AN: This has been a really enjoyable story to write, and hopefully it is as enjoyable to read. Please begin with an open mind and stick with it, despite the unusual pairings. Reviews and feedback are always appreciated.
DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling.
Ron awoke in almost pitch darkness. Rain pounded hard on his window, not quite masking the sound of a gale blowing outside. The pane of glass shook in its frame, and an iridescent stone wind chime tinkled softly. This onslaught against his other senses, whilst he remained essentially blind, made him uneasy, and he groped around for his wand to illuminate the room. He glanced at his ticking clock, wondering how much longer he had till it was time to get up.
However the clock surprised him, showing that it was half past seven. He had overslept. He glanced over to Harry, knowing they would have to hurry to grab any breakfast at this time. However, the bed across the room was empty, the blankets tossed back with careless abandon.
Ron strained to listen to the rest of the house, over the growing storm outside. He suddenly heard Harry's distinctive barking laugh, then other noises began to emerge. Fleur getting under his mothers feet, his father rambling as usual, Ginny telling jokes. The only voice missing was that of Hermione. He smiled, hoping for the oppurtunity to tease her that she had, unusually, overslept just like he. But then he heard her bright, high laugh joining in with that of his family's and Harry's. He glanced back at his bed, still invitingly warm. However Harry's trunk cast a shadow over it, making it look particuarly dark and dank in it's corner. He imagined spiders crawling over it, and shuddered. Instead he walked over to the window, staring miserably at the ominous weather.
September 1st. He had been willing time to slow down in preparation of this day, and as if to spite him the days had sped up so that the past week of sorting quills, spells books and clean robes had passed by as if in a minute. It was not his usual panic at having neglected his homework; his solidarity with Harry in this matter, and having Hermione as a friend would usually solve that dilemma. But this year was different. So much had changed.
Their battle in the Ministry, at the end of fifth year, had changed Harry and Hermione. They partook in snatched discussions of cryptic Prophet articles, and gleaning as much information as they could from his father. There was none of the usual carefree attitude that summer brought, of playing lazy games of Quidditch and fending off his mothers heavy handed hints about rule breaking. They knew that something was coming, some grown up, and huge and beyond them. Or beyond him, at any rate.
Harry's revelation of his private lessons with Dumbledore himself seemed to emphasise the huge difference between them. Within the walls of The Burrow, Ron stayed the last son, the least distinctive, but he saw how everyone's attitude towards Harry had changed. Though always slightly in awe of his celebrity before, their attention towards him had sharpened. They glanced at him, wonderingly, curious as to what part he would play in all of this. His mother was sick with worry, constantly fretting about the dangers he had been through already. The scars on Ron's arms from the brains in the strange room, at the Department of Mysteries had faded from his skin, and from everyone's minds.
Platform nine and three quarters was enveloped in the steam, and mist. It was as noisy as always, almost deafening with the sound of goodbyes, shrieks over lost items and rejoicing over finding them lodged at the bottom of a suitcase. Ron could see Neville patting himself down whilst his grandmother lectured, holding a lumpy looking cactus. Looking up, he saw his mother, Harry, Ginny and Hermione striding ahead, so he hurried to catch up.
"...Sorry, Harry, me and Ron have got to do prefect duties for a bit, we'll find you later. Go find a compartment with Ginny and Luna," said Hermione, glancing around for Ron, smiling once she saw him. Harry looked slightly crestfallen at being left out, and Ron felt a secret, guilty stab of pleasure.
Let him know how this summer's been for me, even if it's only for the train ride, he thought. The rest of the prefects usually neglected their duties, or, in the case of Ernie Macmillan would pompously stride up and down the corridors, daring first years to even think of breaking rules. That usually left him and Hermione around two hours of relative peace and quiet, in solitude, something he was rarely able to achieve. Though she spent most of it studying school books, and asking pointed questions about homework deadlines, he was relieved at the break from the seriousness of Harry's company recently.
"Well, see you later then," muttered Harry, before sloping off with Neville to find a compartment.
"Right, let's go to the prefect's compartment then. Now, Ron, would you please test me on antidotes, for Potions, because I definitely remember Snape mentioning them for NEWTs, right before he threw that unicorn horn at Neville..." Ron drifted in and out of the conversation, paying enough attention to keep out of trouble. When Hermione was in an organised mood, it rarely mattered whether the other person was fully functioning or even sentient, as long as they propped up a book, and nodded occasionally.
"...and I'm a bit worried about Harry, aren't you? He seems a bit distant, ever since Dumbledore dropped him off. I guess I'd be a bit off after everything that's happened to him last year, but even so. Have you noticed anything?" She glanced at him expectantly, eyebrows raised whilst he let out an internal sigh.
"Well, I guess he's been a bit quiet, but he'll tell us whenever he's ready. I mean, " he lowered his voice to a whisper, "Sirius has just died. He's bound to still be, you know, upset. "
Hermione frowned unhappily, before returning to her books. She pulled her frizzy hair back into a loose ponytail, not wishing to be distracted. Ron caught sight of her curved neck, bent over a large text book, and drew in a large gulp of air through his suddenly dry mouth. He wanted to grab her, silence her for once, and to pour all of his half formed thoughts, and secret fantasies into a sweet, long kiss. Now, he thought, now no one's here, I should tell her, I should-
The compartment door was slid open noisily, announcing the arrival of a withdrawn looking Malfoy. For a second, Ron wondered what caused this unusual change in demeanour, before a malicious glint entered Malfoy's eye.
"Close your mouth Weasley, you look more gormless than usual," he sneered. Ron's ears turned a violent shade of cerise, and he tried to think of a better response than, shut up, Malfoy. However, too much time elapsed, and Ron instead tried to read over Hermione's shoulder, in what he hoped was a dignified manner. This proved to be a mistake, as Hermione irritably waved him away, before glancing up at him.
"Ron, you've got some dirt on your nose."
The feast dragged on for hours, during most of which Ron stabbed moodily at his food, ignoring conversation, and answering direct questions with grunts. He was furious with Malfoy, for ruining his moment. Hermione had ignored him during most of their prefect duties, and when they had met up with Harry, she had plied him with question, desperately trying to make him open up. Harry had fended off these questions as well as he could, trying to signal to Ron to help by suggesting games of Exploding Snap, but Ron had continually replied that he was not in the mood. Eventually he had succumb to onslaught of questions, and before long they had been talking intimately. She had been touching his arm a lot, her eyes fixed on his face, the image of concern. Eventually Ron had found some first years to tell off to escape the increasingly claustrophobic compartment.
He had noticed something of a commotion when the three of them had walked into the hall, girls preening and batting their eyelashes at Harry. He had seemed to notice nothing, simply continued to talk in hushed tones with Hermione, but Ron could feel their gaze even now. He let the noise of the Great Hall wash over him, trying to lose himself in the din.
He succeeded, so well that it took Hermione shoving him to realize he had to take the first years to the dormitories as part of his prefect duties. He moodily signalled to them to follow him, and glared at any insolent enough to talk. They banded together in a circle, seemingly terrified of this large, grumpy figure, and did not dare to lose sight of him, not confident he would return for them if lost. Ron hoped that this misery of a day would end soon. There was a tugging at his cloak. He looked down. A very small, mousy looking first year looked up at him."I need to go to the toilet," he said in a high pitched squeak.
"That great, but you don't have to inform me every time, "Ron replied darkly. Hermione looked over, and gave him a severe stare.
"Ron, I think what he's asking is for you to take him there, since he doesn't know where they are. That's what you want, isn't it" she added kindly to the petrified looking boy. He nodded minutely. Ron let out a frustrated groan.
"Hermione. I'm tired. I want to go to bed. If it that important to you that he doesn't wet the bed, why don't you show him?" he snarled. He was angry with her for humiliating him in front of Malfoy, and ignoring him for the evening in favour of Harry. All summer, almost as if by design she had dodged any leading questions, veiled hints and attempts at intimacy. He was filled with savage satisfaction at the expression of hurt passing across her face.
"How on earth should I know where the boy's toilets are? I don't hang around in the opposite sex's bathrooms, unlike some people we know," she exclaimed imperiously. She turned quickly to enter the portrait hole, shouting over her shoulder, "and you've still got dirt on your nose!"
Anger filled Ron violently, and he clenched his fist, fighting the urge to punch something. He glanced darkly at the trembling child. "C'mon kid. I think it's time you met Moaning Myrtle."
As Ron charged back to the Gryffindor common room, daring the small first year to even think of falling behind, he seemed to get angrier with every step. Though just a few hours before he had been ready to declare himself to Hermione, he was now considering how to make pushing her in the lake look like an accident, something he usually reserved for Malfoy.
In truth, though he would never admit it, these two events were intrinsically linked. He had had many similar moments over the summer, always interrupted by his mother calling, or by Harry. Harry's theories over Malfoy joining the Deatheaters, Hermione asking him probing questions about his short visit with Dumbledore to a man named Slughorn. Harry, always Harry. Ron had simply seemed to have passed from his brothers shadow to his friends, without even a transitioning time in the sun. His mystique had only increased over the summer, with 'the Chosen One' title adding yet another layer to it.
He arrived at the Pink Lady's portrait, and grunted the password, earning him a dark glare from her. The common room was still crowded, and he was greeted by Seamus, Dean and Neville, but he was in no mood to linger and make idle chatter. It had been an awful day, of dashed hopes and humiliations, and he wished to end it as quickly as he could by sinking into his soft four poster bed, warmed with a bed pan.
After muttering excuses of tiredness, he managed to escape to the boys dormitory, and climbed up it wearily. As he approached the door, he found he could hear a murmured conversation, and yet all of the others were downstairs. He paused, creeping towards the door, taking extra care not let his feet fall as heavily as they normally did. The door was slightly ajar, with a flickering light dancing from the lit candle inside. He put his eye to the crack.
Hermione sat on Harry's bed, her head bent and her hair covering her face. Harry stood over her, looking intent and concerned. His eyes did not leave her face for a second. As she glanced up, Ron could see a shining tear snaking from her eye to the corner of her mouth. I did that, he thought, she's upset because of me, and he moved his hands to the door to go in and apologise. At the same moment, Harry moved his hand softly towards her face. His hand cradled the side of her face, whilst his thumb slowly wiped the tear from the corner of her mouth. He murmured something too low for Ron to hear. She let out a low, throaty laugh, and a crooked smile stayed on her face. It looked almost smug. She stood up, sinuous as a snake, into Harry's arms. Her head fit neatly under his chin, and his broad hands were splayed all over her, one on her shoulder, the other on the small of her back.
Ron straightened up slowly, and retreated as quietly as he could. He returned to the common room, sitting in a quiet corner where he would not be seen by Hermione when she left the dormitory. He waited.
She did not return from the dormitory for almost an hour, leaving only when other people were getting ready to go to bed. She smoothed her hair with her hand, and looked shiftily around, not seeing him. Ron stayed in his chair. Oh, he thought, oh. It's like that.
It might have taken a second, or a minute, or an hour, or a whole lifetime for Ron to reach the lakeside. Time seemed suddenly fragmented, blurred, as if the sight of that delicate, passionate embrace had shattered his internal clock. At the time, he didn't care. At the time, he didn't even pause to consider it. He might have, if his head hadn't been filled with a constant stream of, "Hermione, Hermione, oh Merlin, Harry, you bastard, you thieving bastard."
The air seemed thinner down by the water. It brushed against Ron's freckled cheeks, his unmarked forehead, his too-long nose, like the gentle embrace of some forgotten friend. The grass, when he lay down on it, was wet and cold beneath his bare forearms. The night was silent and still and cool and dark – and he couldn't breathe.
It was ironic, really; he'd dreamt about that moment more times than he could count, about bursting in to a deserted classroom or a broom cupboard or even, in one particularly memorable nightmare, his parent's bedroom, to find his best friends wrapped around each other. Nothing could prepare him for seeing it in the flesh, though. There was something sickly and putrid about the images that flashed through his brain as if on a loop. Harry's hand tangled in those brown curls seemed deformed, claw-like, possessive, and his face warped from a tender smile into a demonic smirk. The thumping drumbeat in Ron's ears got louder and louder, drowning out all sense of reason, and only when it became deafening did he realise in a brief moment of clarity that it was the sound of his own heart.
He rolled over and threw up into the lake. The merpeople would never forgive him, but even that thought only inspired a weak rush of sadistic pleasure. It served them right for kidnapping him in fourth year, for bewitching him with spells and tying him up- just so that some glorified scruffy little runt could prove, once more, that Harry Potter was superior to all other life forms.
Ron spat into the inky waters, trying to force the taste of vomit out of his mouth. It didn't have much of an effect. He pressed his face into the damp earth, instead, and closed his eyes, and thought of Hermione, and loved her, and thought of Harry, and hated him.
He pictured them eating dinner together, her face painted golden by candlelight as she laughed at one of his pathetic little jokes. Her straining, begging, weeping, to force a black-haired, green-eyed child out of her body. That beautiful mouth twisted into a bleak line from the misery of being married to the Chosen One. Them in bed together, bodies moving as one, unhealthily pale skin rubbing against her compact and lovely form in the most intimate way possible.
Another wave of nausea crashed over Ron, temporarily distracting him from the darkness of his thoughts. He wanted to scream, wanted to screech like a little child that it wasn't right, it wasn't fair, it wasn't what was supposed to happen. He was meant to end up with Hermione, he had been sure of it. He was meant to propose to her at the Quidditch World Cup, and marry her in his own back garden, and have a pretty little girl called Rose (after the flower) and twin boys, Gideon and Prewitt (after the great-uncles his mother was always going on about). And Harry – well, Harry was supposed to be the best man, and the godfather, and defeat Voldemort, or die trying.
Voldemort. The one person who could always be relied upon to distract The Boy Who Lived, no matter what else was happening. Voldemort, and Harry, and Hermione. Ron frowned as the three names that meant so much swirled around his head. They seemed intrinsically linked, in some way that he could see perfectly clearly but didn't quite understand. Hermione would know. Hermione was clever. So clever, and yet so beautiful, and so kind, and so perfect in every way Ron could think of, and other ways that he couldn't. Hermione, the bright-eyed, bushy haired girl of his dreams, who had been ripped away from him by the one he was supposed to be able to trust.
But he'd never really been able to trust Harry, had he? There were still so many things Ron didn't know about him, things that he refused to explain. What was going on in those private lessons? What exactly had happened in the Department of Mysteries? Was the Boy Wonder really as naïve, as pure, as he claimed to be, or was it all a front, an act that he had created to hide his true motives from view?
An act… Ron suddenly thought of his father, of the snake attack last year that Harry said he had witnessed Voldemort commit. Was that really the truth? Harry could speak Parseltongue. Harry had known about it before anyone else. Harry had been desperate to get into the Department of Mysteries at any cost – and he wouldn't let some bumbling red-headed wizard get in his way. Yet they had all accepted his story, always eager to believe that the wondrous Potter child was a hero.
He wasn't a hero at all. He was the worst kind of villain, the kind that lured his victims in with wide eyes and an innocent smile, then pounced when they were at their most vulnerable. There was a bitter, burning sensation in Ron's throat, and in his mouth the taste of loathing mixed perfectly with the remaining traces of vomit.
He rolled over, looked up at the shivering moon and the bright pinpricks of the stars and vowed that he would never let Harry Potter near his family again. He had waltzed in with his scar and his powers, stealing the love and affection that was meant for Ron, stealing his friends and his potential glory, stealing Hermione, and very nearly stealing Ron's father's life. He must have bottled it at the end, not brave enough to go through with his dastardly plans. That was why he ran, snivelling, to his precious Dumbledore. But no more. Finally, after a lifetime of wait, Ron knew that it was time to stand alone. He had to do it, for Hermione and for his parents and for all the other poor souls who had fallen for Harry Potter's lies.
It was time for an overshadowed, overlooked and overwhelmed red-haired boy to defeat the Chosen One.
As the sun crawled above the horizon, Ron lifted himself from the ground. Grass stained his arms and face, his hair was wet with dew and his feet had gone numb from the cold, but he barely registered any of it. He cast one last look at the still surface of the lake, and suddenly despised the calm perfection of the water. He bent to pick up the biggest, heaviest stone he could find from the ground, and threw it in with a force he didn't know he possessed. Even as he walked away, back towards the castle, ripples continued to spread across the shattered surface.