Prompt: A poem by Christina Rosetti – I chose “Shut Out”
Prompted by: KrystynaK on FFN
A/N: Wait, what? I surprised myself with this today, thinking I wouldn’t be playing the fic game for a while. But here this is. I managed a prompt!
~~~
She was asleep, and she was holding his hand.
It wasn’t the first time – the memory of exactly how it had felt before had traveled with him from that first night at Grimmauld Place. But it was the first time she’d done it so automatically, silently, securely.
Her fingers were laced between his.
He’d slowly woken in the tent, in the middle of the night, to sharp pain in his shoulder. In deep sleep, he’d nearly forgotten he’d been splinched. His next conscious thought had been to be bloody careful not to move his right hand, in case he woke her and she went away…
She’d moved her bed close enough to his that there was hardly any space between them at all.
Of course he didn’t want her to worry about him, but… He could admit it was well worth it, the pain, if it meant she’d stay so close. And though he could probably fall back to sleep if he tried, her face was turned toward him, and he was having a hard time closing his eyes long enough to do it.
So many things were now uncertain, but he effortlessly knew what he felt for her. It had taken a fair bit of wrestling to consciously admit it. Not that he hadn’t long ago realised he fancied her. But a crush on his closest female friend was an entirely different thing to manage than being deeply, irreversibly in love with her.
So many tiny things about her were woven into him, so many that he was sure he didn’t even know about them all. And sometimes… just sometimes, he’d think he could see the same in her. Maybe it was only their intimate friendship, after all they’d been through in so many years, and some days that was all he could bring himself to believe she felt. But quietly, alone together, he might catch her gaze and know all she was thinking in just one shared glance.
He took stolen moments then to look at her, the way her hair was bunched over her shoulders, a tight ringlet curl brushing her cheek. She’d taken off her jumper, and she was tucked under a wool blanket to her ribs, bare shoulders crossed only by the fabric of her thin vest straps. She seemed peaceful, just then, dreaming something pleasant, or not dreaming at all.
He was lucky, he thought suddenly. She was there, no matter what would happen next. Drowsily, he tried to imagine if he’d never met her, how many times he’d already be dead… or, perhaps more importantly, how many times he’d have been alone. And strangely, just then, a more pressing concern – how cold his empty hand would feel.
Her eyes twitched behind closed lids, then slowly opened, immediately trapped in his unmoving gaze.
“Ron?” she mouthed, halfway between confused and pleased. Suddenly, her sleepy eyes snapped wide. “Your arm!”
“It’s fine, don’t get up,” he hurried to whisper, clasping her hand tighter.
She seemed incredibly reluctant to listen to him. His thumb moved across her knuckles, and she sighed.
“I’ve got to check it soon. It can’t get infected,” she whispered, but she scooted almost imperceptibly closer, head resting back on her pillow again.
“Don’t worry so much.”
“I know it hurts…”
He wasn’t going to lie. But there was no point in talking about this either. It was so rare these days to be alone with her and not be consumed with worry about more than one of the million or so things that could go wrong at any moment. It wasn’t resentment – he knew what they had to do – but if fear and tension were playing a loop inside their heads anyway, the least they could do was occasionally just- well, just lie there in the dark, holding hands.
For one fleeting second, he was sure that if he pulled her closer, it would be the right thing.
Her tired eyes were much more alive now, darting between his. Her lips softly lifted, the tiniest, shy smile. And her own thumb brushed the side of his hand.
He wasn’t going to sleep, he deliriously decided. He couldn’t waste one more moment not looking at her, not being right there.
“Is this okay?” she asked nervously, and it had felt so far past okay that the question made him laugh.
“Yeah,” he smiled, breathing deeply as she visibly relaxed, shifting her legs as close as possible to the edge of her bed.
He felt it all rise terribly close to the surface, vulnerably written in his expression, whatever she could see in the dark. If she could just know how much he loved her, know it without him having to say it…
And he surprised himself, as his eyes finally slipped unconsciously shut, tugged far outside his will toward sleep, by surreally knowing the same things about her.
~~~
He grasped backward in time – weeks, though he could hardly bring himself to realise it. Each hour that had passed from his departure felt like a firm punch to the stomach.
He’d known, after escaping the Snatchers in the woods, that he’d be relying on a fair bit of luck to get back to Harry and Hermione. Now, listening to the soft crashing of waves against the sand at Bill and Fleur’s, he was confident that it would take a lot more than luck.
In the bright light of crushing day, he could see so much more clearly, which only made the distance appear further… and further. Harry had always cared. He’d maybe even loved Ginny once. Maybe he still did.
And Hermione.
Ron had been given – given himself – a clear view of what it was like to be without her. He’d caught a glimpse of it before, during their most difficult rows. He knew what the deepest, darkest pits of his soul looked like. Now, he’d found a devastating way to dig just a little deeper. Canvas walls and camp beds felt like undeserved luxury. Then what was the cost of seeing her again?
He’d left his best mate, his brother, to struggle in darkness against an unbelievable current. Yet he had been granted this beautiful place to hate himself, winter sun glinting off the sea, tall grass blowing in a salty breeze. A wonderful place for flying, he bitterly concluded.
But he kept reaching away, unseeing. Had he done that with Hermione, too? Had he been too devoured by self-doubt and dread to accept the truth? That she cared for him like he cared for her?
He wouldn’t dare think of love.
He couldn’t see a way back. He fought, every moment, to hope. But he couldn’t see.
He’d left his gloves inside Shell Cottage, and his hands were frozen, but he wouldn’t move. He could warm them cruelly by memory, her fingers intertwined with his in silence, where he belonged.
Harry, Ron and Hermione are at some Ministry party. You know the type; having to mingle with people from other departments, making small talk with middle-managers about filing errors, and being bored out of your mind the entire time.
Anyway, Ron and Hermione are flirting with each-other (nothing new there), and Harry is trying not to yawn at Jim from Magical Maintenance’s story about rain residue. Jim notices a passing colleague, and stops him to introduce Harry.
‘Martin Schulls- meet Harry Potter. No doubt you’ve heard of him.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ says Schulls. ‘Ron Weasley’s best friend, right?’
Harry drops his glass of champagne with a crash, his mouth falling open. Nearby, Ron’s head has swivelled round, his eyes widening with surprise.
‘Harry,’ asks Jim from Magical Maintenance. ‘Are you okay?’
The two ministry colleagues gasp as the boy who lived begins to weep, his mouth stretching into a wide smile. He looks at Ron, tears dripping down the cheeks of the redheaded man, and turns back to his colleagues.
‘You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to be introduced as that.’
Three days of silence. Three days of avoiding eye contact. Three days of not being able to find the words to say.
It had happened immediately after Fred’s funeral. Everybody expected George to be the one to be this way and had prepared themselves to deal with it, but it wasn’t him.
It was Ron.
Ron had shut down all of his emotions as he watched the casket being lowered into the ground. When they started to pile dirt on top of it, he had gotten up and walked away.
Hermione was eager to follow him, but Harry had told her to give him his time. That Ron just needed a moment to himself to think. He would come around.
Three days later Hermione was still waiting.
In those three days, Ron had not said more than a few words to people, and that was only required talking. A few “yes ma’am and no maam’s” to his mother, and “I’m not really hungry” when offered food a few times. And when he did eat, it was a few bites and then he would excuse himself from the table and either go to his room or disappear into he and Ginny’s old treehouse.
Hermione was done with it. Being an only child she didn’t have the slightest clue in what it meant to lose a sibling (or anyone for that matter), but she knew that Ron had to come back to himself. It wasn’t right for everyone to treat Ron as if he was going to snap at any second.
She took some of Mrs. Weasley’s roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and a couple biscuits, put them on a plate, and headed up to Ron’s room, determined to break the solespell that had been placed upon him.
She knocked and didn’t wait for him to answer. She opened the door and entered his violently orange room that her eyes were still trying hard to get used to. She sat down at the edge of the bed where Ron was laying down, staring at the ceiling.
“I’ve got your favorite here,” she said in a low voice, showing Ron the plate of food.
“I’m not hungry, Mione.” he whispered, eyes not leaving the spot on the ceiling in which he was staring.
“You have to eat something, Ron. You haven’t eaten properly in days. Your Mum is worried about you.” insisted Hermione.
“I said I’m not hungry,” said Ron a bit louder this time, his voice slightly irate.
Hermione huffed. “No need in getting upset with me, Ronald Weasley. I’m only trying to look out for you.”
“Well maybe I don’t want to be looked after like some bloody puppy dog, Hermione.” said Ron sharply, sitting up in his bed so fast, he made a tiny breeze against Hermione’s cheek. “Maybe I just want to be alone. Why can’t anyone just leave me alone?!?”
Hermione looked down at the plate of food and then back at Ron. His bright sapphires were glittering with the glossed over tears that he was holding back from shedding. Anger and hurt were etched onto his face, almost breaking Hermione’s heart to see.
She stood up and put the plate of food onto Ron’s bedside table. Then she headed for the door. Maybe she would try another time.
“Wait,” she heard Ron say, almost in desperation. She turned back around to face him, despite not wanting to. She already felt like she herself was about to burst into tears.
“I’m sorry for snapping, please don’t go.” apologized Ron, holding out his arms, as if he were begging for her to come to him.
Hermione walked back over to Ron’s bed. Ron scooted over to make room for her to sit beside him. She say down and took Ron’s giant hand into her two small ones.
“Please, talk to me.” she whispered as she moved one of her hands to his left cheek, grazing her thumb gently over it. “Tell me what’s wrong. I hate seeing you like this.”
Ron took Hermione"s hand from his cheek and held it. He laid his forehead on her shoulder, still not speaking a word. Hermione sat there, allowing Ron to grasp her hand. Whatever he needed to do. It had been more contact made since before the funeral.
For awhile no words were said. Hermione felt like though Ron was close to her at the moment, she had still failed.
Then…
“I told you how it was Fred that had turned my teddy into a giant fucking spider when I was a toddler, right?” croaked Ron, his voice halfway muffled by his lips being against Hermione’s arm.
Hermione didn’t say a word. She was scared to lose this moment. Instead, she gave his hand a small squeeze to encourage him to go on.
“He was also the one who thought it funny to give me an Acid Pop. I’ll never forget that pain.” continued Ron. “Nor will I forget the time he and George tried to get me to make an Unbreakable Vow, and all the times he would throw crab apples at me when we would play Quidditch claiming I needed to know what a bludger felt like. One time while I was in the bath he made the tub of water freeze solid and Mum and Dad didn’t discover me for almost an hour because he had put a charm on the door to keep my screaming from being heard.”
“That’s barbaric, ” said Hermione, scrunching up her nose. Fred had been so cruel to Ron over the years. Even as teens he would sometimes bully, torment, and belittle Ron. So why did he seem to be mourning more than George?
Ron turned his head to where the right side was laying on Hermione’s shoulder.
“He was also the one that showed me how to ride a broom properly.” he said.
“I thought Bill taught you that,” said Hermione.
“No, it was Fred. Bill was at school at the time and I was around 6. I had begged Bill to teach me before he went for his next term, but Mum.had told him no, and he refused to, the scared git. Fred, being the rule breaker he was, taught me anyways. Charlie had taught the twins, so when Mum and Dad would go off to bed, Fred and I would sneak out of bed and he would teach me how to fly properly around our makeshift Quidditch pitch. By the time Bill and Charlie came home for Christmas holiday, I was an expert.”
Hermione smiled at the thought of an 8 year old Fred teaching Ron how to ride a broom. She wondered how many cuts and bruises he had suffered from it.
“He was also the one that told me that I fancied you.” chuckled Ron slightly, making Hermione’s heart skip a beat.
“Yeah he sure did. Shocking that he didn’t tell anyone else, not even George. He told me he would keep it to himself. That was in our third year, when I was still trying to deny that I liked anything past Quidditch.”
“Why Ronald Weasley, had I but known,” giggled Hermione, causing Ron to laugh. Hermione shed a tear at his laughter. She didn’t realize how much she missed hearing him laugh until that moment.
“You know what our last conversation was about?”
“What?”
“You, Mione. And other things. ” said Ron, feeling a slew of emotions begin to wash over him suddenly. “It was at the wedding when we were taking a break from dancing, you and I. He was a touch pissed, but everything he was saying made sense. He told me how you were the one and to never do anything to damage whatever it was we were going to have, and how he would sing loudly and quite terribly at our wedding.”
Hermione smiled and allowed the other tears that were welling up to fall.
“He also told me that even though he wasn’t the ideal brother to me and he felt terrible for that, and that he had started to admire me ever since that business with first year. Can you believe that? My older brother, a guy that was praised and popular admired me for not really doing much except for being there for you and Harry. He said that he didn’t think he could have ever been that way with people that were not his family. Maybe Lee Jordan and Angelina, but not at that particular time. He said that he had never really had a hero in his life, but I……..” Ron began to break down. “I had become his.”
Ron lost his composure and began to sob. Hermione turned as quickly as she could and pulled his face into her chest, rubbing his back with one hand and running her fingers through his hair with the other. She whispered all the comforting things she could think of while Ron allowed the tears of pain and anguish to fall from his eyes and onto Hermione’s shirt.
“I couldn’t be his hero that night, Hermione, “sobbed Ron so loudly, that Hermione had thrown a silencing charm at Ron’s door so no one else could hear. “I couldn’t save him. He was right there and I couldn’t save him. I would have took that blow for him, Hermione.”
“I know you would have darling, I know,” said Hermione in a soothing tone.
“I would have taken everything he endured. He should be here. George should have his twin. We should have our brother!!”
Ron continued to cry and to blame himself for well over five minutes. Hermione felt she couldn’t do anything for him but be there for him to let it out on.
After awhile, Ron calmed down. He felt as if a giant weight had left his body. All the tears had been shed, the screams had been left out, and for the first time in YEARS, Ron felt almost peaceful.
He looked up at Hermione and gave that lopsided grin that seemed only reserved for her. “Made a mess of your shirt, have I?” he said, blushing.
Hermione smiled and kissed his forehead. “It’s fine, no worries. You needed to get it all out, yeah?”
Ron nodded. He sat up and hugged Hermione tightly to his body.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I didn’t do anything but sit her and listen.”
“That’s all I needed, I gather.” he said, kissing the top of Hermione’s head. “You didn’t sit here and tell me how it’ll be fine and everything would be okay like.Mum and Dad have been trying to do. You actually listened to me.”
Hermione smiled and kissed Ron on the cheek. Ron gently took Hermione’s chin and guided her lips to his, sharing what was their first kiss since the one in the Room of Requirement.
“Do me a favor though?” asked Ron, reluctantly moving his lips from hers.
“What’s that?”
“I know this may seem hypocritical seeing as what I did during the hunt, but please, don’t ever leave me. I don’t think I can take another loss.” said Ron, as if he were pleading to her.
“Oh Ron,” breathed Hermione, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good,” said Ron. “Now, what’s the situation with that plate of food there?”
Ron grabbed the plate of food that Hermione had put a warming charm on and began to eat. His hunger kicking in rather quickly had him demolishing the plate of food as if it were a mere snack, with him begging for more.
“There’s my Ron,” said Hermione, pulling Ron by the hand from his bed and out the door.
Weasley this is beautiful 😭😭😭
Awww thank you so much!! I actually teared up a bit writing this.
I would be surprised if you didn’t! The emotion is definitely there!! You’re such a good writer!
Sorry, did you want awkward smooshing? Your request wasn’t clear. 😉 I hope this works to cool down your brain – wait, who am I kidding, I hope it has the opposite effect… 💕
***
Nobody had played keepaway with Hermione since she was about eight – a fact she was immensely grateful for – and yet there she was, seventeen years old, internally cursing her two best friends for suddenly being so tall as they tossed her Arithmancy book back and forth over her head.
She’d been working peacefully in the library – actually getting something done, for once – when Ron had sidled up and swiped the text right out from under her nose. And when she’d politely explained that she wasn’t quite finished, and she very much needed her book back, Ron had lobbed it over to Harry, and now her resolve not to hex them was wearing rather thin.
“Give me that,” she growled between her teeth, trying to grab at the book just as Ron tossed it back to a laughing Harry. “We’re all going to get in trouble.”
“Come to the common room with us, then,” said Ron, deftly catching the book and holding it high over his head. “And that won’t be a problem.”
”I have an exam tomorrow-“ And futilely, she jumped as the book soared into Harry’s outstretched hand. Damn them and their Quidditch skills.
“And you’ve got this thing memorized already, haven’t you?” asked Harry knowingly.
“Well – not that particular edition, no-“
Ron busted out laughing then, but it wasn’t the cruel, taunting laughter of her primary school playground; his nose crinkled, and his eyes were warm, and she froze, somehow transfixed by the way he emanated lightness from the inside out.
“You’re barking,” he told her, shaking his head in – was it affection? – and then beckoning to Harry. “Give that here, mate.”
And as the book sailed once again through the air, Hermione’s patience snapped. Determined this time to catch it, she took a running leap and flung herself in the path of the book, only to crash into someone very solid and very tall and very redheaded.
Down they went, slamming into the dusty library floor, foreheads clunking, Hermione’s face bouncing off of Ron’s reddened cheek.
“You okay?” he asked, voice barely a breath, one hand resting on the back of her upper arm.
With her heart thumping wildly in her chest like it was, she could hardly piece together a coherent thought that didn’t pertain to blue eyes or freckles or soft, pink lips (well, she imagined they were soft; woefully, she had no firsthand experience), but she nodded shakily.
“Yeah.” Their faces were mere millimeters apart. “You?”
“Y-yeah,” he croaked.
But neither of them moved. His chest, upon which she still lay, rose and fell with each of his shallow breaths, and his fingers still rested on the back of her arm, and when his teeth grazed over his lower lip, only the slimmest shred of willpower kept her from closing the gap between them.
And yet… what was stopping her, really? Yes, Harry was somewhere around here (though she thought she’d heard him go in search of the book, which had suddenly become the least of her concerns), but he was just Harry. Ron had split with Lavender weeks ago: the unofficial grace period that Hermione had established in her head had certainly lapsed. When was she ever going to be in this situation again, when all it would take was succumbing to the force she hoped – no, knew – was between them? No, she simply couldn’t let it slip away. She had already wasted too much time not going for it.
They moved in at the exact same time, his head rising off the floor just as she dipped her face down. Their noses bumped, and before she could go beet-red in the face, she caught a glimpse of his smile before his lips closed onto hers. And they were soft, just as she had expected, and warm and a rush of adrenaline shot through her because she’d done it, she had kissed him – or maybe he had kissed her, but there was no time for technicalities, not when his mouth was moving slowly over hers and her heart was in her throat, and if Harry was still standing around, well, he could wait-
“Granger!” screeched a voice that most assuredly did not belong to Harry. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?!”
Hermione scrambled to her feet with an unreal quickness, trying not to meet the irate glare of Madame Pince.
“Erm, we – we were-“ she stammered, synapses in her brain shorting out because what was she supposed to say, that she’d been casually kissing Ron Weasley in the middle of the library? She could hardly believe it herself, even as the recollection pounded relentlessly through her mind.
“We’re leaving,” declared Ron, also clambering to his feet, his face also maroon. Placing a hand on Hermione’s back, he guided her away in the direction of the exit. It was only by sheer force of will that Hermione was able to make herself walk: her legs had all but turned to jelly. “Oi, Harry!” he called through the stacks. “C’mon, we’re going back to the common room.”
Finding her voice again, Hermione grinned up at him. “Do we have to?”
Thanks for the prompt, I hope you like this! (I promise they won’t all be Crookshanks themed, ha) 💕
***
It all started when Ron awoke on what should have been a quiet Saturday morning to a face-full of ginger fur, and Hermione simply laughed as she watched him relocate the cat from his face to the pillow next to him.
Then she caught Ron feeding Crookshanks little bites of bacon from his breakfast plate, but that made her smile a bit too: it was nice not to see them at odds for once.
But when Ron relocated to the sofa to listen to the Cannons match, and Crookshanks curled immediately up in his lap, Hermione found herself stuffing an old forgotten feeling down where she felt it rightfully belonged, where she planned to let it go in acknowledged until it went away.
So she went into the study and caught up on some paperwork, and when she emerged to see if Ron wanted lunch, she found Crookshanks standing up on his back legs on Ron’s thighs, paws extended upwards to encircle Ron’s neck. Like they were hugging or some such nonsense.
And she’d always thought of Crookshanks as a one-person cat, was all.
“What, are you two best friends now?” she blurted out before she could help it.
Ron ceased stroking his long fingers throgh the fur on Crookshanks’ back to look bemusedly up at her.
“Dunno,” he shrugged, eyes back on the cat. “He’s being nice to me today.”
“It’s just because you gave him food this morning,” said Hermione haughtily. “He’s just trying to stay on your good side hoping he’ll get more.”
“You’re not…” The corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
“Of course not!” she snapped. “Spend all your time with him, see if I care.”
He was now actively biting back laughter, which only served to infuriate her more.
“Who are you more jealous of, exactly? Me or him?”
“Neither of you!”
And she turned and stalked furiously back to the study.
Moments later, he darkened her doorway, Crookshanks nestled against his shoulder as though he were a newborn baby. Honestly.
“Come on, you’ve got nothing to worry about,” he assured her, voice gentle and yet somehow quavering with mirth. “There’s room on my lap for both of you.”
***
send in a “I wish you’d write a fic where…” and maybe I’ll write it!
Awww….I love it when Hermione gets a little jealous (within the bird attacks, obviously). And I really like the idea that Ron and Crookshanks got along better as they grew older.
Hello and thank you so much for the prompt! I hope you enjoy this 💕
***
with too many miles between us
Don’t open until you’re alone.
With a furtive glance down the Gryffindor table, Hermione carefully tucked the small parcel into her rucksack and straightened up just in time to keep nodding along to Ginny’s ramblings about Quidditch strategies. In the two months since she had been at Hogwarts, she had yet to receive such an ominous delivery from Ron. He sent letters almost daily, and could be known to send a tin of Mrs. Weasley’s homemade fudge from time to time, but never anything so secretive. Still, though, he wouldn’t have demanded secrecy if he didn’t feel it was absolutely necessary, so she simply heeded his words and turned back to her breakfast.
Naturally, the day that ensued was one of the busiest she’d had at Hogwarts all year. Between classes, prefect meetings and visits to the library, she had hardly a second to think, let alone a decent block of time to steal away and open the mystery parcel. By the time she dragged herself back to her dormitory, even Ginny had retired for the night. As she climbed into bed, Hermione determined that the curtains around her four-poster were the closest approximation to privacy that she was going to get – and even if they weren’t, she had run out of patience.
Carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible, Hermione slid her thumb under the brown packing parchment, peeling away the Spellotape holding it shut. Into her lap fell a rectangular mirror about the size of her hand and another slip of parchment covered in Ron’s messy scrawl.
George and I have been working on the charm all summer and we finally got it right… just say my name into it and I’ll see you soon.
Heart suddenly racing, Hermione cast a quick Muffliato spell around her bed and, with trembling hands, held the mirror up in front of her face.
“Ron?”
The first glimpse of freckled skin and red hair made her stomach flip with excitement, and soon the mirror was filled with the image of his brightly smiling face.
“Hey,” he greeted her, the sound of his voice surrounding her like a warm, familiar blanket. “Oh my God, I’m so glad it worked-“ He cocked his head to the side- “where are you?”
“My bed,” she said softly, eyes hungrily drinking in the sight of him.
“Oooh,” he grinned. “It’s almost like I’m in the girls’ dorm.”
Hermione laughed and inched herself back so that she leaned against the headboard. “How did you do this?”
“Oh, you know,” he said, affecting modesty with a casual little shrug. “George is decent at inventive spells, I s’pose-“ He gave a joking little eye-roll- “and I figured, if Sirius and Harry’s dad could figure it out, so could we.”
“That’s amazing,” breathed Hermione, watching – she was watching him, she really couldn’t get past that – as the tips of his ears turned red.
“Why are you whispering?” he asked, mimicking her quiet tone.
“You’re the one who acted like this is top-secret business,” she teased him back, even though that wasn’t truly the reason she felt compelled to keep her voice down. Despite the physical distance, the moment felt quite intimate, and she felt she had to protect it somehow, as if it would shatter if she spoke too loudly.
“Well, maybe it is.”
“Where are you?” she changed tacks, finally noticing the late hour and the fact that she couldn’t see the retina-searing orange of his bedroom walls behind him.
“The shop,” and then the image in the mirror spun to reveal walls filled with Fanged Flyers, Extendable Ears, and Dungbombs. “Just finishing up some things with George, and then I’ll go home.” His face came back into view, the corner of his mouth tipped up in a wistful smile. “Damn.”
“What?”
His eyes flitted back and forth briefly as though checking that he was alone.
“I just can’t believe I’m looking at you right now.” His bottom lip slid between his teeth, and beneath his freckles, his skin had gone faintly pink, and this – this was what Hermione missed the most. All these little things about him that were so inherently Ron, the crinkle of his eyes when he smiled and the low, affectionate timbre of his voice, she simply couldn’t get them from letters.
“I know, it’s brilliant – you’re brilliant,” she gushed, pleased to see the flush intensify in his cheeks. “Honestly, thank you for this.”
“I still miss you,” he admitted, “but it helps at least a little bit, right?”
“More than a little bit.”
Hermione hunkered down under the blankets and turned onto her side, still holding the mirror about a foot from her face. Lying like this, she could almost – almost– pretend that she was lying in Ron’s cozy twin bed at the Burrow, rather than alone in Gryffindor Tower.
“You getting tired?“
“No, no, I’m fine, just getting comfortable,” she tried to assure him even as a gargantuan yawn slipped out, betraying her.
“I know it’s late,” he continued, “but can we make this into a regular… y’know, date? A promise to talk at this time every night?”
“Yes, I’d love that.”
“Okay, well, then… see you tomorrow?”
Hermione didn’t bother to fight the smile that consumed her face.
lil Romione drabble, in which Ron finds out that reading books and living through sleepless night after sleepless night is not as bad as he expected.
His sleeping schedule had turned hectic, at best. What with Quidditch practice, general trio adventures and mischief to be plotted (also add the many attempts to keep a very trouble-attracting Harry away from much trouble into the mix) and, Prefect duties and homework to be done, having to read and memorise a book had never been more untimely. If he was being honest with himself, it was actually laughable that he, Ronald Weasley, the seventeen year old man-boy-wizard who had kept a clean slate of never going against the mantra he’d adopted since his first year at Hogwarts – reading non-Quidditch related books outside homework is indecent – was doing just that 24/7.
“Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches” was a gift from his dear older brothers, masters of mayhem and kings of all pranks known to the wizarding world, Fred and George Weasley. He’d been slightly pissed when he anxiously tore open the wrapping paper and found the book title, glinting marvelously in huge gold letters, like a slap in teenage boy’s face. He definitely remembered stomping out of the room and slamming the door in the twins’ bewildered faces, much to their chagrin and to his own embarrassment whenever he reminisced about it.
But now? Now, it was all wanted to read. He never reckoned that blokes who swung compliments left and right were worth much, but, Merlin’s beard!, the book said girls actually liked them? So, instead of keeping wild thoughts to himself, as he’d done the past six years, this morning an awkward “youlookverynicetoday” came out of his untamed lips. Of course she eyed him suspiciously and checked her hair in the window glass’ reflection, but the small smile nestled at the corner of her upper lip made it all worth it, sending a wave of heat and pride down his chest. Moreover, he’d grown up thinking that wand size was most important, positively and completely certain about it. However, yet again that nifty little book told otherwise. Apparently wandwork was key, you see. The tiny revelation shook his world and left him struggling to find more and more information, digging deeper and deeper into the mysterious demeanor of women until it no longer held any secrets for him. For the first time ever, he was feeling that dubious thirst for knowledge that he never understood in Hermione.
And speaking of Hermione Jean Granger, the main reason for his lack of sleep these days, Ron was yet to find out how she could just go on with no sleep and a full twenty set of books about her, day in and day out. Late in the wee dark hours, she’d sit in that cosy armchair she strongly preferred, right by the fire, and flip through the pages with upmost curiosity and a crease in her forehead that, Ron now knew, indicated she was being a hundred percent focused. The girl’s brain was like a sponge, Ron concluded, because there was no way any human could just read and remember so much. But, oh well, if he wanted to woo her, that meant he had to stay up too. “Prefect duties,” he’d tell Harry, staying glued to the chair next to hers, knowing fully well his best mate could see through the half-hearted lie. But, quite frankly, he didn’t care much. He was all in, fighting his way to victory one sleepless night at a time.
On such late evenings, the shadows of the roaring fire danced around her cheekbones, caressing them tenderly. The highlights of her hair changed and swirled, determining Ron’s sleep deprived mind to wonder if it was really a crown, a bushy brown crown atop of the most beautiful head he’d ever seen. Her curls whirled and twirled about her temples, framing her face and gently touching her jaw. He wondered how it would feel like to twist his finger through them, to feel their softness on his freckled skin.
“Are you alright? You seem a bit…off,” Hermione’d comment, from between the pages of the tome she got lost in. Ron would immediately close his mouth and focus his vision, giving her a nonchalant smile and a mindless shrug.
Early in the morning, he’d accompany her to the library and even offer to share the burden of the many books she absolutely had to carry with her. “We’re going to the library, you know that, right? I mean, there are already millions of books in there,” he’d point out and she’d pout in a way he’d always found adorable, diving into a rant about books and knowledge and other Hermione things that made the young man’s stomach churn and plunge into a series of acrobatics.
Once in the library, he’d flop onto a chair, prop his chin up and compose his face into a studied expression of boredom which, in reality, hid a lovesick-yet-dignified appearance he came to associate with her. She strutted left and right, walking with the confidence of one who owned the place, standing on her tiptoes to better read a title and going down on her knees to clearly see another.
“You’re a witch, how many times do I have to tell you?” he’d ask amused, words half-muffled by the fist he supported his head up on. She’d frown, then smile, then draw out her wand and create a whirlwind of books around her, calling them to her with silent enchantments. Maybe this was what he liked most about Hermione: books just made her forget everything else. She could lose herself in them, drench in the science and facts that fueled her being, that shaped her into the brightest witch of her age.
He was never aware that he fancied observing the seven AM rays of light grazing the ink-black letters, winding and unwinding against words and turning them into phrases. He was never aware that his heart would start mimicking the sound of her quill scribbling furiously on a fresh piece of parchment. He was never aware of many things, but one he knew for sure: that Hermione Jean Granger, with her insufferable, gorgeous, amazingly smart mouth, had made a rather strong impression on him ever since she walked into his life that September day on the Hogwarts Express. Somehow, he knew the world – or, at least his world – was safe with her right there, an answer at the ready to any possible question and a pocket full of banter to accompany his own.
“You make really nice W-s, Hermione,” he tried a rather innovative compliment that particular morning, earning a slightly confused expression from the girl he dreamed of.
“Erm, thanks, Ron. Yours are – yours are nice too,” she tried reciprocating, even though her words faltered as she gave one look to the blotchy, frenzied writing on the parchment next to hers. Ron snorted and buried his head back into his homework to hide the grin that spread his lips wide apart. Being sleep deprived was worth spending hour after hour with her, he decided then and there. Who needed it to survive, anyway?
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