Summary: Ron Weasley is ready to finally fulfil the biggest fantasies of every young man on the planet. Hermione Granger has read enough out of books, and wants to see what the fuss is all about for herself. They're both ready to take the next step in their physical relationship. But not like this – no, this wasn't what they had thought it would be like at all...
Written for 2022 Romione Trope Fest, my dark take on "Fuck Or Die". Unlike my other fics, this is set in a different "fan universe". Happy ending, I promise. If you'd like a tad more light-hearted stuff, please read my other fics or follow me on AO3!
Trigger Warnings: Abduction, threat of rape and murder, discussion of non-consent, related angst, magical violence
Author's Note: What characters say can be right or wrong or both at once, there is a wide breadth of complexity and nuance to most any topic, and truth often lies somewhere in the middle of two (or more) extremes of opinion. This fic ultimately came about as a result of a plot bunny I thought was meaningful and worth exploring, and that's really all there is to it. Ultimately, I hope you enjoy reading this. Many thanks to the admins for organising the fest, particularly be11atrixthestrange. I love feedback – especially important this time round, given the subject – so as always, do please let me know what you think in the comments!
0. Prologue
Now
Ron Weasley's wheezing breaths fill the room; thin, laboured gasping punctuated occasionally by wet, blood-flecked coughs.
Hermione Granger cradles his head on her lap, strokes his hair tenderly, the only thing she can do. All those brains, all that Hogwarts education, and the brightest witch of her age is completely powerless, completely helpless, imprisoned in a stripped-bare basement sans wand. Oh, for a thin wooden stick with a magical bit inside.
Neither of them are strangers to mortal danger. They've been through a lot of sticky situations, these last ten-odd years of companionship. They've faced time and again the prospect of sudden death; death in a forest, in a drawing-room, on a battlefield, and they've come through relatively intact. But this time – this time, it looks like it's for keeps. And the clock's running out.
Any moment now, their all-too-short lives will be finally forfeit. Death looms on the horizon, waiting for the sunset of life, and the patient shadows grow longer, creep closer, with every passing second.
Hermione's thought it all the way through, with that big useless brain of hers. There's only one chance, a slim one. And not much of a chance.
Take it, and there's an infinitesimal possibility they live. A million to one, odds against.
Because even if they do try, it's by far most likely that they'll die anyway, and maybe not right away. Maybe painfully, wretchedly, in ways no-one should even have to contemplate, let alone experience.
But don't take it, and those odds become a certainty, a certainty of the exact same horrible fate that awaits them as the other option.
Hobson's choice.
Decide, Hermione.
I. Perfect
Twenty-two hours ago
Ron checked his reflection in the mirror, smoothed down the navy-blue Muggle sport jacket, and smelled his breath, his hands trembling a little. Tonight was a really big night, and he didn't want a single thing to go wrong. Reservations at Campane di Parma, Hermione's favourite Italian restaurant in Soho, check. Harry asked to please stay in his side of Grimmauld Place tonight, check. And... oh yes.
He pulled out the small phial of potion he'd bought that afternoon from the Knockturn Alley apothecary, where there was far less chance of George finding out – most of the Diagon Alley shopkeepers were his mates – and taking the mickey. It had two compartments and two necks, and the liquid glowed a bright blue and pink. His and hers, for double protection, see? Ron checked the expiry date on the label, and stowed it safely in his pocket.
"Jump to it, man," barked the mirror, "good liberty time's a-wastin'."
"Cheers," grinned Ron. And he left the Auror Office, waving goodbye to a couple of colleagues, and made his way down to the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic.
Hermione examined her makeup in the mirror critically, patted her sleekly-washed-and-potioned hair in place, and fiddled with the hem of the tiny black spaghetti-strap number from H&M she'd changed into from her strictly-professional work clothes. Looking around to make sure the Ladies toilet in the Office of Wizarding Law was truly empty, she adjusted the décolletage a little. Just because she refused to play the game most of the time, didn't mean she was entirely ignorant of the strategies – or that she thought it beneath her to play, when it suited her. And tonight, she was giving it everything she had.
She checked her handbag for the two carefully-forged ticket stubs to the evening showing of Cats, and smiled to herself. 'I'm sorry I'm home late, Dad, Mum; Ron was hungry after the show so we stopped for kebabs and lost track of the time.' Perfect. Plenty of time for... Hermione's cheeks warmed at the thought.
"You look a treat, dear," trilled the mirror.
"Thank you." Hermione slipped on her long beige trenchcoat and belted it, covering up all that skin she was still shy of showing casually, publicly. I know I do – but only for my darling Ron.
Off to one side of the Ministry of Magic's Atrium was a waiting area furnished with a low table and a couple of chairs and sofas. Ron perched himself on one of these, and tried not to check his watch too often.
It was two and a bit years now since the Battle of Hogwarts. They had been eventful years. Harry and Ron had joined the Auror Office. Ginny was making waves as one of the youngest and most promising professional Quidditch players in history. And Hermione was making equally large ripples, even in the none-too-placid pond of the Office of Wizarding Law – still struggling after all this time, with the Aurors, to bring every last fugitive of Voldemort's regime to justice.
But Ron's mind wasn't on work right now. It was on his relationship with Hermione Jean Granger.
Hermione pressed the button to call the lift, and played with the strap on her handbag, thinking.
After dancing skittishly for so long around each other, when she and Ron finally accepted they could be a couple – everything just clicked into place. They were comfortable, and happy. Hermione found that being in a relationship with Ron was a lot like it had been being close friends, just that the thoughts and feelings they shared with each other now were even more deeper, even more personal than they had been before. Emotional intimacy – that wasn't a problem for them.
Physically, however...
For some, that side of the relationship had come fast – she suspected that Harry and Ginny, for example, had lost very little time on that front. For others, it took a little while. Hermione was body-shy. She was more at home in books than in her body, and she'd taken some time just to get her head wrapped round the idea of having a boyfriend, let alone all that it implied in that way.
Oh, kissing Ron was wonderful, and just holding hands alone made her feel warm and sent frissons skipping up her spine, but for quite some time that had been as far as it had gone. And then... then there had been the summer after Hogwarts, just before her internship at the O.W.L. began, and then Hermione's eyes had been opened to a whole new universe of sensation. Then, Hermione learned what being touched by another really meant – and three weeks ago...
The lift bell dinged.
Three weeks ago, they had been at Grimmauld Place, remembered Ron.
Harry'd had a weekend shift. Hermione's parents were conveniently on a short holiday up to the Cotswolds. Ron and Hermione spent the day rambling around London playing tourists, had a romantic dinner where she'd introduced him to Portuguese petiscos, and then ended up settling down on the sofa in front of the drawing-room fireplace with a bottle of elf-made wine and bowls of strawberries in cream, all the light orbs extinguished.
In the dim rosy glow of the firelight, playful pecks turned into deep kisses and then his shirt had come off, and then Hermione had taken her top off and there she'd been, all warm smooth skin and exciting curves held in only by a cute pink bra, and Ron was suddenly harder than he'd ever been all his life. And then she'd lain down full length over him, the skin of their chests touching everywhere but for the oh-so-soft places covered by her bra, and Merlin he was harder than he'd ever been...
And then she'd sat up and started looking for her blouse.
Ron thought it was because she'd touched him down there and blurted out, "I'm sorry," flushing red.
But Hermione was pinkening herself, as she said, "Ron, I – I want to do this, don't get me wrong, but not tonight. Is that alright with you?"
Ron had all but tripped over himself trying to reassure her. "Y-yeah, of course, we don't have to, I'm sorry, I don't want to push you into..."
Hermione took his hand and raised it to her lips, kissed it tenderly. "Are we... are we ready for this?"
Good question, he thought. Weren't we just about to? Doesn't that mean we're ready? "I think so," said Ron, a little uncertainly. "Are you?"
Hermione tended to ramble when she was nervous. "I just don't want to feel like we're rushing into this. I want us to be sure. And it's not like I believe in the cult of virginity, that's so old-fashioned, but first times are important, in fact I think with anyone it would be important, it's a really big step in our relationship, and when it comes I just want it to be perfect and not have any regrets and..."
The first time he'd kissed her specifically to shut her up, Hermione had jerked back in surprise. This time, she smiled, and poked him with a finger. "Prat."
"If you're scared or unsure or anything, we don't have to," said Ron gently. "We can wait till we're married – I don't mind."
Hermione stared at him, then broke out into a fit of giggles. "Good grief, men'll do anything for – alright, alright, I know, you're being serious, I'm sorry. It's not that – I just don't feel ready unless I've..." She seemed to flounder for the words.
"Unless you've done research, made notes, and wrote a four-foot essay," said Ron with a grin. Hermione blushed. "Cheers, go on then."
A few days later, Hermione had trotted into the study at Grimmauld Place, closed the door carefully in case Harry came by suddenly, and said, "So this is what we'll do."
Ron had listened in awe as she laid out the plan for them to make love as meticulously as she had revised for exams and plotted to infiltrate an enemy stronghold. She'd cross-referenced dates in her planner and projected her cycle – ick – and made a Checklist, of course. A potion to buy, and where to buy it for maximum surreptition. Dinner reservations. There was a deception plan for both sets of parents, witnesses ready to perjure themselves, and circumstantial evidence to back it up. Forged ticket stubs, accurate down to performance times and seat numbers!
"...and then we'll come back here, it's the most convenient, and then..." Hermione blushed, and said with a stutter, "t-then we'll see how things go."
"It's a brilliant plan!" said Ron, and Hermione'd glowed with pride.
She was glowing now too, Ron realised, as she walked out of the lift and towards him, coyly buttoned up in her long beige coat – Ron knew this was a sure sign she had something slinky underneath. She smiled as she caught his eye, and then the smile turned mischievous, like they were sharing a private joke, which they were, an intensely private one, and Ron thought he could hear his heart pounding.
Tonight's going to be perfect.
The night did start off well.
Inside the foyer of the restaurant, Hermione just a little shyly slipped off her coat, revealing her little black number. She watched, pleased, as Ron's eyes widened, and he was obviously tongue-tied for a second before he pulled himself together and said, "You look..."
"Yes?"
"You look..." Ron gulped, "You remind me of the Yule Ball. Of the first time I realised how beautiful you really were."
Hermione found herself basking in his admiration as they sat down, and smiled wryly at her own rarely-expressed vanity.
They ordered a starter of roast aubergine and mozzarella; linguine with scallops, prawns and mussels; and veal escalopes with wild mushrooms; and while they were eating, they talked about family, friends and work, as usual.
Ron couldn't keep his eyes off her. As a matter of fact, he looked her up and down several times, and this made Hermione feel warm inside – she found she liked him to look at her in that way. Hermione in turn thought Ron particularly handsome and charming and attractive and... and so on. He seemed to stand out from the rest of the room, and she felt so inordinately pleased that he was hers that she stopped thinking about it, sat back, relaxed, enjoyed her food, and allowed herself another glass of wine while she chattered on.
"I've just about completed my law review," said Hermione. "Who knows, maybe we can bring some semblance of real jurisprudence to the Wizengamot – I swear, sometimes it feels like wizards are stuck in the Dark Ages..."
Ron looked at her quizzically. "How's that?"
Hermione explained. The Muggle British law was far more intricate and influential than the Magical British one. Much of international law, the laws of the former countries of the British Empire, and therefore what exactly was thought to be just, traced its roots ultimately to the Magna Carta. This included the very important principle that no-one could be imprisoned or penalised or harmed in any way by the rulers of the country without being first tried in court, and found guilty according to the Law. Upholding the Law fairly and without prejudice over the whims of anyone, even a king, or the Minister, or the Wizengamot, said Hermione, was the very foundation of human justice.
"The Minister of Magic and the Wizengamot is too powerful," she concluded, taking a sip of wine. "Their powers in legal proceedings should be reduced."
"But Kingsley's the Minister of Magic, and he's a decent bloke," said Ron, "and it's the Wizengamot you want to pass these laws. You're asking them to use their power to take away powers from themselves? They've been helping us these past few years to unravel the mess Voldemort left behind, punish those who supported him."
"It would be the right thing to do," said Hermione. "If wizards had a proper law of criminal procedure, Sirius wouldn't have been sent to Azkaban, and Harry wouldn't have been nearly expelled for defending himself from Dementors. They would have been allowed to defend themselves better in court. In fact, if the Wizengamot or the Ministry was found to have prejudiced the trial even just a little, they would have been set free."
Ron thought about that for a while, chewing slowly. "But Hermione," he said, "you'll make it harder for the Aurors to make sure Dark wizards pay for their crimes. We have problems making charges stick as it is. Kingsley runs a tight ship now and does make sure hearings are more impartial, it's not like when Fudge or Bagnold were in power."
"It looks bad, and it may result in a few cases where some Dark wizards get away with it, but it's better than sending innocent people to Azkaban," said Hermione doggedly. "Overall, it'd be better this way, Ron, you'll see."
"I dunno..." began Ron.
"Oh you're always like this," Hermione said with some asperity, "you never think my ideas are good at the start. You thought SPEW was a laugh, to begin with. I wish you would be more supportive."
Ron looked hurt. "I am," he said. "I'm just asking you to consider it from the Aurors' point of view..."
"Oh, drop it. Let's talk about something else. Have you heard recently from Charlie?"
They went on to less controversial topics. Ron was hungry; before he knew it, he found that he had finished his pasta and almost all of his mains before Hermione was halfway through hers. He opened the menu, muttering something about adding a side.
"You're over-eating again," said Hermione, rather waspishly.
"No I'm not, I'm just hungry," said Ron. "We did anti-Manticore drills today, you have no idea how much that takes out of you."
"And next week you'll complain you've had to move your belt up a notch. At least order something healthy, like a salad."
"Why don't you try not running someone else's life for them for one minute, Hermione," Ron remarked, as he put away the menu and took a deep gulp of wine instead.
Hermione opened her mouth in a fury, but after a moment closed it and said nothing. She pushed what was left of her meal around her plate thoughtfully. Ron didn't seem to notice this, or that her end of the conversation grew briefer and more monosyllabic.
He did notice however when she declined dessert instead of lingering over their meal, and hurried them through paying. Outside the restaurant, she turned to him and said, "Ron, I have, um, I have some things to think over. I think I'll go for a walk," she said, indicating with her chin down Oxford Street.
"Okay, let's go," he said, holding out his hand for her to take.
Hermione kept hers in her coat pockets. "Alone."
"But..." what about our plans, Ron was about to say, when he registered the stubborn jut of her chin and dangerously-flashing eyes. He was baffled; he could see that she was somehow angry with him, but couldn't think of any reason why, but bafflement soon gave way to anger himself, and he said tersely, "Fine. See you," and turned his back deliberately.
Hermione, who very deep inside wanted Ron to ask her why she was furious, stalked off. Halfway down the street she decided to Apparate home, and ducked into a side alley to do it away from Muggle eyes.
Hands in his trouser pockets, Ron grumbled to himself about witches and their awkward ways. Years of close proximity to Hermione and a couple of helpful tips from Twelve Sure-Fire Ways To Charm Witches meant he wasn't entirely stupid; he could read between the lines and sense dimly what had happened. He wondered if he really could play the apologetic and understanding boyfriend, and run after her and ask exactly what he'd done and try to put things right. With a heavy sigh, Ron decided he could, and turned around and retraced his footsteps.
He caught sight of Hermione's brown curls and beige trenchcoat far down the street, disappearing down a side alley.
He also saw the large, black-robed figure following her in.
Ron broke into a run, and his wand was in his hand before he was consciously aware of drawing, before his mind blanked into a blood-red fury.
"Hermione Hermione HERMIONE!"
Hermione was a veteran of the war, a founding member of Dumbledore's Army, and besides Ron, Harry Potter's closest companion for over a decade. You don't get to be all these things without learning how to take care of yourself, without always taking notice of your surroundings, and always having a familiar little voice in the back of your mind grumbling "Constant vigilance!" The instant she was aware of the danger, her hand flew to her wand – ready in its pocket, no frenzied digging about in handbag for her – and she crouched down on her heels to make herself a smaller target, a spell already on her lips and a dozen more waiting in the wings.
She was also however just an instant too late, slowed by one too many glasses of wine, the emotional whiplash of the disastrous date, and the sheer surprise of being attacked in the heart of London, in a time of peace and on a jolly Friday night.
The last thing she remembered was spinning around and bringing her wand to bear on a bulky, robed figure. Then a flash of spell-light knocked her out.
Ron had sufficient presence of mind to stop just around the corner and send up a series of sparks, a coded Auror distress signal. Then he charged into the shadowed alley.
He was all that Hermione was, and more besides; he was an Auror, trained to investigate magical crimes, search the country for Dark wizards, and fight them if necessary to bring them to justice. Unlike Hermione, who hadn't thrown an offensive spell in earnest for years, he had fought several Death Eaters after Voldemort's defeat and regularly practised with the other Aurors. He was however panicking madly out of fear for Hermione, and the assailant was waiting for him.
With his Auror-trained reflexes, Ron batted aside the first two curses and shot back a Stunning Spell that nearly hit its mark. Then the shadowy figure made a swiping movement with his wand, and another human-shaped figure rose up from behind a large wheelie bin and seemed to lunge at him.
Another one?! thought Ron, turning his wand on the newcomer.
He managed to catch a glimpse of Hermione's unconscious face hurtling towards him, the rest of her body flopping limply behind. Her head connected with his with the hard rap of bone on bone, and the world flared white with pain, and then again as Ron's head hit the pavement.
He barely even felt the spell which finished him off.