A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, fave'd and read! I really appreciate it.
Note: hasn't been beta'd.
One day she was just sitting there at work.
She rarely just sits there at work because there is always something to do, always something to do. Busy, busy, busy. Everyone is still rebuilding even though it's nearly five years since the end of the war. It's funny because as quick as they had destroyed everything they could not restore as fast. There were still angry sentiments, still distrust.
But it was better.
Hermione picked up her quill, brought it to the parchment of yet another proposed law reform when her door swung open.
"Claire, I thought I told you to –"
"Can't a man see his fiancée?"
She froze, looking up. Ron was standing there, her Ron: tall, goofy and with that grin on his face.
Then she realised what he said.
Could he be …
"Are you …"
She couldn't verbalise it. She just couldn't. She wasn't sure why.
Ron moved from the door, and came around to her. She was very aware of the witches and wizards who had stopped working to peek in: all wanting to see the infamous best friends of Harry Potter get engaged. It's written in the stars apparently, it's fate, it's destiny – they were meant to be together, a symbol of the new Order – purebloods and muggleborns coming together and all that. They were all looking in but when she looked at him, he had all her eyes on her, just her.
It was just about them.
Her with her brilliance and bushy hair, and him with his bravery and fire red hair. Her Ronald. Her stupid, mad, brilliant, unsure, courageous Ron.
He knelt down on one knee, pulling out a small velvet box.
"Hermione Jean Granger," he said, "Will you do the honour of marrying me?"
The box pops up, inside a gold band with a sparkling diamond: small, practical but beautiful.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley," she said slowly, all too aware of the eyes on them, all too aware of the devotions on his face, all too aware of figure in the shadowed parts of her imagination that she never should've let stay there, "Yes, I will marry you,"
They sealed it with a kiss and the applause of their co-workers.
Dinner that night was yet another big Weasley event. Fluid voices, rapidly breaking over another as laughter spilled, plates and plates and plates of food being passed around and about. It was a sea of red, save for the patches of blonde, brown, turquoise and black.
Harry was balancing Teddy Lupin on his knee, the five-year old talking about flying with animated facial expressions, George having a good laugh. Mr Weasley, Bill, Percy and Percy's new girlfriend, Audrey, were debating trade and commerce. Ginny was in a long serious conversation with her mother – no doubt about when she and Harry were going to tie the knot. Ron was tucking into his dinner, watching Charlie try and deal with his two nieces while Fleur watched hawk-like on.
Despite the chill of the air, she was so warm, so … so many things. It was like her parents were back, like it was Christmas, Easter – here she was with her family.
She was going to marry her best friend: the boy with the smudge on his nose, whom she met all those years ago on the train, the boy she fought with tooth and claw with, the boy who broke her heart, the boy who held her tight and loved her no matter what. She had seen him grow and change, and …
… and could she really do this?
Ron and her had sex that night. In bed, with soft words and kisses everywhere.
It was nice.
It was the usual.
Then they slept side by side, him with an arm loosely wrapped around her while she stared into the night.
The congratulations were ongoing, the wedding talk in full steam – and it had only been a week.
Hermione found herself staying late so she could avoid the crowds. She worked late into the night – telling Ron she really had to get these things done … and he believed her of course. Not that it was a complete lie, she did need to get this work done but that didn't mean staying late to do so.
And one late night, when only the Unspeakables were probably about, Hermione placed down her quill, and leaned back. She closed her eyes, running her ink-stained hands through her hair and wishing she was at home with a warm cup of tea, reading a book and a roaring fire. And there was Ron beside her, trying to distract her, placing light kisses on her neck, her telling him to bugger off, while he grinned against her skin, hand resting on her stomach, dancing feather tickling her, until she rolled her eyes, turned to him, his dark tangled hair mingling with her own, hungry eyes waiting for her to –
Her eyes snapped open.
She sucked in a deep breath, leaning over her desk. She was … what had she been thinking? She rubbed her eyes, standing and leaving her desk in disarray. Forgetting her cloak, she headed out. Someone called her name but she ignored it, making her way to the Apparation points, and with a CRACK she was gone.
She came back into reality, down the street from his house. She walked firmly, each step was certain, her heart beating a little, her breath loosing itself. His house stood where it always did, with the tall trees behind it, the neat garden in front that Anna made her guardian and friend slave over each summer, and the wind chimes that echoed throughout. He was home – light greeted her through the windows and she headed up to his door, rapping her knuckles against it.
"Who is it?" called his voice: all low, slightly grumpy, all him.
"Me – Hermione –"
The door swung open and he stood before her, all dark, all like she remembered him, with his hair slightly damp and half twisted back. He must have just showered – she can smell the soap and water that mingles in the air – and her mind takes her there as he washes his torso, body all – stop it, says a little voice in her head, stop it there.
"'Ello, Miss Granger," he said, "Now what do I owe the pleasure?"
She didn't know what to say. Actually she did. She just didn't want to say it. She couldn't. That would be admitting that what she was doing here was something more than it was meant to be. Something that shouldn't be happening.
She drew a breath. "I need a drink,"
"Naturally," he said, cocking an eyebrow but stepping aside so she could come in. She entered, his familiar scent engulfing her as she wandered down, keeping her hands in front as she slowly twisted the engagement ring off her finger as her mind, her brilliant and logical mind screamed 'what on earth do you think you are doing?'
To be completely honest she wasn't sure she was even thinking.
He passed her by, heading into the kitchen, breaking out a bottle of Fire Whiskey. She stood opposite from him, leaning against the wall by the stove. He looked over at her, and she gave a nod and so he poured two glasses. Wordlessly, silence surrounding them he passed hers. She took a small sip, felt that sweet burn and sighed.
"So what do you want?" he asked, just swilling the alcohol about.
I don't know.
"Oh … Mikael isn't home," she noted, taking another sip, her heart still racing.
He rolled his eyes. "No, he's gone to meet up with curse breakers or something,"
"Why are you here?"
"I just needed a –"
"Quick fuck?" he cut her off, placing his drink down.
She blinked. "What?"
"I'm assuming that is why you are here – late at night, and taking off that ring of yours so you feel just a little less guilty – yes, I know you're married, well to be married. Am I correct, Beautiful? Am I?"
As he spoke, he moved slowly over to her, taking long lazy strides, and titling his head ever so slightly. She made to move back, but couldn't, the cold wall pressing against her spine, the room shrinking around her.
"I'm right? Aren't I?" his voice just a slither and a half way as she he stands over her, looking down with those eyes that first stared widely at her in the moonlight, and then captured her when he ran after her, capturing her and trying to tease her real name from her lips.
"Yes," she said softly.
He pressed against her, left thumb tracing her jaw, right hand taking her glass and putting it on the stove top.
"Do you?" he asked, "Do you? Do you want me to trap you here, young you, so vibrant and fresh and sweet, against the wall. Kiss you lightly, kiss you softly, all on your face, whispering it's okay, before you nipping you here and there, making you mine. Because you want that, yes? The sweet little Miss Granger, all good and golden wants it – yes?"
Her mouth is dry, her face warm.'
"And then you want me to place my hand, this hand," on cue his right hand rests on her lip, fingers tracing light circles into her robes, making shiver sparks shoot up her spine, "here, on your hip, and slowly trace downwards – yes? And then because your already so wet, you are aren't you … haven't even started just that little pussy of yours is swimming for me right – have some little daydreams at work? What about? Not on the Ministry's clock – but you run that place, don't you. Dominate it and yet you have little daydreams about me? Do I push you against a kitchen table? Against a tree and shag you in the dirt? But no you'll tell me later, as I slip my hand in, reach down, thumb slide against those slick folds of yours – and you'll be breathless, like you are now, arching slightly forward as I dip my finger in, nice and slow – yes you want that?"
She is all too conscious of how hot his hand is that rests on her hip, and that said hand is still on her hip.
"One, two – you are so tight, so very tight and Beautiful, so very very wet – you want to buck, but you are trying to reign in that famous control of yours – I'm right, yes? I am …"
He sighed, breathing in, lips pressed against the side of her neck, his hand left her hip, trailing upwards, and he pulled back slightly, looking at her straight in the eye. Lips so close, hands framing her head and Christ, she just wants him do all those things, fufill or those little daydreams of hers. Be her villain and hero. Take her.
He smiled. "Go home, Hermione Granger, go home and fuck Ginger,"
He broke contact and walked away.
She sunk against the wall, face burning. "You fucking bastard,"
"Yes, I am," he said, draining his drink. He turned to her, "Get out,"
"Don't be a fuckin' child,"
"You are," he said.
"Out," he growled, "I'm tired, have work tomorrow and don't have time to play fuck-the-virgin,"
"I'm not a virgin!" she grounded out through her teeth.
He chuckled. "No, you aren't – Ginger take that from you?" he smiled, "I have to ask you – was that before or after I met you? I think it was after? I knew it – smelt it more likely,"
"Vile, disgusting?" he chuckled, "Didya know you were my wet dream out there? That night when I smelt you … I didn't think it would be you … someone taller, bigger breasts … but you do nice enough. We all had our wet dreams … sometimes we got lucky though with a Snatch – those were good nights, nice and warm … I thought that was going to happen with you. That I'd bend you over, and then pass you along -"
"SHUT UP!" She pulled at her wand, pointing it straight at him, at his heart.
"Don't do that," he said, "Put it down,"
"Why should I?"
"Because," he shrugged, "Why did you come here?"
"You know why,"
"I want to hear you say it, with that ring on, Beautiful," he said softly, taking slow steps towards her, until he reached out, pulling her arm down, "I want to hear you admit it like a grown-up,"
"I … " she froze, looking desperately for an escape but only ever seeing him. He smiled, gently, so gently, and reached into her pocket, fishing out Ron's ring, sliding it on her hand.
"I'm getting married," said Hermione, slowly, "I'm getting married to this amazing man called Ron Weasley, who loves me so very much and I love him equally but … I can't get you out of my head, out of my system …"
"And you think fucking is going to help 'get it out'?" he asked.
"Maybe …" she said, "I don't know but I –"
He started kissing her.
A/N: Reviews are like Scabior standing on your doorstep, demanding to come in. ... but yes, any feedback would be nice because I normally don't write stuff like this ...
Thanks for reading!