Fic Request Fulfilled for msmoocow
Title: Black Holes & Revelations
Author: roonil_wazlib80
Beta: FreeDaChickens from Perfect Imagination
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3900
Summary: It’s the night of Bill’s wedding, and with all the romance in the air Ron decides it’s time to tell Hermione the truth - if, that is, he can find her.
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: All characters property of people who are not me.
Author's Notes: I hope you enjoy it! I’ve never actually written my own R/Hr fic before, but it was fun.
Black Holes and Revelations
The toast spread throughout the gathered crowd in a wave of tinkling crystal, a hundred tall champagne flutes raised high in honour of the happy couple. Though ecstatic for his brother, Ron was heavily preoccupied. He had shifted nervously throughout the entire ceremony, especially so when the Justice of the Ministry had gone on a rather long tangent on the responsibility of marriage in today’s modern society.
Ron’s one job, his only responsibility, was to listen for his cue and to hand over the rings, but a certain hint of pale green in the crowd continually drew his attention. Somehow the flowing tribute to love of the highest sort made more sense when he looked at the curve of her shoulders and the shadows playing softly across her skin. Ron needed to periodically remind himself that he was on the altar and everyone gathered could see when his gaze drifted. Still, even with the feel of dozens of pairs of disapproving eyes on him, he found himself staring.
When, he wondered, had she become a woman? Somehow over the years Hermione had transformed from mousy girl to close friend to girl to woman all in front of his blind eyes. There she sat amidst a sea of red and gold, a patch of brunette in a Gryffindor family gathering. Her eyes stayed locked ahead, taking in every detail of the ceremony with her typical intensity and a soft smile gracing her face. It seemed that if Fleur decided to come out with a pop-quiz on the full content of the justice’s speech, Hermione would practically fall out of he seat trying to raise her hand first. In that way she was still the same eleven year old Ron had met so long ago, yet in every other way she was a new person.
Bill’s familiar voice took over from the high whine of the justice, his vows a testament to the easiest and best decision he had ever made. Though it was his brother’s voice, ringing in his ears, they were Ron’s words. He swallowed hard and slowly lifted his head, a veil of fiery fringe shadowing his eyes. The shawl slipped from Hermione’s arm, and she shivered ever so slightly, but he saw. For a moment he stood perfectly still, eyeing her like a predator, his heart pounding louder than the voice behind him. She turned slowly, tentatively meeting his gaze. Ron stiffened, straightening up tall under the weight of her eyes. Bill continued, spouting the simple poetry of his heart, telling the story of overcoming his fear of losing his identity in order to go after something he wanted more. Ron’s mouth fell slightly open. Bill spoke of struggles, of lessons she’d taught him, of how she’d saved him in more ways than he could count. But most of all, Bill said, his only regret in life was not realizing how much he loved her sooner. The younger boy’s breath hitched in his throat, but Hermione’s gaze never faltered.
Fleur’s voice replaced his brother’s, her accent now that of an expatriate, her tone as silky as ever. She spoke of love at first sight, telling how she knew she would marry the man the moment she laid eyes on him at the tournament years ago. It was hard, Fleur told the crowd, to deal with a stubborn man born of stubborn blood. The congregation laughed, but two remained unblinking and deathly serious, silent in public confession. The Veela sighed softly and looked up at the man who would become her husband in mere moments. The most important part, she whispered, was that even though they’d had their troubles and there’d surely be more ahead, she’d never leave his side - scars or no scars. Ron could have sworn he saw Hermione’s head tip upwards ever so slightly, her painted lips parting to call his name. It wasn’t until an elbow met sharply with the side of his ribs that he found his name was being called, but it was Charlie’s voice, not her’s.
All eyes were on him, a hand expectantly thrust out from the altar. Proceeding to turn a brilliant shade of maroon, Ron fished in his pocket and handed over the small velvet box.
The champagne Ron swilled later didn’t help him forget his spectacular and very visible screw up, especially when every other person he met felt the need to make what they thought was a clever remark about it. Ron forced a half-hearted smile with each, though it became less convincing as the time slipped by. By now the dinner had finished and the dimming light was punctuated by a hundred blue fairy lights scattered about the yard in haphazard fashion. At every turn, he was met with yet another relative who looked like all the rest, and after spending a minute describing in painful detail exactly how they were related, each aunt, uncle, cousin and kid proceeded to exclaim how frightfully tall he’d gotten and just how much he looked like great-uncle what’s-his-name. Each time he peered over the heads of others to try and find a route of escape, he was grabbed and kissed by another partial-Veela, one of Fleur’s relatives or friends. While normally one of Ron’s favourite activities, he quickly learned that even this was better in moderation.
The band took the stage, and in a grand display, the bride and groom had their first dance. The crowd circled the dance floor, watching and whispering sweet sentiments as the pair slowly twirled around the floor, arms wrapped tightly around one another. Fleur’s dress skimmed across the ground; she floated on a cloud of silk as if Bill’s touch was the only thing keeping her from flying away. Her fingers lightly grazed over his skin, healing scars and pulling smiles from his lips. Bill dropped a soft kiss on the forehead of his new wife.
“So how many people have given you guff about the ring incident?” Harry’s voice rang from behind Ron’s shoulder.
He didn’t even bother to turn his head. “Including you? Thirty-seven and counting.” Ron grinned and looked down at his friend, relieved to see someone who wasn’t obviously of a Weasley or Delacour bloodline.
Harry’s gaze floated back to the dance floor, where Mrs. Weasley and Fleur’s father had just cut in. “You think this is where it all ends up? You find a girl, fall in love, get married? Is that what people are meant to do?”
“Only if you’re not too busy saving the world,” Ron said with a smirk. “Honestly mate, your life’s hardly been normal this far, so why should that change now?”
“Well, maybe I want it to.” Harry sighed, and Ron knew very well that he was scanning the innumerable redheads to look for one in particular.
Ron grumbled to himself. While the thought of his little sister with anyone was enough to make him want to hurt everyone within arm’s reach, especially said person, it was better his best friend than one of the many pricks that made up the male population of Hogwarts. Besides, it made them happy and all that other gooey stuff he didn’t like to admit existed between his little sister and anyone else. “You know, it’s not too late Harry. She understands you better than you think. And I think maybe for one night it’d be okay to forget about tomorrow and the day after that.”
Harry stood still for a moment, the battle between his heart and his head evident in his twisted expression. “I suppose it’s better to live while you have the chance, eh?” Harry smiled and slapped his friend on the back, pushing him towards the dance floor. Ron, puzzled, stared down at him. “Looks like your mum wants to dance with each of her sons, and you’re up.”
“You’re next, Harry! Being one of the family demands you dance with me at weddings, you know!” she called. With that, Mrs. Weasley had Ron grasped by the elbow, dragging him out to the floor. Eyes wide, Ron threw back the last of his drink and shoved the empty glass into Harry’s chest.
The pair slowly turned around the floor, though Mrs. Weasley did most of the leading. She buried her welling eyes into his chest, softly muttering about how quickly he’d grown, how he’d become a man, how proud of him she was. Awkwardly, Ron patted her on the back. A glimpse of green caught his eye, and he watched her path parting through the crowd. A particularly loud sob from below drew his attention, and after hugging his mother back to her previous level of emotional breakdown, he looked back to where he’d last seen Hermione. She was gone, swallowed up by a sea of formalwear.
Ron turned at the tap on his shoulder, and Arthur smiled gently at his youngest boy. They shifted the sniffling Molly from latching around Ron’s neck onto Arthur’s, and before Ron could even open his mouth to ask, Arthur pointed towards Hermione’s location. He gave his father a thankful smile and dove into the mercifully thinning crowd. On the floor, directly next to one another, stood two generations of wedded Weasleys, the past and the future juxtaposed. Ron had always wondered how to tell if a man was in love. Had he taken the time to look closely, he would have known that you could see it in the way they looked at her - the identical look that Bill and Arthur now cast upon their wives.
In the next hour Ron found everyone he wasn’t looking for, and he saw more than one thing he hadn’t cared to see. Fred and George had set their sights on a pair of very similar looking blondes, showing off a large array of new products which set the girls into fits of very bouncy laughter. One of Ron’s uncles apparently exceeded his limit of champagne and firewhiskey, and was currently explaining very loudly the importance of adequate prevention in the case of a garden gnome coup. Harry and Ginny had evidently made up for the moment and had sequestered themselves in the far end of the yard under the oak tree. Still there was no sign of Hermione.
By then, the moon was hung heavy in the sky, looming large and silhouetting the Burrow’s twisted frame. Ron sighed in frustration. That had been it. That had been his chance. For months he had imagined the wedding, how she’d look, what he’d say to her, and how he’d ask her to dance. Now, as the band called for the last dance, it seemed that they were doomed to another year of near-misses and could-have-beens. Weddings were supposed to be the most romantic of occasions, and he’d been sure that tonight would be the night he’d buck up enough courage to say something, anything. Tomorrow the focus would shift back onto the bitter reality of war; there would be no time for this sort of thing, not when Harry’s life rested squarely in their hands. He cursed under his breath and pushed the fringe off of his forehead.
With jaw clenched, Ron took a glass from a passing tray and wandered towards the floor. Guests quietly gathered their coats and left the dishevelled table settings, but Ron’s immediate family still dotted the dance floor. Bride and groom, brothers and bridesmaids, even Harry and Ginny were tangled in arms, holding on to resist night’s end. Ron supposed that when you spent your whole life fighting, it was hard to stop. He shook his head and popped open the top buttons on his shirt, his tie hanging loose around his neck.
He could feel eyes on him, resting heavy on his back.
Turning slowly, Ron’s breath caught in his throat. Hermione stood across the floor, unblinking as she looked at him. Without taking his eyes off of her for fear of losing her once again, Ron discarded his jacket and glass on a nearby table, then toed up to the edge of the floor. With a deep breath, each stepped on to the wood with a click of dress shoes. The walk was never-ending it seemed, and with each step Ron’s heart beat a little louder, a little faster. By the time they met in the middle, he was sure it would pound straight out of his chest. Ron swallowed, but his mouth was a desert.
“I’ve been looking for you all night,” Ron said softly, neck craned slightly forward.
“And I’ve been waiting for years.” Her dark eyes twinkled hopefully. “So?” she asked, looking over towards the other swaying pairs.
Ron blushed and studied the ground. “Would you like to dance with me?” he asked, his smile far more shy and his tone far less eloquent than he’d imagined it would be at this crucial moment.
“I’d love to, Ronald.” For once when using his full name, her tone wasn’t nagging, wasn’t sharp. And if he was right, Ron thought he could see her breathing quite quickly.
With sudden dismay, Ron realized that he’d never really danced like this with a girl who wasn’t a blood relative. As his hands slid over the soft silk of her dress, they felt large and clumsy, far too coarse of the delicate curve of her waist and flare of her hip. Hermione gasped at his touch and Ron pulled back.
“No, it’s okay, Ron,” she whispered in shaky reassurance. His fingers curled around her back, and her tiny hand was dwarfed in his. With a bit of mental preparation, Ron began to turn them around in a slow circle. Just as he began to feel comfortable, his two left feet finding the rhythm, the song cut out from underneath them and the band said a quick good-bye. The couples streamed off of the dance floor towards the house, ready to see Bill and Fleur off on their honeymoon. As Hermione reluctantly sighed and began to step away, Ron held her firmly in place. She looked up at him quizzically.
Though he waited, holding her gaze until most of his family was safely inside the Burrow, Ron never relaxed his grip on her. Her heavy breath brushed over his neck, centring his entire world on a tiny patch of skin for a few moments. He shook his head and looked back down at her, answering the question clearly painted across her face.
“You promised me a dance, Hermione,” he whispered, his voice steady and his eyes unblinking. “I only got half of one.” And then, even though the only music was a chorus of crickets surrounding the grounds and most of the fairy lights had scattered off, Ron picked up where they had left off. With no tune to guide them it took a bit longer to fall into synch, but soon they matched each other perfectly, turning slowly in the cool summer night air.
Minutes passed in contented silence, and slowly the pair crept closer. Hermione’s hand fell from Ron’s and wrapped around his shoulder, and his onto the side of her hip as he pulled her against him. Soon after, her head dropped tiredly onto his chest, eyes drifting shut as she listened to the steady beat of his heart. Arms wrapped tighter, Ron bent over as Hermione lifted onto her toes and buried her face into the rough crook of his neck. Their feet no longer moved, and the entire world boiled down to the heavy sound of their breathing and the rustling of fabric. A loud whistle from the porch door snapped the pair back into reality, and they hastily jumped apart. Ron scowled at the grinning faces of the twins, but he quickly turned his attention back to Hermione. At the suggestion of a walk, Hermione agreed enthusiastically.
Their arms hung loose between them as they circled the pond, safely out of sight of the house and all brothers. Fingers brushed with each swing; it took a good minute of mental coaxing before Ron could muster up the courage to twist his pinkie with hers. It was a step in the right direction, at least.
“Ron?” Hermione asked, her voice tinted with hesitancy.
“Hmm?”
“I…I’m just glad that I got to see you tonight.”
“Me too. You look amazing, Hermione, really.” She blushed, turning away and walking over to lean her forehead on a large willow tree. Ron followed close behind, taking her arm and turning her back to face him again. Hooking a finger underneath her chin, he lifted her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I mean that. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you all night.” She leaned back against the tree, her arms loosely folded over her stomach as she shied away from his intense stare. He countered by leaning his arm against the willow just above her head and running the back of his fingers over her cheek. Hermione shuddered.
“I did try to get to you all night, ‘Mione. I just couldn’t. I honestly did try though, you have to believe me,” he whispered.
“And then what?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“I don’t know. All I wanted to do was to find you, and that’s about all the plan I really had.”
“I believe you Ron,” she breathed. “I always believed you would come around, or else I wouldn’t have waited. I didn’t dance with anyone else, Ron. I didn’t want to. I never have.”
Ron quickly pushed a kiss against her temple, his cheek touching her head as he spoke with rushed words. “I know, I know! And I know it’s not because you couldn’t have if you did want to, ‘Mione. Bloody hell, I understand better than anyone does why someone’d want you. I’m just so grateful that you did wait. And I’m sorry I didn’t. Fuck Hermione, you have to know I’m sorry,” he begged desperately.
She covered the hand on her cheek with her own, thumb stroking soft circles over his skin. “I do, Ron. Of course I do,” she whispered, voice threatening to break.
“I messed everything up so royally. It’s just when I found out about Viktor something snapped, and then I almost lost you. Hell, it took me getting poisoned for you to even be in the same room with me again without getting that look on your face.”
“No, Ron, please,” Hermione pleaded softly, “don’t. It . . . it breaks my heart to think about that, about seeing you in that hospital bed all pale, knowing that the last thing I’d said to you was something horrible and nasty. I’ll never forgive myself for that.” She sniffed softly, a high-pitch squeak escaping her throat.
“Don’t cry, Hermione, please don’t cry.” Ron leaned his forehead against hers and squeezed his eyes shut, his hands smoothing over her hair. “I don’t ever want to see you cry, especially not because of me. Please, Hermione.” His thumbs hooked over her cheeks to wipe away the tears that had begun to spill over. Without a second thought he pushed a protective kiss against her forehead, her temples, her cheeks, her nose, drying her tears with sheer will. Hermione gave another small sniff, her eyebrows raised as she looked up at him. In a moment, whatever cathartic grief of confession had been in their eyes was clouded over with need. Arms tangled together and this time Ron kissed her on the lips, hard and hungrily.
Years of pent-up emotion poured out in mere moments as the pair finally let out what they’d been holding back for so long. For once, Hermione’s head took a backseat, and she didn’t worry about what would happen come the morning. For once, Ron was honest enough with himself to admit that he needed her more than anything else in the world. They spoke in foreign tongues with each kiss. Somehow, one night had taught them more about one another than they had ever known.
Ron pushed Hermione hard against the tree, and she gasped into his neck as the bark bit her skin. His hand wrinkled the silk over her thigh, and red nips marked his trail over collar bones and chest. When Ron’s name poured from her lips like honey, he growled possessively, pushing his hips harder against hers. Surprising himself with his own agility, Ron deftly slid his hands around her and laid Hermione out on the grass.
As Ron traced from her lips down the side of her neck, Hermione panted, her eyes thrown open and eyebrows knitted. “Ron,” she called, but it only spurred him forward. Hermione pushed up against his chest until he raised his head and looked down at her with worry. “Ron,” she said, uncertainty dripping from her voice, “I’ve never done this before. Viktor only kissed me twice, and it wasn’t like this at all.” Her face twisted with concern, fingers lost in his wild hair.
Ron hung his head in relief, a wide smile painted across his face. He settled against her body, resting along the subtle hills and valleys of her form and learning by feel what he already knew by sight. Call it innate competitiveness, immature machismo, but now that Ron had done more than Viktor, his former rival was no longer a threat. “It’s okay Hermione. We can take it slow. We’ve waited six years; what’s a while longer?” he said with a light laugh.
Hermione smiled, relaxing underneath him. “It’s not even that I want to wait very long, Ron.” Immediately he perked up. “I’m just not exactly sure what we’re doing. I’m not sure what this is. I don’t know if this even is a thing. Is it?”
Ron nodded, pulling up a hand to kiss the inside of her palm. “I know that maybe I’ve done things with Lavender, but that wasn’t like this. And so far, this is much better. Not even in the same league. And anything we do from here on out I want to do for love, not just for lust.”
Hermione blinked twice, looking up into the shadowed blue eyes above her. She swallowed, her throat dry and voice husky. “And how do you know if you’re in love?” she questioned softly.
Ron rand his hand down the length of her outstretched arm and twisted his fingers into hers. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, eyebrows raised and lips twisted into a soft smile, “but I’d really like to find out.” With that, he pressed a long, gentle kiss on her lips.
Harry stopped in his tracks abruptly when he saw the two figures sprawled on the grass a few hundred feet in front of him. Ron pulled back from her lingering kiss and hovered just above her, content to stare into her eyes for as long as he could. From his point of view, Harry could easily recognized the look Ron was giving Hermione; he’d seen it twice before tonight on both Bill and Mr. Weasley. He smiled to himself and decided to leave them be for now; there was no need stir them until morning’s light.
------------------------
ORIGINAL REQUEST:
Briefly describe what you'd like to receive: A lovely little Bill/Fleur's wedding fic, or anything post-HBP.
What rating would you prefer? PG-13 to NC-17, but I'm not that picky :)
One to three specifics you want (optional): Loads of UST, resolution of said UST, and an inexperienced Hermione.
Deal Breakers (what don't you want?): n/a
Thanks so much for participating in the exchange!
Author: roonil_wazlib80
Beta: FreeDaChickens from Perfect Imagination
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3900
Summary: It’s the night of Bill’s wedding, and with all the romance in the air Ron decides it’s time to tell Hermione the truth - if, that is, he can find her.
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: All characters property of people who are not me.
Author's Notes: I hope you enjoy it! I’ve never actually written my own R/Hr fic before, but it was fun.
Black Holes and Revelations
The toast spread throughout the gathered crowd in a wave of tinkling crystal, a hundred tall champagne flutes raised high in honour of the happy couple. Though ecstatic for his brother, Ron was heavily preoccupied. He had shifted nervously throughout the entire ceremony, especially so when the Justice of the Ministry had gone on a rather long tangent on the responsibility of marriage in today’s modern society.
Ron’s one job, his only responsibility, was to listen for his cue and to hand over the rings, but a certain hint of pale green in the crowd continually drew his attention. Somehow the flowing tribute to love of the highest sort made more sense when he looked at the curve of her shoulders and the shadows playing softly across her skin. Ron needed to periodically remind himself that he was on the altar and everyone gathered could see when his gaze drifted. Still, even with the feel of dozens of pairs of disapproving eyes on him, he found himself staring.
When, he wondered, had she become a woman? Somehow over the years Hermione had transformed from mousy girl to close friend to girl to woman all in front of his blind eyes. There she sat amidst a sea of red and gold, a patch of brunette in a Gryffindor family gathering. Her eyes stayed locked ahead, taking in every detail of the ceremony with her typical intensity and a soft smile gracing her face. It seemed that if Fleur decided to come out with a pop-quiz on the full content of the justice’s speech, Hermione would practically fall out of he seat trying to raise her hand first. In that way she was still the same eleven year old Ron had met so long ago, yet in every other way she was a new person.
Bill’s familiar voice took over from the high whine of the justice, his vows a testament to the easiest and best decision he had ever made. Though it was his brother’s voice, ringing in his ears, they were Ron’s words. He swallowed hard and slowly lifted his head, a veil of fiery fringe shadowing his eyes. The shawl slipped from Hermione’s arm, and she shivered ever so slightly, but he saw. For a moment he stood perfectly still, eyeing her like a predator, his heart pounding louder than the voice behind him. She turned slowly, tentatively meeting his gaze. Ron stiffened, straightening up tall under the weight of her eyes. Bill continued, spouting the simple poetry of his heart, telling the story of overcoming his fear of losing his identity in order to go after something he wanted more. Ron’s mouth fell slightly open. Bill spoke of struggles, of lessons she’d taught him, of how she’d saved him in more ways than he could count. But most of all, Bill said, his only regret in life was not realizing how much he loved her sooner. The younger boy’s breath hitched in his throat, but Hermione’s gaze never faltered.
Fleur’s voice replaced his brother’s, her accent now that of an expatriate, her tone as silky as ever. She spoke of love at first sight, telling how she knew she would marry the man the moment she laid eyes on him at the tournament years ago. It was hard, Fleur told the crowd, to deal with a stubborn man born of stubborn blood. The congregation laughed, but two remained unblinking and deathly serious, silent in public confession. The Veela sighed softly and looked up at the man who would become her husband in mere moments. The most important part, she whispered, was that even though they’d had their troubles and there’d surely be more ahead, she’d never leave his side - scars or no scars. Ron could have sworn he saw Hermione’s head tip upwards ever so slightly, her painted lips parting to call his name. It wasn’t until an elbow met sharply with the side of his ribs that he found his name was being called, but it was Charlie’s voice, not her’s.
All eyes were on him, a hand expectantly thrust out from the altar. Proceeding to turn a brilliant shade of maroon, Ron fished in his pocket and handed over the small velvet box.
The champagne Ron swilled later didn’t help him forget his spectacular and very visible screw up, especially when every other person he met felt the need to make what they thought was a clever remark about it. Ron forced a half-hearted smile with each, though it became less convincing as the time slipped by. By now the dinner had finished and the dimming light was punctuated by a hundred blue fairy lights scattered about the yard in haphazard fashion. At every turn, he was met with yet another relative who looked like all the rest, and after spending a minute describing in painful detail exactly how they were related, each aunt, uncle, cousin and kid proceeded to exclaim how frightfully tall he’d gotten and just how much he looked like great-uncle what’s-his-name. Each time he peered over the heads of others to try and find a route of escape, he was grabbed and kissed by another partial-Veela, one of Fleur’s relatives or friends. While normally one of Ron’s favourite activities, he quickly learned that even this was better in moderation.
The band took the stage, and in a grand display, the bride and groom had their first dance. The crowd circled the dance floor, watching and whispering sweet sentiments as the pair slowly twirled around the floor, arms wrapped tightly around one another. Fleur’s dress skimmed across the ground; she floated on a cloud of silk as if Bill’s touch was the only thing keeping her from flying away. Her fingers lightly grazed over his skin, healing scars and pulling smiles from his lips. Bill dropped a soft kiss on the forehead of his new wife.
“So how many people have given you guff about the ring incident?” Harry’s voice rang from behind Ron’s shoulder.
He didn’t even bother to turn his head. “Including you? Thirty-seven and counting.” Ron grinned and looked down at his friend, relieved to see someone who wasn’t obviously of a Weasley or Delacour bloodline.
Harry’s gaze floated back to the dance floor, where Mrs. Weasley and Fleur’s father had just cut in. “You think this is where it all ends up? You find a girl, fall in love, get married? Is that what people are meant to do?”
“Only if you’re not too busy saving the world,” Ron said with a smirk. “Honestly mate, your life’s hardly been normal this far, so why should that change now?”
“Well, maybe I want it to.” Harry sighed, and Ron knew very well that he was scanning the innumerable redheads to look for one in particular.
Ron grumbled to himself. While the thought of his little sister with anyone was enough to make him want to hurt everyone within arm’s reach, especially said person, it was better his best friend than one of the many pricks that made up the male population of Hogwarts. Besides, it made them happy and all that other gooey stuff he didn’t like to admit existed between his little sister and anyone else. “You know, it’s not too late Harry. She understands you better than you think. And I think maybe for one night it’d be okay to forget about tomorrow and the day after that.”
Harry stood still for a moment, the battle between his heart and his head evident in his twisted expression. “I suppose it’s better to live while you have the chance, eh?” Harry smiled and slapped his friend on the back, pushing him towards the dance floor. Ron, puzzled, stared down at him. “Looks like your mum wants to dance with each of her sons, and you’re up.”
“You’re next, Harry! Being one of the family demands you dance with me at weddings, you know!” she called. With that, Mrs. Weasley had Ron grasped by the elbow, dragging him out to the floor. Eyes wide, Ron threw back the last of his drink and shoved the empty glass into Harry’s chest.
The pair slowly turned around the floor, though Mrs. Weasley did most of the leading. She buried her welling eyes into his chest, softly muttering about how quickly he’d grown, how he’d become a man, how proud of him she was. Awkwardly, Ron patted her on the back. A glimpse of green caught his eye, and he watched her path parting through the crowd. A particularly loud sob from below drew his attention, and after hugging his mother back to her previous level of emotional breakdown, he looked back to where he’d last seen Hermione. She was gone, swallowed up by a sea of formalwear.
Ron turned at the tap on his shoulder, and Arthur smiled gently at his youngest boy. They shifted the sniffling Molly from latching around Ron’s neck onto Arthur’s, and before Ron could even open his mouth to ask, Arthur pointed towards Hermione’s location. He gave his father a thankful smile and dove into the mercifully thinning crowd. On the floor, directly next to one another, stood two generations of wedded Weasleys, the past and the future juxtaposed. Ron had always wondered how to tell if a man was in love. Had he taken the time to look closely, he would have known that you could see it in the way they looked at her - the identical look that Bill and Arthur now cast upon their wives.
In the next hour Ron found everyone he wasn’t looking for, and he saw more than one thing he hadn’t cared to see. Fred and George had set their sights on a pair of very similar looking blondes, showing off a large array of new products which set the girls into fits of very bouncy laughter. One of Ron’s uncles apparently exceeded his limit of champagne and firewhiskey, and was currently explaining very loudly the importance of adequate prevention in the case of a garden gnome coup. Harry and Ginny had evidently made up for the moment and had sequestered themselves in the far end of the yard under the oak tree. Still there was no sign of Hermione.
By then, the moon was hung heavy in the sky, looming large and silhouetting the Burrow’s twisted frame. Ron sighed in frustration. That had been it. That had been his chance. For months he had imagined the wedding, how she’d look, what he’d say to her, and how he’d ask her to dance. Now, as the band called for the last dance, it seemed that they were doomed to another year of near-misses and could-have-beens. Weddings were supposed to be the most romantic of occasions, and he’d been sure that tonight would be the night he’d buck up enough courage to say something, anything. Tomorrow the focus would shift back onto the bitter reality of war; there would be no time for this sort of thing, not when Harry’s life rested squarely in their hands. He cursed under his breath and pushed the fringe off of his forehead.
With jaw clenched, Ron took a glass from a passing tray and wandered towards the floor. Guests quietly gathered their coats and left the dishevelled table settings, but Ron’s immediate family still dotted the dance floor. Bride and groom, brothers and bridesmaids, even Harry and Ginny were tangled in arms, holding on to resist night’s end. Ron supposed that when you spent your whole life fighting, it was hard to stop. He shook his head and popped open the top buttons on his shirt, his tie hanging loose around his neck.
He could feel eyes on him, resting heavy on his back.
Turning slowly, Ron’s breath caught in his throat. Hermione stood across the floor, unblinking as she looked at him. Without taking his eyes off of her for fear of losing her once again, Ron discarded his jacket and glass on a nearby table, then toed up to the edge of the floor. With a deep breath, each stepped on to the wood with a click of dress shoes. The walk was never-ending it seemed, and with each step Ron’s heart beat a little louder, a little faster. By the time they met in the middle, he was sure it would pound straight out of his chest. Ron swallowed, but his mouth was a desert.
“I’ve been looking for you all night,” Ron said softly, neck craned slightly forward.
“And I’ve been waiting for years.” Her dark eyes twinkled hopefully. “So?” she asked, looking over towards the other swaying pairs.
Ron blushed and studied the ground. “Would you like to dance with me?” he asked, his smile far more shy and his tone far less eloquent than he’d imagined it would be at this crucial moment.
“I’d love to, Ronald.” For once when using his full name, her tone wasn’t nagging, wasn’t sharp. And if he was right, Ron thought he could see her breathing quite quickly.
With sudden dismay, Ron realized that he’d never really danced like this with a girl who wasn’t a blood relative. As his hands slid over the soft silk of her dress, they felt large and clumsy, far too coarse of the delicate curve of her waist and flare of her hip. Hermione gasped at his touch and Ron pulled back.
“No, it’s okay, Ron,” she whispered in shaky reassurance. His fingers curled around her back, and her tiny hand was dwarfed in his. With a bit of mental preparation, Ron began to turn them around in a slow circle. Just as he began to feel comfortable, his two left feet finding the rhythm, the song cut out from underneath them and the band said a quick good-bye. The couples streamed off of the dance floor towards the house, ready to see Bill and Fleur off on their honeymoon. As Hermione reluctantly sighed and began to step away, Ron held her firmly in place. She looked up at him quizzically.
Though he waited, holding her gaze until most of his family was safely inside the Burrow, Ron never relaxed his grip on her. Her heavy breath brushed over his neck, centring his entire world on a tiny patch of skin for a few moments. He shook his head and looked back down at her, answering the question clearly painted across her face.
“You promised me a dance, Hermione,” he whispered, his voice steady and his eyes unblinking. “I only got half of one.” And then, even though the only music was a chorus of crickets surrounding the grounds and most of the fairy lights had scattered off, Ron picked up where they had left off. With no tune to guide them it took a bit longer to fall into synch, but soon they matched each other perfectly, turning slowly in the cool summer night air.
Minutes passed in contented silence, and slowly the pair crept closer. Hermione’s hand fell from Ron’s and wrapped around his shoulder, and his onto the side of her hip as he pulled her against him. Soon after, her head dropped tiredly onto his chest, eyes drifting shut as she listened to the steady beat of his heart. Arms wrapped tighter, Ron bent over as Hermione lifted onto her toes and buried her face into the rough crook of his neck. Their feet no longer moved, and the entire world boiled down to the heavy sound of their breathing and the rustling of fabric. A loud whistle from the porch door snapped the pair back into reality, and they hastily jumped apart. Ron scowled at the grinning faces of the twins, but he quickly turned his attention back to Hermione. At the suggestion of a walk, Hermione agreed enthusiastically.
Their arms hung loose between them as they circled the pond, safely out of sight of the house and all brothers. Fingers brushed with each swing; it took a good minute of mental coaxing before Ron could muster up the courage to twist his pinkie with hers. It was a step in the right direction, at least.
“Ron?” Hermione asked, her voice tinted with hesitancy.
“Hmm?”
“I…I’m just glad that I got to see you tonight.”
“Me too. You look amazing, Hermione, really.” She blushed, turning away and walking over to lean her forehead on a large willow tree. Ron followed close behind, taking her arm and turning her back to face him again. Hooking a finger underneath her chin, he lifted her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I mean that. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you all night.” She leaned back against the tree, her arms loosely folded over her stomach as she shied away from his intense stare. He countered by leaning his arm against the willow just above her head and running the back of his fingers over her cheek. Hermione shuddered.
“I did try to get to you all night, ‘Mione. I just couldn’t. I honestly did try though, you have to believe me,” he whispered.
“And then what?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“I don’t know. All I wanted to do was to find you, and that’s about all the plan I really had.”
“I believe you Ron,” she breathed. “I always believed you would come around, or else I wouldn’t have waited. I didn’t dance with anyone else, Ron. I didn’t want to. I never have.”
Ron quickly pushed a kiss against her temple, his cheek touching her head as he spoke with rushed words. “I know, I know! And I know it’s not because you couldn’t have if you did want to, ‘Mione. Bloody hell, I understand better than anyone does why someone’d want you. I’m just so grateful that you did wait. And I’m sorry I didn’t. Fuck Hermione, you have to know I’m sorry,” he begged desperately.
She covered the hand on her cheek with her own, thumb stroking soft circles over his skin. “I do, Ron. Of course I do,” she whispered, voice threatening to break.
“I messed everything up so royally. It’s just when I found out about Viktor something snapped, and then I almost lost you. Hell, it took me getting poisoned for you to even be in the same room with me again without getting that look on your face.”
“No, Ron, please,” Hermione pleaded softly, “don’t. It . . . it breaks my heart to think about that, about seeing you in that hospital bed all pale, knowing that the last thing I’d said to you was something horrible and nasty. I’ll never forgive myself for that.” She sniffed softly, a high-pitch squeak escaping her throat.
“Don’t cry, Hermione, please don’t cry.” Ron leaned his forehead against hers and squeezed his eyes shut, his hands smoothing over her hair. “I don’t ever want to see you cry, especially not because of me. Please, Hermione.” His thumbs hooked over her cheeks to wipe away the tears that had begun to spill over. Without a second thought he pushed a protective kiss against her forehead, her temples, her cheeks, her nose, drying her tears with sheer will. Hermione gave another small sniff, her eyebrows raised as she looked up at him. In a moment, whatever cathartic grief of confession had been in their eyes was clouded over with need. Arms tangled together and this time Ron kissed her on the lips, hard and hungrily.
Years of pent-up emotion poured out in mere moments as the pair finally let out what they’d been holding back for so long. For once, Hermione’s head took a backseat, and she didn’t worry about what would happen come the morning. For once, Ron was honest enough with himself to admit that he needed her more than anything else in the world. They spoke in foreign tongues with each kiss. Somehow, one night had taught them more about one another than they had ever known.
Ron pushed Hermione hard against the tree, and she gasped into his neck as the bark bit her skin. His hand wrinkled the silk over her thigh, and red nips marked his trail over collar bones and chest. When Ron’s name poured from her lips like honey, he growled possessively, pushing his hips harder against hers. Surprising himself with his own agility, Ron deftly slid his hands around her and laid Hermione out on the grass.
As Ron traced from her lips down the side of her neck, Hermione panted, her eyes thrown open and eyebrows knitted. “Ron,” she called, but it only spurred him forward. Hermione pushed up against his chest until he raised his head and looked down at her with worry. “Ron,” she said, uncertainty dripping from her voice, “I’ve never done this before. Viktor only kissed me twice, and it wasn’t like this at all.” Her face twisted with concern, fingers lost in his wild hair.
Ron hung his head in relief, a wide smile painted across his face. He settled against her body, resting along the subtle hills and valleys of her form and learning by feel what he already knew by sight. Call it innate competitiveness, immature machismo, but now that Ron had done more than Viktor, his former rival was no longer a threat. “It’s okay Hermione. We can take it slow. We’ve waited six years; what’s a while longer?” he said with a light laugh.
Hermione smiled, relaxing underneath him. “It’s not even that I want to wait very long, Ron.” Immediately he perked up. “I’m just not exactly sure what we’re doing. I’m not sure what this is. I don’t know if this even is a thing. Is it?”
Ron nodded, pulling up a hand to kiss the inside of her palm. “I know that maybe I’ve done things with Lavender, but that wasn’t like this. And so far, this is much better. Not even in the same league. And anything we do from here on out I want to do for love, not just for lust.”
Hermione blinked twice, looking up into the shadowed blue eyes above her. She swallowed, her throat dry and voice husky. “And how do you know if you’re in love?” she questioned softly.
Ron rand his hand down the length of her outstretched arm and twisted his fingers into hers. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, eyebrows raised and lips twisted into a soft smile, “but I’d really like to find out.” With that, he pressed a long, gentle kiss on her lips.
Harry stopped in his tracks abruptly when he saw the two figures sprawled on the grass a few hundred feet in front of him. Ron pulled back from her lingering kiss and hovered just above her, content to stare into her eyes for as long as he could. From his point of view, Harry could easily recognized the look Ron was giving Hermione; he’d seen it twice before tonight on both Bill and Mr. Weasley. He smiled to himself and decided to leave them be for now; there was no need stir them until morning’s light.
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ORIGINAL REQUEST:
Briefly describe what you'd like to receive: A lovely little Bill/Fleur's wedding fic, or anything post-HBP.
What rating would you prefer? PG-13 to NC-17, but I'm not that picky :)
One to three specifics you want (optional): Loads of UST, resolution of said UST, and an inexperienced Hermione.
Deal Breakers (what don't you want?): n/a
Thanks so much for participating in the exchange!