Chapter three: Marital Bliss
There was a ridiculously annoying woman who was carrying around three armloads of robes, and, at last count, she'd run over Hermione Granger- Weasley at least three times. Once again, Hermione realized with horror, the Mack truck of Gladrags shoppers was only two racks away, and closing fast. She cut across the aisle in sheer terror, and, with disaster narrowly averted, breathed a sigh of relief. She grabbed the new robe overcoat that Ron was having altered and started toward the young, gum- popping teenage witch at the register.
"Hello," she greeted warmly, folding the repackaged coat over her crooked arm. "Just this one. Alteration, for Weasley," Hermione added, still reveling in how nice the name felt, rolling off of her tongue. Even though she had vehemently insisted on Granger-Weasley, she loved calling herself Mrs. Weasley. For the first time in her entire life, she let herself doodle Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Hermione Weasley all over scrap paper in her office. Scrap paper that, of course, she burned in case Ron actually stopped by.
"Uh...like, yeah," the teenager said, popping the gum loudly between her front teeth. Hermione winced, but smiled through it as the purple haired teenybopper flipped casually through a card file. "Let's see. Weasley, Weasley, Weasley. Ah, here it is." Hermione smiled brighter, thinking about the last name. "Oh, huh. Spelled kinda like Weasel! Funny, huh?" The smile faltered. Rather, the smile chilled, iced, and froze over.
"Yes, funny how that happens" was said through gritted, now well- aligned and white teeth.
"Well, gee, lady, it doesn't have any..." Pop!
"It's twenty galleons."
"But if the ticket don't say it, I don't..." Pop!
"Tweeeenty galleons." Oh, damnation, Mack Truck barreling toward the register at an overloaded, breakneck pace...
"How'dyou know?" Pop! Pop!
"I know!" Merlin, she was about to be obliterated. Hermione's life flashed before her eyes, and she barely stopped herself from melodramatically pleading "I want to live!" "Look, here's a twenty, put it in the register, smile, and I'll leave." With that, Hermione tossed the galleons on the counter and sidestepped Mack. The miserable feelings of guilt were beginning to creep up as she neared the doorway, when suddenly there was a deafening POP and Hermione, along with all the other shoppers, jumped in fright, before she realized it was the absolutely infuriating teen at the front. Gritting her teeth once again, Hermione banished all feelings of guilt from her mind and apparated to her house.
With a similar pop, though one not quite as loud, Hermione landed nearly on Ron, who was preparing to Apparate himself.
"Well, well, Mione, you should have asked me to stay home, dear, we could have put in a little quality time before lunch," her husband said, with that infuriating and impish grin, as she righted herself.
"Oh, shove off, dear," Hermione replied with an equal smile, and dusted him off a bit as well. "Were you leaving for the Burrow already?" Typically, Sunday lunches began at noon and literally started at 12:30 or 1, and, thus, Hermione was shocked to see Ron apparating at 11:30—unheard of, for Sunday lunch. He usually lazed around until twelve fifteen, at which point Hermione grabbed him and forced him to apparate with her, whether he wanted to or not.
"I was going to apparate to Gladrags, see if you'd found anything for me to give Gin. You were getting home a little late for your usual 'be ready an hour early' routine," Ron remarked, rolling his eyes. Hermione held up the robe overcoat, and smiled sweetly.
"No, darling, but I did pick up your coat. And now you can hang it up in the hall closet," she directed, pointing to the other end of the foyer. "But you can go yourself, on the way, and pick her up something." Hermione paused. "That is not a piece of Cannons merchandise, or any size box of Every Flavor Beans." Ron's face fell, and she pointedly look at the vastly oversized, decorative clock that hung on the wall. She had enchanted the classic timepiece to also show the day's schedule for the two as well. "In fact, I expected you would do this...you always do this, Ronald Weasley..." She trailed off at his "who, me?" grin, and gave him a light kiss on the lips, which Ron took considerably farther.
Ron's kisses still gave Hermione chills along her spine. Hell, she admitted in her mind, as Ron made quick work of divesting his wife of shopping bags and her purse, just thinking about kissing him gives me chills. The kisses themselves are on a whole separate lev...
All thoughts were cut off abruptly as the Quidditch player's physical dexterity came through—once again—and he swept Hermione up into his arms and carried her toward the closest soft surface, the overstuffed living room sofa. Oddly enough, the sofa was used incredibly often since they'd gotten married, but that thought escaped notice for a good half an hour.
However, there was much more to consider when all was said and done (Literally, Hermione smirked with satisfaction). They had picked up the clothes, bags and sofa cushions when Hermione finally took sane note of what time it was.
"Oh damn, Ron, it's noon already. You're never going to get Ginny a present now. Come on, go comb your hair and brush your teeth—and put on a better shirt!—and we'll go." Hermione sent Ron off to the master bedroom, and checked to make sure his overcoat was hung up in the closet; he'd need it when the Cannons played in Scotland next month. Straightening her summery black dress, Hermione stuck her hair into her favorite hairstyle—the always convenient ponytail—and smoothed the stray hairs as Ron re-emerged.
"Ready to go, dear?" Ron asked, coming very close and nipping at her neck before Hermione grinned and pushed him away.
"Look, I knew this would happen, so I picked you up a gift to get Ginny. And I signed your name to the card—looks like yours, you lucky dog—and I wrapped it with mine."
"Oh, see, Mione, I told you, I don't need to do anything, you just do it for me. Great, isn't it?" Ron grinned cheekily, grabbed hold of her arm, and apparated them both in a flash.
"RONALD WEASLEY!" There was a great crack, and suddenly, suspended in space and time, Ron & Hermione came to a screeching halt. Ron gaped at her, then around, in disbelief.
"Ron, shut your mouth before you choke on your own spit again."
"Before I...one time! One time that happened!" Ron objected, and closed his mouth while looking, wide-eyed, around them. "Mione, what did you do? Did you...did you stop apparition?!"
"Well damnit, Ron, you're such a prat! I'm taking the present back right now!" Frustration welled up inside of Hermione, and the words 'long suffering' and 'poor dear' raced across her wistful imagination.
"Hermione, you can't stop apparition because you're pissed at me!"
"Ron! Language!"
"Oh Merlin, woman, you're the only damned person I can think of who stops space and time to fight!"
That shut Hermione up, and for the first time, she gazed at the frozen, blurred world around them. "Oh...huh." She tried to touch the tunnel-like walls of space around them, and Ron slapped her hand away instantly.
"Good God, Hermione, do you want to destroy the world? Who knows what bloody trouble we could get into for this...stupid...gads, woman!"
"Oh, what trouble, Ron? I'm the secretary of Muggle relations, aren't I?" But Hermione's wand came out, and the lightening fast whirl of space and time shot them straight into the Burrow's crowded kitchen. Molly and Ginny looked at them, surprised, and Ron rolled his eyes in annoyance and stalked off, muttering something about stupid wives and bloody couch cushions.
Ginny & Molly turned to look at her, daughter- and sister-in-law, with deliciously curious expressions on their faces. Hermione considered her options, then caved with a shrug.
"Don't look at me. It's Ron's fault."
They both nodded with sympathy, and Molly handed Hermione strawberries to prepare. Easily, the standard Sunday lunch fell into a rhythm all its own for the Weasleys...by birth and otherwise...who were in the Burrow that day.
6.22.04 / Regular Disclaimers Apply / Queen Anne
There was a ridiculously annoying woman who was carrying around three armloads of robes, and, at last count, she'd run over Hermione Granger- Weasley at least three times. Once again, Hermione realized with horror, the Mack truck of Gladrags shoppers was only two racks away, and closing fast. She cut across the aisle in sheer terror, and, with disaster narrowly averted, breathed a sigh of relief. She grabbed the new robe overcoat that Ron was having altered and started toward the young, gum- popping teenage witch at the register.
"Hello," she greeted warmly, folding the repackaged coat over her crooked arm. "Just this one. Alteration, for Weasley," Hermione added, still reveling in how nice the name felt, rolling off of her tongue. Even though she had vehemently insisted on Granger-Weasley, she loved calling herself Mrs. Weasley. For the first time in her entire life, she let herself doodle Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Hermione Weasley all over scrap paper in her office. Scrap paper that, of course, she burned in case Ron actually stopped by.
"Uh...like, yeah," the teenager said, popping the gum loudly between her front teeth. Hermione winced, but smiled through it as the purple haired teenybopper flipped casually through a card file. "Let's see. Weasley, Weasley, Weasley. Ah, here it is." Hermione smiled brighter, thinking about the last name. "Oh, huh. Spelled kinda like Weasel! Funny, huh?" The smile faltered. Rather, the smile chilled, iced, and froze over.
"Yes, funny how that happens" was said through gritted, now well- aligned and white teeth.
"Well, gee, lady, it doesn't have any..." Pop!
"It's twenty galleons."
"But if the ticket don't say it, I don't..." Pop!
"Tweeeenty galleons." Oh, damnation, Mack Truck barreling toward the register at an overloaded, breakneck pace...
"How'dyou know?" Pop! Pop!
"I know!" Merlin, she was about to be obliterated. Hermione's life flashed before her eyes, and she barely stopped herself from melodramatically pleading "I want to live!" "Look, here's a twenty, put it in the register, smile, and I'll leave." With that, Hermione tossed the galleons on the counter and sidestepped Mack. The miserable feelings of guilt were beginning to creep up as she neared the doorway, when suddenly there was a deafening POP and Hermione, along with all the other shoppers, jumped in fright, before she realized it was the absolutely infuriating teen at the front. Gritting her teeth once again, Hermione banished all feelings of guilt from her mind and apparated to her house.
With a similar pop, though one not quite as loud, Hermione landed nearly on Ron, who was preparing to Apparate himself.
"Well, well, Mione, you should have asked me to stay home, dear, we could have put in a little quality time before lunch," her husband said, with that infuriating and impish grin, as she righted herself.
"Oh, shove off, dear," Hermione replied with an equal smile, and dusted him off a bit as well. "Were you leaving for the Burrow already?" Typically, Sunday lunches began at noon and literally started at 12:30 or 1, and, thus, Hermione was shocked to see Ron apparating at 11:30—unheard of, for Sunday lunch. He usually lazed around until twelve fifteen, at which point Hermione grabbed him and forced him to apparate with her, whether he wanted to or not.
"I was going to apparate to Gladrags, see if you'd found anything for me to give Gin. You were getting home a little late for your usual 'be ready an hour early' routine," Ron remarked, rolling his eyes. Hermione held up the robe overcoat, and smiled sweetly.
"No, darling, but I did pick up your coat. And now you can hang it up in the hall closet," she directed, pointing to the other end of the foyer. "But you can go yourself, on the way, and pick her up something." Hermione paused. "That is not a piece of Cannons merchandise, or any size box of Every Flavor Beans." Ron's face fell, and she pointedly look at the vastly oversized, decorative clock that hung on the wall. She had enchanted the classic timepiece to also show the day's schedule for the two as well. "In fact, I expected you would do this...you always do this, Ronald Weasley..." She trailed off at his "who, me?" grin, and gave him a light kiss on the lips, which Ron took considerably farther.
Ron's kisses still gave Hermione chills along her spine. Hell, she admitted in her mind, as Ron made quick work of divesting his wife of shopping bags and her purse, just thinking about kissing him gives me chills. The kisses themselves are on a whole separate lev...
All thoughts were cut off abruptly as the Quidditch player's physical dexterity came through—once again—and he swept Hermione up into his arms and carried her toward the closest soft surface, the overstuffed living room sofa. Oddly enough, the sofa was used incredibly often since they'd gotten married, but that thought escaped notice for a good half an hour.
However, there was much more to consider when all was said and done (Literally, Hermione smirked with satisfaction). They had picked up the clothes, bags and sofa cushions when Hermione finally took sane note of what time it was.
"Oh damn, Ron, it's noon already. You're never going to get Ginny a present now. Come on, go comb your hair and brush your teeth—and put on a better shirt!—and we'll go." Hermione sent Ron off to the master bedroom, and checked to make sure his overcoat was hung up in the closet; he'd need it when the Cannons played in Scotland next month. Straightening her summery black dress, Hermione stuck her hair into her favorite hairstyle—the always convenient ponytail—and smoothed the stray hairs as Ron re-emerged.
"Ready to go, dear?" Ron asked, coming very close and nipping at her neck before Hermione grinned and pushed him away.
"Look, I knew this would happen, so I picked you up a gift to get Ginny. And I signed your name to the card—looks like yours, you lucky dog—and I wrapped it with mine."
"Oh, see, Mione, I told you, I don't need to do anything, you just do it for me. Great, isn't it?" Ron grinned cheekily, grabbed hold of her arm, and apparated them both in a flash.
"RONALD WEASLEY!" There was a great crack, and suddenly, suspended in space and time, Ron & Hermione came to a screeching halt. Ron gaped at her, then around, in disbelief.
"Ron, shut your mouth before you choke on your own spit again."
"Before I...one time! One time that happened!" Ron objected, and closed his mouth while looking, wide-eyed, around them. "Mione, what did you do? Did you...did you stop apparition?!"
"Well damnit, Ron, you're such a prat! I'm taking the present back right now!" Frustration welled up inside of Hermione, and the words 'long suffering' and 'poor dear' raced across her wistful imagination.
"Hermione, you can't stop apparition because you're pissed at me!"
"Ron! Language!"
"Oh Merlin, woman, you're the only damned person I can think of who stops space and time to fight!"
That shut Hermione up, and for the first time, she gazed at the frozen, blurred world around them. "Oh...huh." She tried to touch the tunnel-like walls of space around them, and Ron slapped her hand away instantly.
"Good God, Hermione, do you want to destroy the world? Who knows what bloody trouble we could get into for this...stupid...gads, woman!"
"Oh, what trouble, Ron? I'm the secretary of Muggle relations, aren't I?" But Hermione's wand came out, and the lightening fast whirl of space and time shot them straight into the Burrow's crowded kitchen. Molly and Ginny looked at them, surprised, and Ron rolled his eyes in annoyance and stalked off, muttering something about stupid wives and bloody couch cushions.
Ginny & Molly turned to look at her, daughter- and sister-in-law, with deliciously curious expressions on their faces. Hermione considered her options, then caved with a shrug.
"Don't look at me. It's Ron's fault."
They both nodded with sympathy, and Molly handed Hermione strawberries to prepare. Easily, the standard Sunday lunch fell into a rhythm all its own for the Weasleys...by birth and otherwise...who were in the Burrow that day.
6.22.04 / Regular Disclaimers Apply / Queen Anne