III. Fuck Or Die

Nine hours ago

The moment the Impediment Jinx released him, Ron was up and charging.

With a bellow of fury he kicked at the camera; there was a flash and Ron was thrown all the way across the room, landing painfully on his side.

The bastard's thought of everything!

Blind rage overtook him; he turned his attention to the door now, rammed it with his shoulder, maybe he could break it down, hurled himself at it over and over again until his shoulder was agony and... and he felt hands grabbing his arm and tugging.

"Stop, Ron, you'll hurt yourself, stop, stop!"

Hermione locked her arms around his. Ron gave in, gave in to the depression following fast on the heels of the anger, and sank to the ground, leaning against the bed. The damn bed.

They sat that way for a while, on the cold cement floor – not colder than the chills in their hearts. After what Crabbe had said, Ron was afraid of even touching Hermione, but she held on to his arm, and buried her face in his shoulder.

Time passed.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Ron said at last.

"Don't be," she mumbled into his shoulder.

He tried to think of something to say, and blurted, "When did Crabbe get to be so smart?"

"Late bloomer."

"Well done him."

"Daddy would've been proud."

"Five points to Slytherin."

Hermione snorted, and Ron chuckled, which set her giggling as well, and in turn him – a crazy, helpless, haha-not-actually giggle.

Very shortly, the hysteria subsided. Hermione lifted her head and looked at him, and Ron met her gaze. He frowned, then recognised the calculating look. "What are you... no. Don't even think about it."

"It's an option."

"No!"

"He said... they'd ransom us afterwards."

"Bollocks!"

"Ron, think rationally, please." A little of the old didactic Hermione returned. "We were already planning on taking the next step, last night. You were prepared, right? You bought the potion like we planned, right?"

"I did, but I don't have it, he emptied my pockets."

"The point is, we would have done it, if – if we hadn't squabbled."

It seemed ages ago, though it was only last night – it must be about mid-morning Saturday now. Ron couldn't even remember what they'd argued over. He wondered what could possibly have seemed so important then. "Yes, but that's not the point. I'm – we are not going to let him hurt you, assault you in that way."

"What's the difference, really? It's not actually… that, if it's just you and me."

Ron lifted his head slightly, and just looked at her tiredly. "Come off it, Hermione, you know the difference. There's a body violation of a sexual nature involved, all the same. Voyeurism is a criminal offence, and it's the same if you're using a Muggle contraption, a Pensieve, or your own damn eyes." Aurors, of course, had to be familiar with the criminal code, and Ron had applied himself to his chosen profession much more diligently than to History of Magic.

At any other time, this could have been the spark of another loud and spirited bickering session, but instead, Hermione just nodded, apparently in silent agreement.

"What's gotten into you? You're the lawyer, you know all this better than I do," said Ron, a little more roughly than he'd intended.

She gave him a yes-I-do-know-Auror-Obvious-thank-you-so-much look, but it was troubled. "I was just thinking, what if it's a way out, that's all. Maybe if we give Crabbe his stupid tape, he might even just – I dunno – let us go."

She's getting desperate, Ron realised, and the thought nearly broke him too. More because his mouth took over for something to do than out of real consciousness, he continued talking. "I'm not sure I could do it, anyway. Physically, I mean. I'm just... not keen on the idea at all."

"I thought we agreed that we would..."

"Yes, but not like this. Not here, not now. It would feel... wrong."

"You're right." She managed a half-smirk. "And here I thought men were up for it anytime, anywhere."

"Very funny." Ron chose his words carefully. "D'you think all blokes just want to fuck? That all we care about is getting a leg over, anytime, anywhere, any girl? We make bad jokes about it, sure, but we don't mean it. Deep down, we're just like you. We want a real relationship – to make love to whom we want, when we want, how we want. Last night – last night was going to be important to me too, Hermione. It would have been my first too."

Hermione was suddenly tense. She turned her head away from him. "You know, I always thought you and Lavender had... had sex."

It was a question, Ron knew."We could have," he confessed. "It wouldn't have been right, but we could have. Lavender and I – we were all about what felt good in that moment, and not about what was in our hearts. But no, no we didn't. And I'm glad." Glad that you would have been my first. But now I don't think I'll ever... Ron tried not to complete that thought.

Some of the tension eased out of Hermione, but she didn't reply. Her head dipped down and she laid her cheek on his shoulder.

Once upon a time, Hermione's thoughts had dwelt upon the subject.

In school she'd watched the teenage courting interestedly; Ron and Lavender, Harry and Ginny; and of course in short order all the girls had heard about Tracey Davis and Blaise Zabini – the first of their year that anyone was sure had done it. There'd been a couple of giggly nights in the dorms, discussing the subject – though she had stopped participating in those, during and after Lavender and Ron. She'd found herself thinking about it, mostly purely academically – sometimes, curiously. In those days she had pined for Ron, but for as long as he had been with Lavender, in her dreams and fantasies her subconscious had not allowed his face to appear – only anonymously nondescript tall freckly ginger gits.

And then came the war, and then Ron, and suddenly the dream became an urgent and pressing question.

If Hermione hadn't been an only child, it might have been easier. She might have had an older sister or two to laughingly talk her through things, or even just to watch and learn from. She didn't even have a girl-cousin; both her parents had come from small families. Instead, all she had was a mother, and Mummy was a wonderful mum, but some things were really really hard to talk to her about.

Such as, when did you feel you were ready to have sex?

There's no asking Mum that one.

And so Hermione had turned to the tried-and-true ways she knew, and scoured every book she could find on the subject. Returned from W.H. Smith's with a stack of relationship and self-help guides. Subscribed to Cosmopolitan and looked up back numbers in libraries. Even bought a few Mills & Boons, telling herself it was research. She'd even tried the Hogwarts library, in case they had any particular insights on wizarding culture in this area, but all she'd got was a couple of rather iffy charms and an irritatingly knowing look from Madam Pince.

Hermione had found the guides generally useful but unspecific, the magazines gushing but hollow, and the novels – well, quite exciting, actually, she admitted. Wildly fantastic, of course.

But books – however explicit – only take you so far.

The past couple of years of slowly intensifying necking and petting with Ron had given her a far better preview, and she'd enjoyed it all. And lately it hadn't been enough, her body was screaming for more, and three weeks ago she had very nearly just jumped Ron and gone for it. Why not? They were adults, and Hermione knew, if any accidents happened, what they would do. She and Ron had used the M-Word more than once, playfully talked about a house, children. In a real emergency she knew she could count on his steadfast loyalty. So she was well and ready, and she knew it.

For a moment, Hermione was lost in a daydream of what could have been the perfect night. Reflexively, she inched closer to Ron, and rubbed her cheek on his arm.

Then Hermione came back to her senses and back to this dirty, dilapidated, sordid dungeon, and their hopeless situation.

Not like this. Not like this.

No, they couldn't give in to Crabbe's perverted demands, could they? Ron was right. She definitely did not want to perform in front of a camera – the thought made her flesh crawl. Even without the camera, the fact that he was making them do it at a time when they didn't want to, that was wrong too. It was a consent violation, even if it would be with Ron and not... Hermione shuddered.

And so they waited for Crabbe's inevitable wrath.

Hours passed, but they weren't in a mood to count.

Without warning, the door slammed open again.

Hermione and Ron scrambled to their feet, and backed away, but there was nowhere to go, really.

Crabbe lumbered in, big, broad, and implacable. The reek of alcohol preceded him. Where his face wasn't discoloured brown, the skin was redder than ever with the flush of drink.

"Still 'aven't gone at it?" he growled.

Was there any point in lying, even to buy a few minutes? He could probably see the truth, without needing to check the camera tape. They didn't look like they had. They didn't look mussed enough, humiliated enough.

Hermione's throat was dry and she couldn't think, but Ron's mouth took over, dripping with sarcasm. "What the hell did you expect? This place isn't exactly what you'd call a romantic getaway. You keeping us shut in here isn't exactly doing wonders for setting the mood."

Crabbe shook his head sadly, and pointed his wand at Ron. "Crucio!"

Ron shrieked.

He fell to the floor and convulsed, back arching, eyes wide and rolling, every muscle straining and standing out as if trying to escape his skin, get away from supreme pain. He thrashed and flung himself this way and that, knocking over the table. He curled into a ball, spread his limbs like a starfish, beat his head on the ground. Blood burst suddenly from his nostrils, spattering the walls in a fine deep-red spray.

Hermione watched, hypnotised and horrified, as through it all Crabbe held the curse, a faint, casually pleased smile growing on his scarred face. Like he was watching his Quidditch team make a comeback from a hundred points down.

When Ron's voice broke, when the agonised yells turned into thin whistling, and still Crabbe didn't raise his wand, she screamed, "Stop it, stop it, please stop, please stop Crabbe I'll do anything!"

Through her tears she saw him raise his wand and turn his head towards her. The smile was gone now. "They wouldn't listen," said Crabbe. "I tol' 'em, but they wouldn't believe me. They laughed – laughed! They wouldn't even bother to come and see." He shrugged. "Maybe they'll believe, if I show them on the Muggle thing. If I can't, well," he shrugged again, "I don't have any more use for either of you."

Crabbe pointed at her. "Clever Mudblood. Clever Her-mi-o-ne," he said her name lingeringly, caressingly, and Hermione shivered uncontrollably. "You get him to do it. Make him do it, if he don't want to. I'll even leave you two be for a few hours. But do it, or you know what I'll do. You hear? Fuck. Or. Die."