Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A cobweb clung greedily to his hair as he pushed through the front door and, not for the first time, Ron Weasley wondered why he had agreed to this.

Then again, he reminded himself as he walked through the dim, narrow hallway, searching in vain for a light switch, he really hadn't been given a choice. Another door led him to the kitchen and he felt his mood lift a little. It was cluttered- rows of shelves housing bowls within bowls, outdated cooking implements and a selection of jars and tins of various sizes- but it was homely. Cosy even.

A slim blue stove was merrily pumping heat into the room, the worktops were scrubbed and spotless and a friendly looking pine table, knotted and scarred sat in the middle. A good place for the laptop perhaps?

Ron dropped his bag onto the kitchen floor and completed a quick inventory of the house. Three bedrooms, en suite, and a master bathroom upstairs, kitchen, utility and living room downstairs. Too big really for his needs but he understood it had been cheap and available which made it fit for purpose.

He located the pages he had been sent by his publisher, squashed into a convenient side pocket of his bag. It had been persuasively written, lots of descriptive text about the area and the nearby village; the peace and tranquillity, the rest and relaxation. It could have been submitted to the local guidebook, it sold the place that well.

But honestly they could have skipped everything else and just included the last line before they signed off. It was all the persuasion Ron needed. This is the last chance.

Fiddling with the bunch of keys he had pulled from the lock box, Ron unlocked the back door, which protested elongatedly on rusty hinges. Three stone steps took him into a wild, uncultivated garden, everything left to nature. Beyond that, was a breath-taking view of the Scottish mountains.

He boosted himself up onto an old picnic table that hadn't seen a barbeque for many a year and inhaled deeply. His editor Gray had been right; it was beautiful. The air was clear and so crisp you could almost bite it. The trees were still golden, red and orange in the ebbing light, although in a few weeks they would be stripped bare. Everything was slowly fading away, falling asleep. Returning to the earth to renew and regrow.

Like Ron, in a way. He steepled his fingers and set his chin atop. How the hell had he got himself here? Success was such a fickle mistress. One minute his was the name on everyone's lips, the next, he was receiving warning emails from his publisher. And all because of a bloody woman.

The ironic thing was, Ron had genuinely believed he was in love with said bloody woman. No-one else did. Harry didn't believe him, his mother didn't either, his father stared at him as though he was waiting for him to come to his senses. His brothers and sister just took the piss. Ginny, in particular, was cutting.

"Would she like a glass of champagne Ron?" she had hollered at one family wedding, "Oh wait a sec. Is she old enough to drink alcohol? Shall I get her a Coke instead?"

The age difference was, admittedly, difficult to explain at times. At twenty-one, Marianna was sixteen years younger, but Ron was sure that at the start it hadn't seemed to matter. They moved in arts circles- he as a writer, she as a sculptor- and it was quite normal to meet oddly paired people. Nobody batted an eyelid- anything went.

She had caught his eye at a book launch, they had chatted over some truly awful canapes and had lunch the next day. And again the day after that. Marianna was full of big ideas, always dreaming of the next project, the next statement she wanted to make. He found himself enjoying the lift she gave to his life, the energy.

His writing, however, felt differently. In the two years they were together, Ron had completed one book and started three others. The completed book received mediocre reviews at best, critics wondering where his vibrancy and edge had gone. The three incomplete novels hadn't been optioned by his publisher and people had started to get angsty, which Ron felt was slightly unfair. He had been a cash cow for a long time. Shouldn't he be able to take a break?

The problem was, he didn't want to take a break. Writing was his existence and his very soul and his inability to put decent words onto paper was something completely foreign to him. He didn't believe in writer's block. Didn't exist. You can always write something, that was Ron's motto. Even if it was absolute bollocks, it could be worked on or deleted later. The point was: get something onto the page.

But the longer things went on with Marianna, the less easy it was to do that. He couldn't understand it; ignored or chose not to hear when people commented on how much he had changed since starting this new relationship. How distant he'd become, how undisciplined. There was always an excuse: couldn't speak at a writers’ conference because Marianna had to prepare for a show, couldn't attend the publisher's charity gala because Marianna objected to the content of a newspaper column written by another guest.

Easy to shrug it off at first, but little by little, Ron began to sense a creeping feeling of unease. He couldn't say when it started or what it was really. Not until it had become a gaping hole in his life. 

He was at home when he got the first inkling, knotting his tie at the mirror. That night the annual GreenIsle Awards were taking place and miraculously, given how poor his writing had been recently, his last successful novel was nominated. It was a huge honour; the nomination alone was a seriously impressive feat. His book was in a category with authors Ron dreamt of being half as good as. His mum had been beside herself for weeks.

The taxi blared its horn in three long blasts and he called up to Marianna to hurry. She appeared at the top of the stairs in a long, silky bathrobe. Ron felt his stomach drop.

"Get a wriggle on Mari. Taxi's here."

She pulled a face. "I'm not feeling it tonight Ronald. You go without me."

His hands dropped from his tie. "Don't be at that tonight. You'll be grand. Five course dinner, free champagne. You'll get into it once you get there."

"Oh don't be angry at me pet," she pouted, pulling the folds of the robe closer, "I can't help it. I've been out late every night this week. I'm exhausted."

Ron felt his back molars clench together in frustration but he knew the carrot was better than the stick when it came to Marianna so he released the grip and softened his voice.

"I know you are love but this is a big deal for me. It's the GreenIsle Awards for God's sake. I might not get the opportunity to do this again."

"Take Harry."

"I don't want to take Harry. This is my big night. I want to take my gorgeous girlfriend and show her off."

That right there, Ron realised later, was the moment when Marianna should have acquiesced. When she should have shaken off her attitude, bounded down to him and told him how proud she was of him.

Instead she pushed her hair back from her face and sighed. "I'm just not able for it tonight Ronald. You'll have a better time without me, honestly."

Ron took a step upwards towards her, cut by her off-handedness. How could she not understand what this night meant to him? How could he make her understand?

The taxi blared again and he paused on the stairs. Something unconscious had stopped him and, almost mechanically, he turned back to the hall mirror, checked his tie and pocketed his keys.

As he opened the front door, he called over his shoulder, "I'll see you later then." He thought he heard her shout 'Good luck' before the door shut between them.

In the taxi the heavy, pervading feeling of unease he had been sensing recently was stronger than it had ever been. At the drinks reception he was welcomed with open arms by his peers and collaborators, delighted to see him at long last. He kissed cheeks and shook hands and laughed at jokes made on other people's behalf and still the sensation deepened and darkened.

It wasn't until he was announced as the winner in his category, standing with his trophy cupped delicately in both hands and staring out over the crowd, that he realised what it was. This awful, black dog of a feeling.

It was looking into the faces of his old friends that did it; they were so happy for him. Cheering and clapping like they genuinely believed he deserved this. The realisation hit him like a speeding train.

Ron was desperately, cripplingly lonely.

It had been so subtle initially he hadn't been able to identify it. And anyway, at first the notion seemed crazy. 

He had a huge, noisy family that were in everyone's business 24/7, gorgeous dervish of a girlfriend who whisked him to parties at a moment's notice. He could take a three full minutes to scroll through the phone numbers in his phone of the people he knew.

And yet. His family disliked Marianna and she, in return, felt they held him back so his visits to the family home had become sparse and reserved for special occasions. He couldn't remember the last time he had gotten into the car with the intention of driving down to the Burrow just to have tea with his mum or watch his dad tinker with something in the garage.

The same was true of his friends. While they seemed to like Marianna well enough, the time he spent with them was much reduced. And he couldn't put that all on her. While it was true that she usually preferred them to spend time with her own circle of friends, it was also a reality that Ron was spending a lot more time writing. Or not writing, more accurately.

So much time- time that had been family time, friend time and kicking back watching the football time- had been swallowed by desolate hours in front of a blank screen. The less he was able to write the more Ron sat there. Gone were the days when he confidently typed out thousands of words at a time, barely stopping for coffee or a piece of toast.

Ron prided himself on knowing what his readers were looking for when they opened the latest Ron B. Weasley paperback and he provided it in spades. But that was because, once upon a time, he had taken the time to read fan mail and reviews and attend writing conferences. And now even his fans were deserting him.

So, as he stood next to the other winners of the evening having his photograph taken, Ron realised there were actually many reasons why he should be lonely.

He had asked Marianna to leave the morning after the GreenIsle Awards. It was hellish- lots of tears and screaming on her part, a thumping pisser of a hangover on his and, perhaps most chillingly of all, a prediction from Marianna as she threw open the door to walk out of his life forever, that he would grow old and die alone. The rational side of his brain told Ron that she had been angry and hurt when she had said those words and, even if she had really meant them, she wasn't necessarily right.

Still, they played through his mind like a vengeful tickertape at vulnerable moments.

There had been a palpable sigh of relief from all concerned when he had announced the break up, perhaps especially so from Gray who optimistically hoped that this would signify the end of Ron's dry spell.

Somewhere along the way however, Ron had lost something. Confidence in his own ability maybe. His innate understanding of his fans possibly. Whatever it was, he couldn't grasp it back. It was like so much water through fingers and no amount of wheedling and coaxing from Gray could restore it. Which meant the next stage was the threat.

Ron took a deliberate, deep inhale and held the cold air in his lungs for a moment. It was difficult to think about that letter, the awfulness of being handed the very last chance when he had never been anything but great up until this point. His publisher had been understanding but firm; it was time to do it their way, there was no other option. Gray’s most successful childrens author swore by self-imposed isolation when she had writer’s block. All the nothing, the empty days without any other distractions- that was the way to get the focus back.

Ron fought it for as long as he could. He was a gregarious person and he didn’t relish the thought of being trapped in the arsehole of nowhere with sheep for company. He brushed off every suggestion of location, finding fault with one thing or another, hoping the publishing house would come to its senses. But he had underestimated them.

Three days after the last holiday cottage was written off, Ron received a package by courier. Within- information about a charming dwelling deep in the Scottish forest. It was all there, including the dates Cochall Cottage had been booked for him. He would leave in two weeks; they were no longer asking.

Two weeks later and Ron felt the light pricks of early rain on his cheeks and neck as he sat mulling it all over on the picnic bench. At first it felt quite nice, cooling after being shut up in the car for hours, but it quickly established itself as a downpour and he pushed off the table and went back inside to put the kettle on and heat up a microwave dinner. He wouldn’t think about that now, the painful intricacies. His mum always made tea and food when times were tough and that is what he would do.

Or it’s what he would have done if the electricity hadn’t tripped with a tiny but definite click as he whacked down several switches in quick succession. While considering this new development, he noticed an A4 binder sitting on the table next to a bottle of wine. The wine had a little tag round the neck, bidding him welcome from ‘the Caretaking Team’, while the binder had a large fluorescent Post Note that screamed in the same handwriting, only larger and bolder READ ME FIRST.

The booklet was comprehensive to say the least. There were sections for how to make best use of the hydroelectric generator and for how to lay the wood burner, right down to tiny details like what herbs grew in the garden. There was a whole section dedicated to nearby attractions. Ron marvelled at the dedication someone had put into it- the booklet was work of art, if perhaps a bit long winded and condescending. Did anyone really sit down and read this thing from cover to cover?

Ron thumbed to the back and the 'Troubleshooting' chapter and established he had probably overloaded the system with the appliances. It seemed an easy enough fix; he left the manual, located the fuse box under the stairs and reset the switches. Yet nothing happened. Back to the manual for a further, more in depth read and then back to the fuse box to push several more buttons. Nothing.

His stomach rumbled as if thinking about the dinner it should have been digesting by now. Mumbling a profanity, he returned to the kitchen and dropped back down at the table and reread the manual, starting with the entire Troubleshooting section and then back through every chapter, just in case he was missing something, but it just didn't seem like he was.

He threw the folder onto the table in disgust and considered his next move. It was growing dark outside and the gloom was infiltrating the cottage. He needed electricity and soon.

Pulling the manual towards him he flicked to the 'Contact Us' page and found a number for the caretakers. He jerked his mobile from his jeans pocket, remembering a beat too late that there would be no signal this far out. Added to the atmosphere, the email had said.

"Fuck the atmosphere," Ron mumbled to himself as he stomped through the house looking for the landline telephone, eventually locating an ancient green Wolf and Wild model on the bookcase in the living room. Jesus this place was the epitome of the house that time forgot.

He dialled the numbers clumsily, his large finger pad awkward on the little buttons and the phone started to ring. When the line opened at the other end no one spoke, though he could hear the wind whipping around the hand set.

"Uh hello? Is this the caretaking team?" In the background he heard a plaintive 'Wooof' followed by some indescribable white noise.

"Sorry, can you hold on please? Goose, no! Very bad boy. Sit. SIT!" The voice was authoritative- Ron felt Goose would probably be best to heed its command. And it was most definitely female which he hadn't been expecting.

"Is this a bad time?"

"No. Just... wait..." There was a distinct plastic crunch as though something was desperately being torn open. "Go get it! Get it Goose! Right!" She cleared her throat. "Sorry about that. How can I help?"

"I'm staying in Cochall Cottage and the generator seems to have gone off."

An exasperated sigh. "Hydroelectric power is temperamental. Did you read the manual?"

"Yes and I did everything it suggested. Nada."

"Yes ok but did you really read it?"

"Excuse me?"

She sighed again and Ron felt a prickle of irritation in his throat. "People say they read the manual but what they actually do is give it a cursory glance. Cochall Cottage is a special house, it needs special treatment. That's why you have to read the manual."

"Sorry, I did read the manual," Ron snapped back, instantly regretting starting the sentence with 'sorry'. He was cold, tired, hungry and anything but sorry. "Very carefully. Cover to cover. Enough to know that A: there is nothing more I can do to jump start the generator and B: whoever wrote the manual was clearly in love with their own importance.”

It was the caretaker's turn to say, "Excuse me?"

Ron felt the corner of his mouth quirk upwards. Hit a nerve there. "Well it's so long..."

"There's a lot to cover," she interrupted frostily, "It requires detail."

"Yeah but this much detail?" Ron lifted the booklet and flicked the laminated pages with his thumb near the phone.

The reply was tighter than piano wire. "Yes. That much detail. Oddly no one else has considered the manual anything other than helpful. When they read it fully."

Ron's mouth immediately dropped open to respond but another rowdy grumble in his stomach stopped him in his tracks. Arguing with this harridan wasn't getting power to the house and no power meant no food.

"Look, I'm sorry if I rubbed you up the wrong way about the manual. It's great really." Carrot instead of stick. Just like Marianna. "But I swear I've done everything it suggests and nothing is happening. Scout's honour." A silence followed. "Hello?"

She exhaled hard into the phone. "It could be leaves."

"Leaves?"

"They get washed into the mechanism from the Burn and block it up. Heavy leaf fall at this time of year and now the rain..."

Ron glanced towards the window and saw his smudgy face looking back. Rain pelted the glass and beyond that it was black.

"So I need to go out and pull the leaves from the generator?" Shit, he did not relish that prospect.

"No! Don't you go. God, you could fall and break your neck." There was another pause. "Look, go to the cupboard under the stairs and get the emergency box. Light a few candles, stoke up the wood burner. I'll come and look at the generator. It probably just needs cleared and restarted. Give me half an hour."

Ron did as she said, absently wondering as he struck matches and arranged wood if he should have been more gentlemanly and insisted that he take a look at the potential leaf blockage. It was filthy weather to be messing around in. At one point he resolutely opened the door and peered out. 

Visibility was now limited. The bank on which he had parked the car was sluicing muddy water and he wondered about the probability of coming out tomorrow morning to find the vehicle at the bottom of the valley. He squinted, trying to make out the shape of the metal housing of the generator. Had he seen it when he parked?

The sky cracked and rumbled and Ron pushed the door shut in defeat. The caretaker was right. He would die trying to be manly. Ignoring the wind up torches conveniently dotted around the house, he made his way to the kitchen by the light of a pillar candle he had found under the stairs.

He itched to check his phone and felt he was constantly reminding himself there was no Wi-Fi. Therefore, there were no emails, no messages and no social media.

He glanced at his bag, thinking on the pile of books he had brought with him for his down-time. No, candle light was too poor to read in.

His laptop sat on the table cold. In theory he could start working on something. But it was a bit late to get into all that. And who knew long the power might be out for if the caretaker didn't fix the generator? It would be prudent to save the battery.

Then his eye fell on the bottle of wine next to it. Examining the label, he was pleasantly surprised- not the cheap rubbish he had been expecting. A brief search located the corkscrew in the top drawer and a sharing bag of crisps in his rucksack. Meal of champions. 

He knelt next to the fire, uncorked the wine and poured himself a generous glass. Tearing open the crisp bag with his teeth, he shovelled a handful into his mouth, following it with a swig of wine and rested back against the sofa, tipping his toes towards the growing heat of the wood burner.

Almost immediately he felt drowsy. Not overly surprising given the early start, long drive and empty stomach. Probably he had also underestimated how anxious this trip would make him, how much over-thinking the pressure of this new book would take out of him.

Every time he looked towards his laptop Ron felt an unpleasant twist in his belly and a twinge in his temple. He could lie to himself as much as he liked about how 'lightly' he was taking this but his body would not be a willing accomplice. It told only the truth.

God, he was shattered all of a sudden. Ron closed his eyes and rested his head in the crook his elbow on the cushion of the sofa, the warmth of the wine and the fire nursing him into a soft, pillowy unconsciousness.

He woke with a start some twenty-eight minutes later to the roar of an engine belonging to something big and unwieldy. The beam of two headlights splashed up the living room walls, briefly illuminating everything ice white, before casting it back into relative darkness.

He pulled himself to his feet and tried to shake off his stupor. Note to self, he mused as he stumbled to the door in the dark, no more boozing without eating first.

The wind caught the heavy front door as he opened it and slammed it back against the wall. As Ron got a grip on it, he saw a bulky figure swaddled in waterproof gear jump out of the cab of a pickup truck parked in the driveway. It made its way round to the back and pulled a long slim implement from the flat bed.

Was this the woman on the phone? Presumably, although it was impossible to tell. The body was completely clothed head to toe in dark fabric, padded like a Jelly Baby. She walked up the bank and looked down at the river below before disappearing over the crest and down the other side.

The second the caretaker disappeared, the passenger side door of the truck slapped open and a giant animal leapt from the cab. Ron squinted through the murk with slight alarm. Was that a dog? Bloody hell, it was the size of a horse.

The horse-dog ran around the truck and up and down the driveway, completely unaware of Ron in the dark doorway, before gambolling up the bank to watch whatever was happening down below. It danced back and forward on its front paws barking, which probably sounded much louder normally but barely carried through the rain to Ron.

There was an ominous rumble from directly above the house and Ron realised he couldn't stand it any longer. Broken neck or not, he couldn't let her do this alone. He retrieved his jacket from the kitchen chair and returned to the porch, just in time to see the Jelly Baby figure remerge over the bank. She half waddled, half slid down the grass to the pickup to re-stow the equipment.

Ron leant behind the front door and flicked the wall switch and warm, honey coloured light filled the little hall, exciting a moth that had been resting on the lightshade. Miracle of miracles, she had done it. He would never make fun of her manual ever again. She was a saint.

The monstrous dog was swirling in tight circles at her feet excitedly as she locked the tailgate, before making her way unsteadily to the passenger side door of the truck and seemingly ordering the dog back into the cab.

It shot up to her knees, almost toppling her, and then galloped off before she could catch its collar. She trudged after it, one slow step at a time, but only ever got within a few feet before it dashed off again. It was painful to watch.

Ron pulled his hood over his head and zipped the collar right up over his mouth. The second he stepped into the yard, ice cold rain slapped the side of his head, carried by the wind. Well, this was horrible. Not for the first time he wondered why he had turned down the quaint Tuscan hideaway that had been first suggested before the publisher lost patience and ordered him here.

The dog caught sight of him and bounded over, did a lap round his legs and took off again towards the caretaker. She flapped her hands towards Ron, as if ushering him back inside. Too late now love, he thought grudgingly as water slid round the hem of his hood and into a warmish crevice in his neck.

In response he spread his legs and arms, making himself as wide a target as possible, and walked crab-like towards one end of the yard. The caretaker watched him for a moment before seemingly understanding what he was aiming for. The dog had become preoccupied with pulling something from the bank, twisting its massive head back and forward aggressively and the caretaker used the distraction to get closer to it. Ron did the same from the other side.

Just as her hand came within inches of its neck, it reared up onto its back paws and dodged right. Ron made a dive for it as it lolloped by, sliding two slippery fingers under the collar and yanking it towards him. The wet, muscular body slammed against his, bringing him to his knees and knocking his head back, releasing his hood. He felt the wet gravel crunch under his kneecaps painfully and exactly at the same time, the immediate saturation of his face and hair as the relentless water pounded down on them. The dog bucked in his grasp, overjoyed at the sport of all this, engorged, bony head knocking into Ron's jaw and rattling his teeth as he tried to keep it from wiggling free.

As he struggled to his feet and pulled his hood up, arms clamped firmly round the dog's ribcage, the Jelly Bean figure of the caretaker tottered over. She attached a lead to the collar and pulled the dog away from Ron, who stood for a moment despite the downpour and caught his breath.

Who the hell owned a dog that bloody big? It was a menace and clearly poorly trained. Perhaps she should have spent less time laminating smug instructions and more time at puppy school. As he stomped back to the safety of the porch, Ron decided he was going to tell her exactly that, just for the small amount of satisfaction it would give him in light of his freezing bones and his pulsing knees.

She manhandled the animal into the cab and slammed the door, shoving her shoulder into it to make sure it was closed tight. Then she lurched back round to the driver's side and gave a single wave, just once back and forth, before hauling herself inside and starting the engine with guttural growl that was audible despite the rain.

Ron was dumbstruck. Was that it? No word of thanks, no 'are you alright after being body slammed by a seventy-pound dog'? Apparently not.

The truck trundled precariously back up the driveway and into the night and Ron slammed the door, now not only cold and hungry but also wet and denied the opportunity to give the caretaker hell.

Chapter Text

The following morning dawned surprisingly brightly given the ferocity of the storm just hours earlier. Ron found himself sitting in the frame of the back door, long legs draped over the crooked stone steps, at 7:15, large mug of coffee cradled in one hand. While he could appreciate the beauty of what was in front of him- the garden colours now saturated, juicy and glinting in the very early sun, a frothy steam emanating from everything- he wasn't entirely enamoured with the fact that he was seeing it quite so early. 

Nine AM would have suited him fine but, having been on the receiving end of an unrequested wakeup call around half five from a group of mistlethrush, he felt obliged to get up and dress. It didn't seem likely they were going to take no for an answer.

He pottered around the kitchen for longer than was necessary, idly reading the guest book- 'Idyllic!', 'Heaven on earth!', 'We'll definitely be back!'-, poking at the stove, rummaging in the drawers of the Welsh dresser. Anything really that wasn't writing.

He didn't like to think too closely on why he was procrastinating but somewhere he could sense fear. It hunkered in the back of his mind. And realistically, how could he not be afraid? Everything- lifestyle, career, reputation, soul- rested on what he was going to produce when he sat down to his laptop. Overwhelming.

Gingerly he ran a finger over the lid of said laptop as it sat accusingly on the kitchen table, as though too heavy a touch might cause it to spring open all by itself. Go on you big baby, it seemed to taunt, imagine being scared of opening a Word document. 

It seemed ridiculous but the thought of the blank page, that nasty little cursor flickering, mocking his inability to start... Ron snatched his hand away from the computer as though scorched. Not today.

He lifted his head and looked out into the garden. What he needed was to get out, to clear his mind, shake free any demons lurking there. He could also do with doing some food shopping- the crisps and wine diet, while appealing, would not do his forty plus body any favours.

The walk into Lowndes was surprisingly pleasant, despite the road down into the valley being flooded in places. Hikers trekked past and waved good morning, dogs bounding ahead, their feet slapping up grit and mud. The brisk air was invigorating, caressing his cheeks and the back of his neck. He couldn't believe he had fought over coming here. It was truly picturesque.

Rounding the first corner in the town, he came to a cafe with a cheery yellow and white striped awning and devoured the biggest breakfast they had on the menu, finishing with a large, creamy coffee, reasoning that he would walk it off on the trip home.

Then he ambled along the main high street, pausing to look in shop windows, acknowledging people as they passed. This had always been Ron's favourite part of writing a new book. Gray called it 'taking in local colour' but Ron just thought of it as getting out and seeing what was happening in the world. At the start of a novel he had been known to walk for miles every day, visiting museums, coffee shops, bus stations, bowling alleys, parks- anywhere there was people. People meant stories.

He had been tossing an idea back and forth in his head for quite some time but it was sketchy at best. The protagonist would be male, as was the case in every book Ron had written thus far. He would a strong, capable sort who was rugged enough to deal with life as it happened but with softer, kinder moments thrown in- thus appealing to all his readers. 

He was also seriously considering a murder in this one. He hadn't really had anyone die horribly for a long time and he felt that perhaps it would be a strong comeback for this, his 'saviour' book. Gray had been clear that there was to be a stronger romantic thread, based on the most recent feedback, so he would work that in somehow as well. 

But first he needed characters to fill out the novel and already he had seen some suitable candidates. The hunched, crooked little old lady walking the Scotty dog could be the perfect nosy neighbour or concerned citizen. The man pushing the toddler on the swing set could be a friendly work colleague or a dangerously seductive adulterer.

He halted outside a shop below street level with landscape oil paintings hung in the window. The breeze was picking up again and his nose was starting to tingle with cold. the toasty glow from the spotlights seemed to draw him down the steps and into the warmth of the little shop. A bell rang over his head as he entered and wiped his feet on the sisal mat. Somewhere a candle was burning, the fresh scent of pine undulating through the air.

The shop ran long and thin and Ron walked slowly towards the back, examining Scottish-themed trinkets, driftwood signs and a wine rack made from horse shoes. A movement in the corner of his eye alerted him to a woman writing price stickers next to the till. Her hair was dyed red, but not the coppery ginger of his own and nowhere near as unruly. Hers fell in satin waves over her shoulders and was the colour of Christmas ribbon. It was slightly overwhelming on her given she was so tall. Ron couldn’t remember if he’d ever met a woman as tall as he was which this woman was easily. It suited her.

He turned back to a large stand of unframed prints and began flicking through them, anything to prolong the heat that was slowly seeping into his muscles. The little bell above the door jangled behind him. A gorgeous linocut image of a forest brought him to a stop. It had been lightly coloured in russet and gold- it could have been drawn that morning in the back garden. As he took in the intricate, beautiful features of the trees, Ron was vaguely aware of the conversation behind him at the counter.

"You look exhausted hen. You need to slow down before you fall down."

"I can't slow down! I have far too much to do Jeanie. And honestly, it’s only a few short weeks until Christmas- the list is just getting longer!"

Oh bloody hell he knew that voice. Just last night it had schooled him on the right way and the wrong way of reading a laminated booklet. 

Slowly- lest anyone notice his interest- Ron turned and raised his head, found a canvas on the wall he could pretend to stare at if he became too obvious and slid his gaze towards the voice.

She had her back to him so the first thing he noticed about her was her hair. So much hair. It didn't so much fall down her back as sort of spring outwards- generally down but also out to the sides as well. Some of it was tucked into the hood of her scarlet woollen coat and she was gathering it into one hand as she spoke.

"Will the re-framing be on time for the order? I must have it at the Post Office by five at the very latest on Tuesday." Her speech with punctuated with little 'oofs' as she wrestled with the bundle of hair, pulling an elastic from a wrist and double wrapping it into a high bun.

"It will be ready," the woman behind the counter held up a placating hand as if she had heard it all before, "It's always ready."

The caretaker shifted her weight to one hip, jutting it out and crossing her arms. Even from the back she looked bossy. There was a tenseness vibrating off her, like her muscles wouldn't keep still.

"I know, I know. I just... stress. Anyway, will you call me? When it's done?"

The redhead nodded. "You have my word. Now go. Surely you have better things to be doing than menacing me."

The caretaker groaned and adjusted the leather satchel at her hip. "See you Tuesday."

As she walked to the door Ron found himself willing her to turn round so he could see her face. Curiosity more than anything else. He was interested to see this harridan that had given him so much sass the previous evening.

But she didn't turn, opening and closing the door behind her smartly without a backward glance and pulling her hood over her head before walking down the street.

"You like the forest scenes?" The lithe redhead had appeared at his elbow. "I did those of some photographs I took last Autumn."

"These are yours?" Ron grinned at her, suddenly aware of her pretty, dimply smile. "They're very good."

The dimples deepened. "Thank you, yes they are mine. There's an artists' retreat nearby so I mostly sell a lot of other people's work but these are definitely my own. Jeanie Morrison." She held out a pale, slender hand and he took it.

"Ron Weasley. You have a talent. A friend of mine does linocut prints of cityscapes. He makes a living out of it but these put his to shame."

Jeanie giggled and brushed her hair away from her face. "Well it's nice to have someone round here who appreciates me Ron. Do say you're staying for a while."

"I am actually," he replied, following her with his eyes as she returned to the counter and lifted her pen. "For a few weeks at least."

Jeanie's red-lipsticked mouth opened slightly. "God I was joking! There's no one but residents round here at this time of year." She lifted a finger. "I take that back. Residents and hill walkers. And given that the hill walkers are generally pre-war, you definitely aren't one of them. Are you here for a holiday?" She looked incredulous and Ron found himself laughing.

"Why the face? Don't people come to Scotland on holiday?"

Jeanie gestured towards the window. "It's not exactly Tenerife." 

"Well yeah the weather isn't a big selling point, I'll give you that. But there are other things going on here surely."

"Mountains, wildlife, stars," Jeanie replied, ticking them off her fingers. "That's what we have here. Are you here for any of that?"

Ron cupped his chin, pretending to consider. "Maybe a bit of all three?" Jeanie raised her eyebrow. "I'm a novelist. I'm here to finish my new book."

Oh God, now he had convinced his subconscious he was merely finishing a book not writing it pretty much from scratch. Dangerous.

At least the pretty redhead had the decency to look impressed. "A novelist? How interesting. We do get those from time to time but I haven't seen one for a while. Would I have read anything of yours?" 

He listed a few of his better known books but Jeanie shook her head. "Not ringing a bell but then I don't get much time to read. Art is life. Where are you staying?"

"Cochall Cottage. It's up the mountain a bit, on the Burn. Do you know it?"

"I do!" Jeanie twiddled a long strand of hot red hair between her fingers. "My mum and dad used to be very good friends with the Collinwoods. Very environmentally friendly- they were the first to get hydroelectric power. We have good ol' electric off the grid in the town so I know very little about it. Is it unpredictable?"

Ron cast his mind back to the previous evenings antics. Yes, it's a pain in the bloody arse. "I think I have a handle on it."

Jeanie nodded and looped her hair behind her ear. "Cochall means 'pearl' you know. It's an old Scottish word."

She's adorable, Ron thought as she smiled at him, and he took in her bare ring finger almost unconsciously. Perhaps things wouldn't be so boring here after all.

"Actually," Jeanie continued, jerking a thumb towards the door, "You just missed Hermione. She looks after the place for Ed and Jude."

Ron feigned surprise. "The woman who was just here? I think I might have spoken to her last night actually. The generator failed and she was good enough to come up and get it started. She seems... busy."

Jeanie rolled her eyes towards him. "Never stops. Involves herself in far too much then has a complete panic attack when it all gets on top of her. She must have a breakdown once a week.” She pointed her pen at the print he was holding. "Are you buying it then?"

Ron glanced down at the picture. He really didn't need any more art in the house- being with Marianna had seen to that. And bloody hell it wasn't exactly cheap. But when he looked over at Jeanie- all cupid's bow mouth and flaming hair- it wasn't easy to say no.

"Sure," he replied eventually, handing it to her, "It'll remind me of my great Scottish adventure."

Jeanie beamed widely and took it from him, Ron taking care not to examine anything else lest her mesmerizing lips talked him into spending more money.

"Is Hermione related to the Collinwoods then?" He pulled his debit card from his wallet, noticing that he had neglected to remove an old photograph of him and Marianna in happier times from the little picture window. Jesus, how had he missed that? His head had just not been screwed on lately. First thing he was going to do when he got back to the cottage: remove and destroy.

"Hermione? No. She moved here from London. Gift wrapped?"

Ron nodded his assent, suddenly realizing he could leave it wrapped and give it to his mother for Christmas when he was summoned to Ottery St Catchpole.

"And that's what she does? Looks after Cochall Cottage? Seems dull."

He watched Jeanie curl the ends of a gold ribbon with her scissors, tongue poking out of one side of her mouth in concentration. "Well that's not her real job. Hold that for me. That was just another thing she got sucked into. Her real job is taking care of the Erskine art collection. Stick your finger there for a sec."

Ron obliged and was soon in possession of an ornately wrapped parcel. He could only guess how much extra this had cost him as the credit card handset appeared to be out of ink and wouldn't issue a receipt, despite Jeanie's prolonged, violent button stabbing. 

As she finally gave up with a sigh, Ron opened his mouth to ask her what the Erskine art collection was when she cut across him and said, "Will we be seeing you at the pub then? Live music on the weekend. If you like that sort of thing." 

She looked hopeful and Ron felt the warmth of it in his chest. When was the last time a pretty woman had given him a look like that? He left the shop promising that he would make an effort to call into the pub on Saturday night and walked back along the street.

The sun was struggling to push through the clouds so, despite the chilly breeze, Ron found himself nudging through a green wrought iron gate and sauntering down a neat path tarmacked into a grassy bank, at the bottom of which lay the loch. The path continued round the outskirts of the water but Ron stopped and sat on a nearby bench so he could take in the view.

It was an impressive expanse of water, dove grey to match the sky. It was amazing to think of this town squatting here at the water's edge- the other side of the loch, maybe 400 meters away, was pure, unrestricted mountain, fir trees as far as the eye could see. A heron was soaring low along the water, as if admiring herself in the reflection.

It was sweet, this place, Ron decided. Homely, yet big enough to have all the essentials. Was Lowndes the sort of place people got murdered? It seemed a bit sedate for a killing spree but maybe that was exactly the right angle. Quiet, unassuming person pushed over the edge by small town life? Bank manager tormented to madness by little old ladies with pension books and too much time on their hands? Park attendant driven to murder by sullen teenagers graffitiing benches?

He glanced around him, checking out the dog walkers and happy family groups for any noticeable signs of murderous inclinations and a flash of red caught his eye. Hermione was sitting on a bench diagonal to his own, closer to the water. The top knot had clearly dismantled itself and her frizzy hair was bare to the wind, lifting randomly in graceless tentacles round her head like a drunken octopus.

Next to her on the bench was a man in a khaki raincoat. He was clean shaven with neatly groomed brown hair and broad shoulders. Hermione's arm was linked through his and they sat wordlessly looking out over the loch. Every so often she would lift her chin to watch a bird swoop past, though Ron never caught her face.

Husband or brother? Ron drove Gray mad when they had lunch together as he frequently felt the need to play the 'how do these people know each other?’ game. Relationships were endlessly fascinating to Ron. He came from a big, nosy family, so he felt naturally interested in others. Also it was good for writing, it fired his brain to make connections and imagine the ways in which two people could connect.

It has to be a husband or a brother, he decided. The linked arms were one, obvious tell but there was also the easy way they sat together, not saying anything. The shoulders gently butting. The affable way Hermione reached up and adjusted her companion's wayward scarf. They were close, these two.

Ron continued to watch them for a long moment, wondering idly if Hermione gave this guy as much flack as she seemed to give everyone else. Wasn’t likely given he seemed to be able to tolerate her company for long periods. Maybe he was deaf.

A chill ran through him and Ron got to his feet. As fascinating as Hermione and her companion were, they weren't quite enough to keep him out in the cold. Also he was still pissed with her for disappearing last night without acknowledging his help in catching her out of control dog.

He stopped off at a corner shop to grab a few essentials and then walked at a brisk pace back through the town and out, pavements giving way to gravel paths, hiking in long strides back up the side of valley to Cochall Cottage.

By the time he pushed through the door, sweat was cold on his forehead and the base of his spine and he gratefully fell into the claw-footed bath. He had never appreciated baths before, he was much too long in the body for them really. But this cast iron beauty- she was made for the lanky. He sank into the steaming water up to his neck and allowed his mind to wander, attaching and detaching characters and plot lines lazily.

When he roused himself some forty minutes later, he was surprised to find he felt compelled to write. He dried quickly, dressed warmly and then sat down at the scarred pine table and opened the laptop. He didn't feel fear this time, but the hum of something else. Anticipation. The first for so long.

He typed for hours, until it was long dark and he'd been forced to stop in order to stoke the fire and switch on lights. His shoulders were stiff, little spikes of pain fizzed in his neck and his fingers were numb where the blood had drained from his hands. But it was exhilarating.

He smiled to himself as he heated a stew on the stove. He had been so sure this temporary move was going to be a bad idea but maybe not. His mind flicked briefly to Jeanie from the art shop, all dimples and fire engine hair. Couldn't be a good idea really. He'd literally just untangled himself from an artist and it had been bewildering how much that had hurt.

Jeanie was not a sensible decision. He was just mulling over how much of a bad decision she would be when a loud drilling started up from somewhere in the house. An old fashioned telephone ring. He dropped the ladle and ventured out of the kitchen to the bookcase where the telephone was blaring persistently.

He stared at it for a second, unsure whether to answer. Who knew he was here? What if it was the gobby caretaker again?

Gingerly he lifted the handle.

"Took you long enough! Thought you'd fallen and hit your head. It'd be days before anyone would realise, I suppose."

"Nice to hear from you Gray. Checking up on me?"

There was a huff over the line. "We’ve been over this Ronald, my dear friend. There’ll be no ‘checking up’. I trust you. I know you have this in hand.”

“Happy to hear it.”

“Haven’t you replaced Delia yet?”

Delia was Ron’s recently dismissed PA and he knew what Gray was getting at. She had been incredibly diligent, a master of organisation, populating his diary and managing his social media. She had also been an excellent cheerleader, encouraging him when things got dicey.

Ironically, once things were really bad, when he wasn’t doing much of anything and probably needed her the most, Ron decided to let her go. She reminded him of the lack of engagement of his fans on Twitter and Facebook, though she gamely played it down, and it was hard to tell her that no, he hadn’t written anything today.

Embarrassment notwithstanding, it was excessive to keep her on. At his peak they could have been juggling three books at a time: one in the marketing phase, another undergoing edits and the third just emerging from his fingertips. Those were the glory days really, when they would drop down next to each other late into the evening, exhausted but satisfied at the sheer volume of work they had achieved.

In the weeks before he terminated her contract, there was little to do and even though she didn’t complain or highlight the fact, Ron couldn’t let such a talented woman waste herself with him. At his lowest ebb, he arranged a new position for her through a man who was once his agent, brought her in, sat her down, and told her they wouldn’t be continuing.

It had been heart wrenching for both of them, not that Gray cared overly. He saw Delia as a way of shoving Ron into action and it obviously frustrated him that there was no-one to fill this vital role.

“No. Didn’t see much point at the moment. Social media is at a standstill. Haven’t anything in the pipeline. Haven’t written anything yet.”

Gray clicked his tongue and said, “Got it” in way that suggested he most certainly did not. Then- “Did you get my email?”

Crap. Ron had been so distracted by Lowndes and all its residents, he had completely forgotten to connect to Wi-Fi and get his messages. Being away from London was seriously messing with his focus. He muttered something about not having time yet and heard Gray click his tongue again.

“No matter. Not a big deal. Got forwarded an email from the owners of this cottage you’re staying in. Apparently there has been some sort of error with the initial payment- didn’t go through or some such shite. They wanted to know would you be able to nip down and pay it in cash?”

“Nip down where? The bank?”

There was a click of keyboard keys. “No, they’ve asked you to drop it into the caretaker. Met him yet?”

Ron felt his shoulders noticeably drop. “Her. And yes I have.”

“Ooh, that’s an interesting tone!” Gray laughed, “I hope you aren’t riling up the staff.”

The thought of calling Hermione ‘staff’ to her face appealed to Ron but only for as long as it took for him to imagine her response. Then it suddenly became most displeasing an idea.

“I’m really starting to get into it up here Gray. I could do with a few days of uninterrupted writing. Can’t you just fix the bank transfer?”

“It’s fixed for the remainder of the payments but the bank can’t get the first payment in their account for another two days. Look, these”- pause- “Collinwoods did a really good deal on this place. Especially coming up to Christmas. The publishers want to keep them sweet and I think you taking their caretaker a nice bundle of cash will help to apologise for whatever the hell the bank did and or didn’t do. Take it straight down there tomorrow morning, give it to the old bag and then get right back to it. Won’t take long.”

It wasn’t a request and Ron knew it. And the mention of keeping people sweet reminded him that he should be doing more to keep Gray and the publishing house happy, at least until he could start submitting pages.

“Right ok, let me get a pen and you can give me the address. How much do you want me to give her?” He jotted the details down. “Let her know I’ll be there tomorrow at ten.”

“Excellent,” Gray sounded relieved, “There’s an ATM in the town apparently so you can pick up the money there. I’ll let the accounting bods know to stop the transfer to the Collinwoods and redirect it to you. Should be with you…”

“In two days, I heard you,” Ron interrupted, now hungry and grouchy. “I’m going to eat now Gray. Talk soon.”

There was a pause and he knew Gray was itching to ask how he was getting on. Instead, he said, “Great. Catch you later. And keep a rough eye on emails will you?”

Ron disconnected and stared down at the details on the page. He drew an angry, spiky bubble round them. So tomorrow he was finally going to meet Hermione Granger, caretaker, curator of art and sanctimonious pain in the arse. Interesting. 

Chapter Text

The heavy rain the following morning prevented Ron from walking into town again. He typed Beach End, Brachan Street, Lowndes into the SatNav in his car and was surprised to secure a location. It soon became apparent however, that the car would only take him part of the way. The SatNav brought him to where the road petered off into grass and three granite bollards were planted in his way. On closer inspection, a narrow, windy lane ran up the side of a set of brightly painted terraced houses.

Ron pulled his hood over his head and darted out of the car to the bottom of the lane. Sure enough, at the top, there appeared to be the side of a house, a creeping vine covering most of it and a wooden, stick-like fence surrounding it. Of course that would be Beach End, he grumbled inwardly, locking the car and zipping his coat higher to his chin. Wouldn’t be anywhere easily accessible.

He puffed his way to the summit of the lane, calves feeling the strain from yesterday’s unexpected exercise and then paused to breathe, resting a hand on the top of one of the fence posts. The house before him was diminutive and irregularly shaped. A narrow rectangular section was attached to another smaller one at right angles and both were two storeys high. Oddly, a one storey, square section was then attached to the smaller rectangle, providing support for the massive bay window that swept out from the second storey. It really was the most unusual place to live and reminded Ron of the sort of place he would describe the villain of a book living. Or the town nutcase. Probably best he didn’t open with that.

He walked round and found a front door nestling in more ivy. In the centre was an ancient brass knocker in the shape of a cat licking its paw and he rapped three times, steeling himself for whatever might be on the other side.

When the door finally opened, Ron found himself somewhat disappointed. Hermione was slight and unimpressive in jeans and an argyle sweater that was much too big for her and bagged at the elbows where she had scrunched the sleeves. Her hair was pulled back off her face which was scrubbed and clean. Had she really been that tiny when he’d seen the back of her yesterday in the shop? And when she had been marauding around the cottage garden in the rain with the horse-dog? In his head she seemed to have grown somehow, expanded grossly into a gargantuan shrew. In real life, she was nowhere near as formidable.

She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“I’m Ron. Weasley? I’ve come to give you the payment for Cochall Cottage?”

Her eyebrows buckled into a frown and then eased. “Yes of course.” She paused for a moment, taking in his drenched appearance, eyes flicking round him to do a brief weather check. Then she refocused. “Come in, come in.”

If the house was small on the outside it was miniscule on the inside. It was the bookshelves that did it, rows and rows of novels, textbooks, thick reference volumes, stacks of leaflets and plastic bound paper.

Despite the haphazardness of it, Beach End was cosy. The walls- what you could see of them- were painted a rich, sunny buttercream, with matching curtains held in a deep swoop by tiebacks hung with little pompoms. The tan leather sofa had been draped with soft blankets in strong, Aztec prints and lined with cushions. In the corner was an armchair, ensconced in which was the man Ron had seen Hermione with yesterday.

He was poring over a sheaf of typewritten pages with a magnifying glass and didn't look up as she led Ron into the room. On the facing armchair sat the enormous dog, bulbous head between paws on the arm, also completely uninterested in Ron’s entrance. Ron made a sneaky face at it as he passed by.

"This is Spence," Hermione gestured to the husband/brother as they passed through, "Come into the kitchen. I need to open the computer and get you a receipt."

Ron raised his hand to the top of Spence's head and followed Hermione into the kitchen which was a little more spacious. No books at least. Under the window, picture frame-shaped parcels leant against the wall, wrapped in brown paper. On the kitchen table were stacks of what looked like reports with red, handwritten comments in the margin.

Hermione set the bulky laptop next to them, fiddled with the power cord and it started with a pitchy whirr.

"Coffee? Tea? The laptop takes a while to warm up."

"I'm not surprised. This is possibly the oldest machine I have ever seen." Ron fingered the lid with some trepidation.

Hermione scowled and shooed his hand away. "It still works! It's just temperamental. It doesn't like anyone else to touch it."

"How do you do anything on it? It must be run by a mouse in a wheel." From the living room Ron heard Spence chortle. 

Hermione evidently heard it too. "Keep your opinions to yourself Spencer," she called before turning back to Ron. "I've had it a long time. It saw me through my PhD, my research fellowship. It never lets me down."

Ron held him hands up in mock surrender. "Ok, ok. No judgement. Look there’s really no need to get me a receipt. I can manage without. My team just wanted you to get the money.”

“I have to give you a receipt. Otherwise anything could happen.”

Ron had the feeling this one was partial to a bit of catastrophizing. “Like what?”

Hermione was prepared. “You could say you gave me more money than you really did and accuse me of stealing the rest. Or I could actually steal the money and not deposit it and say you never came…”

“You have a very honest face so I’m sure you wouldn’t do anything like that.” She stared at him for a cripplingly long moment. “Alright, you win, give me the damn receipt. And tea. Please.”

Satisfied, she swivelled round to the kettle and filled it from the tap. He watched her in silence as she set out mugs and milk and warmed a squat navy teapot with a gold filigree design. She was mechanical and precise, as though she used just the right amount of energy to complete a task. It was quite absorbing really.

Abruptly, the image of Hermione’s nylon-clad form chasing the mountain dog round the garden in the rain two nights ago floated into his brain- anything but mechanical and precise. Inappropriately, he really, really wanted to laugh and could only stop himself by saying, “Thank you for fixing the generator the other night. It can’t have been pleasant coming out in a rainstorm.” He resisted the urge to add ‘that’s probably why you were so rude’. It seemed petty at this point.

Hermione’s expression softened somewhat, as if she had been expecting censure instead of kindness. “It was really no problem. It happens every now and again. You get used to it. Everything worked ok afterwards?"

“Yes, perfectly. Well, you rescued me in my hour of need and I appreciated it.” She peered at him again, as if trying to decide if he was being facetious. “Honestly,” he carried on, “You saved me from spending the night with alcohol and crisps. And thank you for the wine. It was good.”

She broke his gaze and poured a steady stream of water from the kettle into the teapot, adding teabags. “The Collinwoods own a vine in Italy. Every year they send back a few bottles and I like to give one to their guests. It’s welcoming.”

Hermione glanced at the laptop, glared at it in disbelief and then poured milk into the mugs, not bothering to ask if he took any.

“How’s the book coming?”

“You know I’m writing a book?” He was surprised for a second until he realised that she probably took bookings for the cottage. It was most likely her that the publishing house had been dealing with.

“Of course. Spence has read one of your older ones.”

“’Brick Walls’,” came a call from the living room, “Liked it.”

Ron turned and half looked over his shoulder. “Thanks. It’s one of my personal favourites.” He rotated back around and accepted the mug that Hermione slid over the table. “Uh, yeah. It’s coming. Early days yet.”

She nodded once and clicked a button on the keyboard, breathing, “Finally.”

Ron set the wad of bank notes on the table next to her as she pulled up a document and began altering it. As she worked, a thought occurred to him.

"This place is called 'Beach End'?"

"Yeeees," she responded, only half listening.

"But there's no beach. Surely it should be called 'Street End' or 'Terrace End'. 'Beach End' makes no sense."

She ignored him, focusing on what she was doing. Suddenly a voice piped up.

"Well the word 'beach' is actually thought to have been derived from the Old English 'bach' which means pebbly brook. Here we are actually built into the side of a mountain, which has tonnes of underground springs and rivers. Entirely possible this site was originally, literally 'the end of the brook'.”

"Spence works in toponymy," Hermione murmured, by way of explanation. When Ron didn't answer, she added, "The study of place names," to clarify.

"Interesting," Ron replied, nodding towards the living room.

"Hermione's mother didn't think so," Spence mused, as though this was a long gnawed-over bone of contention. "She was most put out I wasn't a solicitor or a financier. Bit of a snob actually."

"Spence! Can we leave my mother out of it?" Hermione snapped, shaking her head as she typed.

Spence emerged round the doorframe and grinned. "Oh, let's have a fight about your mother. We haven't argued about her for ages." He leant over and offered Ron his hand. "Spencer Caulfield. Nice to meet you." 

Ron shook his hand and nodded. "Ron Weasley. Sorry if I'm interrupting your work there. I'll be out of the way in a minute." He took a slug of tea as if to prove his point and instantly regretted it as he felt his tongue scald.

"No rush. I was just reviewing Duncan's work on Scottish place names. Anything really to avoid doing what I should actually be doing. You ever find yourself in that boat?"

Ron thought about the last few months, the immobilizing fear of even starting up the laptop, the completion, to an exacting standard, of every bit of life admin that had been languishing undone for so long, now suddenly the most important task in the room.

"Yeah," he replied finally, "Definitely been there."

Spence lifted his mug, blew on the surface and took a mouthful. "So, how do you like Cochall Cottage? Remote enough for you?"

Hermione stood up and disappeared into the living room. A moment later, Ron heard a printer start to chug.

"They certainly weren't lying about that on the website. But yeah, it's cosy. Fire's good. Love the bath. And not being distracted by the endless notifications on my phone is helping me focus a bit. Although I do miss the Wi-Fi. I like to have an online thesaurus at hand when I'm working. Useful when you can't think of the right word."

"There's an old Oxford Thesaurus in the bookcase," Hermione joined them by the table, folding a sheet of paper and then handing it to Ron, "If that's any good."

Ron took the paper and got to his feet. "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind."

As he followed her into the hall, Ron noticed her ragged, deflated slippers were shaped like ginger cats, though they were so old, all four ears were missing. Hermione opened the door and he gestured to the door knocker.

"You like cats."

She looked confused for a moment, as though her mind had already dismissed him and moved on to something else. "Uh, yes. I do."

"That's a pretty large dog for a cat person." He smiled and for the first time, she smiled back. It startled him slightly as it changed her face completely, smoothing the almost permanent line between her eyebrows, making apples of her cheeks. She looked brighter somehow.

"He's not mine. I'm taking care of him for a friend."

"Good of you."

"Thank you for helping me catch him last night. He's a big puppy really. He doesn't understand how strong he is." She paused and then added, "It was good of you to come out in the rain."

Ron nodded, placated somewhat, and raised the paper in his hands. "Happy to help. Thanks for this. I'll... file it."

She snorted like she knew the receipt was going to end up in the fire no matter what he said and waved goodbye before shutting the door.

Ron pulled his hood back up over his head, though the rain had settled into a mild drizzle. As he walked back down the twisty lane to his car he considered his first real encounter with Hermione. He was surprised by how much he had overestimated her, turning her into an angry nag.

No doubt, she was wound tighter than a clock spring- clearly many issues with control and her people skills could do with polishing. And yet. 

There was something intriguing about her, which was odd in itself because their conversation had been so brief. It was the energy of her maybe, or the way she was so sure of herself. Over the phone it had been grating, face to face, it came across differently. It was sort of engaging.

And her husband seemed decent. Clearly they were both academic types- they couldn’t not be with that amount of books- and they sort of suited each other.

As he swung into the car, Ron's thought pattern was broken by the bleep of his phone. He had finally remembered to switch on the data and the flood gates had opened. Resignedly, he pulled it out of his pocket and clicked on the first notification in the list.

OOO

The first week flew in, much to Ron's amazement. When he left Beach End that morning, he had gone straight back to work, barely lifting his head for the next few days, solidly typing out page after page of text. His progress pleased him so much that he had forwarded a rough outline to Gray.

As his editor and one of his oldest friends, their relationship could be a difficult one. Early on his career he’d had an agent who had acted as a go-between with the publisher. Later, when it was established that his books no longer needed shopped around and that he would stay exclusively with Garhani Fox Publishing House, he cut out the middle man and dealt with Gray and the publisher himself.

Gray’s main job was to tell him if he was going off on a tangent and keep him true to the editorial policies. He knew better than anyone what a Ron B. Weasley novel should contain.  

Despite this, Ron almost never sent him an outline so early- it gave Gray an understanding of a story that might alter beyond all recognition and Ron was loathe to allow him to become attached to something he would later change. But there was a sense of urgency with this book; it felt crucial that the publisher knew he was creating some of his old magic.

He sent the email on Saturday lunchtime, taking a quick drive through town to find data connection, and took up the rest of the day scribbling; drawing maps of the make-believe town on which he was centring the book, routes the various residents would take from their house to a specific point, the display window of a shop that was particularly critical to the storyline.

All the while he felt fidgety. How eager would Gray be to read the pages? Should he have stayed in town and waited for him to respond? It was Saturday but that meant nothing to Gray- he was always working. 

He tried to shake it off, uneasily convincing himself of his own ability. It was ridiculous to be so hung up on this initial burst of inspiration. Gray probably wouldn't even open the bloody thing until Monday.

He glanced over at the clock above the stove. Seven PM. He would go insane if he sat here any longer. Resolutely he stood and went upstairs to change into clean jeans and a shirt. Pulling on his jacket and pocketing his keys and phone, he got back into the car and set off for the town.

The light had yet to go completely out of the sky yet the road was changing as visibility became poorer; he wished absently he had rented the off-road model as the car rattled through another pot hole and he was glad to reach tarmacked roads.

Rolling the car to a stop, Ron switched on his internet browser and logged straight into his emails. Nothing from Gray. Somewhat deflated, he got out of the car, locked it and walked up to the pub, one of the few places still lit and alive with activity on the street. The Kerry Blue and Otter was painted in slick red and gold and illuminated by brass downlighters.

As he was staring up at the pub sign he felt something touch his elbow.

"You coming in? You can stand here all night if you like but there'll be no bevvies!"

Ron turned to Jeanie. "Only one for me thanks Jeanie, I'm driving."

She grinned and took his arm, dragging him inside. "We'll see."

They sat at a squat, circular table near the door, still wet from the last wipe of a cloth. Jeanie ordered a pint and a glass of white wine, chatting animatedly with the woman serving behind the bar. The pub was warm, pleasantly full, with low music playing and as Ron clinked his glass against Jeanie's, he felt sure this was a better way to spend the evening than eating stew (again) and mashing sentences into Word.

He wasn't wrong as it happened, although, against his better judgement, Jeanie persuaded him to engage in more alcohol than he had intended to consume.

"The car will be fine on the road. I'll get someone to drop you home tonight and you can collect it tomorrow," she cried as she sloshed more drinks down in front of them.

Truthfully, he wasn't hard to influence. He hadn't been on a date since Marianna and this was sort of like a date wasn't it? Certainly the air crackled with their flirtatious back and forth, she touched his arm a great deal and he was quite sure she was surreptitiously moving her chair round the table to be closer to him. That was all positive wasn’t it?

As he stood at the bar, waiting for the barmaid to return with his order, a scarlet coat pulled his gaze to a table by the fire. Hermione and Spencer were sharing a bottle of red, heads together, deep in conversation. Not so deep, however, that Spence didn’t catch his eye as he looked and he gestured him over.

“Ron! Come to sample the local delights?” Spence jerked his head towards Jeanie’s back, clearly having imbibed just as much, if not more alcohol than Ron.

“Yeah. Started out as one drink and then… I dunno. Snowballed.”

Spence nodded enthusiastically. “I know exactly what you mean. I’m travelling to Skegness tomorrow for a few months. Hermione agreed to take me out for a goodbye drink, see me off you know? And now…. Here I am!” Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her head, which Spence acknowledged with a raised glass. “Luckily, she only had the one as planned or we’d never get home! How are you getting home Ron?

Ron waved his hand in Jeanie’s direction vaguely. “Jeanie said she would organise something.”

Spence laughed before winking theatrically. “I see! Well enjoy!”

“Have a good evening Ron,” Hermione finally spoke, surreptitiously mopping a splash of wine from her husband’s glass.

Ron raised his pint to them and carried the drinks back to the table.

“Was beginning to think you’d done a bunk!” Jeanie smiled, taking a long swallow of wine.

“Sorry. Was just talking to Hermione and Spence. He said he’s going away for a few months. That must be hard for Hermione- stuck here alone. No wonder she keeps herself busy.”

“Och, but sure you know he doesn’t actually… Gavan! Come meet Ron!”

A night out with Jeanie was like a night out with half the town, Ron was quickly discovering. She knew everyone and had stories about every occurrence within a ten-mile radius. She was especially quick to tell anyone who would listen about Ron's back catalogue of novels and he found he didn't mind at all. It was refreshing to talk about his career with people who didn't consider it to be balancing on a precipice. It felt like a long time since he had been able to enjoy his success, however 'former' it was currently.

As last orders were rung, he helped an increasingly unsteady Jeanie into her coat and they stepped out into the night, frigid air from the loch pinching their faces.

“So about that lift…?” Ron asked the top of Jeanie’s head as she rummaged in her handbag. She looked up, frowned and then a flash of recall shot over her expression. Stepping backwards, she clumsily opened the pub door and entered, leaving him in the garish downlight.

A moment later she returned. “Blasted Dallas, he’s gone home! Sorry Ron, he usually stays ‘til closing.” Ron’s heart dropped but Jeanie seemed unconcerned. “I’m only a few doors up,” she said, taking a step towards him, “Why don’t you come back with me? Sleep on the sofa? I’ve got plenty of beer in the flat. We can get blitzed!”

She laughed attractively, showing pearly white teeth, damson lipstick freshly applied, and Ron could sense himself erring in favour of her offer. He knew what it entailed- how could he not, what with her fondling the lapel of his jacket as she spoke, body right inside his personal space.

Why was he even second guessing this? He tried to remember, peering through a fog of really strong lager and a recent flood of hormones.

Of course there was his break up with Marianna- that had been difficult. And admittedly Jeanie was similar in a lot of ways. But for God’s sake, she was talking about shagging wasn’t she? Adults having a mutually beneficial good time together? She hadn’t proposed marriage.

She dropped her head again to look for her keys and Ron opened his mouth to accept when an image came to the forefront of his mind. It was the printed email from Garhani Fox, the dreaded ‘last chance’ email.

When he had received it, the first thing he did was make a hard copy of it. He wanted it to be everywhere he was, didn’t want it to fall from his mind, get lost in his inbox. He never, ever wanted to forget the feeling of wretchedness that email had produced or how hard he would have to work to pull himself back from the brink. As he held it in his hand, Ron had promised himself he wouldn’t become distracted or allow anything to detract from the task at hand. He wouldn’t stop working until he was Ron B. Weasley again.

“Listen Jeanie…”

The pub door jerked open and slapped back against the wall inside.

“You are a drunken bollocks, Spencer Caulfield and I’m ashamed of you,” Hermione huffed, dragging Spence by the arm, “How are you going to travel tomorrow? Sorry, I mean today. You leave in five hours.”

Spence, for all his scolding, seemed chipper, saluting her theatrically. “What would I do without you worrying about me Dr Granger? Honestly, it keeps me alive!” He giggled and then noticed Ron and Jeanie. “You guys still here? Thought you’d be long gone by now.”

“You’se headin’ home?” Jeanie asked, her soft Scottish accent disappearing into a slur, “We’re just goin’ back to the flat.”

“Actually, I’m not sure...” Ron started uneasily but Spence interrupted him.

“Very nice, I’m sure. Well, have a good time you two.” Spence did a messy two step, slipping off the pavement at an awkward angle but righting himself as Hermione reached out a steadying hand. 

In his mind, Ron saw his mum, holding her arm in front of him on a busy road, letting him know when he could cross. Hermione had that same sort of vibe- calm and in control. She wouldn’t let you cross the road unsafely, he was sure of it.

“Ron?” she said now, holding Spence by the shoulder as he blearily examined his phone, swearing softly, “Do you need a lift home?”

He could have kissed her. “Actually, I really could.”

“What?” Jeanie looked put out. “Thought you were coming back with me?”

Ron eyed Jeanie warily and Hermione seemed to understand.

"Look, I'm parked over there. It'll take me a minute to sort Spence." Manhandling her husband across the street, amidst good humoured protests, she left Ron to deal with his own situation with as much grace as he could manage given his alcohol consumption.

Admittedly, he wasn't at his best, but it didn't take him long to sweet talk Jeanie and by the end of their chat, he got the feeling she thought he was kind of charming, old fashioned even for not taking things further so early.

Hermione pulled round in front of him and he lowered himself into the ancient car, almost as decrepit as her printer. He was going to mention it, a sarcastic comment bubbled up inside him, but, given that she had offered him a lift and he had absolutely no way of getting home otherwise, he thought better of it.

They sat in silence as they watched Jeanie walk down the road, open her front door with some difficulty and then wave before going inside. Then Hermione moved away from the pavement and started up the street, her headlights having very little effect in so much dark.

"I should drop Spence off first, given he has to get up..."

She stopped as a gentle snore erupted from the back seat and Ron squinted over his shoulder. An unconscious Spencer lolled gracefully over his seatbelt.

"On second thoughts," Hermione added, unable to keep the distain from her voice, "Cochall Cottage it is."

For such a careful, measured sort of person, Hermione was a pacey driver, making light work of the narrow lanes, even in such a shoddy vehicle.

Ron wanted to congratulate her on her driving skill, but couldn't seem to form a suitable compliment without somehow insulting her car.

In the end, he settled for, "Not driving the pickup tonight then?"

She navigated a bend. "No. The truck belongs to Edward. I only use it when I go up the mountain. I park it in a garage in Lowndes when I'm..."

"Not rescuing damsels in distress like me?"

She laughed softly and Ron felt weirdly pleased about that, as if Hermione’s laugh was a prize she didn’t often bestow. "Yes. Something like that."

"Well, thanks again Hermione. This is the second time you have pulled me out of a hole." She shrugged. "I'm sure not all of your guests are this much trouble. Trust me, after tonight you won't see any more of me. You can get back to the Exeter art collection and I will stick to writing. Promise."

She was quiet for a beat and then she said, "Erskine."

"Hmmm?" Jesus, these roads were hairpin. How the hell was she driving this fast in the dark?

"I curate the Erskine art collection. How did you know that?" She didn't sound unsettled, just curious.

"Heard it. Somewhere." The last word was through gritted teeth, mostly to prevent him from shouting 'Bloody hell woman slow down!'

Finally, thank God, they reached the straight portion of the road that led out of the valley and up towards the mountain. Ron relaxed his vice-like grip on the side of the seat seeing, so he thought, Hermione smile faintly out of the corner of his eye.

"What is the Erskine art collection anyway?" Ron swallowed a hiccup.

"Um, well..." She glanced over at him, as if wondering if he really wanted to know.

"Go on. I'm curious."

She blew out a breath. "The Erskine family own an estate near here, they're sort of the big, old family of this area. You know the type: ancient lineage, massive stately home set in hundreds of acres of land. I'm employed by the Erskine Foundation- they support local artists, charity groups, things like that. They loan the artwork that people produce out to the rental properties and public buildings in the area, sort of like little personal galleries. The people who stay in the rentals and visit the public buildings can buy the artwork, putting money back into the local economy and supporting the artists and the charities."

"Are you an artist?" He couldn't see her up to her eyes in watercolours or clay. Too chaotic somehow.

"No. Well, I studied History of Art and did various other jobs before I was invited to do this. Part of my job is to package and send the artwork when it's sold, move pieces around the various buildings, buy new pieces, attend meetings, assign funding. It keeps me busy."

Evidently.

Another snore emanated from behind them and she tutted gently.

"Does he do this a lot? Get sloshed and fall asleep on a night out."

"It wasn't meant to be a night out," Hermione sounded tired suddenly, "It was just a quiet drink before he went to Skegness. He's doing a section of his PhD down there."

"Going to be a doctor."

"He already is a doctor. It's his second PhD." She said it casually, without a hint of either boastfulness or pride.

Ron snorted and said, "Wasn't one enough?" before he could stop himself. Who the hell did two PhDs? Nobody he knew.

She didn't respond, just stared straight ahead, her expression unreadable in the greenish light of the dashboard. Ron waited and began to worry he had offended her.

"You have one smart husband Hermione," he muttered finally, unable to think of anything else to say.

Again, she didn't reply, too focussed on navigating potholes she couldn't possibly see but knew instinctively were there.

"And you're a doctor too?" Ron went on, thinking back to Spencer saluting her outside the pub.

"I have a PhD, yes. Not a medical doctor."

"Your parents must be proud."

"Actually," she replied, hands settling and resettling on the wheel, "I think they would have preferred me to be a medical doctor." She smiled in the dim light and glanced over at him. "Are your parents proud of you? You're very successful."

Ron considered the question for a moment before answering. "Yeah, I suppose they are. To be honest, we don't talk about it a lot." He saw her raise her eyebrows. "That's not as bad as it sounds. I have a big family, lots going on. If you don't raise your voice everyone assumes you're ok. It's time saving really."

"But it only works if you actually do it, right? Raise your voice when you aren't ok?"

What was she getting at? "Suppose."

"Otherwise, you might not be ok and they wouldn't notice."

"They'd notice," he interrupted, trying to keep himself from slurring, "I don't mean they're neglectful. They're just busy. Anyway," he finished, "They never have to worry about me. I'm golden."

He was grateful that Hermione didn't pursue the matter further and they made the rest of the journey in silence.

When they pulled up to the gate, she automatically made to get out of the car to open it but Ron put his hand on her arm.

“Don’t bother getting out Hermione,” he said as he awkwardly undid his seatbelt with his other hand, “I’m good from here.”

A mild panic threw itself up on her face. “Nonsense. The drive is uneven- you might fall down the bank and break a leg. You could land in the Burn and drown. It takes millimetres of water to drown Ron.”

He felt himself smile. “You are a bloody ray of sunshine Hermione. Thank you. I’ll manage.”

He unfolded his legs and hauled himself out of the car, ignoring her protests and waving a hasty goodnight. Despite this, the car idled as he unlocked and relocked the gate, walked the length of the drive to the house and opened the front door. In fact, though she couldn’t see the door and had no way of knowing, he only heard it back up when he turned the key in the lock behind him.

Chapter Text

Ron felt like all the air was being sucked out of his lungs. With each word, another minute plume of oxygen left him. The more Gray spoke, the less he could breathe.

“Look, listen to me Ron it is categorically not the story. Not the story alright? I like the story. And your main man, it isn’t that he’s awful. He’s just…”

“Samey, yes I heard you.” His voice sounded scratchy and he hoped Gray didn’t pick up on it.

“I’ve read him before. Lots of times and in many different guises. You can do better. He doesn’t do your story justice.”

Ron blew out a breath and sat back in the chair. It was plump and squidgy, shrewdly designed to make you want to relax into its soft, green folds and drink more coffee than you could afford. He had decided on this place to take Gray’s call as it was on the outskirts of Lowndes and was therefore quieter, with less chance of running into somebody he knew, like Jeanie. He didn't need the distraction.

Currently, the only other customer was a man wearing an oversized maroon bobble hat. He was elderly, evident in the gnarl of his hands and the lines round his mouth but he was canny too, his quick, pale blue eyes darting around the room. On his arrival he had engaged in a seemingly well-worn argument with the waitress about filter coffee, before seating himself at one of the tables by the wall, under the heating unit. Despite the fact that hot air was blasting down on his head, so much so that Ron could feel the current from the opposite corner of the café, he removed neither his coat nor his hat.

Instead, he drank his coffee—made exactly as he had asked for it- and read a paper. He was the sort of person that could be murdered in a town like this. A bit fragile, argumentative, well known in the community. In his head Ron could see the body, perhaps floating in the loch face down or maybe at the bottom of a long set of deadly stone steps. But to write a murder, you needed a book and to get a book, you needed to impress your editor.

“Rethink him. Take a couple of days, go for a walk up a mountain or something and work it out. You’re probably just focussing too hard. It’s only a first-pass, remember that.”

God bless Gray for being a friend in this moment rather than just the man telling him no. Having said that, Ron felt it was glaringly obvious that this was not a discussion he and Gray had ever really had so early on, at least not with his successful books. Ron’s first-pass pages were- or had once been- exemplary. It was difficult to hear.  

“Of course. Rethink. Climb a mountain.”

“Take your mind off it for a day or so. Anyone you can shag up there?”

Bizarrely Ron’s mind’s eye landed of an image of Hermione drinking wine by the fire at first, before flitting off in the direction of Jeanie.

“Maybe,” he mused non-committally, slightly unsettled.

“Good!” Gray replied triumphantly, “Take her out, wine her, dine her, bang her and get it out of your system. You’ll be back to your old self in no time. Gotta run.”

The phone clicked in his ear. Ron chucked the handset into his bag, roused his laptop from its sleep state and scooched further down into the chair to think about his protagonist.

Two coffees later, buzzing with caffeine and no further forward, he logged into the café’s Wi-Fi and started going through his emails.

“You can ask for filter you know.”

Ron looked up and, with the waitress nowhere to be seen, concluded that it was Maroon Bobble Hat who had spoken.

“Sorry?”

The elderly man gestured at the empty cups in front of Ron. “Filter. It’s cheaper than all that fancy nonsense they try to sell you in here. They just don’t put it on the menu ISN’T THAT RIGHT LAUREN?”

From the open kitchen door, a sullen cry of, “Yes Mr Pike,” came back to them.

When Ron didn’t immediately answer, he carried on. “’Course, not bein’ from here you probably like your coffee to be ninety percent hot air. But since you look like you’re here for a while and could well bankrupt yourself buyin’ what you’re currently buyin’, I thought you should know.”

Ron felt himself smile and he nodded his thanks. “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr Pike.”

“Jeremy Pike. You’re a writer then?” Good grief did his arrival go round in the town newsletter? Bloody Jeanie.

“I am.”

“Had to be. The only out-of-towners we get round here are walkers, writers and painters. You aren’t dressed for walking and you’ve no sketchpad. Books is it?” Ron nodded. “Good. You’ll do better here if it’s books. Sometimes people from the newspaper come here, do ‘exposés’ on fluoride in the water table or fried crickets in the chip shop scampi.”

He said ‘exposés’ like it was a very dirty word, though Ron felt perhaps he should be somewhat more concerned about the crickets. “They don’t last very long, I can tell you. Get nothin' from no-one and then off they go and write it anyway. Vermin.” He half spat, half coughed the last word and wiped his mouth with a napkin, the bobble on his hat waving menacingly.

Oh yes, this man could definitely be a contender, Ron thought as he watched him take a sip of his hard-won filter coffee. It could be a humorous death maybe, like someone dropping a flower pot on his head. Or an ironic death, found with balls of newspaper in his oesophagus, printed with the very story he’d been complaining about. The murderer could club him to death with a pair of binoculars- now that would be hilarious! The neighbourhood watch killed by the very instrument of his snooping. They’d need to be pretty substantial though….

Ron brought up Google and was typing in ‘giant binoculars’ when Jeremy Pike spoke again.

“It’s not one of those gory books is it? People hitting their mothers over the head with the family silver, that sort of thing?”

“It… hasn’t really taken shape yet,” Ron answered nonchalantly, “Do you work yourself Mr Pike?”

It was a gratuitous question; the man was extremely mature in years, despite his sharpness. But Ron had never been much good at lying; he could just about manage it over the phone but he wasn’t adept in person, so the quicker he could get Pike off the topic of murder, the less likely the tips of his ears would redden and give him away.

“Nah, son. Been retired for years. Carpentry was my trade, did it man and boy. Problem is, the mind still ticks, but the body. Ach. The body lets you down. Got too stiff to be on my knees all day. Had to give it up. Not that it helped. Gettin' stiffer and sorer every day.”

He had been speaking at quite a booming volume- clearly used to being listened to, or possibly just making people listen- but he suddenly lowered his voice, as if remembering something.

“Shouldn’t talk too loudly. Walls have ears.”

He rapped the neighbouring brick with a knuckle.

“Meaning?”

Mr Pike paused, as if considering how much to tell this blow-in who was content to pay extra for crap coffee and was possibly writing grisly novels.

“Some people,” he began conspiratorially, leaning a little closer, “Round here, consider your business their business. Some people can’t just leave you alone to live your life.”

“Like family?” Ron knew what that was like.

“Not even!” was the vociferous reply, “She’s not even family! Just an interfering know-it-all.”

“Who?”

“Met her at the Day Centre. I help out with the wood working class, weans over there don’t know their arsehole from their elbow.” The slang usage of this man was amusing to say the least. “She was ‘volunteering’”- another dirty word- “and I got talking to her, you know. About my situation and the like. I was making conversation, not sending out a cry for help! Next thing she’s at the door wanting to take me out, givin’ me leaflets on winter fuel payments, trying to sort out my benefits.” He shook his head disgustedly.

“She sounds… helpful?” Ron was sure this was the wrong adjective to use for whoever this was and he was right. Mr Pike shook his head firmly.

“That’s what you’d think. At first, that’s what I thought. Nice wee lassie, doin’ her best. But no. It doesnae stop! See, she drove me to my doctor appointment. Dodgy ticker, had a bad case of heartburn last year. She got a hold of the letter he gave me, ‘doctor’s recommendations’ they called it, and that was it! No butter, no fat on my bacon, bloody asparagus next to my pork chop at the Day Centre instead of chips! Every time she sees me, haranguing me about switching to decaffeinated coffee, skimmed milk. ‘Take your tablets, Mr Pike’, ‘Measure your blood sugar Mr Pike’. She drives me bananas!”

He paused to take a crackly breath. Then a slow, satisfied smile grew over his lips. “But never worry, I got my revenge.”

“Oh yes?” Feeling his attention wandering, Ron looked to see if the waitress was hovering around anywhere- his coffee growing cold- but no such luck. He hoped this story had a timely conclusion.

“Well gettin’ it I should say. It’s her own fault. She wanted to know if there was anything she could do. ‘Anything at all Mr Pike’. So I gave her the dog.”

“The dog?”

“Aye the dog.” Jeremy Pike swilled the coffee in the bottom of his cup and swallowed it in one mouthful. “My son Emmett emigrated to Canada a year ago. Had this bloody dog, adopted it from a shelter, couldn’t take it with him. Bloody thing’s the size of a Highland coo, wrecked the house, kept knocking me over. So I thought, if she wants to help out, she can take the coo. While I’m ‘recuperating’, hah! Now she’s stuck with it and it’ll teach her to meddle in other people’s lives!”

Ron was starting to see where this was going and actually, he was amazed he hadn’t seen it sooner.

Suddenly a gruff laugh arose from Mr Pike. "Here's the bampot now."

Ron turned. Hermione was standing on the other side of the window attempting to tie the massive dog to a street light. As she grappled with the lead, it repeatedly bashed its big head off her elbow, knocking her arm so she became off balance.

Mr Pike's laughter grew as he watched the spectacle.

"Warned her! Told her he'd be too much for her. Needs a firm hand that dog. But no, no, wouldn't listen." His voice went up an octave, "'Nothing is too much trouble Mr Pike. Let me do it Mr Pike.' Thinks that taking him off my hands will lower my blood pressure. Might have. Except she won't leave me alone to enjoy it. Oh Christ, here she comes."

Having successfully secured the beast and dusted herself down, Hermione entered the cafe. With her, she carried four large cloth tote bags, overflowing with, among other things, a bolt of shimmering green fabric printed with scales, several rolls of brown paper, a thick, elderly looking book with an orange cover and a stick of French bread. And that was only what Ron could see.

She made a beeline for Mr Pike and deposited her load at her feet, grimacing slightly as the bags gave under the strain of their contents and collapsed outwards, causing everything within to jostle and burst forward a little. "Good morning Mr Pike. How are you today?"

"Still alive, you'll be sorry to hear." For all his bluster, Ron could see him visibly sink lower in his chair, clutching his coffee cup in front of him by way of protection.

"Nonsense, I'm delighted to see you up and about. How are you finding the new diet sheets I left you? Any issues sourcing the ingredients?" She paused, suddenly noticing the empty plate on his table. "What was that?"

He looked up, immediately victorious. "Croissant. Buttered."

Hermione looked horrified. "With real butter?"

"Course with real butter, ya rocket!"

"But I left you cholesterol control spread. It has heart healthy oils."

Mr Pike nodded and then slowed his voice right down, as if speaking to a child, "And I used it. Ran out of WD-40 last week so I greased a few bits of machinery with it in the yard." He leant round her and winked at Ron, who was engrossed in the exchange. "Worked a treat, all those 'heart healthy oils'."

He cackled, showing a few blackened teeth and pale pink gums. Ron felt himself grin, though he quickly sobered when Hermione whirled round to face him.

"Ron. I didn't see you there. Don't encourage Mr Pike. He's in enough trouble as it is!"

"I'm not eight-year-old, you interfering old Bessie. You don't belong to me. I can do as I like!" 

"It's not me you'll be in trouble with Mr Pike," Hermione said smugly, tapping the Formica table with a fingernail. "Your cardiologist will be so disappointed that you haven't been sticking to your diet plan!"

It was evident Jeremy Pike was starting to become irritated with her tirade and Ron couldn't help feeling he had justification. Who on earth did Hermione think she was, telling a grown man what to do? And not even someone she was related to, just an old man trying to go about his business.

"Och, and I'd bet you'd tell him too, you wee clipe. High and mighty, standing there with a face like a skelped arse!"

Ron had been poised to intervene, say something in defence of this man. But, most humorously, he was cutting Hermione down beautifully all by himself. He wasn't sure what a 'skelped arse' looked like but Hermione was rapidly going beetroot as Mr Pike spoke, which was nothing short of what she deserved. Scottish slang, Ron decided, was his new favourite thing.

A deadly silence followed, Hermione red and angry, Jeremy Pike staring straight up at her, defiant, the only discernible sound the hum of an appliance in the kitchen. Slowly, she adjusted the black leather satchel on her back and lifted the four brimming tote bags.  

In a tired voice she said, "I will bring you some vegetables from the allotment tomorrow," and without another word, she turned on her heel and walked out of the cafe.

Ron felt deflated. Was that it? He'd been expecting a huge outburst, fireworks of indignation. He hadn't expected her to give up so easily. Mr Pike watched her go, an odd look on his face as if he too had been anticipating more.

They settled into an uneasy calm, Ron writing and rewriting the same paragraph, Jeremy Pike folding and refolding the paper. A few people patronised the café, buying coffee in takeaway cups, a sandwich in a paper bag, but no one else joined them and the elderly man did not attempt to restart the conversation between them.

Eventually the quiet was broken by the waitress coming through from the kitchen to clear the tables.

"More coffee?" Lauren looked expectantly at Mr Pike, her tone indicating she'd rather not serve him another beverage if at all possible.

"No, I'll head now Lauren." As he stood and adjusted his feet, something shot out from the under the table and slid across the floor towards Ron. The orange book.

As Ron collected it from the floor, he realised it wasn't a book but a Filofax. God, he hadn't seen one of those in years. His father used to have one for work but phased it out as the digital age swept in. Didn't everyone store their lives on smartphones nowadays?

He held the book out to Jeremy Pike, who was counting money in very small change. "Hermione must have dropped this from her bag." Pike ignored him. "Perhaps you could take it and give it to her tomorrow. When she brings you the vegetables?"

The old man finally turned to him, an expression of sheer wonderment on his face. "If you think I'll be in tomorrow when that roaster knocks my door, you have another thing coming son!" He hauled his backpack over arm and shouldered past Ron to the door. "Leave it here. She'll come back for it."

Even before he had finished the sentence, Ron could feel the hostility powering off Lauren and knew that the chances of her taking any responsibility for the Filofax was slim to none.

He considered just risking leaving the Filofax with her. She would have no choice but to look after it wouldn't she? But then Ron thought about Hermione skating around in the dark pulling leaves from the generator mechanism at Cochall Cottage. Ok, technically it was her job and he had every right to call her out to look at it. Driving him home from the pub, however, that was beyond her remit.

Buggar, he'd have to head out to the oddly named Beach End again to return it.

Sinking back down into the squashy chair to finish his coffee, he looked at the organiser in his hand. Was everything in Hermione Granger's life old and well-worn? He couldn't think of a single item she wore or used that hadn't seen better days. Hadn't she bought anything in this century? He resolved to ask her that very question when he saw her next.

A dog eared piece of paper was wedged in the front cover and the corner that peeked out had the words 'To Do' printed in neat, block letters on it.

Now this was a conundrum. By rights, it would be a complete breach of Hermione's confidentiality by checking out her To Do list. God forbid it said something like 'Book bikini wax' on it. Bloody hell he didn't know her well enough for that sort of thing. 

Still, Ron found Hermione interesting. She was one of the most driven people he had ever met, her capability for efficiency undeniably impressive. She was snappy and dismissive and my God she'd give you a headache if you spent long enough in her company. But there was a vibrancy to her that was attractive.

Sometimes, when Ron was studying couples, he found it difficult to see what one found appealing in the other. Some people were so dull and jaded, they had nothing to say for themselves, seemingly no redeeming features whatsoever. That wasn't the case with Hermione. She was, as Jeremy Pike had lamented, 'a roaster', but he could see how Spencer could have fallen in love with her.

There was no higher, better reason for Ron to look at the list inside her Filofax other than he was madly curious as to what she got up to. And since there was no-one around, no-one would ever know…

The paper unfolded into A4 and it was, without a solitary doubt, the most complex To Do list Ron had ever seen. To even call it a ‘To Do list’ was a grave miscarriage of justice. The Queen of England wouldn’t have so organised a schedule.

The page was covered in little sections and boxes, labelled for different areas of her life such as ‘Lunches and Dinners’ where she had planned a week’s worth of food in advance and ‘Daily Routine’ where she circled when she had completed tasks like exercise. There were boxes labelled ‘Erskine’, ‘Asher’s’ and ‘Crom’, all with neat lists underneath their titles. She even had a space for ‘Quote of the Week’, this week’s quote being: ‘The difference between ordinary and extraordinary is the little extra.’

Honestly, just looking at it was giving Ron chills. Was this really how she lived her life? Ticking each little item off. Was this how she got her satisfaction?

As he tucked the paper back into the Filofax and fought his arms into his jacket, an idea began to tug on his consciousness. It was unformed, an outline. He resisted trying to pull it into the light by focussing on it. It would come if he gave it time.

He left the car where it was and walked through the town and up the higgledy-piggledy lane to Beach End. He rapped the door several times, ten or twenty seconds apart each time but no-one came to answer it. Inside, Goose woofed mournfully as if sympathising with his situation.

He eyed the slim brass letterbox with misgivings and wondered, if by some miracle he managed to squeeze it through, what Goose’s stance was on eating things posted through the door. Would Hermione be inclined to concentrate more on his returning her Filofax or on the fact that it was half eaten by the camel-dog?

Behind him the sky cracked and he turned. Fast moving clouds were rolling in over the loch and they were the colour of concrete. Sod it, letterbox it was.

Wedging the flap open with one hand, Ron inserted the top left corner into the slot and pushed. He managed to get a third of it through, plus the clasp, on his first, tentative push. His second, more confident shove was harder which meant the thicker end of the Filofax became nicely wedged and no third, fourth or fifth shove shifted it. Panicking slightly, he tried to pull it back but the clasp became entangled in the draught excluder, which was tough and wiry and held firm.

Ron dropped his hands to his sides and stared at it. Could he leave it like that? She would never know who had so successfully jammed her Filofax in her door, he could just sneak away now. 

But what if she went back to the café to look for it? Lauren would surely tell her he had taken it. She would know it was him.

Suddenly he heard a low whine from the other side of the door and the scratch of brittle nails. It was soft, almost exploratory at first. And then it built, a rhythmic scritch-scritch scritch-scritch of little feet worrying at the bottom of the door. It didn’t really concern him until he saw the Filofax move, the bottom right corner lifting sharply upwards as if something was pulling from the other side.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Ron grasped the Filofax and began tugging it up and down, trying to pull the clasp past the draught excluder. Something heavy had hold of the other half, clearly delighted that an impromptu game of tug of war was afoot. Ron’s sweaty hands slipped over the cracked orange leather as he tried to get purchase on the organiser. “You let go now! Bloody dog!”

A soft, baffled voice from behind him said, “Are you stealing my post?” causing Ron to lose his grip on the Filofax and whirl round.

Hermione stood, a basket over one arm containing flowers and tree cuttings. She was wearing another oversized jumper, this one with a gold crest on the left hand side of the chest, the expression on her face one of polite alarm.

Fuck’s sake.

“No! You dropped your…” he gestured helplessly at the door, suddenly at a loss for the word.

“Filofax?”

“Yes! Thank you! In the café. I was trying to return it.”

“By obstructing my letterbox with it?” She sounded serious but there was a faint curve to her mouth which Ron took to be a good sign.

“Yeah,” he replied ruefully, “Sorry about that. Tried to push it through but it got stuck. Then the dog got it….”

Hermione looked perturbed to say the least and Ron felt more and more ridiculous. “Stay here,” she said abruptly and disappeared around the back of the house. Moments later he heard the strike of her boots against the floorboards in the hall and an authoritative command of “Goose! Leave it!” The Filofax disappeared in a swift motion and the door opened.

“Thank you for returning this,” she murmured, examining the end of it that was pocked with tiny indentations and smeared with drool, “I think.” She looked up at him. “Would you like to stay for tea?”

Ron stuffed his hand into his pockets and took a step back from the door. “No, don’t go out of your way for me. Just wanted to get that back to you.”

Hermione shrugged and said, “It’s no bother at all,” before turning away and walking back into the house.

Ron regarded the open door for a moment before stepping through it. She certainly wasn’t one to be told no.

She was already boiling the kettle when he made it to the kitchen, cups and the milk bottle set out next to the flowers she had cut. Wordlessly and quite seriously, she went through the process of warming the filigree covered teapot and brewing the tea, exactly as she had done before.

It was odd, wasn’t it, how poor she was at small talk? Anyone else would be chatting away about this or that, thanking him for returning the Filofax, gesturing at the weather. Any banal conversation would do. Not her, though. It was like she did all the right things- like inviting him in for tea – but without the warmth. She was nearly more academic than human sometimes. He figured she would probably prefer to spend the night with a pile of reading material than an actual person.

Yet there must be some warmth to her, Spencer had married her after all. Ron tried to imagine her as a bride, giddy and pink cheeked with happiness, arm curled round her new husband’s. Surreptitiously, he glanced around but there were no wedding photos on display.

Hermione poured the tea for both mugs and sat on the chair across from his. No sooner had she rested back than she was up again searching through the top cupboards. From the depths of one, she piped up, “The flowers. They’ll need water.”

Ron lifted a stem from the pile on the table and examined it. “These are pretty. You must have very green fingers.”

She began setting out any vessel that she could find that would hold water. “No, not really. I had hay fever as a child so I never really got into flowers. I kill things mostly.”

“So what’s this all for?”

“The Day Centre. They have crafts every alternate week.”

Had to be something like that, of course it did.

“So anything you don’t kill is cut down and given away to someone else. That’s generous.”

She shot him a bemused look. “I suppose. It’s only flowers.”

As he watched her, she picked up a cut crystal vase from the collection, looked at it in her hand for a minute before filling it with water. Ron raised his eyebrows when she set it on the table.

“It was a wedding present. From Spence’s aunt. I’d forgotten it was in there.”

“Funny how everyday objects bring up memories isn’t it? My mum hoards cupboardfuls of things she can’t throw away because they ‘mean something’. Then she complains when everything is a mess.”

In his mind’s eye, he could see the muddled house in Ottery St Catchpole, decades of mementos from the growing up of seven kids, his mum treasuring every painting, every poorly knitted sock or inexplicable clay model. It ignited a warmth in his chest and he vowed to ring his mum and dad before he went back to the cottage.

“I’m not sentimental,” Hermione said now sharply, “It’s ridiculous to keep useless things just because you have some sort of fond memory about them. Imagine the state of your house if you kept every little thing that reminded you of something. It would be a hovel.”

She said it so carelessly- as if Ron hadn’t even spoken- that he almost didn’t take offence. Almost.

“Well you say that Hermione,” he started, squaring his shoulders, “But that’s the pot calling the kettle black isn’t it?”

She didn’t look up from cutting the stems of the flowers with scissors. “Meaning?”

“Well look at this place?” That stopped her. “I mean, there’s stuff everywhere. Who needs all those books…?”

“I do…”

“And your laptop,” he interrupted, “Don’t tell me you aren’t precious about that? It belongs in a museum yet you still plug away on it.”

“But…”

“And that goes for everything else you own, by the way.”

She was starting to look affronted but all Ron could think of was his beloved mum cherishing all the remnants of her children’s lives and Hermione pouring scorn on it. Had she no feelings at all?

“I mean who uses a Filofax in this day and age? Seriously. It looks like a leftover from the 1990’s.”

Hermione had grown very still and slightly red high up on her cheekbones. She had set the scissors the table and was quietly listening to his tirade.

When he finished, however, she was right on top of him.

“I believe in using something until it no longer has a purpose, not buying new things every time I get bored. It’s wasteful and expensive.”

“That wasn’t what I was talking about….”

It was her turn to interrupt him. “My books are for my work. I have to have them and even if I didn’t, I like having them about me. It’s not about sentimentality. It’s about security and… peace.”

It was an odd way to describe a book collection but then she was odd.

“I will admit I am sentimental about my laptop but, again, it does what it’s meant to do and that pleases me. I realise I’m a digital dinosaur and probably need dragged into the twenty first century but…” She paused. Her gaze flicked away from him for a moment before coming back and determinedly staring him down, mouth a grim line. “That’s just the way I am.”

He had wounded her, he could tell, and he didn’t feel good about it. But neither was he particularly sorry about it either. Hermione was obviously used to speaking her mind without giving thought to either the people she was talking about or who she was talking to. She was dismissive and it was unnecessary and quite frankly mean.

“I’ll be going now.” He stood, leaving his tea untouched. “I’ll see myself out.” 

She nodded perfunctorily and returned to focus to the flowers. “Yes. Bye then.”

The walk back to his car and the drive through the valley was overtaken by low level rage. It was irrational to be angry on behalf of his clueless mother- who wouldn’t be offended by those sorts of comments anyway- but he was and he stewed in it.

He wasn’t sure at what point the situation changed, the shadowy thoughts from earlier crystallising and developing, but by the time he reached Cochall Cottage, the idea was fully formed, it had life and it was begging to be given legs to walk.

He ejected himself from the car, flung open the cottage door and went straight to the laptop.

Chapter Text

The Wild and Wolf telephone started to drill early and Ron rolled over in bed, sleepily marvelling at how the sound reverberated through the house so clearly. After seven rings it stopped and he sighed happily. It started again and he did debate getting up to answer it but an exploratory foot outside the blankets came back chilled and he thought better of it. Another little snooze and he would feel more able withstand the cold of Cochall Cottage first thing. 

The phone ceased after nine rings. He waited and when silence answered him, he rolled over again, intertwining his legs with the sheet and pulling the blanket to his ear.

The phone drilled for a third time and this time, it didn’t stop. He whisked back the covers and tramped over to his upturned suitcase, pulled on a jumper and the thickest socks he had with him, and hobbled downstairs to the bookcase.

“Thought you were dead Weasley,” Gray’s buoyancy was grating at this time of the morning and Ron told him so. “You not out of bed yet? Took my advice did you? Doing a little recreational shagging?”

The thought that no, he wasn’t actually do anything anywhere near as entertaining, made Ron grumpier. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until the end of the week. I thought you were skiing.”

“I am. I’m calling you from Aspen, just about to head to bed. But I had to call about the pages.”

It felt like Gray had poured ice water into Ron’s veins. Instantly he was awake, a sharp stab of dread in his belly.

“I see,” he replied cautiously, almost afraid to ask, “And?”

“LOVED them, mate.” Three words and Ron felt like he could breathe again.

“Really?” Please don’t let this be a joke.

“Really,” Gray was enthusiastic and it was the first time in a long time that Ron had heard his voice lift in such a way. He had forgotten what it felt like. “I have to say when I read your notes on it, I was unsure. I mean, I know we talked about doing something different but this. This was really different. Didn’t know what to expect. But its genius.”

Ron felt himself smile. “You like the protagonist?”

“I do. What made you decide to do a woman?”

The story Ron told Gray was bland and non-committal and entirely untrue. Not only because Gray wouldn’t approve of the truth but also that Ron himself was uneasy about it.

Ever since he had first cracked open his laptop in Cochall Cottage and started writing, his main character had felt wrong. Gray had been right- he was samey, he was a lot like many of the other protagonists Ron had written over the years. He added very little to the story. Yet Ron loved that sort of ballsy, authoritarian figure and he couldn’t figure out why it wasn’t working now.

It was Hermione that had shaken things loose. Her odd mix of total, unyielding control with some sort of tenderness underneath, watching her rocket around the town doing everything, being everything and it occurred to him, like a stereotypical light bulb pinging on. What if it was a woman?

He had never written the main character as a female before, possibly because so much of the way they acted and thought was an utter mystery to him. But the more he thought about it, the more he wrote about it, the better it became. He had been excited to send the pages to Gray, despite his overwhelming nerves, because he knew there was something good about them. Sparky. The fact that Gray felt the same way was unbelievably brilliant.

So while the decision was a solid one, the genesis felt uncomfortable. Stupidly, he had called the character ‘H’ in the document so every time Gray talked about her, it reminded Ron of the artistic licence he had taken with Hermione and her personality. He hadn’t made her a bad person, rather he had used all of the bossiest, most domineering aspects of her to form ‘H’ and left out the caring side he sensed drove her overachieving.

He had taken her from an interfering know-it-all who curates an art collection to a ball-busting know-it-all who headed up the police unit in charge of solving serious crime. The result was mildly terrifying but it worked beautifully in the story.

“So, obviously there’s a long way to go. I need to write in the romance you talked about…”

“Nah,” Gray cut in sharply, “Never mind about that.”

“But you said. The main character needed a romantic side story this time.”

“Don’t think it’s necessary mate.” Ron heard the phone being shuffled around between Gray’s ear and neck. “I think this one will do just fine without. Besides, who is seriously going to believe ‘H’ is getting any?” He laughed as he spoke. “I mean, who would dare right?”

Oh Jesus, maybe Ron had gone a little too bitchy.

“She has her good points,” he murmured, trying to backpedal, “It’s early days. Still time to give her a soft underbelly.”

“Nope, keep her. I like her mean. Men will love hating her and women will be torn between wanting to be her and really fucking not wanting to be her. It’s perfect. Anyway, gotta run. Good job Weasley. This has bestseller all over it.”

Gray disconnected before Ron had the chance to say goodbye and left him to contemplate the conversation. He was happy- more than happy- he was ecstatic that Gray liked the pages. It was hugely satisfying to think that he might be regaining some of what he had lost. And, as he watched the kettle boil, Ron made a resolution not to worry about 'H' any further. Every kink in every book he had ever written had unfurled itself in the end. He would leave it to the Universe to work out.

~

It was late by the time he raised his head from his laptop. Progress was slow for some reason this evening. Stopping and starting, a line here, a paragraph there. He hadn’t paused to switch on the lights and so fumbled to the kitchen counter in the dark, cutting a few chunks from a once fresh loaf and throwing some sliced cheese on the top. He was disgusted with how poor his eating habits were at the minute; his mother would be horrified. Writing took a lot out of him, especially the speed at which this novel was coming together. There was no time to slow roast and baste a joint- there was barely time to eat it.

He turned and looked out of the window at the midnight sky thinking of how, in just a few short weeks, he would be sitting down to a Weasley Christmas feast. Goose fat potatoes, meat juice gravy, sprouts glistening in bacon fat. Oh God it was too much to think about when he couldn’t even be bothered to toast bread right now.

He threw the remaining bread into the compost bin and was turning back to his computer when something caught his eye. A brief illumination near the bottom of the garden. Or so he thought. He stood stock still and waited. There it was again. The beam of a torch or headlamp maybe.

As was the norm, everything beyond the window was pitch black. Ron sat back down at the table and reasonably considered the situation. Most likely, the beam of light was kids messing about in the woods. Or two highly experimental lovers with a sexual preference for boggy earth and curious woodland creatures. It was hard to judge from here whether the light had even originated inside the property or just beyond the walls and he didn't relish the thought of surprising a group of stoned teenagers while brandishing a weapon.

He ran a finger over the mouse pad on the laptop and tried to refocus but he remained uneasy. He glanced out over his shoulder into the black and caught the narrow light as it made an arc, longer this time and in exactly the same place. Whoever they were, they weren't moving on.

Reluctantly Ron got to his feet and pulled on his jacket. The darkness of this place hadn't really bothered him up until this point but all of a sudden Cochall Cottage felt dangerous in its remoteness. He absolutely did not want to go down the garden to investigate but if he didn't... Someone could be hurt and in need of help. Someone could be breaking into the rickety old shed that looked like time had left it behind. He knew, despite his misgivings, that he wouldn't settle until he had checked it out.

He peered around in the gloom looking for something to take with him, shying away from switching on the overhead light in case there really was someone with nefarious intentions roaming about. 

His eye settled on the cast iron walking stick stand near the door, filled with a hotchpotch of umbrellas and sticks. He lifted and examined a few options, opting for a heavy wooden cane with a bird on the top. In the low light it looked like a peacock, carved into brass. He slapped his palm with it, satisfied it was sturdy enough should the worst happen, and lifted a torch.

Soundlessly, he unlocked the back door, descended the steps and flicked the torch on briefly to get an idea of his bearings. Satisfied, he began stealthily walking towards the bottom corner of the garden. His progress was slow in the dark, the only sounds the swish of his feet in the long grass, the screech of owls on the hunt and the haunting cry of caught prey.

They were definitely in the shed, the light was bobbing around inside; sometimes pausing for a moment before swooping around again. As he got closer, Ron could hear the noise of searching, metal on metal, items rattling against shelves, a grunt as something heavy was moved out of the way. What could they be searching for in an old, weather-beaten shed?

He reached the door, alarmed at how sweaty his palms had gotten, how fast his heart. What was he thinking confronting some unknown in the middle of the night? He should have switched on all the lights, locked the doors and rung the police. Bloody hell, why hadn't he done that? That would have been sensible. And now he was here, at the bottom of the garden with a walking stick for protection.

Come on Ron, you can do this. It's definitely just kids.

It was now or never. Trembling with adrenaline, Ron raised the walking stick above his head with his right hand, clicked on his torch and adjusted it in his left hand, so he could use his outer two fingers to curl around the handle. It was awkward, but he needed to keep his weapon hand unencumbered. Inside the shed the rattling had become more furious.

Blowing out one short breath and gripping the handle as tight as he could with his fingers, he flung the door wide and screamed.

His yell was met by another of a higher pitch and the torch beam swung round, slapping him in the face. He quickly countered it with his own, shielding his eyes to get a better look.

"What. The. Actual. Fuck. Hermione!" he bellowed, dropping the walking stick and drooping against the door frame, heart hammering. He clutched his chest to steady the beat. "You could have given me a heart attack!"

"Ron! Oh God, I'm so sorry!" She lowered her torch immediately and took three quick steps to his side. "Are you alright? I didn't mean to scare you."

She laid a hand on his arm which he shook off impatiently. "Scare me? What the hell are you doing in here?"

"There's no need to shout," she replied quietly, moving away from him again. "I needed some fishing line and I know that Edward used to fish in the loch..."

"Fishing line?" Ron was incredulous and still roaring. "It's after midnight! Thought you'd get one up on the carp did you? Catch them when they're sleeping?" He shook his head and brushed the hair from his forehead, heartbeat finally returning to normal. "Seriously, what is wrong with you?"

She didn't respond and his words, without a snappy reply, seemed mean-spirited in the dark. 

"Look, sorry I shouted at you," Ron dropped his voice and tried to sound rational, "I was... concerned that's all." He was absolutely not going to say the word scared. "I thought someone was burgling the shed. Thought maybe there might be valuable tools and equipment in here. I wasn't expecting anyone I knew since it's normal procedure for those people to come through the front door."

He heard her shuffling her feet. "I didn't see many lights on. I thought perhaps you had gone to bed. I didn't like to disturb you. It's the Nativity dress rehearsal tomorrow and what with everything else, I haven't finished the costumes."

"Couldn't you have waited until the morning?"

"No, they have to be ready in the morning. I'm going to stay up tonight. It's been my only free time this week."

Ron scrubbed at his eye with a knuckle. "Did you find it? The fishing line?"

"I did!"

"Great! Let's get out of here. There could be spiders."

He backed out and allowed her to pass, bolting the door behind her. Together they walked back up the garden, torchlight guiding their footsteps.

"Are you phobic?" Hermione asked as they reached the back door, "Of spiders?"

Ron ushered her inside. "Let's just say we have an understanding. As long as they don't come near me, they live to fight another day. If they do, they die."

As he followed her into the kitchen, he was suddenly reminded that the last time he had encountered Hermione hadn't been pleasant. Maybe he should have trapped her inside the shed with the spiders until she promised to be nicer.

She paused by the laptop. "You're up late. Writing?" She bent as if to read the paragraph on the screen but he reached her in two strides and slapped the cover closed.

"I like to work late. Unfortunately I'm not getting very far tonight." She straightened and glanced up at him from the side of her eye curiously. "Can I make you some tea or coffee? You must be freezing."

She shook her head. "No. Thank you. I need to get back and make a start."

"You're seriously going to stay up all night?" She nodded, playing with the spool of fishing line in her mittened hands. "How much is there left to do?"

Hermione grimaced and pulled her lip with her teeth. "Too much. I thought there would be time. I kept thinking there was still time." 

"Anything I can do to help?"

She shook her head again and looked toward the door. "Thanks for the offer but unless you are dab hand at sewing, there's nothing you can do."

Her eyebrows buckled with worry and she nipped again at her lip, which was red and chapped. Ron found he felt sorry for her, against his better judgement. She clearly didn't know her own limits and had blatantly brought this on herself, risking the disappointment of a whole group of people who were depending on her.

And yet, something about her stupid willingness to do absolutely everything, to help everyone, whether they wanted it or not, was oddly endearing.

But, he reminded himself, she was thoughtless. Unnecessarily so. A conundrum indeed.

As if reading his mind, Hermione raised her face up to his. "Listen Ron, I'm sorry about that last time we spoke. When you left, I realised you thought I was talking about your family home I think? Which I absolutely wasn't." Her small face was imploring. "Honestly. I had a lot on my mind that day... not that I don't have a lot on my mind every day... I mean you're probably thinking 'What's new Hermione?' right?"

She was babbling now and Ron found he wasn't averse to it. It was humorous if nothing else.

"But it wasn't about you," she went on, the spool moving from palm to palm now, "I... I'm just a bit overwhelmed lately."

Even as Ron looked quickly back where his laptop hummed, awaiting his next key strike, he knew what he was going to do next. Damn her and his soft heart.

"Well you are in luck Dr Granger," he replied, pulling the collar higher on his jacket, "I happen to be an erstwhile Scout. And while I was perhaps not the most saintly member of my troop, I was highly proficient in sewing on my badges."

Hermione stared at him for a moment, clearly wondering if he was serious. "Really?"

"Yep. So if you would like some help, I'd be glad to offer."

The way the happiness spread across her face as he spoke, catching and lifting her mouth into a broad smile, was actually pretty sweet.

"Are you sure?" she asked, already making her way to the door, "You can spare the time away from your book?"

He assured her he would be content to be out of the book's company for a few hours. Locking the cottage, he hoisted himself into the cab of the pick-up and it started with a throaty growl.

~

Over the course of the following hours, there were several moments when Ron caught himself feeling truly glad he was where he was. That was surprising. It was the middle of the night, he was in close proximity with someone he didn't know all that well, who had, on occasion, really pissed him off, and all they were doing was sewing fake fur onto material and sticking suction cups to tights.

But the fire was merry and they knelt beside it to ward off the cold. Hermione had brewed coffee and toasted muffins and they bent their heads and worked on the combined project in companionable silence, occasionally stopping to comment on one of the costumes or sip from their mugs. Goose lay peaceably on an oval shaped pillow under the stairs, all four legs stretched long away from the curve of his ribs, head nestled into the fabric.

Right at the start of their foray into costuming, as Hermione showed him the patterns, Ron had questioned the theme, which oddly seemed based around sea creatures.

"Miss Terry wanted the Nativity to be inclusive and less focused on religion this year," she had replied, laying tracing paper over fabric, "It's still loosely based on the Nativity story. It’s just is a bit more 'Finding Nemo'."

It was possibly the most bizarre concept for a school play he had ever heard of but, having promised a lending hand, Ron carried on regardless. He looked up now from where he had just finished hemming the red-orange fabric of the crab, to the top of Hermione's head. She had pulled her hair back into an elastic but a single thick, curly strand had released itself. He watched her as she dusted the clam with iridescent glitter, every so often moving the tendril away with the back of her wrist. 

Hair like that would be so irritating wouldn't it? Imagine living with it every day. Ron absently ran his fingers through his own mop; silky so it never really did anything other than sit there. Hermione's hair had a mind of its own. Imagine sharing a bed with her, hair taking up all her pillow space, and yours too probably. You'd roll over in the night to cuddle her and get lost in all those curls. And never mind kissing her. It would take you five minutes to push it all out of the way before you even got close...

Ron sat up abruptly, dropping his needle in the process. It had been a split second thought, slicing in and out of his brain, but it was disquieting. Hermione was not someone he would ever kiss. She was so far removed from his type of woman she could have been sketched as the antithesis.

Small where she should be tall, soft where he liked leanness, dictatorial when he preferred easy-going. And her schedule! Bloody hell, dating her would require military precision. No time for spontaneity or fun just because. She probably did nothing unless it was wedged in that planner between '50 stomach crunches' and 'bleed radiators'.

Plus, nitwit, she was somebody's wife.

He shook his head and picked up his needle.

"Are you ok?" Hermione was looking at him, concerned, "Are you tired? You can stop if you want."

"No I'm grand," he replied, taking another swig from his mug, "How are you getting on?"

Hermione lifted the mermaid's tail and showed him the seam she was working on. The fabric barely met in some places and too much in others. Also, there were a few interesting gaps. Her facial expression told him she knew this already and didn't need told.

"Let's put it this way," she huffed, examining the stitch work, "I'm not going to be asked to do this again next year. Thank God."

"Why are you doing this?" Ron asked suddenly and her eyes flicked up to his questioningly, "I mean, there must be so many other jobs you would be better at. Why pick this one?"

"I didn't pick it." There was a pause and then she added, "Actually that's not strictly true. I did volunteer. But only because no-one else wanted to do it."

Ron spluttered. "What sort of crazy motion is that? If no one else volunteers, there's usually a good reason. As in: it's a shitty job. Do you volunteer for all the shitty jobs?"

Hermione scowled and snapped, "No!"

"I bet you do," Ron was warming to his theme, "I bet if they asked someone to wade into the loch and pull out old welly boots for the good of the town, you would do it. Wouldn't you?"

Her mouth opened and then closed again quickly. And then she said quietly, resignedly, "Probably." 

He laughed and shook his head. "I don't like people to be let down," she said firmly, picking at the mermaid tail, "I like helping."

"Even if you don't have the time, the talent or the inclination? I mean, you do so much. You do everything. Don't you think your time would be better spent doing something you can actually do? Or hell, I dunno, do something fun."

"Something fun?" Hermione looked vaguely horrified, causing him to laugh again.

"Yes!" Ron replied, dropping his sewing onto his knee to free up his hands to gesticulate, "Something fun. Like a hobby."

"I have loads of hobbies," Hermione drew herself up to full height as she spoke and he prepared himself for the onslaught, "I volunteer at the Day Centre and I help out with the monthly litter picking. I'm on the board for the library and the historical society. And the Erskine Foundation! I write white papers for several..."

"I'm not talking about commitments," Ron cut in, slicing the air with his hand, "I'm talking about fun."

"They are fun!" she protested.

"No, they're things you've signed up to do to help people. To be involved. Be busy. For God's sake, you're making costumes for a school play and you don't even have a kid at the school!" She said nothing and he softened his voice. "Look, what I'm trying to say is, when do you just kick back, do something spur of the moment?"

"I have no time to do spur of the moment things Ron..."

"Exactly! I'm just saying. Maybe you should put something a bit less wholesome and a bit more entertaining into that ridiculous planner of yours."

He regretted it the minute he said it but there was no way back. It took Hermione all of five seconds to realise what he’d said and then the knowledge was there in her face.

“You read my planner?”

“It, uh, fell out of your Filofax.” Lies. “I didn’t look on purpose.” More lies. “And I didn’t study it or anything. Just got the jist.” Oh God, the lies.

She had the expression of someone who was undecided about whether or not to be angry about this latest development. Or perhaps she was just too tired to even get angry. Either way, Ron took full advantage.

“Look, I’m not having a go. Not really. It’s great that you’re so organised. I wish I was.” Bloody hell, now he was babbling. “Really, Hermione. It’s a noble thing to be so willing to help others. All I’m saying is, why not book yourself a bit of fun while you’re at it? I’ll help you. I have twin brothers who are the epitome of fun. I’m sure I can come up with something.”

She stared down at the mermaid tail, picking at the stitches. As she opened her mouth to speak, her mobile started bleeping and juddering against the table.

“Oh hell, it’s six thirty,” she mumbled, scrambling to her feet to turn it off.

“Six thirty am? Jesus, no wonder I’m shattered.” He rose stiffly and stretched as Hermione beavered around him, collecting discarded bits of Lycra and lace and throwing the costumes over one arm.

“Thanks for your help,” she puffed, gathering the sewing supplies into haphazard piles on the table. “I’ll drive you home. Let me get your jacket.”

“Never mind that,” he responded, scratching at the beginnings of a beard, “I’m hungry. Let’s go get breakfast.”

She didn’t stop tidying as she replied, “I haven’t time to eat breakfast today Ron. I have stuff on.”

“Balls to that, you owe me.” Hermione looked up and he gestured at the room. “You can say thank you by buying me breakfast. Ah!” He raised a finger to silence her. “Breakfast. Then you can clear off and try to take over the world okay?”

The fact that she relented was unexpected. So too was the pleasure to be found at having early morning eggs and bacon with possibly the bossiest women alive.

After a small detour to drop off the costumes at the school teacher’s house, amidst wretched apologies on Hermione's behalf for the quality of half the costumes produced, Ron and Hermione were the first customers at the café with the stripy awning, bursting through the door moments after it had been unlocked. Ron insisted on ordering for them both in case Hermione tried to give him the Jeremy Pike ‘cholesterol’ lecture and he was delighted when she attacked the food on her plate with gusto, muttering something about missing dinner.

Once she had gotten over the fact that she really was going to sit and eat breakfast and not go to Spin class as planned, Hermione became relaxed even, dare he think it, easy company. They talked about her History of Art background and the endless amount of research and papers she seemed to complete. She seemed to steer clear, either consciously or otherwise, of anything really personal. So much of the time she described must have included Spencer but she made little mention of him.

Ron got the feeling that they lived quite separate lives; Spencer seemed to travel a lot and Hermione was neck deep in her projects. A marriage like that was a foreign concept to him as all the examples he had grown up with had been very different. His grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles had all been close, in fact the whole Weasley family tree was a messy knot of intertwining branches. No-one got divorced and everyone had multiple children.

He imagined it in his head as an imposing oak tree spreading upwards and outwards as individual boughs sprouted new shoots and grew. The crown was massive as each person's branch gave new life.

Except his. No-one mentioned it anymore, though there was a time it was the standard family gossip fodder. When would he settle down? When would he meet 'The One'?

When he was younger he had gone through his share of set-ups, of women recommended to him by a cousin or brother, excruciating dates that made him dread Saturday nights. Ron had written enough narratives to know that chemistry couldn't be conjured between two people just because they were both single and ready. The perfect circumstances were not something the unconscious brain took note of.

It wants zing. The type of connection that sets a fizz going in the blood and shreds breathing into ragged little gasps. Tension so taut that the accidental brush of the back of one hand against the other causes bonfires in all the right places.

Ron could write it but finding it and keeping it proved more challenging.

He had it in a few relationships over the years, the last time being with Marianna. The chemistry between them had been amazing- they did not lack in that department- it was something else that had been missing. Something unknown that he could see in the expression on his dad's face when he smiled at his mum and in Harry's hand at the bottom of his sister's back when they entered the room. The longevity that took lovers and made them companions.

Likewise, Ron felt himself holding back as he chatted with Hermione. She asked him how he got into novel writing and the process he used when constructing a story. She was obviously interested in his current project but he skirted around the details, keen to avoid saying anything that might be a lie, or worse a truth.

Ron had no idea how Hermione would react if she knew he had used her as the muse for ‘H’. Certainly she was hardly recognisable anymore; so far down the rabbit hold he had gone with Gray’s suggestions. He said he wanted her meaner, angrier, flying off the handle and scaring people into getting her results. Ron had her swiping a computer off a table in rage, meeting with one person behind another person’s back, spending her evenings alone with a wine bottle for company.

‘H’ was not Hermione but there were still elements, little things you could spot if you knew Hermione in the flesh. It wasn’t a flattering portrayal and he manoeuvred the conversation round to her again.

It emerged that ‘Crom’ was the name of the primary school to which she was donating the costumes, ‘Asher’s’ the name of the Day Centre and care home where she volunteered.

She liked helping out at the Day Centre, she told him happily, biting into toast, they did crafts and read books. It was surprisingly easy to please the people who went there- they didn’t expect much and were delighted with the company.

“Except Jeremy Pike.”

Hermione grimaced as she set down her mug. “Yes. But we’ll get there. I know he understands it’s all for his own good.”

“Why don’t you just leave him alone?” She seemed surprised. “Look, I know your heart’s in the right place and he obviously could use a bit of help. But if he doesn’t want it, why force yourself on him?”

“Is that what you think?” she replied quietly, fingernail tapping lightly against the ceramic of her plate, “That I’m forcing myself on people?”

Ron held up a placating hand. “I take that back. Didn’t mean that the way it came out. What I meant was... He’s a grown man. In sound mind. Let him decide what he needs.”

She pursed her lips and stared at her plate. After a beat she looked up and Ron could see the determination in her face. Anyone else might have taken what he’d said to heart but she wasn’t going to be put off so easily.

“But he hasn’t got anyone else Ron. His son lives in Canada, he’s alone in that house. Do you know that until he met me he didn’t know anything about the Winter fuel payment? He’d only been turning on the heating for two hours a day, The house was freezing the first time I visited. And he’s sick.”

“He mentioned that. Called it ‘a bad case of heartburn’.”

Hermione snorted. “He had a full blown heart attack. His heart actually stopped and they brought him back. I got it all from the nurse at the Day Centre. Hard, thick arteries, full of sludge. He was told if he didn’t act now, he’d be dead within a year.”

She stopped and took a breath, eyes bright. “He needs someone to help him. I can help him.”

Ron sighed, drained his mug and stood, asking, “Even if he doesn’t want you to?” and she smiled up at him, so sure of herself and her good intentions that he couldn’t avoid smiling back.

They stepped outside, Hermione tucking in her giant crocheted scarf, Ron pulling on gloves. She offered to drive him home but he refused, saying he could use the walk.

“Aren’t you exhausted? You’ve been up all night.”

She was right, he had. Yet somehow he didn’t feel that tired, his brain had glossed over the need for sleep. He had definitely felt weary as they entered the café but the conversation and company had revived him.

Hermione, however, had every hour of missed sleep etched on her face and it translated into her clumsy movements. Twice she dropped her mitten until Ron leant over and picked it up himself. Gently he parted the cuff and she slid her little hand inside.

“You could do with some shut eye yourself,” he mused, helping her arrange her red hood so all her hair was captured inside.

“I’ll nap later. I need to do a few things first.”

Of course she did. “Well thanks for breakfast.”

“No! Thank you Ron.” The mitten came up and rested on his forearm, her face sincere with gratitude. “Honestly. You really helped me out of a hole.” She paused and looked up at him.

“What?”

“The Nativity performance is in a few days’ time. Would you like to go? See your work on the stage?”

The invitation made him feel saddened all of a sudden. From the moment he became an uncle, Ron was dedicated, attending every school play, sports day, science fair, book club. He cheered on all the little people in his family, he was everybody’s favourite adult.

What was sad was that since Marianna had come on the scene, he had been able to attend fewer and fewer such events. There was always something else that needed done. Or, if there wasn’t, Ron opted not to go, lest he had to listen to Marianna moan about standing in the sun all day watching egg and spoon races.

The thought made sadness dissolve into anger. What sort of spell had he allowed himself to fall under that meant he avoided seeing his family?

“You don’t have to,” Hermione said abruptly, taking his silence for reticence, “It was only an idea.”

Ron grinned down at her. “Sounds great.”

Chapter Text

“How did what I said result in this?”

Ron had met Hermione at the school for the early afternoon performance of the aquatic-themed Nativity. They sat near the back, on chairs that were too small for them and admired their handiwork. From back here, the seams looked straight and the crab claw looked like it was meant to be wonky. No-one even batted an eyelid when the mermaid’s tail tore open as she performed an athletic leap across the stage.

It was hands-down the oddest Nativity Ron had ever witnessed but there was something marvellous about having had a hand in it. Afterwards, parents congratulated Hermione on the costumes and she demurred, presenting Ron as the real talent and taking full responsibility for the mermaid catastrophe.

As the hall emptied, Hermione turned to him and asked if she could have another half an hour of his time, that she had something to show him. Intrigued he had walked with her and now they were standing in one of the old ramshackle garages at the top of the town.

Ron looked up, taking in the 8ft penguin, resplendent in striped scarf, rotund black and white belly giving him a jovial façade.

“Well,” Hermione replied, hands on hips, “You said pick something fun soooo… Here he is.”

“Here who is? Who is he?”

“Marshall. Marshall the Lowndes Christmas penguin.” She patted his tummy with satisfaction.

Ron was momentarily gobsmacked. Having given Hermione what he thought was a clear enough brief, it was quite astonishing that it had translated into this.

“And tell me. What’s the fun element?”

“We move him overnight every day for a week. So every morning he’s somewhere new. Like magic.” He raised an eyebrow doubtfully. “The kids love it.”

“So let me be clear. You have to get up in the middle of the night and move this thing around the town, every single night for a week?” She nodded. “Ignoring that fact that it sounds like a singularly boring thing to do, Hermione, he’s huge. I accept you’re stronger than you look but even you won’t be able to shift this monstrosity very far.”

Hermione pouted. “He isn’t a monstrosity. Anyway, you’ll be helping me so it’ll be easy.”

“I don’t think so!” he blurted, taking a step back, “I’m not getting involved in this.”

“Of course you are. You said you would help me do something fun.”

“I meant something that, by definition, was actually fun. A normal person’s definition,” he added hastily as she moved to interject. “Couldn’t you just organise a lock in at the pub and we can all get shit faced? Or… I know, I saw life modelling art classes advertised in Jeanie’s shop. ‘Life art for Beginners’. Bet that would be hilarious. Or, I dunno, mini golf for God’s sake.”

“Mini golf?” She screwed up her nose and he knew he was wasting his breath. He looked up at Marshall again, realising he would have to accept that this was partially his fault. He should have been much, much clearer, especially with someone like Hermione.

“Ok. You’ve beat me down. When do we start?”

~

‘Penguin Week’ as Ron referred to it began that very evening. They chose the play park for the first night as it was close to the garage and Marshall was an unknown entity. He was lighter than expected however, and between them they managed to position him, pride of place on the jungle gym at the top of the slide. Hermione secured his massive battery pack innards and they took a photo for the town website.

The rest of the week passed in a predictable pattern. Ron spent the daylight hours drumming out page after page of text, the storyline flowing out of him in a way he couldn’t quite believe. He would work until the late evening, stopping to eat something and pile on layers of warm clothing before heading out to meet Hermione who, as expected, had spent the day thinking about where Marshall should visit next. It wasn’t enough that he changed location, it had to be inventive, an idea no-one else had thought of in recent memory.

What helped enormously was that whoever was in charge of Marshall was given a bunch of keys that opened shops and attractions in Lowndes, meaning they could let themselves in and out and maintain the element of surprise.

On the second night, Hermione used the bunch to open the little Scottish museum that sat near the loch.

“Who exactly owns this collection of keys?” Ron asked, as they wrapped a large piece of checked fabric around Marshall in approximation of a kilt. “I mean, hasn’t anyone questioned the fact that someone owns keys to their shops?”

Hermione was on her knees, pinning the fabric as it strained over the penguin’s substantial stomach. “It originated years ago. There was a fire in one of the buildings and they couldn’t find the owner. It spread and demolished a lot of properties- the fire service depot is quite far from here you know. It was felt that if the people in town had been able to get in they could have brought it under control.”

She pushed herself to her feet with an ‘oof’ and admired Marshall.

“Anyway,” she continued, brushing the knees of her jeans, “All the commercial buildings gave in a copy of their keys and they keep them in the town hall. Very hush hush. Pretend you don’t know about it.”

“And security alarms? Aren’t they a problem?”

She threw him a look. “This is Lowndes. Security is a combination of big dogs, big locks and big shotguns. You aren’t in London Ron.” Which put paid to any more of his questions.

On Friday night, they used her magical key bunch to open up the bakery and set about creating a chaotic baking scene for Marshall in the window. Hermione had made salt dough the previous day and they used it to cut out star shapes and make plaits.

"I presume permission was sought before you decided to make a mess in here," Ron asked as they worked.

"Yes. I'm friends with Irvin. Full blessing given."

She sat next to him on the floor, backs pressed against the wall. They had opted to remove their shoes before starting work to avoid covering them in flour and her bare feet looked little next to his. Her jeans had risen up her leg, displaying an inch or two of pale calf curving softly into a neat ankle.

She'd look good in heels, Ron thought absently, not that she probably ever wore them. But something spindly with a strap that curled round her ankle would make the most of her fine frame. A garment that actually fitted her and didn't look like it had seen several owners prior.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Her jumper was green, still too big, with the words 'International Cartographic Association' printed on the chest in a single line and suddenly something occurred to him.

"Is that Spencer's jumper?"

Hermione looked up and then down. "Um, yes. Cosy."

"D'you ever think about getting your own jumpers? I mean, something in your size?"

Her mouth twisted good-humouredly. "Are you giving me sartorial advice Ron? The man who lives in hoodies and jeans."

"Well obviously I'm no expert," he admitted, laughing, "I've just never seen you in anything but massive jumpers. Women like clothes, don't they?"

"I'll forgive you that mild sexism. And I do like clothes. I wear a suit when I go to Foundation meetings. I even- shock horror!- have a few dresses hidden away in my wardrobe from before I moved here." She gently sculpted a plait to a tapered end and got to her hands and knees. "I just do a lot of practical things in my various jobs. I'm not sure how the residents at Asher's would feel about me turning up to do potato painting in a fancy frock!"

Ron watched her as she delicately positioned the salt dough plait on the windowsill, the exacting tenderness of her nimble fingers. Not to mention the dip her lower back makes before it rounds into her arse.

"You should try it and find out," he said suddenly, still watching her. "You'd look good in a fancy frock."

She looked back over her shoulder and met his gaze, holding it for a split second too long. Then suddenly she was on her feet and he was too and they were being very busy scattering flour.

As she locked the bakery door ten minutes later and Ron took the requisite photograph, he inwardly scolded himself. Its wasn't his style to chase married women, though he had been on the receiving end of a few offers in his time.

Firstly, it wasn't necessary. There were plenty of single women out there, he didn't need to dip into the married pool. Secondly, and most importantly, he just didn't believe in it. If you were married, if you made vows, you had to honour that. And if you didn't want to, then you dealt with that first. You didn't hop into bed with someone else.

As they walked back to his car together, Ron sized Hermione up. She wasn't a cheat, he could feel that innately. She was fierce and loyal and she didn't give up. Her marriage had to be difficult- no-one in love with their partner could be truly satisfied with so much time apart- but she would work at it. Jesus, she probably saw it as just one more challenge to be overcome, another mountain to climb and defeat.

Spence was lucky, he decided as she talked animatedly about what she had planned for the next night, and God knows on first appearances he would never have imagined himself thinking that. Having someone like Hermione in your corner, supporting you, energising you, it must be nice.

And that's where this particular thought train ends Weasley.

Focus.

And not on her arse.

~

On the afternoon of the last night of Penguin Week, Hermione rang Cochall Cottage and told Ron she would pick him up that evening for their final mission.

"I thought we should celebrate. I'm going to make some hot cider and you won't be able to drive afterwards."

The line crackled as he changed position. "How will I get back here then?"

"Marie can put you up for the night, I already checked. As long as we are back to the pub by one thirty am when she locks the doors, she'll bed you down in one of the guestrooms. No charge."

The plan, like so many of Hermione's, seemed convoluted and he told her so. "Can't we just come back here and drink the cider?"

"No. There's something I want to show you. Be ready at the usual time. See you then."

Later that night, the finishing touches now complete on Marshall's last scene, they walked through the silent town together. The day had been dry with only a light cold wind, which Hermione said were excellent conditions for what she had in store.

When they reached the green gate that led into the parkland, she pulled her rucksack from her back, rifled in it for a moment and produced two headlamps on stretchy red bands.

"Pop this on," she said, handing him one, "Down by the loch is really dark. These are less cumbersome than torches."

Mystified, Ron did as she said and followed her through the gate, down the tarmacked path and past the benches where, unbeknownst to her, Ron had secretly observed her and Spence that first day. They followed the path round the loch, first in the open and then through a forest of Douglas Fir, scanty before becoming thicker.

More than once Ron's ankle wobbled as he mis-stepped and he had a fleeting thought about the subject of his new book.

"You aren't going to murder me are you Hermione?" His voice was a little breathy from the exercise, Hermione taking long, purposeful strides ahead and his headlamp jittering over her back. "Because that would be bad form. Given I've been so obliging about the penguin saga."

Her laugh came back to him clear and high in the night air. "Not tonight Ron. Anyway, we're here now."

"And where is here?" He lifted his head as they hiked out of the forest to a clear expanse of grass. Against the night sky he could just make out a structure looming up before them. As they got closer, he realised they had been steadily climbing and the building was actually standing atop a not insubstantial precipice with the loch below.

Up next to it, Ron could see the structure was circular and around 30 feet high. He trained his headlamp onto the building and illuminated a metal ladder that led up to a wide wooden door, several feet off the ground.

Hermione stopped next to the foot of the ladder and gestured upwards. "It's..."

"A Martello tower," Ron finished for her, the movements of his head causing the touch light to dance wildly over the curved side.

"I'm impressed. You remembered your History lessons."

"Nope," he replied cheerfully, "One of my characters in 'Shards of a Heart' lived in a converted Martello tower. Did my research. A lot of them are in really poor condition but this one looks great. Wonder what it's like inside."

"Want to find out?" He couldn't see her face- the beam of her head torch was white and strong- but her voice sounded playful and she rattled the magical key bunch.

Ron felt himself smile. "Now, by rights Dr Granger, that key bunch was given to you for the sole purpose of moving Marshall and spreading Christmas joy in Lowndes. You have no authority to use it to open any other property in the town right?"

"This is true." There was a moment's silence and then Hermione stepped onto the first rung of the ladder with a tinny thunk. "I won't tell anyone if you won't."

She took his laughter as acquiescence and led him up to the door, which opened with a turn of a key and a well-placed shoulder shove. The light from their torches revealed the interior to be sparse, all remnants of the tower's previous life and purpose removed. The air was chilled and dusty and Ron felt himself shiver. It didn't matter where he seemed to go in Lowndes- there was always a darker place to be found.

He followed Hermione across the floor and up a tight spiral staircase made of uneven lumps of stone. Unlocking another door at the top brought them outside again. Navigating round the raised platform in the centre of the roof, Ron stepped up to the parapet. The town looked small from up here, with only a few lights still twinkling in windows. All was still, with the steady wind making it seem like Lowndes was breathing in and out in slumber.

Hermione boosted herself up onto the parapet athletically and turned to dangle her legs off the side. "Stay on this side so we aren't directly over the water. That way if we fall, we'll only break legs and not drown."

Ron heaved himself up next to her. "That's a cheerful thought." He ran his hand over the smooth masonry under his thighs. "It's unusual to see a Martello tower like this. They're normally coastal."

"I don't know that much about them to be honest."

"That surprises me. I thought you knew everything."

She laughed and gave his arm the faintest of shoves with her own. "No. Not quite."

They switched their head lamps off in unison and sat for a long period in the dark side by side. Ron closed his eyes and listened to the night. The strangeness of this scenario wasn't lost on him and he didn't want to overanalyse it but that was difficult. The truth was, he hadn't felt like this for a long time.

But what the hell was this? Peace? Calm? For God's sake he was a writer, how could he not find a suitable word for his own feelings?

He pursed his lips and concentrated on his body and his senses, tried to seek it out. Oddly, the only thing he could come up with was that he felt like himself.

When had he stopped feeling like himself? Difficult to say. Definitely when he stopped being able to write and definitely when he stopped spending so much time with his family.

Had he felt himself with Marianna? Yes, although there was a buzzy nervousness that came with that relationship. Her unpredictable nature added a certain frisson to things- Ron could never foresee what mood she would be in or what she would expect of him at any one time. She was hard to catch hold of, like foggy air. Just when he thought he had a grasp on her and what she needed, Marianna danced out of his path and changed again.

He hadn't minded it until one day he did. One unknown day, probably long before the GreenIsle Awards, he unconsciously stopped finding that acceptable. Suddenly, Ron Weasley's psyche wanted more.

He could hear Hermione shifting in the black next to him and it occurred to him that never in a million lifetimes could he have predicted that she would induce this much soul searching in him.

This woman: nightmare upfront, bossy and dominant and more than slightly overpowering, but with this softer, caring side that shone through almost accidently. Similar in age to him but in no way similar in experiences. Married to a man who spent more time researching place names than with her. She was nothing if not intriguing, this woman.

And that was it really, she was a woman, not a girl. There was nothing ethereal or uncertain about Hermione Granger. She wasn't half way there, she was all in. Solid, assured, definitive.

The whizz of a zip pulled him back to the present and Hermione clicked her head lamp on again. “I brought the cider. Family recipe.” She pulled a slim silver Thermos from her rucksack and raised it for inspection in the light.

“Not bad,” Ron replied, “I also brought a beverage. Something a little stronger.” He unzipped his inner jacket pocket and slid the bottle out, handing it to her.

“Scotch. Expensive. You have taste." She passed the bottle back and unscrewed the lid of the Thermos. "Since we are quite high off the ground, perhaps we should try the cider first. It's only mildly alcoholic and I could do without a trip to A&E."

He accepted a diminutive tin cup before she switched off her lamp again and returned them back to the night.

It felt safe sitting like this, side by side in the dark, Ron decided. Like maybe Hermione might crack open and reveal a bit more of herself. Dare he risk it?

Faintly, he heard a contented sigh escape from her lips and figured there would never be a better time.

"So what's your story Hermione Granger?"

Silence. And then, "What do you mean?"

"You know. Your story. We've known each other for weeks now and yet I don't feel like I know that much about you."

"Well, I don't know anything about you either," she protested and he heard the tinny clink of the Thermos as she took a drink. "Why don't you tell me your story?"

Honestly, it was like blood out of a stone. "I asked first."

She was silent again and for a moment, the only sound was the deafening quiet, punctuated by owl cries and the rustle of the wind.

"There isn't that much to tell really. I mean, I told you about school and my career…" She sounded uncomfortable but he let the silence grow until she had to fill it. "Oh, ok, ok. Um, what haven’t I told you? Only child, parents owned a dental practice. Grew up in the suburbs, spent a lot of time reading and riding my bike..."

"Did it have a basket on the front?" Ron interrupted, "The bike."

"Does that matter?"

"Not really, just trying to picture it."

"No. It was red with Wonder Woman reflectors on the spokes."

Yes, he could definitely envisage a small version of Hermione idolizing Wonder Woman. "Ok, carry on."

"Went to school, went to University. Studied History of Art, which you already know. Worked in art galleries and various teaching jobs while I completed my PhD in London. Then the job with the Erskine Foundation came up and I moved up here. That's it."

"That most definitely is not it," Ron scoffed, sipping from his cup, "Where does Spencer fit into the timeline? You can't have met him here?"

He didn’t know why he was pushing her on this when he had let her off with it before.

"No, I didn’t meet him here. We met through friends from University. We got married before I got the Erskine job."

"Did he move up here with you?"

"God, you're really nosy aren't you?" There was a hint of laugher in her voice which he took as a positive sign. "He did. For a while. But he's always needed to move about with his research so he was never here long."

Her tone had changed, becoming more wistful. "Long distance relationships are difficult," Ron said gently and when she didn't respond he added, "For what it's worth, you guys seem really compatible."

Unexpectedly, she laughed and said "Yes, I suppose we must," which completely threw him.

"Aren't you?"

She sighed and he felt her turn towards him. "Ron, Spence and I are divorced."

If her laughter was unexpected then that was just mind blowing. "What?"

"Divorced. No longer married. Single." There was an edge to her voice although she was clearly making an effort to keep it breezy. "For two years now."

It took a moment for that information to sink in and develop in Ron's mind. He felt perturbed and quickly went over all the times he had seen Hermione and Spencer together. In the park, arm in arm. In Beach End, sharing tea by the fire in their slippers. In the pub, drinking wine, Hermione nagging Spence about his alcohol consumption like... well like his wife. How could they be divorced when they seemed so together?

"Hang on, seriously?" he stuttered, still reeling from this revelation, "You can't be. Doesn't he live with you?"

"He stays with me sometimes when he's between research trips but honestly, he's not there that much. Pretty much the same as when he was my husband actually."

"But aren't you...?"

"What?" Her voice had calmed.

Ron struggled to find the words. "I dunno. Mad at him?"

Hermione sounded amused as she answered. "Why would I be mad at him?"

"I dunno," he said again, feeling stupid that he couldn't formulate a more articulate response, "Most people don't stay good friend with their exs Hermione. It's weird."

"Is it?"

"You know it is."

He heard her sigh again. "Yes, I suppose it is a bit odd. But it's a work in progress. It wasn't always so friendly, not right away. But after we got over the initial... hurt we decided we didn't want to lose the friendship. He's been an important part of my life for so long. I didn't want to lose that."

The idea rolled around in Ron's head as he sat there. It was undeniably impressive to be so adult that you could get past a break up and still remain close. Ron didn't know any divorced friends who had managed that.

At the same time, it also seemed a bit pointless, like holding on to a watered down version of the relationship. Could you really move on when your ex still played a big role in your life?

"I know what you're thinking," Hermione suddenly muttered, making him jump a little, "Why didn't we just stay together and try to work it out?"

He thought about lying but found he couldn't. "Yeah. I was kinda thinking that."

"I asked myself that a lot. Took me ages to figure it out."

Ron drained his cup of cider, pulled the whiskey bottle from his pocket and added a measure. It tasted earthy in his throat as he answered. "And what conclusion did you reach?"

"That I had never really chosen Spence. I mean, obviously I chose him. I married him. I just mean..." He allowed her to pause without interruption. "I suppose you could say, if we weren't so perfect for each other on paper, would I have necessarily married him?"

"Don't people tend to marry someone they consider perfect for them?"

She clicked her tongue. "They do."

"And he was?"

"Yes. Right age, similar backgrounds and interests. Same circle of friends. The great Ron Weasley couldn't write a book about a couple more suited. It was only later, I realised that I hadn't really actively chosen him. In my mind, yes. In my heart, maybe not."

Ron couldn't have been more surprised at how free Hermione was being with her words. It felt good that she was comfortable enough with him to be candid. There was something nice about that.

He heard the cider tilt against the inside of the flask as she moved around. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“About Spencer? Wasn’t really necessary. I don’t routinely tell people I barely know about my divorce.” Ouch. “Also, I fight a lot with the shame of it.”

“Even now?”

“Yes. You would think after two years I would have gotten over it but no. It still bothers me.”

It was sad to think of Hermione sitting for two years with feelings of inadequacy about her marriage ending and still not feel any further forward with it. Relationships ended all the time, people walked away from people, sometimes with barely a backward glance. It was part of adult life. Yet here she was, still pretending, partially at least, to the outside world that it hadn’t happened.

"And I was just so good at everything," she said abruptly. "I know that sounds big headed..."

"Just a bit..."

"...but I mean it in the best possible way. I wasn't used to failing. I couldn't believe it when I realised my marriage was over."

"It shocked you?"

"Shocked me. Terrified me. Made me want to vomit. And once I realised, I tried everything to pull it back. Tried to be a better wife. Tried to make him a better husband. Read books. Watched videos..."

“Read books and watched videos?”

“Yes, why?”

“I dunno,” Ron mused, struggling to describe how ludicrous that was to him, “I just…. it’s marriage. Love. Surely a normal person should be emotionally intelligent enough to figure it out? I mean, it’s about feelings. That sort of stuff isn’t in a book.”

He heard a rustle as she shifted her weight. “Are you saying I’m emotionally stunted?” Before he could answer, she carried on. “Maybe I am...”

“You aren’t. I didn’t mean that.”

“No, but maybe I am. A little bit anyway. It’s true I look for academic answers for everything. Certainly did when my marriage ended. It made it easier somehow…”

She trailed off and he stared out over the few dim lights of the town, waiting for her.

When she didn't speak again he risked a potentially hurtful query. “How did Spencer take it?”

Hermione ignored the question and he felt her turn towards him, upper arms brushing past each other. “Where’s the whiskey?”

She laid a gloved hand high on his thigh and the contact was strangely intimate. Perhaps it was something to do with the total blackness of their space and his inability to really gauge how she was moving and where she was. The touch, despite coming through layers of wool and denim, felt sensual somehow. It gave Ron the impression of being blindfolded, someone putting their hands on him as he lay waiting in the dark. He had never experienced blindfold play during sex. As he pressed the bottle into her hand, he wondered if Hermione had.

He heard her put the bottle to her mouth, a miniscule clink as the glass knocked against her teeth then the deep swallow of her throat, followed by a gasp.

“Oh, that’s strong!”

“Not much of a whiskey drinker,” he laughed, recovering himself and moving his thoughts back to their conversation.

“Mmm, not really. You?” She propped the bottle against his leg so he could take it from her.

“Not overly. Though I’ve had my moments over the years. I find whiskey is usually a good drink when you need to get completely, off-your-face drunk. Like so drunk you can’t remember anything.”

“Have you had to do that often?” She spoke quietly, with only the slightest questioning note at the end of the sentence. It was an invitation and Ron didn’t suppose she offered too many people one so gentle. He had plundered her life for his own purposes, he owed her something back.

“I suppose that’s my cue for sharing,” he started, pulling the zip on his jacket higher as the wind picked up. “No, I've had quite a good life really. Not too many oblivion moments. I broke up with someone a while ago, I suppose that was the last. Alcohol definitely helped.”

“You must have loved her very much,” Hermione responded, voice fading in and out with the wind.

“I thought I did. No, I definitely did. I did at some point, anyway."

As the level of whiskey in the bottle slowly decreased, he told her about Marianna. He described the seemingly perfect way they fitted together, how their differences seemed to make them more compatible somehow. And then later, when it became apparent that this wasn't the case; the disappointment and humiliation. The raw, congealed hurt of the GreenIsle Awards.

She was a better listener than he had expected. He was so used to her controlling the conversation that he had been expecting a peppering of questions and comments. But she sat quietly next to him and consequently, what he had intended to be a few short lines, turned into a lengthy monologue. He even talked about how he had ended up in Scotland, his publishing house's letter. It was something that only a handful of people knew about and yet it felt right that she should know. He wanted her to hear the truth of it.

Ron finished, surprised with his candour, by saying, "So that's it really," and waited for her to respond, which she did slowly.

"Don't say that. Like it's small. Don't make light of it. It was awful for you, it's still awful for you. It sounds like you have been questioning everything about yourself for a long time. You need to heal."

She put her hand on his thigh again and he wished she hadn't because instead of being comforting, it just reminded him of the blindfold thing again, only more alcohol had been taken since he had first thought of it so what had once been a fleeting thought was now stronger and hotter.

He scrambled round and jumped down onto the roof and gave his head a shake. "We'd better get back. My legs are starting to go numb."

She flicked on her headlamp and eased herself down next to him. Together, they pulled on their rucksacks and made their tentative way back down the spiral staircase and out of the tower, Hermione locking it behind them.

They walked briskly back to the town in silence, Ron still a little perturbed by that brief, lusty thought.

As they reached the pub, Hermione let out an 'Oh' of surprise and she squinted at her watch.

"Ron, we've been up there for ages. Marie will have locked up for the night."

He pushed against the doors to the 'Otter once just to be sure and ascertained that she was right. Before had the chance to curse or complain, Hermione took his arm and started leading him down the street.

"Come to mine. My spare bed is always covered in crap but I have a very comfy sofa and you can sleep there and I'll drive you back in the morning."

He decided not to argue but rather marvel at the increased level of tactility she was displaying. Was a few slugs of good booze really all it took to melt the Ice Queen?

No, that's unfair, he chastised himself as they walked arm in arm, she wasn't an Ice Queen. Just... complicated. Multifaceted. The way a good story should be. She wasn't a character in a book, she was flesh and blood.

When they reached Beach End and she bustled him inside, Hermione made herself busy pulling blankets from a cupboard at the top of the stairs and stuffing pillows into cases. She chided him when he tried to help so he moved into the kitchen and when his gaze fell on the kettle, it gave him an idea.

By the time she had prepared an admittedly snug looking sofa fort next to the fire, the hot toddies were warming their glasses. She accepted one from him with only the slightest lift of an eyebrow.

They settled into the long haired blankets, propped against cushions, feet erect against the warmth of the fire. Ron stared at the flames through the amber in his glass and felt his body accessing that peace he had found while sitting on top of the tower.  

It had been an embarrassingly long period since Ron had spent any time with a woman he wasn't dating or related to. More importantly, he suddenly realised, this was the first time in recent memory he had had prolonged contact with a woman his own age.

It was a running joke, Ron's propensity to attract younger people to him. And not just women; a lot of his male friends were in their late twenties and early thirties, with the exception of Harry who had been his best friend since childhood. It wasn't something that bothered him, he had always been the joker, free and easy with the laughs, nothing taken too seriously. Any time it was pointed out to him, he brushed it off. He was young at heart, he liked youth and energy, he fed off it.

And it wasn't exactly a hardship when he was dating either. The vain side of him enjoyed younger women viewing him as some sort of experienced older man and, though his male friends teased him gently about it from time to time, he knew it came from a place of well-meaning envy.

"You've gone again," Hermione said suddenly, swilling the dregs of her whiskey, "Where do you go?"

He shook his head. "Nowhere, really."

"To book land? To invent stories?"

He smiled at that. "Sometimes. Mostly my brain just takes me off on tangents. Like chess. It jumps to one place, then the next, then the next. Don't have that much control over it really. And sometimes I surprise myself where I go." He paused and looked over at her. "Congratulations by the way."

She attempted a quizzical expression but it came out confused through the haze of the alcohol.

"About doing something fun. You succeeded."

She smiled and regarded him from the corner of her eye. "So you admit it then? That it was fun?"

Ron blew out a breath in mock consideration. "It was...yes ok there were definitely fun moments." She raised her fist in victory and laughed, which raised a smile on his mouth too.

The clock in the hall struck and Hermione turned in the vague direction of the noise, befuddled.

"Oh hell, I'd better let you get to bed."

Ron felt himself yawn in automatic response at the suggestion of bed and grinned. "This is the second time your antics have cost me a night's sleep Hermione. I hope you're grateful."

The next few moments happened in an odd way, as though scripted but acted awkwardly. In one frame, Hermione saluted him sloppily and it occurred to Ron it was the same gesture Spencer used the night before he went to Skegness. In the next instance, she tried to stand but her knees were tangled in the blanket so that when she straightened them, the fabric tightened and pulled, knocking her off balance.

Ron saw her fall onto him as if he was watching it from the outside, so he comfortably had enough time to catch her by the shoulders, preventing them from smashing together so, when the momentum stopped, her chest was pressed lightly against his.

Later, he would go over this moment a few times, trying to understand how he let it happen. Because he saw her gaze drop to his mouth, her lips part, her eyes widen just a fraction. He watched it happen. And did nothing. It was like his brain froze, unable to compute the impossibility of this exact scenario.

It was only after her eyes fluttered closed and her mouth met his, only when he was actually kissing her back, did everything suddenly shift into gear and he was able to take action.

"Hermione." He pulled back abruptly, grasping one of her shoulders firmly in each hand and pushing her away from him. "I'm... Sorry."

It was an awful and painful moment, her eyes opening and not registering what had happened for a fraction of a second. And then they were flooded with understanding and she pulled herself to her feet, snapping tall, cheeks flushing.

Her mouth opened to speak but she seemed to decide better of it because in the next moment, she had about-turned and marched up the stairs.

Ron rubbed his face with his hands dejectedly and switched off the lamp nearest to him. He hunkered down under the blankets and tried to persuade his brain to forget what had just happened or at least to postpone thinking about it until the morning.

Her face though. His mind's eye wouldn't let go of it, the image of her expression the second she realised he was rejecting her. Oh God, 'rejecting' was a bit harsh wasn't it? There was no need to be that hard on himself surely?

But then why hadn't he let it happen?

You ogled her arse last night and you thought she was married. Didn't stop you.

True.

And the blindfold play. You definitely thought about her when that crossed your mind.

Undeniably true.

But it had felt wrong somehow, despite the fact that he now had confirmation that she wasn't married. Hermione didn't seem like one night stand material and how could this be anything but?

In two weeks he would be gone, back to his real world, so there was no value in going there.

Not that he wanted to go there, he though determinedly as he turned over for what seemed like the hundredth time. A few erotic thoughts about a pretty woman when he hadn't had sex for a while didn't mean she was what he was looking for. And he wasn't looking for anything right now. Not until this book was a done deal.

They were happy and a little drunk; these things happened- Hermione was a grown up and she would understand.

And anyway, it was presumptuous of him to assume to that bed was where that kiss was leading, he couldn't know for sure…

Yet he did know, his brain rebuked him pointedly. He had felt it somehow in the way her lips melded against his, the soft creep of her hand on his forearm, the sensation of the length of her thigh moving between his. The intention was sexual, whether or not she realised it, and he didn’t know how he felt about that.

Hot. Turned on. There was a perverse pleasure to be had in imagining what all that bossy productiveness would be like naked underneath him.

Fuck.

Ron spent a fitful night on the sofa, sleeping in little cycles and then wakening and remembering. When the clock in the hall struck 5, he quietly pulled on his coat and let himself out into the black early morning.

Chapter Text

Three days passed without a word from Hermione and it bothered Ron. Perhaps bothered was the wrong word; bothered implied he was really invested in whether or not she was around. Which he absolutely wasn’t. It was more like the fact disrupted him. He would catch himself cocking his ear when he heard an unusual noise in case it was the gate or the wet crunch of tyres on gravel.

On one occasion, when he went to get firewood, he heard a long, low bark that could only have come from Goose. He walked round the side of the house to the gate, hopefulness lending a speed to his step, only to see the backs of three hikers making their way down the valley, a large St Bernard lolloping in their wake.

On the Friday afternoon before Christmas he drove into town to call Gray, settling himself in the café with the green sofas. Jeremy Pike was in his usual spot under the heater, pissing off Lauren with his lectures about ‘real coffee’. He broke off as Ron entered in a blast of cold air, giving Lauren the chance to scarper and serve someone at the till.

“Still here, Ron B. Weasley?” Pike’s eyes were bright, darting about as if anxious to take in every detail.

“Until Christmas Eve, Mr. P. I’ll be leaving then. Cold one out there today.”

“Aye,” came the gruff response, “Rescue’s just been called out. Load of weans messin’ about up the mountain and two of them’s cowped.”

Ron lowered himself onto the sofa, frowning. “Is anyone seriously hurt?”

Mr. Pike looked cheerfully unconcerned. “No idea. Let’s hope so. Serve them right. Bawbags.”

Ron’s conversation with Gray was unsettling. Gray was very clear about the way he envisioned ‘H’ and her story evolving and challenged him every time Ron pushed back. He couldn’t understand why Ron cared so much about ‘H’, not realising how difficult it was to add nuances to a character when Ron knew the real thing.

This wasn’t the only problem, of course. What bothered Ron the most was that Gray saw ‘H’ through the eyes of Ron’s writing; Ron was the reason he felt the way he did about her. It shouldn't bother him- Hermione had only been the very bare bones of 'H'. All he had really used of her was her gender, her dominance and strong will to control and a few other personal characteristics. Really she could be anybody.

She wasn't anybody though, Ron thought, doodling interlinking squares in the margin of a printout after Gray had rung off. He knew who she was, where she started. And now, at Gray's behest, he had grown and inflated her grotesquely, making her into a frigid ice bitch with no friends and an intolerance for pretty much everything. Sure, 'H' was successful, got results, would probably be an incredibly popular protagonist when all the creases were ironed out. It just felt... wrong.

He had spent the rest of the afternoon in Cochall Cottage, writing and occasionally staring out the window at a day that had never really lightened past charcoal and thinking about the kids up the mountain. Half his mind wondered who could make such a stupid decision to hike in such abysmal weather but the other half remembered the scrapes and antics he had gotten into with Harry when they were teenagers.

Minimizing his document, he opened a folder on the desktop and clicked through photos of the last time they had all been together. One of the kids’ birthdays, he thought. Ginny barbecuing burgers with one hand and applying sunscreen to a freckly, wiggling child with the other. Harry and Ron building pyramids with empty beer cans. His mum kissing his dad’s sunburnt bald patch as he bites into a hotdog.

Ron felt a pang, almost painful, as he browsed the images. In truth the solitude of this place had been much easier to tolerate than he had anticipated but now he was so close to getting back to his old life, it felt harder than ever. He needed company and conversation.

Pushing away from the table, Ron doused himself in the shower, the water as hot as he could stand. The little light there had been was long out of the sky as he drove into town, a bone-deep cold penetrating his muscles that the car heater was powerless against. Sleet slapped the windscreen spitefully, reducing visibility to a few feet. More than once he thought about turning back but the photos of his family had stirred up a loneliness in him. He didn’t want to spend the evening by himself.

The pub was a hive of activity when he pushed through the door. A long collapsible table had been set up against one wall and was groaning with sandwiches, chocolate bars and metal canisters for tea and coffee. The fire had been banked high with peat to keep it ticking over and already the room was starting to swelter.

He leant against the bar where Marie was hanging glasses. She looked up and touched the top of the beer pump with one hand and the filter coffee pot with the other. He indicated the coffee and she poured him a large mug.

“I take it the rescue isn’t back yet?”

"Think conditions are pretty bad up there Ron," Marie replied grimly, "Douglas had thought they might get away with it but there was hail like bullets before they reached the first peak, according to Mossy Jones. And the rain! Aul wives and pike staves all day." She paused, clearly thinking about her husband being exposed to the weather she had just described so fiercely. "Anyway, they know what they're doin'."

Ron turned away and looked around, feeling at a loss of what to do to be helpful. The people of the town were used to this sort of emergency; they moved with purpose, intuitively knowing their role.

In the throng he saw Jeanie hauling stuffed bin bags onto a table and he navigated haphazardly to her.

"Anything I can do?"

She dropped the bags and smiled.

"Good to see you. Will you unpack these blankets for me? Count them out and make sure they are all labelled so we get them back afterwards. Then we can stack them on the table."

Tearing open the plastic of the first bag with a finger, Ron marvelled at Jeanie’s easy way. They had bumped into each other a few times since the night at the pub where they had almost tumbled into bed together and yet there had been no awkwardness or tart, snappy conversation.

Jeanie had been her usual warm self, as if Ron meant just as much or as little to her as he always had. No dramatics.

"It's great to see everyone from the town here. Pulling together to help I mean. In London I don't even know my next door neighbour's name."

"Och, that's what bein' part of a small town is about. 'Specially when you live next to the mountains. Things like this happen all the time and we all pitch in. Many hands y'know?"

"Seems that way," he replied, casting his gaze around the room. "In fact, I'm surprised Hermione isn't here, in the thick of it. This would be right up her street, bossing people about, manning the tea dispenser."

Jeanie frowned. "Didn't you know? She's part of the rescue team. She's up the mountain."

Ron involuntarily shuddered. "She's out there in that?"

Jeanie nodded. "You said it yourself hen. No better woman for the job. Help me with those crates will ya?"

He worked on, following all of Jeanie's directions, but found his mind perpetually pulled his focus to Hermione., worrying about her. Of course he was worried about the entire rescue team too. And the teenagers, the stupid arseholes. The weather had been wicked all day and he could only imagine how they had suffered being exposed to it. Still, it was her face he saw when he felt the spike of fear in his chest.

Was she out of her mind? Of all the volunteering opportunities in this town, was it really necessary to pick the most dangerous? Couldn't she say no graciously just once in her bloody life?

With all the preparations in place, there was little to do. Marie had received word that they were still waiting on the helicopter and she constantly glanced at the clock. They had been gone for hours, daylight was a distant memory and the wind and rain could be heard from inside the pub. The buzz of people feeling useful had died away and they sat, slowly supping on dead pints and stewed coffee.

Eventually, sometime after ten, the phone rang to announce they had made it off the mountain and were heading into town and the busyness started again. Boiling water for the canisters, taking the Clingfilm off the sandwiches.

Thirty minutes later, the door of the pub opened and people began to traipse in. The mountain rescue volunteers were easy to distinguish in their heavy duty orange and black jackets and with them they brought a straggle of young people. Parents rushed to hug their children, scolding and loving in a single embrace. The open door ushered in a gust of frigid air that reminded everyone already inside just what they had faced up there.

"Well Douglas?" Marie called from behind the bar, already lining up brandy glasses.

Her husband hauled himself onto a stool and rubbed a hand over his reddened cheeks.

"Two broken legs, one broken wrist probably. Mild hypothermia for all of them definitely. Don't think any of them will be horsin' around up there agin."

Now it had been established that everyone was safe, the crowd began to move towards the food table, chattering and laughing and speaking so fast Ron had no chance of understanding the conversation. He slid towards the bar and craned his neck to get a better look at the faces.

There she was, crouched on a low stool next to the fire with one of the other members of the team. Even from across the room he could see the tip of her nose was scarlet with the cold, the rest of her face wan and tired.

His feet starting moving towards her before his brain registered that he wanted to be near her and it threw him into a mild panic. He hadn’t seen her since 'the incident' and he was certain she wouldn’t think much of his early morning disappearing act. Yet, he didn't stop until he reached her.

She saw him coming, pushing his way to where she sat, and she stiffened ever so slightly and lowered her face.

When he reached her, she jerked her head towards him, keeping it down. "Phyllis, this is Ron Weasley. Our new local celebrity." Her voice was hoarse.

The older woman smiled up at him, obviously fighting fatigue herself and then stood up stiffly. "Nice to meet you. I'll go get the First Aid kit Hermione."

As he sat down on the vacated stool, Ron realised how much better he felt now he knew Hermione was back safe. Thought he hadn't been aware, his body had been on high alert, waiting for her to walk through the door. He only realised now because he suddenly felt so much calmer.

But the calm feeling didn't last long, for as he opened his mouth to speak, he noticed she was clutching a wad of gauze in her left hand.

"What's the matter with your hand?"

She pressed the gauze tighter with her finger pads. "Nothing much. Caught it on a rock."

"Let me see." Instinctively he reached out and for a moment he thought she was going to pull away. But then she surprised him- and most likely herself too- and set her upturned hand into his.

Gingerly he pulled the gauze away from the wound, apologising as she winced when it stuck. The bandage revealed a nasty gash, deep in her palm. Mucky with grime that she hadn't yet had time to clean, it had obviously been bleeding profusely, but had recently stopped. Now it was a dark, glossy red, macerated at the edges, raw and painful looking.

"Oh God," Ron breathed, instantly lightening his grip on her hand lest he cause her any more pain.

"It's nothing really... Look, here's Phyllis with the First Aid box." She was brusque and matter of fact and still refused to make eye contact with him.

"Do you want me to go into the bathroom with you Hermione..."The sentence trailed off as Phyllis caught sight of the wound. "Oh God."

Ron glanced at Hermione who began hauling herself up to standing.

"Leave it with me Phyllis," Ron said quickly, liberating her of the case, "We'll get her sorted in no time."

Phyllis smiled gratefully, a little pale, and Ron led Hermione by the arm to the toilets at the back of the pub.

"There's really no need," she was saying as they barrelled through the door, "I can handle this."

"S'no problem," he replied, tossing the kit onto the bench next to the sink. "Four hands are better than two. Or three in our case."

"Seriously. I'm fine. Please just leave me to it."

"Look Hermione." He whirled round to face her and found himself taking her by the shoulders to punctuate his point. It was only then that he realised why she hadn’t faced him directly.

Her bottom lip was split, a jagged little red line through swollen pink. It protruded slightly past her top lip so that, in combination with her scowl, it gave her the look of a petulant child.

“Jesus,” he muttered, “What happened here?” He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face, which she tolerated for all of five seconds before jerking away.

“Nothing. I hit it when I tripped.” Her gaze was fixed on a spot on his cheek. Christ, she was infuriating.

“Look,” Ron started again, gentle this time, the way he spoke to his nieces and nephews when they cut their knees and elbows, “Why don't you skip the part where you are a massive pain in the arse and let me help? Hmm?" She didn’t speak.

"Hey," he said softly, softer than he had probably ever spoken to her. "It's been a long day. You're cold and wet and you have a bloody big cut on your hand and a big fat lip. Let someone be kind to you ok?"

Her internal struggle was written plainly on her face and he sure she was going to tell him to sod off but, for the second time this evening, she surprised him and nodded.

Ron exhaled a breath he had been unaware he was holding and started the hot water tap. Carefully he began bathing the wound in her palm, manipulating the sides gently where dirt was trapped. Their fingers slid over each other in the warmth of the water and the feel of it was distracting somehow. He struggled to refocus more than once.

It must have hurt like hell, especially when he applied disinfectant, but she didn't make a sound, only stared at his ministrations expressionlessly. He dabbed her palm dry delicately and looked at the wound.

"This could need stitched you know. Maybe you should go to the hospital."

"No!" she responded sharply, tugging at her hand. He held it firm. "It will be fine. Just dress it. Please."

By now Ron knew better than to start arguing with her. Emptying out the contents of the First Aid kit, he found some paper stitches and applied them with the tweezers, before wrapping a clean bandage round it.

Wordlessly he moved to her mouth, nestling her chin between his finger and thumb as he dabbed the tear with disinfectant. She could do this herself, they both knew it, yet somehow it felt right to let him finish the job. She gave herself over to him to patch up and mend, trusting him to take care of her.

This minute submission of Hermione’s give rise to a swelling of satisfaction in Ron’s chest.

As he patted her lip dry and turned to dispose of the gauze, he heard her say "Thank you" very quietly.

"You’re welcome. Didn't fancy your chances with your mate out there. Not much good in a crisis is she? Phyllis-a-bucket!"

A small smile tugged at one corner of Hermione's mouth. "She tries. She wants to help and she's very good in other ways. She just hates blood. But thank you for helping me. I wouldn't have done half as good a job." 

Her voice was cracked with exhaustion and Ron felt an overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms. The Weasleys were all huggers; nothing was too big that couldn't be made better by a hug, that was Molly Weasley's modus operandi and he and his siblings were all physically demonstrative, unashamedly so.

What would she do if he hugged her? She was quite small compared to him, his long arms would envelope her and there really wasn't much she could do about it. She had the look of someone who really needed comfort right now.

"S'okay. You've got me out of a few scrapes since I've been here. We're even now."

She smiled again and he decided he was definitely going to hug her. Hell, part of him wanted to kiss her. Anything to raise the slump in her shoulders and brighten her eyes.

One thing at a time Weasley.                     

He reached out and laid a hand on her forearm and she turned to look up him questioningly. Just as he was about to lean towards her, the door to the bathroom shot open and Marie stomped in, bottle of bleach spray and cloth in hand. Hermione jumped back, letting Ron’s hand fall.

“Hourly hygiene check,” Marie said sourly, as though it was a personal affront, “You okay Hermione?”

Hermione smiled and nodded. “Of course. Thanks Ron.” She rotated on her heel and walked out the way Marie had come in.

Ron restocked the First Aid kit and dumped the wrappings, shrugging off what had just happened. Probably for the best he didn’t hug her. And what was he doing even thinking about kissing her? Hermione was spikey at the best of times; it wasn’t a leap to assume she wasn’t exactly one for physical affection. Besides, it wasn’t necessarily a good idea to give mixed signals. After the ‘incident’.

When he entered the bar again, she had been commandeered by Phyllis again so he grabbed himself another coffee and wedged himself in next to Jeanie who was chatting to three men who all looked alike. She introduced them as Rab, his son Rabbie and his son Robert, the local painter and decorators.

They had clearly been here for some time, judging by their rosy complexions, and were engaged in vehement debate about the weather.

“Do they need any work right now?” Ron directed the question at Jeanie as the discussion heated up amongst the three men, “Cochall Cottage is looking a bit tired in places. Could do with a freshen up. I could say to Hermione.”

Jeanie shook her head surreptitiously and said behind her glass, “Probably best not to ask the three Roberts. They’re harmless eejits really, can whitewash a wall but I wouldn’t necessarily give them free rein in the house. Know what I mean?”

“Snow for Christmas. Hundret percent positive,” one of them exclaimed loudly now amidst argumentative grumblings from the other two. One of the sons, Ron thought. Definitely not the grandad. Maybe.

“When are you leaving Ron?” Jeanie asked pointedly.

“Christmas Eve. Though I’ve special orders from my mum to drive up to Glasgow to pick up food and booze from that fancy department store, whatever it’s called. I’ll need to do that at some point.”

“Do it in the morn,” Rabbie/Robert interjected with feeling, “It’ll be the last good day.” He must have registered Ron’s doubt because he went on, “Trust me. Sunday it’ll hit tha Cairngorms, Monday it’ll be here. A’ways comes at night. Go tae bed thinkin’ you’re landed. Wake up: fooked.”

Ron participated in the debates surrounding the accuracy of Rabbie/Robert’s thoughts on the weather for the time it took to finish his coffee. As he stood and pulled on his outdoor clothes, he realised with disappointment that Hermione was no longer in the bar. He lingered, first in the entrance of the Kerry Blue and Otter and then in his car outside, under the pretence of de-steaming the windows, in case she was in the bathroom or was coming back but when she didn’t appear, he set off back through the valley.

Twice as he drove, he thought about pulling over to the side of the road and ringing her mobile. He had saved her number onto his phone the day after he’d arrived in case of emergencies. Once he reached the cottage he would be out of signal, the only way to speak to her would be that Stone Age telephone in the bookcase with the crackly line. He wanted to check on her, the image of her miserable face and inflated bottom lip at the forefront of his mind. But, he thought as he accelerated gently through the rain, she had left the pub. She clearly didn’t want to see him again tonight. He shouldn’t force her.

Cochall Cottage was cold and uninviting without a stoked fire so he went straight to bed, draping yet another blanket over his feet.

The following morning was crisp and clear and, despite having misgivings about the weather forecast of a sozzled Scotsman, he took his advice and headed to Glasgow, joyfully shopping for expensive food and wine that his parents would never be able to afford.

He had been somewhat lax on the family front- he knew it and so did everyone else- and he was going to make it up to them. He bought aged whiskeys and special liqueurs as gifts, stopping off at a toy superstore on the way back to fill the boot of the car with something for all his littlest relatives. Normally he felt guilty when he took a day away from writing, especially as he was immersed so deeply in the story now, but this time he felt nothing but glee.

Chapter Text

Rabbie, it emerged, while not being a spectacular painter and decorator, was stunningly accurate when it came to weather prediction. The snow started at quarter past midnight on Monday, light and nonchalant. By one am it was a storm, tiny whirlwinds of snowflakes whipping the air into a frenzy. It didn’t abate so, when Ron's alarm blared at seven thirty and he opened the door warily to make the journey for firewood, it reached the top of his Wellingtons. He battled through the compacted, heavy drifts with an armful of fuel and stacked the burner, shaking off the snowflakes and pulling on more layers to preserve body heat until the fire got going.

He cursed himself as he looked outside, waiting for the kettle to boil. His mother had rung him on Sunday via the house phone, fretting as usual. The Highlands were now deeply blanketed with snow, she’d been listening to the radio. Would he not come home early?

He had considered it but something stopped him and he talked her down. How bad could snowfall over a couple of days be really?

Turns out, a lot worse than he had ever experienced in London. The sky was grey but luminous with snowfall and it just kept coming. His father had called to say that the arterial roads and motorways heading through Liverpool and on to Devon were gridlocked with accidents and single lane traffic, the B roads impassable.

“It’s the worst snowfall for fifty years,” he marvelled, before his mum barged onto the line to berate Ron for not leaving the day before.

Again he reassured her and advised her to relax. It was only a white lie to say that he had heard the snow in Scotland was going to ease overnight. At the time he was still confident he would make it.

He walked out to the end of the driveway and leant on the gate. The valley was divided- pillowy white fields on either side of a dark, sludgy line where vehicles had passed through. The road down from the gate looked lethal, not to mention what he couldn’t see. He envisioned the hairpins bends and hills beyond the valley and swallowed uneasiness. Ron was a good driver- careful- and he wasn’t afraid of bad weather or poor visibility, but even he had to admit that by Monday night a certain apprehension was growing in his belly.

He rose early on Christmas Eve and was dismayed by how the Universe had not taken his white lie as advice and it was in fact still snowing.

He packed the car up, leaving the items in the fridge and freezer until last and then returned to the cottage, dropping onto the sofa to think for a moment.

As he drank the last of his milk made into a velvety hot chocolate, he considered the fact that he hadn’t given a lot of thought to his leaving Cochall Cottage, the place where he had written a large portion of his next book. His mind tumbled ahead, to future interviews and readings, where he would talk about the process of writing it and how he would be reminded of the quirky place he had holed himself up in to thrash it out.

He placed a hand over the mug and watched the steam curl up through his fingers. It was perplexing him that Hermione hadn’t called. She must know he was due to leave today so why hadn’t she?

Weirdly the person he had anticipated being the worst part of his stay here had actually turned out to be one of the best. Obviously things were a bit awkward between them at the moment but still. It felt unfinished.

He hung the keys in the drop box and punched in the code to lock it, swung into the car and drove slowly up the drive and through the open gate. The car cut through the virgin snow laboriously, flakes blattering the windscreen unceasingly. Ron ground his teeth together and carried on at painfully slow speed, all the while reminding himself he could do this, it was just snow. If he just took his time he would get there.

It didn’t take long for him to realise it was a mistake. The long, steep road that led into the dip of valley was coated in snow and ice and without proper winter weather tyres, the car could not get traction. It squealed and skated as he tried to brake and when he finally arrived to a stop, around a third of the way down, he knew he couldn’t continue.

The return to Cochall Cottage was even hairier, the gearbox protesting loudly at being pushed to its limits. Against his better judgement, he forced the car up the hill, heart in his throat and when he was finally back, parked in front of the house, Ron took a breath, the first, it felt, in several minutes. Fuck, this is not good.

Once he had returned all the food to the fridge freezer and re-stoked the fire, he made the all-important phone call home. He propped himself against the bookcase, his feet as close to the burner as he could get them without catching fire. As the line rang, he braced himself, stomach flipping uncomfortably.

In the end, it wasn't nearly as awful as he had anticipated, which was worse, sort of. His mum was sorry he couldn't make it, she understood the weather was dreadful yes, they had been watching the news for updates. No, no, it was okay, they would see him when he was able to drive back. She didn’t even tell him off, though her voice was heavy with disappointment.

She wished him a merry Christmas and he thought his heart would break. In the background he could hear his siblings bantering back and forth, his dad trying to settle a light-hearted argument of some sort, a high pitched, child-like shriek from a niece or nephew. More than anything right now he needed to be with them, he missed them all so much. And he was furious with himself for not returning home when his mum had asked him to. Why hadn’t he?

He started the laptop, looking for a distraction, and spent a few unproductive hours half writing, half feeling sorry for himself. When the Wolf and Wild phone began trilling, he made a leap for it, desperate for human interaction.

"Hello?"

There was a brief silence at the end of the phone, followed by a sigh.

"You didn't make it home then," Hermione muttered, more to herself than him. But he was happy to hear from her. Really happy.

"No. I guess I should have listened when I was warned." He left her space to scold him about not being sensible but she didn’t go for it.

"Have you got enough food and firewood? To see you through the next couple of days, I mean. Everything will be on the go-slow for a bit, it might take them a while to clear the roads. If it ever stops snowing."

"Yeah, be fine," Ron replied, thinking of all the food and wine he had bought at his mother's behest. It had been intended for the Weasley Christmas table but as that was no longer an option, it would be meals for one.

"Ok. Well let me know if you need anything. I will be around."

He felt the sink of dejection. Was that it?

"Right. Thanks Hermione."

As he moved to replace the receiver, he heard her say, "Oh Ron!" and he smiled and put it to his ear once more.

"Yeah?"

"Don't worry about the extra days in the cottage. I will sort it out with Edward when I speak to him in the New Year."

"Oh. Right. Great. Thanks again. Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas Ron."

It was insane to be annoyed at her but he found he was. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from her really, just more. Some acknowledgement of whatever it was that was going on between them.

He clambered to his feet and stared accusingly at the telephone. So he was admitting it then was he? Something has sparked in him in response Hermione Granger. It wasn't just the fact that he hadn't had a shag in forever or that he was lonely? Bloody hell.

He wandered back into the kitchen and opened a bottle of the wine he'd been planning to take home. Might as well make the most of it, Ron. Normally, when he needed a distraction and he didn't want to write, he would open his smartphone and instantly be transported into other people's lives via the power of social media.

Instead, he lifted a novel he was halfway through, filled his wine glass and slumped down in front of the fire, trying to see the positives of the situation.

Ok, this wasn't the Christmas he had planned but he had food, books and wine and he was warm and safe.

'Buggar', he thought crossly, staring into the living room, 'I don't even have a tree.'

Resolutely he opened the book and forced himself to read, which he managed but listlessly. The silence of the cottage was deafening and every clink of his glass or rustle of his page was magnified, further highlighting the fact that he wasn't amidst the noisy chaos of the Weasleys.

Throwing the book to one side after two chapters, he roamed through the house like a caged animal, finding mindless tasks to complete, eating the contents of a packet of biscuits one after the other in quick succession.

His cottage tour ended with him in the bath with a different book and more wine and finally he felt able to relax. The claw footed bath was a revelation, he was truly going to miss it. Amongst other things. Topping the hot water up to his neck, Ron lay back and stared up at the ceiling, allowing his eyes to cross slightly and his gaze to soften.

He listened to the old house shifting and giving as the temperature dropped outside. Every so often a floorboard would creak or a door would move ever so slightly when a random gust of air blew from some unseen place.

The water hugged his body warmly and he allowed his head to lower, dipping his ears underneath the water line. He'd always liked doing this, from he was a child.Everything sounded strange and otherworldly underwater; the soft whoosh of fluid and the thrum of plumbing.

He had just closed his eyes when something made them snap open again. What was that? A noise? Or a strange feeling?

Ron paused and listened. The house was doing what it normally did- groaning and rasping, the wind rattling the windowpane noisily just above his head- and he rocked his head back into the water, satisfied.

The acoustics of the bath dreamily surrounded him and he probably would have fallen asleep if he hadn't been ripped from his daydream by the words 'Oh my God!" exclaimed loudly from across the room.

Ron scrambled to his feet and wiped his eyes, just in time to see the back of Hermione darting from the bathroom doorway, pulling the door behind her. He stood for a moment, dumbstruck. The situation couldn't have been any more explicit really, it wasn't a bubble bath he had been taking for Christ's sake. He was a gangly naked man taking a bath in full electric light. Was there a chance she hadn't really seen anything of interest?

"Ron? I am so sorry, oh my God." Her voice trembled a little as it came through the door so no, there was absolutely no chance of that.

Laughter bubbled from his belly and up through his mouth before he had time to stop it and it started as a snigger but it grew the more he thought about Hermione barging into the bathroom until it was a full bellow and nearly hysterical.

"It's not funny!" Hermione admonished from the bedroom, "God, I'm mortified! Put some clothes on! I'll see you downstairs."

Ron laughed as he dried himself off, as he dressed and he was still chuckling when he found Hermione sitting at the kitchen table, her face beetroot.

She met his eye and then looked away sharply, biting one side of her lower lip. The other side where the split had been was healing, although still engorged.

"Well, that was the best laugh I have had in a while Hermione and I really needed it." He dropped down next to her at the table and patted her hand, still bandaged. "Thank you."

"I didn't see anything..." she started but since she was looking anywhere but his face, Ron knew that was a blatant lie.

"Don't worry," he replied teasingly, "I'm very secure. Though if you'd have wanted a look you should have just said something..."

Her mouth opened and shut instantly and she clambered to her feet, swiping him on the bicep as she went.

"If you think I came all the way up that bloody mountain just so I could see you starkers you are sadly mistaken." She leant heavily against the worktop and covered her eyes with her hand for second, as if trying to scrub the memory from her retinas.

She was wearing a bobble hat not dissimilar to Jeremy Pike’s, thought it was knitted in icy blues and warm whites. It was jammed down to her eyebrows, her hair askew beneath it, and it made her look younger and naïve somehow.

“So if you didn’t come to your new favourite author in the buff, why are you here? To fill my stocking?”

Hermione dropped her hands away from her face enough for Ron to see he had embarrassed her again, though she tried to hide it. Where was all the flirting coming from, he wondered in the moment she took to compose herself. How had he gone from breaking her kiss to sexual innuendos?

He was really happy to see her, he realised suddenly. Not hearing from her for three days had done his head in. He should have just called her, never mind the weirdness between them.

This probably explained too why he had held off on travelling home, even when the weather was worsening by the hour. He wanted to see her one more time, the bloody nuisance.

And when she spoke again, Hermione said exactly what he wanted her to.

“No one should spend Christmas alone. I came to invite you to spend it with me.”

Uncertainty written all over her face, part of Ron wanted to goad her a bit more just for sport. Instead he said simply, “I would really like that” and she smiled.

Chapter Text

The drive back down the mountain was only slightly less dicey in the pickup truck as it was when Ron tried it with the hire car. Hermione had a firm understanding of the vehicle and how to drive it best in the snow and even she let out one or two curse words as they passed through the valley, the snow tyres scrabbling for purchase.

Goose- who couldn’t be trusted in the house alone for any length of time- rode shotgun with Ron or more specifically on Ron. He perched himself unsteadily in Ron’s lap, as though using him to improve his view and thus obliterated Ron’s, who spent the entire journey staring at the animal’s silky flank.

When they arrived at Beach End, having successfully walked the bags full of food and drink from Ron’s fridge up the narrow, windy lane, Hermione had shown Ron to the guest bedroom, which was now clear of whatever had prevented him using it the first time he had stayed, and looked homely and inviting. Fresh pristine white bedlinen had been used, a nubby chenille throw in duck egg blue tucked around the foot of the bed. Two towels of different sizes were arranged on the bedside table under a little basket filled with tiny bottles of bathing products.

It touched him that she had gone to so much trouble.

“I hope it’s ok,” she had muttered, as if hearing his internal thoughts, “I don’t have a lot of people to stay over.”

A waspish thought entered Ron’s head as he threw his rucksack onto the chenille throw and followed her back downstairs. If there was no spare bed, that meant Spence still shared Hermione’s bed when he stayed.

The dulling of his mood intensified when she pulled off her red coat to hang it next to his and she was wearing another oversized sweater, the black one with the gold crest again.

Didn’t the guy need his jumpers in Skegness, his brain grumbled as he flopped down the sofa and she boiled the kettle. Couldn’t she see how unhealthy it was to keep so much of Spencer in her life?

Gradually, grudgingly, Ron’s grouchy disposition melted over the course of the afternoon and evening and he forgot that he was irrationally mad at Hermione’s ex-husband.

They sat at opposite ends of the sofa, a prostrate Goose between them, and lazily watched seasonal programmes on Hermione’s tiny tv set, snacking on the extortionately expensive iced cookies his mother had requested from Glasgow and a Camembert baked in the oven and slathered hot on crackers.

Ron made the decision as soon as he arrived that he would go to bed early and he stuck to it even though he wanted to sit longer. Hermione had done a decent thing and invited him into her home, sharing her Christmas with him even thought she had no obligation to. He wanted to give her space.

With his foot on the first stair, he thanked her again for the rescue.

“It’s no problem,” she replied, stretching luxuriously where he had left her snuggled against the dog. “Honestly the generator would have probably bottomed out at some point. Really, I was saving myself a journey later on..." She stopped and smiled. "It was nice to have company. I would have been alone otherwise.”

“You should have been with your parents?”

She shook her head and drained her mug. “No they’re skiing this year. But Spencer would have been here.”

Ron bit back the urge to say ‘I’m glad he wasn’t’ and instead replied softly, “His loss is my gain.”

Hermione's smile grew wider. She yawned and said, “Let me know if you need anything” and he went to bed before he told her what he needed.

~

Ron woke on Christmas morning and rubbed at a knot in his shoulder. It was probably a blessing Hermione didn’t have many houseguests, her spare bed was like a bag of hammers.

She was already up and showered by the time he ambled downstairs in his pyjamas and shook him good-naturedly as he poured coffee from the cafetière on the table.

“Happy Christmas, sleepyhead. Thought you were never going to get up.”

Ron winced. “Take it down a notch if you don’t mind Dr G. It takes me a while to get going in the morning. Happy Christmas.”

She sat down next to him and picked up her mug. “Well, you have half an hour. Then we have to make tracks.”

He looked at her, scrubbed and shiny and raring to go and he realised, too late, that it was short-sighted of him to assume that Christmas Day wouldn’t be like every other. People like Hermione didn’t take a break for some silly little matter like Christmas. She had a To Do list to keep to.

“Did you do your stomach crunches this morning?” he murmured just loud enough for her to hear and she answered ‘Yes!’ brightly before realising he was taking the piss.

She pulled a face and stood up. “Half an hour.”

He managed to present himself to her twenty minutes later, more or less shipshape and she ushered him into the pickup.

“Don’t you think,” Ron proposed, catching glimpses of the town as Goose’s head bobbed up and down, “That given the inclement weather, you might be forgiven for not honouring all of your commitments? It is Christmas Day, after all.”

“All the more reason to honour them Ron. People depend on me. Plus, it’s good for you. It’s nice to help.”

It had snowed again overnight in Lowndes and in the majority of the UK’s towns and cities, he had watched the weather report before they left the house. The Metrological Office predicted it wouldn’t stop for another five or six days and Ron wondered if he would ever make it home.

He phoned his family as Hermione drove to Asher’s, torn between wanting to hear their voices and not wanting to be reminded of the fact he wasn’t with them.

Ginny answered, having been up since four am with the kids who were too excited to wait until a more respectable hour. As such, she was astringent to say the least and got right to the point.

“You’re a dickhead for not being here, you know,” she said nonchalantly, lowering her voice on the word dickhead. “Mum’s gutted. It’s the first time any of us have missed Christmas.”

“I know. I‘d be there if I could. Tell me what’s going on. Had Dad opened the sherry yet?”

He listened to her describe the Weasley Christmas in heartachingly familiar detail and he wished he hadn’t called. His mum appropriated the phone for a while, then his dad. Then Harry came on to ask how everything was going.”

“Not bad,” he replied, just as Hermione exclaimed ‘Damn!’ as the pickup slid a little on the road.

“Are you with a woman?” came Harry’s voice down the phone, but before Ron could respond, it was Ginny again.

“Are you holed up with some Scottish bint having a shagfest instead of coming home for Christmas?”

His sister had such a way with words and Ron wondered how Hermione would respond if he raised his eyebrow and said ‘Shagfest?’ to her in a seductive tone.

“No. That was… the caretaker.”

“Caretaker?”

“Of the cottage where I’m staying. She has been very good and invited me to stay with her so I’m not alone over Christmas.” He tried to make it sound as innocent as possible but Ginny didn’t feel the same.

“I bet she has.” There was a pause and then she added, “What age is she?”

Oh Jesus. “What age are you Hermione?”

Hermione took her eyes off the road long enough to throw him a questioning glance.

“What? Why? Who is that?”

He heard Ginny say ‘She isn’t Scottish’ to whoever was listening next to her. “It’s my sister.” He shook the phone. “She wants to check I’m not fornicating with a teenager presumably.”

Hermione looked slightly alarmed but kept staring straight ahead at the road. “Well you can tell her we aren’t fornicating at all. And I’m 41.”

Ginny relayed the information to her audience, placated and Ron took the opportunity to end the call.

As they pulled up outside Asher’s, he stowed his phone in his pocket and opened the door so Goose could jump down. As he joined Hermione at the other side of the cab, she looked up at him and said, “Do you fornicate a lot with teenagers?”

Now was not the time to be getting into that so he shrugged and tightened his grip on the dog lead. “Not as much as I’d like” and thankfully, she didn’t ask again.

It was the most active Ron had been on any Christmas Day since the year he’d been given a scooter when he was 8 and had spent the entire day outside riding up and down. At the care home, they had helped serve Christmas lunch before doing a round of all the bedbound patients, pulling crackers and reading the brainteasers inside. Ron found he was especially popular with a few of the older ladies and Hermione made a crack about teenagers, showing she hadn’t forgotten their previous conversation.

From Asher’s they went on, visiting people on a list of day centre attendees who were known to be on their own. Goose had gone up in Ron's estimation, placidly waiting in the cab each time they called at a door, placated with a dog biscuit on their return.

Hermione had wrapped up little gifts of flowery smelling facial soap for the ladies and spicy shaving soap for the gents and set them amongst the edibles in the hampers provided by the day centre.

Ron watched her as she presented the gifts, moved by her capacity to care. She was sweet with the elderly folk, though it didn’t override her desire to pass on the occasional piece of well-meaning advice such as ‘Goose fat is fine as a treat, just not every day” and ‘Perhaps less whipped cream on the hot chocolate. Remember your diabetes.”

In fact, he was feeling truly softened by her when they arrived at the final house.

“Now I know this is going to be your personal Waterloo Hermione,” Ron lamented as they picked their way delicately up the unsalted garden path, “But I want you to really try not to offer any advice or any tellings off at all. None.” She threw him an ‘oh please’ look as they rapped the knocker. “It is Christmas after all.”

"Oh, it's yourself. Bossy Bessie. What do you want?" Jeremy Pike scowled from behind reading glasses as he opened the door a crack.

"Merry Christmas, Mr Pike. We brought you a few things."

He peered over the door chain, making no move to unlatch it.

"Did you now? Fat free, sugar free, fun free no doubt."

"Not this time. It is Christmas after all." She turned and grinned up at Ron.

"Only the good stuff,” Ron said, gesturing at the small bottle of sherry in the hamper, “Or bad stuff depending on how you see it."

It took seconds for Jeremy Pike's face to break into a smile, or his approximation of one. Not quite a full beam but enough to know that what he saw pleased him.

"Best come in then."

Surprisingly, they spent a full hour in Mr Pike's little living room- Ron hadn't expected them to get past the front step, given the history between Jeremy and Hermione. Yet there they were eating mince pies and drinking tots of sherry from unmatching china cups.

Hermione surpassed herself. He could see the internal debate going on within her every time the old man scoffed a Quality Street or added another inch to his teacup but she bit it back every time, smiling and clinking her drink against his.

And when they returned to Beach End, cold and spent from so much grinning and ‘Merry Christmas’ing, she extended her surrender by agreeing to let Ron prepare their meal.

“It’s the least I can do,” he told her as she sat at the table rocking her wine glass in her hand, “You have been very good to me and I owe you this one.”

Ron’s mother, it turned out, had been right in insisting he buy the food from the posh Glaswegian shop- it had been truly magnificent. Between Hermione’s freezer and Ron’s offerings, they jumbled together a fantastic Christmas dinner and afterwards lay uncomfortably full on the sofa together, two sets of socked feet just touching on the foot stool.

“That was amazing Ron. You have a talent for more than novel writing.” Hermione patted her stomach and sighed.

“Thank Mum,” he responded, also sighing contentedly, “She taught me everything I know.”

Hermione tilted her head back and shouted, “Thank you Mrs Weasley,” before dissolving into giggles. Her cheeks were high with colour, eyes glittering in the low light of the lamp.

She’s tipsy, Ron thought gleefully. It’s cute on her. She’s lost that little frown line between her eyebrows.

“Shall we play a game?” she piped up suddenly from her food induced daze.

“As long as it doesn’t require anything too thinky. I’m half in a carb-coma and I think you might take advantage of that.”

“Are you accusing me of being a cheat?” Hermione huffed as she hauled herself off the sofa to look in a cupboard.

“Not to your face,” he mumbled in reply.

Three quarters of an hour later, the Jenga tower had been rebuilt for the sixth time and Goose had been banished from the room for gnawing on discarded wooden bricks.

Hermione, still competitive despite the alcohol, was sitting in front of the foot stool cross-legged, gently tapping the edges of blocks to see which would give first. The tip of her tongue curled out from between her teeth as she concentrated, reminding him of Jeanie as she lavishly wrapped the print of the forest in her shop, a print now buried in the boot of his car somewhere. Forgotten.

Just like Jeanie. Odd that. How quickly she had been dismissed as a potential love interest. Jeanie- sweet, smiley, lithe and muscular with all that sexy red hair piled up on her head, begging to be released in a shiny waterfall to cascade down her naked back like something out of a movie. Tall and confident, gregarious and demonstrative. Why was it not Jeanie?

He observed Hermione under heavy lids as she manoeuvred onto her knees and peered closer at the tower. She had wrenched off her woollen garments by now and was barefoot in skinny jeans and a dark grey vest top. She rested her head on her hand and rubbed absently at her healing lip. If she sensed him looking at her she didn’t show it, just carried on methodically examining the wooden blocks one by one. Then, without warning, she made her move and smoothly negotiated a removal, looking up and beaming in triumph.

Ron grunted and hefted himself forward to take a look. Hermione leant back and unwrapped a chocolate, popping it into her mouth and making a little moan of pleasure.

There was no good way to tell her that moaning like that wasn’t helpful.

“When you eventually leave and go home,” she blurted out suddenly, “Will you miss Lowndes?” Then, almost as an afterthought she added, “Have you enjoyed yourself here?”

“Yeeeees,” he breathed, pushing a stubborn brick with his forefinger, “It has been fun.”

“Highlights?” She shifted onto the side of her thigh, closer to him now so their knees rubbed and he could smell her perfume. That was distracting.

“Err, the bath in Cochall Cottage is pretty spectacular.” She looked at him slyly out of the corner of her eye. “And the Martello tower. That was great.”

Hermione seemed pleased, the apples of her cheeks glowing. “You liked that?”

“I did. It was really cool to see inside one that hadn’t been renovated into some twat’s luxury home. I didn’t get to do that when I was researching my book.”

“I know…...” she replied pensively and then stopped.

Ron frowned. “How did you know?”

She looked sheepish for a moment before answering. “I read up on you. After you arrived, I mean. Nothing sinister or weird, just old articles about your work really. You gave an interview after ‘Shards of a Heart’ was published and you mentioned that you hadn’t managed to see inside a Martello tower than hadn’t been refurbished. You said you really regretted it and hoped one day you would get the opportunity.”

“So, wait a minute. That’s why you took me out there? Because I didn’t get to do it first time round?” Something pulsed in Ron’s bloodstream.

Hermione shrugged. “I thought it would be nice. For you.”

He stared at her for a moment, that little fat lip pouting out at him and dropped onto one hand, closer. She fidgeted faintly but didn’t move away.

Her eyes met his and he could see the internal battle she was fighting. They had been here before, a situation just like this and it hadn’t ended well. She had been humiliated. How could she have faith that it wouldn’t happen again?

Ron soften his gaze and implored her with his eyes. Trust me Hermione. This time it will be so different.

“Should I think it’s creepy,” he murmured, inching nearer,“ that you were cyber stalking me?” and her face took on such a look of righteous indignation that his brain sang. How could it not be Hermione?

“Doing a little fact-finding for the purpose of…” she started and then his mouth was on hers and she stopped talking.

The kiss was languid and deep. Her tongue moved over his in a way that generated heat in every synapse in Ron’s body and hazily a thought arose in his mind: this is the way everyone wants to be kissed.

It grew more urgent and at some point he must have put his hand to Hermione’s cheek because suddenly he was cradling her face and pulling her towards him and she was twisting her body and moving to him.

Then, two things happened in quick succession. The first was that Goose started barking excitedly in the hall, long, loud woofing that slowed their passion but didn’t break the kiss.

The second thing did.

“Hellooo? Anyone home?”

Hermione jumped away from Ron as though scalded and stared at him with wide brown eyes, saying only one word.

“Spence.”

Chapter Text

If Spence was surprised to find his ex-wife and the novelist, he barely knew sitting in the living room puzzling over a Jenga tower then he disguised it well. Hermione, for her part, behaved impeccably, jumping up to greet him and rushing to explain Ron’s presence.

Spence didn’t appear to be at all perturbed, throwing himself into the sofa so he could scratch Goose on his big head. He regaled Ron with the story about how he cadged a lift with someone’s sister’s brother-in-law who was driving a fresh food lorry to Scotland, while Hermione made him tea and pulled together a sandwich from their leftovers.

Ron sat nodding spacily, barely aware of what Spence was saying. He could feel Hermione’s eyes flit to him every so often, but he couldn’t meet them. What the hell was she thinking about this sudden development?

“You did the right thing not driving to Devon Ron,” Spence said affably between mouthfuls of ham, “The roads are a nightmare. I wasn’t going to come but I couldn’t bear the thought of Hermione being alone on Christmas Day and thought I would surprise her. Shouldn’t have worried at all!”

He was so cheerful that Ron felt insanely guilty for wishing he had never come. Spence was so decent, worrying about Hermione stuck by herself, organising a lift through complex means and taking a risky journey in treacherous weather. And all Ron could think was ‘Go away’.

Ron excused himself an hour later, deeming it the earliest he could escape without seeming impolite. He listened to Spence and Hermione moving around downstairs for a while before they too came to bed. Through the wall he heard them chatting dimly, at one point Hermione laughed, before the hubbub settled and there were no more sounds.

He lay in the bag-of-hammers bed, counting cracks in the ceiling and he wished he was lying in Cochall Cottage.

No, you don’t, his spiteful brain grumbled. You wish you were lying next door, tangled up in Hermione, taking that hot kiss lower. Lying where Spence was right now.

He tried to stop his thoughts from spiralling outwards, but it proved almost impossible. Did they still have sex, even though they were technically separated? How could they not, for God’s sake, they shared a bed when Spence stayed at the house.

He imagined lying next to Hermione, all that effervescent energy wrapped up in soft cotton pyjamas, her body vibrating with action. Spence had been married to her, he knew what it like to strip layers from her and mark the bare skin with kisses. He knew how she’d respond; he knew how fucking amazing it was to feel her tongue push back against his when they kissed.

There was no doubt from Ron’s point of view- Spence would be out of his mind if he could sleep next to Hermione and not reach for her.

~

Boxing Day dawned frosty and dark and Ron lay in bed, finally semi-comfortable and considered his plan of action. There was no point staying here any longer now that Spencer was home, that would just be weird. He would get out of here as soon as he could. Maybe Hermione would drive him back to the cottage; he was longing to talk to her.

It had wounded him a bit, the way she had jumped away from him on Spence’s arrival. What difference did it make if they were truly divorced? Hermione was single, as far as Ron could tell, and she had kissed him the night of their visit to the Martello tower. It hadn’t been some half-arsed kiss either- Ron had felt the desire in it. So why didn’t she bump Mr Ex Husband into the spare room instead of him?

He dressed in the dark and padded out into the hall. The other bedroom door was shut, and he used the bathroom as stealthily as possible. Goose rose to his paws from his curled sleeping position in the hall next to radiator when Ron opened the door. Five minutes later they were both in Hermione’s back garden, Ron drinking black coffee in his pyjamas, coat and boots and Goose trailing his nose through ice-tipped blades of grass.

The air was frigid but tender on the skin of his face which felt tightened by the central heating and he breathed it in, even as he swallowed the hot coffee. A scratchy headache was beginning to ache at the base of his skull, a reminder that he shouldn’t drink wine to excess. He thought about looking through Hermione’s cupboards for painkillers but found the peace of the early December morning too soothing to desert so he stood on, mulling over the events of the last forty-eight hours.

A noise in the kitchen alerted him to presence of another human being awake at this ungodly hour and when he turned to check it out, Ron was surprised to see Spence leaning on the door frame, barely discernible in the gloom.

“Can’t sleep?”

“I like to get up early,” Ron lied, as Spence stood next to him, “Helps shake ideas free for the book.”

Bollocks why had he mentioned the book?

Spence bounced on his toes to generate heat. “How’s it coming? Hermione said you’ll be leaving us soon. Did you get everything you wanted?”

Not nearly, Spencer Caulfield.

“I did yeah. Should be getting back to it really. Is Hermione awake?”

“Let her sleep on, I’ll take you back to the cottage.”

Buggar he was so decent. There was no really easy way of telling Spence that Ron would prefer to haul Hermione of bed so she could drive him and he could corner her about that kiss so instead he shrugged and said, “Thanks Spencer. I’d appreciate it.”

He banged around for a bit packing his things in the hope that it would rouse the woman in the next room; she couldn’t still be sleeping. But if she wasn’t, then she was avoiding him.

The thought made him sullen on the journey out of Lowndes and towards the valley, despite the fact that this time he didn't have to share his seat with a Weimaraner with a head like a bowling ball.

Spencer chatted about non subjects, briefly touching on the book he was working on.

"You've written a book?" Ron was surprised. Normally fellow writers couldn't wait to share their kinship and it had been barely a footnote in Spencer’s conversation.

"It's my third." Of course, it is. Honestly the man was a supreme over-achiever. "Very boring. Toponymy in the East Midlands. Not exactly a best seller but it's relevant to those in the field. Funding's a bit all over the place at the moment so daily emails and phone calls. You know the drill. "

Then off he went again about the trip to Skegness which was, as described, really dull. So much so that Ron dived in with a question just to hear something interesting.

"Do you come back to Lowndes a lot?"

"A fair bit. It’s like my base. I suppose that seems daft." He paused and threw Ron a glance. "Hermione told you we're divorced?"

"Um, yeah. She mentioned it in passing."

Spencer didn't say anything for a moment, just tapped the steering wheel with his thumbs in time with some internal rhythm. After a beat he spoke again.

"It's funny how this time of year always makes you a little melancholy isn't it?"

"Does it?"

"Don't you think? It's like the dying of the year. No more time to accomplish what you set out to at the beginning." Ron wasn't sure where this strain of thought was going so he didn't respond but Spence was in his flow now and carried on the conversation without needing much input.

"Have you ever been married Ron?" he asked now and Ron shook his head. "It's a weird thing, to decide to join together with one other person and say it's forever. And what's weirder is that you believe it. In the moment, when you're in love, it seems like the most natural, sensible thing to do."

"You didn't like being married then?" Ron felt his mouth twist.

"No, I loved it." Spence interjected, flicking the windscreen wipers on briefly to clear some rogue snowflakes. "It was Hermione who didn't like it. At the end. She was very good about it, you know, very efficient. You know Hermione by now so I don't need to tell you, but she had considered everything. It was all very clean and easy; I didn't have to worry about a thing."

Ron considered this, thought about Hermione and how part of the burden of divorce for her would have been making sure everyone was well taken care of. Ron had seen so many of his friends fall apart after breakups- he himself had definitely spent longer than was necessary moping after Marianna- but he knew Hermione probably hadn't allowed herself that luxury. If there were things to see to, responsibilities to shoulder, she would have kept going.

"It's just her way, you know? Minimise disruption and heartache, grease all the wheels." Spencer had stopped tapping the wheel and was resting back against his seat, head rocked against the headrest. He didn't look unhappy, more contemplative. His voice was steady but wistful at times, like he was delving back into memories long packed away.

"Of course, that works for a while," he carried on, accelerating the truck carefully, "But eventually you need to know why. It's all pacification and appeasement and trying to make it not hurt so much but in the end, you have to hear the truth."

Ron wasn't sure he wanted to hear whatever was next, this terribly private moment between two people, one of whom he had been seducing only last night. But he couldn't stop Spencer now for risk of offending him. He wondered if this was the first time he had discussed this with anyone in so much detail.

Spencer's voice was duller as he continued. "When I asked her why we had to break up, to be completely honest and stop sparing my feelings, do you know what she said? She said that she wanted someone to love her the way she needed. To contain all of her. Be ok with her difficult bits. It's like something out of a novel right? Write that down Ron. It's a heartbreaker. Especially when you think you’ve been doing alright up until that point." 

Spencer shook his head as they pulled up outside the gate to Cochall Cottage. "Sorry," he muttered, turning fully in his seat to face him, "I dunno why I'm telling you all that."

I know why, Ron thought as he boosted himself out of the passenger side. Your sub-conscious has picked up the connection between me and your ex-wife. It's rapping on the inside of your head, telling you to remind me of the ties that bind you and Hermione together.

"It's ok. I hope it helped to talk." Spencer screwed his face up for a moment, as if conflicted. "What is it?"

"I feel awkward about barging in last night." No, you don't. "I hope I didn't disturb anything with you and Hermione?"

His face so plainly said the opposite that Ron almost advised him never to commit a crime, lest he have to lie to anyone. Instead he said, "Nah mate," and hoisted his bag over his shoulder, "Hermione was good enough to invite me to stay over because we both couldn't be with who we wanted to. There's nothing more to it than that."

Ron forgave Spencer's look of relief because he was clearly still suffering the loss of his marriage. "Noted. And yeah, that's what she said too." Spence backed up the pickup and put it into gear. Rolling down the window laboriously he leant out and raised a hand. "I probably won't see you again Ron. Safe travels."

Ron watched the pickup make its slow tentative descent and then tried to unlatch the gate. Everything was iced up and stuck firm, so he threw his bag over the top and hauled himself up and over, landing heavily on the other side. In the distance, Spencer's taillights glowed pinky red and a thought crossed Ron's mind. That Spencer was fortunate he was going home to Hermione. Even if it was difficult and even if they weren't sleeping together- and Ron still wasn't sure about that- they were companions.

Companionship was ultimately what had been missing from Ron's relationship with Marianna and it was only spending time with Hermione and Spencer that he really understood that now. Marianna was his playmate, his naughty, fun girlfriend who showered him with kisses and popped the Champagne. Because that was what she liked to do. When it came to the aspects of their life together that she found tiresome or unnecessary, she pushed back, usually either talking Ron out of doing whatever it was or bitching about it wittily until it was complete.

He used to think she was funny- now he could see that she just didn't know how to compromise. She couldn't get past her own needs to meet his if they weren’t in perfect alignment.

Ron shook his head and plodded towards the cottage. And it took a divorced couple to show him that. Irony at its best.

Chapter Text

The next few days were arduous and Ron felt jumpy and impatient. His mother rang every day to check up on him though she had lost the urgency in her voice now that Christmas was over. The Weasleys had split and gone their separate ways to celebrate New Year in whatever way pleased them so there was no need to harangue him about not being there. Each morning he waited for her phone call to update him on the weather, both current and predicted, and once that was out of the way, she usually put him on speakerphone and they chatted as she baked or ironed.

Sometimes his dad would be floating around in the background, asking his advice on the books he should buy with his Christmas gift token or bemoaning the weather. His mum would join in, cursing the snow, but Ron could tell it was only half hearted. His parents were transparent in their joy at being snowed in together, just the two of them, pottering about and pleasing just themselves. They too were companions- there was no-one else they would rather be with than each other.

What made the confinement worse was that Ron had lost the taste for writing. The case had been steaming ahead at full throttle just before Christmas: the victim had been murdered, several red herrings had been planted, 'H' was on her way to promotion if she could just keep control of her temper long enough to find the bad guy. It was all going beautifully.

And then it wasn't and that made him nervous. He couldn't afford to lose momentum, not when he was so close to regaining all the respect that had been lost to him, not least the respect he had lost for himself.

Of course it was Hermione's fault- the thought of her was distracting him. He wanted to call, of course he did. He lightly touched the telephone every time he walked through the living room, as if daring himself to dial her number. He talked himself out of it every single time. Over the past few days he had come to the realisation that pursuing 'the fizz' with Hermione was a no-go, for a number of reasons.

The first, most important one, was that he had sworn off women until this book was finished. If he'd needed a shag so badly he could have cosied up to Jeanie and the fact that he hadn't proved that he was serious about seeing this through. The second reason, connected to the first, was that he was going to leave Lowndes. Admittedly he had been here longer than expected but he would eventually go back to life in London and into the dervish of being a novelist. Long nights editing and re-editing until the book was complete. And then publishing, advertising and, God willing, the book launch. You couldn't maintain any sort of meaningful relationship with anyone so busy and far away when you were in the midst of all that.

And thirdly, there was the inescapable fact that Hermione was not over her divorce. Oh, she might have instigated it, she might really believe she was looking for the man' strong enough to love her as she needed', whatever that meant. But the act of sharing her home and her bed with her ex-husband said something different.

And those bloody jumpers of Spencer's. Somehow, the fact that she still wore his clothes annoyed Ron most of all.

Then, just when he thought he was going to lose his mind altogether, something miraculous happened. Ron woke up two days before New Year's Eve and it wasn't snowing. In fact, it hadn't snowed all night, here or anywhere else. A low blonde winter sun was shining, cutting through the cold air like a laser beam and it felt like hope.

The Wolf and Wild phone rang at nine am precisely- his mum wanting to share in the good news. "The forecast looks promising for the next five days Ron," she said over the sound of something sizzling in a pan, "You could be home by New Year."

Ron stared out of the kitchen window at the garden, still draped in snowfall. Of course he was happy about being able to return home, not least because food was getting low and he was tired of eating noodles and toast. Hopefully being back in familiar surroundings would kick start his brain and he could hammer out this bloody novel. He wasn't sad about leaving Cochall Cottage.

The conflict lay with its caretaker and the fact that he was unprepared to leave things between them hanging on a kiss. Even if they could just talk and clear the air, sort of a 'Thanks, I enjoyed that, sorry I'm leaving'. He hated unfinished business- no Ron B. Weasley novel had loose ends and his real life wouldn't either.

The day before New Year's Eve, Ron deliberately picked up the phone and punched in Hermione's number. There were only one and a half rings before she answered.

"Ron." Not a questions or a greeting. More like an outward breath.

"Hi. Have I caught you at a bad time?"

“No. God no. I was actually just about to call you.”

“You were?” Now that was a pleasing thought.

He heard her sigh. “Yes…. How are you?”

“Going quietly crazy up here to be honest.” Ron twisted the phone cable round his finger as he spoke, thinking how good it was to hear her voice. “But it looks like I’m going to be getting out of here soon. Weather forecast looks good. Think I’ll be able to get down the mountain tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? You’re planning on leaving tomorrow then?”

She tried and failed to not sound interested in this piece of information, which gratified Ron.

“Yeah, I think so,” he replied, aiming for nonchalant but probably also failing, “Anyway, why were you going to call me?”

She answered quickly. “Well that was why, obviously. To see when you were going home. New people due to stay at the cottage in a week, providing the weather continues to improve. I have to get it ready.”

Ron pressed the receiver to his ear hard, biting back frustration. Surely that couldn’t be it. Come on Hermione, fuck being efficient, tell me what you’re thinking.

“So, tomorrow then,” she said again and Ron thought ‘Fuck this.’

“Unless I get a better offer.”There, he’d handed it to her.

 If she doesn’t bite now I’m slamming the phone down and sewing prawns into the hems of the curtains for badness.

There was a pause before Hermione answered. “Lowndes isn’t exactly a hot spot on New Year’s Eve. There’s the pub…”

“Is that what you and Spencer are doing?” He had put a little too much emphasis on ‘Spencer’ for his liking but c’est la vie.

“Spencer isn’t here.”

Three golden words. “He left again?”

“Something happened to the funding of this new book he’s writing. He thought they might pull it so he wanted to go down and speak to them face to face. He managed to get a train this morning.” Another silence and then, “So he isn’t here.”

Ron cradled the phone between his head and neck and closed his eyes. When had adult relationships got so complex? He felt like he was fifteen again, doing the dance of ‘Do you like me/ Do I like you’ with the pretty girl who sat behind him in Maths. Neither really telling the whole truth, no-one wanting to be the one who showed their hand.

He struggled with what to say next but in the end the idea that this would be left open-ended was too much.

“So if I didn’t go home tomorrow, then we’d both be stuck in this dead little town for New Year’s Eve.”

“Yes. We would.”

“And I have eaten all the food so there’s nothing to eat apart from beans.”

“That does sound miserable.”

Ron grinned and realised he wasn’t worried about being the first to show his hand after all. “So what do you say Hermione? Want to share half a tin of baked beans and ring in the New Year with me?”

He heard her exhale and he knew she was smiling. “I would really like that.”

~

Six hours before midnight on New Year’s Eve, the pickup rolled into the driveway. Goose released the passenger door before it reached a stop and bounded up to greet Ron enthusiastically. Hermione followed, bringing with her bags of items from her fridge and cupboards.

“We can’t eat beans at New Year,” she pointed out as she set them on the table, “And it’s my turn to make you dinner.”

She reached up to the radio perched on the Welsh dresser and expertly tuned it until it picked up a station without static.

“I’ve been trying to get that thing to play properly for weeks,” Ron mused, watching her, “What’s the secret?”

“I have the magic touch Ron. No secret.” She rolled up her sleeves and started their meal.

Five hours before midnight on New Year’s Eve, the food was almost ready. Hermione set the table and then excused herself to freshen up and get changed.

Ron looked down at his jeans and hoodie and hauled himself to his feet. Smart clothes were something he was seriously lacking on this trip and nearly everything had been worn repeatedly and then shoved into his bag for washing when he returned to London. Washing his clothes wasn’t a huge priority when he was in the middle of a book.

In the end he plumped for a white long sleeved t shirt and dark wash jeans. He could hear Hermione moving around in the master bathroom, humming something tunelessly as she ran water. Then there was sharp 'Damn!' followed by silence. He left her to it and went to check on the food.

Goose was pacing up and down, little nails clicking against the kitchen tiles. Ron hunkered down next to him and scrunched his fingers over his head and back.

“So, one man to another,” he said, fondling a satin ear, “How do you think tonight’s going to go?”

Goose wasn’t really giving Ron’s words his full attention and snuffled his ear instead.

“I keep a bag of dog food in the pantry. Or there’s a bone in one of my bags. I brought it in case he got restless.”

Four hours before midnight on New Year’s Eve, Ron turned to Hermione framed in the kitchen doorway and felt his mouth drop open a little.

She must have noticed because she frowned faintly and said, “Yes, yes, alright. I know I’m not exactly a glamour queen but there’s no need to look so shocked. I did tell you I could scrub up when I had to. Anyway, it’s only a dress.”

It was only a dress but she was wearing the hell out of it. Black, round neck with cut away sleeves, slightly tighter at her waist and then draped to her knee. As she passed him to plate their meal, she wafted something clean and sparkly round him which made him want to bury his face in her hair.

Why don’t you, he wondered, uncorking the wine. If she had’ve been Marianna that’s what he would have done. Grabbed her by the waist, circled her into him and taken big lungfuls of her gorgeous scent. He would be playful with her but he would have taken control. Hermione, on the other hand, threw him for a loop.

He watched her primp the candles on the table, taking care over every little detail. The bald fact of it was, he didn’t know how to take control of her. Ron was accustomed to dating younger women, he knew where he stood with them and what was expected of him. He knew when to be compliant and when to exert authority. Generally, the women he dated didn’t make him nervous.

Hermione made him very nervous. They sat down at the table and she smiled as she described the dishes one by one and she looked lovely in the candlelight and Ron’s stomach twirled a little.

Three hours before midnight on New Year’s Eve and they had reached dessert, a lavish chocolate lava bombe creation that Hermione confessed she had defrosted that morning. Their spoons cut through it, revealing the melting heart which they mixed with Chantilly cream.

Goose had started pacing again and Hermione rose to her feet.

“I’ll let him out,” Ron muttered lazily, his bones liquid even as he said it.

“It’s ok, I’m up.” Hermione skirted past him, her hand trailing delicately over the top of Ron’s chair and shoulder line and igniting the prick of goosebumps in the centre of his shoulder blades. She padded to the door and ushered Goose in the garden before closing the door behind him and monitoring his activities from behind the glass.

“Here’s something I don’t know.”

“Only one thing?”

“Funny. Why is the dog called Goose? It’s a ridiculous name for a dog.”

Hermione snorted. “Well it gets more ridiculous. His name is actually Gooseberry.”

“Now you’re just taking the piss,” Ron laughed, pouring more wine for them both.

“No, it really is,” she replied as she watched Goose hotfooting it round the garden, “Mr Pike’s son got him from a shelter and he had already been named. Apparently whoever had him first thought his coat had a greenish tinge and named him Gooseberry.”

She opened the door and Goose barrelled into the house, sniffing Ron briefly on the way to finding his bone.

“You were good to take him,” Ron said as she sat back down next to him, “I mean I may not agree with all of your antics as far as Jeremy Pike is concerned but you did him a favour taking the dog. It’s far too big for that little terrace and he can’t be cheap to feed.”

“Eats me out of house and home,” Hermione replied cheerfully, “And unruly as hell when he first came. But he’s settling down. I wouldn’t necessarily leave him in the house by himself yet but he’s calm when there’s someone around. And he travels in the car perfectly, provided you remember to lock the doors. Plus, he’s good company. A warm body to sit and watch tv with when you live alone.”

She lifted her wine and took a sip self-consciously, aware Ron was watching her.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

He was going to kiss her at midnight. Properly. It was decided.

Two hours before midnight on New Year’s Eve, they were curled on the sofa swilling Prosecco in tumblers.

“I’m sure I left wine glasses here,” Hermione pondered, examining her glass.

“Not classy enough for you Dr Granger?” Ron grinned and she rolled her eyes.

“Stop with the Dr Granger. You make me sound very old.” Adjusting her knees alongside her on the sofa, she snuggled further into the cushions, the black dress slithering over her like oil. What was that thing made of? It was going to give him a heart attack. He wanted to reach out and grab her by the shoulders and yell ‘Stop moving!’. How was he going to make it to midnight?

Forcing himself to focus, he responded teasingly. “Really? If I was a doctor, I would expect everyone to call me Dr Weasley all the time. My mum, my publisher, the postman. Everyone. Dr Weasley, if you please. Has a nice ring to it.”

Hermione grinned. “It does. But trust me, it wears thin after a while.”

“How could it?”

“It stops being special. It’s just another part of my history.” Even in the dim light of the wood burner she caught the face he made. “Put it this way: you’re a famous author right? But you don’t go around all day thinking ‘I’m a famous author’.”

“How do you know? I happen to have a very healthy ego.”

She pushed his calf gently with her foot and the dress slithered again. Jesus.

“I bet you do. But seriously. I’ve written papers and carried out research and served on boards so in certain circles, my name is well known. But only in those circles. Outside my field of interest, I’m nobody. Which is why I came here in a roundabout way.”

Ron squirmed upright. “To be a nobody?” he asked and she laughed and swallowed some wine.

“Sort of. In academia it’s all about the next thing. Like ‘Ok, you’ve just completed this piece of research, what’s next?’ You don’t get time to enjoy your accomplishments because you’re being hounded for the one after that.”

“Like writing bestsellers.”

Hermione turned her face towards him. “Is that what it’s like? I suppose it must be.”

Ron nodded. “Definitely. The last meeting you have about a book is the first meeting you have about the next one. It’s like a conveyer belt.”

She thought for a moment. “So it must have been tough when you couldn’t write? The pressure from the people you work for.”

“Yep,” Ron responded breezily, “It was tough. But- please God- I think I’ve got past it.” He didn’t want to talk about that period of his life anymore. It felt unnecessary to be pulled back into the cold greyness of it when there was all this warmth right next to him. “So coming to Lowndes was your way of taking a break? Oddly you don’t seem like you are actually doing any break taking. Not if that To Do list is anything to go by.”

“Well, yes,” she replied thoughtfully, “I can see how you might think that. But it’s a good busy, a fun busy. I’m not straining my neck sitting over old books and a laptop all day, not sitting in meetings listening to two people argue about agreeing the minutes for the previous meeting. The stuff I do here is varied and changeable.” She flipped her legs off the sofa, which brought her whole body just that little bit closer to his.

“I’ll go back to it eventually. I have emails every week from the University offering me various things. There’s even talk of collaborating on a book.”

Ron tutted. “I’m accustomed to being the only author when I go anywhere. It’s the one thing that makes me special. I come here: literally everyone is talking about writing books. It dents a man’s pride.”

“It’s only talk,” Hermione reiterated. She crossed one leg over the other. The hem of the dress snaked back over her thigh as she moved, revealing paler flesh higher up. Ron wondered what it would like to bite it.

“Besides,” she carried on, dragging him from that daydream, “You’re special with or without the books.” Her voice was quiet but firm, as though she meant what she said but was shy about it.

“You should write my next book cover Hermione. ‘Ron B. Weasley: special with or without the books!’

She shoved him with her free hand. “I’m serious!”

He caught her wrist and held it between them. It was so dainty that his fingers met easily round it. “I’m serious too. I could do with that sort of positive review right now.”

When she didn’t attempt to pull her arm back, Ron’s gaze dropped to her mouth. A faint smile curved her lips. “You never take anything seriously Ron B. Weasley. Always joking, always teasing. Never serious.”

“There are a few things I am definitely serious about.” That dress and you in it.

He was still holding her wrist and she turned towards him, an almost imperceptible tilt into his personal space. She had tied her untameable hair back from her face but already it was coming loose in tiny corkscrews around her forehead.Her lips parted and he could just see her slightly longer front teeth, making her look younger than her forty-one years.

Her eyes fluttered closed and open and then they met his. It was a clumsy, possibly unconscious attempt at flirtation- she needed practice. But there was something delicious about a woman a little unpolished, a little unsure. Like it wouldn’t take much for her to become unhinged and wild.

She shifted in her seat again, black fabric slick against her, dipping into the space between her thighs…

An hour before midnight on New Year’s Eve, Ron couldn’t wait anymore. Hermione took a sip from her Prosecco and then lightly rubbed her bottom lip with her thumb and it was all he could do to be polite about it and not sling their glasses at the wall over their heads.

This time when he kissed her, she smiled against his mouth before kissing him back, which added something fantastic to the experience somehow. The situation developed rapidly, an almost restrained meeting of lips between two people sitting next to each other, progressing to mouths mashing together, Hermione sliding under Ron on the sofa, whole bodies melding to each other. Ron’s hands were grabbing fistfuls of everything within reach- one hand was in her hair, the other full of the slippery drape of fabric around her legs.

“This. Bloody. Dress,” he mumbled into her mouth, before moving down the side of her neck.

“I take it. You. Oh God… Approve.”

Ron didn’t answer. Instead he pressed his hand against her outer thigh and dragged his palm slowly up the side of her leg, nipping her collarbone as she ran her nails over his shoulders. The sensation was delightful but he was momentarily distracted by something, or, more specifically, the absence of something as his fingertips reached Hermione’s hip bone.

Moving from her clavicle back to her ear, he whispered, “Is it possible you aren’t wearing any knickers right now?” and her laughter thrummed against his chest.

“The tap spurted when I was getting ready in the bathroom and they got wet. You can’t wear wet knickers, you’ll get a chill.” She sounded so serious, he laughed too. “So I thought,” Hermione continued, wiggling a little underneath him to bring back the heat, “I would just go without. Is that ok or…?”

Ron leant in to show he just what he thought of that decision when a gargle came from beside them and Ron pulled away to come face to face with Goose who was standing next to the sofa expectantly.

“Maybe,” Hermione rasped, “We should take this upstairs. Away from the audience.”

Ron peeled himself off the sofa and helped Hermione stand. The expertly crafted hairstyle was a thing of the past and she absently patted at it as she stood, casting her eye around the room for the elastic it had sprung from.

“Leave it,” Ron murmured, taking her hand and guiding her to the staircase, “I like you wild.”

She smiled lazily and skipped past him up the stairs. He followed slowly, taking in the shapeliness of her legs, the softness at the back of her knees. When they reached the master bedroom, Hermione stopped by the bed. The moon was the only illumination in the otherwise pitch black room, cutting through the window brilliantly and throwing a lustrous flare over the sheets.

Laying a hand on the covers Hermione murmured, “I was just thinking…” but he met her in three strides and kissed her hard on the mouth.

“No thinking. None,” he whispered.

He kissed her again and felt her smile, hand curling round the back of his neck and pulling him into her and then they were on the bed. The mattress gave below his knee and the weight of her body, cupping them as they fell into it. They moved together and the heat in Ron's blood kicked up another notch. He positioned himself on one elbow and began the slower meander of his hand over her.

He pretty much had the routine down pat. It wasn't that he couldn't be adventurous or wasn't open to new ideas, but when Ron took a woman to bed, he had a formula and, generally speaking, he stuck to it. It wasn't a boring formula either- it was a map of the female body and all the bits that felt most delicious when certain things were done to them. He'd had enough practice over the years to have a broad understanding of what women liked and the kind of actions that were well received and he prided himself on being a considerate lover. Usually it went like clockwork.

Hermione, it seemed, had other plans. He should have foreseen it really- nothing with Hermione ever went quite as anticipated.

The progress of his hand was halted when she moved, shifting her weight onto her hip so her face was above theirs as they kissed. Then, quick as a flash, she straddled him, her thighs encasing his hips in a way that pressed her core tight against the tender spot just below his belt buckle. The weight of her on him, already hard, coupled with the knowledge that there was nothing separating them but denim fabric made Ron’s cock pulse stronger.

Hermione ground against him using the propulsion of her knees, enclosing his head in her hands so their mouths couldn’t lose contact. The unrelenting rhythm of her pelvis rocking against his was causing a flash of fire to lick its way through his body so everything felt switched on, every contact between them alight. Her fingerpads sunk into the flesh of his cheeks, his hands gripping the swell of her calves, the wet, pliable texture of their swollen lips grazing each other as they moved.

Inexplicably, the next thing he realised was that she had released his belt, undone his fly and his jeans were now open, revealing that he too had foregone underwear this evening. How had she done that without him knowing?

Now it was skin on skin and that was dangerous territory. His cock, no longer contained by his jeans, was pressed against Hermione; he could feel the satiny slide of her along his length. God, it felt too good.

In desperation, Ron ran his hands up her legs, over her arse and up to the neckline of her dress where the zip started. Deftly he tugged it free in one long motion, exposing her back, and peeling the fabric forward. The action mercifully stopped Hermione rolling against him as she helped him remove the garment from her torso, and gave him enough time to flip her over and prolong the experience.

He examined her, half lit by the moonlight, half shadowed by the dark, her skin almost translucent. Cradling her neck in one hand, he could stop her moving around too much- a blessing really because any more of her antics and this was going to be over much too early. She resisted a little, writhing on the bed, until he laid his hand firmly on her sternum, pressing her down, communicating that she was to be still.

Miraculously, she complied with just a minute, breathy moan.

“So I let you put your moves on me, Hermione Granger, and, Lord knows, they were effective.” As he spoke, Ron splayed his hand across her ribcage, pronounced as she took gaspy breaths. His thumb brushed over her bellybutton and unconsciously she jerked her hips faintly in response. “But now you have to submit to some of mine. And I’m going to take things slow.”

It was the last thing he wanted to do, honestly. Part of him, nearly all of him, wanted to succumb to whatever it was she wanted to do, knowing it would end up with him deep inside her, coming hard. Then again, a tiny part wanted to exert some authority here. Before she made him lose his fucking mind.

His left hand still holding the back of her neck, his right hand moved over her belly again so he could pull the bra strap closest to him off her shoulder and the cup from her breast in one movement. Hermione inhaled in response, her upper stomach sucking in.

Ron positioned his mouth around a hardened nipple, flicking it quickly with his tongue. At the same time as he began to suck, his hand roamed lower, over the bunched material of Hermione’s dress, and between her legs where the slickness of her arousal allowed him just enough friction to generate heat.

A strangled groan escape from Hermione’s mouth as she arched her back and exposed her neck and Ron increased the force of his hands- the left holding her firmly in place, the right rubbing quicker, harder. He slid his middle finger inside her, instantly satisfied with the tensing of her muscles around him.

Grazing his teeth over her nipple and up towards her face, he felt her hand slide round his cock and begin to move and he knew he couldn’t delay for much longer.

Hungrily Hermione kissed him as his mouth reached hers and he wrestled her back on top of him. Her nails scratched the sides of his torso as she pulled his shirt up and over his head and as she shimmied her dress off, Ron felt for his washbag on the nightstand. Hermione seemed to understand why he was groping blindly in the dark and retrieved the bag, pulling the condoms from it.

With a twist of her wrist, she tore open the foil, rocked back onto her heels and smoothly slid it onto him. The action itself almost pushed him over the edge and he pulled himself up so he could be closer to her. Wrapping his long arms around Hermione, he pressed her body to his and she dipped her head to kiss him again.

At midnight on New Year’s Eve, Goose was wakened by a long, guttural moan which wound its way down the stairs to him. It started low before rising in pitch to a crescendo. He paused to listen for a moment but it didn’t disturb him for long and soon he was lost in sleep once more.

Chapter Text

Ron toyed with a long curly strand of deep brown hair that had been lying on his cheek when he woke, amused by the fact that he had foretold this exact scenario: Hermione's hair attacking someone in bed. He just hadn’t realised it was going to be him.

He twiddled it between his fingers, gently so he didn’t tug, and it sprang back and forth into shape. Her skin, and presumably his, smelt of sex; that sweet/sour odour of sweat and blinding orgasms.

The sheet cut halfway across her back and there was a dip of darker skin demarcated from lighter where she had been wearing something low in the sun, probably the summer before he arrived. He traced the scoop with his finger, stroking the faint fuzz of hair there.

Bizarrely, an image of Harry popped into his head as he did so. How proud his best friend would be to know that Ron had impressed a woman his own age enough that she would want to sleep with him. He was always getting it from Harry and his brothers: ‘One day you’ll mature Ron. One day you’ll stop chasing younger women and start seeing someone you have more in common with’.

Hilariously, Ron couldn’t think of a single thing he and Hermione had in common; in every way they disagreed. And yet.

He continued the trail with his finger, over the blade of her shoulder, to the top of her spine. She stirred fitfully in her sleep and he inched closed, wrapping his arm around her middle and pulling her towards him so the back of her body met the front of his. Almost instinctively, she rounded her arse against him and pressed tighter.

Ron had been with better lovers than Hermione, definitely. More skilled in sexual play and more experienced in the art of making him feel in charge. As if they knew to massage his ego a little bit, make him feel like a big strong man. A lot of women had that knack.

Hermione, on the other hand, plainly did not give a shit about his ego and wasn’t there to boost his pride. 

What had become really apparent was that sex for her wasn’t about games or the power play that Ron was accustomed to. Sex was about pleasure, pure and simple; she gave herself over to it and she provided it and honestly, it was more than a fucking turn on. There was a moment, hours earlier, when he was cradling her in his lap, rocking back and forward as he moved inside her and she stared right into his eyes, deeply and unashamed. Completely unafraid of being honest and being exactly who she was in that moment.

Ron slid his arm through the gap where her neck left the pillow and delicately cupped her breast. She half moaned, half sighed, pushing back on him. He bit her gently on the shoulder and slipped his hand between her thighs to the warmth that awaited him.

~

Much later, the January sky already dark, they pulled themselves from the bed, drowsy and aching in hidden places. The Wolf and Wild phone had been ringing on and off all day- probably Gray, definitely his mother- but Ron ignored it, wanting to hold off the real world for one more day.

He observed them- Hermione and himself- as though from the outside; how they prepared dinner together, dancing round each other with easy playfulness. Her hand falling gently onto his forearm, halting him stirring the concoction in the pot so she could taste it. The practically unconscious way they chose to sit so close to each other on the sofa as they ate, one thigh pressed long against the other.

After dinner, Hermione brewed tea and they sat on the rug next to the wood burner to drink it. Every so often their eyes would meet and they would smile in unison, complicit in this secret world they had accidently built.

They were so deeply mellow that when the phone rang again, it startled both of them, causing Hermione to jump so much she split her tea.

“Buggar that friggin’ phone,” Ron cursed as he got to his feet, “Are you ok? There’s a jumper in the top of my rucksack. Stick it on and pop yours on the radiator. I need to answer this.”

He carried the phone out of the living room and into the hall, pulling it as far away as the cord would let him.

Of course it was Gray, calling him home. Something about not paying him to lie around in Scotland on his lazy arse any longer- Ron wasn’t really listening.

“Yep. Understood.”

“Great. I’ll expect you in my office in two days’ time. We have a few things to go over. Bring your A game, by the way. The partners will be there.”

Ron was happy to get him off the phone, not least because Gray reminded him that tomorrow he really would have to leave, shaking off the fuzziness he had allowed to seep into his brain. When he returned, Hermione was sitting cross-legged on the floor, examining the sweater he bade her put on.

“Suits you,” he said, dropping down next her and picking up his mug.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a jumper personalised with someone’s initial before. Presuming the ‘R’ is for ‘Ron’.” She sounded confused and mildly amused. “Did you buy this?”

“My mum made it.” Hermione looked up sharply, afraid she had misspoken. “Don’t worry. It’s not exactly a favourite. I hate maroon, I dunno why she thinks I like it. And the big yellow ‘R’… it isn’t exactly a subtle piece of clothing. But it’s good in the winter.”

Hermione bent her legs up and wrapped her arms round them. “You’re right. It’s cosy.” They were silent for a moment and then she turned her head towards him, resting it on the top of her knees.

“Was that your boss? On the phone?”

“Yep.” He continued to stare at the fire.

“You have to go home.” Ron nodded once. “Tomorrow?” He nodded again.

Hermione turned her gaze to the flames and they didn’t mention it again.

~

The following morning, Ron woke to find Hermione was already up, dressed and chopping wood in the front yard. He watched her through the window for a moment before pulling on his coat and making his way out to her. She straightened when she saw him and wiped her forehead with the back of her woollen glove where sweat had beaded.

“The new occupants will need wood. We’ve burned through most of it.” And just like that, she had switched back into ‘efficient’ mode; getting the job done, greasing the wheels, as Spencer had put it.

He left her to it, ambling back inside to make coffee and collect up the few things he had unpacked on New Year’s Eve. He walked back and forward to the car, dropping things off and watching her work out of the corner of his eye. She was relishing the exertion; he could see it in the way she attacked the wood enthusiastically. In Ron’s mind, this meant she was having an interior struggle about something. Not that it mattered really, now that he was leaving, but part of him hoped it was his departure.

“That’s me done,” he called and her axe hit the hard earth with a thud. “I’ll take the car to the end of the drive.”

She nodded and followed behind the car on foot to the gate and he hopped out when he had driven just beyond.

She looked self-assured and confident, standing tall with her hands in her pockets, but the concentration on her face told him she was trying really hard at it. Her hair fanned around her face where it was compressed by her beanie hat, which was slowly working its way off her head with the sheer bounce of her curls. Her cheeks were high with colour, red against her pale skin.

Ron wanted to kiss her but that seemed like the wrong thing to do. It made this a sad goodbye at the end of a romantic film and that wasn't what it was. Instead he took a good look at her for the moment she was still.

"What?" she said suddenly and, thinking on his feet, he pointed to the carved wooden sign hung on the gate.

"Did you know that Cochall means 'pearl'?" 

Hermione looked round at it. "Who told you that?"

"Jeanie. From the art shop."

Hermione snorted and shrugged her shoulders. "I don’t think so. You need to check your sources more closely Ron."

Ron rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Why did she always have to disagree with him? Was it just... in her to be argumentative?

"Oh really? he replied, head cocked to one side accusingly, "And I suppose you know what it actually means do you?"

Her mouth opened to respond when Goose came charging down the drive full pelt from behind her and she was forced to grab him with both hands by the collar.

"You better go," she grimaced, yanking the dog back, "Otherwise you'll be travelling with an overenthusiastic Weimaraner for company."

Ron nodded and slid back into the car. He switched on the engine and pumped the accelerator a few times. He lowered the window, unsure what to say or how to finish this. In the end Hermione came to the rescue.

"I hope you have a safe journey. And good luck with the book. I'll be expecting a special dedication to Cochall Cottage in it."

"Thanks. For everything." God that was lame but what else was there to say? She smiled and nodded. He put the car into gear and was just about to release the handbrake when a thought occurred to him.

"Hey." She raised her eyebrows. "You didn't tell me. What 'Cochall' means."

"What makes you think I know?" It was a rhetorical question- he knew by the smile playing on her lips.

"Call it intuition. Somehow I know that you know."

Goose wriggled impatiently and she stepped back, dragging him with her, pushing a springy strand of hair out of her eyes. "It's Scottish Gaelic. It means shell. Shell Cottage."

Chapter Text

Gray slapped the desk in front of him. “It’s going for final edit- no more fucking about.”

Ron sat back and the chair beneath his squeaked uneasily, mirroring really the way he felt about this conversation. It had been in the pipeline for weeks, of course, and he knew he would have to come here eventually. Like night to day, it was inevitable but that didn’t necessarily make it easy.

As Gray drummed his fingers against the stainless steel, Ron considered the two options he now faced. The book was brilliant- probably the best he had ever written. It was going to be massive and was perfectly curated. The first edits had been sympathetic and beautifully done. And therein lay the rub. If he started messing with it, deconstructing and changing it, he risked destroying everything that was perfect about it.

So he could leave it as it was.

But if he did that, then he had to face up to the very real possibility that Hermione, or someone who knew her, would recognise the inspiration behind the protagonist, once ‘H’, now ‘Jocelyn’ after a particularly nasty teacher Ron had for Biology at school. There was a chance he could get away with it but it was slim at best. Thanks in no small part to Jeanie, the entire population of Lowndes had known he was writing a book. It had actually made the local paper. And the website. Someone was going to read it when it was eventually published.

He shouldn’t have given Jocelyn uncontrollable hair, he regretted that now. At the time it just seemed to go with the whole personality, it gave her a fiery, untamed quality and in his mind’s eye he could see her raging about with all that hair exploding from her head like the expletives from her mouth.

She didn’t look like Hermione, not even when she was ‘H’. Jocelyn was dyed platinum blonde, with tight, corkscrew curls that she wore loose. Her body was high and tight from nights spent in the gym, she wore black and nothing else. She wouldn’t have been seen dead in Hermione’s beanie hat or scarlet coat.

She took on too much but it was done in an aggressive way and only if it served her needs. She would have baulked at sewing costumes for the school play and she would never have agreed to take on a dog the size of a monster truck for an old man’s safety.

She wouldn’t, Ron thought now, feel soft when bounced on the bed or taste sweet when kissed on the collarbone. She wouldn’t squirm deliciously under you when you pressed your….

“Earth to Ron B. Weasley,” Gray was hollering now, “Come in! Fuck sake are you listening to me?”

No. “Definitely.”

Gray squinted. “You have the strangest look on your face but aside from that. We’re agreed then? It goes?”

He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t sleep at night. He had to tell the truth and he realised with a start that this wasn’t about defamation or even strictly about hurt feelings. It was because somewhere he had been harbouring a hope that he would see Hermione again and he couldn’t face her if he left Jocelyn this way.

“Actually, there’s a problem…”

Once the entire story was out, Gray had gone from being slightly purple in the face to a mottled beige and then back again. He was incensed then dispirited, then he returned to rage for a while before he became quietly resigned.

“No doubt about it,” he said slowly when Ron finally finished speaking, “You have arsed this up royally.”

“I have,” Ron agreed.

“You realise we can’t touch this now? I mean we made a huge deal in the press about you going to this remote shack in the woods to find yourself. Everyone who matters knows. If this Hermione is the inspiration behind Jocelyn, then it doesn’t matter how much you’ve changed- someone will find out. Someone always does. The partners are going to have a field day with this.”

His gaze flicked up from his computer screen where he had been looking, as if for answers. “What are you going to do?”

Ron steepled his fingers. “Rewrite her.” Gray closed his eyes slowly as if in defeat. “I can’t flip her gender- she’s perfect as a woman- but I will need to change her appearance and nuances of her personality. Which will change parts of the book. I’ve already drafted the major changes. I just hadn’t decided what I was going to do until right now.”

Some forty-five minutes later Ron walked out of the office, feeling battered. Gray was furious. The partnership of writer and editor was a precious one; naturally he felt betrayed and dumfounded. Then there were the partners of the publishing house- the whole situation was an incendiary device waiting to explode. He hadn’t minced his words: if Ron had thought he was skating on thin ice before, this was the point where he fell through into the water below.

As he walked down the hall to the front door of the building, he was buoyed slightly by the fact he had done the right thing but it was pretty cold comfort given the very real possibility that he might be sued by his publishers for breach of contract. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

“Ron!” The exuberant voice came from behind him and when he turned, Ron came face to face with Spencer who was sitting rigidly upright in one of the waiting room’s uncomfortable plastic chairs. Spencer threw down the Yachting Times magazine he had been leafing through and ambled over.

“Fancy seeing you here! Is this your publishing house?”

“Yep. The one and only.” Ron tried to keep the gloom from his voice and from his expression but clearly missed the mark if the frown on Spence’s face was anything to go by.

“Jesus,” he replied, “You sound knackered. Everything ok? New book blues?”

Ron rubbed his eye with his finger as he responded, suddenly feeling very weary. “Rewrites. I…. need to change something. Inconsistencies in the storyline. It happens.”

Spence pouted his bottom lip in a ‘poor you’ gesture. “That’s rotten luck. Will it delay the release by much? I spoke to Hermione last week. She says Jeanie has everyone buzzing about it. They’re waiting for it to come out on pre-order.”

At the mention of Hermione’s name Ron felt himself perk up and he sensed Spence’s demeanour stiffen a little in response.

“So what are you doing here Spence?” he breezed on.

Spencer’s shoulders dropped noticeably as he answered. “I’m friends with one of the partners. Lewis Fox? My own publishers are giving me the run around about this new book and he’s offered to give me some advice. Do you know him?”

Ron shook his head just as his phone began bleating. “Not well.” Though I’ll probably become intimately acquainted with him if he decides to take me to court.

Ron glanced at the screen. His brother. Could definitely wait but he felt oddly grateful for the interruption. “Sorry, I really need to take this. Good to see you Spence. Say hi to Hermione for me.”

As he pressed ‘Answer’ on the screen, Ron heard Spencer reply, “Course I will” and somehow he knew that was a lie.

~

Ron stumbled to the kitchen to boil the kettle, throwing a cursory glance at the clock. Ten am. He’d been up since three, unable to settle and wanting to put more words on the page. It had been six weeks since Gray had hustled him out of the office, threats ringing in his ears and he was almost ready to go back with the new material. Almost.

Jocelyn had been done over in every possible way. By some miracle, the publishers had agreed to give him the extra time and Ron had thrown himself at the work. He printed off the entire document and meticulously, line by line, had gone through the sentences, highlighting areas that needed altered and then using his notes to make the changes. It was mind numbing and challenging and he had gotten through every day by the power of caffeine and carbohydrate. He was exhausted, having literally wrung himself out onto the pages.

But the final polishing was almost complete and soon he might finally sleep a full night.

Gray had been pestering him almost continuously so when his mobile rang just as he took his first sip of coffee, he wasn’t surprised. When he answered, however, he was a little taken aback.

“Spencer? Uh, how’s things?”

“Not good, Ron. Not good at all.” His voice echoed tinny and far away.

Ron’s mind sped through all the possible terrible scenarios that Spence could mean, all involving Hermione coming to harm somehow through her ridiculous inability to say no. If she had fallen down a bloody mountain again he would kill her himself…

“I want you to be honest with me Ron.” Spence sounded wired and strange and something unconscious tapped Ron on the shoulder.

“Ok…. What do you want to know?”

“I met Lewis Fox yesterday. We talked about the business, what weird, difficult things were going on and he told me that his partner and their editor were in the middle of a nightmare situation with one of their most successful authors. Didn’t name names of course. Said the author had been away to some remote farmhouse- Wales, he thought but he wasn’t sure- to cure his writer’s block. Said while he was there he’d met some nightmare woman who was connected to the farmhouse and used her for inspiration as the lead character in his book.”

Ron’s stomach turned over but Spence wasn’t finished.

“And I have to say it didn’t really ring any bells until he said that the author in question had pulled the book for rewriting a few weeks ago, just before the final edits. Lewis seemed to think the author felt bad because he had been sleeping with this woman, in Lewis’ words had been ‘stringing her along’ to get more material for his book, then had some sort of fit of conscience and decided to change it. Probably to avoid being sued when she finally read it.”

Spence paused for a moment and then said, “So what I’m asking is: are you the author? And is Hermione the woman?”

Silence hung over the line as Spencer let that sink in. Ron’s mind was freewheeling, spinning through thoughts like a Rolodex. Was that the story Gray had told the partners or was it some messed up version of Chinese whispers? Or was the story being twisted by Spence, who wasn’t exactly unbiased? He must have been shocked to find out Ron and Hermione had slept together or, as the narrative seemed to suggest, had been sleeping together. The hurt was evident in his voice.

Whatever it was that was actually happening here, he needed to respond. The Rolodex finally stopping flipping and Ron was able to formulate an answer.

“Yes. On both counts.”

“Jesus…”

“But it’s not as bad as it sounds...”

“How could it not be?” Spencer’s voice kicked up an octave. “My God Ron what the hell were you thinking doing that to her?”

Their conversation lasted another ten minutes. Ten minutes of Ron trying explain how ‘H’ had come about and Spence lambasting him in various formats. They went round in circles until Ron couldn’t carry on any longer.

“Look Spence,” he said finally, brain pounding, “I know you’re angry and you have a right to be. But I will tell Hermione everything.”

Spence’s voice came over the line, almost triumphant- “She already knows” and Ron felt his heart bottom out.

“You told her? Without asking me about it first? Without getting the whole story? For fuck’s sake you didn’t even know it was me until ten minutes ago!” Ron was suddenly furious and couldn’t keep it from his voice.

“Of course I knew it was you,” came the calm reply, “I saw you the day you started the rewrites remember? And everything Lewis said added up, all the details. I knew there was something going on between the two of you. My failing was that I should have done something about it before you had a chance to betray her like that.”

“Oh bloody hell!”

Ron had always had a temper- hot-headed his mother said- but he rarely lost it now he was an adult. He usually managed to bite it back when it came snaking up to attack. But it really wanted to give it to Spencer and he was of a mind just to let him have it when he heard another voice on the line.

“Ron? It’s Hermione.”

The sneaky little bastard had him on speakerphone.

“Hermione?”

“Yes, look...”

“Take me off speakerphone,” he begged, “I need to talk to you. Just you. I have to explain...”

“I’d like to see it. The original manuscript.” She paused. “Do you still have it?”

Ron’s gaze fell on the battered, fluorescent striped pages bundled together with a thick orange elastic that had been sitting next to his laptop for the last six weeks.

“Yes I have it.”

“I want to read it.”

“Why? Hermione, you don’t want to read it…”

“I do,” she replied firmly, “And I think you owe me that.”

Ron’s brain went into overdrive as he tried to figure out the best way to do this. The absolute last thing he wanted to do was give her the original draft but if she insisted, how could he soften it somehow?

“Are you still there?”

“I have one condition about the manuscript. You can read it but only when the final edit is done on the book.”

“What difference does that make?”

“I want you to read them both. So you can see the changes I made. I know that probably isn’t your focus right now but I need you to see the rewrites too. Can you wait until that’s done? Please?”

She sighed and agreed.

“I can bring you them both when they’re done.”

“Courier them. You know my address.”

The line went dead and Ron threw his phone onto the table. In his mind’s eye he tried to imagine Hermione and Spencer sitting in Beach End in the aftermath of the phone call. Was Hermione upset or angry? Her voice had been so level it was hard to tell. Was Spence really as appalled by the whole thing as he appeared to be or was he using this as a way to worm his way back in?

He would have given anything to be there right now to see her face to face, really explain. But since that wasn’t possible…. Ron turned back to the laptop. The cursor blinked patiently. The only thing he could do right now was make the book beyond reproach, ensure- really ensure- there was nothing in it now that could hurt her.

Ron flexed his fingers, took a swallow of coffee, and got back to work.

~

Weeks later and his phone rang again. This time it was her, and only her. She was here in London and she had finished reading everything he had sent her. Could she drop it off?

Ron fell over himself giving her his address, excited and terrified at the thought of her arrival.

Since sending the package he had heard not a word. He had chosen to send the original draft exactly as it was- scribbled over and torn apart. He wanted her to see how much he had agonised over the changes. 

The final draft- what would become the book ‘Richness of Blood’- was on a pen drive. He didn’t dare tell anyone he had sent it- Gray would have eaten him alive. A final draft by a famous author was stupidly valuable and Hermione could, if she had chosen, do a lot of harm to him with it. But innately he trusted her not to.

When his doorbell rang, Ron thought his heart was going to jump out his chest. And then there she was. 

Same red coat, same crazy hair pulled up into a topknot. It actually physically hurt to see her standing on the porch when he opened the door, but Hermione looked calm and not brandishing any weapons that he could see.

She held out a thick package in both hands, meticulously wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

“I thought about posting it but it’s probably valuable and you just never know with the postal service these days….” She tailed off uncomfortably and part of Ron wanted to throw himself at her feet and scream ‘Please forgive me!’

He held back, not least because he wasn’t sure she wouldn’t kick him if he did, and instead said quietly, “Will you come in?” She opened her mouth quickly, surely to say no, so he added, “Just for a moment. Please.”

Her body stepped inside, though her face displayed confliction and he followed her in the living room. She perched on the sofa so indecisively he thought she might teeter off at any moment but at least she sat. Her eyes slid to a stack of his older books that were wedged next to the TV and when he sat opposite her they slid back without remark.

“It’s really nice to see you. I wanted… to see you sooner but I thought it was probably not a great idea.”

“Probably not.”

She stared directly at him and waited, eyes flat and expressionless, and Ron felt on the back foot. He wasn’t prepared for expressionless.

“I just wanted to say…. Again. That I was sorry about the book.” He spread his hands. “I know I told you that already but that last time we spoke was so awkward and I didn’t really get a chance to explain myself…”

Hermione shook her head firmly. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“But I do,” Ron insisted, jumping forward a little on the chair. “I want to. I gave you the first draft and I didn’t tell you how it came about.”

“I heard you explain it, on the phone. And Spencer helped me figure it out.”

Ron bit out, “I bet he did,” before he could stop himself.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand but she persisted. “No, tell me what you meant.”

She might as well have it. He had nothing to lose now.

“Just that your ex-husband isn’t exactly someone I would go to for a character reference, if you catch my drift.”

Hermione’s jaw clenched faintly. “Spence is a good man, Ron. Let’s not be personal.”

Jesus, she was exasperating. “I’m not saying he isn’t!” Ron blurted now, trying to push down the frustration building in his temples, “All I’m saying is he isn’t really invested in making things harmonious between me and you is he?”

When she didn’t respond, he carried on. “Oh, come on Hermione you know he’s still in love with you. For Christ’s sake it’s so obvious. And you”- he broke off to point at her- “you’re just fine with that aren’t you? I mean, he’s still practically living at your house, sharing your bed right? You have to care about someone you’re still shagging.”

His words hit her like a slap- she physically sat back in response to them- and he instantly regretted the word ‘shagging’. It was crude somehow and he was trying to make her understand something. He wasn’t sure what. Something about how her relationship with Spencer infuriated him, how he felt powerless in the face of her marriage. How could he compete with it when it was so clearly binding her?

It was wildly off topic- he had been trying explain the conception of ‘H’- but suddenly that didn’t matter as much as this.

“We aren’t sleeping together,” she said quietly, “Or rather, we stopped. He went to Skegness and we… didn’t anymore. Between him leaving and coming back things changed.” She tilted her eyes up to indicate Ron. “I didn’t want to anymore.”

“What about Christmas night?”

She looked affronted. “Of course not! Especially not on Christmas night. Good grief Ron, what do you take me for?”

Oh God, what had he asked that for? “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything. But when you went to bed with him, I felt so uncomfortable...”

“You felt uncomfortable?” Hermione got to her feet and screwed the heels of her hands into her eyes for a moment. “How do you think I felt? I had to pretend everything was normal!”

“Why didn’t you just tell him the truth?” She dropped her hands and looked down at him in weariness. “See? You couldn’t, could you? If you told him about us, then you would have to acknowledge the mess that was going on between the two of you. You knew you couldn’t!”

“Oh what us? Us? There was no us!” she snapped irritably and that hurt. Technically true but still a zinger.

“Look Ron…”

“Why couldn’t you let him go?” Their eyes met and the question hung between them sourly. Hermione took a deep breath and looked around the room, as if groping for inspiration. When she did speak, her voice was level, if a little dull.

“I love Spencer...”

“You divorced him!”

“Let me finish!” Her eyes flashed angrily and he stilled. “God, this is so vexing, arguing with you about something that is really none of your business. Yes, there was something between us, you and me. Did I want to take it further? On some level, definitely, alright? You annoyed the hell out of me at first but it changed and…. morphed into something else… oh I don’t know!”

She shook her hands around her head in exasperation as if trying to loosen the words and Ron realised how unable she was to emotionally express herself. She literally couldn’t get it out.

“Anyway,” she continued, composing herself, “Whatever it was, what was the point it letting it change things? You were leaving, I was never going to see you again, so whatever it was, it wasn’t big enough to warrant changing everything.”

She inhaled.

“I know it’s strange, ok? But it’s not straightforward for me to build relationships with people. I know where I am with Spencer and he with me. It’s easy and I don’t have to think about it or worry if I’m doing it right. I can just be me.”

“Who were you when you were with me?”

A rueful smile played on her lips and her voice was soft as she replied, “I was me. Of course, I was me. I’m not saying I wasn’t. I just have so much going on Ron. It’s hard for people get to know me…”

“People will never know you if you don’t let them Hermione.” Ron knew he should stop interrupting her but he couldn’t help it. How could she not see that she was her own crown of thorns here?

“And anyway, I did get to know you. And I liked you. And you have no idea where that could have led because you were too busy holding on to a relationship that was dead in the water.”

It was her turn to look incredulous. “You liked me? You were off writing me up as some nasty harridan in your book!”

“Only at the start….”

“And what do you consider the start? Were you writing about me the night we sewed the costumes together? Or did you start later, after I forced you to move that bloody penguin around Lowndes? Or was it sooner? The very first night I almost drowned pulling leaves from the generator? At what point did you decide to parody this woman you barely knew for the whole world to read and laugh at?”

Every word spiked Ron like a knife in the gut and he could barely stand to look at her face, so white it had turned.

“I started after we had that fight in your house. About my mother being a hoarder.” He spoke slowly, enunciating every word so she couldn’t mistake a single meaning. “By the time we were doing the costumes she was already someone else, I promise. I called her ‘H’ the whole way through for consistency- not because she was you.”

Hermione’s voice was barely a whisper as she said, “But she was me. At first. And I couldn’t tell what parts of her were me and what parts weren’t. What parts of me you hated.”

“Oh fuck sake Hermione, I don’t hate any part of you!” Ron jumped forward and grabbed her little shoulders in his hands so he could look her in the face, really look at her. “I started her as you because you wound me up. And I kept going because I was friggin’ excited that I was finally writing again and so fucking desperate not to lose it. Everything rested on this book and all that arguing with you shook something loose in my head. For all intents and purposes, you were my muse, in a sick sort of way.”

Hermione looked unimpressed but she didn’t move from where he pinned her. His thumbs dug deep into the red wool and he inched her closer.

“I know things changed between us. I knew it even if I didn’t understand it. So I stopped. And Gray was pushing me to make her badder and meaner and I kept twisting her until there was nothing left of you in her.”

“There were still things,” Hermione replied, lifting her chin defiantly, “Things you would know. Her Filofax, all the extra things she took on. Her hair.”

“I know. Which is why I pulled the final edit.” Ron felt his hand drop to his sides and then they were just standing facing each other, inches apart. She smelt like coffee beans, as if she had been sitting in a café drinking expressos before coming here.

“I couldn’t let Jocelyn resemble you at all. Not because you might sue me, the thought didn’t even cross my mind actually. But because I just couldn’t. I couldn’t risk the fact that you might see it and think that that was what I thought of you. ‘Cos I don’t. At all.”

Something flashed across her face as he spoke, just the briefest slip of something. Like fear or desire or a combination of both. And then just as quickly it disappeared. Her face closed, physically he could see it happening, and she drew away and circled round him and out to the front door.

Oh fuck, she was really leaving.

“Hermione.”

She had her hand on the door handle and reluctantly turned back towards him. There was no saving this, he could see that now. Two jumbled, complex lives had hit each other at a moment that was either exactly right or precisely wrong depending on what way you looked at it. Like a star that sparked brightly before collapsing under the weight of itself and was now a void.

Neither of them could see their way out of the tangle of their two lives and he couldn’t get them there. It was disheartening but then not every story ended happily.

“I really am sorry that I hurt you. But I didn’t use you. That was what I wanted you to know the most. In case you were wondering about that.”

Hermione nipped at her bottom lip and didn’t speak.

“What happened between us happened because it was meant to. I didn’t engineer it to get closer to you so I could pick you apart. I wanted to be close to you but not for the book. Just for me.”

He faltered, not really knowing where all this had come from but glad he was saying it.

“Anyway. I just wanted you to know.”

“Goodbye Ron.”

And then she was gone.

Chapter Text

This was not the sort of affair Ron usually went to. For one thing, it was being held in a university, the surroundings all honeyed wood and crimson carpets. For another, Ron didn’t know a single person in attendance. Any parties he RSVP’d to were guaranteed to have a few of his contemporaries hanging around the buffet. This place was full of academics; staid, smart-looking people holding champagne flutes and talking sedately.

And at the very least in big gatherings like this, someone usually recognised him. Especially recently; his face was everywhere due to the new book. Life had been a whirlwind of interviews and press releases. His big, ginger mug even shone down from a billboard that stood outside his dental practice like a weird testament to the expertise of his dentist.

No-one knew him here and, as he lifted a glass and moved through the crowd, Ron decided he quite liked that.

A lectern had been erected on the stage at the front of the room, roller banners on either side, clearly where the speaker had been. But that wasn’t where the action was any more. He had missed the speech- couldn’t wangle a ticket- but he had managed to sneak past the woman standing at the reception desk and slide into the room once it had been opened up for the reception.

The greatest hubbub of activity was in one corner and that was where Ron headed, winding his way past groups of chatting, laughing people. It seemed to take an age and then suddenly….

Hermione was surrounded by men in suits, lovely in a sheath dress of royal purple. Like a flower blooming in so much concrete. Her hair was clipped away from her cheeks at either side, opening up her face and displaying her neck, elongated by swaying crystal drop earrings. She was high with colour, dark eyes glittering, free hand gesticulating as she talked.

There was so much energy and vigour in the scene Ron was quite taken aback. He had forgotten how vibrant she was in person.

On the train journey here, he had worried slightly about how he was going to feel when he arrived. Having not been in contact for so long, if he actually got to see her, how would it be?

Oddly, or perhaps not oddly at all, a deep sense of pleasure had waved over him as he moved towards the grey circle around her. Not the apprehension he had feared, not the cold finger of disappointment that comes with building something up in your head only to find it is not nearly as good as you imagined. Only the warmth that comes with knowing you are exactly where you should be in the moment.  

He willed her to spot him, which she did fairly quickly. If he was expecting shock or dismay, Hermione displayed neither. She merely smiled serenely and waited for him to reach her.

Excusing herself graciously from the suit who was currently engaging her in conversation, she took a step nearer to him, smile still in place.

“I was hoping you might come. I mean, I had no idea if you knew that was happening but I thought, if you found out about it…. That it would be nice if you came.”

Ron’ mouth twitched at one side. “You could have just invited me. You know? Sent me a ticket. That’s what a normal person does when they want someone to attend the big fancy party held in their honour. I invited you.”

The last three words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them. They were true of course, he had sent her an invitation to the book launch. Had even included ‘and partner’ even as he fought the pettiness of not wanting her to come with Spencer.

So they were true, but faintly painful because she didn’t come. His newly appointed PA had given him the RSVP list a week beforehand and there she was, on the wrong side. He had brooded on that for a while, wished he had’ve spoken more or differently that last time they had seen one another. It bothered him for a while until the noise of the launch took over and then it disappeared into the background.

She cocked her head to one side, acknowledging what he had said, before saying quietly, “You’re right. I should have invited you. How are you?”

Before Ron had a chance to answer, a roundish man with jowls as pink as his tie cut between them.

“Dr Granger! How fantastic to see you again.”

Hermione looked round his square shoulder and widened her eyes helplessly and Ron felt disappointment sting the back of his throat, suddenly doubting himself. This wasn’t the place to talk, he shouldn’t have thought it would be.

He made a placating face, raised his hand in salute and turned to go when he felt her fingers clench round his wrist and pull him back.

He stumbled a little into Pink Jowls who frowned and looked from his face to Hermione’s in quick succession.

“Can you hang around another half an hour Ron?” She completely ignored the older man and focused solely on him. When he faltered, she added quickly, “Don’t go just yet.”

“Sure,” Ron nodded, “I’ll be here.”

Her face broke into another sweet beam which made him happier about his decision to come. He decided to set up near the buffet and quickly found himself in conversation with two women who, on hearing he was an author, wanted his opinion on Medieval art during the Byzantine period. They seemed quite put out when Ron explained he wrote fiction.

It was hilarious actually and reminded him of what Hermione had said over dinner on New Year’s Eve. About them being important in their own spheres of influence. Ron had fans the world over, people who regularly wrote to him and took long plane journeys to listen to him speak.

But here, in Hermione’s sphere of influence, eyes slid over him looking for someone better to talk to. Here, men and women jostled to speak to Dr Granger, congratulate her, fawn over her achievements.

Ron bit his lip as he watched Hermione circulate. There was something admirable about the grittiness of her, the determination she had to be the best in her field. And something hot. No doubt about that. 

He swallowed the rest of his Champagne. How had he not known this about himself? All these years he had been dating younger women, thinking their energy and youthfulness was the great aphrodisiac, when, in truth, it didn’t come close to the vivacity that maturity could offer. Knowing yourself and being yourself. A woman comfortable in her own power.

Suddenly the woman in question was at his elbow.

“I feel like I’m interrupting an important thought. You were concentrating very hard.”

He started and looked down at her. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

“My office is back here.” She gestured to a door hidden in plain sight and he followed her through it. They came to the bottom of some stone steps and she began to ascend them.

“Don’t you want to finish the reception?” Ron called as he tailed her.

“It’s fine. Things are wrapping up. My postgrad will see to the rest.”

At the top they were met with a robust wooden door covered in ornate ironwork; an ancient entrance with a very modern keypad next to it. Hermione typed in the passcode and the door released, bringing them to a short corridor with another door at the end, this time requiring a key, which she produced from her bag.

She held the door and ushered him into a smart, well-furnished office, illuminating several lamps with some switches on the wall. Warmth hit him almost immediately and curled round him welcomingly, drawing him further inside.

“They gave me one of the turret offices. It was odd at first, the round walls. Difficult to decorate.”

“Well you did a great job,” Ron replied, and he meant it. The tiled floor had been laid with rugs to stave off the chill, simple roller blinds were pulled low on the curved windows. Her desk was neatly organised- of course- with pen pots, stackable trays and two sleek computer monitors side by side. Hermione, presumably, had hung a few small prints on the cream walls and arranged two wingback chairs upholstered in teal velvet under the windows, a glass coffee table between them.   

A little circular table sat to the side of a gargantuan bookcase heaving with literature, arranged with all the facilities for making hot drinks; a smart silver cafetière and a china teapot. On the other side of the bookcase was a square table on which rested a crystal decanter and four matching glasses.

Hermione gestured to the round table as he settled himself in one of wingback chairs.

“Are you driving or…?” Her index finger tipped towards the square table.

“I’m not driving,” he responded, which she took as permission to pour an inch of amber liquid into two glasses, one of which she set next to him. She dropped heavily into the chair facing his and toed off her heels, moaning ever so faintly as her feet were released.

“It’s hard being the big boss huh?”

“Being the big boss is easy. Stilettos… Are not.” She took a sip of her drink and closed her eyes momentarily, scrunching her toes contentedly. He watched her in the rosy light of the Anglepoise lamp and wondered what to say to her.

He had been looking forward to seeing her, ever since he had read the press release for her book and discovered she was back working at the university. He had vowed there and then, the magazine in his hand, that he would come here somehow and see her, if only to congratulate her on her recent success.

But now, in the moment, he was oddly struck dumb. The words didn’t want to come out. He found he was actually satisfied just looking at her, flexing her feet back and forward.

Of course Hermione couldn’t stay quiet for any length of time and when she opened her eyes, she fixed them straight on him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to the launch party. I should get that out of the way first.”

“S’okay.” He swirled the whiskey so it crept up the sides of the glass. “You’ve clearly been busy.”

She pouted her lips in response. “Not that busy. I could have come. I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

“It felt like the wrong time to see you again. After… the last time. It felt like there would be things to say and it wasn’t exactly going to be the right place to say them.” Hermione shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe I overthought it.”

Ron straightened. “You didn’t actually. Or if you did, I did too.” She raised her eyebrows. “Thought the same thing today. It only occurred to me when I saw this fancy shindig and all the people that maybe it was a bad idea to come.”

“It wasn’t,” Hermione replied quickly and her cheeks reddened a little. After a beat she said softly, “I’m really glad you came.”

She met his eyes then looked away, taking a breath. Ron waited for her to speak and when she didn’t, he understood that she too was finding it difficult to say whatever it was she was thinking.

Best to start light. “What happened to Goose? In the end?”

She beamed. “I kept him. Before I came down here, I spoke with Mr Pike about taking Goose back or at least finding him somewhere nearby where he could visit but he wasn’t interested. Goose wasn’t really his dog; he didn’t have any real attachment to him.”

Her smile, so fond at the thought of that big animal she’d been tricked into taking, reminded Ron of her softness. The curved edges of her personality, the grace that counterbalanced the grit.

“I’m glad you kept him. He’s good company.” She nodded and then silence again.

“How’s Spencer?” Might as well throw the cat amongst the pigeons.

The smile dimmed a little. “He’s fine. Working on something or other. I don’t keep track. Since I moved back here, I haven’t seen that much of him. He calls, I call. It is what it is.”

Ron suddenly felt the shame of what he had spat so vehemently all those months ago well up again. He had irrevocably changed two lives, wedging himself between them. It was only now that time had created distance that he was able to see that. He could reflect on the fact that he hadn’t really comprehended how huge marriage could loom in a life and that it was forgivable to hold onto something that made you feel safe and needed. God knows life was hard enough.

“I’m sorry Hermione.” He said it low but she heard it all the same and looked up from her glass. “I know I’ve apologised before but I feel like I should say it again. I’m sorry for the way everything played out. There was a lot going on and I don’t think I really understood what the consequences would be.”

“It needed to happen…”

“Maybe,” he interrupted, “But it wasn’t my intention.” He paused and considered that last statement. “That’s a lie. It probably was my intention. I just wasn’t thinking about how big it was. That it was more than you and me.”

“Like a Venn diagram. My world in your world in his world in my world.”

She stood up slowly and went to the decanter, brought it back and refilled their glasses.

“It was my fault too Ron,” she sighed, sitting back down to face him, “I didn’t realise how unhealthy it was for Spence and I to carry on the way we had been.”

“Unhealthy is a bit strong.”

“Unhelpful then. We carried on because it was familiar and safe and it didn’t really matter that it stopped me from starting a new relationship because I was so busy. I didn’t have time.” She swallowed from the glass and grimaced as the whiskey bit her throat. “You didn’t do anything wrong, really. You just put a mirror to it. So I could see it for myself.”

Ron clicked his tongue. “Still. Coulda been a bit nicer about it. Less shouty.”

She laughed and it felt good to make her laugh.

“If I could be so bold,” he continued, her giggle making him brave, “You look at home here. Not that you didn’t in Lowndes but this,”- he gesticulated at the office- “feels like you. And downstairs. You looked perfect.” Her lips twitched. “Perfectly at ease,” he added.

“It’s nice to be back,” she conceded, “I know where I am in this world. But working for the Foundation was right at the time. It gave me a chance to take a step back and really miss academia. If I hadn’t have done it, I would have burnt out most likely.”

“So what’s next?” Ron got to his feet on the pretence of examining the spines of the books in her bookcase but really more to have something to do. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins with nowhere to go. “Now that you’re about to be a big time author, the only way is up right?”

He heard her laugh ruefully. “No, actually I’m going back to teaching. Backfilling some sick leave at first and then my own post starting in the new academic year.”

So she was in London to stay. Ron glanced over his shoulder. “You don’t like the book world?” he asked and she shrugged.

“It’s ok. I’m happy to be doing it but I find it all a bit stressful to be honest. The social part of it, I mean. I can put on the persona and be ‘the face’ but it’s exhausting. I constantly need time alone to refresh myself before I do it again. Don’t you find that?”

“Not at all.” Ron turned fully towards her as he shook his head, setting his glass on the square table and leaning gently onto it. “The opposite actually. The social part doesn’t drain me, it fills me up. It’s like I pull energy from other people, being in the room with a lot of conversation going on, people moving about, lots happening at once. I come away buzzing from it.”

“It must have been hard, then. To be banished to the Scottish mountains to write your book. The people of Lowndes are lovely but it wasn’t exactly a hive of activity. I would have thought you would have been quite bored.”

Hermione got to her feet and padded over to where he stood.

“Well I was. Bored stiff. But then I met a crazy control-freak woman and she changed that.”

Hermione looked down at the decanter and put her hand on the cut crystal dome of the stopper. Without looking up, she murmured, “Did she?”

“She did. Because of her I can now knock up a fabric crab at the drop of a hat. And I’m intimately acquainted with a giant light penguin called Marshall.” He saw the corners of her mouth lift. “She introduced me to the ultimate To Do list. You should see how much work I got done now!”

Still she didn’t raise her head. “She sounds mad to be honest.”

Ron smiled. “She is a bit. But also kind. She got me out of a few holes while I was there. And she helped an old man out by taking on a dog that could probably be rode into battle, it’s so massive. She gave me the best Christmas I could ever have had without my family.” He faltered over his next words. Sod it. “And the best New Year full stop.”

She was definitely smiling now.

“She should have come to your book launch.”

“Yes,” Ron agreed, eyes trained on the top of her head, “She should have. But maybe she didn’t forgive me completely. I did a bad thing, you see…”

Hermione set her hand onto his where it rested on the tumbler, eyes down. “She did. Forgive you. She ended up even thinking it was funny. Sort of. But there were things in her life she needed to address. She wasn’t ready.”

The warmth of her palm on the back of his hand was affecting his concentration, or was it the whiskey giving him that wooziness in his belly? The purple of her dress seemed to pulse in the warm light and he longed to reach out and put his hand on the low curve of her back.

“In these sorts of things, it’s important to be ready.” His voice sounded thick and underused and he cleared his throat. “Both parties need to be ready.”

Her fingers clenched over his almost imperceptibly, just the slightest movement of uncertainty. Which was nice, actually. It meant that this terribly self-assured, clever woman had a chink of weakness. For all her bluster and ‘persona’ wearing, she was still a little bit afraid. Vulnerable.

Vulnerability wasn’t sexy, it didn’t turn anybody on. It wasn’t the heat or the ‘zing’ when skin rubbed against skin. It didn’t blaze brightly, it was the slow burn. Vulnerability in one allowed it in the other. Two people could let their guards down and be a little bit afraid together.

He and Hermione, for all their worldly experience and years of age, were still navigating the landscape; old wounds, outdated practices that no longer served them. They were still works in progress and still figuring it out.

Suddenly, he was realising what she had tried to explain to Spencer when they broke up, about needing someone who could handle every bit of her. Realising too that he felt, and had felt for some time, that all of the things that made Hermione who she was, were things that felt exactly right for him. Every bit of grit, every bit of grace.

Ron rotated his hand gently under Hermione’s until they were palm to palm and their fingers naturally closed. At this, she raised her head and finally met his gaze. Her bottom lip was caught in her top teeth, reminding him of the night he’d treated her split lip.

How little he had recognised the strong desire that he’d had to take care of her to be what it really was and for a moment Ron was frustrated with himself for waiting so long. He should have kissed her sooner, should have had it out with her sooner, should have come here sooner.

But that was the beauty of being an adult; you could learn from your mistakes.

He moved his head ever so slightly towards her and she surprised him by closing the gap between them and kissing him first. His right hand found the place on her back where it wanted to be, his left sliding up her arm, over her collarbone and coming to rest on the back of her neck, where his thumb could tuck under the soft line of her jaw. Hermione leant into him, the whole length of her torso pressed against the whole length of his and he felt the change in height as she propelled herself onto her toes to pull him closer.

The hum in his blood had started instantaneously and he wondered if there were university rules against kissing in offices.

As if hearing his thoughts, Hermione pulled away and snatched a glance towards the door.

“Perhaps we should go back to mine. Or just anywhere that this sort of thing won’t result in me being disciplined.”

Ron opened his mouth to deliver a witty quip on wanting to be the one to discipline her when a photograph propped on the bookcase caught his eye. Hermione in sunglasses, mouth open in happy exclamation, one arm wrapped around Goose’s beefy neck. Her other arm was stretched long to take the picture. Her jumper was maroon. She had scrunched the sleeve but the golden yellow of the cuff was just visible. Goose’s head obstructed the front panel but Ron knew the letter R was stitched into it with the same yellow wool.

Hermione noticed him still and followed his gaze with her own. It took her a moment to understand what had caused him to pause but when she did she grinned and rolled her eyes.

“Yes alright, I get it. But if you think I’m going to give it back…” 

“Keep it,” Ron murmured, narrowing the space between them again, “Wear it every day.”

Then he kissed her again and fell into his future.