Beautiful

Disclaimer: The characters and plot belong to Jo, but the words belong to me.

Summary: Introspection, scarlet dresses, and awkward confessions abound. R/Hr oneshot

A/N: Ok, everyone and their mom has used Bill's wedding as a fanfic setting, but I couldn't help myself.

I'd love reviews. Please? If you need incentive, I have a very anno--um, I mean, adorable eleven-year-old sister that I'd be happy to give away.

ooo

Hermione has never been beautiful.

This thought does not unduly bother her, she has always known, and never cared. There was more to her, she would assure herself. She had substance, she had brains. She could behave sensibly while others fell to pieces, could reason her way out of any and all situations. She has never wanted to be someone else, to be like those girls with perfect figures, who giggle at anything and talk about makeup in their spare time.

She has never wanted to be Lavender.

Hermione's happy that the tart dumped him. She's happy he's back to being ever-insensitive, loveably thick, freckled Ron with his ginger hair and his laughing eyes. The universe has shifted back to something she can depend on, some unspoken pact sealing itself in Lavender's perfumed wake.

They're leaving, she and Harry and Ron. They're going to fight evil, to vanquish villains, win wars, skip school. They've a job to do, a bloody, unthinkably horrible job, and she wonders if they'll survive. Now at the Burrow on the eve of Bill's wedding, things seem somehow happier, freer. Mrs. Weasley is laughing again, bustling around to finish the feast. The twins are pulling their pranks and tearing the mickey out of Charlie for no reason in particular (he's threatening to feed them to a dragon)—Fred and George don't appear to be entirely sure he's joking. Everybody has a smile on their face, everybody is chattering excitedly about the dancing and the food, and Bill and Fleur are looking at each other as though they're the only two people on earth, their cheeks red and their smiles small and secret.

Hermione is the only one who stays quiet, the only one who hides in the room she shares with Ginny and Gabrielle to mull over books on how to defeat evil, shying away from the mention of dancing and dresses. She remembers the last time she got prettied up, thinking perhaps it would change the way he looked at her, perhaps she would prove something. Hermione, you're a girl!

Yes, Ron. Well spotted.

She dreads this now. Wonders why she's even going to Bill's wedding when she barely knows him. Considers pretending to be ill, explores the idea of refusing to attend. But no—that is unfair to Bill, even Fleur (who she never did care for). And besides, when is she going to get the chance to dance at a party anytime soon after this? Hermione Granger is no fool, and besides, Ginny would see through any story she tells. Hermione has never been able to lie very well, either.

Her dress isn't blue—no, this time, it's scarlet. She's always loved the color, even before she knew she was Gryffindor. As Ginny grumblingly stuff herself into a poofy Fleur-approved gold dress, Hermione stares reluctantly at her own gown. Ginny bought it for her, mostly because Hermione was saying she'd just go to the wedding in her school skirt and blouse, and she's never worn anything like it before. It's certainly not what she would have picked for herself—no straps, a full skirt, and a bit too tight for her liking. She thinks her skin will be too pale in contrast, that she'll trip on the petticoat and tear it, but most of all, she worries that she'll look too out of place. She has never bothered with her appearance, and why should she pretend now? She cared about things like that when she was fourteen, but three years and a Dark Lord's revival later, she knows there are far more important things.

And to be honest, she's scared Ron still won't see.

Ginny almost forces her into the dress, and refuses to let her bother with any hair potions.

"Your hair is part of you," Ginny tells her. "Your hair is wild and frizzy, and nothing is going to change that. Leave it as it is and be happy you've got curls like those." Ginny fingers her own straight red hair a bit jealously, and then turns Hermione to the mirror. "Look at yourself, Hermione. He'll never know what's hit him." Hermione's cheeks glow as red as the dress at this; she has never outright told Ginny how she feels about her brother. It seems strange that Ginny knows, but then again, everybody knows…except, of course, Ron.

"I'm not sure about this," she says, automatically flattening her hair with her left hand. "I'm too…I look too…"

"Stop fretting," Ginny said sternly. "Your future brother-in-law is getting married, and you're going to be the most incredible looking girl at the reception." Her gaze softens. "For once in your life, Hermione, have fun. Ok?"

She doesn't even bother to admonish Ginny about the 'future brother-in-law' comment, but nods silently, and follows Ginny as she leaves the room. As they walk down the stairs together, they can hear the beginnings of the party: the bustling footsteps, Fleur's mother shouting something in French, and somebody laughing loudly.

"Oh, girls!" Mrs. Weasley looks a bit teary when she sees them. "You both look so lovely!" Ginny thrusts Hermione forward.

"Look at Hermione, Mum. I got her into something flattering!"

"Ginny, don't tease," Mrs. Weasley chides, but her eyes are a bit wide as she looks Hermione up and down, surprise still not all together faded.

"Mrs. Weasley, I've finished with setting the tables. Do you need me to do anything—" Harry is coming into the kitchen, but stops short, his eyes immediately fixing on Ginny, who seems to have become an eleven-year-old with her elbow in the butter dish again as her cheeks glow red and she clumsily excuses herself. Harry shakes his head quickly as though clearing it, and then spots Hermione. "Her—Hermione…good Merlin." Her face turns red as his jaw drops and the color drains from his face. She didn't know she was this hideous. "This is like the Yule Ball times about infinity," he tells her in a shocked sort of voice. "Bloody hell, you clean up nice." Her humiliation dims a bit. At least he's being kind.

"So do you, Harry," she tells her 'brother' fondly, kissing him on the cheek. "Your robes look very nice on you."

"Erm, thanks." He too is embarrassed, neither of them are used to commenting on appearances. "Hermione," he says in a quieter voice, "you're going to kill Ron."

"What?" She stares at Harry, slightly horrified.

"I'm completley serious. He's going to take one look at you and his heart will give out," Harry continues, grinning evilly at her. "This is cruel, you know. Illegal, more like."

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not," Hermione says, looking towards the ceiling in exasperation. "But thank you, I suppose." She narrows her eyes mid-roll. "And I sincerely doubt Ron's going to be having heart attacks any time soon."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," says a voice from behind them.

"Yeah, tell her how he's up fiddling over his tie in his room, George," says a second one. "He's so nervous, it's a wonder he hasn't already keeled over." Hermione and Harry turn to see Fred and George coming down the stairs, both wearing bright purple dress robes and gigantic orchid boutonnières that Hermione suspects will shoot something unpleasant at you if you get too close.

"I know," Harry agrees. "You'd think he was the one getting married!" All three males laugh their heads off, and Mrs. Weasley (who has long since returned to her post at the oven) even giggles along.

"Oh, stop it," Hermione says, getting tired of all their teasing. Ron may fancy her a bit—even she is not so oblivious she would miss the reddening of his ears when she accidentally brushes her hand against his—but he's not so infatuated he's fretting over his appearance for her sake. Even Hermione's wishful thinking doesn't stretch that far. "You're all being…silly!"

"Silly!" George mocks in a highly annoying tone of voice. "Well, don't shoot the messengers, Hermy. We can't help it our little brother's gone all soft."

"Don't call me Hermy," Hermione says irritably, but they're paying her no mind—they've already turned their attention to little Gabrielle, who is eyeing the ridiculous flowers on their lapels with interest.

"You know, Hermione," Harry remarks, leaning against the wall, "he isn't going to wait much longer."

"Who isn't going to wait much longer for what?"

"To tell you."

"Who? Tell me what?"

Harry stares at her.

"Hermione, you're the brightest, most sensible witch I've ever met. Are you telling me you're choosing now to be thick?"

"You're not making any sense, Harry!" Hermione says, annoyed. "Stop being so cryptic!"

"Cryptic," Harry repeats, eyeing her as though he's never seen her before. "Er, right, Hermione. You know, I think I'm going to go check on Ron. See how he's getting on."

"Harry! Wait! What were you—" But he has already taken the stairs three at a time, and is out of sight and, presumably, ear shot. Hermione huffs out of the kitchen, and Mrs. Weasley smiles quietly to herself as she stirs cinnamon into her pumpkin stew.

ooo

Fleur looks stunning, of course, and Bill is handsome even with his scars and bad leg. Hermione thinks they're a sweet couple, though Fleur is a bit too much for her. The ceremony is brief and lovely, and before Hermione knows it she's throwing rice with the rest of them and the party is beginning.

She's made it a point to avoid Ron, and she hasn't even caught a glimpse of him yet; every time she sees Harry she darts off somewhere else, certain Ron isn't far behind. She eats dinner by herself in the garden, sitting on a stone bench that's next to a solitary, flickering taper and staring absentmindedly off into space. She knows she should be enjoying herself, knows she should be dancing and laughing, but she can't work up the enthusiasm. It feels wrong to laugh and ignore the war when people have died—are dying. And to be honest, she doesn't want this to be a repeat of the Yule Ball, doesn't want to see Ron's reproachful glares or remember how they fought that night. Of all their rows, even the thing with the birds, that one hurts her the most.

She had tried so hard for him, she really had.

"Hermione?" She jumps, startled, her plate crashing to the ground.

"Wha—oh. Oh, hi, Ron. I'm sorry you just…well, you startled me."

"I couldn't tell," he says, grinning. "Here, let me help you with that." He bends down and picks up her empty plate, setting it on the edge of the bench. Then, he too nervously takes a seat, and she can't help but think of how wonderful he looks tonight. His hair is a bit windswept, his robes the same cobalt color as his eyes, and he looks…he looks grown up. It's strange to see lanky, boyish Ron look so much like a man, but there's no other way to describe it. His broad shoulders stretch the material of the robes, his hands are large and callused, and his already long legs seem even longer as he stretches them out before him. "You've been avoiding me," he says abruptly. "Why have you done that?" His eyes meet hers.

"I don't really know, to be honest," Hermione admits, not bothering to deny what they both know. "I'm not angry, if that's what you think."

"I didn't. It's just…I didn't say anything stupid, did I? Something that would hurt your feelings?"

"Not recently."

"Gee." He sighs wearily. "That makes me feel a bloody hell of a lot better."

"I was thinking back to the Yule Ball," she explains a bit apologetically. "I just…the last time I…"

"I'm sorry about that," he says quietly. "But I was just fourteen. You know how hormones are." He meets her eyes and grins.

"Hormones?" She stares at him, surprised. There is a beat of silence, and then for no particular reason at all, they both burst out laughing.

"You didn't think I'd be like that tonight," Ron manages after most of the hysteria has subsided. "Did you?"

"Well…" Hermione seems to be blushing far more often than she would like, lately. "…maybe." Ron snorts.

"Look, Hermione, I'm not about to waste my last night of fun making both of us miserable. Don't worry, I'll behave." He jumps to his feet confidently, pulling her with him. He holds her at arm's length to take a proper look at her for the first time, and Hermione sees his confidence begin to dwindle, sees his ears already flushing the familiar crimson. They can hear the music from the yard drifting towards them, and Hermione has the strange urge to run screaming from the garden; at the same time she's unable to move, doesn't want to be able to move

"What is it, Ron?" she asks him, her voice small and uncertain. Perhaps she doesn't look as nice as people have said, perhaps she's misinterpreted his feelings, however few of them he may have.

"You look pretty," Ron tells her suddenly, his face as red as his ears. He rubs a hand sheepishly on the back of his neck. "Erm, I mean, you look really pretty," he affirms. "No, wait, that's not right. You look…you look…" He coughs. "Um, what I meant to say was…bloody hell I've never done this before, sorry—oh, sod it all. D'you want to dance?"

"Dance?" Hermione has only followed about half of what Ron's said, and she can hardly believe her ears. "Here?"

"I wasted an opportunity three years ago," he says, grinning. "C'mon, what do you say?"

"I'd love to," she agrees, smiling. He takes her hand nervously and draws her towards him, and for a few moments, they're quiet as they listen to the music from the party, the laughter and one of the twins whooping. "Are you scared?" Hermione whispers to him finally. He doesn't have to ask what she's talking about.

"Yeah," he says gruffly. "I am. Are you?"

"More than I can say."

"I wish I could tell you it's all going to be ok. I wish I could promise you I—um, and Harry—won't let anything happen to you." He meets her gaze. "I can't do that though, can I?"

"Ron Weasley doesn't break promises," she murmurs, smiling. "I know." Ron spins her around as the music swells, then pulls her back towards him, accidentally trodding on her foot. "Ouch!"

"Sorry!" Ron sounds more sheepish than ever. "Well, I don't break promises, but I've been known to break toes." Hermione giggles.

"My toes are fine," she assures him

"Glad to hear it."

They dance a bit more, and finally she asks,

"Ron, what did you like about Lavender?"

"What?" He's startled. "Where did that come from?"

"Just answer the question, please."

"Well…er, I dunno. Mostly, it was her that liked me, not the other way around."

"Ron, you were attached at the lip for a good two months. There had to be something besides her liking you there."

"Well, there was. But you won't like it."

"Why not?" Hermione demands. "What's so horrible about it?"

"Well, I didn't like her at all." Ron says this without a hint of remorse. "You're going to hate me for this, Hermione."

"Would you just tell me?" She's becoming frustrated now. What is it with boys and being so bloody hard to read?

"Well, I went out with her because…well, I wanted to…make you…jealous." He's stopped dancing now, has taken a step back, looking a bit sad. "Ginny told me you kissed Viktor, and then bugged me about not having any experience and I thought well, now was the time to get some." He moaned. "I just…I ruined it all, y'know?"

"You went out with Lavender," Hermione says, "to make me jealous."

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"What? Hermione, of course I'm sure—what are you banging on about?"

But Hermione is in tears now, and even she can't properly explain why.

"Ron," she chokes out, "why would you do something like that? Lavender—she's beautiful. She agrees with whatever you say. She would've done anything for you. And me—I'm so…so…Ron, I'm not beautiful or agreeable or anything at all like her. I read too much and don't bother with looks and I…I'm not like those girls. I don't know anything about pleasing boys or…or…" She heaves a shuddering sigh through her tears. "Anything." In attempt to steady herself, she runs the back of a hand angrily across her eyes. "I'm just Hermione, Ron."

"But don't you see," Ron says, his face quiet and calm, "Merlin, Hermione—that's why I've fallen in love with you." For a minute, it seems as though time has stopped. It feels cheesy and weird to her even as she thinks it, but it's true. For a split second, she and Ron are the only two people in the world, and all she can see are his eyes boring into hers and his slight smile, his hand reaching out for her.

"Ron?" she says when everything jolts back into reality and her mouth works again.

"Yeah?"

She takes three steps forward, puts her hands on his shoulders, and kisses him. She kisses him with all she has in her, with every part of her that loves him, that has always loved him, even if they fight like hell—even if they're both so oblivious, even if they die in this war. And he kisses her back, pulls her closer than he ever has, and somehow, she just knows.

She and Ron, they're going to be ok.

Even when they draw apart, he keeps holding her close and she presses her face to his shoulder and asks,

"Is it ok if I love you back?"

"You'd better," he tells her. "Because I've loved you since that night at the Ball, and I don't think I'm stopping any time soon." She's about to tell him more of the same when she hears something odd—something that sounds vaguely like applause. She and Ron spin around, and there's Harry, Ginny, and the twins, all looking smug and elated as they clap enthusiastically.

"What the hell?" Ron demands, his ears reddening.

"That was brilliant!" Fred proclaims. "Never have I seen the littlest brother so sincere! And Hermione, that crying fit was perfectly executed, a real show stopper!"

"That's why I've fallen in love with you!" George proclaims, doing an absurd interpretation of Ron. "You know, Ronnie, you should be on one of those Muggle soap opera things—that was absolutely disgusting."

"Stop being mean," Ginny admonishes. "They've both come to their senses, there's nothing disgusting about that." She smiles at Ron and Hermione, both of whom look mortified. "You two are adorable."

"Adorable," Ron splutters in disbelief. "What do you lot suppose you're playing at?"

"Told you he wasn't waiting much longer," Harry informs Hermione, completley ignoring Ron. "And you call yourself the brains of our operation."

"Gits," Ron says, scowling. "We were trying to snog here."

"Right, sorry about that," Fred apologizes hastily, elbowing George in the ribs. "We were just leaving. No need to get more nauseous than we already were." Hermione can see he's pleased though, and so is George, even as they yell insults over their shoulders on their way back to the party.

"We were leaving, too," Ginny says, grabbing Harry's elbow. "Stop gloating," she hisses at him, appearing to have gone out of elbow-butter mode. Hermione tries to think of how Ginny might have made that transition, and grins at the mental image. "I don't think you won, anyways," Ginny says as she and Harry walk away. "Charlie technically guessed they'd go for it at the wedding."

"But he said for sure it would be at the beginning!" Harry protests loudly. "I said Ron would drag things out forever, didn't I? I still think I get the ten galleons."

"Bets," Hermione says, turning to stare at Ron. "They were placing bets on us!"

"'Course they were," Ron replies, grinning. "But they won't win nearly as much as I have."

"George is right about that soap opera thing," Hermione teases, and Ron scowls menacingly at her.

"Don't you start too," he moans. "What about YOU? I'm just Hermione!" As they bicker amiably and head back towards the reception, Ron slips an arm around her waist and draws her close again.

And oh, there are still dark wizards to kill and adventures to come and Death Eaters to duel, Hermione knows that. There's still going to be death and war and destruction.

But with Ron's arm around her and the light so near, she feels that for an evening, perhaps she can forget everything but love.

For an evening, perhaps she can feel beautiful.

Fin