Disclaimer: Harry Potter, etc, are the intellectual property of JKR; no infringement is intended.
Chapter 4
Loren had cancelled her morning appointments that day, sensing that Ron needed her more than any of her patients. She was up at dawn, as was her custom on weekdays, reading the newspaper. Her breakfast that day had consisted of a lot of peas and carrots. She hated wasting food, and the vegetables needed to be eaten now that they had been thawed. She didn't expect Ron to be up so early when he walked into the kitchen, shortly after six. He'd always struck her as a man who liked to take things in stride, one who didn't worry too much about what time he got up as long as he got things done. His job as sports editor at the Daily Prophet allowed him the kind of freedom that Loren knew he needed, so when he walked into that kitchen, his face gaunt and expressionless, at barely 7am, Loren knew that what Ron was going through stemmed much deeper than she had originally imagined.
Last night when he had shown up at her doorstep he had been on the verge of a complete breakdown. He had been holding back tears, hadn't been able to speak more than a few words. This morning, did not find him in a much improved state; he looked like an empty shell. Ron's body was standing in front of her, but its soul had taken an extended vacation, so to speak. Ron's blue eyes, usually so full of life and mischief had lost their light and his mouth was drawn in a thin line; he sat limply at the table across from her, his hands motionless on the oak top.
Loren, who was a psychologist and dealt with distraught people on a daily basis, was at a loss for words. She wanted to say something, anything, to rescue Ron from his trance, but knew that any word that came out of her mouth would be inadequate, awkward at best. She poured him a cup of coffee, instead, and placed it in front of him. Ron stared at the tabletop for a long time before emerging from his thoughts. He smiled at her slightly, and picked-up the cup although he didn't drink from it. The warmth of the warm mug contrasted strongly with the chill that had set in his bones since last night. His hands were like ice, so cold that even the nail beds were beginning to take on a bluish appearance. He had been caught by uncontrollable shivers the night before, and as he'd suspected hadn't been able to sleep at all. He had dozed a little bit before Loren had woken-up but his dreams had been so fitful that within minutes he was sitting-up in a cold sweat, trying to catch his breath. Ron rotated the coffee cup in his hands; the porcelain had become almost scaldingly hot but Ron didn't seem to notice the pain as long as he felt something. It seemed as if the only thing he could feel was pain. Ron sat there in silence for a few more minutes, not noticing that Loren seemed to be reading the same article, if not the same line, since he'd walked-in the kitchen. What Ron didn't know was that Loren had quietly been observing him this whole time, her heart breaking at the sadness radiating from him.
"Thank you, Loren." Ron spoke quietly and Loren jumped at the sound of his voice. It was still surprisingly smooth although Loren didn't know why she'd expected it to be hoarse or craggy. There was no covering the grief in his tone, however.
"For what?" she asked, quizzically. She was surprised at Ron's thanks because in a way she felt responsible for what had happened to him. She still did not know what had happened between him and Hermione the night before but she couldn't help but feel that if she hadn't pressured Ron to reveal his feelings for Hermione that he would not have had his heart broken.
"For not saying anything, for waiting until I was ready to tell you, and not trying to pressure me, for last night and not asking any questions when I know I was a mess; for being here for me." Ron told her, though his voice was barely above a whisper. He tried to smile and make light of everything, but it was as if half-way through the process that made his lips curve upwards, he gave up, not seeing the point in his trying to appear happy when he couldn't fathom ever experiencing the sensation again. His face reverted to the impassive mask it had adopted, but his eyes betrayed everything he felt.
"You're welcome, Ron," Loren responded in the same tone that Ron had employed; she reached across the table to lay her hand on top of his, a wave of sisterly protectiveness washing through her. Ron squeezed her hand slightly in return, meeting her gaze straight on for the first time that morning. He took a deep breath and motioned for them to go into the living room, leaving his coffee cup on the table; he wasn't very hungry or thirsty for the first time in his life. Ron walked into the living room and came to stand between the armchair he'd sat in yesterday, and the sofa that Charlie and Loren had sat on. He frowned as if not being able to decide which he should use.
"Do you want me to lie down?" he asked her, still frowning, referring to being treated like one of her patients. Under ordinary circumstances, the situation might have been construed as humorous, and Loren might even have teased about Ron's occasional spurts of naivete, but at the moment comedy was the furthest thing from either of their minds. Loren came to stand beside Ron, and put and soothing hand on his arm, squeezing slightly.
"You're not one of my patients, Ron, and I don't want you to feel as if you are. I'm here for you because I want to be, not because I have to be," she told him firmly. Ron nodded in response and opted for the same chair he had used two nights before, Loren reprising her previous position on the sofa. Neither said anything for a few minutes, and Loren, as if sensing Ron's hesitation, spoke first. "Why don't you start by telling me what happened after you left my apartment?" Loren suggested, and Ron nodded, seeming slightly more at ease now that he had some direction.
He recounted the story as it had happened, telling Loren of how he'd been intending on telling Hermione how he felt about her and of how he'd found her in the kitchen crying. He told her of how he lost control at the mention of Shawn's name, and how he'd gone out to find him. He finished by recounting Hermione's reaction and the truth of what Shawn had actually done. During the course of his narrative, his hands had gripped the arms of the chair with such force that his knuckles had turned white. Loren reached-over and put her hand on top of one of his as a gesture of support, and Ron seemed to relax slightly. He had just come to the part where Hermione had told him she never wanted to see him again when Ron stopped short, his eyes bulging to the size of quarters as his hand flew to his mouth. He groaned, and screwed his eyes shut.
"Oh my God, I think I kissed her," he revealed, putting his face in his hands at the memory of his lips on her before he had left her flat. His ears were turning red, and the blush was creeping down to his neck. Loren had never seen Ron blush, but she was told it had once been a regular occurrence. Though Loren was quite surprised to hear this twist of events, she did not show it, and waited for Ron to elaborate. "It was right before I left to find Shawn," he said, though that was as much of an explanation as Loren was going to get. "Loren, I'm such a fool," he told her, his voice muffled as he buried his face in his hands in embarrassment much as Loren had buried her face in Charlie's shoulder when Ron had teased her the previous morning.
"You're not a fool, Ron," Loren told him, firmly. "You may not have done the smartest thing, losing control of your temper like that, but I'm sure you regret it enough without my holding it over your head," she said in a voice that was supportive but that also told Ron that she was being a true friend by not making any excuses for his actions. Ron began to be even more thankful for having come to Loren; any of his brothers would have lectured him to death by now. Loren was one of those rare people, aside from Hermione (before she had told him never to speak to her again), that Ron felt he could be his true self in front of. Nobody, not even Hermione, would ever be able to understand him completely…Ron didn't think that anyone could understand another human being's motives implicitly…but now that Hermione had thrown him out of her life, Loren came the closest to being that person.
"What do I do now?" Ron asked her. "She never wants to speak to me again; she hates me. You should have seen her last night. She looked so--so disappointed in me. It was like she was giving up," Ron said, putting aside the thought of his untimely display of affection the night before.
"Hermione doesn't hate you, Ron. I don't pretend to have all the answers, but I do know that one for a fact. I think you know what it is you have to do," she told him, and Ron, after thinking about the situation and listening to what his heart had to tell him, nodded.
~*~
Hermione's eyes were red, her nose was stuffy, and her face hurt. She had been crying, more than she thought was ever possible. Pieces of tissue were scattered all over the floor, but she was too upset to pick them up. She had wanted to take the words back as soon as she had said them, as soon as she had seen the expression on Ron's face, but she hadn't been able to; when Ron had tried to stop her the first time, she had almost, almost, given-in to him, but when he had neglected to try and stop her the second time, part of her had crumbled and she'd Disapparated before Ron could see how badly he'd hurt her.
For twelve years she had been subjected to fits of temper from him, and she had told him time and time again that he needed to control them. Last night had been the last straw; she had never felt so afraid in her entire life than she had last night. She would have relished facing You-Know-Who, because at least he hadn't hidden what he was. When she had seen Ron, blindly hitting Shawn like that, it was then that she'd realised that Ron wouldn't change…not even for her.
Oh, she couldn't care less about Shawn; if she had had the opportunity, she would have hit him herself; it was Ron she cared about, Ron she had always cared about. She knew, deep down, that even if Shawn had proposed to her that night, that she wouldn't have been able to accept him. All these years she had dated men with whom she knew she couldn't have a future. All these years she had maintained the hope, buried deep inside of her, that perhaps someday she might entertain a relationship with someone she really cared about, someone who cared about her…someone she had known since she was eleven years old.; the hopes of a relationship with Ron had always been there, but she hadn't even acknowledged it until recently. For all these years she'd buried it deep inside herself, quelching any thought of her relationship with Ron becoming more than it was, because as much as she hated to admit it, she was afraid. She was afraid to love Ron so much that if something ever happened to him, she might not make it through. She had put a wall up around her to protect herself from the hurt that would only destroy her if she ever lost Ron as a friend, but a lot of good that wall had done…the pain was still there, and it didn't feel as if it would ever go away.
She had talked to Harry last night and had asked him to make sure Ron was all right, but Harry had come by earlier that morning and told her that Ron hadn't gone home and that his parents hadn't heard from him. Harry had tried to make Hermione see reason, tried to get her to forgive Ron, but Hermione hadn't wanted to listen. She wasn't ready to verbalise what her head had finally let her see last night, what her heart had been telling her for so long. She loved him--she loved the poor bastard and what had she done? She'd shunned him, told him that she never wanted to see him again. Sure, she'd said things like these to him before, but last night part of her had actually meant them...of course, that part of her was now wishing that she were dead; anything so that she wouldn't feel so wretchedly alone.
A new bout of tears came and she knew that fighting it would be useless. Instead, Hermione let the tears come, let them pour freely over her cheeks as violent sobs racked her body. Oh how she regretted what had happened last night. The scene played itself in her head over and over like a broken record. He had reached out to her, his eyes pleading, but she had moved just out of his grasp. He couldn't touch her; she couldn't let him. Every time he touched her something happened within her: the world seemed brighter, everything looked beautiful, her heart warmed, and even if she'd been feeling horrible a second before she could start feeling happy again. It was then that she'd realised that she loved him, last night, when he had held her in the kitchen. She hadn't even been able to step into that room since she'd been back to her flat. Hermione couldn't bare to step in there, knowing that if she did, if she let the memories of his arms around her, the feel of his lips in her hair, the sound of his voice whispering soothingly in her ear...if she let herself remember those things, what was left of her broken heart wouldn't survive.
Hermione gathered the strength to lift herself from the spot where she'd collapsed the night before. She had gotten control of her tears at long last, though she didn't know how long that control would hold. She walked determinedly to her bedroom, the only room aside from the kitchen that wasn't filled with books (or discarded tissue at this point), only to have her heart break a little more. Neatly folded on her bed was Ron's maroon jumper; he'd left it at her flat by accident when he'd last had supper there and she'd been meaning to give it back to him.
"Oh Ron," she said, her words slightly strangled. She walked towards the bed as new tears fell down her swollen face, took the jumper, and held it close to her heart. She collapsed on the bed, more exhausted than she'd ever been, still clutching the small maroon pile. Ron's scent still clung to it, the smell of cinammon and cloves, the cologne that she'd gotten him last Christmas. Hermione remembered how he'd held her in the kitchen, and how she'd inhaled that scent as she listened to his heart beat. Her tears had been for the embarassment that Shawn had caused her, originally, but when Ron had brushed that stray strand of hair out of her face, and when he'd pulled her close to him, her tears had no longer been meant for Shawn. They'd been meant for Ron, and how she desperately loved him, but how he would only ever be her best friend. Surely he couldn't feel the same way about her, or could he? Even if there was a possibility, it no longer mattered. He'd kissed her in the kitchen…the feel of his lips on hers were scorched into her memory, and the thought that that one moment would have to last her for the rest of her life was the last to enter her mind as Hermione fell into a dreamless sleep.
~*~
When Hermione next woke up, it was to the sound of a pounding on her door. The Muggle clock on her night table indicated that she'd been sleeping for nearly twelve hours. She was still holding on to Ron's jumper, and a glance at her window told her that it was already dark. It was raining again, and if anything it was raining harder than it had been the night before. The night before…the events all came rushing back to her.
The pounding sounded again, but Hermione ignored it. She didn't want to see anyone right now…she didn't want to see anyone ever again. She shut her eyes, trying to drown out the sound of the knocks, and the pounding finally stopped; a sigh of relief escaped from her lips, she just wanted to be alone and bask in self-pity at the idiocy of her actions, and the repercussions they'd had. She closed her eyes in an attempt to go back to sleep, but was quickly jarred from that notion at what she heard.
It couldn't be!
"Hermione, I know you're up there!" she heard. It was Ron's voice, calling to her from the street below. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she pinched herself—hard—and let out a small yelp at the pain radiating through her left forearm. She wasn't dreaming, and Ron was really down below. He had to be sloshed, she thought immediately, peaking out of the corner of the pane, careful not to be seen. "Hermione, I have to talk to you; I know you can hear me, I can see the top of your head through the window!" Ron yelled at her from the street, over the sound of the rain spattering on the roof and of neighbours yelling-out their annoyance at having a barking stranger yelling at rooftops. Hermione shrunk back, her cheeks turning pink. He looked surprisingly sober for someone who was out of his bloody mind. It was raining buckets out there, and Ron was already soaked through.
"Serves him right," she muttered, sneaking another peak. He was still there.
"You asked for it!" he yelled, and did something Hermione had never expected him to do: he started singing.
