#only to backpedal hard when i tell them its by imagine dragons. it never gets old

[its-no-biggie]

[listening to my playlist while i drive people home]

my cousin: yknow, this singer kinda sounds like if imagine dragons was good

me, confused, not sure i heard him correctly: what?

him: i said this sounds like if imagine dragons was good

me:

me: this is imagine dragons

[romioneficfest]

The Second Dance

Title: The Second Dance

Prompt/Day: Day 11 - A Wedding Reception

Tumblr name: 

Rating: K

Brief summary: At Krum’s wedding reception, all the way across the continent, Ron and Hermione share their second-ever dance, almost three years after their first— at Bill and Fleur’s own wedding. As they sway in each other’s arms, they realize their future may be headed toward one together; but tonight, they don’t need to worry about anything other than the here and now.

Content Warning: none :)

The dance floor was quite crowded, and their ears were flooded with a language neither of them understood, but they were happy.

Earlier that year, a letter had come for Hermione from Bulgaria, announcing Viktor Krum’s engagement to a certain Pavlina Alferova and cordially inviting Hermione and “a guest of her choice” to the wedding. Along with the intricate invitation —which had come in a bound scroll and magically unrolled itself to display the words in bright red ink, the Cyrillic alphabet then rearranging itself into letters in English— Krum (presumably) had attached a handwritten note in English expressing how deeply he wished Hermione would come.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Ron?” Hermione had asked him when the scroll unraveled over a late-night dinner in their flat. “Oh, I’m so happy for him…”

Ron, reading over her shoulder, had remained silent for a moment and then said plainly: “He misspelled ‘marriage’. There’s no d in it.”

“Always so positive,” Hermione had muttered.

But now, here they were: they’d Portkeyed across the continent all the way to the Balkans for Krum’s wedding. Traveling with Hermione had its perks: rather than her little beaded bag, she’d taken an elegant black dragonleather clutch carrying their dress robes and shoes, which they were now clad in as they embarrassedly noticed how Britishly out of place they were here. Both men and women wore dark robes, with the mean bearing formalwear fur caps —which they remembered from the Durmstrang students’ garments back in Fourth Year— and the women draped in furs around their necks.

“I feel awfully underdressed,” mumbled Hermione, in her sapphire-blue half-sleeved robes. “At least everyone we know here sticks out just as much.”

It was true: Harry and Ginny, Bill and Fleur, and the Diggorys —all invitees of Krum's— looked just as awkward in similarly inappropriate robes, but none seemed to be giving it as much thought as Hermione

“If you’d have brought a fur, you’d look perfectly in place,” Ron tried to comfort her. “Come to think of it, we should’ve skinned Crookshanks and put him 'round your neck.”

“You’re horrible, you are,” Hermione had replied, stepping 'accidentally’ on his foot.

Ron could tell it was quite intentional, because if there was one thing Hermione wasn’t, it was clumsy: hours later, after the toast and dinner, when they were sweeping along the dance floor in a sea of alcohol-jolly fur-clad guests, she still steered as gracefully as if she’d been born in a ballgown. Ron liked to think he’d significantly improved since the last time they’d danced together, at Bill and Fleur’s own wedding, where he’d been painfully aware of how dangerously close to her feet his were traipsing. However, in his defense, he’d been anything but relaxed that night; however, now that not only was a war not going on anymore, but he didn’t have to worry about Krum coming over to them to ask for his turn with 'Er-my-nee’ (considering that he had his bride now to dance with), he was much calmer.

The thought of that same dance seemed to emerge in Hermione’s mind as well, because, as they swayed in place, she brought it up: “You know what’s funny? We’ve been together two years now, and we haven’t danced once before right now since Bill and Fleur’s wedding.”

“Funny,” Ron commented, adjusting his hands on her waist to bring her closer. “It’s like we only seem to dance at weddings.”

“So when should I expect to dance with you next?” Hermione said, jokingly. “I’m a busy woman, you know, budding career at the Ministry and everything— it’d be a relief to my schedule to pen it in from now. Charlie?”

“Definitely not Charlie,” answered Ron, twirling her around. “Unless a dragon’s involved in some way, shape, or form, I dare say there’s not much else he cares about.”

“Alright, so not Charlie, then,” said Hermione, coming back from the twirl and placing her free hand on Ron’s shoulder again. “What about Percy?”

“Trust me, Hermione, Percy’s as much of a Ministry git as you are—”

“Hey!”

“—you’ll get his wedding invitation in a Ministry memo and he’ll make sure it’s compatible with your schedule, I don’t think that’s one you need to be worried about.” Spotting Krum in the distance, he spun them away from the center of the floor, muttering as he did so: “Besides, Percy’s married to his work already, he can’t cheat.”

“Don’t be so mean. I’m sure he’ll find someone lovely.”

“If he ever looks up from his paperwork,” Ron commented, spinning her around again, sending her robes flying around her.

She came back laughing, radiant, and again settled her hand on his shoulder. “So? Our original question remains unanswered.”

“Oh, that must be so hard for you to bear.”

“Got a good guess, Ronald?” Hermione said, but then her tone softened as she let go of his hand, raising hers to meet her other one in a wrap around Ron’s neck. “When are we dancing next?”

The only reasonable explanation for what Ron said next was that his heart, unable to control itself and struggling not to beat out of his ribcage, had blurted it out through his mouth: “Maybe our own wedding. You all in white, me looking like an idiot but in proper dress robes this time—”

“Our wedding?” abruptly said Hermione, drawing back a bit to look at him. “Ron, is this a—”

“No! No, no, it doesn’t have to be,” he sputtered to correct himself, desperate to backpedal and kicking himself internally for having been such an idiot. “It's— I mean— we’re only nineteen—”

“It’s a wonderful thought,” whispered Hermione, pulling herself close again. She brought her hands down from his shoulders and rested them on his chest, placing her head between them, her ear right above his heart. “I can’t say I haven’t had it before.”

“Merlin, Hermione, it lives in my mind every waking moment,” Ron sighed, his own arms squeezing her waist tighter, pulling her body up right next to his. “Every time I’m idle, that’s where my mind goes. I can’t say I don’t want it, badly. I’d be lying if I said it’s not a dream to me.” He closed his eyes, smiling to himself as he conjured up the familiar image of Hermione, radiant in a white gown, smiling just for him in a day they shared for the two of them only. “But we’re only nineteen, y'know. We’ve got time. That’s the luxury of peacetime, 'Mione— we’ve got time. We don’t have to rush into anything.”

“Especially not something we know we really want,” she answered. She felt his chest rise and fall rhythmically under her skin, and she longed for the touch of his bare skin, his chest the pillow she often woke up clinging to and wanted in her bed forever. She hugged him tighter, so tight it almost felt like she’d never let go. She didn’t want to. “We really want this, don’t we?”

“I know I do,” Ron said, detaching a hand from the small of her back to tangle it in her hair, pressing her closer to his heart. “But we don’t need to know know right now.”

“So what do we know know right now, then?”

Ron stopped swaying, but didn’t let go, and brought the hand that was in her hair down to cup her cheek and tilt her chin upward. When their eyes met, hers were brimming with affection, and Ron could read in them every loving word that had ever fallen from her lips. “I know know I love you, Hermione Granger. I know know I’m in this country where the people speak gibberish and at a wedding where we’re the only ones not wearing furs, but it doesn’t matter, because the girl of my dreams is in my arms, and she has been for the past two years. I know know that it’s been a while since I’ve worried about the future, because the present beside you is so good. All I know, 'Mione, is that I’m young, I’m in love, and I’m with you. Right now, that’s enough.”

Hermione, nestling into the hand on her cheek, leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to his lips. Though he was accustomed to the taste of her, Ron always felt a trace of new sweetness: closing his eyes, he tilted his head to make their lips fit better, and held her bottom lip between his, savoring their softness and the fragrance, like old books and freshly-cut grass, that she gave off. Kissing Hermione Granger, no matter how many times he’d done it, was better than every time he’d imagined it in his four-poster in the Gryffindor dorms, and got better every time.

They pulled away, but their bodies remained pressed close to each other, hearts beating together right across from one another. Finally, Hermione spoke in a breath: “Yes, Ron. That’s more than enough.”