Chapter Six

Hermione's body shook as sobs racked her frame, the weight of her guilt and longing pressing down on her like the crushing waves against the shore. Ron's arms enveloped her, pulling her close as she buried her face in his chest, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the chill of her tears. "I'm so sorry, Ron," she whispered, her voice muffled against him. "I feel like I'm betraying Harry, betraying the kids... I wasn't supposed to be here, not like this." Ron's hand stroked her hair, his touch gentle yet firm, as he murmured softly, "You're not betraying anyone, Hermione. You're human, and you're hurting.

She lets herself be hugged and returns it as much as she can. "Ron, will you stay with me tonight? I don't want to be alone in my bed." Ron agrees, knowing it's nothing sexual, she needs comfort right now. He wraps his arms tightly around her, holding her close as she buries her face in his chest. The warmth of his body and the familiar scent of his skin provide a fleeting sense of comfort, but the weight of her guilt lingers. As they sit there, the fire crackles softly, casting shadows that dance across the beach.

It takes a few more days but Hermione finally comes around, she and Ron are more or less back to normal now, she notices that he tries to be quieter when seeing to his basic needs, Hermione still feels some guilt flowing through her, logically she knows that it couldn't be helped, she had never felt an intense feeling like that before in her chest and she was in **** need to be helped.

No the issue was she had actually enjoyed the feel of Ron's hands on her chest, the guilt was that she had for a brief moment allowed herself to give in and help bring Ron to climax as well, what made it worse was she greatly enjoyed being the one to do it, to make a stud cum so hard he could probably knock up most of Britain.

But all that could be explained away to an extent from the strange Pink fruit, no the true origin of the guilt was that a small part of her wanted to do it again, to just give in and let loose what may.

It had been over two months at this point and Hermione found herself resigned to the fact they truly might be stranded here forever. She wanted to be angry or even depressed might feel better than the feeling of acceptance of her situation. She didn't know if a safe way home existed but if it did she would find it she hoped.

Things were strange here, no ships passing by, no aircrafts, they rarely saw birds flying by, she couldn't help but wonder where on Earth this island was, even remembering the cruise ship trajectory made no sense as to where they were, it was almost like this island just popped up out of know where.

Yet another week passed by, Hermione kept herself occupied with the radio as she and Ron built a small garden with a few seeds from the fruit. There were no issues with the amount of food around but it passed the time. As she went to clean the dirt on her hands in the ocean she noticed something had washed ashore a large bottle of expensive looking brandy.

Hermione's fingers hesitated just above the glass, the late afternoon sun fracturing through the amber liquid inside. The bottle was unbroken—sealed with an ornate wax stamp bearing some French wizarding crest she didn't recognize. Salt crusted the neck where the tide had spat it onto wet sand.

Ron's shadow fell across her bare thighs before she heard his footsteps. "Blimey," he breathed, crouching beside her. His shoulder pressed warm against hers as he reached out, turning the bottle with a fingertip. The glass clinked against a half-buried shell. "That's Ogden's 200-year reserve. It cost more than my first broom."

Hermione's fingers trembled slightly as she traced the wax seal. "I think I recall seeing this on the cruise ship," she murmured, turning the bottle to catch the light. The afternoon sun painted golden streaks across the damp sand between them. "I guess not everything has either sunk or turned up ashore somewhere."

Ron's breath hitched as his calloused thumb brushed hers when they both reached to lift the bottle simultaneously. A spark of static jumped between their skin—or maybe it was just the lingering magic clinging to the glass. The brandy sloshed thickly inside, casting prismatic shadows over Ron's sun-browned forearms where his rolled-up sleeves had frayed.

The wax seal cracked under their combined grip with a sound like dry leaves underfoot. Hermione’s pulse hammered in her throat as the brandy’s rich, oaky scent curled between them—warm vanilla and something darker, spiced. Ron’s fingers lingered on hers, rough from months of chopping wood and weaving palm fronds, yet oddly gentle as he tilted the bottle toward her.

“Should we—” His voice was hoarse, the words sticking. The fading light caught the sweat beading along his collarbone where his shirt hung open.

Hermione’s tongue darted out to wet her lips.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the waves, Hermione glanced around at the secluded beach. The air was filled with the soothing sound of the ocean, and the warmth of the setting sun still lingered on her skin. She turned to Ron, who was watching her with a mix of longing and restraint. "A drink might help us sleep better," she suggested, her voice soft but laced with a hint of nervousness. Ron nodded, his eyes never leaving hers, and carefully poured some brandy into a shell they had cleaned earlier. The amber liquid glistened in the fading light as he handed it to her.

The radio crackled softly in the corner of their makeshift kitchen, the unintelligible Asian interview creating a strange, distant ambiance. Hermione and Ron sat at the small, rickety table, the conjured glasses gleaming faintly in the dim light. The brandy poured smoothly, its amber hue catching the last remnants of daylight filtering through the palm fronds. Ron’s hand brushed against Hermione’s as he handed her a glass, the touch sending a subtle shiver down her spine. She met his eyes, the air thick with unspoken emotions. The first sip burned pleasantly, warming her chest, but it did little to ease the tension between them.

The brandy's warmth pooled low in Hermione's belly as she licked a stray drop from her lower lip. Ron's knuckles whitened around his own glass, his throat working as he swallowed hard—not just from the ****, she realized, but from the way her tongue had darted out.

Hermione let out a soft sigh as the brandy's warmth spread through her chest. "This really is exceptional," she murmured, swirling the amber liquid in her makeshift shell cup. The ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and tropical blooms between them.

Ron chuckled low in his throat, his fingers flexing around his own drink. "Only had it once before," he admitted, his voice rougher than usual. "Afterparty of the Quidditch World Cup finals." His eyes darkened with memory—or something else—as they flickered over her bare shoulders, the way her damp blouse clung just a little too tightly.

The second glass went down smoother, the brandy's warmth spreading through Hermione's limbs like liquid sunlight. She leaned back against the driftwood log, fingers tracing the rim of her shell cup as a loose curl tumbled across her forehead. Ron's knee brushed hers when he shifted to pour another measure, the contact lingering just a heartbeat too long.

"Remember that time," Ron chuckled, the brandy making his words slide together slightly, "when you hexed McLaggen into next week for groping you at Slughorn's party?" His thumb smeared condensation down the side of his glass, eyes dark with something more potent than **** as they flicked to her cleavage.

Hermione's breath hitched as Ron's fingers—roughened from years of quidditch calluses—traced the rim of his glass with slow, deliberate circles. The brandy's warmth coiled low in her stomach, but it was the heat in Ron's gaze that made her thighs press together beneath her tattered sundress.

"You looked like a goddess that night," Ron murmured, his voice thick. A drop of brandy clung to his lower lip. "All fire and fury with your curls sparking magic." His knee pressed harder against hers, the denim of his cutoff jeans rasping against her sun-warmed skin.

Hermione's fingers trembled slightly as she tipped the bottle, the brandy glugging into her shell cup with dangerous generosity. "Just half," she murmured, though the words came out slurred at the edges, her tongue feeling thick and warm in her mouth. Ron's answering chuckle vibrated through the driftwood where their thighs pressed together, his calloused palm coming to steady her wrist.

"Easy there, Deputy Minister," he teased, but his voice was rough as sandpaper, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the blue of his irises. His thumb brushed the delicate inside of her wrist, tracing the flutter of her pulse.

Hermione giggled at his stupid joke, the sound breathy and warm with brandy, her fingers curling instinctively around his where they still steadied her wrist. The laughter shook through her, making her breasts sway visibly beneath the thin, sun-bleached fabric of her dress—a fact Ron’s gaze didn’t miss, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, but her voice came out huskier than intended, the words slurring just enough to betray how the **** had seeped into her limbs, loosening her inhibitions. Her thigh pressed more firmly against his, the heat between them undeniable now.

Ron’s fingers tightened around her wrist, his breath hitching as her thumb traced slow circles against his calloused skin. The firelight flickered over them, casting shadows that made the hollow of Hermione’s collarbone look deeper, the swell of her breasts more pronounced beneath the damp fabric. A drop of brandy slid from the corner of her lips, trailing down her chin—Ron’s gaze followed it hungrily, his free hand lifting almost involuntarily to catch it with his thumb.

Hermione’s breath stuttered as his touch lingered, his thumb dragging wetly along her lower lip, smearing the sweetness of the liquor.

Ron took another deep swig straight from the bottle, the brandy burning a path down his throat as he tried—and failed—to tear his gaze away from Hermione’s parted lips. His thumb still hovered at the corner of her mouth, sticky with spilled liquor. The firelight caught the gold in her blown pupils, the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath his fingers.

Ron's voice came out rough, the words thick with brandy and something darker. "We should... probably get to bed." His thumb lingered at the corner of Hermione's mouth, catching another stray drop of liquor as her lips parted with a soft, intoxicated sigh.

Hermione nodded, her curls tumbling over her shoulders as she giggled—a warm, dizzy sound. "Mmm, yes. Bed." She shifted to stand, but the moment her bare feet hit the sand, her knees buckled. The world tilted, her vision swimming with firelight and the heady scent of Ron's sweat, salt, and oak-aged brandy.

Ron moved faster than his drunken reflexes should've allowed.

Ron's arms tightened around Hermione as they toppled backward, his muscles straining to cushion her fall even as his own balance failed. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs—sand sprayed up around them, grains sticking to Hermione's damp skin where her dress had ridden up her thighs. His pulse hammered against her chest where she sprawled atop him, her curls a tangled curtain around their faces as the world spun from brandy and sudden gravity.

Hermione gasped, her lips parting just inches from his, the sweet-sticky scent of **** mingling with the salt on her breath. Ron’s hands had slid instinctively to the flare of her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh through the thin fabric.

Hermione's drunken mind swirled with brandy and suppressed desire as she felt Ron's hard body beneath her. Fuck it, we're trapped here anyway, she thought, the last threads of resistance snapping as she closed the scant distance between their lips.

The first brush of her mouth against his sent electricity crackling down her spine—hotter than firewhisky, sweeter than the island's pink fruit. Ron froze for half a second before groaning into the kiss, his calloused hands sliding up her bare thighs to grip her hips hard enough to bruise.

Ron’s groan vibrated against Hermione’s lips as she ground down onto him, the friction of her damp sundress against his straining jeans sending sparks up her spine. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, pulling her harder against him as his tongue swept into her mouth with a desperation that tasted like brandy and years of pent-up longing.

Hermione gasped when his teeth caught her lower lip, her fingers tangling in his sweat-dampened hair as his hands slid up her bare thighs, pushing the ruined fabric of her dress higher.

The dress tore easily under Ron’s rough hands, the fabric splitting up the seam with a soft rip that sent a shudder through Hermione’s body. His calloused palms slid up the bare skin of her thighs, fingers pressing into the softness of her hips as she rocked against the thick ridge of his cock straining against his jeans.

“Fuck, Hermione—” Ron’s voice was raw, his breath hot against her throat as he nipped at the damp skin there. One broad hand cupped the back of her neck, dragging her mouth back to his in a messy, brandy-slick kiss while the other slipped between her thighs, fingers finding her already soaked.

BANG

A sharp flash of lightning strikes somewhere out in the near ocean causing Hermione to jump in surprise as both she and Ron turn to the window to see a sudden downpour begin, the rain bouncing off the shelter's roof. Hermione sighs to herself as the moment is lost.