A/N. Thanks so much for all of the feedback! I continue to be grateful. Here's a chapter that comes directly as a result of such feedback-for those who were unhappy that I gave short shrift to Ron's feelings in the tent, this one's for you. As is probably evident from Chapter 2, I thought it was pretty natural for Harry/Hermione to get together in a really stressful time. They care about each other, they were alone for weeks on end, and they turned to each other seeking comfort, and then quickly realized how stupid it was to do so. But I get that I hit some people's hot buttons-and not in a good way. I also get that you were unhappy with Ron's calm reaction. Again, I thought it was pretty natural for Ron to feel resigned about the whole thing, particularly since Harry was honest and upfront, and quite sorry about it-but what the hell. Here's a retcon for you! Hope you enjoy. :)
Chapter Twelve.
"Hey, can I join you?" Harry finds Ron sitting by Fred's grave in the garden.
Ron doesn't look at Harry, but hearing no objection, Harry sits down on the ground next to him.
"You okay?" he asks tentatively.
"Sure," Ron mumbles. Unconvincingly.
"Your dad says Kingsley wants to see us."
"Great."
"He's waited as long as he can, yunno. . . ."
"Right."
"It's been weeks. . . ."
"Yeah."
"And he needs to talk to us about . . . stuff."
"Of course."
"I think it's about the executive order."
"Brilliant."
"You still want this, don't you, Ron?" Harry looks at Ron sideways.
Ron pauses. "I don't know what I want, Harry."
A look of panic briefly crosses Harry's face. "Are you . . . are you thinking of going back to school instead . . . with Hermione?"
Ron laughs. But it's not one of mirth—it's more like . . . Harry can't think of the way to describe it . . . bitterness? "No."
Harry ignores Ron's tone, and sighs in relief. "Good, 'cause I don't think I could do this without you."
"Do what?" Ron asks. He doesn't seem particularly interested in the answer, though.
"I don't know," Harry gestures around him. "Life. Whatever this new life is, anyway. Beyond all the Chosen One bullshit."
Ron tears his eyes away from Fred's grave and looks at Harry. "What do you want, Harry?"
"I—uh—just wanted to check on you," he stammers.
"I don't mean—I mean, what do you want?"
"I don't know," Harry replies slowly. "Join the Ministry? Keep fighting—I don't know, the same things you want, I—I think. I thought."
Ron pulls his knees into his arms and puts his chin on one of his knees. He looks back at Fred's grave. He doesn't respond.
Harry clears his throat and adopts a bright tone. "We could move into—I thought we could move into Grimmauld Place, you know? Get out of here. Go to work and—"
"Live happily ever after?" Ron's voice drips with contempt.
Ron's tone stings Harry to the core. "That's not—that's not—but what's wrong with finally having a little peace of mind?" he stumbles over his words.
Ron's hostility has caught him off guard. Granted, Ron has been distant toward Harry since they returned from Hogwarts—but Ron's been distant toward everyone. Except for Hermione, anyway. And Harry's tried to give him and Hermione space—he's moved into Percy's room, for Merlin's sake—and Percy is an aggravating prat on his best day. Even now that he's seen fit to rejoin the Weasley family. Even now that he seems genuinely remorseful for what an aggravating prat he's been for coming up on two—or is it three?—years.
Of course, Harry had hoped that the sleeping arrangements would be different—slightly more even, anyway—with Hermione and Harry proving an equivalent swap, or so he thought—but Ginny had other ideas on that one, and well . . . there's no way Harry can share George's room, not with Fred's shadow looming large; and Bill and Charlie's old rooms were turned into a study for Arthur and storage space long ago—there's just enough room for a single bed for Charlie in Arthur's study. So Percy's room it is. Which would be fine if Percy weren't there, but he is—apparently making up for all the lost time of being an aggravating prat by just hanging around like he's suddenly the favored son again. Of course, now's probably not the time to point out the sacrifices Harry is making for Ron's love life. Particularly given Ron's mood, which seems—if possible—to be getting less hospitable by the minute.
Harry is flummoxed. Open hostility is not something Ron has exhibited in the past few weeks. More of a brooding silence and refusal to engage in any meaningful conversation. He's usually either up in his bedroom with Hermione—Harry doesn't need two guesses to figure out what they're doing up there—or sitting by Fred's grave, alone. Occasionally Harry also spies Ron wandering through the garden looking sleep-deprived. How much shagging are he and Hermione doing anyway? I mean, they have to sleep sometime, don't they?
When Ron doesn't respond, Harry tries again. "Are you—are you angry with me?" he asks, almost timidly.
Ron pulls a blade of grass from the ground in front of him. He pauses before he responds. "When I left—when I left and you kissed Hermione—what would've happened if I hadn't come back?" His voice is quiet.
"What?" Harry's eyes widen.
"What would've happened if I hadn't come back?" Ron repeats his question and turns to Harry.
"What would've . . . . Nothing would've—I mean, what are you getting at?" Harry splutters.
"Would you and Hermione have . . . gotten together?"
"What? No!" Harry stutters. "Absolutely not. What—are you bloody joking?"
"You knew—you knew how I felt about her, but you. . . . You didn't care."
"No—that's not—I—"
"You didn't know?" Ron snorts, staring back at Fred's grave.
"I knew, but I—"
"—didn't care."
"No! That's not—of course I cared. I mean, you're my best mate—I—I—where is this even coming from?"
"I don't know," Ron mutters. "Maybe it's 'cause I have more than 30 seconds to think about something other than my impending death. Nothing but time, actually. To think about everything that happened, to replay every shitty day of the past year in my head. But that one in particular—that one stands out."
"Ron," Harry winces as he hears the desperation in his own tone. "I explained it to you—or I tried anyway. I mean, we were bloody scared—and alone—and you were gone—"
"Yeah, I got that part," Ron snaps.
"I didn't mean it that way," Harry says quickly. "We just—I don't know. I wasn't thinking, obviously. I didn't do it to hurt you, I swear. I know it sounds mental, and Merlin knows if I had thought it through for more than two seconds, I wouldn't have done it. I'm—I'd never do it again, and it didn't even go anywhere. I mean, we didn't even—she—she stopped things almost before they started. And it was before the locket—before I heard the things come out of—"
"Would that've changed anything for you?"
"Yes! I wouldn't have been such a—a daft imbecile for one; I would've understood how you felt—but I didn't—"
"But you did—you didn't need the locket to tell you that I—"
"No! I knew you—I knew you fancied her—but I didn't know you. . . how could I have known? How could I possibly have known you were jealous of—of Hermione and me? Together? Do you get how mental that sounds? In a million years there was no chance she'd ever have chosen me over you. How could you have even—bloody hell, Ron—I watched her magic up paper birds to attack you when you kissed Lavender Brown! She was hysterical when you left. You saw her! Not to mention the fact that she slept with your ridiculously ugly Cannons shirt—in your bed—every night until you came back. So no—I didn't know you felt that way. And that—what happened with us that night—I fucked up and I really thought you understood that. You said you understood. Ron, there's no way that—nothing more would've happened. Ever."
Ron doesn't respond. He goes back to picking grass.
"I'm so sorry, Ron—you have to know that," Harry adds quietly. "And—it doesn't even—it's all bloody meaningless. I mean, bloody hell, Ron, you and Hermione are together. And—" Harry swallows, wondering if he should stop here or dare continue, "—she was there too, you know."
The look Ron flashes him suggests to Harry that he made the wrong decision. Harry thinks that if he were anyone else right now, Ron would've punched him. As it is, Harry flinches slightly and looks away.
"You watched her send birds to attack me when I kissed someone else," Ron says slowly.
Harry stares at Ron blankly.
"And you watched her cry when I left. And sleep in my bed."
Harry swallows hard, comprehension dawning. "It's not—it wasn't like that," he says quietly.
"And you still did that to her."
"No! No. You did that to her," Harry snaps. "You weren't there! You don't know—you don't know what it was like. I just—we just—it was comfort. In the bloody moment. It was—I wish I could make you understand. Where in the bloody hell did you go? The you that understood that sometimes even the great Harry Potter fucks up!" he says bitterly. "That could forgive me—that did forgive me. Where is that Ron? I'd like him back."
"He's with Fred," Ron responds softly. He stretches out his legs and puts his arms behind him for balance. He raises his face to the sky, a million thoughts swirling through his head. A scene from Hogwarts—laughing with Harry and Hermione about Cho Cheng. Emotional range of a teaspoon. This many emotions really should make your head explode, Ron thinks.
When he finally looks at Harry, he sees Harry staring back at him sadly. "I'm sorry," Harry whispers. "Ron, you're my best mate. You're more than my best mate—you're my brother. I know he's gone, but I'm still here."
Ron looks away. "Hermione and I are going to Australia," he says quietly.
Harry pauses. "When?"
"Dad's working things out with Kingsley."
"Oh. So, your dad knows. . . . And Kingsley."
"It's not safe out there," Ron gestures toward the wide open meadow surrounding the Burrow. "So . . . we need the Ministry's help. Dad's insisted on it, anyway," he sighs. "They have resources. They can help us find her parents. They've offered—Kingsley's offered to help us find her parents. She needs them."
Harry swallows the lump that's formed again in his throat. "I see," he says quietly, staring at the ground. "I guess I'm not invited," he tries to keep his voice light. He fails.
Ron looks down, too. "I need to be away from here," he murmurs.
"Right."
"I need some space. And time. Away."
"Away from me?"
"Away from everything. Everyone."
"But not Hermione," Harry swallows again, trying to keep his voice even.
Ron pauses. "I—things can't stay the same forever, yunno, Harry?"
"What does that mean?"
"It means . . . it just means we're not—I don't know what you were expecting."
"I was expecting to have my two best friends with me after we finally beat that bloody fucker, that's all I was expecting."
"You do," Ron says. "It's just . . . ." he trails off, unsure of how to continue.
Harry spares him the need. "I was not expecting the three of us to move in together and live happily ever after, Ron," Harry adds, mimicking Ron's earlier words.
Ron swallows. "So then you'll understand why it would be good for all of us to get some space. I'm just—I'm not in a great place right now. And neither is. . . ." he trails off.
Whatever Ron was going to say—probably about Hermione, Harry thinks—he changes his mind.
"It would be good for all of us, I think," Ron finally says.
"Right," Harry replies listlessly, unconvinced of the wisdom of Ron's words. "And when you find her parents? What then?"
"We bring them home," Ron stares into space. "And Hermione goes back to Hogwarts."
"And you?" Harry looks at his best mate.
"And me. . . ." Ron echoes Harry's words. "I don't know. The Ministry, I guess," he sighs. "That's what we're gonna talk with Kingsley about, right?"
"You're not required to join the Aurors, Ron; I thought it was what you wanted."
"I did. I do."
"But?"
"But I can't think about this now. I just need to clear my head."
"And Grimmauld Place?" Harry asks quietly.
"If the offer's still on the table when I get back, let's talk about it then," Ron responds even more quietly.
"Obviously the offer's going to be on the table—but if you're considering it just because you feel bloody obligated, then probably best to let me know that."
Ron sighs. "I don't know what I'm feeling right now."
"Then I guess you should figure it out before you commit to anything," Harry says bitterly.
"Right," Ron murmurs.
Harry gets up to go.
"Harry," Ron calls after him.
Harry stops and turns back to Ron. "My sister—you . . . well, I hope you can work things out."
These the first kind words from Ron directed at Harry in weeks—and he's caught off guard by them. Harry swallows and nods abruptly before heading back toward the house, leaving Ron to resume his silent conversation with Fred's grave.
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"What did you say to Harry?" Hermione murmurs, laying her cheek against Ron's bare chest. She is in awe of nights like this—she has him, he is hers. On these nights—when the Burrow is quiet and no one is crying or in the midst of night terrors—she can almost picture this life with him, this life she has always craved—where they can just . . . be.
He's quiet—reflective—like he always is after they have sex. She figures now is probably her best opportunity to get inside his head, which she's having trouble doing these days.
Ron is running his fingers up and down her bare back absently. "Why?" he asks.
"He's—something's wrong with him." Hermione traces her own fingers up and down Ron's hard stomach, reveling in the feel of the little ginger hairs trailing beneath his navel.
"Probably because he and Ginny are barely on speaking terms," Ron's stomach muscles contract as Hermione's fingers tickle him.
"My sense is that it may be because you and he are barely on speaking terms," Hermione pauses in her movements, letting her fingers rest on Ron's stomach.
Ron sighs. "We had a . . . conversation earlier. I reckon it could've gone better."
"What kind of conversation?"
"About—just about stuff. Stuff that's been on my mind."
"Like?"
"'Mine, I don't want to talk about it."
"Ron, you made me open up to your mum about the worst things that have ever happened to me and—"
"Because I love you and I want you to be okay."
"And I love you and want you to be okay."
"I'm okay right now—here with you," she can hear the affection in his voice.
"I want you to be okay when we're not shagging."
"We're not shagging," he grins.
She rolls her eyes and doesn't respond.
He pauses. "It'll be better when we're gone," he says finally. "I just need some space. Away from . . . all of this."
"It won't be better—not even in a Muggle hotel halfway across the world—not if you don't talk about what's bothering you."
"Christ, 'Mine. . . ."
"Ronald."
Ron knows that tone all too well. He sighs. "I asked him about that night—the night you and he. . . ."
"What, Ron?"
"Kissed."
"Oh."
Ron is silent.
"What did you want to know about it?" Hermione presses him.
"Why—why it happened."
"I thought you and he talked about—I thought you settled things back in the tent."
"We did. Or I thought so, anyway."
"I see," Hermione lifts her head from his chest and looks at him. She bites down on her lower lip.
"Why did you do it?" He asks gently, pushing a strand of hair out of her face.
Hermione exhales, balling up her fist against his stomach. "I asked myself that every single day after that stupid kiss—until you came back and we—well, made up. . . . I thought you'd ask me then. You didn't. . . ." She trails off and chews on her lip.
Ron watches her, but says nothing.
"I don't know," she finally responds. "That's not true. I do. I guess. . . . I hated you so much for leaving me—I mean, I loved you so much and and you left me anyway—and I know you didn't mean, I know it was the—but I was so hurt and angry. So angry. And I guess part of me—well, maybe all of me—wanted to hurt you like you hurt me," she finishes quietly, laying her head back against his chest. "Didn't matter anyway. 'Cause when he kissed me all I felt was you."
He feels tears fall from her cheeks onto his chest. He gently wipes them away with his fingers.
"I hated myself for it," she whispers. "I still do, you know. When you opened up to me about that horrid locket, knowing I did that to you—"
"Don't," Ron murmurs, kissing her head and rubbing her back gently. "I love you so bloody much. And I'll never forgive myself for walking out on you. It wasn't your fault. None of it."
Hermione raises her head and looks at him again, her eyes still shining with tears. "I meant what I said in that tent, Ron—whatever stupid stuff we've done—we've both done—it brought us here. You're everything to me."
He smiles at her in that way that melts her heart every single time.
"And if you don't blame me, you can't blame Harry either," Hermione adds quietly, her eyes penetrating his. "If that's what you're thinking."
Ron doesn't reply, but his smile disappears.
"Is it?" Hermione presses. "Is that why you've been so . . . cold to him?"
Ron sighs and looks away. "I'm—just, losing Fred—it's just made me think about who's really on my side—just. . . ." he trails off.
"Harry's really on your side," Hermione says softly.
"He was supposed to be on Ginny's side, and he left her."
"Oh, come on, Ron. He was protecting her."
"Was he protecting her when he was kissing you?"
"It was a mistake," Hermione says firmly. "One he told you as soon as you came back. He didn't try to—he didn't try to hide it from you. He knew he had to talk to you about it. And he felt horribly. But you know that already, don't you?"
"I know that. Does Ginny?"
Hermione looks away. "I don't—I don't know what Ginny knows."
Ron raises an eyebrow skeptically.
"Look, whatever he tells her . . . or doesn't . . . That's something they'll have to deal with in their own way."
"They're not dealing with much these days."
"Do you doubt his feelings for her?"
Ron sighs. "No. I don't."
"They'll work things out," Hermione says softly. "But I'd like you to work things out with Harry."
Ron doesn't reply.
"He loves you."
"I don't want to think about this anymore, I just want you," he murmurs, pulling her on top of him, tugging her face down to his and sliding his tongue into her mouth.
"Ron," she pulls away after a minute, trying not to lose her focus, which is growing increasingly hard as she feels Ron growing increasingly hard underneath her. "He's your best friend."
"You're my best friend," he gives her that irresistible smile again. "And you're naked on top of me right now, so I'd prefer not to be thinking about Harry."
Hermione grins back at him. "What else?"
"What else do I want to be thinking about? Fucking you. Immediately."
Hermione laughs and pokes him, trying to keep her wits about her. "What else did you talk about?"
Ron sighs, clearly hoping to move on. "Australia. I told him we were going."
"How did he take it?"
"Mmm. Could've gone better," Ron runs his hands over Hermione's bare arse and pulls her naked body more tightly against him.
"How so?" Hermione tries to ignore Ron's wandering hands and her own burgeoning arousal.
"He—um, I think he hoped to come," he mumbles as he kisses her neck above him and moves down to her breast. "Like me, right now," he grumbles under his breath before licking her breast.
She moans. "But—but he understands?"
"Think so," Ron mumbles into her nipple as he runs his tongue over it. "Oh, and Kingsley wants to see us—reckon it's about the . . . ." He trails off as he takes her breast into his mouth.
"Oh god," Hermione hisses, grinding herself against him. She can't help herself. "What?" She gasps. "What's it about?"
"Mmm, auror program," he starts in on her other breast, swirling his tongue over her nipple before sucking it. "And he wants me to move into—fuck, you're so wet. . . ." He moves his erection against her, positioning himself directly beneath her entrance.
"Move in—into," Hermione is having trouble speaking as Ron runs his tongue up and down her neck.
"Grimmauld—fuck, 'Mine, please," he begs.
"We just had sex," she moans.
"Ten minutes ago, at least."
"Grimmauld—mmmm—place?" She runs a hand between her wetness and his erection, stroking him up and down.
"Mhmm," Ron groans. "Herm-i-o-neeee."
"What did you say?" She keeps stroking.
"Fuck. . . ."
"Not yet," she teases.
"I'll say anything you want me to say if you just let me. . . ."
"Let you?" She grins.
He grabs her waist and plunges himself into her, groaning with relief. "Just . . . let . . . me. . . ."
She moans as he thrusts into her again. "Make things right with him before we go," she gasps.
He groans again.
"Please," she adds, grabbing his bottom lip with her teeth and angling herself so that he can enter her more deeply.
"Fuck. Yes, fine. Just—fuck. . . ."