Chapter 13 - Failed Tactics

It took several disjointed and irrelevant dreams before the recurring dream she desired manifested in Hermione's mind. The glimmering hall and well-dressed audience materialised before her as she stood on stage. With a surge of delight, she willed her brain to play out the scene beyond what she had previously experienced. Perhaps she could influence the situation, like a lucid dream.

"It is with great honour that I accept this award, thank you," she spoke, concluding her speech again.

Ignoring the clapping and cheering from the crowd, she rushed down the stairs, eager to let the scenario play out. In her haste to find her way towards the mystery figure, she stumbled on her high-heeled shoes before his strong arms reached out to steady her.

"You were great, love," he said.

Taking her time to indulge in his presence, Hermione gazed up into his face. Where she expected facial features like sparkling eyes or playfully curved lips, she instead saw a haze that rendered those features hidden.

He once again leaned down and captured her lips, that now-familiar electricity crackling through her as she kissed him back with passion. There could be no better accomplishment.

She leant forward on her toes and elevated herself to deepen the kiss as his arm looped around her waist and pulled her frame flush with his own. Not even in the depths of her wildest dreams did Hermione ever consider someone could be so alluring. Every part of her body screamed for her to demand that he reveal himself so that she may overwhelm herself with him.

Eventually, they broke apart from the kiss, leaving her lips tingling and her breathing heavy. Gazing up at the man, she watched as he reached out a hand to tuck the flyaway strands of hair back behind her ear. His touch was delicate and tender, yet it caused heat to erupt across the skin behind her ear where he made contact.

There was a hitch in her breath as he cupped the side of her face and bent down to whisper in her ear, "There are more awards for you to win at home."

His words sent the world around her spinning as her imagination went dizzying out of control. It was as if her knees were about to give out at any moment as she struggled to contain herself. There was a knock as she stumbled into his broad chest.

"Yes, let's go," she gasped.

There was another knock as she straightened up to place her hand within his much larger one.

"Lead the way," he instructed with two further knocks as he interlocked their fingers.

The knocking sound continued to ring out around the glimmering hall as the surrounding scene started to fade.

"No, no. Wait! Please," she cried out.

It was too late. The hall, the man, and the dream faded back to reality as Hermione awoke amongst the cushions of her office sofa. Sitting up, she looked around the office to refamiliarise herself with her surroundings, when again, another knock caused her to jump. Someone had interrupted the dream by knocking on her office door.

"Moira, I'm coming, you—" she groaned, trailing off as she walked over to the door and swung it open. "What do you—"

Except, it wasn't Moira. Sat in his wheelchair on the other side of the door was Ronald Weasley, a prominent scowl on his face.

"Ron? What are you doing here?"

"Hey," he greeted. "Moira called me last week and said you scheduled me for four."

Confusion swept over her as she tried to comprehend the events taking place. There was no reason for Ron to be here this early. It was only noon when she had fallen asleep for lunch. To make matters worse, she struggled to focus due to the odd sensations her body was experiencing. Her face flushed, and an aching sensation travelled down her chest, nestling in the pit of her stomach.

Glancing at her wristwatch to confirm the time, she gave a frightened gasp as the realisation landed a proverbial blow to her gut. She had slept through the whole of her lunch break and afternoon shift—it was now four.

"Well?" he asked, gesturing to indicate that she was blocking his path. "Can I come in?"

Hermione leapt out of the way and watched as he wheeled himself into the room and set about positioning his chair in the same spot as last time. Still breathing heavily, she moved over to the seating area before stopping to discreetly neaten the sofa and its cushions.

"Don't forget your lunch, there," Ron pointed out, his voice full of amusement.

Straightening up, she peered down at the half-eaten sandwich sitting atop the sofa. Snatching it up, she went over and deposited it onto her desk.

"Let's begin, shall we?" she declared, trying to maintain her composure and any semblance of control she had over the situation.

It appeared as if he wanted to say more, perhaps seeking to goad her further. Eventually, however, he nodded and waited for her to make the next move. Grabbing the incomplete notes she had written this morning, Hermione returned to sit in the armchair opposite the ginger-haired man.

"Firstly, thank you for returning today. I appreciate we didn't have the best first session, but I am prepared to make this work if you are?"

"Uh—yeah, I am. Thanks for having me back," Ron replied, rubbing the back of his reddening neck.

He looked uncomfortable, and Hermione felt her mouth twitch in satisfaction as she watched him squirm. It was time for this obnoxious man to get a taste of his own medicine.

Taking a quick glance at her notes, she asked him, "So I see you've started physiotherapy. How has that been going for you?"

"It feels very sore. I'm pushing myself, and the physio says I'm making rapid progress," Ron answered with a smile.

She asked several follow-up questions about his physios and the types of exercises he had undertaken. He spoke in great detail about Cedric Diggory, Albus and Aberforth Dumbledore, and the Zumba class.

"That's great. So today, I was hoping to ask you a little more about yourself? Unwrap what makes you, you."

When he nodded in agreement, she shuffled her notes and searched for questions to ask about his family and background. During the times she had spent holed up in the library learning everything she could about him, she had discovered a significant amount about his footballing career with Chudley United. This would be her first line of attack.

"What made you want to become a professional footballer?"

Ron appeared to contemplate his answer for a brief moment before answering, "Two of my older brothers played professionally. Charlie was good enough to play for England but chose not to and went down a different career path after retirement. Eventually, I was considered good enough and got offered a contract. I guess it sort of just runs in the family because my sister Ginny also plays for a professional women's team."

Hermione scribbled down his answers into her clinical notepad as he spoke before moving on to her next question.

"And how do you feel about potentially not being able to play again?"

As she looked up, waiting to hear his answer, she noticed a look of apprehension pass over his face. His hands were in his lap, clenched together, their veins protruding out and the skin an angry shade of red.

"It was all I could think about when I was lying in the hospital," he whispered. "When Doctor Randall told me I may never play again, it felt like my heart had shattered. Football, that's all I have."

The sincerity in his voice tugged at her heartstrings, and she began to have doubts about her approach. However, despite what her conscience was telling her, Hermione chose to interpret his answer differently.

Using her next question to further twist the knife, she asked, "So it's the money, lifestyle, and status you'll miss the most if you can't play again?"

He gave a double-take to her question and frowned at her as if not quite believing she could interpret his answer in such a manner. When Hermione continued to eye him expectantly, he let out a nervous chuckle.

"Money isn't everything. It's nice to have, and I live a comfortable life. That's good enough for me," he answered with a shrug.

"Sounds to me like you're overpaid."

Ron chuckled in response to her snarky comment and nodded in agreement, "Oh definitely. But that's just the nature of the beast that is football. We generate so much money, and then we get a share of that money. I try to use my wealth for good, though. Harry, Ginny and I support a bunch of great causes and projects to give back."

"That's a benefit of you being of privilege," she remarked without looking up from the notepad.

"Am I?" he asked, pondering the statement.

"Your family home is a mansion. It's private and secluded. You have access to people who are there to fulfil your every need, desire, and whim. Companies, brands, and businesses are lining up, waiting to hand you things that you're more than capable of affording yourself. Sounds like the height of privilege to me."

He seemed to think for several moments as if he were considering her assertion and how best to respond to it.

"I guess in some ways I am, yeah. I grew up with a hard-working and loving family, something I know others didn't have. We didn't have much, but mum and dad made it work for a family of nine. Dad worked hard to put food on the table, and mum made sure we did well in school and got to practice on time. It was nice to repay them for their sacrifice when I got my first contract. We renovated the Burrow, our childhood home, for them. Now that they're retired, dad gets to travel the world, and mum has plenty of hobbies to keep her busy."

This was a startling revelation to her. Throughout her research, she had never considered the possibility of him coming from a disadvantaged background. The assumption had always been that he had grown up in a life of luxury and grandeur.

"Still, though, I've never been privileged enough to take naps at work," he added with a smirk.

"Excuse me?"

"That's what you were doing, right? When I knocked. You were asleep, and that's why it took you so long to answer the door. It must have either been a good meatball sandwich or an even better dream," he remarked. His blue eyes sparkled as he arched an eyebrow and suppressed a smug smile.

"That's—I wasn't," she stammered, distracted and unable to come up with a convincing lie.

"Come on, don't deny it. The sofa was the first giveaway. It had clear signs of having been slept on. You'd probably have gotten away with it except, your hair just screams midday nap. That was clue number two. As for clue number three, you took ages to answer the door but kept mumbling about Moira and coming, so I knew you were inside. Now, I'm not one to assume, but considering she was just at the reception desk checking me in, Moira couldn't have been in here making you… Come. So the only other conclusion is that you were dreaming about her. It's not hard to put three and three together."

Hermione was left speechless at his conclusion. Her breathing picked up the pace, and she could feel her heart hammering against her chest, threatening to burst free. His perverted comment about Moira and herself doing that sent tremors throughout her body as she recalled the dreams, the faceless man and what they were about to do. The suggestive comment and the way her body had reacted within her dream came gushing back to engulf her. This time, the electricity zapped at her skin and caused goosebumps to erupt all over her heated flesh.

Crossing her legs in an attempt to hide the reactions of her body, Hermione took several steadying breaths. Once she was confident that her chest had stopped heaving, she raised a hand to check the state of her hair. Just like every morning, when she woke up, it was in a state of complete disarray and all but confirmed that she had been sleeping.

"Fine! You got me. I fell asleep after lunch," she snapped, hastily trying to tame her hair into a more presentable look. "But you're way off the mark with the last point. Your obnoxious knocking woke me up, and I thought it was Moira coming to check on me."

"Bummer, it would have been quite the story," he remarked. "Shall we resume?"

"Yes, so perhaps the status you hold in society is the thing you'll miss most? The media attention, the adoring fans, women willing to throw themselves at you for a chance to be seen with you."

The glare she received from him at this question proved she was on the right track. She watched with satisfaction as his fists clenched and unclenched. Would this be the moment he revealed his true nature?

"That's a load of bullshit, and you know it. I commit to my contractually obligated media hours. I love and respect my fans, and even if women are throwing themselves at me, I have a girlfriend, and I'd never abuse my influence like that. Why would you assume such a thing?"

"So then, what is it you'll miss the most?" she fired back, curious about his possible answers but still eager to shift the focus away from herself.

"That feeling on the field, the friendships, the camaraderie. That's what mattered more to me. Nah, it was never about glory, money, or lifestyle. Besides, Chudley never wins much, to begin with," he laughed, pausing to make eye contact before resuming. "All those years at school when Harry's shitty aunt and uncle would pick him up late or just not bother turning up at all. I'd hang out with him, and we'd spend however long it took playing football until they arrived. Just me and him, sometimes my brothers would be there, or Ginny would hang around. Through football, I found another brother, and he found love. Harry and Ginny, they're getting married soon. Guys like Harry, they'll be what I miss the most, and at Chudley United, there are twenty-one other blokes whose friendship I'll miss just as much."

Floored by the genuineness of his answer, she jotted down his response as teardrops splashed onto the page of her notebook. How was it possible to go through such a rollercoaster of emotions? The constant swerving between arousal, euphoria, anger, despair, embarrassment, and guilt would be enough to give anyone whiplash. Yet, she had managed to somehow experience all of these within the space of a few short hours.

Refusing to look up at him, Hermione remained quiet and fixated on the pages in her lap as her gut churned with guilt. To purposefully manipulate a patient under her care, to use his life and feelings as a tool for payback and vengeance, was a step too far.

"Ron, I'm…" she started as she leaned out of her armchair and reached out to pat his knee.

He again recoiled at her awkward touch, which more closely resembled a thumping than a gentle, reassuring pat.

She jerked back her hand and retook her seat, "… Sorry," she finished.

"It's fine," he mumbled. "It feels good to share with someone I trust."

Of all the things Ron had said and done, this was the one that landed the most devastating blow. The air in the room felt like it was being sucked out, and her head began to spin. Despite everything she had done, he still trusted her?

"I need you to leave," she gasped out.

"Why?"

"The session is over."

Ron, however, refused to leave. His face turned an alarming shade of red as he glowered at Hermione.

"But you haven't even helped me with anything," he spat before taking a deep breath and composing himself. "Look, you've clearly conducted some investigation into me and intentionally twisted what you've read. Whatever problems you've got going on, you need to sort out your priorities."

Whilst she construed his comment as a dig, there was a genuine sense of sincerity behind his words. Perhaps he was invested in this working out just as much as she was.

"I don't need you to take care of me. It's my job to take care of you."

"Then do that, Hermione. It'll benefit both of us. I'm here, and I'm prepared to be honest with you if you just help me understand all the mental stuff going on in my head instead of twisting everything I say."

She absorbed his words and considered her next steps. There was no denying he was right. They both had a stake in their sessions being successful, and they would just need to work together to get there. Flipping to a blank page in her notebook, she scribbled down a small list of books before tearing the page out and holding it out to him.

"Here's a list of books I enjoyed reading about dealing with what you've mentioned today. You don't have to read them if you don't want to, but I can promise you they'll be useful."

He reached out and took the piece of scrap paper and gave it a quick read.

"Wow, uh, you must enjoy reading because that's a lot of books," he commented before pocketing the list with a word of, "thanks."

"I do enjoy reading," she said, gesturing around the room.

As he observed the vast array of bookshelves laden with books around her office, Ron said, "That I can see." He then flung his arms out wide and pointed to himself, "Seeing as you love reading so much, next time, you can just ask me what you want to know instead of Googling it."

Hermione was ready to fire back an angry retort but watched as he crossed his arms and flashed her a crooked smile, "I'm an open book."

Struck by a sudden wave of déjà vu, she took a moment to take in his smile. It felt familiar and stirred a positive memory inside her. Realising it wasn't appropriate to stare, she replied, "I'll do that. But for now, our hour is actually up."

Springing to her feet, she reached out a hand for him to shake. The smile fell from his face to be replaced by a look of disappointment, but he shook her hand nonetheless. Walking beside him as he wheeled himself to the door, Hermione used this as an opportunity to take in his physical appearance. He must be well over six feet tall, she thought to herself as his solid frame almost towered above her, despite him being seated in a wheelchair.

"See you, Ron," she said, opening the door for him.

"Bye, Hermione."

Only once she had closed the door behind him did the pieces to her puzzle click into place. Her eyes popped open, and her hands clapped to her mouth to suppress the yelp of realisation. The clues had been there for her to see, and as he had said, "It's not hard to put three and three together."

The faceless man from her dream wasn't the personification of a friend, a colleague or a former lover. It was the manifestation of her patient—Ronald Weasley. Weak at the knees, Hermione let out a faint whimper and slid down to the floor. Was there anything beyond a nightmare? Because she was now in it.