#rupelover

Happy happy holidays and happy new year Asmaa ( @rupelover )! You asked for angst with a happy ending, and I ended up writing a very long Canon Divergence AU: nonetheless, I hope you enjoy! XOXO, your secret santa :)

Warning: some language

Ron Weasley was expecting to stumble into few people in the National Wizarding Library, and Hermione “Nightmare” Granger was sadly most certainly one of them. He found her in the shelves dedicated to Time Study, sitting cross-legged on the black-and-white marble floor.

“Chairs too passé for you, Granger?” he asked, hovering over her, staring at the titles.

So consumed in her reading was she that she looked up to the young man practically towering right above her with a start.

“Ron? What are you—” and she shot away swiftly, dropping her book on the floor, as if afraid he might have something contagious.

He scoffed and resumed searching for something to read.

“You read on your own subject even on your days off?” he rolled his eyes. “You Unspeakables are proper weird.”

She crossed her arms and frowned at him.

“I’m surprised you read at all, Ron. What are you doing here?”

Ron shot her a side glance, then returned to the books.

“I’m doing my research. If I’m to be stuck with you weirdos for the rest of the year,  might as well know what the hell you’re up to.”

“Oh, you won’t find that written in a book,” she snorted, in a manner greatly resembling their old Transfiguration Professor.

“Obviously because what we do is secret,” she added immediately, as if unsure whether he had understood her initial implication.

“That might be news to you, Granger, but the secret nature of your profession tends to be apparent to most people who know you as…”

“For your information, none of us have ever been too fond of the term… And none of us have ever called you Aurors by any of your nicknames!”

Ron rolled his eyes. Sure, being called Grims wasn’t much fun, but it’s not like the Unspeakables were doing him and his fellow Aurors any favours by not calling them that.

“Besides,” Hermione was still going, “there’s little to no point in you doing any research on us. It’s none of your business what’s going on in our Department, you’re just supposed to stand guard!”

She did have a point. Being transferred to guard the Department of Mysteries was supposed to be an easy job, usually coming as a reward from Kingsley to Aurors who had previously delivered on particularly straining or dangerous cases, giving them a few months to slack off in the safety of the Ministry. And he was bound by oath to keep every last bit of the Unspeakables’ doing a secret, (which wasn’t much), and not to attempt to find out further. Sensing a possible cornering coming, Ron changed tactics with a shrug.

“I just got interested on the whole thing, y’know? Besides,” (he mimicked her own voice), “there’s nothing you can do from keeping people from reading, Granger.”

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Ron had already grabbed a book (the one she had left on the floor, the one she had been reading so intently) and was walking away, back turned on her. He had no energy for bickering, and she was a proper nightmare when she got started (well, she was a nightmare always. But when she got started…). He would much rather leave having the last word, although he knew her retort wasn’t going to be long, she would just shout at him as he was walking down between the shelves, now, or maybe now, in a second…

Ron turned back confused. Hermione Granger, outspoken? Hermione Granger, backing down from even the tiniest fight? Had he just won a verbal battle of theirs?

Apparently, but not because Hermione was at a loss of words, or if she was, he was deprived of seeing the look of defeat on her face (though he could already think of ten possible retorts to his last statement). Hermione was simply not there anymore, the spot where she just stood vacant. Instead there were just shelves going on for miles on sight, without a single break on them. She couldn’t have just turned a corner without first walking on and on to either direction. But there was Ron, the only person standing there, and Hermione Granger had vanished.

Muttering something about Unspeakables being weird, and ignoring the raised hair on the back of his neck, Ron walked off to a table, where he threw down his book and sat to read, but had no heart for it. Hermione, how did she…

Looking up, there she was. Sitting on a table on the side, all alone, as always, a pile of books next to her, absolutely lost in a book.

Ron went to the librarian to check the book to his name and got the fuck out of that place.

***

“Ron! Wait up!”

He did, but not without taking a minute to himself to roll his eyes before turning to face a particularly wild-haired Hermione rushing up to him. The plain black door on the end of the corridor behind her still send shivers down his spine, despite seeing it every day.

“What’s wrong, Granger?”

“I-uh-nothing! Nothing, really!” she said, and gave a very awkward smile.

Ron nodded back, but didn’t have it in himself to smile if he wanted (though he really didn’t). He had been falling back on sleep, eating poorly, struggling to keep up with his paperwork and his current position in Department Ten was eating him up alive from the inside, not to mention how lonely he was. Chatting up with Hermione Granger was not high up on the things he felt like doing, now more than ever before.

Not that she looked any better. The thin light in that goddamned Department wasn’t particularly flattening, but she sure looked… bad. Worse than usual, anyway. There were violet eye bags under her eyes and her cheekbones seemed sucked in.

“So, uh, you know, just… uh, shall we?” she nodded towards the elevators, shivering.

“Oh, sure,” said Ron and started to lead the way. The fact that even Unspeakables were beyond willing to leave their own workplace was strangely comforting and at the same disturbing. It meant his job there wasn’t going to get any easier by time, but he wasn’t the only feeling like that. Odd. He missed the environment in the Auror Office, and Kingsley and his workmates, and working his brains out trying to figure out a case. And, of course, Harry.

The elevator started going up, and Hermione stood with her back against the wall, looking alternatively down at her shoes and then at the doors. She really did look all worn out.

“So…” she started. Ron, overwhelmingly busy with staring anywhere but her, only gave a hum to let her know she was listening.

“About the other day in the library…”

“Yeah?” Ron looked at her full in the face now, eager to find out an explanation for her disappearance. Or was she about to apologize for that day? Not that it would be her at all to do so, but damnit, he was so desperate for a positive interaction he’d take what he could get, even if it was Hermione Fucking Granger.

“I mean, that book I was reading, you really did borrow it after all, did you?”

“Er… yeah… yeah, I did.” And then, to make up for the disappointment in his voice:

“Like I said, Granger, there’s little you can do to stop people from reading. I’m not interested in your bloody research or anything, so leave me alone.”

“Your return is overdue by two days as of today.”

“What?”

“I checked in with the librarian. Of course I would never stop someone else from reading, as long as they respect the rules. But now you’re two days overdue, and I want this book.”

Ron opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. The way she had spoken wasn’t aggressive, or bossy, or sarcastic, or anything he was used to Hermione Granger sounding like. She just sounded… tired and strangely gentle, like the calm before a storm. And she very much looked it, too, and unkempt also: she’d never been one to tame that wild bushy mane of hers, but she never turned up with bad skin and oily hair and smelling a bit, either. She kept blinking rapidly and shivering violently, hands wrapped tightly around herself. The Auror work had gotten Ron to work with people on the verge of a breakdown many times and if anything, Hermione Granger was exhibiting a few of the signs.

He was the one outspoken now. He wanted to apologize, and say he’ll return the book tomorrow morning, and wish her a good night, but instead he just cleared his throat and said:

“Merlin, you look like shit.”

Had he been less tired, hadn’t just come out of working in the Departure of Mysteries for the past ten hours, and maybe if the world had been a bit gentler with him in general, he’d have laughed at how her jaw dropped in shock. And then, right when she had assumed the most “Excuse me?” Hermione Granger expression, she just laughed bitterly a little and said,

“Yeah, I guess I do,” and began to caress her hair self-consciously. Then she pushed her lips together (they were badly chapped) and smiled sadly. “It’s been a rough week.”

Ron laughed and leaned against the wall opposite from hers.

“Tell me about it,” he said and Hermione laughed a little. A rough week. Rough month. Rough few months. Rough year. Rough few years.

And right then, he wanted to say something. Something nice. Tell her to go make herself a huge cup of tea, and to take care, and maybe firmly shake hands goodbye before each going to different fireplaces, because he would kill for a little physical contact right now, and he knew it would be comforting to her, too, and then the doors opened to the empty Atrium and he took a deep breath as he stared at the golden statue in the fountain, illuminated only by the light coming from the few fireplaces that were still burning.

“Right,” he said, and turned to make an attempt at brining a civil end to the only civil conversation he’s had with Hermione Granger since… well, ever.

And she wasn’t there.

Of course.

He should’ve realized it was her thing by now. She’d just Apparated home like that.

It should come to no surprise that she’d mastered soundless Apparition, because of course she has, she’s Hermione-Freaking-Granger.

And of course she wouldn’t stop to wish him good night, because why should she? Because they’d had half a decent conversation for once? She had only just admitted how tired she was, of course she wanted to go home. And people were so accustomed to treating the Weasleys like shit, even fellow Ministry workers.

He should’ve been much more used to it by now.

So he just went home, kicked his wand and his boots away, and collapsed on the sofa.

His eye caught The Book, an old dusty thing, left open on the sitting room table (also the only table in his crappy studio). It was Regarding Clocks and Time Magic: On Time-Turning Machines, Wizarding Law and How Wizards Love to Break It, by Professor Constantinus Dashwood. Despite not looking much (though Ron was no judge on the matter), it was supposed to be a particularly controversial work for its time that had truly revolutionized how wizards studied and worked with Time. And, although it was not particularly long, Ron had made very little progress with it. Never being particularly fond of books, they always tended to tire him, and the one in particular was overly complicated and used too many expert terms and words that required expertise on the subject for someone to form the big picture.

And yet, during his sleepless, lonely nights, the book had been strangely comforting. Reading wasn’t going to leave him: all the words meant something to him separately, and he kept reading for the promise of making some sense, of finding something simple and familiar in them. And in some sense he did. There were quite a few examples of wizards and witches meddling with time magic, more often than not with disastrous results. In-between those, Professor Dashwood provided his conclusions, which were too mind-boggling for Ron, but he wanted to make some sense of them, because if he had to admit it, he wanted to see what made Hermione so keen on the book, the book he had gotten just to spite her.

Expect now he didn’t feel like spiting her at all.

He opened the book again, knowing there was no way he was finishing it tonight, and let his eyes run over the words while his mind travelled all the way back, to Hogwarts, and to a particular bushy-haired girl always reading in some corner or another, always alone.

He flicked the lights off with his wand and threw the book back on the table in frustration.

There was an endless itching sensation within him, like he should be doing something, something more, and although he didn’t know what, he knew why. It wasn’t just the Department of Mysteries eating him alive. It wasn’t just the loneliness and the emptiness and missing Harry and his job. It was the gut feeling that he and Hermione Granger could’ve, should’ve been good friends, coming back to hit him full in the face seven years later.

***

The Unspeakables had an impromptu lunch break for the first time since he started working in their Department, and Ron rushed up to the Auror Office to hang with Harry, only to find him gone out working on a case.

Figuring he might as well go say hi to Dad, or even Percy (yes, he was that desperate), he turned to leave and stopped dead on his tracks at the sight of Hermione, sitting on the waiting chairs outside Kingsley’s office, reading, of course.

She looked so… strangely belonging to that place, bathed in sunlight, surrounded by paperwork and people working on helping other people. And yet, he’d only ever seen her up here once before, and it was a memory he’d worked hard on burying.

Upon closer inspection, he realized it was fucking Dashwood’s book, and regretted ever getting closer.

“How the fuck are you so far in already?”

She looked up in polite surprise.

“Hello, Ron,” she said, pleasant enough. She seemed to have had quite enough rest, and looked better groomed than she had been in weeks— since Ron had started working for the Unspeakables, actually.

“The book,” he said, too impressed to exchange pleasantries. “You can’t’ve progressed that far in with it, you just can’t. I only returned it to the library the other day!”

“Oh, that? I’m on my second reading, actually.”

“You- what?”

“Did you find it interesting?” she beamed, eyes shining, hands gripping on the tables in excitement.

“What? No, I, uh, sure, but I didn’t finish it—”

“You didn’t?”

“Uh, no, I didn’t have enough time…”

“You didn’t have enough time?”

“Oh, yeah, I guess, I see what you did here…” Ron laughed, but Hermione looked confused, before realizing the joke and laughing herself.

It was a stupid pun, made without meaning to, but they both laughed a lot more than they should have. It was a first in days for Ron, and it felt cleansing, reliving, like having a huge weight lifted off of him.

“No, I mean, I thought you would have enough time, I mean, evidently it’s enough for me…” Hermione said, attempting to return to seriousness.

“Oh, yeah, sure you’d figure I’d have enough time, why wouldn’t you…”

And they were off again, killing themselves laughing. Hermione bent over her knees, holding her belly in laughter, and it was only the fear of his boss barging out of his office any moment that held Ron back from crouching by her and punching the floor repeatedly as he roared in laughter.

And yet, he was glad for that one restriction. Now he could study Hermione so much better, how eye wrinkles formed all around her eyes, how her teeth showed, so white and straight (she had gotten the two front shrunk at some point during Hogwarts), how she kept shaking her head to keep her hair from falling into her face.

And then both froze because the door was open, the door had been open for Merlin knows how long, and at the opening was standing not only Kingsley Shacklebolt, Head of Auror Office, but also Professor Minerva McGonagall.

Hermione immediately shot to her feet with a “Professor McGonagall! So good to see you again!” and reached out her hand. Behind them, Kingsley gave a pleasant nod at Ron.

“Granger, Weasley,” Professor McGonagall took Hermione’s hand and nodded at Ron, a controlled smile playing on her lips, “it’s good to see you two getting along.”

What should’ve been simply a pleasant comment immediately shot an arrow straight through Ron’s stomach that was equally guilt and butterflies.

And then, looking back at Hermione with a fondness Ron had never before witnessed being so openly expressed to any of her students, McGonagall said “How are you, my dearest child?”

Ron gaped at it all, the tenderness in his Professor’s voice and expression, the way Hermione nodded instead of replying, the way McGonagall was holding her hand, as if she didn’t want to let go of her, and how Hermione seemed to be getting comfort from it, and then Ron realized Hermione had teared up, and he averted his gaze from the two of them immediately, his gut feeling telling him that had it not been for his and Kingsley’s presence, Hermione might as well have dissolved in sobs in McGongall’s arms.

“It’s good to see you too, Weasley. Doing good?”

“I- uh, yes, Professor,” he said, then looking at Kingsley, “exceptionally good.”

McGonagall smiled. “Good. Always said you had it in you.” And then, to Kingsley, “He was always a favorite, him and Potter. You should be very proud.”

Ron gaped openly. Not only was it the first time McGonagall was complimenting him, and confessing having a never acted upon soft spot for him, the whole situation was absurd enough. And to top it off, Kingsley nodded firmly and smiled at him.

Ron found himself exchanging looks with Hermione, much like he would’ve done if Harry was there instead of her, expect that her expression was affirming instead of equally bewildered.

“Miss Granger and I would be going out for tea now, Weasley. Care to join us? And for heaven’s sake boy, close your mouth, you look like a Stunned baboon!”

Ron found himself stuttering instead, looking from the one witch to the other in a patter, until he caught Kingsley’s stare from behind McGongall.

So they ended up at the “quite lovely” wizarding café that had just opened next to the Ministry. It was not the place he and Harry would’ve hanged out during their own lunch breaks (they had historically been perfectly content with Muggle canteen food), but it looked like the kind of place his mother would have enjoyed. His gaping for the day was long from over, because the moment he thought things might turn from awkward to boring real soon, both witches took out their knitting work and had a pleasant enough chat about Hermione’s aspirations with SPEW (yes, she was still going strong with that thing she had almost terrorized Harry and Ron into joining, seven years and a completely irrelevant day job later).

“What have you been up to, Weasley?”

“I, uh, me?”

“Yes, boy, you! About time you do less gaping and a bit of talking, would you not think so?”

“Sorry for that, Professor, I…” again, he looked from the one to the other. Hermione nodded encouragingly.

“I was… I am doing good, really.”

McGonagall nodded in approval.

“Bravo! I hear very good things from Shacklebolt about you and Mr Potter. Always good to see a Weasley kid doing good!” she smiled. And then she grew grim.

“Tell me, Ronald, how is your family?”

“We’re…” good died in his throat before he could utter it. Even if it were true, which he knew it wasn’t, he couldn’t attest to it: Merlin knows when was the last time that he had seen a Weasley outside of the Ministry, and still the glimpses he got of Dad or Percy were not encouraging. They both seemed to have aged violently, grown thin and solemn. And Ginny kept making headlines in the Quidditch magazines and the gossip magazines kept giggling about her relationship with Katie, but he knew she was miserable, taking it all out on the sport, and yet he couldn’t owl her. And he had to admit to himself, just like in the case of Bill, the reason for his silence was partly out of spite, because at least they had someone to talk to, someone waiting home for them, someone to hold. And Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes was doing better than ever before and he felt like drowning in the irony of it, and his mother wouldn’t stop sending him letters and sweets and they kept piling up, not one of them answered.

“We’re holding up, ma’am, really.”

She shook her head and sniffed her nose. Ron had only seen her cry once before, at Fred’s funeral: with a rush, he realized it was the last time he’d seen her before today.

“Such a horrible thing, your brother, so young, so…” McGonagall looked away, burying her face in her handerchief.

Ron looked down at his knees, only to see Hermione’s hand quickly withdrawing, having reached out inches away from his own.

“I am sorry, Ron,” she whispered. He closed his eyes.

“Thank you, Hermione,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, too…”

She sniffed her nose, and he realized she must’ve thought he was talking about his brother’s loss.

“I mean, I’m sorry about how… I reacted. That day. I was a proper arse.”

“I understand,” she said, so softly. “You had just lost your brother. A bit of an arse might be in due.”

And they both laughed, bitterly this time.

“No, it’s… it’s not an excuse. You were immediately there to give me your condolences, and I just…”

Her hand covered his with no hesitation this time, and he held it with both of his own.

Later, McGonagall insisted on treating them both and left them on the Atrium. Hours later, Ron and Hermione found themselves alone in the same place again. He was aching to ask how in the name of Merlin’s pants did she end up best friends with McGonagall, but instead he just told her to take care, make herself a cup of tea and have a good night, and firmly shook hands right before using the Floo Powder home.

And so began an awkward friendship with Hermione Granger, a kind girl who sometimes filled her plate with too much and tended to disappear at random, without warning and, when confronted about, apparently without meaning to.

***

“Is there a problem with the Department of Mysteries, Ronald?” Kingsley asked in his deep voice from behind a stack of paperwork.

“No, sir,” Ron promptly answered.

“Then may I ask what are you doing up here during your shift?”

“There is not one problem, sir, there are a lot of problems.”

Kingsley looked up, arched up an eyebrow.

“Is that so? And what problems, exactly, give you the liberty of sheer cheek?”

Both men laughed. Kingsley had shown pretty early on that he didn’t mind humour, at least when coming from Aurors as hard-working as Ron or Harry. But Ron was not in the mood to continue joking.

“It’s the job sir, it’s… wearing me down. I know you feel like you’re giving us an easy one, like it’s some sort of rest for us or something, but… I can’t do it anymore sir, I just can’t. All the time I keep wishing I were here, helping people out instead.”

Kingsley considered him for a second.

“You seem to be listening to your co-workers too much lately, Weasley. Believe me, I am not one to give my best Aurors easy ones. If anything, it’s quite the contrary. The reason I sent you to work down there, and the reason I must insist you follow orders to work there until the end of the year, is less evident than what your fellow Aurors might have you believe.”

“Which is, sir…?”

“Miss Granger, Ronald. I want you keeping an eye out for her.”

“Hermione? But… you think she’s done something?”

Kingsley shook his head.

“No. I want you looking out for her, Weasley. She’s up against greater odds than you know, or she estimates. Just… stay vigilant and have her back, should anything happen.”

“I…”

“I can’t say more, Weasley, it seems everything is confidential,” Kingsley cut him off with an eyeroll intended for the Deputies of Department Ten.

“Sir. Yes sir. But sir, if Hermione is the reason I’m down there, why didn’t you tell me before?”

Kingsley raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Oh, I thought it was apparent? She’s your friend, is she not? Well, maybe you two didn’t use to be particularly close, but I couldn’t help but notice, Weasley, you both always seemed to be rather fond of each other. Should anything happen that requires her protection, I trust you will deliver.”

“Sir!”

“Dismissed, Weasley.”

***

And then the day came when Ron hugged her.

They were both alone in the elevator at night again, talking about their parents, and after Ron mentioned how he hadn’t seen his folks in a long time, how there was something always keeping him from writing home or dropping by despite how much he ached to, Hermione teared up and hugged herself, looked away and said ‘I know how that feels like.’

And so Ron reached out, wrapped her arms around her, held her tight in his arms, and the world around began to spin and the floor beneath their feet vanished.

When it stopped, when it all stopped, Ron was still holding Hermione tighter than ever, and they were outdoors on a hot summer night, on a beach by the sea.

***

When the sun began to dawn that day, twelve years ago, painting the beach in hues of purples and blues it found Ron Weasley sitting on the sand, fingers digging into it, his thick travelling cloak lying forgotten next to him. Hermione had taken off her shoes and rolled up the end of her robes and was pacing up and down by the water, still overtaken by the adrenaline of the night, all the times she’d cried and cried and held onto him as she told him everything, everything, all the things that had happened to her, let it all out.

As for Ron, he was trying to take it all in. Emphasis on trying.

“So you’re a time-traveller.”

“I’m a patient, Ron. It happens without my will, without the need of a time-turner or another wizarding device, and it’s out of my control.”

“Because you had an accident with your time-turner because you just had to sign up for every elective on the list.”

“On our third year, yes.”

“Why?” he shouted out, pulling back his hair, practically pulling his hair.

“Why do you think? I was thirteen, Ron, and I was lonely, in a completely new word I knew nothing of and wanted to know everything about!”

“Muggle studies was a bit too much, though.”

She laughed.

“Yeah, I guess it was.”

“So, this is your life now.”

“Yes, I guess this is my life now.”

“And I thought I had it bad.”

“Oh, don’t say that! It doesn’t mean anything, my condition— of course you have your own problems- you just lost your brother, Merlin’s pants, it’s not like it pales in comparison to—”

“Just randomly travelling back in time and space?”

“Yeah, I guess. But that shouldn’t downplay your own struggles! Anyone’s, really…”

“I mean, it is peculiar, I give you that.”

She laughed again.

“And there’s no cure?”

“No Ron, I told you, there isn’t! It’s never happened before, how can there be? Dashwood had some pretty interesting things to say, as you know, but… at the end of the day, it’s all about something I need to learn to control. I’ve made great progress already, it’s just that, when I get emotional…”

“So that means…”

A soft silence fell between them. A summer breeze was blowing, and although the air was cool, it all looked like it would be a hot day.

“When you hugged me, earlier tonight… tonight, that is, in a manner of speaking… I was emotional, because I was thinking about my parents, and your parents, and well, I thought I could stop it from happening that time, but then you hugged me and I was so… surprised. In a good sense, of course.”

“So you just time-travelled us twelve years into the past?”

“For the thousandth time, yes, that’s the gist of what happened.”

“And that other time, in the elevator? That first time?”

“Yeah. I was a wreck that night. We keep experimenting in the Ministry, but it didn’t work. That day it was particularly bad. And that day on the library, too, I—”

“Wait. They’re experimenting on you?”

“They… not exactly. Not always, anyway. We use inanimate objects, animals, fantastic beasts. Try to notice any patterns, grasp on details and try to figure something out. It’s straining, and very, very complicated, and we, I mean, the wizarding community as a whole, we know so little on it. Inventing time-travel was hard enough, but reversing it seems impossible.”

“Can’t you just… do what you did but on the reverse?”

“You think we haven’t thought about it? It’s just… there’s so many factors at work. And meanwhile whenever this shit happens to me I have to abide by the law and not intervene and stay hidden, and try to keep anyone from noticing and—ugh!”

“Don’t worry. I won’t say a thing,” he whispered. Another silence fell between them, gentle like the wind that made her hair float.

“So where are you now? I mean, the past you?” Ron asked at last.

She pointed at the white holiday house on the sore, about half a mile from where they were.

“It’s where my parents and I spent summer that year.”

“In the south of France…”

“In the south of France.”

“Cool. I’ve never been abroad.”

Hermione shook her head in exasperation.

“I mean, it might sound a bit cruel, but it’s also… fucking bloody brilliant, innit?” Ron grinned. “Especially if you can control it, just, bam! Travelling into the past like that!” and he snapped his fingers.

“No, it’s not! I mean, I see where you come from, I guess, but if I ever reach a state where I have full control over it, there’s no way I’m ever willingly doing this shit.”

Ron smiled, at how many times she’d cursed that night, at the absurdity of this all, at how beautiful she looked in the dawning light that painted the scenery pink and yellow.

She had taken them twelve years in the past, and spent the last eight hours talking about the craziest paradox in human form Ron had ever heard of, and yet, in the dawning light, all he could be was mesmerized by her. With her dark skin, her bushy hair, her white teeth and thick lashes, there was a sort of quiet elegance about her, and her eyes, Merlin, her eyes were the dark brown that warmed you right up. They were the most expressive eyes Ron had ever seen. The way she looked, it made her look like she was somewhere far off, yet overwhelmingly real. Distant, yet earthy. She was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

“When.”

“Pardon me?”

“When you reach a state when you can control it. Bloody hell, Hermione, you’re the most brilliant person I know. Fuck, you’re the most brilliant person any of us know. Ask Harry. Or anyone from our year, really. Ask McGonagall. And none of us knew that you were going through all this while you kicked ass at schoo—”

“McGonagall knows. Sometimes, when I travel back in time at Hogwarts, I just stop by her office and we have tea until I’m ready to travel back. But it’s a huge violation and you should just forget I ever mentioned it.

Ron gaped again.

“I— you… Wow. Merlin’s pants, wow. Well, the point is, you can do it. You most certainly can do it. It’ll take time, and patience, and a lot of work, but you can’t fail. You’re Hermione,” he said simply. Then, filling his cheeks and ears burn red at his own words, he rushed to add, “Besides, you’re already halfway there, aren’t you? The way you said it, you’re…”

“I’ve made progress, sure, but I still have so much to g—” she stopped sort in a sob.

Ron got up and hugged her again, held tight onto her, and she hugged him back.

“Shh. Quiet now. I know, I know,” he whispered.

“No, it’s just…” Hermione mumbled against his chest. “Thank you. For what you just said. Thank you, Ron.”

He saw little else left to do than leave a kiss on the top of her head and then bury his head on her, hoping against hope she wouldn’t let go or mention it, ever, and instead exploded internally as she held onto him even tighter.

“And Hermione, there’s something else,” he said into her hair ten minutes later.

“Hmm?”

“I’m by you. I mean, I’m with you on that. If you ever need anything, huge or small. I’m your person. That is, as long as you can get us back home, I’m your person.”

Her grip on him lessened and then she let go completely, took a step back, smiled up to him with tears still in her eyes.

“Oh.”

He looked around, taking in the tidy apartment, bathed in morning light, the shelves of books on the walls, the London scenery out the windows and the curled orange cat sleeping on the sofa, the way her hair captured the light.

“Well. Good morning, I guess.”

“Good morning. Care for a cup of coffee? We just need to make it fast, or we’ll be late. We still have to go to work, unfortunately.”

And she was off to the kitchen, making them coffee with magic, and she was laughing and joking with him, tired and still shaking from all of last night, but not alone anymore.

***

And so began a very strange friendship with Hermione Granger, time-travelling human disaster and Unspeakable by condition, not by choice. There were times where she would disappear twice a day and then there were times where she wouldn’t have an episode for weeks.

“Generally I’ve noticed that there is a connection to what is triggering the time lapse with the time of the past that I travel to. For example, on the night we travelled to the south of France, I’d been thinking of my parents. So I travelled to a place and time where we made good memories. It happened unconsciously, but I believe that’s the secret to controlling it,” she said, cuddled up in Ron’s only armchair, cupping a warm drink in her hands. Harry nodded at the offhand mention of that night, but said nothing.

In what was perhaps the greatest violation of confidentiality in Hermione’s life, she had opened up not only to Ron, but to Harry also. She had initially no such intentions concerning either, but some situations, such as staying up all night on a beach in the south of France talking about a bizarre wizarding condition, twelve years ago, are the kind of situations that bond people together for a lifetime.

So after that night Hermione and Ron wouldn’t stop spending time together, spending their work breaks hanging out and evenings at the house of the one or the other. And it was impossible to talk about anything but That Night. At first, at least. So Hermione spilled out everything she had come to discover about herself.

And although that topic of conversation was never abandoned (how could it, after all?) Hermione and Ron started to talk about other things, too. Reminiscing of Hogwarts, for once, although that was a subject prone to many an awkward silence. And then there were their families, their love lives, their pets and their remaining friendships.

And so came Harry.

Ron had never thought Harry and Hermione would click so well. Or more like it, that Hermione would instantly take Harry under her wing as if he were a little brother, and that he would let her. Ron loved Harry very much, and silently prided himself for knowing him better than anyone, but sometimes he felt closed off of him, as if Harry was pushing him out. Hermione saw no need to respect such unspoken boundaries and barged right in, preparing weekly schedules for the three of them, pestering them to do their paperwork and rolling her eyes every time they talked about Quidditch, but nonetheless stayed. Even when she could not participate in the conversation, she would read a book or ponder over her next move at wizard’s chess (which she was rubbish at, a fact that secretly amused Ron to end).

And so it began. Harry, Ron and Hermione, unlikely best friends. Two Aurors and Hermione, the way she was, was a sure recipe for disaster.

Ron would come home and find her curled up sleeping in his bed, catching up on sleep by turning time back a few hours (it did have its perks). Hermione’s once-tidy sitting room was now a battlefield of papers and rolled-out parchments, Harry and Ron’s Auror paperwork due tomorrow morning. There was a bag of cat food for Crookshanks in Harry’s apartment now. And so on.

The three of them ended up hanging in Diagon Alley more and more often, buying ice cream from Fortescue’s and hanging out with George at the shop.

Harry had always gotten along with the twins spectacularly, but Ron was surprised to see Hermione approving of his wild prankster of a brother, too. Sure, George would get scolded more than Harry or Ron, but the environment of the trick shop revealed Hermione’s more relaxed, funny side, and the four of them would spend entire evenings laughing their heads off at the back. Sometimes some of Ron’s siblings would drop by too, Ginny more often than the rest: exhausted from practice but never too tired to joke about, she and Hermione quickly became friends.

And Hermione’s time episodes lessened significantly. And she kept saying they were making progress with a gleam in her eyes, oh that gleam in her eyes, and they were all starting to eat better, sleep better, live better. And yet.

And yet there was Harry and Hermione, and Harry and Ron, and then there was Ron and Hermione. And Ron and Hermione kept locking eyes because they kept looking at each other and their glances lingered for just a moment too long. And Hermione would turn up at Ron’s house and tell him to scoot over in the middle of the night and then fall asleep immediately, leaving him cornered up against the cold wall with no blankets. And Hermione kept asking Ron to stay over once it got late, hanging out at her place, and she and him would lie in bed talking until they fell asleep. But most of the times when they spent the night together, Hermione would fall asleep on Ron in the sitting room, and he would let her, and cover them up in blankets and make them more comfortable, and Hermione would wake up for just a second, cuddle him tighter, and fall back asleep. And the next day they would both be sore and never talk about it, but they would rinse and repeat still.

Until Ron said what he’d been aching to say.

***

They were almost asleep, cramped up in his bed, almost cuddling but not quite, and talking about Hogwarts. How brilliant of a Seeker Harry had been, and how brilliant Ron was as Keeper (“I was OK sometimes, I suppose,”) and how Hermione always brought a book to the Qudditch matches she did attend. Cause she missed out a lot. And then, at long last, Ron said it.

“I reckon we should’ve been friends. At Hogwarts. All this time.”

He felt her tense and stay still beside him. He’d swear she was holding her breath.

“Hermione?”

“It’s just…”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I think so too.”

“I know. I just… I’m sorry. For what happened back then. In our first year. What I said about you. I know you heard it. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright, Ron. You were just a kid. Besides, I was a bit of a nightmare, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, but I should’ve done something about it. Apologized or whatever.”

“You did. Later on, you did. I’m sorry, Ron. I was the one who snubbed you and turned you down the next time,” she sniffed her nose and with a start, Ron realized she was crying.

“It’s alright, love—”

“It really isn’t! We were older, too! I should’ve known better than to turn down the only person reaching out to me!”

“No, Hermione, please don’t go so hard on yourself. You had enough on your plate already. We both made mistakes. And yet—”

“And yet you kept looking out for me! And I was so, so ungrateful and blind…”

“Shh. I was going to say, and yet we’ve found each other. Again. Now.”

She reached out her hand to grab his by the wrist and pull it over her. With a smile, Ron hugged her by the waist and held onto her as she calmed down.

“We really did find each other. Took our sweet time, but we found each other,” she hummed, almost to herself, as she fell asleep.

***

Later that night, Ron woke up covered in sweat and terribly nauseous and shot out of bed, only to stumble into a just awoken Hermione beside him.

On the Gryffindor common room floor.

“Oh Merlin! Oh no, not again! Ron, quick, come here, we must hide, we must—”

“Hermione? It—what happened?”

She grabbed his wrist, nails digging into his skin, and dragged them on a corner by the barely burning fireplace, where they threw a Gryffindor banner over them and curled into each other.

“What—is this…? Where are we? Hermione? Did it happen again?” Ron asked in hushed tones, Hermione’s hair getting in his mouth.

“Shh! I think it’s because… I dreamt it,” she hissed, elbowing him to keep quiet.

“What? It happens in your sleep too? Oh, can’t you just take us back?”

“No Ron I’ve told you I can’t do it immediately!”

“Let’s Apparate then!”

She was quiet for one second, the kind of pregnant pause that made Ron realize he had just said something incredibly stupid.

“You can’t… Apparate… in Hogwarts… Ron, sometimes, I swear…! Hush! Someone’s coming!”

Sure enough, the door that lead to the boys’ dormitories opened and out came a teenage Ron, lanky and bed-headed, no facial hair yet and an abundance of freckles and acne instead, looking all the more skinny and awkward in his too-short maroon pyjamas.

The adult Ron held his breath and Hermione squeezed his hand as they watched.

Teenage Ron looked around the common room as if searching for something. Then he walked toward a table, picked up screwed rolls of parchment, revealing tiny little knit hats hidden beneath, and proceeded to throw the parchment into the fire. The room lit up as the paper burned, and adult Ron and Hermione stood more still than ever, praying against all odds that the teenager wouldn’t notice them.

Luckily enough, teenage Ron was sleepy and seemed to be heading back to the dormitories, when…

“Password?” the all-too familiar voice of the Portrait Lady came from outside the common room.

“Tapeworm,” answered a tired little voice from outside.

The teenager froze on the spot. He gave a quick look toward the dormitory stairs, as if considering running for it, but the portrait moved just then and in climbed teenage Hermione, Prefect badge shining on her chest. She still had some baby fat on her face, and her hair and eyebrows were even bushier than her adult self, but she demonstrated all the signs that the adult Hermione had on the first time she and Ron shared the elevator: exhausted, with bags under her eyes and so, so cold. Her entire posture was hunched over and miserable, burdened by all the books she was carrying.

The two teenagers froze and considered each other. From where they were hidden, their adult selves could observe both, and both sensed the room filling with some sort of electricity.

“Weasley,” teenage Hermione said, voice now loud and bossy, nothing like the tired murmur that had spoken the password. “What are you doing up?”

The ginger boy shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pyjama pockets.

“I just… it’s gotten so late and y… I was up studying.”

Hermione snorted in a very McGonagall way.

“Oh, please. You— are those my knit hats?”

She rushed over to the table with the knitting Ron had just revealed, threw her books down and stared at the hats, tears already forming in her eyes. When she looked up at Ron again, red-eyed and wild-haired, she was sobbing with rage.

“What are you—will you ever leave me alone? What’s so wrong with this?” she pointed to the hats, her movements sharp. “Why do you care? Just leave!” she threw a hat at him. It missed by a lot and would have done no damage had it found its target, but the fury with which she threw it was enough to make the boy take several rushed steps back. “Leave me alone! Leave me!”

And the girl collapsed on a sofa by the table, collapsed over her books and dissolved in sobs.

Young Ron made to go for the stairs, hesitated, looked back at the crying girl.

“You’re all messed up, Hermione,” he said, harsh voice echoed off the walls. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but it’s—” his expression softened at the sight of her, defeated and responseless, and he never finished his sentence. Instead, he climbed up the stairs to his bed. A moment later, the adult Ron and Hermione heard the dormitory door shut behind him.

Letting go of a breath he’d been holding, Ron finally swallowed. He could feel Hermione shaking against his chest, still holding onto his hand for dear life.

“Hermione…”

“Shh!”

They stayed there, watching young Hermione cry onto her books, until she grew quiet and her breathing even.

The dormitory door opened again, just a hinge, and Ron’s ginger hair peeped through the opening.

Slowly, the lanky boy got through the opening and stood and watched Hermione sleeping. There was remorse and guilt in his face, and adult Ron knew exactly how he was feeling: like he wanted to apologize and make things right, and yet his pride was in the way. Cowardly as it might be, he had been relieved to find her passed out, not having to face her tonight.

The teenager made a motion as if to climb up again, but hesitated, and turned back toward the sleeping girl. Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly to her, grabbed a quilt someone had forgotten on the back of an armchair, and quietly wrapped sleeping Hermione up in it. Then, with slow motions, he directed her sleeping form to lie on the sofa she was sitting on and, placing a throw pillow under her head, he tiptoed away back to the dormitory room.

Adult Hermione curled her fingers around adult Ron’s and he closed his eyes, buried his head on her hair, took in her scent.

When he opened them again, his back was against the cold wall of his own bedroom instead of the Hogwarts stone. Hermione was sobbing in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” said one of them, and the other said it again, and again and again and again, over and over.

“Hermione,” Ron said at last. “I remember now.”

She let out a shaky breath and laughed.

“I knew you had forgotten. But I was awake then, I just said nothing. I didn’t want it to be true. For years I kept telling myself it was a dream. It was easier than thinking you were there, looking out for me.”

Ron laughed into her hair.

“Well, are you thinking about it now? Because I’m not going to stop caring for you anytime soon. Might as well get used to it.”

Hermione laughed and then turned to face him, to hold his face in her hands and look into his eyes. The streetlight outside provided just enough light for him to see her eyes gleaming behind all the tears, gleaming with determination and love.

“I want to get used to it. To you. Thank you, Ron.”

Ron laughed despite his own tears.

“I’d like that. Getting used to, that, that would be… I love you, Hermione.”

“I know. I’ve known awhile now. I love you too, Ron, I love you.”

That was another night they spent awake together, holding each other and talking. But this time, it was not about the past anymore. They talked of the future.

***

“Resigning. Well, I had not seen that one coming. Right when your time in the Department of Mysteries is over, Weasley?”

“Sir, I realized it was not just the Department. It’s just… the Auror job is not for me. Lately, I’ve been hoping to bring some joy to the world.”

“Well then, Ronald, it’s been an honor,” said Kingsley, getting up from behind his desk to shake Ron’s hand warmly. “I can’t hold you back, though it’s costing me a great Auror. But I’m sure the Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes is a good place for you, son.”

Ron grinned.

“It’s home,” he shrugged.

Harry helped him pack his things. He couldn’t help smiling, despite claims that work would become boring without Ron. As the two were heading toward the elevators, Hermione rushed out of one, beaming and holding something behind her back.

“Oh hi, love—that is, Miss Granger. How’s things in Department Four?” Ron greeted. Hermione beamed.

“All good, but I’m here for you, actually! I’m sorry I can’t see you off, Ron, but, here: a little going-away present.”

“What is… oh, Merlin!”

The tiniest owl cage was placed on top of the paper box Ron was carrying. Inside, a miniscule brown owl was flapping its wings in excitement, eager to be let out. Ron and Harry roared with laughter.

“Thank you, Hermione,”

“Tell George I said hi.”

“You tell him hi! You two will be over for lunch break, won’t ya?”

Harry nodded.

“Tell him hi anyway,” he shrugged.

Yayyyyy!!

Love the support! <3

rupelover replied to your post “power is back on in the house, im off work today and tomorrow.. i can...”

I was actually wondering what happened to your sick note gifs! Yay!

My Tumblr Crushes:

@rupelover

@thefinalhorcruxx

@asktheboywholived

@remedial-potions

@disneyprinceronweasley

@hermione-ron-4ever

@weasleyismyking540

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@sinfully-romione

Erm I appear to have missed the 17th by a day... oh well... it’s the 18th! That means “the day after crush day!” Some of my favourites this month check’em out, they’re pretty cool.

Cherrybomb Series:

Cherrybomb Series: