Disclaimer: I wrote this fanfic and all I got was this stupid t-shirt. Actually... I got nothing.
A/N: Well, I'm usually a very passionate Dramione shipper. However, it was an online friend's birthday and she was so sick of reading all our dramione fics. So I made her this R/Hr fic, complete with romance, humour and fluff. Lots of fluff.
"Hey, love," he called cheerfully as he heard the door open and then slam shut with a loud thud.
There was no answer, but he knew fully well that his girlfriend had come home from work as promptly as ever. He glanced up and found that it really was 6:30 already. They both finished at five, but she – unlike him – always stayed an extra hour before she went grocery shopping, leaving him with one blissful hour and thirty wonderful minutes to slack on the couch in his boxers and Chudley Cannons t-shirt, happily munching on a sandwich from the shop around the corner.
He flipped the page in his issue of Which Broomstick when he heard her leave the groceries on the table, and he looked up to see her taking several items out of the bag with rushed movements.
"Hey, Hermione," he tried again giving a large grin. "How was work? Any new cases yet?"
He frowned deeply when she gave no response at all, even though he was certain she had heard him. There was, after all, no large distance between the kitchen counter and the living room couch in their medium sized flat in Muggle London; a flat he had miraculously learned to love, despite his scepticism from the moment they had entered the neighbourhood. Muggle appliances still unnerved him slightly. He never did get the hang of how they worked, especially not that bloody felephone or telephone or whatever it was they called it, though his father always was in heaven when they visited.
When she remained equally quiet, he rose from the couch, still wearing his boxers and his beloved t-shirt, and walked lazily up to the kitchen counter. He sat down on one of the tall barstools in front of it, and looked directly at her. When she continued to line grocery items up on the counter without giving him a second glance, he was really starting to get annoyed.
"In case you haven't noticed, I'm sitting right in front of you and I've been trying to talk to you since you came through the door," he said indignantly, watching her as she seemed completely unperturbed by his comment.
He tried to reach out for her, but she immediately pulled away, and he groaned dramatically.
"Oh, Merlin's pants, what on earth have I done now?" he cried.
She would never let him touch her - not even a pat on the shoulder – when she was mad at him, and she was most definitely pissed at him for some unknown reason. What had he done? He wrecked his brain as he watched her slamming the cupboard doors shut in anger, but couldn't for the life of him see what he had done. She had been perfectly chipper this morning, and had talked nonstop during breakfast. Then they had both left for work, and he had kissed her quickly before departing for Diagon Alley. What could he possibly have done between then and now? They hadn't even seen each other.
"Hermione, come on," he said calmly as he slid off the stool.
She continued to ignore him as he walked around the counter, but he was tired of her being mad at him for a reason he just couldn't comprehend. He gripped both of her shoulders and turned her towards him.
"What's wrong?" he inquired firmly, still holding her by the shoulders.
She just stared right ahead, her eyes about level with his mouth, and he gave a slight rattle of her shoulders.
"If you don't tell me, we can never deal with whatever it is you're bothered by," he told her, and had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. If she didn't start speaking to him soon he would go completely barmy. He absolutely hated when she did the silent treatment. Being ignored was something he loathed, and she knew that so well. That's probably why she ignored him in the first place.
"Like you even care what's bothering me," she suddenly spat, ripping herself out of his grip.
"Would I be standing here trying to talk to you if I didn't care?" he asked in frustration. "Tell me, hon."
"You want me to tell you?" she asked with a shrill laugh. "Alright, then. Anne got flowers, that's what bothers me!"
He blinked several times in astonishment, looking at his girlfriend as she stood there, breathing heavily with her arms crossed over her chest. All this because of flowers?!
"What... You... Flowers?!"
"They were delivered to my desk by mistake. I thought they were for me, Ron," she admitted, her lower lip suddenly trembling slightly. "But I guess that's too much to ask, right? Why would my boyfriend ever bother to show that he cares?"
This was not good. This was not good. It wasn't something he had done, it was what he had not done. And those things he hadn't done – he knew from experience – were always so much worse.
"Just leave me alone, Ron," she muttered sadly, striking past him.
"Don't go. Come on, you know how much I care," he sighed as he followed her down the hallway towards their bedroom. "You know how I feel."
"Yes, Ron, I know how you feel," she said as she turned towards him outside the bedroom door. "I do. But would it kill you to tell me once in a while?"
She put her hand on the handle and pushed her body against the door before slipping inside. When he was about to follow, it shut in his face and he ended up being sprawled out against it, his hands clenching angrily into fists before he sighed and relented.
"You know how I am," he shouted through the door. "I just don't express my feelings all that much. I don't see the need, since we all know they're there."
"I'm a girl, believe it or not. We like communication, we like to be appreciated," came her muffled reply. "And not just when you want a decent shag."
He had to stifle a laugh at that by reminding himself they were still in the midst of an argument, and it would probably not be appreciated under the circumstances.
"Don't you like being told you're a good Keeper once in a while? And don't you think it's nice when I say your hair looks good? Or that I think you're hot in those great jeans?" she suddenly asked, her voice so low now he suspected she was curled up under the covers. "Doesn't it feel good when I tell you that I love you?"
He winced. Of course it felt good to hear her say she loved him. It was all he had ever wanted her to do for years, and when she finally told him it was the happiest day of his life. She said it so genuinely, though, so effortlessly. Whenever he forced himself to say the words it felt so artificial, like something he said but couldn't quite attach a meaning to. It wasn't that he didn't feel it - cause he felt it so much he thought it was going to burst his heart in two sometimes. It was just that he didn't know how to make the feelings and the words string together.
"Hermione, let me in," he finally said in a hushed voice, not knowing what to reply.
"No. Just ... go. I want to be alone."
He groaned loudly and walked away from the door without another word. Swearing angrily under his breath he Accioed his clothes from the bathroom and threw them on carelessly. He stalked right over to the fire, his fingers finding the grey powder after a short search.
"Godric's Hollow," he called, dropping the powder to the ground and was immediately engulfed in a green sea of flames.
Ron found them sitting by their dinner table when he came to a halt right outside their fireplace, and the both of them looked up in curiosity of who their guest was.
"Oh hi, Ron," Ginny smiled, quickly returning her attention towards the gurgling James in his little baby seat by the table.
He watched as she refastened the bib and continued to feed him a very unappetizing goo from a small bowl.
"How is the little kid?" he asked then, allowing a smile onto his lips as James bounced excitedly in his chair.
"He's doing really well," Harry replied, giving his son one of those sickeningly adoring looks that somehow seemed to suit him. Maybe it was because Ron knew how much he deserved to have loved ones in his life that he got this impression. "So what's up? You look a bit out of sorts."
"A bit too much up," he grimaced in reply. "But you're eating. I can come back later."
"We just finished," his sister said, giving him a quick, reassuring glance. "This little guy is the only one stubborn enough to resist nutrition."
"Yeah, come on. Let's go upstairs," Harry said, ruffling up the small amount of hair his son sported. "Just leave the dishes, Gin, I'll do them later."
"Don't worry about them," she said, waving him off. "I happen to know magic, you know."
She gave him a warm smile as he narrowed his eyes at her, and once again waved them off towards the staircase. The two of them stalked out of the kitchen and walked in silence up towards that private little room Harry liked to call his own. Harry held the door open for him and he walked inside, practically throwing himself down in one of the large armchairs. In many ways it resembled the Gryffindor common room, and he had a feeling Harry had wanted to recreate just that.
"So what's up, mate?" Harry asked as he took the only vacant seat.
Ron watched as his best friend lit the fire with a small flick of the wand, feeling slightly hesitant about having this conversation.
"Hermione's mad at me," he admitted reluctantly.
"Er… yeah, what's new?" Harry answered dryly, his eyebrows raised questioningly.
"No, I mean really mad at me. She shut herself in our room and refused to come out."
"What on earth did you do?"
"Nothing," Ron groaned. "That's the problem."
"Oh please… don't tell me it's something you forgot to do."
Ron gave him a gloomy look in reply, and Harry put his head in his hands with a heavy sigh.
"Ron, are you some kind of beginner in this relationship thing? Whatever you do, don't forget to never forget what you're supposed to remember!"
"I know!" he cried desperately.
"NFR," Harry said intensely.
Ron rolled his eyes and gave no sign of wanting to reply.
"Say it," Harry urged. "NFR. Say it!"
"Never Forget to Remember," he muttered in annoyance. "I know that, Harry, but I didn't even know I was supposed to remember this thing."
"That complicates it a bit," Harry admitted.
"This girl from her office got flowers, but they were placed on Hermione's desk by a mistake, and she thought they were for her," he told gloomily, shaking his head in desperation. "She came home all in a fit and refused to even look at me."
"She's mad because the flowers weren't from you?"
"She says I don't appreciate her enough," he sighed, pulling a grimace at the thought. "I know what she wants, Harry. I know she wants the big romantic gestures, the grand declarations of love and – most importantly – for me to wear those dress robes she bought me. I hate dress robes, Harry, I hate them!"
"I doubt she wants the royal treatment, Ron."
"I just don't know how to express my feelings. Feelings are something I don't talk about. Why would I?"
"To keep your girlfriend?" Harry suggested helpfully.
"Right. Good one."
"To be honest, I don't think Hermione will stick around for long if you don't step it up. If she feels badly treated she's way too proud to stay in the relationship," Harry said, his large eyes taking in Ron's rather defeated posture. "You have to figure out how to make her happy, how to make her feel appreciated. You'll lose her, Ron."
"I don't even deserve her. I'm a lousy boyfriend," he muttered, staring down at the hands entwined in his lap.
"Being in a relationship isn't about deserving their love, it's about loving each other despite the fact that you don't deserve it," Harry mused, his eyes now fixed on the crackling fire. "But that means that you both have to contribute. If you just take her love, her affection, her appreciation and then never give anything back, your relationship isn't healthy."
"Do you tell Ginny you love her?"
"As often as I can without sounding like a sissy," he said as he looked up and smiled. "I've lost too many people in my life to start taking those I have left for granted."
When he walked through the doors at Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes the morning after, his entire right side was stiff, sore and generally aching from sleeping on the couch. Through all the arguments they had managed to have in their relationship, he had never slept on the couch. And he did not want to repeat it. He suspected it was a 'strictly-for-upright-purposes' couch.
"Morning, George," he called after stifling a yawn.
He proceeded up towards the desk where his older brother stood, shuffling through the large pile of orders they received on an almost daily basis.
"Morning, Fred," he said quietly, glancing up at the framed photograph of Fred, who waved and grinned before twirling around into a silly bow.
"Morning, little bro," George replied and tore his attention away from the stacks of orders. "Ah, still crushed by the Cannons losing last night, I see."
"The Cannons lost last night?" Ron exclaimed in horror, whipping around to face his brother.
He had completely forgotten about the Quidditch match in all the mess, and the news of the loss did nothing to help his spirits.
"You didn't know?" George asked incredulously. "I thought that's why you looked like someone stole your favourite broom."
"I'm fine," Ron muttered in reply, throwing one of the large awaiting boxes on the desk and began unloading the latest shipment.
"I may be emotionally crippled, but I'm far from blind. Spit it out."
Ron rolled his eyes and groaned heavily.
"Hermione's mad at me," he reluctantly admitted. "I spent the night on the bloody couch."
"What did you do?", George inquired after laughing happily at the prospect of his little brother sleeping on the couch.
"It's more what I didn't do."
"For Merlin's sake, Ron, please say you didn't forget," George exclaimed in horror.
"Kind of ..."
"NFR!" George cried desperately. "Merlin help us all, you must remember NFR!"
"Never Forget to Remember, I know," Ron cried back. "Hermione's mad because some other girl got flowers, and she thinks I don't appreciate her enough. I need to find some way to show her I care."
"Make her a nice dinner, instead of just waddling around the house in your disgusting boxers," George suggested dryly.
"It would never work. I'd burn the food, trip over the dress robes and ruin her precious china. All that's going to show her is how useless I am."
"Take dance lessons and surprise her with a spin around the living room floor."
"Did you even attend that disastrous Yule Ball? Dancing is not a good thing for Hermione and me. It reminds me of Krum."
George threw his hands up in defeat and shook his head.
"You're on your own. I can't help you when you're so incredibly inept at everything!"
Ron sighed in reply, not even bothering to deny the comment.
"Maybe I should give her this?" he said, holding up one of their new artefacts.
"Judging by the verbal abuse my dear brother and I endured during our finer Hogwarts years, I don't think the lovely Hermione is one to be swayed by joke items."
Ron groaned and threw the surprisingly soft item back in the box.
When he came home from work he did not follow his usual routine. He kept his trousers on, and did not change into his supporter T-shirt, nor did he sit down on the couch to splurge on a sandwich. It was a very rare occurrence, indeed. Instead, he kept pacing the living room floor, hoping for some epiphany as to how he could fix the situation with Hermione and how to fix it for good. If he gave her flowers tomorrow, she'd know it was because she told him about the flowers Anne got, and then after a few more months she would notice that he was still as inexpressive about his feelings as ever.
He sighed heavily and finally let himself fall down onto the couch, putting his head in his hands. There was definitely a headache coming on, and he still had to calculate the costs of the latest shipment for WWW. He began massaging his forehead with slow, deliberate circles, losing himself to a feeling of blissful numbness. Bloody feelings. They seemed to take over your brain, didn't they? There wasn't room for anything else, just the feelings, the analysis, of that which should not be analyzed, the questions… How did girls do this on a regular basis?
When he once again pressed his finger against his forehead tentatively, he heard low thuds repeatedly from the window of the flat. He looked up to find the rain hammering against the cool glass, sliding down as new drops mercilessly crashed against it. He got up from the couch and went to peer out the window, finding the streets soaked in water, people scurrying across the pavement to find shelter.
Hermione never Apparated home because it was a Muggle neighbourhood. There were too many wards on their flat to Apparate inside, and she always walked home – detouring to the grocery store – no matter what the weather was like. It had, however, been decent weather when she left this morning, and he had seen her run out in only her thin shirt. Glancing at the clock, he found it was still time to catch her, and he ran into the cupboard to find some cover from the rain.
Their old umbrella was hardly big enough to keep them both dry, but he charmed the inside of it to cover a bigger area, while the umbrella still looked quite normal for any passersby. He was out the door in a second, rain immediately drumming harmoniously against the umbrella overhead. Their neighbour, Mrs. Jennings, ran past him with a nod of her head as he strolled around the corner. He didn't want to Apparate, knowing how much it worried Hermione, and it was hardly ever possible in the busy Muggle area even if he felt tempted.
Still unscathed by the rain he glimpsed her at the end of the street he had eventually turned onto. She was standing as close to the wall as she could, obviously waiting the violent shower out. It seemed that she had been surprised, though, as her normally bushy hair hung in thin, wet curls around her shoulders and her coat was more or less completely soaked.
He smiled as he neared her, finding her appearance completely adorable.
"Ron?" she asked in shock, nervously pushing a wet curl behind her ear.
"Come on, let's go home," was all he replied.
When she remained standing, her eyes locked on him in surprise, he put his arm around her and guided her in under the magically enhanced umbrella. She stared up into the green and white striped ceiling of it, seeing the drops of rain slide gleefully down the side of it and onto the ground.
"What are you doing here?" she asked with large eyes.
"Saving you from the rain."
She just looked at him, her face glistening from the moist of the rain, and she appeared to be almost glowing. He kept his eyes on her, taking in her soaked appearance and wondered how she could look more beautiful than ever. It was as he studied her rain-soaked appearance – finding it oddly appealing – that it just came to him. It just hit him over the head like a well-aimed slap.
He moved his hand from her shoulder, up along her neck and let it grace her cheek softly.
"I love you."
She stopped walking immediately, her eyes wide with utter shock. Had he ever told her? He didn't think he had, but it had never felt heartfelt. Now he knew that you couldn't just force it out whenever you wanted to, you had to feel it at that exact moment, see it in every aspect of her – know it in the root of your soul. He sighed as her eyes watered, and reached up to dry the first tear to escape from the corner of her eye.
As she remained speechless, he put his arm back around her shoulders and guided her along the pathway. He looked over at her again and smiled. He couldn't believe he had put that smile on her face, made her glow with such obvious joy. If telling her he loved her could produce that sparkle in her eye, that skip in her step, he would tell her every chance he got.
A/N II: The idea was inspired by a King of Queens episode if anyone recognised it, by the way :)