By: HF
Site: www.ontheqt.org
Pairings: R/Hr.
Warnings: None, really
WESAN CONTENDERE
Ron couldn't get to sleep. He had tried, as best he could, to ignore some of the major contributing factors: the ghost in the attic that kept dropping things and muttering in a voice just loud enough to be heard, the fact that his bed was about four inches too short for his body, the closeness of the summer air because his mother had loudly refused to perform a Cooling Incantation ("Frigescit!" was all she needed to say, he reflected irritably.) It was all those things and the fact that he was going to be married tomorrow - yes, he was sure that had something to do with it.
Hermione, he reflected as he turned over for the thousandth time in another failed attempt to get comfortable, was probably sound asleep. She had probably rehearsed her vows backwards *and* forwards, just in case she was expected to say them both ways. Everything would be laid out neatly in her bedroom - he had a very clear picture of this, for some reason - with everything labeled and ready for instant use. She would have two of something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. Ron remembered the rehearsal dinner (something Hermione's parents had insisted on doing - it was a sadistic Muggle custom apparently, but it involved food, and that was all the justification Ron needed), when his mother and Hermione's had compared wedding-day trauma and the inevitable forgetting of One Important Thing. Hermione had looked on as the two women sympathized with each other, an expression on her face that clearly indicated *she* would not repeat the previous generation's mistakes.
For his part, though, Ron was not so sure. He had rehearsed his own vows but his mind kept sticking at critical places - then he would remember the words he'd forgotten, repeat the vow, only to then forget something else. He had the horrible feeling that Pigwidgeon, who had a deep fascination for shiny things, was going to dig up the wedding rings from where Ron had carefully hidden them (in the velvet box in the pocket of his jacket.) Somehow, he was missing one of his lucky socks, and he *had* to have those socks tomorrow. There was no discussion about it. He *needed* those socks.
"Urrgh..." Just thinking about tomorrow... no, *today*, Ron realized dully as he stared at the brightly illuminated face of the clock on his wall, reading the words "Wedding in fourteen hours!" with dread clutching at his stomach. Finally, surrendering to his inability to fall asleep, Ron swung his legs over the side of his bed and got up, taking his wand from the bedside table. If nothing else, maybe he could go up to the attic and work on getting that idiot ghost to shut up. That would tire him out. Hopefully.
Sighing, he trudged up the twisty staircase to the trapdoor leading to the attic. More out of sleepy reflex than actual thought, he tapped on the door with his index finger and whispered, "Unleac." Not for the first time, he wondered what had possessed whichever long-gone Weasley it was who'd picked some bizarre password to unlock the attic door, and had successfully barricaded the door against the alohomora unlocking charm - it wasn't like his family had anything valuable to hide away up here, after all.
The door swung open politely and Ron poked his head up into the attic, on his guard lest the ghost decide to swoop in and pelt him with missiles straight off He paused, but in surprise, as he saw the source of the thumping and muttering was *not* the ghost - the ghost was, in fact, nowhere in sight - but his father, bent over a small trunk.
Carefully, Ron picked his way through the piles of stuff that had accumulated in the Burrow during a few hundred years of Weasley residence: various bits and pieces of dishware and pottery, rugs (some charmed and some not), huge agrippas made out of human skin, chained to the rafters of the house to keep them from flying around and shrieking, a dusty and very dirty set of vials and beakers that looked about three hundred years old. No huge sacks of Galleons or valuable paintings... nope, just junk his family had hoarded probably ever since they *were* Weasleys. He sighed in resignation, and wondered for the thousandth time why Hermione was marrying him. What was she going to get? A half-broke starter apartment filled with stuff he'd inherited from Percy.
"Oh, Ron!" His father looked up, his green eyes shadowed a bit by the uncertain light of the candle next to him, and by a little bit of exhaustion. He offered his son a grin, though, and said, "What're you doing up at this time of night?"
"Couldn't sleep," Ron grunted, sitting down on a small patch of floor his father had cleared off for him. He surveyed the mountain of odds-and-ends, and was startled to realize that most of it was from the small trunk sitting before his father. Amazed even through the clinging layer of sleepiness, he watched as his father pulled out something large, square, and flat, and blew imaginary dust off of it.
"I got this from Gaius de Brent - you know, the Director for the Department of Magical Development - for my birthday one year, right when I first joined up with the Ministry, fresh out of Hogwarts." Mr. Weasley's voice and expression took on a dangerously nostalgic tone, but he snapped out of his reverie and continued: "He knew how much I like Muggle stuff and thought this would make a nice present. He even charmed it to make the pictures move." Arthur Weasley held up the object for his son's edification.
Ron took it, and watched as four oddly dressed men (oddly dressed men for Muggles, even) cavorted across a busy intersection. The man in front, wearing the most bizarre all-white suit Ron had ever seen, was busy turning cartwheels while two other men, one of them barefoot, began to waltz, and the fourth stopped, proceeded to (Ron couldn't *believe* he was watching this) strip down to his underwear and ran shrieking across the street.
Above the picture, which was now vacated of the four oddly dressed men, was the legend ABBEY ROAD.
"Look." Mr. Weasley took back the picture, fiddled around with it a moment, and then pulled out a flat and shiny black disk. "Gaius told me that this holds Muggle music," he explained, "but I never figured out how to listen to it - apparently, there's this special device that they use to get the music out of it, but I haven't been able to find one. Oh, well... I do feel sorry for those four poor fellows, though, having to run back and forth across that intersection all the time. They take a break every now and then, though, and once that barefoot man almost got hit by a Muggle car..."
Shrugging, Mr. Weasley turned away and began to rummage through the trunk once more. Judging from the piles surrounding him, the trunk was enchanted to hold far more than it appeared capable of holding - it was the only trunk in the attic, and there were mounds of things cluttering the space, which were probably things some Weasley was too lazy to put in the trunk himself. Ron could hear the ghoul moving around somewhere in the nearby rafters, sulkily clanking his chains together. Even though he loved to harass and annoy Ron, the ghoul had a healthy respect for the elder Weasleys.
After a moment of aimless searching, Mr. Weasley produced another large object shaped like a shield. With a start, Ron realized it *was* a shield, although tiny and made of wood that wouldn't have stopped a determined woodpecker, let alone a sword, and painted in bright colors that shone like new. The shield was *not* new, though - he could tell that almost instantly: it gave off an impression of very great age, centuries and centuries old. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch it, and the impression was confirmed.
"It's been preserved with a Longlife spell," his father confirmed, reaching over to bring the small candle closer to him so Ron could see the shield more clearly. "This has been in the Weasley family almost ever since there *was* a Weasley family." There was no mistaking the pride in his voice. "It's our coat of arms."
The light from the candle glittered on a bright green field, still as brilliant as emerald despite the centuries, and on the gold bend sinister emblazoned across it. Over both field and bend, a large red creature stalked, glaring horribly out at Ron, a paw raised intimidatingly. Written underneath the creature in bold black script that stood out even against the gold were the words WESAN CONTENDERE.
"Go ahead," his father urged. "Take it."
Ron, slightly leery of handling what was obviously a delicate and precious object, reluctantly took the shield, balancing it on his knees as he studied it. He couldn't believe how *old* this thing was - Hermione would have a heart attack and die of rapture if she ever saw it - and how important. It was a confirmation of what his parents had told him ever since he was a little kid, although considering their borderline poverty, he hadn't placed much faith in their words: that their family was an *old* family. An old wizarding family.
"Older than the Malfoys and their lot," Mr. Weasley said proudly. "They can only trace their lineage back five hundred years to some very distant descendant of Slytherin himself - and even then, Ministry historians think it was some illegitimate cousin twice removed, or something like that. But we, on the other hand..." He paused, evidently about to go off on a Weasley rallying cry, and Ron felt the suddenly keen pressing of his father's gaze upon him. He turned, nervous, and saw his father staring at him with a determined expression in his eyes.
"This is important," his father said in a very low voice, as if imparting the deepest secrets of the world. "The Weasley family is very old - we were students at Hogwarts practically right from the bat. We've lived in England probably since there were people to live in England at all, and keep records of it. We've lived in Devonshire almost that long. Beorhtnoth Weslic - he was the first Weasley we know of, in 950, and he kept records of the family throughout his life. They're all in here, too, right down to the present day." A wave of his hand indicated the trunk.
Ron's father turned to him, suddenly intense. "I know you've taken a lot of flak from Malfoy and his crowd because you come from a poor family, and I know you've always resented getting all of Percy and Bill's old hand-me-downs and your books from the Used Section of Flourish and Blotts." Ron tried to say that he hadn't resented it, and that his father shouldn't sound like it was his fault, but Mr. Weasley waved him to silence. "Your mother and I wished every day - we *still* wish - that we could have given you a better life, not one made up of someone's secondhand spellbooks. But all we can give you, other than our love, is a good name, and in our world, that counts for a lot."
His throat was inexplicably tight, and Ron had to fight from clutching the small shield in a death grip. There really wasn't anything he could say - at least, nothing that would get past the knot of guilt and self-hatred that had knotted itself around his vocal cords. He remembered very clearly thousands of little instances of petty complaints about worn books, that awful magenta robe (although he was justified in that), Scabbers, his old broom, getting stuck with the room that had the family ghoul above it, hand-knitted maroon sweaters.
"During the first war, when you were very little," his father said, so quietly Ron had to strain to hear him, "I was... gone a lot of the time. Ministry business with Albus, mostly. Your mother stayed with all of you, even when she was pregnant with Ginny. We had so many wards up around this house, I don't think a mouse could have gotten through - " He paused, and Ron could tell he was thinking about Scabbers/Peter Pettigrew. "But you know, I think that your mum was tougher than any of them. She would have died to save all of you, and I know that she would have taken down anyone who'd tried to hurt her family.
"A lot of people criticized us for having children during a time when Voldemort might show up on anyone's doorstep, and maybe they were right - so many people died, and some of them were parents. Some were just kids, your age." Ron's breath caught and he looked away, overcome for a moment, but Arthur Weasley kept talking: "It's a hard thing to hear, Ron, but it's true. And it's also true that your mum and I didn't listen to any one of them. It wasn't because we weren't being careful, or that we didn't care, but it was because we believed in our love for each other, and knew that whatever happened, we'd find a way to win in the end. And that's what this means."
"What?"
His father's finger traced the words just beneath the crest. "Wesan contendere," he said. "It's just two ways of saying the same thing, really, in Old English and Latin. 'To strive and to contend' is about the long and short of it. And that's why we got through the war with our family intact - because I decided I wouldn't let Voldemort split us up, no matter what. And your mum, well, she just happened to agree."
"I wish... I wish I could remember that time," Ron confided softly. This was something he hadn't even told Hermione, for fear of being told he was being ridiculous. Not that Hermione would say it, but he was frightened of it nonetheless. How could she understand? The closest he'd gotten to really hearing about that terrible time was from Bill and Charlie, who were old enough to remember it very clearly, and who never talked about it.
"In a way, you're very lucky you don't," his father said. "But even if you did... somehow, I don't think you would be any different from what you are today."
"What?" Ron stared at his father, completely bewildered. "How?"
Arthur Weasley smiled and embraced his son awkwardly - awkwardly mostly because of their cumbersome position on the floor. "Because you're a Weasley, son, and you're a decent human being. There's something in you... I can't describe it..." And now it was his father's voice that was tight. "But the way you've stood by Harry all these years, and the way you always stood up for Hermione when the Malfoys were going on about that pureblood business. I know it's been hard, with your older brothers having done so well, but really... You've carved out your on life, and you've done it on the strength of your own character. A father can't ask for any more than that."
Ron shifted in his father's arms, uncomfortable with the praise. He thought, for a wild moment, that it was definitely undeserved. There were times, usually very late at night when the war had him worried and he couldn't sleep, that he thought Hermione was with him because he was her best option in a world gone upside down. That he stayed with Harry because he knew he couldn't live with himself if something happened to his best friend and he wasn't around to either try to prevent it or die with him. That was his own private, evil little voice and he hated it very much - it was soft, but insidious, and it seemed no matter how many times Hermione told him she loved him, or Harry said thanks for being there... that voice was always there with its doubts and insinuations.
"And here you are," Arthur Weasley said, very quietly but firmly, firmly enough to drive away that voice. "You're getting married, because you and Hermione decided that Voldemort won't stop *you* from being happy. That'll be a sore blow to him, I expect, having two people he's tried to kill be united in love. And even then... you with your Auror work and Hermione's arithmantic codebreaking for the Department of Mysteries... You'll do well, both of you. We'll *all* do well."
Silently, Ron marveled at the confidence in his father's voice. It was a far cry from the slightly goofy, Muggle-infatuated, distracted man he called his father. This man, his father, had helped Dumbledore win the first war against Voldemort. He would help him win the second, too. Ron didn't doubt that for a minute.
"But," his father said after a silent moment, "you will have to promise me one thing, Ron."
"Anything, Dad."
"You *will* be careful."
"I will, Dad. Always am."
"And clean socks. *Always* wear clean socks."
"Yes, Dad."
"And never give up."
"Never will, Dad."
THE END
Notes:
1.) On the title: 'wesan contendere' is, as Arthur says, two ways of saying about the same thing. One meaning of 'wesan' in Anglo-Saxon is 'to strive against or contend with', although its most common usage is as 'to be or exist.' Contendere is Latin and means, obviously, 'to contend.'
2.) I've always liked the thought of the Weasleys being a *very* old family. Given what we know of wizarding ages, I figure being an 'old' wizarding family in Britain would mean having a family record that goes back at *least* to just before the Norman Conquest.
Site: www.ontheqt.org
Pairings: R/Hr.
Warnings: None, really
WESAN CONTENDERE
Ron couldn't get to sleep. He had tried, as best he could, to ignore some of the major contributing factors: the ghost in the attic that kept dropping things and muttering in a voice just loud enough to be heard, the fact that his bed was about four inches too short for his body, the closeness of the summer air because his mother had loudly refused to perform a Cooling Incantation ("Frigescit!" was all she needed to say, he reflected irritably.) It was all those things and the fact that he was going to be married tomorrow - yes, he was sure that had something to do with it.
Hermione, he reflected as he turned over for the thousandth time in another failed attempt to get comfortable, was probably sound asleep. She had probably rehearsed her vows backwards *and* forwards, just in case she was expected to say them both ways. Everything would be laid out neatly in her bedroom - he had a very clear picture of this, for some reason - with everything labeled and ready for instant use. She would have two of something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. Ron remembered the rehearsal dinner (something Hermione's parents had insisted on doing - it was a sadistic Muggle custom apparently, but it involved food, and that was all the justification Ron needed), when his mother and Hermione's had compared wedding-day trauma and the inevitable forgetting of One Important Thing. Hermione had looked on as the two women sympathized with each other, an expression on her face that clearly indicated *she* would not repeat the previous generation's mistakes.
For his part, though, Ron was not so sure. He had rehearsed his own vows but his mind kept sticking at critical places - then he would remember the words he'd forgotten, repeat the vow, only to then forget something else. He had the horrible feeling that Pigwidgeon, who had a deep fascination for shiny things, was going to dig up the wedding rings from where Ron had carefully hidden them (in the velvet box in the pocket of his jacket.) Somehow, he was missing one of his lucky socks, and he *had* to have those socks tomorrow. There was no discussion about it. He *needed* those socks.
"Urrgh..." Just thinking about tomorrow... no, *today*, Ron realized dully as he stared at the brightly illuminated face of the clock on his wall, reading the words "Wedding in fourteen hours!" with dread clutching at his stomach. Finally, surrendering to his inability to fall asleep, Ron swung his legs over the side of his bed and got up, taking his wand from the bedside table. If nothing else, maybe he could go up to the attic and work on getting that idiot ghost to shut up. That would tire him out. Hopefully.
Sighing, he trudged up the twisty staircase to the trapdoor leading to the attic. More out of sleepy reflex than actual thought, he tapped on the door with his index finger and whispered, "Unleac." Not for the first time, he wondered what had possessed whichever long-gone Weasley it was who'd picked some bizarre password to unlock the attic door, and had successfully barricaded the door against the alohomora unlocking charm - it wasn't like his family had anything valuable to hide away up here, after all.
The door swung open politely and Ron poked his head up into the attic, on his guard lest the ghost decide to swoop in and pelt him with missiles straight off He paused, but in surprise, as he saw the source of the thumping and muttering was *not* the ghost - the ghost was, in fact, nowhere in sight - but his father, bent over a small trunk.
Carefully, Ron picked his way through the piles of stuff that had accumulated in the Burrow during a few hundred years of Weasley residence: various bits and pieces of dishware and pottery, rugs (some charmed and some not), huge agrippas made out of human skin, chained to the rafters of the house to keep them from flying around and shrieking, a dusty and very dirty set of vials and beakers that looked about three hundred years old. No huge sacks of Galleons or valuable paintings... nope, just junk his family had hoarded probably ever since they *were* Weasleys. He sighed in resignation, and wondered for the thousandth time why Hermione was marrying him. What was she going to get? A half-broke starter apartment filled with stuff he'd inherited from Percy.
"Oh, Ron!" His father looked up, his green eyes shadowed a bit by the uncertain light of the candle next to him, and by a little bit of exhaustion. He offered his son a grin, though, and said, "What're you doing up at this time of night?"
"Couldn't sleep," Ron grunted, sitting down on a small patch of floor his father had cleared off for him. He surveyed the mountain of odds-and-ends, and was startled to realize that most of it was from the small trunk sitting before his father. Amazed even through the clinging layer of sleepiness, he watched as his father pulled out something large, square, and flat, and blew imaginary dust off of it.
"I got this from Gaius de Brent - you know, the Director for the Department of Magical Development - for my birthday one year, right when I first joined up with the Ministry, fresh out of Hogwarts." Mr. Weasley's voice and expression took on a dangerously nostalgic tone, but he snapped out of his reverie and continued: "He knew how much I like Muggle stuff and thought this would make a nice present. He even charmed it to make the pictures move." Arthur Weasley held up the object for his son's edification.
Ron took it, and watched as four oddly dressed men (oddly dressed men for Muggles, even) cavorted across a busy intersection. The man in front, wearing the most bizarre all-white suit Ron had ever seen, was busy turning cartwheels while two other men, one of them barefoot, began to waltz, and the fourth stopped, proceeded to (Ron couldn't *believe* he was watching this) strip down to his underwear and ran shrieking across the street.
Above the picture, which was now vacated of the four oddly dressed men, was the legend ABBEY ROAD.
"Look." Mr. Weasley took back the picture, fiddled around with it a moment, and then pulled out a flat and shiny black disk. "Gaius told me that this holds Muggle music," he explained, "but I never figured out how to listen to it - apparently, there's this special device that they use to get the music out of it, but I haven't been able to find one. Oh, well... I do feel sorry for those four poor fellows, though, having to run back and forth across that intersection all the time. They take a break every now and then, though, and once that barefoot man almost got hit by a Muggle car..."
Shrugging, Mr. Weasley turned away and began to rummage through the trunk once more. Judging from the piles surrounding him, the trunk was enchanted to hold far more than it appeared capable of holding - it was the only trunk in the attic, and there were mounds of things cluttering the space, which were probably things some Weasley was too lazy to put in the trunk himself. Ron could hear the ghoul moving around somewhere in the nearby rafters, sulkily clanking his chains together. Even though he loved to harass and annoy Ron, the ghoul had a healthy respect for the elder Weasleys.
After a moment of aimless searching, Mr. Weasley produced another large object shaped like a shield. With a start, Ron realized it *was* a shield, although tiny and made of wood that wouldn't have stopped a determined woodpecker, let alone a sword, and painted in bright colors that shone like new. The shield was *not* new, though - he could tell that almost instantly: it gave off an impression of very great age, centuries and centuries old. Hesitantly, he reached out to touch it, and the impression was confirmed.
"It's been preserved with a Longlife spell," his father confirmed, reaching over to bring the small candle closer to him so Ron could see the shield more clearly. "This has been in the Weasley family almost ever since there *was* a Weasley family." There was no mistaking the pride in his voice. "It's our coat of arms."
The light from the candle glittered on a bright green field, still as brilliant as emerald despite the centuries, and on the gold bend sinister emblazoned across it. Over both field and bend, a large red creature stalked, glaring horribly out at Ron, a paw raised intimidatingly. Written underneath the creature in bold black script that stood out even against the gold were the words WESAN CONTENDERE.
"Go ahead," his father urged. "Take it."
Ron, slightly leery of handling what was obviously a delicate and precious object, reluctantly took the shield, balancing it on his knees as he studied it. He couldn't believe how *old* this thing was - Hermione would have a heart attack and die of rapture if she ever saw it - and how important. It was a confirmation of what his parents had told him ever since he was a little kid, although considering their borderline poverty, he hadn't placed much faith in their words: that their family was an *old* family. An old wizarding family.
"Older than the Malfoys and their lot," Mr. Weasley said proudly. "They can only trace their lineage back five hundred years to some very distant descendant of Slytherin himself - and even then, Ministry historians think it was some illegitimate cousin twice removed, or something like that. But we, on the other hand..." He paused, evidently about to go off on a Weasley rallying cry, and Ron felt the suddenly keen pressing of his father's gaze upon him. He turned, nervous, and saw his father staring at him with a determined expression in his eyes.
"This is important," his father said in a very low voice, as if imparting the deepest secrets of the world. "The Weasley family is very old - we were students at Hogwarts practically right from the bat. We've lived in England probably since there were people to live in England at all, and keep records of it. We've lived in Devonshire almost that long. Beorhtnoth Weslic - he was the first Weasley we know of, in 950, and he kept records of the family throughout his life. They're all in here, too, right down to the present day." A wave of his hand indicated the trunk.
Ron's father turned to him, suddenly intense. "I know you've taken a lot of flak from Malfoy and his crowd because you come from a poor family, and I know you've always resented getting all of Percy and Bill's old hand-me-downs and your books from the Used Section of Flourish and Blotts." Ron tried to say that he hadn't resented it, and that his father shouldn't sound like it was his fault, but Mr. Weasley waved him to silence. "Your mother and I wished every day - we *still* wish - that we could have given you a better life, not one made up of someone's secondhand spellbooks. But all we can give you, other than our love, is a good name, and in our world, that counts for a lot."
His throat was inexplicably tight, and Ron had to fight from clutching the small shield in a death grip. There really wasn't anything he could say - at least, nothing that would get past the knot of guilt and self-hatred that had knotted itself around his vocal cords. He remembered very clearly thousands of little instances of petty complaints about worn books, that awful magenta robe (although he was justified in that), Scabbers, his old broom, getting stuck with the room that had the family ghoul above it, hand-knitted maroon sweaters.
"During the first war, when you were very little," his father said, so quietly Ron had to strain to hear him, "I was... gone a lot of the time. Ministry business with Albus, mostly. Your mother stayed with all of you, even when she was pregnant with Ginny. We had so many wards up around this house, I don't think a mouse could have gotten through - " He paused, and Ron could tell he was thinking about Scabbers/Peter Pettigrew. "But you know, I think that your mum was tougher than any of them. She would have died to save all of you, and I know that she would have taken down anyone who'd tried to hurt her family.
"A lot of people criticized us for having children during a time when Voldemort might show up on anyone's doorstep, and maybe they were right - so many people died, and some of them were parents. Some were just kids, your age." Ron's breath caught and he looked away, overcome for a moment, but Arthur Weasley kept talking: "It's a hard thing to hear, Ron, but it's true. And it's also true that your mum and I didn't listen to any one of them. It wasn't because we weren't being careful, or that we didn't care, but it was because we believed in our love for each other, and knew that whatever happened, we'd find a way to win in the end. And that's what this means."
"What?"
His father's finger traced the words just beneath the crest. "Wesan contendere," he said. "It's just two ways of saying the same thing, really, in Old English and Latin. 'To strive and to contend' is about the long and short of it. And that's why we got through the war with our family intact - because I decided I wouldn't let Voldemort split us up, no matter what. And your mum, well, she just happened to agree."
"I wish... I wish I could remember that time," Ron confided softly. This was something he hadn't even told Hermione, for fear of being told he was being ridiculous. Not that Hermione would say it, but he was frightened of it nonetheless. How could she understand? The closest he'd gotten to really hearing about that terrible time was from Bill and Charlie, who were old enough to remember it very clearly, and who never talked about it.
"In a way, you're very lucky you don't," his father said. "But even if you did... somehow, I don't think you would be any different from what you are today."
"What?" Ron stared at his father, completely bewildered. "How?"
Arthur Weasley smiled and embraced his son awkwardly - awkwardly mostly because of their cumbersome position on the floor. "Because you're a Weasley, son, and you're a decent human being. There's something in you... I can't describe it..." And now it was his father's voice that was tight. "But the way you've stood by Harry all these years, and the way you always stood up for Hermione when the Malfoys were going on about that pureblood business. I know it's been hard, with your older brothers having done so well, but really... You've carved out your on life, and you've done it on the strength of your own character. A father can't ask for any more than that."
Ron shifted in his father's arms, uncomfortable with the praise. He thought, for a wild moment, that it was definitely undeserved. There were times, usually very late at night when the war had him worried and he couldn't sleep, that he thought Hermione was with him because he was her best option in a world gone upside down. That he stayed with Harry because he knew he couldn't live with himself if something happened to his best friend and he wasn't around to either try to prevent it or die with him. That was his own private, evil little voice and he hated it very much - it was soft, but insidious, and it seemed no matter how many times Hermione told him she loved him, or Harry said thanks for being there... that voice was always there with its doubts and insinuations.
"And here you are," Arthur Weasley said, very quietly but firmly, firmly enough to drive away that voice. "You're getting married, because you and Hermione decided that Voldemort won't stop *you* from being happy. That'll be a sore blow to him, I expect, having two people he's tried to kill be united in love. And even then... you with your Auror work and Hermione's arithmantic codebreaking for the Department of Mysteries... You'll do well, both of you. We'll *all* do well."
Silently, Ron marveled at the confidence in his father's voice. It was a far cry from the slightly goofy, Muggle-infatuated, distracted man he called his father. This man, his father, had helped Dumbledore win the first war against Voldemort. He would help him win the second, too. Ron didn't doubt that for a minute.
"But," his father said after a silent moment, "you will have to promise me one thing, Ron."
"Anything, Dad."
"You *will* be careful."
"I will, Dad. Always am."
"And clean socks. *Always* wear clean socks."
"Yes, Dad."
"And never give up."
"Never will, Dad."
THE END
Notes:
1.) On the title: 'wesan contendere' is, as Arthur says, two ways of saying about the same thing. One meaning of 'wesan' in Anglo-Saxon is 'to strive against or contend with', although its most common usage is as 'to be or exist.' Contendere is Latin and means, obviously, 'to contend.'
2.) I've always liked the thought of the Weasleys being a *very* old family. Given what we know of wizarding ages, I figure being an 'old' wizarding family in Britain would mean having a family record that goes back at *least* to just before the Norman Conquest.