Archive of Our Own

Too many legs under the table.
Too many reasons for trouble.

They were all crowded round the kitchen table. It was far too small for the group that had gathered. Hell, it was too small for the five guys who lived here. Knees were knocking and shoulders were rubbing. There was at least two dozen bottles and cans only one errant limb away from spilling all over the ratty lino. Right in the centre was a huge tankard – the King Cup – holding court and also holding a cursed mixture that was only becoming more and more nauseating. Part of that was her fault.

“Mione!” Ron shouted over the revelry, “who the fuck brings Bailey’s to a drinking game?”

“I like it!” she protested trying and failing to get her hair back into a pony tail. No matter what she did, half of it was falling back into her face.

“Who ever drinks that is fucked,” Harry said with a grimace at the cup.

He had a point: it was curdling or congealing or something.

“Okay, so not my best idea,” Hermione conceded.

Ron leaned in, right past Dean who’d twisted round to get another cider from Seamus. The cap came off with a satisfying pop and clattered to the ground.

“Coming round for my birthday was a great idea,” Ron said quietly.

Hermione stuck her leg out, wishing Dean would take a hint and sod off. Her tights stuck to Ron’s jeans. “Where’s Lavender?”

Playing footsie with someone taken? Maybe a bad idea, but a few drinks in who gave a damn?

Ron smiled. “Said she had a better offer.”

Now why did he look so happy about that? Wait, ‘better offer’? Was he single now? She cocked her head - forming sentences was a little tricky at the moment.

“The flat, innit?” he said, looking up at the ceiling which had the lumps, weird stains and popcorn texture of quintessential student digs. “Wanted to go to the club.” He shrugged. “But I’m skint.”

Have I got a girlfriend and
Does she get real mean?
Yes she does, yes she does.

She rubbed her foot up and down his leg, hoping it was soothing. Lavender should know better – Ron didn’t get an allowance from his parents like a lot of other students. He only had his grant and spent more time than he would admit rummaging through the reduced section in Tesco. He also worked part-time as a bar tender and it was one of the reasons he had four flatmates (the other being that those boys were attached at the hip and hadn’t wanted to split up). Besides if Ron wanted a party at his flat Lavender should have just accepted it.

She was about to voice these concerns when Dean piped up, “guys, if you wanna play footsie under the table maybe leave me out of it?”

Ron and Hermione jolted back. Her face was burning; his ears were going red. His elbow shifted, starting a domino of bottles and cans falling. Over the clattering and hollow clangs were yelps as everyone shifted back, their chairs screeching. Fred had already been leaning back dangerously in his seat and he tumbled to the floor. Everyone froze and then burst out laughing.

Dean announced it was ‘way too messy in here’ and people started filtering into the living room. Music and chatter drifted back into the kitchen. Eight people were left, watching booze spread and drip everywhere. Harry, Ron, Seamus and Neville actually lived here and were, unfortunately, going to have to deal with the fallout (Dean did too, but he’d clearly decided to abdicate responsibility). They were currently all frowning, presumably trying to figure out if it was worth doing it now or if they could leave it until tomorrow.

Fred was lying tangled in his chair like he had absolutely no intention of getting up. George was snickering at him, while Ginny sighed and climbed off Harry’s lap to get the kitchen roll. Hermione was still far too embarrassed about, apparently, feeling up Dean to do anything except stare out the kitchen window and pretend the musty orange sky was fascinating as she continued sipping her drink.

Harry waved his free hand at the King Cup. “Christ, that bloody concoction survived,” he said, holding his own rum and coke aloft like it was in danger of being taken out next. 

Indeed, it was only the survivor on top of the nicked and dented wood. It was worse than oil and water – it was like orange juice in milk. Hermione felt decidedly queasy looking at it.

She folded her arms. “You lot shouldn’t have let me put it in.”

Seamus clapped her shoulder. “Think we were all morbidly curious.”

George stopped pulling his twin brother up, letting go of his arm (Fred fell back and cursed). “Reckon Granger has to drink it.”

“Ronnie knocked everything over…” Fred said as he clambered to his feet and smacked George on the back of the head.

George flinched and grinned. “So he should forfeit?”

“No way,” Ron said, waving his hand, “it’s my birthday.”

Fred grabbed the glass and swilled it round. He gagged theatrically, then waved it under Ron’s nose. “Happy birthday, Ronniekins.”

George shook his head. “Nah, still reckon it’s Granger.”

Suddenly two straws and a cocktail umbrella appeared in it. “They can share,” Ginny said, wiping her hands together like it was a job well done.

Harry cackled. “Perfect.”

“Until they throw up everywhere,” Neville said dryly.

Fred looked at him askance. “Nev, you never let vom…”

“...get in the way of a good time,” George finished.

Ron quirked an eyebrow at her that said: ‘I’m game if you are’.

Hermione didn’t think she was sloshed enough for this level of grossness but he had an amused smile playing on his lips. Like he knew she was going to refuse. She hated backing down when he made that face. She snatched the glass from Fred and some of the ‘drink’ slopped out and made a horrifying splat as it hit the floor. She shifted her own chair until they were so close that she and Ron were practically sharing seats.

He hunched slightly and wrapped his hands round the glass and over her own fingers. She suppressed a shiver and ignored the spark. She tried not to think about Viktor, who she hadn’t even thought to bring along, or Lavender, who was probably out having the time of her life in the town’s only club. Actually, that thought spurred Hermione on – Lavender was missing her own boyfriend’s birthday party and there was no way in hell she’d drink this shit. Hermione and Ron weren’t doing anything weird (okay, it was a bit weird) but nothing that constituted cheating. Cheating wasn’t even on her radar. She wasn’t thinking about that at all as she looked into his twinkling eyes. Of course they wouldn’t need to cheat if…

“Changed your mind?” Ron said, breaking through her thoughts.

If the feeling's right you can see it...
It's the same, don't hurt.
If you can't stop yourself when you feel it...

Hermione didn’t know if the room was silent or if she was blocking out everything but his low voice. She could feel eyes on her but the only ones she cared about were his bright blue ones. Eyes she’d caught on the first day over a year ago when she’d be looking for a place to sit in the dinning room. Back when Harry and Ron were room-mates and she’d been sharing with Parvati. Back when friends were made and dropped over breakfasts in the canteen and sweaty nights in the Union. Back when she’d realised this guy was trouble. She always thought she’d be too sensible for trouble, but one impulsive break-in to the local castle that night (really, who thought a three foot high fence would stop rowdy students?) and she’d decided she quite liked it.

She stuck her tongue out and pulled the straw into her mouth.

***

Ron was staring into the chocolate brown eyes of the only person who’d ever fascinated him. She was so fascinating it scared the shit out of him. When they’d first met (him and Harry nursing hangovers and shovelling bacon in their mouths) he’d been tickled by how seriously she was taking things. She’d had a bloody itinerary for Freshers Week. He’d been baffled – his brothers had informed him that Freshers was for getting drunk and making mistakes that’d haunt you for the rest of your degree. He’d laughed at her printed agenda. Her face had fallen and he’d immediately felt bad. He’d patted her arm and said ‘different strokes, for different folks’. She’d smiled then and he’d felt a million feet tall.

It had helped that Harry had no intention of making any ‘mistakes’; he was dating Ron’s sister who was a year younger. Harry wasn’t a cheat and there were already three of her brothers at the same uni who would string him up if they got even a whiff of it. So, frankly, any student debauchery had been firmly consigned to Ron’s imagination. Deciding to be ‘sensible’, Ron was game when Hermione had suggested the three of them walked the town. She’d been adorable as she gushed fun facts while pointing out the historic buildings. He had managed to get her away from the ruined abbey long enough to start investigating the various cafe’s and restaurants (food was always a priority for him). As they’d sat drinking coffee – at an out-of-the-way place which was packed with older students, and thus, he suspected, a good pick (Hermione had been impressed with this deduction) – he’d asked if she wanted to invite her own room-mate. She’d shaken her head.

Days later he’d found out Parvati had informed her that ‘we aren’t going to be friends’ about an hour after she’d moved in. That had confused Ron. Sure, him and Harry knew each other from home but he couldn’t imagine dismissing someone that fast. Especially not someone as interesting as Hermione. At that moment, he’d vowed that Hermione would never find herself friendless. He hadn’t announced this; it was a bit presumptuous. He had wondered how long it would take her to fall in with ‘her crowd’ – people who valued academics over everything. In short, people who were smarter than him. She did find that crowd (and more recently ended up dating a Philosophy student called Viktor) but she never stopped hanging out with Ron and Harry. Eating breakfast and dinner together every day for two semesters bonded people together. So did doing daft shit like running into the North Sea at dawn on May Day; or smoking a spliff and mucking about in a rusty playground after lunch; or drinking from truly the worst King Cup he’d ever seen, smelt and – he was about to find out – tasted.

He was too hypnotised by her tongue to stop and think. He grabbed the straw, felt a tingle as their noses brushed, and then sucked.

“Jesus,” he spluttered, “that’s disgusting.”

Hermione made a choking noise and he rubbed her back. Her eyes were watering.

“Wrong pipe?” he asked, “or was it just that bad?”

“That’s foul,” she said as she started laughing, “honestly, I should be punished.”

He blinked. She blushed.

There was thunk from under the table and Harry let out a loud ‘shit’. Ron and Hermione looked down to see Harry frowning up at them.

“Don’t mind me, just getting the mess,” he said, holding a grubby handful of kitchen roll.

Ron finally started paying attention to the rest of the room. Neville was placing the recycling to be washed. Seamus was ferrying drinks to the living room. Ginny was diligently mopping up the table. The twins were leaning against the wall and sipping beers. Fred whispered something to George and he sniggered in response. Then he winked at Ron, full-on winked. Ron’s entire body was burning. Him and Hermione had only shared a drink. Bloody hell, they used separate straws! It wasn’t even some tweenager’s fantasy of eating from the same spoon or whatever. He glanced at Hermione, she looked bashful (which was good, he was expecting mortified).

He looked back at George who mouthed ‘you’ve got this’. He was suspicious because his brothers were being supportive and, frankly, they enjoyed seeing him fall flat on his face. To be fair, none of his friends liked Lavender. He wasn’t sure he liked Lavender – when she wasn’t being pushy, she was being clingy. She was a one night stand who somehow spiralled into something else. He was getting pretty irate with her lately; she’d started in on him having any female friends. Not just Hermione (who, in all fairness, drew his attention) but any classmate, any coworker, any of his mates’ girlfriends, anyone he spoke to. If they happened to be a girl? He was in deep shit. The idiotic part was he liked guys too, he never brought that up (he was tempted to use it as a ‘gotcha’) terrified Lavender would expect him to be completely friendless. She knew anyway, but, for whatever reason, only girls made her crazy. Hermione was barely tolerated because he’d met Hermione first (also, deep down, he knew that Lavender was fully aware she wouldn’t win that contest). Ginny got a pass by being related to him. The whole thing was tedious and absurd. He shouldn’t have let it get this bad. Even so, he wasn’t a cheat.

And, seriously, why would Hermione want him anyway? She wanted someone who could keep up with her. He wasn’t even close to her level. He couldn’t be less appealing to her. Although, technically, they were still touching even now (fingers and sides, her face only inches away) when there was absolutely no reason. He felt an ember of confidence. Maybe he could lay the groundwork, see how she reacted. While he could hide behind Lavender, if Hermione wasn’t interested (spineless as that was). He could brush up against the line of friendship and something more, if he had plausible deniability.

Digging deep into courage he had no clue he possessed, he plucked out the cocktail umbrella and sucked the stick clean (between spit and the drink he assumed his spit was the lesser of two evils). He popped it behind her ear.

Her eyes went wide (hopefully, pleasantly surprised and not horrified).

New, flirty Ron grinned at her. “Go dance, I’ll clean this up.”

She looked unsure. Like she didn’t want to move.

Jesus fucking Christ, she wants to stay here. In a sticky kitchen. With me. Hoping he hadn’t completely lost the plot, he whispered in her ear, “I’ll find you in a minute.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath. Another signal that could go either way. Then she stood up and ruffled his hair. His mind went completely blank and his eyes fluttered closed for a moment. He held in a sigh. Then he was gazing up at her and didn’t she look bloody gorgeous in a floaty purple top that showed just enough to make you gulp? She bent down to his ear, her silver necklace dangled and he felt the cool metal hit his collarbone.

“Counting on it, birthday boy,” she said in a husky voice.

She’d never used that voice on him before. He didn’t give a shit about witnesses as he stared after her. Until a damp tea towel hit him the face.

“Get your jaw off the floor and help,” said Ginny, hands on her hips (just like their mum) but there was no real heat to her words.

Seamus wrapped his arm round Ron’s shoulders and gave him a friendly squeeze. “Could’ve cut that sexual tension with a fuckin’ knife.”

Ron swallowed. No way, no fucking way. He needed a second to figure out a game plan. “I’ll sort the rest, you go enjoy yourselves.”

He got a few claps on the back as the others left, probably because it was not anyone’s idea of a good time to spend a Saturday night cleaning. He leaned against the sink and started methodically rinsing cans and bottles. Not necessary right now but the repetition soothed him. There was still a presence in the room but he knew it was only Harry. It didn’t matter if Harry saw him trying to pull himself together.

“That thing with the cocktail umbrella?” Harry said, “smooth.”

“Really?” Ron replied with a laugh.

“Means she’s not completely repulsed by your saliva.”

Ron screwed up his face and turned to see Harry with a blank face that matched his previous deadpan delivery. “Seriously? You need to make kissing sound disgusting?”

Harry cracked a smile. “That what you’re planning?”

He almost said ‘yes’. Then he remembered exactly why that couldn’t happen. “Dunno. Not tonight.”

“Because of Lav? Fuck her. She cheated on you.”

That was true. She always blamed the drink. Problem was, even though Ron dumped her, it only took a few drinks for him to fall back into bed with her. It hadn’t helped that he’d seen Hermione and Viktor on a date the same evening he’d started slamming back fireballs. He was pathetic. Hermione deserved better than that. Someone who had the money to wine and dine her. Someone who could understand when she talked about international politics. He wasn’t that good with words, that was why he was studying Statistics. He wasn’t even the kind of guy who thought maths was beautiful; he saw it as a tool. Interesting and useful. He was too pragmatic for someone like Hermione. He got his kicks doing anything but studying and frankly his life goals saw a career as secondary. He picked something he was good at and would hopefully have decent pay. His academics weren’t his passion. But for Hermione? They were her life. She had a good time because he cajoled her so she wouldn’t keel over and die from stress. They weren’t the same and it would never work.

He flinched. Harry had flicked his ear.

“Oi,” Harry said, “stop counting yourself out before you’ve even made a move.”

Ron glared at him. “She has a boyfriend, dickhead.”

Harry made a show of looking round. “Not here, is he?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Can you imagine if I said that about Gin last year?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“We had an established relationship,” Harry said slowly, like he was talking to a particularly dense toddler, “you and Lavender have some on-again off-again bullshit. Hermione and Viktor have been together like three months. That’s not the same thing.”

“So it’d be fine if you and Ginny hadn’t been together that long?”

“Mate, the main difference is we’re all wondering why you and Hermione didn’t get together in first year.”

Ron dropped the beer bottle he was holding into the steel sink with an echoing clang. “You knew I...?”

“That you two have the hots for each other?” Harry scoffed. “That’s not news.”

He shook his head. He tried to regain control of the situation by wetting a cloth (a cloth that was probably dirtier than the table) and wiping it over the flaky white paint. “What? She said something?”

“I have eyes.”

“You wear glasses.” Ron was being a twat but he was reeling.

Harry sighed, clearly not interested in his crap. “Whatever. You wanna make yourself miserable? Be my guest.” He walked out and left Ron in the flickering lights.

Before Ron could go after him and get some more specific answers the kitchen doorway was blocked by the twins.

“Top tip, baby bro...” George said, spinning Ron back around.

“… dirty kitchen rags are not a turn on,” Fred said, flinging an arm over Ron’s shoulders.

Ron’s defences were non-existent right now. “What is?” he asked weakly.

There was an awkward pause. For once it seemed the twins did not have an answer. Ron nearly laughed, that was the question that would shut them up?

“Honestly? You usually do alright,” Fred said.

“Had people ask me to introduce them. To you.” George said.

Ron struggled out of their grip, they hadn’t lost their sense of humour after all. “Ha ha.”

“We’re not lying…” Fred said, hands raised in placation.

“...You just never notice.” George said, mirroring the gesture.

Ron’s head was spinning. That was impossible. Like he was enough of a catch next to his bloody hilarious and popular brothers that people approached them to get to him. That was insanity.

“Then how the hell did I end up with Lav?” The buzz of the booze and Ron’s own confusion were preventing his filter from functioning.

“You’re a bit of a wreck when you actually like someone.” Fred pulled the dish-rag from Ron’s hands and threw it in the sink.

“So... go and pretend you only have a passing interest,” George said, smoothing the front of Ron’s t-shirt and patting his chest.

Ron was still dazed as he was shoved out into the hallway. His stomach was twisting, he needed something to take the edge off. He refused to look for Hermione as he pushed into the noise and sweaty bodies. George wasn’t wrong – Hermione always felt out of reach so he never had much of a problem holding her or dancing. One time he’d carried her up the hill from the beach and he hadn’t thought twice. She’d laughed the whole way. That was the guy she liked, if she liked him at all. A guy who was so causal it bordered on scandalous.

He reached Seamus who was mixing drinks and bopping to the beat. “Rum and coke,” Ron said breathlessly. “More rum than coke.”

Seamus smiled. “Alright, birthday boy!”

Ron took a look at the drink (it was a triple shot but, luckily, Seamus hadn’t taken him literally). Liquid courage or alcoholic stupidity? He didn’t think about it. He just chugged it.

***

If you can't feel your hands on the ceiling,
From the clapping on the floor.
You can't stop yourself when you feel it,
Oh!

Hermione was lurking at the edge of the dance floor. And by dance floor she meant the lower portion of the flat’s huge two-level living room. A sofa on one side, massive speakers on the other. The sofa contained two canoodling couples. The higher level was reserved for the introverts who were laughing over a boardgame. The speakers were thrumming with an eclectic mix of music. Ron had once told her his only rule was you had to be able to dance to it; if it didn’t make your shoulders shimmy, he wasn’t interested. Dean must have crafted the playlist (to Ron’s taste); it was his usual birthday favour as the audiophile of the group. Right now, Dean was frowning at Spotify on his laptop like it had personally offended him.

Hermione was smiling at no one in particular and fiddling with a Kopparberg. Her foot was tapping and, yep, her shoulders were swinging. She tried not to glance at the door. Ron would be here in a second and she was just hoping that whatever was happening would keep happening. She felt a little guilty. This was definitely crossing a line. An ‘emotional affair’ her mother would call it. But, if that was true, she’d been in one since before she’d even met Viktor.

Hermione had never really got a read on Ron. He was someone where things felt so delicate that keeping her in his orbit was her only priority. She remembered when he’d looked downcast after her first seminar as she’d gushed about her classmates. They’d actually rowed. She couldn’t recall the specifics. Just his face as he’d accused her of being a snob and she’d accused him of being thick (she wasn’t proud of that). Two weeks of frosty silence followed until he’d knocked on her room door. She’d been fretting over an essay and skipped dinner. He’d brought her fish and chips. As they’d sat on her bed, and she’d swatted his hand when he’d tried to steal a chip, she’d decided that arguing with him was a terrible idea.

That never stopped them. She didn’t think he took his work seriously. She was outraged every time he was scrawling answers with his mouth full of toast the morning of his tutorial. He thought she took her work far too seriously and was judgey (he was right about the latter but, then again, she was right that he wasn’t reaching his full potential). Even so they’d never hit complete icing out ever again. She was bored without him and, Harry once confided in her, he would bounce off the walls in an alarming manner when she wasn’t around.

I can't control myself,
When I see you there's no one else.

As she was musing on their friendship, he walked in. He wasn’t hard to spot, he was 6’3’’ and had bright red hair that drew the eye. Until she’d met his brothers, she thought it was dyed. That’s how blinding the colour was. She liked it – you couldn’t lose him and it was beautiful. Her cheeks felt hot and she lowered her gaze to the carpet. She imagined burying her fingers in it again – it was so soft and thick. She cleared her throat (not that anyone was paying any attention to her) and snapped her eyes to the back of his head. He stomped straight to Seamus and downed a drink. He spun round and raised his arms to a chorus of cheers. The man of the hour was here and he was going to have fun. Hermione enjoyed watching him, he lit up the room.

Right now, he was taking Dean’s hand who was laughing as he got tangled in wires. They made a handsome pair but aside from a couple of drunk snogs in first year there was nothing going on there. There was a sultry beat on and Hermione was mesmerised as the boys moved together. Their hips weren’t touching, they were side-by-side both swinging in smooth circles. Dean’s arm was round Ron’s waist, Ron’s freckled hand was on the back of Dean’s neck. They weren’t looking at each other, they were both looking down and smiling. Fuck, had Ron always moved like that? He caught her eye. It lit a fire in her. He wasn’t trying to make her jealous, she was sure of that, even if there was a slight challenge there. He winked. She felt like she could read his mind: ‘like what you see?’

He let go of Dean as the song changed to something faster. She rushed to put down her bottle, shoving it on a side table and sending a stack of half-opened letters toppling. But Ron hadn’t come closer. He was twisting his way through the crowd. Right, two could play that game. Hermione sidled up to Ginny and threw her arms round her neck. They both started jumping as the music got more intense. Ginny’s plait was coming loose and she was beaming.

“Wrong ginger,” Ginny said loudly and playfully pushed Hermione away.

Hermione laughed and set her sights on Harry who had a fist in the air, his glasses bouncing on his nose as he started head-banging.

Then a strong hand was on her waist. She already knew it was Ron, before she looked down. Freckles, so many freckles. Was it normal to want to lick freckles? His hand slid to her hip and he pulled her flush against him. He was going to leave her a puddle on the floor if he kept this up. The song was wild, borderline grating, but he was helping her find the swing in it. The rhythm he was always searching for. She reached a hand up and found his jaw, a feeling, light as feather, on her wrist (did he just kiss me?) and then she was sinking her hand into his hair.

Fucking hell, you have glorious hair, she thought.

“I do?” There was the hint of a laugh in his voice.

Hermione froze. Speaking thoughts aloud was truly her least favourite part of getting smashed.

Ron seemed to take pity on her. “No worries, just came over for my present.”

She had no clue what that meant but she let him get her moving again. She’d say, and do, any stupid shit to keep this going. Then she heard a twang and her hair was falling over her shoulders.

His voice was hot in her ear. “I like your hair down.” He slipped away, smiling as he pulled her hair tie over his wrist.

Her heart was thumping. He’d said that before but she’d always assumed he was being kind. She got pissed at her hair often enough that any good friend would step in. Well, actually, Ginny had only known her three months when she got fed up and declared if Hermione hated it that much she should cut it off. Ron had gotten annoyed and said that was the craziest thing he’d ever heard. He sounded so incensed that everyone had stared at him until he mumbled that ‘Hermione could obviously do what she wanted but if she wanted to have long hair and bitch about it, they should let her’. Hermione had been completely baffled when, at the time, he proceeded to flee the library and Harry had broken out into hysterical laughter.

But right now? In a room humid with bodies, with the memory of him pressed against her, with bass vibrating through her chest, she could only think he’d made it sound sexy. And the only other thing she could think as she watched him start doing some silly co-ordinated dance with Seamus was that he was damn sexy too.

“You alright, Hermione?” Neville said.

She nodded dumbly, still watching Ron’s smile as he stared at his feet and sliced his hands through the air.

“Don’t worry about him and Dean. They’re just like that,” Neville continued.

“Oh, I know,” she said quietly. If she wasn’t completely mistaken that had been partly for Hermione’s benefit.

Seamus had once rolled his eyes and explained that Dean and Ron knew they looked hot together and they hammed it up for all it was worth. A way to draw attention and get everyone in the room to think ‘me next’. It was an excellent plan. Incredibly effective. Dean was currently reaping the benefits with Carli? Charlie? Hermione couldn’t remember. This was one of those parties were you recognised everyone but, for at least half of them, you had no idea where from.

“Wanna dance?” she said.

Neville chuckled. “Think that’s the point.”

The music was light and happy. They were moving back and forth shaking their shoulders and laughing. He grabbed her hand and spun her away and back and again. They kept a demure distance. Neville kept turning his head to grin at Hannah, his girlfriend, as she was being twisted back and forth between the twins. Hermione always loved it here. No one got into fights because you were having fun with the wrong person. There was an unspoken agreement that the floor belonged to everyone and until lips locked there was nothing untoward. It wasn’t the kind of freedom you could get surrounded by strangers.

George swung Hannah round into Neville’s path and she landed graceful and giggling in his arms. Fred reached for Hermione and pulled her closer as George went off to get a refill of his vodka lemonade.

“So,” Fred said, “you and Ron?”

“What about it?” she said defiantly.

He threw his head back and laughed. “You think I’m the morality police? I’m just asking if he’s on the right track.”

Hermione regarded him. Her arm was loosely slung over his shoulder his hand was high on her hip. He was being unusually thoughtful.

She decided to voice her final insecurity. “I’m not crazy, am I?”

He pulled the cocktail umbrella from her hair. “Dunno what this was about but it’s definitely something.”

She lowered her eyes and blushed. She had no clue what that was about either but it was so Ron that she hadn’t second-guessed it. Somehow caring and careless at the same time. That was him all over.

“Oh?” Fred said slyly, “that face is something, too.”

She was about to admit something (not entirely sure exactly what confession he was looking for but certain it would get back to Ron in seconds), when she felt a chest at her back.

She felt a rumble as Ron said, “having fun?”

She leaned back. God, he felt good. Her fingers found his nape and she curled his hair round her finger. It was just long enough for one loop before sliding away and she started the cycle again. He gave a happy hum which was so incongruous with the way his hands were squeezing her sides that she giggled.

Fred stepped back with a smirk. “Two brothers up on the same girl is a bit much.”

Ron snickered. “What about that time you kissed George?”

“Hey,” George said, as he boogied over to them, “we made £200 on that bet.”

“For a fucking peck,” Fred said and high-fived his twin.

“People are such…” George proclaimed.

“...Prudes.” Fred finished.

Hermione chuckled, spun round and noted Ron’s pleased expression as she raised her arms around his neck. “Fred was just keeping me company, until you remembered I was here.”

“And who the fuck,” he said, dipping his head and nuzzling her neck, “would forget about you?”

***

Ron was riding very high when those words slipped out. He’d lost himself in the joy of having her in his arms. He’d almost kissed her before re-directing himself to her neck. His heart clenched. This was definitely going too far. He focussed on the delectable peach scent wafting off her. If she was going to push him off, he might as well enjoy it while he could.

She didn’t say anything. She did pull him closer. Ron felt the room fade away. It was just him and Hermione and the music. The track changed and suddenly the room was filled with the chant:

Let's make out, let's make out, let's make out, let's make out!

Everyone started shouting it. Usually, Ron would too. Ironically, it wasn’t a song for snogging. It was a song for jumping and yelling. He didn’t want to let go. He leaned back searching Hermione’s face.

She was bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her hair was a beautiful mess of curls as she shook them out. He slowed her down, there was more erotic beat under the noise if you were looking for it. The bass thrummed three times. He could feel it in his bones. Hermione pulled him towards her and whispered along the lines:

I can't control myself,
When I see you there's no one else.
When I get down all by myself,
You're the one that I think about.

He thought he might burst into flames. He boldly ran his hand up her back and wrapped his other arm round her waist. If he pulled her any closer they’d meld together. He wouldn’t mind that one fucking bit.

“You’re gonna need to clarify how literally I should take that,” Ron said.

Hermione gave him a wicked smile. “You’re my inspiration when I dance solo.”

He was losing his fingers in her wild curls and breathing heavily. He gently tugged so her head shifted to the side and he dared to flick his tongue over her her neck, just once. She melted into him.

“Yeah,” he said in a hot whisper, “you’re my inspiration too.” And he was not talking about dancing.

She nipped his jaw and he groaned.

“We are getting the fuck outta here,” he said as he dragged her out the room.

Before Ron knew what was happening he’d lifted her up on to the kitchen counter. Her legs parted and he was between them, running his hand over her thigh the other lost in her amazing hair. Thank Christ she’d never cut it. She was clutching his t-shirt and sweeping his hair back. He was wondering if you could finish just from looking at someone. He might have already died and gone to heaven. Their eyes were locked and he saw his own ‘yes’ reflected back at him.

They both stilled. This could not happen like this. Except neither of them were willing to back down. Maybe not heaven then, limbo? Though this stalemate was starting to feel like hell.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. Hermione frowned and he pecked her forehead. “One sec, love.”

He found the number and hit call. Hermione was still frowning so he peppered her face with chaste kisses until she was laughing and pushing him back. He grinned and took her hand; she entwined their fingers together.

‘You’re cute’, he mouthed at her.

She smiled even brighter.

The call picked up and he could barely hear an irritated ‘Ron?’ over basic club tunes.

Ron turned his head, he wasn’t going to look at Hermione while he did this. “Lav? Can you hear me?”

“What?” Lav said.

He let out a frustrated groan. “Go outside. This is important.”

He felt Hermione’s hand tighten in his, so he flashed her a reassuring smile. She nodded, although she still looked pensive.

“Are you coming out then?” Lavender said.

He scoffed. She really thought he was going to bail on his own ruddy party? “It’s not working out. We’re over.”

He waited just long enough to hear her rant begin. Certain she’d heard him, he hung up and tossed his phone to the side where it clattered into the spice rack. He frowned. He didn’t want there to be a single doubt. He picked his phone up and sent a text that stated the same thing with an added ‘sorry’. He’d have been nicer about it, if she hadn’t messed him around more than once. He showed Hermione his phone.

She had a very satisfied smile. Ron plucked her own phone from it’s precarious placement in her too-small skirt pocket.

He cocked his head. “Your turn.”

This was really the moment. He hadn’t discussed it with Hermione before he’d called Lavender because one thing he was certain of was that whole ‘thing’ was a terrible idea. He’d, shamefully but subconsciously, been waiting for some confirmation that he wasn’t completely undesirable and Hermione had already given him that. So, whatever Hermione’s plan was, he’d have done it anyway. However, it was possible that Hermione wanted a bit on the side. After all, he’d always been fun. She’d told him that a hundred times. Maybe she wanted a respectable boy to take home to her parents and something more casual? He wouldn’t judge if her and Viktor had an open arrangement but that wasn’t his own style. He tried to keep his face neutral. Stopping before it started? That would be just his luck.

She cupped his cheek and gently turned his head to face her. “Why do you look so worried?”

“I don’t do things by halves, if you just want… I dunno…” He took a breath. “Girlfriend or nothing.”

She looked surprised.

He stepped back. “Sorry, if you guys are open that’s cool. It’s just not for me, y’know?”

“I know that,” she said incredulously, “or you’d have fucked half the campus by now.”

“Huh?”

“You’re hot.”

He laughed nervously. “Yeah, my brothers mentioned.”

She started giggling. “Okay, now I have questions.”

“Shut up. They were trying to giving me a boost to… you know.” He waved his hand at her.

What had started out as pretty steamy was quickly becoming awkward. He should have taken this slower, just come out and explained himself. Probably not been half cut when he did it.

Hermione guided his face back to hers and kissed his nose. “Calm down.”

His eyes crossed for a moment and then closed. He let out a long breath. “You make me nervous.”

“You don’t get nervous,” she countered.

He half-opened one eye. “I hide it.”

“Explains a lot.” She unlocked her phone. He could hear the dial tone.

He heard footsteps behind him. Hermione’s eyes widened. Ron twisted around. Harry was frozen in the doorway with empty bottles in his arms. Well, there could have been worse people to walk in while he was nestled between Hermione’s thighs.

“Harry, can you tell everyone not to come in here?” Ron said sweetly, “or I’ll fucking kill them.”

Harry snorted and set the bottles on the floor. “Got it,” he said with a lazy salute and he pulled the door closed. Halfway he paused. “No sex in the kitchen.”

“Fuck off, Harry!” Hermione called.

The door creaked shut but it was a piece of crap and never closed all the way. Ron could hear Harry cackling and his voice rising above the music until it was cut off by a second door being shut.

Ron turned to Hermione with an apologetic smile but she pressed a finger to his lips. He couldn’t resist – he kissed it.

She rolled her eyes. Her face turned serious as soon as the call was picked up. “Hi, Viktor? I think we should break up.”

Thank fuck for that. However, that wasn’t the end of it, Ron could hear Viktor’s deep voice on the other end.

“Sorry,” Hermione said, cutting him off, “I misspoke. We are breaking up. We’re not compatible.”

More unintelligble grumblings.

“This isn’t a debate,” Hermione said firmly.

The noise did not cease. Ron got fed up and held his hand out for the phone. Hermione hesitated for a second then shrugged and handed it over.

Ron didn’t bother to listen to what Viktor was saying. “She got a better offer, mate. Fuck off.” He turned it back around so she could have the pleasure of hanging up. She pressed her finger to the phone with a flourish and a sigh that sent a shiver up Ron’s spine.

Both their phones now lay completely ignored in a patch of sugar and, he suspected, dried soy sauce. His hands were either side of her legs. She was so beautiful. Unfortunately, he had no clue how to recapture the heat from before. Things made a lot more sense on the dance floor – where you could truly give yourself over to something bigger and everything became instinct. Now this was why he’d never fucked half the campus. Outside a good party, he was no one. He was confused and unsure. He didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know how to move.

***

Hermione could sense his uncertainty. She didn’t think he was regretting anything. He definitely needed to dump Lavender, just for his own sake. Viktor was nowhere near as bad as her. But the way he’d tried to argue when she very clearly said he was dumped reminded her of the way he’d made tiny comments about her friends, the parties she went to, how she acted. He wasn’t controlling. Still, whenever she fell short of his expectations, he’d try to ‘correct’ her (Viktor would, most likely, call it ‘guiding’). Maybe Ron wasn’t the only one who’d found themself in a bad relationship.

Ron was gazing at her with a warmth that made her heart sing. He knew her, he’d never ask her to change. He didn’t care that she was more academic, just like she never cared that he preferred having fun. They just wanted what was best for one another, even if they butt heads. She was a little worried that he was no longer touching her. His breathing was short and sharp and his arms were tense. She wanted him to come alive again, the way he was in living room. It couldn’t have been alcohol, there hadn’t been enough time to sober up.

She grabbed her phone and shushed his questions. She dithered over her music app and then picked the song that seemed to have some hand in getting them out here in the first place. She looked at him and tilted her head as the chant started again:

Let's make out, let's make out, let's make out, let's make out!

He grinned. “That’s a bit on the nose.”

She smirked. “No, you’re supposed to use your–”

She was cut off by his lips on hers. Holy fuck, was he kissing her in time to the music? And why the hell was that so hot? He was pushing into her and pulling her close. He was completely incapable of not following a beat. She let it fill her whole body. They were soon pressed so tight together you couldn’t move how the music demanded, you had to push it all into the kiss.

Hermione always imagined people kissed to something more sensual, smoother, cleaner. But Ron was messy, bursting at the seams with energy. At his best when he’d somehow lost a shoe and got a scrape on his arm. He’d smile and lend you his jacket, then try to cover his own shivers. He’d stumble his way home with you, laughing way too loud and collapse on the sofa. It was raw and amazing and she’d never realised how much she loved it.

She moaned into his mouth. “You fuck to punk.”

He started shaking with laughter. “I do what?” His voice was muffled, it appeared he too had absolutely no interest in parting their lips for more than a millisecond.

She leaned back. “Definitely.”

“Proper punk? Might be difficult.” He gripped her hips and pulled her towards him so she was right on the edge of the counter. He rolled his own against her. “But you hear that? I was trying to show you earlier.”

She got impatient and captured his lips with hers again. “What?”

“That’s a hot bassline,” he said.

They both laughed as the song descended into white noise.

“Not this bit,” he remarked.

I'm in love with you, my baby girl, I'm in love with you...

Their eyes locked. He bit his lip.

I'm in love with you, my baby girl, I'm in love with you...

He ran a hand through his hair.

I'm in love with you, my baby girl, I'm in love with you...

Hermione was bemused by his discomfort. He was hardly beholden to a song she’d put on. Him liking it or thinking it was sexy didn’t mean he meant every word of the lyrics. Hell, no one else would worry about that. But when Ron did things that didn’t make sense, she just found it intriguing. He was a puzzle she felt so very close to solving.

***

I'm in love with you, my baby girl, I'm in love with you...

Four times the song had spoken something that felt like it was travelling through his veins.

It was true. It was so fucking true he thought he might explode with the truth of it. But he wasn’t a total idiot. This is what his brothers meant – he came on too strong. He’d almost cocked up already by letting his nerves get the best of him. So, instead of blowing everything up with words, he put everything he had into kissing her. Her cool hand slipped under his shirt and found its place over his heart.

It’s true. Did she feel the same thing? Is that why she’d sought out his heart which was slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape? Read my mind. Read my fucking mind. His hands were shaking, he thought his knees would buckle. He didn’t know how you could feel so much and not burst. It was why he hadn’t gone here before – terrified he’d mess it up or spontaneously combust. But she was here and perfect and kissing him. And he was so very in love. Do you feel what I feel?

She pulled away and he couldn’t help the whimper of annoyance that escaped him. Still, now he had access to her beautiful neck and delicate collarbone. He got to work.

She sighed. “Bedroom.”

He pulled back. Well, he couldn’t deny he was feeling that too.

Hermione bit her lip (fuck, she was killing him right now). “Harry did say ‘no sex in the kitchen’.”

“That better be the last time you say someone else’s name,” he said, pulling her legs tighter around him.

She sniggered. “Ron, I’m suggesting we take this upstairs.”

“Deal.” He picked her up and she yelped.

He hadn’t really contemplated the logistics of this move. He just didn’t want her to get away from him. He needed her as close as possible. He grabbed their phones and stuffed them in his back pockets (as delirious as he was, leaving your phone in the kitchen was asking for it to get broken).

“You’re not really going to—”

He cut her off with a kiss and started navigating them through the room. He banged his knee on a chair but he couldn’t give less of a shit.

“Fuck you think I work out for?” he whispered.

“To carry people around?”

He rubbed his nose on hers. “To carry you around,” he corrected.

He felt a small burst of pride as they made it out of the kitchen and into the deserted hallway without further incident. God bless Harry, he’d kept everyone corralled in the living room. Ron would have to buy him a drink.

She giggled. “You’ve fantasised about this?”

He pushed her up against the side of the staircase. “You have no idea.”

She stopped laughing. He started to panic. Admitting to being obsessed with her while he had a girlfriend was a terrible idea. She’d think he was just that kind of guy. She wouldn’t understand she was completely unique. That he’d never have his head turned by anyone else, not if they were together. He couldn’t think of what to say. He couldn’t push her away with the weight of his feelings. His eyes darted round her face, looking for some clue about what she was thinking. Her brow was slightly furrowed, her eyes narrowed just a smidge, her lips twisted a tiny bit. Fuck, she was looking at him like he was coursework.

“If you want to know my fantasies…” She paused to catch his lips again and for a moment he was lost once more. “You need to get me upstairs.”

She does love coursework. He held in a laugh and a whoop. He was going completely mad. He had to focus on not tripping on the steps. She was incredibly distracting and he felt himself wobble. He’d accidentally only got half his foot on the next step. His hand hit the wall with a thunk and he dipped forward.

“Careful!” she exclaimed and tightened her grip around his neck pulling him down even further. She started laughing.

He straightened carefully. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

“Put me down, silly.”

“Never.” He wrapped his arm round her waist and cradled her head with the other. “You’ll run off.”

“Never,” she said in a far softer tone than she’d used so far.

He was going to die. He was going to become liquid and soak into the carpet. He was going to become fire and burn the whole flat down. He was going to launch into the sky and explode like a firework. She started kissing his neck and he groaned. He shifted his weight – he needed to get her in his room. He practically flew up the stairs and twisted so his back pushed open the door. Loose papers crunched underfoot and he kicked an empty mug over as he went for the bed. He deposited her, not quite as gracefully as he wanted, and she bounced on the mattress. She let out another wonderful laugh.

He whipped round to close the door before he forgot. Another errand occurred to him and he placed their phones on the bedside table. All practicalities out the way, he turned to the bed. The smile on his face froze halfway formed. He couldn’t believe it. There she was: wanting him. Her shirt had ridden up and her chest was heaving. He must be dreaming. This couldn’t be real. The idle thought that he was glad he’d changed his bed yesterday and used the cosy brushed cotton sheets came and went. He was losing his damn mind. She’d change her mind. She’d realise this was daft. Maybe, like him, she’d needed a push to dump someone and now that was done, so was she. A snog with a mate to seal the deal. That’s all this would be.

“You’re doing it again,” she teased.

He gulped. Doing what? Being a tit? Welcome to my life.

She stood up and took a fistful of his shirt. “Stop thinking. I’m right here. Right where I want to be.”

He crashed into her like a wave hitting rocks. His anxious thoughts left the building. Every worry that he wasn’t good enough was evicted. He’d been perfectly clear. This wasn’t nothing. This meant everything to him. Girlfriend or nothing. He’d said it; she’d heard him. He kissed her slowly imagining all his feelings spilling over her. She had to know that he was serious. This wasn’t a drunken shag. This was making love.

He could feel it coming from her too. Enveloping him like mist. She feels the same. Somehow he knew. He was certain, he’d bet his life on it. He lowered her gently to the bed. The creak of the mattress and her sighs the only music he needed.