8. September in Somerset

Against all odds, they were laughing. All three of them, together, around the fire, laughing at a story Ron was telling about Fred and George.

"On my Mum's life," Ron was saying through a mouthful of one of the dozens of tins of beans Harry had nicked from the Muggle market that day, nearly choking with hysterics as he held a hand over his heart, "Fred said, age ten, with the most innocent face he's ever worn, but Mum, Percy was wanking in the sitting room, and George held up a sock and nodded as if his life depended on it."

When Harry and Hermione exploded with cackles again, Ron fell onto his back, dropping the tin of beans to his side in favor of clutching his stomach as he joined in. "I've never seen Percy so white—or Mum so red!"

Ron had become markedly moodier after the splinching; Harry and Hermione had credited his grumpiness to his pain. Now, though, it had been weeks—they were coming up on October—and Ron's moods had only gotten worse as his injury healed.

But today was the best Ron had looked in ages. Perhaps it was the firelight, perhaps it was the midday sunlight peeking through the clouds, but Harry thought his color looked better, his eyes less tired, his mood much improved. Hermione had changed the makeshift dressing on his shoulder that morning. The Horcrux sat between all of them, pulsing and hissing but untouched in the dirt.

Harry was beside himself—his abdomen hurt because he was laughing so hard. Hermione had called him over to see something she'd read in her book, and he was now leaning his entire weight against her as they laughed and laughed.

"Ronald!" she screeched, but she couldn't even pretend to be cross.

"Oi!" Ron fired back as he sat up, leaves sticking up in all different directions from his hair, which had gotten quite longer than he typically wore it. He thrusted his right arm out, pointing a long finger at Hermione with a grin. "You can't blame me! I was only eight at the time, I was innocent—"

"Oh, right!" said Harry with a loud snort through his guffaws, making all of them laugh even harder, "yeah, mate, bet you were just an angel about all of it, youngest boy with five prats of older brothers, eight years old—you had no clue what was going on there!"

"Stop, stop!" Hermione begged, looking very much like somebody who hadn't breathed in several minutes.

"Listen, all I knew was that Fred and George were beside themselves, Percy was running for the orchard, and Mum chased him about halfway there before she remembered she was a witch and could deal with him with magic." Ron dragged a huge, freckled hand down the front of his face, chuckling as he did so. His smile was brighter than the flames. "Can't believe I never told you lot that story. God, I think Percy's arse was as red as his hair for about a month."

There were a few minutes of silence as they composed themselves. Harry stood up to put another log on the flame and retreated to his original spot between them. Sensing a change in the mood, Harry looked to Ron, noting the somber expression on his face as he picked leaves from his hair.

"I always wished I had siblings," Hermione said thoughtfully after a while. "It was lonely sometimes."

"Wanted someone to sharpen your pencils with, did you?" said Harry cheekily. "Or to alphabetize your books with, or to memorize the dictionary—"

"Hey!" Hermione said, whacking Harry with—what else—the book she had in her lap. "Unfortunately, instead of a real sibling, I got stuck with you to sharpen my pencils with," she teased, poking him. "Wouldn't have been my first pick, honestly, but you'll do."

Ron, who had looked lost since the first mention of pencils, stiffened up a bit from his spot round the fire and was eyeing Harry curiously. It appeared that he was acutely aware that Hermione had singled Harry out as her stand-in brother; to Harry, this was for obvious reasons (for one, Ron had a massive family of his own whereas Hermione had essentially orphaned herself for the safety of her parents and Harry had been orphaned years ago himself, for two, both Ron and Hermione were disgustingly though obliviously infatuated with each other, which Harry felt was typically not customary between siblings), but Ron seemed to have interpreted this in a third and very different fashion.

"Would you've Obliviated them too, then?"

Ron's voice was tight, his jaw locked, and Harry was certain that things had taken a drastic turn for the worse. Ron was back to looking sickly, bags dark and angry under his eyes, contrasting starkly with the sheet-white color of his face. His wound from the splinching had bled through the dressing a bit, staining the fabric an angry red. The forest might have dropped ten degrees.

"Sorry?" said Hermione. Her eyebrows had shot high up on her forehead, but she sounded far more confused and disbelieving than angry.

Harry expected this to change shortly.

"A sibling, if you had one," Ron said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world and a very appropriate, normal, and inoffensive question to ask a witch who'd sent her parents to a different continent to keep them safe from a war and possible Muggle genocide.

Hermione, who now seemed to understand where the conversation was headed, looked quite unhappy. "I didn't Obliviate them, Ronald, you know that," she snapped. "It was a different sort of modified Memory Charm. Obliviation is highly dangerous and easy to muck up and it's not to be taken lightly—"

"—didn't hesitate a minute back in that diner, did you—"

"—and it couldn't possibly be selective enough to remove one person from years of memories as its effects are very general despite the complexity of the magic and actual wandwork—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Hermione, I don't need a fucking Charms lesson—"

"And," Hermione continued, voice now at a shrill shout, "for your information, the only documented way it's been broken is by torture, and I'd like to think you know me better than to assume I'd plan to torture my own parents to restore their memories!"

"Well, you sent them across the bloody world with no sodding clue they had a daughter, didn't you? What if you can't find them, Hermione?" yelled Ron, looking to Harry for support. Harry did not even indicate that he'd heard Ron, so Ron turned back to Hermione, who was stunned silent with her mouth wide open.

Harry was just ready to intervene, suspecting things might go from bad to worse, when Ron's expression changed from pure rage to deep, genuine grief, and then to a masked embarrassment and regret.

A heart-wrenching sob cut through the dry September air.

"What else was I supposed to do?" Hermione was standing now, head in her hands as she cried so powerfully that she could barely stand. The book was forgotten, facedown in the dirt next to her, and Harry thought wildly of how fantastic of a day they'd been having until this precise moment. She opened her mouth to speak again and Harry was terrified of what might come out—she and Ron had gone quite long without a row and he'd forgotten how cruel they could get—but all she could do was repeat, "What else was I supposed to do?" in that tortured, broken voice.

Hermione faltered a step backward and leaned against the tree there, head still in her hands. Harry stood to go to her, casting a murderous glance at Ron as he did so. Ron's face was even paler than usual, and his expression was one of supreme sadness.

"Hey, hey, hey," Harry said lowly, for he could find no other words to say to her. Instead, he wrapped a tentative arm around her and she immediately dropped her head on his shoulder. She repeated it again, so desperately that it threatened to split Harry in half: what else was I supposed to do?

Although they'd only talked about it once or twice, he knew she carried an immense amount of guilt with her over the decision she'd made regarding her parents. And it was a great question, thought Harry: what else was she supposed to do? The Ministry was compromised, so they couldn't offer protection, and the Order was already way in over their heads. They, too, could be compromised—Snape was one of them, after all.

The fact of it, as far as Harry was concerned, was this: She was Harry Potter's brilliant Muggle-born best friend, and the moment they left for this mission and Death Eaters began to hunt for him, they'd be hunting for her, too. The only option would be to send her parents away.

Behind them, Ron got up and stormed into the tent.

He and Hermione stood together for a while. Eventually, Hermione pulled herself from Harry's arms, raising her mittened hands to wipe her face. Harry bent to pick up her book, dusting the cover off and marveling at the sheer size of it. Symbols, Ciphers, and Runes: A Historical Guide to the Puzzles of the Wizarding World by Juniper von Twinkle.

Mad, thought Harry, that such a topic could encompass so many pages.

"I'm going for a walk," Hermione said quietly, head angled so far downward that Harry couldn't even see her eyes through her riot of hair.

"Let me come with you," Harry said. "We can talk about—I dunno. All those books you used to alphabetize. Or pencils."

"I'd like to be alone," she said harshly, making Harry cringe. She sighed and finally looked up at him; her eyes were puffy and red, cheeks blotchy and moist with missed tears. "Sorry. I just need to…"

"Don't need to explain yourself to me," Harry said with an encouraging smile. "Just be safe, please. Don't go too far."

"I'll just be at the lake we fetched water at yesterday. I'll send my Patronus if I need you. Just… don't tell Ron, I'm sure he'll come to find me, and I just want to think for a moment."

Harry nodded and held her book out to her. She smiled—a real one, albeit small—and accepted it. "Thank you, Harry."

It took Harry approximately three seconds to get from the entrance flap of the tent to the chair where Ron sat nursing a cup of tea.

Ron didn't even have a moment to speak—Harry advanced on the table, swiped the mug across the room, and grabbed Ron by the collar of his jumper.

"Is there something fucking wrong with you?"

It was comical, really—Harry had a bit of muscle on him from years of Quidditch, but Ron, despite his lankiness, had a lifetime of working in the garden, orchard Quidditch, and wrestling with older brothers on his side.

But Ron didn't shove Harry off, or twist out of his grip, or point out that he could probably pick Harry up and throw him out of the tent; instead, his face turned bright red and an expression of absolute regret and pain flooded his features.

"Yes!" he said emphatically, raising his good arm to drag a hand through his hair. "Yes, there's something wrong with me, I'm the absolute biggest tosser in Europe, possibly the world, most definitely England."

Surprised by this but satisfied with where it was going, Harry released his grip on Ron's collar and pulled out his wand to clean the spilled tea and repair the broken mug. He sat in the chair across from Ron when he was finished, trying to stifle his anger. "Go on."

Ron groaned loudly and dumped his head onto his folded arm on the table. "God, I can't believe I said any of that, I didn't mean any of it, truly, Harry, you've got to believe me—"

"Of course I know you didn't mean it, you git, but she doesn't, and that's the only thing that matters. What could've possibly ticked you off so badly that you would bring up her parents? You know how badly she feels, you know she did the right thing—"

"I know, I know!" Ron stood up and began to pace, something Harry only saw him do in times of extreme stress. "Fucking hell, this is it, this is the worst thing I've done to her, been friends six years and all I've done is make her cry, but this is it, I've completely buggered it up now—"

"Okay, okay," Harry said, rising to his feet and crossing the tent. Ron's breathing had changed to an erratic sort of huffing. Harry put his hands on Ron's shoulders and puffed out a deep breath, muttering to himself, "My God, if this Boy Who Lived thing doesn't work out, I think I'll go into psychiatry."

"Psy-what?"

"Nothing, never mind. Look, you shouldn't have said any of that rubbish. But you did and now you've got to deal with it and beg for forgiveness."

Ron pulled away from Harry and retreated to his bunk. "She'll never forgive me," he moaned as he pulled on his coat.

"Honestly, Ron, what the hell's got your knickers in a twist? We were laughing, having a great time—and it can't be just the Horcrux, mate, we're all wearing it."

Harry knew it was a bit cruel that he'd even asked the question. He knew exactly what had set Ron off because it was the same thing that always set Ron off: jealousy.

Ron's cheeks flooded with a bit of color and he looked anywhere but at Harry. Instead of answering or even acknowledging Harry's question, he walked to the entrance to the tent.

"Which way did she go?"

Harry hiked a thumb in the direction opposite from the lake. Ron nodded, pulled the flap, and was gone.

"Hermione?"

Harry woke with a start. He'd only just fallen asleep, so the soft voice was enough to wake him. Shoving his glasses on, he looked up in time to see Ron's tall figure pull open the tent's flap, poking his head out as he did.

There was a sniff in response but nothing more.

"Hey," Ron said, presumably to Hermione, who was on watch, and Harry watched him slip into the night, jamming his hands into his pockets as he did so. His voice was tender; this was the tail-between-the-legs apology Harry had been anticipating all day long.

"I'm fine out here," Hermione said shortly, but her voice was higher than normal and Harry had known her long enough to know she'd been crying. Ron let out a long breath and Harry heard the scruff of his trainers—probably sitting next to her in the dirt.

"Hermione, listen to me—"

"Don't, Ronald."

A chill rippled through Harry at her tone.

"No. No, I'm going to," said Ron. "Listen or don't listen, stay or leave, but I'm doing it. I'm sorry. In fact, I've never been sorrier in my life. Truly. I said all sorts of rubbish that I didn't mean because—because I'm stressed, and I'm hungry, and I'm tired, and whatever. And none of those things are excuses. I'm an absolute tosser, you'd both be better off without me—I can't get a grip sometimes and just go absolutely mad—you've got to believe me—"

Hermione's voice cut him off. It was angry, but in a different way than it had been previously.

"Don't say that."

"Why not? Sometimes I can't get a grip—it happened earlier—everything was fine and then I was saying all this barmy shit that I knew I didn't want to say but I couldn't stop—"

"We would not be better off without you."

A beat, in which Harry was sure Ron was processing what she'd said.

A half-laugh. "Oh, come off it, Hermione—"

"Stop talking like that."

"Just stating the obvious—"

"Stop. Talking. Like. That."

There was another much longer period of silence, after which Ron cleared his throat and said, "Uh, right."

Silence again.

And then:

"You are… absolutely brilliant, Hermione. I know I say it all the time—everyone does, and they ought to, you're a genius—but I mean it. You're my best friend, and I've been cocking things up with you since we were eleven because I'm a fucking git and I don't learn. And what you did for your parents—I mean—it was brilliant—and I can't imagine I could do it. I'm not tough enough, I'd be too selfish or scared or…"

There was a gust of wind that blew the tent flap open a good amount—Harry chanced a glance out at them to find that Hermione was on tiptoe, her fingers dusting over Ron's injured shoulder.

In the moonlight, Harry could see Ron's face of total surprise. Harry was equally as disbelieving—this was not typical of Hermione, who had a history of punching people, of setting canaries on people, of holding a grudge against Ron, as he always did to her—but as Ron's face swapped to a soft one of fondness, Harry saw Hermione's do so as well, although her eyes were set on his wound.

"You've started bleeding again," Hermione murmured.

"Yeah, reckon it's from earlier—I—I, uh, sort of had a run in with a log when I was looking for you, earlier; came out of nowhere, really, and I sort of tripped and then I had to catch myself."

A hint of a smile colored Hermione's voice. "Really."

"Whole thing was quite graceful, really; reckon they'll be calling me to join the ballet once all of this is through."

Hermione didn't address this, instead muttering spells under her breath, which Harry assumed were to clean Ron's dressed shoulder and reinforce the closure of the skin of the wound. Neither of them said anything for a while, and Harry felt himself slipping back to sleep when—

"Hermione?"

"Yes."

"I—I really am sorry. You've no idea how much. Truly."

Hermione's voice was soft. "I know you are, Ron."

It wasn't a solution, Harry reckoned, but it was a start.

A/N: If you're going to review and say that you find this unrealistic because Ron went below the belt in terms of this argument with Hermione, save it; since it's my story, it's my interpretation of the characters.

Ron's characterization by JKR during this time is very clear: he is stressed about the wellbeing of his family, he is injured, he is hungry, he is tired, he is frustrated with the lack of a plan and progress, and he's wearing the Horcrux eight hours a day. As a result he's irritable, he's rash, and he says things that he doesn't mean. Ron has always been a character that wears his heart on his sleeve and speaks his mind, and he has said and done knee-jerk things like this before in the actual fiction written by JKR.

I think the near-fist fight between he and Harry right before he leaves is a testament to this, and therefore makes this moment a bit more realistic

Thank you all for reading and please do review if you like! This one was a tough one; it didn't come out nearly as easily as the rest did, probably because I was writing conflict—and a pretty drastic one—which we see much less of with these characters.

Happy holidays! :)