A/N: This is Chaser 1 of the Chudley Cannons checking in for Season 9 Round 5 of QLFC.
Each position will be given a character flaw that must clearly feature in your story. The catch? (Because of course there's a catch) You cannot write about someone who shows that flaw in canon.
Chaser 1: Laziness
Optional Prompts: 1. (word) casual; 5. (object) bottle of wine; and 12. (color) bronze
Word count (before A/N): 2,359 words
Special thanks to Ashleigh for beta-ing!
Ron slowly opened the front door, his motions decidedly precise because he knew that this moment would stick with him for the rest of his life. He wasn't usually one to get sentimental—at least, not like this—but for whatever reason, this moment felt necessary to capture in his mind.
"What are you doing?"
Ron paused, the door now halfway open, the bronze doorknob still clutched in his grip. He turned toward his wife, a sheepish grin already painted on his reddening face. "Wouldya believe it if I said I was making sure the cat didn't get out?"
Hermione placed her hands on her hips.
"Yeah, yeah." Ron quickly conceded, letting the door swing open the rest of the way, revealing the inside of their quiet, empty house.
"Are we going to stand out on the porch for a bit and stare inside?" Hermione sounded exasperated, but Ron could see the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "Come on," she said, lacing her arm into his. "It'll be okay."
"I know." He wrestled his arm out of hers and instead placed it around her waist, pulling her against his body. Hermione sighed into him, and suddenly, they were standing out on the porch, staring inside their home of nearly twenty years.
Ron peered down at Hermione. "It's gonna be weird at first, isn't it? Both of them at Hogwarts now. What will I do without Hugo at the shop?"
"We made it through Rose's first year." Hermione smiled up at him. "We'll get through Hugo's."
Ron nodded, letting Hermione finally lead him into their home. The door closed behind them with a resounding click.
Three weeks later, Ron was pleasantly surprised to find that while he missed both Rose and Hugo dearly, he'd fallen into a routine that kept him moving. Five days a week at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, managing the storeroom, helping George with new products, and balancing the books. Monday nights out with Harry for drinks. Friday night date night with Hermione. And Sunday dinners at the Burrow.
It was busy, to say the least, but he found he quite liked the flexibility in it all. No longer was his schedule being upended with appointments and football practice and rushing Rose and Hugo to and from sleepovers or playdates.
Hermione, too, had seemed to have fallen into her new routine with ease. From what Ron could tell, his wife—the beautiful, brilliant witch that she was—was miraculously enjoying the freedom of a quiet home. She'd read more books in the weeks with the kids gone than she had since Rose's fifth birthday. She was also reveling in being able to do things for just herself, which Ron had to admit with a little bit of guilt, was overdue and well-deserved.
"Let's do takeaway tonight." Hermione's bushy hair peeked over the armrest on the couch.
Ron had just stepped out of the Floo, the magic residue brushing off in green, powdery tufts. He looked over at Hermione and smiled at the casual way she was draped over the couch, her work clothes long gone, instead replaced with sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts. She was on her stomach, propped up only by her elbows, another new book nestled between her delicate hands. She closed it as he approached.
"No bookmark?" he asked, sitting down by her feet.
"I'll remember my spot later," she said dismissively before turning to face him. "So, takeaway?"
He playfully pinched a toe. "On a weeknight?"
"I just don't feel like cooking tonight. And since it's just us, I figured… I don't know…"
Ron watched her eyes trail off, the bronze color of her irises aimlessly searching the living room. He looked, too. On the mantle stood several photos of Rose and Hugo, each laughing over and over, their tiny giggles silent behind wooden-framed glass. Ron felt a pang in his chest, and briefly, he wondered if Hermione wanting takeaway was more about missing the kids than it was about not wanting to cook.
He grabbed her hand, pulling her eyes back to him. "You know I love all those different Muggle foods. Indian or pizza?"
It was their third straight night ordering out, and Ron felt a little ill. He had always had an appetite, but over the years, he'd grown accustomed to veggie-heavy meals balanced by grains and lean meats—a diet that came with having kids and wanting to teach them good habits and all that. But the sudden influx of quick-made greasy foods handed to him in bags over the counter had him dragging his feet.
He set down the chip in his hand, the oily residue like a layer of film on his fingers. He wiped it on his pant leg, watching Hermione across from him take another sip of wine. She seemed lost in thought, her one hand gently holding the glass to her lips, the other idly twirling a loose curl.
"How was work?" he asked, opting for water.
"Hm?" She pulled her finger from the curl, the spiral springing like a coil near her ear. Hermione blinked. "Oh, fine. Nothing really new today."
Ron nodded. "Yeah, me too. The shop's always a bit dead after all the kids head back to Hogwarts."
The corners of Hermione's mouth raised ever so slightly, before she dropped her eyes down to her lap. Ron watched her brow furrow, and he knew she must be thinking about Rose and Hugo again.
"Hey," he said as a way of distraction. "How about I cook for us this Friday? We could stay in for date night and watch a movie. Your choice."
He reached for her over the table, her eyes trained on his extended hand. The smile returned as she took it, her eyes finally meeting his. "That sounds lovely."
About a week later, Ron found himself wand deep in the toilet, scrubbing it squeaky clean. Normally, Hermione would take the lead on cleaning day, but cleaning day had pretty much stopped after Rose and Hugo left.
At first, Ron liked the idea of letting the washing go for a few extra days. The lackadaisical schedule suited him nicely. But Hermione…
He couldn't help wondering if there was more to her sudden attitude shift. Hermione had always been the go-getter between the two of them. Hell, how many times did he have to remind her to take a break between all the studying at Hogwarts or researching for work? He'd been the one over the years trying to ease her into relaxing. But now she was the one letting things slip past, skipping cleaning days and opting for quick meals instead of cooking. Her loungewear had become a uniform.
Whatever was happening, it felt odd.
Just as he finished up in the private master bathroom, Hermione entered their bedroom, a book dangling from her fingers.
"Hey," he said as she plopped onto the bed.
"Hey." She smiled. The book fell against her chest as she watched him enter from the bathroom door. "You know, you didn't have to clean the whole house today. It was still pretty clean from the last time. We could've made it another week."
"Yeah." He grimaced, but played it off quickly. "But I felt like it, oddly enough. New book?"
Hermione glanced down at the cover rising and falling with each breath. "Yes, this one's about…" She squinted. "I don't know actually. Haven't started yet."
Ron nodded, though something about her answer felt just as odd as her behavior. He looked around the room, his eyes landing on the many piles of books Hermione had accumulated over the last several weeks stacked on their furniture, hodge-podged piles teetering like the walls of the Burrow.
"How many have you read since Rose and Hugo left?"
He watched her carefully, taking in the subtle way she held her breath at the mention of the kids. She propped herself on her elbows and looked across the room, the piles no doubt standing out to her as well.
"A few," she said eventually. "Just a few." Her head fell back onto the pillows, hair haloing around her in perfect curlicue tendrils. Ron's chest tightened. She looked tired, lying there, staring at the ceiling, her new book starting to fall off her body and onto the bed seemingly forgotten.
He knew Hermione. He knew her very well. And something just wasn't right.
He just didn't know how to say that to her without coming off like a total prat. Once upon a time, he might've spoken his mind, but he'd learned over the years to communicate his thoughts better. At that moment, however, he knew he didn't have the right words to say just yet.
Instead, he crossed the room, bent over, and placed a gentle kiss on Hermione's forehead. Though she smiled at him, he could see the unshed tears trapped in the corners of each eye.
It was Monday night, and Ron was supposed to be headed to the Leaky Cauldron with Harry. Instead, he was standing at the edge of the fireplace in the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' stockroom, calculating what he would say when he got home.
He ran a hand through his hair. This wouldn't be easy, but he knew deep down that he couldn't let it go on any longer—whatever it was.
He stepped into the harmless green flames.
Hermione was on the couch again, spread out like he'd seen her in recent weeks, though the casualness he'd originally likened it to was long gone. She looked comatose, almost, like she couldn't possibly sit any other way anymore. Like she was giving up in a way.
Ron gulped. An empty bottle of wine stood guard on the floor beside her.
"Hey," he said, his voice crackly even to his own ears.
Instantly, Hermione's head poked up. "You're supposed to be with Harry." Eyes wide, she looked him over, the accusatory glare behind her bronze irises unmistakeable. Then, she was seated, her delicate hands pushing down her hair, fixing at her clothes. Ron had to keep himself from panicking alongside her. He rushed to her side.
"Hey," he grabbed her hands, stopping them in their mad dash to conceal herself, "stop. Look at me."
He waited for her to meet his gaze. When she did, all hints of accusation and betrayal were gone, instead replaced with tears streaming down her face. "Oh, Hermione." He pulled her into his chest, feeling her sobs even before she made a sound. Slowly, he stroked her hair, letting her heave into him, the familiar imprints of wet tears soaking through his thin work shirt. She clutched his torso, buried herself in him. "I'm so sorry," he kept saying, rubbing circles into her back. "I should have said something sooner."
After a few more moments, Hermione sighed into him, the sobs quieting into tiny sniffles. He felt her pull away, though her hands slid down his arms to rest in his own. He gripped her fingertips tight, wanting her to know how much he cared.
"I think I might have lost a sense of purpose when the kids left." Her voice barely reached above a whisper. "At first, I just thought I was being lazy. Enjoying the free time. But lately, it's harder and harder to motivate myself. I—I miss them so much."
"Hermione—"
"No, wait." Her eyes fell on his. "You didn't know. It's not your fault I chose to keep that bottled up this long."
"I'm still sorry," he said. "I love you, you know."
She gave him a sweet, tear-stained smile. "I know."
"I have to ask," he brushed back a stray piece of hair behind her ears, "did you really drink a whole bottle of wine by yourself?"
That had him more worried than anything else. Hermione crying and admitting what was on her mind meant she did recognize something was off, too. But Hermione drinking alone? Ron didn't know what to do with that.
However, Hermione was giving him a quizzical look. Then, as if she'd just solved another detailed Arithmancy problem, her whole face lit up. "Oh, no," she said. "No, that bottle's from last week. The glasses we both had over dinner. I was taking it out for recycling when I got a letter from Rose." She dropped his hand and reached behind him on the couch, producing the letter in question. "I didn't get much farther after that."
They both looked down at the bottle, its insides completely cleaned and dry. Ron sighed in relief, the multitude of worries he'd had piling up suddenly vanishing. He gave her a lopsided grin. "What did Rosie have to say?"
"You'll be pleased." She smirked as she extended the letter to him. "Seems she's planning to try out for the Gryffindor Quidditch team."
"What?" He couldn't help the pride filling his chest. "Look," he held the letter up in front of Hermione, "she even said we should go to her first game if she makes the team!"
Hermione laughed, bringing Ron back to the moment with her. He folded the letter and swapped it for Hermione's hands once again. "I miss them, too. But maybe we should start working on how we'll find a balance with them gone. No more takeaway, for starters."
"And cleaning day is back. Full force." Ron groaned. He could tell by the look on Hermione's face that she really meant it. Then, she added, "But I'm keeping the loungewear routine. I can't believe I didn't do this sooner. These pants are so cozy."
He laughed. Hermione's face had lit up talking about her cozy pants in a way that he'd missed dearly since Rose and Hugo left. Ron knew everything wouldn't be perfect right off the bat, but he could tell Hermione was already starting to feel better. They'd get through it, he knew.
He pulled her into his lap for a kiss, letting her know that he would be there for her through this transition, just like he was there for all the others. Just like he'd always be.