Disclaimer: You know the score (they're J.K. Rowling's and not mine). I like emotional situations. I wrote this story over two weeks; the shape of it changed a thousand times. I rather like the end product, and I hope you do. The title makes no sense for a long time, so don't worry too much about it. I took a few liberties; writers do that sometimes. xD
-America the Beautiful-
Hermione sat silently, meditatively, in front of the mirror. Her intelligent dark eyes gazed back at her from their thick frame of lashes. Her wild hair had been tamed, parted deeply on one side and swept into a knot at the nape of her neck. A white cluster of glowing fairy-flowers ornamented it.
She fastened a near-invisible chain around her slim throat, a tiny golden lion that Ron and Harry had given her for Christmas during their final year at Hogwarts Academy. They had both hunted long and hard for it, and had bought it together, and she adored it. She trailed her fingers over the charm and tried to smile. Too nervous to smile. Save the smiles for later, when everyone could see them.
Not everyone, a bitter voice reminded her. Abruptly, her eyes filled with tears, unshed and sparkling, trembling on her eyelashes. She rose quickly, white satin whispering against her skin; she was unwilling to watch herself indulge in a bit of misery on such a day. It was about time, really, that something good happened. Hermione felt her tears spill over and trickle down her cheeks, pooling in the corners of her mouth. She let them come.
Seven months. Seven long months spent at Grimmauld Place, walking its dismal halls every day, never allowed to leave, even now. Staying in secret-- one never knew who one could trust. Dark Wizards were declaring themselves everywhere, and Voldemort's power grew stronger every day. Hermione began to understand how Sirius must have felt, so many years ago (had it been nearly six, truly?), secluded there, never even allowed to nudge a toe over its threshold. Staying put when so many others were in danger.
And Harry...
Hermione clamped a hand on the back of her chair to steady herself, putting the other over her mouth and nose to stifle a soft sob. The smooth planes of her face became lined with grief, and she allowed herself to cry.
She couldn't know where Harry was, wasn't allowed to know... didn't want to know. Ron would not have told her even had she dared to ask. She could see the determination in his clear grey eyes. He was still Ron, still quick to anger and to argument, still with that same strange charm, but there was a sense of duty about him now, worn with pride for the task that had been delegated to him.
Hermione had helped perform the Fidelius Charm eight months before, and then had quietly asked to have her memory altered. Secret-Keeping was not a job for more than one person, she'd said, and she didn't want to be an extra danger to Harry. She knew she'd performed the Charm, and she knew that it had been on Ron... but the secret remained secret to her... and Harry was gone.
A month after the charm had been performed Albus Dumbledore summoned Hermione to his office at Hogwarts. When she arrived, it was to find Ron and his sister Ginny waiting with the ancient Headmaster. Ron was the same as ever, but somehow very different-- the bright mischief in his eyes seemed to hide a deeper secret. But he was still Ron, his voice the same, his smile the same, his undisciplined hair the same. She had realized with a bit of a jolt how proud she was of him. He had taken her hand; she had let him. Ginny had looked terribly nervous, but she had smiled at Hermione, and it was the same smile Ginny had always smiled. Dumbledore's wise blue eyes had been devoid of their usual twinkle, a grave light in them, and Hermione had realized for the first time that Albus Dumbledore was a very old man.
"I have called you here to insist that you both go into hiding alongside Ron." Dumbledore's voice, creaky as old leather, still resounded in Hermione's head. "They suspect you all. Any one of you could be Harry's Secret-Keeper... Ron in his loyalty, Hermione in her intelligence, Ginny in her devotion. You are all in great danger. For Voldemort must never know the secrets you guard, with or without the Fidelius Charm to hold them in place. Your going underground will mean both your safety and confusion among Voldemort's followers as to whom the true Secret-Keeper is."
They had all assented, solemn and quiet. Hermione didn't regret it... not a moment of it. She only wished things could have been different, somehow. That Harry...
A sharp rap on the thick oak door startled her. Her hands flew to her cheeks, fingertips hastily brushing away the traces of her tears. She cleared her throat.
"Who is it?"
"It's Ron."
"Ron?" Hermione hurried to the door, pressing her cheek on the old, rough wood. "You can't come in, you git!"
"Hermione... you sound... have you been crying?" Ron sounded worried, though there was a teasing note in his voice.
She hesitated, running her thumb along the cool, worn brass of the doorknob.
"Yes," she finally said, rather chokily.
There was a very long pause, long enough to make Hermione wonder if maybe Ron had gone... but she heard him clear his throat and shuffle his large feet. She pictured him on the other side of the door, perhaps leaning against it in much the same manner she was, his bright shock of copper hair unruly as always (she had asked him not to cut it specially, because he wouldn't look like him if he did). She thought she might begin to cry again.
"It's okay." Ron's voice was quiet and very gruff. "I miss him, too."
Another silence.
"If Ginny catches you--"
"She won't."
"Hadn't you better finish getting ready?"
"Everything's done."
"Well, then I--"
"I love you."
Hermione pulled away from the door, looking at it as if she could see Ron through it. They did not use the phrase often; they did not need to. It was precious as a jewel to hear him say it.
When it had come to love, they had both known it, but it was their pride (always first and foremost) that had kept them living under the same roof without confessing. Hermione certainly wouldn't until Ron did; and it was almost definite that he felt the same. There was no change in their behaviour toward one another. They were still the same friends who quarreled until Hermione fled in tears and Ron slouched on the sofa grumpily, then made up an hour later and were all smiles again. It had been she who had negotiated her pride first, she who had extended her heart on her sleeve with her head turned away, eyes squeezed tight shut, unable to watch it if it dropped.
They had been sitting in the parlour one night that previous winter, comfortable in the warmth of the merry blaze in the fireplace. They shared the same sofa; she at one end, devouring a book about manticores (though she had read it twice before), and he at the other, The Daily Prophet spread wide before him. Very suddenly, Hermione couldn't stand it for one more moment. Without looking up from her text, she queried casually:
"Are you in love with me?"
She was greeted with silence. She chanced a glance at him. He hadn't looked up either, but his jaw muscles were tight, his eyebrow raised a bit. He looked entirely at a loss, and swallowed heavily.
"Er. Yes," he said nonchalantly, and turned a page. Their eyes met for one brief, electric moment... and they both leaped to their feet and mumbled excuses, making their escape.
The next day, as she had come downstairs for breakfast, she felt his large, dry hand engulf her own much smaller one. She could feel how icy-cold his skin was, how nervous he must be.
"Hermione... er... don't you love me, too?"
"I love you," she answered no, just as she had then, and she found a smile was not so hard to come by anymore.
"RON WEASLEY! What are you about?! Get away from that door!"
"Ginny," Ron and Hermione said together, he with chagrin, she with amusement.
"I'll see you soon," he promised, and then she knew he had gone, because Ginny came in shaking her head in disgust. Hermione laughed.
"No harm done," she reassured the girl, whose hair was bright as a new penny.
"That's not the point," Ginny grumbled good-naturedly. "Here, the flowers in your hair are falling lopsided. Sit down and I'll fix them."
Hermione sat down in front of the mirror again, and Ginny came to stand behind her. Nimble fingers tugged and tucked at the iridescent blossoms, and the girls shared a smile in the reflection. Ginny bent and encircled Hermione's shoulders with her arms, resting her head next to Hermione's dark one. China-blue eyes and chocolate-brown ones glimmered with unshed tears.
"Oh, Hermione, no... don't cry!" Ginny laughed a bit. "Your eyes were all red when I came in, you don't want them that way... I know you're marrying my brother, but really, he's not all bad."
Hermione laughed through her tears, bringing her hand up to squeeze Ginny's arm lightly. They gazed at one another in the mirror, almost-sisters. Ginny had been the bravest of them all, keeping her chin up, never saying how she wished things could be different. She had loved Harry more than anyone... not more, perhaps, but differently, more closely, and she still did. His memory was sacred to her.
"All right, leave off, won't you?" Ginny said, amused. "Pull yourself together for the tragic event that I am about to witness. One of the most brilliant witches in the world is marrying a complete baboon."
"I happen to like baboons, thank you very much."
"I'm happy for you, Hermione," said Ginny, suddenly quite solemn. "And... and I know that Harry is, too."
Hermione found that she couldn't speak. Before she had the chance to try, Molly Weasley and Moira Granger were bursting through the door, smiling widely, fluffing at her simple white-satin silhouette, pressing a handkerchief into her hand, kissing her cheeks, whisking her off downstairs. She allowed all this, quite bewildered and Ginny followed, not bothering to dry her tears.