s h e . w i l l . b e . l o v e d

She Will Be Loved
[by victoria p.]

Rating: Adult

Summary: "So you would have--" "Still would, if you--"

Notes: Thanks to Mousapelli for the beta.

Date: April 14, 2005

Hermione sat alone on the bench in the side garden at the Burrow. She picked disconsolately at the wilting flowers in her bouquet and chided herself for acting like a cliché. She didn't want to be a wet blanket on Ginny's wedding day, since Ginny was one of her best friends. They had lived together since Ginny had left Hogwarts, and while Hermione was looking forward to some solitude, she was also feeling a little at loose ends.

She wiggled her toes -- nails painted pink last night by the bride's own hand -- in the grass, unable to decide if she'd had too much or not enough to drink. She'd just settled on 'not enough' when she heard footsteps, and turned to see a hand holding out a glass.

"Martini, dry, extra olives," Ron said, sitting next to her. She took the drink as he draped an arm across the back of the bench, stretching long, black-clad legs out in front of him. Ginny had insisted on Muggle clothing for her wedding, claiming men in tuxedos were quite the sexiest thing she'd ever seen. Hermione had to admit the men did look splendid.

She took an appreciative sip of her martini and said, "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, music from the wedding marquee out back floating on the warm summer air.

"Can't believe Ginny's married," Ron said after a while. "Thought she'd never settle on one bloke."

"And Terry Boot, of all people. Never saw that coming," Hermione replied with a small laugh.

"Yeah, she had to give up on Harry once he and Neville came out." He paused then, twirled a finger in a lock of her hair, which had escaped the very thorough straightening and pinning Mrs. Weasley had subjected it to that morning. "I'm sorry, you know, that you and Neville--"

She laughed again, this time full and free. "Neville and I were never-- Oh, Ron. It was always Neville and Harry, from seventh year on. They were just afraid you," she slipped and tried to cover, "other people would have a problem with it."

"You were the beard." Ron said it matter-of-factly.

"I was."

He grimaced, his face always a map of his feelings. "They really didn't think I'd be okay with it?"

She turned and looked at him. "I, we underestimated you, Ron." She smiled ruefully. "We always do."

"Too right," he answered, brushing his thumb over the arc of her cheek. She shivered at the warm touch and wondered, not for the first time, how his hands would feel on her body. And she told herself, probably not for the last time, that the time to find out had come and gone long ago.

"Where's Lana?" she asked, reminding herself that he'd brought a very pretty witch to his sister's wedding

"Who? Oh, Laura. She's off chasing Fred."

"Huh." She took another sip of her martini so she wouldn't say anything rude.

"Yeah." He laughed. "She's been waiting for the opportunity to corner him for ages, apparently. I owed her, and well, the sight of Fred looking hunted is kind of funny."

"So you're not--" She stopped and looked away.

"Nope. What about you?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Some of us aren't meant for happily ever afters, I think. At least, not like this." She gestured to the taffeta gown she wore, and the fairy lights strung up around the garden.

He snorted. "Hermione, you're twenty-four, not one hundred and four." He took the martini from her and sipped thoughtfully. "Though I could have saved you the trouble with Lupin, if you'd asked."

It was her turn to laugh. "It isn't so much that he prefers men," she answered, thinking of the brief, unhappy affair she'd had with their former professor right after she'd left school, "as that no one can compete with the ghosts."

"Well, we know how that goes, right?" He handed the drink back and she drained the glass. "Yeah." She ate an olive. "Yeah." She leaned into him then, her head on his shoulder, and had to tell herself it wasn't where she belonged, really, because that was stuff and nonsense, more fitting for little girl dreams and bad romance novels than mature women in their twenties.

"That's why we never--" he began, and stopped, his hand in her hair. "We never did."

"No. We didn't. Though everyone thought--"

"It wouldn't have felt right. Not when Harry needed us."

She sat up quickly so she could face him. "Is that the only reason?"

"Well, that and I thought you and Neville were having a bit of the old rumpy-pumpy. And then there was Viktor, and Remus, and that Muggle bloke."

She refrained from mentioning Luna, Padma, and various other girls Ron had taken up with over the years, focusing on the important thing. "So you would have--"

"Still would, if you--"

She leaned forward, cutting him off by pressing her lips to his. She tasted gin and vermouth and a hint of something else as he opened his mouth to hers, warm and soft, his hands stroking her hair like butterflies' wings.

He pulled back slightly, eyes heavy-lidded and lips red. "Hermione? Are you sure?"

Instead of answering in words, she kissed him again, using lips and tongue and teeth to show him how sure she was. His fingers, long and callused and warm, brushed her cheek gently, while his other arm circled her waist to pull her into his lap.

As they shifted, the rustle of taffeta sounded loud in her ears, echoing the rush of blood, and she dropped the martini glass so she could thread her fingers through his hair, thick and soft and silky enough to almost make her envious. When they broke apart this time, they were both breathing heavily, and Ron wore a wide, wicked grin. Heat flared under her skin at the idea that she was causing this kind of reaction in him, and she rained kisses on his face, flicking out her tongue to taste each freckle before brushing her lips over his forehead, eyelids, the tip of his nose. She kissed the corners of his mouth where it turned up in that grin, and he laughed.

"Tease," he murmured against her lips, and then his tongue was in her mouth, sliding over hers in a way that made her clutch at his broad shoulders and moan low in her throat. He slipped a hand into the bodice of her dress, and she arched into the touch, hungry for it. "Upstairs," he said when he broke the kiss. "Don't want anyone wandering by and interrupting. On three." He counted and they Apparated together, the way they'd used to do it during the war, landing in a heap on his bed.

The cooling charms had begun to wear off, so he opened the window with a flick of his wand before pushing her back against the pillows. He stripped off his jacket and tossed it onto the chair in the corner. His trousers followed in short order, leaving him in his white tuxedo shirt and a pair of pale blue boxers.

"Ron." She reached up to pull him into another kiss, her fingers unbuttoning his shirt and shoving it off his broad, freckled shoulders as his mouth trailed fire along the sensitive skin of her throat and jaw. He shucked the shirt eagerly, and slid a hand up underneath her skirt. When his fingers slipped beneath the elastic of her knickers, she shivered. "Ron, please."

"God, Hermione," he whispered as she pushed up against his hand. "Let's get you out of this dress."

It was more awkward than she anticipated, his fingers fumbling over the many tiny hook-and-eye clasps down the back of the gown, but she managed to shimmy out of it after a few moments, dropping it to the floor beside the bed.

He sat back and stared at her, and she shivered again at the intensity in his eyes, fighting the urge to cross her arms over her breasts. "Ron?"

"I've been waiting a long time for this," he said, his voice a low and rough. "I don't want to miss any of it."

"Come on," she said, reaching out a hand. He took it and settled between her legs, touching her gently, reverently.

"I used to imagine this," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear, "all the time. I'd see you with Neville or Viktor, and I'd wish it was me." He cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples, already peaked and aching, send jolts of pleasure through her. He lowered his head to suck first at one, then the other, his hands stroking her sides hypnotically, up and down, up and down.

She drew in a shuddering breath and arched into the heat of his mouth, unable to speak, heat and pleasure rushing through her everywhere their bodies met.

The walls and ceiling were covered with Chudley Cannons posters, and the players stopped to ogle and wink as Ron hooked his fingers in the waistband of her lacy knickers and pushed them down her legs. She blushed and giggled, and Ron looked up.

"Oi, you lot, stop it," he commanded. "Don't make me hex you." He looked down at her and pushed the hair that had come loose from its pins off her forehead, his mouth quirking in a half-grin. "Unless you like being watched?"

She laughed again and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close for a kiss. "Only by you." She didn't recall ever laughing so much during sex before, and thought it was possibly the best thing ever.

While they were kissing, she slid a hand between them and managed to push his boxers down over his hips. He gasped when she curled her fingers around his cock, which was hard and hot and right in her hand, and let out a low moan when she stroked him, thumbing the slit.

"The charm?"

She reached down and fumbled in the gown for her wand and whispered the contraception charm. "Done."

He pushed in slowly, and she sighed, loving the feel of him inside her.

"Okay?" he asked, tracing her forehead, nose, cheeks with gentle fingers.

"Oh, yes," she answered, thrusting up and tightening around him. "Come on, Ron. Fuck me. I'm not going to break." He flushed. "Was that too much?" she asked. "I--"

"No, no, it was fucking brilliant," he murmured against her lips. "You're so hot, Hermione. So fucking hot."

They moved faster, falling into a rhythm that ebbed and flowed like their banter, both familiar and exciting at once. Hermione gave herself over to the feel of his body inside and above hers, his lips feathering over her skin, his chest warm against hers, his fingers slipping down to circle roughly at her clit. The bed was rocking, the springs groaning in protest, but she didn't care. It felt too good to stop. Her body tensed and bowed, the pressure building to almost unbearable heights as he shifted his hips slightly, driving deeper, still fingering her clit.

"Ron," she gasped. She felt like she couldn't get enough air. "Ron, please--" The pressure broke and pleasure pulsed through her; she trembled as wave after wave washed over her. He kissed her then, hips jerking as he came inside her.

When he was done, he lowered himself gently and rolled onto his side, cradling her against his chest. A breeze fluttered at the curtains, cool against overheated, sweaty skin, and she snuggled close.

"I always thought you'd be the first," he murmured, dropping kisses on her hair. "I used to imagine it happening here, in this room."

She nuzzled at his neck, loving the salt-warm smell and taste of his skin. "I wondered sometimes," she admitted, "but there was always something that needed doing, or someone else in the way."

"Not anymore," he said fervently.

She smiled, giving him a kiss. "No, not anymore."

She was almost asleep when there came a pounding on the door. "Oi, Ron, the bride's looking for her maid of honor."

She scrambled for her gown as the door was flung open. "Not a maid, I'm guessing," Fred said with an exaggerated leer.

"Though it looks like Ron got quite the honor," George replied, grinning.

Ron was red as a lobster. "Get out," he said, though he sounded happy rather than annoyed. "Let the lady dress."

"Took them long enough," Fred said on his way out.

George shrugged, following him. "Better late than never."

Ron pushed the door closed behind them and then pulled Hermione into his arms. She squeaked in surprise, but melted into the kiss.

"Mmm, for once, I think the twins have got it right," Ron murmured, and Hermione had to agree.

end

~*~

Back to Harry Potter Stories Index

Back to Main Stories Index

~*~

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters belong to JK Rowling, Scholastic, etc. This piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.