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They’re eighteen when they move into their first flat together, which is both ridiculous and wonderful, Hermione thinks.
Ron’s sitting on the bare living room floor, reading an instruction manual and muttering under his breath. Hermione leans in the doorway, wonders when he’s going to give in and use magic to set whatever it is up.
They’re in London. They didn’t actually need to be, since they can really just Apparate to the Ministry from anywhere, but it seemed like the place to be. To be young people, right in the middle of it, before they settled somewhere out in the countryside, Ron had proclaimed before turning bright red once he realized what he’d said. The implication was there, Hermione had thought. That they would get married, have dozens of kids, as the Weasleys do, and grow old in some village in the country.
At the time, she’d just agreed and gracefully switched topics, not wanting to embarrass Ron further. He’d been right, after all. She did want to live in London, after being in the middle of nowhere, Scotland, since she was eleven.
Ron still hasn’t noticed her leaning in the doorway. She watches idly as the sun pours in through the little window and sets his red hair on fire.
He looks up and starts when he sees her. “Blimey, Hermione.”
“Sorry,” she says, smiling. “What are you working on?”
“This bloody coffee table. So many bits and pieces, you’d think they could simplify it a little. I’m not a bloody carpenter.”
“I’ll get us some takeaway. Be back in twenty.”
“Thanks, ‘Mione,” he shouts as she puts her coat on.
It’s not that she doesn’t want to marry Ron, she thinks on her way to the Thai place around the corner. She’s probably wanted to marry him since she was about thirteen years old. It’s just that things seem to move much faster among wizards. Marriage, babies, all that. She’s never even dated anyone other than Ron. Unless you’re counting Viktor.
Which she is most certainly not.
Pad Thai for both of them, Ron’s a little spicier. It’s comforting, being back in the Muggle world, not feeling that sense of unease that still sometimes comes with magic. She likes paying with Muggle money and she likes teaching Ron how to navigate Muggle London. She supposes it’s the know-it-all in her making its appearance. Luckily, Ron doesn’t mind indulging that side of her.
Ron’s still working on the coffee table when she gets back, although he does seem to have made some kind of progress. One leg is attached, at least. Crookshanks is on the window sill, surveying the mess below her.
“Hullo,” he says, as she drops the food on the kitchen counter. “I think I’ve just about got it.”
“Why don’t you just ask your father for help? He’s always liked tinkering with Muggle stuff.” Hermione knows better than to offer her own building skills up. She’s probably more useless with a hammer than Ron.
“Absolutely not,” Ron says, shaking his head. “No way. He’d turn it into a four hour lecture about the history of British furniture, or something daft like that.”
“Isn’t Harry supposed to be coming over tomorrow? Maybe he’ll have better luck.”
“Doubtful,” Ron mutters, and gets up and grabs a plate.
“Shit,” he says, two minutes later.
“Shit,” Hermione repeats. They haven’t got a functioning table.
She meets Ron’s eye, and he sighs. “The floor it is, then. Don’t let the cat get in the food,” he says, shooting a wary look at Crookshanks.
They’re just about done with dinner when Hermione blurts it out. “Do you ever wonder if it’s all going a bit fast?”
Ron freezes. He was about to start the dishes. “Are you talking about… our relationship?”
“Yes. No.” Damn it. “Just life in general.”
Ron’s pulled up a chair now and his eyebrows are knitted together in an almost comical way. “Don’t tell me you’re having regrets now.”
“I’m not,” she says hastily, and bites her lip. “It’s just scary to think about, that’s all. How old were your parents when they got married?”
“Married?” Ron’s looking more and more worried.
“Never mind.” Hermione can feel her cheeks burning.
“I suppose it was pretty soon after Hogwarts,” Ron says thoughtfully. “But Hermione. That was thirty years ago.” He hesitates. “I’m not going to pressure you into anything, Hermione. I thought you wanted to move in together.”
Hermione thinks back to fourteen year old Ron, and her heart breaks a little at how much he’s grown up. “Of course I wanted to. I just got a bit… overwhelmed.”
“Cold feet?”
She pauses, then gives a slight nod and hates herself.
She can’t stand Ron looking at her like that. She wonders if he’ll leave. Maybe this is the last straw.
“Let’s dance,” he says instead. Stands up and holds out his hand.
“What?”
“Come on. It’s a good song, they’re always playing it in that coffee shop by the Ministry.”
She’d forgotten that the radio was even on. It’s some Muggle rock station and they’re playing the new Goo Goo Dolls song.
She takes his hand.
They’re swaying in the kitchen now. It’s dark out and they haven’t put any lights on.
“I love you, ‘Mione,” he murmurs in her ear. His hand tightens around her waist and she leans into him, burying her face into his neck.
It’ll be alright, she tells herself, and, miraculously, she starts to believe it.
***
Christmas at the Burrow is a wildly busy and colorful affair. Hermione doesn’t think she’s been to an actual party in over a year, which is a bit odd to think about.
Molly is shouting about the Christmas tree and the presents in the kitchen. She’s gone a bit overboard this year. Overcompensating, Hermione thinks. Making up for last Christmas.
Hermione had gotten a lovely bracelet from Molly, which is reassuring. Hermione hadn’t really gotten the impression that Molly approved of her relationship with Ron, so this was a good sign. Maybe a peace offering.
Fred’s absence is glaring. Hermione can feel the undercurrent of tension, underneath Molly’s wide smiles and careful avoidance of the topic. George had come down to say hello for about five minutes, but had quickly retreated back upstairs. Hermione’s almost grateful; she doesn’t quite know how to speak to him.
Speaking of tension. Harry’s talking to Bill and Fleur by the fireplace and surreptitiously shooting glances at Ginny, flipping through her new Quidditch book.
When Harry had come by their flat in October to tell them about the breakup, he hadn’t really seemed that torn up about it. Mostly guilty. He’d said he wasn’t feeling the sparks anymore. That the war had changed him.
Hermione could understand that.
She suspects the guilt is eating him up, though, especially since he’s come to her family’s Christmas morning.
She walks over to Harry, nudging Ron on her way there. He’s talking to his dad, but he follows her once he notices.
Harry’s telling Bill and Fleur about his new Auror assignment. Guarding Draco Malfoy’s potion shop, which apparently has been under siege by relentless vandals. Hermione wonders what senior Auror at the Ministry was sadistic enough to give the job to Harry. Draco Malfoy. Honestly.
“Harry,” she says. “Want to go for a chat?”
He gives her a grateful nod and, after making his excuses to Bill and Fleur, the three of them step out onto the deck. Ron casts a warming charm and they sit on the steps. It’s a cold and sunny day. Hermione sees a few gnomes dart across the garden.
“How are you doing, mate?” Ron asks. “It’s not too awkward, is it?”
Harry grimaces. “A bit. I hear she’s seeing someone though. Bill mentioned it. I think it was an accident because Fleur smacked him.”
“She hasn’t said a word to me,” Ron muses. “Probably thinks I’m a double agent.”
“Maybe you should start dating too, Harry,” Hermione says encouragingly. “Get out there again. I hear Susan Bones is single.”
“Actually,” Harry says. He’s not making eye contact with either one of them. “I’m seeing someone. A man.”
Hermione thinks she’s misheard. Beside her, Ron chokes on his beer.
“Like… romantically?” Ron asks.
“Yes.”
Hermione tries to push back the jumble of thoughts running through her head. “Harry, I’m so honored you feel comfortable enough to tell us about this and I’m so proud of you. It’s such a brave thing-”
“Alright, no need for the speech,” Harry says, but he’s clearly trying to hold back a smile.
“I’m just saying, we’re supportive, isn’t that right, Ron?”
“Well, of course we are, mate,” Ron says, “But does this mean your whole relationship with Ginny…”
“No!” Harry says hastily. “I’m… well, I fancy both.”
“Bisexual,” Ron says sagely, nodding his head.
“Precisely,” Harry says.
“Hold on. You didn’t cheat on Ginny, did you?” Ron asks with a note of suspicion.
“Of course not,” Harry says in indignation. “This thing is completely new.”
“I do hope you’ll introduce us,” Hermione probes.
Harry hesitates, but nods. “I will. Just not yet. It really is fairly new.”
“Of course,” Hermione says, and wraps her arm around him. On the other side, Ron leans in, and they sit like that for a long time.
Eventually, they have to head back into the house. Hermione excuses herself to get some more eggnog, and ducks into the kitchen.
Molly is leaning on the counter, by the sink. Hermione can hear the shudder of her breaths and the quiet sobs that are wracking her body.
“Oh,” Hermione lets out, involuntarily. Fuck.
Molly looks up and wipes at her eyes. “Hermione, dear.” Her voice quavers. “Just had a bit of a turn.”
Hermione nods. “Are you…” Alright? What a stupid question. Of course not.
“I’ll be fine. Just needed a moment.”
Hermione walks around the counter and wraps an arm around her. Molly leans into it and the tears resume.
“Oh god,” she says, shaking. “I’m not sure I can go back out there.”
“It’s alright,” Hermione says. “It’s alright.”
They stay like that for a long time. The clock ticks on.
***
In comparison, Christmas dinner at the Grangers is fairly uneventful. Ron’s met them before, of course, but not since he and Hermione had started dating.
Everyone is careful to avoid mentioning the Australia Incident, which Hermione is grateful for. The aftermath of Australia…
No. She doesn’t need to think about it.
She knows her mother wishes she would come by more. It’s just hard, being around her parents. A constant reminder of what she’d lost, that year.
Ron’s chatting with her dad at the sink and surreptitiously sneaking glances at the dishwasher. She knows he’s trying to figure out what exactly it does, without having to outright ask.
She’s on the sofa with her mum, idly watching the evening news. She wonders if maybe they should get a television for their flat. All the magic would put it on the fritz though, and she isn’t sure she’s willing to put in the effort to charm it to be spell-proof.
“Darling,” her mum says. She seems to be choosing her words carefully. “Are you quite happy?”
Startled, Hermione turns to look at her mother. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve just seemed to be… I don’t know. A bit down, is all I mean.”
The light from the television dances over the living room, and she listens to the murmur from the kitchen, briefly. Just to ground herself. She remembers now why she’d been avoiding her parents. “I think… I know we haven’t talked about it much, but I think the war isn’t really gone. Not for me. I think I’m still carrying a little bit of it.”
Her mum takes her hand. Hermione can’t bear to look her in the eyes.
“I just don’t quite feel like I can move on with my life. Like something’s holding me back, and I’m not quite sure what.”
“I know we don’t quite fit into your life anymore, Hermione,” her mum says, and Hermione jerks back.
“Of course not, you’ll always be part of my life-”
“Let me finish, darling. Even though I suppose we’ll never quite understand, especially not having been there during the war,” Hermione looks down at her hands, “We’re still your parents. And it might be easier, if you came and talked about it with us. More than just summarizing the events. Being more removed from it, that’s all.”
It’s starting to snow outside.
“I think I might take you up on that.”
Her mum squeezes her shoulder and leans back into the couch. “Good. Now, why don’t you tell me a bit more about you and Ron. Because I’ve barely heard a word from you on this relationship…”
“Mum,” Hermione laughs out, trying to hold back her blush. God, she’s missed this.
***
It’s almost May, now, and Hermione knows all too well what that means. The days go by and their flat becomes more and more silent, as Ron retreats into himself.
Hermione knows loss, of course. How could she not. But she knows she cannot understand the pain of losing a sibling, long before his time.
In two days, Fred Weasley will have been dead for a year.
Compared to Ron and Harry, Hermione’s come out of the war relatively unencumbered by grief. Her parents are alive, she had no siblings to lose, and she hadn’t really lost anyone, not like the boys had.
So in a way, she feels a bit angry at herself for even trying to comfort Ron. She’s flying blind here.
She leaves out chocolate frogs when she can, when she knows he’ll find them. She tries to arrange some more outings with their friends, which Ron only reluctantly agrees to. She knows he’s only indulging her.
She just doesn’t know how to bring it up, and she’s a bit scared to try. What if she says the wrong thing, and Ron realizes that he’s dating the most emotionally incompetent girl in England?
The second of May arrives, and Ron is barely speaking anymore. Hermione comes home from the shops to find him in the darkened living room, lying on the couch, eyes closed. She doesn’t think he’s asleep.
She sets the bags down, and makes her way to the armchair next to him.
“Mum called,” he says, not opening his eyes. “They’re going to the grave now.”
Hermione decides to tread carefully. “Are you going?”
He’s silent. Hermione wants to squirm with how silent it is.
Finally, she speaks. “You can’t avoid it forever, Ron,” she whispers. She wishes she could call Harry, but he’s become more and more solitary as well over the past few days and she knows better than to try.
Maybe she should be trying, though. Or is she supposed to be giving him space?
Ron still hasn’t said anything.
“It might help,” she says tentatively. “To go and… face it.”
Ron rolls over and buries his face into the couch. Hermione pauses, and then grabs a book off the coffee table and turns on a lamp. If nothing else, it might help to just sit with him for a bit.
Hours pass, and it’s 9 o’clock before Ron stirs. He must have fallen asleep, Hermione realizes. He sits up.
“I have to go,” he says quietly.
Hermione nods, and sets the book down. Crookshanks lets out an inquisitive chirp. She’s fallen asleep at Ron’s feet, a new development in their relationship.
They Apparate to Ottery St. Catchpole. The Weasley family plot is far out in the countryside of Devon, about a forty minute walk. When Hermione asks Ron why they couldn’t have gone straight there, he just grunts out, “Anti-Apparition wards.”
It’s a bit creepy, trekking along an old walking trail, beating the brush away, but Ron seems unfazed. Presumably he’s been this way plenty of times, visiting long gone members of the Weasley clan.
Never a brother, though, she thinks.
They get there and it’s eerily silent, save for the hum of the crickets. The cemetery is on a hill, overlooking the endless fields. Off in the distance, she thinks she might see the lights from the Burrow. The graves are a bit overgrown; clearly the weeds are only being beat back with a set of elaborate charms. Bouquets, though. Plenty and plenty of bouquets, recently placed.
Septimus Weasley, 1910-1974.
Lancelot Weasley, 1906-1976.
Percival Weasley, 1823-1902.
Generations and generations of Weasleys. All with long, long lives and dozens of children.
Fred Weasley. 1978-1998. Beloved son and brother.
What an inadequate way to describe Fred Weasley’s life. Beloved son and brother . As if he wasn’t a million other things besides that.
His grave is covered in flowers, pictures, and trinkets from the joke shop. Courtesy of being a war hero, Hermione supposes.
Ron’s standing in front of the grave. He’s shaking. “Oh god,” he says faintly.
She places her hand on the small of his back. “Iknow,” she says quietly. “I know.”
They stand like that for what seems like an age, Hermione rubbing small circles into his back. She’s reminded, suddenly, of visiting Godric’s Hollow with Harry, when they were hunting Horcruxes.
It’s a warm spring night, though, and there’s no snow falling. Just the hum of the Devon countryside and the rustling of the leaves in the breeze.
Finally, Ron reaches forward and traces the letters in Fred’s name. He seems to reach an understanding with himself, and straightens himself up. He turns to Hermione and with a nod, walks toward the gate. She follows.
“Is it any better?” she asks.
“Not really,” he says. “But it will be. I don’t think…. I don’t think it’s really ever going to go away. It’s one of those things I’ll just have to manage, isn’t it.”
She takes his hand in hers and squeezes. He gives her a grateful look.
“I’ll be alright,” he says, quietly. “One day.”
***
Two months later, and it’s been a day of clerical work and administrative grunt work and Hermione’s developing a headache of epic proportions. It’s not even lunch time.
She groans and rubs her eyes. It’s not that she hadn’t expected this part of Ministry work, but it hadn’t quite registered when she’d first applied to work in the International Magical Law division.
She hears someone walk up behind her desk and starts to turn, but she’s too slow. Before she knows it, there’s a wet kiss on her cheek and a bouquet of daisies thrust in her face.
“Ron,” she says crossly, trying not to smile. “At work? Really?”
“My powerful skills of intuition told me that a certain witch needed a pick me up today,” he said grandly.
“You weren’t completely wrong,” she concedes. “Thank you. But I thought you and Harry were supposed to go to lunch now?”
“We were, but he owled me about an hour ago saying he wanted to talk to both of us. Why he’s doing it at work beats me.” Ron frowns. “We even saw him last night.”
Hermione’s a bit concerned. “Break room, then?”
“I suppose so.”
Harry’s in the Auror break room already when they get there. He’s pacing, black hair even more of a mess than usual.
“Harry? What’s wrong?” Hermione asks.
Harry stops and turns to face them. Stands up straight. He adopts a weirdly formal tone of voice. “Ron. Hermione.”
“Harry,” Ron says in a mock deep voice, adopting a posh tone.
Harry gives him a baleful look, but continues on. “You know I’ve been seeing someone. And I know I was a bit hesitant before, but I think it’s time you know. He’s become a very important part of my life.”
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione breathes. “I’m so happy you’ve come to us with this.” She clutches his hands. Harry gives her a weak smile.
“Come on, mate,” Ron says earnestly. “Who is it?”
Harry clears his throat. “I want to say that this was a surprise for me too, and I never would have predicted this. Honest. It just happened.” He sets his shoulders. “And I understand that it might take a while for you to come to terms with this, but you’re not talking me out of it.”
“Harry,” Ron says, voice cracking. “Who is it?”
Harry hesitates, then says, “Draco Malfoy.”
Hermione’s stomach drops. Ron’s face turns white.
She tries to say something, but only air is coming out.
Ron turns on his heel and walks out the door. Harry seems to deflate a little.
Hermione shoots Harry a look that she hopes is equal parts apologetic and furious before she follows Ron out.
It takes a minute to find him, but this isn’t her first time tracking down her boyfriend. Turns out he’s taken the Floo back to their flat.
“Ron,” she says.
“There’s no way,” Ron says, hands trembling slightly. “No fucking way.”
Hermione chews her lip. “Well. He was rather obsessed with Malfoy in sixth year, don’t forget.”
“Hermione.”
“I know.” She almost wants to laugh. This is madness.
“Malfoy’s put some kind of hex on him. There’s no way Harry Potter, my best mate, has gone this far off the deep end.” Ron is pacing now. Crookshanks leaves the room with a disgruntled meow, her nap now permanently disturbed.
“Ron, he did say that he was seeing a man,” Hermione starts, but Ron is already shaking his head.
“Not possible. I mean, really. Draco Malfoy, the bloke who’s been a pain in our arses for about our entire school careers. If you ask me, he’s probably only pretending to be gay to trick poor Harry.”
This time Hermione is the one to shoot him a reprimanding look. “Ron.”
Ron stops his pacing and lets his shoulders sag down. “Alright, I’m sorry. I s'pose that wasn’t fair. But I do mean it, Hermione, even if he is gay. Maybe he hasn’t put a spell on Harry, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t tricked him in some way.”
Hermione pauses at that. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility, after all. She wouldn’t put much past Malfoy. She turns back to Ron. “Alright, then. You know what we have to do.”
“I do?” Ron looks bewildered.
“We have to invite them over. For dinner.”
“No.” Ron sets his jaw. She knows that look.
“Yes, we do. The more we try to convince Harry this is a bad idea, the more he’s going to dig his heels in. We’ve got to see this for ourselves, and then we can decide how to fix this.”
“He is stubborn, I suppose. That git, Malfoy,” Ron says, shaking his head. “He’s got some twisted plan, you know. I see right through him.”
“Don’t worry, Ronald,” Hermione says, even as her stomach lurches at the thought of sitting down to dinner with Malfoy. “We’ll catch him.”
***
Dinner isn’t off to the greatest start, Hermione is willing to admit.
Harry and Malfoy had arrived at 6 o’clock sharp, just as the snow started to fall. Why they hadn’t Flooed, Hermione isn’t sure. They’d come up the walkway and knocked before Hermione had let them in, Ron poised by the front door like an attack dog.
She’d written Harry only that morning to invite them over and Harry had responded in about five minutes, with so much enthusiasm that Hermione had felt rather guilty about turning this dinner party into an interrogation.
Ron's pulled out all the stops for dinner tonight, muttering under his breath all day as he studied various cookbooks, most of them stolen from the Burrow. Hermione guesses it’s probably some twisted way for him to assert dominance over Malfoy, although she isn’t quite sure enough to ask. Any food related questions would probably turn into an attempt to teach her to cook, which she would have to find some hasty way out of.
Ron’s enthusiasm over the cooking, however, does not quite extend to the company. In the five minutes since Harry and Malfoy had arrived and there’d been a round of awkward handshakes, Harry not quite meeting their eyes, it’s been mostly silent. Hermione isn’t quite sure where to begin.
“Right,” Harry says. “Er.”
“Let’s just get into it,” Ron says abruptly. “No point in beating about the bush, is there?”
Malfoy, who’s been mostly silent the entire time since they’ve arrived, pales even further, which Hermione didn’t think was possible. He’s dressed quite formally for a dinner with friends, though admittedly the term is a stretch. His black dress robes stand out even more compared to Harry’s jeans and button down, and he’s been stuck very closely to Harry’s side.
“Malfoy,” Hermione starts. Harry shoots her a look, and she amends. “Draco. So, how exactly did you and Harry… come together? I mean, we’ve heard Harry’s side of it, but let’s hear yours.” Ron is definitely suppressing an eyeroll, she thinks.
“Well,” he begins, “I really wasn’t very delighted when Harry was assigned to my shop, but I figured I’d make the best of it. And, you know, we just ended up spending a lot of time together, and talking through all our differences, and things sort of took off from there.”
“Differences?” Ron mutters. Hermione kicks him.
“And we’ve been having loads of fun,” Harry jumps in. “Just last week, we went on a trip to Cornwall, saw the castle-”
“Well, isn’t this all so convenient?” Ron’s evidently lost all sense of self control.
Harry stands up abruptly, the chair legs squealing across the floor. Ron’s clenching his fork.
“I’m not sure I quite understand your meaning, Wea- Ron,” Malfoy says, his voice oddly calm.
“I think you do-”
“Ron!” Harry shouts. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I can assure you, I have Harry’s best interests at heart,” Malfoy starts, but Ron cuts in.
“How are we supposed to know? How do we know this isn’t some twisted revenge plot of yours, Malfoy? You spent seven years hating us, him in particular, and now you expect us to believe that’s all changed?”
“What are you implying, Weasley?” Malfoy demands, two angry splotches appearing on his pale cheeks.
“It just seems terribly suspicious,” Hermione says, “that you’ve suddenly had this massive change of heart. Are none of us going to mention the fact that you were a Death Eater?” Now she’s shouting. She hadn’t even realized until now how truly angry she was. The blood rushes in her ears. “I bet it kills you to have to have dinner with a Mudblood.”
It’s quiet.
“I think we should go,” Harry says quietly. Malfoy, who’s sitting back now, looking somewhat forlorn, allows Harry to take his arm and guide him out. The front door quietly clicks shut.
“Hermione-”
“Don’t,” she says. “I’m not angry at you. I just… I can’t talk about this right now.”
Ron nods, and gathers the dishes.
Harry sends them an owl the next morning. Can we talk?
She shows it to Ron, and he nods. She sends back, Yes .
He comes alone, this time. Probably the best move.
Hermione hands him a coffee and all three of them go out to sit on the balcony.
“I handled that horribly,” Harry says, after a moment of silence. “I’m sorry. To both of you.”
Ron nods and Hermione looks down at her coffee.
“I’m sorry too,” she says. “I don’t think I quite realized how angry I was about it all. We shouldn’t have invited you both for dinner.” She exchanges a guilty look with Ron. “We were looking for a reason to prove to you that he was evil.”
Harry only laughs at that.
“But Harry,” she says, turning to him. “I understand that you’ve gotten over your whole school rivalry thing, but how can you forget the things he said? The things he believed? About people like me, specifically?”
“I haven’t forgotten it, Hermione,” he says seriously. “He’s realized how wrong his family was and he’s been working with Kingsley on reforms within the Ministry.”
Hermione hadn’t realized that.
“And why haven’t we heard any of these apologies? He’s had opportunities,” Ron says. Not many, Hermione thinks, but they’d existed.
“He’s proud, Ron,” Harry says. “It doesn’t help that we all hated each other so much at school.”
“Is that really enough, though?” Hermione asks. She sips her coffee, wincing when it burns her tongue.
“Let him apologize to you. Please. For me.” Harry’s looking at her so earnestly. “If you’d grown up in that kind of family, with Voldemort threatening to kill you and your family if you resisted, don’t you think you’d want a little mercy?”
Hermione hesitates, and then nods, slowly. She supposes so.
“I just can’t wrap my head around it, mate,” Ron says.
“Can you accept that he makes me happy? Even if it doesn’t work out in the end, I don’t want to regret not trying.”
Ron grumbles out something that sounds like, “Guess so.” Hermione nods her assent.
“And, to be honest, Draco was laying it on a bit thick. We spent a lot of time yelling at each other before we ever even became friends, much less….”
“Boyfriends,” Hermione finishes, trying the word out.
“Exactly,” Harry says, with a nervous waver to his voice.
Ron lets out an incredulous laugh. “If you’d told me this was how it was going to work out about two years ago, I’d have laughed my arse off.”
They try again, two days later. The four of them sit around the spindly little table in Harry’s garden. It’s a beautiful day, really, and the garden is blooming with life. Where Harry got this sudden obsession with gardening, Hermione isn’t sure, since he’d shown absolutely no interest in Herbology at school.
She examines Malfoy. She’s going to try this time, try and show him some grace, even if he can’t do the same. The breeze ruffles his blond hair, which had always been severely slicked back at Hogwarts. It’s loose and unstyled now. He’s staring down at his tea, before he lifts his head to speak.
“I’d like to apologize,” he says. “For everything. Dinner the other night, but everything else as well. I was an arrogant and prejudiced fool at Hogwarts, and I hope you believe me when I say I regret every moment of it.”
Not quite what she’d been expecting, but a nice start.
“I appreciate it,” she says carefully.
“Hmm,” Ron says. She shoots him a look.
“I understand why it might be hard for you to believe me, but I’m going to prove myself to you both.” Malfoy hesitates, and then says, “I’m very serious about this relationship.
Harry turns pink, and Ron turns a deep puce color.
“Listen here,” Ron says threateningly. He’s squared up his shoulders, Hermione notes. Definitely trying to look menacing. “If you hurt Harry, you’ll have a lot of people to answer to, you g-'' He cuts himself off, with a glance at Harry.
“I can handle myself fine, thanks,” Harry starts, but Malfoy places a hand on his arm.
“I’m not going to hurt him. Like I said, I’m going to prove myself to you.”
Hermione hesitates, then says, “It’ll be a bit tough at first.”
“Of course.”
“But I think we’re both willing to try.”
Ron lets out a huff, but gives a nod.
“Now,” she says, “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve been up to since the war?”
Malfoy launches into his story, and Harry gazes at him with a sappy look on his face. Just like it’d been with Ginny in sixth year.
It’s not perfect, Hermione thinks, but it’s a good start.
***
And yet, somehow, things take a turn for the worse.
Hermione’s curled up on the bathroom floor. She’d been at work an hour ago, had gone to the toilet because she’d felt like she was going to faint.
A miscarriage. She doesn’t even want to think of that word, apply it to herself. She’d gone to see a healer right after the toilet incident. Her stuff must be at her desk still, she thought.
She’s eighteen years old, she thinks, digging her nails into her palm. Too young for a baby anyways. She’s got to think of her career. She’d decided early on, probably around second year, that she wasn’t going to be having children until twenty seven at the very least, thank you very much. Of course, back then it’d seemed all so abstract. So easy to plan for. And when she’d tried to imagine her husband, her thoughts would start to form into the shape of Ron, but she’d tamp that down right quick.
Ridiculous. It’s not like she would have kept it anyways.
The cool tile of the bathroom floor had helped at first, but the windowless walls started to feel oppressive, closing in around her. She can’t stop fucking bleeding.
She Apparates.
It takes her a minute to realize where she is, but once she realizes it’s almost laughable that she didn’t know at once.
The Forest of Dean.
This was where Ron had left them, she thinks. Two years ago, now.
She’d prefer not to delve into the psychological issues that had led her to this spot today.
Why does everyone leave?
She sits down on a log.
A mother.
She’s reminded of Molly Weasley. A mother who couldn’t save her child, try as she might.
An hour passes. Then two.
There’s a crack behind her, then footsteps. Ron, she thinks.
“Healer sent a message. Told me what happened.”
Right. She’d asked them to do that, in a daze.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just watches.
“How’d you know I was here?” she says finally.
“Took a while, if I’m being honest.” He sits down on the rock next to her.
She can’t stop shaking. “It’s ridiculous. I don’t even know if this is what I wanted.”
“But you didn’t get a choice.” He wraps his arm around her.
“I’d have been a horrible mother.” She knows this, known this for a long time now. Ron would be a wonderful father, but there wasn’t a motherly bone in her body.
“No. You wouldn’t have,” Ron says simply.
“How do you know?” she whispers, feeling pathetic.
“I’ve known you for a good chunk of my life, Hermione, and I’ve never known anyone who loves as deeply as you. You would love a child so fiercely, they wouldn’t know what to do with all that love.”
She lets out a sob, naked and ugly. Ron interlaces their fingers together. His hand is freezing.
“I just can’t bear it, Ron. The leaving. Why does everyone leave?”
“Hermione,” he says, voice breaking.
“I’m scared, you know. I’ve always been scared. That you’re going to leave and I’ll be all alone again.” She turns to him. “I know it’s not fair, but I can’t help it. I don’t think I’ll ever not be afraid of losing you.”
Ron is silent. The wind rustles his hair a little bit, and her heart aches.
“I have a list,” he says, finally.
“What?”
“My biggest regrets. The Yule Ball. Lavender. And this is right there at the top.” He gestures to the forest around them. “And I am so sorry. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to tell you how sorry I am. Whatever happens, I’m never leaving you. Ever.”
She’s crying now, sobs wracking her body.
But Ron doesn’t stop there. “Every time I look at you, Hermione, it’s like I’m falling in love all over again.” He’s kneeling, her hand clutched in between his. “You are the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Ron,” she says, “I can’t…”
“I know. I know.” He stands, and she lets herself be pulled up.
“Let’s go home. Got your stuff on the way out, by the way.”
Hermione squeezes his hand and doesn’t know who to thank for this.
***
Life goes on and, slowly, it gets better.
“Ron,” she says hesitantly, on a late September night. “I think I’m ready. For the next step, I mean.”
Ron stops stirring the soup immediately and whips his head around. “You mean… What exactly are you talking about?”
Hermione gives him a look.
“Listen,” he says hastily, “I’m almost completely certain I know, but I don’t want to assume and be wrong. So if you could maybe, just like, spell it out a little further. I’d, um. Be much obliged.”
This was the part she’d been dreading. “Well. If you wanted to propose. I would not be against it.”
Ron makes a strangled noise. “Wouldn’t be against it?”
“I would be very, very pleased, actually.” Her cheeks are flaming, she just knows it.
Ron stares at her for about five seconds, then reaches into his pocket. All of a sudden, he’s holding a small box.
“Oh,” she says, almost a whisper.
Ron’s on one knee.
“Hermione Granger,” he says, voice sounding dangerously wobbly. “I have loved you for most of my life-”
“Yes. Ron, yes, a thousand times yes.” She’s crying now, can hardly speak.
“You didn’t even let me finish,” he chokes out, almost a sob. “You daft-”
“Save it for the vows,” she says, and kisses him.
They have to come up for air at some point, and Ron gasps out, “I’m sorry, I should have waited, I was just so happy-”
“Shut up,” she says, peppering his face with kisses, “It was perfect, you lump.” She hesitates, then asks in a small voice, “How long have you had the ring?”
“Bought it right after you finished eighth year. Just been waiting for the right time.”
“You did not.”
“‘Course I did. Only started carrying it around a few months ago, though.”
There’s a certain feeling that she’s only felt a handful of times in her life. When she was accepted to Hogwarts (finally, an explanation for why she’d never fit in). When she’d looked at Ron and Harry, Halloween of first year, and realized they might actually like her (finally, friends, people who liked her). When Ron had kissed her in the Chamber of Secrets (finally, things falling into place, just as it always should have been).
Somehow, this is better.
“I’m sorry I made you wait so long,” she whispers that night, tracing lines on his chest.
“I would have waited forever,” he says, squeezing her tight. “Although I probably would have started nagging you about it after a bit, if we’re being completely honest.”
She laughs, and wraps her leg around his. Crookshanks makes a sound of discontent from the foot of the bed.
It’ll be alright.