(no subject)
Title: Meet the Muggles (1/2)
Author: kanedax
Fandom: Harry Potterverse
Spoilers: Half-Blood Prince
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
Rating: PG
Summary: Ron dreads meeting Hermione’s parents, and Hermione dreads telling them the truth.
Notes: The Grangers have never been named in the series, nor has Hermione’s hometown, so I took some liberties. Oxford and Charlotte belong to Emma Watson, Daniel belongs to a Granger I went to elementary school with, and everything else belongs to JK Rowling.
Hermione Granger glanced out of the window as the taxi drove through Oxford. She felt the seat jiggling beneath her in a way that had little to do with the engine as they approached the familiar street. She turned away from the window to look at Ron Weasley. His face was paler than usual, and his leg bounced up and down nervously.
“Ron,” she said quietly, putting her hand on his flopping knee.
He turned to her and gulped. “I’m nervous.”
“I know.”
“We should have asked Harry to come along,” Ron said for what felt like the fiftieth time since the two of them had decided on this little vacation at the end of the school year.
And, for what felt like the fiftieth time, Hermione sighed. “Ron,” she said. “Harry’s in Surrey with his aunt and uncle.”
“See?” Ron squeaked. “He’d love to be here. To get away from them, you know?”
“Ron!” Hermione said, maybe a little too sternly. “It’s you and me, okay? Only you and me.”
“Not only…” Ron said, looking anxiously out the window. Hermione recognized the houses as they drove past.
“It’s not like you haven’t met them before,” she continued.
“Well, we weren’t snogging last time I met them.”
“Ron,” Hermione said softly, taking his hand. “This is important to me, okay? It’s important to me because you’re important to me.”
Ron turned to look her in the eye. There were still nerves prickling behind his eyes, but at least his leg was slowing down.
“Your Mum and Dad already know your girlfriend,” she continued. “I would like for my Mum and Dad to know my boyfriend before they come to the wedding. Okay?”
Ron nodded, the color slowly returning to his face as he looked into her eyes. “Well,” he said with a nervous smile, “It’s not like we’ll be snogging in front of them, right?”
“If you try, you’re hexed,” Hermione smiled back, squeezing his hand. She saw the driver turn his head curiously when he heard the phrase, and she shut up quickly. I’m so rarely in Muggle territory anymore, she thought to herself as the driver turned back to the road, shaking his head (“Kids today,” she heard him mutter under his breath). I have to remember to keep the wizarding phraseology to a minimum.
“This the place?” the driver growled as the cab pulled up to the curb.
“Yes, this is it,” Hermione replied, opening her purse and pulling out a small pile of money. Ron looked at it with some interest as she pulled off a ten pound note and handed it to the driver.
“Keep the change,” she said as she and Ron piled out of the car.
“Thanks,” the driver replied, popping the trunk. As she and Ron pulled his luggage from the back, she saw him shaking his head out of the corner of her eye and heard him mumbling. “Paper money,” he said. “Weird.”
“Not anything you haven’t seen before,” Hermione said, pulling out Pig’s empty cage. Ron had left Pigwidgeon, his owl, at home, expecting the hyperactive Scops to find him at the Grangers sooner or later. In the meantime, he figured, he’d draw a lot less attention on the train without the constant hooting.
“Yeah, I’ve seen it before,” said Ron as he closed the taxi’s trunk. “Usually just in one of my dad’s scrapbooks, though.”
“Thank you,” Hermione called to the driver, who waved to them and drove off. She turned back to Ron, who was looking at the Granger residence, a small two-story brick building with a row of flowers across the front. He had regained the strained, pale look that had plagued him during the entire taxi ride from the station.
“You’ll be fine,” she said, taking his hand again. “They’re nice people. They’re not like the Dursleys.”
“It’s going to be weird,” he said. “Living without magic.”
“I want you to get used to it,” Hermione explained. “You and I are together. That means you’ll have to deal with my side of the world every now and then. I want you to get used to the idea of living like a Muggle sometimes, especially since my parents have kept my, um, education a secret from the rest of the family.”
“I don’t know about this…” Ron said in a final weak protest.
Hermione grabbed his chin and, pulling his eyes away from the house, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him firmly on the lips. “You’ll do fine,” she ordered.
Ron swallowed hard, but the kiss seemed to embolden him. “Well, now I know how you and Harry must have felt the first time you showed up to Diagon Alley. Like you’re about ready to go to some foreign country.”
Hermione laughed. “You could look at it that way. Come on,” she tugged his hand and pulled him toward the front door. “Let’s go introduce you to the natives.”
“We’re back!” Hermione yelled to no one in particular as she and Ron stepped into the house.
“Ah, you found him!” came a voice from the living room to their right. Hermione’s father, a short man with a halo of thick, curly brown hair surrounding his otherwise bald head, stood up from the couch and approached them. “Didn’t have much trouble, did you, Hermie?”
“No, I didn’t have any trouble,” Hermione replied, responding to her Dad’s nickname with a blush.
“Well, it was your first time to the station by yourself, I just wanted to make sure,” Mr. Granger said as Ron heard some thumping from upstairs. “You would be Ronald, correct? Hermie didn’t find the wrong redheaded Weasley?”
“No, I’m Ronald, sir,” Ron replied, “But you can call me Ron.”
Mr. Granger put his hand out. “We’ve met, of course, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced properly. Your father loves to talk a mile a minute whenever we saw you and your family in Diagon Alley. My name’s Daniel. Daniel Granger.”
Ron took his hand and nervously shook it. “It’s nice to meet you… again… um… Mr. Granger.”
Mr. Granger laughed and jovially slapped Ron on the arm. “You’re staying here for a week, you call me Dan, you got that?”
“Um, sure,” Ron said hesitatingly, “No problem… Dan…” He took a quick glance over at Hermione, who was smiling at him reassuringly despite her still-red face. Ron barely had time to be astonished that these two were actually related before he heard a set of footfalls coming down the stairs.
“Hello, Ronald,” said a thin woman with short blonde hair and large straight teeth as she approached the trio from above.
“Hello, Mrs. Granger,” Ron replied.
“Did you have a good trip?”
“Alright,” said Ron, shrugging. “A little slow.”
“Well, it’s probably not as fast as your broomstick, I suppose,” Mrs. Granger said. “Anyway, I made up the guest bedroom for you. Hermione, would you mind showing him up?”
“Sure, Mum,” Hermione said, lifting the cage, along with one of Ron’s suitcases.
“I have a roast in the slow cooker,” Mrs. Granger continued as she and Mr. Granger went into the living room. “Supper’s in an hour, but I wouldn’t mind some help if you two want to come down earlier.”
“Alright,” Hermione yelled in reply. She continued to ascend the stairs, but stopped near the top. She looked down at Ron, who had paused at about the place where Mrs. Granger had been standing. He was looking with confusion into the living room.
“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked.
“Is your Floo broken, or something?” Ron asked quietly.
“What?”
“That man kept talking to your dad even though he had left the room.”
“What are you talking about?” Hermione said, stepping down to his level.
“Your Floo,” Ron said, pointing. “I’ve never seen one without a chimney before.”
Hermione looked where he was pointing.
“That’s the telly.”
“The what?”
“The television.”
“Oh!” Ron said, a look of surprise on his face as he turned and walked back up the stairs, a suitcase in each hand. “Huh. That’s a lot bigger than the one I used.”
“You’ve used a television?” Hermione asked, following him.
“Of course I have,” Ron said as he reached the top. “Which room?”
“To the left,” she said. “Second door. The other one’s mine.”
“You mean I get to finally see your room?” Ron asked, his voice touched with thoughts.
“Later,” Hermione grunted as she reached the top. “After we get your bag of rocks into the guest room. When have you used a television?”
“What do you mean?” Ron asked as he stepped into the basic, white-painted room.
“I’ve been to your house, Ron,” Hermione said, setting the cage on a desk near the window. “I know your family has a wireless, but your dad doesn’t even have a television in his workshop, let alone in the den.”
“I’ve used one,” Ron insisted. “When I contacted Harry at his aunt and uncle’s place. Remember?”
Hermione stared blankly at him as he sat down on the bed.
“Only it was a lot smaller than that one,” Ron continued as she continued to stare. “And it was hanging on a wall. And I don’t think I remember seeing Harry, unless his picture was on the side of it somewhere…”
“That’s a telephone, Ron.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Ron said proudly. “I told you I’ve used one.”
“No, Ron,” Hermione sighed, sitting down next to him. “A telephone. Not a television.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A bit,” said Hermione. “You talk to people on a telephone, but you only watch people on a television. Unless you’re my dad, and you’re watching Chelsea, then you swear and scream at it as much as you want. Just don’t expect a reply.”
“Who’s Chelsea? A cousin?”
“A football team. My dad grew up in West London, Chelsea’s his club.”
“That’s that sport that Dean’s really into, isn’t it?” Ron asked. “The one where everyone runs around a giant field, trying to kick a Quaffle into a net?”
“That’s… that’s one way of putting it, I suppose,” Hermione shrugged, once again realizing how little she cared about sports. “Want me to help you unpack?”
“Nah, I can unpack later,” he replied, taking her hand in his and standing up. “I want to see your room.”
“Already?” Hermione said, somewhat perturbed.
“Of course,” said Ron. “I want to know where I’m Apparating when everyone’s asleep.”
Hermione snorted. “You think so, do you?”
Ron paused in the doorway. “Maybe?”
“And you expect me to snog someone with half an eyebrow?”
Ron shrugged. “It’ll be dark, won’t it?”
“Do you think we could at least wait till after dinner before deciding who will be sneaking into which bedroom?” Hermione said. “Besides, you can’t even Apparate, you’re not licensed.”
“Yeah, I suppose…” Ron said, crestfallen.
“So if anyone’s going to be doing any midnight Apparating, it’ll be me.”
Ron perked up. “Is that a promise?”
Hermione squeezed his hand. “Don’t make fun of my bedroom when you see it, and I’ll think about it.”
Ron smiled in anticipation, but still had to force himself to bite his tongue when he stepped into Hermione’s bedroom.
“It’s… umm…” he stammered quietly. “It’s very pink, isn’t it?”
Hermione glowered at him as he looked around her bedroom. The walls were lined with bookcases, each one packed to creaking capacity. The little bit of wall that was exposed above the cases, as well as behind her white-sheeted bed, was painted in a cotton candy pink.
“That wasn’t a hollow threat, you know,” she warned. “Don’t make fun…”
“I’m not making fun!” Ron said quickly, lifting his hands in defense as Hermione’s cat, Crookshanks, jumped from the bed and began curling around their legs. “I’m just… commenting.”
“Uh huh.” Hermione said, not convinced.
“I’m serious!” Ron said, sitting down on her bed. “It’s… it’s…”
“It looks like a Dolores Umbridge wet dream, I know,” Hermione relented, sitting down with him. Crookshanks jumped on to her lap, purring.
“Didn’t know you liked pink,” Ron said, barely able to contain his smirk.
“I don’t,” Hermione said quickly. “I like it even less after a year with that… woman…”
“Then what’s with the paint job?”
Hermione shrugged. “It was what my Mum and Dad painted it when they were pregnant with me. They covered all their bases. This room was painted pink, and the other one blue. Whichever gender I came out as decided which room was going to be mine. And I did like it. To begin with, I mean. When you’re a five-year-old girl, pink’s the best color there is, you know?”
“No,” Ron said simply.
“You’re telling me Ginny never went through that phase,” Hermione said, her eyebrow raised.
“Mum tried to get her into some girly stuff,” Ron explained. “But I guess there were just too many boys around, and she kinda tomboyed out. Remember she said she was stealing our brooms since she was five? We were a bad influence on her.”
“Yeah, I never had that,” Hermione said sadly. “My folks always wanted to give me a little brother or little sister. They kept the guest room blue for years, just in case. They even had names picked out. Best laid plans, I guess…”
“What names?” Ron asked.
“Paulina or Perdita for a girl,” Hermione said, clicking off her fingers, “Camillo or Dion for a boy.”
“Weird names,” Ron muttered.
Hermione sighed, pushing a stray bit of hair behind her ear. “Yes, well…”
“Hermione!” came a voice from the bottom of the stairs.
“Yeah, Mum?” Hermione yelled back, standing and walking to the door as Crookshanks jumped from her lap to Ron’s.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Mrs. Granger said. “Do you think you two could come down and help? I need some potatoes peeled up.”
“Sure,” Hermione replied. She walked back into her room, where she grabbed Ron’s hand and pulled him up, forcing Crookshanks to leap nimbly to the floor. “Come on,” she said. “Time to pay the rent.”
“Having fun, Ron?” Mr. Granger asked a short time later. Ron and Hermione had finished peeling potatoes a short while ago, and Hermione was sitting at the table, tossing bits of potato skin to Crookshanks, who eagerly pounced on them. Mrs. Granger drained the pot of boiled potatoes into the sink and began mashing them.
“Huh?” Ron jerked.
“Are you having fun?” Mr. Granger repeated, pointing to the kitchen drawer, which Ron was digging through with a kind of rapt attention. Currently he was holding a manual can opener up to eye level and turning the crank slowly.
“I’ll bring my dad next time,” Ron said, a small smile crossing his face. “His head’ll explode.”
“Just so long as he promises to clean up after,” said Mr. Granger. “Dinner almost ready, Charlotte?”
Mrs. Granger sighed. “How poor are they that have not patience. It’ll be done in a minute.”
“Oho!” Mr. Granger said, leaning against the counter next to his wife. “What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?”
“Cute,” Charlotte Granger replied with a smirk. “That man hath a tongue, I say is no man, if with his tongue he cannot win a woman.” She pulled the potato masher from the pot and flicked a little at Dan’s face before throwing it into the sink. “Now we can eat.”
Ron looked between Hermione’s parents as he sat down next to her. Turning to look, he saw that Hermione had a look of strained patience on her face. “What was that all about?”
“Shakespeare,” Hermione mumbled as she scooped a pile of potatoes onto her plate. “My parents lose their minds occasionally and start quoting contests. They’ve been doing it as long as I can remember.”
Dan took a pile of roast and scooped it into his plate. “Well, Hermie,” he said loftily. “What’s gone and what’s past help should be past grief. Just because you’ve never been a fan of the Bard…”
“Who’s that?” Ron asked, taking a bite of steamed carrot.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Bard!” Mr. Granger said. “William Shakespeare?”
“Should I have?” Ron replied. “Is he a Muggle?”
“’Is he a Muggle?’ he asks,” Dan continued with mock indignation. “He’s only the greatest playwright the world’s ever known!”
“Oh,” Ron said, his face turning red. “Sorry.”
“Oh, it’s all right, dear,” Charlotte replied as Mr. Granger chortled next to her. “Dan’s just playing. I’m surprised you’ve never been exposed, though. Hermione brings his complete works with her every year to Hogwarts. You’ve never seen her reading them?”
Ron turned to Hermione, who sighed hopelessly. “I told you, Mother, I’m not much into fiction.” Ron silently agreed with that, knowing that Hermione’s idea of light reading involved books on magical architecture and goblin economic systems.
“When Hermione’s father and I were in dentistry school…”
“Oh, dear,” Hermione said, covering her bright red face in embarrassment. Ron smiled and continued to listen, recognizing that an opportunity to hear an embarrassing Hermione story didn’t come along very often.
“We both decided to take a Shakespeare class, as sort of an extra curricular, you know,” Mrs. Granger continued unabated, yet somewhat louder and with a smile that gently teased as she watched Hermione’s reaction. “That’s how we met, and that’s how we fell in love. Over Shakespeare.”
“I read her sonnets,” Dan said, winking at her as he chewed on a bite of roast. “Worked like a charm.”
“We got Hermione’s name from one of his plays, as well,” Mrs. Granger said as Hermione smiled nervously, her face turning a darker shade of scarlet as she sank deeper into her chair.
Mr. Granger chuckled as he looked down at his daughter. “Okay,” he said to her, “We’re done with the Embarrassing Parent Talk. You can take a breath now.”
“Promise?” Hermione said weakly.
“Promise,” said Charlotte, laughing. Just then an orange tail appeared from her lap. “Crookshanks, down!” she said, pushing the cat from her lap.
“So, Ron,” Mr. Granger said. “Hermione tells me you’re a goalkeeper for your Quinnitch team.”
“Quidditch,” Ron corrected, “And, yeah, I was Keeper for the Gryffindor team.”
“From what she’s told me, it sounds really interesting. And she said your friend Harry plays, too?”
“Yeah, he was our Captain and our Seeker,” Ron continued. “And my sister, Ginny, is one of our Chasers.”
“It must be difficult,” said Mrs. Granger. “Practicing for Quinnitch while you’re studying for your N.E.W.T.s? How are you going to be able to fit it all into your seventh year?”
Ron stopped in mid-chew. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Well, um…” he muttered after a few seconds pause before he felt something slam onto his foot.
“Ow!” he breathed. Glancing over at Hermione, he saw her giving him a stern glance that seemed to be saying shut your trap. He turned back to her parents, who were looking at the two of them rather more intently than he would have liked.
“I… umm…” Ron said, gathering his thoughts. “I’m not actually going to be on the team this year.”
“Really?” Mr. Granger said, a look of concern on his face.
“Yeah,” Ron said with a false tone of resignation. “Well, Harry and I both. We decided that we have too many other things on our plate right now.”
“Well, that’s smart,” Mrs. Granger said firmly. “You should put your education first. I would expect, from all the studying Hermione’s done this summer, that you have a lot of work ahead of you. Especially with a new headmaster.”
“Yeah,” Ron agreed, giving another look to Hermione. “It’s sounding like it’s going to be a difficult year.”
“So!” Hermione said a little too loudly. “Um… Dad, do you know if there are any good films playing down at the Phoenix House? I was thinking of bringing Ron into town.”
“Hmm,” Dan said, puckering his lips in thought. “Well, I don’t think there are any documentaries playing right now.”
“That’s fine,” Hermione said, her voice somewhat higher in pitch. “Whatever they’re playing…”
“Ohhhh, I see,” he said, nodding his head. “Want to get away from the folks, get a little alone time. I know how that is.”
“Yes,” Hermione said quietly. “Yes, that’s it.”
“Well, if you’re trying to find something to do to get away from us, I’m sure there’s something playing.”
“You don’t mind?” Hermione said, quickly putting her silverware on her empty plate and cleaning up her place at the table.
“No, no, not at all,” Mr. Granger said wearily. “Leave us poor Muggles to stew here in this empty house.”
“Just promise you’ll be back at a decent hour,” said Charlotte.
“Eleven?” Hermione said hopefully.
“Ten.”
“Ten thirty?”
“Ten.”
“Ten it is,” Hermione said, pulling Ron from his chair and practically dragging him out of the kitchen. Ron stumbled along behind her, as her parents said their goodbyes to their backs.
“What’s a ‘film’?” Ron asked as they walked out the door.
Part 2