dedication: to sunsets and falling stars, to green nail polish, to not having enough time to make dedications, to finally applying makeup, to sunsets, and to sunglasses.
disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.
notes: details, details, details. so many itty bitty nitty gritty teesy weensy details to cover. but love all around!
Sonya speaks: i hate being rushed. i hate packing & unpacking & living out of a bag, even more when i'm being rushed to do all of it. but i love everyone else.
Selene squeaks: my nails are the color of kermit the frog. you jelly? =.=; I can't believe I just said "jelly" and not in context to the preservative that is applied to toast.
To be honest, Hermione wasn't sure how these things sprang up on her. A large portion of her life had revolved around trying to catch a pale snake-human hybrid with seven mutilated parts of one soul. Seven years of her life, to be exact. It was after the war was over that she thought, finally, things would begin to die down. The Death Eaters were rounded up and dealt punishment as was seen fit by the new members of the Ministry, and she went back to Hogwarts to finish her final year.
But after that, things had settled. She now had a steady job at the Ministry of Magic...and things were as normal as they'd ever been.
But with the appearance of this ring on her finger...she wasn't sure how long that small interlude of normalcy would last.
As she blinked, staring at the gold and silver and huge diamond ring on her finger, she could only think of one thing: side-track Ron and Harry.
"It's...a long story. Anyways, how are you two? Hungover?"
Easily distracted, Ron began to whine. "It was horrible, 'Mione. I didn't even drink as much as the two of you," he bemoaned with a tinge of embarrassment, "and I woke up feeling like someone had gotten Merlin and all of his wacky relatives to bludgeon me on the headc with pick-axes repeatedly for hours."
Hermione stepped past the entranceway as Ron was blabbering about his pains, smoothing her dress out anxiously as she unceremoniously dropped her bag on the ground.
She could smell the evidence of tea in the air and, blocking out Ron, she followed the scent to the kitchen she was so familiar with. Spying the tea kettle on the stove, she poured herself a cup in an effort to calm her jittery nerves, and they all sat down at the simple, wooden kitchen table.
"...and I don't think I ever want to leave the house again."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ronald, leaving the house is not going to get you a hangover. Making bad decisions is going to get you a hangover."
But leaving the house, it seems, might get someone like me wrapped in someone else's bed sheets. She shook that thought aside, continuing on.
"Also, not drinking enough water after you've had copious amounts of alcohol gets you a hangover," she quipped, brining the teacup to her lips.
Ron squinted at her. "How do you know so much about hangovers?"
Hermione shot him a flat glance. "I read, Ron."
And on that note, Hermione took a large sip of her tea.
Harry, having been sitting up straight and attempting to at least listen, slid down in his seat then, his feet stretched out as he yawned widely, pushing a hand through his already perpetually messy hair.
"Long night?" Hermione asked sympathetically. She knew how that felt.
Harry mumbled some unintelligible response, and Hermione pushed the tea kettle to him. As Harry finally got the energy to sit up again and pour the tea, they settled into a comfortable silence, Hermione pouring over the Prophet about the recent news of the killing of a Greengrass family member.
"Hm. That's interesting," Hermione commented offhandedly.
Ron, who was busy pushing around the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup with a finger, looked up. "What?"
"Daphne's father was killed yesterday. You know, Daphne Greengrass? She was in our year at Hogwarts. Slytherin."
It was then that the owl came swooping through the window, dropping a piece of parchment in Harry's lap from its beak, helping itself to the owl treats that were left by the window, and swooping back out again. Harry sat up from where he'd been slumped in his chair, untying and unraveling the note before a small, satisfied smirk curled on the corners of his list.
"Well, that's a happy coincidence," Harry spoke, a spark of something from another time in his tone.
"What?" Ron demanded.
"We've got a new case. Apparently, Malfoy's suspected of killing Greengrass last night. We get to lock him up!"
Hermione dropped her teacup to the table with a clatter. Harry and Ron turned to look at her. "What?" they both said simultaneously.
"I have to go," she murmured chaotically, and then again, with more force. "I have to go." She pushed her chair backwards from the table, and it scraped loudly against the floor. Her eyes, though, were trained on the ring on her finger.
And, without thinking about what she was saying or who she was speaking to, she grabbed her bag, about to apparate quickly out of Harry's flat when the words escaped from her lips. "Merlin, I'm married to a murderer."