Ch. 10 Enthralled

"Hermione, I'm home."

Ron stepped into the kitchen of their modest cottage, appreciating the smell of roasted chicken, a pot of mashed garlic potatoes, gingered carrots, salad and pudding. I'm famished!

He shed his coat, chunked his boots into the front closet, and threw off his jacket. Ron was nothing if not consistent. Many a row with his wife was over his propensity of leaving his clothes lying on the floor or in the hallway. Rose was just like him – too busy in her mind or her hands to care. Poor Hugo was already showing signs like his Mum – fastidious and tidy. Gotta talk with that boy; nothing wrong with a little clutter every now and then.

He knew he was a little late from work. Well, more than a little. He told her he'd be home at half five, and a case dropped on his lap at the last minute, and it took a few hours to sort through and clear up. Wizarding domestic violence cases make a mockery of evening plans. No wonder why Aurors burn out so much – no set schedule most of the time. Didn't the Wizarding world know that Tuesday evenings were home-cooked meal night at the Weasley household? Ruddy buggers missed the memo from him about not interrupting his dinner plans with his wife and kids.

Ron stepped into their kitchen, looking out into the living room to see the kids were nowhere to be heard. He looked at the watch on his wrist – he still wore his coming of age gift from his parents, Uncle Gideon's watch – and he read it to be eleven at night. No wonder no one is up and making a ruckus in the den. Kids have been in bed for hours now.

Just a quick snack to tide me over, he thought before diving into the plate of roasted chicken. The kids never left him the chicken legs, and Hermione only ate a small portion of the breast – never the skin either, mind you – so he dove into the remaining breast portions, savoring the rosemary garlic spices on the skin. Oh, the wings too! He inhaled those as well.

Ron looked down and saw only bones remaining on the plate. When did I eat the rest of the chicken?

He sucked on his fingers, savoring the flavor after inhaling the remaining chicken on the platter. Now all he needed to do was find his wife.

He looked in Hugo's room, seeing his son's messy auburn hair poking out from the top of his bed, along with his favorite stuffed dragon, Puff, right next to him. The other pet dragons kept watch on the shelf above his bed, on top of various books and other important toys. Uncle Charlie loved sending stuffed dragons from the Sanctuary. Hugo loved the gifts from Uncle Charlie.

Ron poked his head into Rose's room, and saw she was fast asleep too. Her even messier auburn hair was spread out on her pillow, snuggled with her pet dragon under the covers too. Komodo was red, inspired by the stories that Uncle Charlie told one Christmas about his first trip to rural China to help deal with a rogue Fireball that bothered the villagers in the countryside. Only Hermione would know about the origination of the name Komodo.

He then went into his bedroom, not finding his wife there either. He smiled, knowing that she was hiding in their library now, probably with her nose stuck in a book. The only question he had was what book was she enthralled in – reading about Goblin contracts, Centaur conflicts, or minutiae of Elf suffrage. It was a wonder that Hermione ever took her nose out of a book, leather bound or digital now. Her library of modern Muggle titles already filled her electronic book, from Sarte to Chaucer to Rowling.

He shed his dress shirt, the one he was fond of. They might have been married for years, but Hermione still insisted that they go out to Muggle London for an annual fitting for him. That first year, before she finished school, still made him laugh, being fitted for clothes and robes in nothing but his pants by someone older than McGonagall. The mortified teen standing in the shop wearing white boxers was humiliating enough. The eighteen year old Ron was mortified – but the 32 year old Ron understood what Hermione did all those years ago.

He remembered, while sliding the slightly rank undershirt he wore daily. He wasn't the emaciated eighteen year-old he was after the war, but the training polished Auror of 32. He was glad his sizes changed from then to now.

Now, he loved clothes, as opposed to the hand-me-downs and hand-knitted attire his Mum was known for. Ron resented the hand me downs, the consignment clothes, the patchwork jackets when he wasn't in his school robes. Hermione understood his resentment at his siblings, who once they were out of the house and earning their own money, had clothes that fit. He had even been annoyed at Ginny. The locket tormented him on occasion all those years past, about Mum favoring her best, by buying Ginny clothes that fit her well. Since she was the only girl, she got her own things, her own nice robes. Her clothes weren't patched, or worn in the knees, or two inches too short in the leg.

He was thankful that he wasn't as skinny as he was then. Finding shirts and trousers and denims then was difficult. Now, it wasn't so bad. An extra four inches across the waist and hips did wonders for finding all kinds of slacks. The extra inch on the neck meant finding dress shirts for work off the rack rather than tailored. That saved plenty of galleons.

Hermione would shop for him on occasion, since he was rather busy for work. The occasional trip during a break in her work afforded her time to pick up the wardrobe he has. She didn't buy him much, but what she did looked nice on him. The tailor shop she purchased his clothes from was affordable, and they had his measurements on file. The off-the-rack clothes he wore on weekends and for casual attire was name brand, one that had a miniature polo player on it. He said he didn't care, but his wife knew better. She had to hear him complain on occasion at a thread-worn seam, or a fray on a trouser cuff.

Ron unbuckled the belt on his trousers, laying the leather belt on the chair in the corner.

At first, he resented the dragon skin jacket that was hung in the front foyer closet. It was a gift from Fred and George for Christmas 1997. He fumed he saw the package from George, realizing that it had sat for a year while the three of them were gone into hiding. When he tore into the red and gold wrapping paper, he couldn't decide to laugh or cry. George fought the tears save one in the corner of his eye. He loved it, but also fought his temper that Fred couldn't be there to share in the outstanding gift. Hermione knew just from the expression on her face, and she halted his spiraling temper for the moment, helping him later that night cope from his annoyance.

Years passed and the jacket still hung in the closet. He wore it when they would go out for dinner or a night out on the town. Precious nights afforded by the Grandparents Granger keeping the kids while Ron took his wife out on a date. He wore it thanks to Hermione and gently expanding it across the shoulders and chest so he could fit it without tearing the seams. They would get many a look from the Muggles who saw them, but the men would nod in appreciation. Hermione was brilliant, charming it that way. They only saw a black butter soft calfskin leather driving coat. Wizards saw the iridescent purple of the Ridgeback skin coat, fitting across his broad shoulders and tailored to fit his overlong arms.

It fit a touch more snug now than it did when he first got it. Ron had filled out considerably from when he was eighteen to now. But Gred and Forge were brilliant in getting it oversized. He needed the width across the shoulders and chest, along with the extra room in the arms and in the length. Dragonhide only stretched so far under magic.

Ron slid his trousers down his 34 inch inseam legs, stepping out of them onto the cold hardwood floor. He stood in their bedroom in his pants, assessing how he looked now. His reflection showed how he had changed in the intervening years. His legs were still long, somewhat gangly, but also stronger and more muscled. He looked better in his pants now than he did when he was younger.

He laughed, seeing the branded trunks his wife would purchase for him. The bright colors were amusing but every time Hermione would see them on him, her smile would shine like it was lit by fairy lights.

The end of their first summer together was an eye opening experience for him. He came home from the shop one day to find Hermione going through his pants drawer in his bureau. She inspected each pair, boxers and briefs that were in there.

"Hermione, what are you doing with my pants?" They cascaded to the floor, briefs and boxers both. A small pile was already there, tossed aside like rubbish. Hermione looked over her shoulder at him, on one of those rare occasions when she was having a good day that first summer, and gave him a mischievous grin.

"You'd look better in something other than white pants, Ron. So I picked up others for you when I was out shopping with Ginny today."

Hermione held up a sack, and inside were a rainbow of pants for him, from colorful briefs, patterned pants, and even some solid color boxer briefs like Harry was want to wear. Packages galore inundated him. But all Ron saw was his comfortable white pants in the drawer.

"Don't throw out my pants. I can still wear them!"

Hermione took the drawer out of the chest, and dumped the pile of white pants on the ground. She put the drawer back into the bureau, and put the myriad of new pants in there.

"Honestly Ronald. If I want to buy my boyfriend pants, I shall. I will buy you manly pants since it's for my benefit anyway."

Ron stepped back from the mirror, turning to profile to see how he looked in his orange camouflage trunks. Chudley put those out as a gag gift one year, and Hermione bought up his size. Surprisingly, they were comfortable for as silly and obnoxious as they looked on his lanky body.

Hermione's influence was apparent there as well, purchasing his pants from various places. His favorite would always be his Chudley Cannons pants, in "obnoxious Orange" as Hermione was want to call them – but she also purchased him name brand trunks, sedate boxer briefs, and boxers too, some strange and some funny. Once Hermione became his girlfriend, lover, and wife, she never let him have another pair of white pants. White undershirts were necessary, but never white pants.

"But why, Hermione?"

She knew him so well, and he was thankful for it. It was one of the first things she did for him, and the start of something more. Now, he loved going out for a day with her, shopping for his clothes.

"They clash with your pale skin."

Ron chuckled at the memory of that day, and how she got him in and out of his new wardrobe of pants.

He pulled open the top drawer of the bureau – the same one they bought all those years ago – and pulled out a pair of lounge trousers, and pulled on a jumper over his fresh t-shirt. Now that he had something to eat, and was out of the polyester twill slacks required for his uniform, it was time to track down his wife.

He tiptoed to the library, finding Hermione deep in a book. The books in the room were closed. The laptop on her desk, along with the Christmas present, were closed and turned off as well. Whatever she was reading was outstanding material, and worthy of her undivided attention. She never was without various sources of reading material, whether related to work or the world around them.

He stepped onto the carpet in the library, watching his wife read voraciously whatever it was that had her tuning out the rest of the world. On the cover was a man with a sword, looking similar to Ron but with older styled clothes. The look of intensity on his face reminded him of Harry during their training: hyper-focused determination. But what set his teeth on edge was how big the book was in her small hands. Small vermin would cower in fear from the size of that book.

He leaned over and kissed her on top of the head, knowing that she was not present in the library – well, at least not mentally. She was off in her other world, reading away, consumed in rare pleasure reading. He watched the seconds tick by while her brain went from all out reading to full stop in acknowledging his action. She put a finger in the tome, looking up at her husband and seeing him smiling. "Hello Love!"

"Pleasure reading dear?"

Hermione grinned, seeing her husband dressed in a jumper and sleep pants. "For once, yes. I've been waiting on this book for years, and now that I have it, I can't wait to finish reading it."

"Oh really? How far into the book are you?"

"Oh I only started about an hour ago." She picked up the book from her lap, a finger holding onto her place, some hundred some-odd pages into the story. "I can't put the story down, it's so good."

"Only an hour? What time do you think it is dear?"

Hermione furrowed her brow, looking confused. "Isn't it half nine?"

Ron smiled, the one that told her that she lost track of time yet again. "No, dear, it's not half nine. It's half eleven."

"Oh my. When'd you get home?"

"About thirty minutes ago. When I didn't find you in our bedroom, I thought you'd be in here. I didn't realize you were engrossed in the book already."

Hermione blushed, looking at the tome in her hands. "I couldn't get it in digital, so I had to get the hardback from Waterstone. It came in today, and I had to wait until the kids were in the bed asleep before I could start into it. I didn't realize how far along into the night we were."

Ron chuckled. "You rarely have time for pleasure reading that I won't mind tonight."

Hermione put the book down on the side table, uncurling from her blanket and cracking the toes from being tucked under her hips for so long. Her smile warmed him better than any beverage this evening.

"But what if I mind? I've barely seen you in the last week."

Ron smiled down at his wife, threading his hands in hers behind her back, on the tops of her hips. "You're putting down a book you've waited for years for, for me?"

She nodded, flashing that secret smile she reserved for him. "The book is here, and it'll wait tonight. My husband needs me more than a book does. He needs appreciation for his hard work more than the books needs my attention."

Ron pulled his wife even closer, smelling vanilla and ink. She always had her favorite smells on her, including roasted chicken and fresh baked bread. The mix of food and Hermione were the comfort of home.

"Thanks for dinner, love. I was famished when I got home."

Her smile grew wider, and her arms pulled tighter behind her back. Ron stood so close the warmth radiating off of her soaked though his jumper. "Shall we retire dear?"

Hermione stood up on her toes, kissing him on his nose. "Lead the way, love."

Ron woke when he reached his hand out to Hermione's side of the bed and she wasn't there. The sheets were cold, and the bed was rumpled. He opened his eyes, and it was still dark outside.

Blimey, what time is it?

He looked over to the side table, finding the charmed muggle wind up clock Hermione kept for him. Half six, so said the hands on the clock.

Ron slipped out of the bedclothes, intending to find where he wife was this morning. She always was an early riser regardless of what time she closed her eyes the night or morning before. She ran many days on two hours of sleep before working all day, but eventually, she would spectacularly crash later.

Ron retrieved the fleece housecoat from the door of the loo, throwing it on before leaving the warmth of their bedroom. First stop was Hugo's room – and he was still asleep, snoring lightly. Ron smiled seeing the unruly mop of auburn hair in the ever burning candlelight.

Ron stuck his head in Rose's room and Hermione wasn't in there either. A messy pile of bushy curls just poked out of the top of the blue and gold duvet on her bed as well.

Ron closed the door to Rose's room, and went to the library. He cracked open the door, and there was his wife, with her nose back in the book. He waited a minute, seeing if she would notice.

She never did. She was busy turning the pages, devouring the text like she hadn't read in months, not hours. Ron smiled before closing the door to the library. She's gorgeous when she's enthralled in a book. For once, I can come in second place to her passion for her books and love of reading.

He made his way to the kitchen, intending to enjoy his day off by frying up breakfast. Have to make a pan of porridge for Hermione too. Ron set a frying pan on the stove, waiting for it to get to the right temperature to start the rashers.

He pulled a knife from the drawer then opened the cooling cabinet for the berries Hermione preferred on her porridge. A quick flick of his wand and the knife was slicing the berries for her breakfast.

Maybe the smell will coax her from the book. Nah, who am I kidding. She'll finish the book after breakfast is finished then ask where her bowl of porridge and fruit is. She's so predictable.

Hermione closed the book, feeling the trail of salt on her cheeks that had burned away from the last three hundred pages of reading. The time she spent reading as a child, into an adult, was worth the last book. The ending was incomplete, replete with a myriad of possibilities, and few established answers.

Thanks Dad for introducing me to such great friends.

Her friends, the first ones she ever really had, waved at her as she closed the series, finished for the first time. The characters in the book that she traveled along with, hungry, cold, scared, and eventually empowered, spoke to her as a child, and now as a Mom.

One day, your story will be told to my kids, and hopefully more. They need their heroes too. They need an influence on their lives, like you were on mine. But I shall return to read with you once again.

Hermione put down the bound hardback, rolling her neck and uncurling her legs from under the cushions of the broken in and warn recliner. She lifted her head, and spied that the door to the library was open. The smell of rashers wafted into the room, along with strong coffee.

She looked at the clock on the mantle. Noon.

Blimey, what happened?

She opened the door, and walked into the kitchen. Under the warming charm was breakfast – porridge with fruit along with a hot cup of coffee. Ron was in the living room with the kids playing quietly.

"Mummy!" came the squeals from the kids, crashing into her like a tidal wave. "We missed you!"

"I was in the other room reading silly goose!"

"But Daddy told us to be quiet and let you read, since what you were reading was so important."

Hermione looked up from her kids faces to see her husband smiling back at her. "You were so enthralled in your book earlier that I said I'd let you read. You deserve some time on your own too."

Hermione looked down at her kids, seeing their snaggle- toothed grins. "I was reading a story that I started when I was a child, just a few years older than you. But unlike you, I had to wait for the author to write the story. And today, now that I finished it, I can say it was worth the wait."

"Can I read it Mummy? Please Mummy!"

Hermione picked up Hugo onto her hip and mussed her daughter's hair. "Not yet, dear. But soon enough, you will. They were my first friends and some of the best I ever read. You'll learn about those heroes soon enough. But now, we have other things you should read first. Prince Billy and Princess Jane need your attention for now."

Hermione looked over Hugo's head, smiling in appreciation to her husband. Only he knew the whole story, her friends who were nothing but words on a page to most, but her closest friends growing up when the world was an unkind place. Thank you.

Ron nodded back in thanks. You owe me.

Hermione grinned back. I know.

A/N: This is my ode and chapter of thanks to one of my literary inspirations, Robert Jordan. I picked up his first book in his World of Time series back in college (in the dark ages) – and was hooked from the first 20 pages in. From there, a world awaited, and I eagerly anticipated each release. 20 years in my case (23 in real time publishing) and so many words to make anyone's eyes burn in exhaustion, and I finished the final book last month. (It took me considerably longer to read it than Hermione does. She's brilliant, you know!) 14 tomes are nothing to sneeze at, let me tell you!

So, this is my homage to RJ, and for the story that was and is a profound influence on my own writing.

May the Dragon continue to ride the Wheel of Time. - DG