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I met him when I was eight years old.
Ron Weasley, my brother’s best friend.
Even at thirteen, he was already tall, towering over Harry all summer, introducing a new insecurity in my otherwise confident older brother. I'd never cared much about my looks until then, when I became desperately sad that I hadn't inherited my mother's bright green eyes, long sheets of red hair, or even my father's jet black hair the way Harry had.
Everything about me was brown. My tanned skin from hours in the pool that summer, my eyes, my plain, boring frizzy hair.
I’d gotten a makeup kit for Christmas from Aunt Petunia—my mother had scoffed at it and shoved it aside, but I dug it out from the junk closet, applying bubblegum lip gloss with a heavy hand to impress Ronald Weasley.
He didn’t notice me, of course. I was eight.
But I watched in horror as girls all around our neighborhood noticed him. Tall and freckled, with bright blue eyes that seemed to shine right at you. It made girls want to possess him somehow, and I sadly understood the feeling all too well.
I was luckier than them, at least—he spent hours at my house thanks to my brother, his Xbox, and a copy of GTA they could play for hours without blinking.
I would sit and watch them, mostly to be near him, though sometimes genuinely interested in learning to play. Harry always tried to trick me with a busted controller, but more than once Ron felt sorry for me and let me have a go on his controller after they’d already played for a few hours, guiding my thumbs with his.
I still remember the warmth of him, and the smell. Freshly mown grass, orange juice and spearmint chewing gum on his breath, the faint spice of a freshly teenage boy’s sweat.
He was intoxicating.
I was hopelessly obsessed.
The years went on, and while my love and admiration for Ron Weasley ebbed and flowed, it never truly went away.
The truth was, he was much older than me, and I was hardly ever worth his notice. It would have been alarming if I had been, then. At sixteen he got his first girlfriend—a busty blonde named Lavender Brown—and he started coming over a lot less, busy with her.
I resented her deeply, for an eleven-year-old.
I would swipe my brother’s cellphone after he’d fallen asleep, tapping in his passcode with the dexterity of a naughty younger sister, navigating through his Instagram to Ron’s profile—RonWinsley4.
Four was the number on his rugby jersey. I loved watching him play. My brother played too, but that only mattered because it gave me a reasonable excuse to beg my parents to take me to the games. The boy wore these tight shorts on the pitch, and sometimes at the end of the matches, if he’d gotten really muddy, Ron peeled off that hideous orange and maroon striped jersey, letting me stare at his chest and flat stomach, admiring the ridges he already had there.
I click his Instagram now, desperate to look at his stories, dreading another photo of him with Lavender.
I hated her so much. I’d never known it was possible to feel this jealous, this hateful, but if I'd had the chance to shave off all her long blonde hair without consequences, I would have taken it without hesitation. I prayed every night for them to break up instead. Prayed to wake up with a different body—large breasts, green eyes, or at least hazel—something that would make Ron finally notice me.
My mouth goes dry when Ron’s page loads. He’s posted a new photo.
I click the icon with a trembling thumb, and my eyes soak in the image of him properly shirtless, his gym shorts pulled low enough to reveal the deep V of his pelvis, a trail of red hair escaping the waistband of his shorts, leading up to his navel. His chest is broad, and his abs are defined in a way I’d never seen in real life. His arms are thick with muscle as he flexes. He's standing in front of a mirror, half-swallowed by shadow.
The caption reads: post-workout pump
It has 346 likes. My brother already liked it.
I run to the comments, and find his instantly.
hapondeeznuts: slut
- seamuscunt: 💯
- padmapockets: lol
- thedeanthomas: yeah but I like it though
- ginormous: seriously. 🤮
I scroll past all of my brother’s friends and their stupid jokes, in search of her comment.
There.
Lavlavndwonwon: 😍😍😍
I read her username again and again, incensed. She'd changed it since I last checked. I click her page, go through her photos, and see she's posted a story. Harry hasn't watched it, which means if I click it now, it'll appear as though he has, and he'll know he didn't. He might figure out I’d been snooping through his phone. He might change his passcode. Even knowing the risk, I can’t help myself.
I click the pulsing circle around her profile picture, and watch.
She's filming herself selfie-style, showing off her outfit—a tight crop top with a pair of jean shorts that are no better than underwear—pouting her glossed lips and batting her fake eye lashes to a Doja Cat song. Suddenly, Ron launches into frame, his hand wrapping around her throat, yanking her roughly into an open mouthed kiss, their tongues tangling on screen.
I lock the phone instantly, my heart pounding, my breathing fast.
I unlock it immediately, and watch it over and over, trying to memorize the way his muscled forearm flexes when he squeezes her, the angle of his defined jaw, how quickly she folds into his hungry kiss. I want to save the video, but I can’t—I have no phone of my own. I check the tablet my parents bought me, and realize it has Bluetooth, but my mom checks it often, updating irritating parental software, so I’m not sure I could hide anything on it.
I watch it again, torn, desperate to memorize it. I want to crawl inside the screen and replace her—keep her body, swap my face. I want it to be me he reaches for.
Eventually I force myself to close it, feeling like jelly, and force myself to scroll through Harry’s DMs instead.
If I’m going to get caught, I need to make sure I have ammo to fight back with.
At thirteen, I finally get my period. I’m the last to develop out of all my friends, and it’s infuriating. I actually like my period for this reason; it makes me feel so grown up. Unfortunately, it’s too little too late, because my chest is nowhere near endowed, and my ass is still quite flat. I’d always been a very skinny child, and it seemed like that trend would continue through my teen years whether I liked it or not.
Ron couldn't even see me now regardless, because he's off on a gap year with Harry, backpacking through Europe and sleeping in hostels and overnight trains. His Instagram is vibrant—filled with photos of him, arms thrown wide in front of the Swiss Alps, cartwheeling at the Eiffel Tower, baiting Harry with a red napkin in Madrid like a matador.
I have my own phone now that I'm in high school, and the first thing I do is make an Instagram, following everyone I know. I wait for my follower count to hit 104, then follow Rawn. He'd changed his username, the way Harry had too. Apparently one had to, to prevent college admins from snooping.
They’d both gotten into Dartmouth. Ron joked constantly that he’d only gotten in because he was a legacy—his dad, his uncles, his eldest brother had gone there too—and Harry agreed, laughing that Ron’s grades were abysmal for him to have been accepted on his own.
Ron had also dumped Lavender right before graduation, joking that he wanted to make his way through Europe in peace. Harry had snickered, informing him jovially that European girls don’t shave down there.
Ron had made a face.
I obsessively remove every hair from my body after that.
I wait anxiously for Christmas, obsessing over what to wear, hoping Ron will at least come by for dessert.
I’m heartbroken when I find out Harry is joining the Weasleys instead of the other way around. He’d started dating Ron’s sister Ginny, and they were doing this convoluted long distance situationship I didn’t fully understand. She’s only one year younger than them, and therefore gets included way more often than I do.
I can’t fault my brother. I can see how sickeningly in love with her he is. She’s got the same red hair as Ron, more vibrant than the dull shade of my mother’s, but her eyes are brown instead of blue or green.
I’m miserable the entire holiday, and I get a talking to from my dad. I yell at him that I hate this family and stomp up the stairs.
At Easter, Harry is still somehow dating the same girl, which is a record for him. Our mom insists that he invite Ginny over while he’s home—that they should really take turns. It takes quite a bit of nagging, but Harry relents.
Ginny comes over after church. She’s beautiful and smart and funny, and I like her immediately. I wish she’d have thought to bring her brother. Still, even this sort of proximity is better than nothing. I do my best to ingratiate myself, trying hard to make her like me. I can’t shake the feeling that she’s laughing at me when I say things to impress her.
I go to bed depressed. I’m so immature.
That summer, Ron hardly comes over, spending most of his time doing who knows what. The few times he does, he’s friendly, giving me that easy smile he always has, but not quite seeing me. I’m almost fifteen now, and finally starting to fill out, but my style of dress is still baggy and insecure.
He’s here now, scrolling through his phone, standing in our little foyer. I grab an apple from the kitchen just to have something to do with my hands, feeling awkward and a little sad as we wait for my brother to come down the stairs. They’re going to some bar—I don’t even ask how. I know they both have fake IDs.
I pluck a honeycrisp from the fruit basket, not realizing Ron had drifted into the kitchen after me.
“Those are my favorite,” he says, pocketing his phone. “Wanna share?”
“Sure,” I agree, a little breathless. “Let me see if we have any clean knives.”
“No need. Come here.”
Something happens to me when he gives me that order, and I walk to him like a robot, heart beating against my ribs like a trapped bird.
He takes the apple from my hand, his calloused fingers brushing my palm, lighting me on fire. Then he presses both thumbs into the divot at the stem.
The apple cracks clean in half.
He grins and hands me my portion.
“Wow,” I say stupidly. “How did you do that?”
“Want me to teach you?” he asks, leaning over to grab another apple from the basket.
Then he does something I don’t expect. He touches me, grabbing my shoulders and turning me around, wrapping his arms over mine, positioning my thumbs on the fruit the way he once did on the Xbox controller.
“Just squeeze,” he murmurs, his voice low. He squeezes gently over my hands in demonstration, and something warm twists deep in my stomach. He's so solid behind me, so warm, and it takes everything I have not to lean back into him, to press my backside against his hips.
I hear shuffling at the top of the stairs. Ron lets me go, settling against the kitchen island, watching me with an easy expression.
“Go on, then.”
I squeeze and squeeze, but I do nothing but puncture the skin with my nail.
“I can’t,” I tell him.
He grins, taking a big bite of his half. “You’re a pipsqueak, that’s why.”
“I am not!” I say, coloring at this, but secretly thrilled that he’d noticed anything about me at all.
“You are!” He pinches my arm, but its gentle and doesn’t hurt. “Harry,” he calls up the stairs. “Do you lot feed this poor girl? She’s tiny!”
“Just give her a bag of Hot Cheetos,” Harry shouts down. “That usually keeps her at bay.”
I color again, now a bit miffed with my brother.
“Hot Cheetos, huh?” Ron repeats, as if filing it away.
Harry bounds downstairs and yanks open the shoe drawer, making a huge mess as he digs around for the sneakers he wants to wear. A pair of my Keds falls victim to this, skittering across the hardwood floors.
Ron bends over to pick it up.
“What the hell is this?” he asks, holding it just out of my reach. I lunge for it, inexplicably embarrassed. “A Barbie shoe?”
“It’s not—it’s perfectly normal-sized!”
He laughs a full belly laugh, waving my shoe low enough to make me jump, then lifting it to the ceiling when I try to take it back from him. I brush against him, and he leans back until I cling onto his broad arms.
It’s like a fever dream.
“Come on, dude, let’s go!” Harry snaps, finally pulling on his shoes. “I know Hermione’s a weirdo with freakishly small feet, but you can make fun of her later.”
“I think I’ll keep this,” Ron responds, already heading for the door, my Ked still in hand. “It’s cute.”
“I need it!” I call after him, hovering in the doorway, pretending to be more desperate than I am. The truth is I'm electric with excitement.
“Maybe if you’re nice to me and keep feeding me apples, I’ll bring it back.”
He winks, and throws my Ked into the back seat of his beat-up Honda Civic as Harry drops into the passenger seat and leans on the horn.
Ron flips Harry off before sliding into the driver’s seat, and gives me a wave goodbye through the window.
It’s the best day of my life.
Ron comes over more often that summer, though still not like he did when we were children. It’s always only a few minutes before he picks up Harry, but those minutes are precious to me. He teases me, pulls my curls, calls me bushy, pipsqueak, and other juvenile names—sometimes stealing a shoe, sometimes bringing one back.
Harry rolls his eyes at Ron during these moments, chalking it all up to standard little sister ribbing. That’s what he thinks it is. I know this because I know Harry like my own soul. He’s good, and it would never cross his mind that Ron Weasley, almost twenty years old, would ever flirt with his fourteen year old sister.
There are moments of doubt—dark moments when I think that maybe that’s exactly what it is—that I’m just a younger sister. Teasable. Entertainment while he waits for Harry to get his shit together and find his shirt and shoes so they can go flirt with girls their age—girls they can have sex with. Harry had dumped Ginny by then, saying she was too good for him, and when he tried to get back with her a week later, she wouldn’t have him.
Before my birthday, they leave for college, and I turn fifteen feeling alone despite being surrounded by my closest friends.
I dress up for the occasion. It’s my first experience being in a mixed group of boys and girls, and we go to Olive Garden with no adult chaperones cramping our style. One of the boys tries to kiss me, but I turn my head at the last moment, stupidly clinging to the hope that my first kiss will be with Ron.
When I get home, my thumb hovers over the post button on a full-body candid photo my friend took of me where I look half-way decent. My bodycon dress—very trendy at the time—clings to my waist and hips in a way that makes it look like I have decent curves, my raised arm obscuring the curve of my breast, making it look like I’m hiding more than I have. My hair looks almost glossy in the low lights of the restaurant, and my smile—my best feature—is wide and bright white.
I press post without thinking, my only aim really for Ron to see it. For him to think of me as mature.
The boy who’d tried to kiss me likes it first. Then Luna. Then my brother. He comments.
harrynuts: wtf
harrynuts: you look old
I roll my eyes, annoyed with my brother.
Luna comments next.
Looneylove: goooooorrggggggggg 😍
djjjjjin: um, hermione? Obsesseddd
sallowbitch: happy bday
omimommi: 🔥🔥
marcthespot: hey 👀
Pat.illest: 👅👅👅👅 girrlllllllll come HERE with dat sexy ass!!
nottcute: 😏
hankypansy: literal goals. LITERAL GOALS.
The comments keep rolling in, very encouraging from the girls, and flattering from the boys. Several of them are quite popular, and I feel excited despite myself. I check my phone constantly, glued to it, catching every notification in real time, my heart stuttering that it might be a like from him.
Finally, after two hours, I see a heart appears from Rugbyrat.
He’d changed his name again, and I click his profile to double and triple check that it’s really him.
It is. I watch the comments, refreshing and refreshing, waiting for his to appear among the now fifty-nine others.
Nothing happens for fifteen whole minutes. Disappointed, I swipe away, intending to scroll through my For You feed to distract myself when I see a red circle over my DMs.
I click it with my heart in my throat.
Rugbyrat: 2 messages
Wow pipsqueak
Hb
I feel sick with excitement. He’s in my DMs. The post isn’t linked, but I know immediately what he means.
I type, then delete, then type again, worried he'll see me hesitating even though I know he isn't watching.
Thanks 🙂
His icon pops up beneath my message, meaning he’s seen it. I have to sit up I’m so excited. I stare at the screen, trying to think of something to say, when I see the three dots appear.
Rugbyrat typing…
All grown up huh
My heart bursts. I decide right then and there I’m never wearing another baggy sweatshirt ever again. I reply, trying to sound flirty.
I guess so 😉
I wait and wait, but he doesn’t respond again. The message doesn't even mark as read until sometime the next day. But I stared at that screen for hours anyway, until my eyelids became too heavy and I finally forced myself to put it down and sleep.
From then on, Ron always came to our house on Thanksgiving and Christmas, even if only briefly. I do my best to look sexy during the holidays, and I even catch him staring at my ass in one particular sweater dress, once. I live off that high for weeks.
The Christmas of my sixteenth year on earth, I catch him standing under a doorway with mistletoe hanging overhead, leaning against the doorframe while talking to my uncle Sirius. Uncle Sirius isn’t really my uncle—not by blood anyway—but he’s hung around dad his whole life, and he’s Harry’s Godfather, though somehow not mine. He’s a life-long bachelor—which just means he has lots of promiscuous sex—and while beloved by my dad, he’s a constant source of exasperation for my mom.
Still, he comes to stay every major holiday, mostly because he has no family of his own.
I sidle through the doorway, hoping my perv of an uncle will notice we're both standing under the mistletoe and make a scene about it.
He’s already quite drunk, so my wish comes true.
“HERMS!” he bellows that idiotic nickname I hate, pointing above my head. “MISTELTOE!”
Ron looks up in tandem with me, and I pretend I hadn’t noticed the décor in my own house until this exact moment.
“KISS HER, WEASLEY!”
Uncle Sirius dissolves into laughter, clutching his sides. Harry walks in, miming vomiting all over the floor, while Sirius hollers for my mom. I blush, actually embarrassed and no longer performing.
I cross my arms. “Seriously Harry? It’s not that disgusting—”
“It’s revolting.” Harry makes a face, followed by more noisy, theatrical retching. “You’re basically his sister!”
I slide my eyes to Ron, looking at him from the corner of my eye, properly red now and regretting I’d ever tried to steal a kiss so brazenly. I’d been posting carefully curated photos of myself since my fifteenth birthday; surrounded by friends, occasionally alone, doing interesting things like attending parties and concerts. My friends had discovered if we wear heels and enough makeup, we can pass for eighteen, and we’d been sneaking into the Sock for grunge garage band nights ever since. They'd make out with older boys while I guarded our drinks, still holding onto the hope that my first kiss would be Ron Weasley. They teased me mercilessly for this, calling me either hopelessly romantic or delusional, depending on the mood.
I guess I’d gotten tired of waiting for him to make a move. He’s twenty-one at this point, and hasn’t posted a girl to his Instagram since Lavender Brown.
Ron catches me looking at him. He reaches out and takes my face in his hand, tilts it up, and kisses me square on the mouth.
It's closed-lipped, and in front of my drunk uncle and my brother, and it lasts maybe a second. It still sets me on fire.
My brother totally loses it.
“Disgusting! What the fuck, Weasley—now I need to gouge my eyes out.”
Uncle Sirius wolf-whistles as my mom rushes in with her digital camera.
“Oh no! Did I miss it?”
“Count yourself fucking blessed.”
“Language, Harry!” She shoots him a look, then turns to Ron, and proceeds to humiliate me more thoroughly than I have ever been humiliated in my life.
“Oh, Ron—would you do it again? It’s Hermione’s first kiss and I’d love to get it on camera!”
I could melt through the floorboards and into the foundations of the house. I could crawl willingly into my own grave, frantically pulling in the soil after me.
“Mom!” I complain.
“First kiss? Really?” Ron asks, clearly amused. “I’m honored, Herms.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, instantly annoyed.
“Come here, then.”
He pulls me in by the waist—nothing low enough to give anyone pause—and presses his closed lips to mine. He holds them there until I see a flash through my eyelids.
“Perfect!” My mother runs off to find my dad, who’s probably hiding somewhere in the basement, kneading bread dough for my mom, and trying to avoid his in-laws.
Ron lets go of me and ruffles my hair, completely messing it up, and I finally open my eyes, feeling slightly off-kilter.
I look away and step back, feeling awkward and shy and very happy.
My eyes land on Harry. He looks properly furious.
He pulls me aside later, mouth set in a thin line.
“Hermione, you need to be careful.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, though I know exactly what he’s talking about.
“Ron is not a nice guy—”
“Why are you friends with him, then?” I cut in, astounded at his hypocrisy, and irritated that he won’t let it be. Even mom was okay with it.
“That’s different. I’m a guy. He doesn’t want to—” He stops, looking intensely uncomfortable. We’ve never talked about sex before. Brothers and sisters often don’t. “I’m going to kill Sirius,” he finishes lamely.
“Good luck with that,” I tell him smugly. “Now if we’re done here—”
“Hermione, please.” Harry grabs my arm, stopping me. His voice is different now, sincere in a way that makes the argument on my tongue falter. “I mean it. Don’t—not him. He’s not a nice guy,” he repeats. “You can do better.”
“You’re really blowing this out of proportion!” I tell him, though I feel a flicker of guilt I can't quite explain. I should’ve left the mistletoe alone, but it’s hard to feel guilty when I still feel like I’m floating. “Don’t worry,” I add as earnestly as I can manage. “Ron’s like my brother. You should be relieved, honest.”
Harry frowns, but finally lets go of my arm.
“Maybe,” he says. “I hope so.”
For the rest of the evening, Ron talks to everyone but me, even my Aunt Petunia, and she’s a total bitch. At some point Ginny comes by, and Harry forgets all about his angst over the kiss, and follows her around like a lost puppy as she makes the rounds.
I wonder if they’ll be ‘on’ again soon. I hope so.
Around midnight, Ron hugs my mom goodbye, and she promises to send him a copy of the photo when she gets a chance to upload them to her computer. He laughs, joking that he’ll print it out to keep in his wallet. My dad claps him on the back and tells him he's a good man.
I linger in the foyer, hoping Ron will hug me goodbye too, but after he puts on his shoes he straightens, catches my eye, and simply waves.
“Merry Christmas, pipsqueak!”
I roll my eyes, pretending to hate the silly nickname.
Later, I detail the event in my diary, trying to catalogue the scent of his cologne, the warmth of him through his sweater, the feeling of his lips against mine.
It’s the perfect Christmas.
It’s my happiest memory.
My friends were ecstatic that I’d gotten my first kiss out of the way, and started pressuring me in earnest to make out with anyone and everyone. One argued quite fervently that Ron wouldn’t want an inexperienced girl, so I should really start having sex and stat. I disagreed with this, wanting him to be my first in everything. She bonked me over the head with a pillow.
I loosened up a little, though. There were a few boys very interested in me, and being young, I was curious. I kissed them with tongue, exploring their mouths and letting them explore mine, but nothing came close to the way I felt with Ron’s close-mouthed peck on my lips.
Still, teenage boys can be demanding. But when things got too exciting, I always stopped them, thoughts of Ron clearing the haze of need easily.
I gained a reputation quickly—I knew boys called me ‘frigid’ behind my back. By seventeen, most of my friends had already given up their virginities. I wondered if there was something wrong with me, for I read all sorts of terribly depraved fiction on the internet, having a sort of morbid curiosity about being taken by force, and yet I refused ordinary sex as though it were a transgression. Rape ignited a thrill in me that I chose not to examine, and I often imagined Ron as both the villain and hero as I lay helplessly pinned beneath him, both an innocent victim and an enthusiastic participant.
The reality was that totality of my sexual experience amounted to being rubbed through my jeans once when I was drunk, and one hand job given to Cormac McLaggen—a very insistent boy who'd been in love with me since we were fourteen.
I tried to keep Cormac at bay as long as I could, but by the end of my junior year he’d worn me down, and I started dating him over the summer.
I rarely saw Ron anymore, and I suspected it had something to do with my brother. Ever since the mistletoe kiss, Harry had been weird about bringing Ron over—going as far as digging all my shoes out of Ron's car, muttering about him being a weirdo while he shoved the mismatched pairs back into my arms.
It felt worse than a breakup, and I was angry and bitter with Harry for a long time. He must have been angry with me too, because for the first time in years, he didn’t come home for Thanksgiving or Christmas, and spent a good chunk of the summer in Spain on a study abroad program with Ginny.
With Harry gone, there was no reason for Ron to come over that summer, though I did see him once.
My uncle Sirius was living in our basement—he needed a place to crash while he worked on his van, which he usually lived out of. My mom suspected he was sick of being homeless. My dad stayed silent, not wanting to give her a reason to kick him out. Uncle Sirius insisted that something had gone wrong with the engine.
He must have called Ron for help, because I’m digging around in the kitchen for a snack when I hear his voice. Immediately every hair on my body stands on end, and my pulse quickens until I feel woozy. I clutch the windowsill, listening carefully, my ear trained toward the driveway.
“I think you need new sparkplugs too…”
That’s definitely him.
I run upstairs, frantic, swapping my ripped flannel pajamas for a pair of Nike running shorts that hint at my ass with every step, and change into a fitted T-shirt, forgoing a bra. I think better of it, only because I don’t want Uncle Sirius to notice—and most certainly comment—on my nipples, so I tear it back off, put on a bra, and pull it back on.
Then I realize I haven't brushed my teeth since waking up a couple of hours ago, so I careen into the bathroom and brush hard enough to make my dentist parents cringe.
My hair is slightly oily from not having washed it for a week, so I pile it high on my head, trying to make it look effortlessly messy before bounding back downstairs and grabbing the car keys on my way out.
“Uncle Sirius!” I call as I approach the driveway, pretending not to know who he's with. “Can you take me out driving?”
I keep walking toward the van even when there’s no answer, my heart stuttering in my chest.
“You’re learning to drive, pipsqueak?” Ron asks, poking his head out from under the hood. He’d taken his shirt off, and I try desperately to keep my eyes on his face.
“Yeah,” I say as evenly as I can. “I got my permit finally.”
“Congrats.” He gives me a crooked smile. I blush.
“Hand me a wrench, will ya?” Uncle Sirius calls out from under the van, arm extended, waving impatiently when Ron doesn't immediately respond.
“Hey, Sirius,” Ron says, “You mind if I take her out for a ride?”
“Who, Hermione?” Sirius asks, still totally oblivious to me. “Sure. As long as I don’t have to do it. Take your car—she’s not allowed to drive her mom’s anymore.”
“I’m not allowed to drive it with Harry,” I correct quickly. “It was his fault I hit that curb—”
“Save it, kid!” Sirius calls from under the van. Ron laughs, pulling his shirt back over his head.
I follow him to his Civic with my head down, feeling embarrassed and annoyed with Uncle Sirius for making me seem like an incapable child.
“Oh right,” Ron grins, releasing the driver's side door and handing me the keys. “Hop in, kid.”
I bristle under the nickname, the most hated of all, and plop down angrily in the driver’s seat. I stuff the key into the ignition and turn it too roughly, making it stutter before the engine catches, roaring to life.
“You alright?” Ron asks, smirking at me.
“Fine,” I mutter.
The truth is, I feel flustered and upset. It’s been months since we kissed last Christmas, and I hadn’t seen him once. I’d posted plenty of photos in that time, but two I'd specifically designed to get him to DM me again had failed. The first was a photo of me and two less attractive friends at the beach, me in the middle, wearing the smallest bikini my mom had allowed. I looked good, I thought. Ron hadn’t liked it, and I hadn’t expected him to. Harry had called my dad to complain, which guaranteed he wouldn’t.
I had a huge row with dad after, because he and Harry wanted me to delete it, but when I cried sexism mom took my side, and it looked briefly like I might win. But then dad started getting really angry with mom, telling her I’m still a minor, and I can be a feminist when I’m eighteen if I want, which infuriated me, because it was only three months away, but mom relented.
I deleted it, with no idea whether Ron had even seen it in the twelve hours it was up.
The second was a photo of me and Cormac, kissing. He had one arm wrapped around my waist and the other on my hip, and my butt was sticking out just enough to make it look like I had a nice curve. I’m laughing in the photo, with my head thrown back at the exact angle to make me look stunning, my hair shining and voluminous. Even Cormac looked okay—I had both hands cupping his face, obscuring it tastefully, but his shoulders looked broad and strong.
He’d been so excited that I’d posted him, which had been an unfortunate side effect.
Ron had liked that one, which I didn't know what to make of. He didn’t often like my photos, and seemed to prefer DMing me instead, but it was always a single word or an emoji, and when I responded he never continued the conversation.
Now I'm in his car. Harry isn't in the country and can't get between us. And yet I'm frustrated that years of careful effort don't seem to be working.
“Do you know how to drive stick?” Ron asks when I just stare ahead.
I jolt out of my thoughts, blushing. “Kinda,” I say, even though I have no idea.
“Alright,” he says, looking a bit uncertain. “Disengage the emergency break to start.”
“Right,” I say, looking for the button like my mom has.
“It’s this handle,” Ron points to a handle by my elbow. I blush, and try to pull it, but it doesn’t budge.
Ron smiles, again looking amused, and presses the button at the tip of the handle and pushes down.
“Alright, now press the brake with your right foot and the clutch with your left so we can slip the car into neutral.”
“Um,” I blush deeply, actually embarrassed. “Which one’s which?”
He grins, and spends the next fifteen minutes explaining how a manual transmission works. Finally, I feel confident enough to try, and end up stalling the car twice, unable to pull the car out from its spot by the road. Ron suggests we drive to an empty parking lot to practice, so we swap seats.
I buckle my seatbelt, feeling ridiculously content to listen to whatever pop song was popular that summer, windows down, the wind whipping my hair into a cloud around my face. Normally that would bother me, but I couldn’t find it in me to care. I tried not to stare at Ron's bare forearms every time he reached for the gearshift, but it did something to me. When we got out to swap seats again, I surreptitiously check the seat behind me to make sure I hadn't left a wet spot.
The parking lot is as empty as promised. It feels like we’re alone for the first time, and I have this intense desire for Ron to just kiss me—not ask me, not date me—but just take me in broad daylight, pushing me against his car while I struggle against him. I flush, embarrassed and amazed by my own depravity. What sort of girl even wants that?
Ron is a total gentleman, however, giving me a wide berth as we move around the Civic. He doesn't shove me or crowd me or tease me, and I wonder again if he's seeing someone, or if I’m still not beautiful enough to catch his eye.
I spend more hours than I can count on perfecting my makeup, my curl routine, and whitening my teeth in secret since my parents forbid it. And while it gets me more attention than I know what to do with, though it never seems to have an effect on the one person I care about the most.
I worry about my grades almost as much as I worry about my looks. Ever since my brother and Ron got into Dartmouth, nothing less will satisfy me. I think sometimes I study for myself—for a pure, genuine love of learning—but then I remember my need to impress him, and that feeling travels like poison through the heart of who I am, infecting me until I’m not sure where he ends and I begin.
Ron talks me through starting the car again and I actually manage it, then immediately bungle the shift into first and stall.
“Okay, let’s do this,” he announces, leaning across to look down at the pedals over my bare legs. I imagine him grabbing my thighs, pulling me on to his lap, and suppress a shiver. “You keep your focus down there, and I’ll do the thinking for you up here.”
He has me place my hand on the gearshift and covers it with his palm. The contact destroys my focus completely, and I bungle the pedals over and over, unable to think straight.
“Come on, pipsqueak,” he says. “Get your mind out of the gutter, will you?”
“The gutter?” I nearly shriek. “Why would you say that?”
He points to my phone, which must have been pinging incessantly, for there are sixteen missed messages and two missed calls from Cormacccccccc bf 🧡
I look up at him, unwilling, obviously, to admit that my mind was in the gutter for an entirely different reason. He raises his eyebrows.
“Maybe put it on silent?”
“Yeah,” I say, flipping the switch with my left hand, not wanting to move my right from under his.
“First boyfriend, huh?”
I swallow, feeling both nervous and excited that he’s showing interest in my romantic life. I have no idea how to work this angle. If I make it seem serious, he might assume I'm in love with Cormac and lose interest. If I act like I've had loads of boyfriends, I might seem like a slut, and he wouldn’t like that either, right?
I’d long noticed that men wanted sluts, but needed to believe they didn’t. It must massage their egos to think a girl only spreads her legs this wide for him alone. That she only knows exactly what she’s doing out of raw talent, not constant and varied practice.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” I settle on. “Cormac’s a nice guy.”
“Nice guy,” Ron repeats, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “I don’t think there’s a seventeen year old on earth who’s capable of being a ‘nice guy’.”
“It’s not like that,” I say quickly, wanting to preserve my squeaky clean image. It’s not a lie, anyway. I’ve never let Cormac go further than some over-the-clothes fumbling, and while he had finished in his pants a few times, it wasn’t because I’d done anything—it was just the overexcitement from the kissing. He’d always make me promise not to tell, complaining that I was too sexy. I honestly felt bad for him. “Also, he’s eighteen.”
“You’re into older men, then?” He jokes, smirking, and I go red enough to rival a sunburn.
“A three-month age gap is hardly significant.”
“He doesn’t do anything… bad, right?” Ron asks me. His smirk is gone, and he sounds genuinely uncomfortable.
I’m extremely flattered that he cares enough to ask. My fantasies shift—Ron punching Cormac in the face for trying to kiss me, then sweeping me up and carrying me home. Perhaps tucking me into bed, maybe resisting the impulse to kiss me because I’m his best friend’s little sister.
This fantasy is less alluring than the others, but it still makes me warm. Besides, over the years I’d had so many, depending on my mood, that it hardly matters if Ron does the honorable thing in a few of them. Eventually, he’ll have me. In my head, it’s only a matter of time.
“No—I don’t—” I stop, feeling foolish. I’m pretty sure Ron lost his virginity long before age seventeen and three-quarters, and I don’t want to admit that I don’t let Cormac touch me, or that I hadn’t even properly seen his penis yet.
“No.” I finish awkwardly, my hand still under is.
“You know you can always come to me, right?” Ron says, his voice sincere. “I know you might need someone to look out for you while Harry’s gone.”
He squeezes my hand under his.
“I’m here for you if you need it. Seriously. You have my number, right?”
“Um—actually, I don’t.” I say, ecstatic and trying to hide it. Would he text me? I’m always left starving from the brief interactions on Instagram.
“Here,” Ron holds out his unoccupied hand for me to pass over my phone, and I unlock it for him before handing it over.
He types his number into my contacts one-handed, and I feel almost as happy as I did when he kissed me twice under the mistletoe. I always feel like barren land when Ron’s not around, but when he pays me even the slightest attention, it’s like someone has finally cast seed over me and given me rain.
“Hold on, let me call myself.”
His phone rings once, then he hangs up.
“Right. Enough of that. Now let’s try again, and stay focused this time, or else I’ll have to punish you, pipsqueak.”
I pretend to be outraged and demand to know what my punishment would be. He only raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer.
After two glorious hours of learning to drive a car I’ll never need to drive again, Ron drops me off at home. I almost forget my phone in the passenger seat, but he calls out to me to come back, and I laugh nervously as I retrieve it, thanking him for the lesson.
He tells me to text him if I want to keep practicing, and drives off. I feel butterflies erupt in my stomach at the thought, the prospect of seeing him regularly, of having him to myself, makes my chest ache.
I open my contacts before I even get to the door, wanting to see how he’d saved himself into my phone, but nothing comes up when I type ‘Ron’, or ‘Weasley’.
I go to my recents, remembering he’d called himself, and stare at the screen. My heart drops.
Your Big Bro 🕹️
I try once that summer to text Ron, asking if he’ll take me driving again. He doesn’t respond until the next day, apologizing that he’s been really busy, but he’ll reach out when he has time.
He doesn’t text me again.
My eighteenth birthday marks the end of the summer, and I try to feel as excited about it as I'd always imagined I would.
The truth is, I'd only ever cared about turning eighteen because of Ron. In my dreams, his ambivalence was never indifference, but restraint because I was underage. The moment I turn eighteen he would confess, and beg Harry to date me. Sometimes my daydreams include dating in secret at first, Ron too afraid Harry would refuse permission.
I scoff at my brother sometimes—he’s way too protective. Especially if you consider all the mischief he got up to when he was my age.
He's in his final year of college now, but had somehow extended his study abroad to a full six months, and is still living in Spain with Ginny. My mom frets constantly that he’ll decide to stay there permanently when he graduates. My dad says sarcastically he’d rather see Harry in Spain than back under his roof.
Cormac and I are still dating, and he’s successfully pressured me into giving him proper hand jobs now. It’s fine, I guess. It’s not like they take very long, but they do get sticky, and it’s uncomfortable when Cormac comes because he gets all whiny about not being able to have sex.
Sometimes I let him touch me too—under my clothes. But he doesn’t do it right, I think, because I don’t like the way he kneads my breasts and pinches my nipples, hot against my neck. Once he pushed his hand inside my underwear, moaning about how hot I was, but when he kept flicking his finger against my dry lips I had to ask him to stop.
I could feel my relationship with him winding down, but I didn’t want to dump him before homecoming, which was only a month into the school year, and not enough time for me to find another date. These things always required dates, and in my big group of friends, it would be mortifying to be the only one in the limo sitting alone while all the other couples made out on either side of me.
On the day of homecoming, I wear a short dress despite the October chill. All the girls wear short dresses to homecoming, so it would be social suicide to do otherwise. I twist my hair into an updo, leaving two perfect curls loose by my face, and smile at my reflection.
This would be fun. Even if Cormac nagged me to finally suck him off, or even have sex with him, I would ignore it. I was going to dump him tomorrow anyway.
I take a quick mirror selfie and post it to my Instagram stories almost absentmindedly. Ron never looks at those anyway.
My dress is short, but the babydoll cut creates the illusion that it's shorter than it actually is, making my legs look impossibly long. My chest, which had never grown to be particularly endowed, unfortunately, is flattered by the neckline. With the help of some self-tanner from the night before, I look pretty good.
I take a video selfie, showing the way the dress moves when I shake my hips.
I feel cute.
We meet at one of my friends’ houses and spend at least an hour taking photos and videos so we can boast about our lives, our connections, our wealth and beauty on Instagram later, when we’ve gotten a chance to edit everything to perfection. One of the girls announces she’s using the caption ‘hashtag blessed’, so none of us are allowed to.
I’m annoyed, because that had been the caption I was planning on, and now I’ll have to think of a new one.
I get a couple of really good pictures and find myself wondering if Ron will DM again. Eventually we all pile into the limo.
Cormac tries to kiss me on the mouth on the way to our high school, but I don’t want to ruin my makeup up so I redirect him to my neck instead, warning him not to leave any obvious marks.
We get into a minor argument when I worry he's sucked too hard on my collarbone, and we arrive at the dance already bickering. My friends exchange looks—they already know I’m gearing up to end things, and a few of the vultures can’t wait to pounce on him after.
He’s alright to look at, I guess, but he’s nothing to Ron.
I spend the night dancing, sometimes with Cormac, but mostly with my friends. One of the boys sneaks in a water bottle full of vodka, and after a couple sips I feel loose and carefree, and almost stop thinking about Ron. I still check my story views a couple of times, out of habit mostly, but of course he hasn’t looked.
My friends film most of the dancing. Despite my protests, they of course take videos of me giving one of the girls a sloppy lap dance where I nearly fall over, wild with laughter. I pretend to be embarrassed. In the video you can see just a hint of my ass, and it looks genuinely good. I wish Ron could see it, but most of my friends have private accounts, and reposting it myself would look too eager.
Cormac finds me near the end of the night, asking to dance, but mostly wanting to grope me on the dance floor. He smells like pure yeast, and I realize he’s had much more from the water bottle than just a couple of sips.
We’re surrounded by camera flashes, and I know these embarrassing moments will be all over Instagram tomorrow, haunting the backgrounds of everyone’s selfies. I’m annoyed with Cormac, more than usual, when he grips my hips with a force he’s never used before.
It intrigues me despite everything—I’d always fantasized about having it rough, especially from Ron. Being held down, tied up, manhandled. Sometimes Ron is really mean and possessive in my fantasies, and he only wants to use me for sex, and says terrible things to me while he fingers me in my kitchen, just feet away from where my family sits watching TV.
I wonder if I can get Cormac to finger me like that—all nasty and mean—but I worry he’ll tell the whole school once I break up with him, just to humiliate me. The alcohol has weakened my judgement though, and I guess I’m not thinking clearly, because I pull him outside. I tell myself it’s to escape the hundreds of recording phones.
“Hermione,” he whines, rubbing up against me, sloppily kissing my mouth. “You’re so fucking hot.”
I don’t answer, because I have no idea what to say to that. I pull away long enough to shove him toward the limo, just wanting to get out of eyesight.
When I don’t kiss him back, he moves to my neck, fumbling with my dress, trying to pull me onto his lap. When I resist, he starts pushing me back against the seat instead.
“Cormac—stop,” I say sternly, in that tone of voice I have to sometimes use. He keeps going, leaning over me, rutting against my leg in the limo, licking my neck, kneading my breasts.
My phone lights up in my hand.
I’d been staring at Your Big Bro 🕹️ all night in my tipsy stupor, willing him to text me. I must have accidentally hit call. I hang up fast, and drop my phone. I curse myself for being a clumsy stupid bitch. I’m angry now, not in the mood for Cormac’s nonsense after drunk dialing Ron. I can’t just tell him the truth either—saying it was an accident always makes it worse—makes you seem desperate. I am, but still. I don't want him to know that.
“Cormac!” I yelp as he bunches up my dress, exposing my underwear.
“Shut up,” he hisses, not at all sounding like himself.
“Cormac, I said stop!” I almost yell, and he tries to cover my mouth with one hand as the other fumbles with my underwear. I’d worn a pair of white boy shorts to prevent myself from flashing anyone since my dress was so short, but their made from a flimsy material, and he easily pushes them aside.
“Fuck you, Hermione,” he says, his voice cold enough to freeze me in fear. “I know you’re going to break up with me. Everyone’s been fucking talking about it.”
“I said no—don’t! STOP!”
He shoves a finger into me, and it hurts enough to make me cry actual tears. I’m dry down there, but he doesn’t seem to care, pulling out to fumble with his belt. I try to use that as an opportunity to scramble back, desperately reaching for the doorhandle to scream for help, but he hits him across the face, knocking me senseless for a moment.
“No, no, no, no,” I repeat like a mantra, trying to remember everything from the pamphlets my mom had made me study with her about consent. “I don’t want this Cromac, STOP!”
I yell as loud as I can, but he’s already trying to push his erection into me, his eyes unfocused and bleary.
I hit him over the head, suddenly terrified I’m going to lose my carefully guarded virginity this way. It sickens me to have to remember Cormac forever, I can’t—won’t—let this loser mean more than he does.
I push my thumbs into his eyes and scream at the top of my lungs.
The door wrenches open. Someone drags me out, half by the hair, half by the arm. It hurts, and I cry out again as I stumble out into the street. I see a flash of red hair disappear into the limo then, followed by the sounds of grunts and dull thuds from inside.
Trembling, I pull the door open to look, to understand what’s going on. I freeze when I see Ron top of Cormac, hitting him repeatedly—in the face, in the stomach—Cormac already motionless beneath him. There's a puddle of vomit on the floor, mixed with blood.
“Ron!” I yell, genuinely alarmed he’s going to kill Cormac. “Stop! STOP!”
Unlike Cormac, he actually listens, pausing mid-punch, breathing hard. For a moment he stays like that, his arm still raised, poised for a blow that will never land, his back to me as he stares at Cormac.
I think if I'd seen his face in that moment, before he had a chance to compose himself, I would have never left with him. But I didn’t see it, because by the time he turned around, he was blank. Totally unreadable.
He climbs out of the limo, takes my arm and practically drags me to the Civic, which is parked in the middle of the street, the driver’s door wide open. He throws me into the backseat without a word, and I crumple inside, suddenly crying—from relief or fear, I don’t know.
But it’s Ron, so I don’t question it.
He gets in and drives, ignoring my quiet crying for a few minutes until we reach a red light, when he reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a packet of tissues, handing them back to me.
“It’s alright,” he says. Not gently, but almost stern, like he’s disappointed in me for what Cormac had done. It aggravates me, and I cry harder.
Ron turns in his seat, placing a hand on my knee.
“It’s fine. Don’t cry anymore.”
I clasp his hand like a lifeline, trying to open the tissue packet one-handed. He takes it from me, opens it himself and hands me one. Then his hand goes back to my knee, and he drives the rest of the way with one arm awkwardly behind him.
I assume he’s taking me home, and I close my eyes and lean against the headrest, suddenly exhausted. I focus on Ron’s large hand between my palm and knee, and it really calms me, makes me feel safe. I wonder how he’d known where to find me, and realize I must have never ended the call.
I realize my phone is still on the limo floor, next to Cormac.
Did Ron hear me and run? He would have known I was at homecoming. Harry and Ron stopped coming to homecoming years ago—no one really does after their first year of college, just has-beens and losers who had nothing else going on. Ron is certainly not a loser. He’s a senior at Dartmouth, and captain of the Rugby team now that my brother is gone, and set to graduate in June with a degree in software engineering.
He's brilliant and funny and fit and handsome—which is incredibly rare for a ginger—and a hero, too, apparently. I wish he would kiss me. I’m so tired of yearning for him, and all this saving me business somehow makes it worse.
The car thuds to an abrupt stop, and I open my eyes as Ron slips his hand out from under mine. My knee feels unbearably cold, and I rub it as I blink open my eyes, trying to adjust to the dark.
I don’t recognize where we are. It’s very dark. There are no street lamps, and he’s killed the headlights before stepping out of the car. I track him with my eyes, terrified for a moment that he's going to leave me here. All I can see are the shadowy outline of thick trees surrounding us on all sides. We must be at a small dirt lot for a hiking trail nearby.
Ron opens the backdoor, and I sit straighter, so anxious I feel sick. He slides in, slamming the door shut, then locking it manually.
“What’s going on? Where are we?”
I can't keep the worry out of my voice, even though Ron looks completely relaxed beside me. Still, he doesn't give me his usual smile.
“Did you mean to call me, or was it an accident?”
“An accident,” I answer quickly, suddenly embarrassed that I’d inconvenienced him with my problems.
“A happy one, then.”
He leans over and hooks my hip, pulling me into him until I'm flush against his side. His car is old, so it doesn’t have those ridges to mark each individual seat, just a long flat backseat.
“You’re too beautiful to be alone with a drunk boy, Hermione,” he says, low, and goosebumps erupt all over my skin. I forget, briefly, that I don't know where we are, and lean into him, seeking comfort in his intoxicating scent.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, though I have nothing to be sorry for. I’m not sure why I say it, but it makes him smile.
“It’s okay, pipsqueak. I’m glad I got there in time.” He rubs his hand up and down the side of my arm comfortingly, and I let my head rest on his chest—I don’t reach his shoulder. He’s never held me like this before, and had never touched me for this long. I feel like I’m in heaven.
“I know you’ve been saving your first time for me.”
I go completely still, not quite believing my ears, too terrified to lift my head and face him.
“Wh-what?” I stutter.
“You’re a virgin, right?”
“I…” I blush hotly. He’s still rubbing my arm, as if comforting me. “Yeah, but…”
“I know,” he says, with a quiet confidence that does something to me. I tremble against him like a newborn foal, even as dread and want tangle together in my chest. Am I dreaming? Is he going to kiss me? Did this whole ordeal tonight make him realize he’s been harboring feelings for me too?
I think I would simply die if that were true.
“I know a lot about you, Hermione.” His other hand finds my waist. “You’re practically my little sister, you know.”
I cringe, shame flooding through me. Oh, God. He’s only saying all this because he feels sorry for me. This is pity—not desire. I try to slink away from him then, but his hold tightens, and the feel of his finger pressing into my waist makes me wet.
“You’ve been very irresponsible,” he continues, eyes hooded. “I should tell your parents, maybe even Harry.”
“No!” The last thing I need is for my parents to grow any awareness of what I get up to, and Harry knowing would be infinitely worse. My parents are easy to fool. Harry isn’t.
“Maybe…” Ron says slowly, pulling me back against his chest, stroking my hair. “I might reconsider, if…”
I pull back, desperate to see his face even though being pressed against him like this makes my insides squirm.
“If?”
“Have you ever blown someone?” he asks, his face expressionless.
My eyes grow wide, and I repeat what he’d said even though I know what it means. “Blown someone?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Sucked someone off?”
I lick my lips, slightly horrified, but also terrifyingly eager.
I shake my head.
“Do you want me to teach you?” he asks, his hand on my jaw. “It’s a good way to keep boys off your back when you don’t want to have sex.”
I swallow, both frightened and aroused. Is this why he’d brought us here? I can’t look away.
“If you… If you think it would help?” I say, unsure.
His hand drops to rest around my throat, his half-lidded eyes on my lips.
“A girl like you has to learn these things, Hermione,” he says, his voice low. Pure electricity rushes through me, and I lean closer, hoping he’ll kiss me. “It’s the least I can do as your brother’s best friend.”
He pulls me in by the throat, slotting his lips against mine.
It’s every fantasy come to life. I’ve never, ever, been kissed like this before—not even close. The pressure is perfect, the tongue is perfect. His other hand roams my body in a firm, unhurried caress that makes me desperate, needing more even though I can’t stand the idea of ending this for something else. I feel myself go slick, wave after wave, suddenly aching for him to touch me there—anywhere—everywhere.
He pulls away to unbuckle his pants, and I bite my lip, uncertain. What if I was no good at it? Would he be angry? What if he decided to stop and take me back home? Suddenly, I wish I had practiced on someone else first. Someone unimportant.
He lifts his hips to pull his pants down.
I notice immediately that he’s bigger than Cormac, and that feels vindicating. I’d always known he was perfect, but it still feels good to see it confirmed.
“Lick the tip to start.”
I bend over, and my hair—ruined from either Cormac or Ron, I don’t know—immediately falls across my face. I try to gather it but he gets there first, gently pulling my curls back. I feel so loved and cherished my heart could burst.
I lick the tip slowly, circling my tongue the way I’d studied from videos online, imagining exactly this.
He sucks in a breath through his teeth, as if that slight contact does something to him already.
“Put it in your mouth.”
I use my hands to guide him in between my lips, pressing the head into my mouth, giving an experimental suck.
His fingers tighten in my hair.
“Careful with your teeth,” he warns, and I adjust immediately.
He guides my head up and down slowly, bumping the back of my throat before retreating. It hurts, and makes me gag over him, but I let him keep going, because I’m terrified that if I complain, he’ll stop teaching me.
The truth is, I could care less about other boys, but I’d fantasized about this for a long time.
“Here,” he says after a particularly vicious choke where I accidentally let my teeth scrape against him. “Let’s try this way instead.”
He practically lifts me, shoving me into the space between his knees until I’m squished between the front seat and his crotch. Without pause he guides me back to his cock. In the moonlight I can see it glisten, my saliva and his precum mixed together on his purple skin.
“Try to relax your throat. You can pretend you’re yawning,” he tells me kindly, but when his large hand finds the back of my skull, he pushes me down more forcefully than before.
I gag immediately, my mouth instinctively falling open, making suction impossible. I choke around him. I panic, convinced for a moment I can't breathe—even though I still can—and try to pull back, fighting against the force of his hand.
I only get far enough to look up, trying to communicate my discomfort with my eyes.
His eyelids flutter, but when our eyes lock, his jaw clenches. He pushes me back down, further than before, cutting off all air this time for real this time. It hurts, and I struggle against him, my lungs seizing for a terrible moment until he allows me to pull back. I make the mistake of gasping through my mouth, letting him slam into me again. I try to wrench backward, truly afraid.
He knots his fists into my hair, holding me exactly where he wants me, not a trace of emotion on his face.
“Relax, Hermione. I’m helping you, remember?”
I try to do what he says, but my entire body is rigid. I can’t shake the fear coursing through me, and I worry I’ll actually bite down if he keeps pushing at this pace. He ruts into me harshly, staying at the base of my tongue, shoving my head further into his lap until it’s impossible for me to see his face. For the first time, I resist, my fingernails clawing into his thighs then at his wrists, trying to yank my head back.
He's gripping my hair so hard I can feel the roots tearing.
“What’s wrong?” he says suddenly, pushing me off him. He looks genuinely concerned. It relieves me. He really does care.
“N-nothing,” I stammer, wiping my chin. “I—”
I resist the urge to rub the outside of my throat, not wanting him to know how much he had hurt me. “It’s a bit overwhelming…”
He smooths my hair back from my face, dragging his thumb over my moist lips. His expression is indulgent.
“Am I doing an okay job?” I ask, trying to keep the eagerness from my voice. Trying to sound cool.
He chuckles, pushing me back down again.
“You’re doing such a good job,” he croons.
I light up like never before, and force myself to breathe through my nose, pretending to yawn like he’d said. I feel my throat open up.
“Who knew pipsqueak could suck cock like this?” he says lowly, pumping into my mouth with unhurried thrusts. “Such a good girl, on her knees for her brother’s best friend in the back seat.”
Shivers travel down my spine at his words. They make me feel small, but somehow really, really important. Like he’d thought about this before, and now he’s finally getting to make it happen.
Suddenly he yanks my head back by the fist twisted in my hair. It hurts, but at least I can breathe for a moment.
“Tell me you like it,” he orders, forcing my eyes to meet his. “Say you like choking on my cock.”
“I—I like it,” I breathe.
He pulls me closer, his grip punishing, his other hand dancing over my exposed throat.
“Say it properly.”
“I like choking on it,” I gasp.
“Like choking on what?”
“Your cock. I like choking on your cock.”
“I know you do.”
He kisses me, and I throw my arms eagerly around his neck, wanting the oral sex to be over, wondering if I can make him finish by grinding against him like I used to with Cormac. I just want to kiss him, and be kissed by him. I want to be held tightly against his broad chest. I want to be praised.
He smiles against my lips, and kisses me deeply, and I melt into it, impatient for his tongue and the way it slides against mine.
I cant my hips over him clumsily, trying to be careful not to crush him, but needing contact against my soaked core.
“Eager, aren’t you?” he murmurs when we break away. He descends to my throat, peppering the lightest kisses against the tender skin behind my ear, drawing a long whine out of me in response.
“Lie down,” he orders, pressing me back into the seat, and I comply easily, wanting to please him.
I don’t expect him to rip my underwear off—an abrupt motion that I don’t realize until they’re a tangle at my ankles.
“No, Ron, wait—”
He yanks them off entirely and lies on top of me before I can finish my sentence, kissing me again, this time more brutal, bruising my mouth, sucking and biting my bottom lip until I think it might bleed.
I can feel his erection against my bare legs, and I clamp them together tightly. I know Ron would never do anything I didn’t want.
He tilts his hips, letting his hand snake between my thighs, nudging them apart. I shudder into his mouth when his fingers find my slick.
“Has anyone ever made you come?” he asks, whispering against my lips. I shake my head no, not trusting myself to speak. I want him to make me come, I just don’t want to have sex. Not like this. Not this soon. Eventually, yes—but maybe in my room, or in his dorm, or somewhere more comfortable and romantic—
He slides one finger inside me, halting all thought.
“Mmm,” he hums. “No wonder that fucker wanted you. Bet you teased him with this perfect tight pussy all summer.”
I moan.
“I should have killed him for trying to pop your cherry. I thought you’d know better than to wag it in his face, Hermione. I shouldn’t have trusted you.”
He begins pounding into me with his finger, and my eyes roll back into my head, having never felt this even from myself. When he curls his finger inside, something intolerably heavy curls low in my stomach, drawing me toward him. I feel like I could die.
“All those fucking years, I waited. You’d think you’d be more careful.”
I can hardly comprehend what he’s saying. He pushes another finger in, stretching me more than I’d ever managed alone, and a strangled cry escapes my lips.
“You’re in for a rude awakening if two fingers hurt, Hermione.” He kisses my temple, his thumb finding my clit, dragging against it with each pump of his fingers. “I’m going to need to get three fingers in at least so I can fuck you the way you actually want.”
My fingernails dig into his shoulders, and I force my eyes open.
“Ron, I don’t want—I do, but not here—”
“You should have thought of that before you posted all those slutty stories on Instagram, Hermione.” He adds another finger, making my back instinctively arch. I try to clasp his wrist to slow him down, but he pushes past the resistance easily.
“Teasing me for years, making me fuck whores with curly brown hair.”
I cry. It doesn’t feel good anymore.
“Ron, please, it hurts—"
“Shh,” he whispers, his tone shifting into something tender. “It’s going to feel good. You just have to be patient.”
His fingers continue at a punishing pace while he brushes my tears away with his other hand.
“I should be meaner, after that stunt you pulled at Christmas.”
He pulls his fingers out suddenly, but relief is only temporary. He aligns himself with my center, forcing my legs further apart.
“Ron, stop—”
I try to press my knees back together, shoving against his shoulders, but it’s pointless. He’s massive, easily more than twice my size, and spends his free time tackling men just as heavy.
He swats my hands away, and I retreat with a sting.
“You don’t know the shit I had to put up with because of that.”
He nudges against my entrance. A devastating wave of anguish crashes over me. I try to scramble away, wrenching on the doorhandle, but my fingers slip uselessly against the plastic. I claw at the glass.
“No—"
The lock doesn’t budge, the door won’t open. I realize he must have the child safety locks engaged. I stare at him, feeling wild and caged. He keeps talking, as if he can’t see or hear or feel me struggling beneath him. He’s immovable—a millstone, and I’m nothing but a kernel of grain.
“For weeks, Harry wouldn’t speak to me, you know that?”
“Ron—Ron—please, no, no, I’m sorry, please—”
It hurts—and I see an image of the earth trembling before a quake in my mind—as if that’s what’s happening to me, as if I’m the land and he the unyielding force. I grasp onto him, looking for something to hold onto while he splits me in half. If he goes any faster, I will collapse.
“What a fucking hypocrite, right?”
“Please, Ron, I’m sorry, please, don’t—I can’t—it hurts—”
“Scream if you need to, Hermione,” he tells me sweetly, brushing the hair out of my face. “No one will hear you.”
He thrusts all the way in, and I do just that.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he mutters, giving a few experimental thrusts. “We should have done this years ago. Can you imagine?”
I shake my head, my eyes screwed shut. I can’t look at him. Looking at him now would make this real. I try again to push him off of me, even though I know it’ll never work. He’s so much stronger than me. That had always excited me. I had never imagined it could be used against me like this.
“How many times did I want to finger you under the table during those family dinners? Fuck. One time I almost did. Remember that time I touched your thigh?”
I did. I fantasized about it for months. I thought he’d done it by accident.
“When we finish here let’s go to yours and fuck on Harry’s bed.”
He tugs on my dress until white taffeta pools beneath my breasts, exposing me completely.
“No, Ron—”
He grabs me by the waist, his calloused fingers biting into my ribs, finding my bare skin beneath the bunched up fabric. He thrusts into me until I can only whine, reaching for him, calling out for mercy.
“How can you say no to me, Hermione? I’m only doing what you want. That’s why you called me right? Because you wanted me to fuck you, not some fucking chump.”
Something shatters inside me when he says that, like a dam of fury releasing all at once. I hit him with everything I have, clipping his ear.
I’m too scared to hit his face.
He pins my wrists above my head without effort.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he says appreciatively, massaging my ass with his free hand. I close my eyes again, willing it to be over so I can go home and cry. I try to ignore how good it begins to feel, the pain gradually subsiding as he rocks into me, his mouth hot against my breast.
I release a startled moan when he switches sides, licking one breast while scratching against the other.
“You can’t help it, can you?” He rocks his hips, filling me and leaving me, again and again. “You love this.”
“Why are you doing this?” I wail. A sob tears from my throat, and then I can no longer hold them back.
He laughs, his hips stuttering. “Why am I doing this?” he repeats, almost incredulous. “You mean why didn’t I do this sooner?”
He pumps into me at a different angle, and I see stars. I don’t want it to feel good, but it does.
“I’ve saved every fucking photo you’ve posted for years, made fake accounts to watch your stories, follow your stupid friends, and now I finally get to fuck you like you always wanted. You love it, right?”
He leaves my breasts and tugs my hair, waiting. When I don’t answer, his eyes darken, his hold on my hair tightening.
“Do you love this?”
“N-no.”
He laughs again, but there’s no humor in it. He releases my wrists abruptly, refocusing his attention on my clit, his other hand still gipping my ass. I begin to hit him as hard as I can, every inch of him I can reach—just not his face. I can’t bear to hit that face.
He continues stroking me, undeterred, pulling me stubbornly closer.
I feel a pressure against my asshole.
I freeze, clenching and terrified.
“I asked if you love it, Hermione?”
“Please, don’t—” I struggle to push myself up, but he presses his finger more firmly in warning. He’s no longer moving inside me, all of his attention now on keeping me pinned and pliant.
“Say it, or I’ll fuck your ass tonight too. You’re already soaked here, can you feel that?” He slides his finger over my tight ring to drive his point home. “You’ve been dripping this entire time. Made a mess of my backseat.” He squeezes my ass, pulling me open until it hurts. “I might as well take this virginity too. Is that what you want?”
“No, no, no, no, no,” I begin to plead. Not even in my most depraved fantasies had I ever thought of or wanted that. I only felt that it was disgusting, felt embarrassed that he might even see.
“Then admit you love getting fucked like this, Hermione.”
We kiss.
“I…” My voice gets caught in my throat. “I love getting fucked like this.”
“Really?” he taunts. “Even though I’m practically your brother?”
When I don’t answer, he applies pressure again. I speak quickly, unable to tolerate even that little bit of pain.
“Yes!”
“Yes, what?” He begins rocking into me again, dragging slowly past every point of pleasure inside me, and that warm knot in my stomach begins to spread.
“Even though you’re like my brother,” I whimper against his neck, almost wishing for the pain again. Somehow, the arousal is worse.
“Say you love feeling your big brother inside you.”
“I love feeling my big brother inside me.”
“You take my cock so well,” he praises me, caressing the column of my throat. “You’re such a good little sister. I can’t wait to do this again with you.”
My tears make it hard to see his face, but I still moan.
“I’m going to fuck you all over every inch of that house, but we’re going to start in Harry’s room. I’m going to have all of you. I’m going to fuck you under their noses.”
He presses down on my throat, slamming into me so hard my head knocks against the door.
“They love me, Hermione. I’m like their second son.” His chuckle is a low hiss between his teeth. “How many times have your parents said that? I think your mom would actually be thrilled I’m taking your v-card.”
He begins stroking my clit again, his other hand pressed against my throat, thinning my breath.
“She’ll probably ask to take a picture of my bloody cock.”
“Ron,” I rasp, clawing at his fingers, my eyes desperate and scared. “Please.”
He presses harder, cutting off my air entirely, rutting and rubbing until I come undone around him. My mind bursts with light, my eyes stare blindly up at him.
I’m only dimly aware of him finishing inside me—his cock pulsing, his muscles going rigid before he falls heavily against me. He pulls away. I feel terribly cold then, and I shiver.
Something soft stirs around my ankles.
I realize he’s pulling my underwear back on for me, sliding it up over my thighs, easing the straps of my dress back over my shoulders, smoothing it down.
He hauls me upright and pulls me close, rubbing soothing circles into my back, whispering against my hair.
“Hermione.”
“You’re so perfect.”
“You did so well.”
“My angel.”
I cry against him, not knowing what else to do. I still need to get home. I just want to take a shower. I want to forget about this.
“Let’s go?” he asks finally, kissing my temple.
I don’t trust myself to speak. I nod.
He slides out of the back seat and tucks himself back into his pants in the fresh night air. I watch him buckle his belt through the window before he slips back into the driver’s seat. Aside from the mild whir of the engine, the drive back is silent. I stare out of the window the entire time, trying to memorize the way. I know, somehow, that I’ll come back here again.
When we pull into the driveway, he opens my door and takes my hand, walking me to the front door.
He rings the bell. My dad opens it, and his face shifts when he sees me, eyes briefly dropping to our joined hands.
“Ron?” my dad asks, adjusting his glasses. “What’s going on? Hermione! Are you okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” Ron answers in a reassuring voice while I stand slightly behind him. “There was a situation but maybe Hermione just wants to relax tonight?”
He steers me inside, nodding toward the stairs for me to go up to my room.
Dismissing me.
My jaw tightens, but for some reason I do what he says, feeling too exhausted to fight back. I pause at the landing at the top of the stairs, listening from the dark.
“What the fuck happened, Ron?”
“That fucker she’s dating—what’s his name again?”
“Cormac?”
“Yeah. I had to pull him off her. Beat the shit out of him too.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. We went for a drive afterward—I hope that’s okay. She was kind of out of it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” My dad says quickly. “Of course. That’s fine. Thanks for taking care of her. Cormac?”
“Yeah. I would say let’s file a police report but I hit him pretty hard…”
“No, no—that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to make it a headache for you. Not with graduation so close.”
“Thanks, James. I really appreciate it. Hermione’s a good kid. She doesn’t deserve that.”
I hear my dad clap him on the back like he’s proud. “She’s lucky she has you looking out for her. You’re like her second brother, Ron.” My dad’s voice cracks. “Thank you.”
“Stop, James. Don’t do that—”
My dad clears his throat. “I’m just grateful,” he says. “For the day Harry brought you over. We’re all so lucky. You’re a part of this family, you know that?”
“Yeah,” Ron answers.
“I know.”