match for Hermione? Ron took the time to really look Harry over. His eyes were dark and sunken. His mouth was downturned. His shoulders were hunched. His hand was clenched so tightly around his pint that Ron could clearly make out "I must not tell lies" across the back.

Merlin's saggy left nut. He was.

Well, that changed things. If there was one thing Ron had learned to trust, it was the instincts of one Always Right Harry Potter.

"Just do me a favor and spend some time thinking about her side of it," Harry interrupted his thoughts. (There it was again.) "You'll see."

The rest of the night, they had drank in silence, much like Ron was then. He had thought about her over the past week. In fact, he thought about little else besides her, starting with his realization from that night. The more he thought about it, the more ashamed he became. He wanted to lash out. There was a desperate coil tightening in his chest with each new thought. After a few days, his head pounded with unrelenting fury. His training began to suffer. His sleep disappeared.

In short, Ronald Bilius Weasley was a mess. Over Draco Malfoy—somehow the better man.

"More," a voice said next to him. "More. For Salazar's sake, just leave the fucking bottle."

The barkeep slammed the bottle down and walked away as Ron turned to see his new drinking companion—and promptly fell off his stool.

He righted himself and retook his seat as none other than Pansy Parkinson sneered down her pug nose at him.

"What do you want?" she spat.

"To drink," he retorted, "and be left the fuck alone."

She looked him up and down. After a moment, she nodded. Then, she slung back her glass and drained it in one gulp. She refilled it and set the bottle down between them.

Ron stared at it.

He took a breath.

Then, he drained his own glass and set it back down. Pansy dutifully ignored him. So, he picked up the bottle, refilled his tumbler, and placed it back between them. Still no objection.

Thus, they drank. After a while, he was refilling both their glasses. And after a while more, she was. He could not recall who started first, but before long, they were talking.

"He actually likes her. Why would he like her?"

"Oi, watch it," he said out loud. Internally, he punched the sky that he was not the only one hung up over this.

"Yeah, yeah, she's your friend or whatever. Did you fuck her?"

"What!?"

"I dunno, I thought you two were fucking."

"What kinda question is that! Were you fucking Malfoy?"

She snorted. "We weren't betrothed, so no."

"Oh. Er, no. We weren't either."

Pansy eyed him.

"Things didn't go that way with us," he added.

"But you wanted them to."

"No." He scrunched up his face. "Okay, yes. Wait, no. I don't know, I guess I thought I did."

"You're a right fucking mess, Weasley."

"You look great, too, Parkinson."

"I do look great. Do you see this dress? Do you see this hair? I look like a fucking fortune of galleons, and for what? To sit here alone drinking myself into a stupor on a Friday night."

Suddenly, Ron did see her dress. It clung to her in a way that dripped with class and suggestion. Her hair was longer than he had ever seen it and tumbled down her back in soft curls. Her lashes were dark and thick. Her lips were a deep red. His eyes traced her up and down, and her curves were unlike anything Ron could have imagined under her Hogwarts uniform. His gaze settled on her cleavage, and though he tried to tell himself to stop ogling her, he woefully failed.

"Well, at least someone's enjoying the view," she snickered.

He gulped as he dragged his eyes up to her face. She wore a lopsided grin, and her eyes were dancing with mirth.

"Yeah," he said rather thickly. "It's good. I mean, you're good." He coughed. "It's a nice dress."

"Well, aren't you just the picture of eloquence."

He scowled and looked away from her.

She refilled his glass.

They drank until everyone in the pub was kicked out. Then, they walked together towards the Apparition point. Pansy stumbled in her heels, and Ron's arm reached out automatically to steady her, even as his own head spun. The next thing he knew, they were falling into an alleyway with lips crashing together. She tasted like firewhiskey and sex.

"Mine," she said.

He could not tell if it was a question or a command, but he grunted his ascent anyway.

She Side-Along Apparated him straight to her bedroom, where they spent no time at all stripping each other down. This frenzied, drunken heat was a sensation Ron now knew well. A little too well. He pushed that thought aside. That could be tomorrow's problem.

"Charm," Pansy moaned as his fingers danced over her sensitive flesh.

He mumbled something incoherent about her beauty, which he hoped passed for charming—or even just made sense.

"The charm," she repeated.

"Huh?"

"THE CHARM," she shouted at him.

"Fuck, right." Idiot. He stumbled over to his discarded pants and rummaged through his pockets as fast as he could. He turned back and froze. Pansy was on her bed, legs spread, keeping herself warm and ready. His cock twitched. The image of her hands on herself was the sexiest thing he had ever seen.

"Fucking hell, that's hot," he found himself saying.

"Cast the fucking charm." She locked her eyes on his cock and licked her lips. "I want you inside me now."

He almost came, standing there stark naked, wand in hand, half a dozen feet away from her. Instead, he gripped himself at the base a little too tightly, then he cast the Contraceptive Charm. The cooling sensation helped, too. He looked up and found Pansy before him with a potion at her lips.

"Sobering Potion," she said. "Just a sip." She smirked, beckoning him back to the bed with mischief in her eyes. He recognized the peppery taste as soon as the potion hit his tongue. His head cleared then filled with doubt, but after one look from her, his confidence came flooding back. He grinned and climbed atop her, his lips captured hers in bruising, biting kisses. The sounds she made were unbelievable. She pushed him away, and he frowned until he realized she was pushing him down, not away.

"Show me how much you want it," she said huskily.

He grinned.

For the first time, Ron found himself beyond dedicated to the task before him. Judging by the way Pansy moaned and threaded her fingers through his hair, he was succeeding. With his senses returned from the Sobering Potion, he was able to focus on her fully and found that she encouraged him with her moans, as if guiding his way. All of his attention redirected to her, and he was in awe of everything she did. The way her legs shook when she came undone on his tongue. The way she pulled him to her a gripped him as she directed him into her heat. The way she moved under him and raked her nails down his back. The way she growled when they separated as they changed positions. And, most of all, the way she screamed out his name as she climaxed.

When she was finally spent, Ron groaned his own release and collapsed. Were he not so exhausted, he would have swelled with pride over how many times he succeeded that night. At least I can do something right.

Pansy cast a few cleaning charms, then threw back the covers of her bed.

"You can sleep here," she said matter of factly, "but I don't do breakfast."

"Thanks," he said with a grin. As soon as he settled under her covers, sleep rushed up to take him.

The next day, Ron sat in his bedroom and considered what had happened to him.

The night with Pansy was incredible. And, of course, it was a mistake. She was a Parkinson and a Slytherin. Plus, she had made it clear that what they had was just sex.

"I don't do dating," she had said to him. "We can drink, and we can fuck. That's it."

Okay, they had more than just sex. They had mind blowing, explosive, incomparable sex. The feel and taste of her remained in his head all day, plaguing him. Infecting him. He was pretty sure he was ruined for anyone else.

All at once, waves of guilt crashed over Ron. As he sat alone on his bed, trying to get Pansy Parkinson out of his head, a very different realization hit him.

Hermione.

What he had done was unforgivable. He had betrayed her trust in so many ways. He had let his own grief drive her away. He had sought comfort in alcohol and meaningless sex and made himself completely unavailable to her, then he lashed out when she sought her own comfort somewhere else. As much as it killed him to think about it, she had built what sounded like a meaningful connection months ago with Malfoy. This was judging by the few pages of her journal that he read against her will. And, he hated even more to admit it, but Malfoy had responded by helping her, listening to her, and supporting her when he, himself, could not be bothered. Then, over Christmas… Godric, no wonder George had punched him.

He pulled out a quill and roll of parchment but paused. Who was he kidding? He had never been good at writing to her. The words would never come together for him. Still, he had to do something.

Pansy's tongue traced the edge of the Sobering Potion bottle.

Ron gritted his teeth against the memory and threw himself down the stairs towards the fireplace. He wasted no time in throwing in a handful of floo and bellowing, "Harry, I'm coming through!" When he stumbled out the other side, Harry was there in the den.

"You look like shit," Harry said.

Pansy smirked at him over a bare shoulder.

"I really fucked up," he croaked, choking on a bit of ash.

Harry sighed. "What did you do now?"

"What? Nothing! I mean with Hermione. Fuck, how will I ever make this up to her."

Ron squirmed as Harry eyed him up and down with piercing green eyes. He felt like his soul was being flayed out before him. Pansy moaned in his ear. He bit the inside of his cheek.

"Took you long enough," Harry said at last.

"How do I fix it?"

"Come on," Harry clapped him on the shoulder and led him towards the kitchen. "You want a butterbeer?"

"How 'bout tea? I, er, drank a lot last night." A delicate hand on an amber bottle.

Harry nodded and put on the kettle. "You start by apologizing."

Ron nodded.

"Maybe some groveling for you, actually. Then, you start listening to her—really listening."

Yes, like that. Right there, yes, yes. Ron gulped and nodded again.

"Then, we make friends with Malfoy."

Ron nodded a third time. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. I'll do anything. Whatever it takes."

Harry drank his tea, and Ron noticed as he set down his cup that he looked pointedly away. "Ron… this thing with Malfoy. It's serious, ya know? She's, er, she's not coming back—to you."

"I know," Ron said, and his voice sounded hoarse in his ears. "I just want to fix this. It's supposed to be the three of us, against the world and all. I don't—" He fell silent. In truth, he had nothing left to say.

"Okay," Harry said at last. "I can't promise you how or when, but I'll help."

Pansy's nails scratched down his back.

Ron sighed. "Thanks, mate."