Originally written for the Ron/Pansy Fest and posted on September 2, 2009. Original Prompt: 3) As his marriage with Hermione begins to fall apart, Ron finds himself turning to Pansy. Why and whether it is emotional or physical cheating is up to you—but I'd like something that makes me feel for all three of them.
Disclaimer: (c) 2009 Rabble Rouser/Harmony_bites. All rights reserved. This work may not be archived, reproduced, or distributed in any format without prior written permission from the author. This is an amateur nonprofit work, and is not intended to infringe on copyrights held by Paramount or any other lawful holder.
Thanks so much to djinn_fic for her beta and lifeasanamazon for the Britpick. You guys are awesome!
Return to Me
I can't believe he can love Pansy, anymore than I can believe Ron ever even liked Lavender. It's never been about the other girl, but about the two of us. Ron would rather be hit with a bludger and fall from a broom and suffer a concussion than deal with a deeper hurt. He's always been insecure. Ginny tells him I must have kissed Viktor, and it doesn't matter that he's over a thousand miles away or that the kiss had been two years ago, or that I had just asked Ron out-all that mattered was that he hurt.
It wasn't the big things that stymied us. Mum was never crazy about Ron and me. She felt he was fine by himself, but we weren't for each other. When she first went to the Burrow for Christmas to visit the Weasleys, her face scrunched up in a way that outdid Narcissa Malfoy at her worst. And I'll never forget her absolutely blank look as Molly listed who'd be there that day and mum realised Molly had seven children. Mum somehow got the idea from "such a brood" that Ron wanted to keep me barefoot and pregnant until we had our own Quidditch team. Please, Ron had enough as the youngest of the boys of hand-me-downs and "no you can't have this" and attention ladled out with a teaspoon with six other pairs of hands tugging at sleeves. He didn't want that for us.
No, our first major fight after we got married was when I looked under the bed for a dropped earring and found he had stuffed weeks of laundry under the bed rather than do it. I had been worn out for weeks working on house-elves legislation and when he came in the door right at that moment I tore into him, calling him lazy and that he might be "used to living in a sty-"
His face froze, and in that instant I knew I'd hit him worse than any flock of canaries, used a phrase right from the Malfoy/Parkinson book. He didn't say a word, slamming the door before I could unfreeze and apologise and right after I heard the pop of Apparition.
I think it started then.
No, Ron isn't all that good at confrontation, but he's brilliant at running away-coming back maybe, with something to light his way, but he's not going to come back groping in the dark.
Fine then. But I'm tired of being the one always to make the first move. I asked him out first (the Yule Ball doesn't count, I was an afterthought). I initiated our first kiss. This time, let him come and bring me back.
It doesn't take me long to pack. Ron has more robes and suits than I do. My wardrobe consists of the minimal basics I tweak for various occasions with Transfiguration. Feminine frippery has never been important to me. But Ron… well, now when I think about it, what drew his eye, whether it was Fleur or Rosmerta or Lavender, was I think "style" even more than face or body. Pansy may be no beauty, but that I'll give her. She's not a little brown wren like me.
"You're leaving."
I spun about and saw Ron at the door. "You're a master of the obvious, Ron."
Ron opened his mouth, then shut it so tightly I could see his jaw muscles clench. "Whatever you want, Hermione." The tone of his voice was more than tired and wary, to my ears it sounded indifferent, and right down in the cramping in my stomach, I knew he'd never come to get me if I walked out. I knew it. I loved him. And I still pushed past him.
All that mattered was that I hurt.
When I was seventeen, the twins gave me this book, Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. To my idiot-teen brain, it was like I'd found Snape's Advanced Potions book, with all the secrets of magic scribbled in the margins. Harry could keep that; he could become the greatest wizard since Dumbledore; I didn't care, if I could get the girl-if I could have Hermione.
It was a trap, of course. I mean, I memorised those rules, and they seemed golden. I followed them to the letter and I got Hermione's smile, the full one. See, she used to have these really big teeth, and I think she trained herself not to do one of those toothy grins, so her smiles were rare and usually so restrained-close lipped. So I read about how to compliment a girl, see, and when I did it, she bloody glowed. I read how you shouldn't disagree but support what your witch believed in, so believe me, I decided to become the house-elf champion knight if that's what it took, and I said the least thing about caring about them and that got me her arms wound around my neck and her kiss, a glint in her eyes that said I was her hero. Me. Not Harry Potter. Me.
But then is it really me, or the book?
Blimey, there were thousands of ways I came up short. It's not simply that I couldn't match the way she was rocketing up the Ministry. Honestly, I took the jibe of "Mister Granger" and neutered it by using it myself. But I came home and if I left socks under the bed or forgot to wipe the crumbs off the counter, it was as if I were in a conspiracy to force her to "be my mother." It was easier to turn around and say I was "going out." To the pub, to Harry's-stay longer at work.
Pansy was an accountant at Gringotts and discovered a discrepancy in the books. A whole series of investments that weren't adding up. Ginny was pregnant, and Harry couldn't put in the hours as an Auror then-basically doing the nine to five. So that often left me, and Pansy, after hours poring over records and ledgers at Gringotts, a container of curry between us.
We hated each other, really, and it came out in a game of insults that at some point became weirdly fun. Maybe because Pansy acted like she was playing against a worthy opponent, not someone she had to give up major pieces to make an equal game. And I didn't care about impressing her, about making her happy-I was just myself and bugger her if she didn't like me.
Except more and more we were laughing together instead of at each other.
I swear, we never even kissed. But then after we made arrests, after Harry was fully back after James was born-well, it seemed we bumped into Pansy all the time. No, she wasn't stalking me. I wasn't seeking her out. It was more that before that if we glimpsed each other in the street, we would have sharply turned on our heels or held our noses up as we sneered passing each other. Now when Pansy came near me, there wasn't anyone else worth looking at.
Pansy was at a Ministry reception where Harry, Hermione and me, the wizarding world's "golden trio," were on display. She had on this flowing gunmetal silk dress with a modest neckline, but this deep V in the back. When I first caught a glimpse of her, I stood stock still, and Hermione and Harry stopped short beside me, as if we were all on the same lead. Hermione gave me such a look…
I stayed away from Pansy the rest of that night. But then when we got back home, Hermione asked me if I were "shagging that bitch." I yelped no. If that had been the last question, I'm not sure-maybe we'd have been fine. But then Hermione asked me to swear that I cared nothing about Pansy.
It wasn't the answer that killed us. It was my lack of an answer.
I don't think you can get farther away from Draco Malfoy than Ronald Weasley. Maybe that was the attraction. Rebound? Try ricochet. And in a way you could say it was Ronald Weasley's fault, given his part in winning the war. You see, after pulling a wand on his friend Harry Potter, I wasn't, shall we say, any longer on anyone's social calendar-including that of the Malfoys. Oh, no, Narcissa was telling all who'd listen about how she had saved Harry Potter and thus the wizarding world, Lucius that he had been Imperio'd (again) and kept captive in his own home, and all the Malfoys were busy putting as much distance between them and their Death Eater cohorts and sympathisers as possible.
Draco sneaked behind his parents' back to see me, screwed me in every way, and then sent me an Owl to invite me to his wedding with Asteria. I don't even think he was being cruel, or even a hypocritical social climber. But Draco has never been very brave, especially when it came to standing up to his parents.
No, my moment of utter stupidity (what was I thinking-that Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws would back a Slytherin over the great Harry Potter?) left me shut out everywhere. Except Gringotts. They had no love for Harry Potter for some reason-they actually approached me about a position.
My feelings for Ron crept up on me. I mean, this was a Weasley, the swarm of them were more of a plague than an army of Potters. But the more time I spent with him, without his brothers (I include Potter in this) the more I liked him. He always could make me laugh, you see. And he never was afraid of anything, and after Draco and all I'd had to do to soothe a thousand jitters, that was bloody attractive.
And then-it was a small moment, but I caught him staring at my legs, and to test his reaction, I crossed them, letting my skirt rise higher, swinging one leg and watching his eyes track its movement back and forth. I admit, after Draco, that focused attention made me feel powerful; it made me feel fucking fabulous.
And you can bet the thought of Granger's reaction if she knew her precious Ron found me shaggable-well, excuse me if I have no love for that frowsy cow. It's beyond her being a mudblood. She's always been absolutely impossible to like, her having to let everyone know how bloody lucky the entire wizarding world is to have her, how much more brilliant she is than anyone around her.
Including her husband.
It came out in all those self-deprecating jokes, all the "funny" little stories Ron told. Until I realised all that hatred I felt was funnelling and collapsing down to one thing.
She had him.
I didn't. And never would.
I looked now out the window and I saw a man slowly treading towards our door down our cobblestone path. When he came out of the shadows, I saw that thatch of ginger hair and I gasped. I ran to the door but as I turned the knob I heard the pop of Apparition, and I knew, I knew then as I flung open the door.
He was gone.
I probably won't ever even know what brought him to the path to my door. But I know what took him away from me.
Her.
Yet, I find I'm strangely proud of him. That the way he returned to her is part of what makes Ron Weasley worth a thousand Draco Malfoys.
The End