Harry’s unopened presents lay innumerably on the foot of his bed. Without looking, Ron knew that. His best friend, though small in stature, was immeasurable in heart and love. For that reason, Ron knew, his mound of gifts had grown in the last few years ” not just from his vapid fan club.
Ron’s pile, though significantly larger, he had always taken for granted. If he had viewed the intent of the giver even once rather than the gift alone, he would have seen better the true meaning of the holiday. Having always been poor, Ron had always been taught to savor every bite, to stop and smell the daisies, to give thanks for every frost-bitten morning. Especially in this Christmas season, when love and joy were all that mattered should he give thanks, but Ron’s thoughts would not drift from the subject which haunted him day and night.
He had searched the pile more than once; there was no letter from a secret admirer, no hint of unknown affection. All there was was Hermione’s gift, the same as every year. Hope and dreams, Ron thought, may have brought with it more than that. But this was reality, and reality does not give way to fantasy.
Dreading the Common Room was an unusual thing for Ron. After all, as much as he liked to complain, he loved it at Hogwarts, especially during this Christmas season. He loved being surrounded by his friends, and Hermione was always there.
But this year, it was different. Surely she would notice he had given her nothing of worth. Surely she would hate him forever for this. Hermione was not a beautiful girl, but in the eyes of the beholder, she was more than he could ever have imagined.
He would watch her, bless every dainty step she took, worship that sacred ground she trod. The years were countless in which he had rifled though her books because they smelled like her, because she had graced them (and not him) with the silken touch of her smooth palm. These were the years that he would steal her ribbons and tie them to his bed post, just so she would be with him when he fell asleep.
But this year, Ron dreaded the Common Room. She was with him every second of the day, her eyes so solemn and clear, and yet he had never told her the three words that lived always on his tongue:
I love you.
He could not just tell her that. Unimpressed, she would walk away and leave him stuck in the rut that she had thrown him into. Gone were the days when three words would satisfy her. In the way that he walked, the way he sat beside her, the way he carried himself, he would have to show her the man that worshipped the ground she walked on, and survived on the ribbons that had crowned her honeyed waves.
He had no gift to give her. In the turmoil the Dark Lord had brought upon them these last few years, their family had become even poorer ” Harry and Hermione knew and understood that. Neither one expected anything from him, yet Mrs. Weasley had made a sweater for both. In these times, it was gestures like these like these that brought them together as a family and kept them strong in the face of the nigh unstoppable force that beat and raged at them daily. He had somehow managed the dig a little deeper and get something for Harry; their friendship was so much to him ” how could he not? But Hermione, whose very existence gave him butterflies, how could he ” what could he possibly do for her?
He managed to do something, not that his feeble and futile attempts to woo her or at the very least to compensate for what he lacked would ever measure up to what she deserved from him. Not expecting the tiniest bit of attention, but just hoping that maybe he would be deemed worthy in her eyes was what had crept into the girls’ dormitory late at night and humbly set the gift under her tree.
It was with that thought that Ron fell asleep, dreaming of the morn when Hermione would degrade him totally, because nothing he could ever say or do would measure up to what she deserved from him. Even degradation, though, delighted him, for even that was recognition of his existence. From such an angel, degradation was a gift.
Dreading and wishing for the morrow, Ron had slept, dreaming of the woman he worshipped, adored, and depended upon for survival. Now that the morning was here, he had no other option than to wait and pray that dawn’s first light would bring acceptance.
All his gifts had been opened, and Hermione was not yet here. Ron began to shake, holding onto the silent memory that was his Hermione.
Harry had left him up there alone to ponder what he had done. He did not regret it, rejected or accepted, because of the duty that lay therein. He owed it to Hermione to tell her how he felt ” how he worshipped the ground on which she stepped.
He made his way reluctantly down the hall, knowing that rejection was coming. But even that excited him, for he though it was too much to hope that he might behold her once more, one last time.
A pitter-patter of bare feet “ Hermione’s feet by the sound of it “ came slowly toward him. Ron shrank into the shadows. He was not worthy to touch the ground on which she walked. Her shining hair appeared first over the top of the staircase, followed by the porcelain face for which Ron had pined these many years. She was beautiful, and he was unworthy of her presence or recognition. What foreign entity had set in him the hope of reception. Even in her nightgown, which any other would have found unattractive, she was his blonded angel, and every step she took was nothing short of holy.
What was this? Hermione, the divine being that haunted him, wept? Tears shimmered in Hermione’s honeyed eyes as she reached him, and she took his hand. Ron tried to pull away, but he dared not. In her hand, she clutched a piece of parchment, unimpressive, but scrawled on it was a message from her servant to the goddess that he beheld.
Time’s running out, I’ve no gift to give,
yet I feel it’s my duty to say ”
I owe it to you, to tell you the truth,
to tell you I like you that way.
Years come and go, you’re there all along,
and I have not asked you for much.
I’ll keep that tradition; won’t ask you at all,
to give me a thing, as such.
Here are the ribbons I stole from your head,
while you were fast asleep.
I know it’s unethical, immoral, and wrong,
but these are your tokens I keep.
I won’t keep you here, I won’t make you stay,
I’m willing to let you go.
It’s my duty to you, for me to just say,
I love you ” just so you know.
Hermione eyes glimmered, and her lips trembled.
“Ron,” she said. “All these years ... you never said a thing ... You were ... dying inside. And it was my fault. Why did you tell me?”
“I had nothing to give you, Hermione,” he said, stunned at her decision to grace him with her presence. “All I wanted was you.”
Tears spilled out of Hermione’s eyes and ran down her cheeks. Ron dared not wipe them away. To touch her seemed a forbidden thing, but Hermione, it seemed, had different ideas. She drew sharp, shaking breaths, and sobs racked her fragile frame ” her precious person ” the girl of his dreams.
She fastened her arms around his waist and buried her face in the brand new Weasley sweater that he wore.
“Ron,” she said. “I’ve waited all these years.” Hers sobs overwhelmed her. “I’m so sorry. You loved me! You really loved me ... It's too late for me now ...” Her honey eyes looked into his, full of regret. "You've probably moved on years ago ... I'm so sorry ... I never said anything ..."
Ron regained his sense of self. She loved him. The goddess who haunted him day and night ” she loved him! “Not only that,” he said softly, wrapping his arms around her and gaining her attention, “but much, much more.”
Ron took her chin in his hand. The one he had loved for so long, his angel, his vision, loved him. How lucky can one guy be?
He kissed her.
Fireworks, they swore, could be seen in Ireland and Scotland, all of Europe, and across the world.