Hermione
"We're off to the pub after work tomorrow," Harry announces through a mouthful of his ham sandwich. "Why don't you come?"
The question drags Hermione out of the small daze she'd drifted into whilst eating her salad and a twinge of guilt tugs at her stomach as she blinks at her best friend. It's been a while since she's managed to grab lunch with Harry and here she is, barely paying attention to anything he's been saying. Still, despite her remorse, she can't resist the urge to roll her eyes.
There's no doubt as to who Harry meant by his use of 'we'. Harry, Ginny, Ron, and the rest of the Weasleys will be there. Maybe a smattering of their other friends, too. But those three will be there, the centre of attention as always. Even though there'll be enough people at the pub to build a wall between Hermione and Ron, she'd put a hundred galleons on being forced to sit next to him anyway. This is just another attempt of Harry's to force Ron and Hermione together again.
No way. If you go, all your hard work will have been for nothing.
It's been difficult, avoiding Ron for the past twenty-eight days. Despite her adamance that she would like to stay friends with him and eventually return to the way things were before last year's New Year party, she cannot bring herself to be in the same room with him yet. She just knows that as soon as she sets eyes on him, her heart would explode, or at least beat in that stupid irregular rhythm; goosebumps, or sweat, would erupt all over her skin; and her head would spin so fast, it would make her sick.
It doesn't matter how hard she tries, or how many hours she spends on dating apps, there's no moving past her infatuation with him. There's just no getting over Ron Weasley. Especially after having sex with him. Merlin, one taste of him was enough to have Hermione craving him every single hour of every single day. The ghosts of his hands travel over her body whenever she has a quiet moment, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps, and more than once, she's found herself distracted during the most important meetings in work.
She really has it bad.
If they had managed to keep it platonic then maybe, maybe, they could have eventually been friends again. She might have entertained the idea of joining all her friends in the pub instead of staying at home and cooking for herself and being so miserably alone. But existing in his vicinity and breathing in his ridiculously sexy scent will be too much for her. She won't be able to resist inviting him home for another round and then they'll never move on from this stupid situation.
With a sigh, she places her fork back in her Tupperware box and pushes the escaped tendrils of hair off her forehead. If she could, she would fan herself down a little, but that might draw attention to the fact she's still incredibly turned on by even the thought of Ron and Harry isn't always as oblivious as he seems. That's what you get when you marry Ginny Weasley though.
Instead, Hermione adjusts the collar of her blouse and clears her throat. "No, I don't think that's a good idea."
It's clear Harry was expecting a more positive response as he narrows his eyes and his shoulders slump towards the table. Ugh. Letting him down is the worst. This whole situation between Hermione and Ron has been just as taxing on Harry if Ginny's complaints are anything to go by.
"If only you'd agree to go on lunch with both of them," the redhead had chided Hermione during their last coffee together. "Harry misses you two, you know, together. Hippogriff in the middle is his least favourite game and he's trying to get you two to talk."
Ginny had even gone as far as insinuating that sex with Ron must have been awful if Hermione is this determined to avoid him. As if! She couldn't have been further from the truth.
It had been hard to believe that Harry was even bothered by this all at first. It isn't the first time he's been put in this position and it probably won't be the last. Hermione and Ron are volatile—always have been—and it's doubtful things will ever change.
Before, Harry had always dutifully split his time between Ron and Hermione, trying to strike a balance between friends. He'd never made Hermione feel like he'd favoured Ron over her, even though any idiot would know that's the case. Why would he pick quiet hours reading and studying over raucous games of chess and Exploding Snap? Of course, she had appreciated the stability Harry gave her when Ron wasn't around. At least I know there's always one friend who wants to spend time with me.
But now the strain is clear on Harry's face. Maybe it's the fact they're older, or perhaps the hundreds of years of Ron and Hermione bickering have finally taken its toll on their best friend. The lines on his forehead grow deeper as he frowns and pushes away his half-finished sandwich.
Folding his hands in front of him on the table and adopting his 'Deputy Head Auror' level calmness that Ron and Hermione always love taking the piss out of, Harry says slowly, as if each word is being carefully weighed, "Look, I know things have gotten…difficult…between the two of you since Halloween, but don't you think it's time you swallowed your pride and sorted it out?"
"It's nothing to do with my p—"
"Yes, it is. You're being stupid, he's being stupid. I mean, come on. Hermione, you didn't even show your face for Bonfire night. Do you know how upset Molly was about that? You're like her ninth child."
Oh. The last thing Hermione wants is to upset the Weasleys. Molly and Arthur have been like second parents to Hermione over the past eighteen or so years, and the fact she's been letting them down twists through her gut. The salad she'd been devouring threatens to make a comeback, and she swallows the rush of saliva that fills her mouth so hard, the resounding gulp must have been heard deep in the Department of Mysteries.
"I…I didn't know she was expecting me."
Harry scoffs. "Ron invited you over, didn't he?"
"Y—yes, but—"
"So he would have told Molly you were coming. Look, I don't mean to make you feel bad, but this thing is causing a massive strain on the whole family and I know Ginny has already spoken to you about it. Neither of you will spend time with the other, which means it's a ballache if anyone else wants to see you. It used to be so easy, we'd all meet up whenever and get along. Now it's hard.
"You know I don't usually like to intervene, and you two have always sorted your shit out by yourselves eventually. But don't you think it's gone on long enough? You're supposed to be best friends, for Merlin's sake. And adults!"
Heat pours into Hermione's cheeks as she stares at the table. Harry has never spoken like this to her. Despite the number of tellings off she's given both boys, Harry would never dare to return the favour.
There's been a longstanding joke between the three of them that Ron and Hermione were like parents to Harry while they were growing up. The Boy Who Lived had an impressive skill of always getting himself into tricky situations, and Ron and Hermione were always the ones to get him out of it. They'd make sure he ate and turned up at the right time for things. It was a full-time job keeping him alive.
But maybe it wasn't that far from the truth. Even now he's married, Harry must need both of them to ensure his happy life.
"I'm sorry," she mutters, the blush spreading from her cheeks and taking up her whole body. The telling off from Harry has her squirming in her seat and genuine shame takes grip of her.
"It's not me you should be apologising to though, is it?"
Merlin, Harry, rein it in. "Okay, I'll try. I promise. But not tomorrow. Please don't make me watch football."
With a nod, Harry picks up his sandwich again. He takes a large bite, chews and swallows before locating his drink, remaining silent as he has a long swig. Only once he's placed the bottle back on the table with a small clink does he speak again.
"So, are you ready for Christmas? What are your plans this year?"
"I don't have any," she replies with a shake of her head.
"Are you not skiing this year?"
"Nope. Mum and Dad have decided to go on a cruise, and I can't imagine anything worse than being stuck on a ship with my mother. So I guess I'll be having a quiet one in the flat with Crookshanks."
"Alone?" Harry almost spits out his second mouthful of Butterbeer. "No way. Come to the Burrow."
A leaf of lettuce sticks in Hermione's throat and for a moment, she considers that death might be a better option than spending the day at Ron's childhood home with Ron in the vicinity. There used to be a time when she'd fantasised about being with him in his bedroom, back when they were teenagers. Her body tingles as she imagines what it would be like to roll around with him amongst the bright orange Cannons sheets, whilst all those Quidditch posters stare down at them. It's all a little bit naughty but at the same time, if Ron was to invite her up with him, she's not sure she could resist.
As she clears her throat and attempts to cool herself down with a massive gulp of water, Harry continues, "You know Molly would have Kneazles if she discovered you were by yourself. She'd march over and drag you out of your flat and nobody wants that. And come on, it's the Burrow, it'll probably be easy to avoid Ron all day if that's what you want.
"Or it might give you two a good opportunity to talk."
Slumping back in her chair, Hermione releases a hard puff of air. Harry's right, and she hates it. Even as her brilliant brain searches for a flaw in his plan, she knows there's no arguing with it. The Weasleys would kill her if they found out she spent the day hiding in her flat alone. It won't only be Molly she'd have to fear. All of them are terrifying, especially when they gang up.
And maybe Harry's right. With everyone crowded into the house it should be easy to avoid Ron. Hermione will have a lovely day and head home with a stomach full of turkey and maybe even a couple of presents. Nothing could go wrong, right?
Right?
Ron
The Leaky Cauldron is already bustling with patrons when Ron bursts through the door, late as always. It shouldn't be a surprise, since there are only five minutes before kick-off, but he didn't even realise that there were this many football fans in the Wizarding Community. It had taken them a while to persuade Neville to host the games at the pub, and he'd spent years living with Dean bleating about West Ham United.
Scouring the bar, a tentative smile crawls onto Ron's face as he spots his brothers and friends. They're occupying the biggest table at the back of the pub, their usual haunt, and the hubbub of excitement radiating from them is infecting the whole pub. George finishes telling a joke and the whole table bursts into laughter which spreads to the other patrons around them. Yes, this is just what Ron needs.
But just in case, he allows his eyes to travel a little bit further around the room. Ron isn't sure if he's ecstatic or disappointed to find that his bushy-haired former lover and female best friend—well, supposedly—is nowhere to be seen. All day he'd been building himself up to potentially spending the evening with Hermione. Wait, no, that's a lie. Ever since Harry had announced in the group chat that he was going to invite her, Ron had been bricking it. He's not ready to see her without sprouting a stiffy and having to fight every urge to not haul her back to his flat, but at the same time, he misses her terribly.
Shaking the memories of their night together out of his head, he weaves his way around tables, dogs and outstretched legs, letting the smell of stale beer, curry and hundreds of men pressed together in a tight spot wash any erotic memories of Hermione out of his head.
"Sorry, excuse me, coming through," he mutters until finally, he's in front of the last empty chair at the table.
A pint of cool beer waits for him, condensation pooling on the outside of the glass. Ron scoops it up and takes a long draw of the beautiful bitter liquid before smacking his lips together. That's better. There's nothing a cold brew can't solve.
"Alright mate?" Harry says as Ron flops into his seat. The dark-haired idiot pats his best friend on the shoulder and Ron curses as beer slops over the side of the glass and his hand, but Harry doesn't notice. Instead, he continues, "For a moment I didn't think you were going to make it!"
"Me too. Fucking Robards sent a huge pile of paperwork my way just as I was about to pack up. I managed to get through most of it but the rest will have to wait until the morning. If I'm not too hungover, that is," Ron finishes with a shrug.
"See how the game goes, I guess. We could end up having to drown our sorrows. I know we have that raid on Hawkesford in the morning, but fuck it. We may never see this game happen in a World Cup again."
Ron scoffs. "Drown our sorrows? What potions have you been taking, Harry? It's Wales. They haven't beaten us since 1984. They're worse than the fucking Cannons. Spend most of their time chasing sheep rather than the ball."
It's so easy to slip into the usual team-related banter with his best mate. Having another sport to watch and celebrate has been a welcome distraction for Ron over the past month or so. Ever since his last conversation with Hermione, during which she was cold and indifferent towards him, Ron had allowed misery to take a grip on his soul. For at least three days following, he'd teetered on the edge of a downward spiral. They'd slept together but now she was treating him like some random Ministry worker or a piece of Crup shit on her shoe. He doesn't deserve that, even if she thinks that he cheated on Verity with Hermione.
Nah, fuck all of that drama.
When Dean had reminded them last week that the World Cup was about to start, and they should make an effort to catch as many games as they could, Ron was the first to say yes. It was a no-brainer. Sports is life, and watching the games at the pub means he can escape the flat and the utter doom that comes from continuous wanking over memories of his ex-best friend.
A bloke can only handle so much of that before he disgusts himself. And starts to feel lonely. So fucking lonely.
Fuck, I need to get myself a date. Although there's no point in hunting for one in the pub tonight. Aside from the Weasley wives and girlfriends and his sister, Hannah is the only other female in the bar. And she's taken too. The place is full of old wizards, in various versions of the English football kit. One guy in the corner, who puffs out great big clouds of grey smoke despite the sign above his head warning that smoking is banned, is definitely in an Argentinian women's top.
Downing the last of his pint, Ron gasps for air as he flops against his chair and swings his arm across the back of Harry's. He takes one last scour of the room to try and work out if Hermione may make an appearance anyway, but he's distracted by Harry saying, "Just so you know, Hermione isn't coming."
Before Ron can argue back that he wasn't even looking for their best friend, Ginny butts in. "Why would she be here? It's hard enough trying to get her to watch a Quidditch game when I'm playing, so football is a no-go. She doesn't love us that much."
"I did ask her," Harry adds after glaring at Ginny, "but she already has plans."
Ron barely manages to squeeze out, "On a Tuesday evening?"
Despite his best efforts, Ron's heart thumps against his ribcage and a surge of nausea takes a grip of his belly. Has Hermione got herself a date this quickly? It must be. What else would she be doing on a work night? Even though they're trying to be friends, it's hard to imagine her being with anyone else after him. Christian was bad enough and Ron knew that wasn't going to work out, the smarmy dick.
If she was to make an appearance with someone else, Ron isn't sure he'd be able to keep his jealousy at bay. It's been a struggle all freaking year to control himself. And you've done such a great fucking job, too.
Harry shrugs. "That's what she said."
"Probably writing some new law for house-elves," George pipes in.
Fred adds, "Or finding new ways to stop our products from launching, even though it's nothing to do with her."
The rest of the group laughs but Ron can't even muster a smile. Hermione isn't that much of a spoilsport, is she? Although he should probably jump to her defence, the fact she's currently giving him the cold shoulder has him biting his tongue. But his leg jiggles with the effort of not blurting out his indignation at their cruel teasing.
"Yeah," he says with the fakest sounding laugh to ever erupt from his mouth, "or she's petitioning the Minister to serve ethically harvested coffee in the atrium."
A bludger sinks into his stomach in guilt as another round of chuckles bounces around the table. Before his brothers can carry on with tearing Hermione's character apart, a loud whistle distracts the group and they turn their attention to the wide-screen TV on the wall opposite them. Harry throws a frown at Ron, but the redhead ignores it. Of course, the git is taking Hermione's side. He always bloody does.
⁂
The first half of the game is one of the best he's seen in a long while. Both teams want the win passionately enough to fight for it, and it bloody shows with every play they make. His worries about Hermione ignoring him drift from his mind as he absorbs himself in every free kick and penalty shot and soon, nothing else matters to him. Accompanied by good beer, and a plate full of pie and chips in his belly, his spirits lift and as England score their second goal against Wales, Ron's smile becomes more permanent.
But just like everything else in his life, the tides soon turn. As England returns to the pitch after half-time, it's clear they're not playing the same game they were during the first forty-five minutes. The temperature in Qatar is hot, even at the late hour they're playing, and neither team is used to the humidity. The fatigue soon shows. One mistake, and then another takes place, and before the clock passes seventy-five minutes, a penalty is awarded to Bale.
Not that Ron begrudges the goal. The Welsh forward plays a beautiful game and deserves the shot that landed in the left top of the net. But when Pickford allows two more balls to sneak past him as if they were wearing the invisibility cloak, Ron's temper rises. When a fourth goal happens in the final thirty seconds of extra time, the redhead is fucking done with everything.
The final whistle blows, igniting a low murmur of complaint around the pub.
"What the actual fuck?" Dean jumps to his feet and marches towards the screen, his fists curled into angry balls.
Laughing, Harry turns to Ron. "What do you think he's going to do, fight the TV?!"
But all Ron can do is shrug. "Dunno, mate. But I think I might head home."
"What? Why? What happened to staying out to drown our sorrows?"
"I'm just pissed. England was such a dead certain, I even slipped out of work to make a bet at one of them blookies. So now I'm down ten galleons on top of every other piece of shit that's being thrown at me."
He keeps his eyes downcast as he pulls on his jacket, ignoring all the pointless platitudes Harry and Ginny throw at him. It's too late. The grey cloud of gloom that Ron had left at the door returns to floating over Ron's head. Life fucking sucks.
Nothing ever goes right for him. First Verity used him to get at George, who's fucking married, by the way; then he fucked things up with Hermione and now, he can't even pick a winning fucking football team. You'd think he'd be used to losing, given he's a fucking Cannon's supporter.
"I'll see you tomorrow, I guess," he mutters.
"Alright," Harry replies. Ron still doesn't raise his gaze to look at Harry. The git is probably having a silent conversation with Ginny about how they can try and make Ron feel better. But he doesn't need his best friend and sister giving him their sympathy. They can fuck right off.
"Don't forget," Harry continues as Ron gets to the other side of the table, "Robards is Welsh so that means—"
"He's going to be a fucking bellend all bloody day. Bloody brilliant."
Ron was wrong: life can get fucking worse. The icy rain soaks him as soon as he sets foot outside of the pub. Balls. He could have floo'd home, but there was already a massive queue for the fireplace by the time he'd sorted himself out.
Drawing his coat tighter around his body, he ducks his head as he hurries to the apparition point around the side of the pub. Maybe if he's lucky he'll drown in this torrent. But then, that would need some degree of fortune, something that's definitely been missing from his life recently.
At least things can't get any worse.