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“Thank you!” Hermione called over her shoulder, stepping over the threshold into Ginny’s old room. She set down her overnight bag on the dresser and carefully placed her wand next to it before closing the door behind her.
She inhaled deeply, relishing the familiar scents of the Burrow: Molly’s cooking wafting up the stairs from the kitchen; the light, lingering florals of Ginny’s perfume; and an earthy smell hinting of a fresh de-gnoming in the gardens coming in through the window on the far wall.
Looking around the space where she had spent so many of her holidays, Hermione smiled. Since starting at Hogwarts, Hermione thought she had probably spent more of her vacations from school in Ginny’s room than she had in her own childhood bedroom. Many delightful evenings were spent huddled under blankets with Ginny as the two girls lay face to face on Ginny’s bed, sharing whispered confidences.
Tonight, however, would the first evening that Hermione would stay in this room without Ginny. She and Harry were spending their Easter holidays together in Ginny’s new flat in Wales, citing that Ginny’s intense training schedule with the Harpies also required many social obligations in the evenings.
Hermione suspected an ulterior motive, as Ginny and Harry, who were not yet engaged, were likely loathe to spend the evening in separate beds here at the Burrow. Molly had an uncanny (and frankly, slightly uncomfortable) way of knowing when one of her children were not in the room they were meant to be sleeping in on any given night.
Hermione walked around, touching the items from Ginny’s childhood that were littered around the room. The now empty cage where Arnold the Pygmy Puff had once lived, an old signed poster of the ’95 Harpies team on the wall (To Ginevra: Keep going, and maybe you’ll play with us one day!), and a pair of omnioculars from the World Cup in ’94.
Hermione shuddered, thinking of how the excitement of the World Cup match had devolved into chaos with those Muggles being tortured, how she, Ron, and Harry had barely avoided being Stunned by about twenty fully qualified Ministry workers in the woods near the stadium, and how Mr. Weasley, Bill, Percy, and Charlie had all leaped into action to help quell the riot.
Picking up the omnioculars, Hermione walked up to the window that overlooked the small garden and the open field beyond. She brought the omnioculars to her eyes and looked out onto the field. When Hermione arrived via the Floo fifteen minutes ago, the Weasley brothers had been indulging in a quick game of two-on-two Quidditch. Molly had probably called them all in shortly after Hermione’s arrival. Focusing the omnioculars on the ground, she saw Ron tramping back inside, his broomstick held aloft on his shoulder as he gesticulated animatedly to an amused George and Bill.
Hermione moved the omnioculars further down into the garden, and saw a small trail of gnomes sneaking back in through the long grass. Smiling, she looked up through the device and saw Pigwidgeon’s tiny, fluffy body flying joyously through the field. Hermione followed him through the air as he swooped up and down, barreling through the air in his typically chaotic flight pattern when—
Hermione nearly dropped the omnioculars in surprise.
Pigwidgeon was blocked from view by a torso.
A thick and muscular torso on a broomstick.
It was Charlie.
Charlie Weasley was on his broomstick and flying around the field, chasing Pigwidgeon through the sky with reckless abandon.
As Pig gained altitude, Charlie pointed his broom handle skyward and and flew up with the minuscule owl, his hair streaming behind him in the wind, and when the owl changed directions and headed back down, Charlie dove after him.
Hermione gasped and brought the omnioculars back up to her eyes for a better look. The words Wronski Feint: Dangerous Seeker Diversion flashed across the bottom of the viewing screen as Charlie hurtled toward the ground. Her heart beating wildly, she watched as he pulled out of the dive mere feet above the ground and shot back up toward the sky.
Despite the chilly air blowing in through the open window, Hermione suddenly felt very warm.
Charlie paused in his ascent when he got about eye level to the window where Hermione lurked, peering at him. He looked around, searching for the small owl who apparently had enough playtime and was now flying into the kitchen window of the Burrow.
Taking both hands off his broom, Charlie rummaged around in the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a tiny, golden Snitch. He tossed it into the air, and after waiting a few seconds, sped after it, flying with a burst of speed to a copse of trees on the edge of the field. Stretching his right hand out, he caught it, held on for a few seconds, and then let it go. Again, Charlie didn’t move, giving the Snitch a head start before chasing after it, and easily catching it again, this time on the far end of the field from the Burrow.
Hermione watched Charlie as he continued chasing after the Snitch for a few minutes. While she had dated and befriended her fair share of Quidditch players, she couldn’t say that she had ever been terribly enthusiastic about the game itself. Sure, she had enjoyed going to support Harry, and then Ron, when they played for Gryffindor at Hogwarts, but when it came to an actual interest in the game? Quidditch Through the Ages remained one of the few books that Hermione owned, but hadn’t reread.
Despite her ignorance regarding the finer aspects of the game, Hermione could tell that Charlie was special. The way he moved on his broom reminded her of what Harry looked like during their very first flying lesson in First Year. Or the way that Viktor had moved on his Firebolt during the World Cup. Charlie was a natural. He moved on the broom like it was an extension of his body.
Hermione’s eyes were glued to Charlie as he chased after the Snitch. With the zoom feature on the omnioculars, she could see how he closed his eyes after letting go of the tiny golden ball, not attempting to follow it with his eyes immediately upon release, and instead waiting several seconds after letting go for a bigger challenge.
Up close, she could better appreciate the way his hair streamed behind him as he reached breakneck speeds, and after a particularly impressive catch, how he would run his fingers through his wavy, red locks, pushing the strands out of his face. She could admire the hint of yellow (or was it gold?), that peeked under his shirt sleeve when he leaned forward, the tendons in his forearm stretching delightfully as he wrapped his hands around the Snitch. He looked like a hero on one of Mrs. Weasley’s trashy romance novels with the way his shirt was whipping around him in the wind, how his thighs were clutching the handle of the broom—
Oh, Merlin. His thighs.
Hermione gulped. She felt very warm indeed.
How had she never noticed Charlie before?
She supposed she had been too young during the World Cup. And then when she saw Charlie next at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, she had been too wrapped up in her girlhood crush on Ron, not to mention being in the middle of planning to go on the run with Harry to hunt the Horcruxes.
But Hermione was much older now, Harry was safe and alive, and Ron was happily peeling potatoes downstairs with his fiancée, Susan Bones.
Surely, it couldn’t hurt to just…look at Charlie a bit…could it?
Charlie chose that particular moment to halt mid-air, let go of the broom with both hands, and lift up his shirt over his head.
Hermione’s mouth went dry.
Charlie looked down at his torso, took the shirt and mopped off all of the sweat that had gathered on his chest, his neck, his stomach.
Hermione located the replay button on the omnioculars and watched Charlie rip his shirt off over and over again.
There was one particular moment she kept returning to: when Charlie struggled to get the shirt off and over his head, his abdominal muscles convulsed in a very interesting ripple down his stomach.
Eyes fixed on Charlie, Hermione let out a deep breath, pressed her legs together, and shuddered.
Maybe she should be a Healer after all. She seemed to be very interested in the way the human musculoskeletal system worked today.
Oh, sweet Circe. And then there were the tattoos.
Historically, Hermione had never been one to find body modification all that attractive. She herself had gotten her ears pierced the summer between First and Second Year, and that had been more than enough for her. Last year, when Ron had gotten a burnt-orange “CC” on his ankle for his beloved Chudley Canons, Hermione had balked before asking him if he regretted it. And even Harry had indulged in some body art with the Roman numerals “II : V : MCMXCVIII” and a rune symbolizing rebirth, both of which were permanently inked onto his left pectoral, right above his heart.
Charlie’s tattoos, however, piqued a wanton sort of curiosity in Hermione.
The flash of color that Hermione had spotted peeking out from under Charlie’s shirt turned out to be a Golden Snitch flitting about his left arm. It was seemingly confined to roam around his left bicep, and Hermione watched it travel from his shoulder to his elbow as he zoomed around the field in pursuit of the real thing.
A flash of black near his foot forced Hermione to slow down the replay further, and she saw that in a plain, lowercase font on his ankle, Charlie had chosen to pay tribute to his fallen brother with a simple “fred.”
His largest piece was a true work of art. In an homage to his passion and profession, Charlie’s back and chest was home to an enormous Ukrainian Ironbelly. Hermione traced the dragon’s tail with her eyes as it flicked from side to side on Charlie’s lower back. The beast’s two feet alternated from stomping on an imaginary ground to tucking themselves underneath its body as it took flight. When unfurled, the dragon’s massive silvery wings took up the entire canvas of Charlie’s back. The dragon would fly several times around his body, blowing white hot flame and flash its red eyes menacingly before landing once more on Charlie’s back.
Illustration by the wildly talented chestercompany
The light was fading as the day drew to a close. Hermione breathlessly ogled Charlie as he and his dragon flew together around the field, Charlie continuing to toss the Snitch and chase after it. The setting sun glinted off his hair, turning him into a fiery comet. The dragon on his chest kept spitting fire and flicking its tail up and down Charlie’s spine.
Charlie was…so fit. Hermione bit her lip as she watched him fly, his feet skimming the tops of trees as he pursued the Snitch.
She looked down at her watch. She was expected back downstairs for dinner in just over a half an hour. Hermione looked right back up through the omnioculars at Charlie, who was now flying around the small clearing with his hands off the handle of his broom.
He was holding onto his broomstick with only his thighs.
Hermione swallowed hard.
How embarrassing that all it took to titillate her nowadays was the sight of a fit Quidditch player on a broom. Surely those fantasies were reserved for teenagers or sexually unsatisfied wives? Not Hermione, who had been dating the crème de la crème of British wizarding society for the past five years.
Hermione felt an uncomfortable wetness pooling in between her legs. She certainly couldn’t go down to dinner worked up like this. Giving in to her baser instincts, Hermione slowly snaked a hand under her skirt, moved her knickers to the side, and began circling her clit with two fingers, imagining they were Charlie’s instead of her own.
What would it feel like to sit on his lap and bury her face into his neck, smelling his musk? His hands might skate up and down her sides before reaching behind and grabbing her arse, pulling her closer and flush against his body. She imagined grinding her core against his leg and sinking her nails into his broad shoulders.
Through the omnioculars, Hermione saw Charlie take a break to stretch, twisting his torso from one side to the other, still perched on his broomstick. She whimpered, watching his back muscles tighten as he twisted, and applied more pressure onto her clit. Hermione’s gaze fell on Charlie’s stomach. She wanted to dip her tongue into the creases on Charlie’s abdomen, tasting the sweat that pooled there. What noises would he make when when she kissed her way down his stomach and knelt in front of his cock?
Hermione was panting in earnest now while she worked herself into a frenzy. She kept the omnioculars up to her face, but closed her eyes. Mouth open, she dipped one, then two, fingers into her entrance, pretending they belonged to Charlie.
Hermione bit back a moan. Charlie had such nice hands, with lovely, long fingers. He would look her in the eyes, as he gently slipped one finger in, and then ask her could she take one more? And Hermione would breathe out yes, yes, she was desperate for it, she—
Hermione was so close. She opened her eyes into the omnioculars, ready for her final burst of inspiration, but—
Charlie was gone.
Hermione jerkily moved the omnioculars around the field in an attempt to find Charlie, when an enormous red eye of a Ukrainian Ironbelly loomed in front of the lens.
She zoomed out, noting that as the number on the upper right corner decreased to 1.0 magnification, there were four words flashing in the upper left that caused her heart to leapfrog into her throat: watching in .25 speed.
With increasing dread, Hermione dropped the omnioculars and looked out of the window.
Charlie had disappeared.
Realizing she still had her hand up her skirt, Hermione yanked it away before wiping it on her shirt. She stood up very quickly and began pacing the length of Ginny’s room.
Mortification and panic were settling on her as she tried to avoid hyperventilating.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—“
There was a knock at the door. Hermione froze midstep.
“Y-yes?” she squeaked.
“Can I come in, Hermione?” rumbled a low voice. “It’s Charlie.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—
“—won’t come in if you don’t want me to, but—“
Hermione belatedly realized Charlie was speaking.
“Oh, no—” she cut in, again with the squeaky voice. Hermione winced and tried again, pitching her voice to a more normal register. “You know, I don’t think it’s a good idea—“
“I think we should talk, Hermione. That’s all.”
Hermione’s heart sank. He was here to tell her he thought she was a disgusting pervert and to leave his family home before he exposed her deviant behavior to the rest of the Weasleys—
“Hermione?”
Might as well get it over with now.
“Yes, all right. Come in.” Hermione said, resigned. She sat down primly at Ginny’s desk and proceeded to stare at a very interesting burn mark on the floor.
The door opened and, with her peripheral vision, Hermione saw Charlie duck his head to enter the room and shut the door behind him with a soft click.
As Hermione examined the burn mark with great interest (it looked a bit like a niffler...or was it a hippogriff?), she heard Charlie mutter, “Muffliato,” under his breath.
That’s a small mercy, at least. He’s going to confront me in private and make sure that I never come to his house ever again, and if I agree, he’ll keep my secret—
“Hermione, will you look at me, please?”
Reluctantly, Hermione looked up from the very interesting burn mark. Her brain began shutting down all function when she saw that he hadn’t put his shirt back on.
If she wasn’t so close to tears, she might have laughed.
Good Godric. Now that he was standing up in front of her, Hermione could not only see the outline of each individual abdominal muscle, but also a very compelling set of lines on the sides of his torso that made a vee leaning down toward his—
Hermione felt like she was about to combust.
Look at his face, you pervert!
With great effort Hermione lifted her head and looked at a messy lock of hair on Charlie’s forehead. She couldn’t bear meeting his eyes.
This was surely hell. For the rest of eternity, Hermione would have to speak to Charlie Weasley in broken, halting words, explaining her disgusting, deviant—
“Were you watching me?”
“No,” Hermione lied quickly.
Charlie raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. He knew she was lying.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Well, yes—“ Hermione looked back down at the burn mark. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this flustered, the last time she had so little control over her speech.
“I found the omnioculars on the table, and I was just looking through the window and I saw you flying and…and I— I…“
“I’m not mad,” said Charlie in a low voice.
Hermione’s head shot up, and she found Charlie staring at her intently, blue eyes boring into brown.
Her breath hitched as Charlie’s tongue poked out of his mouth, wetting his lips.
“Y-y-you’re not?”
Charlie took a step toward her, and Hermione inhaled sharply.
“No, I’m not,” he rasped.
He stepped forward again. Hermione let out a shuddering exhale and breathed out, “That’s good…that you’re not…mad…”
And in two steps, Charlie closed the distance between them. Standing in front of Hermione, he held out his hand to her, expectantly. She shakily raised up her left hand and grazed his palm with her fingertips, feeling the callouses and scars that she had fantasized about not ten minutes before.
Charlie turned her wrist to look at her watch. Intertwining her fingers with his, he raised their hands up, forcing Hermione to her feet.
Hermione looked up at Charlie, her chest bumping into his with every breath she took. He smelled earthy and salty, and also a bit like freshly mown grass.
Charlie splayed his other hand on Hermione’s back, and pulled her into his chest, closing any distance that remained.
Hermione thought it was fortunate that Charlie was holding onto her so tightly because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stay standing on her own.
“You know,” he murmured into her ear. “We’re not expected downstairs for another ten minutes.”
“We’re—we’re not?” Hermione’s brain short-circuited as Charlie ran his nose down the column of her neck.
“I think ten minutes is plenty of time for you to finish what you started, don’t you think?”
What?
“Um…”
Suddenly, Charlie let go of her and backed away. Running his hands through his hair, he said, “Unless you don’t want to, of course. I don’t want you to think that I expect anything just because I saw—“
Hermione took three steps forward and placed a finger against his lips. Charlie stopped talking.
Grabbing her wand from on top of the dresser, she pointed it at the door, casting a locking spell and a silencing charm before setting a ten minute timer.
“Ten minutes, you said?” Hermione shimmied out of her skirt and backed up until her knees hit the bed. “I think I can show you a lot in ten minutes.”
And Charlie, grinning broadly, closed the distance between them and crushed his mouth to hers.