Conversation with McGonagall
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Prompt: "The truth is rarely pure and never simple." — Oscar Wilde; (Color: black)
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Rap rap rap!
Ron, half-freezing from winter chill, prayed that she wouldn't be there. That she had been called away to some duel between students in a corridor far, far away — conveniently forgetting about wanting to meet him. He had been at Hogwarts long enough to know that when she asked to see a student privately, it was not to give out house points.
"Come in!"
His heart sank. So much for that.
Feeling rather like he was heading for Aragog's lair, Ron stepped inside.
It was much warmer in her office than in the corridor, despite the lack of fire and the snow gathering outside her window. Professor McGonagall looked up from the pile of parchment and motioned to the large black armchair in front of her desk. "Have a seat, Mr. Weasley."
He tried not to look guilty of anything as he did so. McGonagall pushed aside her work, gazing at him beadily. Ron wondered if she would give him a ginger newt or something, like she had done for Harry the previous year — or give some other sign that he wasn't in too much trouble.
Apparently he would receive no such satisfaction, however, because she folded her hands and said without preamble, "Mr. Weasley, it has come to my attention that you have been skipping your prefect patrols."
He opened his mouth to say something — most likely along the lines of, "I didn't do it!" — then stopped as her words penetrated his brain. This was what he had been getting worked up about? Admonishment for skiving off patrols? He could've laughed with relief. So she hadn't found out about the You-No-Poo he slipped to McLaggan after all! Given, the ruddy pillock had deserved it for leering at Herm . . . a certain girl, but he was sure McGonagall wouldn't agree.
McGonagall's look said he wasn't out of the doghouse yet, though. "Now, Mr. Weasley," she continued sternly, "part of patrols is that both prefects are to do it together. Do you remember why?"
He shifted uncomfortably. "In case of a situation," he replied quietly. "One stays at the scene while the other goes for help."
"Very good. This was explained last year, was it not?"
Ron slumped even lower into his chair, as though to escape her stern eyes. Did women take classes on how to make a wizard feel like a seven-year-old? "Yes, Professor," he muttered.
"Then please explain, Mr. Weasley, what makes you think you can decide when to and when not to perform your duties?"
When Hermione refuses to look at me every time she sees me while all I want to do is snog her until . . .
He didn't actually say it, though, choosing instead to contemplate his trainers uninterestedly. He knew he should be feeling on top of the world. He had a girlfriend who . . . well, frankly adored the ground he bleeding walked on, had a permanent spot on the Quidditch team, and was passing his classes. Admittedly, having a best friend who was on You-Know-Who's number one hit list tended to dampen things, but comparably life was pretty good.
Thing is, none of it could take her place, as much as he tried to make it so. "I can't, Professor," he admitted quietly, glancing up.
She scrutinized him closely, as though wondering whether to squeeze the truth out of him. "I don't believe you," she told him bluntly. "I've lived long enough to know there's a motive for everything. Your spat with Miss Granger is the most obvious one."
He stared at the black arm of the chair, wishing it was the mouth of a hole he could be sucked into rather than have this conversation. His 'spat' with Hermione had everything to do with it, if he was honest. Ron would have given anything for things to go back to the way they were. Before running into Ginny that night, before the anger, the selfish games. Before he began having nightmares of her snogging men like Vicky and McLaggan while she laughed at him. His stomach lurched unpleasantly at the most recent one, with Hermione and Harry kissing expertly, stopping only for Hermione to sneer cruelly at him. He begged whatever deity was up there that he would never have to see that in real life — he thought it might kill him.
"Mr. Weasley?" McGonagall prodded.
Ron wasn't sure whether he should answer. On the one hand, if he didn't, he would have to make up something else, and she was too smart to believe any of it. On the other hand, the thought of explaining everything to his professor made him want to hide out in the North Pole.
"We grew apart," he said. "She . . . she finally had enough of me." And I thought I had enough of her, but now. . . .He remembered seeing her for the first time after Christmas, how she had pretended he was nothing more than a hat stand. He remembered the hurt and longing — how it had insistently grown since, despite his best efforts to suppress it. It had always been there, but now it seemed to be increasing at a faster rate.
McGonagall pursed her lips in annoyance. "I was not born yesterday, Mr. Weasley," she replied. "One class you two were as close as they came, and the next you were behaving like a couple of bad-tempered dragons. If you are going to give me an excuse, at least give me the truth."
"The truth?" Ron repeated, slightly irritable. "We got into a fight and now we aren't talking to each other. That's the truth, pure and simple."
McGonagall snorted. "The truth is rarely pure and never simple," she said in that uppity tone she used when being firm about something before sighing. "I will not pretend that I enjoy the personal affairs of my students that go on within these walls, but when they endanger themselves in the process, I have cause for concern. At this time wandering around the castle alone in the evening is foolish, even in Hogwarts." She looked at him severely. "And frankly I'm also worried about Miss Granger's health."
Ron looked up as a stream of immediate concern rushed through him. "What do you mean?" he asked before he could even think of stopping himself. At McGonagall's raised eyebrows, he added nonchalantly, "Behind in her grades?"
"Her grades are actually higher than they have ever been," she admitted. "And that is the problem."
"Professor?"
"Miss Granger is an extremely hard-worker, there is no denying it." Ron nearly smiled. That was an understatement — the Minister of Magic was a lazy bum compared to her. "But we both know from experience that she will push herself until she collapses. You balance her, force her to take a breather, so to speak. Between schoolwork, prefect duties, and this petty war you two are waging, her strength is weakening. I found her studying at two o'clock in the morning the other night." McGonagall crossed her arms, drumming her fingers. "If that is not overdoing it, I don't know what is."
Ron would have given anything to just scoff and not care. To say that if she wants to go around trying to kill herself, it's her prerogative. That he as hell wasn't doing anything about it. Then the two of them could continue on the separate paths they had marked for themselves.
But he couldn't. He had spent five years watching over Hermione, taking care of her, and he couldn't walk away when he realized that he was inevitably hurting her. Even when they weren't talking in third year, a part of him had worried about Hermione killing herself. And he knew that she would ultimately do the same for him — whether they were talking or not.
Ron felt out of control, as though the chair was hurtling him through space. He had spent months trying to put Hermione out of his mind and thought he had learned to, if not satisfy, at least live with the yearning for her. Yet the minute he realized that she might be hurting himself, she was brought to the forefront of his mind again and the longing for her throbbed worse than ever beneath his breastbone. He could not ignore her.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
Ron thought he saw a ghost of a smile flutter on McGonagall's face. "Simple really," she said, uncrossing her arms. "Hold up the white flag in this war. Make it clear you want her friendship again."
He nearly laughed. "She's too stubborn to fall for that."
"Maybe tomorrow or next week or next month," she admitted, "but eventually I believe your sincerity will crumble her walls."
Somehow there seemed to be some truth in this. Hermione was tough to be sure, yet she had a good heart—he had perhaps seen it more than anyone else. "All right."
That small smile appeared again. "You may be as stubborn as a mule, Mr. Weasley," she told him approvingly, "but you are a true friend. Professor Dumbledore has always said so."
Ron felt his ears go red, but there was a warm glow in his chest. The longing had lessened. He was going to make a change. He was going to protect Hermione like he always had, no matter the sneers or jibes.
"Is that all, Professor?" he asked. The sooner he got out, the sooner he could come up with a course of action.
"Yes. You are dismissed."
Ron had only walked a few steps to the door when McGonagall spoke once more. "Mr. Weasley?"
"Yes, Professor?"
"I realize that I'm a day early, but . . . happy birthday."
He lifted his eyebrows as this statement hit him. He would be an adult wizard tomorrow — he had entirely forgotten.
"Thank you," he said, but she had already gone back to her parchment.
As Ron walked out of the office into the freezing corridor, he thought that perhaps he had taken his professor for granted. She was a tough bird, but she had a lot more insight than any of her students could have realized.
A/N: Originally written for Checkmated's Ron/Hermione Colorful Winter Quote!Fic Challenge almost a year ago. I was always somewhat pleased with how this turned out, and I realized I had only posted it in one place. Hopefully you all like it.
McGonagall has a special place in my heart because she reminds me a lot of my Great-Grandmother — older, but wise and as tough as nails. Hopefully you enjoyed!
Many thanks to the kind folks at the forum for their story ideas. The tag that went with my quote is specifically from PigWithHair. Thanks Pig!
And of course, many thanks to queenb23 for her awesome betaing skills.