The Sugar Quill
Author: Miss Gypsy (Professors' Bookshelf)  Story: Dream Diaries, Skiing, and a Very Certain Weasley  Chapter: Default
The distribution of this story is for personal use only. Any other form of distribution is prohibited without the consent of the author.

Potions, Skiing, and Christmastime

Dream Diaries, Skiing, and A Very Certain Weasley


Disclaimer:  Do I even need a disclaimer?  Yes?  Ok, I don’t own anything.

A/N:  This little ficlet is plotless – just a little missing moment between Ron and Hermione.  Enjoy…


"Well, to tell the truth, skiing's not really my thing," said Hermione. "So I've come for Christmas." There was snow in her hair and her face was pink with cold. "But don't tell Ron that, I told him it's really good because he kept laughing so much."

OotP, pg. 498




“Where’s Harry??” An irritated Ron Weasley stomped into the Gryffindor Common Room, possessing a dream diary and a scowl on his face.


“Detention with McGonagall – and hello to you too,” Hermione bit back irritably, not looking up from her corner of the Common Room.  Her books were spread around her and filled the chair beside her.


“Budge up a bit,” Ron demanded, scooting books around so he could sit beside her.  “When will he be back?  And is that homework?”


“I don’t know when he’ll be back,” Hermione said, punctuating every syllable.  “And no, Ronald, this is not homework.  Why do you need to talk to Harry?”  She slid the parchment away from his line of vision.


“I need help with my bloody dream diary.  Is that a letter?  To Vicky?”


Hermione heaved an exhausted sigh.  “Ron, please don’t be upset about this again.  How many times do I have to tell you?  Viktor and I are just friends.”  She chanced a look at him before gathering every ounce of courage she had and saying, “There are other people I’d rather be more than friends with.”


“Oh.”  She could not tell by his response if he had believed her or not.  She chanced a second glance at him and found him staring at her intently.  Her cheeks flared up and she did not look at him again.


There was a moment of silence in which Hermione scrawled and scratched in her small, loopy handwriting, and Ron sat right beside her, trying very hard not to make any physical contact or read any of the words she was writing – although he was quite tempted to do both. 


Then there was a tap at the window, and the both of them looked up.  There were only a few other people in the Common Room, a small group of third-years who were intensely involved in a sort of Friday-night Exploding Snap tournament.  The cards had just singed off their eyebrows, leaving them distracted and unaware of the unfamiliar owl at the window.


Hermione stood awkwardly then walked over and let the bird in.  To her surprise, it handed her a letter.  She turned it over slowly, and breathed a sigh of relief to see her own name scrawled in a very familiar hand.


She ripped open the envelope and two things slipped out – a letter and a brochure.  She looked at the brochure first.  It was advertising a Muggle ski resort in France.  She arched her eyebrows and turned to the letter, handing the brochure to a very curious Ron, who started looking it over and sniggering at the warmly-dressed Muggles suspended in time, on slopes with wild looks of excitement on their faces.


To our dearest Hermione,


We are so looking forward to the Christmas holiday, and we miss you so much!  The other day, your father sat a third plate at the dinner table out of old habit – after five years, we still aren’t used to your not being around.


I’m writing because your father and I have a surprise for you.  We’re going skiing over the holiday!  Hermione, love, I know that skiing was never really your cup of tea, so to speak, but we’d love it if you would join us.  Now, if you have plans to spend Christmas with Harry and the Weasleys, that is fine as well – but let us know. 


Hope everything is going well.  We love you and miss you very, very much.  Be safe.


Love always,



Hermione sighed, for she really hated skiing.  Her father adored it, and she’d tried time and time again to enjoy it for his sake, but she didn’t really see the point in sliding down hills on bits of wood or plastic.


Ron, however, spoke up curiously.  “What is this?”  He waggled the brochure at her annoyingly, and she found her irritation rushing back.


“It’s a ski resort, Ronald.”


“Ronald now, eh?” Ron asked with a lopsided grin.


She did not respond.  And did not respond a second time when he asked again.


“Hermione, come off it!  What is skiing?”


“You really should take Muggle Studies next year,” said Hermione, dipping her quill in the inkbottle and adding a post-script to the now-finished letter.


“Is it some sort of religious ritual?  Are they sacrificing people – lobbing them off mountain tops?”  Ron’s voice deepened and he smiled playfully at her, mimicking a tribal elder with his tone.  “You have one chance at survival.  If you can make it to the bottom without being impaled by these planks-“


“Will you stop already, Ron?” Hermione said exasperatedly, forgetting about her embarrassment only moments before.  “It’s a sport.  A Muggle sport, and it’s really quite fun.  You hook the planks – they’re called skis – to your feet and ride the lift to the top of the mountain.  Then you ski – “ She broke off, glaring at him, for he was now doubled over with laughter.  What?”


“People actually do that?  Go whizzing down a mountainside, balancing on pieces of wood?”


Hermione did not see what was so funny about the situation.  “Well – yes, Ron, they do.  Just like people mount cleaning utensils and go sailing about in the air like a bunch of morons.”


It took Ron a second to piece together what she had just said through his laughter.  “Hey,” he said irritably, sitting up properly again.  “Are you having a go at Quidditch?”


“Don’t have a go at skiing and I won’t have a go at Quidditch.”  Hermione didn’t particularly care about either sport, but it had come down to a matter of principle.


“Fine,” Ron said.  “Just don’t tell me that people actually have skying-“


“The word is skiing, Ron, not skying.” 


“- That, then – competitions or anything.”


“But they do.  And its loads of fun, Ron, you can go really fast and down really steep slopes.  You’d love it, if I took you someday.”


Ron was quiet for a moment before speaking again.  “Yeah,” he said, his tone different now, “I probably would.”


Hermione felt a flush rising in her cheeks.  She wished Ron would stop dropping hints of his own and take the time to pick up on hers.  Maybe then he would ask-


She shook her head furiously, forcing all thoughts of Ron that were in any way romantic from her mind. 


Lost in the silence and in proofreading her letter to Viktor, Hermione became so distracted from their conversation that she jumped when Ron spoke again.


“We’ll miss you – at Christmas.”


She turned to him and saw that he was being entirely serious.  She tilted her head and smiled at him.  “Thank you.  That’s about the only nice thing you’ve said to me today.”


Ron made a sort of indignant sound.  “I say nice things to you all the time.”


“Not really,” said Hermione, turning away so he couldn’t read the letter.


“Oh, come off it,” he said again.  “You know that I’m just teasing you.”


“Maybe I get tired of the teasing sometimes,” said Hermione calmly, murmuring a spell to erase a smudge of ink on the parchment. 


“Maybe I get tired of the nagging.”




Ron leaned back in his chair, watching Hermione stand there correcting her letter, and tilted it slightly.  He stretched, yawned, and suddenly found himself sprawled on the floor, his freckled limbs stretched like that of a cartoon character’s.


Hermione burst into a fit of giggles, irritation forgotten.  “Ron, are you alright?  What happened?” she asked, helping him to his feet.


“Bloody thing flipped over on me.”


Hermione pressed her hands to her mouth to stop the laughter. 


“Don’t laugh.  I could have been bloody killed,” said Ron, her ears turning pink.


“No, you couldn’t.  And don’t swear.”


Ron grinned.  “Sorry, Professor McGonagall.”


She took a playful swat at him, which caught him off guard for a moment, before bringing a great smile to his lips.  He grabbed a cushion off of the sofa and whacked her over the head with it.  She froze in shock for a moment, just long enough to make Ron think he had hurt her, then she threw the pillow right back at him. 


Ron caught it deftly, a true Keeper, and dropped it on the floor.  He dove at her, reaching for her stomach and tickling her until she shrieked with laughter and pleaded him to stop.


“I never knew you were so ticklish,” he said wickedly.


“I never thought it would be a – STOP, RON! – good idea – PLEASE! – to tell you.”


Ron stepped back from her, and Hermione jumped up from the couch the second she had the opportunity.  “Goodness, Ron.  You never really know when to stop, do you?”


Ron shrugged.  “Guess not.”


Hermione harrumphed and went back to mailing the letter to Victor.  Ron watched for a moment and then spoke yet again.


“So you’ll be going, then?  With your parents?”


Hermione didn’t look at him.  She couldn’t, because then he would see how much she wanted to stay with him over Christmas – with his family, and with Harry as well.  “I suppose.”




“Well, they have been planning me a surprise.  I can’t just say I don’t want to go, can I?”


“I reckon not,” admitted Ron.  Then he looked at her sharply and said, “Be careful, Hermione.  Promise me you’ll be careful.”


She nodded tiredly, suddenly feeling exhausted.  But then she remembered something.


“Ron, didn’t you need help with your Dream Diary?” 


Ron shook his head, blushing profusely.  His ears turned bright red underneath his red hair, and he grabbed the diary off the table before she could manage to take a peek.  “Nah, thanks, I’ll just – I’ll just ask Harry, then.”




The letter was sent, and Hermione yawned.  “I’m tired… I think I’ll be going up to bed now.”


“Okay,” said Ron, and he stood awkwardly. 


They stared at each other for a moment, and then Hermione stepped forward and put her arms around him, shocking them both.  “Thank you, Ron.”


Ron nervously hugged her back.  “For what?”


“For… everything.  For yelling at me, for being a prat.  Thank you for keeping everything… in perspective.”  She couldn’t believe that she was saying this.


Ron laughed softly.  “You’re welcome – but I’m not about to thank you for being a Know-It-All.”


Hermione giggled.  “I wasn’t expecting it.”


She released him almost reluctantly, and smiled sadly.  “I hope Harry’s detention went well.  Tell him hello – and good night – from me if you stay up waiting.”


“I will.”


The pair stood again in silence, each biting down on everything that they wanted to say but couldn’t, until Hermione spoke.


“Well, good night, then.”


“Good night, Hermione.”


And she turned around and walked up to her dormitory, her mind overwhelmed with thoughts of dream diaries, skiing, and a very certain Weasley.



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