Chapter Text
Ron Weasley was an idiot. This was a well-known fact among his classmates all six years he attended Hogwarts. It was known in his family and it certainly was known between him and his two best friends, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. What other reason could there be for when he thought Harry put his name in the Goblet of Fire or when he fumbled asking Hermione out to the Yule ball in fourth year, his bumbling of 'Hermione, you’re a girl.' And he was certainly was idiot when he left the two of them behind in the forest for weeks.
But most of all, he was an idiot for wasting the weeks after the battle of Hogwarts by not telling Hermione how he felt about her. Oh sure, they had one spectacular kiss, basilisk fangs tumbling to the ground and her arms around his neck as he lifted her off the floor. Not that he had much experience with girls before, but he knew the moment Hemione’s lips touched his, it would be the best kiss of his life.
And then he went and ruined it all by waiting on her.
Losing Lupin and Tonks, Lavender. Fred. Everyone who was gone now because of the war haunted him. He could still see that laugh on his brother’s face, smiling until the end as if he was taking a joke into the afterlife. There was little to smile about these days. Yes, they survived, but every night he saw the faces of those he couldn’t save. The moments he could have been braver, more steadfast.
So as the weeks after the battle turned to months, he turned in on himself.
He couldn’t talk to Harry about it. Harry, who lost everything as a toddler. Who grew up in that hellhole of a home with those terrible muggles. His friend, who had every scrap of happiness ripped from him the moment he received it. Harry who was brave. Unlike Ron.
And he certainly wasn’t going to burden Hermione.
She was hurting. Had lost people. In some way, death is better than the losing the memory of someone. Hermione had lost her parents just the same as he lost his brother. Yes, they were alive due to her memory charm, but they weren’t hers any longer. There was no way to mourn the loss of someone who was still with us. It was the loss of the life she had before and the life she could never have again. Healers at St. Mungos said that the charm was too good, too entrenched in their minds, that to reverse it might cause damages that could leave them incapacitated. She left them in Australia, childless. She was as orphaned as Harry now.
Ron still had his parents, he had most of his siblings. War takes a piece of everyone, and what Ron lost was immeasurable, but it was no more than everyone else.
At first when Hermione would hug him it felt right, it felt good. When she cried into his shirt, he could wrap his arms around her waist and feel the wetness spread over his chest as she sobbed. She would climb into his bed and he would hold her until she fell asleep, her curls in his mouth and her cheek against the hollow of his throat as her breathing evened out. He could be there for her. But he couldn’t let her see him cry. So he bit it back.
For too long, he let his emotions ruin what he could have had with her. That was why he left them alone in the forest that night. It was what caused him to spit expletives at her in third year, when that stupid rat he called a pet had escaped for his life. The night of the Yule Ball when she looked so beautiful on the arm of another man. When he let Lavender pull him into a kiss in front of the entire Gryffindor common rooms.
No, showing his pain wouldn’t be good now. He couldn’t show weakness in front of Hermione. He had been weak since he was eleven, but he wouldn’t be now. So he allowed her to cry, he listened and rubbed her back and tried for the first time in his life to simply be there for her. What they were, what they could be, was up to her. He would kiss the top of her head, inhaling the sweet floral scent of her thick brown curls. Wouldn’t try to push her, he wait for her, wouldn’t kiss her. He couldn’t use her grief to get what he always wanted. Not until she was ready, not until she wanted him the way he wanted her.
But then she left him. Back to Hogwarts as he and Harry started their training to be aurors. On Platform 9 ¾ he hugged her tight, trying to send all the love he had for her through his touch and hoped it was enough. He had time to tell her; she promised to come back to the Burrow with Ginny at Christmas.
Then, a week after she was gone, his letter was sent back unread. Then another. In her familiar swooping penmanship, the muggle phrase return to sender in thick ink on each one. The birthday gift of perfume to replace the one she lost while they were on the run sent back unopened. He wanted to ask Harry if he knew what was going on, or even Ginny, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull them into his issues.
In the end, Hermione didn’t want him the way he wanted her and he had to deal with that.
It was odd being back at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall had done an impressive job on the renovations of the castle. If you didn’t know where to look, you would hardly know the place had been little more than rubble and blood eight months before. Still, it was odd walking these halls. Yes, it held some of his favorite memories of the past years, but it also held the worst.
Ginny had asked Harry to come for the weekend and Harry talked him into staying in Hogsmeade. He wasn’t sure why he agreed to accompany Harry back to the school for the Yule Ball. It wasn’t like he had anyone in the castle who was waiting for him. No one there needed to see him. Harry, sure. But not him.
No, that was a lie. He knew what he was doing there, even if it was a terrible idea. Maybe he could see Hermione. It was obvious by now that she didn’t want him in the same way, but he could still be her friend. He had gone six years of wanting what he couldn’t have, what was a few more?
Across the great hall, he spotted her. Though she was smaller than a lot of the others in the room, her thick brown curls pulled into an intricate style off her face. Her long graceful neck exposed. How he loved the smell of her there when he would hold her, breathing in the freesia and soap of her skin as her body pressed against his.
A tall blond-haired man was at her side, his hand gripping hers as he led her out onto the dance floor. Ron didn’t recognize him, but hated him immediately.
“Jonathan Kent-Davies.” Ginny appeared at his side, a glass of punch in one hand, a flask to spike it in the other.
“What?” Ron spared a quick glance at his little sister. The dress she was wearing was far too short, but he had bigger things to worry about than his baby sister showing off skin.
“Hermione’s new boyfriend. That’s his name.”
“Why didn’t you tell me she was—”
“Why didn’t you ask?”
He scowled at her, snatching her spiked punch out of her hand along with the flask. “You’re underage, what are you doing drinking fire whiskey?”
“Oh, arrest me then Auror Weasley.” Her sing-songy voice irking him in the way only siblings can do. “Fuck off. It’s just a little nip. Besides, I’ll be of age in a few months.”
“In August. It’s December.”
“Semantics.” She took the punch back and drained the glass. “You should talk to her.”
“She doesn't want to talk to me anymore.”
“Really?” Ginny looked genuinely surprised by that. “She hasn’t said anything—”
“It doesn’t matter. I can't believe I let Harry talk me into joining him. I don’t know why I came in the first place.”
“Yes, you do.” Ginny’s voice was softer now. “You know, I always thought you were a big dummy, but it never crossed my mind she would be, too. But I guess you’re both proving me wrong.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You and Hermione. Why you two won’t sit down and talk, I don’t understand. You both want to. But what, your stubborn pride, has you scared? Where’s the man who stood on a broken leg for his friend? Who charged at a roomful of death eaters in Malfoy Manor? Some lion you are.”
He glowered at his little sister. She was such a pain in the arse. “Fuck off, Ginny, I was giving her space.”
“So much space she ran to the first guy who so much as smiled at her.”
“So, it’s my fault she doesn’t want me? That she doesn’t love me like I love her?” He didn't mean for the words to come out, but if he couldn't be honest with Ginny who else could he be?
“No, but it’s your fault you never told her. So, are you going to mope over here with me, or are you going to do something about it?”
“What would you have me do, break up her dance?”
On the floor, he watched as that wanker spun Hermione around, his hand on her lower back as she smiled up at him, ducking her chin and laughing.
“She doesn’t love him.”
He ventured a glance at his sister at this. “How do you know?”
“Because I know what Hermione Granger looks like when she loves someone and it’s not that. And so do you.” Grabbing the flask back from her brother, she scowled. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a boyfriend to snog behind some tapestries.”
Ignoring her remark about snogging, she really knew how to annoy him, his gaze narrowed on Hermione in the middle of the dance floor. That prat had his hand on her waist as he whirled her around the floor. Ron and Hermione only shared one dance at Bill’s wedding. There was a moment when the song was ending when she looked up at him and he almost kissed her. But then Xenophilis Lovegood had bumped her and the moment was lost. So many lost moments, snippets of time he hesitated because he needed the memory of them to be as perfect for her as she was to him.
Now she was staring up at that prat with his wavy blonde hair and non-freckly nose and unscarred hands. He probably had designer dress robes and a manor with scores of house-elves. Did his homework before it was due then asked for extra credit. Never called her mental when she got angry. Never made her angry, period.
Had he kissed her? Did he know the little sounds she made when his lips touched hers? Did he know how her hair smelled after a shower, or the way it felt when she fell asleep on his chest?
“That’s it.” Before he could second guess himself, he made his way across the dance floor, cutting around couples as they swirled and dipped. The man’s eyes widened as he approached and for a moment, Ron wondered what his face looked like to get that reaction.
Then Hermione was turning, her slinky scarlet dress fluttering around her ankles as she stuttered to a stop. The smile on her face melted away as she took him in, her delicate hands still on that arsehole’s shoulders.
“Ron.” Her enormous amber eyes widened as he got closer, her pupils dilating.
The man didn’t glance at Hermione, a big grin spreading over his face. “Ah, yes. I’ve heard all about you. The third to the golden trio. The best friend of our golden girl.”
Our, our?
If this man thought he had any rights to her…
He hated that phrase. Golden trio. Golden girl. As if Hermione was an object, as if any of them were. She wasn’t a golden girl; she was flesh and big hair and wide smiles and soft touches. Brave and the smartest person he had ever known. Loyal and tempestuous. She wasn’t some golden trophy. She was his Hermione.
His eyes never left her face and he saw her cheeks flush as his gaze never wavered. Ron realized the man was still talking, though he couldn’t hear a word.
“Can I cut in?” he asked, his hand out to Hermione. He said it more as a warning, not a request. Whether this imitation Lockhart liked it or not, he was grabbing Hermione by her waist and whisking her away.
“Of course. I’m sure you two want to catch up.” He shot Ron a dazzling smile, with perfect straight white teeth.
I bet her parents would love that.
Ron’s hand found her waist and pulled her into him before that prat of a boyfriend was a few steps away. The heat of her against his hand and after a long minute of glaring at him, she placed tentative fingers on his shoulder. In her heels, she was much taller than normal, but she still had to crane her neck to look up at him.
Now that he had her in his arms, he could properly take in how lovely she was. A gold dusting of something was over her bare shoulders, the smattering of little freckles across her nose and some makeup on her lashes making her brown eyes look even larger. The long red dress skimmed over her body, flowing like water over the curve of her hips. He kept his eyes on her face, not daring to look down at the fabric stretching over the swell of her breasts.
“Blimey, you look beautiful.” His grip on her waist tightened as he drew her closer. Her hand on his shoulder tensed, and she glared at him.
“Don’t do that, Ronald.”
“What? You look beautiful. It’s true.”
She scowled at him. “It’s hair potions and this dress Parvati made me wear for—”
“It’s you.” She frowned up at him. She always had such emotive eyes, but now it was like there was a wall between them.
He jut his chin at the far side of the room where Jibbly or Judah or whatever his name was, was talking with Susan Bones. “What are you doing with a prat like that, huh?”
“John is very nice, he transferred from Beauxbatons earlier this year. He’s very bright. A whiz at charms.”
“He’s a wanker. You shouldn’t be with a guy like that.”
“As opposed to who? McLaggen? Malfoy? Who would you rather see me with than?”
“Certainly not those two, but not him, either.”
Hermione snorted. “And you're the expert are you?”
“They’re not good enough for you.”
“That’s a load of bull—” she reared back, her eyes flashing with emotion for the first time since he took her hand. He reveled in it, angry at him was more emotion than the pleasant smile she wore for that other man.
“No one is.”
“You act like I’m some prize. It’s ridiculous.” She rolled her eyes but didn't back away as his grip tightened on her back, pulling her closer. As she was flush with him, he felt the subtle brush of her nipples, hard under the thin fabric of her dress. He chanced a quick glimpse down her body and heat traveled right to his cock.
No, don't do that. Focus.
“You are to me.”
Hermione’s jaw ticked. “You can’t just come back here after months of no word.”
“I wrote. You were the one who returned my letters.” He swallowed hard. "And your birthday gift."
“And why is that? Don’t act like you don’t know.”
“I don’t, I thought we were best friends, Hermione. I miss you.”
He thought these words would melt something in her, but instead they had the opposite reaction. She shook her head. “You can’t show up here and call me beautiful, dance with me and say we’re friends. You can’t, Ron.”
His fingers tightened on the silk fabric at her waist, bunching against his palm. They weren’t dancing anymore. Just standing in the middle of the floor glaring at each other.
He always liked it when she glared.
“Why not?”
She closed her eyes, her head shaking from side to side. A curl escaped her updo, falling over her brow and curling above her collarbone. Ron reached out, wrapping the tendril around his finger before brushing it back, his thumb brushing against the side of her throat.
When her eyes snapped open, they were filled with tears.
“Don’t,” she struggled out before turning on her heel and running through the crowd.