Disclaimer: -blinks- I wonder what would happen if I said I was Jo Rowling… -is bombarded with reporters- Nevermind… I also don't own Train's song 'Drops of Jupiter'. I own the lovely and existent plot!

Note: Right, so, this is a post-war Ron/Hermione fic. Another one. -dies- I'm addicted. And it's fun! As usual, it's predictable in the beginning, and has a twisted end… and you know my twisted end. They're twisted! -dies- Okay, just READ.

Will You Come Back Next Time?

"Ron!" Came the piping voice of Ginevra Weasley as she walked up the stairs slowly, her hand on the stair rail, afraid of falling. Her tousled red hair fell in ringlets around her face, and her pretty green eyes flashed and danced as she hummed, reaching the second floor and trying for the third. "Ron!"

"Yes?" A young man's form came into the doorway, with eyes as blue as the sky was just that morning, and hair as red as his sister's, which needed to be trimmed. The redheaded girl gave the boy an envelope addressed in perfect letters to a Ronald B. Weasley.

"Post for you," she smiled and blinked her odd lashless eyes before starting down the stairs, her hand tracing the rail again, as she took careful, small steps, her mind altered by the war. How hard it had been, for her to face such terrors those many years ago, watching her best friend Colin Creevey, be one of the first killed, watching many people crumple over in death… she shook her head.

"Thanks… oh, and Gin, happy thirty-fourth," smiled Ron, before disappearing into his room with the envelope as the girl finished walking down that flight of stairs. Ronald's hands shook as he took the letter opener and sliced the paper. He shook the envelope and out of it came a paper, sealed with two initials: H.G. It took him awhile to realize whom they belonged to, going through his mind for people he knew. Couldn't be Harry… who else did he know whose name began with an H? And then the face of a person he hadn't seen in a decade danced across his mind. "Hermione?" Hands shaking profusely, worried at the unknown, Ron opened the letter to be faced with the tidy scrawl of his old school friend.

Dearest Ronald,

I haven't seen you in so long, and I'm sorry. It's been so long since I've seen you I cannot even be sure you will get this, you may not still be at the Burrow, but I tried. I don't know if you remember the day I went off to 'find myself' or even if you remember me. I didn't find much. It's been forever, and the war made us all forget. I heard you were obliviated for the last part of the fight, so I'm taking a chance in writing you.

I am writing you because I am stopping by in town and thought it would be nice to stop by and see you again. Ronald, please write back. Next week (which will be when you receive this) I will be in Ottery St. Catchpole, and I would love it if you sent an owl telling me if we could meet. Possibly over a soy latte of something of the sort. It's been so long, I figure that maybe we should talk.

Yours forevermore and after,

Hermione Jane Granger

He remembered. How could he forget? She had been his best friend, his confidant! Well, after Harry of course. Finding this funny, he took out a bit of parchment and a quill, and his favorite bottle of blue ink. Setting out to write to Hermione after this long would be hard. What should he say? How should he form it? Simple, he finally reasoned, forget you ever parted. You're writing to her over the summer in between years at Hogwarts. His hand moved swiftly over the parchment, scribbling things out and crossing through words, crumpling papers and placing them in front of him, pushing them away occasionally when there were too many.

Was it ever this hard to write to his good friend? Ronald ran a hand through his tousled locks and eyed the parchment warily. What should he do now? Honestly, it was sad that he could not write to her. Finally knowing dead-on what to write, he set out on his task. It only took a few minutes, and then he scanned the parchment for mistakes, rewriting things and checking his spelling, which was still horrid, despite everything Hermione had done. Quills zapping him when he misused his grammar, parchment that burned when he misspelled…

Dear Hermione.

I am very glad that you owled me. I would love to come see you. It has been too long. I do remember you, how could I forget? Yes, I also remember when you left. It was ten years ago last month. You were so young 'Mione, how could you find a thing? There is more here for you to know than anything out there, in your soul searching.

A soy latte sounds fine. How is Saturday? You'll probably get this by Friday, I hope this isn't too much of a short notice.

Best Regards,

Ron

That sounded fine, he assured himself, folding it and putting it into an envelope, in his messy handwriting addressing it Hermione. He felt no need for formalities, as he had known Hermione for an eternity. Ron got his obese owl, Pigwidgeon, to fly the letter, attaching it to his leg. The dark brown animal flew out his small window, and Ron strode out of his room, whistling. What is a soy latte? He wondered to himself, looking in through the doors at the unoccupied rooms.

These days, he and Ginny were the only occupants of the Burrow, most of his family deceased or missing: presumed dead, even after all the years that had passed after the war. Dumbledore's side had won, his side: the good. Hermione had even stayed here for awhile, as Harry had before moving to Godric's Hollow, in the empty lot where his old house used to stand. Hermione had left though, ten years ago, to find out who she was. She hadn't come back.

"Why did she not come before?" Ron fumed before taking a seat across from his sister at the scrubbed wooden table.

"She probably has herself a husband and a family now, Ronald," Ginny sipped at a firewhiskey, Ron grabbing for the decanter and a shotglass, pouring the warm, red liquid into the glass. He poured a bit on his tongue and savored the taste, disgusted at the words his sister declared.

"I doubt it," murmured Ron.

"You never know." Ginny sipped more of the burning drink, her eyes glazed over with memory, a thin film of tears that encased her bright emerald orbs like glass. Her words coming deep and from her throat, always taking eternities in themselves to form.

"Gin, what's a latte?" Ron traced the many rings from condensing water on glass that singed the table. He awaited the answer from his sister, who took a long time to think about everything, even if she knew the answer already, letting the words fall into her mind correctly, letting everything process completely. No rushing into things, the way she used to.

"She's going to intrude into our lives, Ronald," reasoned Ginny.

"Latte. What is a latte?" Ron hadn't thought of that. But she wasn't intruding, she was welcome by him. He sighed, eyes bounding from table to door, table to door, the evening setting in flawlessly, as it always did. A blanket of indigo falling over the world, velveteen and sweet, a musical of singing stars that danced their way into the skies, twinkling and sparkling like diamonds in the sun.

"It is a Muggle drink. Coffee blended with something or other," Ginny spoke slowly and carefully; ready to catch any words that fell by chance. She pushed back a stray hair and settled her gray face into a frown, her usual countenance, early wrinkles setting in on the face that was once beautiful and bright, fading with the old times and hidden with tired laughter. "I'm going to sleep now. Good night."

Ginny's words were still fresh in Ronald's mind hours after she left. She's going to intrude into our lives… What was Ginny thinking? Finally after midnight he closed the decanter that was growing cold and crept up the stairs, falling asleep in the room once shared by his older brothers, Fred and George.

Friday came and went, and there was still no reply. When Saturday dawned, Ron was quite sure that Hermione had forgotten about him, until there was a knock on the front door. Ron rushed to get it, and a slender figure stood out against the morning rain. Her hair was russet and pulled back, her face was oval and pale, freckles standing out on her nose and cheeks, same color as her eyes that were large and overpowering.

"Ronald?" Her voice was familiar and waving, and she dropped her umbrella on the ground with a clatter. Ron simply stared at the girl in the tan trenchcoat and black turtleneck standing in his doorway. His eyes closed and opened a few times and finally he found the words to speak.

"'Mione?"

"Oh, you do remember!" Hermione threw her arms around Ron. A smile, first of many, spread across his face and he held her tightly. Crying tears of joy, Hermione looked at Ron. He was wearing his Weasley sweater and jeans, and looked not a day over seventeen until she noticed his eyes. The tired eyes, the dim eyes. The looked like the fabric on a dress of a doll after being in the sun. Fading.

"I wouldn't forget." The smile he flashed brightened up his eyes, and she could feel herself liquefying. "What did you find, Miss 'Mione?"

"I branched out SPEW," said Hermione, with a laugh, "and I found that there's nothing like a good friend to come back to." Hermione brandished his letter to her, now soggy.

"Do you want to, er, get a latte?"

"Sure," she picked up her umbrella and they both cowered beneath it, walking about two miles, talking only sporadically before arriving to a small café. They stepped inside, and Ron shook the umbrella and put it in the holder while Hermione ordered two soy lattes.

Now that she's back in the atmosphere
With drops of Jupiter in her hair, hey, hey.
She acts like summer and walks like rain
Reminds me that there's time to change, hey, hey.
Since the return from her stay on the moon
She listens like spring and she talks like June, hey, hey.
Tell me did you sail across the sun?
Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded?
And that heaven is overrated?

"These are good!" Ron snickered as he drank his mug of the warm substance and Hermione still blew on hers.

"I told you. You never know until you try, I always say."

"Since when?" Ron cocked his head to the side.

"Since ten years ago," she took a sip of her latte and smiled, making Ron laugh at her. Hermione started laughing too, and soon they were laughing so hard two customers left and one more moved as far from them as possible. "So, Ron," said Hermione after they had calmed down. "Do you still speak to Harry?"

"Yes, I do. He lives in Godric's Hollow, now."

"Ah," whispered Hermione over the brim of her mug. Ron's hand lay idly on the table. Hermione's covered it. She stared out the window behind him, and he stared at her. God, was he falling in love? He'd gotten over that crush a good twenty years ago!

"Pretty summer's day," Ron strove for a conversation.

"Actually, it is. I learned to love rain," she brought her gaze back over to Ron. She gazed into his eyes as a Seer would into a crystal ball. Ron enjoyed being so near her again. He had forgotten the tingle she possessed in him, warming him from head to toe. Hermione smiled and leaned forward a bit, and he did too. "I learned to love a lot of things."

"Tell me about it."

"I went to America. I lived for awhile in Manhattan, in New York. It was wonderful. I worked in magic book shop, and met up with a few witches and wizards. There's a great magical institute in New York City." Just like her to talk about books, Ron thought, ignoring her words and caressing her voice. Hermione continued, "I went to Spain and spent three years in France, then I even went to Italy. But most of my time was spent in India. Oh, Ron, it's wonderful there… I learned so much. And this past year I spent out at sea… I could see every star, and I've memorized every constellation…"

"Hermione, finding yourself isn't memorization. And you needn't go very far off to know who you are."

"I know, Ronald," Hermione jeered. "Play first, then study."

"No Hermione," Ron sighed and rested his hand on her cheek. "All play no work results in nothing… all work no play makes things even worse… but some love in the latter makes things okay."

"Ron, are you trying to say what I think you're trying to say?"

"That depends. What do you think I'm trying to say?"

"I think you're-- well, I don't want to sound stupid if I'm wrong."

"You could never sound stupid, Hermione."

"Are you saying you love me?"

"Precisely," Ron smiled and Hermione started humming, her voice slightly off key but resonant all the same. Ron merely listened to her and smiled dreamily. "Are you going to stay?"

"I have to leave again, Ronald," she said, tearing up.

"Will you come back next time?"

"I will." But she left him sitting there with a cold soy latte and a memory of a girl he once knew. Ron left money on the table, paying for his drink though Hermione already had. He followed her out the door but she had Apparated.

Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star?
One without a permanent scar,
And did you miss me while you were looking at yourself out there?

Now that she's back from that soul vacation
Tracing her way through the constellation, hey, hey.
She checks out Mozart while she does tae-bo
Reminds me that there's time to grow, hey, hey.

Hermione was waiting for him when he got home, sitting at the table. Ron sat beside her and looked at the flames that were crackling in the fireplace diagonal from them. He was going to say something but she defeated him to it. Her voice crackling, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." She fell into his arms crying; he stroked her hair lightly, and she let her tears fall over him like rain.

"No, no it isn't. I'm staying this time."

"You know you don't have to," he reasoned, and she lifted her head up and placed it on his shoulder.

"I know."

They both smiled and he wiped away her tears with his thumb. She laid in his arms; her legs on the other seat until the flames became extinct. She had fallen asleep. Ron lifted her up and laid her on a bed upstairs, and when he began to his bedroom, he heard a small voice.

"Don't leave me." And he didn't, sitting in an armchair beside the bed. In the room beside the two was a silently crying Ginny.

"She intruded in on us, Ronald." Ginny spent the night pacing the bedroom floor, and stealing glances out the window, sometimes standing excruciatingly still, to hear something they said. But she never heard a thing.

Now that she's back in the atmosphere
I'm afraid that she might think of me as plain ol' Jane.
Told a story about a man who is too afraid to fly so he never did land.
Tell me did the wind sweep you off your feet?
Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day?
And head back to the Milky Way.
And tell me, did Venus blow your mind?
Was it everything you wanted to find?
And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

"Ron," Hermione said to the man lying beside her, "do you hear something?" She leaned over and turned on the lights, glancing at the clock on the wall.

"No, I don't…" he yawned. "What time is it?" He wrapped his arm around her as they both sat up.

"Er-- ten in the morning," she laughed. "Ron," Hermione began, pulling the covers over her protectively, "I know I hear something." Hermione looked around the sunlit room from the dimly lit corner and stood up, pulling on a silk robe that was so big it must have been Mrs. Weasley's.

"I'll check." Ron swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on his shirt and jeans, walking out of the room and listening. Anxiously, Hermione stared around and then hesitantly followed him. "Nothing." He declared, putting his arms around her waist and nuzzling her neck. Hermione remained inflexible. "Aw, Hermione!"

"I thought I heard someone crying!"

"You're so paranoid, 'Mione. It's only your imagination."

"If you say so," whispered Hermione before falling into his embrace, eyes glistening with happiness.

"Hermione, do you love me?"

"Are you sure it's my imagination?"

Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken
Your best friend always sticking up for you even when I know you're wrong

She stared at the glistening silver in her hand, catching it in the sunlight, watching it make rainbows on the ground. She remembered the war as vividly as yesterday now; could hear the shouts and the crying; the flashes of light and all the spells being randomly shot at every corner. She could remember seeing death, fighting right at Hogwarts, students being killed. She could remember blood, people killing each other like Muggles… She remembered seeing the men from her hiding place when everyone had deserted, picking up the dead bodies, levitating them, destroying them… she saw a man violate her old friend's dead body.

"Poor Luna," whispered she. Pointing out the window at her brother and the brunette standing in the sunshine she shot. Missed. Hermione turned around and Ginny ducked, beneath the window she crouched, back against the wall, breathing heavily. She lifted the beautiful chrome to her head, closed her eyes, let the cold, silver ring of the revolver kiss her temple. 3, 2, 1…

"What was that?" Hermione said, unsure, "I definitely heard two gunshots."

"We don't own a gun-- wait…" His father had kept one in his drawer for protection, but they all knew he simply thought it was fascinating. "Dad had one." He stormed inside the house leaving Hermione bewildered, shielding her eyes; looking after him. He entered his father's room and there he saw her. Blood smattered on her face, in her hair, sprawled on the ground of her room, was Ginny. The window, mirror, and neatly made bed covered in droplets of his sister's red life. Ron fell to the ground, eyes watering, a shrill scream escaping from his lips.

Upon hearing this, Hermione ran inside the house and up a flight of stairs, and saw Ron down on the ground, caressing his sister's hair. At first she did not collect all that was around her, but when she did she stumbled back with her hand over her mouth, and was almost sick all on the floor. Running back down the stairs she fumbled around the kitchen for parchment and ink. She found some, pulling her own quill out of her pocket. On a scrap piece of yellowing parchment she scrawled out a note and left, taking her jacket from the hanger.

Can you imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance five-hour phone conversation
The best soy latte that you ever had . . . and me?

Tell me did the wind sweep you off your feet?
Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day?
And head back toward the Milky Way?

Tell me did you sail across the sun?
Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded?
And that heaven is overrated?
Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star?
One without a permanent scar
And did you miss me while you were looking at yourself out there?

Ron's eyes scanned the parchment in feverish anxiety, again and again. Why could he not understand the words, though he read through them almost a hundred times? He dropped it and it fluttered to the ground. The five words on the paper confused him, and as he walked solemnly up the stairs again to his sister.

Tell me when it rains.

She had left her umbrella.