Balance
Title: Balance
Characters/pairing: Ron/Hermione
Rating: R
Word count: 2357
Summary: So much has changed for us, Ron thought. There was a time when he thought of her as just a friend. He couldn’t fully remember it, because his feelings had become more complicated than that a very long time ago.
Summer at the Burrow, and a special night for Ron and Hermione.
**Written as a sequel to Boxcar, but may be enjoyed separately.
~
“Ron, could you lend me a hand with something?”
Ron looked up from his copy of Quidditch Illustrated to find Hermione waiting on him in typical fashion: hand on slightly jutted out hip, eyebrows raised impatiently.
Before this summer, that stance would have driven him mad with longing. Of all his Hermione daydreams, the one featuring Impatient-Sexy Hermione was one of the most often, er, utilised.
Now, though, he felt a bit differently as he looked at her. Well, actually that wasn’t true. It still drove him mad, the look. But now, there was a whole lot more going on. Recent memories compounded his feelings.
After their talk on the train ride home, they’d stolen a couple of heated kisses at the Dursleys’, and a few more since they’d been at the Burrow, and had even partaken in some frenzied, yet brief, snogging sessions. Ron felt like they’d come to some sort of unspoken resolution about what was going on between them, what had always been going on between them.
And the result of that, he’d been surprised to discover, was that looking at Hermione now made his heart swell just as much as other parts of him.
Another thing that had changed was that he sure as hell didn’t make her wait anymore. Getting to his feet, he asked, “What do you need, Hermione?”
And even that simple question led him to thoughts of a very specific sort.
She was paying no attention to those undertones at the moment, however, focused as she was on her task. “Well, I’ve been trying to hang a banner above the kitchen table, but for some reason I can’t get the charm quite right. I thought it’d be quicker to just do it without magic.”
A corner of Ron’s mouth twitched involuntarily, but before he could say anything, Hermione cut him off.
“Oh, shut it Ronald, it’s a large banner and a tricky charm.”
He feigned offence, one hand on his chest. “What? I didn’t say anything…d’you want my help or not?”
She huffed, but with humour, and led him to the kitchen. There was a large scarlet banner spread across the table that read Congratulations Bill & Fleur in large letters and then in smaller letters below, Welcome Home, Charlie.
“What’s with the Charlie bit?” That sounded so much less suspicious in my head, Ron thought.
“Well, I didn’t want him to feel left out. Tonight’s his homecoming as well.” She looked at Ron curiously.
“Ron...” she began, lowering her voice and casting a glance around to ensure they were alone, “are you jealous?”
“No!”
Well, maybe. But while he wasn’t exactly chuffed Charlie had popped into her mind, he was impressed that she was so sensitive to the being-overshadowed-by-your-older-brother thing.
She understood.
“If you must know,” he said, “I was thinking how nice it was that you thought of Charlie.”
She didn’t say anymore, so he let it go and helped her steady the ladder she’d Levitated in from the garden.
“I’m afraid it’s a bit rickety,” she said as she stepped up onto it. “So I was hoping you could just help me balance while I finish attaching the banner to the ceiling.”
While this seemed a simple request, Ron soon realised that his assignment meant a close-up and personal view of Hermione’s arse. He was only processing the ramifications of this when she reached down behind her to grab his hands and pull them up to her hips.
“Ron, please, could you give me a little support, here?”
“Sure, sorry.” He swallowed hard, then grabbed her hips and held on tight. Ron stood behind her while she went about her work, marveling at his good fortune, and praying to anyone who’d listen that no one came into the kitchen and distracted him from the sheer pleasure of it.
So much has changed for us, Ron thought. There was a time when he thought of her as just a friend. He couldn’t fully remember it, because his feelings had become more complicated than that a very long time ago. Still, he knew it to be true. He supposed there must have been a time when he could have stood here like this, helping his friend Hermione, without thinking much of it.
But now, he was not just standing here holding her hips to lend her support. He was relishing the feel of his large palms as they wrapped around her small waist. The way his thumbs could reach back to brush gently across the top of her arse if he found the courage to let them. He could discern the bone of her hips through her Muggle jeans and he involuntarily curled the very tips of his fingers around them, closing his eyes at the images it conjured.
Images of being in this same position on some other, not so far off occasion. Visions of his fingers finding purchase on those same hipbones to pull her back against him, using them to gain leverage for holding her tightly to him, for thrusting…
Preferably without the barrier of clothing, or the pretense of hanging a ruddy banner, or the threat of someone walking in.
He had the sudden realisation that he wanted her. What that meant. And at once he decided it was idiotic to be amazed at the thought, that it was no kind of realisation at all. Of course he wanted her.
He’d been attracted to her forever, and fantasised about her, of course. Actively fantasised about her, so to speak. But until recently it was easy to chalk that up to a million other reasons, usually the fact the she was the closest girl to him, proximity-wise.
But he no longer wanted Hermione as the object of his fanstasies. He wanted the real Hermione. He wanted to touch her in ways that were more than flirtatious. He wanted to make her feel the way she made him feel: that they couldn’t possibly get close enough.
And more, he wanted to bury himself inside her and hear her moan his name and please her and tell her that he loved her…
Oh God, Ron thought, I love her. The knowledge of it came rushing in and made him dizzy.
“Ron!” Hermione felt him falter as the ladder wobbled. Her voice startled him back to the present and he regained his composure.
“Sorry,” was all he could manage. But she was done now, descending the ladder steps. Though she still lingered on the bottom step, she was now looking up at him rather than down. Just slightly, though.
“You okay?” she asked, head cocked to the side in a way that drove him mad.
He wanted to tell her. Right then. He felt like now that he knew it himself he might die if he had to be the only one to know for very long. He opened his mouth, but any words his mind found to describe what he felt for her were of the flowery variety that would have his brothers mocking him for years if he ever spoke them aloud.
Before he could fully examine all his options, she lifted her chin up and kissed him. Hard. Snaked her hands in his hair and pulled his mouth into hers in a way that was not at all sunshine and flowers and picnics.
It was more like candlelight and wine and satin sheets.
Having Hermione six inches taller meant that there was a bit more contact between certain parts of them than they’d had before. And she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, when he instinctively pressed against her, she pushed back with equal enthusiasm.
And she moaned.
Bloody hell, thought Ron.
Just a small noise in the back of her throat, but it announced pretty much all he needed to know. She wanted him too, in that way, and the knowledge triggered an immediate reaction in his body.
Unfortunately, Ginny picked the same exact moment to enter the kitchen.
“Oh!” she said, barely concealing her smile as they quickly broke apart. “I’m really sorry, I’ll just-”
“No, Ginny, please don’t go,” said Hermione, stepping down from the ladder and smiling up at Ron without guilt. He was certain he was red as a redcurrant, but he found he wasn’t embarrassed.
“Yeah, it’s okay, Ginny. I’m actually glad it was you and not Mum.”
The three of them laughed nervously at the thought before Hermione took Ron’s hand and said, “Ginny, will you excuse us? We have something we need to finish.”
“Apparently,” they heard her mutter under her breath as they left the kitchen.
Hermione looked up at Ron for a suggestion, and he knew exactly what she was asking, what she was implying. He nodded and led the way out of the house and down the dirt road that led to the southernmost end of the Weasley property.
The afternoon was beautiful, warm and breezy and clear. And the sun was just setting below the tree line, leaving a blaze of orange and gold across the sky. They walked without speaking, and Ron thought it was nice that they didn’t needs words. He also marveled at how uncharacteristically Hermione it was that she didn’t ask where they were going. That she just walked along with him hand in hand, occasionally shooting a smile in his direction.
She seemed to just enjoy the silence; there was no sound but their footfall on the dirt road and the crickets ushering in the dusk.
After they’d walked about a half mile they came to a clearing and Ron led her toward an old stone foundation, crumbling into and onto the earth around it.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“It was a cider house at some point, according to Dad, but not in his lifetime. I guess there was a small orchard on the property way back. We used to play games down here.”
She absently stroked one of the large stones in what remained of the wall. “I never knew this was here. It must have been beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” Ron said, before he could check himself.
“Ron…” Hermione reached out to him, gesturing for him to come closer.
As he slid his arms around her waist, she asked, “What was it you were going to tell me? You know, before…” she gestured toward the house, which was no longer visible from where they were. “…before I interrupted you.”
“It was some interruption.”
She knew what he had been trying to say back there, he could tell. And she didn’t steal his thunder. As recently as year ago she probably would have stolen the moment, made it her own. But they’d come so far, and she knew what he needed. Now she handed it back to him.
Which gave even deeper meaning to what he was about to say. After he took a deep breath, of course; he wasn’t sure he was getting enough oxygen.
“That I love you. That I’m in love with you. I reckon I have been for… well, can’t remember when I wasn’t.”
She didn’t respond, so he felt like he should fill the silence. Was it too soon to be saying this?
“Hermione, I’m not sure what that even means, and to be honest, it scares the shite out of me…” She chuckled with him, pulling him closer.
“…but I swear I’m going to work it out. I don’t want to waste any more time.”
“Ron, there’s probably a lot we need to say to each other, and we should talk about everything that’s happened this past year, and I need so much for you to know how I feel as well, but…” She chewed her lip, looking up at him.
“But?”
“But we need to get back to the house soon, and I’d like for you to stop talking now and kiss me again.” She looked at her toes for second, before saying, “The way you kissed me in the house.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He bent and kissed her with all the emotion he’d been storing away for years, pushing her back slightly against the stone wall until he found enough resistance to bring their bodies into close contact once more. It elicited from her the same small moan that nearly killed him a short while ago.
And from there they moved forward-the only place they could go. They shivered as clothing was peeled away, exposing heated skin to the cool evening air. Without much time, they couldn’t explore as slowly as they would have liked, and he said as much. But she shushed him, gently urged him on to make the most of the time they had. He wasn’t sure if she meant the time before the party, or the time before they left the Burrow.
Or perhaps both. But it didn’t matter.
The feeling of skin on skin was more incredible than he’d ever suspected, and he almost lost it when she lifted her hips to meet him, almost impatiently. She was exactly the way he knew she would be: beautiful, confident, open, and unbelievably sexy.
It was funny, he thought, how something so new could be so familiar, as if they’d done this a million times, and not just dreamed of it so often.
Walking back, he couldn’t stop smiling. She rolled her eyes at him. “Honestly, Ron. Why don’t you wear a sign, for heaven’s sake? Announce it to the whole party.”
Feeling rather pleased with himself, he couldn’t help teasing her back. “I’d make a banner, but who’d hang it?”
“Come off it, Ronald. You think I can’t charm a banner to hang?”
He stopped in his tracks. “What?”
She didn’t turn round, just kept walking when she answered. “Well, I was going mad being so close to you in this house without being able to touch you.”
Holy shite. Schemer.
Naughty-Sexy Hermione was quickly replacing Impatient-Sexy Hermione in the files of his sordid mind. And when she looked over her shoulder at him and flashed him a devilish smile, Ron couldn’t help but whimper a little.
Characters/pairing: Ron/Hermione
Rating: R
Word count: 2357
Summary: So much has changed for us, Ron thought. There was a time when he thought of her as just a friend. He couldn’t fully remember it, because his feelings had become more complicated than that a very long time ago.
Summer at the Burrow, and a special night for Ron and Hermione.
**Written as a sequel to Boxcar, but may be enjoyed separately.
~
“Ron, could you lend me a hand with something?”
Ron looked up from his copy of Quidditch Illustrated to find Hermione waiting on him in typical fashion: hand on slightly jutted out hip, eyebrows raised impatiently.
Before this summer, that stance would have driven him mad with longing. Of all his Hermione daydreams, the one featuring Impatient-Sexy Hermione was one of the most often, er, utilised.
Now, though, he felt a bit differently as he looked at her. Well, actually that wasn’t true. It still drove him mad, the look. But now, there was a whole lot more going on. Recent memories compounded his feelings.
After their talk on the train ride home, they’d stolen a couple of heated kisses at the Dursleys’, and a few more since they’d been at the Burrow, and had even partaken in some frenzied, yet brief, snogging sessions. Ron felt like they’d come to some sort of unspoken resolution about what was going on between them, what had always been going on between them.
And the result of that, he’d been surprised to discover, was that looking at Hermione now made his heart swell just as much as other parts of him.
Another thing that had changed was that he sure as hell didn’t make her wait anymore. Getting to his feet, he asked, “What do you need, Hermione?”
And even that simple question led him to thoughts of a very specific sort.
She was paying no attention to those undertones at the moment, however, focused as she was on her task. “Well, I’ve been trying to hang a banner above the kitchen table, but for some reason I can’t get the charm quite right. I thought it’d be quicker to just do it without magic.”
A corner of Ron’s mouth twitched involuntarily, but before he could say anything, Hermione cut him off.
“Oh, shut it Ronald, it’s a large banner and a tricky charm.”
He feigned offence, one hand on his chest. “What? I didn’t say anything…d’you want my help or not?”
She huffed, but with humour, and led him to the kitchen. There was a large scarlet banner spread across the table that read Congratulations Bill & Fleur in large letters and then in smaller letters below, Welcome Home, Charlie.
“What’s with the Charlie bit?” That sounded so much less suspicious in my head, Ron thought.
“Well, I didn’t want him to feel left out. Tonight’s his homecoming as well.” She looked at Ron curiously.
“Ron...” she began, lowering her voice and casting a glance around to ensure they were alone, “are you jealous?”
“No!”
Well, maybe. But while he wasn’t exactly chuffed Charlie had popped into her mind, he was impressed that she was so sensitive to the being-overshadowed-by-your-older-brother thing.
She understood.
“If you must know,” he said, “I was thinking how nice it was that you thought of Charlie.”
She didn’t say anymore, so he let it go and helped her steady the ladder she’d Levitated in from the garden.
“I’m afraid it’s a bit rickety,” she said as she stepped up onto it. “So I was hoping you could just help me balance while I finish attaching the banner to the ceiling.”
While this seemed a simple request, Ron soon realised that his assignment meant a close-up and personal view of Hermione’s arse. He was only processing the ramifications of this when she reached down behind her to grab his hands and pull them up to her hips.
“Ron, please, could you give me a little support, here?”
“Sure, sorry.” He swallowed hard, then grabbed her hips and held on tight. Ron stood behind her while she went about her work, marveling at his good fortune, and praying to anyone who’d listen that no one came into the kitchen and distracted him from the sheer pleasure of it.
So much has changed for us, Ron thought. There was a time when he thought of her as just a friend. He couldn’t fully remember it, because his feelings had become more complicated than that a very long time ago. Still, he knew it to be true. He supposed there must have been a time when he could have stood here like this, helping his friend Hermione, without thinking much of it.
But now, he was not just standing here holding her hips to lend her support. He was relishing the feel of his large palms as they wrapped around her small waist. The way his thumbs could reach back to brush gently across the top of her arse if he found the courage to let them. He could discern the bone of her hips through her Muggle jeans and he involuntarily curled the very tips of his fingers around them, closing his eyes at the images it conjured.
Images of being in this same position on some other, not so far off occasion. Visions of his fingers finding purchase on those same hipbones to pull her back against him, using them to gain leverage for holding her tightly to him, for thrusting…
Preferably without the barrier of clothing, or the pretense of hanging a ruddy banner, or the threat of someone walking in.
He had the sudden realisation that he wanted her. What that meant. And at once he decided it was idiotic to be amazed at the thought, that it was no kind of realisation at all. Of course he wanted her.
He’d been attracted to her forever, and fantasised about her, of course. Actively fantasised about her, so to speak. But until recently it was easy to chalk that up to a million other reasons, usually the fact the she was the closest girl to him, proximity-wise.
But he no longer wanted Hermione as the object of his fanstasies. He wanted the real Hermione. He wanted to touch her in ways that were more than flirtatious. He wanted to make her feel the way she made him feel: that they couldn’t possibly get close enough.
And more, he wanted to bury himself inside her and hear her moan his name and please her and tell her that he loved her…
Oh God, Ron thought, I love her. The knowledge of it came rushing in and made him dizzy.
“Ron!” Hermione felt him falter as the ladder wobbled. Her voice startled him back to the present and he regained his composure.
“Sorry,” was all he could manage. But she was done now, descending the ladder steps. Though she still lingered on the bottom step, she was now looking up at him rather than down. Just slightly, though.
“You okay?” she asked, head cocked to the side in a way that drove him mad.
He wanted to tell her. Right then. He felt like now that he knew it himself he might die if he had to be the only one to know for very long. He opened his mouth, but any words his mind found to describe what he felt for her were of the flowery variety that would have his brothers mocking him for years if he ever spoke them aloud.
Before he could fully examine all his options, she lifted her chin up and kissed him. Hard. Snaked her hands in his hair and pulled his mouth into hers in a way that was not at all sunshine and flowers and picnics.
It was more like candlelight and wine and satin sheets.
Having Hermione six inches taller meant that there was a bit more contact between certain parts of them than they’d had before. And she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, when he instinctively pressed against her, she pushed back with equal enthusiasm.
And she moaned.
Bloody hell, thought Ron.
Just a small noise in the back of her throat, but it announced pretty much all he needed to know. She wanted him too, in that way, and the knowledge triggered an immediate reaction in his body.
Unfortunately, Ginny picked the same exact moment to enter the kitchen.
“Oh!” she said, barely concealing her smile as they quickly broke apart. “I’m really sorry, I’ll just-”
“No, Ginny, please don’t go,” said Hermione, stepping down from the ladder and smiling up at Ron without guilt. He was certain he was red as a redcurrant, but he found he wasn’t embarrassed.
“Yeah, it’s okay, Ginny. I’m actually glad it was you and not Mum.”
The three of them laughed nervously at the thought before Hermione took Ron’s hand and said, “Ginny, will you excuse us? We have something we need to finish.”
“Apparently,” they heard her mutter under her breath as they left the kitchen.
Hermione looked up at Ron for a suggestion, and he knew exactly what she was asking, what she was implying. He nodded and led the way out of the house and down the dirt road that led to the southernmost end of the Weasley property.
The afternoon was beautiful, warm and breezy and clear. And the sun was just setting below the tree line, leaving a blaze of orange and gold across the sky. They walked without speaking, and Ron thought it was nice that they didn’t needs words. He also marveled at how uncharacteristically Hermione it was that she didn’t ask where they were going. That she just walked along with him hand in hand, occasionally shooting a smile in his direction.
She seemed to just enjoy the silence; there was no sound but their footfall on the dirt road and the crickets ushering in the dusk.
After they’d walked about a half mile they came to a clearing and Ron led her toward an old stone foundation, crumbling into and onto the earth around it.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“It was a cider house at some point, according to Dad, but not in his lifetime. I guess there was a small orchard on the property way back. We used to play games down here.”
She absently stroked one of the large stones in what remained of the wall. “I never knew this was here. It must have been beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful,” Ron said, before he could check himself.
“Ron…” Hermione reached out to him, gesturing for him to come closer.
As he slid his arms around her waist, she asked, “What was it you were going to tell me? You know, before…” she gestured toward the house, which was no longer visible from where they were. “…before I interrupted you.”
“It was some interruption.”
She knew what he had been trying to say back there, he could tell. And she didn’t steal his thunder. As recently as year ago she probably would have stolen the moment, made it her own. But they’d come so far, and she knew what he needed. Now she handed it back to him.
Which gave even deeper meaning to what he was about to say. After he took a deep breath, of course; he wasn’t sure he was getting enough oxygen.
“That I love you. That I’m in love with you. I reckon I have been for… well, can’t remember when I wasn’t.”
She didn’t respond, so he felt like he should fill the silence. Was it too soon to be saying this?
“Hermione, I’m not sure what that even means, and to be honest, it scares the shite out of me…” She chuckled with him, pulling him closer.
“…but I swear I’m going to work it out. I don’t want to waste any more time.”
“Ron, there’s probably a lot we need to say to each other, and we should talk about everything that’s happened this past year, and I need so much for you to know how I feel as well, but…” She chewed her lip, looking up at him.
“But?”
“But we need to get back to the house soon, and I’d like for you to stop talking now and kiss me again.” She looked at her toes for second, before saying, “The way you kissed me in the house.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He bent and kissed her with all the emotion he’d been storing away for years, pushing her back slightly against the stone wall until he found enough resistance to bring their bodies into close contact once more. It elicited from her the same small moan that nearly killed him a short while ago.
And from there they moved forward-the only place they could go. They shivered as clothing was peeled away, exposing heated skin to the cool evening air. Without much time, they couldn’t explore as slowly as they would have liked, and he said as much. But she shushed him, gently urged him on to make the most of the time they had. He wasn’t sure if she meant the time before the party, or the time before they left the Burrow.
Or perhaps both. But it didn’t matter.
The feeling of skin on skin was more incredible than he’d ever suspected, and he almost lost it when she lifted her hips to meet him, almost impatiently. She was exactly the way he knew she would be: beautiful, confident, open, and unbelievably sexy.
It was funny, he thought, how something so new could be so familiar, as if they’d done this a million times, and not just dreamed of it so often.
Walking back, he couldn’t stop smiling. She rolled her eyes at him. “Honestly, Ron. Why don’t you wear a sign, for heaven’s sake? Announce it to the whole party.”
Feeling rather pleased with himself, he couldn’t help teasing her back. “I’d make a banner, but who’d hang it?”
“Come off it, Ronald. You think I can’t charm a banner to hang?”
He stopped in his tracks. “What?”
She didn’t turn round, just kept walking when she answered. “Well, I was going mad being so close to you in this house without being able to touch you.”
Holy shite. Schemer.
Naughty-Sexy Hermione was quickly replacing Impatient-Sexy Hermione in the files of his sordid mind. And when she looked over her shoulder at him and flashed him a devilish smile, Ron couldn’t help but whimper a little.