What If
Monday, February 7th
Ron dreams about his hands, sometimes.
He sees them — sees them strong and gentle, pressed against the shoulder blades of his mother as she screamed over Fred’s body. Sees them covered with dirt and grime, slamming against the dungeon bars in Malfoy Manor as he screams ‘not her, take me, not her’. Sees them coveting a horcrux that whispered all of his deepest insecurities into his brain until all he could see was his own hands around his best friend’s neck.
Now he sees them in his nightmares, covered in blood and screaming Hannah’s name, holding her limp body in his arms as he decides whether apparating will be the thing that saves her or kills her for good.
So he spends his time at St. Mungo’s, his hand clasped in hers, clean from the blood and the misery of the past few months. He strokes his thumb over her fingers and tells her secrets and stories and whispered hopes. Ron’s not sure if she’ll ever wake up, but it feels important, somehow, to tell her these things.
“I’m going to be here more now,” Ron says. “George told me to take some time off. He’s looking good, Hannah, I’m… I’m really proud of him. He’s not drinking, even with Parvati gone. I think it might be good for him, looking after Padma.”
The drone of her monitoring spell beeps occasionally. Ron sits back in the chair beside her bed, settling in for the long haul.
“Losing Fred felt like something impossible, you know?” Ron swallows. “And I can’t ever believe that he was meant to die like that, because I don’t believe in that ‘meant to be’ shite. It was a war, and so many people died too soon, but I also wonder… well, it makes me think that Fred gets to do this one final thing, you know? Like losing him prepared George to help Padma through this. Maybe that’s stupid.”
Ron sighs and checks Hannah’s still face. The only good part about maintaining a monologue with a comatose person is that they never laugh at anything that’s said.
“Listen, Hannah. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, and I know you’d be excited about this if you could wake up.” Ron sits up a little straighter because this is something he wanted to share with Hannah the minute Hermione had told him about it.
“Malfoy is doing a really decent thing — and you know I hate to admit when he does something nice — but he’s converting a bunch of the Malfoy Manor to a Wizarding Orphanage since apparently he and Hermione never want to live there. The war left a lot of children without parents, and now with the WPG there are a few unwanted pregnancies coming out, and those kids have to go somewhere safe. Apparently, Malfoy is letting his Aunt Andromeda move in with Teddy and help run it. But it’s a lot of work, you know?” Ron squeezes her hand. “And they thought of you right away. They’d need someone good with kids, someone who has an interest in healing, and I mentioned how you were considering training to be a healer. The job is yours, Hannah. Just wake up — wake up for me.”
He leans down and presses his forehead to her warm hand. The beeping stays consistent, and she is as still as ever. Her wrists are nearly unblemished, silvery spiderwebs tracing the delicate skin from the wounds she had carved into them.
“Godric, Hannah,” Ron murmurs into her skin. “Please. Wake up. Wake up and take the job. Come home, and get better. We’ll both get better. Figure this shite out and… and figure it out together. Whatever you want — the marriage, the divorce, the job, Britain — you tell me what you want and we’ll do it. Just please wake up.”
Monday, February 14th
“Never let anyone tell you I don’t learn, alright?” Ron announces as he enters Hannah’s hospital room. He’s carrying a large bouquet of roses and a small pink teddy bear, and he feels about as foolish as a wizard can.
He sets the flowers down on Hannah’s windowsill, right where she’d be able to see them if she just opened her eyes. The small teddy bear he rests under her limp hand, letting her fingers splay over the soft plush.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Ron says, leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to Hannah’s forehead. “I wasn’t sure what to get you, since it’s our first Valentine’s, but Hermione reliably informed me many years ago that if I’m not sure, I should get something. So, hopefully, you like roses.”
The doctors had told him a few days prior that they were noticing some brain activity in Hannah’s scans, and Ron had nearly been knocked off his feet with relief. Despite this, she still shows no signs of waking; Ron doesn’t mind though, he’s gotten good at waiting. He bides his time and plays wizard’s chess and tells Hannah about everything that’s happened. He even bought a book on Hermione’s recommendation and has been reading it by Hannah’s bedside.
He settles into the chair he always sits in, tugging it a little closer to Hannah’s bedside. One of the healers took the time to braid her hair away from her face after her last wash, and she looks younger, somehow. Innocent — almost the way he remembers her from Hogwarts when she was just another pretty girl in a different house he barely noticed.
“I like your hair that way, you know?” Ron says. “Looks nice.”
She doesn’t reply, but Ron is used to that, and in some ways, it makes it easier for him to say these things to her. To tell her what scares him and what he wants and how much he misses the time before — before the war, before Fred’s death, before the WPG.
“I’m thinking about buying a house.”
It’s not until the words fall out of him that Ron realizes how much he’s been thinking about it. The flat he’d shared with Hannah feels haunted now, and as much as he loves the Burrow, he’s not ready to move back home. He’s ready for something else — something more permanent.
“I’ve saved a bit of money, and I still have the Order of Merlin money from the war. It’s enough to get something decent, I think.” Ron tells her. He’s nearly whispering — she’s the first person he’s told. “I’d like your help, Hannah. Truly! I know that we’ve got a lot of decisions to make when you wake up, but no matter what we decide, I would still want your opinion.”
Suddenly, he feels too far from her. He reaches his hand out and curls his fingers into hers the way he does most days. The soft pink plush of the bear still nestled under their hands.
A knock at the door startles him awake, and Ron has his wand in his fist before his eyes even fully open. He must have fallen asleep at Hannah’s bedside again.
In the doorway is Neville Longbottom.
Ron stands, picking up the bear from where it had fallen and settling it back under Hannah’s fingertips. He can feel his ears burning under his hair because no matter how many times he tells himself that Neville is married to Pansy, it still somehow feels like Ron’s stealing Hannah from him.
The roses he brought her seem to mock him as he steps toward the doorway.
“Hi Ron,” Neville greets quietly. “I wondered if I could… go say hi?”
Ron blinks — Neville had sent him a few letters inquiring as to Hannah’s health, but had never come to visit. “Of course. I’ll just… go grab a tea or something.”
Neville nods at him and steps into Hannah’s room; Ron turns and forces himself to walk toward St Mungo’s cafeteria. Every step feels like losing.
Sitting by herself in the cafeteria, hands wrapped around a disposable cup, is Pansy Parkinson. Or Longbottom?
She’s pretty, though Ron is loath to admit it. She’s grown into her features, and her hair is cut to her chin and shiny black. He decides to skip the tea and instead sits down across from her.
Surprise flickers across her face for the tiniest of seconds, but she doesn’t immediately get up and leave when he sits down.
“Hi Pansy,” He greets. “Neville is here to see Hannah. I assume you know that since you’re sitting here.”
“Obviously,” Pansy replies.
Ron nods. “Are you two divorcing?”
“And why would that be any of your business?” Pansy sneers.
“Perhaps because if you are divorcing, Neville would be free to pursue my wife, Hannah, who we both know he was in love with only a few months ago. Obviously.” Ron rolls his eyes.
To his surprise, Pansy smirks at his rudeness. She picks up her cup and sips at her tea, and Ron forces himself to wait.
“I don’t know,” Pansy says after a long moment.
“You don’t know.” Ron repeats, nonplussed.
She shrugs delicately. “What do you want me to say, Weasley?”
“I want you to say whether your marriage is worth staying in. Whether you intend to stay in the house you both just purchased together — or, shite, I don’t know, whether you love each other.” Ron snaps.
Anger flickers in her eyes, and her voice is as cutting as glass when she hisses, “How about this — I don’t fucking know. All I know is that I’ve been watching Neville fall apart because Hannah tried to fucking off herself because she couldn’t deal—”
Ron slaps his hand down on the table, making her cup jump and splash a little tea; despite the sudden movement, Pansy stares him down as though she could disembowel him without a wand. Ron stares back because he has faced worse things than Pansy Parkinson before.
She’s not dangerous — he can tell by the way her lip is trembling, just slightly.
She’s scared.
“This is not Hannah’s fault,” Ron says, slow, even and deliberate. “None of this. I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry for Neville, but this is not her fault, Pansy.”
Pansy glances away, deflating slightly.
“I know,” Pansy whispers. “I know it’s not her fault.”
Her gaze stays locked on the table, and Ron thinks about all the years he hated Slytherins, simply because they wore green and everyone always said how evil they were.
Now, though, he has fought beside Draco Malfoy. He has watched as Hermione has been happier than he’s ever seen her. He’s played cards with Blaise Zabini and listened to Luna Lovegood laugh as Theo Nott spins her on a dance floor.
He’s staring at Pansy Parkinson, and he is suddenly sure beyond a doubt that she is in love with Neville Longbottom. Is suddenly sure that she is feeling the same endless, horrible, guilt that he feels for marrying someone that was promised to another.
“It’s not your fault, either, Pansy,” Ron says softly. Pansy doesn’t turn to look at him, but she swallows reflexively. She nods and stands from the table, walking briskly away from him, disappearing down another one of St Mungo’s endless hallways.
Friday, February 18th
Ron wakes to the sound of a siren, snapping alert in seconds. Above Hannah’s bedside the lights are flashing, and the drone of the beeps he has become so accustomed to have morphed into a squall. Hannah is pale, and she’s seizing violently, her head snapping from side to side. Ron shoves his hand between her cheek and the frame of her hospital bed, attempting to cushion her blows. He realizes he’s been shouting when suddenly a strong arm is yanking him away.
Three Healers are in the room.
“Help her!” Ron yells, lunging forward again.
“Get him OUT!” One Healer commands.
“No, she’s my—” His protest dies on his lips when he sees a familiar diagnostic cast above Hannah. He’s seen it loads of times, but it’s never been vibrant red before, and he barely gets to glance at it before he’s manhandled out the door.
“We’ll get you if we need you,” the Healer snaps, slamming the door.
Ron stares at the bottom of the doorframe, where all he can see are flashing lights. They must have silenced the room because it is quiet in the hallway, and Ron can’t stomach the absence of the constant beep telling him Hannah is alive.
Ron is convinced it’s hours later when the door cracks open again, but his watch tells him it’s only been the longest forty-five minutes of his life. The healer who had demanded he leave the room smiles at him, exhaustion staining her face.
“Mr. Weasley?” She asks quietly. He clambers to his feet and prepares himself to lose another person he —
“Hannah is awake,” the healer continues. “She’s tired and confused, but she’s asking for you.”
Ron blinks.
“She’s… she’s awake?”
The healer reaches a gentle hand out and settles it on his forearm. “I realize this is a shock. Why don’t you come in and see her?”
Ron follows her into the room, where the other two healers are checking Hannah’s vitals and murmuring to each other. Hannah’s blue eyes blink at him, and the weight of her gaze is nearly enough to drive him back to his knees.
“Hannah,” he whispers, stepping up to her bedside. There are so many things he wants to say — but for all that he has spent the past few weeks sharing secrets into the hospital air, he’s suddenly tongue-tied.
“Ron,” she answers, her voice raspy from disuse. She reaches a pale hand towards him, and Ron clasps it immediately.
The healer clears her throat. “Hannah is experiencing some confusion and memory loss from the trauma. She is stable, though we must be careful in overwhelming her so she doesn’t go into a seizure again. It would be helpful, Mr. Weasley, if you would stay with her and remain calm and patient.”
Ron nods — he’s never been known for his patience nor his ability to remain calm, but he can do this — he must do this.
“Thank you,” Hannah says.
The healers leave the room, closing the door gently behind them. Ron finds his way to his regular chair and sits down, never letting go of the hand wrapped around his. Hannah’s braid is half falling out now, and it’s nearly endearing how messy it is.
“How are you feeling?”
Hannah winces. “Terrible.”
“Are you in pain? I could get the—”
She shakes her head, cutting him off. Her mouth opens and closes twice, and Ron wonders if she’s just as terrified as saying the wrong thing as he is.
“I’m sorry,” she finally says, and Ron watches a tear track down her face.
“No,” Ron moves to sit on the edge of her bed, as close as he can get without touching her. “No, Hannah, I’m sorry. I knew there was something wrong, and I should have — I should have —”
His words choke off in his clogged throat, and Hannah’s other hand reaches up and settles on his cheek. She’s crying, and he’s so fucking tired of seeing her in tears. Her fingers curl into his sweater, tugging herself forward, and Ron reaches behind to support her as she sits up.
“I feel so weak,” Hannah whispers. His arms are still wrapped around her.
Ron shakes his head. “No, no, it’s just your muscles. It will get easier as you move more.”
Hannah settles her head against his shoulder, her hands reaching to wrap around him. Ron’s not sure if he’s ever actually hugged her before, but the semi-embrace is comfortable, and he doesn’t want to move. Her blonde hair tickles at his chin.
There’s so much to tell her. He dreads it.
“I had the strangest dreams, Ron,” Hannah says suddenly. “I’m frightened they were true.”
Ron frowns. He doesn’t believe in divination. “What do you mean, Hannah?”
“The Healers told me I have been in a magically induced coma for the past seven weeks.”
He nods. “Since New Year’s Eve. It’s February 18th, today.”
“And you were here the entire time.” Hannah states. “You talked to me.”
Ron blinks, “I.. of course. Did the Healers tell you that?”
Hannah frowns and shakes her head, her nose dragging along his shoulder as she goes. Ron unconsciously sweeps a hand down her spine, and when she leans backwards, he helps her lie down slowly. She’s lost muscle weight, though St Mungo’s kept her on nutrition potions, and flipped her often to prevent atrophy.
“Is Cho dead?” Hannah asks suddenly.
Ron stares at his wife. The last time he had seen her awake she had been coated in her own blood. Hannah is… delicate. He’s never lied to her before, but he’s suddenly desperate to do so.
His face gives him away, and Hannah blinks back tears.
“It’s our fault, you know?” Hannah says softly.
“No, Hannah, no, it was Terrence Higgs, and the WPG, and whatever bloody Auror that avada’d her. This is not our fault. It’s not your fault.” Ron argues vehemently.
Hannah stares at him sadly. He’s not entirely sure if she believes him, but maybe that’s because Ron doesn’t entirely believe himself. Cho’s death wasn’t their fault, but guilt is still settled inside him. He’s not the only one who feels this way.
“How did you know Cho died?” Ron asks, anxiety blooming in his chest.
“You told me,” Hannah answers absentmindedly. She glances up at him, again, a little sadder than before. “Can we go home now?”
Ron nods, swallowing a lump in his throat. Their flat has been cleaned thoroughly, though he’d hardly spent any time in it since Hannah had entered St. Mungos. He doesn’t ever really want to go there again.
Still, he tugs Hannah’s blankets up higher and goes in search of a healer. They run more tests, but ultimately they allow Hannah to be bundled into her coat and sent home with him, with explicit instructions to return for her follow-up appointment. Before they leave, a healer slides a card into his palm. It’s got a name and a number, and below the dark font is the term: Mind Healer.
Ron pockets it with a thanks.
They land in their flat, Hannah clinging to his arm, and Ron helps her sit down on their couch. Their furniture is a mishmash of his and hers from their previous lives, and while their flat definitely lacks style, it’s very cozy. They both gravitate to everything soft and warm, muted brown cushions and cable-knit red blankets.
Ron bustles to their tiny kitchen, turning on the kettle with a flick of his wand and drawing out their favourite mugs. Hers had a badger on it and a chip on the handle, and he’d laughed when she’d first shown him, though she had rolled her eyes because he was holding a giant red mug with a golden W on the side. Cliches, both of them.
“Hannah, when you said that I had told you Cho died… what did you mean?” He’s not entirely sure if his voice is as steady as he wants it to be, and he fiddles with the tea bags instead of looking at her because he’s terrified of her answer.
“I remember certain things…” Hannah starts softly, and Ron looks up sharply to meet her gaze. “Not everything, I don’t think. But I remember you talking to me.”
Ron’s hands stop working and he gives up on making tea in favour of walking back to the couch. He sits on their sturdy coffee and stares at his wife — his exhausted, pale, confused wife, who he almost lost.
“What did I say?” Ron asks.
Hannah shrugs. “It’s a little fuzzy. The WPG — we took it down?”
Ron nods slowly. Hannah smiles down at her hands. “Your dad is Minister?”
“Yeah. It’s bloody mental at the Burrow, to be honest. Mum’s losing her mind, trying to keep life normal. It’s… it’s good though. Dad’s a good choice.”
Hannah’s hand suddenly encloses on his own, reaching across the space between them. Ron closes his fingers over hers. “He is.” She agrees quietly, squeezing.
“Listen, Hannah,” Ron says, swallowing. It’s time — it’s time. “There’s a lot I told you, but I don’t know what you remember. So… I think I should let you know a few things. Malfoy is in the process of opening the Manor’s east wing as a Home for Children, specifically orphans from the war, or unwanted children from the WPG. Andromeda Tonks, Draco’s aunt, is going to be helping there. They’re looking for someone else, someone who knows some basic healing. Hermione wanted me to ask you when you woke up.”
Instead of pausing to let Hannah speak, Ron barrels on, panicked. “You’d be able to still do schooling if you wanted, but it’d mean you’d have to train at St. Mungo’s instead since it’s closer. Malfoy already recommended you for their program, and you have a tentative acceptance for their spring classes. I know you were considering America, and I have those submission papers somewhere here, too, but I had hoped—”
“Ron,” Hannah interrupts. Her eyes are glassy. “Thank you. I have to think about it, but that sounds like an incredible opportunity.”
“Good,” Ron breathes.
The silence is oppressive, and Ron is suddenly glad he didn’t get to finish his hopes — hopes of her staying.
“I asked for you, you know?” Hannah says abruptly. Her fingers are still chilled in his palm, and Ron blinks at her words.
“What do you mean?”
“When I woke up. I asked for you.” Hannah murmurs, a blush spreading across her cheeks. “Not my parents, not Neville. You.”
For the first time since Hannah woke up, Ron doesn’t think. He moves over beside her on the couch, swallowing down the lump in his throat. She settles into his side, staring at him with red-rimmed eyes.
“We could get a divorce, Hannah,” Ron whispers. “If you wanted to.”
She shakes her head fiercely. “No. No. I want to try.”
“Neville came to see you, just the other day. Maybe you should talk to him.”
Hannah falls quiet, and Ron realizes she’s playing with the plain gold ring she had chosen for their wedding. He didn’t even notice she had put it back on after the hospital.
“I’ll talk to him,” Hannah says softly. “Because we both deserve that. But I think I’m ready to try, Ron. I really appreciate you staying and spending time with me in the hospital. It meant a lot.”
Ron can feel his ears turning red and he clears his throat. “Well. You would have done the same for me.”
Hannah doesn’t respond this time but leans a little further into him, and Ron decides the tea can wait.
Ron sends his owl out to share the news that Hannah is awake. He asks for time, for Hannah, before anyone comes to visit. His mum and Hermione write back with letters filled with joy and acceptance of his request. Ginny fire-calls him to yell for owling about such wonderful news instead of Floo-ing over, and then cries on his logs for nearly 15 minutes before Harry’s head appears and pulls her away. Ron forgives her because the last time he had spent time with a pregnant witch had been his mother when she was pregnant with Ginny. Ron might have only been a year old, but he still remembers the tears.
Neville Longbottom is at his door within an hour of the letter. Ron answers it, but Hannah is easily seen snuggled on their couch over his shoulder, and Neville’s eyes snap to her as though magnetized.
Ron sighs but opens the door wider. He shuffles his feet once Neville is inside their apartment, and decides he’d rather be anywhere else in the world other than here.
“I’m going to go… check on the store,” Ron says into the silence.
Hannah smiles at him. “Okay. Come back soon?”
He nods but shuts the door firmly behind himself. After that, however, he can’t seem to make his feet move. He’s stuck, glued to the welcome mat that Hannah had placed there ages ago.
Ron’s angry, too, in a quiet way. He knows Neville loved Hannah first — he knows the WPG is the only reason he’s married to Hannah at all. But where was Neville? Where was he, those days and nights, when Ron begged her to wake up?
The sound of quiet crying coming from inside the apartment finally pushes him to move, and he heads for the street with no destination at all except away.
Hannah is the only one home when he returns. She’s curled on their couch under two blankets, a cold cup of tea in front of her and sleepy eyes blinking at him. Ron smiles at her almost unwillingly, and he lifts her toes so he can sit under them and rest them on his lap.
“Hi,” Hannah says.
Ron settles his hands over her blanket-covered feet and smiles back. “Hey.”
He’s desperate to ask how the conversation with Neville went, but he’s not entirely sure he’s ready to lose her.
“Do you want to go for dinner?” Hannah asks, shaking her head visibly as though to force herself into being awake.
Ron looks at their clock. “Isn’t it… a bit late? I could make you a sandwich or something?”
Hannah’s cheeks flush red, and curiosity blooms in Ron’s chest.
“No, I meant… like not right now. Just dinner. Sometime. Like a date?”
Ron can’t help the way he smiles, and he’s sure he’s blushing as much as she is now, but her toes wiggle under his palm and it feels right.
“Sure.”
She pulls her feet away and sits up to curl into him. Ron lets a heavy arm rest around her, and it’s warm under her blankets.
“Neville is in love with her,” Hannah says quietly.
Ron blinks. “He told you that?”
“No.” Hannah glances up at him, and for the first time in a long time, none of the underlying agony shines through her gaze.
Ron’s confused, though. “Then how do you know?”
“I understand Neville. I always have. It’s why we worked so well.” Hannah explains quietly. “He told me he loved me, too.”
“Too?” Ron says quickly.
Hannah’s lip quirks wryly. “Exactly. As in, he might love me, but he also loves her.”
Ron hates what he’s about to say, but the words fall out of him almost unwillingly. “But if you asked him, Hannah, he’d divorce her for you. I know it.”
Hannah nods slowly. “I know he would.”
She doesn’t say anything else, and Ron keeps quiet, relishing the soft warmth of her against his side, and the way her hair tickles at his collarbones. Things he will miss.
“You know what I can’t handle, Ron?” Hannah finally whispers.
“What?”
Hannah turns her blue eyes to him, a small smile playing about her mouth. “What if’s.”
Ron frowns. “What do you mean, Hannah?”
“I mean that I simply couldn’t live with myself if I asked Neville to divorce Pansy. All I would think about would be what if he had stayed with her. What if he still loved her? What if he regretted staying with me?”
“I think you’d probably have to trust that Neville would make the right choice, love,” Ron says softly.
“Exactly.” Hannah agrees, her eyes sparkling. “Which is why I should tell you that I can’t handle the thought of what if I would be making the biggest mistake of my life asking Neville to do that? What if I stayed with you? What if we worked together?”
Ron gapes at her. “Hannah…”
“Do we work, Ron?” Hannah asks quietly, “Because I think maybe we do. Maybe we could. Maybe I don’t want this to be a what if.”
He stares down at her and watches her fingers shake as they twine together. She’s nervous. He thinks about it — not that he’s been doing much else since he had found her, half dead and maybe not able to be saved. Does he love his wife? Could he love his wife?
“I’m scared,” Ron admits quietly. It’s not easy for him to say the words. He’s the brave one — the war hero. He’s the strategist. He doesn’t like anything he can’t understand and plan for.
Hannah reaches out and takes his hand. “Me too.”
“What if we’re making a mistake?” Ron asks her. “What if you regret this? What if I do?”
Hannah’s smile is shaky but beautiful.
“What if we don’t?”
Tuesday, February 22nd
Four days later, Ron wakes up to the sound of someone whispering. It’s Hannah’s voice, soft and secretive, and he doesn’t open his eyes for a long moment.
“So I told Malfoy I’d take the job. It’s almost too good to be true, honestly. I’ll be going to school with a full-time wage that’s nearly criminal, and there are already four children in the program. The oldest is five, and she’s the sweetest thing. You’d love her. Andromeda is great, too. She’ll be living there full time, so I will have regular hours.”
“Hannah,” Ron rasps, opening his eyes to find his wife kneeling on the floor beside the bed, her fingers tangled in his.
“Oh, hi,” Hannah says.
“What are you doing?” Ron asks. The room is lit with pre-dawn light, and Ron is almost positive that Hannah had fallen asleep on the couch last night and refused to move.
She blushes. “I’m talking to you.”
“I hear that,” Ron chuckles. “I was asleep, though.”
Hannah shrugs. “Call it role reversal.”
Ron turns slightly to face her, watching the nerves play out over her face. Neville hasn’t returned since the last visit, and Hannah hasn’t brought any more what-ifs or hopes up.
“You know you could’ve told me you took the job while I was awake,” Ron says softly. “I’m really happy for you, Hannah.”
He scoots over and lifts the blankets up, and Hannah crawls in beside him. They stare at each other from opposite ends of the bed, underneath a large comforter that is slightly too warm.
“I want to live in the country,” Hannah whispers.
“Okay,” Ron answers.
Hannah smiles, half buried in the pillow. “I want a blue house with white shutters. And four bedrooms.”
“Four?”
“Yes,” Hannah confirms. “And a fireplace. I like fireplaces.”
Ron reaches over and traces a fingertip across the bridge of her nose, sweeping over freckles and laughter lines. She snags his hand and presses it to her cheek.
“I like fireplaces, too,” Ron admits. “What’s all this about, Hannah?”
“Close your eyes,” Hannah demands quietly. Ron obliges, and the bed shifts under her weight until her body is coiled up against his.
“I went to speak to George,” Hannah whispers. “To ask him to be my sponsor. I’m going to quit drinking. Seems like a good time, since I haven’t touched it the entire time I was in the hospital. I still want to, though, most days. So I might need help.”
Her fingers are gentle on his eyes, so Ron doesn’t open them even though he wants to. She’s still speaking though.
“Your voice is about the only thing I can remember from that time. I don’t even remember what you were saying most of the time, but I knew you were there, Ron. I knew you were there the whole time.”
“I was,” Ron admits, eyes closed and vulnerable. “As much as I could be.”
“You told me we could figure it out together,” Hannah says. Her voice is shaking. “You said whatever I wanted.”
Ron remembers. He remembers begging her to wake up. Remembers thinking that he’d bring her back the bloody moon if she’d just open her eyes.
“I did.” He agrees easily.
“Open your eyes,” Hannah orders, and Ron obeys. She’s a hairsbreadth away from him, rumpled and nervous and beautiful as ever. “I want you to kiss me.”
Ron closes the distance and kisses his wife. It’s not the first time, but it feels like it is. Feels like he’s kissing her without the weight of disappointment and pain and alcohol crushing them both. She opens for him as easily as breathing, and within moments he’s sprawled on top of her, hands tangled in her hair and kissing her as though he’s never going to stop.
He drags himself away long enough to breathe, and Hannah’s blue eyes are sparkling.
“I still want a proposal.”
Ron gapes. “We’re married.”
Hannah rolls her eyes. “Yes, and as romantic as our Ministry Mandated wedding was, with me in my work clothes and crying, and you stonewalling your way through whatever bullshit the Ministry forced us to say, I want a do-over.”
Ron laughs despite himself. Hannah’s description of their wedding is pretty accurate, and even he isn’t opposed to doing something else. Her eyes are dancing with laughter, and he snags her hand to drag it to his mouth, kissing the delicate skin of her wrist.
“Okay.” Ron agrees. “A proposal where no one is crying. I think I can do that.”
Hannah’s laughter rings in his ears even as he kisses her again.
Friday, August 18th, 2000
Hannah walks through their apartment door and finds his eyes. Despite being obviously exhausted, she smiles at him.
“Hi!” Hannah greets, dropping her purse on their front table and hanging up her jacket. “How was your day?”
“Good,” Ron answers. “Back-to-school sales are through the roof. You should see all the Hogwarts firsties coming through. I swear we were never that young.”
Hannah slides her arms around his waist, and Ron presses his lips to her hair.
“You’re probably right,” Hannah agrees.
“How was your big exam?”
Hannah sighs. “Good, I think. I’m glad it’s over.”
Ron pulls out a small sparkly box. “I got you something. To celebrate being done.”
Hannah pulls away and stares at the box in trepidation. “Ron, I already have a ring.”
She’s never taken her plain wedding ring off, despite their decision for a do-over. Ron wears his, too. It feels natural on his hand.
“It’s not a ring. Open it!”
Hesitantly, Hannah opens the box to find a very boring-looking pen lid sitting on a velvet cushion. Ron nearly laughs at her puzzled expression.
“It’s a portkey.” Ron says quietly. “It leaves in two minutes. Will you go somewhere with me, Hannah?”
She grins, and Ron can’t help but mirror her smile. “I’d go anywhere with you. But I have work tomorrow, so this better not be international.”
“Let’s find out?” Ron murmurs and pulls her into his arms. She grabs the pen lid and within moments the familiar tug of portkey travel hits them.
They reappear on the front lawn of a small house. It’s got a huge oak tree in the front yard and a small swing hanging from one of the branches. Flower beds are overfilling with fragrant hydrangeas, and Ron can tell with just a glance that Hannah is half in love already.
“What is this place?” Hannah whispers, turning to look at him.
“It’s blue. With white shutters.” Ron explains. “And four bedrooms.”
Hannah spins back to stare at the small house. Ron watches her take in for the first time the white shutters and blue siding. Even from the outside it looks cozy, and Ron hopes she’s feeling the same things he felt when he saw the house for the first time.
“You bought this?” Hannah whispers.
Ron snags her hand and steps toward the front door. “Well… I put an offer in this morning. Conditional.”
“Conditional on what?” Hannah demands. Ron laughs at her impatience and opens the front door, letting her step through first. The sunlight is flickering into the open living room, and Ron watches Hannah run gentle fingers across the soft white paint.
“On your approval,” Ron answers softly. He already knows what he wants.
Hannah turns to him, still wearing her St Mungos scrubs, and Ron decides that this is exactly what he wants to see forever. Her, in their house, straight from work. Exhausted, happy, alive.
“I approve,” Hannah breathes. “I approve so much.”
Ron pulls out the second sparkly box of the day, pressing it into her shaking fingers. He’s lost all of his words, but it doesn’t matter, because it never matters with Hannah. She’s good at reading him, and he’s good at whispering all the things he’s terrified of saying to anyone else to her each night when they curl together.
She lifts the lid without question this time, only to find a small silver key.
“What is this?”
Ron swallows. “It’s your key. To this house. Our house.”
Her smile feels like a sunrise, and she clutches the key in her fingers. Ron grins back at her, and when she steps into his waiting embrace it feels like everything is perfect.
“What if I’m in love with you?” Ron asks into her hair. His favourite game.
Hannah pulls herself impossibly closer and tilts her head back until their lips are nearly brushing. “Finally, a what if I can live with,” she teases.
He kisses her right there in the living room of their new home. Thinks about how close he came to losing her. How close he came to never even having her.
“I’m in love with you, too, you know?” Hannah says breathily when she finally pulls away.
“I know,” Ron answers smugly, and Hannah’s laughter is smothered by his kiss.