A/N: And now, the much awaited and ever loved R/H...

I suppose now's a good time to mention that I sure as hell didn't create these folks... sure as hell wish I did though. Yay for JK Rowling!

A Series of I Do's

Part II

Understanding Why

"You ready, mate?"

The red-head looked across at his expression reflected back in the mirror, which had anything but readiness written on it. "Gonna hafta be, won't I?"

His companion laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. She won't run off on you or anything, if that's what you're afraid of."

Ron's completely horror-stricken face led Harry into even deeper laughter. "I'm sorry, sorry—hey—you're tie's crooked."

Harry reached over and nudged it a bit, then stepped away. There was an awkward sort of silence between them, until Harry muttered "Aw-the-hell-with-it," and swept Ron up into a hug.

After a moment and several heart-felt claps on the other's back, they stepped away from one another and looked elsewhere, finding excuses in the room for the motioning of hands under the eyes and nose. They smiled at each other, Harry once again patting Ron's back. "I'm so happy for you, Ron. For both of you."

Ron was still too emotional to speak, and he just nodded. Harry gave another grin to the groom, and then motioned to the door. Ron shook his head, loosening his throat to say "No, you go ahead, I need a minute."

Harry grinned, a bit of playfulness rising again to his voice. "Now Ron, after all this time it would be dreadfully rude of you to run off…though I could understand why she would…"

Ron made a rude gesture and Harry left laughing. "So much for my best man," Ron muttered with a morose grin. He turned again to look in the mirror. Many times he had done this today, countless before—though there were a few appearance examinations which stood out in his head. He grimaced at the memory of that horrid suit he had to wear to the Yule Ball—that stupid lace, all moldy and rotten, and that stupid git, stealing his girl…

Ron allowed himself a smirk. Look who got her this time, though. And this time's for keeps. Ron sighed. He really was a prat. All this time, and he still hated Viktor Krum for just moving faster than he did. He wasn't the fastest Seeker in the world for nothing, he thought. Still, he couldn't help but feel a ridiculous, masculine sort of pride that he had won her in the end. She had told him often lately that Viktor had never really mattered, at least never as much as he had, but that only prodded the manly ego. He, cave-man, had won cave-woman! Ug!

Ron stared at himself. Ugh. He really was the world's biggest prat. And that thought only brought him back to his present worry—not that she would leave, but why she would stay.

He spotted a speck of fuzz on his left shoulder and flicked it off. Had he known what a wonder it was to have his best girl for his girlfriend, he would never have been such a bloody fool all those years ago. He regretted how long it took for him to wise up—to understand that it wasn't crazy to be in love with his best friend—to not be afraid anymore of what he wanted. In that last year in the battle against Lord Voldemort, he finally stepped up.

He would be foolish to say it was only his actions which revealed a certain affection. He still marveled at the memory of the first brush of her hand across his cheek, his heart still pumped like mad when he remembered the way she had looked into his eyes. He remembered the way she would find reasons to touch him, and he would find reasons to touch her. Just being near her would give him comfort in those callous times. But his strongest memory of that year, almost stronger than the moment they defeated Voldemort himself, was the first moment she let him hold her.

It wasn't the same as their embrace at Dumbledore's funeral—this was just a pure moment. She had come back late from patrol. He could see the ghosts in her eyes, the tiredness etching itself over her face. She had stopped at his seat by the fire, and he had simply reached his hand up to her and pulled her down beside him. She sighed against his skin, and within an instant fell asleep.

Why? Why on earth would such an amazing creature let him, Ronald Weasley—the boring, insensitive, unintelligent Ronald Weasley—why would he ever be allowed to touch, hold Hermione Granger, the greatest witch of their time?

No, he thought. TheGreatest Witch of all time. She's bloody perfect. "And she's marrying me."

Ron shook his head in wonderment. He knew very well the own opinions he had of himself were not what she saw—she saw the world in him. She had told him so, one night as they lay together in his bed. She had looked at him through the dark and said, "Ron, I see the world in you." He knew she would scold him if she heard him say the things he thought of himself.

She had even begun to have an effect on him. Maybe he wasn't just the tag-along. Maybe he did have a purpose. He ran his hand through his hair, staring across, now not really seeing his reflection. She made him feel better about himself. She made the impossible possible. He had known that for a long time, but had been guaranteed the truth in their first kiss.

The day after they defeated Voldemort, as they took their rest in St. Mungo's, he remembered looking to her bed next to his and seeing her awake and looking back at him. His legs had then taken their own control. He somehow crawled over to her bed and asked, in a rather stupid fashion, if she would like to go out with him sometime. She then burst out sobbing (which frightened him quite a bit), and he thought he had done something wrong when she reassured him that yes, she would love to.

She would love to.

The next day he stood in front of the hospital mirror, just like he was today, only then a little worse for the wear. He had grimaced at his black eye and the bruised cuts and slices in his skin. At least he was alive—alive so he could do what he had never dared to do before. He then turned to find Hermione, looking tired but still wonderful with her bushy, un-brushed hair, and he held out his arm to escort her to the café upstairs.

They had had coffee. They did not say much. But they looked at each other, and smiled. Then Hermione leaned over, took his hand, and said, "I'm glad we're alive to do this, Ron."

"I'm glad we are too."

Her eyes began to fill up with tears, but she smiled, "I'm glad Harry's alive, Ron."

"I'm glad he is too."

"And…" she choked a bit, but said, as she leaned forward even further still, "I'm glad I didn't ever have to regret not doing this…"

She closed the gap between them…and kissed him.

It was quick, soft, and so mind blowing that Ron couldn't remember it happening except for the heavy awareness that it had. And when she pulled away and he stared across at her, eyes and mouth wide open, all he could say was. "I'm glad too."

Ron ran his fingers through his hair again, pulling on it, giving it a windswept look, parting it, shaking it up… he wished his hair was like Hermione's. She didn't have to do anything to it and it looked perfect—it was her hair—no one else could wear it and look anything proper. There was nothing else that fit her. It was wild, crazy, and mental—all the darling traits of his most darling girl.

Soon to be his most darling wife.

And in that second all his nerves fell away. His hands fell from his hair, and a smile came to his lips. Hermione would be his wife. The woman he loved loved him back. For some wild reason, she loved him back. The crazy, genius, bossy, brave, beautiful woman loved him back, and he loved her.

For now and forever.

Mrs. Hermione Granger—no—Mrs. Ronald Weasley—Hermione Weasley.

Hermione Weasley.

My Hermione.

"Ron?"

Harry popped his head back in. "It's now or never my friend."

Ron turned and smiled. "It's now."

And he followed his best friend out the door of his attic bedroom, down the stairs of the Weasley house, and out into the bright sunshine of his wedding day.