My Husband, My Lover, My Friend.

By Alloy

Prologue.

In the end it was his mother who decided when we were to get married. My parents, cosmopolitan Londoners, while unhappy at the prospect of their only daughter traversing Europe accompanied by two male friends, had not seriously objected.

Mrs. Weasley would have none of it. She cajoled and bullied (mostly bullied), her youngest son into proposing, softening the blow by offering me a Prewitt family ring. An heirloom, which should, by rights, have gone to one of her brothers, had both of them not been cruelly murdered.

William was persuaded to share his summer wedding day, Ginny gleefully defected to become my bridesmaid and Harry stood up for Ron. Molly and my mother wept together as my father gave me away. That was how, at the tender age of seventeen, I became a war bride.

***

My Husband, My Lover, My Friend.

He carries me over the threshold. Once I would have balked at the idea, but not today, not for him. Despite my protestations he only lets me down once we reach the bedroom, on the bed, a giant four poster, red curtains gold trim and an encompassing scarlet canopy.

"I dreamt of you." He had said blushing, "Behind red curtains and silencing spells." I was too shy to confess the same.

In the bedroom, our bedroom, he grows quiet, a far cry from the man who jumped atop our reception table and proclaimed, much to his brothers’ amusement, "THIS IS MY WIFE!"

In the soft light of our bedside lamp I begin to undress, I discard the jacket of my going away outfit, and as I begin to undo the buttons of my shirt he turns away.

"Ron," I say. "You can look now." My hand on his shoulder guides him back to me. "You’re allowed."

He smiles, and shrugs his shoulders, and suddenly I feel uncomfortable under the gaze of his blue eyes. "Perhaps you could undress me?"

"That might be easier." He brings his hands to my shoulders, and kisses my forehead. "Merlin I’m nervous ’Mione."

We stand for a moment, arms wrapped around each other, an uncertainty bred out of inexperience; we are both virgins.

Large freckled hands slowly undo the buttons of my blouse. Ron draws a sharp breath as he opens my shirt and pauses, uncertain of how to deal with my bra.

"In the front, in the middle." My mother had suggested this particular undergarment.

Ron closes his eyes, and undoes the clasp, and then slides both my shirt and bra off my shoulders.

"Merlin!" he exclaims in a harsh whisper as he opens his eyes.

"I know you’ve seen breasts before." I bite my tongue, sorry to remind his embarrassing flirtation with Lavender Brown, even though it had led to a new openness between us.

He blushes. "Not yours Mione." He raises his hand to my torso. The anticipation of his touch is exquisite torture. "So beautiful," he murmurs. "I’ve wanted to, for so long." Still I haven’t felt his touch.

"You can touch me," I say. "Please..."

A hand on the small of my back lowers me onto the bed, and I feel him, his lips, his tongue, I gasp as he suckles on my breast. Pleasure overwhelms me, as his hand caresses my other breast. My insides feel molten, on fire, thrills travel downward pooling between my thighs. I’ve never felt this before, my pleasure subject to his whim. I place my hands on his copper locks, close my eyes and come.

When I open my eyes Ron is lying on his side watching me. I know my grin is silly, but it doesn’t matter.

"What are you thinking?" I ask.

Ron’s grin is naughty. "Why do muggleborn witches taste different from other witches?"

"Prat! You shouldn’t know what other witches taste like."

The grin becomes a warm smile, and I begin to unbutton his dress shirt. He cups my cheek with one hand.

"I liked tasting."

I run my hand over his hard stomach, and torso. "I liked being tasted." Ron shrugs off the shirt, and I realize that his nimble fingers have undone my skirt, and I lift my buttocks to allow him to slip it off.

Ron stops me from undoing his belt. "Wait love. I want to taste some more."

He spreads my legs, removing the last layer of damp cotton, lowering his mouth to my womanhood, and I remember how the experienced girls used to complain, how the boys were so unwilling to do this. Ron’s lips, his tongue, his fingers. I capture his head between my thighs, bucking my hips.

"How do I taste?" I ask when I regain control.

Ron chuckles, sending thrills throughout my body. "Are you enjoying this?" He says.

"Oh yes."

"Bloody brilliant then." He says grinning with wet lips and he trails his tongue up my torso, bringing his lips to mine. I taste myself, salty.

I sense his urgency, yet he restrains himself, he finally allows me to undo his trousers. There is a dark wet sticky stain on his boxers, where his manhood is straining against them. I touch him through the material, and he jerks involuntarily.

"You do this to me." He growls. "Since the Yule Ball, and you were so beautiful. I’ve had to deal with this."

I slip the boxers off him, revealing his length, I move to touch it, to stroke it.

"Don’t." He says pulling my hand away. "You’re enough on your own."

We fumble in our inexperience, and he allows me to guide him to my entrance. He pushes inside me, so slowly, so gently, halting at my maidenhead.

"You have to Ron."

He thrusts, and the pain though expected draws a cry from me. I feel a warm wetness on my shoulder that can only be his tears. Ron continues gently, almost rocking in motion and as the pain goes away I realize that he has filled a great emptiness in me. My pain has faded; Ron’s thrusting has become more vigorous. I feel myself approaching climax from this different direction even as he buries himself in me as deeply as he can. His seed sending a warmth throughout my body, sending me over the edge.

"I’m sorry," he says in my ear. "I came too soon."

"No my love." I whisper. "We came together, your warmth inside me." I turn his face toward me and kiss the tears off his cheeks. Slowly he pulls himself off me, out of me, and I feel a momentary sense of great loss. There is some blood, on the sheet, on me, on him; it draws fresh tears from his eyes.

"I hurt you."

"You’ve made me."

He shakes his head, and I place a finger on his lips to hush him.

"In some cultures, in the past, a girl got to choose the man who would deflower her. There were men, known to be gentle, fertile…"

"Fertile?"

"Yes love, this was very long ago. Sometimes these men would be strangers to the community, someone, who could bring fresh blood, and a girl would choose a man, her parents would approach him, and ask this favour. Their daughter’s rite of passage."

Ron snorts. "I don’t see many men refusing."

"But they wouldn’t choose those sorts of men, They would choose thoughtful men, sensitive men who would cry at the pain they caused, men like you. They called these men ‘Womanmakers’. I chose you Ron to make me a woman, and with everything there’s a cost, my blood," I touch a streak of red on his manhood, "and your tears." I take a tear from his cheek, take hold of his hand, and draw on his power, and my own, the magic flows through us, forming a perfect ruby.

"How?"

"Your mother taught me. This is how it was before Dark wizards wrought spells of control and binding. This is how it was with your father. A witch would give this gem to her husband, a proof of their innocence."

"My dad has a ring with a ruby stone."

"His tears Ron."

"We’ll have to have a ring made."

"I’ll do that." I say, tucking the stone away into an envelope I have prepared. "You’ll just lose it."

He manufactures a mask of mock hurt, grasping his hands to his chest. I laugh. Only he can make me laugh so. Only him in all the years I have known him. He laughs with me pulling me into the embrace I covert, and he drifts off into sleep.

In the morning he has arranged for his mother to bring us breakfast. He has given her specific instructions on how to prepare it, for he discerned my tastes long ago. I will show her the gem, and she will cry, as she knows her youngest son is much like his father.

I ponder a moment longer; Ron’s large hand rests over my stomach. It is not such a bad thing for sons to be like their fathers.

The man beside me begins to snore, as I drift into sleep.

My husband, my lover, my friend.

Fin.

Authors Notes:
Thanks to Sandy Camacho & Kevin Steen for their input as unofficial prebeta’s.
"Why do muggleborn witches taste different from other witches?" the asute among you will recognise this line from the 1967 Sean Connery Bond flick "You Only Live Twice" The original line read "Why do Chinese girls taste different from other girls?"
Jean M Auel’s ‘Valley of Horses’ boasted a character Jondelar who while on a journey was roped in as a ‘Womanmaker’. This is part of the past Hermione refers to. The ruby is all me.
Some of you girls might object to Hermione enjoying her first time so much, but this is a fantasy story.
This was written 13 days before HBP launched, but fortunately lent itself to minor adaption to bring it into canon
The prologue was originally a dialog piece resulting from a discussion with my Beta (Thank Scarlett) which didn’t blend in with the rest of it, and was rewritten in the first person. It’s very rough, unbeta’d, and follows after these notes.