Disclaimer: I still don't own HP :)

A/N: Hey guys, this chapter is going up a bit early this week because I'll be gone this Friday. My grandmother passed away yesterday, so I'll be with my grandpa for the next week. Don't worry, though, I'll have another update next Friday, I promise. This is an apology before-hand if my work seems a little off-kilter this week. It's been trying.

Enjoy the chapter. :)

She was staring at him when Ron worked up the courage to turn around. Her eyes were like a doll's – wide and empty - devoid of anything that Ron recognized. It scared him. An overwhelming feeling of fear took hold of his belly and worked its way up his body and down his legs. It squeezed his guts and stole around his mind, creating a dense fog in his inner vision. It would not let him turn away again, though he craved to.

Hermione's mouth was opened, but she said nothing. Her face was flushed and that said enough.

The couple stared at each other for what seemed years on end. Even Gus remained silent. Ron felt heavy and stiff – he would not be the first to move, he would not be the first to speak – the hardness of his face presenting the fact to Hermione very obviously. He absolutely refused any personal connection between them, no matter the amount of questions that flowed from her eyes to his and back.

Ron watched as she struggled to inhale. Hermione coughed, her eyes shutting tightly. He was not going to make this easy for her.

"Ron," Hermione managed to croak. Her eyes reached upward to meet his, almost pleadingly. "Ron?"

"What." His voice was thick and bored. Inside, however, he was screaming with every nerve in his system, his feet on fire. The intense urge to scream welled in him. His fingers itched to grasp her shoulders again, only now to throttle her until her eyes rolled back into her head. It took a supreme effort to keep the thoughts dormant.

"Is that you?" her voice was raw from her throat. "Please, tell me it's you."

"Yes, it's me." The rest of the room phased from his eyesight and only she remained. Ron could feel the memories swell and grow in the air, pressing roughly against his back, wishing him to turn around and embrace them again. He could see remembrance swirl in her eyes and around her face. He flinched as her face filled with grotesque wonder.

Hermione's breathing slowed and her fingers clenched softly. Ron could tell that the memories he felt pressing against him were filling her head. He imagined he could see them dancing, laughing, kissing in her irises. Those two black pits grew larger as her recollection grasped at whatever it could. Her skin flushed smoothly, sweetly as if she were becoming embarrassed.

Ron watched as she balked; her mouth still open. Her eyes drew away from his and rested lowly on her hands. He thought she was going to fall asleep again and almost welcomed it.

"I'm so-"

"Stop it," he snapped ruthlessly.

Her eyes wandered hesitantly back to his drawn face. "Ron," she said, her face expressing as much shock as it could. Her skin felt tight and sore. It hurt even to keep her eyes open, the flesh around them was unyielding. "Please – "

"Stop it," he spat. His head shook vigorously, trying to keep the sound of her voice from winding its way into his ears. He wanted to say so much. He wanted to let all the vile his mind had collected in the past two years to pour from his mouth and crash over her and drown her in guilt. He wanted to tell her everything she had missed – the abandon, the pain, the drinking, the move, the dog, the loneliness – and press shame into her body.

Ron kept his jaw clenched tight, feeling all of the muscles in his body sluggishly freeze. He would remain quiet.

Hermione waited a while. Her head burned – a radiating pain that began in the center of her brain and ended at the tips of her ears – but she knew Ron well enough to wait. She blinked and wished the fogginess out of her vision. Her throat was thick and dense, but her chest hurt too badly to cough. She was dazed and didn't exactly remember what Ron looked like. The blackness spotted her sight.

"Where am I?" her voice sounded distant and unfamiliar to her ears. It was the only safe question she knew to ask.

Home, Ron was about to say, before he stopped himself. "My flat," he uttered instead. She would never call this place her own.

It took Hermione a few seconds before working up the energy to press further. Her mind whirled, but the rest of her was lethargic. She didn't recognize the place – the room was dim and slightly dirty – nowhere she'd willingly stay. It smelled wrong to her, a mixture of salt and worn clothes. It didn't smell like the home she and Ron had created before.

"Is this ours?" she asked, unsure if Ron had redone the place, owned it alone long enough to claim complete ownership.

"No," Ron's reply came sharply. "This is my place. I moved."

"When?" she asked, feeling some kind of disheartening sadness somewhere in her chest. Her body felt numb and unusable.

"Seven months and two days after you left," he felt sure in his response. Ron finally had the upper hand, finally he was the one who knew everything, finally he wasn't the one left with only questions.

"Oh," her reply was a sigh. Her eyes darted to the peeling wallpaper next to her ear. She felt filthy just lying in the bed under is scrutiny.

Ron cleared his throat. "It's been quite a while."

Guilt ripped through her tired body and shredded her heart. She was alert enough to feel the shame that his words carried. If they could have, tears would have sprung to her eyes. "I know," she answered quietly.

"Do you?" his laugh was cruel. He bent over to peer into her face and asked, "Do you really know how long it's been?"

Hermione felt the first twinge of fear she had experienced in an extremely long time. It was bittersweet. She was elated at seeing Ron's face, hearing his voice, even listening to the emotion it carried. However, fear had taken a rightful hold upon her and his voice brought back memories that had nothing to do with him.

"It's been a long fucking time," he spat, closer to her now. He could see her eyes contract, then widen, and her nose flare. "Even longer, considering I've been alone."

"Ron-" the assuredness of her voice failed her.

"Don't interrupt me," Ron barked, pointing a rigid finger at her. "Especially not after two years of silence – I waited for you for what seemed like a lifetime." He crouched down next to her, his face inches from hers. "I finally thought I got over you, but you couldn't leave me alone, could you? You had to haunt me. You had me care for you like a fucking child."

"No," she whispered, turning her head as best she could. Her neck was taut against the unwanted strain. Her nose became hot and the inclination to cry fully consumed her. This was not why she had left – she hadn't wanted to torture him. It was simply what was needed of her, a job, something he would understand sooner or later if he just let her explain. "No, Ron-"

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" he seethed, his hot breath rolling in waves over her face. It made her cringe and he enjoyed seeing the disgust ripple through her. "You left. You weren't supposed to come back – not like this. Were you trying to push it in my face? That I was nothing without you? That I'll always be beneath you, no matter what? That the only purpose I serve is to cater to your every whim? To feed and bathe and clothe you?" With each question that escaped, his voice grew exceedingly louder until he was screaming.

Tears trickled down Hermione's hot cheeks. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"I am my own man," he shouted, "I survived. I dealt with all of this shit you left me with – it's all packed up in boxes and ready to be destroyed. I was fine before you showed up again. You ruined my life not only once, but twice. I got back up; you had to knock me down."

"Ron," Hermione whispered, wanting to touch his face, soothe him. "Please."

"I never wanted you here," he hissed loudly, trying to calm himself. It felt horribly appeasing to say all the ghastly things his mind had collected. "That prick Seamus forced you on me – came here to my house and threatened to expunge me from my own fucking job – and I never had a choice." He ran both hands across his head and down his face. "I wished you had just died out there."

"No," Hermione cried pitifully. "No, Ron, you can't say that." She gasped for breath as fat tears dripped onto her clothes and sheets. Pressure built on her chest. "You can't," her voice was ragged with hurt.

"Yeah," there was a steely glint in his sharp eyes, "I can say that. You don't have any say in my life anymore, despite what you might think. I don't need you."

"No!" she whimpered.

"The moment that bitch McDowell says you're fine, you're leaving here. I never want to see you again after this." Ron's voice had a punctuated finality to it that left Hermione in utter, uncontrollable despair.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she breathed. It burned, but she moved her hand up to touch him – Ron didn't understand. If only he would just listen. "Please."

But before Hermione's fingers could claim purchase on his cheek, Ron shoved himself backward. He seemed absolutely repulsed by the idea that she would try to touch him. His guts wretched.

Ron stood again and motioned for Gus, who had been waiting quite patiently in the doorframe. He nuzzled the dog's ears and felt a small amount of composure fill him. He breathed through his nose and the world settled.

"Do you need anything." It was more of a statement than a question, reflecting his disgust at having to be at her beck and call once again.

Hermione shut her eyes tightly, feeling the unshed tears drop onto her pillow, and mouthed the word, "No." If she had even tried to speak, her anguish would escape in a horribly embarrassing manner.

Ron nodded curtly and turned to go. "Come, boy," his voice was hard.

"Ron?" Hermione choked back, hoping that this last-ditch effort would reward her in some small way.

"What." He didn't turn to look at her.

"I," she seemed to suffocate on her own words, "I, I lov-"

"Don't." Ron's voice halted the rest of her sentence. He turned only his head to see her. "Don't you ever fucking say that to me again. You don't have the right, not anymore."

Ron fled the room before even finishing his sentence. Hermione closed her eyes stiffly. She was alone and hated – an all too familiar sensation. She had to wait a long time before the weight on her chest dissipated, flinching every time she heard Ron banging around downstairs in a fit of fury.

What had she expected from him though, really? For him to be alright with her departure? She hadn't meant for the mission to be that long, but Ron didn't know that. And knowing Ron, it would take a very long time before she would be able to explain it to him.

However, this wasn't the Ron she had known before. His face had grown long and pale, his voice deeper and substantial, his body wiry and boney. He was angrier, more hateful, and demeaning. All the life that she remembered gleaming through his eyes had been replaced with a vacant sort of uncertainty.

Then, she wept. It didn't take very long for her body to exhaust and lull into sleep, but Hermione felt more degradation and spite flow through her than ever before.

A/N: I really hope you enjoyed it - it was very hard to write. I didn't know which way Ron would go, but it seemed to develop by itself. Have a great rest-of-the-week-plus-weekend, everyone.

Leave me some love!

Kate