Written for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Geography Task 1: Write about someone meeting in secret.
Catching Hermione's eye from across the table is the scariest thing that's happened to Ron this week, and considering the state of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes during the Christmas season, this is no small title.
Hermione's mouth has fallen slightly open, and she looks just as surprised by this turn of events as Ron is; as far as they know, it's been months since they last made eye contact.
Ron knows he should look down at his food—he has a plateful of mashed potatoes, after all, and his mum's mashed potatoes are nothing to scoff at—but somehow, he can't bring himself to look away.
They stare at each other for several long, agonizing moments before Hermione swallows and forces her gaze down. She takes a sip of her tea, but before Ron can clear his throat and start a conversation with George, who is sitting next to him, Hermione glances up again, this time with a determined gleam in her eye.
She tugs at her right earlobe three times, tucks a stray of lock of hair behind her left ear, and pushes her chair back.
"I've finished, does anyone want me to put their plate away?"
Mrs. Weasley rises quickly. "Oh, Hermione, you needn't bother. You're a guest here, and it's Christmas; don't trouble yourself about cleaning up."
"No, it's quite alright, I don't mind. I've been meaning to practice my nonverbal spells anway, I may as well help you out while I'm at it."
"Really, dear—"
"No, it's perfectly fine—"
"Well, if you're sure—"
"Yes, yes, I'll be right back—"
"I'd better not find the dishes washed—"
"Don't worry, I won't—"
Hermione makes her escape, and Mrs. Weasley sits back down, adjusting her focus to Harry, who has apparently not been eating any of the peas, and she wants to know why.
Ron, meanwhile, counts to thirty, taking the opportunity to finish off his potatoes. Three tugs mean thirty seconds; Hermione should be expecting him by now.
Let her wait, a part of Ron's mind says, but he ignores it. He's been petty before, been vindictive and malicious and spiteful, and it's never actually led to any good, and it's probably well past time for a change.
He leaves the table without a word (no one notices his absence, which is lucky even though he doesn't usually think of it that way) and takes the stairs two at a time up to his room. Whatever Hermione wants from him, it'll be best to get it over with quickly. He won't let himself get sucked into type of argument that he and Hermione inevitably start whenever they're together, not this time. He'll be cool, calm, and collected, and he'll come back down in time to finish his food.
Ron reaches the top of the stairs and swings the door to his childhood bedroom open. He hasn't been here since last July, and a thin layer of dust has settled over everything.
Hermione is sitting on the edge of his bed, wringing her hands. Ron doesn't ordinarily notice things like this, but he can't help but think how ridiculous it looks, Hermione's pretty (but every-practical) blue dress outlined against the bright, childish orange of his sheets.
When he enters, she jumps slightly and sits up even straighter than before.
"Ron," she says, "you—you came."
Ron closes the door behind him and casts an automatic silencing charm.
"Always the tone of surprise," he responds, and it might've been funny except that there's nothing humorous about the situation at all.
Hermione looks torn between laughing and crying. "I don't mean—" she tries, but doesn't get any further than that.
"What do you mean, then? Why'd you ask me to come up here, if you didn't mean?"
"Honestly, Ron, don't try to be difficult, it's bad enough when you're not doing it on purpose."
"Oh, so I'm the difficult one now, am I?"
This feels comfortable, familiar. What does it say about them that arguing comes more naturally than talking, Ron wonders, but is fairly sure that he already knows the answer.
"No, I—for God's sake, Ron, it was a joke."
"That's funny, because, I'm not laughing."
Hermione sighs, seeming to deflate slightly. Ron guesses that this isn't going anywhere near the way she planned.
He should make more of an effort to go along with her, maybe, but he never seems able to control his mouth when—well, he's never actually able to control his mouth, but it's all somehow worse around Hermione.
"Right," Hermione says. "I'll say my piece, shall I?"
Ron nods, because she seems to be genuinely asking for his permission.
"I just wanted to say that… I know that We didn't work out," she says, pronouncing it with a capital letter, "but it's not entirely—I mean, of course it's partly your fault, just like it's partly my fault, but I'm sure you'll be, you know, blaming yourself and thinking that you're not good enough, or something ridiculous, the way you always do."
She pauses to take a breath. "But it's not—there were a lot of… not good feelings going around, and I don't think I made it clear that, um, it wasn't because of who I am or who you are, but just how we don't work together, that is, at all.
"Because you're smarter than you think, and braver than you think, and more charismatic and, um, attractive, and funny, and you deserve someone who appreciates that, not because I'm not good enough, just because, you know, we don't match. And I hope that you'll meet someone who—who can see that, and not four months after they break up."
She looks at Ron, expectant and apprehensive, pale but satisfied, all at once.
Great time to be telling me all this, Ron wants to say, after you told me that I just wasn't enough for you and stormed out of our flat. Good to know that it wasn't my fault actually, it was both of ours, and thank you very kindly for your permission to date someone else. I absolutely needed your consent to stop blaming myself for a something that happened months ago.
He doesn't say it, though, because the truth is that he does, and the truth is that he knows why Hermione said what she did, and the truth is that it does make him feel better, no matter how pathetic that is.
"Okay," he says finally.
"That's all you have to say? Okay?"
"What else do you want me to tell you, Hermione?"
Ron knows what she wants him to tell her, and it's the same thing he so desperately wants her to say to him.
"Nothing, I guess," she says, and stands up and for a moment they're both squashed near the door, and then Ron takes a step to the side, and Hermione grasps the door handle loosely.
"I—" Ron starts, then changes his mind. "I hope you'll be happy, Hermione. You deserve it."
She nods, and they both pretend not to notice the tears shining in her eyes.
"Happy Christmas, Ron."
He nods, but she doesn't see him as she turns the handle and leaves the room. He can hear rapid footsteps on the steps that fade away when she reaches the first floor. The sound of laughter and raised voices echoes up as she opens the kitchen door, and Ron has to swallow a lump that's suddenly appeared in his own throat.
"Happy Christmas," he says to the empty wall, and heads downstairs for pudding.