Chapter 24

She had cried when he first told her. Hard. In fact, he'd been a bit shaken by her reaction, as her face crumpled and the tears began to flow, her breathing labored through spasms of sobs — so much so that he'd wondered if he'd done the right thing.

But eventually, Ron was able to get a word in edgewise, and when he did, he was pleased to see Hermione's features soften and that the tears that had been rolling down her cheeks were not the result of sadness or anger but of relief and gratitude.

To be fair to her, it *had* been a hell of a couple of days — an emotional roller-coaster, truth be told. She had a right to be a bit out of sorts.

He had half expected her to be cross with him, and couldn't help feeling relief that she apparently wasn't — but her anger would have been easier to deal with than her tears. Hermione-in-a-snit was more familiar terrain for Ron than Hermione-in-a-pool-of-tears. But there was nothing to be done for it. She had a right to be a bit angry if she'd chosen to be — in some ways, his actions went against her own instincts. But his duty, according to the Aurors' Handbook of Protocol, was clearly spelled out. Protocol, however, wasn't what motivated him to take action on this particular Monday morning. His duty, according to his own heart — a much higher authority than the Aurors' Handbook, as far as he was concerned — was to seek what measure of justice remained unfulfilled by his decision to plant his fist in the middle of Aris Thayer's face.

He'd set out that morning for work as usual, but knew that he would have to take a detour to Bernard Brocklehurst's office sometime that morning to report what he knew. The superintendent of the Auror Corps, a large brick house of a man, did not like to be kept in the dark for long on anything that affected his crew — and Ron knew that, given how quickly word tended to spread in this tight-knit organization, it wouldn't be long before Brocklehurst learned of what Ron had done to Thayer, and what prompted it, and he reckoned it was best to carry the news to Brocklehurst himself rather than to have it drift to him through the uncontrollable forces of gossip and innuendo. Hell, he'd already taken more of a risk than was probably wise by letting the matter rest for the course of a weekend.

"These are serious charges, Weasley, serious charges indeed," Brocklehurst said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers under his chin, his jaw set in a tight line. The truth was, Brocklehurst was deeply disturbed by Ron's allegations. Part of him sincerely hoped the report was false. Thayer was an excellent recruit — one of the best in his class. If he hadn't been, Brocklehurst wouldn't have trusted him with the Grangers' lives when they went on holiday to Spain.

That said, this was Ron Weasley sitting across from him — one third of the Golden Trio, and easily one of the most promising Auror prospects to come along in years. In fact, with the force so depleted, Brocklehurst had been entertaining the notion of moving Ron up the ranks on a somewhat accelerated course — and the way that the other Aurors responded to Ron's ideas, heeded his judgment, and respected his actions, Brocklehurst could easily imagine him running the entire Corps someday. On top of all this … the notion that anyone would dare presume to harm Hermione Granger made Brocklehurst's blood boil. His sense of honor made him bridle at the idea of any sort of sexual assault, of course, but on top of that, Hermione was a war hero who deserved nothing but the utmost respect from the entire wizarding world. And, besides, Brocklehurst happened to like Hermione personally. Over the past few months of working with her to rebuild the Ministry, he had come to like her very much indeed.

Fortunately for Brocklehurst, the Aurors' Handbook laid out a clear course of action and, in many ways, his next decisions were already made for him — just as much as Ron's had been. As an Auror — even an Apprentice Auror — it was Ron's duty to report any violations of the Auror Code to his superiors. And as head of the department, it was Brocklehurst's duty to investigate and to take the necessary punitive actions. Both he and Ron were well aware of this.

Brocklehurst sighed deeply and then drew in another deep breath.

"You know what this means, of course," Brocklehurst said on the exhale.

Ron nodded.

Ron realized Hermione was entitled to pursue her complaint against Thayer in Wizarding Court, but he also intuited that this was the last thing she wanted to do. The publicity would be brutal. But as a matter of Auror Corps discipline, the situation could be handled much more discreetly — and justice could still be done. Knowing Hermione's wish to keep this as quiet as possible, Ron reasoned that this was the best course.

Brocklehurst waved his wand to call in the assistant sitting outside in the office's antechambers.

Not a quarter of an hour later, Thayer had been summoned to Brocklehurst's office, as had Harry, who would be needed to serve as a witness, as the Aurors' Handbook required.

"That's a total lie," Thayer sputtered after being apprised of the charges being laid him. "It's her word against mine — and I say she's a bloody liar."

Ron, who had been standing across the room from Thayer, his fists clenched, leaned forward as if he'd like nothing better than to launch himself at Thayer and cave his face in again for him. But Harry grabbed Ron by the arm — perhaps more firmly than was really necessary — and Ron pulled back.

"Thayer, I'm disappointed to find that you must not have read your Handbook as closely as you should have during training," said Brocklehurst drily. "If you had, you'd know that your opinion of your accuser is hardly relevant." With that, he flicked his wand and Accioed a small glass vial, which flew to him from the credenza behind his desk. He pulled the stopper and extended the bottle to Thayer. No words were spoken, but the unmistakable purple color of the liquid inside left no question as to the bottle's contents.

"Veritaserum?" Thayer said at a near shout, his eyes darting from the bottle to Brocklehurst's face and back again. "You've got to be kidding me!"

"I can assure you, I am most serious, lad," Brocklehurst replied. "You should be well aware, Thayer, that an Auror accused of a felony is required to submit his or her memory of the incident under Veritaserum. Now if you would please stop wasting my time, I would ask you to drink this and then extract the relevant memory while I prepare the Pensieve."

Thayer, who had by then blanched to a pasty shade of white, shook with suppressed rage as he took he vial from Brocklehurst's extended hand. He looked at it closely, then cast his eyes about the room, as if searching for a way to avoid what he knew must come next.

Brocklehurst, by this time, was coolly setting up his Pensieve, showing no sign that he was even paying attention to Thayer's distress.

"And what the bloody hell are *they* doing here, then," Thayer demanded, throwing a hard look at Ron and then Harry.

"Mr. Weasley is the reporting officer, Thayer, and Mr. Potter is here, as the Handbook requires, is to serve as a third-party witness to your Pensieve testimony," Brocklehurst answered as he calmly moved the Pensieve from the cabinet where it was stored to the top of his desk. "Drink up, Thayer, and let's get on with it."

Seeing no way to forestall the inevitable, Thayer drank the contents of the vial, gasping at the bitter taste.

"Relevant memory, please," Brocklehurst continued. "Friday evening, about 6:45 p.m."

Thayer's shoulders slumped. If there was a way out of this, he couldn't see one. Resigned, he raised his wand to his forehead and extracted the memory, carrying the thin silver thread of it from his temple and dropping it into the Pensieve, where it swirled and bubbled.

"You first, Thayer," Brocklehurst said, and Thayer bent and tumbled into the Pensieve. Brocklehurst cocked his head toward Ron and Harry, who dove in after Thayer, followed by Brocklehurst himself.

Hours later, Ron decided to take the Muggle way home, walking rather than Apparating from the Ministry, winding slowly through the back streets of the Diagon Alley district toward the flat above Wheezes, where he knew Hermione would be waiting for him since she'd promised to make a big dinner to celebrate their first workday as official roommates. She had planned to take the afternoon off — her first bit of time off since joining Kingsley's office — to shop and to otherwise putter about the flat, so delighted was she with the prospect of making the place homey for Ron.

The thought made him smile vaguely even now, as he shuffled over the paving stones of Diagon Alley, heedless of the stares of bypassers and the whispers of teen-aged witches who took notice of him, a bona fide celebrity, as he passed.

He needed the time that walking afforded him to think. He'd known the general outlines of what he would see when he plunged into the Pensieve — in fact, he'd been eager to look, to confirm his outrage, to fuel his anger against Thayer, that bastard.

He hadn't counted on how it would feel to actually *watch* what Hermione had described. Seeing Thayer grab Hermione's wrist so forcefully was the first jolt … the look of fear in her eyes, a look Ron recognized, with a chill down his spine, as the expression quite like the one she bore when the Snatchers caught the trio back during the Horcrux hunt … the shock as Thayer pressed his physical advantage … the sound of her voice cracking in panic and rage … it was all Ron could do to repress his urge to charge across the room and give the real, live Thayer the thumping of his life. At one point, Ron caught sight of Harry and could tell immediately that he was wrestling with the same impulse: His best mate's eyes were wide, his lips drawn tight — so tight that they were almost white — and his hands were balled up into fists.

And yet, as they watched, Hermione had prevailed, fending off an attack by a trained Auror roughly six inches taller and a good four or five stone heavier than she was, at least. Watching her hex Thayer and then send him tumbling down the stairs sent a ripple of pride through Ron's chest, despite his jangling nerves. She truly was a marvel.

On Sunday night, he had assiduously avoided the topic of Thayer, the assault and what to do next, not wanting to spoil their joy over their new living arrangements. But the matter was inescapable, especially since Monday would be the first day that Ron expected to be back in the Auror Department with Thayer present, and so he broached the subject, however tentatively, over breakfast.

Hermione had made it abundantly clear, as she buttered her toast and sipped her tea, that she simply wanted the whole ugly episode to go away with as little fuss as possible. As far as she was concerned, she had handled the situation by hexing Thayer to within an inch of his life; no further justice was necessary. Ron could tell, from the artificially firm tone of her voice, that even she had underlying doubts about this line of thought. After all, if he was capable of doing this to Hermione, who was to say that he wouldn't do it again to someone else? And she knew the wizarding law as well as anyone — she was well aware that the oath Ron took when he became an Auror forbade him from looking the other way. He reckoned, however, that Hermione's reticence had as much to do with her embarrassment and chagrin at being thought of as a victim in some way as it did with her wish to avoid publicity at all costs. The war had thrust all three of them into the spotlight, and while Harry had a certain familiarity with the sensation, the attention had proved to be a nuisance to Ron and downright unsettling to Hermione. Her newfound fame had brought her no end of unwanted scrutiny, particularly from men, and her negative experiences with the Daily Prophet had only deepened her distaste for the wizarding press. He knew — they both knew — that a sexual assault case involving one of the Golden Trio would be a media extravaganza.

Ron shuddered at the idea, flipping the collar of his jacket up against his neck to block out a cold breeze as he continued his slow march toward the flat.

"I suppose you have to do what you have to do," Hermione had said that morning as they parted the Ministry atrium.

"You're right. I do," he had said. Then, taking both her hands in his and squeezing them firmly, he added, "but whatever I do, I'll try my damnedest to keep you out of it, OK?"

She had nodded, her lips set in a determined line, and squeezed his hands back before turning and heading toward the lifts.

Turning the corner toward Wheezes, he reminded himself for the hundredth time that taking the complaint to Brocklehurst was the right thing to do. When the Pensieve session was over, Thayer had been transported directly to Azkaban — Brocklehurst had seen to it personally — and his credentials as an Auror had been stripped permanently. Thayer was due to spend at least a year in custody. If Hermione had pursued a criminal prosecution in Wizarding Court, Thayer's punishment might have been more severe — but Hermione would have been punished in her own way, as well. No, Brocklehurst was right. This outcome was best for all involved. And Aris Thayer would certainly never work for the Ministry again. Good riddance, Ron thought.

After arriving home, enjoying Hermione's enthusiastic greeting and the kisses she showered on his lips, his nose and his cheeks, then taking a moment to savor the smell of what he guessed was cottage pie wafting from the kitchen, Ron took her by the hand and led her to the sofa.

Her expression shifted from a warm smile to a look of wariness. "You … you did something about Aris, didn't you?" she asked quietly, pressing her knees together primly and sitting on the edge of the sofa cushion with her back set as straight as a washboard.

Ron held her hand in both of his, turning it over and studying it, palm up, as if the answers to some sort of cosmic quiz might be scribbled there. "I did," he said quietly, still looking at her hand. "I said I would, and I did."

That's when Hermione's tears began to flow. "I had to do it, Hermione," he said plaintively, still clasping her hand in one of his while wrapping his other arm around her shoulder. "I had to, love. But I promise you, it will be all right. It will."

After much snuffling and carrying on, Hermione recovered her breath enough to speak again, looking up into his face with a crinkled brow and a protruding lower lip. "I suppose the Auror Handbook didn't give you much choice, did it," she said, sniffing again deeply.

Ron shook his head. "I didn't turn him in because of the Handbook, Hermione," he said quietly. "I turned him in because …"

Suddenly he realized that she had stopped shaking and sniffling and, in fact, she was gazing at him intently, focusing 100 percent of her attention on him. A thought flickered through his mind — good Godric, how many times in my life have I wanted to have her undivided attention like this? — but he shook it off and gathered his thoughts. He *knew* why he had gone to Brocklehurst. But could he put it into words?

His mind returned to the countless times he had wanted to protect her — the few times when he had succeeded, and the far more frequent times when he had failed. Things had changed, though. Over the course of the past few days, something very important had shifted. The reality of it was still seeping into his consciousness, however slowly, but it was there, and he knew it: Her welfare in all its forms — that was his business now. And he hoped it always would be.

In the time it had taken to Ron to formulate these thoughts, Hermione's face had transformed yet again. The tears that had been spilling over onto her cheeks were pooling in her eyes now, and her lips were bent in the slightest of smiles.

"I did it because," he murmured, losing his train of thought momentarily, a bit hypnotized by her glance. "I did it because … you're mine," he added, his words sounding distant to his own ears, enraptured as he was by the soft shine of her eyes.

What Ron didn't know was that Hermione's heart had been slowly melting as he sat there reaching for words. It had started to dawn on her what Ron was going to say, even if she didn't know the exact way he might phrase it — he always did have a face like a billboard, Ron did.

So when he finally got around to putting it so simply — "you're mine" — she felt her heart pang so hard that she thought it might just stop on the spot.

"Oh, Ron," was all she could manage to say through a watery grin before leaning toward him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders, a fresh torrent of tears rising to her eyes. And soon, before she could piece together quite how, she was on his lap, enveloped in his arms, her face pressed against his neck as he pulled her close and ran his hands up and down her back, against the back of her neck, deep into her hair and back again toward her bum.

Something about the close contact brought forth the words that Ron had been struggling to grasp. "Mione, love, I didn't mean to make you cry," he said soothingly into her ear. "Honestly, I didn't."

She sniffled and muttered "it's OK" against the skin of his neck, smiling despite the tears.

"It's just that, blimey, it's my job now to make anyone who hurts you pay, know what I mean? And it's my job now to protect you, even if it's just from the Daily Prophet. And I should have told you exactly what I was going to do, but I was afraid you would try to stop me. I know you probably just wanted me to let it go and hope the whole thing would go away, but I just couldn't do that Hermione," he said, the words bubbling out of him, gaining speed and urgency. He so wanted her to understand — and still feared that she didn't. "I know you can take care of yourself, but you shouldn't have to do these things alone, love. Not anymore. Does that make any sense?"

Hermione leaned back then and looked up into his eyes, sliding one hand up to his cheek. Her smile surprised him slightly, but it was only a split second before he returned it.

"I love you so much, Ronald Weasley," she whispered. "So very, very much."

At that, Ron angled his head and nuzzled Hermione's nose with his before planting a soft kiss on her lips. She slipped her arms back around his shoulders and gripped him tightly, silently urging him to deepen the kiss — and he complied, gripping her waist and tugging her even closer, a movement that brought Hermione's bum into delectable contact with Ron's cock, which was gradually hardening beneath her. She smiled to herself, feeling a surge of power at the thought that she could cause such reactions in him with only the slightest movement. She shimmied her hips a bit, drawing a guttural sound from deep within Ron's throat. Another gentle shimmy, and Ron took matters into his own hands, dipping one arm beneath her knees and quickly rising to his feet with Hermione in his arms. She peeped in surprise but didn't protest, and Ron carried her swiftly to the bedroom and laid her gently atop the bed.

Over the many decades of her life to come, Hermione would often look back on this night as the first time she and Ron really and properly made *love* in every sense of the word — not that the previous times weren't magnificent and special in their own right, but something about this time set the tone for the years ahead. She couldn't quite explain it, but something about Ron's actions that day, and they way he explained them, reinforced her trust in him to such a degree — well, she completely forgot to be ashamed, embarrassed or inhibited as they undressed one another, as Ron explored her body with his hands, his lips and his eyes, and as they became one. It was the first time she gave herself over to Ron completely, abandoning all other concerns, and the feeling was … sublime. He was *her man* now, and she wanted little more than to be surrounded by him, consumed by him, savored by him. And she savored him in return.

Over the years, Hermione wasn't the only one who privately looked back on this particular evening with fondness. Ron felt the difference in their lovemaking that night, too, and treasured it as the moment when his understanding with Hermione deepened to the point where they both knew — though it went unsaid on that particular evening — that they were inseparable now.

They roused themselves to eat Hermione's cottage pie later that evening, then made love again before falling asleep in one another's arms. Well, actually, Hermione had drifted off before Ron did — there was still too much for him to think and feel, and so he had stretched out, Hermione lying snug against his chest, and turned the events of the previous few days over in his head. He marveled that Aris Thayer's bad behavior was the spark that lit the flame of his relationship with Hermione. He couldn't quite bring himself to feel thankful to Thayer for it — the thought of that git hurting Hermione made Ron physically queasy and always would — but he could at least be thankful that he himself had done what he needed to do, landing a well-aimed punch to the center of Thayer's face when it mattered most. And he was even more thankful that Hermione, quite miraculously, appreciated it.

~~ Finis ~~

oooOOOooo

A/N — Hi there, lovely readers! This is the final chapter of "One Punch: A History." When I first outlined this story, I had intended to finish it in that chapter where Hermione heals Ron's bruised hand. But then … well … I couldn't resist the urge to continue. I hope you enjoyed it!

I may very well come back and add to this story at some point in the future. In the meantime, please do review and let me know how you liked this tale in its current form. And if you're in the mood for more Romione-ness, check out my other FFN story, "All In."

Many thanks for reading and taking the time to share your thoughts — and take care!

Cheers,

Holly.

P.S. - I just started a third fic called "What's Changed—And What Hasn't." As of this writing, I've got two chapters published and one in progress. It's a post-war Romione tale which, unlike my other two works, aims to be canon-compliant. Though canon appears to be shifting, what with the recent debut of the new Harry Potter play! Anyway, take a look and let me know what you think, won't you? Many thanks ...

P.P.S - And hey, dear readers, if you liked this story (or "All In" or my work-in-progress, "What's Changed—And What Hasn't"), do you think you might share with your friends? I'd be honored if you did!