She would never admit it, because she felt like it made her exactly into the kind of dainty little lady she avoided looking like at all costs, but on sunny mornings like this, Hermione was glad to have her parasol. The delicate white-lace umbrella, which paired nicely with her simple white long frock, made her stand out against the lush green of the estate garden as she took her post-breakfast stroll.
She treasured these moments, away from her mother, because Lady Amelia believed morning strolls were unbecoming and much preferred their post-luncheon counterparts. So Hermione usually walked alone, or sometimes her father came along with one of the dogs, or Orlando made her laugh as they walked around the house. But this morning, she was alone, and she cherished this solitude mostly because it gave her precious time to think. This morning, however, her pensiveness was but an afterthought, because with the relief of Cedric's amicable departure the prospect of being pushed into marriage had been (temporarily, she knew) vanished from her mind. She was enjoying just being, without a preoccupation so tangibly in her consciousness, and there was no better place to just be than a luscious estate on a clear-blue morning.
She turned down the little gravel path toward the secluded rose garden to the west of Rosebury House, the counterpart to the circlet of staff's cabins on the east. This was one of her favorite spots on the entirety of Rosebury Grounds: in it, the air was sweet and fragrant, and the relative peace that came from being (apparently) sheltered from the rest of the estate gave Hermione the sense of freedom that came with evading her mother's clutches.
She breathed in the perfume of the roses with relief as she entered the small circular garden, which had several little paths that, like spokes of a wheel, all led toward a small birdbath in the center of the colorful flowers. Though roses blossomed all over the estate, in fact giving it its name, nowhere were they as magnificent and sweetly as in this little spot. At the far end of the garden, parallel to the entrance pathway, was a low bench crowned by a circular arch of pale pink roses. This is where Hermione was headed: the shade from the rose canopy would let her put down the parasol for a bit and refresh her sore arm, and the bench was a perfect spot for reading.
She walked slowly to the bench and closed her parasol gently, standing it against the bench as she produced, from the folds of her dress, the small volume she was currently reading. Scarcely had she sat down and cracked it open to the page she had bookmarked when a low voice came through the bushes behind her: "Good book?"
Hermione was so startled that she dropped the little book, which went fluttering face-down to the floor, lying helplessly prone and open with its spine facing the clear blue sky. Hermione, herself, jumped a little bit in her chair and drew a gloved hand to her chest, intaking a sharp gasp as a redheaded face emerged, laughing, from the bushes behind the archway.
"Lord almighty," Hermione mumbled, disliking how much like her mother she sounded as her heartbeat steadied itself. "You scared me half to death."
Ron climbed out of the bushes, pushing his way out through the prickly branches, and slung a leg over the back of the bench to boost himself to the other side. Once there, he sat primly next to Hermione and turned to her with a toothy grin. "Well, that was kind of the point."
"What are you doing here?" Hermione said indignantly. "You're intruding on my reading-time," she complained (though, surprisingly even to herself, beneath the irritation was what she thought might be... gladness to see him?).
"I know the thin spots in the bushes— I help Pierrot with the trimming sometimes," Ron shrugged, picking a small leaf out of his hair. "I saw you walking down here, so I thought I'd sneak around the shortcut and give you a little surprise."
"A heart attack is more like it," Hermione said, bending over to pick up her book from the floor and swatting him lightly with it. Ron laughed and rubbed his shoulder lazily. She sighed. "Great. Now I've lost the page I was on."
Ron seemed to pay her no mind as he sidled closer to her, the dirt on his clothes speckling her white dress. "I'm glad to catch you reading, actually, because that's just the thing I've come to talk to you about."
"Oh?" Hermione said, flipping through the pages to find the one she'd left off on.
"I finished the book," Ron said, and only then did Hermione notice that one of his hands had been behind his back nearly the whole time, since he now drew it forward to hand her the slim book she'd lent him. "Much Ado? The one you made such a fuss about?"
"The opportunity for a witty pun was right there," Hermione chastised him as she took the book from him. It was well taken care of, she noticed, without a smudge on the pages or new cracks in the spine and cover. It was evident that Ron had read it with care. "You finished it so fast?"
"Quick reader," Ron shrugged, and the movement again sent a small leaf spiraling down from the crown of his head. "Besides, as I told you, you had a dinner party, which gave me ample opportunity to stay in my quarters and just read."
"A much better time than I had at that party," Hermione muttered, setting both books beside her on the bench. "And thank you for being discreet. My mother would hate to know you're borrowing books— I don't think she even believes the 'peasantry' should be allowed to read."
"Good for me that it's her daughter that lends me the books then."
Hermione felt a small ripple go through her stomach at that. "Well? What did you think?"
"It seems you were right, as I suspect you often are: one of Shakespeare's best. I thoroughly enjoyed it."
Hermione found that she had leaned forward slightly to listen to him, and was left in expectation of the next part of his opinion. As it stood, it seemed as if he was going to say no more.
"A rather short review. That's it?"
Ron kept his pause for a few more seconds before he drew a breath in and wrinkled his brow amusedly. "You strike me as a Hero."
"A hero?" Hermione was befuddled. "What an odd thing to say."
"With a capital H. Hero. You know, as in the play?"
"And why may that be, pray tell?"
"Well, you're a spoiled noble girl, you're whiny, you never stand up to your parents..."
"Watch it!" Hermione said irately, standing up so suddenly that the skirt of her dress, which had been under the books, was drawn upwards with such force that they toppled to the ground.
"What, Lady Granger?" Ron teased, standing up much more collectedly to match her stance. His much taller figure loomed over her, creating a comical portrayal of a tall, slender, cross-armed smirking figure and a short, rageful, frilly-dressed one. "Don't like hearing it how it is?"
"Take it back," Hermione hissed.
"I will not," Ron drew his crossed arms even closer to his chest. "Not until you learn to put your foot down with Lady Amelia. You know, a rumor among the house staff says she wanted to marry you off to that Cedric Diggory character..."
"Oh, yeah?" Hermione shrieked, suddenly furious at her private affairs being discussed freely among the estate staff (though she knew such gossip was practically a rule among them). "Well, you're— you're a Claudio!" she exclaimed, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. "Impulsive, an arrogant chauvinist, assuming the worst of everyone—"
"Hullo?" a different voice came from the main path, stopping Hermione dead in her tracks as she turned, mouth still ajar, to see who else had breached her solitude.
A smiling Orlando strolled nonchalantly down the path, looking amused as he circled around the birdbath to join them. "Oh, Hermione, I thought it was you by the pitch of the screaming. It seems I wasn't the only one who thought of going for a walk."
"Hullo, Orlando," Ron bid him pleasantly, and Hermione's gaze shifted back to Ron in surprise.
"You know each other?"
"Of course we do," Orlando said, weaving around to shake Ron's hand eagerly. "Ron's the best."
"I taught him how to play chess," Ron said proudly.
"And thank you for that, by the way— I beat Harry at it the other night and he couldn't believe it. He'll want a rematch, but I simply cannot let him win— you'll help me practice, won't you?"
"It'd be my pleasure," Ron nodded slightly. "Someone has to humble you after this win, after all."
"Someday, Ron, someday the student will become the master," Orlando gave him a friendly clap on the back before turning to his sister. "But no, not really. Ron's an absolute chess god. He could take on any of those Russian champions, those that always show up in the papers, and win."
"I wouldn't know about that," Ron said, his ears tinting red with the flattery.
"Oh, I'm sure, Ron, I'm absolutely sure you could," Orlando gave him another clap and again focused on Hermione. "So how do you two know each other?"
"Your sister has been lending me books," Ron said, gesturing to the two volumes on the grass by the bench.
"Well, that seems rather harmless," Orlando remarked. "Where'd the shouting come from, then?"
Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but Ron was quicker. "It seems as though Miss Granger didn't really like it when I gave her my honest review of the book."
At that, Hermione could take it no longer. "You're insufferable!" she spat, and without so much as a second look at Orlando and Ron's faces, she gathered her books, her parasol, and stomped out of the rose garden without even opening the latter.
Ron and Orlando watched her go and remained in silence for a few seconds after she had disappeared from sight. Then they turned, look at each other, and burst out into raucous laughter.