FIC: Fall From Grace, Chapter One
Finally got my computer working. To celebrate, some fic.
Fic: Fall From Grace, Chapter One
Rating: R (more for later chapters)
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
Summary:
“- it affects me worse than it affected you and Hermione, it made me think stuff, stuff I was thinking anyway, but it made everything worse, I can't explain it, and then I'd take it off and I'd get my head on straight again, and then I'd have to put the effing thing back on -” Ron Weasley, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
What if Ron's scars from the Ministry aren't dormant after all? Ron's journey through his fall from grace, and his magnificent return. Warnings: WiP, DH spoilers, disturbing content (again, more for later chapters)
Feedback: Is my Mr. Tibbles, baby.
*
Ron jerked awake. Blinking, he stared at the mattress crossed with wooden slats above him for a minute, before realising where he was with a sinking heart.
This ruddy tent. It had been... far too long already, the days and weeks were blurring into each other. He heard Harry's light snoring above him, and immediately felt ashamed of his thoughts. Ron had never grasped the virtue of patience before, but by god he had better learn it now.
Stretching on the creaky bunk bed, he realised it was still dark. His slight lingering nausea reminded him that he'd been the last to have the Horcrux before bed. He'd handed the thing over the Hermione for the morning shift at midnight, so that meant he'd have a whole blessed day without it.
Propping himself up on an elbow, the darkness at the mouth of the tent was still thick. Ron had crashed immediately after taking the locket off, but he couldn't have caught more than a few hours.
A tiny light floating outside the tent snapped him to attention, before he saw the crazy outline of Hermione's hair softly lit by it. She must have charmed a few candles around herself; Ron smiled at the thought.
He ought to go back to sleep. He'd be there tomorrow morning and he'd regret not doing so painfully then. Hermione must be bored stiff. Perhaps hot drinks were in order.
Swinging his legs out of bed, he put some jeans on over his boxers and quietly padded over to the stove. Feeling lazy, he filled two cups with water, pulled out his wand from his jeans pocket and tapped the china twice, for instant boiling water. Adding some hot chocolate and milk, he stirred each mug seven times like his mother said was the best for the perfect cup.
Ron's gut went cold, as it always did when he thought of her, knowing how upset she'd be ... his dad understood, was even proud of him, but his mum ... he felt like he was doing a Percy to her, all over again.
Shaking the bad thoughts away, he dwelled on them enough during his Horcrux shift, Ron put the teaspoon in their makeshift sink and picked up the cups, before looking down at himself. Though he might dearly love to see if his naked chest would get a reaction out of Hermione, it would look pretty odd, in a frosty autumn and the dead of night. Another time.
He pulled a jumper on and was glad of it when he stepped outside. Hermione didn't spot him at first - she was looking the other way - but he saw part of her profile, her nose twitched at the tempting smell of hot chocolate wafting in the air, before she spun around and shrieked.
“RON!” she relaxed her wand hand, clutching at her heart with her left. “Goodness, you scared me!”
“Pipe down, woman! You'll wake up Boy Wonder.” Ron grinned, jerking his hands towards the snoozing bunk bed. “You've made me spill a bit - d'you want some chocolate?” He stretched his left arm out to her, steaming mug in hand.
“Ooh, yes please!” she beamed up at him, eyes shining in the candlelight, as she took the cup in both of her hands. “Thank you, Ron.” His fingers tingled where hers had brushed them.
Hermione patted the chair next to her, Ron parked himself on it instantly. She looked glad of his company, he thought, and of the drink: she held it close and just smelled it for a while. Strange woman. Their shoulders touched.
“Alright?” he asked quietly, then berated himself. He'd left Twelve Fail-Safe Ways To Charm Witches behind at the burrow, and he'd barely been practicing it's methods since. He should have been more polite.
But Hermione didn't seem to mind. “Yes, thank you. This is lovely,” she sipped at her smoking drink.
He felt his ears go red. “It's nothing.” And yet he hadn't been doing it much lately. It felt good to do nice things for Hermione, and for Harry, why had he forgotten?
Well, he thought darkly, eying the evil locket around Hermione's neck, he knew why. In a few hours Harry would be wearing it, then it wouldn't be long for him, and he'd get that creeping sickness and prickling up and down the scars on his arms -
“Ron? You okay?” Hermione was staring at him, looking a little worried. Ron jumped guiltily, frightened that she knew what he was thinking, somehow. He did not ever, ever want to share his worries about the scars those brains left on his arms. Madam Pomfrey had pestered him a few times in sixth year about it - probably mostly for professional curiosity, seen as his inflictions were completely unique - but he'd shaken her off with almost-truths that he'd felt no lasting effects. Now, though, he wasn't so sure ...
“Ron?” Hermione asked quietly, eyes full of insistent anxiety.
“What?” Ron jerked out of his thoughts. “Oh - nothing, I'm grand, just drifting off. Probably need some more kip.”
She narrowed her pretty eyes at him. “You know, you can always talk to me, Ron. About anything.” Her cup-warmed hand wrapped tentatively around his free one, and Ron felt as if the sun was in his belly.
He held her hand in return. “I know, Hermione.” But did he? He couldn't risk it - especially as there was no known cure, it was hardly an attractive quality. And he had already taken up the position of complainer in the group, Ron didn't want to be even more of a burden. Perhaps Harry, what with his scar, and his dreams ... God, it embarrassed him to even think of it, as if a few whispers and itches compared with a direct link to a Dark Lord. No, he would keep it to himself.
Ron concentrated instead on the small, soft hand in his own, the owner looking at their conjoined hands with a smile playing around her lips. The locket, he noticed not for the first time, rested against her ample breasts almost mockingly.
“Grey suits you.” Hermione said a little squeakily.
Ron snapped his eyes up to her face guiltily, but she wasn't looking at his face, either, though she was pink. “What?”
“Um, your jumper. The colour - you look good.” she said it so quietly he could barely hear her, her eyes were fixed on his chest.
He looked down at himself. “This?” He plucked the snug-fitting wool. “Bill gave it to me before the wedding. Apparently the colour doesn't flatter his scars.” Ron smirked. He knew that hadn't been Bill talking, but a flighty temptress of a French fancy.
Hermione scoffed. “Well, it suits you, in any case.” She blushed, yet again.
Ron blushed too, secretly vowing to wear the jumper as often as he could. He appraised her outfit: a thick brown dressing gown, suitable for a morning shift, that she somehow managed to make cute.
He drained his cup, the delicious warmth spreading through his chest, and placed the empty cup by his feet. Stealing himself, he gently tugged the soft chocolate cotton of her sleeve and said, “Well, you suit dressing gown, too.”
Hermione hugged herself with one arm self-consciously and shook her head.
“You do!” Ron implored; he couldn't for the life of him understand why she couldn't see her own appeal. It was achingly obvious to him, in more ways than one. He blurted, “You look like chocolate.” Great. That sounded more perverted than he'd hoped to let on.
Hermione giggled, shaking her head at him, looking like she was trying to be disapproving but secretly enjoying herself. She couldn't fool him. Hermione was a lot more subtle, and ergo a lot less annoying, than other girls but Ron hoped, hoped, that she might possibly be flirting with him back. Now she was calming down, looking up at him with her big dark eyes, and maybe this was one of the moments the book had been talking about seizing ... he wracked his brains to think of something charming or suave to say, but his brain, and his courage, failed him yet again. He should have been a Hufflepuff.
But Hermione was still waiting patiently, face totally open and looking up at him as if he was something more than he was. The candlelight glinted on the silver of the locket; Ron was suddenly, painfully, reminded that she was baring it, yet she was being perfectly lovely. Not like he was, when he wore it. She was so much better than him. He was just fooling himself, getting carried away.
As the candlelight glinted on her watch, too, he saw that it would be his shift in less than twenty hours. If he didn't try and sleep now, who knew where his sleep-deprived temper would take him. He looked at her lovely face and felt ashamed.
“You finished with your cup?” Ron said, voice cracking, as he looked away from her.
“Oh ... oh, yes. Here,” he could almost hear the disappointment in her voice, but he was probably imagining it.
He took the empty cup and stood up. “Goodnight. If you get too tired, give me a shout.” he said awkwardly, lifting up the tent flap.
“Ron?” Hermione called; Ron froze.
“Yeah?” he looked back at her; she looked as lost as he felt.
Folding her dressing gown around herself more tightly, she whispered, “Have ... have a good sleep, Ron.”
He smiled a little, drinking her in. He hoped he would dream of her, instead of the nightmares. He hoped he would remember this and bite his tongue tomorrow.
“Thanks. G'night, Hermione.”
*
End of Chapter One.
Fic: Fall From Grace, Chapter One
Rating: R (more for later chapters)
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
Summary:
“- it affects me worse than it affected you and Hermione, it made me think stuff, stuff I was thinking anyway, but it made everything worse, I can't explain it, and then I'd take it off and I'd get my head on straight again, and then I'd have to put the effing thing back on -” Ron Weasley, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
What if Ron's scars from the Ministry aren't dormant after all? Ron's journey through his fall from grace, and his magnificent return. Warnings: WiP, DH spoilers, disturbing content (again, more for later chapters)
Feedback: Is my Mr. Tibbles, baby.
*
Ron jerked awake. Blinking, he stared at the mattress crossed with wooden slats above him for a minute, before realising where he was with a sinking heart.
This ruddy tent. It had been... far too long already, the days and weeks were blurring into each other. He heard Harry's light snoring above him, and immediately felt ashamed of his thoughts. Ron had never grasped the virtue of patience before, but by god he had better learn it now.
Stretching on the creaky bunk bed, he realised it was still dark. His slight lingering nausea reminded him that he'd been the last to have the Horcrux before bed. He'd handed the thing over the Hermione for the morning shift at midnight, so that meant he'd have a whole blessed day without it.
Propping himself up on an elbow, the darkness at the mouth of the tent was still thick. Ron had crashed immediately after taking the locket off, but he couldn't have caught more than a few hours.
A tiny light floating outside the tent snapped him to attention, before he saw the crazy outline of Hermione's hair softly lit by it. She must have charmed a few candles around herself; Ron smiled at the thought.
He ought to go back to sleep. He'd be there tomorrow morning and he'd regret not doing so painfully then. Hermione must be bored stiff. Perhaps hot drinks were in order.
Swinging his legs out of bed, he put some jeans on over his boxers and quietly padded over to the stove. Feeling lazy, he filled two cups with water, pulled out his wand from his jeans pocket and tapped the china twice, for instant boiling water. Adding some hot chocolate and milk, he stirred each mug seven times like his mother said was the best for the perfect cup.
Ron's gut went cold, as it always did when he thought of her, knowing how upset she'd be ... his dad understood, was even proud of him, but his mum ... he felt like he was doing a Percy to her, all over again.
Shaking the bad thoughts away, he dwelled on them enough during his Horcrux shift, Ron put the teaspoon in their makeshift sink and picked up the cups, before looking down at himself. Though he might dearly love to see if his naked chest would get a reaction out of Hermione, it would look pretty odd, in a frosty autumn and the dead of night. Another time.
He pulled a jumper on and was glad of it when he stepped outside. Hermione didn't spot him at first - she was looking the other way - but he saw part of her profile, her nose twitched at the tempting smell of hot chocolate wafting in the air, before she spun around and shrieked.
“RON!” she relaxed her wand hand, clutching at her heart with her left. “Goodness, you scared me!”
“Pipe down, woman! You'll wake up Boy Wonder.” Ron grinned, jerking his hands towards the snoozing bunk bed. “You've made me spill a bit - d'you want some chocolate?” He stretched his left arm out to her, steaming mug in hand.
“Ooh, yes please!” she beamed up at him, eyes shining in the candlelight, as she took the cup in both of her hands. “Thank you, Ron.” His fingers tingled where hers had brushed them.
Hermione patted the chair next to her, Ron parked himself on it instantly. She looked glad of his company, he thought, and of the drink: she held it close and just smelled it for a while. Strange woman. Their shoulders touched.
“Alright?” he asked quietly, then berated himself. He'd left Twelve Fail-Safe Ways To Charm Witches behind at the burrow, and he'd barely been practicing it's methods since. He should have been more polite.
But Hermione didn't seem to mind. “Yes, thank you. This is lovely,” she sipped at her smoking drink.
He felt his ears go red. “It's nothing.” And yet he hadn't been doing it much lately. It felt good to do nice things for Hermione, and for Harry, why had he forgotten?
Well, he thought darkly, eying the evil locket around Hermione's neck, he knew why. In a few hours Harry would be wearing it, then it wouldn't be long for him, and he'd get that creeping sickness and prickling up and down the scars on his arms -
“Ron? You okay?” Hermione was staring at him, looking a little worried. Ron jumped guiltily, frightened that she knew what he was thinking, somehow. He did not ever, ever want to share his worries about the scars those brains left on his arms. Madam Pomfrey had pestered him a few times in sixth year about it - probably mostly for professional curiosity, seen as his inflictions were completely unique - but he'd shaken her off with almost-truths that he'd felt no lasting effects. Now, though, he wasn't so sure ...
“Ron?” Hermione asked quietly, eyes full of insistent anxiety.
“What?” Ron jerked out of his thoughts. “Oh - nothing, I'm grand, just drifting off. Probably need some more kip.”
She narrowed her pretty eyes at him. “You know, you can always talk to me, Ron. About anything.” Her cup-warmed hand wrapped tentatively around his free one, and Ron felt as if the sun was in his belly.
He held her hand in return. “I know, Hermione.” But did he? He couldn't risk it - especially as there was no known cure, it was hardly an attractive quality. And he had already taken up the position of complainer in the group, Ron didn't want to be even more of a burden. Perhaps Harry, what with his scar, and his dreams ... God, it embarrassed him to even think of it, as if a few whispers and itches compared with a direct link to a Dark Lord. No, he would keep it to himself.
Ron concentrated instead on the small, soft hand in his own, the owner looking at their conjoined hands with a smile playing around her lips. The locket, he noticed not for the first time, rested against her ample breasts almost mockingly.
“Grey suits you.” Hermione said a little squeakily.
Ron snapped his eyes up to her face guiltily, but she wasn't looking at his face, either, though she was pink. “What?”
“Um, your jumper. The colour - you look good.” she said it so quietly he could barely hear her, her eyes were fixed on his chest.
He looked down at himself. “This?” He plucked the snug-fitting wool. “Bill gave it to me before the wedding. Apparently the colour doesn't flatter his scars.” Ron smirked. He knew that hadn't been Bill talking, but a flighty temptress of a French fancy.
Hermione scoffed. “Well, it suits you, in any case.” She blushed, yet again.
Ron blushed too, secretly vowing to wear the jumper as often as he could. He appraised her outfit: a thick brown dressing gown, suitable for a morning shift, that she somehow managed to make cute.
He drained his cup, the delicious warmth spreading through his chest, and placed the empty cup by his feet. Stealing himself, he gently tugged the soft chocolate cotton of her sleeve and said, “Well, you suit dressing gown, too.”
Hermione hugged herself with one arm self-consciously and shook her head.
“You do!” Ron implored; he couldn't for the life of him understand why she couldn't see her own appeal. It was achingly obvious to him, in more ways than one. He blurted, “You look like chocolate.” Great. That sounded more perverted than he'd hoped to let on.
Hermione giggled, shaking her head at him, looking like she was trying to be disapproving but secretly enjoying herself. She couldn't fool him. Hermione was a lot more subtle, and ergo a lot less annoying, than other girls but Ron hoped, hoped, that she might possibly be flirting with him back. Now she was calming down, looking up at him with her big dark eyes, and maybe this was one of the moments the book had been talking about seizing ... he wracked his brains to think of something charming or suave to say, but his brain, and his courage, failed him yet again. He should have been a Hufflepuff.
But Hermione was still waiting patiently, face totally open and looking up at him as if he was something more than he was. The candlelight glinted on the silver of the locket; Ron was suddenly, painfully, reminded that she was baring it, yet she was being perfectly lovely. Not like he was, when he wore it. She was so much better than him. He was just fooling himself, getting carried away.
As the candlelight glinted on her watch, too, he saw that it would be his shift in less than twenty hours. If he didn't try and sleep now, who knew where his sleep-deprived temper would take him. He looked at her lovely face and felt ashamed.
“You finished with your cup?” Ron said, voice cracking, as he looked away from her.
“Oh ... oh, yes. Here,” he could almost hear the disappointment in her voice, but he was probably imagining it.
He took the empty cup and stood up. “Goodnight. If you get too tired, give me a shout.” he said awkwardly, lifting up the tent flap.
“Ron?” Hermione called; Ron froze.
“Yeah?” he looked back at her; she looked as lost as he felt.
Folding her dressing gown around herself more tightly, she whispered, “Have ... have a good sleep, Ron.”
He smiled a little, drinking her in. He hoped he would dream of her, instead of the nightmares. He hoped he would remember this and bite his tongue tomorrow.
“Thanks. G'night, Hermione.”
*
End of Chapter One.