Chapter Twenty-Four

Ronald Weasley was not having a good day.

After his explosive and unintended fight with Hermione in the corridor, he made his way down to lunch, quite aware of the looks and giggles he was receiving. He attempted valiantly to ignore them, as well as the very pointed glances Harry kept sending his way. Just for once, he wanted to keep his head down and try to attract as little attention as possible. For a while, he was doing a good job of it. He was doing such a good job keeping his head down, in fact, that he completely misjudged the distance to a jug of pumpkin juice and ended up sending the entire thing over Ginny's lap. His little sister, being the sweet, understanding creature she was, kindly reciprocated with another jug all over his head. Attempting to clean up the sticky mess with his wand, he managed to magic one of his eyebrows off. McGonagall, when she saw him walk into her class bedraggled, reeking of pumpkin, and missing a piece of crucial hair, clicked her tongue disapprovingly and easily replaced the absent brow. Ron felt that he ill repaid her by accidentally turning her desk into a giant hamster with chopsticks for legs. Transfiguration was never his best subject.

A few more grueling and humiliating classes later, he dragged himself back to the common room where he tried his hand at his Potions homework. The complicated formulas swam in front of his eyes, however, and try as he might to make Harry suffer with him, his supposed best friend was off in a corner giggling and playing grabby hands with his sister. The git.

The common room began to empty out for dinner a little while later. Though Ron would have loved nothing better than to take his frustrations out on a piece of pie, there was a grain of guilt that kept shifting underneath his skin. He hadn't seen Hermione since their fight, and he was determined not to let this spat turn into yet another stretch of them not talking. He would wait, he decided, be the bigger party and apologize. As all his friends made their way down to the Great Hall, he settled himself in a corner, watching the portrait hole. This time would be different. This time, he wouldn't mess things up like he always seemed to do. This time…well, he wasn't quite sure what he'd do after the apology, but if it managed to pave the way to snogging, marriage, and ten children, it couldn't hurt.

So when she spilled the news that his older brother no longer loved her (which, his stunned brain finally reasoned meant he had loved her at an earlier point) and stood in front of him, bawling, he felt as if the universe was playing a giant and malicious prank on him.

"Hermione," he swallowed, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to say. "You're joking, right?"

That apparently was not it, as it only made her cry harder.

Ron stared at the wall just over her left shoulder, his eyes noting every scrap of detail he had missed before. The tapestry by the girls' stairs was fraying around the edges – not much, just enough that it might be a deliberate artistic statement. And one brick was differently colored than the rest, maybe a secret passageway? Or just patchy cleaning.

"Ron," Hermione choked out. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

He turned his attention back to her, a strange, warm feeling spreading out from the tips of his fingers through his entire body.

"You – " He stopped, shook his head. "You and Fred?"

She nodded, her eyes huge pools.

"When?"

"Last Christmas. The ball."

"Ah."

She was biting her lip, clearly waiting for him to say something else. He took a step back, thrust his hands in his pockets.

"That's – that's a little unexpected."

Hermione cried harder. Ron became aware of sounds outside the portrait hole, scuffling footsteps. He quickly crossed over to the weeping girl and grabbed her elbow.

"Upstairs," he said, and led her up to his dormitory. She followed meekly. When they reached his room, he clambered onto his bed and invited her to do the same, closing the curtains and casting a quick muffliato charm.

"I thought we should continue this conversation in private," he said, and she nodded. Her sobs were silent now, just her shoulders shaking, punctuating occasionally by a loud intake of breath.

Ron looked down to his lap, stared at his hands resting on his knees. His freckles seemed alien to him somehow, not a part of him. The Weasley freckles. Fred's freckles. His brother.

"You love him." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," she gasped out.

"He just broke up with you?" He was still trying to understand just what was happening to his life. She said nothing in reply. He glanced up.

"I was shaking my head," she said. "I broke up with him. A little while ago. Before – that fight we had, in the common room, with Harry…"

"When you went berserk."

Hermione laughed weakly.

"Yeah, I guess. I – I broke up with him a few days before that."

"Why?"

Her head jerked to the side and her eyes shifted around the canopied bed.

"There were a lot of reasons."

"Like."

"You."

Ron's lips parted as he stared at the girl he always thought he would marry.

"Me."

"I didn't want to hurt you."

"Really."

"Of course not, Ron."

"That's why you broke up with him?"

"Partly."

"And you still love him."

"Yes."

"And he doesn't love you."

Her eyes shut briefly.

"No."

Ron let out a long, slow breath. He clenched and unclenched his hands.

"Let me see if I've got this right," he began. "You started dating my older brother, and didn't tell anyone, and then you broke up with him because you thought being with him might hurt me, even though you still dated him in the first place. Correct?"

She nodded.

"Okay."

The silence between them stretched until it became a living, pulsating thing. They were in cramped quarters, knees brushing, and he had never felt so far from her.

"Ron."

Her voice grounded him.

"Hermione."

"You know I love you."

His stomach tightened.

"I know."

"Are – are you okay?"

He shrugged, as if this was some casual, little thing.

"Does Harry know?"

She shrugged as well, mimicking him.

"I don't know…he knows there was someone. He doesn't know it was, is, Fred."

Ron recalled the strange looks Harry had been sending him, the sharp way he called his name as he yelled at Hermione earlier.

"I think he does."

"Ron, I didn't mean – "

But he cut her off, because the warm feeling had spread from his fingertips to his chest to his throat.

"It's just, I always thought it would be us, you know, you and me, and we'd finally, finally get over it, and be, be us, and that we'd be something, and that that something would last, you know, really last and we'd, this is ridiculous, and I'm an idiot, but we'd…" he trailed off, his mouth too dry to finish the sentence.

She was smiling at him, a wry, sad small.

"That we'd get married and have tons of bushy haired, freckled babies, or something like that?"

He nodded, afraid to swallow.

Hermione laid her hand on his. He gripped it with sudden strength, needing to touch her.

"I thought that too, Ron. I thought that for a long time."

"But?"

She gave a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob.

"Things don't always work out like you expect them to."

"I guess not."

He moved his thumb over the back of her hand, noting with one detached part of his brain how soft her skin was, how warm.

"Ron?"

He looked up into her eyes.

"Are we going to be okay?"

Years later, looking back on that early evening under the canopy of his bed, knees brushing against Hermione's, staring directly into her eyes, Ron would realize that it was the moment he truly became a man.

Ron leaned forward, hesitantly at first, pausing just a moment at her lips to give her time to pull away. Her mouth was as warm and soft as her hand, the kiss just as sweet as he had always thought it would be. Never in their lives would either of them experience a kiss sweeter or more pure.

But it ended, and he pulled away, and after the lingering sweetness faded, it was just Ron and Hermione, sitting on his bed.

"I'm okay," he said, and when he saw her blossoming smile, he realized that he really was.