Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, and it would be pointless to sue. This time around it's "Say Goodbye" from the Dave Matthews Band.
Chapter 2: Ron's POV
Everything about that woman has me completely entranced. Her shape is perfect, her smell is intoxicating as hell, and even the way she argues with me turns me on to no end. I am absolutely, positively, head-over-heels in lo...lust with Hermione Jane Granger. And to be dangerously honest, it is actually getting very distracting.
I can't concentrate, and you can use this morning as an example. I was sitting alone at the breakfast table starring, infatuated even, at my spoon. No, no it is not what you think. I am in no way, shape, or form having any sexual fantasies about silverware, but I couldn't believe how well the spoon imitated Hermione's figure. The curve of her breasts, the flare of her hips, it was all there in that damnable utensil. I just had to have her.
The rest of the day I set to planning. I canceled the quidditch session I was going to have with Harry and asked the house-elves of the kitchen to help me with a romantic dinner for a friend and me. I all too readily noticed that Winky and Dobby really didn't want to have anything to do with me. Both Hermione and I have recognized how cold those two have been towards us in the past few months. Hermione actually asked Dobby about it one day when I was in the common room with Harry. She came running into the tower, tears raining from her eyes, screaming something about a hateful remark. After calming her down personally and learning that it was Dobby that had said whatever it was that had caused her outburst, I confronted the little elf. Dobby drew himself up to his full height, which frightened me even though I was still towering over him by nearly a meter and a half, and said in a chillingly cold voice, "Harry Potter's Wheezy is going behind Master Harry's back with the good sir's miss. If Wheezy was as good a friend as Dobby knows Wheezy is, he would be honest with Harry Potter. Master deserves your honesty in the very least."
His words stung, and I completely understood why it hurt Hermione so. After everything she had done for house-elves, Dobby, her advocate, had turned his back on her and called her a terrible friend. Maybe we had been horrible friends? Had we? I just don't know, but I do know that we have finally decided to tell Harry. We just haven't yet. We were going to tell him, we really were, but the winter holidays crept up on us all. Once Hermione and I saw how empty the school was going to be, we decided to wait. No reason to waste a couple of weeks of freedom with the awkwardness that this could cause.
The other elves are much more helpful. They handed me a basket full of not just wonderful food, but supplies as well. They packed me things like scented candles and flowers. They really are helpful little buggers.
I spent the rest of the afternoon preparing the common room and setting things up for our date. I wanted to use the Room of Requirement first but once the corridor realized I was trying to manipulate the room into a romantic setting, I was rather forcibly removed from the Seventh floor. I ended up in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, much to my displeasure, so the common room it is.
I left Hermione a flirtatious note that told her to dress appropriately for a date and meet me downstairs at midnight. With some advanced spell work that I didn't even think I was capable of, I charmed away any evidence of my preparations. I got dressed in my most dashing dress robes, and set off to walk the castle.
I am approaching the Seventh floor again and I laugh lightly to myself. Hermione and I have been together for over half a year now and we have been having sex for almost three months, but this, however, will be our very first date. I guess romance is a little out of my character, but I can try, damnit! Hermione always said I had the emotional range of a teaspoon. I hope I can prove her wrong tonight.
I am back at the Room of Requirement, and I scowl deeply. Damn room. Thinks it can push me around. Well it's got another thing coming if it believes it can keep me from...Wait, what's that sound? It's really strange. It is kind of stringy. But, that voice! It sounds vaguely familiar, but I can't match it with any of the people I know. I place my ear to the door and strain to hear the words coming from the soulful singer on the other side.
"So here we are tonight,
You and me together
The storm outside, the fire is bright
And in your eyes I see what's on my mind
You've got me wild
Turned around inside
And then desire, see is creeping up heavy
Inside here
And know you feel the same way I do know
Now let's make this an evening
Lovers for a night
Lovers for tonight
Stay here with me, love, tonight
Just for an evening
When we make our passion pictures
You and me twist up secret creatures
And we'll stay here
Tomorrow go back to being friends
Go back to being friends
But tonight let's be lovers,
We kiss and sweat
We'll turn this better thing to the best of all we can offer
Just a rogue kiss
Tangled tongues and lips
See me this way I'm turning and turning for you
Girl, just tonight
Float away here with me
An evening just wait and see
But tomorrow go back to your man
I'm back to my world
And we're back to being friends
Wait and see me,
Tonight let's do this thing
All we are is wasting hours
Until the sun comes up
It's all ours
On our way here
Tomorrow go back to being friends
Go back to being friends
Go back to being friends
Tonight let's be lovers,
Say you will
And hear me call,
Soft-spoken
Whispering love
Whispering love
A thing or two I have to say here
Tonight let's go all the way then
Love I'll see you,
Just for this evening
Let's strip down,
Trip out at this
One evening starts with a kiss
Run away
And tomorrow back to being friends
Lovers...love...lovers
Just for tonight, one night...love you
And tomorrow say goodbye."
For a moment there is nothing but silence. Then it sounds as if the person behind the door is switching instruments and letting into another ballad. Maybe it will be more upbeat. Perhaps, though, it will be dreadful and slow, painful and powerful. No matter what it is, I have to get away from this floor.
I have to get as far away from this particular spot as soon as possible. The words to that song should be soothing to me. They mirror the current situation I am in perfectly. Granted, the relationship that Hermione and I are in is stronger than a drunken fling - it's the seemingly natural progression of our kind of platonic friendship - but still, something has me spooked.
"Tomorrow go back to your man." Despite my obsession with Quidditch, I am not some dumb jock. The fact that I can play chess as well as I do, not to mention some of the better grades that I get, is a testament to that. I have always known, and maybe it has helped to fuel my insecurities to the point that it took a near-death experience to confess my feelings for her, that Hermione isn't really meant to be with me. It has forever been there, on some level, that she is Harry's girl. Hell maybe Dobby was right. I am shagging 'Harry Potter's Miss' behind his back.
Whether or not it's true, I start to feel guilty. It's almost like I am taking something that doesn't belong to me. I am cheating someone, who is far more deserving, out of true happiness. It's absurd! Hermione was never with Harry; therefore, I shouldn't feel bad about it.
It is true, though, that there is no one more deserving of real happiness than Harry. The things he has had to endure since June would have been enough to destroy a normal man. Harry, however, isn't a normal man, and he never does anything half-ass. What's three months of hell, when the last fifteen years of your life has been a continuous loop of pure shit? Dumbledore gave us an abbreviated version of the events of my mate's summer after Harry first arrived at the Burrow, battered and bleeding with a dead Remus and Tonks on his shoulders, at the beginning of August. But I still wonder what really happened to Harry at Number 4 Pivet Drive. And I am dying to know what took place at Order HQ.
(A/N: I wonder what I am going to write about next. What really happened, duh! This will not be from Ron's POV, but regular third person.)
Voldemort didn't even give Harry enough time to put his trunk down before the second act of his sadistic opera started in earnest. Tom Marvolo Riddle is by no means a stupid man, if he can still be called a man. In fact, most would say that his intellect is only surpassed by one other wizard in the entire world, and that would be non other than Albus Dumbledore. Voldemort had been prepared for the failure of his beloved Death Eaters at the Department of Mysteries so he decided a back-up plan was most definitely the order of the day.
The 'Plan' would consist of four parts. Part one would involve increased surveillance of Order movements at Pivet Drive. Two, discern the day that security on the street was at its most vulnerable (this just so happened to coincide with Harry's return to Number 4). Step three, kill the boy's guard (including Mrs. Figg), and order the attack that would be launched by muggle gang members (despite Voldemort's pride and arrogance, the ends would justify the means). And finally, wait until their torture weakened the wards to the point that Voldemort could finish the family off, personally.
The 'Plan' went off without a hitch. The ruthless gang entered the Dursley's residence, weary of alerting the inhabitants of Pivet Drive, and proceeded to murder both Vernon and Dudley with cold-blooded efficiency. The anguish that would fall upon Harry and Petunia would turn the stomach of Albus Dumbledore when witnessed through the boy's memories of it. Surprisingly though, the matron of the Dursley domicile and its most detested tenet would share an amazingly soft moment before her death.
It had been almost two hours since the whole fiasco had started, and both Harry and Petunia had been beaten so badly that they barely resembled who they had been at the beginning of the day. Just as they were finishing, Harry turned to look at his aunt. He could see the life pulling away from her body. Harry picked up his prone form and crawled his way to his mother's sister. After a few minutes of attempting to comfort the women he would receive the shock of his life. Petunia Dursley was actually smiling fondly upon the boy that had always been considered the bane of her existence.
His aunt would surprise him even further with the quiet calm she attempted to add to her voice as she spoke, "Harry, despite the care that I have shown you it seems as if you still loved me enough to try and take care of me in my final hour."
"You're blood and that is all that matters to me, besides all of this is my fault," he answered back just as softly.
"This isn't your fault Harry. It has never been your fault. My greatest mistake was allowing myself and my family to treat you in such a way that you would come to blame yourself for such things. I have seen my life pass before my eyes and I have seen the error of my ways, but I won't insult you by apologizing. The only thing that I can ask of you is to forgive Dudley because he didn't know any better."
"Of course, I forgive all of you," Harry sobbed with tears rolling down his face. "In a weird way your treatment has made me a better person. My friends tell me I am incredibly humble, despite my titles." Harry made a poor attempt at a joke and gave his aunt a watery smile.
"You are a precious boy. I am sorry that I never told you that I loved you, or even came close to showing it to you."
Harry used his index and middle finger to close her eyelids as he placed the lightest of kisses on her forehead. As he pulled her closer, trying in vain to give her some kind of protection in death, he whispered, "I love you too. Sleep now." And sleep she did...forever.
Harry had held up pretty well considering, but as his aunt took her last shuddering gulp of air, he cried. Harry cried, once again, for the childhood he never got to live. The woman he was holding in his arms could have very well been his mum, but it would never be. And for that, Harry cried. Voldemort, who was waltzing through the front door after just crossing the wards that protected Number 4, had taken from Harry again, so Harry cried. And as he mourned for a newfound, but lost love, a white light emanated from his body. The light incinerated the muggle gang, just as it would have Voldemort had he not apparated away.
This was how Professor Dumbledore found Harry, tightly embracing his aunt, drowning in his own tears, just a little over an hour later.
There is no rest for the weary, and especially no rest for Harry Potter. The very next day he was busy healing in Sirus's bed at Grimauld Place. Harry would spend a little over a month at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, throwing himself into the only work afforded to him...renovating the dark and dingy mansion and devouring all the magical information in sight. The work kept his mind off of the stink of death that seemed to surround him everywhere he went. And despite his awful mood, both the house and his magical abilities vastly improved.
Harry's guardians for his tenure at Number 12 were Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks. They both tried sincerely to get Harry to open up, and after a few days he did, even if it was just because he was just too tired to keep them out. Harry had pulled both of his minders extremely close to his heart, closer than anyone else had ever been before, save for a few. So that's why the day that Voldemort decided to make his second move of the summer against Harry, Riddle was soundly defeated.
Voldemort had launched a dual attack. One of the assaults was led by what was left of his inner circle against Azkaban. This, of course, drew the attention of just about the entire wizarding world of Britain, and the battle was brutal. Meanwhile, Voldemort and Harry were having a war of their own at Number 12. The evil bastard had surprised Remus and Tonks in bed and slaughtered them mercilessly with Harry as a witness. Something inside of him had snapped at that moment, and the two of them dueled fiercely. Harry was doing things that day that no teen wizard should have been capable of doing. Voldemort soon realized that the only way for him to win was to somehow work apparation, a skill Harry had no experience with, into the conflict. This was an incredibly bad idea however, because Riddle was unintentionally teaching 'The-Boy-Who-Lived' how to apparate by displaying his magical signature to Harry's exponentially enflamed senses. Soon, both of them were bouncing all over Britain attempting to engage one another. Eventually, Voldemort escaped and Harry was forced to return to Number 12 a broken mess.
When he got back he hefted both Tonks and Remus, with strength supported by his magically enhanced abilities, onto his shoulders and concentrated on the Burrow. The only problem was that the wards around the Weasley's ancestral home protected against unidentified apparation, so Harry was forced to redirect their destination to Stoatshead hill (the place from which he and the Weasley's had traveled to the Quidditch World Cup).
After arriving, Harry quickly decided that traveling through Ottery St. Catchpole would attract too much attention. The long way around, through the woods, would have to do. This, however, took days, not because of the distance, but because of what he was carrying. Harry simply refused to leave the bodies of his dead friends behind, a habit he had formed after carrying Cedric's limp form from the graveyard in fourth year, and he also refused to drag them. Remus and Tonks deserved more respect than that. Harry's determination fueled his magical strength, but he was only able to maintain for short periods of time.
Two days later, starved and tired, Harry came upon the trail that would lead him to the front door of the Burrow. And in the early morning hours, he laid Remus down gently on the porch, and knocked on the door.
Molly Weasley was sitting at her kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea, and gazing sadly upon various pictures of her surrogate son, Harry Potter. He was, unofficially, the seventh son of a seventh son and he was missing. Molly was crying, in fact she had been crying for what seemed like forever. In reality it had only been about three days, but it had been three days too many for mother Weasley.
She had collected a great number of pictures of all of her babies over the years, as any good mother would do. And right now, Molly had her complete collection of her all-but-adopted son's photos laid out on the table. Harry in the newspaper, copies from Colin Creevy's camera, ones that she had taken herself when Harry was staying at the Burrow during his second and fourth years, Hogwarts pictures, Ginny and Hermione's pictures, all of them were sitting out in front of Mrs. Weasley as she prayed for him to return safely.
But that, in and of itself, was another situation entirely. When Harry returned, how was she supposed to treat him? Coddle him? Mother him? Was space the way to go? She had raised seven children of her own, but none of them had ever come close to experiencing the things that Harry had. Well, all of them except for Ginny of course. Molly had learned that last year Harry had been rather explosive when he was approached. Maybe she should just tread lightly...go with what she had done with her other boys...give Harry his space. Maybe...just maybe...
Mrs. Weasley's train of thought had been interrupted by a soft knock at the door. 'It must be Albus with some news. He is the only other person in the world that would be up at this early hour.' Molly walked very slowly to the door and opened it quietly. "Hello Alb..."
This person was most certainly not Albus Dumbledore. In front of her, was her estranged pseudo-son, Harry Potter. He was carrying something, something that looked morbidly familiar, something that Molly did not want to have to deal with right now, and he looked as if he had been to hell and back. It was the story of his life.
"I am sorry...that...I wasn't strong enough...to save them Mrs. Weasley." He barely managed to string the sentence together as he suffered under his own exhaustion and his charge's weight.
Morosely, Molly gazed upon the pink hair that sat atop the head of whatever, or...whomever, Harry was carrying. She peaked to the right side of the porch and the air left her lungs. They had lost Remus Lupin too. As she looked at Harry's face, fatigued and battered from his battle with the Dark Lord and the two day hike to the Burrow, her love for the boy seem to increase a thousand times as hundreds of thoughts floated through her mind. Three stood out amongst the rest.
1) I have had to see him like this too many times.
2) How can he continue?
3) A true hero.
And before anything else could be said between the two, Harry finally submitted to defeat.
(A/N: Let's get back to the present shall we.)
My mother had nursed Harry back to health in the following week, but his work was not yet done. Voldemort would launch one final attack through...through. No! Not right now! I will not think about that tonight. There's the portrait of the Fat Lady anyway.
I mutter the password ("Trevor") and stroll casually through the opening. And then I see her. I am in desperate need of a chair. I don't think my legs will hold out much longer. Hermione was absolutely breathtaking. I guess she had decided to go all out when I left her that note to dress smartly for tonight. The frills, the lace, reds, gold...I am at a loss to accurately describe what she is wearing because I am a man. Usually men have no idea about cuts, and slits, pins, and clasps. In situations like these, we just now that whatever it is that our women are wearing makes them look damn good. And most of the time whatever we had planned goes out the window. Check please! Taxi! Your apartment or mine? Dates can be highly overrated. I should just take her upstairs and...No! I had promised her a nice night and a nice night was what she was going to get.
I don't know exactly what it was that possessed me. As the night wore on, I was startled to realize that I was being charming, suave, and a real gentleman. I took extra care in helping her to her seat, lavished her with my undivided attention, treated each and every conversation that we had in between bites as if I was genuinely and sincerely interested. Moreover, I came to acknowledge that I actually was. Not that I never hear Hermione, it is just that I don't always listen to her. I think I was surprising myself just as much as I was her.
We finished the last course of the evening, a pumpkin pie that didn't exactly sit very well with me, and I looked into my girl's eyes. I love that look. Most of the times I am looking at her that way because I am a male and that is how we stare at women when we think no one's watching. She wants me. If I didn't have full control over my bodily functions, I would stand up on top of the table and do a victory dance. I made Hermione want me.
Well...I guess I should be honest. Hermione almost always wants me. I swear this girl is a nymphomaniac. I know that sounds like a tremendous cliché. The quiet bookworm, who spends all of her time in the library, can't get enough of it in bed. She usually wants it as much as I do and I lo...really like that about her.
I can't really describe how we left the table and started up the stairs. I can't describe how we got to the boys' dorm and slipped into bed. I really couldn't tell you which bed that we are in. There aren't any melodramatic details I could throw together to describe how her body fells against mine...feels around mine. I do know that it is hot, wet, fast, loud, and fun.
She's almost there. I can tell. This may sound kind of...crude, but when Hermione reaches climax she acts a little bit like a muggle lock. I mean...she has a specific combination, and as long as I have been trying it I don't think she has ever failed to get there. 24...36...24
CRASH!
My head whips around towards the corner of the room that the noise had come from. Oh fuck no...Harry. My mind has finally caught up, and actually outstripped my libido so that I am thinking clearly again. All of a sudden I am painfully aware of what is happening. I, Ronald Billius Weasley, just finished a magnificently satisfying shag, in my male best friend's bed, with our mutual female best friend. I think I just might have fucked up royally. I don't want to look at Harry; I can't look at Harry; I will not look at Harry; I have to look at Harry.
OH MY GOD, HIS FACE!
He looks so confused. It is almost as if every emotion any man could ever possibly feel is using Harry's face as a war zone. As each second goes by, he just gets darker and darker and darker. Hermione turns away. I guess she can't bear to see what he will look like when he finally decides what all of this means to him. I want to look away as well. This isn't going to end nicely. And...Oh god! It looks as if complete and total dejection, sprinkled lightly with heartbreak and just a hint of jealousy are the ingredients that are used to make the face of a friend that has been lied to and betrayed. As he turns away, I start to cry. It is quiet and it is masculine. That face will probably plague my nightmares for a long time coming.
(A/N: Next chapter we get to see what Ginny has to do with all of this.)