Disclaimer: Everything's JK's. Don't sue.

Rating: PG13 or T

Summary: After the war, the trio goes into hiding as a few rogue dark agents are still prevalent and trying to reclaim Voldermort's name. The horrors of the war still play deeply within the heads of the trio and each have developed their own conflicting problems. With Ron not talking, Harry not sleeping, and Hermione afraid to live, will A Cup Of Tea be enough to comfort and console them? Will Ron and Hermione ever confront their problems with each other? Angsty and kind of dark at moments. R/H

A/N: Ok, if this confuses you, then drop me a comment and I'll try to explain, I had people BETA read it for me before I put it up and they got it so hopefully you all will too, as a hint, I suggest read just the quotes separately when you're done with the story. Enjoy!

A Cup of Tea

When the sun hit his hair just right, it wasn't red anymore; it was like the color of the copper kettle her mother made tea in when she was upset. Hot and loud, yelling, bright, sometimes angry, but always comforting, welcoming with a yell.

"Oh good the tea is ready. Hermione, can you get the cups for me?"

He sat outside a lot. He liked the sun beating down on his face even though he was prone to sunburn. The heat was good. He'd just close his eyes; lean his head back and let the heat melt his thoughts. Sometimes when it was slightly less then sweltering he'd try and get her to come out with him, sit out in the grass and stop thinking. It was those days that she said no. She told him she didn't want to stop thinking and he'd roll his eyes, shrug his shoulders and open the door.

Sometimes Harry would sit out with him and they'd lean back on their elbows and sweat, too hot to move. They'd come inside hours later, red-skinned and hot to the touch, burning. Skin cancer, her mother had always said. Cover up or you'll get skin cancer.

"Yes Mum."

He'd walk over to where she sat, reading an old journal, paging through a book of old plain still pictures. He'd wipe all her hair to one side revealing a stark white neck, a stranger of the sun, and he'd press his hot red skin to the back of her neck and make her shoulders hitch up.

He would laugh at her, and shiver telling her she was cold, icy.

"Cup of tea to warm you up?"

She would pull away glaring at him and he'd smile at her and try to make a joke. She didn't laugh. Didn't even smile, not really. Soon he wouldn't be smiling anymore either. She would get up and walk away from him. She would go shut herself in Harry's room and wait for him to come talk to her, he could understand.

Harry never wanted to talk. He'd pace back and forth in front of the door before entering. He didn't understand, he didn't know what to say, he never did, but she thought he understood, and so he tried to. Do you want to talk? He'd ask even when he already knew the answer.

"Ok."

She didn't cry. She was always too angry to cry and Harry thought that was unhealthy. He would tell her he thought it was unhealthy and she'd tell him she just wasn't ready, she just couldn't, not yet. He would nod, he would tell her it just took time, in his head he wondered if that was true, maybe it was. Sometimes he though it must be true, it must be a matter of time for her to let it all out, to break out of her ice cube. Other times he thought time was the enemy, after all, he never really exploded out of his own tundra, and even though he felt ok most of the time, every once in a while he'd wonder if he was lying to himself, was he happy? Happy was too good a word, 'ok' was better. But sometimes he didn't even feel ok. Was it the same reason Hermione didn't feel ok? He didn't know, figured he never would, they were gone before he could even process them, weren't they? How could he tell if their absence had tarnished him?

It made Ron angry, madder then he could even comprehend. Why couldn't she talk to him? Why was she so sure he wouldn't understand? He'd lost his own share of people he cared for; he knew he'd understand. He'd make himself understand if she'd just…

Sometimes he wondered if maybe it wasn't even that she wasn't letting him help, sometimes it was that he wasn't the reason for her anger. He wasn't what was upsetting her. They didn't fight anymore. Soft-spoken words and glassy-eyed looks were all either of them could manage. He wanted to yell, wanted to scream and taunt, he wanted to insult her, his tongue dripping with sarcasm. He wanted to make her cry, wanted to make her sob, eyes red with tears, hot with anger. He wanted her to be burning up, boiling over. He wanted her to yell back, her words spicy, hot dangerous; he wanted her words to hurt, he wanted them to burn.

"Ouch, it's hot, burned my tongue."

She'd come out later, after Harry had gone back outside to sit in the sun with Ron. She'd sit and watch them and seeing the two of them would make her want to cry. She knew she couldn't, but it made her want to. What had made them so different? How come it was so much easier for them to cope? They'd lost people too hadn't they? Harry had never even met his mother, not for real, shouldn't he be worse off then she?

They certainly weren't doing great, she could see that in that Harry's bedclothes had never been un-tucked, had he not slept at all since being put in hiding? Ron was quiet, they all were, really, but it was most obvious on him. No more jokes, no more sarcasm, no more pointless comments. He'd just sit there, words glaring through his eyes, dying to get out. He'd sleep halfway into the day and then lift weights, pushups, crunches, boxing, for hours on end and then just lay there singing his skin, turning it red and speckled with freckles.

She knew why, it had been obvious; the exercising made him too tired to think, let him lay out there motionless, and then when the sun went down, let him sleep, let him shut all his thoughts off, let him ignore everything. It didn't always work, she could see that too, she could tell that he noticed things still, probably more then she did and she could tell whenever he noticed something that bothered him because he'd work out longer and harder, sometimes taking up another shift of harsh angry training after laying the sun went down, forcing his body into capitulation, taking harsh breaths with every pushup, groaning at every lift of his weights.

But he still smiled. He always managed to smile. Why was that? Why could he smile still? Why could Harry still manage to look and be pleasant enough? Why couldn't she manage either of those things? Why was she so cold?

Sometimes I wonder if you're even alive, you're so cold, Ron would murmur after pressing a hot hand to her cheek.

"Reminds you you're alive, doesn't it? Burning your tongue?"

I'm cold because there isn't anyone to keep me warm, she would think. I have no parents. I let them go the second I decided to go away, to become a witch, they hadn't wanted me to, and now I've let them go. She felt like a little girl, scared and alone. It was her fault they had died, they had taken them to make her like this, cold, frozen, to make her weak, and they had succeeded. It made her mad, so mad, in a way she couldn't understand. She didn't know what to make of it, she wouldn't yell, couldn't scream, couldn't cry. She was just frozen. Frozen cold, scared.

He watched her from outside sometimes. She didn't know it, but he'd watch through the glass sliding door, his eyes almost shut, peering through his eyelashes. He knew she was scared. She had been there, seen them seconds after they had died, he knew that. She had come to stay at the burrow, afraid, scared, shaking, shivering. He still saw that fear now and it hurt him.

He wasn't sure why but it hurt him. Why didn't she feel safe? Why couldn't he make her feel safe? He'd told her he wouldn't let anything happen to her, but she was still scared. Still too afraid to even step outside their hiding quarters. What was she afraid of? Harry had conquered the greatest dark wizard of all time with their help, yes, he still had followers causing havoc, but they were in a highly protect hiding place. They were as secure as they could be. She was safe, he was sure of that; he knew he'd give his own life if it were necessary to save hers.

He'd try and tell her that, tell her she was safe, tell her he'd make sure of that. He'd walk into the little house and sit next to her smiling sympathetically. She'd stare at him shivering and the words would stick in his throat. What? She'd finally ask. You look cold, he'd finally spit out and he'd grab a blanket, want a blanket? He'd ask covering her with it before she could even manage to say,

"Yeah,"

He'd stand there after covering her with the blanket biting his lip, and running his hand through his hair, opening his mouth to say something and then just groaning, swearing and going to his weights room.

She could almost feel the heat rising off of his body and for a second, she stopped shivering. There was something about how hard he was trying to talk to her, something about how he came in to check on her that made her stop shivering, and then she'd hear him in panting, groaning, as he forced his body into submission, and she would shake until it hurt. Why did she care so much? She wished she didn't, wished she didn't care for him as much as she did, what if he left her too, then what? Or worse, what if he didn't care for her as much as she did for him?

She'd lost it with her parents, unconditional love; it's something parents offered, something hers offered, something that died with them. She knew Ron loved her, she knew Harry loved her, but what if…? What if she took Ron's invitation to sit outside with him, and he figured that was enough, what if he stopped checking on her, what if he stopped trying to talk to her, figuring he had done enough by getting her outside? Sometimes she wondered what it was she really feared, the way her parents died, or feeling unloved. Sometimes she wondered if the reason she couldn't talk to Ron about it was because he would reveal that he didn't love her unconditionally… So instead she was careful, careful not to talk to him about it much, careful to guard herself, so careful it hurt.

"It hurts though."

It finally happened, after he had tried to get her to come outside with him, she had said no, she had shivered and said no. It had made him so mad, so angry, she wasn't even trying, wouldn't even give him a chance to make her feel better, to keep her safe. So mad he wanted to hurt her, at least that way he would know what made her cold, at least that way he would understand, at least that way he could make it better.

He had tried to drag her, pulling her icy white, trembling body, pulling her against him and dragging her outside. She screamed, fought, cried. Cried and cried, finally breaking free from his strong warm arms and running inside back into Harry's room.

Why doesn't she talk to me? He asked yelling, screaming, going back to his weights, exercising.

Harry was angry this time too. Mad at Ron for pushing her when Ron couldn't even talk to her, couldn't even tell her how he felt. Mad at Hermione for not letting Ron push her, for not giving him the chance. Mad at himself for not knowing how to fix both his friends problems, Mad at himself for not wanting to fix them. And yet… Still somehow happy, happy that Ron had exploded, happy that Hermione had cried.

He told her that he couldn't talk to her, not this time, he told her that she needed to talk to Ron, she told him that Ron wouldn't talk, that he would just go to his weights room, or out in the sun. Then you have to force him, he told her, like he tried to force you.

She was still crying. It made her face hot, to cry. And she couldn't stop, and it hurt, but she knew it would hurt more to stop. It hurt so much it almost felt good, and for a moment, she didn't want to stop, for a second she wanted to cry forever and it was in that second that something changed.

It only took a second for her to call his name. And it only took a second for him to come in running, ready for her to scream at him, ready for his comeback, his insults, and jeers.

We need to talk, she said to him when he came in, and he froze up, we need to talk, she was crying softly now, and he knew he wasn't going to be fighting with her, but with himself. We need to talk. He wanted to run, wanted to run outside back into the sun that roasted his mind, run as fast and hard as he could until he couldn't breathe anymore. But Harry put his hand on Ron's shoulder and said Why don't you go make some tea. And so he did. And Hermione cried harder, as the copper kettle whistled.

She got up walked over to him, crying into his chest and she was hot, her face burning his sunburned chest. You're hot, he murmured.

"Better then being cold."

She replied, and he poured her a cup of tea.

A/N Continued: Get it? Like it? Hate it? Drop me a note and let me know.