Disclaimer: I would write something cute here, but my brain is mush right now. I don't own Harry Potter.
A/N: Oh look; a gen fic! As in, no romance whatsoever (though there's slight R/Hr if you squint)! Yeah, sorry. I've had the idea for quite some time but I never could write it the way I wanted to--and a few weeks ago I just decided to...write it. Many thanks to komo for beta-ing, and putting up with my problem with tenses. All mistakes are my own.
sorry
I slip into the room quietly and watch him. I walk towards him; he does nothing. He stays where he is, sitting on a plush armchair, staring into the flames. The whole room, though awash with reds, yellows, and golds—warm colors, I'd always thought—seems to join him in his silent mourning. The air is almost deathly still; the light the fire gives off is ominous rather than warm. I move closer to him, not sure if he can sense my presence.
"Ron?" I say. I surprise myself; my voice is firm and even, nothing like the barely audible murmur I'd expected.
He doesn't move: ither he doesn't hear me, or he's choosing to ignore me. Well, I'm not going to stand for that. My best friend isn't going to sit in this room and rot forever. Not on my watch—and besides, she wouldn't approve.
I step closer.
"Ron, it's time for us to leave," I say gently. "We have to go."
He doesn't respond. Not even a slight inclination of the head, or a soft shuffling of his feet. Nothing about him indicates that he even heard me speak. He doesn't fool me a bit.
"We can't stay here forever, Ron," I say firmly, decisively. Move, I think desperately. Sigh, lean your head, anything. You're not the one who died, Ron.
Another second of silence.
"You can't stay here anymore," I say even more quietly.
He gets up and turns around in one swift motion, the first sign of life I see from him. His eyes are blazing and wet with unshed tears, and his hair is shining gold from the flames. He looks—lost. And he looks as if he would rather die than spend another minute alone.
"I'll stay here if I want to, Harry," he nearly snarls. "You can't tell me what to do—you may have forgotten about her, but I won't! I'll never forget." He takes a deep breath and stands before me, awaiting my response. His eyes are defiant and shining with resentment.
I shake my head. "I haven't forgotten her, Ron. No one has—and we can't. But there's a difference between forgetting…and moving on."
"And what would you know?" he growls. "Took you quite a while to get over Sirius, didn't it? Like you were any better than me."
The words sting. I take a step back, and Ron's face reveals that he's realized what he just said to me.
"No…wait, Harry, I didn't mean it!" He catches up to me; grabs my arm; even if I tried, I couldn't get myself out of that grip. He always was stronger than me—in more ways than one.
"I'm-I'm sorry," he says, head bowing, knowing how deeply his words must have cut. He lets go of my arm. I have no idea what to say. I remember our conversation the day before:
"You can't keep reliving the past, Ron." I can't help it—it just comes out. I'm tired of him being so depressed, acting like he's the only person here who's lost someone.
"But…" he says desperately, his eyes filled with anguish. "I just can't believe it, Harry. Why her? Why did she have to go?"
"It was an accident, Ron. No one could've stopped it. It just happened." I try to get him to see sense, but already I can see that I'm losing him.
He shakes his head and resumes staring at the fireplace. "Just let me stay here for a little while longer. I need some time."
I sigh, willing him silently to see sense, but his head is already turned away from me—his way of dismissing me. Knowing that there's nothing I can do or say to make him change his mind, I decide to leave. "Okay, then. I'll come back for you." I start to walk toward the door, but right before I open it I say, quietly, "I'm sorry."
These words bring me back. Back to a time where we were carefree and young; a time when it had been all three of us--just us--lost in our own world, where no one could touch us, not even close. We were safe and happy, just as long as we were together. I...I could remember it all.
"Are you going to eat that?" Ron asked. As he did, an accidental swing of his arm sent Hermione's pumpkin juice flying. "Oops, sorry," he said sheepishly.
-----
It was spring; the spring of sixth year, and it was a Quidditch game. Nice weather, too, just a few clouds and some sun and a nice breeze. Should've been easy, but it hadn't, and Harry had tried, oh, how he tried, but it didn't matter; he still lost.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly to his friends. His face was downcast. They were not disappointed in him, they never could be, not really, but he was disappointed in himself. Yet apologizing to himself would be strange, so instead he said it to them.
-----
Another fight—between Ron and Hermione, just like always, like the time they thought Scabbers ran away and the time with the Firebolt, and oh, they were good times…not always easy or happy, but still, they were together, at school, safe. Happy. But this time they were no longer children, or at least close to it. No longer like children yet still not completely adults— and then, things changed.
Not much, but it was enough. Ron had another of his jealous fits, though he would never call them that; he was mad because Hermione was still talking to Viktor, and of course, they were 17 and full of hormones and emotions and adrenaline, and who knew what she was up to?
So they got into a fight, a big one over a little thing, and in the end, it was not Ron, but Hermione, who gave in.
"I'm sorry," she'd said, her eyes grimly resolute. She'd left it at that. Jjust went up the stairs to her dormitory and slept. The next day, it was as if nothing had happened.
-----
It was in the middle of our 7th year—and we were working on our Potions assignment, desperately trying to keep up with the fiendishly difficult project Slughorn had assigned us.
"It's too hard," Ron said, not in his usual 'I don't really care anyway' voice; he'd worked as hard as all of us, and he knew that it was true—it was just too hard. We could never do it in time.
"You're right, Ron," Hermione sighed, blowing her hair away from her face. "There's no way we can even finish this project in time, nonetheless do it right. So why don't we just concentrate on something else?"
"Okay," Ron and I said in unison. We weren't about to argue.
The next day, Slughorn was, surprisingly, immensely disappointed in us. "You, too, Miss Granger?" he'd asked with a deep sigh, as if we had personally let him down. His tone and grim demeanor shocked us into repentance; we spent the rest of the day shamefully wishing we had at least tried.
"We're sorry, Professor," we'd earnestly told him. He just shook his head and dismissed us. But on our way out to Charms, I could have sworn he gave me a small smile.
-----
It was after Sirius's death—and all of us had been ushered quickly to the headquarters, so that all the media could die down and we could go back to school normally. But nothing had ever been normal after—or before—that.
His death was still too recent, too fresh in my mind for me to think back on it with anything but sharp, poignant grief. And self-resentment. Ron and Hermione had approached me—carefully, I remember, in case I lost my temper unexpectedly—and said, softly, "We're sorry, Harry."
And they left it at that.
It had always helped us before; it could eventually soothe a fiery Professor's temper, calm Mrs. Weasley, even settle our own disputes, if said at the right time. Those were the days when a simple 'sorry', it seemed, could fix everything.
But not anymore.
.finis
Author's Note: Yes, I know, they aren't supposed to be in Hogwarts seventh year. But the scene in sixth year would have been weird, so I guess I'll just call it an AU. And the flashbacks aren't supposed to be in any particular order, in case you were wondering ;)