Ron,
his eyes heavy with sleep, came down the stairs to the common room, where the
fire was burning steadily, and saw a small figure curled up on a sofa in front
of the fire. It was Hermione. At the sight of her all the feelings of the night
before came flooding back into him, leaving a kind of sweet pain in his chest
that rose and fell at each breath. It was slightly like flying.
'Good morning,' he said, and as she started, half-turning, he saw the
firelight glinting out of her eyes. It was slightly unnerving.
'Good morning,' she said, and hastily turned back around to the fire.
He slid onto the sofa next to her, watching her tense. 'What's wrong,
Hermione?'
'Nothing,' she said in a barely audible voice, and directed a gaze so
strong at the fire that Ron wondered why it didn't roar into blazing ten-foot
flames. Apprehension rose in him like a tidal wave, mingling with the sweet
throbbing pain.
'I want to talk,' he said stubbornly, ignoring the not-so-subtle hint
that he should leave her alone.
She gave no answer, but the fingers of her left hand were so tightly
intertwined with the fingers of her right that they were rapidly turning white.
Ron reached for her clasped hands and gently unlaced the fingers,
absent-mindedly enjoying having her smooth cool skin against his own. 'I want
to talk,' he repeated, summoning up every scrap of nerve he had gathered the
night before and shutting his eyes briefly. Confrontations had never been his
forte either; he much preferred to keep to himself and let problems sort
themselves out. Either that, or he lost his head completely. This time, however,
his inner voice had prevailed, storming at him that he couldn't very well
leave this to sort itself out alone… 'About what happened last
night,' he finished, looking at her.
She started, turning away. 'I don't want to talk about it.'
'Well, I do,' he said, more calmly than he felt; inside he was a pool
of churning emotion, apprehension and frightened anticipation and that sweet
pain that rose and fell. 'And I'm just as much a part of it as you.' Then,
softer, he asked, 'Didn't it mean anything to you at all,
Hermione?'
Her face, her eyes, were flecked with pain. 'I don't know, Ron. I –
I wish –' She paused. 'I wish it had never happened.'
'Why?' He reached up a hand to turn her face towards his.
'Hermione, why? I – I felt something from you, I really did.'
'No, you didn't.' She pulled away and looked back at the fire.
'Hermione,' he said, incredulous. 'Listen to me. You can't run
from the truth. Neither can I. I never asked to go mad. I never asked to
go all weak in the knees every time you even looked at me. And last night
everything just…'
'Stop.' She was nervously twirling one curl around her finger, and to
his utmost annoyance he wanted to kiss her again. 'I don't want to talk
about it. In fact, if you ever mention it to me again I'll –'
He started towards her, taking her hands, glaring right down into her
brown eyes. 'Look,' he said firmly. 'You're supposed to be the mature
one. You're supposed to accept facts, not me. I'm supposed to be the one who
wants to deny everything. It's been that way for six years,
remember?'
She turned away, eyes suddenly glinting in the firelight as though there
was glass behind them. 'Well, you can go and play role-reversal on your own. I
don't want to hear any more about that. It was just wrong, and we were
both tired.'
'Fine,' he shot back bitterly. 'It wasn't important to you. Only
the most monumental, stunning moment in my entire life, and it wasn't
important to you. You can deny it if you want, and I'll go off and be mature.
It doesn't matter any more, does it?'
The corner of her mouth trembled for a moment before she shot back,
'Fine.'
'Fine.'
'Fine.'
'Fine.'
'Fine.'
'Fine.'
'Fi – mmf…' At
the time he had no idea why he did it, other than an overwhelming desire to
satisfy the sweet pain and shut her up simultaneously, but he seized her by the
shoulders and kissed her vehemently. He felt her tense, and with a shock
realised that she was actually returning it. And with slight chagrin he realised
that anger only intensified the strange feeling.
There was a sudden explosive clatter behind them. Ron and Hermione sprang
violently apart to see Harry, a cracked bottle of ink at his feet, staining the
floor, staring wide-eyed at them. The beginnings of an incredulous smile were
playing about the corners of his mouth.
There was a moment that seemed to stand still. Hermione was frozen in
place, one stray curl floating across her cheek; Ron's face was paling, the
scattering of freckles across his nose standing out to resemble the dots on the
ends of exclamation marks. The fire crackled, seemingly oblivious to the events
unfolding right before its flickering tendrils. Outside the snow tumbled down.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Harry bent down to pick up the
fragments of the ink-bottle, Ron and Hermione scrambling to help him. Gingerly
dusting his finger across the spill of dark ink, Ron's hand brushed
Hermione's for a second. Although she jerked her hand away, it was enough to
make him slightly dizzy again. He lifted his finger abstractedly to stare at the
smear of ink that ran like a calligraphic L across it.
Hermione took out her wand, pointing it at the inky mess, and the
fragments of glass and spread of ink rose gently into the air, binding together
into an ink bottle.
Gratefully, Harry took it. 'Thanks, Hermione.' He lifted a finger and
made a face. 'Ugh. It's all over ink.'
'What
do you expect?' Hermione said rather peevishly. 'It's a binding spell, and
the glass was soaked…' Ron envied her her self-control; he felt as
though if he even spoke he would explode into tiny little pieces that Hermione
would have to perform a binding spell on. Not that she would; she'd probably
leave him to decorate the Gryffindor walls.
'So,' said Harry, almost conversationally, as he wiped off his
fingers. 'Exactly what was that?'
'What was what, Harry?' Hermione asked tightly. Ron's mouth
tightened into a wry smile. Now I'm in for it.
Harry grinned. 'Don't tell me you weren't doing anything, because
I'm not going to believe a word of it.'
Ron saw his expression drop from mischievous to confused at the look on
Hermione's face.
The thinking-place was a strangely
logical place to go to when they wanted to discuss Hermione without her being
there; both Harry and Ron knew she would be in the library drowning her
frustrations in an ocean of books. The snow was falling yet again, landing on
Ron's eyelashes and Harry's jet-black hair and dusting the landscape like
icing-sugar. Ron sat down at the base of a particularly tall tree and leant his
head against the bark, half-closing his eyes. Harry was standing over him at
another tree, his glasses fogging up and his breath coming in irregular clouds
of steam, resembling Mrs. Weasley's crotchety kettle.
'What happened?' was the first thing out of Harry's mouth. Ron was
unfazed; he'd been expecting it, after all.
'What d'you think happened?' he shot back, a wry smile twisting the
corners of his mouth.
Harry grinned at him rather uncertainly. 'All I know was that you two
were getting rather too close for my comfort.'
'We were,' said Ron bluntly, but not without dignity. 'I initiated
it.'
Harry snorted, another cloud of steam rising into the air. 'You?
Decided to give her a little instruction on fraternising with the best friend,
did you?' He took off his glasses and wiped them off, looking almost anxiously
at Ron.
'Krum didn't kiss her,' said Ron, calmly and devastatingly. 'And
I'm quite sure you're her best friend, not me.'
Harry frowned at him. 'Ron, I thought you two made a point to fight at
least once a week. Twice on special occasions.'
Ron groaned. 'I wanted it to stay that way.'
'What happened?' Harry looked curious. 'I'm not going
to be an idiot and say I was expecting this all along, because I wasn't.
In fact, Ron, it's one of the last things I ever imagined you doing.'
'I just wanted to,' Ron said.
'Since when have you wanted to?'
'She fell asleep on my shoulder when we were studying,' Ron
explained, deadpan. 'I just realised I wanted to. So last night I did.' He
almost wanted to laugh at this strange composure, but didn't, instead watching
the snow drift lazily into strands of Harry's hair. 'And we had a fight
about it just now.'
Harry looked confused. 'So it's a must that you practically get into
each other's clothes whenever you get mad at each other, is that right?'
Ron had to laugh at this, and felt his composure break. 'Oh, Harry,
you're so terribly naïve it's adorable. If that's what you call
"getting into each other's clothes", you've obviously never seen real
intimacy.'
Harry, who was turning an interesting shade of crimson, asked, 'And you
have?'
'Fred,' said Ron simply. 'George.' He knitted
his hands together as he stretched out his legs, brushing the layer of snow
aside. 'It's so bloody confusing I could cry. She never knows what
she wants. She says she doesn't want to hear about it again, and then, when I
kiss her, she kisses me back. Then she behaves like she doesn't even
want to talk to me ever again.'
'I'm still confused,' said Harry. 'To tell you the truth,
I've never seen any behaviour on your part that leads up to any of this.'
His eyes followed a solitary snowflake morosely, his hand reaching out to catch
it and closing over it, melting it. 'Tell me. Do you love her?' Although he
smiled, the smile was tentative, and he was blushing again.
'I don't know,' Ron said, surprised. 'Maybe.' He was vexed to
find the familiar heat spreading upward from his neck that meant he was blushing
too.
'Do you hate her?' asked Harry.
'I don't know,' Ron repeated. 'Maybe.' He paused. 'It feels
like both.'
'You really are confusing me,' said Harry. He put out his hand to
help Ron up. 'You should just avoid her for a while. Let things subside. Come
on, let's go in. I'm getting cold.'
With surprise Ron realised he was cold too, a cold that beat at the bone.
He shivered, rubbing his arms. 'Me too. There's a fire in the common room,
that sounds pretty enticing now.'
As they headed back to the doors, footsteps smudged like ink in the
snowdrifts, Ron found himself thinking that it was not often he had a really
close talk with Harry, and that it was somehow awkward but strangely fulfilling.
It was fun watching Harry blush.
Late
that night Ron found himself in the library, researching Charms; now that
Hermione was not teaching him any more he felt obligated to continue the effort
on his own. His eyes kept drooping closed; the lamps were glowing with the usual
tired light, making him even sleepier.
He had to force himself not to think about Hermione; the anger he still
harboured towards her was only intensifying that strange attraction he had for
her. He wanted to talk to her, scream at her and kiss her at the same time.
Harry had been right; it was confusing.
I give up, he thought to himself, putting the book back in its
place and turning to the door. Madam Pince eyed him as he walked out
self-consciously, knowing or guessing her opinion of his relationship with
Hermione.
The corridors were darkened, almost ominous. It was still cold, cold
enough for some discomfort as Ron hurried along the passage. If winter had
seemed frightening earlier, it was now multiplied tenfold; there was a
foreboding in the air as though something was waiting.
Don't be silly, his rational Mrs. Weasley voice told him.
The other voice was incoherent with cold and general dizziness.
He heard footsteps and felt his heart-rate increase instantly, waiting
for the owner of those feet to emerge. They were getting closer, yet seemed slow
and lagging, as though the person walking towards him was tired and morose and
sick of the world in general. Those feelings were beginning to seep into Ron as
though he himself were a tired sponge; he began to feel slightly despondent, but
he was spooked enough not to be morbid.
He bumped straight into someone.
It was Draco Malfoy, painfully thin frame clad in once-well-fitting robes
that hung loosely over his shoulders. His silver-blonde hair glinted in the
lamplight as he drew nearer. The expression on his face reminded Ron vaguely of
the snow piled on dead branches. 'Why don't you watch where you're
going?' he demanded sourly.
Feeling like an ass for being so frightened, Ron said, 'Sorry. I
didn't know ferrets had the right-of-way.' He remembered the dream he'd
had of seeing his reflection turn into Draco's in the lake, and was instantly
antagonistic.
Draco's face darkened and he raised a hand as if to strike Ron. Lifting
a hand in self-defence, Ron pushed forward roughly, letting the side of
Draco's palm hit his wrist.
As their skin made contact Ron felt a bone-breaking pain in his wrist and
jerked away, horrified, staring at the place on his wrist that was rapidly
turning a muted shade of blue, blending with the usual creamy-pale hue of his
skin after the summer tan had worn off and resembling an ink blot in shape.
Draco himself had jumped back, staring at Ron.
'Malfoy…' Ron gasped, incoherent with the strange heavy pain,
stretching out his wrist – but Draco had taken off down the other end of the
corridor and was dashing away up the staircase that led to the Slytherin dorms.
The pain in his wrist was becoming overwhelming. Staggering up the
corridor, Ron felt as though his left hand was an alien; it was throbbing with a
pain that made it seem heavy, and it was cold. He could feel the skin
around the blot becoming numb, and he felt as though tendrils of cold were
reaching in towards the bone. He clutched the banister of the staircase with his
good arm and made his way up slowly, trying not to look at the blue mark on his
wrist.
Somehow he tumbled into the common room after gasping the password at a
very startled Fat Lady and thrust his hand at the fire. The pain alleviated
slightly, but it still ate at the bone; he put his hand as close to the fire as
he could without burning it and dropped to his knees.
'Ron?'
'Harry,' Ron said thickly, 'come and see what's happened.'
'It's not Harry,' said the soft voice behind him, 'it's
Neville.'
Half-turning, Ron recognised the now-slight figure of Neville Longbottom,
the only other dorm-mate not home for Christmas, sandy-brownish hair dishevelled
as though he hadn't been sleeping. The boy drew nearer, squinting at Ron.
'Why's your hand in the fire?' he asked, gently pulling Ron's arm
back. Instantly the pain intensified. Ron winced, but said nothing.
When he looked at Neville's face he was surprised. Neville looked
startled and apprehensive, but not in the least flustered… if Ron hadn't
known better, he'd have said Neville knew what had happened at once.
'How did this happen?' Neville asked him, pressing two fingers and
both thumbs to the blot. The pain lightened again as his fingers shifted in
pressure. 'Who in Hogwarts could do this to you?'
'Do what?' Ron said, his voice still thick as pancake syrup. 'What is
this?'
'Cold burn,' said Neville, almost casually.
'Neville?' Ron asked, turning his head slowly. 'How do you know all
this?' Neville was pressing the fingers into his hand, seeming unaffected, and
suddenly he thrust Ron's hand closer to the fire, finally letting the flames
touch it. Ron let out a yell and pulled his hand back. 'What're you trying
to do?'
'Let me,' said Neville sternly. 'I know what this is. It's a cold
burn, I told you. Now put your hand back into the fire.'
Dubiously Ron let the flames lick at a corner of the blot and felt the
pain in that side alleviate. 'It works?' he asked hopefully.
'Of course it works.' Neville guided his hand into the fire. As the
flames licked at it he felt the pain lift, felt a strange floating, and one
corner was gone, leaving no mark behind. The fire seemed to lift the burn, draw
back the bone-breaking cold that was eating its way into him; it felt strangely
natural to him. Neville was still holding his arm, turning it slightly to let
the cold burn disappear, then yanking it out.
Ron looked at his hand. It hadn't been burnt in the slightest.
'Neville,' he said, his voice more than heavy with suspicion, 'how
do you know all this?'
The brown-haired boy looked more than guilty. Ron was seeing him in a
whole new light; he had been the fumbling, innocent, sweet dorm-mate, and now he
knew things that he wasn't supposed to. It was like seeing the sun after being
shut up in the cupboard when Fred had locked him up and forgotten about him, but
this was more terrifying.
'My father was an Auror,' said Neville, his face sorrowful. 'He and
my mother – aren't here any more. My grandmother knows a few things, though,
and I've seen her work. How did the person put the cold burn on you?'
'I touched Draco Malfoy,' Ron explained. 'Near the library – it
was an accident, and this happened.' He twisted his wrist gingerly. 'Thanks,
Neville.'
'He just touched you?' Neville sounded surprised. 'But, Ron,
that's not how it's supposed to be. Anyway, a student couldn't put a cold
burn on you. It requires a wand and highly powerful magic. It's supposed to be
debilitating at worst…'
'I knew it all along,' said Ron. 'He's bad.'
Neville laughed, shaking his dark-sandy hair out of his eyes. Then his
face grew serious. 'Ron, you won't tell anyone, will you? I've never told
anyone before. I don't want them to know.'
'That Draco Malfoy's bad?' Ron asked, idly staring at the
flickering fire and wanting irrationally to feel the heat licking at his fingers
again.
'That my parents aren't here anymore.'
'All right,' Ron agreed, watching Neville get up and head towards the
staircase. 'Good night, Neville.'
'You'll report it to Professor Dumbledore?' asked Neville
anxiously, lingering.
Ron nodded assent and slumped into a chair as Neville disappeared up the
staircase like a ship into the night. He stared into the embers of the
slowly-dying fire, thoughts slightly disconnected, not bothering to pick up the
pieces of his mind, which seemed to have shattered like a glass.
…and
he drifted off…
There
was an old chest in the Weasley attic, an old chest that Mrs. Weasley had never
let her children see. Ron found himself kneeling beside it, opening it, running
his fingers over the lock. It was an old chest, covered with a blanket woven of
spiderwebs and dust; the lock was rough to open.
Once the chest swung open he peered inside, lifting out a fragile-looking
box and prying off the cover, which clung on as though reluctant to reveal its
mystery, protected for years.
Seven little ornaments. Ron counted them as he laid them out on the
floor. Each one hung by a slender thread the colour of icicles. Each one formed
words, words delicately scalloped and carved in wood.
One was 'Bill', its letters twined round with leaves and vines.
One was 'George', its letters identical to Bill's.
There was 'Ginny', hers the only one with flowers blooming on the
letters of her name; the first girl into the Weasley family this generation. His
mother had been so proud.
He looked at all of them, at 'Bill' and 'Charlie' and 'Percy'
and the twins and 'Ginny', and there was one last one.
Who was 'Bryan'?
He ran his fingers over the fragile carving, dangling it from the end of
his thumb, letting it revolve slowly in the dim attic light. A testament to one
who had never been. It felt dangerously full of life. If he broke it, perhaps
– perhaps something would happen.
Who was 'Bryan'?
And where was 'Ron'?
…and
he woke up in a cold sweat by the fireplace, wondering…
