A bonus story for the fest! I didn’t have time to finish this during the fest period, so I’m exercising my power as a mod to post it now :)
It’s bit a more flangst than pure fluff, so I hope you all enjoy it!
Title: A Small Gesture
Creator: @honouraryweasley12
Prompt: “It’s all under control”
Description: In the weeks following Ron’s return, a small gesture might help him to repair his relationship with Hermione.
Rating: PG
The exhilaration of their near escape from the Lovegoods had all but faded, replaced by the dreary, damp days of late winter. The grey stillness weighed on them all, the days unchanged from one to the next as the weeks dragged on, no end in sight to their perilous mission.
Ever since he’d returned, he tried his best to be positive and do as much as he could to help Harry and Hermione. To prove that he could be of value to their efforts.
If he was being honest, things looked bleak, even to him. Harry’s obsession with the Hallows clashed with Hermione’s insistence that the Horcruxes should be their focus. The tension between them was palpable, and he was truly stuck in the middle—maybe for the first time since they’d become friends.
When he’d destroyed the locket, Harry had said that there were days when he and Hermione had barely even spoken to one another, and they’d seemingly fallen into that pattern again, being on opposite sides of a crucial argument. It was a far cry from the nightmares that had plagued him while at Shell Cottage, of their love blossoming while he was absent.
He didn’t want to go against either of them, even though he was leaning towards Hermione’s viewpoint… And it wasn’t because of how he felt about her.
Could it be that they really did need him? He’d wrestled with that question in those fitful mornings at his brother’s place, the darkness in his thoughts occasionally interrupted by the crashing of waves on the seaside.
Ron shook his head, pushing away those thoughts. He was back with his friends, and he was determined to help. He’d even found himself taking a leadership role, desperately trying to find something, anything, to move their mission along.
He’d been the one to get away for a bit and clear his head, after all. His two best friends hadn’t had that luxury, and they seemed worn down. It was time for him to pick up the slack.
The only advantage of the rift between Harry and Hermione was that it gave Ron time and space to try and repair the tattered bonds of his relationship with Hermione. He was pleased to note that by taking her side, which he also believed was the right one, some of the anger she held toward him had abated.
Hermione had expressed her private frustrations at the likelihood of the Hallows being anything but a fairy tale, and Ron had agreed, while trying not to make it look like he was taking sides. If he took a stronger position, he knew Harry would feel like the two were ganging up on him and would shut them out even more.
Ron looked over at this mate, who was sleeping fitfully, clutching the invisibility cloak in his hands. He’d kicked off his coverings earlier. As the black-haired teen tossed and turned, Ron could see that Harry’s face was screwed up tightly. Walking over, he pulled Harry’s blanket up and tucked it around him, just like his mum used to do.
He sat there for a few moments, his presence calming his friend, until Harry’s breathing finally evened out and he stilled, his features relaxing. Harry whispered something which sounded suspiciously like his sister’s name, which Ron chose to ignore.
Ron silently stood up. Now that one friend was settled, it was time to check on his other best friend, though that title seemed rather paltry compared to how he really felt about her.
She was on watch, just outside of the tent. The overcast day had settled into an early evening of sporadic showers and gusts of wind, making for an uncomfortable experience. Ron knew it would just get worse overnight, which is why he’d volunteered to take the next shift. That way, Harry and Hermione would be able to avoid the foulest conditions.
Ron pushed aside the opening flap, shivering from the sudden chill, and peered out. He took the rare opportunity to just watch her for a moment. There were times when he was gone that he didn’t think he’d have such an opportunity again.
It was still bright enough that he could see her huddled against a tree, reading. She was a grey lump, but there was a girl in there somewhere. Wrapped in a blanket, her knees were pulled up to her chest, weakly shielding her from the elements. The occasional burst of wind would wreak havoc with her bushy hair, which was as thick and long as he’d ever seen it.
Her cheeks were pink and her hair wild, but she was beautiful in his eyes. He was used to the pounding in his chest when he saw her, but it had somehow become deeper when the Deluminator’s light had brought him back to her.
He grinned as the breeze pushed a strand of hair into her mouth, causing her to cough and sputter. A sudden thought struck him, and he turned back into the tent. Scrounging around his bed, he found his battered rucksack and stuck a long arm in, careful not to make any noise and wake Harry. He finally located the small items and clutched them in his hand, proud that he had the foresight to get them.
He took a deep breath before venturing outside, unsure of how Hermione would react to his offering. Though they seemed to be in a better place, he knew she was a long way from truly forgiving him.
He stood over her for a moment, his shadow falling across her page. “Mind if I sit?”
She shook her head no, her nest of hair even messier up close.
He crouched down and splayed out, their shoulders touching as the wind swirled around them.
She spoke out a minute later, her voice hoarse from a lack of use as her eyes rapidly scanned the book in front of her. “How’s Harry?”
Ron pushed down a pang of jealousy. He knew Harry’s feelings toward Hermione, but he still feared that Hermione may feel differently. “He’s alright, settled down into a nap.”
“Good. Did he say anything about the Hallows?”
“Nah, but he was keeping the cloak close.”
Hermione grunted. “We need to do something, Ron.”
“It’s why I’ve been trying to find the next Horcrux. I’m hoping it’ll force him to forget about the Hallows, for a little while at least.”
She nodded, before pushing her hair out of her face and returning to her book.
Ron shifted onto his knees on the damp ground, so that he was to her side.
“I have something for you.”
Hermione looked over at him for the first time since he’d ventured to her spot. “For me?”
“Yes, for you. Who else?”
Her face remained impassive.
“Hold out your hand.”
She gave him an odd look, before fishing her hand out from underneath the covering and sticking it out in front of him, palm up.
He stared at it, before reaching up and grasping the underside, as if his hand had a mind of its own. She gasped quietly.
Ron continued looking at his hand, holding onto hers. “Your hand is cold.”
“Yours is warm,” she said, the slight tremor in her voice causing him to meet her eyes.
He cleared his throat. “Right. I got you these.”
Ever so slowly with his other hand, he stretched out a plain black hair tie and slid it around her fingers, gently pushing it up. His fingers brushed her finger tips, then her palms, before he paused, the thin rubber resting on her wrist.
“What are you—”
He repeated the action again, this time with a second hair tie, which was purple and slightly thinner than the previous one.
“I’ve seen you do this a thousand times. I know you like to keep two hair ties here, in case you need one, and a spare of course.”
She blushed. “I never knew you kept such a close eye on me.”
He shrugged, his casual demeanor betraying the loud thumping of his heart in his chest. “Kinda hard not to.”
“What do you mean?”
Emboldened by the question, he carried on. “Well, I notice a lot about you. Probably more than anyone. Y-You mean a lot to me.”
“Oh.”
She stared at her wrist for a moment, taking in the sight of the gesture. His hand was still holding hers, warming it up. She looked back up at him.
“Where did you get these?”
“I got them when I… I was away. I asked Fleur for them, hoping I’d have a chance to give them to you. I guess she always keeps a bunch handy, ‘cause Bill steals them.”
Ron spotted the sudden frown on Hermione’s face.
“Fleur’s actually quite decent, in a sisterly way.”
Her lips twitched and turned slightly upward. Ron knew it was the right thing to say to alleviate her fears.
“That was nice of her, but I could have just conjured some.”
“You said you didn’t want to do magic for frivolous things. I know you misplaced your last one months ago.”
“You remember me saying that?”
“Of course. Like I said, I do pay attention to what you say… Even if you think I don’t.”
A sudden gust of wind again caused Hermione to sputter from the long brown locks landing on her lips.
Ron showed her that he had one more hair tie, a navy blue one. “May I?”
Hermione’s eyes bugged out of her head, as she bit her bottom lip nervously. “I… I guess.”
He gestured for her to scoot forward so that he could sit behind her. She stared up at him, indecision plastered on her face.
“Don’t you trust me? I promise I won’t mess it up.”
She nodded, her lips pressed together, and moved forward. He awkwardly stepped in behind her and slid down. His back was now against the tree, and she was leaning lightly against his chest, the layers of clothing and jackets acting as a barrier. Despite that, it was the most intimate moment they’d shared since his return.
“This… This alright?” He asked, his voice low.
“Yes.”
Her words betrayed the tenseness of her body.
After a moment, Ron’s fingers began running through her hair, tentatively at first, but then with more confidence as he combed out some of the tangles. He was almost holding his breath in that moment, his concentration deep in the task at hand. He held the strands with such reverence and treated them as gently as he could.
“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed, shifting around. “My hair must terribly dirty! I’m sorry, I didn’t even think of it. I haven’t taken care of it in forever. Ron, you can stop—”
“It’s fine, I really don’t mind.” His voice a bit shaky. His hands slid down to her shoulders for a moment, stilling her fears before returning to the task at hand.
He continued combing through her hair. He felt her relax against him, and couldn’t help but smile, careful to contain his giddiness. As he gently massaged her scalp, the wind carried away her groan.
“Where did you learn to do this?”
His breath was hot against her ear. “Dunno, never done it before. Mum used to ask me to comb Ginny’s hair when she was busy, but every time I tried, she threatened to tell the twins to prank me so I never did it.”
Hermione let out a quiet chuckle at the antics of the Weasley family. It was the first time he’d heard her laugh in ages.
“You’re good at this.”
“Thank you. Must be a natural talent.”
“Whatever it is, keep going.”
“I wonder if it’s because…” He trailed off, afraid he might say something that would jeopardize the moment.
“Because?”
He blushed and continued.
“Maybe it’s because it’s your hair. It was one of the first things I ever noticed about you. I always thought it was cool. There you were, a little perfectionist, and yet your hair was always a bit wild and out of control. Anyway, I’ve always liked it.”
“Thank you, Ron. And I was not a little perfectionist.”
Ron snorted. “Ha! Perfect clothes, perfect grades, and of course, as Flitwick once said, perfect attitude and acumen.”
She genuinely laughed, warming Ron’s heart. “I was so different back then.”
“Not really. You just apply your perfectionism in different ways now.”
“I am far from perfect, Ron.”
“Maybe to some.”
His daring words hung in the air as he tucked some of the long strands behind her ears, before gently tugging the mass of bushy brown hair backwards, gathering it behind her shoulders in a bundle. His fingertips brushed the sides of her neck, causing her to shiver.
“Cold?”
“No.”
He stretched out the blue elastic tie, securing her hair and finally getting it out of her eyes. He did one last check, letting his fingers linger against her neck for a moment. His hands found her shoulders and rested there again, slowly rubbing up and down.
“There, it’s all under control.”
She reached up and gently patted her hair, before her hand found his, giving him a gentle squeeze.
They didn’t need words to communicate everything that was going on between them. It was a game they’d been playing for years and they were both excellent at it. After a few moments, the breeze began to pick up, swirling around the two cuddled up teenagers. The cold wind stung their exposed cheeks, causing them to get even closer.
Ron cleared his throat and whispered in her ear. “As much as I hate to move, why don’t you head into the tent? I’ll start my watch early.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. You’re cold and I want to warm you up. I… I mean I want you to warm up.”
Ron silently rebuked himself for his mistake, fearing he’d just ruined all the progress they’d made. He felt rather than heard her giggles, which filled him with a sense of relief. He was quite sure he resembled a tomato.
He reluctantly untangled his long limbs, giving her space to get up. She did so slowly, handing him the blanket and standing over him for a moment.
She brushed a hand through his fiery red hair, letting it linger briefly, before bending down and kissing him on the cheek. It was like fifth year before his first Quidditch match—though quite a bit closer to the corner of his mouth this time. “I notice a lot about you, too… And I’m glad you’re back. Good night, Ron.”
Despite the stunned look on his face, he managed to reply. “Good night, Hermione. Sweet dreams.”
As the night closed in around him, his smile failed to falter. He thought about how low he’d been a couple of months before, stuck at Shell Cottage with only his guilt. One of his countless ideas to get back to them was to send his Patronus, but as much as he tried, his heart was simply too broken to produce anything but some faint silver wisps.
As he touched that sacred spot on his cheek where her lips had touched him, he realized he’d be able to conjure his feisty little terrier at the drop of a hat, knowing that he still had a chance with the girl who was his everything.
Description: Ron and Hermione practice calling each other (missing moments set during POA through summer of GoF)
Easter Break was just around the corner, and it was not a minute too soon. Hermione was happy to have a time turner free week, as well as have her two best friends back in her life. She needed them now more than ever, as the pressures of her class schedule was starting to wear on her in little ways she had not even considered. She knew she hadn’t actually aged all that much, really, but somehow felt old and creaky anymore. Next to the Gryffindor fireplace she was longing for a nap, but something warmed her through far better than any fireplace could.
Ron had just walked into the Common Room and made a beeline for her, a lopsided grin gracing his freckled face.
“Mum sent Easter gifts. You got one too,” Ron said, handing her a wrapped package, the paper covered in little finely drawn quills.
“That was nice of her,” Hermione smiled, ripping into the paper much more delicately than Ron. Inside was a large chocolate egg with a hand-piped orange cat on it. She would have pointed out out the cute cat, but she had been avoiding mentioning Crookshanks in front of Ron the past few weeks. She was so happy for them to be on speaking terms again she was willing to never speak of her cat again.
“Well?” said Ron through a mouthful of chocolate. “You should eat some. You’ve had a tough week,”
It had indeed been a tough week. She’d slept through a Charms class, slapped Draco Malfoy, and even quit Divination. Ron had said he thought she was cracking up, and she wasn’t so sure he was wrong. He happily tucked in to his Easter egg before he took out a great deal of paperwork.
“What are you studying? Perhaps we can work on it together,” Hermione offered, breaking off a small piece of chocolate to nibble.
“It’s Buckbeak’s appeal. Wanted to send it off before the break,” he said, carefully writing something on it. She’d never seen his penmanship look more legible. Something about this made a tiny thrill rush through her.
“Yes. That’s a very good idea,” she said, feeling herself flush.
“You doing alright?” Ron asked, looking up from his neat papers.
“Oh yes! Yes I’m fine!” she said, leaning over to look through her book bag. Cheering charms. That’s what she needed to study. They spent the next twenty or so minutes in silence as each saw to their own tasks. She didn’t mind the quiet when it was her and Ron together. Harry was away at Defense lessons with Lupin, leaving just the two of them together. The companionship Ron provided was always welcome, though. Any time he was near her she felt just a little more capable, a little lighter, and a little more calm. It was no wonder she had been falling apart so much this year. She’d had to spend months out of his, and Harry’s, company. If it weren’t for that, she was certain her very busy schedule would not have made her so overwrought. Harry was nice to hang out with as well, but he just wasn’t quite the same as Ron.
“And… I think that’s done then,” Ron beamed looking down at his work. “Hermione, you mind looking this over?”
“Of course not,” she smiled back. She read page after page where Ron cited prior cases similar to Buckbeak’s, cited formal texts on Hippogriff behavior, and had many witness statements regarding Buckbeak’s behavior both before and after Malfoy’s run-in with the beast. It was more meticulously done than any paper of his she’d ever read.
“This is very good, Ron.”
“You think so?” he hopefully asked.
“I know so. If this doesn’t get Buckbeak cleared it’s due to pure malice on the part of the committee.”
“Good! I’ll ask Harry if I can borrow Hedwig after his lesson with Lupin,” said Ron, leaning back in his seat and putting his hands behind his head. “Don’t have any work due til after break! Mind you, my hand’s so cramped from writing the appeal, I don’t think I could do homework right now if I tried.”
“Would you mind showing me your notes from Charms?” Hermione asked. She’d missed Cheering Charms and knew they would show up on the exam. Ron quickly got them out, and she noticed they were a bit more detailed than usual. He’d done the same thing when she’d been in the hospital wing the prior year. His notes were inconsistent in quality until either she or Harry were absent- then suddenly his notes would look almost as detailed and neat as her own. They’d always had the odd doodle in them, so in some ways she preferred his notes. She found the funny little sketches to remind him of certain movements of the wand, and little notes Harry highly entertaining. She never told Ron this, of course, otherwise he’d never stay on task in class.
“Thank you.”
Ron took a large bite of his chocolate egg and seemed to be preoccupied.
“Y’know, this is the third Easter Harry’s been here, and that pissant ‘family’ or his never sends him so much as one letter,” he said, wadding up the wrapping paper from his egg and tossing it into the fire.
“Well… That’s not unusual for them, is it? They don’t give him real presents for birthdays or Christmas either.”
“Not even one bleeding letter! It’s ridiculous!” said Ron crossing his arms. “I wish I had an owl of my own so I could write him more often this summer.”
“Maybe we could try calling again?”
“After what happened last time on that fellytone thing? I flummoxed it up so badly, I think that fat uncle of his would have a coronary if I called. Worse, he might just put bars on Harry’s windows again.”
“Oh don’t!” Hermione cried out, not wanting to even think about how horrid Harry relatives were. “Those people are such monsters. It’s a miracle Harry turned out as well as he did.”
“Yeah…” Ron said looking down. “Well, I’m hoping to get Harry out of there early this summer, if I can.”
Hermione smiled. She loved how quick Ron was to find ways to help Harry out. Then a little thought began to form at the back of her mind.
“Ron… I was thinking. Maybe we can practice phone calls this summer,” said Hermione, eyes suddenly bright.
“Like I said, I don’t want to get Harry in trouble. That Uncle of his–”
“No no. Not You and Harry. You and me.” Before Ron could put forth any reservations, Hermione quickly went on. “It would be purely for getting better at calling people! Who knows, maybe Harry’s relatives will let him have a phone call. Either way, it would be good to practice. Who knows if you’ll need to call someone in the future.”
Yes. It was purely for practical reasons she wanted to practice phone call with Ron, and not at all because she would love to hear his voice over the summer.
“You don’t need to sell me on it,” Ron said with a laugh. “I can walk down to the village again. It’ll give me a chance to get out of the house without my whole family breathing down my neck.”
Hermione beamed, somehow looking forward to a phone call that was months away, even though Ron was right beside her.
____
Ron kicked a pebble along the dirt road as he made his way to the village of Ottery St. Catchpole. He’d been down the road hundreds of times at this point, but had never felt quite so nervous before. He wasn’t sure why he was so filled with nerves. It was just a phone call, and it was just to Hermione. He talked with her all the time at school, and wrote to her more often than he cared to admit to his family. When he’d told his mum he needed to go to the village to call Hermione his mum had insisted he bring a basket to pick up a few things from the farmer’s market around the corner. He was glad to have this as an excuse to give his siblings. He knew they would tease him for calling Hermione, just as they teased him for everything else.
Ron spotted the family pub just down the street and popped in, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans.
“Excuse me,” Ron said, giving a small wave to the same bartender who had been there last summer. “Is your felltone- I mean— er— telephone available for a call?”
“We ‘ave the same phone booths as last time you was ‘ere,” the older heavyset man said, giving a nod to the set of phone booths at the far end of the pub. They each had old-timey phones in them, according to his father, making it a bit of a tourist attraction. And they were free, which made them a lot more attractive to Ron. Ron had been screaming into one of the phones last summer, so it was no surprise that the gruff man remembered him so sourly.
“They’s for payin’ customers only, though.”
“Right…” Ron said, sorting through the cash his mother had given him. “You have anything cold to drink? Butterbeer?”
Ron winced the moment it was out of his mouth. Butterbeer was a wizard drink! Why was he so bad at this? The barkeep’s red face scrunched up into a frown.
“Think you’re funny? I ain’t givin’ you no beer.”
“Er, whatever’s cheapest then,” Ron said with a shrug. The man rolled his eyes and took out a long snake-like tube and pressed a button, filling a glass with bubbly water the color of coffee. Ron thanked him and shakily doled out change. The man seemed impatient and Ron nearly dropped all the wonky coins he was so nervous. He managed alright, though, and finally made his way to the line of phones, fizzy drink in hand. He fumblingly got Hermione’s letter out of his jeans pocket and scanned it for her phone number. Dialing was an arduous process, and the phone’s dial tone was obnoxious to listen to as he turned the dial for each number. Her number had three nines in it, making it even worse to dial on the wheel of numbers. And then it was ringing. He took a nervous sip of the drink and nearly gagged at the overly sweet taste of it.
“Hello?” said a voice clear as a bell. Hermione!
“Pshlab,” Ron let out with a gagging noise.
“Hello?”
“Sorry!” Ron said rather loudly into the phone, before forcing himself to lower his voice. “Sorry. Had to buy one of those muggle drinks to get to use their phone. It tastes awful!”
“Ron! I’m so glad you called!”
He could practically hear her smile over the phone. Even with the bartender glaring at him, and the prospect of the twins teasing him about the phone call, he couldn’t help but smile back.
———————————————————————————————–
Hermione had been worried about their first phone call, as Ron’s previous experience with phones had gone so poorly, but it had gone very smoothly. She had given him fair warning not to yell into the set, and conversation seemed to flow just as easily over the phone as it had back at Hogwarts. He didn’t need to practice after the first call, but somehow Hermione didn’t want their phone calls to end. Ron didn’t seem to want their phone calls to stop either. A few times a week Ron would hoof it to the village to call Hermione, and tired of the teases from her parents as she tied up the downstairs line, she took the phone from the guest room to her own bedroom. Her mother caught her as she was carrying the phone, its long springy cord trailing behind her on the floor.
“Where are you taking the guest phone?”
Hermione blushed.
“I didn’t want to make my phone calls to Ron downstairs. There’s always noise of some sort, and it’s quieter up here, but more comfortable in my own room. I didn’t need a phone until now, and it’s not like any guests are using it, so I decided to borrow it for the summer. If that’s ok, of course. Sorry I didn’t ask,” Hermione babbled.
“You’re at the age where you’re having long calls with boys. Oh dear!” her mother teased, making Hermione blush harder.
“It’s not boys. It’s only Ron,” Hermione muttered.
“You write him so often, I didn’t think you’d keep up with the phone calls too,” her mother noted.
Hermione really could have stopped writing Ron, but there was something fun about doing both, then talking about the letter they received. She thought they might have nothing to talk about, but they actually had loads. Each phone call was getting longer and longer. That was why she wanted to do it in privacy as well. Her father would look at her, point at his watch, then continue to walk by.
“Well… It’s ok for me to take the phone, then?” Hermione hopefully asked.
“Of course. Just do it when your father’s out. We still only have one line, and he gets nervous when the line is tied up for too long.”
Hermione beamed, and ran the rest of the way to her room. She could have her phone calls with Ron and have them in private now.
Their next phone call was just as pleasant as ever, and Hermione found it so much more relaxing to lay on her bed as she talked to Ron. She could just imagine him there beside her as they talked, and a rush of girlish giggles making their way out of her mouth at the thought.
“You know what, at first I thought they’d be barmy, but I actually like telephone calls!” Ron said into the receiver. “I just wish I could see you, though. That makes Floo calling a bit better.”
Hermione beamed and wrapped the cord around her finger.
“Oh! We could see each other! Let’s practice Floo calls! I’ve never done one, and I don’t want to be the only witch at Hogwarts who doesn’t know how.”
Ron fell silent a moment.
“Well… The telephone calls are private…” he said, suddenly not sounding very enthusiastic. Was she that bad to look at? Or did he not want anyone to know they were talking?
“Oh… Well, if you don’t want to.”
“Oh I do! I really do,” Ron said fervently. “It’s just… They would be in the middle of our house, and I it’s so mad around here we’d barely be able to talk.”
“I understand,” Hermione said, unable to completely hide her disappointment.
“You know what? Let’s do it. But it’ll have to be after everyone goes to bed, otherwise it’ll be nothing but the twins and everyone else butting in. We can even do it tonight, if you like. You’re already connected to the Floo network for when you come here next week. I can send Pig with some powder and you can try your hand at it. Around eleven?”
“Ok then! It’s a date!” Hermione let out, excitement making her wiggle in place.
“Er yeah! It’s a— yeah see you at eleven!” Ron said back. With that their phone call ended, and Hermione, for the first time she could think of, started to worry about what she should wear and what she should do with hair. She hadn’t seen Ron in nearly two months, and didn’t want to look poorly for him… Perhaps she should plait her hair? Should she still be dressed in her normal clothes? Or as it would be so late at night would it be more natural to have her pajamas on?
———————————————————————————————
Ron had sent Pig to Hermione’s earlier that day, but Pig hadn’t gotten back yet. Perhaps Hermione had borrowed him to send something to Harry? He hoped Hermione had gotten the powder alright. It was only a few minutes to eleven, and Ron couldn’t stop himself from pacing the floor. He wasn’t sure if he should wear his normal clothes or not, given the late hour, but thought he looked more presentable in them than his tatty pajamas. Percy had given him a pair of rarely worn jeans that fit alright, so he decided to wear that and a t-shirt that almost fit right, even though it was a bit tighter through the shoulders than it had been earlier that year.
Right at eleven the fire grew and sparked a bit.
“Ron?” He heard Hermione’s voice say through the fire.
“Yeah, I’m here!” Ron said, sitting down on the ground with his legs crossed. “You can put your head through, if you like.”
“Are you… Are you sure it’s safe?” Hermione said, sounding nervous. Ron chuckled a bit at Hermione being nervous about something. She was always such a little firebrand about things, so it was almost cute to hear her fret about something so common place to him.
“I promise, it’s as safe as a phone call,” he said, trying to hold his laughter as bay. He did his best to not laugh or tease people brought up with Muggle things when it came to new experiences in the Wizard world. Merlin knew he was clueless enough at Muggle things, so he tried to be as patient and aware as he could. He’d felt awful guilty the times he’d overlooked informing Harry or Hermione about something they should know.
The flames danced brightly for a bit, then Hermione’s face came through the flames, her prominent top teeth biting her lip.
“Oh!” she let out nervously. “This is so strange! Can you see me?”
“Yeah, I can see you,” Ron said with a smile. “You can see me too, yeah?”
She nodded before letting out a laugh.
“It doesn’t even feel warm. It’s so odd! I can’t believe it. It feels the same temperature as the rest of my house! I was worried it’d burn my hair, but it hasn’t.”
He could see her wild hair was plaided down the side of her head. It looked different than usual. He preferred it when her hair was all over the place, but wasn’t about to tell her this. In fact, she looked a bit different all over her head. Her eyebrows were a little thinner, and her eyes somehow looked a bit bigger?
“Your eyelashes look different,” he noted.
“Oh!” It was hard to tell in the flames, but Hermione’s tan skin looked a touch darker on her cheeks. “Well… I tried to… My mum gave me some mascara…”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a sort of… A sort of makeup that girls put on their eyelashes.”
“Why?”
“To make the eyelashes longer and darker.”
“Oooh. Do they make that for guys? Half the time I think I look like I don’t have eyelashes at all,” Ron said with smile, fluttering his light lashes at her. Hermione laughed at this and whatever was making her nervous seemed to dissipate.
Their Floo call was going quite well, and they’d been talking for well over an hour when Ron heard a scream on the other end of the Floo and Hermione’s eyes went wide.
“Oh! Mum! It’s fine!” Hermione cried out, pulling her head out of the fire. Ron could hear her mother sobbing as Hermione comforted her.
“It’s fine! It’s just magic! Let me say goodnight to Ron so he doesn’t worry. Look, watch this!” Hermione said, and then her face was in the flames again. “Ron, I have to go. I just gave my mother a terrible fright.”
“Yeah. Yeah, no worries. Sorry about that Mrs Granger!” Ron called back into the fire. The flames went out after that, and Ron had a great deal of trouble falling asleep.
The next morning he woke up to Pig dancing about his bed, a roll of parchment in tow. It took a moment to grab the excited little blighter, but after a few jumps he grabbed the little owl and untied a letter from Hermione.
In her even hand it read:
Dear Ron,
I’m so sorry our call had to be ended so abruptly. Mum was very hysterical to find her only daughter’s body lying headfirst in the fire. It took quite a long time to calm her down. I really liked getting to call you like this, but perhaps we should stick to letters until I come next week? I’m ever so excited to see you (And Harry and everyone else.)
I hope Ginny won’t mind me being in her room. She’s always been so nice all the times we’ve talked before, but I hate to put her out!
Maybe we can have one more phone call before I come over? Get that last bit of practice in for the summer?
I would write more, but it’s well past midnight.
Love from,
Hermione
——————————————————————————————
It had taken almost an hour for Hermione to calm her mother down after she had walked in on the fire chat with Ron. She couldn’t blame her mother, of course. It must have been a ghastly sight to come across at almost half past midnight.
Neither of her parents had been exposed to much magic, despite Hermione having been at Hogwarts for three years. There was little chance for them to learn, really, given how Hermione wasn’t allowed to use magic, and they’d only been to Diagon Alley a few times. She wished she could show them all the different spells and potions she’d mastered, but frankly they always looked perplexed as she described the lessons to them.
They failed to see how turning a teapot into a tortoise was something that would translate into a job down the road. Hermione tried to keep to lessons that made more sense to them, but couldn’t fail to see the mild disappointment and confusion that would cross their faces as she described class. They could understand making great grades, though, so she tried best she could to emphasize that, and lessons that pertained to history, healing, or performing useful tasks even they could appreciate. She had to be careful to avoid all the political bits of school, such as the Blood purists, the corrupt government officials, and the school board.
She also had to avoid mentioning how in danger she was each year. They had no idea how close she had come to dying each year, and the school didn’t deign to contact her parents about much of anything when it came to her exploits. Their hands off approach was rather shocking to Hermione at first, but over the years she came to appreciate it, as she could almost fully control what information her parents were given about her goings on
Convincing them to let her travel to the Burrow by Floo took a good thirty minutes, but when they were assured over the phone by Ron that he and his father would escort her personally, they finally seemed ok with the choice. Her mother was not entirely happy with this, and let out a small scream when the fireplace broke out into tall emerald green flames, and a soot covered Ron had to crawl out of their low, by wizard standards, fire place.
“Hey Hermione,” he said with a smile. Ron’s father came up right after, and did a quick spell to clean them, as well as the carpet and hearth, of all the soot.
“Hi Ron!” Hermione smiled, and gave him a large hug after he was dust free. He returned her hug with gusto, his ears burning, probably since everyone’s eyes were one them. He seemed taller than he had been just a few months ago, and he was wearing a pair of jeans that fit him much better than most of his others.
Ron’s Dad was every bit as excited to see her parents as he ever was, so Hermione took the opportunity to give Ron a quick tour of her house. At first he seemed quite keen, but after the first few rooms his mood seemed to dip low.
“Are you alright?” she asked, seeing him frowning a bit.
“Yeah… It’s just… Well, you’re house is really nice,” Ron said with a forced smile.
“Thanks.”
“Yeah… Yeah…” Ron said starting to look worried.
“Are you sure you’re ok?”
“Course I am. Just… Well, you’re coming to stay at our place, and I think I could fit three of the Burrow in your living room, and we have almost four times as many people who will be under one roof. It’ll be tight, and not as nice as this…”
“I’ll be with you,” Hermione said with a smile, before catching herself, “and everyone else. I’m sure I’m going to enjoy every single second there. Plus, I’ve never been in a magical home before. It will be amazing, I’m sure.”
“It’s just my home…” he trailed off, still looking uncertain.
“That’s why I’m sure I’ll love it,” she assured him. He seemed to get out of his funk as they entered her room.
“Oh wow,” Ron said, letting out a whistle.
“What?”
“It’s just, this room is a very Hermione-ish room, isn’t it?” he said with a laugh.
“What does that mean?” Hermione asked, uncertainly twisting a curl around her finger.
“Nothing bad,” he said with a lopsided grin that made her toes curl. “You just put your mark on it, didn’t you? Tons of books, the way the photos are all lined up just so, the wall calendar. It’s just very you.”
He gave an inhale.
“Yup. Smells like a Hermione room.”
“It smells like me?” she almost squeaked.
“Yeah, smells like books and that chapstick you always have around. The vanilla smelling one.”
“Oh… I… Oh…” Hermione didn’t know how to respond. Ron was commenting on how she smelled, but it seemed to be in a flattering way. She felt as nervous as she did before exams.
Ron let out a laugh and pointed at the far wall.
“Who in the world is that bloke?” he said, pointing to a poster of Einstein where the scientist had his tongue out.
“A famous Muggle scientist. He’s known for the theory of relativity.”
“I have no idea what that means,” Ron said with a shrug, “but he sure knows how to take a picture.”
“He did the Muggle equivalency of arithmancy, and figured out a lot about how the universe works, including gravity.”
Ron nodded at this and was about to say something when they heard her father call up the stairs, “Ron! Hermione! It’s about time to go!”
They went downstairs, and Hermione gave each of her parents a large hug. Her mother in particular didn’t seem to want to let go.
“You will write us often, won’t you?” she asked.
“Of course I will,” Hermione said, feeling a touch guilty knowing she wouldn’t see them for more than nine months.
“She can borrow my owl any time she needs to, Mr and Mrs Granger,” Ron supplied, and Hermione felt proud of how polite and courteous he was coming across. Ron then walked her, and her parents, through how they would Floo over. Apparently Mr Weasley had already explained the Floo Networks logistics, but they seemed to calm a bit more having a boy know how it works and treats the task as quite mundane. Ron threw the powder into the fire place, stood in the flames, and said ‘The Burrow’ very clearly.
Hermione received another firm hug from each parent before she followed Ron’s example and walked through the flames the same way, with Mr Weasley following behind with her trunk.
The Burrow smelled of freshly baked bread, and some other undefinable flowery scent she was almost certain she’d smelled at Hogwarts at one point or another. There was a brush magically scrubbing pots all on its own, a clock with pictures of the whole family pointing to different locations instead of times, and all the photos were moving. It was tight, but homey and Hermione felt immediately at peace as she walked further into the room. Ron bit his lip and looked a bit uncertain, until Hermione took his hand and gave it a squeeze.
“This is the most amazing home I’ve ever been in!” she let out, and the beaming smile he gave her was so warming, she was certain she could power a Patronus with it, even though she’d never tried to do a Patronus Charm before.
“You know, I know it sounds barmy, but I think I’m going to miss our phone calls a bit,” Ron said as he pulled her towards the stairs.
“We can always do it again next summer.”
“I’d like that,” Ron grinned back at her.
She felt pleased down to her tows as he lead her for a tour around the house, her hand still in his.
Rated: T
Author: @idearlylovealaugh
Words: 2,350
Summary: There are lots of things at which Ron Weasley excels - and taking care of a sick Hermione, while not particularly glamourous, is one of them.
The sun hadn’t yet risen as the beep of a charmed alarm clock sang out steadily in the darkened room, signalling the early hour. A large, freckled hand snaked out from underneath a voluminous white duvet and felt haphazardly along the surface of the nightstand, finally closing around smooth polished willow.
“Finitum,” came the gravelly incantation that, coupled with a practiced tap, effectively silenced the persistent tone.
With a satisfied grunt, Ron dropped his wand, pulled his arm back under the covers and wrapped it once more around the soft form of his wife. He squeezed his eyelids tighter as he pressed closer to her warmth, confident that her finely tuned internal clock would shake them out of bed and into their pre-work morning routine all too soon.
When his eyes finally cracked open, it was to the sound of wind rattling the tree branches outside the window and a bright beam of sunlight slipping through the side of the shade and slicing across the room. A feeling of disorientation muddled him as he craned his neck up to peer at the clock, the beginnings of dread setting in as he saw the hour.
Bollocks, he thought gloomily as he dropped his head back to the pillow.
“‘Ermione,” he murmured into her hair, “I think we had a bit of a lie in.”
Instead of the jolt and panic he anticipated, his news was met with a pitiful moan. Concern rapidly clearing his cottony head, he propped himself up to look over her shoulder, realizing that the skin beneath his hand tucked under her worn t-shirt was actually uncomfortably warm.
“Hermione?”
Untangling himself from the bedclothes and tipping his long form onto the floor, he quickly padded around to the other side of the bed and knelt beside it in only his pants. Hermione, still curled up, blinked at him blearily with unfocused eyes.
“You’re burning up,” he said, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead.
“Huh?… no… I…” she began, shaking off his hand. Ron sat back on his heels as she pushed herself to a sitting position. “It’s late?” she asked confusedly as she pushed off the covers. “We have to… uhhhh.”
Ron lunged awkwardly to catch her as she staggered. “You have to lie down,” he said firmly as he helped her back to the bed. “You’re not well. I’ll just get the Pep… damn,” he cursed, belatedly remembering the incident a few years ago whereby they learned she had developed an allergy to Pepper-Up potion. It had involved a few minutes of genuine alarm and then several days of an uncomfortable yet ultimately harmless brilliant blue smoke issuing continuously from her ears.
“I’ll get the muggle medicine, yeah?” he asked, and she nodded miserably.
Ron rifled through the boxes in the medicine cupboard, pulling out the unfamiliar flat rectangle with the funny green pills. He started back before remembering that she would need water to take them, turning to fill a glass at the tap.
Hermione was still perched on the edge of the bed when he emerged from the bathroom, her head propped up on her hand with her eyes closed, elbow resting on her knee. She opened her eyes heavily as the mattress dipped beside her.
“Here,” he offered, holding out two tablets. “Er, I think this is the right dosage. S’what the box says, anyway.”
He watched uncomfortably as she tossed the pills into her mouth and took a swig of water. Muggle pills always reminded him of bezoars, although these were blessedly smaller.
“Now lie back down, and I’ll let your office know you won’t be in today,” he instructed.
Hermione looked at him pitiably. “But…”
“Hermione,” he forestalled her. “That stuff takes time to work, you told me yourself.”
She huffed a sad, sniffly huff. “Fine,” she conceded mutinously as she slid her feet back between the blankets. Ron bunched the duvet up around her shoulders as she shivered and reached for a tissue. “I do feel rather terrible,” she admitted in a sad little voice that struck his heart.
“Sleep, love,” he said tenderly, kissing her forehead. He waited for her eyes to close before heading downstairs to make two floo calls, remembering at the last moment to grab a shirt and trousers.
It was mid-afternoon when he heard her begin to stir. Arming a small tray with tea and toast he made his way upstairs and gently cracked the door to their bedroom, watching as she shifted herself up to sit against the headboard.
“Ron!” she croaked in surprise as entered the room. He was relieved to see how much clearer her eyes looked. “I assumed you had gone in to work.”
“When I had such a good excuse to skive off?” he joked, setting the tray on her bedside table.
She rolled her eyes as she cleared her throat. “It’s just a cold,” she chided, but she accepted the tea he offered with a grateful look that told him how much it meant to her that he had stayed.
“Budge up,” he told her, climbing over her legs to sit next to her on the bed.
“Oh Ron, don’t! It’s probably catching!” she cried, hastily setting down the mug and gathering up the small mountain of tissues that had accumulated by her side.
“Hermione, my tongue has been in your mouth many times in the last few days. If I’m going to catch it, I’ll catch it,” he replied philosophically, leaning back against the headboard and tucking her under his arm. She wrinkled her nose in exasperation as she burrowed into his side, laying her head against his and wrapping an arm around his middle, hand still clutching a tissue.
“Are you feeling any better?” he asked, dropping his head to rest on hers.
“Yes, much,” she murmured. “All that sleep must’ve helped tremendously.” She sniffed congestedly. “I do wish I could’ve gone in today. There was a preliminary hearing on werewolf employment protection and I just know Rivington’s committee will try to undercut it while I’m not there.”
“The more fools they,” he remarked, rubbing her arm. “You’ll be back in tomorrow, tearing everyone a new arsehole.”
Hermione snorted, then grabbed a tissue to deal with the resulting aftermath issuing from her nose.
“You should have some toast.”
“I will,” she promised, “Have there been any owls for me?”
“One or two,” he prevaricated, thinking of the several large Ministry owls that had muscled up to the kitchen window around lunchtime. “But none of them marked urgent. Let it wait,” he said with a look, as she motioned ever so slightly to get up.
She sighed back into his side. They sat contentedly, the silence punctuated only by Hermione’s frequent sniffing and occasional cough.
“Tell me something cheerful,” she hummed after a while.
Ron looked down at her and his heart constricted. She looked pale except for her bright red nose, with dark smudges under her closed eyes and her hair frazzled and unkempt. She was always beautiful to him - and yet seeing her sick reminded him of nothing so much as some of his worst memories over the years. Seeing her petrified from the basilisk’s stare, lying in the infirmary with her chest bandaged from Dolohov’s curse, in a narrow bed at Shell Cottage…
He mentally shook himself and tried to cast his mind back to something lighthearted.
“D’you remember when we went to that Death Day party for Nearly Headless Nick?”
“Of course!” she answered with a laugh. “Although I’m not sure I’d call that cheerful,” she added.
“Mmm, dunno why I thought of it,” he reflected, stroking the hair from her forehead. “It just popped into my head.”
“I thought it would be so fascinating at the time,” she reminisced.
“And then to see all that manky food!” He pulled a face as he recalled the intentionally rotten spread.
“I was sure I’d never see you so disappointed,” she giggled. “Of course, that was before I’d ever been to a Cannons match with you.”
“Ha bloody ha,” he replied good-naturedly, glad at least that she was smiling.
“Did I ever tell you about the time in fifth year when Seamus tried to get Neville to help him study for his herbology OWL, and Neville gave him a dragon wort ointment?” he said after a few moments. He felt her shake her head in a negative against his side. “It was for the plant, but the ruddy fool thought it was for himself - rubbed it on his skin and came all over bark.”
“No!”
“On my honor,” he grinned. “Don’t even want to know what Madam Pomfrey had to do to get it off.”
“Poor Seamus!” she laughed wheezily, plucking another tissue. “We were all a bit manic from those OWLs, I think,” she said thoughtfully as she wiped her nose. “I don’t know how many times I fell asleep in the Common Room.” She eyed him calculatingly. “Most of the time, I’d wake up and find someone had covered me with a blanket and moved my inkwell so I wouldn’t knock it over. Who could that have been?” she asked meaningfully.
“Could’ve been the house elves,” he deflected, shifting uncomfortably.
“But it wasn’t, was it,” she insisted, looking up at him owlishly. “It was you.”
“Mostly me,” he acknowledged.
“And you used to bring me toast and marmalade in the library when I missed breakfast for studying, even after Madam Pince bawled you out over it.”
“Well, you needed to eat. Anyone would’ve done that,” he scoffed, feeling his face redden.
“Not likely. Hardly anyone could stand me by that point,” she argued.
“Not quite,” he grunted. He may not have had a good memory for obscure facts from History of Magic, but he had an encyclopedic recall for any admiring comments other blokes had made regarding Hermione.
“You take such good care of me,” she said lowly, pressing her cheek to his chest.
“I think there was something in the vows about that,” he said lightly. “In sickness, all that.”
“There wasn’t, and you know it,” she said firmly. They had eschewed the traditional vows for heartfelt ones of their own. “I mean, you’ve always taken care of me, even before.”
“Before what?”
“Before you loved me,” she said in a small voice, self-consciousness tinging the words.
“Hard to remember a time, really,” he admitted quietly. She looked up at him with watery eyes.
“And after,” she said softly, holding his gaze. “I’m so lucky.”
There was so much there, so much pain running underneath those memories like a powerful current tugging at his sense of self. Sometimes it still felt like opening the door to those recollections, just wading gently into that past, was an invitation to drown in the feelings of guilt and regret that saturated them. But time, and the vows he had made to himself - to do everything he could to protect her, to give her everything he had - had planted a certainty in his heart that, no matter his shortcomings, there was no one on earth that could love her better. And when she looked at him like this, like he had hung the moon in the sky and half the stars, he could very nearly convince himself that he deserved it.
Her fingers tucked under the hem of his shirt, lightly stroking the skin of his stomach. The irony of having a rare afternoon in bed with his wife only due to her fighting off a cold was not lost on him, and in spite of the circumstances, of the growing pile of tissues, of the near-certainty that nothing could or should currently come of it, he nonetheless felt the familiar stirring of his body in response to her touch.
“Did you know,” she started, and he grinned unconsciously at the familiar opening. “Did you know that, when aroused, the human body actively suppresses sensations of pain and discomfort?” She slid her leg higher against his and he became even more acutely aware of her breasts pressed invitingly against his side through her threadbare t-shirt.
“If you’re trying to tell me that shagging feels good, then yes, love, I had figured that out for myself.”
“Not just feels good,” she corrected. “It can be good for you, when you’re not feeling well.”
“Just what kind of books have you been reading, Ms. Granger-Weasley?” he murmured, trailing his fingers up the leg resting on top of his as he lowered his face towards hers. The last thing he saw was her feline smile before his eyes slipped shut and their lips met, moving together languidly as he palmed the bare skin just below her knickers. Her fingers slid into his hair as her mouth opened beneath his, her body arching into his as his torso moved to cover hers… before she pulled back sharply and sneezed violently, only inches from his face.
They both froze, something wet sliding unpleasantly down his cheek, before Hermione’s hand flew to cover her mouth in horror.
“Ron, I’m so sorry!” she blurted, snatching a tissue and scrubbing at the side of his face as he leaned back, his shoulders rocking with silent mirth.
“No, s’my fault,” he laughed, shaking his head. “I couldn’t resist you, bloody siren.”
“Hardly,” she fretted as she balled up the tissue. “You must think I’m absolutely revolting.”
“I don’t, but let’s give it a few hours before we try again, yeah?” She looked up at him forlornly. “C’mere,” he said, sliding down on the bed and motioning for her to join him. “I’ll settle for doing my second-favorite thing in bed with you.”
As she settled against him, her head fitting perfectly into the hollow of his shoulder as it always did, all he could think of was how lucky he was - that he was the one who got to take care of her, that four years after the most painful experiences of his life he had built this life with her, that he got to love her and wake up next to her every day - snot and all.
Title: Home
Creator: trademarkblue
Prompt: N/A
Description: Ron and Hermione spend a long night at Grimmauld Place, sorting out their future.
Rating: NC-17 / MA
Warnings: angst, then smut, then a fluff finisher :)
The door to the sitting room at Grimmauld Place opened suddenly, and Hermione rushed in first, dropping her bag on an armchair and shoving her hair off her shoulders as Ron followed her, collapsing onto the sofa and propping his ankles on the coffee table.
He watched as Hermione carefully removed her shoes and sat beside him, tucking her feet up, and he stretched his back dramatically as he yawned. It had been a long, busy day for both of them. Ron had begun Auror training a week ago, so his days started (way too) early and ended late, and Hermione was helping her parents reopen their dental offices. At least he still got to be with her every night, he reasoned, glancing sideways to smile sleepily at her as she faced him and rested her elbow atop the back of the sofa, dropping her cheek to her hand.
“You know what I was thinking?” she said softly, studying him.
“What?”
“I never sleep at home anymore.”
“Do you want to?” he grinned, unconcerned.
“Of course not,” she laughed.
He stretched his arm across the back of the sofa so it rested against her elbow.
“I’d have asked you to move in,” he admitted quietly, “but you’re leaving in three weeks anyway.”
He’d meant to sound light, but the subject was constantly hanging over them. His grin faltered as her arm slid off the sofa, and she looked away from him, toward the unlit, empty fire.
“You would have?” she asked in a small, tentative voice.
“Mm.”
He watched her thinking, a pastime he’d become quite familiar with. He liked to think he’d gotten fairly adept at reading her, at sensing her mood and understanding her worry. But sometimes - just then, as an unfortunate example - he wasn’t so sure.
“Could I take your offer next summer?” she asked, still looking away, so he had to answer her stoic profile.
“Yeah, ‘course.” That was something to look forward to, at least. If they could survive ten months apart, they wouldn’t have to do it ever again.
But her expression, from his position, seemed to darken further at his answer. A solemn dreariness settled across her tired features, and she briefly shook her head.
“I can’t ask you to promise that,” she sighed, and he thought he could almost hear her voice break. “That’s so long away.”
An uncomfortable wave of apprehension rose up. Ten months was a long time, but he’d been operating under unspoken assurance that they’d fall even more distractingly busy with work and school, and they’d see each other as often as possible, and, all of a sudden, she’d be back home with him.
“What do you mean?” he asked dryly, tamping down the waver in his voice.
“A lot could happen before then,” she nearly whispered, sniffing.
Apprehension shifted quickly to genuine fear, and he swallowed hard before speaking hoarsely.
“Like what?”
He hated this, actually. He hated when she went quiet and inside her own head. Rowing was easier. Sure, they might say something they didn’t mean, but they’d also get the rest of it out so no one had to guess… At least this was true now… now that they weren’t hiding the way they felt about each other.
They weren’t. Were they? An old, cast aside fear rose up inside him, surveying the situation attentively.
“Well…” she finally answered, “you’ll be an Auror by then, won’t you. You’ll have your own life.”
“What?”
Shit, he really needed her to look at him. A pool of impossibly heavy regret was spreading through him, regret that he’d even mentioned her leaving at all.
“You know what I mean.” A telltale rise in the pitch of her voice alerted him to how nervous she was. “We’ll both be busy with studying and work, and we have no idea what could happen.”
For the first time in this suddenly dire conversation, she’d mentioned herself, adding studying to the list of reasons why ten months might be so much worse than he’d guessed. And what could this mean, then? She thought they might drift apart, that she could?
He swallowed again, forcing words through his constricted throat.
“Are you saying all this because we won’t see each other every day or because a year is too long?” He had to hope his meaning was clear, that he needed to know the difference between a difficult separation and the possibility that he was blindly accepting that he might lose her.
“Both, I suppose.” He could see her eyes filling with unshed tears now, and he finally turned away from her to face forward.
How had things gone so wrong in the mere minutes they’d been home? He felt sick and confused, as if he’d been hit in the gut with a bludger.
Silence engulfed them uncomfortably for several minutes until footfalls down the hall signalled Harry’s arrival. He entered the room and obliviously made his way to an empty armchair. Ron thought he should probably feign a lighthearted mood, long enough to dispel Harry’s possible questions, but he couldn’t make himself do it.
“Alright?” Harry asked, on cue. He glanced between his two bleak friends and pushed up his glasses, concerned.
“Yeah, fine,” Ron managed in a raw, completely unconvincing tone.
“Come off it,” Harry suggested, eyebrows lifting with scepticism.
“Just tired,” Ron added, avoiding the gaze of his best mate as he hauled his feet off the coffee table to stand. “I’m going to bed.”
He sensed Hermione glancing briefly up at him but didn’t focus on it, making his way to the open doorway instead.
“Me too, Harry,” he heard her say as he turned the corner for the stairs. “Goodnight.”
—
Ron was pacing his dark room, lost in a tidal wave of thought. He’d numbly brushed his teeth and changed into his pyjama trousers, forgoing a shirt.
Was he making an irreparable mistake? Hermione had assured him before that he was doing the right thing to join the Aurors with Harry, even though he’d been surprised she hadn’t tried to push them both to finish their education first. But now…
There was a soft knock on his door, even though it was cracked open, and she wasn’t supposed to think she had to do that. She was there to stay the night with him, wasn’t she?
He opened the door for her and stepped back as she walked in, and a small tinge of relief flared up that she was both dressed in thin pyjamas and closed the door again behind herself.
They stared at each other for a tense moment before he let out a heaving sigh and ran a hand roughly through his hair.
“We can’t do this.”
Her eyes flashed with uneasiness, and he quickly clarified.
“Can’t be away from you for a bloody year.”
“Ten months,” she corrected softly.
“Close enough!” and he resumed his pacing, aware of her somber gaze on him from her spot standing motionless by the door. “The Aurors might take me back next summer. I could-“
“Ron, no.”
“It really doesn’t matter,” he continued, aware that he was losing control a bit, and his head was spinning. He was well past irrational. “I can find something else to do.”
“You can’t give up your life,” she pleaded, and he stopped to really look at her. Fucking hell, she was perfect.
“You’re my life,” he breathed, choking as he tried not to bloody cry.
Oh, God, he’d never said anything like that to her before. She looked just about as shocked as he felt.
Sod it.
He turned away and scrubbed his hands across his face and was ready to resume his pacing when she grabbed ahold of his arm.
“D-Do you mean it? I mean that much to you?”
“No, I’ve just been fucking around all summer,” he said defensively.
Her grip loosened on his arm but she didn’t let go, and he immediately regretted his words. He’d just admitted something bloody meaningful, and now he sounded like an arse.
“You don’t exactly have the best track record for me to compare it to,” she bit back, and he reckoned that stung less now than he’d thought it would.
“Not bloody fair,” he muttered, and she did let go of him then. He deserved that, he knew, and he shifted to stare down at her, overwhelmed.
He could literally hear his watch hands ticking for a moment, from his bedside table, beneath his own uneven breath.
“Yeah, I meant it,” he stated simply, what he should have done when she’d asked, but it took a lot less courage to fight than it did to be this honest, intentionally.
She was breathing quite sharply as she stared back up at him.
“I can’t just see how it goes while you’re gone,” he continued, “and you don’t seem to feel too bloody confident about it.”
“How am I supposed to know how you’ll feel in ten months?!” she shot back, rather shrilly.
“Because I’m telling you! You don’t think it counts we’ve known each other seven years already?”
Her arms crossed protectively over her chest, or maybe it was just because she was shaking and didn’t want him to see.
“It counts,” she said tersely, and he finally recognised that she was holding back tears again.
“M’sorry,” he sighed, collapsing to sit on the edge of his bed. “Reckon we had to figure this out eventually.”
He’d have given up anything to know what she was thinking, but at least her silence felt less striking when he looked down, away from her.
His mind tried a game it had unconsciously learned long ago, searching for an impossibly mundane thing to focus on to avoid the serious one, and he found his gaze tracing the pattern of the wood grain of the floor as he waited for her to say something, anything - to chuck him, leave him alone to bloody cry.
“You’re my life, too,” she said, in the tiniest voice.
Dizzying hope swirled through him, and he lifted his head to fully look at her again.
She took a step closer, another, and her tears fell silently down her face as she reached him, stepping between his knees and wrapping her arms around his neck as he gripped her waist, still comprehending her words. Slowly, he began to smile, pulling her closer so his cheek rested on her chest.
“Then what’re we upset about?” he half-laughed, closing his eyes.
“Nothing,” she muttered to the top of his head.
They stayed that way for several blissful moments, her hands in his hair as he listened to the beat of her heart.
“That was bloody intense. Gotta stop blurting things out without thinking,” he laughed lightly.
She softly tugged his head back to look down at his face.
“Mm, like the time you said you loved me in the Prefect’s bath an hour after the war was over?”
“Bloody hell. I’m bad at that.”
“No, it was perfect.”
He took a deep breath and blinked slowly up at her beautiful face.
“When you’re worrying about the future, just don’t worry about me, yeah? Unless you come to your senses and chuck me…”
“Never.”
She kissed him gently, and his eyes slid shut again. He’d become so comfortingly familiar with the taste of her toothpaste, and his hand slid up her warm back as he sighed through his nose.
As they pulled apart, she muttered, “Is it still frightening sometimes, that we can do this?”
“After years of wanting to but being too bloody afraid to try it? Yeah,” he agreed with a grin.
She let go of him and crawled past him, into his bed, and he followed her, settling as they always did near the centre, so close they were sharing a pillow, facing each other.
He loved this, those quiet moments when they were alone, when her eyes met his and didn’t dart away. Now, they didn’t have to. It had taken mere moments to understand, after that first kiss, to feel how much they’d held back. But now, it would take an eternity to get enough of it.
He laid his hand on the side of her neck and licked his bottom lip to speak.
“I know you said not to before, but fuck It, I’m doing promises.”
“Okay,” she smiled.
“I’m gonna see you every weekend while you’re at Hogwarts, even if I have to break every school rule to do it.”
“How?”
“Dunno. But I will. I’ll figure it out.”
“What if you have to work?”
“Mm, right. But once a week then, even if it’s just for a minute.”
Her slightly widened eyes seemed oddly reflective in very low light, and he watched her swallow before sliding her face forward to kiss him again.
“That’s a really good promise,” she mumbled, lips still so close that they brushed his as she spoke. “My turn.”
“Yeah? Okay,” he smiled.
“Mine’s more of a confession than a promise.”
“Go on…”
She touched the tip of her nose to his.
“This is going to sound so ridiculous, but I- I think I love you more than books,” she whispered, as if afraid to speak the secret aloud. Oh, God, he was going to remember this, every second he missed her. Every fucking second.
He laughed nervously, deflecting the seriousness of such a statement from Hermione Granger.
“I mean that,” she added, trembling lightly. “I know I’m so bad at this, at saying things like this to you, but if I knew for sure I’d… lose you, if I went back to school, I’d never go.”
He regrettably tried to reply, unsure of what he was even planning to say, but his exhale broke to a cry, and he shook his head, closing his eyes.
“Less than a year ago, I thought you fancied Harry.” He felt her hands on his face and opened his eyes again.
“And that might’ve been the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever worried about,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“Bloody hell, dunno why I’m crying,” he laughed, sniffing. “I mean… shit, I know why. You fucking love books.”
She laughed with him, pushing him to his back and crawling over him to sit on his thighs, hands on his bare chest. She always looked so adorably nervous when she did this, and he felt his affection for her spread like water overflowing the edges of a glass as she bent forward, hair falling off her shoulders to tickle his neck as she pressed her parted lips to his.
The kiss was slow at first, as the others had been, and as she pulled back for a breath, he held her face in his hands and swallowed, considering what he was about to ask for merely one second before saying it out loud.
“Sod it. Move in this weekend. Then you won’t have to do it in June. You can just… come home.”
“Home,” she said quietly, eyes darting between his. He reckoned he didn’t need to hear her answer to know what she was thinking.
When she kissed him again, it was almost like the very first time, frantic and full of everything they’d never said. Her thin pyjama top slid beneath his hands as he touched her, the enticing warmth of her body under it making him feel far too impatient. Evidently, she felt the same way. Her tongue slid between his lips as she moaned, collapsing into him, briefly rubbing her chest against his until he’d worked his hand up the back of her shirt. His long fingers spread over her beautifully smooth skin, nearly spanning her shoulder blades.
She sat back abruptly and pulled her shirt off over her head, tossing it over the side of the bed, and he didn’t have enough time to swear properly at the sudden sight of her naked chest before she collapsed on top of him again. He was filled with a sudden need to get closer, which was only truly accomplished by swiftly tightening his grip across her back and flipping them over so he crushed her into his mattress.
“Ron!” she gasped as their lips parted.
He’d learned enough in three months to know that her softly scolding tone equated to a sound of appreciation, particularly when accompanied by her small fist tugging on his hair and her teeth lightly scraping his lower lip as she kissed him again.
His hips shifted between her legs, and she moaned into his mouth, arms wrapping tighter around his head and neck. His hand traveled down her bare side, fingertips slipping past the elastic of her pyjama shorts and knickers as she writhed to meet his touch. His fingers met wet warmth between her legs, and he sucked in a sharp breath, but he quickly gave up his awkward position and rolled slightly off of her to rid her of her remaining clothing, doing the same for his own, carelessly littering his floor.
“Fucking gorgeous,” he muttered as he stared at her naked body for a dizzying moment.
“Yes, you are,” she smiled, biting her lip in amusement when he met her eyes with raised brows.
“Shut up,” he laughed, covering her body again and resuming a deep, breathless kiss.
His lips skipped down her neck, and she arched into him.
“Why do we bother putting on pyjamas?” she teased in a trembling voice as he arrived at her collarbone.
“Dunno,” he grinned against her soft skin. “So I can take them off you? So Harry won’t see your naked arse coming back from the loo?”
“Oh, it’s only my arse you care about?”
“What do you think?” he muttered just before his mouth closed around her hardened nipple. She gasped, and her nails dug into his shoulder.
Occasionally still, when he’d become deliriously lost in touching her and listening to her moans of appreciation, he’d shockingly consider how merely three months ago he hadn’t even kissed her yet. It never for a moment made him wonder if they had moved too fast but it always made him regret not doing something about it sooner. How far back could he go? A year? More?
She rubbed her bare inner thigh against his hip, and he lifted his head to find her half-closed eyes.
“I love you,” he said sincerely, and she held onto his arm as she stared back at him. It still made his heart beat firm and fast to tell her, even after countless times.
“I love you,” she echoed, smiling.
On the tip of his tongue was the question, the one he’d never voiced. When? How long ago could we have been together? And how much time did I waste?
But he left it unspoken again, smiling back and kissing her instead.
Her body, moving underneath him, was so fucking soft and warm, her skin the smoothest silk. Her bent knee brushed his side, toes tickling the back of his leg. He didn’t deserve what he had, but he wasn’t going to waste it now.
He reached between her legs, lips still meshed together, and slid fully inside her, feeling the vibration of her approving moan as she arched closer, shifting her hips to meet his slow thrust. He was still attentively learning what she liked, by far his most carefully studied subject.
He’d never imagined it could feel this good, before the first time, rushed and frantic in his bedroom at the Burrow. Now, he just wanted to make it last, to feel her body shaking and clenching around him.
Her nails raked through his hair as he withdrew his lips from hers to breathe.
“Fuck, y’feel amazing,” he slurred drunkenly, increasing his pace slightly.
“Oh, God,” she sighed, voice raised to that familiar trembling, higher pitch. “S-So do you.”
He grinned and pressed his forehead to hers, and her hands slid down his body to his ribs. Goosepimples sprang up across his sensitive skin as she touched him, breathy little cries floating out from her parted lips to join his own deeper moans. She lifted her head from his pillow for another sloppy kiss, tongues brushing and a feeling of losing control spreading through his body. Her lips suddenly stopped moving against his, and he felt her muscles tighten just as he let go, feeling rather triumphant as she turned her head right and slurred his name. He ducked his face to her neck, moved inside her once more, and came with her.
For several long moments, he breathed hotly against her skin, then finally dragged himself off of her, her legs and arms falling limp to the bed as he collapsed to his back. His eyes slid shut as he panted slightly, drugged by love and pleasure. It was always beyond fucking amazing, but when they were so in sync like they had just been, it seemed to take him longer to recover.
“We should have ended a lot more rows like that,” she teased quietly, and he opened his eyes to look at her.
“Oi, that didn’t count as a row,” but a grin flitted across his face. “But would we have even rowed so much in the first place if we’d been shagging?”
She laughed and playfully rolled her eyes, cuddling up to his side and resting her cheek on his shoulder.
“Mm, probably not,” she admitted.
He shifted his arm under her neck, fingers tracing unseen patterns over her smooth back, slowly drifting to a pleasant state of half sleep.
“Ron?” she said, after a while.
“Hm?”
“You really will come visit me, won’t you?”
“Obviously.”
“It won’t be… so bad,” she sniffed. “We can write to each other all the time, and we’ll have Hogsmeade weekends and Quidditch.”
“Christmas and Easter hols,” he added. “Reckon you’ll be studying so much you won’t have time to miss me anyway.”
“I miss you when I’m with my parents at supper for two hours,” she muttered, lips against his skin.
He held her briefly tighter and smiled, but it faded slowly. The part of him that wanted her to be happy was in conflict with the part that felt good to be missed. But he wasn’t going to let himself think on that now.
She shifted against him and lifted her face to his for a gentle kiss that lingered for slow motion seconds, gooseflesh prickling his arms. It was oddly almost impossible to recall how he’d held back from kissing her in the past, now that he was doing it all the time. Her body was so warm, soft skin against his, her hand smoothing up his stubbled jawline. This was blissful, undeserved perfection, like a preoccupied dream in which his cynical, self-conscious side was absent.
Her eyes cracked open, lips parting from his as she took in a slow, deep breath.
“I’ve gotten quite used to kissing you every day,” she pointed out, but there wasn’t sadness now. Her eyes sparkled in moonlight, and the corner of her mouth turned up in a smile he mimicked.
“Reckon we should do it more often then. Save up,” he teased, but she lowered her mouth to his with an affirmative hum.
He was bloody eighteen, and he already knew who he was going to spend the rest of his life with, and it was staggering in the dark night, a forceful realisation that didn’t feel frightening or unbelievable, strangely. It was that sense of correctness, like seeing a checkmate on the chess board seven moves from the end.
Leisurely minutes later, he yawned and slid out of bed, mumbling sleepily about the loo as he found his pants on the floor. She tugged on one of his shirts and went with him for a glass of water.
With the bathroom door cracked open, he washed his hands as she used the mirror to quickly plait her hair, so it wouldn’t tangle so hopelessly in her sleep, and he raised a brow slightly, considering how normal this felt.
“Don’t you have early training?” she asked softly.
“Yeah. What time is it?”
“Two o’clock,” she grimaced. “I checked your watch when we left your room.”
“Shit,” he laughed. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”
He turned off the taps, dried his hands on a towel, and stood leaning against the sink, watching her until her beautiful, drowsy eyes met his.
“You really love me,” she said gently, and he fought the urge to make a joke, reaching for her wrist instead, pulling her closer.
“You really love me.”
She laughed, and he slid his hand up her arm.
“I tried not to. Honestly,” she reasoned.
“Well, that was daft.”
“Thank you…”
“I tried not to, too.”
“We shouldn’t have done that.”
“Won’t happen again.”
Her grin crinkled the corners of her eyes as she rested her forehead on his bare chest. He closed his eyes, weaved a hand into her hair (likely ruining her plait), and the many years he knew they’d be together vastly outweighed ten months. They’d be just fine.
Title: Sealed and Delivered
Creator: @aloemilk
Description: In which Ron and Hermione twist wedding traditions all the way into the ceremony, because they're so in love they can't help it.
Rating: PG
Ron stood in front of the gathered family and friends, his smile wide and his stomach full of butterflies. People expected him to be nervous; he was getting married, after all. What people didn't understand is that he was completely confident in their decision. Yes, they were young, and yes, life was long ahead of them, but that had nothing to do with finding the right person, and wanting to stay with them forever. Ron had found the right person earlier in his life than most people and that made him lucky, is all. He knew that. He was also thankful—he couldn't wait to make it official, and be able to call Hermione his wife.
"Is it time yet, Harry?" Ron asked his best man.
"Merlin's bollocks… for the third time, no," Harry replied, though there was humour in his voice. "It's still five minutes until she comes down the aisle. You know there's a tight schedule for the ceremony."
"Of course there is. Hermione likes it that way."
A couple of relatives chose this moment to come to him and greet him, wanting some time to talk to Ron and gawk at Harry. Ron didn't care; he knew Ginny and George had a bet going for how many people would want to appear closer to the family than they truly were, now that a few of them made recurring appearances in the newspapers after what happened in the war.
Ron didn't pay much attention to them. Instead, he focused on the warm sunlight around them... the resplandescent white tent, keeping them safe from any surprises from the unpredictable English weather... the smell of flowers from the arch under which he and Hermione would share their vows. He looked at the walls of the estate's building, an old fancy Muggle house now converted into a fancy Muggle hotel, where Hermione had gotten ready for the ceremony and in whose grounds he stood. No signs of her yet.
Percy and Arthur had been asking guests to take their place, and now most were at their seats, ready for the ceremony to begin. Ron opened his mouth to ask Harry for the time left, but Harry answered before Ron could do more than breathe in.
"Almost there, mate. Less than a minute. Just wait for the music to change and…"
And it did. The music changed around them, but Ron didn't—couldn't—pay attention to it; his eyes searched for Hermione, who Ron knew would come from the big double glass doors opening to the gardens where the ceremony was being held. Two of the staff opened the doors at the same time, and he only dimly registered the guests standing up to welcome his bride.
She came into view, both her parents holding one of her arms. A small voice in his head told him he should pay attention to her dress and her hair and stuff, but he didn't. After a cursory look that resulted in a quick and familiar assessment—beautiful—, his eyes locked with hers and the rest of the world disappeared, useless to him. Nothing but Hermione, her eyes smiling to him, shining with her own happiness… that's all he needed. That's all he wanted.
Wow, he thought. I'm the luckiest bloke in the world.
Harry patted him on the shoulder. Ron didn't look away from Hermione, even as Harry came closer to him to say something in his ear.
"Better if you wait until she can hear you," Harry suggested, and Ron concluded he had actually said the words. It didn't matter; he didn't care who heard his private thoughts in this case. He'd scream it from the highest building if he could.
Hermione stopped at the bottom of the small stage where the ceremony would take place, and received a kiss from her parents. As planned, Ron's parents stood up and also hugged Hermione. They had all agreed they didn't care for the notion that Hermione would be a part of the family only after the ceremony. Hermione had said that Ron's parents had been crucial in her teens, and it felt only right that they would be also be a part of her marrying their son. To Ron, it was only one more sign of the million reasons why marrying her was the best idea he'd ever had.
As planned, once both sets of parents had blessed her arrival to the ceremony, Ron extended his hand to help her up to the stage. It was only now that he saw more details of her dress, the way the neckline seemed to hug her shoulders, how flattering it was at her waist and hips, and the million details on the fabric; it was only now that he noticed the subtle make up, her long, dark eyelashes, and the way her hair had the perfect mix of curls and pins to make it look both romantic and practical.
"You look beautiful," he said, only for her to hear, now.
"You look handsome," she offered back.
Ron remembered they were supposed to hold hands during the ceremony, but it didn't quite register in his mind. All he could think about was showing her how much he adored her, forever. So he lifted each one of her hands and kissed her knuckles… but it wasn't enough. He pulled at her hands to get closer to her, kissing her cheek… and was immediately taken over by her presence, her smell, the fact he was marrying her and he just…
He let go of her hands and, holding her face with both his hands, promptly kissed her on the mouth.
"Ron!"
"Not yet, mate!"
"Unbelievable!"
Laughter, gasps, and reprimands sounded around him, but he barely registered any of it. All he could see was her laughter, the way her eyes twinkled as she looked at him.
"I'm ready to be married to you, too," she said.
"All right, then, let's make it happen," he replied and, placing her hand on the crook of his elbow, they both turned to face the officiant and start their future together.
Title: What, Exactly, Is The Function Of A Baby?
Creator: frecklesandbroomsticks
Description: While out shopping at a muggle baby store, a very pregnant Hermione tries to wrangle her husband.
Rating: General Audiences
“Ron! Would you please stop it?!”
Hissing through her teeth and snatching yet another item of infant paraphernalia from her grabby husband's grip, Hermione put it back on the shelf with just a tad more than necessary force, at her wit's end. Not looking the least bit chagrined, the infuriating man turned away with a huff, lumbering down the aisle towards the soft toys.
Hermione had learned pretty quickly that shopping for baby things with Ron was an exercise in patience. He wanted to touch everything, asked a million questions, and put things on his head in attempt to make his so-called “grumpy” wife laugh. It was driving her spare.
All she wanted out of this trip was to find a few things to make her life easier once their little bean was born. Maybe get a cute pair of baby footie pajamas and then get home where she could rest her feet and have a cherry coke. It was the only thing she'd been able to drink in the second trimester—save for water—and Ron was often having to apparate to the alley by the nearest cornerstone to replenish her stash.
With a death-grip on the trolley and a quick prayer to the goddess of wisdom for the strength to keep from hurling a teapot decorated with pink butterflies at her husband's head, Hermione was perusing the little, plastic bathtubs when she heard a crash, and then “Oh, shite.”
There he was, at the display of rattles, making wild gestures with his arms in an attempt to scoop them up before they fell to the floor, managing to knock over 5 more in the process.
She was ready to scream. Couldn't he keep his blasted hands to himself?!
“Ronald! You cannot swear in a shop meant for BABIES!”
At her outburst, the entire population of Daisies and Duckies who hadn't already turned in startled alarm at Ron's best bull-in-a-china-shop impression swiveled their heads in her direction. The shop got so silent that, for a second, she thought she heard an echo.
Thankfully, the proprietress—no stranger to the occasional mother-to-be outbursts—reacted immediately. With a wave of her hand, she had the assistant clerk scurrying to tidy the chaos. The owner shot Hermione a kind smile before turning to the gaping customers with a look that said “These are not the droids you're looking for,” and resuming ringing up an order at the till.
Before she truly blew her top, Hermione abandoned the trolley and quick-stepped out the door into the rare London sunshine. Leaning against the storefront, she closed her eyes and attempted the yoga breaths her mum had taught her, trying to calm down.
It's not that Ron was a bad husband, he wasn't. He was the best.
But she was sweaty and tired, and after a long day of dealing with in-laws, the kerfuffle in the shop was the proverbial last straw on the back of one hungry, irritable, pregnant camel.
With a soft “ding”, the bell on the shop's door opened.
Without having to open her eyes, Hermione knew her husband was now red-cheeked and skulking at her side.
“'Mione?”
Cracking open a lid, she turned to see Ron with a guilty look on his face, like the one he used to give his mother when he stole cookies off the windowsill.
“I'm sorry, love. I really didn't mean to, everything looked so tiny and strange and I just had to touch it and—”
In her best even-keeled voice, she said “You are your father's son, aren't you? Ever curious.”
Side-eyeing her to see if the coast was clear, and apparently finding it safe, Ron moved behind her, pulling her against him as he rubbed her shoulders.
“Hermione?”
No longer able to hold onto her anger as he soothed the knots in her neck, she said “Yes, Ronald?” on the same breath as a contented sigh.
“Does this mean I'm forgiven? Can we go back inside now? Swear I won't lay a finger on anything.”
She rolled her eyes with a grin, twisting in his hold to plant a playful kiss on his mouth. Taking his proffered hand, she let him lead her into the shop, straight to the shelves in the back where she picked out the perfect set of ABC books, and a copy of “Baby's First Encyclopedia”.
Sooner Or Later just kind of melted me? Like I love how right you got all of their relationships, not just Ron and Hermione being cautious but excited but also Ron teasing Harry and Harry being really willing to accept anything and just aghhhhh. Thanks for writing it!
This ask is directed to the amazing @remedial-potions <3 Thanks for sharing, Anon!
Title: Trigger Point
Creator: unablearethelovedtodie
Prompt: N/A
Description: When Ron and Hermione both fall sick, perhaps a non-magical remedy is required to heal them.
Rating: T
Warnings: N/A
“It looks like frogspawn”.
“It’s very effective. My parents used it all the time”.
Ron gazed dubiously through the green glass. “A Muggle remedy? It is very unlike Mum to allow something like this. Are you sure she said it was ok?“
Hermione wrapped both arms around her body and rolled her head around on her neck. Every centimetre of movement produced a minute click and she resisted the urge to groan. Her shoulders felt hunched and sore, her glands pulsed in her throat.
“I think she just thought… after everything we had been through”. He glanced up at her quickly and then back to the jar. “Something simple and magic free might help. Nothing else is really working.”
*************************
This was Day 6 of confinement. It was now some weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts and July had descended with unflinching heat. It had felt like a blessing at first. The world had been so cold and dark for so long. The summer sun made the winter seem very far away. The mature gardens of the Burrow were full of life, unapologetic colour wherever the eye fell. Every tree was heavy laden with blossom, each flower head busy with life.
Everyone, in their own way, was finding out who they were after the War. Ginny and Harry were taking a lot of walks together, returning to the Burrow looking more hopeful each time, like one worry line had been ironed free from each of their faces. Ron had watched them with gentle envy. That first kiss between him and Hermione hung, unspoken.
He had wanted to bring it up every day but the moment was never right. Hermione had spent much of the first few weeks in Ginny’s room, emerging for meals and occasionally venturing outside for brief periods. He loitered in odd places hoping he might conjure up a meeting; the stairs, the back porch. One time he sat up on the sofa in the living room until after midnight, hoping she would sense he was there and come down. She had always been good at that at school; so many times she had known just what he was thinking.
But she didn’t come and Ron became more and more convinced that perhaps she considered it a mistake. Maybe she was embarrassed and worried he would bring it up. Hermione wasn’t deliberately cruel- she wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings. Perhaps she was hoping that he would read her mind and know how she felt.
The morning after his sofa vigil, Ron awoke, his head full and throat raw. He had tried to ignore it, helping his mum degnome the garden, peeling a seemingly endless supply of potatoes, albeit with greater ease now he could use magic. But it grew worse, the banging in his head and the sweating down his back. His joints ached, eyelids heavy, and he had to conclude he was sick. His mother, relishing the opportunity to take care of someone who couldn’t put up much of a fight, dropped straight into action. Mrs Weasley banished him to his room, moving Harry elsewhere, and there he stayed, a captive audience to the increasingly nasty remedies she subjected him to. She boiled up a thin blueish soup that he swallowed with his nose pinched shut. She made him sit in the bath up to his neck in violently pink water that was popping round the edges.
Five days in, she applied a strange smelling poultice type object to the back of his neck, to be held there for exactly 36 minutes.
On minute 19, Ron muttered, "Perhaps that’s enough of this one Mum. I’m starting to smell a bit…. froggy”.
“Nonsense”, Mrs Weasley replied, stopping folding the laundry to press it more firmly onto his neck to prevent him from lifting his head from where it rested on the pillow. “36 minutes precisely. That’s what the book says.”
Ron sighed and tried not to feel so amphibian.
And then, casually. “Hermione lasted the full 36 minutes and I’m sure she’s looking a good bit better today”.
Ron shot up onto his knees, poultice sliding off onto the bed. “Hermione’s sick too?”
“Oh Ron!" His mother rushed over and lifted the knitted package, cradling it her hand. "How are you supposed to get better if you won’t listen to me dear! 36 minutes precisely….”
Ron felt impatience rising. “Mum, what about Hermione?”
His mother seemed to admit defeat, shoulders sagging a little. “Yes, yes, Hermione came down with this the day after you did. Cough, blocked nose, sore limbs. Can’t seem to shift hers either. It’s strange because no one else in the house is even remotely…" She cast him a suspicious glance and trailed off.
Ron felt shifty yet he knew he had no reason to. Hermione had been practically invisible to him since they returned to the Burrow. She had made every effort to avoid being anywhere near him; surely that was obvious to everyone. There was no… contact that could have transmitted this.
He was still thinking about it the next day when his mother barged into his room and announced they were all going out for the day. He raised his head hopefully but she had taken one look at him and said, "Another day in bed and you’ll be feeling much better dear”. He flopped back down in disgust, knowing that she was right; his body felt like it was slowly recovering but wasn’t quite there yet. He lay fitfully in bed, flicking through old Chudley Cannons annuals. This was the first day he had begun to feel more like himself and he was restless and frustrated with his tender body and snarly cough.
He took a shower, noticing the bath was wet as he turned on the taps. Was Hermione still in the house or had she gone out with them? The urge to go look was overwhelming but he stopped himself.
Climbing back onto his bed, fresh pyjamas and flush with heat, he rubbed his neck absently with both hands. Should he check on her? No. Hadn’t she made it clear, pointedly so, that she didn’t want to see him? He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself by going to her. If she wanted to see him, couldn’t she come here? Ron lay down on the bed with a crackly exhale. But what if she was sicker than him? Maybe she couldn’t get out of bed? The decent, gentlemanly thing to do would be to check.
He dropped on foot to the floor and abruptly the door opened with a squeak and there she was. He took in her dark blue satin pyjamas, loose on her petite frame, her dark crazy hair standing upright in every direction, like hundreds of little question marks all over her head. Her eyes looked heavy, little upturned nose red. She looked like he felt.
“Are you awake?” It was a superfluous thing to say but Hermione didn’t know how else to break the silence. She had been standing, palm against the door, for a long time, listening to his chesty breaths, trying not to make too many of her own. She had battled with herself for weeks, knowing things had to be said, wanting them said really but being quite afraid to either hear them or say them. It wasn’t like her to lack courage. She tackled everything in life head on, despite whatever fear she might be feeling, despite the mammoth task that might await her. But Ron was different. Scary stuff likes basilisks threatened her outer shell, her human body. Ron could look at her with half a glance and touch the very heart of her. And that burned more keenly than any magical thing.
“I brought something I thought might help”, she said, raising a green glass jar with a metal lid. “I asked Harry to get it for me. And I showed it to your Mum too”.
She walked tentatively into the room, proffering the little gift shyly.
*********************************
Ron unscrewed the lid and inhaled deeply. The heady scent of eucalyptus and menthol wafted up and for a second his head felt marginally clearer.
“Do we… eat it?” He looked doubtful.
Hermione laughed, though it sounded hoarse and low, like it had gotten stuck in her chest half way up, took the jar from him and sat down onto the bed. “No Ron, you rub it into your skin. It helps to warm your chest and back and clear your sinuses. I thought we could do each other’s backs.“ She paused. "And our own chests. Obviously”.
Ron seemed preoccupied with poking at the gloop in the jar and didn’t respond. “You’ll need to…” He glanced up and Hermione gestured vaguely at his t shirt. He felt alarm well up in his stomach and his eyes widen slightly. She wanted him to remove his top. He was going to be half naked in front of her, in his bed. To be fair, Hermione looked more than a little abashed by the scenario, her cheeks pinkened as she rolled the little glass jar in her hands and pretended the read the instructions printed on it.
Why did he have to go first? Merlin, he had wanted the opportunity to talk to her about their kiss. That was the wish he had sent out into the karmic ether. He DID NOT ask for this. THIS was seven or eight steps ahead of what he had been planning.
The heat of his ears and cheeks brought him back from his thought spiral and made him acutely aware he hadn’t said anything for a really long time. You can do this Weasley. It’s only Hermione. Without allowing another thought to rise up in his head, he roughly pulled the green material over his head and threw it behind him onto the floor. He stared resolutely at a point on her pyjama top, somewhere near her navel.
Hermione raised her head slowly and he could have sworn he saw her abdominals pull in slightly, as if she had taken a big breath. She gathered her hair at the nape of her neck, still damp from the bath, and tossed it on top of her head, held with elastic.
“If you turn round. So I can do your back”. He could hardly hear her at all and he wasn’t sure if that was because she was speaking so quietly or if the buzzing in his ears was drowning her out. It was a bit awkward, changing position, his bed being so small and Hermione taking up half of it. He dropped his feet to the floor and she leaned back as far as she could, as if desperate not to make contact with him at all which he adjusted. He dropped back down onto the bed, facing away from her this time and pulled one leg half underneath him, the other hanging over the side of the bed. He felt the bed depress and shift as she shuffled herself closer. One leg draped over the side of the bed, a respectable distance from his.
There was a long pause. Ron wasn’t sure what to do in the silence so he just sat, feeling more and more foolish. Eventually, he heard Hermione unscrew the jar, metal on glass, and dip her fingers into the mixture.
“This might be a bit cold”, she whispered, “I’ll try and warm it up a bit”. Her hands smacked together lightly as she rubbed palm to palm. The menthol was becoming stronger and Ron’s head was starting to feel a bit light. Just get over with already, why couldn’t she? If he had to sit here any longer, half dressed, in broad daylight..
Suddenly he felt the cool pressure of two little hands press lightly on his shoulder blades. His body gave an involuntary shiver and the skin that had seemed sweat clogged now felt icy, each tiny arrector pili muscle switching on. Goosebumps, he thought absently. In July. What was she doing to him?
Ron had always been slightly shy when it came to revealing his body. He wasn’t like Cormac McLeggan who took any and every opportunity to parade around in tight t shirts and vests, showing off his brawny arms. There wasn’t much brawn to Ron. His body had grown long and lanky as he aged. It sometimes seemed to take him by surprise when he tripped over his big feet or hit his head on a door frame. Like he didn’t remember he took up quite this much space.
But Hermione had committed his frame to memory and it was all good. She knew his knobbly wrist bones and the curve of his ear lobe and the length of his neck. His pale gingery eyelashes that swept against his cheek as he slept. Her deep, strong feelings for him meant that all those things were significant. But how do you tell your best friend that? How do you tell them that you are grateful for their bravery, their kindness, for the fact that they could have had anyone as a friend and they chose you? How do you say ‘Thanks for all that but I want more?' That all of that isn’t enough.
Except… He hadn’t made any effort to bridge the gap between them since they arrived here. She had thought if she stayed in Ginny’s room or walked in the orchard, nearly always alone, that he would use the time when it could be just the two of them. Take the initiative. She had made the first move hadn’t she? Ron was a master of chess. Surely he knew it was his turn to move?
Unless he didn’t want to move. That was a depressing thought. But was it because he didn’t want her or because he was shy? A wild part of Hermione wanted to slide round onto his lap. Force their bodies closer together than ever before. Take his sweet face in her hands and kiss every breath out of both of their bodies. His skin, rubbing against her skin as they clawed to be closer. Her hair falling round them as he pulled her down onto the bed on top of him. It would negate the need for all this talking. She could just show him. Something hot licked through her.
“Rhomboid major”, she said suddenly, as if it has entered her mouth without going through her brain first.
Ron half turned to look at her. “Are you hexing me from behind?”
She felt a giggle rumble in her chest and relaxed slightly. “If I were hexing you Ronald Weasley, you would know about it. No, these”, she cupped her hands lightly on his back, “Are your rhomboid major muscles.”
She heard Ron click his tongue. “How or why would you ever need to know that?”
This was safe territory, she thought happily. Books and cleverness. Focusing on facts would mean she wasn’t focusing on… bare…skin.
“It’s important to know the musculature of the human body if you are performing curses on it”, she replied, her voice becoming more authoritarian. “For example, Petrificus Totalus is a paralyser and it’s good practice to know what is going on in the body when you perform it”.
“Dunno how you do it Hermione. Honestly your brain must be the size….” his sentence trailed off to a satisfied slur as the pressure on his shoulder blades melted inwards and down his back, tracing a soft line down each side of his spine. And then up again, unhurried and deliberate, cresting over the tops of his shoulders.
“Trapezius… deltoid…”.The paste slowed her motions, snagging her skin over his. It was almost unbearable. Over his lats (“Lattissimus dorsi…”) which felt firm and striated under the pressure. How different his body was now, no longer soft in places. Every muscle long and contracted with purpose. He hadn’t really thought about it until now; his body has just done whatever he had told it to, reacted to whatever he had given it. But now, under her gaze, nothing to distract them, nowhere to hide, he had became acutely aware of his own physicality.
Of course he had given serious consideration to Hermione’s physicality. Nights spent together in the common room, watching her riotous curls shine in the firelight. They looked hard and wiry and yet he knew that when they brushed against your arm as she pushed her nose ever closer to her book, that really they were soft and light, ticklish. The length of her legs, wrapped in thick wool under her skirt and the swell of her thigh as she crossed them. Reaching over him in the tent to light a lamp and that sallow stretch of lean stomach as her shirt fell away. The tiny little hairs on the back of her fingers as her hand lay inches from his face in Grimmauld Place, that he had lightly stroked while she slept. Every dream she had ever invaded when he knew he should be thinking of another, that he had woke from feeling heavy, choked and overwhelmed with lust.
Contact was lost briefly and Ron almost groaned at its absence. He needed to give himself a good talking to if he was going to survive this. He could hear Hermione rubbing her palms together again and then her thumb pads pressed at the base of his spinal column. Firmly she pushed up either side, his skin wrinkling and spreading as she moved upwards. When she reached the base of his skull, she returned to the bottom and started again. Ron wasn’t sure he’d felt anything quite as good as this before. Unwittingly, he dropped his head, feeling his middle back stretch and the next time she reached the top, her fingers spread into his hair. She curled and pulled them back, her nails trailing deliciously on his scalp. Ron felt his tongue grow heavy in his mouth, his eyes half close. His whole body hummed in a happy, warm way.
On her fourth pass, he muttered, “It feels really bumpy there”. The upward pressure froze and she rubbed back on forward on the area.“Here?”
“Blimey… yes. What is that?”
“The muscle fibres stick together with tension. It’s a trigger point, like a knot.”
Ron flopped his head left and right on his neck as she pushed on the knot with her thumb, trying not to apply fingernails. “What muscle is that?”
There was a strange pause behind him. “It…uh. It keeps your back straight. So you don’t get all hunched over." Silence. Vigorous working at the knot.
Ron smirked. Had he, Ron Weasley, found something that the brightest witch of our age didn’t know? "But what’s it called?” he persisted, a teasing note in his voice.
“Erector spinae”, she stated loudly, attempting to drown out the blood rushing past her ears. Instantly Ron knew why there had been a pause. Unwittingly, he glanced down at his lap and then, just as quickly, straightened up. Had she seen him doing that? Merlin, why hadn’t he kept his big mouth shut? It was bad enough that all this skin on skin contact was making him slightly lightheaded. But then she’d gone and said 'erector’. He was done for. This clever, beautiful witch was going to be the death of him and she was just carrying on, like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t said it.
I said 'erector’. Out loud. While Ron is half naked. While we are in in his bed. And was it her imagination or had he looked down at his crotch when she said it? If Hermione had had it within her means to curse herself into a big hole in the ground right there and then she would have. Heat rushed up her neck and flooded her cheeks. Her hands worked mechanically over his back and she took a shaky breath. Steady Granger. You aren’t some daft girl that giggles every time someone says a faintly dirty word. If he can carry on like nothing had happened then so can you. But the damage was done. The smear of the ointment made a satiny sheen on his skin whose freckles had got darker in the sun. Hermione wondered what it would be like to spend the whole day undressed with Ron, tracing lines between the freckles,, following where they lead, finding new ones… Oh good grief.
“I think that’s you all done!” she said brightly, pushing herself off the bed with force. Ron jerked with surprise and turned to face her.
“Oh, right." He sat looking at her, twiddling the little glass jar in her hands. "Er… well ok… I guess it’s your turn?”
Hermione shook her head and took a step backwards. She’d be damned if she was going to let him run his hands all over her. “I’m fine, actually. Feeling much better. I don’t think I really need…" Unfortunately her treacherous body had taken that moment to let out a great hacking cough. It swooped up her throat and out of her mouth before she knew it was coming and bent her in half as she was wracked with spasms. Ron watched her, one eyebrow raised.
It could only have been a minute but it felt like ten before she finally stopped with a shiver. Ron’s mouth lifted at one corner. "Get on the bed”.
Knowing she was beat, Hermione wiped her mouth with the back of one hand and crawled gingerly onto the bed. Her back ached after her coughing fit and actually having someone rub it seemed like quite a nice prospect. She stretched her legs out towards the bottom of the bed and felt Ron scootch in behind her, back to the wall. Two long legs arranged themselves, one down each side of hers, and she felt the pressure of his inside thighs against her outer ones. The sensation sent heat cascading down through her stomach and somewhere in her low belly there was a pleasurable contraction. She bit her lip and allowed herself to revel in the feeling for a few seconds.
Ron’s voice brought her back. “Can’t do it through your jammies”. He sounded embarrassed and gave a little cough at the end that may, or may not, have been real.
Hermione’s fingers felt clumsy as she worked at the buttons on her pyjama top. Of course Ron had seen parts of her body before. Sleeping three in a tent, there was always a danger someone would walk in as she changed her top or rouse her from sleep to find her pyjama bottoms had crept down low on her hips. At first it had been embarrassing but quickly they had all just got on with it. She rather thought they had started treating her like one of the lads; her bare back promoting the same reaction as either of theres. In the middle of war it didn’t matter, it was preferable. But now, here, with life and the opportunity to live it reaching out in front of her, Hermione didn’t want Ron to think of her the same way as he thought of Harry. She wanted… something else entirely.
Breathing slowly through her nose, Hermione stopped unbuttoning half way down. With a slight twitch of her shoulders the satin fabric slipped off and lazily slid down her arms, bunching at the elbows and she unclipped her bra. She was gratified to hear a sort of strangled sound from behind her.
Ron felt like he hadn’t taken a breath for a solid minute. The gold summer light shone through the warped window pane, refracting over her back. Downy hair near the base of her spine, made blonde by sun, caught his eye. He only just stopped himself from running a knuckle over them. Every filthy teenaged fantasy he had ever had somehow wasn’t quite as good as this. He had envisioned the first time he would see her naked, when she intentionally showed herself to him. He had always considered himself to have quite the imagination, there really was no stone unturned when he was alone in the dark and thinking about Hermione. But this. And Merlin, this was only her back! They hadn’t even got to the good stuff yet.
Ron gave himself an internal shake. You’ve been staring at her so long, you’ve made it weird. Do something!
Hurriedly, he scooped out some of the paste and, without thinking, smeared it down Hermione’s back. She let out a yelp.
“It’s cold!” She pulled her knees up to her chest and shivered, a line of goose bumps appearing down the back of each arm, her skin pulling taut against her ribs.
“Sorry… let me.. sort it…” He dropped the jar onto the bed and flexed his hands a inch away from her skin. He would start with her shoulders, he decided. Nice and safe up there.
Ron lifted the paste with a thumb and rubbed it into his palms. Taking a breath, he pressed the heel of his hands onto her shoulders, fingers curling over the top and began working his thumbs into muscle.
Almost instantaneously, Hermione’s knees dropped to either side and she let out a soft almost imperceptible groan. Ron felt his mouth drop open slightly. Hermione groaned at him all time. Sometimes odd things would happen when he tried to perform spells and she would groan at him before showing him the right way. Or if he said something inappropriate at a delicate moment, she would groan and shake her head. If he really pissed her off she might groan ‘Ron!’ before elbowing him or whacking him upside the head with her book. But this groan wasn’t anything like that. This sounded like pleasure. It might even be classified as…a moan. Bloody hell, if he was making her moan… Ron’s ears were scalding now, he sat up straighter and tried to focus on the little knots at the base of Hermione’s neck.
Just like he had, she allowed her head to drop and her breathing evened out. The scent of eucalyptus was intoxicating and seemed to be curling into her nose and chest and opening everything out. She couldn’t remember the last time she had taken a full breath, chest expanding the way it should, actually smelling anything. But the warmth of Ron’s fingers and hell, of Ron himself, radiating through her seemed like the perfect balm to her weary body.
“Is that ok?” Ron’s voice was barely a whisper.
“It’s amazing”, Hermione replied simply and he felt pleased with himself. He fanned his fingers wide and moved them up and down her ribcage, putting extra pressure on his thumbs next to her spine, just like she had done. She had made him feel so good and he wanted her to feel the same. He wanted to do anything that would make her groan like that again, however uncomfortable the thought of it was making his lower half. He carried on, rubbing and massaging, surreptitiously avoiding her erector spinae should that happen to come up again. She was so soft and supple under his hands. She felt exactly the way she was meant to.
Ron didn’t know how long he had been kneading her back when he noticed she was developing goosebumps again.
“Are you cold?” he asked, voice thick and disused.
“A little I guess”.
His fingers ceased and he clipped the thin straps of pale pink lace back together. He lifted the collar of the pyjama shirt, sliding it up over her back and arranging it over her shoulders as she buttoned it. Hesitantly, he smoothed the fabric down her arms, one hand over each sleeve. Without missing a beat, Hermione lay back against his chest, her little body caged between his long legs.
“Is this ok?" Barely a whisper and Ron could feel her holding herself rigid. Merlin what a thing to ask him.
"Yes. Course it is”. Her body melted further back onto his and likewise he leant back against the wall to support them both. His knees drew up at right angles releasing the fizz of poor blood flow after being straight for so long. Emboldened by the fact that she had closed the gap between them, Ron allowed his hands to fold lightly over hers in her lap.
A long moment passed until Hermione spoke again. “I wanted to thank you”.
That surprised him. “What for?”
“Everything really. Having my back. Putting up with me all these years. Being my best friend.”
Ron snorted. “Yeah you’re no picnic.”
Hermione was stung, her eyes prickling sharply. “I know”, she murmured with a sniff. “And you have tolerated me…”
Ron was abruptly aware he had said the wrong thing, that she had taken it wrong. How could she even think that? He sat up, bringing her body with his. Reaching up, he pulled the elastic from her hair in one flick of his wrist and her beautiful brunette waves spilled down over her shoulders. He buried his face in them, inhaling the strong clean smell of her shampoo.
“You are not someone I have ever tolerated”, he mumbled into her hair, both hands now enveloping hers. She sat still. “I tolerate a lot of things. My Aunt Muriel. The ghoul in the attic. My mum cutting my hair. Not you. Never you”.
Hermione hadn’t realised her eyes were closed until this point. The low hum of his voice through her hair was sending cool trembles up her neck and round her ears. His hands felt rough against the backs of hers and he was rubbing slow circles on her palms with his callused thumbs.
Timidly, she turned her head towards him and Ron gathered her hair back from her face with his left hand. His breath warmed her cheek and her hair tickled his and, in exactly the same moment, both of them thought This. Is. It.
Hermione tilted her head ever so slightly upward and for a second, Ron thought to himself that she would never look any better than she did right now and then he thought of nothing else as he brought his mouth to meet hers.
For Hermione it was like melting, two halves into one. She turned her body round for better access as their lips melded together until she was on her knees in front of him, hands in his hair. The flick of his tongue against hers, one long arm pulling her upright on her knees, her head above his, one big hand cradling her jaw line. She allowed one hand to drop down to his chest, her thumb drawing a electric line down his exposed throat, and pressed it there feeling his heartbeat hammering through. She couldn’t believe how moreish this was. When would it ever be enough?
For Ron it was like a million tiny fireworks going off at once. He cupped her face in his hands as she turned towards him. She tasted of peppermint and so much sweetness and he wanted to delve into her, memorizing her from the outside in. Her teeth scraped along his bottom lip and tugged it ever so slightly. The sensation was otherworldly. He couldn’t find enough places to put his hands, he wanted to touch her everywhere- the small of her back, the ridge of her collarbone, the smooth firmness of her belly. There just wasn’t enough time to do all that and kiss her deeply, the way he wanted to.
When they pulled apart, chests heaving for breath, Hermione’s dark eyes met Ron’s blue ones.
We Have to Quit Meeting Like This (or Six Times Ron and Hermione Used the Hospital Wing to Flirt)
Creator: hello-blue-roses
Prompt: Hospital Room, 2:38 am
Description: Six drabbles over six years. First time writing fanfiction in almost a decade so apologies in advance for any errors!
Rating: T
December 27th, 1992, 2:38 am
The first time it happened was Harry’s fault. As with so many turning points in the pair’s relationship, he was both impetus and witness. It was a few days after the Polyjuice debacle which had landed Hermione in the Hospital Wing in the first place. She’d been laid up there for just over a day and was still in the process of trying to convince herself that this convalescence was a good thing. Since arriving at school back in September, she had hardly had a second to breathe. They hadn’t even made it through the start of term feast this year without problems arising. And between Malfoy, the Chamber of Secrets, petrifications, and the highly illegal brewing of an advanced potion in the girls’ toilets, Hermione was feeling more than a little burnt out.
A few days rest couldn’t hurt.
This was an opportunity to focus on herself for a change, instead of Harry. She could stay in her pyjamas all day if she liked and start one of the books her parents had sent her for Christmas. There was nothing Hermione loved more than spending time by herself. At least, there hadn’t been before she’d come to Hogwarts. Now, she couldn’t make it past “I have just returned from a visit to my landlord” without getting sidetracked. Her mind kept getting stuck on what they’d learned a few nights before. A student had died the last time the Chamber had been opened. A student who had Muggle parents just like her.
Hermione wasn’t too worried about her own safety, there were rarely any times that she was alone without the boys to help watch her back, but what about the first years who barely knew how hold a wand let alone protect themselves! Colin Creevey, two beds down, served as a constant, sobering reminder.
These thoughts, continually swirling about her head, made it nearly impossible to fall asleep so she decided to pass the time with research. Though she’d never say it out loud, especially not within earshot a certain Weasley, reading ancient dusty tomes was not by any stretch of the imagination fun. They were incredibly dull and tiresome at times, especially when one didn’t know what they were looking for, but it was a one of life’s necessities and proved to be remarkably useful more often than not. Like when an overactive brain needed to be turned off for the night. With a heavy History of Magic book propped on her lap, a quill at the ready, and a whispered Lumos, Hermione began the most soporific activity she could.
Quickly, she’d gone to that place somewhere between awake and sleep, where each minute feels like an hour and each hour a minute. She would come to, unaware she’d nodded off in the first place, scribble down a few more words, and drift off again. One of these bouts had her more alert than usual, whether because of genuine interest or circadian rhythms, she knew not. As she lazily skimmed through yet another goblin rebellion, a noise came from near the door.
Hermione’s head turned so quickly that she pulled something in her neck, immediately wide awake. Grimacing, she nonetheless readied her wand in a white knuckle grip beneath the blankets. A few moments passed, the ticking the clock growing indistinguishable from her heartbeats. Just as she was beginning to believe she must have dreamed it, there was shuffling from the empty bed across the row. Her stomach jumped to her throat and she had to fight every instinct that told her to duck beneath the covers. The heir of Slytherin could be back to finish off what he’d started and Justin and Colin were completely defenseless. Raising a shaking hand, she managed to aim her wand towards the source. Though Hermione was putting on a brave facade, she didn’t trust herself at all to attempt a spell in this state. Was it a person? A wizard? Should she try to disarm them? Was it Dobby or a ghost? Would Immobulous work on a non-human? Immobulous on a ghost suddenly brought Nearly Headless Nick to mind and Nick made her think of…
‘Peeves?’
Someone snorted near her left ear. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and let her body slump back against the headboard at the familiar sound. The relief didn’t last long, though, when the realization that she’d been terrorized for no reason sunk in.
With a huff, Hermione snatched up one of her pillows and scooted towards the disembodied voice. ‘You… prats…,’ she hissed, emphasizing each word with as hard of a swing as she could manage from her recumbent position, ‘…are the most…ir-re-sponsible’ She finally connected with her target who had dissolved into giggles at her hit. His attempt to dodge her had resulted in the cloak slipping off, in the process exposing another set of legs, and confirming her suspicions. He jumped onto the neighboring bed, dark hair even wilder than usual, and stuck his tongue out triumphantly. She threw the projectile at him one last time for good measure.
This scuffle had given the other culprit more than enough time to sneak to the end of her bed and grab the end of the duvet. The bedspread bucked and bounced in waves as the person continuously yanked it up and down again. ‘Ronald Weasley!’ she snapped after getting a face full of bedding. ‘Enough!’
‘Who is the Ronald Weasley you speak of? It’s me, Peeves!’ he said, in a surprisingly decent imitation. This sent Harry into yet another fit of laughter. Spurred on by this reaction, an unseen hand began poking at her foot until Hermione trapped his hand beneath her heel, only letting up when he finally removed the invisibility cloak.
‘Ow! Bloody hell, Hermione! That was my finger!’ Ron cradled it to his chest, frowning. ‘Look, it’s broken now, thanks to you!’ He proffered the slightly red digit as proof, gingerly flexing it as he did.
‘It’s not broken. You’re moving it just fine. You’ve probably jammed it.’
‘Same difference,’ he grumbled, plopping down beside Harry.
They lapsed into silence; Harry eyeing her eerily still fellow patients, Ron grumpily glaring into his lap, and Hermione trying desperately to regain her train of thought.
‘So…’ Harry finally started, ‘how are you feline?’ Ron guffawed loudly before clamping his apparently broken fingers over his mouth to stifle his sniggers.
Hermione sighed, ‘Look, if you’ve just come to pick on me-’
‘We haven’t. I swear,’ Ron cut in, trying very hard not to smile. Harry nodded along enthusiastically.
She opened her mouth to ask them why on earth they were sneaking around the castle at a time like this when a light flicked on behind the door at the far end of the ward. The two boys scrambled to their feet, quickly disappearing from view as Hermione threw herself beneath her blankets and tried to look asleep.
June 7th, 1994, 2:38 am
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Ron hadn’t really meant to say it out loud. He’d been staring up at the ceiling for over an hour, attempting to rest, but unable to partially due to his broken leg but mostly because of this niggling feeling of betrayal that he hadn’t been able to shake. The question had been plaguing him ever since Dumbledore’s visit earlier in the night. It’d finally become too much to bear and had slipped out, hardly above a whisper. A few moments passed, and just as Ron was starting to relax, thinking he’d got away with it, he heard movement from his left.
From the sound of it, she’d turned over to face him but he was too much of a coward to verify and so he continued to stare at the dull grey stone as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. He knew what she’d say if she was, in fact, awake. ‘I don’t know how that’s any of your business,’ in that stiff, haughty tone she used when ever she knew she was right. Her lips pursed, eyebrow cocked, challenging him to deny it. God, it drove him mad. She was so self-righteous and condescending and-
‘I wanted to.’ For a split second, he thought that he’d finally gone round the twist and imagined the small, tremulous voice. It was the first time in the nearly three years they’d known each other that she’d ever sounded vulnerable. And it was uncomfortable. He’d seen known her to be anxious, uncertain, upset, sure, but this was different. This was new. It made his chest tighten up and made it difficult to swallow and he sort of wanted to cry. Before he could attempt some ham-fisted consolation, she spoke again, a little louder. ‘I’ve ruined everything. We were finally becoming friends and then I had to go on and on about Scabbers and Buckbeak and the Nimbus 2000 and now this..’
‘What?’
‘I’m trying to apologize,’ she said, as if that clarified things.
‘No, what do you mean we were finally becoming friends?’ Even through the shadows of the dimly lit room Ron could see Hermione’s cheeks darken considerably.
‘Oh. Well, it’s no secret, really, is it?’ At his lack of response, she continued. ‘That you only put up with me because of Harry?’ He opened his mouth to say something, anything but once again she got there first. ‘I just thought that maybe, after all we’ve gone through that we’d, you know, but I understand why. I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with.’ When she’d finally finished, Ron could only manage to gape at the gasping, sniffling girl before him.
Finally, he managed to croak out the words, ‘You don’t consider us friends?’ Ron’s head was swimming more now than when he’d tried to understand the logistics of time travel. His words seemed to break through whatever spiral Hermione’d got herself into, though, because she suddenly sat up in her bed.
‘You do?’ She wiped her face with the backs of her hands like a child and before he could second guess what he was doing, he’d shifted to the far side of his bed to make room for her.
‘C’mere.’ At the word, she launched herself towards him, wrapping her arms around him, holding the back of his t-shirt in her little fists. It didn’t take long for her to calm herself but neither one of them moved. Finally, he mumbled, ‘For someone so smart, you’re really stupid sometimes.’ Her breathy laugh near his ear made his chest do that weird tightening thing again and he quickly pulled away, feeling his own face heat up.
Hermione settled back so that her sock covered foot brushed against his hip. ‘I think I’m just exhausted,’ she eventually sighed between shuddering breaths.
‘Well, yeah. You’ve been living twenty-six hour days since September. That’s to be expected.’ His attempt at a joke got a half smile before her face fell again.
‘I really did want to tell you,’ Hermione reiterated. ‘Actually, there were a few times when I came close, but time turners can be dangerous and I thought I could handle it but it’s very overwhelming, you know? They’re a lot of responsibility and then we kept getting in arguments and I was sure this would be the last straw. I promise I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. Professor McGonagall was insistent that neither of you could find out.’
Logically, this all made sense but Ron still couldn’t help butfeel a little betrayed. She’d kept this from them for nine months. And she’d had plenty of opportunities to come clean. He’d confronted her on the impossibility of her schedule and her constant disappearing/reappearing act more than once. Ron felt the bed shift as she squirmed and realized he’d yet to respond leaving her to jump to her own conclusions. ‘I’m not angry,’ he said carefully, ‘I don’t want you to think I blame you but I still feel, I dunno, bad.” What he wanted more than anything was to tell her that McGonagall should have never let a fourteen year old shoulder that burden let alone a fourteen year old whose best friend was mixed up in all the crazy bullshit that Harry was. That sentiment would probably reopen the rifts they’d only recently mended, though, and he was so sick of the fighting. ‘I’d have helped you if you’d asked. I could have covered for you in class or done my own homework or brought you a snack. I’m not completely useless.’
‘I’ve never thought you were.’ Ron finally glanced up to find her staring intently at a spot somewhere between their parallel legs. He bumped his knee against hers, hoping she would understand all of the things he couldn’t put into words, all of the things he couldn’t confront yet. Hermione sleepily smiled up at him before nudging him back and returning to her bed for the night.
June 25th, 1995, 2:38 am
‘I can’t believe he’s dead.’ The Hospital Wing had finally quieted down. Ron and Hermione were sitting together on the bed across from Harry’s. Other than the pile of gold and the low voices of Mrs. Weasley and Bill in the corridor, it could have been any average day. Which made it all the more unsettling. ‘I’ve never known someone my own age who died.’
‘Me neither,’ mumbled Ron, only half aware of what she was talking about. You-Know-Who was back. You-Know-Who was back.
‘…and the look on Mr. Diggory’s face-‘
‘Shut up for a second, would you?’ he snapped, dropping his head to his hands. Surprisingly, Hermione didn’t hex him into oblivion and instead sat there waiting for him to elaborate. ‘You don’t get it. You’re not from here. You don’t understand what this means.’ He sounded a lot harsher than he’d meant to, but he needed her to recognize the gravity of the situation.
‘Because I’m muggleborn?’ asked Hermione, like she was really trying to understand him instead of being annoyed or angry like she’d usually be at his clumsy words. He nodded, trying desperately to piece his thoughts into some semblance of order. ‘Then explain it to me.’
‘Death Eaters they- they’re not like the Slytherins or Snape. They’re so, so much worse. You saw how they treated those muggles. That was child’s play compared to what they did in the last war. They slaughtered whole families. My mum’s brother’s were murdered.’ Her head snapped up to look at him.
‘I’m so sorry, Ron.’
‘Don’t be. It’s not about that.’ He pulled his hands through his hair and turned his gaze to Harry’s sleeping form. If he saw her face right now, he would lose it.
She took this change of focus as something else. ’Harry’ll be alright. He’s got Dumbledore on his side.’ The tone she used was one she usually saved for house elves and the tenderness of it made his heart clench even tighter. ‘He’s got us, too,’ she said, slipping her arm through his. ‘We’ll just have to support him now more than ever. Remind him that he’s got people behind him, people that would follow him to the ends of the earth.’
Hearing her say that out loud seemed to break the dam and the flood of memories he’d been trying so hard to restrain came crashing to the surface. Malfoy calling her ‘mudblood’, Bill and Charlie cornering him after the World Cup to reiterate how he need to watch out for her, her petrified in this exact bed two years before.
‘What are you doing this summer?’ Ron finally glanced at her, really seeing her for the first time that night. Her hair was half falling out of it’s plait, her eyes bloodshot, but she was resolved. And he knew that this plan was the right one.
‘Erm, I’m not sure yet. Probably going somewhere with my parents. Why?’
‘Well, Harry’ll most likely be at the Burrow again and you’re always welcome to, you know, come help me support him.’
Hermione frowned and he was positive she’d figured out his ploy until she said, ‘But your mum hates me.’
‘Not anymore she doesn’t,’ he grinned, hoping beyond hope that she couldn’t see through him. ‘C’mon, Hermione. It’ll be fun. And then you won’t have to spend your whole holiday worrying about boy wonder over there.’
He didn’t know what he’d do if she said no. Probably go mad picturing all the horrific things the Death Eaters would do to Harry Potter’s ‘girlfriend’. His stomach was already churning at the thought of her leaving his sight tonight let alone traveling to God knows where with no way to protect herself.
He couldn’t tell her that, though. She’d accuse of him of being overprotective and sexist and of underestimating her and they’d end up in a stalemate. So for now, he’d just pretend it was for Harry.
June 20th, 1996, 2:38 am
‘Do you need me to go get Pomfrey?’ Ron asked, already halfway out of his bed.
‘There’s nothing more she can do,’ replied Hermione through gritted teeth. ‘I’m already on the highest dosage of pain potions.’ He looked stricken at this so she attempted to assuage him. ‘I’m fine, Ron. Sleeping on my back is just taking some getting used to.’
It was the third time that night that she’d awoken to searing pain in her chest after unconsciously flipping onto her side and, consequently, the third time Ron had too. He’d been the one to rouse her on the first two occurrences saying that she’d started breathing funny and groaning but this time was enough to wake them both.
Ron had been offered a bed at the opposite end of the ward but for whatever reason, he’d vehemently refused. This didn’t stop Hermione from feeling incredibly guilty about being such a hassle. He needed rest just as much as she did. Though he kept downplaying the extent of his injuries to her, she’d caught a few glimpses of the angry red welts on his arms when his wounds were redressed and saw him wince every time the unction was applied. More than anything she wanted him to trust her enough to show weakness. Did he think she’d tease him about it? Or think less of him? Or, as the nagging voice in the back of her head suggested, was she so terrible at this whole friendship thing that she’d misjudged how close they were?
He startled her from this train of thought by dumping three or four pillows at her feet. At her curious look, he sheepishly nodded towards the now pillow-less beds around them. ‘Mum always made us sleep propped up when we got sick. I thought it couldn’t hurt to try.’
Ron took her hands and gently pulled her into a sitting position. Hermione had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out so as not to worry him any more. He quickly set about arranging them, attempting to fluff the worn, old cushions and building a barrier of bedding along her left side.
‘There,’ he said after a few minutes. ‘Hopefully that helps. Thought this might stop you turning over.’ Ron rubbed at his reddening neck before looking hopefully up at her.
‘I- thank you.’ He just shrugged and moved to help her lay back. She couldn’t tell if the warmth she suddenly felt was gratitude, fever, embarrassment, or some combination of all three. Ron returned to his own bed and she attempted, once more, to fall asleep.
‘Hermione?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m really glad you’re okay.’ His voice was thick and somewhat strangled and she felt a lump forming in her own throat at it.
‘I’m really glad you’re okay, too, Ron.’
March 8th, 1997, 2:38 am
The first thing he said upon opening his eyes was, ‘We have to quit meeting like this.’ And she began weeping in response. Not in the pretty, Scarlett O’Hara-esque way Parvati did or the teary-eyed-stony-faced method that Ginny favored. No, Hermione Granger wept in earnest; crumpled, swollen, snotty. She’d been too incoherent to explain any of what’d happened to him so he’d ended up hearing the story from Madame Pomfrey while she administered a checkup.
Apparently, there were privacy rules surrounding patient’s confidentiality and Hermione had dutifully gone to leave but before she could stand, his large, freckled hand had clamped onto her knee, effectively locking her into her chair. Madame Pomfrey had tried to argue about permission and protocol and Ron had reminded her that his recent birthday meant he was now ‘legally able to consent’ (he’d glanced sideways at Hermione to say the last bit with a smirk that she was fairly certain would power her patronus until the end of time). Their little rendezvous was cut short, though, as that morning’s classes started fifteen minutes after he came to.
The next few days hadn’t allowed for any time alone with him, especially once word had reached Lavender of his recovery. It wasn’t until Harry’s injury that she had an excuse to be there at all hours again. After the emotional rollercoaster of her past week, it was unsurprising when she ended up dozing off between their beds late one night.
Hermione slowly awoke to a shuffling sound as Madame Pomfrey made her potion rounds. The muffled exchange between the nurse and Ron broke through the haze
‘Didn’t I tell you to wake her two hours ago, Mr. Weasley?’
‘Well, yes, but you also tell us all the time how important it is to get a good night’s sleep.’
‘In your own dormitories, not in my infirmary.’
‘She isn’t bothering anyone.’
‘Clearly the matter is keeping you up, though.’
‘I woke up when you came in. I’m a really light sleeper.’
‘Good try. If she’s still here when I come back around at five I’ll be forced to give a detention, do you understand? Students are required to be in bed at that time. No exceptions, not even for prefects.’
Hermione listened to the footsteps recede before pretending to wake up. They may have been on speaking terms, but there were a lot of things left unsaid between them and letting him know she’d overheard him talking about her was probably not the best place to start. Not wanting to startle him, she’d planned on making a little noise but when she sat up from her hunched over position an embarrassingly loud groan escaped her. Ron was up like a shot, quickly untangling his legs from the blankets and moving to the edge of the mattress. He reached towards her shoulder and hesitated, deciding instead to say, ‘You okay?’ in a gruff sort of voice that hadn’t been there moments before.
It was all too much for Hermione to take in at once and she forced her aching neck to nod since she didn’t trust herself to speak. Ron swallowed loudly and said, ‘It’s really dark in here. You’re going to have to move closer.’
Her mind jumped immediately to a scenario she’d thought of a hundred times; one in the common room where she would announce she was chilly and he’d move closer with a smirk and offer to share body heat and- this was definitely not the time or place. She adjusted the chair until they were knee to knee (or more accurately knee to shin) which was as much as she was willing to touch him for the moment. Until there was some sort of apology, that was all she’d allow there to be. She still had principles even if she was half in love with the guy.
‘What time is it?’
‘Just past 2:30, I think. Pomfrey already came by and that’s usually when she does it.’
‘Right.’ They sat in silence, staring in the general direction of each other and Hermione wasn’t sure whether the darkness makes this easier or harder. ‘I’m sorry.’ It came out abruptly, impulsively, fervidly.
Ron nervously laughed. ‘Er, isn’t that supposed to be my line?’
‘You nearly died, Ron,’ she choked out. ‘You nearly died believing that I hate you.’
‘You should hate me. I’ve been an arse to you all year.’ He ran his palms down his thighs and she had to suppress another groan.
‘Not any more than usual.’ She tried to say it light heartedly, to show him she didn’t blame him at all for the pettiness. Nevertheless, he unexpectedly stiffened and the familiar feeling of floundering returned with a vengeance. Ron was the one enigma in her life that she could not puzzle out. Just when she was sure she had a grasp on him, he went and did something that turned her view of him on it’s head. It was thrilling and terrifying and she was so pathetically far gone.
‘I’ve been awful to you, too. And without good reason. You, at least, thought I was insulting you. I’ve been immature and overreacted to things that were none of my business.’ He began to interrupt her but she continued. ‘You’re one of the most important people in the world to me. If you’re happy, then I should be happy.’
‘I’m not happy,’ he murmured, slipping his kneecap to rest between hers. The insinuation of those words seemed to hang in the air.
‘Good.’ Thankfully, her voice sounded braver than she felt. The ball was in her court now and dammit if she was not going to take advantage of it. Her whole body was vibrating as she slowly nudged his legs apart and slid forward until her inner thigh was pressed against his. They both froze, limbs interlocked and she couldn’t tell whether the labored breathing she heard was his or her own. It was silly how affected she was but she could feel the warmth through his thin pyjama bottoms and she was beginning to get lightheaded.
Then his heel was tracing it’s way up her bare calf and the only thing tethering her to reality was the pain in her knuckles from gripping the seat of her chair like her life depended on it. Ludicrously, it sort of did. Because if she let go, if she allowed herself to touch him, it was over. Everything they’d so carefully built up would come crumbling down. There were far bigger things at stake than their friendship. But they were only seventeen and she had waited so long and he was saying her name in that low, husky way and she was accidentally whimpering in response.
A loud snore wrenched through the silence.
Hermione tried to stand but with her legs still tangled in Ron’s, she only managed to end up in his lap.
Harry’s bedsprings creaked and Ron’s arms tightened around her. She buried her nose further into his hair as he rested his against her neck. The picture of the two of them from Harry’s vantage point popped into her head. Their position was beyond compromising. She was practically straddling Ron, his hand dangerously low on her hip, her skirt bunched up between them. They’d already been flirting with crossing that unspoken line but a witness to this completely accidental scene would validate it. They could never go back again if Harry knew. How would he look at her if he saw them now?
This was wildly inappropriate, even before she tripped. It was two thirty in the morning, her feelings were anything but platonic, Ron had a girlfriend, for god’s sake. The whole room seemed to get hot and she twisted out of his grasp the second she was sure Harry was still asleep.
‘Hermione…?’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
May 3rd, 1998, 2:38 am
It was eerily quiet now that his family had gone home for the night. Ron had never really slept alone. He’d grown up in a creaky house with six siblings and a ghoul, roomed with four other boys all through school, and lived in a tent with his two best friends for the past year.
But there he was, in a private room in St. Mungo’s alone. They’d crashed in the dorms immediately after the battle, but upon awakening, the three of them were summoned to an empty classroom to discuss everything that had happened with Kingsley and McGonagall. Their reaction to the revelation of the Horcruxes was… less than ideal and after conferring with Bill about potential ramifications, it had been decided that Harry, Ron, and Hermione would need to be kept under surveillance for at least the next 24 hours as longterm exposure was “under researched.” (Ron was pretty sure this was just an excuse to keep Harry which made sense when you considered the whole human soul receptacle/literally died thing.)
Mostly, though, their admittance into hospital was because of safety. They needed somewhere to recuperate without wayward Death Eaters, prying reporters, or hoards of onlookers. St. Mungo’s was the best option until the Burrow could be secured.
There was a horrible sense of relief he felt at not having to go home. It was awful and selfish because the rest of his family didn’t get to avoid this new reality. George would never be able to look in a mirror without being reminded of his loss while Ron was locked away from the world with his friends and people to take care of him and the ability to suspend disbelief for one last night. Harry and Hermione didn’t even have homes or families to go back to.
The last forty eight hours were too much to process. Lying there, unable to sleep, he tried to catalog all of the major events, hoping that maybe, in doing so, it would start to sink in. He kept getting stuck on one thing in particular, though. He told himself it was the loose ends that were making it impossible to move past.
It was all so stupidly familiar; this routine of dissecting all of his interactions with her late at night, of convincing himself that his reasons for doing so were perfectly rational, noble even, of seeing her the next day and having to pretend that he wasn’t consumed with her, that he didn’t dream of her touching him every night, that he didn’t notice every goddamn thing she ever did.
Unconsciously, Ron found himself staring at her door. It had been closed since they got there and he’d assumed she’d fallen asleep again but now that the hall lights were dimmed for the night he could make out a faint glow beneath the doorframe.
By the time that he realized that he had no idea what to even say, he was already halfway into her room. Hermione glanced up at him quickly before turning back to the pile of papers she had strewn over the bed.
The whole scene was absurd. It was two am, they’d just defeated Voldemort, he had snuck into Hermione’s bedroom and instead of being surprised or even mildly interested, she’d continued taking notes.
He watched her working for a good minute before he said, ‘Are you planning on acknowledging me sometime today or…?’
‘Hello, Ron,’ she said, not even bothering to look at him. He should have known that her way of coping would be throwing herself into something new. With a sigh and a flick of his wand, the lamp turned on and he sat heavily in the visitor’s chair beside the bed. Hermione pointedly turned off the torch she had been using and faced him, glaring. ‘Can I help you?’
‘What’s with the muggle lumos?’ Ron knew what a torch was and she knew he knew but sometimes she needed to be riled up to let her guard down.
‘I was making some lists for myself and needed a light,’ she said calmly, not taking the bait.
‘Can’t your wand do that for you?’ Hermione continued her unblinking eye contact. ‘Where is it?’ She shrugged. ‘Please tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.’
‘I didn’t. It’s in the bottom of my bag somewhere. I wanted to leave it at Hogwarts but I thought you’d be furious. So I compromised.’
Prior to the battle, she’d all but stopped using magic. He was fairly certain it was due to the wand, but he’d be lying if he said that it hadn’t crossed his mind that one day she would wake up and announce that she was tired of being a witch. That she would decide to go to University and meet some nice, posh, upstart who could give her the world.
Unable to think of a way to voice these concerns to her without sounding like a jealous prick, Ron grabbed the nearest sheet of paper. Written in small, neat print was the word, “Australia” and suddenly the faceless man he’d been picturing was tanned and shirtless.
He cleared his throat and attempted to sound cordial. ‘I hear it’s nice there this time of year.’
‘Yes, it’s supposed to be very temperate in the winter.’
‘How long do you reckon you’ll be gone for?’
Hermione dropped her head to focus on twisting a thread on her blanket. ‘I guess that depends on whether I can reverse it or not. And whether they forgive me if I do.’
’They will. It may take a few weeks to get over but trust me, you’re incredibly hard to stay angry at.’ She rolled her eyes in that way she reserved just for him but her face flushed just the same.
‘You’re too charming by half,’ she joked.
‘So I’ve heard,’ he said, mock seriously. As the conversation lulled, Ron asked as casually as possible, ’What about after?’
‘I don’t know. I never let myself think that far ahead.’ He was well aware of what that euphemism meant having used a few times himself. The three of them had become so good at tiptoeing around it all year. The “I’m not expecting to live” quandary.
‘Well, let’s start small. What’s the first thing you want to do when we get out of here? It can be anything.’ Hermione stared at him blankly. ‘I’ll start then. I want my mum’s roast dinner. For breakfast.’ She pulled a face. ‘Your turn.’
‘I definitely don’t want roast dinner for breakfast. That’s for sure. Maybe currant scones.’
‘With jam?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’d like to play Quidditch.’ Ron leaned in, elbows on knees, chin in hand to await her reply.
‘Ride a bike.’
’See a concert.’
‘See a movie.’
‘Buy something useless.’
‘Eat sweets,’ she said smugly.
‘You stole that from me! Fine. Get Harry drunk.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Get you drunk.’ He waggled his eyebrows as she tried not to laugh.
‘I’d like to see you try.’ Hermione crossed her arms as if challenging him.
This time it was Ron who guffawed. ‘I seem to recall that you, Ms. Granger, have a certain weakness for wine.’
Now she was really blushing. ‘It’s an affinity, not a weakness. Weakness makes it sound like I’m a sot.’
‘Fine. Then instead of getting you totally pissed, I’ll ply you with both wine and food. Is that better?’
‘Much. We’ll get Italian food so you can finally try pizza.’ The smile she gave him at the prospect made him dizzy.
‘Budge up,’ he said, banishing her notes to a stack in the corner before climbing into bed alongside her. She flopped onto her back, laughing as she pulled him down with her. They were the wrong way, sprawled across the middle so their legs hung off the end.
Her hand, heavy in his, gave him the confidence to ask, ’What about ten years from now?’
Hermione burst into giggles. ‘Is this a job interview?’
‘You never know,’ he teased.
She pretended to seriously contemplate her answer. ‘Hmm… well, married to Zacharias Smith, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
‘And I assume running the Three Broomsticks since I’m Madame Rosmerta’s natural successor.’ Hermione motioned towards her modestly endowed bust.
‘We’ll be neighbors! Romilda and I have plans to take over Madame Puddifoot’s!’ said Ron, finding that it probably wasn’t the best time to tell her that he was more than acquainted with her tits. When she didn’t respond, he sat up on his elbows, ready to rib her for not having a comeback but instead he found her deep in thought, her dark eyes straight ahead.
Eventually she said, ‘I’ve always wanted a brick house.’
’Somewhere with ivy. And hedges.’
‘Yes, and lots of windows.’ He could picture her there. Curled up in an oversized chair, reading, while he listened to the wireless.
‘Harry’d live nearby.’
Hermione eyed him. ‘Not too close.’
‘Of course not,’ he scoffed. ‘Next town over at least.’ She nodded. Ron felt her fingers find his again. Emboldened, he added, ‘Maybe a dog. So Crookshanks can have a friend.’
She moved to mirror his position, propping herself up. ‘How big is this house?’
‘What do you mean? A dog doesn’t need that much space.’
‘How many bedrooms?’ she insisted.
‘Depends on the amount of people living there. It wouldn’t need to be like the Burrow or Grimmauld Place or anything.’ Hermione shook her head.
‘No more than three kids.’
’No more than two,’ he countered, wrinkling his nose.
‘Deal.’
They both seemed to recognize the implication at the exact same moment. Her body went rigid beside him. His first instinct was to deny everything and claim he hadn’t meant it like that. But what was the point anymore? Hermione clearly at least somewhat fancied him, the room of requirement had proved that, now they were in her bed together.
Title: “I’m Not Going Anywhere”
Creator: Caitlyn (@michaeljaggerrocks)
Prompt: Hospital Room, 2:38 am
Description: Hermione gets a wake up call in the middle of the night that no one wants to get. Her boyfriend, Ron, has been injured on the job. Before anyone can say anything, she is off to make sure herself that he is safe and being cared for.
Rating: PG – Safe For All Readers
2:38 am – St Mungo’s Hospital
Hermione all but ran through the halls of the seemingly white hospital, looking in every which direction to find where Ron could possibly be.
What felt like hours ago, but could have only been so many minutes prior, she had been awoken by Professor McGonagall in the girl’s dormitories at Hogwarts. Being half asleep and panicked she only picked up on several of the words the headmistress was speaking. “Ron…hurt…at work…Harry…St Mungos…” Within seconds she had been out of bed, quickly throwing on one of Ron’s jumpers, which she had taken to school with her as a way to feel close to her long distance boyfriend, and ran through the tunnels to Hogsmeade in order to apparate to the hospital.
What resulted was the extremely rare sight of an out of breath, disheveled Hermione on the brink of an emotional breakdown.
Just as she was about to hold her wand up to a healer’s neck to find where her boyfriend was, she heard a familiar voice.
“Hermione, relax.” Harry said, approaching his old friend, and placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Relax?” She questioned with an angry tone. “I’ve just been told Ron was seriously injured, and you’re bloody telling me to relax?”
Harry immediately bit his lip at that, not wanting to provoke someone so distressed with her wand drawn.
Hermione lowered her wand slightly, but kept her eyes on him. “What happened? Is he okay?” She asked quietly. With no response she glared and raised her voice. “Harry Potter, I order you to tell me what happened.”
Before Harry could speak however, a quiet voice from the adjacent room perked up. “Mione? Is that you?”
Her eyes widened at the voice and she quickly pushed past Harry, rushing into the room. She let out a tiny gasp at the scene before her. There laid Ron, all bruised and cut up, with various limbs wrapped and clearly injured. He had a black eye and newly stitched up wounds across his face, a small frown when he saw her.
“I told Harry not to wake you over this little thing. You have your Alchemy exam tomorrow.”
Hermione gave him a look at first, but her face quickly softened as she heard his reasoning. “You, Ronald Weasley, are far more important than any examination to me.” She walked over to his bedside, taking a seat on the edge of the rigid hospital bed, resting her hand on top of his.
“I am?” He gave her an amused look. “That’s a first.” He joked.
She rolled her eyes. “You know if it were any other situation, I would have hit you for that.”
“Then it was totally worth getting mangled up.” He laughed quietly, before giving her a small reassuring smile that he was okay.
‘Don’t say that.” Hermione bit her lip, gently lacing their fingers together. With her free hand she carefully brushed some of his ginger hair out of his eyes, running her thumb across his cheek. She only stopped when she saw him wince out of pain. “Tell me what happened.”
He shook his head slowly. “You know I can’t. Everything within the Auror department needs to be kept confidential. Besides, you’d never let me go back to work if I told you everything that happened.” He squeezed her hand lightly.
She sighed quietly, hating that rule. Of course she knew why he had to keep everything quiet, but during something as serious as this she wanted to know. “If you tell me, I’ll show up to work with you and fight off anyone who laid a finger on you.” She teased with a hint of a smile.
Ron let out a laugh at that. “I appreciate it, love. I really do. But if you showed up, you’d have my job. You could catch any dark wizard one hundred times faster and better than I could.”
She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “You never give yourself enough credit. You’re a brilliant wizard, Ron. And everyone knows it but you.” Hermione said, her smile growing slightly as she saw a red hue flush across his cheeks.
He just shook his head slightly, coughing to change the subject. He was always uncomfortable talking about his skills as a wizard. Especially when he was surrounded by Harry and Hermione, the most ambitious and successful wizard and witch respectively. Ron looked between their locked hands and her face. “You know you don’t have to stay. I’ll totally understand if you need to get back to get some rest or study before your ex-“
Before Ron could finish, she shook her head and gently raised a finger to his lips. “I am not leaving this hospital room until you do, love.” She said softly, a small smile forming across her face as she noticed Ron relax at that. “I am your girlfriend and makeshift healer until you are completely back to normal.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
He smiled at that, moving over so that she could properly lay down next to him. As she did, he let his good arm gently drape over her waist and rest on her lower back to keep her as close as possible. “You know, you’re the prettiest healer I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, hush.” She mumbled, now her own cheeks flushing pink.
Ron grinned, despite the pain it caused, resting their noses against one another. “No really. You are. I mean look at those eyes. I could get lost in them for hours. And you have just the perfect little nose that scrunches whenever you’re thinking too hard. And don’t even get me started on that smile…” He went on, pressing a chaste kiss against her lips between each compliment.
Hermione happily kissed back each time. “Well you’re not so bad looking yourself. Even all beat up, you’re still the cutest Auror I’ve ever laid my eyes on.” She said with a twinkle in her eye, wrapping her own arm carefully around him.
Ron just hummed quietly, running his fingers slowly across her side and back. He looked up at Hermione before back down. “You know what the last thing I remember thinking before I ended up here was?”
“What?” She asked curiously, her eyebrows raised in wonder.
“That more than anything, I hoped I’d get to see you again.” He said quietly, finally regaining eye contact with her. “Cause for a second there, I didn’t think I’d be able to. And that hurt more than anything.”
A few tears came to her eyes as she listened. She pulled him even closer, kissing him deeply for a few moments, letting some of those tears fall onto cheeks.
“Shh, it’s okay.” He whispered, brushing some of her tears away, quietly comforting her.
Hermione let out a teary laugh. “I’m supposed to be the one making you feel better. Not vice versa.”
Ron smiled, shaking his head. “Nah, I disagree. My job is to keep you happy and safe.”
“You’re amazing, you are. You know that, Ronald Weasley?”
“I try to be.” He teased, pressing a kiss to her nose. “I love you, Mione. More than anything.”
“I love you too. More than life itself.” She got out as she snuggled closer to him, feeling so lucky that while he was a bit banged up, he was safe and alright. “Now, you need some rest.”
“But…”
“No buts.” She said quietly. “You can only get better if you’re well rested.”
He sighed softly, not wanting to argue a mute point. “Fine. But you better wake me up if you need to leave for any reason.” He mumbled.
“I’m not going anywhere, love.” Hermione whispered, smiling as she watched him slowly close his eyes and drift off into a peaceful sleep, his arm still tightly around her. She pressed a kiss to his forehead shaking her head slightly.
“You, Ronald Weasley, are going to be the death of me.” She chuckled quietly. And even if it seemed true, she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Hi there! I have a fic I'm about to submit- but it has more than 100 'breaks'- and I don't think tumblr will allow that now? How should I submit it? Break it into 2 parts?
Hi!
Apparently, this only applies to mobile, so if you can, please submit through a desktop browser. If this isn't available to you, please let us know and we'll figure out an alternative arrangement :)
Description: Summoned to St. Mungo’s in the middle of the night, Ron and Hermione find themselves making some very big life decisions.
Rating: K+
Ron’s fast asleep, face smashed into his pillow, when a glowing silver stag gallops into the master bedroom at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place and the sound of his best friend’s voice erupts through the quiet bedroom. Hermione has to jostle him awake to relay the message: that he’s about to become an uncle once again. It takes a fair amount of coaxing and cajoling to motivate him to actually put on his trousers - he’s never been a morning person, and even less so a middle-of-the-night person - but soon enough, they’re whirling through the Floo on the way to St. Mungo’s. They’ve gotten used to this routine, twice with Bill and then once with Percy, but this is the first time that they’ve traversed these halls at half past one in the morning, theirs the only footsteps echoing off the walls.
They find their way to the nearest waiting room, sink into horridly uncomfortable chairs, and wait. Ron fixes them each a cup of tea - Hermione’s with just a touch of milk, his inundated with sugar - and she watches him as they sip their beverages. His hair is all in disarray, as is hers, his eyes are still bleary with lingering sleep, and there’s a smear of soot on the side of his nose from the Floo that she wipes away with a gentle finger.
“Where’s everyone else?” Ron asks into the quiet. Typically, the rest of the Weasley family is not difficult to spot.
“I’m sure they’ll be along soon,” Hermione says, leaning her head on his shoulder. She’s not about to admit it, but they might have been a bit overeager, rushing to the hospital the way they had - but then again, it isn’t like this happens every day. She closes her eyes and breathes in the familiar smell of Ron’s hair as they fall into a comfortable silence again.
The first person they see, a solid hour later, is Harry, who emerges from a nearby room with his black hair wilder than Hermione has ever seen it, his green eyes rimmed with red. He opens his mouth to speak before simply shrugging and beckoning to them to follow him. They do, entering cautiously to see Ginny, pale and exhausted, propped up in bed with a tiny bundle in her arms. A broad smile bursts over Harry’s face as he introduces his son - called James Sirius, naturally - and deftly plucks the infant from his wife’s arms.
“Where’s Mum and Dad?” asks Ron, watching as Harry adjusts the blanket around the newborn.
“They’ll be here in the morning, but we figured you two should be the first to meet him,” Harry replies as Ginny lets out an enormous yawn, “since you’re his godparents and all.”
“We are?”
“Of course,” says Ginny casually. “Who else would it be?”
“You’d really trust me to look after your kid?” Ron jokes, even though Hermione detects a flush rising up his neck and into his cheeks.
Harry shrugs. “We’re not planning on dying anytime soon.”
“Not that you’re very good at dying, anyway,” Ron quips, earning a pinch on the leg from Hermione and an eye-roll from Harry for his remark. “Erm, can I hold him?”
Hermione watches, pleasantly surprised, as Harry very cautiously passes James off to Ron. In the past, Ron has always been wary of holding newborns, terrified of somehow hurting them. He usually leans more toward playing the role of fun uncle, sneaking sweets to his nieces and taking them on low-altitude broomstick rides, but now he accepts the minutes-old child into his arms as though he’s been doing this his whole life.
“Harry, he looks just like you,” Hermione comments, peering over Ron’s shoulder at the shock of black hair on the baby’s head.
“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “He’s got her eyes though,” he adds with a jerk of his head toward Ginny.
Ron gives a long-suffering sigh. “Are you telling me that this kid looks like his dad but he has his mother’s eyes?”
Harry half-laughs, half-groans and shakes his head. “Ron, it’s like, two-thirty in the morning, I don’t have the patience for you right now, we just had a baby-”
“No, no,” Ginny pipes up from the bed. “I just had a baby. You just provided moral support - and can you go get me some more of those ice chips?”
Looking sheepish, Harry nods and exits the room, and Ron shifts in his seat, adjusting James in his arms so that he’s supporting the baby’s head with one hand and his little body with the other.
“Can I tell you something?” Ron says to Hermione in a low voice as Ginny begins perusing the assortment of healing potions on her bedside table. Hermione nods. “I want one.”
Hermione freezes. “Want one? Want one what?”
“I want a baby,” Ron adds, actively fighting back a smile. “I think we should have one. What d’you say?”
It’s a problem, this proposition, mainly because Ron, all messy hair and bright blue eyes with a newborn in his arms, is giving her all sorts of thoughts that she didn’t think she’d yet be having at twenty-four. They’re young, they’re happy, and they’ve got all the time in the world to embark upon these sorts of endeavors. And yet…
“You’re just sleep-deprived,” Hermione reasons, as much to herself as to him.
“I’m not - all right, I mean, I am, but that’s not why I’m saying this.”
“I don’t know if this is a conversation we want to have in front of Ginny-”
“Oh, you lot do what you want,” Ginny chimes in with an errant wave of her hand. “I’m all hopped up on pain potion, I don’t know how much of this I’ll even remember tomorrow.”
Ron chuckles, biting his lip in the sort of way that makes Hermione want to bring him home and perhaps at least practice conceiving a child before she reminds herself that she’s being irrational.
“We aren’t even married yet,” Hermione reminds him in what she feels is a robust display of common sense.
“Well - we could do that too,” says Ron, his voice softer now.
His bottom lip still between his teeth - and he has to stop doing that, Hermione decides at once, because he’s making her think all sorts of frankly outlandish things - he bounces James, who has started to fuss just a bit, gently up and down to soothe him.
Of course. Of course Ron chooses this moment, of all moments, to inadvertently show her just how particularly good he is with children.
But this, she already knows, because he’s surrounded by kids of all ages every single day at the joke shop and somehow he never loses his patience with them, and he’s always the one on the floor with the other little Weasleys at holidays, letting them break the rules while playing Gobstones and teaching them secret handshakes. With a start, Hermione comes to understand that he’s probably been thinking about this for years.
“So - what are you asking me, exactly?” Hermione attempts to clarify. “To get married or to have a baby? Or both?”
Ron glances back at Ginny, who’s accepting a cup of ice chips from Harry. “All I’m saying,” he says with more gravity in his voice, “is that I want this with you. I mean, I always have, and you know that, but now I actually don’t think the future’s so far off anymore.”
More than anything, Hermione’s stunned at her own non-reaction to this. She should be flabbergasted, telling him he’s gone mad, telling him that this is the sort of decision that requires a serious sit-down conversation and perhaps a distinct absence of Harry and Ginny, but none of that is going through her mind. All she knows is that it’s two thirty-eight in the morning and she’s not sure if she’s in the process of getting engaged or deciding to get pregnant but whatever it is, it’s the two of them doing what they always do: taking some crazy leap, together, and figuring it out along the way.
“What’s going on with these two?” Harry asks Ginny, his voice low from across the room.
“They might’ve just gotten engaged,” Ginny tells him. “Or they might be having a baby. I’m a little fuzzy on the details… and so are they, I think.”
Harry, to Hermione’s chagrin, doesn’t even look fazed by this, and merely shakes his head and drops into a chair at Ginny’s bedside.
“Here, I’ll hold him now,” says Hermione, extending her arms to take James from Ron.
The baby really does look just like Harry, and yet it’s not so difficult for Hermione to envision a head of wispy red hairs rather than black, and blue eyes instead of hazel. It’s all too easy to imagine Ron cradling their own child the way he was just holding James. Suddenly it’s all right before her eyes in vivid technicolor, when before it was a hazy, far-off future that never really seemed like it would come.
She turns to look at Ron, and her heart skips a beat. He’s looking at her, but not expectantly, like he’s waiting for her to respond to all the proposals he’s made in the last few minutes. He’s just looking at her in - well, the way he’s always looked at her, like she is the only thing that matters in the world.
“Let’s talk about this at home,” says Hermione softly. “Without an audience.”
“Yeah,” says Ron with a nod, a gentle smile on his lips. “Course.”
When James fusses a little more, his pink face screwing up in disquiet, Hermione passes him back to Ginny. A hush falls in the little room, then, interrupted only by the occasional whimpering of the baby and the steadily ticking clock on the wall.
“Go home, you lot,” says Harry, his bloodshot eyes focusing on Ron and Hermione. “Really, it means a lot that you’re here and that you came to see him, but you should get some sleep. Someone ought to,” he adds with a little chuckle, “and it’s not going to be us.”
There are more congratulatory hugs and handshakes, and soon Hermione and Ron are back in the deafening quiet of the hallway. And yet it’s a contented silence, not a tense one, and not a word is spoken between them until after they’ve returned to the warmth of their bed.
“You might be crazy, you know,” Hermione says, turning her head on her pillow to face him.
“Oh, I know I am.”
“But everything you said before… you really meant it, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. You don’t think I’d start talking to you about marriage and babies without actually meaning it-“
“I mean the part about you wanting to do all of that right now.”
To her surprise, he sits up, knees tenting the duvet, and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’m messing this up,” he moans with a small shake of the. “I always thought that when I asked you to marry me, it’d be, I dunno, at least a little bit romantic. I didn’t think it’d be at the hospital - I definitely didn’t think Harry and Ginny would be there-“
“Well, but-“ Hermione sits too, her hands automatically seeking out his in the dark. “Are you really asking me, then?”
“I want to marry you,” he tells her. “And I want kids with you. But it’s all right if you’re not ready yet.”
“I used to think you could be ready for anything, if you tried hard enough,” says Hermione thoughtfully. “If you practiced enough, or read enough books, you’d know everything, you’d be prepared for anything that could come along, but I’ve learned that’s not true.”
Ron tilts his head, nodding in concurrence. “This isn’t the kind of thing you can ever be completely ready for, I don’t think.”
“But you and I do make quite a good team.”
“Yeah, we do okay.” He gives her a little smile, squeezing her hand.
“So if you’re asking… I’m saying yes. To all of it.”
His face lights up, his smile shining in the silvery glow of the moon. He looks like he’s about to speak, but then leans in and simply kisses her, warm and sweet. Against her lips, he mumbles that he loves her, and soon she’s climbing into his lap, a hand on either side of his face. A thrill of giddiness rushes through her at the turn the night has taken. The unknown path ahead of them should be intimidating; this next step they’re taking may be the biggest of their lives… yet Hermione embraces it. The time to worry may come later, but for now, she has Ron at her side, and that’s enough.
“I know what you said…” His voice is almost husky as he lays kisses along her jaw and down the side of her neck. “But a little, er, practice couldn’t hurt, could it?”
Summary: Amid preparations to join Harry in his search for Horcruxes, Hermione stumbles upon a little relic from Ron’s past. DH missing moment.
“We ought to start packing tonight,” Hermione had said, discreetly under her breath, as she and Ron had gathered up the dirty dinner plates from the table.
Ron had opened his mouth to argue - they had loads of time, they weren’t even leaving to fetch Harry from the Dursleys for another two days, and wouldn’t they want his input? - but then had thought better of it. Given the choice between time spent with Hermione, regardless of the activity, and - well, anything, really - he would choose Hermione a thousand times over.
So they had taken a box of unassembled wedding favors - some fancy little candies that were meant to be packed into little mesh pouches and tied with a ribbon, the sort of thing that Ron thought nobody would even notice but his mum - and escaped to the relative peace and solitude of his bedroom. Within minutes, Hermione had upended both of their school trunks and was now making it her mission to sort through the resulting disaster, which had rapidly scattered itself to the corners of the tiny attic room.
This, Ron was content to watch, particularly as Hermione had just flung herself onto his bed, her stomach pressed flat against the Chudley Cannons quilt, and begun fossicking through the detritus behind his headboard. He hadn’t a clue what she was looking for, but he didn’t much care at the moment. Admittedly, these weren’t exactly the circumstances he imagined whenever he would picture Hermione in his bed - which was quite often - but he would take it anyway. Her hair had flipped completely over her head, hanging in unruly curtains that just barely grazed the faded wood floor.
Leaning back on his palms, Ron crossed his legs at the ankles and observed as her face slowly, steadily reddened.
“You doing all right there?” he asked, biting back the laugh on the tip of his tongue.
“I’m fine,” came her muffled response. “Your room is a mess, you know.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t even live here most of the year-“
“Exactly,” she replied, still upside down. “Think how much worse would it be if you - oh, for God’s sake,” she exclaimed, and from under the bed came the unnerving sound of rustling parchment. Ron hadn’t wrapped Harry’s seventeenth birthday gift yet, and if she’d found it, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to explain…
But she popped up, hair a wild halo around her face, with a stack of fading parchments clutched in her hands.
“You’ve got essays from fourth year under there,” she informed him as though she were accusing him of some horrific crime.
“Like you don’t keep all your old essays-“
“I do, but I’ve got them organized in files by year, course, and subject matter-“
“Course you do,” he chuckled. “Which one is that one?”
Hermione picked up a sheet from the pile on her lap. “Feeding Habits of Blast-Ended Skrewts,” she read, which made Ron laugh again. “You got an Outstanding on it.”
Ron shrugged. “Hagrid’s an easy grader.”
Had he blinked, he’d have missed it, but he thought an admonishing expression had crossed Hermione’s face in response to his self-deprecation. But before he could do what he usually did, and overthink it, she picked up another thick stack, bound together with a metal clip.
“Is this your dream diary from Divination?”
“Oh, that’s all rubbish,” Ron said, though he sat up a little straighter, savoring her amusement as she scanned the pages. “I think I kept it because I thought it was funny.”
“Did any of these predictions actually come true?”
“Well, they were made up dreams, so it’d be weird if they did.”
Hermione - despite her long-standing belief that homework was to be approached with the utmost seriousness - let out a laugh of her own and set the dream diary aside.
“What’s this?” she asked, now holding a yellowed, rough-edged scrap.
Ron’s stomach flipped. “That? That’s nothing.”
“Really?” The look on her face was pure relish. “Because it looks like it says ‘to Ron, from Viktor Krum’ on it.”
“You’d know his handwriting, wouldn’t you?” he fired back.
Hermione’s jaw dropped. “At least I’m not the one asking for autographs-“
“It was two years ago,” he reminded, though he felt the familiar rush of blood into his face, “I’m a very different person now-“
“Yes, you are, so why have you kept it all this time?”
“He’s a git,” stated Ron, which only made Hermione laugh again, “but he’s also the best Seeker in the world, that thing could be worth money. I should probably try to sell it, actually.”
“It says ‘to Ron’ on it.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll just tear that bit off.”
“I really can’t believe you’ve kept this,” she said, biting her lower lip despite the smile still stretched across her face.
“Yeah, and I also kept the Blast-Ended Skrewt essay, so what does that tell you?”
“That you need to clean your room.”
“Yeah,” Ron conceded. “Probably.”
In all the bickering and back-and-forth between them, Hermione’s hair had remained as messy as when she had first emerged from the depths behind Ron’s headboard. Now, she raked her fingers through the thick locks, taming them, and Ron almost wished he wouldn’t. Or, actually, he’d like to be the one running his own fingers through her hair, to have that freedom to touch her and know that she would welcome it. To know, without a doubt, where they stood.
He’d thought he had known, once. Suspected, anyway, that maybe she had seen something in him, seen him as something beyond just her goofy friend who borrowed all of her class notes, but then he had bungled it all up. It had taken months to restore even a semblance of a friendship, and now he was just happy to have her here with him. In his room.
On his bed.
“Know what,” said Ron, rising to his feet, “I’ll just take that actually-“
“Going to frame it?” Hermione teased.
“Throw it in the bin, more like-“ And he made to grab it, but she yanked her hand out of his reach, leaning back toward the headboard. “Gimme it!”
“No!” Her small fist closed firmly around the scrap of paper, and without thinking, with realizing it, Ron knelt on the bed and closed his fingers around hers. “Thought you were selling it-“
“Can’t if you keep crumpling it-“
Hermione released a shriek of laughter as Ron’s fingers fumbled against hers, and before he knew it he had planted a hand on the mattress beside her hips and his long torso was leaning over hers and her face was close, so excruciatingly close to his, close enough to smell the treacle tart on her breath. Their eyes locked and slowly the smile slid from her face as she held his gaze… and he wanted to kiss her. He wanted so badly just to kiss her, and she was right there, but - but he couldn’t, he knew the dozens and hundreds and thousands of reasons why he shouldn’t…
“Fine.” It took great force of will, but Ron managed to let go of her hand and drop down to sit on the bed, which bounced under his weight. “I give up. Why don’t you just frame it in the sitting room so my brothers can all see it too?”
“I don’t think it’s an approved wedding decoration,” said Hermione, deadpan as Ron chuckled again. She arranged herself to sit beside him, slim legs dangling off the edge of the bed. “It isn’t as embarrassing as you think, you know, I really doubt you’re the first person to ever ask for his autograph.”
“No, it’s still embarrassing,” he said. “But it’s not even that, it’s just…”
Hermione tapped his ankle with her bare foot, and Ron’s blood rushed just a little more quickly through his veins.
“What?”
“Nah, nothing.”
“It was clearly something,” said Hermione loftily, “or you wouldn’t have started to say something.”
She wasn’t wrong, but it was easier said than done to just go spilling his heart out to her. Because if that was the sort of thing that came naturally to him, maybe he’d have already told her, and things might be so different. Maybe he wouldn’t have wasted so much time and they wouldn’t be here, on the precipice of an unknown and frankly terrifying journey with Harry, with him still biting his tongue.
Or maybe they’d be the same - or maybe so much worse - but at least then she would know what she meant to him.
“Well, it just-“ Ron looked down at his legs, stretched across the narrow expanse of his childhood bed, parallel to hers. Merlin, they were sitting on his bed, of all places, and he still couldn’t find the words. He still didn’t know if he should. “It just reminds me of all the mistakes I’ve made.”
“What do you mean? What mistakes?”
“Too many to count.” He wasn’t quite ready to meet her eyes, though he could feel her gaze on him, warm and intent. “I think back on the past couple years, and - and I just think I would do everything so differently.”
The bedsprings squeaked as Hermione shifted, angling toward him, her knee bumping his leg. “Like what?” Her voice was oddly soft; Hermione was many things, but quiet was not one of them.
But he couldn’t tell her, could he? That if he had a chance to do it all again, he’d actually ask her to the Yule Ball - and not as a half-joke in front of Harry, but really ask her, so she would know was serious, that she was his very first choice. Or if he’d just realized a little sooner that it didn’t really matter if Hermione had ever snogged Viktor Krum, he could have avoided the whole mess that was his sixth year. He might have gone with her to that Christmas party and maybe… just maybe…
“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” he said, rueful. “Not like I can go back and change anything.”
“I suppose not.” Hermione turned even closer to him, the length of her shin pressed against the side of his thigh. She made no effort to move, and the warmth of her touch drew nearly all his attention. “For what it’s worth…” The very tip of her tongue snuck out to wet her lips. “There’s a lot I would change too.”
“I don’t reckon you’ll tell me what, will you?”
“Not if you won’t tell me yours.”
And all those things he regretted, they were things he hadn’t done, things he hadn’t said… and he decided he wasn’t interested in adding to the list.
“Mine are all about you,” he confessed, painfully aware that his face was turning an unpleasant shade of beetroot.
A slight flush entering her cheeks, Hermione opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Say something, Ron willed her. Anything. Please.
“Mine,” she said, voice trembling, “mine are about you too-“
The knock that sounded at the door may well have been a cannon for the way it burst through the room.
“What?” snapped Ron, simultaneously bereft and furious at the sudden loss of the moment.
The door opened to reveal Ginny, whose brows rose for the briefest second at the sight before her.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, lips twitching, “but Lupin and Tonks and the rest of the Order are all downstairs. They want to talk about Harry.”
Right. Of course.
“All right,” sighed Ron. “We’ll be there in a second.”
Giving the cluttered room another scan, Ginny curled her lip in distaste. “You are such a slob.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and set off down the hall.
“We’d better get down there,” said Hermione, straightening out her legs and inching slowly off the bed. She seemed as reluctant as he felt to leave the sanctuary of his bedroom - he’d have gladly stayed there forever with her - but responsibility called.
As they left, Hermione bent and picked up the box of still-unassembled wedding favors, peeking inside at the spools of ribbon and gleaming candies.
“We didn’t do anything we were supposed to,” she lamented, looking up at Ron.
“S’alright,” he said, letting her go before him on the narrow staircase. “We’ve got tomorrow, too.”
