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Summary
She bumps into him, quite literally, turning away from the bar, sloshing sparkling bubbles over the scarlet of his Auror robes as her wine glass meets his chest.
“Sorry,” she says, and he just thinks she means the spillage but it’s probably an apology for any and every previous interaction between them. It feels better off her chest, the first fallen fruit from an overburdened tree.
Ron’s smile is soft and unbothered, an easy curve that sees him carelessly shrugging. “It’s alright. They need a wash anyway.”