Chapter 7: The Healing
The force of her spell sent Malfoy stumbling back against the sickroom doors even as it cast a blue aura around his head. The aura lingered for a second, painting his pale hair an obnoxious shade of Cornish pixie blue, before finally dissipating into his skull. She counted backwards from fifteen to one, erasing the past fifteen minutes from his memory with a mild grimace. Lowering her wand, she watched him shake his head slightly before raising a stilling hand to his forehead.
Hermione jumped as the door to Madam Pomfrey's office was flung open at the opposite end of the room, ejecting that lady from its confines with a loud rustle of skirts. With sly movements, Hermione silently backed towards Ron's partition before Malfoy or Madam Pomfrey could mark her presence.
"Yes, Mr. Malfoy . . . can I help you?" Madam Pomfrey called to him briskly.
Still slightly befuddled, Malfoy rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyelids before answering.
"No, Madam Pomfrey." He replied, disrupting his hair with absent fingers. Blinking slowly, he gingerly felt his lower back before casting an accusing glare at the knob which protruded from the door behind him—the culprit of his recent pain. Turning his confused gaze back upon Madame Pomfrey, he continued. "I seem to have forgotten what I came for."
Coming forward, she placed the back of her hand against Draco's forehead and pursed her lips. "You seem a bit clammy. Are you experiencing any nausea or a headache perhaps?"
He shook his head slowly, gathering his bearings just as quickly.
"I thought . . . I came in . . . but then you . . . no, no headache, Madam Pomfrey. I'm just a little confused." His gaze ran down the center of the room, focusing on her office at the opposite end. "I think you just startled me, coming through the door so suddenly like you did."
Madam Pomfrey raised an eyebrow at his admission, tilting her head to the side as she attempted to determine whether Draco was honestly confused or simply faking an illness in order to hassle her patient again. It wouldn't be the first time a student had attempted to carry on a rivalry in her sickroom, but his pale eyes and paler skin revealed nothing of his true condition, and she sighed impatiently.
She had often wondered whether Draco was what Muggle doctors deemed anemic. The pale-haired boy, while performing fairly well as the Slytherin quidditch team seeker, often seemed weak and frail by comparison to his contemporaries with his paler-than-pale complexion. Several diagnoses flitted through her mind as she watched Draco gain his bearings. As his face settled into the trademark Malfoy sneer, however, Madam Pomfrey snorted softly, barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes.
Perhaps the rumors of Malfoy's partial Veela heritage are true, she considered absently.
She watched as Malfoy first smoothed his robes and then his hair with stiff, precise movements. He glared openly at Ron's partition, obviously wondering about what was going on behind the closed sheets. He impatiently swatted against the folds of his robes with his wand, straining to make out what the Gryffindors were trying to hide by whispering.
It would certainly explain his vicious temper tantrums, she concluded snidely.
At Madam Pomfrey's approach, Hermione took the opportunity to tuck her wand into the sleeve of her robes before backing slowly towards Ron's bed. Turning on her heel, she slipped between the hanging sheets of Ron's partition with a sigh. Raising her eyes, she met Ron's steady gaze, flushing only slightly as she noted his furrowed brow and forlorn expression.
Stepping closer to his bedside, she watched as his fingers played gingerly with the bed linens and nervously cleared her throat. Looking at him askance before dropping her gaze once again to his nervous fingers, she found herself awkwardly patting his hand.
Softly, she replied, "It's done, Ron. You don't have to worry . . . Malfoy won't say anything, I promise. And I . . . it will be our secret, yeah?"
Ron struggled to find his voice as he looked down upon Hermione's bowed head. It was as if she were incapable of meeting his eyes as she spoke. He felt his hand fist convulsively beneath her own, causing her hand to withdraw.
His chin jutted out as he turned his face away from her, warding off a wobbling chin by gnashing his teeth together. Staring at the foot of the bed until his teary eyes also obeyed, Ron gruffly responded.
"Yeah, it'll be our secret." He muttered.
His rejoinder was cold and bitter, mimicking his rigid posture as he stiffened against his pillow.
"Ron," Hermione pleaded, her voice cracking as she raised her gaze to his face. "Please, look at me."
His brows dove farther, creating a harsh 'v' between his glassy blue eyes. Hermione found her gaze shifting between them, urging him to understand the words she couldn't say aloud. She read so many things in their crystalline depths: hurt, betrayal, and loss. She hugged herself with her arms, feeling small and lost as he stared at her in silent accusation.
"I know it was just Malfoy, Ron." Hermione added quickly. "I know that you wouldn't ever really . . . that you wouldn't normally want to . . . Oh, God."
Inhaling sharply, Hermione's hand flailed like a disoriented bird, fluttering momentarily in the air before finally settling on her forehead. Ducking her head, her fingers digging fiercely into her temples in agitation, Hermione closed her eyes briefly and collected her thoughts. Ron found himself begrudgingly leaning forward to hear the rest of her hoarsely voiced answer.
"Ron, I'm sorry, okay? I'm so sorry he made you do . . . THAT. But you can trust me, Ron." Hermione raised beseeching eyes to his, her hands instinctively reaching to clasp his fist for emphasis. "We can go on as before, never better. You know that I won't say anything."
Noting his expression, she dropped her hands to the side, gripping the folds of her robes as if the tenuous hold was the only thing keeping her heart in one painfully straining piece.
He measured her briefly with his eyes, feeling unaccountably stung by her words. He had expected them, played them out in his mind a hundred times, and yet somehow they still burned like a fresh wound. He felt hollow and brittle as he looked at her, as if his body was just a shell and his heart was merely a false cardboard cut-out. But it still managed to convulse painfully as her warm eyes flitted to his mouth shortly before falling away once again. He joined her in watching her hands dance nervously in the folds of her robes for a few moments while he searched for his voice.
"No, you wouldn't tell anyone, would you, Hermione?" He queried softly, one hand absently gripping the other in his lap.
This was the truth, his mind urged. She'd rather no one else ever knew about his misstep. Was it so awful, he wondered briefly as he bowed his head, to be tainted by Weasley lips?
Unaware of his private musings, she rushed to reiterate. "No, of course I wouldn't, Ron! I'm a veritable secret-keeper even without the formality of a spell."
Seating herself recklessly on the side of his bed, she reached out to softly touch his upper arm before continuing. "I would never intentionally embarrass you or make you feel bad. You know that, right?"
"Yeah, I know." He replied, dropping his gaze to the hands in his lap.
They were knuckle-white from gripping one another, and he concentrated on loosening his death-grip. He had to let go, of himself and her. He had to face the facts and accept them because she deserved that much. He would train himself to hide these external signs of his desire, his frustrated dreams. He refused to burden her with his pathetic pining.
His answer, delivered in a monotone, nearly broke her heart. Hermione bit the inside of her lower lip to stop it from quivering and tried to think of a way to reassure him.
Her instincts urged her to fling herself bodily at him, absorbing his hurt and embarrassment with a heartfelt hug. She was stopped by the silent admission she made to herself that such a public display of affection was more likely to assuage her own need to feel close to him, connected—even bonded—than his need to be comforted by his know-it-all best friend. Her embrace would probably cause him to recoil even further from her and she couldn't face any more of his blatant rejection. Silently turning the matter over in her mind, she tucked the bushy fall of her hair behind her ears and shifted on the bed beside him.
Turning her head, she heard Madame Pomfrey and Malfoy murmuring together near the sickroom doors. Hermione absently fingered the wand that rested against her forearm before turning back to look at her ginger-haired best friend. Leaning forward with shining eyes, she suddenly gripped his wrist and whispered breathlessly: "I could take it back!"
Ron looked at her then, his confounded blue gaze clashing with the vibrant urgency of her honey-brown one. Shaking his head softly to convey his confusion, he watched as Hermione glanced over her shoulder, gauging their distance from Madame Pomfrey, before she faced him once again to voice her solution.
"I could take it back, Ron." She repeated, her fingers lightly tracing the fall of his hair across his forehead until her eyes locked with his again. "I could Obliviate the memory, Ron. You'd never know what Malfoy made you do. I could make it right, if you let me."
Ron expelled his breath in a rush, his lungs feeling crushed from within as her suggestion sunk in. She wanted to do more than just ignore what had happened; she wanted to erase the moment, as if it had NEVER existed!
"No, Hermione." He muttered. Bloody enchantments, he seethed.
I don't want to forget, he almost added. His thoughts rushed forward in a tangle. That kiss could be the last close moment they ever shared, and Ron couldn't imagine giving that up, even if it was what she wanted. In fact, if that were the case, he needed the memory for the future. He would use it as an emotional salve, a tincture that would seal up the cracks in his heart when it felt like bursting from unspoken feelings. It would be his comfort as she moved on, turning her back on him in order to explore other romantic options.
Bloody Bulgarian git, he thought vehemently.
But a glimpse of her hopeful expression floored him. She wanted so much to preserve their friendship, to keep things from changing between them. He refused to alter his memory, but what could he offer in return to prove that he wanted to hold onto their friendship as well?
"What about you?" He questioned gruffly. "Do you expect me to—to . . . ."
"What?" She asked, watching as he absently performed a swish and flick with his wand-less hand. Finally cottoning on, she breathed, "Oh! No, Ron . . . ."
She felt the heat slowly suffusing her face and ducked her head. How could she tell him that she wouldn't trade the memory of their kiss for the whole wizarding world without completely exposing herself? Her mind taunted her silently: Danger, Ron Weasley! Perverted best friend at 5 o'clock! Watch out for Hermione Granger, the notorious best mate molester and all-around wanton witch.
"That's alright." She amended with a tight smile, "I really don't mind, Ron. I know that you were just acting under the influence of the spell."
She watched as he flushed suddenly, the color creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. Dropping her gaze, Hermione stared at the rumpled sheets that bunched around Ron's hips as if they were the most fascinating thing she had ever seen.
Picking imaginary lint from her knee, she finished softly, "I just thought that maybe you, you know, would rather I—"
Ron rolled his eyes and shook his head, petulantly crossing his arms over his chest at the thought.
"I said NO, Hermione." He reiterated forcefully.
He watched her jump slightly at his raised voice from the corner of his eye. He couldn't tell what startled her more: his actual response or the vehemence with which he expressed it.
How could she even think that, he wondered angrily.
Because she wants to forget.
The thought came unbidden but stuck in the forefront of his mind. She didn't want to acknowledge his kiss as anything more than a clumsy misstep. It was just another example of stupid Ron Weasley mucking things up between them again. She didn't even trust him to obliviate her as well.
She must really think I'm hopeless with a wand, Ron thought vehemently, his lip curling with the thought.
He couldn't look at her, couldn't face her subsequent rejection or the careful way in which she tried to let him down gently. He rubbed the end of his long nose roughly, willing himself not to cry.
"Alright then, Mr. Malfoy." Madam Pomfrey said, drawing their exchange to a close as she heard signs of a quiet argument raging from behind Ron's partition. Firming her lips into a hard line, she drew a needle and vial from her deep apron pocket, and gestured simply with a tilt of her head for Draco to leave if he had no official complaint.
"As I have actual patients to see to, I'll have to ask that you head back to the dungeons now, Mr. Malfoy." She smirked slightly before continuing. "I trust that you're more than capable of seeing yourself out without the accompaniment of your usual entourage."
Sniffing with disdain at her dismissal, Draco turned on his heel and dramatically exited from the infirmary, flinging both of the heavy oak double-doors open with a violent motion. She paused for a moment as she listened to him stalking away, his feet stomping harshly upon the unforgiving limestone floor.
He'll be back with hairline fractures in his feet, no doubt, she thought to herself. Turning towards bed number two, she felt a mischievous smile curling her lips. Sounds like a job for my handy, dandy Skele-Gro!
Slipping through Ron's partition, she caught Hermione's hesitant comment to Ron.
"Okay, Ron. Of course. I didn't mean to offend you."
Hermione looked up as she heard Madam Pomfrey enter and quickly scooted off of the bed. Moving to the side, she glanced from the hypodermic needle in Madam Pomfrey's hand to the stunned expression on Ron's face as he noted it as well. Gathering the remnants of her Gryffindor courage, Hermione addressed him with a final plea.
"If you want," she said, standing shyly by the bed, her fingers fiddling with his bed sheets. "I could stay . . . and hold your hand."
Ron's gaze flew to her face, his hands fisting in his lap.
"Ms. Granger," Madam Pomfrey chided, "I told you before that this was a very private procedure."
Hermione felt her eyebrows hitch painfully high on her forehead as she gaped openly at the older woman. "Oh, of course . . . the posterior! I-I guess I thought you had already done that."
Ron watched the color in her face rise sharply and wondered when he had ever seen Hermione look so out of sorts. One mention of the male "posterior" and she was a goner. He began to consider the possibility that Krum had acted only as Hermione's escort to the Yule Ball rather than her date. Surely he would have noticed the flushed undertones to her skin if Krum had kissed her goodnight before she entered the Common Room? But her cheeks had only flushed after he had accused her, once again, of fraternizing with the enemy.
He frowned at the memory. Maybe her embarrassment wasn't centered around boys in general; maybe it was just his posterior, his touch, his kiss that made her run. But she wasn't running now. No, she had simply reverted back into the mother hen who urged him to close his mouth when he ate and to start his homework early. She didn't blush because she saw him as a man; she blushed because she was embarrassed by her ickle Ronniekins.
Madame Pomfrey watched as Ron's expression grew foreboding, his temper gathering like storm clouds between his furrowed brows. Clucking her tongue softly, she guided Hermione towards the door.
"You should return to class Ms. Granger." Madam Pomfrey stated firmly. "Dinner will be in a few hours, and I'm sure you'd like to present a progress report on Mr. Weasley's condition to your friends before then."
"Yes, Madam Pomfrey." Hermione answered, bowing her head slightly as she began to move away. Glancing back at Ron, she watched as he scooted down into the bed, rolling over onto his side, presenting his back to her as he prepared for the shot. Her steps faltered as she watched his knees curl up and his back bow, shifting into a modified fetal position. Her heart ached as she watched him; he seemed so alone.
"Madam Pomfrey?" She queried. "May we visit him then? After dinner, I mean?"
Madam Pomfrey shook her head slowly. "There'd be no point, Ms. Granger, as he won't be conscious after taking his sleeping draught. Never fear, though. I'm sure he'll be right as rain tomorrow morning. You'll probably see him at breakfast!"
Hermione nodded her head in acquiescence, but determined to borrow Harry's invisibility cloak in order to see Ron before the morning. He shouldn't be left alone, even if he were unconscious. After all, how many hours had he and Harry spent in the infirmary when she was petrified? She moved forward with a renewed bounce in her step, and Madam Pomfrey returned to her patient.
Ron shifted onto his side and gazed at the shadows that the waning light cast upon his white partition. He heard Madam Pomfrey approaching with the tell-tale rustle of her skirt. Sighing dejectedly, he tried not to think about the day.
He felt her presence at his back, saw her shadow spread across the partition, and sighed.
"Are you ready to begin the healing, Mr. Weasley?" She asked, dipping the needle into the vial and loading the cartridge with a deft pull of her thumb.
"Merlin, yes." He replied with feeling.
As she undid the tapes of his hospital gown, his breath hitched. He felt her reposition his sheets around his hips for modesty's sake moments before she began swabbing the fleshy part of his hip with an alcohol pad. He only felt the pressure of her fingers on his skin as the needle went in, and he closed his eyes briefly.
The medicine spread in cool tendrils throughout his flank like a rapidly growing spider web. Ron grimaced at the thought, attempting to banish the thought as his lips pressed themselves into a firm line.
It was all over in a moment, and she wiped the area again with a cool, antiseptic swab before backing away from the bed. Rolling over onto his back, Ron didn't bother with retying his gown and instead pulled the meager sheets up to his armpits. Tucking them around his body, he stared at the ceiling, watching the light fade as the sun moved closer to setting in the window behind him.
"Your sleeping draught, Mr. Weasley." Madam Pomfrey prompted, handing him a weighty glass.
Ron sat up shakily before downing the draught in a long, slow swallow. Handing the glass back to Madam Pomfrey, he slumped back against the bed before shutting his eyes. Silently, he urged himself to fall asleep more quickly, even as his racing thoughts prevented him from doing so. Instead, he found himself falling in and out of light dozes, awakening in time to watch the shadows move across the sentry, also known as his partition, located at the foot of his bed as the sun finally set in the sky. He thought about the dinner he had missed, the friend he had kissed, and the morning after that had yet to come.
Hermione trudged down the stairs to the Great Hall with leaden feet, her footsteps echoing eerily into the hall. Stopping before the door, she paused to take a slow breath before entering the grand room.
Not even the enchanted ceiling, which revealed a gently ebbing sunset the exact shade of Ron's hair, could cheer her. Looking down the long table, her breath hitched as she spotted a similar shade of ginger, only to sigh softly a second later as she recognized Ginny's patented hair-flip which forced her chunky plait over her shoulder, leaving it to dangle between her shoulder blades. Noting the vacant seat beside her, Hermione rushed forward to claim it before Colin Creevey, who was right behind her, could.
Easing into the seat, Hermione took her plate in hand and reached for the nearest bowl of peas. Glancing out of the corners of her eyes at Ginny, she cleared her throat and, upon gaining Ginny's attention, began to speak.
"Hello, Ginny." She replied calmly as she began layering sausage, mash, and peas upon her plate.
Ginny turned eagerly with an excited grin. Reaching into her bag, she plunked an eerily familiar cup down in front of Hermione's flatware.
"Well, there you are, Hermione: one ticket to the Detention Express for our illustrious bouncing ferret!" Wriggling in her seat, Ginny leaned close to whisper, "What punishment do you think Dumbledore will devise? Personally, I'm hoping he orders Malfoy to clean the dungeon floors with a toothbrush until they shine. Or that he has to wash Snape's hair . . . you know—whichever one is most filthy!"
"Ginny!" Hermione gasped, scandalized.
Unbidden thoughts of shampoo-boy Draco popped into her mind along with the image of their potions master, his head encased in Lockhart-pink bubbles as his mouth curled into a cross between a smirk and a leer, and she shivered unconsciously. Turning her attention to the offending cup, the one that still held traces of Veritaserum even as she turned it in her hands, Hermione worried her lower lip between anxious teeth. She had forgotten about their proof and wondered whether or not it would ever be brought to Dumbledore's attention in light of the secret she and Ron now shared.
To turn in the ferret, Hermione would also have to describe everything that the combined magicks had made Ron do. She would have to break her promise, first to Ron, by actually sharing the story, and next to herself, by having to admit, once again, that the kiss was tainted and never should have been.
Turning the cup in her hands, Hermione murmured. "That will have to be up to Ron, Ginny. He's been through a lot today and I don't want to make it worse."
"Oh, no!" Ginny exclaimed, grasping Hermione's upper arm with both hands. "The Slytherins . . . they didn't get to Ron first, did they? I mean, carried out their prank before you could get Ron to the hospital wing?"
"No . . . no, Ginny. Of course not!" Hermione felt her cheeks burning as she thought of the kiss. She could still feel his clumsy lips there if she concentrated hard enough . . . .
Suddenly, Hermione wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, rejecting the phantom kiss. Looking at Ginny's confused expression, Hermione weakly explained that she couldn't find her napkin. She dropped her face into her hands, completely mortified as Ginny surreptitiously grasped the edge of the napkin that lay in her lap, exposing her as either a liar or the daftest bint in Hogwarts' history. Without a word, Ginny raised it to the tabletop beside Hermione's hand and offered it to the blushing girl. Accepting the offering, Hermione raised it to her mouth and dabbed at imaginary crumbs before finally confessing.
"Actually, they did confront us outside the medical ward, Ginny." She briefly explained the scuffle, omitting certain realizations about her feelings for Ron. "Luckily, Madam Pomfrey arrived in time to break up the fray and we were able to get Ron to the ward in time. Harry and I stayed as long as we could, but Malfoy kept interrupting."
Glancing around, Hermione was surprised to realize that Harry was nowhere to be found in the Great Hall.
"Ginny, have you seen Harry this evening? He never came back into the sickroom after we confronted Malfoy . . . Oh, no!" Nearly leaping from her seat, Hermione cast anxious eyes around the room before the staying influence of Ginny's hand had its full effect on her.
"Hermione," Ginny began, urging the other girl to take her seat, "Harry had another meeting for the second task with Professor Dumbledore. All of the competitors did, in fact. I think they may have moved the competition date up because all four went to bed early tonight. We'll have to wait until the morning to go with Harry to the hospital wing."
Grimacing, Hermione retorted, "Yes, we will. Madam Pomfrey gave Ron a sleeping draught and told me he couldn't receive visitors until tomorrow morning. Of course, she also said that a visit may be unnecessary as he should be well enough to attend breakfast in the morning."
Looking at her musing friend, Ginny replied loftily, "Well then, I suppose we shall see Ron at breakfast. There's no point in bothering him if he's had a sleeping draught. After all, Ron sleeps like the dead even without potions! I bet he'll be really hungry though—he'll have skipped two and a half meals by then!"
Hermione turned these words over in her mind and saw the simple logic in them. She was over-reacting because of her crush. Frustrated, she realized she could no longer separate her feelings into those of friendship and those of love. Nodding her agreement to Ginny, Hermione finished her dinner in silence as she continued to reflect on her ginger-haired best friend. Would they ever really fall in love?
Ron awoke early enough to catch the sunrise. Watching the sun emerge from its nighttime wrappings, he listened to his stomach growl and fidgeted on the bed. He knew that she always awoke with the sun and made her way to the library in order to return the books she had finished reading before finally entering the Great Hall for breakfast. He glanced at the chair beside his bed and noted his clothes from the previous day folded in a neat stack upon it. Sometime in the night Madam Pomfrey or one of the House Elves must have cast a cleaning charm over them because they looked spotless and neatly pressed. Ron concluded that it must have been Madam Pomfrey as he noticed the note which rested upon his shoes, reading: "Ron Weasley—released for class."
If Ron were to dress himself and leave for the Great Hall at that moment, he would have Hermione all to himself for at least a few moments. But would that be too telling? Would she attribute his early morning start to the hunger plaguing his disgruntled stomach or his other masculine appetite? Would she insist on Obliviating the memory again or would they simply pretend that nothing had ever happened?
Allowing his stomach to drive him forward, Ron rose gingerly from bed and cast a simple cleansing charm upon himself. Next, he slipped into his uniform, pausing only as he took up his peaked hat in an awkward grip.
He remembered how she had run her fingers over it the day before, twisting the peak between her tiny fingers. Looking at the hand which was currently clasped around his hat in a loose fist, he remembered how she had held his hands, gripped his upper arm, and even fallen across his lap. He pushed this latter thought from his mind and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other as he tried to think of less exciting things.
Pulling her curls through his fingers, wanting to thread his fingers through them, cupping her scalp . . . .
LESS exciting things, he urged himself.
Holding her close to his side on the bed, his hand resting on the softness of her lower belly . . . .
Bloody hell, Weasley!
He groaned aloud, rubbing his hand across his eyes.
Kissing Hermione. No, REALLY kissing Hermione . . . .
Ron fell back on the bed with a defeated grunt, and covered his burning face with his hat. How was he ever going to face her again and NOT want to touch her? But he was used to controlling these urges; if the impulse arose, he would simply think about quidditch, or Snape kissing McGonagall. No, Snape REALLY kissing McGonagall (that always seemed to do the trick).
Pushing himself up from his bed, Ron began walking out of the medical ward and towards the Great Hall, a mixture of eager anticipation and dreadful anxiety swirling in his grumbling stomach,
Hermione checked her watch again, wondering whether or not it was too soon to visit Ron in the medical wing. He was probably still asleep, curled up in bed. Hermione could just picture his face, flushed with sleep, and his deep, penetrating blue eyes blinking open to look at her. He would smile softly and invite her to curl up with him, urging her to rest her head beneath his chin with a gentle hand on the back of her neck as he fitted his body to hers . . . .
Shaking her head briskly, Hermione forced this fantasy to the back of her mind. She was being ridiculous! Of course Ron would probably be grumpy in the morning. Or drool-encrusted with a pillow stuck to his face. Or recklessly splayed across the bed with the knotted bed linens revealing more than just his bare legs this time, leaving nothing to the imagination . . . .
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek in the attempt to turn her mind away from these thoughts. Why did her mind insist on tormenting her? As often as she reminded herself of Ron's horrified expression, she couldn't forget the heart-to-heart they had had as well. Did he really think she was beautiful, or was that just the spell? She couldn't let herself trust in anything said yesterday as it may be the effect of the potion and charm interaction. She would wait and see how he acted this morning; if any of his previous confessions were true, surely he would reveal them again? Until that time, she would leave him alone and allow him to heal.
Ron paused in the doorway of the great hall, shuffling from one foot to the other as he stared at the lone figure in the Great Hall.
Hermione had pinned her hair up in a haphazard bun today, and Ron watched as the breeze from the open windows stirred the curls at the nape of her neck. Swallowing hard, he entered the room with a quiet, steady step and seated himself across from her at the Gryffindor table.
"G'morning, Hermione." He murmured softly. When she raised her surprised eyes to his face he quirked a small smile at her. He watched her sigh in relief and offered her own tiny smile in return.
"Feeling better?" She inquired inadequately. Mentally berating herself, she tried to present a calm, collected front to him.
Noting her calm expression and mild greeting, Ron felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. Apparently they would pretend that nothing had happened regardless of whomsoever was or was not around. Nodding his head briefly in acknowledgement, he turned his attention to gathering breakfast from the trays that lay between them. Eating silently, he spoke merely in a monosyllabic drone throughout breakfast, even when the rest of the houses finally joined them. As Harry sat down beside him, jibing good-naturedly about how good it was to see his best friend again, he watched Hermione turn to chat with Seamus, Neville, and Dean Thomas and frowned.
That was when it had started, the cool distance between them. Sure, he had iced her out in third year over the Firebolt incident, but he had been angry because he cared. He had felt betrayed and had reacted in kind. But this coolness, Hermione's coolness, was like talking to a stranger; only examining the surface of issues rather than getting to the heart of the matter. It was fake and it was distancing. He knew then that she would never forget the kiss, and that, in addition, she would never forgive him for it as well.
Back at the Burrow, with his head propped against the wall, Ron watched the dawn spread across his Chudley Cannons posters with a broken sigh.
The rest of the year she had been just as detached. In fact, the detachment had grown along with her obsession to conquer Rita Skeeter. By the end of the year—after Cedric's death and Voldemort's return—when they all gathered to bid farewell to the visiting Beauxbaton and Durmstrang students, no one had even noticed the reduced frequency of their quarrels. But it stung like a freshly salted wound when Hermione bid farewell to Viktor Krum. He had attempted to use an Unforgivable Curse on Harry during the Third Challenge—albeit, while under the control of an Unforgivable himself—and Hermione had forgiven him. They were still pen pals in fact, whatever that means.
He had been stunned. She wouldn't forgive her friend of four years for acting on a crush, but she could forgive a dark wizard for attempting to crush Harry? It was disgusting. But he couldn't allow these jealousies to color his actions. Regardless of Viktor's actions they HAD been manipulated. And Ron knew something about being manipulated. And so he did the only thing he could think of to offer an olive branch to the great Bulgarian git.
He asked for his autograph.