Author's Note: Wow! It's been forever since I updates this, I'm back for this story, for those of you amazing readers who have stuck around for this insanely long you are still reading this, thank you so much! Enjoy, and please review!
Chapter Six: Chess, part two
Ron awoke the next morning in the same way he usually did: by Harry throwing a pillow at his face and announcing loudly that breakfast was ready. Ron groaned and squinted up at Harry. He felt like the living dead. After his conversation with Bill he had stood in Hermione's doorway until the sun had fully risen and Hermione began to stir. Keen to keep from being caught a second time, he had hurried downstairs and had fallen into bed. He was asleep before he had a chance to pull the blankets up. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall and groaned again: he had gotten a total of two hours of sleep. His eyelids felt heavy and he felt vaguely ill. He closed his eyes and threw the pillow back at Harry. A hollow thump told him that he had mis-shot and hit the wall instead.
"Lemesleep," he moaned, his words running together so that they almost weren't discernible. But Harry, it seemed, got the gist.
"You don't want breakfast?" Harry asked. Though they were only a few feet apart, he sounded very far away to Ron.
"No," Ron muttered into his pillow. Harry left him alone after that: there were very, very few things that ranked above food for Ron, and if he was passing up Fleur's cooking, Harry knew something was wrong and to leave Ron alone. Distantly, Ron felt a surge of gratitude towards his best friend, before pitching into the deep, beautiful oblivion that was sleep.
The next time Ron opened his eyes he felt dramatically different. The pressure behind his eyes was completely gone, he didn't feel sick, and his whole body seemed...lighter, almost. He didn't look at the clock this time, not wanting to know how late he'd slept. Judging by the heavy beam of sunlight streaming into the room, it was late into the afternoon.
He didn't realize how unnaturally quiet Shell Cottage was until he walked into the empty kitchen. With so many people crammed under its roof, Shell Cottage was almost as loud as the Burrow. After weeks on end of a tent filled with just three voices, he realized how much he had missed the endless chatter he had once hated.
He moved to the window behind the sink that gave a beautiful view of the cliffside. That was why it was so quiet here: everyone was outside. Bill and Fleur were in the small rocky garden that looked as though it needed the help of a lot of magic to produce the carrots Fleur was pulling out of the sandy soil. Bill was a few feet from her, holding a basket of the vegetables that Fleur was gardening. Every so often, as she reached into the basket he would grab her hand and kiss it, or pull her closer and push her hair back behind her ears and place kisses all over her face. Ron blushed at their closeness and instead turned his attention to another couple a little ways off from the garden.
Luna and Dean's behavior couldn't have been more different than his brother and sister-in-law's. Luna was on her hands and knees, apparently looking for something, because she would occasionally lean back on her knees and gesture animatedly, imitating some creature Ron was sure did not exist. She looked wildly happy, quite in her element, which was such a sharp contrast to Dean, who had shoved his hands deep into his pocket and was looking around helplessly as if searching for an escape route. His silent pleas went entirely unnoticed by the newlyweds, who were wrapped up in one another, and Harry, who – Ron had just noticed – was sitting unmoving on the clifftop and seemed completely oblivious to the company behind him.
Ron paused in his observation of everyone to look at Harry. In truth, he could only see his hunched shoulders and mess of black hair, but Ron knew what he was doing. Ever since Harry had seen You-Know-Who take the Elder Wand, Harry had sunk into a sort of stupor that not even their Gringotts planning could fully bring him out of. Ron felt helpless to Harry's internalizing, but he had been around Harry long enough to know that there was very little he could to to help, no matter how much he wanted to. When Harry retreated into his mind and went blind to the world, it was hard to pull him back out. And besides, it was hard to comfort Harry when they were worried about the same thing. He was terrified that You-Know-Who now possessed an unbeatable wand. The horrifying thought had been added to the very long list of things that kept him up at night. The list, of course, started with Hermione.
And where was she? Apart from the goblin and Ollivander, who hardly ever left their rooms, she was missing from the clifftop tableau. He searched several times for her mane of curly, untamable hair, but it was absent. Perhaps she had slept in as well, though that would be a bit uncharacteristic of her: she hated sleeping late.
He turned from the window and went about fixing himself something to eat as best he could. In the end he managed a cup of tea and a stack of toast so burnt, it was probably more charcoal than bread. He took his unsatisfactory breakfast into the front sitting room, which had his favorite armchair and a view of the sea that didn't also include his brother kissing.
But the sitting room, it turned out, was not completely vacant. Sitting in an armchair next to the small table where the chess board was kept was Hermione. Ron froze in the doorway, for their was a split second where he realized she was there before she realized he was there. She had curled up in the chair, her shoes kicked off haphazardly on the floor, and her knees brought into her chest. The book she was reading was balanced on the chair's arm. She was completely engrossed and absentmindedly twirling a piece of hair around her fingers. He felt his breath catch in his throat as he looked at this familiar scene; the number of times he would watch her read in the common room under the cover of trying to do homework. But the spell was broken when she looked up and saw him standing there.
"Ron!" she said happily, her voice a bit surprised to see him. Bill had been right the night before: the way she said his name did amazing things to him.
He grinned shakily at her and sat down in the armchair opposite her, balancing the plate in his lap and placing the mug of tea carefully on the floor.
"Why are you inside?" he asked, picking up a piece of toast and wrinkling nose at it.
Hermione marked her place in her book carefully before answering. "I was waiting for you," she said. Ron glanced up from his plate. Was she blushing, or was it his hopeful imagination? "Harry said you were having a lie-in, so I – what is that?" she cut across herself, eyeing Ron's pitiful breakfast.
"Er, it's toast," he said uncertainly, taking a bite. It was so burnt that it crumbled easily, sending crumbs everywhere, including – to his intense embarrassment – directly at her. It stuck to his mouth and Ron choked, coughing wildly and spraying more crumbs. Hermione leapt out of her chair to thump him on the back. When he caught his breath and she returned to her seat, it was to face a highly mortified and red-faced Ron. He felt like an idiot. He couldn't have looked less attractive if he had tried.
"Here," Hermione said, pulling a plate off the table, "I saved you a sandwich from lunch," she said, offering it to him.
Ron wiped the last crumbs from his face. "You tell me that now!" he croaked, half-joking, half-exasperated. His throat felt as if he had just eaten a mouthful of sand. "After I almost just died?"
Hermione raised an eyebrow at him cooly. "I didn't think you'd actually eat that. And anyway, that's one way to say thank you," she said.
Ron blushed even redder than he already was. "I'm sorry," he mumbled shamefully. "Thank you, Hermione. You're the best," he added, and she flushed happily, handing him the plate.
"It's no problem, I figured you'd be hungry; you slept for quite a while," she said.
Only then did Ron realize that he still didn't know the time. He glanced at the clock on the mantel: it was three in the afternoon.
"Blimey, I did sleep late," he said, slightly shocked.
Hermione gave him a worried look. "Yes, are you feeling all right?" she asked concernedly, half-rising from her chair.
"I'm fine," he said quickly, thinking that if Hermione put a hand on his forehead to check for a fever he would come completely undone. "I haven't been sleeping well," he added truthfully, and was pleased to see that the admission had erased the little line of worry between her eyes. Though he hadn't told her the whole truth: in reality, he hadn't been sleeping well because he had been spending most of his nights outside of her door, making sure that she was sleeping.
"I've not been sleeping well either," she admitted, and Ron knew this to be true: he had seen her toss and turn with nightmares, moan and cry out in fear or pain, he did not know which.
"I wish you'd let me stay with you at night," he blurted out, feeling his ears turn red. Hermione gave him a genuine, beautiful smile.
"I couldn't let you sleep on that chair, it looked so uncomfortable," she said, the answer she had given him countless times, every time he had argued to staying with her at night.
"I didn't mind it," Ron mumbled.
"I know you didn't," Hermione said softly, in a tone that made Ron look up and they both blushed. "But I couldn't quite stop you, could I?" she added after a moment of them staring at each other.
"What do you mean?" Ron asked quickly, his pulse racing wildly.
Hermione laughed softly, and Ron's heart beat faster. "Who do you think left the door open last night?" she asked, and Ron felt himself go crimson.
He didn't know whether to thank her or apologize, so he settled on spluttering helplessly. "I – well I... I didn't... I mean... I wanted to... thought I should... needed to... you know I..." he rambled.
Hermione smiled at him and saved him the trouble of stringing together a coherent sentence by getting out of her chair and hugging him tightly, which of course left him hopelessly speechless. He didn't even try to answer when she whispered, "Thank you, Ron," in his ear.
It was a sort of awkward hug, as she was standing and he was still sitting. He didn't have the courage to pull her down next to him, so instead he stood up as well, bringing his arms around her more firmly and taking deep breaths of that hair of hers. He hoped she couldn't feel him shaking.
When they let go of one another, they both laughed nervously. She sounded sweet, Ron thought he sounded a bit like a mad person.
They both sat down again, carefully avoiding eye contact. Purely for something to do, Ron took a huge gulp of tea and burnt the back of his throat. He struggled not to cry out or cough; he wasn't going to make a fool of himself in front of her twice.
"Do you want to play a game of chess?" Hermione asked suddenly.
"W-what?" Ron asked hoarsely, taken aback by her question, and also still trying not to swear loudly about his scalding tea.
Hermione motioned to the chess board next to her. "Do you want to play?" she asked again.
Ron's eyes widened. "That's what I thought you said! I don't think you've ever asked me before, usually I have to nag you until you say yes!" he said happily.
Hermione smiled at his enthusiasm. "So is that a yes then?" she asked playfully.
Ron grinned, his blistering mouth long forgotten. "Merlin's – yes that's a yes," he said excitedly, and she laughed.
He pulled the table so that it was in between the two of them, and they began to set up the pieces. Ron's mind was brought back to last night's chess game. He could tell her. Now could be the moment...
But the words were trapped in his heart, and they began to play. And Ron realized that there was another wonderful reason why he loved playing chess with Hermione. He knew her. He didn't have to focus on the moves she would make because he already knew how her mind worked. He knew how Hermione thought and how that would translate on a chess board. He could read Hermione better than he could read himself, and that did all sorts of terrific things to him.
It was her turn, and he had fallen into the habit of staring at her under the pretext of waiting for her move. Se was biting her bottom lip, leaning over the board with her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm. Her hair was falling slightly into her face, but she was concentrating too hard on the game in front of her to notice or even care. Ron gripped the arms of the chair and prayed that Hermione couldn't see over the table into his lap. She looked up at him then, and he was so taken with her in that moment that he forgot to look away. She ran a hand through her hair self-consciously, her cheeks turning pink.
"What?" she asked uncertainly, and Ron wondered why on earth she had come to the immediate conclusion that something was wrong.
"N-nothing," Ron said, his ears turning red as his voice cracked. She went to move her queen, a move Ron knew she'd make, and a move that would successfully end the game in his next turn. He didn't want the game to end. He wanted to sit across from her, the chess board between them, forever. He reached out and put his hand on top of hers to stop her. If he was surprised by his boldness, it was nothing compared to her. At his touch her hand shook so much that she knocked over her remaining pawns, all of whom protested loudly.
"Er, don't move there," Ron said, still not moving his hand away from hers. "If you move there I'll be able to call checkmate," he told her.
She stared up at him and Ron's heart skipped several beats. She still hadn't moved her hand away from his. Maybe, like Ron, she felt frozen and wasn't physically capable of doing so. Or maybe (also like Ron) she simply didn't want to. "Where should I go then?" she asked.
"Move your knight," he told her hoarsely. "That blocks me from checking you," he explained.
Regretfully, he had to move his hand away so that she could prod the knight into action (the chess set was his grandfather's and the old pieces were reluctant to move, especially for Hermione's uncertain instructions.)
The game continued as it had done before, the only reminder of Ron's moment of wonderful recklessness was the way his right hand tingled pleasantly. And despite Ron's help on a few more occasions, he firmly beat her in the end. He tried not to be cocky about it.
"You played well," he told her bracingly.
She must have thought he was being condescending, because she gave him an icy stare. "Thank you," she said in a cool and dignified voice.
Ron felt panicky by her tone. "No, hang on! I meant that! You did play well. I thought you were going to win a few times there, you had me worried!" he said lightly.
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, though it was no longer with ill-humor. "You didn't think I was going to win," she said shrewdly.
"I did!" Ron said, trying to sound as convincing as possible, though knowing it was a lost cause. If anyone could tell when he was lying, it was Hermione.
"No you didn't," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. She was determined, he'd give her that.
Ron folded. "Okay, maybe I didn't," he conceded. "But you did play well. Want another go?" he asked quickly, for she was uncrossing her legs to stand up. To Ron's surprise, she nodded, bringing her legs back onto the armchair. He blinked at her in surprise and then quickly recovered; she rarely agreed to playing two games in a row with him, she hated losing, and she couldn't stand losing to him twice. As they were setting up the pieces he chanced a glance at her. Was it his imagination or did she look relieved that he had asked for another game? Maybe she wanted an excuse to be with him. Well, if that was true, he was happy to oblige.
He shifted in his chair to get closer to the board and his knee hit hers. A reckless, daring idea entered his mind; he didn't move his leg away. And although she was blushing furiously, neither did she. He looked up and their eyes met for a split second, half a heartbeat. Ron felt his ears burn and a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach. A familiar beat was repeating in his head now, following in time to his racing heart. You love her. Tell her. You love her. Tell her. You love her. Tell her...
The game passed in silence: she was silent in concentration, he was choked by the words he didn't have the courage to say. He was playing badly, he knew; he was distracted by the feel of her leg against his and the words in his heart threatening to spill out.
After ten minutes of silence, Hermione sat back in her chair. Ron looked up at her and saw that she was looking straight back at him, curiosity and hesitation caught in her eyes. "Can I ask you something?" she asked in a whisper. There was something about her tone that changed the air of the room.
Ron had been focusing so hard on not blurting out the thoughts going through his mind that he found it difficult to open his mouth to answer her. "'Course," he finally managed.
"Did you mean it?" she asked in a quivering voice, her eyes filling with tears.
Ron didn't know what she was talking about; this wasn't new, as her brain was constantly running miles ahead of his. But he hated that she was crying, it made him feel as though a part of him, deep down, was breaking. She bit her lip to keep her chin from quivering, and Ron felt his already-straining heart pull a bit more. He wished more than anything that the chess board wasn't between them, it seemed like a comically huge obstacle now. "Did I mean what?" he asked softly, as she was obviously following her own train of thought.
Hermione wiped her eyes, but more tears were leaking out. "Did you mean what you said at Malfoy Manor?" she said, her voice rising and falling in pitch. Ron experienced a sensation similar to skipping a step going down a flight of stairs. His heart hammered loudly in his ears; they had not talked about Malfoy Manor until now. "W-when she t-told them to t-take me and y-you s-said, 'you c-can have m-me, k-keep me'?" she asked brokenly, and her question ended with a sob.
Ron couldn't stand it anymore, the pain in his chest was so heavy now, watching her cry, watching her bringing up that night, that he thought he'd cry out if he didn't do something soon. He ungracefully untangled himself from his armchair and rushed around the table to her. Her face was in her hands as she cried; he knew she didn't like it when people saw her crying openly. Gently, he took her and held her in his arms, and she let him. She was so much smaller than him that he could easily tilt his head and rest his chin on the top of her head, the smell of her hair making him dizzy. He wrapped her up in his arms, his hand rubbing circles on her back as her breathing hitched. Hermione cried into his shirt, and he distantly hoped that the sound of it drowned out the furious thumping of his heart.
"Hermione," he murmured in a low voice, once she had stopped crying. She looked up at him, her beautiful eyes glassy and her nose a bit pink. She was beautiful. He swallowed hard, urging himself forward instead of simply giving into temptation and just kissing her. He felt his legs shaking. He couldn't do this standing up.
He led her over to the window seat, her favorite place to curl up with a book and read. He sat her down gently and then took the seat next to her. He put one arm around her shoulder and with the other he reached and took her hand in his.
He took a deep, shaky breath, and Hermione blinked up at him, a last tear trickling down from the corner of her eye. He smiled endearingly at her, and brushed his thumb against her cheek, wiping away the last tear. She closed her eyes at his touch and a thrill ran down his spine. When she opened her eyes again, he took another breath, steeling himself.
"Okay," he said slowly, though it didn't quite hide the fact that his voice was shaking. "You've been around me long enough to know that words aren't, er, my strongest point," he said awkwardly, giving her hand a slightly squeeze. She gave him a watery sort of laugh that gave him just a little bit of courage. "So I'm going to try to say all of this, as best as I can, so just, er, bear with me?" he said, ending almost as a question. Hermione laughed again, tears still pricking her eyes, and he felt a surge of warmth in his chest.
"Okay," she said, her voice a bit rough from crying. He felt the tug on his heart again.
"The truth is," he said, his voice still shaking a bit. He wondered if he'd be able to say what he wanted to. "The truth is, I meant every word of it back there at that awful place. I meant it then, and I'd mean it again tomorrow if something like that ever happened again." Silently, he prided himself on the ability to confess that. It was a small step, but he knew that the Ron of a few months ago wouldn't have been able to admit that.
Hermione seemed a bit shocked as well; her lips parted in surprise. "You meant it?" she repeated in a whisper. "You really meant that?" she seemed a bit dazed.
Ron nodded earnestly, the words in his mouth struggling to break free and tell her everything. Now that he had started, it seemed impossible to stop.
"But you could have...you could have died!" Hermione cried out suddenly and unexpectedly. "If they had taken you, you could have died!" Her eyes were wide and she was looking at him with a mix of exasperation and awe. "You can't just say something like that! You can't sacrifice your life like that! What about me? What would I have done if you had let them take you and something had happened?"
Ron swallowed. Now was it. This was the moment. Why was breathing so difficult all of the sudden?
He squeezed her hand. "You didn't let me finish, there was more I needed to say," he told her, and she bit her lip to keep from talking, or possibly apologizing. Ron took another deep breath; it felt as though no air was getting into his lungs, he could have been inhaling water for all it mattered. "The moment we decided we were going with Harry last summer, when he told us he wasn't going back to school, I realized something. Maybe his whole goal was to destroy the Horcruxes, so that made it my goal too. But there was something else that was even more important than that: making sure that you are safe." he squeezed her hand again, and she returned the pressure. He knew it was taking a lot of self control for her to not speak. "I knew that no matter what happened, no matter where we were or where the hunt for the Horcruxes took us, absolutely none of it mattered if you weren't safe and...and...with me," he finished, his ears turning red. "And I made a promise to myself, the night you came to the Burrow after sending your parents to Australia," he paused again, squeezing her hand for comfort at the memory of her parents. "I made a promise to myself that I would do whatever it took to keep you safe and...alive," he said, the last word slicing his throat with it's harsh reality. "I promised myself that no matter what happened, I would risk anything for you. Which was why I told Bellatrix to take me instead of you: because you matter more to me. I couldn't let you get hurt, not if there was a chance that I could be hurt instead. You...your...life," he said awkwardly, "it means more to me than mine. I will do anything to protect you, Hermione. Anything. I made that promise to myself a few months ago, and there's no way I'm going back on it. Although," he mused to himself, "the promise last July was a bit stupid, because I've known that for a long time."
He was getting close now, close to the place where her question mixed with everything he wanted to say. She looked up at him, a line creasing between her eyes. "What do you mean?" she asked in a whisper, her hand tight in his.
Ron bit his lip, "I mean, the promise I made to myself in July was a bit useless, because I had unknowingly vowed the same thing to myself ever since...ever since..." he broke off. Now was it. He just had to say it, didn't he? "I made the promise to myself to do whatever I could for you, no matter what, ever since I realized I love you." he said, the last part coming out so fast he was worried she wouldn't understand what he'd said.
"You love me?" Hermione asked in a whisper.
"More than anything. And I've known this since I was fifteen." Ron asked, thinking back to the moment across the Great Hall, her in her blue robes, he in his horribly moldy maroon ones, when he realized realized that dancing in the arms of his hero Quidditch player was the girl he would always love. He also realized that in this moment, after years of building it up in his mind, he had finally told her this. And he didn't know how she would respond. All of the air left his lungs, he felt as if he had been hit in the chest. The room began to spin and the sun beat down through the windows twice as intensely as the had moments ago. This was it. He sat there, waiting for her to say something, anything, to relieve him of the torture of waiting for her response. His imagination ran from her laughing in his face to slapping him across it, to her kissing him. Every one was equally likely in his mind.
She squeezed his hand back. "I love you. I love you too. I've loved you since I was thirteen years old, did you know that?" she asked, and tears reappeared in her eyes. They were different, though; they were tears of happiness; Ron didn't think something like that was possible, such happiness right now.
And then her words sunk in. She loved him. He loved her and she loved him and everything was alright. Well, it wasn't, but it was for now. She loved him! He had spent years fantasizing about her, dreaming of her, glancing at her when he didn't think she was looking. He had spent hours agonizing over the thought of telling her how he felt; how she'd react, if she felt the same way. And she did. She did! Very few miraculous things had happened to Ron Weasley, but this was one of them. She loved him, and that was perfect.
They looked at each other unblinkingly, as if both were frightened that everything might disappear at any moment. It was too pure and too good for the horrible world of realities that was happening beyond these whitewashed walls, and Ron knew they were both thinking of how precious this moment was; how precious and completely breakable. Who were they, two teenagers, to have this perfect happiness? Why did they get to have this? Though as unfairly random as it seemed, they both cherished it, and they both relished in it, because they needed it, and they had been waiting for it for so long. Even though there were unfathomable dangers out there, beyond the walls protected by Bill, some of them imagined, and some of them would be real, there was something protected inside these walls as well. A moment they had both waited for for too long. And even though it didn't make sense, even though this was the worst time for this to happen, and even though the dangers outside leaked between the cracks and spread their reality around the tiny cottage, it didn't make this moment, the moment where Ron told Hermione he loved her, and Hermione told Ron she loved him, any less real. It just meant they had to protect it more. Because the world out there was bent on destroying anything like this. And as they looked at one another, their hands still clasped between them, they both understood this.
"We have to get inside Gringotts. We have to destroy all of them and destroy him. We have to stop all of the horrible things that are happening out there," Ron said softly. He knew Hermione was thinking the same thing.
"I know," she said.
"And then," Ron said, "And then we can we can have this moment, again, for as long as we want and nothing can break it," Ron said, smiling. "And I can kiss you, and I can say I love you as many times as I want, and nothing out there can destroy that feeling or those words. But we have to make the world safe. We have to make everyone safe so that we, or anyone, can do that."
Hermione smiled and squeezed his hand, a tear leaking out of the corner of her eye. She understood. "Let's go break into Gringotts," she said.
She moved to get up and the moment broke, but Ron didn't mind. Because he had told her, he had told her he loved her and she loved him. And maybe now was the worse time to say it, but at least she knew, and he knew. And once they were done fighting, and once everything was over, once they were done hatching harrowing plans that only the three of them could dream of, then everything would be perfect. Then they could both love each other.
He couldn't bloody wait.