Getting It Right

Ron thinks it's very surreal to actually be at a wedding where one of his brothers is getting married. He's only been to a handful of weddings before, usually distant relatives he's never seen before or one of his Dad's co-workers from the Ministry, and those were always boring times to dress up in scratchy clothes and wait impatiently for the reception and the food. He's never really cared about a wedding before.

He sits through the ceremony with the unfamiliar sensation of actually paying attention to what's happening. It's strange to see his brother pledging 'to honour and cherish till death do us part.' Ron doesn't really like the last part of that phrase, because who wants to talk about death when it's such a happy occasion? But Bill says it, and Fleur returns it, and it gives Ron a sort of warm, comforting feeling inside to know that even though bad things are happening, people can still go on being happy.

Ron sometimes wonders if he's going to be able to find that sort of happiness. He'd like to, he thinks, but he isn't sure if he ever will. If he doesn't somehow manage to put his foot in it, the war will, he's sure. Sometimes he lets himself imagine what it might be like, and he's almost afraid to admit to himself who he imagines that happiness will be with. It's a little easier at the moment, though, because Hermione is sitting beside him on one of the white folding chairs conjured up in neat little rows for the ceremony, and the side of her leg is pressed against his, just enough for him to be very aware that she's sitting there. There's a pink flower tucked into her hair and when the light breeze shifts just so he can catch its scent, spicy and fresh and very Hermione. It makes him think of the love potion they studied in class. It smelled just like that flower, mixed with the crisp scent of parchment, the bitter tang of ink, and the musty scent of dusty books, a scent that altogether whispers Hermione and makes him feel as if his veins are filled with something more pungent and powerful than blood.

When the ceremony is over, everyone stands for the new Mr and Mrs Weasley, and Ron feels a small hand slip into his and squeeze slightly. He knows it's Hermione's hand, but he's afraid to look at her, because he's filled with the fear of yet again saying something completely stupid, or saying something that will make Hermione say something completely stupid, and they can't afford to fight anymore. They're leaving with Harry in the morning to start looking for the Horcruxes, and they simply cannot start another row. Ron wants more than to hold her hand, wants it so desperately that he thinks he might just burst out of his skin with wanting it, but he's paralysed by the fear of doing something wrong and so he does nothing. He cannot even bring himself to squeeze back, thinking that if there's a way to do that wrong, he probably will - Ron, you're doing it wrong, he imagines her saying, and when she slips her hand away he silently curses his stupidity.

He continues mentally kicking himself all through the reception. He catches a brief glimpse of Hermione while he's stuck in a conversation with Hagrid that he can't escape, and again spies her across the garden when his Great-Aunt Muriel swoops down on him for smothering hugs and exclamations of the 'My, how tall you've grown' sort. Ron grins politely, swipes a glass of champagne from the nearest table, and steels himself for what turns out to be a very long, very one-sided conversation.

It isn't until three glasses later that Ron is able to free himself from Great-Aunt Muriel's clutches, and only then because she finally got a chance to chat with the bride and groom. He refills his glass and sets off in search of Hermione. She isn't with Harry and Ginny, who are having an awkward-looking conversation at a table on the other side of the garden. She isn't with the twins, or Gabrielle, or anyone else he can see, so he goes off in search of her.

Ron finally finds her in the house, up in the room she's sharing with Ginny. She's going through her things, sorting clothes and books and things into piles on the camp bed his mum set up for her, and she stops every so often to rub at her eyes. He stands and watches her for a moment, twirling his champagne glass slowly in his fingers while he tries to figure out what to say to her.

She saves him the trouble. "You can come in," she says, not looking up, and her voice catches.

"What are you doing?" he asks. He sets his glass on the dresser, and sees that she has one there herself.

"Packing for tomorrow," she replies. Her tone is short and snippy and Ron doesn't say anything in return. He wants so badly not to fuck this up, but it seems inevitable, and it's really not what they need right now.

He watches her pack in silence. She shrinks books and jumpers and parchment with a vengeance that makes him very glad he isn't packable.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she blurts as she shoves a shrunken stack of books into her rucksack.

"Earlier?" Ron says. The champagne has dulled his brain, leaving him feeling pleasantly slow, and he can't quite figure out what she means.

She waves a hand in the direction of the back garden. "Out there. At the ceremony."

"Oh," says Ron, realisation dawning on him in a muted sort of way. "No, don't be."

"I shouldn't have - I just thought -" She shrugs and stuffs some clothes into her bag, turning her back on him.

He steps up behind her before he realises it, catching her hand and twining his fingers with hers as it emerges from her bag. "I wanted you to," he says softly. The pink flower is still tucked into her hair, and he inhales its scent as he rubs his thumb along the side of her wrist.

"I couldn't tell," she says softly. "I thought you did, and then I thought you didn't, and then I didn't know what to think, so I..." Her voice trails off and her head droops a bit.

Ron wraps his other arm around her, resting at her waist, and she leans back against him and he's holding her. It's different than how he held her at Dumbledore's funeral, somehow; she feels more there, more alive. He feels more alive. His heart feels like it might thud right out of his chest, against her back. The smooth curve of her arse is pressed firmly against him in a way that he doesn't think he ought to be concentrating on right now, because if he were to react to that it would be yet another of the 1001 Ways Ron Weasley Fucks Things Up, but he can't help but let his fingers splay out over her belly, pulling her closer.

Hermione makes a soft noise and her free hand slides along his arm at her waist until her fingers meet his and slip in between them. Ron's almost afraid to breathe, afraid to move, because he's paralysed with the fear of ruining this perfect, crystalline moment, until her hand urges his upward with the tiniest of nudges, but it's enough for Ron to know he isn't wrong. His hand curves along the swell of Hermione's breast as though his hand was made to touch her, and he can feel the thudthud of her heart under his palm as it lingers there.

"Oh," he says softly, burying his nose in her hair. "This... okay?" He hopes desperately that it is, because every part of him that touches her feels like it's been filled with the tiny bubbles that sparkled in his champagne glass just moments ago and he doesn't think he can stand it if she says it isn't. She nods, and he breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of her like oxygen. It's as if his entire existence has condensed down to the two of them, with nothing looming over their heads other than the tension between them that's stretched so tightly that it should have snapped years ago.

Then Hermione turns round in his arms and before he even realises what she's doing, she's kissing him. It isn't as though he has many kisses to compare it to, but he thinks it's fucking brilliant and immediately he decides it'll be impossible for him to ever get tired of kissing her. She's up on her tiptoes now, clutching at his shoulders to keep her balance because she's just not quite tall enough to manage it otherwise, and it's what makes Ron slip his hands under her arse and hoist her upwards, thinking Merlin if I drop her, she'll hex my bits off before taking the three clumsy steps it takes to prop her against the wall. Hermione laughs at that, but not in the Ron, you're doing it wrong sort of way, and he likes this laugh. He likes it even better when she wraps her legs around him. He's so close to her like this, with her thin summer dress sliding up her thighs, and it's so easy to slide his hand up the back of her thigh and just under the elastic of her knickers, which makes her tilt her hips up just so against his and he thinks if she does it again like that he'll come right then and there. It won't take much, not with the steady hum of desire that thrums through him, frightening in its intensity. Hermione's face is flushed, her hair falling out of its neat knot and the pink flower dangling precariously behind her ear, and he knows she feels it too; that he isn't wrong this time, but more right than he's ever been about anything in his life.

And when she kisses him again, the blood in his ears pounds so loudly that he barely hears the hesitant tap on the door. "Ron... Hermione?" It's Harry's voice, and it takes a moment for it to register in Ron's mind; when it does, he grips Hermione's hips and curses softly against her shoulder.

"Your mum sent me to find you," Harry says, and Ron can hear the smugness in his voice. About time, he imagines Harry saying later, and Ron wants very badly to slug him right then. "Something about throwing the bouquet and all that rot."

Hermione wriggles against him and Ron sucks in a sharp breath, willing himself to think of anything but the warmth and friction of her body against his. "Yeah," he manages to choke out, "be down in a minute or so?"

Harry makes a noise like a poorly-disguised snigger that turns into a choking cough and his footsteps fade away, leaving Ron and Hermione in silence again.

"Well," Hermione says, after a pause, "I suppose we ought to go back to the party." Her voice is practical again, but a bit shaky, and Ron knows why. He's shaky himself, from heart to knees to everything in between, and he doesn't want to let go but the thought of the rage his mother could work up to if they don't come back down is enough to set Hermione on her feet again. She straightens her dress and squeezes his hand and looks at him for a long moment before tugging at his hand. "Let's go," she says softly, and the simple act of walking downstairs with her, holding her hand and not caring who sees, is worth the interruption.

The rest will happen in its own good time, he knows.