Chapter 3: At Last
AUTHOR: Mnemosyne
For Disclaimer and other information, see Chapter 1
It's morning light I dread.
Another day of knowing of the path I fear to tread.
Into the sea of waking dreams I follow without pride.
'Cause nothing stands between us here,
And I won't be denied…
-"Possession" by Sarah McLachlan
His palm brushed over the scar on her chest, creating a sympathetic tingle, and she gasped.
"Sorry," Ron panted against her shoulder, moving to take his hand away.
"No…!" Hermione exclaimed, grabbing his hand and pressing it harder against her breastbone. "It feels good…"
"Really?"
"Mmmm…"
Accepting that answer, he mumbled something incomprehensible, and Hermione felt his body relax beside her. Their legs and arms were so entangled, it was probably more appropriate to say she felt his body relax above, around, beneath and beside her, but her brain wouldn't function properly, so she didn't bother to make the mental correction. In fact, there was very little of her that was actually functioning normally. She couldn't make her arms or legs move, and her eyes kept trying to close; something she was valiantly fighting, but it was a losing battle. The only thing that seemed to be going at top speed was her heart, which was pounding against her ribs like a jackhammer. Her lungs in turn were fighting for air, though at least she was only breathing heavily now, rather than gasping as she had been a minute before.
A warm flush of pleasure began to creep up Hermione's body, starting at the soles of her feet and slowly curling up her legs, circling quickly around her hips and midriff, and then spreading out like a warm sunrise over her torso and down her arms. It took her a moment to figure out exactly what it was. No, it definitely wasn't… THAT. It made her giggle giddily just thinking about THAT. No, this was something different. Less physical, but still potent.
When the realization struck her, it was like a lightning bolt.
She was happy.
It wasn't a strong enough word for how she felt, and that was a fact, so she set her prodigious mind to trying to find an apt simile. Something more intense and less vague. But her brain was still lounging in a deck chair, basking in the afterglow, and she couldn't get it to wake up and pay attention. So she had to settle for a list of adjectives instead.
She was content, pleased, thrilled, warm, comfortable, safe, hyper, expansive, subdued, tender, ravenous, desperate, obsessed, pleading, lustful, passionate, romantic, nervous, dreamy, eager, thoughtful, giddy, hopeful, and at peace. In other words, she was happy.
No.
VERY happy.
"Perfect," she murmured drowsily, rubbing her cheek against the pillow and cuddling deeper under Ron's sheltering body. His skin was hot against hers, and the room felt humid despite the chill of the night. The tree outside Ron's window tossed and bucked in the wind, splintering the dappled moonlight that fell on his back, which was shining under a thin sheen of sweat. Dreamily, Hermione traced her name on his back, using her index finger to form the characters in loopy script down his spine. She giggled when he shrugged his shoulder blades to fend off the tickle. She'd never giggled this much in her life. Now it seemed to be all she could manage.
Yes, she was happy; happy like she'd never been before in her life. For once, she truly had everything she wanted. There had always been a piece of her that worried she was too plain, too bushy-haired, too knobby-kneed, to ever catch someone's eye. She'd convinced herself she didn't care, and she was certain she could have gone her entire life without finding a soul mate and she would have been fine. But now that she HAD found him, she had to admit it felt better than she'd ever dreamed.
There was only one thing that still nagged at the edge of her consciousness. What would she do if she lost him? If Voldemort came along and hurled a death curse at him and killed him with a word? It was too painful to think about, so of course it dominated her thoughts. What would she do without him?
Well, that was a silly question. She'd move on. She'd mourn him, and swear vengeance, and probably carry out that revenge on a variety of deserving Death Eaters come the end. She'd visit his grave, and leave flowers for every birthday and every anniversary and every Christmas. She wouldn't wail and scream and gnash her teeth and collapse in a worthless heap of skin and bones. She'd keep going.
She just wouldn't be complete.
Losing Ron would be like having a hand cut off, or an arm, or - most likely - the heart ripped from her chest. The initials carved into her palms weren't just pretty decoration; they meant something. They symbolized union. They were a bond of blood. Already she could see herself: dressed in black, hovering beside his grave, thin lips set in a stark line against a pale face and dark, stony eyes, like twin caves in a void. What scared her most was she'd seen that look already, though not on her own face. That same hollow expression.
How was Harry doing?
Shivering, she shook off the morbid thoughts and huddled closer to Ron's side. He was already asleep, but his arms reflexively wrapped around her waist as he rolled onto his back, bringing her with him so that she was sprawled across his chest. Rather than fight it, she let herself be pulled along, delighting in being this close to him. For now, she just wanted to be happy. Let the rest of the world rend itself asunder on the other side of his bedroom door; she, for one, was going to sleep through it all.
Closing her eyes, she began turning names over in her head, trying to decide which one she liked better. Hermione Weasley. Hermione GRANGER-Weasley. "Hello, I'm Hermione Granger-Weasley." "Hello, I'm Mrs. Hermione Weasley." "Hello, I'm Hermione. Hermione Weasley. Ron's wife, you remember?"…
Even sleep couldn't wipe the peaceful smile from her face. If anything, it only got brighter.
---------------------------------------
THREE HOURS LATER
Ron's arm was asleep, but he didn't want to move it since that would wake her up, and he wasn't quite ready to do that yet. He knew he'd have to wake her soon, so she could make it back to Ginny's room before the house started stirring, but soon would just have to wait.
Hermione didn't look like an angel when she slept. She looked like Hermione, and that was much better, in Ron's opinion. Sleeping next to an angel would have been a pretty daunting task. But when Hermione slept, he could finally see her without any shields. This was the REAL Hermione; the Hermione who snored very quietly, and whose hand liked to open and close periodically as she slept, as though she were beckoning someone to come closer. She had the blankets curled up tightly under her chin and was snuggling up against him like he was a big, red-headed teddy bear. The fact that his arm was numb from the weight of her slight frame was barely an afterthought.
Part of him was still convinced this was a dream. There was no way in a million years Hermione Granger had married him; certainly not in a secret ritual by the river in the middle of the night. And she most CERTAINLY was not sleeping next to him, her fluffy brown hair tickling his chin. Things like that didn't happen to Ron Weasley. Perhaps to his brother Bill, and maybe Charlie, and even Fred and George, but not him. He was the king of hand-me-downs; nothing he ever had was truly HIS. But she'd written her name down the ridge of his spine with a lazy index finger, and she'd carved her initials into the palms of his hands. The phantom pain he still felt from the latter act told him that it was most definitely NOT a dream.
Raising one hand, he looked at the initial drawn there. G. Granger. Was she a Granger anymore? Would she want to use his last name? Or perhaps hyphenate the two? Would it even matter yet, since they intended to keep the whole thing a secret?
He snorted. Right, a secret. If Ginny didn't sniff out what was up, Harry certainly would. All he'd have to do was ask why Ron was grinning like an idiot all the time, and Ron would spill the beans in a heartbeat. Hermione would probably glare and smack his arm, and maybe even give him the cold shoulder for a few days because of it, but he knew that she'd secretly be glad to have the whole thing out in the open, even if that open only consisted of one person.
He sighed and lowered his hand again, resting it on the small of her back and rubbing gently. He was rewarded with a pleased coo from the girl curled up next to him, and a happy wriggle. Honestly, Hermione was making sounds tonight that he'd never heard her make before. For the life of him, he couldn't remember a time she'd ever actually COOED. Just because of a little touching!
Oh, who was he kidding. HE'D been cooing up a storm earlier, because Hermione had incredibly soft skin, and she smelled like apricot, and she'd obviously read enough books to know EXACTLY what to do…
A rampant red blush was burning his cheeks, and he coughed to break that train of thought before it went any further. Oh, yes, that's exactly how you want to wake her up, Ron. Start mauling her like a cougar in heat.
A sudden wave of protectiveness rolled over him, and he wrapped his arms firmly around her slim body, forcing the numb hand to move despite its protests. He had never felt this way before. Yes, he'd had crushes, and puppy loves when he was younger, but never anything as strong as LOVE. Crushes melted as quickly as ice cream, and puppy love faded with age, but Ron could never imagine ever truly loving anybody who wasn't Hermione. Now he understood his parents; why his mother always kept one eye on their Family Clock when Mr. Weasley was out of the house.
"No one else but you, Hermione," he murmured to the silent bedroom, idly stroking her tailbone. He could feel the unnaturally smooth pink scar on her chest as it rubbed against his, and he closed his eyes. If Dolohov had succeeded… If any little thing had gone wrong…
"It didn't," he reminded himself firmly. "She's here."
She almost wasn't.
To his surprise, tears were in his eyes. He quickly blinked them away, bringing up his hand to scrub away the more determined ones. Blubbing like a baby wasn't going to change the fact that they were in danger now; REAL danger. They weren't just Harry's friends anymore; they were honorary members of the Order, with age their only barrier. Dumbledore and McGonagall and the elder Weasleys could tell them all they wanted that they were not to get involved in the fight against You-Know-Who, but it was too late. They WERE involved, and had been since day one, on the train, when a boy named Ron Weasley asked a boy named Harry Potter to show him his scar.
How was Harry doing?
The clock on his wall told him it was well past 3:30 in the morning. He really needed to wake Hermione up soon. He didn't think she'd be impressed if he let her oversleep because he was daydreaming about their acrobatics from earlier in the night. The ache in his back was vying for attention with the numbness in his arm, but he decided there were worse problems to have.
Oddly enough, he was actually looking forward to waking the sleeping girl. Not because she'd leave - he didn't want her to - but because he'd get to help her dress. They'd been in such a frenzied rush when they stumbled into his bedroom earlier that night that he hadn't gotten to enjoy UNdressing her. But this time was going to be different. He was going to take his time, and really pay attention to what he was doing.
Maybe she'd help him dress, too. Maybe she'd kiss the scars on his arms, and the letters on his hands, and tell him how much she loved him; the way she had three hours ago. Maybe she'd tell him to forget keeping this a secret. "Let's tell everyone at breakfast. They'll understand. Now shhh… Go back to sleep."
Hermione stirred beside him, mumbling something in her sleep, and he could tell she was waking up. That unerring internal clock of hers was probably telling her the same thing the clock on his wall was telling him; that it was time to go. Well, if she was going to wake up anyway, he'd watch her. That would be a first: watching Hermione wake up. Just one more first in a night of new beginnings.
He tilted his head down to bury his face in her hair. He'd told her earlier that he wanted to do everything he could to be with her while they had the chance, and he'd done it. There was only one problem. He wanted to KEEP doing it, for a long, long time. If You-Know-Who ever did anything to hurt her… Well, then The Boy Who Lived would be the least of the dark wizard's worries.
Like the Forbidden Curses, old magic only worked when the people who used it REALLY believed in what they were doing, which meant that when he married Hermione, he loved her. And she loved him. And it wasn't just a young love; a fleeting love; a transient emotion. It was LOVE, deep as marrow; unshakeable. He wondered if that was unusual.
"Ron…?"
Rousing himself from his thoughts, he answered. "Good morning."
"Is it morning?" She raised a sleepy head. "Really?"
He glanced out the window. "Yeah," he admitted, nodding. "But really, really early."
Her face stretched out in a huge yawn, before she collapsed forward onto his chest in a boneless heap. "Don't wanna get up…" she complained drowsily. "Comf'ble…"
I will not laugh, I will not laugh, I value my life, I will not laugh… "My dad will be getting up for work soon," he told her. "You have to." She groaned. "I'm sorry. I'll get up too. Walk you to your room. Then we both have to suffer."
She took a moment to think about that, then snuggled closer and cooed. "Good."
Ron snorted. "Mean girl."
They rested in silence for a minute, as Hermione's senses slowly returned. "Ron?" she finally murmured.
"Mmm?"
"Any regrets?"
He thought quietly for a minute. Yes, he thought. Plenty. Because I think if I ever lost you, I'd start to die, little by little, until I joined you on the other side. I think if anyone ever hurts you, I'll kill them. I think I've never felt like this about anyone before, and some of it scares me. And I think you feel the same.
"None," he finally answered. "None at all."
THE END