Ron stood at the washbucket by the stove, dipping the rag into the lukewarm water and then dragging it across the skin of his face, chest, and arms. He had to look presentable for Gramsley to let him attend the wedding, and if there was one thing worse than having to watch Hermione marry a man other than him, it was not being able to watch it.

He had laid out the suit he would wear on the chair beside him: an ugly brown number, a hand-me-down of his brother Percy that clashed horribly against his orange hair. No doubt, Gramsley would tut at him when he saw him, but Ron would have to bear it. It was this suit or nothing, and that suit was the difference between being able to be at the wedding or nothing.

Still, he winced as he cleaned himself off and then wrung the dirty water out of the rag. What was Hermione doing right now, he wondered? Was she taking that bath she'd told Cathy she'd take? He thought of Hermione in the bathtub and felt an ache reverberate in his chest. No, if he was to get through this day, he'd have to keep all thoughts of Hermione, indecent or otherwise, to a minimum. Otherwise he'd crack when he saw her in that dress.

He finished washing his face and dropped the rag back into the bucket. He'd empty it later, but he couldn't be arsed to do it right now. It was hard enough to get into the suit as it was, let alone do extra chores in the middle. No, he could come back to this when Hermione was a married woman and he a miserable man, and he'd be glad that the bucket was there, a remnant of the time before the wedding. He stopped his thoughts right there. Christ, Ron, lighten up, he told himself, splashing his face with the cooling water once more to snap out of it. It's just a bloody bucket. No need to get all Lord Byron about it.

He dried himself off for good this time and was just moving to the chair over which the horrid brown suit hung when a knock at the door called his attention. It was probably Gramsley, come to see whether he was presentable enough. Ron cursed under his breath as he went to open the door: he'd have to come up with some sort of excuse for why he wasn't ready yet, and really sweet-talk Gramsley into letting him go.

But when he opened the door, it wasn't Gramsley he saw.

"We have to go, Ron, now," Hermione said, looking over her shoulder as she showed herself into his stone cottage and closed the door, nabbing Ron's fingers in the process.

Ron cried out in pain and withdrew his hand, putting his smushed fingers inside his mouth to soothe their throbbing. Hermione, however, paid him no mind, scuttling around the house, as if looking frantically for something. "Where do you keep your clothes?"

"In the drawer," Ron grumbled, pointing to the loft with his good hand. Hermione scarcely spared him a glance as she began to climb the ladder up. "Why, looking for a change of clothes?"

Hermione paused then, halfway through the ascent, and looked at her own clothes. "What's wrong with these?"

She was wearing a white button-down collared shirt and a pair of men's gray trousers that swam around her hips, only held up by a pair of crooked suspenders. "Nothing," Ron said, starting to regain sensation in his fingers. "I'm just wondering if you'll want to give those back to whatever bloke they belong to."

"Don't be an arse, Ron," Hermione said, rolling her eyes and resuming her climb. "These are all I had in my room that didn't have a skirt attached. I stole them from Orlando a while back, I think to piss him off, and just forgot to give them back. Now I'm glad I kept them."

"Hey, where's the other one?" Ron said. Hermione looked down at him from the loft in confusion. "I mean, since you could clearly fit two of you in those pants, I'm just wondering if the other one didn't fall out along the way."

"You're being an arse," Hermione declared. Ron laughed to himself and then followed her up the ladder, concerned by the sound of drawers being opened and closed brusquely.

He came up to the loft to find Hermione pulling out trousers and shirts from the chest of drawers and shoving them into the worn soft leather bag at the foot of Ron's narrow bed. "Now will you tell me what in heaven's name you're doing here?"

Hermione paused her frantic shoving and, kneeling, glared at him. "Packing. What else does it look like I'm doing?"

"Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but it's not a tradition for nobles to start packing their servants' belongings on their wedding mornings."

"Help me pack, will you?"

"But, Hermione— what in the bloody hell am I packing for?"

"Let's go, Ron, there's no time," Hermione said, snapping the latch on the bag shut and handing it to him. "We have to slip out through the back as quickly as we can. Orlando will have them check the house before they check the grounds, so maybe we have a little time, but it's no guarantee. We have to go, now."

Ron stopped her as she made to put her foot on the ladder's first rung. "Hermione— will you tell me what you're doing here, please?"

That seemed to yank Hermione out of her frenzy, and she looked at Ron as she said: "We're running away, Ron."

She clambered down the ladder, and Ron, frozen to the spot with the full impact of what she'd said, took an instant to follow, the bag swinging in his hand as he climbed down. "Hermione, stop, please. Stop just for a second." Hermione did, pausing in the middle of the ground floor and looking at him quizzically. "We're running away?"

"You said, and I believe these were your exact words less than an hour ago, you'd always be around if I ever felt like running away or anything."

Ron was stunned. "Well— yes, I did, but I meant in a few years, when you were bored of your stuffy husband and longing for me, but not an hour after I said it."

"Well, tell me if you're ready, because if you're not, I just climbed out of my room for nothing."

"No, I'm ready, I just—" Ron paused, Hermione's words just fully sinking in. "Wait a second— climbed? How did you get out of your room?"

Hermione grinned at him, a smile that proudly displayed all of her teeth. "I climbed out of the window. Just like you showed me."

"Are you mental?!" Ron exclaimed, his jaw dropping. "Hermione, you could've seriously hurt yourself—"

"Aren't you proud?"

Ron paused for an instant and frowned. "Well, yes, I'm proud, but—"

"Well, then, what's keeping us? I'm out here, I'm not hurt, and I've packed— no thanks to you, may I add. Let's go. Let's run away."

She looked giddy, standing in the middle of his cottage, her bushy hair fighting to get out of the tie she'd put it up in and her eyes blazing with mad excitement. The sight of her filled Ron's heart, but still something kept him. He went to her and held her hand. The light in her eyes dimmed a little.

"Hermione, are you sure about this?"

Hermione sighed and looked down. "You're right, I'm not usually so reckless. I know this will cost you your job, and I wasn't thinking—"

"No, I don't care about my stupid job," Ron cut her off. "I told you, I'm only a handyman because my mum wanted me to have a steady job. You're my dream, Hermione, not this. I'd drop it all for you, and you know that."

Hermione blushed, and squeezed his hand. "Then what is it?" she said softly.

"I mean are you sure, Hermione. Because if this goes wrong, who knows what your mother will do to you? And if you run away for me, you'll be leaving behind everything about the life you know. You'll be leaving your house, your family, the way of life you've always led... Are you sure that's something you're willing to give up?"

"For you, Ron Weasley?" Hermione said, leaning in to kiss him. "Yes, I'm sure, Ron. I've been sure since the second I saw you climb out that window, and all I wanted to do was follow you. I didn't even care about the stupid dress, as beautiful as it is, and I didn't care about my books or my library, and it never crossed my mind to miss my house or my family. Sure, Orlando maybe, but he'll find me wherever I go, and he'll always have a spot for me. I don't care about my mother. All I care about, and all I know, is that I couldn't bear it if the last time I saw you and knew you were mine was when you were climbing out that window. I can't imagine being happy without you, Ron, just like you said up in my room. That to me is worth more than anything I leave behind in this life."

Ron kissed her again, then, tenderly. The knowledge that he was worth this much to her, enough to leave all she knew and loved behind for him, had filled him with new valor. He held her chin as he pulled away from the kiss. "Let's go, then. We'd best get going before they start searching the grounds, in case Orlando couldn't hold them off."

Hermione's face lit up. She was still grabbing his hand, and led him by it to the back door of the cottage. She placed a hand on the doorknob and looked back at him. "Ready?"

"I've always been," Ron said, squeezing her hand.

Hermione turned the doorknob and stepped out onto the grass behind the cottage. Ron followed suit and closed the door behind them, careful not to make too much noise. No doubt the house would be up in arms soon, if it wasn't already, and they should get going before chaos unleashed.

Hermione looked back over her shoulder only once as they ran into the forest, its edge just a few feet away from the cottage circlet. They ran through the trees, their hands still gripping one another and the leather bag swinging in Ron's grasp. They hadn't been running for too long before Ron realized they were headed in the direction of the village.

"Hermione, where are we going? Because I don't think I'd like to put my parents at risk of your mother's wrath—"

"Don't worry, Ron, I know where we're going, and I'd never put your parents in danger. We just need to get to a train."

And there it was again, that wild gleam in her eyes, but this time Ron knew better than to question it. He just smiled resolutely at her, tightened his hold on her hand, and ran just as fast as she was leading him in trousers that were far too big for her. He ran without pauses, ignoring the ache in his legs and the shortness of breath in his chest as he pushed himself further and faster. He ran without questioning it, relished in the running, because he knew —oh, he knew— that at its end was a train, and that that train signified his best chance to be with the woman he loved, the woman who had risked everything for him.

So they kept running.