DISCLAIMER: Of course I own Harry Potter. I also own a house on the moon and a time machine.
Remember me? I thought not . . . once again, I am so sorry for failing to update faster – my life literally leaves me with no spare time at the moment. It's rather rubbish. But I'll do my best to update as and when I can – I have exams in Bio, Chem and Physics in Jan, but they finish on the 11th, so I'm planning to write loads when they're done. Extra-special sorryness for being unable to send individual review replies – I feel horribly guilty about it. Hopefully I'll be able to catch up over the Christmas hols. (Belated) Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year to you all :)
When he arrived back at Hermione's flat, Charlie found her bedroom door shut tightly, even though it was only nine o'clock. He waited until a quarter to midnight, but there was no sign of her coming out, and eventually he gave up and went to his own bedroom to go to bed. Intending to speak to her before she left for the Ministry the following morning, he set his alarm for half past seven, but when he left his room ten minutes later, he found that she was already gone (which was rather ridiculous when he thought about it – whoever heard of a student who was out of the house at seven forty in the morning?).
He left at the much more respectable time of nine o'clock, deciding he would talk to her when they both returned from work (and after he'd cooked her a delicious meal, of course). But when he returned, at six pm, he found a note on the kitchen table in Hermione's handwriting, informing him that she had gone to her friends Isabelle and Coralie's house for dinner, and not to bother cooking anything for her. She eventually returned at nine thirty, said hello pleasantly to him, but before he could say anything more than 'hi' back, she insisted that she had a very important test to study for, and was going to shut herself up in her room so that she could study, if he'd excuse her anti-social behaviour.
The same routine repeated itself on Thursday, except that she said that she had to meet Harry, Ron and some others from their Auror class for drinks in the Snitch and Salamander, and when she got back (again, nearly three and a half hours after he did) she insisted that she was exhausted, and had to go straight to bed.
In two days, she'd barely spoken two sentences to him, and Charlie was beginning to despair. His feeling got worse when he got up extra early on Friday morning, and caught her just leaving, her hand full of floo powder.
"Hermione! Wait!" he called, just as she was about to step into the fire.
She turned round, not quite frowning at him, but not exactly looking very happy, either. "Yes?" she asked, looking very pointedly at her clock, which had just chimed seven fifteen.
"Hermione . . ." he began, gesturing feebly with his hands. "I'm . . . I . . ."
"Look, Charlie, I'm really sorry, but I have to go," she said, her voice pleasant but firm.
"It's seven fifteen in the morning," he pointed out.
"I know," she replied. "But I'm very busy. I have to leave now, I'm afraid. Was it something important you wanted to say to me?"
His shoulders slumped, crestfallen. "No, nothing important," he said. Hermione half-hesitated – he looked so desolate that she wanted to reach out and ask him what was wrong, if there was anything she could do . . . but then she remembered how he had treated her the other night. She squared her shoulders and smiled falsely at him.
"I'll see you later then," she said, picking up her bag and calling "the Ministry of Magic!" into the flames, as she threw the floo powder in.
"Hermione, wait!" he called, changing his mind just as she vanished, but nothing happened. He sighed. He hadn't expected her to turn back . . . but he guessed that he had had a vague hope. Damn it, Weasley, you've really screwed this one up, he thought, resigning himself to a cold shower and a piece of toast for breakfast.
Hermione heard Charlie's voice in the echoing down the floo, and half turned to go back to the flat. Unfortunately, the floo system did not respond well to her sudden change of mind, and she fell out of the grate headfirst at the Ministry, chocking on the soot that had flown up her nose.
"Hermione!" exclaimed a voice. "Are you alright?"
She opened her eyes. A pair of ankles, wearing red and yellow striped socks was sanding directly in her line of vision. She looked up, and saw Mr. Weasley staring down anxiously at her. He extended a hand and pulled her to her feet. "Are you alright?" he repeated.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," she reassured him.
"Good, good," he said, still peering at her anxiously. "But I didn't just mean about just now – Molly's been so worried about you ever since you broke up with Ron. She thinks that—"
"Please tell her that I am absolutely fine," Hermione said calmly, placing a hand on Mr Weasley's arm and patting him reassuringly. "I know that she worries, but really, I'm completely fine. Everything's great. She needn't worry about me."
"I'll tell her that," Mr. Weasley. "It won't stop her fretting, but I'll tell her." Hermione chuckled. Mr. Weasley yawned involuntarily. "Oh, excuse me. I've been on the go all night – had some trouble with a group of youngsters down in Somerset – they thought that no one would notice the fact that they were setting off magical fireworks left, right and centre just because it's Bonfire Night. Honestly, the amount of memories we had to wipe . . . and I'm sure that some of those fireworks were Wheezes' ones . . . I must have a word with George about exactly whom he's selling his products to. The amount of paperwork I've had because of it," he shook his head, and then yawned hugely again.
"I really think you ought to be getting home, Mr. Weasley," suggested Hermione gently.
"Yes, yes, you're right," he muttered distractedly, yawning for a third time. "Sorry, I'm not really with it." He took a handful of floo powder, and turned back to Hermione, still standing in the enormous entrance hall. "Oh, before I forget – Molly asked me to as you to a small gathering she's having – Charlie's last day over here is on the fifteenth – she wondered if you'd like to come over for a small dinner to say goodbye to him? I know you don't know him that well, but Molly would like to see you again – she's loving Celestina's autobiography, by the way." He looked over at her hopefully.
"Um . . . yes, of course I'll be there," said Hermione, attempting a bright smile. Mr. Weasley looked pleased.
"Oh, good, I'll go and tell her right away," he said, throwing the powder into the grate. "Take care of yourself, Hermione," he called.
"You too – and give my love to Molly!" she called back as he disappeared. She glanced at her watch once he had gone. Only half past seven. That was the problem with getting up at the crack of dawn (in fact, even before that – the time of year meant that it hadn't been light yet when she left the house) in order to avoid someone – it left you with a good few hours to kill before anyone else actually surfaced. Fortunately for her, though, there was a 24 hour canteen a few corridors away, where she could go and get a bacon sandwich and a cup of coffee whilst re-reading A Short History of the Rules and Regulations Regarding the Purchase of Magical Creatures in the British Isles. If she managed not to fall asleep, that was.
"Urgh!" Ron exclaimed, throwing himself down in a chair and knocking the table so that Hermione's mug of hot chocolate sloshed dangerously.
"Careful," she warned, lifting it up before it could spill over her essay. "What's up?" asked, looking at Ron's stormy face.
"Ah, nothing much," he said. It was lunchtime, and Hermione was once again in the canteen, though this time it appeared that she had company. She raised an eyebrow at him. "No, really, it's nothing," he insisted. "It's just Mum – I had a free morning, so I thought I'd pop round and see how she was."
"Is she OK?" Hermione asked, concerned.
"Oh yeah, she's fine – not ill or anything," Ron hurried to reassure her. "Are you going to eat that?" he asked, pointing to her cheesecake slice.
"Yes," she replied, narrowing her eyes and pulling the plate protectively towards her. "But, you were saying about your Mum?"
"Yeah, anyway," he said, still looking longingly at her pudding. "So, I was round there, and she started talking about relationships. It started off all 'So, you and Hermione aren't together anymore, then?', and I was like 'No, we broke up a couple of weeks ago'. And she kept dropping, uh, subtle—" he made air quotes around the word, "—hints about us getting back together. And I was trying to explain to her that me and you still love each other, but, you know, not in that way. That we'd decided to be just friends, but not to go in for the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing. And then, she started going on about how the only reason we weren't dating anymore, the only reason I'd lost you, was because I was no good at relationships!"
He looked so indignant that Hermione couldn't help but laugh. He mock-glared at her. "I'm sorry," she giggled. "Here, have some cheesecake." He brightened immediately, and she shook her head in wonder. "I really can't believe that your mother didn't feed you," she said.
"Oh, she did," he replied, tucking in anyway. "I'm just still hungry, that's all."
"Honestly." Hermione rolled her eyes.
"So, yeah, it was just annoying me a bit, that's all. Nothing major," Ron said around mouthfuls.
"She means well," said Hermione.
"She does," agreed Ron, though with slightly less conviction than Hermione. "It just annoys me a little bit, you know?"
"I know," said Hermione. "She cornered me in the Ladies on Tuesday, wanting to know how I was, and how things were . . . I mean, she didn't mention any things in particular but it was pretty obvious she was talking about . . . us. Our break up."
"I suppose it's just something we'll have to get used to – at least until we find someone new, I guess," Ron replied.
"Yeah . . . but I like it, in a weird kind of way," Hermione said, taking a sip of her drink. "Bleugh, that's gone cold." She tapped it with her wand, and took another sip. "Mmm, much better. No, but I do like it – her worry and fretting and trying to get us back together again is just her way of showing us she cares about us. She just wants us to be happy, that's all. And maybe you're right - all we have to do is get a new partner, and she'll leave us alone." She snorted. "Cause that's easy enough!"
"We could always take out an advert in the Personal's in the Prophet," Ron suggested. "Tall, handsome male, G.S.O.H, stunning features, kind and considerate, animal lover, loving and—"
"Whatever!" laughed Hermione.
"Oh, and what would yours be?" he teased. "Complete nerd seeks boyfriend to get ex's mother off back. Must be prepared to participate in three-way relationship with library." Hermione whacked him around the back of his head.
"That's quite enough of that, thank you very much!" she said primly, and Ron chuckled.
There was a pause whilst Hermione scribbled a couple of sentences down in a notebook, and Ron finished off the cheesecake, before breaking the silence. "So, speaking of new boyfriends and things . . ." he began.
"Yes?" asked Hermione, absent-mindedly chewing on the end of a quill.
"You and Charlie—"
"Oh, for goodness' sake!" Hermione snapped. "Charlie and I are NOT dating! How many times do I have to—"
"No, no – I know you're not dating him," Ron said, hurrying to reassure her and avoid a confrontation. "I just . . . you . . . um . . . the other night . . . he . . . you . . . when he . . ."
"Ronald, please try to formulate your sentences in your head before you speak them. It might help you to make a bit more sense," snapped Hermione, scribbling furiously on her parchment.
"Fine," said Ron, annoyed. "The other night – what was he doing to you?"
"You make it sound like he was attacking me," said Hermione, not looking up from her parchment. "We ate dinner sitting next to each other, and then he danced with me. End of."
"No, I know that," said Ron. "Why did he leave you in the middle of the floor and run off like that?"
"Bad chicken," said Hermione, still scribbling away.
"Huh?" asked Ron.
"He must've eaten a bad piece of chicken, or something, and got food poisoning," Hermione elaborated. "That's why he had to run off and leave me."
"Oh, I see," said Ron. He looked at his watch. "C'mon, it's two o'clock. I'll walk you back to your Department."
So they walked over to Law Enforcement together, chatting aimlessly about the weather, Molly Weasley's chocolate cake and the Weird Sisters' new single. But when she was back in the lecture hall, Hermione wondered why she had lied and covered for Charlie like that. It would have been so easy just to say that she didn't know why he had left her like that, and wasn't he a jerk for doing it? Ron would have agreed with her, perhaps offered to go and "sort out" Charlie for her – a rather ironic circumstance, seeing as how just a few weeks ago (had it really been that long? It felt like months) it had been Charlie offering to sort Ron out for her. She had had no trouble, when she was going out with Ron, slagging him off and moaning about him to his siblings and her friends, she thought, slightly guiltily. And yet she was quite happy to make up excuses for Charlie's behaviour towards her, when, really, it was inexcusable, at least in her mind. Why was that?
Because you're in love with him.
The little voice in her head sounded just like Ginny's, and made her gasp with shock. Coralie, sitting next to her, gave her a funny look. "Stabbed myself with my quill," she muttered, and the other girl rolled her eyes and went back to her own notes.
In love with him. In love with him, and so much so that she didn't care what he had or hadn't done the other night. Or any night, or day. He'd run off and left her, and hurt her because of it, but she still loved him.
How infuriating. There she was, trying so hard to hate him, and all she'd managed was to realise that she was in love with him. A lot. And she'd also realised it in the middle of a lecture on the rights of Merpeople in the fifteenth century.
How bizarre.
Hermione stopped by the apothecary on the way home from the Ministry, needing some potion ingredients and some bubble bath. Bending down to pick up a packet of ground beetles, she bumped into someone. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she apologised, before realising that it was Fleur. "Oh, hi Fleur!" she said. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."
"Eet ees nothing," the other woman reassured her, handing her the newt scales she had dropped. "'Ow are you, 'Ermione?" she enquired, shaking droplets of rain out of her hair.
"I'm fine thanks – a bit wet, but I can't complain," she smiled. "Yourself?"
"I am alright, also – zhough I could quite willingly strangle zose gobleens at ze moment," she said, rolling her eyes.
"Why?" enquired Hermione, as the pair of them made their way over to the counter. "What have they done now?"
"Oh, you know – zey are just so . . . ah, what ees ze word . . . picky about everyzing. I do one zing for zem, and zey say no, zat ees wrong, so I do eet again like zey say, but no! Zat ees wrong, too!" she fumed, her French accent becoming stronger the more annoyed she became. "And Bill ees no 'elp. 'E just laughs at me when I tell 'im zat I feel like 'anging zem upside down by zere feengernails!"
Hermione nodded sympathetically. "That's men, though, isn't it?" she said. "Not just goblins, but all men. They can't do anything right, and yet they expect you to just . . . urgh!" she finished, wordless for once.
"I zink zat we need to go and 'ave a cake and a whinge," said Fleur, nodding wisely. "Come on, I know a lovely leetle place just around ze corner where we can go. Actually, I would like a plate of cheeps instead. We shall get that." Hermione, wondering when she had agreed to this, felt herself being guided out into the high street and performed a simple spell on her umbrella so that it covered both her and Fleur unsupported as they walked along.
Twenty minutes later, the pair of them were seated in a warm, bustling café on the edge of Diagon Alley, a hot plate of chips in front of Fleur and a steaming mug off coffee in front of Hermione. Fleur tentatively bit a chip, swallowed, and closed her eyes. Then she smiled, and ate three more in quick succession. "Ah, zat is much better," she said, pronounced relief written all over her face. "I was feeling vairy seek before," she explained, at Hermione's puzzled look.
"It's the complex carbohydrates," Hermione explained, and it was Fleur's turned to look slightly confused. "The complex carbohydrates in the chips are what stop you from feeling sick. I don't know why, but they're supposed to help with the nausea."
"Yes – a piece of dry toast in ze mornings can 'elp too," Fleur said.
"Suffering badly from morning sickness, then?" Hermione asked, not without sympathy.
"Morning seekness, afternoon seekness, evening seekness," replied Fleur, rolling her eyes. "I 'ave to eat somezing on ze hour every hour or else I feel terrible," she added with a sigh. "And zose goblins – zey 'ave me running about everywhere all ze time, and I forget to eat, or I am too busy . . . oh, eet ees terrible!"
Hermione made a sympathetic face. "It is just because they are men, they don't understand anything," she said, only half-joking. "But I'm sure that that constitutes some form of sexual harassment – I could look into it, if you wanted?"
"No, no, I will be alright," Fleur insisted, still eating chips. "Eet ees nothing too bad. Just a leetle bit annoying, that is all. But I wanted to talk to you, 'Ermione," she added, looking rather severely at her over the rather greasy plastic table cloth.
"You did?" asked Hermione, wondering if she had done something to inadvertently upset either Fleur or her husband.
"I did," the other woman replied, wiping her lips delicately on a tissue. "About Bill's brozer."
"Which one?" joked Hermione, though the sinking feeling in her stomach gave her a slight clue as to which one they were talking about.
"You know which one," said Fleur, narrowing her eyes. "Eet ees written all over your face. What I wanted to say was – and I 'ope you'll excuse me, because I really should be minding my own business as Bill says, and you can eegnore me if you want – but I 'ave to give you some advice."
"You do?" Hermione asked.
"Yes, I must. You like 'im – don't try to deny it – and 'e likes you, but 'e did somezing, or you did somezing, and now 'e ees upset, and zo are you and blah blah blah, 'oo knows what ees going on, but ze point I am trying to make ees that it doesn't matter. 'E did somezing stupid, or you did, I don't care what 'appened, but you 'ave to see 'ow much eet ees upsetting 'im. And you – you look terrible, as zough you 'ave not slept for a week!"
Hermione frowned. "Well, we can't all be—" she began, hurt.
"Oh, I am sorry," Fleur cut across her, sounding genuinely apologetic. "I did not zink; I was stupid. Je suis desolée. I was trying to say zat you two should let bygones be bygones, because whatever 'appened ees obviously upsetting you, and you should just give it all up and get back togezer."
"An excellent plan," Hermione said, dryly. "Except that we weren't ever together in the first place."
"Oh, I am sorry!" Fleur said, tears pooling in her eyes. "I am sorry – I 'ave upset you; I did not mean to, I am très stupide . . . I should 'ave leestened to Bill, 'e told me to mind my own business, but I, I did not think and now . . ."
By this point, Fleur was sobbing so hard that her words were completely unintelligible, and the other patrons of the café were looking around at the pair of them, alarmed. Hermione was horrified – what was she supposed to do now? "Er . . . it's OK, Fleur, I'm alright. You didn't upset me, I'm fine, look," she smiled brightly, but Fleur, her face buried in her hands, did not look up, sobbing harder than ever. "Oh blimey . . ." Hermione muttered to herself. "Um . . . here, have a tissue. Look it's OK, I'm not upset. Really. I was just being a little bit sarcastic, that's all. I'm fine, truly. Please don't cry, it's OK," she soothed her.
Eventually Fleur calmed down, accepting the tissues Hermione was offering her and giving her a watery smile. "I am sorry," she sniffed. "Eet ees these damned 'ormones. I cannot do anyzing except cry zese days. Ze tiniest leetle thing sets me off and . . ." She gestured feebly and her eyes welled up again.
"Oh, that's OK, it's fine, I completely understand," Hermione said, filled with alarm at the thought of another bout of tears. "Look, why don't you have a cake or something, that'll cheer you up, hmm?"
"Eet ees alright; I zink we should be going now," she said, wiping her face gently. "I 'ave scared off the other customers, no, with my wailing?"
Hermione gave a weak laugh, and called the waiter over. They paid for their food, and left, Hermione still eyeing Fleur warily. To her relief, the other woman did not appear to be about to burst into tears again, and the pair of them continued off down Diagon Alley. "I must leave you 'ere," Fleur said, pausing outside Gringotts. "I am meeting Bill when 'ere in a few minutes – 'e works later than I do on a Friday. But I will see you again soon, I 'ope? I am sorry for crying all over you."
"Really, it's fine," Hermione reassured her. "And I'll think about what you said, about Ch—er, men, and all that."
"I will see you soon, zen," said Fleur, walking up the steps of the bank and waving to her.
"Bye!" Hermione called. She glanced at her watch. It was only a quarter past four, and she reckoned she could get a little bit of early Christmas shopping in before she went home. She needed to clear her head and think for a little while before she saw Charlie (and she also needed to get some presents) so she set off down the High Street once more.
She was able to pick up book on the History of the Chuddley Cannons for Ron, a book on mysterious magical creatures for Luna, by someone called Rolf Scamander, and a few festive smelling toiletries for her friends Isabelle and Coralie (which were already out in the shop's Christmas section, though it was only 3rd November). She was passing by George's joke shop, when she spotted the owner himself, putting up a sign in the window advertising half price Wonder Witch products. He waved her over, and she dodged the pedestrians to cross over to his side of the road.
"Hey, Hermione," George said, smiling over at her. "I'm glad I've seen you – there's something I really needed to talk to you about."
"Oh, not you, as well!" she exploded, exasperated. "Every single bloody person I've spoken to today has asked me about this! I do not want to do any more self analysis, or whatever the hell they call it! Just don't bother asking, alright?"
"Don't bother asking about Katie's bracelet?" George asked, completely confused.
"What?" asked Hermione.
"What?" blinked George.
"I'm—"
"You—" they began at the same time.
"Come on in," said George, opening the shop door, and ushering her inside. Hermione glanced around, still impressed at what George had managed to do with his shop after the war. At first, he had been in danger of going under, unable to cope with Fred's death and certainly with all the trials and tribulations that came with running a joke store. But, eventually, with help from the Weasley family and his friends, he had pulled through and saved the store. Business was now booming, the shelves filled to bursting point with all sorts of merchandise, some of which had Hermione backing away nervously at the labels of its contents. Best of all, Fred was there to oversee it all; smiling and winking from a picture behind the counter. The words 'Fred Weasley, war hero, Order of Merlin, 1st Class' hung above the picture in gold writing, and below it, in a smaller font, read the words, 'In loving memory of all those who fought so bravely against Lord Voldemort, and so tragically lost their lives. GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN.' It had been Arthur and Molly's gift to their son, the Christmas after the Battle, and, arguably, the motivation that he needed to get the shop up and running again.
"So, how are you?" George asked her, flipping the sign on the door to 'closed'.
"I'm good, thanks," Hermione said, skipping over her earlier outburst. "Yourself?"
"Good, good," said George, opening the till.
"That's good," Hermione said absently.
George rolled his eyes. "Intelligent conversation, no?" he asked. Hermione giggled.
"Anyway," she said, helping herself to a biscuit out of the tin behind the counter. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about? Something about a necklace for Katie . . .? By the way this isn't going to turn be into a fluorescent green pigeon, or something, is it?"
"Of course not, it's from my private stash," he said. "There'd be no use me turning myself into a fluorescent green pigeon – nice idea, though. No, what I wanted to talk to you about was this!" he finished triumphantly, pulling a brown paper bag from the back of the till.
"A paper bag," Hermione deadpanned. "Wow. She'll love it, I'm sure."
"Enough with the sarcasm, missy," George said, pulling a box from inside the bag. "That's my line of work. You're the intelligent one, remember?"
"Whatever," said Hermione. "I'm not just—oh, my Goodness! It's beautiful! George! Katie'll love it!" George had removed a simple diamond necklace from the box which somehow managed to be plain and simple and beautifully ornate, all at the same time.
"Seriously?" he asked. "You're not just saying that?"
"Of course I'm not. It's gorgeous. Beautiful. Katie will . . . she'll adore it. Simple as that."
"Thank Merlin! I've been worrying about it since I've brought it," George said, placing it back inside the box and hiding it away again.
"You needn't worry. It's beautiful," said Hermione. "But is it really safe to be keeping it in the till?"
"Yeah – that's a little invention of mine," said George. "Everything I put in there, other than a few pieces of loose change near the front, goes straight to a vault in my flat. Anyone other than me, or someone who I've coded the machine to recognise, who puts their hands in there, gets a very nasty shock, I can tell you."
"Oooh," said Hermione, looking impressed. "Get you! Impressive."
"Thank you, thank you," George said, bowing. Hermione rolled her eyes.
"Get on with you!" she said, hopping off the counter. "Anyway, I'd best be off. Nice seeing you, and all."
"You, too – use the floo if you want," George invited.
"Thanks," said Hermione taking a handful of powder.
"Hey, Hermione!" he called, as she was about to step into the fireplace.
"What?"
"What were you talking about earlier, when I asked you to come in? The massive rant?"
"Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no lies," Hermione said evasively.
"No seriously . . . it wouldn't have anything to do with one of my brothers, would it?" George asked.
Hermione closed her eyes. "George," she said. "I've psychoanalyzed myself enough today, and I do not need you attempting to do it for the fourth or fifth time. Please, just don't ask." She opened her eyes again, and called the address of her flat into the fireplace. "For which you can read 'yes'."
So, it was one of my brothers, George mused to himself. The question is, is it the one I think it is?
Charlie let himself into the flat cautiously, and immediately spied Hermione, sitting on the sofa in a pair of bright pink jogging bottoms, her legs curled under her and a slight frown on her face, as she scribbled lightly on the pages of a book. He hoped to slip in unnoticed, but she looked up, seeing him. "Hi," she said, smiling politely. He gave her a smile back, and returned the greeting, going to hang his cloak up in the kitchen. "Oh, blimey," Hermione said, stretching and yawning as he returned. "I'm exhausted, aren't you?"
"Er, no – I'm Charlie," he said, offering a hand for her to shake.
She didn't laugh, but she didn't curse him into three million tiny pieces, either, which was probably a good sign, he thought. "That was a pun worthy of George," she said. "Please don't say anything as bad as that again!"
"I'll try not to," he assured her. "How was our day?"
"Oh, you know, the usual," she replied, waving a hand. "Yours?"
"Like you said, nothing spectacular," Charlie said. "Much work to do?" he asked, indicating her books.
"A fair bit," she said. "Mostly just revision – I've got exams coming up before Christmas; two on the seventeenth and one on the eighteenth."
"I'm sure you'll do fine," said Charlie. There was an awkward pause. "Um . . . I was hoping to get a chance to speak to you, Hermione. I . . . uh . . . I just wanted to say that, about the other night, I am so sorry – I don't know what—"
"Don't worry about," Hermione interrupted him. "It's fine. Seriously."
"No, but really, I just wanted—"
"Charlie, it's fine," Hermione assured him. "Come on, let's go and make some dinner."
She leapt up from the sofa and went over to the kitchen. Charlie followed her. "Seriously, Hermione, I really wanted to say sorry, and—"
"Do you fancy spaghetti? I do. Let's make some spaghetti. I'll make the sauce," Hermione said, putting on the radio at the same time.
"Er, I'll make the sauce," Charlie said hurriedly. "Hermione, please listen."
"Charlie, you listen," said Hermione, placing a couple of saucepans on the counter. "Just forget about what happened the other night. It's ancient history. Let's just get over it, and make some spaghetti."
"If you're sure . . .?" he asked, uncertain.
"I'm sure I'm sure," said Hermione firmly. "Positive. Ooh, I'm thirsty. I'll put the kettle on, shall I?"
"Only if you think it'll suit you," said Charlie cheekily, before ducking as Hermione through a teaspoon at him.
October became November, the weather staying wet and cold and the evenings becoming darker earlier, mists falling and the air becoming decidedly wintry, as opposed to pleasantly autumnal. Though Charlie and Hermione were back to their usual easy camaraderie, things weren't as natural as they had once been. Conversations between them were friendly, of course, but no longer bordering on flirtatious; instead there was a very courteous politeness between them, as though they were both actors in a period drama, Hermione thought. Everything was just so chaste and virtuous, with Charlie not wanting to upset her by doing anything that could be remotely interpreted as close to what he had done the other night, and her not wanting to upset him by bringing up the fact that she had noticed.
And anyway, what was she supposed to say? "I want you to flirt with me again"? Because that wouldn't make her seem desperate . . .
All in all, Charlie's last couple of weeks of his stay with her weren't nearly as fun and relaxed as the first month, but he was still good company and able to make her laugh, even if he did come across as bit Victorian in his morals.
The day of his departure arrived almost before they knew it, and Friday 15th November dawned, with Hermione stumbling out of her bedroom into the cold of her flat to find Charlie already up and about, packing his stuff (which, naturally, had managed to spread itself into every nook and cranny of the small flat) up into his trunk. "'Morning," Hermione yawned, pouring herself a mug of coffee from the pot on the side.
"Hi," Charlie said, smiling brightly. "How're you this morning?"
"Good, thanks," Hermione replied. "I'm—oh, fudge! Look at the time! I've got to run!"
And that, really, was the extent of their conversations for the day, Hermione realised at ten pm that night, rather sadly. Realising that she'd unwittingly overslept that morning, she'd performed a fifteen minute mad dash of showering, finding something to wear, grabbing something to eat and throwing her books into her satchel, before leaving for the Ministry and arriving in the Lecture Hall thirty-seven seconds before the Professor started the seminar.
At lunchtime, extended until two fifteen due to a delayed start for her afternoon lectures, she'd been persuaded by Isabelle and Coralie to go to a little muggle cinema just down the road to watch a rather plotless little romantic comedy, and she'd spend the rest of the afternoon either in the lecture hall or in the library, researching a very important paper.
She'd left at five thirty, going straight from the Ministry to The Burrow, where nearly everyone else was already there. She ended up chatting to most people throughout the evening, though not Charlie, apart from a few words here and there. At dinner, she found herself wedged between Ginny and Percy, and conversed with both of them (though mostly Ginny, it had to be said).
After the meal was over, a couple of bottles of wine were opened, and people began to relax, lounging around on the sofas, talking and laughing together. At half past eleven, Molly suggested that Fleur and Bill stay over for the night, in Bill's old room as she had fallen asleep and was pretty unresponsive (save for a few muttered French words that didn't sound all that polite) when Bill tried to wake her. This lead to everyone else deciding that they, too, would stay in their old rooms, so Molly hastily sorted out the sleeping arrangements. Charlie was to have his old room, and Penelope, who had come round with Percy, could have Percy's old room. Percy would share with George (Katie had been unable to come, due to spending the weekend at her parents' in Coventry); Harry with Ron and Hermione with Ginny. It would be cramped, but they'd manage.
"So, did you and Charlie make up in the end?" Ginny asked Hermione once they were up in her room and waiting for the bathroom to be free.
"Course we did," Hermione said, sitting on Ginny's bed and combing through her hair as her friend did sit-ups on the floor. "And is that really necessary?"
"Course it is," grunted Ginny. "Gotta – keep – fit," she panted. "Phew. Twenty-five. I'm done. So, stop changing the subject. Spill the whatsits. Tell me all about his grovelling. Did he buy you flowers? Chocolates? Very expensive jewellery?"
"No, don't be daft," said Hermione. "I just told him to forget it, it wasn't worth it. We just dropped it in the end."
"What?" Ginny asked, confused. She accompanied Hermione to the bathroom, both girls clutching their toothbrushes. "He didn't even give you a reason?" Hermione shook her head.
"No, he didn't need to," she said, sitting on the edge of the bathtub as Ginny removed her mascara. "I figured that it didn't matter anymore. I'd made it out to be this huge thing, and really, it wasn't that important. I'd overreacted, and the whole thing got overblown. It was much easier just to say forget about it, let's move on, than to continue to hold a grudge."
Ginny stared at her for a moment. "That's very . . . mature of you," she said, after a moment's pause.
"Thank you," Hermione said. They both cleaned their teeth, and headed back to Ginny's room.
"Seriously, though," said Ginny. "That is very mature. I doubt I'd be able to do that, if something happened between me and Harry."
"Well, I hope it never will," said Hermione, going to close the door as Ginny climbed into her bed. She let out a giggle.
"What is it?" asked the red-head.
"I've . . . um . . . just seen Percy," she said, still chuckling. "He's disappearing off to Penelope's room."
"I see," said Ginny, and the pair of them dissolved into giggles as if they were fourteen again. They talked for ten minutes or so, before there was a knock on Ginny's door. She went to open it and they saw Harry standing there.
"Hey, Gin. D'you want to—o-oh, hello Hermione," he blushed beet red. "I . . . um . . . didn't realise you'd be here."
"Well, where did you think she'd be?" hissed Ginny. "On the roof?! Bunking with Bill and Fleur?!"
"No, I, uh, never mind, uh, I'll just be going now," said Harry, taking several steps backwards.
"No, don't mind me, I'll find somewhere else to sleep," said Hermione, in a bright tone, as if these sorts of things were a perfectly normal occurance.
"No, really, I'll be going," said Harry, as Ginny also protested that she should stay.
"Really," said Hermione, walking out of the door and shoving Harry bodily inside the room. "I'll be fine," she added. "You two have fun now." She winked and shut the door with a click.
Ginny opened it again immediately. "Hermione," she whispered, careful not to wake anyone else in the house. "You don't want to be doing this. I'll kick Harry out, and you can—"
"Don't be ridiculous, Gin," said Hermione. "I'm alright, really. You keep him with you; I know you'd rather be with him than me – and don't try to pretend. He's your fiancé, so that's OK. I'll cope. See you in the morning." She waved and began to walk off.
"Hermione!" Ginny whispered, louder this time.
"Shush!" murmured Hermione. "You really don't want to wake your mother, do you? Now get back in there, before I hex you!" She waited until she was sure that Ginny had returned to her own room, and then started off down the hallway. Truthfully, she did feel a little annoyed at Harry – where was she supposed to sleep now? She supposed that she'd have to go and see if Ron would mind her sleeping on Harry's old camp-bed . . .
She crept off down the hallway, trying not to wake anyone who was already asleep. Too late.
"Who's that?" Molly Weasley's voice sounded sleepily from inside her bedroom.
"Er . . . just me, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione called back.
"Hermione dear? Are you alright?" asked the older woman. Hermione heard the bed creaking.
"I'm fine – don't get up," she reassured her. "I'm just off to get a drink of water, if that's OK?"
"Of course dear – make sure you get a good night's sleep, won't you?" Molly asked.
"Of course I will," replied Hermione. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight dear."
Hermione went for the stairs up to the third floor, so she could find Ron, but before she could reach them, she felt a hand being placed over her mouth and she was dragged bodily into a different bedroom. "Don't scream, it's only me," a voice whispered in her ear.
"Charlie!" she exclaimed. "What are you playing at?"
"I overheard what happened with Harry and Ginny – that was very nice of you," he said. "But now you need somewhere to kip for the night, and I think I should offer you my bed, seeing as I had your flat since the end of September."
"You don't have to do that," Hermione protested.
"Oh really? Where else are you going to go?" asked Charlie dryly.
"Well, I was thinking maybe Ron's room . . ." she trailed off.
"Yeah, because that wouldn't be awkward," he rolled his eyes, and turned the lights on.
Hermione shielded her eyes at the brightness for a moment, but took the opportunity to look around Charlie's room. It was very small – it contained a bed, a wardrobe, a wicker chair and a bookshelf – but it was surprisingly neat, and everything looked clean and well-dusted (though she suspected that that was due to Molly Weasley, rather than her son). It was painted in a shade of bright red, and there was still an old Gryffindor flag on the one wall, though this didn't surprise her.
Charlie was digging through the wardrobe, and came up with a pillow and a couple of old blankets. "Thanks," said Hermione, going to take them from him.
"No, it's fine – I'll sleep on the floor," said Charlie, sitting down on the floorboards. Hermione winced.
"No, really, you've got to let me do that," she said. "I can't kick you out of your own bed, now can I?"
"Do you really think I'm going to let a woman sleep on the floor?" he asked gallantly. Hermione paused for a moment. "What?" he asked.
"I'm trying to work out if that's sexist and misogynistic, or just sweet," she said.
"Any decisions yet?" he asked.
"Nope," she replied. "Merlin, I'm adding a lot to this conversation, aren't I?" Charlie laughed. "Come on, come up here," she added, patting the bed. "We can top-and-tail. And please do it, else I'll spend all night worrying."
"Worrying about what?" he asked.
"You being cold and uncomfortable on the floor," she replied.
"I won't—"
"Just sit up here, would you?!" Hermione interrupted. "Or else we'll spend the whole night arguing!"
"Sorry," Charlie said sheepishly. He came and sat at one end of the bed, and she sat at the other, looking at him. He raised an eyebrow, and she did the same. Her glance was questioning, answering, all-knowing, and innocent at the same time, and he sighed. "Hermione . . ."
He ran out of words, and she didn't help him, she just kept looking at him. Looking and looking, reading his soul and at the same time having no idea what he was trying to say. "Hermione, I . . . I'm sorry. I'm so sorry . . . I didn't mean to . . ."
"I know." Her voice was level, steady, calm. He reached over, and took her small, soft hands in his rough, calloused ones.
"I'm so sorry," he said, never once looking anywhere but in her eyes. "I'm sorry for . . . at the party. I didn't mean to leave you. I won't do it again." She refrained from pointing out that his promise would be rendered null and void the very next morning, when he took his Portkey to Romania, because she could feel that that wasn't what he was trying to say. "If . . . if you'll let me, I won't ever leave you again. I was scared, and it made me foolish. I didn't want . . . people-" and she understood that he meant his mother – "to think that we were . . . committed to each other. But I think that . . . I would like to be . . . committed to you."
She leant forward until her face was practically touching his. "I understand," she said. "I know. I'm . . . yes," she finished, unable to work her brain or her voice well enough to put into words what she was trying to say, but he understood her. He moved so that he was sitting next to her, and wrapped the duvet around them both. She lay down, snuggled in his arms, and he stroked her hair with his free hand.
They lay in silence, their breathing becoming synchronized, as though their bodies had just been waiting for this moment to come along, so that they could just be together. She could hear his heartbeat, and it reassured her more than any other sound in the world possibly could.
She was feeling so much that it scared her. Surely it wasn't possible for one person to be this full of emotion and still be alive? Surely this violated all laws of nature? How could one person – one person, whom she'd known for a mere six weeks – make her feel this way?
"Hermione?" His voice was a whisper, and his breath tickled her neck.
"Hmm?"
"Your parents . . . do you still . . . do you think about them often?"
"I think about them always," she answered. "I think about them so much that my heart hurts. I want them to be . . . I wish they were . . . It isn't fair that they died when they had come back here; survived the entire war; hadn't been attacked by Death Eaters, or any of Lord Voldemort's supporters . . . nothing like that. They were in a car crash. A car crash! Of all the things . . . after all they'd been through. They were killed because the car skidded on the wet road in one of those summer thunderstorms that come upon you suddenly and . . ."
Her voice didn't break; it just stopped. It no longer seemed to work.
A tear ran down her cheek, and Charlie caught it in his hand. "But they came back," he said, twisting round to look at her. "They came back after the war, so that they could be proud of their wonderful, brilliant, brave, clever, fabulous, genius of a daughter. They knew about what happened two years ago, what you did. It doesn't matter if you believe that they're up there, in heaven or whatever, or just a pile of atoms in the ground. They came back, and they saw you. They knew that you saved the world. I bet they were the proudest parents in all the world."
"As proud as anyone's parents ever are, I guess," replied Hermione. "And I didn't save the world, I merely—"
"Yes, you did, and you know it," replied Charlie. "But you must believe me when I say that you aren't alone. You've got me, and Harry and Ron and Ginny, and your friends at work, and my entire family . . . the Longbottoms, and the Lovegoods . . . everyone up at Hogwarts, and . . . and none of them are your family, your parents, are they?"
She shook her head, and he sighed.
"I guess it's like with . . . Fred," he said. "If people said that . . . I mean, it's like someone might say that I have four other brothers. And a sister. So if one died, I mean it's . . . well, it's . . ."
"Did someone say that to you?" Hermione asked, her voice hardening.
"No, no they didn't," Charlie hastened to reassure her. "No one's said anything like that at all. It's just that they might theoretically say something like it, but it doesn't stop the fact that Fred's dead, and he's my little brother, and it makes my heart break in two. But I'll carry on, and so will you. Maybe it'll get easier one day, maybe it won't. But for now we can just . . ."
"Be a pair of miseryguts together, and keep each other company?" she suggested, with something that wasn't quite a chuckle, but wasn't far off, either.
"Something like that," he replied, holding her closer.
"Something like that, indeed," she agreed. And gradually, by degrees, she fell asleep in Charlie's arms.
"Charlie. Charlie! Wake up!"
He became aware of a voice murmuring in his ear, and something shaking his right shoulder. He opened his eyes, and saw Bill standing over him, looking half amused and half worried. He blinked twice, and looked at what Bill was looking at. Hermione. Her arms curled around him.
"It's . . . it's not what it looks like?" he offered feebly. Bill's eyebrows climbed ever higher up his face. "It isn't!" Charlie hissed, careful not to wake her. "Look, she's still wearing her pyjamas, and everything."
"If you say so, little brother. If you say so," Bill responded.
"I didn't . . . what are you doing in here anyway? What time is it?" Charlie demanded in a low voice, carefully sitting up so as he didn't disturb Hermione.
"It's 5:45 in the morning. Your Portkey leaves from the Ministry in forty five minutes," Bill said.
"Oh, buggeration!" exclaimed Charlie. "I need to . . ."
"Pack? Shower? Get Hermione out of here before Mum sees her and starts designing the bridesmaid's gowns?" Charlie, who was out of bed and sifting through his trunk for a clean T Shirt and a pair of jeans, through a shoe at his brother, who caught it deftly, and placed it on the floor.
"Shush!" hissed Charlie, indicating the still peacefully sleeping Hermione.
"I'm not the one throwing my bloody shoes around the place!" retorted Bill. "So, did you two—"
"What are you doing in here so early in the morning?" Charlie interrupted.
"Fleur woke up early, feeling sick," Bill explained. "I had to go and fetch her a piece of toast, because the complex carbohydrates in bread settle the stomach, due to the . . . uh . . . something."
"Do you even have a clue what you're going on about?" asked Charlie, extracting his toothbrush from a small bag.
"No, but . . ."
"When you don't know what you're talking about, talk bollocks?"
"Yeah, something like that," Bill replied. There was a pause, as Charlie repacked his trunk, and pulled on his fresh clothes. "So," said Bill.
"So?" asked Charlie.
"So, are you and Hermione . . .?" Bill trailed off.
"Yeah . . . no . . . yes," Charlie replied, somewhat vaguely. "I think we are . . . I don't know what we are. But when I finally figure out what it is that we are, I think that I'll decide that we are it."
"When I eventually figure out what that means, I've no doubt I'll think of a witty and humorous riposte," Bill said. "For now, though, I'll settle for you are insane and obviously very confused."
"Thanks," Charlie said sarcastically.
"You're welcome," said Bill, getting up from the chair on which he had been sitting. "I can hear Mum getting up. I reckon I can stall her enough with Fleur's morning sickness so that you can have five or ten minutes with Hermione."
"Thanks, mate," Charlie replied, seriously for once. Bill slipped out of the room, and Charlie went and sat on the edge of his bed, gently shaking Hermione. "Hey. Wake up. Hermione!"
She opened her eyes blearily, and looked up into Charlie's face, confused. Memories of the previous night came back to her, and she smiled. He grinned back at her. "Hey," he said.
"Hey," she replied.
"I've . . . uh . . . got to go," he said. "My Portkey leaves in half an hour and I've got to check in fifteen minutes before, which is a pain. But I just wanted to say . . . um . . . goodbye. I'm . . . I'll come back for Christmas."
"You'd better," said Hermione, squeezing his hand.
"It's only in a month. And a little bit more. Quite a little bit more," he said.
"Who are you trying to convince – me, or yourself?" she asked jokily, but she pressed her lips together and swallowed hard all the same.
"It'll be alright," Charlie said, not answering her question. "I . . . uh . . . yeah. Goodbye then, I guess."
"Goodbye, Charlie," Hermione said, as he picked up his trunk and carry-on bag and walked over to the door with them. And then in a flash, he was by her side, giving her a gentle kiss on the lips, and then he was gone again, so fast she thought he might have apparated. He popped his head around the door.
"If anyone asks, you couldn't stand Ginny's snoring so you came in here and I bunked with Percy," he said with a wink. "It might be a good idea to let him know what happened, though." She giggled. "Goodbye, Hermione."
"Goodbye," she replied. "I'll see you at Christmas."
"I can't wait."
That last scene has been playing around my head since the end of June, so it's nice to finally get it down on paper (on screen?). And there's plenty more where that came from, as a reward for everyone who's been so patiently waiting for the pair of them to finally get their act together :)