The pitter-patter of rain was the only sound heard in the warm and cozy Gryffindor Common Room, other than the occasional whisper of a spell or rustle of parchment. Many foreheads were bent low, brows furrowed, scratching out tedious sentences on the property of Sallow Roots, or the correct movement of the wand for a Charms spell. A few people were purple in the face, as though ready to begin child-birth, or experiencing constipation. I knew better, though, and understood that non-verbal spells were trying to be issued. Couples here and there were chewing on pumpkin pasties or licorice wands. I myself had just spit out a rather foul Bertie Botts.
Seventh years were trying to keep their eyes open to continue long winded History of Magic essays, while first years became so tired of still seeing the wood of the match they were trying to transfigure into a needle, they simply struck the match to life and watched the flame burn. No one wanted to be working, and yet, it was already Sunday night, and their homework was due the next day.
The crackling of the fire was growing lower and lower as the night inched on, and many people had to result to the Lumos Spell for a greater light. Yawns were being stifled all around the room, but no one could afford to go to bed without completing their essays. A few of the younger students were just about to nod off when the slamming of the Portrait Hole made our heads jerk up and search anxiously around the room for the source of the noise. And the source of the noise was not happy.
A tall, willowy girl with very thick and wavy hair that seemed to have a life of its own was standing next to the Portrait Hole, breathing fire from her nose. The younger children were steadily shrinking back into their squashy armchairs, clearly scared out of their wits at the Head Girl. I was too. However, the older witches and wizards were looking eagerly between their Head Girl and a young man who was trying to hide behind his chair, although his tall frame made this a difficult feat. He was clearly trying his best to avoid the girl, but was not succeeding.
She had spotted his flaming red hair immediately, and was thundering towards him, holding a book bag in her right hand. He peeked over his shoulder, as if hoping against hope she was walking toward another boy, but when he looked into her face, all he saw was murder. I hope the Head Girl never looked at me this way. He quickly turned back to face the front, wishing he had only imagined her looking at him. He lowered his eyes, as if pretending to work. After a moment or two, he raised his eyelids slightly, and ever so slowly. What he saw next was the scariest thing I would ever lay eyes on for the rest of my life. I think he agreed with me.
Hermione Granger, looking ready to kill. Her hair was even wilder than it usually was, sticking up and out in odd places, looking as though she had literally tried to rip her hair out. Her eyes, usually so soft and warm, were blazing hot, searing painful holes into his face. He lifted a hand attentively to feel his face, and breathed a sigh of relief when he felt smooth skin instead of bumpy pot-holes. That would most likely be his last sigh of relief for the night.
“Ronald Weasley!” she screamed, and the boy who this was directed to shrunk even lower in his seat. He wracked his brain fiercely, trying to think of why she was currently close to losing all forms of control and screaming, “Avada Kedavra!” He gulped loudly, and several of the seventh years in the closer vicinity giggled into their palms. I had to stifle a snort as well, but the youngsters around me looked scared enough to piss themselves. Us six years were just glad for an entertaining distraction.
“Um…Hi Her-Hermione…Aren’t you look-looking l-l-lovely this evening,” Ron stuttered, trying to avoid glancing into her face. Instead, his eyes traveled to the book bag in her hand, and he blinked in surprise. That was his book bag! I recognized it by the worn out look of it, as only Weasley’s possessions were.
What on earth was she doing with it? He was just about to question this when she began to speak again, and all thoughts of asking her anything quickly fled his mind.
“Ronald Weasley, how dare you! How dare you?” Her face was steadily becoming redder and redder, almost close to resembling a tomato. She was radiating heat waves so strong, a few first years were actually looking around to see if anyone had caught a chair or table on fire. When nothing seemed to be burning other than the air itself, everyone’s attention quickly returned back to the pair.
Ron seemed to be startled speechless, and was quite amazed at how much Hermione’s face resembled a certain vegetable. His mouth hung open and he didn’t look too keen on replying, but managed to gulp once more and ask, “Err…How dare I, what?”
His response didn’t go over too well with the angry teenage girl, and she made a noise almost like a lion’s growl. No wonder she’s in Gryffindor, I thought. My attention came swiftly back to her though, once she opened his bag and pulled out a long roll of parchment. He didn’t recognize it until she thrust it under his nose. Then he saw the neat and scrolling handwriting. Hermione’s handwriting.
“Why, in Merlin’s name, was this in your school bag?” she screeched, making more than half of the occupants in the room cover their ears. A couple of first years had silently gotten to their feet, and at this outburst had speed-walked to the staircase that led to the dorms.
The red-haired boy gulped for the third time that night, in the time capacity of about one minute. Instead of answering right away though, he clambered to his feet. He wanted to set the record straight about this one, no matter how undeniably terrified he was, not to mention everyone else in the Common Room, including myself. I wished the very best of luck to Ron.
Even though he was now towering over Hermione, he realized that she still commanded more presence than he did, no matter what her height. He crossed his arms and tried as best he could to look at her in a lazy fashion, but to my eye, he seemed scared out of his wits.
Students were leaning forward eagerly in their armchairs, watching the pair closely, although neither of the arguing pair appeared to notice they had an audience. As Ron’s mouth opened to retort, everyone turned an ear toward him, wondering what his biting response would be. You see, Ron Weasley was very prone to bellowing. They were disappointed though.
“I-I-I…I d-d-don’t know what you’re tal-talking about,” he stuttered lamely. The Gryffindors all rolled their eyes as one, but none as largely as Hermione. She seemed fit to burst, enough to scream louder than Moaning Myrtle herself. Ron shivered involuntarily. I rolled my eyes at him. Coward.
“Ronald. Explain to me why a letter I wrote, that was clearly not addressed to you, was found inside your bag.” She said this all quite calmly, and I guess Ron was just beginning to think that she was simmering down a bit, until he felt a shock, almost like the thing us Muggles use to light up our houses. Ron wasn’t sure what that was, but he could feel, not to mention hear, crackling noises issuing from Hermione’s hair. I always knew that that curly mass was dangerous. He wasn’t too into enlightening her on this topic though.
“I…err. Well you see…” He desperately searched his mind for a useable explanation, but didn’t have the time. Besides, Hermione seemed to have figured it all out on her own by now anyway. Why even bother?
Hermione was losing patience. And fast.
“Don’t lie to me, Ron! I know exactly why it’s in here! You stole it, didn’t you?” Her fists were clenching and unclenching, and though I knew she wouldn’t be able to enforce too much pain on his behalf, I still remembered the day back in their third year when Hermione had slapped Malfoy. I bet he didn’t plan on being on the receiving end of one of her punches, as long as he could help it.
Suddenly, something in Ron snapped. He looked like he couldn’t take it anymore. I could practically see him thinking ‘How dare he? More like how dare she! How dare she write to another man, when he had been standing around waiting on her ever since their very first year? How dare she come storming up to him, when all he had done was try to push her away from the other man and into his waiting arms? The other man, who was more than likely only using her…’ He obviously couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Well why were you writing to him in the first place?” he roared, his face bypassing red and turning a plum colour. I could tell that Hermione wasn’t expecting this sort of reaction, at least not as soon as it had come, but she pulled her dropped mouth back up after only a moment. Her posture stiffened, and she lifted her head another notch, no doubt ready for a fight. Well, if she was ready for a fight, a fight I hoped Ron would bring.
“Ron, we’ve been through this at least a hundred ti-” said Hermione, before her shout was completely drowned out.
“I could care less how many times we’ve been through this! Why are you still writing him?” To passerby, Ron would have looked barking mad. His waving arms and bellows sounded as though he should belong in Bedlam’s insane asylum. For this reason alone, almost every first and second year had ran terrified from the room, tripping and stumbling all the way up the stairs. Only one or two had stayed behind to brave the fight.
Hermione took no notice of this, a first for her. She was raking her hands through her mass of hair, gripping and pulling on certain areas. Many fourth years were betting on how long it would take before a hunk of it came out into her sweating hands. The stakes were high, at two to one. The other option was that Ron would pull it out for her. I laughed at how childish our House was being.
“Why does it matter if I write to him? What business is it of yours?” Hermione’s voice was carrying higher and higher, no longer a scream, but more like the noise a mermaid makes when above water. Not a very pleasant sound at all. Many others had darted out the Portrait Hole, claiming that they would rather take Filch’s wrath over Hermione’s any day. As she was currently working herself into hysterics, that wasn’t so hard to believe. But I intended to brave out the storm.
“Ron! Answer me!” Her eyes were becoming watery, although from anger or tears no one was quite sure, although most shifted more towards anger, seeing the state of her.
“I’ll tell you what business it is of mine! He- He has no idea- No right,” Ron spluttered, spit flying from his furious mouth, watering everyone who had risked standing in close vicinity. Thank Merlin I was about twenty feet back. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Ron tried to continue as Hermione swept a hand over her own face. “He shouldn’t be writing to you, because he doesn’t care about you,” he finished solemnly.
Oddly enough, Hermione let out a shriek of laughter, almost a cackle. Chills rained down my arms. Why was she laughing at him? Did she think he was joking? What exactly did she find so funny?
Hermione continued to laugh mirthlessly, all the while mocking the words just issued off Ron’s tongue. I think she looked positively evil, maniacal, in fact. I hope to never bring a reason for my girlfriend to go crazy on me the way Hermione was on Ron.
“Viktor doesn’t care does he? At least he saw that I was a girl!”
“But--” Ron cried out, ready to interrupt before her little speech built up, but she just ran over him.
“At least he showed that a boy I fancied could actually show affection to me! Not to mention listen to my thoughts and not argue with me constantly! He even told me I was pretty…albeit. I don’t agree with him, but that isn’t the point is it?”
“I’ve--” Ron muttered, but wasn’t even heard, as Hermione continued. I felt bad for the poor bloke, I truly did. Not that I would be coming to his rescue or anything, but still.
“I found happiness with Viktor, even though it is only through our letters. I don’t understand why you seem to have such a problem with it!” she finished, heaving; her face splotched a ruby shade, and eyes hard and dark, no longer the warm hazel.
Ron looked as though he was punch-drunk; his mouth was hanging open and he was staring at her in disbelief. But then, slowly, I watched as he came to a conclusion. One he wanted to disagree with more than anything, but the facts simply wouldn’t allow him to. He hated himself for admitting defeat; especially in front of over half of the Gryffindor House (although neither of them had been paying us students too much attention). He tried to speak, but couldn’t think of the right words to say. He experimented a few times, but each one failed. Nothing would escape his throat. It was like there was a particularly large pumpkin pasty lodged inside. Wow, was it because I was eating one now? Where had that thought come from?
Hermione stood there, hoping and begging that he would say something in his own defense. She wanted Ron to disagree with her, for him to tell her Viktor was using her. After all, she didn’t truly feel affection to the Durmstrang student. All she had ever wanted was for Ron to notice her. Not the boy Ron hates.
Ron growled. That bloody pasty was still refusing to go down, obviously.
What Hermione didn’t want to hear from him was a final sigh of defeat. A sigh that told her he had given up. That she was right. Too bad, Head Girl, I thought, happily licking my pumpkin pasty.
Ron knew she was right. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he understood all of what she had just told him. And it broke him. He looked broken. He was done. And as he turned around to head out the Portrait Hole, I bet the only thought on his mind was of how much he wished he could have put up a better fight.
Hermione stood rooted to the carpet. She seemed baffled. Completely and utterly baffled. But as she watched his dejected form shuffle away from her, Hermione’s anger seemed to be building back up again. She wasn’t going to allow him to do this again. Not this time. She would sooner jump off the Astronomy Tower before she let him walk away.
“Ron!” she screamed. This was a different type of scream though. A desperate scream. The type when one was at their last resort. When there was only one life line left. When you’re holding on for dear life. Are these pumpkin pasties making me go all sentimental? I thought, but continued eating it.
Her voice echoed around the circular room. Goose-bumps erupted on the arms of the witnesses. So much was hidden inside that one single word. So much passion, pain, and hatred. Passion for what could be, pain for what is, and hatred for what has been. And there sure has been a lot of hate, I reasoned.
It was enough to make the boy stop in his tracks. I’m sure the hair on the back of his neck was prickling uncomfortably. I’m sure his mouth was dry, and his eyes wet. Slowly, he turned to face her.
Tears were streaming down the young woman’s face. So many times she had seen his back…she had hoped they would cease. She had hoped.
“All you have ever done is turn your back on me. I just wanted to let you know,” she sobbed, “that next time, I won’t be behind you waiting.” Her throat was throbbing from tears, and her eyes were puffy and red. She was a soaking mess. And she looked as though she didn’t care. She just wanted him gone. Gone from the Common Room, gone from Hogwarts, and gone from her life. So dramatic, I thought, licking some orange icing off of my nose.
Ron looked as though his eyes were watering, and he blinked hastily. I bet he had always dreamt of the two of them getting into a massive row, but the ending probably always showed them making up in a passionate and fiery embrace. Not a face-off full of tears on both their parts.
He opened his mouth to speak once more, but it was clogged once again. Either from passion, pain, or those bloody pumpkin pasties, he wasn’t sure. All I knew was that he could not speak. It seemed to hurt him so much to see her standing before him, crying because of him.
The Gryffindor House watched with bated breaths. Many girls were leaking here and there, and us boys were shifting in our armchairs uncomfortably. Never had they seen so many tears, except when our mothers watched an episode of ‘Witch Husband?’ or when my mum watched the Muggle soap operas. Not a very comfortable afternoon hour.
Hermione stood before him, looking utterly heart broken. Why she thought she could ever love this poor excuse of a man was beyond me. And when she realized that there was no more to be said, she lifted her head a notch and walked past him. If he wasn’t going to leave…then she would, she seemed to say.
Her shuffled steps were the only noise in the entire Common Room. No one was daring to breathe loudly, and Merlin forbid someone try to clear their larynx. Ron was blinking furiously as Hermione walked past him, both from confusion and anger. Just as Hermione had reached the Portrait Hole, though, he was able to finally swallow the pumpkin pasty. Thank Merlin, I thought I would have to jerk it out of his throat, I thought to myself. Taking a deep breath, he began:
“Well Vicky doesn’t know what he has then. No one in their right mind would call you pretty.”
Hermione made an odd sound, almost between a sob and a gasp. It came out sounding like a hiccup. And could anyone blame her? The entire female population in Gryffindor Tower had let out a resounding intake of breath at these words. I thought he might have a point, as Hermione’s hair currently looked like a rat’s nest and she was leaking tears and snot.
“Because you’re beautiful.” It was a small sentence, but probably the most meaningful one that had ever escaped his soap-ridden mouth. And everyone in the entire room knew that. Most of the time, the only thing that ever came from a Weasley’s mouth was either cursing their homework, cursing their teachers, cursing another student, cursing their mummy, or cursing their own stupidity. Everyone once in awhile you would have the occasional cursing of having boils on the tush, or itching powder in the knickers, but that was when Fred and George were in attendance. And not once had anything this sentimental came from the mouth of one Ronald Weasley. I would have applauded him if my fingers weren’t currently covered in pumpkin pasty icing.
Hermione had stopped walking, her hand resting on the doorknob of the Portrait Hole, trying to will herself to open it. It didn’t look to be working. At all. Slowly, she pulled away and turned on the spot, eyeing Ron through puffy eyes.
Then, completely unexpected, Hermione took a deep breath and marched straight up to Ron, who, anticipating a kiss or hug, smiled widely for full effect. Instead of what he imagined, he got a finger shoved into his chest, and Hermione’s voice. “Don’t lie to me, Ron!” I stuffed a fist in my mouth to swallow my laughter.
“Who said I was lying?” he retorted, his facial features showing a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
She suddenly shoved him backwards, using all the force her frail body possessed. He stumbled a few inches, tripping over his own overly-large feet more than the pressure from her shove. Adjusting himself, he glared into her dark hazel eyes. “What was that for?” Ron exclaimed.
“Don’t lie to me,” she repeated. She looked so serious, with such an adorable frown knitted between her eyebrows; I just had to smile, as did Ron. And when she looked infuriated at this and stamped her foot in frustration, Ron began chuckling. His quiet laughter soon multiplied into full blown hysteria. A few of the older students began questioning how far away Bedlam was from Hogwarts.
Hermione’s face was steadily changing colour, and any second she was going to spout lava. She took a deep breath, trying to cool down, but Ron’s continuous laughter drove her over the edge. And she snapped.
“I hate you.” Hermione had barely spoken above a whisper, and yet silence fell immediately upon the Common Room. Ron’s laughter had faded, and he was staring at her with a face full of mixed emotions. Girls around the room were watching with their mouths open, and the males were turning their heads. None of us would know what to say to a girl if this was ever said to our face. So Ron surprised everyone by making the next move.
Ron walked the few steps he had to take until he was body to body with Hermione. He tried to make her look him straight in the eyes, but she would only tilt her head slightly upward, looking at his torso rather than his blue orbs.
He pressed his forehead against her, and he could feel her warm breath against his chest. Her forehead was probably a bit damp, from something that looked a whole lot like sweat. Obviously screaming at Ron took a lot of effort of out her.
Hermione kept her face resolutely forward, not daring to give Ron the satisfaction of looking him in the eye. She had obviously meant what she said, and she wasn’t taking it back. Ron had caused her all too much heartache to forgive and forget so easily. He was going to pay for what he had done to her over the years they had been at Hogwarts. All the fighting, pointless arguments, ignoring Hermione, and hooking up with Lavender…yes, he was going to pay. I waited in anticipation, cramming another pasty into my mouth.
Ron kept his face pressed against hers, both breathing hard. Then, he questioned her. “Do you really mean that?”
There was something in his voice, I noticed. Something, as if he was daring her to say yes. Well, she could take up a dare. Hermione was a very brave girl, although sometimes a bit stupid as well.
“Yes.” It was simply said, but lacking something. I didn’t know what, but whatever it was, Ron seemed to already know.
“Prove it.”
“Just show me how.”
This must have been what he had been waiting for. Visually summoning all his inner Gryffindor courage, he bent down and slammed his lips against hers. This was his test. If she could pull away, then yes, she truly hated him. If she couldn’t…well, all the better for him. I wanted to cheer them on, but my mouth was full.
I could only imagine how kissing Hermione would be. I bet her lips were warm and soft, as if she rubbed rose petals over them. I’m sure he could taste the salt from her tears on them, and there was most likely another taste. I couldn’t place it, but it was what sweet things tasted like. A chocolate éclair, perhaps, or yet, maybe, a thick pumpkin pasty. Yes, that was it.
Suddenly, he seemed to notice that her arms had circled around his head, and were pulling him down into her. He wrapped his own two around her waist, picking her up off the ground and deepening the kiss. I’m betting he had never felt so much bliss in one simple action. But this, I recognized, was not simple at all. It had taken many years, many fights, and many tears to reach this point. And I’m sure Ron wouldn’t have had it any other way. Thank Merlin for pumpkin pasties, I thought, as their tongues began to dance.
I heard a very faint noise, somewhat like clapping and whistles, and I immediately joined in. But Ron paid the sound no mind. Neither did Hermione.
They didn’t notice galleons, sickles, and knuts being passed around them Common Room, either, and nor did they hear the Portrait Hole open and a voice that sounded a bit like Harry’s ask, “Umm…what’d I miss?”
Pumpkin pasties save the day, I thought, and pushed my twelfth one into my grinning mouth.
Passion, Pain, and Pumpkin Pasties by beauty and brains
Chapter Notes: A Note from Ashley: My second Ron and Hermione one-shot. The first one I wrote seemed to be on the sadder side of things, so I thought, “Hmm…why not write a funny one?” So here it is, the funny side of Hermione and Ron’s relationship beginnings. Hopefully you will find it just as hilarious as I did while writing it. Colin really took a hold of my mind! Again, the betas are the fabulous HarrynHermione_06 and the extraordinary Ron x Hermione, my fellow shipper!