The Oracle
Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley lay in bed, both sleeping peacefully. A candle burned on the nightstand next to Hermione's side of the bed, shedding a small, warm glow, its image reflected in the window before it.
The couple was betrothed and had undergone a ritual to make their betrothal magically binding. Because of this, the actual wedding ceremony would merely be cosmetic. Binding rituals were considered a bit archaic, but Ron's mother Molly insisted they do it, saying she and Arthur did it, and it would insure a strong marriage.
In reality, Molly wanted it done so neither of them would be able to back out of the marriage. She was sure Ron was committed, but Hermione seemed a bit reluctant and flighty. The young witch was considered quite a catch. She was brilliant, courageous and a powerful witch. Molly didn't trust Ron not to let her slide through his fingers. Marrying Hermione Granger would give him status and most likely children just as capable as she was.
Molly had to take Hermione aside and convince her to do the binding ritual.
"You do love my son, don't you? Isn't that why you accepted his proposal?" Molly asked her. "He didn't beat you over the head, did he?"
"Yes, I love him," Hermione said, not wanting to alienate her future mother-in-law.
She felt a bit like a liar, however, because she had been under a lot of pressure to marry Ron. Harry and Ginny had gotten married six months earlier, and as usual, Ron felt he was being left behind by the boy who lived.
"Ginny's younger than me, Hermione, and she's married. Come on, you say you love me. Marry me!" Ron said to her, holding out a little box with an even littler ring inside.
Hermione didn't tell him what she thought. Harry was already rather well off and was better established than Ron, who worked at the joke shop with George. The shop did well, but the redhead was hardly rolling in Galleons. If they got married now, she would have to put off her apprenticeship with professor Snape and go to work to help support them, or otherwise try and live off of what Ron made, and that varied from week to week. George refused to put him on salary.
The issue of her apprenticeship under Snape was one that the entire Weasley family was opposed to her following through on. Ron went to Molly for advice and she told him precisely what to say to the witch.
"With your marks, you could get an entry level job in the potions field and work your way up. There's more than one way to become a Potions mistress, Hermione," Ron told her, echoing his mother's words. "You can get paid and become a mistress. You don't need Snape."
It would take much longer to work her way up to Potions mistress that way. Four years of dedicated apprenticeship would give her the desired results much faster. Snape would simply sign her certification and file it with the Ministry. But Ron made her feel so guilty about wanting to put off their marriage until she became a Potions mistress, she accepted his ring and told professor Snape that she couldn't accept the apprenticeship.
The pale wizard simply stared at her incredulously. Hermione expected him to tell her she was being an idiot, and almost hoped he would protest her decision, but he didn't.
"The offer will remain open indefinitely, Miss Granger," he simply said, but his disapproval was clear to see.
Snape had been the one who provided the potion for the binding ritual. He was paid to do it. Personally, the Potions master didn't approve of this particular ceremony. The binding ritual was now touted to be the ultimate expression of everlasting love and commitment between two people, but in the past it was used to by families to permanently forge arranged marriages and force young people together, whether suited for each other or not. The bond was magically induced and had nothing to do with love.
At the Burrow, surrounded by Ron's family, Snape had to give the couple the potion a total of three times for it to take. He didn't say anything, but the two had to be supremely unsuited for his potion to require so many applications. As much as he disapproved of the upcoming nuptials, he made the potion in the proper manner. But this group was so blind and so desperate to have Hermione become a part of the family, they couldn't see what was right in front of them.
Only Hermione looked taken aback by how long it took for the binding to take. When it did, Snape looked at them both soberly.
"It's done. Now, only death can break the bond between you," he said to the pair, as he slipped two small, wooden bracelets made from vines over each of their wrists. The vines tightened so they couldn't be slipped off.
Snape's dark eyes rested on Hermione as the rest of the Weasley family cheered. Her own parents were still in Australia. It was too bad they were. They would have never allowed Hermione to change her plans for her future had they known about them, or her. She hadn't yet gotten around to traveling there to remove the spell she'd placed on them to keep them safe from Voldemort. Currently, they didn't know they even had a daughter and believed themselves happy to be living in the Land Down Under. Hermione was going to have a lot of explaining to do and wasn't looking forward to her father's wrath. So, she procrastinated, and this was the result.
Now she lay beside a snoring Ron, curled up, facing him, the twisted little vines on both their wrists proof of their commitment, as well as protection against any attempt to flee the situation. The vines would grow and strangle the wearer, rather than let them run away. They could be removed after the marriage vows were taken, but not before. Yes, those old families had been quite serious about betrothals.
As they lay there dreaming, neither of them were aware of the window being slowly drawn up, or the pale hand reaching through it, holding a small, open bottle. Carefully, it poured the contents of the bottle over the candle, then withdrew, the window carefully closing.
The drenched flame spluttered on the wick, but it didn't go out. Instead, smoke began to rise from the candle, twisting about as if searching for something before finally drifting toward Hermione in a long tendril and curling in front of her face.
She inhaled it.
"Ron, I'm waaaaaiting," Hermione called from the bed, her voice low and sultry. "Hurry and bring the contraceptive potion. I'm reeeady."
In the bathroom, Ron dumped out half of the bottle of contraceptive potion he held in his hand and refilled it with water from the sink. He put the cap back on and shook it up thoroughly.
"I'm coming, luv," he said, walking into the bedroom and handing Hermione the bottle and a spoon.
"Drink up," he told her.
"Hermione, you're going to have to quit your job," Ron told his wife as he studied their bills. "We can't afford to pay for daycare for three children any longer. You're going to have to stay home with them and we'll live off what I make."
"But Ron, we're barely managing as it is. What about your mother?" Hermione said to him. "She said she'd take them."
Ron shook his head.
"Mum's up in years, Hermione. She can't chase children around the Burrow like she used to, no matter what she says. I'm not about to let my mum drop dead babysitting our children. You're going to have to do your job as a mother now," he told her firmly.
"Hermione! I'm home. Where's my dinner?" Ron bellowed as he walked through the door of their small, overcrowded, rented flat.
Cries of "Daddy's home!" rang out and Ron was immediately covered by several, redheaded children in patched clothing.
"All right now, calm down you mob," Ron said, ruffling several heads as they clung to his arms and legs. "Let your father get something to stick to his ribs before you take him down."
The group of children followed Ron in a crowd into the living room, where he threw down the satchel he was carrying. He still looked good, having aged very little.
"Hermione! Is my supper ready?" he called again, walking through the cluttered flat. Clothes and toys were flung everywhere, and a clothesline was strung across one section of the room, clothing of all sizes pinned to it.
"Merlin, doesn't she ever clean up?" Ron muttered blackly as he kicked away a pair of dirty trousers.
He pushed opened the kitchen door and walked over to the table, sitting down, frowning at the emptiness as Hermione quickly scooped out his dinner from the pots bubbling on the stove, two crying twin infants on the floor beside her.
Ron may not have aged much, but Hermione had. She must have gained over one hundred and ten pounds during their marriage. She was fat and tired looking, her skin blotchy and bags under her dull brown eyes. Her curly brown chestnut hair was going gray at thirty and she wore a dingy blue flowered dress, covered by a dirty, food splashed apron. Not only was she fat, but she was pregnant with their ninth child as well and had two sets of twins.
"My dinner?" Ron said loudly.
"It's coming, Ron," Hermione said, fixing his plate quickly, then hurrying over to the table and setting it down. Ron began to eat, saying nothing to his wife as she stood there, watching him.
"Get the twins, Hermione. They're going to bust a blood vessel screaming like that. And why are clothes still hanging in the living room?" he demanded. "I told you to have them down by the time I got home."
Hermione scooped up both crying babies.
"I did take them down. That's a new load drying," the disheveled witch said, jostling the crying babies in an attempt to quiet them.
"You should do all the clothes at once," Ron muttered, still not looking at her.
"I do the best I can, Ron . . . with the children and . . ."
Ron snorted.
"You do your best? That's why this place looks like a fucking pig sty?" he hissed, then said, "Where's my pumpkin juice? I can't get this down without pumpkin juice, Hermione."
Hermione put down the twins, who immediately increased their volume as she retrieved a glass and took out a pitcher of pumpkin juice from the cooler. She poured Ron a drink, gave it to him, put the pitcher back and picked up the children again. The sound of squabbling came from the other room as their other children battled.
Ron took a sip of pumpkin juice, then spluttered.
"What did you do? Just dip a piece of pumpkin in water and give it to me?" he demanded, looking at her in disgust.
The fat sow.
"Well . . . the children wanted pumpkin juice too, Ron, so—I did my best to stretch it. I had to add a bit of water . . . "
"You need to manage the money better, Hermione. Buy more juice," he told her angrily.
"I can't Ron. I stretch the budget as far as I can . . ."
"Maybe if you didn't bloody eat so much there'd be enough for the rest of us!" Ron hissed at her. "You're fatter than a bloody whale."
Hermione's eyes filled with tears. She was fat, but after having all those children, her metabolism changed. She didn't eat any more than anyone else. In fact, she ate less. And she got plenty of exercise cooking, cleaning and chasing the kids around the house.
"I don't eat any more than you do," she said in her defense. Ron looked at her coldly.
"I'm going to the pub," he announced.
"What? Again? Ron, we can't afford you . . ."
"Shut up. I'm the man of the house! I'm the bloody breadwinner! I deserve to go out and have a pint or two," he yelled at her, wiping his mouth and rising from the table. "And clean up this bloody place. It's disgusting. Garbage and toys everywhere. And get those clothes out of the living room! I'll be home late."
Hermione watched as Ron stood up, leaving half of his meal. He walked out of the kitchen. She put the twins down again and started clearing the table.
"I tell you, Fred, Arthur, when it comes to witches you keep them home, waiting on you hand and foot and pregnant. Especially pregnant. That ties them to the house, humbles them. Look at your mum. She had grand ideas once . . . but I got her right. Pregnant right out the box. A woman's place is in the home—always in the home. Remember that Weasley wives don't work. They cook, clean and breed. That's it. Besides getting fat. But that's all right too. You buck up and shag them anyway—just keep a bit of fluff on the side for your pleasure. I've got two birds myself."
Ron's two oldest sons nodded at this sage advice. Their dad knew all the ropes.
In the bedroom, Hermione sat on the side of the bed, listening, tears running down her blotched, jowly face as she silently sobbed.
Hermione awoke and sat up in the bed, staring down at Ron, her face twisted.
"You fucking bastard," she hissed, reaching into the nightstand and taking out her wand . . .
The abrupt disappearance of Ronald Weasley was a mystery. Hermione tearfully told the Aurors about a terrible row they had a few nights ago, concerning her apprenticeship and how he walked out. The Aurors believed foul play may have occurred.
"Maybe the binding vine killed him," one Auror suggested, looking at the one on Hermione's wrist. It was starting to look a little dry and brittle. "You know you can't walk away from a bound witch."
The search for Ron went on for a few months, but they never found his body.
They never would.
"Good morning, apprentice," Snape said in greeting to Hermione, who was already busily chopping pixie innards in a bowl in his lab.
"Good morning, sir," she said brightly, looking up at him. She had accepted his offer several months after Ron's mysterious disappearance, the binding vine finally falling off her wrist, freeing her.
Everyone was sure he was dead, including Hermione. She was very, very sure—since she was the one who killed him and transfigured his corpse. If she were ever caught, she'd claim she'd done it in self-defense, because Ronald Weasley was going to kill everything about her if they married, and she wasn't going to stand for that.
Snape walked over and observed her chopping technique, nodding with approval, his dark eyes washing over her as he subtly sniffed her hair. It always smelled so clean.
The Potions master knew what she'd done as well. He had known she'd do it once she saw what was in store for her after inhaling the Oracle draught. It was her only option for a truly happy life.
Now she was free to pursue her proper calling and connect with her proper mate.
Which, incidentally, would be him.
A/N: Lol, just a little early morning Ron-Bashing as I wait for the Burning Pen to transfer to the new hosting service. I don't want to do any updates of my stories until that's done because I've already backed it up. So I just did this to soothe the writing itch. So far, it's been seven hours of transfer. Sigh. I had to restart it at 1 am this morning and it's still going. Anyway, thanks for reading.