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Hermione stepped into her flat, blinking as the smell of something delicious hit her nostrils. She paused, wondering whether to go for her wand, before mentally smacking herself in the forehead - it was Thursday evening, which meant Bill was over making dinner like always.
“Smells amazing, Bill!” she called as she hung up her cloak and traded out her work shoes for a pair of comfy house slippers that had been a gift from her parents last Christmas. Fifteen minutes later, she walked into the kitchen, showered and changed and trying not to drool both at how amazing whatever it was smelled, and how good the chef looked.
Bill looked up from the pot of - something - he was stirring, smile as devastating as ever, even with the scars. “Wotcher, Hermione. Indian sound good?”
Hermione laughed. “You should know by now I’ll happily eat anything you serve me,” she pointed out. Bill wasn’t Molly Weasley’s son for nothing, after all. “Can I do anything to help?”
“Decant the wine, then pour yourself a glass and relax,” Bill told her. “I know you’ve been working like mad on the research for the Decatur project.”
“It’s interesting,” Hermione said, although she couldn’t argue about how much she’d been working. Elaine Decatur was a fascinating woman, just from the little they knew about her. Her papers could tell them much more, but the glory box they were in - that her great-granddaughter Sophie had hired Gringotts to work on - was warded like nothing Hermione had ever seen. With any luck, though, she’d be able to crack it soon.
She did as Bill asked, pouring them the Shiraz he’d picked to go with dinner, handing him his before perching by the kitchen island with her own and letting herself indulge in one of her few guilty pleasures: ogling him while he cooked.
Bill had changed out of the steel grey tunic and trousers Gringotts cursebreakers wore on the job into casual clothes: a black Muggle tank top that showed off the tattoos that he kept hidden around his mother and jeans Hermione knew he’d stolen from his old Hogwarts boyfriend, so worn they were practically white, hanging low off his hips and clinging almost obscenely to his arse. Bill reached up to snag some of the garlic that hung (that he’d hung, if Hermione was being honest) by the window, revealing a small strip of pale skin, and she took a long draught of wine and told herself her ogling quota was done for the day. Not that she should be looking like that at her former brother-in-law, even if he wasn’t one of her best friends.
And if you’d told fifteen-year-old Hermione Granger that the gorgeous, sexy cursebreaker she’d had a hopeless crush on would not only be her coworker but one of her closest friends, she’d have told you to get your head examined. She’d been so sure, then, of her plans for after Hogwarts. Go to Oxford or Cambridge or even one of the American universities, get a degree, work at the Ministry. Become Minister, eventually.
But by the time the war ended, working in a Muggle fast food restaurant had sounded more appealing than subjecting herself to the Ministry, and Oxford and Cambridge were out of reach without scholarships, since Hermione wasn’t sure she’d manage to get her parents’ memories back. (Looking at her decision to Obliviate them with the clarity of hindsight, she was pretty sure she hadn’t believed she’d survive the war.)
Gringotts’ offer, when it had come, had been the escape she’d needed. Once things had settled down, after the war, Harry - with Bill’s help - had gone to make things right with the goblins. They hadn't known it then, no thanks to Binns, but most goblins were reasonable and fair; Harry, because he was Harry, had just had the bad luck to fall in with a splinter group that held rather extremist views. It had taken some fast talking from Bill, and a considerable portion of Harry’s share of what turned out to be a very valuable basilisk carcass, but he’d managed to sort things out. He’d offered to pay for Hermione’s share, too, rather than have her work it off like Gringotts had given her the chance to.
Hermione, however, had leapt at the opportunity. It had felt like a way to make amends, not only for the damage done to Gringotts, but for everything else she’d done in the war. And as far as punishments went, she could think of far worse than working as an archivist and researcher for Gringotts. They’d even agreed to wait until she’d done her final year at Hogwarts and taken her NEWTs.
Now, nearly a decade on, Hermione couldn’t be happier with the deal she’d made. She’d loved the work from the start, the opportunity to dive deep into all kinds of obscure spells and arcane rituals, to apply her analytical mind to solving puzzles that had stumped people for generations, maybe even centuries. Loved the opportunity to travel, to visit libraries and archives at Nalanda and Beijing and Tāmaki Makaurau and Alexandria, the wizarding section of which had not been lost.
That isn’t to say there hadn’t been tradeoffs. Her relationship with her parents, already fragile after the whole Australia Incident (Hermione couldn’t help but think of it with capital letters, even now) wasn’t helped when she took a job that required her to keep much of what she did secret. She did try, though - all of them did - and it was slowly getting better, although Hermione still wouldn’t call them close. And she missed her friends in England, Harry and Lavender especially, and the Weasleys - she could Floo over more often, she supposed, but the time difference between Los Angeles and London meant that there was no way she’d be awake, let alone coherent, at Sunday lunch at the Burrow.
Of course, there was another reason Sunday lunch at the Burrow was a bad idea. Ron.
In retrospect, they should never have started a relationship. But in the crazy days after the war, it had been something familiar, not helped by Molly’s delight that Hermione was dating one of her babies and Harry was dating another.
Harry’d been the smarter one of the two of them, for once, giving up his spot in the Auror training program two days before it started and instead spending the next few years travelling the world, doing all the things he hadn’t been able to do, between Dumbledore and Voldemort. He’d eventually returned, and settled down with Malfoy, to the shock of everyone but Hermione, who’d seen it coming since sixth year.
She, on the other hand, had not followed Harry’s lead, staying in England, staying with Ron. They’d tried so hard, to make their relationship work, but at the end of it, nothing could change the fact that Ron had left, or that Hermione couldn’t forgive him for it. Or convince herself he wouldn’t leave again.
So she’d left first. Taken the transfer to Gringotts Rio de Janeiro rather than have to tell Ron no when he inevitably asked her to marry him, knowing he wouldn’t want to leave his family. Gone from South America to Japan to West Africa, before finally taking a - hopefully more permanent - job at Gringotts LA.
Which is when her current set of problems had started. Because - although she hadn’t known it when she transferred in - Gringotts LA was also the home base of one William Weasley, who’d decided to move across the pond post his divorce from Fleur and had been happy to welcome a fellow exile from the British isles. Somehow, over the past two years, an offer to show her around magical Los Angeles had led to joint museum visits, to long rambling discussions about everything and nothing, to a friendship she never expected but couldn’t imagine doing without. Which was why she needed to get over this stupid crush.
“Knut for your thoughts, pet?” Bill asked, and Hermione started slightly before shaking her head and sending him what she hoped was a normal-looking smile.
“Not sure they’re worth that much, I was just woolgathering,” she joked. “Seriously, are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”
Bill shook his head. “No, no, it’s pretty much done,” he said, turning off the stove with a gesture. “I already made the garlic rice - Karthi was in town between projects and I charmed her into trading me the recipe for cookies - so if you want to set the table? Plates and bowls for the saag chole, you know where they are.”
“Considering it’s my flat, yes,” Hermione told him drily. “And charmed is one word for it, I suppose.” And that was the other reason, family dynamics aside, that she needed to get over this hopeless crush. Bill could have anyone he wanted in his bed, and took full advantage of that fact. Why would he be interested in her, his little brother’s bossy, uptight ex-girlfriend with frizzy hair and a tendency to say what she thought?
Still, it was hard to remember that when he smiled at her like how he was doing right now, warm and fond. “Hey. You know the cursebreaker motto. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow an ancient curse may get us.”
Hermione laughed and shook her head at him. “I’ll drink to the first part, at least.”
Bill served them, and the conversation drifted idly as they ate, the saag chole and garlic rice delicious, just like every other thing Bill had made her over the course of their friendship.
No, Hermione told herself firmly. Like Dumbledore had told Harry, what felt like a lifetime ago. It didn’t do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, any more than it did to pine after unobtainable cursebreakers.
She had a job she loved, a family she was slowly rebuilding, and friends who cared about her no matter where in the world they were. The man she loved was still her friend, still told her terrible jokes and made her dinner once a week. There were far, far worse lives.
She’d just have to remember that.
Bill stopped in the doorway of Hermione’s office, files in hand, to just soak her in, taking advantage of the fact that she was too focused on the document in front of her to notice his presence. She’d laugh if he tried telling her, play it off like he was teasing, but she really was beautiful, with her lovely dark skin, her eyes that flashed when she was in a temper, the riotous curls he would love to bury his hands in. Preferably while he kissed her silly.
He shook his head mentally at himself. The last thing he needed to be thinking about, especially at work, was kissing Hermione Granger. Actually, it was the last thing he needed to be thinking about, period, since there was no way it was going to happen. Hermione probably thought of him as a big brother, even leaving aside the fact that she was his little brother’s ex-girlfriend that Ron still carried a mild torch for.
Honestly, Bill hadn’t intended to fall in love after his divorce. He’d loved Fleur with everything he had, and it still hadn’t been enough. Once the war had ended, they’d realized they were just too different, their respective creature heritages not helping in the least. Eventually, the constant fighting had just gotten to be too much, and they’d split rather than completely destroy the relationship. And Fleur seemed happy enough with Tonks, at least. It would never cease to amuse Bill that his oh-so-French ex had seemed to have found a home on English soil, while Bill had only come back because of the war and left at first opportunity after.
Gringotts Toulouse had been good to both him and Fleur, but Bill had wanted a fresh start, once the divorce had been finalized, and Gringotts North America had been happy to take on a cursebreaker with extensive experience in breaking down wards. He’d started off at Gringotts New Orleans, years of experience as a diver in the Mediterranean coming in handy in the Gulf, before a promotion had taken him across the country to LA. He hadn’t regretted it; the work kept him busy, and after Fleur, he had no real interest in laying his heart on the line again.
Then Hermione Granger had walked into his life and turned it upside down.
Bill remembered meeting her, just before the World Cup, when she was still a teenager with bushy hair and a slight overbite, and being amused at Ron’s choice of friends - love his little brother though he did, Ron was more likely to use a book as a doorstop than actually open it. It had been a conversation after the Cup, and the Death Eaters, that had stuck in his mind and greatly upped his estimation of his little brother’s taste in friends.
“It’s okay to be scared, you know,” he’d said quietly, sitting down next to her and handing her a cup of hot chocolate, Dad having made some in what Bill thought was a futile effort to help them sleep.
She’d shaken her head. “I’m not scared. Or, I’m not letting myself be scared. Because if I’m scared, then they achieved what they set out to do, and that means they win. I’m not letting them win.”
“Attagirl,” Bill told her, the question of why Hermione Granger had wound up in the lion’s den rather than the eagle’s nest answered. “But, for what it’s worth? Bravery doesn’t have to mean not being scared. It can mean being scared, and doing it anyway.”
She’d nodded, and he’d squeezed her shoulder and left her to her thoughts.
He hadn’t thought about her much in the intervening years, if he was honest; he’d been too preoccupied with his own life and relationships to pay more than cursory attention to Ron’s. In an odd way, he’d sort of been relieved; at least things had ended before kids had been a part of the equation, as there had nearly been for him and Fleur. And while Hermione might work for Gringotts, the bank’s network was so vast the odds of running into her were vanishingly small. Over the years, he’d honestly mostly forgotten she was technically a colleague.
Until the day an absolute goddess in sensible shoes walked into the LA office.
Bill actually hadn’t recognised her until Isi, his boss, had called him over to meet their latest transfer, and then it had only been years of tutelage from his Grandmother Black Weasley in keeping one’s emotions off one’s face that had kept him from making a complete fool of himself. Gone was the angry, grieving, hurting girl he remembered from the days just after the war; in her place was a poised, elegant woman in carefully tailored robes, her once-frizzy hair in riotous curls that framed her pretty face.
Bill had needed no convincing whatsoever to show Hermione around Los Angeles - for one thing, if Molly Weasley found out that he hadn’t helped out one of her babies - and Hermione still counted, youngest son’s runaway ex-girlfriend or not - Bill had no doubt he’d be in for worse than Howlers. For another, he knew what it was like, the first few weeks in a foreign country, and he was happy to help make a fellow expat’s transition a little easier.
He’d honestly expected any friendship to fade into a general acquaintance; Gringotts kept both its cursebreakers and its research specialists very busy, for one, and for another, he was a grumpy bastard even when it wasn’t the full moon. Very few people willingly put up with his company, and most of those who did usually spent the time in his bed.
He should have remembered Ron’s bitching about how goddamned stubborn Hermione Granger could be when she wanted something. And what she wanted, apparently, was to be friends. She wasn’t perturbed by his moods, was happy to debate just about anything with him, and took absolutely zero percent of his shit. For his part, Bill found that Hermione’s directness didn’t grate as much as he might have thought - in fact, it was refreshing, after years of being first fawned over and then feared because of how he looked, to have somebody in his life who did not give a damn. (Hermione had informed him once, acerbically, that over a decade of being Harry Potter’s best friend made one impervious to scars, lightning bolt or otherwise.)
The cooking thing had started when he’d dropped by Hermione’s flat to find his usually composed friend on the verge of tears, the smoke filling the kitchen and the scorched lump on the stove telling him all he needed to know. He’d sent her off to have a bath and a nap, and accidentally started their Thursday dinner tradition. Bill honestly hadn’t expected it to become one of the highlights of his week, but it was - partly for the chance to cook more creatively than he’d bother with for just him, since Hermione was as adventurous an eater as he was, but mostly for the company. Hermione would perch on the kitchen island with a glass of wine and tease him as he cooked, and in other circumstances, Bill would have let himself think it was a date.
It was never a date, though. For one thing, Bill was a Weasley; he was pretty sure that made him an honorary older brother, as far as Hermione was concerned. Brother-in-law, even given her relationship with Ron, and yeah, no, Bill had been raised better than that. Besides, and more importantly, they were colleagues; for all they only worked together occasionally, Bill preferring the field and Hermione more at home in the research department, a relationship was still a bad idea. True, cursebreakers often slept with each other and partnerships were notorious for being in bed and out, given the adrenaline-fuelled nature of their jobs, but that wasn’t an option with Hermione. Not because she wasn’t beautiful or desirable or not Bill’s type - she was all those things - but because he was head over heels in love with her.
The realization had come as one hell of a surprise. With every previous partner, from Sarah and Danny and Alex at Hogwarts, to Selene during his Gringotts training, to Fleur later on, Bill had fallen hard… and fast. With Hermione, on the other hand, it had been like that Muggle book she loved. He was in the middle before he knew he’d begun, had looked up one ordinary Wednesday at work and seen Hermione’s head bent over a stack of parchment, quill tucked between her teeth and a stray lock of hair curled around one finger as she worked out the Arithmancy for a particularly tricky little bit of warding on a cursed china cabinet they were working on together, and known, right then, deep in his bones, that he wanted a future with her.
Which, of course, wasn’t happening, for a multitude of very good reasons, not the least of which was that Bill didn’t have so many friends he could afford to take a match to one of his most precious relationships. He’d settle for being her friend, with the occasional indulgence of letting himself imagine what if.
It was enough.
And if he told himself that a few thousand more times, maybe he’d even believe it.
Shaking himself out of his maudlin thoughts before anyone - especially the object of aforementioned thoughts - could notice and call him on them, Bill rapped on the doorframe, Hermione starting before she realised who it was at the door.
“Bill!” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I thought you were on the Francis case.”
“I was, but something else has come up,” he explained, moving to perch on her desk, careful not to upset any of the carefully organised documents and papers on it. “Can you take a break from - whatever that is? This is urgent but not life-or-death.”
“Sure,” Hermione told him, putting the scroll away and looking up at him, cheek propped on a hand and brown eyes curious.
“Remember Vera Antioch?” Bill asked.
Hermione blinked. “Some kind of heiress? Threw completely mad parties, seduced people right and left?”
“That’s the one,” Bill confirmed. “Her daughter disappeared in 1960; they thought she’d been kidnapped or murdered, it was a huge scandal. Never found the body or even any clues.”
“That’s so sad,” Hermione said. “But what does that have to do with Gringotts?”
“A lot,” Bill told her. “As it turns out, the daughter wasn’t killed or kidnapped. She ran away, changed her name, basically cut off all contact and never acknowledged who her mother was or where she came from. Except she passed away a few months ago, and her daughter found a reference to Vera Antioch in her papers, did some digging… long story short, she’s inherited everything. Including the old Antioch estate.” He handed her a sheaf of papers, nodding as Hermione’s eyes widened. “Something, isn’t it? Problem is, it’s been abandoned these past forty-odd years, and the wards have mutated to hell and back.”
Hermione nodded. “I’d believe it,” she said. “Wasn’t Vera Antioch also supposed to be… well, a bit of a nutter?”
“I think the society pages of the time called it ‘a bit eccentric,’ but yes,” Bill told her. “Her granddaughter - her name is Sylvia Trembourne - wants to sell the place, but before she does that, it’ll need a thorough cleansing.”
“If it’s been forty years?” Hermione asked as she leafed through the documents, and Bill tried not to be distracted by the way she wound a curl around one finger as she read. “I can just imagine. Well, luckily for you, and Ms. Trembourne, I wrapped up the Durant file yesterday, so I’m all yours.”
If only, Bill thought, but what he said was, “Fantastic. Then let’s get started.”
It took all of the first day and part of the second to get past the lawn and front flower beds, leaving them grateful to be working inside the house for a bit. Some tricky spell-work in the entryway turned them back outside four times before they sorted out the 'bother me not' -- it wasn't in the still life with the forget-me-nots, which threw them both -- and the parlor tea sets kept trying to get them to sit and rest until the house owner got there.
The office looked trickier than it turned out to be - only Bill’s more-than-human-reflexes had had him pulling Hermione close and out of reach of the falling bookcase in time - and more than one of the various tchotchkes on the shelves took umbrage at someone not their owner being in the space. Several hours of cursebreaking, and not a few dodged hexes later, Bill and Hermione looked at each other and turned to the more private section of the house. Maybe it would have the key -- or at least the control runes -- to turn off these alarms.
Getting there, however, was no easy task, and it was approaching dusk on the fourth day of their time in Antioch House when they finally cleared a path to the master bedroom.
"What do you think?" Bill asked Hermione as they stood in front of the ornate rosewood door with its gilt and ivory inlay. "Shall we call a halt for tonight, come back fresh tomorrow?" This was one of the rooms with the heaviest concentrations of magic, after all, and it had been a long day of cursebreaking.
Hermione looked torn. "Perhaps we could just take a look," she suggested. "It'd give us a better idea of what we need to focus on tomorrow."
Later, Bill would wonder if the spell had started working on them right away, because rather than point out the flaws in Hermione's plan, he'd nodded. "After you, then."
To his surprise, the door had swung open with barely a touch. Blinking, Bill followed Hermione into Vera Antioch's... well. Boudoir would be a good word for it, he supposed. The space was dominated by a gigantic four-poster bed, solid oak and done up with fine-looking cream and gold linens. Off to one side was a table and a matching set of chairs that put him in mind of a set he'd seen in Versailles, and by it was a chaise longue in the same style. Between the two was a massive mirror, as tall as Bill was and exceeding the width of his outstretched fingertips, the filigree on the ornate gilt frame matching the wine-and-gold wallpaper.
On the other side was a writing desk and chair in the same style as the other furniture, a shelf of books above the desk. They were thoroughly overshadowed, however, by the art on the walls - art, Bill realised as his cheeks heated, that seemed to be composed mainly of lounging nudes and cavorting sylphs in various stages of undress. Mostly complete.
"Well," Hermione said, managing to sound far more nonplussed than Bill felt. "Vera Antioch certainly had an interesting taste in decor."
"She certainly did," Bill said, feeling rather proud of himself for how even his voice was at that moment. "Right. Each of us take a side, meet in the middle?" It was how they'd done the other rooms they'd cleared so far.
"Done," Hermione said. "I'll take this side, if that's alright?"
Bill had to fight back a smile - that was the side that held the desk, and the few books in the room. "As the lady wishes," he said, half for the way Hermione half-laughed before making her way to the desk in question.
For his part, he made a quick check of the furniture - no spells that he could find, other than the usual range of stain- and dust- repelling spells, and a few reinforcement charms here and there - nothing unusual for an older house. Then he opened the door between the table and the chaise longue, expecting it to be a closet of some sort, and had to stop himself from swearing and slamming it shut.
It was a closet, and a large, well-appointed one. Of sex toys. Which Bill had no problem with, in fact there were several that wouldn't be out of place in his own collection. The problem was that he was there with Hermione. He looked over and - good, she hadn't noticed, too busy looking through one of the books on the desk. He turned back to the door and focused on breathing deeply and not imagining how she would look, spread on that stupidly large bed, midnight curls spilling across the ivory-and-gold-pillows, head thrown back and eyes blown wide, long shapely legs over his shoulders as Bill pleasured her with toys and fingers and tongue.
Once he felt somewhat back under control, he continued his circuit of the room, trying his best not to be distracted by the images currently flashing through a very unprofessional part of his head, coming to the next door - this one a balcony, Bill could tell, from the palm-size windows surrounding the door.
He opened it, intending to step outside for a moment to hopefully clear his head...
... and then the scent hit.
"Hermione, get out!" Bill called, scrambling back and shutting the door behind him. Fuck. This explained a whole lot about Vera Antioch's reputation, about why her daughter had run away, about why the magic was so concentrated in this room.
Hermione jerked up from the book she was reading, and Bill called again, "Hermione, you need to get out."
She blinked at him, but didn’t move except to reach for her wand, brave, _stupid_ girl. "What? Why?"
He shook his head, trying to get her to understand, to leave. "There's lover's honeysuckle all over the balcony. You have to get out."
"Lover's honeysuckle?" Hermione asked. "Oh. Oh _no._”
"Now we know how Vera Antioch got her reputation," Bill agreed grimly. Lover's honeysuckle, a magical variant of the Muggle plant that grew everywhere in both Britain and North America, had started out life as an aphrodisiac, the scent heightening desire in anyone who smelled it. The problem was an unscrupulous horticulturalist had bred a variant that was far stronger than the plant ever was in nature... and what had begun as a mild aphrodisiac had turned into something very like a compulsion. And Bill, whose senses were already heightened after Greyback, was already starting to feel the effects. “Please, pet, there’s not a moment to lose. Get out.”
Hermione bit her lip, then nodded, heading for the door… and no sooner had she touched it than vines sprouted, covering the door in more lover’s honeysuckle, and Bill groaned. “Fuck.”
To his shock, Hermione started to giggle. “Sorry, sorry, it’s not actually funny,” she said. “Just… it seemed rather accidentally apropos.”
Bill had to laugh at that, too. _Fuck,_ but he loved this woman. “Doesn’t change things, pet,” he told her. “You have to get out. I don’t know how much longer I can keep control.” The one saving grace was that lover’s honeysuckle bloomed only at night, which meant that if they could get Hermione out, he’d just have a miserable few hours of wanting… which wasn’t that different from a normal night, honestly.
Hermione nodded, determination colouring her face as she pulled her wand back out… and the first spell she sent at the door bounced off it. The second, third, and fourth, too. Bill’s spells had about the same effect, that is to say… none at all, and neither did any wandless magic either of them tried, or even his knife. Now they knew why this room set off the magic sensors like mad - a dampening field powerful enough to snuff out even wandless magic took a lot of power.
“I don’t think we’re getting out,” Hermione said quietly.
Hermione had known something was wrong the moment she opened the book on the desk. At first glance, it seemed like a normal diary, albeit a very sexually explicit one. Which was unsurprising, really, given the decor. That was fine; she was no blushing virgin, and anyway, even if she had been, it never showed when she blushed. Then came the references. Sly ones, at first, to helping hands and people who just needed a little push. Then more explicit ones, to victims, and finally, she turned a page to see an image of a plant she recognized; lover’s honeysuckle.
She’d come across it in the Restricted Section, back in sixth year when she was researching love potions after the mess with Romilda Vane (and in preparation to take several strips off the twins’ hides). It wasn’t quite as bad as an actual love potion - it didn’t mess with its victims’ emotions, at least, just their libidos - but what it was was still bad enough.
She was just preparing to turn and warn Bill when he called, panicked like she’d never heard, “Hermione, get out!”
She whirled to face him, reaching for her wand, to find that he’d slammed a door behind him and was leaning against it, parchment pale. "Hermione, you need to get out," he said, his voice ragged.
Hermione blinked. Like hell she was leaving him to whatever it was. "What? Why?"
Bill shook his head, expression somewhere between bleak and panicked. "There's lover's honeysuckle all over the balcony," he said. "You have to get out."
"Lover's honeysuckle?" Hermione repeated blankly. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. That explained the references in the book. "Oh. Oh no." And Bill, with his part-werewolf physiology, would be so much more susceptible.
"Now we know how Vera Antioch got her reputation," Bill agreed, and Hermione could see that he was already starting to suffer the effects - he was breathing hard and his cheeks were flushed as he leaned against the door, body taut and tense as he looked anywhere but at her. “Please, pet, there’s not a moment to lose. Get out.”
God, she'd never heard him like that, desperate, begging, almost. Goddamned Vera Antioch. As much as Hermione wanted to go to him, she knew that was the opposite of a good idea. Instead she headed for the door... only for lover's honeysuckle to bloom there, too, spreading from where her fingers had touched the ornately carved wood.
"Fuck," Bill groaned, behind her, and Hermione couldn't help it, she started to giggle. Partly from the sheer ridiculousness of their situation - she could just see one of those wretched pulpy romance serials Lavender loved having just such a plot - and partly that Bill wasn't wrong, precisely.
“Sorry, sorry, it’s not actually funny,” she said. “Just… it seemed rather accidentally apropos.”
To her relief, Bill chuckled at that, before his tone turned serious. “Doesn’t change things, pet," he said. “You have to get out. I don’t know how much longer I can keep control.” Hermione could see it, too - he was pressing himself against the door, his hands casually flexing with the need to touch, to possess, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. In other circumstances, it would be a breathtaking sight, and Hermione hated Vera Antioch that _this_ was how she saw it instead.
But Bill was right; they didn't have much time. Pulling her wand back out, Hermione cast a flame charm... only for nothing to happen. Blinking, she tried Alohomora, only for that not to work either. Not did Cutting or Severing Charms.
"Dampening field," Bill said. "Here, pet, let me try. It may be just wanded magic."
Hermione did, moving out of the way so Bill could try some of the spells he'd picked up over the years - he was a far better hand at wandless magic than she was. But the flash of light that usually accompanied his finger-casting never appeared, and even the slokhas he'd learned from a friend at Gringotts Madras did nothing.
When the knife Bill kept in his boot just bounced off the vine-covered door, Hermione shook her head. "I don't think we're getting out," she said quietly.
"No," Bill agreed, and there was something defeated in his voice, in the set of his shoulders. "I'm so damn sorry, Hermione."
"It's not your fault," Hermione told him. The honeysuckle had started to work its effect on her, too; she could feel heat creeping up her veins, feel the urge to move forward, to pull Bill onto the bed and urge him to have his way with her. And if she was feeling it, it must be so much worse for him, especially since he likely saw her as an annoying little sister.
He’d slumped so he was half-sitting against the door, head resting on folded arms, nails digging so deep into the skin she could almost see the blood.
Hermione took a moment to consider. The facts in front of her were these: Bill Weasley was the best man she knew. And touching anyone without their consent would destroy him.
Set against that, the chance that he might not feel how she felt… didn’t seem important at all. Tomorrow, they’d have to rebuild their relationship, no matter what. Tonight, she could at least give him this.
She took a step forward, then another, then another, until she was just out of reach. “Bill,” she said, quiet, but firm. “Look at me.”
He did, with eyes more gold than blue, hands by his sides from sheer force of will.
Hermione took her courage in both hands. “I want this. I want you.”
Bill shook his head. “Mione, no, it’s the honeysuckle.”
“Maybe,” Hermione agreed. “But I promise. It is absolutely no hardship being with a gorgeous man I’ve had a crush on since I was fifteen. I’m just sorry you got stuck with me.”
To her surprise, Bill’s jaw dropped at that. “Stuck with you? Fuck, sweetheart, you’re the gorgeous one. Just - didn’t want it like this.”
“But you did want it,” Hermione clarified.
Bill laughed, a little ragged. “Since a fucking goddess in sensible shoes walked back into my world and swept me right off my feet. Hell yes I want you, pet.”
Really, there was only one thing she could say in response. “Then have me.”
The words had barely left her mouth before Bill surged onto his feet and forward, pulling her close and crushing his lips to hers. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, but God, Hermione was tired of gentle, tired of fumbling. She keened into it, pressing up into Bill’s touch, hands going up to tangle in his hair, trying to tell him how much she liked it.
Too soon, the kiss was over - damn the need to breathe - but Hermione forgave Bill for it, for the kisses and bites he placed across her jaw and down her neck. “Fuck, sweetheart, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, and no wonder people flocked to his bed, that growl went right to Hermione’s core.
“Bed?” she suggested, getting an absolutely _wicked_ grin in response.
“Think we’re both wearing a little too many clothes for that, pet,” Bill said, and Hermione arched an eyebrow.
“And what are you going to do about it, Mr Weasley?” The words trailed off into a shriek, because his response was to simply take the front of her robes and pull, and holy fuck it shouldn’t have been hot but it was, as was the look of surprise, quickly morphing to raw hunger, that she saw on his face after the robes were tossed aside.
“Hell, pet,” Bill murmured, voice low and rich and looking at her with desire-dark eyes, “If I’d known what was under those boring robes of yours, I would have made a move a lot sooner.”
Hermione couldn’t help but laugh at that, even as she blushed. One consequence she hadn’t anticipated of living in a tent, even a magical one, for several months? She was a lot more hedonistic than she’d ever imagined she’d be at fifteen. Oh, she still had no patience for makeup, even after all of Parvati and Lavender’s efforts, but she’d come to enjoy indulging herself with the fancy soap, the pretty-smelling lotion, the nicer sheets. And, germane to this discussion, prettier underthings than she’d ever bothered with before.
Today, she’d chosen a pale blue lace bra that was honestly more lace than fabric, matching high-cut panties and old-fashioned lace stockings with a seam up the back, in honour of the mansion’s original occupant. And she’d chosen very well, if the look on Bill’s face was anything to go by. A small, naughty part of her couldn’t help but think that if Ron had looked at her like that even once in all the time they were together, she might not have left. And maybe that, rather than the honeysuckle sending waves of desire and want and need through her, was what made her daring enough to arch an eyebrow and smirk at Bill. “And are you planning on making one any time soon?”
That got another growl before she was picked up like she weighed nothing and kissed thoroughly. This time, without her robes in the way, Hermione could wrap her legs around Bill’s waist, run her fingers down the muscles in his back, while she buried a hand in those gorgeous soft curls and kissed him back as filthily as he was kissing her. Fuck, it felt so good, his mouth hot against hers, one large hand curving around her bottom, the other buried in her hair, nails scraping against her scalp and making her wail into the kiss.
Bill started moving, walking them to the bed, Hermione still cradled easily, and there was a part of her that was screaming about how thoroughly unprofessional this was, how much trouble they were both going to be in, but the larger part, the part that had crushed on Bill Weasley since she was fifteen and loved him for nearly two years, could not give a single solitary flying fuck. Especially since it was too busy learning the way the muscles in his back felt under her hands, how shifting her hips against him just like that got a growl and a nip, how soft those flame-red curls felt against her fingers.
The sheets were just as soft as she’d imagined from looking at them, gold-embroidered cream silk, the cool touch of the fabric a delicious contrast to the heat dancing across her skin, to the way Bill was looking at her, like she was a smorgasbord and he was deciding where to start. He also, Hermione thought grumpily, had entirely too many clothes on, and told him so.
Bill laughed at that, and it made his already handsome face even more good-looking, which was just unfair, somehow. “Your wish is my command, pet,” he said, and oh, didn’t that give Hermione ideas. Then he started to strip, and any hope of coherent thought went out the window.
Hermione had seen Bill shirtless before - he and Charlie had stripped to the waist one afternoon at the Burrow to do some of the heavier gardening for Mrs Weasley - and Hermione, tucked away in Ginny’s room reading, had nearly fallen off the ledge she was sitting when she’d caught sight of them. She’d scrambled inside, cheeks flaming and hoping like hell they hadn’t seen her, but the image had been burned into her memory - and fodder for some very pleasant times with her vibrator, over the years.
And fifteen years on, he was just as gorgeous - more so, even the intervening years having added height and muscle to an already fit body, scars and tattoos wending their way around his pale skin. Hermione let herself look, revelling in the courage she hadn’t had at fifteen, and the freedom she did now.
“Like what you see?” Bill asked, and someone who knew him less well wouldn’t hear the nervousness under the bravado and the cocky smile, but Hermione did.
She shot him a wicked grin of her own. “You know it, Mr Weasley. Now come here and kiss me.”
Bill was dreaming. He had to be.
He’d been going over every spell he could think of, to try and get them out - after this long outside of Britain and its obsession with wanded magic, he could do a fair few - except none of those had worked, either, with whatever enchantment on the room, and neither had his knife. He’d just been about to suggest - what, he didn’t know. That she toss his knife back to him, so he could use it on himself rather than hurt her. Although, a voice in his head that sounded annoyingly like Hermione pointed out, it wasn’t like seeing a friend kill himself in front of her would have been a pleasant experience. Pleasanter than said friend fucking raping her, Bill told the voice.
But that hadn’t happened, merciful Hekate be praised. He’d been doing his best to hold on to the tattered shreds of his control long enough for one of them - likely Hermione, if he was being honest - to come up with a solution. It was getting harder and harder - he could swear that the damned honeysuckle was amplifying his senses even more than the damned moon already did, because he could swear she was getting closer and closer.
And then her voice sounded, too damn close, and Bill opened his mouth to tell her to get away, damn it, and then she came out with that.
He’d thought he was hearing things, that the honeysuckle was twisting his mind as well as his senses, until she made the comment about being sorry he was stuck with her.
The hell with hiding how he felt, the hell with how many ways this was a terrible idea - he wasn't letting her believe that another second.
And another time, he was going to track down every blind, foolish idiot who'd done anything to put that look of surprise in her eyes, and kill them. For the moment, though, she'd said to have her. And he planned to do just that.
Another time, he might have been gentle. Another time, he might have started slow, soft nuzzles and lazy kisses, let her set the pace. Not tonight, not when wolf and magic were both singing in his veins. He surged forward, only barely resisting the urge to turn around and press her against the door, take her just like that. She deserved better - they deserved better. Instead, he gathered her to him, a hand on the pert derriere he'd had entirely too many naughty thoughts about, kissing her deep and filthy. To his delight, she kissed back just as hard, pressing against him and tangling her hands in his hair.
She'd probably give him hell later, for the robes, but it was worth it, both because they did her no favours and because of what she was wearing under them. Bill nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of her, full breasts just barely covered by scraps of pale blue lace, long legs encased in silk. And then she smirked at him, all sass and heat, and it was all he could do not to pull her onto the floor and take her right there, instead - somehow - summoning enough self-control to carry her to the bed instead. It was worth it, though, the way she looked spread out on the cream and gold silk, a Dahomey Amazon made flesh.
And then she smiled, and told him to come kiss her, and really, what else could Bill do but obey?
She’d thought about this so many times, in the privacy of her own bed. Dreamed about it, even, woken up many times with flushed cheeks and a wet pussy.
Her subconscious had nothing on the real thing.
Bill - despite the circumstances, despite the wolf - was the best kind of kisser, like there was nothing in the world he would rather be doing than this, like he had all the time in the world, deep, drugging kisses interspersed with nips and bites that sent tendrils of heat spiralling through Hermione. She couldn’t even urge him on, not when he had her wrists pinned in one large hand - he’d let go, she knew, if she made the slightest protest, but Hermione was finding she didn’t want to. That she wanted to lie here and be ravished.
As if he could sense what she was thinking, Bill moved from her mouth to her jaw to her throat, Hermione shifting to give him easier access.
“Like that, pet?” Bill murmured, and oh, how had Hermione ever heard that as anything but an endearment?
“God yes,” she rasped. “M not delicate, Bill. I won’t break.”
That got her a _grin_ before he moved back to kissing her throat, less gentle this time, before making his way down her collarbone to her breasts. He still had her wrists in one hand, but the other cupped one lace-clad mound, Hermione gasping at the feel of his calloused thumb against her nipple even through the barely-there fabric.
“Hold still for me, pet,” Bill told her, not quite an order, and moved his other hand to her breasts. “Fuck, but you’re gorgeous. “Tell me, you like having your tits played with?” He brushed his thumbs over her nipples as he spoke, Hermione managing a nod. That was all the encouragement Bill seemed to need to begin playing with her breasts in earnest, teasing her nipples through the lace of her bra before using teeth and tongue on them until Hermione was whimpering. “Such pretty sounds, pet. Think I’m gonna have you keep this on, love how it looks against your pretty skin. Maybe later I’ll take it off then put you on my cock, watch your tits bounce while you ride me.”
Hermione keened at the mental image before arching an eyebrow at Bill. “Later, huh? What about right now?”
“Right now, pet? This.” The snap of elastic against her skin as her panties were ripped as easily as her robes had been before Bill’s head was between her legs and he was licking a long, careful stripe across her clit. Hermione gasped, arching up into the touch. “Oh, God, fuck, do that again.”
That got a chuckle. “As you wish, pet.” And whoever taught Bill to eat pussy, Hermione was going to send them a goddamned gift basket, because holy fuck, the man was a savant, circling her clit with his tongue, alternating quick, delicate licks with long slow ones, doing _something_ with his tongue that had Hermione seeing stars - and being really glad the Antioch mansion was deserted because there was no fucking way she was keeping quiet.
“Fuck, Bill, yes, just like that,” she gasped, arching up into him, only his hands on her hips keeping her from bucking further into that unfairly talented mouth. Bill just grinned and added a finger, then a second, stretching and scissoring while he continued eating her out, and it wasn’t long before Hermione came with a cry, Bill tonguefucking her through the aftershocks then moving so he could kiss her, and fuck, that was hot, the taste of her orgasm on his tongue as he licked into her mouth.
“Got a choice, pet,” he murmured against her mouth. “Fuck you into the mattress, or put you on my lap and watch your pretty tits bounce as I fuck you on my cock?”
Fuck, now that was a choice. The small part of Hermione's brain that wasn't addled by honeysuckle, however, pointed out that there was something she needed to take care of first. She started to reach for her wand, then cursed as she realised there wasn't any point. "Bill, please tell me you have condoms. Or something.”
Magical birth control potions were a hell of a lot more reliable than their Muggle counterparts, but Hermione hadn’t bothered in years, not when the only one who shared her bed with any regularity was Crookshanks.
Bill, for his part, was chuckling. “That’s my sensible girl. Don’t worry, pet. Take my potions regularly. They help with the wolf, so.”
Really? Well, it did make sense, Hermione supposed, given what she knew about the moon’s effect on magical creatures and humans alike. Another time, she’d ask about it, get lost in the weeds with Bill as they so often did. For now, she had other priorities.
“Good,” Hermione told him. “And as to your question… both. Fuck me into the mattress, and then I’ll return the favour. Unless you think one round will be enough.”
Bill _laughed._ “Pet, for you I’d do three.” He looked down at her, blue eyes dark and hot. “Not going to be able to be gentle, ‘Mione,” he warned. “Been wanting you too damn long.”
This man. “Good thing I’m not made of glass, then, isn’t it?” Hermione retorted, scraping her nails down his chest, making sure to catch them on his nipples and smiling when he gasped. “Fuck me, Bill Weasley.”
That got her kissed, deep and filthy, and then Bill was entering her and oh, that felt good. He was big, bigger than her usual vibrator but the thorough tonguefucking and finally getting to have the man she’d been fantasizing about for years helped, Hermione enjoying the inexorable weight of him inside her. “God, yes, Bill. Feels so damn good.”
“Right back at you, pet. God, you’re so wet. Fit so perfectly around me, too.” Bill’s voice was ragged, and while Hermione knew it was at least in part the honeysuckle, that he sounded like this for her was going straight to her core.
Finally, finally, Bill was fully seated inside her, and Hermione had to take a second to just breathe, because - honeysuckle or not - none of her other lovers, or even her best vibes - had ever felt this good.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Bill gritted out, and she could see how hard he was fighting for control in the set of his jaw.
“Be better if you fucked me,” she said, just to tease, and that got a growl before her hands were wrenched up over her head and pinned again.
“Be careful what you wish for, pet,” Bill said, and then he started to move, slow at first but building up to deep, powerful strokes, his hand on Hermione’s wrists meaning she was powerless to stop him - not that she wanted to. As it stood, the only thing she could do was bare her throat so Bill could nip and bite as he fucked her hard and deep, gasping keens torn from her throat because fuck, that felt so good.
“Like that, beautiful?” Bill asked, a hand slipping between them to play with her clit as he continued to fuck into her, and God, Hermione wasn’t going to be walking straight for a week but it was completely worth it.
“God, yes,” she told him. “Feels so good, Bill, please!” And then Bill did something with his hips and his fingers and she stopped being able to form coherent sentences altogether, only managing “please” and “more” and “Bill” until pleasure washed over her once again. This time, Bill let himself go, too, his groan muffled in a bite to her shoulder, warm wet filling her as he came.
Eventually, Hermione came back to herself enough to move, even if it was just to the bathroom to fetch a washcloth. Bill grumbled as she slipped out of his arms, and she couldn’t help but kiss him, smiling when it actually worked.
Her own ablutions done, Hermione walked back to the bed with washcloth in hand, taking advantage of the opportunity to shamelessly ogle. Bill hadn’t bothered pulling a sheet on, so she had an excellent view, from the blade tattoos on each arm, spelled so they could be used as real weapons, to the runes just above his waist to the lines of Arabic poetry wrapped around one thigh to the scars that bisected his chest, thigh, and stomach, remnants of the fight with Greyback. His face, too, pretty even with the scars, his blue eyes hungry as he shamelessly ogled her in return.
“Like what you see?” Hermione teased.
“You know it, pet,” Bill retorted. “Could look at you all day.”
“Our bosses might have a problem with that,” Hermione said drily, but she couldn’t help the heat in her cheeks at the compliment, entirely different from the honeysuckle heat in her veins. She let Bill pull her close and kiss her lazily, washcloth going from comfort to foreplay as his hand covered hers, guiding it across his rapidly rehardening shaft.
“Werewolf genetics, pet,” he explained at her curious look. “One of the few upsides to Greyback.”
Hermione laughed. “It does seem that way,” she agreed, putting the washcloth aside and cupping it, Bill groaning as she ran delicate fingers down the veins. “Did you mean it? About wanting me to ride you?” she asked.
“Fuck yes,” Bill told her. “But only if you want to, pet.”
“Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to,” Hermione replied, amused. “But you’re going to have to get me wet, first. You could use your fingers…” she rubbed a thumb across the head of his cock, Bill groaning and muttering, “Minx,” under his breath, “or you could use your voice. Tell me a fantasy, gorgeous.”
God, where was this coming from? She had to believe it was the honeysuckle loosening her inhibitions, because Gryffindor or not, she certainly wasn’t one to be this… wanton. Then again, if anyone would understand, it was Bill.
Who was smiling at her, a calculating look in his eyes. “A fantasy, hmm? Tell me, pet, have you ever used toys before?”
Hermione snorted. “God yes. Much less hassle than boyfriends, and better at giving you orgasms, a lot of the time.”
That had Bill wincing even as he laughed. “Touché, pet. But I think I’ve proved my skill at making you come, hmm?”
“I suppose,” Hermione granted. “What would you do with a toy, then?”
“I’d use it to tease you,” Bill told her. “Take you out to dinner, somewhere fancy, somewhere Muggle you could wear a dress that shows off your tits _and_ your legs, slip a vibe into your panties before we left. Maybe one in your pretty little derriere, if you’d let me. Then I’d see how many times I could make you come before dessert.”
Hermione groaned. She could imagine it, too, dinner at some fancy Muggle restaurant, the kind that required heels and a suit. Sitting at the table, trying desperately to pay attention while being fucked thoroughly - and knowing Bill, he’d expect her to carry on a conversation, too.
“And after dessert?” she asked.
Bill’s grin was wicked. “Why, pet. I’d take you home and prove to you that as good as those vibes might feel? My cock feels better.”
Hermione laughed. “You do have a high opinion of yourself,” she informed him.
“Only because it’s justified, beautiful,” Bill told her, a hand slipping between her thighs. “Look at you, you’re so wet. Wet enough that you’d just slide down my cock.” He moved his hands to her hips, shifting her as easily as if she weighed nothing. “Shall we, pet?”
Hermione laughed. “I did promise to ride you,” she said, moving the rest of the way, allowing Bill to get her in position, then carefully lower her onto his shaft. And oh, this new angle felt good, in a different way than being on her back with Bill fucking into her. And she had to admit, the view was scenic, Bill laying back once he’d settled her properly, giving her an excellent view of that well-muscled chest, those high cheekbones, those pretty blue eyes.
Hermione couldn’t resist running her fingers down his chest, grinning when it elicited a groan. She’d play with his nipples another time, though; she _had_ promised him a show, and she set about to do just that, moving slow at first then faster, hands going up to pinch and tease at her nipples as she did, a choked-off curse from Bill her reward.
“Fuck, pet,” he rasped, voice dropping an octave, hands fisting in the sheets. “Keep that up, and I’m not going to last.”
Hermione leaned down to kiss him. “That’s fine,” she told him. “You can lick me clean later.”
That got a whimper, which made Hermione grin before she turned her attention back to driving Bill crazy, varying her rhythm on his cock just enough to drive him crazy but not enough to let him come, playing with her nipples for a few more minutes before unhooking her bra and tossing it to one side, her reward a “Fuck, pet,” before she really started to move in earnest, breasts and curls bouncing as she fucked herself on Bill’s cock.
Hermione Granger was going to be the death of him.
All the times he’d thought about being with her, he’d always imagined her as being… shy, a little demure, even. He should have known better to assume.
She felt even more amazing on top of him, sconces bathing her in an almost golden light, a goddess in blue lace that Bill could spend the rest of his life worshipping and still never get enough. Her hair had fallen out of the practical bun she kept it in in the field, corkscrew curls like some kind of onyx halo around her face, mouth curved and brown eyes laughing in a way that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing to him as she played with her nipples.
And then she took her bra off.
Bill groaned at that, taking several deep breaths, running through the unsexist things he could think of - tax forms, Arithmancy tables, Binns’ droning on - so he didn’t lose control like a damn teenager, hands twisting in the sheets with the effort not to come before she did.
Eventually, he managed to get a hand between them, playing with her clit in time with their thrusts, Hermione gasping at the additional stimulation.
“That’s it, pet,” Bill managed, “God, so fucking beautiful like this, sweetheart.” He was going to light a candle for Vera Antioch, once this was over, for that he’d gotten to see Hermione like this, have this with her.
Hermione laughed, ragged and desire-drenched, leaning down to kiss him, and Bill responded by burying his free hand in her hair, not using it to take control of the kiss, just enjoying the feel of it as Hermione rode his fingers and cock to completion, Bill swallowing her scream in a kiss. And fuck but it felt amazing, the way she shuddered and came apart in his arms and around him, the feel of it triggering his own orgasm.
He barely managed a few more thrusts before spilling inside her with a shout, Hermione riding him through the aftershocks until he could tolerate no more, then carefully pulling away and cuddling him close.
“I think you killed me,” Bill informed her fuzzily, only for her to laugh that half-laugh he loved.
“Flatterer,” Hermione retorted, but he could tell she was pleased. “And it was mutual. But I think I want to sleep now.”
Bill nodded, curling up against her, and it wasn’t long before Morpheus came for them, the both of them sleeping the sleep of the happily exhausted.
When Hermione woke, the sun was streaming through the windows, and the door was free of the honeysuckle vines that had covered it the night before. If she hadn’t been wrapped in the arms of an equally naked, and very nervous-looking, Bill Weasley, she would have imagined the whole thing was just a dream.
Although dreams didn’t leave leave hickies on her throat and bruises on her hips and wrists from being thoroughly fucked. Four times, even. The honeysuckle had woken them again, a few hours later, and this time Bill had pulled her to her knees and moved them so they were facing the mirror while he fucked her from behind, Hermione enraptured by the picture they made, draped against his chest with her hair spilling over his shoulders and hers, Bill’s pale hands stark against her dark skin as he played with her breasts and pussy, eyes wide and mouth an O of desire as he wrung a third orgasm from her. And then again, just before dawn, the honeysuckle emitting one final burst that had them clawing at each other, nails raking down backs and teeth sharp on necks, the only sounds in the room their cries and the slap of skin on skin as they fucked each other raw.
“Hey,” she started to say, then had to clear her throat, which was hoarse from screaming, and try again. “How are you feeling?”
Bill started. “I should be asking you that,” he said. “Fuck, Hermione, I’m so sorry.”
“For what?” Hermione asked, confused. “Bill, it wasn’t your fault. I offered, remember?”
“Because the honeysuckle made you,” Bill said.
Hermione shook her head. “The honeysuckle didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do,” she said firmly, before a thought crossed her mind and she looked hesitantly at him. “Did it make you do something you didn’t?”
Bill blinked. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
Hermione shrugged, pulling the sheet up over herself, suddenly self-conscious. “You could have anyone you wanted in your bed. Hell, you often do,” she said, not looking at him. “Why would you want your bossy, frumpy friend, when she’s also your brother’s ex?”
“Mione.” The pet name caught her attention; Bill almost never called her that, it was either Hermione or pet. “Sweetheart. I think you mean my gorgeous, sexy, never-backs-down-and-doesn’t-take-my-shit friend. And I love my little brother, but he’s an idiot for ever letting you go.”
“What?” Hermione stamped down hard on the small kernel of hope kindling in her chest. Surely Bill didn’t mean what she thought he meant.
“I have been head over goddamned heels in love with you for over a year now,” Bill told her. “I didn’t need honeysuckle to make me want you, pet. It was all I could do to keep my hands off you without it.”
Hermione stared at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked.
Bill shook his head. “I didn’t want to ruin the friendship,” he said quietly. “For all I knew, I was just your annoying almost-brother-in-law.”
“Oh, Bill,” Hermione said, moving to hug him, sheet forgotten. “You could never be just anything. And I was telling myself I had to move on from my stupid crush on this sexy gorgeous cursebreaker who likely only ever saw me as his little brother’s best friend, never mind he did things like find me obscure books and fall down research rabbit holes with me and cooked me dinner every week, for fuck’s sake.”
Bill had to laugh at that. “I was… kind of obvious, wasn’t I? And oblivious.”
“No more than I was,” Hermione told him. “And I’m not saying things won’t be awkward with Ron, or that I’m not still worried we’ll go up in flames, but… I want to give this, us, a shot.”
Bill smiled at her, wide and hopeful and breathtakingly handsome. “So do I, pet,” he said. “Hermione Granger… will you go out with me?”
Hermione couldn’t help but smile back, and kiss him. “Of course I will, Bill Weasley,” she said. “On one condition.”
“Name it,” Bill told her.
They were going to have to finish clearing the house, including the honeysuckle, at some point. But right now, Hermione had other things on her mind. And besides, they deserved a break after this. “You were worried that the honeysuckle made me want you, correct?” At Bill’s nod, Hermione continued, “So the obvious solution is to take me home - where there’s no honeysuckle, or other plants for that matter - and fuck me through the mattress.”
Bill laughed. “I think we can manage that, pet. But first, come kiss me.”
So Hermione did.