I know, I suck - I promised I would have published in November, and now here I am, over four months late...XD I really can't work on deadlines - especially with all the coursework and exams already approaching (again! O.O). And I am really, REALLY sorry for taking so long in posting this last chapter, but between being busy with school and the worst writer's block that I have ever had (probably because I love this story too much and I don't really want it to end! XD) it's taken me an eternity.

To be honest, I have written most of the chapter during my free study periods during this past week (if my teachers catch me, I'm dead), and I really hope you'll like it. If you, wonderful readers and reviewers, are still putting up with me and reading the story, that is :)

I might add something in the next few weeks - a little epilogue, looking at the couple a few years later - though I'm actually already focusing on a new project, so I don't really know how long it might take. I just hope you'll keep checking in sometimes - to this story, and maybe to some of my other pieces. If you already haven't fallen asleep reading this endless intro :D

As always, enjoy the read - and review, review, review, cause I LOVE to know what you think!

J

Chapter 17: Of Impulsive Decisions and Insistent Knocks, of White Roses and True Love

Ron's POV:

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

The hands of the clock on my wall moved painfully slowly, their faint ticking the only noise in my dark room.

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since I had last seen her, held her, kissed her. Three weeks since I had been whole.

And it was killing me.

We wrote to each other, of course, every day. Several times a day. We told each other everything that happened, sent pictures, shared every detail of our lives in an attempt at pretending nothing had changed. I had come to live for those emails, for they were the only thing that kept her somehow within my reach; not having her here was a physical pain, every beat of my heart, every breath reminding me of her absence.

Without her, I was…numb. Empty.

I could hear faint noises coming from downstairs – muffled voices, the scraping of chairs on the floor, the clattering of plates and cutlery, water running from one of the bathrooms; I didn't check the clock, but it sounded like early morning.

On a normal day three weeks before, I would have gotten up, had a shower and gone downstairs to have breakfast with my family. I would have laughed with Fred and George, teased Ginny, and helped Mum with the dishes. I would have spent one of the last days of freedom out with my friends.

Today, I lay on my bed, unmoving, for what like seemed an eternity, until a pale ray of sunlight crept through a gap in the curtains of my window, drawing a tiny stripe of light in the otherwise shadowy room; if I focused on it, I could see the tiny dust particles dancing in the air, slowly rising and falling in front of my eyes.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

Suddenly, my room seemed too stuffy, too small – like I had no room to breathe.

I sat up, pushing the sheets away and shaking my head to clear my thoughts. I needed to move, to do something, or I was sure I would go crazy.

As I let my eyes wander across my room, I wondered how it had become such a mess; clothes were scattered across the floor, along with old and new textbooks, scraps of paper and bits of stationery; I hadn't tidied it up in more than three weeks, only accumulating layers and layers of crumpled papers and not exactly clean laundry to the point I almost couldn't see the floorboards anymore.

God, I was doing everything wrong.

With a sudden determination I didn't know I possessed, I started to sweep everything up quickly, throwing the surprising amounts of litter in the wastepaper basket in the corner, piling up my books on the desk and picking up every bit of clothing from the floor, checking twice under the bed to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything.

Then, I grabbed a pair of faded jeans and a black t-shirt from my closet – there weren't many other clean items of clothing, apparently – and I slipped out of my room and into the bathroom, which was thankfully empty.

Once everything was thrown into the hamper, I opted for a shower. Twice – I couldn't actually remember the last time I had really cleaned up, much to my shame, and I didn't need the nose of a bloodhound to know that I didn't exactly smell nice. Heck, even worms could probably tell that I hadn't showered in what probably was more than a week – and they didn't have noses, did they?

When I was done trying to scrub my very skin away, I dressed and quickly toweled my hair, finding the movement – any kind of movement – a relief; any distraction, anything that would divert my thoughts from her, even if just for a few seconds, was a blessing.

As I crossed the landing, I couldn't help the loud complaints of my stomach at the delicious smell of food still coming from downstairs – pancakes, toast, eggs and bacon, judging from the smell. How long had it been since I had last eaten a real meal? I couldn't really tell – the last thing I remembered eating was the sandwich my mother had brought me up to my room the previous day at lunchtime…or had it been two days before?

Whenever it was, I was starving.

The house was silent now – but, after all, it wasn't surprising, since a quick look at the clock in the living room told me that it was half past ten already. Dad was at work, Ginny was surely with Harry, and Fred and George had probably gone into town to look for a job – they had decided not to go to college to set up a 'business', as they liked to call it, and after three weeks of fights and yells, our parents had given up on trying to change their mind. As for Mom –

"Oh, there you are, dear. I thought I had heard you moving up there a while ago."

She was sitting at the kitchen table, her flowered apron draped on the back of her chair, a cup of tea in her hands as she looked at me with a sweet, comprehensive smile; it was the kind of look she used to give me when I was little and sick, and it made me feel incredibly young and vulnerable in that moment.

"Here, sit down –I was about to bring your breakfast upstairs to you, but since you are here…"

I nodded silently and sat down as she put a plate in front of me – eggs, bacon and buttery toast, that, though cold, smelled delicious to my empty stomach – before going back to her chair by my side, her eyes never leaving me as I ate.

"Thank you," I muttered with a half-hearted smile before I dug into the food, feeling like my stomach was about to digest itself.

Mom just looked at me as I ate, looking worried, relieved and sad altogether, and I couldn't help looking up often to send her questioning glances, for that behaviour was completely out of character for her – she had never been that watchful even with Ginny, who, being the youngest and the only girl, had always been treated with more consideration than us boys.

Just when I was about to ask her if anything was wrong, though, she spoke up, her voice almost tentative as she seemed to struggle with words.

"Ronnie, darling…" she started, and for a moment I really feared something had happened, for she hadn't called me Ronnie since I was five. That darling, then, was completely new, for I was sure she had never called any of us that. "Your father and I talked yesterday, and we…we are worried sick about you."

I put my fork down, but I didn't look at her – I couldn't not when I knew she was right. Guilt, the little bastard, came nagging at me, making blood rush to my face as that damn Weasley blush crept up to my ears.

"You have not been yourself since she left, Ron. You don't talk – to me, to your brothers, to your friends – and stay hidden up in your room the whole day; you hardly eat anything – you've become so thin, dear – and you look so tired, I doubt you're even sleeping much. I know that it's hard, but seeing you like this…Harry came around yesterday, just to tell me how everyone else was so worried. And we all…we all agreed with him."

I shook my head, unable to look up. Oh, it was not because of pride – it was fear. Fear of seeing the sympathy, the pity on her face. As if I hadn't noticed how I had completely shut everyone out. It's just that I couldn't…

"I can't do it," I breathed, taking my face in my hands as I fought back tears. I hadn't cried since we said goodbye, three weeks before, and I wouldn't cry now. I didn't want to. "The distance is too much, and I…I can't do this. It's like part of me – the good part, the happy, alive part – flew away with her."

Mom didn't say anything, even though I expected her to try and change my mind somehow – she always did when I wanted to give up on something, no matter if it was violin lessons or a maths problem. Instead she just stood and hugged me, pulling me in a soft embrace that smelled like clean laundry, lavender and childhood, and I almost broke as I hugged her back – just almost, though.

"We all miss her, dear," she said softly, and I shook my head with a harsh, empty laugh as I pulled away from her and ran a hand through my hair, ruffling it even more.

"No," I said, my voice, though low, sounding hard and cynical even to my own ears. "Not like I do. Not like you'd miss an arm, or a leg, or some other part of you."

Like your heart.

Out of instinct, my hand went up to my heart; it was physically impossible, I knew, but it was as though there was nothing in my chest where it should have been – only an empty hole.

"How did you know, Mom?" I asked then, out of the blue, looking at my mother in the eyes for the first time since we started talking. "How did you know that Dad was the one?"

At that, she smiled that soft, fond smile that had always been reserved for my father only, her eyes sparkling with an emotion that I knew way too well.

"Oh, I knew the very moment I saw him. I was eleven, and he was thirteen. It was my first day at Hogwarts, when I tripped along the corridor and this boy caught me and then picked up the books I had dropped on the floor. He carried them for me to my class, and when I walked out at the end of the period he was there again, with his hair tousled, his glasses a bit askew and the most beautiful smile on his face, asking me if I wanted to have lunch with him and his friends in the Great Hall."

She laughed at the memory, shaking her head as if in front of something incredibly amusing.

"That night, I wrote in my diary that I would marry him someday. And that was just it, for me."

Only then she seemed to realize what she had said, and the reason for my question, and her eyes slowly filled with tears as she looked at me with the strangest expression on her face.

"You really love her, don't you?" she asked, and I nodded, because yes, I did. More than anything in the world – more than my own life.

In front of such a statement from their eighteen-year-old son, most parents would have shaken their heads, dismissing it as a simple infatuation, for what could someone so young know of love?

But Mom wasn't most parents. Not where things really mattered.

She took my face in her hands and looked at me straight in the eyes with the most determined expression in the world.

"Then fight for her, honey. If she's so important – if she matters so much to you – then fight for her. We get to live only one life, and all that we can bring with us once we depart is love – it's all that remains, in the end. Your father and I found it when we were so young – and I can see in your eyes that you have, too. Don't waste your chance."

It was all it took for me to make up my mind.

I jumped to my feet and hugged my mother tightly, throwing a glance at the clock on the kitchen wall and already calculating how much time it would take me. Oh, it was crazy, I knew it, but I didn't care. I had nothing to lose, not anymore.

"I won't," I promised her, and then I ran away, almost risked breaking my neck as I ran up the stairs, jumping two steps at a time in my haste; it was half past ten, how long would it take me to pack my bag? Ten minutes? Fifteen?

I threw my door open and grabbed my faded rucksack from under the bed; then stuffed another pair of jeans, a couple of shirts and some underwear in it. I fetched my tennis shoes from the chair, where they were hanging by the laces, and slipped them on as quickly as I could. Then a hoodie – warm, Gryffindor red – and my keys and passport, which were on the desk with my textbooks.

Was I forgetting something? Oh, right – my cell phone, and its charger. And…money. Right, money.

Since I was eleven, I had been saving every penny so that I could travel after graduation – it was a project Harry and I had. To be honest though, I was way too happy to sacrifice the project to my cause.

I tore open the old shoe box, which was sealed with a ton of Sellotape and had only a small opening on the lid to insert what I earned from my pocket money and summer jobs, and turned it upside-down, letting its contents fall on my bed. Then I started counting.

Eight years of putting every penny away had paid back, somehow, for I now in hand the sum of one thousand, three hundred and forty-seven pounds and 69 pennies, which was way more than I expected.

Was it enough to pay for a ticket to America? I was almost sure it was – for a last-minute ticket in economy class on a very cheap company, at least. But was it enough for a return ticket? Or only for a one-way one?

I honestly didn't care. All that mattered was getting there – of how to come back to England, I would have thought later.

I packed the money in the front pocket of the rucksack and ran back down the stairs to the bathroom, where I snatched my toothbrush and basic hygiene supplies from the cabinet above the sink.

Just as I was dashing out again, I literally crashed into the Twins, who were walking out of their room, and the three of us fell into a heap of gangly limbs and tousled ginger heads on the floor.

"What the heck are you doing?" I asked them as I untangled myself, not without difficulty.

"We?" Fred asked, running a hand through his hair.

"Jeez, Ron, what the heck are you doing, running like you have Professor Snape hot on your heels ready to give you detention!" George added, mirroring his brother's position and rubbing the spot where their heads had bumped together.

Only then they noticed the faded green rucksack on the floor, and their eyes darted from me, to it, to me again. For once, they didn't look smug, amused, or crazy. They simply seemed…well, confused. And possibly afraid that I was losing my mind.

"Are you…"

"…going somewhere?"

God, I hated when they started finishing each other's sentences. Most people found it funny, but I only thought it was annoying. And creepy, though just a little bit.

"Yes," I said simply, getting back on my feet and throwing my bag over my shoulder as I checked my watch. Five to eleven.

"And where?" George asked, gaping at me like I had just said that the world was about to end.

"Seattle," I told them over my shoulder as I headed downstairs; they, of course, followed me.

"Seattle?" they chorused, sounding shocked. Which they probably were, given the circumstances – actually, I couldn't really blame them at all.

I nodded, stopping for a moment to give them a half-smile. "I'm getting Hermione back to us."

They looked at each other with wide eyes, before their faces split into two identical huge grins.

"Oh wow, little brother!"

"That's just what we were waiting for!"

"GIN!" they then yelled, so loud I was sure the whole town had heard.

Of course, my sister came rushing out of her room in a matter of seconds, almost bumping into us in the process.

"What?" she asked, looking half-alarmed, half-annoyed. "What's happened now?"

"He's going to America to sweep Hermione off her feet and bring her back here!" Fred enthusiastically informed her, and she squealed, hugging me so tightly I thought I heard several ribs crack.

"It was about time, you bloody git!" she exclaimed, laughing, before she took out her cell phone and quickly composed a number.

"Harry, your best friend has probably gone insane, and has decided to fly to Seattle to get Hermione! No, I'm not kidding! Of course he is! What? Yeah, but hurry then! You have less than ten minutes!" she said at top speed as she, too, followed me to the hall.

"Seriously, Gin?" I asked her as I took my jacket from the hook by the door and stuffed it into the bag. I had no clue of what the weather would have been in Seattle, and I didn't want to fly across the world only to freeze to death once I got there. "I don't have time for this – waiting for Harry? And for what? The coach to Heathrow stops in town at a quarter past eleven, which means I have…" – I checked my watch again – "Thirteen minutes to get to the bus station and jump onto it."

Shit, I would never make it.

"We'll drive you," George said then, gripping my arm before I could run out of the door without a second thought. "To Heathrow. So we can see you off."

He wasn't joking – I had never seen him so serious before.

"Then go – it's going to take you hours to get there, with all the traffic."

I had literally forgotten that Mom was there, too.

I walked up to her and hugged her again, just like I had done before in the kitchen.

"Be careful," she reminded me, fixing the hood of my jumper and checking that my bag was closed. It was what moms were made for – fixing clothes and making recommendations.

"Have you got your phone? And your toothbrush? And clean socks?" she asked, and I nodded, letting her fidget with my hair in an attempt at smoothing it down, for once without complaining.

"And enough money for the journey?" she asked again, and I, again, nodded, though I wasn't exactly sure of that. I should have checked on the Internet for prices, done more research. But now that I had taken my decision, I was too afraid that I would have changed my mind had I hesitated.

"Then go, darling. Just – call me, ok? When you get on the plane, and when you land. And in between, if you can."

I smiled at her – I'll be fine, I assured her – and then I turned to go.

"And, Ron?" she called again, when I was already walking through the door, Ginny and the Twins preceding me to the car. I stopped and looked at her over my shoulder.

She was standing in the middle of the hall, looking at me with a mix of sadness and pride in her eyes – she was proud of me, I realized, even though what I was doing would have been considered crazy and absurd by anyone else.

She motioned for me to come closer, and, without a word, she handed me a small object, which made my eyes go as wide as saucers when I actually recognized it – for I had seen it around before, and had heard the story behind it a hundred times when I was little.

I liked at her, incredulous, and she just smiled a kind, tearful smile as she nodded in response to my questioning eyes.

"Do bring her back home."

Harry stormed in the yard just as we were getting in the car – only he wasn't alone, for Luna and Neville were right behind him, looking tousled and breathless as they literally jumped off their bikes, leaving them in a heap by the shed, and ran to the Twins' old, rusty Nissan.

"We're never going to fit in here!" I exclaimed as the seven of us stood by the car, which suddenly looked rather small to my eyes.

"Oh, we are," Fred said confidently, rubbing his hands together and sticking his head in through the back window as if to consider how much space we had. "With the proper arrangements, of course."

Ten minutes and many insults later, we were somehow all crammed into the car – Fred and George at the front, Harry, Ginny, Luna and I squished together in the backseat, and Neville sitting in the boot, with his knees jammed against his chest to fit in the small space. Luna had volunteered to get in there, since she was the smallest, but he had refused to let her, and had somehow managed to squeeze himself in there – which was surprising, considering how tall he was.

"Everyone in there?" George asked, and we grumbled a yeah as he turned the keys into the ignition and started the car, the tires squelching a bit onto the dirt as he reversed into the deserted road and sped up – causing everyone in the back to bump against each other – towards the town.

"Gin," Fred said then, taking an old, wrinkly, messily-folded map of England from the gloves compartment and handing it to us in the back with a grin. "You're our Sat Nav."

She nodded and proceeded to unfold the map, which covered all of us like a paper blanket as she studied the tangles of roads, running her index finger on the faded lines with a determined, critical look on her face.

"We have to get on the M5," she said after a couple of minutes, "For I think 80 miles. And then pass to the M4, for…a hundred-something miles. We should be there in a couple of hours. Maybe a bit more."

"Have you considered the traffic?" Neville asked from the boot, peeking at the map from over our heads. "There's bound to be a bit as we get nearer to London."

"Right, the traffic…Well, I'd say more or less three hours, then," she said with a shrug, elbowing me in the ribs to get a bit more space on the seat.

It was going to be a hell of a trip…

Three hours, several wrong turns and a lot of traffic – and cursing, mostly on Ginny's part – later we were all standing in the middle of the entrance of Heathrow Airport, looking around with what I knew was the most hopeless expression in the world.

"How the heck are we supposed to know where to go?" Harry asked, running a hand through his hair so that it stood up even more than usual, making him look remarkably like a hedgehog. "This place is huge!"

He was damn right – the place was like a labyrinth, with hundreds of people scurrying around in all directions trailing behind them monstrous suitcases and piles of luggage; it gave me the clear impression that everyone knew where to go or what to do, and it only made me feel terribly stupid.

"Oh, wipe that desperate puppy look from your face, Ron," Ginny said suddenly in a cheerful voice, bumping her shoulder into mine. "Let's just ask for directions, and then we can go."

I looked at her in disbelief as she stalked away, smiling brightly as she walked through the tiny booths of a crowded café corner and stopped at the counter to talk to a blonde, freckled waitress who looked like she wasn't even sixteen yet with her big smile and braided pigtails.

They talked for a few minutes, both gesticulating a lot, and eventually my sister waved and almost skipped back to us, grinning with a smug Told You So look on her face.

"Down there to look for a ticket," she said confidently, pointing at an undefined area along the endless rows of check-ins. "She said that if we're lucky we might find a cheap last-minute deal for you."

A while later we were all waiting at a counter as a very tall, obviously fake-blonde woman dressed in a blue uniform tapped away at lightning speed on the keyboard of her computer to check the flights; she looked extremely cheerful, while I could barely stand still, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as the seconds ticked by.

Jeez, how long had she been tapping on that damn keyboard? Ten Minutes? Fifteen? An hour?

Suddenly she looked up smiling a 1000-watt smile, her blood-red lips stretched widely over her impossibly white teeth. Jeez, she looked like something straight out of an old Pan Am poster.

"Oh, there is a flight tonight – but oh, sorry, it's complete. Here, let me check again…"

And she started again, her eyes glued to the monitor in front of her.

I swear, I had never met a more annoying person in my whole life.

She repeated the little pantomime of the Oh, sorry, the flight is full five more times, making me wish I could just strangle her and be done with it. I had been stupid, thinking that everything would have been easy…

"There has been a cancellation on flight AA 6128, only minutes ago," the annoying woman said suddenly, and I looked at her, incredulous – was she kidding me? How unrealistic was it, that a place suddenly became available? This wasn't a damn romance novel, for Heaven's sake!

"It is a direct flight, leaving in fourteen minutes from terminal 5."

It took me only the fraction of a second to make my decision.

"I'll take it."

After that, I ran – literally – like I had the whole of the Slytherin House, plus Snape, chasing after me, with the rest of my siblings and friends following closely behind like some kind of bizarre parade; I had exactly twelve minutes to get to the gate, and I had no clue of how long finding the gate would take. At least I didn't have to check in since I only had my hand baggage on me, or I would have never made it.

Once at the metal detectors, the others stopped me for a moment to give me some kind of suffocating group hug before they pushed me through, waving and yelling and attracting the attention of the whole airport on us. For once, though, I didn't blush – in some ways, I felt more like some kind of hero going off to a dangerous mission that a simple lovestruck boy who was about to make the craziest thing ever.

"Good luck, little brother!"

"Bring Hermione back home!"

"Be safe!"

I grinned and waved at them as I grabbed my bag from the tape.

"I will!"

And then I sped away once again, this time on my own, making my way through the crowded area of the Duty-Free, bumping into people and stomping on innocent passerbys's feet, pushing through arms and shoulders and backs and mountains of luggage until I finally emerged at the gates.

Shit, it was closing.

"Wait!" I yelled at the top of my lungs, waving my ticket in the air as I ran like a madman. "Wait – I have to get onto the plane, too!"

The steward at the counter rolled his eyes and shook his head with a sigh.

"There always is someone this late, boy," he told me with a half-smile as he took my ticket. "My, don't you look in a hurry –"

I didn't even stop to hear the rest of his sentence – I just snatched my ticket back and dashed through the double doors, my lungs burning from the effort as I sped through the now deserted corridor that led outside.

I got to plane just as the ladder was being removed, and I ignored the irritated glares of the hostesses as I scrambled on board, showing them my boarding chart with a slightly shaky hand.

"Seat 71 C," they told me dryly, and I sighed in relief, quickly walking down the rows of passengers and slumping down in my seat.

Now, all I had to do was to wait.

Hermione's POV:

No new messages.

The three words, which would have looked completely innocent while on their own, when put together represented my worst fear. It was as though they were mocking me, sitting there, jet black against the white background as I checked my inbox for what felt like the hundredth time in the past twenty-four hours.

My last email hadn't been replied to. Actually, as far as the small closed envelope that marked it on the screen, it hadn't even been opened yet. And it had been twenty-four full hours. It had never happened before – not once in three full weeks. Ron always replied as soon as he saw the message, just as I did. And now my insides were twisted with worry as a hundred possible scenarios forced their way into my mind, some rational, some downright painful.

His computer broke.

He went away for a few days before the start of term with his family.

Something happened to him.

He doesn't care anymore.

He got tired of me.

I left, so now he's moving on.

It's a way of ending our relationship – a clean break.

As that thought crossed my mind, I stood up suddenly from the chair, refusing to go there. He wasn't breaking up with me, he would have never done something like that – not this way, not by just disappearing. He knew it would have driven me mad with worry. He knew.

But wasn't I going mad already, after all? Three weeks had passed. Three endless, excruciating weeks. And I could barely breathe from the pain that had seemed to constrict my chest since the moment I got on the pane to Seattle. I barely ate. I barely slept. And, I was coming to realize, I barely lived.

I felt guilty, for Emma needed me to be strong, and to take care of her now that it was just the two of us again. And I mostly managed to look normal, keeping my mind occupied first by unpacking, then by studying for the additional exams that I needed to get into college. Only now everything was unpacked, all the boxes gone, and I had had my last exam three days ago. Apart from making sure that Emma was well, that she ate and slept and played, I had stopped caring.

In some ways, it scared me a little, for I knew that I was really starting to show depression – real depression. But what could I do? I didn't have the strength to fight it – it was already a miracle that I somehow managed to get out of bed and put on a façade of normalcy every morning.

Feeling the now familiar weight in my chest become even heavier, I closed my laptop and walked away from it, out of the room that had once felt so safe and familiar, but that now felt like that of a stranger.

As much as I tried, I couldn't feel at home. The apartment seemed too dark somehow, the windows too small, the buildings surrounding it too large and intimidating. I missed the open spaces, the freedom, the bright colours of the English countryside. Here in Seattle, there were no colours – even when it was sunny, the sky was dull and pale – and everything seemed to be covered in concrete, to the point it felt suffocating sometimes. Even the park where my parents used to take me when I was a child now seemed too small and sad with its scrawny trees and yellowish lawns.

With a sigh, I plopped down on the sofa, tightly shutting my eyes to fight the tears back.

It's just a matter of time, I tried to tell myself for the thousandth time. You just have to adjust, get used to it once again. Give yourself time.

The thought sounded pathetically like a lie even to myself. Adjusting can take a few days. Maybe a week at most. But almost a month? No, definitely not.

Maybe we should move, I thought then, and suddenly the idea didn't seem that bad. After all, the apartment is way too big for just the two of us. And the city is so chaotic…Living in a small town again would be nice. Somewhere quiet, with a nice school for Emma. And I could travel back and forth to college by train. It wouldn't be bad at all.

Yet, even as I considered it, I knew that no place would ever be like Ottery St Catchpole. No matter how far we moved, we would never find those same people, those same places, those same feelings of safety and familiarity and belonging again.

I felt like screaming. Or crying. Or maybe both, just to be sure. But it was late, Emma had already gone to bed, and the neighbours would have probably called the police had they heard me screaming my frustration out like a banshee.

Then, suddenly, came a knock to the door.

Startled, I sat up and checked the clock on the wall; it was past nine in the evening, who could it ever be?

For a while, I considered not answering the door, for it was probably a salesman or some delivery guy who couldn't find the right address.

After a few seconds, though, the knock came again, louder, rapping on the door insistently.

Whoever it was seemed to be in a hurry.

I stood up with a sigh and walked to the door, opening it just a crack to see who it was so late.

Nothing.

There was no one standing there, or anywhere near on the landing or on the stairs.

I frowned, annoyed – it was probably just some stupid joke. With a huff, I closed the door and started to walk back to the living room, but when I was halfway through the corridor the knock came again, light and yet persistent.

Rap, tap, ta-tap. Knock, tap, rap-ta tap.

It almost sounded like someone was drumming a tune on my front door, and for some reason it really annoyed me. Didn't these kids have anything better to do?

I stalked to the door and threw it open, ready to yell at whoever it was to find someone else to bother, but, once again, there was no one out there.

"What the hell do you –" I started, but the rest of the sentence died on my lips as I looked down at the doormat.

There, just below the red capitalised WELCOME, was a single English white rose, still not fully blossomed, its snowy petals perfect and unmarred.

With my heart hammering against my ribs, I picked it up. The long stem was still wet, and the rose was fresh, as though it had been just cut from the plant.

There was no way it was just a coincidence – there was no way anyone could know what the white rose meant to me, except…

Except for him.

But it couldn't be, right?

I stepped onto the landing, searching for a sign that anyone was there, but found none. If I squinted, though, I could see another flash of white just outside the circle of light of the landing lamp. And there it was, on the first step of the staircase that went downstairs – another rose, identical to the first. Again, I picked it up.

There was another white rose on the bottom step of the stairs. And another at the top of the following set of steps – like Tom Thumb's breadcrumbs, they looked like they were meant to be followed. And so I did, until I found myself in front of the thick glazed doors of the apartment building with a bouquet of ten white roses in my hands.

The elder porter, Hal, was sitting at his desk like always, calmly reading a book as he waited for the night porter to come and relieve him from his shift.

He heard me approaching and looked up, his eyes twinkling below his bushy silver eyebrows as he recognized me.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," he greeted me kindly, politely touching his cap. Then, nodding his head towards the roses that I was holding, he added, "Those really are some nice flowers, Miss – whoever gave them to you must be quite fond of you, I expect."

I nodded slowly, holding the roses a little tighter, not caring about the curved thorns grazing my skin.

"Did you see anyone come in, Hal? Did – did you see who came in with the roses?" I asked, almost timidly, shaking slightly despite the warmth of the early September night.

I knew hoping was probably just going to hurt me, but the flowers – Ron was the only one who had ever given me white roses. It had to be him. It had to be.

"Well, Miss, let me think…There was Mr Parker with his wife, there was, coming back from a romantic dinner…And Mrs Tanner back from walking her dog…and the Youngs just came back from a friend's wedding – they were quite tipsy, they tried to get into the broom cupboard thinking it was the elevator…"

It had to be him.

"Oh, and I almost forgot," he added then, smiling at me knowingly. "A handsome young man came by probably fifteen minutes ago – he had a very polite British accent, he had. And he asked me if I could please give you this, if you ever came down with the flowers."

He pulled another white rose from under his desk, identical to the others that I was already holding, and gently handed it to me, nodding towards the door in the process.

"Last time I checked, he was pacing back and forth like he wanted to consume his shoes on the pavement. I wouldn't let him wait longer, Miss, if I were you."

Eleven white roses. He had told me something about giving roses to a woman once, something his father had taught to all of his sons from an early age.

Roses are always gifted singularly, or in dozens. Never more than one or less than twelve at a time.

He always followed that rule when he gave me flowers.

Tentatively, I reached out and took the rose from Hal, carefully placing it with the others. Then, my hands shaking visibly, I placed my palm against the heavy glazed glass door and pushed, stepping out into the warm night air.

For a few moments, I feared I wouldn't find anyone – that it was only an illusion, a dream, and that I would find myself there, standing on the curb, alone and empty-handed.

Then I saw him, sitting on the bottom step of the stone staircase that led into the building. His hair was even more disheveled than usual, as though he had been running his hands through it again and again until it stood in every possible direction; his elbows were resting on his knees, and in his hands he was holding another rose – snowy white and still not fully bloomed.

The twelfth rose.

Not even daring to breathe for fear he was somehow going to disappear in front of my eyes, I slowly, silently walked down the steps, until I was so close to him I could have touched him if I only stretched my fingers towards him.

So I did, resting my shaking hand on his shoulder, and he looked up suddenly with a slight start, as though he hadn't even heard me approaching and was now surprised to se me there.

He was real. He was real, and he was there, in front of me, exactly when I was starting to think I was never going to see him again.

He stood, slowly, taking the hand that was still resting on his shoulder and holding it in his, entwining our fingers together. For once, me standing on the stone steps and him on the curb, we were the same height.

The first tear fell from my eyes, sliding down my face and dropping onto the roses, where it stayed trapped in the soft white petals. And slowly, more followed, one by one, and I realized that I had been fighting those tears back for weeks – since the moment I set foot on the plane that took me back to America.

"What are you doing here?" I whispered, almost afraid to speak as he offered me the rose he was holding, carefully sliding in in the middle of the bouquet I was already holding.

"I've had an epiphany," he replied with a small smile, his voice just as soft as mine as his hands went to my face, gently wiping away the tears that kept falling down my cheeks.

"What kind of epiphany?" I asked, my heart going crazy in my chest as he leaned in, his nose bumping against mine ever-so-slightly.

His eyes twinkled, and he looked down, gently tucking the last rose in the middle of the bouquet that I was holding. He was buying time, I recognized the signs, and for a moment I felt like laughing and pushing him and tell him, Stop beating around the bush, Ron, as I used to. But for some reason it was as though something had changed in the three weeks that we had spent apart – there were a nervousness, a thick sense of expectation that were new to both of us. Between us, it had always been easy and playful, but now, it felt…serious. Like we had turned from kids to adults in a matter of a few weeks.

"I realized," he said then, his voice barely above a whisper, "What is really important. For even if I have everything, even if I have my life back exactly as it was before you came along, I…without you, I have nothing. And so I came here with – well, with nothing but a bunch of roses and the foolish hope that – that you'd say yes and…"

Say yes? I wondered, my heart faltering for a moment. He hadn't asked me anything, what did he…

"Say yes to what, Ronald?" I asked him, my voice shaky and unsure and somehow frightened, for I somehow knew that whatever the question was, it was going to change everything between us.

Gently, he pulled me with him until we were sitting on the low brick wall that ran around the colourful flowerbeds at either side of the stone steps, away from the pool of light of the streetlight and the wide glass doors of the building.

"Look into the rose," he said simply, his fingers lightly brushing the petals of the last flower he had given me, the only one that was not yet in full bloom.

Holding my breath, I carefully put the flowers down onto the wall by my side and picked the last rose from the very centre of the bouquet.

I hadn't noticed before, but there was something inside the delicate case of the petals – something barely visible in the dim light, except for a slight, pale shimmer.

Gently, for I didn't want to ruin the beautiful flower, I parted the delicate petals and reached for the tiny object encased within.

And for a moment I was sure that my heart had stopped beating.

For inside the rose was a ring – a beautiful ring, made of a thin silver band that twisted and knotted in a design of leaves and branches that looked as intricate as it was delicate, and that blossomed in a flower with impossibly thin petals, at the centre of which was encased a clear stone that caught and reflected the almost non-existent light in a way that made t look as though it was glowing from the inside. Its lines were worn, as were the edges of the stone, making me think that it was really, really old – like a piece of antique jewelry. But it couldn't be…

"I know we are just eighteen," Ron said then, as I lifted my eyes to look questioningly at him, "And I know that, for now, all that I can offer you is just a promise, but…what I feel for you will never change. It's foolish, but – you're all I need. All I'll ever need. And even if I came here to beg you to come back home with me, I've just realized that it doesn't really matter, for I'd gladly give up everything and come here, if that's what you wanted –"

I pressed a finger to his lips then, before he could continue, and I just looked at him – at that boy, that man, who was willing to give up anything, just for me. He was willing to leave his home, his family and his friends and come here, just because I had been too stupid to see that coming back to America hadn't been the right thing to do, but the biggest mistake of my life. For here, in this huge city, there was nothing for me – not anymore.

So I kissed him, with all I was, with all I had, and as he kissed me back, his arms winding gently and protectively around me, I knew that neither of us would have ever let go of the other again.

"Was that a yes?" he murmured against my lips when we eventually parted, his breath short and his eyes twinkling like the ocean at night.

I kissed him again, unable to stop smiling.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes. A million times yes.

Eventually we managed to part, and Ron took my hands in his, taking the ring that I was still holding and carefully slipping it on my finger, in its rightful place, before he laced out fingers together.

"This ring has been passed on in my mother's family since the early 1800s," he murmured softly, resting his forehead against mine. "From mother to son, to be given to the woman the son wanted to marry. I think the eldest son was supposed to have it, but Mom has never been one for traditions."

Marry. The ring went to the woman the son wanted to marry.

"Marry, huh?" I asked him, teasingly, and he grinned as the trademark Weasley blush crept its way up to his ears.

"Someday, yes. We can wait however long you want. We can graduate. Finish college before we even start thinking about it. But someday," he lifted our entwined hands to gently caress my cheek with the back of his hand, "I'll make you a Weasley."

"Is this a proposal, Ronald?" I asked, smiling as more tears threatened to fall from my eyes at his words.

I was almost waiting for some jokey answer, but I surely wasn't expecting it when he went down on one knee in front of me, holding both my hands in his as his eyes bore into mine with such intensity they smouldered like stormy blue fire.

Oh. My. God. Was he really doing this?

"Hermione Jean Granger," he said softly, his fingers lightly brushing against the ring on my left hand, "Will you, in a few months, or years, or whatever time unit you will repute appropriate," At that I grinned, though by now I was crying again, "Do me the incredible, wonderful honour of becoming my wife?"

And though it was crazy, for we were both eighteen, and we still were in school, and no one married at our age anymore, not for love, not in this century, there was only one answer that I could ever give him.

"Yes," I breathed, feeling my heart flutter like the wings of a hummingbird in my ribcage. "Yes."

At that he grinned, and stood, and took me I his arms as he kissed me again, and again, and again, until we were both breathless and shaky. Then he picked me up and spun me in the air, and I laughed, feeling light and free and filled with a joy that I had rarely felt before.

"When she sees the ring, Aunt Elspeth is going to kill me," I whispered with a smile when he eventually set my feet back onto the ground. "And the rest of the guys – oh my, and Emma! Oh, she will be so happy when I tell her that we – that we are…"

"Engaged?" he smirked, and I blushed at the thought. Engaged. At eighteen. God, we were surely going to be quite the scandal around town, even if we weren't planning to get married for a while.

I nodded, smiling and entwining my fingers with his once again.

"That," I said softly, as he leaned in to kiss me again, "And that we're going home."

This time, to stay.

Fin

And so, here it is - the end of this story, of the journey that had started two years ago as a simple drabble and that has developed in the biggest project I have ever worked onto. I can't believe I made it - I still haven't fully wrapped my mind around it, to be honest :)

I really, really hope you liked it, guys. I really put the best I could in this story, though I probably wouldn't have hadn't it been for your wonderful reviews - they really made my day, every day, making me smile and helping me to get through the worst writer's blocks, which would have probably made me just give up hadn't it been for your encouragment and feedback. You really are great.

If I could, I'd give each and every of you hugs and cookies. But since I can, the only thing that I can say is the biggest

THANK YOU

that I have ever said.

I hope you have enjoyed reading this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

Until the next story! :D

J.