I turn my head, only to see Hermione Granger resting hers on my shoulder. I know for a fact that the war is finally over, but I can't help but feel helpless and lost and estrange. I know for a fact that Fred has died. I know it, but I don't feel it. I don't feel the deep sunken pang of guilt. I just can't be normal again. I know I'll get over it. But how can I get over it when it hasn't even started?
Slowly, as I continue my intense gaze at her, she opens her eyes, takes a swift glance across the Great Hall then finally rests her eyes at me. I remember. I finally remember. She kissed me, right there and then. Even though curses and hexes were whizzing past our ears, she kissed me. I remember that warm expression on her face. I've seen it before, quite long ago actually, I didn't, however, know what it meant.
"Ron?" she whispers, even though the Great Hall is dead silent, "do you want to go someplace else? I'm sick of being here." I grunt in response, though I still manage to reply with a grin. She grins back, of course, and takes my hand. We stand up together.
"Where are we going then?" I mutter as she leads the way.
"I don't know," she says, teasingly, "you tell me."
As she leads me through corridors, up the stairs and across the stone floor, familiarity strikes me. Hogwarts is my second home. I know every inch of this place and this place knows every inch of me. We finally reach the third corridor and it is here that we come face to face with the Fat Lady. Normally, she'd ask us for the password. But seeing that we are the companions of the Great Harry Potter, she let us through without a word.
Hermione clambers in first, apparently still leading the way. I climb in, clumsily stumbling on a step. Luckily, I keep my cool and my sense of equilibrium does not fail me. She notices me trip and lets out an involuntary snigger and lends me a hand. I take her hand graciously, accepting my embarrassment.
She tugs me along with her, up the stairs one last time and into the boys' dormitory. Then she pushes me in and locks the door behind her with a simple charm. I am trapped with Hermione Granger.
"Sit down," she orders, emotionlessly, as she gestures at my bed. Who knew my bed would still be in the same position, let alone, still here? Obediently, I follow her instructions. She takes a seat next to me, so close that I can feel the heat radiating off her arm. She puts one hand on my thigh, and bravely looks at me.
I see fear in her eyes. Her brows are cringed and tears are beginning to form. Biting her lip, she blinks, supposedly trying to rid of the tears.
"Ron, has it occurred to you yet? Do you feel it?" she whispers urgently.
"Hermione, what are you talking about?" I reply, attempting to put a brave front.
"Oh please, your brother has died and you don't shed a single tear."
Her tone has changed completely. It is now harsh and cold and distant. It's as if she's talking to me from a million miles away. I can hear her, but not so distinct. Her voice turns fuzzy and muffled. It's so strange and foreign that I have to strain my ears to feel her voice wrapping around me.
"I'm getting there," a soft mutter emits from my lips. I take a deep breath and continue. "What am I suppose to do? Cry over his dead body? Wallow myself in guilt? Is that what you want?" My voice also changes. It's an unconscious effort that grows with the years spent arguing with Hermione.
"No, it's not. All I want you to do is to be—"
"Be what, Hermione? I'm done with crying. I'm grown up. I can handle my emotions by myself, thanks."
"All I want is for you to be human again, Ronald."
Goodness, her tone reverts back to soft, close, near. It's now so near that I can feel her breath tickling my neck. I can't help it. My heart melts instantly. Then she pulls herself up on her feet.
"What am I suppose to feel?" I ask stupidly.
"That's why I'm here, Ron. Go figure." She whispers yet again, keeping her voice in control. Because that is what Hermione is, and what she likes to do, to be in absolute control. So I let her lead the way.
She crawls onto my lap, straddling me, arms around my neck, chest pressing up against mine. I look up at her, surprise at what she's doing but she ignores this.
I can see her face so clearly.
The sun outside is beginning to rise, casting a warm glow upon the room.
Her pale skin emits a certain glow. Her cheeks and nose remain pink. Her hair is less bushy now, more manageable as curls than as frizzes. I reach out to tuck her unruly fringe behind her ear. Then I see her smile. I expect her to kiss me already, but she doesn't. Instead, her nose grazes lightly against my long freckled one.
Her face is now so close to mine. She's so near to me, I can feel her every subtle movement. Snaking my right arm around her waist, my left arm pulls me back against the headboard, cradling her along with me.
I expect her to lie in my arms and gently drift to slumber. But knowing Hermione, something yet unexpected is about to happen. She pulls away slightly as I slacken my grip.
"Ron," she stares at me straight in the eye and speaks in soft tones. "Take care of me, will you?"
I lean forward to kiss her in response, but she pulls away further. Then I realise a side of Hermione I've never seen before. She giggles at my feeble attempt to touch her, but keeps utterly silent.
Hermione smiles and licks her lips. For some reason, I don't know which quality is obvious, seductive or just plain innocent. But her purity shines through her smile, and I know I'm safe with her. Her attention is suddenly diverted to my jumper. I feel her fingers undoing the buttons of my jumper, trembling slightly.
First, she slips the jumper off my shoulders. Second, her fingers struggle to pull the hem my shirt out of my jeans. Third, her head jerks upward delicately. Fourth, I raise my arms. And last, she tugs the garment off me, revealing my bare torso. I'm not what you call muscular or well-tan. My freckled skin is so pale; you can distinctly count all my spots. I'm unlike the other boys, who are beefy and big in size. I'm just lean. I do have muscles but only at the right places.
Hermione takes awhile to examine skin which hasn't been exposed before. I expect her to turn away in disgust but she doesn't. Then she straddles me once more, this time, she's closer than ever. Finally, she lowers her head and comes in for the kill.
Her lips land on mine. The suppleness of her pink lips brush against my rough ones eagerly. I feel her fingers licking the landscape of my chest, teasing my torso. I repress the urge to grab her waist, but as always, she is in control. Her lips part slightly, flicking her tongue at mine. Finally, I catch her; my tongue carefully licks hers as our kiss deepens in unknown territories.
As her fingers graze over my shoulders, I let out an automatic gasp of shock and pain. Immediately, Hermione breaks away, a permanent expression of fright glued on her face. I turn to my right, trying to see what it was.
But Hermione gets there first and mutters, "Splinters."
I sigh in relief, but her expression remains the same, transfixed with fear. Her fingers, nimble and tender, patiently picks at the small splinters of wood. Her eyes glued to my shoulder all the time; I quite like the attention she's giving me. When she's done, Hermione kisses my shoulder, affectionately.
I feel her venturing to other parts of my body, her hands gently stroking my chest and torso.
Finally, she stops, sits up on my lap and pushes her fringe off her face. Her face is slightly shiny from the extreme heat between us. Then she pulls her clothes closer to her body. Apparently, she's perspiring cold sweat and I sense it immediately. I grab the jumper next to me and fling it on to her lap. She mutters a word of soft thanks, finally breaking the silence between us. Tugging it on, she murmurs, "Will you stay with me, just for tonight?"
I nod, almost too eagerly in an attempt to express my gratitude. Hermione notes this instantly, of course, for she smirks at me with an evil glint in her eyes. Before I get the chance to shift positions on my bed, she swoops down next to me, tucking her head into the crook of my neck and placing one hand on my chest. She closes her eyes soon enough, undeniably to sleep. Hermione's head is resting against my shoulder again. And like before, I stare at her silently.
As I stroke her golden brown curls, I think about her. I think about the war. I think about the war has done to Hermione. Then I think about what the war has done to me.
It's depressing. Even the prospect of facing my family later in the evening frightens me. But for now, I have Hermione to keep me company.