Chapter Text
Hot summer wind whistles through the open windows of the Burrow. The curtains are pushed to the side and the paint chipped window is held open by an old Calculus textbook. Hermione and Ginny lay on Ginny’s bed stripped to their bras and underwear. Where their arms and legs touch on the narrow bed, is damp with perspiration, whether it’s hers or Ginny’s Hermione isn’t sure.
Outside somewhere, a lawnmower hums as one of Ginny’s many older brothers mows the lawn. The sweet scent of freshly cut grass and the gentle roar of the blades waft in through the open window. Hermione’s eyes flutter closed. The sun is a yolk on the horizon and beneath her eyelids little red capillaries crawl across her vision.
It’s been two weeks since she crossed the stage, flipped her tassel to the left, and graduated. In two months, she’ll start her undergraduate program and hardly emerge from the Bodleian Library. Harry and Ron will start work at Fred and George’s joke shop. A stopover before university. But for two months, they will live in the haze between being a teenager and a full fledged adult. Where everyday is Saturday, hangovers don’t exist, and they are never too busy for the swimming hole on the edge of the Weasley property.
Tonight is a bonfire. Though Hermione questions the wisdom of a bonfire night as a heatwave suffocates England. It’s too hot to do anything, but they’re too young to stay home.
“It’s official, I’m wearing this.” Hermione pries her heavy eyelids open and turns to look at her friend. The fresh sheet is cool against her cheek. Ginny is standing in a new lace bra and black boyshorts.
“I’d put money on Harry noticing you tonight.”
Hermione lets loose a laugh as Ginny curtseys, her breasts close to spilling from her bra. Ginny is only a year younger and has been chasing after Harry since before she hit puberty.
Ginny chooses something from her closet for Hermione, claiming her own clothes are sourced from a nunnery. Hermione finds she doesn’t care, the clothes she has are better suited for rain than a summer heatwave. It’s only later when she’s in jeans shorts that reveal a sliver of her ass and the points of her hip bones that Hermione regrets allowing herself to be dressed by Ginny.
They pile into the car. A rusted blue Oldsmobile that Ron inherited from his grandfather. The seats were once creamy beige leather but now yellow foam threatens to spill out from deep age worn cracks. It’s pink skies and the entire world is verdant as they speed too fast down back roads. The windows are down and Hermione catches Ron’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They sparkle blue mischief at her and lock for a second longer than a friend's eyes should. Hermione’s trace the shape of his freckled lips and wonder how they taste.
Harry tips back a tequila bottle in the front seat. Ginny leans forward, tangling her limbs around the head rest and steals the bottle from him to shouts of protest. She takes a long swig before passing it to Hermione. The clear liquid burns her throat before igniting her belly. Ron laughs at the face she makes in the mirror. Harry turns around and plucks the bottle from her grasp.
“I’ll take that back!”
When they pull into the clearing, cars are parked in the haphazard circle. Tailgates are down and someone’s radio blares the song of the summer, something fast with a chorus that gets stuck in your head for days no matter how hard you try not to sing along. It’s a local crowd, kids they’ve known most of their lives in one way or another. Any other night, Hermione would’ve hated this. The forced interactions with the people she’s sat next to in algebra and shared awkward primary school slow dances with. But now that she is going to leave, she sees them through fresh eyes. Lavender’s makeup is expertly applied, Padma’s jokes are funny, and Cormac is handsome, lit up by the roaring bonfire in the center of the clearing.
Ron passes her a beer, the cold bottle leaves her palm wet. He hangs on a second longer than he needs to. Warmth bubbles in her stomach.
“I’m glad you’re staying with us this summer,” Ron’s breath tickles her ear. Hermione’s parents have moved to Australia. Something they’ve talked about since she was thirteen. Hermione, faced with spending the summer before school, away from her friends in a new country, begged them to let her stay for her last summer with her friends. With a little pleading from Ginny, they relented to her spending the summer with the Weasleys before university. Molly and Arthur, bless them, hardly seem to notice another child under their roof.
“Me too.” Hermione doesn’t recognize the breathless quality in her voice. She takes a deep sip of beer to hide this girl she doesn’t know. She is carried back to the night in the Weasley’s attic. Molly sent them up for Christmas lights and tangled in tinsel and under the neon glow she could’ve sworn Ron was going to kiss her. She could’ve sworn they were going to cross the line between friends and something more. Her mind has been a mess of pros and cons and the aching desire to kiss him just to see. She wonders if she scratches that itch if it will finally be satisfied or if it will only set her whole body on fire. The flames are reflected in Ron’s eyes. He is desperate to know too.
“Ron!” Harry’s deep voice carries and the moment is broken. “Lavender needs a partner.” He stands in front of a beer pong table with an arm slung around Ginny. She is wearing a shit-eating grin, her long red hair already tied up in a ponytail. She clutches a white small white ball. Ginny and Harry both possess the type of athleticism that allows them to pick up any sport and instantly beat out the competition. Hermione watches, self-conscious she is hovering but unable to stop herself.
Ron, stands nearly two heads taller than Lavender and wraps her into a hug that lifts her off the ground. She laughs, a high musical sound that sounds nothing like Hermione’s deep throaty laugh. She watches casual touch after casual touch as they toss balls at red cups. Ron makes every one and Lavender misses most by a mile. She polishes off her drink and accepts another as Ron lines himself up behind Lavender’s body, her wrist in his hand, as he shows her how to aim. Her face burns. Hermione is reminded of the serious con of crossing the line with Ron; he is easily distracted by anything pretty that crosses his path.
Cormac slings an arm around Hermione’s shoulder, handing her another drink. Her neck is instantly sticky from the body heat. Ron’s eyes flicker over to the spot that connects them and Hermione decides she won’t remove Cormac’s arm after all. Let him see how it feels.
“Oxford, thought you’d be gone as soon as they handed you that diploma. Definitely didn’t imagine you drunk in a field with us common folks.”
“Going to Oxford doesn't preclude me from getting drunk in a field, Cormac.”
Cormac laughs. A great whoop rises up and Ron lifts Lavender up onto his shoulders after her ball lands in a cup of cheap beer. Ginny chugs and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Still pining, I see.” Cormac bumps her hip with his own.
“I’m not pining,” Hermione says stubbornly.
“And to think we all thought you didn’t experience attraction.”
“I’m not a robot, Cormac,” Hermione snaps.
Ginny sinks the next ball and then it’s Lavender’s turn again. She looks up at Ron for approval before letting her ball fly across the table. By some chance of fate, it lands in the last cup. They’ve won. She squeals and turns to face Ron. He chugs his beer before crushing it and tossing it on the ground before he grabs the back of Lavender’s head. His hands tangle in her long blonde hair as he kisses her. She responds instantly and Hermione is treated to a bit of tongue and Lavender’s legs wrapping around Ron’s waist before she turns and flees.
Cormac calls after her but Hermione ignores him. Her eyes sting but she refuses to let loose the tears that threaten to spill down her cheeks. She pushes through the circle of cars and is halfway down the rutted dirt road before Ron and Lavender disentangle themselves.
The dirt road is empty and the sun and its remnants are long gone. The canopies of trees rustle above her and the sounds of the party fade the further she walks. Her heart is fractured by a fissure of anger. She doesn’t want to walk back to the Burrow. She wonders if Ron will end up at Lavender’s tonight. She knows he has before. It’s why Harry warned Hermione off of him over a year ago and Hermione is positive he’s given at least one similar speech to Ron. Hermione isn’t sure how to untangle her feelings of friendship and something more. Isn’t even sure if it is possible. She loves Harry, but she has never shivered when his fingertips brush her own.
Two headlights bisect the dark road. For a moment Hermione is frozen before she comes to her senses and moves onto the side of the road. There’s a ditch and she stumbles slightly on uneven footing as her sandals sink into soft dirt. She waits for the headlights to pass, but instead the car slows, illuminating her. A sharp prick of fear enters her mind, even in a small town such as this there are dangers for a woman alone at night.
“What the fuck are you doing, Granger?” The gruff familiar voice catches Hermione off guard and she stumbles back landing on her ass. The car grinds to a halt and the front door opens and slams shut. All six foot four of angry Bill Weasley rounds the bed of his truck. His dark auburn hair is freshly washed and the still damp ends curl softly from where they are tucked behind his ears. He has a shadow of stubble on his jaw and chin and for a moment Hermione’s fingers itch to run along the length of his jaw. He crosses his arms and makes no move to help her from her frozen position on the ground. “Are you trying to get killed?”
Hermione knows his question is rhetorical but her mouth finally catches up with her brain and she says, “No, clearly this is just an excellent place to sit.” She gestures to the hard patch of dirt, she can feel the sharp pebbles of the road leaving marks on her skin.
Bill runs his tongue over his teeth before turning around and heading back to his truck. “Get in.” He reaches over and pops the passenger door open from inside the cab. It’s a demand not a question.
“I’d actually prefer to walk.”
“I don’t care.”
Hermione stands and brushes off her butt. “I’m an adult, you can’t demand I go with you.”
“Actually I can and already did so get in the car, Hermione.” Bill pauses and his eyes flick over her landing with derision on her too small jean shorts. “Before I throw you in.”
Hermione lets out an indignant squawk. Surely he wouldn’t throw her into the car. She meets hard green eyes and suddenly isn’t so confident. She climbs into the cab, taking her sweet time to convey her displeasure. Bill barely looks at her so Hermione can’t tell if she has made the desired point or not.
Bill makes no move to shift the car into drive. They are in the middle of a rural dirt road, the headlights shining into miles of farmland. “Buckle up.” Hermione is, in fact, safety conscious and would never dream of riding in a car without her seatbelt. But something in his tone, perhaps the fact that it is so clearly a command makes her mind buck in rebellion. She makes no move to buckle herself in.
“Suit yourself.” Bill’s tone is curt and Hermione expects him to floor it in retaliation, sending her into the dashboard to teach her a lesson. Instead a strong arm reaches across her body, pinning her against the seat and grabs the seatbelt next to her shoulder. Hermione watches, lips parted, as he buckles her in. His fingers brushing the exposed skin of her hip as he clicks the buckle and then he’s gone.
“I could’ve done it myself.” Hermione’s tongue feels heavy in her mouth.
“I gave you a chance.”
“Hardly!” Hermione denies. Bill shrugs, not looking sorry at all. He eases up on the clutch and shifts into drive and then they are speeding down the dirt road in the direction of the Burrow.
His eyes are on the road, giving Hermione the opportunity to study him. He’s in a nice shirt and smells faintly of spice and pine. His jeans are too dark to tell if they are blue or black and the sleeve of his shirt accentuates the type of biceps that belong to superheroes or giants. His grip on the steering wheel is loose and he taps a tattooed finger absentmindedly. The tip of his head nearly touches the ceiling of the truck, it’s an old truck, like most of the Weasley’s possessions and looks to have been made for a much smaller man.
“Why are you dressed up?” Hermione finds herself asking, connecting the dots. The fresh shower and nice shirt. He’s headed to a date. No wonder he’s pissed with her. Hermione has clearly thrown a wrench in his plans. He can’t head over to a woman’s house with his younger brother’s best friend, sometimes and almost girlfriend in his car. But Arthur and Molly have also raised their sons too well for him to ever consider leaving her on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, no matter how much he wants to.
“Why are you wearing next to nothing?” Bill retorts. Hermione crosses her arms over her chest. His eyes haven’t moved from the road once.
“Ask your sister,” Hermione says. Bill lets out a puff of air that might’ve been a laugh on a better humored man. She tugs at the shorts, trying to create length that doesn’t exist. It’s too early in the summer for her expanse of leg to look like anything but spilled cream.
“Ron shouldn’t let you walk home.” Bill shakes his head.
Hermione’s voice is acidic. “Ron doesn’t let me do anything, I’m my own person, thank you very much.” Hermione decides then and there that she will not identify Ron as the reason she was walking home alone.
Bill runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back, only for a tendril to fall back over his forehead. He still doesn’t look at her, having a conversation with the road. “Jesus, I know he’s not your keeper. But—“
Hermione cuts him off, she would rather be back at the party watching Ron and Lavender swap saliva then discuss Ron with his older brother. “Who was your date with? Anyone I know?”
“No. No one you know.”
Hermione watches Bill out of the corner of her eye. He’s years older than her and doesn’t feature in any of Hermione’s childhood memories at the Burrow. She knows he’s a team leader of the local Search and Rescue and while Hermione has never been particularly interested in the size of any man’s biceps she suddenly understands why you might want the man rescuing you to look like Bill does.
Last year, a woman and her son got lost in the mountains and Bill’s team was the one to find them. They were inexperienced hikers and should’ve never continued to hike after the sun went down. They went off the path and the son took a fall that ended in his shin bone poking through flesh.
Hermione doesn’t particularly care for hiking but growing up in the kind of small town she did, she at least knows you don’t hike after dark and you don’t leave the path. In actuality, Hermione knows quite a bit more than that. She knows how to tell what direction you are going in based on lichen covered trees, how to tell if bear tracks are fresh, and how to make a homemade splint. None of this is based on any interest in the outdoors, more of a side effect of having the type of brain she does.
She heard from Ron that the mother still writes Bill letters to thank him. Maybe he's on his way to visit her. She’s only a few towns over. They pull into the long drive that leads up to the Burrow. Bill stops the truck and gives her an expectant look. Hermione jumps out of the cab, unwilling to thank him for a ride she didn’t want and he didn’t want to give.
“Are you coming in?” Hermione asks. Bill lives in the Burrow. He has since his fiancé called it off with him almost nine months ago. It’s something the Weasleys don’t talk about, which, of course, makes Hermione all the more desperate to know what went down. It’s called a thirst for knowledge when it’s science and literature and just plain nosiness when it concerns your best friend’s oldest brother. Hermione is fine with either because no matter what you call it she’s got it.
“No, I’ve got a date.”
“It’s almost midnight.” Hermione doesn’t possess a wide range of expertise when it comes to dating but she knows no date happens after eleven. “It’s a little late for dinner.”
Bill laughs, a sound that warms her all the way down her throat and into her belly exactly the same as the tequila does. “It’s not that kind of dinner, Granger.”