RHr A Second Chance

I must create a system or be enslaved by another mans; I will not reason and compare: my business is to create.
William Blake

I remember I've read sometime ago, here in my friends list page, someone who was saying she knew that artists use almost all the time references and to know them, could finish the magic of an art work.
My opinion is that the problem is not the public to know from where your ideas come from but how to transform these references in something that express so deeply your thoughts, your own style, recreating what was already created and changing it in something new to everybody's eyes.
You won't end the magic if this happens. It will be transformed.

Like I told you sometime ago, I've been working in old fanarts I've started for some scenes of an specific chapter of Redblaze(or Bluerain)'s More than Memories(for a while now ), and it's being hard to finished them because, apart from real life's problems, new ideas are always coming to my mind and I'm always putting the old projects aside. But this time, the idea for a new fanart that came to me was for this same chapter and I had it while I was reading a "Rolling Stones" magazine few months ago and I've watched a jeans advertising.

And today I'm showing to you how Calvin Klein helped me to make this Ron and Hermione's moment comes alive.
I hope you like it.

"Dinner had gone well, though Hermione was concerned to see that Harry looked decidedly uncomfortable and miserable. She’d asked him several times if he was okay, and he’d assured her that he was and had visibly paled when Hermione had offered to help heal whatever injury was bothering him.

She’d dropped it soon after, but she had to admit she was relieved Ginny had left with him. It was obvious something was bothering him and Ginny, caring for children the way she did was sure to be well versed in magical medicine.

It had been so wonderful having Ginny around again. She had forgotten just how nice it was to have an old friend in her life. Someone who had known her when she had been happy; when she had been truly whole. Ginny's personality was so large that it had filled up the entire flat, and now that both she and Harry were gone, the flat felt cold and noticeably empty. She and Ron had put on a cloak of subtle pleasantry for their dinner guests, but that cloak was gone and in its place was a rigidity so solid that it all but choked the oxygen from the room.

Hermione had immediately taken Philip to have a bath and get him ready for bed, while Ron did the dishes and straightened up. It really was amazing how well she and Ron were able to behave like complete and total strangers in her small flat. They didn’t speak a word to each other until long after Philip had gone to sleep, and then Hermione only caught his attention long enough to tell him she’d put a fresh pillowcase on his pillow and laundered his blanket.

Then Hermione had lay in bed staring at the ceiling until long after Ron had stopped rattling around the flat. She had never experienced tension even remotely close to what she and Ron were caught up in now. It was so thick in the air, one could almost cut it with a knife and she had absolutely no idea how to dispel it. If only they weren’t trapped together in her flat, they could get a little distance from one another and properly think about their situation. But after discovering Malfoy’s cronies had been murdered in their cells, Harry had assigned Ron to her, changing Ron’s status from reconnaissance to security despite Hermione’s rather colourful arguments against it.

Ron was actually being paid to hang around and stress her out to the point that she found herself considering some sort of Nerve Calming Potion just to tolerate him. She felt as if she might jump out of her skin, she was that tense around him. Even now, when he was sleeping, just knowing he was just outside her door caused her stomach to jolt.

She was still laying in bed, not the least bit sleepy, and far too distracted to bother reading when she started to hear moans coming from the living room. She may have let it go, having the fleeting thought that Ron best not be wanking in her living room, when she heard him shout in terror. She bolted out of bed on instinct, not even bothering with a dressing gown as she dashed into the living room.

Ron lay on the couch, the blanket Hermione had given him kicked to the floor as he tossed and mumbled in his sleep. His chest was bare; the hard, muscled skin of his upper torso pale and glowing under the faint rays of moonlight that filtered into the room from the uncovered glass doors to her balcony. A deep frown marred his forehead and despite all the heartache, Hermione ached to reach out and smooth the unnatural line with her fingers. She didn’t know what had caused the nightmare he was currently battling, but it didn’t matter. The urge to pull him out of a horror that seemed to get worse with each raspy breath he took became overwhelming.

“Ron,” she whispered, leaning over to lightly touch his shoulder. “Ron, wake up.”

He swatted her hand away roughly, mumbling a harsh, particularly vulgar word under his breath. Hermione bit at her lip. She didn’t want to startle him, but she couldn’t just stand there and watch him suffer.

She leaned over him and brushed the sweaty fringe off his forehead in the same way she would have done for Philip. “Shhh, love, it’s just a dream,” she breathed into his ear. “Come on, Ron. . . Wake up for me.”

Hermione gasped when Ron jerked under her and his hand shot up and gripped her wrist, squeezing it painfully. He pulled her forward and suddenly she was flattened awkwardly against Ron’s bare chest, feeling the heat of his skin and the rapid thumping of his heartbeat through her thin nightdress.

Hermione let out a cry of pain when his other hand fisted in her hair, jerking her head back. She found herself face to face with Ron’s piercing blue eyes, still wild from whatever dream he’d been having. Thankfully, he recovered quickly, and Hermione could see realization dawn on him as his grip on her hair loosened.

“Hermione. . . wha?” Ron said, letting go of her hair and rubbing a hand tiredly over his face. “What are you doing here?”

“You were having a nightmare,” she whispered, still too stunned to move off him. “I was trying to wake you up.”

He stared at her, his eyes so vivid in the darkness, but the emotions swirling in them were impossible to read. His face was just inches from hers and that tension Hermione had noticed before seemed to multiply a thousand fold almost instantly. His breathing was harsh and shallow and Hermione found that her own breath seemed to be trapped in her chest. She was acutely aware of his body beneath hers, the feel of her breasts crushed against his hard, muscled chest. Much to her dismay, a rush of need flowed over her, pooling at her center.

Ron’s eyes was still boring into hers, making her feel as if her most secret desires were laid out on the table and she anxiously shifted her hips to still the ache between her legs. A gasp slipped past her lips when she felt the evidence of Ron’s desire hard against her thigh. Her eyes grew wide, and she was surprised when Ron didn’t give her any reaction. He didn’t show the slightest sign of being embarrassed. Once again, that brought home to Hermione just how very little she knew about the man beneath her. The Ron she remembered would have blushed crimson at such blatant evidence of his arousal being discovered.

“Ron?”

Her voice was nothing but a raspy whisper, yet she found herself unable to look away from the indigo gaze that had haunted her dreams for longer than she could remember.

He didn’t speak, didn’t even give her the slightest indication that he had heard her as his gaze raked over her face, stopping to rest on her lips. Feeling like she was trapped in a dream of her own fevered making, Ron’s hands reached up to cup her face, and then suddenly his mouth was on hers, a stark contrast to his fingers’ gentle caress against her cheeks--his mouth conquered. His lips were hard and searching as his tongue thrust past her lips, muffing her gasp of shock.

There was a cruel ravishment to his kiss—It both punished and inflamed. Hermione’s heart jolted, her pulse pounded, and she tried to throttle the dizzying current flowing through her. She didn’t want to respond when he was still so very angry with her. She didn’t want to feel that drugging white-hot fire that shot through her body as his mouth moved over hers as though it belonged to him.

She just couldn’t help herself.

Hermione moaned and moved against him. Her body seemed to have a mind of it’s own as she responded, kissing him back with every bit the intensity he had shown her. Their tongues brushed, a fierce battle for control and she savored the victory as her tongue finally swept into his mouth, drinking in the heady taste of mint and tobacco, which shouldn’t be sexy, but for some reason it was.

His hair felt so good against her fingers as they intertwined in the fiery locks, gripping roughly, as she too sought to punish for the heartache that he was putting her through. Even now, when she was on fire for him, it lingered, a dull ache in her chest over what could have been yet wasn’t any more.

“Oh fuck, Hermione,” Ron rasped, his mouth breaking free from hers as his head tossed back against the pillow she’d given him. “Christ, why? Why do I still want you?”

His words were sharp and accusatory, as though she’d done something terribly wrong. She should be angry with him, but she wasn’t. His heavy voice, full of lust and desire only fueled her. Her lips descended onto his neck, licking at the curve of it, tasting the faint saltiness that she could only associate with Ron. A side of her she hadn’t know existed until that moment, reveled in the fact that even though Ron may hate her, he couldn’t stop wanting her. Maybe her conversation with Ginny had had more of an impact on her than she’d originally thought, because at that moment there was a blossoming, vindictive side of Hermione that wanted Ron literally begging for her.

“This changes nothing,” she breathed against his ear, wanting it known that though she wanted him too; she refused to sacrifice her pride for him. “I’m still not marrying you.”

“We’ll just see about that,” Ron said, sounding entirely too confident.

Her anger flared at his audacity, and she would have called him on it and pointed out what a barbaric prat he was being, but his hands in her hair tugged hard before she could respond, forcing her mouth to his and swallowing any protests.

He may be a prat, but he certainly could kiss. It didn’t matter that if it was in love or anger, he still stole her thought and made the ache between her legs impossible to ignore. She wasn’t going to begin to understand Ron’s motivations in this, but she’d been lonely for so long, and despite the heartache, he was still the only man she’d ever desired like this. She’d like to have thought she was capable of being cunning like Ginny had suggested, of seducing Ron into being kind to her once more, but she’d only be lying to herself. She only had one reason for being straddled over him, her body moving against his in way that would have been much more than snogging if they didn’t have clothes on—She wanted Ron Weasley and no amount of hurt could stop it..."

This drawing is a handmade work (NO photoshop) in a Canson 180gr A4 size paper using gouache, watercolor dry pencils and collage.

The full chapter here:

[link]