Special thanks to my wonderful BETA Niffly.
It was Bill and Fleur’s wedding. Everyone’s attention was focused on love and romance. Ron had noticed that even with all that had happened in their 6th year at Hogwarts, Harry still seemed to be able to enjoy dancing with Ginny. And at least he’s still able to do that. Ron wished that he could join them – that he could dance with the girl he loved. Instead, he was sitting across the table from her, all alone, increasingly uncomfortable in his bottle green dress robes. He had been in love with her for years and, with the Last Battle so close, he knew that he had to tell her soon.
He was worried about her reaction, though. What if she didn’t return his feelings? What if she did? What if it ruined their friendship? What if they fought over something silly and she never spoke to him again? Ron didn’t think he could handle it if that happened. He shuddered at the thought of never being loved by her and he knew that he had to try, at least.
“Mione?” he attempted.
“Yes, Ron.” She smiled as she said this. He couldn’t do it. She was too beautiful, too perfect and he feared rejection far too much. But he had started and he knew it would seem weird if he just stopped now.
“I, er, I mean…will you dance with me?” he blurted, shocking even himself.
Ron couldn’t believe she had said yes. He led her across the dance floor, knowing that this might be his last chance to let her know how much he cared for her. He took her hand and they began their slow waltz, knowing that neither was destined to become a professional dancer. Feeling bold, he pulled Hermione closer. It seemed as though they were the only two in the world. She was so beautiful.
He looked deeply into her beautiful brown eyes. Those eyes beckoned him forward. He slowly moved his face closer to hers. He hoped that his simple yet powerful symbol of affection would be enough to alert her to the feelings he had been repressing for years. He blinked his eyes and, in a whirl of curly brown hair, Hermione had been swept away by his squealing red haired sister. Harry and Ron stood to the side, careful to stay out of the way of Fleur’s screaming relatives as they fought for the best spot, each wanting to catch the bouquet.
“She still fancies you, though.” Ron had followed Harry’s gaze to the youngest Weasley.
“And I do too,” Harry shook himself and regained his composure. “I just wish things weren’t so complicated. There are so many strikes against us.”
“ You made them complicated, you git.” Fred had finally detached himself from Angelina. “It’s your own heroic fault.” He appeared to have had just a bit too much Firewhisky. “And you have no room to speak, Ron. You’ve been in love with your precious ‘Mione for as long as any of us can remember and you still haven’t let her know how you feel.”
Ron could feel his face growing scarlet and mumbled something about needing to go to the restroom. He could have punched Fred right in the nose for bringing up his relationship with Hermione. He had tried so hard to keep his feelings secret from Harry, unsure of what his friend would think. He knew that now was a particularly horrible time to be talking about it. Between the pending war and his confused feelings for Ginny, Harry shouldn’t have to feel left out or lonely simply because Ron wanted Hermione to be more than just his friend. He weaved his way towards the house, only to find his mum blocking the entrance, insisting that he join in the festivities.
He slowly made his way back towards Harry, hoping his friend wouldn’t comment on the reason for his departure. He needn’t have worried, as Harry’s head seemed filled with thoughts of Ginny.
A mass of cotton, satin, and far too much lace had filled the lawn. Ron’s eyes sought Hermione’s curly hair and their eyes connected as the lily-laced rosebush became airborne. Ron reflected on Fred’s words. Yes, he had always loved Hermione. No matter how much they fought, or how jealous he was, he had always loved her. Her fleeting lack of concentration had caused the flowers to fall right on her head. She stood there, momentarily stunned, before grabbing the bouquet from one of Fleur’s startled relatives. She looked at Ron and he knew what he must do.
Pushing through the crowd, he fought his way towards her. He pulled her into a deep, sensual kiss in which all of his worries, doubts and fears left him. He wondered, as the antique wedding bells sang their gay song, if there was truth in the old superstition that the woman who caught the bouquet was the next to be married.