Chapter 8

Hermione had a hard time getting to sleep that night — her mind was simply buzzing as she relived every glance, every word, that had passed between her and Ron that evening. Despite Dean's assurances, she couldn't help but second-guess herself: Had she imagined the frisson of warmth she felt when Ron touched her hand? Was the fascination entirely one-sided?

Sleep did eventually claim her, but her dreams were full of a tall, blue-eyed, red-headed man, his firm, strong hand wrapped around hers, and the slow rhythm that moved them around the dance floor.

She awakened the next morning feeling energized despite her restless sleep. After making herself a cup of tea and a scrambled egg, she tuned in her favorite Sunday morning program on BBC Radio 3 and busied herself with tidying up the flat. Not that it needed much tidying. She looked around and tried to see the space through Ron's eyes, and had to admit that she felt a little swell of pride at what she'd done with the place. It was quite neglected when she'd moved in — which was very much why she could afford it in such a posh community as Sevenoaks on a schoolteacher's salary — but she had spent many months painting, wallpapering, installing the bookshelves that she needed for her extensive collection, stripping the woodwork and turning it into a cozy spot that she very much enjoyed coming home to each day. A flat that had once been dark and dingy was now fresh and light. She wondered what Ron would think of it.

Just then, the telephone rang, and Hermione stepped into her little galley kitchen to answer it.

"Happy Sunday, darling."

"And to you, Mum! How are you?"

"Quite well, quite well indeed. So glad it's finally May and the weather is starting to warm up. Your father and I just took a nice hike down to Knole Park and back. My feet hurt but it was worth it."

Hermione laughed. "I have a few errands to run so I'll get a chance to get some fresh air too soon enough. So, what's up?"

"Well, we were just wondering if you might care to join us for dinner tonight. I think your father might light the barbecue."

"Oh, well, normally I'd love to, but—"

"John Foley is back from his surgical internship in Paris, and we thought perhaps we might invite him and his parents by as well."

"Mum, when are you going to stop trying to fix me up with John Foley?" Hermione said.

"Fix you up? Nonsense. Though he is a nice young man with a good career ahead of him. You could do worse, darling."

"You're right — John is a perfectly nice bloke. I'm just not interested, all right?"

"Fine, fine. We'll see the Foleys another time. So, what time should we expect you?"

"Mum, I was about to explain that I'd love to come over but, as it happens, I have plans this evening."

"Plans? On a Sunday night?"

"Well, yes, I'm sorry. But thanks so much for the invitation."

"May I ask what your plans might be?"

"Well, seeing as you just asked," Hermione said with a smirk, "I'm going out with some friends of Dean's."

A long pause followed.

"Friends of Dean's," Hermione's mum said slowly.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Yes, Mum, that's what I said."

Hermione's mum cleared her throat. "They're not — they're not that sort of friends, are they? From that school of his?"

"You know very well what sort of friends they are, Mum — they're graduates of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Hermione said, trying her best to keep her annoyance in check.

"How on Earth — when on Earth — did you meet these people," her mother said, her voice dripping with disdain.

"I met them last night, Mum. I finally took Dean up on his invitation to go to one of their reunions, and I'm very glad I did. They were all incredibly friendly, and it was nice to spend some time, for once in my life, with people who are like me."

"They're not like you, and you're not like them, Hermione," her mother snapped. "We've gone over this before."

Hermione sighed. "Yes, yes we have, mother, and it would seem that we will go over it again and again in the future. If you could only try to open your mind to the idea that—"

"Open my mind? To what? This, this, ability you have is just that — an ability. It doesn't mean you have to associate yourself with … well, it just makes me dreadfully uncomfortable, darling. You don't know these people. You don't know what sorts of odd rituals and practices they might indulge in, what their inclinations might be—"

"Mum, you've known Dean for as long as I have and he's 'one of these people,' as you put it. And he's perfectly lovely."

"Well, he got that inclination, or whatever you might call it, from his father who abandoned him and ran off lord only knows where. If that's what those people do—"

"Mum, that's enough. Don't forget, I'm one of 'those people,' too, you know."

Hermione's mum sighed loudly. "We never seem to be able to speak reasonably on this subject, do we?"

"No, indeed, we don't."

"I suppose this means I can't talk you out of spending time with Dean's friends this evening."

"You most certainly cannot."

"I don't understand it, darling. You have nothing in common with this people. They're not—"

"That's simply not true, Mum. Just last night I spent a good half an hour talking with a bloke named Harry — we talked about teaching. I teach world history, he teaches defensive magic. We really connected, simply talking about our students and how best to break down complicated subjects so that they can be readily understood, and how satisfying it is to see someone's face light up when they really, really get it, and I'm sorry, Mum, but our experiences were totally similar. He loves teaching what he knows to young minds, and so do I. We have loads in common."

"If you say so, darling."

"Mum, honestly! Harry is an amazing person, someone Dean really admires. And I met his fiancee Ginny, who is a professional athlete, Mum, as well as her brother Ron, who is a member of a very illustrious police force that's dedicated to protecting magical and non-magical people from the forces of evil. These are good people, Mum. I'm so tired of your attitude."

Hermione's mum let out another long sigh. "Well, all right. You win — for now. But we do hope to see you soon. It's been too long."

"It has, Mum, and I'm sorry if I've been argumentative. It's just that, well, it hurts to hear you say such things. These are people who could have been my friends if only I'd had the chance to pursue a magical education. I wish you could just trust my judgment on this."

"I'll never understand it," her mum said sadly. "You're so bright, so lovely, so well-educated. Why you'd want to waste your energy on—"

"Mum!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Hermione's mum said hurriedly. "Forgive me. I'll give your father your regrets and we'll talk again soon, all right?"

"All right, Mum," Hermione said, adding with emphasis: "I love you, you know."

"I love you too, darling. Please don't forget that."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione hung up the phone in a state of sad frustration. She wondered if she would ever be able to make her parents — particularly her mum — understand her point of view on the magical world. They were so fearful of the unknown — which was understandabe, in a way. And yet, it hurt her so much to think that that very fear, that mistrust, was what stood between her and a world that she might have been a part of. She wondered what her parents would think Ron and shuddered involuntarily at the thought. It was far too early to worry about such things, anyway, or so she told herself. Before she could begin to worry about how her parents might take to Ron, she first had to determine how she herself felt about him. Though she realized, with a sly grin, that she was already inclined to like him very much indeed.

Ron, for his part, awoke abruptly and grabbed the clock at his bedside in a panic. He'd been awake until the wee hours, tossing and turning, and he wasn't quite sure when he'd finally fallen asleep. He was relieved to see, however, that it was only 10 o'clock. In his panic, he'd worried that he might have somehow slept past noon, and there was much to do to be ready to Disapparate to Hermione's by 2:30.

He whistled for Pig. "Hang on, mate," he said as Pig squeaked and fluttered about the windowsill. Pulling a piece of parchment from the top drawer of his desk, Ron scribbled out a note:

Hey, Dean —

Quick question for you: Do you happen to know Hermione's favorite flower? And don't worry, mate, my intentions are good.

Ron.

Rolling up the parchment, he whistled for Pig again and tied the parchment about his leg. "Take this to Dean Thomas as quick as you can, all right?" he said and watched as Pig fluttered his way into the distance.

After showering and taking special care to give himself a close shave, Ron opened the door to his wardrobe and gave more thought than he had ever given in his life to what he ought to wear. Typically, when he went to a Holyhead Harpies game, he'd haul out a mangy old hoodie that happened to be the exact shade of deep green that matched the Harpies' jerseys. But this somehow didn't seem quite good enough for a first date. Wait, was this a first date? After all, it was Ginny who'd done the inviting, not him. Regardless, he wanted to look his best, and somehow he knew a tattered old hoodie wasn't going to cut it.

"Am I a wizard or aren't I?" he muttered to himself with a grin, and cast his eye at one of his favorite navy blue V-neck jumper.

An hour later — while sporting a V-neck jumper in a newly minted Holyhead green, he was washing up his breakfast dishes and otherwise sussing out whether the house was in need of some tidying. In his heart of hearts, he was pretty certain there was no way in hell that Hermione would wind up here on this particular evening, but he didn't want to leave anything to chance. He Levitated the pile of laundry that had been sitting on his sofa for the past week and moved it upstairs to the master bedroom. A few more tidying charms later and he was satisfied that the house was in decent enough shape that he wouldn't be embarrassed if, by the wildest of chances, he wound up playing host there later that evening.

Just then, Pig flew in through in through the kitchen window and bobbed and weaved through he house until he found Ron in the lounge, reading the Sunday Prophet by the hearth, where he circled his head hooting wildly.

"Slow down, you knuckle-headed bird," Ron said as he reached up and snatched Pig from mid-air. "For Merlin's sake," he muttered, untying the note from Pig's leg before letting him go with a loving scratch to the back of his head.

Ron hurriedly unfurled the note, his heart beating faster in his chest.

Oi, Ron —

Hermione's favorite flowers above all are roses, particularly pink ones.

I know you're asking for this information with the best of intentions, my friend, and with the full knowledge that if this information eventually leads to her being hurt in any way then I will thump you into the next century, right?

Seriously though, Ron, Hermione is a lifelong friend and a very, very good girl. It looks to me like you understand how special she is, but I just want to be sure. If you're lucky enough to have her like you back, then you are a very lucky bloke indeed.

Keep me posted,

Dean.

Ron smiled at this. Good old Dean. He wasn't one to eff with, was he. He pulled out another small piece of parchment and scribbled a quick reply.

Dean,

I know precisely what you mean, and you have nothing to worry about. I'm a goner.

Ron.

He sent Pig off toward Dean's place again and returned to the Prophet whistling the tune he'd heard and loved from the previous night … something about a woman and crying … sounded vaguely Carribean. He decided he might have to ask Hermione to tell him the name of it someday.