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What Happened to Us | ||||
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Category: Post-DH/PM Characters:All Genres: Angst, Drama, Romance, Songfic Warnings: None Story is Complete Rating: PG Reviews: 7 Summary: Companion piece to "Any Chance of Us." We dated for a bit. Years had come down to “we dated for a bit.” Ron felt it like a jab to the kidney. - Songfic to "What a Good Boy" by the Barenaked Ladies. Hitcount: Story Total: 5551 Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work. Author's Notes: This is a companion piece to "Any Chance of Us" that's been sitting on my hard drive for three years. Since my mom found it and nagged (Hi, Mom!), I'm posting it for all the world to see. "Any Chance of Us" is AU because I wrote it Pre-DH, but this one follows canon pretty closely. |
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When I was born, they looked at me and said What a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy. And when you were born, they looked at you and said, What a good girl, what a what a smart girl, what a pretty girl. “Weasley, get those reports on my desk by three–and if you’re late this time, it’s going in your file.” Ron Weasley was having a Very Bad Day. No, that wasn’t quite it, he thought to himself as he pushed files around on his cluttered desk space to find the desired reports. He’d had bad days before. He’d had bad weeks before. And on one notable occasion, he’d had bad year. But this day, this day was Very Bad. It just seemed to take all of those qualities from previous bad days and roll them into one big dull ball that sat flat on his chest and pinned him to the ground. His boss was cranky, his boss’s boss was cranky, his secretary was on the fritz (she’d left two hours before for a “light” lunch and Ron doubted she was coming back), and half of his men had been in and out of the healer’s officer all day due to stupid accidents in the training field. With his luck, they’d all have to be re-trained or just let go–which meant a whole new slew of headaches. “Weasley! Did you even hear me?” “Yes, yes,” Ron replied without looking up from his shuffling. “Reports, desk, three. I heard you, Mr. Quinn.” Quinn’s derisive snort made Ron want to roll his eyes. He politely waited until his boss was safely away from the office before making a rude gesture at the open door. When he found his reports, he regretted even thinking about it; whatever idiot had filled them out had decided that legible handwriting was optional. He squinted at the scribbling for a full minute before he realized that it was his handwriting. Suddenly, a nice Avada Kedavra to the head sounded like a good option. His sister and his girlfriend had been saying for years that he worked too much; for once, Ron was inclined to believe them. It had been exhilarating at first, to work such a job knowing that people twice his age sometimes never made it this far in the chain of command. But now that the responsibility had caught up with him, he was starting to feel twice his age. At twenty-four, that was both unnerving and disappointing. “Mr. Weasley?” It looked as though his secretary had finally come back after all. Ron scowled at her. “What is it, Meg?” “Your sister and Miss Granger are here to see you–they said something about dragging you to lunch?” The idea had never sounded better. Hurriedly, Ron gathered up the botched reports and shoved them at the diminutive woman who called herself his secretary. “See if you can’t fix those for me,” he ordered over his shoulder, and hurried down the hallway. Ginny and Hermione were waiting there for him, both dressed for work. Since Ginny’s job meant she was in and out of the Muggle world, she wore a set of tailored slacks and a shirt with strange runic writing. Japanese, she’d called it. Hermione’s plain black robes were a bit more suitable for the hallways of the Ministry. Ron didn’t think he’d ever been so relieved to see either of them, especially Hermione. When they weren’t fighting, she had the magical ability to make bad days seem a lot less…bad. “Hullo,” Ginny greeted him as Ron pecked Hermione on the cheek. She jumped to her feet and immediately began to shift from foot to foot. Similarly, Hermione was also abuzz with excitement. “Hermione and I were in the neighborhood–we thought we’d actually make sure you got some nourishment today.” “And we have fabulous news, but that can wait,” Hermione added, nearly rocking on her heels. Though Ron wanted to make both of them tell him right then, he conceded with a nod. “Sounds good to me. Usual place?” “Ginny and I were thinking Russ’s, actually.” Hermione was practically beaming. Ron raised his eyebrows. Russ’s Tavern had perhaps the biggest misnomer that any eating establishment the wizarding world had to offer: no tavern Ron had ever seen offered white tablecloths, linen napkins, and fancy French wine. They’d taken to eating out there to celebrate minor victories when they didn’t want to head home to the Burrow. The prices were a little steep, but nothing that would hurt or hinder him too badly. He agreed to meet them there and stuck his head into Meg’s tiny office. “Meg–if anybody needs me, I’ll be eating lunch at an undisclosed location and whatever they have to say can wait. I don’t even care if it’s the Minister.” It wasn’t likely that Percy Weasley would visit his brother anyway. As far as Ron knew, hell was still hot. Ginny and Hermione were waiting for him at their usual table near the back of the restaurant. Ron took his seat next to Hermione. “So,” he said as he used the decanter to fill their glasses. “What’s the big occasion?” Hermione rummaged around in her purse–a device scarily akin to a black hole, in Ron’s opinion–and withdrew a piece of parchment that Ron loathed and liked in equal parts. It was a map of Europe, drawn very carefully by their friend Dean, covered in dots of various colors. Each of the colors meant something–supposed sightings, confirmed sightings, botched sightings, and predicted sightings. “Here,” she said now, passing the map over to him. “A new sighting is the big occasion?” he asked before he could stop himself. “Of course it isn’t.” Hermione rolled her eyes and jabbed her finger at the map, very specifically at London. Ron tried to remember if blue meant that Harry was supposed to be going there next, or if he was actually there. Hermione’s face was practically glowing, so infused with happiness. She tapped the blue dot again. “Harry’s coming home.” People want to strangle us with them before we take our first breath. Afraid of change, afraid of staying the same, When temptation calls, we just look away. When I was born, they looked at me and said What a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy. And when you were born, they looked at you and said, What a good girl, what a smart girl, what a pretty girl. They hadn’t expected Harry to disappear. Not at first, anyway, and definitely not until the Weasleys were healed from the final battle. But the note had been sitting atop the Burrow’s kitchen table nonetheless, just lying there for Ron to find it early one morning. He tried to hide it from Hermione, but she’d been ruthless, attacking his ribcage with poking fingers until he finally conceded the point and handed the note over. It had contained a very brief and brusque apology, all in the familiar scrawl. “Sorry. Can’t stay. Gone to Brazil.” Harry had taken the coward’s way out, Ron had thought, but he’d understood. Or, he’d tried to. Hermione had lectured him about it constantly–Harry was under a lot of stress, Harry never had a chance to live outside the spotlight, Harry just needed some time to think…but as time wore on and Harry neither showed nor wrote, her excuses dwindled and finally disappeared. After a year had passed without word, she began to study the Witch Weekly and The Quarterly Wizard in hopes of spotting Harry among all of the tabloid photos. Following that had been the advent of the Map. Ron thought it deserved its own capitalization. Out of nowhere, Harry had shown up for Christmas three years before, bearing colorful gifts. But he’d disappeared a few days later in the same style as before, this time without a note. “Harry needs to come home,” Hermione had decided when the Map was just in its beginning stages. “And if we have to sit on him to make that happen, by Jove, we’ll do just that.” Ron personally thought they had their own problems to deal with, Ginny in particular. She’d taken Harry’s flight the hardest and had proceeded to mimic him on a smaller scale. She’d moved without a word to the Muggle side of London, and the family had seen neither hide nor hair from her for weeks. Bill had dispatched himself to have a talk with her one day, and the family had seen more of her after that, but she was usually very busy with her work at M. W., the new leading magazine. Hermione’s problems were more interlaced with his own. With Harry gone, they only had each other and work. and this hairshirt is woven from your brown hair. This song is the cross that I bear, bear it with me, bear with me, bear with me, be with me tonight, I know that it isn't right, but be with me tonight. Three Years Before Mid-December winds brought a bitter chill to London that matched Ron inside and out, but he just buttoned up the cloak he’d been issued and pushed his head lower. Inwardly, he regretted ever establishing anti-Apparation boundaries around his flat. If he’d realized what the two-kilometre trek would mean, he would have decided to chance his luck with dark wizards. He kept his head down, blending in with the crowd of Londoners despite his fiery hair, and just wished that the day would end. Every day was a miserable experience that seemed to start and end in absolute despair. Upon waking, he had nothing but work to look forward to, and then an empty flat. He could call Ginny or Hermione, or one of his work friends, but it was never the same as it had once been. Ginny was always busy, things were bizarre with Hermione, and he saw too much of his work friends already. Occasionally, he wrote letters to Harry, who even answered a couple, but it was a depressing state of existence. He let himself into his flat, trudging up to the third story. There was mail in his slot, Muggle bills that labeled him “Resident” and offered him discounts at places he would never patronize. He dumped those into the bin beside the door, one hand reaching up to unbutton his cloak. “You’re back late.” Ron whirled, wand out, and bit out an oath when he saw that it was only Ginny, sitting in the sole recliner across the room. She had a copy of her magazine open in her lap, and her stocking-covered feet were propped up on the coffee table, atop his pile of Quidditch magazines. She smirked. “I don’t recall giving you a key,” he said suspiciously, though he’d had that very item on his to-do list for months. “Hermione made me a copy of hers.” Ginny closed the magazine and stood up to stretch. “Where have you been? We were supposed to go ice-skating ages ago.” “Work.” He said it gruffly, hoping she wouldn’t get on his case about it. He wasn’t nearly so lucky. “You’re there a lot,” Ginny remarked, her eyes narrowing as he hung his cloak up on its proper peg. “Even more than you used to be, when–” “Don’t say it,” he interrupted. “I thought you said you were doing better.” Even two months after the Big Break, as Ginny referred to it, Ron still couldn’t bear to hear it spoken aloud. He preferred not to think about it, spent a great deal trying not to think about it. Nothing really helped. Whiskey sometimes gave him a quiet numbness, but more often than not it brought up her face on the day that they’d decided it just wasn’t working. And a particularly nasty hangover the next day. Reading offered no solace, and even Quidditch had lost its spark. “I am. Doesn’t mean I want to talk about it.” He stomped past Ginny on the way to the kitchen and yanked open the icebox. At the sight of its contents, he peered at Ginny. “Did you go shopping?” “It was empty. Somebody has to take care of you, if you’re not going to do it yourself.” Ginny sighed to herself when Ron removed the cap from the milk and chugged. “Still living like a heathen, I see. Wait ‘til Mum hears.” Ron lowered the milk jug. “She’s not going to hear. Because you’re not going to tell her. Got it?” “I hate that you’re living like this.” Ginny hoisted herself up onto the counter and frowned fiercely at him. “I really do. You’re working yourself into the ground, and all you had in your fridge before I took pity on you was a bottle of some German wine and half an orange.” “I ate the other half,” Ron recalled. “And the wine was a present.” “That makes me feel so much better.” Ginny rolled her eyes. “Who on earth would send you German wine?” Ron didn’t say. Ginny’s eyes narrowed. “He’s been writing to you?” Her voice was a steely length of cord that Harry would be wise to avoid. “Git never replies to any of my letters.” “I broke down and told him about…well, about, you know.” Why he felt he had to defend the guy that had essentially shattered all of his sister’s hopes to pieces, he would never know. “He sent this and a letter in reply. It’s in the drawer if you want to read it.” He could tell that she was tempted, but she shook her head. “When Harry wants to talk to me, he will.” It’s been three years, he wanted to say. Maybe Harry isn’t ever coming back. Maybe he’ll never talk. But he couldn’t very well chide her about waiting for Harry–she wasn’t. She had regular boyfriends, even one that had lasted longer for four months. And she was only twenty, so none of her brothers were in any hurry to push her to settle down with anybody. None of them dared. “So–are we still going ice-skating?” Ginny asked, changing the subject. The quarterly status reports had had him running through three different offices all day, leaving him honestly drained. “I’m tired.” “You’re never too tired for ice-skating. C’mon, I promise you nostalgia for your childhood and some good old-fashioned regression. And that’s a cure for over-working any time.” Ginny leaned forward and gave him her best “kid” grin, the look she reserved for talking Bill into doing things for her. Though exhaustion made him feel leaden, Ron begrudgingly agreed to go. A few minutes later, he trudged along behind his younger sister in a pair of well-sprung jeans and a sweater charmed to block out the cold. If I pass, if I fail, if I drop out, Does anyone give a damn? And if they do, they'll soon forget 'cause it won't take much for me To show my life ain't over yet. I wake up scared, I wake up strange. I wake up wondering if anything in my life is ever going to change. I wake up scared, I wake up strange And everything around me stays the same. Since the nearest skate park was “down” for repairs, Ginny dragged him to a fancier arena across town and insisted on paying the rental fee for skates, since Ron was fresh out of Muggle money. “See? Isn’t this fun?” she asked as they sat down on a bench alongside the ice to tug on the skates. Ron struggled with the laces of his left skate and grunted. For a very brief moment, he missed the skates he’d worn as a boy at the Burrow. But those had rusted through so badly that even a spell couldn’t fix them. He’d meant to buy a new pair. But that, too, had slipped through the cracks. “I haven’t been skating in forever,” Ginny continued. “We used to go all the time when we were still at the Burrow.” Things were easier then, Ron wanted to say, but he just continued to hold his tongue. “And then Mum would always have hot cocoa waiting for us inside when we got back. Of course, we were always covered in snow–that was always yours or the twins’ fault, since you always started the snowball fights–” “Hey,” Ron interrupted, “you always wanted to make snow dragons, so if you were covered in snow, it was just as much your fault as it was mine.” “I still say I make a much better snow dragon than you do,” Ginny replied without flickering an eyelash. Ron eyed the frost-hard ground. “If there were snow, I’d challenge you to a rematch.” “And I’d beat you,” Ginny said loftily, and left the bench to skate out onto the ice. Even after years off the ice rink, she still had a perfect sense of balance. She skated in small circles while she waited for him to finish fussing with his skate and get onto the ice. “Charlie said I made a better snow dragon than you did, and he’s the family expert on dragons.” Ron finally made his way onto the ice, moving slowly. In his day, he’d been nearly as fast as either of the twins. Those days were long past. He pushed first one skate out and then the other, testing his weight and balance. Meanwhile, Ginny skated around him in irritating circles. “Are you done yet?” she asked, clearly bored. “I want to race.” “Almost.” Without any warning at all, Ron took off across the ice. Behind him, he heard Ginny’s squeak of surprise and dismay, and the unmistakable sound of her own skates cutting up the ice to catch up to his. Before long, they were neck and neck; Ginny might have been small, but she was exceedingly fast. She spared him the briefest of grins before she shot off ahead of him. By the time they had made a full lap of the giant arena, skating in and out of the slower passersby, Ron’s legs were burning and he could feel the comfortable warmth of his own breath scrape at his lungs. He skidded to a halt and waited for Ginny to notice that he’d called an unofficial end to the race. It took her nearly half a lap. She scowled over at him and stuck out her tongue, cutting across the center of the ice to reach him. As she neared him, her eyes widened at something behind him. Unthinkingly, Ron turned to get a look at whatever had caught her attention. “Ron–” Ginny reached him, tugged at his arm. “Let’s go–” “No, no, I’m okay,” he said, though he clearly didn’t feel that way. His insides burned, but no longer from the race. He felt as though something had sucked out all of his vital organs and had left a burning, raging hole there, acid that threatened to eat him whole. Meanwhile, his head felt strangely heavy and hot, as though he wanted to just lay it down on the ice and do something very unmanly, like curl up into a fetal position and weep. Hermione was there. And she wasn’t alone. Ron’s only solace was that she hadn’t seen him yet. Quickly, he turned away, looked beyond Ginny. “I’m okay,” he repeated in a voice that didn’t sound like his own. Without knowing what he was doing, he started to skate. The expression on his face, he imagined, was probably useful for frightening children and small dogs. “It’s nothing. I’m okay.” “Ron…” Ginny trailed off, stricken. “Ron, I want to go home.” Because it felt heavy, he shook his head. It did nothing. “That’s nonsense. We just got here.” Unbidden, the scene from two months ago floated to the top of his mind. They’d agreed to break it off–a logical and coherent agreement on both sides. It just wasn’t working. They were too busy; they fought whenever they saw each other. It just wasn’t worth it to keep the faade of a relationship up, right? Right? They had reached the turn in the ice; through the corner of his eye, Ron could see Hermione and her date. He studied them, mostly watching Hermione. She looked…good, he could admit that. She looked so good. He’d seen her since the Break Up; they’d tried to remain friends. But whenever he’d seen her, she had looked tired and drawn, nothing like the radiant beauty in Muggle slacks and a pea coat. He recognized the scarf–it was something she had knitted herself, after she’d made those foolish elf hats in their fifth year. In the back of his closet, he had a matching one. Since looking at her physically hurt his eyes, he moved his covert gaze to her date, a tall bloke. Immediately, Ron saw it: the bloke was too tall for her. He was wearing a suit. Who wore suits to go ice skating? Was the guy too good for regular jeans? He had to be, Ron decided. He was a poncy git to be wearing a suit while ice skating, and Hermione obviously didn’t see it. He was halfway across the ice to tell her so when he stopped and realized that he had no say anymore. He’d written himself out of that chapter. “Ron.” Ginny was once again at his elbow. “What are you doing?” Ron shook his head, wanting very much to punch something. Since Ginny was the only thing in vicinity, and she would undoubtedly hit him back–with a Bat-Bogey Hex–he held it in. “I–I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think I need to get out of here.” “I agree.” Ginny started to drag on his arm, but it was too late; by some fluke of nature, Hermione glanced over. Her eyes landed directly on Ron, and she froze. Unfortunately, Hermione was nowhere near the ice-skater that Ginny was. Her skates flew out from under her, and with a shriek, she was down. She landed on the ice with an audible thud. “Hermione!” Throwing common sense to the wind, both Ron and Ginny skated over to her. By the time they reached her, her date was already helping her to her feet, and she was apologizing, stammering profusely. “Are you okay?” Ron asked, ignoring the date’s existence. She still seemed shaken, but annoyance began to creep into her expression. “I’m fine, Ron, no reason for you to race over here like the hellhounds were after you.” Ron nearly reared back, but managed to keep a lid on his temper. He didn’t want to admit that seeing her collapse like that had brought back a slew of bad memories that shouldn’t exist outside of nightmares. “That looked like a nasty fall. Just making sure you were okay.” “I’m fine.” She rolled her eyes and collected herself, remembering her manners in the process. “Oh, sorry, Thad. Thad, these are my friends, Ron and Ginny Weasley. Ron, Ginny, my date, Thad Monet.” “Like the painter?” Ginny asked, hovering behind Ron and looking around nervously as though waiting for a bomb to explode. “I’m not related,” Thad admitted. Up close, he had a rather scrunched-in face, Ron saw, like somebody had punched him as a child. Ron decided that if he ever met the person doing the punching, he would shake their hand. “How do you all know each other?” Since Ron didn’t really want to dignify the guy with an answer, Ginny skated forward a bit and smiled hesitantly. “We go back forever, it seems. School chums.” “Ron and I–” Hermione wouldn’t look at him now. “We dated for a bit.” We dated for a bit. Years had come down to “we dated for a bit.” Ron felt it like a jab to the kidney. The words made him want to double over and wheeze. He chose to nod instead. “Yeah, a bit,” he said faintly, as though it wasn’t him talking again. “Listen, it’s getting late, and I have to be at work early tomorrow–” “There’s a surprise,” Hermione interrupted. Ron’s eyes narrowed. Ginny clearly took this as a sign and cleared her throat. “Yes, right, getting late,” she said distractedly, and forcibly pushed Ron towards the side of the rink. “Better get this big baby home so he can function tomorrow. And I’ve got a lot of work to do myself–very nice to meet you, Thad, see you, Hermione–big issue next month, in charge now, you know how it is…” She kept up the rambling monologue until they were out of earshot of Thad and Hermione, and then scowled at her brother. “What?” Ron asked, wondering if he truly deserved that look. “She was the one trying to start something, not me.” “You are such an idiot.” Since he wasn’t inclined to argue, he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence.” They reached the bench where their shoes were stored, and he threw himself onto it. Ginny took her time sitting down and began unlacing her skates. “If you still feel that way about her, why are you even sitting here moping? All you have to do say the word and I bet she swoons right back into your arms.” There was a nasty threat of a migraine roiling behind his left eye. Scowling hard enough to make his jaw feel like it was wired shut, Ron leaned forward and began to jerk savagely at the laces of his skates. He ripped the left one off, jammed his trainer back onto his foot. “That’s a problem,” he growled. “I don’t know which word to say.” “Sorry always works.” Did he really need to apologize? Or just beg? He didn’t know anymore. Since Hermione was a woman, and if there was a woman involved, there was usually a man apologizing, he figured he’d have to do both. He pulled on his other trainer and glanced once at the ice, but Hermione and Thad were as far from the pair on the bench as possible. He supposed it was only fitting. What a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy. And when you were born, they looked at you and said, What a good girl, what a what a smart girl, what a pretty girl. I couldn't tell you that I was wrong, Chickened out, grabbed a pen and paper, sat down and I wrote this song. I couldn't tell you that you were right, So instead I looked in the mirror, Watched TV, laid awake all night. Between the next two nights, Ron figured he got about an hour of sleep. He stayed after at work, doing extra assignments until his secretary mentioned something to his boss. Quinn hadn’t bothered to mince words. “Go home, Weasley. Get some sleep or you’re fired.” Not really wanting to be in an empty flat where there was the ghost of a memory behind every corner, Ron decided just to walk and hope the December cold would clear his head. Ginny had already owled him twice that day; he didn’t want to be anywhere that owls could find him for a little while. He found himself wandering, blending in with the crowds as he always did despite being tall, gangly, and as redheaded as the sun. The sense of anonymity felt good. He staggered up to his flat, bone-tired, in the neighborhood of two a.m. “Ron!” He hadn’t even managed to get the door all the way open before something–a small, brown-haired something–attacked him. Ron stumbled back. By the time he realized that it was Hermione, it was too late. She was off in lecture-mode, glaring and stomping and talking too fast for him to hear her. He stared at her blearily, ignoring his ears, and just looked. “Are you even listening to a word I’m saying? Ronald Weasley–are you drunk?” She’d spotted the brown bag in his hand, snatched it away. Ron didn’t even think about stopping her as she ripped the bag away from a bottle of Muggle liquor. “Have you been wandering around the city like a drunk?” “No–” He made a half-hearted grab for the bottle. He hadn’t even opened it. “I was just walking.” A throat cleared behind Hermione and he realized that they were having this rather odd argument in the hallway outside his flat. He blinked stupidly as the door opened all the way and a familiar face poked its way through. “Having fun out here, kids?” “Harry?” Ron blinked again, but the mirage didn’t fade. “Good to see you, Ron,” the mirage said, and leaned against the door to grin stupidly at his best friends. “I see not much has changed with the pair of you.” Ron wished he could say the same. Harry looked…different. Hollowed. Tired. Older. He had stubble on his chin that just didn’t match with the image of the seventeen-year-old Ron kept of him in his head. “What–what are you doing here?” It wasn’t his imagination that Harry looked uncomfortable. “It’s Christmas. Or it will be on Tuesday.” The depression of spending the holidays virtually alone had almost literally pushed them entirely from Ron’s mind. “Oh.” Hermione looked between her best friends and sighed. “You know,” she told them both, and Ron noticed that the bottle had disappeared behind her back, “you’re allowed to, you know, greet each other with a hug. Men do hug.” By the time they had all made into the flat, Ron had remembered their missing counterpart. “Where’s Ginny?” he asked Hermione, who sighed to herself. “She owled me earlier.” “She’s on a date,” Hermione said in an undertone, glancing over at Harry. He didn’t hear them, though, for he was busy contemplating a photograph on the wall. “With Thad.” It took a minute for all of the links to connect in Ron’s bleary mind. If Ginny was out on a date with Thad, that meant that Thad and Hermione weren’t dating anymore. “You mean–you and Thad–?” Mutely, Hermione shook her head. Before Ron even had the chance to declare that today had somehow become better than Christmas and every single birthday put together in one festively wrapped package, Harry wandered away from the photograph he was studying and smiled wearily at them. Dead on his feet, Ron noticed, and felt a sympathetic twinge. “It was a long trip,” Harry said, apology buried in his tone. “I’m–sorry, can’t stop yawning–I’m going to kip.” “All right.” Though he’d previously felt like nothing could possibly feel better than sleep, Ron didn’t follow his friend’s example. Instead, he stared at Hermione, now entirely not certain she was real. She looked so… good. Like she’d looked on the date with the Scrunched-Up Face Thad. “So… no Thad?” he asked, purposely keeping the jubilation out of his voice. He might not know much about women–a fact Ginny reminded him constantly–but he’d learned at least that much. Doing that would mean a fight. And he was so bloody tired. They could fight tomorrow. Right now, he just wanted to stand–or sway, really–and look at her. “No Thad,” she agreed absently, turning away from him and opening the bottle. When he saw she meant to pour it down the sink, he dove for it. “Ronald–what are you–” Ron snatched the bottle back. “That stuff’s expensive!” “The last thing you need when you look like this is more alcohol–” “I’m stone cold sober,” Ron pointed out. Hermione eyed him mistrustfully. “I am. I promise.” “Then where have you been for the past six hours? I’ve been–” “Worried sick,” Ron finished, mimicking her and rolling his eyes. “Geez, Hermione, give me a little credit. I was walking.” “Walking.” “Yeah.” “For six hours?” “What of it?” He’d wanted anonymity, hadn’t he? Oh, bugger that. He’d wanted her. And now she was standing in his flat, and all he could do was pick at her. As usual. It made him want to tear his hair out. So instead he changed the subject, as there seemed to be not one, but two elephants in the room (where on earth had that statement come from, anyway? Merlin’s hedge-trimmers, Muggles were weird). “So Harry’s back.” Hermione stared at him for a minute, then looked quickly away. “Yes, Harry’s back.” To spare the alcohol, Ron set it on the highest shelf where Hermione, who barely came up to his shoulder, couldn’t reach it. “For good?” “For Christmas,” Hermione corrected, and sighed. “We were talking about that while you were out...walking. He’s not ready to come home yet.” Since Ron wondered if Harry would ever be ready to come home, he said nothing. “I didn’t even see this coming on the Map,” Hermione went on, ignoring his silence. “I thought he was going to go to Budapest next or maybe Fiji.” “They’ve got a lot in common.” Hermione gave him a perverse look. “You were really out walking?” “Do you want me to swear on my wand core?” Hermione sighed. “No. I believe you. It’s just, Ginny said you’ve been so busy at work, and so cut off that I figured you–” “Found the first pub and got blind drunk? I considered it.” He’d had his hand on the doorknob and everything, but something had pulled him away. And instead, he’d joined crowds of Muggles and Muggle tourists, and had lost himself for a few hours. It had felt… nice. “But not tonight. I had too much on my mind.” Hermione’s expression softened. For a moment, it looked as though she might be about to say something, but she just shook her head. “You should get some sleep.” “I’m fine.” “You’re swaying.” Almost bemused, Ron glanced down to discover she was right. “I’m okay,” he repeated, shaking his head. If he went to bed, Hermione would leave. And their odd non-argument would go with her. Who knew? The next time they saw each other, they’d be at each others’ throats again. “Long day at work, that’s all. Do you want anything to drink? Eat? Ginny went shopping–she finally took pity on me, so there’s real food around here somewhere–I think–” Hermione smiled at him fully for the first time since The Breakup. As always, his heart came to a stuttering stop against his ribcage. “I’m fine, Ron. I ate earlier, with some coworkers.” “Oh yeah? Which ones? Not the bloke with the green hair and his girl?” “Terry,” and Hermione stressed the name, “doesn’t have a girl. And no, I didn’t eat with him. I had dinner with Matilda. You met her once, at the Department Christmas party–” If he had, he didn’t recall. But he leaned against the counter and just looked at her, unaware that in his lack of sleep, his grin became something perilously close to a goofy smile. Hermione’s eyes softened again–no, melted really. Then she shook her head. “I really should get going.” “I’ll walk you to the Apparation point–” “No, it’s all right. You stay here, in case Harry needs something.” Despite the fact that she was collecting her bag and preparing to leave him, Ron still managed a stupid grin. “Harry’s really back.” “For now.” But Hermione smiled back. She didn’t seem to be in any hurry whatsoever to move, though she did slowly collect her cloak from the rack (that he never used) beside the front door. She’d insisted he install that thing a couple of years before, Ron remembered, though it didn’t train him out of the habit of tossing his cloak over the back of the kitchen chair. She pulled the dark green number around her shoulders. “I hope he’ll stay.” “Yeah, that’d be nice. Let me get that for you.” Suddenly chivalrous, Ron dashed forward to open the door before she could. He didn’t know why; maybe he just wanted to be close enough to smell that subtle perfume she always wore. Since she remained standing by the door, his move put them face-to-face, their bodies nearly brushing. A half-step closer and they’d be fused together. Ron barely dared to breathe as every nerve in his body jumped to life, shouting at the world. He leaned down and forward– “No.” Hermione’s gaze, openly pleading, stopped him. “Not tonight, Ron. It’s–it’s too much. We can’t keep doing this.” “Doing what?” He took a step back, but only in frustration. “We belong together. Why are you fighting this?” “It’s too much right now,” Hermione repeated, in that calm, reasonable voice that had always made him want to punch the nearest wall. “Harry’s back. Let’s just focus on that for now, okay?” Ron ran a hand through his hair, unconsciously making it stand up in soft spikes. “You can’t hide behind Harry forever.” Immediately, Hermione’s expression cooled to frosty fury. “Then it’s a damn good thing for you he’s probably only going to stay a couple of days, isn’t it?” And before Ron could even so much as swear, she hurried off, slamming the door behind her just in case he hadn’t caught the memo that she was now angry with him. People want to strangle us with them before we take our first breath. Afraid of change, afraid of staying the same when temptation calls ... With Harry in the country, the Weasleys rallied the troops and met in force at the Burrow. Bill and his young family, Percy from his duties at the Ministry. George came, bringing his business partner, a young witch named Lexie. The only ones missing in the end were Charlie, who couldn’t get away from Romania (he’d owled to let them know that there was a sick dragonlet that they’d named in Harry’s honor; Harry had turned vaguely green at the idea), and Fred. As with every family dinner, they left empty places at the table for both missing Weasleys. Ron noticed that George still refused to look at Fred’s spot, and that Ginny glanced at it constantly, her eyes sad. But having Harry home lifted spirits. At Ginny and Hermione’s cajoling, he related stories of his travels–chatting with a Boa Constrictor in Brazil (an old friend, he’d said), skydiving (a Muggle sport, he’d explained), cliff-diving, and pretty much every extreme sport known to Muggles under the sun. He’d even taken up snowboarding when he’d wintered in a state called Colorado the year before. Arthur was naturally fascinated, interrupting the stories with countless questions. Molly wanted to know how he’d been feeding himself. And Bill and George asked about the ladies abroad, something that caused both Lexie and Fleur to roll their eyes. Ron, while Harry was in the spotlight, spent the meal trying not to look at Hermione. Just as she spent it trying not to look at him. He thought he was being subtle about it. But apparently not. “So what’s up with you and Hermione?” Harry asked long after the meal had ended and they’d retired to Ron’s room. All around the two men, Chudley Cannons players through the ages snoozed against their orange backdrops. Ron pulled a pair of striped pyjama pants out of his bureau and shrugged. “We broke up.” “Yeah, I heard.” Harry pulled his T-shirt over his head. Beneath the fabric, he was little more than skin and bones. Ron, watching him out of the corner of his eye, winced sympathetically. But Harry was apparently used to his thinness, for he just shrugged. “You wrote, remember? What happened between the two of you? When I left, it seemed like you two really had it going for you in the happiness department.” “Like you and Ginny?” Ron asked before he could think about it. Harry just looked away. “Ginny’s doing better than I am.” And his expression told Ron very clearly that this was all he would say about the youngest Weasley. “But, seriously mate. What happened?” “I don’t know.” Ron sat on the edge of his bed. “Nothing really big, if that’s what you want to know. Just a million little things. We were both so busy. We never saw each other. And when we did… it was a battle trying to get along.” He rubbed the back of his head, sighed. “I thought we were okay. I figured it was something that would just pass, you know? Just one of our phases. But she…felt differently.” “She broke it off?” “Came out of bloody nowhere with it, too.” Ron sighed and flopped back onto his bed. “One night, we’re arguing over where to go to dinner, then the next thing I know, it’s ‘I think we need some time apart’ and ‘Maybe we need to see other people.’” He snorted. “I’ve seen other people. It’s bloody boring.” “You’ve seen one other person,” Harry corrected. “Exactly. And because of that, I know bloody well who I should be with. Who she should be with, too, if she weren’t so stubborn.” For the longest time, Harry was silent, fiddling with his glasses. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Then why the bloody hell aren’t the two of you together?” Ron stared at the ceiling. “Wish I knew.” * Sometime near three a.m., rattling snores pulled Ron from sleep. He rolled over to see his best friend in the next bed over, thin chest rising and falling in time to what sounded like a Muggle chainsaw. “When the bloody hell did you begin to snore?” Ron wondered grumpily at his sleeping friend. “You never snored at Hogwarts.” Harry, as though understanding him, just snored louder. Ron kicked his way out of the covers that he’d, as usual, twisted up during his restless sleep. If he couldn’t get any rest, he might as well go get something to eat and drink, as his stomach was reminding him that it had been several hours since Molly’s wonderful feast. Muttering viciously about inconsiderately snoring gits and the beleaguered people forced to share a room with them, he tiptoed down the stairs, grateful that he remembered every single step that creaked. He made his way to the kitchen and the icebox by memory–and whirled, spoon held like a Beater’s bat, when the light suddenly flickered on. Across the kitchen, Hermione let out a shriek of surprise. “Ron! What are you doing here?” Ron swallowed against his racing heart. Belatedly realizing that he still held the spoon, he dropped his arms. “Sorry. Harry was snoring. I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get something to eat. What are you doing in here?” Hermione’s smile was hesitant. “I–Ginny was tossing and turning, and she was keeping me up, so I thought I’d get some milk to help me sleep.” Ron pulled the jug out of the icebox and set it on the table. He then rummaged around in the cabinet adjacent and pulled out a tin. “Mum’s secret stash,” he explained. “Her ginger cream cookies. They’d go perfect with milk.” “I guess it can’t hurt,” Hermione admitted. “As I don’t think Ginny’s going to settle down anytime soon.” She paused. “Wait. Harry snores? Since when?” “Yeah, surprised me, too.” They were both silent as they sat at the table, Molly’s famous ginger creams between them. Ron looked anywhere but at Hermione, remembering the anger in her eyes when she’d stomped out of his flat two nights before. Besides, if he started looking, he didn’t think he’d ever stop. She wore some kind of filmy, flimsy nightgown. Though there was a bathrobe tied over it, it was belted loosely, and her thick, curling hair fell unhampered by its normal band. She looked far too tempting for words, especially when he was already shirtless. Finally, she sighed. “I hate this.” Puzzled, Ron lifted his eyes to meet hers. “What?” “Us. Whatever’s happening with us. I hate it.” Her lower lip trembled, petrifying him. “What happened to us?” “I don’t know.” Hermione sighed. “Am I so repulsive to you?” “What?” Ron gaped at her, wondering why it was that women spoke an entirely different and frightening language. “Where on earth would you get an idea like that? You’re the last thing in the world that could ever be repulsive to me.” There it was again, that lip tremor that chilled Ron to his core. “But you never seemed to have time for me. You’re always working–” “Is that what you really thought?” Ron asked, appalled. “You thought I was working so much to get away from you?” “You were always at the office, and you always seemed so tired and crabby…” “Hermione.” Ron shook his head, now as afraid to look away from her as he’d been to look at her. “You could never be repulsive. If I was working a lot, it was because I was saving up.” “Saving up? What on earth could you possibly be saving up for? You’ve got a good flat, you’ve got your Chudley Cannons season tickets…” On any other occasion, it might have amused–and pleased–him that she would make a reference to Quidditch at such an important moment, but he was too busy earnestly meeting her eye. Suddenly, it was vital that she understand. “For the cleverest witch in our year, you sure can be dense sometimes.” “Insulting me is not going to do anything for your–” “I’ve got a good flat, yes,” he agreed, his eye contact never wavering. “But I’m saving up for a better one.” “Whatever for? You could have mentioned–” “For us,” Ron continued, cutting her off. “I was saving up for a better flat for us. And for an engagement ring.” It might have pleased him to have Hermione–the most intelligent woman he knew–gape at him like a fish. But the fear of what she would say, what she would do next, was far too great. “En-engagement ring?” “Yeah. I had a nice one picked out, too.” And she didn’t know that it was in his cloak pocket upstairs, just as it had been for the past four months. “Engagement ring?” Hermione repeated. “You were going to ask me to marry you?” Ron just nodded. “You were saving up for us…to get married…” “But you wanted to see other people,” Ron reminded her. “And we can’t get married while we’re seeing other people.” Hermione’s head snapped up and fire sprang in her eyes so quickly that Ron nearly laughed with relief. “Oh no you don’t,” she said, rising to her feet so that she (almost) towered over him. “You don’t get out of it that easily. Why didn’t you say something? For Merlin’s sake, Ronald, I thought you were tired of me.” “What did you want me to say?” Ron asked, fighting very hard to keep down the glee that made him want to get up and do a jig on the table. It was all he ever needed, he realized, to see that look on Hermione’s face. It was the only thing in the world that mattered. “You didn’t seem to want me anymore.” “You prat, I’ve always wanted you!” And Hermione flung herself at him, kissing him fiercely. She pulled back to glare at him. “Though heaven knows why.” “Hey, don’t look at me. I don’t know why either,” Ron protested, laughing as he stood and swung her around. “Though I must say, I’m grateful. Now I don’t have to get the ring resized.” “You’re an absolute git,” Hermione informed him, but she was laughing when she kissed him again. “I take it that means you’re saying yes?” what a good boy, what a smart boy, what a strong boy. And when you were born, they looked at you and said, what a good girl, what a what a smart girl, what a pretty girl. Present Day “So he’s coming back,” Ron said, absently shredding one of Russ’s famous dinner rolls as he looked over at his sister and his fiance. “For good?” Ginny’s eyes were fiercely bright. “Whether he likes it or not.” Though Ron raised an eyebrow at such ferocity, Hermione just laughed. “You tell him, Ginny.” “He’s had enough of a vacation,” Ginny went on staunchly, attacking her chicken kiev. “I don’t care if we have to tie him down to keep him here, but he’s going to stay.” Ron laid a hand on her arm. “It’s been six years, Ginny. A lot’s happened since then. We can’t guarantee that Harry’s even ready to…” He trailed off at the mulish look on his sister’s face, and sighed. “Or maybe we can. Are we sure he’s coming back?” “Almost positive,” Hermione confirmed. “Oh, this is just wonderful. I knew I felt something was going to happen soon…” It would be nice to have his best friend back, even if resentment still lingered. When Harry’s absence stretched to impossible lengths, Ron had begun to wonder why the Weasleys and Hermione weren’t enough for Harry. But Ginny or Hermione would always remind him that Harry had had it rough almost from day one. Six years wasn’t too much time in the grand scheme of things. And when it was Ginny reminding him of these things, Ron’s guilt doubled. After all, with Harry gone, she had less than he did. At least he had Hermione. Thinking of that now, he reached beneath the tablecloth, seeking her hand. She smiled at him, her excitement infectious. “We’ll have to have a big dinner at your parents’ tomorrow, Ron. This is just so wonderful.” Ron smiled back, then turned to look at his sister. “Tell you what, Ginny. You convince him to stay in the country long enough, and we’ll rope him into being our Best Man. What do you say to a spring wedding?” “It’s about time,” he heard Ginny mutter, but he ignored her. Beside her, Hermione positively glowed. “I think that sounds brilliant. Though it doesn’t give us much time…” “Just ask my mum for help,” Ginny suggested. “She’s planned so many weddings, I’m sure the woman could do it in her sleep. She’s going to be so excited. You know she’s always had such a fondness for Harry.” “Yes, Molly Weasley and her strays,” Ron remarked. “The only thing I have to say is that after six years on the road, he’d better come back with some bloody great drinking stories.” This, he realized, looking at the flushed contentment on Hermione’s face, the eager anticipation on Ginny’s, was how it should be. Now if only Harry would hurry the bloody blazes up and get home, Ron’s Very Bad Day might just become one of the best of his life. |
| Reviews 7 |
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