This is written for round five of the International Wizarding Schools Championship. The following is info for judging purposes. Happy reading!
School & Theme: Beauxbatons — Write about something hidden in plain sight.
Mandatory Prompt: [Genre] Fairytale
Additional Prompt: [First Line] The bees gathered over the flowers.
Year: 2
Word Count: 2,510
Additional Info: Fairytale!AU and Royalty!AU. Magic still exists, but witches are less like how we know them from Harry Potter, and more like "traditional" witches that brew potions, use herbs, and have familiars.
.: Wildflowers :.
"And I've heard of a love that comes once in a lifetime, and I'm pretty sure that you are that love of mine. 'Cause I'm in a field of dandelions, wishing on every one that you'll be mine, mine." — Dandelions, Ruth B.
The bees gathered over the flowers. Butterflies danced over the tall grass. The sun beat down on the meadow like a hammer on an anvil, and Ron felt every hot ray as he stood rigidly, roasting in his armor. He was vigilant as he surveyed his surroundings, but his gaze snagged on her.
She walked through the meadow, reading as she moved. Her right hand was extended, brushing over the tips of the long grass and colorful wildflowers. Crookshanks, her familiar, trotted at her side—the orange tabby weaving around her ankles and his fluffy tail teasing at her periwinkle skirts. Her frizzy brown hair fluttered in the wind, and she paused, tilting her face towards the sun and closing her eyes.
Ron ignored the way his heart skipped at the sight.
Hermione Granger, eldest daughter of the benevolent King Edward, was the most beautiful woman Ron had ever laid eyes on. It didn't matter that he was a lowly knight with no fortune. It didn't matter that he was a sixth son. It didn't even matter that she was so far off limits she might as well be a goddess of old.
He'd loved her from the moment he'd met her.
Ron tore his eyes from her visage and went back to scanning their surroundings, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. He couldn't protect her if he only watched her. And it was a good thing, too, that he'd remembered his duty, because a single rider appeared on the horizon, galloping towards them.
Ron headed for Hermione, his steps long and determined and his eyes still on the rider. Hermione was oblivious to Ron's approach—she always was—and she startled, dropping her book, when he stepped in front of her. He extended an arm to keep her behind him and tightened his grip on his sheathed sword.
"Sir, what is—?"
"A rider approaches, Your Highness," Ron said, heedless of the transgression he'd just made by interrupting her. His worldview had completely narrowed down to one thing: protecting her.
He didn't draw his sword yet—he didn't want to scare her—but he bent his knees and readied his posture. An indescribable buzz flooded through him when she gripped his elbow, one of the few places his armor didn't cover, and stepped closer.
The rider drew nearer, and sweat dripped down Ron's temple. But then the sun glinted off a familiar ruby crest on the rider's chestplate. The sun glinted off even more familiar red hair, and a breath whooshed out of Ron. Hermione still held him, so he looked down at her over his shoulder and gave her a reassuring smile.
Her pretty brown eyes filled with relief, and she nodded, dropping his arm.
Ron's oldest brother dismounted his horse a few feet from them. Bill had always looked regal and knightly, even with the grotesque scars bisecting his features, and he appeared every bit the captain of the guard as he approached them. Ron picked up Hermione's book and held it out to her with a nod. Her fingers brushed his when she took the book back, but Ron stepped away before he could think about it too much.
"Your Highness," Bill greeted, bowing deeply. "I'm sorry to interrupt your morning, but the king requests your presence in the throne room."
Hermione clutched her book to her chest, and something in Ron's chest twinged when she brushed her own fingers over the spot he'd just touched. "Did my father give a reason?"
"No," Bill answered, "but a foreign ship docked at port late last night. Perhaps that's the reason."
Hermione stared off towards the harbor even though it was hidden by the dark forest and the castle she called home. Ron had the distinct impression she was talking to herself when she whispered, "Perhaps."
"I'll fetch the horses," Ron said.
"Yes." Hermione nodded, still looking off in the distance. "We must make haste."
Ron bowed and backed up a few steps, not taking his eyes off her until he was a respectable distance away. Bill followed him, and as soon as they were out of earshot, Ron shoved his brother.
"You almost gave me a heart attack," Ron groused.
Bill's grin was fleeting. "Next time I'll sound the horn and announce my presence for miles. Or perhaps bellow, 'Ronnikins!' across the meadow like a madman?"
"Funny," Ron deadpanned. He untied the horses' reins and patted both their necks in greeting. Bill grabbed one set of reins from him and fiddled with the horse's bridle. "What does the king really want her for? There's no way he didn't tell you."
Bill was favored by the king—he'd gained his scars saving the monarch's life, after all. It had been unheard of for a low-ranking knight from an outer village to become the captain of the guard, but if anyone deserved it, Bill did.
"A suitor has arrived for—"
"Not for Hermione?" Ron's stomach twisted at the thought.
"Hermione?" Bill's brows hiked, contorting the scar across his forehead. "Getting familiar, are we, little brother?"
Ron turned beet-red and began leading the horses back to Hermione. "For Her Highness?" he rephrased.
"Ron." Bill sighed and laid a hand on Ron's arm, stopping him. "You must set aside your feelings for her. Nothing can come of them."
Ron straightened, his grip on the reins tightening. He squashed his immediate indignation, knowing his brother would see through it. "Isn't that what Dad said to you about Fleur?" Ron asked instead.
"Fleur wasn't royalty, Brother."
"She was as good as," Ron rubutted. Fleur's father was a wealthy merchant, and he had more power and money than some low-ranking royals. It had been the talk of the Court when Fleur had accepted Bill's proposal. Ron continued before his brother could object. "And besides, my feelings are irrelevant. She doesn't even know my name."
Ron gripped the pommel of his sword so hard his knuckles cracked. Everything about Duke Cormac McLaggen sent Ron's protective instincts buzzing. He hated the duke's coiffed blond hair, his expensive, tailored clothing, and the way he leaned into Hermione's space when he spoke. Most of all, he hated how the duke placed his hand on Hermione's arm—as if he had any right to touch her.
The duke reached out then, like he had been doing all afternoon, but this time Hermione tensed at the improper touch. Ron was moving before he could even think and stepping between them.
"Hands off," he growled, just barely keeping his voice level. He knew his expression was harsh by the way Cormac blanched. Cormac smothered his unease quickly and puffed out his chest, and Ron was supremely satisfied when the duke took a hasty step back.
Ron stepped away too, but he lingered closer than he usually did. Something brushed against his ankles, and Ron glanced down. Crookshanks looked up at him, approval dancing in his intelligent yellow eyes. Magical familiars had always unnerved Ron, but something about this one put him at ease. Maybe because he was Hermione's.
"I have a gift for you, my dear," Cormac said, clearing his throat.
"Your Highness," Ron corrected.
Cormac reddened, and Ron knew it was from anger and not embarrassment at being called out. "May we have a moment away from your personal guard, Your Highness?" Cormac asked.
"No," Ron stated.
"I promise no harm will come to you," Cormac continued, heedless of Ron's refusal.
"There are other dangers that could lurk in this castle, My Lord," Hermione replied diplomatically.
"I could protect you," Cormac assured, palming the ornate dagger buckled at his hip. Ron had to hold in a snort. He was sure this man had never raised a weapon at anyone before, let alone that dagger. It had rubies embedded in the handle, for Merlin's sake.
"Sir Weasley stays with me. Always," Hermione reiterated. Ron jerked his gaze to her, surprise flaring through him. What had he told Bill earlier? She doesn't even know my name. And yet here she was, addressing him as if she did it every day. It had happened so quickly he could barely savor it.
Ron watched Cormac hook a diamond bracelet to her wrist with daggered eyes, but his mind was elsewhere. Spiraling into his feelings, his hopes. He was still trying to remember the exact cadence of her voice, the exact way her mouth formed his name, when she bid Cormac goodnight a half hour later and headed for her chambers.
Ron followed her dutifully and was surprised when she detoured towards the dungeons. He knew she kept a potion's room there, but she'd never visited it in the evening—usually choosing to stick to the library when the sun waned.
Ron preceded her into the laboratory and ensured it was empty before stepping aside for her. "I shall wait in the hall, Your Highness."
"You may stay, if you'd like?" she said, turning to face him. "I wanted…"
He'd never heard her stumble over her words before. He scanned her features, and his brows furrowed at the stress he found there.
"I wanted your opinion on something."
"Anything, Your Highness."
Her lips quirked, and she grabbed a few jars from the shelf—dried dandelions and wasp wings—and uncorked them. He'd never watched her brew before, and when she unpinned her hair and used the pin to spear a dandelion head, he may have fallen a little more in love with her.
"You can call me Hermione. At least when we're alone."
"Oh, I…" He grimaced, unsure how to reply. How to tell her that he already called her Hermione in his head, but how he was afraid of what he'd say or do if he called her Hermione out loud.
"Nevermind," she whispered. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"No, you didn't!" He almost took a step towards her in his haste to reassure her. "I'm sorry"—he cleared his throat—"Hermione."
"Better." She grinned. But she didn't look at him, and her smile faded quickly.
"What troubles you?" he asked.
"What do you think of Lord McLaggen?"
Ah, shit. Ron shifted on his feet. He itched to tell her what he really thought, but it wasn't his place. Who was he to influence her in this? So he hedged, "He acts as a lord does."
"So he's entitled and classist and a prick," Hermione replied.
Ron barked a laugh, even though he tried to stifle it behind his hand. She smiled, but it faded again as she eyed her new bracelet. "My father wants me to marry him."
Bile rose in Ron's throat, but he squashed it. This was the most she'd ever said to him, and he wanted it to continue as long as possible. "Do you want to marry him?"
"I don't even know him," she whispered.
"You shouldn't settle for someone you're unsure about," Ron risked saying. "Not when it comes to marriage."
"What should I look for, then?" she asked. "How can I be sure?"
Ron thought of how she'd looked in that meadow this morning, glowing in the sun and bees buzzing around her. He thought of all the times he'd escorted her into the village and she'd greeted even the lowest of commoners with an extended hand and a smile. How he'd spent hours in the back of the library, silently watching her read. He just thought of her.
He leaned back against the wall, trying to force himself to relax. "It's not really something you can put into words; it's just something you know. Someday, someone's going to sweep you off your feet, and—" And that person won't be me.
"And?" she prompted. She'd taken a step towards him, her eyes wide.
He cleared his throat and shook his head. "And you'll just know. It'll feel like there are butterflies in your stomach when they talk to you, like there are bees in your veins when they touch your hand. You'll be unable to even think about being with someone else—or about that person being with someone else."
Ron paused and had to force the emotion from his voice. He was sure everything he felt was splashed across his face for her to see.
"I think…" he continued, "you'll only know what you're looking for when you've already found it."
"Have you found it?"
"Yeah," he whispered, voice thick. He looked at her and felt more brazen than he ever had before. "But you don't always get to be with that person."
She unhooked her bracelet and dropped it to the workbench with a clatter. "Why can't you be with your love?"
"Because I'm just a knight." His heart ached. "I have nothing to offer."
Hermione took another step towards him, and Crookshanks nudged at Ron's ankles till he leaned up off the wall. He had to strain to hear her voice as she whispered, "What if I don't care that you're just a knight? What if…I just want to be with you? Always?"
Ron's heartbeat thudded in his ears, and he watched as Hermione, almost in slow motion, reached out a hand. She brushed her fingertips over his knuckles, and Ron went taught at the sensation.
"Bees, right?" She tilted her head, and he felt entirely too seen under her piercing brown gaze. She traced the veins on the back of his hand, and trailed her fingers up his wrist.
"Hermione," he croaked. "We can't."
"Why not?" she whispered, stepping infinitesimally closer. She smelled like wildflowers, and Ron closed his eyes.
"You know why. Your father is the King. He expects you to marry someone titled—someone worthy."
"You're a knight, are you not?" She propped a hand on her waist and cocked her hip. He swallowed thickly at the sight of her stern expression. The urge to kiss her was a palpable weight on his chest. "That's a noble profession—one of worth. You have a title."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it," he replied.
"You'll find very few people can tell me what I do and do not know. Even less that can tell me what to do."
"I know." He smiled. It was one of the things he loved about her.
"Well, then I say…" she faltered, some of her bravado bleeding from her. But she straightened and cleared her throat. Gods, she was beautiful. "I say I want to be with you. Do you want to be with me?"
Ron laughed once at the absurdity of the question. He could barely think for wanting her, and she had to ask. The confidence in her eyes wavered—likely because of his laugh—but he made the boldest move of his life and reached out for her. He gathered her to him and cupped her cheek, his body buzzing when she leaned into his touch.
"Always," he vowed.
Thank you for reading!
