Archive of Our Own

To: antosha_c
From: Your Secret Santa

Title: Time and Turn Enough
Author: pocketfullof
Pairing: Ron/Pansy
Summary: Ron finds what he needs in the most unlikely place.
Rating: NC-17
Author's notes: Firstly, thanks to all the lovely help from my betas for their grammar and British fu. Secondly, thanks to r_becca for yet again running this spectacular exchange. Finally, for Antosha. I was so very pleased to see your name as my recipient. I hope you enjoy this! Happy holidays!

Archiving: Originally posted here.

Summer

Ron likes summer best. Summer is sun-drenched skin, dry mouth, hot days and humid nights. Summer makes slugging back sticky condensed pints of beer smooth and easy. Falling into bed exhausted happens more regularly when he's spent all day sweating under the hot sun. He sleeps better. Summer makes it easier to forget.

On his way out the door, he stumbles past a couple. Earnest eyes smile up at him. With just one look, he can see they're in that new stage of love, all loose jointed confidence, tingly skin and wide, involuntary smiles. The girl has brown hair. Ron turns his eyes away and frowns. From the alley, he Apparates home on shaky legs.

He's at the pub again.

Today hadn't been so bad, all things considered, but there's a constant pit in his stomach that never subsides; this makes it easier. He sleeps easier when he can fall into bed in a haze.

"The assignment's pretty simple," Harry had said earlier this afternoon, throwing a file down on the desk in front of Ron. "But it's too important to let just anyone take it."

Ron'd given a humourless smile at that. He knew when he was being handled with kid gloves, but he stayed quiet.

Harry had continued on. "We've tasked four others, who you'll be in charge of, to stay with her at all times. They'll be on rotating shifts, eight hours each." He'd hesitated for a moment. "She's been... a bit difficult."

Ron had snorted. "I'm shocked to hear that," he'd said, meeting Harry's eyes, which crinkled in amusement.

Good day or not, this still makes it easier. It's easier still stopping in on his way home than constantly drinking in front of the kids. Hugo might still be young enough that Ron can get away with it, but Ron notices Rose's eyes on him more and more. He sees the questions and the concerns there, and his eldest is very much like her mother, sharp and attentive. Sometimes he thinks life will be easier when the two of them go off to school in September. And then he feels so guilty he thinks he might cry with it.

His first assignment in over six months. If Ron was up for it, he might have resisted on this one. He's not stupid; he knows this assignment could be given to someone much younger and with much less experience. Maybe he should be insulted that he's not trusted with anything strenuous or important, not anymore. If he were twenty years younger he might be. Now, he mostly can't muster up the conviction to care.

When he leaves the pub, it's on shaky legs. On his way to a secluded alley, he passes a bookshop and stops for just a moment, peering inside. It's empty. He presses his hand against the cool, smooth glass.

Nearly twenty years as an Auror and a stake in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes has ensured he's no longer a poor man. He's a respected member of society, has a lovely home and two beautiful children and his face on a Chocolate Frog card, and all it takes is one glance at Pansy Richmond (nee Parkinson) to make him feel resentful and underappreciated again.

All in all, she doesn't look much different -- still has the pug nose and glossy black hair, small calculating eyes and a trim body that suggests she's never had any children of her own.

Still pale to the point of distraction, she looks at him as if he's invisible and he can't help but feel a wave of misplaced nostalgia. There's something about her, though, calculating eyes or not, that suggests life hasn't been quite as happy since she left school. There are circles under her eyes and the downward pull of her mouth. Loneliness. It's something he recognises easily enough.

It's a warm evening; the windows are open and cast with a charm suggesting nothing but a ruined interior lies inside. Most who come to a pub after work are here with coworkers or friends, jubilant and excited. Those who are alone stick out like abandoned sore thumbs.

Ron gets it. Blessed as he's been, he still gets it.

She smiles right through him as if he's transparent. "Weasley," she says once, when her eyes finally focus. He nods in acknowledgement.

He glances at the clock and signals the barman. It's still light outside. He has time enough for one more pint before he heads home.

"Dad," Rose says. Her eyes are bright brown and he tries not to flinch when he meets them. She's been spending a lot of time with Harry and Ginny these past few months.

"What is it, Rosie?" he asks.

She's got a halo of red hair that never quite stays tamed. It shifts as she moves quickly around the room. "I made you dinner."

Ron sniffs. "Smells good," he admits. "Thank you. Where's your brother?"

"In his room."

"Go and get 'im. We'll eat together, if you want."

Rose's eyebrows scrunch together. Ron can't force himself to stare at her anymore. "Actually, Dad, Hugo and I ate already."

Ron's startled to see the clock on the wall claims it's after seven o'clock. He stayed at the pub longer than expected. Before he can say anything, Rose continues, "Hugo's packing to stay at Aunt Ginny's tonight, like you promised on Wednesday, and I'm going to spend the night at Lizzy's." She pauses. "If that's okay," she adds, like it's an afterthought.

Ron doesn't let himself sigh in relief. He nods before remembering to ask if Lizzy's parents are home; he is still responsible for his daughter and she's only fourteen years old, despite her self-sufficiency.

Hugo comes bounding into the room a moment later. "Dad!" His eyes light on Ron, and Ron can't help but smile at the scruffy jeans and sneakers, the hair that sticks straight up. He looks very much like his uncles Fred and George, and even now, gets most excited at the prospect of visiting Uncle George's shop.

Ron's almost tempted to ask for a hug. He reaches out a hand to ruffle the mop of brown hair on his head. "How you doin', squirt?"

Hugo squirms out from beneath him.

They leave in flash of blue light by the fireplace, going one at a time.

The house is quiet when they're gone. Ron sits at the dining room table by himself as the house grows dark all around him. He eats his stew in silence, choking it down, and he blinks his eyes quickly.

Three days later, and he's at a magically hidden house for the second time in twice as many days. Sweating beneath a yellow-coloured sun, he says the open sesame, and the place bulges quietly out. It was not as big as he'd first expected. A town house in London, tall and narrow, tucked back on a quiet street lined with big trees. Harry had called it Cooper's Grove, which sounded like a ridiculous name to Ron.

A house elf wearing pink socks slipped onto each ear answers his ring and leads him silently into a sitting room. For some reason, whenever he pictured Violetta Bulstrode she lived in a quiet, stark place with bleached light and no clutter. The house had come as something of a surprise. There are knickknacks everywhere, treasures and trinkets (alarmingly, many of them are porcelain animals, and Ron's first time here, he was certain he saw Bulstrode cooing at them), and the place glows with soft yellow light and overstuffed furniture. The back windows are thrown open, letting in warm air, and Ron suspects a cooling charm has been cast because the room is comfortable.

Trevor is sitting uncomfortably on a sofa. He's a young kid, still, just out of training, and is probably taller than Ron. Clumsy, too, and by the looks of it, he's trying to shrink in on himself. His smile is strained when he sees Ron, and Ron suspects he wants to jump up and rush away, even if his movements are small and measured.

"You're off, Trev," Ron says, keeping his voice light. Trevor flashes a grateful smile at Ron, a more strained smile at Mrs. Bulstrode, and then he's on his way.

"What'd you do to the kid?" he asks, moving to aim a glance at a painting above the fireplace. It's of a small family. Ron recognizes a very young Millicent smiling out of it.

"He's an oaf," Bulstrode responds.

"He's a good kid," Ron insists. "A little eager, yeah, and new, but he means well."

"He broke my porcelain animal."

"Did he fix it?"

"That's not the point."

"He's here to protect you, not your stuff."

"And you're here to protect me, not make conversation," she retorts. "I'd ask you to remember that." She opens the big, heavy book on her lap, perches a pair of small glasses on her nose, and proceeds to ignore him.

With a sigh, Ron settles heavily on the couch.

Many years ago, the Weasley family began a tradition of Sunday lunch. Taking place at the Burrow, whoever could make it was practically required to spend the afternoon surrounded by family and friends, gobbling up whatever Ron's mum would cook. It was a good tradition, one Ron liked.

Somewhere along the way, though, it had become a chore. For a little while, he had stopped going altogether; there were too many people asking him how he was. Concerned he wasn't getting enough sleep. Concerned he wasn't well. Eventually, however, his mother insisted that he bring her grandchildren around more often, and Molly Weasley wasn't someone easily refused.

This summer had meant a lot of Sunday afternoons watching the clock tick itself to half past four, when he could feasibly beg off for the rest of the evening.

"Ron." Ginny's standing alone at the stove when he makes his way from the Floo in the living room into the bright, breezy kitchen. She's peering anxiously into a pot. "Taste this," she insists, holding up a wooden spoon with something red and steaming on it near his mouth.

Warily, Ron opens up. He swallows and tries not to make a face. "Not bad," he lies to her wide, expectant eyes.

"Careful she doesn't poison you," Harry cautions in an amused voice when he appears at the doorway.

"Ha ha," says Ginny with a playful glare aimed in his direction.

"You have many talents, my dear," Harry says, coming up and dropping a warm kiss on the crown of Ginny's head. "Cooking is not one of them."

Ginny frowns. "You'd think this sort of thing would be hereditary," she grumbles, pointing her wand at the pot and sending it flying to sink.

Ron smirks. "I can cook fine," he boasts. "Guess you just got the bad genes."

Ginny wags a finger at him. "I'll make you eat that whole pot," she warns.

"Oh ho, I'd take it back if I were you, Ron," says Harry.

Ron laughs. "Okay, okay," he placates. "You got all the good genes."

"Don't you forget it."

"Hey," Harry says with a look aimed at Ron. "How'd it go Friday at Bulstrode's place?"

"Bulstrode?" interrupts Ginny before Ron can even open his mouth. "As in Millicent?"

"Her aunt, actually," explains Harry. "Ron's leading up an investigation into some threats made against her."

"It's fine," Ron assures him. "She's a cranky old bat, but I was expecting that. Right now, leading up the investigation means I sit with her in her big old house while she ignores me."

"Well, let me know if you need anything," Harry says.

"Will do," Ron says. "Oh, hey, you'll never guess who I ran into last week."

"Who?"

"Parkinson."

"Pansy?" asks Ginny.

Ron nods.

"Where'd you run into her?" says Harry.

Ron shrugs. "Just out running errands."

"Did you say anything to her?"

"Nah," says Ron. "She looked okay though, pretty much the same, actually."

"Hmm, she went through a pretty messy divorce last year," Ginny mentions.

"Did she? How do you know?"

"It was all over the paper."

"Huh. I never read anything about it."

"It was last year," Harry says. "You were... busy."

The windows in the kitchen are all thrown open; sunlight and warm air rushes through them. As if on cue, Ron hears childish laughter carry into the room. He stands there and tries not to let memories overcome him.

"Ron," Ginny says, in a quieter, softer tone. "Hugo and Rose are outside if you want to see them."

Ron forces a smile on his face. "I was on my way out there when you tried to poison me," he lamely jokes. "You two coming?"

"In a sec," says Harry.

He steps out into the white sunlight. It blinds him for a minute, and he has to blink it away before he can move any further.

The third afternoon of being virtually ignored by Bulstrode ends with Ron leaving the pub and hesitating outside the bookshop. He'd stopped there enough last year, often picking up a new book to read aloud while Hermione lay in bed, her eyes closed as if sleeping.

He thinks about turning away when he spots a familiar figure behind the glass, slipping books quietly onto a shelf. There's a new bell that chimes when he enters into the cool dim interior.

He gives a nod when the figure turns around. "Parkinson," he acknowledges.

She still looks at him as if he's not quite fully opaque. Like she can see right through him. "Weasley. And it's not Parkinson anymore."

She's got a stripe of dust along her cheek. The words messy divorce run through his head. "I actually knew that. Sorry."

She shrugs. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm, ah, looking for a book."

"Yeah, I figured."

"Something, ah. I don't know. My job's pretty boring and I have a lot of time on my hands. Something funny, maybe. I didn't know you worked here, by the way."

She turns away from him. "I have for about six months," she says over her shoulder as she walks away. About the time Ron stopped coming in, then. "Follow me."

Ron follows until she stops in front of a tall row about half way back. The shop is in Muggle London on Charing Cross Rd, just as the pub down the street is, but its patronage is probably half-Wizard, and the back is charmed so it's hidden from Muggle view.

Parkinson pulls a blue-bound book down from the shelf and thrusts it into his hands.

"Happiness," Ron reads from the cover. He holds it up. "Funny?"

"I think so," she says, and she narrows her eyes and continues, "It might be over your head," but her lips twitch just slightly.

"Ha ha," Ron retorts. "I guess I'll take it. If it's rubbish, I'm blaming you."

Parkinson leads the way toward the register. "If you think it's rubbish, you have only your inferior intellect to blame." She rings up the book. "Though in that case, I'll exchange it. It's cruel to punish the stupid."

"That's really kind of you, Parkinson," Ron says he takes his brown paper bag from her. "I'll be sure to let you know."

"Don't mention it."

Three days later, Ron enters the bar and the first person he notices is Parkinson by herself with a glass of red wine half empty in front of her.

He settles on the stool at her side. "It's weird," he says in greeting. "And cynical."

Without missing a beat, almost as if she was expecting him, she says, "It's ironic."

"But in a really depressing way." He signals the barman, who places his usual in front of him with little fanfare. Pansy eyes it, but says nothing.

"So you don't like it."

"I didn't say that. It's just not what I was expecting."

They're silent for a long while.

"How far along are you?" Parkinson finally asks.

"Almost done. I'll probably have to get a new one soon."

She nods. "You know where to find the bookshop."

Autumn

Ron watches the train pull away until he can no longer see. He knows from past years that parents are informed the moment the train pulls in Hogsmeade, and again once their children are accounted for at the feast.

Still, it's always a little unnerving to relinquish your children to a far away castle for months at a time.

The leaves haven't begun to change colours yet, but the sky is a crisp autumn blue and Ron can feel a tinge of cold on the air.

"What book have you got today?" Bulstrode asks when he settles on the sofa in her parlour.

Ron holds it up. "The Solitaire Mystery," he says.

"Hmph," says Bulstrode. "Another Muggle book, I see."

"Does that make a difference?" Ron asks.

"Certainly it does. Next time, tell Pansy to give you something more worthy."

"Pansy? How do you know Pansy picks out my books?"

"Young Miss Parkinson has long been a friend of the family," Bulstrode intones. "She was good friends with my niece, Millicent, and even after Millie's death, she's seen to coming around for tea every two weeks. Too many young people shirk their duties to pay respect to their elders these days, but never Miss Parkinson. She has mentioned you once or twice."

Ron resists the urge to point out that Pansy's not exactly young anymore. It's the longest Bulstrode has spoken to him when he hasn't been receiving a lecture about what imbecilic oafs most of his Aurors are. "Oh," he says stupidly, instead.

Bulstrode casts him an appraising glance, but returns to the book in her lap without another word.

He pushes open the door with a gust of cold wind at his back. The weather's changing abruptly, along with leaves that go from green to riots of colour so quickly they make Ron wish for a camera. He can remember walking along this street with Hermione years and years ago, holding her small, gloved hand, and laughing as the wind blew her hair. He swallows hard against the lump in his throat.

Pansy's with a customer. Ron listens as she quietly explains the layout of the shop. She's strangely patient with the customers, much to Ron's surprise. She's less patient with him.

When finished, she comes up beside him. Her perfume smells the same as always, something spicy and vanilla. Ron smiles despite himself.

"This is the one you want next," she tells him without preamble, pulling down a book with a yellow cover.

Ron examines it. "How do you know?"

"Trust me," she says. "Have I ever steered you wrong?"

Ron doesn't answer. Instead he says, "I was told to tell you that Muggle books are not worthy."

Pansy slants him a strange glance. "By whom?"

"Bulstrode," he says, and he can't keep a small grin off his face. "Are you talking about me with other people?"

Pansy rolls her eyes. "Don't flatter yourself, Weasley. She knew we were in the same year at school and asked after you."

Still, Ron notices that she doesn't quite meet his eyes, and he can't explain the grin that he finds splitting his face.

Ron's chuckling over a letter when Pansy sits down beside him; he's already ordered her a glass of wine. She takes a sip of it before asking, "What's got you so amused?"

He glances over with a smile. Her face is familiar. "Letter from Hugo," he explains. "Rosie went to Hogsmeade for the first time and brought him back some chocolate with strict instructions not to eat it all in one go, which he ignored. Apparently he made quite a mess vomiting all over the dorms."

Pansy laughs quietly. "I suspect the Gryffindor dorms are used to it."

"Nah. Hugo's a Hufflepuff."

"Wow. A Weasley who isn't a Gryffindor. Will wonders never cease?"

"Rosie's not either, actually. She was the first Weasley sorted into another house in generations. Caused quite a stir. She begged to come home for the first three weeks she was there; now, she'd probably never leave."

"She's a Hufflepuff too?"

"Ravenclaw, actually." Ron can't keep the pride out of his voice.

"You have a child smart enough to be sorted into Ravenclaw?" Ron meets her eyes to see they're sparking. She has thick, dark lashes, which he wonders if she charms to curl.

"She got her mother's brains," he says without really thinking about it.

"Granger was always smarter than the average student."

"Smarter than the average professor," Ron agrees with a smile.

Pansy studies him quietly. Ron squirms a little. "What?" he says.

Pansy shakes her head. "It's nothing. I just... I've never heard you mention Granger before."

Ron swallows. "Yeah... I guess...."

There's a look on Pansy's face Ron can't place. It makes him uncomfortable. "I remember reading about it last Christmas. I never got to tell you how sorry I was," she says. "Not that I - that was -- I mean, I'm sure it's still - "

"No," he interrupts. "Or, well, yeah. It's still -- but thank you," he adds quietly.

He focuses on the glass of water in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Pansy nod.

He says, "She loved the bookshop, you know. Your bookshop, I mean."

"Did she?"

Ron nods. "When we were first married we had a flat a couple of streets away from here. I think she spent nearly every afternoon in that place."

"What was her favourite book?" Pansy asks.

Ron swallows again. He thinks about Hermione, young and vibrant. It's been so long since he's let himself talk about her, as if doing so would make him share his memories, as if for every word he spoke, he would lose a piece of her.

Pansy glances over again. "You don't have to..."

Ron blinks. "No," he says. "I want to." He's surprised to find that it's true.

He wasn't really looking for a friend, but he finds it's nice to have someone who doesn't know about the scars he has on his body, to talk to someone who doesn't place any expectations on him and doesn't already know every story before he tells it.

The colourful shock of leaves have fallen almost completely from the trees when he tells her all about raising two children as a now-single dad, both of whom are probably smarter than he is and how it feels like they're slipping away from him and there's nothing he can do about it.

She tells him all about her customers at the shop: Mr. Jenkins, who only reads books with blue covers, and Miss Carlisle, the young single mum who brings her kids every Saturday to pick out a book that Pansy marks half off on principle because she knows Miss Carlisle is trying to raise two kids on a shop girl's salary. He finds he's less and less surprised by her kindness with every passing day.

When Rose was first sorted into Ravenclaw, Ron remembers that Hermione had been so pleased and so proud, while Ron had mostly been disappointed. Weasleys were always Gryffindors, and he'd even threatened to come down to the school and ensure that his baby girl was in her rightful house. Hermione had gone off on a tangent one night, all furious, sparkling eyes and rapid-fire words, about how polarizing the house system truly was. Ron never really got it. Talking to Pansy, he thinks maybe now he does.

He spends a lot time reading her Hugo's letters, all about Professor Longbottom who's always losing his toad, Trevor III. The toad seems to be obsessed with Rose's trunk, much to Hugo's delight. Pansy laughs, and Ron can feel it in his ribs.

"Here you go," Pansy says pretty much immediately after he walks in. The chime on the door is familiar and Ron's steps feel light as he sees Pansy's equally familiar smile. She thrusts a book into his hands.

Ron looks down to see To Kill a Mockingbird. "Pansy," he warns. He feels a heavy coil of dread and fear spiral through his stomach.

"When was the last time you read it?" she asks softly.

Ron hesitates. "It's been awhile," he admits.

"You don't have to take it, but I think it'll be good for you."

"There's already a copy at the house."

Pansy shrugs. "Okay," she says. "Give it to Rose, then."

The book is slippery in Ron's grip. "How much?"

Pansy doesn't meet his eyes when she says, "On me."

Ron sits down to write.

Did I ever tell you this was your mother's favourite book? I think you might enjoy it.

"I got a letter from Rosie," he says by way of greeting the next time he walks into the pub. Ron settles on a stool.

Pansy says nothing, but she pushes a pint his way. Ron thinks about the letter Rose sent him, folded up and used as a bookmark now. It's the longest correspondence Ron's received from her all year, more than the usual, perfunctory note written to inform him of her grades. She had signed the end Love From and Ron had had to swallow back tears.

"Thanks," Ron says. "Her letter said that she's enjoying the book."

"So you sent it to her," Pansy says. "Good."

"Sort of. I sent her Hermione's old book."

"And the copy I gave you?"

Ron pats his pocket. "I, ah, kept it. I forgot how much I enjoyed it."

Pansy takes a sip of her wine, and Ron sees a smile play around her red lips.

Pansy sits down in a bit of a huff.

"What's got your knickers in a twist?" Ron asks, signaling to the barman.

Pansy frowns. "I went on a fairly disastrous date last night," she tells him, catching him entirely off guard.

Ron feels something cold and wet curl inside his stomach. "A date?" he says, "I didn't know you -- "

Pansy throws him a look. "I'm not a nun, Ron. I do go on dates."

Ron splutters. "I know you're not a -- I just didn't know you were dating."

Pansy rolls her eyes. "I've been divorced for a year now. It's time I moved on, don't you think?"

"Sure," Ron agrees emptily. "And it, was, um, a bad date, then?"

Pansy sighs dramatically. "Yeah, but that's not - my dining table broke again."

"Again?" he asks.

Nodding, Pansy explains "It broke a few months ago and I can't aff -- I really like it, but my sticking charms to keep it together aren't all that great, so it... sort of falls apart every couple of weeks."

"Do you... do you want me to take a look at it, maybe?"

Pansy looks up and meets his eyes. Her expression is one of cautiousness and surprise. "You would do that?"

Ron shrugs. "Sure," he says. "Bad dates and broken dining room tables make you kind of insufferable."

Pansy gives him a mock-glare.

He smirks. "I tell you because I care," he says, adding, "I can come over tomorrow if you want. It's my day off."

Pansy looks like she's thinking. She pulls a white, square napkin towards her and jots down her address. When she passes the napkin to Ron, their fingers brush. Ron pulls his hand away quickly, ignoring the spark that skips against the base of his spine.

It starts small, a quick look in his direction, a smile sent her way, a brush of the hand against her shoulder, the shape of her thigh beneath her clothes as she moves to stand.

It starts small, and it's been a long time, but Ron recognizes it all the same.

It doesn't go away, to Ron's mounting concern.

"I don't know anything about her," he says to Harry the next Sunday while they sit at the worn kitchen table. Beyond the window, the garden of the Burrow is bare and cold looking. The whole house smells like roast beef and potatoes. From the living room, George and Angelina's twins fight over a fake wand while Ginny's exhausted voice rings out for them to fight fair.

"Sure you do." Harry's graying at the temples. He's put on weight. He smiles and his skin stretches at the corners, webs out behind his glasses -- familiar smile lines. "You spend most of your free time with her, mate." He gives a small smile. "You talk about her quite a bit."

Ron shakes his head. "Not really."

Harry levels a look at him.

Ron flushes. "You know what I mean," he mumbles.

Shaking his head, Harry says, "I really don't. What is it that you don't know about her?"

Ron gestures helplessly. "I don't know -- I don't know her favourite colour or where she got the scar on the inside of her wrist from. I don't know what her favourite subject was in school. I don't know how she takes her coffee or if she likes Marmite on her toast."

Harry studies him. "Maybe it wasn't meant to be an allergy-knowing, favourite colour, kind of romance. You've already had that."

A toddler screeches loudly. Ron pours himself a small slosh of Firewhiskey in a tea cup.
Harry does the same. Ron watches him frown, open his mouth once, and then close it.

"What is it?" Ron says.

Harry asks, "Is there something else holding you back?"

Ron studies the liquid in the cup, swirling it around. "It's too soon." He looks up. "It feels too soon."

Harry gives a small nod. "You haven't done anything wrong, Ron. There's no need to feel guilty. And there's no time table on stuff like this."

Ron's chest feels packed tight with cotton; it's hard to breathe. He downs his Firewhiskey in one go, feeling it burn all the way into his stomach.

Winter

Snow dusts the ground when Ron sets off to pick up the whole Weasley horde from Platform 9 ¾ on 21st December. There are a total of nine Hogwarts-aged kids with some relation to him, and as Ron watches them disembark from the train, a squabble of squawking owls and meowing cats and overexcited kids, he thinks he must have momentarily lost his marbles volunteering for this.

He hears, "Dad," and changes his mind entirely.

Ron feels a smile split his face. "Rosie!" he calls. She comes running toward him, and immediately barrels into his chest. She looks so much like her mother at that age, eager eyes and pale skin, and Ron laughs as he hugs her close. She smells familiar, like sweets from the trolley and left-over school-smell. Ron breathes in and shuts his eyes and holds on maybe a second too long.

"I've missed you," Rosie mumbles against his chest.

Ron feels something break in his chest, like rotted fruit splitting clean open. "I've missed you, too, baby," he assures her, blinking his eyes rapidly.

He looks over her head. "You, too, squirt," he says to Hugo, who's watching the two of them warily. "You got a hug for your dad?"

Ron can't help but laugh at the slightly disturbed, panicked look Hugo throws his cousins before shaking his head quickly. He turns his chuckle into his cough and instead extends his hand. "I meant a handshake, mate," he assures Hugo. "Getting too old for hugs, yeah?"

Hugo beams at him, seems to hesitate for a minute and slips his small, soft hand into Ron's.

"Uncle Ron! Uncle Ron! Can I have a hug?" asks Lily, coming up beside Hugo and bouncing excitedly on her heels.

"Okay, Munchkins," Ron orders after he's given all of them a proper hello (and manages to not eat the Canary Cream James tries to pass him). "Line up so I can shrink all of your trunks to pocket-sized. Those under fourteen need to find a buddy who's over fourteen -- yes, Hugo, that means you, too -- we have six blocks to go, and then we'll Floo to Gran and Grandad's from a friend of mine's shop. Everybody ready?"

It's not that easy, of course. Albus refuses to partner up with James, and both Lily and Hugo decide they want to be Rose's partner. By the time everyone has their trunk safely in their pocket, and is buddied up with their veritable menagerie of animals in tow, Ron has a headache, and they're running three quarters of an hour late.

They parade out of the train station and somehow manage to make it to the bookshop in more or less one satisfied group.

"My God, this is frightening," Pansy says, eyes wide, as the lot of them troop into her shop. She points to the rear of the store. "Fireplace is already going in the back."

Ron smirks, "Tell me about it. This isn't actually all of them, either. Bill and Fleur's kids are taking a year at Beauxbatons, and George has twins who aren't old enough yet. Next year will be even more insane. Alright, you lot," he says louder. "To the back!"

"Maybe Weasleys should just form their own house?" she suggests.

"I think it's been put on the table once or twice," Ron says. He puts a brief hand on Rosie's shoulder, because he suspects she wants very much to wander off into the dark recesses of the store. "I'll bring you back later," he bends to whisper her, seeing her hungry eager eyes scan the back of the shop. She smiles brightly.

"Who are you?" says Albus with cautious eyes as he passes by Pansy. She looks momentarily panicked.

"This is Miss Richmond," Ron explains to Albus.

"I'm your Uncle Ron's friend," Pansy says, recovered. "Who are you?"

Albus nods his head. "I'm his friend too."

"Well, as one friend to another," Pansy says, "It's good to meet you."

Albus beams at that, and moves on to the back.

When they've all finally Floo'd their way to the Burrow, Ron turns back to Pansy. The chime above the door rings, signaling another customer.

"Thanks for this, Pansy," he says. "It was really helpful. This place is so much closer than Diagon Alley."

Pansy waves her hand. "I can't even imagine how you would gotten that horde any farther," she says. She pauses to meet his eyes. "So, you probably won't be around much for the next couple of weeks, huh?"

Ron hesitates before giving his head a shake. "I'll probably be with the kids."

"Good," Pansy says quietly. "You all need it."

"Yeah." Ron watches the way her pale fingers play with the edge of her blouse. He can hear the customer from up front talking quietly.

"Well, I should..." Pansy points toward the entrance of the store. "Merry Christmas, Ron. I'll see you soon."

Ron nods. "Merry Christmas, Pansy."

He's high-ranking enough, and his case is easy enough, that it's perfectly okay for Ron to take the entire week around Christmas off so he can spend time with his family. He and Hugo and Rose spend the evening before Christmas Eve alone at home, a bright fire crackling in the hearth as they string up tinsel and hang Christmas baubles on a small tree. Carols sing out of Hermione's old, Muggle compact disc player, while Hugo regales him with tales of Hagrid's new dog, Spike. There's a photo on the mantel of the fireplace, taken three years ago, of Hermione laughing with Hugo and Rose hanging off her sides.

In the picture she bends down to tickle Hugo, who spasms in delight. Ron can't stop staring at it.

The previous week, he had found a small porcelain cat in an antique shop when he was out searching for a gift for Rose, and had snatched it up on a whim.

The kids are already off to spend the night at the Burrow with the rest of the Weasley family -- a Christmas Eve tradition started years ago. Ron's due there soon, but he has to make a stop first.

"Master Ron," Wrinkles the house elf squeaks when she sees him. "Lady was not expecting you."

Ron's knees creak when he bends down to meet Wrinkles' eyes. He pulls a box of chocolate from his coat pocket. "Merry Christmas," he says, handing it over. "Do you think she has just a sec to spare for me?"

"Oh, of course she does, Master Ron. Thank you so much!"

She leads him into the back room, which smells of cinnamon and pine. Bulstrode isn't alone, though. She already has a guest.

"Pansy," Ron says in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Such manners, Ronald," interrupts Bulstrode from her spot across the room.

Ron shifts his startled gaze from Pansy's wide eyes to see Bulstrode watching him with a pointed smirk. He can feel his cheeks flushing, and he coughs.

"Mrs. Bulstrode," he says, trying to cover up. He reaches into his pocket as much for something to do than anything else. He's very aware of Pansy's eyes on him, and of the fact that she hasn't said anything yet.

"What can I do for you, Ronald?"

Ron holds out the badly wrapped gift. "I, uh..." He gestures. "Christmas gift."

Bulstrode studies him for a moment. "That's very kind of you."

Inexplicably, Ron blushes even harder. "'S no big deal," he says. "Just saw it and thought of you."

He takes it to her as she says, "Well, you must join us for tea then. You have a moment." It's not a question. Ron nods anyway.

Bulstrode gestures to a spot next to Pansy on the sofa. "Wrinkles," she says. "Tea for Ronald, please."

While Bulstrode busies herself talking to her elf, Ron settles on the sofa. "Hey," he says to Pansy. "What are you doing here?"

Pansy smiles at him for the first time since he got here, and Ron can feel an answering grin split his face. "The same thing you are, apparently," she says.

"So, Ronald," interrupts Bulstrode. "Pansy tells me your children are back in town for Christmas."

Ron throws a startled glance at Pansy to see her cheeks flush pink. He nods and presses his lips together.

Nearly ninety minutes later, both he and Pansy head out the front door with strict instructions to have good Christmases and to behave. When the door finally shuts and they're under the cold, cloudy sky, Pansy and Ron look at each other expectantly.

"She's a cranky old bat, isn't she?" Pansy laughs.

Ron watches the way her lips tilt when she laughs, the way her head tips backward. "God, she really is," he agrees. He can't seem to stop staring at Pansy's mouth.

Her laughter subsides nervously. "Well..." she says.

Ron nods. "Yeah, I gotta -- " He gestures.

"Me, too."

He feels like he's got plastic wrap stretched tightly around his chest. "What are you -- I mean, what are your plans for the night?"

Pansy hesitates. It's calm and quiet on the street. Already, the sun is sinking down, creating a wash of purple and blue over the winter stillness. "Quiet night at home, actually," Pansy tells him eventually.

He can picture her sitting in her flat alone at the table he fixed for her last month. Her place has a lot of books and warm lighting, but it feels lonely.

He opens his mouth and what comes out is, "You should come with me."

"Come with you where?"

Ron shrugs. "My parents' place."

"Oh, I don't think -- "

"It's Christmas Eve," Ron wheedles. "You shouldn't spend it alone."

"I don't want to interrupt."

Ron shakes his head. "No way would you be interrupting. Trust me, there will be so many people there, no one'll even notice."

He watches her lick her lips, and suddenly doesn't want to accept no for an answer. "C'mon," he cajoles. "It's better than sitting alone in your flat, yeah? Just for a little while."

When she agrees, Ron feels like he's won something precious.

"This was probably a bad idea," Pansy says again. They're walking up the steep hill to the Burrow, a tradition that Ron started on Christmas Eve years ago. He likes to see the house lit up, to feel the cold and see the warmth and light inside. It makes him a bit of a sentimental fool, he knows, if only because Hermione used to tease him about it every year. He smiles now.

"If you say that one more time I'm leaving you out in the cold," Ron tells Pansy, enjoying the way her eyes sparkle when she gives him a half-smile.

"Sadist," she mumbles.

"Don't forget it either," Ron instructs, just before he pushes open the door into the front room. "Okay, everybody!" he announces loudly. "Christmas can start!"

"Uncle Ron!" Lily squeals, running over to him immediately. The whole place smells like Christmas to Ron, like roast and peppermint and pine and fire. Twinkling lights cover nearly every surface that will stand still (and probably a few that won't), and the room is filled with his family. Ron smiles brightly at them all, who all go very quiet and still.

Ron coughs. "Um, I brought a guest," he states. "We ran into each other, and I just thought..."

Pansy gives an awkward mittened-wave and soft hello.

"Oh goodness, dear, welcome," says Ron's mum, moving from her place near the other side of the room, a warm, rosy glow to her cheeks. "You two must be freezing!" Immediately, the room's activity flurries up again.

"And hungry!" Ron says.

"Of course, of course. We've got so much food you wouldn't believe."

"Gin made the chocolate pudding," Harry shouts from near the tree.

"Harry!" Ginny scolds.

"I'm just warning them, Gin. It's Christmas after all, not the time to poison your family." Harry winks at Ron and Pansy even as Ginny sends a pillow flying into his head.

Ron hears Pansy's surprised laughter. He takes her coat from her at his mum's instruction (after she scolds him for his manners and he drops a cold kiss on her warm cheek).

Two hours later, after a fairly massive meal and a maybe one too many cups of eggnog, he finds Ginny in the kitchen directing dishes.

"Mum'll kill you if she sees you in here," Ron says.

"She'll thank me in the morning." Ginny looks over her shoulder. "Just needed a minute away from the noise."

Ron begins searching the cupboards to the right of the fridge. "How about a drink?" he says, unearthing a bottle of peppermint schnapps their mum claims is for colds.

"Yes, please," sighs Ginny.

She leaves the dishes to wash themselves and settles in at the table. The noise from the living room is muffled from the back of the house. Ron pours them both generous shots into freshly-scrubbed tea cups.

"Thanks," Ginny says. "I'd forgotten how much Hugo looks like Fred and George when they were younger."

"It's kind of uncanny, yeah?" He watches Ginny nod across the table; he's been struck, lately, by how much she looks like their mother. He says, "Rosie has so much of Hermione in her."

Ginny meets his eyes. "Goodness, she really does. She's a sharp one. She's going to be breaking hearts soon enough."

Ron breathes out a laugh. "I just hope it's not the other way around."

Ginny laughs with him. "All part of growing up," she says wisely.

"Don't I know it."

"Speaking of growing up, you and Pansy, hmm?"

Ron shrugs and looks down at his near-empty Schnapps. He pours himself some more. "It's not really like that." He can't tell if he's lying or not.

"Really?"

Ron shrugs.

"She's changed," Ginny notes.

Ron nods. "I guess we all have." He adds, "She's still kind of a sarcastic pain in the arse, though."

Ginny smirks at him "And you kind of like it."

Ron chuckles. "Maybe I do."

"There you two are!" says Harry merrily, peering his head around the corner. He wonders over to the table, snagging Ginny's cup and making a face after he chugs it.

Ginny laughs. "It's a good thing the kids aren't coming home tonight," she says pointedly.

"Indeed," Harry leers, waggling his eyebrows. Ginny smirks and Ron groans, putting his head down on the table. "Not in front of me, you two."

Both of them laugh. "Where's Pansy anyway?" Ginny asks.

"She was talking with Mum earlier."

"Last I checked, she and Rose were talking about books. I think Pansy invited her to the shop."

Ron nods. "That sounds about right. I think maybe I'm gonna go check up on them."

He finds Rose playing a game of Snap with James and Lucy. "Hey, Rosie, have you seen Pansy?"

Rose nods. "She said she was warm and went outside for a minute. She said I could come to the shop and pick out a book sometime this week as a congratulations on finishing first in my class last year! Wasn't that nice?"

Ron smiles at her flushed cheeks and eager eyes. "It certainly was, kid. I think I'll go check up on her," he says.

"'K, Dad," Rose says, already turning back to her game.

It's almost bitterly cold out, but for just a second it feels wonderful. The stars are bright, and snow crunches under Ron's shoes as he makes his way to Pansy, standing to the side of the house. She's not wearing a jacket and her face is tipped up the sky. Moonlight catches on her cheekbones.

"You must be freezing," Ron says loudly, as much to warn her that he's there as anything.

She keeps her face turned upward. "It's not too bad."

Ron comes to a stop beside her, turning his face to the sky as well. "Are you okay?" he asks, watching his breath on the air.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, I just -- "

"What? Too much?"

"Oh, no. Your family's --" Pansy blinks at him. "They're wonderful."

Ron smiles. "Yeah," he says, feeling a strange sort of pride. "They kinda are."

"I just need a minute."

Ron nods. "Do you mind the company?"

Pansy meets his eyes. "Not at all," she says, offering him a warm smile that sparks something low in his belly. Ron watches her shiver and without really thinking about it, slings his arm around her shoulder. She's tall, the top of her head almost meeting his chin, but her shoulders are narrow. Ron feels himself shiver as well, but he's not entirely sure it's from the cold.

After a few moments, Pansy breaks the silence. "When I was married, Edward and I did this thing where we told each other our wish for the next year at midnight."

Ron nods, feeling something like jealousy curl through him. "How long were you married?"

"Eleven years."

"And you never had any children?"

"No. We tried at first, but I guess it just really wasn't meant to be. In retrospect, it seems like it was a blessing. He was... not very nice there, towards the end."

Ron hears something soft and hesitant in her voice.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, meaning it.

Beside him, he hears a snort. "Don't be. I'm much better off now than I was even five years ago."

Ron turns to study her profile. "Do you want to get out of here?" he asks.

Pansy meets his eyes. "And go where?"

Ron's grateful for the dark when he feels his cheeks grow warm. He thinks he might throw up. "We can go to my place." His palms feel sweaty. "Maybe have a night cap. I just need to say goodbye to my parents and Hugo n' Rosie."

He holds his breath expectantly as he watches Pansy's eyes. She smiles. "Sure."

It's easier to Apparate Pansy to his home than to give her directions, and there are too many protective wards that she wouldn't be able to get through without him. Her mitten-covered hand clutches his arm, and it's like he can feel her fingers through the many layers separating their skin.

He hadn't totally thought this through, of course. The house is quiet and dark and it feels too intimate. He thinks of Hermione as he holds the door from the entranceway into the front room open for Pansy. He's never had another woman here. Even as Ron assures himself this can all be very innocent, he feels guilt war with want and knows that it isn't.

He gestures jerkily to the sofa. "Have a seat," he instructs, shrugging off his jacket and taking Pansy's from her slight shoulders. He lays them both across the arm of a chair before flicking on a lamp. It bathes the whole room in soft, yellow light, making the place feel even more intimate.

He breathes unsteadily. "Drink?" he asks, cringing when his voice goes too high.

Pansy gives him a nervous smile and perches gingerly on the sofa. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, that would be great."

He comes back a few minutes later with a bottle of peppermint liquor and two large glasses. He pours them both liberal splashes, and chokes on his own laughter when they both down theirs in one breath. Pansy meets his eyes and laughs.

He finds himself staring at her.

She shifts nervously. "I can't possibly be that interesting."

"This is ridiculous," Ron says finally. "We spend hours talking to each other."

Pansy gives another laugh, this time warmer, less nervous. "This is a little different," she points out.

"It is, right? I mean, I'm not reading this wrong?"

Her thigh is warm next to his. She meets his eyes. "No. You're not."

He's feeling a little dizzy. He's not sure if it's from the booze or from the familiar vanilla scent of her.

He moves so close he can see the march of freckles across her nose; they make her look young and innocent. "This feels crazy, right?" he asks. His heart's going too fast, like he's just mainlined a pot of dark, rich coffee.

Pansy nods and her hair moves with her. "Yeah," she agrees. "But also, no?"

Ron swallows. He moves closer.

"I've never..."

"It's okay, Ron," she breathes, "I'm not going to ask you to forget... anything." She promises again, "It's okay," just before she brings their lips together.

Pansy's mouth is sharp with the taste of peppermint. Ron's okay with it and with the fact that Pansy tastes better than the eggnog he'd been drinking, better than just about anything else. She goes soft and pliant in his arms, quicker than any fantasy he's had lately, and Ron pushes whatever latent guilt he has to the side when he pushes her jumper up to feel the soft, dry skin of her stomach.

It's the first kiss Ron's had in over a year. He finds it's not something you forget how to do, circling your tongue to deepen the kiss, bracketing her head to keep her in place and nip at her lips.

She's soft and warm beneath his mouth. Ron pulls back slightly, reveling in the needy, distraught sound she makes when he does so. He stays close enough to feel her breath against his face, panting just slightly. Their eyes meet, and Ron feels a bubble of laughter erupt.

"Okay," he says around it. "I guess that works."

He can feel Pansy's body shake with laughter. "I guess so," she agrees. Ron moves to tilt her head back again, bringing their mouths back together.

His hand is still on her stomach, and he slowly drags it up her body. She's breathing quickly. He can feel her ribs heave with it when he cups a small breast over a silky-smooth bra. Her nipple goes diamond hard quickly, just as Ron's erection springs to full force. He moans into her mouth, pushing her back to lean her against the sofa and fitting his hand more fully around her breast, moving his thumb back and forth, back and forth, across her nipple.

His insides are swirling when he finally pulls away to remove her jumper and the shirt beneath. She's pale in the warm light from the lamp beside them. Ron bends to place his mouth on her taut nipple, turning the fabric of her bra wet and translucent as he feels the hard tip pebble beneath his lips. Pansy sighs and pushes her fingers through his hair; he feels manicured nails against his scalp, sending pleasure toward his centre.

His elbow fits uncomfortably into a cushion on the sofa but her body is bent back obligingly, and her hips shift against his, pushing into his erection, while her legs bend to accommodate him; she lifts rhythmically against him.

Ron kisses up her chest, placing smacking kisses against her neck and one on her chin. He watches her face, twisted with lust, and thinks, I did that. It makes him feel more powerful than he's felt in a long time, especially when she opens her eyes and he sees her pupils blown wide and aroused.

He breathes out. "You, ah, want to go to the bedroom?" he asks.

Pansy nods, her eyes warm on his face. He smiles as she sits, sneaking a kiss to his cheek before standing. She leaves her jumper at the sofa, and as he leads the way to the room, she undoes her bra, dropping it once they reach the doorway. She is unselfconscious in a way that's astounding to him. Fully adult, fully female -- he's surprised how much that arouses him, makes him want to sink to his knees in front of her.

At the side of the bed, she doesn't move to lie down, and Ron turns her so her bum is pressed against erection. There's meagre moonlight shining through the window in front of them.

He can't help but remember his first time with Hermione, how unsure he was of himself, but how certain he was in his love. It was over twenty years ago, now. Sometimes, Ron doesn't feel that he's matured at all.

With shaking fingers, he undoes the buttons on her trousers and then takes his time slowly pulling down the zipper, purposefully brushing his hand against the plane of her stomach, feeling her twitch impatiently in his arms. He sinks his fingers into her, feeling a predatory rumble form in his throat when he finds her hot and wet, when a whimper leaves her lips and she whispers, "Please."

"Yeah," Ron answers, unable to look away from the side of her face to watch the pleasure there. She is shockingly mobile against him, hips moving in steady cadence against his, propelling him close with each trembling breath.

"God," he murmurs, feeling her body shake. He lays his head on her shoulder, trying to catch his breath when he feels her orgasm overtake her. She's greedy with it, body bowing against him, voice going hoarse. When she finally stops trembling, Ron wastes no time. He turns her around, bringing their lips together again, and this time he's frantic with it. Her mouth is sated beneath him, and her scent rises up. She goes greedily at his mouth now, too, as she roughly pushes his shirt off his shoulders and moves to undo his trousers.

Almost forcefully, he pushes her back against the bed. He does what he's been thinking about and kisses his way down her body, pressing his flat tongue against her. "Ron," she says, and it's the first time she's sounded uncertain. He feels her tense, like she wants to curl in on herself, and he gets it. This is intimate in a way that's different, but he bites gently at her thigh and soothes, whispering, "Shhh," as he moves to cover her with his mouth.

Ron wakes up in an unfamiliar bed. That's the first thing that registers. His mouth is dry, he's in his guest bedroom, and he's alone. For a long time he lays there, torn between relief that he's by himself and a vague sense of discomfort. Bleached winter light streams through the window. The clock on the bedside claims it's not yet eight, and Ron needs to be over at his parents' for Christmas morning.

He takes a long shower and is late to breakfast, where he avoids Harry's smirking, questioning eyes, feeling steadily sicker as the day drags on.

He tells himself he's not avoiding her. He doesn't go to the pub, but that's because he's not working and because he has the kids and because his time is taken up with family. Four days after Christmas, Rose surprises Ron at breakfast by reminding him that Pansy said she could have a book.

Ron hedges just a bit. "I don't know if that's such a good idea, sweetie. She's probably very busy at the shop."

Rose sends him a look. "It's after Christmas, Dad. No one's going to be out shopping today."

"Still, Rosie, I don't know if it's - "

Rose interrupts him with a superior look on her face; it's eerily familiar. "It's okay if you like her, Dad. Hugo and I talked about it. We think she's nice."

Ron chokes on his coffee. Beside Rose, Hugo is nodding. "W -- what?" Ron splutters.

"I saw the way you were looking at her," Rose continues. "And you left Christmas together."

"What do you know about romance?"

"I'm fourteen, Dad. I'm not a child anymore."

This is getting into highly uncomfortable territory, and Ron doesn't even want to think about what she means, so he excuses himself to go get ready.

Rose is right, of course, about the shop being mostly empty. There's one other customer there by the time the Weasleys make it in, just before noon. It's been over a week since Ron's been here, and he's disgruntled to notice how much he's missed it.

Pansy looks up, startled, when the door chimes. Through the dim, cool air, Ron meets her eyes. She doesn't smile until she sees the kids and even then, Ron can tell it's forced from clear across the store.

While Rosie and Hugo run off to the back, Ron stands awkwardly around. He tries not to stare as Pansy helps them both pick out books, and then when she rings up her other guest.

It takes all of twenty-five minutes, but it feels at once tortuously slow and mind-numbingly fast.

Ron's palms feel sweaty when he reaches from her to take the bag filled with new books. He remembers the sounds she made when he kissed the smooth skin of her stomach. Beside him, Rosie is practically vibrating, and Hugo asks for the seventh time in just as many minutes if they can go visit Uncle George now.

Ron clenches his jaw. He and Pansy have managed to avoid a word spoken directly to one other.

"I'll be back," he promises as he follows Rosie out the door.

Pansy nods, but she doesn't look like she believes him.

It takes him a while to keep his promise. The kids head back to school on 3rd January, and it's another two days before he finally works up the nerve to return. He tries to tell himself he's not avoiding her, but even he can tell the feeble lie. He's not sure, however, what he's afraid of when he gets there: that she'll want more from him or nothing at all.

Once, he thinks about talking about this to Harry, but he feels a twisted rise of guilt spread right through him at the thought.

As ever, the door chimes his entrance. Pansy's in the back of the shop with another wizard, and when Ron sees her he feels a sick swoop of something in his stomach.
He waits while she finishes up, obviously taking her time ringing the other bloke up, before she flips the closed sign behind him.

Pansy turns to look at Ron. Her lips are pressed together in a long, thin line. She looks about as uncomfortable as he feels.

Ron lets out a nervous laugh. "Hey," he says stupidly. He coughs loudly.

Pansy doesn't do anything but give him a small, tight smile.

"So, ah, h -- how are you?"

Pansy brushes past him to stand beside the counter. She has a long jumper on, so blue it matches her eyes, and she crosses her arms in front of herself like a shield. From her hair, he can smell vanilla. It makes his stomach twist.

"I'm fine, Ron. How are you?"

Ron nods. "Good, good. The, ah, kids went back to school."

"Good." There's a long, awkward silence between them. It occurs to Ron that he's never actually done this before, had to have any sort of awkward talk after sleeping with a woman, particularly when he doesn't totally know what it is he wants to happen.

"Why are you here, Ron?" Pansy asks suddenly.

Ron just stares at her. "I thought we should talk," he explains haltingly.

Pansy nods. "I'll start, shall I?" She doesn't wait for his response. "You've really valued my friendship these last couple months," she begins, "and you're really glad we've become close, but this is moving too fast for you, so you think maybe we should slow down."

Ron stares at her for a long minute. Eventually, he lamely says, "Why do you assume it's that?"

Pansy levels her gaze across the store at him. "For the same reason you haven't been here or to the pub or to my house in almost ten days."

"My kids were in town."

"That never used to stop you.'

"You're the one who told me I should spend more time with them."

"And I was right," Pansy says.

"Well..." Ron gestures helplessly.

"Listen, Ron. It's fine," she insists. "You're not -- listen, I know what you and Hermione had, and I know you'll always love her -- "

"Well, yeah I'll always love her, but that doesn't mean -- "

Pansy makes a frustrated noise, like an angry, cornered cat. "I don't just mean that you love her. I mean that maybe you're not ready for something else."

"Just like that. Yes, okay, maybe I should have, have called or whatever, but this is all really new to me."

"Well, you know, maybe I'm not ready to be the one who waits while you figure out what you want."

"I already know what I want!" Ron says angrily.

"What do you want, then, Ron?"

Ron stops. He stares at her. "I don't ..."

"You don't know," Pansy says.

"You keep putting words in my mouth," Ron says helplessly. "Would you just let me finish?"

"No," Pansy says. "Because I know what you think you want, but the truth is, Ron, we were both going through very difficult times and we turned to each other, and that's okay. It's more than okay. But we're better now. You're better now. You're better with your kids and you're spending a lot for time with your family, and it's... it's fine."

Ron feels helpless. "Maybe it's not fine," he says.

Pansy has bright spots of colour on her cheeks. She sighs, one long dramatic sigh that is so familiar to Ron it makes his chest ache. She meets his eyes. "I don't want this," she says simply.

Ron thinks she might be lying, but her face is already closing off. There are people at the door to the shop, a couple with two small children, and Pansy opens it for them with a fake, bright smile and an overly cheery hello.

They move to the back, and Ron watches Pansy's profile as she looks after them.

Quietly, at her side, he says, "So that's it?"

Pansy nods, eyes still turned away. "That's it," she repeats.

Ron swallows. "That's not... that's not really fair."

"It's how it has to be."

"Why?"

One of the children laughs, a bright sound that doesn't fit with Ron's mood. Finally, Pansy meets Ron's eyes. "Because we want different things out of this, Ron." Her face is open when she says it, for the first time all day.

His chest physically hurts when he finds he can't respond to that.

"You have to go," she tells him.

"I'll be back," he promises. Again.

"Don't," she says, and she walks away without looking at him again.

Spring

The snow melts and tiny green buds appear on trees and Harry moves him off the Bulstrode case onto one where he might actually make a difference, but Ron finds himself itchy and uneasy the whole time. He's at a loss. His social life had been narrowed down to non-existence, save Sunday lunches with his family -- a sad affair once the kids are back at school -- and the time he spent with Pansy.

He sleeps, dreams, wakes and sleeps again. He thinks about flooing her, but remembers she told him not to.

He wastes hours staring at the collection of books piled on his nightstand. He changes his bed linens and buys a new bookstand and makes dinner that he takes over to Ginny when Harry works late.

For a week straight in mid-April, rain tumble-roars down from the sky, like water squeezed from a bulging wineskin. After, Ron finds himself at the gates of a cemetery. He's made an appointment with the headmistress to pick up Hugo and Rose for the afternoon to bring them here as well, with Harry and Ginny, but he needs to do this first. Alone.

It's been nearly a year since Ron's been here, though he's unsurprised to find his feet follow the winding, manicured paths without any help. It's a ten-minute walk before he reaches his destination.

He's not certain what he's supposed to feel. Thinking back on the last and only time he was here, he remembers nothing but a terrifying grief and a wish to be beside the body buried beneath top soil and grass. He remembers holding Hugo's hand and squeezing too hard.

Ron's knees crack as he bends down, a reminder that he's no longer the boy he was when he met Hermione, the adolescent he was when he fell in love with her, or even the young man he was when he married her. The headstone is warmed from the sun when he places a hand against her name, carved in large, looping letters.

Irrationally, he wishes Hermione were here, because she would know exactly what to say. He wishes sharply that he had someone to share this with. Ron presses his lips to the 'H'. His cheeks are wet. His insides feel scrubbed clean.

He finds a porcelain weasel when he's out searching for a gift for his mum and snatches it up, unable to resist. On his next day off, Ron finds himself in front of a town house in London, on a tree-lined street with a yellow sun feebly poking through a wash of grey clouds.

Though Harry took him off the case over two months ago, he can still see Bulstrode's place. Just as he's gearing up to knock on the large brown door, it opens. Ron stares in surprise, and finds that Pansy looks how he feels. She's thinner than the last time he saw her, back in January, and her hair is more severely cut, making her eyes appear rounder.

She blinks at him. "Ron."

She's got a thin coat wrapped around her body. The collar doesn't quite lie down smooth, and Ron can't keep his eyes from patch of neck it brushes against.

She coughs, and Ron jumps and gives a sheepish, surprised laugh. "Pansy," he says, even as he feels the tips of ears go pink. "How are you?"

"Okay," she answers, meeting his eyes. "I'm okay. You?"

A gust of wind blows the collar against her neck. Ron says, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay," and he can't figure out if he's lying or not.

"Good," says Pansy. She passes by him and puts a hand on his arm, giving him a squeeze. "I'm glad. I'll see you, Ron."

He thinks about his life before her: sleepworkdrinkdrinkworksleep. He thinks about his life now.

He wants to cover her hand as she pulls it off him, but instead he stands beside the open door and watches her walk down the steps.

He spends Sunday afternoon at his parents' house. The kids will be back in four weeks, and Ron finds himself impatient for their return. Sunday lunches are never quiet affairs, but they're much more subdued when most of the younger generation is packed away at school. Ron's in the kitchen with Charlie's husband Jeff, drying dishes. The back garden is slowly blossoming to life. Long evening sunlight slants from the sky, touching all sorts of flowers that drink it up like water.

His wedding had been held back there. Hugo took his first steps there. Harry had his first real birthday party sitting on those long tables. Ron had first put his arm around Pansy to keep her warm right there.

Ron forces himself to take his time finishing up with the dishes. He deliberately lingers over his goodbyes to his mum and dad, and methodically walks to a safe Apparation point rather than opting to floo home.

It being after five on a Sunday, by the time he finally gets to his destination the lights are all off and the door is locked when he tries it. He doesn't feel disappointed, exactly, but he's made his decision, and it's difficult not to be impatient now that he's made up his mind.

Just as Ron's turning to go, he sees a figure calmly slipping books onto a shelf toward the back of the room, charmed so that Muggles are unable to see it. Ron watches Pansy, the way her hair stirs as she shifts and the capable, sure way her pale hands move. He remembers the hand that brushed against him in a bar last autumn and the spark it sent up his spine; he remembers the hand moving along his skin; he remembers when he told her about Hermione, and how her hand hovered near him, like she wanted to touch but was afraid.

Pansy turns at his knock. He watches her blink against the darkness, and reigns in his impatience. When she finally pulls open the door, surprise evident on her face, Ron says simply, "Hey."

Pansy looks at him. "Hi."

Ron takes a deep breath, feeling it steady him. "So," he says, "I know I haven't - the thing is, Pansy, I miss you."

Pansy continues to stare at him. The sun is setting, creating a world of purple and blue. She says, "Oh."

Ron pushes on. "I miss you in a lot of ways," he tells her honestly. "Mostly, I miss being able to talk to you, and I miss the way you make me feel. I miss being happy." He gestures. "So, I just..." He shrugs. "I just thought you should know."

Pansy chews on her bottom lip. "Okay," she says finally, eyes trained on his face.

"Okay?"

She nods. "Okay." Her red mouth is tilted up in a smile.

Ron peers around her. "Need help stocking?" he asks.

Pansy opens the door and lets him in. Later, her lips open under his, and he thinks maybe that's enough.