The Prophet
By A Darker Shade of Bright
Arthur, Molly, Bill, Ron, and Ginny were all sitting around the kitchen table one quiet evening in early July. Hermione was there, too, listening to the conversations the family was having. She went back and forth from Molly and Arthur's discussion of Fudge's recent threatening letters, to Bill and Ginny's chitchat about quidditch, listening raptly to both pairs. Each time she came here, it still amazed her. This place felt more like a home than any place she had ever experienced. Every nook and cranny was full to bursting with warmth and love and fierce bravery and loyalty and a dash of stubbornness- all the things one would associate with a Weasley. There was never a dull moment- and when there was, an explosion coming from the general direction of the twins' room, or a shrill screech from Molly Weasley directed toward some troublemaker or another, ended it abruptly. As much as Hermione loved her parents, her own stark, cold, sterile house was nothing compared to the Burrow.
Ron excused himself from the table quietly. Hermione watched him slowly ease himself out through the kitchen door and into the living room, and decided to follow him. The more time she spent around her friend, the more she began to wonder if there wasn't more to him than he realized. She knew he had constantly compared himself to his brothers since he was a boy, and when he had made friends with Harry in their first year at Hogwarts, he began to compare himself with his best friend, as well. Harry was the Boy Who Lived. He defeated Voldemort, was the youngest Quidditch player in a century, and was beginning to enjoy the attention of a good many Hogwarts girls. And even considering all the bad things Harry had do endure, Hermione knew that right now, if given a choice between being himself and being Harry, he would rather recklessly choose Harry.
Spending time alone with Ron was strange. When Hermione was alone with Harry, she felt as though she were talking to a younger brother. She taught him things he might need to know, and when they talked, she felt as though she were being perfectly honest with him, and he with her. They had virtually no secrets. They could be happy, and there was no underlying tension, no sense of something other than pure, normal friendship. When Harry and Hermione were around Ron, every move Ron made either irritated her to no end or it made her want to reach out and embrace him for his complete lack of brain. He always said exactly the wrong thing, and a very large part of her actually believed that he meant what he said and couldn't think of anything better. But when Ron and Hermione were alone together, things were different. He still said exactly the wrong thing, but in a playful, self-deprecating way. And she knew Ron was being honest with her deep down, even though she sometimes wondered if she were being completely honest with him.
He was sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace when she found him. "Hi, Ron," she began quietly, sitting next to him and watching the flames.
"Hermione, do you like it here?" he asked her frankly.
"Very much so," she answered.
"Better than Bulgaria?" he continued, a hint of a growl in his deep voice.
"How am I supposed to respond to that, Ronald?" she asked, slapping his leg playfully.
"You're supposed to say that you'd rather be somewhere romantic with that Krum bloke, while he strokes your hair and makes you feel pretty and whispers sweet nothings in your ear."
"Ron..."
"You know, my apologies for not making you feel gorgeous enough. Sorry, I just don't know how to make something perfect even more perfect. My mistake."
"Ron!" Hermione raised her eyebrows in shock.
"Don't go acting all surprised about it, 'Herm-own-ninny'. Don't tell me you haven't known from the moment we met that I fancied you."
Pause.
"No, Ron, actually, I haven't."
Another pause.
"Oh." Ron grew very, very pink indeed. He scratched his red head awkwardly. "Er, that came out... wrong."
Hermione folded her hands in her lap and stared at them. "You fancy me?"
"Just a bit," Ron drawled. He held his face in his hands, obviously at the height of embarassment. "Sorry about that."
"No, Ron, it's just... Well, I never thought..." Hermione's usually brilliantly clear mind had gone quite foggy. Her thoughts were a bit jumbled, trying to fit all the pieces together- "Oh, Merlin," she slapped her forehead, suddenly aware of everything all at once. "Ron, you fancy me!"
"Thanks for the notice." Ron was still miserable looking, but Hermione had just solved a very good riddle.
"The Yule Ball, and Krum, and the Quidditch match... I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner! You fancy me! Oh, how could I have been so stupid? And all those times we fought, and Scabbers and Crookshanks... Oh, Ron!" She threw her arms around him in a quick, triumphant hug.
But when she pulled back, she suddenly understood. Really understood. She turned ever so slowly to face him, her face turning from pink-with- excitement to pale white. "Ron," she whispered, looking at him with serious, giant brown eyes, "you-"
"Yes, Hermione! I fancy you! I love you! I need you! I've been desperate for you since we were kids! I dream about you at night! I can't breathe properly when you're around me! I FANCY YOU!"
He inhaled slowly. She exhaled slowly. They both realized simultaneously that they had an audience.
The entire contents of the house had spilled into the parlor and were watching the pair of them with a mixture of confusion and amusement. Hermione didn't know how long they had been there, but she guessed it was long enough to get the gist of what had been said between them. Ron, if it were possible, turned even redder.
Miraculously, Molly chided the voyeurs standing about in the doorway. "All right, the show's over," she beckoned them gently."Everyone out." Hermione watched Molly shoo everyone out of the parlor and felt her control of the situation slip once again.
Finally, Molly was the last one left in the room besides the pair of them on the couch. She strolled out and the door was closing on her when-
"THE BRIDES OF DARKNESS WILL DESTROY THE HOME OF THE MARKED ONE."
Hermione was no seer, but she knew that Ron's voice didn't sound like that, nor was his posture ever upright and electrified-looking like that.
Molly had crossed the room and was kneeling rapt at her son's feet within two seconds.
"TWO SISTERS HAVE SET OUT IN THE NIGHT TO UNDO WHAT UNDID THEIR MASTER FIFTEEN YEARS AGO. LORD VOLDEMORT DOES NOT YET KNOW OF THE MAGIC PROTECTING HIS FOE. BUT IN TIME HE WILL BREAK EVEN THE STRONGEST DEFENSES IN AN ATTEMPT TO DEFEAT THE ONE HE HAS MARKED AS HIS EQUAL...
"THE BRIDES OF DARKNESS WILL DESTROY THE HOME OF THE MARKED ONE..."
At the precise moment that Ron's wide-open eyes closed and his body reclaimed itself and slumped back sleeping on the sofa, a figure dressed in black appeared out of the fire and, looking panic-stricken, rushed over to the pale-faced Molly.
"Quickly," breathed Snape, "I couldn't stop them- we must get Harry now, before it's too late."
"What's going on?" yawned Ron, waking up and stretching as if from a long nap.
Hermione looked from Ron to Molly to Snape, and back to Molly. She promptly fainted foreward into Ron's lap.
Molly and Snape rushed out of the room to get Arthur and Bill.
Ron felt decididly confused, then remembered his confession from a few minutes earlier, and felt a bit better with Hermione's tawny-haired head in his lap.
But what was all the commotion about?