Chapter Seven: Sunday In The Pub With Anna
---
"'Scuse me, love, is anyone sitting there?"
"Yes, sorry, I'm just waiting for someone. Sorry."
The man raises his eyebrows disbelievingly and I try and look apologetic. Over an hour I've been sitting here now, squashed between the wall and a group of enormous Polish builders, fending off enquiries about the spare stool I am protecting like a mother wolf protects her cub. I am not immune to the pitying looks they give me; I know full well what they're thinking: "That girl's obviously been stood up, why doesn't she just admit it and go home so I can sit down." I drag out my second glass of wine for as long as I can, because if I get up to go the bar someone else will grab my seat, and wish I had thought to bring a book. There are other team members' families here too but I don't feel confident enough to go and introduce myself and force myself upon their company, so I just sit, and wait, and fume.
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
"Yes, it is. Sorry."
What is he doing? Has he forgotten me? Gone home? I bet he's got talking to her and hasn't given me a second's thought. Although the rest of the team aren't here yet either, so maybe that's not the reason. But he should have said. He should have told them his girlfriend was waiting for him; I'm sure they wouldn't have minded. Alright, maybe they'd have teased him a bit about it, but he shouldn't care about that, should he?
"Is anyone sitting there, love?"
I grit my teeth. "Yes, sorry, I'm just waiting for someone. Sorry."
I made damn certain that I was foremost in his mind before I sent him off to Quidditch this morning, knowing that Anna would be there. Maybe that sounds cold and calculating, but - well, all's fair in love and war, isn't it? I know professional sportsmen are supposed to abstain before matches so they can save all their energy for the match, but this is a Sunday League Quidditch team, for God's sake, not the Cup Final. And alright, maybe I did feel a bit guilty when they lost, especially by such a large margin, but I really don't think I can claim all the credit. I suspect the fact that two of the team were clearly badly hungover and one kept having to get off his broom to be sick, might have made more of a difference. Anna couldn't save them this time. Ha.
---
Finally, just when I am contemplating letting the twentieth person who has asked, pityingly, "Is anyone sitting there, love?" just take the damn stool, the team all troop in, looking very subdued. Ron spots me straight away and detaches himself from the group, making a bee line for me across the room.
"Sorry! Have you been waiting long? Barry gave us a right bollocking, I thought we'd never get away! Do you want another drink? What's that, red wine? Here, look after my broom!"
He's off again before I even have a chance to get a word out, and I take my coat off the stool at last, holding my head up high. See, everyone, I haven't been stood up after all! Someone really is sitting there. And there's a perfectly acceptable reason I've been sitting here on my own for over an hour. See?
---
Last night went surprisingly well, with my parents. Ron was on good form all night, laughing and joking with my mum, letting my dad show him his brand new top-of-the-range extremely expensive digital radio ("You hear the difference? You can really feel the bass..."), complimenting Mum on her cooking even though he knows full well she doesn't cook, she just buys everything ready-prepared. Nobody mentioned the elephant in the room, of course. It was strange; everyone acting as though nothing had happened and we'd all seen each other just last week and not more than two years previously. But it gave me hope. He's trying. We're all trying. Maybe since it went so well with my parents, he might start to think it wouldn't be so bad if he let me meet his.
---
"Budge up!"
I bite my lip. "There's not really any room, Ron. That's why I saved you the stool."
He ignores me and squeezes himself into the tight space beside me on the banquette. "You don't mind, do you? I hate those bloody stools, I always fall off them..."
I am now sandwiched uncomfortably tightly between Ron and the large man in paint-splattered overalls on the other side of me, who I really don't feel I know well enough to be practically sitting in his lap. "Sorry," I mumble, going red. He just nods and smiles and says, "Is okay," in heavily-accented English. Ron pulls off his jacket - nearly hitting me in the head with it in the process - and throws it over the stool, then finally settles back with a heavy sigh and leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
"Did you watch the match? Terrible, wasn't it?" He takes a long draught of his beer. "God, that's good! Still, I suppose I should be glad nobody here knows the words to 'Weasley Is Our King'… Hey look, there's Anna... Anna! Hey, Anna!"
My heart sinks. Anna is standing by the bar and looks over to see where the noise is coming from, She smiles and raises her hand slightly in greeting when she sees him.
Don't ask her to come and sit down, don't ask her to come and sit down…
"There's a stool here!" he yells across the room, and I almost cringe in my seat as people look round in annoyance at the noise. She shakes her head and cups a hand to her ear, and he points to the stool and beckons her over and she grins and nods. I want to kill him. How long have I been waiting, over an hour, and I barely get to even speak to him before she ruins everything. As if that wasn't bad enough, when Anna comes over a few minutes later with her drink, he immediately jumps up and offers her the banquette beside me;
"Here you go, there's a seat here. No, that's fine, I don't mind having the stool... Hang on, I'll move our coats for you... Come on, Hermione, move up!"
I glare at him, but he is too busy fussing over her to notice. Unbelievable!
Anna turns to me and smiles. "Hi, Hermione, nice to see you again. How have you been?"
"Fine, thank you."
"Did you watch the match?"
"Of course."
"I bet you wish you'd stayed in bed, don't you?"
"Not at all," I say, stiffly, "I enjoyed it."
Ron laughs scornfully. "Well, I'm glad someone enjoyed watching us get completely slaughtered!"
"No, that's not what I -"
"Cos playing it was like pulling teeth, wasn't it, Anna?"
She nods in agreement. "I thought Dad was going to sack the whole team for a minute there. I haven't seen him so angry since he caught my little brother in bed with his boyfriend."
Ron inhales half his beer up his nose. "Oh, that's brilliant!" he gasps, wiping beer off the front of his t-shirt, "That's cheered me up no end! Thanks, Anna!"
"No problem," she says, and they both laugh some more.
"How old's your little brother?" I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from the tedious subject of Quidditch.
"Seventeen. And not so little anymore, unfortunately. I can't beat him up as often as I used to."
"Hey!" Ron jokes, "Speaking as a little brother myself; leave the kid alone!"
"Is he here?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "Adam wouldn't be seen dead somewhere like this. Anyway, he goes clubbing on Saturday nights, doesn't get in 'til about four; he'll probably still be in bed…"
"Blimey," says Ron, "That makes me feel really old..."
"You are old."
"I'm twenty six!" he splutters.
She laughs and affects a horrified teenager's tone; "Oh my God, that's, like, practically dead, Granddad..."
"Oh, shut up!" he grins, pushing her in the arm. She pushes him back, and I am forcibly reminded of how we all used to act when we were fourteen, making those stupid little excuses to touch someone you had a crush on.
"Hey," he says, putting his hands up in mock-defence, "Don't mess with me, I carry a heavy bat, remember?"
She shakes her head. "Oh, please. I could totally have you, you're a wimp!"
"I am not! Hermione, back me up here!"
I am saved from having to reply by Anna's phone ringing. She answers it and leaves the room to take the call outside. Ron immediately dives into the space she has vacated beside me on the banquette and leans his head on my shoulder.
"Kill me, Hermione, I'm the worst Beater in the history of the world..."
"I'm sure that's not true."
"It is true… I'm rubbish."
"You just had a bad day, that's all."
"Noooo," he moans, "I'm terrible... I'm supposed to stop the other team scoring goals, not let them beat us a hundred-nil! I suck..."
"Well, does it really matter?" I snap back, "It's not as though the rest of the team are exactly Manchester United, is it?"
He sits up again and frowns. "What's up with you?"
"Nothing's up with me. Why does there always have to be something up with me?"
"Look, I'm sorry I was late, but I told you, it wasn't my fault, Barry kept us all behind for ages. It's not like I wanted to stand there being yelled at, you know. Or sit here being yelled at, for that matter..."
"I am not yelling at you!"
He shrugs. "If you say so."
I knock back the rest of my drink in one, and slam my empty glass down on the table. Ron pulls a face.
"What?" I snap.
He shrugs again and looks uncomfortable, and tense silence descends. Immediately I regret being so snappish, especially as any minute now my competition is going to return to our little table, and I don't want him comparing me unfavourably to her. I finally got him on his own for two minutes and what did I do? Start an argument. Brilliant, Hermione, just brilliant.
"Can you believe this weather?" he says, with a slight air of desperation, and I soften, grateful to him for at least trying to make the effort. He's obviously been sitting there for the last few minutes trying to think of a non-contentious subject for conversation that won't result in me snapping his head off.
"I know, it's usually really nice around -" I had been about to say "our anniversary" but stop myself just in time - "this time of the year."
"Yeah," he says, "It is," and then stops, obviously unable to think of anything else to say. Instead he dives for his pint of beer and drinks about half of it down in one go. Glancing up, I see Anna coming back into the room, stopping to talk to her Dad by the bar, and with a mounting sense of urgency, grab him and pull his head down onto mine, kissing him full on the lips and whispering against his mouth, "I love you, I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you later..."
I am shameless.
"Put her down, Weasley…"
Ron pulls away and reaches for his glass, looking a little sheepish, but mostly rather pleased with himself. "Sorry."
Anna just looks amused. "I'm going to the bar, do you want another drink?"
Ron drains his glass. "Yeah, thanks."
"Hermione? Same again?"
"Oh. No, I shouldn't really -"
"Oh go on, one little glass can't hurt you. Red wine, was it?"
"Well -" I give in. "Yes. Thank you," I add politely, although saying those words to her is like chewing glass.
"No problem!" she says, cheerily, "Back in a mo'!"
"Hey!" Ron calls after her, "Get us some crisps, will you?"
She grins and nods and disappears off into the crowd.
Ron raises his eyebrows at me. "So… where were we?"
"I think we were talking about the weather…"
"No, before that…"
I pretend to think about it. "Do you know, I can't remember? Were we talking about Quidditch?"
"After that…" he says, getting that dangerous glint in his eye.
"I think…" I whisper, "We were -"
"Hey, Ron!"
He glances up.
"Do you want salt 'n' vinegar or cheese 'n' onion?"
"Um… have they got prawn cocktail? Look, hang on, I'll come and give you a hand!"
And he jumps up and goes to help her at the bar, without even giving me a second glance. Of course, I think bitterly, food is his second favourite subject. But really, coming second to a packet of prawn cocktail crisps is a new low. And her timing was absolutely impeccable, I noticed. There's no way she didn't do that on purpose. God, she's good. I can see I'm going to have to up my game.
I watch them at the bar, talking animatedly, Ron leaning forward on his elbows as usual. They're standing very close and their shoulders are touching. I can only catch occasional glimpses of one or both of them through the crowds, and I crane my neck this way and that in a vain attempt to get a better view.
Oh, they're coming back.
I busy myself pretending to look for something in my bag until I hear them approach, both cackling at some no doubt idiotic joke, and force a smile onto my face. Ron stands back politely and gestures to the comfy seat beside me, but Anna shakes her head.
"No, you're alright, I'll have the stool, I don't mind."
He hesitates. "Are you sure? Those things are really hard, you know."
She laughs. "Yeah, well, better that than you have you two leaning over me for a snog every five minutes!"
He laughs too, and flushes slightly. "Well… okay. As long as you're sure."
"Oh, for God's sake. Just sit down quick before I change my mind."
---
He settles down next to me again and she makes herself comfortable on the stool. I can't help glancing at her suspiciously. What is she up to? Of course, now he's sitting right between the two us. Maybe she just likes the challenge. Well, if that's what she wants, that's what she'll get. I've always been the most competitive person I know. I may not look like much of a threat, but I've got history on my side. I've known him for fifteen years, how long has she known him, about five minutes? She doesn't know what she's getting herself into. I know him. I know exactly how his mind works, and exactly how to get his attention. And I am not going to let them take over the conversation like they did before, I am going to make sure as hell they both know I'm here.
---
"So, Anna... you know a lot about the Muggle world, are you Muggle-born?"
She shakes her head. "No, but Mum is, and we went to a normal school, so -"
"A normal school?"
What does she think Hogwarts is, a school for freaks?
"Yeah, you know, a Muggle secondary school. Mum and Dad wanted us to learn Maths and History and stuff. Don't suppose it'll ever be of any use to me, mind."
"Why," I ask eagerly, certain that this is going to provide me with some ammunition, "What do you do?"
"Well, at the moment I work in a bar part-time -"
Oh perfect, I think to myself, she's a barmaid! And a part-time barmaid at that. I should have guessed.
"But I also volunteer at a drop-in centre for the homeless two days a week, and that's what I want to do, really. Work with the homeless. I just need to get a bit of experience under my belt before I can apply for full-time jobs, you know?"
She beams at me, a light of enthusiasm shining in her eyes, and my heart sinks. I really want to hate her, but she keeps wrong-footing me at every turn.
"Oh. Right. That must be very… fulfilling."
"It is. I love it!"
She starts telling me all about it, and I immediately tune her out. Ron is stuffing crisps into his mouth with all the finesse of a fox ransacking a dustbin. She probably wouldn't mind that, though. She'd probably think it was funny.
"... some of them have got mental health problems, of course..."
"Yes, I suppose it must be difficult for you."
"Yeah, sometimes, but like I always say, once you've worked in a pub you can handle anything." She laughs. "Actually, I get more trouble from drunken idiots in the bar job than the shelter. City boys with too much money who think 'cos they're earning more than everyone else in the bar put together that gives them the right to behave like arseholes. The tips are good, but sometimes I think, if one more idiot asks me if 'those legs go all the way to the top', I'm gonna come back here with a shotgun and do a Thelma And Louise on his arse. If I could go full-time at the shelter I'd jump at the chance. I mean, working in a bar can be a laugh, and the money's not bad considering, but the shiftwork's a killer for the social life. Everyone else is out having a good time and I'm stuck behind a bar 'til midnight fending off drunk blokes in suits."
"Sounds awful."
"Oh, it's not so bad really. I do get the odd night off. Me and Ron went clubbing a few weeks ago and -"
I laugh incredulously. "Excuse me, what?" I turn to Ron. "You hate clubbing!"
"I don't hate it," he retorts, looking disgruntled.
I can't believe it. "We went clubbing once when we first moved to London," I tell Anna, "And we can't have been there more than half an hour before he started complaining that it was too loud and there were too many people and the music sounded like someone drilling a hole in a wall. And he asked the barman if he could get a cup of tea!"
Anna falls about laughing. "You asked for a cup of tea in a nightclub?!"
Ron looks more disgruntled than ever. "No," he says, irritably, "I just said I'd rather be at home with a cup of tea, that's all, I didn't actually ask for -" He folds his arms across his chest defensively. "Anyway, you can talk, Hermione, you don't like nightclubs either!"
"No, that's true, I don't, but at least I didn't ask for a cup of tea!"
Anna and I both laugh, and Ron sighs in a weary, I'm-above-this-rubbish kind of way. "I didn't ask for a cup of - oh, for Christ's sake!"
"You told me you enjoyed it!" Anna says, in a mock-accusing tone.
"I did!"
That wipes the smile off my face. "When was this?"
"A couple of weeks ago," Ron mutters, with a shrug.
"It was your birthday," Anna adds, helpfully.
A jolt goes through me. He spent his birthday with her. He spent his birthday with her, in a nightclub, and he enjoyed it. They probably danced together. He told me he went for dinner at his mother's! Why did he lie about it?
"You said you spent your birthday at your mum's," I say, trying to keep the accusing tone from my voice.
Ron takes what I consider to be an unnecessarily long drink of beer before replying, obviously to give himself time to think. He can be so transparent sometimes.
"Yeah, that's right."
"Well, wh-"
"My birthday was on a Wednesday," he says carefully, "We went out clubbing on the Saturday."
I pounce on that straight away. "What, with Quidditch the next morning?"
He gives me a blank stare. "Yeah, well, like you said, we're not exactly Manchester United... 'scuse me."
He gets up quickly and squeezes around the table and disappears off in the direction of the toilets, no doubt hoping that when he returns I'll have forgotten all about it. Anna gives me a sheepish sort of smile. She obviously realises she's landed him in it. Good.
"So, Hermione, what it is you do again?"
I sigh inwardly. I start telling her about my job, with a complete lack of enthusiasm, and she nods politely every few seconds and pretends she's actually interested. I am all too aware of how dull my job sounds in comparison to hers. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was the smartest witch in school. I was going to really achieve something. My parents were going to be so proud. Our daughter, the high flyer. "Oh yes, your daughter, what it is she does again?" "She sits in a little glass office all day doing a job so pointless and boring neither of us can quite remember exactly what her job title is, and the only person she talks to is the cleaner. But it pays well and she does have a nice flat." "No boyfriend, then?" "No, not any more. We thought we might be grandparents by now, but you can't have everything. And it is a very nice flat." "Shame." "I know..."
Lost in thought, I barely notice Ron returning and eventually when I look up they are deep in conversation again.
"…when you grow up in a rough area like this, it's a good idea not to stand out from the crowd too much," Anna is saying. "It's probably easier to be a witch if you live in the country."
"I dunno about that," says Ron, thoughtfully, "You stand out more if you live in the country. We used to go into the village and people would point at us."
"Yeah," says Anna, starting to laugh, "But you were a family of nine with bright red hair, I'd probably point at you!"
Ron grins. "Ha ha. No, I just mean, if you live in London there are so many weirdoes around that nobody notices another one. I remember when we first moved here, we took my parents out for dinner at this really posh restaurant, and of course, 'cos I'd told them it was a fancy sort of place, they'd dressed up for the occasion. Full length wizard robes, mum wearing her spangly 'special occasion' witch hat, everything..."
He grins at Anna's helpless laughter. "You can laugh, the people in the restaurant thought they were going to a fancy dress party! Do you remember, Hermione?"
I nod. I do indeed remember. I remember that it really wasn't that fancy a restaurant, just an ordinary High Street bistro, the kind my parents and I used to go all the time. And I remember that Ron was the only one embarrassed by the situation and that, thank God, I don't think they realised how ashamed he was of them. At least, I hope they didn't.
---
No, ashamed isn't the right word. He was very proud of them and all the sacrifices they'd made for their family, but I think he just felt massively out of his depth in London, especially in comparison to Harry and I, who must have seemed so at home in the Muggle world. He always felt - still does, I suspect, although he never actually told me so - that his Muggle clothes were not quite right and that everyone would look at him and just know, and that every time he opened his mouth he was somehow giving himself away. I'm sure he thought that having his parents there dressed as they were was just drawing even more attention to us. He relaxed eventually, mind, once the joys of the food arriving distracted him.
---
I also remember that when the bill came, he practically snapped the waiter's hand off to get to it first and absolutely refused to let anyone else so much as pay for the tip. He's always got a tremendous amount of pleasure from buying things for other people. I think he'd been waiting his whole life for that moment. To be able to say, "No, no, put your money away, I'll get this. No, I insist, it's on me."
---
He took me to Madame Puddifoot's in Hogsmeade once. He said he'd always wanted to take me there, the whole time we were at school, but for one reason and another, he never got the chance. He turned up at my parents house the day after he got his first wage packet, and took my hand and made me close my eyes, and when I opened them again we were standing outside Madame Puddifoot's. It was strange to be back there after so long, and so close to the school. We didn't go and look at it, though. It was October and very windy and wet.
---
After lunch we had a look around the shops then went for a drink in the Three Broomsticks, and later that day we made the momentous decision to move in together. It was getting late and Ron joked hopefully that maybe we should get a room for the night at the pub. I said I'd told my dad I'd be home by midnight, and I could hardly send him an owl pretending we'd missed the last bus when he knew full well I could just Apparate home in three seconds flat. It just started from there really. Ron said rather irritably that if we had a place of our own we wouldn't need to worry about curfews and owls and actually, that's not a bad idea... We started looking through the Daily Prophet Classifieds the very next day. With the advantage of course, that we didn't have to worry about the commute to work like most Londoners, we could live anywhere we liked, as long as we could afford it.
---
We must have seen twenty flats before we found that ill-fated one above the off-licence. For some reason a lot of witches and wizards seem to live in attic flats - I suppose it's easier for owls to come and go when you're on the fifth floor rather than in the basement - and Ron kept nearly decapitating himself on a succession of low beams. And when they weren't actively dangerous, they were downright disgusting; the kind of place where you found yourself seriously wondering if the reason it was up for rent was because the previous occupant had died in it. The Archway flat really was the best of a bad lot. Well, that, and we were increasingly desperate to move out of the parental home because we'd just started sleeping together only a few weeks before, and the opportunities for privacy were frustratingly few and far between.
---
We'd only been able to finally be together in the first place because my parents had gone to a wedding in Scotland for the weekend and I'd seized the opportunity to offer myself and Ron's services as house sitters. My parents aren't idiots; I'm sure they knew exactly what would be going on in their home in their absence, but if they did, they never let on. Having the place to ourselves for the whole weekend did kind of take the pressure off a little bit too. We didn't have to rush things, worrying about someone walking in at any minute.
---
I'm pretty sure, actually, that Ron didn't tell his parents where he was going that weekend. House-sitting with Hermione. It sounds like a euphemism for something much filthier, doesn't it? Along similar lines to "exploring the Peak District". I'm absolutely sure that if he did tell them he was staying at my house, he would have conveniently neglected to mention that my parents happened to be away in Scotland that weekend. Mind you, that was probably a good decision if the look of disapproval on his mum's face when we told her we were planning to move in together was anything to go by. It was as though she was simultaneously disappointed in me for not waiting until marriage like the nice girl she had previously imagined I was, and also resentment for taking the last of her sons away from her. She still had Ginny, but not for much longer.
---
"Did you see that one that went right through his legs?"
"I know, talk about embarrassing! If I'd have been playing in goal, I'd definitely have saved it!"
"Yeah, right, you tell yourself that!"
"Shut up, I would!"
Oh, for God's sake, they're talking about Quidditch again. Well, if you can't beat 'em...
"So, Anna... have you been playing long?"
"Well, I've been playing since I was a kid, but I've only been on the team about five months. I joined just before Ron did, actually."
"Oh! I just assumed, because your dad's the manager..."
"That's exactly why I didn't want to join before! I get enough of him bossing me around at home, if you know what I mean. No, it was just because they had a big match coming up and their idiot Seeker went and fell off his broom and broke his leg. Dad asked me to help him out and, well, I realised I really enjoyed it. It was only supposed to be temporary, but then Ron joined, and of course, when there's someone you really get on with, that makes all the difference, doesn't it?"
"Mm," I say. "If you don't mind me saying, you seem rather tall for a Seeker."
She laughs. "Tell me about it! Still, I might be a big girl, but I'm nimble!"
I bet you are.
"How tall are you, if you don't mind me asking?"
"I'm five foot ten in flats," she says, grinning, "So I can only go out with blokes who are over six foot, otherwise they get a complex. You know what men are like."
---
I nod in a worldly fashion, although if the Jeff episode taught me anything it was that I may know a lot of things, but I do not know what men are like. I only know what Ron is like. She's nineteen years old and she already has so much more experience of life than I do. When I was nineteen - well, I'd fought Voldemort and lived through a war, but I still hadn't let a man seen me naked. She's so confident about all these things; confident in her own attractiveness, confident in her body, utterly herself. It's that big city confidence you sometimes see in London girls, that comes from a feeling that this is her city, all of it, she owns the town.
---
Ron doesn't even act like he owns Ottery St. Catchpole. Actually, he doesn't even act like he owns the square foot of ground he's standing on most of the time. If you challenged him on it he'd probably apologise for standing there and offer to move. I feel a sudden stab of resentment towards her. She doesn't know him like I know him. She just sees him when he's "on", putting on a display of confidence for the outside world, laughing and joking, and pushing those insecurities to the back of his mind. Pretending to be confident is half the trick.
"Yes," I murmur, "I suppose it must be a problem for you."
"Nah, not really. There are loads of nice tall boys out there. Aren't there, Ron?"
Ron, who has patently not been listening to the conversation, glances up, his glass frozen in mid air halfway to his mouth: "Eh?"
Anna laughs. "Me and Hermione were just discussing the perils of going out with someone who's a lot taller or shorter than you are, weren't we, Hermione?"
She shoots me a mischievous, conspiratorial look, which I don't return. I resent being included in this joke, and I absolutely refuse to take her side against him.
Ron merely grins. "Well, it's only really a problem when you're standing up, if you know what I mean..."
They both hoot with raucous laughter. I force a light laugh but I can feel my face burning up. How dare he say that? I don't want him talking about personal things in front of her. If that's the kind of level their conversations operate at when I'm here, what on earth do they talk about when I'm not here? Once again, I feel as though I am the butt of the joke, the gatecrasher at this party.
"I went out with this bloke who was five foot seven once," she continues, stopping laughing with a massive effort. "Never let me wear heels when we went out on dates..."
"You don't really strike me as a heels kind of girl, to be honest," interrupts Ron, voicing what I myself am thinking.
She laughs. "That's because you've only ever seen me in my Quidditch gear and trainers. I can scrub up alright when I want to, you know!"
Ron looks mortified. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I didn't mean -"
"I know, I'm joking!"
Ron frowns and continues to watch her with a slightly puzzled expression on his face, as though he is wondering for the first time what a nicely scrubbed-up Anna would look like. She has planted a seed of curiosity in his head that I don't want there.
"Anyway, I stood it for a couple of months, then I said to him, "Listen, mate, I know Nicole Kidman wore flats for Tom Cruise, but you're no Tom Cruise, do you know what I mean?"
We all laugh at that, even Ron, who can have no idea who Tom Cruise is, and even me, despite myself. I want to hate her, I really do, but somehow I just can't manage it. If she was one of those girly girls, like Lavender, it would be easier.
"He's an actor," I whisper in his ear.
"I know who he is," he mutters, irritably.
"I've got big feet for a girl, too," she goes on, "Which is another reason I don't wear heels very often. I'm a size eight," she adds, seeing Ron open his mouth to ask the obvious question. "I know, I know, I'm some kind of massive-footed freak, aren't I?" She bows her head and pretends to sob into her hands.
"That's nothing," says Ron eagerly, lifting his foot and whacking it down on the table - I grab my glass out of the way just time - "Size twelve!" he says, proudly, as though it's some sort of great achievement on his part and not simply a matter of genetics.
Anna shakes her head. "Wow, you must really have trouble getting heels to fit!"
Ron bursts out laughing. "Shut up!"
"Actually," she teases, "There are specialist shops for that kind of thing. In Soho. I could take you if you want; get you kitted out. Maybe a nice lace basque and some suspenders...?"
"Fuck off!" retorts Ron, going positively red in the face.
"Aw, c'mon," she says, laughing now, "Don't tell me you've never tried on women's clothing before?"
"No!"
"Never stood in front in front of the mirror aged fourteen in your mum's bra and knickers?"
Ron just splutters incoherently.
"No? Must have just been Adam then…"
They both fall about laughing, and I desperately rack my brains for something witty to say, some contribution I can make to this conversation that would remind them I'm actually here, but the wine has made my brain sluggish and I can't think of a single thing to say. I start to panic. I can't get into this conversation, I can't make my presence felt, I might as well not be here at all. I might as well be invisible as far as they're concerned. He doesn't need me here. He doesn't want me here. What was it he said the other night? Oh, yes: "I just want to be with you." Well, if he just wants to be with me, maybe he should stop flirting with bitchface over there.
I watch the lovely Anna taking a sip of her beer. Of course, she would drink beer. No girly glass of wine for her. Maybe I should start drinking beer. Or vodka. Or a large brandy.
"So you haven't ever worn your girlfriend's knickers to work for a bet?"
Ron looks positively affronted. "No!"
"I tried to get a bloke to wear some of my knickers to work once," she says, with a reminiscent gleam in her eye, "But he said they were a bit small for him." She looks Ron swiftly up and down in pretend appraisal. "You'd be alright, though, you're pretty skinny, you could probably get in Hermione's knickers…"
"Yeah," says Ron, grinning wickedly, "I probably could. In fact… I got in her knickers this morning, didn't I, Hermione?"
---
Anna chokes on her beer and they both laugh uproariously. Ron catches my furious look, gives me a sheepish sort of grin, and mouths "Sorry" at me, although he clearly isn't. I am unpleasantly reminded of Ron's complete inability not to say something funny the second it has entered his head, no matter how inappropriate. He always thinks just saying sorry afterwards will make it alright, or worse, tells you "It was just a joke!", as though it's your fault you were offended because you obviously don't have a sense of humour.
---
And yet, ironically, out of the two of us he's always been the one who takes things personally and sulks for hours if you accidentally embarrass him in public. Hypocrite. Obviously he cares more about getting a cheap laugh out of her than he does about my feelings. Anything for a laugh, even if it means you humiliate your girlfriend in front of a complete stranger.
---
Why am I even here? I should have stayed at home. In fact, I'm tempted to get up and go home right now, see how he likes it. But then I'd have to leave them alone together, and I'm sure that's exactly what she wants. I'd be playing right into her hands. No, I will sit here in this horrible pub on every Sunday from here to Doomsday if I have to. I need a fucking drink.
I climb unsteadily to my feet and they both look at me. "My round, I think!"
---
As I'm waiting to get served I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. God. My hair looks dreadful. Well, two and a half hours standing at the side of a Quidditch pitch in the rain will do that. Anna's hair, of course, looks perfect. How come it still looks so glossy and immaculate after two hours on a broom? It isn't fair! And those jeans look as though she picked them up off the floor of her bedroom this morning, but she still looks fantastic in them. Hard not to, with legs like hers. Please God, let him never get to see her in heels. Or a skirt. Or not wearing - Actually, let her just stick to the dirty jeans, that's safer. And let her break her leg so she can't play Quidditch. No, let him break his leg so he can't play Quidditch; that would solve all my problems at once. Then he'd have to stay with me because he'd be trapped in bed all day, and I could bring him soup and make him tea and plump his pillows and oh, God, I've turned into Kathy Bates in Misery...
"What can I get you, love?"
"What?"
The barman sighs and repeats it, slowly, as though he is talking to an idiot. "What... can... I... get... you... to drink?"
"Oh. Sorry. Two pints of beer and a glass of red wine, please."
"Large glass?"
"No, thank you, just a small one's f- "
The sound of Anna's loud and distinctive dirty laughter drifts across the room.
"Actually, sod it. I will have a large one! Actually, make it a gin and tonic! No, make it a double!"
-----
When I come back to the table with the drinks, Anna stands up to let me get past and Ron moves up to let me sit down, and hurrah, now I'm sitting right between the two of them. Ha! Perfect. I should have got up to the bar sooner. Two can play at musical chairs, missy!
"So, Anna, what sort of bloke do you like then? They have to be tall...?"
She drains the last of her beer and pulls the new one towards her. "Well... I like a man's man, if you know what I mean..." She laughs. "I bet you know what I mean, don't you, Hermione?"
"Ron's afraid of spiders!" I blurt out, "He won't go to sleep if there's one in the room; I have to capture it in a glass and flush it down the toilet!"
There is a small silence.
"I'm not afraid of them," Ron protests, shooting me an annoyed look and appealing to Anna, "I just don't like them, that's all."
Anna laughs. "Aw, bless!"
"I'm not!" he mutters, irritably.
"Oh, please," I retort, somehow unable to stop myself now, "You wouldn't even let me rent Spider Man 2 the other day because you thought there might be spiders in it!"
Ron glares at me. "Well, why would they call it that if there weren't spiders in it? It's stupid…"
"So you like the macho type, then?" I persist, ignoring him.
She laughs. "Well, so far, it's been the wrong type, if you know what I mean. I dunno; I seem to be attracted to the bad boys. I like 'em a bit bashed up, if you know what I mean. Rough edges. I went out with a rugby player once -"
Good God, how many men has she had?
"He was huge. Had a broken nose and a face like a potato, but my God, he was the best kisser ever…"
I am instantly reminded of Cormac McLaggen, the boy I only asked out to make Ron jealous. He had that kind of build. Mind you, being kissed by him was like being mauled by a bear, so that's where the comparison ends.
"He had really nice arms, too," she says, wistfully, "I do like a bloke with nice big muscly arms, do you know what I mean?"
I hear myself give that awful sycophantic laugh again. "Haha! Yes, absolutely!"
Ron rubs his forearm self-consciously and doesn't say anything.
"Basically," she finishes, "I like a bloke to look like a bloke. You know, rugby players, Quidditch players -"
"I went out with a Quidditch player once," I say without thinking. Ron's head snaps up in surprise and annoyance, but I pretend not to notice.
"Really? But - I thought -" She glances at Ron, who just looks blank, then back to me again - "A professional Quidditch player, you mean? Anyone I might have heard of?"
"Well… yes, actually... Do you know Viktor Krum?"
"Viktor Krum?" she almost shouts, "You went out with Viktor Krum? The Viktor Krum?"
"Well, yes, but -"
Anna is just staring at me with her mouth open. "Gotta say, Hermione, you've just gone waaay up in my estimation…."
She sounds genuinely impressed, and I beam back at her, until I catch sight of the stony expression on Ron's face, and hot guilt courses through me.
Anna shakes her head in wonderment. "Oh, my God, Viktor Krum! I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crisps, if you know what I mean…"
I laugh nervously, and try not to notice Ron scowling at me across the table. Actually, once again, I don't know what she means, since I was fifteen when I went out with Viktor, and a young and inexperienced fifteen at that. I didn't really "go out" with him as such, either - not in the sense she probably imagines. He took me to a school dance, and afterwards he gave me a very nice, very chaste, very respectful kiss, and really, that was the sum total of our relationship. We saw each other around school for a few more months after that, and after he went back to Bulgaria there were a few letters, but by then the shine had come off for me. I was never starstruck by him in the same way I might have been if I knew or cared about Quidditch a bit more, and it didn't take me long to realise how little we had in common, and that - although I would never have admitted it to his face - Ron was right; Viktor was much too old for me.
"How long did you go out with him for?"
"Not long," I have to admit, "It was sort of on-off. And it was a long time ago. He - he wasn't really a proper boyfriend."
Beside me Ron gives an audible snort of derision.
"Yeah, but you still went out with him," she says eagerly, "What was he like?" She leans in conspiratorially and lowers her voice; "Was he good in bed?"
Ron is now violently shredding a beermat.
I feel my face getting hot. "Oh, no - I didn't - we didn't - I mean, I was still at school!"
She leans back in her seat, looking almost disappointed. "Shame."
"Tragic," Ron mutters.
"So how long have you two been together, then?" she asks, taking another sip of her drink.
"Fifteen years!" I tell her eagerly. Beat that, bitch.
"Well, we've known each other for fifteen years," Ron corrects, "We've been together -"
"Nine!" I finish, beaming.
"Minus two," mutters Ron.
---
I shoot him a sharp look. Is he going to say that every time people ask how long we've been together? "Thirty seven years, but it's really only thirty-five, because she left me for two of them." The thought that he might go on punishing me for this for the rest of our lives gives me a jolt of anxiety. He was the one who said he didn't want to talk about it, I remember, with a sudden stab of annoyance. Yes, that's right, he was the one who said we should just get on with things and stop bringing up everything that's happened. Does that only work one way? Am I not allowed to ever mention it again, but he can drop it into conversation whenever he feels like it? In front of some girl I barely know, too!
---
Maybe that's why he said it, the little voice at the back of my head pipes up. Maybe he wanted her to know he hasn't forgiven me yet, that he's still a free agent. That she's still in with a chance if this doesn't work out. That's why he doesn't want to tell his family about me. It's not as if Ginny won't have been straight round there slagging me off to her mum. They'll all know already. They must be expecting it. They're not the problem. And I've said I want to meet them, I've told him I want to sort things out, so obviously I'm not the problem either. It's just him. He still doesn't trust me.
---
More than that, he doesn't want me to meet them yet, because he hasn't decided if he even wants me back. It'll be much easier for him to just walk away if there aren't a whole load of other people involved. He's using them as an excuse to keep me at arm's length. Because if that obstacle was removed, he'd have to decide on his own whether he wants to be with me, without using his family as an excuse. Oh, my God. That's it. He hasn't decided. It's not just about whether he wants me back, it's about whether he wants her instead.
---
Ron and Anna - Ronandanna! - are laughing at something again but I lost the thread of the conversation some time ago. I feel hot and dizzy, and jump to my feet and push past them and through the crowd to the toilet, where I lock myself in the cubicle and sit down thankfully, closing my eyes and leaning my forehead against the cool tiles. Things are spinning.
---
After a few seconds I tentatively open my eyes, and regret it immediately. The toilet is covered from floor to ceiling in violent-pink coloured tiles. It's a bit like being inside a blancmange, but not in a good way.
I should never have had that third glass of wine. Fourth glass of wine. Gin.
Gradually the sick feeling goes away, to be replaced by a throbbing headache that feels like someone is drilling through the wall from the Men's toilet next door.
---
I can still hear the sound of their laughter echoing inside my head. That's why he likes her so much, they share the same childish sense of humour. It's a bit obvious, though, laughing at a man's jokes like that. Flattering his ego. I'd have thought she'd be above that kind of cheap move. It's the sort of thing Lavender would have done. No woman with any sense of self-worth would demean herself like that, just to get a man's attention. It's all a bit desperate, actually. "Oh, Ron, you're so funny!" "Oh, Ron, you should see me in my high heels!" "Oh, Ron, I just love Quidditch players!" "Oh, Ron, I do voluntary work with the homeless!" Please. It's pathetic.
---
Well, I see right through her. Pretending to act all nice to me, like I'm her new best friend, when we both know what she's really up to. And he's no better, fawning all over her, laughing at her disgusting stories, egging her on. Making me look stupid in front of her. "I got in Hermione's knickers this morning, actually!" I can't believe he said that. I'm just a joke to him, that's all I am. Something to laugh about with his Quidditch mates. He didn't say I scrub up nicely, I noticed. Probably too busy staring at her Peak District. I knew I should have bought the matching bra to go with the knickers. Not that I've got anything to fill it with. Not like her. Bitch. Bastard.
---
It's hot in here. I'm dripping with sweat. Disgusting. Should take off my cardigan. Why on earth did I wear a cardigan? I look like a librarian. No wonder he – hang on, where's the sleeve gone? Oh, hell... what have I – there it is. Stupid!
---
I'm hungry. What time is it? Half five, oh Gooooodddd.... I feel like I've been here forever. And it's so hot... why is it so hot in here? They must have the radiators on or something. It's April, for God's sake. It must be a hundred degrees in here.
---
My throat's dry. I need a drink. Maybe I should have a mineral water. Or an orange juice. Mind you, that doesn't mix well with red wine, I'll make myself sick. But at least then he'd have to take me home. Take me home, put me to bed, mmm. Except it doesn't feel like home anymore. Not without him. I can't do this again. I can't be on my own, I'm no good on my own. I thought I could cope but... He was supposed to be the one who couldn't cope on his own and it was me... it was me who... Oh, yes, he's been fine, hasn't he? Going out clubbing and spending all his evenings in the pub with his stupid mates. Building his sodding treehouse and catching his own fish and... and... oh, shut up, Hermione, you're talking nonsense. Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!
---
I want to lie down. I want a glass of water. I want an aspirin. I want to go home. I don't know what I want. I want Ron. I want him to come and get me and take me home and hold me until I fall asleep, and when I wake up again I want it to be two years ago and for this whole awful nightmare never to have happened. And there's no such person as Anna, and he doesn't hate me. I really want some peanuts.
---
When I come back, having splashed cold water over my face and taken off the hated cardigan which I will never wear again, a brand new drink is waiting on the table for me and my heart sinks. "Thought you might want a top-up," says Ron, as I stumble past him into my seat.
"Lemonade?" I ask, hopefully.
"Nah, he says, "Gin and tonic. Happy hour's just started, so I got you a double."
Happy hour! I want to cry. Please don't tell me I'm going to have to sit here all night. I need to go home. I need to lie down. I need an aspirin. I can't keep drinking like this, I'll die.
"So anyway..."
Ron and Anna resume their conversation as though I'm not even here, and I attempt to stay awake and upright. I feel so tired all of a sudden. I throw back my drink, managing to nearly miss my mouth and spill quite a lot of it down my front, but no-one seems to notice or care.
Ron, I want to go home. Please, just take me home. Can't you see what's she's doing? Can't you see I need you to just take me home?
Anna gives a low moan. "I still can't believe we got stuffed a hundred-nil!"
"I know," Ron agrees, looking equally miserable, "It's really embarrassing."
She puts her glass down. "I can't finish this. I'm too depressed. You know how sometimes you just can't get drunk no matter how hard you try?"
Ron gives a short knowing laugh, then glances furtively at me to see if I've noticed. Has he told her? About me leaving and him practically drinking himself to death for three months? About everything that's happened? About our whole sorry history? About me? I can just picture them sitting at this same small table and him telling her how I ruined his life, and her shaking her head and saying, "She sounds like a bitch…"
"Yeah… yeah, I know what you mean. Maybe we just need something stronger. Tell you what, I'll buy you a Firewhiskey."
She shakes her head. "No, thanks. I think I'm just gonna go home."
I have to physically restrain myself from handing Anna her coat.
Ron gives a big sigh. "Alright. We should probably get going as well. Hermione?"
This time I do reach for my coat, and hand him his too: "Absolutely."
-----
Outside it is getting dark already and the low grey clouds make the sky feel oppressive over our heads. The grass is wet and spongy under my feet. As we walk across the park looking for a dark place to DisApparate home, I feel a mounting sense of fear. Ron is striding ahead of me and I have to run a little to keep up.
"Ron…" I call, a little breathlessly, "Stop a minute."
He pulls up short and shoves his hands in his pockets wearily. "What?"
"I was thinking… since it went so well with my parents last night, maybe we could tackle yours next?"
My suggestion is greeted with deafening silence.
"What do you think?"
He delays having to answer by pulling a random piece of paper out of his pocket and pretending to read it
"Ron?"
"Maybe," he says, nodding vigorously, the way he does when he has absolutely no intention of doing what I ask.
We look at each other.
"I just -"
"Alright," he says, heavily, seeming to come to some sort of forced decision, "What about next weekend?"
My heart sinks. "Next weekend?"
He looks at me, his expression unreadable. "Yeah. If you want."
I have to struggle to hide my disappointment.
"Okay."
I wait to see if he is going to say anything about next Saturday being our anniversary but he just says, coolly, "Fine," and DisApparates on the spot. For several minutes I can't move at all, I just stand there staring numbly at the space where he was standing.
---
Back home I wash a couple of aspirin down with about a litre of water and some toast and black coffee, curl up in an armchair and try to move my head as little as possible. Ron falls into a fug of despondency, wandering aimlessly about the flat muttering, "A hundred-nil!" under his breath, and taking about an hour to make himself a sandwich by using every single ingredient in the fridge.
---
It is a short sharp reminder in what it is to be a Quidditch widow. How an entire weekend can be made or ruined depending on badly the Cannons have played that day. His team wins; he's on top of the world - generous, affectionate, spontaneous, cracking jokes and smiling, and your little world is good. His team loses; he's sullen, withdrawn, snappish, doesn't want to go out, can barely get off the sofa in fact, and nothing, but nothing can cheer him up. I still remember the shock I felt the first time I tried to cheer him up the time-honoured way of wives and girlfriends everywhere, and he said rather grumpily that he wasn't in the mood. I had assumed that men were always in the mood, but it turns out that this is a myth.
---
It is somewhat ridiculous. I am trying to sulk with him, but he's too depressed about the Quidditch to even notice. What's the point in deliberately not talking to someone when they don't realise you're not talking to them? We end up hardly talking to each other for the rest of the evening, both caught up in our own thoughts. Eventually, probably to fill the silence, Ron turns on the television (or rather, gets me to do it, since he can't work out how to operate the remote), and sits there vacantly in front of some programme about badgers, and I go and have a long soak in a hot bath. Married life. We look like my parents.
---
I lean my head back against the inflatable bath pillow and close my eyes thankfully, grateful for the peace and quiet. My mind is still whirring with the events of the day. Clearly, I shouldn't be allowed to drink.
---
Why on earth did I bring up Viktor? And the spiders? I never bring up Viktor in company, ever, mainly because I know from twelve years of bitter experience that there's no higher guarantee of a ruined evening than mention of the K word. I can't really explain why I brought it up now.
---
I don't even particularly like men who are built like rugby players, and their "nice big muscly arms". He must know that, he must have realised I was just agreeing with her to - to be polite. He must know his long skinny arms have always been one of the things I love most about him. He must know.
---
And why the hell did I ask him about meeting his family? He asked me not to bring it up again, and I went ahead and did it anyway. I wonder if he feels forced into it, and wish I hadn't asked the question. I already feel a nervous sort of sickness in the pit of my stomach at the thought of facing his family again, and now our anniversary is ruined too, and I only have myself to blame. I should at least have waited another week. I was going to leave it until after next weekend, especially after what happened on Friday evening. That was the plan, anyway. God, I'm an idiot. I should have just let it lie. I should have just been grateful that I have him at all, and not spent so much time dwelling on other things, other people. I only had to stick it out for another six days, and I couldn't even manage that. I should have waited. Six days! It's nothing!
---
Is it some strange masochism that makes me try to destroy what we have only just rebuilt? I feel as though I am losing my mind.
---
I need to do something about this. I can't go through this every Sunday. I'll go mad. But then, if I don't go, I'm leaving them alone together, and that's worse. I'd be sitting at home wondering about them. Imagining the worst.
---
I always thought Ron's jealous streak might be a potential problem, I never considered for one minute that mine could be that destructive. It's Lavender all over again. I turn into a spoilt little girl not wanting to share my toys. "It was supposed to be me!" "You're mine!"
---
Lavender. I haven't thought about her in a long, long time. Lavender was much easier to hate. She was one of those girly girls who only care about boys and fashion and make-up and whose sole ambition in life is to meet a man and get married. We didn't exactly get on before she started snogging Ron all over the school, but afterwards - well, there were more times than I cared to count where I had to restrain myself from transfiguring that cute little button nose into something that could cause a hazard to shipping.
---
I may have to fight for him. With Lavender I just thought, fine, if that's the kind of girl he wants, then she's welcome to him. At least until the constant strain of having to share a dorm room with the boy I loved's stupid girlfriend released my inner bitch. I tried all the tricks in the book to get him back. Make him jealous. Ignore him. Flirt with someone else. Treat him like dirt. I hated myself for sinking down to her level, but there was no point in pretending I didn't care. I cared too much, that was my trouble. Ron was the only one who didn't see it. But actually Lavender was never really a threat. She was just a small iceberg on the journey. Not that I saw it like that at the time, of course! But Anna could turn out to be a very big iceberg. And without pursuing this extremely poor metaphor too much further, I need to steer a course through the pack ice and get us into calmer, safer waters. Waters not populated by gorgeous nineteen year old girls.
---
Actually, it sounds absurd, but I learned a lot from Lavender. He used to make me laugh by telling me about all the things she said and did that annoyed the hell out of him, and from that I learned what not to do.
---
Things I learned from Lavender never to say:
"Is that what you're wearing?" ("No, I thought I'd go in my pyjamas...")
"What do you think of my shoes?"
"You're not going to eat all of that, are you?" ("Watch me.")
"You haven't even noticed my shoes, have you?"
"Haven't you got anything smart to wear?"
"Xxxx noticed my shoes!" ("Good for Xxxx. Why don't you go out with him instead?")
And my particular favourite, blurted out mid-snog: "No tongues! I've got a mouth ulcer!"
---
He hated it when she laughed really loudly at one of his jokes, when it was patently obvious she didn't have a clue why it was supposed to be funny. ("It's like faking an orgasm…"). He especially hated it when she followed it up with an admiring, "You're so funny!"
---
He hated it when she hollered across the crowded common room ("Ron! Ron! Ron! Ron! Ron! Ron! Ron!") to try and get his attention, and everyone sitting around him laughed and it made him go red and try to duck down behind the sofa, and then they all laughed even more at how embarrassed he was.
He hated it when she got all sulky if he didn't want to spend every waking minute of the day with her ("I am supposed to be your girlfriend!").
---
He hated it when she talked to him in a stupid baby voice, under the delusion it was somehow "sexy". (Me, making a mental note for future reference: "Not sexy?" Him, through gritted teeth: "No. Just really, really annoying...")
---
She used to call him silly baby names as well, and he really hated that. As a consequence - and also because we're both far too prone to sarcasm to be able to pull off that kind of thing with a straight face - we don't have cutesy nicknames for each other. We never have. I am not his fluffy bunny and he is not my love muffin. We don't even use darling or sweetheart or honey or any of those other endearments, except occasionally in jest. Well, he does sometimes, usually when he's trying to get me into bed ("You're looking particularly gorgeous today, darlin'…"), or just in a silly mood, or when he thinks I'm acting like his mum, and he wants to let me know that he's going to respond accordingly, with a mock-apologetic "Yes, dear." (That one used to rather annoy me, actually.) We don't even shorten each other's names. Well, there's not much you can do with Hermione, and there's nothing at all you can do with Ron.
---
Poor Lavender, she was onto a losing battle from the start, really. Every single irritating thing she said and did just made him realise how little she and I had in common. ("Basically, tits," said Ron, rather bluntly, I thought. Mind you, he was only seventeen at the time, and I've trained him to try and rein in some of those teenage impulses in the years since. I remember the time he told me I had "fantastic tits", and I had to explain that although it was always nice to receive a compliment, I'd prefer it if he rephrased it so I didn't feel as though I was going out with a fourteen year old. "Yes, dear", said Ron.)
---
If it wasn't for her he might never have got round to asking me out. From what he told me afterwards it took about a week of dating Lavender for him to realise that actually, he didn't love her, didn't even like her in fact, and actually, he really loved me, instead. So I suppose I should thank her really, but sod it, I'm not going to. Those first three months they were going out, when Ron and I weren't talking to each other, when I had to put up with him kissing her all over the school, when it should have been me he had his arms around, those were the worst three months of my life. I cried every single day. Several times a day. And that was only because he kissed someone else.
---
Now I have to deal with the fact that he slept with someone else. Only this time I'm not allowed to cry, or blame him, or get angry, and I can't even expect an apology, because we weren't together, and we weren't together because I left. But it's always there, in the back of my head, and sometimes I think about it, although I try not to. I can't change what happened, so what's the point? I'm not allowed to be jealous, because if I hadn't left, he wouldn't have done it. I just wish it wasn't Luna. If only it was someone else, someone I didn't know, someone I couldn't picture him with. I know what they look like standing next to each other, how high she comes up to his shoulder, how they would look if they were a couple.
---
All my concerns were about whether he would be able to forgive me; it didn't occur to me for even one minute that I might not be able to forgive him. And yet it's all I can think about. Ron and Luna. Ronandluna. I think about them together. I've been driving myself mad thinking about them together. I know it's utterly pointless and self destructive but I just can't help myself. I wish I could get that image out of my head. He said she made him laugh, and for some reason that hurts more than almost anything else.
---
Would it have been better if it had just been some random woman he met in a pub? I think I would still have driven myself mad thinking about her, wanting to know things. It's just what I do. I can't stand not knowing. What did she look like, where did they meet, what was her name? I'd want to know everything. Was it just a one-night stand? Was he drunk? Did they go back to her place? What did she do for a living? What colour hair did she have? Was it curly or straight? Was she taller than me, did she have bigger breasts, was she more attractive, more fun, better in bed? But I can't ask him any of it. Because I just can't, but also because I already know most of the answers. I know her.
---
If I'm strictly honest with myself, I always thought Luna was a bit of an idiot. I probably wasn't as nice to her at school as I could have been. She was a year younger than us, and in many ways the opposite of me. I always thought she was a bit, well, silly. You know how you are at that age, everything's black and white to you. Luna was alright, but she was very scatty and vague and dressed strangely, even for a witch. She had some very peculiar ideas. In Muggle terms, she was a bit of a hippy. Not Ron's type at all. If I'd ever imagined him with someone else, she'd have been just about the last person I'd have considered a threat. But I do remember that although he thought she was a bit mad, he wasn't impatient or sharp with her, as I suspect I was. He was probably one of the few people at school who was nice to her and didn't treat her like a freak. I can see why she might have had a bit of a crush on him. Well, who wouldn't?! So I can't blame her for seizing her chance ten years later. And she behaved impeccably over the whole thing, much more so than I did. Let him down gently. Tried to get us back together. I owe her a lot, really. What if she hadn't sent him away? What if she'd said yes? Would he now be happy with her instead of me, planning a future with her instead of me?
---
I wish I didn't keep thinking about them together. Torturing myself. Does he think about it too? I always thought we were good together but now he has someone else to compare me to. Maybe now he's been with another woman, the idea of only sleeping with one person for the rest of his life isn't quite so appealing any more. He knows he has options. He survived two years without me, he could do it again. He could get someone else. He could get an Anna. Someone different, someone fun, someone who doesn't have the decade of emotional baggage I come with. Someone who didn't break his heart and stamp on it, for no reason at all.
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I understand Luna. It doesn't make it any easier to accept, but I do at least understand. I suppose I should be flattered, in a way - he was trying to get over me, but of course, that didn't work. Well, of course! I sound so full of myself, but who wants their boyfriend to get over them that quickly? You want to be unforgettable, you want them to never quite recover from the shock of losing you, you want to ruin other women for them - "She's nice enough, but she's no Hermione" - and them for other women too - "He says he loves me, but I know he's just thinking about her…" Luna was just a rebound shag. Luna was a sticking plaster on the wound.
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Anna, however, is something else. Anna is my potential replacement. He wouldn't only be going out with her to try to get over me anymore, he'd be going out with her because she's fun and smart and cool and sexy and confident, and because of all the ways she's not like me. She's not a replacement. She's an upgrade.
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What makes it worse is that she wouldn't even be the "forever" girlfriend, she'd just be someone he had a good time with for a few months. She'd be taking away my chance of a long-term future with him for the sake of a bit of fun. And this time, if he goes, he's not coming back, I'm certain of that. I'd just be the "high school girlfriend" that so many people have, the one they don't end up with, because who marries their first girlfriend, these days? It's not the 1950s. Nobody has to marry the first person they have sex with anymore. You're almost encouraged to put it about a bit, have some fun. After we'd been together five years we found that when we told people we were each other's first and only proper girlfriend/ boyfriend, they would react as though the very concept was freakish to them ("Poor you, you obviously have very boring lives and only ever do it in the missionary position and never on the Sabbath."). Particularly with women, they seemed to share my mum's view on the subject, namely; how are you going to know if the car's worth buying if you haven't test-driven a few different ones first? I don't know how I know. I just do.
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Maybe I'm just happy with the first car I ever bought and it still works and okay, maybe the tyres are a bit threadbare and the CD player doesn't work anymore, and the funny bumper sticker stopped being funny years ago, but the seats are comfortable and I know how to park it, and I'd rather take it to the garage and try to get it fixed than buy a brand new model that might turn out to have a whole load of new things wrong with it. And that analogy stopped working a couple of sentences ago, but never mind.
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Things used to be so straightforward. There was just me and there was just him, and that was all we needed. When did things get so complicated between us? So mixed up? It's always been a bit like that, of course - the silly teenage arguments and misunderstandings - but when it came down to it, it was the most simple thing in the world.
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Other people will break us up, I'm sure of it. It should be just about us, and instead it's become about Ginny, and Harry, and my parents, and his parents, and Luna, and Anna, and Jeff. I feel as though every time we venture outside of our little two-person bubble, I lose him a little bit more.
That night, for the first time all week, we don't make love.
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Author's Note: Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and remember that your New Year's Resolution is to Always Leave A Review... Happy New Year! PB x