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‘Mum and Dad say hello. They’ve made so much progress with their memories. Often, when I catch them forgetting something small—Mum’s favourite flower or Gran’s birthday—I can’t help but feel guilty. There’s still work ahead of them. I do hope to be back in London soon. I miss you. - Hermione’
Ron had been getting Owls from Hermione weekly since she left for Australia, a few days after the Battle of Hogwarts. He’d told her he’d go with her, but she refused. She said she didn’t know how long she’d be gone and wouldn’t take him away from the Auror training program he and Harry had been accepted into. He could’ve done Auror training any time—he didn’t care—but Hermione insisted.
It had now been seven months since he’d last seen her and he overanalyzed every word she wrote.
‘They still have some work ahead of them’. What did that mean? Another month? Another eight? How much longer until she came back? She could’ve taken a Portkey, but her parents had been hidden in a very Muggle village, and post-war travel restrictions had tightened. All magical transportation had.
And then there was the— ‘I miss you.’ As a friend? Or was it more?
That night in the tent always came back to him. How could something so painful also be one of his best memories? He hated thinking about the nights on the run—the locket, the hunger, leaving them behind. It was his biggest regret in life. Yet, he’d never wanted to forget the way her lips hovered over his neck, the way she moved onto him, the way they tried to keep quiet so they wouldn’t wake Harry.
But was that all it was? A fleeting moment? All because she was terrified of losing him, only to look back after the war—once she knew they were all safe—and wish she hadn’t?
That wasn’t something he could just ask in an Owl. So he kept his replies light, matching her tone. Reassuring her that she had nothing to feel guilty about. Updating her on life in London—Harry, Ginny, his family.
He couldn’t think about it too much—yet it was all he ever thought about.
Did she think of him as often as he thought of her? Every waking moment?
He’d overheard Ginny telling Harry that Hermione had made a friend in Australia—someone named Harper. That name could go either way, but whenever Ron thought of Harper, he pictured some bronzed, blonde Aussie who called her Herrmionee and knew nothing about war, or grief. Ron couldn’t help but feel envious. It was a trait he’d never been proud of, but he couldn’t shake it either. Not when it came to her.
Auror training had been a good diversion. He and Harry were now Junior Aurors, both eager to take on every case that came their way. The senior Aurors scoffed at most of them, dismissing their assignments as unimportant, but Ron and Harry took anything—Potion smuggling, hags complaining about vampires, the smallest disputes.
Harry did it with purpose.
Ron did it because he needed the distraction.
Ron had admitted to Harry over pints at the Leaky, about the night in the tent. How Hermione had climbed into his cot. Harry had been slightly put out by the fact that they’d shagged while he was asleep a few feet away, but he also knew the agony Ron had been in since she left. So he offered what little advice he could.
“You two have always been awful at telling each other how you feel.”
As if Harry were any better. Ginny had made the first move with him, but Ron wasn’t about to bring that up—not when he lived at Grimmauld Place. He had already endured Ginny walking out of Harry’s room in his briefs and a T-shirt.
It was month eight. Ron and Hermione continued their weekly letters, sharing only the parts of their lives that felt safe to put in ink.
Ron was getting home late— again . He’d stayed behind to assist Dawlish with a raid on Borgin and Burkes, and he was wiped. Still in his Auror robes, he Floo’d back to Grimmauld Place, the scent of a roast wafting through the house. From the kitchen, he could hear Harry and Ginny laughing, and the clinking of bottles.
“ Pleasseee tell me you saved some dinner, I’m absolutely—” Ron rounded into the kitchen.
“Starving?”
The voice finished for him. Hermione.
She was perched in a kitchen chair, one foot tucked over the other, watching him like she’d been waiting for this moment.
Ron felt like he’d been Stupefied.
“Yeah.” He was positive he huffed out the word, still staring to make sure she was real.
Her skin was golden, freckles dusting her cheeks and nose. She looked healthy. The last time he’d seen her, she had been all pointy edges—skin and bones from constantly giving him and Harry the larger portions of whatever little food they could find.
And her smile— Merlin —her smile was like someone had just handed him a hot cup of tea after a freezing night. It warmed him instantly.
"You're back." Ron grinned, but before he could say anything else, he became acutely aware of Harry and Ginny watching him. Harry cleared his throat.
"Right. It’s, uh … great… I— ah, I mean… fantastic… to see you."
He stumbled through the words like a complete idiot, awkwardly making his way around the table. Hermione's smile widened at his fumbling, but she stood, stepping into him without hesitation, and melted into his arms.
Her hold was snug, steady—enough to quiet every anxiety that had crept in over the last eight months. She nuzzled her head against his chest, and instinctively, his fingers threaded into her hair, grounding himself in the feel of her.
"It’s great to see you too," she exhaled against his vest.
Ginny, ever the saviour, stood and made her way toward the counter.
"‘Mione was just in the middle of a story before you walked in. Did you want supper?"
Her tone was casual, but Ron knew her well enough to recognize the unspoken message: ‘ I’m giving you a moment’. Because as much as Ginny liked to pretend she didn’t care, she wasn’t about to sit there and gawk at whatever the hell this was between him and Hermione.
“Please,” Ron coughed, right as Hermione pulled back, her hand lingering on his chest. Her fingers traced the badge stitched over his breast pocket.
“Auror Weasley,” she smirked, settling back into her seat.
“Only the best of the best get these sewn on.”
“I have one too,” Harry summoned a Butterbeer from the fridge, tossing it to Ron, while Ginny topped up Hermione’s wine and handed Ron a plate of food.
“I invited Seamus, Dean, Neville, Parvati, and Luna to stop over,” Harry said offhandedly. Ron nodded, chewing his first bite, but disappointment settled in. He had wanted more time alone with her.
“Nev said he’d be here within the hour,” Harry continued. “Seamus and Dean are picking up more whisky on the way.”
Ron took a swig of Butterbeer, trying to sound as unbothered as possible. “So you’re, uh, staying for a bit then?”
He glanced at Hermione, who sipped her wine before answering.
“Harry offered for me to stay here, if that’s alright with you—er, with everyone.” She blinked at him, almost hesitant.
“Yeah, yeah, of course it is. So you’re staying in my ro —”
“I offered her Regulus’s old room,” Harry cut in swiftly, and thank gods for that because Ron was dangerously close to making an ass of himself.
“Right, right, the spare,” he nodded quickly, scrambling to recover. “I forget about it being on the third floor and all.”
Hermione chuckled, swirling her glass. “I have a meeting with Kingsley on Monday. I’m hoping to intern at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”
She was still smiling, and Ron was fairly certain he hadn’t stopped grinning since he’d walked into the kitchen.
“So you’re here for good, then?” His voice was quieter now, more careful.
Hermione met his stare. “Here for good.”
Ron swallowed, his heart thudding a little too loudly.
“My parents decided they wanted to stay in Australia,” she continued. “I’ll visit when I can, but… they’re doing well. And I missed—” She exhaled, her eyes still on him. “I missed England.”
Neville erupted from the Floo seconds later, shattering what had felt like Ron and Hermione’s private orbit.
Within the hour, music filled the sitting room, the laughter, and conversation spilling into every corner of Grimmauld Place. Hermione was curled up on the couch, sandwiched between Parvati, Luna, and Ginny, her face lighting up as she was pulled into yet another hug. Ron sat at the table playing Exploding Snap with Dean, but his focus wavered. Every swig of Butterbeer, every glance away from the game, found her.
“Gin, Luna, come play!” Harry called over, and Parvati stood to grab more drinks, Ron decided this was his chance. He took the spot beside Hermione that Luna had been occupying, still in his Auror robes, only just realizing he’d yet to change. If he was honest, he hadn’t wanted to leave the room—not even for a second—just in case she vanished, like some cruel mirage.
“Popular witch tonight,” He rolled his head to the side to look at her. “I should leave for eight months, bet this lot would be fawning over my return too.”
Hermione scoffed, the way she always did when he teased her, and Godric, if it didn’t make his soul feel lighter.
"I feel like I missed so much," Hermione murmured, licking her bottom lip, and Ron’s eyes instinctively followed the movement, watching as she wet her mouth.
"Ah, honestly, it's not been all that exciting," he admitted, forcing himself to focus. "Harry and I get all the bogus cases, and Ginny's always off with the Harpies. It’s… odd, being normal. After the trials and funerals, it felt—well, like this, I suppose."
Hermione bowed. "I got a few letters from your parents while I was away, and of course, Ginny, Harry, Neville… and one from Malfoy."
“Yeah, Harry got one too," he grumbled, taking another swash of Butterbeer.
"It was an apology and a thank you for writing the letter that allowed him to be on house arrest. I’m sure Harry’s was similar," she said, watching him carefully.
Ron knew where this was going.
"I didn’t say anything to help him, I’d be alright if the whole family was in Azkaban," he rumbled.
"Ronald..."
"No, you don’t get to do that." he grated. "You wanted to write something, I didn’t argue. I let Harry do what he wanted. But Hermione, your screams in that manor will haunt me until the day I die. And nothing— nothing —could have convinced me to help anyone who stood there and watched while she tortured you."
These were the conversations they couldn't have over Owl. The ones that had been too heavy to address in the days leading up to the battle. Even now, there were still nights when Ron woke up to the sound of Hermione’s wails echoing in his head.
Her eyes were glossy, unshed tears pooling as they stared at each other, their heads resting against the couch. Slowly, she reached out, cupping his chin, and tilting his face toward her.
Those eyes. They were the same ones that had looked at him that night in the tent. The same ones he saw when he closed his own at night. He hadn't gone this long without seeing her since they were eleven. Even during summers before Hogwarts, she always visited, always spent the last week or two at the Burrow. The longest they’d gone without speaking was sixth year—when he'd been too much of a prat with Lavender. And now, he regretted every moment lost.
"I missed you," she breathed.
Ron choked on his relief. "I missed you too,"
He reached up, brushing a curl from her forehead, and she bit down on her lip—just as a raucous cheer from across the room had them both flinching apart.
Hermione shook it off. "Tomorrow’s Sunday, and Harry told me you’re both off. Maybe we could go somewhere—to talk and catch up?"
Ron mentally cursed himself for not asking first.
"Dinner?" he offered quickly, trying to salvage himself. "Just us."
She smiled. "That’d be nice."
Hermione yawned then, covering her mouth. "How long do you think they’ll stay? I’m exhausted."
Ron glanced around. The party was still going strong, their friends growing louder and rowdier.
"Likely a while," he admitted. "But if you want to slip off to bed, I’ll cover for you."
Something flashed in her eyes—something Ron couldn’t place.
"Alright," she whispered.
Ron waited another fifteen minutes, making sure no one was paying him much mind before stretching and announcing his goodnights. He claimed he was knackered, still hadn’t changed, all the usual things one would say—but in truth, he just wanted to close his eyes as quickly as possible so tomorrow would come.
Tomorrow, he’d have her to himself.
As he made his way upstairs, he passed by Regulus’s room which was now going to be Hermione's, pausing for a moment to see if he could hear any movement. Nothing. Just darkness seeping out from under the door.
With a sigh, he took the next flight up, opening his bedroom door—only to stop dead in his tracks.
The nightstand lamp was on. Hermione sat in the middle of his bed, a book in her lap, already changed into pajamas.
Ron had to double-check he hadn’t walked into the wrong room.
"I thought you were going to bed?" he asked, though it took a bulky swallow to get the words out, to act casual— as if this were normal, as if this happened to him all the time.
Hermione put her book down and shifted onto her knees. Her plaid pajama shorts and tank top hugged her in a way that made his brain blink. Her cheeks were rosy, as if the sun had just touched them.
"Can I say something? But you can’t laugh?"
Ron narrowed his eyes, skeptical. "Alright."
She hesitated, pressing her lips together before finally exhaling.
"You look very handsome in your uniform."
His heart stopped.
She scrunched her face immediately, as if she were embarrassed, but hell —he’d wear this bloody uniform every day if it made her squirm like that again.
"My uniform? You like Auror Weasley?" He stepped closer, standing at the edge of the bed, that familiar heat between them rekindling. The same one they had built up time and time again—only acting on it once.
"I told you not to laugh," she groaned, her face now fully tomato red.
"I’m not laughing," he assured her. "Trust me."
Hermione fidgeted, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth before adding, "You’ve just—well, you’ve filled out is all. I’m sure I’m not the only witch who’s told you that these past few months."
If Ron didn’t know better, he’d swear he heard the slightest tinge of jealousy. And he would know. He was very friendly with jealousy.
"The only witch I’ve thought about for the last eight months has been you, Hermione."
The words left him before he could even try to hide that they were the truth.
And whatever restraint she had been holding onto clearly broke as she moved faster than he’d ever seen, launching herself at him, wrapping around him like a monkey clinging to a tree. Her legs locked around his waist, hands tangling into his hair, and his arms instinctively secured her in place as he stood.
Their lips met in a frantic kiss—tongue, teeth—like the horny adolescents they should have been years ago.
Ron hoisted her higher, securing her against him as one of his hands traced up her spine. Kissing Hermione again felt like breathing fresh air—he hadn't registered how long he'd been drowning in smog.
Her fingers slipped from his shoulders, trailing downward, fumbling with the buckle of his belt, and—
"Wait, wait, wait—"
He broke away, panting.
Hermione’s eyes were wild, her lips swollen, breath unsteady. "Sorry, I— ah —is this not okay?"
"It’s bloody brilliant," Ron rushed to reassure, still catching his breath. "But I wasn’t sure that you, uh, still wanted this. I thought maybe—you regretted it."
And just like that, he became the biggest idiot to ever walk the earth.
He could have sworn he felt the moment her heart cracked, the way she slipped from his hold, settling back onto the bed, her face falling.
"Regretted it?" she repeated, looking straight into his eyes. "You thought I regretted it?"
Ron scrubbed a hand down his face, frustrated with himself. "I wasn’t sure," he admitted. "It crossed my mind. We didn’t talk about it. Then I left that night, and the rest of the Horcrux hunt was just about surviving. Then after the battle, you left, and I… I wanted to ask in the letters, but I didn’t."
He moved closer, desperate to fix the damage.
"Do you regret it?" She questioned, searching his face,
His chest ached. "No.Never. Not once."
She let out a breath, but the tension in her shoulders didn’t ease.
"I told myself," she rounded, "that after the first time, we’d do it again. We’d do it in many different positions and many different angles. That it wouldn’t be the first and only—"
He should have been focusing on reassuring her—but his mind caught, snagged, clung to one particular part of that sentence.
"Many?" His voice came out hoarse. " Many different positions and angles?"
Hermione groaned, throwing her hands over her face. "Oh gods, I’ve ruined this."
Ron moved without thinking, sinking onto his knees, leaning over her, gently peeling her hands away.
"No, you haven’t." He softened. "We’re going to do this right. We’re going to take our time. No rush. No tent. No fear. No damned sling, or having to be quiet because of a sleeping Harry."
Hermione laughed, her eyes glistening as he ran his fingers through her curls.
"Just us," he pressed his forehead to hers.
Ron moved to kiss her again, much slower this time—less hurried, allowing the taste of her to melt like sugar on his tongue. Hermione matched his pace, her hands going down to the trim of her tank, and started to lift it over her head.
But he stopped her.
"I got it,"
His fingers took over, rolling the cotton over her shoulders and arms before tossing it aside. She let herself fall back against the pillow, her hair spilling around her like a halo, and bloody hell — Ron just stared.
Last time, he had only felt her through the fabric, but now—now he could see everything. The rise and fall of her stomach, the expanse of skin just above the waistband of her shorts, the freckle over her right nipple.
His thumbs brushed over them in a reverent motion before he dipped his head to press open-mouthed kisses over both. He cherished every reaction— goose-prickles along her sternum, the way her fingers curled into the sheets.
He kissed his way down, through the valley of her ribs, his lips dusting the skin just above the bow of her belly button before moving lower.
Hermione’s breathing grew heavier.
His nose traced along the expanse of where her stomach met the elastic of her shorts, his lips hanging there as his fingers hooked into the flannel. She lifted her hips, wordlessly allowing him to pull them over her curves.
Hermione’s legs were still pressed together as Ron pulled the remainder of her night shorts past her ankles. He let his palm rest on her knee, fingers padding down her thigh, ushering them apart.
The first time, he hadn’t really seen her—obviously, he’d seen where they were connected, a fleeting glimpse in the dark. But now, from this vantage point, he saw everything.
Her delicate pinkness. A tan line from a bikini she must have worn, creamy white against golden brown. His throat bobbed as his fingertips caught the sticky damp clinging to the inside of her legs.
He let his thumb trace down her seam, circling over her clit. He remembered how she had squirmed under his caresses. This time, he wasn’t just feeling her—he was committing her to visual memory.
“Pretty,” he huffed, almost to himself.
Hermione gave a breathy laugh. "Are you talking to me or… my—" she glanced downward, nodding to where his fingers were running between her folds.
Ron grinned up at her, unapologetic. "Honestly? I don’t know. Both."
Her eyes were still locked on his, chocolatey with no embarrassment left.
"You have a lot of clothes on, and I’m… completely naked."
Ron blinked, realizing she was absolutely right.
"My robes?" He peeled off his vest, then unbuttoned his shirt, letting them both vanish to the floor. The moment he was bare, Hermione’s eyes skimmed over old scars like she had done so many times before.
"And those," she nodded toward his trousers, which were already half-undone.
Ron kicked those off, leaving only his briefs—the fabric doing nothing to conceal how hard he was. Hermione's assessment dipped lower, pupils wide with suggestion, and Ron understood. Right.
With a bob, he slid down the spandex, his cock bouncing free, weighted with gravity before settling against his stomach. He didn’t let her think about it too long. He leaned back in, allowing a kiss to her knee. Then another, just below. And another. Slowly, he worked his way to the heat of her, breathing in the scent until his mouth suspended right over where she was drenched. A shudder ran through her legs as he laved his tongue up her slit, mimicking the motion his thumb had made earlier.
"Oh my god" she whined.
He liked that sound. It was louder than the muffled, hushed moans from under his sleeping bag last year and that alone was encouragement enough.
Ron licked into her again, then again, working his saliva into arousal, tongue flattening, and curling until she was whimpering and moaning. He flashed his eyes up, watching the way her face scrunched, the way her fingers dug into his shoulder, gripping at him like she needed to hold on to something.
He wanted more. His hand moved between where his mouth was sealed around her clit, and he pumped two fingers inside at the same time.
Hermione cried out, back arching clean off the bed.
"Ronald—oh, oh, that… that is so good…"
And fuck, now he finally understood why Hermione loved getting praise from professors. Because getting it from her was a rush.
She was cumming—she had to be. Ron could feel it in the way her walls clenched around his hand, tighter each time he angled them up. He could hear it in the way her moans broke apart. He could sense it in the way her pulse throbbed on his tongue, the steady beat of her blood under her clit like a drum.
She was squirming, arching, panting his name between gasps, nails scratching at his hair, his shoulders—anything she could reach. Ron sucked harder, then soothed, then sucked again, his fingers always finding her plushy front walls.
"I'm cumming—don’t stop, please don’t stop—"
Bloody hell. He’d never heard Hermione beg like that.
Not in this way. The only times he’d ever heard her beg, her tone had been filled with fear, with pain. But this pleading, this frenzied, quivering need— Ron vowed then and there that if she ever begged again, it would only ever be from an orgasm.
He tried to pull back gracefully, wiping at the remnants of her from his mouth and chin— but Hermione seemed to be everywhere. Before he had the chance, she was already on her knees, catching his mouth with hers, kissing him to taste herself on his tongue.
"I want to taste you now," Her palm wrapped around his cock, stroking, stroking , and Ron groaned into her mouth, nearly losing his balance.
Ron squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath.
Godric. That was the fastest way to finish him off in under a minute, and he’d be damned if this ended that quickly.
"Later," he said, already maneuvering her back onto the bed.
He positioned himself behind her, his front to her back, holding her like she was something precious. Big spoon, little spoon—but of course, Hermione didn’t go down without a fight, as expected.
"I should return the favour," she quipped, her voice playful, as if she’d plucked the line straight from some Muggle film.
Ron let out a choked laugh. "Hermione, I’m barely hanging on by a thread right now."
She squeaked in acknowledgment, before finally relenting, settling against him.
"Later," she promised, her body relaxing into his.
Ron buried his face in the back of her curls, inhaling her shampoo—lilac, vanilla. He lifted her leg, draping it over his to spread her open again, his free hand sliding over her stomach, then kneading at her breasts. He found the back of her ear, licking over the smooth skin there as Hermione’s hand reached to align him with her entrance.
"Can you give me a little more?" he murmured against her ear. "Make those sounds for me again?"
He pushed forward, sliding inside without any resistance until his pelvis was flush against her arse. She was lolling, head tilting like she wanted to look back at him, but Ron made sure his mouth stayed right at her ear.
"I can yes ..… oh gods… yes I can do that…"
Hermione’s voice was wrecked, and Ron clenched his jaw, straining to hold himself together.
"It's all I want," He let his hips roll forward in a torturously slow thrust. "To know I’m the one making those sounds come from you—"
He thrust up, deeper this time, and her body arched, her head falling back against the crook of his shoulder, and a reverberating moan sounded from her throat.
Shit. Maybe he should’ve cast a Silencing Charm.
"Do you like that?" he asked, needy for her to tell him.
"Yes— yes —" And then through her mewls, she gasped, "You look ridiculously fit in that uniform."
Ron’s hips faltered for a second, his brain stuttering over the fact Hermione Granger had just called him ridiculously fit.
"Yet you wanted it off," he teased.
" Ron— " she whined. "I thought about this all the time. About you.."
"So did I…" He groaned and pressed a kiss behind her ear.
And then he really got to work. His body snapped forward, his ruts more insistent now. His arm stayed locked around her chest, fingers still playing at her nipples, while his other hand went back to thumbing her clit.
Ron was hanging by a micro-thread at this point . The only thing keeping him from finishing right there was the fact that she was enjoying herself so much—and he was not going to let this end before she got what she needed.
So he breathed , counted in his head, gritted his teeth—anything to hold on just a tiny bit longer.
" Oh , I missed you," Hermione gasped. "I couldn’t stand it… Ron … fuck… how are you doing this? "
Ron punctuated each word with a timed thrust. " Always the tone of surprise."
He had never seen Hermione so completely incoherent—and he loved it. Loved that he was the one reducing her to brainlessness, making her shake, making her lose every ounce of self.
The signs were there again—the similar build-up, the way her inner muscles fought around him, the quake of her thighs, the way her feet drove into the sheets.
He needed to hear it.
"Are you going to cum again for me?"
He said it in a filthy way he hadn’t expected, but fuck it.
Hermione pleaded. "Please, please —so… so close—"
She cracked and with that—so did Ron.
" Nrgh —fuck— godsdammit —" His release hit him with a full body force, his pelvis jerking as he spilled everything he had into her, grunting into the nape of her neck.
It felt endless, waves of pleasure coiling through him, stretching time itself. He kept moving, lazy ruts of his hips prolonging the sensation, draining out every last bit of climax until he was completely spent.
His chin found her shoulder, then the curve of her ear, pressing worshipping kisses against her skin— "You are incredible ."
They lay there for a long moment, just breathing into the still of the night, tangled together, hot flesh against flesh. Eventually, Ron slipped out, and Hermione reached for the covers, pulling the duvet over them as she snuggled in. He did the same, neither of them bothering to put any clothing back on.
Ron opened one arm for her, and Hermione rested her head on his chest.
"Promise me you'll never leave for that long again."
She smiled against his skin, the pads of her fingers painting into the ridges of his ribs. "I promise."
Ron exhaled, satisfied. "Mum and Dad will want to see you, but I’m not telling them you’re back until Monday. We can just stay like this all day tomorrow, until dinner. Then, after, right back into this bed until Monday morning."
Hermione hummed in amusement. "You have work Monday?"
"Yeah… about that," he said. "Should I be getting myself ready an extra twenty minutes early for you to do some ogling before I leave?"
He didn’t need to see her face to know she was rolling her eyes.
"You should prepare twenty minutes earlier, but not just for me to ogle," she lifted her chin onto his arm and brought their mouths together.
Ron sighed happily into the kiss, holding it there.
Then, pulling back. "So, ahh… your room—"
Hermione arched a brow. "Can’t imagine it’ll get much use."
Ron grinned. "Well, we should shag in there at least once or twice."
"Ronald," she scolded, but there was no real bite to it.
“This is going to sound mad,” He began. Maybe it was the buzz of the Butterbeers or how natural it felt to be in this space with her, but he was doing it.
“You’ve likely said worse,” Hermione poked.
“Does this mean you’re my girlfriend?” The words sort of blurted out, and she sat up, pulling the covers under her arms, looking at him like she was trying not to giggle.
“Your girlfriend? I don’t know, are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”
“Yeah, of course. You’re all I bloody think about. Constantly.” He explained, and as if she found his blundering endearing, she leaned in and started kissing down his neck and sucking over his pulse points.
“Then I suppose yes, I’m your girlfriend,”
His grin was likely ear to ear. He was sure this was the best day of his life—if he didn’t count earlier when those cursed earrings nearly sucked out his soul when he raided Borgin and Burkes.
Quite suddenly, he became very aware of Hermione’s mouth traveling, curls spilling over his sides as she neared the V-shaped indentations of his abdomen.
“Is now… later? ” she asked, biting down, puckering right at the base of his stirring length. He stared at the ceiling, blinking to ensure he wasn't dreaming.
Just as she wrapped her hands around him to take him into her mouth, a jarring rap on the door made them both freeze.
“For the love of Merlin, be courteous and cast a silencing charm,” came Harry’s exasperated voice from the other side.
Hermione flinched, diving under the covers before peeking back out.
“Oh. Right. He knows about the tent…”