A/N: A one shot about my favorite couple, in honor of OOTP. I went to a midnight showing on Tuesday and it was so worth it! I loved it, thought it was the best one of the series so far. And I was beside myself with all the little Ron/Hermione moments. If you haven't seen the movie yet, I HIGHLY suggest you run out and see it. Preferably after you read and review this story. Haha.
Hermione couldn't sleep. It was the night before Bill and Fleur's wedding. The day had been a whirlwind of guest lists and menus, final dress fittings and prolonged rehearsals underneath the blazing sun. The slight humidity and the light that lapped against her shoulders drained her energy, her actions sluggish, her mind foggy. Her hair had begun to frizz, curling around the edges. She'd piled it into a messy bun, observing the mock ceremony with waning interest. It'd seemed rather odd to conduct such an event, to approve of a celebration when the world was going to spin off its axis. Everyone smiled like they were supposed to, even Ron. They all played their parts.
Hermione searched for her trainers, critically observing her unconscious roommate. Ginny mumbled, turning on her side. Her ginger locks tumbled across the pillow, spread out like the panels of a paper fan. Hermione put on one shoe, then the other. The house was silent, with the exception of a clock. She rose, awkward and nervous. There was a mirror on the back of the door. She paused, studying her reflection. Nearly eighteen, but feeling so much older. Weathered. Exhausted, but too stubborn to give up the fight.
Unfortunately, Hermione understood depression. The bleakness, the despair, its arresting chokehold. Her Aunt Cecile was diagnosed with clinical depression. She lived in Paris and visited on holidays, mainly Christmas. She used to sparkle like summer. The Cecile of her adolescence had been glamorous, sweeping into a room with undisputable dignity. Enveloped by the whiff of jasmine, Aunt Cecile would tilt her head back and laugh, flaunting her swan-like neck. But when her infant son died, Cecile shut down. The demise of happiness was like the explosion of a star. A Super Giant, folding into itself and then igniting with a beastly roar, leaving behind a hollow speck.
Using Cecile's agony as standard criteria, Hermione knew she wasn't depressed. But whatever she was experiencing, it used a foolproof disguise. An unidentifiable fury was devouring her organs, one by one, following the path of her intestines like a ladder. One day she'd be collected, the next, she was unhinged. Naturally, these rifts never reached the surface. To the unsuspecting eye, she was still the witch with The Answers, the girl who consumed books like oxygen. Hermione Granger didn't possess doubts, didn't cower in the corner.
But she'd arrived at the edge without realizing that she'd boarded the train. From her first year at Hogwarts, nothing had been simple. Even in those early years, when she'd churn out letters to her parents, when she'd suppress the urge to hold Ron's hand, digging her nails into her palms- nothing had been black and white. Maybe they'd been innocent, though the circumstances had warped innocence with every opportunity.
Perhaps it was a different breed of purity, of naivety, like the pacts you made with people, who are just as young and foolish as you, swearing that you'll be friends forever. Forever was a long time when thought you were invincible, that life couldn't end. Perhaps it thrived in the little moments, the split seconds that formed the bigger memories. The ones tucked away on shelves and stuffed into boxes, stored under dusty beds and musty attics. The snapshots you saved for later to warm your heart.
Once, in fifth year, when everything seemed to be stained by gloom, she'd remembered how much she liked Ron's smile. Not the goofy one, the ungraceful convulsion that debuted upon embarrassment. Although, that one was quite endearing. No, the real one, the one he barely used. It was all in the execution. His lips would part and the crook of his mouth would twist upwards, as though being pulled by a string. The hint of square, white teeth. That lopsided grin, restrained though genuine, subtle dimples carved into his cheeks.
They'd been working on a Potions essay. In other words, Hermione was editing Ron's sloppy scrawl and Ron sat, jabbering about Quidditch and electrified by his repulsion for Dolores Umbridge. She'd read the essay, from first page to last, scratching out mistakes, quill between her fingers like a lance. But when she'd finished, she was pleased.
"Ron," she interrupted.
"Yes?" he asked, somewhat startled. Whenever Ron rambled, he was a speeding car without brakes, slicing down the streets.
"It's quite good, actually," she said.
"Really?" Ron wondered, brow cocked in disbelief.
Hermione had nodded, relinquishing her quill.
"Really."
And that's when he'd smiled, that languid motion, the flash of satisfaction, sweet and fleeting, like the start of a symphony.
Hermione crept down the stairs. She avoided the boards that would creak. Her hand slithered down the railing, her body oddly alert. She'd go into the kitchen, grab a glass of water, maybe some milk, and then wander into the backyard. It seemed like a good idea, sitting outside to contemplate.
The summer she'd gotten the letter, she'd climbed onto her roof. It was the night before she'd leave. She'd told her parents that she was ecstatic, ready and about to jump out of her skin. Truthfully, she was terrified. Would she make any friends? What if she couldn't keep up with her classmates? Surely, everyone else was more experienced, they'd known they were witches, known they had magical powers. One minute she was in Maths, wishing that Jeremy Wilkes would stop pulling her hair and the next, a great, big owl was diving into her kitchen, her Mum squealing, her Dad trying to whack it with the broom, a heavy letter falling into her hands, like it was a message from Fate.
She sometimes speculated that this was a hallucination, that she'd wake up and be eleven, impatient and snub-nosed. Hogwarts would be the wonderful scene of a book, a dream like Alice in Wonderland. But then, Ron would brush a curl away from her face, his fingers affectionately grazing her shoulder, and she'd feel so dizzy she thought that surely, she must be swaying. And that's when she'd remember that it was real, the petty fights and hot tears under her covers, and Voldemort and evil.
Hermione didn't notice she had company, until it was too late. Stool legs scraped against the floor, a lanky figure rising like a bloodied sun. Her breath snagged in her throat, though not out of fright. Through the veil of darkness, she could detect the ginger hair, the Roman nose, the broad shoulders.
As her eyes adjusted, Hermione noticed he was wearing a Chuddley Cannons T-shirt. She'd always felt nervous around him, like her hands were being pricked by pins. It made her want to laugh, laugh at the absurdity at it all, that one morning she'd woken up and realized that she'd always loved him, even when they were eleven and he had dirt caked on his nose. Silly, really, that she could feel so much and she'd said so little about it.
"Hermione? What are you doing up so late?" Ron wondered.
His voice had dropped an octave, which startled Hermione. Granted, she'd spent her entire sixth year listening to the steady rumble of that voice. But standing in his kitchen, with her shorts and T-shirt and bed-head, it was different. Somehow, they were different.
"Couldn't sleep."
He shuffled forward, bare-foot and drowsy, heavy-lidded and curious. Ever since…the funeral, he'd changed. Not in the way that transformed individuals into strangers, but in the way that completed the missing pieces. It was like she'd been looking at him through cracked glasses. And now, the crevices had been sealed, the fractures mended. They'd sat together, heads bent low, her tears bleeding into his shirt. And he hadn't minded, hadn't complained. He'd just sat there, tenderly holding her hand, letting her cry. It reminded her of her Mother and how she used to hold her, humming a lullaby at the slightest bump or scrape.
When she was younger, Hermione loved to climb trees. She'd wear denim jumpers with oversized buttons, scampering up the trunks. On the contrary, her sense of balance wasn't as strong as her enthusiasm. Down she'd tumble, slamming against the branches. She'd run into her Mother's embrace, like a puppy with its tail tucked between its legs. And her Mum would grip her hand, smelling of vanilla, whispering against her hair. Ron reminded her of home and better days at Hogwarts. He reminded her that sometimes, the world could be cut into its simplest parts, that sometimes, life could be neatly summarized as the misadventures of a girl who loved a boy.
Hermione approached, and then decided to sit at the table.
"Me either," he said.
"So. Are you excited about the wedding?" she asked.
Ron shrugged, half-smirking.
"I guess. I just never thought…a girl like Fleur would fancy Bill. 'S a bit strange, really."
"And your Mum?"
"Ah, you know. I think she's beginning to warm up to Fleur. Mum's more worried about the actual ceremony and stuff. Wants everything to go according to plan. She nearly threw a fit today, cause Fred showed Mum his suit, which of course, is totally off the wall. Its light blue, stands out like a sore thumb. Fred insists it's by some designer and he paid a ton for it. Mum doesn't care. She threatened to light the thing on fire, in fact!"
Hermione laughed, imagining the exchange.
"Oh, I believe her."
Ron chuckled. He yawned and wandered over to a cabinent. His hand hovered over the handle and he glanced at Hermione.
"D'you want anything? I think there's some chocolate cake in there."
She hesitated and then nodded, a slow smile stretching across her face.
"Sure. But not too big a piece."
He rummaged around the shelves. He placed the platter on the counter and located knife. From another cupboard, he produced a plate and glass. He served her a decent-sized portion, poured the milk without asking. He eased her food and drink onto the wood surface, zipped back to obtain a fork. When he finally joined her, she began to eat.
"Hermione."
It was a statement only through punctuation. His hands slid onto the table, the lean fingers that would've been perfect for the piano.
"Mmm?"
She swallowed the hunk of chocolate, marveling at its velvety texture. The batter was rich and fluffy, the icing impeccable at the perfect degree of sweetness. Hermione sipped her milk, astounded by the luminosity of Ron's eyes. His hair was getting longer, shaggier, a darker shade of red than their previous summers.
"You all right?"
She knew that there were layers to his question, that it required more than a one-word answer.
"I'm fine."
"You know what I mean," Ron replied.
"Doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter, not when there's more important things happening. Other priorities," she swiftly argued.
"This is a priority."
She smiled, relinquishing her fork.
"Since when have you become so level-headed?" she mocked.
Despite the dark, Hermione spotted patches of strawberry on Ron's cheeks. His fingers inched closer. She held her breath.
"I've always been level-headed."
She rolled her eyes. In the background, the crickets chirped and an owl hooted, their signature sounds dancing through an open window. If there was one thing she could count on, it was this clash of wits and the fact that even when he made her mad, the impulse to kiss him was far greater than the instinct to slap him. It wasn't so much that he was irresistibly kissable, which he could be, but the fact that she'd always wanted to kiss him. Especially when he'd been snogging Lavender. Desire had risen to its peak; she'd envisioned herself acting like a femme fatale and cornering him, all bedroom eyes and cool skin.
"And dating Lavender Brown was a prime example of your admirable sensibility?"
He winced. She stifled the oncoming rush of giggles. Hermione was a girl that hated to think of herself as giggling. It seemed like a caustic synonym for immature. Lavender had been the sort of girl that giggled, with one hand covering her mouth, saturated with fruity lip-gloss. When she started dating Ron, she'd begun to use lipstick. Lavender believed it was flattering. Hermione accessed that Lavender's lips looked like a big gash, the red leaking into the corners of her mouth.
When Ron made her laugh, really laugh, Hermione would throw back her head and expose her back molars. She was glad that conditions were different; he'd made her cry more times than laugh.
"I thought we agreed to not talk about that?" he reminded.
"But we weren't talking about it. I was just using it as a reference. It wasn't the basis of our discussion," Hermione corrected.
"Well, write that off as a fluke. No one's perfect. Except, maybe, you."
She snorted, remembering her cake.
"No one's perfect. Especially me."
"I know, I was just teasing."
"I know."
"You know what I just remembered?" Ron baited.
"What?"
"That time you punched Malfoy. A mean right hook to the nose. Merlin, I'll never forget that! I felt rather silly, actually, cause then I got to thinking, why didn't I do that sooner?"
"Oh, you would. If I wasn't there to hold you back."
"Ah, that's all right. He'll get what he deserves," Ron predicted.
Her cake was gone. She drained the rest of her milk, gently wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"I hope so."
"Hermione?"
"Yes, Ron."
"Just to forewarn you, if I step on your feet tomorrow, I'm sorry."
Hermione frowned, puzzled.
"Why would you step on my feet?"
"When we slow dance together, at the reception," he explained.
"Who said I'm going to dance with you at the reception?" she taunted.
Ron looked a bit flustered.
"Well, ah, I just assumed that-"
She laughed, enjoying his discomfort.
"Gotcha."
Realization broke across his features, the worry wrinkles vanishing from his forehead. He laughed. Hermione rose, grabbing her dishes. She placed them in the sink, turned on the faucet, and then rinsed both. She turned around, surprised to see that Ron had stood, casually slouching against the cupboard door.
"Well…" she tentatively began.
"Well?"
"I think I'm going to bed. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
Ron nodded, propelling himself off the cupboard door.
"All right. I might as well head up, too."
They stared at each other, still unsure of what to do or say next, after all these years.
"Goodnight, Ron."
"G'night," Ron repeated.
She headed towards the stairs, inadvertently advancing towards Ron. He stepped closer, steady and smooth, as though he were gliding through the air on his broom. Another stride forward and before she comprehended the event, Ron's soft lips were against her own.
When they recoiled, she whispered, "Ron?"
"Yes"
"For once, I'm really glad you assumed."
He chuckled. She absorbed the echo of his laugh, the vibration tingling against her cheek, face pressed against his chest.
"Like I said. I've got my priorities straight."
Outside, the world had gone serenely quiet.