DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and things that are part of the Harry Potter universe all belong to J.K. Rowling, though should she choose to give up ownership of Ron, then I would gladly take him. This particular story, however, is mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I would just like to thank those who are either following this fic or following me for their patience when it comes to updating this story. I'm my own worst critic and my rigorous standards prevent me from writing and publishing as quickly as I'd like. Thanks for your continued interest, and I hope it was worth the wait :)
"What kind of place did you drag me to?" Ron hissed. He and Hermione had arrived at the resort moments ago, where they were promptly whisked away by their very enthusiastic tour guide as soon as they had checked in and dropped off their belongings. So far, what he'd seen during their journey on the resort's vast grounds was disturbing.
"I didn't drag you anywhere," Hermione whispered as she glared at him. "You came willingly." Though she argued with him, she too was disconcerted by what she saw. "I didn't expect the resort to be so..."
"Pink?" Nauseatingly pink. It was almost as bad as Umbridge's office.
"Yes, that."
"And what about the insane number of hearts all around this place?"
"Well, I wouldn't say it was an insane amount, Ron. I admit it is quite a lot, but—"
"Is that love potion coming out of the fountain?"
"Surely it isn't." But the gushing liquid did look remarkably close to amortentia, right down to the characteristic mother-of-pearl sheen.
Perhaps Hermione should have read the fine print on the resort package before engaging in a bidding war with Harry over the coveted prize. Had she known that the resort would be so overtly saccharine and dripping with clichés designed to elicit romance, she never would have considered the possibility of taking Ron here. As it was, he looked ready to Disapparate. Only the firm grip she kept on his hand prevented him from doing so.
"What does it matter, anyway?" she asked Ron in a hushed tone as their guide continued to drone on. She knew she could never convince him otherwise, but the resort truly was beautiful if one managed to overlook the distractions. "We won't be spending much time outside. Just you and me, remember?" she reminded him, running a finger up and down his arm. "Isn't that what you wanted?"
She would throw his own words back at him to prove a point. Knowing full well he can't object without sounding like an idiot, he decided to keep his mouth shut and listened with an absent ear to the guide who was leading their tour. Her annoyingly chirpy voice had a grating quality that made it hard to ignore, try as he might.
"The environment is lush, isn't it? Simply lush! Absolutely perfect for lovebirds such as yourselves!"
If Ron were the poetic sort, he supposed he could describe in great detail how the sun's rays bouncing off the water made the ocean look as if it was covered in diamonds, or how the brilliantly colored flowers dotting the flourishing landscape were so picturesque that it seemed like it came from the paintbrush of a master artist. But the lush—simply lush!—setting had no impact on him. Water was water and plants were plants; the only thing that mattered was that Hermione was there with him. She, on the other hand, looked positively interested by their foreign surroundings, so he suffered in silence and attempted to tune out the tour guide's gushing drivel.
"Isn't the atmosphere romantic? Our resort is the only place for people in love! We've been told many, many times by our guests that they are leaving even more in love than they were before they arrived!"
"Is that so?" he sarcastically remarked. Hermione shot him a look that clearly indicated that his comments were unnecessary.
"Oh, yes!" Not even Ron's mocking tone could dilute the tour guide's unbridled enthusiasm. "Romance is definitely in the air here at our wonderful resort!"
Hermione gauged Ron's expression and deduced that he had just about enough of their guide's constant prattling. Her own patience was wearing thin, as well. "Would you mind taking us to where we're staying?" she asked politely.
"I see someone's eager to get started!" the guide squawked, looking ready to burst with excitement. "Prepare to be swept away by the amorous ambiance!"
Ron wondered if he would have continued to find their guide annoying if he and Hermione were staying at the resort for its intended purpose. Within moments, their rented bungalow—or the battleground, as he preferred to think of it—was in view. A war would be waged within those walls, quite the opposite from what the tour guide had in mind for them.
"As you can see, each cottage is distanced enough from each other so there's no need to worry about the neighbors! We value privacy in our resort!"
Did all of the tour guide's sentences end with exclamation points? Her excitement was never-ending. "Hmm, yes. Thank you for showing us around," Hermione said as she accepted the key that was handed to her.
"It's my pleasure! If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to let us know!" The guide Disapparated with a loud pop as Hermione stuck the key in the door.
"Bloody hell, if that batty woman talked about romance or love for one more second, I swear I was going to Silence her," Ron declared.
"Honestly, Ron. She was only doing her job." She pushed the door open and stepped inside. Giving him a sly grin, Hermione added, "But I probably would have Silenced before you could even reach for your wand."
He laughed as he stepped through the doorway. Was it any wonder she was absolutely perfect for him? Gazing around, he sighed with relief when he saw the color pink was nowhere to be found. As Hermione wandered off, he noticed a bottle on one of the tables, a bow tied around its neck. He blanched as he read the attached note, which was decorated with the hearts he was beginning to loathe:
DID YOU KNOW? Not only is our retreat synonymous with love, but we are proud to say that when it comes to young witches and wizards being conceived, we are the number one destination!
He didn't care to know how the resort staff had arrived at that particular statistic. Shuddering slightly, he crumpled up the parchment and threw it in the rubbish bin.
Meanwhile, Hermione was distracted by the view from the glass doors that led to an outdoor deck facing the ocean. Sliding the doors open, she sighed as she marveled at the horizon. "Ron, come here!"
He joined her outside, taking the bottle of wine with him. "What is it?"
"Isn't it breathtaking?" Though the sun was beginning to set, the sky was awash with color. Purple bled into red, which gave way to orange that faced into pink. This particular spectacle of nature would never cease to amaze her.
Scratching his head, he replied, "I guess." What was it about sunsets that most people found so impressive? Or sunrises, for that matter. He looked down at her and was surprised by her dreamy expression. Since when did she wear that enraptured look on her face? Intrigued by her uncharacteristic demeanor, he said, "Don't tell me that crazy tour guide has gotten to you. Are you caught up in the amorous atmosphere, Hermione?"
She turned her back on the view to glower at him. "No one has gotten to me and I'm not caught up in anything," she proclaimed.
Ron wisely kept his smile in check. She looked ready to start pouting, but he couldn't resist needling her some more. "Are you sure?"
"Maybe I am, a little bit," she conceded defensively. "But so what? Am I only supposed to think about books all the time?"
"No, of course not." Without thinking, he traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. "Hermione Granger, a hidden romantic," he mused in a hushed, almost reverent tone. "Just when I thought I knew all of you, you surprise me."
And just what was he going to do with this unexpected bit of knowledge? Would he use it ruthlessly against her in order to win their game? She had undeniably gifted him with an advantage. If their situation had been reversed, would she exploit the vulnerability? As much as her logical side said yes, she knew that she wouldn't-and couldn't-even if the opportunity presented itself.
Perhaps the view was nice—Ron was willing to admit that. But it was her face that attracted him, not the scenery. She looked absolutely incredible in the waning light and though the wistful look she had on earlier hadn't disappeared completely, it was now layered with a mask of defiance. Soft, yet strong. It was a dangerous combination, one that could lure him in and capture him if he wasn't careful. Seemingly of its own volition, his thumb grazed her lips, which parted open at his touch. Soft, he thought again. In contrast, her eyes were daring him, practically taunting him to seize what he wanted, to take what was so achingly close.
Abruptly, Ron dropped his hand and took a step back. Merlin help him, the tour guide's relentless bleating about romance better not be taking its toll. Remembering that he had the wine bottle with him, he thrust it awkwardly at her. "Here. I found this on the table."
"How lovely." Grateful for the distraction, she summoned two wine glasses and popped the bottle open. She forced her hand to remain still as she poured. "Here's to us," she said as she handed him a glass, raising her own in a halfhearted attempt at a toast. She was suddenly very thirsty; the way he kept his eyes on hers made her throat dry.
He didn't even bother feigning interest in drinking. As if he needed one more thing that would cause him to lower his defenses. Setting his glass down on the railing, he suggested, "This wine will go better with some food. I should get some." He left before she could question his hasty retreat.
Hermione turned her attention back to the ocean view, but it no longer captivated her. She was the mastermind of this plan; it was her idea to go to this resort, so why was it backfiring on her? If Ron had stayed there for another minute—no, another second—she would have devoured him. That was the only way to describe the voracious feeling that slammed into her as they had stared at each other, neither one unable to break the trance that had netted them both. He had looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time, wonderment etched clearly on his face. Then he had touched her—he barely touched her, if anything—and she felt like she was on fire.
He was right, she was getting too caught up in this place...and most of all, too caught up in him. Had she overestimated her ability to remain immune to her surroundings? After her earlier display of sensitivity, she had to take extra precaution. Hermione vowed not to falter again. Her plan, she reminded herself once more. Her idea. She should be able to dictate the ebbs and flows of the battle rather than be susceptible to whatever he said or did. Control...wasn't that the whole point?
Still feeling off balance, she dumped the contents of Ron's wineglass into hers as she continued to look blankly at the lapping waves. She needed to relax, to gather herself and slip her armor back into place. Perhaps a nice, hot bath was in order, she mused. That would surely relieve the tension in her body. Taking the bottle with her, she went inside, feeling slightly more confident in her ability to recover from a slight setback. By the time Ron returned, she'd be ready for him.
Ron took his time getting the food and hoped Hermione didn't mind waiting as he wandered aimlessly around the resort in a futile effort to clear his head. How close had he come to tottering over the brink of defeat? And all she had done was stand there. No weapons, no plots, no pretense. No effort. It was disheartening.
His mind involuntarily flashed back to that intimate moment. He didn't dare entertain the idea of kissing her, of tasting what he had been deprived of for so long. Sure, it seemed easy; after all, what's one kiss to temporarily sate the hunger? Just one kiss and he'd walk away. But, much like anything that involved Hermione and his feelings for her, it was anything but simple. He was quite mindful of his limitations and knew, of course, that he would never be satisfied with just a kiss. He could picture, with alarming clarity, the embrace that would quickly escalate into the overwhelming physical need that would consume them both.
No, it wouldn't stop with only one kiss. It would be all or nothing. Until their battle reached a conclusion, he would have to get by with wishful thinking, though it would be best if he didn't fantasize at all. He felt like he was fighting against two forces: Hermione and himself. He wouldn't last a full day if he continued on like this.
He arrived at the resort's restaurant and randomly chose items on the menu. For once he didn't care about food; it was hard to think of much else when Hermione had effectively gotten under his skin. Not only had she snuck past his guard so quickly, but she had also done it without any apparent contrivance. Perhaps he shouldn't have come here without a strategy. Surely it wasn't too late to come up with a plan so he wouldn't be caught floundering like a fish out of water.
He did have a couple of tools in his arsenal, though they were mainly for self-preservation than anything else: the leaves from Neville, which he had hidden in the wardrobe before making his cowardly exit, and a vial of sleeping draught that he would undoubtedly rely on to get any rest during the next few nights. Hermione enjoyed cuddling and often used his shoulder as a pillow when they slept. Needless to say, his body wouldn't be able to endure the way she molded herself to him like a puzzle piece sliding into place, or the soft stroking of her fingers on his chest.
Once the order was ready, he meandered back to the cottage instead of Apparating. It was imperative that he drop the gloomy outlook he had adopted after brushing up against temptation. It simply wouldn't do to have such a negative attitude, not if he wanted to win.
If he was the underdog in this particular competition, then so be it. It was a role he'd filled all his life and he turned out all right, didn't he? And this was only the first day of their holiday; he still had time to turn the outcome in his favor.
Spirits buoyed and feeling something akin to confidence, Ron squared his slumping shoulders as he unlocked the door and entered the cottage. Nothing could have prepared him for the horrifying sight that greeted him.
Candles were aglow as far as his eyes could see. Tapers of varying lengths burned everywhere, making the air inside overly warm and stuffy. He yanked at the collar of his shirt as sweat started to bead on his skin, though it was hard to say if the perspiration was due to the heat or the sudden spike of apprehension that sliced through him. He slowly ambled over to the kitchen, his mouth still slack from shock, and noticed that there was...something littered all over the floor. He put the food on the table and bent down to investigate the clutter, squinting against the candlelight. They looked like...flower petals? But where did they come from? And what were they doing on the floor, out of all places?
He straightened and yelped when he felt someone grabbing him from behind. At least, it had initially felt like a grab. "Hermione?" he croaked anxiously when he realized that he was being hugged, and rather tightly at that.
She laughed as he turned around. "Who else would it be?"
His senses, which had been dulled by his obvious astonishment over what had been done to their cottage, regained their acuity, much to his regret. Even in the candlelight, he couldn't overlook that she wore nothing but a decidedly unsexy dressing gown. At least, it should have been unsexy. It should have been un-provocative. The damn thing was sizable and shapeless; it practically swallowed her. Yet all he could think about was how he could easily untie the sash that held the gown closed. He'd certainly had enough practice. Stuffing his suddenly restless hands in his pockets, Ron also noted that her curly hair was damp and that her flushed skin was scented with whatever fragrant concoction she had dumped in her bathwater. He bit his tongue to prevent it from hanging out.
Her arms still around him, Hermione nuzzled her face into his chest. "I missed you."
"I wasn't even away for an hour." He could feel her breath through his shirt and it was driving him crazy. "Hermione, what the hell happened here? Flowers, candles—" He broke off as he arrived at a likely conclusion. "Did that daft tour guide force her way inside and do this?"
She laughed again and looked up at him, her eyes shining. The need to kiss her—and to do much, much more than that—was staggering.
"Of course not, silly." She relaxed her hold on him to play with the buttons on his shirt. "It was my idea."
"Your—your idea?" he repeated, aghast.
"Mm-hmm. Do you like it?"
"Do I like...it?" She was talking about her decorating skills, wasn't she, and not the way she was adeptly teasing him? His suddenly malfunctioning brain struggled to make sense of anything.
"Yes." She looked up at him earnestly, seeking approval. "You were gone so long…"
"If you were bored, why didn't you just read a book, or—"
"Oh, I wasn't bored. I had plenty to do while you were out, as you can clearly see. I wanted to surprise you and to show you how I felt. I think it's very romantic, but of course that's lost on you."
Ron narrowed his eyes as he studied her. He could have sworn that her voice sharpened slightly, yet she continued to hold him. Warily, he said, "I'm not sure how all of this can be lost on anyone." Romantic gestures made him twitchy, that's all, whether he was giving them or on the receiving end. And why would she suddenly be so open with these gestures when less than an hour ago, she'd been so defensive about being labeled as a romantic?
"Why don't you like it?" she asked as tears filled her eyes. "Don't you love me?"
"Bloody hell, Hermione, of course I do—"
She brightened immediately, positively beaming at him. "I love you, too. At any rate, my dear Ronald…"
Ronald? And since when has he been her dear anything? "Are you feeling all right?" he asked, starting to grow concerned. Something was...off. The notion bothered him like an itch between the shoulder blades that was just out of reach.
"I feel wonderful. You would know that for yourself if you'd just touch me. Don't you want to?"
He did touch her, but only to grip her hands in his so her fingers would stop wreaking havoc on his rapidly fraying nerves. The candles, the rose petals...he should have paid attention to the glaring signs. But if he wasn't aware of it before, he sure as hell knew it now: Hermione was launching a full-scale attack. To say that he was in trouble would be an understatement.
Though her hands could no longer do as they pleased, Hermione was undeterred. "Would you like to know what I did while you were away?"
"You mean other than littering and creating fire hazards?"
She ignored his barb. "I took a nice hot bath. Would you like to know what I thought about while I was doing that?"
Since he was trying not to focus on the image of her soaking in the tub with only water droplets and soap bubbles clinging to her skin, he hastily answered, "Sure, why not?"
"I thought about you and the last time you touched me. I mean really touched me. And the more I thought about it, my heart started pounding, like it was going to jump out of my chest. See?" She took his hand and placed it over her heart, as if to prove her reaction to him.
Ron was suddenly very grateful that the thick dressing down provided enough of a barrier between his hand and her body. He couldn't feel a thing...or so he told himself.
"I couldn't stop thinking about it, about you," she continued breathlessly. "About the way you touch me as if you'd never done it before, so you go slowly, taking your time, driving me insane. But there are times when you're...greedy. Impatient. Eager. Like you only have hours left to live, so you take as much as you can, but you're never selfish about it since you always meet my needs first. I don't know which excites me more."
Without a doubt, she had succeeded in clearing away all conscious thought. It was a testament to her effect on him—her words, her face, the way she felt against him—that Ron didn't realize she had maneuvered him towards the couch until he was sitting down, his back against the cushions. With a smile teasing her lips, she sat on his lap, straddling him. In the back of his mind, he dimly heard the sound of a cage door slamming shut, the cage she made for him, and one that he'd walked into willingly.
He was trapped. Trapped...but not yet defeated. As she shifted so she could get closer to him, the hem of her dressing gown went up a dangerous, tantalizing inch. He frantically willed himself to think about anything else, anything other than the fact that she surely wasn't wearing anything under that gown. He hurriedly flipped through his mental catalogue of unpleasant objects. Spiders...trolls…garden gnomes...vegetables...leaves! Bless you, Neville, Ron silently rejoiced as he remembered his secret weapon. But the relief was short-lived; he'd left his wand on the kitchen table and was unable to summon his last chance at salvation.
"Tell me something, Ron," Hermione whispered against his ear. "Would you still want me if I was wearing a rubbish bag?"
The question was so absurd it momentarily distracted him. "What?"
"You know, a rubbish bag."
"Why the hell would you even wear one?"
In an immediate change of mood, Hermione glared at him, softness replaced by steel. "Just answer the question!" she ordered in a shrill tone.
There it was again, that sharp pitch in her voice. That nagging itch returned, the feeling that something wasn't quite right. "Hermione, I can't breathe without wanting you," he replied truthfully. "Is that what you want to hear?" Would she drag it all out of him, leave him with nothing? Wasn't his impending demise, and her victory, enough?
She all but melted into him, her temper gone. "Show me. Right now." She brushed her mouth over his and he tasted the wine on her lips. Was she drunk? he wondered. But he dismissed the thought as quickly as it had popped into in his mind. He'd witnessed the spectacular sight of a drunk Hermione only once. She had been awkward, amusing...adorable. Then, when they fell into bed at her insistence, she had been playful and uninhibited. Insatiable. If there was ever a memory he'd put in the Pensieve, it would be that one.
No, she couldn't be drunk. But she also wasn't behaving normally. Though her methods were effective—sheer will alone was preventing him from tearing off her damn unsexy dressing gown—they also didn't make sense. This challenge of theirs was all about control and capitulation. Though she commanded him to do what she wanted, she didn't seem in charge at all. More than once tonight, she had seemed defensive, as if she'd been insulted, and demanding, as if she needed reassurance.
Ron needed to think, but it was nearly impossible to do so when her body was pressed against his, her lips against his throat. Before she could fully kiss him, he blurted out, "I need to go to the bathroom." It was the only thing he could come up with.
"Now?"
"Yes, now." He quickly dislodged himself from the tangle of her limbs, but didn't fail to catch her hurt expression. What the hell was going on here? He was practically a puddle at her feet, yet she looked as if he'd just rejected her.
He stalked off towards their bedroom, blowing out candles along the way. He doubted she'd miss a few unlit tapers. Rather than going inside the adjoining bathroom, he flung open the door to the wardrobe and found the pouch. Opening the little bag, he stuffed a purple leaf in his mouth, unsure if that was even the proper way to utilize it. It was dry and rough, and he nearly choked. Looking around for something to wash it down with, he spotted the open wine bottle. Yeah, Hermione definitely wasn't drunk, Ron decided as he felt the liquid sloshing around inside. He estimated that it wasn't even half empty. He quickly poured some wine into an empty glass and was just about to drink when he abruptly stopped, the liquid almost touching his lips.
Mingled with the smell of crushed, fermented grapes were the unmistakable scents of his favorite things, above most was Hermione's perfume. Amortentia, he concluded as he forcibly swallowed the last remnants of the leaf in his mouth. There was love potion in the wine. Just like that, her odd behavior had an explanation. His lust died a swift death; whether that was due to Neville's leaves or the realization that Hermione's actions had been influenced by artificial means, he couldn't say.
He had to put a stop to this whole mess. Ron rummaged through the wardrobe again and pulled out the vial of sleeping draught. He didn't have Slughorn's antidote, but he could knock her out with this until the love potion's effects wore off. He was doing it for Hermione's own good, for there was nothing amusing about being coerced into intense feelings of infatuation by artificial means. And yes, damn it, he too would benefit from this plan. He was getting tired of fighting her off. She was still out there, waiting for him. Waiting for him to want her, as if he didn't already.
But how would he get her to drink it? He sure as hell wasn't going to use the wine. Grabbing the bottle, he poured its contents down the bathroom sink. Now he knew how the resort gained the claim to fame they had so proudly advertised.
Tucking the vial in his pocket, he went back out to the living room, where Hermione literally pounced on him as soon as he emerged.
"I missed you," she murmured, raining soft kisses all over his face as he struggled to keep the two of them upright and balanced. "Don't ever leave me again."
Somehow he managed to make his way to the kitchen, but the strain of resisting her and holding her up took its toll and he collapsed onto a nearby chair. "Make love to me, Ron," she said urgently. "Right here."
"Hermione, the last time we did that, the chair broke and I had these bruises I couldn't quite explain…" Yet another memory for the Pensieve. He wondered if she could tell that he was stalling. "Let's have a drink first."
"I'm not thirsty." She nimbly popped open a button, then two, on his shirt.
"If you really loved me, then you'll have a drink." He hated manipulating her that way, but he was running out of options.
She met his eyes. "I do love you," she said passionately, as if she was willing him to believe it.
"Then that settles it." Once again he untangled himself from her.
"There's wine in the—"
"No wine," Ron cut in sharply. Water will do, would have to do. He filled his own glass and, since she was watching his every move, angled his body in such a way so that she couldn't see him adding the sleeping draught. He was unsure of the recommended dosage, but figuring it was better to be safe than sorry, he put in several drops. Was sleeping draught tasteless? Well, it didn't matter, as long as she drank every bit of that water. He took a small sip and saw that she mimicked it, as if copying him was a true indication of her love for him. He guzzled his water to make sure that she did the same. Ron hoped the draught would kick in quickly.
Hermione set her glass on the table. "Now, where were we?" she asked suggestively.
"We were about to go in the bedroom." So you can sleep, Ron silently added.
"I don't think so." She stood up, took his hand and led him back to the chair, where she promptly settled back on his lap. He noted that her movements were somewhat sluggish, as if her arms and legs were growing heavier with fatigue.
"Hermione, you need to lie down."
"Hmm. Okay," she agreed drowsily. "But I get to be on top next time."
Ron was saved from coming up with a retort when he saw that she had placed her head on his shoulder and was sleeping soundly. Sighing with relief, he lifted her and went to the bedroom. He wasn't the type to carry nor was she the type to be carried, but he was surprised to discover that he didn't mind cradling her like this. Placing her carefully on the large bed, he tucked the blankets over her as she snuggled deeper into the pillows. Since the situation seemed to call for it, Ron kissed her forehead and, after watching her for a moment, stepped back out to extinguish all of the candles.
Hermione woke abruptly, like a sprinter taking off at the sound of the starting gun. She bolted upright in bed and the sudden jolt made her dizzy, prompting her to lean on her pillow as she tried to quell the waves of nausea and embarrassment. It was too bad the images swimming around in her head weren't from a nightmare.
A multitude of candles and strewn flower petals. Pining over her lover and best friend, even though his heart was already in her hands. The utter desperation for reciprocated love. Asking him about the rubbish bag. She shuddered as she tried to repress the memories.
She turned to her side and frowned when she sensed that the spot next to her was empty. Running her hand on the bedspread, she noted the sheets were cool to the touch. Where was Ron?
The room was dark, but she was aware of his presence nearby. Then, as if she'd wished it, she heard him whisper, "Lumos," and she saw him bathed in the glow of his wand. He joined her on the bed, sitting down so that he was facing her. She looked fragile in the baggy dressing gown, but the bulky garment didn't diminish her appeal.
"Remind me to burn this bloody thing," he muttered, brushing his fingers over the serviceable cotton of her sleeve.
"What?" Hermione asked, brows drawing together in confusion.
"Nothing," Ron answered dismissively. "How are you feeling?" He placed the illuminated wand on the nightstand so they could see each other clearly.
"Sleepy."
"Sorry about that. I had to give you a sleeping draught."
She was grateful for it. "And I feel foolish." She had been so...clingy. So pathetically dependent on his affections. So hungry for constant validation of her appeal. She squirmed uncomfortably as she remembered.
"Yeah, I get the foolish part." Studying her intently, he could see her pale skin and the shadows under her eyes. Though she had been in a deep slumber, she looked exhausted.
Of course he understood, having suffered the effects of it in their sixth year. Still, she was grateful that he didn't rub it in her face. "Love potion."
"Amortentia," he specified. "Heavy stuff."
As heavy as it gets. Since she hadn't eaten anything after they'd arrived at the resort, it was easy to conclude that the wine had been spiked. She hadn't smelled the potion; she had consumed her first glass of wine so quickly since Ron had thoroughly unnerved her, then she had her second glass while soaking in the tub, the fragrant soap permeating the air already heavy with steam made it impossible for any other aroma to be noticed.
"I'm so embarrassed," she confessed. "I threw myself at you." Literally and figuratively.
"Yeah, you did," he agreed. "But before I knew it was the love potion, I thought you were seducing me...and doing a damn good job." Now that the coast was clear, he didn't mind admitting it.
"Really?" she said, voice filled with doubt, eyes wide with disbelief. "Me?"
Ron couldn't help but grin. She looked so surprised to hear that she had very nearly caused his downfall. "Unless there was some other witch in here who had me close to drooling."
Hermione smiled back. Close to drooling, huh? She'd have to do better next time...if she could only figure out how exactly she'd been seductive in the first place. "Still, I feel like I should apologize."
"There's no need."
As much as she wanted to bury her mortification in the recesses of her mind, she was compelled to explain her experience to him. "It was so weird, Ron. Everything was heightened: love, obsession, lust...whatever it was. Even though I was under the influence, I knew deep down that you already loved me. In a way, that made it worse, because every time you didn't give in, it felt like a knife slicing me open. When we weren't in the same room together, I would miss you terribly, as if we hadn't seen each other in years rather than just minutes. It was like the potion didn't know how to react; you'd given it to me, making yourself the object of affection, yet you didn't want or need those feelings." Now that she was discussing it intellectually, it was rather interesting.
Ron could almost see the gears spinning in her brain. "Why don't you write a paper about it?" he suggested, his voice flavored with sarcasm and amusement.
"Maybe...this could be unprecedented. The effects of amortentia on an individual already in love with the person who presents the potion. Hmm…"
She was still pale and the shadows under her eyes remained, but there was no doubt that Hermione was back to normal. "You should get some more sleep," he said as he started to rise.
Hermione grabbed his hand to prevent him from leaving. "Hang on a second. You said that—that I had seduced you." She still had a hard time believing it.
He nodded. "Trust me, I was nearly gone."
"Then you figured out it was love potion. I would have done anything you wanted. The control was yours, yet you didn't do anything. The game could have been over. You would have won."
Ron could sense her relief and disappointment in equal parts. Her question, though unasked, hung in the air between them. Why?
He stated solemnly, "It wouldn't have been winning."
"Ron." Filled with tenderness, she framed his face in her hands. His honesty would be her undoing, she was nearly sure of it. Though she was a modern woman who didn't require chivalry, she appreciated it all the same. She recalled the direction of her thoughts when she was looking out at the ocean earlier and silently admonished herself. She should have known all along that he would be honorable. He was, in his own way, rather gallant. She imagined that if she ever told him, he'd fiercely deny it, face flushed with embarrassment. It only made her love him more.
The way she was looking at him, with eyes full of warmth, spurred him into taking action. Unable to stop himself—not wanting to stop himself—he very gently met her lips with his own, taking extreme care not to touch her anywhere else. It lasted only seconds and felt more like a promise of a kiss than the real thing. It was almost a friendly gesture. But when they pulled apart, his arms were rigid with restraint. One of her hands remained on his face, and the other held a fistful of his shirt in a white-knuckled grip.
"What was that for?" Hermione whispered shakily. Her heart felt like it had been squeezed as tightly as she was holding onto Ron's shirt.
"I think we both needed it," he replied without bothering to disguise the tremor in his voice. Despite the "all or nothing" resolution he'd made earlier, Ron didn't regret what just happened. He hadn't kissed her out of longing—well, it was partly because of that, but only a very small part. He'd done it for reassurance, and because there had been so much emotion in her eyes that he simply had to respond in kind. "Get some rest, Hermione. It's been a long night."
"I'll rest if you stay with me. Here, in bed, and not on the floor or wherever you were earlier," she said firmly. "We need this, too." She needed to hold him and be held by him, to feel secure after that night's unsettling events. It's been so long, too long, since they shared a bed.
Out of self-preservation, he had slept—or tried to, anyway—in the small couch in their bedroom. The caution was overkill, since Hermione had been out cold. But caution had no place here, at this very moment. He sought comfort, to give and receive it.
"Nox," Ron said, and his wand dimmed. He climbed under the blankets with Hermione. She put her head on his shoulder and his arm draped loosely around her waist. Her sigh of satisfaction echoed his. Within minutes, they were asleep, their game forgotten for just a few hours.