The dislike between Lady Amelia and her daughter was mutual, and as a general rule, neither sought out one another unless it was truly necessary. So when a maid popped into Hermione's bedroom and told her her mother was asking for her down in the drawing room, Hermione wondered what exactly her mother considered important enough to want to see her on her own time.
She came down the stairs quickly, not wanting to invoke any of her mother's famous temperament by keeping Lady Amelia waiting longer than she deemed appropriate. She found her mother sitting ramrod straight on the pastel pink couch, and Hermione marveled at how her mother somehow made the most comfortable piece of furniture in the entire room seem like it was made out of stone.
"You called, mother?" she said. She was reluctant to step toward the couch, and so lingered tentatively by the door. Her mother made no attempt to beckon her further.
"Yes. We're hosting guests later this week, Hermione— very important guests. I want you to be presentable."
Hermione rolled her eyes: "All right, so no riding with Orlando and Harry, I know—"
"Will you listen?" Amelia hissed, cutting her off sharply. Startled, Hermione simply nodded. "These are very important guests," Amelia repeated, "I truly cannot tell you how much. So I would like you to go into town today, purchase a length of fabric, stop by Madam Malkin's, and make yourself a new evening gown."
"A new gown?" Hermione asked, perplexed. Of all the things she thought her mother had wanted her down here for— well, this was certainly not on the list. "Mother, I have plenty of dresses already—"
"It needs to be new," Lady Amelia interrupted again. Hermione detected a certain nervous lilt in her mother's voice. "I want you to look presentable, Hermione, presentable to our guests, and that means wearing something in the latest fashion. I know," she raised her hand as she saw Hermione opened her mouth to protest, "I know that you don't care much for fashion," she said as her eyes swept Hermione up and down. Under her mother's gaze, Hermione's chartreuse-green skirt and beige lace blouse seemed insufficient, and she squirmed uncomfortably under the scrutiny. "But this is something you have to do. Your father will pay for it, and you can choose the fabric and the cut, but nothing too bawdy or too tacky. Understood?"
Hermione, again, merely nodded. It would be no use trying to discuss this with her mother, and she would end up better off if she just went along with it than if she tried to resist.
"At what time am I leaving, then?"
"Right now."
"Who's taking me?"
"Jamison will," Lady Amelia said. Jamison was the family's driver. Lady Amelia reached for a small silver bell on the table by the couch and flicked her wrist, sending two clear tolls down the hall. Soon, a maid appeared by Hermione at the door.
"Yes, m'lady?"
"Could you ask Jamison to start the car and bring it out front?"
The maid shifted uncomfortably: "Jamison has taken ill, m'lady. Gramsley gave him a day of bed rest."
"This is just fantastic," Lady Amelia grumbled under her breath.
Hermione, noticing her mother begin to cloud over and desperate to prevent it, said, "Is there nobody else on the house staff who can drive?"
This seemed to rouse Lady Amelia, and before the maid could answer, she was back to barking orders. "Find out who else on the house staff can drive and get them to bring the car out front. Lady Hermione must leave within the next ten minutes."
"Yes, m'lady," the maid curtsied and scuttled back downstairs. She must be as terrified of my mother as I am, Hermione thought. Anyway, this had to be important: Lady Amelia was too much of a snob to allow anyone but Jamison to drive her around, so to place Hermione in the hands of 'anyone in the house staff who can drive' just to go into town meant this new dress was no small deal to her. Hermione wondered who these guests might be that could make Lady Amelia subvert all she thought proper.
She had waited only a few minutes when she heard the rumble of the car outside the drawing room window, meaning the car was turning the west corner of the house to stop before the front door.
With just a small nod of the head, Lady Amelia nudged Hermione out of the drawing room and toward the front door. She won't even dignify herself to come out and see who's driving me, Hermione thought to herself as she crossed the foyer toward the front door, so hard is the thought of anyone other than Jamison driving the car for her. It could be Orlando, for all she'd know.
She got a kick out of the image of Orlando sitting behind the steering wheel of the car, and smiled to herself. The image still hung in her mind as Gramsley opened the front door for her and she stepped out onto the gravel path, where a car was waiting. However, her smile quickly twisted into disbelief when she saw who it was driving— and it wasn't Orlando.
"Well, look at that," Ron said with a grin, looking out at her from the passenger window. "It seems I find myself in the company of the Lady Granger once again."
The car was already loud enough, what with the rumbling of the motor, but from the backseat, that noise combined with the silence that hung in the car was deafening to Hermione. She had met the sight of Ron with such disbelief that she'd scarcely said anything beside the usual niceties when he opened the car door for her, and he hadn't exactly spoken up either. Still, now it was getting to be too much to bear.
She cleared her throat and ventured into small talk. "So, Ron, where'd you learn how to drive?"
"My father is a mechanic," Ron replied almost immediately, his relief at the silence being lifted tangible. "He likes fixing things, taking them apart and putting them back together, and naturally there's a lot of that in working with cars. Plus, the idea of a car fascinates him— a machine that moves on its own is like magic to him." Ron chuckled to himself, and through the small rearview mirror Hermione could see his eyes crinkle at the seams with private mirth. She felt a twinge of yearning to understand the joke, to be let into this world that was oh-so-far from her own.
"And he taught you?"
"He did. Mostly so I could help him around the shop— y'know, move a car so he could fit another one, that sort of thing. I've been driving in some capacity since I was twelve"
"You must be a natural at the wheel, then," Hermione said, and meant it. Jamison's driving was slow and measured, secure in its own carefulness; Ron, however, drove with the ease of second nature, making sharper turns and faster speeds than Jamison did, but it all succeeded in creating a different type of security. Ron knew what he was doing, all too well, and that lit a small spark of curiosity in Hermione. "So why the handyman job, then? Why not driver?"
"Well, I didn't exactly have the luxury of choosing," Ron said.
Hermione flushed: "Oh. I'm sorry."
"No, don't be," Ron said. In the rearview mirror, his eyes shifted to meet Hermione's, glinting in reassurance. "I mean, I mostly took the handyman job because my mum wanted me to take a salaried position and Rosebury paid well, and I knew the Weasley clan could use some extra money. But I like it: my dad's not the only Weasley with a love for fixing things, and he taught me well. I like the handyman job, honestly. It has its perks— like fixing chaise longues and driving the heiress to town." His blue eyes lit up with mischief now. "Speaking of which— why are you going into town, anyway?"
"Oh, it's my mother," Hermione huffed, glad to return to a familiar subject. "She says we're expecting important guests and for some reason that means all my dresses aren't good enough and I need to have a new one made."
She felt foolish as she said it, and felt the flush creep back into her cheeks. Next to Ron's story, her own seemed superficial to an almost childish extent, and she was uncomfortably aware of her wealth.
But Ron, ever ready, would never do anything to make her feel that shame. Instead, he commiserated with her about Lady Amelia: "That sounds exactly like your mother, if you'll excuse me saying it. I know I'm the service, but..."
"...but she's despicable upstairs and downstairs alike," Hermione finished the thought for him.
"Hey, you said it, not me," Ron raised his hands from the wheel for a second in a backing-off gesture. "But I take it I have the Lady Granger's permission to say it?"
"If you stop calling her the Lady Granger, she'll consider it."
"A worthy argument," Ron said, eliciting a small laugh from Hermione in the backseat. "So, a dress, huh? I take it I'm driving you to Malkin's, then?"
"You know the village well," Hermione said with admiration.
Ron shrugged. "Well, when you're raised here... Besides, Malkin is the only fine seamstress for miles around. Nicest shop in Rosebury, and she acts like she knows it, too. I very much doubt your mother would've sent you with Harriman the tailor."
"You would be correct," Hermione conceded.
"As usual," muttered Ron, and Hermione's resolve to throw back a quip evaporated when she saw the laughter dancing in his eyes, staring at her in the rearview mirror.
They completed the last couple miles of the drive in silence, but this one was more comfortable. To the din of the engine had been added Ron's lighthearted humming, which reached Hermione's ears in a quiet, pleasant thrum. Ron steered the car toward the main street and pulled up right in front of a tall building, pompously finished in purple. The windowsills framing the tall windows were purple, as was the doorframe and the main door. Ron twisted the key in the ignition and the car's rumble died into a low purr before sinking into silence. "We're here."
He got out of the car and went around to open Hermione's door for her. "See, this is typical Lady Granger behavior," he teased her as she stepped foot onto the gravel path. "Letting the chauffeur open the doors for her."
"Handyman, not chauffeur, as you have made it exceedingly clear," Hermione said, and moved past him toward Madam Malkin's door, leaving him to shut the car door behind her.
The business inside the shop went exactly as she expected it to: Madam Malkin took a good five minutes to fawn over the Lady Granger (which made Ron, who had remained by the door, snicker so uncontrollably that he had to step outside with the excuse of fetching something from the car), and then proceeded with the business of actually making the dress. She took Hermione to a wall lined with cuts of fine fabric, and bid her choose the one for her new gown. Hermione settled for a champagne-pink fabric with a satiny feel for the bodice, and a chiffon of the same color for the skirt. Then, Madam Malkin showed her into the small fitting room, hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain, to take her measurements.
Hermione obediently went in while Madam Malkin gathered her measuring tape and notepad. Ron, recovered from his laughing fit and back inside the shop, still lingered by the door, from where he watched the movement inside the shop. Having little else to do, his idle eyes followed Madam Malkin from her work table into the changing room. When she shifted the curtain to enter, Ron caught a glimpse of Hermione's back clad in nothing but a corset. He averted his gaze immediately, feeling his ears go hot, a situation that didn't improve when he realized that the green crumpled pile visible under the curtain must be Hermione's discarded skirt.
You shouldn't be thinking these thoughts about the Lady Granger, he thought to himself, and was surprised to find another thought quietly but resolutely chiming in. She said not to call her that. She said to call her Hermione.
Hermione or otherwise, anyway, Ron simply didn't have the luxury of letting his mind wander toward a high-society lady, especially not the daughter of his employer. But with the curtain shut and the rifling sound of fabric moving, mixed with Madam Malkin's soft commands to "tilt your head slightly to the right, dear" and "raise your arm a tad here, darling" and "turn for me a bit, love", and with nothing else to do while he waited, it was nearly impossible to think about anything else. Still, Ron squeezed his eyes shut and tried his hardest to think about his Aunt Muriel's unabashedly wet kisses-on-the-cheek, about his mother's lace dollies, about one of his brother Percy's diatribes on reading at Oxford, about anything, anything, but Hermione twirling inside there in nothing else but a corset.
He almost cried out in relief when the curtain opened and out stepped Madam Malkin and a (thank heavens) fully-clothed Hermione. He hung about while they walked over to the worktable, vaguely catching snippets of Madam Malkin's words as Hermione paid: "It will be ready by Friday, my lady."
"Thank you so much," Hermione said, and to hear her voice —something tangible, something real, something near him— sent a ripple through Ron. What is happening to me?
"Oh, it is the utmost pleasure of Chez Malkin," Madam Malkin cooed, and Ron almost gagged at her evident attempt to congratiate herself with one more of the high-society clients that stopped by her store. "And please send my regards to the Lady Amelia."
"I will," Hermione said, snapping her small purse shut. She turned from the worktable and made for the door.
"Good afternoon!" Madam Malkin said by way of farewell as Hermione exited the store with Ron trailing behind her. When the door softly shut, they remained standing on Madam Malkin's front steps, seemingly hesitating as whether or not to go on to the car. Ron was reluctant to look her in the eye, but Hermione wasn't even looking at him. She was looking up, her rich brown eyes pointed at the sky.
"It looks like it's going to rain, doesn't it?"
"Let's hope not. It's a ways back to Rosebury House, and the paths are earthy. If it rains too much we might run into a nasty situation with the mud," Ron said, scrunching his nose up at the clouds. The prospect of a mud jam was enough to kick him back into action. "We should get back in the car."
Hermione was roused as well, though her gaze lingered upwards for just a few more seconds. "Yes," she said dreamily. "Yes, we should."
She walked briskly down Madam Malkin's steps and into the car, opening the door and getting in the backseat by herself, not even giving Ron a chance to play his chivalrous charade. Only then did it occur to Ron that Hermione might have avoided his gaze as well. But why? he wondered as he got into the driver's seat and started the car. Did she see me looking in?
He threw the car in reverse and backed out of Madam Malkin's storefront, hoping the mechanical nature of driving would drive the questions from his mind. Once again, he could not allow himself to think on Hermione as he had briefly dallied with, and now felt ashamed at doing so. Hermione sat in silence and looked out of the window. Not ever when his eyes darted toward the rearview mirror were they able to meet hers.
The uncomfortable silence was back, so Ron —who had dreaded it— was almost thankful to hear the pitter-patter of raindrops as they began to fall down on the car. The gentle tattoo of the rain, however, didn't take long to morph into a relentless onslaught, coming down on the roof of the car with the force of falling pebbles. Ahead, the paved streets of the village turned into the dirt paths leading through the woods and back to the estate. Ron cursed under his breath and plowed onward, praying the rain would allow them to go on ahead. In the backseat, Hermione silently echoed his prayer.
They had only just lost sight of the village behind them, however, when the car's tires began to screech with a horrible noise. Only a few feet ahead, they heard a slosh as the car suddenly dipped, gave a few more squeaking cries, and then stopped entirely. The engine sputtered feebly.
"Damn it," Ron said flatly, banging his palms against the steering wheel once before killing the engine. The headlights went dim then, and Ron and Hermione sat in a stuck car in a quickly-darkening afternoon with the rain now pouring in earnest around them.
"Let me see if there's anything we can do," Ron said as he pushed the driver's door open. Opening the door only let in the sound of the rain with greater force. From the backseat, Hermione could see the shadow of Ron crouching by the front tire, his hands milling about. Suddenly, she felt eager to do be a part of the action.
"I'll flag someone down," she said, unsure Ron could hear her. She opened the door and let herself out, trying to ignore the horrible splotching sound her shoes made when they sank into the mud. She walked around the back of the car, to its right side, where Ron still knelt before the front tire. "The village isn't too far back. I'll walk back and flag someone down at the village's edge. Maybe they can help us."
Ron didn't say anything, just grunted and continued tinkering with the wheel. Hermione shrugged to herself and walked back down the road to the village, keeping to the edge and walking slowly so the rain wouldn't beat her down as she walked. The pouring hadn't let up, and Hermione could hardly see through the thick curtains of rain coming down before her face, even with daylight. She knew she was at the village's edge, after fifteen minutes of walking, only when the woods opened up and the trees stopped casting a shadow about her. Then she placed her hand on her brow to shield her eyes from the rain and spotted a small house a few feet away.
The ground was firmer here, and Hermione broke into a light trot toward the cottage. "Help!" she caught herself crying out as the house came nearer. She waved her hand, though how the house's inhabitants might see that through all the rain was unclear. "Help!"
A light came on in one of the windows of the cottage, and when Hermione had reached it, two men stood out front.
"What is it, lass?" the older man said. For an instant, Hermione was taken aback at how casually he had addressed her, but then she remembered she was drenched and doused in mud, and probably looked absolutely nothing like the prim Lady Granger the villagers might expect. She reveled in this anonymity.
"It's our car, sir... It's stuck in the mud, a little less than a mile into the woods. It started raining and we couldn't go any further."
"Ah, these roads will do that," the older man said gently, casting Hermione a small reassuring smile. "What's your name, lass?"
"Jean," she answered, settling into her middle name and still enjoying being perceived as a country girl without an entire estate at her name.
"On your own, Jean?"
"No. My–" she hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to call Ron. My handyman would obviously not do, but how else would she explain traveling alone with a man who was —very obviously, what with the red hair— not related to her? The thought of saying he was her boyfriend or husband went through her mind, but she dismissed it as ridiculous and settled for, "—my friend is back there, seeing if he can get it out."
"Well, we'd best go help him, then," the older man said, beckoning to the younger, who Hermione assumed from their similar build and age difference was his son. "Bring out a lantern, Patrick, won't you?"
Patrick nodded and ducked inside the house to fetch a lamp. His father stretched out his hand to Hermione. "Nice to meet you, Jean. I'm Bernard."
"My pleasure, Bernard, sir," Hermione said, shaking his hand.
"Soft hands," Bernard remarked as they broke the handshake. "Not from country work, surely?"
Hermione was saved from either having to invent something believable or give herself up by Patrick exiting the house with a lantern in his grasp.
"No time to lose, then," Bernard said, taking the lamp from his son and making for the road in the woods. "The rain's still coming down by the bucketful and it'll only make the mud worse."
They walked in silence, the road lit by the lantern swinging from Bernard's hand. They walked in a horizontal line, shoulder by shoulder, with Hermione in the middle.
"I'm only now realizing we forgot to offer you a coat," Bernard said about halfway through the walk. "How very rude of us."
"It's no problem," Hermione said. "I'm too wet to really feel it anymore, honestly."
And she was. The rain had soaked through every layer of her clothes, even the corset, which was now chafing uncomfortably against her skin. But Hermione wasn't cold, and the rain running in small rivers down her hair and her shoulders all the way to the ground didn't bother her anymore. If mother could see me now, she thought to herself, and even through the inconvenience felt a small sting of rebellious pleasure.
The car was coming up ahead now: Hermione could see the faint outline of a shadow looming just ahead on the bend. It must have been that turn that had got them stuck in the mud. Ron still crouched by the tire, but he looked over his shoulder when the light from the lantern reached him.
"Ron, this is Bernard, and Patrick," Hermione said, stepping slightly ahead of the other two men. "They've come to help."
To her surprise, Bernard stepped ahead right beside her. "Molly's boy?" he said with a hint of amusement at seeing Ron.
Ron's frustration broke out into a grin. "Bernie!" He went up to the older man and clapped him on the back. "I'm happy to see you here, I won't lie."
"Your mum didn't tell us you had a girlfriend," Bernie said, nudging Ron playfully with an elbow and winking. Hermione's eyes flew wide open, and Ron felt his ears prickle red hot for the second time that day.
"Ah, well, I–" he stammered, but a look from Hermione got him to leave that alone right there. He cleared his throat. "Well, can you help us, Bern?"
Bernie furrowed his brow and went to the front of the car. He crouched just as Ron had, using the lantern to shed light on the car's underbelly, but was quick to step to his feet again.
"I think you're in quite a jam, Ronnie," he said. "Nothing Pat and I can help you with it. But you stick around here and Patrick and I will go back to the village and get the police to come out here and have at it. We'll tell them to bring the horses to do the pulling. We won't be long." Bernie smiled at Ron and squeezed his shoulder. "Good seeing you, lad." He turned to Hermione and gave her a wink. "And nice meeting you, Jean."
With that, he and Patrick turned around and started back down the road toward the village, their shadows waving in the faint light of the lantern.
Ron and Hermione leaned against the hood of the car, having given up on any attempt to wedge it out. It was Ron who broke the silence: "Jean?"
"Huh?"
"Bernie called you Jean. What was that all about?"
"Middle name," Hermione explained, hoping it would suffice. She would've known it wouldn't.
Ron pushed: "Oh, I see— they didn't recognize you? And you didn't want them to?"
"Can you blame me?" Hermione said, gesturing down at her dress.
"Oh, but I think this is more than a question of appearances," Ron continued. "I think this is about you liking not being Lady Granger."
"That's ridiculous," Hermione said, but Ron had hit it right on and she didn't want to give him the pleasure of knowing it. Yet again, however, there was no such luck.
"Enjoyed playing the country girl, didn't you? I bet you Bernie called you 'lass,' didn't he, and I bet you enjoyed that–"
"He did not!" shrieked Hermione, knowing even as she did that it was a lie. She was thankful that the rain still hadn't let up, because she didn't want Ron to see her blushing furiously under it.
"He did, too."
"Cut it out, Ron, will you?" Hermione said brusquely. Ron's good-natured smile vanished in a flash.
"Fine," he said quietly. "Let's keep the peace, because it looks like we're going to be here a while."
There was no sign of the police heading back up the road, and they continued to lean against the hood in silence, the animosity between them tangible. It might have been that tension that pushed Hermione to say it, unable to withstand yet another awkward silence, and the words spilled out almost of their own accord: "This is all because of you."
Ron's head whipped toward her at lightning speed. "Me? How is this my fault?"
"You knew the rain would make the roads muddy, and that this might happen."
"What was I supposed to do? Hang out with Madam Malkin, ask if she might invite us to tea?"
"No, but we might have waited it out somewhere else!"
"Like where? A pub? What would the Lord Granger say, if he heard the handyman had been taking his daughter to public houses and she'd been slumming it with —God forbid— the working class? It could've cost me my job!"
"And this wouldn't have?"
Their voices had risen now into a screaming pitch. "No, because I don't control the rain and your father would understand that! Besides, this would be his daughter's fault."
Hermione gasped. "Now it's somehow my fault?"
"We needn't have gone into town if the Lady Granger–"
"Don't call me that–"
"Didn't need one more lousy dress for one more lousy dinner party!"
"My mother made me!"
"You didn't try very hard to stand up to her, did you?"
In her indignation, Hermione could think of nothing else to fire back. So she bent and grabbed a handful of mud, hurling it directly at Ron's shirt. Ron looked down at the stain for an instant before retaliating, throwing a ball of mud that hit Hermione squarely on the stomach. Hermione gasped and looked down at the stain just as he had, before her perplexed stare turned furious and she bent down again to scoop another mudball into her hands. Ron wasn't left behind, and soon they were flinging mud at each other, darting around the car to try to shield themselves but gain a vantage point to hit the other, getting themselves even muddier in the process. Hermione had gathered a particularly large mud ball and was getting ready to toss it at Ron's back, unaware that he was ready to turn around and catch her on the thigh, when they were startled by a voice.
"I take it this is the stuck car then?" said a tall police officer with a dark mustache, his voice entirely emotionless.
Ron and Hermione spun to gawk at the officers, like deer caught in headlights in the lamps of the officers. Slowly, the mud balls slid from their hands and landed back on the dirt with a slop. Behind the five officers, there was no sight of Bernie or Patrick.
Hermione composed herself quickly, wiping her hands on her soiled skirt. "Yes, sir."
"Let's have a look at it, boys," the police officer beckoned to his four companions, and they went around Ron and Hermione (whose gazes were riveted to the ground by their feet) to the front of the car. The officer with the mustache lifted the hood to look at the engine.
"Well, looks like the mud got in here as well," he announced before shutting the hood once again. "The car's broken down. It's not just stuck."
"Fantastic," Ron mumbled. Hermione shot him a look.
"There's nothing we —or you, for that matter— can do about it with the rain like this," the officer said, squinting up at the falling drops. "But you can leave the car here and we'll fix it and bring it on round tomorrow."
"Bring it on round?" Ron said. "How will you know where?"
The officer gave him a piercing look not unlike Hermione's. "I can recognize the car of the Earl of Rosebury." Looking away from Ron, he turned slowly to Hermione and bowed ceremonially. "My lady."
With her cover blown, Hermione sighed and did the proper thing, bidding the officer rise with her hand. "So what do we do, officer?" she asked, noticing the man hadn't taken kindly to Ron.
"Well, it's no use staying out here in the rain, especially not when it's getting dark. But you can't walk back to Rosebury in this state. Do you have anywhere you can go in the village?"
"Well–" Hermione started, and now she looked toward Ron for help.
Ron provided: "I'm the handyman, sir. My family lives in the village— the Weasleys. My mum's home. I can take the lady there for a cup of something warm and a change of clothes and wait the storm out."
"That would be your wisest option right now," the officer advised. "We'll escort you."
"Thank you," Hermione said, choosing to view it as a courtesy rather than what it actually was: a very conscious action by the police to protect the lady Granger from the handyman. They needn't have worried, though, she thought, because she and Ron made an effort to stay away from each other, stealing angry looks at the other's back and pretending they were looking straight ahead when they were caught by the other.
The troupe made the small walk back to the village in total silence, so Hermione welcomed the steady patter of the rain and the slosh of footsteps on mud as the cadence to their walk. They walked slowly, taking extra care because of the dying daylight. The police left them once they had reached the portion of the village that was lit with streetlamps, parting ways with a tip of the hat and a promise to get the car back to Rosebury the next day.
Ron and Hermione walked the remaining few blocks to the Weasley house in stony silence, not even looking at each other or daring to breathe too loudly. Hermione was grateful when Ron stopped in front of a large, blocky brick cottage that seemed to slope ever so slightly off to one side.
Without waiting for Hermione, Ron climbed the few steps to the front door and knocked on the door twice. Coming up the steps after him, Hermione heard someone scuttling inside the house, and as the sound approached the door, she could make out mumbling interlaced with it.
She heard a latch slide open and, with a click, the door open. Inside stood a stocky woman wearing a grease-stained apron and a worn brown housedress. Though slightly graying, the woman had the same bright red hair as Ron.
"Ronald?" she said, the scowl on her face —undoubtedly born of the prospect of unexpected guests— turning into incredulity.
"Hello, mum," he said bashfully.
The woman surveyed them up and down, and Hermione thought they must make quite a sight: both of them were sopping wet and soiled in mud, let alone the fact that Ron had turned up at his family's doorstep with a girl none of them had ever seen.
"Who's this?" Ron's mum asked, eyeing Hermione.
Ron and Hermione sighed in unison, and it was Ron who delivered the inevitable answer. "This... is Lady Hermione Granger, mum."
The woman's eyes widened so much and so suddenly that Hermione thought they might blow out of their sockets. She gathered up her skirts and aprons and curtsied uncertainly. "Molly Weasley at your service, m'lady."
"Please, there's no need," Hermione said, placing a hand on Molly's arm and hoping she wasn't being too familiar at it. "It's my fault your son's in trouble, after all. The driver is out sick and he volunteered to drive me into town for an errand I needed to run."
Something in Ron softened, then, and Hermione felt his body lose some of its tension beside her on the doorstep.
"I'm sure he was happy to," Molly said, giving Hermione a motherly smile.
"I was," Ron said, and then it was Hermione's turn to soften slightly. They turned to look at one another, their eyes exchanging the wordless apologies they knew they would always be too stubborn to ever utter out loud.
"Well, what are you doing out there in the rain still?" Molly said, pulling them into the house. "You'll catch a cold if you haven't already!"
She shut the door behind them and showed them in. She mumbled something about towels and puttered off to a different part of the house, leaving Hermione to stand by the door and look around the house.
"Welcome to The Burrow," Ron said quietly by her shoulder.
The house was cramped and chaotic, with every single bare inch of wall or floor covered in a piece of furniture, a painting, or some other trinket. The only bare spaces were the passageways to walk between rooms, creating the impression of a carefully-balanced maze where touching even one thing would tip it out of balance. But something about the house —that it felt so lived-in, that it was alive with the sound of people moving through the upper floors, that a delicious buttery aroma floated in from the kitchen— felt homey, and that was something that Hermione seldom felt in a house as large and pompous as Rosebury.
"It's nice," she whispered back, and the corner of Ron's mouth tilted upwards in a smile. "Really nice."
Molly returned with two old towels, fraying at the hems and rough to the touch, but Hermione would not have traded them for anything else as she wrapped one around herself. Only now did she realize how cold she was, the wet fabric clinging to her, and how sore her legs felt, from her slow trudges to and from the village.
Molly was all business: "Can you get her a set of Ginny's clothes? There should be something left over in her closet that she didn't pack, and they look to be about the same build, don't they?"
Hermione thought she was just speaking blankly at the stairwell until she saw the two identical redheads at the banister.
"Right away, mum," one of them said, "if you can correctly tell us who is which."
Molly's face sank in exasperation, and Hermione could tell this was a usual game. "This is not the time for games, Fred, George. It's not some country lass needs clothes— it's the Lady Granger from up at Rosebury."
The twins' eyes widened just as Molly's had at the door, but instead of dissolving into a bow, both of them opened their mouths and said in unison: "Ron's kidnapped the heiress!"
No words could have described the mortification that burst across Molly's face, and she was —evidently— about to yell at her children when Hermione broke out laughing.
"I'm not an heiress," Hermione said, walking over to the staircase to shake the twins' hands through the banister. "Not if my mother has anything to do with it."
"Problems up at the castle?" one of the twins said.
"It's not a castle, Fred," Ron said, joining Hermione at the stairs. "Now, how about those clothes, huh? The heiress is sodding wet."
"Right away, milord," Fred cooed mockingly, but he and George ducked upstairs anyhow.
Hermione watched after them with a smirk on her face. "Brothers?"
"Older," Ron explained. "Twins, obviously. And an absolute calamity."
Fred and George thundered back down the stairs moments later, carrying a folded set of clothes that George handed over to Hermione. Now Molly was back in command.
"Ron, you can change in the twins' room, and the lady—"
"Just Hermione is fine," Hermione butted in, hating to interrupt but hating even more to think that Molly, who was doing such a kindness for her, should have to keep up this deference.
"Hermione," Molly said through gritted teeth, the habit hard to cast off, "can change in Ginny's room across the hall. I'll make something warm for you meanwhile— you must be famished. Ron, will you show her where it is?"
"Gladly," Ron said, and began to climb the thin steps to the second floor.
"Thank you so much," Hermione smiled at Molly, who merely returned the smile before disappearing back into the kitchen, where the clatter of pots and pans quickly picked up again.
Hermione followed Ron up the stairs to a narrow hallway lined with doors into what Hermione assumed were rooms. Ron showed her to a small room at the end of the hall; the door creaked as he pushed it open. The room looked deserted: the sheets on the single bed were pristine but coated in a fine layer of dust, and the drawers on the chipped nightstand and the cracked mirror hanging above it looked like they hadn't been touched in months.
"This used to be my sister Ginny's room," Ron explained.
"Where is she?"
"Up in London, working as a steno at a printhouse. Been there almost a year now. She wants to be a columnist, but she's working her way up slow and steady— her editor's Labour, so he might be more amenable to having a woman writer."
"That's commendable," Hermione said, brushing a hand over the dusty nightstand. "What newspaper? I'm sure my father could put in a call."
Ron looked uncomfortable. "Ginny would hate that," he said, "but thank you for offering."
Yet again that day, Hermione was embarrassed at how strongly she felt the difference between their two worlds. "Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend."
"I'll be in Fred and George's room— it's the door right across from this one," Ron said, seemingly as eager to end the awkward moment as she was. "Just call for me if you need anything, alright?"
"I will," Hermione said. Ron stepped out of the room and Hermione heard the door close behind him with a faint click.
She had felt suffocated in her own spacious bedroom before, so she was surprised that anyone could live in the shoebox of a bedroom without feeling claustrophobic. If she stood in the middle and extended her arms to either side she could almost touch two of its walls. But the room, even abandoned, had a lived-in feel, and Hermione almost felt fond for it even having just walked into it. Without paying much thought, she began to undress: she wriggled out of her wet blouse and undid the clasps on her long skirt, letting it crumple to the ground in a mop of a heap. It was only when she was in her undergarments that she noticed she'd run into a considerable problem.
It was almost laughable: for the second time in a week, she'd have to call for Ron.
She went through the door and peeked timidly out of it, not daring to stick anything out other than her head. "Ron?" she said, but her voice came out in a whisper, and the closed door at the other end of the hallway did not budge. "Ron?" she said again, more loudly, and this time the knob turned and out came Ron.
"You called?"
"I need help."
"With?"
Hermione's voice dropped. "My corset."
Ron's face went blank. "Oh," he said. "Oh, right away." He stepped out of his room: he'd lost his button-down and was now only in his soaking undershirt, his suspenders dropped from his shoulders and hanging loosely from the waistband of his trousers. Hermione tried not to notice just how badly the undershirt was doing its job at covering Ron, sticking to his torso and faithfully rendering every muscle on it, toned from years of arduous work. She looked away.
Ron stepped into Ginny's bedroom and closed the door softly behind him, and just like that the little room had one more occupant encased in it.
"Let me have a see," Ron said, and Hermione took that as her cue to turn around. Ron stepped closer to her, so close she could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck, remembering of the whisper they'd shared when he'd fixed her chaise longue. She trembled with the memory.
Ron noticed. "Cold?"
"Mm-hm," Hermione mumbled, glad he'd given her an excuse to pass it off as.
"You'll be warmer once you're in dry clothes," Ron said. His voice, too, had become low.
Hermione felt his fingers graze the skin of her upper back and a sigh caught in her throat. Ron moved her hair out of the way, and she held it so it wouldn't hinder him as he undid the corset's small but tricky buttons. Ron's fingers were agile, and Hermione felt them move down her back as he undid button after button, nudging them out of their tight holes and letting Hermione breathe easier with each one he undid.
As he worked, Hermione's bare back slowly came into view, the full view of the glimpse he'd stolen behind the fitting room curtain. But this was different— this was allowed; Hermione had asked him to help her undress, and he was doing exactly that. Why, then, did his fingers have to resist the urge to trace their way down the notches in Hermione's spine, becoming visible with each button he prodded loose? Why was it so hard to keep himself from placing his two palms on the smooth skin of Hermione's back?
Hermione felt Ron's fingertips, roughened with calluses, brush the skin on her back and found herself wishing for a more intentional touch. She caught herself: Ron was just helping her out, and she would hate to make him feel improper after all he and his family had done for her. But it was hard to keep upright, not to melt into the warmth of even the smallest touches, and one thing was certain: no maid undoing her corset had ever made her feel this way.
"Done," Ron whispered when he was done.
"Thanks," Hermione whispered back, but she didn't move one inch from where she stood, both of them holding their breath. So he stood there for an instant, taking in the sight of Hermione's back under the invitingly open ends of the corset, before he spun on his heels and marched out the door a bit too dutifully. Yet again came the click of the door shutting behind him.
Hermione let out a shaky breath that sounded more like a sigh and peeled off the corset's shell from the front of her body, tossing it to join the rest of her discarded clothes on the floor. She pulled on Ginny's clothes, a loose shirt and trousers made of a heavy fabric that Hermione assumed was worn under other clothes during the cold season, and when she was done gathered her own heap from the floor and held it ambivalently, relishing the dryness of the new outfit and not wanting to wet it or dirty it with her old one, even all balled up.
She went down the stairs and was careful that her balled-up clothes didn't drip too much onto the steps, whose wooden surface looked like it had seen better days and many spills. She followed the buttery scent to the kitchen, where Molly stood at the stove poring over a pot of something.
"Ah, my la— Hermione," Molly caught herself when she heard Hermione enter the kitchen. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
"Thank you very much," Hermione said, and made her way to the small high table in the center of the kitchen, which she wondered now if it doubled as a dining room.
"I've put the kettle on, and I'm just finishing up a vegetable broth. It should do you good before you start the trip home."
"Listen to her," came a voice from the kitchen door, and Hermione turned to see Ron leaning against the doorframe. He was dressed in an undershirt much as the one he'd had on before, except this one was dry, and he'd put on a pair of trousers that (from the effort the suspenders were pulling) were a bit too wide around the waist and Hermione could only assumed belonged to either Fred or George. "Her cooking's as good as the Rosebury cook's."
"Oh, I wouldn't know about that," Molly said, but a flattered smile teased at her thin mouth.
"I would," Ron said, moving over to the stove and giving his mother a kiss on the temple. "I've had both."
Molly closed her eyes and smiled under her son's affection, and not for the first time that day Hermione felt a pang of yearning. Ron walked from the stove and sat across from Hermione, with his back to the stove.
"Mum, by the way, where are my trousers? I've had to borrow one of George's pairs."
"I sent them to Harriman's to mend the tears in them. We didn't expect you back up here until the week after next one, and they'll be done by then, but until then..."
"Until then, my suspenders will just have to do extra work," Ron said, pouting and fiddling with the straps at his shoulders. Hermione's mouth twitched into a smile, watching Ron and thinking (before she knew better) that he looked adorable.
"That's too bad, dear," Molly said, turning around to face them with two steaming bowls that she set in front of them. "Let me fetch you a spoon."
She went to a drawer by the stove and opened it to pull out two chipped steel spoons, handing one to Ron and one to Hermione. Hermione thanked her and dipped hers in the bowl in front of her, taking a spoonful of the broth into her mouth. It was, as Ron had promised, just as good as anything she could expect from the Rosebury kitchens: it was buttery and perfectly spiced, light without being too watery, hearty without being heavy. She had a couple more spoonfuls before she spoke again.
"This is exquisite, Mrs. Weasley."
"Oh, I'm glad to hear it," said Mrs. Weasley, the flattered smile returning. Ron grunted his assent without diverting attention from his bowl.
"What's this about soup?" came a voice from the door again, and Hermione turned to see one of the twins standing there. "I'd know the scent anywhere."
"Have a bowl," Molly said, gesturing toward the cupboard she'd pulled them from.
"Don't need to tell me twice," the twin (who Hermione was positively sure by the voice was Fred) said as he pulled a bowl and ladled some of the broth into it. He looked into it and grimaced. "Would it kill you to hold the potatoes next time, mum?"
"Would it kill you to cook for a change?"
"Touché," Fred(?) said, sitting down next to Ron and across from Hermione. He looked at her as he spoke. "See, potatoes are too porous. They absorb too much of the broth, so you bite into it and it's just a big old chunk of more broth. None of the freshness of, say," he poked at the vegetables swirling in the broth with his spoon, "broccoli, or even the peas."
"You hate peas," Ron remarked.
"No, that's George that hates peas," Fred (his identity, much to Hermione's pride, confirmed) said, the spoon near his lips.
"Speaking of which, where's George?" Ron asked.
"Went into town. There were a couple of things we need to sort out before the shop opens tomorrow," Fred explained, and had one more spoonful before he was compelled to explain to Hermione. "George and I run a toystore in the village. We still live here, though, mostly because we can't be arsed to pay rent."
"But you can be arsed to keep burdening your mother," Molly said, turning her attention to the kettle, which had begun to whistle.
"Don't listen to her," Fred said, leaning across the table conspiratorially. "She whines about us, but the truth is since Ginny left, we're the only kids left out of seven. And mum will go crazy if she has to cook for less than four."
"Force of habit, my dear, force of habit," Molly rose to her own defense, joining them at the table with a bowl of her own.
They ate in silence, their spoons clinking against their bowls, until Hermione started up the chatter once again.
"How often do you come home, Ron?"
"Every month or so," Ron shrugged, tilting his bowl so he could scrape at the remaining dredges. "When it's my day off, mostly, but I try to make it home at least once each month."
"Mum will hunt him down if he doesn't," Fred added.
"I will not!"
"She will," Ron played along, meeting his mother's scowl with the boyish grin Hermione already knew so well in him, and which she also recognized now in Fred.
They finished their soup and almost immediately after they had Molly began to scramble to her feet to collect the empty dishes. Seeing this, Hermione was quicker to stand up and hold hers and Ron's, stacking them into a tentative tower. Molly opened her mouth to protest, but Hermione simply collected hers and added it to the stack. "Please, allow me," she insisted. "It's the least I can do after abusing your hospitality."
"Just let her, mum," Fred said when Molly still seemed not to budge. "You're always bugging us about how no one helps you 'round the house, and when someone does suddenly you don't want that?"
"Leave it to my guests to be better raised than my children," Molly grumbled, but she handed the final dish to Hermione, albeit reluctantly. "Thank you."
"It's no problem," Hermione said, walking toward the sink with the four bowls stacked. She was robotic and overly careful in her movement, but being thought odd for that was much better than revealing the truth— that this was the first time she'd done a kitchen chore of any kind.
She carefully placed the stack of bowls in the sink and returned to the table, but right as she made to sit down Ron stood up.
"We'd best be going, mum, if we want to get back to Rosebury before it's fully dark."
"Oh, yes, do," Molly said. "I don't want the la— Hermione's parents to worry."
"Sorry we can't stick around for tea," Ron said, casting a longing glance at the kettle on the stove. "I fancied some biscuits."
"Are you sure you can't stay then?" Molly perked up, and Fred snickered quietly, his point on Molly liking to cook for many proven yet again.
"Positive, mum, but save some for next time I'm around, alright?" Ron said, moving toward his mother to kiss her forehead.
"How are you getting up there?"
"Well, the rain's let up," Ron said. Hermione paid attention: it was true. She didn't know when, but the clamor of rainfall on the roof of the house had stopped. "I was thinking I might take dad's car, if that's alright? I'll bring it back tomorrow. I just don't want to walk back to Rosebury in the dark."
"Yes, of course. I'll let your father know," Molly said, following them to the front door. "Drive safe, you hear me? Be careful with the mud."
"I will, mum," Ron said with the tone of a child tired of being chastised by his mother. "Anyway, if I get stuck again then I'm a horrid driver and Hermione should definitely fire me." He shot her a wink.
"I would hardly think it from her to be so petty," Molly said. "After all, in my eyes, she's much more than just a lady." She smiled warmly at Hermione before getting back into motherly mode. "Get on now! It'll be fully dark soon."
"Yes, mum," Ron said, and walked out of his house and toward a small shed affixed to it. Hermione gave Molly one last wave before following Ron into the shed, which had two wide doors that opened fully, like barn doors. Ron unlatched the doors and threw them open, revealing a greenish blue car sitting within.
"This is sort of like my dad's Frankenstein's monster," Ron said, making his way to the car. "He's thrown it together from a discarded car one of his clients dumped on him for scrap, but which was still in running condition, and reinforced it with a few spare parts here and there. It's ugly as all hell," and it was, the paint worn, parts jutting out, and the tires all different, "but it's just as resilient. After all, what kind of publicity would it be for a mechanic's car to break down?"
He sat behind the wheel and started the car. "Wait outside," he instructed Hermione. "I'll bring the car out onto the road and then you can close the doors once it's out. The latch is pretty simple."
"I can deal with a latch, Mr. Handyman," Hermione said, walking out of the shed to wait by the open doors.
Slowly, Ron steered the car out of the shed and onto the road, flooding its early-evening dimness with the car's potent headlights. Obediently, Hermione waited until the car was on the road before she closed both of the huge doors and latched them close. Then, she made her way over to the left side of the car, where there was only one door. She opened it and let herself into the wide seat, at the other edge of which was Ron.
"Small car," Ron shrugged. "No space for a backseat. I hope you don't mind riding in front with me."
"After sharing your mum's soup and asking you to help me out of my corset? Not a chance," Hermione said as she closed the car door. Ron threw the car in reverse and looked over his shoulder to make sure he wouldn't hit anything, though part of it was so he could conceal the blush that had appeared behind his freckles at the mention of the corset.
It wasn't long before the car was back onto the forest road, but with the rain having stopped, they passed their stuck car like a landmark and merely rolled by on firm wheels.
"Your mum is lovely," Hermione said right as the car successfully completed the treacherous bend and left the stuck one behind.
"She is," Ron agreed. "I'm sure it must have made quite an impression on her when I turned up with the Lady Granger on her doorstep." He said the nickname again but unconvincingly, and it felt limply from his lips like a withered petal. Something about this day had turned the name stale, and that felt like the last time Ron would ever call her that.
"I feel bad for asking her to call me by my name," Hermione said, absentmindedly looking at the woods rolling by out her window. "It seemed like it made her uncomfortable."
"Out of habit, perhaps, but she would've felt worse if she'd kept my lady-ing you after you'd asked her not to."
"I just don't like the deference," Hermione said, and in Ron's mind it was settled: he'd never Lady Granger her again, not even to tease her. He'd have to find other ways to irk her, he thought, and it brought a smirk to his face to picture Hermione's exasperation, a face he knew well but that he'd barely seen today. Yes, there was something about this day.
"So if not a lady," he surprised himself by starting to say, "what would you like to be? What's Hermione's dream?"
"Hm," Hermione mused. This might take some thought. "I think I would've liked to go to university."
"University? And study what?"
Pleasantly surprised that Ron hadn't laughed her out of the front seat, Hermione felt emboldened to continue. "I don't know, anything. I like books— I might've studied literature. But I like other subjects too much to consider abandoning them."
"An authentic polymath," Ron whistled. Hermione looked at him incredulously. "What? Surprised Mr. Handyman can use big words? I have a brother up at Oxford— Percy's his name. I've nicked his books once or twice before."
"I should learn not to let Ron Weasley surprise me," Hermione said, and Ron felt a contented hum in his chest that swelled upward until it reached his lips and turned into a smile. "What about you? I know we spoke earlier about how you didn't exactly choose to be a handyman, but what would you have chosen to be?"
Ron took a moment to ponder that as well. "I guess I never really stopped to think about that. So much of my life I've lived in my family's wake, picking up the odd job and helping my dad and now the handyman job, and don't get me wrong, I love it, but I've never stopped to think about what Ron Weasley might be good for." He stayed in silence for a few more seconds before speaking again. "A chessmaster, maybe. I'm phenomenal at chess— I taught Orlando, but you know that."
"I do?"
"From the rose garden," Ron said, smirking at the memory. Hermione shared in his smirk.
"Oh, right. The rose garden."
"A professional sports player of some kind, if you can believe such a thing," Ron continued, seeming like he was starting to rattle off a list of things he would've chosen to be. "I might've gone to culinary school. I might've become a grade school teacher, because I'm great with kids, but I'm not so hot about school— aside from bumming books off you, of course. I might have saved up to buy a plot of land and farmed it— wife and kids, family farm, the whole affair."
"That sounds nice," Hermione said, smiling at him with her head propped up on her elbow, which rested against the car window.
"Yes. But all of that, of course, if I could choose."
The car was silent then— a new kind of silence, neither awkward nor comfortable, but sad. It was Hermione who broke it.
"So it seems like neither of us is at liberty to choose."
"No, it seems not," Ron said. "But I don't really mind the lot I've been dealt. In fact, I think I'm growing to be happier with it."
He flashed Hermione a smile before returning his gaze to the road ahead. Though he couldn't see her, Hermione smiled back, her eyes glinting. "Yes," she said softly. "Yes, I think I might be too."
It was fully dark when the beat-down car pulled up to Rosebury House. However, instead of heading to the front roundabout where Hermione could descend and go in through the front door, Ron looped around the house toward the back.
"What are you doing?" asked Hermione, who'd been roused from an almost sleeplike stupor, brought on by the steady movement and noise of the car, by the sight of the house ahead of her.
"I figured you'd prefer to go in through the back to save yourself the trouble of running into your mother and explaining why you're dressed like a commoner," Ron shrugged as he approached the back door. "This way you can sneak in without anyone seeing and get changed before you have to go down and meet her."
Hermione looked at him in mixed surprise and appreciation. "You're one step ahead of me, aren't you?"
"Get used to it," Ron smirked. "I fancy there's not many who can say they're ahead of you, anyway."
"No, but then again, there aren't many who are directly responsible for coming to my rescue at least three or four times in a single day," Hermione said.
Ron smiled sheepishly and killed the engine. The headlights dimmed and the roar of the car sputtered into silence.
"Now that we're here, I don't know how good an idea this was," Ron said, looking at the servants' door. "Won't your mother think it strange if you just materialize out of nowhere and she never saw a car pull up?"
"Not at all," Hermione said. "My mother barely pays attention to where I go— she wouldn't have noticed if I'd gone in through the front anyway, so long as I was in time for dinner." She said it jokingly, but Ron detected a twinge of sadness underneath. He reached out and took the tip of her fingers in his hand, a tentative handhold that he wasn't sure would hold.
"Hermione, I—" he began, unsure of how he would finish the sentence. Hermione looked at him with expecting eyes: she still hadn't withdrawn her hand from his loose grasp. Something in her gaze kept him from continuing with whatever was forming in his mind; instead, he cleared his throat and returned to the usual formalities. "It was lovely driving you today."
Now Hermione dropped her hand from his, but she placed it on his arm. "Thank you, Ron. For driving me, and for everything else." Even she would've found it impossible to define exactly what that everything else entailed.
"Don't mention it," Ron said, smiling at her. "It's not every day I get into a mud fight with an earl's daughter."
Hermione laughed then, an easy laugh she'd missed, the same one she recalled from the day with the chaise longue. "I can't promise you we'll ever repeat that."
We. The word made Ron's heart swell. "Why don't you get down to the pigsties some rainy day and we'll see about that?"
"We'll see about that," Hermione said, laughter still in her voice as she pushed open the door and stepped into the house. "You've got somewhere to park the car?"
Ron nodded. "There's a space behind my cottage."
"I'll cover for you if anyone asks any questions in here," Hermione said.
"Thank you."
"Well..." Hermione swayed slightly in the door, and for an instant Ron wished she'd have something to say, that she'd be braver and finish the sentence he hadn't been able to. "I'd best be getting changed, then. Thank you, Ron. Good night."
She smiled then, a twisted smile with pursed lips, and gave him a little wave before running up the stairs as lightfooted as she could and carrying her mess of wet clothes.
Ron watched her go, and tried not to let the disappointment in his chest grow too much when he lost sight of her. "Goodnight," he said softly, to no one in particular, as if simply saying it would carry it to her. Then he shut the door, got back in the car, turned it around, and began the short drive to the back of his cottage.