A/N: In case you haven't figured it out by now (because I've been bad at giving credit), I'm loosely weaving this fic with the timeline and backstory of MandyinKC's fics, especially for Oliver. Thanks, Mandy, for your generosity and friendship.

As you might guess when you finish this chapter, we're about to go on hiatus again. I have two more chapters completed and will then focus on finishing a Sherlock fic before coming back to write the end of Ron and Hermione's summer, so alert, alert, alert!

Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving, my American friends! For the rest of you, have a great Thursday ;)

Jean saw the bus pull away from the curb as Hugh turned into the car park. "Hermione and Ron are here," she said, watching the two familiar figures—one really, since they had their arms around each other, Hermione leaning into Ron as he shortened his stride to walk in step with her.

"Hmm."

She turned back to her husband. "Honestly, Hugh, it's been almost two months. You should be used to the idea by now."

"What do you think they're doing together all day? Having sex, that's what."

"Hermione says not," Jean said, bending forward to pick up her leather bag from beside her feet as Hugh pulled into their spot and shut off the engine.

"When was this?"

She paused, one hand on the open door handle. "Two weeks ago," she admitted.

Hugh gave her a look, then got out of the car. Jean followed, shutting her door and slinging her bag over her shoulder as he set the lock.

"She's eighteen," Jean said, "obviously in love, in a committed relationship with a boy who genuinely seems to care about her, and taking precautions. What were you doing the summer you were eighteen?"

"Living it up on the Mediterranean coast with no thought of the fathers of the girls I was seeing."

"See? I was waiting tables in Brighton by day and skinny-dipping with a twenty-four-year old tattoo artist with a motorbike and a pot habit. Trust me, it could definitely be worse."

Hugh gave her the same scowl he always did whenever she mentioned any of her previous boyfriends, but Jean ignored it in favor of smiling at her daughter and Ron as the couples approached the lift from different directions.

"Hello, love. How was your day?" To her surprise, Hermione blushed bright red and shot a quick look up at Ron, who dropped her a wink.

Oh, god.

Hugh stabbed the up button.

"Good," Hermione answered. "Did anyone throw up on you today?"

It was an old script from Hermione's childhood, when one of her preschool classmates had returned to class after his own dentist appointment and announced he threw up everywhere, and Jean latched onto it gratefully.

"No one even spit on me," she said with forced cheer. "Hugh had twins though, didn't you?" She had heard them screaming from the reception area.

"I'm about to," he muttered under his breath, obviously having picked up on the same clues she had.

The lift chimed its arrival, and Jean stepped on his foot as they entered.

The silence was painfully awkward as the doors closed and they waited what seemed a long time, until Ron realized no one had pressed the "one" button and did it himself. The lift jerked into motion.

"What's for dinner, Daddy?" Hermione asked. She had unglued herself from Ron upon getting in the lift, and now took Hugh's arm with a smile.

He didn't look down at her. "Ask your mother. She seems to know everything."

Hermione gave him a confused look before turning it on her mum. Jean frowned at her husband—don't bring Hermione into this—before saying, "What about Indian?"

"That sounds great!" Ron said.

Jean tried not to think about how he'd worked up an appetite.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "All food sounds great to you."

Hugh held the doors for them, and Hermione and Ron followed her down the hallway, then stepped aside for him to unlock the door.

"Hermione, will you order for us, please?"

"Of course, Daddy."

He followed Jean down the hall to their bedroom.

"I'm sorry," he said as soon as the door closed. "That was a cheap shot."

"Yes, it was," Jean said, setting her bag on the bed and kicking off her heels.

"It's just hard to trust Hermione's judgement after…."

A complete and total betrayal.

She softened. "I know," she said, turning to put her arms around his neck. "But you need to separate how you feel about her relationship with Ron from how you feel about her."

He sighed, resting his forehead against hers. "It's just easier to be mad at her about that than it is … the other thing."

"You shouldn't be mad at her about Ron at all. She hasn't broken any house rules."

"Yet," Hugh said darkly.

"What kind of girls did you date before me, anyway?"

()()()()

Ron sat beside Hermione at the Grangers' dining table, eating triple helpings of everything (he had skipped lunch today—not that he was complaining!) and trying to keep the shit-eating grin off his face. Their new intimacy was affecting Hermione too; she ate politely enough (and in abundance), but she'd been unusually reluctant to let go of him since they'd finally got out of bed mid-afternoon. They hadn't done more than hold hands or exchange a chaste peck in front of her parents all summer, but she'd stayed in his embrace even when they heard her parents approaching from the car park, and moved her chair closer to his before she sat down, and even now was running her bare foot over his and around his ankle. Ron kept a close eye on her left hand as he tore off another piece of naan. He didn't think she would be that bold, but she'd surprised him before.

He caught her eye for the hundredth time since they'd left the hotel. Her lips curved and her golden-brown eyes lit up, and he found himself smiling back at her without thinking about it.

"I thought steaks tomorrow night," Mr. Granger said. "Out on the deck, enjoy this fine weather."

"That sounds—" Hermione began.

"Not tomorrow night, sir. I'm taking Hermione out."

She turned to him. "You are?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"It's a surprise."

"When were you going to tell me?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Not everything has to be planned nine months in advance, Hermione."

She opened her mouth to argue, but her mother interrupted.

"Is there something special happening in nine months we should be aware of?"

"What?"

"No!" Hermione all but shouted. "Nothing special about nine months at all, right, Ron?"

He stared at her a moment, confused by her adamant attitude, until the significance of the number clicked. Why nine? Out of all the numbers, why did I have to pick that one?

"No, not at all. Just a figure of speech." He gave her parents his best "nothing to see here" smile.

Hermione nodded vigorously. Ron gave her leg a gentle kick. She was brilliant and all, but the world's worst liar. Give him Harry as co-conspirator any day.

"Hermione used to set up revising schedules for me and Harry months before exams."

"Six weeks, Ron." She huffed. "Don't exaggerate."

He smirked, pretty sure he could get away with a lot more than exaggerating today. She turned away and returned her attention to her plate, but not before Ron saw her hide a smile.

()()()()

Oliver Wood flopped onto the worn-out sofa in Percy's new bedroom. "Tell me again why you're living in a Muggle neighborhood?"

Percy moved a lamp from the floor to the top of the chest of drawers, the only other piece of furniture in the room, and joined him. "It's what was available on short notice."

Oliver turned his head, still resting against the back of the sofa. Even though they'd moved everything by hand, he couldn't be that tired; the Quidditch season had just ended, and Oliver was muscly enough Percy would disappear behind him. Probably two of me, Percy thought with a resigned sigh.

"And why the short notice, again? I thought things were going well with your family."

Percy shrugged. "Bill threw me out."

Oliver laughed. "Bill doesn't live there anymore."

Percy used his wand to summon the lunch his sister had packed for them. "Doesn't stop him being obnoxious."

"No, I reckon not." Oliver accepted a flask of pumpkin juice with a smirk—what, are we firsties again?—and bit into a sandwich without bothering to see what lay between the bread.

"How is it with your family?"

Percy took his time examining his corned beef sandwich. "Okay. A little awkward sometimes, but—" Another shrug.

Oliver nodded and, like a true mate, changed the subject. "Listen, there's something I want to ask you."

Percy raised one eyebrow.

Oliver cleared his throat and sat up. "Katie and I—we're getting married, and—"

Percy choked. "What!"

Oliver's expression shifted into the stubborn look Percy associated with being forced outside to watch Quidditch. "I've asked Katie to marry me, and she said yes."

"Well, of course she said yes, you bloody tosser, but—why now? Isn't it a bit—oh." Percy broke off as color crept into his friend's face, even as he smiled widely.

"Aye, she's pregnant. We're going to have a baby!"

Percy set his pumpkin juice and sandwich down with minimal care and thumped his obviously-thrilled friend in the shoulder. "Ollie, that's brilliant! Congratulations!"

"Cheers. We're keeping it quiet for now, until after the wedding. So don't tell anyone, all right?"

"Yes, of course. When's the big day?"

"We haven't completely decided yet. Katie wants to do it soon, before she starts to show, but whenever it is—will you be my best man?"

Percy stared at him for a moment, the shadow of Oliver's two dead brothers hovering between them.

"Of course I would—but you should ask Alex."

"Alex? But he's just a kid."

"He's old enough. And he's your brother," Percy said, as if that settled the matter.

Oliver looked doubtful.

"What does a best man do, anyway?" Percy said. Even if he'd been at Bill's wedding, the best man was always going to be Charlie.

"I dunno. Something about rings."

"I'll plan the stag night, and Alex can do the rest—all the actual wedding day stuff. All right? Come on, you know it would mean a lot to him."

"Aye, it would, at that," Oliver admitted.

Percy picked up his lunch and added the crowning touch. "And Katie will like it. I'll even let you tell her it was your idea."

()()()()

Ron led Hermione out of Town Hall Station towards the Darling Harbour waterfront, shortening his stride to make up for her slower pace in heels. There was something to be said for Muggle clothes, he thought, glancing down at her beside him. They certainly revealed more of a woman's figure than robes. Hermione was wearing a slim dress in bright blue that skimmed her curves and ended at her knees. It was sleeveless, so she wore a—well, Ron didn't know what to call it. Maybe a jumper, if you cut the front and bottom off so that it was all shoulders and sleeves. It was snug and soft and highlighted the graceful line of her collarbones, exposed above the neckline of the dress.

"This city is so beautiful at night," she sighed.

He looked round. Everything was reflected in the dark water: the tall buildings of the central business district with their white and gold windows, the white and red signal lights on boats in the harbor, the softly glowing fairy lights in the trees along the pavement. He had tried to correct Hermione the first time she used that term, reminding her of all the Muggles around, only to have her laugh and explain that's what Muggles called them too—they just ran on electricity or batteries instead of real fairies.

"I'm glad you think so since we'll be out on the water."

Hermione looked towards the wharf where he was leading her and gasped. "A dinner cruise? Really?"

"Really," Ron said, drawn up short as she stopped, then tugged on the front of his shirt to bring his face down to hers. He savored the kiss, despite the stickiness of her lipstick.

"Thank you."

"We're not even there yet."

"I don't care," Hermione said. "You planned this before yesterday, didn't you?"

He nodded and they resumed walking.

Ron gave his name to the crewman at the ramp, and they boarded and walked up the narrow spiral staircase, where they were shown to a table for two at the stern of the upper deck. The host seated Hermione, who thanked him, and Ron took his seat across from her, trying to ignore his nerves at the posh, unfamiliar atmosphere.

The sun was setting, casting a stream of golden light across the water, but the lights on the ship were dimmed, complimented by glowing candles at every table.

"This is so romantic," Hermione said again, stroking the white tablecloth and leaning forward to smell the single rose that was the table's centerpiece. "It's beautiful."

"You're beautiful. Roses and candlelight and wine, remember?" Ron said. "You deserve everything. More than I could ever give you."

Hermione's eyes welled with tears at his repetition of the words he'd said to her last summer before they left the Burrow. She reached across the table, and Ron enveloped her hands in his. So delicate, so fragile, yet they wielded such strength. She was full of contradictions, his Hermione.

"That's not true," she said. "I've always only ever wanted you, and that's never going to change. You are more than a match for me, you always have been. Why do you think I always pushed you so hard? I wanted you to see it too."

"Oh, that's what that was about?" Ron said. He'd finally cottoned on during those long autumn weeks at Shell Cottage, but it had nearly been too late. "I always thought it was because you were a swotty know-it-all."

"Well, that too." She grinned. "How long does the cruise last?"

"Two hours, then they clear up for the next tour. Why?"

It was hard to tell, given the dim light of the room and her recently acquired tan, but Ron thought she was blushing.

"I just want to make sure we have time … for us."

Definitely a blush.

"Before I have to go home."

Her parents had asked her to be home by midnight, a restriction that Hermione chaffed at, but Ron had spoken up and agreed before she could voice her protest.

He toyed with her fingers, still laced with his. "We'll have time." He gave her hands a final squeeze, then dropped them as he saw their waiter approaching.

The ordered drinks and began reading the menus he left for them.

"I can't believe I have a curfew," Hermione grumbled. "Me, after everything we've done this year. Harry would die laughing."

"The look on your face was funny," Ron said, then switched tack at the look she gave him now. "We need to keep the peace, Hermione. It was an easy way to do so."

"I suppose." She sighed and closed her menu. "No, I know agreeing was the right thing to do. I just wish I had more time with you."

Ron's heart skipped. She'd never given him quite that look before. Suddenly two hours seemed like a very, very long time.

()()()()

"Here," Ron said, pushing a sheet of paper and a pen towards Hermione. "You do it."

It was the following Monday, and Ron and Hermione were seated at a table in the hotel restaurant, two cups of coffee at their elbows and a slew of papers between. Hermione and her parents had finalized the travel plans for their return to England over the weekend, and now they needed to notify Harry.

"I'll write to Harry about the house. You do the rest," Hermione said, digging another pen out of her beaded bag. Or more likely using a nonverbal Summoning Charm, since she barely put her hand in it.

Ron grimaced but picked up the pen and started to write. He was better at it than when they first arrived, but the weight of the pen still felt odd in his hand compared to a quill, and he kept lifting it every few words out of habit before remembering there wasn't an ink pot to dip into.

Dear Harry,

Good news, mate—we're coming home! The airplane arrives in London 18th July —it's going to be a bloody long trip. Nearly twenty-six hours by plane, then a train from London to Exeter. Can you meet me at the train station? It's too expensive to fly all the way home, and Hermione says I'll be in no shape to Apparate. She says Muggle trains are just like magical ones, so I shouldn't have any problems. She and her parents are going straight home from London (she's working on instructions for you now about the house. Good luck with that) and she won't be at the Burrow until your birthday. I'm supposed to tell you she's really sorry, and misses you "dreadfully" but wants to spend as much time with her parents as possible. The counter charm worked perfectly (of course it did, it's Hermione) and her parents are fine, but it's been pretty tense, and she's still hoping they can work things out before she leaves for Hogwarts in September.

Ron glanced up to make sure Hermione was still engrossed in her own letter, then continued.

It's hard to watch her like this, almost like she's a different person. More quiet (yes, Hermione!) and reserved, almost hesitant. I can see her brain turning all the time, watching everything she says and does, trying to figure out when to tell the truth and when to obfuscate (she insists it's not lying—you know Hermione). Merlin, it makes me tired just watching her. I don't know how she's held up this long, except—it's Hermione. She's amazing.

Her parents are nice enough, even if her dad is suspicious, and I don't think it's only about magic (we can't all worm our way into their affections years beforehand like a certain spectacled git). But it's obvious they don't know Hermione. Not really. But then, how could they? She's spent almost all her holiday time with us since Christmas third year. So, yeah. Reversing the spell was the easy part.

Hermione continued writing without pause.

She's still working on that bloody letter, mate—you'd better let Ginny read it to make sure you don't miss anything. Say hello to the runt and give my love to the family. We'll see you soon.

Ron

Ron swallowed down the wave of homesickness that washed over him at his sister's name. Less than three weeks until he saw them again, but right now it felt like forever. He hoped Mum was doing better, and George was sober, and wondered if Percy was still living at home.

He wondered if anyone was placing flowers on Fred's grave.