Disclaimer: I don't own HP :(
A/N: Oh my gosh, guys, thank you SO MUCH for all the reviews!! I've never gotten that kind of attention this early on in a story... so thank you guys all a bunch.
We'll all be taking a trip to The Department of Backstory SOON, I PROMISE. You will find out what happened between Ron and Hermione, plus a lot more. Just wait a chapter or so... okay? I promise everything will be revealed in time. :) It's just to build suspense. And as for the 'Where's Harry?' question... he's there! He comes up a lot in the later chapters, so don't you worry. I have my reasons.
Weeks passed. Hermione's condition didn't improve, but it didn't dwindle. She was secure in her slumber, giving Ron the time to go through the difficult motions of adjustment to her presence. It took a long time for him to become accustomed to fitting his schedule along with hers – dropping his work to spoon-feed her calming potions in the late afternoon, holding off on dinner until her bandages had been changed, washing her sheets before his on laundry day – and it often came with a sense of loathing obligation. Forcing homemade concoctions that took him hours to make down her throat, only to come back and find it vomited up on her pillow frustrated him to the point of tantrums. Before he went to sleep, he would stare at the ceiling and grudge up hurtful feelings at the fact she slept like royalty on his own bed while he was banished to a ruddy coat closet.
He would owl the Order about her so-called "progression" and keep friendly correspondence with Seamus. Ron never had visitors, but wrote quite frequently to his friends and family. He gave no explanation as to why his invitations had stopped, because he was not allowed to tell anyone about Hermione's return - he didn't want to, anyway. He used the time once spent enjoying company in his basement, working over his cauldron, fuming in his repugnance of his guest.
However slowly, though, Ron learned to tolerate. One day he walked into his room to find that Hermione had been gradually wasting away – her collarbones and hips sticking out pointedly beneath her clothes. He hadn't really been paying attention to her weight. Instead of bestowing his usual cruelty and 'forgetting' to feed her a calming draught, he brought her watery broth for dinner and mixed in the potion. Real food would bring back the pounds she needed and restore the faint glow that had blessed her cheeks the months before.
Ron broke himself of seeking his own mean-spirited revenge bit by bit. He no longer overlooked her physical body, standing above her while she cried out in her sleep because of severe muscle cramps. In its place, Ron quieted his trembling hands and rubbed soothing oil into her skin while massaging her frail, chapped arms and legs. He felt awkward and somehow wrong in his actions, but it was clear that this was what she needed.
He tried feeding Hermione a dreaming potion one night when he burned dinner and became unreasonably angry. He felt his vengeance appeased when she twisted beneath the blankets, tying up herself up painfully in a nightmare. She cried out terribly in that raspy, scary voice Ron thought only banshees possessed. Her fists clenched in the bed sheets, her lip snarled tightly. It frightened him – the realization of the complete power he held over her. He went to bed that night engulfed in self-hatred.
Ron's real test came one day in late February, when he returned from the Post and went directly to Hermione's room to set the check he had collected with the rest of her paperwork. He was greeted with a dank and musty smell. He searched the room, his nose crinkled, pushing his freckles into a brown mass.
"Hermione," he said aloud, looking under stacks of books. Ron had taken to talking to her amiably while bustling about. He would converse like he would to a dog – informing her of his day, the weather, how expensive the rent was – and not expecting an answer. "What is that smell? Is it you?" he smiled to himself, sorting through some papers.
Ron grew more agitated when he looked in all the regular spots and did not discover the cause of the smell. He stood in the corner with his hands on his hips. "Now, what is that?" he asked curtly, sweeping the room with his eyes. He spent fifteen minutes before discovering that Hermione, in fact, was the origin of the slight, rank stench.
He stood by the bed, grimacing down at her. He realized that he hadn't changed her clothes since she had arrived – probably a bad sign. Ron leaned down and smelled her neck, finding that it wasn't as sweet as he imagined. Seamus' voice rang in his head, reminding him of 'those murtlap baths once a week' he was supposed to have given her. He had substituted the murtlap with heavy doses of painkillers in her soup and several 'scourgify' spells just so he wouldn't have to touch her.
That was what scared Ron the most – having to lay his hands on Hermione. He hated stretching her body and caressing her small throat to get food down. The memories of when he gladly accepted such a task – sometimes even begging for it – swarmed in his head and clouded his eyes. He stood awhile, unmoving, and reminisced about the days she would playfully pull him into the bathtub with her. She looked so beautiful with her hair plastered against her face, her lashes fringed with droplets of bathwater. He shivered at the way his body fit tightly against hers in the small tub – like he could feel every inch of her skin. He choked and was sent reeling back into reality, a tingling sensation still burning on his arms.
"Hermione," Ron sighed down at her, "I hate you, because you smell horrific. You should be ashamed of yourself." He was playing around, trying to work up the courage to pile her into his arms once again.
Ron turned and walked out of the room, figuring that running the bathwater would take his mind off the task at hand. He made sure the water was hot – scalding, just the way she liked it – and there were fresh towels. Hermione always hated using the slightly-damp ones he left on the floor after his morning shower. He folded the unused fabric until the bathtub was half-full. He was afraid that he might lose his grip or turn away his eyes for a second too long and she would slip beneath the surface of the water, scarce bubbles escaping from her mouth. She was helpless and she trusted him enough to bathe her, God help him.
"Alright," he said, faking cheer, while bustling into the room. Ron stopped at her bedside and picked her up, "here we go," his voice strained with the minimal amount of weight he now carried.
"Watch your head," Ron told her as he exited the room, trying to avoid bumping her against the doorframe. He dropped to his knees on the bathroom rug, setting her limp body on his lap. His fingers shook as he carefully slipped her arms out of her shirt. His body shivered in great waves as he pulled down her pants. He felt sinister taking off her undergarments and exposing her fully, his groin betraying his want to be impartial.
"Hope you don't mind the cold," he whispered in her ear, before lifting her goose-bumped body into the white porcelain tub. She had been so proud of herself when it had been installed at their old flat in London – she marveled over its clawed feet and chattered on about it for weeks. He couldn't keep track of the times he would walk in and she would be immersed in steaming bubbles, a book magicked into floating over the water. Ron couldn't bear to part with it when the move happened and had it put in with an aching heart. Now she was being returned and he felt justified in keeping such an un-sentimental object.
Ron added the murtlap as an afterthought. He washed her tentatively, his cheeks glowing an amber red. He used a washcloth to carefully blot the soap against the newly-formed scars and purple bruises, trying to avoid looking too closely at her nakedness. It was too easy to become engrossed by her alluring, white skin. He found himself tracing the small bird tattooed between her shoulder blades, feeling the swelled blank ink under his finger.
Most of the younger members of the Order had tattooed themselves in some way as a way of bonding themselves together for the next generation. It meant to some that one would never forget what had happened in the last battle – a physical symbol of the struggle they had overcome. It was a common factor that united them even after the war was over, a reminder of cautious hope.
Ron had gone to the parlor with Harry and had sat in the stall next to his friend, the needle on his chest. He had emerged with a tree – its branches outstretched and its roots exposed, but closing to form a tangled circle - a tribute to the unity of his family. Every member had their own branch, some thicker and more vibrant than others. Harry, on the other hand, exited the building with wings. They were folded images covering the whole of his back, impressive to say the least. Hermione had quietly slipped away one afternoon, hesitant to talk about it and refusing to reveal it.
But, alas – there is was, gracing the valley in between where her shoulder blades met – a tiny sparrow, wings outstretched in flight, its beak pointed to the sky.
Ron drew his finger away slowly, lost in the memory of the first time he saw it, the first time he kissed it. An unbearable feeling of sadness took over as he drained the tub, forcing him to step outside the bathroom and collect himself in the hallway. He scrubbed a harsh hand over his face and through his hair. He felt scrambled and lost.
At last, he returned to Hermione's side and lifted her out of the tub wrapped in a towel. He carefully navigated her into bed and went down to the basement to wash her clothes. He sat on the dryer, calmed by its constant humming sound and slight shake, able to finally gather himself fully. The ordeal was over and Hermione was much the better for it, but Ron couldn't shake the feeling of loss. He had it all two years ago – he had Hermione – and though she had finally returned, it was like a stranger sleeping in his bed.
Ron pressed her warm clothes to his face, only to find that the smell they carried was one of his own. He so badly wanted to inhale the sweet scent of vanilla that seemed to radiate from her years ago, the aroma abundant on sheets and pillows throughout their home. As he folded the garments, his limbs felt heavy and numb. All he wanted to do was sleep.
He found early on that simply sleeping could take away all the pain and hurt inflicted on him – all he needed was a scotch and someplace to rest and the world would melt away, his dreams would caress him into fantasy. He couldn't remember months after the initial shock of Hermione's betrayal, because they had vanished while he was stuffed into a dark corner of London, a pillow overtop his ear and booze at his feet.
It had been Harry to pull him out of it, appearing at his front door six months after Hermione left. He had taken one look at Ron and demanded that firstly, he should shower and then he move and start over. Harry confided that he hadn't heard anything from her either, so Ron was forced by his loyalty and trust to drag himself out of hibernation and try to begin again. It was rocky and painful – he stayed with friends after he sold the apartment and spent most nights drunk – and finally, he had found a dingy flat outside a suburb of Lawrence. He didn't like going out, he didn't like talking to new people, he didn't like talking to the people he knew, and he didn't like working a steady job. Ron yearned for the day the Order would call on him again, taking in simple missions for half their allotted payments.
Now they had and look where he was.
Ron returned to Hermione's bedroom and dressed her, pulling the covers up to her chin. A snowstorm had slammed the town that day, the cold pressing through the windows and cracks in doors, threatening to seep into a person's skin. Ron went to blow out the candle on her bedside, but stopped before his breath could reach the flame – the room seemed warm with the light – and he went to leave the room.
Ron paused, turned back, and kissed her forehead softly. He smelled his shampoo in the remnants of her curls and it calmed him a bit. If she didn't have a scent of her own, he was glad at least she had his.
"Goodnight," he whispered.
A/N: I really wish I could draw the tattoo designs I have picked out for each character... they're all so cool. Anyway, have a great weekend everyone!
And please, leave me a review!!
Love, Katie
