The Wave
I stumbled back to 12 Grimmauld Place that night, my thoughts strangely blank. After all that had happened, this was still too much of a shock to comprehend, too shocking to even send my mind into overdrive. I pushed through the door and stood stock-still for a moment as it closed behind me. Suddenly, the last thing I wanted to do was report this all to the entirety of the Order.
It was then that Ron walked down the stairs, looking serious. "Hermione, can we talk a minute?"
"Sure," I said, not even wondering about what he was going to say. In retrospect, I should have seen it coming, really. He'd been quiet for so long, taking such a small role since I'd been thrown back into the Wizarding world. I should have known that Ron couldn't possibly change that much.
When we were in the quiet front room, lit by only a single lamp, he turned around to face me. "Why were you in here with Malfoy last night?" he asked, his voice forcedly calm.
That was, of course, when it hit me, with the force of a wave whose undertow nearly claimed me to the forbidding waters of an icy ocean. "And the night before," he continued, "you were upstairs with him, weren't you? And the night before…"
"Oh, Ron," I said weakly, leaning against the couch for support. "Must we really discuss this now? I have something really important for the Order…"
"The Order can wait," he said forcefully. "I want to know what's going on."
I looked at Ron's face – forcing down emotion, trying to swallow his rage – and bowed my head, unable to answer him; something was suddenly constricting his throat. "Ron, I don't know," I heard myself say. "I don't know, alright?"
"Hermione, he's a Slytherin," he said angrily. "The guy who called you a Mudblood in second year, remember? The guy who broke Harry's nose? The guy who tried to kill Dumbledore?"
Then it all became too much. The wave was overpowering me, shoving me down, and I couldn't breathe. Instead I cried; my sobs must have frightened Ron because soon he was holding me in his arms, apologizing profusely, trying to understand what was wrong with me.
The problem, of course, was that even I didn't know.
I had no idea what was going on between Draco and I; there was no way I could untangle the knot of confusion around Shane Verloren and I; between Ron and I was the only stable relationship, and with that suddenly being threatened – with my one remaining best friend suddenly unable to help me – I felt so alone, lost among the waters of the sea with nothing, nothing at all, to drink.
"Hermione," I heard him whisper, and it struck me then how much he'd changed; before he would have just stormed out, and I never would have cried. "Can't you tell me?"
"Look at this mess, Ronald!" I cried. "Look at how much we've all changed! Nothing's been the same since Harry died, nothing, nothing…everything's gone up in smoke…and he…Verloren…" I gulped down more tears, trying, and not succeeding, to fight the wave of agony that was slowly drenching me to my core.
"What did he do to you?" Ron asked, his voice forcedly calm.
"He…" I gulped again. "Ron, I don't even know how to explain it…Ron, I think he's in love with me…"
He stared down at me, the shock on his face so thorough that I almost wanted to laugh. Almost, that is. "He…what?" he said blankly. "The Voldemort of the Third War? In love with you?"
"I was right, then, Hermione?" a weary but kind voice said from the doorway; I turned, wiping away my tears, to look at the shabby form of Remus Lupin.
"If this is enough proof," I said, taking out the cloak Verloren had given me and handing it to Lupin. He ran it through his hands. "That, and…what he did."
Lupin looked at me sharply, but didn't comment. I had a feeling that he knew. He was like that, with an omniscient, weary air always about him, as though he carried the weight of the world on his beaten shoulders.
The meeting that followed was a blur. Snape pried apart the memory of Shane Verloren and I, and confirmed to the rest of the group that he did, indeed, seem to have grown attached to me; I noticed how pale both Draco and Ron were looking at that announcement, and how they seemed to be also avoiding my eyes and each other's. Tonks looked distressed, and so did Mrs. Weasley; I knew exactly what was going through the latter's head. She's too young…this is too much for her to handle…
As it happened, I quite agreed with that, although I never would have admitted it. I didn't want to deal with this anymore. Unfortunately, I'd gotten aboard a one-way ride. It looked as though I was stuck with this for the long haul.
For a long moment after the meeting was adjourned, everyone just sat there. I couldn't have said that I blamed them. I was still in shock, too. Finally, though, slowly and one by one, the members began to trickle out, silent and worried, and drawn-looking. Lupin and Tonks stayed, as did Ron, Draco, and I. I couldn't have moved if I wanted to. Distractedly almost, Tonks began making a pot of tea, and slipped into her old habits; I heard a crash and Lupin's mutter of "Reparo," and then all was silent.
When I looked up, Lupin's arms were wrapped around Tonks, and she was crying silently, tears running down her face even though her eyes were squeezed shut, Lupin leaning back against the counter, Tonks supported merely by him. She buried her face in his chest and kept crying, and he tucked her head under his chin, rubbing her back and whispering things every now and then, saying, "It'll all turn out…" "It will be fine, Nymphadora…"
Remus Lupin was the only one allowed to call Tonks "Nymphadora"; other people would be at the receiving end of one of her Auror-powerful hexes if they called her by her first name. Lupin, however…Lupin got away with it. He always had, from day one. It seemed to be a ridiculous definition for true love, but at the moment, the ridiculous seemed almost ordinary, and it was blatantly apparent to me that this was true love, right in front of our faces.
He was over a decade her senior, a quiet, withdrawn, weary man, a poor werewolf who had nothing to offer to her but his love; she was a young, vibrant witch, a clumsy Auror, loud and bright and cheerful, feeling too much than was good for her. But through all their faults, through all their differences, they were perfect for one another. He was the only one who she would allow to call her Nymphadora; she was the only one who could charm him with utter klutziness.
It was an odd time to finally realize the definition of true love, when I was being washed out to sea by that wave. Then again, it may have been the perfect time; it was my buoy of life, my connection to the shore, when I had thought myself all but lost.