Chapter Three

Ron stood in front of the door to Hermione's room for a full two minutes. Finally summoning his courage, he made a movement to knock on the door, then remembered that she had hinted that he should come straight in and lock the door behind him. Bloody hell, a silencing spell, too!

He opened the door, half-expecting (half hoping, actually) for her to be lying naked across the bed. Instead, the bed was empty. The covers were turned down, candles surrounded it, but it was empty.

"Is that you, Ron?" she called out from behind the closed door to the loo.

"Hermione…" was all he could manage with the garden-gnome-sized lump in his throat.

"I'll be out in a minute."

He felt wave of nausea wash over his body, but underneath it all his blood hummed with excitement. He wanted to sit down, but suffered a moment of panic while trying to decide whether to sit down on the chair or the bed. Or maybe he should get in the bed. Should he take off his clothes? Maybe just his shoes—he didn't want to seem presumptuous. But…this had been her idea, after all. He settled for leaving all of his clothes on, including his shoes (due mostly to a niggling suspicion in the back of his brain that this was an elaborate prank engineered by Fred and George, possibly requiring a quick getaway) and sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands on his knees. A sound from the general direction of the loo startled him, and he looked up. The first thing he noticed was that her cheeks were blazing and she couldn't quite meet his eyes. Then he looked down, and drew in a gasp of air. She had on a nightgown, but one unlike any nightgown he had ever seen (at least outside the Muggle catalogue that Dean had smuggled into his trunk fifth year.)

It was dark blue, and held up only by tiny strings at her shoulders, and was made of some shiny cloth that clung to her body and rippled as she moved. It stopped right in the middle of her thighs and her feet were bare. The lump in his throat doubled in size. He fought off an urge to jump on her, knocking her to the ground.

"Hermione…wow!"

"No… 'bloody hell,' Ron?"

"That, too," he said, making a concentrated effort not to let his voice crack.

With a nervous smile, she took a couple of steps toward him but hesitated before walking all the way to the bed. He did jump up then, but only to stand up and close the distance between them. Hardly daring to breathe, he touched the side of her face, then tugged her chin up so that she was encouraged to look directly at him. "Listen, Hermione, before I forget - and I have a feeling that I am going to forget lots of things, because right now I'm not entirely sure that this isn't a dream - one of many that I've had like this, I probably should say. But I forgot, downstairs, and I want to get it out of the way."

"Yes, Ron? What did you forget?"

"Well I didn't forget, I just forgot to say it - I love you."

"I sort of suspected that you did." Her shy smile widened, and she finally looked directly at him, laughing softly.

"Bloody know-it-all," he muttered, but he was laughing too, and found himself lowering his mouth to kiss her: a quick, possessive claiming of her lips. She didn't seem to mind; she sighed and leaned against him, kissing him in response but more softly and definitely more deeply. Suddenly he became very aware of the fact that he had a half-naked Hermione in his arms. His hands, which had been resting on her shoulder, were itching to slide down the smooth satin which only came up to the end of her back - or better yet, her front - but he found himself hesitating.

As her kiss ended and she pulled away, she looked up at him as if trying to size him up, which only made him more nervous. She then seemed to come to a decision of some sort, because, with an enigmatic smile, she grabbed his hand and led him to the bed. He stopped just short of it, standing over her while she sat down on the edge, then looked up at him expectantly.

"Should I…?" He tugged at his faded tee shirt in demonstration.

She bit her lip, frowning slightly. "Why don't we just pretend that we're going to have a bit of a snog and take some of the pressure off, Ron?"

He looked at her skeptically. "With you dressed like that?"

"You've seen me in less."

"When?" He'd certainly seen her less in his mind, but in reality, she was usually dressed conservatively.

"I wore a bathing suit in front of you, that summer before the Quidditch World Cup."

"Oh, yeah, that. But," he pointed out, as the bathing suit image immediately popped to the forefront of his mind; "you've changed a bit since then. And, even at that, it took me ages to get that image out of my head, at least to the point that I didn't get random hard-ons – and usually at the worst possible moments, too."

"Really?" Ron would have thought that he'd just given her a sack of galleons (or a huge, rare book) based on the look on her face.

"It was awful," he muttered. "You were Hermione, my best mate, and you weren't supposed to do that to me. The only thing worse would have been to get one for Harry."

She laughed merrily at that. "You didn't, did you?"

"Uh, no…" He was appalled that she'd even asked, and she laughed even harder. He could feel his face reddening. Fortunately the tension had dissipated a bit, and Ron managed to relax enough to sit down next to her on the bed. "D'you reckon…should I take my shoes off?"

"That's probably not a bad idea."

He tugged off his trainers without bothering to untie them, kicked them aside, and turned back towards her. "Hermione…are you sure?" he asked, and they both knew he wasn't talking about taking off his shoes.

She nodded. "Absolutely."

He looked at her, wondering for the millionth time when he was going to figure out what was going on inside that brilliant but unbalanced brain of hers. She must have seen the uncertainty on his face and took pity on him, explaining her motivations, "You and I…we had to grow up in a hurry."

She seemed to find something funny, because she gave an odd little laugh, shook her head and continued, "Although, I'll admit that both of us behaved like a couple of infants last year. But now—I've loved you for so long, I know it's not going to go away, and I want to know that when bad things—like yesterday—happen, I will be able to come to you and together we can make it better."

"We already do…"

"But it'll be different. I don't want to feel guilt or fear or frustration, or any of that rubbish. I don't care anymore. I just need you. I need to feel the way that I do when I'm with you. And I want us to have this to look forward to at the end of really crap days. So let's not discuss it anymore, let's just…Why don't you kiss me again, because that always feels really good."

"Yeah…all right, then." He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, trying to put his relief that she was alive and unharmed in the back of his mind, and trying not to think about what he was going to be doing in a short time. He just concentrated on getting to that point where she would make that little sigh and her body would relax against his, the point where he always knew it was going to be a really good snog. The sigh came a lot quicker than normal, he wondered if it had anything to do with the ale she had drunk earlier or if his hands (which were in contact a lot much more skin than normal) had anything to do with it. She was right, of course; pretending that it was just any normal snog made it easier.

Their kisses became deeper and more intense and his hands grew bolder, he was mesmerized by the sensation of bare skin under the slick satin of her nightgown. He was just beginning to entertain the notion of tugging one of those tiny straps down in order to get a good look at what he had only felt before tonight when he was distracted by her attempts to tug off his shirt.

He pulled away and within seconds, the shirt was flung to the far corner of her room. She didn't even bother to scold him for being so careless with his clothes or for messing up her room. He began to reach for her again, but she eluded him; she seemed determined to get a good look at him and to explore his torso with warm, curious fingers. She was wearing a look of fierce concentration, and it was a little startling for Ron to realize that she was as fascinated with his body as he was with hers. He tried to relax and let her experiment, but he found himself mentally cursing very quickly. Leave it to the know-it-all to figure out how to send all his blood racing south with just the barest touch of her fingers.

He decided to even things up by giving her some of the same treatment, running his fingertips over her neck and shoulders, down and back up her arms, and across her collarbone. He eventually hooked his finger into the strap of her gown and slowly dragged it down her arm, holding his breath in anticipation. It stopped just above the crook of her elbow, and unfortunately for him, the rest of the gown was not pulled down with it. He frowned and reached over to tug at the other strap, repeating the process. Still, the offending garment remained up, held precariously by the swell of her chest, but slipping a bit every moment.

She eyed him wickedly, then slipped her arms out of the straps, allowing the gown to puddle around her waist. The lump in his throat was now the size of a large dragon. He had this urge to pounce - to knock her back roughly against the bed and get his hands and his mouth all over her tits.

No, that isn't right. Not tits... tits are…what Lavender Brown thrust into your hands. Tits are what those girls in the magazine under Fred's bed had, what you really enjoyed looking at and fantasizing over, but in the end felt a little bit dirty thinking about. Looking at Hermione is something else entirely. Like one of those statues that you saw at the British Museum. This is Hermione, and they're attached to her and you love them even more because you love everything about her. And they're more fucking amazing than you ever could have imagined. Ron felt like his skin was chilled by a sudden northern wind, even as he felt a flood of warmth wash through his body. He reached a hand out to touch her, hardly daring to breathe.

"Bloody beautiful, Hermione," he finally exhaled.

"So are you, Ron," she replied, and her voice was lower than normal. She had this look in her eyes unlike anything he had ever seen before; she was looking at him like he was a great big juicy steak and she was starving, or a like he was a dish of strawberry ice cream on a hot day.

Absolutely mental, she is. Still, it shook him to the core to realize that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. He cupped a breast reverently in his hand, and he could feel her thundering heartbeat against his palm. He dragged his thumb across the nipple, watching it constrict in reaction. Holy shite, that is so cool. Thrilled, fascinated and with a trembling hand, he moved closer and reached for the other breast. Hermione sighed and closed her eyes, then slowly lowered her body to the bed. He quickly settled in next to her, reluctant to let go now that he finally had his hands full. Propped up on his elbow, he kissed her again, more deeply than he ever had and she seemed to love it. She responded by sliding her arms around his neck, thrusting her hands in his hair, arching against his palms, and making the hottest little whimpering sounds that he ever could have imagined.

Encouraged, he kissed his way down her neck, sucking and biting softly, finally replacing one of his hands with his mouth, and there was nothing little about the sound she made then.

"Oh, god, Ron!"

"So bloody beautiful…" He closed his lips over her nipple again, sucking a bit harder, and she moaned: a deep throaty sound that sent magical currents up and down his body. He moved over to close his mouth over the other one, suckling with enthusiasm. They ought to make a Bertie Bott's with this flavor – they'd make a fortune.

"Ow!"

The sound took a moment to register "Huh?"

Hermione, her chest heaving, said, "Nothing, don't stop, just…gentler?"

"Oh, yeah, right…sorry." He bent down to continue his task - a little more cautiously - trying to figure out by her sounds and movements what worked and what didn't. As long as he was careful, most of it seemed to work, and she seemed willing to let him spend as long as he liked at it. He would have imagined (actually he had imagined) that he could have spent hours – days - exploring (well, to be frank, playing with) the very two items that had been the centerpiece of his dreams for years. In reality, however, (and probably because he'd never imagined that the first time he got to play with them was also going to be the first time that he got to be inside of her) his mind was already drifting further along her body. Somehow, very quickly, it had stopped being a simple snog, and (probably because she was being so welcoming and responsive) his imagination was slipping south along with the nightgown that kept getting pushed lower and lower on her hips. He was already picturing her knickers, wondering if they were going to be the plain white cotton ones that he had imagined (based upon his unfortunate glimpses of Ginny's laundry) or if they would be something more like what the girls (or, rather, women) had worn in Dean's catalogue. A few days ago, there wouldn't have even been a doubt in his mind, but after tonight…

Holding his breath and mentally crossing his fingers, he reluctantly pulled his mouth away from her breasts and began kissing the area below them. Since she seemed disinclined to halt his progress, he let his hand side down to her hips, pulling the satin lower and lower while he distracted her by kissing her navel. Eventually he met a little resistance, not from her, but from the weight of her body on the satin. Apparently he had not distracted her as much as he'd thought, because she caught on to his problem right away, and she helpfully lifted her bottom off the bed, allowing him to pull the satin gown over her hips, down her legs and onto the floor.

He very quickly found himself incapable of thought, let alone speech. You can't even call these knickers! He didn't have any idea what to call them, but they seemed to have no back to them. And the front; not only was it tiny, but it was almost transparent!

"Hermione!"

"Too much?" sheasked with a knowing smile.

Not enough, but I'm not stupid enough to tell her that. I wonder if she's been wearing these under her robes all along. "Bloody brilliant, Hermione."

He tentatively placed his hand on her thigh, watching her face anxiously to see how she reacted. She smiled in encouragement, and he slid his fingers up a little further.

"I…"

"Please, Ron…"

Please what? Please stop? Please go on? Please get it over with? More than anything else, he wanted to see the rest of her, but then he wondered how long he could last before he lost what little self-control he had.

This was it; the last barrier, and soon he was actually going to get to be inside her, to feel her around him. It was such a stupid thing to be nervous about. Such a simple thing really, I mean, how could it be that much different from that time she put her mouth around your finger and sucked the icing off? Yeah, and you had wet dreams about that for days, didn't you? And a finger is a very different thing than your prick. And her mouth is nothing at all like her…

Without a conscious decision, he found his hand drifting up the impossibly soft skin of her thigh, then up and over the fabric of her knickers.

The response was immediate. She arched her body and closed her eyes, and he discovered that he really liked looking at her breasts from that angle. And when her body came back down, her legs weren't as tightly closed as they had been. He tried it again, this time allowing his thumb to make the slightest of incursions between her legs.

Ron groaned. Bloody hell; that is so damn hot. That moan she just made, and the thing with her back again, and her knickers are…wet, and you remember all too well what Bill told you about how girls got wet when they…

"Hermione, I fucking love you."

"Ron…again…do that again."

And so he did, but with more a lot more confidence, allowing his thumb to venture back and forth, loving the way she squirmed in reaction. His curiosity got the better of him very quickly and he wondered what he was waiting for. If she liked it this much over the knickers…

He slipped his thumb under the fabric, coming across short, wiry hair and beyond that, flesh… With an audible gulp, he slid his thumb further under her knickers, fascinated. It was unlike anything that he'd ever felt before; slick and soft and unbelievably warm, and he wanted to feel it around his cock more than anything he's ever wanted in his life. He replaced his thumb with a couple of his fingers and burrowed deeper, groaning, especially when her heard her whimper, opening her legs in encouragement.

He tore his eyes away from where his fingers were, and looked at her. Her eyes were glazed and she had one of her hands on her breast, and he didn't think he could wait another second to be inside her. With his heart pounding in his ears, and feeling decidedly feverish, he began to tug her knickers down her hips.

I'm going to die, right now, and with a stupid goofy grin on my face. I've got Hermione totally starkers in front of me! No scratch that; I'm not going to die, but I am going to come in my pants. And why the hell do I still have clothes on?

Hermione reached over and put her hand on his shoulder, pulling him towards her. He got the point rather quickly (for him) and immediately slid on top of her and snogged her with everything he had ever felt for her. She slid her arms around him then ran her fingers down his back, slipping them under the waistband of his trousers. Finding easy access because the trousers were baggy, as all his trousers were, because they were stupid hand-me-downs from Bill, and never quite fit him right, she pressed boldly on, slipping them under the elastic of his briefs, exploring tentatively.

And then, oh my word, she was clutching his bare arse, which felt so goddamn amazing, and raising her knees to either side of him. That was when he realized that he was right there, there were just a couple of ruddy layers of fabric between them, and he heard a roaring in his ears, and something like a bell, which was really odd but he wasn't going to dwell on it too much. He kept pressing his body against hers, and she was thrusting back up in response, and the friction nearly sent him into oblivion. But she just kept clutching, and squeezing, and he put both his hands on her breasts, and then she was writhing, and these hot little sounds were coming from the back of her throat, which he could feel as well as hear, because his lips were all over her neck.

Still, that annoying ringing kept filling his ears, but it wasn't really like a bell; it was more like a whistle, and he got this horrible image of Madam Hooch riding a broomstick above them and whistling at them to 'end play.' Then - worse yet- he got an image of Snape, floating above them, sneering and blowing that stupid whistle, which seemed to be getting louder...

"The phone…" Hermione gasped, trying to move out from under him.

"Huh?" To his deliciously preoccupied mind, she may as well have been speaking mermish, but he was fairly certain that 'fone' wasn't a word he recognized.

"The phone is ringing, Ron."

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A/N: Ok, I know, beat me now for the cliffhanger of death. But the chapter was getting too damn long, and I thought Ron really needed to calm down a bit. Will you forgive me if I tell you the last chapter is nearly half written? Maybe? Well, anyway, I hope you enjoyed the buildup; Please let me know what you think.