The cricket's cry echoed through the walls of The Burrow at night, their buzzing manifestos keen in the much-needed silence. Everybody needed a break; Molly Weasley's crow's feet seemed to have held as a landing place for the omnipresent, sinking feeling of War that was the raven or crow. Mr. Weasley swallowed so much more than before, briefly closing his eyes, seemingly searching his brain for something more or less. The world seemed much more difficult. People scoffed more, and adults of magic living shared a now common habit of crinkling the facial features in a slew of emotion, custom for each and every witch or wizard.
She could remember it now, the same feeling coursing through her just weeks ago.
Hermione Granger's hand kept clammy as she knocked on mother's bedroom door. "Come in, Jeanbug," her mother called. Jeanbug. It was adorable. Everybody agreed. For seventeen years, Hermione felt a warmth spread through her stomach as she heard the soft syllables of her childhood name, which may or may not blossom into adulthood. Hermione quickly inhales through her nose, out through her mouth, and turned the doorknob gently. Mrs. Granger looked up with warm eyes and smiled. The right side of her mouth conquered, leaving a slightly crooked but still beautiful smile etched upon her aging face. She asked, "Why are you looking at me like that?" Hermione felt her eyebrows knit together. "Mum," she shakily began. "I am so, so, sorry." Her mother's eyebrows quickly matched hers, as she slowly cocked her head to the side, asking slowly, "Hermione, is there something you're trying to tell me?" Hermione fought the urge to laugh. At this time, this place in her life and history itself, she would be killed by the Death Eaters themselves before she could finish telling her mother about it all.
"Mum, he is honestly taking over. He is honestly a threat to not only magic people, but you too. Muggles. Normal people. He is a threat to the entire world, and you and I both know that there is an unfathomable amount of stress on the D.A. right now, and a good and general helping of unfortunate circumstance on not just us, but the magic world too. Dumbledore is…"
Hermione's voice quavered.
"Not here anymore. All we have is Harry. Anyway, what I'm here to say is that I have to protect you. He will absolutely kill you if he could. He hates Muggles. Anybody that isn't pure, which is too complicated to explain right now. The point is, I have to send you away. And take your memories away too. I won't hurt you. I promise, but I have to do this, and it'll be painless and, and hopefully fine, and you won't even –"
"Hermione."
Hermione slowly tilted her head upwards. The warmth of her mother's love bubbling throughout her abdomen had turned scalding hot.
"Yes?"
"Just do it. I know it's for our safety. I've been hearing you and your father speak of it for weeks. I know."
Hermione's jaw clenched. She hated it, oh, she really truly hated and rued the one day of her unhopefully short life to have to turn the wand against her mother with slightly Dark Magic; she was fighting Dark Magic. It tainted her self-image to be forced to use it against the woman that gave up everything to give her the chance to point her God forsaken wand at her God forsakenly beautiful self. She said nothing more. Neither did Mrs. Granger. The moonlight crept through the curtain-clad window, the lamplight stopping it in its tracks. The room cradled an eerie silence that clawed but rubbed Hermione's nerves, skin, brain and heart. It waited, an eager audience reading for the Seeker to catch the snitch. Immediately tortured by it, feeling weak but nevertheless strong, it was over before she took the time to say goodbye for now, hopefully.
"Obliviate."
A warm rain had fallen earlier at The Burrow. The house was empty of sound; Fred and George were out in the forest, doing Merlin knows what with Ginny. Hermione looked at the haphazard kitchen table. Half eaten chicken salad sandwiches lay decomposing and forgotten on the randomly colored dished and amongst collected Muggle and magic cups over the years of pomegranate fizzie; a Molly Weasley classic. Hermione laughed as she imagined a world where all pomegranates were Weasley style; emitting carbonated juice straight form the fruit. "She would win a nobel prize for that," Hermione thought. She breathed the lukewarm air in. The dry and cracked skin on her bottom lip fluttered against her breath, reminding her of all the events that hadn't been quite favoring Harry's side that sat on the kitchen table of life, decomposing and hardly forgotten. She wanted to cry. But it was too late and too early for that. The worst, as Lupin had said, was but to come.
Hermione was startled by the creak and slam of the front door. She momentarily froze. There was nothing but the tinkle of hung spoons hitting the formerly painted entrance to the house; the metal hit the curling paint melodically, and Hermione felt herself drift and ebb peacefully back into the tides of thought…
"Who the bloody hell is that?" said a familiar voice, the frightened echo squeaking at 'hell'. Ron.
"What's your least favorite type of sandwich?"
Hermione half shouted, picking her wand up quicker than sparks and holding it to the fire-headed boy standing in the doorframe of the kitchen.
"Corned Beef."
"And at what time of year do you always express it?"
"On the Hogwarts Express. Mum always packs it, but forget that I don't like it, I hate it, but –"
"Okay. Come in." She tucked her wand behind her ear.
"Thank you, Sir."
"I am writhing with laughter, Ron. Did Lavender teach you that sparkling wit?"
"To hell with you."
"Mmm. No grilled cheese for you then."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"No, I mean, what in Merlin's name is – what the hell is a grilled sneeze?"
"I said 'cheese', Ronald. And anyway, it's what you have been deprived of. Let me teach you how to make one."
A grunt erupted from his throat, as he reached slowly for one half of a room temperature chicken salad sandwich. Hermione jerked her arm, slapped his hand (receiving a shriek of annoyance from the latter), and in one quick wand motion cleared the table off all leftovers.
"They're like shooting chicken salad stars," breathed Ron, relishing in his attempted metaphor.
As long as the moon was white and the night dark, and until the end of the world (as Hermione knew it), Ron would never be poetic. Hermione snorted. Ron bitterly glowered. The idea, the image was like asking Professor Snape to be compassionate, or Rita Skeeter to tell the truth. The spirit of the Weasley home seemed to chuckle along with Hermione, it's magic fingertips tickling the sides of the walls, causing them to shake momentarily, the floors bellowing with entertainment.
"I'm not doing this for a grilled cheese!" sneered Ron, sloppily waving his hand at the kettle, as it jumped, as if startled, giving a shrill squeaking before filling itself with water, and perching itself on the red-hot stove as if a bird.
"Honestly, Ronald. You act as if I'm asking for your disembodied hand to cook it with," countered Hermione, as she separated four pieces of homemade bread into doubles and hit the stove on.
"Are you telling me or not? What is it?"
"Use your newfound wit and tell me from the title!"
"We're putting slices of cheese on a pan, and watching it cook?"
"Between the bread, Ronald." she replied in an exasperated voice, she eyebrows raised as she turned away from him, knocking into silverware that subsequently ricocheted off the deep brown countertop. They made a clattering, tinking sound as each knife, spoon, and fork beat the floor aimlessly. Hermione inhaled quickly, held it for a moment, and squinted her eyes in anticipation. Molly's voice, if on cue, echoed, "Is everything alright, dear? Did you break something?" as she quickly declined in a loud voice. It was nice, at least, to know there was a mother figure in close proximity at all times. Hermione reached down awkwardly and scooped the tableware into her fingers, twining random eating utensils between random areas of the hand.
"I've never heard you swear," said Ron, breaking the crystallized silence between the two.
"I didn't swear,"
"You said 'shit'!"
"In your fucking dreams," snapped Hermione, rolling her eyes.
"You just swore!"
"Then I guess that's the first time you've heard me, seeing your shock!"
There was not a response from the other end.
"Get up. Come on!" Hermione mentally prodded, using the same fingers on manipulation to tug the tall Ron Weasley out and away from his rocking chair so daintily lined up next to the table. He now stood stagnant, waiting, at her side, staring blankly yet slightly surly at a damaged spot of the wooden countertop. The two shared the eyesight of one place briefly, possibly focusing on the moment itself, before jumping back into reality quickly and sourly. Hermione held her hand above the hot skillet, paused, exhaled and bluntly stated, "It's hot,"
Ron slowly replied, "It is."
She coughed, half naturally, and handed him the two slices of bread.
"The cheese (she quickly joined 'add as much as you like' onto these words into a literary clump) goes between them."
"So it's a cheese sandwich, then?"
"Yes. But you cook it on the pan, obviously."
"Obviously," he repeated.
The two waited for the butter to melt, predominantly in silence, punctuated by mere drops of conversation; words, more literally. Hermione strolled into the living room to glimpse at the night sky, and look for possibly the twins, Ginny, or Harry. Nobody. Hermione eyed the Daily Prophet that lay cast along the couch. She collected each section, organizing them (as Ron laughed and prodded her about what 'she did best') and carried them promptly back into the kitchen. Ron watched her, smiling slightly, yet vanishing the act of adoration the moment she looked up.
"They are getting a little desperate, it seems," she laughed, reading each pathetic headline with increasing amusement.
"Looks the same to me," Ron dismissed, stretching in his chair and kneading his hands behind his head.
"Nope. Oh, there's definitely something different."
Ron tilted his head to the side, squinting with confusion.
"Rita Skeeter has written about two thirds of every article. Whew. Times really are tough now, aren't they?"
Ron laughed breathily.
The two place their sandwiches next to each other on the pan. Ron pushed Hermione's slightly tilted whilst she was not looking. Hermione turned back around, her brows knit, and tilted the sandwich straight once again. He bent it yet again, and soon the two were battling for the placement of her sandwich.
"Stop it!"
"No,"
"Merlin, Ron! Just leave it!"
He laughed heartily, and finally ceased antagonizing her by means of a cheese sandwich, which caused him to laugh in it's own right. The two grilled their cheese sandwiches, stopping every few moment to grill each other, and reached the end of their pathetic cooking experience in sardonic bliss. Hermione stabbed the spatula under each grilled cheese, and served them on identical electric blue plates. The kettle screamed, forgotten, as if a attention-starved child. Both Ron and Hermione jumped in unison, as Ron hopped over to it, pouring two cups of tea for them. He gingerly handed her the mug, as she slowly placed her plate and the cup on the floor. He watched as Hermione, like a folding chair, collapsed cross-legged on the floor. She waved her hand, summoning him. He raised an eyebrow, also putting his snack on the floor, and joined her there.
"Mum and I always sat on the floor after grilled cheese cooking. It was…just our tradition," replied Hermione crisply, taking a swig of tea and bluntly pushing it down her throat.
The curve of her nose cast a ski-jump shadow in the dim lamplight of the eatery, while Ron pursed his lips and silently nibbled on his sandwich and fiddled with his tea. He drummed his long fingers against the bruised porcelain, fingering the chip just under the rim of the mug. He huffed once. He huffed again.
"What?"
"Where are they?" he growled, whipping hid head like a heavyweight towards the window, craning his neck towards the sapphire night sky, wincing at the sounds of his neck cracking in unison with Hermione's knuckles. The undersides of Ron's feet were blackened with dust and soil, causing Hermione to cast a cleaning charm immediately, earning a well-accounted for grimace from Ron. The trio had been rummaging in the attic the entire day; Molly promised chicken salad sandwiches if they could contain and somehow vanquish the ugly and speckled 'brute'. Ron, Hermione, and Harry tried to imagine each bead or sheen of sweat as the product of training for the inevitable.
Hermione never could bare to brood over the battle; the battle. Her brain a fruit of imagination, it diced itself into a number of separate thoughts no SI unit could conquer in this lifetime, no matter how long the Longbottoms or any other affected person sat in their hospital rooms counting. Deep down, she couldn't bear to be killed and her parents never know or care. As long as they were entranced, the name ne'er crossed or would cross their minds except in Mythology conversation. That exactly sharpened the knife that served a chilly, naked wave of emotion that so-said diced her wits. She cast a glace at Ron, who now was awkwardly climbing on the windowsill, trademarkedly pursing his lips in dissent of her sister's whereabouts, especially because she was with the twins and Harry had gone too.
"I just don't. . . it just pisses me off when they're together and I'm not there," he squeaked.
"You're kidding."
"Why would – Hermione, she could get pregnant, or something! I don't know! Harry is a boy, you know! He is! They're in a bloody forest –"
"Gee, Ron, you're right! Seems pretty prudent for you to be going on about Harry being so physically attached to your sister after the entire nation has seen the fling you had with Lavender Brown!"
"You don't start, Hermione, this is completely different, I swear to Mer—"
"Ron, I'm sure that the idea of fornicating with Harry in front the twins is a true objective for your sister. Certainly. Really, Ron? Really?" snapped Hermione.
Ron glowered.
"And anyway, do you know how awkward it probably is between them?" countered Hermione.
"Perfect backdrop for a little snogging, then!"
He leaned back to his original placement, dramatically clutching his heart (knowing Ron, he had also so dramatically grabbed the wrong side, and instead his right lung), and delivered, "Harry, I'm so lost without you. Let's have sex, just this once, and not tell anybody! You only dumped me for protection, so let's make it like bunnies and split!"
"Congratulations, Ron. You ruined two metaphors in under ten seconds," Hermione mused bitterly.
"Whatever. By the way, the sandwiches were good, right?"
"Told you. I mean, I can't see why Voldemort would be so prejudice against muggleborns and miss out on this stuff. . .his loss! More for the Order."
Ron only grunted, shifting himself to get up, fumbling for the dishes while doing so.
"No, no, I'll get—"
And there was this friction, this condensation. Somehow, the two's lips crashed while fetching the same plates, on the same space and foot of wood flooring, in the same kitchen of the same house on the same planet; Hermione Granger, how she sourly spoke her surname and Ron Weasley had become one. Hermione shrieked into his mouth, quickly jerking away and collapsing back onto her warmed spot of flooring whilst he just stood there. She feebly nudged the plate and empty mug towards his foot with her toes, and wouldn't dare look him in the face.
Silent as death, Ron slowly dragged the plate onto the counter, calmly stacked both plates and mug, and shuffled out of the area. Moments later Hermione felt and hear the thudding of Ron's feet whacking each stair, playing fun at her heartbeat. Her hands were warm and slightly clammy; she rested her hand over her left ribcage, gently and slowly sliding it upwards to her body's powerhouse. She suddenly felt so tired, as if the kiss had sipped and sipped the nectar of her inner thoughts and dwellings into the night sky, yet glided like memories.
Her largest subconscious dream had just arrived and swept her off her feet, her guard, her sense of self; yet Hermione need not feel triumphant. She felt sick, and cold, and dirty. She swallowed hard, with more effort than usual, sliding her hand toward her navel and closing her eyes. Bells broke her to reality, as she heard the muffled laughter of Harry, Ginny, Fred, and George as their tones of joy melted into the silence. Hermione jerked, quick as a hare springing up, keeping low, and began to lightly whip her feet across the floor, and smoothly propelling her legs up the stairs, a complete contrast of Ron's method.
She had reached the apex of the stairwell in under five seconds, and kneeled briefly to catch her dainty breaths, each flowing out of her mouth rhythmically but gracefully. She eyed the darkened hallway, flicking her finger simultaneously. This sent the candles into a flurry of light, and as their flames' wild twists and turns subsided, she clicked the door closed briskly with an arm of the Whomping Willow.
Hermione clenched her teeth, wondering what in the world this would be. A secret? A mishap, a memory ne'er to be seen or reflected on again, even when loneliness and a brash sense of unacceptance and finger-wagging came by in a swift guerrilla-style motion? Would Ron treat her differently? Would she treat Ron differently?
It all drifted, a lilypad in a pond and she wasn't liking it. Hermione Granger, queen of order, living and breathing statue of fact was shambled. And it was nobody's fault but love, what seemed to make tears and spill blood so effectively. It was just love. So nonchalant, but so set in stone by life itself that she couldn't touch it with knowledge, or cheek, wit or darted and cold eyes and stares. She could only let it fill her, and take her to a place that was the next step. Whatever it was. The sensation, it alone made her want to cry but scream, smile but scorn, and it peeled and striped her to the very core with frozen hands.
Ron squinted his eyes into the navy blue silence. His arms, slightly twitching from nerves, were wrapped precariously around his gathered lanky legs; for the first time in a while, a long and ill-prosperous while, he thought. He merely thought about how and why and all else frazzling him as he listened to himself breathing, Harry occasionally turning and tossing in his sleeping, muttering not to kill Ginny and Hermione, Lupin and Ron himself, and ne'er begging for himself to be spared. Ron tilted his head to the cracked and sandy-colored wall, watching, waiting, listening for something. This particular direction, he learned, was the most successful to watch Hermione sleep tight and warmly in her bed. He remembered sleeping in it once himself with his mother. Nightmares were so difficult to handle in his truly young years, and so Molly Weasley met him halfway by inviting him to the room that shared the love between them that now Hermione was lulled to sleep by.
He hadn't even attempted to put a label on what he shared with Hermione. It felt all too easy and orthodox to say love, for that is not what they as an entity were based on. It was based on difficulty, and learning about each other through tart words and bitter frowns, while each of them smiled inside. It was their way. It was beautiful, and unique; it was about smashing what they had, picking up the pieces, broken but glimmering with care, and forming them into a new and even more eclectic prototype of friendship and respect. And each new form or vision of their relationship inched, crawled and clawed closer to desire, acceptance, and normality in fighting manner. Honesty was practiced brazenly and fearlessly, from Ron expressing his dislike of Krum at the dance, to Hermione instinctively spitting her fried eggs out from disgust at breakfast. It was what it was. And each participant in this union of soul admired exactly it.
Ron, after pouring himself into the darkness of the room, lay his head slowly atop his dirty and over-used pillow. Blinking in the steady and slim beam of moonlight that shone into his eyes, he fell into the deepest, stickiest sleep he'd ever had. He did not dream. He saw nothing, felt nothing, heard nothing and sought nothing. He was suspended very high, amongst the clouds and the moon, feeling the chilly night air as he sat in a hammock of stars. He hung in elegant greens, navy blue peace and serenity that held the door for him to the morning ahead.
And so it came, as Ron heard the sounds of his siblings and friends laughing downstairs, he crawled onto the floor and finally stood up. He faced a very chaotic blob of red on top of his scalp, with bits and locks running for their lives in each and every direction possible. His boxers had made a three-hundred and sixty degree turn, and his toes ached, strangely.
Hermione was downstairs, and there was nothing else to comment about on the matter. Ron dressed himself and painfully (yet very, very slowly) shuffled downstairs. The lower lever of the Burrow was vibrating with energy, as Ginny played a rousing game of chess with Harry and Arthur, while the twins argued, still finishing each other's sentences about small but embarrassing prank gadgets, as Hermione and Molly cooked breakfast. Surprisingly Remus and Moody themselves stopped for breakfast, as they together chuckled over coffee and dirty fingernails.
Ron swallowed hard, balling his hands into fists before brazenly traipsing into the aromatic kitchen. Hermione and Ron caught each other's eyes, as Hermione quickly looked away, focusing on the ever-important egg cooking at hand. Molly scuffled out quickly, shrieking about something concerning a mug, soil, and spattergroit as Remus and Moody subsequently followed, casting half amused glances and half incredulous.
And then it happened. The beginning of something old, and the ending of something new.
"Good morning, Ronald." Hermione greeted, making full eye contact and, while keeping her nose in the air and a forged expression of a businesslike face, smiling slightly.
Ron hesitated. After the brief thought of what to do, the answer was dumped quite obviously over his head with a bucket of logic, not usually found in his everyday living.
"Morning, Hermione," Ron grumbled, picking his fork up off the table and attacking the breakfast spiked with the essence of what he could never eat or drink enough of.