Author's note: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No money is being made and no trademark or copyright infringement is intended. Chapter one was extended quite a bit; you may wish to check it out again just in case. Thanks for reading.

Chapter Two: Second Chances

Ron Apparated inside Le, adjusting his tie and running a hand over his still-damp hair. He stepped off the marble Apparation platform self-consciously. If this wasn't Hermione's favorite restaurant, he wouldn't be caught dead eating here, he decided. From the obnoxious rose and gilt wallpaper to the deep red pile carpet and the lace curtains, the place reeked of cupids and sentimentality. And French food, but that wasn't the end of the world. Food was food.

The maitre d' eyed Ron suspiciously. Ron took a deep breath. They'd been through this before, so he decided to meet the train head on. "Yes, I'll need to borrow a jacket."

"And you are..." The maitre d' trailed off delicately, one eyebrow raised over a sneer.

"Here to meet Harry Potter." He paused for a moment, wondering why the next part was always so hard. "And Hermione Krum."

As soon as Harry's name was past Ron's lips, a waiter had snapped to attention and gone for a dinner jacket. Ron had long ceased to care about the whispers that followed whenever Harry was mentioned. He just wanted this part over with; he just wanted things to be back the way they used to be. Simple.

"It seems we only have something in maroon, Mr. Weasley." The maitre d' held the jacket out so Ron could slip it on. "It will go rather nicely with our scheme, don't you think? You will seem to be a part of the furniture." Ron growled under his breath as he topped off his forest green shirt and tie with the purplish suit jacket. Snotty man did know his name. Knew he didn't own a jacket. Probably picked the thing out for him specially. Just see if he left a tip this time. "Right this way."

Harry hadn't arrived yet. "Hermione?" Ron said quietly as he took the chair next to hers. She was staring blankly at her napkin, eyes shining. In the month since she'd come back from Bulgaria, she'd gained some weight. Ron thought it all for the better. Her face was rounded and her robes looked a lot better on. "Hermione?"

When Ron touched her arm, Hermione shook her head a little and looked up. "I was about to give up," she said, her voice shaking a little. "I should have known you two would be late. And what is that you're wearing?" She tapped his sleeve with her wand. "Turn black. There, isn't that better?"

"Much," Ron replied, picking a bit of lint off his newly fashionable sleeve. "I'm not late. I'm early. I thought this was just drinks until I got your owl. And weren't we meeting at eight?"

"Seven-thirty. It's all right. I've been people-watching."

Ron wasn't inclined to believe that her napkin was a person, and was about to tell her so, but her hand caught his eye. A pale stripe wound around her ring finger. "I don't mean to be..." Ron searched his brain for the word Ginny had told him to use whenever he was in this sort of situation. "...Incense. No, insensitive," he said, stumbling over the words. "But--"

"Harry," Hermione exclaimed suddenly. "You're here. Now we can order." She signaled the waiter as Harry slid into the seat opposite them and then began to chat animatedly about the weather, even though neither man responded with more than the occasional 'hm' or 'uh-huh.'

While Hermione and Harry ordered, Ron tried to figure out the menu. It was written entirely in French, and Ron didn't like anything French unless it was called Delacour. He double-checked, but nothing by that name was on the menu tonight. Last time Hermione had ordered for him. "I'll have the iscairgit," he decided at last.

"The escargot is an excellent choice, monsieur. May I recommend a wine?"

"No, I'd like a butterbeer." Ron ignored the waiter's frown and handed back his menu. "What?"

Harry was grinning openly. And Hermione...Hermione was frowning at Harry, but her lips were shaking. Just a little. "What?" he said again.

"You know, Ron, escargot are--"

"Quite good," Hermione cut in. Her eyes were crinkling up around the corners. If escargot could make Hermione smile for the first time in a month, he'd eat them by the plateful and gladly.

* * *

Ron eyed Harry's plate. Some sort of bird in wine sauce with fungus, from the look of it. Hermione--well, whatever she had ordered must have been good, because it was gone. His dinner, on the other hand...

"How is it?" Hermione asked.

"Choowy." Ron swallowed a lump. "Want a bit?"

"Thanks." Hermione speared a forkful. "And you, Harry. You haven't eaten a bite."

Ron figured this was probably true; Harry's plate had all the hallmarks of a dinner pushed to and fro to cover up the fact that it hadn't been eaten. He hadn't even bothered to cut up the thing.

"You have to eat, mate. Want some of this?"

Harry turned slightly green. "Erm, no. Thanks, Ron."

Ron stopped mid-bite. "Awright. What'm I eetin'?"

Hermione and Harry exchanged glances. In the end, it was Hermione who broke the news. "Snails. And they're a bit undercooked."

Ron spit the mouthful out so hard that he knocked over his water glass. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, you just kept eating it." Hermione's lips twisted as she drew her wand and dried off the tablecloth. "And that was disgusting, Ron."

Ron scrubbed at his lips with a napkin. "No worse than eating snails. Or watching someone eat snails. Honestly, how could you?" His face softened as he realized she was amused by the whole thing. "Maybe pudding will make up for it. What was that stuff we had last time? Chocolate catto?"

"Gateau," Hermione supplied. "I think I'll have some as well. Harry?" she asked, signaling the waiter.

Harry dropped his fork onto the table. "Nah. I'm just not hungry. And, I...I'm just very tired. Can we get together another time?"

"Of course, Harry. Shall I owl you, or--"

Harry shook his head. "I'll come by. We'll see each other soon." He pressed a small pouch of Galleons into Ron's hand. "For dinner. And," he said, managing a half-smile, "make sure Hermione gets home all right."

Ron and Hermione watched Harry walk out, his shoulders drooping.

* * *

"...So, I'm hoping that I'll be able to do some freelance work for Arithmancy Unlimited, though I do have some misgivings about their privacy policy. I mean, I could be giving some maniac the exact equation they need to break the wards around Hogwarts or blow up Gringotts or something worse. On the other hand, I could work when I felt like it, or when I wanted to, or needed to, and I wouldn't have to worry about someone non-magical finding out what I was doing, because it wouldn't be so obvious as working with potions or--" Hermione finally paused to draw breath. "And you never know, something might open up at Hogwarts, only it might be the Defense position, and I'm not quite that foolish, I don't think, and it would be so far away from you and Harry, and here we are."

Hermione propped her takeaway box on one arm while she fumbled for her wand--she'd bribed the waiter to wrap up a cheesecake--and tapped the door of her flat with her wand, muttering the Unlocking Charms.

Ron wrinkled his nose. The hallway smelled like old cabbage and cats. He knew that the old saying was true: there were cheap places to live in Fine Alley, but when you could manage it, you moved out and said finally.

The door opened with a soft click and Hermione stopped chattering long enough to push it open. Ron mustered up his nerve, even though a bit of his brain was using Ginny's voice and chanting insensitive, insensitive, insensitive.

"Invite me in for tea." Ginny's voice screamed you're supposed to at least make it a question but he ignored it. "Tea and cheesecake."

Hermione looked at him warily for a moment. "All right. If you'll make the tea I'll get some plates." She led the way through to the tiny kitchen.

Ron paused in the doorway. It hadn't changed much since the last time he'd been here, almost a week ago. A sofa and table across from the fire competed for space with a writing desk, which was overflowing with books. Through a narrow doorway another table, this one with two ladder-back chairs, was crammed into the corner next to the refrigerator and across from the stove. Beyond the kitchen--not more than a wide hallway, really--another door led to a bedroom. Ron hadn't been in there, but he imagined it as spartan as the rest.

A search of the cupboards yielded teacups and tea. "Hermione, where's the kettle?"

"Oh." Hermione looked flustered and set down the knife she'd been using to slice the cheesecake. "Er, I sold it."

"What?" Ron shook his head. "Why?"

"Well, it was--was something I didn't want to keep around anymore. And I wanted a new one."

"I think I can make the tea anyway." Ron turned the tap for hot water, thankful that he had something to do to hide his confusion. The kettle had been a present from Krum. Ron himself had made tea with it so many times that he'd almost forgotten.

He stirred the water in the cups with his wand, each in turn, muttering spells to boil it. As he spoke, he closed his eyes, remembering the day Hermione had received the kettle.

They'd been in the library at Hogwarts. It was the beginning of the third year after they should have been out, free, adults. But Dumbledore wouldn't let them out of the castle. Voldemort wanted Harry, and because he wanted Harry, all three of them were trapped. It was kill or be killed, and the problem was that no one knew for sure if the first option was even possible.

So they'd stayed, suspended, given extra lessons by the professors, spending hours researching advanced spells and defenses; they were locked away like children although they had had to grow up so quickly. Yet, it had been oddly comforting. Harry had his mood swings, and Hermione had her nagging. See here, Ron, you could be a Healer if you'd just take a few of your N.E.W.T.s over, and there's no reason you can't, since you're here anyway. I'm sure that if you revise properly and ask the board very nicely, they won't mind at all....

Of course, Hermione had her letters to Krum. And from Krum. And she never shared. But Ron hadn't really cared; he'd had Hermione in the flesh.

She hadn't been pleased with him because he'd forgotten her birthday. The days ran together, always the same, and he had stopped paying attention to the calendar. Harry had given her some dusty old book and Ron had given her his scone, hiding it under the table so Madam Pince wouldn't see. Then, a magnificent pair of eagle owls had flown in, carrying the package between them. Hermione had barely taken off the twine and paper, barely taken the thing out, when the world exploded.

The walls had been breached. The air was thick with smoke and bright blasts of light ricocheted off the shelves, sending books flying. They had run, Hermione clocking a Death Eater with the heavy kettle by accident. Together they reached the Forbidden Forest. Some of the Death Eaters were picked off by acromantula as they followed blindly, some were attacked by centaurs, and at least one was carried off by Grawp.

But more came. They weren't ready for them. So when Dumbledore had appeared, with his own kettle in hand, Hermione and Ron had pushed Harry forward and taken hold at the same time.

For the next year, they were always on the move. If it was Tuesday, it meant a new Portkey. They saw Tuscany, Beijing, and Cartegena through windows. The best place had been a little cove on a deserted island where they had ventured out to go swimming. The only constant was that terrible kettle, painted to look like a rooster. Home is where you hang your kettle, they'd joked, even after it grew stale.

When Harry came up with a solution rather suddenly, they took the kettle home with them to the Burrow. Ron was making tea--with his mother's kettle, for a change--when one of Krum's eagle owls had shown up with a letter that silenced Hermione and had her Apparating out of the house not twenty minutes later. Harry and Ron wrote her and received letters back, evasive and boring and unmistakably Hermione, and their questions went unanswered.

Harry, as always, had a world to save and Ron, who could do little more then offer moral support, grew tired of Weasley sympathy and took the first job he found. Once in London and at work at St. Mungo's, it was not so trying. Or maybe it was, but there was no time to think about it.

The headline in the Daily Prophet's sport section had read: Former Seeker for Bulgaria Marries. There had been no picture, only a notice that Hermione Granger and Viktor Krum had married at his parents' home. For six months, Ron pretended that he had never read it. Then came the second notice, the one on the last page that said Krum had died following an extended illness. Ron wanted to feel sad, but all he felt was...nothing.

A few weeks later, he'd had an owl from Hermione, and he and Harry had collected her at Heathrow. Too tired to Apparate, she'd said. She'd been thin and tense, and managed a little small talk before checking herself into The Leaky Cauldron.

"Ron. Ron. You've practically boiled them dry." Hermione tugged at his sleeve and pulled the cups out of his reach, bringing him back to the present. "I don't have any milk, but I've got some sugar here somewhere."

"It's all right." Ron carried the cups into the other room. "Come on, let's sit here on the sofa."

Hermione frowned at this, but brought their dessert with her. "I suppose this reminds you of the time in Prague when we didn't have a table to eat on."

"I'd forgotten that." Ron took a bite. "This isn't bad, but the chocolate stuff is better. Hey, slow down. You'll make yourself sick."

Hermione was half done with her portion already. "You're suddenly the expert on table manners?"

Ron slammed his plate down on the end table, fuming. He wanted to kick himself, to grab his foot and keep it out of his mouth, but he knew it was already too late. "Where's your ring?"

She swallowed carefully and set her plate aside. "I took it off," she answered coolly.

"So Krum was worth leaving me and Harry behind for, but not worth remembering for, oh, a decent length of time?" Ron couldn't believe what was coming out of his own mouth; what was it to him if she had only been in it for the money...money that there was no current evidence of, but there had to be some reason why she'd gone off and married the git.

Tears welled up in her eyes. "Shut up. Shut your mouth. You didn't need me anymore. A few more weeks and you both would have been bored silly."

Ron was thrown by her sudden tears and her response, but he continued. "So Krum needed you more than Harry did? Krum was more important to you than Harry was?" Than I was? "One letter and you knew?"

"It's not that simple." Hermione stood up and walked to the window. "Viktor was very ill. He needed me. Harry had got rid of Voldemort, you were thinking about going out for the Cannons. I didn't have anything left to do."

"You don't really believe that." Ron was dumbfounded. "You think we wanted you around all those years because we needed your brain? Because we wanted the answers to our homework? What are we to you? Some sort of project?"

Hermione didn't answer.

"You're a fool, Hermione." Ron stood up. "A fool to think any of that is true. When you've got your head on straight again..." He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Don't you see?" she said, finally. "I didn't have any purpose. I had to do something."

"You want purpose? You-Know...Vol--Vold--" Ron put his hands over his mouth.

"Voldemort. You can say it now, you know," she said crossly. "You don't have to look ill when someone says it, either--are you all right?"

"Mouth tastes funny," he mumbled from behind his hand. "Two, two of you." Ron bent double, his hands moving from his mouth to his stomach. "Going to be--sick."

Hermione put a hand to his forehead. "You're very clammy, and sweaty and cold. Maybe you had too much at dinner?" The question was barely out of her mouth when a number of snails splattered onto her shoes. "A simple 'yes' would have been sufficient, Ronald. Scourgify. Oh, not again." She pointed her wand at the floor, cleaning up the mess. "Ron? Ron!"

Ron passed out in a puddle of--well, Hermione didn't want to inspect it too closely. "He must be allergic," she said out loud. With a muttered Mobilicorpus she lifted him toward the tiny fire that was connected to the Floo Network on a pay-per-use basis. "Money, money, need some, hurry." She patted Ron's suit, extracting the pouch of Galleons from the pocket of his trousers gingerly. After throwing a handful of Floo powder into the hearth she dropped two Galleons into the flames, overestimating the fee just in case.

"St. Mungo's," she shouted, pushing Ron into the fire ahead of her.

The fire spun them around and spit them out. Hermione picked herself up and looked around. They were still in her flat. She stamped a foot in frustration and started over. The second time, she called out "nine, nine, nine" before going into the flames, Ron in her arms. The world spun again, and a little snail vomit dribbled down her back, and her face was going to have a mark from being pressed into the buttons on Ron's jacket.

This time, when it all stopped, she was on the floor, crushed by Ron's dead weight. But the floor was tiled and cool and a Healer rushed toward her. "Second time's a charm," she said to herself, breathing a sigh of relief.

* * *