Such Blasphemous Changes
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Seated on the edge of his bed, his socked feet planted firmly on the floor, Ron Weasley discovers the color of his carpet.
After the bright orange of his walls, the dull gray comes as something of a surprise. Has his carpet always been this color? He is no longer sure. Nothing has been definite since Hermione came home. Everything has been significantly less real.
Hermione. He flips her name repeatedly on his tongue. Hermione.
Has a name ever sounded so lovely? Hermione. She's been back from Australia for about two days now, and Ron hasn't quite gotten over it. Hermione. He listens intently for her voice, a sound he's found he likes even better when expletives accidentally escape them. The sound of his own name is better now that he's heard it slip from her lips with abandon. Ron. It's not quite as lovely as Hermione.
The carpet comes back into focus. Since when has the carpet been gray? He cannot remember.
He feels the door open rather than hearing it or seeing it. He feels the rush of air on his face, feels her in the room that had become their sanctuary now that Harry has gone to Grimmauld Place. She often spent her nights here, the bed enlarged, in his arms. He'd never felt more secure in his existence.
No, the carpet. He's thinking about the carpet. It's gray.
"Ron?" she says quietly, approaching him. "Are you alright?" When there was no response, she continued. "I'm sorry."
She has not been sleeping in his arms these nights. She has been back in Ginny's room. His nights are lonelier than they've ever been, knowing Hermione is just downstairs, longing to be with him.
"I didn't mean to make you angry, I just thought it would be easier if I—" she pauses. "You know?"
The carpet. The carpet is gray. He refuses to look up at her. The carpet is gray.
Ron clears his throat. "Not angry, exactly. Just disturbed."
"Now nothing is in the way."
"In the way?" His neck wishes to stretch and look at her, but he fights the urge. Has his mother washed all the color out of the carpet?
"Well, yes. You see, everything gets tangled and—"
"I like things tangled," he insists, again resisting the eventual upward turn of his neck. "It makes me feel at home."
"Mum decided—"
This time, his neck won. He looked up. "Your mum decided on such blasphemous changes?"
"Well, I—I—" She swallows. "Yes."
Ron sighs, looking into her eyes and seeing his Hermione. Then he takes a wider scope and almost recoils at the sight. "I liked it before!" he exclaims, adamant. She should not have done it. He hastily glares at the carpet. "Has this carpet always been gray?" he asks, trying not to think about the sacrilege.
"Yes, and don't change the subject. I would love you no matter what you did." His head snaps up and finds her expressive brown eyes filled with unshed tears, looking an odd mixture of regretful and defiant. She has tried to turn her face from him and is looking intently at the orange wall on his left.
Ron's eyes widen and he takes her hands in his. "Oh, Hermione," he says, his voice full of sympathy. He pats his knee and she sits on it gingerly. "Of course I bloody well love you, no matter what." He pauses, taking in how small her face looks now. "I just wish you hadn't done it."
She sighs. "Well," she says, making the air in the room shift in compromise. "Think of it this way: when I come back from school, it'll be like in the good old days."
"I surely hope so," Ron says. He sighs once again, running his fingers through the now significantly shorter locks she currently sports. He moans. "I just miss your hair."
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A/N: I briefly considered calling this "LoL" for "Lack of Locks" just because the summary would be fun. "No, Ron is definitely not laughing out loud about this."
