The way Ron extended the last syllable of her name when Hermione entered Grimmauld Place suggested that the glass of firewhiskey in his hand wasn’t his first. She couldn’t help but smile as he teetered on the edge of his chair, his cheeks flushed and hair ruffled.
“Have I interrupted something?” she asked. “I can come back later.”
“NO!”
Harry laughed and safeguarded his drink as Ron sprang to his feet. He rushed toward Hermione and threw his arms around her body with so much force that they might have merged into one.
‘How many has he had?’ mouthed Hermione over Ron’s shoulder.
Harry grimaced. ‘Five? Six? Lost count.’
Hermione sent him a stern look, which elicited a shrug and a mouthed apology.
“Howdidyougethere?” Ron slurred, pulling away from Hermione to hold her at arm’s length.
“Well, as you can see, I used the floo network.” She nodded toward the fireplace.
“But it’s only October,” said Harry from his seat at the table.
Hermione hadn’t planned on returning to Grimmauld Place until the Christmas holidays for fear that seeing Ron and Harry — mostly Ron — would make the first term drag on even more slowly. But as it turned out, for the first time in her memory, school dragged on regardless, and Hogwarts just wasn’t the same without the boys.
“I wanted to surprise—”
She didn’t get a chance to finish her thought before Ron pulled her closer and crashed his lips against hers. Thanks to his inebriated state, his kiss was sloppy, rushed, and frantic, a stark contrast to the timid explorations of their early relationship.
“Mmmmm,” hummed Hermione as she laced her fingers into his hair. She usually hated the bitter taste of firewhiskey, but she found a whole new appreciation for the drink through this method of delivery.
“Well, that’s my cue to leave,” said Harry before downing the remaining contents of his drink and tiptoeing past them toward the staircase. “It’s erm… good to see you, Hermione!”
Harry’s footsteps faded to the background and Hermione found herself completely lost in Ron — his warm breath, his overgrown hair, the scratch of stubble that prickled against her face. She would have stayed there forever if Ron hadn’t stumbled and lost his balance, nearly toppling over before Hermione stabilized him. She laughed, letting herself imagine she made him weak in the knees, although knowing full well it was a side effect of his fourth, maybe fifth drink.
“Let’s get you to the sofa,” she said as she looped his arm around her shoulders.
“Mmmkay,” he mumbled, dragging his feet alongside hers until tumbling onto the cushions.
He gripped her wrist and tugged her toward him, and Hermione let her body melt against his. She fit so perfectly on top of him, and by the way he slipped his arms around her waist and guided her head into the crook of his neck, he must have agreed.
They laid there for a few moments, listening to each other's heartbeats, Hermione’s head rising and falling with each breath. Being with him like this seemed to melt away all of her stress from school, so much so that she found herself wishing for the tenth time that day — hundredth since they’d started their relationship — that they’d sorted themselves out much sooner.
She was about to drift off to sleep when Ron broke the silence. “Iloveyoumione,” he said, the words landing somewhere between a whisper and a mumble.
Heat rushed to her cheeks and she perked up to look at him. His eyes were closed and breathing steady, and he appeared to be asleep, or close. He’d never said those words before, and she wasn’t expecting to hear them anytime soon. She’d imagined it, hoped for it, but it still caught her off guard.
Did he mean it? Would he remember saying it in the morning? Was it wrong to say it back if he said it by accident?
Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but at that very moment, Ron let out an elongated snore.
It was too late to tell him, but the words still hovered at the tip of the tongue. “I love you too.”
They felt so natural as they left her lips, and she only hoped she’d have the opportunity to say them again soon. When he was sober, of course. She wanted him to remember it.
She nuzzled her head back against his chest and closed her eyes. It wasn’t long before she joined Ron in sleep, her smile so wide and goofy it could almost compete with his.
***
[December]
Hermione’s head felt like a bludger against Ron’s shoulder. Her bushy hair seemed to expand and contract with every breath she took, all but suffocating Ron in the process and he inhaled the crisp, flowery scent of her shampoo.
His arm was beginning to prickle, but he didn’t dare move. She was so calm, so serene compared to the Hermione he’d greeted at Platform 9 ¾ just a few hours ago. Clearly, the past term had taken a toll on her. It always took some time for the anxiety to dissipate before she could truly relax. He noticed that every school break, but it seemed worse this year. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he wasn’t there to distract her, remind her to eat, and make her laugh. The thought brought a smile to his face.
They were on the couch in the Burrow’s living room having just spent the evening eating dinner and dessert with his family and catching up with his brothers and Ginny over a few glasses of wine. Ron had watched in amusement as Hermione finished her first glass of wine, then reached for a second. Then a third.
School so far must have been intense.
Ron loved the rare, drunk Hermione — well, he loved every version of her, but he hadn’t told her that. Not yet, at least. He couldn’t stand the thought of saying it and not hearing it back, so he vowed not to until he was completely sure she felt the same way. It was so difficult to know her thoughts on the matter when they never saw each other. There was only so much emotion that could be conveyed in a letter.
His cheeks still hurt from laughing as each sip of wine had unraveled her stress, slowly revealing the carefree, playful, fun-loving person that he knew. Watching her joke and banter with his family assured him that she felt just as comfortable around them as she did around him alone. It confirmed at least one thing — that she was already a part of his family.
Eventually, the wine and butterbeer strengthened their effects, and one by one, everyone padded off to bed. Ron stayed put, as Hermione had already fallen asleep against him and he didn’t dare wake her up. He was perfectly comfortable, anyway. So content that he ignored his brothers’ smirks, and when he witnessed Ginny tugging an enthused Harry toward the staircase, he didn’t bother to wonder if they were headed toward separate bedrooms.
At last, they were alone, and in the newfound silence, Ron could hear a slight snore sounding from Hermione’s lips. It was soft and quiet, and so unbelievably cute that he couldn’t wait to make fun of it tomorrow. As much as he loved jovial, drunk Hermione, hungover Hermione reminded him of a fire-breathing dragon, and he’d never give up his pastime of pushing her buttons. He loved a good adrenaline rush.
Ron was also inebriated, and there was no way he could carry her to bed in this state. With caution, he extricated himself from Hermione and gently laid her down on the sofa. He pulled a blanket from a nearby armchair and draped it around her before leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead.
“Stay.” Her whisper was so soft that he barely heard her.
Did she mean that?
“Here? On the couch with you?”
Without opening her eyes, she wiggled against the back of the sofa, uncovering not quite enough room for Ron to fit comfortably, but more than enough to be worth a try.
“Yeah, okay.” All thoughts of his family discovering them in the morning were fleeting. He could deal with the consequences later. It was always worth it.
Ron settled into the space beside her and wrapped an arm around her middle. He was immediately intoxicated by her — the smell of her hair, her warmth, the way she fit against him like a perfectly matched puzzle piece. His lips landed on her cheek.
“Iloveyou.”
Ron froze at the sound that escaped Hermione’s lips. It came out in one breath, and if he hadn’t been so close to her, it could have easily been mistaken for a sigh, or nonsense muttering in her sleep.
But, he knew what he heard. All of the fear that she wouldn’t say those words back melted away, and a wide smile crossed his face.
“What did you say?” he whispered. Just to be sure, of course.
Hermione didn’t respond — her breathing had returned to its calm, sedated pace, her eyes were shut, and her lips parted, eliciting those soft, adorable snores once again. She was asleep.
Had she meant it?
There was one way to find out. “I love you too, Hermione.”
The words nearly tumbled out of him. They felt so natural — as if he’d said them already. He knew the admission would open the floodgates, and he’d never be able to hold it in again.
Of course, Hermione didn’t hear him this time, but he’d make sure she did tomorrow.
Happy Saturday! Today is the final day of Romione Week, and participating has been such a blast! Thank you again for all who have followed along, and a big kudos to @folk-melody for hosting @romioneweek. I hope you've all enjoyed reading the Romione goodness as much as I have ❤
Since it is a Free Day, I've chosen to finish up the final part of a series I started a while back ago, Sixth Year Ball. While this ficlet can stand-alone, some dialogue/writing could be confusing, so I do suggest reading the first two parts first 🙂 Enjoy!
Sixth Year Ball Part 1: The Waltz
Sixth Year Ball Part 2: The Invitation
Romione Week Day 7 - Free Day
An Unforgettable Evening
The day of the ball arrives, and Ron is nothing but a bundle of nerves.
He stands in front of the mirror surveying his appearance. The new dress robes that Hermione helped him pick out for the event are a logical choice — a black suit and matching bowtie, under a navy blue dress jacket. The black cushioned inner soles of his shoes feel comfortable the more he wiggles his toes around. His ginger hair is well-groomed, slicked back with just a small amount of hair gel. He's grateful to be rid of the disastrous attire that was his Yule Ball robes, although it does feel a tad strange to not be cloaked in hand-me-downs for once.
The stakes surrounding the ball are high, and if they weren't, he wouldn't be interested in going to the blasted event anyways, right?
He needs to put his best self forward for her.
This isn't just any first date. This is the date. Hermione isn't just some girl that he's attracted to, she's his best friend, she's his — well, bloody hell. What is she?
In an attempt to boost Ron's confidence, Harry babbles next to him, oblivious to Ron’s nervous breakdown inside of his head.
"It's completely normal to feel nervous."
"Harry, I know you're trying to be supportive mate, but-"
"Yeah, I'm rubbish at this, aren't I?" Harry laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.
"You really are. And people say you're the chosen one — not the chosen one to give out advice, I'll say," Ron quips, giving his best friend a hearty shove.
"Don't be a tosser," Harry chuckles. "All I'm saying is that if you're feeling nervous, I can almost guarantee she's feeling the same."
Ron's lips curl up at the image of Hermione frantically scouring through textbooks on how not to be anxious.
He exhales a deep breath, studying his slicked back ginger hair in the mirror. "This is a date. Is this a date? It's a date, right?"
Harry snorts. "Well, how did you ask her?"
Ron squints one eye at his best friend. "Technically, she cornered me after she caught on to me trying to ask her and pretty much conjured the invitation out of me."
Harry ponders on the information. "Well...I think so then?"
This bloke seriously isn’t all that helpful in one of the largest departments of mysteries — women.
With one final clap on Ron’s shoulder, he says, "Now or never, huh? Come on, don't want to keep the girls waiting."
As it turns out, they arrive into the common room before Hermione and Ginny, leaving Ron with a few extra minutes to dwell in his pesky, anxiety-ridden thoughts. He always manages to let the negative thoughts creep in at the most undesirable moments.
But how does Hermione really feel about him? Did she only accept his invitation to the ball to be polite? Does she consider this evening an outing with friends or will it lead to something more between them?
"None of that nonsense," Ginny barks at Ron, disturbing his inner turmoil. When did she get here?
He frowns at his sister. "I didn't even say anything." His eyes dart around, an unsettling feeling spreading through his stomach when he doesn’t spot Hermione right away.
"No, but I know you brother, and I can see the self-doubt in your eyes." Ginny waggles a finger in Ron's direction. "She looks amazing, and you don't look too shabby yourself. You're going to have a great time, yeah?"
Ron releases a shaky breath, feeling the slightest bit of weight lifting off his shoulders from Ginny’s words. Surely his sister has spoken with Hermione. She wouldn’t be reassuring him if Hermione didn’t think this was a date, right?
"Yeah, we will. Thanks, Sis."
"Don't mention it,” Ginny grins before addressing Harry with an appreciative gaze up and down his body. “Ready, Potter?"
Harry nods and stumbles along the wooden floor as Ginny leads him towards the portrait hole. Over his shoulder, he calls out to Ron, "We'll meet you two there."
Ron gives a silent thumbs up before shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers and teetering back and forth on his heels. As he gazes up at the empty winding staircase, his impatience grows.
Hermione, where are you?
The ball starts promptly at eight o’clock, and the current time indicates that if they don’t make their way to the Great Hall soon, they will miss the opening dance. Not that he would mind not having a chance to bugger up the steps he’s tried hard to memorize since his practice session with Professor McGonagall.
He’s starting to wonder if Hermione’s decided to ditch him. Shaking his head, he mentally chides himself. He really needs to stop playing out scenarios in his head that may or may not happen. Breathing in through his nose for five seconds, he exhales the heavy breath out of his mouth, feeling the stress start to melt away.
Before Ron can dwell on his nervous jitters for a moment longer, the sound of heels clacking alert him that someone is descending the spiral tower.
Ron’s heart races in his chest from the anticipation, barely breathing as the footsteps grow closer. One studded heel-clad foot makes an appearance, showing off a considerable amount of bare leg that Ron has never had a view of in normal school robes, before Hermione fully reveals herself and steals all of the air right out of his lungs.
Wow.
Hermione steps out in a full-length evening gown that drapes to the floor with slits up the side, made of a silky burgundy fabric that looks so delicate that he fears it could tear at the slightest tug. The modest neckline is richly decorated with beaded jewels, with short sleeves that ruffle around her arms. Her hair is twisted into a plait that fashions her curls into a half updo, the rest of her waves tumbling around her face.
She is positively stunning.
Ron opens and closes his mouth several times. Any single one of his thoughts in his head would be appropriate for him to say as she waits on the bottom step for his reaction, but all that comes out of his mouth is, “Hi.”
“Hi.” She takes a step forward, then two, and the closer she gets, the more he believes that he didn’t prepare enough for this. Why oh why did he not ask for Fred or George’s advice on how to charm witches?
But, Hermione isn’t just any witch. She’s not going to be impressed by mediocre words or cheesy lines. Ron struggles to avoid making assumptions. He reminds himself that the only way he'll truly know what she's thinking or feeling is by asking her himself.
Silently, he lifts a hand in her direction, inviting her to take it. She accepts, and he immediately spots her palms trembling.
His voice is soft and raspy as he rubs his thumb across the back of her hand. “You’re shaking.”
Hermione folds her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes trained on their joined hands. “I’m a bit nervous.”
“Hey.” Ron’s whispered call causes Hermione to lift her gaze to meet his own. He does his best to give her an encouraging smile. “I bet my wand you’re not more nervous than I am.”
She lets out a shaky laugh. “Well, that’s a relief.”
Briefly letting go of her hand, he holds out his bent elbow. “You ready?”
“I am. Are you?”
“Absobloodylutely.”
--
The entire Great Hall is draped in decadence, with twinkling lights dangling from the starry black ceiling, glass vases filled with feathers and beads, and green ivy lining the walls around the room. The decorations really set the mood, promising an evening of socializing with other houses that is encompassed by music, dancing, and eating. Ron finds other students feasting on delicious finger foods, making his mouth water from the sight and smell.
This is the fanciest fucking event he’s ever been to. No pressure, he laughs inwardly to himself. It’s all nothing short of magical, and Ron has high hopes that tonight will be an unforgettable event.
Several other couples rotate across the floor in a counter-clockwise direction, dresses swishing behind the women as the men stumble over their own feet to keep up. As the current string of music comes to an instrumental end, thunderous applause fills his ears.
“Wow. I thought the Yule Ball was elaborate,” Ron jokes, already feeling the beads of sweat pooling on his forehead.
“Can we not talk about the Yule Ball tonight?” Hermione requests, rubbing one side of her arm as a blush forms on her cheeks.
“Oh. Right. M’sorry.” Ron imagines his gangly form is sticking out like a Hungarian Horntail, maintaining an awkward stance with his hands shoved in the pockets of his trousers, not yet willing his feet to move into the grand ballroom as other witches and wizards circle around them.
“What are you apologizing for?” Hermione inquires, raising an eyebrow with an expectant look on her face — a look that tells Ron that she requires nothing but honesty from him tonight.
Harry’s voice echoes in his mind. If you’re feeling nervous, chances are she’s feeling the same.
Blimey, his best mate is right. And Hermione deserves to know that she’s not alone in her self-induced pressure.
“I just feel like I’m already mucking this up and we haven’t even walked into the bloody Great Hall yet.”
A small smile forms on Hermione’s face as she leans over to place a tentative hand on his arm, sending tingles down his spine. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’ve seen your dancing, you’re not that rubbish.”
Ron laughs out loud, releasing some of the tension from his body. “You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you?”
“Come on, Ron.”
With Hermione tugging on his hand, he’s drifting through a sea of other couples, many who whisper and stare as they walk past. The rumbling in his belly makes him want to scope out the food to settle his uneasy stomach. It’s fairly safe to say that he expects to be fed at this event, but Hermione has other plans first.
His feet plant on the floor in the center of the room, arms straight down by his side as Hermione looks up at him expectantly. What should he do now?
"Just like we've practiced, right?" Hermione encourages, nodding her head at him as she smooths out the skirt on her dress.
"R-right."
As the soft flow of music begins, Hermione takes a step forward and bows. Ron mimics her movements, deciding that following her lead is the safest course of action. But in true Hermione form, she’s very difficult to grasp, and Ron isn’t sure what move he should make next when she waits for his guidance.
The sound of the traditional orchestra filters through his ears, and he glances around to see other men gliding across the dance floor with their partners in matching positions.
One hand on waist, one hand in hand.
Ron slips a firm hand on Hermione’s back, pulling her in close with a bit more vigor than he intended, hearing her breath hitch as their chests meet.
“M’sorry.” He winces as he stumbles back, feeling the redness on his cheeks as he clears his throat.
“It’s okay.” Hermione sends him a shy smile, and she helps him out with the next step by raising her hand. Ron intertwines their fingers together, hoping beyond all hope that his palms aren’t too sweaty.
They begin to sway back and forth, slow at first before taking wide sweeping steps in a circular motion. Ron’s heart accelerates as the beat of the song picks up the pace. He tries to ignore the several sets of eyes on them, focusing instead on a tiny freckle in the middle of Hermione’s forehead.
Although Ron feels like he’s towering over Hermione, he can still feel her hot breath on his cheek. The warmth between them grows more powerful by the minute, and Ron’s shoulders relax as the song progresses. It’s amazing how quickly his sluggish movements turn into refined, dare say, even graceful steps, allowing his body to maintain tune with the slow music.
Hermione remains quiet, exchanging soft smiles with him every so often, although she spends most of the dance scanning the floor for other couples as if she’s afraid of getting too close. He knows she’s just itching to establish more control over her surroundings.
For Ron, he’s aware of only Hermione, realizing that the space between their bodies is dwindling.
"Why did you ask me to the ball?"
Hermione’s words break Ron from his thoughts, echoing her inquiry from the day they waltzed in class. Why did you ask me to dance?
Unsure of the right words to respond with, he challenges back, “Why did you say yes?”
Hermione’s lips part, her brows furrowed with intent, and Ron just knows that her mind must be swirling with rapid fire thoughts.
“Don’t overthink this,” he murmurs, holding her hand just a little tighter.
A crestfallen look appears on her face and she drops her gaze to the floor. “Oh.”
Fuck.
“That’s not what I meant!” He quickly corrects. Hermione lifts up her head again, allowing Ron to breathe a sigh of relief when he sees a small bit of hope light up her face. “I just mean-”
Blast. What does he mean to say? Why is it that he can’t seem to hold a proper conversation with her? She’s his best friend, for Merlin’s sake.
“Ron, I’m your best friend,” Hermione gently coaxes. “Just talk to me.”
It’s bloody scary how she manages to read his mind like that. She’s looking up at him now — fucking hell, she’s so beautiful — with round, glassy chocolate brown eyes, filled with such implorable curiosity that it takes everything in him not to just snog her in the middle of the crowded ballroom, in front of the entire school.
He doesn’t reckon Hermione would appreciate that much —not without first receiving some sort of explanation, or providing any indication that she feels the same way.
Deciding that he’s not going to work up the courage he needs to spill his feelings out in public, Ron starts to silently walk backwards through the throng of people, pulling Hermione with him by their joined hands until they’re in a secluded spot just outside the grand entrance. Fairy lights flutter about the open lawn in front of the castle, providing just enough glow for him to still clearly see her face.
The chilly night air provides a small amount of reprieve from the heat of standing so close to the girl he gets so jittery around, although he starts to rethink his choice to head outside when Hermione instinctively covers her bare arms with her hands, her entire body trembling from the cold.
“Here, let me-” Ron goes to remove his suit jacket, but Hermione holds up a hand to stop him.
“No, that isn’t necessary. Just tell me what you wanted to say.” Her tone is very Hermione-like, stern and stubborn, and he would’ve laughed at her insistent independence if he weren’t so tongue-tied.
“It was too loud in there,” Ron says, fighting the labored breaths that leave his mouth in visible puffs of air. “I just—I wanted to-” He almost groans in frustration over his lack of finesse when it comes to admitting what he truly means, what he truly feels.
Hermione takes a step forward, and he can feel the warmth of her body as their arms brush together. “It’s just me, Ron.”
Her voice is so soft, almost velvety, and a lump of emotion gets caught in his throat. “No, it’s not.”
A loud exhale leaves Ron’s mouth and he lets his head fall back. “Do y’know how much I loathed you when I first met you?”
Shit, Ron, that probably wasn’t the right thing to say, but he paces the dimly lit path anyway, the words tumbling out of him before he can stop himself.
“I mean, you really did tie my wand in a knot. You were stubborn, bossy, frustrating…” He pauses to heave out another large breath, viewing the surprise flickering through Hermione’s eyes. “And I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
A quiet gasp escapes her lips and she opens her mouth to interject. Ron jumps in, knowing he’ll lose the momentum he finally has if he allows her the time.
“If I wasn’t an eleven-year-old git, I reckon I would’ve realized why I thought about you all the time sooner. But it wasn’t until I got to know you better, and discovered all the best parts of you — how smart, capable, kind, clever, brilliant you are — that I had to admit to myself that maybe I did like you. Maybe I wanted to be your friend.”
Ron checks in with Hermione again, who is listening intently to his words in such a stoic way that it’s irritating because he has no clue as to what she is thinking.
He presses on. “And then as we grew older, maybe I...maybe I wanted to be more than just your friend.”
Tears shimmer in Hermione’s eyes — oh, fuck, he’s not sure what he’ll do if she starts to cry — but instead she strides towards him with purpose, reaching a hand up to brush against his cheek. The action makes him flinch, although he relaxes into her palm, closing his eyes as he breathes in her scent. Wait, is she wearing...how hadn’t he noticed before? She’s wearing that unusual perfume he got her last Christmas!
“Ron Weasley…” Hermione hums, her mouth curving into a grin, “you are the most frustrating, but also most adorable man alive.” The tips of Ron’s ears burn red, not sure how to take her confusing compliment. “And I swear you sometimes forget that you are also smart, capable, kind…” She giggles through the watery tears that flood her eyes, “Clever and brilliant.”
“Got that speech memorized already, have ya?” Ron teases, his arms wrapping around her waist.
“It was a good speech.”
Ron’s wide grin fades, his heart now beating twice as fast in his chest as a charge of electricity builds between them. Hermione takes a step closer, circling her arms around his neck. One of Ron’s hands leaves her waist, instead trailing his fingers up her arm, letting the tips linger on her smooth skin. He’s cognizant of her fingers making similar movements, finding the hairs on the nape of his neck before threading through his copper strands.
Ron makes contact with her brown curls, pushing her hair back over her shoulders to free up the space between her shoulder blades and her neck for his hand to continue along its path.
He sucks in a breath when he sees her tongue dart out to moisten her own lips, and she makes the tiniest sound in the back of her throat that practically turns his brain to mush.
Before Ron takes the time to process it, he ducks his head, allowing his body to take control, tasting her breath as their lips inch closer and closer…
When their mouths finally fuse together, it’s nothing short of perfection. It’s like he’s drowning in a single kiss, more shocked than anything that he somehow knows exactly how to move his lips over hers, finding a familiar rhythm, a feeling of completeness that makes him think he might just explode from all these emotions he’s never experienced before.
The feeling of Hermione grinning against his mouth prompts him to lift her slightly off the ground, enthusiasm radiating through his bones.
Breathing finally becomes a necessity, and their lips slowly part, with Ron not able to resist planting one more soft kiss upon her lips before a crooked smile lights up his face.
“Bloody-”
“Don’t swear,” Hermione warns, although she too can’t hide the grin on her pleasantly flushed face.
Ron leans forward to embrace her, letting his nose make contact with her hair as he breathes her in. He can’t believe this is reality.
The music from the Great Hall can be faintly heard from the distance, and Ron rocks back and forth with Hermione in his arms, subconsciously swaying along with the song.
“Ron.”
She whispers his name and he lifts her head to see her smiling like she has a secret — a secret only he knows, fueling his excitement over their new romance even more. Hermione laces their fingers again, making Ron grateful for the contact.
“There are people looking at us.”
Only then does Ron’s brain register their surroundings. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
Plenty of couples have also ventured off the dance floor. Some linger on the steps, Ginny and Harry included, who are both staring right at them with matching smirks. Ron decides he doesn’t care though —all he cares about is the witch in his arms, and how he can now confirm that it will be, in fact, an unforgettable evening.
Romione Week is a theme based fanweek. It is focused on the romantic relationship between Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger from the Harry Potter series.
2. When will it take place?
This year it will take place from 31st October to 6th November.
3. What are the themes?
You can find the themes for 2021 with descriptions here.
4. What are the rules?
Must be a fanwork of some kind, for example - fanfic, fanart, moodboard, gifset, meta, fanvid etc.
Must be primarily focused on the romantic relationship between Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger from the Harry Potter series.
5. Is there any restrictions?
No. You are welcome to create any work you want as long as it was not previously posted. Just make sure to use the appropriate ratings, warnings/tags on it. Although I reserve the right to refuse bigoted content.
6. How can I participate?
Every day has a new theme. On the day of the theme(s) you decide to work on, make sure to post your entry and tag this blog (@romioneweek) so I can reblog it! Don't hesitate to send an ask if I miss your work.
If you post on AO3, please add it in the Romione Week 2021 subcollection!
7. Do I have to do all the themes?
Nope! You are free to create for all of them, some of the them or even only one of them.
8. Can I use more than one themes in my work?
Yes, you can incorporate more than one theme in your work.
9. Can I post the fanwork at a later date?
Of course! We understand life and muses happen. You can always tag this blog (@romioneweek) on tumblr when posting and add your work to the AO3 collection even after this event ends.
10. I am non-creator but I want to participate too. What can I do?
You can like and reblog the works posted on tumblr. You can also leave kudos and comment on the works posted at AO3. I encourage you to rec the content to other people as well. After all, that's how all the fandoms live - by sharing love for the works and letting the creators know about how you enjoyed them!
Don't hesitate to send an ask if you have anymore questions!
A "what-if" moment inspired by Ron's return to the Horcrux Hunt. Written for @romioneweek.
This ficlet starts out pretty dark, but if you follow it all the way through, I promise you’ll find the light.
Never Again
The dreary darkness of winter sets in, making the days inside the tent long and the nights even longer.
Although it’s technically Harry’s turn to take watch, Hermione offers instead, knowing by her friend's red-rimmed eyes that he could use the sleep.
And she needs the walk. After all, each time she lays in her camp bed, all she can see when she closes her eyes is Ron — and there goes her sleep for the night.
She wonders where he is now, if he's okay, if he's trying to find a way back. Shaking her head, she makes sure that the locket is secure around her neck before exiting through the open flap of the tent.
It doesn't do her any good to dwell on scenarios.
Hermione's tender, fragile skin is hit with freezing cold air as soon as she steps outside. She spots frost bitten trees all around her, mixed with the beauty of snow dancing from the sky to the ground. A cold breeze slithers down her back as the chilly winter air makes her shiver until she burrows her nose even further into her wool scarf.
Burrow. The Burrow. Did Ron make it back home? She longs for the smell of Mrs. Weasley's cooking, and the warmth of a wood-burning fire.
The surrounding silence can be interpreted as frightening, but for Hermione, it’s providing a sense of calm — a calm she hasn’t felt in so long. The only sound she can hear is the crunch of fresh snow beneath her already frozen feet.
As she trudges up a powdery hill amidst the cold night, she spots something faint off in the distance, compelling her body forward through the snowy banks. Hermione maintains a trained ear as she careens closer to a beaming light, always listening for sounds that could lead to danger.
Withdrawing her wand, she approaches an icy pond, encompassing a cracked, glittering exterior. Curiosity consumes her and she can’t help but take a tentative step onto the slippery surface.
Hermione’s breath escapes her lips in short, visible bursts as she wills the nerve endings in her body to relax, knowing how precariously placed she is above a slate of ice that could give out at any moment. However, that light still remains. Crouching down so that she is eye level with the ice, she can make out something glittery and deep red beneath the surface.
Is that...no. The sword of Gryffindor! But, how is this possible?
She doesn’t stop to question the appearance of the treasured relic for a moment longer, knowing she must do anything she can to retrieve it. But how?
With fumbling, shaking fingers, she points her lit wand directly at the ice. The extra brightness makes it easier for her to see the precise location of the sword, knowing which exact part of the ice she’ll have to break.
Just as Hermione starts to believe she has a plan, she doesn’t realize she’s standing on a weak point in the ice until it’s too late. She falls through the broken crack, and in moments she’s submerged into cold water that sucks all of the air right out of her lungs. Her body goes rigid in shock — she can’t breathe, she can’t think, she can’t even scream. All she can feel is searing pain.
Despite the intense attack to her senses, she resists the impulse to hyperventilate. She’s smart enough to know that the pain is a way for her muscles to communicate properly with her brain. The icy place she came from was strong enough to support her once — she can try again. Summoning the last bit of strength she can find, she kicks her feet towards the surface.
Just as she can see the light and the small opening in the ice to allow her head to move above water, a tightening sensation around her neck constricts her airway, causing her to gurgle and choke underwater.
No. The Horcrux.
Hermione fights the suffocating chain around her neck as her limbs flail about through the water. Her hope fades as she starts to drift out of consciousness.
This can’t be the end. But she is now convinced it is. Just as her muscles are about to give out, and her fight ends, Hermione finds her body gradually making its way upward by an unknown force, and the light that had grown dim is now brightening once again.
She’s flat on her back in a matter of seconds, the solid surface soft enough for her to know that she’s landed on a snowy bank next to the pond with no threat of falling through the ice looming over her again.
“Hermione! HERMIONE! Oh God, please wake up. Wake up!”
The voice is distant, faint even, but it’s familiar enough for her to recognize exactly who it is.
Ron.
Is this possible? Is he truly here?
Hermione attempts to open her mouth, but no sound comes out. All of her energy has been depleted, and all she can see is white light. Is this a hallucination? Is this what death feels like?
A body hovers over her unmoving form. He’s crying now, that much she can tell from the choked sobs she can hear growing louder and louder. “Her-Hermione, please.”
I can hear you, Ron.
“Please, this can’t be the end, this can’t be the end.” His voice is frantic, hurried, shaking her body with significant force as he rests his cheek against her chest as if he’s checking for a heartbeat. Hermione honestly can’t tell if her heart is still beating or not, but she wills herself to feel Ron — to allow herself to grab hold of his arms so he can bring her back to safety. She can’t leave her boys yet. There’s still so much to do, so much she wants to say-
All of a sudden she’s gasping, water sputtering out of her mouth as she sharply inhales cold air into her burning lungs.
“Ron.”
Finally, she can open her eyes, finding herself staring straight into a pair of deep azure orbs, wild with terror.
“Oh, thank Merlin.” He wraps a strong, solid arm around her shoulders, folding her into a tight embrace. Being so close to him, like this, he’s warm — like the fire she has yearned for — nestling into her icy cold skin.
“Hi,” Ron’s raspy voice murmurs into her hair, frantically rubbing his hand up and down her shoulders. “I’m here, I’m here.”
“Am I dead?” Hermione croaks. She still can’t quite believe that Ron is here.
Much to her surprise, he lets out a barking laugh that rumbles through his chest. “No, you barmy witch. You’re not.” Lifting her chin, he locks eyes with her as a visible swallow rolls down his throat. “If you were, I-I might as well be too.”
A flood of emotion infiltrates her bloodstream, the bubbling anger she once felt — God, she was so angry at him — seeping out of her.
“I thought I was...going to have to...give you mouth to mouth to...re-resuscitate you there,” Ron pants with the slightest of smiles, his entire body trembling.
“As long as you came to, it wouldn’t have been a bad thing,” he adds, clearly trying to ease the tension and take their minds off of how bleeding cold they both are. Hermione doesn’t even know how to process the implications behind his statement, and she doesn’t have the energy to rack her brain for answers.
There’s so much Hermione wants to tell him, to give him a piece of her wand over leaving her for starters, but she can’t seem to find the words behind her teeth chattering. Her cheeks feel rubbed raw, earlobes burning from the sheer cold, and her fingers move slowly as they reach up to touch her hair that drips in wet, yet somewhat frozen ringlets around her face. It all makes her wish that she had decided to wear something more water repellant before leaving the tent.
“Bloody Hell, you’re so cold. Here, let me-” Ron moves to stand up, but Hermione catches his hand before he severs their physical contact.
“Don’t leave. Don’t leave.” She pleads with him to stay, and he’s back on the ground beside her in an instant.
“Fuck, I won’t,” Ron breathes out, letting his forehead rest against her own. “Never again.”
Never again. Those two words are a simple reminder of how terrible the Hunt has been without him. She allows herself to take a moment to relish being close to him again, to have him voluntarily wrapped around her, attempting to keep her safe and warm. There will be time for yelling, time for hashing out their issues later — as long as she doesn’t succumb to hypothermia first.
Ron, still appearing to be unimpressed with the amount of shivering she’s capable of, frowns as his expression turns stony. “Now, can I just say...are...you...mental?”
“I could-could ask you the same question!” Hermione argues back, her lower lip still trembling. Although there is clear anger behind her retort, she buries her nose into the crook of his neck, finding the hot breath reverberating from her mouth off of his skin to be the only source of warmth at this point.
Her eyes catch something sparkling in the snow. She suddenly remembers: Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the Hat. Although having the sword progresses their mission, Hermione can’t help but think that Ron presenting himself when she needs him the most matters more.
“The sword. You got it!”
“No, actually,” Ron shifts slightly, pulling Hermione fully onto his lap in a gesture that sends new blood pumping through her veins. “You did. You already had a hold on the sword when I pulled you up. Don’t you remember?”
No, she doesn’t remember. How is it that she even reached for the sword, when all she can recall is searching for ways to swim up to the surface? Perhaps the sword floated its way into her hands, knowing that she needed it?
Maybe her wand hit it with-
"My wand!" Hermione exclaims out loud, head whirling around as she searches for the familiar vinewood.
"I've got it.” Ron pats the back pocket of his jeans. “I'll give it back if you promise not to hex me with it."
She fixes him with a glowering stare, which seems to be enough for him to hand over her wand without any further resistance. A wave of relief washes over her as she’s reunited with her one sense of security, twirling the vinewood between her bony, frozen fingers.
“What are you doing here? How did you find your way back?” Hermione is ready for answers and Ron nods at her with a set jaw, as if he’s prepared for her onslaught of questions.
“I’ve been looking for you both since the moment I left,” he insists. “One night, I was clicking this.” He holds up a small, silvery object, which Hermione recognizes immediately.
“The Deluminator,” she gasps in surprise, knowing her suspicions were correct that Dumbledore knew there was an intended use for the trinket beyond just flicking lights on and off.
“I clicked it, and I heard your name — like a whisper.” His voice grows soft as Hermione feels the rapid beating of her heart picking up speed. “A little ball of light hovered over me, then it went straight through my chest.”
Ron’s finger pokes the spot on his chest, quite near his heart, where the ball of light went through. His finger slowly sags downward until it interlaces with Hermione’s hand.
“Next thing I know, I’m here. And I see you trapped under the water-” He pauses, eyes darkening with a cloudy mist. “Fucking terrifying it was. I reached my hand down and pulled you up. Complete dumb luck that you were so close to the surface. I’m not sure what I would’ve done...I’m not sure either one of us would’ve made it out of there.”
“I hope you wouldn’t have been reckless enough to jump in after me!” Hermione admonishes.
The heat of his gaze stills her protests. “You know I would’ve.”
Hermione mimics Ron’s earlier gesture, bringing their foreheads back together as their noses touch, breaths mingling through the frosty air. Her fingers thread through the hairs on the nape of his neck, desperate to feel him, to reassure herself that he is still here and not just a figment of her imagination.
Ron pulls her even closer on his lap, if that’s even possible. “Hermione, I’m-I’m-”
“Don’t.”
“But, I need to-”
“I know,” she interrupts again, keeping her eyes closed as she tastes their intertwined breaths, lips so close they could almost touch. “But not right now.”
Hermione doesn’t want anything to be said that could ruin the moment. For now, she just wants to be with him. Soon they’ll have to make their way back to the tent before the frost takes them, row with each other like they’ve never rowed before, figure out how to destroy the Horcrux with the sword, reunite with Harry, but for now…
Now she just needs to hold onto Ron, and never let go. Never again.
A/N: This is my contribution to Romione Week at @hpshipweeks, and it’s what happens when you put a bunch of prompts together and try to make it work. First, this is one of the two prompts I had left for the “Things You Said” series. Second, it features Ron and Hermione arguing (sort of) about parenting stuff. Third, an anon told me once they’d like to see R/Hr getting emotional about Rose growing up. Also making a cameo in this episode are a SW reference and a sentence prompt about rain. I apologize in advance for the existential-dread-plus-fluff-minus-plot that is this story. Thank you @jenahid and baby X for giving this a read!
Hermione pulled her cardigan tighter against her as she and Ron stepped out into the nocturnal Autumn air.
‘Rosie’s classmates’ parents must think we’re antisocial,’ Ron commented, wrapping an arm around Hermione’s shoulders and rubbing his hand up and down her upper arm. ‘Or that we’re sending her to a really selective school and we don’t want to share the secret.’
‘Or that we really don’t know where she’s going yet and we’re terrible parents,’ Hermione added with a sigh.
They were coming back from a parent’s evening at Rose’s school, and as it was her last year before secondary school, the conversations kept coming back to where everyone would be sending their kids to the coming year. And for obvious reasons, they couldn’t say their daughter was going to Hogwarts. A wizarding school up in Scotland. Because Rose was actually a witch.
‘We should have agreed on any Muggle school and say that, then,’ Ron said, forcing himself to walk slowly for Hermione’s sake. ‘What difference would it make? Any of those kids happen to go to the same place next year, they’ll just think we chose someplace else. Or moved out of the country.’
‘Yes… I suppose that’s right. Next time someone asks, we’ll do that.’
They stopped at a crosswalk until the traffic light went green, then got moving again.
‘You think you’ve got better at lying to Muggles—and bam! An unexpected lying situation happens.’
Hermione frowned, but she couldn’t bite back a half-snort, half-chuckle. ‘You say it like we do it for sport.’
‘Come on, you know what I mean. And sometimes, it is fun,’ Ron said, bumping his hip against her.
‘Ron, it was not fun when you told Rose’s reception teacher that your family was from Alderaan,’ Hermione said sternly, cringing at the memory.
‘That was years ago! Besides, everyone laughed, thought it was a joke!’
‘Mhm, and thank Merlin for that. Let’s hurry, I still have to get Hugo a box of colouring pencils and Rose needs a new pair of tights. It looks like it’s going to pour down any second now.’
They went into a store for Hugo’s colouring pencils and extra notebooks, then into another for Rose’s tights and a supply of socks for everyone. Ron heard another sigh as Hermione tucked the pack of tights into her oversized bag. (She had replaced her tiny beaded bag that hid impossible depths after Rose was born and they started moving more frequently between the Muggle and the wizarding world. ‘It’s going to look very suspicious if I go around with a baby carrying only an evening bag. I wouldn’t be able to pull anything out of it in public and people will think I’m a bad mother.’)
‘What is it?’ Ron asked.
‘Oh, I was just thinking… Rose is very excited about next year, but I don’t think she’s realised yet how much of a change going to Hogwarts will be for her.’
‘Well—yeah… it’s hard for everyone, going off to boarding school, not seeing your family for months—’
‘Not just that.’ Hermione closed her handbag and slipped an arm through Ron’s. ‘She won’t be able to go to her dance classes anymore.’
Ron gave her a sideways glance. ‘I think she’ll get over it, love.’
‘She loves her dance classes!’
‘I know she does, but,’ Ron shrugged, ‘she’ll have new stuff to do at Hogwarts.’
‘This isn’t just about the class, Ron,’ Hermione said with some irritation.
‘You just said—’
‘I know what I said! I know,’ Hermione added, softer this time. ‘What I’m trying to say is that she… she’ll have to give up part of her life when she goes to Hogwarts. You see, witches and wizards who come from Pure-blood families, and most who are Half-bloods, grew up in contact exclusively with the wizarding world. They didn’t go to Muggle school, or have extracurricular activities… they didn’t have friends they wouldn’t be able to see again, or that they’d have to lie to when they asked questions.’
‘Oh,’ Ron said, understanding at last. He looked at her again. ‘Is that how you felt? Like you were giving up part of your life?’
Hermione shook her head, tilting to one side to let other passers-by through without releasing Ron’s arm. When there was no one near, she said, ‘Since my parents and I had no clue I was a witch, I grew up thinking I was a freak—not that they didn’t try to assure me I wasn’t. Even though I had after-school activities, I didn’t exactly feel great around other kids. Hogwarts felt like a new start for me.’
‘But Rosie grew up knowing who she was and going back and forth between these two worlds,’ Ron added, nodding vaguely and rubbing a hand across his jaw. ‘Yeah. I get it. It’ll be hard for her.’
‘I wanted her to be part of both worlds,’ Hermione said, an anguished frown forming between her eyebrows. ‘I know it was the right thing, sending her to school, encouraging her to make friends, having her engage in what is half of her culture. I just never stopped to think she’d have to leave it behind, one day.’
Ron squeezed her hand. ‘We’ll make sure the transition isn’t that hard. We can tell her she doesn’t have to cut ties with her old friends if she doesn’t want to, she can invite them over when she’s home for the holidays. If we have to make up an elaborate lie about how we’re both secret agents who have to move all over the world to explain why Rose can’t tell them about school,’ Ron said, putting a serious face and a hand over his heart, ‘so be it.’
‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you?’ Hermione said, laughing. Ron grinned as they kept walking. After a while, Hermione became pensive again. ‘I can’t believe she’s already going to Hogwarts. Our babies are growing up so fast…’
‘Too fast,’ Ron agreed. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘It’s unfair,’ Hermione stated. She looked up at Ron’s profile. ‘I didn’t feel this way when we were at school, but it’s as if… as if there comes a point in your life when time just flies by. Sometimes I feel like we’re rushing through life. Even now—look at us! We’re running from one place to the next; we’re talking, but we’re thinking of what we’re doing next—’
‘Are you suggesting we should slow down?’ Ron asked, unable to contain a smirk. He knew what Hermione meant: he, too, sometimes felt as if life didn’t use to move as fast as it now seemed to do. When he thought about it, he couldn’t believe it had already been eighteen years since the battle of Hogwarts, fourteen since he’d married Hermione, and ten since he’d become a father. Still, Hermione was the one who literally rushed through life. It usually took a little coaxing from Ron for her to stay still for two minutes and relax—he’d become very good at it over the years.
‘Yes,’ Hermione said, and Ron felt a tug on his arm as she drastically slowed down.
‘Uh… I didn’t mean right now, love,’ Ron said, looking up at the darkening sky.
‘Why not?’
‘What, you want to stop and feel the rain?’
‘That doesn’t sound like a bad idea.’ Ron goggled at her and she returned his earlier smirk. ‘Or are you afraid of getting a bit wet? You’ve got two children, you can’t tell me you are.’
The first cold drops fell over their heads. Ron replaced his arm around her shoulders and, as he prompted her to walk—slowly this time, taking in this mundane but pleasant moment together—he planted a kiss on the top of her head.
