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HP stories following Canon after Deathly Hallows >> Hermione by Northumbrian

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Hermione

The brakes of the Hogwarts Express make their first tentative squeal and the train begins to slow.

We are approaching King’s Cross Station on this, my penultimate homeward journey. The next time I step onto platform 9¾ from this train will be my last as a pupil. The NEWT exams will be over, and I will no longer be a schoolgirl. The exams will be over—they are so close!

The Easter holidays will allow me almost two weeks of revision time because Ron is working again. He works too hard, and he cannot do two jobs forever; especially as one of them is unpaid. He will have to decide between the Auror Office and George. There is no doubt that George needs him more, but Ron has always wanted to be an Auror.

I will see Ron on George’s birthday, because we must be with George (I wish that he would not call it “George’s First Birthday”). Ron is working almost every other day. The only other times I will see Ron are tonight, on Easter Day at The Burrow and on Easter Monday.

When I wrote and told Mum about my invitation to The Burrow on Easter Day, she and Dad immediately invited Ron, Harry and Ginny over for a meal with us the following day, Easter Monday. That is three days lost from my revision timetable...not that I mind. After all, I’m seeing Ron! But I’ve had to make some major changes to my homework diary.

Ginny interrupts my thoughts when she hurries into the Prefects’ carriage. She’s wearing high heeled shoes and a short sleeveless dress with a wide leather belt, and she looks gorgeous.

‘Right, you lot,’ she tells the Prefects, ‘Justin, Fenella, you’re in charge. Hermione is going to get changed right now. Harry and Ron are meeting us off the train, and the Head Girl is so wrapped up in her responsibilities that she’s still in her school robes.’

Justin, who is looking admiringly at Ginny, nods his acquiescence. He turns to me and smiles.

‘Go on, Hermione, we’re almost at King’s Cross, and there’s not much more to do. I’ll sort this lot out.’ The Head Boy nods at the other Prefects.

Justin can be rather lax in performing the Head Boy’s duties. Like me, he missed school last year. Like me, he’s one of the few Muggle-borns who came back to take the final year we missed. Now, I’m a seventh year and so is Ginny; I’m also, at nineteen, the oldest pupil in the school.

I don’t have the chance to give Justin any final instructions because Ginny grabs my arm and drags me into the corridor and along to the loo. I don’t resist, because she’s right; I’m meeting Ron and I’m not ready.

‘Get changed, now, Hermione,’ she orders, rolling her eyes in mock-exasperation as she pushes me into the tiny toilet cubicle. The train clanks and groans to a halt before I have finished changing.

Ginny has stopped hammering impatiently on the door. She stopped knocking the moment the train came to a standstill. I heard the carriage door slam open at the same instant. By now, she will be on the platform, snogging Harry.

She must be desperate to see him; after all, it’s been two whole days. Thursday night was the last time that Kreacher took her out of Hogwarts to Grimmauld Place, because that was Ron’s last late shift.

I haven’t seen Ron in weeks and weeks, not since Valentine’s Day! Unlike Harry, he couldn’t make it to the Quidditch match last weekend because he had an Auror exam to re-sit. He missed Ginny’s team winning the Quidditch cup. He was devastated.

I’m dawdling. I’m nervous, why should I be nervous? I’m nervous because I know what Harry and Ginny have been doing for the past week, what Ginny calls their “victory celebrations”, and I know that Ron still doesn’t know. The trouble is, Ron always seems to know when I’m keeping secrets from him, and I’m not certain how he’ll react when he finds out about his sister and his best friend.

Ron and I will have to wait until after I finish school. He’s busy, and I’m busy. We don’t have much time for each other; he has his Auror Office duties, work, training and examinations combined. And when he’s not doing that, he’s helping George at the shop.

I’ve just finished pulling on my sweater when there’s a knock on the toilet door.

‘Auror Office,’ Ron shouts, ‘open the door, or I’ll blast it open.’

Ron is as impatient as ever; he’s as desperate to see me as I am to see him. Smiling, I open the door; he puts on his fake frown.

‘Harry and Ginny’ve been lip-clamped out there for at least fifteen minutes; Hermione, you’re wasting valuable snogging time,’ he says.

Fifteen minutes is a ridiculous exaggeration, and I’m about to tell him so, but he looks at me with that appraising “I think you’re gorgeous” look of his. I swear that he looks right into my heart. It makes me blush.

I open my mouth to scold him, but he grabs me around the waist, lifts me off my feet and kisses me. I’m sandwiched uncomfortably between him and the sink, almost sitting in the tiny bowl. Why couldn’t he have waited until I got off the train? Because he wanted to kiss me now, his fervour tells me that; I respond enthusiastically.

Eventually, he drops me and we look at each other and smile. This is stupid; we’re both uncertain for no reason other than the anticipation of this meeting.

He’s appraising me again. He actually seems to think I’m attractive.

Then I finally realise that he really does think that I’m attractive. It’s Ron! I’ve known him since we were eleven, and I know that with Ron, what you see is what you get.

He is a terrible liar and brutally honest. When he says, “I like your hair,” he really means “I like your hair,” he’s not simply being polite. The opposite is true, too. If, for example, you’re tired and overworked because of the Time-Turner you’ve been using, he’ll say, “You look bloody awful.” and he’ll want to know why.

He looks at me the way he does because he really, truly, likes what he sees. Why am I surprised by that?

I appraise him, too. He’s tall and, although he’s not exactly handsome, he’s really quite striking-looking. He’s easy to spot in a crowd, too, just look for the red hair sticking above everybody else. He’s tough and funny and brave. He makes me laugh, and he makes me feel safe.

He’s also hopeless and clumsy and fidgety and untidy. Except today, he isn’t untidy. His trousers are the right length, not flapping halfway up his calves; his sweater is new and green, and he’s wearing a new tweed jacket. By Ron’s standards, he really looks quite smart.

‘When you’ve finished admiring your handsome boyfriend, he’d like to take you out for a meal,’ Ron says. He steps down from the train, turns and lifts me onto the platform.

‘I wasn’t admiring you.’ I deny it, why?

‘You were.’

‘I was not,’ I protest. His smile broadens, he’s enjoying himself, he loves childish was-wasn’t arguments. I smile too; stupid banter with Ron always makes me smile.

‘When you two have finished baiting each other, we can go,’ calls Harry.

‘We’re not baiting each other,’ Ron and I say together. Harry smiles, shrugs and takes Ginny’s hand. Ron and I hug, and grin, then he takes my hand and we walk through the barrier on to the Muggle station and down into the Underground. We’re going out to a Muggle restaurant.

We take the Piccadilly line to Piccadilly Circus, and Ron and Harry take us to an Italian Restaurant called Antonio’s. We’ve all been here before; we went soon after the Battle. But it looks like Ron and Harry are regulars from the way the waiter greets them.

‘So, these are the “belle ragazze” you boast about?’ he asks Harry and Ron as he escorts us to our table.

The waiter is kind, complimentary, and attentive, and the meal is delicious.

We catch up with the news over the meal. Harry and Ron are trying to introduce new equipment into the Auror Office while working on a new security system for the Ministry. That’s in addition to working and studying and, in Ron’s case, helping out at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

‘You’re trying to do too much,’ I tell Ron as the waiter clears the table.

‘Not like you, of course; you never work too hard,’ he says with a teasing smile. ‘Let me see that homework diary of yours.’ He snatches it from my bag and opens it.

‘At least twelve hours of revision and homework, every day,’ he announces. ‘And you accuse me of working too hard.’

‘Give that back, now,’ I order, and he hands it over with a smile.

‘I’ve just had to re-timetable everything again because you’re all coming to my place on Easter Monday. I hope that you’re not going to cancel, I have my revision carefully planned.’

Ron laughs, leans over, and kisses my cheek.



At midnight, we are finishing our coffees at Grimmauld Place, we’ve laughed and joked and gossiped and it’s time for Ginny and I to leave. I know that Ginny would rather stay, but Molly would explode if she did, and anyway Harry is at work very early tomorrow morning.

I would like to stay too, not that Ron has suggested it. What would I do if he did make that suggestion? It is the next step in our relationship; it’s inevitable, I think. What would he do if I asked him? Would he think that I’m a “scarlet woman”? I smile to myself at the thought and Ron spots the smile.

‘What’re you so happy about? Looking forward to all that revision?’ he asks.

‘I was … just remembering Valentine’s Day.’ I lie. He smiles; Valentine’s Day was a good day. The perfume he’d bought me was actually very nice, because he’d asked both Ginny and my Mum for advice. Not like the first bottle he bought me. I called it unusual at the time, but “vile” would have been a better word. At least he tried.

He’s learning and he’s grown up such a lot in the last year. We all have.

Mum and Dad are expecting me home soon, and Ginny’s parents are expecting her, too. So, at the front door of 12 Grimmauld Place, we kiss our boyfriends goodnight.

‘I’ll see you on George’s birthday,’ I tell Ron.

‘Goodnight, Harry, I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Ginny says. I’m jealous, Harry has the afternoon off tomorrow, but Ron doesn’t.

We each Apparate home from the front step, where no Muggle can see us. As I twist, I see Ron wink at Harry. He’s up to something.

Mum and Dad are waiting up for me, full of questions about school, and where I’ve been with Ron tonight. I tell them about our evening out in Soho and my revision plans.

‘You need to go out more, Hermione. You should be spending some time with Ron. You can’t spend every day revising,’ Mum tells me.

Ron and Harry have visited my parents a few times while I’m at school, but I never expected Mum to say something like that. I accuse her of listening to Ron and she admits that she has been.

‘They’re my NEWT’s, Mum; they’re the most important exams I’ll ever take,’ I remind her. ‘Besides, Ron can’t get any more time off.’




At ten o’clock the following morning, my alarm clock rings. I turn it off, get up, and go to the bathroom.

I decide to check my homework diary before I get dressed and go downstairs for my breakfast. I have scheduled myself two hours for Potions revision this morning, half an hour break for lunch and then six hours for Arithmancy this afternoon. This evening, Ginny is coming over and we’re doing Professor Rafferty’s Transfiguration homework.

I look at my diary for confirmation:

10:30 – Day out with Ron. Going to have a great time and returning late, very late.

I close my eyes, open them again and reread the page; it still says the same thing, written in Ron’s untidy scrawl. I check the next page. What I thought I was doing today is now scheduled for tomorrow. I clench my teeth in frustration: Ron has done something to my diary. That’s why he didn’t seem bothered when I told him that I wasn’t going to see him for a few days. That’s what last night’s wink meant. Does he really think that I’ll fall for this idiotic trick? He told me he could not get the day off, so why would he do something like this? Perhaps it’s George’s idea of a joke.

After almost fifteen minutes, I have been unable to undo the alterations to my homework diary. How did he do it? Nothing I’ve done can return the diary to its original version. I am beginning to wonder if it’s some form of Protean Charm, which I know is something Ron still struggles with. I’m about to test that theory when the doorbell rings. I hear Dad’s voice, and Ron’s.

I check my clock. It’s exactly half past ten. I panic – he’s come to take me out for the day and I’m not ready for him.

I almost scream at myself – this is what Ron does to me all the time. He distracts me and confuses me! I’m not ready for him because I’m not supposed to be ready for him. I’m supposed to be working! Had he told me, I’d be ready. But he didn’t!

Then I realise that he did tell me, in his own way; he altered my diary as a surprise, not a joke, and he’s here!

I hear his big feet clomping up the stairs. Dad has let him come up to my room. I’m not dressed. I’m wearing nothing but knickers and a vest. Worse, it’s an old vest of Ron’s which I found when I emptied my beaded bag, and it is much too big for me.

I look down, I’m showing a lot of chest and I’m obviously bra-less. My dressing gown is hanging on the door. I glance between it and my unmade bed and I can’t decide which way to jump for cover. I decide on the dressing gown, but Ron reaches the door before I do and he walks straight in without knocking.

I freeze mid-stride, and he does too. His jaw drops, and his chin almost hits his chest. His mouth is hanging open, and he would easily beat Luna in a wide-eyed-and-crazy-staring contest. Then he blushes.

His blushes are amazing, even his ears go red, it’s so sweet.

‘Why don’t you knock?’ I ask.

‘Sorry, your Dad said that he heard you go to the loo half an hour ago. He told me that you were up and swotting. And besides, you never, ever, knock on my bedroom door,’ he says. His blush is still there, and he’s staring at my chest. I look down, a tiny crescent of areola is visible, and he’s seen it.

‘I was standing right here the first time that I told you that I love you. The first time I really, properly, told you,’ he says.

How does his brain work? Sometimes it jumps from one topic to another faster than I can keep up.

He steps forwards and puts his left hand on my hip. He slides the hand up and backwards and then down inside my knickers. He squeezes my bum, pulls me in close and his other hand is inside the vest, fondling. And he’s kissing me.

He’s on fire and suddenly so am I. I’m trying to drag him back onto my bed when Dad shouts from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Do you want any breakfast before you go out, Hermione?’

I pull my mouth from Ron’s and shout, ‘Yes, please, we’ll be down in a minute.’ My voice is ridiculously and nervously high, and Ron is still groping. As I peer past him, I realise that he hasn’t even closed my bedroom door. If Mum or Dad walk upstairs, they’ll see us! I panic.

Ron moves in for another kiss, but he sees my face and instead releases me. I fall backwards onto my bed.

‘Bloody hell, Hermione, sorry, I’ll leave you to get dressed. I thought that you’d be ready; I’ve got a busy day planned for us,’ he says. He’s blushing again, and he thinks that I’m upset because he was feeling me.

‘Busy day…’ I begin.

‘Nice vest … easy access … too easy … shouldn’t’ve done that … sorry,’ he says, backing out of the door and closing it behind him. I hear him thundering downstairs. I can’t give chase because I’m hanging out of my nightwear.

By the time I’m dressed and downstairs, Ron is tucking into toast and strawberry jam and he’s said something to make Mum laugh.

‘You’re late; we should’ve left twenty minutes ago. Why weren’t you ready for me?’ he asks. He’s telling me off, trying to pretend that all this confusion and chaos was my fault. I decide to make him suffer.

‘You’ve messed with my homework diary.’ I wave it in front of his face accusingly. He nods and looks very pleased with himself.

‘Do you want some toast, Hermione?’ Mum asks. I ignore her and glare at Ron.

‘Will you be eating out, or do you want me to make sandwiches?’ Mum continues.

‘What? I’m not going out, Mum, I have exams to revise for,’ I snap. Ron offers me some strawberry jam covered toast.

‘Better eat something now, Hermione. It’ll be a couple of hours before we stop for lunch,’ he says, but he sounds uncertain.

‘I’m not going out,’ I repeat through clenched teeth. Now he’s beginning to look worried, good. He should have just asked me last night, instead of messing with my diary.

‘So, what are you going to do instead?’ Ron asks.

‘Once I’ve sorted the diary out, I’m going to do what I’m supposed to – revise for my exams.’

‘Your diary says that you’re going out with me; why do you want to change that? You seemed pleased to see me a few minutes ago. I got the impression that you wanted me to stay in your bedroom for longer. I’m really sorry that I forgot to close the door,’ Ron grins at me and Dad catches the subtext of those remarks and gives me a “what have you been up to?” look. Ron’s had a few minutes to figure out why I was so worried, and he’s guessed right. He’s getting better at that, too. If I’m not careful, he’ll realise that I’m teasing him.

A day with Ron, or homework? There is no choice, not really. I know that I’m going, but I’m not letting him know yet.

‘Just have one day to relax, Hermione,’ Mum tells me. ‘It sounds like Ron’s got a nice day planned; why not go out and enjoy yourself?’

‘Exams,’ I try as an excuse.

‘It’s only one day in the Easter holidays, Hermione. Can’t you spare me one day? I’ve had to swap shifts and work extra hours all next week to get the time off today, and for George’s birthday. This is the only day we can have together, just the two of us,’ Ron pleads.

I look at Mum and Dad, they want me to go, I can tell. Dad thinks that I work too hard, and Mum likes Ron; she says that he’s good for me.

‘Tell me how you altered my homework diary,’ I demand.

‘And then you’ll come out with me?’

It sounds like a question, but it isn’t, it’s a threat. He won’t tell me unless I agree to go out with him. I purse my lips and pretend to ponder. Ron is sneaky; he’s picked up a lot of underhand stuff from Auror training, and from George. He’s obviously confident that I won’t be able to undo his alterations. I stare at him, silently pretending to be angry and watching my family and my boyfriend.

He wants me to go out, and he’s obviously organised something.

It is the only day we can have together.

Ron looks like a naughty little puppy; he’s desperate for me to say yes. I decide that he’s suffered for long enough, so I say what I’ve always been going to say.

‘Yes.’

Ron beams happily, leans across the table and gives me a quick strawberry jam and toast-crumb flavoured kiss. Then he explains what he’s done to my diary.

‘I think that you would be able to figure it out, eventually, because you’re a genius. But I reckon that it would take you hours, because you asked me how I altered it. I didn’t alter it. There’s no way I could’ve done any magic to your diary that you couldn’t undo fairly quickly. So I bought an identical homework diary and filled in the bits I wanted to fill in, like today. Then I put a “highest priority, do not alter” marker on them. When you went to the loo in the restaurant last night I “borrowed” your diary and used the copying spell they taught us in the Auror Intelligence Gathering class. It copies written words exactly from one document onto another. But your homework diary has an automatic rescheduling feature, so when the spell copied your diary into the new one, it shuffled your days to fit around the “highest priority” stuff I’d already put in it. So there’s no magic for you to undo.’

‘That’s brilliant, Ron.’ I say, and regret my words immediately. He puts on that smug “I’ve just beaten Hermione” look of his. It’s the look I usually only see if he persuades me to play chess, or fly a broom, or argue about Quidditch.

‘C’mon then,’ he says, ‘let’s get ready to go. You’ve made us half an hour late by your dawdling.’

I grab another slice of toast, and get ready to go out with Ron. He refuses to tell me where we’re going.

Mum and Dad wave us off and Mum tells me to have a wonderful day and to relax and enjoy myself. We walk out of Itchen Worthy, the village where I live, and into the field we use as a safe Apparition point. I grab his arm and we Disapparate.

We arrive on a deserted beach. We’re in a place called Budleigh Babberton, Ron tells me as he takes my hand and leads me along the beach. As we stroll beneath the red sandstone cliffs, he tells me about his holidays here as a child. I soon realise that these “holidays” were no more than day trips. Budleigh Babberton is at the mouth of the River Otter. It really isn’t far from Ottery St Catchpole. But, to Ron, this ordinary Muggle seaside town is an interesting and exotic place. His enthusiasm is infectious, and I don’t tease him because, as he talks, I realise that my holidays in France with Mum and Dad were much more earnest, less chaotic and (I suspect) not so much fun.

I learned a lot on those trips to France, I remind myself sternly.

We walk along the promenade and Ron buys buckets and spades. He’s getting really good with Muggle money; the fact that Harry practically lives in the Muggle world to avoid his many fans has helped. Then he drags me down onto the beach and insists that we build a sandcastle.

Ron can persuade me to do all sorts of silly things. We dig and shift and pat the sands and our knees and feet get wet, because we do it without magic. The tide is coming in quickly and we have to end our efforts.

Ron spots a big wave and lifts me into his arms. I am almost dry, but his shoes and jeans are dark and wet, almost up to his knees. He carries me up the beach then lowers me gently on to dry sand. We hold hands and stand and watch the waves destroy our pathetic pile of sand. Ron grins.

‘I’ve always wanted to see that happen,’ he confesses. ‘When I was little, the twins destroyed anything I built long before the waves did.’

We trudge back up the beach and go to a café on the promenade where we eat a lunch of sausage, egg and chips. Even this meal has significance to Ron. He is showing me himself; he is showing me the little, personal things which make him Ron.

We go to Dartmoor where we walk through Wistman’s Wood. The pixies don’t bother us and despite searching we don’t see the ghosts or the Yeth Hounds, and so we move on to Exmoor. Ron shows me other places from his childhood. We talk and laugh and joke as we stand on the bleak and windswept moors. Ron refuses my suggestions that we visit the museums and art galleries of my childhood. “This is my day with you, you’ll have to organise another day to show me what you used to do,” he says.

It is almost dark when he takes me to Ottery St Catchpole. We are very close to The Burrow, but we don’t visit. Instead, not far from his parents’ wonderful house he shows me a tiny stream and a huge tree, a rope dangling from it.

This was his and Ginny’s secret place. He always ends up getting wet here, he tells me. As if to prove his point, he slips on the grass as he tries to straddle the stream and puts his foot in the water. He won’t let me use magic to dry his wet shoe. He laughs at himself and tells me that it’s traditional that he has at least one wet foot when he visits this place.

He insists that I go on the rope swing. I confess that I’ve never ever been on one, but he does not believe me. My squeals as he pushes me out over the stream convince him that I’m telling the truth. I swing wildly; it’s like riding a broomstick, and I’m not in control. He catches me as l swing back into his open arms and we kiss and kiss and kiss.

Before I know it, it’s dark, it’s starting to rain, and we are lying under the tree with our hands inside each others t-shirts and we are enjoying ourselves very much. Then Ron’s pocket watch tinkles.

‘Damn,’ he says regretfully. ‘I’ve got a restaurant table booked; we need to leave.’ He looks unhappy about it. I wonder whether I should give him a choice: me, or food. But I am hungry too, and I can’t. We’ve had a funny, busy, day. Busy doing nothing, I realise, but the time has passed amazingly quickly and very enjoyably.

We Apparate directly outside the entrance of wizard-run restaurant just outside Tintagel; it’s called Merlin’s Circle, and I’ve heard of it. It’s extremely expensive and very posh. The ancient whitewashed stone building is set in open countryside within sight of the large ring of standing stones which give it its name.

What was a light drizzle in Ottery St Catchpole is something much more dramatic on this windswept Cornish coast. We are lashed by cold rain driven in from the sea by an Atlantic gale. Ron grabs my hand and we dash inside.

The foyer is stone floored and brightly lit. We tumble through the doors laughing and dishevelled. We have sand and mud on our shoes and jeans. Ron has grass sticking to the back of his sweater and so do I, probably. We are definitely not dressed for this place, and I curse Ron for not telling me where we were going. The diners in the restaurant area are in their very best robes. We’re dressed like Muggles, and scruffy Muggles at that. We’re in jeans, t-shirts and thick wool sweaters. As we walk into the foyer, the head waiter approaches rapidly, a frown on his face. He’s going to throw us out.

‘I’ve got a table for two booked. Sorry ‘bout the clothes, I’ve been busy – undercover, you understand,’ Ron taps the side of his nose conspiratorially as he lies to the waiter. ‘I’m Ron Weasley, Order of Merlin, First Class; I booked the table yesterday. This is…’

While Ron is talking the head waiter looks closely at Ron, then at me and he realises who we are. The change in his expression from contemptuous condescension to flattering obsequiousness is comically instantaneous. We’re nowhere near as famous as Harry, but we’ve stood next to him in so many photos that we’re recognised almost everywhere.

‘… Miss Hermione Granger, also a holder of the Order of Merlin, First Class. Merlin’s Circle restaurant welcomes you both, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger.’ The waiter interrupts Ron smoothly.

I pull out my wand and rapidly clean us both up.

‘I’ve always wanted to come here,’ Ron tells me, grinning broadly. ‘We’re going to be the centre of attention.’

He’s right. We’re now fairly clean and tidy, but we still look like Muggles and we are followed by a disapproving murmur from the other diners as we are escorted through the restaurant to our table. I would never dare to do this by myself, but Ron thinks that it’s one big joke, and soon I do too. Slowly the murmurs move from disapproval to wonder. Our names are on everyone’s lips.

The place is subdued, sedate and unnervingly quiet. It is completely unlike the noisy, friendly, chaos of a meal at the Burrow. A quartet of musicians play popular wizarding songs and the conversations at the other tables are discreet murmurings. Whenever Ron lifts his head, a waiter scurries over to see what we want. This amuses Ron so much that he puts on a nervous twitch causing waiters to step towards us and then stop suddenly when he looks away again. It’s ridiculous, childish behaviour and it should not make me laugh, but it’s Ron, and I do.

The restaurant is outrageously expensive, but Ron insists that he will pay. The meal is very good, but even so, I don’t think that the quality justifies the price.

‘I wanted to treat the girl I love,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve got nothing else to spend my money on, and until now I’ve never had any money to spend.’

‘You should be saving for the future,’ I tell him. He shrugs.

‘There’s plenty of time for that, Hermione, now that we actually have a future. Are you enjoying your day?’

‘I’ve never really spent a day doing nothing before,’ I say. He rolls his eyes.

‘Nothing? Haven’t you been enjoying yourself?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘But you haven’t done any homework and you haven’t been to a museum or done anything “educational” or “worthy”,’ he says. ‘Your problem, Hermione, is that you don’t know how to have fun. He leans closer and suggests, ‘Do something spontaneous, now.’

I look around wildly and panic. He wants me to do something spontaneous in a posh restaurant!

‘I can’t, I don’t know how.’ I say.

He stands walks around the table, and goes down on one knee. For a horrifying heart-stopping second I think that he’s going to propose. Instead, he grabs me and kisses me, tongue and all, in the middle of this busy restaurant. I have never been so embarrassed.

‘Spontaneous is easy.’ He laughs. He stands and shouts across the restaurant.

‘I’d like the bill, please, waiter, I’m taking my girl to the cinema, now.’

The waiter hurries over with our bill and Ron pays for everything despite my protests. We’re going to the cinema! Ron has never been, but Harry has taken Ginny, and Ron is curious. I cringe at what’s likely to happen. Ron will probably get us thrown out. The cinema…

We walk outside into the rain and I’m suddenly struck by a moment of madness. Memories of an old film I saw when I was a child flood into my mind. I pull out my wand and I conjure a loudspeaker so that we can hear the restaurant’s tiny orchestra.

‘Dance with me.’ I order.

‘We’ll miss the film,’ Ron tells me.

‘Spontaneous.’ I remind him.

‘Spontaneous,’ he yells delightedly.

He laughs and grabs me around the waist. We dance until we are soaked to the skin and cold to the bone. The music slows into a definitely smoochy number and, as Ron twirls me around in the rain, I notice that the head waiter is watching us and he’s not the only one. We continue to dance badly and wetly, until I stop and kiss him.

My sodden sweater is dripping and my jeans are clinging to my legs. I am shivering and the wind is howling around us.

‘We’ve missed the start of the film,’ Ron tells me. He sounds disappointed.

‘We can go another time. Now, we need to go back to Grimmauld Place and get out of these wet clothes.’

‘We can just find shelter and magic ourselves dry,’ he says.

Sometimes he is an idiot.

‘We need to go back to Grimmauld Place and get out of these wet clothes.’ I repeat. Finally, he understands me. He looks at me in amazement.

‘You want us to…?’ he asks.

‘Don’t you? You practically jumped on me this morning, why?’ I ask.

‘Your vest, my vest, was twisted, and I saw the bit of brown flesh that surrounds your nipple. I couldn’t help myself.’

‘It’s called the areola,’ I tell him.

‘What is?’ he looks blank.

‘The bit of brown flesh that surrounds your nipple, A-R-E-O-L-A, areola.’ I poke him in the chest, at the probable location of one of his.

‘Bloody hell,’ he says, ‘do you know the names for everything?’

Spontaneity, I think again.

‘What’s that?’ I pull up his sweater and t-shirt and point, though I’m shaking with cold.

‘Easy—belly-button,’ he says, as I knew he would. I shake my head and try to look like I’m about to scold him.

‘Navel,’ I tell him.

He laughs and I laugh and look into his bright blue and happiness-wrinkled eyes. We know what we are about to do and together we make the biggest decision of our lives so far. We do it without speaking, we simply kiss.

‘Take me to a phone box first,’ I tell him.

He grabs my arm and we Apparate to a phone box in Ottery St Catchpole. It’s raining heavily there, too, now.

‘This is the phone box I used to phone you last summer,’ he says. We dash inside and I phone home. Mum answers.

‘Hi, Mum, I thought that I’d better let you know that I won’t be home tonight. I’ve had a bit too much to drink, and I don’t trust myself to Apparate. I’m going to use the Floo network to get back to The Burrow to stay with Ginny,’ I lie.

I’m not certain that Mum believes me, but I’m nineteen years old, and there’s really not much she can do about it. There are a few moments of silence.

‘Are you sure that you know what you’re doing?’ Mum asks.

‘Yes, Mum, I’m sure.’

‘Please be careful,’ she whispers.

‘I will; goodnight.’ I hang up.

‘Did she believe you?’ Ron asks. I shrug and I stand on tiptoe and pull him down and kiss him. He Disapparates and takes us onto the doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place, opens the door and ushers me inside.

‘Damn,’ he says. He nods towards the bottom of the stairs. Harry’s and Ginny’s jackets are on the coat stand, dripping water onto the floor. The house, however, is silent.

‘I wonder where they are?’ he ponders.

‘In Harry’s room, getting out of their wet clothes, I hope,’ I tell him.

‘But…’ He panics. I see dozens of conflicting emotions fly across his face.

‘They…’ He tries again.

‘What happened last Saturday, Ron?’ I ask.

‘Ginny – Gryffindor – won the school Quidditch Cup.’

‘And afterwards, Harry and Ginny … celebrated,’ I tell him.

That news hits him like a Bludger between the eyes.

‘Are we going to get out of these wet clothes, or do you want me to leave?’ I ask.

He grabs my hand and leads me towards the staircase.

‘Are you going to let me see your a-ree-oh-lah?’ he asks as we squelch upstairs to his bedroom, we both start laughing. The noises from Harry’s bedroom on the floor above are suddenly silenced by a Muffliato spell.


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