Ron began the proceedings in aggravating fashion: "She's using low self-esteem at me." I must have looked quite an amusing sight, biting my lip and huffing to stifle the surge of anger that followed his words. I was glad the Fixer didn't look up from his scroll and hoped it may have gone unnoticed, my red cheeks, balled fists, and perhaps the steam that was undoubtedly billowing out of my ears.

It was exactly the right sentence to naff me off. I'll cede him that. It's also one of the reasons we're here. The implication that his self-image is my fault, the tacit sarcasm underneath his intentionally poor grammar, and, of course, his tone laden with an air of not taking this whole thing seriously. It was almost impressive, the cavalier way he could go about mustering the perfect storm of infuriation.

"I'm not, Ron, I never have. I never wanted that for you." My denial is true, but the Fixer tutted in response.

"It doesn't have to be someone's fault," he said. "This feeling may not necessarily have been caused intentionally."

"I'll rephrase: I never did anything to cause it!" I said much too heatedly. "I'm sorry," I relented.

"See? She just doesn't listen." Ron chimed in. He was failing, in my opinion, to sound victimized. "She doesn't take it seriously."

This, coming from a man who told a trained therapist, whom he had paid to see, to 'mind your own business.'

"I take it perfectly seriously," I said, looking to Ron. "I've tried everything when you're having these ridiculous doubts. I've sung your praises, reassured you... should I ever find myself introducing you for some sort of lifetime achievement award, I'd already have enough material stored away to address the nation!"

"Not sincere, though, is it?" Ron grumbled. "Anyone can say something and quote a lot of books, but it isn't worth a Knut in the harsh reality, not that I've got many of those either."

I sighed a hot, angry breath. It's not enough that I'm using self-esteem at him, I'm apparently dabbling in utter deceit as well.

"Am I a liar, Ron?"

"Don't answer that," said the Fixer. "In a moment, Ron," he added, spotting Ron poised to reply, or, by the look of it, growl. "I suggest a new approach, Hermione. The next time Ron confronts you with this issue, and you feel that his doubts are unfounded and not worth dwelling on, simply say 'I don't want to battle the green monster right now, Ron.'"

My anger dropped a notch. I was suddenly struck with the possibility that this man, a professional, had already sensed that Ron was saying these things chiefly to annoy me. In the interest of making sure these counseling sessions turn out a complete success, despite Ron's efforts to the contrary, I fought back the urge to use Ron's favorite phrase for spotting someone's true intentions: I stopped myself from saying the Fixer had 'seen a naked Boggart.'

My recollection of that phrase and the memory of hearing it for the first time came with a small personal smile, which Ron must have took to be an arrogant, victorious smirk, because he let out a low whistle and rolled his eyes. With a tinge of guilt, I realized that his inferrence wasn't entirely without merit and that we had been in such a rut as of late that my usual response, had I not had every synapse focused on problem-solving and conflict resolution, probably would have been to rub it in.

The Fixer raised a finger to silence Ron once more, and Ron huffed his indignation with crossed arms as Mr. Hapley arose from behind his desk and went to fetch a book from a nearby shelf. He handed the rather thin book, titled Beyond One Thousand Leagues, to Ron, who reluctantly accepted it.

"Strength must come from within. However, should you find yourself unable to quell your fears, I want you to read this book from cover to cover."

"I'm strong," said Ron, his eyes narrowed. "Hermione just loves to be dramatic about it. I've had my moments, all right, but she makes me out to be some sort of sadcase. I've regrown bones in shorter time than some of our talks about our feelings."

"You're just saying these things to make me angry, per usual, and I wish you wouldn't, because it does hurt," I said, having every intention of being horrible when I started the sentence but faltering into the truth midway. The Fixer looked at Ron, prompting a response.

"I just..." Ron caught my eye. "Sure, there may have been a bit of an edge to it... if it hurt, then, well m'sorry, I s'pose. I never wanted that for you."

"It's not just jealousy, though, Mr. Hapley," I said in reference to the 'green monster' method. "For example, Ron has refused to pursue a position as head of his office because he's positively convinced he's got no chance at it, despite being one of the top Aurors-"

"How about that, then?" Ron interjected. "Being an Auror isn't enough, no, I've got to have higher ambitions for Hermione to be satisfied-"

"That's not what I said!"

"Didn't have to say anything. You're still looking down on me from your ivory tower, just like when we were twelve."

"What happened when you were twelve?" the Fixer asked.

"Long story, and I don't reckon I can afford your hourly rate if I'm going to harp on about it," Ron mumbled, casting me a sidelong glance.

"That's another one," I said. "Ron grew up poor, to put it plainly."

Ron looked away.

"It doesn't matter to me one bit, and it never has," I affirmed. "But I know it matters to him."

"You don't understand," said Ron.

"Do you believe that Hermione accepts you regardless of wealth?"

"Oi, don't go speaking for me."

The Fixer raised both hands in submission, then said, "do you think yourself too poor for Hermione?"

"It's like there's been a line drawn between us, y'know. I'm not saying she can't get over it, but it's there."

Internally, I had to agree. There were many cases where Ron couldn't afford the same as Harry and I, and while we would gladly give him our last Galleon, he'd never accept it. He'd dismiss it as charity straight away, and, admittedly, he's right: I didn't, or perhaps couldn't understand why that was his attitude towards his closest friends. I sighed at the thought, believing that he'd shown his pride at all the wrong times.

"You earn more than I do, at present," I pointed out to Ron, though I knew it was futile; he had two jobs, and spent more time working than I did. I knew he'd fall back on that to explain it away.

"Still wearing Bill's old clothes, still haven't got a proper broom," he mumbled.

"Harry grew up the same way," I said, and Ron's brow scrunched. He didn't like it when I compared him to Harry, but I had an underlying comprehension that, for some insane reason, he needed me to justify why I preferred him to Harry. "Every Knut he has more than you was inherited."

"Stop bringing up Harry."

"Is Harry a source of conflict here?" the Fixer asked.

"No," said Ron, just as I said "yes."

"It's not his fault," said Ron quickly. "Meeting Harry was one of the best things that ever happened to me, all right?"

"Ron feels overshadowed by Harry, and I can almost understand why he'd be grumpy towards the public for this, but not me. I was there, I know what's what, and I don't quite like to tolerate any of this nonsense Ron feels about Harry being better than him," I said, noting that Ron made a few attempts to interrupt throughout my statement. "If that's his belief, then I'm sorry for that, but, respectfully, I must disagree."

"Respectfully my arse," Ron snapped. "It's not as simple as that, Hermione, and, as I've just said, it's not as bad as all that either. Sometimes I struggle, all right? M'only human, after all - didn't realize I was expected to somehow attain a higher level than that-"

"Now," said the Fixer, shaking his head, as I felt my own brow furrow of its own accord and knew without looking that my knuckles must have gone white. "These potshots do no good. I want you to provide one concise explanation, as best you can, as to the nature of this 'struggle.' If I'm right, you may need nothing more than that little old book."

The flippant response I had been expecting never came. Instead, Ron seemed to realize that he wasn't going to get anywhere with this man by painting my side of this squabble as an overreaction. I could intuit that much, as when it comes to Ron I know what's what, but that was the highest degree of what that I knew was indeed what. The calm that befell his features was an all-too-familiar mystery.

Ron says that, in chess, the most skilled opponents tend to wear one of three masks should you glance at them over the board: the calm face, the laughing face, and, ahem, the 'murder face.' Ron often dictated his strategy based on the expression worn by the person opposite him, and, to my bewilderment, once claimed that I was capable of going from laughing to calm to murder in the span of a second. In any case, Ron's was indeed the calm face, and it took no shorter than one eternity for him to reply.

"Two can play at this game," he said when I prompted his answer.

"This is not a game, Ronald, it's our life," I said, stressing 'our.'

"Life's a game."

I flexed my finely toned patience muscles awaiting the final result of these suspenseful moments of deep thought.

"All right," said Ron, nodding and rubbing his chin. "About Harry... we really are a lot alike. We've always got on well because of it. We're on the same page about Quidditch, fighting Dark wizards, and just about everything else. There's another clear line in the dirt between us, though, not just that he's quite well off and I'm quite well not. He's the one everyone points at, y'know? No matter what I've done..."

"But why don't you trust me on the matter, of all people-"

"You're the one who mentioned him," Ron pointed out. "I don't live in fear that you'll chuck me and run into his arms, oddly enough. Thing is, you were there, and that means you know Harry's every bit as good as his legend, and there's nothing I've done that hasn't been eclipsed by him. So, sometimes I feel eclipsed by him."

"There's so much you've done, things too numerous for lists-"

"My list will always be shorter."

"Ron, you hold in your hand a book that chronicles one quite famous individual's battle with the 'Leviathan' - his own self-doubt," said Mr. Hapley. "It tells the tale of the very inner ruminations of Sir Lancelot the Great, who made war on more than one type of green monster."

I was puzzled by this, and couldn't fathom how it was true, but it struck me that this Fixer knew his audience more than he let on. Ron was often compared to Lancelot in romanticized retellings of the Wizarding war, in what I thought - perhaps until now - to be mere embellishment for lack of available information on Ron's involvement in the war.

"Lot of good that does me, Ron Weasley," Ron muttered. "Lancelot the sodding Great - Great, mind you - didn't have any reason to doubt himself. He was the Great!"

"I implore you to read the book," the Fixer suggested. "You misunderstand, after all. It is not the story of Lancelot overcoming his doubt, it is one of Lancelot's neverending quest to improve his martial skill, fueled chiefly by his inner demons. It is common belief that Lancelot was so strong, just, and true, that he had transcended humanity and become the ideal master of morality, but the other side of the Sickle is that he did not transcend his humanity, but threw it away."

"Wot?"

"What if you did surpass Harry's accolades, or head count, or legends, what then? Would your fears disappear? Or would everything else that's important to you begin to disappear? Does Harry owe fame and fortune to his own abilities, or to circumstance as Hermione says? Does he owe his happiness to every heroic act, or to friends like you? Heed this cautionary tale of Sir Lancelot, the master of bows and swords and lances, slayer of dragons, who failed in his pursuit of happiness."

"I'm not like Lancelot, though, not at all."

"Then count yourself lucky, and rich, for some people are so poor that all they have is money."

Ron was speechless, and so was I, but at Ron's lack of further objection. I was quite taken aback by this tangent, and perhaps a bit offended, yet grateful, that Mr. Hapley had begun dispensing advice when my view of a therapist was that of a listener. I then had to remind myself that he wasn't a therapist.

"I appreciate your cooperation, Ron. It's already helping, is it not?"

"You like to say my name a lot," observed Ron.

There he goes again, I thought. Ron was determined to distance himself from counseling; he'd already voiced his rather crudely conceived opinion on 'people who nose around in personal affairs.' Admittedly, we were rebounding from a recent fight when I suggested counseling, and Ron thought it unnecessary as we were getting on well at the time. However, I decided it was best to get to the bottom of it then and there, and arm ourselves for when the problems reared their head again; he had then informed me through a mouthful of Belgian waffle that my idea was, in fact, waffle.

Thankfully, Mr. Hapley knew he'd got Ron interested, and didn't fight Ron's irrelevant comment.

"Habit, at this point. Unavoidable Fixer tendency. Now, is your Lancelot complex the core of the issues keeping you two apart, or would you say there's more to it?"

"Hermione's flawed too, believe it or not."

There was a pang in my stomach reminiscent of a sudden drop on a rollercoaster. Ron's calm face, which could always outclass my murder face on the chessboard, often served dually as the calm before the storm. The storm, of course, would prove to be one of those occasional yet reliable-as-clockwork instances when Ron would say something simple and profoundly true that I'd either never worked out or refused to let myself acknowledge.

He glanced in my direction with the general posture of someone ready to block a blow to the face. Now who's being dramatic!

"She's always ready - overprepared, even - to be critical of everyone else, but never shines the Lumos on herself. She's got doubts just like me, and I know she does because she's always overcompensating and being a know-it-all and it's because she's afraid. Scared to death of cocking something up, of failing anyone, so she frets all day over the smallest things and sometimes nothing can calm her down. Then she's got the nerve to worry more about my doubts than I do!"

Strike that. I'm afraid my trembling lip and wet eyes came more definitively under the remit of dramatism than Ron's poker face. Ron spotted me and his eyes softened, but I shook my head. I didn't want him to hold back, not this time.

"Keep talking," I insisted, but he tensed and took it the wrong way.

"That's what we're here for, innit-"

"I meant it," I said quickly. If I was going to overcompensate and make sure I didn't 'cock anything up,' then I was going to be certain there would be no more miscommunication.

Ron paused, then glanced back at Mr. Hapley, and said, "I normally don't mind it. I think it's done her a lot of good that she feel's she's got so much to prove, but when her plans go to pot, she can explode. Frankly, she gets violent. I've got the scars to prove it."

Mr. Hapley perked up at this, as did I. I feared this might come up. As I understand it, physically attacking your spouse is a bit frowned upon by professionals.

"She attacks you?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Ron heavily.

I pursed my lips. I had no intention of defending my actions and in keeping with that spirit I withheld the observation that Ron was using a tone of voice generally reserved for feigning illness when he Floos his boss and pulls one of his 'tactical sickies' to get the day off.

"Does this abuse cause you to feel threatened?"

"Well, no, I'm an Auror, but it's a bit of a pisser, y'know? It hurts, and it's hard to see eye-to-eye with her when she's just blackened one of yours."

A blatant exaggeration to say the least. Well, there was that one time...

"My advice is that, when next Hermione throws punches, you firmly say 'stop your body, Hermione.'"

At that moment I wanted little more than to throw a punch at Ron's stupid little smirk. It was only fair, though, that he now had his own silly little saying to combat my silly little saying to stop us being silly.

"When we were younger, I had this girlfriend and I may have been insensitive to Hermione's feelings," Ron continued with a sarcastic emphasis as though he didn't know the meaning of the word. "But I didn't do anything to deserve being cursed, and I've still got scars from that."

I'd thought that was water under the bridge, and that I'd grown up a fair bit since then. We had actually discussed this before, and it surprised me that he brought it up then, until he practically blew me down with his next insight.

"It's like there's all these things Hermione expects of other people, and herself, and it's quite controlling and demeaning that she'll punish you like a dog if you put one toe out of line of her plans. It makes me wonder what she'll do if I don't become head Auror, because it'll be a step backwards in her grand scheme of all the things she's convinced herself she needs to accomplish. That threatens me, because that's the sort of attitude I have towards a Bludger or an owl, not a loved one."

I wanted to leave the room. I was stunned, and heartbroken that there was even a modicum of truth to it. It may not necessarily have been fully accurate, but it was completely believable from his point of view, and it had never occurred to me how my actions looked. I was second-guessing any notion I had of encouraging him to speak his mind and communicate everything, but I didn't stop him when he continued, "I'm going to get in the way of her career. That's been a cloud looming over her head from the start."

Mr. Hapley said nothing, but looked at me. Just moments ago I had felt confident and in control, but there remained a lingering fear borne of my trained instinct not to underestimate Ron that he might turn things around and I'd be the one who didn't want to talk. That situation had come to pass and it took me quite a long time to respond.

"You're not," I said in a small tone. Ron all but shook his head. "You're not!" I yelled. "I just - I know I won't be able to do everything I want, but that's life! It's not your fault, and I don't harbor resentment-"

"You will."

"I couldn't, you must know this!" I pleaded. "I don't feel sad about it, only... wistful, I suppose, pondering what might have been. I know I won't regret this."

"What do you think might have been?" asked the Fixer.

"I don't know, another promotion, a different position, a career abroad."

"All stuff I'm holding you back from," said Ron, almost questioningly.

I decided a change of tone was in order. No one needed me to plead to them, they needed me to be strong in my position.

"I've got a choice, you know," I said, catching Ron's eye. "I could leave right now, and pursue all those things. You're not detaining me. However, the choice is clear, and those things pale in comparison to our future together. I can accomplish anything, redeem any calling, and it won't mean nearly as much if I haven't got you. I won't make the mistake of Sir Lancelot either."

I was quite pleased with myself, but not so much so that I couldn't maintain my composure. Smug, yet elegant, like McGonagall after a Quidditch win. As for the coup de grace...

"I choose you, Ron," I said, as I do on occasion. It's Ron's favorite.

"The Prophet will think you've settled when Harry gets made Head Auror," said Ron, though his surly demeanor had gone.

When? We've talked about this, Lancelot! I was confident enough at this moment to do something I do very rarely and never without thorough contemplation and absolute assurance of its necessity: I was going to use a swear.

"Then you can owl them and inform them that if they think so highly of me they can trust my judgment and kindly keep their fucking mouths shut."

Ron's eyes widened. "Stop your body!" he said drastically, and I laughed.

"Although," I said, not quite wanting to inject any tension back into the discussion, but knowing this was the time to disclose any and all information, "it does loom over my head that my career is going to have to slow down some point soon. I've got so many projects in the works, both officially and cooked up in my head - those two realms being of equal legitimacy, mind - and I know that there's going to be a span of time where those have to be put on hold so that I can..." I was peculiarly out of breath. "So that I can give you a child."

"It's not an obligation," said Ron, an edge creeping back into his words.

"I didn't mean it that way, and you know it, Ronald. Do you honestly think I'd go through pregnancy and childbirth because it was expected of me? As though I owe you that much!"

"You've put me through quite a bit of pain yourself," said Ron, but I was a seasoned veteran when it came to the pitfalls of arguing with Ron, and this I-dare-you-to-let-me-whisk-you-off-to-a-different-conversation trick would be no dice for the prat.

"Spare me."

"No, you can spare me the charity of dashing your dreams to bear my children."

"I want to have children. Those are my dreams," I said with what I thought to be a remarkably steady voice, all things considered. "And, as I told my mother when we had this very discussion, if we aren't talking ones with ginger hair, I don't care to talk."

Ron's face went from murder to calm to laughing in the span of a second.

"I'm being harvested for my genes," he said. The same way a stopped clock is correct twice per day, Ron could retain the occasional nugget of Muggle information.

Then he noticed Mr. Hapley, who had long since fallen silent and was bravely attempting a Quibbler crossword.

"Oi!" barked Ron. "Is this what you're paid to do?"

"Surely not," he said with confusion. "I couldn't tell you what a Blibbering Humdinger is, let alone pinpoint the Quibbler-approved spelling of its cry."

"You're supposed to tell us healthy things to say, and see to our green monsters, not play games."

"Life's a game." The Fixer put the crossword away. "The ball was rolling, and I felt it prudent to let you talk. You are both quite capable of working these things out, given you're not too exhausted to admit you could be wrong.

"So, has Ron been pressing you to have children?" was his abrupt return to the conversation.

"Actually, I'd barely ever mentioned spawning a little poo machine before today," said Ron. "What?" he demanded, spotting my crossed arms. "That'll be his primary function for at least a year!"

"I find it rather silly that you've adopted that view of infants from Charlie, despite his fascination with those rather gigantic poo machines he works with!"

"I s'pose a baby won't breathe fire and bite us, at least. Depending, of course, how much he takes after his mum."

This sort of talk heralded the return of our dynamic at its best: arguing, as usual, but with smiles splitting our faces. Oh, we'd always argue! It stimulates us. We'd jab at each other through the bad times and the good, as we always have, and I began to wonder at that moment if Ron had casually outsmarted me again, in thinking counseling is a waste of time.

No. No, it was once in a blue moon, not twice, that Ron could fly under the radar of my highly critical and extensively researched analysis of the world and make me feel like an idiot for not seeing what, to him, was 'clear as the Cloak.' (I felt just a bit amused when, shopping in Diagon Alley, I overheard in the crowd some of Ron's own sayings that had seeped into the lexicon of Wizarding culture) I remained confident in the success of this session.

I was scared. Terrified, that we'd just get more and more toxic to each other. That Ron would walk away again. But now there are things I can watch out for. Stopping my body is out of the question, of course; that's impulse, that's ingrained in the nerves. It simply won't do to resist what Ron calls 'the bloodlust.' Call it training for his reflexes that he can use against Dark wizards. Only joking: Ron's take on my, er, fist-related tendencies, is enough for me to vow never to let it happen again.

I never was aware of myself, just like Ron. I never saw his stubbornness in my own determined frown. I never let myself fathom how much deeper my doubts rose than his, because the way we deal with it is so different. I could dwell all day on the return of the lost little boy, Ronald Weasley, who was sucked up by the undertow in a sea of his brothers' accomplishments, but never failed to ignore the flash of the bushy-haired, big-toothed little girl, Hermione Granger, whose company was desired by no one, whenever I felt I wasn't good enough.

Alas, something has changed my mind about the friendless little girl, Hermione Granger, and it was none other than the lost little boy, Ron Weasley, because the fact is I never met that little boy. I met the bonafide wizard, the knowledgeable pureblood, the sarcastic git, the complete arse, the loyal friend, the brave hero Ron Weasley, whom the lost little boy didn't realize he was. The next time the lost little boy bubbles up in Ron, I'll have the annoying little know-it-all at the ready, prepared once again to correct him.