The kitchen at the Burrow had never been known for being a quiet, relaxing place in which one could gather their thoughts, even less so with the approaching holiday season. How could it have been, when it was the center of a house full of Weasleys?

But for Molly Weasley, late at night in the comfort of her worn dressing gown, it became her sanctuary. The kitchen was her place to allow her brain to unwind from the hectic job of raising and caring for her brood, and to finally sort out her worries.

Worries for her darling husband and his penchant for bewitching Muggle items; fear that someone might catch on to why there were certain loopholes in the laws.

Worries for her sanity when it came time to finally send her rambunctious twins to Hogwarts.

She'd spent a tearful night standing near the kettle when Charlie had announced he would be going to Romania to work with dragons. Her pride for her son's ambition mingling with the bitter thought of having him so far away from home and family.

Then, the battle she had raged within herself when her eldest was to wed, convinced that he was letting the charm of the young French woman's beauty outweigh his common sense. She smiled slightly now to think how wrong she had been.

Six years past, her worries had centered on mind-numbing terror at what might happen to her youngest son as he went to aid his dark-haired friend.

Rather than dwell on Ron, Molly's thoughts were urged in another direction. The days after the final battle had made all past worries pale in comparison. Normally, she was the only one who kept vigil in the kitchen late at night when her family slept. But after the battle, she had been joined by George.

He was a man transformed at the loss of his twin; a man empty and devoid of the spark of life she had loved so in her troublesome two. It had been physically painful to try and talk with him, and warm his tea again and again when he let it grow cold, idly stirring it. She had been at wits end, convinced that nothing would pull George away from his grief. Secretly, she feared that she would lose him to it, and be forced to bury another child.

Help for George came, however, from the most unexpected of sources. Because it seemed, now that he was back with his family, Percy had appointed himself to rescue his younger brother. Molly kept her theories as to why private, but she was sure it had something to do with feeling responsible for Fred's death. She had spoken to Percy about it, and tried to dissuade him from forging a relationship with his brother based on guilt. His response had, quite simply, taken her aback in its frankness.

"He needs me, Mum, and Fred would have wanted it."

As if that had settled the matter, Percy had moved back in with the family after the battle. It wasn't two days before he asked George for a job. Befuddled, the depressed young man had agreed to his elder brother's request. It was not long before he was drawn out of mourning for his twin by Percy's business ideas and the concept of building the shop up to honor Fred's memory. Molly's peaceful late night refuge was over run with plots and plans. She indulged the boys and would cook late night meals for them, though she did drop her favorite baking pan to the floor with a clatter one night when for the first time since Fred's funeral two months before, George's genuine laughter rang through the room at a joke of Percy's.

With Percy's insane organizational abilities and George's depths of creative genius, the two had taken the shop and transformed it into a brand that was a household name in the United Kingdom—for Wizards and Muggles alike.

Molly thanked her lucky stars that Percy had come back into their lives, and marveled at the way her two boys formed an inseparable duo, although they were as oddly matched as always. But one could not deny that their new friendship did them mountains of good, both in terms of their business and in their grieving process.

Now there were shops scattered throughout Britain, and they were in talks to start chains in the United States as well. Each shop held a plaque and portrait of their departed brother, so they would never forget their original purpose.

Molly smiled into her mug; to think that the explosions that she'd once yelled herself hoarse at the twins about had lead to an international success. . .and in part due to the brother they'd viciously named "Percival the Pompous" at one point. . . Life was sometimes too funny.

The five years of peace had witnessed other changes too. Most particularly in the young man she could hear making his way downstairs now. No doubt that Ronald had thought he would just nip downstairs for a snack as his family slept on. Smiling to herself about her never-wrong Mother's intuition, Molly set the kettle on the boil and went about making her baby boy a plate of sandwiches and biscuits. She was setting it on the table when he stumbled, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen.

"Wuzzit? Mum, it's near three in the morning, why are you still awake?" Voice gravelly with lack of sleep, Ron clumsily made his way to his usual seat, grinning in approval at the mounds of food in front of him. She saw a look cross his face as he opened one cautiously, and she had to repress a smile.

"They aren't corned beef, Ron, so unless you're checking for poison, tuck in. And I could ask you the same question. Any particular reason you've spent the evening tossing and turning in your old room?" Setting a mug of tea before him, Molly watched as her son's ears turned a vibrant shade of red. She wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her, and gazed at him over her mug of tea, patiently waiting for his response.

Her eyes followed his long fingers as they pushed his hair off his forehead, and she had to bite her tongue from commenting on the length of his ginger hair. Instead, she watched her son heave a bodily sigh and look at her with his enormous blue eyes.

"You know, it's not fair that mums' get to read their children's moods so easily. Puts us nippers at a right disadvantage." he flashed a half-hearted grin at her, but Molly's steady gaze showed that she would not be deterred from discussing the topic at hand. She knew exactly what had her son's eyes so bloodshot and sent his thoughts chasing after one another in the night—but she also knew it was his topic to bring up.

One by one she watched the layers of Ron's careful mask peel back. The cheery, joking attitude he affected disappeared slowly until his Auror training abandoned him, and he became a son seeking his mother's reassurance.

"Ah, Mum, I'm just so . . . It's just that Hermione. I've missed her so much and now that she's coming back. . . and what do I do if she says she won't . . ." Molly watched her son cut off the last statement, and swallow in an attempt to clear the lump in his throat. "It's been a year, what do I do if . . . How am I supposed to cope if she decides that I'm not the. . ." A growl of frustration stopped him short, and he practically slammed his head on the table.

Molly wasn't in the least surprised that Ron's thoughts were occupied by the young witch who had captured his heart. She had expected to have this conversation now that Hermione had written to accept Ron's invitation to stay at the Burrow for the Christmas Holidays, and was surprised that it was the day before Christmas Eve, the very night before her arrival that he finally confessed his worries to someone. She was shocked that it wasn't Harry, but infinitely touched that he still trusted her enough to confide these fears to her. She had thought he had long since grown past needing his mother and it was rewarding to find out this was not the case.

"Ron, dear, look at me." His blue eyes lifted to find hers, and she reached across the table to straighten his hair as she had when he was younger. Ah, when had timed robbed her of her baby and replaced him with the handsome young man before her? Taking a deep breath, she chose her next words carefully.

"I've watched you love this girl, no this woman, since you were eleven and wrote home to Ginny about the night with the troll. The two of you grew up together at that school and fell in love in a time when the world was in a very dark place. And what the two of you have together is a beautiful thing, and neither time nor distance is going to diminish her place in your heart, nor yours in hers. I know that letting her go on this assignment was harder than you let on; I know that you hate letting her out of your sight for even a brief period of time, and so does she. If you don't think she appreciated what you did for her by letting you go, then perhaps I ought to show you something."

Ron's eyebrows shot up as he watched his mother cross over to the cupboard nearest the door. From one of its drawers she removed a stack of parchments wrapped in a sky blue ribbon. As Molly came back to the table, he caught the familiar smell of the parchment that Hermione favored. A questioning look crossed his face as Molly undid the ribbon and slid a single parchment of the stack across the table to her son. His fingers touched the pages almost reverently as he heard his mother laugh.

"You didn't think that you were the only one that she was writing to, did you? That girl has spent so much time in our household that I would be offended if she didn't send me an owl at least every now and again," she chuckled quietly to herself as Ron read through the missive she had read herself many times.

She knew what it contained; updates on Hermione's life working as a member of the team designated to formulate the latest advances in International Wizarding Law, questions into life back at the Burrow, and the telling admissions into how much she missed and loved Molly's youngest son. Hermione was honest in all of her missives, and while Molly only let Ron see this one, she saw him sense out the common themes. His eyes grew big as he read Hermione's words, finding in them another source of confirmation that she did truly love him.

Molly had purposefully given him the one where Hermione told her some of the same fears he had just voiced on this cold December night. As she watched, a determined look crossed her baby boy's visage.

No, she could not think of him that way anymore, Ron had long since stopped being the baby boy of the family and had grown into one of the most dependable young men she had ever known. She nodded to his mumbled words of thanks as she accepted the letter and retied the bow. She was crossing to the cupboard to put them away when his voice stopped her.

"Mum, d'you think, what I mean is . . . which jewelry store do you think is best?" Tears of joy welled into Molly's eyes as she stopped and turned back to Ron.

"Why are you asking, dear?"

"Because I don't want to spend another moment of my life without her." The sentence was the most confident Molly had heard Ron on the subject. She beamed at him, and then suddenly his insecurities came rushing back. "But I don't know anything about . . . that stuff and what if I buy the wrong size and what. . ."

The flush that crept up Ron's face only made him look more endearing, and Molly blinked quickly to keep herself from crying and making him think she was upset. She set the letters down on the table, and tapped her son's shoulder lightly, asking him to wait where he was for a moment.

She had walked this path many times before, down the hall to the spare linen closet. It seemed so strange to be headed there with a purpose now, rather than simply visiting the items she had stored there.

Her boys had never understood the need for this particular closet, given that all of the linens were shoved into closets on the other floors of the Burrow. This one, however, was special. This closet, much like the kitchen, was the domain of Molly Weasley alone. It contained hopes for the future, and remembrances of the past. A single tear caressed her cheek as she unfolded an old sweater of Fred's, revealing the secret she had stashed there years ago. Running her hands along the familiar lines of the hidden treasure, she assured herself that now was the correct time to present this to her youngest son. She swallowed past the lump in her throat at the prospect of how grown up this made him, and walked the familiar route back to her kitchen.

As Molly returned, she couldn't help but notice the serene expression on her son's face. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, cautiously bringing him from his reverie. He blinked at her and she placed a small wooden box in his hand, nodding for him to open it.

Inside was a beautiful ring, wrought with Celtic knot-work. The setting held a large sapphire that was offset by two smaller princess-cut diamonds. Ron gasped to look down at it, and Molly had to steady the back of his chair to keep him from clattering to the ground.

"The tiara wasn't the only thing your Great-Aunt owned, you know. After she saw you and Hermione at the wedding, she made me promise to keep this aside should you ever, how did she put it…be man enough to go after what you so obviously wanted." Eyes crinkling in a huge grin, Molly found she had to continually blink to keep her vision clear. Her son sat, turning the ring delicately over and over in his hands. He gazed up at his mother and words of thanks came tumbling from his mouth, and she patted his shoulder in acceptance.

As she reached to clear the empty plate from the table, she heard the lid of the box close and Ron groan. She turned in worry, seeing her son go a grayish white.

"Dear, Ronald, whatever is the matter? Don't you like it? You don't have to—"

"No, Mum, it's not that," he interrupted in a shaky voice, "The ring is perfect, better than anything I could have hoped to give her. It's just, now I've got to think of how to actually ask her!"

Beaming, Molly patted his cheek affectionately, "Oh, I am sure you'll think of something. As for me, dear, I'm off to bed, and you should get some rest too—sleep tight!"

As she turned the corner and headed up the stairs to her room, Molly let the tears of pure happiness trail down her face, leaving her son the sanctuary of the kitchen that would soon become the staging ground for the coming week's events. She could have used the place to think a bit longer, but was happy to loan it to her Ron. After all, it wasn't everyday that a man had to decide how to propose to the most brilliant witch of his generation.

Ron stared blankly at the box in his hands as his mother left the kitchen. His hands ran across the lacquered panels, eyes glazed with a lack of focus. Had George or Percy been able to witness Ron's dumbstruck face at this moment, he knew full well they would be merciless in their goodhearted teasing. It would have inevitably led to a good natured fight between the brothers, and the matter would be brushed off without further comment.

Not so this early morning, though. For this early morning his mother had given Ron a precious gift—the sanctuary of her kitchen. It was full of the comfort that poured off of Molly Weasley, and Ron knew that the familiarity of his surroundings contributed to the fact that he was still breathing calmly. Had he been anywhere else when he had finally made the decision to ask Hermione to marry him, he had no doubt he would have drowned his fears in panic and Firewhiskey. After all, what man wouldn't want a little liquid courage when contemplating proposing to the woman he'd loved since they were children?

Groaning to himself once more at the daunting task ahead of him, Ron pulled the plate of sandwiches closer. He grabbed the nearest one and took comfort in his mother's simple gesture of love and understanding. With the hand not holding his sandwich, he pushed the hair from his eyes and took a deep breath. Years of practice allowed him to tackle the situation with his Auror training.

Step One: Analyze the strength of his current position.

The familiar warmth of the kitchen seeped into him, as well as a new sensation. It became clear to Ron why his mother so often chose to center her late night thoughts in the peace of this place. And she had given space to him to work out his feelings. There was no ribbing as there would have been from George, no falsely sage and academic advice from the irrepressible Percy, no squeals of excitement like from Ginny, just silent acceptance and support. It was exactly what he needed in the face of this life changing decision.

Step Two: Analyze the moments leading up to the confrontation.

Well, maybe "confrontation" wasn't the right word for proposing to Hermione, though Ron had to admit the prospect terrified him more than anything he'd faced in the field so far. Shaking his head against the temptation to panic, Ron looked back on the past few weeks.

Since Hermione had left for her assignment a year ago, Ron had made a pointed effort to maintain steady contact with her. But in recent weeks, the owls had gone from being once or twice a week to being once or twice a day. Like his mother, he had his own collection of letters written in Hermione's neat handwriting—though his were stuffed rather messily in one of his desk drawers. Whenever he was having a particularly awful day at work he would select one at random and be comforted by the familiarity of her words.

It had been after reading one of her more touching letters one day that he had made his decision to invite her home for Christmas. It was a short letter, jotted down on just one sheet of parchment. The letter also happened to be Ron's favorite, and he had every line memorized. Grinning, he ran through the hurriedly written text in his mind. . .

Ron,

Here I am, meeting with some of the most important members of my field and I (now don't be too shocked) can't keep my focus on the task at hand! I keep having to hide smiles behind lifted notebooks as I think about your last letter. I can't believe Ginny actually did that! Poor Harry!

You really can't know how much your letters mean to me. I feel a little less homesick every time Pig pecks impatiently at my window.

I'll be back in Britain shortly before Christmas. I really do hope we get the chance to spend some time with one another.

Love,

Hermione

He'd read the letter while sitting at his desk at the Ministry, and hadn't thought anything of asking her to spend Christmas with him. No, Ron hadn't thought anything of it—until Pig had already sailed out of the window, hooting excitedly at the task of flying to the witch who gave him so many treats. Once Pig was gone, however, the nervousness set in. When she sent the response saying she couldn't wait to visit and had signed with "Love Always, Hermione" the nervousness multiplied ten thousand fold.

Ron knew he was being foolish by allowing his heart to flutter like it did whenever he thought of the letter. After all, Hermione signed her letters to Ginny and to Harry with "love." That didn't stop him from noticing that her letters to everyone else were far less frequent, or that the tenor of her letters to him was generally more personal, more open. It gave him hope that she might just love him as much as he loved her.

That had been a week ago, and now he was sitting in his mother's kitchen in the early morning hours of her arrival day. Sipping his tea, Ron allowed his brain to move forward.

Step Three: Given Step One and Step Two, Formulate a Plan of Attack and keep the end goal firmly in mind!

Well, the "plan of attack" was the one thing he didn't have at the ready. His mother had provided the ring, now he had to figure out to give it to her. While Ron was tempted to merely hand it to her with a pleading look in his eye, he knew that wouldn't cut it. Hermione deserved something special from this moment, and he desperately wanted to give it to her. She was coming back to them all for the first time in a year, and if he was going to propose then it should be something worth of the occasion. As he contemplated all the things that were to happen on this particular Christmas Eve, an idea popped into his head.

Ron burst into a grin, and allowed his brain to sort out the details. He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed; more at ease with his thoughts than he'd been the whole week of anticipating her arrival. He had a path, a goal, and he always did better when there was a thought of a reward at the end, and this would be the sweetest reward of them all—Hermione, finally his.

A/N This is my first fan fiction, and I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed being pounced upon by the idea. MAJOR thanks go to hgfan1111, the best beta a new author could ask for—she was constructively critical and a huge part of my decision to be brave enough to submit this!