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Viktor Krum
Viktor is better with words by Owl Post than he is in person. There’s something rather sexy about his silence though. Or at least unnerving. Hermione’s not entirely sure that she can tell the difference right now. She’s so used to incessant chatter, hanging around with Harry and Ron all the time like she does. More from Ron than from Harry, really, but still. She’s fairly certain that she hears more complete sentences come out of Harry’s mouth in any given half hour than she has from Viktor in the last week she’s been here visiting.
She hadn’t thought at first that she would accept his invitation after all. It seemed such a voyage, and she didn’t really know him all that well. Besides he’s older and you never know what kind of expectations he might have.
But Viktor has been the consummate gentleman: taking her for long walks on his family’s estate, opening doors for her, pulling out her chair at dinner with his parents, neither of whom are particularly more loquacious than their only son. His house is more of a castle really, looking like a miniature, albeit less institutional, Hogwarts. Everything here is big, stone and stalwart like its habitants. She can’t help but wonder what he’d think of the semi-detached house in the suburbs her own parents go home to after long days pulling teeth and filling cavities.
She decided to go because it was quite the opportunity really, and Hermione prides herself now on being a girl ready for adventure. She figured actually travelling alone somewhere outside the UK would be just another feather in her cap. It had nothing to do with the enormous row she had with Ron not two days before she owled Victor to accept his invitation–not that Hermione even remembers what they two were fighting about now.
Or maybe it did. Hermione’s allowed to have other friends, other interests, besides Ron and Harry! Not that they aren’t excellent friends to have, even if they routinely forget that she’s a girl and all.
Actually, Hermione suspects that Harry might actually be more aware that she’s a girl than Ron is, even if he doesn’t like her that way. When he’s not all caught up in the general confusion and strain of being Harry, he can have flashes of perceptiveness, that one. But Ron is...Ron.
But anyway, Viktor is an excellent host, if not a skilled conversationalist. And really, Hermione thinks, English isn’t his native language. She’s impressed that he speaks more than one language at all. Perhaps she should take up French or German. You never know when that might come in handy.
Here is a secret: despite the fact that Hermione is generally uninterested in Quidditch, she finds the fact that Viktor is brilliant at it to be quite appealing. But then, she admires dedication and skill in general. Never mind that apparently Harry, and even Ron, are pretty good at the game also. But they are just boys. Viktor is practically a man! The way he moves–there’s a quiet ferocity to it, a physicality–but he doesn’t scare her.
Even with the way his dark eyes seem to follow her everywhere she goes. It’s...exciting. Flattering. She likes being noticed. It almost makes Hermione feel like a different girl. A girl worth looking at.
He watches her mouth when she’s talking. He nods and swallows, eyes trained on her face. It makes her lick her lips, self conscious. She thinks he wants to kiss her.
One night, after a particularly lovely dinner, Hermione makes up her mind: she kisses him first. She’s had a glass of mulled wine. And it’s only three days before she’s set to go home to England, so things can’t be too awkward for too long if this all goes terribly wrong. Besides, she thinks that perhaps it might be safer to learn about kissing far from home.
Viktor groans a bit when she does, opening his mouth just enough to let the low sound out. Closing his eyes. Hermione keeps hers open to watch his reaction, and once their lips have been pressed together for a second or two she pulls back to inspect the damages.
He says her name then. Stares at her, thick arms shaking at his sides on the drawing room love seat.
“Was that too forward?” she asks, possibly aloud.
“You are beautiful,” he says, and she feels herself turn pink. A few more beats of his habitual silence and then his arms are wrapped firmly around her waist, his mouth is on hers again, and she–so daring!–relinquishes her tongue. Hermione feels a thrill shoot up through her thighs, landing electrifyingly between her legs. She feels powerful.
*
Fifteen is, perhaps, too young. Viktor seems to think so at first, panting and expressing concern with each new piece of his body she touches. But Hermione feels in control here, despite the difference in years between them. Like he isn’t going to hurt her, like this can be a learning experience without risk.
She tries to avoid thinking too clinically about the proceedings. But it’s difficult; even as her body hums with the new sensations, her mind is whirring about the names for things, the way it all makes her feel more grown up yet young and inexperienced simultaneously.
She suspects once it’s over with that Viktor hasn’t done this before either–it certainly doesn’t take long for him to, er, finish. Which was all right with her, because it hurt rather, but she’s read about this before and so Hermione knows that that’s supposed to happen. The next time will be better.
And it is. They get to “do it” one more time before she goes home. Without the pain to distract her, Hermione is able to focus on the little things: the way he smells, the hair on his chest, the terribly serious expression on his face when he enters her body. She doesn’t come, but afterwards, in the guest bedroom alone, she gets herself off three times with her fingers just thinking about it.
It’s a relief, in a way, having got that all over with this way. It would have been so much scarier if she were in love with the bloke.
Ginny Weasley
Ginny’s so nonchalant about boys, you know, like that. Except for Harry–Harry she hardly talks about now at all. In her bedroom at the Burrow, Ginny tells Hermione stories about snogging. The silly things boys do. How some of them will try and eat your face off. She giggles easily and so does Hermione. Giggling is not something Hermione gets to do around Ron and Harry really, but with Ginny it’s okay. She knows that Ginny won’t think she’s stupid, or gone around the bend for it.
Ginny–the new Ginny–does whatever she wants.
Ginny plays Quidditch with the boys in the meadow–now that the elder Weasleys can’t stop her, now that the whole school knows that she can–and laughs when she beats them. Especially if she scores against Ron. Hermione laughs when Ginny scores against Ron also.
Ginny takes the piss out of every single one of her brothers when necessary, looking up up up at them with flashing eyes and waving pointing fingers in their freckled faces.
Sometimes, Hermione almost forgets that Ginny’s younger than she is, especially when she swears. Hermione never tells Ginny to watch her language, like she does with Ron. She doesn’t know why, she just doesn’t. Though she does act a touch scandalised at the more colourful phrases Ginny uses when no one else is around.
“I’ve got six brothers,” Ginny says, when she catches Hermione looking at her askance. “What do you expect?”
Ginny wears nothing but knickers and oversized cotton T-shirts to bed. Her body is small and tightly put together, as opposed to Hermione’s wide hips and round breasts. She flounces about on her bed like she’s unashamed. Hermione tucks her knees up under her long nightgown and watches her as they talk long into the night.
“Have you–have you been in love with any of them?” Hermione asks quietly, meaning Michael or Dean or the others boys that Ginny’s snogged that Harry and Ron don’t know about.
Ginny shrugs and says, “I’m just having a good time, you know?”
Hermione nods, but she doesn’t know.
“Though, Hermione,” Ginny says slyly, “you don’t need boys to have a good time.”
“What do you mean?” Hermione asks breathlessly.
Ginny wiggles her fingers suggestively, her eyebrows also.
Hermione chokes on a laugh and blushes a bit. She bites her lip and looks up at Ginny truthfully. “Yes, I do know about that.”
“I figured,” Ginny says, grinning. “You’re a smart girl.”
“I, um, figured it out by accident,” Hermione confesses. “When I was ten.”
“I was nine!” Ginny crows. She beams at Hermione. Hermione beams back.
“I’ve never...talked about this before,” Hermione adds. “I suppose that’s the problem with my two best friends being boys.”
“Well, you can talk about whatever you want with me,” Ginny assures her, coming over to sit beside Hermione on the second twin bed.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay. Ask me a question.” Hermione’s curious. What does Ginny want to know about her?
Ginny purses her small, pink mouth, leaning closer to Hermione. She smells like flowery skin-softening potion and toothpaste and girl. “Have you ever snogged anyone, Hermione?”
“I kissed Viktor Krum once. I mean, he kissed me. It was...okay.”
Ginny tut tuts. “Snogging’s supposed to be more than okay.” She pauses, looking at Hermione thoughtfully. “That makes me sad–that no one’s ever kissed you properly. You deserve it.”
“Um, thank you?” Hermione’s not sure what else to say.
“Yeah,” Ginny says with feeling. “C’mere.” And then she does it. Ginny grabs the back of Hermione’s head in her small, warm hand and pulls her close. She kisses her, and Hermione, without thinking about it, kisses Ginny right back. It’s...soft, and when Ginny’s tongue moves across both their pairs of lips and into Hermione’s mouth, Hermione just sighs into it.
They go on like that, playful and dizzymaking until Hermione needs to catch her breath. Ginny’s face comes into focus then, and Hermione watches as the freckles scattered across Ginny’s button nose go from a fuzzy blob to their own distinct shapes. She swallows hard and looks into Ginny’s eyes, oddly unafraid.
“I won’t tell anyone,” Ginny says then. “I swear. I know I go off sometimes, but trust me, there are some secrets I can keep. So...just between us girls then?”
Hermione nods. She whispers into Ginny’s ear, emboldened. “So how do you do it? What’s your technique?”
“Well,” Ginny says with an audible smile, slipping her hand under Hermione’s nightgown and into her knickers. “It goes something like this...”
*
Later, once they’ve got under the separate covers of their separate single beds, Ginny says softly into the shared darkness, “Thanks, Hermione. That was the best time I’ve had in ages.”
OMC
It’s kind of a shock, seeing Daniel again for the first time since Hermione went to Hogwarts. He’s changed over the intervening years, of course he has, but not in unexpected ways. Even when he was six and she was four it was always clear to Hermione that Daniel was out of her league. Or in an entirely different league altogether: the kind where one knew what was cool and what wasn’t, wore the right clothes and was fluent in the current slang terms. He was quite the dashing six-year-old.
They probably wouldn’t have been friends, or even known each other really, had his father not been a dentist like Hermione’s parents. Or you know, lived down the street. And gone to the same school.
Hermione loves her parents. And she misses them, but coming “home” for a visit is always a little odd. At least in terms of everyone of who is not her parents, because of course they know, even if they don’t really comprehend, about the magic and all of that. The official story is that Hermione got a scholarship to a school for high academic achievers.
“How’s it going, Mrs. Brain?” Daniel asks when their parents are in the kitchen making cocktails.
Hermione blushes hotly, but it’s impossible to be angry with him. And not just because of those sparkling green eyes and perfect, wavy brown hair. Daniel always was nice to her, actually. And that nickname out of his mouth was never meant to be an insult, a childish taunt.
“It’s...going all right. You?”
“Brilliant.” He smiles, and so are his teeth. Pearly, like a toothpaste advertisement. “You home for the summer holiday?” It’s an obvious question, but coming out of his mouth it doesn’t sound so daft.
“Yes.” Heavens. Talking isn’t usually something Hermione has difficulty with. She labours to get the next words out of her mouth. “But only for a little while. Then I’m going to visit some friends.”
“That sounds fun, ” he says, standing up for some reason. “I imagine you’re studying awfully hard at that mysterious school of yours.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then you deserve loads of fun. You’ll have to let me show you some before you disappear again.”
“Oh-Okay,” she croaks, and then he offers up his elbow to show her into her own dining room.
*
Daniel has a car and a driver’s license. He insists on driving her around for ice creams and such, taking her to the cinema. Hermione’s missed movies, and popcorn with butter, and sweets that don’t try to hop out of your hand before you can eat them.
Sometimes they just drive for no reason. Hermione knows that this is a terrible waste of petrol and bad for the environment, but it’s nice, if disorienting, to see what the place she grew up in looks like as a teenager.
It’s not the same.
He’s turned out to be a football star at his school, the school she would have gone to also. But Daniel’s modest about it. And stops himself when he starts “going off too much about footie, sorry about that.”
“That’s all right,” she says quickly. “Harry and Ron are always blabbering on about their...sport.” Just another time she has to stop herself from telling someone too much.
Daniel doesn’t notice. Just smiles that million watt grin and says, “Ah. So your best mates are boys then? Doesn’t surprise me that you’re still the kind of girl that gets on best with blokes.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” It’s like instinct, being defensive.
“Nothing,” Daniel soothes, turning expertly, his forearms leaning across the wheel. Hermione can see veins popping up on them, tan muscles. It’s distracting. “You’re just...not like other girls, Hermione. Never were.”
The twinkle in his eye when he glances over towards the passenger side tells Hermione that Daniel means it as a compliment. So she decides to take it that way. She places her hand on his shoulder gently. Daniel smiles even wider.
*
Hermione finds that she does actually have things to talk about that don’t involve spells and wands and charms and potions. And Daniel has things to discuss besides balls and tackling and being fantastically handsome. Of course, she can’t entirely remember what those things are once his lips are on her neck in the backseat of his car.
They do this, neck for hours, and really, someone should have told Hermione that kissing was such a blissful experience. That boys could have lips that are this soft.
“Have you done this much before?” she asks boldly, stopping for kisses between breaths. “Have you gone further than this?” Hermione doesn’t mean for it to be an awkward question; she’s just curious.
Daniel nods, squirms a bit. “But we don’t have to...I mean, I don’t expect...”
Hermione grins broadly. He’s nervous! Because of her!
“I think,” she proclaims, catching his ear between her teeth. “I think that...might be nice actually.”
“But you’re leaving...”
“I want to.”
“You’re not the kind of girl you just shag in the back of a moving vehicle and forget about...”
“So don’t forget about me.”
Hermione doesn’t forget about Daniel, or the things he teaches her about what wonderful use a boy can put his mouth to beneath a girl’s skirt. Or how men’s bodies aren’t really so frightening at all.
But she does go on with her life. She goes to the Burrow as planned. She goes back to school. She doesn’t tell Harry and Ron about this either. They’re still boys, and she’s a step or two closer to being a woman now.
A woman, not just a witch.
Harry Potter
It’s dark in the tent, save for the one light Hermione’s got on so she can see the books in front of her. All these books! When will it ever stop? She never really thought she’d think that, but it’s frustrating...searching for answers that just keep not coming quickly enough.
Ron’s been gone for days. She doesn’t know if they’ll ever see him again. They’re alone now, she and Harry. She’s frightened, and angry, not just at Ron for leaving them, but at the world for being so messed up and dangerous and well, scary.
“Hermione?” Harry’s voice is soft, quiet like he doesn’t want to disturb her, like he thinks she might blow up at any minute. She can’t really blame him–a lot of the time she feels as though she might.
“Hermione?” he says again.
“Yes?”
“I’m scared.”
Hermione starts at that. She shuts her book and looks over at Harry. He looks scared. More like a boy than he has in a long while. Both him and Ron, they’ve grown so much. She didn’t really notice it while it was happening, because they’re just always there. Always Harry and Ron. (Ron’s gone now.) But recently Hermione’s found herself looking at her two best friends and marvelling at the breadth of their shoulders, the stubble on their faces, the tired expressions on their faces. They look like men.
“Oh Harry” is all she can think to say at first. She wants to tell him that it’ll be all right, but she doesn’t know if that’s true. She wants to say that it’s actually comforting to her that he would admit that–that’s she’s not alone in this.
“I’m scared too,” Hermione says eventually once she sees a flash of guilt cross Harry’s face. She gets up and moves to where he’s sitting. She hugs him and he hugs back.
They sit that way together for a long time, not saying anything. Hermione wraps her arms tighter around Harry’s chest and torso, rocking them both.
Harry’s the one who breaks the silence. “Do you want to hear something stupid?”
“Um, okay,” she says.
“Well...” And then Harry laughs, but it’s not a happy laugh. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but you know what I keep thinking about?”
Hermione doesn’t answer his rhetorical question. She just strokes a lock of hair away from his forehead, her fingers brushing his scar inadvertently.
“I keep thinking that it’s a sad fact, but I’m likely to die a virgin.”
Hermione opens her eyes wide, not sure how to respond to that.
Harry coughs. “Er, sorry. That’s a pretty bloke-ish thing to say. I told you it was stupid. You shouldn’t have to listen to this...I mean, R–”
She doesn’t want to hear him say that name right now. Also, Hermione feels that, as per usual, it’s time for her to set some things straight.
“What? Like girls don’t wonder about these things also? You think that I don’t think that maybe I deserve a...a...”
“Shag?” Harry’s grinning now, like he often does when she raises her voice to make a point. They both do that.
“Yes! That. Honestly, Harry!” She pushes her hair off her own face for emphasis. “Men!”
Harry starts full on chortling. It sounds strange to her ears, thudding dully against the tent walls. There hasn’t been a lot of laughter in here.
At first, Hermione retains the cross expression she can feel hardening her face. It’s not that difficult. This is a dire situation! She starts thinking about how usually right now there would be two boys laughing at her, or maybe one laughing and the other trying to butter her up. She wonders where Ron is right now–if he’s okay. But then she pushes that thought away. There is nothing she can do about that at this juncture. And Hermione likes problems she can deal with, things that she can fix.
So she cracks a smile, offering it up as a boon. Then she’s struck by an insane idea.
“You know, Harry,” she says carefully. “We could...we could do something about that.”
“What!?” Harry sounds thunderstruck. Hermione can’t quite believe she said it herself.
“I...well,” she starts again.
“You and me?” Harry squeaks.
“Well, I am the only woman around for miles,” Hermione says primly. “And you weren’t wrong about the fact that we might...” He said it once already though, so she doesn’t repeat the words. We might die.
Death (and the risk of it happening to them) is something that Hermione understood in the abstract when she decided to accompany Harry on this quest. But as the days and weeks go by it’s started to become more of a real thing in her mind. It doesn’t make her certainty that she’s made the right choice waver, but it’s there.
Harry interrupts her thoughts. “I’m well aware that you’re a girl, you know. You’re...I don’t know. You’re Hermione!”
“Yes, I am.” There’s not really much more that needs to be elaborated on that point, so she doesn’t.
Then, to her surprise, Harry whispers, “Okay,” and gulps.
“Okay,” Hermione says back to him. Then they sit there, blinking at each other, neither moving a muscle.
“I suppose maybe we should...kiss first,” she offers, blushing furiously. This is so odd.
“Yeah,” Harry agrees, but remains motionless.
So Hermione leans over and plants a chaste peck on his lips. She pulls away. “This is strange,” she says.
“It is,” Harry says. “But let’s try that again.” He still doesn’t move. So she kisses him again, this time opening her mouth. He finally responds. And as it turns out, Harry’s not half bad at snogging!
“Harry!” she exclaims, unfusing their lips to say so. “You’re a good kisser!”
“Er, thank you?”
“I mean, well done. Cho and Ginny must have...”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Hermione, you sound like I’ve just got a high score on an exam or something.”
*
It doesn’t stop being strange after that, or awkward. But it feels...friendly.
After their clothes come off, Hermione says, “Harry, you’re beautiful.” And she means it, because it’s true.
He wrinkles his brow. “I think I’m the one who’s supposed to say that.”
“Whatever,” she scoffs. “You’re my friend and I love you, Harry, but you need to let go of some of these ideas that you have.” And this bit, the them talking honestly with each other bit, feels normal. Even if nothing else has in a long, long time.
Harry looks concerned during the part where it hurts her. Of course he does–he’s her best friend. “It’s okay, Harry,” Hermione says. “I expected that.”
She didn’t expect “it” to happen like this though, not the context or the bedfellow. But Hermione’s glad, all things considered, that no matter what else happens, she did this with someone who loves her.
Ron Weasley
Hermione wakes up to a friendly poke from Ron’s morning erection against her hip. She doesn’t open her eyes, just murmurs under her breath and rolls over, enjoying the cotton-to-cotton friction of his tented shorts against her knicker-clad bum.
“Morning,” he rumbles, pressing his lips to her shoulder where the stretched out collar of one of his outgrown T-shirts is slipping down. His bed smells like deep sleep and concentrated boy–neither Ron nor Harry seem to have quite got the hang of washing their sheets as often as she’d like. Not that she spends any time between Harry’s sheets–Ginny said.
But right now Hermione wants to soak up every particle of Ron-ness into her skin. And she can. All weekend. School’s finally over for her, and the boys have a break from Auror training. After a year of being separated too often–Ron with Harry in their London flat and her stubbornly finishing her last year at Hogwarts–they can be together now. In this bed.
Still, Hermione thinks, she’ll most likely nag him about his laundry habits eventually. But later. Right now the warm pressure of his hand on her breast is too pleasant.
“Missed you,” Ron whispers into her ear as he flips her body beneath his with casual strength.
“You’ve been seeing me all week!” Hermione laughs, but she knows what he means. It’s been a week of ceremony and family dinners and parties–even now, a year after it’s all over, people throughout the Wizarding world seem to leap at every chance to celebrate they can find.
“Yeah, but I couldn’t very well do this while your Mum and Dad were around, now could I?” By “this” he means slip his fingers between her legs, which part for him on instinct.
Hermione sighs, moving her mouth up to Ron’s ear to breathe into it, his resulting shiver vibrating out of him and straight into her crotch. She licks the shell of his ear with the tip of her tongue and does it again, feeling his cock jump where it’s stationed at a hover between her thighs.
“Ronald,” she says softly, just to torment him further. “Ron.” He likes to hear her say his name at close range. It makes him stiffer on impact. This is just one of the things she knows about him now that she hadn’t when they were “just friends.”
“I don’t suppose you’d take too kindly to me doing this in front of Molly and Arthur either,” Hermione says, continuing the joke. She strokes her index finger up the fabric-covered length of his hard-on, stopping once she reaches the elastic waistband of his shorts where the knob is edging out, already wet and excited-red.
“Gnnmph,” he offers eloquently as she circles the peek-a-boo head of his cock, smearing moisture with her fingertip. Ron chuckles. “They still think you sleep on the couch when you come for a visit.”
It was a funny thing, saving the world and then turning back into a semi-normal teenager. Sleeping in a tent with two boys for months on end–foraging for food, no parents or teachers in sight–and then overhearing Ron assure her father that his intentions with your daughter, Mr. Granger, are entirely honourable. Intentions–that word implied a future beyond tomorrow or the next day.
For Hermione, the shift was even more odd than it was for Harry and Ron. Because those two actually went on to something new, whereas she went back to where they’d been before. Everything was different–always would be–even as the reconstruction of the school aimed for a return to the same. On the outside at least.
But she likes it, the normality, the fact that their lives can actually plod along at a forward pace. And hiding your randy behaviour from your parents is the height of normal, Hermione’s pretty certain.
Speaking of randy behaviour, Ron’s rutting up against her now, shorts slipping down further with each thrust. Hermione gives his bum a playful squeeze. He hardly has one, it’s so small–despite the broad shoulders he’s sprouted on his ever-wiry frame. It gets lost in Muggle jeans, but it’s firm and square and has those boy hollows on each side. Not that Hermione checks out other blokes’ bums. Except she does–she just prefers Ron’s. Because it’s attached to him.
She could catalogue the rest of his body parts if you wanted–the placement of specific freckle constellations included–even though they haven’t done “it” yet. His body is familiar, safe, and taking things slow is a luxury. It’s something she wants to protect, in more ways than that one. That’s why when she starts looking at adverts for places to live and he suggests, “I don’t see why you don’t just move in here with me and Harry,” Hermione shakes her head. She kisses him with reassuring tongue and says, “All in good time, Ronald.” Besides, he’s not really thinking. Her parents might actually be all right with that, but the Wizarding world has different mores than Muggle society–the Weasleys would expect them to be married before they cohabitated. And Hermione’s got dreams of a small place for just her and her cat. She’s had enough of close quarters for now.
So she just says, “We can have sleepovers,” smiling suggestively.
Ron’s letting out a low whine now in the back of his throat. He pushes up the T-shirt to reveal her breasts and starts to suckle fiercely. Almost immediately Hermione becomes so slippery-wet she feels juicy, overflowing with easy love for him. She runs her fingers through his hair, tickling the back of his neck.
She feels languid, in no rush to move or do anything but feel this, and is unsurprised when Ron starts handling his own cock, still kissing and sucking at her nipples. He knows she likes to see how much she affects him, just by being her.
When he comes it is warm and sticky on her stomach. Ron looks a little apologetic, but she just smiles and says, “It’s okay, but I’m not done yet.” So he returns his attentions to her breasts, and eventually, with the addition of just a few light brushes of his fingertips on her clit–she hardly needs any more stimulation–Hermione comes too, muffling her own sex noises with the palm of her hand.
They fall asleep together that way, lazy and entwined.
*
“Ron,” Hermione says when they’re both blinking themselves awake again, limbs sticking sweatily together. “Does it...does it bother you that we haven’t made love yet?”
He snorts.
“Well! I suppose that’s my answer then,” she huffs.
“Shhhh, love. Settle down.” He kneads her naked hip with one hand, even as her arms cross tightly across her chest. “It’s just–that’s a rather poncy phrase, isn’t it?”
Hermione sniffs. Ron sighs.
“Sorry. I can be serious. Honest.” He pauses, suppressing a laugh, and then actually does shift his features into an earnest expression. “It’s not that I don’t want to, er, stick it in you...”
“Ronald!”
“...but I think the things we do are, um, lovely and...”
“And?”
“And we have time.”
Ron kisses her then, slow and sweet turning sloppy and wet. Hermione can feel her insides begin to boil again.
They have time. The rest of their lives, in fact. Not for the first time, Hermione wonders what it might have been like if Ron weren’t the only person she’d ever been with like this–or probably ever would be–but she puts it out of her mind. Because he’s right, it’s lovely.