Chapter 9
Ron Apparated to Bradbourne Lakes in Sevenoaks at 1:45 p.m. He knew he was outlandishly early, but he had been going slowly mad for the previous hour, pacing back and forth, combing and re-combing his hair and generally working himself into a state. He knew he'd have a bit of a walk ahead of him to get from the Apparition Zone in the park to Hermione's place in Granville Road anyway, and he also reckoned that the exertion would do him some good. He was happy to finally have a real purpose beyond fretting over what to say or how to act when he eventually saw Hermione. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been so self-conscious about seeing a girl.
Besides, the Auror in him craved the extra time to scope out her neighborhood and make sure it was secure. He knew it was hardly his business to care quite so much, and yet he couldn't really stop himself from checking out the perimeter and casting the odd Dark Magic Detection spell here and there just to be sure all was well. He was relieved to find that it was.
Soon enough, he found himself in Hermione's street. A block or so away from her door, he paused to check his appearance (not to mention his breath), reassuring himself that the green jumper was holding its new, magical color well enough. Reassured that he would pass muster — or come as close to it as he possibly could, at least — he pressed onward, looking for her street number. Soon enough, he found himself standing outside her gate. It was a quaint little pile of bricks—an old, two story house that must have been converted into a two-flat quite some time ago, standing in the shade of a giant ash tree. Given that she listed herself as Flat No. 2, he reckoned hers was the upstairs unit, and his eyes trailed the ivy-covered walls upward to the bank of windows lined with butter-yellow curtains and rows of plants.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the iron gate and strolled up to the doorway, looking for and finding her name — "Granger" — written in a neat, slanted script beneath one of two doorbells. "Here goes nothing," he whispered to himself as he pressed the button.
A moment later, a nerve-rattling buzz emanated from within the hallway, and Ron quelled the urge to jump out of his skin enough that he was able to reach for the door handle and push it open without making a berk of himself. He stepped into the hallway and looked up to see Hermione leaning over the stair railing above him, her hair tumbling about her shoulders and her face.
"Hi there," she said shyly.
He swallowed against the lump in his throat and managed to say "Hi" back without his voice cracking, which he told himself was a decent start. "I'm sorry I'm a bit early," he continued.
"No problem," she replied softly. "I'm almost ready — why don't you come on up?"
The truth was, Hermione had been ready for half an hour and had spent the intervening time in a state of nervous anticipation, checking her lipstick in the mirror, rearranging her hair, brushing her teeth for the third time, reapplying her lipstick because the toothbrush had messed it up, dusting off the mantlepiece, moving a plant so that it got a bit more sun, checking her lipstick again before finally forcing herself to sit on the sofa and read — though she couldn't concentrate on the words before her. When the doorbell rang at 2:15, she fairly leapt from her seat.
As Ron climbed the stairs, she retreated to the doorway and stood waiting for him, her heart banging in her chest.
As he rounded the corner and came into view, he pulled a small bouquet of flowers from behind his back — six of the creamiest, softest-colored pink roses she had ever seen, surrounded by sprays of baby's breath, creamy white ranunculus, lily of the valley and two hydrangea blossoms of the lightest green. "Oh, they're absolutely lovely," Hermione said breathlessly, and she genuinely meant it, a smile lighting up her face as she scooped the blooms from Ron's hand.
As she lowered her face into the arrangement to take in the aroma, Ron felt that fluttering in his chest that he was beginning to think he'd never stop feeling when he looked at her — he wasn't one to notice such things usually, but the creamy pink of the roses and the pink of her blush almost matched, and with her hair down and that smile on her lips, he thought she would make a beautiful picture in that moment. He must have forgotten to say anything because soon she looked up at him from the flowers and laughed quietly, shaking him from his thoughts.
"I'll put these in water," she said, stepping back into the entryway to her flat. "Come in — and welcome."
At a loss to know what to do with his hands, he plunged them into his pockets and stepped inside, taking in the scene as Hermione entered the small kitchen to the left that opened up on to a tiny dining area. The lounge to his right was also small but warm and welcoming with sun streaming in from every window, the kind of space he could imagine stretching out in and reading a book. In fact, books were pretty much inescapable in this room — the hearth on one wall was lined on both sides with bookshelves. There was a window seat at the far end of the room that was surrounded by plants but also had a pile of books stacked next to some big, comfy-looking throw pillows and a light green knit throw. A cream-colored overstuffed sofa faced the hearth along with two arm chairs, and in the center of the arrangement as a round ottoman stacked with two or three more books.
Hermione re-emerged from the kitchen with the bouquet in a mercury-glass vase and set it in the center of her little dining table. "There," she said with a satisfied sigh. "That's just the spot for them." Turning the vase one way and then the other, she straightened up and looked at Ron. "Thank you," she said. "You didn't need to do that, but … well … thank you."
All Ron could do was nod. What he wanted to say was, If pink roses were all it took to make you smile like that, I'd bring you pink roses every day. Instead, he summoned the presence of mind to at least say, "You're welcome," and then, tipping his head toward the lounge, he said, "I like your place. It's cozy."
"Thank you," she said, knitting her hands together to keep them from trembling. "You should have seen it when I moved in."
"Yeah?"
"I've got before-and-after pictures here somewhere," she said, turning to the small buffet next to the dining table and pulling out a couple of photographs from the top drawer. She stepped toward him and he could smell her aroma — the same flowery, vanilla-y scent he had breathed in the previous night — and he was so enchanted by it that he nearly missed what she said next.
"This is a picture that my father took of me and my mum in the lounge on the day they helped me move in," Hermione said. Ron looked and felt some surprise that Hermione and the woman standing next to her in the image didn't move — something that always startled him about muggle photographs. He couldn't help but laugh out loud at the look on Hermione's mother's face: She was eyeing the floor with an expression of complete disgust.
"I know," Hermione said with a laugh. "I mean, look at the place. The previous occupant had painted the walls a dark brown for some reason, and there was this awful rust-colored indoor-outdoor carpeting on the floor, and the kitchen cabinets were falling apart, and the loo was a disaster. My mother actually cried when they left me here that night."
Ron laughed. "I can't really blame her."
Hermione shrugged. "Well, I saw the potential in the place. It had good bones. Plus, I could afford it, so there was that. Anyway, here's a snap my Dad took on the day I finished building those bookcases." She smiled as she held out a more recent photo of herself standing in the lounge wearing a grungy old sweatshirt and ripped up jeans, a hammer in one hand, the other hand pointing triumphantly at the newly constructed shelving. Even in that disheveled state, Ron thought, she was absolutely stunning.
"You built those yourself?" Ron said.
"Yep," she said proudly. "And for a few weeks, I had the bruises to prove it, but fortunately they're gone now."
"Well, it's amazing what you've done," Ron said, running his eyes over the room, which was a mix of warm, buttery tones of cream, pale yellow and the lightest greens. "It's a great place. It's very you."
Hermione wasn't sure what to say to this, and could feel herself smiling ridiculously at his compliment, so she busied herself with returning the photos to the buffet drawer.
Ron could tell that he'd somehow discomposed her — maybe that last remark was a little too familiar. He wasn't sure. So he decided to seek out safer conversational terrain. And besides, it was almost time to Disapparate over to Holyhead.
"I see Ginny told you the team colors," he said as Hermione turned back toward the lounge.
Hermione looked down at herself and laughed. "It's a good thing I had a green jumper somewhere deep in my wardrobe. This one used to be my Dad's, so it's a bit big on me." Indeed it was, but she looked adorable in it. She'd donned the jumper over a chambray shirt with the collar popped up in back and a pair of white jeans. "I'll have to stock up on more green and gold if I'm going to become a full-time Harpies fan."
"If you've got an orange jumper you could become a fan of my favorite team, the Chudley Cannons," Ron said.
"I'm afraid I don't have any orange," Hermione said with a grin. "Anyway, I'd offer you a drink but I know we have to get going, eh?"
Ron looked at his wristwatch. It was nearly 2:30. "Yeah, it'll only take a minute to get down there, but there should be quite a crowd tonight. The Harpies and the Tornadoes are always a big draw."
"OK, make yourself comfortable for a minute," Hermione said, gesturing toward the lounge, "and I'll be right back. Just have to pull on my boots and find the scarf I was going to wear," she said over her shoulder as she entered her bedroom. "It's not quite Harpies gold, but it's close enough."
Ron sat on the edge of the sofa and looked at the books on the ottoman in front of him — Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice," a biography of Winston Churchill and, propped open as if she had just been reading it, Thomas Malory's "Le Morte d'Arthur." He picked up the book and paged through it, pleasantly surprised to see names like Merlin and the Lady of the Lake scattered throughout the pages. These were stories he'd been taught as a kid as history, but he reckoned that they were thought of more or less as fables in the muggle world. Still, it warmed his heart for some reason to think that maybe Hermione was wanting to know more about her magical roots. He wondered if he could help her with that in some way.
Just then, she emerged from the bedroom wearing dark brown, knee-high riding boots and a small purse of a matching color strung across her chest. Around her neck she wore a long, knitted yellow scarf, which she tossed over her shoulder with a laugh. "I know, these colors look kind of silly," she said. "But when in Rome."
"Not silly at all," Ron said as he rose to his feet. "You're not going to believe some of the get-ups you're about to see down in Holyhead. Folks really try to outdo one another to see who can wear the most outrageous team gear."
"I can't wait to see it all," she said, bouncing on her toes.
"Well then, let's go."
She turned to the buffet next to her and opened the deepest drawer at the bottom, pulling out a wool blanket of dark blue blackwatch tartan. "I thought maybe it would be wise to bring this in case it gets chilly," she said, and Ron nodded his agreement.
"Oh yeah, great idea," he said. The fact was, he and Harry had always relied on Warming charms if the weather turned cold during Ginny's matches, but the possibility of bundling up beneath a blanket with Hermione was too irresistible. He took the blanket from her and draped it over his forearm, which he then raised toward the door. "Shall we?"
He opened the door and held it for her as she passed through it into the hallway, then he stood aside and waited for her to lock up the muggle way. They walked side-by-side down the stairs and he argued with himself about whether he ought to hold her hand, but he decided to play it safe and just walk on.
Hermione stopped on the front stoop to lock the outer door, and Ron proceeded down the two steps to the sidewalk and turned to look up at her. When she finished locking up, she took one step down and then paused, surprised to find that they were just about at eye-level to one another, and she noticed that his copper-colored hair, shimmering in the dappled sunlight filtering through the ash tree, contrasted becomingly with his kelly green jumper. He was stunning, and she was gripped with a sudden and almost frightening urge to kiss him in that moment, but she tamped that impulse down. Instead, she stepped down to the sidewalk and, tipping her face downward shyly, she led him to the spot behind the house where Dean had always Disapparated with her. Disapparating had seemed like such advanced magic to her, she doubted she would ever be able to manage it herself. She usually had to force herself to trust Dean enough to Side-Along with him without fretting about it, but she felt no such fear or uncertainty with Ron. Maybe that was just because she'd Side-Alonged enough times now that she was over her trepidation, but she liked to think it was also because there was something about Ron that made her feel safe. Regardless, she felt a shimmer of warmth run through her body again when he silently held out his hand and she placed hers in his.
"Ready?" he said. He knew she was, but in truth he was merely biding his time, enjoying the feel of their joined hands. He wondered if she felt it, too, that surge of warmth that happened whenever he touched her. He thought it would be weird to ask her about it. Instead, he rubbed the back of her hand gently with his thumb and waited for her answer.
A moment later, she nodded, and he turned on the spot, carrying them away from Sevenoaks.
