A/N: I don't know that this necessarily necessitates a trigger warning, but in erring on the side of caution, there is some unwanted, unsolicited physical contact in this chapter. It's brief and not inherently sexual, but decidedly uncomfy for the character involved.

If you want details and don't care about spoilers, skip to the note at the end.

18 September, 1997

Hermione's teeth skimmed along his jaw as she rode him, hips rocking up and then grinding back down again in a painfully perfect pace.

"Touch me," she exhaled softly beneath his ear, warm breath making him shiver. His fingers dug into her hips, urging her forward as he pressed up into her again and again. "Please, Fred, please touch me."

He slipped a hand between them.

"Please."

He moved his fingers back and forth, until she was squeezing so tightly around him that he couldn't think straight, couldn't feel anything else.

"Please."

She was so fucking close, he could taste her. Smell her. Everything was Hermione, if he could just -

"Please!"

Fred quietly groaned his release as his hand flexed against the cold tile of the shower wall, the other fisting his hard cock. Warm water ran in rivulets down his tensed back and steam swirled, clouding the room.

Too quickly the image faded, and he was left feeling satisfied and yet wholly… not. He flexed the stiff muscles of his forearm and then turned, ducking his head back beneath the water and willing it to wash away the frustration. As anticipated, it did not work.

With a sigh, he finished up and turned off the tap. Once he was dry and dressed, he made his way into the kitchen to find Lee, jovially munching on a bag of crisps and leafing through an old tabloid.

"Ready?" he said, looking up as Fred entered. "I think everyone else is already down there."

"Yeah, let's go," Fred replied, following Lee toward the door that led down to the shop. His eyes caught on a copy of the Prophet laid across the dining table and he slowed. Every few days they ran the same front page – the same two photos, with some variation of the same headline.

"WANTED FOR QUESTIONING: UNDESIRABLE No. 1," the paper declared, directly above a picture of Harry. And right beside it, over a photo of the very witch he'd just been fantasizing about, read the words, "UNDERSIRABLE No. 2."

The date in the corner offered an unwelcome reminder that it was nearly her birthday.

It had been over two weeks since the incident at The Ministry. The Patronus had been an ill-advised impulse, brought about by blind fear after receiving one from his father, explaining the barest details of what had happened in the immediate aftermath.

It was too much, too achingly similar to that night the year prior. He'd been in the workroom again, this time alone, and he couldn't reconcile the unknown. He forgot about the bracelets, he forgot all sound logic, and had simply sent it. To report back if she was okay. To see if she was alive, if nothing else.

The thing about patronuses, even to those of particular skill, was that they weren't terribly forthcoming with details. So, when the silver magpie returned, offering a nod and nothing more before vanishing, all it really did was give his mind leeway to think about all of the other things that could have gone wrong.

Hermione's short message a few hours later helped some. "You probably heard, we're okay. Love you."

"I love you," he sent back, murmuring aloud as he did so. And for the first time, from the dark isolation of his bedroom, it didn't feel like enough.

"Coming, mate?" Lee interrupted his train of thought and Fred looked up from the paper and back to his friend, who wore a slightly concerned expression as he watched him.

"Yeah," he said again, mentally shaking himself and following Lee through the vacant shop and into the basement storeroom. They rounded the last corner of the labyrinth and the din of dueling and conversation, backed by the ever-present radio broadcast, broke through the silencing charms.

"Wotcher," Tonks greeted, propped against the shelves and presiding over things in Kingsley's absence. She looked exhausted and had taken to sitting out the duels recently, letting Remus take her place most nights – though he wasn't present just then.

She claimed it was because of morning sickness, which was a legitimate issue that had been spectacularly validated on more than one occasion, but Fred thought it had more to do with her father's departure the week prior.

After what happened at the Ministry, the persecution of known muggle-borns had grown increasingly volatile, and Ted Tonks ultimately decided that he was putting his family in more danger than necessary by remaining.

Bill and Fleur offered to take him in at Shell Cottage, one of the Order's last remaining safe houses, but he'd refused, citing the same rationality.

"You can pair up with Oliver," Tonks directed, gesturing toward the far end of the room where Ollie hugged the wall, watching Bill and Angelina go at it. Fred just nodded as Lee joined Verity. He couldn't be certain, but given the frequency with which it happened he was starting to think that Tonks was playing matchmaker in an effort to distract herself.

"Fred," Oliver greeted, clapping him on the shoulder. The wireless droned on in the corner near them, detailing raids and supposed Ministry victories.

"Hey Ollie," Fred replied, searching his childhood friend's demeanor. It was much the same as Tonks' – as his own, he reckoned. Somnolent eyes, slightly slumped shoulders, and… something else. Something more than physical, that spoke to sleepless nights and a weariness that transcended blood and bone. It was a look that he saw more and more recently.

"D'you wanna start, or should I?"

"I'll go first," Fred offered, taking several long paces back while Oliver did the same. He was jittery and distracted and frankly eager for the outlet. They gave one another a quick bow and, without additional preamble, began.

It was a fairly even fight. Fred took the first two matches while Oliver overcame him in the third, transfiguring a small divot in the ground and sending him sprawling.

"Do you want to take a break?" Oliver asked, extending a hand and pulling him up. The other duels waged on around them and Fred shook his head.

"No, let's go again."

He felt bad for the edge of frustration in his voice because it wasn't directed at Oliver, it wasn't really directed at anything in particular, save for circumstance. A tinny voice broke in on the radio as Celestina Warbeck's latest release came to an end.

Fred brushed his hands on his trousers, tugged his sleeves up to his elbows, and then cast first, sending a bright blue stinging charm at Oliver.

"Six persons wanted for magical theft were apprehended outside of Dover this morning –"

Another spell left his wand.

"- still wanted for questioning following the murder of ministry official Dolores Umbridge –"

Another.

"- not be approached and should be considered dangerous –"

Another.

"- spotted outside of Wrexham two days ago -"

Another.

" – Ministry feels confident that the suspects will be apprehended soon –"

Another.

"- and always remember, Magic is Might."

Another.

Sweat beaded at his temple and he realised then that Oliver wasn't casting back anymore, only deflecting and shielding the barrage of spells being hurled at him in rapid, blinding succession. He'd been forced backward, his heels nearly touching the earthen wall.

Fred hesitated, glancing around and recognising only then that the other duels had stopped as well, all eyes turned toward the two of them.

Oliver, cheeks flushed and wand still raised, jerked his chin at Fred, bidding him to continue. A flicker of red revealed a shallow cut on Ollie's bicep where his shirt had been sliced open.

"Go on," Oliver said gamely, expression determined and jaw tight. He motioned for Fred to continue but, chest heaving, Fred lowered his arm. That fire, whatever it was that had possessed him, was gone.

Then he just… stood there, a little forlorn. Perhaps a bit lost, like he wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up there.

"Lee, go turn off the radio," Verity said quietly, nudging her own dueling partner.

Fred didn't know how long they all remained, silent and unmoving, before he spoke.

"It's not enough, is it?"

Fleur shook her head in his periphery, but it was Tonks who pushed off the shelf and joined him, one hand resting protectively over her still-flat midsection.

"It's all we can do," she said evenly, looking up at him without needing clarification as to what he meant. He'd resent the pity he saw in her face if he wasn't feeling the same thing for her.

"I can't believe that," Angelina chimed in with a huff. "Fred's right; I can't believe that there isn't something more we could be doing."

"What, you'd like to go on raids?" Tonks asked, turning and rounding on her. "Hunt down Death Eaters and beat them back in the name of light and righteousness? I'm sure you'll make lovely martyrs, but the thing about martyrs is that they're bloody dead."

All attention was on Tonks now, who, despite what she was saying, sounded as unsatisfied by the answer as Fred felt. She shut her eyes and took a deep breath before continuing.

"We don't have the intel. We don't have the people. We don't have the resources. Hell, we don't even have somewhere to put the bastards if we did manage to capture them; most of our safehouses have been raided and are being watched. Every single one of you is being watched. We are outnumbered and entirely outmatched."

"So we just stay here and do nothing?" Fred asked. "Order takeaway and play at dueling a few nights a week while she's out there – ?"

Fred caught his slip as he said it, and Tonks' frustration melted back to compassion.

"It's all we can do," she said again firmly, and Fred's shoulders sagged. He lifted his hands and ground the heels of his palms into his eyes until all he saw were white starbursts.

"But… what if it's not?" Lee murmured to himself, still standing beside the now-silent wireless. He was staring at it thoughtfully and lightly drumming a finger on the top. Lee looked up after a long second, visibly shaken as he realised that he was now the center of attention. "Er, that is to say, what if there was another way to fight back? One less likely to result in our swift and collective demise."

When nobody said anything, Tonks nodded at him and Lee, encouraged, continued.

"We know that Harry and Ron and – and Hermione are out there, doing whatever it is that they're doing to try and end all of this. We know that, the people in this room and a few others, but nobody else does. All they know is that their friends and loved ones are being torn from their homes and worse, while the Prophet and the Merlin-damned wireless drone on day and night about how the war is already won. The only thing they hear about is that the ministry has conquered all and having any hope to the contrary is futile."

Fred met his brother's eyes as understanding dawned and he gathered precisely what Lee was saying. Not a war on person, but on propaganda.

"Alright," he started, nodding. "Alright, let's give them something else to listen to."

Hermione was sitting outside of the tent, the breeze rustling the increasingly sparse leaves overhead. It seemed every day there were fewer of them, revealing more and more of the near-constant grey blanket of clouds that filtered the sun and cast everything into drab shadows.

To wit, they were further north than they had been in past weeks and the air, crisp as it was, had started to veer toward cold.

She drew her jumper tighter around her shoulders, refusing to resort to warming charms. It was senseless, really, but she was loathe to allow herself any comfort that might dull her senses when it was her turn to take watch. Anything that might make it easier to let down her guard and pretend she was somewhere else.

A rustle to the right caught her attention and she glanced over in time to see a large hare emerge from the brush, nosing about the ground unsuspectingly before swiftly disappearing again. A few moments after that, another sound interrupted the silence, this time from behind her. Hermione looked over her shoulders as the tent flap drew open, letting forth muted sounds from inside before Ron closed it behind him, dropping the forest back to a stark, immediate silence.

Hermione found herself wanting to smile at his unexpected presence. In their time on the run, ever since that first morning at Grimmauld Place, Ron had seemed to warm toward her. Whatever animosity that had plagued their friendship in the wake of him discovering her relationship with Fred was ostensibly in the past, and she was terribly glad of it.

"Bloody cold out here," Ron muttered, rapidly rubbing his hands together as he sank onto the earth beside her. Unlike Hermione, he didn't waste any time in drawing his wand and casting a warming charm on their vicinity.

It was a little too warm for Hermione's liking, in truth, but she was happy to have the company and wasn't about to gripe.

"Your shoulder looks much better," she noted; he'd taken to removing the sling in the morning and, though he certainly still moved it with some restraint, it was leagues away from the days immediately following the injury.

"Feels better," Ron agreed, bobbing his head. "Thanks again for that."

"Don't mention it." Hermione glanced back toward the entrance of the tent. "What's Harry doing?"

"Listening to the wireless and staring at that shard of mirror again," Ron replied with a shrug, and Hermione simply nodded. Harry spent quite a lot of time doing that these days. "Anything to report out here?"

"A few squirrels, a hare, and one particularly vocal grouse."

Ron grinned at her, and they lapsed to a companionable silence.

"It's your birthday tomorrow," Ron finally broached, interrupting the quiet again.

"You remembered," Hermione said, needing to force her smile that time. In truth, she'd been trying her best to forget about it. By all accounts, they had precious little to celebrate.

"Of course," Ron said, like it was a given. The previous year had proven that was not the case, but she didn't mention that. "I got something for you, before we left."

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a rather poorly wrapped parcel.

"You didn't have to do that," Hermione admonished. "Do I have to wait to open it?" she asked, reaching over to take it. Ron shook his head, and she went about peeling back the parchment.

Once that was done, she removed the lid of the box to reveal –

"Oh, wow!" Hermione exclaimed with blatantly false enthusiasm, examining the contents. "It's a necklace."

Nestled in the box was a thick silver rope with a large H hanging in the center, encrusted with gems. Sparkling, pink gems. It was… completely and utterly garish.

"You wear that bird one all the time, so I figured you must like them, yeah?"

Ron pointed to the delicate gold chain peeking over the top of her jumper.

"I-I do," Hermione affirmed, a bit taken aback.

"Want me to help you put it on?" Ron offered, and a wave of discomfort rolled over her. The idea of wearing something so blatantly opposite her tastes was unpleasant, but the thought of it replacing the magpie nestled between her breasts made her want to crawl out of her skin.

"Maybe later," Hermione evaded with another manufactured smile as she hastily shoved the lid back on the box and stowed it in her pocket, out of sight. "Thank you, Ron. That was really thoughtful of you."

Ron sat back against the large stump behind them, looking rather satisfied with himself.

"I just figured you might be a little down, being away for your birthday this year and all."

She nodded and then shrugged. "Of course, but we knew that would be the case. And it's not like Harry's wasn't a bit overshadowed, either."

"Yeah, I know," Ron said, and Hermione was abruptly aware that he'd gone from looking out at the forest in front of them to watching her. Staring intently at her face, more accurately. "I just – I really wanted you to know that I was thinking about you."

It was then that the air changed, like a switch flipped, and true unease set in. Not like there was danger present per se, not alarm bells. But that slight roll in her belly, cold sweat kissing the nape of her neck and her palms. The unsolicited warming charm suddenly felt all the more stifling.

"Sure, thanks," Hermione said a little more sharply, angling away ever so slightly and eager to bring the topic to a close.

She was most certainly being paranoid. It couldn't be that. Surely, surely, he wasn't attempting to –

But the thought was interrupted when Ron's hand rose and then landed on her thigh. Not her calf, not her knee, her thigh. It was large and far too hot, and his fingertips almost brushed the inseam of her jeans.

Hermione froze as though she'd died on the spot and rigor mortis had set in. Perhaps that would be preferable to the reality of her situation just then.

Because in that moment, in the blink of an eye, every kindness that Ron had done her in the past weeks, every shared smile and reassurance, every interaction that she'd thought of as one of friendship, of rekindled camaraderie, became immediately and thoroughly tainted.

She understood with a sickening clarity that it hadn't been friendship at all, rather some sort of long game, a premeditated strategy. The realisation made her want to cry.

"I know you're probably feeling really lonely and I –"

"Take your hand off of me right now."

Hermione's voice cracked between them like a whip. Not loud, not remotely shouting, but as sharp as any blade.

She didn't look at Ron, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the unwelcome, intrusive pressure on her leg.

Each second dragged into an eternity, but in reality only a couple of them passed before Ron, wisely, drew his hand away.

His voice when he spoke again was defensive, almost petulant. Like a child that'd been scolded for testing a boundary. "I was just –"

"I know precisely what you were trying to do," Hermione spoke over him, quickly moving away and shifting to a crouch, like an animal who'd foolishly let itself be cornered. Stupid, she'd been so ridiculously stupid to think he'd suddenly gotten over all of it.

Every inch of space she gained felt like a breath of fresh air.

She leveled her gaze at Ron and was surprised to find not guilt nor shame looking back at her, but irritation. As if her response to his advances simply wasn't to his liking.

Hermione also noted that he was wearing the damnable locket, but that wasn't an excuse, and it certainly didn't do anything to soothe the anger and that sense of utter betrayal trying to claw its way out of her.

She licked her lips and then spoke, every word crystalline and drenched in intentionality.

"Ron, I'm going to say this once and I need you to hear me. This, what we are trying to accomplish here, is not your chance with me. You will not get a chance with me, not now, not ever. And if you even think to lay a hand on me again with anything other than friendship in mind, I swear to you that I will cut it off. Do you understand me? You just crossed a line, and we are not okay."

She gave him a while to respond and when he didn't, she got to her feet and headed around him, back toward the tent. She didn't know if she was going to cry or vomit, but she knew that she didn't want to do either with an audience.

"Are you going to tell Harry?"

Hermione stopped in her tracks a few feet away from the tent's entrance and looked back at him – looked down on him – in sheer, uncomprehending disbelief.

Because how dare he?

How dare he wait until Fred wasn't around to try something so vile and underhanded?

How dare he purposely approach her when he thought she'd be at her most vulnerable?

And how dare he concern himself not with what it might do to her, not with how his actions might wound her, but with the opinion of another man?

Something inside of her went cold and dark.

Hermione raised her chin a little as she stared back at Ron, reaching into her pocket and tossing the box with the necklace callously into the dirt beside him. She almost laughed when the thing tumbled out and dark earth crusted the pink gems – it felt appropriate.

And then she let just a little bit of that lion, of that bloodthirsty creature slumbering beneath her breast, peer out at him.

"If you think Harry is the one that you need to be afraid of, you haven't been paying attention."

Ron paled, but Hermione didn't wait for his reaction this time. She simply turned and ducked back into the tent.

A/N: Long story short, Ron makes a pass at Hermione. It reaches a climax when he puts his hand on her thigh and she makes it extremely clear that it's not okay.

I called it out not only for the depiction itself, but because it was a surprisingly sensitive situation for me to write and I thought it might be the same for some of you to read.

Far too many of us have had that experience, that sinking feeling of realizing that a friend, most often a male friend, isn't a friend at all, but rather someone who was waiting in the wings for an opportunity.