Title: Postscript
Author: perries
Disclaimer: I own nothing, of course. All characters, etc. are property of J. K. Rowling and various publishers.
Rating: PG-13 for implications.
Summary: Ron isn't handling this well.
1.
Ron picks up the glass and puts it back down. His back aches against the hard wood of the chair, bruised from this morning's clumsy fall down the stairs. Harry is late, again, and Ron suspects he's still in his flat, banging his latest. Not surprising, really- but it makes Ron angry, and a little bit sad. Hermione, sitting across the table, clears her throat delicately. The sound is uncomfortably loud after the empty pauses of their conversation.
"I suppose I should head out," she says, quietly. "Terry's waiting up."
"Yeah, right," says Ron. "I think the bar's closing soon, anyways." Hermione smiles weakly and drains the last few drops of her drink. Ron watches the pale lines of her throat as she swallows. Hermione picks up her sensible purse and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. Her lips are cool and sticky with the last of her lip-stick.
"Night, Ron. I'll see you in two weeks?"
He nods. "If you see Ginny, tell her to call Mum, all right?"
Hermione nods back. "I will." She smiles at him, wistfully, and Ron wants to bare his teeth and punch something breakable.
2.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
During the war, Ron told himself every day about his future. How eventually he would work up the courage to tell Hermione the- stuff- he wanted to tell her, and she would look back at him and smile, showing off those now-perfect teeth. The details were left vague, but Hermione would be happy and sort of flighty and her hair would be long and straight like at the Yule Ball.
He thought about other stuff too. Like touching foreign parts- exotic and new. Reaching different lands. Seeing brilliant things. He dreamed of warmth- the tropics- of heat and sun and wetness underneath his fingers. Ron imagined unbuttoning Hermione's blouse and seeing deserts or jungles or Africa, wildness and savages and bloody meat.
Instead, the rain drifts down on London and Ron buys a cab for the blonde in the morning.
3.
Ron licks his greasy fingers and tosses the empty carton on the floor, discarding his chopsticks into the pile of trash that is accumulating on his dingy carpet. He leans back and closes his eyes, unzips his jeans and thinks of adventure.
4.
When he next sees his ex-roommate, Harry has bags under his eyes and is wearing a faded orange sweatshirt. At first, Ron thinks it might be Chudley Cannons gear, but upon closer inspection, the maroon letters on the front spell out some Muggle store. He shrugs.
Harry yawns and subtly slides further down in his chair. They're in a meeting, some bureaucratic nonsense that the Minister requires twice a month, and Ron is sitting across the table from him. Harry looks out of place, in dirty Muggle clothes amidst all the formal robes. Ron fiddles with his quill and watches Harry attempt to jerk himself awake again and again.
A breeze drifts in through the open window and Harry begins to cough. He attempts to apologize through his violent coughing and stumbles out, leaving the door open behind him.
Ron watches him go.
5.
The man in the flat next to his likes to play piano at odd times. He's rather good, Ron thinks, not that Ron is any expert. But he likes to listen when he's not trying to sleep or concentrating on paperwork for the Ministry.
Tonight, he's too busy to admire. Ron shuffles papers around on his shaky dining room table, spreading them about and placing them into disorganized piles. He listens to the slow tune from the other flat. It's light, yet solemn, like rain that isn't yet a downpour, and may just drift away after all.
He sifts through the thick pile of papers. Status reports on the search for the last of the hiding Death Eaters, background checks on the new janitors, and at the bottom- a faded, yellowing document, carefully written in regulation ink. It's an old report on the weakness of foreign cauldron bottoms. Ron stares at it blankly and rubs the back of his neck. The man in the other room keeps playing, letting the sounds drift through the thin walls and straight into all the empty spaces in Ron's mind.