Chapter Nine: Two Years Earlier

He takes the letter from my hand and scrutinises it slowly, frowning. "But... I don't understand. This is a job at a completely different company?"

"Yes!" I beam.

His face has clouded over completely now. "And you went for an interview... when was this?"

"Oh, a while ago."

"When?" he persists.

"Last week."

"Last week!" He gives a mirthless laugh. "And you didn't think to mention it?"

I am confused now by his reaction. This is not what I expected. "Well...no..."

"Huh."

"No, Ron, look, I didn't know whether I'd get it, did I?"

"Hermione, this is you we're talking about. Smartest witch of your age and all that. Of course you'd get it."

"Well... I don't know..."

He shakes his head. "You didn't tell me you were looking for a new job," he says, accusingly. 

"I wasn't, I told you; I just saw the advert in the paper and thought I'd go for it."

"But you didn't think to mention it to me?"

"No, I - look, you're reading far too much into this."

"Am I?"

"You're being silly -"

"Oh, right, I see, I'm being silly..."

"Oh, Ron, don't get all offended, this isn't about you!"

"No, apparently not."

"Ron -"

"I just don't understand how come this is the first I've heard of it, that's all."

We stare at each other unhappily. Eventually he shakes his head. "I'm going to have a bath," he announces, and walks away without another word.

I stare at his retreating back, stunned. I don't understand what has just happened. I expected to feel exulted and for him to share that joy, but instead everything just feels flat.


"What do you expect me to say, Hermione?"

"I expect you to say "well done"! I expect you to be happy for me!"

"Yeah, well..." He gives an airy shrug. "I expect you to tell me things, so I guess we're even."


"Hermione," he whispers softly, then when I don't reply, more urgently, "Hermione!"

I open my eyes. "What, Ron?" I ask, irritably.

He bites his lip. "Why didn't you tell me about the job interview?"

I bury my face in the pillow and silently scream into it. "I've told you already, I didn't think I'd get it, so I didn't see the point. We've been through all this."

"Yeah, but you still haven't really explained why you didn't want to tell me, so that's why I keep having to ask you about it."

"It's not that I didn't want to tell you -" I close my eyes and sigh wearily. "Just leave it."

"So, what, you're not gonna tell me?"

"There's nothing to tell."

"Fine, don't tell me then."

"Oh, my God! There's nothing to tell, Ron! How many more times?"

"But -"

"Go to sleep, Ron."


"Why don't you ever clean the bath when you've finished? It would only take you two seconds if you used your wand!"

"Yeah," he says, as though it is the most logical thing in the world, "But I don't take my wand into the bathroom, do I?"

"Well, maybe you should think about it! Instead of leaving me to clean up after you!"

"Nobody's asking you to clean the bloody bath. If you just left it, I'd do it."

"No, if I just left it, nothing round here would ever get done."

"I did the washing up yesterday!" he protests, indignantly.

"Oh, big deal! You do one thing and you expect a big round of applause! I am not your mother, Ron; I am not going to go round cleaning up after you!"

"I'm not asking you to!"

"Well, I'm asking you to! Again. I'm just sick of it, Ron. I shouldn't have to ask you do things like you're ten years old."

"Well, don't, then!"

"You should just know these things need doing and do them. You're supposed to be an adult."

"I'm supposed to be able to relax in my own home -"

"It's not just your home, it's my home too! And I don't want to live in a filthy pigsty!"

"Well, go and live somewhere else, then, if you don't like it!"

This childish retort makes me even more furious, and I grab his wand from the bedside table and hurl it at his head, but it soars past and rebounds off the wall with a loud thwack.

"You always were a rubbish thrower," he scoffs, and he turns on his heel and walks out of the room.


"Yeah, but why are you really going?"

"I've told you, the job. How many more times?"

"Well, I don't believe you."

"I know it must be hard for you to imagine, Ron, but some people actually care about their jobs."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just mean that my job is important to me in a way that yours obviously isn't important to you."

"It's just a job!"

"Clearly. Since you only took it in the first place because you got a twenty per cent discount on your Chudley Cannons season ticket."

"It was thirty per cent, and what's wrong with that?"

"Oh, nothing! If you're happy to sit at the same desk for the rest of your life like your dad did, and never make anything of yourself and never make any decent money, you go ahead!"

"Yeah, well..." - he casts around for a nasty enough retort - "Maybe I just think people are more important than money."

"Rubbish!" I snort, "You care much more about money than I do! You always have!"

"Easy enough for you to say when you've always had some!"

"That's got nothing to do with it!"

"It's got everything to do with it! And you know I don't care that you earn more than I do! For Christ's sake, don't you think I'm used to it by now?"

"Used to it is not the same as happy about it!"

"Well, if you want me to be happy about it," he snarls, "You'll have to wait a long fucking time..."


"What do you want to do with your life? Don't you have any ambitions? Don't you have any dreams?"

"I want to be with you. That's all I've ever wanted. Is that not a good enough ambition?"

"That doesn't count! Don't you want to do anything for a career? With your life?"

"No! I just want to be happy! I want to be happy, with you, and I just want not to be dead and for you not to be dead and for Harry and Ginny and the rest of my family not to be dead, and I'm just grateful for that! Why isn't that enough for you?"

"Because I am grateful to be alive and I don't want to waste my life, I want to make something of it, otherwise what did we go through all that for?"

"Fine, you do that, that's fine for you! What does it matter if I don't?"

"Because I care about you and I don't want to see you waste your life!"

"Hermione, I'm twenty fucking four, why do I have to have a fucking plan for the rest of my life now? I'm just enjoying it while I can, before we have kids and all that other stuff!"

"Oh, right, because then all the fun will stop, is that what you're saying?"

"No, I'm not - you're twisting my words!"

"And you seem pretty sure of yourself that I'm going to give up my job if we have kids! My God! You're just like your dad when it comes down to it, aren't you?"

"Don't bring my dad into this! And what's wrong with being like my dad anyway?"

"Oh, nothing, as long as you don't expect me to start being like your mum!"

"Oh, here we go -"

"Your mum couldn't make it plainer that she wishes you'd gone out with a nice timid little witch who'd just stay at home and bake bread all day and churn out babies. Every time I use the word career she acts as though I just said a rude word!"

"She doesn't think that. You're over-reacting."

"I'm not over-reacting, Ron. She might as well have said it to my face."

"Well, anyway," he bluffs, "It doesn't really matter what she thinks, does it? I don't care about any of that stuff, so -"

"You don't care about any of what stuff?"

He flushes. "Well, you know... marriage and kids and stuff. Not now, anyway. Although if you did - you know - want to, I wouldn't be, like, gutted or anything."

He's digging a bigger and bigger hole for himself, and he knows it.

"What I mean is -"

"So if I got pregnant tomorrow you'd be horrified, would you?"

"No, that's not what -"

His eyes widen. "Hermione! Is that what this is all about? Are you..." - He lowers his voice as though someone might be listening in - "Pregnant...?"

He stares at me, a look of shock mingled with delight spreading across his face.

"No! No, I'm not pregnant, but you clearly wish I was!"

He looks crestfallen. "So you're not pregnant then?" he asks, flatly.

"No, thank God!"

"Right. Yeah... yeah, cos we're not really ready, are we? And obviously you've got to think about your career and that..."

"Oh, so you do think my career is the only thing standing in the way of me churning out lots of little Weasleys like I'm obviously supposed to? Well, I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment to your family! Maybe you should have stuck with Lavender, you could have a whole set of little Lavenders and little Rons by now!"

"That's not what I meant, I was just agreeing with you because you said you wanted to concentrate on your career! I was agreeing with you!"

"Oh forget it! I'm going to have a bath!"

I storm out of the room and slam the door to the bathroom behind me, turning the taps on to drown out the sound of the angry sobs that immediately come to my throat. I'm still lying there in the now icy water when he knocks on the door an hour later.

"Hermione, I need to brush my teeth, can I come in?"

I am certain that is just an excuse, but he comes in, brushes his teeth, and leaves, all without saying a word to me or even looking in my direction. When I go to bed half an hour later the lights are off and he is pretending to be asleep. I am too tired to challenge him on it, so I just turn my back on him and close my eyes and wait for sleep to close the curtain on another awful day.


"Ron, have you seen my purse?"

No reply. I stick my head round the door of the kitchen, where he is slicing bread for a sandwich.

"Ron! Did you hear me?"

Nothing.

"Are you not talking to me now? That's very mature of you."

I can see his shoulders tense, but he doesn't turn around, and he doesn't reply. I sigh loudly and go back into the front room with my cup of tea. He appears in the doorway a few minutes later with his sandwich and hovers there, annoyingly.

"Oh, for God's sake, come in if you're going to!"

I whip round at the sound of the bedroom door slamming shut behind him. For the first time I truly appreciate how small this flat is. There's nowhere for either of us to go to escape each other.

By the time I've made up my mind to go and force him to talk to me an hour later the lights have been turned off and he has gone to bed, although it is not even ten o'clock. Back in the front room I curl up on the sofa and lie there listening to the deathly silence and the ticking of the clock until I am lulled into a fitful sleep. In the morning I awake in the same position with a stiff neck to find a cold cup of tea by my side and a blanket thrown over me. He must have woken in the night and wondered where I was. Before I know it I am in floods of tears.


"I hate this lamp!"

He glances up from the Daily Prophet Quidditch pages wearily. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's hideous, that's what wrong with it!"

"That was a present from my mum and dad!" he protests, offended.

"So? Doesn't make it any less hideous!"

He takes a deep breath. "It's a fucking lamp, Hermione, who cares what it looks like? You switch it on, you switch it off, what else does it need to do?"

"Yes, that's exactly the kind of attitude I'd expect from you!"

"Hermione," he says calmly, shaking his head, "I'm sorry, but you've lost it. I'm not standing here listening to this anymore."

"Oh, fine, walk away, why don't you? Don't even try and face the problem or anything!"

"Alright, fine, what is the problem? 'Cos you know, we've been having these arguments for nearly two whole weeks now and I still haven't got a fucking clue what we're arguing about!"

"Oh, my God! Haven't you been listening to anything I've said?"

"Yeah, I've been listening, but you still haven't answered the bloody question, so what am I supposed to think?"

"Oh, shut up, Ron! I'm sick of listening to your pathetic, childish nonsense!"

"Yeah? Well, maybe I'm sick of listening to your - your -"

"My what?"

Unable to think of a reply, he just turns his back on me and slams out of the flat.


"Oh, come on, Hermione, you're not even dressed!"

"I'm drying my hair!"

"I can see that, I'm not blind. We're supposed to be there by now!"

"I won't be long."

"How long?"

"I don't know, Ron, stop pestering me and go and have a cup of tea or something."

"Ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour?"

I just ignore him and continue drying my hair. I can see his reflection behind me in the mirror, standing there with his arms folded and a disgruntled expression on his face.

"What, Ron?"

"Why do you always need two hours to dry your bloody hair?"

"You know why, and please don't swear at me, I've told you I'll be as quick as I can."

He gives a disbelieving grunt and leaves the room, presumably just to sit in the front room and stew, because a few minutes later he's back, having wound himself up into barely-controlled fury.

"Well?" he demands.

"Fifteen minutes."

He throws his hands up and storms out of the room again, returning almost immediately with his coat on and carrying a four pack of beer and a bottle of white wine from the fridge.

"I'll go on my own, then," he announces grandly.

"Fine, go."

"I mean it."

I finally lose my temper. "Go, then! Go to your stupid party! Stop just threatening it and put me out of my sodding misery!"

He takes a deep breath. "Fine," he says, shortly, and he leaves the wine bottle on the end of my dressing table and turns away from me, out of the bedroom. Ten seconds later I hear the door slam behind him. I stare blankly at my reflection in the mirror, at the little blodges of foundation on my cheeks and chin, and my still-damp hair. Sighing, I pick up a cotton wool pad and wipe my face. No point going out now. In a way, I'm actually quite relieved. At least I don't have to spend the evening looking at Ron's miserable face. God, that's terrible. But maybe that's what we need, a night apart. Ron can go to the party and hopefully have a few drinks and a laugh and come back considerably less uptight than he's been lately. And I - I can sit here and drink this bottle of wine and I don't have to pretend everything's wonderful between us to our friends.


I feel the bed creak as he gets into it and snuggles up to my back. I can feel his hot breath on my neck. His hand worms its way through the crook of my arm and starts none too gently groping my breast. I put up with it for about ten seconds before I snap, irritably, "Stop it!"

"Oh come on," he whines, "It's been ages..."

"Ron..." I whisper sweetly, already relishing the effect I know my words will have. "Honey..."

"Wha'?" he mumbles, still nuzzling my neck.

"Fuck off."

Silence. A thrill of expectation goes through me. The nuzzling stops, the hand is withdrawn from my t-shirt and he gets up and leaves the room without a word, taking his pillow with him and closing the door quietly behind him. I expected to feel triumph, but instead I just feel empty, and strangely alone. When was the last time we lay in each other's arms and just held each other? When was the last time we kissed? When was the last time we were just happy?

I can't even remember the last time I got through a whole day without crying, or the last time either of us smiled. I seem to have permanent toothache because I've started grinding my teeth at night with the strain of it all. We can't seem to manage a civil word to each other. Last night our entire bedtime routine - getting undressed, brushing our teeth, turning out the lights - was conducted in complete silence, like an elaborate mime. Of course, the fact that there's been no sexual contact now for nearly two weeks isn't exactly helping the situation, but I instinctively feel that I can't give in until there is some sort of resolution, that he doesn't deserve it, that there can be no pudding until he has eaten his greens. But I'm not sure anymore who it is that I am punishing.



The sudden withdrawal of any sort of physical affection at all is the hardest thing. I can't remember the last time we kissed, or cuddled or even just hugged. Ron has started biting his nails again, I suspect just for something to do with his hands. Well, I say biting; they're practically gnawed down to the quick. There was a time - last week? - when I woke up to find his arms around me and I didn't say anything, I just lay there trying not to move so I wouldn't wake him, grateful for the warmth, the contact. At least, until he woke up himself, realised, and let go of me as though I was on fire, muttering a hasty apology. An apology! For touching me! So this is what it has come to.


Ron is sitting on the sofa staring blankly into space when I arrive home late from work the following night. He still has his coat on and his bag is propped up on the floor beside him. He is still clutching his door keys tightly in his hand.

"Have you just got in?"

He looks up, startled. "What?"

"Have you just got in?" I repeat, impatiently.

He frowns, as though that's somehow a difficult question. "What time is it?"

"About eight o'clock. How long have you been sitting there?"

He shrugs. "I don't know," he admits, "A while."

We look at each other.

"Did you have a nice day?" he asks, with a massive amount of effort and a complete lack of enthusiasm that makes me absolutely certain he couldn't give the slightest toss about my day.

I sigh. "Why, do you care?"

"Not particularly."

"I didn't think so."

I walk into the kitchen and leave him sitting alone in the dark.


"You know what? I was quite happy with my life until you started telling me I shouldn't be. I liked my job. I liked not having to worry about it outside of work. I liked occasionally getting out of the office to go and measure Quidditch pitches. I was quite happy with the money I was on too. Alright, it wasn't brilliant, but it was enough. Now I don't know what I think anymore."

"Yes, well, maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe it's about time you considered what you really want to do with your life, rather than stick with a job you just fell into. You have to think about the future sometime, you know."

"Do I?"

"Of course you do! That's what I'm doing, thinking about the future! Moving on! You can't stay static for forever."

"No," he says glumly, "I suppose not," and I can tell he's thinking that staying static forever sounds like a pretty good plan.

"Just because your dad was in the same job for nearly twenty years doesn't mean you have to."

"Yeah." He stares at his shoes. "When he was my age my dad was married with three kids."

I glance up at him sharply. "What does that mean?"

He shrugs miserably. "I dunno. He had everything sorted, didn't he? He knew what he was going to do with the rest of his life."

"And that's what you want, is it?" I ask hotly, "Marriage and kids and a desk job you can stay in 'til you retire and a nice little wife at home who'll just churn out babies and spend all her time baking pies?"

"No! When have I ever said that?"

"Oh, so that's not what you want, is that what you're saying?"

"Yeah. No. I don't know! What's so wrong with marriage and kids and a job for life, anyway? It was good enough for my parents!"

"Yes, well, maybe I want more than that! Maybe I don't want to waste my life!"

"And that's what you think my mum did, is it? Wasted her life bringing us lot up? Maybe that's what she wanted, have you ever considered that?"

"How do you know what she wanted? Have you ever asked her? Maybe she had all sorts of hopes and ambitions that didn't include having seven kids in ten years and sublimating all her needs to the needs of her family!"

"Shut up about my mum! You think you know everyone's business better than they do, but you don't! Just because it's not what you want to do with your life doesn't give you any right to look down on my mum because that's what she wanted! I thought that was what you wanted too!"

I am flabbergasted. "What, to become a housewife?"

"No! Marriage and kids and all that stuff! I asked you once, and you said you did want to marry me someday, just not yet! You said we were too young! What was that, a lie?"

"No, I –"

"So, what, you've changed your mind now, is that it?"

"I'm not having this conversation –"

"I'm just trying to understand what this is all about, Hermione."

"You know what this is about."

"No. I don't. I know what you've told me it's about. But I don't know what it's actually about. Because, you know, we keep having these sodding conversations, and you keep telling me all these things you don't want, but you never seem to tell me what you do want. Do you even know what you want?"

I open my mouth and close it again.

"Well?" he demands.

I take a deep breath. "I'm going for a walk."


"Why are you doing this to me, Hermione?"

"Excuse me, what? Why am I doing this to you? My God! Not everything is about you, you know! I know it's hard to believe but Ron Weasley is not the centre of the universe!"

"Fine, well, tell me what it is about, then!"

"I'm not going to have this conversation with you again, Ron. It's getting boring."

"Yeah, well," he flashes back, "Maybe I'm getting bored of asking!"

Don't, then. Go and - play with your wand or something."

He gives a derisory laugh. "Might as well. It's not like you're going to..."

He walks away quickly before I can tell him where to stick his wand.


"My parents have invited us to dinner on Sunday, by the way."

"Can't," he grunts.

"What do you mean, can't?"

"I mean, can't. Christ," he adds, viciously, "And you're supposed to be the smart one!".

I stare at him with something like hatred. "Why can't we?"

"Well, you can, if you want. You can do whatever the fuck you like. I've got other plans."

"What other plans?"

"What do you care?"

"You haven't mentioned this before."

He gives a snort of derision. "Now you know how it feels," he mutters.

I clench my teeth in anger. "Is this about you just trying to prove a point? My God! That's just..."

"Just what?" he snarls.

"Petty. Pathetic. I don't believe you've made any other plans at all, you're just saying it to get back at me."

"Oh, right, because I couldn't possibly have anything better to do with my life than have lunch with your fucking parents!"

"No, that's right, you couldn't! If you have any plans - which I seriously doubt - I'm sure it's something thoroughly impressive and surprising, not just going to the pub with Mike and sitting around talking about sodding Quidditch!"

"Better than sitting around listening to you and your parents talking about sodding books!"

"Just because the last book you read had pictures in it!"

He sucks his breath in sharply. "Thanks for that," he says sourly. "Enjoy your lunch."


"You're putting them in the wrong way up!" I snap, pushing him out of the way, and starting to rearrange the cups on the top shelf of the dishwasher.

"No, I'm not!" he protests, indignantly, "I'm putting them in the right way up!"

"They're supposed to be upside down!" I hiss, furiously, "Otherwise they get filled with dirty water!"

"Well, how the hell am I supposed to know that, for Christ's sake, I've never used one of these bloody things before, have I?"

"You don't have to - oh my God, it's just common sense! What's wrong with you?"

He opens his mouth to retort but then stops and takes a deep breath instead. "Fine. Do what you want. I'm going home."

"What do you mean, you're going home? Don't be ridiculous, you can't, we're in the middle of dinner!"

"Watch me."

He turns on his heel and walks away. Seconds later I hear the front door being opened and then slammed shut behind him. My dad puts his head tentatively around the door of the kitchen.

"Is everything alright, love?"

"Everything's fine." I force a smile on my face and turn around. "Do you want coffee?"


I wake to find Ron hogging the duvet again, and deliberately pull it as hard as I can back over my body. Some time later I wake up shivering to find he has grabbed it back again, and anger rising within me, I thump him hard between the shoulder blades and yank it away from him. He yelps.

"Hermione, for fuck's sake, I'm freezing my nuts off here!"

"Oh, lovely turn of phrase, Ronald," I snarl, ignoring him and clutching the duvet even tighter around my body.

He sits up and stares at me accusingly. "When did you start using my full name all the time?"

"When you started being a monumental pain in the arse all the time, Ronald." I retort, knowing full well he has no similar recourse with my name.

"Fantastic," he says sarcastically, lying down again and turning his back on me, "I'm sleeping with my fucking Mum."

"Shut up!"

"You shut up!"

"Oh, what a witty comeback."

"You said it first. "

"You said it first," I repeat, in a mocking whiny voice. He doesn't reply, just reaches his hand out behind him, grabs the duvet firmly and pulls as hard as he can.

Our bed has become a battleground. We pull the duvet back and forth between us angrily for several minutes until, inevitably, three weeks of pent-up frustration spills over and, duvet forgotten, we find ourselves kissing furiously, our hands frenziedly tearing at each other's night clothes. He pushes me roughly back down onto the bed and pins me down by my hair, so I can't move my head without a sharp stab of pain. And somehow, that's what I want. At least I'm feeling something. He can't even look me in the eye, he averts his gaze to the pillow beside my head and I am grateful for that. There's no love in it, no tenderness, no warmth. It's just fucking without pleasure. Every thrust is like a blow. We just want to hurt each other, to cause pain and feel pain in return. I dig my nails into his shoulders as hard as I can, so hard I'm sure I must have broken the skin, and he gasps, and bites his lip, but doesn't say a word. For a brief moment our eyes meet, and we understand exactly what we are doing, what we have become, then he averts his eyes once more. It is over in minutes and afterwards he just rolls over and turns his back on me, as though he can't bear to look at me, and I lie there and stare blankly up at the ceiling. I feel nothing. I am dead inside.


Damn. I'm going to be late. For the last week I have taken to getting up and going in to work early, just so I can avoid him, but this morning, exhausted after three weeks of arguments and last night's exertions, we have both overslept, and now Ron has come into the kitchen behind me to make his breakfast. Not for the first time, I curse the tiny size of our kitchen, and the fact that neither of us can move about without having to almost squeeze past the other. No, it's no good, I can't be in this room with him a moment longer. I shall just have to go to Luigi's instead and get a very large, very strong coffee. God knows I need it this morning.

"You're late today."

I am so surprised that he has addressed me that I actually jump. I can feel him watching me, and I don't dare look up from my coffee making.

"Yes, thank you, I was aware of that fact."

"Why don't you take the day off?"

"What?" I can't help it; I turn to look at him. "What for?"

He shrugs. "I dunno. Tell them you're ill or something."

"And why would I do that?"

Another shrug. "No reason."

We stare at each other.

"I'm late, Ron, I haven't got time for this."

"I'm late as well!"

"Yes, well," I say, crisply, "Unlike you, I actually have people that rely on me coming into work on time in the morning, and unlike you, I have actual work to do, I don't get paid to sit around all day talking about Saturday's match results."

"Fine! Fine! I don't know why I fucking bother! Christ, Hermione, I'm only trying to –"

He waves his arms to demonstrate his point and accidentally knocks a glass off the kitchen worktop and crashing to the floor where tiny shards of glass go everywhere.

"Look what you've done now!"

"Well, if we didn't have such a stupidly small kitchen..." he grumbles, bending down to clear it up.

"Don't use your hands, for God's sake, use your wand, you'll cut yourself!"

"Don't talk to me like I'm a fucking kid - ow!"

He straightens up, sucking his cut fingers.

"See? I told you what would happen! Why didn't you use your wand like I told you?"

"Why don't you get off my back?"

"You're dripping blood on the floor now! Hold your hand over the sink, can't you?"

He turns on the tap with his other hand and holds the injured one under the cold tap. "Thanks for the sympathy!"

"If you'd listened to me in the first place you wouldn't need any sympathy!"

He turns his back on me and mutters something that is no doubt obscene under his breath.

I stare at his back with something like hatred for a few seconds, and then storm into the bedroom where I grab his wand from the bedside table, pausing only to kick viciously at one of his shoes that is lying on its side in the centre of the room like a miniature beached whale. "Why can't you ever pick anything up?" I scream, and suddenly feel overwhelmed and exhausted and sit down heavily on the edge of the bed to calm down. I sit there for several minutes staring into space, trying to calm my ragged breathing, gripping the wand tightly in my hand.

"Oh, that's great, don't mind me, you just have a nice sit down while I'm bleeding to death!"

He has followed me into the room, a bloody tea towel wrapped around his hand. He wrenches the wand from my hand and takes it back into the kitchen, ignoring my protestations that tea towels are full of germs and he'll get an infection. "Like you care," he mutters, but I pretend not to hear.

"Don't use a tea towel, you'll get tetanus."

"I'll get what?"

"Tetanus."

He makes a frustrated sound. "And again… I'll get what?"

"Tetanus. Blood poisoning."

"Well, why the hell didn't you just say that?"

"Perhaps I assumed you might actually know what I was talking about for once."

"Yeah, well, maybe if you actually told me things, I might do!"

I watch him unwrap the tea towel bandage, then point his wand at his hand and mutter a few words. The deep cut heals over instantly. Another few words clears up the blood on his hand and in the sink.

"There's some on the floor, too."

"Alright!" he snaps. "I'm doing it, aren't I? Jesus!"

"I'm just saying -"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, your nice clean floor is more important than my hand! Fine!"

"Oh, don't be such a baby, there's nothing wrong with your hand!"

"Excuse me? Did you not just see me dripping blood all over the floor?"

"Well, if you'd just listened to me in the first place…"

"Oh, shut up!"

"Don't tell me to shut up!"

"Alright, I won't!" His eyes glitter with malice. "Fuck off, then!" His voice rises to a yell. "Fuck off to your precious job, since that's obviously the only thing you care about! Fuck off and leave me alone!

"Fine!" I shriek back, "Fine, if that's what you want, I will!"

"Go, then!"

I stare at him, my whole body rigid with rage. I have never hated him more than I do at this moment. More than I did at school when he was rubbing my face in it by snogging the face off Lavender every five minutes. More than I did that first term of first year when two months of mutual dislike resulted in him announcing loudly, in front of the whole class, "No wonder she hasn't got any friends!" No, this is the moment. It's a good thing I haven't got my wand in my hand because the desire to cause him pain is very strong indeed.

"Fine, well, actually... I didn't mention this before because I wasn't sure I'd take it, but actually, it's a live-in job. So... fine. You want me to leave you alone, that's what I'll do. I'll write to them tomorrow and tell them I'll start in two weeks. That should be enough time to pack up all my things. You can spill whatever you want on the floor then. Now if you'll excuse me, my precious job is waiting..."

I push roughly past him before he can think of a reply, and leave him standing there in the kitchen, still clutching the bloody tea towel in his hand.


I hear his key turn in the lock and my stomach does a feeble back flip. He comes in and stops dead when he sees me sitting there. We look at one another in anguish.

"Hello," he says, quietly.

"Hello."

He stands there for a few seconds as if unsure of what to do next, then takes off his coat and hangs it over the back of the chair.

"Do you want a cup of tea?"

I shake my head.

He hovers for a while longer, then gives up and goes into the kitchen. I sit there listening to the sound of the kettle boiling. After a couple of minutes he comes out again, empty-handed, and perches on the arm of the sofa, the opposite end to where I am sitting. More silence, then:

"What you said this morning..."

I look at him. "What about it?"

"Did you mean it?"

"Which part?"

He makes a frustrated sound. "The bit where you were going to go and live in Yorkshire, what else would I be talking about?"

"Of course I meant it."

He frowns. "Right. It's just..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

I call his bluff. "Why would I make up something like that?"

He shrugs helplessly. There is a long silence, and then he blurts out, "So you're really going to take the job then, are you?"

"That's what I said, yes."

"Oh."

I wait.

"Because I've been thinking... you must have known you'd have to go and live in Yorkshire when you applied for the job. It must have mentioned that bit in the advert. So you knew that, and you went for it anyway. Or maybe that's why you did."

I stare at him, confused. My thoughtless lie is spiralling out of control. "What?"

He's getting into his stride now, his voice shaking with emotion. "Maybe that's what this is, maybe you wanted to leave anyway, and this is just an excuse."

"No, that's not -"

"Is there someone else?"

"What?"

"Have you met someone?"

"No!"

I am dumbfounded. How could he think such a thing? I thought he knew me, but if he thinks I'm actually capable of...

"Well, it's the only thing that makes sense. You've met someone and you're moving up there to be nearer him." His eyes widen. "You're moving in with him! That's what this is all about, isn't it? That's why you didn't tell me about the job interview! Oh, God, this explains everything!"

I can't believe it. "No, Ron, this is about me wanting to better myself by taking a job that just happens to be in Yorkshire, that's all. And I can't believe you actually think - is that what you really think of me? That I would cheat on you and then lie about it to your face? I thought you knew me better than that but obviously you don't! My God! If that's what you think of me then we've got some serious problems much worse than me just taking this job!"

I grab my keys and slam from the flat, shaking with fury. How dare he? How dare he accuse me of... of... and to think I thought he was going to ask me to stay! Well, if that's what he truly thinks of me, then maybe I should leave. I only said it in anger, but I am sorely tempted right now. That would show him. That would really give him something to think about.




"Hermione."

I don't look up. He clears his throat to get my attention

"Hermione."

"What do you want, Ron?"

"Could you just... put down your book for a minute?"

"I've got to finish this tonight, Ron, it's for work."

"One minute," he begs.

I glance deliberately at my watch and sigh loudly. "Alright, then. One minute. But that's all. I haven't got time for any more arguments."

"I don't want any more arguments either!"

"Well... good. That's a start, I suppose."

A long pause while he struggles to get the words out. I glance pointedly at my watch again.

"I don't understand!" he blurts.

"Yes, well, there are a lot of things you don't understand. If you could just narrow it down a bit that would be great."

He bites his lip. "Could you just – could you just hear me out without all the fucking sarcasm, please?"

A jolt goes through me. I look away from him and down at my book, but the words on the page have become a meaningless blur.

"I don't understand why you didn't mention this was a live-in job four weeks ago. I don't understand why you even applied for a job in Yorkshire when you knew you'd have to move out, and what I really don't understand is what the fuck I've done that made you want to move two hundred miles just to get away from me! I thought things were going alright between us, Hermione! I don't understand why you'd... if there isn't someone else..."

"There isn't."

"Then... why?"

"It's just the job," I croak, "It's a really good job, that's –"

"Yeah, I get it; it's a really good job. Must be, if it's worth all this. What, are they making you the new Minister of Magic or something? 'Cos that's the only job I can imagine being important enough to – no, actually, there's no job I can imagine being so wonderful that I would put you through what you've put me through this last month."

That gets my attention. "What I've put you through? Excuse me, you're not exactly blame-free in all of this, you know!"

"Me? What have I done?"

"Oh, forget it. I haven't got time for this. I've got work to do."

"Oh, big surprise! Imagine you putting your work before me!" He clutches at his chest in mock pain and staggers backwards slightly. "Wow, that almost never happens!"

I narrow my eyes at him. "You know what, Ron?"

"What?"

"Every tiny little thing you say and do lately irritates the hell out of me."

I turn my back on him deliberately and slam open my book at a random page, pretending to be utterly engrossed in it until I hear his footsteps walk away.


"Oh, God," Ginny sighs, "Have you two had a row?"

"No," I retort.

"Yes," mutters Ron.

Ginny laughs. "Well, if you can't even agree on whether you've had a row or not..."

Ron barely speaks for the next hour and the others seem to know not to ask him anything, although I see both of them shoot him concerned glances every so often. Finally though, Ginny snaps.

"Oh, for God's sake, Ron, cheer up! We've come out for dinner with you, the least you can do is talk to us. Whatever it is, I'm sure it can't be that bad!"

Ron gives a short, bitter laugh. "You reckon?"

Ginny and Harry exchange looks.

"Ignore him," I tell them, "He's just sulking."

Ron turns on me with a disbelieving expression.

"What?"

"Oh, you're talking to me now?"

"Why don't you tell them what we're arguing about, Hermione?

"Keep your voice down, please, Ron, we're in a restaurant, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh, shut up!"

"Ron," warns Ginny.

He rounds on her immediately. "Don't "Ron" me! Why don't you ask her? Go on, ask her!"

"You're showing yourself up," I tell him, my face burning with anger now.

"Oh… piss off!"

He gets unsteadily to his feet, throws a handful of coins down on the table, mutters an apology to Harry and Ginny, and storms out of the restaurant. They stare at me, shocked.

"Hermione?" demands Ginny, "What's going on?"

"It's nothing. Everything's fine."

"Well, it obviously isn't -"

"I've just got a new job and Ron is behaving like a child about it, that's all."

Harry frowns. "You've got a new job?"

"Yes, and you'd think that would be cause for celebration -"

Harry and Ginny exchange confused looks.

"But... that's good, isn't it?" says Harry, slowly, "Why would Ron be annoyed about it?"

I shrug, and Ginny, who is watching me intently, says quietly, "Because there's more to it than that. Isn't there, Hermione?"

"Well… it's in Yorkshire, so obviously, I need to move -"

"Do you?"

"Yes!"

"Why?"

"Why?"

I don't know what to say to that. I don't know the answer myself.

Harry looks more confused than ever. "So he's upset because you asked him to up sticks and move to Yorkshire?"

I feel my face growing red. Ginny is still watching me. She always could see right through me where Ron was concerned.

"No…" she says slowly, realisation dawning, "He's upset because she didn't ask him. That's right, isn't it, Hermione?"

My silence seems to tell them all they need to know. Harry gapes at me. Ginny stands up with a heavy sigh and pulls on her coat.

"I'm going to find Ron. If you're not here when I come back I'll see you at home, Harry."

She strides off without even a second glance back at me.

"Hermione?" Harry says, weakly, "It's not true, is it?"

"No, of course not."

"You're not really splitting up, are you?"

I am confused myself now as to what is happening. Now that's it's out there, in the public domain, it all suddenly seems so much more real. I feel slightly sick. "I don't know," I admit.

"So you're not moving to Yorkshire?"

"Well, no, I am -"

"I don't believe this."

"Harry -"

He stares down at his half-eaten meal, then pushes the plate away. "But why would you… I mean… You can't split up, you just can't! You and Ron…" He tails, off, lost for words.

Harry's disappointment is more than I can take. "It's not all my fault!" I sob, no longer caring that I am making a scene. Like the others, I jump up from my seat, throw some money on the table, grab my coat, and rush from the restaurant, tears filling my eyes. Outside I scan the street quickly for a sign of Ron or Ginny, but I can't find either of them in the Friday evening crowds. I didn't expect this. That they would take his side. That they would blame me for what has happened. It isn't my fault. It isn't my fault!


One Week Later

I've begun to dread the sound of his key in the lock, for the inevitable arguments or silent misery that ensue when we are both here together. And other times, when we are lying in bed not touching, with our backs to each other, there is an almost unbearable longing. Just to reach out and touch. To have some sort of connection. Does he love me? Do I love him? I don't know anymore. We must do, I suppose. There must still be love there, but we've lost track of it. We've withdrawn into ourselves. We exist in the same physical space - although less and less these days - but we no longer exist as a single entity. We're not a couple, we're two people who share a flat, breathe the same air, that's all.

We go to bed at different times so the one who goes earlier can pretend to be asleep. I haven't had so many early nights since we first moved in together, and that was for an entirely different reason. I've started working late at the office. Ron has started staying out late too. I don't know where he goes; I haven't asked. I doubt its work. To be honest, I don't really care. On those nights when he isn't here I am just grateful for the time to myself. Not to think - I'm too mentally and emotionally exhausted for that - just to sit alone in the dark and feel nothing. No anger, no resentment, no fear, no hatred, just a comforting numbness. And slowly, it seeps into my consciousness that maybe being alone wouldn't be so awful. That maybe it might be a relief.

Maybe that's what we need. A bit of distance between us. Some time to calm down. A couple of weeks apart to save our relationship. It's a sacrifice I have to make.

If I stay, I don't think we can survive this. If I stay we'll end up killing each other. If I stay I'll end up hating him.



If I go... maybe he'll realise how much he needs and misses me. If I go, he'll have to come after me.


"Don't bite your nails!"

He looks up, startled, and down again at his fingers, as though he hadn't realised he was doing it. "Sorry," he says, automatically.

"You always are."

"What does that mean?"

"Oh, you know what it means!"

"Herm-"

"You're always sorry, but you never do anything about it, do you? Nothing ever changes and I'm sick of it!"

He just stands there, with that miserable look on his face, not saying anything, not arguing back, and it makes me even more furious.

"And don't just stand there, why don't you say something?"

"What's the point?" he says, dully.

"The point? The point?" My voice is almost a shriek now. "The point is you not even trying, the point is you've just given up, you don't even seem to want to try to make me change my mind! The point is I'm increasingly starting to wonder if you even care!"

I am practically begging him to tell me otherwise, but he still won't, or can't, he just stares at the floor. I burst into tears and slam into the bedroom where I throw myself onto the bed and cry and cry. He doesn't come to see if I am alright.


He comes into the bedroom as I am taking off my boots after another long, exhausting day at work and hovers in the doorway, with the air of someone who has been building up to this all day.

I sigh. Might as well get this over with. "What?"

"Why are you doing this, Hermione? Why are you leaving?"

I can only shrug in reply. I have no answer to give.

"You love me," he says, and I can hear the pleading in his voice, wanting, needing me to confirm it. I hate the pleading, and the tense look on his face, like a child preparing himself for a blow to 

the head. And at that moment, I want to hit him. He's always been like this. Prone to self-pity, blaming himself for things that are nothing to do with him, almost willing it to be his fault, making it all about him. Oh yes, he is an absolute master of the guilt-trip.

"I hate it when you act like this."

He visibly recoils in shock. "What?"

"Feeling sorry for yourself is not an attractive quality, you know."

"I don't - I'm just asking a question!"

"It always has to be about you, doesn't it? Why do you find it so hard to imagine I might have things going on in my life that have nothing to do with you?"

"What things?" he demands, immediately.

"You don't really care, Ron, or you'd have asked me before now. You shouldn't need prompting."

"I'm not a mind-reader!"

"No, you're my boyfriend; you're supposed to pay attention! You're supposed to notice these things! Or am I not allowed to have a life outside of you now?"

"What life? What things, Hermione?"

Of course, I have no answer. There are no other things in my life outside of him - at least, nothing that he doesn't know about already. But Ron takes my silence as confirmation of his worst fears.

"I was right, wasn't I? There is someone else."

"Okay, yes! You're right! There is someone else! I'm having a wild affair! Because it couldn't possibly be that I just want to make something of my life! It couldn't possibly be that my career is actually important to me! No, it must be that I'm running away to meet my secret lover! In fact, I haven't got a new job at all, I'm just going to live off my rich lover and spend all day in bed with him, having mad passionate sex in all sorts of incredible positions! I love it when he takes me from behind over the kitchen table! I just can't get enough! Oh, God! Oh, yes! Harder!"

I realise immediately that I have gone too far. A nervous high-pitched little laugh escapes from my lips, and I clap my hand to my mouth in shock.

The look on Ron's face is thunderous. For a second I think he is going to hit me, but instead he just stands there with his hands bunched into tight fists by his sides and opens and closes his mouth several times before he can find the words.

"You know, sometimes, Hermione, I really hate you..."

I am too stunned to speak. Unbidden tears come to my eyes. "You don't mean that."

He just stares at me blankly, no guilt, no sympathy in his eyes. And then he shrugs. A gesture of indifference, as though he feels nothing for me. Ron, who always felt everything.

"Ron -"

He simply turns and walks out of the room, and seconds later I hear the front door slam behind him.

I look down and realise my hands are shaking.


I curl up into the foetal position and moan softly. I ache all over.

"What's the matter with you?" he says, unsympathetically.

"Period pains."

He gives a small derisory laugh. "I suppose that means I'm not going to get any action again tonight, then?"

I kick out my foot behind me as hard as I can and he yelps with pain.

"What was that for?"

"You. Being a git."

He mutters something I can't quite hear, but I'm too exhausted to ask him to repeat it. A wave of pain courses through my body.

"Can you see if there's any pain potion in the bathroom?"

"Here's an idea. If you want people to do things for you, don't kick them in the leg."

"Please, Ron, it really hurts…"

He gets up off the bed with a sigh and I hear him padding across the room and out into the hallway. He's back almost immediately: "We haven't got any left."

I moan with pain and frustration and he climbs back into bed again.

"Can you go to the late night chemist and get me some Nurofen?"

"Fuck's sake, Hermione…"

"It's only round the corner. It'll take you five minutes."

"I'm in my pyjamas!"

"You once Apparated three hundred miles just to buy me my favourite sandwich."

"Yeah, well, that was a long time ago. Things change."

"Well, could you at least rub my back for me? You used to like rubbing my back."

"Fine," he says, a note of vindictive triumph in his voice, "I'll go to the bloody chemist!"

He gets out of bed and I hear him pulling on clothes and then rooting around for change and slamming out of the flat. Tears roll down my cheeks and dampen the pillow. He can't even bring himself to rub my back for me. He'd rather go outside in the dark and cold than have any kind of 

physical contact with me at all. Hormones and exhaustion send me to sleep and I wake up minutes later to find him shaking me awake, rainwater dripping onto my face from his hair.

"Wake up! I didn't get soaked through so you could have a nice sleep, you know!"

"Sorry. Did you get the -"

He practically throws it at me. "Here."

"Thank you. Can you get me a glass of water?"

"Fine. Anything else you want me to do while I'm at it? Maybe I can make you a three course meal or do your washing?"

He stomps out of the room and returns with a glass of water which he slams down on the bedside table so hard that half the water sloshes out of the glass.

"Thank you."

"Yeah well, you just remember this when you're living up in Yorkshire on your own and there's no-one to go to the chemist for you in the middle of the night. Assuming you are living on your own..."

I am too tired to have this argument again. I sit up and take a couple of pills and wash them down with some of the water. He stands there watching me for a few seconds, then gives up and starts pulling off his wet clothes in the corner of the room. He'd put his jeans on over his pyjamas and now the hems of his pyjama trousers are wet through. He swears loudly, pulls off a shoe and kicks it clean across the room as hard as he can, where it bounces off the wall with a thwack and makes me jump, then he sinks down in the chair and buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I look away from him and down into my glass. This is awful. I turn on my side with my back to him, pull the duvet up to my chin and close my eyes tightly. I don't hear him come to bed.


I wake up some time later and feel, with a sudden clarity of thought, that this is the decisive moment; this is the night that decides if there is any kind of future between us. I can't stand this another second, and if we can't sort it out, then we might as well give up. I'll just have to carry out my threat and leave. But oh God, I don't want to leave, and I'm ninety per cent certain he doesn't want me to leave either. I just need to know for sure. I have to ask him, do you want me to stay? If he says yes, then we can get through this, I'm sure of it. If he says no, at least I'll know, at least I can just get on with things and leave and try and start my new life alone…

"Ron..."

No response.

"Are you awake?"

He doesn't stir.

I shake his shoulder gently. "Ron!"

"What?" he says, sharply.

"Were you awake?"

"What do you want, Hermione?"

"Don't snap at me!"

"Well, don't wake me up in the middle of the night to ask me stupid questions, then!"

"I just want us to talk."

He moans loudly. "It's half past one in the fucking morning!"

"Why are you so angry with me?"

"Oh, I dunno, let's think, maybe it's because I've just been woken up in the middle of the fucking night to have another fucking argument! As though we don't have enough when we're awake..."

"I don't want an argument any more than you do, I just want to talk."

"Hermione. Everything we say to each other lately ends in an argument. Why the hell should this be any different?"

"I just want to ask you something."

He sighs and I hear the soft thud of him banging his head repeatedly into the pillow. "It's the only way you're ever going to let me get any sleep, isn't it? Go on then, if you must."

I take a deep breath. "Do you want me to turn down this job?"

He doesn't answer at first, and then he says, quietly, "That's a trick question, right?"

I wait for a proper answer.

"I know how this one works," he says, angrily, "I say yes and I'm some sort of control freak boyfriend who wants you to stay at home and clean the house and have my dinner on the table when I come from work. Either that or I'm all resentful and jealous that you've got some fantastic job offer and I haven't, or I'm worried you'll meet someone smarter and more ambitious than me. That's if you haven't already. So, do I want you to turn down this job? No. Take the job, fuck off to Yorkshire, I don't care anymore."

He turns away from me and yanks the duvet roughly over his head.

I wanted him to say yes. I wanted him to ask me to stay. We've argued so much and I realised that I never even asked him that one simple question. If he'd just said that one word, yes, or stay, I'd have stayed. In my head there is another version of this scene where I ask him, "Do you want me to turn down this job?" meaning, "Do you want me to stay?" and he says yes. "Then I'll stay." And we hold each other, and tell each other we are sorry, and in the morning it's a new day and everything's alright again, we aren't killing each other, and he doesn't hate me.


He's not coming home. I thought he was just saying it to spite me, but he's really not coming home. It's our anniversary.

Four days now until I'm supposed to leave. It still doesn't seem real. I stand dazedly in the living room and stare at the neatly stacked pile of boxes and three blank walls of empty, dusty bookshelves. I never expected it would go this far. I want to cry, but I'm too exhausted to summon any tears. I'm not sure there are enough tears left in me to ever cry again.

He'll ask me to stay, of course he will. He won't let things get to that point, I'm sure of it. He'll ask me to stay, and everything will be alright.

000


(deep breath!)


Two Years Later

It's been our anniversary for an hour and twenty six minutes. I don't know what made me wake up, but as soon as I looked at the clock I knew. I can hear the slow rhythmic sound of Ron's breathing beside me.

Things have... things have sort of been on hold. We haven't spoken about what happened on Wednesday night; we've barely spoken at all, in fact. Our entire conversation in the 36 hours between when I left for work on Thursday morning and when I got home again tonight consisted of the following conversation:

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

"Mmph."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like death."

"Are you still throwing up?"

"Mmph."

"Do you want a glass of water or anything?"

"Nargh."

"Alright, I'll let you sleep. Hope you feel better."

"Mmph."

Ron hasn't been to work for two days. I offered to take Thursday off too, but he said now he'd cut his hair short he didn't really need anyone to hold it out of his eyes while he was being sick anymore and anyway, he'd prefer to vomit without an audience, thank you very much. Of course, that wasn't what I'd been thinking about at all, I had just pictured myself coming home on the Thursday evening to an empty flat and a note. Or not even a note. After all, he'd already said everything he needed to say the previous night. About how maybe this is a terrible mistake and maybe it would be better if he just went home. But when I came back from work - pushing open the bedroom door with a kind of sick apprehension - he was still here, fast asleep in my bed, looking as though he'd hardly moved since I left that morning.

I've had a lot of time over the last two days to really think about things. Maybe he's right. Maybe some time apart is what we need. And I am afraid of admitting this to him, in case - well, in case we are wrong. In case it turns out that our problems run so deep we just can't get past them, that this is unsavable. Just wanting it to work and wishing things could go back to normal isn't enough. I am pretty certain that if he hadn't been ill he wouldn't be here now. If it hadn't been for that dodgy saveloy...

He still hasn't said anything. About today, I mean.

It doesn't really matter. I don't really mind. It's only another day, after all.


I wake in the darkness some time later and get up to go the bathroom. Still half-asleep, I stumble into the front room and nearly jump out of my skin. Ron is sitting hunched and alone in an armchair in the dim morning light, staring into space. I hadn't even realised he wasn't in bed beside me.

"Ron?"

He lifts his head and gives me a sad sort of smile.

"What's wrong?"

He shakes his head. "Do you know what day it is today?"

"Of course I do."

"Oh, right, 'cos, you know… you hadn't said anything, so…"

"I didn't know if you wanted to celebrate it or not."

"Well, I didn't not want to celebrate it!" he snaps back.

I stare at him, a slow smile spreading across my face. "I thought you'd forgotten..."

"I thought you'd forgotten!" he retorts.

"How could you think that?"

"Well," he says in a tone of righteous indignation, "I deliberately asked you if you wanted to go and see my parents today, you know, like a test, and you didn't say anything about it being our anniversary. You didn't even mention it."

I can't help myself; it's so ridiculous I just start laughing and can't stop. Ron stares at me incredulously.

"What's so funny?"

"Us. We're a couple of idiots. I didn't say anything because you didn't say anything. I thought that either you'd forgotten or you just didn't think it was worth celebrating anymore. You said - you said it wasn't nine years, it was only seven." The memory stops the laughter dead in my throat.

He frowns. "Did I?"

"Yes."

"When did I say that?"

He doesn't even remember saying it. I really am an idiot.

"In the pub last weekend. Anna asked us how long we'd been together."

"It would have been ten years next year," he says, dully. "That would have been pretty impressive, wouldn't it? Something worth celebrating."

"It still can be."

"But it won't be ten years anymore, will it? It'll only be eight."

I go and sit down heavily in the chair beside him and take his hands in mine.

"Ron, believe me, if this time next year you're still here with me, it'll be something worth celebrating."

"You don't think we'll make it?"

"I hope we will. I really hope so. Because I've tried being without you, Ron, and I can't do it. I need you."

He doesn't say anything, just bites his lip and continues to stare at the floor.

"What did you do last year?" he asks, ignoring my heartfelt words. Okay, so he doesn't want to have that kind of conversation. Fine.

"Not much. Worked late, didn't get home until gone midnight. I think I didn't want to be here on my own."

He nods. "Did you think about me?"

"Of course I did."

"But you didn't think about coming to see me, or writing to me, or anything?"

"I thought about it, yes. Did you?"

"I didn't think much about anything, to be honest. It was shortly after the, uh, Luna incident, so I was basically hibernating under my quilt for a fortnight."

I squeeze his hand and he pulls it away and sits on it, frowning at the memory and staring down at his knees.

"What made you get up again? Harry?"

"Actually, no. Not that he didn't try. Even threw a bucket of water over me once." He gives a mirthless laugh. "No, it was Ginny. We had a long talk one night and I promised her I'd at least try and sort myself out."

"Did you tell her about Luna?"

"I didn't tell anyone about Luna."

"Why not?"

"Well, it wasn't exactly something I was proud of. Did you tell anyone about Jeff?"

I shake my head. "It wasn't exactly something I was proud of either."

We sit there in silence for a few minutes.

"You should try and sort things out with Ginny, you know. She's only looking out for you."

"I know."

"It'll make it easier if she's on our side."

"I know."

"Come back to bed, Ron. It's half past six."

I stand up and hold my hand out to him, but he makes no attempt to get up from the chair.

"Ron?"

"Yeah, well, since we're up..." He looks a little embarrassed. "I, er, got you a present."

Oh, no.

"Oh, Ron, you shouldn't have, I didn't get you anything!"

"That's alright. I didn't know if I should get you anything either. Didn't want to seem too desperate or anything." He gives a rueful smile. "Anyway, I kept the receipt. I figured I could always take it back if we didn't last the whole two weeks." He gestures towards the bedroom. "It's in my bag."

He watches me go into the bedroom to where his rucksack is propped up in the corner, overspilling with clothes.

"It's in the yellow carrier bag," he calls out, "Sorry I didn't wrap it."

I pull out the small yellow bag and take it back into the front room. "I feel awful now. I just thought… you might think it was too soon or something."

He shrugs. "It probably is, but hey. Anyway, wait 'til you see it before you start feeling all guilty. You might hate it."

"I'm sure I won't."

He watches me open the little yellow bag and pull out something made of a dark, soft material and hold it up in front of me.

Oh.

It's a dress. He bought me a dress. Navy blue cotton with a pattern of tiny little brown and pink daisies. Pretty, but not too pretty. The kind of dress I might have bought myself if - well, if I wore dresses. I get a lump in my throat and can hardly speak.

"It's a dress..."

"Well, it's not a puppy," he says, dryly.

I am still slightly overcome. "I didn't get you a present, though!"

"Well, I wasn't going to get you anything either, but I was just walking past the shop and I saw it in the window." He frowns. "You can probably still take it back if you don't like it."

"It's lovely."

"It was in the sale."

"It's really nice."

I hold it against my body and he watches me apprehensively.

"It might not be the right size. You're still a twelve, right? I remembered you used to be a twelve, but they only had one left in that size and…" He tails off. "I mean, you look the same," he finishes, awkwardly.

I drop the dress on the chair beside me and lean down and hug his shoulders tightly and plant a kiss on the top of his head.

"It's perfect."

He smiles slightly. "You can try it on if you like."

"Yes. Yes, of course. I'll try it on now."

I pick the dress up again and examine it more closely.

"It's backless," I observe, more to myself than anything, "I won't be able to wear a bra with it."

He gives a cracked grin. "Well, then, that's my present."

I laugh, despite myself. "Idiot!"

In my bedroom I pull off my t-shirt and pull the dress on over my head. It feels strange not to be wearing a bra with it, as though I'm naked under the dress, especially with bare feet and unbrushed hair. I stand in front of the full-length mirror and survey myself. My hair has that just-got-out-of-bed look that is supposed to be so sexy and fashionable when worn by models, but on me just looks - well, as though I've just got out of bed. The dress, though, is perfect. The halterneck gives me a cleavage that usually I can't manage without the assistance of an industrial-strength push-up bra, and the wide skirt flares out to my knees and makes my waist look tiny and my legs long. I couldn't have chosen better myself, in fact. How can someone who hates shopping as much as he does have managed to buy something that fits me so well?



I must do something about my hair. I grab a hairband from the top of the dresser and tie it back loosely. Yes, that's better. I am two paces towards the door before Ron's voice in my head stops me in my tracks, and I turn back to the mirror and scrutinise my reflection, frowning. It's better - but it's not me. I pull my hair loose again, then, after a moment's hesitation, I slip out of my knickers as well, so it is just me, and the dress. It feels right, somehow. Pure. Not naughty at all. Well, maybe just a little bit naughty. I smile to myself, take one last look in the mirror, smooth down the front of the dress, and walk back out to where Ron is waiting for me.

He swallows hard and stares at me, and I am pleasurably reminded of the way he looked at me the first time he saw me naked.

"You look incredible."

I feel a warm flush rising up my body. How can he still make me blush after all these years?

"I don't," I protest automatically.

"Says the girl who got asked to the ball by an International Quidditch player..."

I give him my most withering look - we've had this particular conversation at least a million times - and he puts his hands up in mock-defence and laughs. "Okay, okay, I was kidding!"

"It was eleven years ago! I was fifteen! And as you well know, I'd have said no to him in a second if you'd asked me instead!"

He smiles. "Yeah, well, I was rubbish, wasn't I? But that's not my point, anyway - I just meant, fine, don't believe me, obviously I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. But at least believe him. He can have any girl he wants and he chose you."

"Yes, and I chose you."

He reddens slightly but looks pleased. "Must be my excellent taste in frocks."

I shoot him an exasperated look. "I'm trying to pay you a compliment; could you at least try and be serious, just for one minute?"

He grins. "Seriously, you look gorgeous."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

We smile somewhat dopily at one another.

"Am I allowed to say "Happy Anniversary"?"

He pretends to think about it for a couple of seconds. "Um... yeah... I think that would be okay, actually."

"Well, then, "Happy Anniversary", Ron."

I feel suddenly giddy and girly and twirl my skirts at him, and he grabs me by the arm and pulls me down into his lap and kisses me, mumbling something which might be "Happy Anniversary, Hermione", but which could just as easily be "Damn, I've left the iron on."

"Ron…" I mumble happily some minutes later, "What are we going to do today?"

"Dunno." He kisses my neck. "This is good..."

"But it's our anniversary! If we are celebrating it - we are celebrating it, aren't we?"

He nods.

"Well, then we should do something special. Go out for the day or something."

"What did you have in mind? And please don't say the zoo..."

"I don't know, maybe we could go for a walk on the moors or something. It looks like it's going to be a nice day."

He considers the idea. "It's a bit early to be thinking about exercise, to be honest." He chuckles. "Well, that kind of exercise, anyway…" He stretches his arms luxuriously behind his head and yawns widely. "You know I can't ma-a-ake any kind of decision before breakfast..."

An idea suddenly strikes me that is so wonderful I jump off his lap in excitement. "We could go away for the weekend! Go and stay in a nice little B & B somewhere in the country! If we went this morning we could be there in time for lunch! Oh! Wait! Seeing as we're up already - we could go now and be there in time for breakfast! We'd only need to pack a few overnight things and a change of clothes! We can come back Sunday night!"

He shakes his head gravely. "No."

"What?"

"We can't."

I feel dizzy. "You... don't want to?"

"It's not that. I've got Quidditch tomorrow morning. I'll have to be back for that, won't I?"

I'm so relieved I actually shout out loud and make him jump. So we could still go away somewhere? We could just come back tomorrow morning before the match?"

He looks amused at my wild excitement. "Guess we could, then."

I grab him and hug him and kiss him all over his face and he laughs delightedly.

"Sod it," he says, "Let's go and get some breakfast..."


(Author's note: Because... the story of what really happened 2 years earlier kept begging to be written, because I wanted to send you down the rapids before you reached calmer waters, but mostly because misery is fun to write, damn it. The last paragraph was my original ending, way back when this story was only going to be 5 chapters long, but I realised they had far too many outstanding issues to wrap it all up neatly with a bow after only two weeks back together. So I'm afraid you'll have to put up with me for another four chapters yet. Will there be a happy ending? You'll have to wait and see! Thanks for reading and especially, thanks for all your lovely reviews, it's thanks to you I keep going, even when the end sometimes seems further away than ever. Keep reading (and reviewing!) in the free world, and Happy Easter! PB x)