a king with no crown

Tonks had made it a hard and fast rule, early in the state of their friendship with the Weasley siblings, that standing in proximity to the increasingly sprouting younger siblings was never to occur. It was deeply unsettling to crane their chin up and squint at the gangling creature brushing the ceiling looming next to her. “It’s been so long,” they replied wryly, eyeing their watch for dramatic effect and offering, “Almost three whole hours. Did you have another growth spurt since then?”

And of course, the last time they’d seen Ron had been gawking through the kitchen windows like the rest of his family while they’d been pacing and yelling in the Burrow’s back garden, worked up into a fit of temper by Hermione’s needling over the dinner table while Charlie had preoccupied himself with bestowing years worth of affection on the grumpy old krup that still lived at the Weasley family home. Somehow, Nigel’s energy-sapping presence was a soothing counterpoint to the reminder of just why they’d been so annoyed in the first place.

“I don’t trust tall people,” Nigel intoned gloomily towards her, as if Ron might just miss the entire exchange by virtue of being so close to the ceiling, “They see too much.” 

With a pointed look in Ron’s direction, as if to warn Tonks of the perils of involving herself with such a tall creature, Nigel floated onward, disappearing with a grimace into one of the cupboards, undoubtedly in search of some peace and quiet away from the growing crowds. “Hear that Ron,” Tonks offered, turning to rummage through the collection of bottles on the bench with a keen eye, “Nigel says you see too much. Think you can spot something that doesn’t look like a Hog’s Head vintage? I still have the aftertaste of the Hog’s Head Tea I had earlier in my mouth.”

//

It was odd, Ron thinks, to look down on someone and have them be so so so much smaller than he. Sure, he knew that he was abnormally tall for a boy (man? boy man?) his age, but there was just something about Tonks being utterly tiny that amused him to no end. Not that he would ever let them know that. He liked his kneecaps and his privates as they were, thank you very much. Unable to quite stop his smirk, Ron shrugs a shoulder loosely, “What is it they say?” he muses lightly, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all. No growth spurt though. Think you might’ve had the opposite.”

In all truth, Ron had tried to simply block out the events of the last few hours. It wasn’t the first time that a fight had all but broken out at the Weasley family dinner table, but this one had felt exceptionally heated, least not of all due to the reaction it had caused. Now they just needed to try and get through the party without having round two.

Quirking a brow at the pale, hovering figure beside Tonks, Ron doesn’t respond to his gloomy musing, not sure he really wanted to piss off the poor spectre. 

(Unless, of course, pissing him off would lead to trouble for Fred and George, because, well, then…)

He may as well have lived there with her, and there were times where Hermione might’ve wished he did. Sometimes it got lonely with only her little Persian cat to keep her company, but Hermione often found herself distracting herself from those gloomy thoughts with her work or a book. While it wasn’t the healthiest mechanism to get her mind off of her loneliness, it worked wonders in the still of darkened nights. Still, it would have been nice to have Ron there with her in some of those instances. Embarrassingly, he was the closest thing to home that she had when she was away from her parents’ house. That familiar voice and endearing vernacular soothed the woman to no end; Hermione even finding that she’s had to talk herself out of being a nuisance and knocking on Ron and Harry’s flat in the middle of the night. 

She watched him as he shuffled off to the kitchen, those stupidly adorable words placing a small grin on her lips while she simply observed. “Yes please,” Hermione answered, finally following over and peeking into the tote bags he’d brought over to see what he brought her. But then he seemed to finally get a look at her and she couldn’t help but notice his sudden shift to slight awkwardness that would overcome him when he didn’t quite know what to say. Eyes kept a hold of his, that grin of hers stretching into more of a smile before giving a small nod of thanks. 

It wasn’t too long before she was pulling out an old bottle of firewhiskey that Ron himself had gifted to her a while back, and she brought a pair of glasses over to her small seating area in her living room; cozy and adorned with fully occupied bookshelves beside her sofa and plants near the window. She took a seat on the couch that had housed Harry and Ron when they couldn’t go back to their flat after a long night and looked back over to Ron as she waited for him to follow. “Alright, how about you tell me why George dragged you off instead? I’m intrigued-” 

//

Ron finishes stacking the now de-tote-bagged containers in a haphazard pile on the bench before folding the aforementioned bag in half and throwing it on the nearest chair. He’d pick that up later, he justifies to himself, and if he didn’t, it wasn’t as though Hermione didn’t know exactly where he both worked and slept. With ease, he begins to slide the still-slightly warm containers onto the almost-completely-empty shelves of the cold cupboard before standing up as straight as he can, listening to his back pop a little as he does so.

“Lemme know if any of it isn’t any good. I got...dunno...experimental, maybe?” Ron muses quietly. Without his real knowledge or prior consent, he can feel himself begin to gape somewhat stupidly in Hermione’s direction, eyes unable to quite stop themselves from mapping her body. It takes a moment for him to realise exactly how weird and awkward he was being, and Ron’s eyes immediately dart to the ceiling, deciding that the small crack in the leftmost corner was definitely the most interesting thing in the world that he definitely needed to be looking at right now. 

Following Hermione into the sitting room, Ron folds himself down into the familiar comfort of her sofa, tucking one of his overly gangly legs up toward his body. He reaches across to snag one glass and the bottle from Hermione’s grip, offering it back in her direction. “I’ll pour,” he says abruptly, before faltering a little. “Where’s Crookshanks?”

Rolling his eyes and blushing a little at the mention of George’s interruption, Ron shrugs his shoulders listlessly, the bottle gripped in his fingers sloshing a little. “The usual,” he says, “Wanted me to feed Fred.” And to give me more shit at the same time.

She knew that there was so much work to get done, but how was she going to miss George and Fred’s birthday dinner? Regardless of how annoying the pair could be, she’d known them just as long as she knew Ron. Despite the mountain of work on her little desk, Hermione knew that she’d have to make time for this. Ron’s company on top of it all certainly wasn’t a negative. Of course, Harry wasn’t coming for some reason, and she found herself with this sort of guilt about being pleased with that. Maybe she was being selfish with Ron, but that wasn’t something that she was going to admit to herself or anyone else. 

Hermione had gotten dressed in one of her old dresses she’d worn at Slughorn’s gatherings; a deep red number that was still easy enough for her to feel comfortable in alongside a sweater just in case she got cold. Once she heard his quick knocks, the girl made her way to the front and swung it open just as a grin stretched at her lips. “Perhaps. Though it was well worth it I think-” she quipped, stepping aside to let him in and close that door behind him. “You look nice…” Hermione noted, voice a bit softer than the tone of her previous answer. “You think we’ve got a bit of time before we have to go to the burrow?” 

//

Entering Hermione’s small flat with the ease of someone who had spent an ungodly amount of time there - not unlike she did to his and Harry’s, though perhaps with a little more grace - Ron makes a beeline toward the kitchen, immediately unloading the totebag - the totebag, of all the bloody things he could now own - of containers from his shoulder. “There’s a mix of stuff in here: few things I did at home, coupla leftovers from the Broomsticks - Rosie said I could take them and I know how you feel about certain menu items. Should I just chuck ‘em in the refridgemerator?” 

Turning around as he finishes speaking, Ron can feel his cheeks begin to burn at the sight of Hermione, his mouth suddenly and suspiciously kind of dry. “Hi, by the way,” he says, trying his hardest not to gape like an utter moron. “You look good. Nice. You look good nice.” 

Bloody hell.

Fighting back the urge to slam his head into the nearest wall, Ron instead latches onto her previous words, practically spitting out his response. “Don’t really think any books are well-worth it, to be honest, but we’ve got time. Better show ‘em off.”

∁

Washing his hands. Seemed like Ronnie was growing up, at least to Charlie. That or he had been expected to work under rules and regulations (and wasn’t that a real sign of aging anyway?) for so long he hardly cared if it was one of innocent bystanders who had looked the other way when the twins were feeding him any assortment of garden bug or flora or fauna. “You snapped it.” One hundred percent his fault. “Stealing dad’s car, right?” And his face betrayed his true feelings on that matter, having taken the ford out for himself in the years proceeding Ron’s joyride and spent most of his summer nights as a teen in Tonk’s hunk of junk.

The coveted spot of second favorite sibling of his (Bill was first. Non-negotiable) often flip-flopped between Percy and Ron and Ginny with no rhyme or reason. Seeing his brother make the conscious effort of using clean tools for his meal, something he couldn’t even count on their parents remembering to do (or remembering it had been decades since he ate meat or dairy or anything of the like) solidified the younger redhead’s second place victory. It was the same quality of character, good and honest and something the rest of them besides William so rarely displayed, that made him want to look out for Ron. He’d lie about his own scars when he caught a tone of self-doubt or a show of a lack of self-confidence that was often easy to spot in his younger brother’s words and actions. They didn’t need another Percy incident in the family.

“Course. She doesn’t shut up about you. I don’t know how she has so much time to write all those bloody letters. She tell you about the new Lockhart book yet? He showed up at the reserve a few months–” He caught himself, words stalling as the fresh memories of his last few days spent in the only place Charlie wanted to return to caught up to him before he forced himself to continue what he was saying. “Came by a few months back. Fucking toss-pot. Didn’t realize he could be worse in person.”

Thankful for the change of subject that was their sister, Charlie gave a snort before giving Ron’s hair another long glance. That had to be a green sheen making its way through the strands. “You never read the fucking bottle?” If he was going to pull his brother’s leg, he’d do it for a grander joke. Like say pretending to date his best mate. Joined at the hip and all. “Like you and Hermione?” If the nearly family Ministry worker had told George that he was back, what was stopping her from telling Ron as well? His whole cover story, a weak half-brained jumble of excuses, could blow up right in his fucking face and then he’d never get a fucking bite to eat.  “Doesn’t matter. You still gotta protect yourself. You want shite hands like these?” He held out his left, the years old scars running the length of his palm from when he was still an overzealous newbie thinking he didn’t need protection from a beast he’d bottle fed. “You could get yourself hurt if you’re not careful. Who’s mum going to brag about then?”

//

Shaking away the excess water, Ron turns back toward the prep station, trying his best to look like he knew what he was doing. He did know what he was doing, but it was important that Charlie also knew that. “The Willow snapped it actually if you wanted to be pedantic,” He remarks, “Look, I just wanted to be the first to do something for once. Even if it was crashing Dad’s car.” His subsequent shrug was far too casual a response to one of the most harrowing experiences of his life. A reference, of course, to the Howler that had followed and not the flying car itself.

Satisfied with the cleanliness of everything he was using, Ron begins to poke around in the vegetable tubs looking for the least depressing looking items within. If the burger was going to be all salad, he was damned sure that Charlie would be getting the best damn salad Ron could come up with. He always wondered if he’d finally be too old to be so desperate for his older siblings approval, especially amongst all the gentle bullying and constant teasing, as if it hadn’t basically been his lifeblood from the moment he was born. 

“Did she tell me about the Lockhart book? You kidding?” Ron says with a roll of his eyes, placing a few leaves of lettuce onto the bun alongside what had to be the limpest looking tomato he’d ever seen. “Want anything else?” He waves a hand at the toppings in front of them. “Mum bloody owled me over to dinner just so she could go on about it. Then I got the same lecture from Hermione as well. He’s a fucking loser. Can you believe I had that bastard as a teacher for a whole year? No wonder I didn’t bloody learn a thing.”

One hand moving toward his head, Ron presses it against the slightly-hardened strands atop his head, shooting Charlie a suspicious look in the process. He’d been burned (both metaphorically and literally) by his siblings far too many times in the past to ever trust everything they said completely wholeheartedly. “No? Why would I? The instructions were pretty darn clear.” 

Fighting back what he knows would be a disgustingly embarrassing blush at the mention of his best friend, his feelings for whom were very much needing to stop and soon, Ron attempts to respond in the most unwavering tone he can. “If you say so. We’re more a trio with Harry though, so I don’t know what you’re suggesting and all.” 

He wasn’t nervous, Ron thought as he paced somewhat nervously outside the closed and locked door of Hermione’s flat. He was just a regular bloke, off to visit his best friend before they went to a party together. Just normal, usual, regular bloke things. 

Or at least that was what he was trying to tell himself.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

Who cared that Harry hadn’t come with him and things were always far more intense when he wasn’t there. They were just friends. Just best friends, being best friends.

Fuck.

Raising his fist to the doorframe and rapping on it quickly, before he could regret a single thing, Ron shifts his grip on the bag at his side, casting a glance down to check everything was stable as the door in front of him swings open.

“I come bearing food,” he declares, lifting the bag up in greeting. “I assume you spent more money on books than groceries this week, yeah?”

Her feelings for Lockart were nothing more than some girlish fawnings that never completely dwindled down from school. However, Hermione liked to think that she’d gotten better since then. In comparison, at least she had gotten over her urgent need to wait hours in line just so she could get her little hands on one of his novels that he signed ‘by hand’. Hermione had definitely gotten better since then. While she might’ve had a few lingering glances at those bannisters that displayed images of his laughing face, Ron’s presence was quick to catch her attention instead. After all, it was hard to not pay attention to the Weasley who had so much of her heart for years now. 

There was a reason behind just why one of her favorite scents was freshly cut grass. The Weasleys had always been so kind to her; even welcoming her to the burrow when she couldn’t go back home for break. Hermione remembered those warm summer days with affection. How her and Ron would go out to the yard and chase those pesky gnomes just after Mr. Weasley had cut the grass. She would be left with green stains on her overalls and a sunburn (though no where near as bad as Ron’s), but the best part of it all was being able to spend hours on end with him without a care in the world. The teasing followed by shy compliments; him giving her one of his hand me down shirts to wear to bed just before she went down to Ginny’s room for the night. Hermione loved the smell of freshly cut grass because it reminded her of her time with him. 

So while Lockhart was charming, the man couldn’t hold a candle to him. He would never get that same feeling of pure elation and comfort that Ron could produce with just a smile or a glance. It was rather endearing to see Ron get all bitter about such a stupid crush though. Hermione had never admitted her own feelings that she had been scared to sort out for herself thus far, but Ron’s biter come backs against Lockhart gave her hope that maybe he felt the same too. 

“Alright, alright. I’m right beside you-” Hermione assured him with a small grin. She followed him back to the little table he’d spotted from all the way back from the stand and sat opposite of him, taking a sip of beer as she looked over at the Weasley. As if she could lose him. The man was a six foot four red headed tree. But one thing was certain, and that was how she fit in perfectly with his embrace. It was as if their thirteen years of knowing each other had moulded her a perfect little spot whenever Ron put an arm around her. Maybe she was overthinking though.  “Maybe we could play tonight when you come over? I’ve got a chess board somewhere at my place,” she offered, now overthinking the way she had a key to theirs and yet she hadn’t given him one yet. “You’re still coming, right?” 

//

There was a part of Ron, however small, that wanted to pretend the thud of his heart was solely because he was trying so hard to take small steps. His legs were significantly longer than Hermione’s and he knew if he wasn’t careful, he could overtake her and lose her without a second’s notice.

What Ron also knew, was that he could pretend all he liked, but that didn’t change the fact he was stupidly and ridiculously head-over-heels for a girl who was so out of his league she might as well have been on another planet. And every time he was within reach of her, his body felt the stupid need to physically remind him of his dumb, unrequited feelings.

Sometimes he really did hate himself a little.

And he hated that his instinctual response to Hermione’s presence was the aforementioned thudding of his heart that only seemed to reverberate further every time her shoulder brushed his. And yet, here he was, refusing to put any distance between them because apparently, he was a masochist.

(A word he’s pretty sure he only knew because of the girl in question.)

No wonder he and Lavender barely lasted.

Huffing back a sigh, Ron continues his slow pace, trying to stop himself from turning to stare at Hermione every few steps. What was she thinking about right now? Was it Lockhart? 

A dumb question, he muses, given the man’s stupid face was plastered everywhere they looked.

Folding himself onto the newly-discovered bar stool, Ron slides his drink onto the table, already (pathetically) missing the heat of Hermione’s body beside him, but thankful he hadn’t managed to lose her in the crowds pulsing around them. 

“That sounds good,” Ron muses, fingers absentmindedly tapping against the tabletop as he catches her eyes with a soft smile, “Muggle or wizards?” he asks, taking a sip of his drink, stomach flopping in a ridiculous display of joy that she still wanted him to come around, sans Harry once more. “Sure I am. Wouldn’t miss i-”

Ron’s words are broken off by the sight of a familiar head of hair and his formerly joyful stomach flips turn to a pit in his gut.

What the bloody hell was George doing here?

Not batting an eye at his brother failing to clean his hands before handling his food (he’d lived on the compound for too many years to find that rank), Charlie bent the short distance down to look at the ingredients on display. He could ignore the weight of Ronnie’s gawk when his stomach was cleaving to his backbone just like he could pass it off like it didn’t bother him at all that he had to practically crane his neck to meet Ron’s face. He got the giant Weasley genes while Charlie was left mostly Prewett, anger and injustice wrapped up in a small package. “If you took care of it, it might have.”

His mouth quirked, the phrase leaving him feeling much too Bill-like for comfort but it was hard to pay no mind to the way Ron was still looking like he was going to disappear if his brother took his eyes off him. You don’t show up for three years and you’re suddenly a phantom. What was it with the stares today? First Hermione and now– Fucking. Hell.

“Sky still blue?” It was sweet of him to check, like Charlie’s convictions didn’t become lifelong decisions carved into the stone of who he was the moment he ran away with a fresh new idea, but he knew Ron didn’t mean anything by the question. “Mum told me you were the cook…” Mumbling words under his breath, he pointed to least sad looking tomato on the other side of the make-shift counter. “You telling me they’re making Gin do that too or is she just behind the bar?” A glance up (and up and up) at his younger brother and ,maybe he shouldn’t have cut out all meat nineteen-ish years ago or all animal related food eighteen-ish years ago because then he wouldn’t have stopped growing, at the shine of Ron’s fore-mentioned hair had Charlie barking out a laugh. “Don’t fucking tell me you’re still using Sleekeasy’s. You know they have a warning on the bottle.”  His smirk widened as he cocked a brow. “For gingers. Is that why it’s all funny then?”

He clocked the eye roll, smirk dropping as he tilted his head to the side to try to gather what the fuck that meant. “Yeah? Does it?” If his long running safety net of Tonks had been destroyed, and based on the last time he had been to Shell Cottage getting told Moody of all fucking people was apparently trying to steal the love of his life away Charlie didn’t think it had, he’d be packing his bags tonight.  Curse of the profession. “Nah. Got these from oil too.” And the smirk was back and he could keep riding the breeze of being fine with being home and rustling all of his family’s feathers until they remembered why they loved him most when he was away. “You should be more careful.” Pot calling the kettle. “You don’t want to muck them up for good. You got gloves or something you can wear? An…oil spell?”

//

Satisfied with the placement of the buns in boxes, and realising he’d missed one of the most crucial parts of his job, Ron sheepishly moves his way over to the small camp sink that was set up nearby. He casts a quiet glance at Charlie as he soaps up his hands, deciding against throwing out the slightly tainted food he’d already set up. Sure, it went against everything he knew, but a tiny part of Ron felt like it was about time he fed Charlie as much dirt as his brother had done him as a child. “I did take care of it.” He didn’t. “Not my fault it hated me.” It might have been.

“Fair enough,” Ron says at last, reaching for a clean set of utensils. He wasn’t about to start nagging on Charlie for his eating habits: whatever he didn’t want to eat was his own decision. And the least Ron could do would be to make sure that everything he used to make the food had never touched an animal product before in its life. “Did she?”

The surprise in his voice shouldn’t be so obvious, but Ron was unaware that their mother had any reason to ever talk about him to others. He was the least remarkable of the lot. “Just me. Dunno if we’d trust Gin around the kitchen. S’bad enough that she still might throw a drink on someone, thought we’d better steer her clear of an open flame.”

Hand automatically reaching for his hair, freezing in place before he touches it, Ron finds himself scowling, rolling his eyes in Charlie’s direction. “Fuck off,” he says, “They do not. It’s the only blasted thing that stops it from getting in my face while it grows out, alright.” That and the stupid little clips that Hermione had bought him, which while he appreciated, he was never ever going to wear in public ever. Especially if Fred and George were within breathing distance.

“Course. You and them. The eternal duo. I know how it is.” He did not, in fact, know how it was. Nor did he think he really wanted to know how it was. “Joined at the hip and all. To be honest, makes more sense you coming back for their birthday than anyone else's. ‘Sept perhaps Gin or Mum’s.”

Nodding his head as he begins to assemble Charlie’s burger, Ron pokes around at the assortment of vegetables, trying to find the least limp looking things. It wasn’t that he wanted to impress Charlie with his skills, it was more that he well...well he wanted to impress Charlie. At least a little. Enough to maybe be a little more than his boring baby brother. “Sure you did. No gloves. Things just move quickly, I guess. During the rush and all.”

Ron had always held this blithe attitude that Hermione found herself to be just a bit jealous of at times. He could walk down the road without a care in the world with that same smile that made Hermione melt a bit inside, and the girl envied his nature. The best she could do however, was stay by his side and simply watch him and all of his glory whether that be as he shoved full chicken drumsticks in his mouth or simply fell asleep on her couch while Crookshanks snored away on his lap. He was, undeniably, her favorite person. While hardly anything romantic had progressed between them, Hermione was fairly certain that he was her person too. As stupid as that sounded in her head, she knew that life wouldn’t have been the same with Ron not in it.  “Chess, of course,” she chuckled, though slightly bitter about Ron’s brilliance when it came to the game. She linked her arm with his and glanced up just in time to see his grin; Hermione herself smiling at that utter radiance on his face before giving him a gently nudge with her elbow. After sliding over a few sickles for their drinks, she positioned herself to face him just a bit more, leaning in closer albeit subconsciously to ask her question after both had collected their drinks. “When are you and I going to play a match? I obviously have to learn from the best-” It was half a tease, though there was immense truth behind her words. Even Hermione had no idea as to how he couldn’t brew a simple sleeping draught, yet he could best McGonagall in chess. “Let’s go find a seat though, I’m exhausted.”

The longer he and Hermione spent time alone together, the less guilty Ron felt about having long abandoned Harry to the festival masses. Sure, he’d probably pay for it when he eventually wandered back to their flat, but it would be worth it.

Spending any time with Hermione was usually worth it. Even if she was going to gush and swoon over fucking Lockhart of all people for the remainder of the evening. He’d almost rather she was going on about precious Viktor, even though every time she did, it felt a little like he was being socked in the gut over and over again. At least, he supposed, it wasn’t like Hermione was ever going to date Lockhart.

Krum, however, couldn’t be ruled out. Ron was too chicken-shit to ask if they still wrote one another, and he wasn’t sure he even wanted to know the answer.

Merlin’s balls, he was pathetic. Maybe Hermione really did deserve someone who was at least brave enough to put themselves out there for her.

“What else was it going to be?” Ron laughs in return. It wasn’t like his affinity for the game was a secret, at least not to Harry and Hermione. They’d all seen him thrash Harry enough at the game to know that. Nudging Hermione back with his own elbow, smiling a little more at just how tiny she appeared when standing next to him (and trying to pretend he didn’t notice how easily she could fit under his arm). He finds himself reluctant to pull away, working out how to carry his drink in his non-dominant hand without spilling so that he didn’t have to drop the sudden closeness they were sharing. 

The regret that had been hanging over his head all day (all month if he was honest) was beginning to creep in. Wrap around his ankles and pull Charlie firmly to the ground just like the Harvey, the plant who lived in their Tonk’s kitchen. There was a reason he had been avoiding his family, the endless series of questions he got any time he showed back up in their lives. It was a good thing Ron was the perfect person to cut the tension. His reaction to seeing Charlie far outweighing the dragonologist’s own discomfort to an accidentally run-in. “Shouldn’t have snapped mine. Might have done a better job at staying in your hand.” The buns really did look good, fresh and distinctly un-egg-ified, and his stomach was already making itself known with growls more fitting to the reserve than Lockhart’s gardens. “Yeah? Surprise me. Aren’t you missing some part of your uniform? Big and white. Wear it up top. Cooks usually have them on.” Little Ronnie, a chef for the Three Broomsticks. It was a concept that was still foreign to Charlie each time he was presented to it, unable to connect the kid crawling into gnome holes with the tall man he was trusting to make his meal. Until the inevitable inquiry of why was upon him and he was scowling for a quick flash and checking over his shoulder for the woman they both knew was too quick to squirrel away from forever. 

“Surprising them.” He scrambled to think of a probable reason to return unannounced. “Dad’s birthday.” Which was over a month past. “Your’s.” Nineteen days ago. “Twin’s.” Still too far off. “Thought I’d celebrate them all in one go.” And then Charlie saw his real out. A convenient need to celebrate fast approaching. “Tonk’s is soon. Can’t let them turn thirty alone. It’d be to bloody tragic.” He knew exactly what Ron thought of his friendship with Dora and Charlie couldn’t be blamed for using it to his advantage. No doubt she had already thrown him under the trolley today in a similar need to get out of a conversation with a too keen eye at seeing through her brand of bullshite. 

Ready to move on from the subject of himself, Charlie pushed the conversation forward. Feet propelling him to lean against the counter and grab for Ron’s hand, inspecting a burn he knew he had spotted earlier but had breezed past in the need to move on as fast as he could. Running was easy. Floating in and out and not having to answer to anyone’s expectations even more so. His wand was in his hand, murmuring one of the healing spells that had become second nature at this point, before the returning the stick to his back pocket. “How’d you manage this then?”

Sliding his wand into the back pocket of his jeans - all of Moody’s overdramatic warnings immediately being ignored - after he’d wiped the majority of the dirt on his aforementioned jeans, Ron moves a tiny step closer to the counter. He was trying his hardest not to stupidly gape at Charlie, but he had a strong feeling that he was doing a terrible job of hiding it. Which just meant he needed to buckle down even harder when it came to pretending this was expected. “Doubt it,” he says at last, voice warm and steady, “Your blasted wand wanted nothing to do with me half the time.” 

Shuffling along the counter, Ron reaches for the nearest takeaway box, loading it up each side with an empty shell of a bun before looking at his not-at-all-long-lost-brother-but-who-had-been-away-so-long-he-might-as-well-have-been. “You still anti-animal products?” he asks, deciding that the best small-talk was always productive small-talk. “Not really a cook - just kinda do what needs to be done. Plus Rosmerta doesn’t really care for a uniform, s’long as I dress neat and tie my hair up.” He points to the mess of hair he had managed to scrape into a hair-tie that morning (not without an embarrassing amount of Sleekeasy’s either). 

Quirking an eyebrow, Ron waits for Charlie to finish listing off the birthdays of various family members, wondering if he was just going to name them all by the end. If anything, it only managed to prove what he originally thought: Charlie was being suspicious. It wasn’t that he needed an excuse to come visit - Ron himself was delighted when he did, but to deliberately not tell their mother? And to be the sketchiest person on the planet when asked about it? 

Suspicious.

Rolling his eyes a little at the mention of Tonks, Ron can practically feel the pieces of the puzzle slotting together. So that’s what it was. Some kind of stupid misguided attempted to win back the partner he’d gone and lost a decade back (not that Ron was really allowed to judge someone for apparently hanging onto feelings for a stupid amount of time). “Right, yeah. S’pose that makes sense,” he says, voice very much conveying that it did not, in fact, make sense. 

His teases were the farthest thing from new to her, and their back and forth had become some strange form of comfort while she was away from her family. After all, the Weasleys were just as close of a family as her own. They had been helping her and her parents acclimate into the ways of the magical world that the Grangers had been so quickly immersed in, and the holidays that she could see her mother and father, she would spend with Ron and his family at the burrow. As guilty as Hermione may have felt, sometimes she hoped that she could spend Christmas with the Weasleys instead of at her own home where her mother served some rendition of a sugar free cake.  The Granger residence had mementos of their family, though there was a certain warmth that the burrow had. Even though Ron had long since moved out, Hermione found ways to stop by every once in a while. However, what she hadn’t really noticed was how those visitations slowed down and were replaced with appearances at Ron and Harry’s flat instead. They were well past their Hogwarts days, and yet Hermione still felt as if those boys needed to be watched after or their rooms would turn into absolute piles of dirty clothes. Of course, it didn’t help that she was able to see her friends either.  “Please, you’ve never gotten full marks on anything-” she quips back, a grin on her lips as she looks up to her companion, though her playful little glare melted into something a bit softer as he complimented her brilliance. He’d told her many times before, but each time felt different in the best way possible. And now she felt slightly guilty about poking fun at his academic record. In attempt to make up for that, she loops his arm around his and continued their walk to the drinks tent while he poked his head up to look for some seating. “Yeah, that sounds great. It’s on me this time, you got Harry and I at the pub last week-” 

It was easy, Ron knew, to spend this kind of time with Hermione. Perhaps it came from the fact they’d known one another for half their lives now, or maybe it was just from the fact there was very little that wasn’t shared between their little trio, but there was no doubting she was one of the very short list of people that Ron felt completely comfortable with. He didn’t just drag anyone home with him, after all. Hermione and Harry were special; were part of the family.

Sure, he didn’t feel about Hermione the same way he did about his family (thank Merlin’s saggy bollocks) or Harry, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t basically still want her around all the damn time. Even if it was to just poke and prod at one another.

“How dare you,” Ron quips, ignoring the slight pang inside him at the barb - it wasn’t like he was ever going to actually admit to caring that he was the dumbest member of his family. “McGonagall was very impressed with my chess skills those few times - that’s how we spent most of my careers session, actually. Playing a match.” Allowing Hermione to link their arms together, Ron’s mood perks up a little more, though he fights back just how giant a grin he wants to let loose, let he look like some kind of crazy person. “If you’re sure. I don’t mind paying.”

Balancing a stick of Everlasting Candyfloss in one hand and his newly received lucky hare foot in the other, Harry was only half-listening to Ron as he glanced around in an excited daze at the overwhelming amount of stalls. At least, he had only been half-listening until he caught the very clear sound of disdain in Ron’s voice and was nodding in agreement before he’d so much as twice thought about it. 

Harry didn’t really know why they disliked Lockhart so much. Certainly, he’d been an annoying professor but by far not their worst. Still, Ron obviously disliked him intensely and that was good enough for Harry to join in, loyalty surging up to turn his tone equally mocking. 

“Could be something to do with not being able to turn half a centimeter without being haunted by his face,” Harry said, matching Ron’s scornful expression. He did, in fact, agree entirely that the candles were a bit much. “Mate, am I seeing things? Have I been cursed? You see it too, right? Everywhere you look?” 

At least, Ron thought, if they ignored the fact the entire grounds basically smelt like wasted gold, it was still a pretty darn good festival. Sure, he’d had to work already and was likely to be pulled back there later that night, and there was an 89% chance if he ran into either of the twins, he’d be recruited in as their lackey, but until then, Ron was ready to enjoy himself.

Reaching across, he snags a small bit of Harry’s Everlasting Candyfloss, cramming the sugary treat into his mouth before the other boy had the chance to complain.

“Do you think that’s in the guidelines of being a host? That you’ve got to plaster your face everywhere, just in case a single person forgets who you were?” Ron mocks lightly, looking around for the aforementioned posters. “As if anyone could. The bloke’s been practically burnt into my brain, what with how obnoxious he is.”