A/N: A Tumblr idea. I kind of blame drappleluv over there for starting me on this stupid train. Silliness galore, and hopefully it's worth a chuckle. Read and review, if you'd like, but I don't mind if you just read.
Really, I don't. Trust me.
"Ronald Bilius Weasley, what on Earth is this!?"
I really should have expected that. To be honest I should have removed the copy of the book from the house, set it on fire, and run for the hills before I had it sent out the door. The editor told me to have a name for the damned thing ready, and I couldn't stop from picking something about Hermione. Seriously, what else was I going to call it? Anything about the Cannons was rejected and the next down the line was Me and My Bacon Sandwich. Naturally, my thoughts strayed a little blue and before I knew it I was looking at a piece of paper labeled: In Hermione Granger.
Should have just tossed it out, eaten it for lunch… anything to keep those words from going out of the house. The bloody press, after all this time, wanted a memoir of one the "Golden Trio" and I haven't worked in nearly ten years. Harry, of course, gave them the finger and shut the door on them and Hermione was busy working in France at the time, so they settled on me. I practically jumped at the offer to do anything - haven't been this restless since the honeymoon. I ended up putting that in there as well, but I kept it pretty clean and only talked about a few of our escapades in bed. A bloke can brag, can't he?
Either way, it turned out to be a chapter by itself. Named that one, "Does the Carpet Match the Drapes?" and I hope to Merlin she never opens the book. She'd probably end up correcting the editors' spelling mistakes anyways.
Where was I? Oh yes…
Hermione had been flitting through the house, spot-checking to make sure her leave of absence for a few months hadn't led to a Doxy infestation or something. She must have checked the bedroom, which was – lucky me – the last place I had the final draft of the several hundred page book. The editor thought the title and chapter names were funny and hit the target "demo" but I reckon Hermione figured out what I meant pretty quickly. Her hair – still unmanageable but grey and shorter – speaks volumes about her: if it's relatively in place when she talks, expect only gentle nagging. In this instance, she's shaking visibly and it's bouncing to-and-fro.
I'm on the bad side of my eighties and this image of Hermione riled up is getting me a little excited, but I have to focus on eye contact and a serious expression. The Weasley blood in me is flowing a bit too southward for this meeting, so it's time to break the grin and look her in the eyes. I've built this skill up rather well over the years, but sometimes…
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you!" she screams at me from the threshold at the same time that I yank my eyes upward to keep in line with hers.
"Yes, dear?" I try to maintain my composure and pretend to work on cleaning my glasses - glasses that were forced onto my head by a crazy Muggle doctor, I might add.
Hermione knows this tactic and groans.
"Don't you dare use that one on me, Ron. What is this? You actually took that woman up on the offer?"
"Yes, I guess I did. Haven't had a thing to do here other than eat and sleep…" I should have shut up after the first sentence. Complaining about boredom in any of the Weasley households nets you an extra ten chores per week at best. Also included is a verbal teardown, and not always in that order. Or once, really.
"And clean, cook, not to mention making sure the grandchildren are quite all right at Hogwarts. You know, Victor was terrified of the Sorting and a letter from his grandfather would have definitely helped him! You never send them any letters, always telling me that 'I write them just fine…'"
"First of all, why haven't I disowned Rose for calling her kid Victor? Secondly, I thought this was about the book." I don't care if I have to derail her back to this horrible topic, but I think if I let her go down that rabbit hole I won't be able to get rid of that little spitfire.
Seriously though, of all the names in the world – of all the English words, gibberish nonsense, and Luna-isms available to them – they picked Victor. I love the kid, he's pretty much all Rosie since Frank is a bit of a tosser, but I just want to punt that name off the planet. Hell, I should have set a Taboo on it years ago.
"Yes, it is! Look here, you tell me I have to write all these letters when you are perfectly capable of writing a book that is more than three hundred pages?" Her voice is more like a shriek now, and I have to wonder how much verbal sparring she got into in France. I almost want her to break into French, just so I can really not know what she's saying instead of pretending.
Then again, she isn't mentioning the title or the chapter names so I should be good… may as well have tapped the desk beside me.
"And then this title? What is that, some kind of joke?"
"Well, yes it is."
I had to force down the air in my throat with a restrained gulp. It was funny, and most people of this generation didn't even know what her maiden name was… then again, Hermione is a pretty uncommon name. Or was, rather – we'd met at least three friends of Hugo's named Hermione and the name seemed to spread over a generation. If I wasn't so scared right now I'd feel a little proud of that fact.
"The real thing, though, is these… silly chapters!"
Uh oh. I just hope she at least read the chapters and not just the titles, but I wasn't going to stop her when she started shouting them out loud.
"'How to Handle Your Broomstick?' Is that play on-"
"Yes." She wouldn't have been able to say the word anyway. Hermione's never been one to say anything 'untoward,' as she puts it, unless in bed. Want proof? Just read the book - she's absolutely filthy when she's turned on. Still is, the batty woman.
"And this one, 'Tongue'?" She looks at me and gives me a vague grunt of disgust before continuing on, "This one I really despise: 'Five Foot Four and All Legs.'"
I forgot about that one. I think that chapter was about a summer where she floored me by actually taking a dip in the pond. It wasn't the fact that she wanted to swim, it was blistering anyways, but I'm sure I drooled when she walked out in a rather tight one-piece. Yes I know, I had a semi from old lady swimwear but my young mind just saw legs and a bum and some nice tits.
"They're all flattering, don't you think?" I shrug noncommittally and hope for the best. That being, I'll have you know, a night on the cot until she realizes my spine will split in two if she continues making me sleep on that hunk of wood. The first time she did it was amusing, but every time afterward just leaves me with a week's worth of stiffness. Not fun, and the sofa is no better. Haven't used the thing in ages, but she insists that it 'accentuates the homely feeling' in the den.
Whatever, I just want to sleep with my wife.
"If by flattering you mean utterly humiliating, then yes. It's the most flattering thing I've ever had done for me." She spoke with a calmer demeanor on that last bit. I wonder…
"If you want flattering, read the first bit on page 176." I point to the book and nod, waiting for her to open it up to my favorite part. I still hate writing, but it was something to do and nobody needs tired old Aurors and jokesters anymore. That page was a bit different, though.
Hermione glanced at me with eyebrow raised before popping the paperback open. She skimmed past the chapter – "Fancying a Frightening Witch" – with the slight smile that I still love. A little upturn of the lip, a bit of a show on her wrinkles, and a pretty blush. I've made sure to never tell her the second bit happens. Hermione Weasley does not get stress or worry lines, I've been told.
She reached her destination and took a moment to read it – no, seriously, a literal instant it seemed – before looking back up to me and, I swear this woman is borderline psychic with that brainpower of hers, reciting,
"'You can tell I haven't got a way with words, but I can tell you this much: find love in the person you find bravest and kindest, and you'll have it 'til you don't have anything left in you. Never give up, never surrender I say… and that's the way I'd describe my love for Hermione Granger.'"
I thought it sounded all right written down, but now it just sounds lame. I have a feeling she's going to read the next bit about finding love in the barmiest of places, or about finding it in all the right places (I was going to say 'tightest' but my editor frowned on that and said it was a little too on the nose). Hermione might like the bit about the 'finest of places' until she figures out that the entire paragraph following that bit of nonsense is devoted entirely to her bum.
Now that was a fun paragraph to write.
"Ronald, is this the sort of things you've written here?" Her question is a little disarming. I'm not an oaf, and she knows that.
"'Course. It's not like I'm going to write a page about your tits or something am I? I mean, I could but that would be stupid…" I make for the book and insure that I have the following page covered up completely before returning her grin.
"I did read ahead, though."
Thankfully she only laughed when I sighed and pinched my nose in preparation of another attack. I couldn't have filled the house with pages describing that feeling of her soft laugh rolling over my ears. I've said it before – it's a fucking drug.
"Want to read some more?" I ask her. Hopefully she declines that offer. I really don't want to have to encounter some of those later chapters – especially the honeymoon one. Just no. Spare me that hell, please? Won't you, you big merciless, cloud riding...
"Why don't we make a night of it?"
Chapter One: You Think You Hate Her
A/N: So, if you own a US copy of Deathly Hallows I implore to read 'the first bit of page 176' as well. As if that isn't enough, there's a line from a certain Commander Peter Quincy Taggart in there as well.
This will continue on in a style similar to how Rowling wrote "Beasts" but I should really say: I could never be her, seeing as that would require removal of genitalia and a mind transferal. That's really no way to go, is it?