In which Hermione feels like her life—and her relationship with Ron in particular—is moving too fast.
Age twenty-one, Hodgepodge Lodge Dining Hall, Ottery St. Catchpole.
"...And so, without any more beating about the bush...Hermione Granger, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"
Hermione felt a dizzying silence fall over her as everyone else at the table seemed to disappear. She was alone, an island of hushed, held breath. Ron, down on one knee before her, even seemed to fade away. Marry him. It felt...her parents had gotten married when they were twenty-seven and thirty. She was barely twenty-one. Wasn't it a bit soon? Weren't they a bit young? She supposed witches and wizards got married quite a bit younger than Muggles did, but still.
This felt too soon. She was still in med school, for Merlin's sake, still with a year to go before she graduated and became a fully qualified Healer at St. Mungo's! Shouldn't they wait, really, until they had two incomes? Was Ron thinking of buying a house, or were they going to live in their little flat in Ottery St. Catchpole forever?
Oh god, and everyone was staring—why did Ron have to propose here, why now? Molly, Arthur, George and Angelina, Percy and Audrey, god, Harry was sitting right there with Ginny who was clutching her own engagement ring she'd received only last month—Bill and Fleur, round-bellied with late pregnancy...all looking on with baited breath and tears in their eyes, how could she bloody ask him to talk about this? How could she possibly, possibly say anything with everyone there?
"Goodness, I feel faint," she blurted out, and the tension was broken by everyone laughing. Her stomach churned. No choice, really. "Yes, I'll marry you, Ron."
The next few minutes were a blur of ecstatic applause and congratulations, pounding of backs and tearful hugs and gleeful grins, sitting down and standing up and pouring of more wine and toasts, goodness, the toasts seemed to go on forever; more congratulations and dizzying levels of excitement all around her.
Molly came over to give Hermione a second hug, wiping away tears of happiness. "My dear," she said, patting Hermione's cheek, "I'm so happy for the both of you. Now, I've been talking to Arthur, and with all of our boys and Ginny all grown up and moved out, we've been thinking that the Burrow is a bit too big for just the two of us. How would you like it as a wedding present?"
The bottom dropped out of Hermione's stomach and her jaw fell open. "I—I couldn't possibly—"
"Now, now, it's all arranged," tutted Molly, beaming up at Hermione. "Bill and Fleur have their own place already, Ginny and Harry are looking at houses in Godric's Hollow, George is set up in his place up atop his shop in Diagon Alley of course, Percy's living in London, you and Ron are the natural choice! Don't you worry your pretty head about it; it will all be taken care of for you. You just concentrate on planning the wedding!"
"I—I don't know what to say," said Hermione weakly.
"Just say thank you," Molly smiled. "Good girl." She gave Hermione another pinch on the cheek and went over to talk to Ron, presumably about the Burrow. Hermione stood with one hand on her forehead and one hand on her hip. Deep breaths. In the midst of the commotion she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned.
Harry looked down at her. "You look like you need some air. I'll distract them."
Words could not express the wave of gratitude she felt. Harry squeezed her shoulder and went over to Ron and Molly, draping his arms around them and gently turning them so they faced away from Hermione, who slipped away between the other tables in the dining hall and made her way outside.
She leaned against the brick wall of the building and sighed up at the evening sky, feeling the cool breeze on her face as a relief from the pressuring heat inside. Merlin. She was getting married. She looked down at her left hand, held out in front of her. The ring wasn't spectacular; just a simple gold band set with three little diamonds that sparkled in the light from the streetlamp that had just flickered on. She liked it, really. It suited her. Practical, or as practical as an engagement ring could be; not too much flash, nothing that would stick out and catch on things.
Deep breaths. Marriage. She was only twenty-one. It wasn't that she was unhappy. It was just overwhelming.