--Why then was it so difficult for her to know her own heart?--
Nearly twenty-four hours after setting Buckbeak and Sirius free, Hermione makes the best mistake of her life.
Setting: Prisoner of Azkaban, during the final chapter
Characters: Hermione, Ron, Harry
Pairings: Copious amounts of Ron/Hermione
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slight AU, mild OOC depending on how you look at it, and some tongue-in-mouth.
Spoilers: Through book three
Brevis Fabula II:
--Everything Changes --
It's a simple story, and if she's told him once, she's told him a thousand times.
But Ron just can't seem to get enough of this tale, and so she retells it once more; seated on the edge of his bed, careful not to disturb his injured leg—she's read in various books, including Magical Maladies: When Inhuman Healing Goes Wrong, that when bones are being reset by magic, it's very important not to touch them—she finds herself concluding her telling once more.
"…So Harry and I ran back inside, and Dumbledore was there, waiting for us." She gestures over her shoulder toward the half-ajar door gliding backwards and forwards lazily on its well-oiled hinges in the entryway of theschool infirmary, through which Harry disappeared moments before, presumably tired of hearing her latest recounting of their previous night's adventure.
Ron—his freckled face drawn, anxious and slightly jealous—leans back against the pillows, and his eyes are cast into a defined shade of despair.
" Wish I'd been with you. I'd've given Snape a good look at my face…slimy git, it'd serve him right to see something worth being scared of." He mutters, reaching down as though to massage his injured leg. She slaps his hand away, earning herself an affronted glare and what seems like the possibility of a great telling-off…before Ron realizes that her witty comebacks will likely include references to literatures written in seven different languages, dating back thousands of years, and he lets the subject slide.
" Then you'd've gotten us all in very serious trouble if you had been there, Ron." She chides him in regard to his earlier statement, dragging him into what appears to be an even deeper state of depression. Noticing the withdrawn look written upon his face, she sighs. " Oh, for goodness sake, stop being so sensitive! I told Harry this, too—if we let ourselves be seen by our past or future selves, then we're breaking almost all of the magical laws set down by the very wizards who…"
" But Harry got away with it, didn't he?" Ron interrupts as he sulks…a very out-of-character thing for him to do. " When he summoned that Patronus."
She holds her tongue, saying nothing.
Bright shafts of early-morning sunlight arc downward through the high windows spaced evenly upon the walls, warming her into a drowsy state through her flush-red sweater, dusted gray with the filth of the Shrieking Shack. Seated with her hands clasped upon her lap, unshod feet resting against the floor of the Hospital Wing, her socks muffling the erratic thump, thump motions of her gently swinging feet, she leans forward at a slight angle and tries very hard not to doze.
The previous night, she recalls, had been very restless for her, full of strange dreams and wandering thoughts. After devouring what seemed like his body weight and then some in rich, sweet chocolate, Harry had nodded off, leaving her alone to be questioned by Ron for nearly an hour before the pain of his slowly resetting bone—Madam Pomphrey, the kind but strict school nurse, had told them that the angle of Ron's broken bone had been such that it would take a great deal of careful maneuvering and a copious amount of time to be certain that it was reset to its exact and proper location—and the exhaustion of their ordeals that day had taken hold, and he too, had drifted.
She had sat then, just as she sat now—poised on the edge of his bed, though in those late and solitary hours, she had been curled with her knees to her chest, arms locked around her ankles—watching his face as her mind wandered.
He had looked so different last night…or perhaps it had just been the deceit of her mind. Yet in those waning-evening hours, with the pale moonlight casting his face into silver radiance, highlighting each small droplet of sweat that—in the midst of strange, dark nightmares—had rolled effortlessly across his ashen face, she had thought he as something close to beautiful.
No. Perhaps that was not the right word, not the right word at all. He had been very ethereal. Untouchable, a stranger in the hold of the night that set them apart from one another. And she had only begun to consider then how brave he had been during all they had endured—broken in strange places, confused, unwittingly deceived by his own family, betrayed by his heart…and still he had shown true Gryffindor valor in allowing himself to be tethered to that repulsive man, Peter Pettigrew…he had nearly died to ensure the outcome of justice…
She had leaned forward then, on impulse, to brush his reddish hair—dyed auburn-tipped silver in the moonlight—from his faintly furrowed brow. And then she had leaned down, and whispered softly in his ear, " I'm very proud of you, Ron."
And then—blushing scarlet at her own out-of-character actions—she had retreated to the sanctuary of her bed in the corner, and had lain awake for some time, staring cantankerously upward, trying with all of her might to decipher the subtle churnings of her own heart.
What was it that Professor Lupin had said to her, in the terrible Shrieking Shack all those hours before? Oh, yes…" You're the smartest witch of your age that I've ever met, Hermione."
But if she was so smart, then, so wise to the workings of the magical world…if the words he had spoken were truth, why then was it so difficult for her to know her own heart?
" Hermione?" Ron's voice draws her abruptly from her thoughts; she straightens upon the bed, giving a small gasp of surprise, as she is forcibly tugged from the presence of the full-moon night, into the brightly lit chamber awash with daylight. Ron is studying her, curious, and then he reaches out and taps the back of her nearest hand. " You alright?"
She follows the indication of his movements and realizes that she's clutching the bed-sheet in tightly-clenched fists, her fingers bone-white and cramped.
" Oh!" She exclaims, and she retracts her hands, massaging the knuckles of her right with the aching fingers of her left, casting a furtive, sidelong glance toward Ron. She can see that he is faintly amused by her strange actions…and still curious.
Climbing quickly to her feet, before he can voice the workings of his inquisitive mind, she brushes her hands irately, swiftly, over the front of her sweater, and turns to him, certain that her eyes are burning, just as her cheeks are.
" Well? Shall we go?" She demands. " Harry will be waiting for us. We'll have to talk to Hagrid…and to Professor Dumbledore…and I've got to see Professor McGonagall about the time-Turner…"
" Not taking on any more classes, are you?" Ron teases her lightly, seeming content to let the subject of her less-than-candid behavior slide away between them…but she can see that he still bears a speculative gleam in his eye.
" No, of course not." Hermione replies loftily to his question. " I've decided I'm gong to take a normal schedule next year…well, except for Divination, I'll still be dropping that, of course. Everyone knows that's a load ofuseless, trivial misinformation. I'm surprised Professor Dumbledore even keeps that woman instated…"
Realizing at once the error of her words, she strikes her mouth with the open palm of her hand, her face draining of color, as Ron looks on, amused.
" Insulting a teacher worse than knocking one out, Hermione?" He inquires, smugly, referring to the perfectly synchronized attacks that he, Harry, and Hermione had dealt to their arch-nemesis of a professor, Snape, during their prolonged visit to the Shrieking Shack the night before.
With some effort she detaches her hand from her lips, and glares at him, her eyes full of scathing reproach.
" Oh, shut up, Ron." She snaps, annoyed by his banter. " I'm only calling that class useless because I can't think of anything worse to say without cursing it." She inhales deeply several times, growing more irate as his face splits into a bright grin; he knows how she hates Divination.
" Well, I think it's great." He retorts, pushing himself up onto his elbows and fixing her with a mischievous glance. " I've personally never slept better than in her classroom…and when Trelawney predicts Harry's untimely death every other lesson, it gets to be rather funny…"
" You sound like Fred and George." She remarks, unsure of whether she's insulting him or offering him high praise; after all, while she doesn't always approve of Ron's easy-going, trouble-making brothers, commonly referred to by the others in their house as simply The Twins, she can't help but admire them for their tenacity…and their insatiable pull towards all things disastrous, though usually in a semi-benign way.
Seeming to read the path of her thoughts, Ron shrugs.
" There are worse people to imitate." He retorts, and then he's dragging himself fully upright and swinging the lower half of his body over the side of the bed, groaning softly as he shifts his injured leg.
" Ron, what are you doing?" Hermione demands, and she reaches out, once more on impulse, this time to brace his shoulders, to hold him down.
" You said we needed to go, didn't you?" He replies shortly, meeting her gaze with a familiar stubborn glint in his eyes. " Well, I'm getting ready to go. Now get off of me." He shrugs her hands away, and she steps back, mildly affronted, her hands burning ridiculously with the sensation of touching him…
Oh, stop it! She berates herself mentally.This was only Ron…her best friend, just like Harry. The brief contact meant nothing, nothing at all…
She can clearly see the effort it costs him simply to sit upright; he winces spasmodically, and touches his injured leg, his face a contorted mask of angered disbelief.
" Why is this taking so long to heal?" He bites the words out between clenched teeth. She doubles over, hands resting on knees, attempting to catch his eye as he turns his head aside.
" Madam Pomphrey said that you shouldn't have been walking on it…and you only did more harm than good when you fell, while you were chained to Pettigrew…" Her voice tapers away as she remembers the sight of him, lying spread-eagled upon the ground, his eyes sightless, his chest heaving…remembers the brief moment that she thought him dead, and the terrible numbness that had consumed her in that moment…
" Were you scared for me?" He inquires, softly, and when she levels her gaze aside she finds him watching, curious once more.
She straightens, angered with herself for the deceptive force of her wandering emotions, her shoulders square and her spine stiff.
" Don't be stupid, Ron." She mutters. " Of course I was worried. You're one of my best friends, after all…"
He turns away, frowning.
" But you weren't scared for me."
She has no reply.
" Well." Ron's gangly shoulders heave after a brief moment of silence, and he begins to climb rather awkwardly to his feet. Restraining a commanding comment, she steps toward him, but he wards her off with his hands held out before him. " They said the worse side affect I'd have is something like Jelly-Legs and some nausea. And I feel fine."
She steps back, reluctantly, glowering toward him with a savage light in her eyes that dims as the seconds wear on and he finds his balance. With a triumphant smile toward her that does not quite reach his eyes, he shrugs.
" See? No big deal."
He steps forward—and stumbles, near to collapse.
" Ron!" Hermione darts toward him, catching him and preventing his near-fall with a firm hand on his chest, her other palm square behind his shoulder blade. " See? You have to take this slowly."
" Slowly. Right." He echoes, his face ashen. " Blimey, this hurts. Harry'll have to give Sirius a talking to about this."
" Oh, he didn't mean to break your leg, Ron." She replies, tersely. " And what's more, he probably saved our lives…imagine if we'd run into Lupin on the grounds last night, with the moon out, while we were on our way back from Hagrid's!" She shivered at the memory of the great, glistening-fanged wolf that had nearly been the death of them all ,whether directly or otherwise, during the previous night.
" I was joking, Hermione." Ron replies, quietly.
She sighs, hating these sudden, dark lulls that pull him away from her. Twisting around to his side, she draws his right arm around her shoulders, and loops her left arm around his waist.
" Come on. Let's go." She murmurs, her voice faint. His face is determined as he nods, and awkwardly—together—they make their way toward the infirmary doorway.
Thy manage to navigate the long stretch of corridor that is the greater portion of the Hospital Wing—and the narrow doorway that leads from it—with relative ease, moving in their gangly-legged formation, and she is aware of what an odd pair they must make; Ron, tall, lanky, his hair a mess of fire tinged gold by sunlight; she, a head shorter, slightly stockier, with her flyaway, unkempt hair and dirt-smudged face. Thankfully, there is no one around to stare at them…no speculative whispers to ghost after them down the halls.
For now, it is only them; him, and her, and the burning sensation wherever her body touches his…
And then, as they reach the mouth of the corridor leading away from the Hospital Wing, Ron halts abruptly. Anxiously, Hermione lifts her head, swiveling it aside, searching for his gaze, fearing he is in pain—but his eyes are full of concentration rather than the agony she expected, and he pulls himself suddenly away from her.
" I think…I'm fine." He says by way of explanation, and she is left standing with one arm curled around empty air, gazing after him as he leans against the wall opposite her, catching his breath, bearing the majority of his weight on his good leg.
After a moment, she drops her arm back to her side, and wonders, distantly, if she's ever read anything in any of the books in the library—and she has read nearly all of them—that would aptly describe what she is feeling now….
After several silent minutes, Ron glances her way, and he grins a grin that knocks her breathless—because she's never seen him smile so freely. With such abandonment, as though his world is suddenly whole and right.
" See? I'm fine." He repeats, his tone satisfied.
" I'm…glad." She whispers. His eyes meet hers, hold—and then, flushing scarlet, he glances away.
" Right." He mutters, as she turns her gaze to the well-worn, greatly-trodden path beneath their feet. " Let's get on with it."
She nods, swiftly, glad for a diversion from the sudden awkwardness kindled between them, and she moves ahead of him, toward the antechamber before them that branches off into several hallways on either side—a heartbeat later, Ron recalls her.
" Hermione, wait!"
She turns on her heel abruptly to face him—and he is right there, bent double with his hands on his knees, so near that their lips brush as she turns.
And, in a motion unexpected by either of them, her tongue darts out to trace the shape of his mouth in passing.
Hermione gasps at her own primal daring, her face coloring, and she retreats a step, her hands covering her half-parted lips once more—she can feel the jagged breaths knifing against her palms—gazing at Ron with horror brimming in her eyes. He seems thoroughly taken aback—eyes dazed, he wipes the back of his hand gingerly along his mouth…and blinks.
" Oh." He mutters.
" Ron, I'm so, so sorry!" Hermione cries the words between her tightly interlaced fingers. " I didn't mean to…!"
" Hermione…"
" It was an accident, I swear! I mean, I shouldn't've…" Perhaps it would not be such a terrible thing, she thinks, if it wasn't for the fact that she dreamed of nothing but him last night, and that she's not sorry…that instead she thinks that maybe Hermione Granger doing something daring for once isn't the world's end, and that his lips tasted sweet, like chocolate, and that she feels like she's going to become just like Lavender Brown and the Patil sisters and every other girl in Hogwarts who seems to be intent on finding a handsome wizard to snog…
And then the pain is real, because she realizes that she's just alienated him in a way that their constant bickering never could…and that she's never going to feel the burning of his skin against hers, and that he's going to hate her for this…
She buries her face in her hands, and she weeps.
" Hermione!" Ron's voice cuts through her dry, wracking sobs; she knows how much he hates blatant displays of emotion. " Hermione, stop! It's okay!"
" N-No, it's n-not!" She spits the words back as forcefully as she can. " I sh-shouldn't have…I-I didn't mean…oh, Ron, you must hate me…"
" Hate you?" He demands, his voice slightly shaky. " Are you off your rocker?" And she feels a gentle warmth between her hands; his fingers twine between hers, forcing her to remove her face from her palms, to raise her eyes unwillingly to his—to attempt to decipher the emotion there.
She cannot imagine what her face must look like; tears carving channels through the dark smudges, her eyes red with lack of sleep and with emotion, and she feels utterly abysmal for losing her composure over such a trivial thing…
" I don't hate you." Ron repeats, suddenly, and he gazes upon her as though he's never seen her before. And—tentatively—his hand lifts away from hers where they hang, clasped, against her torso…and he brushes her smudged cheek with his thumb, his eyes—strangely hopeful—holding hers. " Actually, I was thinking…if you wanted to kiss me again…"
She doesn't give herself time to second-guess, to truly choose. The next moment her body is flush against his, her right arm twined around his neck, her left hand buried in his thick, unwashed locks, and her lips are moving in silent rhythm with his. And his arms are warm against her ribs, his hands on her waist, as if he cannot decide whether to pull her closer or leave her be.
And then he gives over, releases himself to that side she's never seen before, and his arms are around her, his lips parting hers, their breath mingling, their tongues just hardly touching…
And then he shifts his weight to his injured leg, and overbalances; they break apart as, with a hoarse yell, he topples onto his back, flat, pulling her down atop him, his hands once more on her waist.
Hermione is laughing; laughing freely and joyously, for no honest reason other than for how wonderful it feels. She buries her face against his shoulder as his hands move to grip her upper arms, and she laughs and laughs until there are tears in her eyes.
" Was I really that bad?" Ron demands, affronted. And she simply shakes her head, giggling now rather than laughing…and she raises her head from his shoulder, blinking back the mirthful tears.
He's watching her, nervous, waiting.
She reaches out, and brushes his unkempt hair once more from his forehead; his fingers never unlock from around her skin.
" No. That was wonderful." She sighs. " Not like anything else I've ever…" She trails off, and his brows lift.
" Better than reading Hogwarts: A History?"
" Much." She replies with a decisive nod.
" Better than spending a whole day in the library?" He inquires as he pulls himself upright and shifts her until she is kneeling beside him…and his hands are still firm around her upper arms.
" Infinitely."
His eyes are calculative.
" Not bad for a first kiss, eh?" He probes. " Was it even better than getting a super-rare copy of 'Everything You Wanted To Know About Transfiguration, But Were Too Afraid To Ask?'"
She rolls her eyes.
" Don't push your luck, Ron."
He chuckles, weakly, and then—releasing her at last—-he climbs awkwardly to his feet, and offers her his hand.
" Well, shall we get a move on?" He inquires sociably. " Harry won't wait forever." She smiles brightly up at him, takes his hand, and allows him to pull her to her feet.
For a moment they stand, regarding one another, and then Ron cants his head aside, his eyes burning with uncertainty.
" Were you really not worried about me last night, Hermione?" He demands abruptly.
Despite their recent actions, she cannot help but burn with a blush at his serious query, and she ducks her head, inhaling deeply.
" Of course I was, Ron." She whispers. " I was so scared…but you were very brave, you know. Braver than I was."
" Only because I had people I wanted to protect." He replies, simply.
She raises her eyes to his—and offers him a tentative smile.
" Thank you." She murmurs.
And then the magic of the moment is broken, and they both glance away.
" I still think you're completely crazy." Ron voices after a brief pause. Her face growing hot with anger that's not really anger, Hermione swings her head around to meet his eyes once more.
" And I still think you are an insufferable idiot who doesn't spend enough time reading books." She snaps back, playfully.
They grin at each other.
" Nothing changes, then?" Ron attempts to verify.
" Nothing." Hermione agrees, firmly.
But as they wend their way down the corridor—shoulders barely brushing on each alternate step—she runs her tongue lightly along her lips, and smiles.
Everything's changed, Ron. Everything.
You just don't know it yet.