FIC: Forward Motion (Ron/Hermione)
To: Hildigunnur
From: Your Secret Santa

Title: Forward Motion
Author: tehgiantsquid (fic journal)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
Word Count: 3,755
Summary: The Seven Tales of the Blessed Life of Hermione Granger
Warnings: Some dirty talk and an excessive amount of fluff.
Author's notes: Big big big thanks to my wonderful beta, who shall remain nameless for now, for all her hard work! <3 <3 <3 To Hildi, I do hope you enjoy this! :))



i.
One year, Hermione thinks as she watches the sun set on the horizon, the sky a swirl of reds and oranges. The air is warm and comfortable, not at all the stifling temperatures the summer has been lately. From behind she can hear a dull roar of noise as nearly two dozen people mill in and out of the Burrow, laughing, hugging, softly crying.

One year ago, she thinks, they were all fighting for their lives. It seems strange to her that life can look so promising again, that their world truly is moving on, progressing, changing for the better.

A twig breaks behind her and a pair of large freckled hands wrap gently around her stomach. Ron buries his nose in her hair and inhales loudly, squeezing her tight. He kisses her on her cheek and then rests his chin on her shoulder.

“What are you doing out here all alone?” he murmurs.

She doesn’t want to tell him she couldn’t quite handle the grief that is still so plainly written across his mother’s face, George’s face, Andromeda’s face. Instead she says, “I needed a moment to myself. The sky looks beautiful, don’t you think?

She feels Ron smile. “I think you’re beautiful,” he says.

Smiling, Hermione turns around and drapes her arms behind his neck. He’s grinning down at her, and she is pleased to see it is a grin that reaches his eyes; she hasn’t seen that very often in the past year. “I was also admiring those roses over there,” she adds, nodding towards a small rose garden she had noticed earlier.

Ron glances behind him. “Ah, yeah.” He turns back and gives her that sad smile. It breaks her heart a little. “Mum planted that not long after…after Fred, and all.”

“The color’s beautiful,” says Hermione as she plays with Ron’s hair. “It’s like a deeper shade of Weasley red.”

Ron grins again. “I think that was the general idea.” Then he kisses her.

Hermione has discovered over the past year that kissing Ron is one of her favorite activities. She’d never considered herself much of a physical person before, but Ron has always had the ability to turn her knees into jelly and make her heart pound rhythmically in her chest. They’ve kissed many, many…many times, and Hermione knows she will never tire of it.

Ron pulls her closer, running his hands down her back and settling on her arse, squeezing. Hermione gasps and clings to him harder, delving her tongue deeper into his mouth. She can feel his erection against her hip. It both arouses and terrifies her. They’ve come close to making love many times, but they’ve always stopped themselves before going any further. They both realized a long time ago that they weren’t quite ready for that next step.

But someday, Hermione thinks with a smile as she pulls away from Ron, they’ll get there.


ii.
In the two months since they’ve begun sleeping together, Hermione has decided she likes the missionary position best. It may not be the most exciting, the most pleasurable, the most daring, but Hermione knows seeing Ron’s face as he moves over her, inside her, watching as he comes undone outshines all those other positions.

Her hands slide up and down his back, trailing through the light sheen of sweat, before resting on his arse, knowing how much he secretly likes it. Ron grunts and kisses her hard on the mouth. He’s huge inside her, moving, thrusting, stretching her. Hermione will never get over seeing him for the first time, seeing him naked and vulnerable, looking so beautiful and sexy.

Their first time had been lovely and awkward and not wholly satisfying, but Hermione will treasure the memory always. And the more they tried, the better it got, to the point where Hermione was often the one who pulled Ron into bed those first few weeks. Not that he complained, she thinks with a smirk.

His hands are large and slightly calloused from working in George’s shop all day. He likes to run them all over her body, tweaking her nipples, rubbing her clit until she’s trembling with need, and slowly slipping one, two, three fingers inside while she begged for more. Hermione thinks it’s funny how he never much cared for school, yet he was more than willing to learn everything about her body, about what pleased her the most.

And she was just as attentive to his needs. The first time she touched him…Hermione sighs at the memory. Ron had groaned and gasped and begged her to do it again. She’d run her hand up and down the shaft, marveling at the silky soft skin, at the way Ron was on the verge of coming just from her touch. She had watched his face eagerly, watched as he scrunched up his nose and squeezed his eyes shut before coming all over her hand.

His nose is scrunched up now, Hermione notes, and his breathing is short and shallow. He bends down and kisses her again, tongue stroking against hers, then pulls away to grunt, “You close?”

Hermione arches her back, her hand sliding down between their bodies, and begins to stroke her clit. Ron growls, craning his neck to watch, and Hermione smirks. She loves arousing him, loves driving him to the brink. She loves the power she can have over him if she so desires.

“Do you like watching me touch myself?” she whispers, running her free hand along his chest and flicking at a nipple. Ron gasps and nods, and she continues, “I like it when you watch me too.”

Ron grunts again, and then lets out a short cry as he comes inside her, hips jerking, shoulders shaking from the strain of not collapsing on her. He tosses his head like a bull as the last of the tremors race through his body. After several moments, Ron sits back, eyes heavy, hair mussed, and he licks his lips. Hermione is still stroking her clit, running her fingers along her folds. He moves suddenly, batting her hand away, and replaces it with his own. His thumb presses down on her clit, and Hermione’s body burns. He slides a finger inside her, then another, until Hermione shudders and cries out, clutching at the sheets, chanting Ron’s name over and over…


iii.
In the three weeks since she and Ron moved in together, Hermione is rather proud of herself for not killing him. He’s a boy, she reminds herself daily, he’s just not used to drinking from glasses, or actually doing dishes on a regular basis, or ever washing his clothes.

It’s an adjustment for the both of them. Hermione realizes that, but still…sometimes she just wants to smack him on the back of the head when she finds his stinky socks all over the floor.

Their flat is not large by any means. One bedroom, one bath, a tiny kitchen, and an even tinier living space. But it’s theirs, and Hermione couldn’t be more proud. There are also advantages to having their own place, which she and Ron discovered not five minutes after moving in. Before, Ron had been renting out space above George’s shop, and though Hermione wasn’t ashamed to be seen spending the night there, it was still embarrassing when Molly Weasley walked in on the two of them one morning snuggling…in the nude.

Since that fateful incident, Ron had begun his training for the Aurors, and Hermione had just finished her internship at the Ministry. After much discussion (arguments, Ron would say), they had finally agreed they would live together. Needless to say, neither set of parents had been too keen on the decision, but in the end, they learned to accept it. Ginny and Harry were getting married at the end of the summer, so it was only inevitable that Ron and Hermione would be next.

Hermione didn’t think about that very often.

So at the end of a very long and tedious day in which Hermione was forced to answer long and tedious questions about her prospects, all she wants is a long bath and perhaps a bit of alone time with Ron.

She enters their bedroom (ignoring the unmade bed) and quickly undresses. It is then she notices Ron’s Auror training robes strewn about the floor. Frowning slightly, Hermione pulls her hair up in a sloppy bun and enters the bathroom.

A smile blooms on her face and she lets out a giggle at the sight before her. Ron, red-faced, is submerged in the tub full of Hermione’s best bath bubbles. The Wireless is situated on the toilet, the sound of soft jazz filling the room. An open bottle of wine and a half-empty glass sit on the floor.

“Hard day?” she asks innocently. Ron flushes again and sinks down further beneath the water.

“I thought you weren’t getting home ‘til later,” he mumbles.

Hermione’s grin widens. “Why? Is your girlfriend hidden underwater there?”

Ron splutters and inhales half the bubbles. Hermione laughs, the tension from earlier draining out of her, and then steps over the edge of the tub and slides down into the water, resting her back against Ron’s chest. He wraps his long arms around her and hugs her tight. “I love you,” he says softly. Hermione’s heart flutters in her chest. She will always cherish hearing those words.

Hermione shifts in the water, struggling to turn around in the too-small tub. “I wish this damn thing were bigger,” she mutters. Ron chuckles, and waves something in her face. It’s his wand.

“Are you a witch or not?” he asks with a cocky grin, then sweeps his wand through the air. The tub widens by nearly a foot and Hermione realizes she has all the room she needs.

She straddles his lap and reaches into the water to find him hard. She sinks down onto his cock, head thrown back, and sighs. She needs this, needs this release, this closeness, this pleasure. Ron grasps her hips and thrusts. Hermione cries out and Ron silences her with a kiss.


iv.
In the four days since Ron proposed, he and Hermione have exchanged a total number of twelve words. She knows this because she’s counted.

She doesn’t know why she didn’t say yes. Not that she said no. Only…that she had to think about it. Not that Ron took that news any better.

Hermione knew he was going to propose. He had always worn his heart on his sleeve, after all, and at the time, she had been ecstatic. But the moment he got down on one knee and opened up the ring box, Hermione's ‘yes’ got stuck in her throat.

As the end of the fourth day approaches, Hermione knows that they need to talk, but as the evening approaches, Hermione only gets angrier. In all the years we’ve known each other, she thinks, and he still doesn’t understand her at all. She knows she’s being irrational and emotional, but she’s tired and afraid she might lose Ron forever.

That night they sit across from one another eating dinner in total silence. Outside a massive thunderstorm rages on. Ron is pushing his food across his plate, never a good sign. Hermione notices a dull flush working its way up Ron’s neck; it’s like watching a volcano erupt, she thinks as Ron get angrier and angrier.

And Hermione decides to tickle the sleeping dragon.

“The chicken’s a little dry,” she says loftily. It’s not, but she’ll do anything to make him stop ignoring her.

Ron grips his fork tighter, but remains quiet. Hermione has to hand it to him; he’s really matured over the years. Which just means she has to try harder now.

“I think letting it seep in the marinade overnight will help with that,” she continues.

“The chicken’s fine,” he finally says through clenched teeth.

Okay, enough of this, she thinks, suddenly impatient. Setting down her silverware, she folds her hands across her laps and says, “Ron, please look at me.”

He doesn’t. He’s stopped eating, though, and Hermione is encouraged.

“I love you,” she says. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved another person in my life, Ron, so please look at me.”

He slowly lowers his own fork, his eyes fixated on Hermione’s dinner plate. His face is a blotchy red, and when he finally raises his eyes to hers, Hermione is horrified to see that he is crying.

“Then why won’t you marry me?” he whispers.

Her throat tightens and a tiny part of her heart breaks. He sounds broken, crushed, terrified, and what’s worse is that Hermione can’t seem to give him a straight answer.

“I don’t know,” she says, voice cracking. “I love you and I can’t imagine my life without you but—”

“But?” Ron snaps. “But I’m not rich enough? Not handsome enough? Not mature enough? Not—”

“It’s not you!” Hermione cries, surprising even herself. It’s true, she realizes abruptly. This has nothing to do with Ron. “It’s me,” she says, tears spilling down her cheeks as she finally admits the reason why she was so frightened. “I never thought…never dreamed that we could have this life together, that someone like me—a bookworm, a know-it-all, frizzy-haired—I never…You were my dream, Ron. I loved you before I even knew what love was. You’ve been my knight, my love, since forever. Since the train, since the chessboard, since the battle at school. It never crossed my mind that…that we could actually get our happy ending.”

She breaks off, unable to continue as her emotions come rushing out of her like a flood. She’s crying openly now, wiping away her tears with the sleeve of her shirt. She must look absolutely frightful, she thinks.

Ron only makes it worse. He’s staring at her as if she were a three headed dog. He shakes his head once, twice, she stares at her some more. “Are you mental?” he finally blurts. “Have you bloody lost your mind? In what universe would you ever feel like you weren’t good enough?” He stops, frowns deeply, and suddenly he’s out of his seat and kneeling by Hermione’s side.

“Merlin, Hermione,” he says, his voice shaking with emotion, “did I—? Have I ever made you feel like that? Think that? Because I love you too, more than I think I can ever convey in words. That’s why I asked you to marry me. Please, Hermione, if you’re not ready, I understand, but please, please tell me I never made you feel that way.”

Hermione hiccups. “Ron,” she says, taking his large hands in her own, “you fool. I’ve never felt more cherished than when I was with you.”

He watches her with clear blue eyes. Her heart skips. She says yes.


v.
Five hours, sixteen separate tests (Muggle and wizard alike), and yes, Hermione is still pregnant.

She has no idea why she isn’t more excited. In fact, she’s rather annoyed at herself for not being more thrilled at the fact that she and Ron were going to have a baby. What is wrong with her? Maybe she just isn’t a very maternal person. Ginny was thrilled when she learnt she was pregnant, why isn’t Hermione? Honestly, she rationalizes, she’s taken care of Crookshanks all those years, this shouldn’t be any different.

Perhaps she shouldn’t compare her unborn children to a pet cat.

Twenty minutes later Hermione finds herself knitting a hat without any real memory of how she got there. It’s as if she sat down on the sofa and the needles and wool just magically appeared in her hands.

Kreacher, she thinks wildly. Kreacher must have done it.

It’s a Saturday, one of Ron’s last days of Auror training, and Hermione has cleaned the flat twice, washed all the clothes, and baked two treacle tarts.

And knitted three more hats. They’re all pink.

Ron comes home to his mad wife changing the sheets on their bed for the fourth time that day (though he doesn’t know this). He raises his eyebrows at her but remains mercifully silent. Then he spots the clean clothes, the tarts, the sparkling floors, pink hats, and immediately knows that something is wrong.

He takes Hermione’s hand and gently pries her away from scrubbing out the tub. He sits her down on the sofa, holds her hands, and watches, mortified, as she bursts into tears.

“Sweetheart?” he says tentatively as Hermione blubbers across from him. “Is there something wrong?”

“I’m going to be a horrible mother,” she wheezes, blowing her nose into a tissue.

“I—what?” says Ron blankly. “What?”

“All I could think about was how we hardly have any money saved up and how we’ll need a bigger place and that you’ve only just finished your training and how Crookshanks will probably try to eat the baby and—”

“Hermione,” he interrupts. “Hermione, just what exactly are you saying?”

“I’m pregnant,” she sniffles. “With your baby,” she feels the need to clarify.

The room is silent for what feels like a very long time, and the next thing Hermione knows, she is being lifted bodily into the air and twirled around the room. Ron is laughing and whooping, his eyes sparking, mouth pulled into a giant smile. He repeats “I’m going to be a daddy!” over and over again until Hermione begins to laugh, his excitement brimming over, filling her heart and soul. Suddenly she is the happiest she’s ever been. She and Ron embrace, hugging one another so tightly Hermione is sure the baby can feel it. She cannot stop grinning.

They make love that night. The heat in the room is heavy and thick with lust. Hermione rides Ron slowly, feeling every inch of his cock slide in and out of her body. Ron grunts when Hermione squeezes him, pulling him further into her. Her hair is a mess, wild and frizzy, and Ron can’t seem to stop running his hands through it. He’s whispering to her, filthy, naughty words that leave Hermione breathless. He thrusts up harder and Hermione groans. His hands are everywhere, running over her arse, her shoulders, her breasts, before stopping on her stomach. His eyes are so full of love and tenderness that is makes Hermione gasp.

Ron comes calling her name.


vi.
Six minutes have passed and Hermione still cannot take her eyes off her new daughter. Her dark blue eyes are blinking wearily up at Hermione as she struggles against the confines of Molly Weasley’s patented swaddling cloth.

After Ginny finishes mending Ron’s bruised hand, he returns to the bedside and peers down proudly upon his wife and child.

“She’s perfect,” he says softly, and Hermione couldn’t agree more. Molly and Ginny fold up the rest of the blankets and hastily leave the room to give the parents some alone time. The baby yawns widely, and Hermione nearly gasps at the sheer cuteness of it.

“Oh!” Ron says suddenly, and bends down to begin rummaging through Hermione’s bag. He emerges a moment later with a triumphant cry. In his hand is one of the dozens of pink hats Hermione knitted for the baby in the previous months. She laughs softly as Ron places the hat gently on the baby’s head.

“I told you she was going to be a girl,” says Hermione, grinning.

She awakes a few hours later to the sound of Molly tripping over one of Ron’s discarded shoes.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she whispers so as not to wake Ron or the baby. “I just wanted to drop those flowers off for you.” Molly nods towards the bedside table and on it is a beautiful bouquet of the red roses Hermione noticed so long ago.

“Oh, Molly, they’re beautiful,” she breathes. “Thank you so much.”

Molly smiles fondly and pats Hermione on the foot. “I thought you’d like them. Ron told me ages ago how much you liked those flowers. I thought you might like to have them on this glorious occasion. Besides,” she notes, cocking her head to the side, “I’d say they match the shade of the baby’s hair perfectly. Well, I’ll leave you three to rest.”

Hermione stares at the flowers, then at the baby, and back to the flowers. Beside her, Ron stirs in his chair, then pops his neck loudly.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters. “That was a bad idea.”

“I’ve thought of a name for the baby,” Hermione announces.

Ron gives her a weary look. “Love, while I agree Persephone Lucretia is a…nice name, I just don’t think it’s quite the right name for our child—”

“Rose,” Hermione interrupts, pointing to the bouquet.

“Er, yeah, love, those are roses,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.

“No, Ron, her name should be Rose. Honestly.”

Ron’s face lights up and he rises from the chair, going to stand over the bassinet, watching the baby sleep. “It’s perfect,” he says, reaching down and touching her cheek gently. He looks up.

“You know, the first child’s middle name is usually after the parent. I reckon her middle name should be Hermione. What do you think of that, Rosie?” he coos.

Rose Hermione Granger-Weasley sneezes. Ron declares the next day that they should try for a boy. Hermione throws a pillow at him.


vii.
Seven decades, Hermione thinks as she watches the sun rise in the sky. The air is cool and breezy, and when the sun hits her face, she smiles. Next to her, Ron is snoozing in his rocking chair. He never was much of an early riser.

As Hermione awaits the arrival of her children and grandchildren, she reflects back upon her life, upon the moments that defined her, made her who she is. Ron, their marriage, their children, their home.

She feels her age. Her hair is nearly all grey now, though just as bushy as ever. Wrinkles line her face, around her mouth from all the laughing, around the eyes from all the smiling and crying.

Her life has been good, rewarding, but not without its hardships and difficulties. She’s seen another Wizarding war, the death of Ron’s and her parents. But she’s also seen the true blessings of life. Rose’s first steps; Hugo’s first ‘no!’; their first home, first rose garden, first Howler, first grandchild. She has been blessed.

And beside her every day was Ron, her knight, her companion, her lover.

He snuffles in his sleep. The day breaks. This is only the beginning.

She smiles.