Ship: Ron/Hermione, Ron/Harry
Warnings: AU. Angst. Violence. Het. Hurt/comfort. Manipulative passive/aggressive!Hermione.
Summary: Ron has a philosophy on life, love and relationships. And if it's been influenced at all by Hermione and swarms of conjured, attacking creatures, well, that's just the way it is.
A/N: Written for The Birds and the Bees Challenge on TQP. Go and vote!
Big fans of Hermione possibly won't like this one. Please, don't hurt me.
Apparently, when girls think of love - wishy-washy, romantic type love - they think of a lot of different things. Walks in the park, holding hands, chocolates, flowers, down-on-one-knee proposals – the whole deal. I talked to Ginny once to try and get my head around it, and I couldn’t. It’s like when a guy smiles at a girl across a room, within the time it takes her to smile back, she’s worked out where they’d honeymoon, how many children they’d have together, and so on. As quick it takes to smile, and she’s got him chained to her with a couple of sprogs.
It scared the living shit out of me when she explained that. She wouldn’t believe me when I said the most a guy wondered about when they looked at a girl was how good she’d be in bed.
Maybe guys are just more honest about it. Because, really, doesn’t it all boil down to that? To sex, that is. Or, as some romantic saps would call it, ‘the birds and the bees’.
I hate that phrase. It’s sickly sweet, airy-fairy, and the only people that actually seem to use it with any degree of sincerity are old people and song writers.
I mean, think of birds and bees. Tweet tweet, buzz buzz. Flowers and sunshine.
Now, think of fucking. Sweaty, up against a wall, clothes only half-off because you were too desperate to wait, fucking. There’s no comparison at all. Stupid bloody metaphor.
Of course, it doesn’t help that my early experiences with sex are inextricably linked in my mind with birds and bees, albeit rather unpleasantly, so maybe I’m biased.
The birds came first. Sixteen, newly crowned Quidditch star, and all. Fawned upon by Lavender, who was as thick as a plank, but had very nice tits and had just suggested we go someplace a bit more private. Brilliant.
And of all the rooms, hidden nooks and passageways I could have chosen, I had to go and pick the one already occupied by my best friend, Harry, and my then ex-friend.
To put it mildly, I wasn’t too happy to see her, right when I was planning on getting to know Lavender a bit better. And apparently, Hermione wasn’t too impressed either, because she set these bloody yellow birds on me, even though she had been the one who’d basically told me to my face not long beforehand that I was so crap at Quidditch there wasn’t a chance I could actually save a goal without Felix Felicis.
Fortunately, Lavender felt so sorry for me after I was attacked by (in her words) ‘that crazy bitch’ that she gave me a rather inexpert but nonetheless pleasant blowjob in an abandoned passageway on the way back from the Hospital Wing, much to the shock of the portraits. If she’d asked me earlier I would have been way too nervous, but right then I was pumped so full of anger and indignation that I said just yes and leant back against a dusty tapestry while she licked and sucked me to the first orgasm of my life that wasn’t the end result of a wank.
The bees came later. Years later, in fact.
We’d decided after school to get a place in London together. Harry, Hermione and me. We found this poky little flat near Diagon Alley and moved ourselves in. It was all very exciting. Hermione had the smallest bedroom to herself; being a girl and all. Harry and I shared the larger one. There was just enough room to walk between the beds and not quite enough room to open the drawers fully on the bureau. The pipes creaked, the bathroom was mildewed and there were creepy crawlies of both the Magical and non-magical varieties, but it was Freedom. It was Independence. It was a mucky, filthy hole, but it was our mucky, filthy hole.
By that time, Hermione had learned not to talk of my Quidditch skills (or lack thereof) and we’d ended up in what Ginny referred to as a ‘friends with benefits’ situation. Most of the time, we’d be our usual selves, and then one or two times a month, sometimes more, she’d lead me into her tiny little bedroom with more floor space taken up by stacks of books than furniture and want me to fuck her, right now.
Now, don’t get me wrong, we weren’t a ‘couple’. It wasn’t a relationship or anything. Hermione was very publically outspoken on her views on that subject. She wanted a career before she settled down with anyone. Doing anything but casual fucking got in the way of that, apparently.
Anyway, it was all good for a while, and then it really started to feel…one sided. A couple of times I’d gone to her, a bit stressed and in need of a good shag to take my mind off things, and she’d always have some excuse. Very tired or got this report I have to finish or meeting so and so in half an hour at the Leaky. I’d end up wanking, as per usual, or going out and drinking one beer after the other, wondering how I could feel so damn lonely living so tightly packed in with my two best friends. Harry was hardly home, and when he was home, he was sleeping. Auror training was hard work, apparently.
Then there came the day when Hermione told us she’d decided to move out. She’d found a nice little apartment in a much more up-market area, and she had already signed the lease. Harry congratulated her. I gave her a watery smile and left the room.
“You can visit whenever you like,” I heard her say from the doorway behind me as I lay face down on my bed.
What she meant was, you can still come over and fuck me whenever I want you to.
I heard the door lock, the soft sound of fabric falling to the floor. Then she was pressed up against me, and I didn’t push her away, because this was easier, even though it cut me inside like knives when she clenched around me, and I came.
The twins helped us when she moved, and at the end of the day when we were all hot, dusty and exhausted, they popped out and came back with curries, Muggle beer and a bottle of Firewhiskey.
The food was ravenously consumed, the beer drunk, and the mood was convivial when George opened the Firewhiskey and Fred proposed a game.
“Truth or Dare.”
“Booooring,” Harry sighed. “People just lie through that bloody game anyway.”
“They can try,” George said with a smirk, pulling out a tiny bottle of clear liquid.
“No fucking way,” I said.
“Limited timespan,” Fred assured him. “It’s diluted. Only works for thirty seconds after taken.”
“Don’t trust you.”
“Fine, we’ll go first,” George said, rolling his eyes.
“But if we do, you have to play,” Fred added. “Are you all in?”
Harry nodded. Hermione agreed rather cheerfully. She’d drunk her beer rather quickly, and her cheeks and neck were flushed and her eyes were shining, like they did just when she was about to…
“Ronnie, are you in or not?” Fred asked, rather impatiently.
“Fine,” I said, trying to clear my head of the image of Hermione bouncing on top of me as I watched George empty the little bottle into the Firewhiskey and shake it to mix it. Then, the game began.
It soon became obvious that no one was interested in Dares, and the questions for Truths became smuttier the drunker we all became. It quickly emerged that Fred and George had had a threesome with Angelina, not once, but several times. Harry had a rather elaborate fantasy when he was fifteen that involved saving Tonks from a Death Eater and ‘comforting’ her afterwards, and Hermione confessed to something we had all suspected; she’d wanked in a study carrel in the library regularly during the last few years of Hogwarts.
“Only place to get a bit of bloody privacy,” she admitted, right before the serum wore off.
“So, Ronnie, my turn to ask you a question,” Fred said enthusiastically. I groaned, while the others all giggled. Fred had been asking the dirtiest and most embarrassing questions he could think of. “Drink up then,” he urged.
I took a large mouthful of the spiked alcohol and swallowed. Fred waited for a beat then asked, “Who or what do you think about when you’re having sex, right before you come?”
Hermione smirked, Harry sniggered, and George snorted. Inwardly, I felt quite calm. I didn’t really think of anything right then, I was sure of it, and I opened my mouth to say as much.
“Quidditch players,” I heard someone say in my voice.
The room erupted into laughter.
“Well, you’ve got to admit, that new Chaser for the Harpies is something,” George said to Fred.
“None of the Harpies,” I heard myself continue.
“Who then, Ronnie?” Fred sniggered.
“Used to be Viktor Krum. Now I like Oliver Wood. His thighs are incredible,” I felt myself heaving a sigh. “I just wish he’d wrap them around me and-”
The Veritaserum wore off abruptly, and I sat there opening and closing my mouth like a fish, aware, even through my stunned state, that I had an erection. The twins were looking down at their hands, actually appearing a bit ashamed of themselves. Fred mumbled something that may have been the word ‘sorry’. Harry just sat gaping at me and Hermione…Hermione looked about the angriest I’d ever seen her.
“You liar,” she hissed.
“He can’t lie, Hermione,” George reminded her softly. “The truth serum.”
“You said I was beautiful, but all this time you’ve been using me! Using me to hide your big secret!” she declared somewhat hysterically, her hands flailing wildly. I noted absently, from somewhere in my haze of drunkenness, shock and embarrassment overlaid with a healthy dose of yet more shock, that one of them held her wand. “Canistrum! Effervo!” she shrieked.
There was a loud humming and then fire, fire on my face and my hands and my arms and my feet. I couldn’t see, and I couldn’t hear anything but the buzzing that was louder than ever. I screamed, and the inside of my mouth began to burn.
Distantly I heard the sounds of a commotion.
A chill swept over me, as though someone had opened the door to a fridgelator.
“- that crazy bitch…won’t get her drunk again-”
“-Shit…he’s swelling up already-”
“Merlin, they’re in his ears-”
“Ron, say something, talk to me!” Harry begged.
My tongue was huge, my mouth seemed to be full of grit, and everything hurt. An attempt at a reply came out as a faint croaking sound. I tried to spit the stuff out, but my unwieldy tongue and puffy lips refused to co-operate. Somebody’s finger pushed its way inside my mouth and cleared the worst of the muck. “Burns,” I croaked.
“Not surprised, mate,” George said softly. “Your woman just set a couple of hundred bees on you.”
“No’ my wom’n,” I mumbled.
“Don’t blame you, after that,” I heard Fred agree earnestly. I could feel several sets of hands brushing me down, opening my shirt, picking through my hair.
“Nev’r my wom’n,” I insisted. “I ask’d. She di’n wanna. ‘m gonna be sick,” I added, rolling onto my side and vomiting on Hermione’s nice new carpet.
So, that was the bees.
When I started throwing up, the twins and Harry whisked me off to St Mungo’s, where I spent several unpleasant hours being painted from head to toe in green goop and fed spoonfuls of some potion that tasted like bog water.
When I got home the next day, a letter from Hermione was waiting for me. In it, she claimed to remember nothing from the night before, and went on to say how annoyed she was with the mess we had left behind, which included the puddles of sick.
“You really shouldn’t drink at all if you can’t control yourself,” she wrote.
She then mentioned that she’d met someone fascinating at work. In fact, she’d been going on dates with him for a few months now, and she’d asked him to move in.
Around about then, I balled up the letter and threw it away, aiming for the bin and missing. A slender hand plucked it from the floor and smoothed it. I watched Harry’s face as he skimmed the contents.
“I’m so sorry, mate,” he murmured, letting the parchment drop from his fingers.
I just shrugged, and gave a little laugh that came out sounding more like a sob.
He stepped forward and hugged me, and I let myself be hugged. I let him wrap his arms tight around me while I sniffled and cried into his shoulder, and only minutes later I let him unbutton my shirt while I kissed him desperately.
It wasn’t long before I felt my back hit the wall, and looked down, dumbfounded, at my cock disappearing inch by inch between those beautiful lips.
It was good…so, so good.
All those years I’d spent idly wondering why Harry didn’t seem to date, why things never worked out with Ginny, suddenly made sense as he hummed and licked and teased my cock expertly, those lovely fingers of his cupping my balls.
He stopped just when I was getting close, laid a trail of kisses down my prick from base to head, then smiled at me and walked towards our bedroom. I understood that he was giving me a breather, and a chance to decide what I wanted.
Though there was a sense of déjà vu, I knew this was different, somehow. It wasn’t like it had been with Lavender; fooling around to get back at Ginny and Hermione. Unlike Lavender, Harry was someone I liked, someone I cared about, someone who wasn’t going to smother me in tacky jewellery. And unlike Hermione, I felt like I had a choice. I knew that if I wanted, I could nip into the bathroom and have a quick wank, then stick on the Wireless. He’d wait for me, maybe have a wank himself, then come out and join me. We’d drink a couple of Butterbeers, talk about Quidditch, and we’d be okay to go on as we had been, before.
But being honest with myself and my very insistent cock, going back to the way things had been wasn’t what I wanted.
I chose to follow.
Harry and I ended up moving not long afterwards. We’d done the city experience, and my country boy soul was calling for green spaces and fresh air, so we found ourselves a little house in Derbyshire. Floo and Apparition meant the distance wasn’t a problem where work was concerned, and for the first time since school Harry and I began flying regularly again, just for the fun of it. We got a couple of dogs and gave them ridiculously long, slightly obscene names which quickly got shortened for convenience and the sake of propriety when my parents came to visit.
Hermione’s fascinating colleague knocked her up and promptly left her. She sulkily admitted in a letter that she wasn’t sure if the kid was mine or his. That began an interesting nine months, though I was certain I’d never forgotten the Protective Charm. As soon as each of the Weasley kids got our wands that was the first spell Mum ever taught us. If you ever get somebody into trouble, she’d told us when we mastered it, I’ll know why. The threat of Mum’s displeasure had been enough to drum the lesson of safe sex firmly into our skulls.
When Alexander was born with olive skin, curly brown hair and hazel eyes, I felt vindicated, though I thought Hermione seemed mildly annoyed about it.
As I said before, I think it’s all about sex. I’m not saying I don’t love Harry, because I do. I love him in a fierce, protective, all consuming and manly way that has nothing to do with flowers. (Although chocolate certainly plays a role from time to time.) But I loved him anyway, years before Hermione set a swarm of angry bees on me and I followed him into our room for him to lick and suck me all over, and listen to him moan as I clumsily tried to return the favour. What changed our relationship was the addition of sex; mind blowing, knee trembling, fantastic sex.
Sex is the pivotal thing that brings people closer together, for better or for worse. Not love, because love’s always there, like air, like the ground beneath your feet. Sex is like the summer storm that sweeps in and changes everything. ‘The birds and the bees’ (quite literally in my case) is what makes the world go round.
For those who are curious:
# canistrum : bee-hive.
# effervo : to boil up, swarm out (like bees).
# gelidus : cold, frosty, icy, freezing.