disclaimer: jkr owns harry potter, ron weasley, hermione granger, and my soul
warning: author not responsible for any sap-induced trauma that ensues
pairing: ron/hermione, as is blatantly obvious pretty darn fast.
thank you: to anyone who bothers to read. i loff intrepid readers, i do.
~~Charming
Hermione cracked one eye open blearily, having no clue what woke her up.
There was a nice breeze coming out of the half-open window next to her,
and the pale blue curtains were billowing gently against her face. It may
have been something peculiar in the gentle August air, but.... Her eyes
widened as she spotted something moving in the sky, which was a very pale
blue right now, to match her curtains (it was an ungodly hour, even for
her). She strained to see clearer, and thought she could make out... a
balloon?
Indeed, it looked like a hot air balloon, high up above the tallest tree,
seeming to be drifting in her direction. But that was just idle fancy
(though Hermione was still too groggy to feel foolish at her sudden
fascination). As she watched, she became more and more certain that the
huge balloon -was-, in fact, moving in the direction that would take it
closer to her, and thus more visible. She smiled. This wasn't an everyday
occurence by any means, and there was something strangely magical about
it-- but not the usual sort of magic, nothing you could learn. Secretly,
that sort of magic made her smile. The closer it drifted (flew? navigated?
Hermione wasn't sure as to the proper terms to use to describe its
flight), the more amazing it looked, a bright red-gold striped ball,
swaying and dipping slightly, yet graceful in its awkward way.
After several minutes, she was starting to feel much more awake, as well
as confused, and almost alarmed. It was definitely seeming to be coming
straight at her house, its trajectory unwavering, and its coloring
suddenly awfully familiar. Could it be...? Who would...?
Hermione gasped, her slightly tanned hand flying to her mouth. She
scrambled up in her bed, sitting up on her knees, and pressing her nose to
the window. She still couldn't make out much of anything, but those were
definitely Gryffindor colors. She tried to rationalize it away. She was
sure there was a perfectly ordinary reason for this, one that had
absolutely nothing to do with her. This was just a chance morning treat, a
marvel glimpsed in the strange, slippery moments right after awakening,
when Hermione wasn't sure what could be true, and what was completely out
of the question. Most of the rest of the day, she forgot ever considering
doubting her grasp of that question, but first thing upon waking, even she
couldn't expect herself to be all that reasonable.
And thus the ensuing descent of the hot air balloon seemed to Hermione to
be swathed in a rich, shimmering fog of complete unreality. Her eyes were
open as wide as they would go, but she betrayed no other sign of her
bowled over state. So it was that she was startled at the sudden, sharp
tapping on her window. A strange, unfamiliar-looking owl was peering at
her through the glass, its bright yellow eyes alert, and almost mocking--
but no, couldn't be. She opened the window wider a notch, and the owl
promptly used the opportunity to unceremoniously drop the rolled-up
parchment onto Hermione's lap, and streak swifly away. Slowly, her fingers
quite steady, she unrolled the parchment and peered, somewhat unseeingly,
at the scrawled letters inside, gradually realizing, to her horror, Ron's
somewhat hard-to-read handwriting, which said:
``Dear Hermione,
I hope you don't mind. Forgive me if I crash. This is just to let you
know I'm coming.
See you soon,
Ron."
Her cheeks reddened slightly, and Hermione felt a quite distinctive flush,
traveling swiftly up her arms and sides, burning heedlessly up her neck.
The nerve! Of all the... hare-brained, ridiculous, just plain -mad-.... A
litany of silent, bewildered curses started gathering momentum in her
mind, and in a daze, she threw on a house-robe over her pink cotton
nightgown (a somewhat detested Christmas gift from her mother, though
usually she just ignored whatever it was she was wearing, she felt she
wouldn't be convincing, whatever did manage to come out of her mouth,
wearing it). Before she knew it, she was running headlong down the
stairs, and out the front door, veering sharply around the house to the
back yard, where she figured would be the only place that... thing, could
possibly land. She was resolutely not thinking of it in terms as
affectionate and innocuous as "balloon", and her smile was definitely long
gone at this point.
She threw back her head, standing in the middle of her parents' perfectly
manicured lawn, feeling the breeze from the balloon ("insane contraption",
she reminded herself), getting ever-stronger, her hair beginning to fly
randomly around her head, only feeding her growing irritation. She crossed
her arms, and practiced her glare. It didn't take long for the contraption
to land, seemingly magically anchored, Hermione noted distantly. It took
even less time for Ron to leap over the edge of the basket, seeming
breathless and excited, and perhaps only a little sheepish. Quite
unsatisfying, as far as level of contrition, Hermione thought.
He stood a safe distance away from her, his hands behind his back,
blushing slightly but looking directly at her, and actually grinning.
"What is -with- you, Ron Weasley? Have you finally gone completely barking
mad? What... what is all of... all of -this- supposed to mean?" Hermione
was trying hard not to shout and scream and yell her head off, but she was
mostly failing, as usual when it came to these things.
"Hey now... I knew you'd be like this, see... don't be mad. I'm sorry,
alright?" Ron attempted what he probably thought was an angelic-looking
smile. "I just wanted to make it up to you, Hermione. Um...."
"If you think this is going to fix -anything-, you are sadly mistaken,"
Hermione said, resorting to her imperious tone that she knew would annoy
him.
Ron's eyes flickered, but the light didn't go out. He appeared to be in an
appallingly good mood, making Hermione feel even more sour. "So I guess
you don't want her, then," he said, smiling in that mischievous way that
usually melted her defenses (and he knew it). She had once called it an
unholy twinkle. He definitely looked unholy, as he reached behind his back
and whisked out a tiny golden-orange kitten, too young to be meowing
much-- it had its eyes tightly shut, and was holding on his index finger
for dear life. Hermione tried to huff, but it came out as sort of a
sputtering, strangled laugh. Her lips were trembling and she was suddenly
acutely aware that she was wearing thin pink cotton under her sensible
robes. She rolled her eyes, feeling long-suffering indeed.
"I named her Snitch, but you can change it if you want, it's okay," Ron
said, as an afterthought. He was suddenly having trouble looking her
straight in the eye, and was seeming to be closely examining the kitten.
Hermione was keeping up her resolve, and steadfastly not looking at the
cat. It was just a small cat. Granted it was small, and kind of orange,
and was making small, faint sounds that seemed vaguely meow-like and
seemed to indicate it wanted supper. Vaguely, she tried to remember
whether there was any milk left. Of course there was-- there was always
milk-- good for the teeth, of course, what was she thinking. Her parents
had made her drink three glasses every day, growing up, just to be safe. She
sighed and said, as brusquely as she could, "Well, hand it to me, then,
finally. Can't you see she's hungry? Didn't you feed her?"
"Er... I did give her some of my pumpkin juice-- well, I tried to-- she
didn't seem to want it...."
"And thank goodness for that! She has more sense than you, even at this
age, obviously," Hermione said, unhooking the kitten from Ron's finger and
carrying her off to the kitchen without looking back to see if Ron was
following. As she stood in front of the refrigerator, pouring some milk
into the narrowest glass she could find, she thought she may as well ask
the obvoious. "Well, out with it then. What is it you're not telling me
this time? What horrible accident, what awful misdeed can you be trying to
cover up, Ron Weasley?"
"Well, your birthday's coming up soon," he tried, lamely.
"Yes, and last year, you got me Circe's Chocolate Frog card, two weeks too
late, I seem to recall," Hermione said, in a reminiscing tone. "Oh, and
with the questionable promise of going to the Forbidden Forest with me to
gather moon-berries. You realize, moon-berries grow perfectly well in the
grass just outside the Quidditch field, of course."
"Er... well...," he mumbled, looking down as he shifted position, suddenly
seeming a lot more unsure with every moment. "Didn't you say it's the
thought that counts? It was something weird like that, I thought."
"Yes, well, it is, when it's a sane, good thought. On the other hand,
silly, dangerous thoughts don't really count," Hermione said with complete
certainty. "And I have a definite feeling this is also one of those,
wouldn't you say," she pressed.
"Is not! I have a perfectly good reason for this. Hagrid said...," he
began, and then stopped half-way. "Harry said...." Hermione wasn't
looking any friendlier, so he tried, "I really wanted to... make it up to
you, you know?"
"Hmm," Hermione said, noncommitally.
"I didn't mean it. I wasn't thinking, really. It's just... I can't take it
anymore, you don't even think of me at all, do you? It's always Viktor,
Viktor every day! I have feelings too, you know, and you're ignoring me
and you don't even want me around anymore, now that you've got all these
newer, better friends...."
For a minute, Hermione didn't do anything, but then she took out some soda
cans from the hidden compartment in the fridge where her parents thought
she wasn't devious enough to look, and gestured to the table. It was
getting to be a proper summer morning, bright and warm, and all the
greenery in the baskets hanging from the ceiling was turning toward the
sun. Snitch promptly curled up on top of some fruit in a bowl on the
table, with light streaming down on her from the skylight, and started
purring. Hermione stifled a smile, thinking that Ron probably wouldn't
appreciate her taking things lightly at this point. She sat down in the
chair across from him, and concentrated on turning her can between her
palms, and the strange patterns she could see in the white lacey
tablecloth. One of them looked like it could be an owl. Quite a few looked
like hearts and flowers.
"So what are you trying to say, exactly?" she said, finally. Hermione
realized she was just stalling, but she really had no idea how to handle
this all of a sudden. At least she wasn't blushing. In fact she probably
wasn't any different than usual in any way whatsoever. Nothing out of the
ordinary happened, really, just Ron and some more of his insane antics.
She looked up. Ron wasn't drinking the soda, though the opener was broken
off, and he was twirling it on his pinkie absentmindedly. What he -was-
doing was staring at her, as if he'd never seen her before. The
tongue-tied disease was apparently communicable, an irony which Hermione
would've appreciated at another time.
"We used to have fun, didn't we? It was just us three. And now... and
now... Harry's busy all the time, and you're never around either, and it's
just nothing like it used to be and I hate it, and it's stupid, and I... I
just want it to stop. I want things to be like they were, except I don't,
well not exactly, oh I don't know, I give up." He poked his finger
forcefully into the can opening, and the thin metal gave way, though he
didn't appear to notice, quite, and just started drinking fast. Soon
enough, he was sputtering and coughing and carbonated bubbles were coming
out of his nose. Hermione giggled. Ron looked at her balefully, flushing.
"I don't see what so funny," he said, still looking like he was on the
verge of sneezing. Hermione considered a sneeze-be-gone charm, but looking
at Ron's indignant face, she thought better of it. She smiled at him
instead, softly, with all the sincerity she could manage so early in the
day.
"Thank you," she said, looking at him, the smile still fluttering on her
lips. Ron turned even redder, if that was possible, seeming completely
bewildered now. Hermione took a deep breath and tilted her face up,
feeling the pale sunlight bathing her eyelids and cheeks. Her parents
were waking up right about now, she guessed, because the alarm-clock
music had started, soft and slow, but quite startling in the stillness of
the kitchen. It was coming down the stairs clearly, the nostalgic strains
of some wartime lounge singer slipping languid fingers of sound into
every nook and cranny around them. Usually, Hermione would've found it
annoying, and quite embarrassing, but right now she just let it roll over
her. The woman was singing in French, and Hermione was pleased that she
could actually decipher bits and pieces, going on her knowledge of Latin.
She wasn't one to dream of darkened rooms and filmy gowns and steamy
kisses. Sometimes, though, she liked forgetting all the things she did by
habit, just for a few minutes.
"I never knew your parents are were... odd," Ron said, with a comical
expression on his face, both disgusted and strangely becalmed. His hands,
usually restless and fiddling with any little thing they could, in
periodic attacks of antsyness, were resting, awkward and startled, on the
tabletop.
"Mm. I don't think they know, either, really," Hermione said, grinning.
She felt peaceful, yes, and happy, and mischievous. She reached out a slim
hand across the table, and laid it gently atop Ron's own. Ron jumped, his
eyes riveting on the space where their hands were touching, but the music
seemed to be still weaving its spell, and he didn't jerk it away, or start
babbling, or laugh. His eyes opened wider, and suddenly Hermione noticed
they were just the shade of the sky this morning. His hand was warm and
dry, and she could feel the blood pulsing in the large veins just beneath
the skin. He was so familiar, so easily understood and often dismissed
and yet... something... there was something. It was like there was
something in the air. Something sweet and just a tiny bit sour, like
barely-ripe apples. It was both startling and always there, in the
background. Ron had been trying to tell her something, she knew. Maybe...
maybe he didn't need to.
Her fingers curling around his hand, she lifted her arm. He was looking at
her like maybe he was seeing her for the first time, too, and it was
Hermione's turn to flush. Without saying anything, they both got up and
walked around the side of the table, until they were face-to-face, and Ron
took her other hand in his. They couldn't have said, later, who started
it, or whose idea it was. Neither of them knew what came over them, then.
The song had changed, and there were the usual muffled sounds of running
water and various other noises of her parents' morning bathroom rituals.
Hermione didn't really know what she was doing, but it felt so good, so
right, so peaceful, just standing there, a breath away from her dear
friend. It seemed like something she didn't realize was missing, was
complete, now that Ron was home with her, and she wasn't inclined to
question it, right at the moment. Right now, everything outside the circle
of their mingling breath seemed so very far away. Her mind was in a
pleasant sort of daze, and Hermione was feeling warm and unbelievably
content.
And then he wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulled her to him, as the
music gave another swell. Just like that, and they were dancing, and her
head dipped down onto his shoulder, heavy and buzzing with pleasure and
warmth, almost like she was sleepy, though she wasn't. She was breathing
deeply, and feeling Ron's chest rise and fall gently against hers, almost
hypnotic and almost beautiful and it was enough, for now.
"So let's go," he whispered, barely audible, in her ear.
"Yes," she said. Closing her eyes, she could almost feel the breeze
lifting her into the sky already. When her parents came down for
breakfast, chatting amiably about the latest developments in the
tooth-whitening business, they would be greeted by the meows of a scruffy,
orange, and very startled, rudely woken kitten. Hermione thought about
this, and some other futures for a second, her chin resting on Ron's
shoulder, finding them somewhat unexpectedly charming, and notable for
their lack of expected doom. "Might as well," she added, laughing.
~~
warning: author not responsible for any sap-induced trauma that ensues
pairing: ron/hermione, as is blatantly obvious pretty darn fast.
thank you: to anyone who bothers to read. i loff intrepid readers, i do.
~~Charming
Hermione cracked one eye open blearily, having no clue what woke her up.
There was a nice breeze coming out of the half-open window next to her,
and the pale blue curtains were billowing gently against her face. It may
have been something peculiar in the gentle August air, but.... Her eyes
widened as she spotted something moving in the sky, which was a very pale
blue right now, to match her curtains (it was an ungodly hour, even for
her). She strained to see clearer, and thought she could make out... a
balloon?
Indeed, it looked like a hot air balloon, high up above the tallest tree,
seeming to be drifting in her direction. But that was just idle fancy
(though Hermione was still too groggy to feel foolish at her sudden
fascination). As she watched, she became more and more certain that the
huge balloon -was-, in fact, moving in the direction that would take it
closer to her, and thus more visible. She smiled. This wasn't an everyday
occurence by any means, and there was something strangely magical about
it-- but not the usual sort of magic, nothing you could learn. Secretly,
that sort of magic made her smile. The closer it drifted (flew? navigated?
Hermione wasn't sure as to the proper terms to use to describe its
flight), the more amazing it looked, a bright red-gold striped ball,
swaying and dipping slightly, yet graceful in its awkward way.
After several minutes, she was starting to feel much more awake, as well
as confused, and almost alarmed. It was definitely seeming to be coming
straight at her house, its trajectory unwavering, and its coloring
suddenly awfully familiar. Could it be...? Who would...?
Hermione gasped, her slightly tanned hand flying to her mouth. She
scrambled up in her bed, sitting up on her knees, and pressing her nose to
the window. She still couldn't make out much of anything, but those were
definitely Gryffindor colors. She tried to rationalize it away. She was
sure there was a perfectly ordinary reason for this, one that had
absolutely nothing to do with her. This was just a chance morning treat, a
marvel glimpsed in the strange, slippery moments right after awakening,
when Hermione wasn't sure what could be true, and what was completely out
of the question. Most of the rest of the day, she forgot ever considering
doubting her grasp of that question, but first thing upon waking, even she
couldn't expect herself to be all that reasonable.
And thus the ensuing descent of the hot air balloon seemed to Hermione to
be swathed in a rich, shimmering fog of complete unreality. Her eyes were
open as wide as they would go, but she betrayed no other sign of her
bowled over state. So it was that she was startled at the sudden, sharp
tapping on her window. A strange, unfamiliar-looking owl was peering at
her through the glass, its bright yellow eyes alert, and almost mocking--
but no, couldn't be. She opened the window wider a notch, and the owl
promptly used the opportunity to unceremoniously drop the rolled-up
parchment onto Hermione's lap, and streak swifly away. Slowly, her fingers
quite steady, she unrolled the parchment and peered, somewhat unseeingly,
at the scrawled letters inside, gradually realizing, to her horror, Ron's
somewhat hard-to-read handwriting, which said:
``Dear Hermione,
I hope you don't mind. Forgive me if I crash. This is just to let you
know I'm coming.
See you soon,
Ron."
Her cheeks reddened slightly, and Hermione felt a quite distinctive flush,
traveling swiftly up her arms and sides, burning heedlessly up her neck.
The nerve! Of all the... hare-brained, ridiculous, just plain -mad-.... A
litany of silent, bewildered curses started gathering momentum in her
mind, and in a daze, she threw on a house-robe over her pink cotton
nightgown (a somewhat detested Christmas gift from her mother, though
usually she just ignored whatever it was she was wearing, she felt she
wouldn't be convincing, whatever did manage to come out of her mouth,
wearing it). Before she knew it, she was running headlong down the
stairs, and out the front door, veering sharply around the house to the
back yard, where she figured would be the only place that... thing, could
possibly land. She was resolutely not thinking of it in terms as
affectionate and innocuous as "balloon", and her smile was definitely long
gone at this point.
She threw back her head, standing in the middle of her parents' perfectly
manicured lawn, feeling the breeze from the balloon ("insane contraption",
she reminded herself), getting ever-stronger, her hair beginning to fly
randomly around her head, only feeding her growing irritation. She crossed
her arms, and practiced her glare. It didn't take long for the contraption
to land, seemingly magically anchored, Hermione noted distantly. It took
even less time for Ron to leap over the edge of the basket, seeming
breathless and excited, and perhaps only a little sheepish. Quite
unsatisfying, as far as level of contrition, Hermione thought.
He stood a safe distance away from her, his hands behind his back,
blushing slightly but looking directly at her, and actually grinning.
"What is -with- you, Ron Weasley? Have you finally gone completely barking
mad? What... what is all of... all of -this- supposed to mean?" Hermione
was trying hard not to shout and scream and yell her head off, but she was
mostly failing, as usual when it came to these things.
"Hey now... I knew you'd be like this, see... don't be mad. I'm sorry,
alright?" Ron attempted what he probably thought was an angelic-looking
smile. "I just wanted to make it up to you, Hermione. Um...."
"If you think this is going to fix -anything-, you are sadly mistaken,"
Hermione said, resorting to her imperious tone that she knew would annoy
him.
Ron's eyes flickered, but the light didn't go out. He appeared to be in an
appallingly good mood, making Hermione feel even more sour. "So I guess
you don't want her, then," he said, smiling in that mischievous way that
usually melted her defenses (and he knew it). She had once called it an
unholy twinkle. He definitely looked unholy, as he reached behind his back
and whisked out a tiny golden-orange kitten, too young to be meowing
much-- it had its eyes tightly shut, and was holding on his index finger
for dear life. Hermione tried to huff, but it came out as sort of a
sputtering, strangled laugh. Her lips were trembling and she was suddenly
acutely aware that she was wearing thin pink cotton under her sensible
robes. She rolled her eyes, feeling long-suffering indeed.
"I named her Snitch, but you can change it if you want, it's okay," Ron
said, as an afterthought. He was suddenly having trouble looking her
straight in the eye, and was seeming to be closely examining the kitten.
Hermione was keeping up her resolve, and steadfastly not looking at the
cat. It was just a small cat. Granted it was small, and kind of orange,
and was making small, faint sounds that seemed vaguely meow-like and
seemed to indicate it wanted supper. Vaguely, she tried to remember
whether there was any milk left. Of course there was-- there was always
milk-- good for the teeth, of course, what was she thinking. Her parents
had made her drink three glasses every day, growing up, just to be safe. She
sighed and said, as brusquely as she could, "Well, hand it to me, then,
finally. Can't you see she's hungry? Didn't you feed her?"
"Er... I did give her some of my pumpkin juice-- well, I tried to-- she
didn't seem to want it...."
"And thank goodness for that! She has more sense than you, even at this
age, obviously," Hermione said, unhooking the kitten from Ron's finger and
carrying her off to the kitchen without looking back to see if Ron was
following. As she stood in front of the refrigerator, pouring some milk
into the narrowest glass she could find, she thought she may as well ask
the obvoious. "Well, out with it then. What is it you're not telling me
this time? What horrible accident, what awful misdeed can you be trying to
cover up, Ron Weasley?"
"Well, your birthday's coming up soon," he tried, lamely.
"Yes, and last year, you got me Circe's Chocolate Frog card, two weeks too
late, I seem to recall," Hermione said, in a reminiscing tone. "Oh, and
with the questionable promise of going to the Forbidden Forest with me to
gather moon-berries. You realize, moon-berries grow perfectly well in the
grass just outside the Quidditch field, of course."
"Er... well...," he mumbled, looking down as he shifted position, suddenly
seeming a lot more unsure with every moment. "Didn't you say it's the
thought that counts? It was something weird like that, I thought."
"Yes, well, it is, when it's a sane, good thought. On the other hand,
silly, dangerous thoughts don't really count," Hermione said with complete
certainty. "And I have a definite feeling this is also one of those,
wouldn't you say," she pressed.
"Is not! I have a perfectly good reason for this. Hagrid said...," he
began, and then stopped half-way. "Harry said...." Hermione wasn't
looking any friendlier, so he tried, "I really wanted to... make it up to
you, you know?"
"Hmm," Hermione said, noncommitally.
"I didn't mean it. I wasn't thinking, really. It's just... I can't take it
anymore, you don't even think of me at all, do you? It's always Viktor,
Viktor every day! I have feelings too, you know, and you're ignoring me
and you don't even want me around anymore, now that you've got all these
newer, better friends...."
For a minute, Hermione didn't do anything, but then she took out some soda
cans from the hidden compartment in the fridge where her parents thought
she wasn't devious enough to look, and gestured to the table. It was
getting to be a proper summer morning, bright and warm, and all the
greenery in the baskets hanging from the ceiling was turning toward the
sun. Snitch promptly curled up on top of some fruit in a bowl on the
table, with light streaming down on her from the skylight, and started
purring. Hermione stifled a smile, thinking that Ron probably wouldn't
appreciate her taking things lightly at this point. She sat down in the
chair across from him, and concentrated on turning her can between her
palms, and the strange patterns she could see in the white lacey
tablecloth. One of them looked like it could be an owl. Quite a few looked
like hearts and flowers.
"So what are you trying to say, exactly?" she said, finally. Hermione
realized she was just stalling, but she really had no idea how to handle
this all of a sudden. At least she wasn't blushing. In fact she probably
wasn't any different than usual in any way whatsoever. Nothing out of the
ordinary happened, really, just Ron and some more of his insane antics.
She looked up. Ron wasn't drinking the soda, though the opener was broken
off, and he was twirling it on his pinkie absentmindedly. What he -was-
doing was staring at her, as if he'd never seen her before. The
tongue-tied disease was apparently communicable, an irony which Hermione
would've appreciated at another time.
"We used to have fun, didn't we? It was just us three. And now... and
now... Harry's busy all the time, and you're never around either, and it's
just nothing like it used to be and I hate it, and it's stupid, and I... I
just want it to stop. I want things to be like they were, except I don't,
well not exactly, oh I don't know, I give up." He poked his finger
forcefully into the can opening, and the thin metal gave way, though he
didn't appear to notice, quite, and just started drinking fast. Soon
enough, he was sputtering and coughing and carbonated bubbles were coming
out of his nose. Hermione giggled. Ron looked at her balefully, flushing.
"I don't see what so funny," he said, still looking like he was on the
verge of sneezing. Hermione considered a sneeze-be-gone charm, but looking
at Ron's indignant face, she thought better of it. She smiled at him
instead, softly, with all the sincerity she could manage so early in the
day.
"Thank you," she said, looking at him, the smile still fluttering on her
lips. Ron turned even redder, if that was possible, seeming completely
bewildered now. Hermione took a deep breath and tilted her face up,
feeling the pale sunlight bathing her eyelids and cheeks. Her parents
were waking up right about now, she guessed, because the alarm-clock
music had started, soft and slow, but quite startling in the stillness of
the kitchen. It was coming down the stairs clearly, the nostalgic strains
of some wartime lounge singer slipping languid fingers of sound into
every nook and cranny around them. Usually, Hermione would've found it
annoying, and quite embarrassing, but right now she just let it roll over
her. The woman was singing in French, and Hermione was pleased that she
could actually decipher bits and pieces, going on her knowledge of Latin.
She wasn't one to dream of darkened rooms and filmy gowns and steamy
kisses. Sometimes, though, she liked forgetting all the things she did by
habit, just for a few minutes.
"I never knew your parents are were... odd," Ron said, with a comical
expression on his face, both disgusted and strangely becalmed. His hands,
usually restless and fiddling with any little thing they could, in
periodic attacks of antsyness, were resting, awkward and startled, on the
tabletop.
"Mm. I don't think they know, either, really," Hermione said, grinning.
She felt peaceful, yes, and happy, and mischievous. She reached out a slim
hand across the table, and laid it gently atop Ron's own. Ron jumped, his
eyes riveting on the space where their hands were touching, but the music
seemed to be still weaving its spell, and he didn't jerk it away, or start
babbling, or laugh. His eyes opened wider, and suddenly Hermione noticed
they were just the shade of the sky this morning. His hand was warm and
dry, and she could feel the blood pulsing in the large veins just beneath
the skin. He was so familiar, so easily understood and often dismissed
and yet... something... there was something. It was like there was
something in the air. Something sweet and just a tiny bit sour, like
barely-ripe apples. It was both startling and always there, in the
background. Ron had been trying to tell her something, she knew. Maybe...
maybe he didn't need to.
Her fingers curling around his hand, she lifted her arm. He was looking at
her like maybe he was seeing her for the first time, too, and it was
Hermione's turn to flush. Without saying anything, they both got up and
walked around the side of the table, until they were face-to-face, and Ron
took her other hand in his. They couldn't have said, later, who started
it, or whose idea it was. Neither of them knew what came over them, then.
The song had changed, and there were the usual muffled sounds of running
water and various other noises of her parents' morning bathroom rituals.
Hermione didn't really know what she was doing, but it felt so good, so
right, so peaceful, just standing there, a breath away from her dear
friend. It seemed like something she didn't realize was missing, was
complete, now that Ron was home with her, and she wasn't inclined to
question it, right at the moment. Right now, everything outside the circle
of their mingling breath seemed so very far away. Her mind was in a
pleasant sort of daze, and Hermione was feeling warm and unbelievably
content.
And then he wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulled her to him, as the
music gave another swell. Just like that, and they were dancing, and her
head dipped down onto his shoulder, heavy and buzzing with pleasure and
warmth, almost like she was sleepy, though she wasn't. She was breathing
deeply, and feeling Ron's chest rise and fall gently against hers, almost
hypnotic and almost beautiful and it was enough, for now.
"So let's go," he whispered, barely audible, in her ear.
"Yes," she said. Closing her eyes, she could almost feel the breeze
lifting her into the sky already. When her parents came down for
breakfast, chatting amiably about the latest developments in the
tooth-whitening business, they would be greeted by the meows of a scruffy,
orange, and very startled, rudely woken kitten. Hermione thought about
this, and some other futures for a second, her chin resting on Ron's
shoulder, finding them somewhat unexpectedly charming, and notable for
their lack of expected doom. "Might as well," she added, laughing.
~~