A/N: I am hoping against hope to have the next and final chapter posted in a week or so. It will likely be fairly short as it has one purpose and one purpose only. As always, many apologies for the spelling/grammatical mistakes.

Words Unread II – Chapter 2

"You what?"

"I told Hermione."

Pause. "What did you tell her, exactly?"

A second, longer pause. "My feelings."

"What? Speak up, Harry."

"I – I told her that I couldn't watch her marry Krum."

"Wow. Alright. And?"

"And nothing. I came home and called you."

"You just left her?"

"Yeah. Well, I told her I was going away for a while. Then I left."

"And what did she say? You did give her a chance to say something, didn't you?"

A third pause, longer than the first two combined. "No, not really."

"Sweet Merlin."

"It wasn't like there was anything she needed to say. Besides telling me off, anyway. I knew that part already."

"Not anything for her to say?"

"Ron -"

"She is going to kill you."

"I know."

"Curse you to smithereens."

"Odds are."

"There won't be anything left of you."

"I'm aware of that, thank you."

Ron claps a hand to his face and makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He shakes his head and stares at me between the gaps in his fingers. His eyes brim with pity, or maybe it's horror. Both are apt for the occasion as I am a dead man walking. I just wish Ron wouldn't make my fate so obvious. A little optimism in the face of a crisis would be nice.

I rock backward, my balance is still not the best, and a belch sneaks out. It reeks of booze and leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth, across from me Ron makes a face and waves a hand in front of his nose. On reflex I put a hand to my stomach and stifle a groan. Things are not going well in there. If Ron is very unlucky my evening's binge will end up on his shoes. The histrionics would be award worthy but my head can't take it.

"Listen, Ron," I take a lurching step toward my bedroom, "do you mind if we head in there?"

I don't wait for Ron to answer, if I'm going to vomit I want a change of clothes nearby. Eyes half-closed I stumble toward my bedroom, arms limply outstretched to ward off potentially attacking furniture. Proving my problem with entryways at Hermione's wasn't a fluke, I manage to knock my shoulder against the door jam and careen toward the center of the room. I fight to keep my feet beneath me but two quick steps later my legs tangle and I go down with the speed of a bullet. Under normal circumstances I'm sure my instinct would have been to duck and roll, curl one way or the other and hit the ground in such a way that the impact is partially absorbed and redistributed throughout my body. But my reflexes are gone, swept away by a river of alcohol. Missing and presumed dead.

My forehead hits first and the rest of me just sort of skids in, the skin of my cheek making a horrific squeaking noise as it slides across the wood floor. My glasses crunch and bite into my face. I would grimace but I am quickly losing the will to move. The thought of passing out has never been so attractive.

"Harry!"

Ron, sounding worried, runs to my rescue. He grabs my shoulders and rolls me over, presumably to look at the damage I have done to my face. Or to make sure I am still breathing. He leans so close his breath ruffles the hair that has fallen across my head. My glasses have ended up perched on my chin so at least I am spared the punishment of seeing him clearly. Not that he's bad looking. He's actually quite handsome, in a Weasley kind of way. It's just that he's no Hermione and, if forced to choose, I'd much rather have her face hovering an inch above mine.

"You are a wreck. I can't believe you didn't splinch yourself."

I don't answer but silently I agree with him. Instead I hold my glasses in front of my face and squint up at the twisted frames. There aren't many good things that have come of this evening, but at least I waited until Hermione couldn't see me before engaging in this little performance. Small favors, I suppose. Though things can get worse, much worse, if she decides to follow me home. I'm not capable of dealing with that situation at the moment and probably won't be for hours.

If ever.

The glasses slip from my shaking fingers and fall to my chest. I have no desire to pick them up again. A wave of fatigue, instant and powerful, rolls over me and drains the rest of my faded energy. I look toward the red and pink blob that is Ron and secure my glasses against my chest with a limp hand.

"I want to go to bed." My voice is slurred and thick.

Ron leans back. "But I just got here."

"I need to sleep." I don't think the words are intelligible but I don't have the strength to repeat myself.

"You're the one who woke me up in the middle of the night!"

I close my eyes. Poor Ron. I feel bad for him, I really do. "Shh. Sleep." I'm not sure I even form the words, but I think I paw at his arm in a clumsy attempt to soothe his temper. Above me Ron makes a sound of pure disgust and struggles to his feet. I never hear him leave the room.

Six Hours Later

"How are you feeling?" Ron looks up from shoveling what appears to be an entire pancake into his mouth. A bit of it sticks to his cheek, then turns end over end to wobble from his chin. One side of his face is pouched like that of a squirrel gathering nuts for the winter and he can't close his mouth all the way.

"Disgusted," I answer honestly. I have been watching this spectacle for the last ten minutes. I'm fairly certain this is his twisted revenge, his way of getting back at me for insisting he visit during the dead of night and then passing out after his arrival. His plate is heaped with food and my stomach roils every time he takes a bite. One can argue it would be simple to leave the kitchen and escape the sight, but the smell is everywhere – and that's just as bad. Plus, I simply have no desire to move. The best I can do is throw myself off the chair and lay on the kitchen floor. The cool tile would probably be soothing but I have no doubt Ron would move his plate to the floor and eat beside me if I did that.

Our friendship has its peculiarities.

"Be serious, Harry," Ron says around a mouthful of mush.

I am. "I feel like I slept on a wooden floor," I mumble, narrowing my eyes at Ron. Any of my other friends would have dragged me to a bed – or a couch at the least. Maybe covered me with a blanket, put a pillow beneath my head. But not Ron. He let me sleep where I passed out. I'm not sure if he thought I deserved it or if he just didn't give a second thought to where I slept. Either is a possibility with Ron and therefore the issue probably isn't worth stewing over. He did manage to fix my glasses and had them resting beside my head when I woke up this morning. A kind gesture considering all I put him through last night.

"I can't help you with that," Ron says, this time around a mouthful of bacon. He gestures to the glass in front of me with his fork. "But that will help with the hangover."

I look at the drink and try not to lean back. It is the color and consistency as mud. Only thicker and more green. And it gurgles. "I don't have a hangover."

"You look like death," Ron says, ever complimentary. "I've never seen you this pale, and that's saying something."

"I haven't been outside much lately."

"It's one of mum's recipes."

That does not make it more appealing. I take the glass and shake it. It barely moves. "Are you sure I don't need a knife and fork for this?"

"So it's a little chewy. You're being a baby."

Suspicion of an unknown bubbling brew is hardly being a baby, in my opinion. It's more like conscientious self-preservation. I look at Ron just in time to see him shove another forkful into his mouth. I grit my teeth and wait in dread as my stomach rolls again. If he's not going to stop eating, and if I'm not going to move, something will have to be done.

I tighten my hand around the glass and decide the concoction can't taste as bad as it looks – or at least not as bad as a Polyjuice potion. Plugging my nose, I scrunch my face, put the rim of the glass to my lips, and tilt my head back. The semi-liquid seeps into my mouth with all the speed of a lame slug. It bubbles along my tongue and even hops around my stomach after I swallow. Across the table, Ron offers friendly encouragement in between barks of laughter.

It takes an eternity to empty the glass and I have to brace myself against the table and gag over the side when I am done. Miraculously nothing comes out.

"That was terrible." I reach for a napkin and scrape it across my tongue.

Ron only smiles. Clearly I used up my sympathy quotient yesterday.

After a few more unpleasant hops around my stomach, the concoction takes effect. The pain in my head ebbs away and my sour stomach is instantly soothed. The sudden transition between relative agony and normality is unbelievable. I stare down at the empty glass in wonder. It is truly a miracle drink. I will have to ask Ron for the recipe. But I'll wait until he's in a better mood and won't throw my initial disgust back in my face.

Which means I will probably end up asking Mrs. Weasley.

The silence between Ron and I stretches and I stew in it while Ron finishes his breakfast. Since waking up I have been consciously avoiding any and all thoughts of Hermione and what I said to her last night. If the hangover was good for one thing, it was distracting my emotional misery with a physical one. But now – unbelievably – I no longer feel as if fanged creatures are trying to gnaw their way out of my stomach and head, respectively. And with that relief comes a new mental focus. Namely, my supreme idiocy.

For the first time in my life I wish I couldn't remember what I'd done the night before. I'm not proud of the wish, but there it is. I am that embarrassed, ashamed, and terrified by what I did. Of course, even if I didn't remember, my happy bubble of make-believe would not last. Eventually Hermione would storm in like a fire-breathing dragon and attack my castle of ignorance where it floated on clouds of innocent bliss. I would end up just as ashamed as I am now. Just as embarrassed and horrified. But at least I would have been spared all but the most relevant details. I wouldn't have to remember my speech and listen to it over and over inside my head. I wouldn't have to see Hermione's non-reaction every time I closed my eyes.

I glance at the clock above the sink. It is almost nine o'clock, that makes it eight hours since I left Hermione's flat. A lot of things can happen in eight hours. Almost nothing can happen in that time, too. I wonder what's closer to the truth in this case. Surely Hermione has not been idle in the intervening time. Did she go back to bed? Did she toss and turn or pace around her flat? Maybe she fantasized about what curses she will use the next time she sees me. Why didn't she follow me? Has she told Krum? What is she thinking right now? How long will it take me to pack a suitcase and take off?

I think my headache is coming back.

Across the table, Ron clears his throat. I look at him, a little surprised. For a moment I forgot he was even in the room.

"Suppose you want to talk about what happened last night?"

"No." I drop my head forward and clench a hand in my hair. What happened last night is the one thing I never want to talk about ever again. Voldemort is a more pleasant topic. "Not especially. In fact, I actually have some packing to do."

It was a rash promise but one I intend to keep. What I said last night is true, I don't want to watch Hermione marry another man. Leaving is the best way I know to make this whole situation easier on myself. Not easy, but easier. But it goes both ways. Hermione shouldn't have to worry about me proclaiming myself at any given moment. Less than twenty-four hours ago the thought probably never crossed her mind. Now it is just another detail she has to deal with. It doesn't matter that I have no intention of breathing a word about my feelings ever again. I've already proven myself to be a loose canon, it's too late to plead good intentions. From now on Hermione will look at me and see a loaded gun, one pull of the trigger away from disaster.

And that doesn't begin to cover the awkwardness of the situation. I'll be lucky if Hermione ever wants to see me again. Though, truth be told, I'm not so sure I want to see her. At least not while I'm the pathetic, broken-hearted ex-best friend. The man hopelessly in love with the happily married woman. I don't want to see the pity in her eyes. Because she'll know. Even if I try to hide it, even if I date a hundred women, she'll know the truth.

The only problem is, I don't see my feelings ever going away. I don't see how I can ever be anything but in love with Hermione.

And, even with her rejection, I don't think I would make it different if I could.

"Are you still going on about that?"

"About what?" Caught up in my inner-turmoil I've lost the thread of the conversation.

"About leaving." Ron wipes his mouth with a napkin and shoves his plate toward center of the table. "That's a bit melodramatic, Harry. Even for you."

"Melodramatic? Me?" I gape at him. "I showed up at Hermione's flat last night and told her I loved her. She is engaged to Viktor Krum. She in no way indicated she returns my feelings. I will be forced to watch the woman I love marry another man. And you're the one who said she will curse me to pieces over this. How is leaving melodramatic again?"

"Listen Harry, this is not a big deal. Guys confess their love to engaged women all the time. A woman would probably be offended if some heartbroken bastard didn't come out of the woodwork."

"Really? How many heartbroken bastards declared their love for Luna after you proposed? And, of those, how many were supposed to be her best friend?"

Ron smiles and shakes his head. I want to punch him in the teeth.

"You're panicking, Harry, and obviously not thinking straight."

"No." I shake my head. "Yesterday I wasn't thinking straight. " My thought process was corrupted by alcohol and an aching heart. "That was panic." Because I don't want Hermione to marry anyone but me. Stupidly don't want her to love anyone more than me. "This," I say, flattening both hands on my chest, "is the natural and logical result of that panic."

Ron refuses to be ruffled. "It could be worse is all I'm saying."

"You mean I could have waited to abduct her at the wedding?" I ask sarcastically.

"No. I mean this was something you needed to do. Face it, Harry. You've had feelings for Hermione a while, right? It's why you broke up with Ginny. I mean, it's been painfully obvious, hasn't it?"

"I don't know," I mumble without meeting Ron's eyes. "Has it?"

"Of course things might have been easier if you'd managed to tell Hermione how you feel before she started dating Krum."

Considering I was still clinging to my relationship with Ginny when Krum reemerged as a romantic candidate for Hermione, that happy circumstance would have been unlikely. "Sure you weren't supposed to be in Ravenclaw, Ron?"

Amazingly, Ron takes the higher road and ignores me. It just proves what a sad state he thinks I'm in.

"But better to do it now than when she's married. Or after a couple of kids. Or, worse yet, on your death bed. At least this way you've given yourself a fighting chance."

A fighting chance? Does he really think I have that?

"It's no good Ron. If you had seen Hermione's face...well, you'd know what I know."

"From what I heard you didn't see Hermione's face, either."

Mrs. Weasley's mystery concoction freezes in my stomach and I raise wide eyes to Ron's face. He leans back in the chair, his hands nonchalantly clasped on his stomach, but there is a knowing smile on his face. I lurch to my feet and lean across the table.

"What are you talking about?" My voice is a terrified whisper.

Ron shrugs. "Hermione showed up last night. About ten minutes after you passed out."

"Hermione showed up? Here?" I swallow. Optimistic thoughts plant themselves in my brain and germinate. I put a shaking hand to my face. "And I'm still alive," I say in wonder.

"Probably only because you were passed out when she got here," Ron admits. "She came in blazing."

"Why didn't you wake me up?" I want to sound accusing but secretly I am glad he didn't. Hermione can overpower me with her temper on most days, last night there would have been no contest.

"We tried. You were dead to the world. Hermione was set on it but I convinced her it would be useless trying to talk to you." Ron levels me with a gaze that says I can thank him later. There are days he can see through me almost as easily as Hermione.

I fall back into my chair and run a hand through my hair. Hermione was here. She followed me, after all. Is it wrong to feel thrilled? I wonder what she would have said. Probably nothing good but that doesn't stop the fragile wings of hope from unfurling inside me. Maybe my friendship with Hermione isn't falling apart after all. Maybe I won't have to move to Siberia for the next ten years. Maybe I still have a chance of becoming the happiest man alive. So much optimism is making me light headed.

"So you two talked?" I turn on Ron, my only current source of information.

"Yeah."

"Well," I demand when Ron shows no interest in continuing. "What did she say?"

"Not much," Ron shrugs. At his noncommittal gesture my hope breaks a wing and plummets to earth. "She told me her side of the story." He leans forward, like he wants to tell me a secret, and rests both forearms on the table. I stretch toward him. "So, you really called her a book then?"

Great. My face is suddenly on fire.

"Leave it alone, Ron," I say angrily and pull away from him. I don't need him to ask me what I said to Hermione, I need him to tell me what Hermione said to him. About me.

That and I wish Hermione hadn't gone into quite that much detail with our mutual best friend. Ron ranks just below Draco Malfoy on the list of people I would least like to have know about the book analogy I used. Not that the comparison didn't fit. I was – and still am – quite pleased with myself on that one. But I know without doubt that Ron will use it against me for the rest of my natural life. And likely beyond.

"No, it's quite good, Harry. And perfect for Hermione, actually." Ron laughs and the devil is in his eyes. I am not fooled by his compliments. "Do you suppose Hermione's ever thought of you as a broom?"

"Ron." I know exactly where this is going.

"You know, lamented over the gleaming Firebolt she had in her shed and never got to -,"

"I've got the idea, Ron."

Ron laughs again, longer this time, at how clever he is. "Well, it wouldn't be the worst thing, would it? "

No, I suppose it isn't. And really, if she is upset over certain missed opportunities, it can only be a good thing.

"So she didn't say anything else?" A hint as to whether my declaration was the least bit welcome? I stare at Ron and look as pathetic as possible. Odds are he feels some loyalty to Hermione and an obligation to keep most of what she said to him confidential. It is admirable, really, and I expect nothing less from Ron. But that doesn't mean I don't want him to crack.

"Not really. Just vented her spleen for a few hours. Huffed a bit. Her usual, you know."

"You couldn't tell which way she was leaning?" I press.

Ron snorts. "I couldn't figure Hermione out at Hogwarts. Things have only got worse since."

I slump in my chair. There is no dissembling there. Every so often Ron has the odd flash of insight into Hermione, but most of the time she is like Greek to him. Their stint as a couple still stands as some of the darkest days in British history.

"She did ask me to make sure you stayed put, though." Ron says this casually, like he hasn't been saving it in his back pocket. I jerk upright and just refrain from flinging myself across the table and grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. I wonder if he knows how close he is to having the rest of what he knows shaken from him.

"She did?"

"I'm not sure why." Ron holds up both hands to fend off the questions he knows I am preparing to barrage him with. "And she didn't say when she'd want to see you or anything. Just that she doesn't want you doing something stupid like running off."

Ron is probably repeating Hermione word for word. It makes me smile.

"So," I say carefully, "do you think she might...return my feelings?" I don't expect Ron to know, not for certain. But he is my best friend and I am desperate to be convinced that I might have a shot. If anyone can send my hopes skyrocketing without presenting actual evidence it's him. Simple belief and the assurance of someone who cares can go a long way.

"I don't know, Harry. I told you I don't know what she thinks half the time." He stares into my pleading eyes and breathes loudly out his nose. "But I can't say for certain that she doesn't."

Not the blind encouragement I am hoping for, and definitely coerced, but still acceptable.

"She was set on murder when she showed up, I think. But after we talked, and she saw you weren't in any condition for anything, she calmed down. Even fixed your glasses for you before she left."

My hand goes up my glasses. "Hermione fixed them?" On any other day I would make fun of a man who was as pleased with a woman fixing his glasses as I am. But not today. Today it feels like a sign, small but significant.

Ron ignores the question and goes on in a reflective tone. "I've been thinking about this actually. Trying to look at this from Hermione's point of view. You know, from the inside out."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

Ron shifts in his chair, making himself more comfortable. I'm not optimistic that Ron's conclusions will be sensible but, once again, I'm not actually concerned with sense right now.

Settled, Ron starts ticking points off on his fingers.

"Krum is a decent bloke, alright. He treats Hermione well, fits in with her friends." Ron looks at me for agreement and I nod reluctantly. "He loves her. He's had feelings for her for years so we know he's not a flash in the pan. He appreciates her, admires her intelligence. He puts up with her moods and..."

"Hey."

Ron rolls his eyes. "You know she has them, Harry. Where was I? Oh yeah. He has financial stability, owns his own flat, and gets along with her parents. Most important, he's asked her to marry him."

"You forgot to mention how amazing he is at Quidditch." I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I know Ron is trying to be helpful but listening to a list of a rival's good points will ruin a man's mood.

"Quidditch is irrelevant." Ron looks at me from beneath lowered brows. "Unless you want to bring up the subject of Hermione's access to your individual broomsticks."

"How old are you?"

"Same age as you. Right." Ron straightens his shoulders and goes back to ticking off his finger. "You're a good guy. You treat Hermione well and obviously get along with her friends. You love her. How long you've felt this way is indeterminate, making your durability questionable. You appreciate her and have no negative feelings about her intelligence."

"My feelings for Hermione are not questionable. And I admire her intelligence," I say, jumping to my own defense. "Without it I wouldn't be standing her. And you'd still be in Hogwarts."

Ron frowns at me but doesn't protest my unwarranted jab. Obviously weighing my words, he purses his lips and squints up at the ceiling.

"You have no negative feelings about her intelligence," he continues, sticking with his original opinion. "You put up with her moods and are independently wealthy but also hold a good job. You own your own place and get along with her parents. But," Ron raises a knowing finger, "you have not asked her to marry you."

I wait for Ron to continue, to give some clue about why he thinks Hermione might choose to be with me. But my hopes are in vain because he is apparently done. I raise my hands in an annoyed gesture and shake my head. "Based on that, Ron, Krum wins."

Ron makes a rude noise. "Krum doesn't win."

"Yes," I insist, "he does."

"No, he doesn't."

"Ron. You're looking at this from Hermione's point of view. You're the one picking Krum, not me." I'm irrationally angry as if this conversation has actually sealed my fate. Ron's opinion does not equal Hermione's. Just because one of my best friend's has inadvertently rejected me doesn't mean the other will.

"Where are you getting that?" If possible, Ron looks like he might be more annoyed with me than I am with him. He jabs a finger against the table. "Look, Harry. That stuff, most of it doesn't matter anyway. Think of it as the icing on the cake."

Icing on the cake? Who is using analogies now?

"Then what's the cake?"

"Hermione's feelings for you. You and Krum, I mean. All other things being relatively equal," Ron spreads his hands, "then the most important thing is how Hermione feels about you."

"But what about how long I've loved her? And Krum's already asked her to marry him. You're the one who brought this stuff up."

"Then if Hermione lets you, make sure you let her know how serious you are." He stares at me for a moment and then narrows his eyes. "You are serious aren't you?"

"Dead," I promise him. "I love her." I can't be any clearer then that.

"Then you tell her that. No sane woman leaves a man who wants to marry her for a tumble." Ron nods emphatically. "That's what mum says, anyway."

"Sounds like good advice."

"Then remember it." Ron leans across the table and pokes a finger into my sternum. "Make sure she knows you're not a flash in the pan."

"I will," I say while I rub at my sternum.

"Good." Ron clears his dishes off the table and walks them over to the sink. I watch him go and let out a long, shaky breath. My heart is racing with anticipation. After Ron's pep talk, suddenly things don't look so bleak.

If Hermione gives me the chance, and I have almost convinced that myself she will, then I have to go all in. I can't hold myself back in fear of rejection. No speaking in analogies or understating my feelings to avoid humiliation. It has to be all or nothing. My future hangs in the balance.

I take a moment to feel a momentary pang of guilt over Krum. Ron is right. He is a decent sort and doesn't deserve to have his heart broken. On the other hand, if Hermione really wants to be with Krum then she will be. My fervent desire for her to the contrary, I can't force her to be with me. It will take no effort at all to tell me to take a hike and remain safely engaged to the man she loves. If Krum is the love of her life then my pursuit of Hermione was over before it starts. But if he's not...

I am getting ahead of myself. I have no reason to believe my chances with Hermione are any better now than before I confessed my feelings. All this talk with Ron doesn't change the essential fact that she did not appear pleased by my declaration when I left her last night. She came to my flat with murder in her eyes, according to Ron. Not promising, but not unexpected either.

I bite back a sigh. I shouldn't have disapparated last night. If I had stayed instead of panicking things might be resolved by now. Or at least less muddled.

I drop my head back and stare up at the ceiling. Hermione told me to stay put. She wanted to make sure I wasn't leaving. We're going to talk about this. Everything will be out in the open. My stomach twists into slippery knots that are a mixture of fear and excitement. Resolution – for good or bad – is coming.

All I have to do now is wait for Hermione.