#with kingsley waking up remembering briefly being molly and being quite upset about it

[nellasbookplanet]

“There’s this spell,” Essek says, before stopping like the words are physically caught in his throat.

Kingsley glances up at him from where he’s idly sharpening one of his swords, pretending like agitation and discomfort isn’t sparking along his skin the way some insects will run on-top of the surface of water. “Sorry to tell you,” he says, making the words drawl a little, crinkling the corners of his eyes in that way he knows will make him look relaxed and teasing, “but I think you’ve got the wrong guy. Magic Man’s over there.”

He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating where Caleb is sitting side-to-side with Veth, heads tipped together as they discuss some king of summer camp with great seriousness.

“Oh. Ah, no.” Essek rubs at the back of his neck. “This is about you.”

“If it’s some weird memory spell, forget it.”

It comes out sharper than intended. Kingsley’s never been to the Dynasty, but he’s been around the Nein long enough to hear about it; he knows about anamnesis, and reincarnation, and consecution. No matter how hard he tries not to know about it, people keep telling him.

For a moment, he fears Essek will disregard his words and cast whatever spell he’s talking about anyway. A flick of his fingers, a magical phrase, and some other person will be called up from inside Kingsley, bring with it memories that aren’t his, feelings that aren’t his, a self that isn’t him.

And everyone will recognize this person, this stranger in Kingsley’s skin, and they will rejoice.

“It’s nothing like that,” Essek says quickly, just as Kingsley is a hair’s breadth away from bolting. “It’s called Resonant Echo. It connects to other possible timelines and summons an other, possible you. An Echo, if you will.”

“I’m sure that’s very nice.” Kingsley grins, a thought occurring to him as calm returns. “Bet there are lots of fun things you could do with that.”

Essek’s cheeks turn a dark magenta as he blushes. As far as Kingsley can tell, he’s the only member of the Mighty Nein with a semblance of dignity and shame; it’s fun to poke at sometimes. And now especially, Kingsley is happy to reach for anything to take his mind off things.

“That’s not what it’s for,” Essek says, still blushing fiercely.

“You telling me it’s beyond your mighty capabilities?”

“I’m saying—” Essek stops, shakes his head. “What I mean to say is, it lets you see a version of yourself that isn’t, or a version that could’ve been. It’s an echo of a possibility of who you are, but it isn’t you.”

Kingsley narrows his eyes at him. “What’s this all about? Did Yasha send you over here to make me feel better?”

“It’s more of a personal incentive,” Essek mutters. “Though clearly I’m not very good at it.”

“No, no, go on, tell me more about how I’m just some echo of another person that everyone liked better.”

Essek winces, and Kingsley suspects maybe he crossed a line. Whatever. He’s had a rotten day, and is in his full right to be snappish.

“That’s not what I mean,” Essek says, very slowly. “I—I don’t know how much they’ve told you about me. About the things I’ve done, or why I can never go home.”

“They’ve told me enough.”

Essek’s face does something funny. A series of interconnected twitches at the corners of his eyes, his mouth, even his long, elven ears. Like he was perfectly prepared for what Kingsley might say and yet the words hurt him anyway, no matter how much he tries to catch them with grace as they’re slung at him. Kingsley softens.

“I don’t really care, you know. Whatever you did, it’s in the past. Right now, you’re just some drunk adventurer still aching after today’s fight. I saw you out there. You saved a bunch of people. Whoever you were before wouldn’t have put himself in danger for the sake of strangers like that.”

Apparently, Essek doesn’t know what to do with words like that. He blinks stupidly a couple of times, and eventually just clears his throat and keeps going like Kingsley’s said nothing at all. Kingsley grins, letting him get away with it for now.

“The person I am now is shaped by the things that I did. The good and the bad. When I call up an Echo, that isn’t me. It looks like me, and it might even act like me or know the same things I do, but it isn’t me. It doesn’t have my experiences. Didn’t make the same choices and suffer the same consequences. It’s someone who looks like me, but really, it’s a stranger. Me, but not me.

“And sometimes, I’m tempted to be like these things. To shirk my past and my responsibilities, to find a way to undo my mistakes and become a version of myself who’s never had to live with blood on his hands. But I will never do that. Because even with all the ugliness, this is still me. I have found a happiness I thought impossible, and I don’t want to go away and lose all that just to give way for a nicer, better stranger wearing my face.”

He stops and slumps, air gone out of him like a hot air balloon. Kingsley, who’s long since given up sharpening his sword and has sat with it limply in his lap for the last couple of minutes, pats him on the shoulder.

“That’s a good man,” he says, and Essek snorts. Then he rights himself, correcting his robes (which, though he’s magicked away the blood and grime from his latest adventures, still look worn and washed out compared to what they must’ve started out as; they’re still a deep purple color on the inside of the collar, hinting at their former glory) and even running his fingers through his mussed hair. There’s a couple of small braids in it: a gift from Veth and Jester.

“I apologize,” he says, all dignity and composure. “I didn’t mean to make this all about myself. I just—I guess I wanted to make you feel a little better about yourself.”

Actually, Kingsley feels fine about himself. Always has, even if his ‘always’ hasn’t existed for very long. It’s other people who look at him and expect to see someone else.

But that agitated feeling has faded. Not fully—Kingsley suspects it’ll never fully go away—but mostly. He feels grounded in his own skin again, even if that skin used to belong to someone—multiple someones—else.

He might remember flashes, sometimes, of Mollymauk and Lucien both. They share this body, and no matter how many times it’s been scraped out some memories will still cling to the inside and come crawling out when he least expects them. But that doesn’t make them his. They are shared, like Essek shares part of his life with his Echoes. Him, but not him. Because this is who he’s chosen to be.

“Thanks,” he says, meaning it.

[be11atrixthestrange]

Step 7: Saying ‘I Love You’

From 12 Fail-Safe Ways To Charm Hermione Granger

Step 7: Saying 'I Love You'

If there's any defining moment to a relationship, it would be the first utterance of the words 'I Love You'. Do not fear saying those words if they are true. But keep in mind that Love is more than just a feeling, it is also an action, and a responsibility. In this sense, the first 'I Love You' is a promise, and one that should not be taken lightly.

*****

Ron ran his fingers over the words "I Love You." They were pretty big words, but at this point, Ron said those three words so frequently, it was just routine.

A lot of things that seemed big at first had become routine. If he wasn't anxious about tomorrow, he'd have gone to bed with Hermione, casually muttering "I love you," before sliding his arms around her and drifting off to sleep. He'd wake up in the morning and again, mindlessly say "I love you," and since it was a weekend, he'd stumble to the kitchen to make tea and start breakfast. Many things could happen that day— they might get into an argument over something dumb, they might make love, or they might not interact much at all, content to do their own activities, and none of it would break normal.

It's funny how those three words used to feel so foreign, but at this point, they were interchangeable with hello and goodbye. They'd slip out at work, when they passed each other in the hallways, as a reassurance after a bad day, or for no reason, to fill the silence in the room. It was difficult to remember the early days, and how much Ron had stressed over saying them.

Just because I love you was easy to say, didn't mean that it was easy to show. Ron blamed this on their routine. Hermione had a regular schedule, every day from 8am to 5pm. As an auror, Ron's varied widely, but he usually wasn't awake when Hermione left, so the first time they'd see each other was in the evening. If Ron had a late shift, they'd miss each other completely.

Sometimes they felt like roommates on completely opposite work and sleep schedules. The words 'I love you' didn't carry nearly as much meaning as the actions behind them, and they could go days without seeing each other, which left little room for those actions.

Nowadays, they scheduled time to break the routine. They scheduled date nights- twice a month they would try a new restaurant, or explore a new part of town, or even take one of those wine and painting classes that muggles were so fond of. Some days they wouldn't go anywhere, but stay in and try cooking a new muggle recipe, and rent a movie to watch from the sofa.

It took effort to maintain their relationship with friends. When their work routines invaded their daily lives, they could go months without seeing Harry and Ginny. Harry and Ron saw each other enough at work- but that was as coworkers, not best friends. So they scheduled it- again, twice a month they'd have them over for dinner, or a movie, or if Harry and Hermione had final say, a muggle board game. A younger Ron might scoff at the normalcy of double dates with Harry and Ginny, but today's Ron cherished those days as much as his date nights with Hermione.

That same younger Ron probably would have thought of the need to schedule time together as a warning sign, but he would have been wrong. Today's Ron thought of his willingness to schedule that time as the action behind 'I Love You', finally giving those words the meaning they deserved.

*****

After a teary goodbye, Ron and Hermione took a portkey back to London to return to "their normal lives", as if they existed. Mr. and Mrs. Granger weren't aware of the full extent of the trio's misadventures during the war, and they still maintained the impression that there was some routine for them to return to. But as they discovered upon their return, life at the Burrow was as chaotic as ever.

Ron and Harry had both decided not to return to Hogwarts, and instead take Kingsley up on his offer to begin auror training in the fall. Hermione and Ginny would be returning to school, which meant that Ron and Hermione had exactly one month to enjoy each other's company until they had to separate.

In a perfect world, that whole month would have been spent alone together, preferably in a bed, picking up where they left off in that hotel shower, but the life at the bustling Burrow required more from them. Instead, they spent their days with family, answering questions about their trip, helping Molly and Arthur around the house, and reconnecting with Harry and Ginny.

Although her house was just as full and lively as before, Mrs. Weasley was still deep enough in her grief to let certain things go unnoticed, most notably everyone's sleeping arrangements. It was Hermione who first informed Ron of the new plan, soon after she put her things back in Ginny's room.

They were outside by the garden, watching Mrs. Weasley play with Teddy down by the pond. Harry and Ginny were nowhere to be found, but that didn't bother Ron until he learned they'd been getting away with sharing a room.

"So, you're coming up to my room tonight?' he asked her as he leaned back in his chair, letting the late afternoon sunlight streak across his face.

Hermione nodded. "That's the plan."

"What about Harry?"

Hermione shrugged. "What about him?"

"We can't have much fun with that git sleeping next to us."

"He won't be," she said casually, as she took another sip of her lemonade.

Ron narrowed his eyes. "No, he can't sleep in Ginny's room."

"Where do you think he's been sleeping since I've been gone?"

Ron groaned, trying to wipe the image from his mind. "Tell Ginny it's not going to work out and to keep it in her pants."

"Ron!" said Hermione exasperatedly. "I can't. It wasn't exactly a question, more of a statement."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Hermione, turning to make eye contact. "She simply informed me of the new sleeping arrangements."

"And you didn't argue?"

"I didn't want to argue," she replied.

"Well, that's a first."

Hermione scowled at him, briefly, before a smile formed on her face, and she laughed. "Hold on, are we having an argument?"

"Yes," said Ron.

"It's our first!" said Hermione excitedly.

"It most definitely is not our first argument," said Ron, confused.

"Yes, it is! Unless you count right after the battle, but I don't. That was just you being upset, justifiably. This," she said, gesturing between them as if trying to describe their entire relationship, "is our first time bickering as a couple."

"And that's a good thing?" asked Ron.

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "It means that we're legitimately together."

"I can think of a few times in that hotel room that could count as legitimately together," he said snarkily, only to receive an eye-roll from Hermione.

"You know what I mean," she said, playfully swatting him on the arm.

"I know you're mental," he replied, before setting his face back in the sun, enjoying the mild British rays. The truth was, he knew exactly what she meant. Although the last few weeks had been fantastic, something about being at the Burrow, bickering, and not needing to touch each other every five seconds (although he happily would), made being Hermione's boyfriend feel normal. It was definitely a rhythm that he missed, and one he felt solidified their relationship.

He didn't win the sleeping arrangements argument, but that was ok. Only half of him wanted to win that one, anyway. Turns out Hermione was right, Mrs. Weasley was too caught up in her emotions to notice the change. Hermione and Harry would simply switch places in the evening, and switch back at dawn before Mrs. Weasley woke up, and it soon became their routine.

Harry and Ron didn't talk about it. When Harry returned every morning, they had the exact same conversation.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Did you have a good night?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah."

And then they'd talk about something else. Anything else, while Ron pretended that Harry's definition of "a good night" was much, much different than his.

Once he pushed any thoughts of Harry and Ginny out of his mind, being with Hermione was quite effortless. They quickly fell back into the rhythm of being best friends. They bickered and argued so much that they frequently earned looks of exasperation from Harry and Ginny. They probably overdid their bickering that summer, because as it turned out, making up was a lot more fun as somebody's boyfriend.

In many ways, being Hermione's best friend made being her boyfriend much easier. Thanks to seven years of friendship, he was already used to her constant presence. There was no sudden change in his social circle or leisure activities because there was nothing new about the existence of their relationship, just the definition of it. Because he was her best friend, they could sit on the couch in the living room for hours, and not say one word to each other the entire time. He wouldn't feel pressure either, because they'd already grown accustomed to comfortable silences after years of reading in the common room together, or dining in the great hall, or studying in the library.

By contrast, it was also their seven years of friendship that fueled endless conversation. On multiple occasions, they stayed up from dusk to dawn, just talking. On one particular night, he learned that the first time she remembered doing accidental magic was when she was five, and she made a piece of broccoli explode because she was so upset about having to eat it. On that same night, he told her that his intense fear of spiders started when Fred and George turned his teddy bear into one, and he used to make up songs with Ginny and perform them for his parents. He even promised to sing one to her at some point, hoping she'd forget the offer.

That was one of many nights they just lied in bed together, learned as many obscure things about each other as they could, made each other laugh, and completely forgot to snog. It wasn't that he didn't love snogging, it just happened to be one of many things he loved about her.

Unfortunately, not all conversations were so effortless. Although he could tell Hermione embarrassing stories about himself all day, and he had no issue cursing wildly even though it made her adorably annoyed, there were three tiny words that got stuck in his throat every time he tried to say them. He had no doubt he loved her, but that tiny voice in the back of his head kept reminding him it was too soon, and that he'd scare her away, or worse, that she couldn't possibly love him back.

He wanted the moment to be perfect, so at first, he planned it out. There was one night that started and ended in the backyard treehouse. Like Hermione had after the funeral, Ron brought blankets and pillows, a bottle of firewhiskey, and cast a cushioning charm. It truly was a perfect night. There was talking, there was snogging, and there was comfortable silence as they stared up at the stars, arms around one another.

They woke up in stillness the next morning, completely unconcerned that someone might find their beds empty. He almost said it then, because what could be more romantic than the morning after a night of stargazing? He kissed her, preparing for the moment, but then caught a mischievous glint in her eye. The romance of the moment was broken when she smiled coyly and slipped her hand into his pants, and he definitely couldn't say it now, but he wasn't an idiot about to complain about a treehouse handjob.

He wanted to tell her again on a particularly memorable night in his room. They had spent the entire night in bed together, wearing minimal clothing, and exchanging even fewer words. As much as he enjoyed loving her nonverbally, those three words taunted him all night, just begging to be said. But his opportunity to tell her passed when for the first time, she let him dip his head under the blankets, and drag his lips from her neck to her breasts, to her warm, wet knickers. When he trailed kisses up her inner thigh and slipped his tongue between her legs, it became painfully obvious how much more he wanted her, and he didn't want to risk her sensing an ulterior motive in those words. So instead, he kept his mouth on her, writing them with his tongue, until he was thankful he had cast a silencing charm.

Instead of trying to create the perfect moment, he started looking for pre-existing opportunities. There was one by the pond a few days later. She was reading on the dock while Ron swam, doing his best to convince him to join her. He'd pull himself up on the dock like a determined sea lion only to jump in right beside her so she had to dodge her book out of the way.

"Ron!" she groaned, before drying her book with her wand.

He ducked under the dock to surface on the other side as quietly as he could, before pulling himself up to lay next to her. She tried to push him away, but he slipped his arm around her and pulled her to him. She shrieked at his cold touch before conceding and relaxing into his arm. "Swim with me?" he asked?

"Fine."

He rolled off the dock and fell back into the water. He heard a splash behind him before felt her arms snake around his neck as she wrapped her legs around his waist.

"I hate you, though," she said playfully.

He pressed a kiss to her lips. "That's too bad because I-"

The words seemed to be stuck in his throat. What if she wasn't expecting them? Would it ruin the moment? He looked around him, they were alone in the pond, bodies pressed together, hidden from the prying eyes of the burrow. Everything about this moment was perfect.

He finished his thought with another kiss.

They may have snogged in the pond for just a few seconds, or it could have been a few minutes. It could even have been hours and Ron wouldn't know. Time seemed to stop when he was with Hermione. They were eventually interrupted by a pair of splashes on either side of them.

"Get a room brother," came Ginny's voice as he and Hermione broke apart.

"We were alone…" said Ron.

"Well now you're not," piped Harry, and Ginny playful splashed them both before they swam deeper into the pond.

"What were you saying?" asked Hermione.

"Huh?

"Before we got distracted. It sounded like you were about to say something."

"Oh," said Ron, his ears heating up. "It was nothing." The moment had passed.

"Ok," said Hermione, shrugging, and the pair swam ahead to follow Harry and Ginny.

Then the perfect moment presented itself a few days later, while they were lying on the sofa on the porch. He was sprawled with his legs on her lap, dipping out in and out of a nap, while she read her book. She was mindlessly moving her hand up and down her calf, and he'd realized that he'd been taking all seven years of her platonic touch for granted. Maybe those three words would mean more, now that they were alone and fully clothed.

At one point she realized he wasn't sleeping. "What are you looking at?" she asked.

"You," he said. He reached for her hand and laced his fingers into hers.

"Why?" She pressed her free hand to her book, marking its place when it swung shut, and turned slightly to face him.

This was the moment, he thought. If only he could just… say it. What was he afraid of?

He couldn't understand exactly why he struggled to say them. It wouldn't have been the first time, he told her he loved her. He let it slip in their sixth year, late at night in the common room. He was still dating Lavender back then, so she interpreted it as a friendly 'I love you', but that wasn't how he meant it. Back then he thought that letting it slip so early, before they were even together, would make it easier to say it later. He has already formed the words and she has already heard them, but he was wrong. Saying it again felt as inevitable, and impossible as their second kiss.

"Ron?" she asked, pulling him out of his thoughts. He was suddenly nervous that his hesitation would diminish his sincerity if he said those words now.

"No reason," is what he settled with, before using her hand to pull himself up to a seat, and planting a quick kiss on her lips.

Just like their second kiss, those words eventually came about at a perfectly unplanned moment. The night before she was due to leave for Hogwarts, Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny spent most of the night awake, soaking up each other's' company. After a celebratory dinner, most of the Weasley's continued celebrating the start of Hermione and Ginny's final year of schooling the only way they knew how- with a bonfire and butterbeer.

They sat around the fire, sipping at their drinks, and telling stories of their time at Hogwarts. Ron and Harry wondered aloud what Hermione would do for fun, now that they were gone. Ginny promised to make her relax and remind her to eat when she was too stressed. George gifted them some new prank items, and told them to "use them wisely." Hermione surprised everyone by pocketing them and thanking him, and promised to report back. Mrs. Weasley spent most of the night in tears, with her arms around either Ginny or Hermione, and Mr. Weasley offered his very best effort to convince McGonagall to set up a direct floo line from Hogwarts to the Burrow, but they all knew that was a long shot.

Eventually, it was just the four of them left. They knew it was time to call it a night, but none of them wanted to. When Hermione started shivering, instead of retreating to the warmth of the burrow, she gently turned to Ron and tugged at his jumper with a pleading look on her face. "Are you cold?"

"No," he said, sliding out of his jumper. She put it on, snaking her arms almost all the way through it, before wrapping them around herself. He chuckled and shifted in his chair, opening his arms in invitation. "Come here," he said.

She obliged, crawling into his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her head in his shoulder. Harry and Ginny took that as their opportunity to sneak away, strolling down toward the pond hand in hand. Ron did his best to block any thoughts about what they might get up to down there, and turned his full attention to Hermione.

He was feeling the effects of his butterbeer. It might just be what he needed to conjure up enough Gryffindor courage to tell her how he felt. He wrapped his arms tighter around her and buried his face in her hair.

"Hermione, I'm really going to miss you."

He could feel her nodding against his chest. She was still shivering slightly, so he ran his hands up and down her arms, to warm her up. She lifted her head from his chest and looked right at him, her eyes shiny with potential tears. Now was the moment, and he didn't let himself pause and second guess it.

"I love you, Hermione," he said, as clearly and firmly as he could muster. "I love you so much."

And he waited, for what seemed like an eternity, for her to say something. It was probably only a few seconds, but enough time for him to convince himself that even if she didn't feel the same way, she still deserved to know.

"Do you really mean that?" she asked earnestly, as a tear escaped down her cheek.

He ignored the pang of anxiety he felt, as he wiped the tear from her face. "Of course I do."

She narrowed her eyes. "How many drinks have you had?"

Ron sighed. He didn't know what he expected from her reaction, but it wasn't this. "Enough to finally say it," he pulled her forehead to his lips and kissed her. He let his lips linger there when he continued. "Not enough to lie about loving you, if that's what you're worried about-"

"Well, I love you too," she interrupted, her voice cracking slightly. She moved her hands from his neck to his head and shifted his lips down to meet hers, kissing him deeply. He snaked his arms around her waist and responded in kind. Many moments flashed through his mind, the first time they shared a bed, their first kiss, their first shower together, but none of them could compare to the way hearing those three words in her voice made him feel.

Turns out saying "I love you," was a lot like kissing. Once he got the first and second instances out of the way, the third, fourth, and fifth came with ease. He didn't miss any more opportunities to say those words. They were the last words he said before they fell asleep that night, and the first when he woke up the next morning. He only had a few hours to make the words feel familiar and natural, so he said them as much as he could, hoping they didn't sound too much like a lovesick lunatic, and that she would never tire of hearing them.

The morning passed too quickly, and before he knew it, they were on platform 9 ¾. They stood there teary-eyed, embraced each other, and exchanged those words for what would be the last time in months. All the hesitations he had about saying them suddenly felt silly, because they didn't even begin to fully describe how he truly felt. He told her he loved her, but he wanted to say so much more, and he wasn't even sure if strong enough words existed.

He'd have to settle for I love you, and hope he had the rest of his life to show her what he meant.