Chapter Seven / Or Am I A Fool?

TIME STAMP: Approx. two months after the Battle at Hogwarts.

In this chapter, Ron deals with Hermione's absence. Sort of.


At night when the stars light up my room,
I sit by myself.

Talkin' to the moon,
tryin' to get to you.

In hopes you're on the other side,
talkin' to me too.

Or am I fool,
who sits alone,

Talkin' to the moon.

-Talkin' To The Moon, by Bruno Mars


Hermione leaves for Australia on a Monday. Ron fucking hates Mondays.

She rises just before dawn, and wakes both Harry and Ron. The three move about the small flat, half asleep and in silence, sipping tea and pulling on sneakers, stacking Hermione's luggage near the door.

The airport is bustling. Hermione's flight is delayed, so they check her bags and sit with coffee, Hermione explaining the various aspects of airline travel to Ron, who looks less than delighted with the whole arrangement.

"Doesn't seem very safe though, does it?" he asks nervously at one point, eyeing a plane take off through the airport's large windows. "I mean, what's to keep it from falling out of the sky, heavy thing like that?"

"Never happened." Hermione says quickly, looking pointedly at Harry. When Ron turns 'round for conformation, Harry nods earnestly and says, "Never. Harmless way to travel."

He winks at Hermione who smiles appreciatively.

The longer they sit there, the more anxious Ron seems to get. He's clutching Hermione's hand with his left, his right wrapped around his coffee cup, crushing the paper sleeve. Under the small table Ron's foot bounces up and down nervously. By the time Hermione's flight is called for boarding, he's trembling. Hermione's eyes fill with tears, but she gives no other indication that she's heard the announcement. For a instant, Ron seriously considers letting her miss her flight, taking her back to their little home and never letting her out of his sight again. Instead, he kicks Harry under the table.

Harry jumps up, and offers a hand to Hermione. She takes it, her other hand clutching Ron's more forcefully. They walk her to the gate, and when he can't stall any longer, Ron drops her hand and pushes her lightly towards their best friend. Harry hugs her quickly but tightly. He smiles at her before kissing her cheek and stepping away, pretending to be engrossed in the nearest Arrivals/Departures board. Ron steps into Harry's place, reaching into his pocket. He pulls something out and places it determinedly in Hermione's hand, wrapping her fingers around it.

"I want you to take this with you." He says, almost inaudible. Hermione opens her hand to reveal the Deluminator lying in her palm. Ron smiles sheepishly. "It helped me feel close to you, when I needed to… Maybe it can do the same for you."

Hermione kisses him forcefully before wrapping her arms around him.

"You've got your potions?" Ron asks. Hermione nods against his neck. They pull apart, Ron tracing a finger down the side of her face. "Please, take care of yourself, Hermione."

"Don't worry so much." Hermione chides, teasingly through her tears. "You're turning into you're mother, Ronald Weasley!"

They both laugh tearfully.

"I'll see you soon." She says faintly. Her voice lilts of a bit, as if it's a question.

"Absolutely." Ron nods.

They kiss once more, and Ron tries to relish it. Memorize it. He wants to be able to remember what this feels like when she's gone.

"Soon," he says, voice uneven. He pulls away halfhearted. "Really soon."

He waves foolishly as she walks away towards the gate. Harry's arm snakes around his shoulders. As the flight attendant takes Hermione's ticket she turns to smile bravely at the both of them.

"She'll be alright." Harry says. Ron just nods. He's always loathed Mondays, but this one definitely takes the cake.


On Tuesday, without Hermione to wake him, he sleeps in.

He wakes, an hour later than he should have, with Pigwidgeon pecking at his face.

"I'm up, alright?" Ron blearily bats the bird away, grabbing the miniature scroll of parchment it carried. As he unrolled it, a puff of dazzling orange, fetid smelling smoke erupts from the scroll. Coughing, and waving a hand through the smoke, he curses loudly. A less than eloquently written sentiment is printed boldly across the parchment in George's messy scrawl.

STOP SULKING AND GET DOWN HERE. HERMIONE DOESN'T DATE SLACKERS, GIT. BRING OTHER SULKER TOO; GOLDEN BOY IS GOOD FOR BUSINESS.

Ron groans, rolling out of bed and reaching for a set of robes from the not-so-neat heap at the foot of the bed. He dresses clumsily, throws half a bag of owl treats at a piqued Pigwidgeon and shuffles across the corridor to Harry's room. Ron's best friend is dead to the world, dark hair sticking up violently all over the pillow. Ron tries not to laugh when he sees Crookshanks tucked in a ball near Harry's hip, taking shelter after Ron had kicked him out of his bed the night before. Harry has a slight frown on his face, brow furrowed, and his right arm is flung out over the bed, inches from the wand on the bedside table. He refused to sleep defenseless. When Ron woke one morning to find Hermione had locked herself in the bathroom, he had woken Harry with little sympathy and a stern poke to the chest. The redhead ended up flat on his back with a black eye and a wand at his throat. He only made that mistake once.

Ron creeps around the bed and noiselessly slides the wand out of Harry's reach. He watches his friend for a moment. Harry hisses in his sleep, hand coming up to rub at his scar. Harry admitted to Ron that he felt the phantom pain of his scar in his dreams; nightmares where things don't turn out nearly as well, where Voldemort is triumphant, Ron and Hermione laying bloody at his feet. More than once Ron has woken to the soft click of his bedroom door closing, Harry having just snuck in to reassure himself of his friends' safety. Incapable of watching his friend suffer any longer, Ron reaches out and gently shakes Harry's shoulder. Harry's response is instantaneous: his whole body tenses up, hand grabbing for the absent wand as his eyes fly open. It takes him a moment, but when he sees that there's no threat, just Ron, he sinks back towards his pillow, eyelids heavy.

"Alright, mate?" Ron asks. He squeezes Harry's shoulder. Harry nods sluggishly, opening one eye to glare at Ron who claps him on the shoulder apologetically. "Sorry, would have left you to sleep… but George wants us down at the shop."

"Whass' he wan' me for?" Harry slurs, sitting up and taking the glasses Ron holds out. He jams them onto his face, crooked. His hair is sticking up at all ends.

"'Dunno. Stand around, look famous?" says Ron. He knows better. Harry's been so busy with Hermione these past weeks; he's barely had a chance to be alone, let alone sulk and brew. George and Ron would like to keep it that way. "C'mon, mate. It's better than sitting here alone all day."

"S'pose." Harry runs a hand through his unruly hair. This doesn't help the situation.

"You should shower first." Ron says frankly, tugging harshly on Harry's hair. "Comb that mop, would you? It'll make business bad."

Ron leaves the disheveled Harry to tidy himself and heads out. He enjoys this short walk, early every morning. The suns just coming up, and it's as if Diagon Alley is waking up with it. He descends the rickety steps down the side of their building. At the bottom he pauses to wave through the window at Mrs. Poppitch, the owner of the tiny bookstore beneath their apartment. Penny Poppitch is a tiny little woman, a widow with silver hair and shining blue eyes. Kind and loving, she reminds Ron of his own mother, and she dotes on Hermione. The trio is quite fond of her. The Alley is quiet as Ron makes his way down to Weazley's Wizarding Wheezes. It's peaceful in a way he never experienced when coming here to shop for school and certainly not during the war. The shops are just getting ready to open, and there is a slow trickle of wizards arriving, making there way down the cobbled street to their places of business. The shop isn't open yet and Ron's forgotten his key, so he scoots around the side of the corner building and takes the stairs two at a time, at the top letting himself into George's apartment.

The apartment is much tidier than one would assume of the Weasley twins. The small kitchenette is spotless, except for the vibrant orange and purple boxes of extra inventory stacked next to the refrigerator. The cozy sitting area shows a few signs of life: papers scattered over the desk, a quill tossed on top. The sofa has a blanket crumpled on it. This is where George sleeps now. In the bedroom, George and Fred's single beds sit exactly the way they were left the morning of the battle: George's haphazardly made, and Fred's sheets still a mess. George won't sleep in there alone, can't stand to alter Fred's bed, move it or even look at it. So the door remains closed, and George sleeps on the couch, in spite of Hermione's several requests to come down to their apartment and take her bed.

"Oh good, you're here." George's voice is strained as he comes around the corner out of the bathroom, he's only half dressed, and he's pressing a wet cloth to his eyes, face pinched.

"Mate, you should get that checked." Ron motions towards His brother's head. George had been prone to headaches in the last couple months, and Ron had prodded him to go to the hospital, worried about residual affects from the battle but George had vehemently refused.

"Naw, I'ss goin' away." George tosses the cloth back into the bathroom and faces Ron. He waves towards the desk, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Can you look at the books? I can't get them to... You know- balance."

Ron picks up the long piece of parchment, covered in numbers and charts, George's scrawl in the margins. Ron's a bit sharp when it comes to maths, and spots the problem immediately- Hermione would be surprised, he thinks, as he crosses out a number and moves it across the page. He holds the sheet up to George, pointing with the quill.

"These Galleons are profit, not expense." He says, as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh bugger off." George exclaimed, annoyed. "We used to do that together- Fred's better at- he was-"

"It's fine." Ron says, quickly. He's hit a nerve. "I can help. Harry's on his way up, we can make him do the inventory and I'll fix this up."

"Anything to get you out of doing it, eh bro?" George snorts, pulling his vivid pink robes over his head.

"Hey! I've been at you to get Lee back around. We could use the help." Ron points the quill menacingly across the room. "I was up to my arse in Fainting Fancys for four bloody hours last week!"

"Yeah, yeah." George runs a hand through his increasingly long hair, parting a section to cover his missing ear. "I've been thinking about it. Might go 'round and see him tomorrow. Angelina sent another owl yesterday... Maybe he can get her off my back before she fucking shows up here."

"You know, maybe you should write her back, mate." Ron suggests nervously. "Fred would have wanted-"

"Don't." George drops the shoe he's about to put on and straightens up abruptly. "Don't talk like you knew him better, like you know what he would have wanted. I don't even know where he stood with her, you sure as fuck don't. Don't you think if I knew- if I knew what-"

George sticks his fingers against his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Whether it's against tears or the pain of a headache, Ron isn't sure.

"George-" Ron steps forward awkwardly, hand coming to hover just over his brother's shoulder, afraid of what may happen if he makes contact. "I didn't mean-"

"If I knew what he wanted me to say to say to her, I would have done it already, alright?" George makes it clear with his tone that this conversation is over. He swipes a hand down his face and grabs his shoe, shuffling out of Ron's grasp. If there had been tears, Ron would never have seen them.

Ron feels useless. In that moment, he really misses Hermione. She was always a comforter; she would know what to say, to him, to George. She'd know how to fix the inventory, balance the books and make George laugh all in one. The dull ache that's taken up presence in Ron's chest since he watched her board the plane grows just a little bit more.


A small cauldron explosion at the shop sends Ron and Harry home after dark, both covered in a thick coating of electric blue slime. Harry is very grumpy about this so Ron graciously allows him first shower. When he's finally de-slimed, Ron throws on a pair of sleep pants and digs out a bottle of Firewhiskey. He downs a half a dozen swigs from the bottle and then pours himself a generous glass. He pads around the apartment in his bare feet, sticking his head out the windows, hoping to catch sight of a large black bird. Harry catches him an hour later with his elbows on the front windowsill, gazing out over the alley, nearly empty glass balanced between his fingers.

"What are you doing?" Harry asks, in a tone that says he already knows exactly what Ron is up to. "It's barely been a day... It takes nearly that long to get there. Give her a chance to settle..."

Ron just nods, swallows the lump in his throat. He won't turn around, won't show Harry the tears gathering in his eyes, or how his hands tremble against the glass he's clutching. He honestly doesn't know what's gotten into him. Harry's right- it's not even been two days since she left. But already it's as if someone's torn out a part of his soul, a gaping hole left in his chest. He wonders for a split second if this is how Voldemort felt, missing bits of himself. His hearts been hammering since she got on the plane, a constant uncomfortable flutter, a mirror of the panic he's sure Hermione must be feeling, wherever she is. And when he thinks about her, anxious and afraid, unable to sleep alone, he loses it entirely. The glass of whiskey hits the windowsill with a dull clunk and a splash, which must be Harry's cue, because when Ron's knees give out, his best mate is already behind him, grabbing him round the shoulders with a firm arm.

"Ron? Merlin- here, down."

Ron feels himself being clumsily lowered, vision swimming, and when he refocuses, he's arse on the rug, with his back against the bookshelf. Harry's cross-legged in front of him, their knees all crushed together, Harry's hands on him, one grasping his left elbow, the other near his right ear, fingers pressed against his neck. He can feel his pulse pounding against Harry's fingers; he knows he's been found out. Harry doesn't say anything, just stares at him, his face halfway between concerned torment and bemused bewilderment. Ron's not sure which is worse. He sits there, on the floor in Harry's grasp, breathing raggedly and trembling. He can't shake the image of Hermione walking away from him, of the plane taking off. Nearly everything he cared for, the fractured person he'd worked desperately to piece back together, flying away from him in giant tin can.

"We put her on an aero plane." Ron says, meeting Harry's eyes doggedly. This thought has only just occurred to him, and it tears at his heart all over again. "She's scared to fly. She doesn't even like brooms, and we threw her on a great bloody plane."

A little color drains from Harry's face and Ron knows he didn't think of it either.

"Plane was her idea." Harry says firmly, fingers tightening on Ron's elbow and flicking inattentively at the edge of his hair. "She could have portkeyed. She was fine with it."

"What have I done, Harry?" Ron asks dejectedly, grasping Harry wrist, hanging off the sleeve of his jumper. "She's left me. I just got her and I've already made a muck of things."

Harry looks like he might laugh.

"You daft git!" he cries. "She hasn't left anyone."

"Oh just you wait. She's not coming back." Ron is morose, extravagant and far-fetched images forming in his mind. It must be the Firewhiskey. "She's going to cozy up in Australia, it's beautiful there. Girls like pretty stuff. She'll find someone who makes more money, who drinks wine. They'll get a pet Kangaroo-"

Harry topples over, head smashing into Ron's shoulder, howling with laughter. For a moment Ron thinks he's in 2nd Year all over again, lying on the floor of the Gryffindor common room, hyped up on chocolate frogs, carefree and innocent, before there were horcruxes to find, before their lives rested in his best friends hands, before his whole world revolved around Hermione Granger.

"Are you mad?" Harry gasps, finally straightening up, still grinning ear to ear. "Do you hear yourself? How drunk are you? Hermione doesn't drink wine!"

They both crack up at this, Ron feeling strangely lightheaded.

"What have you done with that bottle?" Harry asks, untangling himself from Ron, still chuckling. Ron waves in the direction of the kitchen. Harry returns a moment later, bottle in one hand, a small brown envelope in the other. "You know I've never been drunk? All this saving the world business and whatnot but I've never been drunk."

"My god." Ron's mouth falls open in horror. "Me neither!"

"Well. Perfect time, yeah?" Harry takes a mouthful from the bottle and hands it off to Ron. "You could use a pick me up."

"Whass' in there?" Rob asks, tugging the envelope free of Harry's fingers and pulling it open. Several Wizarding photographs fell into his lap. They all pictured a bumbling baby boy, crawling along a carpeted floor, brown hair curling at his forehead.

"Teddy. Andromeda caught him when he hadn't changed the color of anything."

"Merlin." Ron whispers, holding the photo at arms length and squinting. "He looks just like Remus, don't he?"

Harry nods soberly.

"Andromeda's tuckered out chasing him 'round all the time. We talked about me taking him every other weekend. Could be interesting." Harry takes the topmost photo off the stack and sticks it up against a stack of books on the sofa table, smiling fondly. Then he turns back to Ron. "Alright. Your turn."

"Huh?" Ron puts down the photograph he's been examining and looks up confused. "What are you on about?"

"You and Hermione." Harry states impatiently. "I fancy myself responsible for you two having met to begin with. I think I deserve an update."

Ron's ears turn pink and he picks at a loose thread in the rug for a moment. He clears his throat.

"I snogged her. Back home, by the pond." he says it in an offhand way, likes it's no big deal. But Harry knows better. Knows that inside Ron is swelling with pride over this triumph.

"Good on ya, mate!" Harry makes a show of clapping him on the back and hands him the Firewhiskey again. Ron grins sheepishly, but it's short lived. He stares miserably into the depths of the half empty bottle, his thoughts murky. Harry's learned over the years to let Ron work through his emotions himself, so he waits. Trying to force conversation on Ron when he was upset or angry was like taming a wild Hippogriff: dangerous and unlikely to succeed. Leave him be, let him work himself up and then calm himself down and come to you. After a good ten minutes silence, Ron speaks.

"I'm fucking terrified, Harry." Ron puts the bottle down and forces his trembling hands to fist together. He averts his eyes from Harry's gaze, staring absentminded at the photo framed over the couch. Ginny had brought it to them, one of the many found among Colin Creevy's collection in his Hogwarts dormitory. Out of all of Colin's candid snaps, this was one of only a few they had posed for. The four of them were grinning brightly in the sun outside the castle, Colin had caught them on a mid afternoon walk. Ginny is piggyback style on Harry's back, her chin resting on the top of his head, her hand reaches out to grab Ron's shoulder for balance as Harry laughs and deliberately jostles her. Hermione is a few steps off, lauding at them, and Ron watches as photo-him loops an arm around her neck and gently tugs her into centre frame. She laughs and playfully shoves him off, forcing herself between Ron and Harry to loop arms with both of them.

"Hey. Ron, I'm your best mate." Harry scoots over, blocking Ron's view of the photo. With the true topic at hand so close out in the open, Harry feels comfortable giving a little prodding. "Tell me what's going on in that thick skull of yours.

"She's just- it's so-"

"Breathe." Harry says patiently. Ron obeys: heaves a shuddering breath and scrubs at his wet eyes with the back of his wrist

"What if she's not Hermione anymore?" Ron says shakily, eyes wide. "It's like something's broken inside her, and we don't know how to fix it, how to get her back. What if she never goes back to how she was before?"

"Are you going to love her any less?" Harry asks.

"I- what? What makes you think-" Ron says awkwardly, blushing.

"Mate, I knew you were in love with her before you knew."

Ron buries his face in his hands.

"She's changed, so what? We all have." Harry grasps Ron's shoulder and forces him to meet his gaze. Ron does so, eyes full of tears. "Do you love her any less for it?"

"Don't be stupid." Ron spits, angrily. "'Course not-"

"Then don't be so scared." Harry says confidently. "We fought a war. We're not walking away from all ok. Neither is she. And that's fine. She's alive, Ron. This could have been so much worse."

Ron puts his face back in his hands. His shoulders are shaking now, choked sobs escaping him. Harry stays close. He'd been expecting this. Ron's stayed so level through everything, not even his temper getting out of hand, the family man inside of him has made his appearance. Ron runs the shop single handedly on days when George won't get out of bed, spends his nights comforting Hermione, waking Harry from his nightmares, traveling to the Burrow several times a week to spend time with his parents and Ginny. While the rest of them have all had their fair share of breakdowns, this is the first time Harry's seen Ron truly just lose it since they left the castle 2 months earlier.

"I'm not doing enough- I should be doing more. You're here with her all day-"

"Stop it." Harry says sternly and suddenly. "Just stop it. I don't want to hear that sort of rubbish."

Ron sniffs noisily, not bothering to try to hide the tears streaming down his face. Harry has shuffled around closer to him and is rubbing his back. They're pretty touchy to begin with- Ron and Harry, but alcohol and tears turn them into complete girls.

"I sit here all day and feel useless. I don't know what to do like you do." Harry says lowly. "When she wakes up from a nightmare, she asks for you. When she panics, when she thinks she's back in that room with Bellatrix? First thing she says is your name."

Ron shudders and closes his eyes at the mention of that awful day at Malfoy Mannor.

"Look, I'd be lying if I said it didn't scare me too, Ron. But she's getting loads better, and that's all your doing. I've known you a long time and I've never seen you look after anything the way you look after her. I understand, mate... I know how hard it is for me to watch her suffer, I can only imagine what it's like for you." Harry stands and hooks his arms under Ron's, hoisting him to his feet. "C'mon. Let's get you to bed. You've run yourself thin."

Harry all but drags Ron down the hall to his room. He deposits him on the messy bed and then trecks down to Hermione's room, pulling Hermione's blanket off her bed. She only slept in it for a few nights, but sniffing experimentally he smells the spicy warm smell of her shampoo. Bingo. He drags the blanket back to Ron's room and throws it over his friend, tucking in the edges as of Ron is 7.

"She's not going to stay in Australia." Harry says firmly as he turns to leave. "Because there aren't any Ron Weasleys in Australia."

"Harry?" Ron's voice is raw.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks." Ron turns beet red and then buries his face in Hermione's blanket, inhaling deeply. Harry smirks.

"Your welcome, mate."


A/N: I took longer with this one, sorry everyone! I'm really proud of this piece. I admire so much those moments in the books when Ron and Harry have those true best friend moments. I really hope you all enjoyed my attempt at one.