Hermione adjusted her position, shifting her weight to her left knee, and considered the probability that this was the stupidest idea she had acted on for quite some time.

From the moment she'd opened her eyes her mood had been grey; not bad exactly but changeable. The new materials for the cannon repair had been sitting on her desk for a week in their box; she just couldn't find the time.

She knew they should have hired an expert to deal with the cannons but this had been the most recent item to be nixed by Ron and Harry. So the next best thing was Hermione, a few reference texts and a cardboard box full of vile smelling products.

This morning, as she fired off a series of emails, the box, innocent in its bland beigeness, had really started to piss her off. By the time she had wrapped up her meeting with Haroon, who had cheerfully set his coffee mug on it as if it belonged there, she knew she needed to act.

What was ridiculous about this choice was that these things are best started A: first thing, when you have the most natural light and B: when you know you are likely to have pleasant, or at least dry, weather. Hermione had abided by neither of these rules, which was why she was kneeling next to the third cannon, squinting in the dim, blue light of a British Spring day, the threat of rain literally hanging over her head in the tumbling clouds above.

The paint was starting to give her a headache and it was bloody cold but if she stopped now, halfway through, the weather would likely undo all her efforts. No. Better to be miserable and carry on.

Ron watched her from the entrance to the bastion. He found himself doing that every so often. She was a nice distraction amid everything else that was going on; a busy little bee buzzing round the castle, notebook in hand with a somewhat manic determination on her face.

It was nice to see someone care about Ottery as much as he did. Of course there were the old-timers like Mag and Geoffrey who loved Ottery as if it were their own. They had been here forever, their lives intertwined with the castle. Hermione didn't have that excuse. Which made it nicer somehow, that she cared just because she did.

Caring as she was, whatever the fuck she was doing on the roof with the cannon was seriously misguided.

"There's a storm coming in Hermione," he called above the wind as it hit the side of the curtain wall and thrust over the top. She raised her head and peered at him.

"Just ten more minutes. I have to finish or…." Her answer was lost to the gust and he jogged over to where she knelt, scrubbing at the rusted iron of the cannon's button.

"Couldn't this have waited? For, you know, better weather?"

Her mouth had taken on a grim line that Ron didn't like the look of and she spoke with pursed lips.

"It needs done."

"Today?"

She flashed him a dark look, snap! with a flick of her eyes. "Yes. Today. I said I was going to do it and I am."

Ron looked heavenward. "Stare decisis."

"What?"

"Family joke. Never mind."

Pulling the plastic cagoule tighter around her body, so it tucked under her armpits, she turned away from him and resumed scrubbing.

Ron knew better than to argue with an angry woman; Ginny's temper was legendary and he and his brothers had only survived to adulthood by knowing when to make themselves scarce. This was definitely one of those times.

"Ok," he called breezily, hands thrust into pockets, "Yell if you need anything."

She didn't reply and he made his way back down the steps and along to the kitchen where Geoffrey was stepping into waders. He gestured at another pair that had been tossed onto the table.

"And what delights can we look forward to this afternoon G?" Ron asked, buckling the waders around his middle.

"Cellar's leaking again," came the staccato reply, "Water to the knee."

"Bloody brilliant," Ron muttered and followed Geoffrey through the wooden door and down into the cellar, the smell of stale water already rising up to meet them.

Three hours later they emerged, chilled to the bone and thoroughly damp. The kitchen was in darkness but still warm thanks to the cast iron stove and they peeled the waders off, leaving them in a pile by the door.

"Mag must have left without you G," Ron said, squirming out of his jumper and knocking the light switch with his elbow.

"Told her to," Geoffrey replied, pulling on his discarded boots and roughly tying the laces. "Didn't want her walking down the drive in the dark in that weather."

As Ron looked up, rain slashed against the window in a blast of wind, blackness beyond.

"Bloody hell, that's nasty. Do you want a lift down the drive?"

Geoffrey shook his head and raised his hand in a silent goodbye as he exited the kitchen.

"Some people," Ron said to himself, investigating the contents of a pot resting on top of the stove, "Are just gluttons for punishment."

This thought birthed another on a similar theme. But surely not. It was well past closing time; everyone was long gone by now.

He lit the flame under the pot and busied himself locating a bowl and spoon. Still, the idea niggled at him.

Maybe he should check. Just in case.

He eyed his wet clothes with trepidation, not relishing the thought of dragging them back on but the rain splattered the glass again with a howl and he lifted his limp jeans.

The weather was fierce when he reached the top of the tower, the wind caught the door as Ron turned the handle and slammed it back against the stone. The curtain wall was dimly lit by uplighters; picturesque and golden from afar but providing poor visibility in these conditions.

Grimacing and ducking further into the collar of his thin fleece jumper, Ron walked forward a few steps, squinting against the downpour. Everything was still, apart from the rain dancing and sluicing over the aged building.

"I must be bloody mad," he grumbled and turned to leave when something caught his eye. A small foot, attached to a short leg, sticking at right angles out from beneath the cannon furthest away from him.

His first thought as he jogged across the wall was that he had no idea how they would pay the compensation if she had become trapped under the wretched thing, which made Ron feel a tad guilty.

The guilt, however, was assuaged when he reached the leg and gave it a firm tug and Hermione scrambled out from underneath, face like thunder.

"You scared me to death!" she exclaimed, wiping her face.

Christ, she was unreal!

"Me? I'm not the one lying prostrate under a six-hundred-pound cannon. In a FUCKING rainstorm! What the hell are you still doing up here?"

She glowered up at him as she tried to gather wet strands of hair into an approximation of a bun.

"For your information, I was examining a rust hole in Cannon 5. It must have been missed on the first round of checks and it is seriously concerning."

She looked so ridiculously solemn as she shouted over the sound of the wind, that he almost laughed. Instead he lifted the sodden cardboard box of repair materials and grabbed her by the arm, frog-marching her back to the door.

"Hey!" She wriggled under the pressure of his fingers on her bicep but Ron didn't stop walking or lessen his grip until they were down the steps, through the tunnel and inside the warmth of the kitchen.

As soon as he let go of her, Hermione made a show of shaking herself off, as though mortally injured.

"Oh calm down, drama queen," Ron muttered, pulling another bowl from the cupboard. "Get out of your clothes and eat something. There're clean boiler suits hanging on the back of the door."

"I'm fine as I am, thank you."

Ooh that prim little voice was about to get right on his nerves.

"Ok," he replied affably, dropping into a chair and pulling himself closer to the scrubbed oak table, "But if you ring in sick tomorrow dying with pneumonia, I'm telling everyone why."

Hermione opened her mouth to inform him that she had never taken a sick day in her life when a lengthy chill ebbed over her; a reminder that, no matter how dark her mood, it would be ridiculous to stay in wet clothes.

Scowl still firmly in place- unable, it seemed, to keep it from her face today- she retrieved one of the faded khaki cotton boiler suits that they used for various jobs in the grounds and walked round behind Ron.

"Don't look," she mumbled, delicately peeling off saturated layers and depositing them on the floor with a smack.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

She gathered the wet pile, draped the cagoule over the back of a chair and threw the rest into the ancient tumble dryer; no real chance of getting them completely dry before she left but it would at least make them warm damp instead of cold damp.

Ron watched her out of the corner of his eye, rolling the sleeves of the boiler suit so they stopped at her elbow and tying the piece of twine that was masquerading as a belt. She looked cute, like a kid trying on adult clothing. He decided not to risk telling her, in case he got an earful, and instead pushed a bowl of soup towards her as she sat opposite him.

"Thank you." Her voice was softer now; either the fight had gone out of her or fatigue was starting to set in.

Ron nodded into his bowl. "You're welcome. Eat up. Mag's soup is quality."

Hermione dipped her spoon and started eating. The soup was as described and exactly what she needed. Her stomach spasmed unpleasantly with hunger, something she hadn't noticed with her head wedged up a cannon's innards, but was now very much apparent.

A minute, satisfied sigh escaped her lips as she swallowed and Ron smiled.

"That's better isn't it?" She gave a small smile in return.

After a few more spoonfuls and feeling more herself, Hermione paused. "What did you say to me earlier? The family joke. Starry something."

Ron mopped up some soup with a slice of sourdough he had haphazardly cut from the cob between them.

"Stare decisis. It's a legal term. Means 'to stand by things decided'. It's to do with looking at old court cases when judges are trying to make rulings. Ginny learnt it when she was studying."

"I like it," Hermione murmured. "Why is it a family joke? If you don't mind me asking."

Ron grinned. "Two reasons. Firstly, nothing is ever really decided when it comes to my family. There's too many of us; we never agree. Secondly, even when we do decide something, we change our minds constantly. So we don't necessarily stand by what we decide in the first place. Really, I think the phrase is more to do with honouring stuff that was done in the past but it became our way of saying, 'I'm really serious and I'm not going to change my mind'."

Hermione raised her eyebrows.

"It's like… ok with my family everything is up for debate. We're at it all the time. If we didn't have a way of telling each other that this was our final answer, we'd go round in circles, because we always think there's room to manoeuvre. I mean, sometimes there is. Sometimes we talk each other round. But if we say something and we say 'stare decisis' then everyone knows that we aren't going to budge."

Hermione's forehead buckled into a tiny frown. "It's not the most effective way of making decisions but I suppose it works."

They resumed eating.

"Mag makes a batch of soup every day for the staff," Ron said after a while, scraping the bottom of his bowl with his spoon. "You should drop in on your lunch break, grab a bite."

"I…" Hermione paused, looking faintly embarrassed, "I don't really take a lunch break. I sort of… eat on the go."

"I know, I've seen you." Her face registered surprise. "You think nobody notices you, sitting at your desk, having your sad little sandwiches. But I see you. Why don't you eat with everyone else in the kitchen?"

Surprised switched to indignation and Hermione opened her mouth before closing it again. After a beat she said, "I don't think she likes me."

"Who? Mag?" Hermione nodded and Ron scrunched his nose. "She gives that impression doesn't she? Sometimes not sure she likes me that much. But she's a softie really. She just doesn't know you yet. You should drop in and chat to her. Become acquainted."

The thought clearly didn't agree with Hermione- even in this light Ron could see her paling at the notion. She was strange this academic girl, not at all what they were used to at Ottery.

Historically, the Prewetts and Weasleys were known to be a relaxed, to the point of gently neglectful, people. They rarely sweated the small stuff, instead choosing to focus on enjoying life within the castle walls. Gregarious, big conversationalists, noisy and party-throwing. And generous; their generosity to the nearby towns and villages was legendary. There was an old tale that if your son or daughter needed a job, you could send them up to Ottery and something would be found for them to do. As such, there was a prevalence for employing people who, while worthy and hardworking, may not have necessarily been the right person for the job.

This included the vast amount of family members and friends that had been on the payroll over the years. Generally decent people but no idea how to run a business, turn a profit or take care of what was essentially a museum.

They weren't stupid, his family, they just weren't particularly money-minded. This was why they had a sterling reputation but their funds were substantially dwindled and their ancestral home was on the verge of collapse. It had been a slow process, over many years, but gradually it was becoming apparent that they were having more bad years than good ones.

Hermione wasn't what Ottery or its inhabitants were used to. But maybe she was what they needed.

Hermione got to her feet and took the bowls to the sink for rinsing.

"Don't worry about that," Ron half yawned, stretching luxuriously, "Someone will do it tomorrow. Maybe me, if I'm up early enough."

"It's no trouble," she replied. Smartly, she dried and stacked everything and then turned to the dryer, opening the door and peering inside.

The hot stench of damp fabric swelled the air and Ron got to his feet. "Leave them. Stick it on a long, low programme. You can pick them up tomorrow."

"No, it's fine… They aren't that bad."

The doubt in her voice brought Ron to her side and he took the clothes from her hands. "Go. They'll be here tomorrow."

Conflict was plain on her face but the weariness of a long, difficult day seemed to suddenly weigh on her because she responded, "Yes. Ok."

"Great." Ron restarted the dryer and turned back to Hermione who was pulling on her shoes and rolling up the legs of the boiler suit so her toes didn't catch.

"Suits you," he teased as she dusted herself down and she made a face. "No seriously. Very sexy."

It was a joke that fell somewhat short of target, for Hermione caught his eye as he said it and then looked away again quickly. It took her a full five seconds to force a laugh.

"Billy will be off duty by now so the security hut will be locked," Ron muttered, trying to diffuse the tension, "You'll need to get out of the car and swipe the gate yourself with your pass."

She nodded, gave a half smile and then left the kitchen abruptly.

Ron leant against the sink, listening to the hollow thump of the dryer and pondered the misstep. Anyone else would have taken the sexy comment for what it was: a mildly sarcastic quip. Yet it did nothing but embarrass her. She wasn't humourless, he definitely had the power of making her laugh. Today, however, he had just succeeded in making her uncomfortable.

A deep, cold shiver ran through him and he was reminded that he too was damp and in need of a hot shower. As he switched off the kitchen lights, his brain decided not to dwell too closely on what made Hermione tick. Round here, there were too many other things needing its time.

OOO

Early next morning, Ron slotted bread into the toaster, aggravating Mag who never seemed to be satisfied with the time he chose to have breakfast. Or the location.

As she bustled round him lifting utensils she muttered curtly, "You could use the kitchen upstairs, you know. It's fully fitted. It even has a toaster."

"But you'd miss my charming mug Mag," Ron replied, pouring himself a thick, stout cup of tea from the stewing pot on the hob. "I'm only thinking of you."

The door to the dryer sat slightly ajar. "Did you lift the clothes out of there?"

Mag didn't turn round. "I lifted nothing. Get your skinny arse out of my way, some of us have work to do."

He lifted his toast and headed out of the kitchen and down the tunnel towards the offices. If Mag hadn't opened the dryer, then that meant…

And lo, there she was. Half past seven in the morning and Hermione was at her desk, typing furiously, headphone clamped over her ears. Through the half open door, he could see her jeans and jumper folded neatly on the chair next to her bookcase. He saw her thought process clearly: get in early and get to the dryer before Mag came in. This one needed an intervention.

At exactly one PM, Ron returned. It was a gamble as to whether or not she would still be in her office and not wedged behind a glass cabinet somewhere tutting but he was pleased to see that she hadn't yet made it out of her chair that day and was still hammering out emails and reports.

"Knock knock."

Hermione had felt Ron lingering at the door before he spoke but she hadn't looked up. Perhaps he would go away if she didn't make eye contact. There was so much to do before the working day was over and Ron could be distracting. It was a pleasant distraction usually, but a distraction none the less. She needed as few of those as possible.

Still, she thought as she raised her head, he was kind and it wasn't his fault she was a manic overachiever.

"Hello." She was surprised by how softly the word came out, as though it melted slightly on her tongue. She was accustomed to being short and snappy with Ron; he seemed to prefer it that way.

Her tone seemed to catch him off guard too because he raised an eyebrow before he spoke again and when he did, he too was a little gentler.

"Clothes dry ok?"

"They did, thank you. How's your day going?"

Hermione resisted the urge to peruse the email on her screen with one eye as she listened to the answer. She did that a lot and it really was terrible manners, if more efficient than stopping work. She turned her face up to Ron and smiled.

"Well," Ron started, sounding slightly suspicious, "It's going ok. Some of that all-important grant money has finally filtered through so I enjoyed the three point five milliseconds it was allowed to rest in our bank account before being swiftly distributed into other people's."

He ticked off one finger.

"I watched a fascinating webinar on the new health and safety rules we need to abide by if we are going to continue to have school trips here. We need a lot more ugly signage, you're gonna hate it."

Hermione felt her lip curl but he carried on, ticking off another finger.

"Then, it was my turn to ring Aunt Muriel and, honestly I'd have taken another webinar, but it's done now and all her rage has helped me work up an appetite so not all bad."

He ticked off a third, final finger.

"You have been productive," Hermione replied. "Sounds like it's lunchtime then."

Ron grinned. "Exactly. Let's go."

"What do you mean?"

Even as she spoke, she sensed she knew what he meant.

"It's lentil and bacon today. And we're early so it'll still be hot."

He jerked a thumb behind him as Hermione shook her head.

"Sorry, I can't today Ron. So much to do." She flapped her hands at the stacks of paperwork, manuals and collection of tiny paint pots that had accumulated on her desk, hoping he would understand that it really was impossible.

Except he didn't understand and he wouldn't take no for an answer.

"You can take half an hour."

"I have a call at two."

"It's one. You don't need sixty minutes to eat soup."

"It's ten past one…"

"Bloody hell woman, get up!"

Before Hermione could react or brace herself, Ron had loped round the side of the desk and pulled her to her feet.

"Ron, I really…."

Even as he ushered her through the door and up the corridor, she protested. As they bumped along, him nudging her in the back, Hermione reminded herself the only reason she was resisting was because of her humongous workload. It was nothing to do with social awkwardness and it certainly wasn't because she was scared of the cook.

She half walked, half fell into the kitchen and Ron slung a nonchalant arm around her shoulders, pulling her with him so she couldn't duck away.

Haroon raised his head as Ron guided Hermione to the seat next to him and practically deposited her into it.

"Two more bowls, Mag!" Ron hollered through the larder door, running his hand through the mishmash of cutlery in the drawer looking for spoons.

"Nice to see you Hermione," Haroon said approvingly, "Out of the office I mean. Taking a break."

She bit back the urge to respond that she was frequently out of the office because she knew what he meant. In her short time here, she had become known as somewhat of a workaholic. When she wasn't chained to her desk, computer and phone, she was knee deep in fabric, machinery, bits of metal. Every day in the previous week she had eaten her sandwiches perusing catalogues for a new type of oil for the clock.

In her first few weeks, people had stopped by her desk, offering to take her to lunch and each time there had been something else to prioritise. Eventually they stopped asking. She wondered if Ron knew that. Probably. He knew everything else apparently.

Mag emerged from the larder clutching large Kilner jars of flour. Her gaze landed on Hermione, who felt her breath catch in her chest. Then Mag turned her attention to Ron and Hermione exhaled sharply, feeling ridiculous.

"Get your hand OUT of it Ronald Weasley," Mag growled, slapping him away as Ron poked in the massive pot with the ladle. "Honest to God you're worse than a child."

Ron yelped dramatically and darted back to the table, throwing himself into the seat at its head.

Mag stirred the soup before ladling some into two bowls. As she carried them to the table, Ron sat up straight and tapped his spoon on the table.

"You may serve me first Mag. As lord of the house. Hermione is but lowly staff."

Mag said nothing as she placed the bowls on the table in front of them.

"Thank you Mag." Hermione swallowed uncomfortably.

The older woman nodded once and turned away, clipping the back of Ron's head with the heel of her hand as she went.

The kitchen filled fairly quickly; some stopping to eat and chat, others slapping together a makeshift sandwich with bread and cheese or pouring some soup into a Thermos for later.

Some faces Hermione recognized, some she didn't. Ron, in contrast, knew everyone's name and introduced her to anyone she didn't know. It was, Hermione decided as she ate, seriously impressive. Not only did Ron know names but he was able to recollect titbits of lives, enquiring after a daughter's piano exam, a cat's broken tail. He was genuinely interested and invested in the people who worked at Ottery and he really didn't need to be. He could have managed things from his apartment upstairs or the general office and left the day-to-day to the people he paid to do it. The fact that he didn't, vastly increased him in her eyes.

It shouldn't have actually, because it was terribly inefficient to squander Ron's time on household tasks, not to mention wasteful of the money the Weasley family paid for staff to do all the things that Ron got involved in. The sensible, business side of Hermione's brain told her that Ron would be better served running Ottery as a hands-off manager, more like Harry.

Yet she found she didn't hold that opinion at all. Quite, she thought as she watched him laugh, the opposite.

In the distance the clock chimed the hour and Hermione jumped up as though scalded.

How can it be two o'clock already?

"God, I'm late," she babbled, grabbing up her bowl and spoon, "I can't believe I'm late!"

Grateful that Mag had disappeared, she completed her washing-up in record speed. Ron had stopped in the middle of telling Kate a story about plums to watch her and as she scurried out of the kitchen he shouted after her, "Off you go then Miss White Rabbit! Thanks for lunch!"