Hello, dear readers!

It's been a while. A long while. I've decided to try to carry on with this story and take it to the conclusion that I always had in mind. If you have plot bunnies that you would like me to chase here, let me know, won't you? In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's kinda short, I realize. Just trying to get my gears turning again … I'm a little rusty.

More soon, I hope …

Holly.

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Chapter 8

"I'll hit the Ministry Apparition Zone at 7 o'clock Friday night and will meet you at the Leaky. I wish we could be reunited at somewhere more private, love, but you know how it is — St. Agnes tradition and all. But let's not stay at the Leaky long. I want you all to myself. Be ready, you naughty girl."

Hermione laughed inwardly at her silliness. She'd read Ron's slanted scrawl on this Owl-bitten slice of parchment over and over again since a Ministry Owl had delivered it that Monday morning, and yet, she couldn't help it. The anticipation overwhelmed her. Just two more days. Two more days until she would be back in Ron's arms. He and ten other Ministry Aurors had been on an extended Senior Auror training session at St. Agnes Island for three months — three months that she had managed to rationalize when the opportunity first came up as a brief blip in their otherwise placid domestic routine. How naive she had been! After three years of marriage—not to mention that horrid three years of separation—both she and Ron had figured a three-month absence would feel like next to nothing. And yet, from the very moment Ron had Apparated away from her for Day One at St. Agnes, Hermione was bereft. She hadn't begun to guess how much she would miss him. It was, in many ways, far too stark a reminder of how deeply she had longed for him during those lonely days, weeks, months and years hidden away in the mists of Cornwall.

At least back then, she thought more than once with a pang, she wasn't truly alone. She'd had Rose. And, through Rose, she'd had at least a part of Ron.

Still, she reminded herself that Ron being selected for this Senior Auror status was a high honor, one he'd worked incredibly hard to attain. It was the training necessary for Ron to be elevated to a General in the Auror Corps, a rank he had fought so hard to earn. So she had committed to busying herself during that three-month span in order to support his ambition, trying to keep her mind occupied with visits to her parents in Cambridge, to Molly and Arthur at The Burrow, and most especially to Harry and Ginny's lovely new house down the lane from The Burrow in Ottery St. Catchpole. And of course she'd had her work, collaborating with Professor Vector and Australian Auror Adina Dalabon on what she knew would be a cracking new book on the art of code- and spell-breaking. In fact, she reminded herself, she needed to consult with Bill later that day on a few tweaks to the foreword he had graciously offered to write.

Still, her mind kept traveling back to Ron, forever wondering where he was and what he might be doing at any given time as he trained on that rocky and wind-whipped island in the storm-tossed Atlantic.

So often in the years leading up to this assignment, the two of them had talked about what they had come to jokingly refer to as "The Time" — the moment, somehow, they would know was the right one to bring the daughter they knew they would someday welcome into the world. "I'm happy to practice as much as you like until 'The Time,'" Ron would say, nearly always earning a playful slap on the shoulder from Hermione. Her cheeks warmed at the fleeting recollection of the night before he'd left for St. Agnes, images flickering through her memory: the feel of his five o'clock shadow as his cheeks brushed against her inner thighs … his tongue exploring and finding the spot that had caused her to inhale sharply, her toes curling tightly as she had thrust her fingers deep into his hair and begged him not to stop. She laughed and felt her flushed cheeks with the palm of the hand not clutching the parchment. Lingering on memories like that, she admonished herself, would do nothing to make the time go faster — or make her miss his presence any less. She shook her head in an effort to clear it.

And yet, she acknowledged to herself, the answer to the question of "The Time" had remained a mystery. It was impossible to guess just how old Future Ron was when he'd appeared at the doorstep of The Burrow all those years ago to collect his precious Rose. And to Hermione's eternal frustration, she hadn't had the presence of mind in the moment to ask. And thus, they were left to guess. Which isn't to say Hermione hadn't privately sought out insights from the occasional trusted source over the years—Minerva McGonagall, her mother-in-law, and even Luna Lovegood—about what signs would suggest that "The Time" had arrived.

All the advice amounted to essentially the same thing: As Luna had put it, "You'll know when you know."

Hermione sighed at the thought, and then put the parchment back down on her desk in the bedroom, willing herself to concentrate instead on feeding Crookshanks and then hunkering down to another evening of revising Professor Vector's latest chapter. She padded in her stockinged feet into the kitchen of the flat she'd shared with Ron since the very first night they'd been reunited and, waving her wand, opened a tin of cat food, absent-mindedly giving Crookshanks a tickle behind the ear as he murmured his impatience to be fed. Tidying the kitchen a bit as Crookshanks tucked in to his tuna, she forced her mind to return to the Runic equation she'd been working out at Professor Vector's suggestion. If she stayed focused on the work in front of her, she reasoned, the time between that moment and 7 o'clock Friday evening would go that much faster.

She sighed knowing that, deep down, she was really kidding herself. The next two days, she knew, would move at a crawl.

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Hermione checked her watch impatiently, ignoring the blaring music and the volume of Harry and Oliver's good-natured argument over the relative merits of Puddlemere versus Tutshill's starting five. It was 7:12. Where was Ron? Exasperated, she stood on tiptoe and again tried to peer over the mass of people jammed into the Leaky Cauldron, wondering whether she ought to move away from the bar at the far end of the room and closer to the doors, where the light was brighter and the crowd a bit thinner. And just as she was about to squirm her way between Neville, Hagrid and Luna to do just that, she looked up and locked eyes on Ron. In fact, she saw him before he saw her, and the sight took her breath away.

Had he only been away for three months?

She knew, of course, that it had been precisely 93 days, but she couldn't believe the changes that those weeks of training had wrought on Ron's physique. She was struck inexorably by how much broader his shoulders now appeared, how chiseled his cheekbones had become — and obviously he hadn't had a haircut since he'd gone away, because his copper locks now framed his face as well as his neck, which appeared more muscular than it had before. Without warning, the image flashed in her mind of a different Ron, the one she had always thought of as Future Ron, the one who had come to The Burrow to collect her darling Rose all those years ago. The Ron who had left her side three months earlier for St. Agnes Island was a close approximation of that man. The Ron who was now before her — his fellow St. Agnes graduates filing in behind him and bumping their way into the crowd to grab the traditional celebratory drink on their last night in the program — he was the genuine article. Her heart raced at the sight of him.

He'd been searching the crowd for her and, when his blazingly blue eyes finally met hers, a wide, beaming smile lit his entire face, his white teeth contrasting thrillingly with the beginnings of the scruffy red beard darkening the sharp angles of his jawline.

"Mione!" he shouted over the din, and she wound her way through the crowd as politely as she could before nearly leaping into his arms and kissing him deeply, her hands cradling his face. She was aware that pretty much everyone in the pub was staring at them, but she couldn't have cared less. Ron was back. Her Ron. And with his hands firmly cupping her bum, she wanted nothing more than to drag him straight out of the Leaky, Apparate them both back to their little flat in Camden, and have her way with him.

Too late, however. Before Hermione could give voice to those thoughts, she and Ron were surrounded by Harry, Neville, Luna, Hagrid, George, Angelina, Padma … and dozens of other well-wishers eager to welcome him home. There was even a Daily Prophet photographer on hand to record the moment; the homecoming of Senior Auror graduates from St. Agnes was always a newsworthy affair, traditionally done at the Leaky Cauldron. But the presence of Senior Auror Ronald Weasley, war hero and second known survivor of the Avada Kedavra curse, being greeted by his wife, Hermione Granger-Weasley, fellow member of the Golden Trio and hero of what had come to be known as The Battle of The Burrow — that was Page 1 news indeed.

Ron, for his part, had been stunned to the point of stupefaction when his eyes locked on Hermione's from across the crowded barroom. He wasn't quite sure what she had done to herself — he never was — but it struck him that she was every bit as beautiful that night as she had been on the day they were bonded: She'd done her hair in one of those fancy updos that he so loved to mess up when they were finally alone, and her cheeks and lips were somehow glowy and glimmery and flickering in a way that always mesmerized him, and the dress she was wearing — sweet Merlin — it was as best he could tell some sort of a long black turtleneck sweater, which hugged her petite and curvy frame perfectly. It was somehow incredibly modest while also leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, and if he hadn't been gobsmacked at the sight of her, he would have noticed that several of his St. Agnes mates were as riveted by her beauty as he was. In fact, he was agog — and utterly unapologetic to find that his hands gravitated immediately to her curvy backside when she finally made her way into his arms. Gods, he wanted her — but that would have to wait at least a few minutes, for propriety's sake. Harry was already at his side and slapping his back, and the flash of the Daily Prophet photographer's camera was blinding his eyes.

"There he is," Harry crowed, and continued with a wink, "the Senior Auror come back to lord his newfound prowess over us all."

"Yeah, yeah, something like that," Ron said with a laugh as he reluctantly pulled away from Hermione and settled her to the floor, not realizing that he'd actually lifted her up by several inches while he'd kissed her so passionately. He settled for draping his left around around her shoulders and holding her close to his side while he shook hands with everyone from Harry to Hagrid and sheepishly accepted their congratulations. Stealing a glance down at Hermione, he saw that she was looking up at him, her eyes shimmering with tears, a proud smile across her face. Gods, he loved her. He swore to himself he'd do all he could never to be so far from her for so long ever again.

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Please review!

Holly.