Chapter Two

Broken Man

In one moment, Hermione felt the past six years crumble down at her feet with the rain as a teardrop sprang free from her eye and slipped down her cheek. Her heart felt as if it had stopped, locked in place against the back of her ribcage by cold, steel fingers. The breath that was caught in her throat was becoming a painful bead that kept growing larger by the second, a bead that refused to be swallowed, preventing her from speaking and only producing more of the salty solution that now flowed shamelessly down her face. The hard shell that had spread so effectively over her heart was now melting away in mere seconds as those eyes continued to stare into hers. A shivering hand reached out from beneath the long cloak that sheltered those blue eyes and slowly inched towards Hermione's face. As she looked down at the long fingers, she noticed their rough skin; looking closer, she could identify a long, thick, flesh-colored line running down his wrist and slivering off under his sleeve. The fingers stretched out gently towards a tear on her chin, and Hermione let out a staggered breath.

"No!" she shrieked, shattering the bead in her throat and jumping back just before the fingers could brush her skin. The hand retreated violently, The Cloak nearly flying off the doorstep. Hermione grabbed her face protectively, and she felt her chest heaving, her lungs finally pumping the air she thought she'd wanted but now, feeling the pain it caused the rest of her body, wished she had gone without. The Cloak looked up at her again, the hurt blue eyes now shimmering with tears, before it lowered its head, its hands retreating nervously beneath the shield of black cloth. She heard him breathing, saw the body under the cloak shuddering painfully, and she suddenly understood.

"Ron?" she asked again. Her voice was now barely a whisper, the fear and anger she had just shown replaced by tenderness and timidity. The head beneath the hood looked up at her remorsefully. Hermione gasped. Before either of them knew what she was doing, she stepped forward, mindless of the pounding rain, and threw her arms around The Cloak's neck. Hard rain hit soft, dirty red hair as the black hood fell back and revealed the head of a man who had been dead for six years.

Ten minutes later, Hermione and Ron were soaking wet, yet neither of them moved, their arms locked around each other so tightly as though they would never see each other again. Hermione refused to open her eyes, in fear that opening them would reveal a reality she didn't want to accept. She had dreamt about this moment--pushed it aside as best she could for six years, but there were moments when she couldn't fight it--and every time she would break into tears at the realization that it would never come true. As long as she held on, as long as she held on blindly, she would never wake up, never have to leave this moment.

"Hermione…" Ron started. Hermione jumped, startled, and stepped back a couple of inches. She glanced around suspiciously, suddenly aware of a situation that was much bigger than Ron and herself. Swallowing the lump in her throat and looking down, she took Ron's hand carefully.

"Ron, come inside, before anyone sees you," she whispered into his ear, pulling his hood over his head and glancing around once more before leading him up the slick stairs and through her front door.

~~*~~

A tall man of 6'5", Ron had never really fit comfortably on Hermione's couch, yet there he was again, his legs stretched out awkwardly under the glass coffee table, his arms laying strangely in his lap, his head of wet curls unsure of where to settle. It had been so long since he had last seen the inside of any residential building, let alone that of his fiancé's. His eyes roamed curiously over every strange object Hermione had acquired during his absence: the 22-inch television, the stainless steel refrigerator, the strange blender-type thing on the counter. Then he noticed things that looked vaguely familiar, and he realized they were things from his apartment—the small green toaster he'd found at a rummage sale that he'd never gotten to work properly; the Chudley Cannons cookie jar on top of the refrigerator (which lived there proudly despite its obvious displacement); the foreign-looking industrious metal trashcan Hermione had somehow convinced him was worth the £40 she had paid for it that now seemed to be watching him constantly. Ron shifted uncomfortably as the light-reflected eyes of the contraption followed his. Clearing his throat, he inched over toward the middle of the couch where the trashcan could no longer see him. Hermione turned around, a boiling teapot in one hand and green mug in the other, and eyed him curiously. Every glance at him was a strange reality check; nothing had sunk in yet and everything was buzzing around endlessly inside her head. Questions bloomed in her mind and it was all she could do to restrain herself from imposing upon Ron the greatest inquisition of all time. She walked calmly toward the couch, placing the green mug on the coffee table in front of Ron, and stood awkwardly, not sure of what to do with herself. She fidgeted unconsciously with her hands, her fingernails slipping underneath each other and picking at imaginary debris. Ron watched her cautiously, remaining still and silent. The green mug sweated as soft, white steam rose from its mouth. A clock on the wall grew louder and louder, its second-hand ticking incessantly until Hermione could take no more. She cleared her throat just as Ron lifted his arms, pulling his sleeves back toward his elbows. He reached his right arm forward, his fingers wrapping tightly around the cool handle of the mug, and Hermione's eyes grew large and afraid. A small gasp escaped her lips, and Ron looked down, realizing his mistake too late. His free hand jerked on the sleeve hastily and he lowered his head as he mug fell from his grip and clattered onto the table, its contents spreading across the glass and forming a steaming sea. Hermione remained frozen, her mouth still open in shock. Ron couldn't look up at her, as though the sight of her reaction would burn his eyes and blind him. Hermione felt a bit faint as she slipped down to her knees.

"Ron," she said, barely audible, "show me your wrist."

He looked up at her, perfectly aware of what she had requested but completely hesitant to comply. He held his wrist protectively, his fingers playing with the fabric of his sleeve. Hermione looked at him, her eyes harboring such an intense pain that Ron had to give in. He slowly lowered his arm, reaching it out toward her, and she took it gingerly in her hands, her fingers nimbly lifting the sleeve and pulling it back. Her eyes followed a line on his hand, the same flesh-colored line she had seen earlier, and was shocked to find that it only got thicker and deeper as it traveled down to his elbow, where it came to an abrupt end. There were other smaller scars, scars that, despite their size had caused an incredible amount of pain. Tears filled Hermione's eyes as she ran her fingers over each one of them, and soon enough she found herself trembling uncontrollably. Ron tried to stop her, tried to console her, but she continued stubbornly, her brow furrowed in an effort to keep the tears from falling down her face. She reached for his other arm, and this time Ron was adamant about keeping it to himself. Hermione grabbed his arm and pulled it toward her, a tear rolling down her cheek, and Ron gave in. He shut his eyes fearfully as Hermione slid back his sleeve, and her shocked gasp came as no surprise. He kept his eyes closed as she silently stared at the dull black skull on the inside of his wrist. After a few seconds, Hermione closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his arm. She listened to his ragged breathing and suddenly felt an intense need to hold him close to her. He looked at her cautiously as she raised her head, and for a moment there was a very pregnant pause.

"Ron, I need you to tell me what happened. Everything. For the past six years. Please," she said desperately. Ron sighed.

"Hermione, I don't—"

"Please."

"Hermione," he said wearily, "I don't…I don't remember."