Entry tags:

chapter, nc17, ron/hermione

Act II, Scene II: The Riddle
Title: Riddle
Pairing/Character: Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger, Gilderoy Lockhart also starring Emporor Joseph II of Austria, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, a variety of Courtiers, and a young Viennese maid named Alda
Rating: 18+/NC-17
Wordcount: 5,020
Summary: Part IV: In the search for the remaining horcruxes Ron, Harry, and Hermione have been at Grimmauld Place hoping to find information about the locket. During their research Hermione accidentally happens upon something quite different - something which takes Hermione and Ron to St Mungo's on a visit to Gilderoy Lockart, until he in turn leads them back into the time of Emporor Joseph II and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. A party in the Court gives some vital information towards finding the seventh horcrux
Beta(s): Where would I be without nimerha who was a darling with the language as well as information about the Emperor himselfmillieweasley for her historial knowledge as well as her wonderful facts about cutlery and 'morning chocolate', and to manynames for her unstinting input in overseeing my proper use of English
Author's Notes: In response to millieweasley's Harry Potter History Challenge **here**. I'm taking some of our HP friends back to Vienna, 1786. It's terribly brave of my volunteer history advisors to allow me to take this on, I'm not too sure whether they'll encourage me back another time however! Link to Part I **here**, Part II **here**, and Part III **here** Part V is **here**




Part IV of V: Act II, Scene I - The Riddle

The morning after the night before was a strange place to be, in Ron’s opinion. Stretching out his long legs had disturbed the curtains at the end of the four-poster where he’d recently woken from one of the best night’s sleep he’d ever had. Ron could see the light was starting to pour through the small window high on the wall, the start of a new day. There was enough light to watch Hermione from his position close to her, to study her still sleeping, the smallest smile playing at her lips.

Most of him, nearly all, was still feeling elated. The part of him, a particular bit of his brain that he wasn’t too happy with right now, that wasn’t elated was persistently niggling though. Hermione had high expectations, she always did, and that irritatingly negative part of his brain was trying to convince Ron that he just wouldn’t have lived up to them, at all. It was his first sexual experience with anyone else, he was pretty certain it was Hermione’s too.

He’d snogged Lavender, of course - everyone knew about them last year. His hands had wandered a bit too, what boy’s hands wouldn’t have done? But he’d never come anywhere near to the amazing sensations he’d felt in this very room, in this very bed, with this very girl. A smile crept over Ron’s face then. He was in bed with Hermione, his friend of a very long time, and sort of girlfriend more recently. He supposed that situation was settled now, he hoped so anyway. It had been a long time happening, them getting together, and that state in his head had been sealed beyond doubt the night before - as long as Hermione wasn’t going to feel let down by him.

Replacing the breakfast tray outside the door, after some welcome and tasty food and to Ron’s surprise, but not so much Hermione’s, hot chocolate to drink, he let out a small sigh of relief. Hermione had shown no signs of disappointment with him; they’d sat close together under the warmth of the covers, fed each other little bits of cheese and meat to taste, and had a cuddle before starting to think once more about where and when they were.

“So what do we actually know?”

Ron shrugged. “I don’t know that we know anything, apart from –“

“That we spent last night together, by any chance?” Hermione asked with a smile, resting her head comfortably against him.

“Did I say that before?”

“Though, the fact that we spent last night together in a straw bed might be useful if I could remember …”

“You’ve forgotten already?”

“No, silly. That’s something I hope I never forget. What I wish I could remember is when they did have straw mattresses, or better still, when they stopped having them.”

“You knew that?” Ron sounded impressed.

“I think so. We learned useful things like that at Muggle Primary School, along with the Kings and Queens and when they ruled. Queen George the third was the longest reigning one, I think.”

“Oh.” Ron didn’t know what else to say. He supposed he ought to try and be of more help than grunting occasional words and providing Hermione with someone to lean against, though actually being leaned on was a job he was quite enjoying. “When did he live?”

“That’s a good question. I seem to remember learning something about Mozart at the time, so around when Mozart lived maybe.”

“Was that him out there, do you think?”

“Who, King George the third, or Mozart? Oh Ron, what if it was Mozart at the piano? Wouldn’t that be fascinating, to say that we’d seen him rehearsing in person?”

“Do you know, Hermione, I don’t think we actually know anything at all. Not know it.”

“I know something.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not telling me?”

“I’ll show you, if you like.”

Ron giggled and slipped back down under the covers, all his worries pushed away again for now. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That …”

“Sounds like knocking - someone at the door.”

“Bloody hell!” Ron exclaimed, moving back up the bed and jumping from it, “I hope it’s not Lockhart, not while we’re all, you know, in bed.”

***

“I feel like a prat.”

“I’m nearly ready. Give me a minute or two and I’ll help you, I’m sure you don’t look like one.”

Hermione had had to breathe in for Alda to tie the cords at the back of the underbodice she’d been provided with. She’d only ever worn straightforward and plain underwear before. Putting this on hadn’t been easy, though now it was on, she didn’t mind the outline it gave her, not exactly buxom but a bit more shapely than she was used to appearing. With nimble fingers, Hermione finished the small buttons on the outer bodice and smoothed it over the full skirt. The low cut top and obvious swell of her breasts encouraged by the shape of the underbodice left no doubt she was a girl tonight. Wearing jeans and jumpers was far easier than wearing all of these clothes. The stockings and garters hadn’t been easy to get into either. It was just the shoes she needed to try next – hopefully they’d fit and she’d be able to walk in them.

“What did you want me to do?” Hermione asked, smoothing the pleats over her hips down again and nodding in thanks to Alda, who was making a hasty retreat.

Ron’s eyes almost popped from his head as he saw her for the first time, Alda no longer blocking his view.

“Hermione. You look fantastic. Wow. Oh. It’s this thing,” he lifted the lacy cravat type thing at the neck of his top, “and these.” His hands went to the cuffs awkwardly bunched into the sleeves of his jacket.

“Stand still then.” Hermione smoothed the cravat and stood back to check. “That colour suits you.”

“Does it? I thought I looked more like Lockhart than ever.”

“It matches your eyes. Give me one of your wrists.”

“Honestly, Hermione, I must look like a right idiot.”

“Honestly, Ron, you don’t look like one. Not here in this time, and if we’re going to be guests at the party later then we have to fit in. We can’t sit at the back in our outer cloaks, can we?”

Alda had brought them the clothes and had insisted on helping Hermione dress, with the information that Lockhart himself would come along and see to their hair shortly before rehearsal. They could watch the rehearsal and then attend a party afterwards, which she told them Lockhart had said would be a useful thing to do.

“Do you feel a bit nervous about this?” Hermione asked.

Ron’s hand sub-consciously reached to check his wand, lodged under the waistband of the ridiculous knickerbockers he was wearing. No, he’d felt a lot more nervous last night at bed-time then he was feeling now.

“Not really. Do you?”

“Apprehensive, maybe,” Hermione replied as she reached her own wand and tucked it under her skirt, checking it was secure in its place. “Not knowing if we can safely use magic worries me a little bit. Though if Harry was here I’d be more worried that this was some sort of …”

“Ambush by Voldemort?”

“Yes.”

They’d not been able to let Harry know they were leaving St Mungo’s to come here, wherever here was. Presumably when they’d not come back last night Harry had contacted St Mungo’s and been told that Lockhart was missing too. There could even be a huge search going on for them all.

“Actually there is something we do know,” Ron’s own thoughts about what Harry was thinking had suddenly brought a realisation, “We know that we are actually here.”

“You mean not it’s not like Harry going into Tom Riddle’s diary?”

“Yes, exactly that. Nor like when he went into people’s thoughts in the Pensieve.”

Neither of them had used the Pensieve, or gone through the diary come to that. Harry had told them about both, and they knew how once he was there he could talk, touch, move around and no-one else already there would know about it.

“This should be Lockhart if we’re really lucky.” Ron moved towards the door in answer to a gentle knock.

“Oh my! Don’t you just look the picture? Didn’t I choose well? What do you think? Oh silly question, I know, silly question. Perfect colours and style, but what else would you have expected! Hmmmm? Now where’s the girl? Alda … Alda …”

“I’m here, sir, right behind you, sir.”

Lockhart had burst in to the room in such bluster than the poor girl seemed to have been left quite behind.

“Good, good! Now come on in, close the door. That’s right! Who’s going to go first? Miss Granger? No. Mr Weasley. Have a seat Mr Weasley. Let’s complete the picture. We don’t want the King realising anything’s up, do we?! Come on then. Quick, quick.”

With a quick and excited flourish Ron’s hair was scraped back from his face.

“Professor …?”

“Oh dear, Miss Granger! You can’t call me that. It’s Herr Friseur here, you know.”

“What does it mean?” Ron’s head was tipped forward again now and an uncomfortable-feeling thing was being added to it from the back.

“Oh, nothing to worry about! It’s a title, that’s all. Doesn’t mean anything that you need to be concerned about, just that I’m extremely important! I’m sure I didn’t need to tell you that though! Now lean back, Mr Weasley. Quick, quick.”

“Ow!”

“Oh shush there! Keep still. You want to look your best don’t you? That’s it, nice and still and there’ll be no doubt you’ll be your best at the hands of Gilderoy Lockhart, Herr Friseur!”

“Wha-“ Ron’s face was covered in a metal cone as his voice was snuffed out by something being puffed straight into his hair and the cone being filled with power and … “Yuck.”

“All done, Mr Weasley. Though I have to say you made a lot of fuss about nothing much. Isn’t that just typical though?! Hmmmmm. What do you think? Given the subject, I’ve made an excellent job, have I not?”

Ron was still spluttering as he cringed at his appearance in the small mirror above the washstand, “It’s …” He shrugged as his words were cut off by Lockhart starting up again.

“Sit down, Miss Granger.”

“Herr Friseur?” Hermione started, sitting onto the seat.

“Now you’re not going to be so easy to get right, are you? I’m surprised you’ve not made an attempt at taming all of this by now. Most girls would have done, you know. Long ago.”

“I was trying to ask you the King’s name.”

“Mmmm? Lean forward … come on… oh dearie dearie me! This is worse than I thought. Now, what were you saying? Lean back, right back.”

Hermione did as she was told, feeling her hair being bundled into her own wig. “I was asking the name of the King.”

“Ooooh, it’s Joseph of course, silly! What else would you expect Emperor Joseph the second to be called?”

Hermione felt her head being pulled about; her mind was working as fast as it was able while she was being tugged. Emperor Joseph, not French then she was sure. Herr was a German sounding word …

“And the pianist last night?”

“Wonderful, isn’t he? Now take a breath, Miss Granger. Not a little breath, a nice deep one will be best!”

Hermione felt the cone go over her own face and the whitening powder she’d witnessed being pumped into Ron’s wig filling her own.

“There we are, all done. Have a quick look if you must and I suppose you must, being a girl! Go on, off you go to the mirror too, we haven’t got all day you know!”

Gilderoy Lockhart’s tools had been given back to Alda along with instructions to collect the pair of them from the party after dark but before the Emperor left, and she was gone.

“The pianist,” Hermione tried again, not wanting to give up.

“What about him?”

Ron had been quiet while Lockhart had worked on Hermione’s head, but had a question of his own he wanted to ask, “What about magic?”

“Oh, definitely! Magic indeed, nothing less. He’s marvellous, just perfect. Perfectly magic! A real talent.”

“Magic, you know. Can we do magic?” Ron asked more forcefully.

“You mean you sing?” Lockhart exclaimed. “How wonderful, I must tell Mozart. Now come on, we’re going to be late if you’re not careful. Chop chop if we’re all ready. Follow me!”

Once again, Ron and Hermione found themselves seats towards the back of the room. From their conversation with Lockhart they now knew enough to work out approximately where and when they were. Towards the end of the 1700s was Hermione’s best guess – she’d look it up at home if they couldn’t find out for certain. Somewhere German speaking meant Germany itself, or Austria. If she had to guess she’d say Vienna, though it was something else she could confirm later.

Rehearsal today was almost event free. The Emperor attempted to interrupt far less than he had on the previous day, and spent most of his time watching. Occasionally he’d nod his head either in approval, or perhaps in congratulation that Mozart and the cast had followed one of his ideas from earlier rehearsals.

“Bravo, bravo!” the Emperor declared at the end after the final chords had faded away, everyone present joining in with cheers and applause, “I do decree this an interesting work, Mozart. Now I’m sure we’re all ready for the party to begin.”

As Emperor Joseph II stood, and the cast disappeared to prepare for the party, Ron and Hermione were joined once more by Gilderoy Lockhart.

“Isn’t he simply marvellous? Oh, such an honour indeed to be present! I hope you appreciate the trouble I’ve been to. Now let’s slip ourselves towards the side of the room while they prepare for the party, and then when it starts we can join in! If in doubt you can copy me, you can’t go wrong then.”

Ron let out a hmmphing sound as Lockhart turned with a flourish to leave them.

“It was marvellous though, Ron. Lockhart’s right about that. Imagine being able to tell people that we saw the final rehearsal of a Mozart opera, with Mozart himself playing and conducting,” Hermione sighed, “Such a shame we can’t.”

“No-one would ever believe us. Come on, they’d say. You’re dreaming again. We’d find ourselves alongside him in that secure ward.”

“That doesn’t matter one way or the other. We just can’t say. Our world has strict rules about time-travel. Just by being here and talking to people we could change the course of events for the future.”

The room started to fill up with people. A small group of musicians set themselves up in one corner and started playing some dance music. Along the longest wall was a table being laden with food and drink that would rival even a Hogwarts feast.

“Madam,” A man was bowing before Hermione, “If I may have the pleasure?”

Ron watched as the man bowed once more and then indicated to the dance floor before holding out his hand to lead Hermione onto it to take part in the current dance.

The dance, as Hermione found out, wasn’t terribly difficult to pick up. The couples had arranged themselves to follow on from one another in a circle, the steps all being undertaken at the same time as the couple in front. Ron, she noticed, when she could look up, was in conversation with another gentlemen who seemed to be earnestly and firmly making a point about something, much to Ron’s apparent combined embarrassment and amusement. After a few circuits of the room the dance steps became almost automatic and Hermione began to soak up the atmosphere.

The room was lit now by many candles and it was clear that she’d missed seeing the huge paintings that lined the walls of the rooms yesterday. Scenes of stags by a lake, dogs at work with a hunt, and stern looking Military people were mixed with Court scenes; none of them behaving in the way of a magical painting. If they needed spells for anything, which seemed unlikely really, they would have to rely on the few wordless and wandless ones that they’d learned so far.

“Thank you madam,” Hermione’s partner had escorted her back to Ron and was making his way towards another group of people.

“That was fun.”

“For you maybe. It wasn’t much fun for me.”

“Come and dance. I’ll teach you, it’s really very easy.”

“No, it’s alright, thanks. I’ll hide a bit back here and watch.”

To Hermione, who had witnessed the scene of Ron apparently ‘hiding’ from the dance floor already, the idea was hysterical. In their own world he wasn’t short, but here he was significantly taller than anyone else. Goodness, even she as an average height witch in the nineteen nineties seemed to tower over the other women currently in the room.

“Come on,” Hermione took hold of Ron’s hand and tugged at him, “You can tell me about your conversations once we’ve got the steps. We are supposed to at least try and fit in.”

The pattern of the next set of dances was a little different to the ones that Hermione had learned before. The steps were very similar, but the twists and turns and pointing of toes all happened at different times. It was a while before they could step them and talk about something else at the same time.

“So,” she whispered to Ron, turning into his arm and then away again to point a toe to the middle of the circle of dancers, “What did you learn? Anything useful?”

“Hmmm, that depends.” Ron flushed a little. His ears were no longer hidden under his hair, and the white powdered wig made a huge contrast to the red colour they were turning.

“Go on. Damn, I missed the hand turn.”

“The small bloke checked to see if you were …” he coughed, “… expecting.”

“What a cheek! I don’t look like … do I?”

“No. He wanted to make sure, as he’d not seen either of us around before. There’s some sort of decree in the Court about expecting women and … morning chocolate.”

“Morning chocolate?”

“He was saying that any woman who is expecting isn’t allowed to drink it.”

“Did he say why?” Hermione pointed her toe and then stepped towards Ron, and moved her hand with a small flourish just as the other women, all on the inside of the circle, did the same.

“To avoid any more …” Ron dropped his voice and took advantage of Hermione folding into his arm as part of the step to whisper, “… brown babies being born to the ladies of the Court.”

“You are joking, right?” Amusement was written onto Hermione’s features, despite her knowing she shouldn’t find someone else’s social misfortunes the subject of her humour.

“Ladies and gentlemen …”

The music stopped instantly and the pairs of dancers ground to a halt one after the other.

“His Majesty, Emperor Joseph the second, has decreed that the meal should begin, after which he will be honoured to speak to us all. Herr Mozart will follow by speaking with us, before the evening finishes with a little entertainment and some more dancing.”

The food was interesting. Some dishes were hugely spicy and others sweeter than either Ron or Hermione were used to in a main course. The dishes that combined the sweetness with the spice were the ones that were constantly replaced.

Eating wasn’t the easiest task. Not only were their clothes not kindly disposed to being comfortable with plates of food, but an apparent lack of cutlery made some of the foods much harder to eat.

“You’ll have to use spoons as you clearly didn’t bring any,” Gilderoy Lockhart had announced on one of his flying visits to see them, “Didn’t you know you should?” He’d offered them a spoon each and then disappeared again quickly.

From the long table they’d listened to the Emperor’s speech, which had brought forth much cheer and applause from his subjects in the room, though the murmuring they heard while he was speaking suggested that his topics weren’t universally accepted or agreed to.

When it became time for Mozart’s turn, a piano was lifted onto the stage for him to take part in a challenge and everyone stood to make their way forward for a closer view.

”Play the twenty-first Concerto in G minor, not C Major …”

“In the style of Haydn …

“Three variations on Voi Che Sepate …

“… and another with your back to the keyboard …

Each new feat achieved with no difficulty brought about another wilder challenge, a raucous laugh from the composer at the idea, huge applause and then a clamour to be the next person to make a suggestion.

Finally a familiar voice rang out loud and clear.

“Tell a riddle, Herr Mozart.”

“In Italian, German or French, Herr Friseur?” came back the retort, followed by another raucous laugh from the stage.

“How about English?” Ron whispered to Hermione as they stood avidly watching, their attention piqued.

“All three.”

“Italian first then. Siamo molte sorelle; è doloroso per noi per unire come pure di separare. Viviamo in un palace, ancora lo chiameremmo piuttosto una prigione, per noi sono chiuso a chiave su e deve lavorare sicuramente per il sustenance di uomini. La cosa più eccezionale è che le porte sono aperte per noi abbastanza spesso, entrambe il giorno e notte, e non usciamo tuttavia, eccetto quando une tirate fuori dalla forza."

The room fell into hushed silence as members of the large group of people appeared to be trying to decipher the Italian. Their expressions reminded Hermione of small children counting on their fingers to earn a treat.

“No-one? How disappointing,” another raucous laugh. “Have another try!”

The second version was in French and Hermione hoped she’d understand straight away. She mentally shut herself off from the people around her and attempted to work out the words she recognised.

“It’s very old French but I think something about opening doors,” she said to Ron in frustration, “to a palace and a prison …?”

“Well we’re in a palace – maybe … but it’s a sort of prison as well. We can’t get out or go anywhere on our own. Do you think it’s something here?”

“I don’t know … ooooh …”

Mozart was speaking again, “and in our own tongue … German! Wir leben in einem Palast, trotzdem wollen wir lieber es ein Gefängnis nennen, denn wir sind fest eingesperrt und müssen für die Nahrung der Männer arbeiten. sowohl Tag als Nacht außer wenn man uns mit Gewalt heraus zerrt"

Everyone laughed with Mozart, who instantly sat back at the piano and indulged them all in some variations on other songs from the opera, not stopping for about twenty minutes when he was met with rapturous applause.

“I’m going to find Lockhart,” Hermione turned to Ron.

“I’m coming with you.”

The spiced hot wine had been flowing all evening and by now the partygoers were enjoying themselves immensely. Unless he’d been imagining things Ron had spotted one of the singers, a tallish woman, eyeing him up the whole time Mozart had been speaking and performing.

“Come on then, he’s over there.”

Lockhart wasn’t the only person who Hermione indicated. The tall singer was with him and her eyes lit up to see Ron and Hermione making their way towards them.

“Honestly, Hermione,” Ron complained for the third time as Alda led them back towards their room,”she had her hands everywhere.”

“You should have just asked her to stop.”

“I tried. I asked her in English, I even tried to remember some Elfish that Fred and George taught me, but she just smiled and did it again. I think she wanted to get a feel of my wand.”

Hermione smiled at Ron’s indignation and reached for his hand, “What if I promise not to reach for your wand. How would that be?”

“Did you learn anything from Lockhart?”

“Oh yes! He was wonderful, Ron.” Hermione launched into a delighted explanation of their conversation. He’d been able to name the village that she’d wanted to know about, and it fitted exactly with the writing on the parchment back at Grimmauld Place. He’d even met with villagers who’d reported a visit from a terrifying man with red slits for eyes who had been there at the same time as some of their number had disappeared. It was also the same time as a new monument appeared in the centre of the village. The villagers had thought it a terrible waste of money when they were poor and needed to buy water and firewood. The monument, they were sure, was cursed. Anyone who tried to break into it or find out more about it befell a terrible happening.

“And you believed him?” Ron asked.

“Of course. As soon as we get back we have to go there with Harry.”

“But what about the riddle?”

“I know it now, in German and in French. When we get home I’ll work it out – we can work it out together if you like.”

“When or if we get home.”

“In the morning,” Alda informed them, arriving at their room, “We will come for you after breakfast. Your clothes are folded and ready for you. I will leave a tray once more.”

“Hermione.” Ron shut the door behind them, pleased he’d remembered to dip to get through it this time, and then leaned back onto it. “Are you glad we came here?”

His voice, Hermione noticed, was less sure again. “I am more pleased about being here with you then anywhere I’ve been before. Come on; let’s make the most of our time left.”

Ron found that preparing for bed was easier tonight. It was a huge relief to take off the ridiculous white wig and shake his hair free. The cuffs on the trousers, below the knees, hadn’t felt comfortable all night and the feeling of the white stockings was really odd. By the time Ron had washed his face and pulled on his nightgown, Hermione was waiting for him in bed.

“Hermione …”

“Ron?” she smiled and pulled him close, finding his lips hungrily.

Ron felt taken aback that Hermione had ignored her nightgown and wished he’d left his own off, “Ow!”

“What’s wrong?” Hermione tugged at Ron’s nightgown.

“Something sharp stuck in me.”

“Move a bit. It’s just straw from the mattress.”

“Okay,” Ron shifted over a little bit and pulled the garment over his head, returning to kiss Hermione. His hands were starting to feel a little bit braver and started to move from her shoulders. But there it was again.

“Ow!” Ron moved, shifting just as Hermione hugged him and found himself above her, almost kneeling, their faces close.

“Sorry …” As he’d lowered himself to meet Hermione’s mouth he had realised the position he’d got them into.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I didn’t mean … to take advantage.” He could feel the heat from Hermione right against the tip of his erection; if he even breathed deeply or moved a fraction, he’d be even closer.

“Just go slowly, okay?” Hermione’s voice was small, almost timid, but not uncertain.

“You mean …?”

She nodded gently, their eyes meeting and holding their gaze.

Ron couldn’t move. It seemed like hours where he stayed in exactly the same position, thinking about what they were about to do. He knew he only had to make the gentlest push and he’d slip inside of her and he wanted to. He wanted to very much. Something wouldn’t let him. Something from deep inside of him made him hesitate, he should pull away, but he couldn’t do that either. He couldn’t bear to lose the sensation that he had.

Concentrating on the expression deep inside of Hermione’s eyes he saw that she was ready and, biting his lip, edged very slightly forward, taking a sharp breath in as he did. Slowly, slowly, he kept moving, his eyes locked to Hermione’s as he went, not stopping until he couldn’t go any further. He couldn’t believe the sensations, the close grasping warmth that Hermione’s body gave his.

Their eyes still connected, neither of them needed to speak. Eventually Ron couldn’t keep still any longer and slowly moved, sliding from her just to feel he had to move back again. Control was slipping from him, Ron felt driven by the needs deep inside of him. This was the most important thing he’d ever done in his life but he couldn’t control it.

Awkwardly he moved again, and slid himself back into Hermione. The sounds of his heart pounding in his chest and his ears were drowned out by the thumping of the bed against the wall. He’d have to stop that, everyone would know. The harder he tried to stop the bed from knocking, the louder it became and by the very short time until he felt the familiar start of his orgasm the mattress had joined in, squeaking its approval of his actions, like it was leading him on, cheering him to the finish.

Ron couldn’t help himself, he flopped down, his head over Hermione’s shoulder trying to get his breath back, “Sorry.”

“You should stop saying that you, know.”

Ron’s breath was still coming in sharp bursts; he was throbbing with pleasure in any and every place he was aware of. “But I ...and you didn’t … and …”

“That didn’t matter … it was perfect Ron,” Hermione lifted his head and caught his gaze again before matching her lips to his and Ron knew that she was right without a doubt. He and Hermione had been and would always be perfect.