AN- Hey all! It's been a while since I first published this fic - I was busy with two writing competitions here on FFN, but now that those are wrapping up, I'll have more time to explore this story. I've written a few chapters ahead...hopefully enough for me to stick to a weekly posting schedule.

So here goes nothing: This fic will update every TUESDAY: Go ahead and smash that follow button ;)

Chapter 3

[Ron]

The door slams behind Hermione just as Ron calls her name, and he's left gaping after her and clutching his marriage certificate. Their marriage certificate.

He should have told her. It would have been easy just to hand it over, but he couldn't. She was horrified to wake up next to him and angry when he tried to apologize. If that was her reaction to sleeping together, how would she have reacted if she knew they had gotten married?

With a groan, Ron stumbles to the kitchen counter, collapses onto a barstool, and drops his head into his hands. He thought that getting to know each other better might repair the damage of their first impression. It would have been nice to become friends during this trip, but unfortunately, the morning's events have made that unlikely. Even if they can get back on track after a one-night stand, the moment she finds out they're married, it'll all be ruined.

Ron's head is throbbing — a pain that only worsens when he glances around at his hotel suite. The color scheme reminds him of an orange creamsicle, and the harsh contrasting lines of neon orange and white wall paint don't do much to calm his hangover. Neither do the jagged edges of the kitchenette's quartz countertops, the lingering smell of champagne in the air, or the rock-hard barstool that might leave a bruise on his backside if he sits here too long. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his king-sized bed — it has far too many pillows, and its blankets are all ruffled up. He knows he should straighten it out and hide the evidence of a hook-up, but his heart sinks when he thinks about doing it. Unlike Hermione, he doesn't want to forget it happened. He wants to remember it, but he can't, and what a waste it is.

Although not intentionally, he's pictured her in his bed before. His mind conjures up the image with any appropriately aged, attractive, single woman, but for some reason, throughout this trip, it's been an image of Hermione more than anyone else. Something about their dynamic intrigues him. They really haven't spent much time alone since their first meeting back in London, but their brief conversations are always riddled with tension. Not sexual tension, just tension. Awkwardness. They affect each other, and Ron is simply curious what that would translate to in the bedroom. As anyone would be.

Now he's experienced it, but he doesn't remember, and fixing the bed would make it feel like it wasn't real.

Overcome with frustration, he nearly gives in to the temptation to tear the marriage certificate in two, as if that would change anything, but he's interrupted by a knock on the door. His stomach lurches — could it be Hermione again? If so, this could be a chance to tell her and make it right. Ron folds up the certificate and shoves it into his pocket before opening the door.

"Morning!"

It's just Harry. "What are you doing here?"

Harry looks offended. "I'm checking on you. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

Ron opens the door wider in invitation. "You could say that. Why are you checking on me?"

Harry laughs. "Well, for one, I was worried. You disappeared last night."

"Did I?" says Ron sarcastically. "Can't remember."

"Too much to drink?"

Ron's grunt seems to be a sufficient answer for Harry.

"So there's no point in asking what you got up to, then?"

"Nope," says Ron, as the door slams closed behind them. "Can't recall a thing."

Harry pauses when he catches sight of the still-disheveled bed. "Ron, why does your bed look like someone else slept here?"

When Ron doesn't immediately answer, Harry whips around to face him, eyebrows raised. "Did you bring a woman back here last night?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Ron says, shifting uncomfortably as he eyes the bottle of whipped cream and empty champagne flutes that he didn't think to hide. Unfortunately, he's not subtle at all. Harry follows his gaze and smirks.

"Sounds like a lie. It looks like one too."

Taking a precarious seat on the kitchenette's barstool, Ron dumps his head back in his hands to rub his temples. His headache is getting worse every second as the adrenaline of the morning wears off, and he barely manages a muffled apology to Harry. "Sorry for disappearing."

"Ah, it's fine. I'd be more annoyed if I didn't also have a good shag last night."

"Oi, mate. That's my sister you're talking about." Even though they're best friends, Ron still hasn't gotten used to the idea of Harry and Ginny together, and he definitely doesn't want to think about them in bed.

"Sorry, forgot we can't talk about that kind of thing."

"Definitely not," says Ron. "If you were marrying anyone else, then we could."

"Still worth it,' says Harry shrugging, and begrudgingly, Ron has to admit that there really is no better person for his sister. "You can still tell me, though. Who was she?"

As tempted as he is to change the subject, his compulsion to confide in Harry is stronger. "Apparently not a stranger." He can't tell him about the marriage, not until Hermione knows.

"What do you mean?"

"There was a girl last night, and it was someone I already knew."

"That's impossible...the only people we know are in the wedding party." Ron gives Harry a significant look, and his jaw drops. "It was one of Ginny's bridesmaids, wasn't it?"

Ron nods, and Harry's face slowly melts into a grin. "What?"

"If it were Lavender, you wouldn't be skirting around it."

He's right. Even though they've broken up, Ron and Lavender still enjoy the occasional shag, and Ron has never been secretive about it. "True. It wasn't Lavender," he confirms.

"So," asks Harry. "Who was it?"

Ron rubs at his temples again, his head still pounding.

"It was Hermione, wasn't it?"

When Ron doesn't answer right away, Harry beams, and his smugness compounds his headache. "How did you guess that?"

"I don't know," shrugs Harry. "Demelza has a boyfriend. Luna's Luna. It was a lucky guess."

"Bollocks, isn't it?"

Harry shrugs.

"What?" Ron scowls.

"Well, it's not exactly surprising."

"It's not?"

"Well… some things are surprising. Like that," Harry nods towards the whipped cream. "But not you and Hermione shagging."

"Sure it is," says Ron incredulously. "We don't exactly get on particularly well."

"So?"

"We hate each other."

Harry laughs. "No, you don't."

"What are you talking about? We fight constantly."

"You flirt constantly."

Ron shakes his head. He can't imagine any of his interactions with Hermione being misinterpreted for flirting. Their limited conversations usually involve pointless arguments about itineraries, travel arrangements, or plastic straws.

"She was horrified when she woke up here this morning."

"She was probably just embarrassed."

"To be seen with me?"

"That's not what I meant," says Harry exasperatedly. "She's… proper. Casual shagging is likely new for her, and she might have needed a moment to process it all."

"Proper?"

Harry nodded.

"You talk like you know her."

"Well, I do," he says. "I've gotten to know her quite well through Gin. She's a good one." There's a familiar tone in Harry's voice, similar to Ron's when he defends Ginny.

"Can I ask you a favor?" asks Ron suddenly.

"Of course."

"Don't mention this to Ginny."

"I won't." Harry smiles smugly. "But she'll probably ask Hermione at brunch."

"Brunch?"

"Yep. The girls have brunch reservations today."

Ron groans, shuddering at the thought of Hermione and Lavender sitting together over bottomless mimosas, talking about whatever it is women talk about. For her sake, he hopes the girls aren't as curious about her whereabouts last night as Harry was about Ron's.

"Anyway, the rest of us are going to the pool," continues Harry. "Care to join us?"

"Yeah," says Ron. "I'll be down in a bit."

"Great," says Harry, making his way toward the door. "See you soon."

Ron waits for Harry to leave before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the marriage certificate. Even though he didn't tell Harry the entire truth, their conversation did help to clear his head, and he no longer has the urge to rip the certificate in two.

He studies the piece of paper and then spots it — scribbled on the certificate, under his and Hermione's signatures, is the officiant's name and the venue's address. Ron types the address into his phone, and his search result turns up a website.

Erised Elopements

Follow your heart's desire!

Maybe he can make it all disappear, and he wouldn't have to tell Hermione anything. He saves the address and pockets his phone.

"There he is! The man of the hour!" Seamus calls as soon as Ron arrives on the pool deck — which he now realizes isn't an appropriate descriptor at all. Seamus' body is draped in a hammock hanging between two palm trees, growing from the landscaped beach that meets the pool's edge. The natural yet dusty odor of the sand mixes with the stronger smell of chlorine into an aromatic blend that Ron's brain can't process at the moment. Ron squints when he approaches Seamus, the sunlight reflecting off the glittery white sand and blinding him.

"I think Harry's the man of the hour," he says, reaching for his sunglasses.

"Yeah, well. We were talking about you. Specifically about where you ran off to last night."

Ron shoots a quick glare at Harry, who shrugs innocently. "Last night?"

"Yeah, you disappeared. We thought you might have brought a bird back to your room, but Harry says no one was with you when he checked this morning."

"Well, no birds last night," says Ron, eyeing Harry thankfully. "Just went to bed early, that's all."

"Then why do you look so rough?" asks Dean. "Looks like the sun is melting you."

That's because it is. "Blessed to be a ginge, I guess."

"Really?" presses Dean..

"Fine, I went to bed early last night because I was drunk as hell, okay? Didn't want to make any bad decisions. Now the hangover is killing me."

"Yeah, that checks out," says Seamus, and the boys all laugh. Ron doesn't even mind them laughing at his expense; he's just relieved they don't seem to need more details.

"Since you're the last to arrive, the next round of drinks is on you," says Neville.

"Alright, fine," says Ron, feigning grumpiness, although he's more than okay with the subject changing. He rises to his feet and mucks off to the bar.

The manufactured beach turns abruptly to a boardwalk, then to a loud and ostentatious eatery where brunch is in full swing. Every corner of the room is packed with tropical trees, and he can smell the moisture in the air — probably false humidity in a feeble attempt to keep the flora alive. The humidity pools on his skin like sweat, and he wonders if his shower was even worth the waste of water. He's never been very into green living, but he's suddenly curious what the sea turtles would think if they were to see how flippantly humans use clean water. And plastic straws, of course.

He scans the room for the source of his sudden environmental distress — Hermione Granger. He scours the bamboo tables, the forest-green walls adorned by portraits of safari animals playing blackjack, and the giant decorative goblet standing in the middle of the restaurant, advertising its signature cocktail, the Goblet of Fire. Eventually, amidst the chaos of the hotel's theme-indecision, he spots Ginny's flaming red hair at a round table, along with Luna, Demelza, and Lavender. Notably, Hermione is absent, a realization that elicits a sigh from Ron. Whether it's from relief or disappointment, he doesn't know.

He can't help but imagine her back in her hotel room, unable to face his sister in case she serves as a reminder of last night. Is she really that regretful?

Ron dejectedly turns toward the bar but freezes when he spots a bushy brown head of hair at the counter. It's undeniably Hermione, and she's talking animatedly to a blonde-haired woman who, for some reason, looks vaguely familiar.

Where have I seen her? In her dark green jumpsuit, long neon-pink fingernails, and gold spectacles, the woman appears as eclectic in her fashion choices as the hotel does in its decor. He probably met her when he was smashed last night — he would have remembered had he been sober.

Instead of bothering himself with the mystery woman, he takes in Hermione's appearance. She's wearing a sky-colored dress, the same one she wore the day they arrived in Vegas. It's just short enough to make Ron wonder what's hiding under the hem, and the fabric in the front crumples together in a way that draws Ron's gaze right to her chest. Thanks to that damn dress, it took a lot of effort to keep his eyes away from her breasts that day, so he chose not to look at her at all. Especially because he could feel Lavender watching him, scanning for any sign of his wandering eye as if she had any claim to his attention.

Ron backs away from the bar and slips into a doorway, obscuring himself behind a cascade of glass beads that hang from the ceiling like a waterfall. He feels utterly ridiculous hiding from women in a bar, but he brought it upon himself. He watches Hermione and the stranger pass a phone between one another, and his curiosity piques again. Who is she, and what are they talking about?

They soon part ways with a hug, and Hermione's left alone at the bar. She spends a few moments intently staring at her phone before the bartender places five mimosas in front of her. She pockets her phone, pays, and grabs the tray of drinks to carry it back to the table, expertly swerving between ferns and palms like she's on a mission.

Ron waits for a few moments, just to assure that the girls are distracted by conversation before he approaches the bar, wishing his hair was a little less conspicuous.

x

"Hey, handsome."

Lavender's crooning voice shudders Ron awake; he didn't realize he fell asleep. If only he hadn't jolted awake, or he might have been able to pretend to still be sleeping.

"Hey," he reluctantly greets her. "What time is it?"

"Two."

Okay, so he has only been sleeping for an hour. He's hanging in a hammock by the pool, luckily hidden from the sun by a cabana, and Lavender is stretched out on a towel below, staring at him through oversized, ridiculous-looking sunglasses. "How was brunch?"

"It was fine. Still happening, actually."

What does she want? "Then why are you here?"

"I have questions about what you did last night," she asks, running her fingers through a mound of sand.

Ron lifts his sunglasses from his face to look her in the eye. "I went to bed early."

Lavender eyes him suspiciously. "That's not what Hermione Granger said."

His heart rate stutters at her accusation. There's no way Hermione told the girls about last night. She wouldn't. "What… what did Hermione Granger say?" he asks tentatively.

"Oh, not much. She just said she spotted you with a girl," shrugs Lavender. "And that she was quite pretty."

Ron tries to resist the urge to laugh but can't and instead lets out a soft chuckle. "She did?"

"I know she's probably just saying that to piss me off. She doesn't like me."

Ron puts his sunglasses back on, mostly so Lavender doesn't see him rolling his eyes. "Don't take it personally; she doesn't like anyone."

Lavender scoffs, and Ron can't resist smirking. Sometimes, he enjoys dodging her attempts to fish compliments from him. "Well, were you?"

"Was I what?"

"With a girl?"

"Honestly, Lav? I don't remember much of last night. There was no girl in my bed this morning if that's what you're getting at." She looks relieved at his lie. "Did Hermione say anything else?"

"No, she just changed the subject. A little too quickly, if you ask me."

"Oh, well. I guess it's a mystery, then," he says, settling back into his hammock.

But Lavender isn't finished. "She kind of sounded jealous at the thought of you with a girl."

Ron chuckles again. "Doubt that."

"Oh, come on, Ron. She has a thing for you. That's why she doesn't like me."

"Nah."

"Why else wouldn't she like me?"

So many reasons. "I don't know, but she definitely doesn't have a thing for me." He knows that by the way she nearly cried then stormed out of his room this morning.

"I think she does."

Lavender's insistence reminds him of Harry earlier that day, insisting that he and Hermione are always flirting. Maybe they're onto something. There may be a little bit of flirting, but if so, it's clearly one-sided. "You're just paranoid that everyone has a thing for me."

Lavender shrugs. "I can just sense it."

"Lavender, if you really need to know if Hermione fancies me, just ask her."

"I wanted to, but she disappeared. She said she wasn't feeling well and went back to her room."

Ron leans back on his pool chair, his heart suddenly beating faster. If Hermione's tucked away in her room, it's a good opportunity for Ron to escape to the venue location and figure out how to undo the damage of last night. If he leaves now, he won't draw suspicion from her. "Well, sorry that I can't answer your questions," he says, hoping the finality of his tone will end the conversation.

She continues to look expectantly at him, but he has nothing else to say. "I guess I'll just go back to the brunch table, then,' she grumbles, after a few moments of awkward silence.

She rises to her feet and gathers her towel, leaving behind two sandy motes as she drags herself from the beach to the boardwalk. He hears the snapping of her sandals once she reaches solid ground, and waits until it grows quiet in the distance, muffled by the bustle of the restaurant. Ron then opens his eyes to see that the boys are either napping in hammocks or floating aimlessly in the pool, never too far from the swim-up bar. He flings his legs over the edge of the hammock and slips his feet back into his shoes. Shoving his hand into his pocket to assure he still has the folded-up wedding certificate, he figures the best time to try and fix this mess is either now, or never.