Claraowl: Now we have the final chapter!
Oh, and just so you know… I don't write this quickly. I've been working on this fic for four months. This was going to be a one-shot, but my plot bunnies got away from me.
Own HP do I not. Enjoy I hope you.
I miss you. I love you. I want you.
She knew that it was necessary; this was the only way to keep them safe. She had to do it, and couldn't even say good-bye – because when she had done what she must do, they wouldn't remember her… and if she said good-bye beforehand, it would arouse suspicion. She must do this quietly, carefully – she didn't want what could be their last interaction to be tinged by more pain than she already felt. Her eyes blurred as she took a last, long look into what had once been her bedroom; it was now sparse, her photo-wall stripped bare, the photos and all necessary items hidden away in her beaded bag. It was like a stranger's room now, yet was a tribute to her lost childhood – all that time she had spent in there, both happy and despairing, was gone forever, an innocent time that she could never get back. Bill and Chessie sat on her bed, looking expectantly up at her; she gulped, re-entered her old room, and hugged them tightly before slipping them into her bag. She might need them in the weeks to come. Tears bit at the backs of her eyes, but she refused to let them out; her last day with her parents would be a happy one. Wand up her sleeve and beaded bag in her pocket, Hermione descended the stairs to have breakfast with her parents for what could be the final time.
"Good morning, Hermione," her mother smiled, looking up from her book and tea – her mother detested coffee.
"Morning, Mum," she returned, forcing herself to smile. "You and Dad both have the day off, right?" I may never see her reading while drinking her morning tea again.
"That we do," her father answered from behind her, entering the kitchen with truly splendid bedhead and placing a kiss on his daughter's forehead.
"You look like an owl, Dad," Hermione laughed, wondering if she would live to see this happen again, "you have tufts."
"Do I?" he smiled, only half-surprised.
"You do, dear," Mrs. Granger giggled. "I remember that I thought that was the funniest thing when we were first married."
"And now?" he grinned, walking over to steal a sip of her tea and kiss her on the cheek.
"It's even more amusing," she beamed, catching his jaw.
Hermione smiled, sadly now, as she watched her parents go through their usual morning routine of flirting. Yes, they could be strict sometimes, but they were very loving. Even if she'd been given the chance to grow up with wizarding parents, she would not have taken it; she loved them far too much. It was for this reason that she had to do what she must. I miss you already.
"What would you like for breakfast, Hermione?" her father inquired, fluffing her bushy hair, so like her mother's.
"Would you make you special crumpets? Please?" she requested.
"That sounds good to me," her mother commented. "You haven't made those for us in quite some time."
"Crumpets it is!" her father exclaimed jovially; he'd woken up in an especially good mood that morning. "Grab our aprons, my little princess, and the three of us shall feast!" He'd used that nickname for her since she'd first read and fallen in love with the Frances Hodgson Burnett novel at the age of five. Hermione laughed, her heart quietly breaking at the thought of what she must later do, and fetched the three aprons.
Hermione's mother got to her feet. "Let us bake a royal batch of crumpets."
Crookshanks, having just awakened, meowed at the three of them from the top of the refrigerator. He had received instructions from his mistress to accompany her to the Burrow and then return home once she set out on her mission. He was to follow her parents to Australia and keep them safe. Stretching, he caught his mistress's eye and purred an affirmation and a reassurance; nothing would prevent him from fulfilling his mission while she was on hers. His mistress smiled gratefully and reached up to scratch behind his ears, a thank-you and a promise. If at all possible, she would return to him – to all of them – and set things right. For now, she would enjoy what could be her last day with her parents. I love you all, even if you won't remember me… even though you might never see me again.
Unfortunately, the day passed far too quickly. The three of them ate crumpets, and laughed as Crookshanks whisked one away to eat. They dropped by the local park, and played on the swings as they had when Hermione was young. After dropping by their favourite café for some sandwiches, they spent the rest of the afternoon walking around the town, browsing through all of the book stores. That evening, after dinner, the board games came out, old stories were recounted, and much laughter was had. All too soon, the time had arrived for her to do what she must. Hermione drew her wand.
Her parents were sitting in front of the fire after the long, happy day, resting and reading. She entered silently, her eyes blurring again. It was the only way; she had no choice. All the happy times, all the sad times… everything they had experienced together – everything must be hidden. Nothing could remain that might put them in danger, so the memories must be modified. They must go, and live where they would be safe. She lifted her wand, and cast the spell. I'm sorry that I have to do this. This isn't your war, and you can't be made targets. I hate to do this, but I want you to be safe. The spell cast, Hermione turned on her heel and, upon picking up Crookshanks, left her childhood home. Tears, finally free, streamed down her cheeks as her cat meowed sympathetically on her shoulder. Her beaded bag thumped against her thigh in her pocket as she turned on the spot, leaving no trace of herself in her hometown except footprints in the dirt.
I miss you. I love you. I want you.
She was crying; tears coursed down her cheeks. She was crying, and she hated it. The luxury of time to cry did not exist; any time that they had needed to be spent in pursuit of Horcruxes and ways to destroy them. If she had a bit of spare time, it should be spent in mental search of Horcrux hiding places and destruction methods, not in pining for someone who could not find his way back now that they'd moved the tent. A lump re-formed in her throat at this thought, and she struggled to stay silent. The tears needed to stop. She had no time for this. The fate of the wizarding world rested on their shoulders; they needed results. She had no time to cry, nor could she afford such weakness. Weakness – no matter which link in the chain it might be – would be their downfall.
Yet weak was what she had been forced to be, however briefly, when he had left. She had been helpless, bound by her own spell, and could not catch him in time – curse his long legs, curse her short strides! She had called to him, had begged – she had put her very pride on the line, had offered up what little to which she desperately clung! Yet he had not even considered turning around, not wavered for a single step; he had simply disappeared into the rain, and vanished with a crack. And so she sat, huddled on her bunk, willing herself to sleep. She needed to refresh her mind in dreams, no matter how terrible; she needed her cognitive processes to be at their peak. She could not manage any breakthroughs if she was sleep-deprived. This was no time to be sobbing like a broken-hearted schoolgirl, even if that was her age. Her hands balled into fists, her jagged nails biting into her skin. I miss you – how dare you leave, how could you leave when you know how important this is, how much we need you here? How could you do this to us, to me? Now you won't even be able to come back….
She had given up trying to say his name a week after his departure. It was an impossible task for her; her throat seemed to close up around it, no matter how small or desperate the whisper might be. Now, she tossed aside the notion without a second thought; why cause more pain, why twist the knife in her wound? Rubbing her cheeks in an attempt to stem the flow of salty liquid, she glance to the mouth of the tent where Harry, her brother in all but blood and familial ties, sat on watch. He had, after silently observing the fact that she'd been unable to sleep for days, insisted that she return to the tent when she came to take over watch. He would be fine, he'd said; it was brisk enough to keep him awake, but not cold enough to freeze him completely. She needed rest, he'd argued, if they were to come up with a plan. They needed her brain to function properly. Unable in her sleep-deprived state to refute his uncharacteristically well-reasoned argument, she had relented and returned to her yet-warm bunk. It was at times like this when she wondered which of them was the older sibling – yes, she was numerically older, and usually the more reasonable one, but he took the role of the protector. A rush of bittersweet affection rose in her chest. I love you, she thought, but not in the same way as I love… him. Perhaps, had neither of us met the Weasleys, me might've even felt something romantic – but then, if we hadn't, we wouldn't've known each other anyway. As we are now, it's impossible for us to be romantically entangled – and I don't regret it in the slightest. She attempted a smile, failed, and then rolled over to root through her beaded bag.
After a few moments of searching and one summoning spell, Chessie and Bill smiled up at her, her staunchest comrades once more. She drew comfort from them, and they sympathized with her during her nearly overwhelming heartache. Into them she poured her sorrows; into them she poured her broken dreams. After a short while of half-conscious rocking, she looked up and loosened her grip on her well-loved comforters. Her tears had finally dried. Once again, she had some strength to move forward. After placing a tender kiss on Chessie's nose and Bill's beak, she tucked them safely back into her bag. They had stemmed her flood of sorrows for now, and had given her some hope. They would continue their magic – their own, special magic, the type done without wands – as long as she needed them. She finally managed a smile as she sent one last thought out into the night before finally succumbing to sleep. I'll be waiting for your return; I want you to come back to us, to me – and you will. You'll find a way, as long as you're alive. Sleep well… stay safe. Goodnight.
I miss you. I love you. I want you.
It was over; it was all over. Voldemort had finally been defeated; the battle was won. An occasion for relief, yes, but not for joy – not yet. Before joy could come, those who had given their lives in the struggle must first be honored and mourned. A breeze, as if sensing the mood, drifted quietly across the grounds. She under their tree, her head leaning back against the trunk; her eyes were unfocused. For the first time in far too long, she actually felt safe – yet her hand was still, out of habit, clenched around the handle of her wand. The sky was cloudless, yet the air was a mass of slowly settling dust. Upon it rested the mingled scents of rain and blood. She did not feel ill; she did not feel sad; she not feel happy – she did not feel anything at all. The leaves above her head rustled in the slight breeze; part of her mind mused that the tree was rather amazing for surviving the battle in one piece. A twig crunched on the ground near her; she did not startle. She had sensed his approach – the war had trained her to do so.
"May I join you?"
"Do you even need to ask?"
He settled down next to her; she rested her head upon his shoulder. A smile – it was small, but was a smile nonetheless – crossed his lips briefly; he rested his head atop hers. A sense of peace drifted over the two of them, the first bit of peace in months… the first moment of peace in years. I'd forgotten what this felt like, to not be fearing for our lives. It's kind of twisted, isn't it, chaos? I miss you, in some ways… at least I could feel something then. Am I in shock? Yes, that's probably why my emotions are so blank. She stretched her fingers; he tangled five of his in her hair, unafraid of imaginary consequences, the ones that had forbidden this action in the past. She leaned into this motion, giving confirmation that it was alright, that it was comforting. At any other time, she might have actually enjoyed it. Now, she was simply drawing the fact that he was alive from this action, and being thankful for that fact. What would she have done if he'd died in the war?
She would have kept fighting, certainly. She would've gotten revenge on whoever dare lay a wand on him – if Mrs. Weasley hadn't gotten there first – and destroyed the entire enemy force if she could. Then, after it was all over – then, and only then – she would've ended it for herself, even if it was only somewhere deep inside of her… or even permanently. She shook her head; no, she wouldn't have taken it that far. She could survive without him around; she simply wouldn't be happy. Her hand found his, buried in her hair, and held it there. It was useless thinking about this now. She had an entire future to tell him, to let him know beyond a shadow of a doubt. For now, it would be alright to say it wordlessly. If she told him now, while still in her state of shock, it would not mean anything. I love you. I need to wait a little longer to tell you… but I do love you. You'll know that soon, if you don't already.
Yes, he was alive; she was alive; several of their dearest were alive – but not all. So many people, young and old, had died fighting for what they believed to be right. They were gone, never to return – after all, few of them were the type to return as ghosts; they would have 'gone on,' as Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington had once phrased the term. Not a single one of them would ever show even an elbow on this earth again outside of portraits, photographs, and memories. Never… never again would they be there to laugh, to cry, to live their lives – so many, on the verge of some new phase of their lives, would never get a chance to experience what could have been. Never would they help their children grow, never would they experience the thrill of a new love – never would they be able to have even a dull day, ever on this earth, again. Finally, she felt something: a painful twinge in her heart. I want you to be able to live as long as you should have been able, had the war not taken you away. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent – earth and grass, mixed with the copper of blood and the salt of terrified sweat.
"You're crying." His words were tender, his tone soft.
"So are you." Her words were quiet, and she did not need to look to know that they were true.
The sky grew dimmer; they stayed like that for some time, comforting each other. A light, hazy rain began to fall, slipping through the leaves of their tree. Slowly, hand in hand, they rose and returned to the castle – to those who were left of their beloved. The days that were to come would be painful and trying, but they had each other to lean on, and others in which to put their trust. They would not let the sacrifice of those who had given their lives be in vain. Together, they walked towards their future; together, they would build a new world – or at least repair the one that the war had broken.
As long as they were together, all would be well.
I miss you. I love you. I want you.
She awoke to a furry bum in her face. Muttering about attention-demanding half-kneazles, Hermione shoved the sleeping Crookshanks onto her pillow. The ginger quadruped in question blinked twice, meowed his displeasure, and stretched luxuriously. The day had barely dawned; the birds chirped cheerily outside of the curtains of her four-poster. Hermione was back at Hogwarts; it was a cool Saturday morning in early November. Crookshanks batted the curtains aside and hopped down onto the dormitory floor, crossed it, and hopped onto Ginny's bed. Hermione laughed as the ginger-haired girl's snores abruptly ceased and were replaced by muffled curses.
"Damn it, Hermione, control your cat!"
Hermione did not reply, but simply laughed harder. This had been a routine for the past several Saturday morns – Crookshanks would awaken her by sitting on her face, then cross the room to do the same thing to Ginny. Ginny, obviously, did not enjoy this; while she had laughed at it the first few times it had occurred, she now found it rather irritating. Hence her response – after all, the Weasleys are not known for their proper language. Hermione, of course, had decided that the best course of action was to irritate her friend, as both knew too much about the other to ever risk terminating their friendship. This was a comfort to both of them, as so much had changed.
Hermione had returned to Hogwarts by joining Ginny's year – but Ron and Harry had elected to go directly into the working world instead of going back to Hogwarts. She didn't like to admit it, but Hermione did feel a bit lonely. Yes, she had lovely friends – Ginny in particular, and the other girls had warmed to her quickly; certain people even treated her with a bit of reverence for the events of the war – but she hadn't been a year without her two closest friends since she'd met them. It was different, yes; she wasn't quite sure if it was a bad thing, but it did leave her feeling as if there was a gap somewhere. This was not to say that she was unproductive in their absence; rather, without their presence and distractions (namely, without death-defying adventures), she was able to work much more efficiently. She even had time to make more hats, despite the pressure of their upcoming N.E.W.T.s. However, she did miss the laughter, the chaos, and the knowledge they had of one another – she even missed the bickering, especially in its newer form. This type of chaos is lovely, she smiled, prying her cat off of her younger friend's face, but I miss you and your version of chaos. I don't think that anything can compare.
Ginny huffed and rolled over under her covers after the ball of fluff had been removed from her face. "I'm going back to bed."
Crookshanks, displeased with this decision, shot out of Hermione's arms and landed squarely on Ginny's now-exposed back. Hermione allowed herself to snicker at her friend's plight. Ginny sat up, attempting to shake off the persistent feline. The bushy-haired girl volunteered, "You know that Crooks will behave if you agree to rise at a reasonable hour."
"It's eight in the morning!" Ginny wailed, still trying in vain to remove the ball of ginger fur.
"Yes, and if you promise to be up before noon, he'll leave you be," Hermione pointed out, smoothing Crookshanks's fur as the cat adhered tightly to the back of Ginny's pajamas.
"It's Saturday! I need my sleep, and this is one of my only chances to get it," came the impassioned response, resulting in the slight slackening of claws. She took advantage of this, and flung the cat most unceremoniously into his owner's arms.
Hermione sighed, soothing her irritated feline. "Fine, but you're probably too awake now to go back to sleep. I'm going to get dressed and head down to breakfast."
Ginny, accepting the truth of these words, stated that she would come with her, and dragged herself out of bed to start getting dressed. "One of these days, I'm going to get seriously irritated with your cat."
"Swearing at him isn't enough?"
"Talk to me about it in a month. We'll see how funny it is then." Ginny glanced around at the other bunks. "They really can sleep through anything, can't they?"
"They're probably just used to it by now." Hermione laughed, pulling on her shoes. "After all, it's happened every weekend since the school year began."
"True," the other girl returned, opening the door of their dormitory. The two wandered down to the common room, chatting amicably; Hermione forced herself not to look for Ron and Harry, as she had done during the first few weeks. Ginny noticed, and patted her friend's back sympathetically. "Still not used to it?"
"Old habits die hard."
Breakfast was a relatively ordinary affair; the ceiling revealed a rare clear day, with only a few hazy clouds painted across the sky. The eggs were sufficiently cheesy to get stuck in Hermione's hair – much to Ginny's amusement – and were rather delicious; the other less troublesome foods were also tasty, befitting of the work of the Hogwarts house-elves. Few people were awake, so there was only soft chatter; Professor McGonagall sipped some orange juice from her seat, watching over the partially-awake students with sharp eyes. A few post owls swooped about, delivering mail, while other owls simply appeared to acquire some food.
"Do you ever regret it?" Ginny asked suddenly, nearly knocking over the marmalade in her haste to question her friend.
"Regret what?" Hermione inquired, looking up from the morning's Daily Prophet.
"Coming back to Hogwarts this year." The girl stared at her intently, awaiting the response.
Hermione paused for a moment, considering, and then answered, "No, I don't. I would've always regretted it if I hadn't finished my education. Besides, it's interesting to watch Hogwarts rebuild itself."
Ginny looked oddly relieved. "Oh, okay." She returned to her eggs without another word.
Hermione smiled. She'd known after the final battle that she would be returning to Hogwarts. Perhaps part of her wanted to hold onto the childhood the war had forced her to abandon; perhaps she just wanted to see what an ordinary school year would be like at Hogwarts; or perhaps she needed the more innocent magic to continue, to prove that it still existed in a world torn by one being's desire to dominate. Whatever the reason, she was unable to relinquish the idea of returning to Hogwarts to finish her education. Maybe, she mused, twirling a strand of cheese around her fork like spaghetti, I'm simply too attached to leave just yet. I love you, Hogwarts, and all for which you stand – and I will stay to watch you rebuild, to watch you become greater than you've ever been… a feat at which you will not fail.
Then again, there were some potential problems that could stem from this year – namely, that could stem from the separation of the trio. Hermione sighed softly, telling herself that this was for the best, that the three of them could not grow apart due to one year – they'd been bonded by years and war, and bonds such as that were not easily broken… yet the rather nasty voice in the back of her head insisted upon coming up with situations that suggested otherwise. What would happen, it mused, if your special one met a lovely young thing during his training? She could fawn all over him, feed his ego – make him forget you. It's possible – sure, he might not be that fickle, but he is a young man.
She shook her head, silencing the voice. Ron would not be so unfaithful – he was the most faithful person she knew, even if he made occasional mistakes. He wouldn't leave her, not when they'd only recently gotten each other in this new way. He could be tempted, but he would not fall; she trusted him enough to know that. Yes, there might be an outside chance – but it was far, far, far outside, out past Pluto. She knew that, yet… Please, she communicated, sending a telepathic message out into the whirling mass of feathers, please… I want you to wait for me. This year will be over before we know it – stay the Ron I know, the Ron I love. I need you in my life. I hope that you won't grow tired of waiting, so please be patient.
She looked up suddenly; something small and feathery had slammed into her. She beamed as Pigwidgeon, severely lopsided from the thickness of the letter he bore, landed in the middle of her scrambled eggs. She had no reason to worry. He would wait for her, just as she had for him.
I miss you. I love you. I want you.
"Whoa!" Ron exclaimed in surprise, catching Hermione by the waist. "What's gotten into you?"
"Oh, nothing much," Hermione beamed, having just danced into their kitchen and spun herself into his arms. "I'm just in an excellent mood this morning. After all, it's rare that our days off coincide."
Ron grinned in reply, and captured her lips. A few moments later, he broke away and noted, "It's rare that I'm up first. Did I tire you out too much?"
"Maybe you did," she laughed, "or maybe I just stayed up to watch you sleep a bit."
"That's not remotely creepy," he snickered, stirring the eggs he'd been cooking when she'd danced into the room.
"Well, it's allowed – I am your wife, after all," she smirked, flitting out of his arms to scoop Crookshanks from the top of the refrigerator. "And it's not like I've not caught you doing the exact same thing."
"I can't help it," he shrugged, his ears going red as he sprinkled an exorbitant amount of cheese onto the still-cooking scrambled eggs.
"Oh?" she smirked, raising one eyebrow as she buried her fingers in Crookshanks's ginger fur. "Why is that?"
"You know full well why," he replied, brandishing the spatula. "I happen to be madly in love with a certain woman."
"And who would that be?" she asked playfully, releasing the mewling Crookshanks. The half-kneazle, made fully aware of the couple's tendencies over the past few months, beat a hasty retreat to the living room.
"The same one who stayed up late to watch me sleep and play with my hair." He turned off the stove; the cheese would continue to melt from residual heat, and the now-cooked eggs would not burn.
"Hmm…" she smiled, stepping into his arms again. "I'll have to have a word with her. Any messages you'd like me to pass on when I do?"
"Nah, I'll tell her myself." His tone was teasing, interlaced with the emotion reserved for the woman before him.
She slipped the spatula from his limp fingers and placed it gently on the stove, careful not to break the teasing with unnecessary noise; her arms looped around his neck and her fingers found a way into his hair. "Tell me, then."
"Who said that it was you?" he laughed, softening his words. His arms found her waist.
"You did, at our wedding three months ago," she shot back, allowing him to pull her closer.
"Did I?" he mused, one hand drifting upward to rest in her hair. "I was so nervous that I barely remember any of the ceremony."
She grinned guiltily, confirming that the same had been true for her. "We have pictures, at least, and we could ask to borrow someone else's memories for a little while."
He furrowed his brow. "Memories can be removed from Pensieves?"
"Yes," she nodded, reaching up to smooth the lines, "it's a recent discovery. Wallace, the Unspeakable, mentioned it yesterday. Apparently the news will be in the Daily Prophet tomorrow."
Ron shrugged. "Should you be telling me, then?"
Hermione looked up at him. "I think that it's a relatively safe confidence. Besides," she murmured conspiratorially, looking up through her lashes, "it's not like either of us will be going anywhere before the news comes out."
"And who decided that?" he whispered huskily, enjoying the light in her eyes.
"I did," she declared. "As pathetic as it may sound, I miss you far too much when we're working, and have therefore decided to keep you to myself today."
Ron laughed, taking one of her hands in his and spinning her. "If I said it was pathetic, I'd be worse. I don't think I've gone more than fifteen minutes for the past several years without you popping into my mind."
She beamed, twirling back in on his arm. "Define 'several.'"
"Alright," he rejoined, releasing her and walking out to their living room. He returned twenty-seven seconds later, flipping through the dictionary. He stopped on a certain page, and read aloud, "'Several: a number of people or things that it more than two but not many; various, or separate; relating to individual people separately.'" He looked up from the page smugly, and she burst into laughter.
"Th-Thank you," she gasped between laughs, applauding mockingly, "that was truly informative."
"Hey, you asked," he grinned, putting the dictionary on the table and moving around her to finally dish up the now-lukewarm eggs, "and I answered to the best of my abilities."
"With help," she pointed out, moving to fetch forks for them.
"With help," he conceded, placing their plates on the table and pulling out her chair for her. "Milady," he grinned, giving a little mock bow.
Hermione, recognizing this play, curtsied in response before taking her seat. "Thank you, Sir Weasley." He chuckled softly as he pushed it her chair, and then took his own. The two ate their breakfast in a comfortable silence, broken occasionally by one of them pointing out a strange word from the dictionary, which had been left on the table.
"I didn't know that 'dishy' was actually in the dictionary," Hermione noted, eyebrows raised.
"How fitting that you should find that word," Ron grinned. "It describes you perfectly."
"Flatterer," she scoffed, allowing him to flip away from the slang for 'very attractive.'
"I wouldn't say it if I weren't 'veracious,'" he beamed, pointing to the new word.
"Oh, are you, now? I remember you bending the truth more than once," she smirked. "Or are you simply being 'facetious'?"
"I kid you not, Hermione," he assured her, hand over his heart as his other lifted his egg-laden fork to his mouth. "You are truly 'delectable.'"
"Are you sure you're not confusing me with your eggs?" she smirked. "They are, simply put, 'scrumptious.'"
"Quite sure," he grinned. "Whenever I see you, I am overcome with 'basorexia.'" Having said this, he leaned across the table; she met him in the middle. "I'm simply mad for you, Hermione."
"I love you, too," she smiled, and then laughed; a piece of cheese from their scrambled eggs stretched between the two of them.
Ron grinned, caught the string of cheese with his tongue, and pulled it into his mouth. He smirked when Hermione mirrored his movements; this was reminiscent of something he'd been wanting to try since Hermione had made him watch that Muggle movie – Disney something – a few weeks back, but had been unable to attempt. This failure was mainly due to the fact that they used forks for spaghetti. Hermione, for her part, was beaming; she knew what he was doing – it was far too obvious – and found it endearing that he had fixated on a part of her childhood. They were an inch apart.
The cheese snapped, and they laughed. "Should we make spaghetti tonight, love?"
"Sure, as long as we can keep Crooks out of the kitchen. You know what happened last time," Ron sniggered; the image of a certain half-kneazle dripping in tomato sauce was too fresh in his mind not to amuse him – and an awful lot of things seemed to be amusing that morning. Perhaps that was due to the giddiness that stemmed from the two of them being together with no interruptions for several hours. They bantered some more, and finished their eggs – after the cheesy almost-kiss, they had only had a few bites remaining.
Something changed in her eyes as he stood up; it was obvious to her that he sensed it, sensed this change in her. He paused a moment, and then placed his plate back on the table, rather than taking it to the sink; she had made no move to remove hers from its spot. Their eyes met, and his changed to match hers, a grin barring nothing sliding across his face. These past few months had been wonderful for them; neither one had need, reason, nor desire to hold back anything from the other. She stood slowly, reveling in the fact that neither of them needed to be guarded; neither one needed, anymore, the control to which they had so desperately clung before their marriage. Her dressing gown slipped to the floor, and the two walked into each other's arms.
Of course, this brink of ecstasy did not save either of them from the occasional distraction. "Is that my shirt?" Ron blinked, pulling back long enough to look at her.
"It was your shirt," Hermione smiled up at him, "but after you so carelessly tossed it off last night, you gave up ownership of it. I found it on the bookshelf."
"Which one?"
"Hardy-har-har," she smirked. "The one on the other side of the room. It was caught on a book on the highest shelf."
"And you could reach it?"
"I do know the summoning charm, Ronald."
"Gee, imagine that. Hermione Weasley," he teased, putting special emphasis on her new surname, "knowing a charm. How shocking."
"I have been told that I'm rather charming," she rejoined, slipping her arms back around his neck.
"The truth of that aside, the fact remains that you're a shirt thief."
"If you're so worried about it, take it back yourself," the atmosphere shifted again, back to what it had been only moments previously. She ran the tip of her tongue across her teeth, a little act that she had learned drove him to his breaking point.
In turn, he leaned down and growled to her, rendering her similarly mad. "I will if you beg me to."
She smirked. "I think I've had enough begging for my lifetime, thank you very much. I want you to take it off of me without my having to beg. Will a simple statement do?"
"I'll settle for that," his lips were at her neck, enjoying the sensation of her increased pulse rate; his fingers settled on the first button of the shirt, just below her collarbones.
"Then," she whispered breathlessly, using her remaining strength to pull away, "follow me." She took him by the hands and led them to the door that concealed the room in which they slept. She turned to face him, and tapped the handle once, gently, with her elbow. It swung inward.
"Yes?" he grinned, face alight with an odd mixture of juvenile mischief and feral lust. "What will you say to convince me?"
Her eyes shone in the way they did only for him, a look as wild as his own yet bright as the youngest stars. "Something simple, something that I've been saying for years in my mind, though perhaps never with quite the connotations nor implications of this time." Her hands gripped his shirtfront, pulling him down to her. What she said next, whispering against his lips, granted their desires, and drove them both into the room behind her; Crookshanks, who had been sitting in the hallway, shot down to the recently vacated kitchen as soon as those words were spoken.
"I miss you. I love you. I want you."
Claraowl: What can I say? I like scrambled eggs.
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Ahem. Recurring scrambled eggs aside, I hope that you enjoyed the story. I've been working on it since my last romione was posted back in January. I hope that this lived up to your expectations, and that I managed to keep them in character.
Please drop a review to let me know what you thought! I anxiously await your comments.