Rapidly covering more than two years in the HP universe, this is the story of Ron and Hermione's engagement. Not everyone is happy about it. Part Four, Hermione's POV.
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She scolds Ron afterward, between kisses and giggles whispered in the quiet dark of the drawn crimson curtains around his bed. "Honestly, Ron, sometimes you have the emotional intelligence – " a kiss against the side of her temple – "of an envelope. Harry and Ginny – " a shiver from the lips pressed onto the top of her spine – "were just standing there, your best mate and my best – " one warmly freckled hand smoothing its way down her bare white shoulder – "friend, you could have at least, you know, hugged them or – oh …" Her small sigh is soft, breathless, as his hand, roughened and slightly chapped from hours of Quidditch practice, circles her breast. "… Or, uh, something."
He grins up at her, half sheepish, half mischievous, as he puts on hand on her bare hip. It looks so dark, so broad and tanned, and she feels very petite and out of breath. Her smile is resigned and teasing in return, because exasperated as she is with his absolute inability to concentrate on anyone's emotions, what his lips and tongue are doing to her nipples and collarbones and earlobes is just ooooooh …
Besides, it's not as if he's her only outlet for emotional support. She has Ginny, her best friend, and ever since Padma Patil was made a Ravenclaw prefect and started dating Terry Boot two years ago, she has a lot more understanding and respect for Hermione, so they get along pretty well. (Hermione wishes she could say the same for Padma's sister, but Parvati has never had any respect for anyone's studies, and on the weekend she broke up with Colin and slept with Seamus she told Hermione that she had no idea how she could date just one person, and didn't Hermione get bored? Parvati is not a likely candidate for a serious, emotionally-based conversation.) And she journals, furiously, sometimes with the girlish, heart-filled scribbles of a lovesick teenager; sometimes neatly, sprinkling fine sand across the wet ink, but almost always about Ron.
She does talk to Ginny the next day, though, apologizes for Ron's extraordinarily git-like insensitivity. "I told him later, he should've at least said something to you – you and Harry both looked so shocked, you know, I guess I thought you already had an idea. He asked me two weeks ago, we were just waiting for the right time to tell you. Isn't it beautiful?" The red Magician's Stone in her ring, charmed with everlasting love instead of riches or eternal life, catches the faded beam from one wall torch, and suddenly she's off and running again, meaningless babbles that she knows she's babbling, but can't seem to stop, and Ginny grins shyly, pleased for her.
Some days Ginny seems quieter, and Hermione glances twice at her, wondering if she has an exam or a big assignment on her mind. She's taking some awfully hard courses, after all, N.E.W.T. Transfiguration and Herbology and Charms and even Potions. (Ron made a horrible face when Ginny said that, and later he could hardly stop blustering about what a bloody git Snape was, until Hermione licked the side of his hip and told him that please, she really didn't want to think about Snape while they were in bed.)
"Is your coursework hard?" Hermione asks one night, when the wall sconces are burning low, well past midnight, and the house-elves have begun cleaning up already, pretending to ignore Ginny and Hermione, sitting in their sea of books and parchment scrolls. Ginny looks very tired, with red-lined eyes full of exhaustion and worry, and Hermione wonders what she has on her mind that keeps her up so late at night. "Are you having trouble? I'd be glad to help you, you know, I had Transfiguration and Herbology, and Ron – " here another little blush, one that makes her giggle – "Ron's even better at Charms than I am, you know – "
"My classes are fine," Ginny cuts in, sounding irritated; her voice is clipped and comes out shaky, like a small leaking hiss. It's so unlike her that Hermione takes her nose out of Flying with the Cannons, which she's promised Ron that she'll read if he finally reads Hogwarts, A History, and he said yes, reluctantly at first, and then more quietly, as her fingers and tongue elicited the same word, again and again. So she's reading this horrid book about the most boring sport on earth and all the bloody orange practically blinds her every time she opens it, and now she looks up at Ginny in surprise. The younger girl's lips are set, compressed firmly in a strikingly McGonagall-like expression, her eyes fixated firmly on the scroll she's writing for Professor Vector, and she doesn't even looks at Hermione as she snaps, "I may not be as smart as you, but I don't have a problem with my classes."
"Sorry," Hermione shoots back, more bewildered than annoyed. It certainly isn't like Ginny, and is it her imagination, or did Ginny's voice rise slightly on the last word? But she doesn't know what else to say, how to ask Ginny what else could possibly be wrong, and so she opens Ron's book again, and reads until Ginny packs up her books and leaves for bed without a word, and the next morning she asks Ginny's brother what he thinks the problem is. "Do you know what's wrong with your sister?"
"Ginny?"
"How many sisters do you have?" she quips, shoving half a honeyed biscuit into his open mouth. He looks so cute as he chews thoughtfully, though she admits it would be more pleasant if he learned to chew with his mouth shut, and she shoves his chin closed with a grin. "Yes, Ginny. She's been acting … funny. Sort of moody and silent."
Ron shrugs, unconcerned, shoving a stockpile of biscuits inside the pockets of his robes for a mid-morning snack. "Beats me. You should know, shouldn't you? I mean, you're both, you know, girls and all."
She rolls her eyes. "You're impossible. Just because we're both girls doesn't mean I – I mean, d'you understand Harry better than I do, just because you're a guy?"
"Sure," Ron says confidently, without even bothering to think about it; he's too busy washing down the last of his mash with gulp after gulp of pumpkin juice.
"You are impossible."
Her fiancé shrugs again, but Hermione can see that no matter how nonchalant he appears, he's worried, too, because she is. "Maybe she's just feeling out of sorts. She's probably upset because you didn't tell her before, and usually, you know, you tell her … well, stuff."
Hermione can't help laughing at his inelegance, his obvious discomfort – but it's Ginny, and that's why he sounds a bit troubled below the casual exterior. She kisses him, and she can taste pumpkin juice on his lips. "You're probably right. Maybe if I let her know what's happening – you know, plans for the wedding and stuff – she'll feel better."
She tries, but it doesn't really seem to help. Monosyllables and tired looks are all she gets from Ginny when she asks where Ginny thinks they should buy their matching white matrimonial robes or who she thinks should make the wedding cake. (Ron suggested asking the house-elves and for once, Hermione didn't sock him. "Well," she said thoughtfully, "at least we know they make good cakes.") But Ginny is nothing but silent, and on Leaving Day, at her last Hogwarts feast, Hermione thinks that Ginny looks relieved – relieved and sad at the same time, and Hermione doesn't know why. She asks the girl who used to be her best friend what's wrong – "You okay, Ginny? Is something the matter?" – but all she gets in return is a fast, perfunctory hug.
Ginny's owls the next year, her last year at school, are more talkative, chummy even, and Hermione assumes that her discomfort and silence last spring had to do with classes or coursework or something equally stressful. She scribbles hastily about plans for the ceremony, the ball afterward, signing each parchment with a big schoolgirl-ish heart for "love," never noticing that her future sister-in-law always writes out "Love, Ginny" back to her.
She and Ron marry on a cold day in mid-December when the sky is a clear gray colour like steel and fog. On the day of her wedding, she notices that both Ginny and Harry look unexpectedly pale in their traditional silver robes that signify the witch and wizard of honour, but she attributes it to the colour of winter filling their normally flushed cheeks.
finis