Disclaimer. You really think I'm JK Rowling, the one who owns the whole thing? Hate to dissapoint you, but you're WAY off. Get my point?I own nothing!
Rating. K, but really just to be safe, there's nothing in here.
Pairing. As if there is any other way to have it..R/Hr of course!
Summary. This is a one-shot I just wrote once when I was sitting there and pondering the prospect of marriage. Scary, I must say. But the conclusions of my musings…read and see. I am also getting into the Christmas spirit, so it's all…happy and optimistic and all those things my fiction's usually NOT…is that a good thing?
Basically, a post-Hogwarts Ron/Hermione marriage fic. Hermione POV.
No other way for us
It seems that in life, the right things just have a way of...happening.
If things are meant to be, fate will find a way. It always does.
If you got lucky, that means you did something to earn the luck.
If you are happy, that means there's someone out there - or up there - who wants you to be.
Her life after Hogwarts was almost like she always had imagined it to be. Almost. She had a job at the Ministry which took up most of her time, a flat in Diagon Alley to come home to every evening, a solid reputation as one of the most brilliant witches and a suitable salary. Her life was proper, everything in its spot: a career, her own place, promising prospects for a professional future.
She would wake up in the morning and peek out the window to look at the grey sky and lazy thunder-clouds. Mornings were almost always a grim and uncheerful time for her. She would stroke her cat's ginger fur, while he purred contently, rolling around on her second pillow. A odd expression would form in her eyes, as she took in the ginger against the white of her pillow, but she would shake it off rather quickly as she headed for the shower.
One of the advantages of having her own place was that she was the one who set the rules. What the colour her sheets were, where she kept the kitchen towels, how often she did the laundry or when she went to bed. After first living at her parents' house, then - at a school where the rules were made for her, this was a nice enough change - getting to decide for herself. Every tiny little detail. She was mistress of this domain. All of it - hers. She picked the colour of the drapes, she bought the rugs. Everything was right for her. Proper. Perfect, it seemed, really.
She would stand in the shower, letting the hot water run trails down her body, trying to wake up for good. Then - come out, put her dressing robe on and head for the kitchen.
Not her favourite place, she had to admit, as she never quite learned to love cooking, as much as some of her friends did. Usually all she had in the cabinets were healthy, proper boring natural foods. Flicking her wand to fill her coffee-mug, she would sit down at the table, planning out the schedule for the day ahead.
In about 15 minutes she would find herself standing in front of her wardrobe, staring dumbly at the rack in front of her. Black, grey, blue, grown out of this, hate that. Sigh. Well, they were fit for work, that was for sure. Right and suitable. Usually it was blue. Navy-blue robes.
Her desk at the Ministry was the example of a proper work-place. In - on the right. Out - on the left. Fresh quills, neatly stacked parchment. A post-owl hooting in the corner. Plain grey wall behind her chair.
The only thing that gave away the fact it was actually her desk was a framed photograph of her and her two best friends, seventeen, smiling and waiving. She, with the brown untamed hair, in a red T-shirt and jeans, grinning shyly, always reluctant to take photos. The boy on her left, his face too serious for a person his age, with a hand around her shoulder and a barely visible smile on his clearly happy face, was dressed in a baggy muggle sweatshirt, and wind ruffled his untamed hair. THe boy on her left would always wink at her from the picture, a crooked grin forming on his freckled face, as he smoothed the wrinkles on his favourite orange shirt and then stuffed his hands awkwardly in his pockets. His winking always managed to bring a mysterious smile to her face, and no matter how many times anyone asked what she was smiling about, she would simply remain silent, a faint blush appearing on her cheeks.
She worked efficiently as ever, never stopping to chat with her co-workers or to take a coffee-break before lunch. Owls would come swooping in and out, bringing her rolls of carefully tied-up parchment, and, moving mechanically, she would break seals, make notes, write back, send owls, fill in charts, attend to rare visitors. Her day rolled by slowly, until the evening came and it was time for her to head back to her empty flat and make some use of the evening. Read, probably. Do anything to ignore the hollow silence.
But sometimes, not very often, a different owl would come whooshing into her quiet office, a small, loud, twittering owl that resembled a little ball of feathers. Then her usually calm face would light up, and she would carefully unroll the letter and run her eyes over it for a few times. A smile would creep up to her lips, and she would run her hand through her hair a few times before sitting down to write the answer, never stopping smiling. On days like these she wouldn't stay extra hours at work like she usually did, she would Disapparate very quickly and leave her co-workers wondering about the soft smile playing at her lips.
She would head for a small tea-shop in Diagon Alley, where she would sit at the far booth, sipping her drink anxiously, until two familiar faces would appear in the doorway. Then she would jump up and wave her hand at them, watching her two best friends approach her and give her big hugs.
They would sit and talk quietly for hours, taking in the sight of each other, as if unable to believe they were actually together again, until it was time to head home. She would get up with a sigh, her face lit with a genuine happiness that only appeared during such reunions. Her red-headed friend usually offered to walk her home, and the other willingly agreed to give them some time alone, smiling knowingly, and sometimes even giving the red-head a suggestive nudge in the ribs, accompanied with a non-too subtle nod towards her.
They would walk to her flat together, talking very softly, as if afraid to break some magic atmosphere between them. Sometimes he would awkwardly put his arm around her, and she would lean against him, shyly, but not reluctantly, and he would give a barely audible sigh of content. They would walk up the flights of stairs to her flat, and stop at the door. She would hesitate for a few seconds at this point, but then offer to have some coffee together. He rarely agreed, most of the time he would blush furiously and shake his head. They would then say goodbye. Usually he kissed the top of her head, and she would walk in and close the door. They both would stand on either side of the door, staring at it; she would often lean her forehead on it and weep silently for just a few moments. He would sometimes kick the stone wall with all his might, muttering curses, and then take off, hands shoved into his pockets.
After recomposing herself, she would go in the sitting-room, pick up a book and try to read it, but her mind would refuse to concentrate. She would then sigh and go to bed.
Her life would roll on, from one reunion to the next, from one dissapointment to another.
There was another option for the evening, though. Sometimes she would spend it with some man from work. She would sit in front of her mirror at home, brushing her hair, convincing herself that this was the right thing to do, and it was about time she let go of her past and start thinking of the future. Marriage, perhaps. She was 22, after all, and she couldn't very well put her life on hold, could she? But on evenings like those she would usually come home frustrated, kick off her heels, land herself in a chair and huffily ponder the possibility of her simply being incapable of building a relationship with any man. This would usually lead to a mild depression for a few days, when she would refuse to look in the mirror, afraid of having an urge to break it all of a sudden. Was she the only person in the whole world, uncapable of finding some kind of balance in her love life? Why couldn't she at least have one? What is wrong with me, she would think bitterly.
And once came a time she decided she'd had enough. That day, she decided it was time to make a decision, turn her life around. It was the day of another reunion of friends, and she felt she had some unfinished business to attend to with a certain red-headed guy pal. She had to let go of him, one way or another. Subconciously, she felt he was responsible for her non-existing love life. What right did he have to break her heart over and over and over again, giving her that tiny glimmer of hope only to crush it in an instant and leave her crying her eyes out, crying over her own uselessness and incapability...
She left her flat that night, determined to start a new chapter in her life. They chatted, shared the news, remembered the old times. When it was time to leave, he walked her home, as always, and they stopped at her door. She heaved a sigh and turned around to tell him - it was time to stop playing games. They had to let go of whatever it was that was keeping them from having a life. She wanted to say it all, she really did...little did she know that he himself had made a decision, and he wasn't about to let go. She never got the chance to speak her mind, because in an instant she felt his lips on hers, and nothing mattered anymore, not anything in the world besides him and her and them together. And everything that needed to be said, to be answered, to be cleared out for good, was said, and answered, and cleared out, and suddenly the world was no longer the dull, grey, miserable place it had been just a few hours ago...
He didn't leave that night. Nor the night after that. And she felt as if her limbs had gotten stronger under his touch, and her mind clearer than before, and her heart...she felt it beat for the first time, the first time ever, for it was beating in unison with his, and that's the way it was meant to be, the one and only way...
The months that had passed between then and now seem like minutes to her. Seems only yesterday they let the world know how they felt, let the world know they are never leaving each other as long as they live, let the world know their lives are hopeless without each other. And yet. when she looks back at her life before and after HIM...she can't believe it's the same person's life.
She used to believe that setting her own rules in her own life was the one thing any person could wish for. She used to believe that having a proper, nearly perfect life was something to aim for. She used to believe that loneliness wasn't something to be afraid of.
Now, when she looks at her...their flat, she can't believe she ever believed all that.
Her bed-sheets aren't the ever-present white they used to be, they're a screaming orange. There's no rug in the bathroom anymore. The kitchen is now his domain, and she doesn't frown upon the endless supply of Chocolate Frogs in the kitchen cabinet. Her wardrobe is now split into two sections. She tossed her white plain nightgown. She got rid of her alarm-clock.
And all these things combined don't bother her one bit. NOT being in total control of her life doesn't seem to be a problem anymore.
Why?
She doesn't mind the orange sheets, because the way it clashes with his ginger hair makes her giggle softly every time she takes in the sight of him, laying on his back in the early hours of the morning, his blue eyes staring up at her. He likes to cook, and likes to surprise her every now and then with something that looks simply awful, but tastes just as wonderful. She likes the sight of him, sitting across the table from her and watching her expression, as she tastes some new culinary delight. The way he gets excited when seeing that she likes his cooking just makes her remember why she fell in love with him...
Their wardrobe now holds her and his clothes, his work and Quidditch clothes on the right, and her improved outfits on the left. No more blues and blacks for her, for some reason the colour-scheme of her clothes is now oranges and greens and brights and rich reds...She replaced her nightgown by something she only lets him see, and smiles shyly when catching the sight of herself in it in the mirror. But she never gets the urge to break it anymore. For when she looks in it now, she doesn't see an inept, average girl, uncapable of seeing herself as someone worthy. Sometimes, she stands in front of it for a few seconds, studying her reflection, and watches him come up to her and put his hands around her waist and bury his face in her hair, and at moments like those she sees the most beautiful, lucky woman on the face of the Earth.
He has made her feel beautiful and worthy and simply good about herself, just by being with her, just by being..there. He has made her optimistic and not afraid to look to the future.
She laughs now more than she ever did, not only when he tickles her, or smears some paint on her cheek playfully, or because of his expression when he is trying to fix some Muggle device. It is because she needs to release the happiness inside of her, that is there at all times when he is near, that is there because she realises - he is mine, and I am his and his only.
When she watches him sleep, stroking his cheek gently, she wonders what their children will be like, and smiles to the thought. She will love for them to have red hair, just like their father does, she would want them to inherit her sense of responsibility, but his sense of humor. It seems to her that their children will probably inherit different things, their parents' good AND bad qualities, but she doesn't really mind, because she seems to love both in her husband. Sometimes he wakes up and catches her staring down on him, propped up on one elbow, and a smile touches his eyes. He takes her in his arms, not saying a word, nuzzles into the crook of her neck and they lay together, while she strokes his hair in silence, for at moments like those words aren't necessary.
Their infamous rows haven't disappeared, though, but she doesn't seem to mind them as much as she did in their school days. Their bickering now only seems to happen over the smaller things, and sometimes she wonders if life would be terribly boring without them. They make up in a little while, and the making-up is also much more pleasant than in was at school.
He is also the reason she got rid of her alarm-clock. Not that she is never late for work nowadays, either. She doesn't need the alarm, because he is the one who wakes her, planting soft kisses on her neck or stroking her back sleepily, until they are both wide-awake in each other's arms...When she was first late for work, the Ministry officials were shocked as ever - she had always been the most punctual person ever..She blushed furiously when asked why she was late, and started stammering, which shocked her co-workers even more.
She had to give up on perfection in the form she was used to consider it to be. Work is still one of the main priorities in her life, but she's come to realize there are more important things than being the living example of proper. Like not being lonely. And making someone else happy. And having a life that's full of purpose - real purpose. And now, when she gets ready to Apparate home after a work-day, she always has a smile on her face, because she knows what she will come home to.
No more empty silence, or figuring out how to make use of the evening, or the random dates. Now, for the first time ever, she has figured out what life is really all about.
When Harry comes over for dinner on Fridays, positively glowing with the realisation of his best friends' happiness, he likes to ask them half-seriously "Well then, are you two even happy at all?" And they look at one another for a moment, smiling the smiles reserved especially for each other, and answer always "Is there any other way for us to be?" And all three of them realise - no, there really isn't.
So, as she stands by the window and looks at the soft snow covering the ground, she thinks that life is beautiful. Christmas time is nearing, and, stroking her flat tummy gently, she smiles mysteriously, because she knows exactly what present to give him. Just imagining telling him makes her get butterflies in her stomach, but she has never been more sure about anything – he will be estatic. She knows it will be the best thing she could ever offer, besides what he already has - her love and devotion forever. He has given her the most precious gift of all, and now she knows - never again will she be lonely. So when he comes up to put his arms around her and ask what she is smiling about, she simply turns around to press her lips against his, standing on tiptoe to match his tall frame. And as they hold each other, they both realize it once more. For them, there is no other way. They are one.
A/N. Ok, was that actually FLUFF I wrote? I don't know what to think, that's just SCARY! Oh well. To my faithful readers, please don't think I've given up on my other story, Bittersweet Betrayal, I swear I'm working on it and there WILL be updates! That's also a little hint to those who haven't read my other story, Bittersweet Betrayal. See where I'm going with this?
Please Review, and if you can help yourself, don't flame, I'm psychologically unstable)))))