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Ron Weasley was convinced that women had, somewhere in the course of history, invented their own language. It might have sounded rather convincingly like English—even make use of the same words and phrases and such—but in reality it was nothing like it at all.
To an unsuspecting male, the question, “Sweetheart, does my hair look all right?” might have sounded like a benign inquiry about a woman’s coif, when in fact it was really a sly method of extracting a compliment; “What do you think of this dress?” might trick a poor bloke who didn’t know any better to answer truthfully about the colour or style; and anyone thick enough to answer the question, “You don’t think she’s attractive, do you?” might just as well turn his wand on himself—it would no doubt hurt less that way.
He was onto it, though. He was onto all of it now. And he bore the scars of having to learn it the hard way.
When Hermione had told him that she’d understand if he had to work a double shift at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes on Saturday night and couldn’t accompany him to a special dinner being held in honour of her boss’ one-hundred-and-eighteenth birthday, he had believed her. Like any foolish man, he took her words at face value, assuming that she had meant what she said, and that they would simply catch up over breakfast on Sunday, when he was free to celebrate a rare morning off.
If only he’d had a proper dictionary to decipher what she had actually meant.
That evening she sent her owl, Athena, with a message:
Ron,
Sorry, won’t be able to make breakfast tomorrow. Mum wants
to have brunch and go shopping afterwards.
Love,
Hermione
Sending an owl in her stead? Cancelling at the last moment?
Shopping??
Ron knew straight away that something was most definitely out of order.
“Are you sure she said it would be OK?”
Not for the first time, Ron let out a heavy sigh and took a swig out of his Butterbeer before he turned to Harry. Good man, he was, agreeing to come to The Leaky Cauldron for an afternoon drink, so Ron could air all his grievances the day after his girlfriend inexplicably snubbed him.
“Maybe you misheard…”
“I’m not deaf, mate,” said Ron irritably, even though he knew perfectly well his best friend wasn’t to blame for this latest mess with Hermione. “I heard her say the words. She said—and I quote—‘Of course, I understand, Ron. George needs all the help he can get right now.’”
Harry narrowed his eyes, as though trying to solve a riddle. The fact that he was coming up empty with answers gave Ron a slight feeling of vindication. Or at least, reassurance.
“It’s nearly Hallowe’en, for Merlin’s sake,” he said. “It’s our busiest time of the year!”
“I know,” said Harry. “But maybe…”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe she really wanted you there. You know, at the dinner. Wasn’t she just telling us last week how boring those things can be? She was probably desperate to have someone she could endure it with.”
Ron swallowed a dose of guilt along with his Butterbeer. Hermione had mentioned something about dreading the dinner a few nights ago; perhaps she had expected him to do the chivalrous thing and offer to go.
“Well,” he said, feeling his anger dissipating somewhat, but wanting to hold onto it with all his might, “she should have said so, then. How hard is it to say, ‘Ron, won’t you come with me? Can’t you put off working for another night?’”
“And would you have done?”
He deliberately avoided Harry’s eyes, staring instead at the small, wet ring on the bar left behind by his bottle.
“Probably not.”
He could sense Harry smirking beside him.
“There you go, then.”
“But I’ve got a good reason!”
Harry threw his arms up, as if in defence. “I know that! But… she doesn’t, does she?”
Ron set the now empty bottle down, tilting it back and forth between his hands, concentrating on the hypnotic motion.
“I hate it when you’re right,” he muttered. He looked up at Harry, who had the decency to resist letting his smirk grow wider at Ron’s admission. “S’pose I should just bite the bullet then, shouldn’t I?”
“It’ll be less painful in the end, if you do, yeah.”
Wise words, indeed.
“Go on, then,” said Harry, as Ron reached into his pocket to fish out a few Sickles. “I’ve got this one. Just go over there before she decides she’s had her fill of you for one lifetime.”
“Git.”
Harry laughed. “You’ll always have me to hang out with if she does break it off.”
“Yeah, that’s a fair trade.” Then he reluctantly broke into a grin. “Hey, thanks, mate. Wish me luck.”
He Apparated, his heart sliding up to his throat as the Leaky Cauldron dissolved.
* * *
“Oh. Hi.”
Well, at least she was talking to him. That was a start.
“I thought you were the delivery boy.”
She looked a little disappointed at the fact that he turned out not to be; Ron tried not to take offence.
“I ordered curry from the Indian place nearby… oh, never mind.”
“Oh yeah, him,” he said. “Ran into the bloke just after I Apparated. I slipped him a squid to shove off so I could bring your food in.”
He thought he could see a hint of a smile beginning to form at the corners of her mouth, but Hermione’s willpower was nothing if not strong, and she was able to resist.
“A quid,” she said.
“Right, that’s what I meant.”
He’d deliberately used the wrong word to get a laugh out of her; he could tell he’d have his work cut out for him, though.
“So… can I come in, then?” He held up the paper bag that was giving off aromas that made him salivate.
Rather than give an affirmative answer, she simply stepped aside, giving him ample room to cross the threshold of her door. He took this as a good sign and made his way in.
“What’ve you got in here, anyway?”
She took the bag from him and headed for the kitchen, her voice disembodied when she answered him.
“Tikka Masala.”
“That’s the dish you had me try last month, isn’t it?”
She emerged a few seconds later, looking rather awkward, as if not knowing whether to cross her arms or let them fall at her sides. His presence must be making her incredibly uncomfortable.
“I only ordered enough for one,” she said, somewhat distressed.
“No worries. I already ate.” His stomach grumbled just at that moment, as if trying to expose his lie on purpose.
“I didn’t think… You said you had to work late again tonight.”
“Oh that,” he said. “Harry let me off early. Helps to have your best friend as your partner.”
“You’re not helping George out at the shop?”
“Lee’s pitching in,” he said. “Are you trying to get rid of me or something?”
“No, of course not!”
“Well, then… what’s with asking me why I’m not someplace else?”
A familiar flush of annoyance returned to her face. “Can you blame me?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means… oh, never mind!”
There it was. The first double-meaning statement of the night. Before long he’d need the services of a translator to get through this conversation.
She turned and disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Ron wondering whether this was his cue to leave, or whether he should stay and bear the brunt of her upcoming onslaught. Might as well bear through it, hadn’t he?
He sank down onto the arm of her sofa and awaited his fate.
When she reappeared, she was carrying not one, but two place settings for the table, much to his shock. Without a word, she began laying down the dishes, forks, knives, and goblets, meticulously aligning them so they were perfect, and placing a folded napkin atop each of the two plates.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“What does it look like?”
Was that a trick question too?
“You’re setting the table for two.”
“Oh, well-spotted.”
“Who’re you expecting?”
She sighed, looking exasperated, then turned in his direction.
“I’m setting the table for the two of us,” she said. “There, does that explain it?”
Pleasantly taken aback, Ron couldn’t help but grin. “You didn’t have to do that, you know…”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Just… sit down, OK?”
“Right, of course.”
They ate the dinner in silence, with Ron eating as little as he could, so as not to appear obnoxious. He thought his attempt at chivalry might earn him a smile or two from her, but it seemed she had no intention of softening.
“I didn’t get any pudding,” she said, after the last bit of Tikka Masala had been scraped from the tureen.
“That’s all right.”
“I thought I’d be eating alone tonight.”
Now Ron was beginning to get a little irritated. “Yeah, you’d mentioned that,” he said, trying not to let his voice catch too much of an edge. “Look, why don’t you just come out and say what you want to say?”
She stared back at him.
“What do you mean?”
He couldn’t help it; a loud, incredulous laugh suddenly burst forth from his mouth. All right then, she wanted to hear what he had to say. At least he had no qualms about coming straight out and saying something, without hiding the words behind layers of meaning.
“Well, let’s see… You tell me you’d understand if I can’t make it to a dinner that you yourself don’t want to go to, then you break off our plans for the next morning, and can’t even bother to tell me yourself!”
Her mouth dropped open in protest. “It was late!” she said. “I didn’t want to pop in the fire and wake you!”
“And since when do you go shopping?”
“Mum needed a dress for a wedding she and Dad are going to next weekend! She wanted my opinion!”
Ron snorted. “So you’re telling me that you’re not angry with me for working that night instead of going with you to that party?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Bollocks.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. Ron usually took this as a sign to shut his mouth immediately, but he was on a roll, and he wasn’t about to back down.
“How long have we known each other?”
“What?? What does that have to do with-”
“Eleven years. Eleven years. You don’t think I know when you’re in a strop?”
“I… that’s not… ooh, you just don’t know when to quit, do you, Ron Weasley??”
“No,” he said. “Not when I know I’m right.”
She rose from her chair. He followed suit. For a moment, he thought she was going to stalk off, but instead she just stood, until finally, the rage she’d been holding inside came spilling out.
“Fine, I was upset—are you happy now??”
Ron shrank back.
“Not… happy,” he muttered, but Hermione had already begun her tirade and wasn’t close to ending it.
“Do you want to know why I was upset? Do you?”
“Why?”
“Because between your job and the shop, and boys’ nights out with Harry, you seem to have no time or place for me in your life right now.”
Ron blinked back at her, shocked. “W-what? That’s… that’s not…”
“Not true?” she said, finishing his sentence for him. “Really, Ron?”
“You know it’s not.”
“Do you know how many times we’ve seen each other in the last three weeks?”
“I… loads of times, I’m sure-”
“Try three. Three times, Ron. Once when you got back from an overnight raid with Harry, once when you came to dinner with Mum and Dad, and once when you came to help me straighten out the pantry!”
He was all set to counter her argument, but then he realised with a sinking feeling that she was right. Blimey, she was right. He had been so consumed by everything these last few weeks—months, really, that he hadn’t stopped to notice that he’d been largely absent. Far too absent.
“I just… there’s so much going on, Hermione. I thought you understood…”
Her shoulders relaxed. The defensive posture was gone; Ron held back a sigh of relief.
“I do,” she said. “But… just once, it would be nice if I didn’t come last on your priority list.”
“You’re not!”
“Well, that’s not the way it feels at the moment!”
“How can you say that??” he said, stunned that she could think such a thing after everything they had been through. “Hermione, if you were last, I wouldn’t be working so bloody hard to save up for your-”
He came to an abrupt stop, realising with a panic just how dangerously close he’d come to blurting out something he’d managed to keep secret for many months now. There’d be no getting out of this one, though; Hermione had already heard him.
“Save up for my… what?” she said softly, the anger gone from her face.
“Nothing.”
“Ron!”
This wasn’t the way he had wanted her to find out. But somehow he knew that as unplanned as this moment was, it might just be the perfect one, nevertheless.
“Your ring. I’ve been… saving up for your ring.”
“My… what?”
He grinned. “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear what I just said.”
“I… Ron, do you mean…”
He approached her, encouraged by the fact that she wasn’t moving away from him, but rather staying rooted in her spot, as though waiting for him to get closer.
“Now that I’m officially an Auror, I thought… well, I’m more respectable now, aren’t I? Not just a bloke who works in a shop and has nothing to show for it-”
“Ron, that was never-”
“Are you going to let me do this properly or what?”
She smiled, even as her eyes grew glossy with tears that had suddenly formed. “Sorry.”
“I could have asked you a million other times before,” he said. “I wanted to, you know. I would have asked you the day after that battle at Hogwarts, but… well… I wanted you to see who I could become first.”
“But I already knew who you were. Who you’ve always been. You never had to prove anything-”
“Not to you, maybe. But to myself. I needed to prove it to myself.”
He reached down to take her hands. He had planned it all out in his head, all the intricate details he’d sketched out so many times over the years. Yet somehow, it didn’t matter that he had nothing he had planned to have, except for the actual words.
“Marry me.”
“Yes…”
“I know I’m not the richest guy in the world, or the most handsome… and I’ll never be the most powerful-”
“Yes.”
“But I love you, and I’ll make you happy, that’s a promise-”
“Yes!!”
He paused. It was only at that moment that he truly registered her answer.
“Yes?”
She nodded.
“What, is that a real yes, or do you really mean to say something else-”
His words transformed into a loud yelp; she had punched him hard in the arm, but was beaming up at him.
“Yes, you prat!” she said. She was laughing and crying at the same time. “And yes, it’s a real yes.”
He smiled. “I think I’m finally beginning to understand the language of women.”
He bent down to kiss her and swallowed her laugh.