A/n: I'm so incredibly sorry, guys, I know it's been a really long time since I updated, but there were a lot of things going on at school, stressful times getting to me and all of that. But I am now back and ready to write my heart out. This chapter was intended so I could lead you guys into the minds of the characters as I've gotten to know them. I'm splitting this chapter into two so you guys can get SOMETHING of mine to read…the next chapter, which would be the companion bit to this one, will be coming soon. I hope you guys like it, and I'm sorry for not getting to the argument resolution just yet, but trust me, you guys won't complain when it comes. =) This chapter, like the next two, is taking place the day after the argument, on the day of Christmas Eve.

Disclaimer: Doo doo doo. I'm sorry, I do not own the characters in this story. Please try your inquiry again later.

NSH

Chapter 8: Windows

Hermione


Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said that it would be this hard

--Coldplay, "The Scientist"

          A day, no, a night—nay, a lifetime had passed, it seemed, since she had stood under the tree just outside her house. Her eyes flickered to it as she sat next to her window. At this moment, this moment alive with the stench of time, she hated that tree, everything about it. She hated its bare limbs, the way they allowed the snow to fall through their fingers instead of cradling it in their leaves. She hated the bark, cold and gray and dead in the winter, like the winter season was to hide from and summer to be welcomed. She hated how this tree had watched what had unfolded the previous afternoon and had done nothing about it.

            The door of her room creaked and it drew her attention away from the horrible tree. Crookshanks was slinking into the room, opening the door only a few inches. His yellow eyes met hers; a moment later, he stretched one of his stubby hind legs and pushed the door closed with a force that made it evident that he was no ordinary cat. She couldn't help letting a smile flit across her face—Crookshanks could practically read her mind. She wanted the door to remain closed, and she wished to only sit by the window and let the time pass.

            And as she thought of the window, she looked back at the tree, standing alone amidst the snow. She sighed, Crookshanks paws touching her legs lightly as he leapt up onto her lap. Her hand made its way to the top of his head and scratched his ears, smiling as he purred and then lay his head down.

            She didn't understand why she'd said what she'd said. A common mistake of all creatures of all worlds, from the always learning humans to the wise dragons, to regret their words after they have left their mouths, to understand them after their initial impact has occurred. That was how she felt now. Her words kept hitting her now like raindrops, and the storm didn't seem to be relenting. The things she said reverberated around her, so that she couldn't think of the date and time and place but only of what she'd done and how she wished it wasn't real.

            You could take it back.

            Like that would be enough of an apology for Ron. No, he deserved more than that. He shouldn't be expecting an apology in the first place, because the words she said ought not to have been said.

            "Crookshanks, why do people think I'm so brilliant? A more appropriate term would be remarkably stupid."

            The cat-kneazle made a noise of half interest and rubbed his nose with his paw. She barely noticed, however, still immersed in her own thinking.

            Snowflakes were falling lightly outside her window. The sky was gray, and she vaguely thought how appropriate it was for her mood. She could barely see anything due to the fog making her window opaque. She was glad. She didn't want to see anything, not at the moment.

            She sighed again and ran her fingers through Crookshank's fur. In all reality, reason had evaded her the previous afternoon, and her anger might have been uncalled for. But it had been there, alive and fiery and completely mind-boggling at the same time. It had been unbearable for her to see the blocks she'd been building up in her relationship with Ron come crashing down because of someone from her past.

            It wasn't that she was angry with Lennie for what had happened. She'd had no way of knowing how Hermione felt about Ron—Hermione cringed just thinking of the feeling, stronger, it seemed, now than before—and hadn't thought to not be involved with him. But Ron…Hermione had a vague assumption that he knew fairly well how she felt and she'd thought perhaps he harbored the same feelings.

            Perhaps that was what had angered her so much. She'd been hoping for much too long that she was reading the right signs. And apparently, she hadn't. She had been dangling on a line that Ron had thrown her. Oh, every time she thought about him she couldn't help but smile and still feel like pelting rocks at his head.

            "Git," she muttered, setting Crookshanks down. He meowed in protest and slinked way, bottlebrush tail in the air; he leapt up onto the bad and settled down next to Pygmalion. The little dog looked pale and quiet. Hermione looked away.

            Tilting her head to one said, she cradled it on her left hand, propping her elbow on the windowsill. The skin on her arm grazed the window's glass, cold and frozen and clumped with trapped snowflakes. The bloody snowflakes—they stopped her from distinguishing which gray was sky and which was land.

            All she wanted to do—and had been trying to convince herself to do—was talk to Ron. She was annoyed at her own stupidity at leaving things the way they were, and for having confused him that way. But she couldn't say anything to him. She knew she'd be able to get up and find him and march up to him and open her mouth to speak; but then she would remember the pain she'd seen in his eyes the day before and wouldn't be able to utter a word. And then he'd be even more hurt, wrongly thinking that she didn't want to apologize.

            A book should be made, customized for me, on tips on solving all the stupid petty problems. The room suddenly seemed stifling. She snatched her wand from where it lay beside her; pointing it at the window, she murmured, "Abrasir!" The window burst open, and cold winter air hit her face. It was so cold it stung her cheeks, but she didn't care. A snowflake landed on her nose. She wiped it away and set her chin on the windowsill, looking out at the snowy grounds before her, so unlike Hogwarts's.

            She wished she could stay at her window all day and ponder on everything that had happened to her since she'd realized she wouldn't be able to lead a normal life. Although many would expect that day to have been the day when an owl had flown into her room and she'd discovered she was a witch, like in the books she'd always read. But in her mind's eye, she didn't see that day as the one that represented the awkward change into an unexpected life.

            It had been November 1, 1991, a cold morning very much like this one, except the only thing she'd felt at the time was joyful disbelief. It was the morning she'd realized that she was one of Harry Potter's friends (and Ron Weasley came along with that, but she couldn't have anticipated everything to do with him). As much as she'd hated thinking of it the way she had, she'd seen it as the day she knew her life would be a dangerous one.

            But when Harry had saved the Sorcerer's Stone in their first year, she'd considered that maybe Harry would always be there to protect her, and Ron too, and so maybe being his friend wouldn't be so hard. It wouldn't be easy, that she knew; but perhaps they would be safer than she had thought.

            That was when she was a child, when she thought that the deepest wounds would be physical. That was before she'd felt panic grip her when Ron screamed about Sirius Black's attempt to murder him. It was before she'd seen Harry come out of the maze in their fourth year, holding on to a lifeless Cedric and looking just about as lifeless himself. It was before she'd been chased by Death Eaters around a place where all should have been in order, before she'd realized that being a Muggle born put her in grave danger, before she came to understand that Harry was not the only one who lost those he loved.

            So it hadn't been easy, but she'd expected that. It hadn't been as hard as she had expected. No, it had been much harder, and it was harder with each passing day, with each fresh nightmare and each time she remembered never to go anywhere without her wand.

            And Ron was an entirely different story. Ron was the most complicated person she knew (only Crookshanks had come close to beating him). No matter what, she knew she would never understand him. And that was another aspect of her life that was so hard. How she tried to interpret Ron's actions and words, but found oxymoronic meanings to all of them. It was frustrating, that he could be her own best friend and she still couldn't quite understand him. And it was so difficult to be able to picture him so clearly, fiery redhead with a temper to match, and still blush at the mere mental image of him.

            Her heart gave a jolt. Through her frozen eyelashes she thought she could see a shape moving in the mini blizzard. She rubbed her eyes to get the frost off her eyelids and slapped her cheeks to bring back some of the feeling. Then she sat up and looked closely at the moving face. And then she saw red.

            It was mostly literally, seeing red, but it was a little figurative. She saw a mass of red hair floating about in the sea of gray white—it would have been quite funny if it hadn't been under the certain circumstances (circumstances that didn't involve being able to cut the tension with a knife), seeing a mop of messy red hair moving about seemingly on its own. She saw red because she knew Ron was walking around outside and she was mad that she couldn't get herself to go down to talk to him and she was exasperated that she'd noticed him in the first place—and, honestly, she'd even looked closely enough to figure out he was wearing his maroon Weasley sweater—and she was exhausted from constantly thinking about him.

            Crookshanks purred. She turned to see him giving her his ever-popular cat smirk that she'd finally been able to recognize as a smirk (without the lips, of course).

            When she turned back to the window, she noticed the wind had died down and the snowflakes had taken to falling slowly vertically rather than being thrown around by the angry wind. And now she could see him clearly, pacing in front of the tree with his hands jammed in his pockets. She'd been right about the sweater.

            Despite the fact that her room was on the second floor, she could see him pretty clearly now, because her window faced the tree directly. She tried to look away when his gaze met hers. She couldn't.

            His nose was red, probably from the cold, and his freckles stood out more than usual. She felt her eyes frozen on his, and time stopped, so that the night that had passed could become the lifetime she had felt.

            And then she blinked, and it was Christmas Eve still and the snowflakes kept falling and he kept looking. But she didn't. Her wand still in her hand, she pointed it at the window and whispered, "Ceracir!"

            The window closed, and she left her place beside it.

Ginny

It is such a secret place, the land of tears.

--Antoine de Saint Exupery

From the Diary of Ginevra Molly Weasley

December24, 1996, 3 p.m.

            This is the first year Mum has ever had to knit one less sweater for our family. This is the first year she hasn't fussed about how best to send mince pies to Egypt without using Errol. This is the first year Bill hasn't sent a Christmas card, standing in front of some pyramid with a big Bill grin on his face.

            It makes me so mad.

            I know it selfish. I know I should be thankful that I still have almost everyone in my family here and that I'm not alone. I feel selfish, being mad because one loved one has left my life, because Harry's lost damn near everyone. And Lupin—he still looks shaken about Sirius, and he's pretty much alone too. I feel selfish because I only start to understand how unfair all this is when someone close to ME dies.

            But the thing is, Bill wasn't just anybody. He taught me so much, and he was the only one of my brothers who didn't tease me or make fun of me when I was younger. I still can't believe that I'll never be able to talk to him again. Sometimes, when I'm sitting alone in my room at night, I start thinking about him. About all the stuff I'll never get to talk to him about. Like I'll hear some funny joke or something but I won't be able to write a letter to him to tell him my joke or to ask if he's seen any interesting mummies or if he's gonna come visit soon. I don't get to measure his ponytail and see it get gradually longer and Mum get gradually scowlier about it. I won't get to anticipate what kind of cool stuff he might be bringing home from Egypt because, hello, he's not in Egypt and he's not at Gringotts in Diagon Alley and he's not here at home. He's dead.

            I hate that I took him for granted. He was my big brother, he was always gonna be there. I didn't have to tell him about the DA and how fun it was or how I wanted him to be really happy with Fleur or about how Ron and Hermione were so tense around each other (still are, for that matter, the fools). I talked only about everyday things, like he would be here years from now to listen to those everyday things…and apparently, he's not. I didn't realize that even the young can die, and that really, really, really sucks.

            At Bill's funeral, Harry told me that Dumbledore had once said to him that the ones who love us never truly leave us. He said it's what has helped him stop blaming himself for Sirius, and stop thinking of the "what if"s about his parents. So that's what I try to think about when I start getting depressed about Bill…I try to imagine where he is at that moment. Maybe he could be prancing around Mum downstairs, waving his ponytail around and grinning. Or maybe he's sitting right next to me and reading this as I write it, and he's glad that I'm not crying and that I still love him very very much.

            But sometimes I do have to cry. Like whenever I walk in on Mum cleaning the picture frames on the shelf, I get all teary…just because she's standing there, holding Bill's picture and just looking at it. And something really small like that makes me sad, because it kind of makes me think that the only form of Bill we have now are only pictures and memories. Ad even though the pictures can move, and the memories are pretty vivid, they're not the same. Because you can't make new pictures or new memories with someone that's not there.

            Harry told me that he used to be afraid to cry. He never told anyone but he was afraid, because he didn't want to let everyone think he was weak, because he thought that we all expected him to always be strong and brave. But then when Sirius died, he couldn't keep it in anymore…he said that when he cried about Sirius, it was like he was crying for him and more. He said he felt like he was crying for his parents and for the life he's had, sometimes, just because he didn't cry about those things before. And he said that that's when he realized that he couldn't keep all those feelings pent up because it just made things hurt worse; he said that's when he realized that crying really helped. So he told me I should just cry if I needed to, because even though it wouldn't bring back (and I got that all the time when I was a kid, when my baby kneazle died—Mum said, "Crying's not going to bring him back!" but I wanted to cry anyway), it would help.

            I'm really glad I've gotten so close to Harry. I'm not sure what I would do without him. He's kind of the only thing around here that really gives me hope, as cheesy and stupid as that sounds. And it's not because he's the Boy Who Lived or because he's escaped Voldemort so much or anything. It's just because he talks to me. He makes me forget that there's all this shit going on around us but at the same time he makes sure I'm aware of it. When he's around me, he's protecting me an all, but he's also around me because he wants to be around me. Nobody's telling him to do it, no one's forcing him to be nice to me; he just is. And I think he really cares about me, in a way I never thought he would. When I sent him that singing Valentine in my first year, when I poured my heart out into one stupid little poem, I never thought that I'd ever actually be kissing Harry Potter and that he'd be kissing me back! And, you know, back then I only liked him because he was Harry Potter. It was how Hermione liked Lockhart that same year; it was a crush, because of the reputation they had been given. But after I finally met Harry…when I actually figured out that he wasn't just a heroic face, but a person, that's when I really fell for him (and I suppose the same happened to Hermione…she kind of saw Ron, and, well, the rest is still at work for now). Every time I think of Harry, I'm really thankful that I had that first "celebrity crush" on him, because if I hadn't, then maybe I would have never noticed him. Well…I wouldn't go as far as to say never, but it would have taken more time.

            He's certainly a better boyfriend than Michael. Michael was just kind of there. He never really seemed to look forward to being around me or anything. It was just, whenever we were together, we were together, nothing more. But with Harry, it's different. When we're together, it's like everything in the world is right. Well, my world. All I can do is hope that maybe I bring Harry some happiness. He needs it now. That's why I try never to mention Bill and start crying in front of him, because even though I know he wouldn't ever mind my tears, I think he might blame himself a bit for Bill's death. Which isn't the right thing to do, because there's no one to blame but the assholes who did it. But I think he knows that he's really helping when he just sits there with me, hugging me. And it does help, a lot, even though the only person who will ever understand the full reason behind any of my tears is me. I mean, he knows that when I cry it's because of Bill, but I think when I cry I let go of some of the other stuff that hurts but doesn't hurt enough to cry about…and it only comes out when I am crying, even though I'm not just crying because of that…

            Oh, man, I make too little sense.

            Sometimes I start thinking that it's a little ironic. That when I finally got Harry, I lost Bill. But I don't like to think of things that way. I haven't really lost Bill, he's just not here. But just cuz he's not here doesn't mean he's not here…

            Yeah, too little sense…

            Oh, who cares how much sense I make, as long as I understand it. It's not like anyone else reads this…

6 p.m.

I forgot to say…Happy Christmas.

Ron

You might belong in Gryffindor

Where dwell the brave at heart

Their daring nerve and chivalry

Set Gryffindors apart

--The Sorting Hat, Philosopher's Stone

          His breath rose in the form of vapor before his eyes as he sat with his back against the side of the Granger house. The back of his jacket was wet from the snow dripping down the wall of the house, and his jeans were soaked from having sat for over an hour with the snow gradually piling up around him. But he really didn't care.

            Scowling for such a long time hurt; his jaw was sore. But he hadn't stopped scowling since he'd walked past Lennie the previous afternoon after Hermione had all but killed him. Lennie had asked what had happened, and he'd just said, "It's bullshit," then walked to his room and slammed the door. A while later, Harry and Lennie both had been at his door, wondering if he'd want to talk. He'd thrown a shoe at the door and they had obviously realized that he was not in the mood for talking.

            He actually couldn't remember having said a word ever since.

            The tree where they had been standing just a day before was right in front of him, vying for a replay of events in his mind. His scowl worsened as he picked up a clump of snow, made it round, and then threw it as hard as he could at the trunk of the tree.

            He sighed. At the moment, he really regretted having turned down his friends' offer to talk, because he was completely clueless as to what to do. He ran a damp hand through his hair and then slid down so he was lying in the snow.

            The sky was the palest of grays, but it was by no means white. Great, now maybe if you could use your brain to figure something out instead of describing the sky, we could get somewhere. He groaned at mere prospect of finding an answer to the mess he'd created. There were too many ends that didn't meet; he had nowhere to start.

            He closed his eyes and tried to picture what Hermione had done. Her eyes had been angry, very angry…but she was hurt. He just couldn't figure out what kind of hurt. She might have been offended that he'd said he liked to spend time with Lennie and in turn had ignored his friend…but he had a feeling that wasn't quite it.

            His eyes opened and blinked in the pale brightness that contrasted drastically with the darkness he'd been seeing behind his eyelids. He put his cold hands on his face and tried to think. In doing so, his arms itched, and he hated the thought scars more than ever.

            And by thinking of the scars, his mind traveled back to an image that wasn't real, a memory that hadn't really ever happened. He bit his lip, watching the image play out in his mind in disgust (mostly in himself for enjoying it). He hated everything that that image represented because, as of the previous afternoon, he knew he could never have it.

            "Dammit," he croaked, his throat parched from lack of use. He needed to figure something out, soon.

            Quite suddenly, a small sparrow landed a few feet away from him. It pranced around in circles for a bit, leaving tiny marks in the snow. He scowled at the bird when it chirped a soft, clear trill. He did not want any careless joy around him at the moment, and so he scowled as much as he could at the bird.

            The little sparrow kept jumping about, cocking its head from side to side; it began to sing. He rolled his eyes. "Sod off," he said, waving a hand. The sparrow flew back a little, but then landed again and chirped happily at him.

            Ron watched it, the scowl slowly leaving his features, until he was just concentrating on the rather tiny bird walking around the snow. There were a couple of places where the snow was too deep, and so its minute feet sank. It would cheep at the snow for a few seconds before beating its wings and freeing himself. And every time he did so, it would tweet happily and ruffle its wings. And Ron couldn't help but smile, out of nowhere; he found it so pleasant to watch such a small animal be able to stay content, even when the entire world around him was frozen.

            And then it hit him: he had to tell her.

            She wanted him to tell her. Because there was no way that what she had said about the guys of Hogwarts could be true.

            Because he was a guy, and he went to Hogwarts.

            He grinned at the sparrow, who was now nibbling on a single blade of grass poking through a shallow spot in the snow. He grinned because he finally understood, after all the time of sitting alone, staring at the ceiling, and seeing things but never really seeing them.

            Something finally penetrated your thick skull.

            Except even that voice in his head was even happy. 

            He knew what he had to do. Hermione had been testing him by asking him if he agreed to having done something wrong, but even now she was testing him. She wanted him to come to her and apologize and finally tell her, after so many years.

            But how was he supposed to do it?

            He sprang to his feet and jammed his hands in his pockets. He looked at the tree, thinking of what he could do to prepare himself for what he was planning to do. His feet began taking him back and forth in front of the tree. Perhaps the pacing would help him think…

            Could he really do such a thing? There were consequences. He hadn't ever been the type to concern himself with consequences, but now was a good a time as any to change that. This was definitely something that could change the way they both lived their lives.

            Supposing he'd thought wrong…supposing she didn't feel the same way…it would be a complete disaster if he told her and that was so. Because, if it happened that way, they wouldn't be able to be regular friends; there would be no pretending that it hadn't happened.

            But, no, there was a feeling, and a strong feeling at that, that told him he was right, for once. Hermione had always been like a game of chess to him. He knew chess, very well, and he knew that even though things could go wrong in chess, there were always methods to fixing those errors and still win. He'd messed up the previous afternoon, but now was his chance to get back in the game. This situation just called for some strategy formulating. He had her in check at the moment, and she had no way of getting out of it…one more move and, checkmate, he could win her over.

            But what move was it to be?

            The straightforward approach would never be his forte…but dancing around the subject wasn't his area of expertise either. He remembered something that he'd once heard his mother say to Charlie: "Faint heart never won fair lady." And what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?

            He actually had never been able to figure that out. But he supposed it had something to do with bravery, and taking chances. In chess, you take chances and make sacrifices and…sometimes they're for the best.

            Gryffindors…the brave at heart. That's what the Sorting Hat had said at their Sorting Ceremony. He wasn't quite sure how he remembered that, but the Ceremony had been a bit important and, he supposed, had become implanted in his memory. He'd never really considered himself brave; not really. But just because he didn't strut around vanquishing evil didn't mean he wasn't brave.

            "I'm brave," he said to himself, his voice shaking slightly.

            Their daring never and chivalry set Gryffindors apart…

            Well, it was finally his time to be set apart. He stopped pacing and looked up at the window of the room he knew to be Hermione. Surprisingly, a face was staring back at him. Granted, it was a very serious face, but it was she, nonetheless. His stomach churned, like he'd drunk too many Fizzing Whizbees, and he knew his face must look quite as solemn as hers did. But inside he was giving himself a bit of a pep talk, like preparing himself for Quidditch (except it wasn't quite as pushy as Angelina's pep talks). He locked eyes with her, and in those few moments, he knew he would have to take a risk. After all, there had to be risks worth taking.

            Hermione looked away, and closed her window. He felt his heart sink, but didn't let that stop him from making his decision final. He believed more in the positive outcome of his decision, and so he did not wish to dwell on the possibility of complete chaos. He would just have to suck it up and go through with it.

            "Check," he muttered under his breath. And he started trudging through the snow toward the door of the Granger house.

A/n: All right, sorry if it's terrible or short or whatever…but please review!!! 8)