Chapter Three

Hermione’s lips brushed Ron’s stubbled cheek—too quick to linger, too soft to mean anything more than friendship. The salt-tang of his skin, the hitch of his breath as she pulled away, sent an illicit shiver down her spine. She **** a teasing smirk, ignoring the heat pooling low in her belly.

"Look, I’m going to work on the outpost we’re putting together," she said, voice deliberately light as she straightened. Her fingers lingered near his shoulder, then dropped. "If you want a bit of time… alone."

Ron’s fingers twitched against the sand as Hermione stepped back, the ghost of her lips still burning on his cheek. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension—thick enough to taste, like the ozone before a storm. His throat worked as he watched her walk toward the half-built outpost, the sway of her hips more pronounced in the clinging humidity, her sundress—frayed at the hem now—sticking to the curve of her lower back.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, calloused palms dragging down his face. The scent of her—vanilla and salt, something inherently Hermione—clung to his skin where she’d touched him.

Ron’s breath hitched as he watched Hermione stride toward the outpost, the sun catching in her tangled curls, the damp fabric of her sundress clinging to every curve. His pulse roared in his ears, his cock already stiffening against his thigh.

Fuck.

He lurched toward his shelter, the rough-hewn door slamming shut behind him. His fingers fumbled with the tie of his trousers, shoving them down his hips with a groan.

The moment the door shut, Ron’s back hit the rough wood, his hand already wrapped around his aching length. A ragged groan tore from his throat as he stroked himself, the memory of Hermione’s lips on his cheek, the way her sundress clung to her sweat-damp skin, burning behind his eyelids. His thumb swiped over the leaking tip, smearing precum as his hips jerked into his fist.

Ron’s fingers tightened around his cock, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he imagined Hermione’s body pressed against his—the soft weight of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the way she might arch against him if he touched her the way he wanted to. Their teenage fumblings had been chaste by comparison—just stolen kisses, the occasional clumsy grope under layers of school robes—nothing like the fantasies that haunted him now.

He bit back a groan, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the swollen head of his cock, slick with precum. His other hand gripped his thigh hard enough to bruise, grounding himself as his hips bucked into his fist.

Hermione’s fingers dug into the rough bark of the driftwood she was arranging, her knuckles whitening as she **** herself to focus. The rhythmic crash of waves filled the silence, but beneath it, her ears strained—just for a second—for any sound from Ron’s shelter. A shudder ran through her as she imagined him inside, those strong Quidditch-calloused hands working over himself, his breath ragged with her name on his lips.

She bit her bottom lip, the heat between her thighs undeniable. It had been months since she’d last been with Harry—since before the cruise.

A muffled thud came from the shelter—wood creaking under pressure—followed by a low, bitten-off groan that made her stomach clench. Her fingers spasmed around the driftwood, a bead of sweat trailing down her temple. The sound was raw, ****, hers in a way nothing had been in months.

Hermione exhaled sharply through her nose, the wood grain imprinting on her palms. Oh well, I better get used to that, she thought, shifting her weight as an unfamiliar ache pulsed between her thighs.

Time Jump

It had now been six weeks, no rescue and surprisingly no ships or aircrafts either, just the two of them, the wind and occasionally sea life popping its head out of the ocean.. The outpost wasn't the greatest structure ever built but with magic it at least had no fear of collapsing, it had also become a little hang out spot.

A few more items had washed up on shore, primarily clothes, though to their surprise a wizarding wireless radio as well, in perfect condition and working, sadly none of the stations were broadcasting in English but the fact they now had music and even background noise with some weird interview and talks shows they couldn't understand Hermione felt strangely a little more calm with it.

This wasn't to say she didn't still have a few mood swings, her thoughts often on her kids and husband back home, Ron though not being married was missing his parents and siblings as well though he was seeming to handle it better than she was.

Hermione’s fingers stilled against the half-built wall of the outpost, the driftwood rough beneath her palms. The rhythmic crash of waves had lulled her into a daze, her thoughts tangled between memories of James’ laughter and the phantom warmth of Harry’s hands on her waist.

Then—

“Hermione!”

Ron’s voice cut through the humid air, sharp with excitement. She turned just as he emerged from the treeline, his bare chest glistening with sweat, his freckled shoulders streaked with dirt. In his hands, he clutched a cluster of strange, pink fruits—plump and vaguely heart-shaped, their skins shimmering under the sunlight like polished seashells.

Hermione’s breath caught as Ron bounded toward her, his grin wild and sunburnt, the muscles of his abdomen flexing with each stride. The fruits in his hands glistened, juice already beading at their stems, their scent—heady and sweet—wrapping around her before he even reached her.

“Found these deeper in the jungle,” he panted.

Hermione’s fingers twitched as Ron shoved the fruit toward her, their sticky juice dripping onto the sand between them. “They were growing in this twisted vine—like they were waiting for me to find them,” he said, his voice rough from the jungle heat.

She reached out, her fingertips brushing against his as she took one. The skin was warm from his grip, the flesh yielding slightly under her thumb.

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the fruit as she reached for the borrowed wand tucked into her belt. The wood hummed reluctantly under her touch—a poor match, but enough for basic charms. With a whispered "Specialis Revelio," a faint golden light pulsed over the pink flesh, revealing no traces of poison or acid.

“Safe,” she murmured, though her throat felt inexplicably dry.

Ron exhaled in relief, his shoulders relaxing, but his gaze lingered on her mouth as she brought the fruit to her lips. Juice spilled over her lower lip the moment she bit down—sweet, almost floral, with a tartness that made her shiver.

The juice dripped down Hermione’s chin as she swallowed, the strange tingle in her chest fluttering like a trapped moth. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, catching Ron’s gaze—his pupils dilated, his throat bobbing as if he could taste the fruit’s sweetness just by watching her.

“It’s rather nice,” she admitted, licking the last traces from her lips.

Ron exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching at his sides before he grabbed another fruit and bit into it with a groan. Juice darkened the copper hair on his chest, trailing down in sticky rivulets.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and violet, Hermione and Ron settled by the fire, the remnants of their fruit scattered around them. The sweet, floral scent lingered in the air, mingling with the smoky aroma of burning driftwood. Hermione leaned back against a log, her fingers absently tracing the curve of her chest, where a peculiar tightness had begun to settle. It wasn't painful, just a persistent, unfamiliar sensation that made her aware of each breath. She glanced at Ron, who was staring into the flames, his jaw clenched and his hands resting on his thighs.

"I think I'll head to bed early," Ron said, his voice low and rough, the remnants of the fruit's sweetness still lingering on his breath. Hermione nodded, her eyes catching the flicker of the firelight dancing across his chest, the sweat and juice glistening in the dim light. As he stood, the muscles in his thighs flexed, and for a moment, she felt a pang of something she couldn't quite name. Ron hesitated, his gaze lingering on her, before he turned and disappeared into the shadows of their shelter. The sound of his movements was muffled, but the air seemed to vibrate with unspoken tension.

Hermione exhaled slowly as she rose from the fire, the tightness in her breasts pressing uncomfortably against the thin fabric of her salvaged blouse. She adjusted the damp cloth binding them—a poor substitute for proper undergarments—but the persistent ache remained.