A/N: Hi, guys! It's time for Chapter 2 do do do dooooo! Sorry, you know, couldn't resist. Major shoutout to cheese riot who I'm sure all you guy's know is my great beta by now! If anyone can spot her favorite double meaning in this chapter then you're…as cool as cheese riot!
Now before you read this chapter, I must reinforce something. This story DOES have a plot. I promise it'll start to make sense next chapter. But this isn't just a romance that I stuck Action/Adventure onto the end. There is a plot. And a damned good one might I add, took me weeks to come up with. Never fear.
I knocked on the door outside of Number 10 of the 'Jensing.' I may have spent more hours outside this flat than in it. I had walked outside there for hours on numerous occasions: the night I realized Hermione's daughter was my daughter as well, the night I had finally admitted to Hermione I loved her, the night I had to tell her that our old classmate, Seamus Finnigan, had died after a spell went awry.
Luckily, I was outside this time for a much more pleasant reason. Three knocks, a pause, and another knock. I heard a voice inside the flat squeal in pleasure. The door was swiftly open and two arms wrapped around my legs.
"Daddy!"
"Hey, Bake," I said, pulling my daughter up into my arms and carrying her back inside her mum and aunt's flat. "How was your day?"
She pushed the door closed behind me and gave me a saber-toothed grin. "I played in Uncle Fred and Uncle George's room today. I found so much good stuff there!"
"Like what?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Well…" she began, twirling a piece of curly red hair around her finger, "stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"
"No-stal-gic stuff."
I put her on her feet to glare at her suspiciously. "Baker, you don't even know what nostalgic means."
"Mummy!" Baker called to her mum, who I only then noticed had set up camp at her desk in the corner of the room, hunched over a piece of parchment. She had other parchment thrown all over the place, and a very crumpled Daily Prophet set out in front of her. "Daddy says I don't know what nostalgic means!"
Without even looking up, Hermione called, "Daddy can't even spell nostalgic."
"I can too!" I yelled defensively.
Baker looked back up, laughing at me. "You can't even spell nostalgic, Daddy."
"Why, you little--" I bent down and tickled her. Giggling, she ran away from me. I caught her just as she jumped over the couch, hoping Hermione hadn't noticed. I shook my head vigorously at Baker and put her back on the floor.
Then, I decided I should be fatherly. Well, as fatherly as you can be when you're actually a five year old trapped in a twenty-five year old's body. I mean, come on. "Baker, why don't you go ahead and change into something warmer? You're going to need it for the match tonight."
"Match," Baker repeated, her eyes going wide. "Quidditch, quidditch, quidditch! We're going to see Quidditch."
"Not if you aren't ready in twenty minutes," I told her in that bullshit fatherly voice again.
"Oh no!" she said dramatically, turning and running towards her bedroom. I heard her bedroom door slam shut behind her and assumed clothes were being tossed all over the wasteland Hermione referred to as Baker's room.
Speaking of my fiancée (that could be the weirdest thing I've ever called Hermione in my life)… I walked casually over to where she was still very much engrossed in her work and pulled her quill playfully away from her. She grabbed it back.
"What's the matter with you, Ron? You don't just take away someone's quill while they're working! What if I just walked up to you while you were fighting with some Death Eater and stole your wand?"
Well, so much for 'Hi, love, how was your day?' "Would you do that?" I questioned.
"Now, which sounds better. 'I've read better toilet paper than your garbage' or 'If I want to see bull crap, I'll move to a farm, thanks'?"
"Well my day was fine, thanks for asking, Hermione," I mumbled.
"Ron, I'm serious. This is a real issue here."
"Suuuuuuuuuure."
"Ronald Weasley!"
"Fine, fine. Now, darling, what exactly are you doing?"
"I'm writing a letter to the editor of the Daily Prophet about how bad this paper is. I fully intend for the article to be so good, they will have to print it, but I can't think of anything to write! It's like my mind's built a block around it."
"Ok," I began, crouching down next to her like I even had the ability to help her with her writing, "what do you have so far?"
She turned to face me. "I'm doing it again, aren't I, Ron?"
"Doing what?"
"Ignoring you. Oh, I'm sorry, darling," she finished, a small smile playing at her lips. Quite suddenly, those lips had met mine. I felt rather elated at this sudden turn of events.
Hearing Baker's door open, Hermione and I pulled away like teenagers about to be caught snogging by our professor.
"So, who's playing tonight?" Hermione questioned, crumpling up her latest attempt and pulling out a fresh parchment.
"England and Bulgaria," I said, taking the parchment away from her again, un-crumpling the old one and turning it over to the back. "I'm not buying you parchment for your birthday again. It's just not romantic."
"Does Viktor still play?" she asked, re-crumpling the paper and getting the one I had pulled away from her.
"Krum? Viktor Krum?" I said, groaning.
Baker was skipping through the room in a completely pink ensemble. She stopped in front of the two of us. "Viktor Krum is a big, stupid, burly git. And I hate him."
"You shouldn't say that about people, Baker," Hermione said sweetly. Baker shrugged and skipped into the kitchen.
Hermione looked back up at me, both eyebrows raised. "Big, stupid, and burly. Wow, your vocabulary gets a little bigger every day."
I smiled guiltily. "You don't think I told her that."
"Think? Why, no, nothing of the sort. I know you told her that."
Hoping to get out of trouble, I chanted, "Krum still plays for Bulgaria."
As if suddenly remembering something, Hermione stood up next to me. "You aren't going to Gris' thing tonight?"
"Why would I go to Gris' thing?"
"Well, she invited me, so I just assumed she invited you too."
"That's a big no. Anthony only gave me the tickets because he was going to Gris' thing."
"Oh, this is some ex-boyfriend thing, isn't it? Yes, one of those stupid 'Guy's Laws.'"
"Come again?"
"The 'Code of Guys.' Like you don't hug each other or express love towards one another…ever. Well one of the Codes must be you don't go to your ex-girlfriend's thing if her present boyfriend is there. Right?"
She smiled hopefully, as if she had just discovered one of the most exciting things in the universe. I shrugged. "Sure."
"Oh, so that's not the case? Well, I guess I'm going to invite Viktor to my engagement party."
"Yes! Yes, it's a code already," I said, throwing my hands up.
"I thought so."
I moved toward her, dead set on resuming our previous activity. As our lips met, I grabbed onto her hand and felt the cold hard metal of her engagement ring. I pulled it up to my face for examination.
"So when are we going to tell everybody…about this I mean," I said, gesturing to the ring.
"I assumed." She examined the ring as well, and traced her fingers over mine. "Well, my mum did invite us to dinner next week for my birthday party."
"Go on."
"I was thinking," she continued, rocking back and forth, "we would tell everybody then."
"Genius," I said, once again tired of this talking. As I moved back in, Baker burst back through the kitchen door, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the fireplace so hard, I tripped over a piece of parchment on the carpet. That one—the one Hermione had refused to reuse.
I knew it. Nobody ever listens to me.
"'Krum Amazing Again; England Didn't Stand a Chance: Last night, in a disappointing game for England fans, Viktor Krum caught the snitch in the first thirty seconds of the match.' Did you hear that, Weasley?! Thirty seconds. THIRTY SECONDS!"
"I heard it," I grunted.
"'A stunned silence met the stadium as people tried to realize what had just happened. Slowly, the silence became clapping, even by the most diehard England fans, at the twenty-eight year old's amazing talent.'Was it as incredible as it sounds, Weasley? You were there, right?"
"Oh yeah, I was there all right. Stupid Krum."
"That sounded a bit bitter. Are you a big England supporter there, Weasley?"
"No, I could care less if bloody England won. But Viktor Krum is a big, stupid, burly git. And I hate him."
"He seems like a nice guy," Colton Mosley, my fellow Auror said, flashing a picture of Krum and his teammates taking a victory lap at me.
"Yeah, yeah," I said, rolling my eyes. "My daughter cried for an hour after that game because she was so disappointed that she didn't get to see more than thirty seconds of a match. It was her first Quidditch match, you know that? Could Krum be anymore selfish?"
"Sounds like someone has some resentment against a certain Viktor Krum."
"Don't. What's with you anyway? Are you gay for Krum or something?"
He smirked. "So, that's where you were last night?" Mosley said, continuing to flip through the paper. "I noticed you weren't at the Healer Banquet. I sat with Hermione, you know."
"You sat with Hermione?" I repeated suspiciously.
"Yeah. Merlin, does she clean up nice or what? Anyway, I saw she was alone and I was as well, so we sat together. I asked her where you were."
"As I said before, I was taking my and Hermione's daughter to a Quidditch match."
"I know, I know," Mosley said, throwing up defensive hands. "I'm not trying to steal your girlfriend or anything, mate."
I didn't think I'd ever seen Mosley not try to steal someone else's girl. He just thought he could get anything with his dark hair and dark eyes. Not my Hermione. She wasn't even into stuff like that. Not that I should trust him anyhow. Stupid pervert.
"So, you didn't sit with Hermione because you thought she 'cleaned up nice?'"
"I'm not trying to steal Hermione. She needed someone to sit with, so I sat with her. So she wouldn't be lonely. It's because I'm not a total and complete jackass, Weasley. So you can go be distrustful somewhere else."
I snorted. Like that was going to happen.
"Speaking of a certain Miss Granger," Mosley continued, showing me an inset in the Daily Prophet. "I see she has penned another article for the Prophet. And she's not complimenting them on the new layout, either."
"Let me see it," I said, making a grab for the paper.
"I think not," Mosley said, spreading the paper out in front of him. He cleared his throat dramatically and began to read. "'Wizarding Children: A Rebuttal.'" He looked up from the paper. "Clever, amazing she likes you." Ahem. "'Last week, I had the pleasure (or displeasure, as it were) of reading your wonderful article about how Wizarding children our being ruined by society. I tend to disagree with the author (B.S. Imadethisup) of the article about whom the blame should be laid on for the increasing number of lazy children. I myself happen to be blessed with a daughter.' I won't go into details about how I got her, but let's just say that Ron Weasley had the pleasure of stealing my innocence and shagging me senseless. In fact, he had me going for so long--"
I ripped the paper away from him. "I think I'll save this for my later reading pleasure."
"Hey, just telling it like it is, right, Weasley?" he asked, nudging me suggestively with his elbow.
"Yes, thanks for that, Mosley."
"So, it's not like that?"
"Look, Mose, if I get the urge to tell you storied about my relationship, I'll let you know. Otherwise, you can shove it."
"Listen, Weasley. I've known Hermione for over a year now and you for going on four. You two just don't work together. I don't get it. She's smart and knowledgeable about so many things, and you're…well, quite frankly, you're a dumb ass."
"If this weren't Auror headquarters for the entire United Kingdom, and I wouldn't be fired for doing so, I would probably take you out right now," I said coolly.
Mosley tossed back his head and laughed. I should've taken him down anyway. We were the only two here.
While contemplating the fact, Mosley turned to me. "So, what is a conversation between you two like exactly? You just let her do all the talking, I would suppose. You can't have much to insert."
Was this jerk trying to get a rise out of me?
Yet another part of my brain was taking over. Colton Mosley, idiot of Auror headquarters, was right. Hermione was way too good for me. She was way too good to have ever had my daughter. She was so perfect in so many ways.
Hermione Granger wasn't the kind of girl most people would stop and stare at on the side of the street. She wasn't a particular beauty to anyone else.
But I had to stop every time her face floated into my head.
And when I thought about it, I didn't want to marry Hermione so I could 'shag her senseless' (not that I'm putting up any complaints, if that's what she wants). I wanted to marry her so I could wake up to her dark cinnamon eyes on mine or her stupid bushy hair obscuring my entire view.
"Weasley, could you stop staring at me like that? You're making me uncomfortable."
I blinked and found that I was most definitely not staring into Hermione's face. I grimaced and looked away.
"Aren't you just—bloody hell! Could they be a little less forward about it!?"
Mosley extracted a glowing silver wand from the back of his pocket and rubbed his backside, looking sour. He had received some special Auror's call.
And apparently it was very important because he disapparated on the spot, without a second look in my direction.
So, that was it. It would just be another afternoon of Harry and I and our lunch (which would probably be sandwiches…again).
Speaking of…where did that little bugger get to with my lunch? I was bloody starving.
A/N: I really do love this chapter. You know when Hermione was talking about her editorial? That's exactly how I felt while writing this chapter, but then it came to me and I loved it. There was this Quidditch match in the chapter, but I took out this stupid subplot so it was kinda pointless. Anyway, that's what happened in it anyway.
Anywhodigger, read and review. Much love! –LA
Review Avenue (based on Ocean Avenue by Yellowcard)
There's a place at the end of Laurie's stories
Where all you guys can click and review
It'll be so fun, it'll feel so right
Clicking all day and reviewing all niiiiiiiight
Reviewing all niiiiiiiiiiiiight!!!!!!
HPbabe143: Wow, I hope you send in a million reviews. It would certainly make me smile.
graceheartrupie9110: Ooh, thanks! Love ya too!
candyhearts23: Aw, you're so sweet! Thanks!
x-everywhere-x: Yes, I do enjoy Harry and his smart aleck comments in this story! Go, Harry, go!
Surfmyturf: I'm glad you like Ron's pov. I was a little worried people would like bang my head into a wall or something. Lol.
Ronniekins: You shouldn't have said that. Now I'm going to expect tons and tons of reviews from you. Glad you like it! And thanks for making me feel better about the review count!!! Also, I do use the 'darling' thing, but strictly in a sarcastic way. You caught that, right?
Mary: Ooh, thanks bunches!
Kathleen: Aw, I know, isn't he the greatest?
Ilikechicken: No, you're my hero! Breaks into Ricky Martin song
Lisa Riddle: Hi! I'm so glad YOU'RE back! Yey! I'm glad you like it. Everyone needs a Ron, don't they?!
PiNaYPeAcHiE: Ron's twisted mind is becoming my twisted mind. I'm so glad everyone likes my new story! Squeals along with you
Miss Mione: Ok, to answer your question, this is a little over a year after LTG. The title doesn't mean too much, it just had to do with time, and sound a little similar to its prequel's title!
Piratingspiderelf: Yey, I'm glad you liked it! And thanks for telling me about your computer. We should start a 'Gay/Queer computers suck!' club. Or…not.
Alenor: Thanks, buddy! Sorry, I'm a little out there today, never fear if I refer to you as buddy. Glad you like it!
PinkyTheSnowman: Maybe Harry and Ginny will get back together. I mean, what fun would I have if I went through a whole story and didn't get SOMEBODY together? There's a reason they broke up you know nudgenudge, winkwink
dancerrdw: Aw, gee. kicks dirt Thanks.
volleyballin17: Oh, you're awesome! You like volleyball and my story! Woot!
Tynwfiel: I'm so glad you're excited. does 1,2 step
Tria Marie Val: Thanks! I'm glad you liked it and I certainly hope you like this.
