Reposts: Ron/Hermione fics
Title: The Marriage Counselor
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: R/Hr
Length: 800 words
Rating: G
Warnings: Fluff in latter part (ew, I wrote fluff?)
Summary: Ron and Hermione visit a marriage counselor.
"Good morning, Doctor. Ron, what are you doing outside? Come on in."
"Alright, alright. Mornin' Doc."
"So... Well... Ginny referred you to us. Said it might help some. Personally I don't know if you'd understand. Well, not really. Honestly? I don't think you'd understand. But hey, nothing's working, right? We might as well. Try this, I mean."
"Boy, we've sunk so low, seeking a counselor."
"Ron."
"Sorry."
"We've been married five years, Ron and I. It hasn't been smooth sailing, but during the last couple of years it's been really shaky."
"Shaky? Hermione, we can't get in a room together without something breaking!"
"Fine! It's been hell, Doctor. I really don't know why, but we want to try working it out."
"If we can."
"Ron!"
"I'm just saying."
"You don't seem to want to work *anything* out. Why are we even here? Why am I even dealing with this? With you?"
"There you go again, Hermione! For Merlin's sake, stop making a big thing out of everything!"
"Is that what you think? I'm making a big deal out of this? This is our *marriage*, Ron, that I'm trying to save here, in case you haven't noticed."
"Oh, I'm sorry, and of course, since this is the almighty Hermione's pet project of the moment, she must be able to work things out. By herself. Like she always does."
"What?"
"It's always what you want to do, Hermione. Always what you think is right. No, no, don't help Hermione; she can do everything by herself. No, no, don't disturb Hermione; she's working and can't be bothered. No, no, don't correct Hermione; she's right and you're wrong."
"What are you saying?"
"You're too uptight, Hermione! News flash: It won't hurt to loosen up once in a while."
"How can I not be uptight? You never take anything seriously!"
"Me? I can't take everything seriously or else we'll worry ourselves into the next century, and you do enough of that!"
"I don't believe this. Is that your problem with me then? What else do you want to say? Are you going to drag Viktor into this too?"
"He deserves to be dragged in! Good heavens, Hermione, we've been married five years and you're still having a correspondence with him!"
"A correspondence, Ron, not an affair!"
"You know he's head over heels in love with you!"
"And you know he's just my friend! I don't love him!"
"Why?"
"Huh? Why what?"
"Why don't you love him?"
"I don't know, Ron. Should I?"
"He's perfect, isn't he? Nice and mature and rich and handsome and willing to give you the world. Unlike me. What's wrong with him? Why… why choose me over him?"
"Because."
"Why, Hermione? Why? He's so much better than I will ever be. He's stable, and won't hurt you. And he doesn't make you cry."
"He doesn't make me laugh either. Come to think of it, he doesn't make me feel anything. Honestly, Ron… He isn't funny or sweet or cute.
"He wouldn't tell me to stop overworking and get some rest, or bring me some hot chocolate when I wouldn't listen and work anyway. He wouldn't bring me down to earth whenever I get my head in the clouds with all those lofty ideas. He wouldn't know how to make me smile when I've had a rough day. He's not… He's not you."
"Hermione…"
"I've loved you for years, Ron. You were my best friend, despite all the arguments we've ever had about anything. You never put me on a pedestal, like all those other people did. You took me for the bossy, overachieving bookworm that I was, and married me anyway. It's my turn to ask. Why?"
"You're asking me why? You're sweet and sincere and determined and driven. You fight for what you believe in. You keep me in line. You encourage me to work for what I want. You believe in me. Merlin, Hermione, I could go on forever.
"I love the way you bite your lips and knit your brows when you're reading. I love the way you roll your eyes when you get exasperated at me. I love the way you tell me about a new project, because your whole face glows and your smile widens and your eyes just light up.
"I love you, and I don't know what I did to deserve you."
"You don't think you deserve me? I don't think I deserve you!"
"Really? Hermione, come here. There. Let's try again, okay?"
"Okay."
"Cripes, I made you cry again. I'm sorry."
"No, no... I'm just glad. I didn't think we'd get anywhere. Let's go home."
"Good. I am, too. Happy, I mean. Bye, Doc."
"Thanks, Doctor. You saved our marriage. I'll be sure to refer you to my friends. Goodbye."
Title: I'll Be Home For Christmas
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: R/Hr
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Ron, Hermione, and Christmas Eve during a war-torn wizarding world.
I'll be home for Christmas
You can count on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents on the tree
Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams
It is Christmas Eve, and the wizarding world is in ruins. The snow barely covers the torched buildings and the lifeless bodies scattered about. Thick, palpable fear hangs about the air. In the few houses that still stand, hidden, protected by Fidelius Charms and centuries-old wards, no decorations are placed. Death Eaters had attacked just the day before; the world is at war--at its darkest and most hopeless hour--and no one can afford to celebrate.
In a small corner of this devastation, a lone figure makes his way. Tall, lanky, and with only a tattered robe to warm him, Ronald Weasley silently trudges on, thick boots plop-plopping on the snow-covered road. The North Wind dances around him, playful, teasing, and brutal, but he pays it no heed.
In his right hand he clutches a tiny parcel wrapped in red and gold, and one thought fill his mind.
It is Christmas Eve, and he must go home.
"Ron, look! Snow!" Hermione's delight is priceless, and her smile radiant, and for a minute she is a child again.
Ron laughs heartily, his first in many weeks, and he pretends to be the carefree boy he was in Hogwarts, picking up a clump of snow, forming it into a tight ball, and aiming for Hermione's back.
Hermione shrieks and attempts to get back at him, but she misses and the snow hits a laughing Harry square in the face, and he sputters for a while before bending down and making his own snowball to throw.
An hour later, the giggling, snow-drenched trio enter the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley looks at them with exasperation, but a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. She sets down mugs of steaming hot chocolate, and the three immediately pick them up, frozen hands drinking in the warmth. They sip quietly, whispering and laughing among themselves, and Harry looks up and points above Ron and Hermione.
"Look! Fred and George's floating mistletoes!" he announces loudly. Ron and Hermione hastily move away from each other, both blushing furiously. Harry laughs and tells them it is only a joke, and is naturally pelted with small pillows.
But that was long ago, and Ron is lost in those memories. He shakes himself out of his reverie, and finds that he has reached his destination.
"Number twelve Grimmauld Place," he whispers, voice scratchy and dry, and the house appears in front of him. This house, like all the other remaining houses that line the street, is devoid of any ornamentation. The windowpanes are lined with snow, and there is only cold. The doors are old and weary. There is little cheer in the other houses, but in Number twelve Grimmauld Place there is even less. Perhaps it is because the weight of the war leans most heavily on those who live in it.
"Sometimes, Ron, you can be such a prat," Hermione sighs, hands on hips. She is staring down at Ron, who is lounging on his bed, and he gives her a cheeky grin.
"And sometimes, Hermione, you can be such a mother hen, but you don't see me complaining," he retorts, winking playfully.
Hermione rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. "Ronald Weasley, you had better help me look for the root of Mandrake right this moment! I absolutely must test my theory right away; we don't know how helpful it can be for that new variation of Petrificus the Death Eaters have come up with!"
"Hermione, it's almost Christmas! Can't we wait just a little until the season's over?" Ron pleads, to Hermione's consternation.
"I swear, Ron, there is no resting, no holidays, no reason to celebrate until this war is--"
"Erm, Ron? Hermione?" Harry pokes his head through the door. "There's an attack in Hogsmeade. We've got to Apparate outside now."
Ron pushes the door open, and though battered and worn, it does not creak. It is dark inside; the house is either empty or asleep. Even Mrs. Black's portrait is quiet; she has probably gone to visit some friend or other. A glance at the clock on the wall--it is the Muggle kind, as the magical one always places everyone in Mortal Peril anyway and is quite useless--tells him it is a little past midnight. It is Christmas Day.
He does not light any lamp; he knows where he wants to go. The steps are silent, dead, and even his boots on the wooden floor betray no presence as he makes his way to the second door on the left.
His hand turns the knob, and the door swings open soundlessly. A portion of the room is bathed in light, a sliver of the moon dancing in between the drawn curtains. Hermione lies deep in slumber, tucked between sheets of white.
Ron draws closer, his feet moving of their own accord, until he is beside her. A slight frown creases her face, and tearstains run down her cheeks. Ron frowns. She had been crying... was it because of him?
He places his gift on the table beside her bed and kneels down, hand gently stroking her hair.
"Hermione," he whispers, and the silence almost drowns his words. "Wake up."
She does not stir.
"Hermione..."
The Death Eaters are great in number, and aggressive in attacking. They are ruthless, relentless in their Avada Kedavras, and the few members of the Order are being worn down.
Ron fights ceaselessly, wand shooting out bursts of deadly green light. There are no Unforgivables anymore; the fight is only a battle of speed and power now. His arms grow tired, but there is no room for rest. They are surrounded, and a slight hesitation can mean a fatal opening in their defense.
To his left, Harry faces his enemies with grim determination. There is hardness in the set of his jaws, coldness in his eyes. He is the savior of the wizarding world, and he carries that burden resolutely. There is no pity, no hesitation in killing; the line between what can be done and what should be done against evil has long since blurred.
To Ron's right, Hermione stands against her share of Death Eaters. She is strong, quick, and Hogwarts' cleverest witch is sharp even in the field. There is no fear in her eyes, only defiance and taunting for the purebloods who look down at Muggleborns like her.
There are more Death Eaters coming from her side of the battle, and they bear down on her, but she shows no weakness. To her right, a cluster of them forms, and she focuses all her attention to taking them down one by one. She is succeeding, but she does not notice the one figure to her left, who raises his arm and points his wand at her. Ron turns his head just in time to see this.
It happens all at once, in a millisecond. The wizard utters the curse, and Hermione does not know what is going on; she is only aware of falling to the ground, and when she looks up, it is Ron's face she sees.
The continuing battle drowns Hermione's scream.
"Hermione... wake up... I'm home..."
"Hm?" Hermione yawns, sitting up on her bed. Was someone calling her? She looks around, but the room is empty, except... the red-and-gold present on her table is unfamiliar. She picks it up curiously, and gingerly, with tentative fingers, she unwraps it.
It is a ring.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: R/Hr
Length: 800 words
Rating: G
Warnings: Fluff in latter part (ew, I wrote fluff?)
Summary: Ron and Hermione visit a marriage counselor.
"Good morning, Doctor. Ron, what are you doing outside? Come on in."
"Alright, alright. Mornin' Doc."
"So... Well... Ginny referred you to us. Said it might help some. Personally I don't know if you'd understand. Well, not really. Honestly? I don't think you'd understand. But hey, nothing's working, right? We might as well. Try this, I mean."
"Boy, we've sunk so low, seeking a counselor."
"Ron."
"Sorry."
"We've been married five years, Ron and I. It hasn't been smooth sailing, but during the last couple of years it's been really shaky."
"Shaky? Hermione, we can't get in a room together without something breaking!"
"Fine! It's been hell, Doctor. I really don't know why, but we want to try working it out."
"If we can."
"Ron!"
"I'm just saying."
"You don't seem to want to work *anything* out. Why are we even here? Why am I even dealing with this? With you?"
"There you go again, Hermione! For Merlin's sake, stop making a big thing out of everything!"
"Is that what you think? I'm making a big deal out of this? This is our *marriage*, Ron, that I'm trying to save here, in case you haven't noticed."
"Oh, I'm sorry, and of course, since this is the almighty Hermione's pet project of the moment, she must be able to work things out. By herself. Like she always does."
"What?"
"It's always what you want to do, Hermione. Always what you think is right. No, no, don't help Hermione; she can do everything by herself. No, no, don't disturb Hermione; she's working and can't be bothered. No, no, don't correct Hermione; she's right and you're wrong."
"What are you saying?"
"You're too uptight, Hermione! News flash: It won't hurt to loosen up once in a while."
"How can I not be uptight? You never take anything seriously!"
"Me? I can't take everything seriously or else we'll worry ourselves into the next century, and you do enough of that!"
"I don't believe this. Is that your problem with me then? What else do you want to say? Are you going to drag Viktor into this too?"
"He deserves to be dragged in! Good heavens, Hermione, we've been married five years and you're still having a correspondence with him!"
"A correspondence, Ron, not an affair!"
"You know he's head over heels in love with you!"
"And you know he's just my friend! I don't love him!"
"Why?"
"Huh? Why what?"
"Why don't you love him?"
"I don't know, Ron. Should I?"
"He's perfect, isn't he? Nice and mature and rich and handsome and willing to give you the world. Unlike me. What's wrong with him? Why… why choose me over him?"
"Because."
"Why, Hermione? Why? He's so much better than I will ever be. He's stable, and won't hurt you. And he doesn't make you cry."
"He doesn't make me laugh either. Come to think of it, he doesn't make me feel anything. Honestly, Ron… He isn't funny or sweet or cute.
"He wouldn't tell me to stop overworking and get some rest, or bring me some hot chocolate when I wouldn't listen and work anyway. He wouldn't bring me down to earth whenever I get my head in the clouds with all those lofty ideas. He wouldn't know how to make me smile when I've had a rough day. He's not… He's not you."
"Hermione…"
"I've loved you for years, Ron. You were my best friend, despite all the arguments we've ever had about anything. You never put me on a pedestal, like all those other people did. You took me for the bossy, overachieving bookworm that I was, and married me anyway. It's my turn to ask. Why?"
"You're asking me why? You're sweet and sincere and determined and driven. You fight for what you believe in. You keep me in line. You encourage me to work for what I want. You believe in me. Merlin, Hermione, I could go on forever.
"I love the way you bite your lips and knit your brows when you're reading. I love the way you roll your eyes when you get exasperated at me. I love the way you tell me about a new project, because your whole face glows and your smile widens and your eyes just light up.
"I love you, and I don't know what I did to deserve you."
"You don't think you deserve me? I don't think I deserve you!"
"Really? Hermione, come here. There. Let's try again, okay?"
"Okay."
"Cripes, I made you cry again. I'm sorry."
"No, no... I'm just glad. I didn't think we'd get anywhere. Let's go home."
"Good. I am, too. Happy, I mean. Bye, Doc."
"Thanks, Doctor. You saved our marriage. I'll be sure to refer you to my friends. Goodbye."
Title: I'll Be Home For Christmas
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: R/Hr
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Ron, Hermione, and Christmas Eve during a war-torn wizarding world.
I'll be home for Christmas
You can count on me
Please have snow and mistletoe
And presents on the tree
Christmas Eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams
It is Christmas Eve, and the wizarding world is in ruins. The snow barely covers the torched buildings and the lifeless bodies scattered about. Thick, palpable fear hangs about the air. In the few houses that still stand, hidden, protected by Fidelius Charms and centuries-old wards, no decorations are placed. Death Eaters had attacked just the day before; the world is at war--at its darkest and most hopeless hour--and no one can afford to celebrate.
In a small corner of this devastation, a lone figure makes his way. Tall, lanky, and with only a tattered robe to warm him, Ronald Weasley silently trudges on, thick boots plop-plopping on the snow-covered road. The North Wind dances around him, playful, teasing, and brutal, but he pays it no heed.
In his right hand he clutches a tiny parcel wrapped in red and gold, and one thought fill his mind.
It is Christmas Eve, and he must go home.
"Ron, look! Snow!" Hermione's delight is priceless, and her smile radiant, and for a minute she is a child again.
Ron laughs heartily, his first in many weeks, and he pretends to be the carefree boy he was in Hogwarts, picking up a clump of snow, forming it into a tight ball, and aiming for Hermione's back.
Hermione shrieks and attempts to get back at him, but she misses and the snow hits a laughing Harry square in the face, and he sputters for a while before bending down and making his own snowball to throw.
An hour later, the giggling, snow-drenched trio enter the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley looks at them with exasperation, but a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. She sets down mugs of steaming hot chocolate, and the three immediately pick them up, frozen hands drinking in the warmth. They sip quietly, whispering and laughing among themselves, and Harry looks up and points above Ron and Hermione.
"Look! Fred and George's floating mistletoes!" he announces loudly. Ron and Hermione hastily move away from each other, both blushing furiously. Harry laughs and tells them it is only a joke, and is naturally pelted with small pillows.
But that was long ago, and Ron is lost in those memories. He shakes himself out of his reverie, and finds that he has reached his destination.
"Number twelve Grimmauld Place," he whispers, voice scratchy and dry, and the house appears in front of him. This house, like all the other remaining houses that line the street, is devoid of any ornamentation. The windowpanes are lined with snow, and there is only cold. The doors are old and weary. There is little cheer in the other houses, but in Number twelve Grimmauld Place there is even less. Perhaps it is because the weight of the war leans most heavily on those who live in it.
"Sometimes, Ron, you can be such a prat," Hermione sighs, hands on hips. She is staring down at Ron, who is lounging on his bed, and he gives her a cheeky grin.
"And sometimes, Hermione, you can be such a mother hen, but you don't see me complaining," he retorts, winking playfully.
Hermione rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. "Ronald Weasley, you had better help me look for the root of Mandrake right this moment! I absolutely must test my theory right away; we don't know how helpful it can be for that new variation of Petrificus the Death Eaters have come up with!"
"Hermione, it's almost Christmas! Can't we wait just a little until the season's over?" Ron pleads, to Hermione's consternation.
"I swear, Ron, there is no resting, no holidays, no reason to celebrate until this war is--"
"Erm, Ron? Hermione?" Harry pokes his head through the door. "There's an attack in Hogsmeade. We've got to Apparate outside now."
Ron pushes the door open, and though battered and worn, it does not creak. It is dark inside; the house is either empty or asleep. Even Mrs. Black's portrait is quiet; she has probably gone to visit some friend or other. A glance at the clock on the wall--it is the Muggle kind, as the magical one always places everyone in Mortal Peril anyway and is quite useless--tells him it is a little past midnight. It is Christmas Day.
He does not light any lamp; he knows where he wants to go. The steps are silent, dead, and even his boots on the wooden floor betray no presence as he makes his way to the second door on the left.
His hand turns the knob, and the door swings open soundlessly. A portion of the room is bathed in light, a sliver of the moon dancing in between the drawn curtains. Hermione lies deep in slumber, tucked between sheets of white.
Ron draws closer, his feet moving of their own accord, until he is beside her. A slight frown creases her face, and tearstains run down her cheeks. Ron frowns. She had been crying... was it because of him?
He places his gift on the table beside her bed and kneels down, hand gently stroking her hair.
"Hermione," he whispers, and the silence almost drowns his words. "Wake up."
She does not stir.
"Hermione..."
The Death Eaters are great in number, and aggressive in attacking. They are ruthless, relentless in their Avada Kedavras, and the few members of the Order are being worn down.
Ron fights ceaselessly, wand shooting out bursts of deadly green light. There are no Unforgivables anymore; the fight is only a battle of speed and power now. His arms grow tired, but there is no room for rest. They are surrounded, and a slight hesitation can mean a fatal opening in their defense.
To his left, Harry faces his enemies with grim determination. There is hardness in the set of his jaws, coldness in his eyes. He is the savior of the wizarding world, and he carries that burden resolutely. There is no pity, no hesitation in killing; the line between what can be done and what should be done against evil has long since blurred.
To Ron's right, Hermione stands against her share of Death Eaters. She is strong, quick, and Hogwarts' cleverest witch is sharp even in the field. There is no fear in her eyes, only defiance and taunting for the purebloods who look down at Muggleborns like her.
There are more Death Eaters coming from her side of the battle, and they bear down on her, but she shows no weakness. To her right, a cluster of them forms, and she focuses all her attention to taking them down one by one. She is succeeding, but she does not notice the one figure to her left, who raises his arm and points his wand at her. Ron turns his head just in time to see this.
It happens all at once, in a millisecond. The wizard utters the curse, and Hermione does not know what is going on; she is only aware of falling to the ground, and when she looks up, it is Ron's face she sees.
The continuing battle drowns Hermione's scream.
"Hermione... wake up... I'm home..."
"Hm?" Hermione yawns, sitting up on her bed. Was someone calling her? She looks around, but the room is empty, except... the red-and-gold present on her table is unfamiliar. She picks it up curiously, and gingerly, with tentative fingers, she unwraps it.
It is a ring.