Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any related characters.
Important A/N: So this fic started out as a drabble response to a Tumblr ask, and then it just grew to be something more so I decided to post it as a one-shot. It's a little bit dark, heavy, and definitely NSFW. There may be parts of the beginning of this fic where you might be thinking, "Cheesy, WTF, where are you going with this?" I just ask that you trust me and keep reading!
Trigger Warning: Mentions of death, panic attacks, smut
Alive
"There's been an attack on a muggle-born. We need to go secure the scene and prepare for a debriefing."
As soon the words leave Robards' mouth, Ron is on the move, with the Head of the Department close behind. The two of them travel to an obscure location within Muggle London, assuring that protective enchantments are in place to conceal themselves and the crime scene from non-magic folk.
As they approach, they find the victim in question already surrounded by two additional Aurors from the department. The ache in the bottom of Ron's gut tells him that something isn't right. Blood drains from his skin, the muscles in his hands clenching around his drawn wand as he realizes that it's not just an attack; it's a murder.
He stands firmly in his position a few paces away from the body, rigid with terror, too overwhelmed to move any closer. A prickling sensation shoots up his spine, accompanied by a primitive warning sounding like an alarm in the back of his head.
Muggle-born.
"What do we have?" Robards questions.
Ron watches with numbing horror as one of the Aurors — not bothering to work out who in the moment — unveils a soft, white sheet just enough to find a mop of brown curly hair face down on the ground, concealing the identity of the victim.
He can feel the wave of acid welling up from his belly, threatening to spew out. Time slows as the gravity of the situation weighs on him, unable to think clearly or focus on the job in front of him. His skin grows clammy, pulse roaring in his throat as his knees quake, almost giving out from underneath him.
Only one person enters his thoughts.
Ron presses his eyes shut, pleading for the pain to stop. Flashbacks of Malfoy Manor carve their way through his brain; his fear of losing her was at an all-time high then, and now-
No.
He can't assume the worst, not without knowing for sure.
His jaw trembles with fear, making it hard for him to speak. "Who-who is that?"
"Beatrix Campbell. 34."
Ron's face grows ashen, lips becoming slack as he comprehends the information. The Auror's lips are still moving, providing more details of the attack, but he's incapable of listening, no single voice louder than the one in his head.
It's not her.
It's not her. It's not her.
"Weasley?" Robards regards him with concern, taking note of the younger Auror's distress.
"I-I'm sorry. It's-it's-" Ron's voice cracks, speaking in a suffocated whisper. "I thought...Hermione."
Understanding dawns on the older man's features. With a sharp jerk of his head, Robards gruffly mutters, "Go. We can take over from here."
Ron doesn't need to be told twice before his feet are blindly moving against the pavement.
He just needs to get home to her. He needs to be certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that she's okay.
Wand still firm in his hand, he summons his corporeal Patronus. "Hermione, love, I'm on my way home. Please respond as soon as you get this so that I know you're okay. Please. I love you."
No sooner than his Terrier takes off at lightning speed, Ron breaks out into a frenzied run towards the nearest apparition point. His chest grows so tight that he finds it hard to breathe, the thought of Hermione in impending danger quickening his pace.
Ron squeezes his eyelids shut once in position, attempting to steady his slow, shallow breaths as he pictures their flat in his mind.
Destination, determination, deliberation.
The chanting words in his head disappear, and he lands with a soft pop in the middle of their darkened living room.
Ron digs the deluminator he keeps handy out of the pocket of his robes, flicking on all of the lights. His eyes dart maniacally around the room, seeking the one person who can rid himself of the panic running deep in his bones.
"Hermione! Hermione!"
Where is she?
The mere seconds it takes for her to emerge from their bedroom was just as many seconds too long, and he fights the way his knees want to buckle out from underneath, the intense relief causing him to clutch his chest to steady his rapidly-beating heart.
She's in a pale cream dressing gown, hair pulled back into a plait with loose curls framing her face, eyes full of sleep as if she had just woken up from her slumber. It's only then that he realizes how late in the evening it actually is.
Hermione doesn't look all that surprised to see him, likely meaning she did get his message. A surge of rage bursts through his veins.
"Ron, what's going on?" Hermione's assessing him with her eyes, brows knitted into a frown.
He levels her with a glowering look, a hard knot constricting in his throat. "Why didn't you fucking respond?" Roughly running his calloused, trembling fingers through his hair, he mutters, "Shit."
"To your Patronus?" Hermione crosses her arms across her chest, her penetrating gaze probing him for more information. "You mentioned you were on your way home. I figured you'd be home before I could even get my Otter out — what's happened? Are you okay?"
"I thought-" He stammers over words he can't quite get out as he takes a giant step forward until he's just an arms-length distance away. The floral-scented shampoo that Hermione often uses in her bath before bed hits his nostrils, increasing his desperation. "You always answer me. Okay? I need you to always answer."
Hermione's widened eyes, somewhat wild and frantic, gleam back at him. "O-okay."
He can't quite pinpoint what shifts, and why, but in the next moment all he can focus on is that damn dressing gown that gathers just above her knees. Ron's eyes rake lustfully up and down her frame, devouring her beauty.
She's so fucking beautiful.
Filled with an intense need to feel her, to reassure himself that she is alive and okay and so perfect the way she stands in front of him, he cups her soft cheeks between his hands before crashing his lips onto hers.
A strangled cry echoes from Hermione's lips, eliciting tiny, guttural sounds of pleasure as he ravages her mouth. The way she responds immediately, gripping the back of his neck as she pushes her breasts flush against his chest, gives all the indication he needs to know to continue.
With a harsh groan, Ron lifts Hermione by her bum and guides them to the nearest surface, releasing one hand to quickly swipe away the contents of the side table next to the sofa with a loud crash before depositing her on top of it, allowing her legs to naturally weave their way around his middle.
His hands move everywhere, fingers sliding underneath the lining of her gown bunched up around her hips, never once detaching his lips from hers. His fingers indulge over every inch of skin that he can find, dragging her knickers down to her parted knees, stretching the lacy material so wide that they rip clear off of her skin.
"Ron." Hermione moans his name, trembling in his arms with fingers splayed along his shoulders, tipping her head back.
He trails wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, sucking and nipping on every bit of exposed flesh he can find. His hand finds its way to her center and, oh fucking Merlin, the evidence of her mutual arousal is there. Ron fights to maintain his hungry yet restrained composure, wanting so desperately to be gentle and not do anything to hurt her but finding it difficult to control his impulse to shag her senseless on the table.
"Bedroom," his hoarse, raw voice demands, lifting her back up into his arms before stumbling down the hallway, similar in manner to his heart stumbling over its own rhythm.
They fall together onto the bed, with Ron wasting no time crawling over her body and fusing their mouths together at the seam. His elbows find leverage on either side of her head, fisting his hands into the bed sheets, clutching for control. The longing that coils low in his belly turns to pain, a need so sharp that it cuts his fears to shreds.
Pushing her gown up to the curve of her breasts, he focuses on her bare stomach, peppering kisses on every single freckle that he can find. The sound of their heavy breathing fills the room, hard and erratic, mixed with soft whimpers from Hermione when Ron's tongue rolls over the tiny bumps of gooseflesh littered on her exposed skin. His head dips lower and lower, making her cry out with each new sensation.
Fuck.
He can't hold back much longer, and he doesn't know if he can go slow this time, unable to think about anything but the pleasure gripping him. Ron unzips his trousers, pushing the waistband of his boxer shorts down enough to reveal his hardened erection.
He slides upward, flattening his body on top of hers as his fingers seek out any part of her body that he can hold onto. One hand intertwines with her bony, sweaty fingers, while the other weaves its way through her braided hair, pulling down the tiny band of elastic to release her curls until they're fanned out on the pillow beneath her head.
"Gods, Ron."
Hermione's soft moans of approval spur him on, gasping for air between all-consuming kisses, eagerly responding to her bucking hips.
He thrusts hard and fast, causing Hermione to arch her back up off the mattress as Ron grunts from the pressure of being so deeply buried inside of her. Ron releases his attack on her lips, instead burrowing his nose into the cluster of curls around the crook of her neck as he pumps in and out of her, over and over again.
The pressure builds and builds, the sound of Hermione's mewling beneath him almost doing him in, releasing all of the pain left inside of his heart from the evening's occurrences. Her soft wetness clenches all around him, heels digging into his hips, and with a final grunt Ron spills himself inside of her, eyes never leaving hers that burn back at him like blazing torches.
A tear trickles down his cheek as he collapses on top of Hermione's body, no physical strength left to hold his boneless limbs up — as if he's been struck by an irreparable Brackium Emendo spell. He rests his head on her shoulder to hide his silent anguish, the final barrier of emotional resistance crumbling.
Hermione's tender fingers thread through his hair and he can feel her soft lips pressing kisses to his hair and around his earlobe. The action propels all of the pain and explosive images and shit in his head forward, all of it rumbling to the surface like the Hogwarts train roaring through a tunnel fast closing in on him.
He's just barely choked back his own tears when Hermione braces her hands on either side of his head, forcing him to look up at her, thumb lightly grazing over his cheek.
"Ron, talk to me. Please."
Her own watery eyes reveal the concern hidden behind them, and even just that sliver of emotion breaks his heart into two, not sure he has the strength to put into words what he witnessed tonight.
But he manages because he knows she needs to hear it, or else she'll think he's gone mental.
His voice is rough and scratchy as he formulates the words he needs to say. "There was a murder tonight. A muggle-born witch."
Hermione covers her mouth with one hand. "Oh, Ron."
"I just-I wasn't expecting-and then-" The sobs come with a force that he can't stop, and suddenly he's back into her arms, dissolving into a pit of tears as he expels everything left inside of him.
Ron's head falls onto her chest, dampening the thin cotton of her gown as his body shakes with uncontrollable tremors while simultaneously making loud, convulsive gasps.
"Shhh, it's okay, it's okay." Hermione's reassurances only cause him to weep even harder, letting out what seems to be years of suppressed emotion, displaying his most vulnerable state to the person who has seen every single damn side of him — the good, the bad, the downright awful.
It's okay. It's okay.
His tears begin to subside as he focuses on breathing in and out through his nose, inhaling Hermione's perfect scent to calm the dull ache that remains in his belly. Ron sniffles as Hermione coaxes his head up again to meet her shining eyes. She brushes the sweaty fringe from his forehead so she can see his previously concealed azure blues.
"It wasn't me, Ron. I'm right here." Hermione grips his hand tight in hers, placing it over her beating heart.
Thump thump.
"I'm right here."
Ron finds the strength to lean forward and kiss her deeply on the mouth, as if to seal the promise that she is here and she is alright and she still wants to be with him even after witnessing his sob fest.
When his lips slowly part from hers, he nuzzles her cheek with his own. "Someone lost the one they loved tonight, and as terrible as that is, all I could think about was getting home to you. I fucking love you so much, I don't know what I would do-"
Hermione interrupts him with another kiss, both groaning as they fall to their sides, heads resting on their pillows as they snog for several minutes, too consumed in each other to speak further.
Air eventually becomes a necessity, and Hermione breaks apart from Ron, panting. "We don't think about that, okay? All we think about is now. And right now, we're alive, and you just showed that to me in one of the best ways possible." She nudges her knee between his thighs in a pointed gesture, stirring his stiffening arousal.
Although feeling the heat creep up on his cheeks as he recalls the intensity of their shag, he doesn't think he can love her more. Mustering up the last bit of energy left in him, he kisses her hair before resting his forehead against hers, closing his eyes.
"Can we just stay like this forever? Perhaps a Sticking Charm would do the trick?"
A soft giggle escapes Hermione's lips. "Ron."
"I'm serious. They're gonna have to pry me off of you."
Hermione squeals are silenced by Ron's mouth covering hers once more, and this time, he's embracing the challenge to slowly make love to the woman he plans to soon make his fiance. For now, he is alive, Hermione is alive, and Ron isn't intending to waste a single minute.
