Four Weddings and a Dragon - Charlie Weasley

Chapter 3

Charlie Weasley stood inside his front door, his head bent, his nose touching Hermione Granger's as she agonized over whether or not to leave him there, cross the courtyard, and go cry alone in a strange bunkhouse. But he held her by one wrist and the back of her head, pulling her up and into the balmy, fragrant warmth around his freshly showered self, his hair still dark and damp. His lips were soft but rimmed with rough red stubble as they spoke her name against her mouth.

"Hermione."

Her heart was crashing inside her, her skin electrified, everything in her straining toward him. Still, she held back, waiting for him this time, answering with nothing more than a word, her incantation.

"Charlie."

As her mouth opened to speak it, he was there, kissing her. It was impossible not to, even for Charlie, a man who may have never deliberately made a first move on a witch before, no matter how seduced she might have felt. His name, only half-spoken in her throat became a high, sweet sigh, calling him closer. He released her wrist just to take her by the waist instead.

He had no plan, hardly a thought, but knew he didn't want her to leave. They needed to move away from the door. He stepped backward, pulling her against him as they went, their mouths still connected. She followed without resistance, her eyes closed, mouth open, her hands gripping his shoulders. Even through the thick, soft layer of his dressing gown, his shoulders felt massive, hard, too big from her hands to cover completely. He felt more like Viktor Krum than Ronald Weasley beneath her hands. But of course he was neither. He was Charlie, something like the best of both of them, only just himself.

Doomed -- she was doomed to fall for him.

Then all at once she was falling. In their blind walk backwards, she had stepped in a spot of the greasy balm that had dripped from her hands and onto the smooth wooden floor. She lost her footing and grabbed at Charlie's clothes, pulling his dressing gown completely off one shoulder. He scrambled to keep her upright, but as he adjusted his footing, he stepped into the low stool he had left in front of the bed while applying the balm to her hands. He was tripping as well, breaking the kiss and bracing for impact as they fell onto the bed.

They landed on their sides, facing each other on the soft mattress. Neither of them spoke. Hermione's hand had moved from Charlie's shoulder to the crook of his elbow as she'd pulled at his dressing gown. She moved her head, still cradled in Charlie's palm, to look at her hand on his freckled, brown arm. With her eyes, she followed a line up to his shoulder and down to his bare chest before sucking in a breath and forcing her stare back to his face.

He was watching her with that alluring curiosity of his, and though she knew he wasn't sure what to do with her, she also knew she would accept whatever he offered, here in his bed. She sensed the quick rise and fall of her own chest between them. Self-conscious, she tipped slightly away from him, onto her back.

He followed, hovering over her, not covering up his exposed skin. She bit back his name, aching to say it again, but aware it might sound too much like begging. And she would not beg anyone for anything. Not even him.

He was still exploring, though not quite scientifically. He lowered his face to hers, grazing her cheek with his lips. She dragged her fingertips from his elbow, to his shoulder, up his throat and to his jaw, delicate pressure keeping him close.

He decided, and trailed his lips toward her mouth --

And then the door crashed open. There was a rush of cold evening mountain air and a barrage of high, frantic shouting. Charlie's posture snapped to attention, his dressing gown whipped back in place, both of his feet on the floor. In the doorway stood a tiny, grisled woman, waving her arms and ranting. Her face and limbs were skeletally thin, her head bound with a red and blue kerchief.