Part 3: Raging Waters

"Bloody hell, Hermione!" Ron cries as I literally fall back into his arms. My body willingly surrenders and I disintegrate against his warm, damp skin. My cheek is pressed against his bare shoulder and I inhale deeply against his skin. The scent of clean, fresh Ron invades my nostrils and lungs, holding me captive. Rivulets of water trickle down his wet torso onto my cheek; or are those my tears? Because I am so desperate for him right now I feel like bawling.

I look up at him, his hair is soaking and plastered to his forehead and neck. I want to drink the water that is dripping off the ends of his copper strands. Our eyes lock, and steam is created as the heat from our stare seems to evaporate all the moisture from Ron's body.

A waterfall of emotions cascade over Ron's face, but his features quickly turn icy and his mouth sets in a frown. "What are you doing?" he asks as he practically shoves me off of him. My legs are still shaky so I grab the door frame for support.

The anger in his voice is a slap across my face, and my cheeks burn. It snaps me out of my inferno of a daydream and creates a chill that crystallizes the blood in my veins, bringing my heart to a grinding halt. But my eyes waste no time devouring the contours of his chest and stomach like they haven't eaten in decades. My pupils dilate as they trace the edges of his well-defined muscles. Flecks of amber dust his skin like jewels scattered over a white sand beach; I want to connect the dots of his freckles with my tongue. My insatiable eyes travel hungrily down his torso and choke on the way the towel is resting far too low on his hips. I bite my lower lip so hard I almost draw blood.

"Ron, I'm sorry. I-" Again, I can't seem to form sentences.

"What are you trying to do to me, Hermione?" Ron's words cut in.

"What… what are you talking about? I was just…" I am hypnotized by the way a shadow is playing over his stomach, and gaze longingly at the point where the soft terry cloth of the towel hugs his narrow hips.

"What am I talking about? All this." He gestures back and forth between us. "You kiss me, then tell me we can't go any further," Ron begins to explain. "But then in the drawing room… What was all that? Are you trying to torture me?"

I am completely taken aback by what he is saying. I have been so focused on trying to keep the lid on my overabundance of hormones that I never even thought that Ron was wrestling with his as well. "I'm trying to stay away from you," he continues, "but you are making it bloody hard! And what are you doing now? Literally throwing yourself at me? What the hell, Hermione? You're driving me mental!"

"What?" I am stunned and my first reaction is to go on the defensive. "Ron, that is absurd. I wasn't throwing myself at you." I feign composure. "And I am in no way leading you on." I cross my arms over my chest and mask my fluster with a haughty expression. "I stand by what I said: We can't let what is going on between us progress, and I think it's you who is leading me on – the way you were looking at me before? How am I supposed to respond to that?" I'm spilling out lies in hopes that Ron will trip on one and I can make my escape. But he is still coming at me, hurdling over them with confidence.

"Not by lurking outside the loo while I'm showering! You're the one who decided we shouldn't touch each other. You should try following your own rules. That is, if you can." I interpret this as him saying I am weak, and it does not go over well.

"I was just waiting to ask you something about what Harry and I were discussing downstairs. You are the one that is obviously jumping to conclusions! Not everything is about shagging, Ron." I try not to yell.

"Right, and the way you were staring at me just now, biting your lip and looking so- so..." He momentarily trails off, perhaps lost in a fantasy of his own. He shakes his head and chuckles, "God Hermione, are you daft? I'm a bloke; sex is all we think about."

"Oh, so that's all I am to you? Just some teenage, hormone-driven fantasy?" I grasp at anything to start an argument, to take the onus off of me, even though I know that's where it should be right now. Ron sighs deeply and lowers his head.

"Hermione," he says in a quiet voice, "You must know that's not true." It feels like those words are only the tip of an iceberg. I sense so much more beneath the surface as I stare into the ocean of his eyes. I desperately want him to express, physically, what is looming in his stare. I crave the feeling of his arms around me, his lips...

Oh his lips…

I shake my head. I must restart this argument so I can get out of here with some semblance of dignity. But I can't throw that comment back in his face, it was such a gift and I want to cherish it.

"I know," is all I can say, so I let my eyes speak for my soul. I think he has understood because he gives me that sad crooked smile that melts my heart like butter in a pan.

Hours seem to dissolve as we marinate in the silence between us. We are softening, liquefying, and soon we will just slip into each other if we are not careful.

"Please don't look at me like that, Ron…" I breathe. Never stop looking at me like that, I think. But I will myself to harden. I clear my throat and stand up straight. "You have to keep yourself under control." I say in my bossy, 'homework' tone. "I'm doing it; there is no reason you can't too."

He scoffs, "You're doing a pretty poor job of it, Hermione."

"Not as poor as you." A cheap retaliation.

"You want to see a poor job?" Ron laughs. "Don't try me, Hermione, I can make this very difficult for you…" And there it is; my Achilles heel; a challenge. Don't take the bait, I beg myself, please don't take the bait.

"I'd like to see you try," my mouth says while my brain is screaming at it to shut up.

Ron takes a step towards me, invading my space, and I can smell soap and heat, and it recalls my daydreams of Ron's lathered hands on my body. I am already in trouble.

"Be careful what you wish for, Hermione," he whispers. His tone is heavy with threat, and the way he says my name causes a tiny explosion between my legs.

I lower my eyes and turn my head to the side trying to block him out, but he is so close I can't get his soft naked skin out of my field of vision.

All I wanted was a fight, a way to exonerate and extricate myself from the situation. And now, what have I done - challenged him to a duel of wills? How far will Ron go? The thought both frightens and excites me beyond belief.

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~o8o~

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Harry, Ron and I sit in the kitchen finishing dinner; half-eaten pieces of garlic toast scatter crumbs over the parchments that take up most of the table. I huff as I try to dust off the map I had drawn so I can make further notations.

Ron is across from me still eating; he has several pieces of toast piled next to his bowl of French onion soup. God, he is always eating, I think, annoyed. I have been on-edge since our conversation last night. When in his presence I feel like his prisoner; "Be careful what you wish for, Hermione." The words are like rope binding my hands, my head is over a bucket, and I am waiting for the ax to fall.

I was blessed with a reprieve when it was Ron who took the first trip to the Ministry today, hidden under the invisibility cloak, to collect information. This morning, after each of us gave a passionate argument as to why they should be the one to go and not the others, we decided the best way to come to an agreement was to draw straws to see who would go first. This morning after breakfast we each drew: Today was Ron's turn, tomorrow Harry's, and mine the day after. Ron took the invisibility cloak and spent most of the morning at the Ministry collecting information.

Although I didn't need to stand under a metaphorical cold shower all morning, having Ron gone was far worse than having him around to agitate me. I was plagued with thoughts of Ron being captured, of never seeing him again. His absence fermented in my stomach and I could taste my worry as bile on the back of my tongue. I was constantly looking at the clock or the door while reading the same page of Beedle the Bard over and over again, my brain retaining nothing.

When we finally heard Ron enter the hallway downstairs I choked as my heart was catapulted into my throat. I practically threw myself down the stairs and landed in the hallway on shaky limbs, Harry close behind me. I gripped the banister; my anchor, preventing me from sailing into him, running aground on his shores. When he saw me he dropped everything; his rucksack, wand and invisibility cloak created a cloud of dust as they hit the floor. His arms twitched and my whole body ached. I strained against my moorings as the tide in his eyes began to pull me into him. But Harry pushed past me, severing the current and flooding the room with questions, desperate for the bounty of the information Ron collected.

"So there is a really good area here? With cover from the rubbish bins, and the door to the theatre is right here?" Harry asks as he points to a map in front of me that depicts the outside of the Ministry, near the visitor's entrance. "So is this where you were today?"

Ron finishes chewing and nods. He rises and moves around the table to stand behind me. Looking over my shoulder to get a better view of where Harry is pointing, he leans in and his fingers run over the lines on the parchment. "Yeah, a good place for observation," he says. Him moving was completely unnecessary; he does not have to be this close to me; he is doing this on purpose.

I can feel his breath weaving through my hair, warming my ear and neck. The sensation makes my eyes flutter, my heart does the same. I breathe deeply, trying to retain my composure, as Ron continues on about…something. Pay attention, Hermione, I scold myself.

"I agree; even though we will have the invisibility cloak I think we should still keep to places that are fairly sheltered to disapparate to and from, just to be safe."

I fight to stay focused but I feel like I am hearing Harry's voice from miles away as he and Ron continue the conversation. I manage to focus my eyes back on the parchment but gasp when I feel Ron's nose make the slightest contact with my hair. I close my eyes; he sucks the marrow from my bones as he inhales deeply, and drains my soul.

As Harry continues to speak - at least, I think he does, his voice is drowned by Ron's breath in my ear - I can feel that familiar current pulling Ron's frame even closer to mine. I twitch, reacting to a static shock, when I feel one of Ron's fingers brush the hem of my shirt. I bite my lip as I count three fingers slipping tentatively under my shirt and grazing my lower back. The static creates a shiver that runs both up and down my spine; producing sparks in my head and fireworks in my womb.

I am furious that Ron can be so bold as to touch me like this with Harry sitting right next to me. I spy Harry out of the corner of my eye, his eyes are on the table and his lips are moving. How can he not notice the flames that I am being consumed by?

I am practically panting as Ron's fingers idly play across my back, sometimes delving below the waistline of my jeans and sometimes traveling up underneath my shirt. My nerve endings come alive and spread salacious messages across my whole body, creating jealousy wherever Ron's fingers aren't touching.

I want his hands everywhere…

I can't think. I can't even hear what Harry is saying over the pounding of my heart in my ears. I strain for coherent thought; something simple, some easy facts I can recite in order to restart my brain. I think back to our History of Magic class; the Goblin Rebellions. What was the date of the first goblin rebellion? You know this, Hermione. You got full marks on that test and wrote who-knows-how-many lines of parchment on the subject; Concentrate! Numbers flash randomly through my head but I become panicked because Ron's breath seems to be even hotter on my neck and his fingers are teasing the hem of my knickers now. My lungs seize, I feel faint. Goblin rebellion, think Hermione, think! 1600… 1625…1698…

"1612!" I yell out loud as I slam my hands flat on the table. Harry jumps, and I hear Ron stumble back behind me.

"What?" Harry looks utterly boggled. I stare, open mouthed at him. "Are you ok, Hermione?" he asks.

"Ummm… Yes?" I knit my eyebrows, trying to decide. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine," I say as I plaster on a fake smile and force out a laugh. "Yes, I was just thinking about something else." I notice Ron has returned to his seat across from me, but I don't dare look at him; the thought of it makes my face burn with humiliation. "You know, I must be… tired. That's all. Maybe I should just go to bed."

"It's only quarter past nine," Harry says with a quizzical look. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Ron; his ears are blazing red, I notice his chest is heaving and he is desperately trying to hold back a smile. My blood begins to boil in my veins. I am so furious with him right now. He has completely embarrassed me in front of Harry as well as blatantly disregarded our rules of engagement.

I am breathing fast and heavy, and I ball my hands as I think about pummelling him; my fists would make contact with his hard chest over and over again. I would slap that smug grin right off his face, leaving a crimson stain on his soft cheek. And then I would slam him up against a wall and just… and just… ravage him.

"Excuse me," I say in an overly-polite tone and stand up. Without looking at either of them I walk briskly out of the kitchen, my nose held somewhat too high, and up the many stairs to my room. Once inside I slam the door so hard a few of the picture frames on the bureau fall over. I throw myself onto my bed. My body reverberates with screams.

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~o8o~

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I am so hot. I toss and turn under the thin bed sheets. Even after taking off my pyjama bottoms I am still uncomfortable so I cast off the sheet as well. The air in the room is ripe with my fury as I stew in a mixture of loathing and longing for Ron Weasley. This concoction is nothing new for me, the recipe is tattooed on my heart. But tonight the brew is so strong it feels like acid burning away my insides.

My core is pulsing to the tick of the grandfather clock. I rub my thighs together and squeeze, trying to suffocate the fire, but I feel no relief. I trap my hand between my thighs to see if that will help. When my fingers brush over the front of my knickers I get a slight jolt, a split second of pleasure douses my body and then is gone. I rub my hand over the spot again, this time a little slower, and as I do so I think about how it felt to have Ron's silhouette pressed into mine. The wave of pleasure returns, and lingers a little longer this time.

Suddenly I'm nervous; I look around my room as if expecting to be caught for what I am doing, or what I am about to do. But I try to relax knowing that I locked my door long ago; no one can see me, I reassure myself.

I close my eyes and think about snogging Ron. I have replayed our kiss thousands of times now, but I never get tired of it. I let myself drift in the ebb and flow as my imagination draws me in. I think about his wet skin; beads of water carving paths down his chest and stomach. I grab the towel at his waist and pull him into me. He wraps his arms around my back and kisses me so deeply I can feel it in my toes.

As I think about Ron's hands on my body I start to move my hand up and down over the front of my knickers, slowly applying more and more pressure. My mouth drops open and a small moan ventures out.

And then we are in the shower, it's so hot and wet, and steam is everywhere. I have my back pressed into his chest and his hands claim my body. They slide up and down over my stomach and breasts and then travel downward...

I arch my back as I picture Ron's hand where mine is now. The fabric of my knickers is wet and sticks to my fingers. Daring, I slip my hand underneath. I gasp and fist the bed sheets with my other hand as my fingers sink in between my flesh and make contact with the most sensitive part of me.

Ron's lips… Ron's chest… Ron's hair… Ron's hands… his hands, his hands, his hands, all over me.

And then him…

Him inside me, deep inside me, awakening the dragon and letting it breathe fire. Flames envelop him, scorching him from head to foot. My hand moves faster, creating delicious friction, and my hips buck, and I moan louder. Desperation floods me as I beg Ron to take on the dragon, he needs to break its chains and let it soar…

I pant and writhe on the sheets, but the dragon remains trapped, raging against its tethers. And no matter what I do I can't seem to subdue it or release it. The more I try the more frustrated I become as the fire inside me wanes, but doesn't extinguish. I turn onto my stomach, my hand still trapped between my legs to try and smother the embers, but the heat is relentless and the smoke suffocates me. I'm unsatisfied, and more angry with Ron than ever before.

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~o8o~

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Early morning I find myself climbing out of a deep sleep, my skin is dewy with sweat and my heart races. Desperation still clings to me like the damp sheets; I feel as if I have been running a marathon all night, but no matter how fast or long I ran the finish line always remained out of reach. The air in my room is stifling and heavy with discontent. I turn onto my back and stretch, trying to release the knots that contort the muscles in my legs.

My eyes snap open when a single thought strikes a match in my stomach; the flame glows and moths scatter, frantically bouncing off the walls of my rib cage:

Harry goes to the Ministry today. Ron and I will be left alone, in number twelve Grimmauld Place, for hours.