A/N: ZOMG! I HAVE 206 LOVELY REVIEWS FROM YOU LOVELY, LOVELY READERS! I LOVE YOU, GUYS! YAY! Thanks SO much!

Anyway, does it seem like it's been a long time since I updated? It does to me. : ( I came down with the most awful case of writer's block, but thankfully, I recovered. Enjoy the proceeds!

Chapter 21

With You

The kitchen door squealed as it opened, and Ron, who was rummaging in the fridge, turned quickly in response. In the doorway stood a feverishly flushed, bashful Hermione, her hand pressed to her forehead. Her hair hung in a tangled mass, framing her troubled face. Despite the fact that illness gave her a pale, weak look, she added to that image of helplessness by staring at him almost fearfully, and he straightened slowly, not sure what to say or if he should say anything at all.

Hermione was the first to act, blurting embarrassedly, "Tom said I have a fever-so-I need ice. For my head, but I'll just wait until-"

Ron was next to her in a flash, his hand against her forehead. "You do have a fever." He dropped his hand quickly, silently pained by her stricken expression. He moved toward the refrigerator, and Hermione followed. "I'll get you something-"

"No, I'm all right. I'll get-" She froze when Ron's hand closed over hers as they simultaneously latched onto the freezer door. Their eyes met briefly before both jerked their hands away as if bitten by flame.

Ron let out a nervous laugh, and Hermione clenched her jaw to keep from doing the same. "I'll get it," she said firmly, her tone laced with venom. She gripped the door handle accordingly.

Ron narrowed his eyes, gentleness vanishing; he never had been one to respond positively to her affronts. "No, I will," he snapped, snatching the open door from her.

"Ron," Hermione warned through her teeth, determined to fight all his acts of kindness.

"Hermione," Ron growled, frustrated by her decline to his offers of assistance.

Hermione shrunk slightly as she noted the fire in his eyes, but she wasn't about to back down. "Ronald, I can get it myself." She seized the handle in an area as far away from Ron's hand as she could and yanked the door from him challengingly.

Something in Ron snapped, and he could no longer bear the tension. Releasing the door from his already loose hold, he grabbed Hermione's hand and pulled her dangerously close. He stared down into her saucer-like eyes, breathing heavily. "Let me get it for you," he snarled, nostrils flaring.

As he moved around the loosely swinging door to get a washcloth, Hermione tried to gather herself and endeavored to close her eyes to the fact that she would have submitted to anything Ron asked at that moment, had he asked it. Avoiding this man was definitely not going the way she had planned.

Ron glanced at her as he pulled open a drawer and was satisfied to have flustered her. "Hold this," he ordered, his voice instantaneously soft.

Hermione clutched the cloth like a lifeline, nearly shaking with anxiety. She almost didn't hear Ron announce that he was taking the cloth, due to her trumpeting heart, but was quite aware of that fact when his fingers brushed her palm and, fairly ironically considering that he was still holding her other hand, sent shivers down her spine.

Ron gazed into her petrified eyes, and offered the smallest, most discreet of smiles, almost hesitantly freeing her from his grasp, laying the cloth on the counter, and setting a pile of ice in its center. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Hermione nervously clasp her hands together and cough. He used his wand to fasten the cloth into something of a reliable container for the ice and turned to face Hermione, whose eyes were fixed on the ground. "Here," he said quietly, for some reason now horridly afraid of disturbing her.

He held the cold cloth out to her, and she took it, avoiding any physical contact. "Thank you," she practically whispered before dashing from the room.

Ron watched her go, content with having been of some kind of assistance but despondent at said assistance having been unwanted.

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"I've always wanted an owl of my own," Ginny declared as she, Tom, and third wheel Harry passed the refurbished owlery in Diagon Alley.

Tom chuckled, trying not to sound distant, though he was. "Why don't you just buy one, then?" he inquired, not really interested but attempting to make himself seem so. In reality, however, he couldn't keep his mind of some niggling feel in the back of his mind that told him something about his actions as of late was amiss. I shouldn't have left her there, with him. She wanted me to stay. Tom shook his head, just barely tuning into the present enough to hear Ginny utter something about not being up to the responsibility of taking care of an owl. "Oh, I see," he replied understandingly.

Harry watched their intercourse silently, trying to ignore his jealousy and get over whatever he was feeling. He looked up at the sky, which was still dark from the recent weather spell they had been having.

"Harry," Ginny said insistently, snapping him out of his trance. Had she been calling him? "We're going to get some ice cream. Would you like some?"

Harry wasn't sure . . . about anything. "Sure. Chocolate. But let me pay," he offered, reaching into his pocket.

"No, I'll-"

"I insist."

Ginny smiled at him gratefully, recalling that she was always short on money. "Thanks." He shrugged nonchalantly. She pulled Tom, who was still deep in thought, along with them, ordering a simple dish of mint ice cream and a vanilla cone for Tom.

Harry paid, and they all sat at a table on the patio, chatting through the darkness that enveloped them.

"What do you think they're doing right now?" Tom asked rather erratically, startling both Ginny and Harry, who had been making petty conversation about the fairly violent rains the night before.

"I doubt anything's happened," Harry said mock-glumly, around a mouthful of ice cream, meeting Ginny's gaze and managing a lightheartedly defeated grin.

Ginny laughed. "Harry! Don't be so pessimistic!" She gave him a playfully scolding look.

Tom looked at them questioningly. "How is that funny? Do you think they're still sulking?" he asked concernedly.

Ginny tore her gaze from Harry's and looked at Tom. "It wasn't funny so much as it was ironic. Harry and I've been working on those two for ages, and so far, we've made little to no headway. I'm sure everything's fine back at the house; lighten up." She laced her fingers with his reassuringly.

Tom smiled anxiously, but whether it was paranoia or another instance of his intuition, he had a feeling everything was not fine.

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Hermione collapsed on her bed, depression taking over as she held the ice to her forehead and tried to un-sear Ron's touch from her skin. Tears wobbled in her eyes before spilling violently down her cheeks, and she felt herself breaking down.

Perhaps she should have made Tom stay. Truth be told, she depended on him for moral support far too much. Had she been back at her flat at that moment, with her roommate snoring in his bedroom just down the hall, she could have tiptoed to him, and only a groan of protest from the bedsprings would have delayed her confession of all things troubling to his listening, if not sleep-muddled, ears. But she was not in her flat, and the only person in the vicinity of any nearby hallway was a certain Ronald Weasley, who she was supposed to be avoiding at all costs. So much for that attempt.

She would have to try harder to ignore him the next time she saw him; things were too difficult otherwise.

There was a tepid knock at the door, which brought Hermione's heartbeat to a resounding boom as she was jolted from her reverie.

"Hermione?" Ron's voice called through the wood of the locked door.

Hermione clamped her mouth shut, hardly breathing; this week's resolution would not be ignored again.

"Hermione . . . All right. Well, I'm just going to grab a shower before I head to bed, so . . . Just wanted to let you know . . . I, uh, hope you're feeling better . . . Good night . . ." There was a dull silence before the aged floorboards squeaked, announcing Ron's deviation from Hermione's room.

When Ron was out of earshot, Hermione exhaled forcefully as she reclined on her bed, and she squeezed her eyes shut, letting what remained of her tears rolls past her temples and into her unruly hair. Ron's tired words echoed in her ears, filling her with grief, but she tried her best to block them out. Sleep would clear her head, and she had a surprise party, for her comfort guy, to plan anyway; her troubles with Ron would just have to wait. There was a loud bang nearby; Hermione disregarded it, as well.

"Ron doesn't remember anything," Harry whispered as he sat down next to Hermione in the waiting area of St. Mungo's.

Hermione nodded. "Ginny told me before you came out." Her eyes held a bleak look, and she stared into her lap pitifully.

"Hermione," Harry said quietly, causing her to look at him. There were tears in her eyes. "You can go in to see him, you know. I told him about you."

Hermione bit her lip uncertainly. After what she had said . . . She had bared all to Ron, just before he had died. To know that the courage it had taken to confess such a secret emotion had been futilely spent tore her apart. Perhaps, if she could muster up the bravery again . . .

"He wants to see you," Harry assured her. "Go." Hermione gave him an apprehensive look. "Go," he repeated. Hermione stood and walked to the entrance of the corridor that led to Ron's hospital room. She hesitated and glanced back to meet Harry's ever-reassuring gaze once more before heading down the grim, stone passage.

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Ron burst into his room, the slam of his door against the wall as he thrust it open startling Bugger, who had made himself a nest in the papers Ron had previously deposited on his bed. "What is my problem?" he bellowed, causing the tiny feline to watch him with wide eyes. Ron sighed, running a hand through his hair and approaching the wary kitten. "Sorry, I don't know what's come over me. I've just been really-" He halted. "I'm talking to a cat . . . Brilliant." He plopped down on the bed next to the slowly relaxing cat and scratched between his ears. His eyes drifted to the crumpled papers underneath the ball of fur, and he furrowed his brows, spotting something he had not expected. Reaching out, he clasped a parchment illustrating a poorly drawn, windblown girl with the unruliest of hair. His breath caught in his throat as he spotted the cut sketched near her hairline, and he wondered if he would ever be close enough to this woman to see the scar that the wound had left. Would he ever be able to hold her close and tell her how sorry he was for what had happened? Would he ever be able to tell her . . . how much he loved her?

Hermione pushed the door open reluctantly, vacillating in the doorframe.

The redheaded boy in the hospital bed cocked his head in her direction. "You're . . . Hermione?" he asked, though he felt certain he was correct in his guess.

Hermione let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. "Yes . . ." She ventured a smile as she took a shaky step away from the door.

"So . . . er, how do you know me? Harry didn't explain." Ron laughed slightly, sensing her discomfort.

Hermione was surprised to feel the sting of tears in her eyes. "We've-uh-" She cleared her throat, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. "We've been friends since 1991, after you and Harry s-saved my life," she stated, worried that Ron would pick up on her doleful disposition.

Ron watched her; there had to be something more. Nothing else could explain . . . "Uh, have a seat," he said, his ears going red.

Hermione edged toward him, her breathing shallow. She sat down at the foot of his bed, forcing a smile and looking up at him. "So, how have you been, since . . ." She wasn't sure how to go on.

"I've been well, though losing my mind, literally, hasn't been the greatest, but how've you been? That's quite a cut, you've got there." He resisted the urge to reach out and brush his fingers across her skin.

"Oh, it's not so bad," Hermione said, noticing the twitch of his hand before looking back into his eyes. He appeared skeptical. "I'm fine, really," she insisted.

Ron frowned, unable to deny what he thought he knew any longer. "Hermione . . ." He reached weakly for the bedside table drawer, but Hermione stood quickly, not wanting him to overexert himself. He smiled appreciatively, leaning back into his pillows. "Top drawer."

Hermione pulled the drawer open slowly. She froze when she spotted the marked parchment within. Carefully, as if the paper had the capability of disintegrating in her hands, she lifted it from the drawer and eased herself back to the bed. The roughly drawn image that adorned the surface of the parchment was scantily done, to say the least, but the defining features of the figure within were clear; the female subject was standing in a land surrounded by what seemed to be burnt grasslands, and her mouth was open in a desperate frown, as if she had been speaking, or pleading, at the time the sketch had been made. Just below the hairline that cut off the growth of her frantically bushy hair, which stuck out at all ridiculous angles, was a clean laceration.

Looking up from the drawing, Hermione fingered her bandaged wound, trying to come to terms with this unexplainable object. She gazed at Ron, silently asking for an explanation, but none came. "Who drew this?" she asked, her voice coming out more harshly than she had wished.

Ron was suddenly bashful, nervously rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "Er-I did." Hermione ogled him, bewildered beyond all reason, and Ron focused his eyes on his drawing. "I lied when I said I had forgotten everything, but I wasn't sure what this memory meant or even if it was real; so I couldn't very well tell Harry about it, because he wasn't present for most of it-"

"Memory?" Hermione interrupted sharply, having finally found her voice.

Ron was growing redder by the minute. "The girl, in the drawing . . . she told me she loved me; insisted she did, and I . . . that's the last, and only thing I remember-which is why I drew it . . . You can't deny that she has an uncanny resemblance to you, and the cut, on her forehead . . ." Ron found the courage to graze her temple with his thumb, hating the tears in her eyes; had he made her cry like this in the past? She shook with his touch, and he withdrew his hand. "I need you to help me decipher what is and is not real, Hermione."

A single tear glided down Hermione's cheek and hit the parchment. Confidence in the matters of romance had never been her strong suit, and only twice had she mustered up enough nerve to even come close to admitting her true feelings; only once had she been able to voice them in their entirety. Had she been certain that Ron's affection matched hers, perhaps she could have persevered to assure him that his "memory" was, indeed, a memory, and that she loved him with every fiber of her being, but as it was, she was not certain of anything pertaining to Ron's possible love for her; but she did know that Ron remembered very little of the past, and his only motivation for asking her about the sketch may have been just to prove to himself that he knew something. And that wasn't enough. "It must have been a dream," Hermione murmured.

"A dream . . ." Ron repeated tentatively.

She would rather die than meet his gaze. "Perhaps . . . or maybe a mistake. Your mind could have . . . I don't know-thrown me into an entirely unconnected memory." Ron's very manner of breathing oozed cynicism. "It's possible," she persisted.

"You think my mind played . . . cut and paste with my memories?" he asked, snorting. "Very realistic."

"I think it is," Hermione huffed, going back to her default, anger-over-confession tactic. "Obviously, you wouldn't be able to understand the concept." She stood abruptly and shoved the sketch into his hands before striding across the room, with her back to him.

Ron narrowed his eyes. "Well, obviously," he agreed sarcastically. This situation brought on an extreme sense of déjà vu. Did he and Hermione fight often?"Because you, All-knowing Hermione, are able to create theories about some strange phenomena with absolutely no possible precedent to the event that spurred your theory. Your magical powers are that brilliant," he snarled vituperatively.

Hermione pivoted to face him, tears streaming down her cheeks in broad stripes. "I'm just so glad you lived, Ronald!" she cried sarcastically, though, in truth, she couldn't have meant it more.

Ron put on a scowl and opened his mouth, as if to retort, but Hermione flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a grip that indicated that she would never let go again. She sobbed on his shoulder, potentially betraying her earlier lies.

Ron gingerly pulled her closer to him, this moment assuring him even more that there was something more than friendship between himself and Hermione.

Hermione calmed down fairly quickly, and Ron held her at arm's length, marveling at how beautiful she was, in spite of her inflamed, tearstained features. "The sketch does tell the truth; doesn't it?" he asked cautiously.

Hermione sniffled and backed away from him. "No, it was a mistake. That can't be me. I'm sorry."

"But-"

"It's good to see you're feeling better," Hermione interjected, forcing a smile. "I've got to . . . meet someone; I hope to see you again soon."

With that, Hermione turned her back on the man she loved and left the room.

Ron had not seen her after then, and he had had to practically force Harry to send her an invitation; Harry insisted he needed to do these things himself.

Ron's blank gaze refocused on the haphazard sketch in his hands, and he exhaled sadly. "It's always been you, Hermione," he whispered. "Always . . ."

A/N: I'll try to get Chapter 22 posted within the next week or two. I don't have much time as of late, but I'm trying to get this puppy finished.