#7deadlysinfest

one.

Merlin, she’s insufferable. As if it isn’t enough that she seems to always pop up when she’s least needed, like when he and Harry are on their way to a midnight duel with Malfoy (not that anything came of that, but still) or turning up on the train to tell him he’s got dirt on her nose. This girl is everywhere, there when he’s not ready for her, there with her bushy hair and impossibly bossy voice and an attitude that could fill the Great Hall, and of course, of course he gets paired up with her and not Harry, or Seamus, or even Lavender Brown.

“You’re saying it wrong,” she tells him haughtily, and he tries his best to be polite and not roll his eyes. So he’s not as good at magic as his brothers or Professor Flitwick over there or even Harry. She doesn’t have be so rude about it, she doesn’t have to make him feel like he’s something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. The heat rises in his face and he can’t believe it, but he sort of wants to break something. Normally he has a better grasp on his temper, and this is just school, after all, but she’s just so unlike anyone he’s ever met before.

“You do it then,” he snaps when she’s finishing detailing every little thing he did wrong in his attempt at levitating a feather, “if you’re so clever.”

And of course she does it perfectly, because, like she just had to tell them on the train, she already memorized all of her textbooks (not even Percy did that!), and Professor Flitwick is beside himself with praise for her. Ron wishes he were anywhere but here.

On the way out of class, he starts venting to Harry about it, knowing if anyone will understand, it’s him. “She’s a nightmare, honestly,” and he’s about to keep prattling on but Harry gets jostled as a small figure knocks into him and scurries away - a small figure, of course, with bushy hair and a rucksack packed with books.

His heart sinks; he didn’t want to be mean right back.

—

two.

Ron’s heart leaps into his throat as the words escape Malfoy’s lips: “filthy little Mudblood.” Suddenly it’s like his entire body is shaking because he knows that the Malfoys are terrible people, he knows that their families have entirely different views on how a pureblood wizard should conduct oneself and who to consort with and who, apparently, to fire disgusting insults at over what should have been a normal Quidditch practice. He remembers talking with his dad over Ginger Newts when he was seven years old because someone in Diagon Alley had called his parents blood-traitors and later he wanted to know what it meant. He remembers Dad, of course, in his own laid-back way, explaining that some wizards felt they were superior to others just because of their bloodline and how it was an awful way to see the world and how all human lives were worth just the same, and it was only by sheer coincidence that the Weasleys had stayed pureblood as long as they had.

And he thinks about it now, and how that tosser Draco Malfoy has just called Hermione the very worst thing he could possibly think of, and suddenly his hands are plunging into his robes. Ron knows it’s stupid, since his wand hasn’t been worth a damn since school started but he can’t just stand there and let this happen. Hermione’s his best friend (after Harry) and she’s better at magic than all of them combined and he just can’t let Malfoy get away with it.

The hex he thinks of is one he heard Fred and George discussing over the summer and as he points his wand at Malfoy, he’s not even sure it has a name and it’s probably - okay, definitely - not taught at Hogwarts but it’ll sure teach the git a lesson. Just as Ron’s about to speak the words, a jet of green light fires backwards into his stomach and sends him flying on the pitch. All the Slytherins are laughing and taunting him, jeering at poor blood traitor Weasley with his hand-me-down robes and broken wand, as Harry and Hermione rush over to check on him.

He spends the rest of the afternoon burping up slugs in Hagrid’s hunt and explaining to Harry just why that word is so repulsive and knowing that this isn’t the end.

—

three.

Lovely. Just what everyone needs, a double dose of Severus Snape; Ron is repulsed as he walks into Defense Against The Dark Arts, which he’s actually been enjoying this year, to see the greasiest professor to grace the corridors of Hogwarts behind the desk. And what’s he playing at, anyway, deciding to start the chapter on werewolves when they were just about to start the chapter on hinkypunks? Surely Professor Lupin wasn’t in such a bad way that he couldn’t leave a quick note on the desk about what everyone was learning, even though that’s Snape’s story. Though Ron supposes that even if he had, Snape wouldn’t bother to check for it.

Snape is extra Snape-like today, too, probably because he’s so excited to finally be teaching his favorite subject; he snipes at the group for no reason and deducts points from Gryffindor because Harry asked one question. Hermione’s being so Hermione about it, trying to tell Snape where they’ve left off, and of course he won’t hear a word of it and barks at them all to turn to page three-hundred ninety-four. Ron resigns himself to it, flipping through his textbook and wishing he had a way to speed up time. Professor Lupin had better get healthy quick, because Ron’s not sure he can tolerate this for the rest of the year.

As always, Hermione’s the only one even trying to answer questions, even though Snape’s looking at her like it enrages him that she’s daring to raise her hand in his class. Why even bother, then? Why even pretend to teach them?

“Please, sir,” she’s saying calmly, ever the prepared one in class, the one who already read the entire book and the one who’s actually trying to salvage this wasted lesson (Ron has started to doodle a mustache and glasses on the drawing of a werewolf in the book), but Snape cuts her off and begins berating her for speaking out of turn.

“Five more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all,” he declares, and Ron’s head snaps up. He’s not the only one shooting daggers with their eyes - the whole class looks ready to pounce - but his hands curl into fists as Hermione’s eyes lower to her desk and well up.

How dare he? How dare he?! He’s supposed to be their teacher, and the one person in class who’s actually trying to learn, he insults her? And it feels different, somehow, than all the times Ron has called her a know-it-all over Transfiguration essays because she knows that he’s her friend, that he actually thinks she’s completely brilliant. It’s never barbed like that, he never says it just because he wants her to shut up, and the words are erupting from his lips before he knows what’s happening.

“You asked us a question and she knows the answer!” he blurts out, noticing Hermione furiously blinking back tears. “Why ask if you don’t want to be told?”

It happens so fast: suddenly he has an up close and personal view of one Severus Snape, whose dark eyes glisten with vindictive glee. “Detention, Weasley.”

Worth it, Ron decides as he’s scrubbing out bedpans the Muggle way in the hospital wing later that night. Totally worth it.

—

four.

Stupid Viktor Krum. Who does this bloke think he is, anyway? He just shows up to Hogwarts, his name comes flying out of the Goblet of Fire and now it’s like everyone can’t get enough of him. Everyone, apparently, including Hermione, who’s deemed it necessary to not only come as his date but to dance up a storm with him all night. Just because he’s the most talented Seeker in the world, just because every witch in the castle has been fawning all over him for months, just because his dress robes probably cost more than Ron’s dad earns in a year, it doesn’t mean he’s worth going to this ruddy ball with.

Hermione looks so happy with him too, it’s sickening, he actually spins her around at one point during a fast song and they’re both laughing and Ron feels a heavy weight drop into his stomach. She isn’t supposed to here having fun with Viktor Krum, what would they even have in common, anyway? Hermione’s the smartest person Ron’s ever met but she doesn’t know the first thing about Quidditch. They can’t possibly have anything to talk about.

Padma Patil has long since given up on any hopes of Ron being a decent date and he really doesn’t care. He only wanted to go to this stupid thing in the first place because Harry’s required to go and he figured that if he, Ron, had to bring a date, well, Hermione made sense, didn’t she? Except, he always felt a bit funny about asking her, and then when he managed to - when Fred scared sense into him - he went about it in maybe not the smoothest way, and now she’s here with Viktor bloody Krum. It’s like she’s here with his, Ron’s, exact opposite, and the thought sets his insides on fire.

It feels like hours, but the damned ball actually comes to an end and Ron stomps off to the common room with the sole intention of never thinking about this night again, but Hermione’s there when he steps through the portrait hole, and she must not like his terse greeting because soon enough they’re screaming at each other. Her hair is falling out of its elegant knot and her face is twisted up in anger and as her words fly across the common room, Ron finds himself rendered speechless.

“Next time there’s a ball,” she tells him furiously, ignoring that Harry has just stepped into the common room and is shell-shocked and watching them, “ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!”

He can do nothing but sputter uselessly at her as she whirls off toward the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. She wouldn’t have actually wanted to go with him, would she? She’s just mad, she’s just saying things… right?

Or had he missed his chance?

—

five.

It’s his third stay in the hospital wing, but he’s still more accustomed to being a visitor rather than a patient, and it feels strange to sleep here surrounded by his friends, and even stranger to sleep in the same room as Hermione. She’s in the bed next to him, snoring just a little bit from the strength of the pain relief and sleeping potions she’s been given. The whole room is quiet and Ron’s mind is just racing because it all feels like it’s his fault and he wants to throttle himself for being so stupid. Why, why did he have to get himself hit by that ridiculous curse, the one that turned him into a giggling mess, into the sort of imbecile that summons bewitched brains out of tanks and nearly gets himself strangled to death with them. He was trying to protect Ginny and Luna by running behind them, but he should have insisted they follow Harry.

If he ever gets his hands on Dolohov… he can feel them shaking now, even though his arms still feel a little weak from the deep grooves that the brains left in his skin. He can’t believe he let her down, he’s supposed to be the one in their trio that protects the other two. They’re his best friends in the world, he’s supposed to look out for them, and instead he may well have been sloshed on Firewhisky for all the good he did. Somehow this always ends up happening, somehow he keeps trying to do the right thing but he messes it up somehow, and apparently being Gryffindor’s unlikely prefect hasn’t changed his propensity for letting Hermione down. If he’d been coherent he could have jumped in front of that curse, taken it for her, or taken Dolohov down before he even had the chance but all he’d been was dead weight, distracted, a burden.

Hermione rolls over in her sleep, now facing him, and the sight of her peaceful features sends another wave of self-loathing over him. She’s okay, but it’s not because of him, and while his heart pounds in his chest, its thrumming the only thing he can hear in the quiet hospital wing, he resolves to do better.

—

six.

“You were brilliant tonight, Ron,” Lavender coos, gazing up at him, her hands wrapped around his bicep.

“Er, thanks,” he replies, feeling as though he’s the furthest thing from brilliant, but if she thinks so, he’s going to let her. At least Lavender doesn’t believe that he can only play well if he’s hopped up on lucky potion, she actually seems to think the sun shines out of his ass and it makes for a nice change from Hermione’s utter lack of faith. Unlike Hermione, Lavender doesn’t invite him to Christmas parties solely out of pity (because it must have been pity and nothing more, right, if Hermione’s the sort of girl who can land Viktor Krum) and she doesn’t constantly critique him; she actually seems to like him.

He scans the room and he doesn’t see Hermione’s wild mane of hair anywhere, not that he wants to. He thinks back to how she’d acted in the locker room, how she’d been furious with Harry for slipping Ron the potion and then so incredibly stunned when she found out that he’d tricked everyone, that he hadn’t used any of the potion at all, that it was he, Ron, who had saved all those goals. Of course she wouldn’t have known, right, that he wasn’t always completely rubbish at Quidditch because last year she’d actually missed the one match in which he played decently. Not that he’d measure up to Viktor Krum, anyway.

“So,” he says as he turns to Lavender, about to ask her which Quidditch team she supports (and as long as she doesn’t say Tutshill, it’s fine) when her lips smash firmly against his and he feels like the wind is knocked out of him. He tries, after one stunned instant in which he becomes acutely aware that there’s about fifty people staring at them, to kiss her back, but it’s all just some messy tangle of lips and teeth and tongue and he hasn’t the foggiest clue what he’s doing and he really doesn’t care because, he realizes with a fresh wave of self-loathing, this is not who he really wants to kiss at all.

Ron pulls back for a second and uses the back of his hand to wipe the lip gloss from his mouth (it tastes like strawberries, though, so at least there’s that) as he spots the portrait hole swinging shut. Hermione still isn’t here, not that it surprises him that she’s gone. She always chooses to think the worst of him, never wants to believe in him, always sides with everyone else.

And it’s not like she’d rather he kiss her instead, anyway.

—

seven.

He’s going to explode out of his skin. This is a rage, a fury, an all-encompassing fear that he’s never felt before, and despite what they say about Gryffindors, Ron definitely gets scared sometimes but it’s never like this, it’s never made him like this but nothing has ever been this bad. This is his worst nightmare come to life and he’s stuck here, he’s just stuck and there’s nothing he can do but he’s still going to try everything. He’s going to try to Apparate without a wand (he’s heard it can be done, but it’s difficult and it’s risky, he could end up Splinching himself into a thousand little pieces but he’s still got to try), he’s going to pound on these walls because this is not happening again, he will not be some useless bystander while Hermione gets hurt. He still hates himself for walking out on them and he’s got to make it up to them, to her. He promised himself years ago that he will always protect her and he will, he has to, even with tears of anger and terror dripping through the grime and blood on his face.

She screams and he screams back, unable to help it, she has to know that he’s at least here, that he cares, that he hasn’t given up on her, that he won’t. And if he can get to her, there’s no telling what he’ll do. He’ll probably kill someone and they’ll probably deserve it, everyone up in that drawing room deserves to be torn limb from limb, and he’ll do it himself if he has to. It’s all he can think about: get to Hermione, get her to safety, destroy Bellatrix Lestrange, destroy the Malfoys.

It takes a miracle involving a house elf, a silver hand that turns on its owner, a decent impression of said silver-hand owner, and Harry stupefying Death Eaters with two wands at once, but they get away. Ron lands on his knees in the pebbled sand outside of his eldest brother’s house with Hermione, limp and unconscious and bleeding, on his lap. He presses his fingertips to her neck and oh, thank Merlin, she has a pulse, it’s weak but it’s there, and so he hoists her skinny frame into his arms and carries her to the house. She comes to after a few minutes and is well enough to attend Dobby’s funeral; Ron wraps his arm around her shoulders to support her, his mind a maelstrom of thoughts.

The night has sparked an incredible fury in him, but now it’s fury laced with determination, it isn’t frantic anymore. He can take it now and channel it and use it as his driving force. He’s no longer the insecure little boy who was annoyed because the girl sitting next to him in class was better at a spell than he was and wanted to make sure he knew it. Okay, he’ll admit that the insecurity is still there, sometimes, but he’s a man now. He’s grown up these past seven years and now his anger isn’t petty or laced with jealousy or self-hatred, it’s focused. He can’t believe this is the world he lives in, and he can’t let it go on, he won’t let this world try to stomp on the person who makes him happiest, who amazes him daily with her brilliance, who means more to him than anything.

“Hermione?” Harry came up behind her slowly. She had stormed out of the tent moments before and, in a rather uncharacteristic fashion, he had followed.

“Not now…just give me a minute, ok?”

“Look, you know I normally stay out of these things…”

“One of the reasons I’ve always liked you…don’t push it,” she still did not turn around, afraid of his seeing more in her face than she was willing to discuss.

“Alright, all I’ll say is this…he’s trying…really trying.”

“I know that!”

“So why not give him a break?”

“A BREAK?!” She wheeled around, laughing sardonically, “I think I have been more than fair.”

Harry sighed and glanced behind him before continuing, cautiously, “I just want to help you.”

“Help me?! I am not the one who needs help!”

“Fine! Forget I said anything! But you need to understand,” he punctuated each word, demanding that she listen, that she understand the full import of his words, “I don’t think I have another bezoar handy!”

Hermione stumbled back as if she had been physically struck. How dare he! That was too far! This is not like last year! This is not about some petty jealousy! This is life and death. Harry didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. In fact, he was giving her a look that bore an odd resemblance to Dumbledore. That “I know more than you do, but I’m not going to give you all the details because I think it’s bloody hilarious to watch you figure it out on your own” look. A dragon of red hot anger breathed fire through her chest, but before she could form a coherent reply, another voice came from behind Harry.

“Out of bounds mate,” Ron had ducked out of the tent and was focusing on Harry with a steely look that she had not seen from him since his return.

“Alright…I’m out of it. Just don’t come looking for me to help you later…I’m going to get some sleep.” with that he stalked back into the tent, leaving them both in uncomfortable silence. Ron was the first to speak.

“Sorry about that…he had no right to say that to you,” with cautious steps he moved closer to her. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but he feared the inevitable rejection of her pulling further away from him. She blinked up at him, her eyes blazing in a way that left him conflicted.

“I don’t need you to look out for me.”

“I know you don’t.”

“Then stay out of it.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Oh I think you have plenty of practice leaving me to fend for myself!” It was a low blow. She knew it. She wanted it to hurt. It was cold. There in the forest. There in her heart. Cold. But, the rage warmed her. Hurt him! It said. Leave him on his knees, crying, like he did you! She waited. For him to drop his head. For him to apologize. For him to walk away. He did none of those things.

“Go ahead…I can take it, Hermione. I deserve it. If anger is all you have…give it to me. I came back knowing full and damn well that you might never forgive me. I came anyway. Understand?”

“I know why you came back.”

“Oh, really? Why did I come back? Tell me?”

“You came back to help finish this. To save Harry…to protect your family,” even the anger could not convince her otherwise. She needed to be careful though, the rage was beginning to fade. The earnest look on his face was driving the dragon back, she reached for it, grabbing it with  clenched fists, urging it to remain.

“That’s a good answer, a safe answer. But it’s not the true answer, although I suspect you already know that,” he took that one final step toward her, never breaking eye contact. He reached for her, oh so slowly, holding his breath as he ghosted his fingertips over the curve of her jaw.

“Please,” silent tears slipped past her lashes.

“What?” He was looking at her, brow furrowed, studying her like a chessboard, contemplating, discerning what the best move might be. She knew in that moment that he would, as he had at the age of 12, make any sacrificial move in order to keep her safe.

Ron woke from a restless sleep, sitting up abruptly and finding himself in his four poster. It’s amazing how much more vivid his dreams had become now that his body knew what kissing actually felt like. His fingers unconsciously raised to his lips. This particular dream wasn’t anything like real life though. The lips he’d been kissing hadn’t been tinted pink with a shiny sticky gloss that tasted faintly of bubblegum. They weren’t forceful and intense. These lips had been soft and gentle and uncertain. These lips weren’t attached to a beautiful blonde. These lips had spoken his name in a soft lilting, public school accent before they had slowly pressed into his. Ron leaned forward, sinking his face into his hands. Hermione. These lips had belonged to Hermione.

He’d thought that dating Lavender would help him forget about her. Forget that they were friends and nothing more. Forget that she thought of him as Harry’s incompetent sidekick. Forget how much he loved her, how much he wanted to touch her, how much she meant to him. But it hadn’t, it had only made the longing worse and now? Now they weren’t even friends. Now she was always angry, she wouldn’t even look at him. She hated him. How had he screwed things up so much? He collapsed back into his bed and bitterly yanked the pillow out from under his head, pulling it down over his face- muffling an angry grunt before mentally adding one more thing to the list of things Ron Weasley had cocked up.

*****

Only one more day till that damn Christmas party… Ron’s head turned as he heard the portrait hole open. His heart leapt as he saw Hermione walk through before he remembered they weren’t speaking. His gaze lingered longer than it should and on impulse he turned to the blonde snuggled beside him- who he’d been trying to politely ignore for the past twenty minutes and locked his lips onto hers. Hopefully Hermione wouldn’t notice he’d been looking at her. Lavender accepted his embrace with a happy giggle.

He could hear voices as they came closer… she was lecturing Harry. Nothing new there.

“I told you Harry. The sooner you ask someone, the sooner they’ll all leave you alone and you can -” her voice stopped abruptly but he didn’t dare look up. After a moment’s pause she spoke again, “Well, goodnight, Harry.”

Only after he heard footsteps on the stairs did he pull away from Lavender and glance in the direction she’d gone before turning to look at Harry with an arched brow.

“Seriously Ron?” Harry looked exasperated.

“Whaa? What’d I do now?”

“What didn’t you do Ron.” Harry’s expression darkened as his eyes flitted briefly to Lavender who was now rummaging through her bag and completely ignoring both boys as she hunted for her lipgloss.

“Oh…” Ron rubbed the back of his neck and looked towards the fire, really not in the mood to discuss his short-comings. “Fancy a game of chess?”

“You look kinda busy mate.”

“What? Oh Lav?” he pushed her legs off his lap. “You don’t mind do ya Lav?”

Lavender didn’t reply as she re-adjusted and slowly applied a layer of gloss to her lips. The faint smell of bubblegum wafted toward Ron and made his stomach turn.

“Lav?”

“Of course not Won-won. I told Patty I’d help her choose something to wear to her parents Christmas party over break, so I should go anyway. You boys have fun.” She planted her freshly glossed lips directly on his before popping off the sofa and heading up the stairs to the girls dormitory.

As soon as she was out of sight Ron dragged the back of his hand across his mouth in a vain attempt to remove the sticky gloss. “Blimey. Do they make that stuff sticky on purpose? It’s disgusting.”

Harry half-heartedly laughed and moved to set up the chessboard. “Why don’t you just tell her you don’t like it?”

“Tell her?” Ron looked pained. “Tell her?? Like the time I told her that her headband made her look like bleedin’ Babbity Rabbity? My ears are STILL ringing. No thank you. Come on. You can be white.”

“I’m always white.”

Ron smirked, “That’s cause you need the advantage to even stand a chance of beating me.”

And with that, both boys blissfully ignored their girl problems for the next hour.

*****

A small ray of light peeked through a crack in the bed curtains and Ron found himself once again trying to forget his dreams from the night before. He rolled over on his belly and groaned trying instead to summon images of a beautiful blonde. A blonde who would kiss him like there was no tomorrow, a beautiful girl with blue eyes who hung on his every word. But the images wouldn’t come. His vision was filled with eyes the colour of firewhiskey, eyes that set his insides on fire. The girl with the firewhiskey eyes was smiling at him. She was touching him and her hands were so soft…  He squeezed his eyes tight against the memory but it was too vivid and he was so tired.

She was close, so close he could feel her breath on his neck and his heart was beating so hard in his chest hurt. Her dark hair fell in messy curls obscuring her face, he needed to see her. Needed to touch her. His hand raised to brush back the curls, but she stepped away from him. As if pulled by an invisible tether he took a step towards her. Wherever she went he knew he’d follow. He heard her give a choked cry as she lifted her hand towards him. He reached out again but his hand passed straight through her and the girl in front of him dissolved into a mist.

Ron awoke again with a muttered curse on his lips, ‘For fucks sake..’ he hissed as he rubbed his eyes. He almost preferred the dreams that left him feeling hard and unsatisfied. Those feelings he knew how to deal with. He’d been dealing with those since he was fourteen and realized he had the slight problem of fancying one of his best friends. These dreams though… the girl was miserable. She was upset and he couldn’t help. He couldn’t even fucking touch her. They made his chest ache and he’d wake up ready to bite someone’s head off. It was early yet but there was no way in hell he wanted to go back to sleep, so he shoved his legs into the nearest pair of trousers, threw on yesterday’s crumpled shirt and left the room as quickly as possible.

*****

December 20th. Fucking December 20th. Ron was sprawled on the sofa in the common room waiting for Harry to come down and willing himself to stay awake. He could be spending the night eating fancy food with Harry and Hermione, laughing with his best friends. Even if she’d only wanted to go as friends, they’d still have been together. Maybe he could have convinced her to dance with him. Maybe they would have found themselves under the mistletoe. Everything could have changed tonight. He could have told her how he felt ….  She’d finally realized she was better off without him. He wasn’t smart, he wasn’t handsome. She hated him. Perhaps it was better this way. He’d never have been good enough for her anyway. It had only been a matter of time. Who was he anyway? ‘Ron Weasley… Harry Potter’s stupid friend.’ He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and tried to push back the feelings that were threatening to erupt.

******

Today had sucked. Plain and simple. The worst. He’d made Hermione cry. Again. Fuckin ’ell. Why couldn’t he stop himself. He tried to tell himself she deserved it. She’d laughed at him first.

Harry was right. He should just say he was sorry. Even if she sent an entire bloomin’ flock of canaries after him. He’d just shoved a spoonful of custard into his mouth when he saw her smiling at Pavarti. She seemed like she was in a good mood… maybe now would be a good time to-

Ron choked on his custard and made a sound like a plunger being withdrawn from a blocked sink. Fucking McLaggen!! Hermione was taking McLaggen to Slughorn’s party?! Ron’s vision swam red and Hermione’s tinkling voice saying, ‘I like really good Quidditch players’ echoed in his ears. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak. He wanted to break something. No. He wanted to break someone.

*****

Ron stood with his back to the stone, one foot propped up on the wall behind him. There’s no way he could have stayed in the common room waiting for the others to return from their Slug Club’s festivities. He’d have driven himself insane. He clenched his fist as he pictured Hermione dancing with Cormac. Cormac’s sweaty paws on her waist. Cormac touching her soft bushy hair. He shook his head to clear the unwanted images. Not that he was doing much better out here. He’d managed to pacify Flitch by flashing his prefect badge but that hadn’t gotten him any closer to the party. He was still a floor up and it had been hours since he’d seen or heard anyone. Wasn’t the damn thing over yet?

He’d briefly considered heading back to his room but the thought of sleeping… or worse…dreaming …

filled him with such dread that he decided standing in this cold hallway all night by himself was infinitely preferable. They had to leave the party at some point. They had to pass through this hall to return to their rooms. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cool stone. Damnit he was so tired. He hadn’t slept well in… well.. since Ginny had suggested the extracurriculars Hermione had gotten up to with Krum. Fuckin Krum. Fuckin McLaggen. Dammit Hermione. Ron couldn’t decided who he hated more. He spun away from the wall and slammed his fist into solid stone. The pain in his hand briefly eclipsed the pain in chest, but it didn’t last long. Not nearly long enough. He was about to throw a second punch when he heard the sound of laughter and saw the door to the loo open. He quickly ducked behind the nearest tapestry and sucked on his bloody knuckles as he eavesdropped on the girls exiting the room.

“Oooh and did you see who Cormac was with?” a blonde Ron recognized as a 7th year Slytherin giggled. “Looked like he was definitely following through on his plan to ‘defrost the ice queen’. They appeared quite cosy under the mistletoe.”

“Oh but you missed the rest of it! Remember what she said about Quidditch players? Turns out Granger is all bark and no bite. Cormac kissed her and she bolted! Ran straight to Potter I hear! Now we know why Krum must’ve dumped her.”

“Unless her and Potter really ARE an item. You know what Skeeter always said about those two- ”

The voices faded as the girls disappeared down the hall. Ron didn’t bother following them. He didn’t want to hear anymore. He could easily imagine what must have happened. Rage consumed him as he slipped from his hiding place and headed straight for Slughorn’s office.

******

“Ron… Ron! Stop it.” Ginny’s voice was insistent but calm.

“Ginny, this filthy git mauled Hermione.” Ron was almost as tall as Cormac and while Cormac was a fair bit burlier, Ron had anger and adrenaline on his side.

“What’s it to you anyway Weasley?” Despite being pinned to the wall by the back of Ron’s arm Cormac seemed nonplussed by the whole situation. “Who cares about some silly chit? I hear you’re dating that hot blonde who puts out.”

The sound of blood rushing in his ears was so loud Ron could barely hear. He didn’t know it was possible to be this angry. “That ‘silly chit’ happens to be my best friend you fucking prick, and if you ever, EVER so much as even think of touching her again-” Ron paused, there was no way Cormac would ever be intimidated by him,… he lowered his voice, “Just remember who my brothers are.”

McLaggen had the good sense to pale considerably. He’d been in the same year as the twins, before they’d prematurely ended their studies, and knew full well what they were capable of.

“Ron.” Ginny’s voice was more hushed now. “Someone’s coming. You’ve got to let him down.”

Ron grudgingly released Cormac but didn’t step backwards. “Remember what I said McLaggen. I’m serious. Don’t go near her. Hermione is too good for you. You so much as fucking think about her and-”

Ginny pulled on his arm, “You HAVE to leave Ron.”

Ron allowed himself to be pulled away, but as soon as they were out of sight Ron refused to move,  “Where is she Ginny?” his voice cracked and he ran his fingers through his hair, standing it on edge, making him appear a bit manic. “Where’s ‘Er-mione?”

“She’s okay Ron. She left an hour ago. She’s fine. Just a little shaken. You on the other hand, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Ron slid down the stone wall and dropped his head to his knees. “I.. I don’t know... I’m just so bloody angry all the time and she’s never going to talk to me again is she,” his voice choked.

Ginny sat down next to him and laid her head on his shoulder. “I love you both. But you are total idiots you know that right?”

Ron looked at her, obviously confused.

“You could start with saying you’re sorry for being a total prat, yeah?”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

“By the way, what happened to your hand?”

Ron looked down at his forgotten knuckles. “Oh, shite. I’d forgotten about that. Thanks. Now they bloody well hurt again.”

“Well I would assume so! It looks like you got in a fight with a brick wall.”

“Erm. Yeah.”

Ginny stared at him. “You’re lucky you’re my brother and I have to love you because you’re awfully stupid sometimes.”

He elbowed her in response.

“Come on, we should get back to the common room before someone comes looking for us.” she started to stand.

“…Kay, b- but can we just stay here a few more minutes? I don’t wanna, ya know,.. chance seeing anybody.” He stuck a bleeding knuckle to his mouth and sucked on it. “Damn that hurts.”

Ron couldn’t help the small smile that ghosted across his face when Hermione sat beside him on the thin blanket he’d spread across the frozen grass. She’d been avoiding him, and rightfully so, since his return – these little glimpses of comradery were more than he deserved. He missed her.

This quiet kind of anger was a bit unusual for them – more often, it was the kind that crackled and simmered until it boiled over – but he’d managed to keep his self-loathing hidden deep inside his heart, letting it slowly eat away at him when the others had gone to sleep.

“Harry asleep yet?” he asked gruffly.

“Just barely, I think.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat – Ron wondered if she’d spoken since he’d left the tent several hours earlier.

“D’you mind if I sit out here awhile, then? He needs the rest.”

“Of course,” Hermione replied, then she looked pointedly away from him. “He was worse when you weren’t here.”

“Oh.”

“We both were.” Her voice was quite high, and rather strained. “I know I’ve not been exactly…warm, these past few weeks…”

“I get it,” Ron said quietly. “You’ve every right to be angry.”

“It’s not that.” She frowned, looking down and rubbing a spot of dirt off her leg. “I’m…I’m hurt.”

Ron closed his eyes, his heart sinking. The pain at the core of it was worse than the fire around the edges – that was why the silence scared him so much more than a row ever had. “Guess the inconsolable wrath’s just mine, then,” he muttered.

“Ron…” Hermione sighed, but he needed her to know – and it was easier to be honest, now. He’d let go of his pride long ago.

“I can’t forgive myself,” he told her honestly, avoiding her gaze. “I’m just…trying to make it right, or at least better, you know? But I’m still so…so angry at the person that I was.”

“Stop,” Hermione said breathlessly – Ron peered toward her out of the corner of his eye, and he let out a strangled cry when he saw the tears she was blinking away. “I…I trust you,” she continued determinedly. “When you said you tried to come back straight away, I knew it was the truth. That’s who you are, Ron. But it still hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, for the hundredth time, feeling the futility of each word as it fell from his lips.

“I trust that, too,” Hermione said quietly. “I need a little time, that’s all. It’s just…hard.”

“Nothing’s ever just anything, with you and me,” Ron replied, before he could think better of it.

Hermione finally turned her head to look at him. Their eyes met – desperate, helpless, wanting. All of it. Everything they hadn’t said, everything they couldn’t, or wouldn’t say…

“You’re right,” she whispered, looking away again after a small eternity had passed between them. He understood. It was too much to bear, to see your worst thoughts reflected in someone else’s heart.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said, his voice as small as he could make it. “I…I didn’t think I would, the Horcrux made me think…that’s not an excuse, it was still my fault, but…I just want you to know that I hurt me, too. And living with it, I just…” He trailed off. Words weren’t heavy enough.

“It’s hard to believe there’ll be an end, sometimes,” Hermione admitted, pulling the sleeves of her jumper further over her hands.

“To…to feeling hurt?” His chest was being ripped apart – into impossibly small pieces, because he wasn’t whole to begin with. He’d known she was angry, of course, and he’d absorbed every bit of it, his rightful punishment, but seeing her like this…

“I…I don’t know. Not exactly,” she said slowly. “I mean the war, mostly. It’s been such a long time since we were just us.”

“Harry will end it,” Ron replied. It was a truth that outlasted the doubts the Horcrux had sown, that he believed, always, in his heart of hearts. “It’s our job to make sure he can.”

“That’s what I mean,” Hermione said, running a restless hand through her matted hair. “We would do anything to make sure Harry can end it. But where does that leave us?”

“Here, I guess,” Ron replied.

“Here,” Hermione echoed, defeated.

Ron paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. Since coming back, he’d recommitted to helping Harry and Hermione however he could, to keeping the promise he’d made not just at the end of his sixth year, but when he was eleven. Regardless of how angry he was with himself, he would be there, however they’d have him. But Hermione was sitting beside him, looking to him. Making space for him.

“But not forever,” he said at last, because it wouldn’t be, not if he had anything to say about it – and she seemed to think he did, whether he deserved to or not.

“I’m starting to think not,” Hermione said, finally offering him a small smile.

“Well, when we aren’t here anymore,” Ron said slowly, needing her to understand something he’d never quite been able to explain, “I’m still going to be trying to make it up to you. I’ll wait, however much time you need. I’m not – I’m never – leaving. Not again.”

“I trust you,” Hermione repeated, inching closer. A moment later, she slid one of her hands around his bicep and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. For just a minute, Ron felt like he could defeat Voldemort with his bare hands – this was all he needed, to have Hermione close again, to know that she didn’t hate him, to know that someday, maybe, the pain would fade away…

It was late on a Tuesday afternoon, and Hermione found herself nearly dozing off as she bounced a happy Hugo on her lap while he played with his dragon plush toy. He had spent the past hour practicing his latest trick – taking five or six steps across the sitting room, falling on his bum, shrieking inconsolably for three minutes in his mum’s arms, and starting the whole thing over again.

Though Hermione treasured these moments with her son, the whole thing was a bit exhausting after a full day’s work at the Ministry. It had been nearly a year since she’d come back from maternity leave, and though her direct supervisor had hinted heavily that she would be up for a promotion soon, a few of her more chauvinistic coworkers still found it necessary to make snide comments about “trying to have it all” and the like. Harmless, really, in the grand scheme of things, but unprofessional and annoying nonetheless.

Luckily, Ron had noticed she looked a bit worn out when she got home, and offered to take Rose and go out for the groceries they’d forgotten to get on Sunday. Hermione couldn’t be more grateful for his natural domestic prowess on days like this, or for knowing when she needed a minute of relative quiet - because a periodically shrieking Hugo was truly the closest to quiet it could be during daylight hours at the Granger-Weasley residence.

But Hermione had barely let her eyes slide shut, just to rest them for a moment, when the front door slammed open and a babbling Rose padded through the foyer into the sitting room, giggling wildly and shaking a bag of crisps. A grimacing Ron followed shortly after, balancing a brown paper bag on one hip. “Your daughter,” he declared as the girl in question started rolling around on the carpet, causing Hugo to toss his dragon away and start crying again in earnest, “is an incredibly greedy child.”

“Oh?” Hermione replied distractedly, summoning the dragon back and bouncing Hugo again, humming quietly as he pointed to his sister, clearly distressed.

“She wanted everything in the store,” Ron explained, setting the bag on the coffee table, tapping it once, and collapsing on the sofa next to his wife while various food items flew from the bag and toward the kitchen. “It’s a miracle we only left with those bloody crisps."

"Want!” Rose chirped, as if on cue.

“Is that the word of the week?” Hermione asked wearily, passing Hugo off to Ron and pretending to make the dragon fly in circles around her son’s head. His sobs started to resemble giggles, and for a moment he looked quite confused as to how he was supposed to be feeling – until he grabbed for the plush dragon and shrieked again, this time in delight.

“Rose, come here please,” Ron called to his daughter, who had at last stopped rolling and was instead shaking the bag of crisps ever more insistently - probably, Hermione thought with a wince, reducing its contents to greasy crumbs and powder. “Rose,” he warned when she didn’t listen. “You need to come here, please."

"But Daddy, don’t WANT!” she protested, shaking the bag in triple time.

Hermione’s patience wore think more quickly than Ron’s. “Rose, if you don’t do as your father has asked this second, I will take your crisps away,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. Rose paused for a minute, then finally climbed to her feet and stomped toward her parents.

“Thank you,” Ron said calmly. “Now, what did Daddy say about wanting?”

Rose shrugged, sticking her bottom lip out and stomping one foot again.

“I said that we don’t get to have or do everything we want,” Ron continued. “It’s more important to have what we need and to do the right thing. And the right thing to do right now is to go to the kitchen with Mummy and help her put out the placemats for supper while Daddy gives Hugo his bottle."

"Okay,” Rose grumbled, setting the bag of crisps on the table and stomping toward the kitchen. Hermione mouthed her thanks, rubbing Ron’s shoulder on her way to heat up their supper.

Later that night, once they’d managed to wrestle both kids into bed and get to work on cleaning up the mess they’d made during dinner, Hermione was able to say what she’d been thinking.

“You’re so good with her."

"Hm?” Ron responded as he wiped down the kitchen table.

“With Rose,” Hermione clarified. “She’s been such a handful these days.”

Ron snorted. “Thanks, but I’m really not that good. She had a bloody meltdown in the middle of the grocery store.”

“You put a stop to it, though.”

“Hardly. It’s a bit embarrassing, you know? Your kid’s screaming because you won’t let her have everything in the store, and everyone’s just looking at you with all this effing pity,” Ron sighed. Hermione offered an amused smile – Ron had gotten quite good at censoring himself the past few years. “I don’t know how she got like this, you know?"

"Like what, misbehaving? It’s frustrating, yes, but she is three.”

"No, the whole wanting thing,” Ron said, pulling out a chair and nearly falling in it, propping an elbow on the table and resting his head in his hand. “Do you think we spoil her?”

Hermione paused for a moment, thinking. It’s true, Rose had more toys than a toddler really needed, and they let her have sweets more than they probably should, too, but they’d never given her anything outlandish. “Not really,” she said finally. “Do you?”

“Well, no,“ Ron replied. "I just keep thinking that if one of my siblings or I had acted like that when we were kids…” He trailed off.

“Did you never once?” Hermione asked, crossing the room to sit gently on his lap. He lifted his arm from the table to wrap it around her waist and moved his head to rest on her chest. She smiled affectionately as she trailed her fingers through his hair.

“We knew better,” he admitted. “‘Course, didn’t mean I wasn’t a bit greedy when I was older. I wanted my own things so badly, and I wanted the best things, didn’t I? Like…like if I couldn’t be the best at something, at least I could have the best of something, I guess. Which is stupid, obviously. And I’d never have told my mum and dad that, mind. But I can’t help but think I’ve passed those thoughts onto her, somehow."

"That’s normal, though, for a teenager. And besides,” Hermione argued. “if either of us is the greedy one, it’s me. You changed careers for our family, love, so that I could keep going to a job where my coworkers rag on me for…for being a bad mum, or something.”

“That’s a load of shite,” Ron said immediately, his fists curling. “On all counts. Who the hell has the nerve-”

“It’s not like they’ve said it outright, but it’s implied,” Hermione muttered.

“You don’t believe them, do you?” Ron asked, craning his neck to look at her properly.

“Well, no,” Hermione said slowly. “A little bit, perhaps? Only in that I feel guilty when so much falls on you.”

“We both agreed it works best this way,” Ron reminded her firmly. “I couldn’t have handled it anyway, being an Auror and a dad.”

“Sure you could have–”

“Okay, I wouldn’t have wanted to,” he corrected. “I was happy to take George’s offer, and to get to spend time with our kids without having to go away on missions. Those few years after the war were enough. You saw what it did to me, love.”

Hermione nodded. It was true Ron was significantly happier now; though he’d been a brilliant Auror, he’d come to realize that he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone – and that if he wanted to change careers, no one would think any less of him. “Still, I do appreciate everything you do for us.”

“I know,” he said, leaning his head further up. She grinned softly and pressed her lips to his. “Thank you. And you’re an excellent mum. You don’t need to feel guilty for working to support our family.”  

“And you don’t need to feel guilty for thoughts you had as a teenager. Rose will grow out of whatever this is,” Hermione said. “She’ll be onto a new buzzword in a couple weeks."

"Yeah, you’re right. This one just got to me a bit, I guess,” Ron admitted, bouncing his leg once. She took his cue and stood up to tug him to his feet, giggling as his lanky limbs unfurled.

“That’s normal,” she told him, taking his other hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. “Do you know what I’m really greedy for?”

“What’s that?” She shivered - she swore his eyes got a shade darker when he looked at her like that - and gave him what she hoped was a flirtatious smile.

“I can’t promise I’ll stay awake very long, mind,” she said in her most sultry voice, and he snickered, “but I’m all yours for as long as we can both keep our eyes open."

"So a solid 20 minutes, then?” Ron flashed a devilish grin. “I’m in."

"Literally,” she quipped, tugging his hand again and leading him toward the stairs.

“Hermione Granger Weasley!” Ron gasped dramatically. “Positively sinful, you are."

"What’re you going to do about it?” she challenged.

Hermione gave herself a quick glance in the luxurious ladies’ room mirror, wincing as she tried to tuck a stubborn curl back into the twist into which she had fashioned her unruly mane only a few hours ago. It popped back out, of course, but it didn’t seem worth the effort to try to magic it back in place. In this crowd, it was unlikely anyone would give her more than a passing glance anyway, flyaway hair or no.

Truthfully, she was beyond happy that Ginny had achieved her dreams of playing quidditch professionally with the Holyhead Harpies (a team Hermione supported in principle before they ever signed Ginny, purely based on their commitment to advancing female players). And of course it was awfully nice of her to give her extra End of the Season Gala tickets to she and Ron, knowing that Ron would be thrilled to hobnob with the other players in attendance.

Hermione made sure she had picked up her evening bag off the velvet settee before exiting the very posh and well-appointed powder room. What she hadn’t realized at the time was exactly how glamorous the event would be and how desperately out-of-place it would make her feel.

She tugged the strap of her dress self-consciously as she made her way down the corridor, trying to remember the path back to the function room where the gala was being held. She had bought it specifically for the event and it was fancier than anything she had ever owned, but the second they had walked into the room, Hermione had felt underdressed. In a world that didn’t really have picture or television stars, quidditch players and their wives were truly the magical community’s celebrity elite and they certainly looked the part. She had tried not to gawk as they searched for Harry and Ginny in a sea of athletic, impossibly gorgeous men and women in the most fashionably cut, expensive robes she had ever seen.

Hermione could easily hold her own in a room full of high-powered politicians and government officials, but this was an entirely different kettle of fish. Sure, she had always enjoyed watching the Gryffindor matches and it was easy to get swept up in the excitement of seeing the World Cup for the first time, but she had to admit, she reflected as she decided that she needed to take a left at the fountain, when it came to quidditch, she never really “got it”. Ron, Harry and Ginny could go on for hours about it, but really, what did it matter which team won in the grand scheme of things? Was there any societal benefit to spending so much money to have adults play what was essentially a children’s game on a grand scale?

And Merlin’s beard, why was the ladies’ so unaccountably far from the ballroom?

The strap of her heels dug uncomfortably into her little toe as she rounded a corner and finally recognized the door she was looking for. A blast of music and conversation assailed her as she pushed through the door and glanced around for her party. When they had first found Harry and Ginny they were being introduced to a clutch of players from the Kenmare Kestrels and had immediately been swept into their conversation about last year’s semi-final match. Hermione had followed the discussion with polite interest, uncomfortably aware of how little she had to contribute. She smiled affectionately to herself as Ron’s eyes practically bugged out of his head when the team’s keeper asked for his opinion on a controversial call and admired how attractive he looked tonight in a handsome set of navy dress robes, his clear blue eyes sparkling in excitement. They had been on the far side of the room, near to the terrace doors, when she excused herself to the restroom, so she made her way in that direction, self-consciously smoothing down the skirts of her dress and wishing she had something to do with her hands.

She knew, from hearing about Ginny’s experiences, that the players laughing and celebrating around her represented the best of the best in England, and that the competition to play at the professional level was fierce. Unconsciously, her thoughts drifted back to a time when a classmate had remarked that she must like quidditch players and the echo of her own answer, fueled by spite and a broken heart, reverberated in her brain, “I like really good quidditch players.” Gods, how embarrassing! Although, to be fair, it was basically true - Ron was a really good player, though she wouldn’t have admitted it at the time. But the idea that it was quidditch prowess that turned her head was fairly laughable. Thank goodness, she thought as the crowds in front of her parted and she caught a glimpse of bright ginger hair, that they had gotten over all that uncertainty and jealousy.

She stopped short at the sight of a drop-dead gorgeous woman standing entirely, unnecessarily too close to her boyfriend.

Well. Almost gotten over.

The woman’s silvery dress looked as if is was made of liquid mercury, sliding and swirling along her enviable curves. Her blonde hair rippled down her shoulders in perfectly tamed waves and she was so tall that Ron only needed to incline his head slightly to listen to her in the boisterous room. Hermione couldn’t see his face clearly, but she felt her heart in her throat as she watched the women place a slender manicured hand on Ron’s arm and lean into him.

At that moment Ron stepped back and looked up, catching sight of her approach. She saw his expression change from unease to one of relief and something she couldn’t quite place, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping every so slightly. She gave him a small smile as she crossed the last few meters to his side, realizing with surprise that he was rather gawking at her.

“There you are,” he breathed, as he slipped an arm around her waist. “This is Helen, the publicist for the Magpies,” he said in a louder voice, gesturing to the statuesque blonde. “Helen, this is my girlfriend, Hermione Granger.”

Hermione held out her hand, somewhat buoyed by the confidence in Ron’s voice. Helen took it with only a slight raise of her perfect eyebrows. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“‘Scuse us,” Ron interjected apologetically, steering Hermione away from Helen and toward the dance floor. He stopped once he had weaved them deep into the swirling mass of dancers and looked down at her uncertainly.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

Hermione smiled warmly. “Of course not,” she answered, thinking in amusement that it ranked a bit higher than “come and dance” on the list of romantic invitations.

“Good, I needed to get away,” he admitted, pulling her into his arms. “She was a little bit scary. Not that I didn’t want to dance with you anyway,” he hurriedly added, searching her face for offense.

Hermione thought about winding him up with a show of indignation, but ending up laughing instead. “I understand,”” she replied. “Are you enjoying yourself, though?”

“Yeah, of course! It’s wicked, meeting all these players. I can’t believe some of them knew who I was,” he said in disbelief. “What about you, are you having fun?” he added anxiously.

“Yes, it’s lovely,” she said quietly, resting her head on his chest. She closed her eyes and let Ron’s heartbeat guide the rhythm of her movements, trying to let go of any thoughts and feelings other than the happiness and rightness of being in his embrace.

“I didn’t get to tell you before, but you look really beautiful tonight,” he murmured as they swayed.

She couldn’t help the small snort that escaped her. Ron pulled back, looking down at her with furrowed brows. “What?”

“It’s awfully nice of you to say, Ron,” she said, “but look around. The women here might as well be Veelas! They all look like Helen! I’m not saying it matters, but I stick out like a sore thumb.”

Ron stopped moving abruptly. Hermione glanced around in embarrassment to see if anyone had noticed they were standing stock still in the middle of the dance floor, but no one seemed to pay any attention to them. She looked back to Ron to see him frowning at her.

“That’s absolute rubbish, Hermione! As far as I’m concerned, I’m easily the luckiest bloke in this room.” He ducked his head to try to catch her eye, even as his ears reddened with the openness of his words. “D’you have any idea how bloody proud I am to walk into these types of things next to you? To get to introduce you as my girlfriend?”

Hermione’s instinct was to scoff, but the sincerity in his eyes overwhelmed her. She swallowed, feeling as though she couldn’t speak around the lump in her throat. Bugger quidditch, this was what drew her to Ron. He had such a big heart, and he wore it on his sleeve - and while she knew things sometimes got garbled on the way to his mouth, when he believed something strongly, she could trust in every word.

“And you look… well, you look amazing tonight,” Ron went on, beginning to move to the music once more. “I’ve gotten to talk to four- four! - of the Cannon’s top players since we’ve been here, but every time I see you, all I can think about is dragging you home to our bed.”

She shivered as a thrill raced through her, suddenly feeling even more aware of all the places her body was touching his. “Really?”

He groaned as he stroked the bare skin of her back. “Really.” He looked around surreptitiously. Although they were surrounded by people, it was like the crowd gave them a sort of privacy and anonymity that felt exciting and risky. He pressed her to him tightly, letting her feel his reaction to her touch. “ If I’m bloody honest, I don’t think I can wait long enough to get you back to the flat. D’you think a posh muggle hotel like this has a conveniently out-of-the-way broom closet?” he joked.

Hermione gave him a secret smile, her mind retracing her earlier steps in a flash.

“Come on Hermione, can’t you just..”

“No Harry, I can NOT JUST.”

Harry wasn’t sure what was sharper, her tone or the glare she shot at Ron before she turned on her heels and left them standing there. He sighed dramatically, shrugging his shoulders at his best mate.

“I tried.”

“Not your fault..think she’ll ever talk to me again?”

“M’not sure…hard to tell. At this point, it’s gonna take something pretty drastic to…” but before Harry could finish his answer, a pair of hands, complete with garishly pink nails, covered Ron’s eyes, “Guess who!”

“Hagrid?”

Harry had to bite his lip and turn his head to avoid laughing directly into Lavender’s confused face.

“No, silly, it’s me Won Won!”

Harry excused himself rapidly despite Ron’s obvious objections. It would take something drastic indeed.

@@@

Three days later Hermione stood alone in the hall outside the hospital wing. She had waited for everyone to leave before coming back to see Ron, but now that she was there, she was second guessing her decision. What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if I’m just making a fool of myself…again? She had been so wrong before about him, and now just because he had almost…she couldn’t even think about it…she was just going to forget everything that had happened and just swallow her pride?  She could be glad he was alive, but that didn’t really change anything, did it? He had still hurt her, even if he didn’t want her, he didn’t have to be such a prat about it, did he? He had made a fool of her, in front of everyone…she had heard the whispers, knew what everyone had been saying. Poor plain Hermione Granger, how could she think to compete with Lavender Brown?

Ok, to be fair, he hadn’t really been that much of a prat…he had tried to talk to her a few times, but she just couldn’t. And he did say MY name in his sleep, that has to be a good sign, right? Lost in her internal debate, Hermione missed the approach of another visitor.

“Miss Granger, is that you?”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall…I’m…I mean..I…”

“You came to see Mr. Weasley? Well, why don’t you go on in, I’m sure Madame Pomfrey won’t mind.”

“It’s just…I’m sorry ma’am, I’m not sure if I should,” Hermione began to blink rapidly, willing the tears not to fall, not in front of her mentor, the strongest woman she had ever seen.

“Understood. Do you mind, dear, if I share a little piece of advice my mother gave me many years ago?”

“Of course not! You know how I value your opinion.”

“I appreciate that. Ok, well, I won’t bore you with the details of why my mum gave me this advice, but I will tell you that it was one of the most valuable lessons that I ever learned. Even more valuable than transfiguration.”

Hermione doubted that very much, but nodded politely.

“Well, you see dear, my mother told me that I should never step over love to pick up pride, do you understand what she meant?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“I knew you would.”

“But, it just doesn’t seem that simple.”

“It never does, dear. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that anything worth learning doesn’t come easily.”

“True. Would you say that following your mother’s advice helped you, then?”

“Unfortunately, I was a poor student, it took me far too long to realize the wisdom of such things. I hope you will not miss the opportunity to surpass your teacher in this. Well, I must be going. I trust you will not be in the halls after curfew Miss Granger?”

“Of course not.”

“Excellent.”

As McGonagall’s steps faded down the corridor, Hermione tried to digest what she had just heard. Over the years she had always felt a particular bond with her, trusting her explicitly, wanting to emulate her. She had never before considered that Minerva McGonagall might have once been a 17 year-old girl much like herself. She was right, this was not an easy lesson, but one she wanted to master.