Work Text:
Act 1: The Spark of the Bet
It was one of those quiet evenings at home, the kind that came with the gentle hum of a crackling fire and the soft glow of candlelight, but somehow still felt empty. The kind of evening where time seemed to stretch longer than necessary, as if the mundane rituals of married life were inching forward, too slow to keep up with their thoughts.
Ron and Hermione sat across from each other at their kitchen table, a half-eaten plate of pasta in front of them, untouched breadsticks on the side. The conversation had been polite, but distant—about the new books Hermione had been reading lately, a passing mention of a case at work from Ron, and a brief, uninspired comment about how the weather had been unusually dry for the season. It had all the life and excitement of a particularly uninspiring report on potion-making regulations.
Ron twirled his fork idly, his gaze wandering from his plate to the clock on the wall. It was only just past seven, but already, it felt like the evening was dragging. He was aware of it—aware of the feeling of stillness in the air—and, though he hated to admit it, it made him fidgety. He was used to having something to do, something to chase after, but tonight, there was nothing. No games, no new magical gadgets to talk about, not even a bit of gossip from the Weasley family.
He cleared his throat, pushing his plate away. "Blimey, Mione, are we... I dunno, turning into one of those couples?" He glanced up at her with a raised eyebrow. "The ones that just sit in silence and eat their meals like, I dunno, old married people?"
Hermione, who had been carefully slicing her breadstick into precise pieces, looked up and met his gaze. Her brow furrowed slightly as she set the breadstick down, not bothering to finish it. "What, you mean the kind of couple who have meaningful conversations about work and life and—"
"The kind of couple who sit down to dinner and realize we’ve been talking about the same thing for the last hour," Ron cut in, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms out in a mock yawn. "Blimey, we’ve gone and done it, haven’t we? We’ve got the whole ‘comfortable, nothing-left-to-say’ vibe going on. Don’t worry, Hermione, I’ll be knitting a blanket before long, and you’ll start taking up crochet or something."
She rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance in her expression. She let out a short laugh, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I think I’d prefer knitting. At least I could make us matching scarves." She paused, studying him for a moment. "And as for the 'nothing left to say'... I’m just not sure how I feel about it. I mean, when we first started dating, we were always talking—about everything and anything. And now…" She trailed off, unsure of what she was trying to say, as if the words hadn’t quite formed in her mind.
Ron leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "I don’t know. Maybe it’s just... us getting older or something. Or maybe it’s just the rut of routine, you know? We both work, and then we come home, and it’s... well, this." He waved his hand vaguely around.
Hermione nodded slowly, her lips pressed together as she thought. "You’re right. It’s not that I’m unhappy, it’s just... I don’t know. It feels like we’re stuck in a cycle. Like, I can’t remember the last time we did something spontaneous."
Ron raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "Spontaneous? We’ve been together for years, Hermione. I’d say the spontaneous bit’s been left behind somewhere after we figured out how to handle all this... adulting."
She narrowed her eyes at him, trying her best to look stern. "Adulting? That’s what you call it? You do realize you’re referring to our lives as though they’re a boring schedule, don’t you?"
Ron chuckled, his grin widening. "I mean, you’re the one who made a schedule for our laundry. How exciting can that be, eh?"
Hermione’s mouth opened to respond, but then she froze, her eyes widening slightly. She looked at Ron, her gaze flickering between his face and the table, before she spoke, her voice tinged with mock seriousness. "Oh, don’t pretend you don’t love it when I organize. You’ve got that look, that ‘thank Merlin Hermione is the responsible one’ look on your face every time we have to plan something."
Ron let out a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes. "I love it, Hermione, I do. I mean, who wouldn’t? You know how to make everything look so tidy and proper, whereas I just... well, I’m pretty sure if I was left alone to organize the house, it’d be a disaster."
Hermione’s lips curled into a smile, and she leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Exactly. And you love me for it, don’t you?"
Ron smirked, eyes twinkling. "Of course I do. You’re the best at making sense of the mess, whether it’s the laundry or me."
There was a long pause, and Hermione felt her heart flutter slightly in her chest. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, this whole routine thing. It was familiar, comfortable, and full of affection in its own way. She glanced at Ron, the warm glow of the candles reflecting in his eyes.
"Ron?" she said softly, the teasing smile still on her lips. "Maybe we’re just in a bit of a... lull. But that doesn’t mean we can’t shake things up a little, right?"
Ron raised an eyebrow, his tone light but with an edge of curiosity. "Oh? What did you have in mind?"
Hermione leaned forward, her hands resting on the table. "I don’t know. I think we should do something... spontaneous. No planning, no schedules. Just see what happens." Her voice dropped into a playful tone. "What do you say, Weasley?"
Ron’s grin widened, and without a second thought, he leaned across the table, his face only inches from hers. "Sounds like the perfect challenge."
It wasn’t long before they found out that something spontaneous as a few days later, Harry came to visit them. They were sitting in the living room of their cozy little flat in the evening with Hermione absorbed in a book, while Ron sat across from her, fiddling with a small piece of parchment he’d been flipping between his fingers. The soft crackling of the fire suddenly flickered, and a burst of green light swirled up from the grate, signaling the arrival of a visitor. Before they could react, Harry’s familiar figure stepped out of the flames
He stood before them, looking a little worse for wear—his brow furrowed, and his posture was slightly tense.
"Harry?" Ron said. "What’s up, mate? You okay?"
Hermione immediately stood, her concern evident. "Harry, you look—well, not great. What’s going on? You look like you’ve been through a war."
Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, looking frustrated. "I might as well have been," he muttered. "I need some advice."
Ron raised an eyebrow, glancing at Hermione before gesturing for Harry to sit. "Alright, mate, what’s going on?"
Harry took a deep breath and sank into the armchair across from them. "It’s Ginny," he began, rubbing his face tiredly. "We had a massive row this morning. About everything, really."
Hermione frowned and crossed her arms. "What happened?"
"It’s this blasted Quidditch schedule of hers. She’s been so busy lately with the national team, and I get it—she’s at the top of her game. But it feels like ever since we got married, it’s like we don’t have time for each other anymore."
Ron frowned, clearly sensing where this was going. "And you tried talking to her about it, I take it?"
Harry nodded. "Yeah, but that’s when it all went wrong. I told her I missed spending time with her, and she started getting defensive, saying I didn’t understand how important her career was. And then… well, I said something I shouldn’t have."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, her concern growing. "What exactly did you say?"
Harry winced. "I told her that maybe it wasn’t that big a deal if she took a break from Quidditch for a while. That maybe it was time she stopped putting her career first and started focusing on us, on our life together."
Hermione’s eyes widened in disbelief. "You said that? Harry, you know Ginny is passionate about Quidditch. She’s worked so hard to get where she is. You can’t just downplay that."
Ron’s face scrunched in a wince. "Ouch, mate. That sounds like a rookie mistake."
Harry sank into the chair. "I know. I didn’t mean it like that. I was just frustrated. It feels like we’ve been so caught up in our own careers that we’ve barely had time for each other, and I didn’t know how else to express it. But now, every time I try to apologize, she just gets more upset, and I’m stuck in this mess. I don’t know how to fix it."
Hermione sighed and rubbed her temples, thinking for a moment before speaking. "You didn’t mean to hurt her, but Harry, you have to understand how it might have come across. Ginny has always been fiercely independent, and her career is important to her. It’s not just about the sport—it’s part of who she is. You have to respect that."
Ron nodded in agreement. "Yeah, Ginny’s not the type to just drop her dreams for anyone. You should’ve known that going in."
Harry looked down. "I know, I know. But I just miss us. I miss the days when we could do simple things together without the pressure of schedules. How do I make her understand that without sounding like I’m attacking her career?"
Hermione exchanged a glance with Ron before speaking softly. "You’ve got to approach this carefully, Harry. You need to let her know that you support her dreams—but also express that you miss her, and you want to find a way to make your relationship a priority again. Sometimes, when you’re in the heat of an argument, it’s easy to say things you don’t mean."
Ron leaned forward. "Look, Hermione and I’ve had a few arguments about similar things, you know? About work and life balance. I remember one time, we were both so caught up in our own stuff that I barely noticed how much she was struggling with it all. She felt like I didn’t care enough, and it took us ages to figure it out."
Hermione nodded, her voice quieter now. "We had to sit down and really talk about what was bothering us—what we both needed from the relationship.”
Harry was quiet for a moment, processing their advice. "You’re right. I think I’ve been so focused on missing her that I didn’t stop to think about what she needs, too. I’ll go to her, apologize properly, and let her know I’m not trying to take her career away. I just want to make sure we’re both making time for each other."
Ron grinned, patting him on the back. "That’s the spirit, mate. You’ll get it sorted. You two are solid. Just give it time."
Harry stood up, offering a thankful smile. "Thanks, both of you. I really appreciate it."
When Harry left, the room settled back into its quiet state. Ron slouched back into his seat, grinning mischievously.
"You know, I reckon Harry’s going to turn up at Ginny’s practice tomorrow with some ridiculous apology—flowers, chocolates, the whole lot."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Flowers, you say?"
"Yep," Ron smirked. "Bet he’ll do it by midday."
"A bet, is it? You’re betting on Harry and Ginny’s relationship now?"
Ron shrugged nonchalantly. "Why not? It’s fun. We’ve got to spice things up somehow. What do you think, Hermione? You in?"
Hermione gave him an exasperated look, but a sly grin began tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Oh, you’re on. I’ll bet you that Harry won’t do anything like that for at least two days.I think he’ll wait a bit longer to avoid looking desperate."
Ron raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the challenge. "You’re on. Let’s see who’s right."
"I’ll keep track," Hermione said with a wink. "Just don’t be surprised when I win, Ron."
Ron leaned in, his voice low and teasing. "We’ll see about that, Granger. We’ll see."
And just like that, their first bet was born.
Act 2: The Betting Escalates
Over the following months, Ron and Hermione found themselves caught up in this strange, new pastime: placing bets on the lives of their family and friends. It started innocently enough with Harry and Ginny’s argument, but before long, the bets had expanded, and it became a regular part of their routine.
Ron and Hermione stood in the middle of the grocery shop’s bread aisle, surrounded by shelves of baguettes and crumpets. Ron was leaning on the trolley, watching Hermione as she carefully compared two loaves of seeded bread.
"I’m telling you, Hermione. George is going to crack first. I bet you five Sickles he admits he’s the one who burnt the cauldron in the shop before Fred does."
Hermione snorted, shifting her weight to one leg as she inspected the bread in her hand. "Oh, please, Ron. George may be clever, but he has no patience for guilt. Fred, on the other hand, loves a bit of drama. He’ll confess just to get the attention."
"You don’t know George like I do," Ron countered, smirking. "The man has a guilt threshold thinner than one of Mum’s soup crackers. Fred’s the showman. George is the apologiser."
Hermione arched a brow, finally tossing the bread into the trolley. "And yet, who was it that spilled pumpkin juice all over Percy’s essays when you were ten? And who kept quiet while Fred took the fall?"
Ron’s mouth fell open in mock indignation. "That was different! Fred volunteered to take the blame. Said it was worth it for the look on Percy’s face."
Hermione started to push the trolley forward, a sly smile tugging at her lips. "Exactly. Fred knows how to play a crowd, which is why he’ll crack first. You’re going to owe me, Weasley."
Ron trailed after her, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. "You’ll never understand the nuances of twin dynamics. It’s practically an art form."
Hermione cast him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "What I understand is that you’re grasping at straws, and you know it."
He grinned, stepping closer. "Admit it, though. You enjoy this little rivalry of ours. Makes me even more irresistible, doesn’t it?"
Hermione huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "You’re incorrigible." But the way her cheeks flushed as she turned away didn’t go unnoticed by Ron.
The bedroom was dimly lit, the soft glow of a magical lamp casting golden light across the cosy space. Hermione was perched on the bed, legs crossed and a book in her lap, while Ron leaned against the dresser, looking far too smug.
"So," he began, crossing his arms, "we agreed the bet was who would get engaged first: Angelina and Fred, or Percy and Audrey?"
"Yes," Hermione replied without looking up, flipping a page in her book.
Ron straightened up. "Right, well, Percy’s just owled Mum to say he’s planning a surprise dinner for Audrey next week. And we both know Percy doesn’t do surprises unless he’s up to something serious."
Hermione finally looked up, her lips twitching. "It doesn’t mean he’s proposing. Percy could just be overcompensating for forgetting her birthday last month."
"Overcompensating with a private dinner at The Golden Griffin?" Ron challenged. "Come on, Hermione. That’s proposal territory. Face it, I’ve got this one in the bag."
Hermione snapped her book shut, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oh, Ron. Your faith in Percy’s romantic timing is... sweet, but misguided. Fred and Angelina have been practically inseparable. It’s obvious Fred will pop the question first."
"Obvious to you, maybe," Ron said, stepping closer to her and leaning down slightly. "But when I win, I think I’ll claim my victory prize in kisses."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, feigning unimpressed. "How charming. And when I win?"
Ron smirked, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. "You’ll be too distracted by my dashing good looks to remember what you wanted."
Hermione laughed, swatting him lightly with her book. "You’re impossible."
"And yet, you love me," Ron replied cheekily, earning another eye roll—but this time, she was smiling.
The warm hum of chatter filled the Burrow, as the Weasley family gathered for their weekly dinner. Ron and Hermione sat off to the side near the window, plates balanced on their laps. Their heads were close together, voices hushed so as not to draw attention.
“I’m just saying,” Ron whispered, gesturing with his fork, “Bill’s going to cave first. He’s already got that look—like a bloke who knows he’s lost the argument but hasn’t figured out how to admit it yet.”
Hermione raised a brow, casually taking a bite of her roast. “Oh, please. Fleur’s practically mastered the art of the cold shoulder. If she holds out for one more day, Bill will crack like an egg.”
Ron smirked. “That’s where you’re wrong. You don’t know Bill like I do. He’s got this thing—he’ll dig his heels in just to prove a point. It’s a Weasley trait.”
“Funny,” Hermione said, her tone dry. “Because the last time I checked, you begged for forgiveness over leaving your socks in the sink after—what was it? Two hours?”
Ron spluttered. “That’s completely different! You’re terrifying when you’re annoyed. Bill doesn’t have that problem with Fleur. He’s immune to it—has to be, considering she’s got that Veela thing going on. Doesn’t faze him.”
Hermione tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Ron, Fleur could bring a dragon to its knees with just a glance. Bill’s as good as done.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice even more. “And if you’re wrong?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, a sly grin forming. “If I’m wrong, I’ll—” She paused, pretending to think. “I’ll cook dinner for a week. Your choice. But when I’m right, you’re doing the laundry. All of it. Including the socks you leave in the sink.”
Ron grinned, his ears turning slightly pink. “Deal. And when Bill caves tonight—because he will—I’ll enjoy every second of watching you try to make Yorkshire pudding without burning it.”
“Oh, you’d better hope you lose,” Hermione shot back, leaning ever so slightly closer. “Because if I lose, Ron, your stomach won’t survive.”
Ron winced, remembering Hermione’s latest attempt at ‘cooking’. “Well… I haven’t considered that.”
Hermione smirked. “And yet, you’re still sitting here arguing with me.”
“Can’t resist the challenge,” he replied smoothly, his voice teasing. “Or the company.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Ronald,” she said, but the faint blush creeping up her neck betrayed her.
Just then, Fleur walked past, her chin held high and an air of icy calm surrounding her. Bill trailed behind, looking decidedly sheepish, muttering something under his breath. Fleur ignored him entirely, her nose in the air as she disappeared into the kitchen.
Ron leaned back, a victorious grin spreading across his face. “And there it is. The beginning of the end.”
Hermione frowned, watching Bill’s retreating figure. “He’s not giving in yet. That’s just strategy.”
“Sure it is,” Ron said, trying not to laugh. “Just admit you’re wrong now. Save yourself the humiliation.”
“Never,” Hermione said firmly, though her lips twitched.
From across the room, Harry and Ginny exchanged curious glances, clearly noticing the intense whispering and occasional grins from Ron and Hermione.
“What are you two plotting over there?” Ginny finally called out.
“Nothing!” they chorused, both a little too quickly.
As Ginny narrowed her eyes suspiciously, Ron leaned toward Hermione and whispered, “Double or nothing Ginny tries to get it out of us by dessert?”
Hermione stifled a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re on.”
Act 3: The Bet Box Is Discovered
The evening at Ron and Hermione’s house was supposed to be uneventful. Harry and Ginny had popped by for tea and a catch-up, the conversation light and familiar. But as Harry wandered into the sitting room in search of a misplaced cup, he noticed a small wooden box tucked under the coffee table.
“Found anything interesting?” Ginny called from the kitchen, where she was helping herself to a biscuit.
“Just this,” Harry replied, lifting the box. It was unassuming, save for the faint shimmer of a charm glowing faintly around it. “It’s locked.”
Ginny poked her head around the corner, curiosity instantly piqued. “Ooh, what’s in there?”
Harry frowned, turning the box over in his hands. “No idea. Probably something private. We should leave it alone.”
But Ginny’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Oh, come on, Harry. It’s just Ron and Hermione. How bad could it be?”
“Ginny, it’s their business,” Harry said firmly, but his conviction wavered as she sidled closer, clearly determined.
“Harry,” she said sweetly, “if it were truly private, they wouldn’t leave it lying about.”
Harry sighed. “I don’t know...”
“Fine,” Ginny huffed, crossing her arms. “Give it here, I’ll do it.” Before Harry could argue, she drew her wand and muttered a quick unlocking spell. The charm shimmered briefly, then dissipated with a soft click.
“You didn’t even hesitate,” Harry said, incredulous.
Ginny smirked. “Nope.” She lifted the lid of the box, her expression shifting from triumph to confusion as she pulled out a stack of parchment.
Harry stepped closer, reading over her shoulder. The first piece of parchment had this, “Hermione bets Ron that Fleur will announce her next pregnancy announcement before Christmas”
As they pulled out similar pieces of parchment, they all had some sort of bet written on them—wagers on George’s next romantic pursuit, Percy’s likelihood of taking a holiday, a “Ron bets Hermione that Harry will go out more on their first anniversary”.
Ginny froze, her grip on the parchment tightening. “What the hell is this?”
Harry’s face burned as he scanned the notes. “They’ve been… keeping track. Betting on all of us.”
“They’re making jokes about our lives!” Ginny snapped, her voice rising.
Harry tried to remain calm, but he couldn’t hide the disappointment in his tone. “I don’t know what they were thinking. This isn’t like them.”
Ginny’s temper flared. “Isn’t it? Ron always thinks he’s funny, and Hermione loves to think she’s clever. Clearly, this is their idea of ‘fun’—treating us like we’re a game to be won.”
She tossed the parchment back into the box with a forceful shove, her face reddening. “Betting on our first anniversary, Harry? Like it’s some sort of race or contest to see who’s more invested? Who does that?!”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, his frustration building. “Ginny, I’m not defending them, but let’s not blow this out of proportion—”
“Not blow it out of proportion?” she interrupted, glaring. “Harry, they wrote down details about our marriage, about what we’d want to do on one of the most personal days of our lives. What if they’ve shared this with anyone else? What if it’s all just a laugh to them?”
Harry held up a hand. “I’m upset too, but shouting won’t fix anything.”
Ginny took a deep breath, though her expression didn’t soften. “We’re confronting them about this.”
Harry nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But we’ll do it calmly.”
Ginny didn’t respond, storming off towards the kitchen to grab her things. Harry sighed, closing the box with a snap and sneaking it into his robes for later.
And they did indeed get confronted. Later that Friday, Ron and Hermione walked into the Burrow for the weekly family dinner, blissfully unaware that they were walking into an ambush. The usual clatter of cutlery and cheerful chatter was conspicuously absent. Instead, the entire Weasley family sat at the table, looking far too serious.
At the centre of it all, like some incriminating artefact, was the box.
Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, her hand tightening around Ron’s arm. “Oh no,” she whispered.
Ron’s brow furrowed as he glanced at the scene. “What’s going on? Did someone die?” His eyes fell on the box. “Wait... is that—?”
Ginny rose from her chair, arms crossed, her eyes blazing. “Explain yourselves.”
Ron groaned. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake. Who told you about the box?”
Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “I told myself, actually, when I found it at your house.” She jabbed a finger at Harry, who was standing awkwardly near the door, clearly wishing he were anywhere else. “Well, Harry and I found it. Imagine our disappointment when we found what was inside.”
“I said it was a bad idea,” Harry muttered.
“And yet,” Ginny said pointedly.
Ron groaned. “Ginny, it’s not a big deal. They’re just silly bets. No one else was supposed to see them!”
“Not a big deal?” Percy interjected, waving a parchment in the air. “You’ve been betting on my life. ‘Will Percy take a holiday this year?’ Really, Ron? You think I’m that predictable?”
“Mate,” Fred said, stifling a laugh, “you are that predictable.”
George nodded sagely. “The odds were very much against you, Perce. Ron was just stating facts.”
“Don’t make this about me!” Percy snapped, his face reddening.
Ginny slammed her hands on the table. “This isn’t about Percy. It’s about how you’ve been treating us like a game!”
Molly, who had been sitting quietly, finally spoke up, her expression stern. “I’d like to hear their explanation.”
Hermione straightened her posture. “It wasn’t malicious, I promise. It was just... something we started during a quiet phase in our relationship. A way to keep things interesting.”
“A way to keep things interesting?” Ginny repeated, incredulous. “You’ve got a two-year-old marriage, Hermione. How boring could it possibly be?”
“Thank you!” Fred chimed in. “They’re practically newlyweds. They should be doing less betting and more—”
“Fred,” Molly warned.
Ron cleared his throat, sensing the conversation spiralling. “Look, we didn’t mean any harm. It’s just a bit of fun between us. We’re not, like, running a betting pool with strangers.”
“But you’re betting on us,” Ginny said, her voice shaking. “On my relationship with Harry. On Percy’s job. On George’s love life—”
“Actually,” George interrupted, picking up one of the notes, “this one’s not bad. ‘Will George date someone he actually likes or just another fling?’ Honestly, I’m flattered you’re paying attention.”
Fred snorted. “I’d have bet on the flings.”
Ginny turned on them. “This isn’t a joke!”
“Exactly!” Percy huffed. “It’s a blatant invasion of privacy!”
“Percy, no one cares about your holiday plans!” Ron said, exasperated.
“I care!” Percy shot back.
Bill, who had been quiet until now, finally spoke. “I just don’t understand why you’d do something so invasive.” His expression was a mix of disappointment and confusion, which somehow made the guilt worse.
“It wasn’t invasive!” Ron protested. “We weren’t spying or anything. We just... made guesses based on what we already knew. It’s not like we kept a telescope pointed at your windows.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying it was a hobby?”
“Exactly!” Ron said, seizing the opportunity. “It was a hobby. Like chess or knitting. Just... less, er, tangible.”
“I think we’re losing them,” Hermione muttered under her breath.
Ginny crossed her arms. “Well, your hobby made me feel mocked and disrespected. How would you feel if the rest of us started betting on your lives?”
Fred grinned. “Oh, that’s easy. I’d bet ten Sickles Ron burns breakfast tomorrow.”
George added, “And fifteen that Hermione nags him about it before he finishes cleaning up.”
“Oi!” Ron barked, his ears turning red. “I’m right here!”
“Fred, George, this is serious!” Ginny snapped.
Fred waved her off. “Relax, Gin. Ron and Hermione have been like this forever. They probably thought they were being adorable.”
“We are adorable,” Ron said.
Ginny glared at him. “Not the time, Ron.”
Harry, who had also been quiet for most of the exchange, finally spoke up, his voice calm. “Ron, Hermione, we get that you didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but you’ve got to see how this feels from our side. It’s not fun for us. It’s... insulting.”
Hermione’s face softened. “You’re right, Harry. It wasn’t fair to you—or anyone. We should’ve been more thoughtful.”
Ron, looking at Hermione, sighed. “Yeah, alright. We’ll stop.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean that?”
Ron shrugged. “Well, I mean, we’ll stop making bets. But I reserve the right to silently judge George’s love life.”
“Oi!” George said, chuckling.
“Ron!” Hermione scolded, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice.
Molly clapped her hands. “Right, that’s enough of this nonsense. Everyone sit down. Dinner’s getting cold.”
As the family finally settled in, Hermione leaned towards Ron and whispered, “I still think I’d have won that Percy bet.”
Ron smirked. “Not worth the trouble, love.”
“Hmm,” Hermione replied with a small smile. “We’ll see.”
Act 4: The Final Twist
Later that night, the Burrow was still. The chaos of the dinner had finally subsided, and the house was quiet save for the occasional creak of the old walls and the soft rustle of wind outside.
In their cosy bedroom, Molly sat at the edge of the bed, her hands busy folding a knitted jumper that Arthur had carelessly draped over a chair. She sighed, her shoulders dropping as she finished her task and glanced over at her husband, who was propped up in bed with his reading glasses perched on his nose, flipping through a well-worn book about Muggle trains.
“Well,” Molly said, breaking the silence. “That was quite the spectacle at dinner, wasn’t it?”
Arthur chuckled, setting his book down. “Spectacle’s one word for it. I was half-expecting Ginny to throw the gravy boat at Ron’s head.”
“She came close,” Molly muttered, shaking her head as she sat beside him. “Honestly, I thought we raised them better than to air such private business in front of the whole family.” She paused, her tone softening as a sly smile crept across her face. “Though I must admit, Ron and Hermione’s little betting game is… familiar.”
Arthur looked over his glasses at her, his eyes twinkling. “Familiar, you say?”
Molly leaned back against the pillows and gave him a knowing look. “You know exactly what I mean.”
Arthur grinned. “You mean how we’ve spent decades doing the exact same thing? A chip off the old block, wouldn’t you say?”
“Shh!” Molly hissed, swatting his arm lightly. “Keep your voice down. If anyone finds out, we’ll never hear the end of it.”
Arthur chuckled, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s uncanny, though. Ron and Hermione starting their own little tradition. Almost makes you proud, doesn’t it?”
Molly rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Proud? Hardly. If Ginny finds out we’ve been at it longer than they have, she’ll disown us both. And let’s not forget Fred and George—imagine the pranks if they ever got their hands on our notes!”
Arthur laughed softly. “I suppose you’re right. Though I must say, it’s been quite the tradition, hasn’t it? Who’d have thought our little wager on whether Ron or Ginny would marry first would lead to all this?”
Molly’s expression softened as she reminisced. “Or how long it would take Percy to work up the nerve to ask Audrey out,” she added with a chuckle. “That one kept us guessing for ages.”
“Not to mention the time we bet on Fred and George’s first shop opening,” Arthur said, his smile tinged with fondness. “I seem to recall someone lost quite a few Galleons on that one.”
Molly sniffed, pretending to look affronted. “That was an investment in their future, not a loss.”
Arthur reached over, patting her hand gently. “Of course, dear.”
They both laughed quietly. The light from the bedside lamp cast a soft glow over their faces, and for a moment, the years seemed to melt away, leaving them as the young couple who had first started their secret betting tradition.
Molly reached over and extinguished the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. “We’ll just have to make sure no one ever finds our box,” she murmured.
“Agreed,” Arthur replied, his voice tinged with amusement. “Though I wouldn’t mind seeing Ron and Hermione’s faces if they did. Talk about a family legacy.”
“Arthur!” Molly whispered sharply, but there was laughter in her tone.
Their chuckles faded into the stillness of the night, the weight of the day lifting as they drifted off, their secret safe for another day.
Epilogue: Ron and Hermione Did Not Learn Their Lesson
A few weeks later, Ron and Hermione were nestled on their sofa at home. The remnants of dinner sat forgotten on the coffee table, and the atmosphere was quiet and cosy, save for the faint crackle of the flames.
Ron stretched his legs out, his arm slung lazily around Hermione’s shoulders. “Well, I’d say we’ve learned our lesson.”
Hermione arched an eyebrow, turning to face him. “Have we, though?”
Ron thought about it for a moment. “Sort of.”
Hermione laughed softly, shaking her head. “I still think Fred will propose on Valentine’s Day, you know,” she said, her voice playful.
Ron tilted his head, his grin widening. “You wanna bet?”
She gave him a sly smirk but didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned in and kissed him, her hand lightly resting on his chest.
When Hermione pulled back from the kiss, Ron began to sing with an exaggeratedly dramatic voice, horribly off-key.
“And when I win, you’ll owe me five galleons,
And it won’t matter that we share the same vault,
‘Cause I’ll still have won, and you’ll have to face it,
I’m always right, it’s just how we’re fated!”
Hermione laughed, rolling her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“But charming,” Ron added with a wink, before pulling her back in for another kiss.