Entry tags:

arthur weasley, bill weasley, fic, het, madam rosmerta, remus lupin, ron weasley

FIC: 'Birthday Girl' for Anonymous (the other of two gifts!)
Recipient: Anonymous
Author: shocfix
Title: Birthday Girl
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Rosmerta/Various
Word Count: 6900
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: Written for Anonymous, for the inaugural hp_beholder, the fest for bringing a little romance to those characters whom fandom neglects. She asked for some Madam Rosmerta, which makes me very happy, because I have a bit of a crush on the lovely landlady of the Three Broomsticks.

So.

Many thanks to the luminous M for the beta and hand holding and to the very patient bethbethbeth for running this unique fest.

***

Birthday Girl

←♥→

Tuesday, 17th June 1958

Rosmerta is 8

Arthur is 8

Top of the charts : On The Street Where You Live

I have often walked down this street before;
But the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before.

The first thing she noticed was his hair. She’d never seen orange hair before and she reached out and tried to touch it.

Arthur glared at her and shrugged her hand away.

“Is it real?” she breathed.

“’Course it’s real,” he spluttered. “What else could it be?”

“One of my dolls has a woolly wig,” she said. “I pulled it off and Daddy had to use a Sticking Charm to stick it back on.”

“S’not a wig,” Arthur said firmly.

“I could show you my doll, if you like,” she offered, nodding back towards the house.

“Don’t like dolls,” Arthur said. “Girls play with dolls.”

She blinked.

“Don’t your sisters have dolls?” she asked.

“I don’t have sisters,” he said. “Weasleys only have boys.”

“What are Weasleys?” she asked, wide eyed.

“I am,” he said.

She regarded this creature with real orange hair.

This Weasley.

“It’s my birthday, today,” she said. “I’m eight.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why Mummy brought us over the hill.”

“There’s cake,” she said. “Chocolate.”

“I’m already eight,” he said.

“Did you have a cake?” she asked.

“’Course.”

“Chocolate?”

“There’s a lot of us,” he said defensively. “I s’pect it would have been chocolate, otherwise.”

“I s’pect so,” she said encouragingly. “Would you like to kiss me?”

Arthur wrinkled his nose.

“D’you mean like for a birthday present?” he said.

“Yes,” she said firmly, lifting her face to his.

He grimaced and bent and kissed her on the cheek.

←♥→

Monday, 17th June 1968

Rosmerta is 18

Arthur is 18

Top of the charts : Young Girl

With all the charms of a woman
You've kept the secret of your youth.

He’d finished his N.E.W.T.s and was ready to go out into the world.

Ready for the next challenge.

Ish.

He quite fancied the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, and had an interview all lined up.

Molly quite fancied an August wedding.

Married.

She was right; there was a war on, so it was now or never.

His head said they probably should get married, and he should work at the Ministry, and they could get a little flat and have some fun, while they had the chance, before You Know Who took over, or they got pregnant.

Though Molly was adamant about not starting a family, just yet, and had shown him embarrassing leaflets on The Potion v Contraceptive Charms. And it wasn’t even as if they were doing it, yet, she just wanted to feel prepared.

No, their method of contraception was her pushing his hand away when it tried to stray inside her knickers, and letting him thrust against her ample thigh until he needed to Tergeo himself clean.

So, his heart said they should get married and then they could do anything they wanted, and he could see her naked and she’d stop holding her tummy in when he touched her, and she’d let him inside her and he’d ask her to use her mouth, and everything.

He was pretty sure that this was his heart speaking. Gid would say it was something a little lower, if they’d been able to discuss it. If it weren’t his little sister’s mouth in question. That was probably the only reason not to dive into Molly Prewett’s waiting girly parts, really, but you don’t break up with a woman just because her brother is your best mate. Gid was pretty good about them being together, as long as he didn’t hear the details.

Actually, there was another reason he knew it wasn’t any other part of his body talking.

He knew what his cock’s opinion was.

He and his cock were looking forward to the girly parts. Very much so. OK, they had never been allowed to touch or see said parts, but their three eyes ached for the sight. After they’d finished necking for the evening, he’d go back to his dorm and his cock would leap in one hand as he covered his face with the other hand and breathed in her scent.

But.

His cock would twitch when Nelly Spinnet lean forwards on her broom; would swell when Rita Skeeter’s breasts oozed out over the top of her blouse; would throb when Bellatrix Black brushed past him in the corridor.

His cock would say ‘Molly’s great; I have no sense of smell, but you think she smells great. But are you really saying I’ll only ever bury myself in one set of girl’s parts?’

Maybe he should play the field, first, before settling down.

Maybe he should learn a few… moves.

That’d be for Molly’s benefit, really, actually, ultimately, in the end. At the end of the day.

So, here he was, in the Three Broomsticks, on his third pint, wondering who could teach him the moves that Molly would like.

No one too missish; Molly was an earthy girl. Passionate. And no point in learning how not to snap some skinny little thing in half while searching for her breasts; Molly’s breasts were not hard to find.

A pair of overflowing breasts stopped in front of him and he blinked happily at them.

“OK there, Arthur?”

He dragged his eyes away from the cleavage to focus on Rosie’s face.

Her dad had moved to Hogsmeade and taken over running the Three Broomsticks a few years back, and she’d always been good for the extra pint he couldn’t afford, when she worked there on weekends.

“Hey, Rosie,” he said happily.

She smiled and pulled another pint for him, her breasts moving fantastically against each other as she did.

“I can’t… um,” he shrugged helplessly.

“It’s on me,” she said. “It’s my birthday.”

“Oh, Rosie, ‘course it is,” he said. “I didn’t forget, exactly, it’s just…”

“It’s the N.E.W.T.s, “ she said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But you should celebrate,” he said earnestly. “Muggles make a big fuss about turning eighteen, you know.”

“I should celebrate,” she said. “I’m eighteen.”

“I’m already eighteen,” he said.

“Did you… celebrate?” she asked, running a fingertip across the back of his hand.

He swallowed and his head said ‘this is a very bad idea’, and his heart said ‘it’s now or never’, and his cock said ‘you can shut your eyes, I wanna see one other set of girl’s parts in my life.’

Her eyes flicked lapwards and he shifted in his seat.

She turned away and gave him a ridiculously flirtatious look, over one shoulder.

“There’s a lot of heavy stock, just come in,” she said. “Would you give me a hand, in the back?”

His eyes flicked arsewards and he said “Heavy? Can’t you just use Levitation Charms?” and could have kicked himself.

“I just think it’d be more fun with two of us,” she said patiently.

He flushed and nodded and followed her down the passage to the stock room, where she turned and closed the door and leant against it.

“Would you like to touch me?” she asked, unbuttoning the front of her dress.

He smiled nervously.

“D’you mean like for a birthday present?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said firmly, lifting his hand and placing it on her breast.

He swallowed and bent and kissed her, his fingers cupping her breast and his thumb caressing her nipple until she gasped into his mouth.

“Rosie,” he murmured, “we can’t... I mean, I’m, um…”

“I won’t tell her,” she whispered, undoing his robes and sliding her hand inside.

He whimpered as her fingers closed around him, stepping closer, grasping her skirts ands layers of petticoats, and eagerly hauling them up and bunching them around her hips.

“Muggle girls wear dresses so short you can see their knickers,” he complained breathlessly, pushing hers down and sliding his fingers between her parted thighs.

She laughed and pulled his face down to hers with the hand that wasn’t working industriously on his cock. He tried his best to finger the right spot and kiss her at the same time, but she was sucking on his tongue and pulling on him with the perfect rhythm and soon all he could do was hold tight and thrust into her hand until he saw stars.

“Oh, Rosie,” he breathed, sucking in lungfuls of air and blinking as she wiped her hand.

She smiled, kissed the corner of his mouth and squeezed his hand with her thighs and he realised his fingers were still between her legs. Blushing, he explored her folds as she sighed and parted her legs for him, and it was, oh, so different without a sensible double gusset between his fingers and tender slippery flesh. He watched her face flush and her breasts heave as he brought her off and marvelled at the sight and he decided he’d be an idiot not to get married as soon as possible.

They adjusted their clothes and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes; it was really rather shabby to decide to marry one girl while you make another come, but she took his hand and kissed him on the cheek and said, “It’s OK, Arthur. Have a good summer.”

“And you, Rosie,” he murmured, watching her slip out of the store room and return to the bar.

←♥→

Saturday, 17th June 1978

Rosmerta is 28

Remus is 18

Top of the charts : You’re The One That I Want

If you're filled with affection, you're too shy to convey
Meditate my direction, feel your way.

She didn’t remember him coming in by himself, before, though the poor boy was probably used to being overlooked, beside his friends. Sirius Black and James Potter were so much larger than life, the biggest flirts she’d seen in years. She’d been sorely tempted to break her no-schoolboys rule, if only to see if Sirius was as good as he thought he was, and to make James blush and admit he was all mouth and the Evans girl had him by the front of his trousers.

She pulled him a pint and smiled as she put it on the bar before him. His eyes slid past the creamy head and fixed on her cleavage and he licked his lips. She was surprised at his blatant staring, even from an eighteen-year-old boy, and she raised a quizzical eyebrow when his eyes finally left her chest and met hers.

He flushed and muttered an apology.

“In here alone?” she asked, leaning on the bar and maximising her frontage despite her reservations.

He swallowed audibly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I, um, don’t take Potions, everyone else has another exam on Monday.”

“No Potions?” she asked. “I thought all Gryffindors wanted to be Aurors.”

“No, that’s James and Sirius,” he said quietly.

He always was the quiet one, and she realised she’d been guilty of lumping him together with his boisterous friends.

“So, what are you going to be?” she asked kindly.

He flushed and shrugged and she felt bad for upsetting him.

“I don’t really know, yet,” he said, taking another swallow of his beer. “Maybe… something with animals. I have… issues. I have these… furry issues, as James would say, and I can’t see past them, so maybe I should… embrace my issues and work with animals.”

“Ah, like Hervé’s wolf,” she said cheerfully, patting him on the back as he choked on his beer.

“What?” he asked.

“St Hervé of Brittany,” she explained. “He was blind, but he had the power to cure animals and he had a tame wolf.”

“What?” he croaked.

“And it’s his saint’s day, today,” she said weakly, looking at his shocked face.

“You,” he swallowed. “You can always come up with random saint’s days, can you?”

“No,” she said. “It’s my birthday, today. I don’t know any other saint’s days.”

He laughed with relief.

“I have… wolf issues,” he said.

“Remind me not to take you to sixth century Brittany,” she said.

“Don’t take me,” he said earnestly, before blushing.

He was charmingly flustered and she really should have some sort of rule about the boys from the school; something more than ‘not until after their exams’. Something like ‘not if she’d slept with their father’.

That’d work.

Lupin was a halfblood; she’d never even met his father.

“So,” she said. “Working with animals.”

He nodded and took a long swallow of his beer.

“You must have very gentle hands,” she said, taking one and caressing his palm.

He blinked at her, then down at their hands.

“And you’ll need to know all about… breeding.”

He nodded, wide eyed, then cleared his throat, but had nothing to say.

“Have you ever slept with a girl?” she asked, deciding subtlety wasn’t working.

“Uh, no,” he said. “Not… not as such. But I know what to do. Mostly.”

“It’s late,” she said.

“I’ll go,” he said swiftly.

“No,” she said, biting her lip at how nervous he looked. “I meant I can close up, if you’d like to stay.”

“Very much,” he said.

“Will you have any trouble getting back to school?” she asked, flicking her wand at the door and standing up.

“N..no,” he said. “No trouble. There’s a way I know of sneaking back in.”





←♥→

Friday, 17th June 1988

Rosmerta is 38

Bill is 18

Top of the charts : Doctorin’ The Tardis

We will take over
We are superior beings.

She smiled at the bright orange hair of her last customer, as he sat and nursed his pint. It was her favourite colour, always had been. She pulled another pint, crossed to his table and put it down in front of him.

“I’m OK with this one,” he said firmly, his ears barely flushing.

“It’s on the house,” she said.

He looked doubtful.

“You’re the image of your father at eighteen,” she said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

He grinned, picked up the glass and took a long swallow, his throat working.

She found herself wondering if he was the image of his father, all over.

“I forgot you and Dad were at school together,” he said. “Mum still gets jealous, you know. All huffy when me and Charlie mention coming in here.”

“Nonsense,” she said, admiring his crooked grin. “What could she possibly be jealous of?”

Arthur would never have told her about their fumble.

“You tell me,” Bill said, with an arched eyebrow.

“Ah, well,” she said, telling herself that she’d flirted with thousands of men on the far side of her bar, and that this was no different, and that he was a boy who hadn’t even left school, yet. “I was his first.”

Bill choked on his beer.

“Kiss,” she explained. “It was on my eighth birthday. Goodness, that makes it exactly thirty years ago, today.”

“It’s your birthday?” he asked.

“I suppose it is,” she said. “It’s really not something I make a big fuss about, not at my age.”

“Your age,” he scoffed.

“I’m as old as your parents,” she gasped.

“But no one fancies my parents,” he said.

“Mr Weasley,” she said, grinning and leaning forward to emphasize her cleavage, despite herself. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Was I not supposed to?” he asked. “I got the impression you were flirting with me.”

“I flirt with everyone,” she said. “It’s my job.”

“I got the impression you were flirting with me,” he said firmly.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, hoping for coolly, but suspecting she’d only managed flustered. “I’m thinking of your father.”

“Hmmm,” he said grumpily, but with one corner of his mouth twitching. “I can’t deny that that is a problem. And that I’m sure I’ll never live it down if I say I can make you forget my father.”

She laughed.

“I can kiss better than an eight-year-old,” he assured her. “I promise.”

She didn’t mention going any further with his father – for his own good, not because she was having far too good a time flirting with this young man, and wondering if he really did look like his father, all over. After all, her rule about not having slept with his father wasn’t an issue; she and Arthur hadn’t gone that far.

“So, you’re off into the world, then, Mr Weasley,” she said.

“I am,” he confirmed. “I’m going to face danger and overcome ancient jeopardy and win fame and fortune.”

“So, not following in your father’s footsteps, then?” she asked wryly.

He laughed. A joyous, throaty laugh that made her smile widely.

“My father is very supportive,” he said. “My mother not so much.”

“Any ancient jeopardy in particular?” she asked.

“Curse breaking in Egypt,” he said with great relish. “Ancient magic in tombs and catacombs; ancient artefacts which will wither your hand; golden masks that will take your eyes out; cursed necklaces that will strangle you.”

“Gracious,” she said. “I can’t imagine why your mother objects.”

“The Arithmancy behind some of the Egyptian curses is fascinating,” he said. “There’s a book by Idogbe al Afra that… sorry, you’re not interested in curses, are you?”

“I can do without cursed necklaces, yes,” she admitted.

His eyes fell to the delicate gold pendant, set with two large pearls, nestled between her breasts.

“Have you ever had those checked out?” he asked.

“Why?” she asked. “Do you think there could be a problem? To your expert eye.”

“I’d have to… handle them, before I could be sure,” he said, with an impressively straight face.

She automatically squeezed her breasts together and they watched them threatening to spill over the edge of her blouse.

“They’re spectacular,” he said.

“They’re my birth stone,” she said, watching him licking his lips, “my favourites. All the other stones are cold and lifeless, but pearls - they warm up against your skin.”

“Can I touch them?” he asked, raising his hand and reaching for her, stopping so close to her breast she could feel his body heat.

“Yes,” she said.

His hand cupped her breast, the thumb automatically brushing over her nipple through several layers of clothes and making her shiver. She watched him unlace her blouse, slipping his hands inside to free her breasts, before pushing them together, trapping her necklace.

“Gorgeous,” he said, smiling as her nipples hardened.

“Do you know how to tell if pearls are real?” she whispered.

He shook his head.

“You put them in your mouth,” she said.

He made a strangled noise and lowered his head, taking a nipple between his lips and suckling on it, gently, his tongue swirling hypnotically around her peak.

“I think this one is pretty genuine,” he murmured.

“Why don’t I lock up and let you give them a more thorough examination?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” he choked, his suaveness vanishing. “Please.”

She smiled and locked the door with a wave of her wand. Not bothering to close her blouse, she led him up the stairs to her bedroom.

←♥→

Wednesday, 17th June 1998

Rosmerta is 48

Ron is 18

Top of the charts : Three Lions ‘98

Tears for heroes dressed in grey
No plans for final day
Stay in bed, drift away

When she first saw the clot of red hair at the bar, she froze.

Practically everyone she knew had lost someone in the Battle of Hogwarts, and she was used to murmuring condolences, but she hadn’t seen Arthur since then, and he’d lost one of his boys, and that would need more than easy words and whiskey.

But then she looked closer and chided herself for her foolishness. Arthur’s hair was no longer that bright; his youngest son was the only customer she had, this late, hunched on a stool, twirling a Sickle back and forth between long fingers.

He was far too thin and his shoulders were tense and his jaw was set and he looked unbearably like his father at eighteen.

She’d always known how to cheer Arthur up at that age, but, well, just how inappropriate would that be, with this baby.

She could hardly believe that Arthur’s baby was eighteen, but she knew he’d been with Potter all year. Had seen the stories about dragons and goblins and werewolves. Had seen his angry frown turned on photographers as he stepped protectively in front of Potter and the girl.

So, not a baby.

“Firewhiskey?” she said, sitting beside him with a bottle and two glasses.

He looked between the golden liquid and the money in his hand.

“It’s on me,” she said. “For the...”

“Heroes of the Wizarding World?” he interrupted bitterly.

“...son of my old friend,” she finished.

He blinked and half smiled crookedly at her.

“I should have played on that since third year,” he said, reaching for the glass and taking a swallow.

“I don’t give Firewhiskey to children,” she said.

“Ah. And I am no longer a child.”

She wished she could make some flirty remark about his love life, as she usually would, but he’d seen too much death and it was too inappropriate.

She paused and asked him how his family were.

“Almost as grown up as me,” he said miserably. “Almost as lonely.”

“Ah, I can’t picture a lonely Weasley,” she said encouragingly.

“Picture George.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

He sighed heavily, then looked up at her through his overlong fringe.

“George won’t come out of the shop,” he said. “I think he’s inventing the ultimate prank, to commemorate him; Mum won’t leave the school until everything is... fixed, like it’ll be his memorial, when it’s back how it was, like it’ll bring him back. Ginny thinks he’d have preferred an exploded building to remember him by, and she isn’t talking to Mum. Dad is working all hours at the Ministry and isn’t eating and no one has seen him in weeks.”

“And you?” she asked gently.

“I was helping up at the school,” he said, “while Hermione was shadowing McGonagall and fixing everything, but now she’s in Australia and Harry is at the Ministry and I’m left sitting outside the door to George’s lab, waiting for him to blow himself up.”

“Australia?” she asked, startled.

“Long story,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “I wasn’t needed on the journey.”

“Your young lady?” she asked.

“Sort of,” he said. “Maybe, one day, when she stops to catch her breath. Or maybe just for one day, and I blinked and missed it.”

“So, you’re waiting for her,” she said encouragingly. “That’s nice.”

“Why should I?” he interrupted. “Why should I still be waiting for her? I must be an idiot.”

He frowned at his hands, fisted on the bar in front of him.

“Y’know, she wasn’t even the first woman I fancied,” he said, ridiculously nonchalantly.

“I know,” she said.

He looked up sharply, all wide blue eyes and nonchalance forgotten.

“You... you do?” he croaked.

“It’s my job,” she said. “And sixteen-year-old boys aren’t very good at flirting.”

“Oh my god.”

“Though you did know some eye watering jokes.”

“Charlie,” he muttered.

“Ah.”

“You must have thought I was a right idiot,” he said, wincing retrospectively.

“I thought you were very sweet,” she said consolingly.

“Sweet?” He pulled a face. “I’d prefer idiot.”

“And you’ve grown up into a very handsome young man; the image of your father at eighteen.”

He flushed.

“And the ladies think my flirting is much improved,” he said manfully.

She bit her lip.

He sighed.

“What would you say if I said I still fancy you something rotten?” he asked.

“I’d say that that is very flattering.”

“And would you let me walk you home, when you close up?”

“I live upstairs,” she pointed out.

“I know,” he said suavely, his ears pink.

“Not bad,” she said, smiling. “Not bad at all.”

He raised a challenging eyebrow.

She had rules about these things. No schoolboys, unless they’d finished their N.E.W.T.s.

But he’d left school before that, like Potter.

She looked at the lonely young man and wondered if she’d feel this old if she hadn’t given his father his first handjob.

She leant forward and kissed him gently, gasping as his hand closed on her wrist and he prolonged the kiss. He was sweet and lonely and his girl was on the other side of the world, but she was already dreading speaking to Arthur, and how could she offer her condolences on the loss of his boy if she went any further?

His free hand clumsily touched her breast and she pulled away. He looked bruised and confused and she knew she was right.

“Wait for your girl,” she said, touching his flushed face. “How could you face her if you did something this embarrassing?”

He looked mutinous and she sighed.

“It wouldn’t be right,” she said firmly.

“I’m not too young,” he interrupted.

“Of course not,” she said soothingly.

“And you’re not too old.”

She blinked and he winced.

She decided a half truth would sooth his wounded pride and get her off the hook.

“Your brother,” she said. “He…”

“He’d’ve approved,” he said swiftly. “I’d’ve’d finally impressed him.”

“Not that brother,” she said gently. “But Bill’d’ve impressed him.”

“You and Bill?” he said, wide eyed.

“A long time ago,” she said.

“Wow,” he breathed. “I’d never compare to Bill; it’s embarrassing enough I fancied his wife.”

“I wouldn’t compare you,” she chided. “But you do look just like him.”

He looked pleased.

And awkward and lonely.

“It’s my birthday, today,” she said. “Let’s just think of it as a birthday kiss.”

He looked almost relieved at being offered the get out clause.

“Well, happy birthday, then,” he said.

She kissed him on the cheek and stood up.

“Go home,” she said, nodding at the fireplace.

←♥→

Wednesday, 17th June 1998

Rosmerta is 48

Arthur is 48

Top of the charts : Three Lions ‘98

No more years of hurt
No more need for dreaming

The son had barely whirled out of sight in the fireplace when the door opened and the father trudged in.

Her heart ached.

Arthur was so thin and pale he looked almost transparent.

Strangely, she felt more maternal at the sight than she had while kissing his son.

She met him half way across the room and hugged him, sighing at the sad noise he made and the sharp bones she felt through his summer weight robes.

Leading him to the bar, she sat him down and fetched a bottle of Firewhiskey.

He knocked back a shot, swallowed, shuddered and some colour bloomed in his thin face.

“Oh, you should be taking better care of yourself,” she said, sitting beside him and refilling his glass.

“There’s so much to do,” he said, shrugging helplessly. “I can’t turn them down.”

“You could go home, occasionally,” she said and he blinked at her.

“Been spying on me, Rosie?” he asked.

“I have my sources,” she confirmed. “Your youngest, he needs you, he looks lost.”

“He’s been through so much,” Arthur said. “I don’t know how to reach him.”

“Being there would be a good place to start,” she said. “Go home.”

“I… can’t,” he said faintly. “I can’t face her.”

She felt strangely old and helpless. After thirty years with Molly Prewett, it wasn’t her place to comfort him. She thought of the men she’d slept with over the years, because they were pretty, or had beautiful hands, or she was lonely.

Or they looked just like their father.

She didn’t have the right to take this man to her bed, he should be with the mother of his children. She was pretty sure he hadn’t been unfaithful since she drew that youthful climax from him and rode his clumsy awkward fingers.

She had rules about these things. No married men.

Unless she’d had them first.

Was it really cheating, if she already knew what their face looked like as they came? That was the most intimate part of the act, for her, and if she had seen it before…

She put her hand on his, her thumb curling under his wrist to brush his pulse point.

He watched her circle his wrist with her fingers and stroke him, running her hand slowly up and down, wanking his arm and pushing his sleeve back like a giant foreskin.

His hand curled into a fist and he whispered her name.

“I want to help,” she murmured.

His eyes rose to meet hers and they were clouded with pain, beneath knitted brows.

“I’ve never…” he cleared his throat, nervously. “I never cheated.”

He couldn’t speak his wife’s name.

“This isn’t really cheating,” she said. “We can just finish what we started… haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like.”

He grunted.

“Think how much better it’ll be,” she said, standing and pulling him to his feet. “Now that we know what we’re doing. It’ll be worth the wait.”

She flicked her wand to lock the door and led him upstairs. They were both too old and too tired to fumble in the back room.

In her bedroom, she turned to face him. He looked wary and as easy to startle as a young deer.

She stepped closer and lifted her face to his; automatically, he lowered his head and kissed her. Twenty minutes earlier she’d been kissing his son and they both tasted of her Firewhiskey. But Arthur’s kisses were more confident, his hands at her waist less clumsy.

His hands rose behind her, to unlace her dress and she hummed happily into his mouth, not remotely surprised that he knew how to undress a woman. She wriggled her shoulders and pulled her arms from the sleeves as it pooled around her feet, leaving her in her petticoats. One of his hands slid into her hair as the other cupped her breast, before moving over her belly and between her legs.

She didn’t hold her stomach in, knowing he knew what a woman’s body felt like, and she let go of her final thought of sleeping with his son as he walked her towards her bed.

She lay back and he undressed and joined her, his face buried in her neck, his hand pulling her petticoats up around her waist as he knelt between her parted legs. She cupped the back of his head, her fingers threading through his thinning hair as he touched her, his thumb tracing circles on her clit, his fingers sliding into her.

Too many fingers to be entirely comfortable, but then she hadn’t had seven children.

It was not quite right, no matter how she arched into his hand, mewling, when he hit the spot.

Some men had years of experience, with many women, and could adapt their technique when she gasped; some men had years of experience with their wife, and while devoted to getting her off first, all the moves they knew where what would have their wife shattering under their hands.

Knowing she was not Molly and was not going to get there, she murmured something about it being time and he moved closer, positioning himself at her entrance and sliding inside with a low moan.

She soothed him as he rocked above her, letting him find comfort in her body, entirely aware he needed that comfort from a wife who was in pieces.

“Hush,” she whispered as he cried out with something like pain and spilt himself inside her.

He disentangled himself abruptly and sat up.

“Oh Merlin,” he gasped, looking at her with wide eyes as she smoothed her petticoats down her legs. “Oh, Rosie, what have we done?”

She sighed and sat up.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You just needed to… feel alive?”

“I have to go,” he said, reaching for his robes.

She watched him dress, wishing he didn’t look so disturbed.

“Go home,” she said gently.

←♥→

Tuesday, 17th June 2008

Rosmerta is 58

Bill is 38

He sat at the end of the bar, nursing a Firewhiskey and wondering if he should go home.

He knew it was cowardly; he knew Fleur would practically have smoke pouring out of her ears, by the time he got back, but he just couldn’t face it.

It was bad enough putting their own three to bed, but at least they were all out of nappies and there was some sort of timetable of baths and stories, some sort of expected time at which Fleur would come downstairs and make pointed remarks on his non-participation.

But tonight.

Tonight she was putting six small children to bed, and she would not be using her Veela powers for good when she saw him.

And smelled the whiskey.

He shuddered and drained his glass and waited to catch Rosmerta’s eye for a refill.

He could hardly object to the three small urinators being tucked up together in his spare room, as they were his flesh and blood, too, and at least they were fully human. Hermione was popping out her second, even as he spoke. Drank. And apparently that required Ginny’s presence. Obviously Ron needed Harry to be there.

So Fleur had volunteered to take care of the smallest Weasley and Potters, and Bill had escaped once Rose started crying for her daddy to put her to bed.

He watched Rosmerta smiling and flirting and effortlessly refusing to serve a drunken patron and ushering him out into the twilight. She was fantastic. Nothing Fleur did was effortless, anymore. It was pointed and grudging and resentful.

Rosmerta stopped beside him, with a tray full of dirty glasses, and reached for a bottle of Firewhiskey, to refill his glass.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she said. “I miss there being Weasleys up at the school.”

He laughed. “You’ll be in luck soon,” he said. “We’re breeding the next clutch as fast as we can.”

“How many is it now?” she asked.

“Half a dozen, between us, give or take,” he said. “None of us want a large family, but another one is being born tonight, actually.”

“Tonight?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “You haven’t left your wife giving birth…”

“I’ve left my wife…” He grunted, taking a swallow of his whiskey. “I’ve left my wife babysitting; it’s Ron’s wife in labour. You remember my youngest brother?”

“Of course,” she said blandly, remembering pained blue eyes.

“They’re on their second,” he said. “Have a little girl, called… Rose…”

“A pretty name,” she said.

He blinked at her.

“A pretty name,” he echoed.

“And your wife is looking after her, for the new parents?” she asked.

“Rosie and the two little Potters,” he said.

“And you’re here.”

“And I’m here.”

“I might wonder why,” she said. “If I hadn’t heard every reason under the sun, over the last forty years.”

He snorted.

“Does your wife not understand you, perhaps?” she asked.

“My wife’s French,” he said. “Frenchwomen are very understanding.”

“Like barmaids,” she suggested.

“Oh, if you could just tell her that,” he said, laughing emptily. “Her understanding is so judgemental.”

“And you need to find understanding elsewhere?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes a friendly ear makes all the difference.”

“Tools of my trade,” she said.

“Sometimes there are friendly breasts to sink into.”

“Not anymore,” she said wryly.

“Sometimes I wish a Wizarding marriage had a get out clause, like the Muggles do.”

She nodded sympathetically.

“Which I am sure you have heard before,” he added.

“Oh yes,” she said. “Since before you were born.”

He sighed and finished his drink.

“I should go home,” he said. “My favourite barmaid doesn’t love me, anymore. Neither does my wife, but she’s putting six small children to bed, and she needs to feel martyred at someone, afterwards.”

“You should go home,” she agreed, kissing him on the cheek.

He smiled and touched the spot she had kissed.

“I’m glad you were my first,” he said.

“I’ve heard that before, too,” she assured him.

←♥→

Sunday, 17th June 2018

Rosmerta is 68

Ron is 38

Ron had actually been the Auror called in when they found her body. No suspicious circumstances, as it happened, she just died in her bed and it took the Three Broomsticks being unopened for three days before anyone reported anything.

He told Harry he was going to the funeral as a mark of respect, having been the first on the scene, and Harry hadn’t thought anything of it.

So, here he sat, looking at the shrouded coffin of the woman he’d kissed, so long ago. Looking around the room, as it filled up, his Auror’s eye couldn’t help but notice that there were no women present, just men sidling in, alone, and looking at the coffin with almost identical expressions.

The expression of a man who’d touched those ex-breasts.

Once he realised what he was seeing, he saw it everywhere. Some men nodded uncomfortably at acquaintances, but they sat by themselves and looked past the coffin, into the past.

Wow.

Well, Rosmerta had worked at the Three Broomsticks for fifty years. It was unlikely that he’d been the only bloke she’d kissed, after all.

Only through twenty years of Auror training did he manage to nod solemnly to Bill, frozen in the doorway.

His eldest brother hesitated visibly, before crossing the room and sitting beside him. They made very quiet small talk about the family.

“Why’s it so quiet?” Bill whispered. “I’ve never been to a silent funeral.”

“Think about it,” Ron murmured.

Bill snorted, the noise echoing around the room of contemplative mourners.

“We don’t all have the advantage of hanging out with the Chief Auror,” Bill said.

Ron glared at him.

“Look,” he said. “What d’you see.”

“Mourners,” Bill said.

“Men,” Ron corrected him. “Men, of all ages, who have come by themselves, for a woman who…”

“…helped them come not by themselves,” Bill finished.

Ron nodded significantly.

Bill gazed round the room, trying not to stare at the men who all had one thing in common.

“Charlie never fancied her,” he murmured.

“I rest my case,” Ron said.

Bill turned to face him and blinked him into focus.

“Ron?” he said slowly.

Ron raised an eyebrow.

“How did you work this out?” Bill asked him.

“Highly trained Auror,” Ron said solemnly. “And she turned me down by saying you’d slept with her.”

Bill whistled appreciatively and several nearby men turned their heads to glare at him.

“When was this?” he asked.

“Must be… twenty years ago,” Ron said. “It was after the battle. I kissed her.”

“Shit, Ron,” Bill looked impressed and horrified. “So, d’you reckon every man here kissed her?”

“At least,” Ron said.

“So,” Bill said. “I wonder what all these men told their wives, today.”

Ron grunted.

“What d’you say?” Bill asked him.

“I didn’t,” Ron said. “I was the Auror who found her body.”

“Ah,” Bill said. “I said she was a friend of the family; sometimes it’s useful having a foreign wife.”

Ron’s laughter died in his throat as he looked over Bill’s shoulder and saw the latest mourner, framed in the doorway.

“Bill,” he hissed. “Behind you.”

Bill half turned and looked behind him; turning back to his youngest brother, he smiled at Ron’s stricken face.

“Ah, Dad was her first,” he said.

“What?” Ron croaked. “You… you knew… and you…”

“Relax,” Bill said. “First kiss. They were eight.”

“Bastard,” Ron muttered, as their father joined them.

“Boys,” Arthur said, sitting beside Ron and patting him on the shoulder. “It’s good of you to come, today.”

“Ah, well, you know,” Ron said vaguely, as his brother shrugged. “It was me who found her.”

“Ron, you didn’t say,” Arthur said reproachfully.

“Work stuff,” Ron said.

The brothers’ eyes met over their father’s bent head and they agreed not to say anything to him about their joint experience.

The officiant entered and was standing beside the coffin when Ron heard Bill gasp. Turning his head, he saw a last minute mourner slip in and take a seat at the back of the room.

He gaped at Bill, whose eyes were wide.

“Teddy?” he mouthed.

Bill shrugged.

Ron didn’t listen to the service, aware only of the bizarre link with his father and brother, and dreading seeing Teddy after the funeral. Sure enough, as fifty years worth of men left the hall, returning to wives or girlfriends or cats, Teddy ambled towards them.

“He’s dating my daughter,” Bill hissed to Ron. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Ron muttered. “It can’t be how it looks; pay no attention to my theory, I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Well, I can sleep at night, knowing the community is in such good hands,” Bill said. “Aurors know what they’re talking about, yeah?”

“Hey,” Teddy said as he reached them.

“Hey, Teddy,” Ron said. “What are you doing here?”

Bill snorted.

“It’ll sound weird,” Teddy said, ducking his head and putting his hands in his pockets.

“Try me,” Bill said.

“It was in my dad’s things,” Teddy said. “In an old diary… he… she was his… first, so I thought I should come.”

Three red heads – of varying faded shades that had once been exactly the same bright red - gaped at him.

“It was a really long time ago,” Teddy said earnestly. “You don’t think that’s an inappropriate reason to come, do you?”

←♥→