'Charlie, dear, we're so glad you could make it!' Molly Weasley then released her second oldest son from her very tight embrace. He flashed her a smile.

'Nice to see you too, Mum.'

'I see you still don't have a 'special someone'.' He rolled his eyes at her.

'Norberta is a 'special someone'.' She actually perked up at that, causing him to snort. 'She was Hagrid's dragon, remember?' Molly huffed at that.

'You can't marry a dragon.'

'Oh, so you want me to be married? So if I find a nice witch at the Leaky and go get a certificate, that'll make you happy?'

'That's not what I meant and you know it.' She sighed in exasperation. 'I just want you to be happy!'

'Yeah, Mum, I know. I just haven't found the right lass yet. I know you only mean to help.' She nodded in resignation and he kissed her on the cheek before turning to greet the others.

It was all a bit of a blur of hugs and greetings. However, as he was going down the line, he felt something that demanded his attention. He found himself holding soft curves, a lovely pair of breasts pressed to his chest. The last thing he noticed was the wild heap of curls that identified the young lady as none other than Hermione Granger. He immediately pulled away.

'Hermione, lovely to see you.' Lovely indeed. He swore he just couldn't stop the intrusive thoughts about how delectable she was. She chuckled at him.

'Charlie, you just said that about 10 seconds ago.' His brow furrowed in confusion.

'I apologize, I wasn't paying attention at all, really. Had I not snapped out of it, I probably would have kept going and greeted that lamp like it were my uncle.' Her pleasant laughter twinkled in the air.

'Well then, I'm just glad that being suffocated by my hair got your attention.'

'You're more than welcome to suffocate me with that hair of yours any time you'd like.' He winked at her and she rolled her eyes, chuckling.

'Thanks for the offer, but I don't quite fancy the idea of having your whole family out for my blood. Although I also suspect it wouldn't actually be that easy to kill you.' He snorted a laugh before Ginny cut in, whisking her friend away to help Molly in the kitchen.

Left alone, he plopped into his favorite armchair and retreated into his thoughts, which happened to feature the lovely Ms. Granger. The last time he had seen her was at his brother's wedding and he hadn't paid much attention, what with everything going on. Now, however, he was definitely paying attention. He couldn't help but feel a tad bitter as he realized he was probably too late. She was absolutely stunning and could have any man she wanted, so why would she waste her time with someone like him, who was so much older and never even there? She deserved someone younger who could be there for her. Not Ron; he was too insensitive and immature.

He was still baffled by the fact that she had actually dated his youngest brother at one point. The least surprising part was when they broke up two weeks later, not even. At the time, the most he ever thought about it was a passing remark about his brother not being able to handle her. Now, he was pondering the subject in depth, thinking about all the reasons why Ron and Hermione didn't click. She wasn't dating him anymore which meant she was single- unless she had a new boyfriend. Charlie all but groaned at the thought. A woman as attractive as her definitely shouldn't be single, although she hadn't brought anyone with her to the Burrow. Unless she was dating Harry. Or one of his brothers. Or any number of people that she might've chosen not to bring because it's a new relationship or something. Bugger fuck.

'What did the rug ever do to you?' He snapped his head up, meeting Hermione's eyes.

'What?' She chuckled.

'You're glaring at the poor rug like it's Tamora and you're Titus.' He laughed at her reference to which her eyebrows rose in surprise. 'You know Titus?'

'Yeah, it's my favorite Shakespearean play.'

'What the fuck?' She looked confused and mildly offended. 'Why?'

'Because it's absurdly terrible. It starts with Tamora's son being killed and Titus murdering his son, and that's only act one. It's supposed to be a tragedy but he heaps on way too much violence to the point where you can really only laugh at it because of how over the top it all is. The entire play is a bloodbath, but he writes it in such a way that it's not even sad, it's just ridiculous. Obviously I don't agree with anything in there and normally I don't find murder, rape, and torture amusing, I just think in this case it overloads the brain a bit and all you can do is laugh. Especially when you're faced with an idea as absurd as baking heads into pies. I don't really know how to explain it.'

'Well, as long as you're not a serial killer.' The chipper tone of her voice made him chuckle.

'Oh, but darling, I never said I wasn't.' He flashed her a feral grin and was pleased to see a light blush spread across her cheeks in response.

'Then I suppose I'll just have to trust that you won't lay a finger on me.'

'Not even one? Not even if I pinky promise not to hurt you?' She blushed furiously.

'Well, everyone knows that pinky promises are even stronger than unbreakable oaths, so I would be inclined to accept that.'

'Well then.' He looped his pinky through hers, bringing their hands up in front of his face. 'I, Charlie Weasley, promise to never intentionally inflict any pain upon Miss Hermione Jean Granger.' He paused. 'Accidents do happen, though, and don't count.' He released her, smiling up at her. She was looking at him with wonder and a hint of disbelief.

'Good to know you won't be making a lampshade out of my skin.' He laughed.

'Your skin's too good to just be a lampshade. I'd probably make gloves or pajamas or something.' The idea of having her skin made into pajamas inexplicably made her laugh.

'I feel like parchment would be more appropriate, though. My skin would probably be about as thin as the calf skin they tend to use, if not thinner.'

'I could use your blood to write poems about you on it.' She perked up at that.

'You can write poetry?' His face twisted a bit.

'Anyone can write poetry. Whether it's any good, however is a different matter.'

'Well, then are you good at it?' He answered her question with a shrug.

'I don't know. It's easy, though.' She smiled.

'Well I'd love to see what you can come up with. Even if you don't have my skin as parchment and my blood as ink, you should write a poem about me anyway. No one's ever done that before.' Well, how could he say no to that?

'Alright. Just no promises it'll be any good.' She chuckled.

'I promise that I won't be offended if it's a pile of rubbish. However, I am certain that it won't be.'

He rolled his eyes at her, his snarky response cut off by his mum calling everyone to dinner. Everyone had gathered at the Burrow to celebrate Ginny and Harry's engagement. They got engaged just the day before, which prompted Molly to go call everyone she could think of and invite them to the Burrow for a celebration the next evening. The Weasleys, Hermione, Harry, Neville, Luna, Sirius, Remus, Teddy, and Fleur with Victoire had all made it. As such, dinner was cramped and chaotic. Teddy and Victoire luckily fit onto their respective parents' laps, but there were still 16 occupied seats crammed in around the table. People were elbowing and kicking each other, mostly on accident. As soon as they finished, everyone scattered, eager to get away from the table.

Sneaking upstairs, Charlie made his way to his old room. He pulled out a piece of parchment and a quill and, dipping it in his inkpot, began to write. Writing had always come naturally to him, especially poetry. The words always just flowed from his brain out through his hand and on the off chance he did get hung up on a word, it was never for more than a few seconds. He had three stout stanzas when the door opened behind him and Hermione slipped into the room. She walked over, coming to stand directly behind him, and peeked at his paper. Cocking her head to the side, she tried and failed to read the words that were blocked by his arm.

'What have you got there?' He still didn't look up.

'About three and a half stanzas.'

'May I see?' He shook his head.

'Not until I'm done.'

'When will that be?'

'When I'm done.' He dipped his quill again, wiping the excess off against the edge. 'I'll be done soon, so for now you can just find somewhere to sit.' Nodding, she stepped away and sat cross-legged at the foot of his bed. Drumming her fingers, she looked around his room, her eyes eventually settling on the bookshelf next to the door as she read the titles on the spines of the books. She was surprised by the variety; in addition to the predictable volumes about dragons, there was literature ranging from Homer to Hemingway, from Shakespeare to Steinbeck. It was quite impressive and she would surely return later to peruse some of her old favorites.

'Alright, I'm done.' She perked up, turning back around to face him and take the parchment from his outstretched hand. She couldn't help but chuckle a bit at the red ink he had used. As she read, however, she didn't laugh. The poem was actually quite good, even by her standards, and she was thoroughly impressed.

'Charlie, this is amazing. Of course, I've read a lot of poetry, but when I say this is amazing, I mean that it is truly a wonderful poem when compared to other poems I have read. I'm not saying that it's good for an amateur or good for you.' She put down the parchment and looked at him. 'Bravo. This is a beautiful work of art. I am honored that you could write such stunning words about me.'

'Wow, that is high praise. Really, I'm just glad you liked it. I've never written about someone before so I wasn't sure if it would come out well.' He grinned. 'You should frame it on your wall or something.'

'Good idea!' He was fairly shocked when she transfigured one of his books into an appropriately sized frame. The book she chose was a nice, hardcover volume of

. She faced him with a decidedly impish grin. 'I hope you don't mind lending me your book. Since it's your favorite, I just couldn't help myself.'

That did it. Charlie had her pinned down in seconds, kissing her with ferocity and desperation. His mouth trailed across her neck, jaw, and collarbone, leaving faint red splotches. He was suffocated not just by her hair, but also by her sweet scent and delectable mouth. Every time she kissed him, he was breathless. He was drowning on dry land. As he snuck his hand up her skirt, he knew somewhere in the back of his mind that this would need to end soon, lest they be caught. Nonetheless, he soon found himself sinking his fingers inside her. His other hand followed soon after, caressing her clitoris with his thumb. She was smart enough to be quiet, limiting her response to whimpers and movement. Her quivering quim told him all he needed to know; she was drenched and it wouldn't be long. It was only a moment later that she came undone in ecstasy. After fixing herself, Hermione turned to face him. She grinned.

'You know, even though you can't write poems in my blood, you certainly left your mark on my skin.' She gestured to the pattern of faint bruises along her neck. 'One might even call it poetry.' He smiled at that.

'You give me too little credit. Bruises are pools of blood trapped under skin, so really, if that is poetry, then it was indeed written in your blood.' She smirked.

'Are you still unsure as to whether you're a good poet, then?' He nuzzled her neck.

'Not at all, in fact I daresay I'm rather good.' Before she could respond, he captured her lips with a kiss, successfully silencing any unspoken words.