Here's to Suffering
Author: Echo the Insane PG-13
Summary: Hermione's getting married. Just not to Ron.
Pairing(s): Mentions of RW/HG, HG?. Main pairing: None. Well, sort of. There's a lot of Harry here, though. Promise!
Category: Angst
Warnings: Unrequited het. and slashy feelings mentioned. Oh, and age difference. Watch out for that. If it squicks you, leave. Don't waste your time flaming. I'll just use them to make toast.
The drink was cold but went down hot, burning his throat in its wake. The taste twisted his face into a grimace, making his stomach burn and lungs itch. He sat in the seedy little Muggle bar, the only bit of silence in the whole place. All around him hummed a collection of speaking voices, little rings of laughter from far away corners, and the occasional drunken outburst. He had been there four hours and planned on at least another four.
In one hand was his scotch; in the other was a picture. Beside the hand holding the picture, a creased and well-folded wedding invitation lay upon the counter. Ron Weasley spared it a venomous glance and downed the rest of his drink, barely noticing when the bartender refilled it.
Beside him sat a fat old drunkard, his beard grizzly and clothes dusty. He sniffled loudly and belched, downing another cheap beer. Ron ignored him for the most part, until the old man dared to touch the sacred picture clutched in his palm.
"She's a pretty thing," the old man said, sounding surprisingly sober, though his eyes were clearly glazed from the booze. "She gettin' married then?" At Ron's silence, the old man nodded. "Guess you're not that Snape fellow, eh? Tough bit of luck there, lad."
"Snape's an asshole," Ron growled out, staring at the bottles lining the wall behind the bar.
"'Course he is, young fella."
A rickety old radio played over the loud speakers, cutting in and out as the silence stretched between himself and the old man. The drunk had gone back to his drink, apparently forgetting about Ron and his girl trouble. Ron liked it that way and took a gulp of his scotch, wincing yet again at the burn and flavour it left in his mouth.
"Ron."
Ron set his jaw at the sound of the voice. So gentle, so patient. It was all he could not to turn around and clock his best friend one in the jaw.
The other seat beside him was empty and creaked just loudly enough to be heard over the horrible music as Harry Potter sat down. Ron ignored him and downed the rest of the drink, holding the glass out to the tender defiantly, silently daring Harry to try and stop it. Harry did not try to stop it and Ron didn't know whether to be happy or disappointed. He was neither, so he settled for annoyed.
Potter ordered a bit of scotch for himself and Ron couldn't help but look. He felt disgusted when Harry drank the stuff and didn't even change expression. He looked at his own glass and drank a little more.
"Are you going?" Potter asked, his voice so even and so quiet, yet Ron could hear him so clearly. It was always like that with Harry - even if everyone in the room were shouting at the top of their lungs, you could still hear Harry's quietest whisper. Ron wondered if he had spelled himself so that he was always heard. It wouldn't surprise him much, the wanker.
"No," he replied at last, his voice harsh and rough from the alcohol. He drank a little more and ignored Harry's quiet sigh.
"She'll be disappointed."
The urge to strangle his supposed "best friend" was nearly overwhelming. "Let her be," he snarled.
Harry said nothing, though he ordered another drink. The rest of the night was met with silence. Ron drank, and so did Harry, and no matter how much Ron wanted him to, Harry did not leave.
Morning light came too quickly, burning through the lids of his eyes. His head pounded with the beat of a thousand miniature hammers, wielded by a thousand miniature dwarves. Ron groaned to himself, finding that the small noise only made the pain quicken and intensify. He shifted slightly and felt silk covers move over his bare chest.
Bleary thoughts trudged through his mind, trying to find some order in the mess that was his life. He took in a deep breath and smelt bacon being fried somewhere nearby. He knew long before he opened his eyes where he was.
Harry's ceiling came into focus, the all too familiar cracks and chips looking slightly less sharp than usual. He turned his head a little and was confronted with the strong smell of Harry Potter. All pine trees and forest streams. He knew the smell almost as well as his own - all fire and a little hint of chocolate, Hermione had once said. Ron sighed to himself and winced, turning his head very slowly to the other side, where he knew a Hangover Potion sat upon Harry's old oak side-table. His fingers fumbled for the stuff and quickly he downed it, wincing much as he had the night before over the scotch. The potion tasted much worse, however.
The world came sharply into focus, leaving him with a faint sense of vertigo, his head feeling much too light after feeling much too heavy only moments before. Ron raised a hand to his brow and rubbed his temple.
Hermione is marrying Snape.
He opened his eyes again and dropped his hand, staring blankly at the ceiling. He'd nearly forgotten. The invitation was on the side-table, along with his beloved photograph. Hermione in a field of yellow flowers, her hair caught in a wind, a grin upon her face. Who knew a Muggle picture could be so precious? He himself had taken that picture many, many years ago, when Hermione still looked at him with adoration and whispered quiet "I love you's" in his ear. So many years.
The bed shifted and Ron noticed for the first time that Harry had entered the room. He looked at his best friend coolly. Harry sat on the edge of the opposite side, a tray of bacon, eggs, toast, and juice in his lap. Ron tried to be angry with him - it was so much easier to be angry with Harry than anyone else - but the dark circles and drawn cheeks made worry prevail. He sat up slowly, his body stiff and limbs sore, wincing as he rested back against the always fluffy pillows. Harry sat the tray upon his lap and rose, leaving without a word.
The food was excellent, as usual. Harry was a damned good cook and for that Ron was glad. He'd never get a decent meal otherwise.
He had dressed quickly, leaving off his shoes and socks to feel the warm, white carpet beneath his feet. Everything in Harry's flat was that way - warm and white; or some pale colour. Ron had asked him why once and Harry had just sort of smiled and said he liked bright, soothing things. Ron had never quite understood that, but it seemed to make Harry happy at any rate.
His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing an old, jagged scar some Death Eater or another had given him many years before. Ron walked to the bedroom door and stopped there, leaning against the jam.
Harry sat upon his tan couch, a cup of steaming tea in his hand. His hair was still messy and brow still scarred, the eyes still as green as ever. But age had come a little too early, or so Ron thought, in the form of little lines around those eyes and his mouth; deepening, it seemed, every time he saw him. Harry had grown, as had Ron, yet Ron still towered over him. Ron was a little smug about it, and often felt petty when he indulged such thoughts.
He stood and watched his friend sip his tea, his own eyes not really seeing the slightly younger man. Twenty-seven. He'd never thought they'd live that long. He'd never thought Hermione would marry Snape, either.
"Ron."
He hated that voice.
"What?"
Harry was standing before him now, his tea abandoned and a stricken look upon his face. Ron felt suddenly nervous, panicked as he tried to figure out what could bring about that expression.
"You aren't the only one suffering."
Ron blinked and looked down at this, his best friend. Harry looked ill then, and Ron was starkly reminded of the first time he saw Professor Lupin. His eyes flicked to Harry's hair, finding it still coal black, though he could see the occasional spring of gray slowly creeping in. He looked at Harry's face again and felt guilt knot him up. Harry just sighed and turned away, retreating to his kitchen.
Ron had suspected it for years. He had first seen the little glances right after they'd been inducted into the Order; the way Harry would seem a little more prone to smiling when Hermione would enter the room, Snape skulking along behind her - though Ron had never paid that little fact much attention in those days. Snape had seen all those little things about Harry, too, and had often glared openly at him. He remembered being jealous, remembered tearing into his friend and insulting him, snapping cold things at him and turning away when Harry needed him. And every time, Harry would forgive and forget. It just made Ron hate Harry a little more.
Hermione hadn't chosen him. She hadn't chosen Harry, either. She'd chosen Snape - God knows why - and left them both to sulk in each other's silences.
"They're getting married today."
Ron jerked his attention back to Harry, his eyes a little wide. Harry stood in the kitchen door, looking at him blandly, a new cup of tea in his hands. He looked at the calendar displayed near the kitchen door and felt his breath hitch. Twenty-eight June - Hermione's wedding day.
"Bill sent over one of your dress robes. It's hanging up in the bedroom."
"I said I'm not going." Or at least he thought he said it. He was rather sloshed the night before.
"Suit yourself," Harry shrugged, walking away from the kitchen and past him, into his room, closing the door. Ron just stood staring at the kitchen for a moment, horribly aware at how silent Harry's flat could be.
Hermione was marrying Snape, and Harry expected him to go. He could barely stop himself from tearing down the door and throttling Potter for all he was worth.
Minutes ticked by, and Harry at last emerged, dressed in his finest dress robes; all black velvet that billowed out behind him when he walked. Ron was reminded of Snape's robes and scowled. Harry did not look at him as he pushed past. He didn't know quite when he did it, but he suddenly found himself gripping Harry's hand. There was a crack, and his fist found it's way to his friend's cheek.
Ron's eyes widened as Harry's head snapped around, his body jerking with the force, wrist still captured by his hand. Harry stumbled for a moment, his knees half-gone out as he touched his cheek. Ron felt his stomach churn and hardened his expression, prepared to defend himself from Harry's upcoming shouts and probably hexes.
But Harry did not shout, or hex. He just rose up with far more dignity and grace than Ron would ever be capable of and straightened his robes, turning slowly to face him. Ron felt his stomach lurch again at the coldness he saw in his friend's eyes.
"If you are quite done," Harry said quietly, letting his hand drop when Ron released it. He felt numb, watching Harry turn away from him and walk towards the bathroom. There was a click, and Harry disappeared behind the door.
The numbness remained; even as he undressed, even as he pulled the dress robes over his head. He slipped on his shoes, staring blankly at the wall. He hadn't hit Harry since they were seventeen:
When he'd caught the woman he loved kissing his best friend.
Harry was waiting for him outside the bedroom door, his hands limp at his side and spine straight. Ron paused for a moment, suddenly feeling so very small and inadequate. Harry's face was cool and impassive; his cheek slightly red and already hinting at a bruise and his eyes had gone very dark.
"At least she loved you once."
The bitterness in Harry's voice made his stomach flip. He had only heard that tone when Harry spoke of He-Who-M - Voldemort. Ron stared at Harry for a moment longer, stumbling a bit as he approached. Harry looked away and Ron felt shamed. Warmth flooded him as Harry took his hand. He could feel the forgiveness in Harry's touch, a touch that made his spine tingle and mouth go horribly dry. He waited until Harry would give the signal, and together they would apparate. But Harry did not give the signal.
"He never loved me," Harry said softly, giving Ron an oddly sympathetic look.
And Harry gave the signal then, and Ron was forced to apparate, his eyes wide and heart banging painfully against his chest.
Sunshine beat down on them and people pressed past. Ron continued to stare at his friend, secretly awed and loathing it. Harry stood tall and proud, his chin up and eyes unwavering, even as he looked at the wedding party, slowly assembling.
Ron let Harry guide him to their seats - in the back, of course, hidden in the shadows of an old oak tree. He stared a little more, ashamed and shivering, as Harry turned to look at him.
Ron saw Harry's lips turn up in a cold, bitter smirk. He turned back to watch the wedding persuasion begin, his insides cold and hand clutching his best friend's with all his might.
"Here's to suffering, mate," Harry breathed, the tone making Ron shiver again.
He couldn't agree more.
A/N: I wrote this over a year ago. I've had writer's block since. I kid you not. I hope this gets me out of my funk. crosses fingers