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PART I: The Secret Meanings of Juvenile Looks
after Dumbledore’s will but before the wedding
______
“I’m beginning to think you’re right about your mum.”
Hermione dropped the basket of fresh laundry on Ron’s bed, pushing the frizzy flyaways out of her eyes. “She’s trying to keep us apart. Or at least, keep us too busy to plan.”
Ron’s room, being on the top floor of the Burrow, was extra warm in the summer, and since she’d been sent up and down the many rickety stairs several times (running errands for Molly), she’d worked up a decent sweat.
Ron glanced at her from where he sat, cross-legged near his headboard, holding a copy of the newest Which Broomstick. He smirked, flipping a page. “Told you.”
She willed herself to ignore his crooked smile, clearing her throat. “What does your mum think you’re doing anyway?”
“Cleaning bathrooms.” He shrugged a shoulder. “We just did them though, didn’t we?”
“Good, we can talk instead.” Hermione emptied the basket on the foot of his bed and selected a faded orange t-shirt, folding it. “Do you want me to pack any of this stuff?” She worked her way through his laundry, the intimacy of the chore not lost on her. “I’ve packed non-perishable foods and some camping gear your dad lent me. I know I must be forgetting more, but I can’t figure out what it might be.”
His long fingers encircled her wrist, stilling her motion and sending shivers down her spine. When she looked at him, he brushed her sticky hair from her forehead. “You’re hot.” He reached for the discarded magazine and began to fan her with it. The forced breeze cooled her sweaty skin, although the goose pimples on her arms were more likely due to the way his fingertips moved absently along the sensitive skin of her wrist.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
For a few minutes, they stared at each other, the only sound being the movement of the magazine.
Ron broke the silence. “You don’t have to do everything by yourself, yeah?”
“What do you mean?” Her voice was shrill.
“The packing. Preparing.” One side of his mouth turned towards the high ceilings of his room. “You’ve been rushing about this house the last couple of weeks, making that face you usually make during finals.”
“I haven’t!” she denied, trying and failing to extract her wrist from his grip. He kept a hold of it and, for a reason she couldn’t articulate, she found herself taking a step towards him instead.
“Tell me what you need, Mione, and I’ll do it.” He licked his lips. “Anything.”
It was one word, unassuming and innocent, added to the end of his statement as though it didn’t have the power to make her head spin.
She opened and closed her mouth, throat dry. Finally, she managed to squeak, “anything?”
“Anything,” he repeated, his features so forceful that she was sure she couldn’t misunderstand his intent.
Inch by painstaking inch, Ron pulled her hand towards himself. She shouldn’t tear her eyes away, and he, as though asking for permission, brushed his lips against her inner wrist.
To her absolute horror, she couldn’t suppress a small moan.
She blushed, but the way he reacted to the sound, pushing his lips harder against her skin, eyes darkening, drove a rush of hormones through her jittery body.
She was breathing hard, as though she’d ascended the stairs five seconds ago instead of five minutes. “Ron,” she murmured, equal parts nervous and exhilarated, “if you want me to cool off, you shouldn't look at me like that.”
His eyes flashed in defiance. “Good thing that I’m not trying to cool you off, then.”
The honesty of this answer seemed to break the metaphorical dam, and a stream of comprehension flowed between them, fast and fierce.
The last year of insecurity, of trying to make each other jealous…it all seemed so obvious and trite to her now. Their many misunderstandings and incorrect assumptions were rectified as she searched his eyes, heart leaping with all the knowledge he allowed her to see.
She understood what he felt, how it seemed that he’d always felt.
She lowered her own guard, hoping to reciprocate his vulnerability. She was sorry that it’d taken her so long to figure out her feelings, overjoyed that he felt the same way, scared for their future in the midst of this war.
“Hermione, I-”
His breath caught in his throat as she cupped his face with the hand he still held, brushing her thumb over his freckled cheek. “Me too.”
His grip tightened on her wrist. He was an arm’s distance away. She wanted to throw herself at him, to finally learn what his lips would feel like against hers. She wanted to explore the way her core tightened when she thought of him, alone in the dark of her room at night. She wanted every inch of his skin to touch every inch of hers, an idea so delicious she tingled just thinking of it.
But they had so much to do. Harry needed them, focused and ready. They had to hunt Horcruxes, fight Voldemort. They couldn’t afford distractions.
It took every effort for her to utter her next words. “We..we can’t.”
“I know.” He discarded the magazine, maneuvering so he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her between his legs. “I don’t want to. Not now.” From here, they were eye to eye, despite him being so tall, and she could count every freckle dusting his nose. He shook his head, placing his hands on her waist. “It’s not perfect right now; it can’t be. You deserve perfect.”
Where was this coming from, Ron’s forward, aggressive attitude? They’d skated around the issue of their relationship, whatever it was, for years, but they’d never addressed it so openly. Maybe he was tired of all their misunderstandings, or maybe it was the urgency of the war and what they were going to do.
Either way, she thought she understood. They had so much history. Wasn’t it time to be plain?
“What if I don’t need perfect?” She bit her lower lip, stealing herself to be brave. “What if all I need is…”
He froze, staring at her, and her sentence died in her throat. She tried to utter the word, but nothing came out. She searched his gaze, imploring him to understand what she couldn’t seem to say.
With great care, Ron stood, keeping her in the circle of his arms. Their bodies fit as though that’s how they’d been designed. Her breathing hitched as he bent, the distance between them closing with agonizing slowness.
“Mione?” His whispered, minty breath rolled across her cheeks.
“Yes?” She breathed.
“I want to…can I-”
“Yes.”
The snog was slow, sweet, and bumbling. For as long as Hermione had wanted to kiss Ron, and it was something she could admit that she’d wanted to do for a very long time, a small part of her had always worried that it would be awkward to transition from friends to something more.
But there was nothing awkward about this. This was easy, natural. This, she’d been born to do. Kissing Ronald Weasley was like breathing fresh air after living in smog.
“Ron! Where are you? Come set the table.”
Molly’s magically magnified voice shattered the moment, leaving Ron and Hermione holding each other, panting.
“I have to go.” He sounded strangled. “We’ll talk later, yeah?”
She was dazed. Elated. Stunned.
He grinned, planting pecks on her lips and her forehead, pulling her into a hug.
“RONALD!” Molly's voice boomed through the room again.
“I have to go,” he repeated. “I promise, we’ll talk.”
She nodded, and he left, shooting her a lopsided smile. She raised her fingers to her still tingling lips, staring at the empty door frame.
Part II: Stimulation Might Jeopardize the Lauded
the wedding
_____
The day of Bill and Fleur's wedding snuck up on Hermione with almost indecent speed. She had not packed as many supplies as she’d wanted, hindered in large part because of her ability (or lack thereof) to nick things without being noticed.
Yet somehow, as she stood swaying on the makeshift dance floor, nestled in Ron’s arms, Hermione found that she couldn’t bring herself to care.
She was more worried someone nearby would notice the heat radiating from her body.
Ron’s hand had found contact with the skin exposed by the cutouts on the back of her dress. Though she was sure his touch was innocent enough, every slow brush of his fingers against her skin stimulated her entire body.
If the red tips of his ears were any indication, Hermione thought he might be feeling the same.
She bravely moved the hand on his shoulder so it slipped around his neck, pulling closer to him. She could feel more than hear a faint growl in his chest.
When he spoke, she realized with a thrill that it was the huskiest she’d ever heard him sound.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
Part of her knew they shouldn’t, that they needed to stay focused on the mission, but that part of her was overwhelmed by the electricity between them.
No sooner had she nodded than he grabbed her hand and began a moderate but deliberate pace, winding through the milling dance floor towards the open flap of the tent. She was nervous, excited, trying to hide her hormonal intentions from those they passed by.
A flash. Kingsley’s Patronus. Screams. Chaos.
They wheeled about, Hermione summoning her beaded bag from the table as Ron scanned the crowd, shouting for Harry. A strange redhead, who Hermione belatedly recognized as Harry’s disguise, dived towards them. Once they were hand in hand, Hermione turned on her heel.
PART III- Sincerity in the Moments of Joyful Liberty
after the wedding but before the Ministry break-in
_____
“Anything new?”
Hermione flinched, accidentally knocking a few hand-sketched pages to the floor. “You startled me.”
“Sorry.” Ron collected the documents, examining them as he took another seat around the cluttered kitchen table.
Hermione sighed, rubbing her eyes. “Nothing new. I just keep checking and double-checking our schematics.”
“Harry’s gone to bed already,” he informed her, setting the papers down. “I reckon we should too.”
She surveyed the cluttered table, feeling tired. “You’re probably right. Let’s clean this a bit to save Kreacher the trouble.”
It was either a sign of his maturity or his change of heart with regards to house-elves, but in any case, Hermione appreciated his silent acquiescence as they collected the papers and carried them into the drawing-room to store them on the desk.
They walked towards the staircase, and, as had become their recent custom, Ron wordlessly wound their fingers together. He led the way, leaving Hermione an opportunity to gaze at their clasped hands.
She had to admit that she’d grown used to Ron holding her hand every night as they ascended the stairs to their rooms. It was because of this two-week-old tradition that she made it a point to stay up later than Harry on any night she could manage.
Of course, that could also be due to their other new habit.
Her heart pounded as she thought of it, and when they reached the door to her bedroom, her anticipation grew so she thought her stomach might drop to her knees.
Ron towered over her, drawing closer with every breath. She took a nervous step backward, feeling the frame of the bedroom door digging into her shoulder blade. She licked her lips, excited when his eyes flicked down to her mouth at the movement.
“Goodnight, Hermione.”
“Goodnight, Ron.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, drawing a sensual, crooked smirk from his full lips right before they crashed against hers.
She thought she would never grow tired of the feel of him, from his gentle kiss to his tingle-inducing fingers to the safety of his tall, lanky frame wrapped around her much smaller one. She wasn’t quite sure how this nightly snog had started, but she hoped they’d never have a reason to stop.
The kiss lasted a few minutes, still enough to leave her quite breathless, but neither had ever pushed for more. This custom was a promise for a future, for SOMEDAY, but not today. She wasn’t in a mental place to be ready for other new things with Ron yet, and she was sure he felt the same way. In the uncertainty of being on the run, their lusty intentions of the previous summer seemed to have been set aside.
It was nice just to have these private moments, the two of them here, showing each other what they’d been unable to tell or show each other for so many years.
There seemed to be an unspoken agreement to not tell Harry, nor to ever let him catch them at their new favorite pastime. He was already carrying the weight of the world, and Hermione didn’t feel that he needed to carry anything else at the moment.
Ron pulled away slowly, and she admired the flush of his neck as it disappeared into the collar of his shirt, delighted that she could evoke such a reaction.
“Sleep well.”
“You too, Ron.”
He squeezed her hand and released it, slipping into the room next to hers. She leaned against her door, grinning. They were playing house. She knew it. It was a matter of time before they would be forced to leave Grimmauld Place.
But she would be lying if she said that she wasn’t already accustomed to the domesticity of their little bedtime routine.
Part IV: The Silence of Misery Jaded with Longing
the day after Christmas
_____
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
In the dead of winter, she should have been anything but warm and uncomfortably stuffy, but as Hermione laid in the top bunk, staring at the stained, sloping canvas of the tent’s insides, she felt so stifled she could barely breathe.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Ron came back today.
He was back.
She hadn’t seen or heard from him in what felt like months, and then, with no warning at all, he was back.
With a destroyed Horcrux, no less.
Hermione wasn’t sure what to think. Ron had been so…cold, so distant in the last couple of weeks before his departure. At first, she’d been almost sinfully relieved when he’d left, like his departure had been a weight off her shoulders.
Then, the loneliness set in.
Not because she’d been alone; Harry was always there too. She’d spent the time she shared with Harry in the tent in relative silence, her mind spinning as she tried to find the word to describe the situation.
It was desolation.
The tent was barren without Ron, laid to waste. Even at his worst, he was a spark of life. He brought something to the table that without him, she and Harry had never been able to recapture.
Emotions weren’t inherently positive things, but they were . They existed. To feel something, anything, was better than the emptiness that’d been filling her. Yelling at Ron today was the most alive she’d felt in almost two months. It was a negative, angry emotion, but it was exhilarating. At least it confirmed that she wasn’t dead.
Ron brought her to life.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
If she just concentrated, she could hear the faintest of breathing from the bunk below her where Ron laid in absolute stillness. He was much too quiet to be sleeping, which meant they were both keeping a midnight vigil.
It was a far cry from earlier in the year, when in the middle of the night, Ron used to walk her up the stairs and kiss her goodnight.
If she was honest with herself, and Hermione usually was honest with herself, they’d been struggling with their...relationship, as it were, even before Ron left.
With all three of them sharing the tent, Hermione hadn’t been able to seek out any privacy with Ron. Almost overnight, they’d had to go from regularly showing each other affection to acting as though they were nothing more than friends. Since they were trying to keep it a secret from Harry, Hermione couldn’t even request they make time just for each other.
She’d always thought that moving in with someone she was dating would be hard, but never because of a lack of time together. She wanted to scream at the irony.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
“Has that bloody clock always been so loud?”
As soon as he mentioned it, the sound began to crawl under her skin. Hermione descended the short ladder and, grabbing her wand from the small coffee table, silenced the timepiece.
“Thanks,” he grunted, swinging his legs off the bed so he sat perched on the edge of the bottom bunk.
His eyes were haunted. Sure, the rest of him looked more well-fed and groomed than he’d been since they’d left Grimmauld Place, but his eyes…
“I’ll wait.”
She cocked her head to the side, taken aback by the suddenness of these two words. “What?”
“I know you, Hermione.” He put his head in his hands, rubbing them along his fiery locks. “You’re stubborn, you hate it when people try to tell you how to feel, and you’re dead awful at apologies, whether you’re giving them or receiving them.”
“If this is your idea-”
“I’ve waited the last seven years for you, Hermione Granger.” His eyes were ablaze, the most brilliant shade of blue she’d ever seen. “I’m not going to stop now. I’ll never stop, unless you ask me to.” His confidence seemed to crumple at the thought. “Do you…do you not want me to, anymore?”
She was tempted to not answer. Let him have a taste of what it felt like to be abandoned.
When he stood from the low bunk, his full height loomed over her. She’d nearly forgotten how tall he was. Could height alone trigger a sexual response?
Anecdotally, she was fairly certain it could.
“Mione?”
She’d forgotten that he’d asked her a question.
“Kiss me.”
His eyes widened, and he looked nervous. “Wha’? Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
He crossed the short space between them. She threw herself into his arms.
This snog was much different than their previous ones. Hermione lost herself to it, lost herself to a wild desire to binge the exact effect that only Ron could have on her. He set a fire in her stomach, he made her feel angry, happy, loved, frustrated, sexy all at once. She pushed back with everything she had, touching every inch of him, swaying against him in a manner that felt primal.
They were so much older than they used to be. It’d been barely a couple of months in terms of time, but she felt that it’d been years in terms of experience. She didn’t want quiet, timid dating anymore. She wanted passion, partnership, surety. She was desperate to never again feel the uncertainty she’d felt over the past several weeks.
If the way that Ron was reciprocating was any indication, they were moving into new territory. They weren’t just going to wait and see where this took them…they were doing it. Committed.
Together.
She broke the snog, pushing him with quick, but gentle, tension so he stood an arm’s distance away. “I’m still mad at you.”
He grinned as she whirled about, climbing into her bunk again.
“Happy Christmas, Hermione.”
Part V: Significant Momentum in the Journey to Love
Shell Cottage
_____
Hermione awoke slowly, blinking her eyes against the dim lighting of the room. Her head throbbed as she took in her surroundings, groggily trying to sit up in the soft bed. With every scan of the unfamiliar room, her panic mounted, unsure of where she could be.
The last thing she remembered was Bellatrix, with a knife.
She struggled to breathe, thrashing her heavy limbs, so disobedient to her dexterous desires of getting up to attempt an escape.
“Mione?” The sleepy voice calmed her faster than any drought she’d ever taken. She’d know that voice anywhere. She cracked her neck turning to look at him, seeing the tall redhead stifle a yawn as he reached for her hand. “Shh, s’okay.”
He’d been sleeping in the armchair next to her bed, though in her half-delirious scan of the room she’d missed his prone form in the shadows.
Her pulse still racing from her initial panic, she squeezed his hand as hard as she could manage. “Ron.”
“Yeah.” He leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on her bedside as he gripped her hand, which he held next to his lips, kissing it. “It’s me.”
“Where am I?”
“Shell Cottage. It’s Bill and Fleur’s.”
She wanted nothing more than to accept his words as truth, but months of being on the run had taught her to question everything. “How do I know it’s really you?”
Even the words sounded tired and desperate. If he wasn’t the real Ron, there wouldn’t be much she could do about it.
He chuckled as he tucked her hair behind her ear, trailing his fingers along her jaw. “Who else would know that the first time we kissed, you were folding my pants?”
“Seeing as no one else knows we’ve kissed.”
“About that…” He half-shrugged, although he didn’t appear at all apologetic. “If people didn’t know about us before, they probably suspect it now.”
She frowned, trying to remember the recent events. “How’s that?” It’d felt like a fight for their lives, not the time for public displays.
“I, erm, well, I haven’t left your side since we got here.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three days.” He grinned sheepishly. “I yelled at Bill. I fought with Fleur. I even told Harry to sod off.”
“Ron!” she admonished, and to her surprise, he chuckled and caressed her face.
“It was worth it, to hear you telling me off again.”
“Expect plenty more.” She attempted a weak smile but winced at the effort instead.
“Here.” Ron reached to the bedside table and handed her a small, green vial. “Fleur said to drink this when you woke up.”
“What is it?”
“She was able to heal all your injuries, but she had to put you in magically induced sleep to do it.” His face paled. “It was awful, Hermione. Seeing you-” He turned away, blinking his eyes, and Hermione touched his face, making a gentle shushing noise.
“She said we had to wait until you woke up to give you this, but it’s supposed to be the last step in getting you back to full health.”
He helped to prop her up enough to drink the potion, and within seconds Hermione felt the soreness and grogginess fade away. She rolled her head experimentally, checking her neck. She was stiff, but that was manageable compared to the way she’d felt before.
“Better?” he asked.
“Loads.”
“Can you walk?”
“Yeah, I think so. Why?”
His face lit up in that old way she remembered. It’d been months since she’d seen that face.
“I have something I want to show you.”
Ron helped her out of bed as she tested her newfound mobility. He wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and instructed her to slip her bare feet into slippers by the dresser. Pressing his finger to his lips, he led them in the dark through a small, quaint cottage she had no memory of, and out the back door.
She could hear the ocean immediately, the sound of the crashing waves engulfing her as he closed the door behind them. They walked by starlight on a wild path through the long grasses of the dunes, holding hands and giggling with every sway of the green and tan stalks. The breeze was mild, and although the night was by no accounts a warm one, Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so elated.
What was it about being with Ron that made her feel this way? The sand in her slippers, the grass whispering against her dressing gown, the breeze playing havoc with her matted hair…her every sense was dynamic and powerful. Her body may not be at its healthiest, but despite all the odds, all the trauma, she felt that right now, her mental state was.
The path deposited them on a shallow expanse of a white sand beach. They kicked off their shoes and walked to where the waves lapped greedily on the sand, letting the ice-cold water wash over their toes. Hermione gasped at the sensation, then laughed, throwing her head back and staring wide-eyed at the twinkling, unencumbered stars.
“Ron?”
Breathless, happy, she turned to him, expecting to see him looking out over the water, or up at the skies, but finding him instead already staring at her, a lopsided smile playing on his lips.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
He held out his hand, and she accepted it. They walked along the edge of the water. Hermione, glancing over her shoulder, couldn’t help but admire the two sets of footprints, perfectly side by side in the wet sand.
Together. It was such a simple pleasure, and one she wanted more than anything.
“You need a rest.”
Hermione hadn’t noticed her breathing become more labored until Ron pointed it out, but acknowledged that he was quite right in saying so. She pointed at a large, moss-covered stone jutting out from the sand.
“Help me?”
He nodded, and they walked over to the rock. It was several metres taller than even Ron, tapered gradually on the sides. She squealed and giggled as he picked her up without any sign of effort, and set her on a fairly flat surface about waist height.
As their laughs faded away, they were left looking at each other, both beaming. She put her hands on his chest, pulling his shirt to bring him towards her. He stepped between her legs, cupping her face with his large hands.
“You know I love you, right?”
“Yes.”
She did know it. After all these years of friendship, of more than friendship, of learning to understand this man better than she understood herself, how could she not?
“Good.” He grinned.
“I love you too.”
This snog made the one they’d shared back in the tent pale in comparison. She’d known something had shifted back then, shifted so they became maybe less innocent, but also less naive. She’d discovered on Boxing Day that she was all in, that she’d fight, tooth and nail, for them. For this.
But today? Now as Ron kissed her, she felt that they no longer breathed the air of desperation. She didn’t have to fight for him; he was already hers.
They fumbled with his belt buckle, laughing as they struggled to get it undone. When he pulled her dressing gown around her waist, she gasped at the chill of the salty air and the gentle way his long fingers traced patterns on the sensitive skin of her thighs.
In the soft moonlight of their secluded beach, they murmured quiet spells and she nodded as she bit her lip, moving her hips in line with his. He let out a low hiss as he entered her, trailing kisses down her neck. She was lost in the feel of him, the sound of the crashing waves, his burning red hair, the warmth of his lips against her skin.
They stayed like this for some time, growing accustomed to the new sensations. With a sudden growl, Ron kissed her again. Their tongues tangled and he pushed closer to her, sandwiching her between himself and the stone, further fusing their bodies.
This was the final shift of their relationship. She was sure because this was her end destination.
They still had a war to fight. Voldemort was still alive. But for her, it was Ron. She and Ron for the rest of their lives, however short or long they might be.
They moved together, figuring out the rhythm of their first time. It wasn’t hormonal, like their snogs at the Burrow the previous summer, nor was it like Grimmauld Place, where they’d been scared, exploratory, and chaste. It wasn’t urgent, as was their discovery of their intense feelings in the tent a few long months ago.
It was loving, confident, vulnerable, elated. In a word: perfect. She smiled against his lips, remembering what he’d said to her all that time ago in his room at the Burrow. She’d have to tell him that he more than delivered on his promise.
Her smile turned into a moan as he rocked his hips against her.
She’d tell him later.