Written for the Chudley Canon Fic Fest. Beta'd by cheesyficwriter, smjl, adenei6, and accio-broom!


Five Lies
Five times Ron lied to Hermione, and one time he told the truth.


-Year Four -
The Common Room

Ron was thankful the common room was empty, because he needed a moment alone. He plopped down into an armchair by the fire, and breathed a heavy sigh. His throat felt tight, and his eyes stung with unshed tears. He didn't need a mirror to tell him that his face was as red as a beet; he could feel it.

Earlier in the Great Hall, Fleur had asked him to pass the bread, and he just stared at her. Like an idiot.

George's voice still echoed in his ear. "Ronniekins, aren't you going to say something?"

And then Fred had to make it worse. "He can't! He's too busy drooling."

It seemed that everyone followed suit and laughed at him, even Fleur, whose cheeks glowed pink, her expression full of amusement and pity.

Why did Fred and George always embarrass him? They also lost their cool around Fleur — it wasn't just Ron. None of the Weasley boys knew how to act around a Veela. Ron just wished he could control it better.

"Ron? Are you okay?"

Ron froze at the sound of Hermione's voice. He hadn't heard her come in. She took a seat in the armchair across from him, but he avoided her gaze, choosing to shake his head instead.

"They were just joking around, you know," she said. Her tone was sympathetic, and he realized that he didn't care that she almost caught him crying. She would never tell anyone.

"I wish they wouldn't," he said, the words escaping through gritted teeth.

"I know. It's not fair."

Ron could feel her intent gaze, and looked up to meet her eyes. He always liked her eyes. They were big and brown, but the specific shade changed all the time. In the firelight, they almost looked hazel. "Why do they always make fun of me?

Hermione shrugged. "They probably just think you fancy her."

Ron raised his eyebrows at her. "Who, Fleur?"

"Yes, Fleur. Who else?"

He did not fancy Fleur. He didn't even know her.

It was just her stupid Veela power that made him act like an idiot.

"Well, I don't fancy her. I don't fancy anyone." The phrase took a defensive tone, slipping from his lips without a second thought. As soon as he said it, he realized that it didn't even sound true.

"You really don't fancy anyone?" Something unrecognizable crossed her face. Surprise, maybe. Maybe Hermione really did think he fancied Fleur.

He looked her in the eye and wanted more than anything to tell her the truth, but it didn't feel like an option. The thought of telling Hermione that he did, in fact, fancy someone made him a thousand times more nervous than Fleur asking him to pass the bread.

"Really. I don't fancy anyone."

Hermione's eyes narrowed, almost as if she didn't believe him. "I'm going to go to bed," she said, before turning away and shuffling off toward the girls' dormitory.

Ron watched her walk away, confusion etched across his face. It felt like a premature end to their conversation. Maybe she knew he was lying?

He shook his head. It probably wasn't about him. It was possible she wasn't feeling well — she had been looking a little pale, anyway. With a shrug, Ron rose to his feet and started toward his own dormitory, hoping Hermione would feel better in the morning.


-Year Five-
The Corridor

Ron never thought he'd look forward to Prefect rounds. He had assumed they'd be nothing but a chore, cutting into his valued free time, preventing him from getting down to the Quidditch pitch to practice. He thought he'd fall behind on homework by dedicating a certain number of hours each week to his duties, but it wasn't an issue at all.

As it turned out, he didn't mind the extra work. Patrolling the corridors at night was a nice reprieve from the stress of schoolwork, and it gave him a much-needed break from dealing with Harry's constant brooding.

It didn't hurt that he got to do it with Hermione. In fact, that's probably what made it most enjoyable. They hadn't spent much time together, just the two of them, in a long while. Not since Hogsmeade visits during their third year, and it was nice.

Ron noticed things about Hermione when they were alone, things he'd never have paid attention to otherwise. Like the way she ran her fingers along the wall when they turned a corner, like she was drawing a line in sand, or how she constantly tucked her hair behind her ears only for it to pop back out again.

He learned that she licked her lips right before she spoke, and that's how Ron knew she was about to interrupt him mid-conversation. It was infuriating when she did that, but he never wanted it to stop.

"What's left to check?" she asked, startling him.

"Oh, erm, just the seventh floor, I think," he said.

"Okay, let's go. Maybe we can finish rounds early."

She turned the corner, and Ron followed behind, watching her skip down the hall. Hermione seemed to like Prefect rounds too; he could tell by the bounce in her step. Everything about her seemed to be relaxed; her stride, her smile, and her overall demeanor. Her shirt hung loosely on her frame, as she'd released its top button, and her socks were pushed down to her ankles, as if even her clothes knew it was the end of the day.

He shouldn't be thinking about her clothes. That was dangerous territory.

Ron cleared his throat. "Yeah, that would be fun. Could always use more free time."

"Or, you could use the extra time to get ahead on McGonagall's essay," she teased, smiling back at him. His neck felt hot.

"Only if you help me."

"Of course," she said. "Homework is more fun when we do it together."

"I agree."

Ron was beside her now, and he stole another glance in her direction. Her face was flushed; it was warm on the higher floors, and her skin glowed from a light sheen of sweat. How had he never noticed that she had a few scattered freckles on her nose?

"Why do you keep doing that?" she asked. Her eyes were on him now, and he felt the warmth in his neck spreading.

"Doing what?" he asked, his tone defensive.

"You're staring at me!"

"I"m no—"

"Yes, you keep doing it," she argued. Although her cheeks were rosy and her eyes narrowed, she wore a faint smirk and didn't seem to be angry. She was just teasing him.

He kind of liked it.

"Well, if you must know, you have something on your cheek," he lied.

"I do?" asked Hermione as she wiped her face with her sleeve. "Did I get it?"

"No, let me try."

Hermione paused and took a step closer to him. He reached a hand up to her face to cup it and brushed a thumb across her cheek, trying to ignore the tidal wave that crashed in his stomach at the contact. Her skin was so soft.

He couldn't let his hand linger on her face without attracting suspicion, so with great effort, he let it drop to his side.

"Is it gone?"

"Um. Yeah."

She pressed a hand to her cheek. "What was it?"

Nothing. "Not sure," he said.

"Hmm," shrugged Hermione. "Well, thank you!" She turned to skip back down the hallway, a few strides in front of Ron.

"No problem," muttered Ron.

He could still feel a tingle on his thumb, the memory of her soft skin still fresh on his mind. He watched her run ahead of him, trying not to think too hard about the way her hair bounced or her skirt fluttered with each stride, because it was maddening.

He groaned. As maddening as it was, he hoped that would never stop. That way, he could keep it on the list of reasons to look forward to Prefect rounds.


-Year Six-
The Courtyard

Finally, Ron was alone on a bench in the courtyard, having just convinced Lavender to let him be so he could "study". In reality, he just needed some space.

He liked her enough, but being with Lavender wasn't what he had imagined having a girlfriend to be like. It was nothing like being friends with a girl, at least from his limited experience. All Lavender wanted to do was snog, and Ron missed having someone to talk to, tease, and argue with.

Truth was, he missed Hermione. But unfortunately, she wanted nothing to do with him. She made that perfectly clear in the form of a flock of canaries, and he still had the scabs to remind him.

Ron closed his eyes and was enjoying the silence when the most unexpected voice pulled him back to the present.

"Hey."

His eyes snapped open to see Hermione standing there, right in front of him. Think of the devil.

"Hey." His response just spilled out of his mouth, and it didn't take on the angry tone he had intended. He sounded almost excited to see her.

Thankfully, she didn't seem to notice, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. "Ron, can I talk to you?"

Ron cleared his throat and asked in his most stoic tone, "Promise not to attack me again?"

"I promise."

"Then go on," he said, crossing his arms across his chest so Hermione could get a full view of his scars.

"I'm— I'm sorry about that." She motioned to his arms, and her eyes watered with tears.

"I know you are."

She averted her eyes and licked her lips before continuing. "I was jealous, and it wasn't fair. I hope you can forgive me someday."

She continued to stare intently toward the ground as her cheeks brightened, and Ron resisted a smile.

"You were jealous?" He asked, raising an eyebrow at her. He kept his face neutral, but he couldn't lie — it was a nice thing to hear. He just wished he heard it sooner.

Hermione nodded and finally met his gaze. "I was."

Her eyes were strikingly dark and deep, a fact he'd always appreciated, but had forgotten over the last few weeks. He could stare at them for hours, but he willed himself not to fall under their spell. "Why didn't you talk to me instead of turning birds on me?"

Everything would have been so much easier.

"That's why I'm talking to you now."

"Well, it's too bloody late. I'm with Lavender," he said, unsure who he was trying to convince.

"I know it's too late. I just wanted you to know."

It seemed like an eternity that they stood there in silence, neither wanting to continue the conversation nor feeling like it was over.

Hermione was the first to break the silence. "Are you happy with her?"

And how the hell was he supposed to answer that?

Ron was thrilled Lavender wanted to be with him. She wanted to kiss him, hold his hand in public, and call him her boyfriend. What wasn't to love? He should be happy with her, she was almost everything he had ever wanted.

That, and he'd be an ungrateful arse if he said no. "Yeah. I am."

She nodded solemnly, and Ron swore he could see her eyes glisten with tears. "Then I'll try to be happy for you too," she said, her voice cracking.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. It wouldn't have mattered anyway because Hermione had already turned her back to him and was walking away. He watched until she turned the corner, trying to convince himself that he had told her the truth.


-Year Seven-
The Tent

Rain pounded against the canvas tent, and the way the sound echoed through the air made the space feel hollow and empty. Ron could feel the weight of the locket around his neck, its chain digging into his skin. It felt almost like icy fingers clutching his throat, threatening to squeeze should he try to ignore it. He didn't think he could ignore it, even if he tried. The cold metal against his skin paired with its threatening voice inside his head almost commanded more attention than the slowly healing wound on his shoulder.

Ron was lying on his cot, covered in blankets that seemed to do nothing to keep him warm. He could hear Hermione flipping through a book across the room in her own bed, probably just as cold as he was.

"How's your shoulder?" she asked. To Ron, her voice sounded full of both pity and impatience, as if her real question was why he hadn't healed yet. What was taking him so long?

She doesn't actually care about your shoulder.

"It's fine," he snapped back.

He could feel the tension in the pause that followed, and even though he wasn't looking at her, he could imagine her jaw clenching, her cheeks reddening, and her eyes rolling.

"You don't need anything?" she eventually asked, her tone stiff and controlled.

Listen to her. She thinks you're pathetic. Needy. It disgusts her.

Instead of answering, Ron just shook his head. He knew she was watching him because he could feel her big brown eyes boring into him.

"Okay then."

He heard her book close, then the sound of her sliding out of bed. Ron turned to look just as she bent down to rummage through her bag. She faced her back to him, and Ron could make out the shape of her bum through her sweatpants. It sent a pang of longing through his entire body, and the locket wasted no time latching on to the opportunity to harass him further.

Go ahead and look, but don't kid yourself; you'll never touch.

He averted his eyes when she stood up.

"What are you doing, then?" she asked, now clutching a different stack of books under her arm.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" she chirped. Her voice wavered as she lost control of keeping it neutral. "You know we have horcruxes to find."

She narrowed her eyes, and her cheeks ignited with red. Her hair seemed to expand and swarm her head. It wasn't just anger that did that to her. She looked electric whenever her passion was kindled, whether due to anger, schoolwork, elf-rights, or him.

He could rile her up, and Merlin, did he enjoy doing it. He was always up for helping her unleash that stored up tension through an argument. Often he wondered how else he could help her find that release. A few ideas came to mind.

Never going to happen.

"Are you seriously angry at me?" he asked, his tone sharp and scathing.

"You know what? Yeah, I am," she launched back.

"Well, sorry I'm injured, Hermione," he laughed, now sitting up in bed. "Let's not forget that you're the one who got me splinched."

"And let's not forget that I'm doing everything I can to help you heal."

She thinks you're a burden. A waste of her time.

"Okay, then stop complaining about me not doing anything when you know I can't."

Hermione crossed her arms and took a step closer. Ron willed himself to keep his eyes on her face, even though her shirt was too big, so the sleeves fell off her shoulder, and there was a patch of exposed skin above her waistband, reminding Ron of how soft her skin was. It had been so long since he touched her.

"Then stop staring at me like that," she said. "I can't tell if you're mad at me or if you want me to do something for you, and honestly, I'm kind of sick of cooking you dinner and not even hearing a thank you."

Don't you dare give her the satisfaction of apologizing.

"Seriously, what do you want from me?" she continued.

What a loaded question. Ron wanted everything from her — her time, her attention, and her body. When she removed his shirt to check his wound, he wanted her to remove his trousers too. He wanted her to crawl in bed with him and let him take her clothes off, piece by piece. He wanted to be strong enough to hold himself up so she could slide underneath him and wrap her legs around his hips. He wanted to touch her, kiss her, shag her, and then hold her afterward, fall asleep together, and wake up entangled with her.

Too bad she doesn't want you back.

"I don't want anything from you."

She softened her stare and took a step back. Maybe he was reading too much into her expression, but Ron could have sworn he saw a flash of disappointment on her face, as if she hoped there would be something he wanted from her.

You're imagining that.

"Good," she said, unknowingly confirming the locket's taunt, before turning away and leaving him there, in his bed, cold and alone.


-Year Seven-
Shell Cottage

Although Ron might have looked peaceful and serene sitting so still, his mind was anything but calm. He closed his eyes and leaned against the back of the armchair, trying his best to fall asleep, but he was far from tired. His back ached, and he longed to get up and move, but it wasn't worth leaving Hermione's side.

It felt like he had been waiting days for her to wake up, and in that time, he had imagined the worst.

For one, he feared that she might not wake up at all, ever, and the empty hole that her screams had carved within him would be there for the rest of his life, like a scar across his heart.

Two, that she might wake up but never be the same, just like Neville's parents. Maybe she wouldn't remember him. Maybe she would, but she wouldn't understand when he told her he loved her.

And three, that she'd awake with clarity, forever haunted by the memory of what happened to her. Maybe she'd associate her trauma with the magical world, or with Ron himself, and she'd leave it all behind. He'd support her, of course, and he'd be thrilled she was okay, but he wouldn't be okay. He wasn't okay.

So he sat there, looking peaceful but panicking internally. He had no idea what to expect when and if Hermione woke up.

He was utterly shocked when she spoke to him.

"Hi, Ron," her voice snapped his eyes open. She was watching him, even smiling at him. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming.

She chuckled when he pinched himself.

"Oh, thank Merlin you're awake," he said when his pinch did nothing.

"Did you sleep here?"

"Yeah. I hope that's okay," he said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

"Have you left my side?" she asked, her eyes wide, questioning yet knowing.

He shook his head no, and his cheeks grew hot.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He smiled at her, and she smiled back. There was something so innocent about the interaction; it felt like they were just kids nervously admitting a crush. Her hand was lying on the edge of the bed, inches from his, and he didn't hesitate to reach for it and intertwine their fingers. She squeezed his hand back, although weakly, and he ran his thumb across her skin. Even bloodied and scarred, her skin was as soft as he remembered.

"I'm so glad you're okay," he said.

"Me too."

"Are you in pain?"

She nodded. "A little."

"I can have Fleur bring up some pain potion."

"Yeah, but not yet."

"In a bit, then."

They shared a look, an acknowledgement that they were alone, and pain potion could wait. Neither felt the need to give it words, they were awful with words, the king and queen of miscommunication, but there was nothing to misinterpret in a simple look.

"Can I hug you? Gently, of course."

Hermione nodded, and Ron inched forward on his chair to wrap his arms around her. Her head nestled into his shoulder, and he buried his face in her hair.

"How's Harry?" she asked, her voice muffled by his shoulder.

"He's fine," Ron answered. "Worried about you, of course."

She nodded. "And you?"

"What about me?"

"Are you okay?"

Ron sighed and pulled her closer. Was he okay? He had a few cuts and bruises, but that was nothing compared to his emotional toll. He helplessly listened to Bellatrix torture the woman he loved, hadn't slept since they arrived at Shell Cottage, and had spent days fearing she'd be gone. In those days, he learned exactly how much was at stake. He could still lose her.

He wasn't okay.

"Yes, I'm okay," he muttered, hoping that it would be true soon enough.


-After The Battle-
The Treehouse

Ron didn't mind the quiet of the treehouse; it was much better than the silence of the Burrow. At least the treehouse was supposed to be that way. He was leaning over the edge, forearms on a wooden beam, and through the leaves, he could make out the tall, lopsided house he called home. Before now, the Burrow always looked like it was bursting at the seams, about to collapse from the energy inside. His mum would say it was magic that held it together, not carpentry, but now it didn't matter. It seemed empty, and the magic was gone.

The treehouse was where Ron would always come when he needed to be alone. With six siblings, there was always someone yelling, laughing or crying. But not with five. Even though there were so many people back in the house, it was still too quiet. No one knew what to say, so they said nothing. Fred wouldn't have wanted that.

"Hi."

Ron startled at the voice. He had been too lost in his thoughts to hear anyone approaching but instantly relaxed when Hermione stepped up beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He smiled; in the days following Fred's death, Hermione was the only one who could elicit that reaction from him.

"I brought you something," she said.

He looked down at her hand to see that she was holding a plate of food — Mum's shepherd's pie, treacle tart, and pumpkin juice.

"Thank you, Hermione," he said as she handed him the plate. "I didn't want to go inside and talk to people."

"I know."

Ron turned away from the edge and slid to a seat, resting the plate on his lap. Hermione settled in beside him. "How'd you know where I was?"

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I had a hunch."

Ron thought back to the last time they had been in the treehouse together — the previous summer before Harry arrived. He didn't even remember the first time he brought her here, but through all those summers, the treehouse became a place where they could just be. They could do whatever they wanted here, yet not once had she rested her head on his shoulder.

He looped his free arm around her, encouraging her to lean in, and pressed a kiss to her hair. He had always wanted to do that, and it was so strange to be able to now. If the circumstances were better, he'd like to do so much more.

"Will you stay?" he asked.

"As long as you need me to."

The longer they sat there in comfortable silence, leaning against one another and eating from the same plate, the more he wished they could just stay there forever. It was the perfect place to hide from his grief.

Maybe he shouldn't be hiding from grief, but the pain of Fred's loss only accentuated what he felt for Hermione. It was about time he had something to be happy about, even if that happiness was confined within the walls of the treehouse. After all, he had a feeling that the reality of Fred's death would hit him like a ton of bricks as soon as he left.

So maybe he'd just stay.

"What's on your mind?" asked Hermione.

She was on his mind but based on her smirk, she knew that. He must have been staring at her. That had been happening a lot lately.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Of course."

He'd never told her how he felt, but he was in the treehouse, where everything was perfect, and nothing could go wrong. Now was as good a time as any.

"I'm thinking about how much I love you."

She met his gaze and he watched those warm brown eyes grow wide. "Really?"

"Yes," he said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You don't have to say it back, I know it's soon—"

"I love you too," she interrupted, leaning her head against his hand. "Always have."

Even though a world of mourning awaited Ron outside of the treehouse, he couldn't help but smile. Hermione could do that for him; she was just like the magic that once held his house together.

"Brilliant," he said as he leaned in for a kiss, one that she happily returned.

He loved that they could do this now.

It was an odd feeling, being so genuinely elated and grief-stricken at the same time, but he simply couldn't feel any other way; it was the truth. And at this point, if anyone deserved the truth, it was Hermione.