Ficlet: Sunday Morning News
birdsofshore is unwittingly to blame for this. She wrote a fab little reaction to the recent JKR news. Anyway, I started wondering what Ron might think of it all, and this is what happened.
Warning: this is epilogue compliant, R/Hr and mentions of H/G.
Warning the second: this was typed into my phone and has not been beta read.
Ron stretched luxuriously, then groaned for good measure. It was Sunday morning, and waking up in bed next to his brilliant wife was pretty much the best thing ever. He reached out for her under the bed covers. On weekday mornings Hermione was always shooting out of bed and champing at the bit to get to work (Ron loved his job, honestly he did, but who on earth wanted to go to work?). Sundays were special, though. Sundays were for cuddling and breakfasts in bed and lazy, unhurried sex amidst the crumbs.
So he was slightly disconcerted to find that Hermione was sitting bolt upright, reading the newspaper.
Oh bugger.
Newspapers were not on the Sunday morning agenda. Newspapers were read briskly over breakfast on a weekday if you were Hermione, and idly over a cup of dubious tea in the break room if you were Ron. They were for Saturday brunch at the kitchen table. They were definitely not meant to come before Sunday morning sex. This was because Hermione couldn't read a newspaper without finding something to either be interested in or exasperated about. Ron loved that about her - he always had done, always would - he loved how any small spark of injustice would light a fire under Hermione. He knew that she was by far a better person than either he or Harry - they could fight criminals and uphold law and order and all that bollocks, but Hermione would fight to the last breath for social change, equality, freedom of speech (as long as you weren't Rita Skeeter). Hermione would champion any cause she believed in and stood up for those who couldn't stand up for themselves.
Ron would fill with pride every time he saw her on a case, chin set in a way she must have got from Harry, eyes sharp and fierce, her brain working so quickly, with such determination, that Ron could sometimes swear he saw steam coming from her ears. She was beautiful and intelligent and strong and brave. Sometimes, when he saw her at work, he would wonder how in Merlin's name she had ever become his. How was he enough for her? He used to wonder whether he held her back. Worried that he wasn't clever enough for her. Would she be better off with someone who could keep up with the way her brain worked?
But then he would take her book and put it aside, leaving a bookmark to hold her place, and pull her, half protesting, half laughing through the door and out into the light of day. He would drag her to Ginny's Quidditch games and whenever he looked her way, fearing she was bored, she would be clutching her face, hollering at the players or, sometimes, looking back at him with that soft, lovely expression on her face that said she was glad he was having fun and that she wouldn't want to be anywhere else. At those times he'd kiss her, there in the stands until she'd giggle like a school girl and push him away, red-faced and pleased.
Sometimes, Ron would see her hunched over her books, pages frantically flapping and he would stand over her, take her by the shoulders, steer her away to bed and rest. At other times he stayed up with her, providing cups of tea and silent support, listening for hours as she talked through her work, interrupting herself with fragments of thoughts and answers, breaking off to rush to a book or scribble some notes.
Of course, it was also exasperating as all hell at times, which was when he would go for a beer with Harry, or to play with Bill's kids or go off to visit George at the shop. Sometimes he'd come home to find Hermione hadn't noticed he'd gone. Other times he'd come back to find her floury and annoyed in the kitchen, her hair frizzing in the heat and her wand stuck absent mindedly behind her ear.
It wasn't always easy, but Ron had had years of practise reading Hermione.
Which is why he was disconcerted by the newspaper in bed business. Hermione reading in bed was nothing new; her 'light reading' pile on her side of the bed had to be held in place by magic to prevent book-based avalanches. But now Hermione had that pinched, angry Daily Prophet look on her face. Ron sat up and sighed.
"Please tell me you're not reading Rita Skeeter," he said. "It's too early for Rita Skeeter. And it's Sunday."
She put the paper down and looked at him, smiling but with a tightness about her eyes that told Ron that whatever she'd been reading hadn't been good.
"Don't tell me there's more rubbish about Harry in there," he said.
Hermione pursed her lips and Ron knew that he was close.
"Not exactly." Hermione tossed the newspaper aside with a huff, and snuggled back under the covers. Ron pulled her snugly against him, felt her sigh into his shoulder.
"I love you, you know," she said.
Ron stroked her hair. "I know you do," he said. "I love you too."
She pressed a kiss to his collar bone. "You don't still worry, do you. About ..."
And Ron saw what must have been in the paper. It wasn't new; ever since the war - before, even, there had been articles about Harry and Hermione, about how Hermione had made the wrong choice. As though there had ever been a choice.
"Bloody hell, Hermione!" he said. "Of course not. Harry's married to my sister."
Hermione looked up, her face still creased with worry. "It wasn't Skeeter this time, Ron. It was a different author - one I've always respected. She said that Harry and I would be better suited and that - that - you and I will end up needing marriage counseling." Her voice wobbled with indignation, and Ron loved her for it even more.
"You and Harry would be horrible together," he said, solemnly. "For a start, the sex would be dreadful." They both shuddered a little at that. He caught Hermione's eye and was pleased to see her smiling. "For another thing, Harry would never forgive you for being rubbish about Quidditch. Any mention of Wonky Faints and he'd be handing you divorce papers."
Hermione laughed. "Exactly. You're much more tolerant."
Ron didn't admit that the reason he didn't mind Hermione being crap at Quidditch was that it was so nice to know more than her about something. She probably knew, anyway.
He shifted their position so that her back was against his chest, her bushy hair ticking his nose. He held her tight and spoke into her neck. "Anyway, if we need marriage counseling you'll find us the best marriage counselor there is. And then you'll probably spend the sessions arguing with the counselor instead of with me."
Her shoulders shook with laughter and she didn't deny anything. Ron smiled to himself. He was winning.
The truth was, Ron had grown up feeling insecure about so many things. And he could understand how people might wonder how their relationship worked, might wonder why he'd be happy with someone who outshone him in many ways. But really, on a Sunday morning with Hermione pressed against him, soft and warm and happy once more, Ron didn't care about those people.
Living with Hermione - loving Hermione - was brilliant, because it was one of the things Ron (and Hermione) knew he was brilliant at.
And that's all that mattered.
A final thought struck him. "That author said that Harry would have been better off married to you? Good Godric, Ginny's going to send them one hell of a Howler ..."
Warning: this is epilogue compliant, R/Hr and mentions of H/G.
Warning the second: this was typed into my phone and has not been beta read.
Ron stretched luxuriously, then groaned for good measure. It was Sunday morning, and waking up in bed next to his brilliant wife was pretty much the best thing ever. He reached out for her under the bed covers. On weekday mornings Hermione was always shooting out of bed and champing at the bit to get to work (Ron loved his job, honestly he did, but who on earth wanted to go to work?). Sundays were special, though. Sundays were for cuddling and breakfasts in bed and lazy, unhurried sex amidst the crumbs.
So he was slightly disconcerted to find that Hermione was sitting bolt upright, reading the newspaper.
Oh bugger.
Newspapers were not on the Sunday morning agenda. Newspapers were read briskly over breakfast on a weekday if you were Hermione, and idly over a cup of dubious tea in the break room if you were Ron. They were for Saturday brunch at the kitchen table. They were definitely not meant to come before Sunday morning sex. This was because Hermione couldn't read a newspaper without finding something to either be interested in or exasperated about. Ron loved that about her - he always had done, always would - he loved how any small spark of injustice would light a fire under Hermione. He knew that she was by far a better person than either he or Harry - they could fight criminals and uphold law and order and all that bollocks, but Hermione would fight to the last breath for social change, equality, freedom of speech (as long as you weren't Rita Skeeter). Hermione would champion any cause she believed in and stood up for those who couldn't stand up for themselves.
Ron would fill with pride every time he saw her on a case, chin set in a way she must have got from Harry, eyes sharp and fierce, her brain working so quickly, with such determination, that Ron could sometimes swear he saw steam coming from her ears. She was beautiful and intelligent and strong and brave. Sometimes, when he saw her at work, he would wonder how in Merlin's name she had ever become his. How was he enough for her? He used to wonder whether he held her back. Worried that he wasn't clever enough for her. Would she be better off with someone who could keep up with the way her brain worked?
But then he would take her book and put it aside, leaving a bookmark to hold her place, and pull her, half protesting, half laughing through the door and out into the light of day. He would drag her to Ginny's Quidditch games and whenever he looked her way, fearing she was bored, she would be clutching her face, hollering at the players or, sometimes, looking back at him with that soft, lovely expression on her face that said she was glad he was having fun and that she wouldn't want to be anywhere else. At those times he'd kiss her, there in the stands until she'd giggle like a school girl and push him away, red-faced and pleased.
Sometimes, Ron would see her hunched over her books, pages frantically flapping and he would stand over her, take her by the shoulders, steer her away to bed and rest. At other times he stayed up with her, providing cups of tea and silent support, listening for hours as she talked through her work, interrupting herself with fragments of thoughts and answers, breaking off to rush to a book or scribble some notes.
Of course, it was also exasperating as all hell at times, which was when he would go for a beer with Harry, or to play with Bill's kids or go off to visit George at the shop. Sometimes he'd come home to find Hermione hadn't noticed he'd gone. Other times he'd come back to find her floury and annoyed in the kitchen, her hair frizzing in the heat and her wand stuck absent mindedly behind her ear.
It wasn't always easy, but Ron had had years of practise reading Hermione.
Which is why he was disconcerted by the newspaper in bed business. Hermione reading in bed was nothing new; her 'light reading' pile on her side of the bed had to be held in place by magic to prevent book-based avalanches. But now Hermione had that pinched, angry Daily Prophet look on her face. Ron sat up and sighed.
"Please tell me you're not reading Rita Skeeter," he said. "It's too early for Rita Skeeter. And it's Sunday."
She put the paper down and looked at him, smiling but with a tightness about her eyes that told Ron that whatever she'd been reading hadn't been good.
"Don't tell me there's more rubbish about Harry in there," he said.
Hermione pursed her lips and Ron knew that he was close.
"Not exactly." Hermione tossed the newspaper aside with a huff, and snuggled back under the covers. Ron pulled her snugly against him, felt her sigh into his shoulder.
"I love you, you know," she said.
Ron stroked her hair. "I know you do," he said. "I love you too."
She pressed a kiss to his collar bone. "You don't still worry, do you. About ..."
And Ron saw what must have been in the paper. It wasn't new; ever since the war - before, even, there had been articles about Harry and Hermione, about how Hermione had made the wrong choice. As though there had ever been a choice.
"Bloody hell, Hermione!" he said. "Of course not. Harry's married to my sister."
Hermione looked up, her face still creased with worry. "It wasn't Skeeter this time, Ron. It was a different author - one I've always respected. She said that Harry and I would be better suited and that - that - you and I will end up needing marriage counseling." Her voice wobbled with indignation, and Ron loved her for it even more.
"You and Harry would be horrible together," he said, solemnly. "For a start, the sex would be dreadful." They both shuddered a little at that. He caught Hermione's eye and was pleased to see her smiling. "For another thing, Harry would never forgive you for being rubbish about Quidditch. Any mention of Wonky Faints and he'd be handing you divorce papers."
Hermione laughed. "Exactly. You're much more tolerant."
Ron didn't admit that the reason he didn't mind Hermione being crap at Quidditch was that it was so nice to know more than her about something. She probably knew, anyway.
He shifted their position so that her back was against his chest, her bushy hair ticking his nose. He held her tight and spoke into her neck. "Anyway, if we need marriage counseling you'll find us the best marriage counselor there is. And then you'll probably spend the sessions arguing with the counselor instead of with me."
Her shoulders shook with laughter and she didn't deny anything. Ron smiled to himself. He was winning.
The truth was, Ron had grown up feeling insecure about so many things. And he could understand how people might wonder how their relationship worked, might wonder why he'd be happy with someone who outshone him in many ways. But really, on a Sunday morning with Hermione pressed against him, soft and warm and happy once more, Ron didn't care about those people.
Living with Hermione - loving Hermione - was brilliant, because it was one of the things Ron (and Hermione) knew he was brilliant at.
And that's all that mattered.
A final thought struck him. "That author said that Harry would have been better off married to you? Good Godric, Ginny's going to send them one hell of a Howler ..."