Disclaimer: I still don't own HP :)

A/N: Hey guys, another Wednesday night update! It worked well last week. Thank you to all of you who left condolances for my family after my grandmother's passing. It helped.

ANYWAY, here is another chapter. :) I really hope you enjoy it. It's fleshing out really nicely.

Gus appeared at his owner's side, his snout nudging the limp hand hanging off the side of the bed. In his mouth was a small, yellow letter. On the corner was the Order's emblem embossed neatly in green wax. The dog knew it was to go to Ron immediately.

When the cold sensation bothering him did not subside, Ron awoke very slowly. "Hey, buddy," he greeted the dog with gruff, husky voice. He reached out with stiff fingers and scratched the fur between Gus' brown eyes. He blinked and – his vision sharpening – noticed the parchment.

Ron groaned. "Another?"

Gus cocked his head, not understanding the words. He again butted his nose against his master's thick hand.

Ron grunted and withdrew the letter. It was mid-morning and the light shone clearly through the small window above the headboard of the bed. Rolling over, he unfolded the paper roughly and held it up to the rays of sun to read.

Weasley,

Glad to see the McDowell happy – must mean that you actually filed the paperwork. I know I sound like a right git getting on you like this, but it's my job. Just checking in to see how Granger's doing. It's been a couple of days now and no one has heard anything, besides your official report. Just making sure neither of you have offed the other, right? Always knew how you two 'got along.' Trying to be a friend here.

Oh, and Gin sends her love. Just popped by the office as I was writing. Brought treats for the whole department. She's a jewel, your sister.

Best be off,

Seamus

Ron didn't think much of the reading and let the paper flutter to the ground. He rubbed his eyes and dreaded getting out of bed. It had, in fact, been four days since Hermione had woken for the first time. She had slept a lot after the initial moments of consciousness, providing the time for Ron to drearily slog through months of medical testimony. It had been four, glorious days in which he hadn't looked at a single report, hadn't filed a single statement, and hadn't even glanced at a quill.

Gus whined, attracting Ron's attention once again. In his jaws was a small, wrapped parcel.

"What kind of dog are you?" Ron asked; his voice heavy with amazement. Without waiting for a reply, he untied the strings and found that inside was a chocolate biscuit. Popping it in his mouth, Ron brushed off his hands and stared down at Gus. "Seriously, mate," he spewed crumbs, "can you pick up my groceries as well?"

---

Hermione's eyes were downcast when Ron entered her room. She had asked for books the day before, when Ron was about to leave. He had muttered something about being her whipping boy and slammed the door behind him. She didn't retain much hope, but her thirst for something to distract her from the unbearable silence of the room overpowered her intuition to remain quiet in Ron's presence.

His footsteps made her innards cringe. Each one resounded in her ears with a message of anxiety and loathing. Ron had made it very clear that they were not on speaking grounds. Even a wayward glance would elicit a callous murmur. He only came to deliver meals and to carry her to the bathroom. She was nothing more than a problem.

Yet, lying on her nightstand was a copy of Advanced Medical Potions: Practical Treatments for Obscure Symptoms, Edition IV. Ron was placing a small tray of food next to her lamp.

Hermione looked away quickly. Something in her belly grew warm and content. She offered him a slight smile, but Ron shook it off as nothing. The feeling lessened, but still remained.

Ron went to exit the room again, feeling uneasy and nervous. He hid it well, but his hands were trembling. The small encounters everyday were wracking to his mindset. It felt like he was being judged every time he stepped foot into her eyesight, like all the things he did for her were being scrutinized. It was a sensitivity he had developed in his first year at Hogwarts – the first few months he had spent with Hermione.

"Wipe your hands before you touch it," he said angrily.

"Thanks," Hermione replied gently, but her gratitude was not fully expressed, as the door slammed before she could finish her word. Her head bent and that comfort in her stomach dissipated.

Ron stood outside the door for a moment. His pulse was pounding. He inwardly kicked himself – he had let himself ruin a simple situation. He could have said nothing at all and everything would have been fine. He just couldn't let his animosity abate – it was overflowing when he laid eyes on her. He sighed heavily and rushed down the stairs to somewhere quieter, somewhere where his thoughts could ebb.

Hermione considered not eating dinner and simply taking up the text, but quickly thought again. She had done that last night in protest of Ron's rudeness, but he had rewarded her efforts with a refusal to take her to the bathroom. She had felt helpless – her legs were not yet up to walking, not even crawling. She had shouted to the best of her ability, cried, and pleaded for hours until he stormed in and screamed at her to shut up.

She ate deliberately, her throat sometimes refusing to swallow. Though it was mostly soup and crackers, Hermione's muscles did not seem to understand their former functions. It made it difficult to grasp things, eat food, speak aloud. It made her tear up in frustration.

"Damnit, Ron," she whispered, pushing her plate off her lap. She wiped her eyes and knotted her hands in what hair she had left.

As if rising to her challenge, Ron threw her door open moments later. His eyes were bright with the expectation of hostility.

"What's wrong?" his voice was deep and commanding. The moment he had settled on the sofa next to Gus, a crash had sounded above his head. It was not like Hermione to cause a fuss, so his mind flew instantly to something more terrible. He had been seriously forewarned of the threats The Shop had imposed against his houseguest.

"Where did all of my hair go?" Hermione's mouth formed the words without the consent of her mind. She fisted her hair again. "It used to be long!"

Ron stood stiffly next to her bed, his wand dangling uselessly in his grasp. "What?"

"Did you cut it off?" she demanded harshly. "Did you? Did you?"

Ron had no idea what to say. Hermione had been perfectly fine ten minutes previous. He stared at her with a dumbfounded expression.

Her voice was shrill. "You did! You bastard! Just because you're angry with me doesn't mean you can shave off all my hair – you don't even understand."

"Don't you tell me that I don't understand," Ron interjected sternly. His surprise had been swiftly replaced with rising anger.

"Shut up!" Hermione screamed, her fists now wrapped around her sheets. "Just shut up!"

"You want me to understand you," Ron shouted back, "but you never give me the chance, do you? You don't want to explain anything!"

"Where is my hair?" Hermione screamed, tears running down her red cheeks. "What did you do with it?"

"I didn't do a thing to it!" he roared, pocketing his wand. He feared that if pressed further, he might do something rash with it. "You showed up with it that way!"

"Liar!" she screeched.

Ron descended upon her. "Don't you call me a liar," he barked furiously. "Don't you dare!"

"Get away from me!" Hermione bawled, genuine fear shining in her expression.

Ron stopped. He spread out his hands. "What the hell do you want from me, Hermione? Honestly?"

"I want my hair back," she wailed, the earlier determination her voice carried gone. "I just want it back." She looked up at him with fright-filled, innocent eyes. "What did you do with it?"

Ron was absolutely shocked by her frame of mind. He had done nothing with her hair. He said nothing.

"Tell me!" Hermione demanded. "Tell me what you did!" Some abnormal reasoning had stolen into her mind. Once she knew where her hair had gone, she would be able to calm down, but not until then.

"Nothing!" Ron yelled, livid. "You want to know what happened?"

"Yes!" Hermione screamed, returning with more force than she had begun with. Her face was an ugly red color, splotches of white appearing on her neck. Veins bulged beneath the lean skin. "Haven't you been listening to me? Yes!"

"They shaved it off," Ron barked, taken aback by her sudden burst of fury. "That job you took, that job that was more important than me, that ludicrous job that almost got you killed. The Shop," he spat, the words like poison on his tongue, "The Shop shaved it off. I don't know when and I could hardly give a damn as to why."

"What?" Hermione whispered unbelievingly. She did not remember the supposed ritual, and she had recalled quite a bit about living at The Shop's headquarters. "You're lying," she hissed. "You always lie!"

"Oh, really," Ron seethed back, his fingers itching to strike her. He could feel heat crawling up his neck like fire. "Then I guess that makes you a big, fucking hypocrite."

Hermione glared at him, her fists tightening painfully around her blankets. She could not dispute this, not even through the haze of her rage.

Ron continued, not satisfied with just a statement. No, he felt the need to elaborate. "You have the nerve to call me a liar? Have you looked at yourself lately – or at all in the past two and a half years? You're the one who left, not me." He pointed to himself fiercely. "You're the one who never called, never wrote, never said a word while I was left wondering where the hell you went. You never once tried to contact me – let me know you were alright, let me know that I didn't have to be confused anymore. You expect me to believe that you didn't think it would hurt me? That everything would be okay when you woke up? I know I sound like a broken record, but maybe just once you'll listen."

He dropped to her level, his haunches spread wide. "This is my time to be angry – this is my time to call names. So when I tell you that your Shop family cut off all your precious fucking hair, then that's what happened." He scoffed in her wet, splotchy face and stood up, realizing his proximity to her.

"Some family they turned out to be," he huffed.

Hermione began to bawl again, after the initial reaction wore off. She wanted him to turn around, to sit down, to smooth her forehead like he used to. She was struck by a sudden hollow feeling. Ron's hands were always large and smooth, drawing the stress away from her body when they touched her. Now he would barely look at her. Something was missing – a large, gaping hole was somewhere in her, struggling to be filled.

"Did they really?" she sniffed, focusing in on her limp tresses.

Ron was about to snap Didn't I just say they did?, but the tone and demeanor of her voice stopped the harsh infliction. She was nothing more than a girl. He recognized the fright in her voice as something vulnerable and not familiar to Hermione. Anything more he said would have half the effect he would want – it would simply be said to be cruel.

"Yes," his voice was restrained, less sharp.

"Why?" her hair barely reached her ears. Fingering it softly, Hermione could not help the tears of mourning dripping down her face. Her hair had always been a shield – something detracting to her overall beauty that made people leave her alone. Those who could see past it were those who really cared. Hermione felt naked and cold.

Ron shrugged. The quick hunch of his shoulders was what drew Hermione away from her sadness, back to the situation filling the room. "I have no idea – probably did it when they tortured you."

…When they tortured you…

The words felt weird and fumbling in his mouth. It was as if torture was nothing more than a prick of the finger. Ron sensed hesitation mounting, recalling the banshee Hermione had been that one night. Was that how she had looked in their cell, or wherever it was they kept her? Would she react that way again, now? Fling herself at him, finally remembering the pain, and scratch at his cheeks with bloody fingers? He almost didn't want to turn around.

However, Hermione did not say a thing. She shivered. It started from her belly and wormed its way to her limbs, her neck, her fingers, her lips. She pulled the covers over herself and laid her head on her pillow. She closed her eyes and wished to be far, far away. The memories were faint, but defined, and she would not allow them to pollute her now.

Upon hearing the eerie silence, Ron had no choice but to pivot and lay eyes on Hermione. She was no longer crying, though her tears had not yet dried on her clothes and neck. She was not even sniffling or wiping her eyes.

"Please leave," she whispered with cracked lips. She rolled to the side, facing the wall desolately.

"…Are you alright?" Ron feared he had, in fact, drawn up toxic thoughts of the past. His voice quivered as he asked.

Hermione shuddered, before replying, "Get out."

Ron's face once again grew stern. "Fine."

There was not a night to date that Hermione had not cried herself to sleep.

---

After his fourth gin, Ron lazed across his bed. He had not bothered to change or light a candle. Instead, he simply lay looking up at the window. The moonlight was faint and spider webbing across the corners of the room. It was silent.

He thought of his life, conjuring up everything he had done wrong with it. All of the mistakes he made and all of the words he wish he had never said blazed across his brain. It made him cringe, like picking at scabs or pulling out stitches. His wounds were everywhere and still ripe, bloody.

Why did he put himself through all this? Ron stared at the ceiling. He imagined Hermione's limp body resting in his bed. She was right above him, after all. He pictured her relaxed face, her pouted lips, her frail shoulder moving like a soft tide in rhythm with her breathing. He ached to be able to hold her in his arms again.

Ron was dazedly surprised when the notion did not pass quickly, as did all of the others. He supposed it was all of the booze loaded in him. He felt warm. He spent many moments picturing her cradled in his embrace, her head lying sleepily against his broad shoulder. Just like the way it had been.

Maybe, he thought, he should give this another chance. Offer her the redemption she so coveted from him. It would not be grand and swooning, but perhaps gentle and unrushed. Possibly he would regulate his temper, show her that he too still cared.

Drunk and sleepy, Ron's eyes closed. Maybe he would not remember the night's deliberations.

A/N: Did you like it?? Haha, I hope you did. I'm beginning to like these cliffhanger-endings.

Have a GREAT Valentine's Day everyone! I, for one, cannot wait to eat a lot of chocolate. :) Also, have a great weekend, too.

Leave me a review!

Kate