Chapter Twelve


"Hands are the most honest part of the human body, they cannot lie as laughing eyes and the mouth can."

-M.C. Escher


Telling his family was worse. Much worse. With Kingsley, they had at least been able to stick to the facts, telling the Minister exactly what he needed to know and nothing more. And Kingsley had been a good listener, stopping them only for occasional clarification and remaining stoic the entire time they were speaking. But telling it to his family was a different matter entirely.

Eight sets of eyes all focused piercingly on the three of them in the center of the living room, waiting for them to begin speaking, waiting for explantations he wasn't keen to give them. Ron didn't particularly fancy saying it to them all as a big group. He felt a bit like an exhibit at a zoo, trapped in a cage as they all peered in through the bars and judged him at once. But it was that or tell them individually, which only sounded appealing so long as he ignored that then he'd have to tell it more than once.

All the same, eight sets of eyes meant eight opinions. And eight sets of Weasley eyes meant eight loud opinions. It was difficult to get even a sentence out without being interrupted. There were gasps in frankly unnecessary places, unasked-for commentary throughout, and the occasional outburst of anger or indignation that would grind the whole story to a halt until the three of them had addressed it to the listener's satisfaction. And worst of all, they couldn't just stick to the facts. It was much harder to be on autopilot in a roomful of emotional people all demanding that you share your emotions as well.

They didn't even make it past the initial and most important point—the horcruxes—without a major series of outbursts developing from it. As soon as Harry had explained it to his family, the room exploded in shock and outrage.

"Horcruxes?" Percy whispered weakly, "Merlin. I never would have thought—"

Ginny immediately demanded further details, her eyes wide. Charlie, who, a bit unnecessarily, in Ron's opinion, had rushed home just to hear everything firsthand, nearly dropped his glass of water. His mother choked out "You went after those, those things by yourselves?" in a voice so frail he wanted to get up and leave Harry and Hermione to tell the rest of it alone.

Twenty minutes of heated debate later, Hermione finally had to speak up and tell them to hush. "We're never going to get through this if we stop at every detail and discuss it!" She hissed. He and Harry nodded along gratefully. "I think we should keep questions until the end."

The others all nodded in resigned agreement, but nonetheless broke the rules almost immediately afterwards, when Hermione started in on explaining their break-in to the ministry. It was the same way throughout, and it made the whole thing increasingly unbearable to get through. Blessedly, Harry and Hermione once again skimmed over his departure, but it wasn't as easy as when they'd done so with Kingsley. Ron made the mistake of meeting Bill's eyes, which were all too knowing, and immediately felt a wave of guilt wash over him. Perhaps it was cowardly, but he couldn't bring himself to admit his mistake in front of all of them like that. Their accusatory looks, all at once, would be too much—even though he knew he deserved them.

But when they reached Malfoy Manor, it was a different story. Hermione had grown quiet, and Harry was looking to him to continue as if, despite his own uncertainty about how to proceed, he somehow thought Ron would have the answer. Well he didn't. He didn't have a damn clue. It had been an easy decision with Kingsley. The Ministry needed to know, for when it prosecuted the Malfoys, that their family had just stood there as Hermione, his Hermione—the most courageous, intelligent, brilliant girl in the world, a hundred times the person of all of them put together—was tortured before their eyes. That Lucius Malfoy had allowed it to happen under his very roof and done nothing. He knew that Narcissa had in the end helped Harry, even saved him. He knew that there was probably even something redeemable in Draco. But Ron didn't care. Not when it came to Hermione. Not when she had gotten hurt.

And yet, this was different. This was his family. He didn't have to seek justice through them. And Hermione clearly would like, would be thrilled even, to keep the whole thing to just themselves. He could tell she didn't want anyone to know. But again he saw Bill, and then Fleur beside him. They already knew. He recalled how angry Bill had gotten with him when he'd been unable to tell them a thing upon arriving at Shell Cottage. And now they were both staring at him, waiting for the full story at last. He glanced back at Hermione. She had a tight hold around her forearm with one hand. The other was shaking.

She still wasn't doing very well. She didn't say much about it anymore, not since Shell Cottage, but he could tell. This wasn't the only time he'd seen her shaking. And the nightmares…his family might hear them, they were all going to wonder…. But more than that, maybe they could help her. He was desperately worried that he wasn't enough, that he alone couldn't piece her back together. He just wanted her to be okay.

He closed his eyes and counted to five, slowly. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. He couldn't let his emotions get the best of him.

Hermione spoke before he could make his decision. Her voice was small and meek, not her own. But when the words came, they were steady. "Bellatrix, um Bellatrix thought we'd gotten into her vault at Gringotts, and she wanted answers," she said softly, carefully avoiding everyone's eyes and staring resolutely at her shoe. Her hand hadn't stopped its trembling. "Luckily she chose me to try and get them, and she sent the others away, to the cellar.…"

"It wasn't lucky," Ron snapped, looking at her in sudden anger. How could she say such a thing? He would have gladly taken her place. He would have done anything, anything, for it not to be her. Didn't she know how much she mattered? That she was the only reason they'd made it out alive? That even now, it felt like she was the one person keeping him going? But Hermione didn't meet his eyes. She didn't even acknowledge that he'd spoken.

"She wasn't very happy when I couldn't tell her anything…." she continued, her voice hardly above a whisper. She looked about ready to fall over. The trembling in her hands had gotten worse. Ron reached out to hold them, but she folded them tightly in her lap instead, not meeting his eyes.

"Oh, Hermione" Ginny whispered, looking horrified. Hermione's hands darted up to wipe frantically at her eyes before returning to their former knot in her lap. Harry was now staring at him in desperation, a silent plea written across his face.

So Ron took over, plowing on before anyone could say anything else, speaking quickly about their rescue via Dobby and their arrival at Shell Cottage, making it sound like it had all happened a lot faster than it really had, that maybe Hermione had hardly been upstairs with Bellatrix at all. Fleur looked devastated, and was now gripping Bill's hand tightly. He had to swallow back bile as the screams once more rose up in his head, so loud and shrill and hopeless. And he felt his heart drop as Hermione stood up and excused herself shakily, muttering something about a glass of water.

He wanted to go after her, but Harry had picked up again with their escape from Gringotts, and he forced himself to remain in his place. He couldn't leave Harry alone while his family was still looking at them with that horrible mixture of pity, sorrow, and a little bit too much understanding. He forced himself to stay put and keep talking.

Hermione didn't reappear until well after, when Harry was rigidly telling them about his trip into the forest. He knew his family's reactions to that wouldn't be good either, but he couldn't seem to focus on anyone but Hermione. She sat back down between him and Harry silently, her fingers wrapped tightly around a glass of tap water, so tightly that her knuckles shone white.

Then blessedly, at long last, it was over. The ending had brought silence down upon even his family, their questions and exclamations and protests subdued in light of the memories they all had from that night, from the battle. His Mum, unsurprisingly, was the first one brave enough to break the silence.

"All three of you need to see a healer."

Ron balked at her. "Mum, I really don't think that's necessary—"

"Splinched, Ron! Burns from Goblin gold! Heaven only knows what else, the things you're not telling us," here she looked pointedly at Hermione, who seemed to shrink in her chair. "Not to mention you three have barely been eating. It's now been weeks of steady meals and none of you have gained more than a pound. Don't think I haven't noticed! You're skin and bone, the lot of you!"

Ron continued to gape at her. "But—Fleur looked at us!"

"But I am no healer," Fleur said wearily. "And I think zat Molly ez right."

"Well then it's settled," his dad spoke up, his soothing tones doing little to keep the tension out of the air. "You'll go tomorrow." Ron stared at him, betrayed.

He wasn't quite sure why the thought of going to Mungo's sounded so terrible, but he knew as soon as Kingsley, and now his mum, had suggested it that it was something he had no interest in doing. A small hand made its way onto his lap, and the slight pressure on his thigh made him turn. "It's okay," Hermione whispered. Her deep brown eyes pierced him with their immense understanding. It was then that he noticed even Harry was nodding, and he felt his urge to fight shrink out of him. If the two of them had accepted it, it was over, there was no point in protesting. "Fine," he murmured, resigned. He would worry about it tomorrow.

"Good," Mrs. Weasley said, "We'll floo in the morning to let them know you're coming. Now…shall I make everyone some tea?"

"Actually Mrs. Weasley, I think I'm going to go up to bed if you don't mind…" Hermione said quietly, still looking very pale.

"Yes, yes, of course dear…" Mrs. Weasley answered, her eyes crinkling in concern.

"Me too, Mum," Ron cut in, jumping up to stand by Hermione. Harry quickly followed.

"Sorry everyone, I'm tired as well."

They practically ran for the door, leaving his family to talk about them to their hearts' content. As long has he didn't have to be there to witness it, Ron didn't even care if they did. But they had barely started up the stairs before Ginny caught up to them. "Harry, can I talk to you?" she said softly. His best friend shot him that same pleading glance, but Ron could only shrug at him this time. After all, he had to face her sometime.

"Sure Gin," Harry answered finally.

"You two can talk in my room," Ron cut in, glancing at Hermione, who looked exhausted. "That way Hermione can get some sleep. I can just hang out until you're done.

Ginny, too, looked at Hermione, her expression immediately softening at the sight of her friend. Hermione looked visibly exhausted. Her eyes were droopy and her face was a little puffier than normal—probably from the crying that Ron knew she must have done when she escaped the living room for her water. Ginny nodded. "Yeah, that's good. Sleep well, Hermione. I'll be back down in a while" she added, turning to Ron. He nodded at her as she passed him on the stairs and disappeared with Harry toward the attic.

Together, he and Hermione continued up the next flight of stairs to Ginny's room, stopping in her doorway. "You should get some sleep," Ron said softly.

"Will you come lay with me?" Hermione said, just as softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Their faces were pressed close, almost close enough to touch, to press their foreheads together or maybe even to brush his lips upon hers. "I don't want to be alone."

Ron nodded dumbly, following her into his little sister's room and closing the door gently behind him. Ginny's room was larger than his own. An extra bed had been added in for Hermione, and the additional space meant that it was a much more substantial bed than the cot Harry slept on upstairs. Hermione's was double the size and covered in one of his mum's warm, patched-up quilts. She perched on the corner to pull off her socks, then dug around in the trunk at the end of the bed to find her nightgown.

"Should I—should I go? Just until you…." Ron rapidly gestured between the nightgown in her hand and the door, feeling like an idiot and sensing his face grow flusher by the second. Luckily, Hermione didn't seem to think he was bonkers. In fact, he thought she looked a little pleased at his clumsy attempt at co.

"No. Just…turn around," she answered, smiling.

He followed her instructions, hyper aware that she was pulling off her clothes in the same room as him. This wasn't necessarily something that hadn't happened before. They'd lived in a tent for months, after all, where there had been no avoiding sharing the same space. They had changed on opposite sides of the tent, separated only by thin hangings, many a time But this was different. Now they weren't being forced closer by cramped quarters or the need to move quickly or the impending end of the world. This was just, normal. For a moment, they were normal, nervous teenagers stumbling to figure out the new dynamic between them. It was intimate in a way that the tent had never been, and it felt good—scary, but good. He could hear her rustling behind him, but he tried not to think about it too much, because then he might really embarrass himself. He shut his eyes for good measure.

Finally, she told him he could turn around. But she wasn't wearing her normal nightgown, the simple black one with thin black straps that fell just above her knees. Instead she had on pair of cotton night shorts and a long sleeve Chudley Cannons t-shirt that she must have highjacked from its storage in her beaded bag. "Aren't you going to be hot?" he blurted out, then instantly regretted it. Aren't you going to be hot. What a stupid thing to say right after she'd changed behind him! Into his shirt, nonetheless!

"I'll be fine," she said quickly. She looked a him a little awkwardly before climbing under her covers. "Come here," she added, patting the space beside her.
He did, pulling off his shoes and sliding alongside her. The bed, though larger than Harry's, was still small enough to ensure that they were pressed against one another. "Do you want the light off?"

He turned the bulb off with a flick of his wand, and found his eyes rapidly adjusting to the sight of her through the darkness. She was staring up at the ceiling.

"Are you okay?"

"What? Oh, yeah, that's fine…I wanted it off."

"No, not the light. I mean…everything else. Tonight. My family. Are you okay?"

She turned to him. "I'm not sure," she admitted quietly.

"Yeah. Me neither."

He reached for her hand again. This time, she didn't pull away.