#gifts17

To @witharthurkirkland From @im-gay-in-2006

Happy Holidays, Karim @honouraryweasley12! I hope you enjoy this piece. :)

Happy Holiday’s @hillflirty !!

Summary:  They both were lonely. Both were hurt by humans. So Gavin thinks it's totally justifiable to climb up some damn mountains to see if the dragon was actually real.

Words: 4283

Ao3

Over a thousand years later, Ryan still had nightmares. Apparently, the memory of a dragon was amazing because he could still picture Jacky and Jeff’s faces. Could still hear their screams.

Ryan growled as he felt the urge to shift. Maybe a little dragon time would help him clear his head, he thought as he walked out in the darkness of the mountains.

I humbly offer this gift to the genius that is @coyotelaughingsoftly I was equal parts thrilled and terrified when I found out that I was your Secret Santa!! Miranda, I hope that you have the best Christmas ever! Please enjoy 3000+ words of angsty, fluffy pining from our favorite 6th year dorks!

Perfect-bloody perfect!

When he first began to open the package, he hadn’t a clue what might be inside, but after the robe fiasco of fourth year, Ron Weasley was more than a little wand-shy about what might be lurking in any box from home.  He had almost breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his father’s handwriting on a piece of parchment on top, unfortunately the feeling was short lived.

Ron,

Hope the term is wrapping up nicely for you. Ginny mentioned in her last letter that you are doing a great job again this year as Keeper, we’re so very proud of you! She also mentioned that she didn’t think that Hermione would be coming for Christmas, so I’m sending you the gift that you made for her this summer in case you want to give it her before she leaves for the holidays. You really outdid yourself- I know she’ll love it!

See you tomorrow,

Dad

His heart dropped, like a stone, into the pit of his stomach: it was a feeling he’d gotten used to over the last few weeks. He should just put the lid back on the package; he knew what was inside just as well as he knew that nothing good could come from looking at it, absolutely nothing. Feeling as if he had been Imperiused, he watched as his traitorous fingers drew back the charmed paper that was keeping the contents safe. He hadn’t forgotten about it, not really, but it was just one of those things that he had stuffed down into the vault of shite he’d rather not think about.

He’d tried last year to get her a gift that would show her…well, at the time he hadn’t been exactly sure just what he wanted to show her, but he knew she deserved something better than a box of poorly wrapped sugar quills. In retrospect perfume hadn’t been the best choice; her reaction had been less than enthusiastic, but in all fairness, he’d never known her to wear perfume. So he had been on the look-out for the remainder of fifth year for any clues to what she might really like as a gift. It had been anything but easy. The only thing she ever talked about wanting was books and parchment, and those would be the daftest gifts in the history of Christmas. He had all but given up on any hope when inspiration had presented itself in the last place he had thought it might: McGonagall’s office.

She had called all the Gryffindor prefects in for a meeting, basically warning them about Umbridge’s new regime. Afterwards, he’d noticed Hermione lingering around a bookshelf in the back corner of the office.

“Miss Granger, may I help you?” her voice was warm, but her exhaustion evident.

“Sorry, I just couldn’t help but notice this,” Hermione started to pick up the object she had been admiring, but then thought better of it, “this wooden box is lovely, it reminds me of one that my grandmother had.”

“Oh, that?” McGonagall crossed to the shelf, picking up the trinket with affection, “My own grandmother gave me this when I was about your age, said every young witch needed one.”

Ron came closer, drawn in by the look of delight on Hermione’s face. “It’s very nice Professor, what does it do?”

“Do, Mr. Weasley?”

“Uh…I mean, it doesn’t have to do anything I guess, I just wondered why it was so necessary,” he prayed silently that this wasn’t one of those things that his mum whispered to Ginny about, those were usually right embarrassing.

“Calm down, it’s nothing nefarious, I can assure you. While muggle versions are more than likely just for decoration, this one has a few magical advantages,” always ready to give a lesson, McGonagall opened the lid and showed them the inside of what appeared to be an empty box. Smiling at their confused expressions, she reached inside and pulled out a large stack of letters, tied together with green ribbon.

“My grandmother’s most certainly did not have a concealment charm. What’s the other?”

“I think it’s an extension charm of some sort.”

“That’s correct, Mr. Weasley; a very tricky charm that one is, but dead useful for keeping things private,” she tucked the bundle back inside the box and returned it to its place.

As they made their way back to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione had been the happiest he had seen her in weeks. She’d even shared a very amusing story about the time she had tried to sneak a package of biscuits out of the cupboard at her grandmother’s house. She had grabbed the container by the wrong end and had dumped them all over the kitchen floor. Her grandmother had laughed so hard that she’d forgotten to scold her precocious granddaughter. The thought of a tiny, three year old Hermione breaking the rules in the name of extra biscuits brought him a joy he couldn’t quite explain.

Ron reached inside the disheveled package on his bed removing the small wooden box that his father had so thoughtfully placed inside. He had to admit that it turned out nicely. All those hours inside the shed, learning to use muggle tools-Arthur had insisted and his son rightfully agreed that it was an important part of the gift-had provided him with more than a few scrapes and splinters, but it had been worth it to see the finished product.

He had also underestimated how enjoyable working with his Dad would be; when you grow up in a large family, having a parent all to yourself for any amount of time is a luxury. Ron had relished the easy way that they worked together and had deeply appreciated that his father hadn’t made him feel the least bit awkward about spending so much time making a gift for Hermione. He hadn’t even cocked a quizzical eyebrow when Ron had first approached him with the idea; he had made his son feel that it was the most normal thing in the world to do.

But now, as he traced the scrolling designs that he had so carefully carved, he felt anything but normal. The pride he’d felt in himself when he’d finished: knowing that he had crafted it the muggle way, knowing that he had then mastered the complicated spells which added the magical elements, had been reflected in his father’s eyes. And while that feeling had been priceless to him, it had paled in comparison to the reaction he had envisioned from Hermione herself. There was nothing like the look she gave him when she was really impressed.

Some people threw around praise so much that you knew they didn’t mean it. Every little thing you did or said made them go on and on about how wonderful you were. And you might think that would be brilliant, there certainly had been a time when he would have thought that, but in reality the shine wore off that galleon pretty quickly.  

It wasn’t that way with Hermione. When she told you that the introduction on your potions essay was really good, you could bet your sweet arse that it was top-notch. When she giggled at one of your jokes, you knew it was really funny. When she looked at you in the Room of Requirement when you cast your first Patronus, her eyes wide and sparkling, and gave you that little nod, and later on the way back to the common room when she laid her hand on your arm and told you how she had thought yours had been the best…

Fuck!!

What good did it do to think about that anymore? She would never look at him like that now. Any look he got from her now would be icy sharp really good quidditch players or, worse yet, the hollow look of hurt and disappointment.  What was there to be done? For a fraction of a moment he considered the gift in front of him. He should have just given it to her for her birthday; at the time it hadn’t seemed right. They never got each other real gifts for their birthdays, so to give her something so, nice, so personal felt like a much bigger step than he was ready to make.  His decision had also been aided by the fact that their friendship had seemed so awkward at times. She always seemed so preoccupied around him, and when Slughorn had started his little club he’d secretly wondered if she would even like his handmade gift at all.

That wasn’t fair, Hermione had never made him feel that way, not really. She never gushed over expensive things like some other girls did. If he were completely honest with himself, he knew she would really like it even if she did fill it with letters from that git Krum! What if he gave it to her now, after all? A peace offering? Would she accept it? Would she conjure those birds to peck it to pieces?

No, he couldn’t give it to her, not now, not like this.

What should he do? The thought of giving it to someone else was so preposterous that it was less likely than his punching McLaggen in his ridiculously perfect jaw and taking his rightful place as Hermione’s guest at Slughorn’s party tonight.  As hopeless as he felt right now, there was still enough a spark of hope that one day, they would be friends again. They were still friends even now, were they not? They would eventually talk again; the Scabbers fiasco had lasted longer than this, right? Surely it wouldn’t take another innocent creature being threatened with death to bring them back together this time, would it?

“Ron? Are you in here?” Harry’s voice preceded him in to the room.

“Yeah,” Ron hastily returned the box to it’s safe wrappings and stowed it in his trunk.  

“You disappeared after lunch…all good?”

“‘Course it is, why wouldn’t it be?” He forced his face to form the smile that he knew would ease his friend’s mind.  

“Alright,” behind his glasses, Harry’s eyes were skeptical, “you coming down in a bit?”

“Sure, I just had to, uhm, get some things together for the hols, go ahead, I’ll be on in a tic.”

Alone again, Ron let out a sigh. While it wasn’t much of a plan, it was the best he had: just lay low, and hopefully she would be over it after the break.  A really great late Christmas gift just might set me up for a nice birthday surprise in return.

Ron fidgeted, looking at the new watch on his wrist. He hadn’t been surprised that his parents had gotten him one, all of his brothers had gotten the same thing when they’d turned seventeen, but he was impressed by just how nice it was.  And even though it was a brilliant gift, it paled in comparison to the one that he was waiting to arrive.

Waking up to find Hermione at his bedside had been worth all seventeen of his birthday wishes put together. Even better, she had been coming back everyday since then. She said it was to help him catch up on his classwork, but to be quite honest, there was not much work getting done.  He had never seen her less inclined to force him into revision; their “study” sessions mainly consisted of talk that was anything but academic. Harry was a safe subject, as was the doings of the Weasleys it had been nice to see Fred and George hadn’t  it? He had slipped once and made a less than complimentary remark about McClaggen, holding his breath until she had surprised him by joining in on his criticism. He knew, or at least he thought he knew, that she wasn’t dating him, but he was unsure if she were on friendly terms with that pompous ape.  Ron had done a very poor job of hiding the ecstatic grin that followed her visceral reaction.

They talked about everything and nothing…well everything but the thing. They had both apologized, in very broad sweeping terms, for their behavior during the last few months, but both seemed reluctant to test the newly tied tether that was holding them together.  More than anything Ron wished he could erase all that had happened, or even just find the words to put it right.

Not bloody likely Mr. Fake Sleeper! Why can’t there just be a spell for this? Girlfriendo-reverso! Fancius Revealius! Maybe there’s a chapter in that book Fred and George gave me…

The familiar creak of the opening door brought him out of his reverie. Ron literally held his breath, could just be Pomfrey, until he recognized the cadence of Hermione’s steps. He hurriedly adjusted the bedclothes and did his best to appear at ease, to calm the thunderous beating of his heart as she came into view.

Ron held up his arm, tapping the face of his watch in mock admonishment, “Where have you been? S’not good to keep someone in my fragile state waiting.” He added a dramatic half swoon, delighted to see her roll her eyes, huffing at him in a way that he had learned to admit that he found quite intoxicating.

“Well, someone as delicate as you are needs their rest. Rumor has it that you sleep most of the time,” she let her eyes meet his, a boldness showing that he hadn’t seen from her in months. For a split second he thought they were headed for a row, but her face broke into a mischievous grin.

“Oi! If I had been asleep, I’d be awake now. No one could sleep with you tromping in here. For such a little thing, when you walk it sounds like a flock of hippogriffs!”

She was on him in a flash, books abandoned to poke him in the side and swat playfully at his arms. He tried, but not too hard, to fight her off, and before long they were both breathless from laughing.  Ron realized, quite suddenly, that she was lying across his chest and he had his arms around her in a way that was anything but platonic.

Hermione seemed to have the same revelation because he could see her cheeks flood with color; however, neither of them shifted their position. He was overcome by just how right it felt to hold her, and how amazing it was that, as someone who had very recently felt that he’d had more than his fill of snogging, he wanted nothing more than to snog this girl senseless. He knew in that moment, even though he had suspected it for months, that he would trade all those other kisses for the one that hung between them at this moment.

His brain scrambled to catch up to his hammering heart, but it found nothing to leave on his tongue but a feeble, “Sorry.”

She blinked at him slowly, seeming to remember herself, “Oh, it’s alright, I know you were only joking,” she pulled back from him and sat on the edge of his bed.

“Yeah, but not just about that,” he looked at her pointedly, “I meant ..about everything.”

“Oh,” she glanced down at her hands, fiddling with a thread on her jumper, “you don’t have to do that..you’ve already…I mean we both…it’s fine.”

It was better, he knew that, but it wasn’t completely fine, not yet. He wasn’t sure when it would be, but he knew it was worth waiting for. Maybe he could help it along, just a little. He reached over to the bedside table and retrieved the package that Dobby had very recently fetched for him.

“I know the outside looks a bit rough, it’s been in my trunk, but this is for you,” he nervously handed her the gift, thankful that the inside contents had not been disturbed.

“For me?”

“Yes…it’s you Christmas gift…better late than never, right?”

“But I didn’t…I mean…I don’t have yours. And I didn’t even get you anything for your birthday!”

“That’s alright, think I had all the excitement I could stand on my birthday, and being your…friend… again is more than enough.”

“I feel the same way,” she emphasized her words like a ray of light through a prism, showing all the colors that had previously been unseen. She then began to open the parcel, moving back the charmed paper to reveal the contents inside, “Oh Ron!”

“I hope you like it. It’s like the one you saw in…”

“McGonagall’s office.”

“Yeah…like hers. I know it’s maybe not as fancy as hers. I mean…I think it turned out okay…Dad said it was a fine job, even if all those muggle tools are kinda barmy,” he was full-on rambling, but he couldn’t stop.

Hermione just sat, staring down at the box. When she looked up at him finally, her eyes were wet, “You…you made this?”

“Yeah, Dad helped a little.”

She opened it gently, whispering, “When?”

“Last summer,” his own eyes were now damp, and his shoulders bore the weight of lost time.

“It’s…beautiful…it’s too much!” There were proper tears flowing down her cheeks, and Ron felt a stirring of pride for having evoked such a strong positive response from her.

“Open it! See, the concealment charm makes it look empty,” he grabbed a roll of parchment from Hermione’s pile and placed it inside the open box, “even when you put something in it.”

“Extension charm too?”

“Undetectable extension charm,” he quipped back.

“Brilliant, Ron! That’s a complex spell!”

“Thanks, I could show you how to do it. Only takes a bit of practice.”

“I would really appreciate that…I just…this is really the nicest, most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me…thank you doesn’t seem like enough,” the sincere look of adoration on her face fanned the tentative flame of hope warming his heart.

“As long as you like it, that’s all I need for sure,” he reached for her hand; she anticipated the movement and met him more than halfway, grasping his own tightly.

“Like isn’t the right word,” her voice came out softer, but more powerful, “I’d say love is more accurate.”

“Love?” She was killing him, finishing the job that poison could not.

“Definitely, love.”

To @Lanerose23 From  @Ven-tsu

always the tone of surprise.

Written for Alice aka @stilinski-martin - I hope this satisfies your request for missing DH moments and lots of fluff! Wishing you the happiest of holidays! :)

 April in Cornwall could be cold and raw, but it was a mild, bracing day that saw two figures picking their way slowly along the rocky coastline, narrow shadows trailing behind them. Over course of the year Ron gotten used to never knowing the date, but he guessed they had been staying with his brother and his wife for a least two weeks. And though the days were slowly, subtly lengthening, these afternoons that they walked together along the shore never seemed long enough.

Fleur had found an old cardigan for Hermione to wear to ward off the chill, though for the life of him Ron couldn’t imagine who it had originally belonged to. The baggy mustard-colored garment didn’t look like something Fleur would wear, but the yarn was surprisingly soft as his hand brushed her arm, fingertips tingling at the possibility of accidental contact with her skin.

 They walked in comfortable silence toward the end of the beach, Hermione bending down every so often to pick something up and tuck it into the pocket of her sweater. At the end of the stretch Ron waited to see if Hermione showed any indication of tiring, but instead of turning to retrace their steps back to the cottage, Hermione stood gazing out at the ocean, inhaling deeply. The late afternoon sunlight wasn’t yet strong enough to warm the sand, so Ron pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and transfigured it into a blanket. The light wind caught the corners as he spread it on the beach, flicking grains of sand onto it’s surface no matter in which direction he tried to angle it. Worried she might think that he might think her weak, he sat down first, leaving plenty of space next to him. It frustrated him, not knowing how to help her, but he knew his frustration was easily matched by her own.

Hermione settled down onto on the faded blue and white stripes, tucking her legs underneath her and leaning into him ever so slightly. She fished in the pocket of the cardigan and produced a few of the shells she had gathered, miniature swirls of milky white, muted orange and soft purple. Ron watched as she laid them out on the blanket in a neat row, smallest to largest.

“We spent one Christmas on the French Riviera when I was younger,” she said quietly, in a tone laced with sadness that Ron had come to recognize on the rare occasions she spoke of her parents. “I must have been five or six years old. My father told me how these shells were an example of the golden ratio, a circumstance in mathematics that occurs when the sum of two quantities is in the same ratio to the larger quantity as they they are to each other.”

She picked up a creamy shell, tracing it’s curves. “He showed me how the ratios could be used to make rectangles and spirals and how you could find examples of it in nature, if you learned to see it - in the pattern of flower petals and seeds, the structure of crystals, even in music and art.” Her face was bent toward the small object in her hands, but her gaze was far away. “I didn’t believe him at first. I couldn’t imagine that such a principle could hold true for every shell, much less all the other phenomena he mentioned. I think I must have collected a hundred shells and checked every one of them.”

“That sounds about right,” Ron remarked with a small grin, thinking that Professor Trelawney, at least, could testify to Hermione’s insistence on hard evidence.

Hermione huffed out a breath that might’ve been an attempt at a laugh or a indignant snort had her heart been in it. “It was a lovely holiday,” she added softly after a moment. “Though perhaps a little strange for being at the shore.”

“I couldn’t imagine being anywhere other than home at Christmas,” Ron admitted. “Would’ve been a lot for Mum and Dad to travel with us, I guess,” he added self-consciously. “Even after Bill and Charlie had moved out, they still came back for the holidays. We always spent it at the Burrow. Until Hogwarts, that is.”

“You stayed with Harry that first year,” Hermione stated simply, looking up at him with warm eyes.

“Yeah, well, Mum and Dad were going to Romania,” he replied dismissively.

“Mmm,” she agreed, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Nothing interesting about dragons.”

He silently cursed his ears as they began to burn under her steady gaze. Of course part of him had wanted to go with his parents. It wasn’t everyday you got to see a real dragon preserve! A chance to see if the wild stories that Charlie always regaled them with were true. Charlie, the cool, good-natured older brother that didn’t really take the piss that much and whom he rarely got to see. But how could he leave Harry to spend the holidays at Hogwarts alone, knowing that he’d be by himself in the dorms on Christmas morning? Waking up with no family, no mates, maybe not even any presents? It wasn’t a choice, really.

He groped around for a way to deflect her unearned admiration. “The beaches in France must be a lot different than the ones here,” he said, feeling the foolishness of the remark.

She gave him a quick, knowing smile and then looked out over the horizon. “Very much so,” she affirmed, allowing him to change the subject. “At least where we were staying. The water was beautiful, but the beaches were very built-up and crowded. Nothing like this.” Her eyes drifted up the coastline, the expanse of sand broken up by rocky outcroppings stretching up into sprawling green fields. “It’s so lovely here, so vast and wild,” she mused quietly.

“It must have been beautiful at Christmas.”

Ron stiffened, and the breeze that felt gentle only moments ago seemed to knife through his jumper. They had spent so much time together in the past month as she recovered, stealing away to the shoreline so often after meals or between meetings that Ron would’ve felt guilty if he hadn’t valued every moment he spent with her above all the galleons he had ever laid eyes on. Their walks together weren’t silent, but they mostly spoke of lighthearted memories and old shared jokes. It had seemed to Ron that they had an unspoken agreement to avoid certain topics - the sorts of things they had discussed in the tent, in agonized whispers under the shadow of the locket. Horcruxes, what might be happening at Hogwarts, the safety of their families. And certainly, the time they spent apart.

His jaw clenched as he stared out at the surf. Her statement didn’t really require an answer, but he knew that changing the subject, leaving that unasked question unaddressed, would be the coward’s way out. Hermione liked to talk through feelings, he knew - never content to let anything rest, intent on wringing explanations for indescribable emotions out of the most unwilling participants. But this was more than that, more even than satisfying that deep-seated part of her nature. Talking about this, his greatest regret, was a way to show her that he had grown beyond that person who closed himself off and walked away from her in his lowest moment.

“It… I… I don’t really know, to be honest,” he choked out in a rush. He felt her eyes on him, and wondered if he would see surprise there if he had the courage to meet them. He stared hard at the worn knee of his denims, feeling the guilt and regret that still roiled so close to the surface. “It couldn’t be, to me. All I wanted was to be back in that miserable sodding tent with you and Harry.”

The dull roar of the ocean was white noise in his ears as waves of self-loathing crashed over him. He fisted the blanket in his hand, knuckles grinding against the rough sand.

“I would’ve done anything - anything - to get back to you.” The memory of her awful sobs that night seemed to mix with the screams he had heard in the Malfoy dungeon, clouding his mind and his ability to articulate with the overwhelming sense of failure. “And now I- I…”

His voice caught in his throat. This had been a mistake. He could never wash away what he had done and he saw, with terrible clarity, that it would always mark his life, that he could never…

He felt a sudden warmth on his fingers as her hand covered his own, squeezing gently. For a moment the shock was so great that time seemed to stand still, but eventually he looked down  at her upturned face and was overwhelmed. There was understanding in her expression; an openness that she hadn’t shared with him in the past few months. He had been so adamant with himself about the scope of his intentions, not daring to consciously hope for anything beyond regaining her friendship and maybe, someday, even her trust. Yet now in her eyes he saw that trust, a bit bruised and battered perhaps, but still solid and substantial, and beyond even that an intensity that suggested the depth of feelings that he held for her. The connection he felt to her, that honesty and the possibility of something more, gave him the strength and words to continue.

He took a deep breath, turning his hand palm up under hers and lacing their fingers.

“I will never leave you again, not as long as you want me here,” he said fiercely.

He felt in that moment that even though there could be circumstances beyond his control that could render such a promise impossible, somehow she believed him; that even though it was a vow he couldn’t rationally make, she accepted and even welcomed it, and that understanding fueled a burning hope in his heart under the pale April sun. 

__________________________________________________________

This was it. Today was the day.

It felt like he had been thinking about it for ages, really. He had gone over hundreds of different plans and scenarios - let’s be honest, strategies  - for the asking bit. A number of ideas had been discarded as too public, too cheesy, or too impractically distant (there was no bloody way he was waiting until her birthday or anything like that). George had, disastrously, caught sight of the ring and had spent the better part of a month gleefully inventing increasingly ludicrous and complicated set-ups, several of which involved serious violations of the Statute of Secrecy or, suspiciously, required him to dress in embarrassing costumes.

Eventually he had settled on a nice night in, a specially prepared dinner, and (hopefully) a heartfelt proposal.

He looked around their tiny flat, which had been cheerfully decorated for the holidays. Hermione had skillfully draped bits of tinsel on the bookshelves and over the doorways, and the two of them had tightly packed every bit of their furniture into one side of the lounge (as well as magically shrinking one chair down to nearly nothing, temporarily) to allow room for a small Christmas tree decorated with fairy lights, baubles, and ornaments. The effect was warm and festive and, he hoped, passably romantic.

He poked his head into the kitchen, mentally surveying the details. Chicken dressed and in the oven. Bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge. (One slug of Ogden’s to calm his nerves, already in his stomach.)  Potatoes and green beans under a warming charm. Titchy kitchen table set with all their best (read: matching) cutlery and dishware and even a tablecloth. Everything was set; all he had to do was wait.

Right. Just wait. Wait and think.

He sank down on the faded sofa and looked around the flat again, which took all of a second. It wasn’t very grand, especially as the setting for a moment that they would surely be asked to recount in detail to various friends and family members. Granted, George’s ideas had been ridiculous - he pretty sure that the muggle queen’s palace had pretty tight security, even with the use of magic - but at least they showed some forethought. But then again, he thought uneasily, Hermione wouldn’t really want all that fuss, right? And no one knew her better than he did - or should, anyway.

Speaking of, had Hermione seemed a little tense at lunch today? His knee started bobbing up and down unconsciously. She had rushed into the canteen ten minutes late with a face like thunder, and although it had cleared as she saw him and she brushed off his concern, he sensed that something had put her back up. He knew that she had been feeling particularly frustrated with her job lately; maybe there had been some kind of incident that morning that put her in a rotten mood. It didn’t seem right to spring anything on her if she was already in a strop.

Besides, now that he thought about it, would she think that it was too soon to get married? Granted, they had been together for two and half years and lived together since Hermione had finished Hogwarts, they both had relatively stable jobs that paid their bills and allowed them to sock a little bit away each month in savings. He knew there was no one else for him and the timing felt right, but he had been with Hermione long enough to realize that some muggles - especially posh, well-educated muggles like the Grangers - did these things on a fairly different timeline. He had pretty much worked out what he was going to say, but maybe he should put in a few points about the advantages of marrying young - or at least anticipate a few of the objections she was sure to bring up.

Maybe today wasn’t the day, after all. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to wait a little longer, come up with a really good plan. Not as long as her birthday of course, but just until he could make few more arrangements, think up some convincing arguments -

The sound of footsteps just outside the door startled him out of his thoughts. There was a quick jangle of the knob and he stood reflexively as the door began to open.

“Ron, I’m - oh!” Hermione called as she swung the door in. She stopped short and seemed momentarily surprised to find him standing in the lounge, looking directly at her. “Is everything OK?”

Ron gulped, feeling the dryness of his throat. “Yeah, yeah,” he answered, not entirely sure who he was reassuring. “Er, how was the rest of your day?”

“Not very good, honestly,” she replied, setting her satchel by the door and shaking snow out of her hair. “Whitewig is trying to bury my findings about the Hampshire house elves, I’m sure of it. It’s absolutely infuriating!” Ron watched as she unwound her scarf and worked the buttons of her wool coat, a deep line creasing her brow. “I’m going to have to completely reframe my findings and request a hearing with the DMLE if there’s to be anything done about it.”

“Suppose you’re going to spend the evening working on it, yeah?” Ron asked with a sinking feeling. His mind raced as he tried to work out whether he could play off the dinner as something Molly sent over.

“Actually, no.” She finished hanging her coat neatly on the peg and turned to him with a grin. “I’m going to try to put it out of my mind for the night. I will have to go over my files at some point this weekend, but it won’t help anything to fixate on it all night.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Somebody rather clever taught me that.”

Ron was vaguely aware that he was still gaping at her, but he couldn’t seem to catch up to his own thoughts. She was so passionate, so driven - she had made his life so immeasurably better, and he marveled again that he was able to give even a little bit of that back to her.

“It smells delicious in here,” she continued, oblivious. She took a step closer to him, reaching out to wrap her fingers around the hand hanging limply at his side. “Did you make something special?”

He could feel the tide of doubt ebbing away, leaving only his certainty that this was the person he wanted to spend his life with. Everything he had ever needed was standing right in front of him in a small, somewhat shabby London flat. It was amazing that just the sound of her voice and the gentle pressure of her hand made everything else fall away, the way her belief in him shored him up and strengthened his own resolve.

And gods, she was gorgeous, lit by the warm glow of the fairy lights. Reflections off the colorful baubles winked and danced behind her, and for a single moment his attention was caught by a white shape directly over her left shoulder - a single delicate shell, strung with a golden cord through a small hole that had naturally worn in it’s surface.

“…Ron? Should we go through?”

He focused on her again, looking at him with love and happiness (and, yes, maybe a little bit of concern), and the words seemed to find their way back to his throat.

“Yes,” he said firmly, a smile slowly spreading across his face as he held her gaze and reached into his pocket.