Ron sat there, the small book that had taught him so much still in his hands, and he was only half way through its contents. How long ago had she started keeping this journal? He looked back to the first entry. In the same neat script she had always had, Hermione had written, December 13. Looking at his watch to check the date, he realized that it had been a couple of months since she had written this.
God, why had he been so horrible to her? Suddenly every mean thing he had ever said, every time he had tried to cover up for the fact that he really loved her, every time he had groaned and watched her stomp away, over to her homework, and Harry would comment on how much he hated it that they fought came flooding back to him. They came back to him and stabbed at him – not one large knife that gets it all done and over with, but a billion needles, so the pain was spread out. He remembered that when he was younger, his mother told him that it would hurt more to tap someone lightly on their chest a thousand times than to hit them hard once. That was how he felt now – like someone had tapped him on his chest a thousand times. And now a fire was raging inside of him.
Perhaps that was part of love – you go into denial, as he had for all those years. He had started noticing in the third year, when they took those trips to Hogsmeade and Harry wasn't there. He had started to notice how if they walked too close and their hands happened to brush past each others, if he just happened to touch her softly as a warning to keep away from Malfoy, they would both look down at their hands and drop them quickly and blush profusely. Then, Ron had started to notice that Harry could easily grab Hermione's hand and lead her somewhere without her thinking anything of it. But he had known that had Ron grabbed her hand and led her somewhere, they both would have felt awkward.
And then he had just kept denying things, until he would lie there in bed at night after a long argument with her and think to himself, "I never liked her. After all, if we really liked each other, would we fight this much?"
His fourth year had rocked his world entirely – especially once Viktor Krum, who used to be Ron's idol, came to school. Suddenly the guy he had wanted to be so bad was the major villain in his life. The little statue he had bought at the Quidditch World Cup had been used as a hacky-sack for a couple days before he got sick of missing whenever he tried to kick it up again, and eventually resorted to breaking the arm off.
And yet, although he hated this guy so much, he still wanted so badly to be like him. Because he knew that if he were to be like Krum, he may very well have had the world's best girlfriend. And he also wouldn't have had to sit there at the Yule Ball, scowling at the two of them dancing, while Padma Patil came up to him and scolded him for not dancing with her the whole time.
Why did she like him so much, anyways? After all, what was so special about Viktor Krum? Just because he was a Quidditch player and he was seventeen and he was pretty good-looking and he got good grades and he appreciated her and he complimented her didn't mean he would make a good boyfriend.
Ron stopped himself before the steam began flying from his ears.
The guy couldn't even pronounce her name!
"Herm-oh-ninny, Herm-oh-ninny, Herm-oh-ninny," he mocked the Bulgarian Quidditch player. "Come on, Hermione, if you're going to kiss the guy, you should at least make sure he can say your name right before you do it."
And then, their fifth year. There wasn't a lot of "action," if you could call it that, in that year. Mostly a lot more fights, and a lot more times where Ron would exclaim that the amount of work she took on was unhealthy and that it just made it all worse to write the novels to Krum that she wrote about once a month. Except, of course, for that kiss on the cheek.
Up until that moment, Ron had been wrestling with his senses. Did he love her? Did she love him? Was she ever going to stop writing those letters to Vicky? And then, when she had stood on her tip-toes and gently caressed his cheek with her lips, he had stopped short. It had been thrown into sharp relief. All of those sickening knots tying up in his stomach when Krum would flirt with her, all of those dirty looks he threw her when she talked about Lockhart, all symptoms of something bigger than both of them.
And still, being the stupid boy that he was, he was not able to pinpoint exactly what that something was.
Presently, he turned to the very last page of the book. He expected that there wouldn't be any writing in it at all, but he was quite wrong. There was no song, like most of the other entries had, but there was an entry in itself – and it was dated with today's date.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Dear Journal,
Ron's been acting so odd lately. He has been coming in from Quidditch Practice long after Harry. He will sometimes hang back after class and tell us to go ahead – he needs to be with himself for awhile. And so Harry and I run ahead, and I can't help but look over my shoulder to see what he's lingering to do. But usually, all I see are his deep eyes staring out into space. It looks like he's thinking. I can only imagine what he thinks about.
And he never talks to me anymore for more than a minute. I'll ask him a question, just to make conversation – maybe even start an argument – but he simply answers me with a deep stare that bares down into my soul and questions me from the inside, and then responds almost inaudibly to what I asked. I never thought I'd say this, but I miss the arguments we used to have. At least then he'd acknowledge my presence.
Well, this is the last page of the journal. I need to go out and buy a new one. Who knows? Maybe by the time I can get to Hogsmeade to buy a new one, I won't have to write any depressing songs anymore. But by the way things are going, I doubt that sincerely.
Always,
Hermione
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Ron put the book down and buried his face in his hands.
"Now you've done it, mate," he muttered to himself.
He heard above him the gently sound of a door closing upstairs and to his right. He knew what was up there. A sweet, slow melody was coming from the person descending the staircase. It was a voice that he knew quite well, and a song he had read over and over again in the past few hours.
"Steal away, hide away
To your secret garden beyond the horizon line.
Hold me close, let me say
The things that got lost somewhere in time.
Steal away, take me there
There's nothing more I want to do
Than to steal away
Steal far away with you."
A gentle sound filled the air as she switched from singing the song to humming it. She came down the stairs, wearing only a towel. Her hair was wet, and steam issued from her body. Ron figured that it was the mixture of the warm water from her shower with the cold air inside the Common Room – the fire had gone out hours ago.
Her eyes were closed as she cakewalked over to the desk, dancing in circles and spinning with an imaginary dance partner. Ron had a fairly good idea of who it might be.
In that moment, she stopped dancing and opened her eyes, only to screech shrilly and drop her towel a little further than she intended.
"Ron, what are you doing here? It's three in the morning!" Hermione cried, adjusting the towel so that less skin was showing.
"What are you doing here?" he asked her right back. Although truth be told he was quite pleased that she was – especially after that little spectacle.
"I . . . I still have some homework to finish. Huge Ancient Runes essay due tomorrow," she said hastily, pulling some of the hair that was plastered to her face behind her ears. "Also, I came down so I could retrieve my necktie."
Sure enough, right on the chair where Hermione had been sitting all day was the red and gold striped necktie.
"I just didn't think anyone else would be down here," she said in barely more than a whisper. She grabbed the necktie and went back upstairs to dress herself. Of course, had Ron's opinion been asked, he wouldn't have minded her staying down there just the way she was, but that was completely beyond his control.
About fifteen minutes later, Hermione came downstairs again, this time fully clothed (much to Ron's dismay). Her hair was dryer, as well – the curls hung loosely about her neck and were full and reflected the moonlight shining through the window.
"What are you staring at?" she asked quietly.
"N-nothing," Ron lied, knowing that his attempts to cover up for his staring had failed miserably. He hadn't even realized he was staring. Then again, it was hard to keep his eyes off her.
Hermione strode casually over to the desk and plopped herself down amid the huge pile of homework, some of which was mixed with Ron's unfinished essay. But then her eyes widened, and she began searching frantically around for something – and Ron knew exactly what that something was.
"Ron, have you seen a small book with my name engraved in it?" she asked. Ron sighed and held up the book, a smile playing in the corner of his lips. Hermione's mouth dropped open and she ran over to Ron, snatching the book from his hands.
"How dare you take this off my desk! It's my private property! I didn't want anyone reading it!" she cried, horror reflected in her expression. She added, in a whisper, "You read it, didn't you?" He could see the curtain of tears closing over her eyes. He didn't want her to cry. He didn't want to cause her any pain.
"You know, Hermione, you have a real knack for poetry," he said, still smiling.
"Will you stop mocking me? I don't appreciate it!" she exclaimed, inching farther and farther from him. He stood up and walked closer to her.
"Seriously, 'Mione, you do. You managed to capture my feelings exactly," Ron said. He hoped she didn't think he was lying, because there was never a truer thing that he had said.
"W-what?"
"Do you know you beautiful you look, Hermione? With the light dancing in your eyes, and the way that their color compliments your hair, and the way you look when you smile and laugh."
"Ron, stop it."
"And the way you say my name – it sounds like . . . chocolate for my ears. Am I doing alright, Hermione? Is my poetry getting better?"
"Ronald –"
"And you know, I never really hated it when you called me Ronald. In fact, I thought it was adorable. I thought so many things. I just wish they could all come true."
"But Ron!"
"Why can't you just take me seriously?" he asked. He had spilled out his soul. He had poured out his guts. And she wasn't taking him seriously!
"Because, Ronald – Ron – I just . . . I can't take you seriously! I just can't! It would be impossible for you to love me like I love you. Impossible."
Hermione clapped her hands to her mouth, her cheeks turning bright red. She spun on her heels and began running towards the Dormitory again. Ron had had so many chances before – he couldn't let her get away this time.
"Hermione!" he called to her softly. She didn't stop. He reached out to her and gently touched her arm. She turned to face him again, some of her tears having already fell, others still glittering behind her eyes. She was searching his soul for some sign that he was lying, but she was unable to find one. Now Ron knew how he had made her feel all those times when he had stared her down, when he had answered her with a deep stare that bore down into her soul and questioned her from the inside.
"Oh, Ron," she said, and she collapsed into him. He gently encircled her waist with his arms and held her close and let her cry into his chest. He held her tightly. He never wanted to let her go. His hands stroked her hair and he rested his head gently on top of hers, murmuring words of comfort.
"Sh, it's alright, Hermione. I'm here. It's alright." He wasn't really sure whether or not these words were a comfort, but they seemed to be, as she raised her head slightly and locked eyes with him. A smile crossed her face.
"You've already seen my poetry – let's see yours," she sniffled. Ron grimaced, thought hard, and recited:
"There have been days where the sky was all gray
And hope seemed far beyond our reach.
And I would sit there and hope for the day
When the student would be the one to teach.
You always seemed so confident, secure,
And the words always came out right.
But for me, I was never too sure
Of which words to use so you'd see the light.
Although I can pray and although I can hope
They have never done much for me,
Because the things that always say the most
Are the things that seem so crazy.
Crazy, they call it, how a few words can change
The way I feel about you.
But the words can't come out, they can't
rearrange
Themselves to make me do what I need to do.
I suppose that now, nothing's the same
As I hold you in my arms tonight,
But I hope that this poem can make you see
Everything in a whole new light."
Ron stood there, still holding her, and waited for her response. At first, she just stared at him. He wasn't exactly sure what kind of a stare it was – anxious, nervous, disgusted, excited, blissful. So many words, so many different ways you could interpret her stare. But then:
"Ron," she murmured, unable to think of anything more to say. Gently, he drew her closer to him. His hand on the back of her neck drew her forward. Her hand on his back drew him forward. Neither of them made more of a move than the other – they just came together. He brushed his lips with hers gently, and she returned the gesture, pressing his body into hers.
All the words in the world could not describe the scene that night.
