Written for the Valentine´s challenge 2011 at RHrlove site.

Prompt :"I am thinking I want you... That's all. I want you." -French Kiss

A/N: Thanks so much to Pili204 for making everything easier, and thanks to all of you who help me in fandom and in life. You know who you are ;)

Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.. I´m just playing and enjoying with them.

"It is much easier to suppress a first desire than to satisfy those that follow."
Benjamin Franklin

Friday, February 14th 1997.

She hated him.

She hated her.

And she hated Victor Krum, too, for remaining a stupid gentleman and not sending her a stupid present for such a stupid date. Of course he would send chocolates; he usually did for birthdays, Valentine's and Christmas. What was wrong with that guy always sending chocolates? He didn't care for her at all. That was her depressing reasoning. Now, she just detested those insipid presents so impregnated with… friendship.

She would die with glee if she were to receive a cheesy bouquet of flowers in the middle of the Great Hall during breakfast or a disgusting Howler professing his undying love for her. Or a bottle of perfume with an unusual smell.

God, she´d even lend her copy of "Hogwarts. A History" for a perfume with an unusual smell.

Something. Anything to make him react.

But he didn't react. At least not in the way she had prayed for. Not with her date with McLaggen, not with the silent treatment, not even with her so embarrassing and public display of tears. He didn't react like a bloke reclaiming his hold on his girl; he just acted like a classmate trying to bring her back, to have him back in her good books so he could keep copying her homework.

Hermione felt lonely; lonelier than in any other moment of her life because although she never had had a Valentine, in some twisted and tricky way, she always had Ron.

They had shared their very private game of denial for years. And now she was playing alone because he had chosen to play with a real girl this time. And thinking about the ways he could be playing at that very moment made her hide her head under her pillow, bite it with force, and refuse to leave the bed for the remaining of the day.

This had gone too far. And it was all her fault. She should have reacted at the first clue, when her heart had started to hummer wildly against her ribs every time he stared at her for more than five seconds, or when a delicious piece of freckled skin peeked out through one of his shirt's buttons.

She should have found a way to stop this want before it clouded her mind.

She felt physically ill. She wanted to vomit because it felt like acid was bubbling down her throat.

Hermione desired, wanted, him in such a desperate way that she felt insanely capable of screaming. And let him know for good; let him know that he should be saying no to Lavender and come back to her and keep playing.

But no meant exactly that. And there was only one way of saying it; one way Ron wasn't proclaiming.

She could change the rules if he wanted to.

She could be real, too.

Saturday, Februrary 14th 1998.

He hated her polite words.

He hated himself for being so gutless.

Ron couldn't, just couldn't, take herhand and motion her to look at him in the eye and tell her everything. It felt like she had lost the heart and the willpower to talk to him.

The first night his hopes had been over the moon because her raging reaction meant different. But after that explosion, he found himself almost wishing for a menacing girl who threatened to cut his throat with the Gryffindor Sword.

Instead, she barely acknowledged his presence except for the civil behavior that clearly evidenced what a lady Hermione was.

"It's almost time for my watch."

Ron's voiced echoed in the silence of the tent, only shaken by the quick flip of pages belonging to the book she was reading.

"Okay."

"Should I put all my jumpers on? It's snowing like hell… well, not like hell… it should be burning in that case." He smiled a bit at his lame joke, hoping his attempt would interrupt her concentration.

"You should."

"Fine… best if I call for Harry to come back then."

"You do that."

Ron snorted. If he talked to a mirror, he was sure it would pay him more interest or enthusiasm.

In his way to the entrance, his attention was drawn to the rustic schedule over the table. After his return, they had relished in the importance of keeping track of dates. The inconsequential succession of days (many of them barely distinguishable between one and another) had proved to only increase the seclusion, so Hermione had conjured a simple calendar where they marked a cross every single night.

Valentine's Day.

And without meaning it, he commented it aloud.

"What?"

Now she paid attention.

"It's Valentine's," he repeated choking on the last word.

Was she blushing?

"Oh… well, it's a day like any other, I guess."

"Yes, sure… not that we ever have had a Valentine before…"

We. What the fuck was he saying?

"Me. I meant me." He had spent weeks searching for a way to come back to her. Now, he just wanted to dig a hole and disappear because that glare meant she was ready to look for the sword and indeed cut his throat "I never celebrated…"

Pathetic. He was pathetic. He couldn't even finish a sentence to explain himself.

The dry smack of her book closing interrupted any commiseration he could have for himself.

She had stood and was changing her position over the couch, facing him with the pony tail she wore all the time.

"If I remember it correctly, last year you did have a girlfriend to celebrate this date with."

Damn.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

"Oh… that… I-I wouldn´t say that was a celebration because she wasn't very happy with me."

Her shoulders tensed and Ron could sense how her voice changed slightly.

"Why? Didn't she like the present you surely bought for her as the affectionate boyfriend you were?"

"No, she didn't."

Why was he starting to enjoy this exchange? Oh, yes. He had missed their banter insanely. That was why.

"No. What?"

"She hinted a lot I should buy her something special… but I bought her a box of… Chocolate Frogs."

Hermione seemed firmed in her position of giving her back to him, even though she now gave the impression of being more involved in the conversation.

"Chocolate Frogs? That was all?"

"That was all."

"You surely added a card."

"No, I didn't… that was the main reason she got so upset."

The book was open again and she was flipping the pages… nervously?

"That was… rude." She was talking in a rush. "Not that I'm defending her." Ron was almost sure she muttered something like God knows I wouldn't ever defend her, "But I'm sure some words would have been very well received."

"I couldn't."

She turned around and, for the first time in weeks, she looked directly at him.

"Why?"

That was the moment. He didn't have a present for her. He didn't have a love letter to offer. And they weren't even on speaking terms. But he could give her something.

"Because words are yours. Words are your thing."

When had it been the last time she had given him that glance so full of yearning? At the wedding? At Grimauld Place? When he comforted her after she had Obliviated her parents?

Ron honestly couldn't remember.

They locked eyes for just a moment, but suddenly she turned around again looking confused, as if he would have revealed some precious information and she was pondering whether to believe him or not.

He finished dressing and then approached her cautiously. Hovering over her tiny form, Ron saw how the ink of the parchment she was staring at was blurred, with tears.

And without thinking about the consequences or her reaction, he did what he needed to do. He crossed one arm over her chest hugging her arms in a crushing embrace and pressed his lips fully over her scalp.

"I'm so sorry for everything, Hermione."

It longed nothing. It meant everything.

And when she gave a broken sob without pushing him away, Ron simply knew that this time he would not be dismissed for his mistakes.

He would not.

Sunday, February 14th, 1999.

The lock of hair that he was breathing in was clouding his vision. Ron couldn't establish if sundown had already happened, or if just a few minutes had passed since they had succumbed to exhaustion and peaceful slumber. The irony was that he missed her so much when she was away, that it was difficult for him to get much sleep on a daily basis. And when she did spend the night in his bed, he woke up every now and then just because the exhilaration was too much to keep his eyes closed.

The second reason why he guessed he awoke so frequently was that it provided the perfect opportunity to ogle Hermione without making her blush. The notion of making his girl blush was ridiculously empowering, but he also loved just looking at her quietly, drinking in her features, without any limit of time.

He untied his left arm from around her and bunched the sheet away to the very low of her back. He shook his head at his own boundaries to uncover her further. This partial vision of her reminded him of the past. The good part of the past; the part when he fantasized and found guilty release at the images of what was hidden behind those simple outfits of hers.

Wanting Hermione so much during those years had been his deepest and most supreme secret. And the ambivalent source of his worst frustrations and unrivaled faith.

He followed the curve of her shoulder blades to finally rest his fingers on the back of her neck. Weird place to accomplish a kink; what boobs and bums did for the common men, that tender spot did for him.

That was the place where he had kissed her for the first time a year before. Really kissed her. And that memory and her surrendered reaction had since lead him through moments when he had thought everything was lost.

Looking again trough the glorious mane of his sleeping witch, the little bag perched over the night table caught his eye. She carried it everywhere she went. It was her practical way of taking clothes, books, and all kind of stuff that came in handy at any moment's notice.

Ron recognized a sheer of gratitude for how useful her charmed little bag was, but in some way he had also come to dislike it because it was the perpetual signal of her immediate departure. And as much as he cherished each moment when she could suddenly Apparate to his flat and enjoy a moment of bliss with him- as it had happened last afternoon, when after kicking and cursing as an immature child, he had come to terms with the fact he was not going to see her this Valentine's Day- he also dreaded the instant she would leave again.

But Hermione was there, in the nude and warming his bed. And he needed to stop being an unreasonable prat and develop a proactive attitude.

He could try to snuggle behind her again, go back to sleep for a while, and then wake her up for a mind blowing midnight shag.

Or he could get up, follow his instincts, and make some changes to transform her stay there in something a bit less temporary.

She turned in bed cuddling against his side, but she found a pillow strategically placed instead. An old trick she also used those nights, when the longing was too unbearable to take.

Hermione smiled before opening her eyes; even knowing Ron wasn't in bed with her, she was certain he was in the room. And those caring gestures so typical of him, so drained of presumption, made everything tingle inside her.

And caused the outside to tingle as much.

She half-incorporated herself looking for his comforting presence, only to discover him standing at the foot of the bed working with his wand; his back to her.

She tilted her head to one side and took a minute to study him, watching fascinated as he performed a non-verbal spell with quick efficiency.

It was amazing to observe the changes in his attitude. She had always known Ron was capable of doing great magic if he focused enough, and he had done really well in the past years. There was nothing that could be denied about that.

But after facing and destroying the locket, the changes in his performance had been truly significant. It was as if after being exposed to the nastiest part of himself, he had reborn in some way. He now showed a confidence that was endearing and sexy all at once. And he did it without any trace of arrogance but with an obvious glimpse of pride, especially when she was near him.

"What are you doing?"

Ron turned in surprised, as if caught in some secret planning.

"You're awake."

"I always wake up when you are not in bed."

He pursed his lips as thinking. "You are used to it. Sadly, I'm not habitually in bed with you…"

"That's true… but it doesn't mean I miss you less because I'm used to it." She swayed her shoulders in defeat.

"You know I do love you, right?"

"Maybe…" She teased, rolling closer to him and feeling sexy and lusciously bold at being naked in her boyfriend's bed. "But you haven't told me what you were doing."

"Just making room for your stuff. I don't like that you keep all your things inside your bag when you come over… I mean, you're a girl… you need space."

"We've lived together for a while, Ron. You know I don't need as much space."

It was totally true. She didn't need much space, but from the experience they'd had living together- and with Harry, and with his whole family at the Burrow, and with her parents in Australia- constantly sneaking to each other's arms during the night, he knew he wanted something more… settled?

"I know, but I want you to have it. Does… does this make you uncomfortable?"

She gave a shaky giggle.

"Ron, I have the mark of your teeth in places which have never seen the sunlight… so, don't you think that we're past the point where you making room for me in your drawer could me feel uneasy?"

His eyes widened and he blushed to the root of his hair.

"That… yeah… did I hurt you?"

"Hurt me? No! No, love… I'm just making a little fun of you." She suddenly became aware of how audacious she had been with her last comment. "I think it's great of you. I think you are great. Really."

Hermione rose to her knees, the sheet around her totally forgotten below her hips, and planted a lingering kiss on his lips, erasing the tiny pout forming there.

"You still haven't told me how you managed to come here today." He circled her body like a second skin. "I was sure I was going to spend another Valentine's without you."

"I over accomplished my duties as Head Girl, so… I got permission to spend this weekend with you."

"Blimey! You are positively mental…" He lingered over her mouth, tenderly tracing it for a good while. "And I swear you aren't going to regret all the effort you put to be here."

"You didn't let me to finish what I was going to say!"

"What? What is it?"

Hermione laughed breathlessly because it was really hard to try to continue her explanations with him nipping, biting, and sucking at every available part of her.

"I got permission for this weekend…"

"I heard that…" He continued with his assault, going lower with each touch of his lips.

"And also for two weeks from now…"

He suddenly stopped and went back to her face, searching there for the obvious answer.

"My birthday? You got permission to spend my birthday with me?"

She nodded wordlessly, smirking delightful.

Ron didn't say anything else for a matter of seconds, not until he let snap everything bursting inside his chest. After witnessing all the hard work Hermione was doing to share time with him, he was now completely sure that all his wishes would become real sooner or later.

And all desires following that first one of making space for her in his dresser would follow.

"It seems you are going to spend a lot of time here."

"It seems," she repeated, giving him a mischievous smile, "because this witch you so smartly chose is ready to make a few more arrangements of this kind all around your space."

"You can have half of my drawers. And part of the night table." He was reclining her over the bed, brushing her skin with each word. "And, obviously, the bureau is all yours."

Hermione cradled his face, blowing away the fringe over his eyes and igniting all his senses even more. When she talked, it was like purring.

"Ron…"

"Uhm?"

"I need… I need…"

"What is it? What do you need?" His voice was a husky growl.

"I need you now." And before Ron literally attacked her, she whispered, "And I also need shelves for my books."

Sweet Circe! The woman was talking about shelves and he never had been so turned on, because all he could imagine now was himself ravishing her against that kind of furniture. Or any sort of furniture for the matter.

So he had been right all the way.

The words were undeniably her thing.

"Be my guest, love."

˜˜˜˜˜˜Fin˜˜˜˜˜˜