Ron hauled himself from the tangle of sheets, awkwardly rolling to a sitting position at the side of the bed. Everything felt stiff and underused; the product of a late-night flight and not enough sleep. It didn't matter how exclusive your airline, in Ron's opinion there was never enough leg room.
He stretched his problematic lanky legs out in front of him for a brief flex before pushing to his feet. On the bedside table, a tiny silver clock ticked over the hour. Seven o'clock was a glorious time in the castle. The soft hubbub of activity had started as the staff arrived to begin another day, meeting the needs of the public and the needs of the building in equal measure.
But it was a quiet, organised noise. Not the rowdy mayhem that ensued when the gates were opened and the visitors were let in.
Plus, there were certain areas of the castle where no-one really needed to be at this time of the morning. Ron still found there was pleasure to be had in those places, even after all these years. Like the garden, one of his favourite places on the whole site.
He stretched his arms high above his head and walked to the window, feeling his vertebrae click and shift, smiling with satisfaction. Yes, he'd grab a coffee and go into the garden first.
Hang on…
Far below, someone was crouched by the path that undulated through the lawn. It was a woman, judging by all that curly brown hair, intently focused on something close to the ground.
It was unheard of for anyone to be in the grounds this early, except occasionally Liz the gardener, who usually didn't start until 8. This woman wasn't wearing the purple and black uniform so she didn't work here but neither did she seem like someone who had shinnied up and over the wall to break in.
He watched her for a moment. Perhaps she'd found an injured bird- there were plenty of those in the grounds, given the huge amount of windows. When she didn't move off straight away, Ron found his curiosity piqued.
He dressed quickly, throwing on the clothes he had cast off hours earlier and bounded down the back stairs. Mag and Geoffrey were already in the kitchen, the smell of the first scones wafting through the air.
"Didn't know you were back," Mag said, not sounding like she particularly cared either way. "Coffee's in the pot."
Ron opened the cupboard and rooted around inside.
"Did you throw out my tin cup while I was away?" his voice came muffled from the depths.
Mag rolled her eyes towards Geoffrey and punched the dough she was working. "I did not. Perhaps it finally rotted away in its own rust."
"Aha!" Ron pulled the dented vessel out from behind a stack of paper cups and held it aloft victorious.
"Shame," was all Mag could muster as he poured coffee from a stylish, copper cafetière, at odds with his mug of choice.
Ron tutted as he skirted round the table towards the door. "You have it in for my old tin cup Mag. I'm watching you."
He didn't wait for the response, which was sure to be acidic, and instead walked jauntily to the door that lead out into the Walled Garden. It felt wonderful to be back. Switzerland was beautiful, the company- most of it- was stimulating, but Ron found that he was always glad to be heading home again.
He rounded the corner and paused. The woman was still there, now on her knees.
He hadn't meant to scare her and he shouldn't have really, given that he was a muscular beanpole of a man walking on gravel towards her. Yet, when he said a cheery 'Good morning!' she jumped and let out a little scream before scrambling to her feet and turning towards him.
Ron held up a placating hand as she came down from the adrenaline. "Sorry about that. Didn't mean to scare you. Thought you heard me."
Her expression was shocked for a moment before a small smile emerged. "No, I'm the one who should be sorry. I didn't mean to scream at you."
She was a lot shorter than him but then, most people were. She had a healthy, strong look about her and her dark eyes were bright and keen, even so early in the morning.
"S'okay! Not the first time a woman has screamed at me." Her brow buckled slightly in response to this and inwardly Ron agreed that this was probably the wrong thing to say to random women you've only just met.
"Anyway," he breezed on, taking another swig of coffee, and gesturing at the grey and white cat that had started swirling round her ankles in response to the loss of her attention. "I see you've met one of the locals."
The frown melted away and she crouched down to scratch the cat under the chin.
"Does he live here? He's so handsome."
The sweetness in her voice caught Ron by surprise and he hunkered down next to her.
"As much as any of them do," he replied, his voice low to match hers, "A few of them hang about. There's good hunting in the orchard I imagine."
She blew a kiss at the cat who dropped onto his back and wiggled in response.
"Are they looked after?
"Mag has a soft spot for them. I think they get more than she lets on." Ron rose slowly to his feet. "So, now that we've discussed the feline residents, perhaps we could be introduced. I don't think we've met."
As if suddenly remembering herself, she snapped to standing. "Yes, of course. My name is Hermione Granger. I'm the new Head Curator."
Now this was interesting. When Ron had gone to Switzerland, they were bandying Michael Carter's name around. Dull man really but, as Percy had unceasingly reminded them, probably the right candidate for the job. And yet here was an entirely different prospect.
The frown remerged. "What?"
"What?"
"You look… disappointed."
"Far from it. Just surprised. I didn't realise the appointment had been made, that's all. I must read my sister's emails every so often."
Her face became guarded. "Who is your sister?"
"You've probably met her. Ginevra Weasley the Second. Or Weasley-Potter as she's now known.
Hermione took a step back as if struck. "You're one of the Weasleys?"
"Yes," he replied, sticking out a hand. "Ron Weasley. The First. The only."
She took his hand and energetically shook it, the apples of her cheeks pink.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were back. No-one said anything about you being back."
"Steady on, no need to get upset," Ron grinned, disengaging his hand from her grip. "I flew in very late last night. My own family don't know I'm back yet."
"But I should have introduced myself properly," she babbled on, "I didn't realise it was you."
It occurred to Ron that this new curator might be embarrassed because he was a Weasley which was a hilarious concept; it had been ages since anyone had really cared who his family were round here. It was almost worth letting the joke carry on.
But when he looked down at her mortified face, Ron felt the sport seep out of him.
Gently, he took her shoulder in his hand. "I really wouldn't fret about it Hermione. Honestly. It's not like we're royalty, we don't have the jewels for a start!"
She looked appeased to a certain degree, though still slightly uncertain.
"Having said that," Ron carried on, flicking the side of his cup so it made a tinny thunk, "Should you feel the need to curtsey as I go past… well. I wouldn't be averse."
He grinned and knocked back the remainder of his coffee. When he righted his head she was smiling.
"Good to see you smile again. Now. I'm off to catch up on all the things I've missed. Later Miss Curator. Hey, that rhymes!"
He walked back towards the castle, satisfied when he heard a stifled laugh from behind.
OOO
Hermione spent more time than was absolutely necessary feeling embarrassed about her first meeting with Ron. Since starting at Ottery nearly three weeks previously and as the days whipped by and the hours filled with tasks, she had stopped questioning when Ron Weasley would make an appearance and relegated him to the back of her mind.
Clearly a mistake, for she had been grossly unprepared when they finally came face to face. And he was the Weasley she had decided she was most eager to impress.
If these last weeks had taught Hermione anything, it was that Ron was extremely well thought of by the castle staff. As she moved through the Ottery employees, having the sort of general, bland conversations people have when they first meet, it was clear that, while the management of things over the years had always been considered a little slapdash, Ron Weasley and his best friend Harry Potter were undoubtedly treasured.
Sylvain had engaged her in a twenty-minute conversation about the virtues of the Potter-Weasley alliance standing outside the castle gift shop one morning. More than once she had given him an excuse to get back to work but he seemed in no great hurry. Still, it had been useful to get some background on the boys who met at school and become firm friends. So firm that Harry married Ron's sister and became an honorary Weasley.
"Difficult to do," Sylvain had stressed knowledgably, although Hermione wondered how much of what he said was fact versus conjecture.
"Oh yes?" she had asked warily, one eye on the clock behind his head, "Don't they like outsiders?"
"Well, let me put it this way," Sylvain replied, crossing his arms. "The only other Weasleys who are married are Bill and Charlie and they both chose to live overseas. I mean Charlie's in Africa! If you ask me, it was to save their partners from having to deal with the demands of the family."
"You make them sound like a cartel," she laughed and Sylvain sniffed.
"Worse, if you ask me. They're old money and old money is protective of their wealth. Incredibly selective about who they let in."
Despite this incredible selectiveness, Sylvain admitted that Ron did not appear to think this way.
"He's very fair, as far as bosses go. That being said, we haven't had a pay rise for two years so he could address that. Still, everyone likes Ron."
And it was the same wherever she went; on any occasion where the Weasley family was mentioned, Ron lucked out as everyone's favourite. At first, Hermione considered this a by-product of his actually living at the castle and therefore being more visible. But even those who knew the whole family, like Geoffrey, seemed to prefer him.
Geoffrey was married to the castle's main cook Mag and Hermione was unsure if he actually had a job title or was indeed employed to work there. Still, he materialised every day, dredging the ponds or threatening moles with a bonk on the head if he caught them, which he didn't seem to ever do. He and Mag lived at the bottom of the drive in the modest gatekeeper's house and walked the five-minute journey to and from the castle each day arm in arm.
It was sweet and Hermione would have told them so if she wasn't quite so frightened of Mag. It wasn't any one thing that Mag had done; rather from the moment they had been introduced Hermione had got the distinct impression Mag didn't like her. She barely acknowledged Hermione when she called good morning and made her feel as though she was underfoot when she was in the kitchen getting water for the coffee maker.
When she brought it up with Haroon he had shrugged and said Mag was like that with everyone and she didn't feel confident enough to broach it with Harry in case word got back to Mag. Too physically and mentally exhausted from the new job to dedicate any further brainpower to the issue, she started bringing bottled water to fill the coffee maker. There was only so much room in her head and Mag's aloofness was just too low in the pecking order.
OOO
Time rushed by as Hermione adjusted to life within the castle walls. In a way it felt healthy; being busy suited her and Ottery constantly took her by surprise. There were just so many things that needed doing. On the other hand, there was never enough time in the day; she started early, she finished late and when she wasn't physically at work she was thinking about it. She had developed a habit of taking her laptop to bed so she could trick her brain into thinking she was resting and get more research time in.
The Ottery collections were absorbing and not just those they already knew about.
The Weasleys' great aunt Muriel seemed to be in possession of a large number of expensive artefacts that she sent to be catalogued from time to time. The items would appear at random, delivered with a terse, unfriendly note, which Hermione found odd. When she mentioned it to Harry he advised her to accept everything that was sent without question, that Muriel's whims and eccentricities were tolerated within the family.
"It serves us all well if we go with Muriel's flow," he had said knowingly, with the finality of someone who was not at liberty to share anything further.
She had been introduced to Fred and George early on. A giant Halloween slasher clown had appeared in her office one morning and as she crept slowly past, its eyes lit up and it leapt forward. A note was stuck to the plastic machete that read 'Welcome to the family!' The pair came to claim it later on and chewed up a good half hour sitting on top of her desk, asking her questions. They seemed to revel in their jobs, finding ever more fascinating ways to decorate or innovate.
Each time she had encountered them since they had been wielding something odd. Just recently she had seen one of them lugging an inflatable leprechaun past her door. But when they were there, they tended to work at the other side of the castle in the conference suites and chambers, so she didn't see them often.
One person who did feature in her daily life in one way or another was Ron Weasley. Haroon had been correct in his summation of the youngest Weasley brother: he was involved in everything, visible in all aspects of castle life.
He and Geoffrey were often seen together- when he wasn't with Harry- moving boxes or filling cracks in plaster. You might come across him lugging plant pots or guiding a private tour. One morning Hermione spied him working behind the till in the gift shop and discovered Kate was off work sick. He really didn't mind doing anything that was needed to keep Ottery moving.
And Hermione was quickly discovering that this was the status quo. Ottery was a mammoth set of processes built one on top of the other. It was a tourist attraction but before it was a tourist attraction it was a museum. Before it was a museum it was a home and somewhere in the midst of all that it was an ancient Norman castle.
One thing needed to operate correctly in order for the next thing to work and this was difficult. For a start, there weren't nearly enough staff and Ron wasn't the only one shouldering more than one set of responsibilities. All of the staff were trained in multiple ways and most could jump in at a moment's notice if something needed done.
This also applied to the curating team. As Helene had said, Hermione's team had official roles at Ottery but they rarely stuck to them. Rather, they moved where they were needed, according to what was most urgent and which fire needed putting out first.
This was jarring initially and it troubled her preferred sense of order and discipline. It was reassuring to Hermione to know what people were accountable for, including herself, and it felt reckless to relinquish control on this.
Early on, it became clear that this was not something that was going to be easily rectified. There weren't enough pairs of hands and there wasn't enough free money. Plus, it didn't make sense to force Becky to work on the art collection when Helene needed help with upholstery.
Hermione, therefore, decided to play the long game. She would maintain the current state of affairs while it suited the immediate needs of the castle and then, as the money from the grant started to feed in and they got more on top of things, she would start defining roles again, moving her team members back into the specialities they were most comfortable with and qualified for. Hermione felt more content with having a plan in the face of disarray.
Harry, and particularly Ron, seemed well adjusted to the disarray and moved very easily within its current. They would meet on a quasi-regular basis; Hermione would lay out her plans and put a case forward for funds and Ron and Harry would debate it with her, having the final say.
More often than not she lost, mostly, she felt, because she was accustomed to having a steady flow of income to play with and operated from that standpoint whereas Ron and Harry had been working with an almost non-existent budget for years and knew how to stretch out the pennies.
Strangely, it didn't always annoy her when they said no. True, it was frustrating at first but she found she enjoyed the challenge of re-examining her argument and uncovering a new, often cheaper way of making it work. They rarely said no to her a second time and this was pleasing.
The three of them developed a firm working relationship. Hermione found Harry's quiet intensity and genuine thoughtfulness about Ottery agreeable. He was friendly and kind and clearly put a great deal of effort into ensuring the castle was maintained to the highest standard they could muster.
Ron was different. Where Harry was steady and warm, Ron was buoyant and fiery. He laughed a lot, talked a lot and relished exchanging witty banter. He had taken to calling her 'Miss Curator', hollering it through the door in the mornings as she typed her first emails of the day.
Usually he was with Harry- they rarely seemed to separate- but occasionally he would stop by her office alone, where he would stand, slouched against the door frame and ask about her day. Hermione grew to look forward to those moments. Sometimes Ron was the only bright light in the very long hours.
So, when he called in after a particularly tense phone call with a French expert on nineteenth century crystal chandeliers and asked her if she wanted to go for a coffee, she found herself nodding enthusiastically.
"Sure. I can make it here." She wrestled her headphones off and gestured over her shoulder.
"Nah, let's go to the café. You could do with getting out of this office."
As she stood up and retrieved her purse from her bag, Ron lifted the headphones off her desk.
"Classic FM by any chance?"
Before she could stop him, he pressed one of the speakers to his ear and was surprised by the blast of sound it emitted.
"Dance music?"
"It's not 'dance music'," Hermione replied sniffily, taking them from his hand and tucking them into a drawer. "It's techno."
"Aren't they the same thing?"
She grinned. "I'll explain it to you sometime. Shall we go?"
"You continue to be an enigma to me Miss Curator," Ron laughed as she herded him out the door.
They walked through the front entrance and across the gravel yard to the little coffee shop where Ron insisted on her Americano being his treat, though he seemed to 'buy' it with just a wink to the woman behind the counter, who smiled indulgently.
Hermione chose a corner booth and he slid in next to her. A few minutes later a teenaged boy walked their drinks over on a tray.
She took a sip and released a sigh.
"Long day?"
"I had forgotten how poor my A-Level French was," she replied ruefully, "Or rather, it didn't prepare me to discuss chandeliers. You?"
"I'll take your chandeliers and raise you public liability insurance. How many ways can I protect myself from being sued by the public and how much is it going to cost me this year? An honest-to-God treat."
Hermione grimaced. "Yeah, I'll stick to my chandeliers."
The yellow radio Ron had set next to his cup fizzed and he fiddled with the buttons for a moment.
"You know, when I saw Harry with one of those on my first day I thought it was an Ottery thing. But it just seems to be a Weasley thing. The only people I have seen carrying them are you, George and Fred and Harry."
Ron grinned. "Years ago, when we were kids, we had toy walkie-talkies so we could find each other in the castle and strategize midnight raids on the fridge. My dad bought them for us one Christmas. Jesus, the fun we had playing with those things."
Ron's face lit up at the memory.
"Anyway, now we use the real deal. Supposedly it's so we can grab each other wherever we are but nine times out of ten it's just used to trade insults."
He laughed when Hermione frowned. "I know, I know, childish right? Every Weasley has one, even Charlie and Bill. We store them in the general office. You won't believe this but whenever anyone comes back to the castle for any length of time, the first thing they do is lift their radio."
"Seriously?"
Ron nodded. "Yep. It's our little thing. I know it sounds ridiculous but Harry was well chuffed the day we gave him his."
"An honorary Weasley," Hermione replied, recalling her conversation with Sylvain.
"What can I say? He married my sister. The man deserves a knighthood." He grimaced before adding, "Don't tell her I said that."
They slid into an easy silence. The café had only a few customers and was restful in the subdued chatter of its patrons and the low whoosh of milk being frothed. Hermione sat back in the booth and lifted a paper stick of brown sugar. Rolling it between her fingers she looked around. The room felt cosy; the earthy colours of the sofas and cushions making her feel enveloped and warm despite the frigid day outside.
And it felt strangely comfortable sitting with Ron, soaking up the quiet. It was far removed from her normal impetus to talk and fill the silence.
Ron skimmed the top of his milk froth with his spoon before licking absently and murmuring something indistinct.
"What?"
"Mickie mustn't be on today. The bubbly bit always tastes different when she makes it."
"Spend a lot of time here do you?" Hermione tried to keep the derision out of her voice but Ron caught it anyway and laughed.
"I think we have established now that I do a fair bit around here Miss Curator." He waited until Hermione acceded the point with a nod of her head before carrying on, "And it's actually very rare I get to sit here and drink my coffee. I'm making a special allowance for you."
Somewhere in her middle, a little curl of pleasure twirled.
"Mickie usually makes it up for me in my tin cup. Fred and George go mad because she forces them to make their own but she always makes mine. She's good that way."
The sweet pleasure curl flattened and Hermione bit back the urge to make another sardonic comment. Instead, she turned her attention to the remaining customers in the café.
By the window an elderly couple sat at right angles to each other. The woman poured tea from the pot, as the man broke a shortbread round in two and nestled half onto her saucer. As he bit into his half, sugar showered from his mouth onto the lapel of his jacket and the woman brushed at it lovingly.
Hermione felt herself smile. "I bet those two have been married for years and she's been dusting crumbs off his clothes all that time."
Ron turned his head and squinted. "Nope. That's Mr. Chapman and Miss Farraday. They aren't married."
"Really? They seem so close."
He shrugged. "Well they've been coming here for a long time so I suppose they are close. Every Tuesday for a teatime date."
Hermione felt more satisfied. "Well then they're practically married." Ron snorted. "What?"
"Tell that to Lavinia and Mrs. Cotter. He brings them here too."
On seeing Hermione's baffled expression, Ron elaborated.
"Miss Farraday is Tuesday's lady. Mrs. Cotter comes on Thursday and then he rounds off the week with Lavinia on a Friday. It's a very strict schedule and he seems to like them all very much but I think Mr. Chapman would be pretty horrified if you brought up marriage."
She glanced over at the couple again, Miss Farraday now reading something aloud from the paper as her companion nodded peaceably.
"And does she know?" Hermione finally asked, dropping the sugar stick next to her cup, "About the other women?"
Ron shrugged again and took a long glug of coffee. "I don't think so. Like I said, strict schedule. He never mixes their days. What's the face for?"
"How awful!"
It was Ron's turn to be confused. "What's awful about it? It's a nice day out for all concerned if you ask me."
"But," she spluttered, determined to feel affronted on Miss Farraday's behalf, "But she probably thinks they're, you know… Serious."
"Serious?"
"Committed. You know what I mean. That she's the only one."
He grinned, which was more infuriating. "I very much doubt an octogenarian cares about things like that Hermione."
"You can care about that at any age Ron." She jutted her chin a little and felt herself bristle. "I just don't like the idea that he has all these other ladies and she doesn't know."
"Ok," he said, holding up a pacifying hand, "You're making a lot of assumptions here." She opened her mouth to interrupt but he shut her down. "Maybe she does know. Maybe she doesn't care or even give a second thought to being his one and only. Maybe she's happy with their lovely little arrangement."
He drained his cup and got to his feet with a stretch. Hermione didn't speak, still staring at the table by the window.
Leaning on the table with one hand, Ron added casually, "Also, you are missing the other possibility."
She looked up. "And what's that?"
"That she's got other teatime friends too." He flashed a smile and waved a good bye, sauntering out of the café and nodding to Mr. Chapman as he went.