He looked out the window of the train as it slowed to a rattling stop. He looked around the compartment and gathered up his owl, trunk, and book bag.
It was the first train ride to or from Hogwarts they had not spent together…and he didn't know why.
He had to find her. He had to find her before it was too late. She would be gone forever if he didn't do it now.
Hurrying off the Express, he searched the crowds, looking desperately for her. The platform was overly crowded, hundreds of people milling about…and it didn't appear that any of them was her. He ran about, pushing people out of the way when need be. He craned his neck over the heads of witches and wizards, searching frantically for her chestnut curls.
It seemed like a life time and a half had passed, and then he saw them. Her beautiful curls bounced and bounded through the crowds. She was running.
He leapt from the stranger's trunk he had stood upon. Awkwardly, he chased her, people scattering before him as the owl hooted crossly, the book bog thumped angrily on his back and the trunk rocked from wheel to wheel, nearly falling over and pulling him with it.
"Hermione!" he called despairingly. He neared her and threw down his possessions. She kept going, like she was afraid to stop and live life. He reached out a hand and grabbed the sleeve of her robe. Finally she turned around. Tears streamed from her eyes and she was biting her lip, trying to stop them.
"Hermione. I-I'm glad I caught you," he paused and ran a hand through his now rather lengthy and messy hair. She still said nothing. More tears fell. Breathing heavily, he got down on one knee. "Will y-y-you m-marry me?" He pulled out a simple golden band with a single diamond set in the centre.
She stared at it for a moment. Fresh tears began to pour. "Ron. I-I c-can't." Then she turned from him and ran.
He sat at a bar stool, hunched over his drink raking through his unwashed flaming red hair. His body was shuddering as though in silent sobs. He was always there. He'd been there for two years.
A young man of about 20 came through the door of the Leaky Cauldron. He walked with proud but tired steps, leaving scuffled imprints of his athletic trainers on the dust-riddled floor. As if he hadn't sat down comfortably for years, he settled onto the barstool next to the man drowning him self in whisky. A glass of muggle rum was poured for him. He took a sip and then reached his hands behind his head. He stretched his shoulders, and then rumpled his hair. Twisting on his stool, his eyes fell quite accidentally upon the man next to him.
"Ron? Is that really you! Ron!" he wrapped him up in a brotherly hug. The man was too within him self to respond.
While he was engaged in the embrace, he muttered, "Hi, Harry."
The black-haired man released him. "Gawd, it's good to see you. How long has it been? Two years?"
Ron nodded. "Two years, three months, and 16 days." He pulled away and once again buried his face in his hands.
Harry looked at him quite oddly. "Have you been counting?" he paused. When Ron said nothing, he continued. "Training has been pretty regimented…What have you been doing?"
Ron had forgotten Harry played Quidditch. It seemed like the whisky had made him forget every thing except what he wanted to forget: her.
When Ron continued to sit in silence, Harry looked at him oddly. He didn't remember him being like this. He wasn't like this when Harry had known him. Harry faced front and started to sip at his rum.
After nearly ten minutes of sitting in awkward silence, Harry slid off his stool. Slapping down some coins, he turned oddly and said, "Well, err, I guess I'll, err, see you later. Bye." Ron grunted a response and Harry headed for the door. With one last glance at him, Harry turned and pushed open the filth-coated door.