4.3 | Astoria ✓

11 | 2003

A/N

You guys, I legitimately forgot all about this! So here's the deal—if I go 10 days without updating this story, feel free to bug the hell out of me. I won't get mad, I promise. It's just that I'm so busy with work, and a new project, and my head is literally everywhere these days.

K, enough rambling, I have a question for you. Whom among Harry Potter's generation do you ship? (i.e. characters around Harry's age; NOT during the Marauders era.) Totally random question, I know (...but not that random...).

x Noelle

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BRIGHT CAMERA LIGHTS flash in her face; shouts of "Greengrass!" fill her ears as reporters swarm around her. It leaves her dazed. She can barely breathe with so many people pressed around her.

"Miss Greengrass!" A woman pushes her way directly into her path. Rita bloody Skeeter. Astoria tries very hard not to flinch when the reporter shoves a Quick-Quotes quill under her nose. "Your family has amassed an incredible fortune over the years, I'm sure. Do you think you'll be able to get your parents out of Azkaban with all this dirty money?"

She remembers what Snape once taught her—if you mask your emotions, they'll never know your fear—and ignores the woman. Harper urges her forward and she follows the Ministry official down the Atrium. The lift is just up ahead. But as she nears, the sight of a familiar figure stops her.

Ron.

His bright blue eyes are fixed on her; his hands shoved into the pockets of his Auror-in-training robes. She falters. A flush cuts her cheeks as she remembers the last time they met, even though she schools her face straight. The reporters begin to clamour and shout at the arrival of a famous war hero, but his gaze doesn't waver from her. Reluctantly, she heads towards him. It's the only way she can get to the lift, after all.

"Mr Weasley," the old Ministry official's voice is saccharine. "Is there a problem?"

"I'd like a word with her."

The official looks surprised, but immediately motions her forward. Harper's hand tightens around her elbow, and she offers him a reassuring look. "It's alright." She doesn't miss the way Ron's eyes narrow, or how his gaze trails her when she steps into the waiting lift.

"No one follows," he says shortly, then steps into the lift with her. He presses the button for the first floor and the lift lurches backward.

She gasps and holds onto the nearest thing: him. Bloody lift. She's forgotten how fast these things go. Ron quickly steadies her with an arm around her waist. For a moment, it's almost like no time has passed at all. Pressed flush against him, he's as warm as she remembers. His scent—crisp and fresh—makes her want to shut her eyes. He exhales, his fingers tightening on her waist, and she knows that if she looks up, she'll be lost in his blue eyes. She fights the urge and pulls away from him.

"Sorry," she mumbles, and holds onto the golden rope that hangs from the ceiling instead. For a moment, she feels Ron's gaze on her, before he steps forward and presses another button.

The lift comes to a stop.

She blinks and looks around. They're suspended between floors, and she'd be a lot more frightened if she wasn't so unnerved by him.

"Did you get my messages?" He cuts straight to the chase. No small greeting; no pleasantries exchanged. But then she never really expected that from him anyway. Ron's always been a straightforward sort.

"Yes."

He takes a step closer to her. "Then why won't you answer? I've sent you a Patronus everyday."

She bites her lip and looks at her feet. Feelings. She's never been good at that. "Ron, I—I don't think this is a good idea. That night was—I mean, I don't regret it but... I don't think we should see each other again."

Silence follows her words. When she chances a glance up, she finds the strangest expression on his face. He looks almost...stricken. "Why not?" he asks at last, his voice unexpectedly hoarse.

"You're a Weasley, and I'm a Greengrass—"

"You can't possibly still buy into that blood-traitor bullshit! My family may be poor and not have the connections that your family does, but—"

"I meant the opposite," she says quietly. "Your family fought in the war and won. You're war heroes. Without you, the Wizarding World would be lost. But my parents believed in Pureblood supremacy and all of Voldemort's ideals, even though they weren't Death-Eaters. You don't want to be anywhere near me right now. I don't want to ruin your reputation."

"Bullocks to that," he scoffs. "Do you really think I give a fuck what those reporters out there think? Besides, you're not the only one dealing with the Ministry right now. I heard from Theo that he and Malfoy's been transferring all their inheritances overseas, so the Ministry won't seize everything they own."

"It's not the same. Draco, Theo and Pansy's parents are dead. Even Blaise's mother left the country long before the war even began. All the Ministry wants is their money for war rebuilding efforts. But my parents are here. They're the only Pureblood supremacists still alive to target and convict. Daphne's left for France with her girlfriend. But I can't leave them and make for someplace safe myself. They're my parents. You understand that, don't you?"

She hopes he does. After all, the Weasleys are legendary for sticking together through thick and thin. She thinks that, of all people, he'll understand what it is to go to hell and back for family.

True enough, he nods. "I can help you," he insists. There's his Gryffindor loyalty. "I've got some pull here. Auror-in-training, Harry Potter's best friend and all that. If you're with me, no one will dare to say a word. Even Skeeter will shut right up."

"I won't ever use you like that, Ron."

"Because you'll rather be with Harper?" His voice is sharp.

"What?" She blinks, nonplussed, and shakes her head. "I'm not with anyone. Harper's an old family friend. He studied Magical law over the past few years, and my parents hired him as their lawyer."

"Oh." His cheeks redden a little and he runs a hand through his hair. He looks slightly embarrassed and huffs out a small laugh. "We've gone about this the wrong way, haven't we?"

"We have?"

"Yeah, I mean... We kiss and have sex—all of which are great, by the way," he adds, with a smirk that makes her flush. "But I barely know anything about you. Apart from what's on the news, which I suspect is wrong more often than it's right. So, what do you say? Friends?"

She's so surprised that she can only stare when he lifts a hand for her to shake. But the smile on his face is so genuine, his words so sincere, that she eventually reaches out to grasp his hand. As his large hand envelops hers, she has the fleeting sense that although the war has ended, this next phase of their lives has just begun.