Ron's Engagement
The Letter
Thursday(s)
True to his word, and Hermione’s predictions, Ron did have to write up his engagement story to her in a letter. And there were bits and paragraphs where she could see the handwriting shift. Like he and Daphne were both snuggled up together in one—too small—love seat, experiencing the whole thing again, together. Hermione didn’t know how to feel about that.
She liked Daphne. And she liked Ron with Daphne. But a part of her had just wanted a moment with her best friend where he told her about this amazing next step in his life. Whereas this letter felt like Ron was already there, living that next moment and Hermione had missed something important.
It was as though she had walked in on them in that hospital room all over again. A jarring shock. Hermione out of step with her closest friend once more.
Ron bandaged up on the narrow medical bed, Daphne in his lap, feeding Ron Cornish pasties from Hermione’s gift basket, along with the medical tea Hermione had created. Jasmine tea with Dittany and oranges. She hated the smell of oranges now.
It hurt then. Losing Ron.
And it hurt now. Realizing Ron was becoming someone wonderful with Daphne, and she couldn’t imagine that for herself with anyone.
“Dear Hermione,
How do you manage two jobs when I can barely manage one? Not that I’m surprised, if anyone can squeeze forty-eight hours from a single day, you’d figure out how.
As promised, the full story of our engagement:
Ron proposed with the sweetest speech. I ’ll remember it forever. He set up this lovely, intimate tea at Blaise Zabini’s family château in a private vineyard!”
Blaise had been involved? Hermione blinked at the name. Theo was always badgering Hermione to hang out with him and his friends. Now she wondered if those hangouts ever occurred in Italian vineyards. She snorted in amusement. Perhaps she would join Theo the next time he asked. He’d probably be aghast when she actually accepted. Shaking her head, Hermione continued.
“Astoria helped loads—she twisted Zabini around her little finger. Ron had it all set up with a tea leaf reading. We both drank this lovely rose tea and then took turns divining the leaves.”
Hermione snorted. A divining proposal? And tea in a vineyard instead of wine?
“I was so lousy at it, I almost chipped Zabini’s cup.
Ron was brilliant. We had matching hearts in the leaves. IDENTICAL readings! ”
Perhaps it’s just as well Hermione was reading about this engagement. She scoffed and sniffed disdainfully at every single line.
“There may have been some magicked saucers involved.
Then Ron told me to look in my cup and stuck inside the bottom was a ring!
I bet you haven’t learned this spell, Hermione! Astoria found it in a courting book. It’s a brilliant sleight of hand.”
Why, Hermione scoffed, would she need an archaic form of sticking charm to hold a ring in a teacup?
“It was incredibly romantic.
It was bloody brilliant. Astoria took pictures of the whole thing for us. Remind me to show you at the engagement party if I don’t see you sooner.
Write back soon,
Ron”
Despite all her skepticism, Hermione found herself smiling and swiping at her eyes. She liked Daphne. And she was relieved the other woman didn’t seem the jealous type. Didn’t seem to resent her and Ron’s friendship at all. But then, Daphne was close friends with several Slytherin boys, including Theo.
That’s it. Enough. Hermione pinched herself. She needed to date. She was ready. She felt nothing but happiness for Ron. It was impossible for her not to feel happy when their giddiness was positively sprouting up flowers and glitter in the letter.
She shook some glitter off the parchment.
Yes, it was time. She’d line up a few dates. Maybe make up a schedule for it before bed.
Friday(s) in the Plural
It wasn’t work professional—per se. It was very Muggle. Dark chocolate Muggle ankle boots, milk chocolate leggings with red and gold fall leaves floating down her legs, and a Gryffindor red sweater dress with golden leaves over the chest. It didn’t need jewelry, which was excellent. Jewelry was fraught with meaning Hermione wanted to circumvent entirely.
To add a little nod to the work aspect of the outfit, Hermione paired it with a gold button-up and red and gold tie underneath. It was delightfully comfy in any case. And it made her feel made of Fall cheer.
Had she spent all her budget on clothes instead of sustenance?
Yes.
Who needed food when she felt divine?
She’d dithered over this particular outfit because she planned to wear it this (second Friday) evening to Ron’s engagement party. She didn’t want to appear the drab and pathetic workaholic-ex that she probably was. Neither did she want to appear as though she cared to compete for attention with Daphne—not, she admitted to herself, that that was unlikely to happen. Daphne probably had clothes designed for her sent around weekly. Daphne bloody Greengrass would probably wear bridal white to her engagement party. Hermione would wear nothing in the same sphere as cream-not even pastel.
All the same, Hermione didn’t want the people who knew her to swing to either extreme of the awkward ex paradigm. She was neutral Gryffindor—happy for Ron, and happy for herself. And her outfit needed to say effort but not too much effort. It needed to say: everything is normal. Everything is bloody alright and don’t be barmy, Ron and Hermione were as good of friends as ever. But not too good of friends—of course.
Bugger all if Hermione didn’t envy wizard’s attire. Button up to work, button up to an engagement party, button up to see your Nan. Nobody was going to sneeze at you unless you wore half pants or denims to a wedding.
Hermione floated through the work day, sipping on free tea from the little kitchenette on their floor and gobbling down someone’s leftover Halloween apples—eating around a few bruises. There were no house calls, so Hermione enjoyed a day in her cupboard of an office, making a dent in the ceiling-high paperwork which never seemed to diminish. She checked the clock too often and snuck in an unplanned nap instead of heading out to pretend she had pocket money for a lunch. Then she worked on a werewolf case. Ten to five, and she was ready to head out early to The Burrow when Rosier popped in on a storm cloud.
“What’s this?” She startled upright in her chair as Roasier shut the door after himself and leaned back against it.
“Worst news I’ve had all week, Mione.” He glanced nervously around the office before casting Muffliato at all the walls, ceiling, and floor.
“What? What’s happened?” she exclaimed.
Atrix crouched quite close and gripped the edge of Hermione’s desk. “Have you heard any talk of The Free Elf Union?”
Hermione sat back in surprise. “Is there a house-elf union? But that’s brilliant!” She beamed in excitement.
“It’s bloody not!” Rosier contradicted so sharply she leaned away. He lifted both hands calmingly, though it was him who looked as though the roof were caving in.
“I don’t understand.” She frowned in concern. She’d thought Rosier a better person. Wasn’t he the one who had carried S.P.E.W. packets to the Americas?
“From what I’ve gathered over the complaints coming in about house-elves, and from what Potter has reported finding on the Gringotts’ case, this is very bad for house-elves.”
“What has Harry found?” she exclaimed. She’d been on call for Gringott’s over the past week, but as all the money was recovered and returned, there was no need for her legal services. And Hermione pitied the culprit if they were ever identified—seeing as there was a goblin bounty on their heads.
Rosier retrieved a file.
And Harry and Ron had noted down that a majority of the Halloween Heist money had been recovered from the Ministry—specifically—the department for house-elves rights. Hermione thought of the horror storm in her office that Monday. Her entire floor had practically evacuated themselves from the scene.
“You think people will blame the house-elves?” Hermione asked sadly.
“I wouldn’t have, except for all the complaints we’ve had before this robbery.” Rosier handed over a file thick to bursting.
Each file contained a complaint testimony about house-elves stealing coins. Money that was handed over to the house-elf to be placed in a purse or safe. Each file admitted that the coins turned back up within a week.
“Why haven’t I seen any of these?” Hermione asked, aghast.
“Because at first, I thought it was simply paranoia. Prejudiced witches and wizards thinking back and looking for any reason their accounts could have been attacked.”
“But house-elves are so loyal. They would never—“
“I’m not saying they did anything willfully.” Rosier shook his head, looking grimly at the stack. “I questioned several house-elves myself over the week. They were evasive. Except for one. Glimmerfoot, a house-elf belonging to the Greengrass’ grandmother mentioned the Free Elf Union. And once I know what to ask about, several more admitted to being a part of this group.”
“But what makes you think this union has anything to do with the bank heist?”
“I doubt it has anything to do with it, but the optics aren’t great.”
“No, not with so many complaints.” Hermione scowled at the folder.
“Listen . . . I’d like you to check it out. This Free Elf Union. There’s meetings once a month, and if we have a report of their actual goals and activities, we can at least testify their innocence in all this.”
“And they are innocent?” Hermione asked troubled. “That heist, Rosier . . . It was wizard magic, but it couldn’t have all been done by one witch or wizard. And what better way into so many wealthy homes than through unsuspecting, or unhappy house-elves?”
“Now you’re not suspecting them, are you?” Rosier looked flushed.
“No! I mean not without proof. House-elves are incredibly loyal, but they are also sensible of their own happiness. And I’ve met several willing to bend the rules to better their lives, or the lives of those they care for.”
“All the more reason to find out what’s happening with this Free Elf Union.”
“You’re right of course. But, won’t I be recognized?”
“We’ll have to Polyjuice you as a house-elf, and hope you don’t need house-elf magic to make it into the meeting.”
Hermione felt a spark of great curiosity to see how the house-elves might run a union. And what they would ask for.
“Is that the time? I should treat you to dinner.” Atrix stood up running a hand through his hair ruefully. “Where should we go? The least I can do is feed you.”
“Blast! I’ve got to go. I have an engagement party—not mine!—Ron’s—Weasley’s—and I can’t cause a stir not showing up. History and all. But you must tell me more!” Hermione fretted. “A union would be so wonderful, and it can’t become this stigma before it’s ever even happened. It just can’t. We have to do something.”
Rosier smiled at her dazed. “I knew you’d understand. Could you meet with me tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Hermione paused flustered. Last Saturday had lasted ages. She’d fallen asleep with Malfoy on that bloody comfortable couch. It had been a disaster. Obviously, a cut-off time was needed so as not to repeat that experience ever again! “Would you be free for dinner?” Hermione asked.
Rosier nodded already picking up his pictures and notes.
“Right, your place or mine? Better mine really, I can lay it all out. Puzzle it before you arrive.”
“Alright, tomorrow then.” Hermione smiled gathering up her things. She’d never hung out alone with Atrix outside of work. The arrangement felt almost date like—which sent an alarmed flutter through her lungs. But no, she mustn’t let herself feel guilty. She was planning to date. Needed to date. And this wasn’t a date. It was dinner with her boss.
“I’ll send you the Floo address by owl.” He held the door open for her and walked her to the closest Floo.
Hermione stepped through feeling weightless and stressed—hoping there was still some food left at the party to relieve the hunger headache setting into her skull.
Party at the Burrow!
Hermione was late to arrive at the Burrow. She stepped from the fireplace, wrapped gift box in one arm, (she’d been put off gift baskets) additional wine bottle in the other. The room so crowded with bodies she bumped against an arm holding up a book.
With a hasty apology and a glance down, Hermione got caught in a cold silver gaze. Her forearm balanced on an elegant sleeve. Words dried and withered in her throat.
Lounging in Mr Weasley’s favorite, ratty, patched armchair, (complete with a home-knit red and gold throw blanket) as though he owned it and dressed all in black with silver and green accents, Hermione could swear she was looking at Draco Malfoy.
But this was ridiculous, of course. A Malfoy? Willingly sitting in the heart of the Weasley’s Burrow? At Ron’s engagement party? Ron’s and Daphne’s, Hermione amended. She blinked insistently, but the almost white hair and cool silver gaze remained.
Right, he must be here for Daphne?
“Granger.” Malfoy nodded politely, exaggeratedly jerking his arm from beneath her squeezing hand. His low murmur so slick and serpentine she heard him quite distinctly even through the boisterous noise of the party.
Hermione managed a sharp nod, head spinning. She felt strangely self-conscious that she was still dressed in work robes; her perfectly sensible robe with its worn elbows and wished she’d tossed it off before arriving.
“Malfoy.” Hermione managed the two syllables with mediocre grace, nodded again, and fled to the kitchen where she yanked off the robe. Blessedly Ginny was the only soul in the kitchen. She was already washing up, and she’d saved Hermione a plate of food.
“Who invited Malfoy?” Hermione demanded, throwing her robe on a stack of paper and peering through the kitchen doorway, snack plate in hand.
The offending Malfoy was still tucked into that armchair, book in one hand, baby in another—wait, baby? Whose baby? Who would give Malfoy a baby to hold? And why was he complying with the chore? And why did he look so comfortable doing it? As though he held babies on his knee all the time.
Was this his baby? Surely Theo would have mentioned if Malfoy had a baby?
He clearly wasn’t reading. The book was obviously being mistreated as a prop from which Malfoy could subtly sneer past. His cold gray eyes judging the joyous—if, Hermione conceded—quite ruckus sea of boisterous redheads. Sprinkled among the normal crew were the usual dates: Fleur Delacour dancing like a liquid swan in silks; Percy’s date, Audrey, who had made only the briefest appearance at one G.A.G. event; and Angela Johnson—still in her Quidditch robes; so Hermione wasn’t the only one to race here right from work; And then the rest must be Daphne’s lot; Her parents and relatives; Hermione thought she recognized Blaise and Astoria talking to Harry—and was that Pansy fixing the decorations?
“Stop your gasping and sip this!” Ginny pressed a mug into Hermione’s clawed fingers.
She took a large gulp of what turned out to be coffee. Malfoy looked bored, but he was so clearly judging everyone, Hermione couldn’t understand why he was here to begin with.
And thatbaby. Was the baby sneering? The child in question was sitting up, almost as straight backed as Malfoy. Dressed in a baby suit with green accents. Those chubby cheeks sporting a Malfoy pout. Severe looking, even with all his rolls and plump health, and shock of baby hair.
“Oh, Malfoy?” Ginny grinned.
“Oh, Malfoy?” Hermione parroted. Had she missed so many events at the Burrow that Ginny Weasley could be “oh, Malfoying” her? “Does he come around that often?” She gulped coffee weakly.
“Oh!” Ginny gave her a worried look. “I’m so sorry, I should have warned you. Does seeing him bother you, because of the . . .” Ginny glanced about as though searching for any polite way of saying torture.
“What? No!” Hermione flushed, baffled. “He didn’t, that wasn’t—”
“I just assumed since you testified for them—”
“It’s fine! That’s all fine!” Hermione said shrilly. “It’s just so, so, domestic.”
Ginny blinked, then gave Hermione a quelling frown that could rival Molly Weasley. There was even a twinkle in her eye as though she found Hermione half amusing.
“Don’t be rude, Hermione. Malfoy’s been really trying. He’s been so kind to his aunt Andromeda. Whose—” Ginny held up a hand to silence Hermione, “—whose, caught a nasty cold. She wants Teddy to be part of the family, like Tonks and Remus would have. And Malfoy offered to bring Teddy since Daphne,—his friend—and the bride to be, invited him to come anyways.”
Hermione didn’t know where to start with all that information. But her brain settled on— “That’s Teddy?”
Hermione’s neck ached from wrapping half around the doorway. She’d held Teddy before, and he’d never looked like such a poncy baby. Malfoy was clearly a terrible influence.
It struck her rather late that Tonks was Malfoy’s cousin. Funny time for the Malfoy’s to remember the rest of their family now, once poor Andromeda and Teddy’s family were gone.
Someone stooped to speak to Malfoy, and Hermione followed the motion up to see it was Theo standing there grinning at her like a complete loon. Had he been standing there this whole time too? Watching Hermione watch Malfoy? She sipped her coffee just to make certain she wasn’t gaping again. Malfoy had clearly hexed her for daring to touch his arm when she’d been knocked off balance. How else could she have failed to notice Theo standing right there, much less the baby?
“You’re clearly struggling with a concept, and as your friend, let me save you from yourself.” Ginny yanked Hermione away from the door. “Help me wash up.”
“And everyones alright with him here?” Hermione burst out three plates later, scrubbing like a Muggle because she needed to do something.
Ginny shrugged. “To be honest, I thought Ron or Harry or even George would kick him out the first night he came with Andromeda. But he fit. And Ron invited him to come back with Andromeda any time.”
“Ron did this to us?” Hermione’s eyes popped wide in disbelief.
“The man’s putty in Slytherin hands.” Ginny rolled her eyes. Everyone was getting tired of The Ron Romance.
Hermione leaned back against the counter as Ginny took over the dishes so she could whimper into her coffee as the world wrenched about reordering itself in her mind.
Ginny pouted at Hermione reproachfully once more. “Honestly, why couldn’t you marry him? It would have prevented this mess. And we wouldn’t have snakes infiltrating our parties,” she chided, half teasing.
“Not you too!” Hermione huffed and scowled around the pristine kitchen, looking for something to attack with cleaning spells. Anything to avoid going out there again. If she had to hear one more grumble about how it was her fault Ron had fallen into bed with a snake, she just might cast a strangling jinx.
With nothing to clean, Hermione peeked back out at the party only to see Ron and Daphne float in on a cloud of love. Ron’s eyes glowed with hot admiration, his fingers trailing places covertly but in a way that was so obvious, everyone else had to avert their eyes.
One look at Daphne and Hermione felt vindicated in her outfit crisis. The witch looked like a bloody angel. Brown hair free, and floating. Makeup clean with a hint of highlighter sparkle that set off her green eyes. And a button-up sundress with flowy creme sleeves with slits from shoulder to elbow making it look like she had bloody wings.
Hermione hid in the kitchen, licked her plate clean, washed it twenty times, and finally let Ginny bully her out of the kitchen where she found herself swept through a series of blurry hugs. She downed a shot of Firewhisky someone put in her hand and felt sick as speeches went round the over-stuffed sitting room.
Mr and Mrs Weasley brought tears to everyone's eyes. Daphne and Ron snuggled together beaming like a single light bulb they were so ensconced within one another’s arms. Harry gave a toast, accented with hilarity, and then Hermione found all eyes on her, as her throat closed up lifting a newly full shot in a half shaky hand. She found herself babbling the rehearsed little speech she’d practiced: how clever Ron had been in school, how he could always bring a laugh into a room—Godric had she said it all just right?—and she was at the end. “Ron, I couldn’t be happier for you. Daphne’s as lucky to have you as you are to have her.”
Cheers went round the room, someone else started toasting, and Hermione determined she was about to sit down, not completely by choice, as her legs lost all strength.
A hand yanked her back a step and she found herself tucked onto the couch half on Theo’s lap, half on Malfoy’s knee.
“Sorry?” Hermione stared wide-eyed, as next to her, baby Teddy patted her hand.
“Surviving?” Theo laughed in her ear.
“Is it over yet?” Hermione shot back. She turned her head and felt blood loss once more as Malfoy’s cold gaze drifted over her, his head tilting and lingering on her heels.
“I’m sorry there’s not much room. I can scoot down to the floor if I’m too heavy?” Hermione choked out.
“And get yourself trampled like the rug?” Malfoy’s thigh tightened under her as he leaned into her side to point out the rumpled rug. He scowled almost angrily and called across the hubbub and Hermione’s shoulders to Theo. “Pub?”
“If you take the heat when Daphne notices we’ve ditched her party.” Theo’s laugh rumbled against Hermione’s arm.
“Can I come?” Hermione clutched at her elbows.
Theo snorted, “Sure, Mione.”
Hermione turned to check Malfoy’s expression.
He returned her stare, impassive, then gave a slight tilt of his chin. And it was stupid and embarrassing but she felt all of fifteen and invited to the cool kid’s table in the library.