Disclaimer: No, just like you, surprise, surprise I am not JK Rowling and therefore do own the books or characters she created.
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This is dedicated to moogle, even though she will probably never read it, for being such a wonderful inspiration.
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The Mistress Of My Mottos
"No, Harry!" Hermione sighed exasperatedly for, in Ron's opinion, seemed like the millionth time, "When giving an interview, you can't just always ask me for the answers! There is no right and wrong!" She turned round to glare at him as he let out a chuckle; he hastily tried to stifle it before my some miracle, a large, heavy paperweight might accidentally have been levitated to drop on his bare feet. The bushy brunette rolled her eyes before returning her gaze to Harry, "Let's try again!" She commanded, "Everybody has their own rules or personal guidelines; Is there a certain motto, or quote that you live your life by?"
Glad that it was not him that had to prepare endlessly under Hermione's perfectionist watch, Ron mused to himself about what his own answer might be.
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Number One: Chudley Cannons Rule!
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"Thank you, again for having me Mrs. Weasley," Hermione was the politest girl he knew. Normally, people said things like that at the end of a visit, not before they had even reached the Burrow. Ron's mother looked at him with a satisfied smile on her round face as if to say Look, she's showing you up already! Instead she said to Hermione,
"It's no problem, dear! Besides I think it's very nice of you to help Ron re-decorate him room." She leaned closer to the young lady so that Ron "couldn't hear" her, "and I think that we may end up with a more tasteful room, this time." She commented tactfully.
When Hermione looked through the old doorway to Ron's room, she understood what his mother was getting at. The room was bright orange that managed to clash rather than blend with the redhead. Although the walls were covered in posters, the colour stood out like a background of flashing lights. On the ceiling, the walls, behind the door, the rugs on the floor, the matching bedspread, Hermione could only see two words: Chudley Cannons.
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Number Two: Never trust Fred or George. No matter what happens.
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"Two hands, Ron!" A middle-aged woman will beautiful red curls called after her youngest son as she watched him carry his own glass of warm milk up to bed with him. He gave her another of his lopsided grins and obediently tucked his teddy bear under his bony arm. He took small steps, one with each breath as he focused very hard on the liquid swirling in the mug in his hands so that the floor in front of him became a blur.
One step. Another step. Wait for the swirling to settle a little. A third step – ouch. His foot had collided with something hard, the halting motion, causing a drop of the precious steaming liquid to spill onto his hand. He lifted his right foot, testing the stair before he slowly and carefully stepped fully onto in, his left foot following the other.
Slowly but surely, the small boy steadily made his way up the creaking, uneven staircase. The next time he lost another drop was when the back of his pajamas were grabbed, suddenly restraining him from further movement. He looked up into the smiling faces of two of his older brothers. He didn't really like the way they seemed pleased with themselves; it was almost like they were plotting something. His innocent mind failed to comprehend what it was they were planning; after all he was just going upstairs to bed – surely nothing too bad could happen. The worst he could think of was that they shoved his milk in his face – if that happened he could just go back downstairs and get them into trouble. Certainly nothing life scarring could be about to take place. At this realization, he smiled back at them. Oh, how wrong he was. His smile didn't even falter at the look of concern that abruptly took over George's face. How naïve was he?
"Ron, you look like you're having a spot of bother." He commented. Ron stopped to consider the situation. Some help would be nice . . .
Fred seemed to be able to read these thoughts, "Would you like us to hold Teddy for you while you concentrate on the milk?" Ron looked from one to the other and back again. To the mug of milk, to Teddy and back to the twins. What harm could they do? Fred even had his hand behind his back to show he wouldn't do anything. Clutching the mug with his left hand, he trustingly held his beloved, scruffy bear out to George with a smile.
The reason for Fred's concealed hands became apparent as before his very eyes, his bear began to mutilate, his chocolate brown fur turning an inky black. His legs began to thin and bend as more legs appeared; the eyes began to gloss over until they were shiny and reflective. Ron could see his own, horrified look in them and emitted a ear-piercing shriek, his hands leaping up to cover his face, sloshing the hot milk all down him as he almost flew down the stairs.
"FRED! GEORGE! GET DOWN THESE STAIRS RIGHT THIS SECOND!" Unfortunately, Ron was still not old enough to fully appreciate it when his mother was shouting at someone else.
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Number Three: Never eat Hagrid's cooking
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"So, Harry, remind us why we're down here again?" Hermione enquired as they trudged down the sloping path to the hut that their large friend lived in. Before he could get a word in edgeways, as usual, she interrupted him, "I could be getting that Potions essay done for Snape right this very minute! Honestly, how I'm going to find out the ten main functions of newts' tails in potion brewing is beyond me – I've searched in all the given textbooks and I can't find a word!" Harry managed to open his mouth and managed to utter the first syllable of her name while Ron snorted unhelpfully beside him before their bookish best friend carried on, "And what's more, you could be finding out about the secrets of that egg! The Second Task isn't that long away!" She hissed at him, shooting Ron reproachful looks. Her next comments were cut off, however, as Ron knocked loudly on the wooden door.
It opened and Rubeus Hagrid blocked the light pouring out from his dwelling. "Ah, it's you three – been wondering where you lot went off to!" He hauled them in and they took their usual seats around his small table, Fang coming to affectionately drool over Harry. Ron repressed a chortle (largely due to the helpful elbow in the ribs kindly given to him by Hermione) and instead turned his gaze onto the half giant approaching them with a large, hot tray in his huge, oven-gloved hands.
"Y'er just in time." He declared, setting the tray down on a rickety stand before them, "I just finished some bakin'." He smiled proudly at them as they stared at the smoldering batch in front of them. Hermione's face beamed as she stepped on Ron's foot out of view under the table and kicked Harry's knee whilst simultaneously praising the grinning man. Ron hoped his grimace looked more like a surprised smile and Harry exchanged glances with him. Oh, dear. Was what the concealed message behind them consisted of.
Picking up a miniature boulder-like "cake" Ron blew on it, delaying his consumption while gathering his confidence to take a bite of the culprit that was burning his roughened fingers. Finally, he steeled himself, trying to convince himself that Hermione's sound of pleasure as she swallowed was not due to her perfected acting skills. He raised it to his lips and bit down. Or at least, he tried to bite into it; tried being the word, here. He crunched harder, managing to crack the outside layer, and regretfully moved the cake further back in his mouth to be assaulted by his stronger teeth.
It was, in fact, his teeth that were being assaulted by the cookery.
Three quarters of an hour later, they were walking back up to the castle, Hermione trying her best to scold them for something, to soothe her temper. Eventually, seeing as their behaviour had been very good, she settled for bossing them around, "Ron, when I come back from my shower, I expect to see that transfiguration chart done and Harry," she turned her gaze onto her left hand side, "you had better get to work on that egg!" He sighed and she added, "Do you even know where it is? I bet it's gathered dust by now!" Harry dutifully told her that it was safe in the bottom of his trunk and that he would sort it out tonight. She couldn't find anything wrong with his answer. Ron unwittingly laughed at her expression.
"What?" She snapped, raising an eyebrow at him. She had been wanting to tell him off for the faces he was making to Harry when Hagrid's back was turned, but realized it would have sounded a bit childish.
"And there was me thinking that Harry had given it to Hagrid to use for his Rock Buns." Try as she might, Hermione could not help but laugh along with them as they sneaked their way back into school.
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Number Four: Girls are like basilisks – never look directly at them.
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Ron began by thinking about one of the most traumatic evenings he could remember. He felt like a complete and utter idiot. Ron stared dispiritedly into his chuckling mirror as his ghastly reflection. On the night of the most talked about event at Hogwarts, he was dressed up like a total prat. Why did he ever let his mother go unaccompanied to purchase his dress robes? Harry was next to him looking entirely normal, as there was Ron, beside himself with despair. Harry literally dragged him out of the portrait hole (thankfully not by the lace ruffled collar) and the boys reached the crowd thronging in the entrance hall searching for various dates with which they had planned to attend the Tri-Wizard ball with.
Harry was soon whisked away with Parvati by Professor McGonagall, leaving Ron alone with Padma. As she looked expectantly at him, he returned her expression with one of awkwardness. Flowing around him were girls with streams of satin and silk in a rainbow of sparkles and sequins. He felt he was a goldfish out of water. He just wanted this to be over – and where exactly was Hermione? Ron felt like he was in a dessert, aching to find an oasis.
As the champions marched through the doors he caught sight of a drop of water. Hermione was going with Krum! Ron had to restrain himself from rubbing his eyes to check whether he was seeing this mirage of perfection correctly. She looked absolutely breathtaking – the sharp jab in his ribs from his date actually helped remind him to start breathing again. Her beautiful blue-clad body twirled about as she took her place next in the line of champions.
During the evening on the dance floor, several times he had caught her eye – and several times he wished he had not. His behavior and attitude grew increasingly sulky and even after a blazing, yet public row, when Ron returned to his dormitory that night, he privately admitted to himself that his trousers were feeling a little uncomfortably tight.
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Number Five: Especially girls named Hermione
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A year and a half on, she still had the same effect on him. Whilst moping about in the holidays, waiting for the rest of the family to come and join them at the Burrow, Ron flopped onto his bed, trying to distract himself. Needless to say, he was not succeeding very well … at all. It had all started when they were putting up Christmas decorations. Damn that bloody tinsel.
Hermione had innocently walked down the stairs that morning, levitating a large box behind her and set it down on the floor in front of the beautiful tree in the living room. She started taking everything out and ordering them together, grouping them in names, sizes and then colours. How she had the patience, Ron would never know. As she got to the last few items, she tipped the box upside down and then passed it to Ginny, who moved it to the side with the other empty containers.
For the next half hour, the girls decorated the tree, saving the tinsel until the very end. When Ron next went in the living room, there was a striking tree in the room and the girls were starting on the tinsel at the bottom of the tree.
"Hermione, if you lend me your wand, I can take the boxes up to the attic again." Ron volunteered. Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, non-verbally reprimanding him for having his mother confiscate his wand for misbehavior and then waved her hand vaguely in the direction of her own. Gathering the boxes into a pile Ron began to levitate them out of the girls' way.
This time, when joining them again, they had nearly decorated to the very top of the tree, and without the aid of her wand, Hermione was leaning on tip-toes to spiral the tinsel where she wanted it. Harry smirked behind him and shoved his best friend with him into the room. The bottom of Hermione's red top had risen considerably as she stretched her arms up, revealing her tanned lower back exposed in the gap between her short, brown floaty mini-skirt. She had even had the audacity to turn round at smile at the pair of them as if nothing was wrong!
No, no, no. It was no good; he would have to go and take a cold shower. Ron gathered up his towel as removed his shirt so he would have less to carry. Standing by the door, he could not hear the sound of running water. He made the humongous mistake of opening the door. With her towel wrapped around her, the corner tucked neatly at the top near her arm to hold it in place, Hermione turned around from brushing her teeth. Ron could not move; he was literally paralyzed. Expecting a telling off, he braced himself, causing him all the more surprise when Hermione gave him the most un-Hermione-ish response.
"Hey, Ron, sorry. If you wait a sec, I'll be done." She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling brightly after her wash and rinsed the sink out after her. "There you go." She collected her clothes up and walked through the door that he held open for her with yet another flashing display of her pearly whites. Yes, he definitely needed that cold shower.
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"Ron! Hello, anyone there?" He focused his eyes again to see his vision of perfection waving her hand across his face. He came back to the world with a start while she laughed at him. "It's getting late, Ron," she told him, "Everyone else has gone to bed." He managed to look around to see that, as usual, she was right; everyone else had gone to bed. "I'm going for a quick splash in the Prefect's, are you coming?"
"Er, ok then." He was quite grubby and could do with a "quick splash", as she termed it, in the Prefects' own private swimming pool-like bath. As he raced up the stairs to assemble his things, he promised himself that this time he would behave himself.
Little did he know that Hermione had offered him an invitation in the hopes that he too, would break that promise that she had also set herself at Christmas.
Now all you need to do is press that tiny periwinkle button and type some words in the box, please – easy peasy lemon squeezy!
Love,
x Imperial Princess x