Six Months
The sweet young woman with the gorgeous chestnut hair is glancing coyly at him again and Ron finds himself caught between a smile and a grimace.
He relaxes with his beer, letting the laughter of his friends spill all around him and the warmth and noise of the pub sooth him. Drinking nights with the lads are a cherished time.
His days are incredibly busy since he got his gloves – the hardy hide gloves with the Corps' insignia on them that tell anyone in the know he's a Leather Master: glancing down, he clenches and unclenches his hands a few time, looking at them with unabated satisfaction.
They're stained something awful, because he's experimenting with all sorts of plant combinations in an effort to recreate some of Hagrid's potions for enhancing the sturdiness or the flexibility of leather, and because he likes dying his hides before using them, but he won't go without. He's earned them.
His creations are highly sought after, both because they're invariably high quality (magic guarantees it) and because his designs are new around here, and quite inventive; he is often swamped with requests.
He hasn't given up his role as Fortuna's harness-tender, either, though he gets some help – an armourer he quite likes, Hallow, who's ever ready to try out his slightly odd ideas for improvements and takes as much satisfaction as Ron does from a thick, solidly stitched, well-oiled harness, and a gunner he doesn't like half as much, Birne, who is more concerned with gambling than with his job and has a propensity to sneer at people nastily, though really, he has nothing on Snape and anyway, Ron soon discovers that being invariably cheerful pisses the git off most satisfactorily.
Even so, it's almost impossible to fit all his daily duty in a single day.
Coming to the pub a few evenings a week is practically a requirement for his sanity, almost as important as the quiet chats and laughter he shares with Harry and Hermione and the dragons in the darkness of the courtyard.
The village is very hospitable to people from the Covert: half the locals go into service and a good number of Ron's new friends are coming down as much for seeing family, or a sweetheart, as for the beer and company. The local girls, too, are usually welcoming – and apparently his quick promotion and bright prospects make him an attractive match; his tall frame is not doing him any disservice either, judging by the looks he receives, or maybe it's his red hair (he's overheard some of them giggling over it and was quite pleased).
None have been so forward as the chestnut-haired barmaid, however.
Her name's Seònaid and she's the daughter of the blacksmith, he knows; she's sweet and lively and definitely beautiful. Short, a bit on the thin side, but as the saying goes, good things come in small packages. And her curves are definitely a good thing.
She's no Hermione, though.
Ron downs his beer and signals for another and when she comes over with her inviting smile, he reflects that he really ought to let her down gently. He likes her well enough, and he's flattered by her interest, but he's a one-woman man and that's that.
"Bonnie lass, and cannie too," chuckles his mate Burrell, Invictus' ground crew chief, plopping himself by his side and invading his personal space with a heavy whiff of alcohol.
She is, but Hermione's more so. Ron won't say it though. In the current circumstances, that's just inviting troubles.
"She's all yours," he jokes instead.
"Ah-ha! Bad form, Weasley!" Burrell crows and points at him then laughs himself half out of his seat. "Ah ken tha' look! Ye're thinkin' of Miss Education, ye are! Ah dinnae ken why, lad, away wae the fairies, tha' one is. Wantin' ta bed her, ha!... Yer aff yer heid!"
The thickness of the man's brogue is generally directly proportional to his drunkenness levels and Ron has learned not to take offence to anything he says after a few pints. He never remembers a thing in the morning anyway.
He can't help scowling, however. Hermione's crusade for the education of dragons is not garnering much approval – predictably – but he never could stand his beloved being insulted.
"Now, now, Weasley! Dinna fash yersel! 'Tis all in jest!" Burrell belches rudely. "A feel no weel. Need 'nother pint."
"Imagine that," murmurs Ron, rolling his eyes, but hands the man his own beer anyway, and gets a cheerful "Here's tae ye!" for it, and the chance to change the topic.
It's not like he can properly defend Hermione from these slurs, unfortunately.
There is no denying that she's... revolutionary (which is brilliant, but far too modern for these unappreciative fools).
He could try to silence them with his fists – Merlin knows, he'd fight for her under any circumstances and has done so a few times since they were trapped here – but his taking offence on her behalf (and so vehemently) gives rise to another problem entirely.
The thing is that, as he's learned, having a relationship with a woman the way he intends it is just not done. Even hanging out with Hermione like he and Harry do, without a marriage or at least a betrothal, is frowned upon.
Oh, dragon captains do it without much thought, especially the women, because they need heirs for their dragons and "shouldn't be boggled down by wifely duties for it" (Hallow's words, not his); but Hermione's not a captain and neither is Ron and if there wasn't some confusion due to Harry's presence in their trio, the gossip would tear them to shreds soon enough.
He doesn't much care, for himself, but his girlfriend is having enough difficulties as it is and he doesn't want to add to her burden.
The whole thing is stupid, of course. So Hermione and he are not married... far as he's concerned, that's just a detail.
Try telling the people of this time, though.
It's a sin, the earnest parson explains to him; the concept is baffling to Ron – the wizarding world is for the most part atheist, religion has never had much sway over it. But here, it's everywhere and while aviators have a very cavalier attitude towards it, they seem to think the rest of the world should live by it.
He's vaguely irritated by the odd morals.
It's not that he would object to marriage – he'd wed her in a heart-bit, of course, if she would take him (though she thinks they're too young, and he doesn't entirely disagree); but he'd rather do it for better reasons than just to silence the scandalmongers, and without being maimed by his Mum when they'll get back, for making her miss the ceremony.
It's not that he cares what they say behind his back, either (Hermione's take on the whole thing is that they should ignore it, and go about their business, to which he would agree heartily, except that people here just won't let them). He's long since decided he doesn't care if they think him a besotted fool; it's Hermione he worries about.
Considering how invested she is in her schooling project and how important an impeccable reputation is if she hopes to find any backers, financial or even just moral, Ron is very, very careful about it all.
Besides, what can he do?
Yelling doesn't do much good (he's tried) and explaining just doesn't cut it (they're thick-heads, in his opinion, but also, he's going against the times). There's duelling, in theory, but it is for gentlemen more than for normal folk and it is forbidden in the Aerial Corps besides, (well, it is forbidden to aviators, technically, but anybody in the service abides by the rule) and anyway, the notion is outdated even in the wizarding world, not to mention he wouldn't be able to wield a sword or a pistol (and can't use his wand).
Perhaps a betrothal could be a sufficient compromise... but really, the best thing to do is simply not bring his relationship up; not that he can hide his loving her, and certainly doesn't want to, but not attracting attention to it is doable.
The point, after all, is not to stand out in this situation they've found themselves in and Hermione, bless her soul, is doing too much of that already, what with her offering lessons to dragons and advocating their rights.
Dragons going to school. Only Hermione, really.
A smile stretches his face at the mere thought. Merlin, he loves her so much!
Which is why he won't have her maligned, especially by a drunken Scot who probably doesn't even clearly remember who she is right now. Still, he'd rather avoid the whole headache. Redirection is in order. "So how's your sister?" he asks feigning interest in the one topic that invariably seizes Burrell's attention. "That coal merchant of hers still bothering her?"
Burrell snickers. "Nae danger. Lassie told 'im he's as welcome as water in a holed ship..."
Ron lets the tale unfold paying little attention, until a cry of "Oh ye scunner that hurt!" disrupts the other side of the pub. One thing he can count on: there's always some hot-headed fool who ends up starting a fight. Tonight it's Harry's bully of a lead rifleman, Wedge.
Ron rolls his eyes at the scene, but is fighting a grin all the same. He will never admit to his beloved how much fun these pub brawls are.
Life goes on. Harnesses tear and have to be repaired; he comes up with a better netting to store grenades; he finally finds some royal helleborine in a patch of sandy soil and puts it to good use. Hermione's efforts continue to baffle and irritate the humans as much as they delight the dragons; worrying rumours about dragons dying of colds in Wales reach them, making Harry and just about any other Captain nearly panic – though to his best friend's relief it seems as if the younger dragons are not affected by what is already starting to be called a plague in the southern areas.
The three friends' nightly chats now veer more and more towards training mishaps and syllabus shuffling, with nary a mention of their world, the family they're missing... or the Doctor.
Pub nights are mostly filled with roaring laughter and drinking games, the louder and wilder the worst is the news from the front lines.
A string of defeats throughout the continent makes it sound as if Europe is a castle of cards ready to blow up at the slightest addition, and Napoleon the winning player of this giant game of exploding snap.
Ron can't bring himself to care much, but he refrains from admitting this out of respect for his new friends.
There are also the reports of more and more dragons falling ill, to worry about; the threats against trade with the Americans due to the blockade, and speculations of what the restrictions might mean for British folk, to discuss; the odd stories from the lowlands, of people disappearing in the moors and in the woods, of fairies weaving invisible webs to trap incautious men, to marvel or scoff at.
Ron doesn't know whether to believe those last accounts. Is there a magical world here or not? They haven't found any wizards, but maybe there's magical creatures – besides the dragons, that is. He's never heard of fairies doing anything so complicated as weaving traps, but then he'd never heard of dragons solving equations either, so who knows what's possible, really?
Of course, disappearances somewhere in the Scottish countryside aren't much more than fancy tales to most people. There are more prosaic crisis much closer to home.
Like Captain Doyle attempting to drown himself in whiskey when his first lieutenant, whom the poor bloke is in love with, gets called away to Gibraltar to take over captaining her maimed mother's Xenica, Pernix, and as everybody knows, there's very little hope Doyle's Amata, a bashful Pascal's Blue, will ever be assigned to the same formation.
Or young Mick's fate – the smart lad who'd been training with one of the other Leather Masters, up until he lost an arm in a horrible accident, and didn't Ron wish he knew any mediwizardry right then, secrecy be damned!
The rumours about faerie traps and people disappearing continue to worry Ron, especially since they are starting to become more insistent, but for everybody else, local concerns and the ever-looming war take precedence. The fighting might be all the way over to the continent, but to most people it is more immediate than the woods on the other side of the hills.
Another night, another round of beer.
Everybody's toasting young Wyatt, who's a proud new father. Ron watches as Seònaid hands the dazed bloke a free whiskey and then she catches his eye, blushing profusely but with bright and hopeful eyes. He pretends not to notice her and lends his voice to the cheers.
Harry enters the pub half-way through the evening and he catches Ron's eyes long enough to exchange a smile before he's pounced upon by everybody else.
"Well, Potter? What tidings? Come and talk – let's have a beer for him!" The call goes up in many voices and Ron joins the eager group around his best friend.
Harry and Fortuna have been going to Edinburgh rather often as of late: the dark-haired wizard suspects it's because Captain Moreton wants them to familiarize with as many dragons and aviators as they can, possibly in the hope they'll find someone they can truly get along with.
"Either that, or she's hoping to use us as mavericks, sending us to whatever formation might need us, but never on a permanent basis," he confides to Ron. "Some of the lads are convinced we'll end up as independents. But who knows what Celeritas has in store?"
There is no denying that Harry is thrilled and who could blame him? Not only it is a chance to fly in relative freedom, it also gives him some unofficial status within the Corps, that's helping him fit in. Fresh news is a precious commodity at the rather isolated Covert.
"For Heaven's sake, Potter, drink if you must, but share your news!" is the typical cry whenever he returns. "You're not very good to be keeping it to yourself while we are all in the dark!" and "Here we are, without any idea of what's going on – have pity on us!"
It is a familiar refrain by now and one that Harry laughingly enjoys.
Ron invites himself along on those trips whenever he can get away with it, which isn't anywhere near as often as he would like.
Travelling at top speed miles above the ground, the rush of wind all around and the harsh, majestic beauty of the ever-changing Scottish landscape beneath... he loves it as much as his best friend does.
He wishes he had more time for it, but even at Fortuna's speed, the journey to Edinburgh takes over three hours – which people here consider amazing, because of the distance (it would take five days in a carriage, and that with good weather), but to Ron is unbelievably long.
Then again, they have nothing like the floo, or even trains. London is 17 days away by carriage, an impossibly long journey to a wizard; even the mere ten and a half hours as a courier dragon flies seem a bit much to him.
"How do Muggles cope with it?" he wonders more than once.
"It puts things into perspective, doesn't it?" asks Hermione, amused by his bewilderment.
It certainly explains how hard it is to stay up-to-date on current events.
Ron knows that Harry, even more than him, finds the uncertainty and lack of regular news unsettling. The Daily Prophet might have been a ministerial rag scribbled by the worst sort of brown-nosers, but at least it came every day. The newspapers delivered to the Covert on a somewhat uncertain schedule are unreliable, filled with uninformative articles, outright speculations and vivid descriptions that are more fiction than fact. Harry finds it nerve-wrecking and he is not the only one.
The trips to the Edinburgh Covert help a little with this: they always have a few hours worth of time, while the dispatches are read and answered to and so on, and Harry makes friends more easily there, especially among the Winchesters and their captains, who by nature of their tasks never stay too long in one place and are happy to stop and chat (and trade gossip) with almost anyone they meet.
Whenever he gets to go, Ron, too, brings back a wealth of information, some of it thrilling, some grave, some just idle gossiping, but all of it welcome at the Covert.
Edinburgh, while still out of the loop in most things, is much less isolated; the aviators hanging about the barracks yard tend to have fresher news and Harry and Ron can sneak into town to gather the rumours in the pubs more easily than others, not least because they can discreetly glamour their clothes and avoid the unwarranted suspicion Harry's uniform, in particular, would gather.
Aviators really have a bad reputation.
If Ron is with him, the two of them sometimes dare a longer jump: they can't get all the way to London, of course, but Newcastle isn't out of their apparition range and it is a full week closer to the capital by carriage and a mere eight hours from it for a courier dragon. It makes a lot of difference, and it is worth having to make up tales of obliging soldiers or coy merchant daughters to explain away their knowledge. Nobody looks too deeply into it, anyway: they're all too starved for news to care where it comes from.
The quick, unsanctioned apparitions start as a way to ensure they continue being sent to Edinburgh for as long as possible; they become a way to improve Harry's relationship with the other aviators and he grows to cherish it; besides, as he tells Ron with an impish grin, he likes the cloak-and-dagger feel of it.
Hermione, predictably, shudders at the idea of flying herself but encourages their escapades so that they can bring her back more books. There aren't anywhere near enough to satisfy her at hand.
At Marymas, most of the Covert gathers in the village square to toast a bannock on a fire in honour of the Virgin Mary.
Seònaid, Ron notices, is chatting with the miller's wife, a grey-looking, irritable woman he's only had the displeasure to meet once. She has her youngest bairn with her, that Ron knows will go into service soon enough. It's quite common in the village, to give the younger sons and sometimes the daughters up to the Aviation. The poor mother doesn't look happy at the idea, but then she seldom looks anything but tired and sour.
He catches Seònaid's eye and smiles warmly at her, because it's just like her, to comfort someone nobody much likes.
The young woman colours, embarrassed and pleased, and Ron almost winces. He really ought to set her straight – soon.
His eyes seek out Hermione with the naturalness of habit. She's holding an impromptu meeting about dragon rights tonight, to the bewilderment of many (and the jeering cheers of some).
She's never quite grasped what 'laying low' means, Ron feels, but he just regards her fondly. Hermione wouldn't be Hermione if she wasn't trying to better the world, one hopeless cause at a time.
"But dragons are intelligent!" she is protesting quite earnestly – and loudly. "They should be given equal rights, they deserve it. Only ignorant fools would consider them a threat that should be got rid of. No-one of sense would hold dragons in poor regard..."
He knows where this is going. He's heard this particular rant before. Soon enough, she'll be complaining about the "corrupt Parliament who refuses to see dragons deserve a say in their own lives".
His smile widens without conscious thought.
"Ye love her, don't ye?" asks Seònaid quite out of the blue, startling him so badly that he sloshes his beer all over his shirt.
"Blimey, lass! Warn a man!"
He looks at her, irritated, and freezes. Her eyes are so sad.
She's disappointed, but understanding. She's very, very beautiful.
She still doesn't hold a candle to Hermione.
"No one who's not in love would put up with her silly notions without even a grumble," she says with a nod to Hermione, launched in her passionate speech and positively glowing in Ron's eyes. Seònaid tries being catty, but it isn't in her nature, not really, and her tremulous smile betrays her. A moment later she sighs: "I'm sorry. I hope yer disappointment will be brief."
This baffles Ron quite thoroughly. "What?"
"She's a lady, an' ye'r not. Don't think ye'll go very far with wantin' her," Seònaid says simply.
Ron can only gape.
"She's so very smart, and all refined, if rather weird. It's no wonder ye wish to court her." The young woman sighs despondently, her disappointment keen, but she makes a real effort to be encouraging. "Suppose ye'd be sweet together, if it was possible."
"Huh... thanks?"
Then she bravely tells him: "Ye should know, people are talkin' about her and Captain Potter havin' an understandin'."
He almost laughs out loud at that. Thank Merlin, the time when he was jealous of Harry is long past; the kind accusation doesn't faze him. He refrains, because she wouldn't understand, and it's not fair, not when she's so earnest, and trying her best to be a friend.
Ron appreciates it. He hopes she'll find an amazing man to make her happy soon.
A few days after that Seònaid disappears.