Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.


I Don't Know You Anymore

Chapter 7
All Kinds of Time

It was with some difficulty that Ron accepted that his cough had gotten the better of him and he slowly turned around to face the empty street that was leading back to his apartment. Leaves covered the cobblestoned street and the rain had started to gather speed. Letting out a rather steady but small gulp of air Ron steadied himself for the walk home. His eyes were still not the only thing that was burning, even though he hated to admit it, even to himself, he was burning up. But he was getting used to the returning fever, the high temperature he had no problem with, it wasn't the sweating that was the issue – it was the shakiness that it brought with it. He had beaten it only seconds before, being able to stand up straight while letting the highpoint of the fever pass. But, like so many times before, he knew that he didn't have more than a few minutes before the second batch kicked in. He had sworn to himself not to do it, he had made himself a silent promise to do it the right way – alone, without magic. Nevertheless, this time the second kick seemed to hit him even stronger than the first and he closed his fingers tightly around his wand and apparated.

When he hit the floor of his living room Ron was already on his knees. There was no point in fighting it, the fever always beat him, no questions asked. With a shaking hand he pointed his wand at the fireplace, and within a nanosecond there was a roaring fire burning. Ron shot it a weak look before crawling up to the deep red armchair that was places before it. He didn't have the strength to take off his cloak, nor the strength to kick off his shoes. With his sweaty ginger hair hanging down in his eyes he watched the dancing flames, managing to keep his eyes half-open, letting them reflect the golden flames dancing around the soon black logs.

Maybe it was the fever, maybe he was going crazy or maybe he was already asleep. But he was convinced that he'd just seen Hermione. Ron let out an attempt of a frown – it wasn't at all possible for it to have been her, no way. He shook his head, more to himself than the fire. However, when closing his eyes he saw a spot-on-perfect image of her – as he always did when letting his eyelids rest. Every freckle was in the right place, every strand of hair was fallowing the winds sudden movements as if it was for real. Ron smiled to himself, if only it was, if only she was there for him to touch, to hug, to kiss. If only she was there, for real. At the realisation, at the thought, Ron felt the Goosebumps travel all over his body. But he was prepared, it was just like any other day after all – he'd do just about anything to have her there beside him, stroking his hair, telling him that despite it all he'd be fine. Ron let a smile flicker across his lips, truth to be told; right now her presence was the one thing that could make it all seem at least close to fine. With that thought passing through his mind, Ron finally closed his eyes and gave in to the fever and the exhaustion, and drifted off to sleep.

The early spring sun had started to make its way through the drapes that Ron, so stubbornly, had closed, for this reason only. He had a splitting headache and the last thing he wanted was to make it worse by adding some bright and shiny sunshine to it all. For some reason he had been feeling drowsy for days, taking time off from work, for the first time since he'd started, he wandered the two rooms of his apartment in his sweatpants and an old Cannons t-shirt. He hadn't taken a shower in days, so the lack of company was, on their part, only positive. Nor had he had any decent meals whatsoever – making him look even ganglier than usual. As a result of not shaving for a few days he now had the visible beginning of a stubble creeping from his chin and u towards the, now visible, sideburns.

Ron's red and swollen eyes darted up as the sound of an owl made its way to his ears. Searching the landscape if apartment buildings before him he found that there was not an owl in sight; there were pigeons, loads of pigeon, but not owls. He shook his head frantically, rubbing his tired eyes with his rough hand sighing heavily. Slowly dragging his feet across the floor Ron made his way into the, now, shabby excuse for a kitchen. Once, once it had been the greatest kitchen ever. Hermione would drop by in the evenings, they would cook a half-decent meal together and they would sit down and eat and chat. But his favourite kitchen time was when Hermione, at least once a week, dropped by with breakfast in the morning. He loved those days, when the sight of her was the first thing he saw that day.

Staring angrily at the kitchen table Ron sighed, he just couldn't believe that even how hard he tried not to think about her his thoughts always kept leaping back to her. Even if the prospect of her was miles away from whatever topic he was silently discussing with himself – the thought of her always managed to make its way in to the conversation. Reaching for his well-used Cannons-cup Ron poured some coffee into it, before turning to the refrigerator to look for some milk. Reaching for the milk cartoon and picking it up Ron frowned at himself. He'd once again left an empty cartoon of milk in the fridge. If Hermione had dropped by she'd be sure to have brought some fresh milk with her, she always did, knowing that that was the one thing that he always seemed to forget. Ron slammed the refrigerator door closed; he'd done it again.

Bringing the orange cup of steaming hot coffee to his lips and sipping it, Ron reached slowly at his pocket. Closing his fingers around the rough and beaten edges of, what seemed to be, an old piece of parchment, Ron brought it up from the right-hand-side pocket of his well used sweatpants for him to study, for the thousandth time that day. Like those other nine hundred and ninety-ninth time that day he felt a far too familiar feeling in his stomach, an invisible punch making him breathless in a very horrifying way. This was fallowed by a rather stingy sensation in his, already, red eyes, as well as feeling of complete emptiness filling his entire being. Looking at the only days-old parchment he read the curly letters, printed in a very familiar shade of emerald green.

Ronald Weasley
The pleasure of your company is requested
at
the marriage of
Hermione Granger
and
Harry Potter
On Saturday, the sixteenth of July
at
two pm
at St Luke's Church, London
and the reception afterwards at
The Three Broomsticks
at
six pm

It was just like Hermione to have a muggle ceremony, and a non-muggle reception. Ron sighed, trying to shake away the feeling that had become a part of him during the last few days. How did they even have the nerve to invite him? Did they even really want him there, or was it just the right thing to do? He would easily have bet his money on the second alternative out of the two, which didn't make it feel at all better. He'd gone over this a million times in his head, always coming back to the same conclusion; there was no way in hell that he was going to attend that wedding, period. Nothing could change his mind on this one; he was not going.

Ron was shifting in his sleep, turning to every way possible in the small, but still quite big, armchair he'd fallen asleep in. This was definitely not one of his dreamless nights. The fever was still doing a very good job, not making it an easy night for this reason alone – the dream not helping his case at all. Ron was soaking, and in his sleep he had been able to remove both his yet black cloak and one of his shoes, leaving only a white holy sock on his left foot. He had always been one to talk in his sleep, and this time was not an excuse – now muttering silently under his breath, the muffling making the words quite inaudible for any creature not possessing the superpower of freakishly improved hearing. This constant muttering, the repeating of a very familiar name, was interrupted by rough coughs every other minute – making the following muttering a bit more hoarse. He was definitely getting worse by the minute.

She seemed to poses some kind of special ability, knowing exactly when something troubled her brother to the core of his being, or maybe she just knew him all too well. Ron had never been able to figure it out, how she did it, but for some reason his sister seemed to turn up when he needed her – this time not being at all close to an exception. With the parchment still resting in his hand, Ron was stubbornly staring at the writing, as if his eyes alone could make it go away – or at least make the answer for his presence that day to appear on the parchment next to her neat writing. While he was standing there, staring at a small, torn, piece of parchment, silently wondering if he was going mad, he heard the very familiar knock on the door – not even doubting for a second whether or not it was his baby sister coming to his rescue.

He didn't even bother leaving the kitchen, he didn't even head towards the door. Ron knew that within minutes, seconds even, Ginny would use her space key and search both the living room and his bedroom before heading towards the kitchen in her desperate, concerned, search for her favourite brother. She'd sent him several owls during these last few days, and he hadn't bothered to answer a single one of them – he wouldn't have known what to say even if he'd tried. Words seemed far too unnecessary these days.

The sound of a key turning proved his suspicions to be correct, the actions that followed proved that he was right in every detail of his suspicions. Her footsteps echoed throughout the apartment, first making their way to the living room, fallowed by the bedroom, only to return to the living room while heading towards the kitchen. Ron turned slightly, catching a glimpse of the fiery red hair that, apart from its length, looked very much like his own. He liked her hair, she'd let it grow and it was now longer than he'd ever seen her have it before. Even though he quite hated to admit it to himself his little sister had turned out good – she was rather beautiful, truth to be told.

'Hey big brother,' she said sweetly, smiling at him sympathetically, studying his features, his clothes, his being, 'how are you?' The question was asked in the same sweet voice as the opening line, and the sweet smile, that only his sister possessed, still flickered across her lips. She already knew the answer to her question, and Ron knew that she knew. She, as well as Hermione, had always been way too smart for her own good.

'Could be worse,' he muttered, shrugging his shoulders as he turned back to stare at the invitation to the wedding of the year, as the press seemed to call it. Ron could feel his sister's eyes still focusing on him. 'I knew you'd come,' he said under his breath, more to keep the attention off from his wellbeing than anything else – this action, this statement, being a terrible mistake if trying to achieve just that.

'I was worried,' Ginny started, as she slowly made her way towards him Ron turned around to face his sister and despite avoiding her eyes his own seemed to dart their way towards her face, and by the looks of it she really was worried. In silence Ginny reached towards her purse, from it she pulled out a parchment, not unlike his own apart from the fact that hers was not as torn and didn't look at all as old as his did. But it still possessed some similarities – the thickness of the parchment, the emerald green ink that the writing was in, as well as the message it contained. 'The invitations came,' she stated simply, stating the obvious fact that it was the cause of his misery as well as the reason for her stopping by. Ron simply nodded at this, leaving both of them silent for a matter of minutes.

'I totally understand that you don't feel like going, Ron,' the younger of the two started, breaking the unbearable silence that not often occurred at any Weasley residence, 'and if I were you I know that I wouldn't even have considered attending, but it's Hermione, and it's Harry – they are your best friends, Ron,' she looked at him pleadingly, 'I hate it too, I really do. I hate what they've done, and I hate the way they make you feel, and if you want me to I won't go, hell I won't even speak to them. I just want my brother back. Just do whatever it takes, Ron,' tears were threatening to make their way down his sister's cheeks and Ron dove in for a hug, if it was to make her feel better or for it to have that same effect on him, he didn't know, 'the hell with Harry. The hell with Hermione – I just want my brother back.'

'I will Gin, I will,' he mumbled silently into her hair, feeling so grateful for the presence of his sisters company, 'It's just gonna take a while, I've got some serious recovering to do' he continued as he paused for a second and swallowed, 'and I'm not sure that going to the wedding is gonna help me with that.' Her response was silent, but he could feel her nodding, he knew that she understood just what he meant, and he knew that she'd be right there next to him despite whatever choice he made. They were Weasleys after all. Attending the wedding was possibly the worst thing he could do at this point. Nothing could change that. He simply couldn't go.

Swallowing hard Ron released Ginny from his grip, reaching towards the invitation in his pocket, for what he intended being the last time that day. Headed for the trash bin, readying himself for the disposal of the wedding invitation that had been haunting his mind for the better part of three days. But just as he was about to throw it in the bin, just as he was about to leave the trouble of it all behind, he noticed it; a familiar neat scrawling on the back of the parchment, making his heart bit just a little bit faster. Even before turning it around he knew who had written it, he'd seen that writing so many times before that he would have been able to tell from a miles distance. With the writing, that simply screamed Hermione's name, he could read the words; Please come. I need you to be there.

Ron hated that that made all the difference.