A/N: I've decided to make this a three-shot (is that even a real…thing?), because I have a lot more to fit into this. So I will have chapter three (hopefully the final one) up by Wednesday. And yes, as you may have noticed if you read A Midsummer's Dream (which I will update soon, I promise!) and this chapter – I like Ron…not wearing a shirt. It's the best thing since…disposable socks. (Don't ask) And I firmly believe that I am doing Hermione a favor.

Hermione's flat is just as it always is, neat and straightened and all in order, except for the odd little quirky things that don't belong, like a random shirt lying on the living room floor, or dirty dishes still on the table, clear indications of Ginny's presence. Hermione herself is sitting on the kitchen counter, arms crossed, swinging her legs back and forth and scowling ferociously at me.

"Hey," I manage to squeak out. Drunken Hermione frightens me, even more than Sober Hermione, quite a feat.

"Hello, Ronald." Her words are less slurred than they sounded on the phone; at least she seems to be pronouncing them more clearly and wholly. I cower under her gaze.

"So, uh… you called?" I sound ridiculous. I look ridiculous too, in my too-short maroon pajama pants. Hell, I'm not even wearing a shirt. My ears heat up, though I'm not quite sure why. It's not as though she hasn't seen me shirtless before, swimming and whatnot. I can feel the rest of my face heat up when I realize what Hermione is wearing. It's the flimsiest, shortest, lowest-cut nightgown I've ever seen. And I live with Lavender Brown, Queen of Questionable Lingerie.

She laughs when she notices me staring (I can't help it), which surprises me. Normally, I'd expect her to slap me across the face, or a least launch into a long and boring lecture about controlling my hormones, but no, all I get is this laugh, and it's utterly un-Hermione-ish too – throaty and sexy, not that she's not sexy, mind you…You have a girlfriend, Weasley. Of course, the only thing she thinks I might be good for is shagging, which I have, so far, refused, which means I am forced to sleep on the couch, while she sleeps in the bed. My bed, to be accurate.

But that is not the point. The point is that Hermione Jane Granger, woman of my dreams is sitting in front of me, wearing a provocative little nightgown and laughing a provocative little laugh, and pretty much turning me on…which she should be, because I have a girlfriend. It's a never-ending cycle, really.

"Yeah, um, what's…going on?" I'm pretty sure I know what's going on, but I need to hear the sound of my own voice – make sure it's still working.

"How's Lavender?" she asks, pure loathing in her voice.

"She's um…She's fine." But not as fine as you – I don't want to, for instance, rip a certain provocative little nightgown off of her and ravish her right there in a certain kitchen. (This is hypothetically speaking of course.)

"So you two are getting along then? She's not, y'know, calling you Won-Won or anything?" She's still angry, but I detect something else behind her voice, sadness maybe, regret. She starts to choke up. I sigh.

"Hermione, why am I really here?" I ask. "You – even when you're drunk – you are drunk, Hermione," (for she begins to protest) "- don't behave this way. There must be some reason you called me up at two in the morning and forced me to come over. What is it?"

I can see all her thoughts cross her face – she examines the consequences of telling me, then of not telling me. Then I see the look I want and fear cross her face. It's the 'oh hell, what've I got to lose by now' look.

She jumps down from the counter lightly, landing softly on the linoleum, then proceeds to make her way over to the other side of the room, where I am standing, rather slowly and tipsily.

"Do you really want to know?" She murmurs seductively, running her small hands down my bare chest and over my stomach. I shiver. I swallow nervously. I am petrified. I know I should refuse. I should say no right now and leave – leave the woman of my dreams and go home to the gorgeous girlfriend any other guy would kill to have. But that small, rebellious part of my brain is telling the rest of me to shut up and let fate run things for a while. Let this happen and be happy. And for some reason, I do. I try to tune my conscience out, and I look down at Hermione.

"Yeah, I…do what to know," I breathe, allowing myself to become entranced in her scent, her curls, her big, brown eyes. She continues to trace light patterns over my bare skin, using just the tips of her fingers.

"Well, Ron, the reason I called you so late at night was because…" She trails off and wraps her arms around my neck. I know I shouldn't be doing this, or at the very least, I should be feeling horribly guilty for betraying Lavender and taking advantage of Hermione – she is drunk, after all. She'd certainly never behave this way if she were sober…But I can't help myself. Anyway, I know, deep down, that Lavender was never the real thing. It was Hermione all along. If I don't take advantage of this opportunity now, I may never get another one. So I close my eyes and lean into her.

Our lips brush, then she deepens the kiss. She tastes like firewhiskey, and she tastes good.

Before I know it, I've got her up against the counter, and she's wrapping her legs around my waist, and her hands are in my hair, and I'm trying to get her bra unhooked and her nightgown off at the same time, and –

"Won-Won? What do you think you're doing?"

Oh dear…Lavender.

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