Chapter Text
Hermione looked up from the case files she’d been engrossed in, only to realize that the sun had set long ago. She felt it in her bones, her achy joints, and muscles – she hadn’t moved in hours. She untangled her legs to stand and stretch, sighing in disappointment as she realized how fast the weekend had gone. Had she really forgotten to eat lunch and dinner? Hermione walked to her front door, towards the insistent knocking that had interrupted her focus. Whoever it was would have to be okay with her (hopefully unstained) oversized jumper and leggings. She opened the door and froze.
“Ron?” Her eyes widened at the smiling man in front of her. “What are you doing here?”
Hermione hadn’t seen or spoken to Ron in over a year. After they’d ended things for the last time after eight years together, he’d volunteered to take an undercover assignment with MACUSA’s DMLE. He’d told her he’d needed space. She’d told him it was extreme. He didn’t need to go all the way to the States for space, did he? Yet, with the same determination she’d known in him since they were eleven, he decided to take the assignment. His send-off brunch at the Burrow over a year ago was the last she’d seen him.
“‘Mione,” Ron said fondly, a grin plastered on his face. His arms were crossed, and his long, strong body leaned up against her door frame. Even with the addition of facial hair, his face looked as kind as it always had, and her heart warmed at the familiarity of it all.
When he extended his arms to her, it was as natural as ever for her to step into them. He was warm and smelled like the grass outside the Burrow. She melted into his embrace, burrowing her face into his chest. His hands embedded themselves in her curls. She remembered why, for years, it had always been Ron for her.
After an extended embrace, Hermione took a step back to look up at him. His eyes were bright, and the right side of his mouth lifted, looking as if he was trying his hardest to hold back a full-on smile. “I missed you,” he breathed.
Why did she feel his words in her chest? “Ron, I… I missed you, too.” She released him and took a few steps back, seeking the clarity that a little physical distance could provide. She gestured for him to enter and closed the door behind him.
Ron settled into her home with a familiarity she’d almost forgotten he’d had with her space - hanging his coat on the rack and rifling through her kitchen cupboards to start a pot of tea. She met his eyes when she heard him laugh. “Not too much has changed, then, has it?” he said, looking at the pile of case files she’d left on the armchair by the window. He didn’t say it with the same tone of annoyance she’d heard in their last year of dating when he complained about her overworking incessantly. This time, he said it with the same fondness he’d had in his eyes since she saw him on her doorstep.
“Yeah, you know me,” Hermione attempted to say brightly, to hold onto this lightness between them, “when I’m trying to solve a problem, it’s hard to put it down.”
“You wouldn’t be Hermione Granger, our Golden Girl, if that wasn’t the case.” The corners of his eyes crinkled, his expression teasing. Though his voice was kind, Hermione winced at the name she hated that the Prophet had given her years ago.
Ron put the kettle on the stove, set out two mugs on her kitchen table, and took a seat.
She eyed him with confusion— happiness and curiosity warring within her. “Ronald, not that it’s not a wonderful surprise to see you, but what are you doing here?” Hermione joined him at the table, fingers fidgeting with the mug he’d placed in front of her. ”When did you get back from the States?”
“Mione, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you weren’t excited to see me.” He said, tone playful. His smirk had her appreciating the minute ways he’d seemed to change over the last months. His skin had become more golden, his facial hair grown out into a beard, his body strong. He looked like he’d done well for himself.
“Of course I’m excited to see you!” She meant it. “This is just unexpected.” Her eyes roved his face, continuing to pick up the minute differences in his appearance. Fine lines appeared in the areas around his eyes and mouth. His beard was peppered with grey. Those hadn’t been there before, had they?
His eyes were locked on her face as hers explored his. “I see the questions burning behind your eyes, Mione.” He said, laughing. “Please, ask away.”
“I… your face, your hair? You look good… but you look….”
“Older?” Ron finished, smirking, interjecting with what she was trying, but failing to say.
“Yes.” Her cheeks heated with how badly she seemed to be hiding her appreciation for his changed appearance. “Older than you should look after just one year apart. Older than you should look at twenty-two.”
He smiled. “You’re so quick. And I tried my hardest to glamour the most obvious of the signs away. I haven’t been here more than ten minutes and you’ve already clocked me. Yes, Mione. I’m…” He looked away, for the first time displaying uncertainty in his expression and in the way he held himself. He ran his hands through his hair and blew out a sharp breath. “I’m forty-one right now, actually.”
Hermione said nothing for a few long moments, sure she’d misheard him.
“I... forty-one? Is that a joke? Funny, Ronald.” She forced a laugh. She paused to look at him. He said nothing– just looked out the window behind her and ran his hands up and down his pant legs. The serious look in his eyes told her it was far from a joke. The longer he said nothing, the more confused and concerned she grew. “Erm… are you not going to elaborate? I need more information.”
“Right.” Ron exhaled sharply and stood to retrieve the squealing kettle on the stove. He opened her tea cupboard again and continued the familiar motions of making her nighttime favorite, chamomile. “Well, it’s a long story, so let’s at least get settled in.”
He poured the steaming liquid into the cups in front of them and spooned the herbal blend into the metal sachets, working slowly and deliberately, seemingly deep in thought. He was contemplating his words before he opened his mouth, showing a maturity she hadn’t known in the Ron that’d left England just over a year ago.
When their tea was ready, steaming and fragrant on the table before them, he sat back down, pulling his chair closer to the table. He leaned back and with bright, but hesitant eyes asked, “Where should we begin?