Title: Better Lucky than Good
Author: melusinahp
Characters: Pansy/Ron, Ron/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: dubious consent, mild violence, infidelity
Themes/kinks chosen: hate!sex, dildos, strap-ons
Word Count: 8,621
Summary: Pansy gets Ron in a tight spot. (OMG, I'm so sorry!)
Author's notes: wednesdayjones is a betaing goddess.



"RON-uld WEEZE-lee."

The voice was high and silky with just a touch of nasal. Bemused, Ron turned to see who was addressing him.

Oh.

Parkinson.

Hadn't seen her since Hogwarts. Hadn't thought of her, either.

She looked older of course, also taller and a bit thinner. She'd grown into her features, and while she wasn't exactly pretty, she was definitely attractive. She leaned against the bar with a studied, lazy confidence, one corner of her mouth turned up in a smirk. Her nose was still pugish and her chin slightly weak, but her blue eyes were wide and feline with a bright emanation of frenetic energy. Her hair wasn't bad, either – shortish and dark, like the kind of hair Ginny's doll used to have, but it was her eyes were what made her attractive.

Huh.

Ron glanced distractedly over at Harry and saw that he was in conversation with someone who looked suspiciously like Dennis Creevy. Crap. Dennis had always been a pain in the arse, but now that he worked for Rita Skeeter he was a proper menace.

Completely forgetting about Pansy, Ron grabbed the lagers and made to rescue Harry from Dennis's clutches.

"Still an ignorant little bastard, I see." Her voice was sharper this time.

Ron stopped in his tracks and looked back at Pansy, who was now standing with her back straight, glaring at him. "Sorry. Pansy Parkinson, right?"

She relaxed a bit and smiled. "You do remember me, then."

Ron laughed, nervously flicking his eyes towards Harry who was now gesticulating angrily at Dennis.

"Sure. Sure I remember you. Slytherin princess, right? Malfoy's girl." He smiled. "Wow, we were mortal enemies back then."

Pansy laughed. It was a sound like a handful of bells being tossed in a wooden box. Suddenly, she was right in front of him, her hand was on his bicep. Ron almost dropped the drinks.

"That was a long time ago. Done well for yourself, haven't you, Weasel? I've seen your name in the papers. You're an Auror now." Her hand travelled up his arm and over his shoulder, then slid down until it was pressed, palm open against his chest.

Ron blinked at her. He could hear Harry's raised voice clearly over the rumble of conversation in the pub. "Well, er, nice to see you again, Parkinson." He stepped back and away, feeling lager slosh over the edges of the glasses and onto his hands.

Pansy's lips pursed and her eyebrows shot together, eyes sparking.

Ron stared at her. What the fuck? "Look. I've got to go. Take care." Without another glance he turned away and hurried back to the booth and set down the drinks. Harry was seconds away from pulling his wand. The years hadn't mellowed his temper at all. Ron chuckled to himself.

"Oy! Creevy! Off!" Ron jerked his thumb away from their table. Dennis looked up at him, and Ron curled his lip and barked, "Piss off! Now!" Dennis jumped and then skittled away.

Feeling satisfied, Ron slid into the booth and handed Harry his drink. Harry was pouting, arms crossed across his chest. Ron rolled his eyes. "He's a mouse Harry. Just growl at him and he'll run away."

"He's the press, Ron. I can't just growl at him or it will be all over the front pages tomorrow."

"We're here to relax. Drink your bloody lager. Forget about Creevy and the Beetle." He held his glass up. Harry dutifully raised his own.

It was at the exact moment when the glasses hit each other, making a small, high pitched clink, that Ron noticed Pansy Parkinson staring at him out of the corner of his eyes. Her hands were clenched into fists, her lip curled away from her teeth, her cheeks flushed. Her eyes burned into him with complete and utter focus. Ron nearly dropped his glass.

"Cheers," said Harry.

* * *

Parchmentwork was crap. Ron leaned back in his chair, frowning and glaring at the pile on the desk in front of him. He hadn't become an Auror to write reports and fill out forms. He threw his quill forward and watched it fly in loops through the room. Hermione had charmed it once when she'd come to see him in his office and found him particularly grump over a seven-roll report on an incident involving a false troll sighting. She'd said it would make this kind of drudgery more "fun," but she thought parchmentwork was fun anyway. Ron crossed his arms and glared at the fluttering quill.

When the door to his office slid open, he looked up, eager for the distraction, assuming it would be Harry come for a chat or to brief him on a new assignment. It wasn't Harry. Instead, Pansy Parkinson strolled in and closed the door behind her, finally shutting it by giving it a little shove with her hip. Ron blinked. Parkinson didn't even work at the Ministry. What was she doing here in his office?

"Hello, Weasel," she purred, affecting an ominous familiarity.

Ron sat up and straightened his back, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. "Parkinson."

She sashayed over and stood behind him. Ron could feel her hands gripping the back of his chair. His brow creased. "What…?" Then she spun the chair. He swung around, knocking the stack of parchment, his wax seal stamp, and his quill cup off his desk and onto the floor. Once he'd turned 180 degrees around and was facing Pansy he shouted, "Bloody Hell! What do you think you're doing?"

Pansy leapt onto his lap.

"Parkinson?" Ron spluttered, as she wound her arms around his neck. "Gerroff me!"

"Oh, Ronny, no, I don't think so." Her grip on him tightened and she wriggled her arse, grinding it into his thighs.

Ron reached back to pry her fingers off his neck, but Pansy leaned forward and grasped an earlobe between her teeth, biting down just hard enough to make Ron freeze. Appearing to take advantage of his passivity, Pansy released his neck with one hand, sliding it over his shoulder, down his chest and stomach until it was just above his…

"Parkinson!" Ron's voice was high and alarmed. He reached between them and gave her an almighty push, which caused her to clamp her teeth down on his earlobe hard enough to make him shriek and did nothing to remove her from his lap. Keeping her hand pressed against his stomach, Pansy moved her arse again, grinding it into his crotch. Her fingers clenched, digging into the soft skin of his stomach.

Ron couldn’t help but respond.

It wasn't that he and Hermione hadn't been having a lot of sex. In fact, they hadn't had this much sex since the early days of their relationship when they'd never lost an opportunity to celebrate the end of the war and make up for lost time. It was the type of sex they were having that was the problem. Baby-making sex. Every other day at the exact scheduled moment when Hermione was most likely to be fertile, Ron was expected to be ready and willing – and he was. It was Hermione for fucks sake. Just the sound of her name could make him hard under the right circumstances. The routine, however, the predictability, the necessity of it had drained out all the passion. Ron was very much looking forward to the time when sex once again became something crazy and spontaneous they did without having to take Hermione's temperature or drink a fertility potion first.

So, then, how could he be expected not to react to the way Pansy was rubbing her hip against his cock and scratching at his stomach? It was completely understandable that the sound of her breath, the feel of her lips and teeth, and the smell of her flowery perfume were making his cock twitch and swell. Once it started, it only got worse. The friction felt so good, and her hand was creeping downwards and her other hand was fisted in the hair on the back of his head. Suddenly, her mouth was on his and her fingers were in his pants, wrapping around his cock and bringing it to full hardness. Ron felt frozen, terrified, and desperately aroused.

Pansy's mouth was hot against his. His ear was throbbing where she'd bitten it. "Get off me. Now," Ron said, meaning to sound dark and commanding, but actually sounding soft and hoarse. Pansy slid her tongue against his lips, which were pressed tightly together, and began to undo his fly.

Ron jolted. Too far. He couldn't let this happen. She laughed as he pushed her and allowed herself to slide off his lap until she had slithered to her knees between his legs. He'd put his hands in her hair to pull her head away from his crotch but somehow she'd undone his flies and then his cock was in her mouth and she was sucking him. Ron couldn't think straight anymore. The pressure was already building in his balls and instead of pulling her away he was holding her in place, biting his lip, eyes squeezed shut. Fuck, she was good, really, really good, squeezing his shaft and engulfing the rest of his cock with hot, wet, sliding pressure. "No," he whispered, thrusting forward slightly until she was practically swallowing him. "No," he whined and the pressure coiled and then burst as he came, his hips jerking, his hands gripping fistfuls of Pansy's coarse, black hair.

Ron felt her throat squeeze him as she swallowed. He felt the pleasure and contentment shiver through his body, knowing it would be only moments before it was replaced by shame and regret.

Sliding her mouth off him, giving the head of his cock one final lick, Pansy shook his hands out of her hair and pulled away. Ron kept his eyes closed, trying to catch his breath, until he heard her metallic laugh. He looked at her. She patted her hair back into place and dabbed a handkerchief to her lips. She hadn't even smeared her lipstick all that much. Then she winked.

Ron wanted to smack her. He stood and pushed past her, walking around his desk to the other side of his office whilst doing up his trousers. Crossing his arms across his chest, he glared at her.

"Oh come on, silly." Pansy's grin was wide; her cheeks were shining. "You enjoyed it."

"I'm married to Hermione Granger, Parkinson," growled Ron. "I'm sure you know that."

She snorted and traced his path around the desk to walk towards him. "'Pansy,' dear. I really do think we should be on first name terms now, don't you?"

Ron shrunk away from her, his back pressed against a bookcase. He felt drained and sweaty. The shame and guilt had arrived right on schedule. "Get out," he said, tiredly. "Just go. I don't know why you felt you had to come here and do that, and I really don't care. Please just leave now."

Pansy stopped in her tracks a foot or so in front of Ron, and he watched as her body lost its loose, easy posture and became stiff and rigid.

"All right. If that's what you want, I'll go."

Ron just nodded, not meeting her eyes, regret and anger making his stomach roil.

He'd never cheated on Hermione, never even thought about it. She was his world. Now he'd have to carry this sordid little secret around with him for the rest of his life or face telling Hermione what had happened. The latter was unthinkable; she'd never understand, and why should she? Ron let his face fall forwards into his hands. It was over now, anyway, and Ron resolved to force the incident to the back of his mind and never think of it again. He'd just pretend it hadn't even happened and everything would go back to normal.

* * *

The little box sat on the kitchen table, all done up in shiny pink paper printed with red hearts and a bright blue bow tied around the whole thing. Pretty. It was pretty and completely innocent looking, but it made Ron's stomach clench into a tight knot.

"An owl brought it while you were in the shower," said Hermione, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth and her brows creased as she tried to wrangle her wild hair into a semblance of the bun she wore when she went to work. Ron usually liked watching this process and loved seeing her take her hair down again at the end of the day even more. Today, however, he found his eyes firmly glued to the box on the kitchen table. "You haven't got a secret girlfriend stashed away somewhere, have you?" She was smiling as she asked this, but Ron heard the insecurity beneath it in her tone. No matter what he did, Ron never seemed to be able to convince her that he was completely hers. It drove him mad. He was hers, heart and soul; there was no doubt in his mind at all.

He'd managed to push the Pansy incident out of his head for the most part, but every time Hermione expressed doubt Ron felt his jaw muscles twitch. And how this. He couldn't say exactly why he was positive the box was from Pansy, but he was. Tearing his eyes away from it, he went to Hermione and took the locks of her hair in his hands, lifting and winding just like she'd taught him to do, until it formed a neat coil at the back of her head. Tapping his work with his wand to knot it in place, he lowered his head until his mouth was next to her ear. "Of course I do," he whispered, "one in each department. Blondes, brunettes, red-heads… even a goblin from the Department of Magical Finances. She's really sexy." He pressed his lips behind her ear and gave her a series of small kisses that trailed down her neck to her shoulder.

Hermione shivered and pushed him away, laughing quietly, her face flushed. "Stop it, Ron. I've got to get going."

"Wa'n't doing anything," Ron responded whilst running a finger down her spine with one hand and scooping the box off the table and shoving it into the pocket of his robes with the other.

"Mmm," responded Hermione, glancing at her watch and remaining fortunately oblivious to Ron's actions. "Well, I'm probably fertile tonight, so keep that attitude up. I'll be peaking between eight and eight thirty. Make sure you're back in time, kay?" She gave him a peck on the cheek and headed towards the door.

"Wouldn't want to miss your peak, would I?" asked Ron as she made her exit.

Once she'd gone he felt his shoulders relax, even as his fist tightened almost painfully around the little pink box in his pocket.

* * *

The tag attached to the bottle had the words, "Watch me," scrawled across it in a thick but feminine hand. Ron threw the box and its wrapping into the bin behind his desk and burnt them to a crisp with an Incendio spell. Throwing the bottle in after them would have been sensible, perhaps, but Ron found himself unable to do it. Instead, he spent half an hour just staring at the bottle – first while it sat on his desk and then up close as he held it. It was clear glass filled with thick, swirling, liquid smoke and stoppered with a cork.

"Watch me."

A drop of perspiration trickled down his temple and over his cheek. What possible reason would Pansy Parkinson have to do what he suspected she'd done? Sure, they'd been in rival houses in school and on opposite sides during the war, but years had passed and there had been nothing between them, nothing at all.

There was only one way to be sure. Ron waited until lunchtime when he knew the offices would be sparsely occupied and quietly sidled into the equipment room at the back of which stood the department's Pensieve. He opened the bottle, emptied its contents into the stone bowl and lowered his head.

In the midst of his sickening revelation that his guess had been correct, Ron had the bizarre and fleeting thought that his face looked rather ridiculous at the point of orgasm. He wondered how Hermione stopped herself from laughing. He watched himself stand and push Pansy aside before he stormed across his office away from her and then yanked his head abruptly out of the memory.

Sloppily gathering the memory from the basin with his wand, Ron felt cold and sick. What was Parkinson's game? He wasn't known for having money or any particular influence. Was she just rubbing his face in what he'd done? The incomprehensibility of it all made his head spin. He poured the substance back into the bottle, carried it to the sink in the corner, dumped it in, and turned on the tap. The memory didn't blend with the water, but broke apart like oil and Ron had to use a cloth to force the majority of it down the drain. He then threw the bottle again the concrete wall with all his might and took some satisfaction in watching it smash. His face was damp with sweat.

The owl was waiting for him on his desk, parchment tied to its leg with a blue ribbon that matched the one that had been tied around the box – not unexpected, but unpleasant nevertheless. After tearing the parchment off the owl's leg a bit too roughly, Ron gave the bird a stroke and a peanut from the bowl on his desk before sending her away. His hands were trembling. He didn't want to read it; he wanted to throw it in the bin and burn it like the box and the wrapping. He knew that the contents of the letter would probably change his life. Finally, he unrolled the document and read:

"Dear Darling Weasley,

I enjoyed our little interlude the other day so much that I wanted to make sure neither of us ever forget it. Did you get my gift this morning? Did you watch like I told you to? I'm sure you did.

The wonderful thing is that I've got several more copies of the memory stashed in a variety of places. I've even got another one all boxed up and read to be Owled to anyone I choose to send it to. We need never, ever forget.

I'm sure you're not the type to take advantage of a girl and never see her again. You always seemed like such a gentleman when we were at school.

Meet me at The Leaky Cauldron tonight at 7:30. We can talk about everything then.

Love and kisses,

Pansy"

Ron crushed the letter in his hand – crumpled it up and then pulled it open again so he could tear into pieces. His face burned with fury. The bitch, what did she want from him? If she sent the memory to Hermione… he'd never be able to explain, she wouldn't understand. Even if she forgave him, she'd be deeply hurt and would never trust him again. Ron slumped forward supporting himself with his arms on his desk.

Let Parkinson try and blackmail him, just let her try, he'd rip her heart out with his bare hands. Anger pulsed through him like vicious, peppery potion, hot and consuming; he didn't even register the sound of his office door being opened until he heard Harry's voice next to him.

"Ron?"

Ron snapped his head over to look at Harry well aware that he had guilt written clearly across his face. "Harry. Hey, mate. What's up?"

Harry started at him, a quizzical expression on his face. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Just a little…" Ron peered at Harry. If there was one person in the world with whom he could share this problem, it would be Harry. He imagined how the conversation would go – the confession, the explanation, the assurances that he was deeply in love with Hermione and would never do anything to hurt her… Harry was his best mate. He'd understand. He'd throw a comforting arm around Ron's shoulders, make light of the situation and figure out exactly what to do about Parkinson.

…

Harry would never understand.

Cheating – because intentional or not, that how Harry would see it – was something one simply didn't do. Harry would resurrect Voldemort before he'd cheat on Ginny. Loyalty and fidelity were an intrinsic part of his nature. He'd try not to judge Ron, but he'd fail and it would change their friendship forever.

Ron could never tell Harry. He was on his own.

* * *

By 7:15 that evening Ron still hadn't come to a decision. He dawdled about his office, packing up, moving the objects on his desk about and feeling tense and irritable. When the door opened, he automatically snapped without waiting to see who it was that had come to bother him.

"What?!?"

Kingsley cleared his throat, and Ron leapt to attention.

"Heading off for the night, Ron? A bit late for you, isn't it?"

"Er, I had some parchmentwork to catch up on."

Kingsley raised an eyebrow. "I just wanted to check how the Mobius case was going. Have you compiled your report on the witness interrogations yet?"

Ron blinked rapidly. Crap. "Almost finished." A blatant lie. "I'll have it for you tomorrow."

"See that you do." Kingsley stood with his arms crossed, looking at Ron appraisingly. "Everything all right?"

"Yep! Fine and dandy." Ron grinned, forcing his fingers to stop tapping nervously against his desktop.

Kingsley raised an eyebrow at him, but then smiled. "I'll let you get on, then."

"Yes sir. Have a good night."

Once Kingsley had closed the door behind him, Ron ran the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away the sweat. It was 7:25. Now or never.

By 7:30 pm, Ron stood outside the Leaky Cauldron, hands shoved deep in his pockets, willing himself to make a bloody decision already. The street lamps flickered irritatingly.

At the mercy of Pansy bloody Pug-Face Parkinson. Could anything be more humiliating? And what did she have planned, anyway? What if someone saw them together? It was tempting to just turn around, Apparate home, and pray that Parkinson simply gave up. But what if she didn't? The consequences were unthinkable.

With a deep sigh, Ron trudged into the pub. A quick scan of the room revealed no Parkinson. A bright thread of hope shot through Ron's chest. It was quickly put out, however, when Tom clapped a hand on his shoulder – making Ron jump a foot in the air – and then handed him a small rolled parchment, saying "'Ere you go, Ron. Lady said to give it to you when you came in." As Tom limped back towards the bar, Ron tore the note open and scanned its contents. She was upstairs. Room 10. Waiting for him. Hell.

Up the stairs. Down the corridor. Ron's feet dragged across the carpet, his shoulders were hunched. He felt like he was walking to his doom. Finally, he arrived at room 10. Forcing himself, he knocked on the door.

"Come Iiiii-in…"

Room 10, apparently, was the fancy room. The bed was four-poster, carved from ebony and hung with a shimmering canopy of deep crimson silk which matched the bedclothes. Pansy lay splayed across the pillows wearing something black, shiny and very, very skimpy. Ron swallowed. Hermione would never dream of wearing something so crass, so tacky, so god-awfully slutty. Pansy's blue eyes shimmered; her lips were curved into a wicked grin.

"What…" Ron cleared his throat, but it did no good. "What do you want from me, Parkinson?"

"I don't want anything you haven't shown yourself willing to give, Honey."

She wasn't even pretty. She has a face like one of those squashed looking dogs his aunt Muriel was so fond of. Her body was thick, hips wide, skin cream coloured and speckled with brown moles, her breasts small enough to fit in his mouth with one hard suck…

"Don't do this," Ron whispered. "Please, just let me go."

Pansy laughed. A high, vicious sound that drove a spike of fury directly down Ron's torso like a lightening bolt. As he leapt on her he envisioned smashing her face with his fists until there was nothing left but a ruined pulpy mass…

But that's not what ended up happening.

* * *

As the weeks went by it was dread, not eagerness that made Ron's cock twitch when his office door slid open and Pansy slid in after it. It was stress that sent a thrill through his chest as her thick violet scented perfume filled the air. Not desire at all. Not excitement.

The things she made him do were so dirty. They were things he'd never even imagine asking Hermione to do with him. How could he not react, for example, when Pansy pulled a long, thick rubber thing out of her bag – a thing, which at first he though was a wand but soon realised was not a wand at all.

First she held it up to her cheek and nuzzled it, then she slid the flat of her tongue along it's length from the bottom to the… Merlin, to the head. Ron felt his eyes widen – Hell, they were practically bugging out of his head. His pulse was racing.

It was fear. That was all. Just fear.

Standing and backing into his chair, Ron lifted his finger and wagged it at Pansy. "You're not… I won't… That thing isn't…" He pushed his chair aside and pressed his back firmly against the wall. "No!" he squeaked. "Just no fucking way!"

Pansy cocked her head to the side, smiling her smile, and wrinkled her nose at him. "Oh, yes, Weasel. Most definitely."

Ignoring the fact that his cock was already half hard, Ron grit his teeth and shook his head.

Pansy sighed dramatically. "Need we go over this yet again? You are free to say, 'No.' Free to order me forth from your office. And free to take the consequences of those choices."

Ron turned his face away, feeling it burn, grinding his teeth together and squeezing his eyes tightly closed. He didn't want this to happen. He really didn't. It wasn't until he felt Pansy's cool hand touching his cheek that he realised he was trembling.

"Shhhh…" she whispered, although he hadn't made a sound. "You'll like it. Wait and see."

Seven minutes later he was bent over his desk with his trousers and pants round his ankles. He was no longer trembling; he was full out shaking. Pansy was standing on the other side of the desk. She'd removed her lower clothing and stood before him wearing nothing but a green brocade corset that ended just below her small, red nippled breasts – and the phallus, of course. The hooked end had gone inside her and the… other end jutted obscenely and threateningly from her crotch, held in place by a leather harness buckled around her thighs and hips. She sighed and flicked the head of it with her fingers. The small happy moan she made upon doing this left no doubt as to how the thing felt inside of her. Ron had serious doubts as to how it was going to feel once it was inside him, though.

Bloody, buggering painful was the answer to that question. Pansy had covered the phallus with enough slippery substance that Ron could feel the excess sliding down the bottom of his arse cheeks onto his thighs. She was shoving it into him, hard; he could hear her grunting. As the head of the phallus pressed into his arsehole, feeling as if it were about to do serious damage to his insides, Ron smacked his forehead down onto his desk and concentrated on not screaming. Finally, something gave and with what felt like a pop Pansy, er, the phallus was inside him.

Ron gave a long, loud hiss and cried out despite himself, his voice tight and panicked, "Pansy, that bloody hurts!"

"Does it now? Aw, poor little Weasel."

Pansy jerked her hips forward, forcing the thick rubber deeper into him. Ron slammed his teeth together and hummed, refusing to give her any more satisfaction then she was already getting. He gripped the desk edge fiercely, knuckles white, hands shaking. He sucked in air through his nostrils, trying to master himself and the pain.

It was the humiliation and the feeling of sheer helplessness that was making his eyes burn. She'd brought him to this, had him completely at her mercy. If he allowed this, he'd allow her anything, and she bloody well knew it, too.

And the worst of it -- the most mortifying and awful aspect of the whole damn thing – was that his cock was stiff as a bloody broomstick.

What was wrong with him? He was being ravaged. How come it turned him on so much?

Pansy slid backwards and then abruptly thrust forwards, burying the phallus deep inside him with one hard push. Despite all his efforts, Ron screamed and then once again banged his forehead on the desk. He expected more laughter from Pansy, more mocking, but instead she said, "Shhh…" and gently ran her hands up the sides of his hips and waist. Ron panted, at the point of sheer panic as he felt his anus spasm around the rubber invading him. She had to be causing him permanent damage. In his mind, he cursed her, wishing her dead, mutilated, cut up into pieces. He cursed Harry for not being there to help him, cursed Hermione for her vulnerability, and most of all cursed himself for being weak, weak, weak and letting himself get into the situation in the first place. To his horror, he heard a tight sob escape from between his clenched teeth.

"Shhh…" This time Pansy's hands stroked soothingly up his back beneath his shirt.

Ron felt his chest rising and falling. He gingerly moved his legs farther apart, trying to find some relief in bracing himself.

Pansy's hands slid down until they were holding his chest, her body stretched over his back. "Ron," she whispered, "push yourself up on your elbows. Trust me."

"Trust you?!?" His voice was wet and squeaky.

Tugging him upwards, Pansy continued, "It doesn't have to be bad." Her lips pressed into the back of his neck and she nuzzled him and gave him a small kiss.

Ron boggled. Pansy was mad, completely cracked. Feeling he had little to lose, he did as she suggested and raised his torso to rest on his elbows. Pansy's hand moved to his hips and she pulled out and then thrust forward again, slowly this time. Ron clenched his face, feeling the rubber force him back open, and then suddenly fuck! The new angle of entry rubbed the phallus against his insides in a way that sent a bolt of pleasure rumbling through his arse, thighs, stomach and cock. He gasped, and this time Pansy did laugh. She pulled back and repeated the motion, making Ron moan loudly and let his head fall forward. His legs were trembling. Hot lines of sweat were trickling from his forehead and down his nose.

With her next thrust, Ron found himself actually pushing his arse backward to meet her. Pansy began pumping into him then. She made soft sounds of pleasure and dug her long fingernails into Ron's hips. Ron felt as if he were losing his mind. He shouldn't have been enjoying it. He shouldn't have been participating. The gorgeous sensations began to coalesce in his groin, making him whine with need and attempt to move one of his arms back to grab his straining cock. Pansy swatted his shoulder and then reached down to grasp it herself. She was outright moaning by this time and thrusting into him hard and fast. Once she began fisting his cock in time with her movements Ron knew it was only a matter of seconds until-- "You bloody fucking bitch!" He shouted at the top of his lungs as the pleasure rushed through his body in a wave and he came, jerking into Pansy's fingers, and spurting come across his desk and the backs of his upper arms.

As he collapsed, panting heavily, feeling hot, heavy and filthy in every way imaginable, Pansy finally pulled the phallus out of him. He was left with a strange sensation of sore emptiness, which he didn't want to analyse at all.

Ron remained motionless on the desk, letting his eyes fall shut, wanting to fall asleep and never wake up. He could feel come squishing against his stomach and through his shirt. He prayed that the muffling charms had held.

Pansy wasn't going to let him rest, though. He heard her moving about behind him and when she reappeared in front of him the harness and phallus had been removed. Thank Merlin. Ron pushed himself to his feet, pulled up his pants and trousers, and made what feeble attempts he could to straighten his clothing. He tried to keep his gaze on the floor or his desk, but Pansy whistled and he automatically looked up to see her crooking a finger at him.

He trudged towards her and stood there. Never in his life had he felt so defeated. When she pushed him down onto his knees, grabbed the back of his head and ordered him to finish her off, he put up no fight whatsoever.

* * *

"Ron, we need to talk. You'd better sit down."

Ron jumped a foot in the air, causing the plates he'd been carrying to slips from his fingers and shatter on the floor. Hermione starred at him for a moment and then Reparoed the plates before levitating them away into the cupboard.

Grinning abashedly, Ron pulled out a chair and faced her, hoping his smile wasn't too obviously frozen on his face. "What's up, Sugarplum?"

Hermione blinked and looked at him a bit funny, but then continued, "I've got some news." Her mouth twitched, formed a little smile, and then suddenly broke into an enormous grin that lit up her entire face. Ron felt his heart swell, and the tension melted from his limbs. "We did it, Ron. I'm pregnant."

Ron felt his mouth fall open. He leapt from his chair, making it crash to the floor, grabbed Hermione and lifted her up in a great bear hug.

She shrieked and laughed, saying, "Ron! Careful!"

Ron lowered her to her feet and kissed her long and hard, pushing his fingers into her hair. She responded enthusiastically. It was fantastic. It was almost like old times. Pulling away, Ron beamed down at his wife. She'd never looked more beautiful to him then she did at that moment. Her face was glowing and flushed with happiness. "We've got to Owl Mum! She'll go mental! And Harry and Ginny! Oh, Hermione. Well done." He pulled her tight to his chest and closed his eyes, wanting to keep her there forever, safe and close to him.

"I think you made a bit of a contribution, although I don't mind taking most of the credit seeing as I'm the one who's going to have to carry it… him or her… for nine months and then give b—"

"Yes, yes," Ron gave her another quick kiss. "We don't need to get into all the girly details."

Hermione sighed, "Oh, Ron."

"Hermione." Ron tightened his grip on her, feeling happier than he had in ages. In the back of his mind, however, something dark and nasty scuttled about like a stink beetle, tainting his joy. Pansy mustn't find out. He'd have to do everything he could to keep her from knowing or Merlin knew what she'd do. He buried his face in Hermione's hair, breathing in its scent. A baby. He was going to be a father. It was a miraculous thing, and there was no way he was going to let some mental Slytherin chit ruin it for them.


* * *

Merlin, he hated work parties. You couldn't have a proper drink and no one seemed to be able to relaxed enough to even have a decent laugh. His formal robes felt stiff and itchy. He wanted to be home, cuddled up in front of the fireplace with Hermione, not stuck in the Alastor Moody Atrium making small talk with Darluria Smithers from Magical Transportation. If he heard one more word about the effect the dwindling supply of elm bark was having on the Floo system, he'd die or vomit or take all his clothes off and dance on the tables.

Instead, he squeezed Hermione's hand quickly three times in succession. She jumped a bit and then said, "Oh! I don't mean to be rude, but I must get something to eat right away."

"No problem, dear," said Darluria with an understanding smile.

Hermione led Ron away to the buffet table, whispering in his ear, "We're running out of people to talk to. You can't possibly find everyone here boring. I found what she was saying quite interesting, actually."

Ron snorted. "You would." Hermione swatted him hard on his bum. "Hey! No fair! It's not like I can swat you back."

Hermione shrugged, smiling in a satisfied way. Ron turned to the buffet table and began piling up his plate with sausage rolls, slices of ham and grapes. He heard Hermione speaking to someone, heard how her voice was suddenly a bit tight, but grabbed one last pickled owl egg before turning his head.

He came very close to dropping his plate. It was Pansy, standing in front of Hermione, smiling her little cat smile. He felt dizzy and nauseated. He knew his smile looked plastered on, knew he was perspiring and that Hermione would want to know why, but he didn't know how to stop it.

Pansy reached out and stroked her fingers down Hermione's barely rounded belly. Hermione flinched. "And how far along are you?"

"About five months."

"Oh, well it looks lovely on you. You're positively glowing." Pansy's hand stilled and rested flat on Hermione's abdomen. With a stiff smile, Hermione took it and removed it.

"Well, I'll let you two get on with it." Pansy gave a little high-pitched laugh. "Theodore will be wondering where I am. I don't know why I agreed to come along with him; these things are always so tedious." She looked at Ron and her smile widened. "Be seeing you, Weasley."

Ron remained silent, his jaw clenched. Finally, Pansy turned and sashayed away.

"I hate that," said Hermione, glaring at Pansy's retreating figure. "Why do they think they can just come up and touch you?"

Ron shrugged, turned his face away and wiped some of the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. "Women, who knows…?"

"What?" Hermione's voice was sharp. Ron snapped his head back to look at her. He could feel perspiration sliding down his back. "Ronald, what on earth is wrong with you tonight?" She leaned in close to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and whispered, "You look a complete mess. You're sweating like a pig. Go, sort yourself out and don't come back until you've pulled yourself together."

As she pulled away her expression said that they'd be discussing things further once they got home. Ron gave her a gormless look – widening his eyes helplessly. It seems to calm her down a bit, at least the lines between her eyebrows softened slightly. He leant over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before fleeing towards the corridor and the men's toilets.

Shit. Crap. Bugger.

He was going to murder Pansy. Where the Hell did she get off? He stormed past the toilets towards his office, only pausing briefly to smash both fists against the wall.

Once in his office, he slammed the door behind him and then froze. There was Pansy, sitting on the edge of his desk, swinging her foot and shooting daggers at him with her eyes. Ron only allowed himself to be taken aback for a moment. "What the Hell do you think you're playing at, Parkinson?" he shouted.

"What am I playing at? She's been pregnant for months. Were you ever planning on telling me?"

Ron felt as if he might burst a blood vessel. "It's none of your fucking business! Nothing to do with you! Hermione, my family, my life – all of it is not a bloody buggering thing to do with you!

Pansy acted oblivious to Ron's anger, and examined her fingernails with a bored expression on her face. "I think it's time we let Hermione know about the two of us, Ron. We've been sneaking around long enough. Let's go and tell her. Shall we? It's better she find out now rather than after the baby's been born and it's too late to…"

Ron shouted an unintelligible curse, marched over to Pansy, and grabbed her by the throat. He lifted, her spun her and then slammed her against the wall, glaring into her eyes.

"You bitch. You utter, utter bitch. Say one word to her, and I will kill you, I swear." He felt his hand tightening on Pansy's throat. "Don't talk to her. Don't look at her. Don’t even think of her!" She was kicking and clutching at his arm. Ron panted, refusing to loosen his grip, watching mesmerised as Pansy gurgled, her eyes bulging, her face going red. She was scratching at his arm, digging in, making furrows. He squeezed harder, feeling sweat trickle down his temple.

Someone was shouting. Ron could barely hear it through the buzzing in his ears. He was shouting, "Weasley! What the Hell are you doing?!?"

Ron gasped and took several steps back, letting Pansy fall to the floor. She lay crumpled against he wall, panting, the collar of her robes askew, her hair mussed and her face blotchy.

Kinglsey. It was Kingley. Oh shit oh fuck oh no…

Ron, shoulders heaving, let his face fall forwards into this hands.

* * *

"But, Ron, I just don't understand. Surely you can talk to Harry. I mean, it's Harry for goodness sake." Hermione's fingers laced nervously over her swollen belly.

Ron let his head fall forward until his forehead was pressed against the kitchen table. The wood felt smooth and cool.

"It's terrible timing. You know that, right? I'm going on maternity leave in a few months and my pay will be cut in half. Ron. You've got to talk to Harry again."

"It wasn't Harry decision. He fought for me. There was nothing more he could do."

Hermione stared at him with her quick brown eyes that always made him feel that she was performing some kind of amateur Legilimency. Thank Merlin, she'd never been interested in that sort of thing.

"You need to tell me what happened. This doesn't make any sense. How could you lose your job?" She took a deep breath, and then, "What exactly did you do, Ronald, that was so terrible they're letting you go?"

Ron knitted his fingers across the back of his neck, resting his elbows on the table on either side of his head. He wanted to Apparate away, to disappear, to die. He could feel his life and happiness slipping away second by second. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut willing himself not to cry.

* * *

It was a completely untraceable poison. The gnarled, smelly old witch he'd bought it from had promised him so.

His hands were trembling, so he kept them under the table. His was sweating like a pig, so he applied a quick anti-perspiring charm to his forehead before Pansy arrived. He couldn't believe it had come to this. What choice did he have, though? She was going to ruin his life – ruin Hermione's life. They had a baby coming.

It had to end.

He'd chosen a booth towards the back of the restaurant. It would be a miracle if he could get through the evening without vomiting or passing out. What would Harry think if he knew? What would his mum think? He couldn’t even ask himself what Hermione would think.

Once Pansy did arrive, Ron spoke slowly and carefully to keep his voice from shaking. "Listen. This needs to stop. Tell me what you want me to do to make it stop."

"Make it stop?" asked Pansy, smiling pleasantly. "Why on earth would I want to make it stop? I'm having far too much fun." She leaned back, grinning, her arms stretched to either side thrown carelessly against the top of the backrest.

"It's my family," Ron whispered, his voice tight with urgency. "My family, Pansy. I know you don't care for Hermione, but please. She's never done anything to you." He forced himself to look directly into Pansy's cold, blue cat eyes. "Please."

Pansy's smile widened. So many teeth. The image of a leering Jack-O-Lantern flickered through Ron's mind.

The waitress arrived with drinks. Ron waited until Pansy had excused herself to use the toilet, and then tipped three drop of poison into her cocktail. The liquid fizzed, turned black, and then returned to its original bright green colour.

Pansy returned, smiling, and sat down. "No. Now's not the time to stop. I have so many plans for the two of us yet. We should take a trip together! Go to France or South America. Now that you've lost your job, you have all the time in the world."

Ron felt his mouth falling open. "Hermione is about to have a baby." His voice was a hoarse whisper.

Pansy waved her hand, dismissing that idea as if it meant nothing. "What about Switzerland? Daddy has a chalet there. Have you ever been skiing? We could spend the winter. Hot chocolate. Open fires. Oh, Ronny, it would be so special."

She winked, and reached for her drink. Ron wasn't aware of making the choice. He only knew that his arm had shot out in front of him and swept the glass away, across the room before she could touch it. It hit the wall and smashed in an explosion of glass and liquid. A waitress scurried over to the mess, shooting Ron a dirty look before reparing the glass and cleaning up the wine. Ron ignored her. He was almost breathless thinking of what he'd come so close to doing, what he'd come so close to being. His face felt cold despite its sheen of sweat.

Pansy had jerked away at his movement and was leaning away from him. "What the Hell was that?"

Taking a deep breath, Ron slid out of the booth and stood. He leaned his hands on the table and looked Pansy right in the eye without so much as blinking. "It's over. Finished. No more."

Pansy's face went tight. Her lips pursed and her eyes shot daggers at him. "Says you, Weasley. You don't say when we're finished, I do."

"No!" Ron brought a fist down hard on the table top. The restaurant had gone still and quiet, every single person watching what was going on between them. "It. Is. Finished. Do what you will, Pansy, but I'm not playing anymore." Despite his determination, his voice went high and wobbly. "I'm wrung out. There's nothing left. If you need to destroy my family and everything that's important to me, then I can't stop you. But I can't go on like this. I've lost my job. Hermione…" His voice caught in his throat. "Hermione will barely speak to me as it is. It's got to end, Pansy. It's just got to."

As Ron straightened his back, Pansy's lower lip began to tremble. Her fingers gripped the tabletop in front of her. "You love me just a little bit, don't you, Ronny?" she begged. "Just a little, tiny bit?"

Ron rubbed his hand across his eyes, before looking back at Pansy and saying, "No," as emphatically as he could. "No, Pansy. I don't. Not at all." He took another breath. "Look. I'm not going to deny that some of it was fun. Okay? I'll admit that much. But you forced me into this. I never would have chosen to cheat on Hermione in a million years. I do love her. Very, very much. You have no idea how much it's killing me to think how much it will hurt her when you…" He trailed off.

Pansy's face was wretched, creased with misery, skin blotchy and wet with tears. "Why should you be happy? What have you done to deserve it other than cheat on your wife? Don’t I deserve any happiness?"

Ron shook his head. "I don't know what you deserve. I can't worry about you. Really, Pansy, why should I?"

"You bastard."

Ron stared, incredulous, and then turned around.

"Ron!" Pansy shouted, her voice full of panic.

Gritting his teeth, Ron ignored her and walked quickly out of the restaurant, through the door and into the night, leaving her sitting on her own. He didn't look back, not even once.

* * *

Ron waited. Each time an Owl arrived, each time there was a knock at the door, he felt fear and tension flow through his body. Nothing arrived, however. As the weeks passed, he began to relax. By the time Rose arrived, the months with Pansy had began to feel unreal, like a nightmare. He could almost convince himself that they'd never happened. He didn't know why Pansy didn't act on her threats. Maybe she'd never intended to. A dark portion of Ron's psyche teased him with the idea that he might have built up his fear of what Pansy might do in order to feel okay about fucking her.

No. That couldn't be right. That wasn't him.

Eventually, he read an article in the society pages of the Prophet saying that former Pureblood society "It girl" Pansy Parkinson had been involved in a scandal. She was working as a nanny for a Sultan somewhere in the Middle East and had been caught by one of his wives in his chamber after hours.

Ron marvelled at the ways of the world. He'd actually managed to survive the episode relatively unscathed. He'd been on the verge of losing everything and, yet, here he was. He had Hermione, a beautiful baby daughter, and a new and decidedly less stressful job working with George at Weasley Wizarding Wheezes. He was so very, very lucky.

Ron was actually looking forward to going to work the next day. Rose was sitting quietly in his lap, making her soft baby sounds and smelling like lavender and freshly baked bread. He gently stroked her fluffy hair. So soft. Rose's hair was strawberry blonde – the same colour Ginny's had been when she'd been a baby. The same colour as Verity's, actually. It was fun working with Verity. She had a great sense of humour, always joking and teasing him, pinching his arse when his back was turned. Her hair looked like it would be soft. It was really pretty when the light shone through the shop windows at certain times of day. Sometimes, if the light was exactly right, Ron could see the outline of her breasts and nipples through her work robes.

Ron smiled, letting his thoughts drift and ramble. He was lucky. Such a very lucky man.

-- The End