–– Author's Note: This chapter was a little longer than I expected, but hopefully not quite so boring. I apologize for the delay in this chapter – I had to spend a week working on my college applications (which was thankfully done) and then I was suffering from severe writer's block (or, rather, the spots, as I'm told ^_^). But, it's finally up. And, as I discovered while rewriting after unhappy with the initial chapter twelve, and rewriting again after losing the chapter in a computer crash, it's much longer than I expected, meaning there will be one more chapter before the epilogue and end. As always, thanks to everyone who has reviewed – that is, after all, a writer's fuel – and to those who beta read my stories and put up with my doubting myself into deeper writer's block.
It was settled; Ronald Weasley was a love struck fool and Hermione Granger was the girl he was going to pour his heart out to in the form of – . . . poetry?
Some strange sort of feeling had seized him during dinner that night, brought on by the subsequent actions following his entrance, with Hermione, into the Great Hall. Although he had gotten over his fear of cooties before he had ever set foot on the grounds of Hogwarts, as soon as the reached the doors to the overly large and ornate dining hall, he had dropped her hand as if it were contaminated. And, though his actions in and of themselves astonished him, it was not so surprising as the fact that she had let go of his hand, willingly, almost the exact moment he had released hers and there was no issue of conversation about it whatsoever. It was not, apparently, an issue – but a mutual fear.
Madam Pomfrey, who would not look at a healthy person with a concerned eye even if her own life depended on it, had seen the emotions that Ron had failed to realize for many years, meaning his feelings were more than thoroughly obvious. There was no doubt in his mind that the people he had lived with for over six years had picked up on them, as well. Hell, Harry had gone so far as to tell Dean and Seamus about Hermione's feelings, one could only assume that he would not stop at discussing the matters of Ron's heart. Though, if he did so regularly, there must be a serious lack of conversation topics.
And, honestly, it wasn't so much the fact that everyone under the sun had apparently known his feelings for Hermione before him, but the fact that they were all terribly childish about things of that sort. There were few people – save for Neville Longbottom, perhaps – that knew it was simply suicide to go around announcing just about anything about your life, for there was a serious lack of students who could pass a person in the hallway without making a comment, good or bad, about whatever important matter was currently going on. It made no difference if it was private matter or not once it got out.
Though, Ron had survived the torments of belching up slugs and asking Fleur to the Yule Ball, so he seriously doubted that he wouldn't be able to take whatever taunts and teases the immature student body chose to fling at him once the news of his newfound relationship had gotten out. The only problem with that was the fact that gossip at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry spread like wildfire – magically inhanced and all-consuming wildfire that continued to spread while being doused with water and dirt and flame-retardant chemicals and spells. Thus, had they continued to hold hands while entering the Great Hall Friday evening, there was not a single doubt in his mind that by the time classes began anew on Monday morning, it would be rumored that he and Hermione were eloping after graduation due to the fact that she was carrying his love child.
. . . Which, as a matter of fact, wasn't wholly such a bad thought, considering the actions that would have to take place before she could end up carrying said child.
Thus – after pulling himself from the subsequent, and quite pleasing, fantasy which followed that particular course of thought – Ron concluded that his actions, as well has hers, had nothing whatsoever to do with their respective feelings, simply apprehension towards being gossiped about. And, she had told him this herself after dinner, while he walked her to her dormitory – in a very cliché manner, perhaps, but at least he obtained the very cliché goodnight kiss.
And that, of course, was worthy of another reverie.
Though, Ron admitted, finding himself sometime after dinner had passed and the moon had risen steadily through the night's sky, he had absolutely no idea how embarrassment, apprehension, and a kiss got him into his current mood. Not to say the kiss wasn't absolutely heavenly, despite how chaste and at the corner of his lips it might have been placed, but that had nothing whatsoever to do with his sudden inspiration – though it was quite uninspiring at the same time – to write Hermione something. Poetry, no less. He could hear Fred and George's mocking laughter ringing in his ears and Ginny's squeals of absolute delight at his spontaneous romantic side, which had apparently sprouted overnight.
Having seated himself in the large window sill of the seventh year boy's dormitory, Ron tilted his head against the chilled panes of glass, eyes flickering between the early November evening outside, the parchment resting upon his knees, then the quill in his hand, and the sleeping friends across the circular room. Neville's snoring and Dean's muttering about foots-ball – or whatever that insane sport was called – were not helping him write anything at all. Eventually, heaving a deep sigh, he cast his gaze towards Harry's bed, the curtains pulled back, which was as perfectly made as it had been in the middle of the morning when one of the house-elves assigned to Gryffindor Tower had snuck in to smooth the sheets. Ron, apparently, wasn't the only one having trouble sleeping – and couldn't everyone's problems be blamed on love?
There was no use guessing where Harry was or what he was doing, as Ron had missed him at dinner – having intended to apologize for beating the 'holy bloody hell' out of him (as Seamus eloquently put it) – and went searching for him afterwards in the common room, only to find him in a very unlikely place. Hermione soothed him away from pummeling the holy bloody hell out of Harry again, by convincing him that Harry and Ginny needed 'time to sort things outs on their own.' Therefore, he proceeded to walk Hermione to the seventh year girl's dormitory (as she asked, apparently to persuade him from being overly protective of his little sister) and left Harry and Ginny to their whispered conversation, hand-holding, and tears in one of the dimly lit areas of the common room. At least he was apologizing for everything he had done – and to Ginny first and foremost.
Which, after he thought about it, was fine by him – so long as Harry returned at a decent hour without Ginny's light pink lipstick smeared all over his face from snogging as it had been weeks before. Not only would he be upset that Harry had been snogging his sister, but also that Harry had been snogging at all, while he was left to be content with a small kiss and the impossible urge to write Hermione a poem. A poem, of all bloody things!
Finally, after turning everything over in his mind once more – and griping internally about how Harry might be in the common room having a good 'make up' snog with his baby sister! – Ron forced his attention back to the blank parchment, which was slightly wrinkled, atop his raised knees. Dipping the tip of the quill in hand within the inky confines of the bottle at his side, he raised the writing impliment to the parchment . . .
And sighed.
"I could just put I love you all over the paper. Muggles do weird things like that, she'd like it," Ron mumbled to himself, recalling the pieces of Muggle artwork and poetry his dad had showed him. One git painted cans of soup over and over, while another didn't even bother using proper spelling or anything in his poems. But, having had the rhyming poetry beaten into his head by his mother, who absolutely adored the works of some old Muggle (Shack Speer?), and what little poetry he had bothered, or been forced, to read, Ron struggled with the concept until he finally allowed his head to drop to the side and onto the glass of the window with a dull thud . . . again.
"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, never knowing that something as simple as poetry could be so hard. It was especially difficult to know what he wanted to say, but to be simply lost on how to express it through rhyme. "I'm a man, damn it," Ron cursed again, not at all sure what he meant by the statement. Perhaps that he was man enough to play Quidditch, survive Snape, be the best friend of the Boy Who Lived, and come nearly unscathed from every insane event of his life . . . but was unable to write poetry? Of course, he didn't think that poetry had gender barriers – as he had read far more poetry (of the three or four poems he had actually read or heard) from men than women – and failed to understand why it didn't come pouring suddenly from his brain. "I bet that Muggle guy never had this much trouble."
Biting his lip, Ron finally found something to start with and pressed the tip of the quill to the rough, but wrinkled, parchment. Still, he had his wand in hand and a handy erasing charm in mind.
The beauty of the sun . . .
The hours until dawn – which came and went without the crowing of a rooster (or noises from a ghoul) unlike at the Burrow – passed so quickly he hardly noticed the time until the door to the dormitory slowly slid open and Harry slipped inside, apparently intent on not waking anyone.
"Hey, Harry," Ron said in a nonchalant tone that he not only startled Harry, but also himself, once he glanced up from the parchment brimming with ink.
Harry nearly jumped a mile and a half, pressing himself against the curved wall of the dormitory and holding his chest like he was five times his age, suffering from heart failure. "Ron! Don't do that!"
It was so amusing, however, that Ron reminded himself to do it again at the next available opportunity. "Where've you been, young man? You're roommates and I were worried sick about you all night!" he countered, mockingly, towards Harry, giving a motion to the soundly snoring boys who shared the room with them.
"I was, er, talking to Ginny," Harry replied, moving cautiously away from the door as if Ron would tackle and pummel the daylights out of him again. "I apologized."
For the first time that entire week – though it might have been induced by writing a poem for half the night and the strong emotions it roused within him – Ron genuinely felt sorry for Harry, especially when he looked tired, down-trodden, weary, and in fear of his very life. "What did she say?"
It seemed Ron threw curve-balls when deprived of sleep, as Harry looked startled for the second time. "She was angry, but she understood and accepted my apology," he answered slowly, not bothering to hide the relief and happiness in his voice. "Hey, what're you doing up, anyway?"
Glancing to his watch, Ron noticed that it was a quarter to seven o'clock in the morning, as indicated by the single hand of his watch nearly coming to rest upon the Time for Breakfast! message, which was there in place of the number twelve. "It's nearly seven," he stated, momentarily forgetting the fact that almost everyone slept in on the weekends until at least nine o'clock."Besides, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about – " Almost about to tell Harry that he had been up all right writing Hermione a sonnet of love, Ron abruptly stopped himself, remembering that Harry had yet to apologize to anyone else aside from his sister.
That should have been good enough. Or, if not that, the look of dejection upon Harry's face, which was still as equally bruised as his own, if not moreso. But, it seemed that nothing truly ever changed – although he knew how Harry felt, it was gratifying to hear an apology. Ron, of course, intended to apologize about what he had done, but not until Harry admitted openly to him that he had been wrong, too.
"Hey, Ron?" Harry said after a moment of silence between them, moving over to settle against the wall next to the window sill in a casual manner by which it seemed that nothing had come between them since that horrible incident involving the Triwizard Tournament. "You know I'm sorry about what happened, don't you? You're my best friend and all and I know I went a little crazy – "
" – Love makes everyone go crazy, Harry," Ron interrupted him, pulling the parchment away so his friend didn't notice what was written there. He hadn't expected himself to interrupt the apology, though, as he received so very few and enjoyed relishing in them, especially not to make a statement about Harry and Ginny being in love. Yet, he went on, unable to stop himself from reassuring his friend. "It's true. It does. Trust me. And, Harry? I'm sorry I hit you."
"I know," Harry replied readily, though whether to the first statement or the apology, Ron was unsure. Then, for a moment, Harry appeared to be on the verge of saying something, but simply closed his mouth and leaned over to clasp his hand upon Ron's shoulder, grinning in the broad way Fred and George usually did when they were up to no good. "Are you saying you don't mind me going out with your sister, then?" he prompted after unsuccessfully attempting to glance at the writing upon the parchment in Ron's possession.
"It bugs me a little, you know. All the times we've sat around looking at girls – now I know you're looking at my sister like that." Ron shuddered suddenly, recalling a conversation from the year before in which Harry brought up the topic of ... well, something he didn't want to think about Harry applying to his sister. "But, I think I'll get over it and as long as you treat her the way she deserves to be treated, I don't think I'll find an excuse to beat the hell out of you."
"Works for me." Grinning, Harry went back to leaning against the wall next to the window sill, a far-off look in his eyes – undoubtedly due to the fact that Ron had brought up previous girl-oogling conversations and he was picturing Ginny in a certain way that would have caused Ron to punch him in the nose if he were privy to Harry's thoughts. "Anyway, we'd better get ready. I promised Ginny we'd all meet her, Hermione, and a few others in the common room at eight."
"For what?" Ron inquired, yawning for the first time since the evening before. After a blink, he moved his hand idly through his flamingly colored hair, ruffling it out of place, then attempting to flatten it. "Hermione said something about doing something today, but I forget what it was."
"A picnic. All the girls have been working together devising some picnic out past Hogsmeade, but I think it's going to rain – it's November, after all."
Glancing out the window, Ron noticed the gathering storm clouds with a wave of relief washing over him. The last thing he wanted was to go all the way out to Hogsmeade, sit on the soggy ground, and get sick from some bloody picnic in the November. "It's raining already," he noted as a large droplet of water hit the window.
"Ginny'll be upset, but I told her all the younger students will be at some Junior Dueling Club meeting and a lot of the others will be at Hogsmeade anyway, so we could just stay in and carry on."
" – In the true Gryffindor style, I hope?" Ron inquired, grinning broadly. The Gryffindor Style of partying had been created by none other than his twin brothers, Fred and George, and was something the Gryffindors thoroughly enjoyed at least once a month, always in attempt to live up to the largest party ever held in Gryffindor Tower – the party the twins held their last year at Hogwarts.
"Too right, mate. What's a party if it's not a Gryffindor party? We might have to hold off the real carrying on to later tonight, but . . . the girls want a celebration." Harry looked vaguely confused and Ron shared his thoughts. What the hell do you celebrate about getting into a huge mess of Malfoy's plans and poisoned and nearly detention enough to warrant staying in school another two years?
But, if there was one thing above all else he had learned at Hogwarts in his nearly seven years, being placed in the same house as girls like Hermione, Parvati, or Lavender, it was that women were strange creatures that men, no matter how far and wide they study, will always fail to understand.
"Right, well, Fred and George passed on to us the right to carry on as best fits Gryffindor, so that's what we'll have to do," Ron inched from the window sill and stretched the stiffness from his lengthy limbs.
"And carry on we will."