Chapter Eight

Hermione's fingers trembled as she reached out, brushing a raindrop from Ron's stubbled cheek. "Doesn't mean we didn't have nice times as well," she whispered, her thumb lingering near the corner of his mouth. "You were my first real boyfriend, and you'll always have a place in my heart." The shelter creaked as wind rattled the palm frond roof, casting shifting shadows across Ron's face. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the salt and brandy on his breath.

"But no," she continued, her voice breaking as his calloused fingers closed around her wrist. "You and I, especially back then... we would never have lasted."

Ron's grip on her wrist tightened for a fraction of a second before he exhaled sharply through his nose, his broad shoulders slumping. The firelight caught the gold in his stubble as he nodded, thumb tracing absent circles against her pulse point. "Yeah," he rasped, rainwater dripping from his lashes onto their joined hands. "Bloody hell, but you're right."

A gust rattled the shelter, sending embers swirling between them. Hermione watched his throat work as he swallowed, the hollow of his collarbone glistening with sweat and rain. His voice dropped to a rough whisper when he finally spoke again.

Ron’s thumb stilled against her wrist, his blue eyes darkening as they locked onto hers. The rain hammered harder against the shelter, drowning out everything but the hitch in Hermione’s breath as he leaned closer, his voice rough with brandy and something deeper.

“But if you were single now—” His fingers slid up to cradle her palm, callouses scraping against her softer skin. “—just hypothetically, yeah? Would I… would I stand a chance?”

Hermione’s pulse jumped beneath his touch. She could feel the heat of his thigh pressing into hers, the way his chest rose faster with each ragged breath.

Hermione’s breath caught as Ron’s question hung between them, thick as the tropical humidity. She could feel the calluses on his fingers—rough from building shelters, from fighting, from surviving—grazing the delicate skin of her inner wrist. His thumb pressed lightly against her frantic pulse, a silent challenge.

Rainwater dripped from the edge of the shelter, splashing onto her bare ankle. She shivered, though not from the cold. Ron’s gaze was molten, tracing the flush creeping up her neck, the way her lips parted just slightly.

"I don’t think I should answer that," she whispered, but her fingers curled reflexively against his palm, betraying her.

Ron’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly, his breath warm against her damp cheek as the storm howled around them.

"Please answer, Hermione." His voice was raw, stripped bare—the same way he’d looked at her the night before the final battle, when he’d whispered her name like a prayer against her collarbone.

A shudder ran through her as his thumb brushed the heel of her palm, rough and deliberate. She could feel the tension coiled in his body—the way his thighs flexed beneath his threadbare shorts, the rapid flutter of his pulse where his neck met his jaw.

Hermione’s throat tightened as the words tumbled out, raw and trembling. "Outside of my husband and children"—her fingers pressed into Ron’s palm, grounding herself in the names she’d carved into her heart—"there is no one I love more in this world." Rainwater slid down Ron’s temple, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before dripping onto their tangled fingers. "You might still have the power to annoy me sometimes, but…"

Her breath hitched as his thumb dragged over her knuckles, slow and deliberate. The firelight gilded the sweat-slick hollow of his throat, the pulse hammering there betraying the calm of his voice when he murmured, "But?"

Hermione’s lips parted, her breath shallow as Ron’s thumb traced slow circles against her palm. The firelight flickered across his face, deepening the shadows beneath his lashes, the tension in his jaw.

"But," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the drumming rain, "if things were different—if we were different—"

Ron’s breath stuttered, his fingers tightening around hers as if she might slip away. The firelight painted gold along the hard lines of his throat, the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his pulse fluttered beneath his skin like a trapped bird. His thumb traced slow, maddening circles against her wrist, his callouses dragging over the delicate skin there.

"Then with us being older and wiser now..." Hermione swallowed, her lashes fluttering as his knee pressed more firmly against hers. "...yes."

Ron's eyes locked onto hers, the air thick with unspoken words. Hermione's heart pounded as she whispered, "if things were different," her voice barely audible over the rain.

o0o0o0o

She wasn't sure on what day she had given up, it felt like years ago but realistically was probably only a month or so back. Hermione stared out at the vast ocean trapping her and her best friend from the rest of the world. Six months, weeks and two days, according to the 'Tempus' charm she used, that was how long ago she had left home for the cruise liner. Take three days off that and that was how long she had been stranded on this island.

Six months of no rescue, no planes, no ships, nothing. The beach had washed up a couple more suitcases and both Hermione and Ron now had a decent wardrobe that they were not in danger of having to go down the old cliche seashell and leaf clothing path. Ironically one of the cases had contained a handful of books, nothing she hadn't read before but the four books had been a good distraction for a few days.

It was around the four month mark when things had began to change for her, she had undergone a massive bout of depression bordering on suicidal. Ron had screamed at her that her kids were still alive and that he needed her as well, something had changed that day as Hermione began to realise just how much her being here was keeping Ron sane.

Loneliness eventually gave way to them sleeping in the same bed, nothing sexual....usually, there was one night when Ron had accidentally gathered one of those pink fruits again when collecting mango's, thankfully he had only taken one bite of it but Hermione had been **** to relieve him three times before his penis softened. Other than that it was just a need for comfort and companionship and it was better than starting the day alone.

Ron still used his own room when he needed to take care of himself but other than that he had mostly moved into hers now. Hermione couldn't help but sigh as she reflected on these memories as she felt like she was shacking up with her best friend. Hermione also found herself using the time Ron spent alone to 'take care of herself' as well.

She had originally tried to picture her husband but those thoughts just made her sad and usually took her out of the mood, thoughts of her Harry led to her kids which simply was a dead end. One night she gave in and allowed herself to visualize Ron, and it had been the best orgasm she had experienced in years.

One session led to one a week, then to several times and was at this point at least a once per day occurrence. For a while Hermione tried to logically combat the feeling of betrayal, that it wasn't cheating, it was just fantasising. After so long though she no longer cared so much and just rubbed herself to climax thinking of the muscular large cocked red head in the next room.

Six months was a long time, especially a place like this where each day seemed to blend with the next. They had built a tall structure at the highest point of the island not too far away, they had set up a magical fire there that would signal any passing planes or ships, thankfully it only needed to be recast once every couple of days.

The shelter had also been torn out and she and Ron in an attempt to occupy their time had rebuilt it from scratch and it now more closely resembled a beach villa than a basic shelter. The Villa now contained two floors instead of the previous one, the upstairs wasn't being used for much at the moment, she used it primarily for reading, the only other thing up there was the crudely made chess board and pieces she had made for Ron's birthday about a month ago.

Hermione continued to sit by the little fire outside their villa on the transfigured sofa, watching the flame dance. The radio to her left blaring out chatter as she caught a few words she recognised, if she wasn't mistaken it seemed like the host was talking about the Olympics. She briefly wondered if Britain had won any Gold before returning to watching the dancing flames.

Life was simple here, too simple almost, the island provided the necessities they needed with food, they could conjure water with the borrowed wands, there was water anyway with the spring not too far away so even then it provided. It was almost like this place was meant to be a paradise in a strange way.

Ron moved silently, his footsteps muffled by the soft sand as he approached Hermione. She was lost in thought, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames, the flickering light casting shadows across her face. He sat down beside her, the warmth of his body a comforting presence in the quiet evening. "Hey," he said softly, his voice carrying a gentle smile, though his eyes held a depth of emotion he didn't voice. The fire crackled, and Hermione turned to him, her expression a mix of melancholy and warmth. The ocean stretched out before them, endless and mysterious, a reminder of their isolation.

Hermione leaned her head against Ron's shoulder, the warmth of his body a comforting contrast to the cool evening breeze. Ron wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close as they both gazed out at the endless expanse of the ocean. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows on their faces. Hermione felt a sense of peace wash over her, but it was tinged with the familiar ache of longing she had grown accustomed to. Ron's touch ignited a flutter in her chest, a feeling she couldn't ignore any longer. She knew he felt it too, the unspoken connection between them that had only grown stronger with each passing day.

Hermione sighed softly, the sound blending with the rhythmic crash of the waves against the shore. The simplicity of their life here was both a comfort and a curse. With no responsibilities, no Ministry meetings, no worries about the wizarding world, it was easy to let her mind wander, to let her feelings for Ron surface. She glanced at him, his profile illuminated by the flickering firelight, his jawline strong, his hair messy from the sea breeze. She hated how content she felt, how the warmth of his arm around her felt like home.

Hermione nuzzled deeper into Ron’s shoulder, her breath warm against the thin fabric of his sun-bleached shirt. The scent of salt and smoke clung to him, familiar and intoxicating. Her fingers absently traced the hem of her own blouse before stilling against her thigh.

What if?