McLaggen may not have caught on to the fact that Ron had not been in before him (as he should have been) the night prior, but Gramsley certainly had. Not much got past the old butler, much less the (very noticeable) trampling of Ron from the cottage circlet and up the servants' stairwell after the guests had retired upstairs. So today, Gramsley had made sure that Ron was up in Master McLaggen's guestroom well before the time McLaggen was scheduled to return from a walk around the estate with his parents and the Granger family, so that when McLaggen came back and it was time to ready himself for dinner Ron would already be there with cufflinks in hand.

The only problem was that there were two hours to go before dinner, and Ron was bored out of his mind.

He calculated that he had about an hour before McLaggen returned and he'd have to dress him, and he had no idea what to do to fill the time. His mind idle, he found it drifting toward Hermione.

He had woken up with an empty hand and a silent house. Hermione had snuck out of the cottage before he'd woken up, just like he'd told her to. In her rush, however, she'd had time enough to make Ron's bed. Ron had smiled when he saw it: it was sloppy and asymmetrical, evidencing the fact that Hermione had probably never made a bed (hers or otherwise) in her life, but the gesture touched him. A few weeks ago, he would've seized onto the image to tease her with later, but he'd felt no such urge now. He'd decided not to remake the bed: that way, when he folded into it later, he would do so with the knowledge that her hands had touched it last.

He hadn't seen her since last night, and now, with little else to do but wait, he found himself wondering what she might be doing right now. Rationally, he knew she was out on that dreadful walk with the McLaggens, but he wondered how exactly she felt about having been pushed into it— not great, that was for certain He could almost see her: her face turned inward in a frown, her skirt bunched up in her knuckles, her politeness laced through with the obvious dislike she felt for McLaggen but which he'd never catch on to. He laughed at the image, and his heart stirred a little at it. If only he could see her now!

"Stupid," he muttered to himself, bringing himself out of the illusion. "She's out doing earl's daughter duties and you're waiting like an idiot for an earl's son to decide he wants to play dress-up on his own terms."

The mention, even by himself, of the term earl's son echoed in his chest, somewhat painfully. He was a fool to believe he could allow himself to think of Hermione like he had been doing, even after last night, even after she'd sought refuge and sought it in him. Yes, for a split second he'd been sure she was about to kiss him, and she had slept in his bed and right by him for a night, but he was deceiving himself if he thought he could ever measure up to the son of a Lord.

The thought swilled around in his mind momentarily. Lord Weasley, he thought, though the very combination of those two words sounded to him laughably like an oxymoron, Earl of... The thought trailed off and was left unfinished. He couldn't come up with a name for his own fictional estate, damn it. Still, the thought of himself as a lord —not because he had ever envied the position, but if only because he felt that only then could he stop chastising himself for thinking of Hermione as he found it hard not to— lingered: Ron living in a house that was big, bigger than anything his mum had ever fathomed; Ron hosting lavish dinner parties for respectable guests; Ron looking smart in a sleek dinner jacket, one that fit him and whose matching trousers didn't ride up too far up his bony ankles...

He cast a glance at McLaggen's suit from the dinner, still draped over the back of the chair where he'd left it the night prior, and a thought sprang into his head about how he might spend the time he had left until McLaggen was due back.

This bloke and I ought to be about the same size, right? he said as he reached for the trousers of the suit.

He knew what he was doing was just about the worst transgression he'd ever enacted at Rosebury (and, after putting up the earl's daughter for the night, that was a high bar), but still he continued to slowly take off his own valet's jacket and trousers. It was a combination of boredom, the utter certainty that he had the luxury of time before McLaggen came back, and the irrational desire to live in his foolish fantasy for a few instants more, before he had to return to his place of servitude and it was irreparably shattered.

The fabric was soft on his skin, softer than anything he'd worn before. He chalked it up to the fine fabric (which probably cost more for a single suit than the entirety of his wardrobe) and to lack of constant use, as he doubted McLaggen wore this very often with a wardrobe as expansive as he'd gleaned from unpacking his suitcases. Ron had been right: it was about his size, though it hung loosely around his shoulders, which surprised him— he'd thought McLaggen and himself would be roughly the same breadth about the back.

He finished putting on the fine suit and looked at himself in the full-length mirror by the closet. The sight made his breath catch in his throat: he had never worn something so unapologetically black, unworn into the faded gray of use, and the starkness of the fabric against his white shirt and his red hair was striking. The suit, he felt, elongated him— he was tall already, but these weren't workclothes that added bulk to him, but fine tailoring that clung to his body in all the right places. He spun slightly from side to side, shifting his weight to either foot to eye himself from different angles. The image of Hermione coming down the main stairs filled his mind; this time, however, it was him in McLaggen's clothes, waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, holding out his hand so she could take it...

"Enjoying ourselves, are we?"

Ron froze. McLaggen stepped into the room from the hallway and shut the door softly behind him. Ron didn't dare look directly at him, but in the mirror, which he was still facing, he saw McLaggen walk slowly toward him and stop right behind him where Ron could see him in the reflection.

"This is a fireable offense, as I'm sure you're aware," McLaggen said. His lips were curled in a cruel smile. "If this should get out to Lord and Lady Granger, you'd be out on your arse before the day is up. And I do not need to tell you how utterly miserable your prospects of employability would be."

"Yes, my lord," Ron mumbled. He was flushed red, from the tip to his ears to the entirety of his face, and though he was meek before McLaggen he berated himself in his head. Stupid, stupid, Ron Weasley, why did you think you could do this?

"I'll wager you didn't expect me back so early," McLaggen continued. He folded his hands behind his back and stepped around Ron to place himself between Ron and the mirror, but faced the window off to the side. "To be quite honest, I expected to delay as well. But it seems the Lady Hermione did not share in such plans." Even in his utter terror, Ron felt a stab of vindictive pleasure at those words. Of course Hermione doesn't want to spend time with you, you git. He wondered if she had been thinking of him, as he had been of her, if maybe Ron had crossed her mind when she'd turned McLaggen down...

McLaggen sighed and turned to face Ron, staring him squarely in the face. "Listen, handyman. I do not want your apology— it's written all over your face, anyway, and I'm not a man to be moved by pity. But as I see it now, I am the only thing standing between you and the loss of your job and your good name. So I am willing to overlook it..."

"Thank you, my lord," Ron said, but McLaggen held up a finger to signal he was not yet done.

"...I am willing to overlook it if you do something for me." The cruel smile now returned to his lips, and though Ron dreaded what might be behind it, he knew there was nothing to do but play along with it.

"Anything, my lord."

"I understand that you have some knowledge of the layout of the upper floor and the rooms in it."

"I do, my lord."

"I would like you to show me to the Lady Hermione's bedroom tonight." Ron's stomach sank: anything but that, he thought. He remained silent, but McLaggen was wily and caught on to his hesitancy immediately. "You do not really have a choice, handyman. And don't try to wriggle out of this by telling me it wouldn't be proper for me to pay the Lady Hermione a nocturnal visit, since you forfeited your say in propriety when you chose to stick your hand into my wardrobe."

Ron weighed his options. He could refuse McLaggen, but that would cost him not only this job but most future ones, and he would have to return to the Burrow this month without what little income he knew his mum relied on to supplement his dad's meager earnings from the garage. Or he could do as he asked, and betray Hermione to a man she loathed and whose intentions in her bedroom were nothing if not indecent.

Next to him, McLaggen was growing impatient. "My patience grows thin, handyman. What will it be?"

Ron's mind flashed with images of his parents, Hermione, the Burrow, the suit, himself in the mirror, McLaggen's sneer, his mum crying, Hermione in his bed, Hermione coming down the main stairwell, his room at the Burrow, his dad's oil-stained suit, his—

"Fine," he said, more to stem the flow of images than to cater to McLaggen's impatience. "Fine, I'll do it."

McLaggen merely smiled with reptilian coolness, and something in that awful smile told Ron that he already knew what Ron's answer would be.

As he hurried up the stairs, Ron heard the scrape of chairs against the floor of the dining room, signaling that dinner was coming to an end, and knew that he was running out of time.

The party would probably spend a half-hour in the drawing room before everyone retired upstairs. McLaggen had told him to meet him in his room to help him change out of his suit and into his nightclothes, and then wait until Ron was certain Hermione was ready for bed to take him to her bedroom.

Right as Ron had agreed to McLaggen's extortion, a plan had formed itself in his head to protect Hermione, which was partly why he'd gone along with it. But Gramsley had summoned him back downstairs with a mountain of work to do, and so he had had no time to fulfill it. Now, however, he'd have to work diligently to keep from getting caught and make things worse than they already were.

He slipped into Hermione's bedroom and shut the door softly behind him; that way, even if someone started to come in, he'd have the warning of the door opening to try to duck away and hide himself. So much of this plan relied on assumptions he had made about Hermione that there was almost no certainty that it might work, but Ron knew that risking it —however improbable— was the only shot he had at protecting her. For starters, he was working off the assumption that Hermione's love of words meant she would keep pen and paper stashed somewhere in her room. He was proved right by the second drawer of her nightstand, after having unsuccessfully rifled through the drawers of the boudoir desk. Having found it, his heart lifted somewhat: this just might work.

He twisted the cap of the fountain pen, a fine utensil with silver embossing, and was comforted by the weight of the ink that meant it was at least half full. He went over to the boudoir desk and scribbled a quick note onto the paper, careful not to damage the nib and to keep the ink from smudging too badly:

Hermione,

I don't have time to explain this right now, but it's extremely important you do as I say. Right when you come up from dinner, step into your bathroom, lock it, and don't come out until I knock three times. Don't get undressed or change into your nightclothes; go into the bathroom as you are and lock yourself there. It is very important that it looks like you were never in your room after dinner.

I will explain everything when I knock. Wait for me and don't come out until then. Trust me.

– Ron

Now he thought about where to place the note so he could be sure Hermione would see it. There was no guarantee that she'd see it if he placed it on the mantel above the hearth or rested it on her bed, or any piece of furniture for that matter. Looking again to the boudoir desk, the answer came to him: if Hermione was coming up from dinner, the first thing she'd do would likely be to go to the mirror to take off and set aside the jewelry she'd accessorized with. He wriggled the note between the cool mirror and the top of the wooden frame around it, then stepped back to make sure it held in place. It did.

That being all he could do at the time, he replaced the pen and paper where he'd gotten them from and made sure it didn't look like he'd been there. He then exited the room, not before surveying the hallway to make sure it was still deserted, and shut the door behind him once more. Now he slithered along the shadows lining the far walls, making his way to the opposite end of the square top floor to the guestroom wing. The chatter in the drawing room was beginning to die down and it couldn't be long before McLaggen came up. He stepped into McLaggen's guestroom and took a seat in the straight-backed chair by the window facing out toward the estate.

And then, again that day but much less confidently, he waited.

He tapped his foot against the ground impatiently and tuned his ears to the sounds coming from the party below. It was another ten minutes before he began to hear the first steps head up the main stairwell, signaling that the guests had begun to turn themselves in for the night. Ron didn't move a single inch and tried to pick out Hermione's steps from between those he heard: when had she come up? Would she have seen her note? Would she be alone, as he had (too naively, too hopefully) assumed she would, or would she have brought a lady's maid with her that would pick up on the anomaly in the mirror? His stomach sank considering this last possibility.

He didn't have time to spin it too much in his head, for the ajar door creaked wider open and in stepped McLaggen. His cheeks were flushed, but his gait and gaze were steady enough for Ron to know that he was not drunk. How could he be, he thought grimly to himself. Not with something like this to look forward to.

"All ready?" McLaggen asked. Ron had no idea what exactly he was supposed to have ready, but the thought that he'd readied Hermione to serve her on a silver platter to this arse made his stomach twist.

He didn't respond, but just nodded and walked over to where McLaggen stood to get him out of his suit. He handed McLaggen his set of navy blue silk pyjamas, embroidered with lighter dots, and then proceeded to fold his suit and return it to its hanger in the closet.

McLaggen buttoned his pyjama shirt nimbly and then motioned for Ron to hand him his robe, a rich burgundy garment with a pattern resembling peacock feathers.

"Did you get that other suit down to cleaning?" he asked Ron as Ron slid the robe over his outstretched arms and tightened the fabric belt around his waist.

Ron's cheeks went hot with latent humiliation. "Yes, my lord." McLaggen had demanded he take the suit he had worn down to cleaning, with a certain disgusted tone in his voice as he said it, as if he could not stand the idea that his suit had touched a handyman's skin. Nonetheless, the suit was indeed now being cleaned to the highest standard— as anything under Gramsley's charge.

Ron finished adjusting the bathrobe and stepped aside so McLaggen could look at himself in the mirror. McLaggen eyed his reflection lazily, as if already expecting to like what he saw. "What do you think?"

You look like a twat, Ron thought, but he gritted his teeth and eked out: "You look dashing, my lord."

"You don't think it's too much? Perhaps she might like it better if I showed up with the robe and nothing under," McLaggen said, and laughed under his breath. Ron didn't share the laugh.

The lull out in the hallway had long since died down, signaling that all of the guests were in their own rooms and, most likely, ready for the night. McLaggen seemed to notice it too, and he was pacing impatiently around the room, looking at the door as if it would light up when it was time to step out to Hermione's room. Eventually, he could take it no longer.

"Let's go," he said after another ten minutes of pure waiting.

Ron obediently rose to his feet and exited the room after McLaggen, who hung about expectantly out in the carpeted corridor, making Ron understand he was to lead the way.

"This way," Ron said quietly as he began the way to the opposite face of the top floor, toward the family's rooms. His heart sank deeper in his chest with every step he took: he felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter, even though he knew it was Hermione he was leading there if his feeble plan failed. McLaggen walked with none of the weight of Ron's steps: he moved lithely, like a predator stalking, and Ron could almost smell the excitement coming off of him in waves.

Walking quietly, almost without lifting their feet from the carpet to ensure they made very little noise, Ron and McLaggen reached the door to Hermione's bedroom. Ron heard no movement inside the room, but that was of no comfort: Hermione could very well be laying in bed or in an armchair reading, still awake, and very within view of her own room.

"You've done well, handyman," McLaggen said to Ron. He stared him down condescendingly. "Stay out here. And wish me luck." He twisted the doorknob and let himself in.

The next seconds were sheer torture for Ron. His terrified heartbeat was deafening to his own ears, and it felt as if all the blood in his body had rushed to his temples to throb there. He was physically aware of the rise and fall of his chest, and his breathing grew more shallow and less frequent, as if he was preemptively holding it, not quite knowing what for. The echo of McLaggen's footsteps entering Hermione's bedroom and traipsing near the door as he surveyed the room reverberated in his ears. What few instants he spent surveying the room seemed eternal to Ron.

Finally, McLaggen's voice came from within the room: "She's not here."

Ron audibly exhaled his relief. It had worked! But he played it off, so as to not let McLaggen in on it or give him any reason to suspect as he stepped out of the room, and tried to feign disconcert.

"How strange," he said, furrowing his brow.

"Do you know of anywhere else she might be?"

Ron shrugged. "She might have gone down to the servants' quarters, maybe with a tear in her gown or something similar, my lord. Or she might be in her mother's room— though that would be unexpected. Are you sure she's not in her bedroom?"

McLaggen shook his head. "All the lights were off when I came in, except for the bedside lamp that is usually left on in all rooms. She's not here."

Now it was Ron's turn to revel in the sour disappointment that stretched across McLaggen's face. "Then I don't expect she'll be here for the night, my lord. Lady Hermione is not one to be out in the hallways so late."

McLaggen held Ron's stare for another tense few seconds, and Ron feared for an instant that he might see right through him and storm back in to break down the bathroom door. Fortunately, McLaggen broke the stare and looked off back toward his guestroom.

"Alright, handyman— I must say I am disappointed, but you have done what I have asked. I relinquish you from this responsibility." He turned to Ron again and pierced him through with a gaze. "For your sake, I hope you have not lied to me."

"I wouldn't dare, my lord," Ron said, staring deferentially down and hoping McLaggen would interpret it as humility and not evasion. "I'm sorry the evening didn't end as planned."

"Well, one cannot always account for everything," McLaggen shrugged, though he still looked vaguely unconvinced. He gave Ron one last look. "Good night," he said as he turned abruptly, his robe flying out behind him as he headed back to his room.

"Good night, my lord," Ron said. He, however, did not start to move. He remained where he was and watched McLaggen weave around the hall and reenter his room. Ron did not shift one inch until he heard the lock of McLaggen's door click into place; then, movement rushed back into Ron and he pushed open the door to Hermione's bedroom, shutting it a little too forcefully behind him once he was inside. He clicked the lock shut and, for good measure, slid the bolt into place.

The room was indeed deserted, and Ron could see no change between the room now and the room as it had been an hour earlier, other than the fact that his note was no longer pinned to the mirror.

Ron walked to the far end of the bedroom and stood in front of the plain white door to the bathroom. He raised his hand and, with loosely-closed knuckles, tapped thrice on the door lightly. He waited a few seconds before he heard the latch slide.

Hermione opened the door precariously, peeking out of it to see that it truly was Ron before opening it fully. She was clad in a long, loose chiffon silk ivory nightgown that belled out at the sleeves and was finished in lace, tightened at the waist by a small ribbon. At the corner of the bathroom, near the clawed feet of the tub, was a pile of fabric that Ron could only assume was her dinner gown. Her jewelry was off and in a small heap by the sink, and she'd let her hair down from its intricate updo and let it cascade down her back.

The sight of her was such a relief that Ron couldn't control himself: he threw his arms around her and pressed her close, almost lifting her from her feet. "Thank God you're alright," he mumbled as he held her close.

When he set her down on the ground again, Hermione still bore the same incredulous expression she'd greeted him with. "Ron, I've been hiding out in the bathroom for the past twenty minutes and I heard steps in here just a few minutes before. Care to explain what that was all about?"

"Let's get everything in its place before I explain, shall we?" Ron said, holding her shoulders to step around her and gather the discarded shoes and dress to put back where they went in Hermione's wardrobe. Hermione eyed him quizzically but then shrugged and swept the jewelry into her cupped palm, to transfer it from there to its jewelry box on the boudoir desk.

As Hermione replaced her earrings and necklace in the box, Ron went to her closet and hung the gown and placed the shoes with the rest of them, marveling at the sheer volume of fabric inside the thing.

"Do you ever really wear all of this?" he said as he closed it and turned back to Hermione.

Hermione closed the top of the jewelry box and met Ron's gaze. "Look at the amount of dinner parties my mother throws. Now consider the fit she'd throw if I appeared with the same outfit too soon after I wore it a first time. What do you think?"

"Good answer. You somehow managed to tell me that you do in fact wear the enormity of your closet without sounding superficial."

"Cut it out, Ron," Hermione said. "Are you going to tell me what's going on, or was your mirror note just a prank for me to find as I was halfway through getting ready for bed?"

The mirth left Ron's face and he became serious, propelled back into what he was here to do in the first place. "Okay. But you have to promise me you'll listen the whole way through."

Hermione's face also got grimmer. "Try me."

Ron sighed. "I was bored earlier and I did a really stupid thing up in McLaggen's room."

"What did you do?" Hermione said sharply.

"That doesn't sound very much like listening to me," Ron said. Hermione took a hand up to her mouth to show she'd be silent from then. Ron nodded and continued. "I tried on one of his suits."

Hermione's eyes flew open and Ron could tell she had more than half a mind on what to say to him right then, but she didn't remove her hand from her mouth, for which Ron was appreciative. He continued. "I thought I had time before he came up from his walk with you, but he was earlier and he caught me at it. He threatened me with getting me fired and blacklisted unless I helped him get into your room tonight. What else could I do? But that's why I left the note. Even if I had to do it, to keep this and any future jobs, there was no way I was letting that man get away with whatever it was he wanted to do to you."

Hermione's hand dropped now, and she sighed. "To think of how I harmed you just by turning down his offer for a solitary walk."

"Hermione, no," Ron said hurriedly. "No, this is my fault for being a git and somehow thinking I could wear his clothes, even for just a few minutes, without any repercussions. Besides, you've seen what that bloke wanted tonight, who knows why he's trying so hard to get you alone with him? I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you'd put yourself in a bad situation just to cover my arse."

"Why did you try on his suit, anyway?"

Ron flushed. As much as he wanted not to tell her the real reason, he knew any lie he tried to come up with would seem even more ridiculous, and Hermione was too smart to ever believe any of that. He'd have to tell her the truth. "Remember the first night the McLaggens were here? When you came down in that pink dress?"

A smile tugged at Hermione's lips. "Ah, that bloody pink dress."

"I saw you coming down the stairs," Ron said, and once he'd gotten over the first admission they just kept pouring forward. "I'd just come down from unpacking for McLaggen and I happened to catch a glimpse of you, across the lobby, coming down the stairs. And I wanted, Hermione, I wanted so badly to be McLaggen at that moment, waiting for you downstairs in a sharp suit and looking striking, even if only half as striking as you did that night. I wanted so badly to fit within your world at that moment— and mind you, you know my contempt for the nobility, but you made me yearn that night. And all because of that bloody pink dress."

Hermione looked at him with softness in her eyes, and reached out to hold his hand lightly in hers. "Ron—"

But Ron was undeterred. "So I saw the suit draped over McLaggen's chair and I thought, 'hey, he won't be up for a while,' and I just tried it on over my undershirt. And I felt great, Hermione. I mean, it was stuffy, and it was rigid, and I don't know how I'd sit through a whole dinner in that thing, but I looked great. And for an instant, I thought I might look even better if I had you, in that pink dress —or any dress, really, even the mud-stained one— on my arm." He laughed dryly and was surprised to find tears prickling the corners of his eyes. He hastened to wipe them: "What a fool I am, really, to think I could have ever fit."

"Ron," Hermione said again, a bit more forcefully this time. Ron was pulled out of his rant and merely looked at her. Hermione was suddenly disarmed: with Ron's blue eyes suddenly fixated on hers, she hadn't the slightest idea of what she should say to him. At a loss for words, she said his name again softly: "Ron, why did you care enough to shoo Cormac away, to come warn me? Why bother leaving that note with your job on the line?"

Ron winced. "And you have to ask?"

"Ron, tell me."

"Because, Hermione Granger, I think I might be in love with you," Ron said forcefully. "I think of you when I find myself thinking of nothing, and I think of you even when I have something else to think about. I think about whether you're thinking of me. And I couldn't stand the thought of you coming into harm's way because of a man like McLaggen, much less if it's my fault. Don't get me wrong, you drive me crazy— your bickering, and your quips, and how smart you are and know you are, but I find myself constantly wanting to be around you in whatever way I may. To think of all that you are, going to waste on that bugger, makes me ache. But to think of him getting to be close to you when I cannot, when I never will be able to, hurts even more."

Now Ron was aware of how oppressively silent Hermione's room was around him. She was still staring at him, wide-eyed, and her hand hadn't dropped his, but she seemed utterly stunned. Ron scoffed and looked away: "It's out, now, I suppose. What are you going to do? Kick me out?"

"No, you idiot," said Hermione. Her grip on his hand tightened and she closed the gap between their bodies with a step forward, her right leg slightly between Ron's. "I'm going to kiss you."

Then her other hand was on his cheek, pulling his face downward, and she was on her tiptoes, and before Ron could make sense of anything the brush of her lips against his became a full-blown kiss. Ron's guard dropped and he found himself returning the kiss immediately, his free hand making its way around Hermione's waist to press her even tighter to him and the hand that was holding Hermione's squeezing even harder.

Ron closed his eyes to accentuate every sensation the kiss sent flowing through his body. This was better than he'd ever imagined all those nights in bed, better than he'd ever dreamed of. Hermione's lips were soft and she smelled faintly of whatever eau de parfum she'd dabbed on her neck and wrists before going down to dinner all those hours ago. He could feel the soft fabric of her nightgown against his arm as he held her, and suddenly he felt famished for any touch of her. He disentangled his fingers from Hermione's and buried his newly-free hand in the curls at the back of her head.

Hermione responded to the increased pressure by deepening the kiss: her free hand found its way up to Ron's chest and stayed there, clutching at the shirt of his valet's suit, and she opened her mouth just a bit to let her tongue slip out and meet Ron's. When he felt it, Ron let out a small, contented sound and gripped Hermione tighter, clasping at her nightgown along the waist and opening his legs slightly to bring Hermione closer to him. With the proximity of Hermione's touch and her kiss, he thought he might die and go to heaven right there: her fragrance was intoxicating, her touch dizzying, and Ron thought he'd rather end it all here than have to live without the feeling of her lips on his again.

Then Hermione pulled away for breath. Ron's every nerve cried out for her, but his hands were still on her, pressing her close, and that made the breaking of the spell even remotely bearable. He sighed and let the hand that was on Hermione's head drop down to her waist, locking with his other one. Hermione mirrored him and let both of her hands rest on his chest.

"That," Ron said, beginning to sway almost imperceptibly, "was not what I expected."

"I would hate to be predictable," Hermione laughed softly. In Ron's arms, every shake of her body was amplified and passed on to his own. She let her head drop forward and rest on the spot between Ron's chest and his shoulder. "But what did you expect, and after last night? That I wouldn't have savored every memory you're in since the day with the car? That I wouldn't want for your hands whenever I took my corset off?"

"Shame you managed to get out of yours before I got here," Ron muttered, and there was Hermione's soft, wonderful laugh once more.

"Easy," she said, lifting her head from his chest, "or I might think you're beginning to make insinuations, Mr. Weasley."

"And would those insinuations be unwelcome?"

Hermione's eyes glinted in the dying hearth. "No," she spoke measuredly, "but tonight, maybe so. It's getting late, after all."

Ron let his gaze drift to the clock on the mantel, and groaned internally. He would have to slip out soon if he didn't want questions about why he'd been so late in exiting through the main gate to his cottage, as Gramsley expected him to so as to fulfill all a valet's role properly.

Ron unclasped his hands from around Hermione's waist. "I'll see you about, then."

Hermione let her own hands drop from his chest. "You'd better." She again stood on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his freckled cheek. "But for now, good night, Mr. Weasley."

"Good night, my lady," Ron said, letting the back of his hand caress her cheek slightly. The smile that brought out in her, and that lingered for long after, was the last thing Ron saw before he slipped back out into the hallway and started to slink toward the servants' stairs.

"You were in there long, weren't you?"

That same voice, that same voice that had already surprised him once today, came now from behind him. Ron spun on his heels and saw McLaggen, in his robe and with a pipe in hand, walking toward him.

"And just what were you doing in Lady Granger's room, having established she wasn't in it?"

"I took the chance to fix her sink, sir," Ron lied through his teeth, hoping the scant light of the corridor would conceal his red ears. "Provided that she is not in there and the bathroom isn't likely to be in use until tomorrow morning, I took the liberty of making the necessary repair in her absence."

"Interesting," said McLaggen. He'd caught up to Ron now, and hung just a few feet away. "For you to make a repair without your toolbox, I mean."

Blast it, Ron thought immediately, but then a second thought took its place: McLaggen didn't know anything about repairs, with all likelihood. He had the advantage to lie here. "It was an easy repair, sir. One I could do with my hands and some adhesive you can find in any bathroom. But the adhesive needs to stick overnight, or else the repair is void. Hence why I took the liberty tonight."

McLaggen narrowed his eyes and squinted out at Ron. After a moment, he shrugged and took his pipe to his lips. "All right, I'll believe you. But I've got my eyes on you, Weasley."

That was the first time McLaggen had called him anything other than handyman, and it made Ron queasy. McLaggen turned around and went back toward his room, and Ron speedwalked toward the servants' stairs at the end of the hallway. Now that the danger had passed, the most he could expect would be a small reprimand or a stray question from Gramsley or whoever it was manning the door at this time, but he didn't care: the memory of the kiss was firmly ingrained in his head, and it would be that that would keep him warm during the walk back to his cottage and when he slipped into bed that night.