Fic Request Fulfilled for kiwikewte
Title: Firewhiskey
Author: pumpkinpasty
Beta: akissinacrisis
Rating: PG-15
Word count: 3489
Summary: When Hermione's parents are attacked by Death Eaters on Christmas, Ron doesn't quite know how to help her. Meanwhile, Harry's missing his Ginny. On New Year's Eve, two bottles of firewhiskey help the three of them kick off the new year.
Warnings: Mild sexuality, angst. Mention of H/G.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the gang belong to J.K. Rowling. No profit was made from this fic, I'm just having a bit of fun.
Author's Notes: Major thanks to M. for, well, everything. To the recipient, this fic turned out a bit sweeter than I intended, but I appreciated the chance to write all the angst! I hope that this is what you had in mind. Happy Belated New Year! :)
*
Blood. That was the first thing Ron saw when he entered the house. It spattered the windows and the curtains. It slid down the fancy china cabinet in the corner of the room.
The second thing he saw was Hermione.
She was kneeling over something large, her eyes wide and swimming with tears. Ron felt his heart drop into his stomach.
He didn’t understand how this could have happened, not when the Grangers had Aurors patrolling their neighbourhood every night since summer. None of it made sense. But then, evil wasn’t supposed to make sense, was it?
Ron knelt beside Hermione and stared at Mrs Granger, who lay spread-eagled on the hardwood floor. Clearing his throat, he grasped Hermione firmly by her upper arm and pulled her against him. Like a rag doll, she crumpled into his chest and let out a dry sob.
Ron peered over the top of her head and took in the surroundings. Freshly crumpled wrapping paper still littered the room. Nearby, three stockings hung from the fireplace mantelpiece. He winced.
Leave it to Voldemort to do this on Christmas.
*
Ron slumped into the tattered cushions with a slight poof, a bottle filled with Butterbeer held loosely between his thumb and forefinger. He sighed and swirled the amber liquid absentmindedly, staring into the empty hearth. Soot and rubbish littered the empty grate. Outside, white powder fell across the lawn and into the turrets and balconies of Grimmauld Place, squeezing between broken windows in abandoned rooms.
Inside, it was cold. The thin blankets Harry, Ron, and Hermione had managed to find weren’t nearly enough to block the chill that ran through the drafty house. Hermione slept in a black armchair, several of those thin blankets wrapped tightly around her. Ron lifted his wand and pointed it at the fireplace; flames burst to life, casting a warm glow across the room and onto Hermione, who sighed and shifted in her chair. Ron swallowed a mouthful of Butterbeer and watched her sadly.
Up until that day, he hadn’t thought twice about what they were doing. Going after the Horcruxes was just another one of their missions, another thing they needed to do. It never occurred to him that he and Hermione wouldn’t help Harry; in fact, he had rather enjoyed it so far - no classes, no parents, just Ron and the two people he loved most. They spent their days reading and practising Defence. Occasionally, Hermione would let him distract her from her studies; he liked those days. They reminded him of peacetime, before the war, and the kind of peace they could have once everything was over and done.
But this. He hated this. He hated Voldemort and the Death Eaters and the bloody Horcruxes. He hated that he had to help Hermione plan her parents’ funerals. He hated waking in the middle of the night to the sound of her cries. He hated waiting helplessly while she shut herself in her bedroom. He hated watching Harry brood and blame himself for countless deaths and tortures and rapes and kidnappings. He hated reading Ginny’s letters, which always asked in a not-so-subtle way How Was Harry?
Most of all, though, he hated himself for not being able to protect them.
A creak of the stairs startled Ron out of his reverie, and he twisted around to see Harry’s black mop emerge from the stairwell. He was carrying two identical bottles - one empty and the other filled with a reddish liquid.
“Wossat?” Ron asked, when Harry took a seat on the black rug before the fire. He guessed the liquid wasn’t fruit juice.
“Firewhiskey,” Harry replied. “Got it from Sirius’ old room.” He popped the cork from the full bottle and took a large gulp. Ron frowned.
“You drank that other bottle, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Harry shrugged noncommittally. Then he hiccupped and Ron leaned forward.
“You’re pissed!”
Harry shrugged again, and they fell into silence. Ron knew it was useless, trying to coax a conversation out of Harry. He had kept to himself ever since they began searching for the Horcruxes; Ron and Hermione suspected the loss of Dumbledore had hurt Harry more than he let on.
The wind outside howled and screeched as it squeezed through the cracks of the entrance hall’s double doors. Ron watched as Harry swallowed another mouthful of firewhiskey.
“Listen,” Ron began, ”you shouldn’t - “
“It’s so cold,” Harry interrupted, his voice little more than a whisper. “I can’t stand it.”
“Yeah, well, I started the fire - “
“You know what I mean.”
Ron sucked in a breath. He did know. He had known since they left home, though he hated admitting it. Wherever they went, it was cold. Not the kind of cold that snowy weather brings, but a different kind of cold - one that Ron felt in the centre of his bones and in the depths of his stomach. It came in waves, intense one moment and only mildly uncomfortable the next. He had asked Hermione about it late one evening when they were curled up together, and she told him that she thought it was loneliness.
“I’m not lonely,” Ron had said.
“Maybe you’re not, but Harry is,” she replied, sliding her hand across his bare chest.
“He’s got us.”
“He knows that, Ron, but Harry - he’s always felt things stronger than most people. There’s an ancient magic that I think he‘s connected with, but he doesn‘t realize it. Sort of like the time he blew up his aunt. It’s complicated, but - but I think Harry’s doing this.”
Ron had sighed and stroked her hair absentmindedly. “Can we help?”
Their eyes met. “I don’t know.”
Now, with the icy freeze sweeping around them, dampening the warmth of the fire, Ron eyed Harry warily as he drank. And drank and drank. Then Harry spoke again, still in that hoarse whisper.
“I’m going to go and see Ginny.”
Ron frowned. It was bad enough for Ginny to say goodbye to him once. They had all known that. But twice? He wondered if it was too much for her to handle.
“Harry - “ he began, pushing himself off the settee. Harry uncrossed his legs and set the firewhiskey on the floor.
“I’m going, and that‘s it,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “She shouldn’t be alone tonight. Not on New Year’s Eve.” His bottle green eyes were fierce in a way Ron hadn’t seen them in weeks, and his hair stood on end. “She needs me and I - I need to see her.”
Ron sighed for what seemed like the millionth time that night. It made him feel old. “Can you Apparate when you’re drunk?”
“If I can Apparate hundreds of miles in the middle of the night while supporting my dying professor and after being attacked by hundreds of Inferi, then I think I can Apparate to Hogwarts when I’m drunk.”
A small part of Ron thought that those words might have been funny, in a way, if they’d been spoken under different circumstances. In another time, in another place, if they were different people, he might have been amused. But they weren’t. And he wasn’t.
“Right,” he said, holding out his hand. Harry grasped it, pulled himself up, and Ron clapped him on the back. “Tell her Happy New Year for me, yeah? And make sure you’re back before nine tomorrow morning or Hermione’ll go mad.” Harry smiled and nodded, then disappeared with a pop.
Ron bent down and picked up the open bottle of firewhiskey, surveying the contents interestedly. He’d seen Fred and George drunk off the stuff before, stumbling around the Gryffindor Common Room, slopping drinks and roaring with laughter, but this would be his first time tasting it. Toasting the empty room, he shrugged and took a large gulp.
It was nothing like he ever could have imagined. He was on fire. His lips, his tongue, his throat, his insides were bloody burning. Smoke puffed from his reddened ears and his eyes streamed. Then the room was spinning and spinning and twirling and Ron was dizzyhotnauseousdying.
Firewhiskey was an entirely misleading name for the damn stuff, Ron decided later, when he woke with a pounding headache and no pyjama shirt. It should have been called Lava-whiskey or Burn-whiskey or maybe, he thought, just Fire.
He collapsed sideways onto the settee, coughing and sputtering. Swearing loudly, he wondered vaguely how Harry had managed to finish a whole bottle.
Across the room, the lump on the armchair stirred and Hermione emerged from the moth-eaten depths of three blankets, her eyes dazed and unfocused as she stretched her arms over her head. Ron sat up and swung his legs onto the couch. Leaning against the armrest, he braced himself and took another drink from the bottle.
“Wha… what’s that?” Hermione asked, standing up and yawning.
“Firewhiskey,” Ron mumbled, after tossing his head back and tipping more of the fiery liquid down his throat. It wasn’t so bad, he decided, though he wasn’t quite sure about the humming in his head.
"Ron!“
He threw up his hands and peered up at her innocently. “What?”
“You’re drunk!”
“Not yet I’m not.”
Hermione huffed, turning on her heel and snatching up the blankets to fold them. Once or twice, she glanced pointedly over her shoulder at him and rolled her eyes. When she finished, she fluffed the pillows angrily, beating each one a little too hard. Dust floated around her head in a dense cloud and she sneezed. Ron laughed, though he knew he shouldn't. She glared at him once more before busying herself over the fire.
With the stealth of someone much smaller than him, Ron padded across the rug and slipped his arms round her waist, pulling her against his chest. She struggled momentarily, but he held her fast, his large hand splayed across her belly.
"Ron!"
He lowered his lips to her neck. "Mmm?"
"You..."
"Are amazing, Ron." His tongue grazed the sensitive skin at the base of her neck.
"You..."
"Are even sexier drunk, Ron." He sucked lightly; she shivered.
"Drunk... on - oh - New Year's, of all days."
"The shock!"
"Oh, I..."
"Shouldn't get so miffed, I know."
His hands teased the hem of her shirt, but just as his fingers slipped under, she whirled around to face him.
"I am not miffed," she said, but her eyes were bright and the corner of her mouth twitched. This pleased Ron; lately, the moments her eyes danced like that fell few and far between. "Forgive me for being concerned about you then, will you?" She smiled. Ron's jaw dropped in mock incredulity.
"You? Concerned about me?"
But he knew immediately - despite the whiskey - that it was the wrong thing to say. Hermione lowered her eyes and stared at his chest. "Oh, shut it," she muttered, her voice lower and not nearly as playful. Ron cursed himself inwardly.
"Kidding, Hermione. Kidding," he said, hoping to recover before she lost herself in thoughts of all the people she was concerned and afraid for. He kissed her nose, earning a small smile and a giggle.
In all the years he had known Hermione, Ron had never heard her giggle until very recently and even then, she only did so when she was sure they were alone. He found he liked it; it made him want to kiss her everywhere he thought she might let him.
He didn't, though, because she pulled away from him and bent over the fire once more. A moment later, Ron had turned his back and was reaching for the half-drunk bottle of firewhiskey when he felt Hermione's small hands tracing circles across his back, beneath his pyjama shirt. He groaned. Did she know what she was doing to him? Probably, he thought. That was what made her so undeniably sexy.
She pushed his shirt up and pressed a kiss to his back. Growling, he whirled around and hauled her up against his chest, crushing his lips to hers. She whimpered and kissed him back with fervor, her hands sliding up his chest, hips rocking against the bulge in his trousers.
They had never kissed like this. Hell, she had never let him kiss her like this, though he always had moments where his control felt like it might slip. She always brought him back down to earth, stopping his roaming hands and lips with urgent, breathless whispers.
He sucked her upper lip and she moaned, tangling her fingers in his hair. Gripping her hips tightly, he lifted her; she wrapped her legs around his waist and he stumbled backwards into the sofa where they collapsed, Hermione straddling him.
Moments later she broke away from him, gasping. Ron gazed at her, taking in her dishevelled appearance and swollen lips. Sometimes, he thought, he really couldn't believe how beautiful she was. Especially like this, so unreserved and passionate. And he loved that he was the one who drove her to it. That he was the only one who could make her like this.
Their breath mingled as he leaned in to kiss her again and she pulled away, disentangling herself from his arms and shirt. Ron couldn't resist breaking the silence.
"Amazing," he breathed. "You - amazing."
She blushed and shook her head. Ron ran his hands along the soft skin of her arms. "Yes."
Hermione shook her head again and suddenly twisted around in his lap, leaning close to the ground and waving an arm about as though feeling for something. She surfaced with the bottle of firewhiskey and leaned in so Ron's nose brushed hers.
"I don't want to be sad anymore, Ron," she said, lifting the bottle to her lips. Ron sucked in a breath.
"Hermione - don't -" he tried, but her eyes flashed and he froze.
"What - you can and I can't? Because I'm a girl?" she demanded. Ron knew that wasn't it. Something felt wrong about it; he didn't quite like the idea of Hermione "drinking away her sorrows," so to speak. Not to mention that he didn't fancy her insides corroding because she tried the wretched stuff.
But before he could speak, she had tossed her head backwards and taken three large, consecutive gulps.
"Hermione!"
She hung her head backwards, exposing the pale skin on her neck and collarbone. Ron fought the urge to latch his lips to her neck and taste her skin until she moaned.
When Hermione righted herself, she seemed perfectly normal, though a little flushed. She smiled at Ron, whose eyes widened.
“How did you - ” he began, suddenly shamed by his melodramatic reaction to the whiskey. “Was that your first time?”
Hermione shook her head. “Last year the 5th, 6th, and 7th year girls held a party in our dormitory. We all tried it. I wouldn’t have, though, if Ginny hadn’t convinced me. Said it’d be better to get the first time over with. Guess it‘s true.”
Ron laughed as Hermione drank from the bottle again. He tickled her ribs and she rolled into the seat beside him, curling up and resting her head against his shoulder. He took another swig of whiskey and ran his fingers through her frizzy curls.
A year ago, he never would have imagined that he and Hermione could be here like this, so comfortable and at ease. He never would have imagined that she would let him kiss her the way she did, or that she’d tell him all that she told him, or that he’d have the nerve to tease her and play with her the way he did. It was more than he could have hoped for, and when he told her that, she just smiled and kissed him.
Comfort. Sex. Passion. Loyalty. Those were things he tried to give Hermione. Those were the things he knew she gave him. There wasn’t a moment that went by that he took them for granted. He couldn’t possibly, not with their family and friends dying and disappearing every day. He didn’t want to, because he really, really needed her these days.
A warm, sweet aroma filled the room. Ron hadn’t noticed it before, what with all the kissing and the drinking, but now it filled his nostrils, succulent and intoxicating. He inhaled deeply.
“Hermione, what is that?” he breathed, looking around. She pointed at the grate, where a large black cauldron floated above the fire. He hadn’t noticed that either. “What is it?”
“Toddy,” she murmured. He arched an eyebrow questioningly.
“Water with sugar cane and fruit boiled in it. Plus cinnamon. It’s very good. You‘ll like it.”
Ron’s stomach rumbled. “Is it done?” he asked.
Hermione nodded. “Probably,” she said, waving her wand and producing two red and green cups. She pushed herself off the sofa and poured them two steaming mugs of the toddy. Ron inhaled again and peered down into his cup. The liquid was a deep red and smelled like heaven. He took a sip. Tastes like heaven, too, he thought, sighing.
He watched as Hermione lifted her mug to her lips and sipped delicately. Then, without warning, she squeezed her eyes shut and let out a whimper. Ron cocked his head and frowned. “Hermione?”
He found himself looking into her bright brown eyes, which were glassy and watery with tears. Dumbfounded, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head wildly and pressed her lips together, tears now streaming faster and faster down her cheeks. Ron looked alarm. He set his mug down on the floor and grasped her shoulders. “Hermione! What - ?”
She tore away from him and made to leave, but Ron caught her by the arm and tugged her back down beside him, where she landed with a gasp.
“Where are you going?” he asked, keeping a firm grasp on her arm.
“Upstairs, Ron. I’m all - I’m all splotchy, and you - you don’t want to see me cry, I’m a wreck - look at me - “
Ron straightened up in the chair and did look at her, frowning.
“I’m your friend,” he said fiercely. “I don't care how splotchy you are.” Hermione sniffled and swiped at her eyes. Ron swallowed, bracing himself to say the things they'd both been avoiding since Christmas.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m looking at you and all I see is my best friend, who lost her home and her parents and her childhood all in one day. And believe me, after all that, I just want you to stay here with me, not go upstairs - I’m tired of you locking yourself in your room because I want to help you. I want you to stay here so I can watch you and - and - ” He broke off, his ears flushing.
“And what?”
Ron hesitated, biting his tongue. You need to say this, he told himself. She needs to hear it. “I just want to take care of you,” he whispered, blushing. “You know that, don’t you?”
Hermione’s eyes shone. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“Right, so, just stay here, all right?” She nodded. He stretched out his sleeve and wiped her tears. Then he held it out to her. “Blow,” he commanded. Hermione looked scandalized.
“Ron!”
“Only joking.”
They settled beside each other once more. “So,” Ron began, tentatively. “Want to tell me what's got you upset?”
Hermione took a breath and sipped her cup of toddy.
“It’s not anything, you know, shocking,” she said. “It’s just - my mum and I used to make this every Christmas Eve. Like a tradition. And drinking this sort of reminded me of it, and it reminded me that we’ll never get to do that again.”
She fell silent and Ron looked at her.
“Listen,” he said, frowning, “you and your mum might never get to make this stuff again together, that’s true, but don’t you think that if you do it every year anyway, it’ll be like she’s with you?”
Hermione smiled faintly. “I suppose,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I think so.”
Silence again.
“Ron, do you think I’m off my rocker?” she asked several minutes later.
“Only a bit,” he replied, grinning. “But I’ve always thought that. S’why you’ve got me, to keep you sane, you know.” She gave a watery laugh and Ron clasped her hand.
Somewhere in the house, the old grandfather clocked chimed once, twice, twelve times. Ron counted under his breath.
Then there was silence, save the crackling of the dying fire in the hearth.
Hermione nestled closer to Ron. Ron buried his face in her hair.
“Happy New Year, Ron.”
“Happy New Year, Hermione.”
------------------------
ORIGINAL REQUEST:
Briefly describe what you'd like to receive: An angsty dark fiction, with romance.
Preferred Rating: R
OBHWF Inclusion: Yes
Holiday Choice (Christmas, New Year's, Both, or Unimportant):Both
If both, when would you like the fic to be posted? Don't mind
Other Holidays to incorporate (optional, maximum of three):
One to three specifics you want (optional):The new year's after sixth year. Ron and Hermione are left alone at Grimmauld Place while Harry is off doing some business alone.
Deal Breakers (what don't you want?): Nother EXTREMELY smutty, as in borderline porn (not above R)
Thank you for participating in the Winter Exchange! Happy Holidays!
Author: pumpkinpasty
Beta: akissinacrisis
Rating: PG-15
Word count: 3489
Summary: When Hermione's parents are attacked by Death Eaters on Christmas, Ron doesn't quite know how to help her. Meanwhile, Harry's missing his Ginny. On New Year's Eve, two bottles of firewhiskey help the three of them kick off the new year.
Warnings: Mild sexuality, angst. Mention of H/G.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the gang belong to J.K. Rowling. No profit was made from this fic, I'm just having a bit of fun.
Author's Notes: Major thanks to M. for, well, everything. To the recipient, this fic turned out a bit sweeter than I intended, but I appreciated the chance to write all the angst! I hope that this is what you had in mind. Happy Belated New Year! :)
*
Blood. That was the first thing Ron saw when he entered the house. It spattered the windows and the curtains. It slid down the fancy china cabinet in the corner of the room.
The second thing he saw was Hermione.
She was kneeling over something large, her eyes wide and swimming with tears. Ron felt his heart drop into his stomach.
He didn’t understand how this could have happened, not when the Grangers had Aurors patrolling their neighbourhood every night since summer. None of it made sense. But then, evil wasn’t supposed to make sense, was it?
Ron knelt beside Hermione and stared at Mrs Granger, who lay spread-eagled on the hardwood floor. Clearing his throat, he grasped Hermione firmly by her upper arm and pulled her against him. Like a rag doll, she crumpled into his chest and let out a dry sob.
Ron peered over the top of her head and took in the surroundings. Freshly crumpled wrapping paper still littered the room. Nearby, three stockings hung from the fireplace mantelpiece. He winced.
Leave it to Voldemort to do this on Christmas.
*
Ron slumped into the tattered cushions with a slight poof, a bottle filled with Butterbeer held loosely between his thumb and forefinger. He sighed and swirled the amber liquid absentmindedly, staring into the empty hearth. Soot and rubbish littered the empty grate. Outside, white powder fell across the lawn and into the turrets and balconies of Grimmauld Place, squeezing between broken windows in abandoned rooms.
Inside, it was cold. The thin blankets Harry, Ron, and Hermione had managed to find weren’t nearly enough to block the chill that ran through the drafty house. Hermione slept in a black armchair, several of those thin blankets wrapped tightly around her. Ron lifted his wand and pointed it at the fireplace; flames burst to life, casting a warm glow across the room and onto Hermione, who sighed and shifted in her chair. Ron swallowed a mouthful of Butterbeer and watched her sadly.
Up until that day, he hadn’t thought twice about what they were doing. Going after the Horcruxes was just another one of their missions, another thing they needed to do. It never occurred to him that he and Hermione wouldn’t help Harry; in fact, he had rather enjoyed it so far - no classes, no parents, just Ron and the two people he loved most. They spent their days reading and practising Defence. Occasionally, Hermione would let him distract her from her studies; he liked those days. They reminded him of peacetime, before the war, and the kind of peace they could have once everything was over and done.
But this. He hated this. He hated Voldemort and the Death Eaters and the bloody Horcruxes. He hated that he had to help Hermione plan her parents’ funerals. He hated waking in the middle of the night to the sound of her cries. He hated waiting helplessly while she shut herself in her bedroom. He hated watching Harry brood and blame himself for countless deaths and tortures and rapes and kidnappings. He hated reading Ginny’s letters, which always asked in a not-so-subtle way How Was Harry?
Most of all, though, he hated himself for not being able to protect them.
A creak of the stairs startled Ron out of his reverie, and he twisted around to see Harry’s black mop emerge from the stairwell. He was carrying two identical bottles - one empty and the other filled with a reddish liquid.
“Wossat?” Ron asked, when Harry took a seat on the black rug before the fire. He guessed the liquid wasn’t fruit juice.
“Firewhiskey,” Harry replied. “Got it from Sirius’ old room.” He popped the cork from the full bottle and took a large gulp. Ron frowned.
“You drank that other bottle, then?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Harry shrugged noncommittally. Then he hiccupped and Ron leaned forward.
“You’re pissed!”
Harry shrugged again, and they fell into silence. Ron knew it was useless, trying to coax a conversation out of Harry. He had kept to himself ever since they began searching for the Horcruxes; Ron and Hermione suspected the loss of Dumbledore had hurt Harry more than he let on.
The wind outside howled and screeched as it squeezed through the cracks of the entrance hall’s double doors. Ron watched as Harry swallowed another mouthful of firewhiskey.
“Listen,” Ron began, ”you shouldn’t - “
“It’s so cold,” Harry interrupted, his voice little more than a whisper. “I can’t stand it.”
“Yeah, well, I started the fire - “
“You know what I mean.”
Ron sucked in a breath. He did know. He had known since they left home, though he hated admitting it. Wherever they went, it was cold. Not the kind of cold that snowy weather brings, but a different kind of cold - one that Ron felt in the centre of his bones and in the depths of his stomach. It came in waves, intense one moment and only mildly uncomfortable the next. He had asked Hermione about it late one evening when they were curled up together, and she told him that she thought it was loneliness.
“I’m not lonely,” Ron had said.
“Maybe you’re not, but Harry is,” she replied, sliding her hand across his bare chest.
“He’s got us.”
“He knows that, Ron, but Harry - he’s always felt things stronger than most people. There’s an ancient magic that I think he‘s connected with, but he doesn‘t realize it. Sort of like the time he blew up his aunt. It’s complicated, but - but I think Harry’s doing this.”
Ron had sighed and stroked her hair absentmindedly. “Can we help?”
Their eyes met. “I don’t know.”
Now, with the icy freeze sweeping around them, dampening the warmth of the fire, Ron eyed Harry warily as he drank. And drank and drank. Then Harry spoke again, still in that hoarse whisper.
“I’m going to go and see Ginny.”
Ron frowned. It was bad enough for Ginny to say goodbye to him once. They had all known that. But twice? He wondered if it was too much for her to handle.
“Harry - “ he began, pushing himself off the settee. Harry uncrossed his legs and set the firewhiskey on the floor.
“I’m going, and that‘s it,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “She shouldn’t be alone tonight. Not on New Year’s Eve.” His bottle green eyes were fierce in a way Ron hadn’t seen them in weeks, and his hair stood on end. “She needs me and I - I need to see her.”
Ron sighed for what seemed like the millionth time that night. It made him feel old. “Can you Apparate when you’re drunk?”
“If I can Apparate hundreds of miles in the middle of the night while supporting my dying professor and after being attacked by hundreds of Inferi, then I think I can Apparate to Hogwarts when I’m drunk.”
A small part of Ron thought that those words might have been funny, in a way, if they’d been spoken under different circumstances. In another time, in another place, if they were different people, he might have been amused. But they weren’t. And he wasn’t.
“Right,” he said, holding out his hand. Harry grasped it, pulled himself up, and Ron clapped him on the back. “Tell her Happy New Year for me, yeah? And make sure you’re back before nine tomorrow morning or Hermione’ll go mad.” Harry smiled and nodded, then disappeared with a pop.
Ron bent down and picked up the open bottle of firewhiskey, surveying the contents interestedly. He’d seen Fred and George drunk off the stuff before, stumbling around the Gryffindor Common Room, slopping drinks and roaring with laughter, but this would be his first time tasting it. Toasting the empty room, he shrugged and took a large gulp.
It was nothing like he ever could have imagined. He was on fire. His lips, his tongue, his throat, his insides were bloody burning. Smoke puffed from his reddened ears and his eyes streamed. Then the room was spinning and spinning and twirling and Ron was dizzyhotnauseousdying.
Firewhiskey was an entirely misleading name for the damn stuff, Ron decided later, when he woke with a pounding headache and no pyjama shirt. It should have been called Lava-whiskey or Burn-whiskey or maybe, he thought, just Fire.
He collapsed sideways onto the settee, coughing and sputtering. Swearing loudly, he wondered vaguely how Harry had managed to finish a whole bottle.
Across the room, the lump on the armchair stirred and Hermione emerged from the moth-eaten depths of three blankets, her eyes dazed and unfocused as she stretched her arms over her head. Ron sat up and swung his legs onto the couch. Leaning against the armrest, he braced himself and took another drink from the bottle.
“Wha… what’s that?” Hermione asked, standing up and yawning.
“Firewhiskey,” Ron mumbled, after tossing his head back and tipping more of the fiery liquid down his throat. It wasn’t so bad, he decided, though he wasn’t quite sure about the humming in his head.
"Ron!“
He threw up his hands and peered up at her innocently. “What?”
“You’re drunk!”
“Not yet I’m not.”
Hermione huffed, turning on her heel and snatching up the blankets to fold them. Once or twice, she glanced pointedly over her shoulder at him and rolled her eyes. When she finished, she fluffed the pillows angrily, beating each one a little too hard. Dust floated around her head in a dense cloud and she sneezed. Ron laughed, though he knew he shouldn't. She glared at him once more before busying herself over the fire.
With the stealth of someone much smaller than him, Ron padded across the rug and slipped his arms round her waist, pulling her against his chest. She struggled momentarily, but he held her fast, his large hand splayed across her belly.
"Ron!"
He lowered his lips to her neck. "Mmm?"
"You..."
"Are amazing, Ron." His tongue grazed the sensitive skin at the base of her neck.
"You..."
"Are even sexier drunk, Ron." He sucked lightly; she shivered.
"Drunk... on - oh - New Year's, of all days."
"The shock!"
"Oh, I..."
"Shouldn't get so miffed, I know."
His hands teased the hem of her shirt, but just as his fingers slipped under, she whirled around to face him.
"I am not miffed," she said, but her eyes were bright and the corner of her mouth twitched. This pleased Ron; lately, the moments her eyes danced like that fell few and far between. "Forgive me for being concerned about you then, will you?" She smiled. Ron's jaw dropped in mock incredulity.
"You? Concerned about me?"
But he knew immediately - despite the whiskey - that it was the wrong thing to say. Hermione lowered her eyes and stared at his chest. "Oh, shut it," she muttered, her voice lower and not nearly as playful. Ron cursed himself inwardly.
"Kidding, Hermione. Kidding," he said, hoping to recover before she lost herself in thoughts of all the people she was concerned and afraid for. He kissed her nose, earning a small smile and a giggle.
In all the years he had known Hermione, Ron had never heard her giggle until very recently and even then, she only did so when she was sure they were alone. He found he liked it; it made him want to kiss her everywhere he thought she might let him.
He didn't, though, because she pulled away from him and bent over the fire once more. A moment later, Ron had turned his back and was reaching for the half-drunk bottle of firewhiskey when he felt Hermione's small hands tracing circles across his back, beneath his pyjama shirt. He groaned. Did she know what she was doing to him? Probably, he thought. That was what made her so undeniably sexy.
She pushed his shirt up and pressed a kiss to his back. Growling, he whirled around and hauled her up against his chest, crushing his lips to hers. She whimpered and kissed him back with fervor, her hands sliding up his chest, hips rocking against the bulge in his trousers.
They had never kissed like this. Hell, she had never let him kiss her like this, though he always had moments where his control felt like it might slip. She always brought him back down to earth, stopping his roaming hands and lips with urgent, breathless whispers.
He sucked her upper lip and she moaned, tangling her fingers in his hair. Gripping her hips tightly, he lifted her; she wrapped her legs around his waist and he stumbled backwards into the sofa where they collapsed, Hermione straddling him.
Moments later she broke away from him, gasping. Ron gazed at her, taking in her dishevelled appearance and swollen lips. Sometimes, he thought, he really couldn't believe how beautiful she was. Especially like this, so unreserved and passionate. And he loved that he was the one who drove her to it. That he was the only one who could make her like this.
Their breath mingled as he leaned in to kiss her again and she pulled away, disentangling herself from his arms and shirt. Ron couldn't resist breaking the silence.
"Amazing," he breathed. "You - amazing."
She blushed and shook her head. Ron ran his hands along the soft skin of her arms. "Yes."
Hermione shook her head again and suddenly twisted around in his lap, leaning close to the ground and waving an arm about as though feeling for something. She surfaced with the bottle of firewhiskey and leaned in so Ron's nose brushed hers.
"I don't want to be sad anymore, Ron," she said, lifting the bottle to her lips. Ron sucked in a breath.
"Hermione - don't -" he tried, but her eyes flashed and he froze.
"What - you can and I can't? Because I'm a girl?" she demanded. Ron knew that wasn't it. Something felt wrong about it; he didn't quite like the idea of Hermione "drinking away her sorrows," so to speak. Not to mention that he didn't fancy her insides corroding because she tried the wretched stuff.
But before he could speak, she had tossed her head backwards and taken three large, consecutive gulps.
"Hermione!"
She hung her head backwards, exposing the pale skin on her neck and collarbone. Ron fought the urge to latch his lips to her neck and taste her skin until she moaned.
When Hermione righted herself, she seemed perfectly normal, though a little flushed. She smiled at Ron, whose eyes widened.
“How did you - ” he began, suddenly shamed by his melodramatic reaction to the whiskey. “Was that your first time?”
Hermione shook her head. “Last year the 5th, 6th, and 7th year girls held a party in our dormitory. We all tried it. I wouldn’t have, though, if Ginny hadn’t convinced me. Said it’d be better to get the first time over with. Guess it‘s true.”
Ron laughed as Hermione drank from the bottle again. He tickled her ribs and she rolled into the seat beside him, curling up and resting her head against his shoulder. He took another swig of whiskey and ran his fingers through her frizzy curls.
A year ago, he never would have imagined that he and Hermione could be here like this, so comfortable and at ease. He never would have imagined that she would let him kiss her the way she did, or that she’d tell him all that she told him, or that he’d have the nerve to tease her and play with her the way he did. It was more than he could have hoped for, and when he told her that, she just smiled and kissed him.
Comfort. Sex. Passion. Loyalty. Those were things he tried to give Hermione. Those were the things he knew she gave him. There wasn’t a moment that went by that he took them for granted. He couldn’t possibly, not with their family and friends dying and disappearing every day. He didn’t want to, because he really, really needed her these days.
A warm, sweet aroma filled the room. Ron hadn’t noticed it before, what with all the kissing and the drinking, but now it filled his nostrils, succulent and intoxicating. He inhaled deeply.
“Hermione, what is that?” he breathed, looking around. She pointed at the grate, where a large black cauldron floated above the fire. He hadn’t noticed that either. “What is it?”
“Toddy,” she murmured. He arched an eyebrow questioningly.
“Water with sugar cane and fruit boiled in it. Plus cinnamon. It’s very good. You‘ll like it.”
Ron’s stomach rumbled. “Is it done?” he asked.
Hermione nodded. “Probably,” she said, waving her wand and producing two red and green cups. She pushed herself off the sofa and poured them two steaming mugs of the toddy. Ron inhaled again and peered down into his cup. The liquid was a deep red and smelled like heaven. He took a sip. Tastes like heaven, too, he thought, sighing.
He watched as Hermione lifted her mug to her lips and sipped delicately. Then, without warning, she squeezed her eyes shut and let out a whimper. Ron cocked his head and frowned. “Hermione?”
He found himself looking into her bright brown eyes, which were glassy and watery with tears. Dumbfounded, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head wildly and pressed her lips together, tears now streaming faster and faster down her cheeks. Ron looked alarm. He set his mug down on the floor and grasped her shoulders. “Hermione! What - ?”
She tore away from him and made to leave, but Ron caught her by the arm and tugged her back down beside him, where she landed with a gasp.
“Where are you going?” he asked, keeping a firm grasp on her arm.
“Upstairs, Ron. I’m all - I’m all splotchy, and you - you don’t want to see me cry, I’m a wreck - look at me - “
Ron straightened up in the chair and did look at her, frowning.
“I’m your friend,” he said fiercely. “I don't care how splotchy you are.” Hermione sniffled and swiped at her eyes. Ron swallowed, bracing himself to say the things they'd both been avoiding since Christmas.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m looking at you and all I see is my best friend, who lost her home and her parents and her childhood all in one day. And believe me, after all that, I just want you to stay here with me, not go upstairs - I’m tired of you locking yourself in your room because I want to help you. I want you to stay here so I can watch you and - and - ” He broke off, his ears flushing.
“And what?”
Ron hesitated, biting his tongue. You need to say this, he told himself. She needs to hear it. “I just want to take care of you,” he whispered, blushing. “You know that, don’t you?”
Hermione’s eyes shone. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“Right, so, just stay here, all right?” She nodded. He stretched out his sleeve and wiped her tears. Then he held it out to her. “Blow,” he commanded. Hermione looked scandalized.
“Ron!”
“Only joking.”
They settled beside each other once more. “So,” Ron began, tentatively. “Want to tell me what's got you upset?”
Hermione took a breath and sipped her cup of toddy.
“It’s not anything, you know, shocking,” she said. “It’s just - my mum and I used to make this every Christmas Eve. Like a tradition. And drinking this sort of reminded me of it, and it reminded me that we’ll never get to do that again.”
She fell silent and Ron looked at her.
“Listen,” he said, frowning, “you and your mum might never get to make this stuff again together, that’s true, but don’t you think that if you do it every year anyway, it’ll be like she’s with you?”
Hermione smiled faintly. “I suppose,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I think so.”
Silence again.
“Ron, do you think I’m off my rocker?” she asked several minutes later.
“Only a bit,” he replied, grinning. “But I’ve always thought that. S’why you’ve got me, to keep you sane, you know.” She gave a watery laugh and Ron clasped her hand.
Somewhere in the house, the old grandfather clocked chimed once, twice, twelve times. Ron counted under his breath.
Then there was silence, save the crackling of the dying fire in the hearth.
Hermione nestled closer to Ron. Ron buried his face in her hair.
“Happy New Year, Ron.”
“Happy New Year, Hermione.”
------------------------
ORIGINAL REQUEST:
Briefly describe what you'd like to receive: An angsty dark fiction, with romance.
Preferred Rating: R
OBHWF Inclusion: Yes
Holiday Choice (Christmas, New Year's, Both, or Unimportant):Both
If both, when would you like the fic to be posted? Don't mind
Other Holidays to incorporate (optional, maximum of three):
One to three specifics you want (optional):The new year's after sixth year. Ron and Hermione are left alone at Grimmauld Place while Harry is off doing some business alone.
Deal Breakers (what don't you want?): Nother EXTREMELY smutty, as in borderline porn (not above R)
Thank you for participating in the Winter Exchange! Happy Holidays!