#romionesecret

For @spicykid – merry Christmas! I hope you enjoy :)

—

The lobby of St. Mungo’s is filled with restless chatter and brightly lit Christmas trees as Hermione side-steps a wizard wearing a long red robe that reminds her, vaguely, of Father Christmas. It’s crowded—no doubt the upcoming holidays are encouraging people to visit their loved ones—or perhaps putting them in the hospital in the first place. She reaches the desk unscathed, shifts her bag into her left hand, and waits for the witch at the desk to turns her attention from the wireless. She’s ten minutes late to her appointment and she hopes that she’s still able to be seen; it had been difficult to get one on such late notice and the next available wasn’t until after the holidays.

“Excuse me,” she says after an impatient moment. “My name is Hermione Granger, and—“

“Room 212,” the witch says, pointing to the lifts. “Go right down the hall, it’s not far.”

“Thank you,” Hermione says. She starts towards lifts and pauses—the second floor is magical creature wounds, and she was sure that she would be going up to the fourth floor. She turns to check with reception, but the witch has already turned away and as she catches sight of the sign behind the desk, she remembers that she had needed to make a list for the department secretary before the end of the day, which was rapidly approaching. She turns back towards the lifts, rummaging in her bag for a spare bit of parchment and her self-inking quill.

“Archive the Watsons and the Parrish’s,” she mutters, scribbling it down, “ask the magical law department for the Ruthers files, pull Jenkins and Gaines for review, and—” she pauses as the lift stops and she enters; she knows that she’s forgetting something. The week has been so busy—her department had wrapped up three cases, opened another two, and taking the afternoon off for this appointment had set her behind—that she’s neglected to keep her notes up as she usually does. She closes her eyes as the lift begins to rise, repeating her to-dos in her mind until she remembers, just as she arrives at the second floor that she needed to transfer the MacArthur files to her correspondent at the MACUSA. She steps off the lift and flattens herself against the wall to finish her list, then tucks it back into her bag—she’ll send it off with an owl as soon as her appointment is finished.

As long as she remembers.

She strides down the hall until she finds 212, and, before pushing the door open, rests her hand on the handle and takes a deep breath. She only made the appointment two days ago, but it had been on a whim, and she hasn’t really had time to think about it until now. She’s beginning to regret not giving herself enough time to process the whole idea.

It surprises her to see a man in the room already, sitting on a chair in the corner; her gaze tracks from his muddy boots and up to where his elbows rest on his knees, his red hair bright against his dark brown coat. She can’t remember telling Ron about the appointment, but here he is, waiting.

“I’m surprised to see you,” she says, stepping into the room and letting the door swing closed behind her. He doesn’t answer, and she frowns. It’s not like him to ignore her; for a moment, she wonders if he’s upset with her for not telling him about the appointment. “Ron?”

There’s a long pause, and she takes another step forward, and another, until she can reach out and touch his shoulder. As she does, he jerks and lets out a yell, just as a healer comes rushing into the room.

“Hermione?” he says loudly. “What are you doing here?”

She looks at him, confused. “I could ask you the same question,” she says.

“Before you continue,” the healer interrupts, “I’m going to warn you now that Mr. Weasley has been temporarily deafened and will not be able to carry on a conversation.”

Hermione stares at him. “Excuse me, but did you say deafened?”

“Indeed,” the healer says. “Temporarily.”

She looks to Ron, and then the healer. “How temporarily?”

“A few minutes,” he says. “An unfortunate side-effect to the antidote.”

“Antidote,” she repeats. “I’m sorry, but antidote for what? I came in for an appointment with Healer Lennox and—”

“Healer Lennox is on the fourth floor,” he says. “I’m sure reception assumed you were here to see your husband; an owl was sent as soon as he was brought in.”

Hermione takes a deep, hopefully calming breath. “I’m sorry, but I did not get an owl—no doubt I was on my way here already. Can we begin at the beginning? And I’m terrible sorry, but I’m not sure of your name.”

“Certainly. I am Healer Finch, and Mr. Weasley was assigned to my care when he came in with an unknown bite. He was fully conscious, but could not describe what had bitten him. After a small number of tests, we determined what was needed for an antidote; however, it seems to have affected his hearing. We can find no traces of permanent damage, so we simply need to wait.”

“No need,” Ron says. “Came back about halfway into it—and I told you not to owl her.”

“Standard procedure, Mr. Weasley, as it was explained,” Healer Finch says. “Allow me to do a few tests and you’ll be able to leave shortly.”

Her own appointment forgotten, Hermione stands to the side while the tests are completed. After a few moments—that’s all it takes, really—Healer Finch takes a step back.

“Everything looks to be in order, Mr. Weasley,” he says. “If you experience fever, chills, or loss of hearing again, please return immediately. You are free to go.” He nods at Hermione as he leaves, and stops when he reaches the door. “Mrs. Granger,” he says, “if you would like, I can let Healer Lennox know that you’re on your way to the fourth floor.”

“Please,” Hermione says. “I’ll be up in a moment.” Ron is watching her when she turns back towards him. She has a dozen things that she wants to say to him, but they’re too jumbled and she’s not sure if she can get them out coherently. Not yet.

She takes a few steps forward and rests her hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?” she asks.

He nods. “Are you?”

“Of course,” she says. “The appointment is a formality, just—just a check up, really. Can we talk about it at home?” Ron nods again, and pulls her towards him. She leans into his body for a few moments before pulling away. “It shouldn’t take long,” she assures him.

—-

She apparates home nearly an hour later, tired from the long day and aching from her appointment. The house smells like garlic and red wine when she opens the door and she stops just inside, inhaling deep.

“I got your favorite,” Ron says, coming around the corner, already holding a glass of wine. He holds it out to her, then pulls it back. “Unless—unless you shouldn’t be drinking?”

She shakes her head and grins. “It wasn’t that kind of an appointment,” she says, taking her bag and hanging it carefully by the door. “Close, though. How did you know?”

He hands her the wine and she following him into the kitchen. “You had an appointment two months ago,” he says. “Kind of unusual to have another so close.”

She watches him as he plates their food, carefully serving it from the take-away containers from her favorite Italian place in the next town. She loves watching him in the kitchen—when they had moved in together, she had assumed that she would do the majority of the cooking, and was pleasantly surprised (astounded, really) to find out that he had been learning how to cook for the better part of the year. The fact that he had been practicing household spells shocked her even more.

Not that he had a lot of time to use them. His job kept him away from the house for weeks at a time and she often ended up eating alone, meals that looked more like a muggle child’s lunch than a complete dinner. She was proficient at household spells, but when Ron was gone, she spent more time buried in paperwork and case files than thinking about how the flat needed to be dusted.

He never complained, she realized suddenly. Not that having to perform a spell was much to complain about—she was sure it would be different if they cleaned the muggle way. But Ron would come home from working a case and a few days later, she would realize that the floors were clean and that her books no longer had a thin layer of dust.

“Hermione,” he says, pulling her out of her reverie. “Dinner’s ready, love.”

“You spoil me,” she says. She follows him into the small dining room and sits at the chair he’s pulled out for her. She is suddenly, ravenously hungry—she’d forgotten to eat lunch again. They’re coming up on Christmas, and she and Ron finally have a vacation planned, which means that she has to work harder in order to be ready. They’re going skiing in France with Harry and Ginny, neither of whom looked happy about the skiing part but perked up significantly when she talked about warm cabins and roasting marshmallows.

“So what was the appointment?” Ron asks.

She reaches for her wine. “Well—it was along the lines of what you thought, I suppose,” she says. “I’m not sure how they do it in the wizarding world, but muggle women typically go for a check-up—a pre-natal appointment—before they begin trying to have children.” She glances over at him. “I know what you’re going to say; we’re not even married yet. But last month, I thought …. I was wrong, of course, but I thought I might be … so I thought it might be a good idea to be seen.”

Ron is quiet. She holds her fork in her hand, unmoving, as she watches him eat. Finally, he puts his fork down and looks at her. “After I left St. Mungo’s, I kept thinking about what I would do if you were pregnant. Harry and I are starting to do more field work and I realized that I would miss a lot of things.” He stops talking and twirls his fork in his pasta without eating it. “So I decided that, if you were pregnant, that I would resign and go work for George.”

Even though the idea is new, she’s disappointed that it’s not going to happen. She’s proud of the work he does, and she loves that he feels confident in himself and worth something, but she is also tired of sleepless nights and stretches of time where she doesn’t see him at all.

“But,” he says, “I think I might resign anyway.”

She jerks her head up to look at him. “Why?” she asks.