Like To Call Love
By: Romulus
I suppose it's kind of idiotic, writing in a journal (Mum got it for me), but... it seems that there's been so much of the so little going on about me that I can't blasted do anything about it, so, shall I write myself in these bloody pages, God hope Fred and George don't find it.
Sometimes I wonder, on warm, mellow evenings like this, where the late-summer breeze stirs the ochre-tainted leaves, and rustles the lush, green grasses in a subtle dance, peacefully swaying the world around it to the music of the seasons. I wonder about anything that crosses my mind, and for once, I can stare out into the vast, mercurial skies, and for once, I can be free. Out in this patch of nothing, where the weeds tangle freely with the wildflowers, and small beds of heated stones are tossed carelessly about the terrain, there are no shadows, no obligations that I must fulfill, no standards that I have to live up to, out here, I can find peace in the solitude of the somewhere-in-between that cats itself serenely through the atmosphere preluding dark.
The sky is a dull, calming tint of orange, draping the dome of the earth in a calming confinement, something that I suppose I wouldn't often find as blissful as I manage to discover it now. The clouds are whispy, lavender gatherings of whatever I suppose such things are made of, veiling the earth in patches of their fluffy fabric. For some reason, everything looks different, and as the dimming sun dies down into the distance, I realize, that now, for some reason, I'm seeing the world in an entirely new light.
It's almost frightening, really, realizing that you're no longer what you used to think you were, that you've somehow changed, and the handles of youth have so suddenly slipped from you, and left you alone to fend for yourself with all of the problems that you manage to keep bottled inside. I liked being a child, there was a comforting unawareness about it that I could go to hide behind, and escape all of the pressures of normal life, where I could think, but not too hard, and have it all figured out. The world was black and white, and I was comfortable with something being one or the other, there wasn't any room for the in-between.
I can't seem whether to decide if I like the new me or the old me better. Certainly, what I was simply this morning seemed to be much easier and more simplistic than this perplexing new demeanor donning on me right before my eyes. Although, for some reason, it seemed I've gained an ocean of knowledge in just one glance, and even the very rock I'm perched upon, behind Mum's garden and the damnable gnomes, feels different against the grooves of my back as I lie, sprawled out over its surface. Maybe I do like who I am now better. For once, I can face the facts of my emotions without criticizing myself, without stuffing it all back inside, for once, I can gaze upon the world with eyes that aren't narrowed, and arms that are open.
The passion, the anger, the inability to express anything I feel emotionally, compressing and producing itself into rage, isn't evident in my mind nor blood, as it flows freely through my veins, and maybe in this late-afternoon sunset, for just a moment, I can find solace.
Maybe I've been listening too much to Hermione, when she babbles on about different things. I've found that if you give her words a chance, you can learn all sorts of things. Science, philosophy, the word 'solace'--...
"... Ron?" Ron closed the journal in a sudden clap, and gave a start, jerking into a fully-sitting position, and tucking the small book into his a robe pocket without haste, stuffing the quill messily within the patched confinements soon after.
"Hate to disturb you," Hermione said, surprisingly timid, as she made her way out of the end of the garden and into the open field. "But your mother wanted you to come back in, supper's about to begin."
The Weasleys had been hosting two guests this late-summer, and one of them included Hermione Granger, who had arrived by car just this morning. "Yeah... uh... I'll be in in a while, I reckon." Ron nodded, his eyes fixated boldly on Hermione's.
She smiled lightly at this, taking another step forward and reaching out to rest her hand on the stone that Ron had been occupying. "... Pretty sunset." She said, rather oddly, as neither had been used to having a 'normal' conversation with eachother without Harry to stifle any arguments that could flame up.
"Uh... yeah, really pretty." But Ron hadn't turned his eyes to meet the brilliant orange now bursting forth from the great distance in its grand crescendo, but staring deeply into Hermione's own, which glinted a brilliant murky-gold in reflection of the sunset, glossed over with her own irises of deep brown. It was so beautiful, in the land of her eyes, and they contained such volume that he had acquired the hidden desire to simply dive into them, and get lost in the seas of their serenity. I suppose it was a good thing, that Ron was so awed by the plain, yet ornate composition of the girl, that he had even forgotten to shield his emotions, which would have been evident, if Hermione hadn't been so wrapped up in the sight.
"I've always loved the sunset," she began, her voice soft as the reverie unfolded in her mind. "Ever since I was a little girl. I used to climb up onto the rooftop with my father so that I could see it from the view, and then the next evening I'd look at it from the ground, so that I could messure its beauty from all angles." She paused a moment, intaking a deep, fulfilling breath, that sent Ron's heart pounding in his chest as she continued. "I... I used to dream, when I was even smaller, that someone would take me away into the sunset. He didn't need shining armour, and he never had a horse (since my mother's allergic and when we came to visit I wouldn't want her with cold), but he was as... as perfect as any knight, to me, anyway--... Oh, I'm... I'm so sorry. I'm boring you, aren't I?" Hermione asked finally, cutting off her dwindling memory as a blush begain to stain at her cheeks.
"No!" Ron exclaimed suddenly, as if he would have done anything to salvage her tone of voice, the way her lips moved as she spoke, and the poise of her body as she relaxed against the stone, losing herself in her past. "... I... I mean... no, you can continue, I reckon."
Hermione appeared startled by Ron's sudden outburst, but couldn't contain a soft smile, as she readjusted herself into the story. "... I... well, I guess, you know, it was just a faerietale, and I... I guess, it's the only thing that I can really hold onto, that I can still find myself dreaming." She bit her lip, knawing lightly on it before gaining the courage to continue. "I'm changing, Ron... a bit too quickly for my liking, I guess my dreams are the only things that I want to stay the same... that I can hope will stay the same."
"We're all changing, Hermione. Dad says it's part of... growing up, gaining responsibility, and... I.. I suppose he's right. It's kind of odd, actually, it's really odd. I'm.. I'm looking at things in a whole new light." Ron spoke, fingering the sleeve of tattered robes as his eyes bore into Hermione's, who's, notably, were glistening with tears.
"... Ron..." She said, her face contorting into a slight grimace. ".. Ron... I'm scared."
He was a bit startled at her outburst, but wasn't upsetted by it, and, in a moment of uncontrollable instinct, set his hand over hers, squeezing it gently. "Why?"
"I... I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. Everything... everything... it's all changed, Ron, it scares me." She sniffed, a small tear running down the side of her face as she entangled her fingers between Ron's, clenching tightly for support. "I... I don't know what to believe in anymore. I mean... Harry won't even so much as say more than a sentence at a time... and I... I can't... I don't know. I'm... I'm sorry, Ron." She was crying now, several tears burning trails down her face as she melted into Ron's support, leaning herself against him and the rock that supported him. "I'm sorry..."
Usually, it seemed that Ron would have not at all enjoyed the awkwardness of the situation before him, but he rose to the occassion, and drew to his feet, embracing the girl in his arms, as she buried her head into his shoulder, staining his patch-work robes with the saltwater of her anguish. "Shh... it's.. it's okay.." Ron spoke softly, holding her into him as she continued to sob. "Shh..."
It was several minutes before Hermione had finally been able to recompose herself. The tears from her eyes had been dried, and she was now gazing up at Ron, still leaning into his embrace. "... I... Ron... I'm sorry..." She would have stepped back, but Ron's grasp on her was gentle and snug, and she hadn't the heart to ask him to remove himself from her, she wouldn't be able to stand the lack of his support and the feel of his arms.
"Don't be." Ron spoke firmly.
"No, really. I shouldn't be putting you in such an awkard position, I'm so--"
"Don't be." And with that, Ron would crane his neck, reaching down to kiss at her upper-jaw, stopping her final tear in its tracks as he did so, before slowly pulling his head away. Don't be."
Hermione smiled softly, awed by his affection, and not quite certain what it meant, but not willing to find out, for it was too good of a thing to be shattered by the excuse of 'friendly gesture'. "... I..."
Ron moved his head again, the evident aim of his lips at Hermione's own, and almost succeeding in his action, breath against breath in harmonious beat... before a fit of high-pitched ringing, seeming to come from a bell someways on the other side of Mrs. Weasley's garden and near the Burrow.
"Ronald Arthur Weasley?! Hermione? Supper's going to get cold!"
Hermione jerked her head back, and Ron would as well, both of their eyes set against the garden as they pulled themselves awkwardly apart, gaze falling once more demurely onto eachother.
".. I.. ugh... shall we?" Ron asked, rubbing at the back of his neck, which was burning pink, like both face adn ears.
"... S-sure. L-lead... lead the way." Hermione gestured toward the garden in inclination.
"... Yeah."
"Yeah..."
And within another moment, they were gone, heading back toward supper with a flutter within their chests, that would not calm and would not be sustained, something, the wiser length of us, like to call love.