"And so, it begins..."

[thrihyrne]

Of all days, when my husband's alarm went off at 5 a.m. I woke up too. Every few weeks I'll wake up and feel as though there is a grain of sand in my left eye (always my left eye!) though living in a land-locked state, I know that's not it. So I got up and was halfway through my shower when my husband came in and gently suggested that I go back to bed. LOL!! Right.

Tonight I'm going to the midnight showing of Return of the King, so if I don't get a nap, that means that I'll be up for a good 23 hours straight. Yikes. And I scheduled a dentist appointment for myself for 8:30 this morning. *mumblemumble what what I thinking?? mumblemumble*

Last night was productive, however. I did all of my Christmas cards for my coworkers and wrapped up some gifties for them and other friends, when not yelling at my adorable but very rambunctious cats who have found a new friend in curling ribbon. And then my muse pounced and I have the beginnings of a Ron/Hermione ficlet. Perhaps like palarran I'll give my muse a name. I need to ask her how she came up with Jeffrey.

So if any of you are not going to Trilogy Tuesday or want to look over this first part of a story, please do so here and let me know what you think.

What is a meme?



There was a small crack! as Ron apparated into their flat, shaking off the chill of the blustery evening he had left in the windy streets of Glasgow. The apartment was dark, but cozy in a decidedly intimate way that made his blood rush, and for a wild minute he contemplated shrugging off not only his robe, but all of his clothes. The youngest Weasley son had learned some restraint over the past few years, however. After taking a moment to get his bearings in the – scented, he now noted – dimness, he padded toward the bedroom.

Christmas music wafted down the hallway, the words and tune unfamiliar to him. He tread quietly to the doorframe, and out of long self-unnoticed habit, tugged through his long hair, currently pulled back from his face in a ponytail. There was a bit of unruly curl to it which seemed to manifest itself the more he let it grow, but continued protestations that he was only “wearing it Black” meant that for the most part, his parents had finally stopped giving him grief about it.

Hermione had never complained.

Ron stood, shadowlike, looking in on her. She lay on their quilt-covered bed, her eyes shut, her normally shockingly errant mane restrained by several clips. Instead of her wand, she had a Muggle apparatus pointed at their stereo. As the pale-faced young man lingered, he suddenly knew that he had heard that song before.

It was mere moments prior. Hermione had the one anthem set on repeat. It was one of several aspects about her that threatened both to drive him raving mad and simultaneously wish to drown in her idiocentricities. The latter was a word she had accidentally fabricated, and it well explained some of her complicated Muggle/Wizard attributes; a kind of muddied sense of notions that Ron had never had to worry about, being from a wizarding family.

His rather soggy mind began to pick up on the words of the music in their decidedly non-magic loop.

No sad thought his soul affright, sleep it is that maketh night;
Let no murmur nor rude wind to his slumbers prove unkind…

Ron walked softly into the room and gingerly sprawled his rather tall body near Hermione’s, hoping not to disturb her. As the harmonies continued the tonal paths written by their composer, he took a quick glance to the side table and saw with stifled satisfaction that the flowers he had ordered were there. The glass vase which held them subtly changed hues from scarlet to deepest violet and back again. Tiger lilies. Her favorite.

With fingers confident in their familiarity, he traced the smooth skin above her eyebrows, not wishing to wake her, but to ground himself. So much had been taken away as the war with Voldemort continued to rage on uncounted fronts. But for now, he reflected that he was the luckiest man alive, able to share her passion, her sacred everydayness and even occasional haughty barbs which fell accidentally from her tongue, reminding him of their days at Hogwarts when they were young, and so innocent despite the trials they had undergone.

Heedless now, Ron leaned into Hermione and closing his eyes, breathing in the jasmine scent of her hair (“Something to smell like summer, Ron; you just aren’t affected by day after day after day of grey skies like I am, you lucky man!”), lying fully on his side, fingers loosening two fasteners so that he could entangle his hands in her frizzy hair as.

This is good, he reveled. He cracked one eye half-open to gaze at her, then at the flowers. It was their anniversary. The week before Christmas, much to his chagrin. But he had never been able to wait, to keep his foot out of his mouth, always spouting off, speaking before thinking –

And so, in his seventh year, he had been flabbergasted to discover that beyond their intense bickering lay a longing so profound that even after it had been sealed by several “Oh, shut up, Ron!”s, all affectionately said by a breathless Hermione, and his being branded by her searing kisses, he had been rather undone by it all.

He, Ron Weasley, one time “ickle prefect” as named by his older twin brothers, one who had even dated Hermione for a short time (she now swore it was due to some inexplicable Charming concoction that George had tried on her, but Ron was never sure of that), was engaged to her.

The song began again. Ron was starting to get a slight headache from the powerful cranberry scent of the enchanted tapers which glowed, hovering above their chest of drawers, when Hermione opened her eyes.

“’Mione,” Ron breathed, caressing a cheekbone. “Happy Anniversary.” He paused a moment, then said, “I love you.”

A slow smile warmed her face. “And I you, Ronald Weasley.” She gazed at him for a few moments, then leaned over to place a soft kiss on his lips. “Thank you for the flowers, they are simply glorious. I watered them.” They both glanced at the gift arrangement, the glass container still shifting its hues in a gentle pattern.

She took his hands in hers. “Still nothing,” she murmured.

Ron bit down on his lower lip in frustration and anger. It had been over three months since anyone had heard from Harry, who had disappeared. It was bad enough that Hermione, his heart’s desire, was an Auror, but Harry was as well, and for him simply to vanish –

(to be continued- my husband was making complaining noises about the light being on at this point.)