death do us part
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Notes:
Unbeta'd
Written for the final round of the Training Camp (QLFC)
Team: Penzance Pegai
Position: Keeper — write about Ronald Weasley
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They get married when the sun is sinking lazily into the mountains, and when the first hint of starlight is speckling itself generously across the blackening swathe of sky.
He's nervous. He tugs at the collar of his robes. It's strangling him — the robes with the spiffy collar — bloody strangling him. Sweat drenches his back. Cold sweat.
He can't even feel his lips. He wasn't this afraid when he first saw Aragog, or when he rode on the back of a dragon, or when he realised that he'd always be overshadowed by his brothers or his best friend or his (soon-to-be) wife.
His wife.
He shudders.
"Relax," Harry says, his lips barely moving.
"I can't," Ron hisses back. His shoes squeak.
The priest shoots him an odd look. Ron returns the favour. He'd never had to interact with a priest before, but Hermione's parents are Catholic, and now he feels he's interacted too much, and then he's back to feeling hot and cold and numb and just shy of puking, because he can see the woman that will soon be his wife.
Merlin, she's beautiful. It's Fourth Year all over again — Hermione, absolutely stunning, and him in robes that just aren't good enough. She's in a dress that slicks itself around every curve, hugging them until they return the favour. Her hair is free, though, and he appreciates it: he appreciates her wild halo of hair, with the simple diadem that roars class and control amidst the chaos. He appreciates her mocha skin against the white, white, white dress. He appreciates her smile, lips slicked in red, teeth glimmering, eyes bright, and the first hints of wrinkles at the edges of her eyes.
He appreciates … her.
Oh, Merlin, he's forgotten to breathe, and he sucks in a breath so quickly that dust (?) hits the back of his throat, and he coughs, loudly. A flash of darkness hits him: awkward Ron, with his fussy robes and his beautiful, intelligent (soon-to-be!) wife.
She's standing before him. Her hands — they're reaching for his — the priest is speaking — her hands are warm, and his are cold — her hands are long, willowy things; the fingers also long, and dark, like winding alleys or the aisles of a forgotten library — his are broad, square, pale — she's still smiling — he feels sick — Merlin, she's looking at him.
He can't keep up (he never could keep up with her), because he can't even listen (what is the priest saying?) but he knows when it's his turn, because Hermione squeezes his hands. The edges of her mouth are arched up. She's laughing inside, he knows. Laughing at him, because he's panicking. Even his thoughts are shrill.
It's his turn, his turn —
And this is what he says to her … this is what he says to this extraordinary woman:
"I'm — I'm not good with words. I never have been, and I don't think I ever will be. Words are yours, like you've stolen them from me. I'm not very clever, or amazing, but you are, and I think that more than makes up for it. I'm not brilliant, I'm not fancy, I'm not unusual, but you are, and that makes it okay. You are everything that I am not, and I hope I fill in some of your gaps, too — like how you squeeze the toothpaste funny. I know I can never be everything that you should have in a husband, but I will worship you, Hermione, because you are a Goddess and I — I am a mortal man." He mumbles the last few words, and mangles any chance of elegance he had.
Her eyes are brighter than before. She's crying. Ruining her makeup on her wedding day.
Ron's anxiety hitches. Is she sad? Is she realising that he really isn't good enough for her? No. She smiles, abruptly.
So wide that it looks awkward — ridiculous. Just like him. For a moment, they are equals. For a moment.
The moment passes.
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So does time. They age. She gathers wrinkles like she used to gather books (as she still gathers books), and he becomes an Auror. She works in the Ministry's legal department. It's all so typical, so expected. They wake up, and eat breakfast. They rouse their children, and clean up dishes. They dress, kiss distractedly, make off with papers and notes and everything but passion.
What had happened? he sometimes wondered.
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He used to sleep on the right side of the bed.
Nothing's right anymore.
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" — just need you to listen to me for once, Ron, just bloody listen — "
His face is red. "All I ever do is listen to you, 'Mione. I may not be as clever as you are — "
She makes a disgusted noise and shakes her head. "I don't understand why you still have this complex of yours. After all this time, I would have thought you'd realise — "
"I don't have a 'complex,'" he grinds out.
She laughs derisively. "Please, you're textbook-perfect."
"And you would know," he snaps back. "You just know everything, don't you — "
"Stop saying that," she cries out. "My intelligence isn't a weapon to be used against me! I shouldn't have to be ashamed of it just to make you feel better."
"Then stop using it against me," he shouts, and that's all they do now, isn't it, they just shout and shout and shout, like wolves on a mountain, howling out their sorrows.
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She leans her hands against the sink, suds trailing down her hand and kissing a perilously stacked dirty plate. "Ron," she whispers.
He comes up behind her and presses a kiss to her neck. "I know," he replies softly.
She sighs. She does that often, now. "It's enough."
"I know."
She snorts a little and pushes back her bushy hair. "I thought I used to know everything."
He grins a bit. She sags.
He doesn't understand how terror can feel so much like relief.
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See … the thing is … they vowed "till death do us part," and they never broke that vow. Their marriage had killed them. It had parted them. It had changed them and marked them.
And their divorce had made them equals, in a way …
Hermione bereft a husband, a frustrating Ron.
Ron bereft a wife, a know-it-all Hermione.
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So the sun sinks down, into the mountains.
So the wolves howl on.
So Ron grieves.