He had considered bolting since he'd knocked on the highly polished oaken doors. No, that was a lie. The panic started to set in way before that; as he tied his shoes, threw a lie over his shoulder to his girlfriend and flatmate, something half mumbled and wholly made-up, and was out the door in a rush before she could unravel the truth.
He scurried down the hallway, took the stairs two at a time. It would have been easier to apparate, but he chose to walk instead pretending it was that she had chosen a flat in the heart of London that prevented him rather than his nerves of jelly as he attempted to delay his arrival.
It was scarcely eight blocks away; an only child, he couldn't deny her the comfort of her parent's proximity especially considering she had chosen to live, work, and succeed in a world that was constantly overlapping, but hidden from the one they knew.
He stood outside on the sidewalk a moment, leaning against the meter high wrought iron fence that enclosed their tiny front garden. The walk to the front door was paved in rounded, gray bricks that matched the ivy covered house. He remembered the first time she had brought him here, in muggle clothes, nice ones, collared shirt type of nice, just as he was wearing now. How she fussed with the folds of his pleats, hastily brushing away the long, ginger cat hairs from his shoulders. The door had opened and her parents stood side by side, brown curly hair and toothy grins welcoming them to the "meet and greet" dinner. It had been nearly two years since they had been formally introduced, no longer as just best friends. Her mother had smiled kindly over the casserole she had prepared, her father boomed jovially about the West Ham football team's latest victory.
It had been at least three minutes since he'd knocked… ok, no, he was lying, again. Only one minute. Only a minute? His palms were sweating though it was a cool October day, his heart was racing as if he'd just sprinted the last eight blocks rather than ambled so slowly that he had tripled the travel time; he had been gone for nearly an hour. He had only intended to be gone for an hour, just enough time before she would really notice and worry. Oh, who was he kidding? Of course she was worried. Ever since he'd visited the jeweler in Diagon Alley he had acted like a complete prat. This was stupid, even if her father did eventually answer the door and agree it's not like she would say yes.. not like..
"Oh! Hello Ronald, what a delightful surprise," Mrs. Granger beamed, her brown eyes alight and excited, so much like her daughter's that he faltered for a moment, his face turning a sickening shade of green as he balked at his own daring.
" 'Lo… Mrs. Gr…," he coughed out in a hoarse whisper.
"Why don't you come in, Ronald," she smiled, her soft voice pulling him into the immaculate foyer. He nodded, gulping down what he was sure would have ended up all over the Granger's welcome mat had he even attempted to respond.
The door shut behind him with a snap. He cleared his throat, and swallowed hard as he followed her down the narrow hallway, lined with pictures of a bushy haired girl riding her first bike, opening birthday presents, skiing in over holiday break, and finally her diploma, charmed to change the name of the school should a muggle come to inspect it.
"I was just about to put on the pot," she asked indicating the electric kettle, "Would you like one?" Her kind eyes wide and she spoke slower than she normally did like she was talking to someone on the verge of a break down. He nodded, taking a seat at the white, round table, rubbing his hands dry on his pants, thigh to knee and back again.
"Thanks, Mrs. Granger," he muttered as she placed a cup in front of him.
"Please, call me Jean," she poured a splash of cream into her tea and passed him the pitcher.
He had just finished stirring in a cube of sugar and was about to dip back in for a second when her noticed her eyes pointedly looking away from his cup, dropping the tongs in the neat little ceramic bowl and reaching for the pitcher she offered him.
"So, Ronald, what brings you by today?" she asked, taking a light sip of from her steaming cup. Ron, who was midway through his first tentative sip, sputtered, his mouth filling with scalding, bitter tea causing the excess to run from the corners of his mouth and down his chin and onto the table, his teeth clicking against the fragile china, his eyes watering from the heat.
As gingerly as he was able, he hastily place his cup back in the saucer, running the sleeve of his forearm over the brown drips on the table as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Here," Mrs. Granger slid him a napkin and his ears burned red as he attempted to avoid her eyes, but he couldn't. They were so much like Hermione's that he needed their courage. He knew his face was still pink as he dabbed the lacy napkin against his mouth.
"Thanks, Mrs.. Jean," he stumbled, his face filling with a nervous grin that he was relieved to find she was returning.
"How is work?" she asked with a knowing smile, and Ron was relieve again that she had changed the subject.
"Good, it's uh going well," he took another tentative sip of tea and continued, " We were actually just starting a line of…" and he was off, his courage building by the minute as he told her of the new products that he and George were experimenting with for the shop. She listened intently, though he knew deep down she only understood half of what he was saying, nodding in the right places and exclaiming, "That sounds wonderful!" whenever he paused.
He was beginning to ever wonder why he had begun to panic in the first place, when from down the hall he heard, "Jean, dear? Do we have company?"
Mr. Granger was beaming from the doorway moments later, shaking off his traveling coat as he bent to kiss Mrs. Granger's temple.
"M-Mr. Granger," Ron started, jumping from his seat in a haste to shake hands, knocking the table, dribbling his tea and producing a Charlie-horse all in the same three seconds.
"Easy there, m'boy!" he laughed, his hand large, warm hand encompassing Ron's, who attempted to shake Mr. Granger's hand firmly, a manly handshake, but was left with the impression that his hand probably felt more like a dead fish; limp and clammy in the dentist's expert grasp.
"And where's my little popkin at?" his eyes crinkled at the thought of her and he looked around for a sign of her presence, a jacket or maybe a purse.
"She's erm.. she…" Ron began.
"Out running errands," Mrs. Granger finished smoothly. "Ronald and I thought we'd have a spot of tea. Harold, dear, why don't you and Ronald head into the parlour while I tidy up in here. I'm sure you have lots to talk about?"
They seemed to communicate with their eyes, just a fraction of a second as Mr. Granger's curious smirk turned into a knowing smile under his wife's kind-eyed stare.
"Of course, dear. Come on, m'boy, I've got a 1915 Scotch that's been on my mind all day and you're reason enough for a cuppa or two," he smiled revealing his extraordinarily white, even teeth as he cuffed Ron around the shoulders, leading him into the small alcove off of the kitchen overlooking the back garden.
The door swung shut behind them, and as Mr. Granger began pouring the drink Ron remembered exactly why he had always hated this room. The walls were covered with diagrams and pictures of early nineteenth century dentistry tools and contraptions: spiky, hook cleaning utensils, large, metallic head gear that looked as if it screwed into your very skulls. They could have easily hung in the Tower of Londen, he thought, and no one would know the difference..
" 'Ere yeh are, m'boy," he said depositing the high-ball glass into Ron's hand and raising his own, "And to your good health!" He tipped it back, nearly downing the lot in one. Ron raised his own glass to his mouth, feeling the ice dance against his unwilling lips, forcing them to open and admit the bitter swill.
"Ah!" Mr. Granger boomed, smacking his lips, "Smooth." Ron coughed.
"So, son, to what do I owe this occasion for a scotch?" he asked, taking the seat opposite and depositing his now empty glass on the table between them.
Ron gulped. He opened his mouth, here it was, his moment to shine, the time at come at last. And he found he was mute. He closed his mouth, cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and tried again. The words wouldn't come. He had sought to make a good impression, to stroll into the Granger house with his shoulders back and his head high, and now here he sat in their torture chamber/parlour gaping at Mr. Granger like some new breed of ginger-haired, freckle-faced fish.
Mr. Granger's brows began to knit together, like he wasn't sure for a moment if Ron was having some sort of a fit or had been recently rendered off his rocker.
Ron sputtered, his ears reddening, as he hastily began to grope in his left pocket. No, it was there. Now his right pocket. He pulled out the small, black box. It felt fuzzy in his hands, like picking peaches in the orchard. The man at the store had called it crushed velvet, and assured him it would make the right impression.
He wrenched open the box and placed it, rather harder than he intended, in the middle of the sitting table so that it lay open and facing Mr. Granger.. who stared..
After a moment he cleared his throat, his eyes still on the ring now facing him, "I'm flattered, m'boy, but I don't think she's my size." He looked up, his eyes twinkling as took in Ron's bewilderment, "Kidding, son. Only kidding."
He took up the box in his hand, examining from all angles, not like a jeweler surveying it's worth, but more like an oracle gazing into the future for the first time.
He crinkly brown eyes shone, "This is the part where you…"
"Oh! Right!" Ron burst before shutting his eyes, taking a quick breath. "Mr. Granger," he spoke with more confidence than he had had all day, "I would like to ask for your permission to marry your daughter." He sighed, he smiled, he'd done it, he'd survived.
But the following silence that permeated was nearly crushing.
Mr. Granger nodded slightly, his eyes returned to the ring, but not really seeing it.
"She is my only daughter, Ronald," Mr. Granger spoke quietly, but Ron couldn't help but notice it was the first time he'd used his full name, "So I hope you don't mind if I make this a little hard on you."
Ron, who had thought that the hard part was over, began to feel heat rising from his stomach into his chest and settling around his cheeks as his nerves enveloped him once more.
"This hulabaloo a few years ago," Mr. Granger began, waving a hand in the air as he spoke, the other still holding the little, black box, "The registration, the hunting of muggle-borns. What if that happens again? What will happen to my little girl then? In our world she is safe, but in your world her blood, her very blood, can get her killed?"
"N-not to me, sir," Ron was leaning forward in his seat in his earnest, "You should know.. I mean, me of all people…" He took a deep breath to steady his voice, his mind in torrents that he was even having this conversation, "Her blood matters nothing to me."
"What does matter to you, Ronald?"
"Her-her," Think, you idiot! Think! But all he could see in him mind when he thought about her were her mountains of bushy brown hair, her large, kind eyes so like her mother's, her mischievous grin of slightly over large front teeth…
"Her smile," Ron gulped, rushing onward, "Her smile matters to me. And her laugh, when she laughs I feel like I've done something right. And even when I'm wrong, I know she's right, I know nothing is better than when she opens one of those vast volumes cluttering up our sitting room just to prove me wrong. No one else makes me happier to be wrong."
Mr. Granger smiled, not his usual smile of crinkling eyes and a booming laugh, but a knowing smile, maybe even a sad smile, "I was enough for her not long ago. I was her number one, she told me so," he laughed, "And she still means the world to me, just so you know. So be careful when you hold my girl. Time changes everything, life must go on. You have my blessing, I'll never stand in your way."
He folded up the box, reaching across the table to hand it back to Ron who stood up, smiling, to embrace him, "Thank you, sir. Thank you."
"She'll always be my little girl, even when she's your wife, m'boy," he smiled, a watery smile, "But I loved her first and I held her first and a place in my heart will always be hers. From the first breath she breathed to when she first smiled at me, I knew the love of a father runs deep. You know, I prayed that she'd find you someday? Oh, but it still hard to give her away when I loved her first."