Colors Seen By Candlelight

The weirdness with Ron started, Hermione thought, in July. No -- August, after Harry's birthday. She and Ron had held a party at their flat to celebrate Harry's eighteenth birthday. A small party, just them and Harry and Ginny, with presents and cake. After dessert was served and Harry opened his presents, he and Ron went out to the little balcony to talk, while Hermione and Ginny stayed inside. Hermione flicked her wand at the dishes in the sink, which began, begrudgingly, to rinse themselves and load themselves into the dishwasher. She smiled slightly and cut herself another slice of birthday cake.

"I think Harry's coming around again," Ginny said, watching Harry through the glass of the French doors.

"It wouldn't be the first time," Hermione said. "He doesn't realize how much he needs you until you remind him. When was the last time he tried to end it again?"

"April. You lot had that stupid Wales trip planned. He apparently had second thoughts about 'being attached' to me while on the hunt for You-Know-Who. He broke up with me over owl post. He's such a git sometimes." Ginny sighed and propped her head on her hands. "I don't know why I can't just let him go."

"You're good for him," Hermione said, scraping some of the excess frosting off the top of her cake. "He's just --"

"Too bloody thick to figure it out. I know. He's like that idiot brother of mine that way."

"Yes, well," Hermione said, going pink in spite of her best efforts not to. "You see how that worked out."

As if he could hear their conversation, Ron turned then and looked at Hermione through the French doors, grinning at her. Harry turned to follow his gaze, shook his head, and punched Ron on the arm. Ron held her eyes for a moment more, thoughtfully, and then grinned and turned back to Harry.

Yes, Hermione thought, nodding to herself, the strangeness had definitely started after that. Ron held her differently from then, touched her differently when they kissed. He talked to her about their life ten years, fifty years from now -- Ron, whose idea of planning ahead was packing a lunch for work. He worked longer hours, or at least he said he was, and then there was the money: oh, there was the money.

It concerned her at first, confused her. She rebalanced their checkbook three times the first time she came up short, but in the end had to admit that the checkbook was 15 galleons short and she hadn't any idea where they were. September was short too, the same amount, and when she talked to Ron about it, he acted like he didn't know what she was talking about (although she did, later, find two Gringotts withdrawal slips tucked into the back of the pocketbook.)

It continued through October and November, too, the missing 15 galleons. The two of them made enough at their jobs that they could afford to be short 60 galleons, but it worried her. What did Ron need with 15 galleons a month that he couldn't tell her about it? Was he in trouble, being blackmailed? Did he simply want to start a rainy day fund? Or was he --

She forbade herself to even think about that one.

And there were other weirdnesses. One of her favorite rings, an heirloom that belonged to her grandmother, went missing for three weeks before mysteriously returning to her jewelry box. Ron disappeared for a few hours in the evening at least once a week the whole of November and wouldn't tell her where he was going.

It was driving her mad.

In retrospect, she decided, she ought to have seen it coming, but she didn't. She was rather surprised to come home from work on a chilly December day and find Ron in their flat's miniscule kitchen, cooking dinner.

"Ron, what --" she asked, hanging her woolen winter robes in the closet.

He turned to her, face pink and hair standing on end from the steam, and grinned. "I thought I'd cook dinner tonight. You're always saying I need to learn to feed myself, or I'll starve."

"Yes," she said, cautiously, plopping down on the settee and peeling off her shoes and stockings. "Why tonight?"

He shrugged and turned back to the pan on the cooker. "No reason."

With you, Ronald Weasley, there's always a reason, she thought, but kept it to herself.

Dinner was excellent, surprisingly so for a man who had been incapable of even boiling water correctly two months previous. Ron explained that Ginny had been giving him cooking lessons -- aha, thought Hermione -- and served chicken in a white wine sauce, rice, and asparagus, paired with a decent white wine from one of the wizarding vineyards.

Through dinner, Ron was at his goofiest, telling stories about the lads at Tutshill and generally being silly, and Hermione let herself laugh, relaxing from work. She occasionally overheard her coworkers gossiping about her relationship with Ron. It made her tense. She knew there were people who didn't understand their match, didn't think they suited, but at the moment she didn't much care about them -- only about the freckly redhead sitting across from her who was watching her with an eager expression. He was what she needed, what she wanted.

"I love you, you know," she said, adding with a giggle, "and I'm fairly sure that's not the wine talking."

He blushed, bowed his head, and suddenly the goofy Ron was replaced with serious Ron, the real Ron. "Hermione," he said, reaching across the table to take her hand, "you know, I thought you were an incredible know-it-all when we first met, remember? You told me there was a spot on my nose and I was so angry with you. And then there was the troll thing, and we got to be friends, you and Harry and I, and I still thought you were bossy but all right, really."

"Yes," she said, not really sure where Ron was going with this. "I remember."

"We fought a lot at Hogwarts," he continued, "and sometimes things got kind of buggered up -- sixth year, mostly, I was a bit of a git, I can admit it now --" she smiled -- "but through it all I knew you were still my friend, even when I was so angry with you I wanted to tear my hair out. We got it together, though, didn't we?"

"Yes, we have."

"These last eighteen months -- even those nutty ones we spent looking for Horcruxes with Harry -- they've been something incredible for me, Hermione. Better than Quidditch, better than --" Ron gestured expansively, apparently at a loss for words. "Even when you're doing the things that drive me batty, like leaving your knickers in the bath or having an entire conversation without telling me what we're talking about . . . you're still the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you so much."

He paused, fumbling in his pocket underneath the table, and Hermione's mind abruptly shifted into neutral. "Half the time I think you're mental, and half the time I think I'm the one that's mental, but I can't live without you, not a day." Ron laid his left hand on the table, holding a jewelry box, open, with a sapphire ring inside. Bravely, he said, "Hermione Jane Granger, will you marry me, and promise stay with me always?"

Hermione sat there for a moment, completely stunned, and then it all clicked and her brain snapped back into motion. "Yes," she said, "yes, I promise!"

Ron's expression was at once gobsmacked and overjoyed. She was sure she looked much the same way. As Ron slid the ring onto her finger, hands trembling slightly, she knew that she was his, and he was hers, and that was how it would be.

Always.