Weasley Wedding Woes

The reception had been simply grand. She couldn't deny that as she closed the hotel door behind her, slipping the dead bolt into place. Even though it was intended to be a private party - Molly had promised 'Just a few friends and family, dear.'- nearly three hundred people had attended the nuptials of Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger.

Of course, she mused as she sat down in front of the antique vanity, the extended Weasley clan had taken up nearly a third of the guest list. Aunts, uncles and cousins had poured into the reception hall as freely as butterbeer had from the Three Broomsticks during a Hogsmeade weekend. With only twenty-five Muggle relatives, Hermione's guest list was severely outnumbered, but the bride herself had never been outvoted when it came to the details.

As she slowly pulled the beads, baubles and pins out of her heavily coiffed hair, memories of the planning arguments with Molly flowed through her tired mind: the shock that Hermione wanted to be married by a Muggle pastor and have the reception in a Muggle hotel; the bartering of which obscure, but necessary, Wizarding traditions to include in the ceremony. With all the tears shed, insults screamed and sleepless nights, it was amazing that she and Ron had made it to this point at all - The wedding night.

Once her hair was free, she gave it a good solid shake. The girl that looked back at her from the mirror was a mystery. The unkempt, bushy fullness of her hair didn't match up to the elegant Victorian wedding gown she wore. The dress was a deep cream, and the corset gave her body a shape that belied her youthful age of twenty. She smiled at her reflection, but deep inside a part of her still wondered where the bucktoothed girl of eleven had gone.

Pansy Parkinson's bitter words during their fourth year still hurt. Her? Pretty? Who would want to date her? Hermione straightened herself in the chair, bristling at the thought. Plenty of boys had offered during her time at Hogwarts, of course. After the fiasco surrounding Viktor Krum however, she turned each of them down firmly but gently, often saying that she didn't want the distraction of dating while at school.

Hermione Granger was never distracted when it came to love though. She had known whom she wanted since the tender age of fourteen. Sadly, the object of her affection was thicker than a Percy Weasley approved cauldron bottom. She watched and waited as Ron had dated a succession of girls in their sixth year - Lavender Brown, Pavarti and Padma Patil (at the same time no less - though Harry and Hermione had often suspected that this was due more to the fact that Ron couldn't tell them apart than his desire to play the field), Hannah Abbott, Katie Bell and even the sweet but ditzy Luna Lovegood, whose breasts had grown over that summer to match the size of her bulging, curious eyes. Ron's newfound poise on the Quidditch pitch kept them all lining up.

Speculation had run amok regarding Hermione's lack of beaux. Was she waiting for Harry? Was the Girl Who Read pining for the Boy Who Lived? By the end of her seventh year, there were even whispers that she didn't fancy boys at all and that the red haired Weasley whom she sought was a svelte Chaser rather than Gryffindor's gangly Keeper.

She had endured all of it with a small secret smile. Harry had been her confidant during the worst moments of it. He had kept her secret as faithfully as if it were Fidelius protected. Part of her even suspected at times that Harry had known about her affection for Ron before she did. He may have been bollocks at Divination, but Harry Potter certainly had seen through the mists of Hermione's heart.

A friend like that was worth more than all the gold in Gringott's, she told herself for the millionth time. When she and Ron had finally gotten together and told Harry the news, his reply had been short and sweet: It's about damn time.

A loud crash from the bathroom brought Hermione out of her reverie. As she stood up and hustled towards the loo, flashes of the wedding reception sprang into her brain: Fred and George giving Ron shot after shot of Speckle's Sour Punch (Guaranteed to give you a face not even a mother could love); Lee Jordan fetching her husband glass upon glass of Horntail Highball. And of course, Harry, who had stood as Best Man, pulling out an ancient bottle of Odgen's Old Firewhiskey. To verses of 'Weasley is our king' (the good and the bad), Ron had partaken of it all.

Hermione opened the bathroom door with a heavy sigh. The King was not upon his throne, but currently paying homage to it in Technicolor. She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly, making a mental list of the men she would jinx in the morning. As Ron heaved into the toilet again, Hermione stepped out of the bathroom. Though she had suspected that her wifely duties would include taking care of Ron in sickness, she hadn't planned on it during her wedding night. The ball was over though and Cinderella had turned back into a scullery maid; time to change into something more appropriate for the work ahead.

She made her way over to the dresser, searching through its contents to find something suitable to wear. Ginny had laid out a lovely ensemble of lingerie on the bed, but that simply wouldn't do tonight. Sexy and sultry simply didn't go with sponging vomit off of your husband's face. Hermione grinned at the thought. She pulled out a simple satin pajama set and reached behind her to pull the zipper down, grateful that Ginny had started the process for her before departing to her own room for the night.

Hermione considered calling Ginny for a bit of help with Ron, but then she had a flash of realization as she pulled her stockings off. She replayed her last conversation with the youngest Weasley in her mind: "Ginny dear, be sure to get Harry's tux from him, would you? It has to be back to the bridal shop by noon."

Ginny had grinned slyly at her, replying that she would be sure that Harry took it off, and that Hermione shouldn't worry.

Hermione chuckled to herself as she hung her wedding dress up in the closet. That girl had certainly come a long way from putting her elbow in the butter dish whenever Harry entered the Great Hall. In fact, it wouldn't surprise Hermione if her maid of honor wasn't at this moment fulfilling one of her schoolgirl fantasies. Good on you, thought Hermione, someone should get well and shagged on my wedding night.

There was another monosyllabic moan from the loo; Hermione picked up her pace and, once all of her bridal accessories were put away, reached for her purse to get her wand. A simple casting of the Detoxifying Charm and all would be well.

Her wand was not in her purse. Nor was it in the vanity, the dresser, the closet or under the bed. Hermione pursed her lips as she ravaged her room for it. Soon a stream of non-magical curses emanated from the bride's mouth and Molly Weasley's name was added in where appropriate.

Hermione slumped against the bed. Ancient Wizarding tradition my arse, she thought ruefully. She should have known the moment Molly had mentioned it last week that something like this would happen - At a Wizarding Wedding, the couple could cast no spells after midnight; the only magic they could make would be between each other.

Consigning herself to a very long and lonely night, Hermione returned to the bathroom. For the next two hours, Ron spoke not a word that anyone other than a Troll could understand. She force fed him water and tried to keep him upright and partially clean. It was a losing battle all around though, and after the first half hour, she started to cry. By the ninety-minute mark though, she was laughing hysterically. She couldn't help it; this was the most ridiculous scenario she could imagine for her wedding night.

Ron was alternating between vomiting in the toilet and the trash bin when she started to sing under her breath.

Weasley is drunker than sin,

He cannot hold his liquor in,

He spent his wedding night in a bin,

Weasley is my king!

Something about the ditty had stirred her beloved to semi-consciousness. He lifted his head briefly and repeated 'Weasley is my king' back to her. King Weasley then continued with his sporadic vomiting.

By three A.M. Hermione was at her wits end and practically asleep on her feet; Ron had stopped regurgitating but was immobile on the floor of the bathroom. Feeling that his brothers should share in some of this wedded bliss that they had bequeathed her, Hermione called the rooms of George and Fred in turn. Fred finally answered on the tenth ring.

"Whassit, Hermione?" Fred slurred. "Does ickle Ronnikins need some help polishing his wand?"

Hermione spent the next several minutes giving Fred what for until there was a knock at her door. She slammed the phone down and was shocked to see the Weasley twin she'd been yelling at standing before her. She opened her mouth to speak, but Fred pushed his way into the room.

"Figured it was easier to just let you yell, and use that time to get dressed and come down here." Fred smirked and peeked into the bathroom. When he turned back to her, Fred wore a look of amused disgust. "Not doing the family proud tonight, is he?"

Hermione shook her head and stepped back into the loo. Ron's cheek was resting against the rim of the toilet. "Could you help me get him up and over to the bed? I think he..." Her lip curled in revulsion. "...has got all of it out of his system now."

Fred grinned knowingly and nodded. He moved around to the other side of the toilet and with Hermione's help hoisted Ron into the air.

Ron seemed to have gained three stone as they tried to pull his dead weight out into the main of the hotel room. Ron emitted a small hic and then mumbled 'Weasley is our king' as his feet dragged across the carpet.

"Yes, yes," said Hermione irritably. In the singsong voice she had used during so many Quidditch games at Hogwarts, she continued:

Weasley gave me a ring,

Tonight he drank most everything,

That's why all the barkeeps sing,

Weasley is my king!

Fred was so shocked by this that he dropped his brother, leaving Hermione to bear Ron's weight while Fred roared with laughter. She managed to get her husband to the bed, but as she released him, he landed on it wrong; only his upper torso had met the mattress. The lower half of his body drooped to the floor.

Hermione shot a meaningful glare at Fred, who attempted to compose himself. He studied his brother from several angles. "Right then." Fred bent down towards his brother's ankles. "Okay Ronnikins, I'm going to grab your ankles now. And if you ever, ever tell anyone about the position I'm going to move you into, I'll have your head."

Fred pulled Ron's ankles into the air, letting them settle on his shoulders as Fred attempted to wheelbarrow his brother into a more comfortable position. Just as Fred pushed hard against Ron's pelvis, Hermione's husband lifted his head and shouted, "Do it to me, Daddy!" The words rang loud and clear throughout the hotel suite. Fred cursed under his breath as both he and Hermione exploded in laughter. Fred discarded the extra pair of limbs he'd been carrying; Ron now lay diagonally across the bed.

Fred tipped an imaginary hat to Hermione and stepped towards the door. "He's all yours now, love. Though Merlin knows why you'd want him."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Gee thanks." She gave Fred a small wave and locked the door behind him once more.

She looked longingly at the bed. She was so tired, but there was no way she'd be able to sleep comfortably with Ron lying as he was. She'd married a man who was nearly a foot taller than she was and now he was dead to the world. Sans wand, she'd have better luck trying to get a Hogwarts house-elf to wear clothes than she would trying to get her dear husband to move. With a resigned sigh, Hermione climbed over him to the uninhabited corner of the bed and tried futilely to get under the covers.

Tears stung her eyes; she just wanted to sleep. She punched him in the back a few times, hoping against hope as she sat against the headboard that Ron would just move a little bit so she could sleep.

Quicker than a Filibuster Firework, Ron did just that. He lurched around on the bed, flipping over and landing solidly face down in her lap. Within seconds, he was snoring gently.

Hermione gave an exhausted chuckle, running her fingers through her husband's ginger hair. She was reminded of Crookshanks in that moment; she looked down tenderly at his sleeping figure - he was the perfect picture of contentment and peace. Only someone that had lived through as many dangers as she, Ron and Harry had could appreciate the trust that such a deep sleep bespoke.

Happily Ever After, Harry had said after the death of Voldemort, at the start of what turned out to be years of pursuing his Death Eaters, is going to be damn hard work.

She ran her fingers across his hair over and over, slipping slowly into dreamland herself. With a loving look on her face, she whispered to no one in particular:

Weasley is my king,

Weasley is my king,

The boy to whom my heart gave in,

Weasley is my king.