Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Arthur will talk to Hermione privately (covertly) by the pig pen and explain things and then she will run away and through the door and scream. And you will cry, and fall to the floor and sit and stick your head between your (fat) thighs.
Until then you donít have much. Rather, you believe you have nothing except for your boys. You definitely donít have the weight you lost two years previously, and that is something you miss, because at least then you had an excuse to stand bare-foot in the kitchen and make sandwiches and not do much else except annoy the men about the lack of food they eat and (FUCK) try desperately not to swear and scream them to silence.
And you are (the most sexless person you have ever met) quite lonely.
Graduation is held outside next to the lake. The students throw their hats up in the air and yell and jump and hug each other, then duck when the pointed hats come back down again. You and Arthur take (not so little) Ron and Ginny and Harry and Hermione back to the Burrow.
Thank you for letting me stay here, Molly. Yes, I miss my parents, but itís better theyíre safe. Smile.
You ask Hermione to join you in the kitchen and command Ginny to do the same. Ginny has bleached her hair blonde and covers her face with make-up. Her black eye-liner and eye-shadow is put on so thick you think she looks like a sick panda. You tell her she looks revolting. You miss your little girl. Hermione looks beautiful and fresh.
Iíll knead the dough for the dumplings, then, shall I? Fingers long and soft, splotched with flour, dig into the dough, rub, pinch, flip, deep breath, rip, roll between two palms.
Hermioneís thick brown hair (looks so soft) is tied back. She smiles, you smile. Ginny leaves the kitchen. You serve.
There now, Harry, you eat that all up. I dare say you look frightfully skinny. Ginny, get your elbows off the table. There Arthur, no lumps, just how you like it.
He barely looks in your direction. You havenít spoken since this morning. He gets into bed, rolls over and snores. You get into bed, lie down and think. Your toes are cold and you wish you were sexy and young. You wish you were like Hermione, with her skin soft and her friends true and her hair long. (And her eyes brown and her eyelashes long and her lips plump and slightly parted. And her skin flushed and her skirt swaying in the wind.)
Arthur sometimes wears knee-high white socks but never have they looked sexy like the ones Hermione wears; on hairless skinny legs and your eyes progressing to the skirt and under.
The next day Hermione wears a light purple blouse and jeans. Harry, Ginny and the boys go outside and play Quidditch. Never much liked Quidditch. Nervous laugh, hands clasped behind her back. Do you need any help, around the house, or anything? Iíd love to help.
You lead her to your special room.
Itís your room because none of your boys would want to go near it. They have named it the Sewing Room and you are not oblivious to the way the name sounds: old, stuffy and (sexless, so sexless) motherly. But it really is a beautiful room, with hundreds of different fabrics draped on the tables, chairs, floor and walls. All different colours, textures and sizes. There is so much material here that you could swim through it (naked, the velvet against your breasts and satin pulled between your clenched thighs). Hermione opens her wet mouth wide and takes a deep breath.
She clasps her hands together and grins. Letís make some clothes, anything.
All right, dear, how about for you? (Oh Merlin, wishing for her figure, wear anything and it would look so good.) You show her how to work the one sewing machine, and she goes through the bags of bags of things and she gasps with joy.
Arthur has been at work all day. You and Hermione make dinner once more and this time you do not make Ginny help.
The days continue as follows: you and Hermione take to the Sewing Room in the cold afternoons. Itís in the mornings and mid-day that Hermione leaves you for her friends to go to the creek nearby the house. Itís then you wear your apron and sit and read. Your age is racing high and your children arenít children anymore and your husband barely notices you and your weight loss has made you saggy in places on your body.
Hermione comments on your body late one day in the privacy of the Sewing Room. Was it hard? Because I think you look very beautiful now. Oh, I mean, wellÖ. I like the way you look.
And why donít you try some of these on? She holds up the colourful things you both have made. I bet youíll fit in them fine.
You put them on and she tries things too; fabric of green and black and beige hanging off her thin frame. She strips pieces of blue cotton and ties your hair up into little sections and you laugh with her and you feel young again. Like Ginny, only much, much happier (because Ginny is always miserable).
You (grow down too slow) tie the ribbons on the homemade corset, and as your fingers brush her hot skin you think (girls grow up too fast) about kissing her.
There are two rooms. One of them has Ginny in it, and she is awake but you only find this out later. In another is a big bed with your husband in it.
In the Sewing Room, you and Hermione are kissing. You have slid your hand across her bare, flat belly.
She is (wet, and smells so good) moaning and your pleasure is pulsing hot and tight, licking her here and there, shoulder, neck, breast - nip, suck, lick. She is straddling you, her legs spread apart before you and you feel (so young) the heat spread through your stomach and thighs and pool in your groin. Your fingers are in her warm (tight, slick) entrance and you curl your fingers.
She puts her mouth to yours and pushes her wet tongue inside and it dances with yours. With a thumb you make quick circles around her clitoris and she shudders and sobs.
It happens again the next day, with Hermione wearing a dress you made for her and her mouth is on your left breast. Your hand is under this dress and she comes quickly and moansÖ.
(Itís all a mistake. Tastes like butter, as small as a girlís, far from love, husband in next room. Small and soft and fingers barely fit so tight want more hate it.)
Tongue on your clit and swirling. Thereís tears mixed with your juices. You bend her over the table push as much of your hand in as you can and you (loathe this life) wish for release. There is red felt weaved into her braid and some tied around her ancle. Her breasts are raw and red where youíve squeezed and sucked them. Both holes are stretched and wet from when you entered her so many times on hot afternoons and sleepless nights.
I love you.
I need it.
Let it (never end) be over. If you get caught Ron will hate you both.
Arthur talks to Hermione privately (covertly) by the pig pen and explains things and then she runs away and through the door and screams. And you cry, and fall to the floor and sit and stick your head between your (fat) thighs.
Itís Ginny who hates you the most. Itís Ginny who lies to Arthur in the end.
Hermione is banging on your door. I promise I didnít, I didnít do it sheís lying I love you please open up Molly I would never do that to you please!
Sheís a liar you must believe me. I never did anything with her I only want to be with you.
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