"Yes..." she whispered faintly, fingers clutching handfuls of the blanket, white knuckled with terrified anticipation. For most of her teenage years, Hermione had imagined it would be Ron over her – face to face – on a rose petal-strewn bed, with candles flickering dimly about the luxurious room. She had imagined declarations of love, and hours of touching and snogging before they did the deed. She had imagined that the bed would be made with silk sheets and that they would have elegant crystal glasses of wine, and both be freshly scrubbed from the shower. She had imagined nice lingerie, and gentle, cautious, loving touches.