Chapter Eight
Hermione yelped and sat up straight. She had dreamt about the black again. God, how she hated that dream. She glanced at the clock. It was one in the morning. She groaned.
Something papery collided with Hermione's fingers as she tried to straighten her pillow. She dislodged it from between the mattress and headboard and unfolded it. A note. Quickly, she turned on the lamp beside her bed and instantly recognized Ron's messy scrawl:
Hey
More than angry words
I hate this silence.
It's getting so loud.
Well I want to scream,
But bitterness has silenced these emotions.
It's getting hard to breathe.
So tell me, isn't happiness
Worth more than a golden diamond ring?
I'm willing to do anything
To calm this storm in my heart.
I've never been the praying kind,
But lately I've been down upon my knees.
Not looking for a miracle,
Just a reason to believe.
He hadn't signed it, but she knew it was from Ron. She bit her lip, recognizing the song. It was by one of her favourite Muggle band, Savage Garden.
God, how am I supposed to get back to sleep now? Hermione wondered. Her stomach emitted a low growl, and she realized that she had forgotten about dinner as well as lunch. With a sigh, she rolled out of bed and pulled a pair of flannel pants on under her short nightdress. She was glad it was Saturday. She didn't know what she would have done if she had had to go to classes that morning. She plodded silently down the stairs to the common room, and was surprised to see a small fire burning in the hearth.
Ron was sitting on a couch by the fireplace, drawing in a small notebook. He looked pale and tired. She froze when she saw him, and was just about to turn and run in the opposite direction when he looked up and saw her.
"What are you doing up?" Hermione asked quietly. She winced, expecting a sharp reply, but none came.
"Couldn't sleep," Ron answered, equally quiet. "I must be getting sick or something." He put down his sketch pad, careful that the side with the picture was down, and looked expectantly at her. "Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to come and sit down?"
Hermione bit her lip and shuffled uncomfortably over to the chair, and sat down across from him. She felt so defeated she couldn't even come up with a smart remark. "What do you want?" she asked quietly.
"I wanted to finish telling you what I started earlier," he said, almost whispering. "I'm really, really sorry about what I said to you, OK? I lost my temper and said some stuff I didn't mean. I understand why the Ministry's not looking for Harry and Ginny, I just don't like it." He swallowed and looked her straight in the eye, and she flinched. "I'm sorry, Hermione. God, I am so sorry."
Something in his voice just told her that Ron wasn't lying. His eyes were very bright as he looked at her. "It's as much my fault as yours," she told him. "Don't – don't feel so bad about it."
"It was my fault," Ron said firmly. "I lost my temper and bit your head off. You were perfectly rational and fair." Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand and silenced her. "And I refused to let myself forgive you."
"I wouldn't let myself forgive you," Hermione retorted. "Every time I thought about saying sorry, I yelled at myself. At least you made the first move."
"You had nothing to apologize for," he disagreed. "You did nothing wrong."
"But I saw you," she said. "You wanted to make peace and I wouldn't listen. It's my fault, too."
She stopped when she noticed Ron looking at her again. "The things we argue about," he said quietly, amused. "Fine. We're both to blame. Truce?"
What little anger Hermione had felt until then evaporated. She allowed a small smile as she shook Ron's hand. "Truce. What were you drawing, by the way?"
Ron rolled his eyes. "You don't want to know," he told her.
"Now you've got e curious," she retorted. "Come on, Ron."
With a shake of his head, Ron picked up the book and held it out to her. She gasped when she saw it: a dagger, in perfect proportion and scale, so detailed she could see it's sharpness and the drops of blood running down its blade. "I didn't know you were an artist," she whispered. The picture was so good it scared her.
"Neither did I until last June," Ron replied with a slight grin. "I doodled a garden gnome one afternoon, and realized it was good." He closed the sketchbook and put it back on the table. "Hermione…"
She looked back at him to see that his eyes were brighter than ever. "That's not the only reason I needed to talk to you," he whispered.
"What else do you need to say?" she whispered. Something in his voice made her think that he was going to say something important. She leaned closer to hear him.
"I- On the train coming here- I hope I didn't offend you," he whispered. "I was kind of- er- forward, shall we say. More than I usually would have been if I had been thinking."
He paused, and she waited expectantly for him to continue. He took a deep breath and began talking again, so quietly she could barely hear him. "But that doesn't mean that- that I didn't mean it, Hermione."
Hermione's heart fluttered in anticipation of what Ron was going to say next. God, let him say it, she prayed. Ron took a deep breath, swallowed hard and finally blurted out. "I- I think- I think I'm in love with you, Hermione."
That had not been what she was expecting. "What?" she asked, shocked.
Ron blushed, more with shame than embarrassment. "You heard me," he whispered.
"No, no, no, that's not what I meant," she cried. "I just- you have no idea how long I've- how long I've been waiting to hear that, Ron."
He looked at her intensely. "You mean that?" he asked quietly, inching closer to her on the couch. "You're not going to slap me?"
Hermione almost laughed. "Slap you? Ron, I've been waiting to hear you say that since, oh, I don't know, the Yule Ball!"
Ron was so close to her now that she could feel his breath on her face, warm and soft. "If I kissed you now," he asked. "What would you do to me?" He gently reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, making her shiver pleasantly.
"Nothing," she whispered, her heart fluttering like a golden snitch in her chest. Ron looked her straight in the eye for half a second, the leaned in all the way and kissed her softly.
Oh, she could have stayed like that forever. Ron's hand left her face and slid down to circle her waist, and she ran her hands up his chest and around his neck, letting him hold her tightly. Everything- from the feel of his lips on hers, the faint taste of mint from his toothpaste, to the way his arms tightened around her almost protectively- felt perfect in a way she hadn't thought possible. She broke away for a moment to draw a breath before Ron pulled her back, kissing her with an almost desperate manner.
He finally pulled away, and let out a long sigh into her hair before pulling back to get a good look at her. "I love you Hermione," he whispered, pulling her closer as he leaned back on the couch.
Hermione smiled at him quietly, happily, snuggling against him. Maybe she could survive this mess, so long as she had Ron to look after her. "I know," she whispered. And once again, something deep inside her told her that he wasn't lying.
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