Language of the Heart
Title: Language of the Heart
Author: coyotelaughings
Challenge: Hermione, Quidditch through the ages, Ron’s room
Summary: Two months after the war, Ron wonders if the kiss had been a fluke. Hermione unwittingly reassures him.
Author’s Notes: My thanks to T for the edit and also helping me code it for this fest. Extra kudos go to Divagonzo1 for the cheerleading and holding my paws for posting this. Much obliged, dear Dragon.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling and Scholastic Publishing. No money is being made off of this writing and no copyright infringement intended.
The summer sun warmed the back of his neck as Ron walked away from the Quidditch pitch, leaving Harry and Ginny to toss the Quaffle back and forth between themselves. Ginny had given him a Look, which he had correctly interpreted to mean that she wanted him to bugger off. Normally, he’d give her some sort of hard time about it, but right now, it suited him to be alone with his own thoughts. He had a few things weighing on his mind, and he wanted to try to sort them out. Fred’s death, of course, was crushing; but there was nothing he could actually do, besides get through it as best he could, one day at a time. The rest of his family was another problem; he wanted to help them, but he didn't know if there was a way to do that. It had been two months, and they were just beginning to find some balance after stumbling around each other for awhile. Right now, his main concern was something that he had the power to resolve, if he could work up enough nerve to address it.
Hadn't that always been the fucking way of it?
With a frustrated sigh, he jerked open the door to the broom shed, and nearly tripped over George, who was sitting up against one wall with his legs sticking out into the middle. George looked up at him with a faint glare, and Ron couldn't tell if it was from irritation, or the sunlight catching him in the eyes.
“You can sod off back to the house, and tell Mum I don't need a nanny.”
Irritation it was, then.
“Mum didn't send me. ‘Was just putting up my broom,” Ron explained, holding up the aforementioned object as if to give veracity to his claim.
George grunted. “Be quick about it, then.”
Biting back a sharp retort, Ron took his Cleansweep over and carefully set it in its spot, noting that he should give it a good polishing in the next few days. He was normally quite meticulous about broom maintenance, but after not having it for nearly a year, and what with everything being up in the air the last couple of months, he had gotten out of the habit.
“That keen to get rid of me? First Ginny, and now you; if this keeps up, I might start to take it personally,” he said lightly, hoping George would talk if he didn't feel like he was being pushed to open up about Fred.
It must’ve been the right approach, because George gave him a wan smile.
“Sorry. It just gets on your nerves after awhile, the way people hang around as if they’re afraid you’ll go off your nut if they take their eye off you.”
“You were born off your nut, so I reckon it can't get any worse.”
George laughed at this, the sound a bit rusty; it had been so long since he heard it, that Ron gave a start, feeling that something wasn't quite right. At the look on George’s face, he knew what it was; it wasn't that there was something wrong with his laugh, but that there wasn't a second voice to go along with it. Ron hastened to cover things up.
“If you don't mind, can I sit down? I’ve been wanting to think about something, and you know how hard it is to find a place you won't be interrupted.”
His brother hesitated, as if he would prefer to be alone, but didn't want to snap at him again, either.
“I’d have thought you'd rather sneak off and have a cuddle with your girlfriend.”
Ron flushed to the roots of his hair; trust George to hit on his problem straight away.
“Um. She’s not my girlfriend. I think. That is, I’d like for her to be, but I haven't exactly.....”
George stared at him in shock, and then dropped his head into his hands with a groan.
“Bloody hell, Ron! Are you trying to tell me that you kissed the girl over two months ago, and you still haven't gotten things sorted?”
Ron flopped to the ground in a miserable pile of bony limbs. “Pretty much. But it isn't as if I’ve had a lot of time to talk to her!”
His brother fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Which is exactly why you should be in there with her, instead of huddled in here with me. You’ve been barmy over the girl for years now, so get in there and ask her!”
“It’s not that easy! I’d rather just sit out here and think about--”
“And you’ll end up thinking of a million reasons to keep putting it off. If you don't do something, I might have to take drastic measures to help, and I'm sure you wouldn't want that.”
No, no he wouldn't.
“Fine,” he grunted, climbing to his feet, “I'm going, see? This is me, bravely going off to be told that it was all in the heat of the moment, and she’d rather not, thanks just the same.”
“From what I hear about that kiss, it sounds too hot for just a moments’ worth,” George called after him, his last word muffled by the closing door.
Reluctantly, Ron made his way into the Burrow, which was unusually quiet. His dad was at work, and Percy and Bill, as well. Charlie wasn't anywhere in sight, and he figured his mum was in her room, as she often was these days. He took his time climbing the stairs, pausing to check Ginny’s room first, but found it empty. Either Hermione had gone off somewhere, which was unlikely, or she was in his room.
And that was where he found her, propped up on his bed, in a pair of shorts and what looked like one of his old t-shirts, reading a book. Of course she was reading; it was Hermione. But she hadn't read hardly anything at all, since coming to the Burrow, and Ron took this as a good sign. The book was thinner than her favorite standby, and familiar. He did a doubletake, with a hard look at the title. Was he seeing things? He looked again. No, there it was, Quidditch Through the Ages, just as he had thought. Why, of all things, was Hermione reading that?
Before asking, he took a few minutes to watch her. She was deep in the book, and hadn't heard him come in, which wasn't unusual. A small frown was on her face, the one she always wore when she was tangling with something she didn't fully understand yet. He knew, from long experience, that eventually, she would give a small, satisfied nod, once she had everything worked out.
Leaning against the door, he wondered if George wasn't right, and he should just ask Hermione flat out where they stood. Being honest with himself, he knew he was afraid of the answer. After everything that had happened lately, she was the one bright spot he had going, and he didn't think he could deal with losing that on top of the rest. The kiss had been everything he had ever wanted, but it wasn't really a sure thing, was it? People did strange things when they were excited or afraid. Or she might’ve meant it then, but had changed her mind since.
Who would blame her? She wouldn't be getting much. The locket may have been wrong about some things, but others.......well, he had said them to himself all along, hadn't he? And if Hermione actually did want this to go somewhere, then she would say, right? Say something, or--
“Ron? Why are you standing there with that odd look on your face? Has something happened?”
Startled out of his own thoughts, he came in, closing the door behind him, smiling so she wouldn't worry.
“No, I was just wondering if you were sure about not needing to go back to St. Mungo’s again. Are you actually bored enough to be reading about Quidditch?”
She made a huffy little sound, looking rather embarrassed. “I know exactly what I’m reading, and I have a perfectly good reason for it, too. You, Harry, and Ginny were all going on and on about Quidditch back at school. I don't imagine you’ll be stopping anytime soon, and if I’m going to be spending so much time around you, I at least want to know what you mean when you start raving about Wombatty Flails!”
Ron smothered a smirk; obviously, she still had a ways to go, if she hadn't gotten that one yet. Still, why would she even want to bother? At the most, she tolerated Quidditch.
“It’s never mattered to you before, has it? You've always either ignored us, or gone off and done something else,” he pointed out, coming closer to the bed, his head cocked in curiosity.
Hermione tilted her chin up stubbornly. “Yes, well, I don't want to ignore you, or leave. Besides, you should be able to talk about the things you like with your--with me,” she finished with a stutter, her cheeks turning bright pink.
He crossed his arms, the fingers of his right hand absently tracing the old scars on his left forearm. “But you don't have to, you know? I don't expect you to like Quidditch just because I do.”
She snorted. “I realize that! And believe me, you won't see me out on a broom with the rest of you, and I refuse to paint myself orange for a match. I’m just learning the language so I can understand it better.”
When he didn't answer right away, she shrugged, and resumed her reading, In truth, Ron had so many words jumbled up in his head, that he couldn't get them to squeeze out of his mouth. Because suddenly, it all made sense. A rather mental sort of sense, but sense all the same. When Hermione was interested in something, she threw herself into learning about it, saying that the more you knew about something, the more you appreciated it. She had done that for as long as he could remember, researching and memorizing with an intensity that was nearly sexual, and had tightened his trousers on more than one occasion. When her family went on holiday, Hermione would read up on local history and customs, on the food and locations of interest. She would learn the basics of the language, saying that having even the vocabulary of a five year old was better than having none at all. He had teased her several times, asking her if she was actually going to run with the bulls if she was so keen on reading about it. (And who did something like that? Muggles. He had tried pointing that out, but she had countered that he was being hypocritical, given his own brother worked with dragons.) Hermione had explained that while she might not want to do everything she had learned, she wanted to have the ability to choose.
And now, after seven years of being around three people that could happily talk Quidditch for several days on end, she was showing a sudden interest in it herself. Or, rather, she was showing an interest in his interest in Quidditch. Something she had never bothered to do when she was chatty with Krum. She was saying, in her own Hermione-like way, that she wanted to share the things that made him happy, even if she didn't particularly enjoy them herself. She was reading up on him. She was learning his language.
Well, fair was fair, wasn't it?
Spotting her beaded bag on his desk, he went over and had a rummage through, until he found what he was looking for. Cringing at the weight, he went back to his bed, poking her in the shoulder.
“Budge over.”
With a questioning expression, Hermione scooted closer to the wall. Ron stretched out on the space she had left, and held up the book in his hand for her inspection; Hogwarts: A History.
“Goes both ways, doesn't it?” He asked, holding his breath.
The glowing smile that lit up her face told him that he had made the right move, and he propped the book up against his knees, and slid his hand over to grasp hers, their fingers linking as he used his free hand to open to the first page. At the realization that the table of contents alone was five pages long, he swallowed a whimper, but manfully read on.
After all, in future arguments, he reckoned he could score a few points with the claim that he loved her more, since he had read the longer book.
Author: coyotelaughings
Challenge: Hermione, Quidditch through the ages, Ron’s room
Summary: Two months after the war, Ron wonders if the kiss had been a fluke. Hermione unwittingly reassures him.
Author’s Notes: My thanks to T for the edit and also helping me code it for this fest. Extra kudos go to Divagonzo1 for the cheerleading and holding my paws for posting this. Much obliged, dear Dragon.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling and Scholastic Publishing. No money is being made off of this writing and no copyright infringement intended.
The summer sun warmed the back of his neck as Ron walked away from the Quidditch pitch, leaving Harry and Ginny to toss the Quaffle back and forth between themselves. Ginny had given him a Look, which he had correctly interpreted to mean that she wanted him to bugger off. Normally, he’d give her some sort of hard time about it, but right now, it suited him to be alone with his own thoughts. He had a few things weighing on his mind, and he wanted to try to sort them out. Fred’s death, of course, was crushing; but there was nothing he could actually do, besides get through it as best he could, one day at a time. The rest of his family was another problem; he wanted to help them, but he didn't know if there was a way to do that. It had been two months, and they were just beginning to find some balance after stumbling around each other for awhile. Right now, his main concern was something that he had the power to resolve, if he could work up enough nerve to address it.
Hadn't that always been the fucking way of it?
With a frustrated sigh, he jerked open the door to the broom shed, and nearly tripped over George, who was sitting up against one wall with his legs sticking out into the middle. George looked up at him with a faint glare, and Ron couldn't tell if it was from irritation, or the sunlight catching him in the eyes.
“You can sod off back to the house, and tell Mum I don't need a nanny.”
Irritation it was, then.
“Mum didn't send me. ‘Was just putting up my broom,” Ron explained, holding up the aforementioned object as if to give veracity to his claim.
George grunted. “Be quick about it, then.”
Biting back a sharp retort, Ron took his Cleansweep over and carefully set it in its spot, noting that he should give it a good polishing in the next few days. He was normally quite meticulous about broom maintenance, but after not having it for nearly a year, and what with everything being up in the air the last couple of months, he had gotten out of the habit.
“That keen to get rid of me? First Ginny, and now you; if this keeps up, I might start to take it personally,” he said lightly, hoping George would talk if he didn't feel like he was being pushed to open up about Fred.
It must’ve been the right approach, because George gave him a wan smile.
“Sorry. It just gets on your nerves after awhile, the way people hang around as if they’re afraid you’ll go off your nut if they take their eye off you.”
“You were born off your nut, so I reckon it can't get any worse.”
George laughed at this, the sound a bit rusty; it had been so long since he heard it, that Ron gave a start, feeling that something wasn't quite right. At the look on George’s face, he knew what it was; it wasn't that there was something wrong with his laugh, but that there wasn't a second voice to go along with it. Ron hastened to cover things up.
“If you don't mind, can I sit down? I’ve been wanting to think about something, and you know how hard it is to find a place you won't be interrupted.”
His brother hesitated, as if he would prefer to be alone, but didn't want to snap at him again, either.
“I’d have thought you'd rather sneak off and have a cuddle with your girlfriend.”
Ron flushed to the roots of his hair; trust George to hit on his problem straight away.
“Um. She’s not my girlfriend. I think. That is, I’d like for her to be, but I haven't exactly.....”
George stared at him in shock, and then dropped his head into his hands with a groan.
“Bloody hell, Ron! Are you trying to tell me that you kissed the girl over two months ago, and you still haven't gotten things sorted?”
Ron flopped to the ground in a miserable pile of bony limbs. “Pretty much. But it isn't as if I’ve had a lot of time to talk to her!”
His brother fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Which is exactly why you should be in there with her, instead of huddled in here with me. You’ve been barmy over the girl for years now, so get in there and ask her!”
“It’s not that easy! I’d rather just sit out here and think about--”
“And you’ll end up thinking of a million reasons to keep putting it off. If you don't do something, I might have to take drastic measures to help, and I'm sure you wouldn't want that.”
No, no he wouldn't.
“Fine,” he grunted, climbing to his feet, “I'm going, see? This is me, bravely going off to be told that it was all in the heat of the moment, and she’d rather not, thanks just the same.”
“From what I hear about that kiss, it sounds too hot for just a moments’ worth,” George called after him, his last word muffled by the closing door.
Reluctantly, Ron made his way into the Burrow, which was unusually quiet. His dad was at work, and Percy and Bill, as well. Charlie wasn't anywhere in sight, and he figured his mum was in her room, as she often was these days. He took his time climbing the stairs, pausing to check Ginny’s room first, but found it empty. Either Hermione had gone off somewhere, which was unlikely, or she was in his room.
And that was where he found her, propped up on his bed, in a pair of shorts and what looked like one of his old t-shirts, reading a book. Of course she was reading; it was Hermione. But she hadn't read hardly anything at all, since coming to the Burrow, and Ron took this as a good sign. The book was thinner than her favorite standby, and familiar. He did a doubletake, with a hard look at the title. Was he seeing things? He looked again. No, there it was, Quidditch Through the Ages, just as he had thought. Why, of all things, was Hermione reading that?
Before asking, he took a few minutes to watch her. She was deep in the book, and hadn't heard him come in, which wasn't unusual. A small frown was on her face, the one she always wore when she was tangling with something she didn't fully understand yet. He knew, from long experience, that eventually, she would give a small, satisfied nod, once she had everything worked out.
Leaning against the door, he wondered if George wasn't right, and he should just ask Hermione flat out where they stood. Being honest with himself, he knew he was afraid of the answer. After everything that had happened lately, she was the one bright spot he had going, and he didn't think he could deal with losing that on top of the rest. The kiss had been everything he had ever wanted, but it wasn't really a sure thing, was it? People did strange things when they were excited or afraid. Or she might’ve meant it then, but had changed her mind since.
Who would blame her? She wouldn't be getting much. The locket may have been wrong about some things, but others.......well, he had said them to himself all along, hadn't he? And if Hermione actually did want this to go somewhere, then she would say, right? Say something, or--
“Ron? Why are you standing there with that odd look on your face? Has something happened?”
Startled out of his own thoughts, he came in, closing the door behind him, smiling so she wouldn't worry.
“No, I was just wondering if you were sure about not needing to go back to St. Mungo’s again. Are you actually bored enough to be reading about Quidditch?”
She made a huffy little sound, looking rather embarrassed. “I know exactly what I’m reading, and I have a perfectly good reason for it, too. You, Harry, and Ginny were all going on and on about Quidditch back at school. I don't imagine you’ll be stopping anytime soon, and if I’m going to be spending so much time around you, I at least want to know what you mean when you start raving about Wombatty Flails!”
Ron smothered a smirk; obviously, she still had a ways to go, if she hadn't gotten that one yet. Still, why would she even want to bother? At the most, she tolerated Quidditch.
“It’s never mattered to you before, has it? You've always either ignored us, or gone off and done something else,” he pointed out, coming closer to the bed, his head cocked in curiosity.
Hermione tilted her chin up stubbornly. “Yes, well, I don't want to ignore you, or leave. Besides, you should be able to talk about the things you like with your--with me,” she finished with a stutter, her cheeks turning bright pink.
He crossed his arms, the fingers of his right hand absently tracing the old scars on his left forearm. “But you don't have to, you know? I don't expect you to like Quidditch just because I do.”
She snorted. “I realize that! And believe me, you won't see me out on a broom with the rest of you, and I refuse to paint myself orange for a match. I’m just learning the language so I can understand it better.”
When he didn't answer right away, she shrugged, and resumed her reading, In truth, Ron had so many words jumbled up in his head, that he couldn't get them to squeeze out of his mouth. Because suddenly, it all made sense. A rather mental sort of sense, but sense all the same. When Hermione was interested in something, she threw herself into learning about it, saying that the more you knew about something, the more you appreciated it. She had done that for as long as he could remember, researching and memorizing with an intensity that was nearly sexual, and had tightened his trousers on more than one occasion. When her family went on holiday, Hermione would read up on local history and customs, on the food and locations of interest. She would learn the basics of the language, saying that having even the vocabulary of a five year old was better than having none at all. He had teased her several times, asking her if she was actually going to run with the bulls if she was so keen on reading about it. (And who did something like that? Muggles. He had tried pointing that out, but she had countered that he was being hypocritical, given his own brother worked with dragons.) Hermione had explained that while she might not want to do everything she had learned, she wanted to have the ability to choose.
And now, after seven years of being around three people that could happily talk Quidditch for several days on end, she was showing a sudden interest in it herself. Or, rather, she was showing an interest in his interest in Quidditch. Something she had never bothered to do when she was chatty with Krum. She was saying, in her own Hermione-like way, that she wanted to share the things that made him happy, even if she didn't particularly enjoy them herself. She was reading up on him. She was learning his language.
Well, fair was fair, wasn't it?
Spotting her beaded bag on his desk, he went over and had a rummage through, until he found what he was looking for. Cringing at the weight, he went back to his bed, poking her in the shoulder.
“Budge over.”
With a questioning expression, Hermione scooted closer to the wall. Ron stretched out on the space she had left, and held up the book in his hand for her inspection; Hogwarts: A History.
“Goes both ways, doesn't it?” He asked, holding his breath.
The glowing smile that lit up her face told him that he had made the right move, and he propped the book up against his knees, and slid his hand over to grasp hers, their fingers linking as he used his free hand to open to the first page. At the realization that the table of contents alone was five pages long, he swallowed a whimper, but manfully read on.
After all, in future arguments, he reckoned he could score a few points with the claim that he loved her more, since he had read the longer book.