Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I attempting to make a profit. This is all for pure entertainment's sake! Hope you enjoy!

Author's note: Alcamenes and soupytwist rule the universe. Tis a fact.

Finally, some lighter moments. Believe me, I looked forward to writing something sweet and romantic as much as y'all looked forward to reading it.

R&H goodness. Need I say more? ;)


A Deal With The Devil
Chapter 4: All These Things Will I Give Thee

Ron kept an extra pair of plain robes in his office, stuffed away in the back of an old, creaky cupboard that smelled of dust and rotting mothballs--and other things he was quite sure he'd rather not think about too much. The robes were there exclusively for emergency purposes, in case he ever had to meet with some high-ranking official at the last moment and needed to look halfway presentable. He reckoned a faded jumper and a worn pair of Muggle jeans would probably not be deemed too professional by many in the Ministry (most especially his own wife, not to mention his brother Percy, who never failed to remind him at least once a day to "take more pride" in his daily attire).

This hardly qualified as an emergency, but Ron felt justified all the same in digging out the spare robes. The ones he'd worn last night during the botched raid were caked with blood, and torn in several different places. They'd been in far worse shape than he'd thought, and when he managed to take a good look at himself in the mirror this morning, he realised that he would never be able to go home looking this way.

Hermione would get hysterical.

The robes were rumpled from having been crushed under the weight of papers and books (Ron used the cupboard more as a makeshift filing cabinet than for its original purposes), and the smoothing charm could get rid of only so many wrinkles. But it would have to do. Hermione might be able to overlook a few wrinkles, but he'd never be able to get the frayed hem and blotches of dried blood on the other robes past her observant eyes.

Of course, there were also the bruises and various cuts all over his face and arms and legs. He wasn't even sure where the majority of them had come from, but they were there all the same, and he knew he'd have to make them go away somehow--or at least make them seem less noticeable--before he ever stepped foot inside the house.

Healing charms were Ginny's specialty, but he'd grown up in a rowdy household of six boys; he'd learnt enough of the charms as a young boy to know how to make the bruises fade somewhat, and at least transfigure the cuts into faint scars. He didn't have time to go back to St. Mungo's just to have these taken care of, and besides, the doctors had far more important injuries to attend to.

It was early evening by the time he apparated back to the house, with the mid-summer sun still an hour or two from dipping into the horizon. He'd expected to see Hermione spread out on the sofa in the living room, surrounded by the army of papers she always brought home with her from work (he often liked to tease her about neglecting him for her work, but secretly, he had to admit he found her rather... sexy when she was engrossed in whatever she was doing).

She wasn't anywhere downstairs, however, at least not in the immediate vicinity. But there was an exquisite fragrance in the air, of roast chicken and boiled potatoes, and freshly baked bread. He poked his head into the kitchen, but she was nowhere to be found here either, and he was about to call out for her when he turned around and literally ran right into her.

"Hey!" she said, laughing when she finally recovered. "Watch out, will you?"

She was carrying candlesticks in one hand, and two wine glasses in the other, but she set them both down on the table and looped her arms around his neck before he could form a smart retort, raising up on her toes to give him a kiss that made his head swim.

"I missed you," she murmured.

He never tired of hearing those words. He reckoned he'd never tire of them, for as long as he lived.

"Oh come on," he teased, "I was gone for only a day."

She groaned and tried to break away, but he trapped her by wrapping his arms around her hips and pulled her close for another kiss.

"Nice to know my husband couldn't have cared less that he was away."

"Mmm," he said, nuzzling her neck, "I definitely wouldn't say that."

"Oh no, you don't," she said, though she made no real effort to pull away.

"Oh yes I will..."

She capitulated at last, collapsing in giggles as he tried to tickle the soft flesh beneath her earlobe with his tongue. He turned his head to recapture her mouth, taking his time in exploring all those secret spots that he knew made her gasp in delight.

"Hermione..."

"Hmm?"

"I did miss you, you know."

He touched his forehead to hers.

"I was here this morning," he said. "Watching you sleep."

She pulled away slightly to look up at him. "You were? Why didn't you wake me?"

He shrugged. If he said the words right now, he knew he'd stand a good chance of choking on that bloody lump in his throat, and besides, he didn't want to talk about last night, anyway. Or this morning. He just wanted to forget all about it.

Forget all about seeing his fellow Aurors fall to the ground, and hearing Snape spin lies about carrying out Dumbledore's cause...

All he wanted in that moment was to feel her. Feel himself with her.

He answered her with a kiss, one long enough and deep enough for her to forget the question, he hoped. And when they finally parted, he tucked away a few wayward curls behind her ear and said, "So... didn't you say you had some sort of surprise for me?"

"I should have guessed you wouldn't forget."

He laughed, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips.

"'Course I wouldn't."

She picked up the candlesticks and wine glasses again, then gestured behind him.

"Could you?" she said.

Ron looked behind him and saw a bottle of Muggle wine resting in a bucket of ice. He drew it out, hearing the cubes of ice rattle inside the bucket, then looked at the label. Truth be told, he knew next to nothing about Muggle spirits apart from the fact that he rather liked the way they tasted (the few times he'd had the opportunity to partake of them at his in-laws' dinner parties), but he'd seen the word Chardonnay before, and he vaguely remembered having liked that particular drink.

He placed the bottle back into the bucket and carried the whole thing, following her out to the garden, where the sky was awash with brilliant corals and lavenders and reds, as the sun slowly crossed to the south and began to make its final descent. She led him to the old acorn tree in the very back of their property, with the mighty branches that curved down towards the earth, providing a cool shade in the warmth of dusk.

It was only when they'd reached the tree that he noticed what she'd done--what she must have been doing all this time, when he'd come home and saw that she was nowhere to be found.

She'd spread out his old, faded Cannons blanket from childhood (and protected it with an anti-stain charm, she assured him) on a patch of grass just underneath the tree. There was a veritable feast laid out, as well: the roast chicken he'd smelled earlier, and the potatoes and the bread, and even small custard tarts which he knew took her hours to make because she always took such care to make sure that the pastry was just right. She kicked off her shoes and dropped to her knees, setting the glasses down, then turning her wand on the candles, first to light them, then to levitate them until they hung low in the air.

"Well, slow coach," she said, looking up at him and laughing, "were you planning on joining me here, or did you want that wine all to yourself tonight?"

He gave her a grin and handed her the wine, then kicked his shoes off too and sat down beside her on the blanket.

"I see your dastardly plan," he said. "Get me drunk, then have your way with me, eh?"

She peered at him from the corner of her eye, clearly trying to fight a smile as she pulled the cork out of the wine bottle and began to fill their glasses.

"Something like that, I suppose."

"Well good," he said. "I could use the distraction."

"You're impossible."

He shrugged. "I know."

No sooner than she had handed him his glass and he'd taken his first sip out of it, did she frown all of the sudden; Ron wondered what he possibly could have done in such short a time span to ruffle her feathers so quickly.

"Goodness, Ron, it's sweltering out here," she said. "How can you be wearing all of that?"

She was right, he supposed. It was rather unbearable again tonight (this had to be some kind of record), and she herself was dressed only in a light, sleeveless dress--which, Ron couldn't help but note, had just the right amount of sheerness to it, and the sudden realisation sent a jolt of desire through his bloodstream.

"Let's get this off you," she said, then she began to tug at his robes.

He laughed and said, "By all means, please feel free to undress me as you wish."

She stopped abruptly and he heard her gasp. He looked up to see what had made her pause, realising too late what it must have been.

"Ron... My God, what is this?"

Her fingers delicately brushed the area where his shoulder met his neck. Ron had forgotten the bruise he'd got there, from where he'd hit the rocks when he fell after being struck.

He eased her hand off him and gave her a gentle squeeze. "It's nothing-"

"That's not nothing," she said. "You were hurt last night?"

"I'm fine now."

She looked unconvinced, but he took her hand and kissed it once more.

"Really."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

He leaned back all the way until he was lying down on the blanket, pulling her down with him so her head was pillowed on his chest.

"Look at that sky," he said.

He felt her press up against him, her arm bridged across his torso and her cheek resting on his collarbone. He brought one arm over her waist and pulled her into him, hearing her sigh when he did.

"It's beautiful."

"You're beautiful."

She shifted so that she was hovering over him, supporting herself on one elbow, while her other hand traced his cheekbone, feeling at the rough stubble.

"Ron..."

"Yeah?"

"There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

He tilted his head in her direction and squinted to look up at her, the slowly-sinking sun hitting him right in the eyes.

"You look so serious," he said. "Should I be worried?"

She laughed. "I should hope not."

"What is it?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but closed it almost as quickly. Now Ron was really curious as to what this was all about.

"Well, you know, we have discussed this before..."

"Discussed what?"

She came up to sitting again. Ron followed suit.

"I mean, it's not as if this is something that's never been brought up..."

"Hermione," he said, laughing, "would you just come out and say it? I don't mind sitting here, playing guessing games, but the food is getting cold, and the wine is getting warm-"

"What do you think about having a baby?"

Ron blinked back at her, wondering if he'd heard what he'd just heard. He had had some wine, after all. And not being accustomed to Muggle drinks, sometimes it took not much more than a few sips to impair his faculties.

"What?"

There was apprehension on her face, mixed with a bit of excitement and fervor, too.

God, she looked beautiful.

"Are you..." He wasn't even sure what the hell he was trying to say here. "I mean... are you trying to tell me that you're..."

"What?"

Then she realised what he must have been thinking.

"Oh, you thought... I'm sorry, I... No, no, I'm not..." She let out a small laugh. "I've really bungled this one, haven't I?"

She reached up a hand to nervously brush through her hair, but he took it and laced his fingers through hers.

"What is it, love?"

She took a deep breath, which seemed to settle her nerves, then she began again. "I was just thinking... how would you feel about starting a family?"

"You mean... you mean now?"

"Well I didn't mean right at this moment, but-"

He gave her his lopsided grin. "Why not?"

She laughed and shook her head, then started to answer him, but he cut her off with a kiss before she could get any words out. She giggled into his mouth and teased him by breaking away, but he only smiled down at her and captured her bottom lip, gently sucking on it in the way that never failed to make her moan.

"So does this mean you like the idea?" she said breathlessly, before he silenced her with another kiss.

She tasted of wine and custard. Delicious as always.

To hell with dinner.

"Oh yes, I heartily approve... Matter of fact, I suggest we start straight away..."

"Ron, I'm serious," she said. "Do you really want... I mean... if you're not ready..."

He cupped her face, stroking the apples of her cheeks with his thumbs. She was watching him so intently, as if trying to read the subtlest of signs on his face, anything to tell her what he was really thinking at that very moment.

But all he could think of was how much he loved this woman, and how the very thought of creating a life with her simply blew his mind away.

"I'm ready," he said. "I think... we're ready."

"Everything's going to change, you know."

He smiled. "Yes, I'm quite aware of that."

She laughed, as if realising that he of all people would know that. He, who had grown up in a rambunctious household, with children running around everywhere, filling up every room of that tiny home. And he realised, he wanted to give her that. He wanted to give her everything she had missed out on, growing up as an only child.

And he couldn't wait to do it, either.

"All right?" he said.

She nodded and pulled him down to her, pausing to whisper before she kissed him, "More than all right."

He felt her approval in her kiss before he ventured down to his brush his lips across her clavicle, letting his tongue dart out to taste the droplets of sweat that had gathered in the seam of her breasts. He felt her shift underneath him and the neckline of her dress slid down ever so slightly, revealing more of her flushed skin. He traced the outline of her curves with his mouth, at times simply running his lips across the thin fabric of her dress, at others sucking gently, causing her to whimper and tighten her grip on his forearm.

"Ron, what about... all of this? Aren't you hungry?"

He laughed right onto her skin, feeling her shudder, and savoring the power he held at being the only one who could make her tremble like that.

Just like that.

"Yes, I am," he whispered. "Very hungry..."

"I meant-"

"Shh... I'm trying to seduce my wife, in case you hadn't noticed..."

He felt her smile against his lips, and he knew right then she'd need no more convincing. He made his way down her throat again, and as he did, she slid a leg up his thigh, running her foot along his calf in smooth motions before she hooked her leg over his hip. The hem of her dress slipped upwards when she did, and at once, Ron could feel the smooth, warm skin of her inner thigh against the fabric of his jeans.

And suddenly, he felt very overdressed.

He broke contact--reluctantly so--and Hermione began to voice her disapproval, until she saw that he had pulled away only to rid himself of this bothersome jumper. She must have seen fit to help him, because she ran her hands up his torso to slide the bugger off him, her fingers lovingly tracing every line and contour of his muscles. Ron looked down at her as she explored him all over again, the hungry look in her eyes nearly undoing him right then and there.

Her hands eventually settled at his hips, her thumbs hooking into his belt loops, tugging slightly at his jeans. Ron could feel every muscle in his body straining, longing to come into contact with her bare skin, longing to touch her and pleasure her until she splintered in his arms. He reached down to fumble at the fastening, but she shooed his fingers away and undid it herself, brushing her knuckles down his length when she unzipped him, as if deliberately prolonging his agony.

"Hermione..."

He breathed her name out, but wasn't sure if it had actually been coherent. And in truth, it didn't really matter at this point. To hell with rational thoughts and logic and anything other than... this...

This.

The sun had finally set now, leaving a trail of fire in its wake that was only now beginning to die down and give way to silver with the emergence of the moon.

Hermione had fallen asleep not too long after they'd made love; Ron suspected she hadn't got much sleep at all last night when he was away. He let her cling to him, the rhythm of her breath pulling him into slumber too.

He began to dream of what was to come. Of children and birthday parties, and bedtime stories and Father Christmas. But then the dreams began to turn dark, and the images began to get distorted and twisted, and he saw his children fade and hooded figures take their place. Hooded figures with their faces hidden, looking skyward at the ugly shape of a skull in the heavens.

And he jerked awake, feeling rivulets of cold sweat trickle down his spine. Hermione stirred beside him, reaching up to touch his face.

"Ron? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said. He bent down to kiss her, then slid up to sitting. "Just hungry, that's all."

She didn't look convinced. He didn't really expect her to be.

"Come on," he said. "Shame to waste this feast."

She didn't say anything, but sat up beside him, and he held her close to him, hoping to banish those images from his memory.