Wrong

A/N: Forgive me for my absence, wonderful readers. This will probably be the last thing I write for a long while, as I've managed to land my dream teaching job and I am busier than I have ever been as a result. FYI, this is far from my best work. Much like "Enough," this was written for cathartic purposes more than anything else. Please forgive my tense errors and typos. Also, If you've written a wonderful fanfic recently, chances I read it and enjoyed it, but am still trying to find the time to review. Great job everyone!

He is wrong.

He's not really surprised by it, based on his track record. Really, he would have been more shocked if he was right.

But it's too late to dwell on that now.

Now, he needs to figure out a way to compose himself before someone comes looking for him.

So he stares at the back pond from his seat on the dock, his long legs allowing his bare toes to sink into water. He wonders when he grew quite this tall. Last time he sat in this particular spot, he kept his shoes on with no fear of getting them wet; now, if he stretched, he could probably keep half his feet submerged.

He supposes that he's changed more than he originally thought.

Of course, if he was the same as he had been before, he wouldn't have been wrong in the first place. Skiving off morning chores to spend some rare time alone would have made him feel better instead of worse, if he was the person he used to be. He would have settled into his spot on the rickety old dock and raged about all awful things the world had done to him, and how unfair his life was, and how no one seemed to care- all with dry feet.

Only he couldn't do any of that. He couldn't even manage to irrationally blame it on the length of his legs and his stupid feet in the stupid pond water that wasn't even cold enough to be refreshing. He couldn't rage at all, because he couldn't even manage to be angry.

Not that he hadn't been angry. He was, a few days ago. He was furious, even. He just wasn't anymore. Anger had given way to a not-so-dull ache by the time they had put his brother in the ground. And it turns out that while seething alone is therapeutic, aching alone is a very, very dangerous thing. He feels as if the moment he got a little peace and quiet his mind starting racing and his stomach began turning, and no amount of rocking back and forth in place had been able to stop the prickling heat behind his eyes.

At first, thought he might be able to control himself if he stopped thinking about the day when the awful thing happened. Of course, he had been wrong there again- because it turns out, something else that happened that day may be the only thing preventing him from breaking down entirely.

"The worst day of my life and the best day of my life are the same day," he says out loud, taking advantage of his solitude. The thought sounds just as strange in the air as it felt in his head, and he can't help but laugh in that way adults do when nothing is funny. "The worst day of my life and the best day of my life are the same fucking day," he repeats, adding the expletive for good measure.

"Ron?"

He stiffens involuntarily at the sound of his own name, said in a voice he would recognize anywhere. He doesn't dare turn around, choosing instead to grip the rickety old dock in his fists until his knuckles turn white and his palms sting, as if holding onto the wood beneath him strengthen his grip on his intangible composure.

He's wrong, of course. He still can't swallow the lump in his throat in order to answer her.

"Do you mind if I join you?" she asks, and he manages to shake his head to indicate that he doesn't. She settles next to him on the warped makeshift pier, her thigh brushing against his clenched fist as she does so. He continues to stare down at the water, trying to ignore the way his fingers tingle at the contact.

Her feet are bare like his own, but her legs are so short that they couldn't skim the water if they tried. He almost smiles.

Almost.

"Were you saying something, before?" she asks. He focuses on the way she crosses her ankles as her feet dangle far above the pond's surface, and he manages to answer honestly.

"I was talking to myself," he admits.

"Oh," she answers. "I can leave, if you'd like to do that some more."

"No!" he says, far louder and quicker than he intends to. "No," he repeats, in a much more acceptable volume and tone, clearing his throat as he does.

"All right, I'll stay," she replies, and he swears he can hear her smile in her words. He doesn't want her to look at him just yet (his eyes are still embarrassingly warm and wet), but he can't help himself from turning towards her to see if he had properly guessed her expression.

He had. And he smiles too, mostly because her grin is so infectious, but a little bit because it feels good to be right about something.

"I said that the worst day of my life and the best day of my life were the same day," he tells her, before he had even decided to do so. "Before," he clarifies, "when I was talking to myself."

He bravely meets her eyes as he finishes speaking, wanting desperately to make sure she understands him. Based on the look in her eyes, he thinks she does.

"That's all right," she says, with a sad sort of smile that he doesn't like nearly as much as the one she made before. "I'm sure a lot of people feel that way, considering how many people... were lost before Harry defeated Tom Riddle," she continues delicately, pausing at her euphemism for death and the name Harry insists they call his former nemesis.

And he is wrong again, because she doesn't understand like he thought she did. He supposes he should think more like her, attributing the best day of his life to the triumph over an evil leader and the creation of a new world order - but that wasn't what he is picturing at all.

His thoughts are decidedly fixed on the sound of a clatter of basilisk fangs and the feeling of a soft, warm body pressed tightly against his own from lips to waist.

He can't help it. He laughs. And once he starts laughing, he can't seem to stop, even when the tears he was holding back start to make their way down his freckled cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he says when he catches the confused look on her face. He wipes his eyes, hoping she thinks the tears are purely those of joy- although he's sure she knows better. "I'm not laughing at you," he insists. "That's just not what I meant. I mean, you've got the worst part right, of course, and the best part probably should be when Harry finally offed Riddle - but it's not. I was thinking of something that happened a bit earlier in the night, to be honest."

"Oh, really?" she asks, one eyebrow rising up under her fringe in what he is sure is finally understanding.

"Yeah," he replies, shifting himself closer to her.

"I think I may be able to help you, then," she says, as her cheeks turn a pretty pink color.

"How so?" he asks, in a tone that can only be described as flirty.

"Well, the part I mentioned is over and done, so I couldn't have really helped you detach that from the bad. But that part that you're referring to- I can help you repeat that, if you'd like." Her voice shakes, as if she is unsure of her words, but his grin only widens.

"I'd like that very much," he murmurs as he takes her up on her offer.

As her lips slide against his own, he can't help but think that being alone doesn't help anymore because being with her is so much better. And that despite all of the awful things the world has done to him, it has also brought them together, which is a trade he can see ending up in his favor. And that he can scarcely believe that she somehow cares for him just as much as he does for her.

And he must have changed more than he originally thought, because for once, he is oh so grateful that he was wrong.