AN: Romione Week, Day 2: Throughout the Years. Inspired by Five for Fighting's 100 years. TW: Minor mention of death, minor mention of pregnancy.
Life flashes past in the blink of an eye. But what do one hundred years have in store for Ron Weasley?
15
The darkness is thick and the heat oppressive, pressing against Ron and stealing all of his senses. He's blinded, yet he knows exactly where he is. The knowledge sends tingles down his arms, setting the hairs on his arm on end.
How have I ended up back here?
It's almost been a year since the Yule Ball, yet over and over, he finds himself weaving through the crowds, ignoring the elbows, shoulders and hips he bumps into as he searches for an unattainable treasure.
Music thrums around him, the heavy thumping of the bass beating in time with his heart. The Weird Sisters are still playing, an endless repeat of the same song, as if they're subjecting him to some kind of torture. Maybe he's in Azkaban. That's the only rational explanation for his current ordeal. A never-ending hunt, a need to get somewhere, a burning passion he knows will only be quelled when he arrives.
Oh! Can you dance like a hippogriff? Na na na ma ma ny na na ny na.
Flyin' off from a cliff. Na na na ma ma ny na na ny na.
The band was his favourite, but he never wants to hear any of their songs ever again. He tries his best to pay no heed to the music, choosing to focus on his mission. The end is getting close, he can feel it in his bones. Ron won't be able to rest until he does.
After walking for what feels like hours, his hands settle on a pair of hips, his fingers sliding over the satin material and digging into the flesh beneath it.
Here she is.
Her scent is intoxicating: vanilla and rose prevalent over the mixture of sweaty teenagers, sickly sweet butterbeer and the remnants of the massive buffet the school put on for them.
The girl is faceless with her back to him. She's unknown, yet her familiarity overwhelms Ron. Her name is hidden in his brain, but the continuous assault on his senses pushes it further and further away until it gets lost under the sea of nonsensical lyrics.
Swooping down to the ground. Na na na ma ma ny na na ny na.
Wheel around and around and around and around and around and around and around…
Snapping her hips to his, she leans back, drawing breath and exposing the column of her neck to him. Being only fifteen, he's never experienced anything erotic before, yet this is the sexiest position he's ever seen. Ron's body betrays him, his trousers growing too tight under his dress robes in response to her sultry movements.
"Who are you?" he asks.
Of their own accord, his hands slide up her side painstakingly slowly, bumping over the ridges of her bra under the skin-tight material. They drift around to her front, cupping her breasts only for a moment before moving up to her shoulders. He's about to spin her around, to look upon the face of the woman he's been seeking out for a year, as the air around him ripples and morphs. Their connection breaks, and then…
22
He is lying on his back, his chest heaving as he fights for breath. Although he's never had sex before, at least not in real life, there's an understanding deep in his brain that he's recovering from the best night of his life. A sense of sated pleasure lies over his body, and a trickle of sweat confirms his suspicions, tracing from his fringe, down the side of his face and pooling at the dip below his Adam's apple.
"Bloody hell," he lets out, once his lungs have remembered how to retain air. "That was… I can't… Merlin."
"I know," the sultry voice of the faceless woman replies, snuggling into his side and burying her head against his chest. She traces kisses against the soft muscles above his heart, the sensation like a whirlwind of fairy wings beating at his skin.
It's the same girl from the Yule Ball, he's sure of it, but he still doesn't know who she is.
At least this time, he can see her chocolate brown hair. There's a lot of it, a Diricawl's nest mess of waves and ringlets dampened down from their night of pleasure. It covers her forehead and nose, yet neither of them does anything to move it out of the way.
Ron takes another deep breath, allowing the scent of roses to fill his nostrils. He will push back the curtain concealing his mysterious lover soon. He longs to look upon her face, to kiss her and taste those pouty pink lips poking out at the ends of her tendrils of hair, but he needs one more minute to recover first.
Grey light peeks through his curtains, signalling either the start or the end of the day. But they have all the time in the world.
33
The bed disappears, replaced by a deep red velvet sofa. The material is soft, encompassing Ron's body, even though it is worn and threadbare in places.
He sits upon it, casting his eyes around the room and looking for any hint as to where or when he might be now. Although photographs hang on the wall and trinkets lie on the mantelpiece, he cannot see any of the finer details. The edges and faces blur into each other, masking his location.
A woman steadily lowers herself down next to him, a cup of tea in her hands.
"Where's mine?" he cheeks, and even though he can't see the look she gives him, he knows it's chiding and irritated.
She replies in the voice he's grown to love, despite the harsh edges to it. "Do you know how long it's taken me to waddle through here? Get your own tea if you want one that badly."
"I know, I know."
He places his hand on her growing stomach, an overwhelming sense of pride warming his heart. Although this is the first time he's seen it, he knows the life growing inside is his. He's never been confident of anything else, ever.
"Not long now, love. She'll be with us in a few more weeks, and then we can start thinking about the next one."
The woman scoffs, but she places her hand over his and gives it a firm squeeze. "We're never having another one."
A kick soon rewards them, a small foot protruding through the soft skin of her stomach.
"Rose has other ideas." Ron smirks.
67
The scenery around Ron shifts around him once more, and this time, he finds himself at the edge of the garden at the Burrow. He can tell by the way the clean air fills his lungs and the smell of his mum's cooking, who, even at the ripe old age of ninety-seven, still provides an endless supply of roast dinners and cottage pies to her ever-expanding family.
"That's the magic of being magical," Molly always quips whenever anyone asks her how she still does it. "And I've still got twenty years in me, at least."
The remainder of the late afternoon sun peeks over the top of the marquee, warming Ron's pale skin. He closes his eyes and turns his face up to the light, basking in the feeling of a job well done.
A voice appears from behind him and says, "I can't believe she's getting married tomorrow."
A familiar pair of hands slide around his waist, and a weight leans against him. He responds automatically, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pressing a kiss against her head.
"Finally. For a moment, I didn't think it would happen."
"She enjoys studying and wanted to make sure her career was sorted first. I don't blame her for holding off. Anyway, Rose is only thirty-four, it's not that old."
Ron chuckles. "We'd had her by the time we were her age, and Hugo was on the way."
"Yeah, but that was late for us. We'd already been together for fifteen years, at least."
"And I wouldn't change a moment of it for the world."
She lets out a happy sigh, a sound so beautiful, Ron could hear it over and over again. "Me neither."
99
The Burrow fades away in a blink of an eye, and Ron is back in the bedroom, lying alone. Each breath he takes is hard and laboured, the light duvet weighing down on his frail body. Above him, concerned faces linger, although their features blur into one dark shape.
He knows it's the end. He made peace with it a long time ago. Ninety-nine is a great age to live until, although his dear old mother lasted until one hundred and twelve. Ron's life has been long, full of love and fun, and enough adventure to last him a thousand lifetimes.
Plus, he knows that she'll be there. She left him five years ago, and he's been desperate to see her again.
Ron's last breath leaves his lips like a whisper, barely enough to expel into the surrounding air. A long wail, like a ghost coming to claim him, fills the room as his remaining loved ones mourn his passing. But the noise soon fades as he steps towards the light and the dark figure waiting for him within.
A smile lights up her face, and he notices the irony of it being the first time he gets to see her properly. There are no lines under her chocolate brown eyes, and she's as fresh-faced as the moment he realised he fell in love with her, when she stepped down the short staircase that led to the Entrance Hall on the night of the Yule Ball.
"Hermione," he whispers as she takes hold of him and pulls him over the threshold to whatever is waiting for them next.
She reassures him straight away, squeezing his hand, which is now bereft of the wrinkles and thin skin that marked his age. Ron is young again, barely even fifteen, and he feels like he could live his life all over again. Even with all the drama.
Hermione responds, "I'm here. It's going to be okay." Her voice is kind and comforting, just like it's been for the other eighty-eight years they've known each other.
He used to think that dying would be difficult, but with her by his side, it's the easiest thing he's ever done.
15
Ron's eyes spring open. He's lying on a cold stone floor, with five sets of eyes peering over him. Hermione, Harry, Ginny, George, and Fred. Although three of them have concerned looks on their face, the twins are amused.
"I'm sorry," Hermione begins, but a glare from Harry silences her.
"It was a new charm," his other best friend continues, "one Fred and George have made up. I should have known better than to try it out with the DA. Sorry, mate."
Harry helps Ron to sit up, and the redhead lets out a loud groan before rubbing the back of his neck. His limbs ache, but the feeling of regret he has from leaving the lovely dream he had is even more prevalent.
"Don't worry, Ronnie," George quips. "The rest of the class has already left."
Fred interjects, "Yeah, nobody heard you moaning 'who is she?' or your final groan of Hermione. What were you dreaming of, Ronnie?"
Aghast, Ron's eyes flit to his female best friend as his ears burn in shame. She can't make eye contact with him, although he notices a pleased smile has replaced the lines of worry on her face, even as it turns beet red.
He will never be able to look at her the same way again.
"Well, whatever it was," she eventually says, "it sounded like a nice dream. Come on, Ginny, let's finish tidying up."
As the others disperse, Fred lingers back, stepping up to his youngest brother before whispering in his ear, "Whatever happened, I want to hear every detail of it later. You know, for research purposes."
The twin buggers off, leaving Ron to dust down his trousers and try to make sense of what he's been through. But it's no good. The last tendrils of the dream fade from his mind, leaving him with a sense of loss but a deeper understanding.
Bloody hell. He's going to spend the rest of his life with Hermione Granger.