109. hey baby, i think i wanna marry you
Title | hey baby, i think i wanna marry you
Chapter | 1/1
Rating | pg
Characters | Hermione. Ron/Hermione, hints of Harry/Hermione, Ron/Hermione/Harry.
Summary | Everything that shouldn't happen on their wedding day - well, it happens.
Notes | HP!fic, my first ever, possibly connected to something else I'm writing. DH did things to my heart, and this is the result.
His first proposal takes place approximately twelve minutes after Voldemort finally, finally dies.
There is a moment of shock for everyone, and then their minds go straight to the same place - harry harry harry is harry alright.
(He is.)
Ron's hug is so forceful that it lifts her off the ground, takes her breath away, sends a peal of laughter tumbling from her lips as he spins them both around. Her fingers are like claws against his shoulders as he presses his face into her hair.
She breathes, "Don't let me go."
His kiss drowns out the rest of the world, tunes out the symphony of grief and joy around them.
"Marry me." It's two words, caught between their mouths, meant only for her ears.
Hermione cries and he doesn't let her go.
The next moment, the next day, the next month - they pretend it never happened.
There is a lot of planning: bury the dead, hug one another, restore order to the Ministry and the wizarding world, rebuild houses, buy new wands.
For a while they don't talk about what comes after that, about the fact that once all of the practical matters are taken care of and they have a grace period in which they can breathe, the real challenge here is that they'll have to start anew.
Hermione has done this before. She turned her life around on her eleventh birthday, hopped on the Hogwarts express and met her best friends, only looked back during the holidays. Not so long ago, she erased every bit of evidence of her life in the Muggle world.
It's harder for the boys. Harry went from being nothing to being everything, and she's not sure he knows how to exist in between. And Ron, Ron is missing a brother but more than that he's missing a fear - he doesn't quite know how to live in a world where there isn't a name everyone is terrified of even uttering for fear of invoking dark magic.
Hermione waves her wand to plant lots of flowers and tries to find something to laugh about at least once a day. She holds a lot of hands.
Ron goes with her to Australia, to her parents.
Her heart is already pounding when they appear, seemingly out of nowhere, in a field in the outback.
And then she turns around and she's fairly certain it stops beating altogether.
Ron's kneeling on the ground with cheeks as red as his hair and that crooked smile she's always found endearing - later, when her knees are grass-stained and she's standing on the doorstep of her parents' house trying to fix her hair, he will loop an arm low around her waist and whisper that he wanted her to be able to introduce him tell her parents properly.
"This is my fiancé," she says once the hugging and explaining and disbelieving crying has been done. She does not trip over the words. She's never been that kind of girl.
He gives her father a strong handshake and they stay in Australia for nearly a month. Harry's name, for the first time in ever, does not surface much in conversation.
His third proposal takes place in London, champagne and an heirloom ring. That is the one she says yes to, a quiet, official whisper against his lips.
Everything that shouldn't happen on their wedding day - well, it happens.
It rains. Soft, eerie rain and it's all she can hear, the pitter-patter of the rain against the hood of her cloak. She can't even hear her own footsteps or her own breathing. Anyone could sneak up on her and she'd probably never know.
She gets ready in the room in the Weasley where she slept on countless summer nights, where she woke up on snowy mornings. Ginny and Fleur sit curled up on the bed in bridesmaid dresses, silent but smiling, and Molly Weasley's hands put a tiara on her head like a crown Hermione's not entirely sure she deserves.
"You've always been like a daughter to me." Molly's smile is soft at the edges. "Let's make it official, shall we?" she asks, a cue for Ginny's happy giggles.
Hermione gives her a bone-crushing hug and clings tightly. There is a hole in this family, she knows; a ginger-haired, cheeky, boy-shaped hole that is held together with stitches that snap sometimes.
She loves Ron with her whole heart, she loves his family with everything she has to give.
But she isn't super-glue.
Her mother fluffs the skirt of her wedding dress.
"You look so beautiful." Her lips move and Hermione hears her words but her eyes say - you're so young.
"I do."
He says it and she says it and it's still raining, a steady thrum against the canvas tent, the slow slide of tears against the cheeks of everyone in the room.
Their teeth knock when they kiss. Ron laughs into her mouth and for a moment she feels incredibly safe, like she's fourteen all over again, knowing how he felt about her before he even knew it himself.
Harry is best man and his toast makes her cry, her head against Ron's shoulder and her champagne flute lifted high in the air. In her peripheral vision she catches the look in Ginny's eyes, stars and sparkles like Harry's her whole world, and when he's done and everyone's applauding and whistling, she and Ron stand up to hug him at the same time - and they spend a few too many moments in that group hug, the three of them -
the three of them.
She kisses Harry in the broom closet.
It's a first and a last all rolled into one. She's drunk, the kind of drunk that people are still cautious about even now in the aftermath of the war, tipsy and giddy and joyful.
There is moisture on her cheeks, though, and he wipes it away.
"It's alright," he says with an easiness her state of intoxication won't quite allow her to comprehend. His eyes - funny how everyone called them Lily's eyes but she's never known them as anyone's but his - look dark with that understanding. He smiles at her. "I'm used to closets," he jokes.
He fixes her lipstick with a thumb against the curve of her bottom lip, takes her by the hand and when they duck out of the closet her leads her onto the dance floor.
Ron cuts in. One hand on Harry's shoulder and the other soft against her wrist, "May I have this dance?" but it's never really been a question for any of them.
He spins her around and then pulls her close. "You've got a little something…"
His hand lifts, his knuckle brushing over her lips, cleaning whatever smudge Harry must have left.
She can feel his mother's eyes and her mother's eyes on them as they move slowly around the dance floor, wrapped up securely in each other. She tucks her head against his neck.
"I love you." She doesn't have to wait for him to say it back to know that he loves her, too.
It stops raining at nightfall.
Ron sweeps her up in his arms, carrying her like a princess to the sound of George wolf-whistling at twice the necessary volume.
Her hair falls slowly out of its updo and she sighs, "Honestly, Ronald."
His smile shines. "Honestly, 'Mione."
She's reading to disapparate, to embark on their honeymoon, to start living out happily ever after and whatever else that might entail. But he holds her for an extra moment, looking at her with the kind of serious eyes she rarely associates with him.
"Don't let me go," he says.
Arms twined around his neck; she doesn't.
fin
Chapter | 1/1
Rating | pg
Characters | Hermione. Ron/Hermione, hints of Harry/Hermione, Ron/Hermione/Harry.
Summary | Everything that shouldn't happen on their wedding day - well, it happens.
Notes | HP!fic, my first ever, possibly connected to something else I'm writing. DH did things to my heart, and this is the result.
His first proposal takes place approximately twelve minutes after Voldemort finally, finally dies.
There is a moment of shock for everyone, and then their minds go straight to the same place - harry harry harry is harry alright.
(He is.)
Ron's hug is so forceful that it lifts her off the ground, takes her breath away, sends a peal of laughter tumbling from her lips as he spins them both around. Her fingers are like claws against his shoulders as he presses his face into her hair.
She breathes, "Don't let me go."
His kiss drowns out the rest of the world, tunes out the symphony of grief and joy around them.
"Marry me." It's two words, caught between their mouths, meant only for her ears.
Hermione cries and he doesn't let her go.
The next moment, the next day, the next month - they pretend it never happened.
There is a lot of planning: bury the dead, hug one another, restore order to the Ministry and the wizarding world, rebuild houses, buy new wands.
For a while they don't talk about what comes after that, about the fact that once all of the practical matters are taken care of and they have a grace period in which they can breathe, the real challenge here is that they'll have to start anew.
Hermione has done this before. She turned her life around on her eleventh birthday, hopped on the Hogwarts express and met her best friends, only looked back during the holidays. Not so long ago, she erased every bit of evidence of her life in the Muggle world.
It's harder for the boys. Harry went from being nothing to being everything, and she's not sure he knows how to exist in between. And Ron, Ron is missing a brother but more than that he's missing a fear - he doesn't quite know how to live in a world where there isn't a name everyone is terrified of even uttering for fear of invoking dark magic.
Hermione waves her wand to plant lots of flowers and tries to find something to laugh about at least once a day. She holds a lot of hands.
Ron goes with her to Australia, to her parents.
Her heart is already pounding when they appear, seemingly out of nowhere, in a field in the outback.
And then she turns around and she's fairly certain it stops beating altogether.
Ron's kneeling on the ground with cheeks as red as his hair and that crooked smile she's always found endearing - later, when her knees are grass-stained and she's standing on the doorstep of her parents' house trying to fix her hair, he will loop an arm low around her waist and whisper that he wanted her to be able to introduce him tell her parents properly.
"This is my fiancé," she says once the hugging and explaining and disbelieving crying has been done. She does not trip over the words. She's never been that kind of girl.
He gives her father a strong handshake and they stay in Australia for nearly a month. Harry's name, for the first time in ever, does not surface much in conversation.
His third proposal takes place in London, champagne and an heirloom ring. That is the one she says yes to, a quiet, official whisper against his lips.
Everything that shouldn't happen on their wedding day - well, it happens.
It rains. Soft, eerie rain and it's all she can hear, the pitter-patter of the rain against the hood of her cloak. She can't even hear her own footsteps or her own breathing. Anyone could sneak up on her and she'd probably never know.
She gets ready in the room in the Weasley where she slept on countless summer nights, where she woke up on snowy mornings. Ginny and Fleur sit curled up on the bed in bridesmaid dresses, silent but smiling, and Molly Weasley's hands put a tiara on her head like a crown Hermione's not entirely sure she deserves.
"You've always been like a daughter to me." Molly's smile is soft at the edges. "Let's make it official, shall we?" she asks, a cue for Ginny's happy giggles.
Hermione gives her a bone-crushing hug and clings tightly. There is a hole in this family, she knows; a ginger-haired, cheeky, boy-shaped hole that is held together with stitches that snap sometimes.
She loves Ron with her whole heart, she loves his family with everything she has to give.
But she isn't super-glue.
Her mother fluffs the skirt of her wedding dress.
"You look so beautiful." Her lips move and Hermione hears her words but her eyes say - you're so young.
"I do."
He says it and she says it and it's still raining, a steady thrum against the canvas tent, the slow slide of tears against the cheeks of everyone in the room.
Their teeth knock when they kiss. Ron laughs into her mouth and for a moment she feels incredibly safe, like she's fourteen all over again, knowing how he felt about her before he even knew it himself.
Harry is best man and his toast makes her cry, her head against Ron's shoulder and her champagne flute lifted high in the air. In her peripheral vision she catches the look in Ginny's eyes, stars and sparkles like Harry's her whole world, and when he's done and everyone's applauding and whistling, she and Ron stand up to hug him at the same time - and they spend a few too many moments in that group hug, the three of them -
the three of them.
She kisses Harry in the broom closet.
It's a first and a last all rolled into one. She's drunk, the kind of drunk that people are still cautious about even now in the aftermath of the war, tipsy and giddy and joyful.
There is moisture on her cheeks, though, and he wipes it away.
"It's alright," he says with an easiness her state of intoxication won't quite allow her to comprehend. His eyes - funny how everyone called them Lily's eyes but she's never known them as anyone's but his - look dark with that understanding. He smiles at her. "I'm used to closets," he jokes.
He fixes her lipstick with a thumb against the curve of her bottom lip, takes her by the hand and when they duck out of the closet her leads her onto the dance floor.
Ron cuts in. One hand on Harry's shoulder and the other soft against her wrist, "May I have this dance?" but it's never really been a question for any of them.
He spins her around and then pulls her close. "You've got a little something…"
His hand lifts, his knuckle brushing over her lips, cleaning whatever smudge Harry must have left.
She can feel his mother's eyes and her mother's eyes on them as they move slowly around the dance floor, wrapped up securely in each other. She tucks her head against his neck.
"I love you." She doesn't have to wait for him to say it back to know that he loves her, too.
It stops raining at nightfall.
Ron sweeps her up in his arms, carrying her like a princess to the sound of George wolf-whistling at twice the necessary volume.
Her hair falls slowly out of its updo and she sighs, "Honestly, Ronald."
His smile shines. "Honestly, 'Mione."
She's reading to disapparate, to embark on their honeymoon, to start living out happily ever after and whatever else that might entail. But he holds her for an extra moment, looking at her with the kind of serious eyes she rarely associates with him.
"Don't let me go," he says.
Arms twined around his neck; she doesn't.
fin