It was mornings like these that Hermione wished she had it in her to be a superficial aristocrat and call up a maid to help her out of bed and into her clothes— and thus, symbolically, into the lull of the day. One of her eternal quarrels with her mother was that she did not want to take on a lady's maid to help her about her morning duties, since she very well knew how to get out of bed and dress herself well enough without anybody's help (except for the corset part, but she could make do with a mirror and she'd call in a hall maid if the situation was more dire). But on a morning like this, when her bed was warm around her and the memory of Ron's kiss was too, she could do with a little push out of bed. After all, why shouldn't she want to stay between the covers? When it was so soft and cozy underneath the duvet? That was reason enough, wasn't it? She didn't have to admit that— well, that to get out of bed would be to begin a new day, officially putting an end to the previous night and the dreams that had followed it.
Ron's kiss still lingered, if not on her lips, at least in the forefront of her memory. She could recall the soft pressure of his mouth against her, and the slightly-sawdusty odor that she'd caught a whiff of when she'd leaned in to kiss him. She could recall his muscular terseness underneath her hand on his chest. But most of all, she could recall the involuntary smile he had given her when she'd pulled away, as if she'd given him the world and he was still making sense of it.
It was the memory of this little smile, and the desire to see it again, that finally made Hermione get out of bed.
She rolled out of the covers and placed two feet on the Persian rug by the bed. The intensity of the daylight flooding in through the window made her blink instinctively, casting off the last few dredges of her sleepiness. She then stood up and walked to her closet, already mentally sifting through its contents to try to come up with a preliminary idea of what she might wear. She didn't want to wear a corset, that she knew for a fact —if getting out of bed had been difficult as was, she did not need to add to the torture by squeezing herself into one—, so she'd have to pick something she could wear over a simple camisole without her mother catching on to it.
She settled upon a lacy, long-sleeved white blouse frilled and embroidered with floral motifs, paired with a slender black skirt, also finished with embroidery, whose waist was so tight and high up that it would do the job of holding everything in place as a corset might. She shifted uncomfortably as she slid the blouse on over her head: its neck was high and the lace in it was itchy, a characteristic Hermione had forgotten about this particular garment. No matter, she thought to herself as she tried to ease into the chafing sensation of the lace against her skin. It's this or a corset. And the corset never won out.
Finished dressing, Hermione went to her boudoir desk to choose a pair of earrings and dab some perfume on her neck, wrists, and behind her ears. She looked in the mirror to assess the state of her hair and felt a lightning flash course through her: the déjà vu of sitting before this same mirror last night and encountering the note that would give start to everything was almost overpowering. The tips of her fingers drifted to her lips and hung there for an instant, her body wanting to remember as badly as she did.
She snapped out of it quickly: deciding that her hair was too frizzy to wear down, she reached for a peach-colored ribbon and tied her hair up and back with it. She knew her mother would frown at the hair when she saw it, but it wouldn't matter; she took breakfast in bed and it would be a while before she saw her, and by then it would be too late for Hermione to excuse herself from the guests' company and return with a different do.
She slid on the first —white, chunky— shoes she saw and didn't even glance at herself once more in the mirror before exiting her room out into the hallway to go down to breakfast.
She was met with an unpleasant surprise. "Good morning, my lady," came Cormac's croon as he sidled up to her. "What a coincidence that we should happen to both be out in the hall at this time."
"A coincidence indeed," Hermione said through gritted teeth, peeling his hand off where it had settled dangerously close to her behind. It was the polite thing to do to pretend like she didn't know Cormac had been lurking around waiting for her to exit her room so he could stage his little 'coincidence'. She cursed herself for having gotten out of bed that morning.
"I suppose we should walk down together, then?"
"I suppose I have no other choice."
Cormac laughed: "You are funny, Lady Hermione."
Hermione stretched her features into a smile. "I wasn't joking."
Something close to fury glinted in Cormac's eyes, but his radiant smile didn't waver. "See. Funny."
With that, they headed down the hall and wove toward the main stairwell, Hermione trying to inch away from Cormac with every step they took and he trying to worm closer. They finally made it to the first step, and looking down into the lobby Hermione saw a sight that made her heart turn over in her chest.
Kneeling by the last step, Ron was hard at work on the last rod in the banister, which Hermione knew had an issue with loosening because her mother had already amply complained to Gramsley about it. He was concentrated on his work, his tongue ever so slightly peering out of his mouth, and his arms were flexed with the effort his hands were making. He should have had no reason to notice her, but right as Hermione's eyes found his red head, he lifted it to look up at her. Meeting his blue eyes was electric, and Hermione shivered slightly beside Cormac when they made eye contact. Ron's mouth twisted slightly upward in a way that was almost imperceptible to anyone but her (her, who knew his boyish grin so well already), and that smile, the very smile Hermione had gotten out of bed for, told her that Ron had been thinking about her too.
Unfortunately, Cormac had caught on to the exchange between them, and had not liked it one bit. Just then, however, a sound came from the front door, and he remembered that his mother and Lady Granger had gone out for a walk after a very early breakfast in bed that morning. The sound of lively chatter, flooding into the lobby as the two women crossed it, confirmed it. Cormac smiled to himself: he knew now what he was to do.
He waited until the two women had walked into the lobby and he and Hermione still had a few steps left to go down; then, when his mother and Lady Amelia had come into view, he called out: "Good morning, ladies!"
Lady Amelia and Lady Aileen's heads craned around to look at the source of the voice. With their eyes firmly on him, Cormac's inner smile grew even wider. They're looking at me, he thought. Time for the next part.
"Had a nice walk?" he said, and then sped up his descent. He was careful, however, that this speedier descent would snag the heel of his shoe on the edge of a step, sending him hurtling forward the final three steps and right onto the carpet lining the lobby. As he toppled forward, he heard gasps coming from the two older women and couldn't resist smirking. Right as he was about to hit the floor, he sent his arms outward to break the fall but quickly folded them into his torso once his palms had made contact with the ground, so it would look as though he'd hit chest-first. He remained facedown on the rug and, through the ever-widening smirk, let out a measured groan that he knew would sound like pain to any bystander.
"Cormac, are you alright?" he heard his mother shriek, and heard the rustle of the two women's skirts as they rushed to his side. He felt a steady hand grip him by the forearm and help him up, and supposed that Gramsley had also rushed over to aid in the commotion.
"Thank you, Gramsley," Cormac said as he stood up. The old butler merely nodded and shuffled back to his post by the door. Cormac brushed off the lapels of his suit and took care to wince slightly as he did so, as if the very movement of his wrists sent pain rolling through him. His mother was at his side, as was Lady Amelia, fussing over him and clinging to his shoulders; however, when he looked toward Hermione, he saw that she was still on the steps— on the same step as the handyman, and they were both staring at him impassively. Hermione, by the looks of it, had not even attempted to move toward him. The very sight made his anger flared.
"What happened?" Lady Amelia said, and Cormac remarked that her grip was perhaps a little too tight around his bicep.
"It really is of no matter," Cormac said, shaking off both women and readjusting his jacket. "It was my own foolishness, really. I got ahead of myself and rushed down, and tripped. Though I suppose the over-polished state of the stairs did not help." His eyes glinted with malice as they sought Ron. "Trust the handyman to do it, I suppose."
Just as Cormac had intended, Lady Amelia's head snapped toward Weasley, still crouched by the banister's end. "You," she growled at him. "You idiot! You could have killed Lord McLaggen! What is it with the service these days that not even some country boy knows how to properly wax wood?"
"It's not his job, mother," Hermione sprang up then, and Cormac's smug smile slightly wilted. Hermione covered the last few steps with ease, descending to the ground floor to stand between Ron and Lady Amelia. "The handyman is not in charge of the everyday cleaning of the house— he just mends what breaks in it. Waxing the stairwell is the maids' job— but you would know that if your involvement in your own household surpassed the state of giving orders."
Lady Amelia turned a nasty shade of purple, but Hermione did not relent in her defense. "And you," she said, her gaze now piercing through Cormac, "could have easily avoided that if you'd stayed on the carpet instead of stepping on the ends of the steps. That's what the carpet is there for, which I suppose the fine Lord McLaggen, in his impeccable upbringing and intelligence, would know."
"Hermione Jean Granger! That is no way to speak to our guest!" cried Lady Amelia.
"And that is no way for a guest to speak to our house staff!" Hermione yelled back, stepping even closer to her mother as if to stand face-to-face.
Ron got up from where he'd crouched by the banister and approached Hermione tentatively. "I suppose I'd best get going, Her– m'lady," he was quick to correct. Behind Lady Amelia's shoulder, he saw McLaggen's eyes narrow at his near slip-up, and cursed himself for it.
"Out of my sight," barked Lady Amelia without even looking at him, and Ron complied: he scurried back toward the servants' stairwell as fast as he could without full-on running (Lady Amelia, of course, wouldn't stand for running in her hall).
"Stupid service," Lady Amelia muttered, and Lady Aileen mumbled her agreement. "You simply cannot find a proper house staff anymore!"
With that, the ladies started toward the library where they were sure to meet their husbands. Cormac, however, stalled, leering at Hermione.
"Coming, my lady?" he said, still wearing the same smug expression.
"Lead the way, my lord," Hermione scowled. Satisfied, Cormac turned back and followed his mother, expecting Hermione to follow suit in his tracks.
Hermione, however, cast one last glance over her shoulder at where Ron had disappeared. She didn't know whether it was wishful thinking, but she could've sworn she'd seen two blue eyes, filled with longing, peering out at her from behind the servants' door.
It seemed to Ron that he had spent the majority of the day crouching beside broken wooden artifacts of some kind or another. However, as he sat on the stinking hay next to the broken trough by the stables, the air around him reeking of manure and horse, he came to a resounding conclusion: McLaggen and all, he preferred the banister.
"Ron?"
Or the trough might be better, after all.
"And just what are you doing here?" Ron said, rising to his feet and wiping his hands on his trousers. Hermione, impeccable as always and especially now in stark contrast to his barn-doused self, walked down the little path that led from the workshop lane toward the stables. She didn't answer him until she had finished the short walk and stood directly in front of him.
"Father sent me down to check on the horses. The men are going out on a hunt tomorrow and he wanted to make sure they were up to standard."
"Oh, because you know so much about horses?" Ron said, shifting slightly closer to her. Sweaty as he was, he was still elated to feel the warmth he had come to associate with her radiating from her.
"No," Hermione said, also shifting closer and placing a hand on his chest. "But I was hoping to encounter someone who might."
"Oh, well, you're in luck," Ron said, and leaned in to kiss her lightly. Hermione gave into the kiss for just a moment before she jerked away, taking her hand off Ron's chest.
"Ron, we can't be doing this out in public like this."
"Right," Ron said, feeling like an idiot for having allowed himself to kiss her to begin with. "But that means you do intend to keep doing this, right?"
"Just not out in broad daylight," Hermione murmured. A pink flush had settled on her cheeks.
"Well, then, you're in luck yet again. There's a dilapidated stable right here, just for us."
"Just for us, you say?" Hermione said playfully.
"Shall we?" Ron said, stepping out from where he stood in front of Hermione and slipping into the squat, darkened stable.
"What happened to 'after you, milady'?" said Hermione as she followed him inside.
"I thought you didn't like being treated like a lady," came Ron's voice from the wall immediately next to the door. Hermione turned toward the source of the voice, but she didn't have to, because Ron's hand closed around her wrist and pulled her gently toward him. Then it was Ron with his back against the stable wall, legs slightly slid forward so that he wouldn't be standing wholly straight and his face was at the same height as Hermione's, and Hermione pressed closed to him, her hands back on his chest and her legs between Ron's. Ron felt the brush of her breath against his nose and thought he might die and go to heaven right there. "So tell me, then, milady," he said huskily, wrapping both of his arms around Hermione's waist, "d'you feel like doing something unladylike?"
The answer came to him in the form of a crashing kiss, Hermione crushing her lips against his with all the urgency of someone famished. Ron let out a little grunt of surprise and Hermione eased up, softening the pressure but opening her mouth slightly so she could kiss him more deeply. Her hands moved from his chest to both of his cheeks, cupping his face and making small, circular motions with her thumb to caress over his freckles as she kissed him. A small moan built up in Ron's throat, but he kept himself from letting it out by biting slightly at Hermione's lower lip, which was held between both of his own. It was Hermione then that ended up letting out the small moan, and pulled away from the kiss to look at him, lips ajar.
"Oh, so that's how it's going to be?"
"I told you it would be unladylike," Ron smirked at her. Keeping an arm around her waist, he swung the both of them around so now it was Hermione's back against the wall and Ron, his free arm outstretched against the wall to prop them up, pressing her closer. He leaned forward to press a small peck to Hermione's lips, but when she made to kiss him deeper, he brushed his lips away and toward her cheek. Hermione let out a small groan of discontent that quickly melted into a sigh of delight as Ron began to trail fleeting kisses down her jawline and toward her neck. He stopped at the neck and put his lips there, feeling Hermione shiver with pleasure as his teeth scraped gently against the tender skin.
"Oh, Ron," Hermione sighed. Her arms, which had stayed close to Ron's face, snaked around to rest a hand on Ron's back and the other on the back of his head, effectively wrapping him around the neck and body. Taking advantage of the firmer hold, Ron hoisted Hermione upward, supporting her with the wall she was still pressed against and with both of his arms under her thighs. He kept kissing and nipping lightly at her neck, urged onward by the contented sounds Hermione emitted every so often. He found a particular spot and settled upon it, sucking slightly.
"Ohh, that's it, Ron, oh, Ron–" Hermione mumbled, her voice quivering from the sensation.
Just then, a neigh from the far side of the stable startled them both: Hermione dropped her hands to her sides and Ron pulled away from where he was kissing her neck, not letting go of her but whipping his head around to look over his shoulder at where the noise had come from. When it dawned on them both that it had just been a horse, the fear drained from their wide eyes and they burst out into laughter, Hermione's arms again settling comfortably on Ron's shoulders and her hands clasping loosely behind his neck.
"Still better than broad daylight, isn't it?" Ron quipped.
"I'll take a horse over my mother any day," Hermione smiled. With her features still bathed in mirth, Ron couldn't help but remarking on how beautiful she looked.
He set her down gently and Hermione's arms came undone around his neck, her hand finding his instead.
"Ron, about last night..."
"Don't tell me 'it can't happen again,' because it just did, and that would just give me an excuse to pelter you with more rants about how the nobility are a bunch of hypocrites."
"That wasn't what I was going to say, you moron," Hermione said, playfully pushing him backward with the hand that wasn't in his. "I was just going to say that it was lovely."
"That's it? None of the usual snark? No sarcasm, no witticisms?"
"Oh, be nice for once."
"I'm always nice," Ron said, his own free hand again settling around Hermione's waist. "To you, at least."
"There are several bickering exchanges that would beg to differ."
"Well, I'm not bickering now," said Ron. "It was lovely, Hermione Granger. For me too."
Hermione looked up at him, her brown eyes pooling with something that (if she didn't know better) she might have called love. "Good. I'm glad." Her gaze fell, then, directed at the dirty stable floor. "I'm sorry about Cormac and my mother, earlier. You didn't deserve that."
"Oh, I'll be fine. Your mother I can deal with, and that McLaggen is an arse."
"That McLaggen is an arse, indeed," Hermione muttered her agreement.
Ron let them steep in that silence, mired in the pleasant complicity of mutual hatred towards a third, for a moment before he broke it with a question he did not want to ask but knew he was bound to sooner or later."Hermione?"
"Hm?"
"Where do we go from here, though?"
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You, being practical?"
"Hey, I'm the handyman here. And I've gotten you out of more than a sticky spot. So I'll have none of that."
"All right, then," Hermione said, the smile returning. "But you are right. We do have to think about it."
"You take a stab at being practical, then. What next?"
"Well, I think what's next is I kiss you goodbye, and then I head back to the house, and then I check in the mirror for the mark you must have left, and then I pick a blouse with a higher neck to hide it, and then I go down to the library to find my father and tell him that all is set for tomorrow's hunt down here."
"Hermione."
"Is that not enough 'next' for you?"
It dawned then on Ron that Hermione was just as equal-parts-scared-and-thrilled as he was, and that the product of that emotional cocktail was a desire to live in the moment and try to think of nothing beyond it. That, knowing all that this tryst could entail and how fragile it might prove to be, he could understand.
"It's enough," he smiled. "Let's get started with it, then. I believe I heard something about a goodbye kiss?"
"Someone's been paying attention," said Hermione, rising to her tiptoes to find his lips and kiss them gently, briefly, tenderly. "Now that that's done, then, I suppose I'd better get to the rest of the list."
"Heading back to the house. Got it." Ron beckoned toward the light outside the barn, and Hermione curtsied jokingly before stepping out into the sunlight. "And I should get back to fixing this trough."
"You do that," Hermione said. Ron lowered his body by the trough again, but this time he sat flat on the ground and stretched his legs before him, wanting none of the cramps that came with how much crouching he'd been doing. Hermione eyed his legs. "Nice boots."
Ron glanced at his boots, which were made of rubber, reached up to his mid-shin, and were absolutely covered in grime. Then he looked at Hermione, in her high-collared shirt and high-waisted skirt, and resolved to tease back.
"Nice outfit. You don't look like a governess at all."
"Oh, be quiet," Hermione snorted. She turned out onto the small path back toward the workshop lane and cast him one last look, paired with a smile. "Until next 'next', then."
Ron raised a hand to wave her off as she started up the trail. "Until next 'next' it is."