Never Let Go

The comment about the red underwear had been made in an attempt to break the awkward silence that filled the room. It accomplished its task, but sadly the comment also served to further embarrass Ron whom ran off to the furthest corner in the bedroom where he hid behind a massive armoire.

This seemingly childish behavior should’ve served to drive me away from the bedroom and into the living room where I was more welcomed; it didn’t. Instead I walked further into the bedroom, staring at the walls with curious eyes, studying the photographs that covered the bare white wall from sight.

Almost all the pictures held the same three people in them; it was Ron, a bushy haired girl and a raven haired boy with black rimmed glasses. I continued to look through the photographs and then, when my eyes landed on an old tattered photograph that I thought I had lost, I broke into a foolish grin.

It was strange how happy seeing that photo made me.

I knew it was odd, even by my standards, to become so overjoyed at the sight of an old photo but there was something incredibly moving about the fact that Ron had held onto the photo that my grandparents had taken at London Zoo when they took us to see the lions.

Overall that trip to the Zoo had been a disaster.

Ron and I had managed to get into the lions den where we were nearly killed by the massive creatures but when I look back on that trip, I never remember how terrified we must’ve been. When I look back, I remember how insanely happy we had been when we got home and told the twins about our fun; we were such strange children.

I soon grew tired of just staring at the photo. I needed to hold it in my hands, to make sure that it was real, so I did just that. I reached out for it, carefully pealed it off the wall and held it in my hands where I marveled at how small we had once been.

I giggled softly as I remembered how angry Mrs. Weasley had been when my grandmother had told her what happened. She had grounded Ron for two weeks, an absurd amount of time for an eight year old and I clearly remember that on the last day of his grounding, I ran to his house with a knitted bag filled with candy for him.

It was my way of apologizing for the lion ordeal, because, although I hated to it admit it, us getting into the lions den had been completely my fault. It had been me who had lost control of my laughter and had made the protective wall vanish and it had then been me who had told Ron that we should walk further into the den, just so we could pet a lion.

That was a stupid idea, I know that now, but my eight year old reasoning convinced me that it was not only a very wise decision but that it was also the decision that would lead to the most fun ‘ever’.

After staring at the photo for a few minutes, I turned my attention to Ron who was still hiding behind the armoire, the only difference was that he was now wearing pants and had even slipped on some trainers.

He stared at me with curious eyes. It was obvious that he was trying to figure out who I was and what photo of his I was holding in my hands. I must admit that I was a bit hurt that he didn’t immediately recognize me, but I understood why he hadn’t.

Over the last five years, my physical appearance had undergone a rather drastic transformation. I was no longer the petite girl with a boyishly thin frame. I was now rather tall, standing at 5’7 and hag gained a significant amount a weight which placed me on the ‘plump’ side of the spectrum, most of that weight resided in my ass.

It was a family trait that my grandmother was also afflicted with; apparently my father had been so as well.

“What are you looking at?” Ron broke the silence.

“A photo of us,” I answered, my dark brown eyes meeting his blue orbs.

“Of us?” he repeated.

“Yes, of us,” I laughed lightly. “Have you really forgotten me? I mean, I know that it’s been five years but . . .”

“Millie?” he inquired softly.

I nodded.

“Merlin’s Beard,” his eyes were glued to my face, as if he was studying me to write a paper on the composition of my nose and eyes.

I stood there, waiting for Ron to do something other than gawk at me. I truly thought that he was going to pull me into a tight hug like the twins had, but no, he just stood there, staring at me as if I were some strange animal.

Tired of his behavior, I decided to take control of the situation. I slowly made my way over to him, stopping when I was about a foot away from him. I stared at him with a playful smile on my face as I held the photo firmly in my right hand.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley, why are you acting like such an insufferable prat?”

“What? I'm not acting like an insufferable prat.” Ron was clearly offended.

“Yes, you are,” I placed the photo on a nearby dresser. “You haven’t seen me in five years and all you’ve managed to do is say Merlin’s Beard. That, my dear ginger, is something that only a prat would do.”

“Well I was shocked! Merlin’s Beard is a good response when someone’s shocked.”

“It is,” I agreed. “But usually after someone shouts Merlin’s Beard, they do something else.”

“Like what?” Ron asked.

“Like hug or comment on how much the person has changed, that’s what most people do.”

“Alright then,” Ron attempted a very pathetic excuse at a hug.

“What was that?” I asked.

“A hug, obviously,” Ron responded.

“That was the worst hug you’ve ever given me.”

“It can’t have been worse than the hug I gave you after I threw up in your hat when we were ten.”

“Believe me, it was.”

Without warning Ron took me into a stronger, warmer embrace. His arms snaked around my waist as he pulled me in closer. I wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his chest as I had done so many times before.

I breathed in deeply, inhaling his scent that hadn’t changed in five years. His scent was arguably one of my favorites, he always smelled of peppermint, peppermint and sugar cookies, that was his signature scent.

“How was that one?” he asked when we pulled way.

“Better,” I answered.

“Better than ours Millie?” shouted the twins from the doorway.

I turned to look at them, “Of course not! Nothing beats a twin sandwich!”

“Hear that Ron! She prefers our hugs.” Fred grinned.

“No, she doesn’t. She’s just saying she does to shut you wankers.”

“What happened to speaking properly in front of a lady?” I asked.

“Emi, you’re no lady, you’re Emi,” was his response.

“I should be offended by that,” I stated.

“You should be, but you’re not, are you?” Ron already knew the answer to that.

“I'm not,” I admitted.

Ron smiled, but his smile quickly vanished when – I'm guessing – he realized that I no longer spoke like a proper British subject.

“Bloody hell, Emi, you sound like a yank!” he exclaimed.

“So I’ve heard,” I looked to the twins. “Is my accent really that shocking?”

“Of course it is!” they answered in unison.

“The last time we heard you speak you had a posh accent that made the Malfoys sound vulgar and then you come back and you sound like that yank . . . let me think of her name . . . Oi! Fred, do you know the name of that yank?”

“What yank?” asked Fred.

“You know, that yank, the one that had the blonde hair at the World Cup!” George hoped he remembered.

Fred scratched his chin, “The one that kept saying that everything was cool?”

“Yes!” George clapped his hands together. “What was her name?”

“Don’t remember, I was to busy paying attention to other things to focus on her name.”

“Cheeky bastard!” laughed George. “But anyways, Millie sounds like her, right?”

“Not really, that girl had a really low sultry voice and Millie has a more innocent voice,” pointed out Fred.

George nodded in agreement. “That is true, but the accent is there.”

“It is.” Fred chuckled. “This conversation was incredibly pointless.”

“Not true,” argued George. “We’ve learned that Millie was stationed on the east coast.”

“You’ve always known that,” interjected Ron. “Mum was always talking about how they were living in Washington D.C.”

“Ronniekins close that ginger mouth of yours before we close it for you,” threatened the twins mischievously.

“Don’t threaten Ron.” I never liked it when they threatened Ron; they were always merciless in their pranks when it came to him.

“Blimey! I had forgotten that we don’t get to prank Ron when Millie’s around.”

George snickered. “Don’t worry Fred, she’s bound to leave.”

“You two are awful!”

“We never said we weren’t,” Fred winked.

I turned to Ron. “You deserve a medal for having survived growing up with those two.”

“Will you give me one?” he asked playfully.

“I will.”

Ron’s stomach grumbled loudly, causing him to yet again blush furiously.

“Sounds like you need to be fed,” I commented.

“I do, but mum told me yesterday that she wasn’t going to feed us until two so that Bill and Charlie could get here so we could have a proper reunion and it’s barely one and,” Ron cursed softly, “I'm going to die from starvation. I know it.”

“Why don’t we go downstairs and I’ll make us some bacon sandwiches?” I proposed.

“You’d do that?” Ron asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” I laughed. “Unless you hate bacon sandwiches now and if that’s the case we can’t be friends anymore.”

“No!” he shouted much louder than he intended to. “They’re my favorite; I remember we used to have them all the time when we’d have those garden parties in the backyard.”

“Well then, let’s have a garden party right now.”

“Can we go?” asked the twins.

“Afraid not, this is an Emi-Ron event.” Ron turned to me. “Are you ready, Emi?”

“Yeah, but you’re going to have to show me where your kitchen is, I kind of forgot.”

“I’ll show you and I'm willing to bet five galleons that by the end of the summer, you’ll know where all the secret passages are again.”

“Do you expect me over that often?” I asked.

“W-w-well yeah, I mean, unless you don’t want to . . .” stuttered Ron.

“Silly ginger, of course I’ll be here. Now, let’s go make those sandwiches.”